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Language: English
THE WORKS
OF
FREDERICK SCHILLER
Illustrated
CONTENTS:
HISTORY:
Thirty Years War: Book I. Book II. Book III. Book IV. Book V.
Revolt of Netherlands: Book I. Book II. Book III. Book IV.
PLAYS:
The Robbers Fiesco Love and Intrigue
The Camp of Wallenstein Piccolomini
The Death of Wallenstein Whilhelm Tell
Don Carlos Demetrius Mary Stuart
The Maid of Orleans The Bride of Messina
POEMS:
1st Period 2nd Period 3rd Period Supressed Poems
PHILOSOPHY:
Aesthetical Essays Philosophical Letters
NOVEL:
The Ghost Seer [or, The Apparitionist] and The Sport of Destiny
Since the publication of the first English edition many corrections and
improvements have been made, with a view to rendering it as acceptable
as possible to English readers; and, notwithstanding the disadvantages
of a translation, the publishers feel sure that Schiller will be
heartily acceptable to English readers, and that the influence of his
writings will continue to increase.
THE CAMP OF WALLENSTEIN was translated by Mr. James Churchill, and first
appeared in "Frazer's Magazine." It is an exceedingly happy version of
what has always been deemed the most untranslatable of Schiller's works.
Contents:
Book I.
Book II.
Book III.
Book IV.
Book V.
BOOK I.
Against the reformed doctrine and its adherents, the House of Austria
directed, almost exclusively, the whole of its immense political power.
In France, the Reformation had enkindled a civil war which, under four
stormy reigns, shook the kingdom to its foundations, brought foreign
armies into the heart of the country, and for half a century rendered it
the scene of the most mournful disorders. It was the Reformation, too,
that rendered the Spanish yoke intolerable to the Flemings, and awakened
in them both the desire and the courage to throw off its fetters, while
it also principally furnished them with the means of their emancipation.
And as to England, all the evils with which Philip the Second threatened
Elizabeth, were mainly intended in revenge for her having taken his
Protestant subjects under her protection, and placing herself at the
head of a religious party which it was his aim and endeavour to
extirpate. In Germany, the schisms in the church produced also a
lasting political schism, which made that country for more than a
century the theatre of confusion, but at the same time threw up a firm
barrier against political oppression. It was, too, the Reformation
principally that first drew the northern powers, Denmark and Sweden,
into the political system of Europe; and while on the one hand the
Protestant League was strengthened by their adhesion, it on the other
was indispensable to their interests. States which hitherto scarcely
concerned themselves with one another's existence, acquired through the
Reformation an attractive centre of interest, and began to be united by
new political sympathies. And as through its influence new relations
sprang up between citizen and citizen, and between rulers and subjects,
so also entire states were forced by it into new relative positions.
Thus, by a strange course of events, religious disputes were the means
of cementing a closer union among the nations of Europe.
Fearful indeed, and destructive, was the first movement in which this
general political sympathy announced itself; a desolating war of thirty
years, which, from the interior of Bohemia to the mouth of the Scheldt,
and from the banks of the Po to the coasts of the Baltic, devastated
whole countries, destroyed harvests, and reduced towns and villages to
ashes; which opened a grave for many thousand combatants, and for half a
century smothered the glimmering sparks of civilization in Germany, and
threw back the improving manners of the country into their pristine
barbarity and wildness. Yet out of this fearful war Europe came forth
free and independent. In it she first learned to recognize herself as a
community of nations; and this intercommunion of states, which
originated in the thirty years' war, may alone be sufficient to
reconcile the philosopher to its horrors. The hand of industry has
slowly but gradually effaced the traces of its ravages, while its
beneficent influence still survives; and this general sympathy among the
states of Europe, which grew out of the troubles in Bohemia, is our
guarantee for the continuance of that peace which was the result of the
war. As the sparks of destruction found their way from the interior of
Bohemia, Moravia, and Austria, to kindle Germany, France, and the half
of Europe, so also will the torch of civilization make a path for itself
from the latter to enlighten the former countries.
All this was effected by religion. Religion alone could have rendered
possible all that was accomplished, but it was far from being the SOLE
motive of the war. Had not private advantages and state interests been
closely connected with it, vain and powerless would have been the
arguments of theologians; and the cry of the people would never have met
with princes so willing to espouse their cause, nor the new doctrines
have found such numerous, brave, and persevering champions. The
Reformation is undoubtedly owing in a great measure to the invincible
power of truth, or of opinions which were held as such. The abuses in
the old church, the absurdity of many of its dogmas, the extravagance of
its requisitions, necessarily revolted the tempers of men, already
half-won with the promise of a better light, and favourably disposed
them towards the new doctrines. The charm of independence, the rich
plunder of monastic institutions, made the Reformation attractive in the
eyes of princes, and tended not a little to strengthen their inward
convictions. Nothing, however, but political considerations could have
driven them to espouse it. Had not Charles the Fifth, in the
intoxication of success, made an attempt on the independence of the
German States, a Protestant league would scarcely have rushed to arms in
defence of freedom of belief; but for the ambition of the Guises, the
Calvinists in France would never have beheld a Conde or a Coligny at
their head. Without the exaction of the tenth and the twentieth penny,
the See of Rome had never lost the United Netherlands. Princes fought
in self-defence or for aggrandizement, while religious enthusiasm
recruited their armies, and opened to them the treasures of their
subjects. Of the multitude who flocked to their standards, such as were
not lured by the hope of plunder imagined they were fighting for the
truth, while in fact they were shedding their blood for the personal
objects of their princes.
And well was it for the people that, on this occasion, their interests
coincided with those of their princes. To this coincidence alone were
they indebted for their deliverance from popery. Well was it also for
the rulers, that the subject contended too for his own cause, while he
was fighting their battles. Fortunately at this date no European
sovereign was so absolute as to be able, in the pursuit of his political
designs, to dispense with the goodwill of his subjects. Yet how
difficult was it to gain and to set to work this goodwill! The most
impressive arguments drawn from reasons of state fall powerless on the
ear of the subject, who seldom understands, and still more rarely is
interested in them. In such circumstances, the only course open to a
prudent prince is to connect the interests of the cabinet with some one
that sits nearer to the people's heart, if such exists, or if not, to
create it.
In such a position stood the greater part of those princes who embraced
the cause of the Reformation. By a strange concatenation of events, the
divisions of the Church were associated with two circumstances, without
which, in all probability, they would have had a very different
conclusion. These were, the increasing power of the House of Austria,
which threatened the liberties of Europe, and its active zeal for the
old religion. The first aroused the princes, while the second armed the
people.
The German line of the House of Austria was apparently more unfettered;
but, in reality, though free from many of these restraints, it was yet
confined by others. The possession of the imperial throne--a dignity
it was impossible for a Protestant to hold, (for with what consistency
could an apostate from the Romish Church wear the crown of a Roman
emperor?) bound the successors of Ferdinand I. to the See of Rome.
Ferdinand himself was, from conscientious motives, heartily attached to
it. Besides, the German princes of the House of Austria were not
powerful enough to dispense with the support of Spain, which, however,
they would have forfeited by the least show of leaning towards the new
doctrines. The imperial dignity, also, required them to preserve the
existing political system of Germany, with which the maintenance of
their own authority was closely bound up, but which it was the aim of
the Protestant League to destroy. If to these grounds we add the
indifference of the Protestants to the Emperor's necessities and to the
common dangers of the empire, their encroachments on the temporalities
of the church, and their aggressive violence when they became conscious
of their own power, we can easily conceive how so many concurring
motives must have determined the emperors to the side of popery, and how
their own interests came to be intimately interwoven with those of the
Roman Church. As its fate seemed to depend altogether on the part taken
by Austria, the princes of this house came to be regarded by all Europe
as the pillars of popery. The hatred, therefore, which the Protestants
bore against the latter, was turned exclusively upon Austria; and the
cause became gradually confounded with its protector.
But the strong political inducements which the German princes had to
resist the pretensions of the House of Austria, naturally did not extend
to their subjects. It is only immediate advantages or immediate evils
that set the people in action, and for these a sound policy cannot wait.
Ill then would it have fared with these princes, if by good fortune
another effectual motive had not offered itself, which roused the
passions of the people, and kindled in them an enthusiasm which might be
directed against the political danger, as having with it a common cause
of alarm.
This motive was their avowed hatred of the religion which Austria
protected, and their enthusiastic attachment to a doctrine which that
House was endeavouring to extirpate by fire and sword. Their attachment
was ardent, their hatred invincible. Religious fanaticism anticipates
even the remotest dangers. Enthusiasm never calculates its sacrifices.
What the most pressing danger of the state could not gain from the
citizens, was effected by religious zeal. For the state, or for the
prince, few would have drawn the sword; but for religion, the merchant,
the artist, the peasant, all cheerfully flew to arms. For the state, or
for the prince, even the smallest additional impost would have been
avoided; but for religion the people readily staked at once life,
fortune, and all earthly hopes. It trebled the contributions which
flowed into the exchequer of the princes, and the armies which marched
to the field; and, in the ardent excitement produced in all minds by the
peril to which their faith was exposed, the subject felt not the
pressure of those burdens and privations under which, in cooler moments,
he would have sunk exhausted. The terrors of the Spanish Inquisition,
and the massacre of St. Bartholomew's, procured for the Prince of
Orange, the Admiral Coligny, the British Queen Elizabeth, and the
Protestant princes of Germany, supplies of men and money from their
subjects, to a degree which at present is inconceivable.
But, with all their exertions, they would have effected little against a
power which was an overmatch for any single adversary, however powerful.
At this period of imperfect policy, accidental circumstances alone could
determine distant states to afford one another a mutual support. The
differences of government, of laws, of language, of manners, and of
character, which hitherto had kept whole nations and countries as it
were insulated, and raised a lasting barrier between them, rendered one
state insensible to the distresses of another, save where national
jealousy could indulge a malicious joy at the reverses of a rival. This
barrier the Reformation destroyed. An interest more intense and more
immediate than national aggrandizement or patriotism, and entirely
independent of private utility, began to animate whole states and
individual citizens; an interest capable of uniting numerous and distant
nations, even while it frequently lost its force among the subjects of
the same government. With the inhabitants of Geneva, for instance, of
England, of Germany, or of Holland, the French Calvinist possessed a
common point of union which he had not with his own countrymen. Thus,
in one important particular, he ceased to be the citizen of a single
state, and to confine his views and sympathies to his own country alone.
The sphere of his views became enlarged. He began to calculate his own
fate from that of other nations of the same religious profession, and to
make their cause his own. Now for the first time did princes venture to
bring the affairs of other countries before their own councils; for the
first time could they hope for a willing ear to their own necessities,
and prompt assistance from others. Foreign affairs had now become a
matter of domestic policy, and that aid was readily granted to the
religious confederate which would have been denied to the mere
neighbour, and still more to the distant stranger. The inhabitant of
the Palatinate leaves his native fields to fight side by side with his
religious associate of France, against the common enemy of their faith.
The Huguenot draws his sword against the country which persecutes him,
and sheds his blood in defence of the liberties of Holland. Swiss is
arrayed against Swiss; German against German, to determine, on the banks
of the Loire and the Seine, the succession of the French crown. The
Dane crosses the Eider, and the Swede the Baltic, to break the chains
which are forged for Germany.
It is difficult to say what would have been the fate of the Reformation,
and the liberties of the Empire, had not the formidable power of Austria
declared against them. This, however, appears certain, that nothing so
completely damped the Austrian hopes of universal monarchy, as the
obstinate war which they had to wage against the new religious opinions.
Under no other circumstances could the weaker princes have roused their
subjects to such extraordinary exertions against the ambition of
Austria, or the States themselves have united so closely against the
common enemy.
The power of Austria never stood higher than after the victory which
Charles V. gained over the Germans at Muehlberg. With the treaty of
Smalcalde the freedom of Germany lay, as it seemed, prostrate for ever;
but it revived under Maurice of Saxony, once its most formidable enemy.
All the fruits of the victory of Muehlberg were lost again in the
congress of Passau, and the diet of Augsburg; and every scheme for civil
and religious oppression terminated in the concessions of an equitable
peace.
The diet of Augsburg divided Germany into two religious and two
political parties, by recognizing the independent rights and existence
of both. Hitherto the Protestants had been looked on as rebels; they
were henceforth to be regarded as brethren--not indeed through
affection, but necessity. By the Interim, the Confession of Augsburg
was allowed temporarily to take a sisterly place alongside of the olden
religion, though only as a tolerated neighbour.
If it had been opinions only that thus divided the minds of men, with
what indifference would all have regarded the division! But on these
opinions depended riches, dignities, and rights; and it was this which
so deeply aggravated the evils of division. Of two brothers, as it
were, who had hitherto enjoyed a paternal inheritance in common, one now
remained, while the other was compelled to leave his father's house, and
hence arose the necessity of dividing the patrimony. For this
separation, which he could not have foreseen, the father had made no
provision. By the beneficent donations of pious ancestors the riches of
the church had been accumulating through a thousand years, and these
benefactors were as much the progenitors of the departing brother as of
him who remained. Was the right of inheritance then to be limited to
the paternal house, or to be extended to blood? The gifts had been made
to the church in communion with Rome, because at that time no other
existed,--to the first-born, as it were, because he was as yet the only
son. Was then a right of primogeniture to be admitted in the church, as
in noble families? Were the pretensions of one party to be favoured by
a prescription from times when the claims of the other could not have
come into existence? Could the Lutherans be justly excluded from these
possessions, to which the benevolence of their forefathers had
contributed, merely on the ground that, at the date of their foundation,
the differences between Lutheranism and Romanism were unknown? Both
parties have disputed, and still dispute, with equal plausibility, on
these points. Both alike have found it difficult to prove their right.
Law can be applied only to conceivable cases, and perhaps spiritual
foundations are not among the number of these, and still less where the
conditions of the founders generally extended to a system of doctrines;
for how is it conceivable that a permanent endowment should be made of
opinions left open to change?
What law cannot decide, is usually determined by might, and such was the
case here. The one party held firmly all that could no longer be
wrested from it--the other defended what it still possessed. All the
bishoprics and abbeys which had been secularized BEFORE the peace,
remained with the Protestants; but, by an express clause, the unreformed
Catholics provided that none should thereafter be secularized. Every
impropriator of an ecclesiastical foundation, who held immediately of
the Empire, whether elector, bishop, or abbot, forfeited his benefice
and dignity the moment he embraced the Protestant belief; he was obliged
in that event instantly to resign its emoluments, and the chapter was to
proceed to a new election, exactly as if his place had been vacated by
death. By this sacred anchor of the Ecclesiastical Reservation,
(`Reservatum Ecclesiasticum',) which makes the temporal existence of a
spiritual prince entirely dependent on his fidelity to the olden
religion, the Roman Catholic Church in Germany is still held fast; and
precarious, indeed, would be its situation were this anchor to give way.
The principle of the Ecclesiastical Reservation was strongly opposed by
the Protestants; and though it was at last adopted into the treaty of
peace, its insertion was qualified with the declaration, that parties
had come to no final determination on the point. Could it then be more
binding on the Protestants than Ferdinand's guarantee in favour of
Protestant subjects of ecclesiastical states was upon the Roman
Catholics? Thus were two important subjects of dispute left unsettled
in the treaty of peace, and by them the war was rekindled.
Such was the position of things with regard to religious toleration and
ecclesiastical property: it was the same with regard to rights and
dignities. The existing German system provided only for one church,
because one only was in existence when that system was framed. The
church had now divided; the Diet had broken into two religious parties;
was the whole system of the Empire still exclusively to follow the one?
The emperors had hitherto been members of the Romish Church, because
till now that religion had no rival. But was it his connexion with Rome
which constituted a German emperor, or was it not rather Germany which
was to be represented in its head? The Protestants were now spread over
the whole Empire, and how could they justly still be represented by an
unbroken line of Roman Catholic emperors? In the Imperial Chamber the
German States judge themselves, for they elect the judges; it was the
very end of its institution that they should do so, in order that equal
justice should be dispensed to all; but would this be still possible, if
the representatives of both professions were not equally admissible to a
seat in the Chamber? That one religion only existed in Germany at the
time of its establishment, was accidental; that no one estate should
have the means of legally oppressing another, was the essential purpose
of the institution. Now this object would be entirely frustrated if one
religious party were to have the exclusive power of deciding for the
other. Must, then, the design be sacrificed, because that which was
merely accidental had changed? With great difficulty the Protestants,
at last, obtained for the representatives of their religion a place in
the Supreme Council, but still there was far from being a perfect
equality of voices. To this day no Protestant prince has been raised to
the imperial throne.
Whatever may be said of the equality which the peace of Augsburg was to
have established between the two German churches, the Roman Catholic had
unquestionably still the advantage. All that the Lutheran Church gained
by it was toleration; all that the Romish Church conceded, was a
sacrifice to necessity, not an offering to justice. Very far was it
from being a peace between two equal powers, but a truce between a
sovereign and unconquered rebels. From this principle all the
proceedings of the Roman Catholics against the Protestants seemed to
flow, and still continue to do so. To join the reformed faith was still
a crime, since it was to be visited with so severe a penalty as that
which the Ecclesiastical Reservation held suspended over the apostacy of
the spiritual princes. Even to the last, the Romish Church preferred to
risk to loss of every thing by force, than voluntarily to yield the
smallest matter to justice. The loss was accidental and might be
repaired; but the abandonment of its pretensions, the concession of a
single point to the Protestants, would shake the foundations of the
church itself. Even in the treaty of peace this principle was not lost
sight of. Whatever in this peace was yielded to the Protestants was
always under condition. It was expressly declared, that affairs were to
remain on the stipulated footing only till the next general council,
which was to be called with the view of effecting an union between the
two confessions. Then only, when this last attempt should have failed,
was the religious treaty to become valid and conclusive. However little
hope there might be of such a reconciliation, however little perhaps the
Romanists themselves were in earnest with it, still it was something to
have clogged the peace with these stipulations.
Thus this religious treaty, which was to extinguish for ever the flames
of civil war, was, in fact, but a temporary truce, extorted by force and
necessity; not dictated by justice, nor emanating from just notions
either of religion or toleration. A religious treaty of this kind the
Roman Catholics were as incapable of granting, to be candid, as in truth
the Lutherans were unqualified to receive. Far from evincing a tolerant
spirit towards the Roman Catholics, when it was in their power, they
even oppressed the Calvinists; who indeed just as little deserved
toleration, since they were unwilling to practise it. For such a peace
the times were not yet ripe--the minds of men not yet sufficiently
enlightened. How could one party expect from another what itself was
incapable of performing? What each side saved or gained by the treaty of
Augsburg, it owed to the imposing attitude of strength which it
maintained at the time of its negociation. What was won by force was to
be maintained also by force; if the peace was to be permanent, the two
parties to it must preserve the same relative positions. The boundaries
of the two churches had been marked out with the sword; with the sword
they must be preserved, or woe to that party which should be first
disarmed! A sad and fearful prospect for the tranquillity of Germany,
when peace itself bore so threatening an aspect.
Nothing could have furnished the common enemy a more plausible defence
of his cause than this dissension; no spectacle could have been more
gratifying to him than the rancour with which the Protestants
alternately persecuted each other. Who could condemn the Roman
Catholics, if they laughed at the audacity with which the Reformers had
presumed to announce the only true belief?--if from Protestants they
borrowed the weapons against Protestants?--if, in the midst of this
clashing of opinions, they held fast to the authority of their own
church, for which, in part, there spoke an honourable antiquity, and a
yet more honourable plurality of voices. But this division placed the
Protestants in still more serious embarrassments. As the covenants of
the treaty applied only to the partisans of the Confession, their
opponents, with some reason, called upon them to explain who were to be
recognized as the adherents of that creed. The Lutherans could not,
without offending conscience, include the Calvinists in their communion,
except at the risk of converting a useful friend into a dangerous enemy,
could they exclude them. This unfortunate difference opened a way for
the machinations of the Jesuits to sow distrust between both parties,
and to destroy the unity of their measures. Fettered by the double fear
of their direct adversaries, and of their opponents among themselves,
the Protestants lost for ever the opportunity of placing their church on
a perfect equality with the Catholic. All these difficulties would have
been avoided, and the defection of the Calvinists would not have
prejudiced the common cause, if the point of union had been placed
simply in the abandonment of Romanism, instead of in the Confession of
Augsburg.
But the Protestants, likewise, were excusable if they too placed little
confidence in the sincerity of the Roman Catholics. By the treacherous
and inhuman treatment which their brethren in Spain, France, and the
Netherlands, had suffered; by the disgraceful subterfuge of the Romish
princes, who held that the Pope had power to relieve them from the
obligation of the most solemn oaths; and above all, by the detestable
maxim, that faith was not to be kept with heretics, the Roman Church, in
the eyes of all honest men, had lost its honour. No engagement, no
oath, however sacred, from a Roman Catholic, could satisfy a Protestant.
What security then could the religious peace afford, when, throughout
Germany, the Jesuits represented it as a measure of mere temporary
convenience, and in Rome itself it was solemnly repudiated.
The General Council, to which reference had been made in the treaty, had
already been held in the city of Trent; but, as might have been
foreseen, without accommodating the religious differences, or taking a
single step to effect such accommodation, and even without being
attended by the Protestants. The latter, indeed, were now solemnly
excommunicated by it in the name of the church, whose representative the
Council gave itself out to be. Could, then, a secular treaty, extorted
moreover by force of arms, afford them adequate protection against the
ban of the church; a treaty, too, based on a condition which the
decision of the Council seemed entirely to abolish? There was then a
show of right for violating the peace, if only the Romanists possessed
the power; and henceforward the Protestants were protected by nothing
but the respect for their formidable array.
Ferdinand the First, King of Hungary, and his excellent son, Maximilian
the Second, held at this memorable epoch the reins of government. With
a heart full of sincerity, with a truly heroic patience, had Ferdinand
brought about the religious peace of Augsburg, and afterwards, in the
Council of Trent, laboured assiduously, though vainly, at the ungrateful
task of reconciling the two religions. Abandoned by his nephew, Philip
of Spain, and hard pressed both in Hungary and Transylvania by the
victorious armies of the Turks, it was not likely that this emperor
would entertain the idea of violating the religious peace, and thereby
destroying his own painful work. The heavy expenses of the perpetually
recurring war with Turkey could not be defrayed by the meagre
contributions of his exhausted hereditary dominions. He stood,
therefore, in need of the assistance of the whole empire; and the
religious peace alone preserved in one body the otherwise divided
empire. Financial necessities made the Protestant as needful to him as
the Romanist, and imposed upon him the obligation of treating both
parties with equal justice, which, amidst so many contradictory claims,
was truly a colossal task. Very far, however, was the result from
answering his expectations. His indulgence of the Protestants served
only to bring upon his successors a war, which death saved himself the
mortification of witnessing. Scarcely more fortunate was his son
Maximilian, with whom perhaps the pressure of circumstances was the only
obstacle, and a longer life perhaps the only want, to his establishing
the new religion upon the imperial throne. Necessity had taught the
father forbearance towards the Protestants--necessity and justice
dictated the same course to the son. The grandson had reason to repent
that he neither listened to justice, nor yielded to necessity.
Maximilian left six sons, of whom the eldest, the Archduke Rodolph,
inherited his dominions, and ascended the imperial throne. The other
brothers were put off with petty appanages. A few mesne fiefs were held
by a collateral branch, which had their uncle, Charles of Styria, at its
head; and even these were afterwards, under his son, Ferdinand the
Second, incorporated with the rest of the family dominions. With this
exception, the whole of the imposing power of Austria was now wielded by
a single, but unfortunately weak hand.
Rodolph the Second was not devoid of those virtues which might have
gained him the esteem of mankind, had the lot of a private station
fallen to him. His character was mild, he loved peace and the sciences,
particularly astronomy, natural history, chemistry, and the study of
antiquities. To these he applied with a passionate zeal, which, at the
very time when the critical posture of affairs demanded all his
attention, and his exhausted finances the most rigid economy, diverted
his attention from state affairs, and involved him in pernicious
expenses. His taste for astronomy soon lost itself in those
astrological reveries to which timid and melancholy temperaments like
his are but too disposed. This, together with a youth passed in Spain,
opened his ears to the evil counsels of the Jesuits, and the influence
of the Spanish court, by which at last he was wholly governed. Ruled by
tastes so little in accordance with the dignity of his station, and
alarmed by ridiculous prophecies, he withdrew, after the Spanish custom,
from the eyes of his subjects, to bury himself amidst his gems and
antiques, or to make experiments in his laboratory, while the most fatal
discords loosened all the bands of the empire, and the flames of
rebellion began to burst out at the very footsteps of his throne. All
access to his person was denied, the most urgent matters were neglected.
The prospect of the rich inheritance of Spain was closed against him,
while he was trying to make up his mind to offer his hand to the Infanta
Isabella. A fearful anarchy threatened the Empire, for though without
an heir of his own body, he could not be persuaded to allow the election
of a King of the Romans. The Austrian States renounced their
allegiance, Hungary and Transylvania threw off his supremacy, and
Bohemia was not slow in following their example. The descendant of the
once so formidable Charles the Fifth was in perpetual danger, either of
losing one part of his possessions to the Turks, or another to the
Protestants, and of sinking, beyond redemption, under the formidable
coalition which a great monarch of Europe had formed against him. The
events which now took place in the interior of Germany were such as
usually happened when either the throne was without an emperor, or the
Emperor without a sense of his imperial dignity. Outraged or abandoned
by their head, the States of the Empire were left to help themselves;
and alliances among themselves must supply the defective authority of
the Emperor. Germany was divided into two leagues, which stood in arms
arrayed against each other: between both, Rodolph, the despised
opponent of the one, and the impotent protector of the other, remained
irresolute and useless, equally unable to destroy the former or to
command the latter. What had the Empire to look for from a prince
incapable even of defending his hereditary dominions against its
domestic enemies? To prevent the utter ruin of the House of Austria,
his own family combined against him; and a powerful party threw itself
into the arms of his brother. Driven from his hereditary dominions,
nothing was now left him to lose but the imperial dignity; and he was
only spared this last disgrace by a timely death.
Long had the Austrian archdukes, the brothers of the Emperor, beheld
with silent indignation the impending ruin of their house; this last
event hastened their decision. The Archduke Matthias, Maximilian's
second son, Viceroy in Hungary, and Rodolph's presumptive heir, now came
forward as the stay of the falling house of Hapsburg. In his youth,
misled by a false ambition, this prince, disregarding the interests of
his family, had listened to the overtures of the Flemish insurgents, who
invited him into the Netherlands to conduct the defence of their
liberties against the oppression of his own relative, Philip the Second.
Mistaking the voice of an insulated faction for that of the entire
nation, Matthias obeyed the call. But the event answered the
expectations of the men of Brabant as little as his own, and from this
imprudent enterprise he retired with little credit.
Far more honourable was his second appearance in the political world.
Perceiving that his repeated remonstrances with the Emperor were
unavailing, he assembled the archdukes, his brothers and cousins, at
Presburg, and consulted with them on the growing perils of their house,
when they unanimously assigned to him, as the oldest, the duty of
defending that patrimony which a feeble brother was endangering. In his
hands they placed all their powers and rights, and vested him with
sovereign authority, to act at his discretion for the common good.
Matthias immediately opened a communication with the Porte and the
Hungarian rebels, and through his skilful management succeeded in
saving, by a peace with the Turks, the remainder of Hungary, and by a
treaty with the rebels, preserved the claims of Austria to the lost
provinces. But Rodolph, as jealous as he had hitherto been careless of
his sovereign authority, refused to ratify this treaty, which he
regarded as a criminal encroachment on his sovereign rights. He accused
the Archduke of keeping up a secret understanding with the enemy, and of
cherishing treasonable designs on the crown of Hungary.
Bohemia was not a more peaceable possession for Austria than Hungary;
with this difference only, that, in the latter, political
considerations, in the former, religious dissensions, fomented
disorders. In Bohemia, a century before the days of Luther, the first
spark of the religious war had been kindled; a century after Luther, the
first flames of the thirty years' war burst out in Bohemia. The sect
which owed its rise to John Huss, still existed in that country;--it
agreed with the Romish Church in ceremonies and doctrines, with the
single exception of the administration of the Communion, in which the
Hussites communicated in both kinds. This privilege had been conceded
to the followers of Huss by the Council of Basle, in an express treaty,
(the Bohemian Compact); and though it was afterwards disavowed by the
popes, they nevertheless continued to profit by it under the sanction of
the government. As the use of the cup formed the only important
distinction of their body, they were usually designated by the name of
Utraquists; and they readily adopted an appellation which reminded them
of their dearly valued privilege. But under this title lurked also the
far stricter sects of the Bohemian and Moravian Brethren, who differed
from the predominant church in more important particulars, and bore, in
fact, a great resemblance to the German Protestants. Among them both,
the German and Swiss opinions on religion made rapid progress; while the
name of Utraquists, under which they managed to disguise the change of
their principles, shielded them from persecution.
In truth, they had nothing in common with the Utraquists but the name;
essentially, they were altogether Protestant. Confident in the strength
of their party, and the Emperor's toleration under Maximilian, they had
openly avowed their tenets. After the example of the Germans, they drew
up a Confession of their own, in which Lutherans as well as Calvinists
recognized their own doctrines, and they sought to transfer to the new
Confession the privileges of the original Utraquists. In this they were
opposed by their Roman Catholic countrymen, and forced to rest content
with the Emperor's verbal assurance of protection.
The Bohemians now took up arms in defence of the Emperor, and a bloody
war between the two brothers was on the point of breaking out. But
Rodolph, who feared nothing so much as remaining in this slavish
dependence on the Estates, waited not for a warlike issue, but hastened
to effect a reconciliation with his brother by more peaceable means. By
a formal act of abdication he resigned to Matthias, what indeed he had
no chance of wresting from him, Austria and the kingdom of Hungary, and
acknowledged him as his successor to the crown of Bohemia.
Dearly enough had the Emperor extricated himself from one difficulty,
only to get immediately involved in another. The settlement of the
religious affairs of Bohemia had been referred to the next Diet, which
was held in 1609. The reformed Bohemians demanded the free exercise of
their faith, as under the former emperors; a Consistory of their own;
the cession of the University of Prague; and the right of electing
`Defenders', or `Protectors' of `Liberty', from their own body. The
answer was the same as before; for the timid Emperor was now entirely
fettered by the unreformed party. However often, and in however
threatening language the Estates renewed their remonstrances, the
Emperor persisted in his first declaration of granting nothing beyond
the old compact. The Diet broke up without coming to a decision; and
the Estates, exasperated against the Emperor, arranged a general meeting
at Prague, upon their own authority, to right themselves.
The Bohemian Confession, which the States had laid before the Emperor
Maximilian, was, by the Letter of Majesty, placed on a footing of
equality with the olden profession. The Utraquists, for by this title
the Bohemian Protestants continued to designate themselves, were put in
possession of the University of Prague, and allowed a Consistory of
their own, entirely independent of the archiepiscopal see of that city.
All the churches in the cities, villages, and market towns, which they
held at the date of the letter, were secured to them; and if in addition
they wished to erect others, it was permitted to the nobles, and
knights, and the free cities to do so. This last clause in the Letter
of Majesty gave rise to the unfortunate disputes which subsequently
rekindled the flames of war in Europe.
The Letter of Majesty erected the Protestant part of Bohemia into a kind
of republic. The Estates had learned to feel the power which they
gained by perseverance, unity, and harmony in their measures. The
Emperor now retained little more than the shadow of his sovereign
authority; while by the new dignity of the so-called defenders of
liberty, a dangerous stimulus was given to the spirit of revolt. The
example and success of Bohemia afforded a tempting seduction to the
other hereditary dominions of Austria, and all attempted by similar
means to extort similar privileges. The spirit of liberty spread from
one province to another; and as it was chiefly the disunion among the
Austrian princes that had enabled the Protestants so materially to
improve their advantages, they now hastened to effect a reconciliation
between the Emperor and the King of Hungary.
But the reconciliation could not be sincere. The wrong was too great to
be forgiven, and Rodolph continued to nourish at heart an
unextinguishable hatred of Matthias. With grief and indignation he
brooded over the thought, that the Bohemian sceptre was finally to
descend into the hands of his enemy; and the prospect was not more
consoling, even if Matthias should die without issue. In that case,
Ferdinand, Archduke of Graetz, whom he equally disliked, was the head of
the family. To exclude the latter as well as Matthias from the
succession to the throne of Bohemia, he fell upon the project of
diverting that inheritance to Ferdinand's brother, the Archduke Leopold,
Bishop of Passau, who among all his relatives had ever been the dearest
and most deserving. The prejudices of the Bohemians in favour of the
elective freedom of their crown, and their attachment to Leopold's
person, seemed to favour this scheme, in which Rodolph consulted rather
his own partiality and vindictiveness than the good of his house. But
to carry out this project, a military force was requisite, and Rodolph
actually assembled an army in the bishopric of Passau. The object of
this force was hidden from all. An inroad, however, which, for want of
pay it made suddenly and without the Emperor's knowledge into Bohemia,
and the outrages which it there committed, stirred up the whole kingdom
against him. In vain he asserted his innocence to the Bohemian Estates;
they would not believe his protestations; vainly did he attempt to
restrain the violence of his soldiery; they disregarded his orders.
Persuaded that the Emperor's object was to annul the Letter of Majesty,
the Protectors of Liberty armed the whole of Protestant Bohemia, and
invited Matthias into the country. After the dispersion of the force he
had collected at Passau, the Emperor remained helpless at Prague, where
he was kept shut up like a prisoner in his palace, and separated from
all his councillors. In the meantime, Matthias entered Prague amidst
universal rejoicings, where Rodolph was soon afterwards weak enough to
acknowledge him King of Bohemia. So hard a fate befell this Emperor; he
was compelled, during his life, to abdicate in favour of his enemy that
very throne, of which he had been endeavouring to deprive him after his
own death. To complete his degradation, he was obliged, by a personal
act of renunciation, to release his subjects in Bohemia, Silesia, and
Lusatia from their allegiance, and he did it with a broken heart. All,
even those he thought he had most attached to his person, had abandoned
him. When he had signed the instrument, he threw his hat upon the
ground, and gnawed the pen which had rendered so shameful a service.
While Rodolph thus lost one hereditary dominion after another, the
imperial dignity was not much better maintained by him. Each of the
religious parties into which Germany was divided, continued its efforts
to advance itself at the expense of the other, or to guard against its
attacks. The weaker the hand that held the sceptre, and the more the
Protestants and Roman Catholics felt they were left to themselves, the
more vigilant necessarily became their watchfulness, and the greater
their distrust of each other. It was enough that the Emperor was ruled
by Jesuits, and was guided by Spanish counsels, to excite the
apprehension of the Protestants, and to afford a pretext for hostility.
The rash zeal of the Jesuits, which in the pulpit and by the press
disputed the validity of the religious peace, increased this distrust,
and caused their adversaries to see a dangerous design in the most
indifferent measures of the Roman Catholics. Every step taken in the
hereditary dominions of the Emperor, for the repression of the reformed
religion, was sure to draw the attention of all the Protestants of
Germany; and this powerful support which the reformed subjects of
Austria met, or expected to meet with from their religious confederates
in the rest of Germany, was no small cause of their confidence, and of
the rapid success of Matthias. It was the general belief of the Empire,
that they owed the long enjoyment of the religious peace merely to the
difficulties in which the Emperor was placed by the internal troubles in
his dominions, and consequently they were in no haste to relieve him
from them.
Almost all the affairs of the Diet were neglected, either through the
procrastination of the Emperor, or through the fault of the Protestant
Estates, who had determined to make no provision for the common wants of
the Empire till their own grievances were removed. These grievances
related principally to the misgovernment of the Emperor; the violation
of the religious treaty, and the presumptuous usurpations of the Aulic
Council, which in the present reign had begun to extend its jurisdiction
at the expense of the Imperial Chamber. Formerly, in all disputes
between the Estates, which could not be settled by club law, the
Emperors had in the last resort decided of themselves, if the case were
trifling, and in conjunction with the princes, if it were important; or
they determined them by the advice of imperial judges who followed the
court. This superior jurisdiction they had, in the end of the fifteenth
century, assigned to a regular and permanent tribunal, the Imperial
Chamber of Spires, in which the Estates of the Empire, that they might
not be oppressed by the arbitrary appointment of the Emperor, had
reserved to themselves the right of electing the assessors, and of
periodically reviewing its decrees. By the religious peace, these
rights of the Estates, (called the rights of presentation and
visitation,) were extended also to the Lutherans, so that Protestant
judges had a voice in Protestant causes, and a seeming equality obtained
for both religions in this supreme tribunal.
But the enemies of the Reformation and of the freedom of the Estates,
vigilant to take advantage of every incident that favoured their views,
soon found means to neutralize the beneficial effects of this
institution. A supreme jurisdiction over the Imperial States was
gradually and skilfully usurped by a private imperial tribunal, the
Aulic Council in Vienna, a court at first intended merely to advise the
Emperor in the exercise of his undoubted, imperial, and personal
prerogatives; a court, whose members being appointed and paid by him,
had no law but the interest of their master, and no standard of equity
but the advancement of the unreformed religion of which they were
partisans. Before the Aulic Council were now brought several suits
originating between Estates differing in religion, and which, therefore,
properly belonged to the Imperial Chamber. It was not surprising if the
decrees of this tribunal bore traces of their origin; if the interests
of the Roman Church and of the Emperor were preferred to justice by
Roman Catholic judges, and the creatures of the Emperor. Although all
the Estates of Germany seemed to have equal cause for resisting so
perilous an abuse, the Protestants alone, who most sensibly felt it, and
even these not all at once and in a body, came forward as the defenders
of German liberty, which the establishment of so arbitrary a tribunal
had outraged in its most sacred point, the administration of justice.
In fact, Germany would have had little cause to congratulate itself upon
the abolition of club-law, and in the institution of the Imperial
Chamber, if an arbitrary tribunal of the Emperor was allowed to
interfere with the latter. The Estates of the German Empire would
indeed have improved little upon the days of barbarism, if the Chamber
of Justice in which they sat along with the Emperor as judges, and for
which they had abandoned their original princely prerogative, should
cease to be a court of the last resort. But the strangest
contradictions were at this date to be found in the minds of men. The
name of Emperor, a remnant of Roman despotism, was still associated with
an idea of autocracy, which, though it formed a ridiculous inconsistency
with the privileges of the Estates, was nevertheless argued for by
jurists, diffused by the partisans of despotism, and believed by the
ignorant.
This event was of the greatest importance. By the letter of the clause
reserving the ecclesiastical states from the general operation of the
religious peace, the elector had, by his apostacy, forfeited all right
to the temporalities of his bishopric; and if, in any case, it was
important for the Catholics to enforce the clause, it was so especially
in the case of electorates. On the other hand, the relinquishment of so
high a dignity was a severe sacrifice, and peculiarly so in the case of
a tender husband, who had wished to enhance the value of his heart and
hand by the gift of a principality. Moreover, the Reservatum
Ecclesiasticum was a disputed article of the treaty of Augsburg; and all
the German Protestants were aware of the extreme importance of wresting
this fourth electorate from the opponents of their faith.--[Saxony,
Brandenburg, and the Palatinate were already Protestant.]--The example
had already been set in several of the ecclesiastical benefices of Lower
Germany, and attended with success. Several canons of Cologne had also
already embraced the Protestant confession, and were on the elector's
side, while, in the city itself, he could depend upon the support of a
numerous Protestant party. All these considerations, greatly
strengthened by the persuasions of his friends and relations, and the
promises of several German courts, determined the elector to retain his
dominions, while he changed his religion.
But it was soon apparent that he had entered upon a contest which he
could not carry through. Even the free toleration of the Protestant
service within the territories of Cologne, had already occasioned a
violent opposition on the part of the canons and Roman Catholic
`Estates' of that province. The intervention of the Emperor, and a
papal ban from Rome, which anathematized the elector as an apostate, and
deprived him of all his dignities, temporal and spiritual, armed his own
subjects and chapter against him. The Elector assembled a military
force; the chapter did the same. To ensure also the aid of a strong
arm, they proceeded forthwith to a new election, and chose the Bishop of
Liege, a prince of Bavaria.
A civil war now commenced, which, from the strong interest which both
religious parties in Germany necessarily felt in the conjuncture, was
likely to terminate in a general breaking up of the religious peace.
What most made the Protestants indignant, was that the Pope should have
presumed, by a pretended apostolic power, to deprive a prince of the
empire of his imperial dignities. Even in the golden days of their
spiritual domination, this prerogative of the Pope had been disputed;
how much more likely was it to be questioned at a period when his
authority was entirely disowned by one party, while even with the other
it rested on a tottering foundation. All the Protestant princes took up
the affair warmly against the Emperor; and Henry IV. of France, then
King of Navarre, left no means of negotiation untried to urge the German
princes to the vigorous assertion of their rights. The issue would
decide for ever the liberties of Germany. Four Protestant against three
Roman Catholic voices in the Electoral College must at once have given
the preponderance to the former, and for ever excluded the House of
Austria from the imperial throne.
But the Elector Gebhard had embraced the Calvinist, not the Lutheran
religion; and this circumstance alone was his ruin. The mutual rancour
of these two churches would not permit the Lutheran Estates to regard
the Elector as one of their party, and as such to lend him their
effectual support. All indeed had encouraged, and promised him
assistance; but only one appanaged prince of the Palatine House, the
Palsgrave John Casimir, a zealous Calvinist, kept his word. Despite of
the imperial prohibition, he hastened with his little army into the
territories of Cologne; but without being able to effect any thing,
because the Elector, who was destitute even of the first necessaries,
left him totally without help. So much the more rapid was the progress
of the newly-chosen elector, whom his Bavarian relations and the
Spaniards from the Netherlands supported with the utmost vigour. The
troops of Gebhard, left by their master without pay, abandoned one place
after another to the enemy; by whom others were compelled to surrender.
In his Westphalian territories, Gebhard held out for some time longer,
till here, too, he was at last obliged to yield to superior force.
After several vain attempts in Holland and England to obtain means for
his restoration, he retired into the Chapter of Strasburg, and died dean
of that cathedral; the first sacrifice to the Ecclesiastical
Reservation, or rather to the want of harmony among the German
Protestants.
That city now took up arms in defence of its Protestant chapter and the
Prince of Brandenburg, while the other party, with the assistance of the
troops of Lorraine, endeavoured to possess themselves of the
temporalities of the chapter. A tedious war was the consequence, which,
according to the spirit of the times, was attended with barbarous
devastations. In vain did the Emperor interpose with his supreme
authority to terminate the dispute; the ecclesiastical property remained
for a long time divided between the two parties, till at last the
Protestant prince, for a moderate pecuniary equivalent, renounced his
claims; and thus, in this dispute also, the Roman Church came off
victorious.
It was under this Frederick that the Palatine Court exerted itself so
vigorously to unite the Protestant states of Germany in joint measures
against the House of Austria, and, if possible, bring about the
formation of a general confederacy. Besides that this court had always
been guided by the counsels of France, with whom hatred of the House of
Austria was the ruling principle, a regard for his own safety urged him
to secure in time the doubtful assistance of the Lutherans against a
near and overwhelming enemy. Great difficulties, however, opposed this
union, because the Lutherans' dislike of the Reformed was scarcely less
than the common aversion of both to the Romanists. An attempt was first
made to reconcile the two professions, in order to facilitate a
political union; but all these attempts failed, and generally ended in
both parties adhering the more strongly to their respective opinions.
Nothing then remained but to increase the fear and the distrust of the
Evangelicals, and in this way to impress upon them the necessity of this
alliance. The power of the Roman Catholics and the magnitude of the
danger were exaggerated, accidental incidents were ascribed to
deliberate plans, innocent actions misrepresented by invidious
constructions, and the whole conduct of the professors of the olden
religion was interpreted as the result of a well-weighed and systematic
plan, which, in all probability, they were very far from having
concerted.
The Diet of Ratisbon, to which the Protestants had looked forward with
the hope of obtaining a renewal of the Religious Peace, had broken up
without coming to a decision, and to the former grievances of the
Protestant party was now added the late oppression of Donauwerth. With
incredible speed, the union, so long attempted, was now brought to bear.
A conference took place at Anhausen, in Franconia, at which were present
the Elector Frederick IV., from the Palatinate, the Palsgrave of
Neuburg, two Margraves of Brandenburg, the Margrave of Baden, and the
Duke John Frederick of Wirtemburg,--Lutherans as well as Calvinists,--
who for themselves and their heirs entered into a close confederacy
under the title of the Evangelical Union. The purport of this union
was, that the allied princes should, in all matters relating to religion
and their civil rights, support each other with arms and counsel against
every aggressor, and should all stand as one man; that in case any
member of the alliance should be attacked, he should be assisted by the
rest with an armed force; that, if necessary, the territories, towns,
and castles of the allied states should be open to his troops; and that,
whatever conquests were made, should be divided among all the
confederates, in proportion to the contingent furnished by each.
The Roman Catholics regarded this confederacy with a jealous eye; the
Union viewed them and the Emperor with the like distrust; the Emperor
was equally suspicious of both; and thus, on all sides, alarm and
animosity had reached their climax. And, as if to crown the whole, at
this critical conjuncture by the death of the Duke John William of
Juliers, a highly disputable succession became vacant in the territories
of Juliers and Cleves.
The dispute about the succession of Juliers was an important one to the
whole German empire, and also attracted the attention of several
European courts. It was not so much the question, who was or was not to
possess the Duchy of Juliers;--the real question was, which of the two
religious parties in Germany, the Roman Catholic or the Protestant, was
to be strengthened by so important an accession--for which of the two
RELIGIONS this territory was to be lost or won. The question in short
was, whether Austria was to be allowed to persevere in her usurpations,
and to gratify her lust of dominion by another robbery; or whether the
liberties of Germany, and the balance of power, were to be maintained
against her encroachments. The disputed succession of Juliers,
therefore, was matter which interested all who were favourable to
liberty, and hostile to Austria. The Evangelical Union, Holland,
England, and particularly Henry IV. of France, were drawn into the
strife.
This monarch, the flower of whose life had been spent in opposing the
House of Austria and Spain, and by persevering heroism alone had
surmounted the obstacles which this house had thrown between him and the
French throne, had been no idle spectator of the troubles in Germany.
This contest of the Estates with the Emperor was the means of giving and
securing peace to France. The Protestants and the Turks were the two
salutary weights which kept down the Austrian power in the East and
West; but it would rise again in all its terrors, if once it were
allowed to remove this pressure. Henry the Fourth had before his eyes
for half a lifetime, the uninterrupted spectacle of Austrian ambition
and Austrian lust of dominion, which neither adversity nor poverty of
talents, though generally they check all human passions, could
extinguish in a bosom wherein flowed one drop of the blood of Ferdinand
of Arragon. Austrian ambition had destroyed for a century the peace of
Europe, and effected the most violent changes in the heart of its most
considerable states. It had deprived the fields of husbandmen, the
workshops of artisans, to fill the land with enormous armies, and to
cover the commercial sea with hostile fleets. It had imposed upon the
princes of Europe the necessity of fettering the industry of their
subjects by unheard-of imposts; and of wasting in self-defence the best
strength of their states, which was thus lost to the prosperity of their
inhabitants. For Europe there was no peace, for its states no welfare,
for the people's happiness no security or permanence, so long as this
dangerous house was permitted to disturb at pleasure the repose of the
world.
The other European powers had the same inducements to action as Henry,
but all of them had not that enlightened policy, nor that disinterested
courage to act upon the impulse. All men, without distinction, are
allured by immediate advantages; great minds alone are excited by
distant good. So long as wisdom in its projects calculates upon wisdom,
or relies upon its own strength, it forms none but chimerical schemes,
and runs a risk of making itself the laughter of the world; but it is
certain of success, and may reckon upon aid and admiration when it finds
a place in its intellectual plans for barbarism, rapacity, and
superstition, and can render the selfish passions of mankind the
executors of its purposes.
With his view directed to this project, Henry felt the necessity of
taking a prompt and active part in the important events of the
Evangelical Union, and the disputed succession of Juliers. His
emissaries were busy in all the courts of Germany, and the little which
they published or allowed to escape of the great political secrets of
their master, was sufficient to win over minds inflamed by so ardent a
hatred to Austria, and by so strong a desire of aggrandizement. The
prudent policy of Henry cemented the Union still more closely, and the
powerful aid which he bound himself to furnish, raised the courage of
the confederates into the firmest confidence. A numerous French army,
led by the king in person, was to meet the troops of the Union on the
banks of the Rhine, and to assist in effecting the conquest of Juliers
and Cleves; then, in conjunction with the Germans, it was to march into
Italy, (where Savoy, Venice, and the Pope were even now ready with a
powerful reinforcement,) and to overthrow the Spanish dominion in that
quarter. This victorious army was then to penetrate by Lombardy into
the hereditary dominions of Hapsburg; and there, favoured by a general
insurrection of the Protestants, destroy the power of Austria in all its
German territories, in Bohemia, Hungary, and Transylvania. The
Brabanters and Hollanders, supported by French auxiliaries, would in the
meantime shake off the Spanish tyranny in the Netherlands; and thus the
mighty stream which, only a short time before, had so fearfully
overflowed its banks, threatening to overwhelm in its troubled waters
the liberties of Europe, would then roll silent and forgotten behind the
Pyrenean mountains.
At other times, the French had boasted of their rapidity of action, but
upon this occasion they were outstripped by the Germans. An army of the
confederates entered Alsace before Henry made his appearance there, and
an Austrian army, which the Bishop of Strasburg and Passau had assembled
in that quarter for an expedition against Juliers, was dispersed. Henry
IV. had formed his plan as a statesman and a king, but he had intrusted
its execution to plunderers. According to his design, no Roman Catholic
state was to have cause to think this preparation aimed against itself,
or to make the quarrel of Austria its own. Religion was in nowise to be
mixed up with the matter. But how could the German princes forget their
own purposes in furthering the plans of Henry? Actuated as they were by
the desire of aggrandizement and by religious hatred, was it to be
supposed that they would not gratify, in every passing opportunity,
their ruling passions to the utmost? Like vultures, they stooped upon
the territories of the ecclesiastical princes, and always chose those
rich countries for their quarters, though to reach them they must make
ever so wide a detour from their direct route. They levied
contributions as in an enemy's country, seized upon the revenues, and
exacted, by violence, what they could not obtain of free-will. Not to
leave the Roman Catholics in doubt as to the true objects of their
expedition, they announced, openly and intelligibly enough, the fate
that awaited the property of the church. So little had Henry IV. and
the German princes understood each other in their plan of operations, so
much had the excellent king been mistaken in his instruments. It is an
unfailing maxim, that, if policy enjoins an act of violence, its
execution ought never to be entrusted to the violent; and that he only
ought to be trusted with the violation of order by whom order is held
sacred.
Both the past conduct of the Union, which was condemned even by several
of the evangelical states, and the apprehension of even worse treatment,
aroused the Roman Catholics to something beyond mere inactive
indignation. As to the Emperor, his authority had sunk too low to
afford them any security against such an enemy. It was their Union that
rendered the confederates so formidable and so insolent; and another
union must now be opposed to them.
The Bishop of Wurtzburg formed the plan of the Catholic union, which was
distinguished from the evangelical by the title of the League. The
objects agreed upon were nearly the same as those which constituted the
groundwork of the Union. Bishops formed its principal members, and at
its head was placed Maximilian, Duke of Bavaria. As the only
influential secular member of the confederacy, he was entrusted with far
more extensive powers than the Protestants had committed to their chief.
In addition to the duke's being the sole head of the League's military
power, whereby their operations acquired a speed and weight unattainable
by the Union, they had also the advantage that supplies flowed in much
more regularly from the rich prelates, than the latter could obtain them
from the poor evangelical states. Without offering to the Emperor, as
the sovereign of a Roman Catholic state, any share in their confederacy,
without even communicating its existence to him as emperor, the League
arose at once formidable and threatening; with strength sufficient to
crush the Protestant Union and to maintain itself under three emperors.
It contended, indeed, for Austria, in so far as it fought against the
Protestant princes; but Austria herself had soon cause to tremble before
it.
The arms of the Union had, in the meantime, been tolerably successful in
Juliers and in Alsace; Juliers was closely blockaded, and the whole
bishopric of Strasburg was in their power. But here their splendid
achievements came to an end. No French army appeared upon the Rhine;
for he who was to be its leader, he who was the animating soul of the
whole enterprize, Henry IV., was no more! Their supplies were on the
wane; the Estates refused to grant new subsidies; and the confederate
free cities were offended that their money should be liberally, but
their advice so sparingly called for. Especially were they displeased
at being put to expense for the expedition against Juliers, which had
been expressly excluded from the affairs of the Union--at the united
princes appropriating to themselves large pensions out of the common
treasure--and, above all, at their refusing to give any account of its
expenditure.
The Union was thus verging to its fall, at the moment when the League
started to oppose it in the vigour of its strength. Want of supplies
disabled the confederates from any longer keeping the field. And yet it
was dangerous to lay down their weapons in the sight of an armed enemy.
To secure themselves at least on one side, they hastened to conclude a
peace with their old enemy, the Archduke Leopold; and both parties
agreed to withdraw their troops from Alsace, to exchange prisoners, and
to bury all that had been done in oblivion. Thus ended in nothing all
these promising preparations.
The same imperious tone with which the Union, in the confidence of its
strength, had menaced the Roman Catholics of Germany, was now retorted
by the League upon themselves and their troops. The traces of their
march were pointed out to them, and plainly branded with the hard
epithets they had deserved. The chapters of Wurtzburg, Bamberg,
Strasburg, Mentz, Treves, Cologne, and several others, had experienced
their destructive presence; to all these the damage done was to be made
good, the free passage by land and by water restored, (for the
Protestants had even seized on the navigation of the Rhine,) and
everything replaced on its former footing. Above all, the parties to
the Union were called on to declare expressly and unequivocally its
intentions. It was now their turn to yield to superior strength. They
had not calculated on so formidable an opponent; but they themselves had
taught the Roman Catholics the secret of their strength. It was
humiliating to their pride to sue for peace, but they might think
themselves fortunate in obtaining it. The one party promised
restitution, the other forgiveness. All laid down their arms. The
storm of war once more rolled by, and a temporary calm succeeded. The
insurrection in Bohemia then broke out, which deprived the Emperor of
the last of his hereditary dominions, but in this dispute neither the
Union nor the League took any share.
The moment of a new accession is always a day of hope; and the first
Diet of a king in elective monarchies is usually his severest trial.
Every old grievance is brought forward, and new ones are sought out,
that they may be included in the expected reform; quite a new world is
expected to commence with the new reign. The important services which,
in his insurrection, their religious confederates in Austria had
rendered to Matthias, were still fresh in the minds of the Protestant
free cities, and, above all, the price which they had exacted for their
services seemed now to serve them also as a model.
They took steps to renew their old alliance with Hungary, drew the
Protestant princes into their interests, and set themselves seriously to
work to accomplish their object by force of arms.
With the more exorbitant demands of the Hungarians Matthias had not
hesitated to comply. For Hungary was an elective monarchy, and the
republican constitution of the country justified to himself their
demands, and to the Roman Catholic world his concessions. In Austria,
on the contrary, his predecessors had exercised far higher prerogatives,
which he could not relinquish at the demand of the Estates without
incurring the scorn of Roman Catholic Europe, the enmity of Spain and
Rome, and the contempt of his own Roman Catholic subjects. His
exclusively Romish council, among which the Bishop of Vienna, Melchio
Kiesel, had the chief influence, exhorted him to see all the churches
extorted from him by the Protestants, rather than to concede one to them
as a matter of right.
But by ill luck this difficulty occurred at a time when the Emperor
Rodolph was yet alive, and a spectator of this scene, and who might
easily have been tempted to employ against his brother the same weapons
which the latter had successfully directed against him--namely, an
understanding with his rebellious subjects. To avoid this blow,
Matthias willingly availed himself of the offer made by Moravia, to act
as mediator between him and the Estates of Austria. Representatives of
both parties met in Vienna, when the Austrian deputies held language
which would have excited surprise even in the English Parliament. "The
Protestants," they said, "are determined to be not worse treated in
their native country than the handful of Romanists. By the help of his
Protestant nobles had Matthias reduced the Emperor to submission; where
80 Papists were to be found, 300 Protestant barons might be counted.
The example of Rodolph should be a warning to Matthias. He should take
care that he did not lose the terrestrial, in attempting to make
conquests for the celestial." As the Moravian States, instead of using
their powers as mediators for the Emperor's advantage, finally adopted
the cause of their co-religionists of Austria; as the Union in Germany
came forward to afford them its most active support, and as Matthias
dreaded reprisals on the part of the Emperor, he was at length compelled
to make the desired declaration in favour of the Evangelical Church.
This behaviour of the Austrian Estates towards their Archduke was now
imitated by the Protestant Estates of the Empire towards their Emperor,
and they promised themselves the same favourable results. At his first
Diet at Ratisbon in 1613, when the most pressing affairs were waiting
for decision--when a general contribution was indispensable for a war
against Turkey, and against Bethlem Gabor in Transylvania, who by
Turkish aid had forcibly usurped the sovereignty of that land, and even
threatened Hungary--they surprised him with an entirely new demand.
The Roman Catholic votes were still the most numerous in the Diet; and
as every thing was decided by a plurality of voices, the Protestant
party, however closely united, were entirely without consideration. The
advantage of this majority the Roman Catholics were now called on to
relinquish; henceforward no one religious party was to be permitted to
dictate to the other by means of its invariable superiority. And in
truth, if the evangelical religion was really to be represented in the
Diet, it was self-evident that it must not be shut out from the
possibility of making use of that privilege, merely from the
constitution of the Diet itself. Complaints of the judicial usurpations
of the Aulic Council, and of the oppression of the Protestants,
accompanied this demand, and the deputies of the Estates were instructed
to take no part in any general deliberations till a favourable answer
should be given on this preliminary point.
The Diet was torn asunder by this dangerous division, which threatened
to destroy for ever the unity of its deliberations. Sincerely as the
Emperor might have wished, after the example of his father Maximilian,
to preserve a prudent balance between the two religions, the present
conduct of the Protestants seemed to leave him nothing but a critical
choice between the two. In his present necessities a general
contribution from the Estates was indispensable to him; and yet he could
not conciliate the one party without sacrificing the support of the
other. Insecure as he felt his situation to be in his own hereditary
dominions, he could not but tremble at the idea, however remote, of an
open war with the Protestants. But the eyes of the whole Roman Catholic
world, which were attentively regarding his conduct, the remonstrances
of the Roman Catholic Estates, and of the Courts of Rome and Spain, as
little permitted him to favour the Protestant at the expense of the
Romish religion.
In the Royal Letter which the Bohemians had extorted from Rodolph II.,
as well as in the German religious treaty, one material article remained
undetermined. All the privileges granted by the latter to the
Protestants, were conceived in favour of the Estates or governing
bodies, not of the subjects; for only to those of the ecclesiastical
states had a toleration, and that precarious, been conceded. The
Bohemian Letter of Majesty, in the same manner, spoke only of the
Estates and imperial towns, the magistrates of which had contrived to
obtain equal privileges with the former. These alone were free to erect
churches and schools, and openly to celebrate their Protestant worship;
in all other towns, it was left entirely to the government to which they
belonged, to determine the religion of the inhabitants. The Estates of
the Empire had availed themselves of this privilege in its fullest
extent; the secular indeed without opposition; while the ecclesiastical,
in whose case the declaration of Ferdinand had limited this privilege,
disputed, not without reason, the validity of that limitation. What was
a disputed point in the religious treaty, was left still more doubtful
in the Letter of Majesty; in the former, the construction was not
doubtful, but it was a question how far obedience might be compulsory;
in the latter, the interpretation was left to the states. The subjects
of the ecclesiastical Estates in Bohemia thought themselves entitled to
the same rights which the declaration of Ferdinand secured to the
subjects of German bishops, they considered themselves on an equality
with the subjects of imperial towns, because they looked upon the
ecclesiastical property as part of the royal demesnes. In the little
town of Klostergrab, subject to the Archbishop of Prague; and in
Braunau, which belonged to the abbot of that monastery, churches were
founded by the Protestants, and completed notwithstanding the opposition
of their superiors, and the disapprobation of the Emperor.
Count Thurn did not fail to augment the unfavourable impression which
this imperial edict made upon the assembled Estates. He pointed out to
them the danger in which all who had signed the petition were involved,
and sought by working on their resentment and fears to hurry them into
violent resolutions. To have caused their immediate revolt against the
Emperor, would have been, as yet, too bold a measure. It was only step
by step that he would lead them on to this unavoidable result. He held
it, therefore, advisable first to direct their indignation against the
Emperor's counsellors; and for that purpose circulated a report, that
the imperial proclamation had been drawn up by the government at Prague,
and only signed in Vienna. Among the imperial delegates, the chief
objects of the popular hatred, were the President of the Chamber,
Slawata, and Baron Martinitz, who had been elected in place of Count
Thurn, Burgrave of Calstein. Both had long before evinced pretty openly
their hostile feelings towards the Protestants, by alone refusing to be
present at the sitting at which the Letter of Majesty had been inserted
in the Bohemian constitution. A threat was made at the time to make
them responsible for every violation of the Letter of Majesty; and from
this moment, whatever evil befell the Protestants was set down, and not
without reason, to their account. Of all the Roman Catholic nobles,
these two had treated their Protestant vassals with the greatest
harshness. They were accused of hunting them with dogs to the mass, and
of endeavouring to drive them to popery by a denial of the rites of
baptism, marriage, and burial. Against two characters so unpopular the
public indignation was easily excited, and they were marked out for a
sacrifice to the general indignation.
On the 23rd of May, 1618, the deputies appeared armed, and in great
numbers, at the royal palace, and forced their way into the hall where
the Commissioners Sternberg, Martinitz, Lobkowitz, and Slawata were
assembled. In a threatening tone they demanded to know from each of
them, whether he had taken any part, or had consented to, the imperial
proclamation. Sternberg received them with composure, Martinitz and
Slawata with defiance. This decided their fate; Sternberg and
Lobkowitz, less hated, and more feared, were led by the arm out of the
room; Martinitz and Slawata were seized, dragged to a window, and
precipitated from a height of eighty feet, into the castle trench.
Their creature, the secretary Fabricius, was thrown after them. This
singular mode of execution naturally excited the surprise of civilized
nations. The Bohemians justified it as a national custom, and saw
nothing remarkable in the whole affair, excepting that any one should
have got up again safe and sound after such a fall. A dunghill, on
which the imperial commissioners chanced to be deposited, had saved them
from injury.
The emotion which the news of the Bohemian insurrection excited at the
imperial court, was much less lively than such intelligence deserved.
The Emperor Matthias was no longer the resolute spirit that formerly
sought out his king and master in the very bosom of his people, and
hurled him from three thrones. The confidence and courage which had
animated him in an usurpation, deserted him in a legitimate
self-defence. The Bohemian rebels had first taken up arms, and the
nature of circumstances drove him to join them. But he could not hope
to confine such a war to Bohemia. In all the territories under his
dominion, the Protestants were united by a dangerous sympathy--the
common danger of their religion might suddenly combine them all into a
formidable republic. What could he oppose to such an enemy, if the
Protestant portion of his subjects deserted him? And would not both
parties exhaust themselves in so ruinous a civil war? How much was at
stake if he lost; and if he won, whom else would he destroy but his own
subjects?
But Bohemia was in arms, and unarmed, the Emperor dared not even offer
them peace. For this purpose, Spain supplied gold, and promised to send
troops from Italy and the Netherlands. Count Bucquoi, a native of the
Netherlands, was named generalissimo, because no native could be
trusted, and Count Dampierre, another foreigner, commanded under him.
Before the army took the field, the Emperor endeavoured to bring about
an amicable arrangement, by the publication of a manifesto. In this he
assured the Bohemians, "that he held sacred the Letter of Majesty--that
he had not formed any resolutions inimical to their religion or their
privileges, and that his present preparations were forced upon him by
their own. As soon as the nation laid down their arms, he also would
disband his army." But this gracious letter failed of its effect,
because the leaders of the insurrection contrived to hide from the
people the Emperor's good intentions. Instead of this, they circulated
the most alarming reports from the pulpit, and by pamphlets, and
terrified the deluded populace with threatened horrors of another Saint
Bartholomew's that existed only in their own imagination. All Bohemia,
with the exception of three towns, Budweiss, Krummau, and Pilsen, took
part in this insurrection. These three towns, inhabited principally by
Roman Catholics, alone had the courage, in this general revolt, to hold
out for the Emperor, who promised them assistance. But it could not
escape Count Thurn, how dangerous it was to leave in hostile hands three
places of such importance, which would at all times keep open for the
imperial troops an entrance into the kingdom. With prompt determination
he appeared before Budweiss and Krummau, in the hope of terrifying them
into a surrender. Krummau surrendered, but all his attacks were
steadfastly repulsed by Budweiss.
And now, too, the Emperor began to show more earnestness and energy.
Bucquoi and Dampierre, with two armies, fell upon the Bohemian
territories, which they treated as a hostile country. But the imperial
generals found the march to Prague more difficult than they had
expected. Every pass, every position that was the least tenable, must
be opened by the sword, and resistance increased at each fresh step they
took, for the outrages of their troops, chiefly consisting of Hungarians
and Walloons, drove their friends to revolt and their enemies to
despair. But even now that his troops had penetrated into Bohemia, the
Emperor continued to offer the Estates peace, and to show himself ready
for an amicable adjustment. But the new prospects which opened upon
them, raised the courage of the revolters. Moravia espoused their
party; and from Germany appeared to them a defender equally intrepid and
unexpected, in the person of Count Mansfeld.
The heads of the Evangelic Union had been silent but not inactive
spectators of the movements in Bohemia. Both were contending for the
same cause, and against the same enemy. In the fate of the Bohemians,
their confederates in the faith might read their own; and the cause of
this people was represented as of solemn concern to the whole German
union. True to these principles, the Unionists supported the courage of
the insurgents by promises of assistance; and a fortunate accident now
enabled them, beyond their hopes, to fulfil them.
The instrument by which the House of Austria was humbled in Germany, was
Peter Ernest, Count Mansfeld, the son of a distinguished Austrian
officer, Ernest von Mansfeld, who for some time had commanded with
repute the Spanish army in the Netherlands. His first campaigns in
Juliers and Alsace had been made in the service of this house, and under
the banner of the Archduke Leopold, against the Protestant religion and
the liberties of Germany. But insensibly won by the principles of this
religion, he abandoned a leader whose selfishness denied him the
reimbursement of the monies expended in his cause, and he transferred
his zeal and a victorious sword to the Evangelic Union. It happened
just then that the Duke of Savoy, an ally of the Union, demanded
assistance in a war against Spain. They assigned to him their newly
acquired servant, and Mansfeld received instructions to raise an army of
4000 men in Germany, in the cause and in the pay of the duke. The army
was ready to march at the very moment when the flames of war burst out
in Bohemia, and the duke, who at the time did not stand in need of its
services, placed it at the disposal of the Union. Nothing could be more
welcome to these troops than the prospect of aiding their confederates
in Bohemia, at the cost of a third party. Mansfeld received orders
forthwith to march with these 4000 men into that kingdom; and a
pretended Bohemian commission was given to blind the public as to the
true author of this levy.
What now had Matthias done to justify the expectations which he had
excited by the overthrow of his predecessor? Was it worth while to
ascend a brother's throne through guilt, and then maintain it with so
little dignity, and leave it with so little renown? As long as Matthias
sat on the throne, he had to atone for the imprudence by which he had
gained it. To enjoy the regal dignity a few years sooner, he had
shackled the free exercise of its prerogatives. The slender portion of
independence left him by the growing power of the Estates, was still
farther lessened by the encroachments of his relations. Sickly and
childless he saw the attention of the world turned to an ambitious heir
who was impatiently anticipating his fate; and who, by his interference
with the closing administration, was already opening his own.
With Matthias, the reigning line of the German House of Austria was in a
manner extinct; for of all the sons of Maximilian, one only was now
alive, the weak and childless Archduke Albert, in the Netherlands, who
had already renounced his claims to the inheritance in favour of the
line of Gratz. The Spanish House had also, in a secret bond, resigned
its pretensions to the Austrian possessions in behalf of the Archduke
Ferdinand of Styria, in whom the branch of Hapsburg was about to put
forth new shoots, and the former greatness of Austria to experience a
revival.
These designs were nothing less than the expulsion of Protestantism from
a country where it had the advantage of numbers, and had been legally
recognized by a formal act of toleration, granted by his father to the
noble and knightly estates of the land. A grant so formally ratified
could not be revoked without danger; but no difficulties could deter the
pious pupil of the Jesuits. The example of other states, both Roman
Catholic and Protestant, which within their own territories had
exercised unquestioned a right of reformation, and the abuse which the
Estates of Styria made of their religious liberties, would serve as a
justification of this violent procedure. Under the shelter of an absurd
positive law, those of equity and prudence might, it was thought, be
safely despised. In the execution of these unrighteous designs,
Ferdinand did, it must be owned, display no common courage and
perseverance. Without tumult, and we may add, without cruelty, he
suppressed the Protestant service in one town after another, and in a
few years, to the astonishment of Germany, this dangerous work was
brought to a successful end.
But, while the Roman Catholics admired him as a hero, and the champion
of the church, the Protestants began to combine against him as against
their most dangerous enemy. And yet Matthias's intention to bequeath to
him the succession, met with little or no opposition in the elective
states of Austria. Even the Bohemians agreed to receive him as their
future king, on very favourable conditions. It was not until
afterwards, when they had experienced the pernicious influence of his
councils on the administration of the Emperor, that their anxiety was
first excited; and then several projects, in his handwriting, which an
unlucky chance threw into their hands, as they plainly evinced his
disposition towards them, carried their apprehension to the utmost
pitch. In particular, they were alarmed by a secret family compact with
Spain, by which, in default of heirs-male of his own body, Ferdinand
bequeathed to that crown the kingdom of Bohemia, without first
consulting the wishes of that nation, and without regard to its right of
free election. The many enemies, too, which by his reforms in Styria
that prince had provoked among the Protestants, were very prejudicial to
his interests in Bohemia; and some Styrian emigrants, who had taken
refuge there, bringing with them into their adopted country hearts
overflowing with a desire of revenge, were particularly active in
exciting the flame of revolt. Thus ill-affected did Ferdinand find the
Bohemians, when he succeeded Matthias.
So bad an understanding between the nation and the candidate for the
throne, would have raised a storm even in the most peaceable succession;
how much more so at the present moment, before the ardour of
insurrection had cooled; when the nation had just recovered its dignity,
and reasserted its rights; when they still held arms in their hands, and
the consciousness of unity had awakened an enthusiastic reliance on
their own strength; when by past success, by the promises of foreign
assistance, and by visionary expectations of the future, their courage
had been raised to an undoubting confidence. Disregarding the rights
already conferred on Ferdinand, the Estates declared the throne vacant,
and their right of election entirely unfettered. All hopes of their
peaceful submission were at an end, and if Ferdinand wished still to
wear the crown of Bohemia, he must choose between purchasing it at the
sacrifice of all that would make a crown desirable, or winning it sword
in hand.
But with what means was it to be won? Turn his eyes where he would, the
fire of revolt was burning. Silesia had already joined the insurgents
in Bohemia; Moravia was on the point of following its example. In Upper
and Lower Austria the spirit of liberty was awake, as it had been under
Rodolph, and the Estates refused to do homage. Hungary was menaced with
an inroad by Prince Bethlen Gabor, on the side of Transylvania; a secret
arming among the Turks spread consternation among the provinces to the
eastward; and, to complete his perplexities, the Protestants also, in
his hereditary dominions, stimulated by the general example, were again
raising their heads. In that quarter, their numbers were overwhelming;
in most places they had possession of the revenues which Ferdinand would
need for the maintenance of the war. The neutral began to waver, the
faithful to be discouraged, the turbulent alone to be animated and
confident. One half of Germany encouraged the rebels, the other
inactively awaited the issue; Spanish assistance was still very remote.
The moment which had brought him every thing, threatened also to deprive
him of all.
And when he now, yielding to the stern law of necessity, made overtures
to the Bohemian rebels, all his proposals for peace were insolently
rejected. Count Thurn, at the head of an army, entered Moravia to bring
this province, which alone continued to waver, to a decision. The
appearance of their friends is the signal of revolt for the Moravian
Protestants. Bruenn is taken, the remainder of the country yields with
free will, throughout the province government and religion are changed.
Swelling as it flows, the torrent of rebellion pours down upon Austria,
where a party, holding similar sentiments, receives it with a joyful
concurrence. Henceforth, there should be no more distinctions of
religion; equality of rights should be guaranteed to all Christian
churches. They hear that a foreign force has been invited into the
country to oppress the Bohemians. Let them be sought out, and the
enemies of liberty pursued to the ends of the earth. Not an arm is
raised in defence of the Archduke, and the rebels, at length, encamp
before Vienna to besiege their sovereign.
Ferdinand had sent his children from Gratz, where they were no longer
safe, to the Tyrol; he himself awaited the insurgents in his capital. A
handful of soldiers was all he could oppose to the enraged multitude;
these few were without pay or provisions, and therefore little to be
depended on. Vienna was unprepared for a long siege. The party of the
Protestants, ready at any moment to join the Bohemians, had the
preponderance in the city; those in the country had already begun to
levy troops against him. Already, in imagination, the Protestant
populace saw the Emperor shut up in a monastery, his territories
divided, and his children educated as Protestants. Confiding in secret,
and surrounded by public enemies, he saw the chasm every moment widening
to engulf his hopes and even himself. The Bohemian bullets were already
falling upon the imperial palace, when sixteen Austrian barons forcibly
entered his chamber, and inveighing against him with loud and bitter
reproaches, endeavoured to force him into a confederation with the
Bohemians. One of them, seizing him by the button of his doublet,
demanded, in a tone of menace, "Ferdinand, wilt thou sign it?"
And now also the passes were free which the enemy had taken possession
of, in order to obstruct Ferdinand's progress to his coronation at
Frankfort. If the accession to the imperial throne was important for
the plans of the King of Hungary, it was of still greater consequence at
the present moment, when his nomination as Emperor would afford the most
unsuspicious and decisive proof of the dignity of his person, and of the
justice of his cause, while, at the same time, it would give him a hope
of support from the Empire. But the same cabal which opposed him in his
hereditary dominions, laboured also to counteract him in his canvass for
the imperial dignity. No Austrian prince, they maintained, ought to
ascend the throne; least of all Ferdinand, the bigoted persecutor of
their religion, the slave of Spain and of the Jesuits. To prevent this,
the crown had been offered, even during the lifetime of Matthias, to the
Duke of Bavaria, and on his refusal, to the Duke of Savoy. As some
difficulty was experienced in settling with the latter the conditions of
acceptance, it was sought, at all events, to delay the election till
some decisive blow in Austria or Bohemia should annihilate all the hopes
of Ferdinand, and incapacitate him from any competition for this
dignity. The members of the Union left no stone unturned to gain over
from Ferdinand the Electorate of Saxony, which was bound to Austrian
interests; they represented to this court the dangers with which the
Protestant religion, and even the constitution of the empire, were
threatened by the principles of this prince and his Spanish alliance.
By the elevation of Ferdinand to the imperial throne, Germany, they
further asserted, would be involved in the private quarrels of this
prince, and bring upon itself the arms of Bohemia. But in spite of all
opposing influences, the day of election was fixed, Ferdinand summoned
to it as lawful king of Bohemia, and his electoral vote, after a
fruitless resistance on the part of the Bohemian Estates, acknowledged
to be good. The votes of the three ecclesiastical electorates were for
him, Saxony was favourable to him, Brandenburg made no opposition, and a
decided majority declared him Emperor in 1619. Thus he saw the most
doubtful of his crowns placed first of all on his head; but a few days
after he lost that which he had reckoned among the most certain of his
possessions. While he was thus elected Emperor in Frankfort, he was in
Prague deprived of the Bohemian throne.
Among all the princes who were competitors for this dignity, the Elector
Palatine Frederick V. had the best grounded claims on the confidence
and gratitude of the Bohemians; and among them all, there was no one in
whose case the private interests of particular Estates, and the
attachment of the people, seemed to be justified by so many
considerations of state. Frederick V. was of a free and lively spirit,
of great goodness of heart, and regal liberality. He was the head of
the Calvinistic party in Germany, the leader of the Union, whose
resources were at his disposal, a near relation of the Duke of Bavaria,
and a son-in-law of the King of Great Britain, who might lend him his
powerful support. All these considerations were prominently and
successfully brought forward by the Calvinists, and Frederick V. was
chosen king by the Assembly at Prague, amidst prayers and tears of joy.
The whole proceedings of the Diet at Prague had been premeditated, and
Frederick himself had taken too active a share in the matter to feel at
all surprised at the offer made to him by the Bohemians. But now the
immediate glitter of this throne dazzled him, and the magnitude both of
his elevation and his delinquency made his weak mind to tremble. After
the usual manner of pusillanimous spirits, he sought to confirm himself
in his purpose by the opinions of others; but these opinions had no
weight with him when they ran counter to his own cherished wishes.
Saxony and Bavaria, of whom he sought advice, all his brother electors,
all who compared the magnitude of the design with his capacities and
resources, warned him of the danger into which he was about to rush.
Even King James of England preferred to see his son-in-law deprived of
this crown, than that the sacred majesty of kings should be outraged by
so dangerous a precedent. But of what avail was the voice of prudence
against the seductive glitter of a crown? In the moment of boldest
determination, when they are indignantly rejecting the consecrated
branch of a race which had governed them for two centuries, a free
people throws itself into his arms. Confiding in his courage, they
choose him as their leader in the dangerous career of glory and liberty.
To him, as to its born champion, an oppressed religion looks for shelter
and support against its persecutors. Could he have the weakness to
listen to his fears, and to betray the cause of religion and liberty?
This religion proclaims to him its own preponderance, and the weakness
of its rival,--two-thirds of the power of Austria are now in arms
against Austria itself, while a formidable confederacy, already formed
in Transylvania, would, by a hostile attack, further distract even the
weak remnant of its power. Could inducements such as these fail to
awaken his ambition, or such hopes to animate and inflame his
resolution?
In a few weeks the scene was changed, and by his prudence and activity
Ferdinand improved his position as rapidly as Frederick, by indolence
and impolicy, ruined his. The Estates of Lower Austria were regained to
their allegiance by a confirmation of their privileges; and the few who
still held out were declared guilty of `lese-majeste' and high treason.
During the election of Frankfort, he had contrived, by personal
representations, to win over to his cause the ecclesiastical electors,
and also Maximilian, Duke of Bavaria, at Munich. The whole issue of the
war, the fate of Frederick and the Emperor, were now dependent on the
part which the Union and the League should take in the troubles of
Bohemia. It was evidently of importance to all the Protestants of
Germany that the King of Bohemia should be supported, while it was
equally the interest of the Roman Catholics to prevent the ruin of the
Emperor. If the Protestants succeeded in Bohemia, all the Roman
Catholic princes in Germany might tremble for their possessions; if they
failed, the Emperor would give laws to Protestant Germany. Thus
Ferdinand put the League, Frederick the Union, in motion. The ties of
relationship and a personal attachment to the Emperor, his
brother-in-law, with whom he had been educated at Ingolstadt, zeal for
the Roman Catholic religion, which seemed to be in the most imminent
peril, and the suggestions of the Jesuits, combined with the suspicious
movements of the Union, moved the Duke of Bavaria, and all the princes
of the League, to make the cause of Ferdinand their own.
During these attempts to draw all the Roman Catholic powers into the
League, every exertion was made against the counter-league of the
Protestants. To this end, it was important to alarm the Elector of
Saxony and the other Evangelical powers, and accordingly the Union were
diligent in propagating a rumour that the preparations of the League had
for their object to deprive them of the ecclesiastical foundations they
had secularized. A written assurance to the contrary calmed the fears
of the Duke of Saxony, whom moreover private jealousy of the Palatine,
and the insinuations of his chaplain, who was in the pay of Austria, and
mortification at having been passed over by the Bohemians in the
election to the throne, strongly inclined to the side of Austria. The
fanaticism of the Lutherans could never forgive the reformed party for
having drawn, as they expressed it, so many fair provinces into the gulf
of Calvinism, and rejecting the Roman Antichrist only to make way for an
Helvetian one.
But greatly as men had erred in their opinion of him, Frederick himself
had not less miscalculated his foreign resources. Most of the members
of the Union considered the affairs of Bohemia as foreign to the real
object of their confederacy; others, who were devoted to him, were
overawed by fear of the Emperor. Saxony and Hesse Darmstadt had already
been gained over by Ferdinand; Lower Austria, on which side a powerful
diversion had been looked for, had made its submission to the Emperor;
and Bethlen Gabor had concluded a truce with him. By its embassies, the
court of Vienna had induced Denmark to remain inactive, and to occupy
Sweden in a war with the Poles. The republic of Holland had enough to
do to defend itself against the arms of the Spaniards; Venice and Saxony
remained inactive; King James of England was overreached by the artifice
of Spain. One friend after another withdrew; one hope vanished after
another--so rapidly in a few months was every thing changed.
The whole force of Bavaria and the League was now at the disposal of the
Emperor to be employed against the Bohemians, who by the pacification of
Ulm were abandoned to their fate. With a rapid movement, and before a
rumour of the proceedings at Ulm could reach there, Maximilian appeared
in Upper Austria, when the Estates, surprised and unprepared for an
enemy, purchased the Emperor's pardon by an immediate and unconditional
submission. In Lower Austria, the duke formed a junction with the
troops from the Low Countries under Bucquoi, and without loss of time
the united Imperial and Bavarian forces, amounting to 50,000 men,
entered Bohemia. All the Bohemian troops, which were dispersed over
Lower Austria and Moravia, were driven before them; every town which
attempted resistance was quickly taken by storm; others, terrified by
the report of the punishment inflicted on these, voluntarily opened
their gates; nothing in short interrupted the impetuous career of
Maximilian. The Bohemian army, commanded by the brave Prince Christian
of Anhalt, retreated to the neighbourhood of Prague; where, under the
walls of the city, Maximilian offered him battle.
Frederick was seated at table in Prague, while his army was thus cut to
pieces. It is probable that he had not expected the attack on this day,
since he had ordered an entertainment for it. A messenger summoned him
from table, to show him from the walls the whole frightful scene. He
requested a cessation of hostilities for twenty-four hours for
deliberation; but eight was all the Duke of Bavaria would allow him.
Frederick availed himself of these to fly by night from the capital,
with his wife, and the chief officers of his army. This flight was so
hurried, that the Prince of Anhalt left behind him his most private
papers, and Frederick his crown. "I know now what I am," said this
unfortunate prince to those who endeavoured to comfort him; "there are
virtues which misfortune only can teach us, and it is in adversity alone
that princes learn to know themselves."
Thurn, and those of this party who were in the same condemnation with
him, found it equally inexpedient to await their destiny within the
walls of Prague. They retired towards Moravia, with a view of seeking
refuge in Transylvania. Frederick fled to Breslau, where, however, he
only remained a short time. He removed from thence to the court of the
Elector of Brandenburg, and finally took shelter in Holland.
The victory of the White Mountain put Ferdinand in possession of all his
dominions. It even invested him with greater authority over them than
his predecessors enjoyed, since their allegiance had been
unconditionally pledged to him, and no Letter of Majesty now existed to
limit his sovereignty. All his wishes were now gratified, to a degree
surpassing his most sanguine expectations.
It was now in his power to dismiss his allies, and disband his army. If
he was just, there was an end of the war--if he was both magnanimous and
just, punishment was also at an end. The fate of Germany was in his
hands; the happiness and misery of millions depended on the resolution
he should take. Never was so great a decision resting on a single mind;
never did the blindness of one man produce so much ruin.
Book II.
The resolution which Ferdinand now adopted, gave to the war a new
direction, a new scene, and new actors. From a rebellion in Bohemia,
and the chastisement of rebels, a war extended first to Germany, and
afterwards to Europe. It is, therefore, necessary to take a general
survey of the state of affairs both in Germany and the rest of Europe.
The Elector of Saxony was placed at the head of the German Protestants,
by the services of his ancestor Maurice, by the extent of his
territories, and by the influence of his electoral vote. Upon the
resolution he might adopt, the fate of the contending parties seemed to
depend; and John George was not insensible to the advantages which this
important situation procured him. Equally valuable as an ally, both to
the Emperor and to the Protestant Union, he cautiously avoided
committing himself to either party; neither trusting himself by any
irrevocable declaration entirely to the gratitude of the Emperor, nor
renouncing the advantages which were to be gained from his fears.
Uninfected by the contagion of religious and romantic enthusiasm which
hurried sovereign after sovereign to risk both crown and life on the
hazard of war, John George aspired to the more solid renown of improving
and advancing the interests of his territories. His cotemporaries
accused him of forsaking the Protestant cause in the very midst of the
storm; of preferring the aggrandizement of his house to the emancipation
of his country; of exposing the whole Evangelical or Lutheran church of
Germany to ruin, rather than raise an arm in defence of the Reformed or
Calvinists; of injuring the common cause by his suspicious friendship
more seriously than the open enmity of its avowed opponents. But it
would have been well if his accusers had imitated the wise policy of the
Elector. If, despite of the prudent policy, the Saxons, like all
others, groaned at the cruelties which marked the Emperor's progress; if
all Germany was a witness how Ferdinand deceived his confederates and
trifled with his engagements; if even the Elector himself at last
perceived this--the more shame to the Emperor who could so basely betray
such implicit confidence.
The formidable monarchy which Charles V. and his son had unnaturally
constructed of the Netherlands, Milan, and the two Sicilies, and their
distant possessions in the East and West Indies, was under Philip III.
and Philip IV. fast verging to decay. Swollen to a sudden greatness by
unfruitful gold, this power was now sinking under a visible decline,
neglecting, as it did, agriculture, the natural support of states. The
conquests in the West Indies had reduced Spain itself to poverty, while
they enriched the markets of Europe; the bankers of Antwerp, Venice, and
Genoa, were making profit on the gold which was still buried in the
mines of Peru. For the sake of India, Spain had been depopulated, while
the treasures drawn from thence were wasted in the re-conquest of
Holland, in the chimerical project of changing the succession to the
crown of France, and in an unfortunate attack upon England. But the
pride of this court had survived its greatness, as the hate of its
enemies had outlived its power. Distrust of the Protestants suggested
to the ministry of Philip III. the dangerous policy of his father; and
the reliance of the Roman Catholics in Germany on Spanish assistance,
was as firm as their belief in the wonder-working bones of the martyrs.
External splendour concealed the inward wounds at which the life-blood
of this monarchy was oozing; and the belief of its strength survived,
because it still maintained the lofty tone of its golden days. Slaves
in their palaces, and strangers even upon their own thrones, the Spanish
nominal kings still gave laws to their German relations; though it is
very doubtful if the support they afforded was worth the dependence by
which the emperors purchased it. The fate of Europe was decided behind
the Pyrenees by ignorant monks or vindictive favourites. Yet, even in
its debasement, a power must always be formidable, which yields to none
in extent; which, from custom, if not from the steadfastness of its
views, adhered faithfully to one system of policy; which possessed
well-disciplined armies and consummate generals; which, where the sword
failed, did not scruple to employ the dagger; and converted even its
ambassadors into incendiaries and assassins. What it had lost in three
quarters of the globe, it now sought to regain to the eastward, and all
Europe was at its mercy, if it could succeed in its long cherished
design of uniting with the hereditary dominions of Austria all that lay
between the Alps and the Adriatic.
To the great alarm of the native states, this formidable power had
gained a footing in Italy, where its continual encroachments made the
neighbouring sovereigns to tremble for their own possessions. The Pope
himself was in the most dangerous situation; hemmed in on both sides by
the Spanish Viceroys of Naples on the one side, and that of Milan upon
the other. Venice was confined between the Austrian Tyrol and the
Spanish territories in Milan. Savoy was surrounded by the latter and
France. Hence the wavering and equivocal policy, which from the time of
Charles V. had been pursued by the Italian States. The double
character which pertained to the Popes made them perpetually vacillate
between two contradictory systems of policy. If the successors of St.
Peter found in the Spanish princes their most obedient disciples, and
the most steadfast supporters of the Papal See, yet the princes of the
States of the Church had in these monarchs their most dangerous
neighbours, and most formidable opponents. If, in the one capacity,
their dearest wish was the destruction of the Protestants, and the
triumph of Austria, in the other, they had reason to bless the arms of
the Protestants, which disabled a dangerous enemy. The one or the other
sentiment prevailed, according as the love of temporal dominion, or zeal
for spiritual supremacy, predominated in the mind of the Pope. But the
policy of Rome was, on the whole, directed to immediate dangers; and it
is well known how far more powerful is the apprehension of losing a
present good, than anxiety to recover a long lost possession. And thus
it becomes intelligible how the Pope should first combine with Austria
for the destruction of heresy, and then conspire with these very
heretics for the destruction of Austria. Strangely blended are the
threads of human affairs! What would have become of the Reformation,
and of the liberties of Germany, if the Bishop of Rome and the Prince of
Rome had had but one interest?
France had lost with its great Henry all its importance and all its
weight in the political balance of Europe. A turbulent minority had
destroyed all the benefits of the able administration of Henry.
Incapable ministers, the creatures of court intrigue, squandered in a
few years the treasures which Sully's economy and Henry's frugality had
amassed. Scarce able to maintain their ground against internal
factions, they were compelled to resign to other hands the helm of
European affairs. The same civil war which armed Germany against
itself, excited a similar commotion in France; and Louis XIII. attained
majority only to wage a war with his own mother and his Protestant
subjects. This party, which had been kept quiet by Henry's enlightened
policy, now seized the opportunity to take up arms, and, under the
command of some adventurous leaders, began to form themselves into a
party within the state, and to fix on the strong and powerful town of
Rochelle as the capital of their intended kingdom. Too little of a
statesman to suppress, by a prudent toleration, this civil commotion in
its birth, and too little master of the resources of his kingdom to
direct them with energy, Louis XIII. was reduced to the degradation of
purchasing the submission of the rebels by large sums of money. Though
policy might incline him, in one point of view, to assist the Bohemian
insurgents against Austria, the son of Henry the Fourth was now
compelled to be an inactive spectator of their destruction, happy enough
if the Calvinists in his own dominions did not unseasonably bethink them
of their confederates beyond the Rhine. A great mind at the helm of
state would have reduced the Protestants in France to obedience, while
it employed them to fight for the independence of their German brethren.
But Henry IV. was no more, and Richelieu had not yet revived his system
of policy.
While the glory of France was thus upon the wane, the emancipated
republic of Holland was completing the fabric of its greatness. The
enthusiastic courage had not yet died away which, enkindled by the House
of Orange, had converted this mercantile people into a nation of heroes,
and had enabled them to maintain their independence in a bloody war
against the Spanish monarchy. Aware how much they owed their own
liberty to foreign support, these republicans were ready to assist their
German brethren in a similar cause, and the more so, as both were
opposed to the same enemy, and the liberty of Germany was the best
warrant for that of Holland. But a republic which had still to battle
for its very existence, which, with all its wonderful exertions, was
scarce a match for the formidable enemy within its own territories,
could not be expected to withdraw its troops from the necessary work of
self-defence to employ them with a magnanimous policy in protecting
foreign states.
England too, though now united with Scotland, no longer possessed, under
the weak James, that influence in the affairs of Europe which the
governing mind of Elizabeth had procured for it. Convinced that the
welfare of her dominions depended on the security of the Protestants,
this politic princess had never swerved from the principle of promoting
every enterprise which had for its object the diminution of the Austrian
power. Her successor was no less devoid of capacity to comprehend, than
of vigour to execute, her views. While the economical Elizabeth spared
not her treasures to support the Flemings against Spain, and Henry IV.
against the League, James abandoned his daughter, his son-in-law, and
his grandchild, to the fury of their enemies. While he exhausted his
learning to establish the divine right of kings, he allowed his own
dignity to sink into the dust; while he exerted his rhetoric to prove
the absolute authority of kings, he reminded the people of theirs; and
by a useless profusion, sacrificed the chief of his sovereign rights--
that of dispensing with his parliament, and thus depriving liberty of
its organ. An innate horror at the sight of a naked sword averted him
from the most just of wars; while his favourite Buckingham practised on
his weakness, and his own complacent vanity rendered him an easy dupe of
Spanish artifice. While his son-in-law was ruined, and the inheritance
of his grandson given to others, this weak prince was imbibing, with
satisfaction, the incense which was offered to him by Austria and Spain.
To divert his attention from the German war, he was amused with the
proposal of a Spanish marriage for his son, and the ridiculous parent
encouraged the romantic youth in the foolish project of paying his
addresses in person to the Spanish princess. But his son lost his
bride, as his son-in-law lost the crown of Bohemia and the Palatine
Electorate; and death alone saved him from the danger of closing his
pacific reign by a war at home, which he never had courage to maintain,
even at a distance.
Among the means of which Gustavus Vasa, the founder of the Swedish
monarchy, availed himself to strengthen his new edifice, the Reformation
had been one of the principal. A fundamental law of the kingdom
excluded the adherents of popery from all offices of the state, and
prohibited every future sovereign of Sweden from altering the religious
constitution of the kingdom. But the second son and second successor of
Gustavus had relapsed into popery, and his son Sigismund, also king of
Poland, had been guilty of measures which menaced both the constitution
and the established church. Headed by Charles, Duke of Sudermania, the
third son of Gustavus, the Estates made a courageous resistance, which
terminated, at last, in an open civil war between the uncle and nephew,
and between the King and the people. Duke Charles, administrator of the
kingdom during the absence of the king, had availed himself of
Sigismund's long residence in Poland, and the just displeasure of the
states, to ingratiate himself with the nation, and gradually to prepare
his way to the throne. His views were not a little forwarded by
Sigismund's imprudence. A general Diet ventured to abolish, in favour
of the Protector, the rule of primogeniture which Gustavus had
established in the succession, and placed the Duke of Sudermania on the
throne, from which Sigismund, with his whole posterity, were solemnly
excluded. The son of the new king (who reigned under the name of
Charles IX.) was Gustavus Adolphus, whom, as the son of a usurper, the
adherents of Sigismund refused to recognize. But if the obligations
between monarchy and subjects are reciprocal, and states are not to be
transmitted, like a lifeless heirloom, from hand to hand, a nation
acting with unanimity must have the power of renouncing their allegiance
to a sovereign who has violated his obligations to them, and of filling
his place by a worthier object.
Gustavus Adolphus had not completed his seventeenth year, when the
Swedish throne became vacant by the death of his father. But the early
maturity of his genius enabled the Estates to abridge in his favour the
legal period of minority. With a glorious conquest over himself he
commenced a reign which was to have victory for its constant attendant,
a career which was to begin and end in success. The young Countess of
Brahe, the daughter of a subject, had gained his early affections, and
he had resolved to share with her the Swedish throne. But, constrained
by time and circumstances, he made his attachment yield to the higher
duties of a king, and heroism again took exclusive possession of a heart
which was not destined by nature to confine itself within the limits of
quiet domestic happiness.
Christian IV. of Denmark, who had ascended the throne before the birth
of Gustavus, in an inroad upon Sweden, had gained some considerable
advantages over the father of that hero. Gustavus Adolphus hastened to
put an end to this destructive war, and by prudent sacrifices obtained a
peace, in order to turn his arms against the Czar of Muscovy. The
questionable fame of a conqueror never tempted him to spend the blood of
his subjects in unjust wars; but he never shrunk from a just one. His
arms were successful against Russia, and Sweden was augmented by several
important provinces on the east.
In the meantime, Sigismund of Poland retained against the son the same
sentiments of hostility which the father had provoked, and left no
artifice untried to shake the allegiance of his subjects, to cool the
ardour of his friends, and to embitter his enemies. Neither the great
qualities of his rival, nor the repeated proofs of devotion which Sweden
gave to her loved monarch, could extinguish in this infatuated prince
the foolish hope of regaining his lost throne. All Gustavus's overtures
were haughtily rejected. Unwillingly was this really peaceful king
involved in a tedious war with Poland, in which the whole of Livonia and
Polish Prussia were successively conquered. Though constantly
victorious, Gustavus Adolphus was always the first to hold out the hand
of peace.
This contest between Sweden and Poland falls somewhere about the
beginning of the Thirty Years' War in Germany, with which it is in some
measure connected. It was enough that Sigismund, himself a Roman
Catholic, was disputing the Swedish crown with a Protestant prince, to
assure him the active support of Spain and Austria; while a double
relationship to the Emperor gave him a still stronger claim to his
protection. It was his reliance on this powerful assistance that
chiefly encouraged the King of Poland to continue the war, which had
hitherto turned out so unfavourably for him, and the courts of Madrid
and Vienna failed not to encourage him by high-sounding promises. While
Sigismund lost one place after another in Livonia, Courland, and
Prussia, he saw his ally in Germany advancing from conquest after
conquest to unlimited power. No wonder then if his aversion to peace
kept pace with his losses. The vehemence with which he nourished his
chimerical hopes blinded him to the artful policy of his confederates,
who at his expense were keeping the Swedish hero employed, in order to
overturn, without opposition, the liberties of Germany, and then to
seize on the exhausted North as an easy conquest. One circumstance
which had not been calculated on--the magnanimity of Gustavus--
overthrew this deceitful policy. An eight years' war in Poland, so far
from exhausting the power of Sweden, had only served to mature the
military genius of Gustavus, to inure the Swedish army to warfare, and
insensibly to perfect that system of tactics by which they were
afterwards to perform such wonders in Germany.
Ferdinand had regained his dominions, but had not indemnified himself
for the expenses of recovering them. A sum of forty millions of
florins, which the confiscations in Bohemia and Moravia had produced,
would have sufficed to reimburse both himself and his allies; but the
Jesuits and his favourites soon squandered this sum, large as it was.
Maximilian, Duke of Bavaria, to whose victorious arm, principally, the
Emperor owed the recovery of his dominions; who, in the service of
religion and the Emperor, had sacrificed his near relation, had the
strongest claims on his gratitude; and moreover, in a treaty which,
before the war, the duke had concluded with the Emperor, he had
expressly stipulated for the reimbursement of all expenses. Ferdinand
felt the full weight of the obligation imposed upon him by this treaty
and by these services, but he was not disposed to discharge it at his
own cost. His purpose was to bestow a brilliant reward upon the duke,
but without detriment to himself. How could this be done better than at
the expense of the unfortunate prince who, by his revolt, had given the
Emperor a right to punish him, and whose offences might be painted in
colours strong enough to justify the most violent measures under the
appearance of law. That, then, Maximilian may be rewarded, Frederick
must be further persecuted and totally ruined; and to defray the
expenses of the old war, a new one must be commenced.
In the Emperor's cabinet, the ruin of Frederick had been resolved upon
long before fortune had decided against him; but it was only after this
event that they ventured to direct against him the thunders of arbitrary
power. A decree of the Emperor, destitute of all the formalities
required on such occasions by the laws of the Empire, pronounced the
Elector, and three other princes who had borne arms for him at Silesia
and Bohemia, as offenders against the imperial majesty, and disturbers
of the public peace, under the ban of the empire, and deprived them of
their titles and territories. The execution of this sentence against
Frederick, namely the seizure of his lands, was, in further contempt of
law, committed to Spain as Sovereign of the circle of Burgundy, to the
Duke of Bavaria, and the League. Had the Evangelic Union been worthy of
the name it bore, and of the cause which it pretended to defend,
insuperable obstacles might have prevented the execution of the
sentence; but it was hopeless for a power which was far from a match
even for the Spanish troops in the Lower Palatinate, to contend against
the united strength of the Emperor, Bavaria, and the League. The
sentence of proscription pronounced upon the Elector soon detached the
free cities from the Union; and the princes quickly followed their
example. Fortunate in preserving their own dominions, they abandoned
the Elector, their former chief, to the Emperor's mercy, renounced the
Union, and vowed never to revive it again.
But while thus ingloriously the German princes deserted the unfortunate
Frederick, and while Bohemia, Silesia, and Moravia submitted to the
Emperor, a single man, a soldier of fortune, whose only treasure was his
sword, Ernest Count Mansfeld, dared, in the Bohemian town of Pilsen, to
defy the whole power of Austria. Left without assistance after the
battle of Prague by the Elector, to whose service he had devoted
himself, and even uncertain whether Frederick would thank him for his
perseverance, he alone for some time held out against the imperialists,
till the garrison, mutinying for want of pay, sold the town to the
Emperor. Undismayed by this reverse, he immediately commenced new
levies in the Upper Palatinate, and enlisted the disbanded troops of the
Union. A new army of 20,000 men was soon assembled under his banners,
the more formidable to the provinces which might be the object of its
attack, because it must subsist by plunder. Uncertain where this swarm
might light, the neighbouring bishops trembled for their rich
possessions, which offered a tempting prey to its ravages. But, pressed
by the Duke of Bavaria, who now entered the Upper Palatinate, Mansfeld
was compelled to retire. Eluding, by a successful stratagem, the
Bavarian general, Tilly, who was in pursuit of him, he suddenly appeared
in the Lower Palatinate, and there wreaked upon the bishoprics of the
Rhine the severities he had designed for those of Franconia. While the
imperial and Bavarian allies thus overran Bohemia, the Spanish general,
Spinola, had penetrated with a numerous army from the Netherlands into
the Lower Palatinate, which, however, the pacification of Ulm permitted
the Union to defend. But their measures were so badly concerted, that
one place after another fell into the hands of the Spaniards; and at
last, when the Union broke up, the greater part of the country was in
the possession of Spain. The Spanish general, Corduba, who commanded
these troops after the recall of Spinola, hastily raised the siege of
Frankenthal, when Mansfeld entered the Lower Palatinate. But instead of
driving the Spaniards out of this province, he hastened across the Rhine
to secure for his needy troops shelter and subsistence in Alsace. The
open countries on which this swarm of maurauders threw themselves were
converted into frightful deserts, and only by enormous contributions
could the cities purchase an exemption from plunder. Reinforced by this
expedition, Mansfeld again appeared on the Rhine to cover the Lower
Palatinate.
So long as such an arm fought for him, the cause of the Elector
Frederick was not irretrievably lost. New prospects began to open, and
misfortune raised up friends who had been silent during his prosperity.
King James of England, who had looked on with indifference while his
son-in-law lost the Bohemian crown, was aroused from his insensibility
when the very existence of his daughter and grandson was at stake, and
the victorious enemy ventured an attack upon the Electorate. Late
enough, he at last opened his treasures, and hastened to afford supplies
of money and troops, first to the Union, which at that time was
defending the Lower Palatinate, and afterwards, when they retired, to
Count Mansfeld. By his means his near relation, Christian, King of
Denmark, was induced to afford his active support. At the same time,
the approaching expiration of the truce between Spain and Holland
deprived the Emperor of all the supplies which otherwise he might expect
from the side of the Netherlands. More important still was the
assistance which the Palatinate received from Transylvania and Hungary.
The cessation of hostilities between Gabor and the Emperor was scarcely
at an end, when this old and formidable enemy of Austria overran Hungary
anew, and caused himself to be crowned king in Presburg. So rapid was
his progress that, to protect Austria and Hungary, Boucquoi was obliged
to evacuate Bohemia. This brave general met his death at the siege of
Neuhausel, as, shortly before, the no less valiant Dampierre had fallen
before Presburg. Gabor's march into the Austrian territory was
irresistible; the old Count Thurn, and several other distinguished
Bohemians, had united their hatred and their strength with this
irreconcileable enemy of Austria. A vigorous attack on the side of
Germany, while Gabor pressed the Emperor on that of Hungary, might have
retrieved the fortunes of Frederick; but, unfortunately, the Bohemians
and Germans had always laid down their arms when Gabor took the field;
and the latter was always exhausted at the very moment that the former
began to recover their vigour.
To defend a king whom his nearest relation persecuted, and who was
deserted even by his own father-in-law, there had come forward an
adventurer without money, and whose very legitimacy was questioned. A
sovereign had resigned possessions over which he reigned in peace, to
hazard the uncertain fortune of war in behalf of a stranger. And now
another soldier of fortune, poor in territorial possessions, but rich in
illustrious ancestry, undertook the defence of a cause which the former
despaired of. Christian, Duke of Brunswick, administrator of
Halberstadt, seemed to have learnt from Count Mansfeld the secret of
keeping in the field an army of 20,000 men without money. Impelled by
youthful presumption, and influenced partly by the wish of establishing
his reputation at the expense of the Roman Catholic priesthood, whom he
cordially detested, and partly by a thirst for plunder, he assembled a
considerable army in Lower Saxony, under the pretext of espousing the
defence of Frederick, and of the liberties of Germany. "God's Friend,
Priest's Foe", was the motto he chose for his coinage, which was struck
out of church plate; and his conduct belied one half at least of the
device.
Mansfeld and Duke Christian were now at a loss for some new name; the
cause of the Elector had not set them in motion, so his dismissal could
not disarm them. War was their object; it was all the same to them in
whose cause or name it was waged. After some vain attempts on the part
of Mansfeld to be received into the Emperor's service, both marched into
Lorraine, where the excesses of their troops spread terror even to the
heart of France. Here they long waited in vain for a master willing to
purchase their services; till the Dutch, pressed by the Spanish General
Spinola, offered to take them into pay. After a bloody fight at Fleurus
with the Spaniards, who attempted to intercept them, they reached
Holland, where their appearance compelled the Spanish general forthwith
to raise the siege of Bergen-op-Zoom. But even Holland was soon weary
of these dangerous guests, and availed herself of the first moment to
get rid of their unwelcome assistance. Mansfeld allowed his troops to
recruit themselves for new enterprises in the fertile province of East
Friezeland. Duke Christian, passionately enamoured of the Electress
Palatine, with whom he had become acquainted in Holland, and more
disposed for war than ever, led back his army into Lower Saxony, bearing
that princess's glove in his hat, and on his standards the motto "All
for God and Her". Neither of these adventurers had as yet run their
career in this war.
All the imperial territories were now free from the enemy; the Union was
dissolved; the Margrave of Baden, Duke Christian, and Mansfeld, driven
from the field, and the Palatinate overrun by the executive troops of
the empire. Manheim and Heidelberg were in possession of Bavaria, and
Frankenthal was shortly afterwards ceded to the Spaniards. The
Palatine, in a distant corner of Holland, awaited the disgraceful
permission to appease, by abject submission, the vengeance of the
Emperor; and an Electoral Diet was at last summoned to decide his fate.
That fate, however, had been long before decided at the court of the
Emperor; though now, for the first time, were circumstances favourable
for giving publicity to the decision. After his past measures towards
the Elector, Ferdinand believed that a sincere reconciliation was not to
be hoped for. The violent course he had once begun, must be completed
successfully, or recoil upon himself. What was already lost was
irrecoverable; Frederick could never hope to regain his dominions; and a
prince without territory and without subjects had little chance of
retaining the electoral crown. Deeply as the Palatine had offended
against the House of Austria, the services of the Duke of Bavaria were
no less meritorious. If the House of Austria and the Roman Catholic
church had much to dread from the resentment and religious rancour of
the Palatine family, they had as much to hope from the gratitude and
religious zeal of the Bavarian. Lastly, by the cession of the Palatine
Electorate to Bavaria, the Roman Catholic religion would obtain a
decisive preponderance in the Electoral College, and secure a permanent
triumph in Germany.
The last circumstance was sufficient to win the support of the three
Ecclesiastical Electors to this innovation; and among the Protestants
the vote of Saxony was alone of any importance. But could John George
be expected to dispute with the Emperor a right, without which he would
expose to question his own title to the electoral dignity? To a prince
whom descent, dignity, and political power placed at the head of the
Protestant church in Germany, nothing, it is true, ought to be more
sacred than the defence of the rights of that church against all the
encroachments of the Roman Catholics. But the question here was not
whether the interests of the Protestants were to be supported against
the Roman Catholics, but which of two religions equally detested, the
Calvinistic and the Popish, was to triumph over the other; to which of
the two enemies, equally dangerous, the Palatinate was to be assigned;
and in this clashing of opposite duties, it was natural that private
hate and private gain should determine the event. The born protector of
the liberties of Germany, and of the Protestant religion, encouraged the
Emperor to dispose of the Palatinate by his imperial prerogative; and to
apprehend no resistance on the part of Saxony to his measures on the
mere ground of form. If the Elector was afterwards disposed to retract
this consent, Ferdinand himself, by driving the Evangelical preachers
from Bohemia, was the cause of this change of opinion; and, in the eyes
of the Elector, the transference of the Palatine Electorate to Bavaria
ceased to be illegal, as soon as Ferdinand was prevailed upon to cede
Lusatia to Saxony, in consideration of six millions of dollars, as the
expenses of the war.
This violent step at last opened the eyes of the King of England; and as
the negociations for the marriage of his son with the Infanta of Spain
were now broken off, James began seriously to espouse the cause of his
son-in-law. A change in the French ministry had placed Cardinal
Richelieu at the head of affairs, and this fallen kingdom soon began to
feel that a great mind was at the helm of state. The attempts of the
Spanish Viceroy in Milan to gain possession of the Valtelline, and thus
to form a junction with the Austrian hereditary dominions, revived the
olden dread of this power, and with it the policy of Henry the Great.
The marriage of the Prince of Wales with Henrietta of France,
established a close union between the two crowns; and to this alliance,
Holland, Denmark, and some of the Italian states presently acceded. Its
object was to expel, by force of arms, Spain from the Valtelline, and to
compel Austria to reinstate Frederick; but only the first of these
designs was prosecuted with vigour. James I. died, and Charles I.,
involved in disputes with his Parliament, could not bestow attention on
the affairs of Germany. Savoy and Venice withheld their assistance; and
the French minister thought it necessary to subdue the Huguenots at
home, before he supported the German Protestants against the Emperor.
Great as were the hopes which had been formed from this alliance, they
were yet equalled by the disappointment of the event.
These two kings vied with each other for the honour of defending Lower
Saxony, and of opposing the formidable power of Austria. Each offered
to raise a well-disciplined army, and to lead it in person. His
victorious campaigns against Moscow and Poland gave weight to the
promises of the King of Sweden. The shores of the Baltic were full of
the name of Gustavus. But the fame of his rival excited the envy of the
Danish monarch; and the more success he promised himself in this
campaign, the less disposed was he to show any favour to his envied
neighbour. Both laid their conditions and plans before the English
ministry, and Christian IV. finally succeeded in outbidding his rival.
Gustavus Adolphus, for his own security, had demanded the cession of
some places of strength in Germany, where he himself had no territories,
to afford, in case of need, a place of refuge for his troops. Christian
IV. possessed Holstein and Jutland, through which, in the event of a
defeat, he could always secure a retreat.
Eager to get the start of his competitor, the King of Denmark hastened
to take the field. Appointed generalissimo of the circle of Lower
Saxony, he soon had an army of 60,000 men in motion; the administrator
of Magdeburg, and the Dukes of Brunswick and Mecklenburgh, entered into
an alliance with him. Encouraged by the hope of assistance from
England, and the possession of so large a force, he flattered himself he
should be able to terminate the war in a single campaign.
With the exception of the troops from the Spanish Netherlands, which had
poured into the Lower Palatinate, the Emperor had hitherto made use only
of the arms of Bavaria and the League in Germany. Maximilian conducted
the war as executor of the ban of the empire, and Tilly, who commanded
the army of execution, was in the Bavarian service. The Emperor owed
superiority in the field to Bavaria and the League, and his fortunes
were in their hands. This dependence on their goodwill, but ill
accorded with the grand schemes, which the brilliant commencement of the
war had led the imperial cabinet to form.
However active the League had shown itself in the Emperor's defence,
while thereby it secured its own welfare, it could not be expected that
it would enter as readily into his views of conquest. Or, if they still
continued to lend their armies for that purpose, it was too much to be
feared that they would share with the Emperor nothing but general odium,
while they appropriated to themselves all advantages. A strong army
under his own orders could alone free him from this debasing dependence
upon Bavaria, and restore to him his former pre-eminence in Germany.
But the war had already exhausted the imperial dominions, and they were
unequal to the expense of such an armament. In these circumstances,
nothing could be more welcome to the Emperor than the proposal with
which one of his officers surprised him.
Now, therefore, for the first time in this war, an imperial army
appeared in Germany;--an event which if it was menacing to the
Protestants, was scarcely more acceptable to the Catholics. Wallenstein
had orders to unite his army with the troops of the League, and in
conjunction with the Bavarian general to attack the King of Denmark.
But long jealous of Tilly's fame, he showed no disposition to share with
him the laurels of the campaign, or in the splendour of his rival's
achievements to dim the lustre of his own. His plan of operations was
to support the latter, but to act entirely independent of him. As he
had not resources, like Tilly, for supplying the wants of his army, he
was obliged to march his troops into fertile countries which had not as
yet suffered from war. Disobeying, therefore, the order to form a
junction with the general of the League, he marched into the territories
of Halberstadt and Magdeburg, and at Dessau made himself master of the
Elbe. All the lands on either bank of this river were at his command,
and from them he could either attack the King of Denmark in the rear,
or, if prudent, enter the territories of that prince.
Christian IV. was fully aware of the danger of his situation between
two such powerful armies. He had already been joined by the
administrator of Halberstadt, who had lately returned from Holland; he
now also acknowledged Mansfeld, whom previously he had refused to
recognise, and supported him to the best of his ability. Mansfeld amply
requited this service. He alone kept at bay the army of Wallenstein
upon the Elbe, and prevented its junction with that of Tilly, and a
combined attack on the King of Denmark. Notwithstanding the enemy's
superiority, this intrepid general even approached the bridge of Dessau,
and ventured to entrench himself in presence of the imperial lines. But
attacked in the rear by the whole force of the Imperialists, he was
obliged to yield to superior numbers, and to abandon his post with the
loss of 3,000 killed. After this defeat, Mansfeld withdrew into
Brandenburg, where he soon recruited and reinforced his army; and
suddenly turned into Silesia, with the view of marching from thence into
Hungary; and, in conjunction with Bethlen Gabor, carrying the war into
the heart of Austria. As the Austrian dominions in that quarter were
entirely defenceless, Wallenstein received immediate orders to leave the
King of Denmark, and if possible to intercept Mansfeld's progress
through Silesia.
The diversion which this movement of Mansfeld had made in the plans of
Wallenstein, enabled the king to detach a part of his force into
Westphalia, to seize the bishoprics of Munster and Osnaburg. To check
this movement, Tilly suddenly moved from the Weser; but the operations
of Duke Christian, who threatened the territories of the League with an
inroad in the direction of Hesse, and to remove thither the seat of war,
recalled him as rapidly from Westphalia. In order to keep open his
communication with these provinces, and to prevent the junction of the
enemy with the Landgrave of Hesse, Tilly hastily seized all the tenable
posts on the Werha and Fulda, and took up a strong position in Minden,
at the foot of the Hessian Mountains, and at the confluence of these
rivers with the Weser. He soon made himself master of Goettingen, the
key of Brunswick and Hesse, and was meditating a similar attack upon
Nordheim, when the king advanced upon him with his whole army. After
throwing into this place the necessary supplies for a long siege, the
latter attempted to open a new passage through Eichsfeld and Thuringia,
into the territories of the League. He had already reached Duderstadt,
when Tilly, by forced marches, came up with him. As the army of Tilly,
which had been reinforced by some of Wallenstein's regiments, was
superior in numbers to his own, the king, to avoid a battle, retreated
towards Brunswick. But Tilly incessantly harassed his retreat, and
after three days' skirmishing, he was at length obliged to await the
enemy near the village of Lutter in Barenberg. The Danes began the
attack with great bravery, and thrice did their intrepid monarch lead
them in person against the enemy; but at length the superior numbers and
discipline of the Imperialists prevailed, and the general of the League
obtained a complete victory. The Danes lost sixty standards, and their
whole artillery, baggage, and ammunition. Several officers of
distinction and about 4,000 men were killed in the field of battle; and
several companies of foot, in the flight, who had thrown themselves into
the town-house of Lutter, laid down their arms and surrendered to the
conqueror.
The king fled with his cavalry, and soon collected the wreck of his army
which had survived this serious defeat. Tilly pursued his victory, made
himself master of the Weser and Brunswick, and forced the king to retire
into Bremen. Rendered more cautious by defeat, the latter now stood
upon the defensive; and determined at all events to prevent the enemy
from crossing the Elbe. But while he threw garrisons into every tenable
place, he reduced his own diminished army to inactivity; and one after
another his scattered troops were either defeated or dispersed. The
forces of the League, in command of the Weser, spread themselves along
the Elbe and Havel, and everywhere drove the Danes before them. Tilly
himself crossing the Elbe penetrated with his victorious army into
Brandenburg, while Wallenstein entered Holstein to remove the seat of
war to the king's own dominions.
This general had just returned from Hungary whither he had pursued
Mansfeld, without being able to obstruct his march, or prevent his
junction with Bethlen Gabor. Constantly persecuted by fortune, but
always superior to his fate, Mansfeld had made his way against countless
difficulties, through Silesia and Hungary to Transylvania, where, after
all, he was not very welcome. Relying upon the assistance of England,
and a powerful diversion in Lower Saxony, Gabor had again broken the
truce with the Emperor. But in place of the expected diversion in his
favour, Mansfeld had drawn upon himself the whole strength of
Wallenstein, and instead of bringing, required, pecuniary assistance.
The want of concert in the Protestant counsels cooled Gabor's ardour;
and he hastened, as usual, to avert the coming storm by a speedy peace.
Firmly determined, however, to break it, with the first ray of hope, he
directed Mansfeld in the mean time to apply for assistance to Venice.
Cut off from Germany, and unable to support the weak remnant of his
troops in Hungary, Mansfeld sold his artillery and baggage train, and
disbanded his soldiers. With a few followers, he proceeded through
Bosnia and Dalmatia, towards Venice. New schemes swelled his bosom; but
his career was ended. Fate, which had so restlessly sported with him
throughout, now prepared for him a peaceful grave in Dalmatia. Death
overtook him in the vicinity of Zara in 1626, and a short time before
him died the faithful companion of his fortunes, Christian, Duke of
Brunswick--two men worthy of immortality, had they but been as superior
to their times as they were to their adversities.
The King of Denmark, with his whole army, was unable to cope with Tilly
alone; much less, therefore, with a shattered force could he hold his
ground against the two imperial generals. The Danes retired from all
their posts on the Weser, the Elbe, and the Havel, and the army of
Wallenstein poured like a torrent into Brandenburg, Mecklenburg,
Holstein and Sleswick. That general, too proud to act in conjunction
with another, had dispatched Tilly across the Elbe, to watch, as he gave
out, the motions of the Dutch in that quarter; but in reality that he
might terminate the war against the king, and reap for himself the
fruits of Tilly's conquests. Christian had now lost all his fortresses
in the German States, with the exception of Gluckstadt; his armies were
defeated or dispersed; no assistance came from Germany; from England,
little consolation; while his confederates in Lower Saxony were at the
mercy of the conqueror. The Landgrave of Hesse Cassel had been forced
by Tilly, soon after the battle of Lutter, to renounce the Danish
alliance. Wallenstein's formidable appearance before Berlin reduced the
Elector of Brandenburgh to submission, and compelled him to recognise,
as legitimate, Maximilian's title to the Palatine Electorate. The
greater part of Mecklenburgh was now overrun by imperial troops; and
both dukes, as adherents of the King of Denmark, placed under the ban of
the empire, and driven from their dominions. The defence of the German
liberties against illegal encroachments, was punished as a crime
deserving the loss of all dignities and territories; and yet this was
but the prelude to the still more crying enormities which shortly
followed.
Wallenstein had all this in view when he made his bold offer to the
Emperor, which now seemed extravagant to no one. The more his army was
augmented, the less cause was there to fear for its subsistence, because
it could irresistibly bear down upon the refractory states; the more
violent its outrages, the more probable was impunity. Towards hostile
states it had the plea of right; towards the favourably disposed it
could allege necessity. The inequality, too, with which it dealt out
its oppressions, prevented any dangerous union among the states; while
the exhaustion of their territories deprived them of the power of
vengeance. Thus the whole of Germany became a kind of magazine for the
imperial army, and the Emperor was enabled to deal with the other states
as absolutely as with his own hereditary dominions. Universal was the
clamour for redress before the imperial throne; but there was nothing to
fear from the revenge of the injured princes, so long as they appealed
for justice. The general discontent was directed equally against the
Emperor, who had lent his name to these barbarities, and the general who
exceeded his power, and openly abused the authority of his master. They
applied to the Emperor for protection against the outrages of his
general; but Wallenstein had no sooner felt himself absolute in the
army, than he threw off his obedience to his sovereign.
The exhaustion of the enemy made a speedy peace probable; yet
Wallenstein continued to augment the imperial armies until they were at
least 100,000 men strong. Numberless commissions to colonelcies and
inferior commands, the regal pomp of the commander-in-chief, immoderate
largesses to his favourites, (for he never gave less than a thousand
florins,) enormous sums lavished in corrupting the court at Vienna--all
this had been effected without burdening the Emperor. These immense
sums were raised by the contributions levied from the lower German
provinces, where no distinction was made between friend and foe; and the
territories of all princes were subjected to the same system of marching
and quartering, of extortion and outrage. If credit is to be given to
an extravagant contemporary statement, Wallenstein, during his seven
years command, had exacted not less than sixty thousand millions of
dollars from one half of Germany. The greater his extortions, the
greater the rewards of his soldiers, and the greater the concourse to
his standard, for the world always follows fortune. His armies
flourished while all the states through which they passed withered.
What cared he for the detestation of the people, and the complaints of
princes? His army adored him, and the very enormity of his guilt
enabled him to bid defiance to its consequences.
Hitherto invariable success had attended the arms of the Emperor and the
League, and Christian IV., defeated in Germany, had sought refuge in his
own islands; but the Baltic checked the further progress of the
conquerors. The want of ships not only stopped the pursuit of the king,
but endangered their previous acquisitions. The union of the two
northern monarchs was most to be dreaded, because, so long as it lasted,
it effectually prevented the Emperor and his general from acquiring a
footing on the Baltic, or effecting a landing in Sweden. But if they
could succeed in dissolving this union, and especially securing the
friendship of the Danish king, they might hope to overpower the
insulated force of Sweden. The dread of the interference of foreign
powers, the insubordination of the Protestants in his own states, and
still more the storm which was gradually darkening along the whole of
Protestant Germany, inclined the Emperor to peace, which his general,
from opposite motives, was equally desirous to effect. Far from wishing
for a state of things which would reduce him from the meridian of
greatness and glory to the obscurity of private life, he only wished to
change the theatre of war, and by a partial peace to prolong the general
confusion. The friendship of Denmark, whose neighbour he had become as
Duke of Mecklenburgh, was most important for the success of his
ambitious views; and he resolved, even at the sacrifice of his
sovereign's interests, to secure its alliance.
From the very close of the Bohemian troubles, Ferdinand had carried on a
counter reformation in his hereditary dominions, in which, however, from
regard to some of the Protestant Estates, he proceeded, at first, with
moderation. But the victories of his generals in Lower Germany
encouraged him to throw off all reserve. Accordingly he had it
intimated to all the Protestants in these dominions, that they must
either abandon their religion, or their native country,--a bitter and
dreadful alternative, which excited the most violent commotions among
his Austrian subjects. In the Palatinate, immediately after the
expulsion of Frederick, the Protestant religion had been suppressed, and
its professors expelled from the University of Heidelberg.
All this was but the prelude to greater changes. In the Electoral
Congress held at Muehlhausen, the Roman Catholics had demanded of the
Emperor that all the archbishoprics, bishoprics, mediate and immediate,
abbacies and monasteries, which, since the Diet of Augsburg, had been
secularized by the Protestants, should be restored to the church, in
order to indemnify them for the losses and sufferings in the war. To a
Roman Catholic prince so zealous as Ferdinand was, such a hint was not
likely to be neglected; but he still thought it would be premature to
arouse the whole Protestants of Germany by so decisive a step. Not a
single Protestant prince but would be deprived, by this revocation of
the religious foundations, of a part of his lands; for where these
revenues had not actually been diverted to secular purposes they had
been made over to the Protestant church. To this source, many princes
owed the chief part of their revenues and importance. All, without
exception, would be irritated by this demand for restoration. The
religious treaty did not expressly deny their right to these chapters,
although it did not allow it. But a possession which had now been held
for nearly a century, the silence of four preceding emperors, and the
law of equity, which gave them an equal right with the Roman Catholics
to the foundations of their common ancestors, might be strongly pleaded
by them as a valid title. Besides the actual loss of power and
authority, which the surrender of these foundations would occasion,
besides the inevitable confusion which would necessarily attend it, one
important disadvantage to which it would lead, was, that the restoration
of the Roman Catholic bishops would increase the strength of that party
in the Diet by so many additional votes. Such grievous sacrifices
likely to fall on the Protestants, made the Emperor apprehensive of a
formidable opposition; and until the military ardour should have cooled
in Germany, he had no wish to provoke a party formidable by its union,
and which in the Elector of Saxony had a powerful leader. He resolved,
therefore, to try the experiment at first on a small scale, in order to
ascertain how it was likely to succeed on a larger one. Accordingly,
some of the free cities in Upper Germany, and the Duke of Wirtemberg,
received orders to surrender to the Roman Catholics several of the
confiscated chapters.
The state of affairs in Saxony enabled the Emperor to make some bolder
experiments in that quarter. In the bishoprics of Magdeburg and
Halberstadt, the Protestant canons had not hesitated to elect bishops of
their own religion. Both bishoprics, with the exception of the town of
Magdeburg itself, were overrun by the troops of Wallenstein. It
happened, moreover, that by the death of the Administrator Duke
Christian of Brunswick, Halberstadt was vacant, as was also the
Archbishopric of Magdeburg by the deposition of Christian William, a
prince of the House of Brandenburgh. Ferdinand took advantage of the
circumstance to restore the see of Halberstadt to a Roman Catholic
bishop, and a prince of his own house. To avoid a similar coercion, the
Chapter of Magdeburg hastened to elect a son of the Elector of Saxony as
archbishop. But the pope, who with his arrogated authority interfered
in this matter, conferred the Archbishopric of Magdeburg also on the
Austrian prince. Thus, with all his pious zeal for religion, Ferdinand
never lost sight of the interests of his family.
At length, when the peace of Lubeck had delivered the Emperor from all
apprehensions on the side of Denmark, and the German Protestants seemed
entirely powerless, the League becoming louder and more urgent in its
demands, Ferdinand, in 1629, signed the Edict of Restitution, (so famous
by its disastrous consequences,) which he had previously laid before the
four Roman Catholic electors for their approbation. In the preamble, he
claimed the prerogative, in right of his imperial authority, to
interpret the meaning of the religious treaty, the ambiguities of which
had already caused so many disputes, and to decide as supreme arbiter
and judge between the contending parties. This prerogative he founded
upon the practice of his ancestors, and its previous recognition even by
Protestant states. Saxony had actually acknowledged this right of the
Emperor; and it now became evident how deeply this court had injured the
Protestant cause by its dependence on the House of Austria. But though
the meaning of the religious treaty was really ambiguous, as a century
of religious disputes sufficiently proved, yet for the Emperor, who must
be either a Protestant or a Roman Catholic, and therefore an interested
party, to assume the right of deciding between the disputants, was
clearly a violation of an essential article of the pacification. He
could not be judge in his own cause, without reducing the liberties of
the empire to an empty sound.
Long was the Emperor undecided. The sacrifice demanded was a painful
one. To the Duke of Friedland alone he owed his preponderance; he felt
how much he would lose in yielding him to the indignation of the
princes. But at this moment, unfortunately, he was under the necessity
of conciliating the Electors. His son Ferdinand had already been chosen
King of Hungary, and he was endeavouring to procure his election as his
successor in the empire. For this purpose, the support of Maximilian
was indispensable. This consideration was the weightiest, and to oblige
the Elector of Bavaria he scrupled not to sacrifice his most valuable
servant.
Alarmed by the universal hatred which this Italian campaign had drawn
upon him, and wearied out by the urgent remonstrances of the Electors,
who zealously supported the application of the French ambassador, the
Emperor promised the investiture to the new Duke of Mantua.
The voice of a monk was to Ferdinand II. the voice of God. "Nothing on
earth," writes his own confessor, "was more sacred in his eyes than a
priest. If it could happen, he used to say, that an angel and a Regular
were to meet him at the same time and place, the Regular should receive
his first, and the angel his second obeisance." Wallenstein's dismissal
was determined upon.
Artifice and trickery thus triumphed over the Emperor, at the moment
when he was believed to be omnipotent in Germany, and actually was so in
the field. With the loss of 18,000 men, and of a general who alone was
worth whole armies, he left Ratisbon without gaining the end for which
he had made such sacrifices. Before the Swedes had vanquished him in
the field, Maximilian of Bavaria and Father Joseph had given him a
mortal blow. At this memorable Diet at Ratisbon the war with Sweden was
resolved upon, and that of Mantua terminated. Vainly had the princes
present at it interceded for the Dukes of Mecklenburgh; and equally
fruitless had been an application by the English ambassadors for a
pension to the Palatine Frederick.
But repose was the last thing that Wallenstein contemplated when he
returned to private life. In his retreat, he surrounded himself with a
regal pomp, which seemed to mock the sentence of degradation. Six gates
led to the palace he inhabited in Prague, and a hundred houses were
pulled down to make way for his courtyard. Similar palaces were built
on his other numerous estates. Gentlemen of the noblest houses
contended for the honour of serving him, and even imperial chamberlains
resigned the golden key to the Emperor, to fill a similar office under
Wallenstein. He maintained sixty pages, who were instructed by the
ablest masters. His antichamber was protected by fifty life guards.
His table never consisted of less than 100 covers, and his seneschal was
a person of distinction. When he travelled, his baggage and suite
accompanied him in a hundred wagons, drawn by six or four horses; his
court followed in sixty carriages, attended by fifty led horses. The
pomp of his liveries, the splendour of his equipages, and the
decorations of his apartments, were in keeping with all the rest. Six
barons and as many knights, were in constant attendance about his
person, and ready to execute his slightest order. Twelve patrols went
their rounds about his palace, to prevent any disturbance. His busy
genius required silence. The noise of coaches was to be kept away from
his residence, and the streets leading to it were frequently blocked up
with chains. His own circle was as silent as the approaches to his
palace; dark, reserved, and impenetrable, he was more sparing of his
words than of his gifts; while the little that he spoke was harsh and
imperious. He never smiled, and the coldness of his temperament was
proof against sensual seductions. Ever occupied with grand schemes, he
despised all those idle amusements in which so many waste their lives.
The correspondence he kept up with the whole of Europe was chiefly
managed by himself, and, that as little as possible might be trusted to
the silence of others, most of the letters were written by his own hand.
He was a man of large stature, thin, of a sallow complexion, with short
red hair, and small sparkling eyes. A gloomy and forbidding seriousness
sat upon his brow; and his magnificent presents alone retained the
trembling crowd of his dependents.
Cardinal Richelieu had the merit of effecting this truce with Poland.
This great statesman, who guided the helm of Europe, while in France he
repressed the rage of faction and the insolence of the nobles, pursued
steadily, amidst the cares of a stormy administration, his plan of
lowering the ascendancy of the House of Austria. But circumstances
opposed considerable obstacles to the execution of his designs; and even
the greatest minds cannot, with impunity, defy the prejudices of the
age. The minister of a Roman Catholic king, and a Cardinal, he was
prevented by the purple he bore from joining the enemies of that church
in an open attack on a power which had the address to sanctify its
ambitious encroachments under the name of religion. The external
deference which Richelieu was obliged to pay to the narrow views of his
contemporaries limited his exertions to secret negociations, by which he
endeavoured to gain the hand of others to accomplish the enlightened
projects of his own mind. After a fruitless attempt to prevent the
peace between Denmark and the Emperor, he had recourse to Gustavus
Adolphus, the hero of his age. No exertion was spared to bring this
monarch to a favourable decision, and at the same time to facilitate the
execution of it. Charnasse, an unsuspected agent of the Cardinal,
proceeded to Polish Prussia, where Gustavus Adolphus was conducting the
war against Sigismund, and alternately visited these princes, in order
to persuade them to a truce or peace. Gustavus had been long inclined
to it, and the French minister succeeded at last in opening the eyes of
Sigismund to his true interests, and to the deceitful policy of the
Emperor. A truce for six years was agreed on, Gustavus being allowed to
retain all his conquests. This treaty gave him also what he had so long
desired, the liberty of directing his arms against the Emperor. For
this the French ambassador offered him the alliance of his sovereign and
considerable subsidies. But Gustavus Adolphus was justly apprehensive
lest the acceptance of the assistance should make him dependent upon
France, and fetter him in his career of conquest, while an alliance with
a Roman Catholic power might excite distrust among the Protestants.
If the war was just and necessary, the circumstances under which it was
undertaken were not less promising. The name of the Emperor, it is
true, was formidable, his resources inexhaustible, his power hitherto
invincible. So dangerous a contest would have dismayed any other than
Gustavus. He saw all the obstacles and dangers which opposed his
undertaking, but he knew also the means by which, as he hoped, they
might be conquered. His army, though not numerous, was well
disciplined, inured to hardship by a severe climate and campaigns, and
trained to victory in the war with Poland. Sweden, though poor in men
and money, and overtaxed by an eight years' war, was devoted to its
monarch with an enthusiasm which assured him of the ready support of his
subjects. In Germany, the name of the Emperor was at least as much
hated as feared. The Protestant princes only awaited the arrival of a
deliverer to throw off his intolerable yoke, and openly declare for the
Swedes. Even the Roman Catholic states would welcome an antagonist to
the Emperor, whose opposition might control his overwhelming influence.
The first victory gained on German ground would be decisive. It would
encourage those princes who still hesitated to declare themselves,
strengthen the cause of his adherents, augment his troops, and open
resources for the maintenance of the campaign. If the greater part of
the German states were impoverished by oppression, the flourishing Hanse
towns had escaped, and they could not hesitate, by a small voluntary
sacrifice, to avert the general ruin. As the imperialists should be
driven from the different provinces, their armies would diminish, since
they were subsisting on the countries in which they were encamped. The
strength, too, of the Emperor had been lessened by ill-timed detachments
to Italy and the Netherlands; while Spain, weakened by the loss of the
Manilla galleons, and engaged in a serious war in the Netherlands, could
afford him little support. Great Britain, on the other hand, gave the
King of Sweden hope of considerable subsidies; and France, now at peace
with itself, came forward with the most favourable offers.
But the strongest pledge for the success of his undertaking Gustavus
found--in himself. Prudence demanded that he should embrace all the
foreign assistance he could, in order to guard his enterprise from the
imputation of rashness; but all his confidence and courage were entirely
derived from himself. He was indisputably the greatest general of his
age, and the bravest soldier in the army which he had formed. Familiar
with the tactics of Greece and Rome, he had discovered a more effective
system of warfare, which was adopted as a model by the most eminent
commanders of subsequent times. He reduced the unwieldy squadrons of
cavalry, and rendered their movements more light and rapid; and, with
the same view, he widened the intervals between his battalions. Instead
of the usual array in a single line, he disposed his forces in two
lines, that the second might advance in the event of the first giving
way.
He made up for his want of cavalry, by placing infantry among the horse;
a practice which frequently decided the victory. Europe first learned
from him the importance of infantry. All Germany was astonished at the
strict discipline which, at the first, so creditably distinguished the
Swedish army within their territories; all disorders were punished with
the utmost severity, particularly impiety, theft, gambling, and
duelling. The Swedish articles of war enforced frugality. In the camp,
the King's tent not excepted, neither silver nor gold was to be seen.
The general's eye looked as vigilantly to the morals as to the martial
bravery of his soldiers; every regiment was ordered to form round its
chaplain for morning and evening prayers. In all these points the
lawgiver was also an example. A sincere and ardent piety exalted his
courage. Equally free from the coarse infidelity which leaves the
passions of the barbarian without a control,--and from the grovelling
superstition of Ferdinand, who humbled himself to the dust before the
Supreme Being, while he haughtily trampled on his fellow-creature--in
the height of his success he was ever a man and a Christian--in the
height of his devotion, a king and a hero. The hardships of war he
shared with the meanest soldier in his army; maintained a calm serenity
amidst the hottest fury of battle; his glance was omnipresent, and he
intrepidly forgot the danger while he exposed himself to the greatest
peril. His natural courage, indeed, too often made him forget the duty
of a general; and the life of a king ended in the death of a common
soldier. But such a leader was followed to victory alike by the coward
and the brave, and his eagle glance marked every heroic deed which his
example had inspired. The fame of their sovereign excited in the nation
an enthusiastic sense of their own importance; proud of their king, the
peasant in Finland and Gothland joyfully contributed his pittance; the
soldier willingly shed his blood; and the lofty energy which his single
mind had imparted to the nation long survived its creator.
The necessity of the war was acknowledged, but the best plan of
conducting it was a matter of much question. Even to the bold
Chancellor Oxenstiern, an offensive war appeared too daring a measure;
the resources of his poor and conscientious master, appeared to him too
slender to compete with those of a despotic sovereign, who held all
Germany at his command. But the minister's timid scruples were
overruled by the hero's penetrating prudence. "If we await the enemy in
Sweden," said Gustavus, "in the event of a defeat every thing would be
lost, by a fortunate commencement in Germany everything would be gained.
The sea is wide, and we have a long line of coast in Sweden to defend.
If the enemy's fleet should escape us, or our own be defeated, it would,
in either case, be impossible to prevent the enemy's landing. Every
thing depends on the retention of Stralsund. So long as this harbour is
open to us, we shall both command the Baltic, and secure a retreat from
Germany. But to protect this port, we must not remain in Sweden, but
advance at once into Pomerania. Let us talk no more, then, of a
defensive war, by which we should sacrifice our greatest advantages.
Sweden must not be doomed to behold a hostile banner; if we are
vanquished in Germany, it will be time enough to follow your plan."
Gustavus resolved to cross the Baltic and attack the Emperor. His
preparations were made with the utmost expedition, and his precautionary
measures were not less prudent than the resolution itself was bold and
magnanimous. Before engaging in so distant a war, it was necessary to
secure Sweden against its neighbours. At a personal interview with the
King of Denmark at Markaroed, Gustavus assured himself of the friendship
of that monarch; his frontier on the side of Moscow was well guarded;
Poland might be held in check from Germany, if it betrayed any design of
infringing the truce. Falkenberg, a Swedish ambassador, who visited the
courts of Holland and Germany, obtained the most flattering promises
from several Protestant princes, though none of them yet possessed
courage or self-devotion enough to enter into a formal alliance with
him. Lubeck and Hamburg engaged to advance him money, and to accept
Swedish copper in return. Emissaries were also despatched to the Prince
of Transylvania, to excite that implacable enemy of Austria to arms.
In the mean time, Swedish levies were made in Germany and the
Netherlands, the regiments increased to their full complement, new ones
raised, transports provided, a fleet fitted out, provisions, military
stores, and money collected. Thirty ships of war were in a short time
prepared, 15,000 men equipped, and 200 transports were ready to convey
them across the Baltic. A greater force Gustavus Adolphus was unwilling
to carry into Germany, and even the maintenance of this exceeded the
revenues of his kingdom. But however small his army, it was admirable
in all points of discipline, courage, and experience, and might serve as
the nucleus of a more powerful armament, if it once gained the German
frontier, and its first attempts were attended with success.
Oxenstiern, at once general and chancellor, was posted with 10,000 men
in Prussia, to protect that province against Poland. Some regular
troops, and a considerable body of militia, which served as a nursery
for the main body, remained in Sweden, as a defence against a sudden
invasion by any treacherous neighbour.
These were the measures taken for the external defence of the kingdom.
Its internal administration was provided for with equal care. The
government was intrusted to the Council of State, and the finances to
the Palatine John Casimir, the brother-in-law of the King, while his
wife, tenderly as he was attached to her, was excluded from all share in
the government, for which her limited talents incapacitated her. He set
his house in order like a dying man. On the 20th May, 1630, when all
his measures were arranged, and all was ready for his departure, the
King appeared in the Diet at Stockholm, to bid the States a solemn
farewell. Taking in his arms his daughter Christina, then only four
years old, who, in the cradle, had been acknowledged as his successor,
he presented her to the States as the future sovereign, exacted from
them a renewal of the oath of allegiance to her, in case he should never
more return; and then read the ordinances for the government of the
kingdom during his absence, or the minority of his daughter. The whole
assembly was dissolved in tears, and the King himself was some time
before he could attain sufficient composure to deliver his farewell
address to the States.
"Not lightly or wantonly," said he, "am I about to involve myself and
you in this new and dangerous war; God is my witness that _I_ do not
fight to gratify my own ambition. But the Emperor has wronged me most
shamefully in the person of my ambassadors. He has supported my
enemies, persecuted my friends and brethren, trampled my religion in the
dust, and even stretched his revengeful arm against my crown. The
oppressed states of Germany call loudly for aid, which, by God's help,
we will give them.
The embarkation of the troops took place at Elfsknaben, where the fleet
lay at anchor. An immense concourse flocked thither to witness this
magnificent spectacle. The hearts of the spectators were agitated by
varied emotions, as they alternately considered the vastness of the
enterprise, and the greatness of the leader. Among the superior
officers who commanded in this army were Gustavus Horn, the Rhinegrave
Otto Lewis, Henry Matthias, Count Thurn, Ottenberg, Baudissen, Banner,
Teufel, Tott, Mutsenfahl, Falkenberg, Kniphausen, and other
distinguished names. Detained by contrary winds, the fleet did not sail
till June, and on the 24th of that month reached the Island of Rugen in
Pomerania.
Gustavus Adolphus was the first who landed. In the presence of his
suite, he knelt on the shore of Germany to return thanks to the Almighty
for the safe arrival of his fleet and his army. He landed his troops on
the Islands of Wollin and Usedom; upon his approach, the imperial
garrisons abandoned their entrenchments and fled. He advanced rapidly
on Stettin, to secure this important place before the appearance of the
Imperialists. Bogislaus XIV., Duke of Pomerania, a feeble and
superannuated prince, had been long tired out by the outrages committed
by the latter within his territories; but too weak to resist, he had
contented himself with murmurs. The appearance of his deliverer,
instead of animating his courage, increased his fear and anxiety.
Severely as his country had suffered from the Imperialists, the risk of
incurring the Emperor's vengeance prevented him from declaring openly
for the Swedes. Gustavus Adolphus, who was encamped under the walls of
the town, summoned the city to receive a Swedish garrison. Bogislaus
appeared in person in the camp of Gustavus, to deprecate this condition.
"I come to you," said Gustavus, "not as an enemy but a friend. I wage
no war against Pomerania, nor against the German empire, but against the
enemies of both. In my hands this duchy shall be sacred; and it shall
be restored to you at the conclusion of the campaign, by me, with more
certainty, than by any other. Look to the traces of the imperial force
within your territories, and to mine in Usedom; and decide whether you
will have the Emperor or me as your friend. What have you to expect, if
the Emperor should make himself master of your capital? Will he deal
with you more leniently than I? Or is it your intention to stop my
progress? The case is pressing: decide at once, and do not compel me
to have recourse to more violent measures."
The alternative was a painful one. On the one side, the King of Sweden
was before his gates with a formidable army; on the other, he saw the
inevitable vengeance of the Emperor, and the fearful example of so many
German princes, who were now wandering in misery, the victims of that
revenge. The more immediate danger decided his resolution. The gates
of Stettin were opened to the king; the Swedish troops entered; and the
Austrians, who were advancing by rapid marches, anticipated. The
capture of this place procured for the king a firm footing in Pomerania,
the command of the Oder, and a magazine for his troops. To prevent a
charge of treachery, Bogislaus was careful to excuse this step to the
Emperor on the plea of necessity; but aware of Ferdinand's implacable
disposition, he entered into a close alliance with his new protector.
By this league with Pomerania, Gustavus secured a powerful friend in
Germany, who covered his rear, and maintained his communication with
Sweden.
Under these circumstances, the imperial general was anxious to allow his
troops the repose of winter quarters, but he had to do with an enemy to
whom the climate of Germany had no winter. Gustavus had taken the
precaution of providing his soldiers with dresses of sheep-skin, to
enable them to keep the field even in the most inclement season. The
imperial plenipotentiaries, who came to treat with him for a cessation
of hostilities, received this discouraging answer: "The Swedes are
soldiers in winter as well as in summer, and not disposed to oppress the
unfortunate peasantry. The Imperialists may act as they think proper,
but they need not expect to remain undisturbed." Torquato Conti soon
after resigned a command, in which neither riches nor reputation were to
be gained.
The Swedes had pursued the Imperialists into Brandenburg; and only the
Elector's refusal to open to him the fortress of Custrin for his march,
obliged the king to lay aside his design of besieging Frankfort on the
Oder. He therefore returned to complete the conquest of Pomerania, by
the capture of Demmin and Colberg. In the mean time, Field-Marshal
Tilly was advancing to the defence of Brandenburg.
This general, who could boast as yet of never having suffered a defeat,
the conqueror of Mansfeld, of Duke Christian of Brunswick, of the
Margrave of Baden, and the King of Denmark, was now in the Swedish
monarch to meet an opponent worthy of his fame. Descended of a noble
family in Liege, Tilly had formed his military talents in the wars of
the Netherlands, which was then the great school for generals. He soon
found an opportunity of distinguishing himself under Rodolph II. in
Hungary, where he rapidly rose from one step to another. After the
peace, he entered into the service of Maximilian of Bavaria, who made
him commander-in-chief with absolute powers. Here, by his excellent
regulations, he was the founder of the Bavarian army; and to him,
chiefly, Maximilian was indebted for his superiority in the field. Upon
the termination of the Bohemian war, he was appointed commander of the
troops of the League; and, after Wallenstein's dismissal, generalissimo
of the imperial armies. Equally stern towards his soldiers and
implacable towards his enemies, and as gloomy and impenetrable as
Wallenstein, he was greatly his superior in probity and
disinterestedness. A bigoted zeal for religion, and a bloody spirit of
persecution, co-operated, with the natural ferocity of his character, to
make him the terror of the Protestants. A strange and terrific aspect
bespoke his character: of low stature, thin, with hollow cheeks, a long
nose, a broad and wrinkled forehead, large whiskers, and a pointed chin;
he was generally attired in a Spanish doublet of green satin, with
slashed sleeves, with a small high peaked hat upon his head, surmounted
by a red feather which hung down to his back. His whole aspect recalled
to recollection the Duke of Alva, the scourge of the Flemings, and his
actions were far from effacing the impression. Such was the general who
was now to be opposed to the hero of the north.
Tilly was far from undervaluing his antagonist, "The King of Sweden,"
said he in the Diet at Ratisbon, "is an enemy both prudent and brave,
inured to war, and in the flower of his age. His plans are excellent,
his resources considerable; his subjects enthusiastically attached to
him. His army, composed of Swedes, Germans, Livonians, Finlanders,
Scots and English, by its devoted obedience to their leader, is blended
into one nation: he is a gamester in playing with whom not to have lost
is to have won a great deal."
While the king was thus advancing from one conquest to another, and, by
his success, encouraging the Protestants to active resistance, the
Emperor proceeded to enforce the Edict of Restitution, and, by his
exorbitant pretensions, to exhaust the patience of the states.
Compelled by necessity, he continued the violent course which he had
begun with such arrogant confidence; the difficulties into which his
arbitrary conduct had plunged him, he could only extricate himself from
by measures still more arbitrary. But in so complicated a body as the
German empire, despotism must always create the most dangerous
convulsions. With astonishment, the princes beheld the constitution of
the empire overthrown, and the state of nature to which matters were
again verging, suggested to them the idea of self-defence, the only
means of protection in such a state of things. The steps openly taken
by the Emperor against the Lutheran church, had at last removed the veil
from the eyes of John George, who had been so long the dupe of his
artful policy. Ferdinand, too, had personally offended him by the
exclusion of his son from the archbishopric of Magdeburg; and
field-marshal Arnheim, his new favourite and minister, spared no pains
to increase the resentment of his master. Arnheim had formerly been an
imperial general under Wallenstein, and being still zealously attached
to him, he was eager to avenge his old benefactor and himself on the
Emperor, by detaching Saxony from the Austrian interests. Gustavus
Adolphus, supported by the Protestant states, would be invincible; a
consideration which already filled the Emperor with alarm. The example
of Saxony would probably influence others, and the Emperor's fate seemed
now in a manner to depend upon the Elector's decision. The artful
favourite impressed upon his master this idea of his own importance, and
advised him to terrify the Emperor, by threatening an alliance with
Sweden, and thus to extort from his fears, what he had sought in vain
from his gratitude. The favourite, however, was far from wishing him
actually to enter into the Swedish alliance, but, by holding aloof from
both parties, to maintain his own importance and independence.
Accordingly, he laid before him a plan, which only wanted a more able
hand to carry it into execution, and recommended him, by heading the
Protestant party, to erect a third power in Germany, and thereby
maintain the balance between Sweden and Austria.
This project was peculiarly flattering to the Saxon Elector, to whom the
idea of being dependent upon Sweden, or of longer submitting to the
tyranny of the Emperor, was equally hateful. He could not, with
indifference, see the control of German affairs wrested from him by a
foreign prince; and incapable as he was of taking a principal part, his
vanity would not condescend to act a subordinate one. He resolved,
therefore, to draw every possible advantage from the progress of
Gustavus, but to pursue, independently, his own separate plans. With
this view, he consulted with the Elector of Brandenburg, who, from
similar causes, was ready to act against the Emperor, but, at the same
time, was jealous of Sweden. In a Diet at Torgau, having assured
himself of the support of his Estates, he invited the Protestant States
of the empire to a general convention, which took place at Leipzig, on
the 6th February 1631. Brandenburg, Hesse Cassel, with several princes,
counts, estates of the empire, and Protestant bishops were present,
either personally or by deputy, at this assembly, which the chaplain to
the Saxon Court, Dr. Hoe von Hohenegg, opened with a vehement discourse
from the pulpit. The Emperor had, in vain, endeavoured to prevent this
self-appointed convention, whose object was evidently to provide for its
own defence, and which the presence of the Swedes in the empire,
rendered more than usually alarming. Emboldened by the progress of
Gustavus Adolphus, the assembled princes asserted their rights, and
after a session of two months broke up, with adopting a resolution which
placed the Emperor in no slight embarrassment. Its import was to demand
of the Emperor, in a general address, the revocation of the Edict of
Restitution, the withdrawal of his troops from their capitals and
fortresses, the suspension of all existing proceedings, and the
abolition of abuses; and, in the mean time, to raise an army of 40,000
men, to enable them to redress their own grievances, if the Emperor
should still refuse satisfaction.
The rich archbishopric, of which Magdeburg was the capital, had long
been in the possession of princes of the house of Brandenburg, who
introduced the Protestant religion into the province. Christian
William, the last administrator, had, by his alliance with Denmark,
incurred the ban of the empire, on which account the chapter, to avoid
the Emperor's displeasure, had formally deposed him. In his place they
had elected Prince John Augustus, the second son of the Elector of
Saxony, whom the Emperor rejected, in order to confer the archbishopric
on his son Leopold. The Elector of Saxony complained ineffectually to
the imperial court; but Christian William of Brandenburg took more
active measures. Relying on the attachment of the magistracy and
inhabitants of Brandenburg, and excited by chimerical hopes, he thought
himself able to surmount all the obstacles which the vote of the
chapter, the competition of two powerful rivals, and the Edict of
Restitution opposed to his restoration. He went to Sweden, and, by the
promise of a diversion in Germany, sought to obtain assistance from
Gustavus. He was dismissed by that monarch not without hopes of
effectual protection, but with the advice to act with caution.
In the meanwhile, the siege was prolonged, by the progress of the King
of Sweden, which called the Austrian general from before the place; and
the jealousy of the officers, who conducted the operations in his
absence, delayed, for some months, the fall of Magdeburg. On the 30th
March 1631, Tilly returned, to push the siege with vigour.
The outworks were soon carried, and Falkenberg, after withdrawing the
garrisons from the points which he could no longer hold, destroyed the
bridge over the Elbe. As his troops were barely sufficient to defend
the extensive fortifications, the suburbs of Sudenburg and Neustadt were
abandoned to the enemy, who immediately laid them in ashes. Pappenheim,
now separated from Tilly, crossed the Elbe at Schonenbeck, and attacked
the town from the opposite side.
Their hopes of succour were apparently well founded. They knew that the
confederacy of Leipzig was arming; they were aware of the near approach
of Gustavus Adolphus. Both were alike interested in the preservation of
Magdeburg; and a few days might bring the King of Sweden before its
walls. All this was also known to Tilly, who, therefore, was anxious to
make himself speedily master of the place. With this view, he had
despatched a trumpeter with letters to the Administrator, the
commandant, and the magistrates, offering terms of capitulation; but he
received for answer, that they would rather die than surrender. A
spirited sally of the citizens, also convinced him that their courage
was as earnest as their words, while the king's arrival at Potsdam, with
the incursions of the Swedes as far as Zerbst, filled him with
uneasiness, but raised the hopes of the garrison. A second trumpeter
was now despatched; but the more moderate tone of his demands increased
the confidence of the besieged, and unfortunately their negligence also.
The besiegers had now pushed their approaches as far as the ditch, and
vigorously cannonaded the fortifications from the abandoned batteries.
One tower was entirely overthrown, but this did not facilitate an
assault, as it fell sidewise upon the wall, and not into the ditch.
Notwithstanding the continual bombardment, the walls had not suffered
much; and the fire balls, which were intended to set the town in flames,
were deprived of their effect by the excellent precautions adopted
against them. But the ammunition of the besieged was nearly expended,
and the cannon of the town gradually ceased to answer the fire of the
Imperialists. Before a new supply could be obtained, Magdeburg would be
either relieved, or taken. The hopes of the besieged were on the
stretch, and all eyes anxiously directed towards the quarter in which
the Swedish banners were expected to appear. Gustavus Adolphus was near
enough to reach Magdeburg within three days; security grew with hope,
which all things contributed to augment. On the 9th of May, the fire of
the Imperialists was suddenly stopped, and the cannon withdrawn from
several of the batteries. A deathlike stillness reigned in the Imperial
camp. The besieged were convinced that deliverance was at hand. Both
citizens and soldiers left their posts upon the ramparts early in the
morning, to indulge themselves, after their long toils, with the
refreshment of sleep, but it was indeed a dear sleep, and a frightful
awakening.
Tilly had abandoned the hope of taking the town, before the arrival of
the Swedes, by the means which he had hitherto adopted; he therefore
determined to raise the siege, but first to hazard a general assault.
This plan, however, was attended with great difficulties, as no breach
had been effected, and the works were scarcely injured. But the council
of war assembled on this occasion, declared for an assault, citing the
example of Maestricht, which had been taken early in the morning, while
the citizens and soldiers were reposing themselves. The attack was to
be made simultaneously on four points; the night betwixt the 9th and
10th of May, was employed in the necessary preparations. Every thing
was ready and awaiting the signal, which was to be given by cannon at
five o'clock in the morning. The signal, however, was not given for two
hours later, during which Tilly, who was still doubtful of success,
again consulted the council of war. Pappenheim was ordered to attack
the works of the new town, where the attempt was favoured by a sloping
rampart, and a dry ditch of moderate depth. The citizens and soldiers
had mostly left the walls, and the few who remained were overcome with
sleep. This general, therefore, found little difficulty in mounting the
wall at the head of his troops.
Two gates were now opened by the storming party for the main body, and
Tilly marched in with part of his infantry. Immediately occupying the
principal streets, he drove the citizens with pointed cannon into their
dwellings, there to await their destiny. They were not long held in
suspense; a word from Tilly decided the fate of Magdeburg.
Even a more humane general would in vain have recommended mercy to such
soldiers; but Tilly never made the attempt. Left by their general's
silence masters of the lives of all the citizens, the soldiery broke
into the houses to satiate their most brutal appetites. The prayers of
innocence excited some compassion in the hearts of the Germans, but none
in the rude breasts of Pappenheim's Walloons. Scarcely had the savage
cruelty commenced, when the other gates were thrown open, and the
cavalry, with the fearful hordes of the Croats, poured in upon the
devoted inhabitants.
Scarcely had the fury of the flames abated, when the Imperialists
returned to renew the pillage amid the ruins and ashes of the town.
Many were suffocated by the smoke; many found rich booty in the cellars,
where the citizens had concealed their more valuable effects. On the
13th of May, Tilly himself appeared in the town, after the streets had
been cleared of ashes and dead bodies. Horrible and revolting to
humanity was the scene that presented itself. The living crawling from
under the dead, children wandering about with heart-rending cries,
calling for their parents; and infants still sucking the breasts of
their lifeless mothers. More than 6,000 bodies were thrown into the
Elbe to clear the streets; a much greater number had been consumed by
the flames. The whole number of the slain was reckoned at not less than
30,000.
The entrance of the general, which took place on the 14th, put a stop to
the plunder, and saved the few who had hitherto contrived to escape.
About a thousand people were taken out of the cathedral, where they had
remained three days and two nights, without food, and in momentary fear
of death. Tilly promised them quarter, and commanded bread to be
distributed among them. The next day, a solemn mass was performed in
the cathedral, and 'Te Deum' sung amidst the discharge of artillery.
The imperial general rode through the streets, that he might be able, as
an eyewitness, to inform his master that no such conquest had been made
since the destruction of Troy and Jerusalem. Nor was this an
exaggeration, whether we consider the greatness, importance, and
prosperity of the city razed, or the fury of its ravagers.
He had attacked, and on the 16th April, carried Landsberg, when he was
apprised of the danger of Magdeburg. He resolved immediately to march
to the relief of that town; and he moved with all his cavalry, and ten
regiments of infantry towards the Spree. But the position which he held
in Germany, made it necessary that he should not move forward without
securing his rear. In traversing a country where he was surrounded by
suspicious friends and dangerous enemies, and where a single premature
movement might cut off his communication with his own kingdom, the
utmost vigilance and caution were necessary. The Elector of Brandenburg
had already opened the fortress of Custrin to the flying Imperialists,
and closed the gates against their pursuers. If now Gustavus should
fail in his attack upon Tilly, the Elector might again open his
fortresses to the Imperialists, and the king, with an enemy both in
front and rear, would be irrecoverably lost. In order to prevent this
contingency, he demanded that the Elector should allow him to hold the
fortresses of Custrin and Spandau, till the siege of Magdeburg should be
raised.
Nothing could be more reasonable than this demand. The services which
Gustavus had lately rendered the Elector, by expelling the Imperialists
from Brandenburg, claimed his gratitude, while the past conduct of the
Swedes in Germany entitled them to confidence. But by the surrender of
his fortresses, the Elector would in some measure make the King of
Sweden master of his country; besides that, by such a step, he must at
once break with the Emperor, and expose his States to his future
vengeance. The Elector's struggle with himself was long and violent,
but pusillanimity and self-interest for awhile prevailed. Unmoved by
the fate of Magdeburg, cold in the cause of religion and the liberties
of Germany, he saw nothing but his own danger; and this anxiety was
greatly stimulated by his minister Von Schwartzenburgh, who was secretly
in the pay of Austria. In the mean time, the Swedish troops approached
Berlin, and the king took up his residence with the Elector. When he
witnessed the timorous hesitation of that prince, he could not restrain
his indignation: "My road is to Magdeburg," said he; "not for my own
advantage, but for that of the Protestant religion. If no one will
stand by me, I shall immediately retreat, conclude a peace with the
Emperor, and return to Stockholm. I am convinced that Ferdinand will
readily grant me whatever conditions I may require. But if Magdeburg is
once lost, and the Emperor relieved from all fear of me, then it is for
you to look to yourselves and the consequences." This timely threat, and
perhaps, too, the aspect of the Swedish army, which was strong enough to
obtain by force what was refused to entreaty, brought at last the
Elector to his senses, and Spandau was delivered into the hands of the
Swedes.
The king had now two routes to Magdeburg; one westward led through an
exhausted country, and filled with the enemy's troops, who might dispute
with him the passage of the Elbe; the other more to the southward, by
Dessau and Wittenberg, where bridges were to be found for crossing the
Elbe, and where supplies could easily be drawn from Saxony. But he
could not avail himself of the latter without the consent of the
Elector, whom Gustavus had good reason to distrust. Before setting out
on his march, therefore, he demanded from that prince a free passage and
liberty for purchasing provisions for his troops. His application was
refused, and no remonstrances could prevail on the Elector to abandon
his system of neutrality. While the point was still in dispute, the
news of the dreadful fate of Magdeburg arrived.
Gustavus Adolphus had learned the fall of Magdeburg with deep regret;
and the demand now made by the Elector, George William, in terms of
their agreement, for the restoration of Spandau, greatly increased this
feeling. The loss of Magdeburg had rather augmented than lessened the
reasons which made the possession of this fortress so desirable; and the
nearer became the necessity of a decisive battle between himself and
Tilly, the more unwilling he felt to abandon the only place which, in
the event of a defeat, could ensure him a refuge. After a vain
endeavour, by entreaties and representations, to bring over the Elector
to his views, whose coldness and lukewarmness daily increased, he gave
orders to his general to evacuate Spandau, but at the same time declared
to the Elector that he would henceforth regard him as an enemy.
Tilly, from whom this bold step on the part of the Landgrave was not
long concealed, despatched Count Fugger with several regiments against
him; and at the same time endeavoured to excite his subjects to
rebellion by inflammatory letters. But these made as little impression
as his troops, which subsequently failed him so decidedly at the battle
of Breitenfield. The Estates of Hesse could not for a moment hesitate
between their oppressor and their protector.
But the imperial general was far more disturbed by the equivocal conduct
of the Elector of Saxony, who, in defiance of the imperial prohibition,
continued his preparations, and adhered to the confederation of Leipzig.
At this conjuncture, when the proximity of the King of Sweden made a
decisive battle ere long inevitable, it appeared extremely dangerous to
leave Saxony in arms, and ready in a moment to declare for the enemy.
Tilly had just received a reinforcement of 25,000 veteran troops under
Furstenberg, and, confident in his strength, he hoped either to disarm
the Elector by the mere terror of his arrival, or at least to conquer
him with little difficulty. Before quitting his camp at Wolmerstadt, he
commanded the Elector, by a special messenger, to open his territories
to the imperial troops; either to disband his own, or to join them to
the imperial army; and to assist, in conjunction with himself, in
driving the King of Sweden out of Germany. While he reminded him that,
of all the German states, Saxony had hitherto been most respected, he
threatened it, in case of refusal, with the most destructive ravages.
Tilly instantly broke up his camp, and, with the most frightful
devastation, advanced upon Halle; from this place he renewed his demands
on the Elector, in a tone still more urgent and threatening. The
previous policy of this prince, both from his own inclination, and the
persuasions of his corrupt ministers had been to promote the interests
of the Emperor, even at the expense of his own sacred obligations, and
but very little tact had hitherto kept him inactive. All this but
renders more astonishing the infatuation of the Emperor or his ministers
in abandoning, at so critical a moment, the policy they had hitherto
adopted, and by extreme measures, incensing a prince so easily led. Was
this the very object which Tilly had in view? Was it his purpose to
convert an equivocal friend into an open enemy, and thus to relieve
himself from the necessity of that indulgence in the treatment of this
prince, which the secret instructions of the Emperor had hitherto
imposed upon him? Or was it the Emperor's wish, by driving the Elector
to open hostilities, to get quit of his obligations to him, and so
cleverly to break off at once the difficulty of a reckoning? In either
case, we must be equally surprised at the daring presumption of Tilly,
who hesitated not, in presence of one formidable enemy, to provoke
another; and at his negligence in permitting, without opposition, the
union of the two.
The Saxon Elector, rendered desperate by the entrance of Tilly into his
territories, threw himself, though not without a violent struggle, under
the protection of Sweden.
The Saxon minister could make no other reply to these reproaches, than
that it was best to bury the past in oblivion.
"Not Wittenberg alone," said the Elector, when he received this answer,
and hurried back his minister to the Swedish camp, "not Wittenberg
alone, but Torgau, and all Saxony, shall be open to him; my whole family
shall be his hostages, and if that is insufficient, I will place myself
in his hands. Return and inform him I am ready to deliver to him any
traitors he shall name, to furnish his army with the money he requires,
and to venture my life and fortune in the good cause."
The king had only desired to test the sincerity of the Elector's new
sentiments. Convinced of it, he now retracted these harsh demands.
"The distrust," said he, "which was shown to myself when advancing to
the relief of Magdeburg, had naturally excited mine; the Elector's
present confidence demands a return. I am satisfied, provided he grants
my army one month's pay, and even for this advance I hope to indemnify
him."
Immediately upon the conclusion of the treaty, the king crossed the
Elbe, and next day joined the Saxons. Instead of preventing this
junction, Tilly had advanced against Leipzig, which he summoned to
receive an imperial garrison. In hopes of speedy relief, Hans Von der
Pforta, the commandant, made preparations for his defence, and laid the
suburb towards Halle in ashes. But the ill condition of the
fortifications made resistance vain, and on the second day the gates
were opened. Tilly had fixed his head quarters in the house of a
grave-digger, the only one still standing in the suburb of Halle: here
he signed the capitulation, and here, too, he arranged his attack on the
King of Sweden. Tilly grew pale at the representation of the death's
head and cross bones, with which the proprietor had decorated his house;
and, contrary to all expectation, Leipzig experienced moderate
treatment.
Early on the morning of the 7th September, 1631, the hostile armies came
in sight of each other. Tilly, who, since he had neglected the
opportunity of overpowering the Saxons before their union with the
Swedes, was disposed to await the arrival of the reinforcements, had
taken up a strong and advantageous position not far from Leipzig, where
he expected he should be able to avoid the battle. But the impetuosity
of Pappenheim obliged him, as soon as the enemy were in motion, to alter
his plans, and to move to the left, in the direction of the hills which
run from the village of Wahren towards Lindenthal. At the foot of these
heights, his army was drawn up in a single line, and his artillery
placed upon the heights behind, from which it could sweep the whole
extensive plain of Breitenfeld. The Swedish and Saxon army advanced in
two columns, having to pass the Lober near Podelwitz, in Tilly's front.
On the right, the Swedes drew up in a double line, the infantry in the
centre, divided into such small battalions as could be easily and
rapidly manoeuvred without breaking their order; the cavalry upon their
wings, divided in the same manner into small squadrons, interspersed
with bodies of musqueteers, so as both to give an appearance of greater
numerical force, and to annoy the enemy's horse. Colonel Teufel
commanded the centre, Gustavus Horn the left, while the right was led by
the king in person, opposed to Count Pappenheim.
The enemy was drawn up under the heights towards the west, in one
immense line, long enough to outflank the Swedish army,--the infantry
being divided in large battalions, the cavalry in equally unwieldy
squadrons. The artillery being on the heights behind, the range of its
fire was over the heads of his men. From this position of his
artillery, it was evident that Tilly's purpose was to await rather than
to attack the enemy; since this arrangement rendered it impossible for
him to do so without exposing his men to the fire of his own cannons.
Tilly himself commanded the centre, Count Furstenberg the right wing,
and Pappenheim the left. The united troops of the Emperor and the
League on this day did not amount to 34,000 or 35,000 men; the Swedes
and Saxons were about the same number. But had a million been
confronted with a million it could only have rendered the action more
bloody, certainly not more important and decisive. For this day
Gustavus had crossed the Baltic, to court danger in a distant country,
and expose his crown and life to the caprice of fortune. The two
greatest generals of the time, both hitherto invincible, were now to be
matched against each other in a contest which both had long avoided; and
on this field of battle the hitherto untarnished laurels of one leader
must droop for ever. The two parties in Germany had beheld the approach
of this day with fear and trembling; and the whole age awaited with deep
anxiety its issue, and posterity was either to bless or deplore it for
ever.
A cannonade of two hours commenced the battle; the wind, which was from
the west, blew thick clouds of smoke and dust from the newly-ploughed
and parched fields into the faces of the Swedes. This compelled the
king insensibly to wheel northwards, and the rapidity with which this
movement was executed left no time to the enemy to prevent it.
Tilly at last left his heights, and began the first attack upon the
Swedes; but to avoid their hot fire, he filed off towards the right, and
fell upon the Saxons with such impetuosity that their line was broken,
and the whole army thrown into confusion. The Elector himself retired
to Eilenburg, though a few regiments still maintained their ground upon
the field, and by a bold stand saved the honour of Saxony. Scarcely had
the confusion began ere the Croats commenced plundering, and messengers
were despatched to Munich and Vienna with the news of the victory.
Pappenheim had thrown himself with the whole force of his cavalry upon
the right wing of the Swedes, but without being able to make it waver.
The king commanded here in person, and under him General Banner. Seven
times did Pappenheim renew the attack, and seven times was he repulsed.
He fled at last with great loss, and abandoned the field to his
conqueror.
In the mean time, Tilly, having routed the remainder of the Saxons,
attacked with his victorious troops the left wing of the Swedes. To
this wing the king, as soon as he perceived that the Saxons were thrown
into disorder, had, with a ready foresight, detached a reinforcement of
three regiments to cover its flank, which the flight of the Saxons had
left exposed. Gustavus Horn, who commanded here, showed the enemy's
cuirassiers a spirited resistance, which the infantry, interspersed
among the squadrons of horse, materially assisted. The enemy were
already beginning to relax the vigour of their attack, when Gustavus
Adolphus appeared to terminate the contest. The left wing of the
Imperialists had been routed; and the king's division, having no longer
any enemy to oppose, could now turn their arms wherever it would be to
the most advantage. Wheeling, therefore, with his right wing and main
body to the left, he attacked the heights on which the enemy's artillery
was planted. Gaining possession of them in a short time, he turned upon
the enemy the full fire of their own cannon.
The play of artillery upon their flank, and the terrible onslaught of
the Swedes in front, threw this hitherto invincible army into confusion.
A sudden retreat was the only course left to Tilly, but even this was to
be made through the midst of the enemy. The whole army was in disorder,
with the exception of four regiments of veteran soldiers, who never as
yet had fled from the field, and were resolved not to do so now.
Closing their ranks, they broke through the thickest of the victorious
army, and gained a small thicket, where they opposed a new front to the
Swedes, and maintained their resistance till night, when their number
was reduced to six hundred men. With them fled the wreck of Tilly's
army, and the battle was decided.
Amid the dead and the wounded, Gustavus Adolphus threw himself on his
knees; and the first joy of his victory gushed forth in fervent prayer.
He ordered his cavalry to pursue the enemy as long as the darkness of
the night would permit. The pealing of the alarm-bells set the
inhabitants of all the neighbouring villages in motion, and utterly lost
was the unhappy fugitive who fell into their hands. The king encamped
with the rest of his army between the field of battle and Leipzig, as it
was impossible to attack the town the same night. Seven thousand of the
enemy were killed in the field, and more than 5,000 either wounded or
taken prisoners. Their whole artillery and camp fell into the hands of
the Swedes, and more than a hundred standards and colours were taken.
Of the Saxons about 2,000 had fallen, while the loss of the Swedes did
not exceed 700. The rout of the Imperialists was so complete, that
Tilly, on his retreat to Halle and Halberstadt, could not rally above
600 men, or Pappenheim more than 1,400--so rapidly was this formidable
army dispersed, which so lately was the terror of Italy and Germany.
Tilly fled from Halle to Halberstadt, where he scarcely allowed time for
the cure of his wounds, before he hurried towards the Weser to recruit
his force by the imperial garrisons in Lower Saxony.
The Elector of Saxony had not failed, after the danger was over, to
appear in Gustavus's camp. The king thanked him for having advised a
battle; and the Elector, charmed at his friendly reception, promised
him, in the first transports of joy, the Roman crown. Gustavus set out
next day for Merseburg, leaving the Elector to recover Leipzig. Five
thousand Imperialists, who had collected together after the defeat, and
whom he met on his march, were either cut in pieces or taken prisoners,
of whom again the greater part entered into his service. Merseburg
quickly surrendered; Halle was soon after taken, whither the Elector of
Saxony, after making himself master of Leipzig, repaired to meet the
king, and to concert their future plan of operations.
The victory was gained, but only a prudent use of it could render it
decisive. The imperial armies were totally routed, Saxony free from the
enemy, and Tilly had retired into Brunswick. To have followed him
thither would have been to renew the war in Lower Saxony, which had
scarcely recovered from the ravages of the last. It was therefore
determined to carry the war into the enemy's country, which, open and
defenceless as far as Vienna, invited attack. On their right, they
might fall upon the territories of the Roman Catholic princes, or
penetrate, on the left, into the hereditary dominions of Austria, and
make the Emperor tremble in his palace. Both plans were resolved on;
and the question that now remained was to assign its respective parts.
Gustavus Adolphus, at the head of a victorious army, had little
resistance to apprehend in his progress from Leipzig to Prague, Vienna,
and Presburg. As to Bohemia, Moravia, Austria, and Hungary, they had
been stripped of their defenders, while the oppressed Protestants in
these countries were ripe for a revolt. Ferdinand was no longer secure
in his capital: Vienna, on the first terror of surprise, would at once
open its gates. The loss of his territories would deprive the enemy of
the resources by which alone the war could be maintained; and Ferdinand
would, in all probability, gladly accede, on the hardest conditions, to
a peace which would remove a formidable enemy from the heart of his
dominions. This bold plan of operations was flattering to a conqueror,
and success perhaps might have justified it. But Gustavus Adolphus, as
prudent as he was brave, and more a statesman than a conqueror, rejected
it, because he had a higher end in view, and would not trust the issue
either to bravery or good fortune alone.
By marching towards Bohemia, Franconia and the Upper Rhine would be left
to the Elector of Saxony. But Tilly had already begun to recruit his
shattered army from the garrisons in Lower Saxony, and was likely to be
at the head of a formidable force upon the Weser, and to lose no time in
marching against the enemy. To so experienced a general, it would not
do to oppose an Arnheim, of whose military skill the battle of Leipzig
had afforded but equivocal proof; and of what avail would be the rapid
and brilliant career of the king in Bohemia and Austria, if Tilly should
recover his superiority in the Empire, animating the courage of the
Roman Catholics, and disarming, by a new series of victories, the allies
and confederates of the king? What would he gain by expelling the
Emperor from his hereditary dominions, if Tilly succeeded in conquering
for that Emperor the rest of Germany? Could he hope to reduce the
Emperor more than had been done, twelve years before, by the
insurrection of Bohemia, which had failed to shake the firmness or
exhaust the resources of that prince, and from which he had risen more
formidable than ever?
Less brilliant, but more solid, were the advantages which he had to
expect from an incursion into the territories of the League. In this
quarter, his appearance in arms would be decisive. At this very
conjuncture, the princes were assembled in a Diet at Frankfort, to
deliberate upon the Edict of Restitution, where Ferdinand employed all
his artful policy to persuade the intimidated Protestants to accede to a
speedy and disadvantageous arrangement. The advance of their protector
could alone encourage them to a bold resistance, and disappoint the
Emperor's designs. Gustavus Adolphus hoped, by his presence, to unite
the discontented princes, or by the terror of his arms to detach them
from the Emperor's party. Here, in the centre of Germany, he could
paralyse the nerves of the imperial power, which, without the aid of the
League, must soon fall--here, in the neighbourhood of France, he could
watch the movements of a suspicious ally; and however important to his
secret views it was to cultivate the friendship of the Roman Catholic
electors, he saw the necessity of making himself first of all master of
their fate, in order to establish, by his magnanimous forbearance, a
claim to their gratitude.
He accordingly chose the route to Franconia and the Rhine; and left the
conquest of Bohemia to the Elector of Saxony.
Book III.
If Gustavus Adolphus owed his success chiefly to his own genius, at the
same time, it must be owned, he was greatly favoured by fortune and by
circumstances. Two great advantages gave him a decided superiority over
the enemy. While he removed the scene of war into the lands of the
League, drew their youth as recruits, enriched himself with booty, and
used the revenues of their fugitive princes as his own, he at once took
from the enemy the means of effectual resistance, and maintained an
expensive war with little cost to himself. And, moreover, while his
opponents, the princes of the League, divided among themselves, and
governed by different and often conflicting interests, acted without
unanimity, and therefore without energy; while their generals were
deficient in authority, their troops in obedience, the operations of
their scattered armies without concert; while the general was separated
from the lawgiver and the statesman; these several functions were united
in Gustavus Adolphus, the only source from which authority flowed, the
sole object to which the eye of the warrior turned; the soul of his
party, the inventor as well as the executor of his plans. In him,
therefore, the Protestants had a centre of unity and harmony, which was
altogether wanting to their opponents. No wonder, then, if favoured by
such advantages, at the head of such an army, with such a genius to
direct it, and guided by such political prudence, Gustavus Adolphus was
irresistible.
With the sword in one hand, and mercy in the other, he traversed Germany
as a conqueror, a lawgiver, and a judge, in as short a time almost as
the tourist of pleasure. The keys of towns and fortresses were
delivered to him, as if to the native sovereign. No fortress was
inaccessible; no river checked his victorious career. He conquered by
the very terror of his name. The Swedish standards were planted along
the whole stream of the Maine: the Lower Palatinate was free, the
troops of Spain and Lorraine had fled across the Rhine and the Moselle.
The Swedes and Hessians poured like a torrent into the territories of
Mentz, of Wurtzburg, and Bamberg, and three fugitive bishops, at a
distance from their sees, suffered dearly for their unfortunate
attachment to the Emperor. It was now the turn for Maximilian, the
leader of the League, to feel in his own dominions the miseries he had
inflicted upon others. Neither the terrible fate of his allies, nor the
peaceful overtures of Gustavus, who, in the midst of conquest, ever held
out the hand of friendship, could conquer the obstinacy of this prince.
The torrent of war now poured into Bavaria. Like the banks of the
Rhine, those of the Lecke and the Donau were crowded with Swedish
troops. Creeping into his fortresses, the defeated Elector abandoned to
the ravages of the foe his dominions, hitherto unscathed by war, and on
which the bigoted violence of the Bavarians seemed to invite
retaliation. Munich itself opened its gates to the invincible monarch,
and the fugitive Palatine, Frederick V., in the forsaken residence of
his rival, consoled himself for a time for the loss of his dominions.
While Gustavus Adolphus was extending his conquests in the south, his
generals and allies were gaining similar triumphs in the other
provinces. Lower Saxony shook off the yoke of Austria, the enemy
abandoned Mecklenburg, and the imperial garrisons retired from the banks
of the Weser and the Elbe. In Westphalia and the Upper Rhine, William,
Landgrave of Hesse, rendered himself formidable; the Duke of Weimar in
Thuringia, and the French in the Electorate of Treves; while to the
eastward the whole kingdom of Bohemia was conquered by the Saxons. The
Turks were preparing to attack Hungary, and in the heart of Austria a
dangerous insurrection was threatened. In vain did the Emperor look
around to the courts of Europe for support; in vain did he summon the
Spaniards to his assistance, for the bravery of the Flemings afforded
them ample employment beyond the Rhine; in vain did he call upon the
Roman court and the whole church to come to his rescue. The offended
Pope sported, in pompous processions and idle anathemas, with the
embarrassments of Ferdinand, and instead of the desired subsidy he was
shown the devastation of Mantua.
The most urgent want was that of a general; and the only one from whom
he could hope for the revival of his former splendour, had been removed
from his command by an envious cabal. So low had the Emperor now
fallen, that he was forced to make the most humiliating proposals to his
injured subject and servant, and meanly to press upon the imperious Duke
of Friedland the acceptance of the powers which no less meanly had been
taken from him. A new spirit began from this moment to animate the
expiring body of Austria; and a sudden change in the aspect of affairs
bespoke the firm hand which guided them. To the absolute King of
Sweden, a general equally absolute was now opposed; and one victorious
hero was confronted with another. Both armies were again to engage in
the doubtful struggle; and the prize of victory, already almost secured
in the hands of Gustavus Adolphus, was to be the object of another and a
severer trial. The storm of war gathered around Nuremberg; before its
walls the hostile armies encamped; gazing on each other with dread and
respect, longing for, and yet shrinking from, the moment that was to
close them together in the shock of battle. The eyes of Europe turned
to the scene in curiosity and alarm, while Nuremberg, in dismay,
expected soon to lend its name to a more decisive battle than that of
Leipzig. Suddenly the clouds broke, and the storm rolled away from
Franconia, to burst upon the plains of Saxony. Near Lutzen fell the
thunder that had menaced Nuremberg; the victory, half lost, was
purchased by the death of the king. Fortune, which had never forsaken
him in his lifetime, favoured the King of Sweden even in his death, with
the rare privilege of falling in the fulness of his glory and an
untarnished fame. By a timely death, his protecting genius rescued him
from the inevitable fate of man--that of forgetting moderation in the
intoxication of success, and justice in the plenitude of power. It may
be doubted whether, had he lived longer, he would still have deserved
the tears which Germany shed over his grave, or maintained his title to
the admiration with which posterity regards him, as the first and only
JUST conqueror that the world has produced. The untimely fall of their
great leader seemed to threaten the ruin of his party; but to the Power
which rules the world, no loss of a single man is irreparable. As the
helm of war dropped from the hand of the falling hero, it was seized by
two great statesmen, Oxenstiern and Richelieu. Destiny still pursued
its relentless course, and for full sixteen years longer the flames of
war blazed over the ashes of the long-forgotten king and soldier.
Tilly, however, was not the sole enemy whom Gustavus Adolphus met in
Franconia, and drove before him. Charles, Duke of Lorraine, celebrated
in the annals of the time for his unsteadiness of character, his vain
projects, and his misfortunes, ventured to raise a weak arm against the
Swedish hero, in the hope of obtaining from the Emperor the electoral
dignity. Deaf to the suggestions of a rational policy, he listened only
to the dictates of heated ambition; by supporting the Emperor, he
exasperated France, his formidable neighbour; and in the pursuit of a
visionary phantom in another country, left undefended his own dominions,
which were instantly overrun by a French army. Austria willingly
conceded to him, as well as to the other princes of the League, the
honour of being ruined in her cause. Intoxicated with vain hopes, this
prince collected a force of 17,000 men, which he proposed to lead in
person against the Swedes. If these troops were deficient in discipline
and courage, they were at least attractive by the splendour of their
accoutrements; and however sparing they were of their prowess against
the foe, they were liberal enough with it against the defenceless
citizens and peasantry, whom they were summoned to defend. Against the
bravery, and the formidable discipline of the Swedes this splendidly
attired army, however, made no long stand. On the first advance of the
Swedish cavalry a panic seized them, and they were driven without
difficulty from their cantonments in Wurtzburg; the defeat of a few
regiments occasioned a general rout, and the scattered remnant sought a
covert from the Swedish valour in the towns beyond the Rhine. Loaded
with shame and ridicule, the duke hurried home by Strasburg, too
fortunate in escaping, by a submissive written apology, the indignation
of his conqueror, who had first beaten him out of the field, and then
called upon him to account for his hostilities. It is related upon this
occasion that, in a village on the Rhine a peasant struck the horse of
the duke as he rode past, exclaiming, "Haste, Sir, you must go quicker
to escape the great King of Sweden!"
The king had scarcely spent more time in conquering Franconia, than he
would have required to cross it. He now left behind him Gustavus Horn,
one of his best generals, with a force of 8,000 men, to complete and
retain his conquest. He himself with his main army, reinforced by the
late recruits, hastened towards the Rhine in order to secure this
frontier of the empire from the Spaniards; to disarm the ecclesiastical
electors, and to obtain from their fertile territories new resources for
the prosecution of the war. Following the course of the Maine, he
subjected, in the course of his march, Seligenstadt, Aschaffenburg,
Steinheim, the whole territory on both sides of the river. The imperial
garrisons seldom awaited his approach, and never attempted resistance.
In the meanwhile one of his colonels had been fortunate enough to take
by surprise the town and citadel of Hanau, for whose preservation Tilly
had shown such anxiety. Eager to be free of the oppressive burden of
the Imperialists, the Count of Hanau gladly placed himself under the
milder yoke of the King of Sweden.
While Gustavus was thus extending his conquests along the Maine, fortune
crowned also the efforts of his generals and allies in the north of
Germany. Rostock, Wismar, and Doemitz, the only strong places in the
Duchy of Mecklenburg which still sighed under the yoke of the
Imperialists, were recovered by their legitimate sovereign, the Duke
John Albert, under the Swedish general, Achatius Tott. In vain did the
imperial general, Wolf Count von Mansfeld, endeavour to recover from the
Swedes the territories of Halberstadt, of which they had taken
possession immediately upon the victory of Leipzig; he was even
compelled to leave Magdeburg itself in their hands. The Swedish
general, Banner, who with 8,000 men remained upon the Elbe, closely
blockaded that city, and had defeated several imperial regiments which
had been sent to its relief. Count Mansfeld defended it in person with
great resolution; but his garrison being too weak to oppose for any
length of time the numerous force of the besiegers, he was already about
to surrender on conditions, when Pappenheim advanced to his assistance,
and gave employment elsewhere to the Swedish arms. Magdeburg, however,
or rather the wretched huts that peeped out miserably from among the
ruins of that once great town, was afterwards voluntarily abandoned by
the Imperialists, and immediately taken possession of by the Swedes.
Even Lower Saxony, encouraged by the progress of the king, ventured to
raise its head from the disasters of the unfortunate Danish war. They
held a congress at Hamburg, and resolved upon raising three regiments,
which they hoped would be sufficient to free them from the oppressive
garrisons of the Imperialists. The Bishop of Bremen, a relation of
Gustavus Adolphus, was not content even with this; but assembled troops
of his own, and terrified the unfortunate monks and priests of the
neighbourhood, but was quickly compelled by the imperial general, Count
Gronsfeld, to lay down his arms. Even George, Duke of Lunenburg,
formerly a colonel in the Emperor's service, embraced the party of
Gustavus, for whom he raised several regiments, and by occupying the
attention of the Imperialists in Lower Saxony, materially assisted him.
But more important service was rendered to the king by the Landgrave
William of Hesse Cassel, whose victorious arms struck with terror the
greater part of Westphalia and Lower Saxony, the bishopric of Fulda, and
even the Electorate of Cologne. It has been already stated that
immediately after the conclusion of the alliance between the Landgrave
and Gustavus Adolphus at Werben, two imperial generals, Fugger and
Altringer, were ordered by Tilly to march into Hesse, to punish the
Landgrave for his revolt from the Emperor. But this prince had as
firmly withstood the arms of his enemies, as his subjects had the
proclamations of Tilly inciting them to rebellion, and the battle of
Leipzig presently relieved him of their presence. He availed himself of
their absence with courage and resolution; in a short time, Vach,
Muenden and Hoexter surrendered to him, while his rapid advance alarmed
the bishoprics of Fulda, Paderborn, and the ecclesiastical territories
which bordered on Hesse. The terrified states hastened by a speedy
submission to set limits to his progress, and by considerable
contributions to purchase exemption from plunder. After these
successful enterprises, the Landgrave united his victorious army with
that of Gustavus Adolphus, and concerted with him at Frankfort their
future plan of operations.
The terrors of the king's irresistible strength, and the near prospect
of his vengeance, had also compelled George, Landgrave of Hesse
Darmstadt, to a timely submission. His connection with the Emperor, and
his indifference to the Protestant cause, were no secret to the king,
but he was satisfied with laughing at so impotent an enemy. As the
Landgrave knew his own strength and the political situation of Germany
so little, as to offer himself as mediator between the contending
parties, Gustavus used jestingly to call him the peacemaker. He was
frequently heard to say, when at play he was winning from the Landgrave,
"that the money afforded double satisfaction, as it was Imperial coin."
To his affinity with the Elector of Saxony, whom Gustavus had cause to
treat with forbearance, the Landgrave was indebted for the favourable
terms he obtained from the king, who contented himself with the
surrender of his fortress of Russelheim, and his promise of observing a
strict neutrality during the war. The Counts of Westerwald and Wetteran
also visited the King in Frankfort, to offer him their assistance
against the Spaniards, and to conclude an alliance, which was afterwards
of great service to him. The town of Frankfort itself had reason to
rejoice at the presence of this monarch, who took their commerce under
his protection, and by the most effectual measures restored the fairs,
which had been greatly interrupted by the war.
The Swedish army was now reinforced by ten thousand Hessians, which the
Landgrave of Casse commanded. Gustavus Adolphus had already invested
Koenigstein; Kostheim and Floersheim surrendered after a short siege; he
was in command of the Maine; and transports were preparing with all
speed at Hoechst to carry his troops across the Rhine. These
preparations filled the Elector of Mentz, Anselm Casimir, with
consternation; and he no longer doubted but that the storm of war would
next fall upon him. As a partisan of the Emperor, and one of the most
active members of the League, he could expect no better treatment than
his confederates, the Bishops of Wurtzburg and Bamberg, had already
experienced. The situation of his territories upon the Rhine made it
necessary for the enemy to secure them, while the fertility afforded an
irresistible temptation to a necessitous army. Miscalculating his own
strength and that of his adversaries, the Elector flattered himself that
he was able to repel force by force, and weary out the valour of the
Swedes by the strength of his fortresses. He ordered the fortifications
of his capital to be repaired with all diligence, provided it with every
necessary for sustaining a long siege, and received into the town a
garrison of 2,000 Spaniards, under Don Philip de Sylva. To prevent the
approach of the Swedish transports, he endeavoured to close the mouth of
the Maine by driving piles, and sinking large heaps of stones and
vessels. He himself, however, accompanied by the Bishop of Worms, and
carrying with him his most precious effects, took refuge in Cologne, and
abandoned his capital and territories to the rapacity of a tyrannical
garrison. But these preparations, which bespoke less of true courage
than of weak and overweening confidence, did not prevent the Swedes from
marching against Mentz, and making serious preparations for an attack
upon the city. While one body of their troops poured into the Rheingau,
routed the Spaniards who remained there, and levied contributions on the
inhabitants, another laid the Roman Catholic towns in Westerwald and
Wetterau under similar contributions. The main army had encamped at
Cassel, opposite Mentz; and Bernhard, Duke of Weimar, made himself
master of the Maeusethurm and the Castle of Ehrenfels, on the other side
of the Rhine. Gustavus was now actively preparing to cross the river,
and to blockade the town on the land side, when the movements of Tilly
in Franconia suddenly called him from the siege, and obtained for the
Elector a short repose.
Gustavus Adolphus now conveyed his artillery and the greater part of his
troops over the river, and laid siege to Oppenheim, which, after a brave
resistance, was, on the 8th December, 1631, carried by storm. Five
hundred Spaniards, who had so courageously defended the place, fell
indiscriminately a sacrifice to the fury of the Swedes. The crossing of
the Rhine by Gustavus struck terror into the Spaniards and Lorrainers,
who had thought themselves protected by the river from the vengeance of
the Swedes. Rapid flight was now their only security; every place
incapable of an effectual defence was immediately abandoned. After a
long train of outrages on the defenceless citizens, the troops of
Lorraine evacuated Worms, which, before their departure, they treated
with wanton cruelty. The Spaniards hastened to shut themselves up in
Frankenthal, where they hoped to defy the victorious arms of Gustavus
Adolphus.
The king lost no time in prosecuting his designs against Mentz, into
which the flower of the Spanish troops had thrown themselves. While he
advanced on the left bank of the Rhine, the Landgrave of Hesse Cassel
moved forward on the other, reducing several strong places on his march.
The besieged Spaniards, though hemmed in on both sides, displayed at
first a bold determination, and threw, for several days, a shower of
bombs into the Swedish camp, which cost the king many of his bravest
soldiers. But notwithstanding, the Swedes continually gained ground,
and had at last advanced so close to the ditch that they prepared
seriously for storming the place. The courage of the besieged now began
to droop. They trembled before the furious impetuosity of the Swedish
soldiers, of which Marienberg, in Wurtzburg, had afforded so fearful an
example. The same dreadful fate awaited Mentz, if taken by storm; and
the enemy might even be easily tempted to revenge the carnage of
Magdeburg on this rich and magnificent residence of a Roman Catholic
prince. To save the town, rather than their own lives, the Spanish
garrison capitulated on the fourth day, and obtained from the
magnanimity of Gustavus a safe conduct to Luxembourg; the greater part
of them, however, following the example of many others, enlisted in the
service of Sweden.
On the 13th December, 1631, the king made his entry into the conquered
town, and fixed his quarters in the palace of the Elector. Eighty
pieces of cannon fell into his hands, and the citizens were obliged to
redeem their property from pillage, by a payment of 80,000 florins. The
benefits of this redemption did not extend to the Jews and the clergy,
who were obliged to make large and separate contributions for
themselves. The library of the Elector was seized by the king as his
share, and presented by him to his chancellor, Oxenstiern, who intended
it for the Academy of Westerrah, but the vessel in which it was shipped
to Sweden foundered at sea.
After the loss of Mentz, misfortune still pursued the Spaniards on the
Rhine. Shortly before the capture of that city, the Landgrave of Hesse
Cassel had taken Falkenstein and Reifenberg, and the fortress of
Koningstein surrendered to the Hessians. The Rhinegrave, Otto Louis,
one of the king's generals, defeated nine Spanish squadrons who were on
their march for Frankenthal, and made himself master of the most
important towns upon the Rhine, from Boppart to Bacharach. After the
capture of the fortress of Braunfels, which was effected by the Count of
Wetterau, with the co-operation of the Swedes, the Spaniards quickly
lost every place in Wetterau, while in the Palatinate they retained few
places besides Frankenthal. Landau and Kronweisenberg openly declared
for the Swedes; Spires offered troops for the king's service; Manheim
was gained through the prudence of the Duke Bernard of Weimar, and the
negligence of its governor, who, for this misconduct, was tried before
the council of war, at Heidelberg, and beheaded.
The king had protracted the campaign into the depth of winter, and the
severity of the season was perhaps one cause of the advantage his
soldiers gained over those of the enemy. But the exhausted troops now
stood in need of the repose of winter quarters, which, after the
surrender of Mentz, Gustavus assigned to them, in its neighbourhood. He
himself employed the interval of inactivity in the field, which the
season of the year enjoined, in arranging, with his chancellor, the
affairs of his cabinet, in treating for a neutrality with some of his
enemies, and adjusting some political disputes which had sprung up with
a neighbouring ally. He chose the city of Mentz for his winter
quarters, and the settlement of these state affairs, and showed a
greater partiality for this town, than seemed consistent with the
interests of the German princes, or the shortness of his visit to the
Empire. Not content with strongly fortifying it, he erected at the
opposite angle which the Maine forms with the Rhine, a new citadel,
which was named Gustavusburg from its founder, but which is better known
under the title of Pfaffenraub or Pfaffenzwang.--[Priests' plunder;
alluding to the means by which the expense of its erection had been
defrayed.]
While Gustavus Adolphus made himself master of the Rhine, and threatened
the three neighbouring electorates with his victorious arms, his
vigilant enemies in Paris and St. Germain's made use of every artifice
to deprive him of the support of France, and, if possible, to involve
him in a war with that power. By his sudden and equivocal march to the
Rhine, he had surprised his friends, and furnished his enemies with the
means of exciting a distrust of his intentions. After the conquest of
Wurtzburg, and of the greater part of Franconia, the road into Bavaria
and Austria lay open to him through Bamberg and the Upper Palatinate;
and the expectation was as general, as it was natural, that he would not
delay to attack the Emperor and the Duke of Bavaria in the very centre
of their power, and, by the reduction of his two principal enemies,
bring the war immediately to an end. But to the surprise of both
parties, Gustavus left the path which general expectation had thus
marked out for him; and instead of advancing to the right, turned to the
left, to make the less important and more innocent princes of the Rhine
feel his power, while he gave time to his more formidable opponents to
recruit their strength. Nothing but the paramount design of reinstating
the unfortunate Palatine, Frederick V., in the possession of his
territories, by the expulsion of the Spaniards, could seem to account
for this strange step; and the belief that Gustavus was about to effect
that restoration, silenced for a while the suspicions of his friends and
the calumnies of his enemies. But the Lower Palatinate was now almost
entirely cleared of the enemy; and yet Gustavus continued to form new
schemes of conquest on the Rhine, and to withhold the reconquered
country from the Palatine, its rightful owner. In vain did the English
ambassador remind him of what justice demanded, and what his own solemn
engagement made a duty of honour; Gustavus replied to these demands with
bitter complaints of the inactivity of the English court, and prepared
to carry his victorious standard into Alsace, and even into Lorraine.
A distrust of the Swedish monarch was now loud and open, while the
malice of his enemies busily circulated the most injurious reports as to
his intentions. Richelieu, the minister of Louis XIII., had long
witnessed with anxiety the king's progress towards the French frontier,
and the suspicious temper of Louis rendered him but too accessible to
the evil surmises which the occasion gave rise to. France was at this
time involved in a civil war with her Protestant subjects, and the fear
was not altogether groundless, that the approach of a victorious monarch
of their party might revive their drooping spirit, and encourage them to
a more desperate resistance. This might be the case, even if Gustavus
Adolphus was far from showing a disposition to encourage them, or to act
unfaithfully towards his ally, the King of France. But the vindictive
Bishop of Wurtzburg, who was anxious to avenge the loss of his
dominions, the envenomed rhetoric of the Jesuits and the active zeal of
the Bavarian minister, represented this dreaded alliance between the
Huguenots and the Swedes as an undoubted fact, and filled the timid mind
of Louis with the most alarming fears. Not merely chimerical
politicians, but many of the best informed Roman Catholics, fully
believed that the king was on the point of breaking into the heart of
France, to make common cause with the Huguenots, and to overturn the
Catholic religion within the kingdom. Fanatical zealots already saw
him, with his army, crossing the Alps, and dethroning the Viceregent of
Christ in Italy. Such reports no doubt soon refute themselves; yet it
cannot be denied that Gustavus, by his manoeuvres on the Rhine, gave a
dangerous handle to the malice of his enemies, and in some measure
justified the suspicion that he directed his arms, not so much against
the Emperor and the Duke of Bavaria, as against the Roman Catholic
religion itself.
The general clamour of discontent which the Jesuits raised in all the
Catholic courts, against the alliance between France and the enemy of
the church, at last compelled Cardinal Richelieu to take a decisive step
for the security of his religion, and at once to convince the Roman
Catholic world of the zeal of France, and of the selfish policy of the
ecclesiastical states of Germany. Convinced that the views of the King
of Sweden, like his own, aimed solely at the humiliation of the power of
Austria, he hesitated not to promise to the princes of the League, on
the part of Sweden, a complete neutrality, immediately they abandoned
their alliance with the Emperor and withdrew their troops. Whatever the
resolution these princes should adopt, Richelieu would equally attain
his object. By their separation from the Austrian interest, Ferdinand
would be exposed to the combined attack of France and Sweden; and
Gustavus Adolphus, freed from his other enemies in Germany, would be
able to direct his undivided force against the hereditary dominions of
Austria. In that event, the fall of Austria was inevitable, and this
great object of Richelieu's policy would be gained without injury to the
church. If, on the other hand, the princes of the League persisted in
their opposition, and adhered to the Austrian alliance, the result would
indeed be more doubtful, but still France would have sufficiently proved
to all Europe the sincerity of her attachment to the Catholic cause, and
performed her duty as a member of the Roman Church. The princes of the
League would then appear the sole authors of those evils, which the
continuance of the war would unavoidably bring upon the Roman Catholics
of Germany; they alone, by their wilful and obstinate adherence to the
Emperor, would frustrate the measures employed for their protection,
involve the church in danger, and themselves in ruin.
Richelieu pursued this plan with greater zeal, the more he was
embarrassed by the repeated demands of the Elector of Bavaria for
assistance from France; for this prince, as already stated, when he
first began to entertain suspicions of the Emperor, entered immediately
into a secret alliance with France, by which, in the event of any change
in the Emperor's sentiments, he hoped to secure the possession of the
Palatinate. But though the origin of the treaty clearly showed against
what enemy it was directed, Maximilian now thought proper to make use of
it against the King of Sweden, and did not hesitate to demand from
France that assistance against her ally, which she had simply promised
against Austria. Richelieu, embarrassed by this conflicting alliance
with two hostile powers, had no resource left but to endeavour to put a
speedy termination to their hostilities; and as little inclined to
sacrifice Bavaria, as he was disabled, by his treaty with Sweden, from
assisting it, he set himself, with all diligence, to bring about a
neutrality, as the only means of fulfilling his obligations to both.
For this purpose, the Marquis of Breze was sent, as his plenipotentiary,
to the King of Sweden at Mentz, to learn his sentiments on this point,
and to procure from him favourable conditions for the allied princes.
But if Louis XIII. had powerful motives for wishing for this
neutrality, Gustavus Adolphus had as grave reasons for desiring the
contrary. Convinced by numerous proofs that the hatred of the princes
of the League to the Protestant religion was invincible, their aversion
to the foreign power of the Swedes inextinguishable, and their
attachment to the House of Austria irrevocable, he apprehended less
danger from their open hostility, than from a neutrality which was so
little in unison with their real inclinations; and, moreover, as he was
constrained to carry on the war in Germany at the expense of the enemy,
he manifestly sustained great loss if he diminished their number without
increasing that of his friends. It was not surprising, therefore, if
Gustavus evinced little inclination to purchase the neutrality of the
League, by which he was likely to gain so little, at the expense of the
advantages he had already obtained.
Pending these negociations with Treves and France, the king's generals
had entirely cleared the territory of Mentz of the Spanish garrisons,
and Gustavus himself completed the conquest of this district by the
capture of Kreutznach. To protect these conquests, the chancellor
Oxenstiern was left with a division of the army upon the Middle Rhine,
while the main body, under the king himself, began its march against the
enemy in Franconia.
The possession of this circle had, in the mean time, been disputed with
variable success, between Count Tilly and the Swedish General Horn, whom
Gustavus had left there with 8,000 men; and the Bishopric of Bamberg, in
particular, was at once the prize and the scene of their struggle.
Called away to the Rhine by his other projects, the king had left to his
general the chastisement of the bishop, whose perfidy had excited his
indignation, and the activity of Horn justified the choice. In a short
time, he subdued the greater part of the bishopric; and the capital
itself, abandoned by its imperial garrison, was carried by storm. The
banished bishop urgently demanded assistance from the Elector of
Bavaria, who was at length persuaded to put an end to Tilly's
inactivity. Fully empowered by his master's order to restore the bishop
to his possessions, this general collected his troops, who were
scattered over the Upper Palatinate, and with an army of 20,000 men
advanced upon Bamberg. Firmly resolved to maintain his conquest even
against this overwhelming force, Horn awaited the enemy within the walls
of Bamberg; but was obliged to yield to the vanguard of Tilly what he
had thought to be able to dispute with his whole army. A panic which
suddenly seized his troops, and which no presence of mind of their
general could check, opened the gates to the enemy, and it was with
difficulty that the troops, baggage, and artillery, were saved. The
reconquest of Bamberg was the fruit of this victory; but Tilly, with all
his activity, was unable to overtake the Swedish general, who retired in
good order behind the Maine. The king's appearance in Franconia, and
his junction with Gustavus Horn at Kitzingen, put a stop to Tilly's
conquests, and compelled him to provide for his own safety by a rapid
retreat.
The conquest of Donauwerth opened to the king the further side of the
Danube, and now the small river Lech alone separated him from Bavaria.
The immediate danger of his dominions aroused all Maximilian's activity;
and however little he had hitherto disturbed the enemy's progress to his
frontier, he now determined to dispute as resolutely the remainder of
their course. On the opposite bank of the Lech, near the small town of
Rain, Tilly occupied a strongly fortified camp, which, surrounded by
three rivers, bade defiance to all attack. All the bridges over the
Lech were destroyed; the whole course of the stream protected by strong
garrisons as far as Augsburg; and that town itself, which had long
betrayed its impatience to follow the example of Nuremberg and
Frankfort, secured by a Bavarian garrison, and the disarming of its
inhabitants. The Elector himself, with all the troops he could collect,
threw himself into Tilly's camp, as if all his hopes centred on this
single point, and here the good fortune of the Swedes was to suffer
shipwreck for ever.
The Swedish council of war, which the king now assembled, strongly urged
upon him all these considerations, in order to deter him from this
dangerous undertaking. The most intrepid were appalled, and a troop of
honourable warriors, who had grown gray in the field, did not hesitate
to express their alarm. But the king's resolution was fixed. "What!"
said he to Gustavus Horn, who spoke for the rest, "have we crossed the
Baltic, and so many great rivers of Germany, and shall we now be checked
by a brook like the Lech?" Gustavus had already, at great personal
risk, reconnoitred the whole country, and discovered that his own side
of the river was higher than the other, and consequently gave a
considerable advantage to the fire of the Swedish artillery over that of
the enemy. With great presence of mind he determined to profit by this
circumstance. At the point where the left bank of the Lech forms an
angle with the right, he immediately caused three batteries to be
erected, from which 72 field-pieces maintained a cross fire upon the
enemy. While this tremendous cannonade drove the Bavarians from the
opposite bank, he caused to be erected a bridge over the river with all
possible rapidity. A thick smoke, kept up by burning wood and wet
straw, concealed for some time the progress of the work from the enemy,
while the continued thunder of the cannon overpowered the noise of the
axes. He kept alive by his own example the courage of his troops, and
discharged more than 60 cannon with his own hand. The cannonade was
returned by the Bavarians with equal vivacity for two hours, though with
less effect, as the Swedish batteries swept the lower opposite bank,
while their height served as a breast-work to their own troops. In
vain, therefore, did the Bavarians attempt to destroy these works; the
superior fire of the Swedes threw them into disorder, and the bridge was
completed under their very eyes. On this dreadful day, Tilly did every
thing in his power to encourage his troops; and no danger could drive
him from the bank. At length he found the death which he sought, a
cannon ball shattered his leg; and Altringer, his brave
companion-in-arms, was, soon after, dangerously wounded in the head.
Deprived of the animating presence of their two generals, the Bavarians
gave way at last, and Maximilian, in spite of his own judgment, was
driven to adopt a pusillanimous resolve. Overcome by the persuasions of
the dying Tilly, whose wonted firmness was overpowered by the near
approach of death, he gave up his impregnable position for lost; and the
discovery by the Swedes of a ford, by which their cavalry were on the
point of passing, accelerated his inglorious retreat. The same night,
before a single soldier of the enemy had crossed the Lech, he broke up
his camp, and, without giving time for the King to harass him in his
march, retreated in good order to Neuburgh and Ingolstadt. With
astonishment did Gustavus Adolphus, who completed the passage of the
river on the following day behold the hostile camp abandoned; and the
Elector's flight surprised him still more, when he saw the strength of
the position he had quitted. "Had I been the Bavarian," said he,
"though a cannon ball had carried away my beard and chin, never would I
have abandoned a position like this, and laid open my territory to my
enemies."
Bavaria now lay exposed to the conqueror; and, for the first time, the
tide of war, which had hitherto only beat against its frontier, now
flowed over its long spared and fertile fields. Before, however, the
King proceeded to the conquest of these provinces, he delivered the town
of Augsburg from the yoke of Bavaria; exacted an oath of allegiance from
the citizens; and to secure its observance, left a garrison in the town.
He then advanced, by rapid marches, against Ingolstadt, in order, by the
capture of this important fortress, which the Elector covered with the
greater part of his army, to secure his conquests in Bavaria, and obtain
a firm footing on the Danube.
Shortly after the appearance of the Swedish King before Ingolstadt, the
wounded Tilly, after experiencing the caprice of unstable fortune,
terminated his career within the walls of that town. Conquered by the
superior generalship of Gustavus Adolphus, he lost, at the close of his
days, all the laurels of his earlier victories, and appeased, by a
series of misfortunes, the demands of justice, and the avenging manes of
Magdeburg. In his death, the Imperial army and that of the League
sustained an irreparable loss; the Roman Catholic religion was deprived
of its most zealous defender, and Maximilian of Bavaria of the most
faithful of his servants, who sealed his fidelity by his death, and even
in his dying moments fulfilled the duties of a general. His last
message to the Elector was an urgent advice to take possession of
Ratisbon, in order to maintain the command of the Danube, and to keep
open the communication with Bohemia.
With the confidence which was the natural fruit of so many victories,
Gustavus Adolphus commenced the siege of Ingolstadt, hoping to gain the
town by the fury of his first assault. But the strength of its
fortifications, and the bravery of its garrison, presented obstacles
greater than any he had had to encounter since the battle of
Breitenfeld, and the walls of Ingolstadt were near putting an end to his
career. While reconnoitring the works, a 24-pounder killed his horse
under him, and he fell to the ground, while almost immediately
afterwards another ball struck his favourite, the young Margrave of
Baden, by his side. With perfect self-possession the king rose, and
quieted the fears of his troops by immediately mounting another horse.
The whole country, as far as Munich, now lay open to the conqueror.
Mosburg, Landshut, and the whole territory of Freysingen, submitted;
nothing could resist his arms. But if he met with no regular force to
oppose his progress, he had to contend against a still more implacable
enemy in the heart of every Bavarian--religious fanaticism. Soldiers
who did not believe in the Pope were, in this country, a new and
unheard-of phenomenon; the blind zeal of the priests represented them to
the peasantry as monsters, the children of hell, and their leader as
Antichrist. No wonder, then, if they thought themselves released from
all the ties of nature and humanity towards this brood of Satan, and
justified in committing the most savage atrocities upon them. Woe to
the Swedish soldier who fell into their hands! All the torments which
inventive malice could devise were exercised upon these unhappy victims;
and the sight of their mangled bodies exasperated the army to a fearful
retaliation. Gustavus Adolphus, alone, sullied the lustre of his heroic
character by no act of revenge; and the aversion which the Bavarians
felt towards his religion, far from making him depart from the
obligations of humanity towards that unfortunate people, seemed to
impose upon him the stricter duty to honour his religion by a more
constant clemency.
The approach of the king spread terror and consternation in the capital,
which, stripped of its defenders, and abandoned by its principal
inhabitants, placed all its hopes in the magnanimity of the conqueror.
By an unconditional and voluntary surrender, it hoped to disarm his
vengeance; and sent deputies even to Freysingen to lay at his feet the
keys of the city. Strongly as the king might have been tempted by the
inhumanity of the Bavarians, and the hostility of their sovereign, to
make a dreadful use of the rights of victory; pressed as he was by
Germans to avenge the fate of Magdeburg on the capital of its destroyer,
this great prince scorned this mean revenge; and the very helplessness
of his enemies disarmed his severity. Contented with the more noble
triumph of conducting the Palatine Frederick with the pomp of a victor
into the very palace of the prince who had been the chief instrument of
his ruin, and the usurper of his territories, he heightened the
brilliancy of his triumphal entry by the brighter splendour of
moderation and clemency.
The King found in Munich only a forsaken palace, for the Elector's
treasures had been transported to Werfen. The magnificence of the
building astonished him; and he asked the guide who showed the
apartments who was the architect. "No other," replied he, "than the
Elector himself."--"I wish," said the King, "I had this architect to
send to Stockholm." "That," he was answered, "the architect will take
care to prevent." When the arsenal was examined, they found nothing but
carriages, stripped of their cannon. The latter had been so artfully
concealed under the floor, that no traces of them remained; and but for
the treachery of a workman, the deceit would not have been detected.
"Rise up from the dead," said the King, "and come to judgment." The
floor was pulled up, and 140 pieces of cannon discovered, some of
extraordinary calibre, which had been principally taken in the
Palatinate and Bohemia. A treasure of 30,000 gold ducats, concealed in
one of the largest, completed the pleasure which the King received from
this valuable acquisition.
A far more welcome spectacle still would have been the Bavarian army
itself; for his march into the heart of Bavaria had been undertaken
chiefly with the view of luring them from their entrenchments. In this
expectation he was disappointed. No enemy appeared; no entreaties,
however urgent, on the part of his subjects, could induce the Elector to
risk the remainder of his army to the chances of a battle. Shut up in
Ratisbon, he awaited the reinforcements which Wallenstein was bringing
from Bohemia; and endeavoured, in the mean time, to amuse his enemy and
keep him inactive, by reviving the negociation for a neutrality. But
the King's distrust, too often and too justly excited by his previous
conduct, frustrated this design; and the intentional delay of
Wallenstein abandoned Bavaria to the Swedes.
Thus far had Gustavus advanced from victory to victory, without meeting
with an enemy able to cope with him. A part of Bavaria and Swabia, the
Bishoprics of Franconia, the Lower Palatinate, and the Archbishopric of
Mentz, lay conquered in his rear. An uninterrupted career of conquest
had conducted him to the threshold of Austria; and the most brilliant
success had fully justified the plan of operations which he had formed
after the battle of Breitenfeld. If he had not succeeded to his wish in
promoting a confederacy among the Protestant States, he had at least
disarmed or weakened the League, carried on the war chiefly at its
expense, lessened the Emperor's resources, emboldened the weaker States,
and while he laid under contribution the allies of the Emperor, forced a
way through their territories into Austria itself. Where arms were
unavailing, the greatest service was rendered by the friendship of the
free cities, whose affections he had gained, by the double ties of
policy and religion; and, as long as he should maintain his superiority
in the field, he might reckon on every thing from their zeal. By his
conquests on the Rhine, the Spaniards were cut off from the Lower
Palatinate, even if the state of the war in the Netherlands left them at
liberty to interfere in the affairs of Germany. The Duke of Lorraine,
too, after his unfortunate campaign, had been glad to adopt a
neutrality. Even the numerous garrisons he had left behind him, in his
progress through Germany, had not diminished his army; and, fresh and
vigorous as when he first began his march, he now stood in the centre of
Bavaria, determined and prepared to carry the war into the heart of
Austria.
Ferdinand had perceived too late the errors of that policy, which
reduced the Elector of Saxony to extremities, and forcibly driven this
powerful monarch into an alliance with Sweden. By moderation, equally
ill-timed, he now wished to repair if possible the consequences of his
haughtiness; and thus committed a second error in endeavouring to repair
the first. To deprive his enemy of so powerful an ally, he had opened,
through the intervention of Spain, a negociation with the Elector; and
in order to facilitate an accommodation, Tiefenbach was ordered
immediately to retire from Saxony. But these concessions of the
Emperor, far from producing the desired effect, only revealed to the
Elector the embarrassment of his adversary and his own importance, and
emboldened him the more to prosecute the advantages he had already
obtained. How could he, moreover, without becoming chargeable with the
most shameful ingratitude, abandon an ally to whom he had given the most
solemn assurances of fidelity, and to whom he was indebted for the
preservation of his dominions, and even of his Electoral dignity?
The Saxon army, now relieved from the necessity of marching into
Lusatia, advanced towards Bohemia, where a combination of favourable
circumstances seemed to ensure them an easy victory. In this kingdom,
the first scene of this fatal war, the flames of dissension still
smouldered beneath the ashes, while the discontent of the inhabitants
was fomented by daily acts of oppression and tyranny. On every side,
this unfortunate country showed signs of a mournful change. Whole
districts had changed their proprietors, and groaned under the hated
yoke of Roman Catholic masters, whom the favour of the Emperor and the
Jesuits had enriched with the plunder and possessions of the exiled
Protestants. Others, taking advantage themselves of the general
distress, had purchased, at a low rate, the confiscated estates. The
blood of the most eminent champions of liberty had been shed upon the
scaffold; and such as by a timely flight avoided that fate, were
wandering in misery far from their native land, while the obsequious
slaves of despotism enjoyed their patrimony. Still more insupportable
than the oppression of these petty tyrants, was the restraint of
conscience which was imposed without distinction on all the Protestants
of that kingdom. No external danger, no opposition on the part of the
nation, however steadfast, not even the fearful lessons of past
experience could check in the Jesuits the rage of proselytism; where
fair means were ineffectual, recourse was had to military force to bring
the deluded wanderers within the pale of the church. The inhabitants of
Joachimsthal, on the frontiers between Bohemia and Meissen, were the
chief sufferers from this violence. Two imperial commissaries,
accompanied by as many Jesuits, and supported by fifteen musketeers,
made their appearance in this peaceful valley to preach the gospel to
the heretics. Where the rhetoric of the former was ineffectual, the
forcibly quartering the latter upon the houses, and threats of
banishment and fines were tried. But on this occasion, the good cause
prevailed, and the bold resistance of this small district compelled the
Emperor disgracefully to recall his mandate of conversion. The example
of the court had, however, afforded a precedent to the Roman Catholics
of the empire, and seemed to justify every act of oppression which their
insolence tempted them to wreak upon the Protestants. It is not
surprising, then, if this persecuted party was favourable to a
revolution, and saw with pleasure their deliverers on the frontiers.
The Saxon army was already on its march towards Prague, the imperial
garrisons everywhere retired before them. Schloeckenau, Tetschen,
Aussig, Leutmeritz, soon fell into the enemy's hands, and every Roman
Catholic place was abandoned to plunder. Consternation seized all the
Papists of the Empire; and conscious of the outrages which they
themselves had committed on the Protestants, they did not venture to
abide the vengeful arrival of a Protestant army. All the Roman
Catholics, who had anything to lose, fled hastily from the country to
the capital, which again they presently abandoned. Prague was
unprepared for an attack, and was too weakly garrisoned to sustain a
long siege. Too late had the Emperor resolved to despatch Field-Marshal
Tiefenbach to the defence of this capital. Before the imperial orders
could reach the head-quarters of that general, in Silesia, the Saxons
were already close to Prague, the Protestant inhabitants of which showed
little zeal, while the weakness of the garrison left no room to hope a
long resistance. In this fearful state of embarrassment, the Roman
Catholics of Prague looked for security to Wallenstein, who now lived in
that city as a private individual. But far from lending his military
experience, and the weight of his name, towards its defence, he seized
the favourable opportunity to satiate his thirst for revenge. If he did
not actually invite the Saxons to Prague, at least his conduct
facilitated its capture. Though unprepared, the town might still hold
out until succours could arrive; and an imperial colonel, Count Maradas,
showed serious intentions of undertaking its defence. But without
command and authority, and having no support but his own zeal and
courage, he did not dare to venture upon such a step without the advice
of a superior. He therefore consulted the Duke of Friedland, whose
approbation might supply the want of authority from the Emperor, and to
whom the Bohemian generals were referred by an express edict of the
court in the last extremity. He, however, artfully excused himself, on
the plea of holding no official appointment, and his long retirement
from the political world; while he weakened the resolution of the
subalterns by the scruples which he suggested, and painted in the
strongest colours. At last, to render the consternation general and
complete, he quitted the capital with his whole court, however little he
had to fear from its capture; and the city was lost, because, by his
departure, he showed that he despaired of its safety. His example was
followed by all the Roman Catholic nobility, the generals with their
troops, the clergy, and all the officers of the crown. All night the
people were employed in saving their persons and effects. The roads to
Vienna were crowded with fugitives, who scarcely recovered from their
consternation till they reached the imperial city. Maradas himself,
despairing of the safety of Prague, followed the rest, and led his small
detachment to Tabor, where he awaited the event.
John George belied not the submission and dependence with which the
terror of the imperial name inspired him; nor did he indulge at Prague,
in a course of conduct which would assuredly have been pursued against
himself in Dresden, by imperial generals, such as Tilly or Wallenstein.
He carefully distinguished between the enemy with whom he was at war,
and the head of the Empire, to whom he owed obedience. He did not
venture to touch the household furniture of the latter, while, without
scruple, he appropriated and transported to Dresden the cannon of the
former. He did not take up his residence in the imperial palace, but
the house of Lichtenstein; too modest to use the apartments of one whom
he had deprived of a kingdom. Had this trait been related of a great
man and a hero, it would irresistibly excite our admiration; but the
character of this prince leaves us in doubt whether this moderation
ought to be ascribed to a noble self-command, or to the littleness of a
weak mind, which even good fortune could not embolden, and liberty
itself could not strip of its habituated fetters.
The presence of the Saxons inspired all the Protestants of the kingdom
with courage; and, both in the country and the capital, crowds flocked
to the newly opened Protestant churches. Many, whom fear alone had
retained in their adherence to Popery, now openly professed the new
doctrine; and many of the late converts to Roman Catholicism gladly
renounced a compulsory persuasion, to follow the earlier conviction of
their conscience. All the moderation of the new regency, could not
restrain the manifestation of that just displeasure, which this
persecuted people felt against their oppressors. They made a fearful
and cruel use of their newly recovered rights; and, in many parts of the
kingdom, their hatred of the religion which they had been compelled to
profess, could be satiated only by the blood of its adherents.
Meantime the succours which the imperial generals, Goetz and Tiefenbach,
were conducting from Silesia, had entered Bohemia, where they were
joined by some of Tilly's regiments, from the Upper Palatinate. In
order to disperse them before they should receive any further
reinforcement, Arnheim advanced with part of his army from Prague, and
made a vigorous attack on their entrenchments near Limburg, on the Elbe.
After a severe action, not without great loss, he drove the enemy from
their fortified camp, and forced them, by his heavy fire, to recross the
Elbe, and to destroy the bridge which they had built over that river.
Nevertheless, the Imperialists obtained the advantage in several
skirmishes, and the Croats pushed their incursions to the very gates of
Prague. Brilliant and promising as the opening of the Bohemian campaign
had been, the issue by no means satisfied the expectations of Gustavus
Adolphus. Instead of vigorously following up their advantages, by
forcing a passage to the Swedish army through the conquered country, and
then, with it, attacking the imperial power in its centre, the Saxons
weakened themselves in a war of skirmishes, in which they were not
always successful, while they lost the time which should have been
devoted to greater undertakings. But the Elector's subsequent conduct
betrayed the motives which had prevented him from pushing his advantage
over the Emperor, and by consistent measures promoting the plans of the
King of Sweden.
The Emperor had now lost the greater part of Bohemia, and the Saxons
were advancing against Austria, while the Swedish monarch was rapidly
moving to the same point through Franconia, Swabia, and Bavaria. A long
war had exhausted the strength of the Austrian monarchy, wasted the
country, and diminished its armies. The renown of its victories was no
more, as well as the confidence inspired by constant success; its troops
had lost the obedience and discipline to which those of the Swedish
monarch owed all their superiority in the field. The confederates of
the Emperor were disarmed, or their fidelity shaken by the danger which
threatened themselves. Even Maximilian of Bavaria, Austria's most
powerful ally, seemed disposed to yield to the seductive proposition of
neutrality; while his suspicious alliance with France had long been a
subject of apprehension to the Emperor. The bishops of Wurtzburg and
Bamberg, the Elector of Mentz, and the Duke of Lorraine, were either
expelled from their territories, or threatened with immediate attack;
Treves had placed itself under the protection of France. The bravery of
the Hollanders gave full employment to the Spanish arms in the
Netherlands; while Gustavus had driven them from the Rhine. Poland was
still fettered by the truce which subsisted between that country and
Sweden. The Hungarian frontier was threatened by the Transylvanian
Prince, Ragotsky, a successor of Bethlen Gabor, and the inheritor of his
restless mind; while the Porte was making great preparation to profit by
the favourable conjuncture for aggression. Most of the Protestant
states, encouraged by their protector's success, were openly and
actively declaring against the Emperor. All the resources which had
been obtained by the violent and oppressive extortions of Tilly and
Wallenstein were exhausted; all these depots, magazines, and
rallying-points, were now lost to the Emperor; and the war could no
longer be carried on as before at the cost of others. To complete his
embarrassment, a dangerous insurrection broke out in the territory of
the Ens, where the ill-timed religious zeal of the government had
provoked the Protestants to resistance; and thus fanaticism lit its
torch within the empire, while a foreign enemy was already on its
frontier. After so long a continuance of good fortune, such brilliant
victories and extensive conquests, such fruitless effusion of blood, the
Emperor saw himself a second time on the brink of that abyss, into which
he was so near falling at the commencement of his reign. If Bavaria
should embrace the neutrality; if Saxony should resist the tempting
offers he had held out; and France resolve to attack the Spanish power
at the same time in the Netherlands, in Italy and in Catalonia, the ruin
of Austria would be complete; the allied powers would divide its spoils,
and the political system of Germany would undergo a total change.
The chain of these disasters began with the battle of Breitenfeld, the
unfortunate issue of which plainly revealed the long decided decline of
the Austrian power, whose weakness had hitherto been concealed under the
dazzling glitter of a grand name. The chief cause of the Swedes'
superiority in the field, was evidently to be ascribed to the unlimited
power of their leader, who concentrated in himself the whole strength of
his party; and, unfettered in his enterprises by any higher authority,
was complete master of every favourable opportunity, could control all
his means to the accomplishment of his ends, and was responsible to none
but himself. But since Wallenstein's dismissal, and Tilly's defeat, the
very reverse of this course was pursued by the Emperor and the League.
The generals wanted authority over their troops, and liberty of acting
at their discretion; the soldiers were deficient in discipline and
obedience; the scattered corps in combined operation; the states in
attachment to the cause; the leaders in harmony among themselves, in
quickness to resolve, and firmness to execute. What gave the Emperor's
enemy so decided an advantage over him, was not so much their superior
power, as their manner of using it. The League and the Emperor did not
want means, but a mind capable of directing them with energy and effect.
Even had Count Tilly not lost his old renown, distrust of Bavaria would
not allow the Emperor to place the fate of Austria in the hands of one
who had never concealed his attachment to the Bavarian Elector. The
urgent want which Ferdinand felt, was for a general possessed of
sufficient experience to form and to command an army, and willing at the
same time to dedicate his services, with blind devotion, to the Austrian
monarchy.
This choice now occupied the attention of the Emperor's privy council,
and divided the opinions of its members. In order to oppose one monarch
to another, and by the presence of their sovereign to animate the
courage of the troops, Ferdinand, in the ardour of the moment, had
offered himself to be the leader of his army; but little trouble was
required to overturn a resolution which was the offspring of despair
alone, and which yielded at once to calm reflection. But the situation
which his dignity, and the duties of administration, prevented the
Emperor from holding, might be filled by his son, a youth of talents and
bravery, and of whom the subjects of Austria had already formed great
expectations. Called by his birth to the defence of a monarchy, of
whose crowns he wore two already, Ferdinand III., King of Hungary and
Bohemia, united, with the natural dignity of heir to the throne, the
respect of the army, and the attachment of the people, whose
co-operation was indispensable to him in the conduct of the war. None
but the beloved heir to the crown could venture to impose new burdens on
a people already severely oppressed; his personal presence with the army
could alone suppress the pernicious jealousies of the several leaders,
and by the influence of his name, restore the neglected discipline of
the troops to its former rigour. If so young a leader was devoid of the
maturity of judgment, prudence, and military experience which practice
alone could impart, this deficiency might be supplied by a judicious
choice of counsellors and assistants, who, under the cover of his name,
might be vested with supreme authority.
But plausible as were the arguments with which a part of the ministry
supported this plan, it was met by difficulties not less serious,
arising from the distrust, perhaps even the jealousy, of the Emperor,
and also from the desperate state of affairs. How dangerous was it to
entrust the fate of the monarchy to a youth, who was himself in need of
counsel and support! How hazardous to oppose to the greatest general of
his age, a tyro, whose fitness for so important a post had never yet
been tested by experience; whose name, as yet unknown to fame, was far
too powerless to inspire a dispirited army with the assurance of future
victory! What a new burden on the country, to support the state a royal
leader was required to maintain, and which the prejudices of the age
considered as inseparable from his presence with the army! How serious a
consideration for the prince himself, to commence his political career,
with an office which must make him the scourge of his people, and the
oppressor of the territories which he was hereafter to rule.
But not only was a general to be found for the army; an army must also
be found for the general. Since the compulsory resignation of
Wallenstein, the Emperor had defended himself more by the assistance of
Bavaria and the League, than by his own armies; and it was this
dependence on equivocal allies, which he was endeavouring to escape, by
the appointment of a general of his own. But what possibility was there
of raising an army out of nothing, without the all-powerful aid of gold,
and the inspiriting name of a victorious commander; above all, an army
which, by its discipline, warlike spirit, and activity, should be fit to
cope with the experienced troops of the northern conqueror? In all
Europe, there was but one man equal to this, and that one had been
mortally affronted.
The moment had at last arrived, when more than ordinary satisfaction was
to be done to the wounded pride of the Duke of Friedland. Fate itself
had been his avenger, and an unbroken chain of disasters, which had
assailed Austria from the day of his dismissal, had wrung from the
Emperor the humiliating confession, that with this general he had lost
his right arm. Every defeat of his troops opened afresh this wound;
every town which he lost, revived in the mind of the deceived monarch
the memory of his own weakness and ingratitude. It would have been well
for him, if, in the offended general, he had only lost a leader of his
troops, and a defender of his dominions; but he was destined to find in
him an enemy, and the most dangerous of all, since he was least armed
against the stroke of treason.
Gustavus Adolphus had overrun the north of Germany; one place after
another was lost; and at Leipzig, the flower of the Austrian army had
fallen. The intelligence of this defeat soon reached the ears of
Wallenstein, who, in the retired obscurity of a private station in
Prague, contemplated from a calm distance the tumult of war. The news,
which filled the breasts of the Roman Catholics with dismay, announced
to him the return of greatness and good fortune. For him was Gustavus
Adolphus labouring. Scarce had the king begun to gain reputation by his
exploits, when Wallenstein lost not a moment to court his friendship,
and to make common cause with this successful enemy of Austria. The
banished Count Thurn, who had long entered the service of Sweden,
undertook to convey Wallenstein's congratulations to the king, and to
invite him to a close alliance with the duke. Wallenstein required
15,000 men from the king; and with these, and the troops he himself
engaged to raise, he undertook to conquer Bohemia and Moravia, to
surprise Vienna, and drive his master, the Emperor, before him into
Italy. Welcome as was this unexpected proposition, its extravagant
promises were naturally calculated to excite suspicion. Gustavus
Adolphus was too good a judge of merit to reject with coldness the
offers of one who might be so important a friend. But when Wallenstein,
encouraged by the favourable reception of his first message, renewed it
after the battle of Breitenfeld, and pressed for a decisive answer, the
prudent monarch hesitated to trust his reputation to the chimerical
projects of so daring an adventurer, and to commit so large a force to
the honesty of a man who felt no shame in openly avowing himself a
traitor. He excused himself, therefore, on the plea of the weakness of
his army which, if diminished by so large a detachment, would certainly
suffer in its march through the empire; and thus, perhaps, by excess of
caution, lost an opportunity of putting an immediate end to the war. He
afterwards endeavoured to renew the negociation; but the favourable
moment was past, and Wallenstein's offended pride never forgave the
first neglect.
But the king's hesitation, perhaps, only accelerated the breach, which
their characters made inevitable sooner or later. Both framed by nature
to give laws, not to receive them, they could not long have co-operated
in an enterprise, which eminently demanded mutual submission and
sacrifices. Wallenstein was NOTHING where he was not EVERYTHING; he
must either act with unlimited power, or not at all. So cordially, too,
did Gustavus dislike control, that he had almost renounced his
advantageous alliance with France, because it threatened to fetter his
own independent judgment. Wallenstein was lost to a party, if he could
not lead; the latter was, if possible, still less disposed to obey the
instructions of another. If the pretensions of a rival would be so
irksome to the Duke of Friedland, in the conduct of combined operations,
in the division of the spoil they would be insupportable. The proud
monarch might condescend to accept the assistance of a rebellious
subject against the Emperor, and to reward his valuable services with
regal munificence; but he never could so far lose sight of his own
dignity, and the majesty of royalty, as to bestow the recompense which
the extravagant ambition of Wallenstein demanded; and requite an act of
treason, however useful, with a crown. In him, therefore, even if all
Europe should tacitly acquiesce, Wallenstein had reason to expect the
most decided and formidable opponent to his views on the Bohemian crown;
and in all Europe he was the only one who could enforce his opposition.
Constituted Dictator in Germany by Wallenstein himself, he might turn
his arms against him, and consider himself bound by no obligations to
one who was himself a traitor. There was no room for a Wallenstein
under such an ally; and it was, apparently, this conviction, and not any
supposed designs upon the imperial throne, that he alluded to, when,
after the death of the King of Sweden, he exclaimed, "It is well for him
and me that he is gone. The German Empire does not require two such
leaders."
His first scheme of revenge on the house of Austria had indeed failed;
but the purpose itself remained unalterable; the choice of means alone
was changed. What he had failed in effecting with the King of Sweden,
he hoped to obtain with less difficulty and more advantage from the
Elector of Saxony. Him he was as certain of being able to bend to his
views, as he had always been doubtful of Gustavus Adolphus. Having
always maintained a good understanding with his old friend Arnheim, he
now made use of him to bring about an alliance with Saxony, by which he
hoped to render himself equally formidable to the Emperor and the King
of Sweden. He had reason to expect that a scheme, which, if successful,
would deprive the Swedish monarch of his influence in Germany, would be
welcomed by the Elector of Saxony, who he knew was jealous of the power
and offended at the lofty pretensions of Gustavus Adolphus. If he
succeeded in separating Saxony from the Swedish alliance, and in
establishing, conjointly with that power, a third party in the Empire,
the fate of the war would be placed in his hand; and by this single step
he would succeed in gratifying his revenge against the Emperor,
revenging the neglect of the Swedish monarch, and on the ruin of both,
raising the edifice of his own greatness.
Wallenstein did not long delay to fulfil those promises which all
Germany regarded as chimerical, and which Gustavus Adolphus had
considered as extravagant. But the foundation for the present
enterprise had been long laid, and he now only put in motion the
machinery, which many years had been prepared for the purpose. Scarcely
had the news spread of Wallenstein's levies, when, from every quarter of
the Austrian monarchy, crowds of soldiers repaired to try their fortunes
under this experienced general. Many, who had before fought under his
standards, had been admiring eye-witnesses of his great actions, and
experienced his magnanimity, came forward from their retirement, to
share with him a second time both booty and glory. The greatness of the
pay he promised attracted thousands, and the plentiful supplies the
soldier was likely to enjoy at the cost of the peasant, was to the
latter an irresistible inducement to embrace the military life at once,
rather than be the victim of its oppression. All the Austrian provinces
were compelled to assist in the equipment. No class was exempt from
taxation--no dignity or privilege from capitation. The Spanish court,
as well as the King of Hungary, agreed to contribute a considerable sum.
The ministers made large presents, while Wallenstein himself advanced
200,000 dollars from his own income to hasten the armament. The poorer
officers he supported out of his own revenues; and, by his own example,
by brilliant promotions, and still more brilliant promises, he induced
all, who were able, to raise troops at their own expense. Whoever
raised a corps at his own cost was to be its commander. In the
appointment of officers, religion made no difference. Riches, bravery
and experience were more regarded than creed. By this uniform treatment
of different religious sects, and still more by his express declaration,
that his present levy had nothing to do with religion, the Protestant
subjects of the empire were tranquillized, and reconciled to bear their
share of the public burdens. The duke, at the same time, did not omit
to treat, in his own name, with foreign states for men and money. He
prevailed on the Duke of Lorraine, a second time, to espouse the cause
of the Emperor. Poland was urged to supply him with Cossacks, and Italy
with warlike necessaries. Before the three months were expired, the
army which was assembled in Moravia, amounted to no less than 40,000
men, chiefly drawn from the unconquered parts of Bohemia, from Moravia,
Silesia, and the German provinces of the House of Austria. What to
every one had appeared impracticable, Wallenstein, to the astonishment
of all Europe, had in a short time effected. The charm of his name, his
treasures, and his genius, had assembled thousands in arms, where before
Austria had only looked for hundreds. Furnished, even to superfluity,
with all necessaries, commanded by experienced officers, and inflamed by
enthusiasm which assured itself of victory, this newly created army only
awaited the signal of their leader to show themselves, by the bravery of
their deeds, worthy of his choice.
The duke had fulfilled his promise, and the troops were ready to take
the field; he then retired, and left to the Emperor to choose a
commander. But it would have been as easy to raise a second army like
the first, as to find any other commander for it than Wallenstein. This
promising army, the last hope of the Emperor, was nothing but an
illusion, as soon as the charm was dissolved which had called it into
existence; by Wallenstein it had been raised, and, without him, it sank
like a creation of magic into its original nothingness. Its officers
were either bound to him as his debtors, or, as his creditors, closely
connected with his interests, and the preservation of his power. The
regiments he had entrusted to his own relations, creatures, and
favourites. He, and he alone, could discharge to the troops the
extravagant promises by which they had been lured into his service. His
pledged word was the only security on which their bold expectations
rested; a blind reliance on his omnipotence, the only tie which linked
together in one common life and soul the various impulses of their zeal.
There was an end of the good fortune of each individual, if he retired,
who alone was the voucher of its fulfilment.
Tired of this long farce, the minister at last assumed a serious tone,
and threatened the obstinate duke with the Emperor's resentment, if he
persisted in his refusal. "Low enough had the imperial dignity," he
added, "stooped already; and yet, instead of exciting his magnanimity by
its condescension, had only flattered his pride and increased his
obstinacy. If this sacrifice had been made in vain, he would not
answer, but that the suppliant might be converted into the sovereign,
and that the monarch might not avenge his injured dignity on his
rebellious subject. However greatly Ferdinand may have erred, the
Emperor at least had a claim to obedience; the man might be mistaken,
but the monarch could not confess his error. If the Duke of Friedland
had suffered by an unjust decree, he might yet be recompensed for all
his losses; the wound which it had itself inflicted, the hand of Majesty
might heal. If he asked security for his person and his dignities, the
Emperor's equity would refuse him no reasonable demand. Majesty
contemned, admitted not of any atonement; disobedience to its commands
cancelled the most brilliant services. The Emperor required his
services, and as emperor he demanded them. Whatever price Wallenstein
might set upon them, the Emperor would readily agree to; but he demanded
obedience, or the weight of his indignation should crush the refractory
servant."
Not without apprehension, did the minister receive the writing, in which
the proudest of subjects had prescribed laws to the proudest of
sovereigns. But however little confidence he had in the moderation of
his friend, the extravagant contents of his writing surpassed even his
worst expectations. Wallenstein required the uncontrolled command over
all the German armies of Austria and Spain, with unlimited powers to
reward and punish. Neither the King of Hungary, nor the Emperor
himself, were to appear in the army, still less to exercise any act of
authority over it. No commission in the army, no pension or letter of
grace, was to be granted by the Emperor without Wallenstein's approval.
All the conquests and confiscations that should take place, were to be
placed entirely at Wallenstein's disposal, to the exclusion of every
other tribunal. For his ordinary pay, an imperial hereditary estate was
to be assigned him, with another of the conquered estates within the
empire for his extraordinary expenses. Every Austrian province was to
be opened to him if he required it in case of retreat. He farther
demanded the assurance of the possession of the Duchy of Mecklenburg, in
the event of a future peace; and a formal and timely intimation, if it
should be deemed necessary a second time to deprive him of the command.
Whatever might be the issue, he had equally secured his own advantage,
by the conditions he had extorted from the Emperor. If circumstances
proved favourable to his daring project, this treaty with the Emperor
facilitated its execution; if on the contrary, the course of things ran
counter to it, it would at least afford him a brilliant compensation for
the failure of his plans. But how could he consider an agreement valid,
which was extorted from his sovereign, and based upon treason? How could
he hope to bind the Emperor by a written agreement, in the face of a law
which condemned to death every one who should have the presumption to
impose conditions upon him? But this criminal was the most
indispensable man in the empire, and Ferdinand, well practised in
dissimulation, granted him for the present all he required.
The greater the price at which the services of the new general had been
purchased, the greater justly were the expectations from those which the
court of the Emperor entertained. But the duke was in no hurry to
fulfil these expectations. Already in the vicinity of Bohemia, and at
the head of a formidable force, he had but to show himself there, in
order to overpower the exhausted force of the Saxons, and brilliantly to
commence his new career by the reconquest of that kingdom. But,
contented with harassing the enemy with indecisive skirmishes of his
Croats, he abandoned the best part of that kingdom to be plundered, and
moved calmly forward in pursuit of his own selfish plans. His design
was, not to conquer the Saxons, but to unite with them. Exclusively
occupied with this important object, he remained inactive in the hope of
conquering more surely by means of negociation. He left no expedient
untried, to detach this prince from the Swedish alliance; and Ferdinand
himself, ever inclined to an accommodation with this prince, approved of
this proceeding. But the great debt which Saxony owed to Sweden, was as
yet too freshly remembered to allow of such an act of perfidy; and even
had the Elector been disposed to yield to the temptation, the equivocal
character of Wallenstein, and the bad character of Austrian policy,
precluded any reliance in the integrity of its promises. Notorious
already as a treacherous statesman, he met not with faith upon the very
occasion when perhaps he intended to act honestly; and, moreover, was
denied, by circumstances, the opportunity of proving the sincerity of
his intentions, by the disclosure of his real motives.
Wallenstein, less occupied with the interests of his master, than with
the furtherance of his own plans, now purposed to carry the war into
Saxony, and by ravaging his territories, compel the Elector to enter
into a private treaty with the Emperor, or rather with himself. But,
however little accustomed he was to make his will bend to circumstances,
he now perceived the necessity of postponing his favourite scheme for a
time, to a more pressing emergency. While he was driving the Saxons
from Bohemia, Gustavus Adolphus had been gaining the victories, already
detailed, on the Rhine and the Danube, and carried the war through
Franconia and Swabia, to the frontiers of Bavaria. Maximilian, defeated
on the Lech, and deprived by death of Count Tilly, his best support,
urgently solicited the Emperor to send with all speed the Duke of
Friedland to his assistance, from Bohemia, and by the defence of
Bavaria, to avert the danger from Austria itself. He also made the same
request to Wallenstein, and entreated him, till he could himself come
with the main force, to despatch in the mean time a few regiments to his
aid. Ferdinand seconded the request with all his influence, and one
messenger after another was sent to Wallenstein, urging him to move
towards the Danube.
It now appeared how completely the Emperor had sacrificed his authority,
in surrendering to another the supreme command of his troops.
Indifferent to Maximilian's entreaties, and deaf to the Emperor's
repeated commands, Wallenstein remained inactive in Bohemia, and
abandoned the Elector to his fate. The remembrance of the evil service
which Maximilian had rendered him with the Emperor, at the Diet at
Ratisbon, was deeply engraved on the implacable mind of the duke, and
the Elector's late attempts to prevent his reinstatement, were no secret
to him. The moment of revenging this affront had now arrived, and
Maximilian was doomed to pay dearly for his folly, in provoking the most
revengeful of men. Wallenstein maintained, that Bohemia ought not to be
left exposed, and that Austria could not be better protected, than by
allowing the Swedish army to waste its strength before the Bavarian
fortress. Thus, by the arm of the Swedes, he chastised his enemy; and
while one place after another fell into their hands, he allowed the
Elector vainly to await his arrival in Ratisbon. It was only when the
complete subjugation of Bohemia left him without excuse, and the
conquests of Gustavus Adolphus in Bavaria threatened Austria itself,
that he yielded to the pressing entreaties of the Elector and the
Emperor, and determined to effect the long-expected union with the
former; an event, which, according to the general anticipation of the
Roman Catholics, would decide the fate of the campaign.
This frontier town had been chosen by Wallenstein, for the scene of his
triumph over his proud rival. Not content with having seen him, as it
were, a suppliant at his feet, he imposed upon him the hard condition of
leaving his territories in his rear exposed to the enemy, and declaring
by this long march to meet him, the necessity and distress to which he
was reduced. Even to this humiliation, the haughty prince patiently
submitted. It had cost him a severe struggle to ask for protection of
the man who, if his own wishes had been consulted, would never have had
the power of granting it: but having once made up his mind to it, he
was ready to bear all the annoyances which were inseparable from that
resolve, and sufficiently master of himself to put up with petty
grievances, when an important end was in view.
But whatever pains it had cost to effect this junction, it was equally
difficult to settle the conditions on which it was to be maintained.
The united army must be placed under the command of one individual, if
any object was to be gained by the union, and each general was equally
averse to yield to the superior authority of the other. If Maximilian
rested his claim on his electoral dignity, the nobleness of his descent,
and his influence in the empire, Wallenstein's military renown, and the
unlimited command conferred on him by the Emperor, gave an equally
strong title to it. If it was deeply humiliating to the pride of the
former to serve under an imperial subject, the idea of imposing laws on
so imperious a spirit, flattered in the same degree the haughtiness of
Wallenstein. An obstinate dispute ensued, which, however, terminated in
a mutual compromise to Wallenstein's advantage. To him was assigned the
unlimited command of both armies, particularly in battle, while the
Elector was deprived of all power of altering the order of battle, or
even the route of the army. He retained only the bare right of
punishing and rewarding his own troops, and the free use of these, when
not acting in conjunction with the Imperialists.
The combined Imperial and Bavarian armies amounted to nearly 60,000 men,
chiefly veterans. Before this force, the King of Sweden was not in a
condition to keep the field. As his attempt to prevent their junction
had failed, he commenced a rapid retreat into Franconia, and awaited
there for some decisive movement on the part of the enemy, in order to
form his own plans. The position of the combined armies between the
frontiers of Saxony and Bavaria, left it for some time doubtful whether
they would remove the war into the former, or endeavour to drive the
Swedes from the Danube, and deliver Bavaria. Saxony had been stripped
of troops by Arnheim, who was pursuing his conquests in Silesia; not
without a secret design, it was generally supposed, of favouring the
entrance of the Duke of Friedland into that electorate, and of thus
driving the irresolute John George into peace with the Emperor.
Gustavus Adolphus himself, fully persuaded that Wallenstein's views were
directed against Saxony, hastily despatched a strong reinforcement to
the assistance of his confederate, with the intention, as soon as
circumstances would allow, of following with the main body. But the
movements of Wallenstein's army soon led him to suspect that he himself
was the object of attack; and the Duke's march through the Upper
Palatinate, placed the matter beyond a doubt. The question now was, how
to provide for his own security, and the prize was no longer his
supremacy, but his very existence. His fertile genius must now supply
the means, not of conquest, but of preservation. The approach of the
enemy had surprised him before he had time to concentrate his troops,
which were scattered all over Germany, or to summon his allies to his
aid. Too weak to meet the enemy in the field, he had no choice left,
but either to throw himself into Nuremberg, and run the risk of being
shut up in its walls, or to sacrifice that city, and await a
reinforcement under the cannon of Donauwerth. Indifferent to danger or
difficulty, while he obeyed the call of humanity or honour, he chose the
first without hesitation, firmly resolved to bury himself with his whole
army under the ruins of Nuremberg, rather than to purchase his own
safety by the sacrifice of his confederates.
Measures were immediately taken to surround the city and suburbs with
redoubts, and to form an entrenched camp. Several thousand workmen
immediately commenced this extensive work, and an heroic determination
to hazard life and property in the common cause, animated the
inhabitants of Nuremberg. A trench, eight feet deep and twelve broad,
surrounded the whole fortification; the lines were defended by redoubts
and batteries, the gates by half moons. The river Pegnitz, which flows
through Nuremberg, divided the whole camp into two semicircles, whose
communication was secured by several bridges. About three hundred
pieces of cannon defended the town-walls and the intrenchments. The
peasantry from the neighbouring villages, and the inhabitants of
Nuremberg, assisted the Swedish soldiers so zealously, that on the
seventh day the army was able to enter the camp, and, in a fortnight,
this great work was completed.
If, before the arrival of the Swedish succours, a want of provisions had
been felt, the evil was now fearfully increased to a dreadful height in
both camps, for Wallenstein had also received reinforcements from
Bavaria. Besides the 120,000 men confronted to each other, and more
than 50,000 horses, in the two armies, and besides the inhabitants of
Nuremberg, whose number far exceeded the Swedish army, there were in the
camp of Wallenstein about 15,000 women, with as many drivers, and nearly
the same number in that of the Swedes. The custom of the time permitted
the soldier to carry his family with him to the field. A number of
prostitutes followed the Imperialists; while, with the view of
preventing such excesses, Gustavus's care for the morals of his soldiers
promoted marriages. For the rising generation, who had this camp for
their home and country, regular military schools were established, which
educated a race of excellent warriors, by which means the army might in
a manner recruit itself in the course of a long campaign. No wonder,
then, if these wandering nations exhausted every territory in which they
encamped, and by their immense consumption raised the necessaries of
life to an exorbitant price. All the mills of Nuremberg were
insufficient to grind the corn required for each day; and 15,000 pounds
of bread, which were daily delivered, by the town into the Swedish camp,
excited, without allaying, the hunger of the soldiers. The laudable
exertions of the magistrates of Nuremberg could not prevent the greater
part of the horses from dying for want of forage, while the increasing
mortality in the camp consigned more than a hundred men daily to the
grave.
In the mean time, a sharp contest had taken place between the imperial
cavalry and the left wing of the Swedes, which was posted in a thicket
on the Rednitz, with varying success, but with equal intrepidity and
loss on both sides. The Duke of Friedland and Prince Bernard of Weimar
had each a horse shot under them; the king himself had the sole of his
boot carried off by a cannon ball. The combat was maintained with
undiminished obstinacy, till the approach of night separated the
combatants. But the Swedes had advanced too far to retreat without
hazard. While the king was seeking an officer to convey to the
regiments the order to retreat, he met Colonel Hepburn, a brave
Scotchman, whose native courage alone had drawn him from the camp to
share in the dangers of the day. Offended with the king for having not
long before preferred a younger officer for some post of danger, he had
rashly vowed never again to draw his sword for the king. To him
Gustavus now addressed himself, praising his courage, and requesting him
to order the regiments to retreat. "Sire," replied the brave soldier,
"it is the only service I cannot refuse to your Majesty; for it is a
hazardous one,"--and immediately hastened to carry the command. One of
the heights above the old fortress had, in the heat of the action, been
carried by the Duke of Weimar. It commanded the hills and the whole
camp. But the heavy rain which fell during the night, rendered it
impossible to draw up the cannon; and this post, which had been gained
with so much bloodshed, was also voluntarily abandoned. Diffident of
fortune, which forsook him on this decisive day, the king did not
venture the following morning to renew the attack with his exhausted
troops; and vanquished for the first time, even because he was not
victor, he led back his troops over the Rednitz. Two thousand dead
which he left behind him on the field, testified to the extent of his
loss; and the Duke of Friedland remained unconquered within his lines.
For fourteen days after this action, the two armies still continued in
front of each other, each in the hope that the other would be the first
to give way. Every day reduced their provisions, and as scarcity became
greater, the excesses of the soldiers rendered furious, exercised the
wildest outrages on the peasantry. The increasing distress broke up all
discipline and order in the Swedish camp; and the German regiments, in
particular, distinguished themselves for the ravages they practised
indiscriminately on friend and foe. The weak hand of a single
individual could not check excesses, encouraged by the silence, if not
the actual example, of the inferior officers. These shameful breaches
of discipline, on the maintenance of which he had hitherto justly prided
himself, severely pained the king; and the vehemence with which he
reproached the German officers for their negligence, bespoke the
liveliness of his emotion. "It is you yourselves, Germans," said he,
"that rob your native country, and ruin your own confederates in the
faith. As God is my judge, I abhor you, I loathe you; my heart sinks
within me whenever I look upon you. Ye break my orders; ye are the
cause that the world curses me, that the tears of poverty follow me,
that complaints ring in my ear--'The king, our friend, does us more harm
than even our worst enemies.' On your account I have stripped my own
kingdom of its treasures, and spent upon you more than 40 tons of gold;
--[A ton of gold in Sweden amounts to 100,000 rix dollars.]--while from
your German empire I have not received the least aid. I gave you a
share of all that God had given to me; and had ye regarded my orders, I
would have gladly shared with you all my future acquisitions. Your want
of discipline convinces me of your evil intentions, whatever cause I
might otherwise have to applaud your bravery."
Nuremberg had exerted itself, almost beyond its power, to subsist for
eleven weeks the vast crowd which was compressed within its boundaries;
but its means were at length exhausted, and the king's more numerous
party was obliged to determine on a retreat. By the casualties of war
and sickness, Nuremberg had lost more than 10,000 of its inhabitants,
and Gustavus Adolphus nearly 20,000 of his soldiers. The fields around
the city were trampled down, the villages lay in ashes, the plundered
peasantry lay faint and dying on the highways; foul odours infected the
air, and bad food, the exhalations from so dense a population, and so
many putrifying carcasses, together with the heat of the dog-days,
produced a desolating pestilence which raged among men and beasts, and
long after the retreat of both armies, continued to load the country
with misery and distress. Affected by the general distress, and
despairing of conquering the steady determination of the Duke of
Friedland, the king broke up his camp on the 8th September, leaving in
Nuremberg a sufficient garrison. He advanced in full order of battle
before the enemy, who remained motionless, and did not attempt in the
least to harass his retreat. His route lay by the Aisch and Windsheim
towards Neustadt, where he halted five days to refresh his troops, and
also to be near to Nuremberg, in case the enemy should make an attempt
upon the town. But Wallenstein, as exhausted as himself, had only
awaited the retreat of the Swedes to commence his own. Five days
afterwards, he broke up his camp at Zirndorf, and set it on fire. A
hundred columns of smoke, rising from all the burning villages in the
neighbourhood, announced his retreat, and showed the city the fate it
had escaped. His march, which was directed on Forchheim, was marked by
the most frightful ravages; but he was too far advanced to be overtaken
by the king. The latter now divided his army, which the exhausted
country was unable to support, and leaving one division to protect
Franconia, with the other he prosecuted in person his conquests in
Bavaria.
In the mean time, the imperial Bavarian army had marched into the
Bishopric of Bamberg, where the Duke of Friedland a second time mustered
his troops. He found this force, which so lately had amounted to 60,000
men, diminished by the sword, desertion, and disease, to about 24,000,
and of these a fourth were Bavarians. Thus had the encampments before
Nuremberg weakened both parties more than two great battles would have
done, apparently without advancing the termination of the war, or
satisfying, by any decisive result, the expectations of Europe. The
king's conquests in Bavaria, were, it is true, checked for a time by
this diversion before Nuremberg, and Austria itself secured against the
danger of immediate invasion; but by the retreat of the king from that
city, he was again left at full liberty to make Bavaria the seat of war.
Indifferent towards the fate of that country, and weary of the restraint
which his union with the Elector imposed upon him, the Duke of Friedland
eagerly seized the opportunity of separating from this burdensome
associate, and prosecuting, with renewed earnestness, his favourite
plans. Still adhering to his purpose of detaching Saxony from its
Swedish alliance, he selected that country for his winter quarters,
hoping by his destructive presence to force the Elector the more readily
into his views.
No conjuncture could be more favourable for his designs. The Saxons had
invaded Silesia, where, reinforced by troops from Brandenburgh and
Sweden, they had gained several advantages over the Emperor's troops.
Silesia would be saved by a diversion against the Elector in his own
territories, and the attempt was the more easy, as Saxony, left
undefended during the war in Silesia, lay open on every side to attack.
The pretext of rescuing from the enemy an hereditary dominion of
Austria, would silence the remonstrances of the Elector of Bavaria, and,
under the mask of a patriotic zeal for the Emperor's interests,
Maximilian might be sacrificed without much difficulty. By giving up
the rich country of Bavaria to the Swedes, he hoped to be left
unmolested by them in his enterprise against Saxony, while the
increasing coldness between Gustavus and the Saxon Court, gave him
little reason to apprehend any extraordinary zeal for the deliverance of
John George. Thus a second time abandoned by his artful protector, the
Elector separated from Wallenstein at Bamberg, to protect his
defenceless territory with the small remains of his troops, while the
imperial army, under Wallenstein, directed its march through Bayreuth
and Coburg towards the Thuringian Forest.
An imperial general, Holk, had previously been sent into Vogtland with
6,000 men, to waste this defenceless province with fire and sword, he
was soon followed by Gallas, another of the Duke's generals, and an
equally faithful instrument of his inhuman orders. Finally, Pappenheim,
too, was recalled from Lower Saxony, to reinforce the diminished army of
the duke, and to complete the miseries of the devoted country. Ruined
churches, villages in ashes, harvests wilfully destroyed, families
plundered, and murdered peasants, marked the progress of these
barbarians, under whose scourge the whole of Thuringia, Vogtland, and
Meissen, lay defenceless. Yet this was but the prelude to greater
sufferings, with which Wallenstein himself, at the head of the main
army, threatened Saxony. After having left behind him fearful monuments
of his fury, in his march through Franconia and Thuringia, he arrived
with his whole army in the Circle of Leipzig, and compelled the city,
after a short resistance, to surrender. His design was to push on to
Dresden, and by the conquest of the whole country, to prescribe laws to
the Elector. He had already approached the Mulda, threatening to
overpower the Saxon army which had advanced as far as Torgau to meet
him, when the King of Sweden's arrival at Erfurt gave an unexpected
check to his operations. Placed between the Saxon and Swedish armies,
which were likely to be farther reinforced by the troops of George, Duke
of Luneburg, from Lower Saxony, he hastily retired upon Meresberg, to
form a junction there with Count Pappenheim, and to repel the further
advance of the Swedes.
He reached Naumburg on the 1st November, 1632, before the corps, which
the Duke of Friedland had despatched for that purpose, could make itself
master of that place. The inhabitants of the surrounding country
flocked in crowds to look upon the hero, the avenger, the great king,
who, a year before, had first appeared in that quarter, like a guardian
angel. Shouts of joy everywhere attended his progress; the people knelt
before him, and struggled for the honour of touching the sheath of his
sword, or the hem of his garment. The modest hero disliked this
innocent tribute which a sincerely grateful and admiring multitude paid
him. "Is it not," said he, "as if this people would make a God of me?
Our affairs prosper, indeed; but I fear the vengeance of Heaven will
punish me for this presumption, and soon enough reveal to this deluded
multitude my human weakness and mortality!" How amiable does Gustavus
appear before us at this moment, when about to leave us for ever! Even
in the plenitude of success, he honours an avenging Nemesis, declines
that homage which is due only to the Immortal, and strengthens his title
to our tears, the nearer the moment approaches that is to call them
forth!
In the mean time, the king's right wing, led by himself, had fallen upon
the enemy's left. The first impetuous shock of the heavy Finland
cuirassiers dispersed the lightly-mounted Poles and Croats, who were
posted here, and their disorderly flight spread terror and confusion
among the rest of the cavalry. At this moment notice was brought the
king, that his infantry were retreating over the trenches, and also that
his left wing, exposed to a severe fire from the enemy's cannon posted
at the windmills was beginning to give way. With rapid decision he
committed to General Horn the pursuit of the enemy's left, while he
flew, at the head of the regiment of Steinbock, to repair the disorder
of his right wing. His noble charger bore him with the velocity of
lightning across the trenches, but the squadrons that followed could not
come on with the same speed, and only a few horsemen, among whom was
Francis Albert, Duke of Saxe Lauenburg, were able to keep up with the
king. He rode directly to the place where his infantry were most
closely pressed, and while he was reconnoitring the enemy's line for an
exposed point of attack, the shortness of his sight unfortunately led
him too close to their ranks. An imperial Gefreyter,--[A person exempt
from watching duty, nearly corresponding to the corporal.]--remarking
that every one respectfully made way for him as he rode along,
immediately ordered a musketeer to take aim at him. "Fire at him
yonder," said he, "that must be a man of consequence." The soldier
fired, and the king's left arm was shattered. At that moment his
squadron came hurrying up, and a confused cry of "the king bleeds! the
king is shot!" spread terror and consternation through all the ranks.
"It is nothing--follow me," cried the king, collecting his whole
strength; but overcome by pain, and nearly fainting, he requested the
Duke of Lauenburg, in French, to lead him unobserved out of the tumult.
While the duke proceeded towards the right wing with the king, making a
long circuit to keep this discouraging sight from the disordered
infantry, his majesty received a second shot through the back, which
deprived him of his remaining strength. "Brother," said he, with a
dying voice, "I have enough! look only to your own life." At the same
moment he fell from his horse pierced by several more shots; and
abandoned by all his attendants, he breathed his last amidst the
plundering hands of the Croats. His charger, flying without its rider,
and covered with blood, soon made known to the Swedish cavalry the fall
of their king. They rushed madly forward to rescue his sacred remains
from the hands of the enemy. A murderous conflict ensued over the body,
till his mangled remains were buried beneath a heap of slain.
The mournful tidings soon ran through the Swedish army; but instead of
destroying the courage of these brave troops, it but excited it into a
new, a wild, and consuming flame. Life had lessened in value, now that
the most sacred life of all was gone; death had no terrors for the lowly
since the anointed head was not spared. With the fury of lions the
Upland, Smaeland, Finland, East and West Gothland regiments rushed a
second time upon the left wing of the enemy, which, already making but
feeble resistance to General Horn, was now entirely beaten from the
field. Bernard, Duke of Saxe-Weimar, gave to the bereaved Swedes a
noble leader in his own person; and the spirit of Gustavus led his
victorious squadrons anew. The left wing quickly formed again, and
vigorously pressed the right of the Imperialists. The artillery at the
windmills, which had maintained so murderous a fire upon the Swedes, was
captured and turned against the enemy. The centre, also, of the Swedish
infantry, commanded by the duke and Knyphausen, advanced a second time
against the trenches, which they successfully passed, and retook the
battery of seven cannons. The attack was now renewed with redoubled
fury upon the heavy battalions of the enemy's centre; their resistance
became gradually less, and chance conspired with Swedish valour to
complete the defeat. The imperial powder-waggons took fire, and, with a
tremendous explosion, grenades and bombs filled the air. The enemy, now
in confusion, thought they were attacked in the rear, while the Swedish
brigades pressed them in front. Their courage began to fail them.
Their left wing was already beaten, their right wavering, and their
artillery in the enemy's hands. The battle seemed to be almost decided;
another moment would decide the fate of the day, when Pappenheim
appeared on the field, with his cuirassiers and dragoons; all the
advantages already gained were lost, and the battle was to be fought
anew.
The order which recalled that general to Lutzen had reached him in
Halle, while his troops were still plundering the town. It was
impossible to collect the scattered infantry with that rapidity, which
the urgency of the order, and Pappenheim's impatience required. Without
waiting for it, therefore, he ordered eight regiments of cavalry to
mount; and at their head he galloped at full speed for Lutzen, to share
in the battle. He arrived in time to witness the flight of the imperial
right wing, which Gustavus Horn was driving from the field, and to be at
first involved in their rout. But with rapid presence of mind he
rallied the flying troops, and led them once more against the enemy.
Carried away by his wild bravery, and impatient to encounter the king,
who he supposed was at the head of this wing, he burst furiously upon
the Swedish ranks, which, exhausted by victory, and inferior in numbers,
were, after a noble resistance, overpowered by this fresh body of
enemies. Pappenheim's unexpected appearance revived the drooping
courage of the Imperialists, and the Duke of Friedland quickly availed
himself of the favourable moment to re-form his line. The closely
serried battalions of the Swedes were, after a tremendous conflict,
again driven across the trenches; and the battery, which had been twice
lost, again rescued from their hands. The whole yellow regiment, the
finest of all that distinguished themselves in this dreadful day, lay
dead on the field, covering the ground almost in the same excellent
order which, when alive, they maintained with such unyielding courage.
The same fate befel another regiment of Blues, which Count Piccolomini
attacked with the imperial cavalry, and cut down after a desperate
contest. Seven times did this intrepid general renew the attack; seven
horses were shot under him, and he himself was pierced with six musket
balls; yet he would not leave the field, until he was carried along in
the general rout of the whole army. Wallenstein himself was seen riding
through his ranks with cool intrepidity, amidst a shower of balls,
assisting the distressed, encouraging the valiant with praise, and the
wavering by his fearful glance. Around and close by him his men were
falling thick, and his own mantle was perforated by several shots. But
avenging destiny this day protected that breast, for which another
weapon was reserved; on the same field where the noble Gustavus expired,
Wallenstein was not allowed to terminate his guilty career.
Less fortunate was Pappenheim, the Telamon of the army, the bravest
soldier of Austria and the church. An ardent desire to encounter the
king in person, carried this daring leader into the thickest of the
fight, where he thought his noble opponent was most surely to be met.
Gustavus had also expressed a wish to meet his brave antagonist, but
these hostile wishes remained ungratified; death first brought together
these two great heroes. Two musket-balls pierced the breast of
Pappenheim; and his men forcibly carried him from the field. While they
were conveying him to the rear, a murmur reached him, that he whom he
had sought, lay dead upon the plain. When the truth of the report was
confirmed to him, his look became brighter, his dying eye sparkled with
a last gleam of joy. "Tell the Duke of Friedland," said he, "that I lie
without hope of life, but that I die happy, since I know that the
implacable enemy of my religion has fallen on the same day."
The artillery on both sides, as the horses could not be found, remained
all night upon the field, at once the reward and the evidence of victory
to him who should hold it. Wallenstein, in his haste to leave Leipzig
and Saxony, forgot to remove his part. Not long after the battle was
ended, Pappenheim's infantry, who had been unable to follow the rapid
movements of their general, and who amounted to six regiments, marched
on the field, but the work was done. A few hours earlier, so
considerable a reinforcement would perhaps have decided the day in
favour of the Imperialists; and, even now, by remaining on the field,
they might have saved the duke's artillery, and made a prize of that of
the Swedes. But they had received no orders to act; and, uncertain as
to the issue of the battle, they retired to Leipzig, where they hoped to
join the main body.
The Duke of Friedland had retreated thither, and was followed on the
morrow by the scattered remains of his army, without artillery, without
colours, and almost without arms. The Duke of Weimar, it appears, after
the toils of this bloody day, allowed the Swedish army some repose,
between Lutzen and Weissenfels, near enough to the field of battle to
oppose any attempt the enemy might make to recover it. Of the two
armies, more than 9,000 men lay dead; a still greater number were
wounded, and among the Imperialists, scarcely a man escaped from the
field uninjured. The entire plain from Lutzen to the Canal was strewed
with the wounded, the dying, and the dead. Many of the principal
nobility had fallen on both sides. Even the Abbot of Fulda, who had
mingled in the combat as a spectator, paid for his curiosity and his
ill-timed zeal with his life. History says nothing of prisoners; a
further proof of the animosity of the combatants, who neither gave nor
took quarter.
Though Te Deum, in all Spanish and Austrian lands, was sung in honour of
a victory, Wallenstein himself, by the haste with which he quitted
Leipzig, and soon after all Saxony, and by renouncing his original
design of fixing there his winter quarters, openly confessed his defeat.
It is true he made one more feeble attempt to dispute, even in his
flight, the honour of victory, by sending out his Croats next morning to
the field; but the sight of the Swedish army drawn up in order of
battle, immediately dispersed these flying bands, and Duke Bernard, by
keeping possession of the field, and soon after by the capture of
Leipzig, maintained indisputably his claim to the title of victor.
But it was a dear conquest, a dearer triumph! It was not till the fury
of the contest was over, that the full weight of the loss sustained was
felt, and the shout of triumph died away into a silent gloom of despair.
He, who had led them to the charge, returned not with them; there he lay
upon the field which he had won, mingled with the dead bodies of the
common crowd. After a long and almost fruitless search, the corpse of
the king was discovered, not far from the great stone, which, for a
hundred years before, had stood between Lutzen and the Canal, and which,
from the memorable disaster of that day, still bears the name of the
Stone of the Swede. Covered with blood and wounds, so as scarcely to be
recognised, trampled beneath the horses' hoofs, stripped by the rude
hands of plunderers of its ornaments and clothes, his body was drawn
from beneath a heap of dead, conveyed to Weissenfels, and there
delivered up to the lamentations of his soldiers, and the last embraces
of his queen. The first tribute had been paid to revenge, and blood had
atoned for the blood of the monarch; but now affection assumes its
rights, and tears of grief must flow for the man. The universal sorrow
absorbs all individual woes. The generals, still stupefied by the
unexpected blow, stood speechless and motionless around his bier, and no
one trusted himself enough to contemplate the full extent of their loss.
Book IV.
But how was this union to be renewed? and whence were to be derived the
necessary means for continuing the war? It was not the power of Sweden,
but the talents and personal influence of its late king, which had given
him so overwhelming an influence in Germany, so great a command over the
minds of men; and even he had innumerable difficulties to overcome,
before he could establish among the states even a weak and wavering
alliance. With his death vanished all, which his personal qualities
alone had rendered practicable; and the mutual obligation of the states
seemed to cease with the hopes on which it had been founded. Several
impatiently threw off the yoke which had always been irksome; others
hastened to seize the helm which they had unwillingly seen in the hands
of Gustavus, but which, during his lifetime, they did not dare to
dispute with him. Some were tempted, by the seductive promises of the
Emperor, to abandon the alliance; others, oppressed by the heavy burdens
of a fourteen years' war, longed for the repose of peace, upon any
conditions, however ruinous. The generals of the army, partly German
princes, acknowledged no common head, and no one would stoop to receive
orders from another. Unanimity vanished alike from the cabinet and the
field, and their common weal was threatened with ruin, by the spirit of
disunion.
Gustavus had left no male heir to the crown of Sweden: his daughter
Christina, then six years old, was the natural heir. The unavoidable
weakness of a regency, suited ill with that energy and resolution, which
Sweden would be called upon to display in this trying conjuncture. The
wide reaching mind of Gustavus Adolphus had raised this unimportant, and
hitherto unknown kingdom, to a rank among the powers of Europe, which it
could not retain without the fortune and genius of its author, and from
which it could not recede, without a humiliating confession of weakness.
Though the German war had been conducted chiefly on the resources of
Germany, yet even the small contribution of men and money, which Sweden
furnished, had sufficed to exhaust the finances of that poor kingdom,
and the peasantry groaned beneath the imposts necessarily laid upon
them. The plunder gained in Germany enriched only a few individuals,
among the nobles and the soldiers, while Sweden itself remained poor as
before. For a time, it is true, the national glory reconciled the
subject to these burdens, and the sums exacted, seemed but as a loan
placed at interest, in the fortunate hand of Gustavus Adolphus, to be
richly repaid by the grateful monarch at the conclusion of a glorious
peace. But with the king's death this hope vanished, and the deluded
people now loudly demanded relief from their burdens.
But the spirit of Gustavus Adolphus still lived in the men to whom he
had confided the administration of the kingdom. However dreadful to
them, and unexpected, was the intelligence of his death, it did not
deprive them of their manly courage; and the spirit of ancient Rome,
under the invasion of Brennus and Hannibal, animated this noble
assembly. The greater the price, at which these hard-gained advantages
had been purchased, the less readily could they reconcile themselves to
renounce them: not unrevenged was a king to be sacrificed. Called on
to choose between a doubtful and exhausting war, and a profitable but
disgraceful peace, the Swedish council of state boldly espoused the side
of danger and honour; and with agreeable surprise, men beheld this
venerable senate acting with all the energy and enthusiasm of youth.
Surrounded with watchful enemies, both within and without, and
threatened on every side with danger, they armed themselves against them
all, with equal prudence and heroism, and laboured to extend their
kingdom, even at the moment when they had to struggle for its existence.
The decease of the king, and the minority of his daughter Christina,
renewed the claims of Poland to the Swedish throne; and King Ladislaus,
the son of Sigismund, spared no intrigues to gain a party in Sweden. On
this ground, the regency lost no time in proclaiming the young queen,
and arranging the administration of the regency. All the officers of
the kingdom were summoned to do homage to their new princess; all
correspondence with Poland prohibited, and the edicts of previous
monarchs against the heirs of Sigismund, confirmed by a solemn act of
the nation. The alliance with the Czar of Muscovy was carefully
renewed, in order, by the arms of this prince, to keep the hostile Poles
in check. The death of Gustavus Adolphus had put an end to the jealousy
of Denmark, and removed the grounds of alarm which had stood in the way
of a good understanding between the two states. The representations by
which the enemy sought to stir up Christian IV. against Sweden were no
longer listened to; and the strong wish the Danish monarch entertained
for the marriage of his son Ulrick with the young princess, combined,
with the dictates of a sounder policy, to incline him to a neutrality.
At the same time, England, Holland, and France came forward with the
gratifying assurances to the regency of continued friendship and
support, and encouraged them, with one voice, to prosecute with activity
the war, which hitherto had been conducted with so much glory. Whatever
reason France might have to congratulate itself on the death of the
Swedish conqueror, it was as fully sensible of the expediency of
maintaining the alliance with Sweden. Without exposing itself to great
danger, it could not allow the power of Sweden to sink in Germany. Want
of resources of its own, would either drive Sweden to conclude a hasty
and disadvantageous peace with Austria, and then all the past efforts to
lower the ascendancy of this dangerous power would be thrown away; or
necessity and despair would drive the armies to extort from the Roman
Catholic states the means of support, and France would then be regarded
as the betrayer of those very states, who had placed themselves under
her powerful protection. The death of Gustavus, far from breaking up
the alliance between France and Sweden, had only rendered it more
necessary for both, and more profitable for France. Now, for the first
time, since he was dead who had stretched his protecting arm over
Germany, and guarded its frontiers against the encroaching designs of
France, could the latter safely pursue its designs upon Alsace, and thus
be enabled to sell its aid to the German Protestants at a dearer rate.
Before these measures could be taken, and the necessary points settled
between the regency and their minister, a precious opportunity of action
would, it is true, be lost to the Swedish army, of which the enemy would
be sure to take the utmost advantage. It was, in short, in the power of
the Emperor totally to ruin the Swedish interest in Germany, and to this
he was actually invited by the prudent councils of the Duke of
Friedland. Wallenstein advised him to proclaim a universal amnesty, and
to meet the Protestant states with favourable conditions. In the first
consternation produced by the fall of Gustavus Adolphus, such a
declaration would have had the most powerful effects, and probably would
have brought the wavering states back to their allegiance. But blinded
by this unexpected turn of fortune, and infatuated by Spanish counsels,
he anticipated a more brilliant issue from war, and, instead of
listening to these propositions of an accommodation, he hastened to
augment his forces. Spain, enriched by the grant of the tenth of the
ecclesiastical possessions, which the pope confirmed, sent him
considerable supplies, negociated for him at the Saxon court, and
hastily levied troops for him in Italy to be employed in Germany. The
Elector of Bavaria also considerably increased his military force; and
the restless disposition of the Duke of Lorraine did not permit him to
remain inactive in this favourable change of fortune. But while the
enemy were thus busy to profit by the disaster of Sweden, Oxenstiern was
diligent to avert its most fatal consequences.
As the Bavarians were too powerful on the Danube, the assembly of the
four Upper Circles, which should have been held at Ulm, was removed to
Heilbronn, where deputies of more than twelve cities of the empire, with
a brilliant crowd of doctors, counts, and princes, attended. The
ambassadors of foreign powers likewise, France, England, and Holland,
attended this Congress, at which Oxenstiern appeared in person, with all
the splendour of the crown whose representative he was. He himself
opened the proceedings, and conducted the deliberations. After
receiving from all the assembled estates assurances of unshaken
fidelity, perseverance, and unity, he required of them solemnly and
formally to declare the Emperor and the league as enemies. But
desirable as it was for Sweden to exasperate the ill-feeling between the
emperor and the estates into a formal rupture, the latter, on the other
hand, were equally indisposed to shut out the possibility of
reconciliation, by so decided a step, and to place themselves entirely
in the hands of the Swedes. They maintained, that any formal
declaration of war was useless and superfluous, where the act would
speak for itself, and their firmness on this point silenced at last the
chancellor. Warmer disputes arose on the third and principal article of
the treaty, concerning the means of prosecuting the war, and the quota
which the several states ought to furnish for the support of the army.
Oxenstiern's maxim, to throw as much as possible of the common burden on
the states, did not suit very well with their determination to give as
little as possible. The Swedish chancellor now experienced, what had
been felt by thirty emperors before him, to their cost, that of all
difficult undertakings, the most difficult was to extort money from the
Germans. Instead of granting the necessary sums for the new armies to
be raised, they eloquently dwelt upon the calamities occasioned by the
former, and demanded relief from the old burdens, when they were
required to submit to new. The irritation which the chancellor's demand
for money raised among the states, gave rise to a thousand complaints;
and the outrages committed by the troops, in their marches and quarters,
were dwelt upon with a startling minuteness and truth.
In the service of two absolute monarchs, Oxenstiern had but little
opportunity to become accustomed to the formalities and cautious
proceedings of republican deliberations, or to bear opposition with
patience. Ready to act, the instant the necessity of action was
apparent, and inflexible in his resolution, when he had once taken it,
he was at a loss to comprehend the inconsistency of most men, who, while
they desire the end, are yet averse to the means. Prompt and impetuous
by nature, he was so on this occasion from principle; for every thing
depended on concealing the weakness of Sweden, under a firm and
confident speech, and by assuming the tone of a lawgiver, really to
become so. It was nothing wonderful, therefore, if, amidst these
interminable discussions with German doctors and deputies, he was
entirely out of his sphere, and if the deliberateness which
distinguishes the character of the Germans in their public
deliberations, had driven him almost to despair. Without respecting a
custom, to which even the most powerful of the emperors had been obliged
to conform, he rejected all written deliberations which suited so well
with the national slowness of resolve. He could not conceive how ten
days could be spent in debating a measure, which with himself was
decided upon its bare suggestion. Harshly, however, as he treated the
States, he found them ready enough to assent to his fourth motion, which
concerned himself. When he pointed out the necessity of giving a head
and a director to the new confederation, that honour was unanimously
assigned to Sweden, and he himself was humbly requested to give to the
common cause the benefit of his enlightened experience, and to take upon
himself the burden of the supreme command. But in order to prevent his
abusing the great powers thus conferred upon him, it was proposed, not
without French influence, to appoint a number of overseers, in fact,
under the name of assistants, to control the expenditure of the common
treasure, and to consult with him as to the levies, marches, and
quarterings of the troops. Oxenstiern long and strenuously resisted
this limitation of his authority, which could not fail to trammel him in
the execution of every enterprise requiring promptitude or secrecy, and
at last succeeded, with difficulty, in obtaining so far a modification
of it, that his management in affairs of war was to be uncontrolled.
The chancellor finally approached the delicate point of the
indemnification which Sweden was to expect at the conclusion of the war,
from the gratitude of the allies, and flattered himself with the hope
that Pomerania, the main object of Sweden, would be assigned to her, and
that he would obtain from the provinces, assurances of effectual
cooperation in its acquisition. But he could obtain nothing more than a
vague assurance, that in a general peace the interests of all parties
would be attended to. That on this point, the caution of the estates
was not owing to any regard for the constitution of the empire, became
manifest from the liberality they evinced towards the chancellor, at the
expense of the most sacred laws of the empire. They were ready to grant
him the archbishopric of Mentz, (which he already held as a conquest,)
and only with difficulty did the French ambassador succeed in preventing
a step, which was as impolitic as it was disgraceful. Though on the
whole, the result of the congress had fallen far short of Oxenstiern's
expectations, he had at least gained for himself and his crown his main
object, namely, the direction of the whole confederacy; he had also
succeeded in strengthening the bond of union between the four upper
circles, and obtained from the states a yearly contribution of two
millions and a half of dollars, for the maintenance of the army.
These concessions on the part of the States, demanded some return from
Sweden. A few weeks after the death of Gustavus Adolphus, sorrow ended
the days of the unfortunate Elector Palatine. For eight months he had
swelled the pomp of his protector's court, and expended on it the small
remainder of his patrimony. He was, at last, approaching the goal of
his wishes, and the prospect of a brighter future was opening, when
death deprived him of his protector. But what he regarded as the
greatest calamity, was highly favourable to his heirs. Gustavus might
venture to delay the restoration of his dominions, or to load the gift
with hard conditions; but Oxenstiern, to whom the friendship of England,
Holland, and Brandenburg, and the good opinion of the Reformed States
were indispensable, felt the necessity of immediately fulfilling the
obligations of justice. At this assembly, at Heilbronn, therefore, he
engaged to surrender to Frederick's heirs the whole Palatinate, both the
part already conquered, and that which remained to be conquered, with
the exception of Manheim, which the Swedes were to hold, until they
should be indemnified for their expenses. The Chancellor did not
confine his liberality to the family of the Palatine alone; the other
allied princes received proofs, though at a later period, of the
gratitude of Sweden, which, however, she dispensed at little cost to
herself.
The conquests on the Lech and the Danube, during Gustavus's expedition
into Saxony, had been maintained by the Palatine of Birkenfeld, and the
Swedish General Banner, against the Bavarians; but unable to hold their
ground against the victorious progress of the latter, supported as they
were by the bravery and military experience of the Imperial General
Altringer, they were under the necessity of summoning the Swedish
General Horn to their assistance, from Alsace. This experienced general
having captured the towns of Benfeld, Schlettstadt, Colmar, and Hagenau,
committed the defence of them to the Rhinegrave Otto Louis, and hastily
crossed the Rhine to form a junction with Banner's army. But although
the combined force amounted to more than 16,000, they could not prevent
the enemy from obtaining a strong position on the Swabian frontier,
taking Kempten, and being joined by seven regiments from Bohemia. In
order to retain the command of the important banks of the Lech and the
Danube, they were under the necessity of recalling the Rhinegrave Otto
Louis from Alsace, where he had, after the departure of Horn, found it
difficult to defend himself against the exasperated peasantry. With his
army, he was now summoned to strengthen the army on the Danube; and as
even this reinforcement was insufficient, Duke Bernard of Weimar was
earnestly pressed to turn his arms into this quarter.
Duke Bernard, soon after the opening of the campaign of 1633, had made
himself master of the town and territory of Bamberg, and was now
threatening Wurtzburg. But on receiving the summons of General Horn,
without delay he began his march towards the Danube, defeated on his way
a Bavarian army under John de Werth, and joined the Swedes near
Donauwerth. This numerous force, commanded by excellent generals, now
threatened Bavaria with a fearful inroad. The bishopric of Eichstadt
was completely overrun, and Ingoldstadt was on the point of being
delivered up by treachery to the Swedes. Altringer, fettered in his
movements by the express order of the Duke of Friedland, and left
without assistance from Bohemia, was unable to check the progress of the
enemy. The most favourable circumstances combined to further the
progress of the Swedish arms in this quarter, when the operations of the
army were at once stopped by a mutiny among the officers.
All the previous successes in Germany were owing altogether to arms; the
greatness of Gustavus himself was the work of the army, the fruit of
their discipline, their bravery, and their persevering courage under
numberless dangers and privations. However wisely his plans were laid
in the cabinet, it was to the army ultimately that he was indebted for
their execution; and the expanding designs of the general did but
continually impose new burdens on the soldiers. All the decisive
advantages of the war, had been violently gained by a barbarous
sacrifice of the soldiers' lives in winter campaigns, forced marches,
stormings, and pitched battles; for it was Gustavus's maxim never to
decline a battle, so long as it cost him nothing but men. The soldiers
could not long be kept ignorant of their own importance, and they justly
demanded a share in the spoil which had been won by their own blood.
Yet, frequently, they hardly received their pay; and the rapacity of
individual generals, or the wants of the state, generally swallowed up
the greater part of the sums raised by contributions, or levied upon the
conquered provinces. For all the privations he endured, the soldier had
no other recompense than the doubtful chance either of plunder or
promotion, in both of which he was often disappointed. During the
lifetime of Gustavus Adolphus, the combined influence of fear and hope
had suppressed any open complaint, but after his death, the murmurs were
loud and universal; and the soldiery seized the most dangerous moment to
impress their superiors with a sense of their importance. Two officers,
Pfuhl and Mitschefal, notorious as restless characters, even during the
King's life, set the example in the camp on the Danube, which in a few
days was imitated by almost all the officers of the army. They solemnly
bound themselves to obey no orders, till these arrears, now outstanding
for months, and even years, should be paid up, and a gratuity, either in
money or lands, made to each man, according to his services. "Immense
sums," they said, "were daily raised by contributions, and all
dissipated by a few. They were called out to serve amidst frost and
snow, and no reward requited their incessant labours. The soldiers'
excesses at Heilbronn had been blamed, but no one ever talked of their
services. The world rung with the tidings of conquests and victories,
but it was by their hands that they had been fought and won."
The number of the malcontents daily increased; and they even attempted
by letters, (which were fortunately intercepted,) to seduce the armies
on the Rhine and in Saxony. Neither the representations of Bernard of
Weimar, nor the stern reproaches of his harsher associate in command,
could suppress this mutiny, while the vehemence of Horn seemed only to
increase the insolence of the insurgents. The conditions they insisted
on, were that certain towns should be assigned to each regiment for the
payment of arrears. Four weeks were allowed to the Swedish Chancellor
to comply with these demands; and in case of refusal, they announced
that they would pay themselves, and never more draw a sword for Sweden.
These pressing demands, made at the very time when the military chest
was exhausted, and credit at a low ebb, greatly embarrassed the
chancellor. The remedy, he saw, must be found quickly, before the
contagion should spread to the other troops, and he should be deserted
by all his armies at once. Among all the Swedish generals, there was
only one of sufficient authority and influence with the soldiers to put
an end to this dispute. The Duke of Weimar was the favourite of the
army, and his prudent moderation had won the good-will of the soldiers,
while his military experience had excited their admiration. He now
undertook the task of appeasing the discontented troops; but, aware of
his importance, he embraced the opportunity to make advantageous
stipulations for himself, and to make the embarrassment of the
chancellor subservient to his own views.
Gustavus Adolphus had flattered him with the promise of the Duchy of
Franconia, to be formed out of the Bishoprics of Wurtzburg and Bamberg,
and he now insisted on the performance of this pledge. He at the same
time demanded the chief command, as generalissimo of Sweden. The abuse
which the Duke of Weimar thus made of his influence, so irritated
Oxenstiern, that, in the first moment of his displeasure, he gave him
his dismissal from the Swedish service. But he soon thought better of
it, and determined, instead of sacrificing so important a leader, to
attach him to the Swedish interests at any cost. He therefore granted
to him the Franconian bishoprics, as a fief of the Swedish crown,
reserving, however, the two fortresses of Wurtzburg and Koenigshofen,
which were to be garrisoned by the Swedes; and also engaged, in name of
the Swedish crown, to secure these territories to the duke. His demand
of the supreme authority was evaded on some specious pretext. The duke
did not delay to display his gratitude for this valuable grant, and by
his influence and activity soon restored tranquillity to the army.
Large sums of money, and still more extensive estates, were divided
among the officers, amounting in value to about five millions of
dollars, and to which they had no other right but that of conquest. In
the mean time, however, the opportunity for a great undertaking had been
lost, and the united generals divided their forces to oppose the enemy
in other quarters.
Gustavus Horn, after a short inroad into the Upper Palatinate, and the
capture of Neumark, directed his march towards the Swabian frontier,
where the Imperialists, strongly reinforced, threatened Wuertemberg. At
his approach, the enemy retired to the Lake of Constance, but only to
show the Swedes the road into a district hitherto unvisited by war. A
post on the entrance to Switzerland, would be highly serviceable to the
Swedes, and the town of Kostnitz seemed peculiarly well fitted to be a
point of communication between him and the confederated cantons.
Accordingly, Gustavus Horn immediately commenced the siege of it; but
destitute of artillery, for which he was obliged to send to Wirtemberg,
he could not press the attack with sufficient vigour, to prevent the
enemy from throwing supplies into the town, which the lake afforded them
convenient opportunity of doing. He, therefore, after an ineffectual
attempt, quitted the place and its neighbourhood, and hastened to meet a
more threatening danger upon the Danube.
The latter had taken the route across the Danube into Swabia, where
Gustavus Horn came so close upon them, that the two armies were only
separated from each other by half a German mile. But, instead of
accepting the offer of battle, the Imperialists moved by the Forest
towns towards Briesgau and Alsace, where they arrived in time to relieve
Breysack, and to arrest the victorious progress of the Rhinegrave, Otto
Louis. The latter had, shortly before, taken the Forest towns, and,
supported by the Palatine of Birkenfeld, who had liberated the Lower
Palatinate and beaten the Duke of Lorraine out of the field, had once
more given the superiority to the Swedish arms in that quarter. He was
now forced to retire before the superior numbers of the enemy; but Horn
and Birkenfeld quickly advanced to his support, and the Imperialists,
after a brief triumph, were again expelled from Alsace. The severity of
the autumn, in which this hapless retreat had to be conducted, proved
fatal to most of the Italians; and their leader, the Duke of Feria, died
of grief at the failure of his enterprise.
In the mean time, Duke Bernard of Weimar had taken up his position on
the Danube, with eighteen regiments of infantry and 140 squadrons of
horse, to cover Franconia, and to watch the movements of the
Imperial-Bavarian army upon that river. No sooner had Altringer
departed, to join the Italians under Feria, than Bernard, profiting by
his absence, hastened across the Danube, and with the rapidity of
lightning appeared before Ratisbon. The possession of this town would
ensure the success of the Swedish designs upon Bavaria and Austria; it
would establish them firmly on the Danube, and provide a safe refuge in
case of defeat, while it alone could give permanence to their conquests
in that quarter. To defend Ratisbon, was the urgent advice which the
dying Tilly left to the Elector; and Gustavus Adolphus had lamented it
as an irreparable loss, that the Bavarians had anticipated him in taking
possession of this place. Indescribable, therefore, was the
consternation of Maximilian, when Duke Bernard suddenly appeared before
the town, and prepared in earnest to besiege it.
His army amounted to 40,000 men, while to oppose him the allies had only
24,000. They nevertheless resolved to give him battle, and marched to
Munsterberg, where he had formed an intrenched camp. But Wallenstein
remained inactive for eight days; he then left his intrenchments, and
marched slowly and with composure to the enemy's camp. But even after
quitting his position, and when the enemy, emboldened by his past delay,
manfully prepared to receive him, he declined the opportunity of
fighting. The caution with which he avoided a battle was imputed to
fear; but the well-established reputation of Wallenstein enabled him to
despise this suspicion. The vanity of the allies allowed them not to
see that he purposely saved them a defeat, because a victory at that
time would not have served his own ends. To convince them of his
superior power, and that his inactivity proceeded not from any fear of
them, he put to death the commander of a castle that fell into his
hands, because he had refused at once to surrender an untenable place.
For nine days, did the two armies remain within musket-shot of each
other, when Count Terzky, from the camp of the Imperialists, appeared
with a trumpeter in that of the allies, inviting General Arnheim to a
conference. The purport was, that Wallenstein, notwithstanding his
superiority, was willing to agree to a cessation of arms for six weeks.
"He was come," he said, "to conclude a lasting peace with the Swedes,
and with the princes of the empire, to pay the soldiers, and to satisfy
every one. All this was in his power; and if the Austrian court
hesitated to confirm his agreement, he would unite with the allies, and
(as he privately whispered to Arnheim) hunt the Emperor to the devil."
At the second conference, he expressed himself still more plainly to
Count Thurn. "All the privileges of the Bohemians," he engaged, "should
be confirmed anew, the exiles recalled and restored to their estates,
and he himself would be the first to resign his share of them. The
Jesuits, as the authors of all past grievances, should be banished, the
Swedish crown indemnified by stated payments, and all the superfluous
troops on both sides employed against the Turks." The last article
explained the whole mystery. "If," he continued, "HE should obtain the
crown of Bohemia, all the exiles would have reason to applaud his
generosity; perfect toleration of religions should be established within
the kingdom, the Palatine family be reinstated in its rights, and he
would accept the Margraviate of Moravia as a compensation for
Mecklenburg. The allied armies would then, under his command, advance
upon Vienna, and sword in hand, compel the Emperor to ratify the
treaty."
Thus was the veil at last removed from the schemes, over which he had
brooded for years in mysterious silence. Every circumstance now
convinced him that not a moment was to be lost in its execution.
Nothing but a blind confidence in the good fortune and military genius
of the Duke of Friedland, had induced the Emperor, in the face of the
remonstrances of Bavaria and Spain, and at the expense of his own
reputation, to confer upon this imperious leader such an unlimited
command. But this belief in Wallenstein's being invincible, had been
much weakened by his inaction, and almost entirely overthrown by the
defeat at Lutzen. His enemies at the imperial court now renewed their
intrigues; and the Emperor's disappointment at the failure of his hopes,
procured for their remonstrances a favourable reception. Wallenstein's
whole conduct was now reviewed with the most malicious criticism; his
ambitious haughtiness, his disobedience to the Emperor's orders, were
recalled to the recollection of that jealous prince, as well as the
complaints of the Austrian subjects against his boundless oppression;
his fidelity was questioned, and alarming hints thrown out as to his
secret views. These insinuations, which the conduct of the duke seemed
but too well to justify, failed not to make a deep impression on
Ferdinand; but the step had been taken, and the great power with which
Wallenstein had been invested, could not be taken from him without
danger. Insensibly to diminish that power, was the only course that now
remained, and, to effect this, it must in the first place be divided;
but, above all, the Emperor's present dependence on the good will of his
general put an end to. But even this right had been resigned in his
engagement with Wallenstein, and the Emperor's own handwriting secured
him against every attempt to unite another general with him in the
command, or to exercise any immediate act of authority over the troops.
As this disadvantageous contract could neither be kept nor broken,
recourse was had to artifice. Wallenstein was Imperial Generalissimo in
Germany, but his command extended no further, and he could not presume
to exercise any authority over a foreign army. A Spanish army was
accordingly raised in Milan, and marched into Germany under a Spanish
general. Wallenstein now ceased to be indispensable because he was no
longer supreme, and in case of necessity, the Emperor was now provided
with the means of support even against him.
The duke quickly and deeply felt whence this blow came, and whither it
was aimed. In vain did he protest against this violation of the
compact, to the Cardinal Infante; the Italian army continued its march,
and he was forced to detach General Altringer to join it with a
reinforcement. He took care, indeed, so closely to fetter the latter,
as to prevent the Italian army from acquiring any great reputation in
Alsace and Swabia; but this bold step of the court awakened him from his
security, and warned him of the approach of danger. That he might not a
second time be deprived of his command, and lose the fruit of all his
labours, he must accelerate the accomplishment of his long meditated
designs. He secured the attachment of his troops by removing the
doubtful officers, and by his liberality to the rest. He had sacrificed
to the welfare of the army every other order in the state, every
consideration of justice and humanity, and therefore he reckoned upon
their gratitude. At the very moment when he meditated an unparalleled
act of ingratitude against the author of his own good fortune, he
founded all his hopes upon the gratitude which was due to himself.
But it was this excessive caution to secure himself on all sides, that
led to his ruin. The French ambassador with astonishment discovered
that a plan, which, more than any other, required secrecy, had been
communicated to the Swedes and the Saxons. And yet it was generally
known that the Saxon ministry was in the interests of the Emperor, and
on the other hand, the conditions offered to the Swedes fell too far
short of their expectations to be likely to be accepted. Feuquieres,
therefore, could not believe that the duke could be serious in
calculating upon the aid of the latter, and the silence of the former.
He communicated accordingly his doubts and anxieties to the Swedish
chancellor, who equally distrusted the views of Wallenstein, and
disliked his plans. Although it was no secret to Oxenstiern, that the
duke had formerly entered into a similar negociation with Gustavus
Adolphus, he could not credit the possibility of inducing a whole army
to revolt, and of his extravagant promises. So daring a design, and
such imprudent conduct, seemed not to be consistent with the duke's
reserved and suspicious temper, and he was the more inclined to consider
the whole as the result of dissimulation and treachery, because he had
less reason to doubt his prudence than his honesty.
The Emperor's authoritative and direct interference with the army, soon
convinced the Duke that the compact with himself was regarded as at an
end, and that his dismissal was inevitable. One of his inferior
generals in Austria, whom he had forbidden, under pain of death, to obey
the orders of the court, received the positive commands of the Emperor
to join the Elector of Bavaria; and Wallenstein himself was imperiously
ordered to send some regiments to reinforce the army of the Cardinal
Infante, who was on his march from Italy. All these measures convinced
him that the plan was finally arranged to disarm him by degrees, and at
once, when he was weak and defenceless, to complete his ruin.
But what was known to these three confidants of the duke, was long an
impenetrable secret to the rest; and the confidence with which
Wallenstein spoke of the devotion of his officers, was founded merely on
the favours he had lavished on them, and on their known dissatisfaction
with the Court. But this vague presumption must be converted into
certainty, before he could venture to lay aside the mask, or take any
open step against the Emperor. Count Piccolomini, who had distinguished
himself by his unparalleled bravery at Lutzen, was the first whose
fidelity he put to the proof. He had, he thought, gained the attachment
of this general by large presents, and preferred him to all others,
because born under the same constellations with himself. He disclosed
to him, that, in consequence of the Emperor's ingratitude, and the near
approach of his own danger, he had irrevocably determined entirely to
abandon the party of Austria, to join the enemy with the best part of
his army, and to make war upon the House of Austria, on all sides of its
dominions, till he had wholly extirpated it. In the execution of this
plan, he principally reckoned on the services of Piccolomini, and had
beforehand promised him the greatest rewards. When the latter, to
conceal his amazement at this extraordinary communication, spoke of the
dangers and obstacles which would oppose so hazardous an enterprise,
Wallenstein ridiculed his fears. "In such enterprises," he maintained,
"nothing was difficult but the commencement. The stars were propitious
to him, the opportunity the best that could be wished for, and something
must always be trusted to fortune. His resolution was taken, and if it
could not be otherwise, he would encounter the hazard at the head of a
thousand horse." Piccolomini was careful not to excite Wallenstein's
suspicions by longer opposition, and yielded apparently to the force of
his reasoning. Such was the infatuation of the Duke, that
notwithstanding the warnings of Count Terzky, he never doubted the
sincerity of this man, who lost not a moment in communicating to the
court at Vienna this important conversation.
A universal cry, that they would not allow their general to be taken
from them, interrupted the speaker. Four of the principal officers were
deputed to lay before him the wish of the assembly, and earnestly to
request that he would not leave the army. The duke made a show of
resistance, and only yielded after the second deputation. This
concession on his side, seemed to demand a return on theirs; as he
engaged not to quit the service without the knowledge and consent of the
generals, he required of them, on the other hand, a written promise to
truly and firmly adhere to him, neither to separate nor to allow
themselves to be separated from him, and to shed their last drop of
blood in his defence. Whoever should break this covenant, was to be
regarded as a perfidious traitor, and treated by the rest as a common
enemy. The express condition which was added, "AS LONG AS WALLENSTEIN
SHALL EMPLOY THE ARMY IN THE EMPEROR'S SERVICE," seemed to exclude all
misconception, and none of the assembled generals hesitated at once to
accede to a demand, apparently so innocent and so reasonable.
Wallenstein had now effected his purpose; but the unexpected resistance
he had met with from the commanders roused him at last from the fond
illusions in which he had hitherto indulged. Besides, most of the names
were scrawled so illegibly, that some deceit was evidently intended.
But instead of being recalled to his discretion by this warning, he gave
vent to his injured pride in undignified complaints and reproaches. He
assembled the generals the next day, and undertook personally to confirm
the whole tenor of the agreement which Illo had submitted to them the
day before. After pouring out the bitterest reproaches and abuse
against the court, he reminded them of their opposition to the
proposition of the previous day, and declared that this circumstance had
induced him to retract his own promise. The generals withdrew in
silence and confusion; but after a short consultation in the
antichamber, they returned to apologize for their late conduct, and
offered to sign the paper anew.
Nothing now remained, but to obtain a similar assurance from the absent
generals, or, on their refusal, to seize their persons. Wallenstein
renewed his invitation to them, and earnestly urged them to hasten their
arrival. But a rumour of the doings at Pilsen reached them on their
journey, and suddenly stopped their further progress. Altringer, on
pretence of sickness, remained in the strong fortress of Frauenberg.
Gallas made his appearance, but merely with the design of better
qualifying himself as an eyewitness, to keep the Emperor informed of all
Wallenstein's proceedings. The intelligence which he and Piccolomini
gave, at once converted the suspicions of the court into an alarming
certainty. Similar disclosures, which were at the same time made from
other quarters, left no room for farther doubt; and the sudden change of
the commanders in Austria and Silesia, appeared to be the prelude to
some important enterprise. The danger was pressing, and the remedy must
be speedy, but the court was unwilling to proceed at once to the
execution of the sentence, till the regular forms of justice were
complied with. Secret instructions were therefore issued to the
principal officers, on whose fidelity reliance could be placed, to seize
the persons of the Duke of Friedland and of his two associates, Illo and
Terzky, and keep them in close confinement, till they should have an
opportunity of being heard, and of answering for their conduct; but if
this could not be accomplished quietly, the public danger required that
they should be taken dead or live. At the same time, General Gallas
received a patent commission, by which these orders of the Emperor were
made known to the colonels and officers, and the army was released from
its obedience to the traitor, and placed under Lieutenant-General
Gallas, till a new generalissimo could be appointed. In order to bring
back the seduced and deluded to their duty, and not to drive the guilty
to despair, a general amnesty was proclaimed, in regard to all offences
against the imperial majesty committed at Pilsen.
General Gallas was not pleased with the honour which was done him. He
was at Pilsen, under the eye of the person whose fate he was to dispose
of; in the power of an enemy, who had a hundred eyes to watch his
motions. If Wallenstein once discovered the secret of his commission,
nothing could save him from the effects of his vengeance and despair.
But if it was thus dangerous to be the secret depositary of such a
commission, how much more so to execute it? The sentiments of the
generals were uncertain; and it was at least doubtful whether, after the
step they had taken, they would be ready to trust the Emperor's
promises, and at once to abandon the brilliant expectations they had
built upon Wallenstein's enterprise. It was also hazardous to attempt
to lay hands on the person of a man who, till now, had been considered
inviolable; who from long exercise of supreme power, and from habitual
obedience, had become the object of deepest respect; who was invested
with every attribute of outward majesty and inward greatness; whose very
aspect inspired terror, and who by a nod disposed of life and death! To
seize such a man, like a common criminal, in the midst of the guards by
whom he was surrounded, and in a city apparently devoted to him; to
convert the object of this deep and habitual veneration into a subject
of compassion, or of contempt, was a commission calculated to make even
the boldest hesitate. So deeply was fear and veneration for their
general engraven in the breasts of the soldiers, that even the atrocious
crime of high treason could not wholly eradicate these sentiments.
The example which had been set at Lintz, was universally followed;
imprecations were showered on the traitor, and he was forsaken by all
the armies. At last, when even Piccolomini returned no more, the mist
fell from Wallenstein's eyes, and in consternation he awoke from his
dream. Yet his faith in the truth of astrology, and in the fidelity of
the army was unshaken. Immediately after the intelligence of
Piccolomini's defection, he issued orders, that in future no commands
were to be obeyed, which did not proceed directly from himself, or from
Terzky, or Illo. He prepared, in all haste, to advance upon Prague,
where he intended to throw off the mask, and openly to declare against
the Emperor. All the troops were to assemble before that city, and from
thence to pour down with rapidity upon Austria. Duke Bernard, who had
joined the conspiracy, was to support the operations of the duke, with
the Swedish troops, and to effect a diversion upon the Danube.
Terzky was already upon his march towards Prague; and nothing, but the
want of horses, prevented the duke from following him with the regiments
who still adhered faithfully to him. But when, with the most anxious
expectation, he awaited the intelligence from Prague, he suddenly
received information of the loss of that town, the defection of his
generals, the desertion of his troops, the discovery of his whole plot,
and the rapid advance of Piccolomini, who was sworn to his destruction.
Suddenly and fearfully had all his projects been ruined--all his hopes
annihilated. He stood alone, abandoned by all to whom he had been a
benefactor, betrayed by all on whom he had depended. But it is under
such circumstances that great minds reveal themselves. Though deceived
in all his expectations, he refused to abandon one of his designs; he
despaired of nothing, so long as life remained. The time was now come,
when he absolutely required that assistance, which he had so often
solicited from the Swedes and the Saxons, and when all doubts of the
sincerity of his purposes must be dispelled. And now, when Oxenstiern
and Arnheim were convinced of the sincerity of his intentions, and were
aware of his necessities, they no longer hesitated to embrace the
favourable opportunity, and to offer him their protection. On the part
of Saxony, the Duke Francis Albert of Saxe Lauenberg was to join him
with 4,000 men; and Duke Bernard, and the Palatine Christian of
Birkenfeld, with 6,000 from Sweden, all chosen troops.
Wallenstein left Pilsen, with Terzky's regiment, and the few who either
were, or pretended to be, faithful to him, and hastened to Egra, on the
frontiers of the kingdom, in order to be near the Upper Palatinate, and
to facilitate his junction with Duke Bernard. He was not yet informed
of the decree by which he was proclaimed a public enemy and traitor;
this thunder-stroke awaited him at Egra. He still reckoned on the army,
which General Schafgotsch was preparing for him in Silesia, and
flattered himself with the hope that many even of those who had forsaken
him, would return with the first dawning of success. Even during his
flight to Egra (so little humility had he learned from melancholy
experience) he was still occupied with the colossal scheme of dethroning
the Emperor. It was under these circumstances, that one of his suite
asked leave to offer him his advice. "Under the Emperor," said he,
"your highness is certain of being a great and respected noble; with the
enemy, you are at best but a precarious king. It is unwise to risk
certainty for uncertainty. The enemy will avail themselves of your
personal influence, while the opportunity lasts; but you will ever be
regarded with suspicion, and they will always be fearful lest you should
treat them as you have done the Emperor. Return, then, to your
allegiance, while there is yet time."--"And how is that to be done?"
said Wallenstein, interrupting him: "You have 40,000 men-at-arms,"
rejoined he, (meaning ducats, which were stamped with the figure of an
armed man,) "take them with you, and go straight to the Imperial Court;
then declare that the steps you have hitherto taken were merely designed
to test the fidelity of the Emperor's servants, and of distinguishing
the loyal from the doubtful; and since most have shown a disposition to
revolt, say you are come to warn his Imperial Majesty against those
dangerous men. Thus you will make those appear as traitors, who are
labouring to represent you as a false villain. At the Imperial Court, a
man is sure to be welcome with 40,000 ducats, and Friedland will be
again as he was at the first."--"The advice is good," said Wallenstein,
after a pause, "but let the devil trust to it."
While the duke, in his retirement in Egra, was energetically pushing his
negociations with the enemy, consulting the stars, and indulging in new
hopes, the dagger which was to put an end to his existence was
unsheathed almost under his very eyes. The imperial decree which
proclaimed him an outlaw, had not failed of its effect; and an avenging
Nemesis ordained that the ungrateful should fall beneath the blow of
ingratitude. Among his officers, Wallenstein had particularly
distinguished one Leslie, an Irishman, and had made his fortune.
This was the man who now felt himself called on to execute the sentence
against him, and to earn the price of blood. No sooner had he reached
Egra, in the suite of the duke, than he disclosed to the commandant of
the town, Colonel Buttler, and to Lieutenant-Colonel Gordon, two
Protestant Scotchmen, the treasonable designs of the duke, which the
latter had imprudently enough communicated to him during the journey.
In these two individuals, he had found men capable of a determined
resolution. They were now called on to choose between treason and duty,
between their legitimate sovereign and a fugitive abandoned rebel; and
though the latter was their common benefactor, the choice could not
remain for a moment doubtful. They were solemnly pledged to the
allegiance of the Emperor, and this duty required them to take the most
rapid measures against the public enemy. The opportunity was
favourable; his evil genius seemed to have delivered him into the hands
of vengeance. But not to encroach on the province of justice, they
resolved to deliver up their victim alive; and they parted with the bold
resolve to take their general prisoner. This dark plot was buried in
the deepest silence; and Wallenstein, far from suspecting his impending
ruin, flattered himself that in the garrison of Egra he possessed his
bravest and most faithful champions.
In order to execute this design with less noise, it was arranged that
the fearful deed should be perpetrated at an entertainment which Colonel
Buttler should give in the Castle of Egra. All the guests, except
Wallenstein, made their appearance, who being in too great anxiety of
mind to enjoy company excused himself. With regard to him, therefore,
their plan must be again changed; but they resolved to execute their
design against the others. The three Colonels, Illo, Terzky, and
William Kinsky, came in with careless confidence, and with them Captain
Neumann, an officer of ability, whose advice Terzky sought in every
intricate affair. Previous to their arrival, trusty soldiers of the
garrison, to whom the plot had been communicated, were admitted into the
Castle, all the avenues leading from it guarded, and six of Buttler's
dragoons concealed in an apartment close to the banqueting-room, who, on
a concerted signal, were to rush in and kill the traitors. Without
suspecting the danger that hung over them, the guests gaily abandoned
themselves to the pleasures of the table, and Wallenstein's health was
drunk in full bumpers, not as a servant of the Emperor, but as a
sovereign prince. The wine opened their hearts, and Illo, with
exultation, boasted that in three days an army would arrive, such as
Wallenstein had never before been at the head of. "Yes," cried Neumann,
"and then he hopes to bathe his hands in Austrian blood." During this
conversation, the dessert was brought in, and Leslie gave the concerted
signal to raise the drawbridges, while he himself received the keys of
the gates. In an instant, the hall was filled with armed men, who, with
the unexpected greeting of "Long live Ferdinand!" placed themselves
behind the chairs of the marked guests. Surprised, and with a
presentiment of their fate, they sprang from the table. Kinsky and
Terzky were killed upon the spot, and before they could put themselves
upon their guard. Neumann, during the confusion in the hall, escaped
into the court, where, however, he was instantly recognised and cut
down. Illo alone had the presence of mind to defend himself. He placed
his back against a window, from whence he poured the bitterest
reproaches upon Gordon, and challenged him to fight him fairly and
honourably. After a gallant resistance, in which he slew two of his
assailants, he fell to the ground overpowered by numbers, and pierced
with ten wounds. The deed was no sooner accomplished, than Leslie
hastened into the town to prevent a tumult. The sentinels at the castle
gate, seeing him running and out of breath, and believing he belonged to
the rebels, fired their muskets after him, but without effect. The
firing, however, aroused the town-guard, and all Leslie's presence of
mind was requisite to allay the tumult. He hastily detailed to them all
the circumstances of Wallenstein's conspiracy, the measures which had
been already taken to counteract it, the fate of the four rebels, as
well as that which awaited their chief. Finding the troops well
disposed, he exacted from them a new oath of fidelity to the Emperor,
and to live and die for the good cause. A hundred of Buttler's dragoons
were sent from the Castle into the town to patrol the streets, to
overawe the partisans of the Duke, and to prevent tumult. All the gates
of Egra were at the same time seized, and every avenue to Wallenstein's
residence, which adjoined the market-place, guarded by a numerous and
trusty body of troops, sufficient to prevent either his escape or his
receiving any assistance from without.
But before they proceeded finally to execute the deed, a long conference
was held among the conspirators in the Castle, whether they should kill
him, or content themselves with making him prisoner. Besprinkled as
they were with the blood, and deliberating almost over the very corpses
of his murdered associates, even these furious men yet shuddered at the
horror of taking away so illustrious a life. They saw before their
mind's eye him their leader in battle, in the days of his good fortune,
surrounded by his victorious army, clothed with all the pomp of military
greatness, and long-accustomed awe again seized their minds. But this
transitory emotion was soon effaced by the thought of the immediate
danger. They remembered the hints which Neumann and Illo had thrown out
at table, the near approach of a formidable army of Swedes and Saxons,
and they clearly saw that the death of the traitor was their only chance
of safety. They adhered, therefore, to their first resolution, and
Captain Deveroux, an Irishman, who had already been retained for the
murderous purpose, received decisive orders to act.
While these three officers were thus deciding upon his fate in the
castle of Egra, Wallenstein was occupied in reading the stars with Seni.
"The danger is not yet over," said the astrologer with prophetic spirit.
"IT IS," replied the Duke, who would give the law even to heaven.
"But," he continued with equally prophetic spirit, "that thou friend
Seni thyself shall soon be thrown into prison, that also is written in
the stars." The astrologer had taken his leave, and Wallenstein had
retired to bed, when Captain Deveroux appeared before his residence with
six halberdiers, and was immediately admitted by the guard, who were
accustomed to see him visit the general at all hours. A page who met
him upon the stairs, and attempted to raise an alarm, was run through
the body with a pike. In the antichamber, the assassins met a servant,
who had just come out of the sleeping-room of his master, and had taken
with him the key. Putting his finger upon his mouth, the terrified
domestic made a sign to them to make no noise, as the Duke was asleep.
"Friend," cried Deveroux, "it is time to awake him;" and with these
words he rushed against the door, which was also bolted from within, and
burst it open.
Wallenstein had been roused from his first sleep, by the report of a
musket which had accidentally gone off, and had sprung to the window to
call the guard. At the same moment, he heard, from the adjoining
building, the shrieks of the Countesses Terzky and Kinsky, who had just
learnt the violent fate of their husbands. Ere he had time to reflect
on these terrible events, Deveroux, with the other murderers, was in his
chamber. The Duke was in his shirt, as he had leaped out of bed, and
leaning on a table near the window. "Art thou the villain," cried
Deveroux to him, "who intends to deliver up the Emperor's troops to the
enemy, and to tear the crown from the head of his Majesty? Now thou must
die!" He paused for a few moments, as if expecting an answer; but scorn
and astonishment kept Wallenstein silent. Throwing his arms wide open,
he received in his breast, the deadly blow of the halberds, and without
uttering a groan, fell weltering in his blood.
The next day, an express arrived from the Duke of Lauenburg, announcing
his approach. The messenger was secured, and another in Wallenstein's
livery despatched to the Duke, to decoy him into Egra. The stratagem
succeeded, and Francis Albert fell into the hands of the enemy. Duke
Bernard of Weimar, who was on his march towards Egra, was nearly sharing
the same fate. Fortunately, he heard of Wallenstein's death in time to
save himself by a retreat. Ferdinand shed a tear over the fate of his
general, and ordered three thousand masses to be said for his soul at
Vienna; but, at the same time, he did not forget to reward his assassins
with gold chains, chamberlains' keys, dignities, and estates.
Thus did Wallenstein, at the age of fifty, terminate his active and
extraordinary life. To ambition, he owed both his greatness and his
ruin; with all his failings, he possessed great and admirable qualities,
and had he kept himself within due bounds, he would have lived and died
without an equal. The virtues of the ruler and of the hero, prudence,
justice, firmness, and courage, are strikingly prominent features in his
character; but he wanted the gentler virtues of the man, which adorn the
hero, and make the ruler beloved. Terror was the talisman with which he
worked; extreme in his punishments as in his rewards, he knew how to
keep alive the zeal of his followers, while no general of ancient or
modern times could boast of being obeyed with equal alacrity.
Submission to his will was more prized by him than bravery; for, if the
soldiers work by the latter, it is on the former that the general
depends. He continually kept up the obedience of his troops by
capricious orders, and profusely rewarded the readiness to obey even in
trifles; because he looked rather to the act itself, than its object.
He once issued a decree, with the penalty of death on disobedience, that
none but red sashes should be worn in the army. A captain of horse no
sooner heard the order, than pulling off his gold-embroidered sash, he
trampled it under foot; Wallenstein, on being informed of the
circumstance, promoted him on the spot to the rank of Colonel. His
comprehensive glance was always directed to the whole, and in all his
apparent caprice, he steadily kept in view some general scope or
bearing. The robberies committed by the soldiers in a friendly country,
had led to the severest orders against marauders; and all who should be
caught thieving, were threatened with the halter. Wallenstein himself
having met a straggler in the open country upon the field, commanded him
to be seized without trial, as a transgressor of the law, and in his
usual voice of thunder, exclaimed, "Hang the fellow," against which no
opposition ever availed. The soldier pleaded and proved his innocence,
but the irrevocable sentence had gone forth. "Hang then innocent,"
cried the inexorable Wallenstein, "the guilty will have then more reason
to tremble." Preparations were already making to execute the sentence,
when the soldier, who gave himself up for lost, formed the desperate
resolution of not dying without revenge. He fell furiously upon his
judge, but was overpowered by numbers, and disarmed before he could
fulfil his design. "Now let him go," said the Duke, "it will excite
sufficient terror."
But as no one ever yet came to a fortunate end who quarrelled with the
Church, Wallenstein also must augment the number of its victims.
Through the intrigues of monks, he lost at Ratisbon the command of the
army, and at Egra his life; by the same arts, perhaps, he lost what was
of more consequence, his honourable name and good repute with posterity.
For in justice it must be admitted, that the pens which have traced the
history of this extraordinary man are not untinged with partiality, and
that the treachery of the duke, and his designs upon the throne of
Bohemia, rest not so much upon proven facts, as upon probable
conjecture. No documents have yet been brought to light, which disclose
with historical certainty the secret motives of his conduct; and among
all his public and well attested actions, there is, perhaps, not one
which could not have had an innocent end. Many of his most obnoxious
measures proved nothing but the earnest wish he entertained for peace;
most of the others are explained and justified by the well-founded
distrust he entertained of the Emperor, and the excusable wish of
maintaining his own importance. It is true, that his conduct towards
the Elector of Bavaria looks too like an unworthy revenge, and the
dictates of an implacable spirit; but still, none of his actions perhaps
warrant us in holding his treason to be proved. If necessity and
despair at last forced him to deserve the sentence which had been
pronounced against him while innocent, still this, if true, will not
justify that sentence. Thus Wallenstein fell, not because he was a
rebel, but he became a rebel because he fell. Unfortunate in life that
he made a victorious party his enemy, and still more unfortunate in
death, that the same party survived him and wrote his history.
Book V.
The undertaking was a dangerous one, for in numbers the enemy was
greatly superior to that of the Swedes. There was also a further reason
for avoiding a battle at present; the enemy's force was likely soon to
divide, the Italian troops being destined for the Netherlands. In the
mean time, such a position might be taken up, as to cover Nordlingen,
and cut off their supplies. All these grounds were strongly urged by
Gustavus Horn, in the Swedish council of war; but his remonstrances were
disregarded by men who, intoxicated by a long career of success, mistook
the suggestions of prudence for the voice of timidity. Overborne by the
superior influence of Duke Bernard, Gustavus Horn was compelled to risk
a contest, whose unfavourable issue, a dark foreboding seemed already to
announce. The fate of the battle depended upon the possession of a
height which commanded the imperial camp. An attempt to occupy it
during the night failed, as the tedious transport of the artillery
through woods and hollow ways delayed the arrival of the troops. When
the Swedes arrived about midnight, they found the heights in possession
of the enemy, strongly entrenched. They waited, therefore, for
daybreak, to carry them by storm. Their impetuous courage surmounted
every obstacle; the entrenchments, which were in the form of a crescent,
were successfully scaled by each of the two brigades appointed to the
service; but as they entered at the same moment from opposite sides,
they met and threw each other into confusion. At this unfortunate
moment, a barrel of powder blew up, and created the greatest disorder
among the Swedes. The imperial cavalry charged upon their broken ranks,
and the flight became universal. No persuasion on the part of their
general could induce the fugitives to renew the assault.
The moment had at last arrived which Richelieu had long waited for with
impatience. Nothing, he was aware, but the impossibility of saving
themselves by any other means, could induce the Protestant States in
Germany to support the pretensions of France upon Alsace. This extreme
necessity had now arrived; the assistance of that power was
indispensable, and she was resolved to be well paid for the active part
which she was about to take in the German war. Full of lustre and
dignity, it now came upon the political stage. Oxenstiern, who felt
little reluctance in bestowing the rights and possessions of the empire,
had already ceded the fortress of Philipsburg, and the other long
coveted places. The Protestants of Upper Germany now, in their own
names, sent a special embassy to Richelieu, requesting him to take
Alsace, the fortress of Breyssach, which was still to be recovered from
the enemy, and all the places upon the Upper Rhine, which were the keys
of Germany, under the protection of France. What was implied by French
protection had been seen in the conduct of France towards the bishoprics
of Metz, Toul, and Verdun, which it had held for centuries against the
rightful owners. Treves was already in the possession of French
garrisons; Lorraine was in a manner conquered, as it might at any time
be overrun by an army, and could not, alone, and with its own strength,
withstand its formidable neighbour. France now entertained the hope of
adding Alsace to its large and numerous possessions, and,--since a
treaty was soon to be concluded with the Dutch for the partition of the
Spanish Netherlands--the prospect of making the Rhine its natural
boundary towards Germany. Thus shamefully were the rights of Germany
sacrificed by the German States to this treacherous and grasping power,
which, under the mask of a disinterested friendship, aimed only at its
own aggrandizement; and while it boldly claimed the honourable title of
a Protectress, was solely occupied with promoting its own schemes, and
advancing its own interests amid the general confusion.
A heavier blow for the Swedes, than even the defeat of Nordlingen, was
the reconciliation of the Elector of Saxony with the Emperor. After
many fruitless attempts both to bring about and to prevent it, it was at
last effected in 1634, at Pirna, and, the following year, reduced into a
formal treaty of peace, at Prague. The Elector of Saxony had always
viewed with jealousy the pretensions of the Swedes in Germany; and his
aversion to this foreign power, which now gave laws within the Empire,
had grown with every fresh requisition that Oxenstiern was obliged to
make upon the German states. This ill feeling was kept alive by the
Spanish court, who laboured earnestly to effect a peace between Saxony
and the Emperor. Wearied with the calamities of a long and destructive
contest, which had selected Saxony above all others for its theatre;
grieved by the miseries which both friend and foe inflicted upon his
subjects, and seduced by the tempting propositions of the House of
Austria, the Elector at last abandoned the common cause, and, caring
little for the fate of his confederates, or the liberties of Germany,
thought only of securing his own advantages, even at the expense of the
whole body.
In fact, the misery of Germany had risen to such a height, that all
clamorously vociferated for peace; and even the most disadvantageous
pacification would have been hailed as a blessing from heaven. The
plains, which formerly had been thronged with a happy and industrious
population, where nature had lavished her choicest gifts, and plenty and
prosperity had reigned, were now a wild and desolate wilderness. The
fields, abandoned by the industrious husbandman, lay waste and
uncultivated; and no sooner had the young crops given the promise of a
smiling harvest, than a single march destroyed the labours of a year,
and blasted the last hope of an afflicted peasantry. Burnt castles,
wasted fields, villages in ashes, were to be seen extending far and wide
on all sides, while the ruined peasantry had no resource left but to
swell the horde of incendiaries, and fearfully to retaliate upon their
fellows, who had hitherto been spared the miseries which they themselves
had suffered. The only safeguard against oppression was to become an
oppressor. The towns groaned under the licentiousness of undisciplined
and plundering garrisons, who seized and wasted the property of the
citizens, and, under the license of their position, committed the most
remorseless devastation and cruelty. If the march of an army converted
whole provinces into deserts, if others were impoverished by winter
quarters, or exhausted by contributions, these still were but passing
evils, and the industry of a year might efface the miseries of a few
months. But there was no relief for those who had a garrison within
their walls, or in the neighbourhood; even the change of fortune could
not improve their unfortunate fate, since the victor trod in the steps
of the vanquished, and friends were not more merciful than enemies. The
neglected farms, the destruction of the crops, and the numerous armies
which overran the exhausted country, were inevitably followed by
scarcity and the high price of provisions, which in the later years was
still further increased by a general failure in the crops. The crowding
together of men in camps and quarters--want upon one side, and excess
on the other, occasioned contagious distempers, which were more fatal
than even the sword. In this long and general confusion, all the bonds
of social life were broken up;--respect for the rights of their fellow
men, the fear of the laws, purity of morals, honour, and religion, were
laid aside, where might ruled supreme with iron sceptre. Under the
shelter of anarchy and impunity, every vice flourished, and men became
as wild as the country. No station was too dignified for outrage, no
property too holy for rapine and avarice. In a word, the soldier
reigned supreme; and that most brutal of despots often made his own
officer feel his power. The leader of an army was a far more important
person within any country where he appeared, than its lawful governor,
who was frequently obliged to fly before him into his own castles for
safety. Germany swarmed with these petty tyrants, and the country
suffered equally from its enemies and its protectors. These wounds
rankled the deeper, when the unhappy victims recollected that Germany
was sacrificed to the ambition of foreign powers, who, for their own
ends, prolonged the miseries of war. Germany bled under the scourge, to
extend the conquests and influence of Sweden; and the torch of discord
was kept alive within the Empire, that the services of Richelieu might
be rendered indispensable in France.
He, indeed, had commenced his negociations with the Emperor, even before
the battle of Nordlingen; and the unfortunate issue of that battle only
accelerated their conclusion. By it, all his confidence in the Swedes
was lost; and it was even doubted whether they would ever recover from
the blow. The jealousies among their generals, the insubordination of
the army, and the exhaustion of the Swedish kingdom, shut out any
reasonable prospect of effective assistance on their part. The Elector
hastened, therefore, to profit by the Emperor's magnanimity, who, even
after the battle of Nordlingen, did not recall the conditions previously
offered. While Oxenstiern, who had assembled the estates in Frankfort,
made further demands upon them and him, the Emperor, on the contrary,
made concessions; and therefore it required no long consideration to
decide between them.
The peace of Prague, as might have been expected, was received with very
various feelings throughout Germany. The attempt to conciliate both
parties, had rendered it obnoxious to both. The Protestants complained
of the restraints imposed upon them; the Roman Catholics thought that
these hated sectaries had been favoured at the expense of the true
church. In the opinion of the latter, the church had been deprived of
its inalienable rights, by the concession to the Protestants of forty
years' undisturbed possession of the ecclesiastical benefices; while the
former murmured that the interests of the Protestant church had been
betrayed, because toleration had not been granted to their
co-religionists in the Austrian dominions. But no one was so bitterly
reproached as the Elector of Saxony, who was publicly denounced as a
deserter, a traitor to religion and the liberties of the Empire, and a
confederate of the Emperor.
In the mean time, he consoled himself with the triumph of seeing most of
the Protestant states compelled by necessity to embrace this peace. The
Elector of Brandenburg, Duke William of Weimar, the princes of Anhalt,
the dukes of Mecklenburg, the dukes of Brunswick Lunenburg, the Hanse
towns, and most of the imperial cities, acceded to it. The Landgrave
William of Hesse long wavered, or affected to do so, in order to gain
time, and to regulate his measures by the course of events. He had
conquered several fertile provinces of Westphalia, and derived from them
principally the means of continuing the war; these, by the terms of the
treaty, he was bound to restore. Bernard, Duke of Weimar, whose states,
as yet, existed only on paper, as a belligerent power was not affected
by the treaty, but as a general was so materially; and, in either view,
he must equally be disposed to reject it. His whole riches consisted in
his bravery, his possessions in his sword. War alone gave him greatness
and importance, and war alone could realize the projects which his
ambition suggested.
But of all who declaimed against the treaty of Prague, none were so loud
in their clamours as the Swedes, and none had so much reason for their
opposition. Invited to Germany by the Germans themselves, the champions
of the Protestant Church, and the freedom of the States, which they had
defended with so much bloodshed, and with the sacred life of their king,
they now saw themselves suddenly and shamefully abandoned, disappointed
in all their hopes, without reward and without gratitude driven from the
empire for which they had toiled and bled, and exposed to the ridicule
of the enemy by the very princes who owed every thing to them. No
satisfaction, no indemnification for the expenses which they had
incurred, no equivalent for the conquests which they were to leave
behind them, was provided by the treaty of Prague. They were to be
dismissed poorer than they came, or, if they resisted, to be expelled by
the very powers who had invited them. The Elector of Saxony at last
spoke of a pecuniary indemnification, and mentioned the small sum of two
millions five hundred thousand florins; but the Swedes had already
expended considerably more, and this disgraceful equivalent in money was
both contrary to their true interests, and injurious to their pride.
"The Electors of Bavaria and Saxony," replied Oxenstiern, "have been
paid for their services, which, as vassals, they were bound to render
the Emperor, with the possession of important provinces; and shall we,
who have sacrificed our king for Germany, be dismissed with the
miserable sum of 2,500,000 florins?" The disappointment of their
expectations was the more severe, because the Swedes had calculated upon
being recompensed with the Duchy of Pomerania, the present possessor of
which was old and without heirs. But the succession of this territory
was confirmed by the treaty of Prague to the Elector of Brandenburg; and
all the neighbouring powers declared against allowing the Swedes to
obtain a footing within the empire.
Never, in the whole course of the war, had the prospects of the Swedes
looked more gloomy, than in the year 1635, immediately after the
conclusion of the treaty of Prague. Many of their allies, particularly
among the free cities, abandoned them to benefit by the peace; others
were compelled to accede to it by the victorious arms of the Emperor.
Augsburg, subdued by famine, surrendered under the severest conditions;
Wurtzburg and Coburg were lost to the Austrians. The League of
Heilbronn was formally dissolved. Nearly the whole of Upper Germany,
the chief seat of the Swedish power, was reduced under the Emperor.
Saxony, on the strength of the treaty of Prague, demanded the evacuation
of Thuringia, Halberstadt, and Magdeburg. Philipsburg, the military
depot of France, was surprised by the Austrians, with all the stores it
contained; and this severe loss checked the activity of France. To
complete the embarrassments of Sweden, the truce with Poland was drawing
to a close. To support a war at the same time with Poland and in
Germany, was far beyond the power of Sweden; and all that remained was
to choose between them. Pride and ambition declared in favour of
continuing the German war, at whatever sacrifice on the side of Poland.
An army, however, was necessary to command the respect of Poland, and to
give weight to Sweden in any negotiations for a truce or a peace.
In the extremity in which the Swedes were now placed by the desertion of
their allies, they addressed themselves to France, who met them with the
greatest encouragement. The interests of the two crowns were closely
united, and France would have injured herself by allowing the Swedish
power in Germany to decline. The helpless situation of the Swedes, was
rather an additional motive with France to cement more closely their
alliance, and to take a more active part in the German war. Since the
alliance with Sweden, at Beerwald, in 1632, France had maintained the
war against the Emperor, by the arms of Gustavus Adolphus, without any
open or formal breach, by furnishing subsidies and increasing the number
of his enemies. But alarmed at the unexpected rapidity and success of
the Swedish arms, France, in anxiety to restore the balance of power,
which was disturbed by the preponderance of the Swedes, seemed, for a
time, to have lost sight of her original designs. She endeavoured to
protect the Roman Catholic princes of the empire against the Swedish
conqueror, by the treaties of neutrality, and when this plan failed, she
even meditated herself to declare war against him. But no sooner had
the death of Gustavus Adolphus, and the desperate situation of the
Swedish affairs, dispelled this apprehension, than she returned with
fresh zeal to her first design, and readily afforded in this misfortune
the aid which in the hour of success she had refused. Freed from the
checks which the ambition and vigilance of Gustavus Adolphus placed upon
her plans of aggrandizement, France availed herself of the favourable
opportunity afforded by the defeat of Nordlingen, to obtain the entire
direction of the war, and to prescribe laws to those who sued for her
powerful protection. The moment seemed to smile upon her boldest plans,
and those which had formerly seemed chimerical, now appeared to be
justified by circumstances. She now turned her whole attention to the
war in Germany; and, as soon as she had secured her own private ends by
a treaty with the Germans, she suddenly entered the political arena as
an active and a commanding power. While the other belligerent states
had been exhausting themselves in a tedious contest, France had been
reserving her strength, and maintained the contest by money alone; but
now, when the state of things called for more active measures, she
seized the sword, and astonished Europe by the boldness and magnitude of
her undertakings. At the same moment, she fitted out two fleets, and
sent six different armies into the field, while she subsidized a foreign
crown and several of the German princes. Animated by this powerful
co-operation, the Swedes and Germans awoke from the consternation, and
hoped, sword in hand, to obtain a more honourable peace than that of
Prague. Abandoned by their confederates, who had been reconciled to the
Emperor, they formed a still closer alliance with France, which
increased her support with their growing necessities, at the same time
taking a more active, although secret share in the German war, until at
last, she threw off the mask altogether, and in her own name made an
unequivocal declaration of war against the Emperor.
The war was now prosecuted with increasing activity. By the treaty of
Prague, the Emperor had lessened the number of his adversaries within
the Empire; though, at the same time, the zeal and activity of his
foreign enemies had been augmented by it. In Germany, his influence was
almost unlimited, for, with the exception of a few states, he had
rendered himself absolute master of the German body and its resources,
and was again enabled to act in the character of emperor and sovereign.
The first fruit of his power was the elevation of his son, Ferdinand
III., to the dignity of King of the Romans, to which he was elected by a
decided majority of votes, notwithstanding the opposition of Treves, and
of the heirs of the Elector Palatine. But, on the other hand, he had
exasperated the Swedes to desperation, had armed the power of France
against him, and drawn its troops into the heart of the kingdom. France
and Sweden, with their German allies, formed, from this moment, one firm
and compactly united power; the Emperor, with the German states which
adhered to him, were equally firm and united. The Swedes, who no longer
fought for Germany, but for their own lives, showed no more indulgence;
relieved from the necessity of consulting their German allies, or
accounting to them for the plans which they adopted, they acted with
more precipitation, rapidity, and boldness. Battles, though less
decisive, became more obstinate and bloody; greater achievements, both
in bravery and military skill, were performed; but they were but
insulated efforts; and being neither dictated by any consistent plan,
nor improved by any commanding spirit, had comparatively little
influence upon the course of the war.
Saxony had bound herself, by the treaty of Prague, to expel the Swedes
from Germany. From this moment, the banners of the Saxons and
Imperialists were united: the former confederates were converted into
implacable enemies. The archbishopric of Magdeburg which, by the
treaty, was ceded to the prince of Saxony, was still held by the Swedes,
and every attempt to acquire it by negociation had proved ineffectual.
Hostilities commenced, by the Elector of Saxony recalling all his
subjects from the army of Banner, which was encamped upon the Elbe. The
officers, long irritated by the accumulation of their arrears, obeyed
the summons, and evacuated one quarter after another. As the Saxons, at
the same time, made a movement towards Mecklenburg, to take Doemitz, and
to drive the Swedes from Pomerania and the Baltic, Banner suddenly
marched thither, relieved Doemitz, and totally defeated the Saxon
General Baudissin, with 7000 men, of whom 1000 were slain, and about the
same number taken prisoners. Reinforced by the troops and artillery,
which had hitherto been employed in Polish Prussia, but which the treaty
of Stummsdorf rendered unnecessary, this brave and impetuous general
made, the following year (1636), a sudden inroad into the Electorate of
Saxony, where he gratified his inveterate hatred of the Saxons by the
most destructive ravages. Irritated by the memory of old grievances
which, during their common campaigns, he and the Swedes had suffered
from the haughtiness of the Saxons, and now exasperated to the utmost by
the late defection of the Elector, they wreaked upon the unfortunate
inhabitants all their rancour. Against Austria and Bavaria, the Swedish
soldier had fought from a sense, as it were, of duty; but against the
Saxons, they contended with all the energy of private animosity and
personal revenge, detesting them as deserters and traitors; for the
hatred of former friends is of all the most fierce and irreconcileable.
The powerful diversion made by the Duke of Weimar, and the Landgrave of
Hesse, upon the Rhine and in Westphalia, prevented the Emperor from
affording the necessary assistance to Saxony, and left the whole
Electorate exposed to the destructive ravages of Banner's army.
But, without the material aid furnished by the diversion upon the Rhine,
and the activity there of Duke Bernard and the French, these important
successes would have been unattainable. Duke Bernard, after the defeat
of Nordlingen, reorganized his broken army at Wetterau; but, abandoned
by the confederates of the League of Heilbronn, which had been dissolved
by the peace of Prague, and receiving little support from the Swedes, he
found himself unable to maintain an army, or to perform any enterprise
of importance. The defeat at Nordlingen had terminated all his hopes on
the Duchy of Franconia, while the weakness of the Swedes, destroyed the
chance of retrieving his fortunes through their assistance. Tired, too,
of the constraint imposed upon him by the imperious chancellor, he
turned his attention to France, who could easily supply him with money,
the only aid which he required, and France readily acceded to his
proposals. Richelieu desired nothing so much as to diminish the
influence of the Swedes in the German war, and to obtain the direction
of it for himself. To secure this end, nothing appeared more effectual
than to detach from the Swedes their bravest general, to win him to the
interests of France, and to secure for the execution of its projects the
services of his arm. From a prince like Bernard, who could not maintain
himself without foreign support, France had nothing to fear, since no
success, however brilliant, could render him independent of that crown.
Bernard himself came into France, and in October, 1635, concluded a
treaty at St. Germaine en Laye, not as a Swedish general, but in his
own name, by which it was stipulated that he should receive for himself
a yearly pension of one million five hundred thousand livres, and four
millions for the support of his army, which he was to command under the
orders of the French king. To inflame his zeal, and to accelerate the
conquest of Alsace, France did not hesitate, by a secret article, to
promise him that province for his services; a promise which Richelieu
had little intention of performing, and which the duke also estimated at
its real worth. But Bernard confided in his good fortune, and in his
arms, and met artifice with dissimulation. If he could once succeed in
wresting Alsace from the enemy, he did not despair of being able, in
case of need, to maintain it also against a friend. He now raised an
army at the expense of France, which he commanded nominally under the
orders of that power, but in reality without any limitation whatever,
and without having wholly abandoned his engagements with Sweden. He
began his operations upon the Rhine, where another French army, under
Cardinal Lavalette, had already, in 1635, commenced hostilities against
the Emperor.
Against this force, the main body of the Imperialists, after the great
victory of Nordlingen, and the reduction of Swabia and Franconia had
advanced under the command of Gallas, had driven them as far as Metz,
cleared the Rhine, and took from the Swedes the towns of Metz and
Frankenthal, of which they were in possession. But frustrated by the
vigorous resistance of the French, in his main object, of taking up his
winter quarters in France, he led back his exhausted troops into Alsace
and Swabia. At the opening of the next campaign, he passed the Rhine at
Breysach, and prepared to carry the war into the interior of France. He
actually entered Burgundy, while the Spaniards from the Netherlands made
progress in Picardy; and John De Werth, a formidable general of the
League, and a celebrated partisan, pushed his march into Champagne, and
spread consternation even to the gates of Paris. But an insignificant
fortress in Franche Comte completely checked the Imperialists, and they
were obliged, a second time, to abandon their enterprise.
The activity of Duke Bernard had hitherto been impeded by his dependence
on a French general, more suited to the priestly robe, than to the baton
of command; and although, in conjunction with him, he conquered Alsace
Saverne, he found himself unable, in the years 1636 and 1637, to
maintain his position upon the Rhine. The ill success of the French
arms in the Netherlands had cheated the activity of operations in Alsace
and Breisgau; but in 1638, the war in that quarter took a more brilliant
turn. Relieved from his former restraint, and with unlimited command of
his troops, Duke Bernard, in the beginning of February, left his winter
quarters in the bishopric of Basle, and unexpectedly appeared upon the
Rhine, where, at this rude season of the year, an attack was little
anticipated. The forest towns of Laufenburg, Waldshut, and Seckingen,
were surprised, and Rhinefeldt besieged. The Duke of Savelli, the
Imperial general who commanded in that quarter, hastened by forced
marches to the relief of this important place, succeeded in raising the
siege, and compelled the Duke of Weimar, with great loss to retire.
But, contrary to all human expectation, he appeared on the third day
after, (21st February, 1638,) before the Imperialists, in order of
battle, and defeated them in a bloody engagement, in which the four
Imperial generals, Savelli, John De Werth, Enkeford, and Sperreuter,
with 2000 men, were taken prisoners. Two of these, De Werth and
Enkeford, were afterwards sent by Richelieu's orders into France, in
order to flatter the vanity of the French by the sight of such
distinguished prisoners, and by the pomp of military trophies, to
withdraw the attention of the populace from the public distress. The
captured standards and colours were, with the same view, carried in
solemn procession to the church of Notre Dame, thrice exhibited before
the altar, and committed to sacred custody.
The best part of the duke's possessions were his army, which, together
with Alsace, he bequeathed to his brother William. But to this army,
both France and Sweden thought that they had well-grounded claims; the
latter, because it had been raised in name of that crown, and had done
homage to it; the former, because it had been supported by its
subsidies. The Electoral Prince of the Palatinate also negociated for
its services, and attempted, first by his agents, and latterly in his
own person, to win it over to his interests, with the view of employing
it in the reconquest of his territories. Even the Emperor endeavoured
to secure it, a circumstance the less surprising, when we reflect that
at this time the justice of the cause was comparatively unimportant, and
the extent of the recompense the main object to which the soldier
looked; and when bravery, like every other commodity, was disposed of to
the highest bidder. But France, richer and more determined, outbade all
competitors: it bought over General Erlach, the commander of Breysach,
and the other officers, who soon placed that fortress, with the whole
army, in their hands.
The young Palatine, Prince Charles Louis, who had already made an
unsuccessful campaign against the Emperor, saw his hopes again deceived.
Although intending to do France so ill a service, as to compete with her
for Bernard's army, he had the imprudence to travel through that
kingdom. The cardinal, who dreaded the justice of the Palatine's cause,
was glad to seize any opportunity to frustrate his views. He
accordingly caused him to be seized at Moulin, in violation of the law
of nations, and did not set him at liberty, until he learned that the
army of the Duke of Weimar had been secured. France was now in
possession of a numerous and well disciplined army in Germany, and from
this moment began to make open war upon the Emperor.
But it was no longer against Ferdinand II. that its hostilities were to
be conducted; for that prince had died in February, 1637, in the 59th
year of his age. The war which his ambition had kindled, however,
survived him. During a reign of eighteen years he had never once laid
aside the sword, nor tasted the blessings of peace as long as his hand
swayed the imperial sceptre. Endowed with the qualities of a good
sovereign, adorned with many of those virtues which ensure the happiness
of a people, and by nature gentle and humane, we see him, from erroneous
ideas of the monarch's duty, become at once the instrument and the
victim of the evil passions of others; his benevolent intentions
frustrated, and the friend of justice converted into the oppressor of
mankind, the enemy of peace, and the scourge of his people. Amiable in
domestic life, and respectable as a sovereign, but in his policy ill
advised, while he gained the love of his Roman Catholic subjects, he
incurred the execration of the Protestants. History exhibits many and
greater despots than Ferdinand II., yet he alone has had the unfortunate
celebrity of kindling a thirty years' war; but to produce its lamentable
consequences, his ambition must have been seconded by a kindred spirit
of the age, a congenial state of previous circumstances, and existing
seeds of discord. At a less turbulent period, the spark would have
found no fuel; and the peacefulness of the age would have choked the
voice of individual ambition; but now the flash fell upon a pile of
accumulated combustibles, and Europe was in flames.
His son, Ferdinand III., who, a few months before his father's death,
had been raised to the dignity of King of the Romans, inherited his
throne, his principles, and the war which he had caused. But Ferdinand
III. had been a closer witness of the sufferings of the people, and the
devastation of the country, and felt more keenly and ardently the
necessity of peace. Less influenced by the Jesuits and the Spaniards,
and more moderate towards the religious views of others, he was more
likely than his father to listen to the voice of reason. He did so, and
ultimately restored to Europe the blessing of peace, but not till after
a contest of eleven years waged with sword and pen; not till after he
had experienced the impossibility of resistance, and necessity had laid
upon him its stern laws.
Fortune favoured him at the commencement of his reign, and his arms were
victorious against the Swedes. The latter, under the command of the
victorious Banner, had, after their success at Wittstock, taken up their
winter quarters in Saxony; and the campaign of 1637 opened with the
siege of Leipzig. The vigorous resistance of the garrison, and the
approach of the Electoral and Imperial armies, saved the town, and
Banner, to prevent his communication with the Elbe being cut off, was
compelled to retreat into Torgau. But the superior number of the
Imperialists drove him even from that quarter; and, surrounded by the
enemy, hemmed in by rivers, and suffering from famine, he had no course
open to him but to attempt a highly dangerous retreat into Pomerania, of
which, the boldness and successful issue border upon romance. The whole
army crossed the Oder, at a ford near Furstenberg; and the soldiers,
wading up to the neck in water, dragged the artillery across, when the
horses refused to draw. Banner had expected to be joined by General
Wrangel, on the farther side of the Oder in Pomerania; and, in
conjunction with him, to be able to make head against the enemy. But
Wrangel did not appear; and in his stead, he found an Imperial army
posted at Landsberg, with a view to cut off the retreat of the Swedes.
Banner now saw that he had fallen into a dangerous snare, from which
escape appeared impossible. In his rear lay an exhausted country, the
Imperialists, and the Oder on his left; the Oder, too, guarded by the
Imperial General Bucheim, offered no retreat; in front, Landsberg,
Custrin, the Warta, and a hostile army; and on the right, Poland, in
which, notwithstanding the truce, little confidence could be placed. In
these circumstances, his position seemed hopeless, and the Imperialists
were already triumphing in the certainty of his fall. Banner, with just
indignation, accused the French as the authors of this misfortune. They
had neglected to make, according to their promise, a diversion upon the
Rhine; and, by their inaction, allowed the Emperor to combine his whole
force upon the Swedes. "When the day comes," cried the incensed General
to the French Commissioner, who followed the camp, "that the Swedes and
Germans join their arms against France, we shall cross the Rhine with
less ceremony." But reproaches were now useless; what the emergency
demanded was energy and resolution. In the hope of drawing the enemy by
stratagem from the Oder, Banner pretended to march towards Poland, and
despatched the greater part of his baggage in this direction, with his
own wife, and those of the other officers. The Imperialists immediately
broke up their camp, and hurried towards the Polish frontier to block up
the route; Bucheim left his station, and the Oder was stripped of its
defenders. On a sudden, and under cloud of night, Banner turned towards
that river, and crossed it about a mile above Custrin, with his troops,
baggage, and artillery, without bridges or vessels, as he had done
before at Furstenberg. He reached Pomerania without loss, and prepared
to share with Wrangel the defence of that province.
But the Imperialists, under the command of Gallas, entered that duchy at
Ribses, and overran it by their superior strength. Usedom and Wolgast
were taken by storm, Demmin capitulated, and the Swedes were driven far
into Lower Pomerania. It was, too, more important for them at this
moment than ever, to maintain a footing in that country, for Bogislaus
XIV. had died that year, and Sweden must prepare to establish its title
to Pomerania. To prevent the Elector of Brandenburg from making good
the title to that duchy, which the treaty of Prague had given him,
Sweden exerted her utmost energies, and supported its generals to the
extent of her ability, both with troops and money. In other quarters of
the kingdom, the affairs of the Swedes began to wear a more favourable
aspect, and to recover from the humiliation into which they had been
thrown by the inaction of France, and the desertion of their allies.
For, after their hasty retreat into Pomerania, they had lost one place
after another in Upper Saxony; the princes of Mecklenburg, closely
pressed by the troops of the Emperor, began to lean to the side of
Austria, and even George, Duke of Lunenburg, declared against them.
Ehrenbreitstein was starved into a surrender by the Bavarian General de
Werth, and the Austrians possessed themselves of all the works which had
been thrown up on the Rhine. France had been the sufferer in the
contest with Spain; and the event had by no means justified the pompous
expectations which had accompanied the opening of the campaign. Every
place which the Swedes had held in the interior of Germany was lost; and
only the principal towns in Pomerania still remained in their hands.
But a single campaign raised them from this state of humiliation; and
the vigorous diversion, which the victorious Bernard had effected upon
the Rhine, gave quite a new turn to affairs.
The result justified the change, and the campaign of 1640 appeared to
take a most unfortunate turn for the Swedes. They were successively
driven out of all their posts in Bohemia, and anxious only to secure
their plunder, they precipitately crossed the heights of Meissen. But
being followed into Saxony by the pursuing enemy, and defeated at
Plauen, they were obliged to take refuge in Thuringia. Made masters of
the field in a single summer, they were as rapidly dispossessed; but
only to acquire it a second time, and to hurry from one extreme to
another. The army of Banner, weakened and on the brink of destruction
in its camp at Erfurt, suddenly recovered itself. The Duke of Lunenburg
abandoned the treaty of Prague, and joined Banner with the very troops
which, the year before, had fought against him. Hesse Cassel sent
reinforcements, and the Duke of Longueville came to his support with the
army of the late Duke Bernard. Once more numerically superior to the
Imperialists, Banner offered them battle near Saalfeld; but their
leader, Piccolomini, prudently declined an engagement, having chosen too
strong a position to be forced. When the Bavarians at length separated
from the Imperialists, and marched towards Franconia, Banner attempted
an attack upon this divided corps, but the attempt was frustrated by the
skill of the Bavarian General Von Mercy, and the near approach of the
main body of the Imperialists. Both armies now moved into the exhausted
territory of Hesse, where they formed intrenched camps near each other,
till at last famine and the severity of the winter compelled them both
to retire. Piccolomini chose the fertile banks of the Weser for his
winter quarters; but being outflanked by Banner, he was obliged to give
way to the Swedes, and to impose on the Franconian sees the burden of
maintaining his army.
At this period, a diet was held in Ratisbon, where the complaints of the
States were to be heard, measures taken for securing the repose of the
Empire, and the question of peace or war finally settled. The presence
of the Emperor, the majority of the Roman Catholic voices in the
Electoral College, the great number of bishops, and the withdrawal of
several of the Protestant votes, gave the Emperor a complete command of
the deliberations of the assembly, and rendered this diet any thing but
a fair representative of the opinions of the German Empire. The
Protestants, with reason, considered it as a mere combination of Austria
and its creatures against their party; and it seemed to them a laudable
effort to interrupt its deliberations, and to dissolve the diet itself.
Banner undertook this bold enterprise. His military reputation had
suffered by his last retreat from Bohemia, and it stood in need of some
great exploit to restore its former lustre. Without communicating his
designs to any one, in the depth of the winter of 1641, as soon as the
roads and rivers were frozen, he broke up from his quarters in
Lunenburg. Accompanied by Marshal Guebriant, who commanded the armies
of France and Weimar, he took the route towards the Danube, through
Thuringia and Vogtland, and appeared before Ratisbon, ere the Diet could
be apprised of his approach. The consternation of the assembly was
indescribable; and, in the first alarm, the deputies prepared for
flight. The Emperor alone declared that he would not leave the town,
and encouraged the rest by his example. Unfortunately for the Swedes, a
thaw came on, which broke up the ice upon the Danube, so that it was no
longer passable on foot, while no boats could cross it, on account of
the quantities of ice which were swept down by the current. In order to
perform something, and to humble the pride of the Emperor, Banner
discourteously fired 500 cannon shots into the town, which, however, did
little mischief. Baffled in his designs, he resolved to penetrate
farther into Bavaria, and the defenceless province of Moravia, where a
rich booty and comfortable quarters awaited his troops. Guebriant,
however, began to fear that the purpose of the Swedes was to draw the
army of Bernard away from the Rhine, and to cut off its communication
with France, till it should be either entirely won over, or
incapacitated from acting independently. He therefore separated from
Banner to return to the Maine; and the latter was exposed to the whole
force of the Imperialists, which had been secretly drawn together
between Ratisbon and Ingoldstadt, and was on its march against him. It
was now time to think of a rapid retreat, which, having to be effected
in the face of an army superior in cavalry, and betwixt woods and
rivers, through a country entirely hostile, appeared almost
impracticable. He hastily retired towards the Forest, intending to
penetrate through Bohemia into Saxony; but he was obliged to sacrifice
three regiments at Neuburg. These with a truly Spartan courage,
defended themselves for four days behind an old wall, and gained time
for Banner to escape. He retreated by Egra to Annaberg; Piccolomini
took a shorter route in pursuit, by Schlakenwald; and Banner succeeded,
only by a single half hour, in clearing the Pass of Prisnitz, and saving
his whole army from the Imperialists. At Zwickau he was again joined by
Guebriant; and both generals directed their march towards Halberstadt,
after in vain attempting to defend the Saal, and to prevent the passage
of the Imperialists.
At length appeared the new Swedish generalissimo, with fresh troops and
money. This was Bernard Torstensohn, a pupil of Gustavus Adolphus, and
his most successful imitator, who had been his page during the Polish
war. Though a martyr to the gout, and confined to a litter, he
surpassed all his opponents in activity; and his enterprises had wings,
while his body was held by the most frightful of fetters. Under him,
the scene of war was changed, and new maxims adopted, which necessity
dictated, and the issue justified. All the countries in which the
contest had hitherto raged were exhausted; while the House of Austria,
safe in its more distant territories, felt not the miseries of the war
under which the rest of Germany groaned. Torstensohn first furnished
them with this bitter experience, glutted his Swedes on the fertile
produce of Austria, and carried the torch of war to the very footsteps
of the imperial throne.
But, in the mean time, Piccolomini and the Archduke Leopold had
collected a superior force, which speedily drove the Swedish conquerors
from Moravia, and after a fruitless attempt upon Brieg, from Silesia.
Reinforced by Wrangel, the Swedes again attempted to make head against
the enemy, and relieved Grossglogau; but could neither bring the
Imperialists to an engagement, nor carry into effect their own views
upon Bohemia. Overrunning Lusatia, they took Zittau, in presence of the
enemy, and after a short stay in that country, directed their march
towards the Elbe, which they passed at Torgau. Torstensohn now
threatened Leipzig with a siege, and hoped to raise a large supply of
provisions and contributions from that prosperous town, which for ten
years had been unvisited with the scourge of war.
The surrender of Leipzig, three weeks after the battle, was its
brilliant result. The city was obliged to clothe the Swedish troops
anew, and to purchase an exemption from plunder, by a contribution of
300,000 rix-dollars, to which all the foreign merchants, who had
warehouses in the city, were to furnish their quota. In the middle of
winter, Torstensohn advanced against Freyberg, and for several weeks
defied the inclemency of the season, hoping by his perseverance to weary
out the obstinacy of the besieged. But he found that he was merely
sacrificing the lives of his soldiers; and at last, the approach of the
imperial general, Piccolomini, compelled him, with his weakened army, to
retire. He considered it, however, as equivalent to a victory, to have
disturbed the repose of the enemy in their winter quarters, who, by the
severity of the weather, sustained a loss of 3000 horses. He now made a
movement towards the Oder, as if with the view of reinforcing himself
with the garrisons of Pomerania and Silesia; but, with the rapidity of
lightning, he again appeared upon the Bohemian frontier, penetrated
through that kingdom, and relieved Olmutz in Moravia, which was hard
pressed by the Imperialists. His camp at Dobitschau, two miles from
Olmutz, commanded the whole of Moravia, on which he levied heavy
contributions, and carried his ravages almost to the gates of Vienna.
In vain did the Emperor attempt to arm the Hungarian nobility in defence
of this province; they appealed to their privileges, and refused to
serve beyond the limits of their own country. Thus, the time that
should have been spent in active resistance, was lost in fruitless
negociation, and the entire province was abandoned to the ravages of the
Swedes.
Guebriant left the Hessians to defend their conquests on the Lower Rhine
against Hatzfeldt, and advanced towards Thuringia, as if to second the
operations of Torstensohn in Saxony. But instead of joining the Swedes,
he soon hurried back to the Rhine and the Maine, from which he seemed to
think he had removed farther than was expedient. But being anticipated
in the Margraviate of Baden, by the Bavarians under Mercy and John de
Werth, he was obliged to wander about for several weeks, exposed,
without shelter, to the inclemency of the winter, and generally
encamping upon the snow, till he found a miserable refuge in Breisgau.
He at last took the field; and, in the next summer, by keeping the
Bavarian army employed in Suabia, prevented it from relieving
Thionville, which was besieged by Conde. But the superiority of the
enemy soon drove him back to Alsace, where he awaited a reinforcement.
The death of Cardinal Richelieu took place in November, 1642, and the
subsequent change in the throne and in the ministry, occasioned by the
death of Louis XIII., had for some time withdrawn the attention of
France from the German war, and was the cause of the inaction of its
troops in the field. But Mazarin, the inheritor, not only of
Richelieu's power, but also of his principles and his projects, followed
out with renewed zeal the plans of his predecessor, though the French
subject was destined to pay dearly enough for the political greatness of
his country. The main strength of its armies, which Richelieu had
employed against the Spaniards, was by Mazarin directed against the
Emperor; and the anxiety with which he carried on the war in Germany,
proved the sincerity of his opinion, that the German army was the right
arm of his king, and a wall of safety around France. Immediately upon
the surrender of Thionville, he sent a considerable reinforcement to
Field-Marshal Guebriant in Alsace; and to encourage the troops to bear
the fatigues of the German war, the celebrated victor of Rocroi, the
Duke of Enghien, afterwards Prince of Conde, was placed at their head.
Guebriant now felt himself strong enough to appear again in Germany with
repute. He hastened across the Rhine with the view of procuring better
winter quarters in Suabia, and actually made himself master of Rothweil,
where a Bavarian magazine fell into his hands. But the place was too
dearly purchased for its worth, and was again lost even more speedily
than it had been taken. Guebriant received a wound in the arm, which
the surgeon's unskilfulness rendered mortal, and the extent of his loss
was felt on the very day of his death.
The attack was made on a side where it was least looked for, on account
of the woods and narrow passes, and a heavy snow storm which fell upon
the same day, (the 24th November, 1643,) concealed the approach of the
vanguard till it halted before Duttlingen. The whole of the artillery
without the place, as well as the neighbouring Castle of Honberg, were
taken without resistance, Duttlingen itself was gradually surrounded by
the enemy, and all connexion with the other quarters in the adjacent
villages silently and suddenly cut off. The French were vanquished
without firing a cannon. The cavalry owed their escape to the swiftness
of their horses, and the few minutes in advance, which they had gained
upon their pursuers. The infantry were cut to pieces, or voluntarily
laid down their arms. About 2,000 men were killed, and 7,000, with 25
staff-officers and 90 captains, taken prisoners. This was, perhaps, the
only battle, in the whole course of the war, which produced nearly the
same effect upon the party which gained, and that which lost;--both
these parties were Germans; the French disgraced themselves. The memory
of this unfortunate day, which was renewed 100 years after at Rosbach,
was indeed erased by the subsequent heroism of a Turenne and Conde; but
the Germans may be pardoned, if they indemnified themselves for the
miseries which the policy of France had heaped upon them, by these
severe reflections upon her intrepidity.
The partiality which Christian IV. had displayed against the Swedes in
his office of mediator, the jealousy which led him to do all in his
power to hinder the progress of their arms, the restraints which he laid
upon their navigation of the Sound, and the burdens which he imposed
upon their commerce, had long roused the indignation of Sweden; and, at
last, when these grievances increased daily, had determined the Regency
to measures of retaliation. Dangerous as it seemed, to involve the
nation in a new war, when, even amidst its conquests, it was almost
exhausted by the old, the desire of revenge, and the deep-rooted hatred
which subsisted between Danes and Swedes, prevailed over all other
considerations; and even the embarrassment in which hostilities with
Germany had plunged it, only served as an additional motive to try its
fortune against Denmark.
Matters were, in fact, arrived at last to that extremity, that the war
was prosecuted merely for the purpose of furnishing food and employment
to the troops; that good winter quarters formed the chief subject of
contention; and that success, in this point, was more valued than a
decisive victory. But now the provinces of Germany were almost all
exhausted and laid waste. They were wholly destitute of provisions,
horses, and men, which in Holstein were to be found in profusion. If by
this movement, Torstensohn should succeed merely in recruiting his army,
providing subsistence for his horses and soldiers, and remounting his
cavalry, all the danger and difficulty would be well repaid. Besides,
it was highly important, on the eve of negotiations for peace, to
diminish the injurious influence which Denmark might exercise upon these
deliberations, to delay the treaty itself, which threatened to be
prejudicial to the Swedish interests, by sowing confusion among the
parties interested, and with a view to the amount of indemnification, to
increase the number of her conquests, in order to be the more sure of
securing those which alone she was anxious to retain. Moreover, the
present state of Denmark justified even greater hopes, if only the
attempt were executed with rapidity and silence. The secret was in fact
so well kept in Stockholm, that the Danish minister had not the
slightest suspicion of it; and neither France nor Holland were let into
the scheme. Actual hostilities commenced with the declaration of war;
and Torstensohn was in Holstein, before even an attack was expected.
The Swedish troops, meeting with no resistance, quickly overran this
duchy, and made themselves masters of all its strong places, except
Rensburg and Gluckstadt. Another army penetrated into Schonen, which
made as little opposition; and nothing but the severity of the season
prevented the enemy from passing the Lesser Baltic, and carrying the war
into Funen and Zealand. The Danish fleet was unsuccessful at Femern;
and Christian himself, who was on board, lost his right eye by a
splinter. Cut off from all communication with the distant force of the
Emperor, his ally, this king was on the point of seeing his whole
kingdom overrun by the Swedes; and all things threatened the speedy
fulfilment of the old prophecy of the famous Tycho Brahe, that in the
year 1644, Christian IV. should wander in the greatest misery from his
dominions.
But the Emperor could not look on with indifference, while Denmark was
sacrificed to Sweden, and the latter strengthened by so great an
acquisition. Notwithstanding great difficulties lay in the way of so
long a march through desolated provinces, he did not hesitate to
despatch an army into Holstein under Count Gallas, who, after
Piccolomini's retirement, had resumed the supreme command of the troops.
Gallas accordingly appeared in the duchy, took Keil, and hoped, by
forming a junction with the Danes, to be able to shut up the Swedish
army in Jutland. Meantime, the Hessians, and the Swedish General
Koenigsmark, were kept in check by Hatzfeldt, and the Archbishop of
Bremen, the son of Christian IV.; and afterwards the Swedes drawn into
Saxony by an attack upon Meissen. But Torstensohn, with his augmented
army, penetrated through the unoccupied pass betwixt Schleswig and
Stapelholm, met Gallas, and drove him along the whole course of the
Elbe, as far as Bernburg, where the Imperialists took up an entrenched
position. Torstensohn passed the Saal, and by posting himself in the
rear of the enemy, cut off their communication with Saxony and Bohemia.
Scarcity and famine began now to destroy them in great numbers, and
forced them to retreat to Magdeburg, where, however, they were not much
better off. The cavalry, which endeavoured to escape into Silesia, was
overtaken and routed by Torstensohn, near Juterbock; the rest of the
army, after a vain attempt to fight its way through the Swedish lines,
was almost wholly destroyed near Magdeburg. From this expedition,
Gallas brought back only a few thousand men of all his formidable force,
and the reputation of being a consummate master in the art of ruining an
army. The King of Denmark, after this unsuccessful effort to relieve
him, sued for peace, which he obtained at Bremsebor in the year 1645,
under very unfavourable conditions.
In the mean time, the main body of the Swedes had been greatly weakened
by a tedious encampment before Brunn. Torstensohn, who commanded in
person, for four entire months employed in vain all his knowledge of
military tactics; the obstinacy of the resistance was equal to that of
the assault; while despair roused the courage of Souches, the
commandant, a Swedish deserter, who had no hope of pardon. The ravages
caused by pestilence, arising from famine, want of cleanliness, and the
use of unripe fruit, during their tedious and unhealthy encampment, with
the sudden retreat of the Prince of Transylvania, at last compelled the
Swedish leader to raise the siege. As all the passes upon the Danube
were occupied, and his army greatly weakened by famine and sickness, he
at last relinquished his intended plan of operations against Austria and
Moravia, and contented himself with securing a key to these provinces,
by leaving behind him Swedish garrisons in the conquered fortresses. He
then directed his march into Bohemia, whither he was followed by the
Imperialists, under the Archduke Leopold. Such of the lost places as
had not been retaken by the latter, were recovered, after his departure,
by the Austrian General Bucheim; so that, in the course of the following
year, the Austrian frontier was again cleared of the enemy, and Vienna
escaped with mere alarm. In Bohemia and Silesia too, the Swedes
maintained themselves only with a very variable fortune; they traversed
both countries, without being able to hold their ground in either. But
if the designs of Torstensohn were not crowned with all the success
which they were promised at the commencement, they were, nevertheless,
productive of the most important consequences to the Swedish party.
Denmark had been compelled to a peace, Saxony to a truce. The Emperor,
in the deliberations for a peace, offered greater concessions; France
became more manageable; and Sweden itself bolder and more confident in
its bearing towards these two crowns. Having thus nobly performed his
duty, the author of these advantages retired, adorned with laurels, into
the tranquillity of private life, and endeavoured to restore his
shattered health.
By the retreat of Torstensohn, the Emperor was relieved from all fears
of an irruption on the side of Bohemia. But a new danger soon
threatened the Austrian frontier from Suabia and Bavaria. Turenne, who
had separated from Conde, and taken the direction of Suabia, had, in the
year 1645, been totally defeated by Mercy, near Mergentheim; and the
victorious Bavarians, under their brave leader, poured into Hesse. But
the Duke of Enghien hastened with considerable succours from Alsace,
Koenigsmark from Moravia, and the Hessians from the Rhine, to recruit
the defeated army, and the Bavarians were in turn compelled to retire to
the extreme limits of Suabia. Here they posted themselves at the
village of Allersheim, near Nordlingen, in order to cover the Bavarian
frontier. But no obstacle could check the impetuosity of the Duke of
Enghien. In person, he led on his troops against the enemy's
entrenchments, and a battle took place, which the heroic resistance of
the Bavarians rendered most obstinate and bloody; till at last the death
of the great Mercy, the skill of Turenne, and the iron firmness of the
Hessians, decided the day in favour of the allies. But even this second
barbarous sacrifice of life had little effect either on the course of
the war, or on the negociations for peace. The French army, exhausted
by this bloody engagement, was still farther weakened by the departure
of the Hessians, and the Bavarians being reinforced by the Archduke
Leopold, Turenne was again obliged hastily to recross the Rhine.
The retreat of the French, enabled the enemy to turn his whole force
upon the Swedes in Bohemia. Gustavus Wrangel, no unworthy successor of
Banner and Torstensohn, had, in 1646, been appointed Commander-in-chief
of the Swedish army, which, besides Koenigsmark's flying corps and the
numerous garrisons disposed throughout the empire, amounted to about
8,000 horse, and 15,000 foot. The Archduke, after reinforcing his army,
which already amounted to 24,000 men, with twelve Bavarian regiments of
cavalry, and eighteen regiments of infantry, moved against Wrangel, in
the hope of being able to overwhelm him by his superior force before
Koenigsmark could join him, or the French effect a diversion in his
favour. Wrangel, however, did not await him, but hastened through Upper
Saxony to the Weser, where he took Hoester and Paderborn. From thence
he marched into Hesse, in order to join Turenne, and at his camp at
Wetzlar, was joined by the flying corps of Koenigsmark. But Turenne,
fettered by the instructions of Mazarin, who had seen with jealousy the
warlike prowess and increasing power of the Swedes, excused himself on
the plea of a pressing necessity to defend the frontier of France on the
side of the Netherlands, in consequence of the Flemings having failed to
make the promised diversion. But as Wrangel continued to press his just
demand, and a longer opposition might have excited distrust on the part
of the Swedes, or induce them to conclude a private treaty with Austria,
Turenne at last obtained the wished for permission to join the Swedish
army.
The junction took place at Giessen, and they now felt themselves strong
enough to meet the enemy. The latter had followed the Swedes into
Hesse, in order to intercept their commissariat, and to prevent their
union with Turenne. In both designs they had been unsuccessful; and the
Imperialists now saw themselves cut off from the Maine, and exposed to
great scarcity and want from the loss of their magazines. Wrangel took
advantage of their weakness, to execute a plan by which he hoped to give
a new turn to the war. He, too, had adopted the maxim of his
predecessor, to carry the war into the Austrian States. But discouraged
by the ill success of Torstensohn's enterprise, he hoped to gain his end
with more certainty by another way. He determined to follow the course
of the Danube, and to break into the Austrian territories through the
midst of Bavaria. A similar design had been formerly conceived by
Gustavus Adolphus, which he had been prevented carrying into effect by
the approach of Wallenstein's army, and the danger of Saxony. Duke
Bernard moving in his footsteps, and more fortunate than Gustavus, had
spread his victorious banners between the Iser and the Inn; but the near
approach of the enemy, vastly superior in force, obliged him to halt in
his victorious career, and lead back his troops. Wrangel now hoped to
accomplish the object in which his predecessors had failed, the more so,
as the Imperial and Bavarian army was far in his rear upon the Lahn, and
could only reach Bavaria by a long march through Franconia and the Upper
Palatinate. He moved hastily upon the Danube, defeated a Bavarian corps
near Donauwerth, and passed that river, as well as the Lech, unopposed.
But by wasting his time in the unsuccessful siege of Augsburg, he gave
opportunity to the Imperialists, not only to relieve that city, but also
to repulse him as far as Lauingen. No sooner, however, had they turned
towards Suabia, with a view to remove the war from Bavaria, than,
seizing the opportunity, he repassed the Lech, and guarded the passage
of it against the Imperialists themselves. Bavaria now lay open and
defenceless before him; the French and Swedes quickly overran it; and
the soldiery indemnified themselves for all dangers by frightful
outrages, robberies, and extortions. The arrival of the Imperial
troops, who at last succeeded in passing the Lech at Thierhaupten, only
increased the misery of this country, which friend and foe
indiscriminately plundered.
And now, for the first time during the whole course of this war, the
courage of Maximilian, which for eight-and-twenty years had stood
unshaken amidst fearful dangers, began to waver. Ferdinand II., his
school-companion at Ingoldstadt, and the friend of his youth, was no
more; and with the death of his friend and benefactor, the strong tie
was dissolved which had linked the Elector to the House of Austria. To
the father, habit, inclination, and gratitude had attached him; the son
was a stranger to his heart, and political interests alone could
preserve his fidelity to the latter prince.
Ferdinand III. saw his danger, and left no means untried to avert it.
But the Elector of Bavaria was unfortunately led to believe that the
Spaniards alone were disinclined to peace, and that nothing, but Spanish
influence, had induced the Emperor so long to resist a cessation of
hostilities. Maximilian detested the Spaniards, and could never forgive
their having opposed his application for the Palatine Electorate. Could
it then be supposed that, in order to gratify this hated power, he would
see his people sacrificed, his country laid waste, and himself ruined,
when, by a cessation of hostilities, he could at once emancipate himself
from all these distresses, procure for his people the repose of which
they stood so much in need, and perhaps accelerate the arrival of a
general peace? All doubts disappeared; and, convinced of the necessity
of this step, he thought he should sufficiently discharge his
obligations to the Emperor, if he invited him also to share in the
benefit of the truce.
The deputies of the three crowns, and of Bavaria, met at Ulm, to adjust
the conditions. But it was soon evident, from the instructions of the
Austrian ambassadors that it was not the intention of the Emperor to
second the conclusion of a truce, but if possible to prevent it. It was
obviously necessary to make the terms acceptable to the Swedes, who had
the advantage, and had more to hope than to fear from the continuance of
the war. They were the conquerors; and yet the Emperor presumed to
dictate to them. In the first transports of their indignation, the
Swedish ambassadors were on the point of leaving the congress, and the
French were obliged to have recourse to threats in order to detain them.
The good intentions of the Elector of Bavaria, to include the Emperor in
the benefit of the truce, having been thus rendered unavailing, he felt
himself justified in providing for his own safety. However hard were
the conditions on which the truce was to be purchased, he did not
hesitate to accept it on any terms. He agreed to the Swedes extending
their quarters in Suabia and Franconia, and to his own being restricted
to Bavaria and the Palatinate. The conquests which he had made in
Suabia were ceded to the allies, who, on their part, restored to him
what they had taken from Bavaria. Cologne and Hesse Cassel were also
included in the truce. After the conclusion of this treaty, upon the
14th March, 1647, the French and Swedes left Bavaria, and in order not
to interfere with each other, took up different quarters; the former in
Wuertemberg, the latter in Upper Suabia, in the neighbourhood of the
Lake of Constance. On the extreme north of this lake, and on the most
southern frontier of Suabia, the Austrian town of Bregentz, by its steep
and narrow passes, seemed to defy attack; and in this persuasion, the
whole peasantry of the surrounding villages had with their property
taken refuge in this natural fortress. The rich booty, which the store
of provisions it contained, gave reason to expect, and the advantage of
possessing a pass into the Tyrol, Switzerland and Italy, induced the
Swedish general to venture an attack upon this supposed impregnable post
and town, in which he succeeded. Meantime, Turenne, according to
agreement, marched into Wuertemberg, where he forced the Landgrave of
Darmstadt and the Elector of Mentz to imitate the example of Bavaria,
and to embrace the neutrality.
And now, at last, France seemed to have attained the great object of its
policy, that of depriving the Emperor of the support of the League, and
of his Protestant allies, and of dictating to him, sword in hand, the
conditions of peace. Of all his once formidable power, an army, not
exceeding 12,000, was all that remained to him; and this force he was
driven to the necessity of entrusting to the command of a Calvinist, the
Hessian deserter Melander, as the casualties of war had stripped him of
his best generals. But as this war had been remarkable for the sudden
changes of fortune it displayed; and as every calculation of state
policy had been frequently baffled by some unforeseen event, in this
case also the issue disappointed expectation; and after a brief crisis,
the fallen power of Austria rose again to a formidable strength. The
jealousy which France entertained of Sweden, prevented it from
permitting the total ruin of the Emperor, or allowing the Swedes to
obtain such a preponderance in Germany, as might have been destructive
to France herself. Accordingly, the French minister declined to take
advantage of the distresses of Austria; and the army of Turenne,
separating from that of Wrangel, retired to the frontiers of the
Netherlands. Wrangel, indeed, after moving from Suabia into Franconia,
taking Schweinfurt, and incorporating the imperial garrison of that
place with his own army, attempted to make his way into Bohemia, and
laid siege to Egra, the key of that kingdom. To relieve this fortress,
the Emperor put his last army in motion, and placed himself at its head.
But obliged to take a long circuit, in order to spare the lands of Von
Schlick, the president of the council of war, he protracted his march;
and on his arrival, Egra was already taken. Both armies were now in
sight of each other; and a decisive battle was momentarily expected, as
both were suffering from want, and the two camps were only separated
from each other by the space of the entrenchments. But the
Imperialists, although superior in numbers, contented themselves with
keeping close to the enemy, and harassing them by skirmishes, by
fatiguing marches and famine, until the negociations which had been
opened with Bavaria were brought to a bearing.
The neutrality of Bavaria, was a wound under which the Imperial court
writhed impatiently; and after in vain attempting to prevent it, Austria
now determined, if possible, to turn it to advantage. Several officers
of the Bavarian army had been offended by this step of their master,
which at once reduced them to inaction, and imposed a burdensome
restraint on their restless disposition. Even the brave John de Werth
was at the head of the malcontents, and encouraged by the Emperor, he
formed a plot to seduce the whole army from their allegiance to the
Elector, and lead it over to the Emperor. Ferdinand did not blush to
patronize this act of treachery against his father's most trusty ally.
He formally issued a proclamation to the Bavarian troops, in which he
recalled them to himself, reminded them that they were the troops of the
empire, which the Elector had merely commanded in name of the Emperor.
Fortunately for Maximilian, he detected the conspiracy in time enough to
anticipate and prevent it by the most rapid and effective measures.
France had once more disappointed the expectations of Sweden; and the
army of Turenne, disregarding the remonstrances of Wrangel, had remained
upon the Rhine. The Swedish leader revenged himself, by drawing into
his service the cavalry of Weimar, which had abandoned the standard of
France, though, by this step, he farther increased the jealousy of that
power. Turenne received permission to join the Swedes; and the last
campaign of this eventful war was now opened by the united armies.
Driving Melander before them along the Danube, they threw supplies into
Egra, which was besieged by the Imperialists, and defeated the Imperial
and Bavarian armies on the Danube, which ventured to oppose them at
Susmarshausen, where Melander was mortally wounded. After this
overthrow, the Bavarian general, Gronsfeld, placed himself on the
farther side of the Lech, in order to guard Bavaria from the enemy.
But Gronsfeld was not more fortunate than Tilly, who, in this same
position, had sacrificed his life for Bavaria. Wrangel and Turenne
chose the same spot for passing the river, which was so gloriously
marked by the victory of Gustavus Adolphus, and accomplished it by the
same means, too, which had favoured their predecessor. Bavaria was now
a second time overrun, and the breach of the truce punished by the
severest treatment of its inhabitants. Maximilian sought shelter in
Salzburgh, while the Swedes crossed the Iser, and forced their way as
far as the Inn. A violent and continued rain, which in a few days
swelled this inconsiderable stream into a broad river, saved Austria
once more from the threatened danger. The enemy ten times attempted to
form a bridge of boats over the Inn, and as often it was destroyed by
the current. Never, during the whole course of the war, had the
Imperialists been in so great consternation as at present, when the
enemy were in the centre of Bavaria, and when they had no longer a
general left who could be matched against a Turenne, a Wrangel, and a
Koenigsmark. At last the brave Piccolomini arrived from the
Netherlands, to assume the command of the feeble wreck of the
Imperialists. By their own ravages in Bohemia, the allies had rendered
their subsistence in that country impracticable, and were at last driven
by scarcity to retreat into the Upper Palatinate, where the news of the
peace put a period to their activity.
The colossal labour of concluding this solemn, and ever memorable and
sacred treaty, which is known by the name of the peace of Westphalia;
the endless obstacles which were to be surmounted; the contending
interests which it was necessary to reconcile; the concatenation of
circumstances which must have co-operated to bring to a favourable
termination this tedious, but precious and permanent work of policy; the
difficulties which beset the very opening of the negociations, and
maintaining them, when opened, during the ever-fluctuating vicissitudes
of the war; finally, arranging the conditions of peace, and still more,
the carrying them into effect; what were the conditions of this peace;
what each contending power gained or lost, by the toils and sufferings
of a thirty years' war; what modification it wrought upon the general
system of European policy;--these are matters which must be relinquished
to another pen. The history of the peace of Westphalia constitutes a
whole, as important as the history of the war itself. A mere abridgment
of it, would reduce to a mere skeleton one of the most interesting and
characteristic monuments of human policy and passions, and deprive it of
every feature calculated to fix the attention of the public, for which I
write, and of which I now respectfully take my leave.
THE WORKS
OF
FREDERICK SCHILLER
Translated from the German
Illustrated
Since the publication of the first English edition many corrections and
improvements have been made, with a view to rendering it as acceptable
as possible to English readers; and, notwithstanding the disadvantages
of a translation, the publishers feel sure that Schiller will be
heartily acceptable to English readers, and that the influence of his
writings will continue to increase.
THE CAMP OF WALLENSTEIN was translated by Mr. James Churchill, and first
appeared in "Frazer's Magazine." It is an exceedingly happy version of
what has always been deemed the most untranslatable of Schiller's works.
THE HISTORY
OF THE
CONTENTS.
AUTHOR'S PREFACE
INTRODUCTION
Many years ago, when I read the History of the Belgian Revolution in
Watson's excellent work, I was seized with an enthusiasm which political
events but rarely excite. On further reflection I felt that this
enthusiastic feeling had arisen less from the book itself than from the
ardent workings of my own imagination, which had imparted to the
recorded materials the particular form that so fascinated me. These
imaginations, therefore, I felt a wish to fix, to multiply, and to
strengthen; these exalted sentiments I was anxious to extend by
communicating them to others. This was my principal motive for
commencing the present history, my only vocation to write it. The
execution of this design carried me farther than in the beginning I had
expected. A closer acquaintance with my materials enabled me to
discover defects previously unnoticed, long waste tracts to be filled
up, apparent contradictions to be reconciled, and isolated facts to be
brought into connection with the rest of the subject. Not so much with
the view of enriching my history with new facts as of seeking a key to
old ones, I betook myself to the original sources, and thus what was
originally intended to be only a general outline expanded under my hands
into an elaborate history. The first part, which concludes with the
Duchess of Parma's departure from the Netherlands, must be looked upon
only as the introduction to the history of the Revolution itself, which
did not come to an open outbreak till the government of her successor.
I have bestowed the more care and attention upon this introductory
period the more the generality of writers who had previously treated of
it seemed to me deficient in these very qualities. Moreover, it is in
my opinion the more important as being the root and source of all the
subsequent events. If, then, the first volume should appear to any as
barren in important incident, dwelling prolixly on trifles, or, rather,
should seem at first sight profuse of reflections, and in general
tediously minute, it must be remembered that it was precisely out of
small beginnings that the Revolution was gradually developed; and that
all the great results which follow sprang out of a countless number of
trifling and little circumstances.
A nation like the one before us invariably takes its first steps with
doubts and uncertainty, to move afterwards only the more rapidly for its
previous hesitation. I proposed, therefore, to follow the same method
in describing this rebellion. The longer the reader delays on the
introduction the more familiar he becomes with the actors in this
history, and the scene in which they took a part, so much the more
rapidly and unerringly shall I be able to lead him through the
subsequent periods, where the accumulation of materials will forbid
a slowness of step or minuteness of attention.
INTRODUCTION.
Not so, however, in the history before us. The people here presented to
our notice were the most peaceful in our quarter of the globe, and less
capable than their neighbors of that heroic spirit which stamps a lofty
character even on the most insignificant actions. The pressure of
circumstances with its peculiar influence surprised them and forced a
transitory greatness upon them, which they never could have possessed
and perhaps will never possess again. It is, indeed, exactly this want
of heroic grandeur which renders this event peculiarly instructive; and
while others aim at showing the superiority of genius over chance, I
shall here paint a scene where necessity creates genius and accident
makes heroes.
Philip II. missed the fruits of a deed which cost him his royal honor,
and perhaps, also, his self-respect. Liberty struggled on still with
despotism in obstinate and dubious contest; sanguinary battles were
fought; a brilliant array of heroes succeeded each other on the field of
glory, and Flanders and Brabant were the schools which educated generals
for the coming century. A long, devastating war laid waste the open
country; victor and vanquished alike waded through blood; while the
rising republic of the waters gave a welcome to fugitive industry, and
out of the ruins of despotism erected the noble edifice of its own
greatness. For forty years lasted the war whose happy termination was
not to bless the dying eye of Philip; which destroyed one paradise in
Europe to form a new one out of its shattered fragments; which destroyed
the choicest flower of military youth, and while it enriched more than a
quarter of the globe impoverished the possessor of the golden Peru.
This monarch, who could expend nine hundred tons of gold without
oppressing his subjects, and by tyrannical measures extorted far more,
heaped, moreover, on his exhausted people a debt of one hundred and
forty millions of ducats. An implacable hatred of liberty swallowed up
all these treasures, and consumed on the fruitless task the labor of a
royal life. But the Reformation throve amidst the devastations of the
sword, and over the blood of her citizens the banner of the new republic
floated victorious.
But in the very same proportion that the Spanish power declined the
republic rose in fresh vigor. The ravages which the fanaticism of the
new religion, the tyranny of the Inquisition, the furious rapacity of
the soldiery, and the miseries of a long war unbroken by any interval of
peace, made in the provinces of Brabant, Flanders, and Hainault, at once
the arsenals and the magazines of this expensive contest, naturally
rendered it every year more difficult to support and recruit the royal
armies. The Catholic Netherlands had already lost a million of
citizens, and the trodden fields maintained their husbandmen no longer.
Spain itself had but few more men to spare. That country, surprised by
a sudden affluence which brought idleness with it, had lost much of its
population, and could not long support the continual drafts of men which
were required both for the New World and the Netherlands. Of these
conscripts few ever saw their country again; and these few having left
it as youths returned to it infirm and old. Gold, which had become more
common, made soldiers proportionately dearer; the growing charm of
effeminacy enhanced the price of the opposite virtues. Wholly different
was the posture of affairs with the rebels. The thousands whom the
cruelty of the viceroy expelled from the southern Netherlands, the
Huguenots whom the wars of persecution drove from France, as well as
every one whom constraint of conscience exiled from the other parts of
Europe, all alike flocked to unite themselves with the Belgian
insurgents. The whole Christian world was their recruiting ground.
The fanaticism both of the persecutor and the persecuted worked in their
behalf. The enthusiasm of a doctrine newly embraced, revenge, want, and
hopeless misery drew to their standard adventurers from every part of
Europe. All whom the new doctrine had won, all who had suffered, or had
still cause of fear from despotism, linked their own fortunes with those
of the new republic. Every injury inflicted by a tyrant gave a right of
citizenship in Holland. Men pressed towards a country where liberty
raised her spirit-stirring banner, where respect and security were
insured to a fugitive religion, and even revenge on the oppressor. If
we consider the conflux in the present day of people to Holland, seeking
by their entrance upon her territory to be reinvested in their rights as
men, what must it have been at a time when the rest of Europe groaned
under a heavy bondage, when Amsterdam was nearly the only free port for
all opinions? Many hundred families sought a refuge for their wealth in
a land which the ocean and domestic concord powerfully combined to
protect. The republican army maintained its full complement without the
plough being stripped of hands to work it. Amid the clash of arms trade
and industry flourished, and the peaceful citizen enjoyed in
anticipation the fruits of liberty which foreign blood was to purchase
for them. At the very time when the republic of Holland was struggling
for existence she extended her dominions beyond the ocean, and was
quietly occupied in erecting her East Indian Empire.
The sluggish progress of this war did the king as much injury as it
benefited the rebels. His army was composed for the most part of the
remains of those victorious troops which had gathered their laurels
under Charles V. Old and long services entitled them to repose; many of
them, whom the war had enriched, impatiently longed for their homes,
where they might end in ease a life of hardship. Their former zeal,
their heroic spirit, and their discipline relaxed in the same proportion
as they thought they had fully satisfied their honor and their duty, and
as they began to reap at last the reward of so many battles. Besides,
the troops which had been accustomed by their irresistible impetuosity
to vanquish all opponents were necessarily wearied out by a war which
was carried on not so much against men as against the elements; which
exercised their patience more than it gratified their love of glory; and
where there was less of danger than of difficulty and want to contend
with. Neither personal courage nor long military experience was of
avail in a country whose peculiar features gave the most dastardly the
advantage. Lastly, a single discomfiture on foreign ground did them
more injury than any victories gained over an enemy at home could profit
them. With the rebels the case was exactly the reverse. In so
protracted a war, in which no decisive battle took place, the weaker
party must naturally learn at last the art of defence from the stronger;
slight defeats accustomed him to danger; slight victories animated his
confidence.
At the beginning of the war the republican army scarcely dared to show
itself in the field; the long continuance of the struggle practised and
hardened it. As the royal armies grew wearied of victory, the
confidence of the rebels rose with their improved discipline and
experience. At last, at the end of half a century, master and pupil
separated, unsubdued, and equal in the fight.
Again, throughout the war the rebels acted with more concord and
unanimity than the royalists. Before the former had lost their first
leader the government of the Netherlands had passed through as many as
five hands. The Duchess of Parma's indecision soon imparted itself to
the cabinet of Madrid, which in a short time tried in succession almost
every system of policy. Duke Alva's inflexible sternness, the mildness
of his successor Requescens, Don John of Austria's insidious cunning,
and the active and imperious mind of the Prince of Parma gave as many
opposite directions to the war, while the plan of rebellion remained the
same in a single head, who, as he saw it clearly, pursued it with vigor.
The king's greatest misfortune was that right principles of action
generally missed the right moment of application. In the commencement
of the troubles, when the advantage was as yet clearly on the king's
side, when prompt resolution and manly firmness might have crushed the
rebellion in the cradle, the reigns of government were allowed to hang
loose in the hands of a woman. After the outbreak had come to an open
revolt, and when the strength of the factious and the power of the king
stood more equally balanced, and when a skilful flexible prudence could
alone have averted the impending civil war, the government devolved on a
man who was eminently deficient in this necessary qualification. So
watchful an observer as William the Silent failed not to improve every
advantage which the faulty policy of his adversary presented, and with
quiet silent industry he slowly but surely pushed on the great
enterprise to its accomplishment.
But why did not Philip II. himself appear in the Netherlands? Why did
he prefer to employ every other means, however improbable, rather than
make trial of the only remedy which could insure success? To curb the
overgrown power and insolence of the nobility there was no expedient
more natural than the presence of their master. Before royalty itself
all secondary dignities must necessarily have sunk in the shade, all
other splendor be dimmed. Instead of the truth being left to flow
slowly and obscurely through impure channels to the distant throne, so
that procrastinated measures of redress gave time to ripen ebullitions
of the moment into acts of deliberation, his own penetrating glance
would at once have been able to separate truth from error; and cold
policy alone, not to speak of his humanity, would have saved the land a
million citizens. The nearer to their source the more weighty would his
edicts have been; the thicker they fell on their objects the weaker and
the more dispirited would have become the efforts of the rebels. It
costs infinitely more to do an evil to an enemy in his presence than in
his absence. At first the rebellion appeared to tremble at its own
name, and long sheltered itself under the ingenious pretext of defending
the cause of its sovereign against the arbitrary assumptions of his own
viceroy. Philip's appearance in Brussels would have put an end at once
to this juggling. In that case, the rebels would have been compelled to
act up to their pretence, or to cast aside the mask, and so, by
appearing in their true shape, condemn themselves. And what a relief
for the Netherlands if the king's presence had only spared them those
evils which were inflicted upon them without his knowledge, and contrary
to his will. [1] What gain, too, even if it had only enabled him to
watch over the expenditure of the vast sums which, illegally raised on
the plea of meeting the exigencies of the war, disappeared in the
plundering hands of his deputies.
The history of the world, like the laws of nature, is consistent with
itself, and simple as the soul of man. Like conditions produce like
phenomena. On the same soil where now the Netherlanders were to resist
their Spanish tyrants, their forefathers, the Batavi and Belgee, fifteen
centuries before, combated against their Roman oppressors. Like the
former, submitting reluctantly to a haughty master, and misgoverned by
rapacious satraps, they broke off their chain with like resolution, and
tried their fortune in a similar unequal combat. The same pride of
conquest, the same national grandeur, marked the Spaniard of the
sixteenth century and the Roman of the first; the same valor and
discipline distinguished the armies of both, their battle array inspired
the same terror. There as here we see stratagem in combat with superior
force, and firmness, strengthened by unanimity, wearying out a mighty
power weakened by division; then as now private hatred armed a whole
nation; a single man, born for his times, revealed to his fellow-slaves
the dangerous Secret of their power, and brought their mute grief to a
bloody announcement. "Confess, Batavians," cries Claudius Civilis to
his countrymen in the sacred grove, "we are no longer treated, as
formerly, by these Romans as allies, but rather as slaves. We are
handed over to their prefects and centurions, who, when satiated with
our plunder and with our blood, make way for others, who, under
different names, renew the same outrages. If even at last Rome deigns
to send us a legate, he oppresses us with an ostentatious and costly
retinue, and with still more intolerable pride. The levies are again at
hand which tear forever children from their parents, brothers from
brothers. Now, Batavians, is our time. Never did Rome lie so prostrate
as now. Let not their names of legions terrify you. There is nothing
in their camps but old men and plunder. Our infantry and horsemen are
strong; Germany is allied to us by blood, and Gaul is ready to throw off
its yoke. Let Syria serve them, and Asia and the East, who are used to
bow before kings; many still live who were born among us before tribute
was paid to the Romans. The gods are ever with the brave." Solemn
religious rites hallowed this conspiracy, like the League of the Gueux;
like that, it craftily wrapped itself in the veil of submissiveness, in
the majesty of a great name. The cohorts of Civilis swear allegiance on
the Rhine to Vespasian in Syria, as the League did to Philip II. The
same arena furnished the same plan of defence, the same refuge to
despair. Both confided their wavering fortunes to a friendly element;
in the same distress Civilis preserves his island, as fifteen centuries
after him William of Orange did the town of Leyden--through an
artificial inundation. The valor of the Batavi disclosed the impotency
of the world's ruler, as the noble courage of their descendants revealed
to the whole of Europe the decay of Spanish greatness. The same
fecundity of genius in the generals of both times gave to the war a
similarly obstinate continuance, and nearly as doubtful an issue; one
difference, nevertheless, distinguishes them: the Romans and Batavians
fought humanely, for they did not fight for religion.
[1] More modern historians, with access to the records of the Spanish
Inquisition and the private communications between Phillip II. and his
various appointees to power in the Netherlands, rebut Shiller's kind but
naive thought. To the contrary, Phillip II. was most critical of his
envoys lack of severity. See in particular the "Rise of the Dutch
Republic" and the other works of John Motley on the history of the
Netherlands all of which are available at Project Gutenberg.--D.W.
[2] A few French generals who were by and large ineffective; and many
promises of gold which were undelivered.--D.W.
BOOK I.
The first appearance of this people in the history of the world is the
moment of its fall; their conquerors first gave them a political
existence. The extensive region which is bounded by Germany on the
east, on the south by France, on the north and northwest by the North
Sea, and which we comprehend under the general name of the Netherlands,
was, at the time when the Romans invaded Gaul, divided amongst three
principal nations, all originally of German descent, German
institutions, and German spirit. The Rhine formed its boundaries. On
the left of the river dwelt the Belgae, on its right the Frisii, and the
Batavi on the island which its two arms then formed with the ocean. All
these several nations were sooner or later reduced into subjection by
the Romans, but the conquerors themselves give us the most glorious
testimony to their valor. The Belgae, writes Caesar, were the only
people amongst the Gauls who repulsed the invasion of the Teutones and
Cimbri. The Batavi, Tacitus tells us, surpassed all the tribes on the
Rhine in bravery. This fierce nation paid its tribute in soldiers, and
was reserved by its conquerors, like arrow and sword, only for battle.
The Romans themselves acknowledged the Batavian horsemen to be their
best cavalry. Like the Swiss at this day, they formed for a long time
the body-guard of the Roman Emperor; their wild courage terrified the
Dacians, as they saw them, in full armor, swimming across the Danube.
The Batavi accompanied Agricola in his expedition against Britain, and
helped him to conquer that island. The Frieses were, of all, the last
subdued, and the first to regain their liberty. The morasses among
which they dwelt attracted the conquerors later, and enhanced the price
of conquest. The Roman Drusus, who made war in these regions, had a
canal cut from the Rhine into the Flevo, the present Zuyder Zee, through
which the Roman fleet penetrated into the North Sea, and from thence,
entering the mouths of the Ems and the Weser, found an easy passage into
the interior of Germany.
Through four centuries we find Batavian troops in the Roman armies, but
after the time of Honorius their name disappears from history.
Presently we discover their island overrun by the Franks, who again lost
themselves in the adjoining country of Belgium. The Frieses threw off
the yoke of their distant and powerless rulers, and again appearad as a
free, and even a conquering people, who governed themselves by their own
customs and a remnant of Roman laws, and extended their limits beyond
the left bank of the Rhine. Of all the provinces of the Netherlands,
Friesland especially had suffered the least from the irruptions of
strange tribes and foreign customs, and for centuries retained traces of
its original institutions, of its national spirit and manners, which
have not, even at the present day, entirely disappeared.
The monarchy of the Franks, which arose out of the ruins of Roman Gaul,
had, in the sixth and seventh centuries, seized all the provinces of the
Netherlands, and planted there the Christian faith. After an obstinate
war Charles Martel subdued to the French crown Friesland, the last of
all the free provinces, and by his victories paved a way for the gospel.
Charlemagne united all these countries, and formed of them one division
of the mighty empire which he had constructed out of Germany, France,
and Lombardy. As under his descendants this vast dominion was again
torn into fragments, so the Netherlands became at times German, at
others French, or then again Lotheringian Provinces; and at last we find
them under both the names of Friesland and Lower Lotheringia.
With the Franks the feudal system, the offspring of the North, also came
into these lands, and here, too, as in all other countries, it
degenerated. The more powerful vassals gradually made themselves
independent of the crown, and the royal governors usurped the countries
they were appointed to govern. But the rebellions vassals could not
maintain their usurpations without the aid of their own dependants,
whose assistance they were compelled to purchase by new concessions.
At the same time the church became powerful through pious usurpations
and donations, and its abbey lands and episcopal sees acquired an
independent existence. Thus were the Netherlands in the tenth,
eleventh, twelfth, and thirteenth centuries split up into several small
sovereignties, whose possessors did homage at one time to the German
Emperor, at another to the kings of France. By purchase, marriages,
legacies, and also by conquest, several of these provinces were often
united under one suzerain, and thus in the fifteenth century we see the
house of Burgundy in possession of the chief part of the Netherlands.
With more or less right Philip the Good, Duke of Burgundy, had united
as many as eleven provinces under his authority, and to these his son,
Charles the Bold, added two others, acquired by force of arms. Thus
imperceptibly a new state arose in Europe, which wanted nothing but the
name to be the most flourishing kingdom in this quarter of the globe.
These extensive possessions made the Dukes of Burgundy formidable
neighbors to France, and tempted the restless spirit of Charles the Bold
to devise a scheme of conquest, embracing the whole line of country from
the Zuyder Zee and the mouth of the Rhine down to Alsace. The almost
inexhaustible resources of this prince justify in some measure this bold
project. A formidable army threatened to carry it into execution.
Already Switzerland trembled for her liberty; but deceitful fortune
abandoned him in three terrible battles, and the infatuated hero was
lost in the melee of the living and the dead.
[A page who had seen him fall a few days after the battle conducted
the victors to the spot, and saved his remains from an ignominious
oblivion. His body was dragged from out of a pool, in which it was
fast frozen, naked, and so disfigured with wounds that with great
difficulty he was recognized, by the well-known deficiency of some
of his teeth, and by remarkably long finger-nails. But that,
notwithstanding the marks, there were still incredulous people who
doubted his death, and looked for his reappearance, is proved by
the missive in which Louis XI. called upon the Burgundian States to
return to their allegiance to the Crown of France. "If," the
passage runs, "Duke Charles should still be living, you shall be
released from your oath to me." Comines, t. iii., Preuves des
Memoires, 495, 497.]
The sole heiress of Charles the Bold, Maria, at once the richest
princess and the unhappy Helen of that time, whose wooing brought misery
on her inheritance, was now the centre of attraction to the whole known
world. Among her suitors appeared two great princes, King Louis XI. of
France, for his son, the young Dauphin, and Maximilian of Austria, son
of the Emperor Frederic III. The successful suitor was to become the
most powerful prince in Europe; and now, for the first time, this
quarter of the globe began to fear for its balance of power. Louis, the
more powerful of the two, was ready to back his suit by force of arms;
but the people of the Netherlands, who disposed of the hand of their
princess, passed by this dreaded neighbor, and decided in favor of
Maximilian, whose more remote territories and more limited power seemed
less to threaten the liberty of their country. A deceitful, unfortunate
policy, which, through a strange dispensation of heaven, only
accelerated the melancholy fate which it was intended to prevent.
To Philip the Fair, the son of Maria and Maximilian, a Spanish bride
brought as her portion that extensive kingmdom which Ferdinand and
Isabella had recently founded; and Charles of Austria, his son, was born
lord of the kingdoms of Spain, of the two Sicilies, of the New World,
and of the Netherlands. In the latter country the commonalty
emancipated themselves much earlier than in other; feudal states, and
quickly attained to an independent political existence. The favorable
situation of the country on the North Sea and on great navigable rivers
early awakened the spirit of commerce, which rapidly peopled the towns,
encouraged industry and the arts, attracted foreigners, and diffused
prosperity and affluence among them. However contemptuously the warlike
policy of those times looked down upon every peaceful and useful
occupation, the rulers of the country could not fail altogether to
perceive the essential advantages they derived from such pursuits. The
increasing population of their territories, the different imposts which
they extorted from natives and foreigners under the various titles of
tolls, customs, highway rates, escort money, bridge tolls, market fees,
escheats, and so forth, were too valuable considerations to allow them
to remain indifferent to the sources from which they were derived..
Their own rapacity made them promoters of trade, and, as often happens,
barbarism itself rudely nursed it, until at last a healthier policy
assumed its place. In the course of time they invited the Lombard
merchants to settle among them, and accorded to the towns some valuable
privileges and an independent jurisdiction, by which the latter acquired
uncommon extraordinary credit and influence. The numerous wars which
the counts and dukes carried on with one another, or with their
neighbors, made them in some measure dependent on the good-will of the
towns, who by their wealth obtained weight and consideration, and for
the subsidies which they afforded failed not to extort important
privileges in return. These privileges of the commonalties increased as
the crusades with their expensive equipment augumented the necessities
of the nobles; as a new road to Europe was opened for the productions of
the East, and as wide-spreading luxury created new wants to their
princes. Thus as early as the eleventh and twelfth centuries we find in
these lands a mixed form of governmeut, in which the prerogative of the
sovereign is greatly limited by the privileges of the estates; that is
to say, of the nobility, the clergy, and the municipalities.
These, under the name of States, assembled as often as the wants of the
province required it. Without their consent no new laws were valid, no
war could be carried on, and no taxes levied, no change made in the
coinage, and no foreigner admitted to any office of government. All the
provinces enjoyed these privileges in common; others were peculiar to
the various districts. The supreme government was hereditary, but the
son did not enter on the rights of his father before he had solemnly
sworn to maintain the existing constitution.
Necessity is the first lawgiver; all the wants which had to be met by
this constitution were originally of a commercial nature. Thus the
whole constitution was founded on commerce, and the laws of the nation
were adapted to its pursuits. The last clause, which excluded
foreigners from all offices of trust, was a natural consequence of the
preceding articles. So complicated and artificial a relation between
the sovereign and his people, which in many provinces was further
modified according to the peculiar wants of each, and frequently of some
single city, required for its maintenance the liveliest zeal for the
liberties of the country, combined with an intimate acquaintance with
them. From a foreigner neither could well be expected. This law,
besides, was enforced reciprocally in each particular province; so that
in Brabant no Fleming, in Zealand no Hollander, could hold office; and
it continued in force even after all these provinces were united under
one government.
Above all others, Brabant enjoyed the highest degree of freedom. Its
privileges were esteemed so valuable that many mothers from the adjacent
provinces removed thither about the time of their accouchment, in order
to entitle their children to participate, by birth, in all the
immunities of that favored country; just as, says Strada, one improves
the plants of a rude climate by removing them to the soil of a milder.
After the House of Burgundy had united several provinces under its
dominion, the separate provincial assemblies which, up to that time, had
been independent tribunals, were made subject to a supreme court at
Malines, which incorporated the various judicatures into one body, and
decided in the last resort all civil and criminal appeals. The separate
independence of the provinces was thus abolished, and the supreme power
vested in the senate at Malines.
After the death of Charles the Bold the states did not neglect to avail
themselves of the embarassment of their duchess, who, threatened by
France, was consequently in their power. Holland and Zealand compelled
her to sign a great charter, which secured to them the most important
sovereign rights. The people of Ghent carried their insolence to such a
pitch that they arbitrarily dragged the favorites of Maria, who had the
misfortune to displease them, before their own tribunals, and beheaded
them before the eyes of that princess. During the short government of
the Duchess Maria, from her father's death to her marriage, the commons
obtained powers which few free states enjoyed. After her death her
husband, Maximilian, illegally assumed the government as guardian of his
son. Offended by this invasion of their rights, the estates refused to
acknowledge his authority, and could only be brought to receive him as a
viceroy for a stated period, and under conditions ratified by oath.
The security of life and property arising from mild laws, and, an equal
administration of justice, had encouraged activity and industry. In
continual contest with the ocean and rapid rivers, which poured their
violence on the neighboring lowlands, and whose force it was requisite
to break by embankments and canals, this people had early learned to
observe the natural objects around them; by industry and perseverance to
defy an element of superior power; and like the Egyptian, instructed by
his Nile, to exercise their inventive genius and acuteness in
self-defence. The natural fertility of their soil, which favored
agriculture and the breeding of cattle, tended at the same time to
increase the population. Their happy position on the sea and the great
navigable rivers of Germany and France, many of which debouched on their
coasts; the numerous artificial canals which intersected the land in all
directions, imparted life to navigation; and the facility of internal
communication between the provinces, soon created and fostered a
commercial spirit among these people.
The neighboring coasts, Denmark and Britain, were the first visited by
their vessels. The English wool which they brought back employed
thousands of industrious hands in Bruges, Ghent, and Antwerp; and as
early as the middle of the twelfth century cloths of Flanders were
extensively worn in France and Germany. In the eleventh century we find
ships of Friesland in the Belt, and even in the Levant. This
enterprising people ventured, without a compass, to steer under the
North Pole round to the most northerly point of Russia. From the
Wendish towns the Netherlands received a share in the Levant trade,
which, at that time, still passed from the Black Sea through the Russian
territories to the Baltic. When, in the thirteenth century, this trade
began to decline, the Crusades having opened a new road through the
Mediterranean for Indian merchandise, and after the Italian towns had
usurped this lucrative branch of commerce, and the great Hanseatic
League had been formed in Germany, the Netherlands became the most
important emporium between the north and south. As yet the use of
the compass was not general, and the merchantmen sailed slowly and
laboriously along the coasts. The ports on the Baltic were, during the
winter months, for the most part frozen and inaccessible. Ships,
therefore, which could not well accomplish within the year the long
voyage from the Mediterranean to the Belt, gladly availed themselves of
harbors which lay half-way between the two.
With an immense continent behind them with which navigable streams kept
up their communication, and towards the west and north open to the ocean
by commodious harbors, this country appeared to be expressly formed for
a place of resort for different nations, and for a centre of commerce.
The principal towns of the Netherlands were established marts.
Portuguese, Spaniards, Italians, French, Britons, Germans, Danes, and
Swedes thronged to them with the produce of every country in the world.
Competition insured cheapness; industry was stimulated as it found a
ready market for its productions. With the necessary exchange of money
arose the commerce in bills, which opened a new and fruitful source of
wealth. The princes of the country, acquainted at last with their true
interest, encouraged the merchant by important immunities, and neglected
not to protect their commerce by advantageous treaties with foreign
powers. When, in the fifteenth century, several provinces were united
under one rule, they discontinued their private wars, which had proved
so injurious, and their separate interests were now more intimately
connected by a common government. Their commerce and affluence
prospered in the lap of a long peace, which the formidable power of
their princes extorted from the neighboring monarchs. The Burgundian
flag was feared in every sea, the dignity of their sovereign gave
support to their undertakings, and the enterprise of a private
individual became the affair of a powerful state. Such vigorous
protection soon placed them in a position even to renounce the Hanseatic
League, and to pursue this daring enemy through every sea. The
Hanseatic merchants, against whom the coasts of Spain were closed,
were compelled at last, however reluctantly, to visit the Flemish fairs,
and purchase their Spanish goods in the markets of the Netherlands.
[Two such fairs lasted forty days, and all the goods sold there
were duty free.]
When the new route by the Cape of Good Hope was discovered, and the East
India trade of Portugal undermined that of the Levant, the Netherlands
did not feel the blow which was inflicted on the Italian republics. The
Portuguese established their mart in Brabant, and the spices of Calicut
were displayed for sale in the markets of Antwerp. Hither poured the
West Indian merchandise, with which the indolent pride of Spain repaid
the industry of the Netherlands. The East Indian market attracted the
most celebrated commercial houses from Florence, Lucca, and Genoa; and
the Fuggers and Welsers from Augsburg. Here the Hanse towns brought the
wares of the north, and here the English company had a factory. Here
art and nature seemed to expose to view all their riches; it was a
splendid exhibition of the works of the Creator and of the creature.
Their renown soon diffused itself through the world. Even a company of
Turkish merchants, towards the end of this century, solicited permission
to settle here, and to supply the products of the East by way of Greece.
With the trade in goods they held also the exchange of money. Their
bills passed current in the farthest parts of the globe. Antwerp, it is
asserted, then transacted more extensive and more important business in
a single month than Venice, at its most flourishing period, in two whole
years.
In the year 1491 the Hanseatic League held its solemn meetings in this
town, which had formerly assembled in Lubeck alone. In 1531 the
exchange was erected, at that time the most splendid in all Europe, and
which fulfilled its proud inscription. The town now reckoned one
hundred thousand inhabitants. The tide of human beings, which
incessantly poured into it, exceeds all belief. Between two hundred and
two hundred and fifty ships were often seen loading at one time in its
harbor; no day passed on which the boats entering inwards and outwards
did not amount to more than five hundred; on market days the number
amounted to eight or nine hundred. Daily more than two hundred
carriages drove through its gates; above two thousand loaded wagons
arrived every week from Germany, France, and Lorraine, without reckoning
the farmers' carts and corn-vans, which were seldom less than ten
thousand in number. Thirty thousand hands were employed by the English
company alone. The market dues, tolls, and excise brought millions to
the government annually. We can form some idea of the resources of the
nation from the fact that the extraordinary taxes which they were
obliged to pay to Charles V. towards his numerous wars were computed at
forty millions of gold ducats.
Up to this time these provinces had formed the most enviable state in
Europe. Not one of the Burgundian dukes had ventured to indulge a
thought of overturning the constitution; it had remained sacred even to
the daring spirit of Charles the Bold, while he was preparing fetters
for foreign liberty. All these princes grew up with no higher hope than
to be the heads of a republic, and none of their territories afforded
them experience of a higher authority. Besides, these princes possessed
nothing but what the Netherlands gave them; no armies but those which
the nation sent into the field; no riches but what the estates granted
to them. Now all was changed. The Netherlands had fallen to a master
who had at his command other instruments and other resources, who could
arm against them a foreign power.
The welfare of the country was so far secured as was necessary to the
political schemes of its master; the intelligent policy of Charles would
certainly not violate the salutary regiment of the body whose energies
he found himself necessitated to exert. Fortunately, the opposite
pursuits of selfish ambition, and of disinterested philanthropy, often
bring about the same end; and the well-being of a state, which a Marcus
Aurelius might propose to himself as a rational object of pursuit, is
occasionally promoted by an Augustus or a Louis.
Charles V. was perfectly aware that commerce was the strength of the
nation, and that the foundation of their commerce was liberty. He
spared its liberty because he needed its strength. Of greater political
wisdom, though not more just than his son, he adapted his principles to
the exigencies of time and place, and recalled an ordinance in Antwerp
and in Madrid which he would under other circumstances have enforced
with all the terrors of his power. That which makes the reign of
Charles V. particularly remarkable in regard to the Netherlands is the
great religious revolution which occurred under it; and which, as the
principal cause of the subsequent rebellion, demands a somewhat
circumstantial notice. This it was that first brought arbitrary power
into the innermost sanctuary of the constitution; taught it to give a
dreadful specimen of its might; and, in a measure, legalized it, while
it placed republican spirit on a dangerous eminence. And as the latter
sank into anarchy and rebellion monarchical power rose to the height of
despotism.
Gladly would Charles have seen this affection of the nation for himself
descend upon his son. On this account he sent for him in his youth from
Spain, and showed him in Brussels to his future subjects. On the solemn
day of his abdication he recommended to him these lands as the richest
jewel in his crown, and earnestly exhorted him to respect their laws and
privileges.
Philip II. was in all the direct opposite of his father. As ambitious
as Charles, but with less knowledge of men and of the rights of man, he
had formed to himself a notion of royal authority which regarded men as
simply the servile instruments of despotic will, and was outraged by
every symptom of liberty. Born in Spain, and educated under the iron
discipline of the monks, he demanded of others the same gloomy formality
and reserve as marked his own character. The cheerful merriment of his
Flemish subjects was as uncongenial to his disposition and temper as
their privileges were offensive to his imperious will. He spoke no
other language but the Spanish, endured none but Spaniards about his
person, and obstinately adhered to all their customs. In vain did the
loyal ingenuity of the Flemish towns through which he passed vie with
each other in solemnizing his arrival with costly festivities.
Philip's eye remained dark; all the profusion of magnificence, all the
loud and hearty effusions of the sincerest joy could not win from him
one approving smile.
Charles entirely missed his aim by presenting his son to the Flemings.
They might eventually have endured his yoke with less impatience if he
had never set his foot in their land. But his look forewarned them what
they had to expect; his entry into Brussels lost him all hearts. The
Emperor's gracious affability with his people only served to throw a
darker shade on the haughty gravity of his son. They read in his
countenance the destructive purpose against their liberties which, even
then, he already revolved in his breast. Forewarned to find in him a
tyrant they were forearmed to resist him.
The throne of the Netherlands was the first which Charles V. abdicated.
Before a solemn convention in Brussels he absolved the States-General of
their oath, and transferred their allegiance to King Philip, his son.
"If my death," addressing the latter, as he concluded, "had placed you
in possession of these countries, even in that case so valuable a
bequest would have given me great claims on your gratitude. But now
that of my free will I transfer them to you, now that I die in order to
hasten your enjoyment of them, I only require of you to pay to the
people the increased obligation which the voluntary surrender of my
dignity lays upon you. Other princes esteem it a peculiar felicity to
bequeath to their children the crown which death is already ravishing
from then. This happiness I am anxious to enjoy during my life. I wish
to be a spectator of your reign. Few will follow my example, as few
have preceded me in it. But this my deed will be praised if your future
life should justify my expectations, if you continue to be guided by
that wisdom which you have hitherto evinced, if you remain inviolably
attached to the pure faith which is the main pillar of your throne. One
thing more I have to add: may Heaven grant you also a son, to whom you
may transmit your power by choice, and not by necessity."
After the Emperor had concluded his address Philip kneeled down before
him, kissed his hand, and received his paternal blessing. His eyes for
the last time were moistened with a tear. All present wept. It was an
hour never to be forgotten.
This affecting farce was soon followed by another. Philip received the
homage of the assembled states. He took the oath administered in the
following words: "I, Philip, by the grace of God, Prince of Spain, of
the two Sicilies, etc., do vow and swear that I will be a good and just
lord in these countries, counties, and duchies, etc.; that I will well
and truly hold, and cause to be held, the privileges and liberties of
all the nobles, towns, commons, and subjects which have been conferred
upon them by my predecessors, and also the customs, usages and rights
which they now have and enjoy, jointly and severally, and, moreover,
that I will do all that by law and right pertains to a good and just
prince and lord, so help me God and all His Saints."
The alarm which the arbitrary government of the Emperor had inspired,
and the distrust of his son, are already visible in the formula of this
oath, which was drawn up in far more guarded and explicit terms than
that which had been administered to Charles V. himself and all the Dukes
in Burgundy. Philip, for instance, was compelled to swear to the
maintenance of their customs and usages, what before his time had never
been required. In the oath which the states took to him no other
obedience was promised than such as should be consistent with the
privileges of the country. His officers then were only to reckon on
submission and support so long as they legally discharged the duties
entrusted to them. Lastly, in this oath of allegiance, Philip is simply
styled the natural, the hereditary prince, and not, as the Emperor had
desired, sovereign or lord; proof enough how little confidence was
placed in the justice and liberality of the new sovereign.
A state constituted like this could act and endure with gigantic energy
whenever pressing emergencies called forth its powers and a skilful and
provident administration elicited its resources. Charles V. bequeathed
to his successor an authority in these provinces little inferior to that
of a limited monarchy. The prerogative of the crown had gained a
visible ascendancy over the republican spirit, and that complicated
machine could now be set in motion, almost as certainly and rapidly as
the most absolutely governed nation. The numerous nobility, formerly so
powerful, cheerfully accompanied their sovereign in his wars, or, on the
civil changes of the state, courted the approving smile of royality.
The crafty policy of the crown had created a new and imaginary good, of
which it was the exclusive dispenser. New passions and new ideas of
happiness supplanted at last the rude simplicity of republican virtue.
Pride gave place to vanity, true liberty to titles of Honor, a needy
independence to a luxurious servitude. To oppress or to plunder their
native land as the absolute satraps of an absolute lord was a more
powerful allurement for the avarice and ambition of the great, than in
the general assembly of the state to share with the monarch a hundredth
part of the supreme power. A large portion, moreover, of the nobility
were deeply sunk in poverty and debt. Charles V. had crippled all the
most dangerous vassals of the crown by expensive embassies to foreign
courts, under the specious pretext of honorary distinctions. Thus,
William of Orange was despatched to Germany with the imperial crown, and
Count Egmont to conclude the marriage contract between Philip and Queen
Mary. Both also afterwards accompanied the Duke of Alva to France to
negotiate the peace between the two crowns, and the new alliance of
their sovereign with Madame Elizabeth. The expenses of these journeys
amounted to three hundred thousand florins, towards which the king did
not contribute a single penny. When the Prince of Orange was appointed
generalissimo in the place of the Duke of Savoy he was obliged to defray
all the necessary expenses of his office. When foreign ambassadors or
princes came to Brussels it was made incumbent on the nobles to maintain
the honor of their king, who himself always dined alone, and never kept
open table. Spanish policy had devised a still more ingenious
contrivance gradually to impoverish the richest families of the land.
Every year one of the Castilian nobles made his appearance in Brussels,
where he displayed a lavish magnificence. In Brussels it was accounted
an indelible disgrace to be distanced by a stranger in such munificence.
All vied to surpass him, and exhausted their fortunes in this costly
emulation, while the Spaniard made a timely retreat to his native
country, and by the frugality of four years repaired the extravagance of
one year. It was the foible of the Netherlandish nobility to contest
with every stranger the credit of superior wealth, and of this weakness
the government studiously availed itself. Certainly these arts did not
in the sequel produce the exact result that had been calculated on; for
these pecuniary burdens only made the nobility the more disposed for
innovation, since he who has lost all can only be a gainer in the
general ruin.
The Roman Church had ever been a main support of the royal power, and it
was only natural that it should be so. Its golden time was the bondage
of the human intellect, and, like royalty, it had gained by the
ignorance and weakness of men. Civil oppression made religion more
necessary and more dear; submission to tyrannical power prepares the
mind for a blind, convenient faith, and the hierarchy repaid with usury
the services of despotism. In the provinces the bishops and prelates
were zealous supporters of royalty, and ever ready to sacrifice the
welfare of the citizen to the temporal advancement of the church and the
political interests of the sovereign.
Numerous and brave garrisons also held the cities in awe, which were
at the same time divided by religious squabbles and factions, and
consequently deprived of their strongest support--union among
themselves. How little, therefore, did it require to insure this
preponderance of Philip's power, and how fatal must have been the folly
by which it was lost.
Before we see him act we must first look hastily into the deep recesses
of his soul, and we shall there find a key to his political life. Joy
and benevolence were wholly wanting in the composition of his character.
His temperament, and the gloomy years of his early childhood, denied him
the former; the latter could not be imparted to him by men who had
renounced the sweetest and most powerful of the social ties. Two ideas,
his own self and what was above that self, engrossed his narrow and
contracted mind. Egotism and religion were the contents and the
title-page of the history of his whole life. He was a king and a
Christian, and was bad in both characters; he never was a man among men,
because he never condescended but only ascended. His belief was dark and
cruel; for his divinity was a being of terror, from whom he had nothing
to hope but everything to fear. To the ordinary man the divinity appears
as a comforter, as a Saviour; before his mind it was set up as an image
of fear, a painful, humiliating check to his human omnipotence. His
veneration for this being was so much the more profound and deeply rooted
the less it extended to other objects. He trembled servilely before God
because God was the only being before whom he had to tremble. Charles V.
was zealous for religion because religion promoted his objects. Philip
was so because he had real faith in it. The former let loose the fire and
the sword upon thousands for the sake of a dogma, while he himself, in
the person of the pope, his captive, derided the very doctrine for which
he had sacrificed so much human blood. It was only with repugnance and
scruples of conscience that Philip resolved on the most just war against
the pope, and resigned all the fruits of his victory as a penitent
malefactor surrenders his booty. The Emperor was cruel from calculation,
his son from impulse. The first possessed a strong and enlightened
spirit, and was, perhaps, so much the worse as a man; the second was
narrow-minded and weak, but the more upright.
Both, however, as it appears to me, might have been better men than they
actually were, and still, on the whole, have acted on the very same
principles. What we lay to the charge of personal character of an
individual is very often the infirmity, the necessary imperfection of
universal human nature. A monarchy so great and so powerful was too
great a trial for human pride, and too mighty a charge for human power.
To combine universal happiness with the highest liberty of the
individual is the sole prerogative of infinite intelligence, which
diffuses itself omnipresently over all. But what resource has man
when placed in the position of omnipotence? Man can only aid his
circumscribed powers by classification; like the naturalist, he
establishes certain marks and rules by which to facilitate his own
feeble survey of the whole, to which all individualities must conform.
All this is accomplished for him by religion. She finds hope and fear
planted in every human breast; by making herself mistress of these
emotions, and directing their affections to a single object, she
virtually transforms millions of independent beings into one uniform
abstract. The endless diversity of the human will no longer embarrasses
its ruler--now there exists one universal good, one universal evil,
which he can bring forward or withdraw at pleasure, and which works in
unison with himself even when absent. Now a boundary is established
before which liberty must halt; a venerable, hallowed line, towards
which all the various conflicting inclinations of the will must finally
converge. The common aim of despotism and of priestcraft is uniformity,
and uniformity is a necessary expedient of human poverty and
imperfection. Philip became a greater despot than his father because
his mind was more contracted, or, in other words, he was forced to
adhere the more scrupulously to general rules the less capable he was of
descending to special and individual exceptions. What conclusion could
we draw from these principles but that Philip II. could not possibly
have any higher object of his solicitude than uniformity, both in
religion and in laws, because without these he could not reign?
And yet he would have shown more mildness and forbearance in his
government if he had entered upon it earlier. In the judgment which is
usually formed of this prince one circumstance does not appear to be
sufficiently considered in the history of his mind and heart, which,
however, in all fairness, ought to be duly weighed. Philip counted
nearly thirty years when he ascended the Spanish throne, and the early
maturity of his understanding had anticipated the period of his
majority. A mind like his, conscious of its powers, and only too early
acquainted with his high expectations, could not brook the yoke of
childish subjection in which he stood; the superior genius of the
father, and the absolute authority of the autocrat, must have weighed
heavily on the self-satisfied pride of such a son. The share which the
former allowed him in the government of the empire was just important
enough to disengage his mind from petty passions and to confirm the
austere gravity of his character, but also meagre enough to kindle a
fiercer longing for unlimited power. When he actually became possessed
of uncontrolled authority it had lost the charm of novelty. The sweet
intoxication of a young monarch in the sudden and early possession of
supreme power; that joyous tumult of emotions which opens the soul to
every softer sentiment, and to which humanity has owed so many of the
most valuable and the most prized of its institutions; this pleasing
moment had for him long passed by, or had never existed. His character
was already hardened when fortune put him to this severe test, and his
settled principles withstood the collision of occasional emotion. He had
had time, during fifteen years, to prepare himself for the change; and
instead of youthful dallying with the external symbols of his new
station, or of losing the morning of his government in the intoxication
of an idle vanity, he remained composed and serious enough to enter at
once on the full possession of his power so as to revenge himself
through the most extensive employment of it for its having been so long
withheld from him.
But the Inquisition which we are here speaking of came from the west of
Europe, and was of a different origin and form. The last Moorish throne
in Granada had fallen in the fifteenth century, and the false faith of
the Saracens had finally succumbed before the fortunes of Christianity.
But the gospel was still new, and but imperfectly established in this
youngest of Christian kingdoms, and in the confused mixture of
heterogeneous laws and manners the religions had become mixed. It is
true the sword of persecution had driven many thousand families to
Africa, but a far larger portion, detained by the love of climate and
home, purchased remission from this dreadful necessity by a show of
conversion, and continued at Christian altars to serve Mohammed and
Moses. So long as prayers were offered towards Mecca, Granada was not
subdued; so long as the new Christian, in the retirement of his house,
became again a Jew or a Moslem, he was as little secured to the throne
as to the Romish See. It was no longer deemed sufficient to compel a
perverse people to adopt the exterior forms of a new faith, or to wed it
to the victorious church by the weak bands of ceremonials; the object
now was to extirpate the roots of an old religion, and to subdue an
obstinate bias which, by the slow operation of centuries, had been
implanted in their manners, their language, and their laws, and by the
enduring influence of a paternal soil and sky was still maintained in
its full extent and vigor.
Among the Flemish nobles who could lay claim to the Chief
Stadtholdership, the expectations and wishes of the nation were divided
between Count Egmont and the Prince of Orange, who were alike qualified
for this high dignity by illustrious birth and personal merits, and by
an equal share in the affections of the people. Their high rank placed
them both near to the throne, and if the choice of the monarch was to
rest on the worthiest it must necessarily fall upon one of these two.
As, in the course of our history, we shall often have occasion to
mention both names, the reader cannot be too early made acquainted with
their characters.
William I., Prince of Orange, was descended from the princely German
house of Nassau, which had already flourished eight centuries, had long
disputed the preeminence with Austria, and had given one Emperor to
Germany. Besides several extensive domains in the Netherlands, which
made him a citizen of this republic and a vassal of the Spanish
monarchy, he possessed also in France the independent princedom of
Orange. William was born in the year 1533, at Dillenburg, in the
country of Nassau, of a Countess Stolberg. His father, the Count of
Nassau, of the same name, had embraced the Protestant religion, and
caused his son also to be educated in it; but Charles V., who early
formed an attachment for the boy, took him when quite young to his
court, and had him brought up in the Romish church. This monarch, who
already in the child discovered the future greatness of the man, kept
him nine years about his person, thought him worthy of his personal
instruction in the affairs of government, and honored him with a
confidence beyond his years. He alone was permitted to remain in the
Emperor's presence when he gave audience to foreign ambassadors--a proof
that, even as a boy, he had already begun to merit the surname of the
Silent. The Emperor was not ashamed even to confess openly, on one
occasion, that this young man had often made suggestions which would
have escaped his own sagacity. What expectations might not be formed of
the intellect of a man who was disciplined in such a school.
The marked favor which the prince had enjoyed with the father was in
itself a sufficient ground for his exclusion from the confidence of the
son. Philip, it appears, had laid it down for himself as a rule to
avenge the wrongs of the Spanish nobility for the preference which
Charles V. had on all important occasions shown to his Flemish nobles.
Still stronger, however, were the secret motives which alienated him
from the prince. William of Orange was one of those lean and pale men
who, according to Caesar's words, "sleep not at night, and think too
much," and before whom the most fearless spirits quail.
A man like this might at other times have remained unfathomed by his
whole generation; but not so by the distrustful spirit of the age in
which he lived. Philip II. saw quickly and deeply into a character
which, among good ones, most resembled his own. If he had not seen
through him so clearly his distrust of a man, in whom were united nearly
all the qualities which he prized highest and could best appreciate,
would be quite inexplicable. But William had another and still more
important point of contact with Philip II. He had learned his policy
from the same master, and had become, it was to be feared, a more apt
scholar. Not by making Machiavelli's 'Prince' his study, but by having
enjoyed the living instruction of a monarch who reduced the book to
practice, had he become versed in the perilous arts by which thrones
rise and fall. In him Philip had to deal with an antagonist who was
armed against his policy, and who in a good cause could also command the
resources of a bad one. And it was exactly this last circumstance which
accounts for his having hated this man so implacably above all others of
his day, and his having had so supernatural a dread of him.
The suspicion which already attached to the prince was increased by the
doubts which were entertained of his religious bias. So long as the
Emperor, his benefactor, lived, William believed in the pope; but it was
feared, with good ground, that the predilection for the reformed
religion, which had been imparted into his young heart, had never
entirely left it. Whatever church he may at certain periods of his life
have preferred each might console itself with the reflection that none
other possessed him more entirely. In later years he went over to
Calvinism with almost as little scruple as in his early childhood he
deserted the Lutheran profession for the Romish. He defended the rights
of the Protestants rather than their opinions against Spanish
oppression; not their faith, but their wrongs, had made him their
brother.
Philip II. still stood indebted to the hero of St. Quentin, and the
supreme stadtholdership of the Netherlands appeared the only appropriate
reward for such great services. Birth and high station, the voice of
the nation and personal abilities, spoke as loudly for Egmont as for
Orange; and if the latter was to be passed by it seemed that the former
alone could supplant him.
While the general expectation was on the stretch as to whom the fature
destines of the provinces would be committed, there appeared on the
frontiers of the country the Duchess Margaret of Parma, having been
summoned by the king from Italy to assume the government.
Out of regard for the honor of her mother's house she was at first
educated in obscurity; but her mother, who possessed more vanity than
honor, was not very anxious to preserve the secret of her origin, and a
princely education betrayed the daughter of the Emperor. While yet a
child she was entrusted to the Regent Margaret, her great-aunt, to be
brought up at Brussels under her eye. This guardian she lost in her
eighth year, and the care of her education devolved on Queen Mary of
Hungary, the successor of Margaret in the regency. Her father had
already affianced her, while yet in her fourth year, to a Prince of
Ferrara; but this alliance being subsequently dissolved, she was
betrothed to Alexander de Medicis, the new Duke of Florence, which
marriage was, after the victorious return of the Emperor from Africa,
actually consummated in Naples. In the first year of this unfortunate
union, a violent death removed from her a husband who could not love
her, and for the third time her hand was disposed of to serve the policy
of her father. Octavius Farnese, a prince of thirteen years of age and
nephew of Paul III., obtained, with her person, the Duchies of Parma and
Piacenza as her portion. Thus, by a strange destiny, Margaret at the
age of maturity was contracted to a boy, as in the years of infancy she
had been sold to a man. Her disposition, which was anything but
feminine, made this last alliance still more unnatural, for her taste
and inclinations were masculine, and the whole tenor of her life belied
her sex. After the example of her instructress, the Queen of Hungary,
and her great-aunt, the Duchess Mary of Burgundy, who met her death in
this favorite sport, she was passionately fond of hunting, and had
acquired in this pursuit such bodily vigor that few men were better able
to undergo its hardships and fatigues.
Her gait itself was so devoid of grace that one was far more tempted to
take her for a disguised man than for a masculine woman; and Nature,
whom she had derided by thus transgressing the limits of her sex,
revenged itself finally upon her by a disease peculiar to men--the gout.
Philip received the new regent on the frontiers with a splendid cortege,
and conducted her with magnificent pomp to Ghent, where the States
General had been convoked. As he did not intend to return soon to the
Netherlands, he desired, before he left them, to gratify the nation for
once by holding a solemn Diet, and thus giving a solemn sanction and the
force of law to his previous regulations. For the last time he showed
himself to his Netherlandish people, whose destinies were from
henceforth to be dispensed from a mysterious distance. To enhance the
splendor of this solemn day, Philip invested eleven knights with the
Order of the Golden Fleece, his sister being seated on a chair near
himself, while he showed her to the nation as their future ruler. All
the grievances of the people, touching the edicts, the Inquisition, the
detention of the Spanish troops, the taxes, and the illegal introduction
of foreigners into the offices and administration of the country were
brought forward in this Diet, and were hotly discussed by both parties;
some of them were skilfully evaded, or apparently removed, others
arbitrarily repelled. As the king was unacquainted with the language of
the country, he addressed the nation through the mouth of the Bishop of
Arras, recounted to them with vain-glorious ostentation all the benefits
of his government, assured them of his favor for the future, and once
more recommended to the estates in the most earnest manner the
preservation of the Catholic faith and the extirpation of heresy.
The Spanish troops, he promised, should in a few months evacuate the
Netherlands, if only they would allow him time to recover from the
numerous burdens of the last war, in order that he might be enabled to
collect the means for paying the arrears of these troops; the
fundamental laws of the nation should remain inviolate, the imposts
should not be grievously burdensome, and the Inquisition should
administer its duties with justice and moderation. In the choice of a
supreme Stadtholder, he added, he had especially consulted the wishes of
the nation, and had decided for a native of the country, who had been
brought up in their manners and customs, and was attached to them by a
love to her native land. He exhorted them, therefore, to show their
gratitude by honoring his choice, and obeying his sister, the duchess,
as himself. Should, he concluded, unexpected obstacles oppose his
return, he would send in his place his son, Prince Charles, who should
reside in Brussels.
A few members of this assembly, more courageous than the rest, once more
ventured on a final effort for liberty of conscience. Every people,
they argued, ought to be treated according to their natural character,
as every individual must in accordance to his bodily constitution.
Thus, for example, the south may be considered happy under a certain
degree of constraint which would press intolerably on the north. Never,
they added, would the Flemings consent to a yoke under which, perhaps,
the Spaniards bowed with patience, and rather than submit to it would
they undergo any extremity if it was sought to force such a yoke upon
them. This remonstrance was supported by some of the king's
counsellors, who strongly urged the policy of mitigating the rigor of
religious edicts. But Philip remained inexorable. Better not reign at
all, was his answer, than reign over heretics!
Among the Belgian nobles whom the king especially distinguished in these
new appointments, the names of Count Egmont and William of Orange stand
conspicuous. However inveterate his hatred was of both, and
particularly of the latter, Philip nevertheless gave them these public
marks of his favor, because his scheme of vengeance was not yet fully
ripe, and the people were enthusiastic in their devotion to them. The
estates of both were declared exempt from taxes, the most lucrative
governments were entrusted to them, and by offering them the command of
the Spaniards whom he left behind in the country the king flattered them
with a confidence which he was very far from really reposing in them.
But at the very time when he obliged the prince with these public marks
of his esteem he privately inflicted the most cruel injury on him.
Apprehensive lest an alliance with the powerful house of Lorraine might
encourage this suspected vassal to bolder measures, he thwarted the
negotiation for a marriage between him and a princess of that family,
and crushed his hopes on the very eve of their accomplishment,--an
injury which the prince never forgave. Nay, his hatred to the prince on
one occasion even got completely the better of his natural
dissimulation, and seduced him into a step in which we entirely lose
sight of Philip II. When he was about to embark at Flushing, and the
nobles of the country attended him to the shore, he so far forgot
himself as roughly to accost the prince, and openly to accuse him of
being the author of the Flemish troubles. The prince answered
temperately that what had happened had been done by the provinces of
their own suggestion and on legitimate grounds. No, said Philip,
seizing his hated, and shaking it violently, not the provinces, but You!
You! You! The prince stood mute with astonishment, and without waiting
for the king's embarkation, wished him a safe journey, and went back to
the town.
Thus the enmity which William had long harbored in his breast against
the oppressor of a free people was now rendered irreconcilable by
private hatred; and this double incentive accelerated the great
enterprise which tore from the Spanish crown seven of its brightest
jewels.
In spite of all these precautions Philip would never have been able to
leave the Netherlands with a quiet mind so long as he knew that the
chief power in the council of state, and the obedience of the provinces,
were in the hands of the suspected nobles. In order, therefore, to
appease his fears from this quarter, and also at the same time to assure
himself of the fidelity of the regent, be subjected her, and through her
all the affairs of the judicature, to the higher control of the Bishop
of Arras. In this single individual he possessed an adequate
counterpoise to the most dreaded cabal. To him, as to an infallible
oracle of majesty, the duchess was referred, and in him there watched a
stern supervisor of her administration. Among all his contemporaries
Granvella was the only one whom Philip II. appears to have excepted from
his universal distrust; as long as he knew that this man was in Brussels
he could sleep calmly in Segovia. He left the Netherlands in September,
1559, was saved from a storm which sank his fleet, and landed at Laredo
in Biscay, and in his gloomy joy thanked the Deity who had preserved him
by a detestable vow. In the hands of a priest and of a woman was placed
the dangerous helm of the Netherlands; and the dastardly tyrant escaped
in his oratory at Madrid the supplications, the complaints, and the
curses of the people.
BOOK II.
CARDINAL GRANVELLA.
Granvella opened his new career at once with the greatest masterpiece of
political genius, in passing so easily from the favor of such a father
into equal consideration with such a son. And he soon proved himself
deserving of it. At the secret negotiations of which the Duchess of
Lorraine had, in 1558, been the medium between the French and Spanish
ministers at Peronne, he planned, conjointly with the Cardinal of
Lorraine, that conspiracy against the Protestants which was afterwards
matured, but also betrayed, at Chateau-Cambray, where Perenot likewise
assisted in effecting the so-called peace.
Three times Granvella changed his master, and three times he succeeded
in rising to the highest favor. With the same facility with which he
had guided the settled pride of an autocrat, and the sly egotism of a
despot, he knew how to manage the delicate vanity of a woman. His
business between himself and the regent, even when they were in the same
house, was, for the most part, transacted by the medium of notes, a
custom which draws its date from the times of Augustus and Tiberius.
When the regent was in any perplexity these notes were interchanged from
hour to hour. He probably adopted this expedient in the hope of eluding
the watchful jealousy of the nobility, and concealing from them, in part
at least, his influence over the regent. Perhaps, too, he also believed
that by this means his advice would become more permanent; and, in case
of need, this written testimony would be at hand to shield him from
blame. But the vigilance of the nobles made this caution vain, and it
was soon known in all the provinces that nothing was determined upon
without the minister's advice.
1559. Philip had evidently left the provinces too soon. The new
measures of the government were still strange to the people, and could
receive sanction and authority from his presence alone; the new machines
which he had brought into play required to be kept in motion by a
dreaded and powerful hand, and to have their first movements watched and
regulated. He now exposed his minister to all the angry passions of the
people, who no longer felt restrained by the fetters of the royal
presence; and he delegated to the weak arm of a subject the execution of
projects in which majesty itself, with all its powerful supports, might
have failed.
Still the rebellion would have crouched timorously and silently on the
ground if it had not found a support in the nobility. Charles V. had
spoiled the Flemish nobles of the Netherlands by making them the
participators of his glory, by fostering their national pride, by the
marked preference he showed for them over the Castilian nobles, and by
opening an arena to their ambition in every part of his empire. In the
late war with France they had really deserved this preference from
Philip; the advantages which the king reaped from the peace of
Chateau-Cambray were for the most part the fruits of their valor, and
they now sensibly missed the gratitude on which they had so confidently
reckoned. Moreover, the separation of the German empire from the Spanish
monarchy, and the less warlike spirit of the new government, had greatly
narrowed their sphere of action, and, except in their own country, little
remained for them to gain. And Philip now appointed his Spaniards where
Charles V. had employed the Flemings. All the passions which the
preceding government had raised and kept employed still survived in
peace; and in default of a legitimate object these unruly feelings found,
unfortunately, ample scope in the grievances of their country.
Accordingly, the claims and wrongs which had been long supplanted by new
passions were now drawn from oblivion. By his late appointments the king
had satisfied no party; for those even who obtained offices were not much
more content than those who were entirely passed over, because they had
calculated on something better than they got. William of Orange had
received four governments (not to reckon some smaller dependencies which,
taken together, were equivalent to a fifth), but William had nourished
hopes of Flanders and Brabant. He and Count Egmont forgot what had really
fallen to their share, and only remembered that they had lost the
regency. The majority of the nobles were either plunged into debt by
their own extravagance, or had willingly enough been drawn into it by the
government. Now that they were excluded from the prospect of lucrative
appointments, they at once saw themselves exposed to poverty, which
pained them the more sensibly when they contrasted the splendor of the
affluent citizens with their own necessities. In the extremities to which
they were reduced many would have readily assisted in the commission even
of crimes; how then could they resist the seductive offers of the
Calvinists, who liberally repaid them for their intercession and
protection? Lastly, many whose estates were past redemption placed their
last hope in a general devastation, and stood prepared at the first
favorable moment to cast the torch of discord into the republic.
This threatening aspect of the public mind was rendered still more
alarming by the unfortunate vicinity of France. What Philip dreaded for
the provinces was there already accomplished. The fate of that kingdom
prefigured to him the destiny of his Netherlands, and the spirit of
rebellion found there a seductive example. A similar state of things
had under Francis I. and Henry II. scattered the seeds of innovation in
that kingdom; a similar fury of persecution and a like spirit of faction
had encouraged its growth. Now Huguenots and Catholics were struggling
in a dubious contest; furious parties disorganized the whole monarchy,
and were violently hurrying this once-powerful state to the brink of
destruction. Here, as there, private interest, ambition, and party
feeling might veil themselves under the names of religion and
patriotism, and the passions of a few citizens drive the entire nation
to take up arms. The frontiers of both countries merged in Walloon
Flanders; the rebellion might, like an agitated sea, cast its waves as
far as this: would a country be closed against it whose language,
manners, and character wavered between those of France and Belgium? As
yet the government had taken no census of its Protestant subjects in
these countries, but the new sect, it was aware, was a vast, compact
republic, which extended its roots through all the monarchies of
Christendom, and the slighest disturbance in any of its most distant
members vibrated to its centre. It was, as it were, a chain of
threatening volcanoes, which, united by subterraneous passages, ignite
at the same moment with alarming sympathy. The Netherlands were,
necessarily, open to all nations, because they derived their support
from all. Was it possible for Philip to close a commercial state as
easily as he could Spain? If he wished to purify these provinces from
heresy it was necessary for him to commence by extirpating it in France.
It was in this state that Granvella found the Netherlands at the
beginning of his administration (1560).
At any other period the nation would have received with gratitude and
approved of such a measure of church reform since it was fully called
for by circumstances, was conducive to the interests of religion, and
absolutely indispensable for the moral reformation of the monkhood. Now
the temper of the times saw in it nothing but a hateful change.
Universal was the indignation with which it was received. A cry was
raised that the constitution was trampled under foot, the rights of the
nation violated, and that the Inquisition was already at the door, and
would soon open here, as in Spain, its bloody tribunal. The people
beheld with dismay these new servants of arbitrary power and of
persecution. The nobility saw in it nothing but a strengthening of the
royal authority by the addition of fourteen votes in the states'
assembly, and a withdrawal of the firmest prop of their freedom, the
balance of the royal and the civil power. The old bishops complained of
the diminution of their incomes and the circumscription of their sees;
the abbots and monks had not only lost power and income, but had
received in exchange rigid censors of their morals. Noble and simple,
laity and clergy, united against the common foe, and while all singly
struggled for some petty private interest, the cry appeared to come from
the formidable voice of patriotism.
Among all the provinces Brabant was loudest in its opposition. The
inviolability of its church constitution was one of the important
privileges which it had reserved in the remarkable charter of the
"Joyful Entry,"--statutes which the sovereign could not violate without
releasing the nation from its allegiance to him. In vain did the
university of Louvain assert that in disturbed times of the church a
privilege lost its power which had been granted in the period of its
tranquillity. The introduction of the new bishoprics into the
constitution was thought to shake the whole fabric of liberty. The
prelacies, which were now transferred to the bishops, must henceforth
serve another rule than the advantage of the province of whose states
they had been members. The once free patriotic citizens were to be
instruments of the Romish See and obedient tools of the archbishop, who
again, as first prelate of Brabant, had the immediate control over them.
The freedom of voting was gone, because the bishops, as servile spies of
the crown, made every one fearful. "Who," it was asked, "will after
this venture to raise his voice in parliament before such observers, or
in their presence dare to protect the rights of the nation against the
rapacious hands of the government? They will trace out the resources of
the provinces, and betray to the crown the secrets of our freedom and
our property. They will obstruct the way to all offices of honor; we
shall soon see the courtiers of the king succeed the present men; the
children of foreigners will, for the future, fill the parliament, and
the private interest of their patron will guide their venal votes."
"What an act of oppression," rejoined the monks, "to pervert to other
objects the pious designs of our holy institutions, to contemn the
inviolable wishes of the dead, and to take that which a devout charity
had deposited in our chests for the relief of the unfortunate and make
it subservient to the luxury of the bishops, thus inflating their
arrogant pomp with the plunder of the poor?" Not only the abbots and
monks, who really did suffer by this act of appropriation, but every
family which could flatter itself with the slightest hope of enjoying,
at some time or other, even in the most remote posterity, the benefit of
this monastic foundation, felt this disappointment of their distant
expectations as much as if they had suffered an actual injury, and the
wrongs of a few abbot-prelates became the concern of a whole nation.
The example and success of Antwerp gave the signal of opposition to all
the other towns for which a new bishop was intended. It is a remarkable
proof of the hatred to the Inquisition and the unanimity of the Flemish
towns at this date that they preferred to renounce all the advantages
which the residence of a bishop would necessarily bring to their local
trade rather than by their consent promote that abhorred tribunal, and
thus act in opposition to the interests of the whole nation. Deventer,
Ruremond, and Leuwarden placed themselves in determined opposition, and
(1561) successfully carried their point; in the other towns the bishops
were, in spite of all remonstrances, forcibly inducted. Utrecht,
Haarlem, St. Omer, and Middelburg were among the first which opened
their gates to them; the remaining towns followed their example; but in
Malines and Herzogenbusch the bishops were received with very little
respect. When Granvella made his solemn entry into the former town not
a single nobleman showed himself, and his triumph was wanting in
everything that could make it real, because those remained away over
whom it was meant to be celebrated.
In the meantime, too, the period had elapsed within which the Spanish
troops were to have left the country, and as yet there was no appearance
of their being withdrawn. People perceived with terror the real cause
of the delay, and suspicion lent it a fatal connection with the
Inquisition. The detention of these troops, as it rendered the nation
more vigilant and distrustful, made it more difficult for the minister
to proceed with the other innovations, and yet he would fain not deprive
himself of this powerful and apparently indispensable aid in a country
where all hated him, and in the execution of a commission to which all
were opposed. At last, however, the regent saw herself compelled by the
universal murmurs of discontent, to urge most earnestly upon the king
the necessity of the withdrawal of the troops. "The provinces," she
writes to Madrid, "have unanimously declared that they would never again
be induced to grant the extraordinary taxes required by the government
as long as word was not kept with them in this matter. The danger of a
revolt was far more imminent than that of an attack by the French
Protestants, and if a rebellion was to take place in the Netherlands
these forces would be too weak to repress it, and there was not
sufficient money in the treasury to enlist new." By delaying his answer
the king still sought at least to gain time, and the reiterated
representations of the regent would still have remained ineffectual, if,
fortunately for the provinces, a loss which he had lately suffered from
the Turks had not compelled him to employ these troops in the
Mediterranean. He, therefore, at last consented to their departure:
they were embarked in 1561 in Zealand, and the exulting shouts of all
the provinces accompanied their departure.
The Prince of Orange was well aware that it was he who had prevented his
marriage with the Princess of Lorraine, and that he had also endeavored
to break off the negotiations for another alliance with the Princess of
Savoy. He had deprived Count Horn of the government of Gueldres and
Zutphen, and had kept for himself an abbey which Count Egmont had in
vain exerted himself to obtain for a relation. Confident of his
superior power, he did not even think it worth while to conceal from the
nobility his contempt for them, and which, as a rule, marked his whole
administration; William of Orange was the only one with whom he deemed
it advisable to dissemble. Although he really believed himself to be
raised far above all the laws of fear and decorum, still in this point,
however, his confident arrogance misled him, and he erred no less
against policy than he shined against propriety. In the existing
posture of affairs the government could hardly have adopted a worse
measure than that of throwing disrespect on the nobility. It had it in
its power to flatter the prejudices and feelings of the aristocracy, and
thus artfully and imperceptibly win them over to its plans, and through
them subvert the edifice of national liberty. Now it admonished them,
most inopportunely, of their duties, their dignity, and their power;
calling upon them even to be patriots, and to devote to the cause of
true greatness an ambition which hitherto it had inconsiderately
repelled. To carry into effect the ordinances it required the active
co-operation of the lieutenant-governors; no wonder, however, that the
latter showed but little zeal to afford this assistance. On the
contrary, it is highly probable that they silently labored to augment
the difficulties of the minister, and to subvert his measures, and
through his ill-success to diminish the king's confidence in him, and
expose his administration to contempt. The rapid progress which in
spite of those horrible edicts the Reformation made during Granvella's
administration in the Netherlands, is evidently to be ascribed to the
lukewarmness of the nobility in opposing it. If the minister had been
sure of the nobles he might have despised the fury of the mob, which
would have impotently dashed itself against the dreaded barriers of the
throne. The sufferings of the citizens lingered long in tears and
sighs, until the arts and the example of the nobility called forth a
louder expression of them.
The regent laid before the council of state the royal will on the
subject of these troops, but with a very warm opposition on the part of
the nobility. Count Egmont and the Prince of Orange declared that the
time was illchosen for stripping the Netherlands of troops, when the
aspect of affairs rendered rather the enlistment of new levies
advisable. The movements of the troops in France momentarily threatened
a surprise, and the commotions within the provinces demanded, more than
ever, the utmost vigilance on the part of the government. Hitherto,
they said, the German Protestants had looked idly on during the
struggles of their brethren in the faith; but will they continue to do
so, especially when we are lending our aid to strengthen their enemy?
By thus acting shall we not rouse their vengeance against us, and call
their arms into the northern Netherlands? Nearly the whole council of
state joined in this opinion; their representations were energetic and
not to be gainsaid. The regent herself, as well as the minister, could
not but feel their truth, and their own interests appeared to forbid
obedience to the royal mandate. Would it not be impolitic to withdraw
from the Inquisition its sole prop by removing the larger portion of the
army, and in a rebellious country to leave themselves without defence,
dependent on the arbitrary will of an arrogant aristocracy? While the
regent, divided between the royal commands, the urgent importunity of
her council, and her own fears, could not venture to come to a decision,
William of Orange rose and proposed the assembling of the States
General. But nothing could have inflicted a more fatal blow on the
supremacy of the crown than by yielding to this advice to put the nation
in mind of its power and its rights. No measure could be more hazardous
at the present moment. The danger which was thus gathering over the
minister did not escape him; a sign from him warned the regent to break
off the consultation and adjourn the council. "The government," he
writes to Madrid, "can do nothing more injurious to itself than to
consent to the assembling of the states. Such a step is at all times
perilous, because it tempts the nation to test and restrict the rights
of the crown; but it is many times more objectionable at the present
moment, when the spirit of rebellion is already widely spread amongst
us; when the abbots, exasperated at the loss of their income, will
neglect nothing to impair the dignity of the bishops; when the whole
nobility and all the deputies from the towns are led by the arts of the
Prince of Orange, and the disaffected can securely reckon on the
assistance of the nation." This representation, which at least was not
wanting in sound sense, did not fail in having the desired effect on the
king's mind. The assembling of the states was rejected once and
forever, the penal statutes against the heretics were renewed in all
their rigor, and the regent was directed to hasten the despatch of the
required auxiliaries.
But to this the council of state would not consent. All that she
obtained was, instead of the troops, a supply of money for the Queen
Mother, which at this crisis was still more welcome to her. In place,
however, of assembling the states, and in order to beguile the nation
with, at least, the semblance of republican freedom, the regent summoned
the governors of the provinces and the knights of the Golden Fleece to a
special congress at Brussels, to consult on the present dangers and
necessities of the state. When the President, Viglius, had laid before
them the matters on which they were summoned to deliberate, three days
were given to them for consideration. During this time the Prince of
Orange assembled them in his palace, where he represented to them the
necessity of coming to some unanimous resolution before the next
sitting, and of agreeing on the measures which ought to be followed in
the present dangerous state of affairs.
(1562.) Meanwhile Montigny had returned from his embassy, and brought
back to the council of state the most gracious assurance of the monarch.
But the Prince of Orange had, through his own secret channels of
intelligence, received more credible information from Madrid, which
entirely contradicted this report. By these means be learnt all the ill
services which Granvella had done him and his friends with the king, and
the odious appellations which were there applied to the Flemish
nobility. There was no help for them so long as the minister retained
the helm of government, and to procure his dismissal was the scheme,
however rash and adventurous it appeared, which wholly occupied the mind
of the prince. It was agreed between him and Counts Horn and Egmont to
despatch a joint letter to the king, and, in the name of the whole
nobility, formally to accuse the minister, and press energetically for
his removal. The Duke of Arschot, to whom this proposition was
communicated by Count Egmont, refused to concur in it, haughtily
declaring that he was not disposed to receive laws from Egmont and
Orange; that he had no cause of complaint against Granvella, and that he
thought it very presumptuous to prescribe to the king what ministers he
ought to employ. Orange received a similar answer from the Count of
Aremberg. Either the seeds of distrust which the regent had scattered
amongst the nobility had already taken root, or the fear of the
minister's power outweighed the abhorrence of his measures; at any rate,
the whole nobility shrunk back timidly and irresolutely from the
proposal. This disappointment did not, however, discourage them. The
letter was written and subscribed by all three (1563).
Secretly as this letter was prepared still the duchess was informed of
it in sufficient time to anticipate it by another despatch, and to
counteract the effect which it might have had on the king's mind. Some
months passed ere an answer came from Madrid. It was mild, but vague.
"The king," such was its import, "was not used to condemn his ministers
unheard on the mere accusations of their enemies. Common justice alone
required that the accusers of the cardinal should descend from general
imputations to special proofs, and if they were not inclined to do this
in writing, one of them might come to Spain, where he should be treated
with all respect." Besides this letter, which was equally directed to
all three, Count Egmont further received an autograph letter from the
king, wherein his majesty expressed a wish to learn from him in
particular what in the common letter had been only generally touched
upon. The regent, also, was specially instructed how she was to answer
the three collectively, and the count singly. The king knew his man.
He felt it was easy to manage Count Egmont alone; for this reason he
sought to entice him to Madrid, where he would be removed from the
commanding guidance of a higher intellect. In distinguishing him above
his two friends by so flattering a mark of his confidence, he made a
difference in the relation in which they severally stood to the throne;
how could they, then, unite with equal zeal for the same object when the
inducements were no longer the same? This time, indeed, the vigilance
of Orange frustrated the scheme; but the sequel of the history will show
that the seed which was now scattered was not altogether lost.
It was evident that the monarch was far from intending to grant their
request; they, therefore, from this tune forth absented themselves from
the state council, and even left Brussels. Not having succeeded in
removing the minister by lawful means they sought to accomplish this end
by a new mode from which more might be expected. On every occasion they
and their adherents openly showed the contempt which they felt for him,
and contrived to throw ridicule on everything he undertook. By this
contemptuous treatment they hoped to harass the haughty spirit of the
priest, and to obtain through his mortified self-love what they had
failed in by other means. In this, indeed, they did not succeed; but
the expedient on which they had fallen led in the end to the ruin of the
minister.
The popular voice was raised more loudly against him so soon as it was
perceived that he had forfeited the good opinion of the nobles, and that
men whose sentiments they had been used blindly to echo preceded them in
detestation of him. The contemptuous manner in which the nobility now
treated him devoted him in a measure to the general scorn and emboldened
calumny which never spares even what is holiest and purest, to lay its
sacrilegious hand on his honor. The new constitution of the church,
which was the great grievance of the nation, had been the basis of his
fortunes. This was a crime that could not be forgiven. Every fresh
execution--and with such spectacles the activity of the inquisitors was
only too liberal--kept alive and furnished dreadful exercise to the
bitter animosity against him, and at last custom and usage inscribed his
name on every act of oppression. A stranger in a land into which he had
been introduced against its will; alone among millions of enemies;
uncertain of all his tools; supported only by the weak arm of distant
royalty; maintaining his intercourse with the nation, which he had to
gain, only by means of faithless instruments, all of whom made it their
highest object to falsify his actions and misrepresent his motives;
lastly, with a woman for his coadjutor who could not share with him the
burden of the general execration--thus he stood exposed to the
wantonness, the ingratitude, the faction, the envy, and all the evil
passions of a licentious, insubordinate people. It is worthy of remark
that the hatred which he had incurred far outran the demerits which
could be laid to his charge; that it was difficult, nay impossible, for
his accusers to substantiate by proof the general condemnation which
fell upon him from all sides. Before and after him fanaticism dragged
its victims to the altar; before and after him civil blood flowed, the
rights of men were made a mock of, and men themselves rendered wretched.
Under Charles V. tyranny ought to have pained more acutely through its
novelty; under the Duke of Alva it was carried to far more unnatural
lengths, insomuch that Granvella's administration, in comparison with
that of his successor, was even merciful; and yet we do not find that
his contemporaries ever evinced the same degree of personal exasperation
and spite against the latter in which they indulged against his
predecessor. To cloak the meanness of his birth in the splendor of high
dignities, and by an exalted station to place him if possible above the
malice of his enemies, the regent had made interest at Rome to procure
for him the cardinal's hat; but this very honor, which connected him
more closely with the papal court, made him so much the more an alien in
the provinces. The purple was a new crime in Brussels, and an
obnoxious, detested garb, which in a measure publicly held forth to view
the principles on which his future conduct would be governed. Neither
his honorable rank, which alone often consecrates the most infamous
caitiff, nor his talents, which commanded esteem, nor even his terrible
omnipotence, which daily revealed itself in so many bloody
manifestations, could screen him from derision. Terror and scorn, the
fearful and the ludicrous, were in his instance unnaturally blended.
But with this gloomy prospect the strange destiny of this man opens at
the same time a grander view, which impresses the unprejudiced observer
with pleasure and admiration. Here he beholds a nation dazzled by no
splendor, and restrained by no fear, firmly, inexorably, and
unpremeditatedly unanimous in punishing the crime which had been
committed against its dignity by the violent introduction of a stranger
into the heart of its political constitution. We see him ever aloof and
ever isolated, like a foreign hostile body hovering over a surface which
repels its contact. The strong hand itself of the monarch, who was.
his friend and protector, could not support him against the antipathies
of the nation which had once resolved to withhold from him all its
sympathy. The voice of national hatred was all powerful, and was ready
to forego even private interest, its certain gains; his alms even were
shunned, like the fruit of an accursed tree. Like pestilential vapor,
the infamy of universal reprobation hung over him. In his case
gratitude believed itself absolved from its duties; his adherents
shunned him; his friends were dumb in his behalf. So terribly did the
people avenge the insulted majesty of their nobles and their nation on
the greatest monarch of the earth.
While these feelings were spreading among the people the influence of
the minister at the court of the regent began to totter. The repeated
complaints against the extent of his power must at last have made her
sensible how little faith was placed in her own; perhaps, too, she began
to fear that the universal abhorrence which attached to him would soon
include herself also, or that his longer stay would inevitably provoke
the menaced revolt. Long intercourse with him, his instruction and
example, had qualified her to govern without him. His dignity began to
be more oppressive to her as he became less necessary, and his faults,
to which her friendship had hitherto lent a veil, became visible as it
was withdrawn. She was now as much disposed to search out and enumerate
these faults as she formerly had been to conceal them. In this
unfavorable state of her feelings towards the cardinal the urgent and
accumulated representations of the nobles began at last to find access
to her mind, and the more easily, as they contrived to mix up her own
fears with their own. "It was matter of great astonishment," said Count
Egmont to her, "that to gratify a man who was not even a Fleming, and of
whom, therefore, it must be well known that his happiness could not be
dependent on the prosperity of this country, the king could be content
to see all his Netherlandish subjects suffer, and this to please a
foreigner, who if his birth made him a subject of the Emperor, the
purple had made a creature of the court of Rome." "To the king alone,"
added the count, "was Granvella indebted for his being still among the
living; for the future, however, he would leave that care of him to the
regent, and he hereby gave her warning." As the majority of the nobles,
disgusted with the contemptuous treatment which they met with in the
council of state, gradually withdrew from it, the arbitrary proceedings
of the minister lost the last semblance of republican deliberation which
had hitherto softened the odious aspect, and the empty desolation of
the council chamber made his domineering rule appear in all its
obnoxiousness. The regent now felt that she had a master over her,
and from that moment the banishment of the minister was decided upon.
Granvella doubted not for a moment what the decision of the king would
be. A few days after the return of Armenteros he saw humility and
flattery disappear from the few faces which had till then servilely
smiled upon him; the last small crowd of base flatterers and eyeservants
vanished from around his person; his threshold was forsaken; he
perceived that the fructifying warmth of royal favor had left him.
Detraction, which had assailed him during his whole administration, did
not spare him even in the moment of resignation. People did not scruple
to assert that a short time before he laid down his office he had
expressed a wish to be reconciled to the Prince of Orange and Count
Egmont, and even offered, if their forgiveness could be hoped for on no
other terms, to ask pardon of them on his knees. It was base and
contemptible to sully the memory of a great and extraordinary man with
such a charge, but it is still more so to hand it down uncontradicted to
posterity. Granvella submitted to the royal command with a dignified
composure. Already had he written, a few months previously, to the Duke
of Alva in Spain, to prepare him a place of refuge in Madrid, in case of
his having to quit the Netherlands. The latter long bethought himself
whether it was advisable to bring thither so dangerous a rival for the
favor of his king, or to deny so important a friend such a valuable
means of indulging his old hatred of the Flemish nobles. Revenge
prevailed over fear, and he strenuously supported Granvella's request
with the monarch. But his intercession was fruitless. Armenteros had
persuaded the king that the minister's residence in Madrid would only
revive, with increased violence, all the complaints of the Belgian
nation, to which his ministry had been sacrificed; for then, he said, he
would be suspected of poisoning the very source of that power, whose
outlets only he had hitherto been charged with corrupting. He therefore
sent him to Burgundy, his native place, for which a decent pretext
fortunately presented itself. The cardinal gave to his departure from
Brussels the appearance of an unimportant journey, from which he would
return in a few days. At the same time, however, all the state
counsellors, who, under his administration, had voluntarily excluded
themselves from its sittings, received a command from the court to
resume their seats in the senate at Brussels. Although the latter
circumstance made his return not very credible, nevertheless the
remotest possibility of it sobered the triumph which celebrated his
departure. The regent herself appears to have been undecided what to
think about the report; for, in a fresh letter to the king, she repeated
all the representations and arguments which ought to restrain him from
restoring this minister. Granvella himself, in his correspondence with
Barlaimont and Viglius, endeavored to keep alive this rumor, and at
least to alarm with fears, however unsubstantial, the enemies whom he
could no longer punish by his presence. Indeed, the dread of the
influence of this extraordinary man was so exceedingly great that, to
appease it, he was at last driven even from his home and his country.
After the death of Pius IV., Granvella went to Rome, to be present at
the election of a new pope, and at the same time to discharge some
commissions of his master, whose confidence in him remained unshaken.
Soon after, Philip made him viceroy of Naples, where he succumbed to the
seductions of the climate, and the spirit which no vicissitudes could
bend voluptuousness overcame. He was sixty-two years old when the king
allowed him to revisit Spain, where he continued with unlimited powers
to administer the affairs of Italy. A gloomy old age, and the
self-satisfied pride of a sexagenarian administration made him a harsh
and rigid judge of the opinions of others, a slave of custom, and a
tedious panegyrist of past times. But the policy of the closing century
had ceased to be the policy of the opening one. A new and younger
ministry were soon weary of so imperious a superintendent, and Philip
himself began to shun the aged counsellor, who found nothing worthy of
praise but the deeds of his father. Nevertheless, when the conquest of
Portugal called Philip to Lisbon, he confided to the cardinal the care of
his Spanish territories. Finally, on an Italian tour, in the town of
Mantua, in the seventy-third year of his life, Granvella terminated his
long existence in the full enjoyment of his glory, and after possessing
for forty years the uninterrupted confidence of his king.
(1564.) Immediately upon the departure of the minister, all the happy
results which were promised from his withdrawal were fulfilled. The
disaffected nobles resumed their seats in the council, and again devoted
themselves to the affairs of the state with redoubled zeal, in order to
give no room for regret for him whom they had driven away, and to prove,
by the fortunate administration of the state, that his services were not
indispensable. The crowd round the duchess was great. All vied with
one another in readiness, in submission, and zeal in her service; the
hours of night were not allowed to stop the transaction of pressing
business of state; the greatest unanimity existed between the three
councils, the best understanding between the court and the states. From
the obliging temper of the Flemish nobility everything was to be had, as
soon as their pride and self-will was flattered by confidence and
obliging treatment. The regent took advantage of the first joy of the
nation to beguile them into a vote of certain taxes, which, under the
preceding administration, she could not have hoped to extort. In this,
the great credit of the nobility effectually supported her, and she soon
learned from this nation the secret, which had been so often verified in
the German diet--that much must be demanded in order to get a little.
With pleasure did the regent see herself emancipated from her long
thraldom; the emulous industry of the nobility lightened for her the
burden of business, and their insinuating humility allowed her to feel
the full sweetness of power.
(1564). Granvella had been overthrown, but his party still remained.
His policy lived in his creatures, whom he left behind him in the privy
council and in the chamber of finance. Hatred still smouldered amongst
the factious long after the leader was banished, and the names of the
Orange and Royalist parties, of the Patriots and Cardinalists still
continued to divide the senate and to keep up the flames of discord.
Viglius Van Zuichem Van Aytta, president of the privy council, state
counsellor and keeper of the seal, was now looked upon as the most
important person in the senate, and the most powerful prop of the crown
and the tiara. This highly meritorious old man, whom we have to thank
for some valuable contributions towards the history of the rebellion of
the Low Countries, and whose confidential correspondence with his
friends has generally been the guide of our narrative, was one of the
greatest lawyers of his time, as well as a theologian and priest, and
had already, under the Emperor, filled the most important offices.
Familiar intercourse with the learned men who adorned the age, and at
the head of whom stood Erasmus of Rotterdam, combined with frequent
travels in the imperial service, had extended the sphere of his
information and experience, and in many points raised him in his
principles and opinions above his contemporaries. The fame of his
erudition filled the whole century in which he lived, and has handed his
name down to posterity. When, in the year 1548, the connection of the
Netherlands with the German empire was to be settled at the Diet of
Augsburg, Charles V. sent hither this statesman to manage the interests
of the provinces; and his ability principally succeeded in turning the
negotiations to the advantage of the Netherlands. After the death of
the Emperor, Viglius was one of the many eminent ministers bequeathed to
Philip by his father, and one of the few in whom he honored his memory.
The fortune of the minister, Granvella, with whom he was united by the
ties of an early acquaintance, raised him likewise to greatness; but he
did not share the fall of his patron, because he had not participated in
his lust of power; nor, consequently, the hatred which attached to him.
A residence of twenty years in the provinces, where the most important
affairs were entrusted to him, approved loyalty to his king, and zealous
attachment to the Roman Catholic tenets, made him one of the most
distinguished instruments of royalty in the Netherlands.
The families of Nassau and Croi (to the latter belonged the Duke of
Arschot) had for several reigns been competitors for influence and
honor, and their rivalry had kept up an old feud between their families,
which religious differences finally made irreconcilable. The house of
Croi from time immemorial had been renowned for its devout and strict
observance of papistic rites and ceremonies; the Counts of Nassau had
gone over to the new sect--sufficient reasons why Philip of Croi, Duke
of Arschot, should prefer a party which placed him the most decidedly in
opposition to the Prince of Orange. The court did not fail to take
advantage of this private feud, and to oppose so important an enemy to
the increasing influence of the house of Nassau in the republic. The
Counts Mansfeld and Megen had till lately been the confidential friends
of Count Egmont. In common with him they had raised their voice against
the minister, had joined him in resisting the Inquisition and the
edicts, and had hitherto held with him as far as honor and duty would
permit. But at these limits the three friends now separated. Egmont's
unsuspecting virtue incessantly hurried him forwards on the road to
ruin; Mansfeld and Megen, admonished of the danger, began in good time
to think of a safe retreat. There still exist letters which were
interchanged between the Counts Egmont and Mansfeld, and which, although
written at a later period, give us a true picture of their former
friendship. "If," replied Count Mansfeld to his friend, who in an
amicable manner had reproved him for his defection to the king, "if
formerly I was of opinion that the general good made the abolition of
the Inquisition, the mitigation of the edicts, and the removal of the
Cardinal Granvella necessary, the king has now acquiesced in this wish
and removed the cause of complaint. We have already done too much
against the majesty of the sovereign and the authority of the church; it
is high time for us to turn, if we would wish to meet the king, when he
comes, with open brow and without anxiety. As regards my own person, I
do not dread his vengeance; with confident courage I would at his first
summons present myself in Spain, and boldly abide my sentence from his
justice and goodness. I do not say this as if I doubted whether Count
Egmont can assert the same, but he will act prudently in looking more
to his own safety, and in removing suspicion from his actions. If I
hear," he says, in conclusion, "that he has allowed my admonitions to
have their due weight, our friendship continues; if not, I feel myself
in that case strong enough to sacrifice all human ties to my duty and to
honor."
From the corruption which pervaded the whole council of state, the privy
council, and the chamber of finance, in which Viglius and Barlaimont
were presidents, had as yet, for the most part, kept themselves pure.
There was but one voice as to the choice of an envoy. Of all the
Flemish nobles Count Egmont was the only one whose appointment would
give equal satisfaction to both parties. His hatred of the Inquisition,
his patriotic and liberal sentiments, and the unblemished integrity of
his character, gave to the republic sufficient surety for his conduct,
while for the reasons already mentioned he could not fail to be welcome
to the king. Moreover, Egmont's personal figure and demeanor were
calculated on his first appearance to make that favorable impression
which goes co far towards winning the hearts of princes; and his
engaging carriage would come to the aid of his eloquence, and enforce
his petition with those persuasive arts which are indispensable to the
success of even the most trifling suits to royalty. Egmont himself,
too, wished for the embassy, as it would afford him the opportunity of
adjusting, personally, matters with his sovereign.
About this time the Council, or rather synod, of Trent closed its
sittings, and published its decrees to the whole of Christendom. But
these canons, far from accomplishing the object for which the synod was
originally convened, and satisfying the expectation of religious
parties, had rather widened the breach between them, and made the schism
irremediable and eternal.
The labors of the synod instead of purifying the Romish Church from its
corruptions had only reduced the latter to greater definiteness and
precision, and invested them with the sanction of authority. All the
subtilties of its teaching, all the arts and usurpations of the Roman
See, which had hitherto rested more on arbitrary usage, were now passed
into laws and raised into a system. The uses and abuses which during
the barbarous times of ignorance and superstition had crept into
Christianity were now declared essential parts of its worship, and
anathemas were denounced upon all who should dare to contradict the
dogmas or neglect the observances of the Romish communion. All were
anathematized who should either presume to doubt the miraculous power of
relics, and refuse to honor the bones of martyrs, or should be so bold
as to doubt the availing efficacy of the intercession of saints. The
power of granting indulgences, the first source of the defection from
the See of Rome, was now propounded in an irrefragable article of faith;
and the principle of monasticism sanctioned by an express decree of the
synod, which allowed males to take the vows at sixteen and females at
twelve. And while all the opinions of the Protestants were, without
exception, condemned, no indulgence was shown to their errors or
weaknesses, nor a single step taken to win them back by mildness to the
bosom of the mother church. Amongst the Protestants the wearisome
records of the subtle deliberations of the synod, and the absurdity of
its decisions, increased, if possible, the hearty contempt which they
had long entertained for popery, and laid open to their
controversialists new and hitherto unnoticed points of attack. It was
an ill-judged step to bring the mysteries of the church too close to the
glaring torch of reason, and to fight with syllogisms for the tenets of
a blind belief.
Moreover, the decrees of the Council of Trent were not satisfactory even
to all the powers in communion with Rome. France rejected them
entirely, both because she did not wish to displease the Huguenots, and
also because she was offended by the supremacy which the pope arrogated
to himself over the council; some of the Roman Catholic princes of
Germany likewise declared against it. Little, however, as Philip II.
was pleased with many of its articles, which trenched too closely upon
his own rights, for no monarch was ever more jealous of his prerogative;
highly as the pope's assumption of control over the council, and its
arbitrary, precipitate dissolution had offended him; just as was his
indignation at the slight which the pope had put upon his ambassador; he
nevertheless acknowledged the decrees of the synod, even in its present
form, because it favored his darling object--the extirpation of heresy.
Political considerations were all postponed to this one religious
object, and he commanded the publication and enforcement of its canons
throughout his dominions.
The spirit of revolt, which was diffused through the Belgian provinces,
scarcely required this new stimulus. There the minds of men were in a
ferment, and the character of the Romish Church had sunk almost to the
lowest point of contempt in the general opinion. Under such
circumstances the imperious and frequently injudicious decrees of the
council could not fail of being highly offensive; but Philip II. could
not belie his religious character so far as to allow a different
religion to a portion of his subjects, even though they might live on a
different soil and under different laws from the rest. The regent was
strictly enjoined to exact in the Netherlands the same obedience to the
decrees of Trent which was yielded to them in Spain and Italy.
They met, however, with the warmest opposition in the council of state
at Brussels. "The nation," William of Orange declared, "neither would
nor could acknowledge them, since they were, for the most part, opposed
to the fundamental principles of their constitution; and, for similar
reasons, they had even been rejected by several Roman Catholic princes."
The whole council nearly was on the side of Orange; a decided majority
were for entreating the king either to recall the decrees entirely or at
least to publish them under certain limitations. This proposition was
resisted by Viglius, who insisted on a strict and literal obedience to
the royal commands. "The church," he said, "had in all ages maintained
the purity of its doctrines and the strictness of its discipline by
means of such general councils. No more efficacious remedy could be
opposed to the errors of opinion which had so long distracted their
country than these very decrees, the rejection of which is now urged by
the council of state. Even if they are occasionally at variance with
the constitutional rights of the citizens this is an evil which can
easily be met by a judicious and temperate application of them. For the
rest it redounds to the honor of our sovereign, the King of Spain, that
he alone, of all the princes of his time, refuses to yield his better
judgment to necessity, and will not, for any fear of consequences,
reject measures which the welfare of the church demands, and which the
happiness of his subjects makes a duty."
But the decrees also contained several matters which affected the rights
of the crown itself. Occasion was therefore taken of this fact to
propose that these sections at least should be omitted from the
proclamation. By this means the king might, it was argued, be relieved
from these obnoxious and degrading articles by a happy expedient; the
national liberties of the Netherlands might be advanced as the pretext
for the omission, and the name of the republic lent to cover this
encroachment on the authority of the synod. But the king had caused
the decrees to be received and enforced in his other dominions
unconditionally; and it was not to be expected that he would give the
other Roman Catholic powers such an example of opposition, and himself
undermine the edifice whose foundation he had been so assiduous in
laying.
His place was supplied by Jaachim Hopper, a member of the privy council
at Brussels, a man of old-fashioned morals and unblemished integrity,
the president's most trusted and worthiest friend.
[Vita Vigl. 89. The person from whose memoirs I have already drawn
so many illustrations of the times of this epoch. His subsequent
journey to Spain gave rise to the correspondence between him and
the president, which is one of the most valuable documents for our
history.]
To meet the wishes of the Orange party he made some additions to the
instructions of the ambassador, relating chiefly to the abolition of the
Inquisition and the incorporation of the three councils, not so much
with the consent of the regent as in the absence of her prohibition.
Upon Count Egmont taking leave of the president, who had recovered from
his attack, the latter requested him to procure in Spain permission to
resign his appointment. His day, he declared, was past; like the
example of his friend and predecessor, Granvella, he wished to retire
into the quiet of private life, and to anticipate the uncertainty of
fortune. His genius warned him of impending storm, by which he could
have no desire to be overtaken.
Count Egmont embarked on his journey to Spain in January, 1565, and was
received there with a kindness and respect which none of his rank had
ever before experienced. The nobles of Castile, taught by the king's
example to conquer their feelings, or rather, true to his policy, seemed
to have laid aside their ancient grudge against the Flemish nobility,
and vied with one another in winning his heart by their affability. All
his private matters were immediately settled to his wishes by the king,
nay, even his expectations exceeded; and during the whole period of his
stay he had ample cause to boast of the hospitality of the monarch. The
latter assured him in the strongest terms of his love for his Belgian
subjects, and held out hopes of his acceding eventually to the general
wish, and remitting somewhat of the severity of the religious edicts.
At the same time, however, he appointed in Madrid a commission of
theologians to whom he propounded the question, "Is it necessary to
grant to the provinces the religious toleration they demand?" As the
majority of them were of opinion that the peculiar constitution of the
Netherlands, and the fear of a rebellion might well excuse a degree of
forbearance in their case, the question was repeated more pointedly.
"He did not seek to know," he said, "if he might do so, but if he must."
When the latter question was answered in the negative, he rose from his
seat, and kneeling down before a crucifix prayed in these words:
"Almighty Majesty, suffer me not at any time to fall so low as to
consent to reign over those who reject thee!" In perfect accordance
with the spirit of this prayer were the measures which he resolved to
adopt in the Netherlands. On the article of religion this monarch had
taken his resolution once forever; urgent necessity might, perhaps, have
constrained him temporarily to suspend the execution of the penal
statutes, but never, formally, to repeal them entirely, or even to
modify them. In vain did Egmont represent to him that the public
execution of the heretics daily augmented the number of their followers,
while the courage and even joy with which they met their death filled
the spectators with the deepest admiration, and awakened in them high
opinions of a doctrine which could make such heroes of its disciples.
This representation was not indeed lost upon the king, but it had a very
different effect from what it was intended to produce. In order to
prevent these seductive scenes, without, however, compromising the
severity of the edicts, he fell upon an expedient, and ordered that in
future the executions should take place in private. The answer of the
king on the subject of the embassy was given to the count in writing,
and addressed to the regent. The king, when he granted him an audience
to take leave, did not omit to call him to account for his behavior to
Granvella, and alluded particularly to the livery invented in derision
of the cardinal. Egmont protested that the whole affair had originated
in a convivial joke, and nothing was further from their meaning than to
derogate in the least from the respect that was due to royalty. "If he
knew," he said, "that any individual among them had entertained such
disloyal thoughts be himself would challenge him to answer for it with
his life."
Meanwhile the commission had been appointed, and had unanimously come
to the following decision: "Whether for the moral reformation of the
clergy, or for the religious instruction of the people, or for the
education of youth, such abundant provision had already been made in the
decrees of Trent that nothing now was requisite but to put these decrees
in force as speedily as possible. The imperial edicts against the
heretics already ought on no account to be recalled or modified; the
courts of justice, however, might be secretly instructed to punish with
death none but obstinate heretics or preachers, to make a difference
between the different sects, and to show consideration to the age, rank,
sex, or disposition of the accused. If it were really the case that
public executions did but inflame fanaticism, then, perhaps, the
unheroic, less observed, but still equally severe punishment of the
galleys, would be well-adapted to bring down all high notions of
martyrdom. As to the delinquencies which might have arisen out of mere
levity, curiosity, and thoughtlessness it would perhaps be sufficient to
punish them by fines, exile, or even corporal chastisement."
This letter of the king, to which the Orange party have ascribed all
the subsequent troubles of the Netherlands, caused the most violent
excitement amongst the state counsellors, and the expressions which in
society they either accidentally or intentionally let fall from them
with regard to it spread terror and alarm amongst the people. The dread
of the Spanish Inquisition returned with new force, and with it came
fresh apprehensions of the subversion of their liberties. Already the
people fancied they could hear prisons building, chains and fetters
forging, and see piles of fagots collecting. Society was occupied with
this one theme of conversation, and fear kept no longer within bounds.
Placards were affixed to houses of the nobles in which they were called
upon, as formerly Rome called on her Brutus, to come forward and save
expiring freedom. Biting pasquinades were published against the new
bishops--tormentors as they were called; the clergy were ridiculed in
comedies, and abuse spared the throne as little as the Romish see.
Terrified by the rumors which were afloat, the regent called together
all the counsellors of state to consult them on the course she ought to
adopt in this perilous crisis. Opinion varied and disputes were
violent. Undecided between fear and duty they hesitated to come to a
conclusion, until at last the aged senator, Viglius, rose and surprised
the whole assembly by his opinion. "It would," he said, "be the height
of folly in us to think of promulgating the royal edict at the present
moment; the king must be informed of the reception which, in all
probability, it will now meet. In the meantime the inquisitors must
be enjoined to use their power with moderation, and to abstain from
severity." But if these words of the aged president surprised the whole
assembly, still greater was the astonishment when the Prince of Orange
stood up and opposed his advice. "The royal will," he said, "is too
clearly and too precisely stated; it is the result of too long and too
mature deliberation for us to venture to delay its execution without
bringing on ourselves the reproach of the most culpable obstinacy."
"That I take on myself," interrupted Viglius; "I oppose myself to, his
displeasure. If by this delay we purchase for him the peace of the
Netherlands our opposition will eventually secure for us the lasting
gratitude of the king." The regent already began to incline to the
advice of Viglius, when the prince vehemently interposing, "What," he
demanded," what have the many representations which we have already made
effected? of what avail was the embassy we so lately despatched?
Nothing! And what then do we wait for more? Shall we, his state
counsellors, bring upon ourselves the whole weight of his displeasure by
determining, at our own peril, to render him a service for which he will
never thank us?" Undecided and uncertain the whole assembly remained
silent; but no one had courage enough to assent to or reply to him. But
the prince had appealed to the fears of the regent, and these left her
no choice. The consequences of her unfortunate obedience to the king's
command will soon appear. But, on the other hand, if by a wise
disobedience she had avoided these fatal consequences, is it clear that
the result would not have been the same? However she had adopted the
most fatal of the two counsels: happen what would the royal ordinance
was to be promulgated. This time, therefore, faction prevailed, and the
advice of the only true friend of the government, who, to serve his
monarch, was ready to incur his displeasure, was disregarded. With this
session terminated the peace of the regent: from this day the
Netherlands dated all the trouble which uninterruptedly visited their
country. As the counsellors separated the Prince of Orange said to one
who stood nearest to him, "Now will soon be acted a great tragedy."
Nearly all the governors of provinces refused compliance with them, and
threatened to throw up their appointments if the attempt should be made
to compel their obedience. "The ordinance," they wrote back, "was based
on a statement of the numbers of the sectaries, which was altogether
false."
[The number of the heretics was very unequally computed by the two
parties according as the interests and passions of either made its
increase or diminution desirable, and the same party often
contradicted itself when its interest changed. If the question
related to new measures of oppression, to the introduction of the
inquisitional tribunals, etc., the numbers of the Protestants were
countless and interminable. If, on the other hand, the question
was of lenity towards them, of ordinances to their advantage, they
were now reduced to such an insignificant number that it would not
repay the trouble of making an innovation for this small body of
ill-minded people.]
Of all the provinces Brabant raised its voice the loudest. The states
of this province appealed to their great privilege, which protected
their members from being brought before a foreign court of justice.
They spoke loudly of the oath by which the king had bound himself to
observe all their statutes, and of the conditions under which they alone
had sworn allegiance to him. Louvain, Antwerp, Brussels, and
Herzogenbusch solemnly protested against the decrees, and transmitted
their protests in distinct memorials to the regent. The latter, always
hesitating and wavering, too timid to obey the king, and far more afraid
to disobey him, again summoned her council, again listened to the
arguments for and against the question, and at last again gave her
assent to the opinion which of all others was the most perilous for her
to adopt. A new reference to the king in Spain was proposed; the next
moment it was asserted that so urgent a crisis did not admit of so
dilatory a remedy; it was necessary for the regent to act on her own
responsibility, and either defy the threatening aspect of despair, or to
yield to it by modifying or retracting the royal ordinance. She finally
caused the annals of Brabant to be examined in order to discover if
possible a precedent for the present case in the instructions of the
first inquisitor whom Charles V. had appointed to the province. These
instructions indeed did not exactly correspond with those now given; but
had not the king declared that he introduced no innovation? This was
precedent enough, and it was declared that the new edicts must also be
interpreted in accordance with the old and existing statutes of the
province. This explanation gave indeed no satisfaction to the states
of Brabant, who had loudly demanded the entire abolition of the
inquisition, but it was an encouragement to the other provinces to make
similar protests and an equally bold opposition. Without giving the
duchess time to decide upon their remonstrances they, on their own
authority, ceased to obey the inquisition, and withdrew their aid from
it. The inquisitors, who had so recently been expressly urged to a more
rigid execution of their duties now saw themselves suddenly deserted by
the secular arm, and robbed of all authority, while in answer to their
application for assistance the court could give them only empty
promises. The regent by thus endeavoring to satisfy all parties had
displeased all.
During these negotiations between the court, the councils, and the
states a universal spirit of revolt pervaded the whole nation. Men
began to investigate the rights of the subject, and to scrutinize the
prerogative of kings. "The Netherlanders were not so stupid," many were
heard to say with very little attempt at secrecy, "as not to know right
well what was due from the subject to the sovereign, and from the king
to the subject; and that perhaps means would yet be found to repel force
with force, although at present there might be no appearance of it."
In Antwerp a placard was set up in several places calling upon the town
council to accuse the King of Spain before the supreme court at Spires
of having broken his oath and violated the liberties of the country,
for, Brabant being a portion of the Burgundian circle, was included in
the religious peace of Passau and Augsburg. About this time too the
Calvinists published their confession of faith, and in a preamble
addressed to the king, declared that they, although a hundred thousand
strong, kept themselves nevertheless quiet, and like the rest of his
subjects, contributed to all the taxes of the country; from which it was
evident, they added, that of themselves they entertained no ideas of
insurrection. Bold and incendiary writings were publicly disseminated,
which depicted the Spanish tyranny in the most odious colors, and
reminded the nation of its privileges, and occasionally also of its
powers.
BOOK III.
CONSPIRACY OF THE NOBLES
1565. Up to this point the general peace had it appears been the
sincere wish of the Prince of Orange, the Counts Egmont and Horn, and
their friends. They had pursued the true interests of their sovereign
as much as the general weal; at least their exertions and their actions
had been as little at variance with the former as with the latter.
Nothing bad as yet occurred to make their motives suspected, or to
manifest in them a rebellious spirit. What they had done they had done
in discharge of their bounden duty as members of a free state, as the
representatives of the nation, as advisers of the king, as men of
integrity and honor. The only weapons they had used to oppose the
encroachments of the court had been remonstrances, modest complaints,
petitions. They had never allowed themselves to be so far carried away
by a just zeal for their good cause as to transgress the limits of
prudence and moderation which on many occasions are so easily
overstepped by party spirit. But all the nobles of the republic did not
now listen to the voice of that prudence; all did not abide within the
bounds of moderation.
While in the council of state the great question was discussed whether
the nation was to be miserable or not, while its sworn deputies summoned
to their assistance all the arguments of reason and of equity, and while
the middle-classes and the people contented themselves with empty
complaints, menaces, and curses, that part of the nation which of all
seemed least called upon, and on whose support least reliance had been
placed, began to take more active measures. We have already described a
class of the nobility whose services and wants Philip at his accession
had not considered it necessary to remember. Of these by far the
greater number had asked for promotion from a much more urgent reason
than a love of the mere honor. Many of them were deeply sunk in debt,
from which by their own resources they could not hope to emancipate
themselves. When then, in filling up appointments, Philip passed them
over he wounded them in a point far more sensitive than their pride.
In these suitors he had by his neglect raised up so many idle spies and
merciless judges of his actions, so many collectors and propagators of
malicious rumor. As their pride did not quit them with their
prosperity, so now, driven by necessity, they trafficked with the sole
capital which they could not alienate--their nobility and the political
influence of their names; and brought into circulation a coin which only
in such a period could have found currency--their protection. With a
self-pride to which they gave the more scope as it was all they could
now call their own, they looked upon themselves as a strong intermediate
power between the sovereign and the citizen, and believed themselves
called upon to hasten to the rescue of the oppressed state, which looked
imploringly to them for succor. This idea was ludicrous only so far as
their self-conceit was concerned in it; the advantages which they
contrived to draw from it were substantial enough. The Protestant
merchants, who held in their hands the chief part of the wealth of the
Netherlands, and who believed they could not at any price purchase too
dearly the undisturbed exercise of their religion, did not fail to make
use of this class of people who stood idle in the market and ready to be
hired. These very men whom at any other time the merchants, in the
pride of riches, would most probably have looked down upon, now appeared
likely to do them good service through their numbers, their courage,
their credit with the populace, their enmity to the government, nay,
through their beggarly pride itself and their despair. On these grounds
they zealously endeavored to form a close union with them, and
diligently fostered the disposition for rebellion, while they also used
every means to keep alive their high opinions of themselves, and, what
was most important, lured their poverty by well-applied pecuniary
assistance and glittering promises. Few of them were so utterly
insignificant as not to possess some influence, if not personally, yet
at least by their relationship with higher and more powerful nobles; and
if united they would be able to raise a formidable voice against the
crown. Many of them had either already joined the new sect or were
secretly inclined to it; and even those who were zealous Roman Catholics
had political or private grounds enough to set them against the decrees
of Trent and the Inquisition. All, in fine, felt the call of vanity
sufficiently powerful not to allow the only moment to escape them in
which they might possibly make some figure in the republic.
[It was not without cause that the Prince of Orange suddenly
disappeared from Brussels in order to be present at the election of
a king of Rome in Frankfort. An assembly of so many German princes
must have greatly favored a negotiation.]
It has even been asserted that secret emissaries of the Admiral Coligny
were seen at this time in Brabant, but this, however, may be reasonably
doubted.
(1565.) Besides these two, there were others also from among the most
illustrious of the Flemish nobles the young Count Charles of Mansfeld,
a son of that nobleman whom we have found among the most zealous
royalists; the Count Kinlemburg; two Counts of Bergen and of Battenburg;
John of Marnix, Baron of Toulouse; Philip of Marnix, Baron of St.
Aldegonde; with several others who joined the league, which, about the
middle of November, in the year 1565, was formed at the house of Von
Hanimes, king at arms of the Golden Fleece. Here it was that six men
decided the destiny of their country as formerly a few confederates
consummated the liberty of Switzerland, kindled the torch of a forty
years' war, and laid the basis of a freedom which they themselves were
never to enjoy. The objects of the league were set forth in the
following declaration, to which Philip of Marnix was the first to
subscribe his name: "Whereas certain ill-disposed persons, under the
mask of a pious zeal, but in reality under the impulse of avarice and
ambition, have by their evil counsels persuaded our most gracious
sovereign the king to introduce into these countries the abominable
tribunal of the Inquisition, a tribunal diametrically opposed to all
laws, human and divine, and in cruelty far surpassing the barbarous
institutions of heathenism; which raises the inquisitors above every
other power, and debases man to a perpetual bondage, and by its snares
exposes the honest citizen to a constant fear of death, inasmuch as any
one (priest, it may be, or a faithless friend, a Spaniard or a
reprobate), has it in his power at any moment to cause whom he will to
be dragged before that tribunal, to be placed in confinement, condemned,
and executed without the accused ever being allowed to face his accuser,
or to adduce proof of his innocence; we, therefore, the undersigned,
have bound ourselves to watch over the safety of our families, our
estates, and our own persons. To this we hereby pledge ourselves, and
to this end bind ourselves as a sacred fraternity, and vow with a solemn
oath to oppose to the best of our power the introduction of this
tribunal into these countries, whether it be attempted openly or
secretly, and under whatever name it may be disguised. We at the same
time declare that we are far from intending anything unlawful against
the king our sovereign; rather is it our unalterable purpose to support
and defend the royal prerogative, and to maintain peace, and, as far as
lies in our power, to put down all rebellion. In accordance with this
purpose we have sworn, and now again swear, to hold sacred the
government, and to respect it both in word and deed, which witness
Almighty God!
"Further, we vow and swear to protect and defend one another, in all
times and places, against all attacks whatsoever touching the articles
which are set forth in this covenant. We hereby bind ourselves that no
accusation of any of our followers, in whatever name it may be clothed,
whether rebellion, sedition, or otherwise, shall avail to annul our oath
towards the accused, or absolve us from our obligation towards him. No
act which is directed against the Inquisition can deserve the name of a
rebellion. Whoever, therefore, shall be placed in arrest on any such
charge, we here pledge ourselves to assist him to the utmost of our
ability, and to endeavor by every allowable means to effect his
liberation. In this, however, as in all matters, but especially in the
conduct of all measures against the tribunal of the Inquisition, we
submit ourselves to the general regulations of the league, or to the
decision of those whom we may unanimously appoint our counsellors and
leaders.
"In witness hereof, and in confirmation of this our common league and
covenant, we call upon the holy name of the living God, maker of heaven
and earth, and of all that are therein, who searches the hearts, the
consciences, and the thoughts, and knows the purity of ours. We implore
the aid of the Holy Spirit, that success and honor may crown our
undertaking, to the glory of His name, and to the peace and blessing of
our country!"
Counts Megen, also, and Aremberg hesitated to receive the petition; the
Prince of Orange, however, Counts Egmont, Horn, Hogstraten, and others
voted emphatically for it. "The confederates," they declared, "were
known to them as men of integrity and honor; a great part of them were
connected with themselves by friendship and relationship, and they dared
vouch for their behavior. Every subject was allowed to petition; a
right which was enjoyed by the meanest individual in the state could not
without injustice be denied to so respectable a body of men." It was
therefore resolved by a majority of votes to admit the confederates on
the condition that they should appear unarmed and conduct themselves
temperately. The squabbles of the members of council had occupied the
greater part of the sitting, so that it was necessary to adjourn the
discussion to the following day. In order that the principal matter in
debate might not again be lost sight of in useless complaints the regent
at once hastened to the point: "Brederode, we are informed," she said,
"is coming to us, with an address in the name of the league, demanding
the abolition of the Inquisition and a mitigation of the edicts. The
advice of my senate is to guide me in my answer to him; but before you
give your opinions on this point permit me to premise a few words. I am
told that there are many even amongst yourselves who load the religious
edicts of the Emperor, my father, with open reproaches, and describe
them to the people as inhuman and barbarous. Now I ask you, lords and
gentlemen, knights of the Fleece, counsellors of his majesty and of the
state, whether you did not yourselves vote for these edicts, whether the
states of the realm have not recognized them as lawful? Why is that now
blamed, which was formerly declared right? Is it because they have now
become even more necessary than they then were? Since when is the
Inquisition a new thing in the Netherlands? Is it not full sixteen
years ago since the Emperor established it? And wherein is it more
cruel than the edicts? If it be allowed that the latter were the work
of wisdom, if the universal consent of the states has sanctioned them--
why this opposition to the former, which is nevertheless far more humane
than the edicts, if they are to be observed to the letter? Speak now
freely; I am not desirous of fettering your decision; but it is your
business to see that it is not misled by passion and prejudice." The
council of state was again, as it always had been, divided between two
opinions; but the few who spoke for the Inquisition and the literal
execution of the edicts were outvoted by the opposite party with the
Prince of Orange at its head. "Would to heaven," he began,--"that my
representations had been then thought worthy of attention, when as yet
the grounds of apprehension were remote; things would in that case never
have been carried so far as to make recourse to extreme measures
indispensable, nor would men have been plunged deeper in error by the
very means which were intended to beguile them from their delusion. We
are all unanimous on the one main point. We all wish to see the
Catholic religion safe; if this end can be secured without the aid of
the Inquisition, it is well, and we offer our wealth and our blood to
its service; but on this very point it is that our opinions are divided.
"There are two kinds of inquisition: the see of Rome lays claim to one,
the other has, from time immemorial, been exercised by the bishops. The
force of prejudice and of custom has made the latter light and
supportable to us. It will find little opposition in the Netherlands,
and the augmented numbers of the bishops will make it effective. To
what purpose then insist on the former, the mere name of which is
revolting to all the feelings of our minds? When so many nations exist
without it why should it be imposed on us? Before Luther appeared it
was never heard of; but the troubles with Luther happened at a time when
there was an inadequate number of spiritual overseers, and when the few
bishops were, moreover, indolent, and the licentiousness of the clergy
excluded them from the office of judges. Now all is changed; we now
count as many bishops as there are provinces. Why should not the policy
of the government adjust itself to the altered circumstances of the
times? We want leniency, not severity. The repugnance of the people is
manifest--this we must seek to appease if we would not have it burst out
into rebellion. With the death of Pius IV. the full powers of the
inquisitors have expired; the new pope has as yet sent no ratification
of their authority, without which no one formerly ventured to exercise
his office. Now, therefore, is the time when it can be suspended
without infringing the rights of any party.
"What I have stated with regard to the Inquisition holds equally good in
respect to the edicts also. The exigency of the times called them
forth, but are not those times passed? So long an experience of them
ought at last to have taught us that against hersey no means are less
successful than the fagot and sword. What incredible progress has not
the new religion made during only the last few years in the provinces;
and if we investigate the cause of this increase we shall find it
principally in the glorious constancy of those who have fallen
sacrifices to the truth of their opinions. Carried away by sympathy and
admiration, men begin to weigh in silence whether what is maintained
with such invincible courage may not really be the truth. In France and
in England the same severities may have been inflicted on the
Protestants, but have they been attended with any better success there
than here? The very earliest Christians boasted that the blood of the
martyrs was the seed of the church. The Emperor Julian, the most
terrible enemy that Christianity ever experienced, was fully persuaded
of this. Convinced that persecution did but kindle enthusiasm he betook
himself to ridicule and derision, and found these weapons far more
effective than force. In the Greek empire different teachers of heresy
have arisen at different times. Arius under Constantine, Aetius under
Constantius, Nestorius under Theodosius. But even against these
arch-heretics and their disciples such cruel measures were never resorted
to as are thought necessary against our unfortunate country--and yet
where are all those sects now which once a whole world, I had almost
said, could not contain? This is the natural course of heresy. If it is
treated with contempt it crumbles into insignificance. It is as iron,
which, if it lies idle, corrodes, and only becomes sharp by use. Let no
notice be paid to it, and it loses its most powerful attraction, the
magic of what is new and what is forbidden. Why will we not content
ourselves with the measures which have been approved of by the wisdom of
such great rulers? Example is ever the safest guide.
"But what need to go to pagan antiquity for guidance and example when we
have near at hand the glorious precedent of Charles V., the greatest of
kings, who taught at last by experience, abandoned the bloody path of
persecution, and for many years before his abdication adopted milder
measures. And Philip himself, our most gracious sovereign, seemed at
first strongly inclined to leniency until the counsels of Granvella and
of others like him changed these views; but with what right or wisdom
they may settle between themselves. To me, however, it has always
appeared indispensable that legislation to be wise and successful must
adjust itself to the manners and maxims of the times. In conclusion,
I would beg to remind you of the close understanding which subsists
between the Huguenots and the Flemish Protestants. Let us beware of
exasperating them any further. Let us not act the part of French
Catholics towards them, lest they should play the Huguenots against us,
and, like the latter, plunge their country into the horrors of a civil
war."
[No one need wonder, says Burgundias (a vehement stickler for the
Roman Catholic religion and the Spanish party), that the speech of
this prince evinced so much acquaintance with philosophy; he had
acquired it in his intercourse with Balduin. 180. Barry, 174-178.
Hopper, 72. Strada, 123,124.]
THE GUEUX.
The members of the senate had not yet dispersed, when all Brussels
resounded with the report that the confederates were approaching the
town. They consisted of no more than two hundred horse, but rumor
greatly exaggerated their numbers. Filled with consternation, the
regent consulted with her ministers whether it was best to close the
gates on the approaching party or to seek safety in flight? Both
suggestions were rejected as dishonorable; and the peaceable entry of
the nobles soon allayed all fears of violence. The first morning after
their arrival they assembled at Kuilemberg house, where Brederode
administered to them a second oath, binding them before all other duties
to stand by one another, and even with arms if necessary. At this
meeting a letter from Spain was produced, in which it was stated that a
certain Protestant, whom, they all knew and valued, had been burned
alive in that country by a slow fire. After these and similar
preliminaries he called on them one after another by name to take the
new oath and renew the old one in their own names and in those of the
absent. The next day, the 5th of April, 1556, was fixed for the
presentation of the petition. Their numbers now amounted to between
three and four hundred. Amongst them were many retainers of the high
nobility, as also several servants of the king himself and of the
duchess.
With the Counts of Nassau and Brederode at their head, and formed in
ranks of four by four, they advanced in procession to the palace; all
Brussels attended the unwonted spectacle in silent astonishment. Here
were to be seen a body of men advancing with too much boldness and
confidence to look like supplicants, and led by two men who were not
wont to be petitioners; and, on the other hand, with so much order and
stillness as do not usually accompany rebellion. The regent received
the procession surrounded by all her counsellors and the Knights of the
Fleece. "These noble Netherlanders," thus Brederode respectfully
addressed her, "who here present themselves before your highness, wish
in their own name, and of many others besides who are shortly to arrive,
to present to you a petition of whose importance as well as of their own
humility this solemn procession must convince you. I, as speaker of
this body, entreat you to receive our petition, which contains nothing
but what is in unison with the laws of our country and the honor of the
king."
"Never" (so ran the petition which, according to some, was drawn up by
the celebrated Balduin), "never had they failed in their loyalty to
their king, and nothing now could be farther from their hearts; but they
would rather run the risk of incurring the displeasure of their
sovereign than allow him to remain longer in ignorance of the evils with
which their native country was menaced, by the forcible introduction of
the Inquisition and the continued enforcement of the edicts. They had
long remained consoling themselves with the expectation that a general
assembly of the states would be summoned to remedy these grievances; but
now that even this hope was extinguished, they held it to be their duty
to give timely warning to the regent. They, therefore, entreated her
highness to send to Madrid an envoy, well disposed, and fully acquainted
with the state and temper of the times, who should endeavor to persuade
the king to comply with the demands of the whole nation, and abolish the
Inquisition, to revoke the edicts, and in their stead cause new and more
humane ones to be drawn up at a general assembly of the states. But, in
the meanwhile, until they could learn the king's decision, they prayed
that the edicts and the operations of the Inquisition be suspended."
"If," they concluded, "no attention should be paid to their humble
request, they took God, the king, the regent, and all her counsellors to
witness that they had done their part, and were not responsible for any
unfortunate result that might happen."
The league had its origin in banquets, and a banquet gave it form and
perfection. On the very day that the second petition was presented
Brederode entertained the confederates in Kuilemberg house. About three
hundred guests assembled; intoxication gave them courage, and their
audacity rose with their numbers. During the conversation one of their
number happened to remark that he had overheard the Count of Barlaimont
whisper in French to the regent, who was seen to turn pale on the
delivery of the petitions, that "she need not be afraid of a band of
beggars (gueux);" (in fact, the majority of them had by their bad
management of their incomes only too well deserved this appellation.)
Now, as the very name for their fraternity was the very thing which had
most perplexed them, an expression was eagerly caught up, which, while
it cloaked the presumption of their enterprise in humility, was at the
same time appropriate to them as petitioners. Immediately they drank to
one another under this name, and the cry "long live the Gueux!" was
accompanied with a general shout of applause. After the cloth had been
removed Brederode appeared with a wallet over his shoulder similar to
that which the vagrant pilgrims and mendicant monks of the time used to
carry, and after returning thanks to all for their accession to the
league, and boldly assuring them that he was ready to venture life and
limb for every individual present, he drank to the health of the whole
company out of a wooden beaker. The cup went round and every one
uttered the same vow as be set it to his lips. Then one after the other
they received the beggar's purse, and each hung it on a nail which he
had appropriated to himself. The shouts and uproar attending this
buffoonery attracted the Prince of Orange and Counts Egmont and Horn,
who by chance were passing the spot at the very moment, and on entering
the house were boisterously pressed by Brederode, as host, to remain and
drink a glass with them.
["But," Egmont asserted in his written defence "we drank only one
single small glass, and thereupon they cried 'long live the king
and the Gueux!' This was the first time that I heard that
appellation, and it certainly did not please me. But the times
were so bad that one was often compelled to share in much that was
against one's inclination, and I knew not but I was doing an
innocent thing." Proces criminels des Comtes d'Egmont, etc.. 7. 1.
Egmont's defence, Hopper, 94. Strada, 127-130. Burgund., 185,
187.]
Before the confederates separated and dispersed among the provinces they
presented themselves once more before the duchess, in order to remind
her of the necessity of leniency towards the heretics until the arrival
of the king's answer from Spain, if she did not wish to drive the people
to extremities. "If, however," they added, "a contrary behavior should
give rise to any evils they at least must be regarded as having done
their duty."
A "moderation" devised with the assent of the states was what they
particularly insisted on. In order, therefore, to gain the consent of
the states, or rather to obtain it from them by stealth, the regent
artfully propounded the question to the provinces singly, and first of
all to those which possessed the least freedom, such as Artois, Namur,
and Luxemburg. Thus she not only prevented one province encouraging
another in opposition, but also gained this advantage by it, that the
freer provinces, such as Flanders and Brabant, which were prudently
reserved to the last, allowed themselves to be carried away by the
example of the others. By a very illegal procedure the representatives
of the towns were taken by surprise, and their consent exacted before
they could confer with their constituents, while complete silence was
imposed upon them with regard to the whole transaction. By these means
the regent obtained the unconditional consent of some of the provinces
to the "moderation," and, with a few slight changes, that of other
provinces. Luxemburg and Namur subscribed it without scruple. The
states of Artois simply added the condition that false informers should
be subjected to a retributive penalty; those of Hainault demanded that
instead of confiscation of the estates, which directly militated against
their privileges, another discretionary punishment should be introduced.
Flanders called for the entire abolition of the Inquisition, and desired
that the accused might be secured in right of appeal to their own
province. The states of Brabant were outwitted by the intrigues of the
court. Zealand, Holland, Utrecht, Guelders, and Friesland as being
provinces which enjoyed the most important privileges, and which,
moreover, watched over them with the greatest jealousy, were never asked
for their opinion. The provincial courts of judicature had also been
required to make a report on the projected amendment of the law, but we
may well suppose that it was unfavorable, as it never reached Spain.
From the principal cause of this "moderation," which, however, really
deserved its name, we may form a judgment of the general character of
the edicts themselves. "Sectarian writers," it ran, "the heads and
teachers of sects, as also those who conceal heretical meetings, or
cause any other public scandal, shall be punished with the gallows, and
their estates, where the law of the province permit it, confiscated; but
if they abjure their errors, their punishment shall be commuted into
decapitation with the sword, and their effects shall be preserved to
their families." A cruel snare for parental affection! Less grievous
heretics, it was further enacted, shall, if penitent, be pardoned; and
if impenitent shall be compelled to leave the country, without, however,
forfeiting their estates, unless by continuing to lead others astray
they deprive themselves of the benefit of this provision. The
Anabaptists, however, were expressly excluded from benefiting by this
clause; these, if they did not clear themselves by the most thorough
repentance, were to forfeit their possessions; and if, on the other
hand, they relapsed after penitence, that is, were backsliding heretics,
they were to be put to death without mercy. The greater regard for life
and property which is observable in this ordinance as compared with the
edicts, and which we might be tempted to ascribe to a change of
intention in the Spanish ministry, was nothing more than a compulsory
step extorted by the determined opposition of the nobles. So little,
too, were the people in the Netherlands satisfied by this "moderation,"
which fundamentally did not remove a single abuse, that instead of
"moderation" (mitigation), they indignantly called it "moorderation,"
that is, murdering.
After the consent of the states had in this manner been extorted from
them, the "moderation" was submitted to the council of the state, and,
after receiving their signatures, forwarded to the king in Spain in
order to receive from his ratification the force of law.
The embassy to Madrid, which had been agreed upon with the confederates,
was at the outset entrusted to the Marquis of Bergen, who, however, from
a distrust of the present disposition of the king, which was only too
well grounded, and from reluctance to engage alone in so delicate a
business, begged for a coadjutor.
All these motives (and it is open to every one, according to his good or
bad opinion of the prince, to say which was the most influential) tended
alike to move him to desert the regent, and to divest himself of all
share in public affairs. An opportunity for putting this resolve into
execution soon presented itself. The prince had voted for the immediate
promulgation of the newly-revised edicts; but the regent, following the
suggestion of her privy council, had determined to transmit them first
to the king. "I now see clearly," he broke out with well-acted
vehemence, "that all the advice which I give is distrusted. The king
requires no servants whose loyalty he is determined to doubt; and far be
it from me to thrust my services upon a sovereign who is unwilling to
receive them. Better, therefore, for him and me that I withdraw from
public affairs." Count Horn expressed himself nearly to the same
effect. Egmont requested permission to visit the baths of
Aix-la-Chapelle, the use of which had been prescribed to him by his
physician, although (as it is stated in his accusation) he appeared
health itself. The regent, terrified at the consequences which must
inevitably follow this step, spoke sharply to the prince. "If neither my
representations, nor the general welfare can prevail upon you, so far as
to induce you to relinquish this intention, let me advise you to be more
careful, at least, of your own reputation. Louis of Nassau is your
brother; he and Count Brederode, the heads of the confederacy, have
publicly been your guests. The petition is in substance identical with
your own representations in the council of state. If you now suddenly
desert the cause of your king will it not be universally said that you
favor the conspiracy?" We do not find it anywhere stated whether the
prince really withdrew at this time from the council of state; at all
events, if he did, he must soon have altered his mind, for shortly after
he appears again in public transactions. Egmont allowed himself to be
overcome by the remonstrances of the regent; Horn alone actually withdrew
himself to one of his estates,--[Where he remained three months
inactive.]--with the resolution of never more serving either emperor or
king. Meanwhile the Gueux had dispersed themselves through the provinces,
and spread everywhere the most favorable reports of their success.
According to their assertions, religious freedom was finally assured; and
in order to confirm their statements they helped themselves, where the
truth failed, with falsehood. For example, they produced a forged letter
of the Knights of the Fleece, in which the latter were made solemnly to
declare that for the future no one need fear imprisonment, or banishment,
or death on account of religion, unless he also committed a political
crime; and even in that case the confederates alone were to be his
judges; and this regulation was to be in force until the king, with the
consent and advice of the states of the realm, should otherwise dispose.
Earnestly as the knights applied themselves upon the first information of
the fraud to rescue the nation from their delusion, still it had already
in this short interval done good service to the faction. If there are
truths whose effect is limited to a single instant, then inventions which
last so long can easily assume their place. Besides, the report, however
false, was calculated both to awaken distrust between the regent and the
knights, and to support the courage of the Protestants by fresh hopes,
while it also furnished those who were meditating innovation an
appearance of right, which, however unsubstantial they themselves knew it
to be, served as a colorable pretext for their proceedings. Quickly as
this delusion was dispelled, still, in the short space of time that it
obtained belief, it had occasioned so many extravagances, had introduced
so much irregularity and license, that a return to the former state of
things became impossible, and continuance in the course already commenced
was rendered necessary as well by habit as by despair. On the very first
news of this happy result the fugitive Protestants had returned to their
homes, which they had so unwillingly abandoned; those who had been in
concealment came forth from their hiding-places; those who had hitherto
paid homage to the new religion in their hearts alone, emboldened by
these pretended acts of toleration, now gave in their adhesion to it
publicly and decidedly. The name of the "Gueux" was extolled in all the
provinces; they were called the pillars of religion and liberty; their
party increased daily, and many of the merchants began to wear their
insignia. The latter made an alteration in the "Gueux" penny, by
introducing two travellers' staffs, laid crosswise, to intimate that they
stood prepared and ready at any instant to forsake house and hearth for
the sake of religion. The Gueux league, in short, had now given to things
an entirely different form. The murmurs of the people, hitherto impotent
and despised, as being the cries of individuals, had, now that they were
concentrated, become formidable; and had gained power, direction, and
firmness through union. Every one who was rebelliously disposed now
looked on himself as the member of a venerable and powerful body, and
believed that by carrying his own complaints to the general stock of
discontent he secured the free expression of them. To be called an
important acquisition to the league flattered the vain; to be lost,
unnoticed, and irresponsible in the crowd was an inducement to the timid.
The face which the confederacy showed to the nation was very unlike that
which it had turned to the court. But had its objects been the purest,
had it really been as well disposed towards the throne as it wished to
appear, still the multitude would have regarded only what was illegal in
its proceedings, and upon them its better intentions would have been
entirely lost.
PUBLIC PREACHING.
This success of the first attempt inspired courage for a second. In the
vicinity of Aalst they assembled again in still greater numbers; but on
this occasion they provided themselves with rapiers, firearms, and
halberds, placed sentries at all the approaches, which they also
barricaded with carts and carriages. All passers-by were obliged,
whether willing or otherwise, to take part in the religious service, and
to enforce this object lookout parties were posted at certain distances
round the place of meeting. At the entrance booksellers stationed
themselves, offering for sale Protestant catechisms, religious tracts,
and pasquinades on the bishops. The preacher, Hermann Stricker, held
forth from a pulpit which was hastily constructed for the occasion out
of carts and trunks of trees. A canvas awning drawn over it protected
him from the sun and the rain; the preacher's position was in the
quarter of the wind that the people might not lose any part of his
sermon, which consisted principally of revilings against popery. Here
the sacraments were administered after the Calvinistic fashion, and
water was procured from the nearest river to baptize infants without
further ceremony, after the practice, it was pretended, of the earliest
times of Christianity. Couples were also united in wedlock, and the
marriage ties dissolved between others. To be present at this meeting
half the population of Ghent had left its gates; their example was soon
followed in other parts, and ere long spread over the whole of East
Flanders. In like manner Peter Dathen, another renegade monk, from
Poperingen, stirred up West Flanders; as many as fifteen thousand
persons at a time attended his preaching from the villages and hamlets;
their number made them bold, and they broke into the prisons, where some
Anabaptists were reserved for martyrdom. In Tournay the Protestants
were excited to a similar pitch of daring by Ambrosius Ville, a French
Calvinist. They demanded the release of the prisoners of their sect,
and repeatedly threatened if their demands were not complied with to
deliver up the town to the French. It was entirely destitute of a
garrison, for the commandant, from fear of treason, had withdrawn it
into the castle, and the soldiers, moreover, refused to act against
their fellow-citizens. The sectarians carried their audacity to such
great lengths as to require one of the churches within the town to be
assigned to them; and when this was refused they entered into a league
with Valenciennes and Antwerp to obtain a legal recognition of their
worship, after the example of the other towns, by open force. These
three towns maintained a close connection with each other, and the
Protestant party was equally powerful in all. While, however, no one
would venture singly to commence the disturbance, they agreed
simultaneously to make a beginning with public preaching. Brederode's
appearance in Antwerp at last gave them courage. Six thousand persons,
men and women, poured forth from the town on an appointed day, on which
the same thing happened in Tournay and Valenciennes. The place of
meeting was closed in with a line of vehicles, firmly fastened together,
and behind them armed men were secretly posted, with a view to protect
the service from any surprise. Of the preachers, most of whom were men
of the very lowest class--some were Germans, some were Huguenots--and
spoke in the Walloon dialect; some even of the citizens felt themselves
called upon to take a part in this sacred work, now that no fears of the
officers of justice alarmed them. Many were drawn to the spot by mere
curiosity to hear what kind of new and unheard-of doctrines these
foreign teachers, whose arrival had caused so much talk, would set
forth. Others were attracted by the melody of the psalms, which were
sung in a French version, after the custom in Geneva. A great number
came to hear these sermons as so many amusing comedies such was the
buffoonery with which the pope, the fathers of the ecclesiastical
council of Trent, purgatory, and other dogmas of the ruling church were
abused in them. And, in fact, the more extravagant was this abuse and
ridicule the more it tickled the ears of the lower orders; and a
universal clapping of hands, as in a theatre, rewarded the speaker who
had surpassed others in the wildness of his jokes and denunciations.
But the ridicule which was thus cast upon the ruling church was,
nevertheless, not entirely lost on the minds of the hearers, as neither
were the few grains of truth or reason which occasionally slipped in
among it; and many a one, who had sought from these sermons anything but
conviction, unconsciously carried away a little also of it.
These assemblies were several times repeated, and each day augmented the
boldness of the sectarians; till at last they even ventured, after
concluding the service to conduct their preachers home in triumph, with
an escort of armed horsemen, and ostentatiously to brave the law. The
town council sent express after express to the duchess, entreating her
to visit them in person, and if possible to reside for a short time in
Antwerp, as the only expedient to curb the arrogance of the populace;
and assuring her that the most eminent merchants, afraid of being
plundered, were already preparing to quit it. Fear of staking the royal
dignity on so hazardous a stroke of policy forbade her compliance; but
she despatched in her stead Count Megen, in order to treat with the
magistrate for the introduction of a garrison. The rebellious mob, who
quickly got an inkling of the object of his visit, gathered around him
with tumultuous cries, shouting, "He was known to them as a sworn enemy
of the Gueux; that it was notorious he was bringing upon them prisons
and the Inquisition, and that he should leave the town instantly." Nor
was the tumult quieted till Megen was beyond the gates. The Calvinists
now handed in to the magistrate a memorial, in which they showed that
their great numbers made it impossible for them henceforward to assemble
in secrecy, and requested a separate place of worship to be allowed them
inside the town. The town council renewed its entreaties to the duchess
to assist, by her personal presence, their perplexities, or at least to
send to them the Prince of Orange, as the only person for whom the
people still had any respect, and, moreover, as specially bound to the
town of Antwerp by his hereditary title of its burgrave. In order to
escape the greater evil she was compelled to consent to the second
demand, however much against her inclination to entrust Antwerp to the
prince. After allowing himself to be long and fruitlessly entreated,
for he had all at once resolved to take no further share in public
affairs, he yielded at last to the earnest persuasions of the regent
and the boisterous wishes of the people. Brederode, with a numerous
retinue, came half a mile out of the town to meet him, and both parties
saluted each other with a discharge of pistols. Antwerp appeared to
have poured out all her inhabitants to welcome her deliverer. The high
road swarmed with multitudes; the roofs were taken off the houses in
order that they might accommodate more spectators; behind fences, from
churchyard walls, even out of graves started up men. The attachment of
the people to the prince showed itself in childish effusions. "Long
live the Gueux!" was the shout with which young and old received him.
"Behold," cried others, "the man who shall give us liberty." "He brings
us," cried the Lutherans, "the Confession of Augsburg!" "We don't want
the Gueux now!" exclaimed others; "we have no more need of the
troublesome journey to Brussels. He alone is everything to us!" Those
who knew not what to say vented their extravagant joy in psalms, which
they vociferously chanted as they moved along. He, however, maintained
his gravity, beckoned for silence, and at last, when no one would listen
to him, exclaimed with indignation, half real and half affected, "By
God, they ought to consider what they did, or they would one day repent
what they had now done." The shouting increased even as he rode into
the town. The first conference of the prince with the heads of the
different religious sects, whom he sent for and separately interrogated,
presently convinced him that the chief source of the evil was the mutual
distrust of the several parties, and the suspicions which the citizens
entertained of the designs of the government, and that therefore it must
be his first business to restore confidence among them all. First of
all he attempted, both by persuasion and artifice, to induce the
Calvinists, as the most numerous body, to lay down their weapons, and in
this he at last, with much labor, succeeded. When, however, some wagons
were soon afterwards seen laden with ammunition in Malines, and the high
bailiff of Brabant showed himself frequently in the neighborhood of
Antwerp with an armed force, the Calvinists, fearing hostile
interruption of their religious worship, besought the prince to allot
them a place within the walls for their sermons, which should be secure
from a surprise. He succeeded once more in pacifying them, and his
presence fortunately prevented an outbreak on the Assumption of the
Virgin, which, as usual, had drawn a crowd to the town, and from whose
sentiments there was but too much reason for alarm. The image of the
Virgin was, with the usual pomp, carried round the town without
interruption; a few words of abuse, and a suppressed murmur about
idolatry, was all that the disapproving multitudes indulged in against
the procession.
1566. While the regent received from one province after another the
most melancholy accounts of the excesses of the Protestants, and while
she trembled for Antwerp, which she was compelled to leave in the
dangerous hands of the Prince of Orange, a new terror assailed her from
another quarter. Upon the first authentic tidings of the public
preaching she immediately called upon the league to fulfil its promises
and to assist her in restoring order. Count Brederode used this pretext
to summon a general meeting of the whole league, for which he could not
have selected a more dangerous moment than the present. So ostentatious
a display of the strength of the league, whose existence and protection
had alone encouraged the Protestant mob to go the length it had already
gone, would now raise the confidence of the sectarians, while in the
same degree it depressed the courage of the regent. The convention took
place in the town of Liege St. Truyen, into which Brederode and Louis of
Nassau had thrown themselves at the head of two thousand confederates.
As the long delay of the royal answer from Madrid seemed to presage no
good from that quarter, they considered it advisable in any case to
extort from the regent a letter of indemnity for their persons.
Those among them who were conscious of a disloyal sympathy with the
Protestant mob looked on its licentiousness as a favorable circumstance
for the league; the apparent success of those to whose degrading
fellowship they had deigned to stoop led them to alter their tone; their
former laudable zeal began to degenerate into insolence and defiance.
Many thought that they ought to avail themselves of the general
confusion and the perplexity of the duchess to assume a bolder tone and
heap demand upon demand. The Roman Catholic members of the league,
among whom many were in their hearts still strongly inclined to the
royal cause, and who had been drawn into a connection with the league by
occasion and example, rather than from feeling and conviction, now heard
to their astonishment propositions for establishing universal freedom of
religion, and were not a little shocked to discover in how perilous an
enterprise they had hastily implicated themselves. On this discovery
the young Count Mansfeld withdrew immediately from it, and internal
dissensions already began to undermine the work of precipitation and
haste, and imperceptibly to loosen the joints of the league.
Count Egmont and William of Orange were empowered by the regent to treat
with the confederates. Twelve of the latter, among whom were Louis of
Nassau, Brederode, and Kuilemberg, conferred with them in Duffle, a
village near Malines. "Wherefore this new step?" demanded the regent
by the mouth of these two noblemen. "I was required to despatch
ambassadors to Spain; and I sent them. The edicts and the Inquisition
were complained of as too rigorous; I have rendered both more lenient.
A general assembly of the states of the realm was proposed; I have
submitted this request to the king because I could not grant it from my
own authority. What, then, have I unwittingly either omitted or done
that should render necessary this assembling in St. Truyen? Is it
perhaps fear of the king's anger and of its consequences that disturbs
the confederates? The provocation certainly is great, but his mercy is
even greater. Where now is the promise of the league to excite no
disturbances amongst the people? Where those high-sounding professions
that they were ready to die at my feet rather, than offend against any
of the prerogatives of the crown? The innovators already venture on
things which border closely on rebellion, and threaten the state with
destruction; and it is to the league that they appeal. If it continues
silently to tolerate this it will justly bring on itself the charge of
participating in the guilt of their offences; if it is honestly disposed
towards the sovereign it cannot remain longer inactive in this
licentiousness of the mob. But, in truth, does it not itself outstrip
the insane population by its dangerous example, concluding, as it is
known to do, alliances with the enemies of the country, and confirming
the evil report of its designs by the present illegal meeting?"
The league would not have ventured to hold such bold language if it had
not reckoned on powerful support and protection; but the regent was as
little in a condition to concede their demands as she was incapable of
vigorously opposing them. Deserted in Brussels by most of her
counsellors of state, who had either departed to their provinces, or
under some pretext or other had altogether withdrawn from public
affairs; destitute as well of advisers as of money (the latter want had
compelled her, in the first instance, to appeal to the liberality of the
clergy; when this proved insufficient, to have recourse to a lottery),
dependent on orders from Spain, which were ever expected and never
received, she was at last reduced to the degrading expedient of entering
into a negotiation with the confederates in St. Truyen, that they should
wait twenty-four days longer for the king's resolution before they took
any further steps. It was certainly surprising that the king still
continued to delay a decisive answer to the petition, although it was
universally known that he had answered letters of a much later date, and
that the regent earnestly importuned him on this head. She had also, on
the commencement of the public preaching, immediately despatched the
Marquis of Bergen after the Baron of Montigny, who, as an eye-witness of
these new occurrences, could confirm her written statements, to move the
king to an earlier decision.
1566. In the meanwhile, the Flemish ambassador, Florence of Montigny,
had arrived in Madrid, where he was received with a great show of
consideration. His instructions were to press for the abolition of the
Inquisition and the mitigation of the edicts; the augmentation of the
council of state, and the incorporation with it of the two other
councils; the calling of a general assembly of the states, and, lastly,
to urge the solicitations of the regent for a personal visit from the
king. As the latter, however, was only desirous of gaining time,
Montigny was put off with fair words until the arrival of his coadjutor,
without whom the king was not willing to come to any final
determination. In the meantime, Montigny had every day and at any hour
that he desired, an audience with the king, who also commanded that on
all occasions the despatches of the duchess and the answers to them
should be communicated to himself. He was, too, frequently admitted to
the council for Belgian affairs, where he never omitted to call the
king's attention to the necessity of a general assembly of the states,
as being the only means of successfully meeting the troubles which had
arisen, and as likely to supersede the necessity of any other measure.
He moreover impressed upon him that a general and unreserved indemnity
for the past would alone eradicate the distrust, which was the source of
all existing complaints, and would always counteract the good effects of
every measure, however well advised. He ventured, from a thorough
acquaintance with circumstances and accurate knowledge of the character
of his countrymen, to pledge himself to the king for their inviolable
loyalty, as soon as they should be convinced of the honesty of his
intentions by the straightforwardness of his proceedings; while, on the
contrary, he assured him that there would be no hopes of it as long as
they were not relieved of the fear of being made the victims of the
oppression, and sacrificed to the envy of the Spanish nobles. At last
Montigny's coadjutor made his appearance, and the objects of their
embassy were made the subject of repeated deliberations.
1566. The king was at that time at his palace at Segovia, where also he
assembled his state council. The members were: the Duke of Alva; Don
Gomez de Figueroa; the Count of Feria; Don Antonio of Toledo, Grand
Commander of St. John; Don John Manriquez of Lara, Lord Steward to the
Queen; Ruy Gomez, Prince of Eboli and Count of Melito; Louis of Quixada,
Master of the Horse to the Prince; Charles Tyssenacque, President of the
Council for the Netherlands; Hopper, State Counsellor and Keeper of the
Seal; and State Counsellor Corteville. The sitting of the council was
protracted for several days; both ambassadors were in attendance, but
the king was not himself present. Here, then, the conduct of the
Belgian nobles was examined by Spanish eyes; step by step it was traced
back to the most distant source; circumstances were brought into
relation with others which, in reality, never had any connection; and
what had been the offspring of the moment was made out to be a
well-matured and far-sighted plan. All the different transactions and
attempts of the nobles which had been governed solely by chance, and to
which the natural order of events alone assigned their particular shape
and succession, were said to be the result of a preconcerted scheme for
introducing universal liberty in religion, and for placing all the power
of the state in the hands of the nobles. The first step to this end
was, it was said, the violent expulsion of the minister Granvella,
against whom nothing could be charged, except that he was in possession
of an authority which they preferred to exercise themselves. The second
step was sending Count Egmont to Spain to urge the abolition of the
Inquisition and the mitigation of the penal statutes, and to prevail on
the king to consent to an augmentation of the council of state. As,
however, this could not be surreptitiously obtained in so quiet a
manner, the attempt was made to extort it from the court by a third and
more daring step--by a formal conspiracy, the league of the Gueux. The
fourth step to the same end was the present embassy, which at length
boldly cast aside the mask, and by the insane proposals which they were
not ashamed to make to their king, clearly brought to light the object
to which all the preceding steps had tended. Could the abolition of the
Inquisition, they exclaimed, lead to anything less than a complete
freedom of belief? Would not the guiding helm of conscience be lost
with it? Did not the proposed "moderation" introduce an absolute
impunity for all heresies? What was the project of augmenting the
council of state and of suppressing the two other councils but a
complete remodelling of the government of the country in favor of
the nobles?--a general constitution for all the provinces of the
Netherlands? Again, what was this compact of the ecclesiastics in their
public preachings but a third conspiracy, entered into with the very
same objects which the league of the nobles in the council of state and
that of the Gueux had failed to effect?
However, it was confessed that whatever might be the source of the evil
it was not on that account the less important and imminent. The
immediate personal presence of the king in Brussels was, indubitably,
the most efficacious means speedily and thoroughly to remedy it. As,
however, it was already so late in the year, and the preparations alone
for the journey would occupy the short tine which was to elapse before
the winter set in; as the stormy season of the year, as well as the
danger from French and English ships, which rendered the sea unsafe, did
not allow of the king's taking the northern route, which was the shorter
of the two; as the rebels themselves meanwhile might become possessed of
the island of Walcheren, and oppose the lauding of the king; for all
these reasons, the journey was not to be thought of before the spring,
and in absence of the only complete remedy it was necessary to rest
satisfied with a partial expedient. The council, therefore, agreed to
propose to the king, in the first place, that he should recall the papal
Inquisition from the provinces and rest satisfied with that of the
bishops; in the second place, that a new plan for the mitigation of the
edicts should be projected, by which the honor of religion and of the
king would be better preserved than it had been in the transmitted
"moderation;" thirdly, that in order to reassure the minds of the
people, and to leave no means untried, the king should impart to the
regent full powers to extend free grace and pardon to all those who had
not already committed any heinous crime, or who had not as yet been
condemned by any judicial process; but from the benefit of this
indemnity the preachers and all who harbored them were to be excepted.
On the other hand, all leagues, associations, public assemblies, and
preachings were to be henceforth prohibited under heavy penalties; if,
however, this prohibition should be infringed, the regent was to be at
liberty to employ the regular troops and garrisons for the forcible
reduction of the refractory, and also, in case of necessity, to enlist
new troops, and to name the commanders over them according as should be
deemed advisable. Finally, it would have a good effect if his majesty
would write to the most eminent towns, prelates, and leaders of the
nobility, to some in his own hand, and to all in a gracious tone, in
order to stimulate their zeal in his service.
When this resolution of his council of state was submitted to the king
his first measure was to command public processions and prayers in all
the most considerable places of the kingdom and also of the Netherlands,
imploring the Divine guidance in his decision. He appeared in his own
person in the council of state in order to approve this resolution and
render it effective. He declared the general assembly of the states to
be useless and entirely abolished it. He, however, bound himself to
retain some German regiments in his pay, and, that they might serve with
the more zeal, to pay them their long-standing arrears. He commanded
the regent in a private letter to prepare secretly for war; three
thousand horse and ten thousand infantry were to be assembled by her in
Germany, to which end he furnished her with the necessary letters and
transmitted to her a sum of three hundred thousand gold florins. He
also accompanied this resolution with several autograph letters to some
private individuals and towns, in which he thanked them in the most
gracious terms for the zeal which they had already displayed in his
service and called upon them to manifest the same for the future.
Notwithstanding that he was inexorable on the most important point,
and the very one on which the nation most particularly insisted--the
convocation of the states, notwithstanding that his limited and
ambiguous pardon was as good as none, and depended too much on arbitrary
will to calm the public mind; notwithstanding, in fine, that he
rejected, as too lenient, the proposed "moderation," but which, on the
part of the people, was complained of as too severe; still he had this
time made an unwonted step in the favor of the nation; he had sacrificed
to it the papal Inquisition and left only the episcopal, to which it was
accustomed. The nation had found more equitable judges in the Spanish
council than they could reasonably have hoped for. Whether at another
time and under other circumstances this wise concession would have had
the desired effect we will not pretend to say. It came too late; when
(1566) the royal letters reached Brussels the attack on images had
already commenced.
BOOK IV.
THE ICONOCLASTS.
A rude mob, consisting of the very dregs of the populace, made brutal by
harsh treatment, by sanguinary decrees which dogged them in every town,
scared from place to place and driven almost to despair, were compelled
to worship their God, and to hide like a work of darkness the universal,
sacred privilege of humanity. Before their eyes proudly rose the
temples of the dominant church, in which their haughty brethren indulged
in ease their magnificent devotion, while they themselves were driven
from the walls, expelled, too, by the weaker number perhaps, and forced,
here in the wild woods, under the burning heat of noon, in disgraceful
secrecy to worship the same God; cast out from civil society into a
state of nature, and reminded in one dread moment of the rights of that
state! The greater their superiority of numbers the more unnatural did
their lot appear; with wonder they perceive the truth. The free heaven,
the arms lying ready, the frenzy in their brains and fury in their
hearts combine to aid the suggestions of some preaching fanatic; the
occasion calls; no premeditation is necessary where all eyes at once
declare consent; the resolution is formed ere yet the word is scarcely
uttered; ready for any unlawful act, no one yet clearly knows what,
the furious band rushes onwards. The smiling prosperity of the hostile
religion insults the poverty of their own; the pomp of the authorized
temples casts contempt on their proscribed belief; every cross they set
up upon the highway, every image of the saints that they meet, is a
trophy erected over their own humiliation, and they all must be removed
by their avenging hands. Fanaticism suggests these detestable
proceedings, but base passions carry them into execution.
The devastation of the cathedral did not content them; with torches and
tapers purloined from it they set out at midnight to perform a similar
work of havoc on the remaining churches, cloisters, and chapels. The
destructive hordes increased with every fresh exploit of infamy, and
thieves were allured by the opportunity. They carried away whatever
they found of value--the consecrated vessels, altar-cloths, money, and
vestments; in the cellars of the cloisters they drank to intoxication;
to escape greater indignities the monks and nuns abandoned everything to
them. The confused noises of these riotous acts had startled the
citizens from their first sleep; but night made the danger appear more
alarming than it really was, and instead of hastening to defend their
churches the citizens fortified themselves in their houses, and in
terror and anxiety awaited the dawn of morning. The rising sun at
length revealed the devastation which had been going on during the
night; but the havoc did not terminate with the darkness. Some churches
and cloisters still remained uninjured; the same fate soon overtook them
also. The work of destruction lasted three whole days. Alarmed at last
lest the frantic mob, when it could no longer find anything sacred to
destroy, should make a similar attack on lay property and plunder their
ware houses; and encouraged, too, by discovering how small was the
number of the depredators, the wealthier citizens ventured to show
themselves in arms at the doors of their houses. All the gates of the
town were locked but one, through which the Iconoclasts broke forth to
renew the same atrocities in the rural districts. On one occasion only
during all this time did the municipal officers venture to exert their
authority, so strongly were they held in awe by the superior power of
the Calvinists, by whom, as it was believed, this mob of miscreants
was hired. The injury inflicted by this work of devastation was
incalculable. In the church of the Virgin it was estimated at not less
than four hundred thousand gold florins. Many precious works of art
were destroyed; many valuable manuscripts; many monuments of importance
to history and to diplomacy were thereby lost. The city magistrate
ordered the plundered articles to be restored on pain of death; in
enforcing this restitution he was effectually assisted by the preachers
of the Reformers, who blushed for their followers. Much was in this
manner recovered, and the ringleaders of the mob, less animated,
perhaps, by the desire of plunder than by fanaticism and revenge, or
perhaps being ruled by some unseen head, resolved for the future to
guard against these excesses, and to make their attacks in regular bands
and in better order.
The northern Netherlands were soon seized with the same mania which had
raged so violently through the southern. The Dutch towns, Amsterdam,
Leyden, and Gravenhaag, had the alternative of either voluntarily
stripping their churches of their ornaments, or of seeing them violently
torn from there; the determination of their magistrates saved Delft,
Haarlem, Gouda, and Rotterdam from the devastation. The same acts of
violence were practised also in the islands of Zealand; the town of
Utrecht and many places in Overyssel and Groningen suffered the same
storms. Friesland was protected by the Count of Aremberg, and Gueldres
by the Count of Megen from a like fate. An exaggerated report of these
disturbances which came in from the provinces spread the alarm to
Brussels, where the regent had just made preparations for an
extraordinary session of the council of state. Swarms of Iconoclasts
already penetrated into Brabant; and the metropolis, where they were
certain of powerful support, was threatened by them with a renewal of
the same atrocities then under the very eyes of majesty. The regent, in
fear for her personal safety, which, even in the heart of the country,
surrounded by provincial governors and Knights of the Fleece, she
fancied insecure, was already meditating a flight to Mons, in Hainault,
which town the Duke of Arschot held for her as a place of refuge, that
she might not be driven to any undignified concession by falling into
the power of the Iconoclasts. In vain did the knights pledge life and
blood for her safety, and urgently beseech her not to expose them to
disgrace by so dishonorable a flight, as though they were wanting in
courage or zeal to protect their princess; to no purpose did the town of
Brussels itself supplicate her not to abandon them in this extremity,
and vainly did the council of state make the most impressive
representations that so pusillanimous a step would not fail to encourage
still more the insolence of the rebels; she remained immovable in this
desperate condition. As messenger after messenger arrived to warn her
that the Iconoclasts were advancing against the metropolis, she issued
orders to hold everything in readiness for her flight, which was to take
place quietly with the first approach of morning. At break of day the
aged Viglius presented himself before her, whom, with the view of
gratifying the nobles, she had been long accustomed to neglect. He
demanded to know the meaning of the preparations he observed, upon which
she at last confessed that she intended to make her escape, and assured
him that he would himself do well to secure his own safety by
accompanying her. "It is now two years," said the old man to her, "that
you might have anticipated these results. Because I have spoken more
freely than your courtiers you have closed your princely ear to me,
which has been open only to pernicious suggestions." The regent allowed
that she had been in fault, and had been blinded by an appearance of
probity; but that she was now driven by necessity. "Are you resolved,"
answered Viglius, "resolutely to insist upon obedience to the royal
commands?" "I am," answered the duchess. "Then have recourse to the
great secret of the art of government, to dissimulation, and pretend to
join the princes until, with their assistance, you have repelled this
storm. Show them a confidence which you are far from feeling in your
heart. Make them take an oath to you that they will make common cause
in resisting these disorders. Trust those as your friends who show
themselves willing to do it; but be careful to avoid frightening away
the others by contemptuous treatment." Viglius kept the regent engaged
in conversation until the princes arrived, who he was quite certain
would in nowise consent to her flight. When they appeared he quietly
withdrew in order to issue commands to the town council to close the
gates of the city and prohibit egress to every one connected with the
court. This last measure effected more than all the representations had
done. The regent, who saw herself a prisoner in her own capital, now
yielded to the persuasions of the nobles, who pledged themselves to
stand by her to the last drop of blood. She made Count Mansfeld
commandant of the town, who hastily increased the garrison and armed her
whole court.
The state council was now held, who finally came to a resolution that it
was expedient to yield to the emergency; to permit the preachings in
those places where they had already commenced; to make known the
abolition of the papal Inquisition; to declare the old edicts against
the heretics repealed, and before all things to grant the required
indemnity to the confederate nobles, without limitation or condition.
At the same time the Prince of Orange, Counts Egmont and Horn, with some
others, were appointed to confer on this head with the deputies of the
league. Solemnly and in the most unequivocal terms the members of the
league were declared free from all responsibility by reason of the
petition which had been presented, and all royal officers and
authorities were enjoined to act in conformity with this assurance,
and neither now nor for the future to inflict any injury upon any
of the confederates on account of the said petition. In return,
the confederates bound themselves to be true and loyal servants of
his majesty, to contribute to the utmost of their power to the
re-establishment of order and the punishment of the Iconiclasts,
to prevail on the people to lay down their arms, and to afford
active assistance to the king against internal and foreign enemies.
Securities, formally drawn up and subscribed by the plenipotentiaries
of both sides, were exchanged between them; the letter of indemnity, in
particular, was signed by the duchess with her own hand and attested by
her seal. It was only after a severe struggle, and with tears in her
eyes, that the regent, as she tremblingly confessed to the king, was at
last induced to consent to this painful step. She threw the whole blame
upon the nobles, who had kept her a prisoner in Brussels and compelled
her to it by force. Above all she complained bitterly of the Prince of
Orange.
Count Egmont, also to manifest his zeal for the king's service, did
violence to his natural kind-heartedness. Introducing a garrison into
the town of Ghent, he caused some of the most refractory rebels to be
put to death. The churches were reopened, the Roman Catholic worship
renewed, and all foreigners, without exception, ordered to quit the
province. To the Calvinists, but to them alone, a site was granted
outside the town for the erection of a church. In return they were
compelled to pledge themselves to the most rigid obedience to the
municipal authorities, and to active co-operation in the proceedings
against the Iconoclasts. He pursued similar measures through all
Flanders and Artois. One of his noblemen, John Cassembrot, Baron of
Beckerzeel, and a leaguer, pursuing the Iconoclasts at the head of some
horsemen of the league, surprised a band of them just as they were about
to break into a town of Hainault, near Grammont, in Flanders, and took
thirty of them prisoners, of whom twenty-two were hung upon the spot,
and the rest whipped out of the province.
Philip lay sick at Segovia when the news of the outbreak of the
Iconoclasts and the uncatholic agreement entered into with the Reformers
reached him. At the same time the regent renewed her urgent entreaty
for his personal visit, of which also all the letters treated, which the
President Viglius exchanged with his friend Hopper. Many also of the
Belgian nobles addressed special letters to the king, as, for instance,
Egmont, Mansfeld, Megen, Aremberg, Noircarmes, and Barlaimont, in which
they reported the state of their provinces, and at once explained and
justified the arrangements they had made with the disaffected. Just at
this period a letter arrived from the German Emperor, in which he
recommended Philip to act with clemency towards his Belgian subjects,
and offered his mediation in the matter. He had also written direct to
the regent herself in Brussels, and added letters to the several leaders
of the nobility, which, however, were never delivered. Having conquered
the first anger which this hateful occurrence had excited, the king
referred the whole matter to his council.
The party of Granvella, which had the preponderance in the council, was
diligent in tracing a close connection between the behavior of the
Flemish nobles and the excesses of the church desecrators, which showed
itself in similarity of the demands of both parties, and especially the
time which the latter chose for their outbreak. In the same month,
they observed, in which the nobles had sent in their three articles of
pacification, the Iconoclasts had commenced their work; on the evening
of the very day that Orange quitted Antwerp the churches too were
plundered. During the whole tumult not a finger was lifted to take up
arms; all the expedients employed were invariably such as turned to the
advantage of the sects, while, on the contrary, all others were
neglected which tended to the maintenance of the pure faith. Many of
the Iconoclasts, it was further said, had confessed that all that they
had done was with the knowledge and consent of the princes; though
surely nothing was more natural, than for such worthless wretches to
seek to screen with great names a crime which they had undertaken solely
on their own account. A writing also was produced in which the high
nobility were made to promise their services to the "Gueux," to procure
the assembly of the states general, the genuineness of which, however,
the former strenuously denied. Four different seditious parties were,
they said, to be noticed in the Netherlands, which were all more or
less connected with one another, and all worked towards a common end.
One of these was those bands of reprobates who desecrated the churches;
a second consisted of the various sects who had hired the former to
perform their infamous acts; the "Gueux," who had raised themselves to
be the defenders of the sects were the third; and the leading nobles who
were inclined to the "Gueux" by feudal connections, relationship, and
friendship, composed the fourth. All, consequently, were alike fatally
infected, and all equally guilty. The government had not merely to
guard against a few isolated members; it had to contend with the whole
body. Since, then, it was ascertained that the people were the seduced
party, and the encouragement to rebellion came from higher quarters, it
would be wise and expedient to alter the plan hitherto adopted, which
now appeared defective in several respects. Inasmuch as all classes had
been oppressed without distinction, and as much of severity shown to the
lower orders as of contempt to the nobles, both had been compelled to
lend support to one another; a party had been given to the latter and
leaders to the former. Unequal treatment seemed an infallible expedient
to separate them; the mob, always timid and indolent when not goaded by
the extremity of distress, would very soon desert its adored protectors
and quickly learn to see in their fate well-merited retribution if only
it was not driven to share it with them. It was therefore proposed to
the king to treat the great multitude for the future with more leniency,
and to direct all measures of severity against the leaders of the
faction. In order, however, to avoid the appearance of a disgraceful
concession, it was considered advisable to accept the mediation of the
Emperor, and to impute to it alone and not to the justice of their
demands, that the king out of pure generosity had granted to his Belgian
subjects as much as they asked.
The question of the king's personal visit to the provinces was now again
mooted, and all the difficulties which had formerly been raised on this
head appeared to vanish before the present emergency. "Now," said
Tyssenacque and Hopper, "the juncture has really arrived at which the
king, according to his own declaration formerly made to Count Egmont,
will be ready to risk a thousand lives. To restore quiet to Ghent
Charles V. had undertaken a troublesome and dangerous journey through an
enemy's country. This was done for the sake of a single town; and now
the peace, perhaps even the possession, of all the United Provinces was
at stake." This was the opinion of the majority; and the journey of the
king was looked upon as a matter from which he could not possibly any
longer escape.
The question now was, whether he should enter upon it with a numerous
body of attendants or with few; and here the Prince of Eboli and Count
Figueroa were at issue with the Duke of Alva, as their private interests
clashed. If the king journeyed at the head of an army the presence of
the Duke of Alva would be indispensable, who, on the other hand, if
matters were peaceably adjusted, would be less required, and must make
room for his rivals. "An army," said Figueroa, who spoke first, "would
alarm the princes through whose territories it must march, and perhaps
even be opposed by them; it would, moreover, unnecessarily burden the
provinces for whose tranquillization it was intended, and add a new
grievance to the many which had already driven the people to such
lengths. It would press indiscriminately upon all of the king's
subjects, whereas a court of justice, peaceably administering its
office, would observe a marked distinction between the innocent and
the guilty. The unwonted violence of the former course would tempt the
leaders of the faction to take a more alarming view of their behavior,
in which wantonness and levity had the chief share, and consequently
induce them to proceed with deliberation and union; the thought of
having forced the king to such lengths would plunge them into despair,
in which they would be ready to undertake anything. If the king placed
himself in arms against the rebels he would forfeit the most important
advantage which he possessed over them, namely, his authority as
sovereign of the country, which would prove the more powerful in
proportion as he showed his reliance upon that alone. He would place
himself thereby, as it were, on a level with the rebels, who on their
side would not be at a loss to raise an army, as the universal hatred of
the Spanish forces would operate in their favor with the nation. By
this procedure the king would exchange the certain advantage which his
position as sovereign of the country conferred upon him for the
uncertain result of military operations, which, result as they might,
would of necessity destroy a portion of his own subjects. The rumor of
his hostile approach would outrun him time enough to allow all who were
conscious of a bad cause to place themselves in a posture of defence,
and to combine and render availing both their foreign and domestic
resources. Here again the general alarm would do them important
service; the uncertainty who would be the first object of this warlike
approach would drive even the less guilty to the general mass of the
rebels, and force those to become enemies to the king who otherwise
would never have been so. If, however, he was coming among them without
such a formidable accompaniment; if his appearance was less that of a
sanguinary judge than of an angry parent, the courage of all good men
would rise, and the bad would perish in their own security. They would
persuade themselves what had happened was unimportant; that it did not
appear to the king of sufficient moment to call for strong measures.
They wished if they could to avoid the chance of ruining, by acts of
open violence, a cause which might perhaps yet be saved; consequently,
by this quiet, peaceable method everything would be gained which by the
other would be irretrievably lost; the loyal subject would in no degree
be involved in the same punishment with the culpable rebel; on the
latter alone would the whole weight of the royal indignation descend.
Lastly, the enormous expenses would be avoided which the transport of a
Spanish army to those distant regions would occasion.
"But," began the Duke of Alva, "ought the injury of some few citizens to
be considered when danger impends over the whole? Because a few of the
loyally-disposed may suffer wrong are the rebels therefore not to be
chastised? The offence has been universal, why then should not the
punishment be the same? What the rebels have incurred by their actions
the rest have incurred equally by their supineness. Whose fault is it
but theirs that the former have so far succeeded? Why did they not
promptly oppose their first attempts? It is said that circumstances
were not so desperate as to justify this violent remedy; but who will
insure us that they will not be so by the time the king arrives,
especially when, according to every fresh despatch of the regent, all is
hastening with rapid strides to a-ruinous consummation? Is it a hazard
we ought to run to leave the king to discover on his entrance into the
provinces the necessity of his having brought with him a military force?
It is a fact only too well-established that the rebels have secured
foreign succors, which stand ready at their command on the first signal;
will it then be time to think of preparing for war when the enemy pass
the frontiers? Is it a wise risk to rely for aid upon the nearest
Belgian troops when their loyalty is so little to be depended upon? And
is not the regent perpetually reverting in her despatches to the fact
that nothing but the want of a suitable military force has hitherto
hindered her from enforcing the edicts, and stopping the progress of the
rebels? A well-disciplined and formidable army alone will disappoint
all their hopes of maintaining themselves in opposition to their lawful
sovereign, and nothing but the certain prospect of destruction will make
them lower their demands. Besides, without an adequate force, the king
cannot venture his person in hostile countries; he cannot enter into any
treaties with his rebellious subjects which would not be derogatory to
his honor."
But Philip had here to do with a head which in cunning was superior to
his own. The Prince of Orange had for a long time held watch over him
and his privy council in Madrid and Segovia, through a host of spies,
who reported to him everything of importance that was transacted there.
The court of this most secret of all despots had become accessible to
his intriguing spirit and his money; in this manner he had gained
possession of several autograph letters of the regent, which she had
secretly written to Madrid, and had caused copies to be circulated in
triumph in Brussels, and in a measure under her own eyes, insomuch that
she saw with astonishment in everybody's hands what she thought was
preserved with so much care, and entreated the king for the future to
destroy her despatches immediately they were read. William's vigilance
did not confine itself simply to the court of Spain; he had spies in
France, and even at more distant courts. He is also charged with not
being over scrupulous as to the means by which he acquired his
intelligence. But the most important disclosure was made by an
intercepted letter of the Spanish ambassador in France, Francis Von
Alava, to the duchess, in which the former descanted on the fair
opportunity which was now afforded to the king, through the guilt of
the Netherlandish people, of establishing an arbitrary power in that
country. He therefore advised her to deceive the nobles by the very
arts which they had hitherto employed against herself, and to secure
them through smooth words and an obliging behavior. The king, he
concluded, who knew the nobles to be the hidden springs of all the
previous troubles, would take good care to lay hands upon them at the
first favorable opportunity, as well as the two whom he had already in
Spain; and did not mean to let them go again, having sworn to make an
example in them which should horrify the whole of Christendom, even if
it should cost him his hereditary dominions. This piece of evil news
was strongly corroborated by the letters which Bergen and Montigny wrote
from Spain, and in which they bitterly complained of the contemptuous
behavior of the grandees and the altered deportment of the monarch
towards them; and the Prince of Orange was now fully sensible what he
had to expect from the fair promises of the king.
The letter of the minister, Alava, together with some others from Spain,
which gave a circumstantial account of the approaching warlike visit of
the king, and of his evil intentions against the nobles, was laid by the
prince before his brother, Count Louis of Nassau, Counts Egmont, Horn,
and Hogstraten, at a meeting at Dendermonde in Flanders, whither these
five knights had repaired to confer on the measures necessary for their
security. Count Louis, who listened only to his feelings of
indignation, foolhardily maintained that they ought, without loss of
time, to take up arms and seize some strongholds. That they ought at
all risks to prevent the king's armed entrance into the provinces. That
they should endeavor to prevail on the Swiss, the Protestant princes of
Germany, and the Huguenots to arm and obstruct his passage through their
territories; and if, notwithstanding, he should force his way through
these impediments, that the Flemings should meet him with an army on the
frontiers. He would take upon himself to negotiate a defensive alliance
in France, in Switzerland, and in Germany, and to raise in the latter
empire four thousand horse, together with a proportionate body of
infantry. Pretexts would not be wanting for collecting the requisite
supplies of money, and the merchants of the reformed sect would, he felt
assured, not fail them. But William, more cautious and more wise,
declared himself against this proposal, which, in the execution, would
be exposed to numberless difficulties, and had as yet nothing to justify
it. The Inquisition, he represented, was in fact abolished, the edicts
were nearly sunk into oblivion, and a fair degree of religious liberty
accorded. Hitherto, therefore, there existed no valid or adequate
excuse for adopting this hostile method; he did not doubt, however,
that one would be presented to them before long, and in good time for
preparation. His own opinion consequently was that they should await
this opportunity with patience, and in the meanwhile still keep a
watchful eye upon everything, and contrive to give the people a hint of
the threatened danger, that they might be ready to act if circumstances
should call for their co-operation. If all present had assented to the
opinion of the Prince of Orange, there is no doubt but so powerful a
league, formidable both by the influence and the high character of its
members, would have opposed obstacles to the designs of the king which
would have compelled him to abandon them entirely. But the
determination of the assembled knights was much shaken by the
declaration with which Count Egmont surprised them. "Rather," said he,
"may all that is evil befall me than that I should tempt fortune so
rashly. The idle talk of the Spaniard, Alava, does not move me; how
should such a person be able to read the mind of a sovereign so reserved
as Philip, and to decipher his secrets? The intelligence which Montigny
gives us goes to prove nothing more than that the king has a very
doubtful opinion of our zeal for his service, and believes he has cause
to distrust our loyalty; and for this I for my part must confess that
we have given him only too much cause. And it is my serious purpose,
by redoubling my zeal, to regain his good opinion, and by my future
behavior to remove, if possible, the distrust which my actions have
hitherto excited. How could I tear myself from the arms of my numerous
and dependent family to wander as an exile at foreign courts, a burden
to every one who received me, the slave of every one who condescended to
assist me, a servant of foreigners, in order to escape a slight degree
of constraint at home? Never can the monarch act unkindly towards a
servant who was once beloved and dear to him, and who has established a
well-grounded claim to his gratitude. Never shall I be persuaded that
he who has expressed such favorable, such gracious sentiments towards
his Belgian subjects, and with his own mouth gave me such emphatic,
such solemn assurances, can be now devising, as it is pretended, such
tyrannical schemes against them. If we do but restore to the country
its former repose, chastise the rebels, and re-establish the Roman
Catholic form of worship wherever it has been violently suppressed,
then, believe me, we shall hear no more of Spanish troops. This is the
course to which I now invite you all by my counsel and my example, and
to which also most of our brethren already incline. I, for my part,
fear nothing from the anger of the king. My conscience acquits me.
I trust my fate and fortunes to his justice and clemency." In vain did
Nassau, Horn, and Orange labor to shake his resolution, and to open his
eyes to the near and inevitable danger. Egmont was really attached to
the king; the royal favors, and the condescension with which they were
conferred, were still fresh in his remembrance. The attentions with
which the monarch had distinguished him above all his friends had not
failed of their effect. It was more from false shame than from party
spirit that he had defended the cause of his countrymen against him;
more from temperament and natural kindness of heart than from tried
principles that he had opposed the severe measures of the government.
The love of the nation, which worshipped him as its idol, carried him
away. Too vain to renounce a title which sounded so agreeable, he had
been compelled to do something to deserve it; but a single look at his
family, a harsher designation applied to his conduct, a dangerous
inference drawn from it, the mere sound of crime, terrified him from his
self-delusion, and scared him back in haste and alarm to his duty.
CIVIL WAR
The line of conduct adopted towards Valenciennes allowed the other towns
which were similarly situated to infer the fate which was intended for
them also, and at once put the whole league in motion. An army of the
Gueux, between three thousand and four thousand strong, which was
hastily collected from the rabble of fugitives, and the remaining bands
of the Iconoclasts, appeared in the territories of Tournay and Lille, in
order to secure these two towns, and to annoy the enemy at Valenciennes.
The commandant of Lille was fortunate enough to maintain that place by
routing a detachment of this army, which, in concert with the Protestant
inhabitants, had made an attempt to get possession of it. At the same
time the army of the Gueux, which was uselessly wasting its time at
Lannoy, was surprised by Noircarmes and almost entirely annihilated.
The few who with desperate courage forced their way through the enemy,
threw themselves into the town of Tournay, which was immediately
summoned by the victor to open its gates and admit a garrison. Its
prompt obedience obtained for it a milder fate. Noircarmes contented
himself with abolishing the Protestant consistory, banishing the
preachers, punishing the leaders of the rebels, and again
re-establishing the Roman Catholic worship, which he found almost
entirely suppressed. After giving it a steadfast Roman Catholic as
governor, and leaving in it a sufficient garrison, he again returned
with his victorious army to Valenciennes to press the siege.
In the meanwhile the position of the Protestants had grown as much worse
as that of the regent had improved. The league of the nobles had
gradually melted away to a third of its original number. Some of its
most important defenders, Count Egmont, for instance, had gone over to
the king; the pecuniary contributions which had been so confidently
reckoned upon came in but slowly and scantily; the zeal of the party
began perceptibly to cool, and the close of the fine season made it
necessary to discontinue the public preachings, which, up to this time,
had been continued. These and other reasons combined induced the
declining party to moderate its demands, and to try every legal
expedient before it proceeded to extremities. In a general synod of the
Protestants, which was held for this object in Antwerp, and which was
also attended by some of the confederates, it was resolved to send
deputies to the regent to remonstrate with her upon this breach of
faith, and to remind her of her compact. Brederode undertook this
office, but was obliged to submit to a harsh and disgraceful rebuff, and
was shut out of Brussels. He had now recourse to a written memorial, in
which,--in the name of the whole league, he complained that the duchess
had, by violating her word, falsified in sight of all the Protestants
the security given by the league, in reliance on which all of them had
laid down their arms; that by her insincerity she had undone all the
good which the confederates had labored to effect; that she had sought
to degrade the league in the eyes of the people, had excited discord
among its members, and had even caused many of them to be persecuted as
criminals. He called upon her to recall her late ordinances, which
deprived the Protestants of the free exercise of their religion, but
above all to raise the siege of Valenciennes, to disband the troops
newly enlisted, and ended by assuring her that on these conditions and
these alone the league would be responsible for the general
tranquillity.
To this the regent replied in a tone very different from her previous
moderation. "Who these confederates are who address me in this memorial
is, indeed, a mystery to me. The confederates with whom I had formerly
to do, for ought I know to the contrary, have dispersed. All at least
cannot participate in this statement of grievances, for I myself know of
many, who, satisfied in all their demands, have returned to their duty.
But still, whoever he may be, who without authority and right, and
without name addresses me, he has at least given a very false
interpretation to my word if he asserts that I guaranteed to the
Protestants complete religious liberty. No one can be ignorant how
reluctantly I was induced to permit the preachings in the places where
they had sprung up unauthorized, and this surely cannot be counted for a
concession of freedom in religion. Is it likely that I should have
entertained the idea of protecting these illegal consistories, of
tolerating this state within a state? Could I forget myself so far as
to grant the sanction of law to an objectionable sect; to overturn all
order in the church and in the state, and abominably to blaspheme my
holy religion? Look to him who has given you such permission, but you
must not argue with me. You accuse me of having violated the agreement
which gave you impunity and security. The past I am willing to look
over, but not what may be done in future. No advantage was to be taken
of you on account of the petition of last April, and to the best of my
knowledge nothing of the kind has as yet been done; but whoever again
offends in the same way against the majesty of the king must be ready to
bear the consequences of his crime. In fine, how can you presume to
remind me of an agreement which you have been the first to break? At
whose instigation were the churches plundered, the images of the saints
thrown down, and the towns hurried into rebellion? Who formed alliances
with foreign powers, set on foot illegal enlistments, and collected
unlawful taxes from the subjects of the king? These are the reasons
which have impelled me to draw together my troops, and to increase the
severity of the edicts. Whoever now asks me to lay down my arms cannot
mean well to his country or his king, and if ye value your own lives,
look to it that your own actions acquit you, instead of judging mine."
Meanwhile the regent had hastily brought together a small army under the
command of Philip of Launoy, which moved from Brussels to Antwerp by
forced marches. At the same time Count Megen managed to keep the army
of the Gueux shut up and employed at Viane, so that it could neither
hear of these movements nor hasten to the assistance of its
confederates. Launoy, on his arrival attacked by surprise the dispersed
crowds, who, little expecting an enemy, had gone out to plunder, and
destroyed them in one terrible carnage. Thoulouse threw himself with
the small remnant of his troops into a country house, which had served
him as his headquarters, and for a long time defended himself with the
courage of despair, until Launoy, finding it impossible to dislodge him,
set fire to the house. The few who escaped the flames fell on the
swords of the enemy or were drowned in the Scheldt. Thoulouse himself
preferred to perish in the flames rather than to fall into the hands of
the enemy. This victory, which swept off more than a thousand of the
enemy, was purchased by the conqueror cheaply enough, for he did not
lose more than two men. Three hundred of the leaguers who surrendered
were cut down without mercy on the spot, as a sally from Antwerp was
momentarily dreaded.
But the first bewilderment of alarm soon gave place to a frantic desire
of revenge. Shrieking aloud, wringing her hands and with dishevelled
hair, the widow of the slain general rushed amidst the crowds to implore
their pity and help. Excited by their favorite preacher, Hermann, the
Calvinists fly to arms, determined to avenge their brethren, or to
perish with them; without reflection, without plan or leader, guided by
nothing but their anguish, their delirium, they rush to the Red Gate of
the city which leads to the field of battle; but there is no egress, the
gate is shut and the foremost of the crowd recoil on those that follow.
Thousands and thousands collect together, a dreadful rush is made to the
Meer Bridge. We are betrayed! we are prisoners! is the general cry.
Destruction to the papists, death to him who has betrayed us!--a sullen
murmur, portentous of a revolt, runs through the multitude. They begin
to suspect that all that has taken place has been set on foot by the
Roman Catholics to destroy the Calvinists. They had slain their
defenders, and they would now fall upon the defenceless. With fatal
speed this suspicion spreads through the whole of Antwerp. Now they
can, they think, understand the past, and they fear something still
worse in the background; a frightful distrust gains possession of every
mind. Each party dreads the other; every one sees an enemy in his
neighbor; the mystery deepens the alarm and horror; a fearful condition
for a populous town, in which every accidental concourse instantly
becomes tumult, every rumor started amongst them becomes a fact, every
small spark a blazing flame, and by the force of numbers and collision
all passions are furiously inflamed. All who bore the name of
Calvinists were roused by this report. Fifteen thousand of them take
possession of the Meer Bridge, and plant heavy artillery upon it, which
they had taken by force from the arsenal; the same thing also happens at
another bridge; their number makes them formidable, the town is in their
hands; to escape an imaginary danger they bring all Antwerp to the brink
of ruin.
The town of Antwerp was now threatened with fearful bloodshed and
pillage. In this pressing emergency Orange assembled an extraordinary
senate, to which were summoned all the best-disposed citizens of the
four nations. If they wished, said he, to repress the violence of the
Calvinists they must oppose them with an army strong enough and prepared
to meet them. It was therefore resolved to arm with speed the Roman
Catholic inhabitants of the town, whether natives, Italians, or
Spaniards, and, if possible, to induce the Lutherans also to join them.
The haughtiness of the Calvinists, who, proud of their wealth and
confident in their numbers, treated every other religious party with
contempt, had long made the Lutherans their enemies, and the mutual
exasperation of these two Protestant churches was even more implacable
than their common hatred of the dominant church. This jealousy the
magistrate had turned to advantage, by making use of one party to curb
the other, and had thus contrived to keep the Calvinists in check, who,
from their numbers and insolence, were most to be feared. With this
view, he had tacitly taken into his protection the Lutherans, as the
weaker and more peaceable party, having moreover invited for them, from
Germany, spiritual teachers, who, by controversial sermons, might keep
up the mutual hatred of the two bodies. He encouraged the Lutherans in
the vain idea that the king thought more favorably of their religious
creed than that of the Calvinists, and exhorted them to be careful how
they damaged their good cause by any understanding with the latter. It
was not, therefore, difficult to bring about, for the moment, a union
with the Roman Catholics and the Lutherans, as its object was to keep
down their detested rivals. At dawn of day an army was opposed to the
Calvinists which was far superior in force to their own. At the head of
this army, the eloquence of Orange had far greater effect, and found far
more attention than on the preceding evening, unbacked by such strong
persuasion. The Calvinists, though in possession of arms and artillery,
yet, alarmed at the superior numbers arrayed against them, were the
first to send envoys, and to treat for an amicable adjustment of
differences, which by the tact and good temper of the Prince of Orange,
he concluded to the satisfaction of all parties. On the proclamation of
this treaty the Spaniards and Italians immediately laid down their arms.
They were followed by the Calvinists, and these again by the Roman
Catholics; last of all the Lutherans disarmed.
Two days and two nights Antwerp had continued in this alarming state.
During the tumult the Roman Catholics had succeeded in placing barrels
of gunpowder under the Meer Bridge, and threatened to blow into the air
the whole army of the Calvinists, who had done the same in other places
to destroy their adversaries. The destruction of the town hung on the
issue of a moment, and nothing but the prince's presence of mind saved
it.
The fate of Valenciennes, towards which all eyes had been turned, was a
warning to the other towns which had similarly offended. Noircarmes
followed up his victory, and marched immediately against Maestricht,
which surrendered without a blow, and received a garrison. From thence
he marched to Tornhut to awe by his presence the people of Herzogenbusch
and Antwerp. The Gueux in this place, who under the command of Bomberg
had carried all things before them, were now so terrified at his
approach that they quitted the town in haste. Noircarmes was received
without opposition. The ambassadors of the duchess were immediately set
at liberty. A strong garrison was thrown into Tornhut. Cambray also
opened its gates, and joyfully recalled its archbishop, whom the
Calvinists had driven from his see, and who deserved this triumph as
he did not stain his entrance with blood. Ghent, Ypres, and Oudenarde
submitted and received garrisons. Gueldres was now almost entirely
cleared of the rebels and reduced to obedience by the Count of Megen.
In Friesland and Groningen the Count of Aremberg had eventually the same
success; but it was not obtained here so rapidly or so easily, since the
count wanted consistency and firmness, and these warlike republicans
maintained more pertinaciously their privileges, and were greatly
supported by the strength of their position. With the exception of
Holland all the provinces had yielded before the victorious arms of the
duchess. The courage of the disaffected sunk entirely, and nothing was
left to them but flight or submission.
RESIGNATION OF WILLIAM OF ORANGE.
Ever since the establishment of the Guesen league, but more perceptibly
since the outbreak of the Iconoclasts, the spirit of rebellion and
disaffection had spread so rapidly among all classes, parties had become
so blended and confused, that the regent had difficulty in
distinguishing her own adherents, and at last hardly knew on whom to
rely. The lines of demarcation between the loyal and the disaffected
had grown gradually fainter, until at last they almost entirely
vanished. The frequent alterations, too, which she had been obliged to
make in the laws, and which were at most the expedients and suggestions
of the moment, had taken from them their precision and binding force,
and had given full scope to the arbitrary will of every individual whose
office it was to interpret them. And at last, amidst the number and
variety of the interpretations, the spirit was lost and the intention of
the lawgiver baffled. The close connection which in many cases
subsisted between Protestants and Roman Catholics, between Gueux and
Royalists, and which not unfrequently gave them a common interest, led
the latter to avail themselves of the loophole which the vagueness of
the laws left open, and in favor of their Protestant friends and
associates evaded by subtle distinctions all severity in the discharge
of their duties. In their minds it was enough not to be a declared
rebel, not one of the Gueux, or at least not a heretic, to be authorized
to mould their duties to their inclinations, and to set the most
arbitrary limits to their obedience to the king. Feeling themselves
irresponsible, the governors of the provinces, the civil functionaries,
both high and low, the municipal officers, and the military commanders
had all become extremely remiss in their duty, and presuming upon this
impunity showed a pernicious indulgence to the rebels and their
adherents which rendered abortive all the regent's measures of coercion.
This general indifference and corruption of so many servants of the
state had further this injurious result, that it led the turbulent to
reckon on far stronger support than in reality they had cause for, and
to count on their own side all who were but lukewarm adherents of the
court. This way of thinking, erroneous as it was, gave them greater
courage and confidence; it had the same effect as if it had been well
founded; and the uncertain vassals of the king became in consequence
almost as injurious to him as his declared enemies, without at the same
time being liable to the same measures of severity. This was especially
the case with the Prince of Orange, Counts Egmont, Bergen, Hogstraten,
Horn, and several others of the higher nobility. The regent felt the
necessity of bringing these doubtful subjects to an explanation, in
order either to deprive the rebels of a fancied support or to unmask the
enemies of the king. And the latter reason was of the more urgent
moment when being obliged to send an army into the field it was of the
utmost importance to entrust the command of the troops to none but those
of whose fidelity she was fully assured. She caused, therefore, an oath
to be drawn up which bound all who took it to advance the Roman Catholic
faith, to pursue and punish the Iconoclasts, and to help by every means
in their power in extirpating all kinds of heresy. It also pledged them
to treat the king's enemies as their own, and to serve without
distinction against all whom the regent in the king's name should point
out. By this oath she did not hope so much to test their sincerity, and
still less to secure them, as rather to gain a pretext for removing the
suspected parties if they declined to take it, and for wresting from
their hands a power which they abused, or a legitimate ground for
punishing them if they took it and broke it. This oath was exacted from
all Knights of the Fleece, all civil functionaries and magistrates, all
officers of the army--from every one in short who held any appointment
in the state. Count Mansfeld was the first who publicly took it in the
council of state at Brussels; his example was followed by the Duke of
Arschot, Counts Egmont, Megen, and Barlaimont. Hogstraten and Horn
endeavored to evade the necessity. The former was offended at a proof
of distrust which shortly before the regent had given him. Under the
pretext that Malines could not safely be left any longer without its
governor, but that the presence of the count was no less necessary in
Antwerp, she had taken from him that province and given it to another
whose fidelity she could better reckon upon. Hostraten expressed his
thanks that she had been pleased to release him from one of his burdens,
adding that she would complete the obligation if she would relieve him
from the other also. True to his determination Count Horn was living
on one of his estates in the strong town of Weerdt, having retired
altogether from public affairs. Having quitted the service of the
state, he owed, he thought, nothing more either to the republic or to
the king, and declined the oath, which in his case appears at last to
have been waived.
The Count of Brederode was left the choice of either taking the
prescribed oath or resigning the command of his squadron of cavalry.
After many fruitless attempts to evade the alternative, on the plea that
he did not hold office in the state, he at last resolved upon the latter
course, and thereby escaped all risk of perjuring himself.
Vain were all the attempts to prevail on the Prince of Orange to take
the oath, who, from the suspicion which had long attached to him,
required more than any other this purification; and from whom the great
power which it had been necessary to place in his hands fully justified
the regent in exacting it. It was not, however, advisable to proceed
against him with the laconic brevity adopted towards Brederode and the
like; on the other hand, the voluntary resignation of all his offices,
which he tendered, did not meet the object of the regent, who foresaw
clearly enough how really dangerous he would become, as soon as he
should feel himself independent, and be no longer checked by any
external considerations of character or duty in the prosecution of his
secret designs. But ever since the consultation in Dendermonde the
Prince of Orange had made up his mind to quit the service of the King of
Spain on the first favorable opportunity, and till better days to leave
the country itself. A very disheartening experience had taught him how
uncertain are hopes built on the multitude, and how quickly their zeal
is cooled by the necessity of fulfilling its lofty promises. An army
was already in the field, and a far stronger one was, he knew, on its
road, under the command of the Duke of Alva. The time for remonstrances
was past; it was only at the head of an army that an advantageous treaty
could now be concluded with the regent, and by preventing the entrance
of the Spanish general. But now where was he to raise this army, in
want as he was of money, the sinews of warfare, since the Protestants
had retracted their boastful promises and deserted him in this pressing
emergency?
[How valiant the wish, and how sorry the deed was, is proved by the
following instance amongst others. Some friends of the national
liberty, Roman Catholics as well as Protestants, had solemnly
engaged in Amsterdam to subscribe to a common fund the hundredth
penny of their estates, until a sum of eleven thousand florins
should be collected, which was to be devoted to the common cause
and interests. An alms-box, protected by three locks, was prepared
for the reception of these contributions. After the expiration of
the prescribed period it was opened, and a sum was found amounting
to seven hundred florins, which was given to the hostess of the
Count of Brederode, in part payment of his unliquidated score.
Univ. Hist. of the N., vol. 3.]
The very next day the Prince of Orange wrote his letter of resignation
to the regent, in which he assured her of his perpetual esteem, and once
again entreated her to put the best interpretation on his present step.
He then set off with his three brothers and his whole family for his own
town of Breda, where he remained only as long as was requisite to
arrange some private affairs. His eldest son, Prince Philip William,
was left behind at the University of Louvain, where he thought him
sufficiently secure under the protection of the privileges of Brabant
and the immunities of the academy; an imprudence which, if it was really
not designed, can hardly be reconciled with the just estimate which, in
so many other cases, he had taken of the character of his adversary. In
Breda the heads of the Calvinists once more consulted him whether there
was still hope for them, or whether all was irretrievably lost. "He had
before advised them," replied the prince, "and must now do so again, to
accede to the Confession of Augsburg; then they might rely upon aid from
Germany. If they would still not consent to this, they must raise six
hundred thousand florins, or more, if they could." "The first," they
answered, "was at variance with their conviction and their conscience;
but means might perhaps be found to raise the money if he would only let
them know for what purpose he would use it." "No!" cried he, with the
utmost displeasure, "if I must tell you that, it is all over with the
use of it." With these words he immediately broke off the conference
and dismissed the deputies.
The Prince of Orange was reproached with having squandered his fortune,
and with favoring the innovations on account of his debts; but he
asserted that he still enjoyed sixty thousand florins yearly rental.
Before his departure he borrowed twenty thousand florins from the states
of Holland on the mortgage of some manors. Men could hardly persuade
themselves that he would have succumbed to necessity so entirely, and
without an effort at resistance given up all his hopes and schemes. But
what he secretly meditated no one knew, no one had read in his heart.
Being asked how he intended to conduct himself towards the King of
Spain, "Quietly," was his answer, "unless he touches my honor or my
estates." He left the Netherlands soon afterwards, and betook himself
in retirement to the town of Dillenburg, in Nassau, at which place he
was born. He was accompanied to Germany by many hundreds, either as his
servants or as volunteers, and was soon followed by Counts Hogstraten,
Kuilemberg, and Bergen, who preferred to share a voluntary exile with
him rather than recklessly involve themselves in an uncertain destiny.
In his departure the nation saw the flight of its guardian angel; many
had adored, all had honored him. With him the last stay of the
Protestants gave way; they, however, had greater hopes from this man
in exile than from all the others together who remained behind. Even
the Roman Catholics could not witness his departure without regret.
Them also had he shielded from tyranny; he had not unfrequently
protected them against the oppression of their own church, and he had
rescued many of them from the sanguinary jealousy of their religious
opponents. A few fanatics among the Calvinists, who were offended with
his proposal of an alliance with their brethren, who avowed the
Confession of Augsburg, solemnized with secret thanksgivings the day on
which the enemy left them. (1567).
The most important places were quickly reduced and garrisoned; the
rebels had fled, or perished by the hand of the executioner; in the
provinces no protector was left. All yielded to the fortune of the
regent, and her victorious army was advancing against Antwerp. After a
long and obstinate contest this town had been cleared of the worst
rebels; Hermann and his adherents took to flight; the internal storms
had spent their rage. The minds of the people became gradually
composed, and no longer excited at will by every furious fanatic, began
to listen to better counsels. The wealthier citizens earnestly longed
for peace to revive commerce and trade, which had suffered severely from
the long reign of anarchy. The dread of Alva's approach worked wonders;
in order to prevent the miseries which a Spanish army would inflict upon
the country, the people hastened to throw themselves on the gentler
mercies of the regent. Of their own accord they despatched
plenipotentiaries to Brussels to negotiate for a treaty and to hear her
terms. Agreeably as the regent was surprised by this voluntary step,
she did not allow herself to be hurried away by her joy. She declared
that she neither could nor would listen to any overtures or
representations until the town had received a garrison. Even this was
no longer opposed, and Count Mansfeld marched in the day after with
sixteen squadrons in battle array. A solemn treaty was now made between
the town and duchess, by which the former bound itself to prohibit the
Calvinistic form of worship, to banish all preachers of that persuasion,
to restore the Roman Catholic religion to its former dignity, to
decorate the despoiled churches with their former ornaments, to
administer the old edicts as before, to take the new oath which the
other towns had sworn to, and, lastly, to deliver into the hands of
justice all who been guilty of treason, in bearing arms, or taking part
in the desecration of the churches. On the other hand, the regent
pledged herself to forget all that had passed, and even to intercede for
the offenders with the king. All those who, being dubious of obtaining
pardon, preferred banishment, were to be allowed a month to convert
their property into money, and place themselves in safety. From this
grace none were to be excluded but such as had been guilty of a capital
offence, and who were excepted by the previous article. Immediately
upon the conclusion of this treaty all Calvinist and Lutheran preachers
in Antwerp, and the adjoining territory, were warned by the herald to
quit the country within twenty-four hours. All the streets and gates
were now thronged with fugitives, who for the honor of their God
abandoned what was dearest to them, and sought a more peaceful home for
their persecuted faith. Here husbands were taking an eternal farewell
of their wives, fathers of their children; there whole families were
preparing to depart. All Antwerp resembled a house of mourning;
wherever the eye turned some affecting spectacle of painful separation
presented itself. A seal was set on the doors of the Protestant
churches; the whole worship seemed to be extinct. The 10th of April
(1567) was the day appointed for the departure of the preachers. In the
town hall, where they appeared for the last time to take leave of the
magistrate, they could not command their grief; but broke forth into
bitter reproaches. They had been sacrificed, they exclaimed, they had
been shamefully betrayed; but a time would come when Antwerp would pay
dearly enough for this baseness. Still more bitter were the complaints
of the Lutheran clergy, whom the magistrate himself had invited into the
country to preach against the Calvinists. Under the delusive
representation that the king was not unfavorable to their religion they
had been seduced into a combination against the Calvinists, but as soon
as the latter had been by their co-operation brought under subjection,
and their own services were no longer required, they were left to bewail
their folly, which had involved themselves and their enemies in common
ruin.
The German ambassadors had not quitted Antwerp when intelligence from
Holland completed the triumph of the regent. From fear of Count Megen
Count Brederode had deserted his town of Viane, and with the aid of the
Protestants inhabitants had succeeded in throwing himself into
Amsterdam, where his arrival caused great alarm to the city magistrate,
who had previously found difficulty in preventing a revolt, while it
revived the courage of the Protestants. Here Brederode's adherents
increased daily, and many noblemen flocked to him from Utrecht,
Friesland, and Groningen, whence the victorious arms of Megen and
Aremberg had driven them. Under various disguises they found means to
steal into the city, where they gathered round Brederode, and served him
as a strong body-guard. The regent, apprehensive of a new outbreak,
sent one of her private secretaries, Jacob de la Torre, to the council
of Amsterdam, and ordered them to get rid of Count Brederode on any
terms and at any risk. Neither the magistrate nor de la Torre himself,
who visited Brederode in person to acquaint him with the will of the
duchess, could prevail upon him to depart. The secretary was even
surprised in his own chamber by a party of Brederode's followers, and
deprived of all his papers, and would, perhaps, have lost his life also
if he had not contrived to make his escape. Brederode remained in
Amsterdam a full month after this occurrence, a powerless idol of the
Protestants, and an oppressive burden to the Roman Catholics; while his
fine army, which he had left in Viane, reinforced by many fugitives from
the southern provinces, gave Count Megen enough to do without attempting
to harass the Protestants in their flight. At last Brederode resolved
to follow the example of Orange, and, yielding to necessity, abandon a
desperate cause. He informed the town council that he was willing to
leave Amsterdam if they would enable him to do so by furnishing him with
the pecuniary means. Glad to get quit of him, they hastened to borrow
the money on the security of the town council. Brederode quitted
Amsterdam the same night, and was conveyed in a gunboat as far as Vlie,
from whence he fortunately escaped to Embden. Fate treated him more
mildly than the majority of those he had implicated in his foolhardy
enterprise; he died the year after, 1568, at one of his castles in
Germany, from the effects of drinking, by which he sought ultimately to
drown his grief and disappointments. His widow, Countess of Moers in
her own right, was remarried to the Prince Palatine, Frederick III. The
Protestant cause lost but little by his demise; the work which he had
commenced, as it had not been kept alive by him, so it did not die with
him.
The little army, which in his disgraceful flight he had deserted, was
bold and valiant, and had a few resolute leaders. It disbanded, indeed,
as soon as he, to whom it looked for pay, had fled; but hunger and
courage kept its parts together some time longer. One body, under
command of Dietrich of Battenburgh, marched to Amsterdam in the hope of
carrying that town; but Count Megen hastened with thirteen companies of
excellent troops to its relief, and compelled the rebels to give up the
attempt. Contenting themselves with plundering the neighboring
cloisters, among which the abbey of Egmont in particular was hardly
dealt with, they turned off towards Waaterland, where they hoped the
numerous swamps would protect them from pursuit. But thither Count
Megen followed them, and compelled them in all haste to seek safety in
the Zuyderzee. The brothers Van Battenburg, and two Friesan nobles,
Beima and Galama, with a hundred and twenty men and the booty they had
taken from the monasteries, embarked near the town of Hoorne, intending
to cross to Friesland, but through the treachery of the steersman, who
ran the vessel on a sand-bank near Harlingen, they fell into the hands
of one of Aremberg's captains, who took them all prisoners. The Count
of Aremberg immediately pronounced sentence upon all the captives of
plebeian rank, but sent his noble prisoners to the regent, who caused
seven of them to be beheaded. Seven others of the most noble, including
the brothers Van Battenburg and some Frieslanders, all in the bloom of
youth, were reserved for the Duke of Alva, to enable him to signalize
the commencement of his administration by a deed which was in every way
worthy of him. The troops in four other vessels which set sail from
Medenhlick, and were pursued by Count Megen in small boats, were more
successful. A contrary wind had forced them out of their course and
driven them ashore on the coast of Gueldres, where they all got safe to
land; crossing the Rhine, near Heusen, they fortunately escaped into
Cleves, where they tore their flags in pieces and dispersed. In North
Holland Count Megen overtook some squadrons who had lingered too long in
plundering the cloisters, and completely overpowered them. He
afterwards formed a junction with Noircarmes and garrisoned Amsterdam.
The Duke Erich of Brunswick also surprised three companies, the last
remains of the army of the Gueux, near Viane, where they were
endeavoring to take a battery, routed them and captured their leader,
Rennesse, who was shortly afterwards beheaded at the castle of
Freudenburg, in Utrecht. Subsequently, when Duke Erich entered Viane,
he found nothing but deserted streets, the inhabitants having left it
with the garrison on the first alarm. He immediately razed the
fortifications, and reduced this arsenal of the Gueux to an open town
without defences. All the originators of the league were now dispersed;
Brederode and Louis of Nassau had fled to Germany, and Counts
Hogstraten, Bergen, and Kuilemberg had followed their example.
Mansfeld had seceded, the brothers Van Battenburg awaited in prison an
ignomonious fate, while Thoulouse alone had found an honorable death on
the field of battle. Those of the confederates who had escaped the
sword of the enemy and the axe of the executioner had saved nothing but
their lives, and thus the title which they had assumed for show became
at last a terrible reality.
Such was the inglorious end of the noble league, which in its beginning
awakened such fair hopes and promised to become a powerful protection
against oppression. Unanimity was its strength, distrust and internal
dissension its ruin. It brought to light and developed many rare and
beautiful virtues, but it wanted the most indispensable of all, prudence
and moderation, without which any undertaking must miscarry, and all the
fruits of the most laborious industry perish. If its objects had been
as pure as it pretended, or even had they remained as pure as they
really were at its first establishment, it might have defied the
unfortunate combination of circumstances which prematurely overwhelmed
it, and even if unsuccessful it would still have deserved an honorable
mention in history. But it is too evident that the confederate nobles,
whether directly or indirectly, took a greater share in the frantic
excesses of the Iconoclasts than comported with the dignity and
blamelessness of their confederation, and many among them openly
exchanged their own good cause for the mad enterprise of these worthless
vagabonds. The restriction of the Inquisition and a mitigation of the
cruel inhumanity of the edicts must be laid to the credit of the league;
but this transient relief was dearly purchased, at the cost of so many
of the best and bravest citizens, who either lost their lives in the
field, or in exile carried their wealth and industry to another quarter
of the world; and of the presence of Alva and the Spanish arms. Many,
too, of its peaceable citizens, who without its dangerous temptations
would never have been seduced from the ranks of peace and order, were
beguiled by the hope of success into the most culpable enterprises, and
by their failure plunged into ruin and misery. But it cannot be denied
that the league atoned in some measure for these wrongs by positive
benefits. It brought together and emboldened many whom a selfish
pusillanimity kept asunder and inactive; it diffused a salutary public
spirit amongst the Belgian people, which the oppression of the
government had almost entirely extinguished, and gave unanimity and a
common voice to the scattered members of the nation, the absence of
which alone makes despots bold. The attempt, indeed, failed, and the
knots, too carelessly tied, were quickly unloosed; but it was through
such failures that the nation was eventually to attain to a firm and
lasting union, which should bid defiance to change.
The total destruction of the Geusen army quickly brought the Dutch towns
also back to their obedience, and in the provinces there remained not a
single place which had not submitted to the regent; but the increasing
emigration, both of the natives and the foreign residents, threatened
the country with depopulation. In Amsterdam the crowd of fugitives was
so great that vessels were wanting to convey them across the North Sea
and the Zuyderzee, and that flourishing emporium beheld with dismay the
approaching downfall of its prosperity. Alarmed at this general flight,
the regent hastened to write letters to all the towns, to encourage the
citizens to remain, and by fair promises to revive a hope of better and
milder measures. In the king's name she promised to all who would
freely swear to obey the state and the church complete indemnity, and by
public proclamation invited the fugitives to trust to the royal clemency
and return to their homes. She engaged also to relieve the nation from
the dreaded presence of a Spanish army, even if it were already on the
frontiers; nay, she went so far as to drop hints that, if necessary,
means might be found to prevent it by force from entering the provinces,
as she was fully determined not to relinquish to another the glory of a
peace which it had cost her so much labor to effect. Few, however,
returned in reliance upon her word, and these few had cause to repent it
in the sequel; many thousands had already quitted the country, and
several thousands more quickly followed them. Germany and England were
filled with Flemish emigrants, who, wherever they settled, retained
their usages and manners, and even their costume, unwilling to come to
the painful conclusion that they should never again see their native
land, and to give up all hopes of return. Few carried with them any
remains of their former affluence; the greater portion had to beg their
way, and bestowed on their adopted country nothing but industrious skill
and honest citizens.
And now the regent hastened to report to the king tidings such as,
during her whole administration, she had never before been able to
gratify him with. She announced to him that she had succeeded in
restoring quiet throughout the provinces, and that she thought herself
strong enough to maintain it. The sects were extirpated, and the Roman
Catholic worship re-established in all its former splendor; the rebels
had either already met with, or were awaiting in prison, the punishment
they deserved; the towns were secured by adequate garrisons. There was
therefore no necessity for sending Spanish troops into the Netherlands,
and nothing to justify their entrance. Their arrival would tend to
destroy the existing repose, which it had cost so much to establish,
would check the much-desired revival of commerce and trade, and, while
it would involve the country in new expenses, would at the same time
deprive them of the only means of supporting them. The mere rumor of
the approach of a Spanish army had stripped the country of many
thousands of its most valuable citizens; its actual appearance would
reduce it to a desert. As there was no longer any enemy to subdue, or
rebellion to suppress, the people would see no motive for the march of
this army but punishment and revenge, and under this supposition its
arrival would neither be welcomed nor honored. No longer excused by
necessity, this violent expedient would assume the odious aspect of
oppression, would exasperate the national mind afresh, drive the
Protestants to desperation, and arm their brethren in other countries in
their defence. The regent, she said, had in the king's name promised
the nation it should be relieved from this foreign army, and to this
stipulation she was principally indebted for the present peace; she
could not therefore guarantee its long continuance if her pledge was not
faithfully fulfilled. The Netherlands would receive him as their
sovereign, the king, with every mark of attachment and veneration, but
he must come as a father to bless, not as a despot to chastise them.
Let him come to enjoy the peace which she had bestowed on the country,
but not to destroy it afresh.
The rumor of this arrangement roused the Huguenots, the Genevese, the
Swiss, and the Grisons. The Prince of Conde and the Admiral Coligny
entreated Charles IX. not to neglect so favorable a moment of inflicting
a deadly blow on the hereditary foe of France. With the aid of the
Swiss, the Genevese, and his own Protestant subjects, it would, they
alleged, be an easy matter to destroy the flower of the Spanish troops
in the narrow passes of the Alpine mountains; and they promised to
support him in this undertaking with an army of fifty thousand
Huguenots. This advice, however, whose dangerous object was not easily
to be mistaken, was plausibly declined by Charles IX., who assured them
that he was both able and anxious to provide for the security of his
kingdom. He hastily despatched troops to cover the French frontiers;
and the republics of Geneva, Bern, Zurich, and the Grisons followed his
example, all ready to offer a determined opposition to the dreaded enemy
of their religion and their liberty.
On the 5th of May, 1567, the Duke of Alva set sail from Carthagena with
thirty galleys, which had been furnished by Andrew Doria and the Duke
Cosmo of Florence, and within eight days landed at Genoa, where the four
regiments were waiting to join him. But a tertian ague, with which he
was seized shortly after his arrival, compelled him to remain for some
days inactive in Lombardy--a delay of which the neighboring powers
availed themselves to prepare for defence. As soon as the duke
recovered he held at Asti, in Montferrat, a review of all his troops,
who were more formidable by their valor than by their numbers, since
cavalry and infantry together did not amount to much above ten thousand
men. In his long and perilous march he did not wish to encumber himself
with useless supernumeraries, which would only impede his progress and
increase the difficulty of supporting his army. These ten thousand
veterans were to form the nucleus of a greater army, which, according as
circumstances and occasion might require, he could easily assemble in
the Netherlands themselves.
The duke divided his infantry, which was about nine thousand strong, and
chiefly Spaniards, into four brigades, and gave the command of them to
four Spanish officers. Alphonso of Ulloa led the Neapolitan brigade of
nine companies, amounting to three thousand two hundred and thirty men;
Sancho of Lodogno commanded the Milan brigade, three thousand two
hundred men in ten companies; the Sicilian brigade, with the same number
of companies, and consisting of sixteen hundred men, was under Julian
Romero, an experienced warrior, who had already fought on Belgian
ground.
[The same officer who commanded one of the Spanish regiments about
which so much complaint had formerly been made in the States-
General.]
Convinced, too, that if his troops gave the slightest umbrage he was
lost, the strictest discipline was maintained during the march; not a
single peasant's hut, not a single field was injured; and never,
perhaps, in the memory of man was so numerous an army led so far in such
excellent order.
Destined as this army was for vengeance and murder, a malignant and
baleful star seemed to conduct it safe through all dangers; and it would
be difficult to decide whether the prudence of its general or the
blindness of its enemies is most to be wondered at.
Upon the assurance of the regent that the provinces were in the
enjoyment of perfect peace, and that no opposition was to be apprehended
from any quarter, the duke discharged some German regiments, which had
hitherto drawn their pay from the Netherlands. Three thousand six
hundred men, under the command of Lodrona, were quartered in Antwerp,
from which town the Walloon garrison, in which full reliance could not
be placed, was withdrawn; garrisons proportionably stronger were thrown
into Ghent and other important places; Alva himself marched with the
Milan brigade towards Brussels, whither he was accompanied by a splendid
cortege of the noblest in the land.
Here, as in all the other towns of the Netherlands, fear and terror had
preceded him, and all who were conscious of any offences, and even those
who were sensible of none, alike awaited his approach with a dread
similar to that with which criminals see the coming of their day of
trial. All who could tear themselves from the ties of family, property,
and country had already fled, or now at last took to flight. The
advance of the Spanish army had already, according to the report of the
regent, diminished the population of the provinces by the loss of one
hundred thousand citizens, and this general flight still continued. But
the arrival of the Spanish general could not be more hateful to the
people of the Netherlands than it was distressing and dispiriting to the
regent. At last, after so many years of anxiety, she had begun to taste
the sweets of repose, and that absolute-authority, which had been the
long-cherished object of eight years of a troubled and difficult
administration. This late fruit of so much anxious industry, of so many
cares and nightly vigils, was now to be wrested from her by a stranger,
who was to be placed at once in possession of all the advantages which
she had been forced to extract from adverse circumstances, by a long
and tedious course of intrigue and patient endurance. Another was
lightly to bear away the prize of promptitude, and to triumph by more
rapid success over her superior but less glittering merits. Since the
departure of the minister, Granvella, she had tasted to the full the
pleasures of independence. The flattering homage of the nobility, which
allowed her more fully to enjoy the shadow of power, the more they
deprived her of its substance, had, by degrees, fostered her vanity to
such an extent, that she at last estranged by her coldness even the most
upright of all her servants, the state counsellor Viglius, who always
addressed her in the language of truth. All at once a censor of her
actions was placed at her side, a partner of her power was associated
with her, if indeed it was not rather a master who was forced upon her,
whose proud, stubborn, and imperious spirit, which no courtesy could
soften, threatened the deadliest wounds to her self-love and vanity. To
prevent his arrival she had, in her representations to the king, vainly
exhausted every political argument. To no purpose had she urged that
the utter ruin of the commerce of the Netherlands would be the
inevitable consequence of; this introduction of the Spanish troops; in
vain had she assured the king that peace was universally restored, and
reminded him of her own services in procuring it, which deserved, she
thought, a better guerdon than to see all the fruits of her labors
snatched from her and given to a foreigner, and more than all, to behold
all the good which she had effected destroyed by a new and different
line of conduct. Even when the duke had already crossed Mount Cenis she
made one more attempt, entreating him at least to diminish his army; but
that also failed, for the duke insisted upon acting up to the powers
entrusted to him. In poignant grief she now awaited his approach, and
with the tears she shed for her country were mingled those of offended
self-love.
On the 22d of August, 1567, the Duke of Alva appeared before the gates
of Brussels. His army immediately took up their quarters in the
suburbs, and he himself made it his first duty to pay his respects to
the sister of his king. She gave him a private audience on the plea of
suffering from sickness. Either the mortification she had undergone had
in reality a serious effect upon her health, or, what is not improbable,
she had recourse to this expedient to pain his haughty spirit, and in
some degree to lessen his triumph. He delivered to her letters from the
king, and laid before her a copy of his own appointment, by which the
supreme command of the whole military force of the Netherlands was
committed to him, and from which, therefore, it would appear, that the
administration of civil affairs remained, as heretofore, in the hands of
the regent. But as soon as he was alone with her he produced a new
commission, which was totally different from the former. According to
this, the power was delegated to him of making war at his discretion,
of erecting fortifications, of appointing and dismissing at pleasure the
governors of provinces, the commandants of towns, and other officers of
the king; of instituting inquiries into the past troubles, of punishing
those who originated them, and of rewarding the loyal. Powers of this
extent, which placed him almost on a level with a sovereign prince, and
far surpassed those of the regent herself, caused her the greatest
consternation, and it was with difficulty that she could conceal her
emotion. She asked the duke whether he had not even a third commission,
or some special orders in reserve which went still further, and were
drawn up still more precisely, to which he replied distinctly enough in
the affirmative, but at the same time gave her to understand that this
commission might be too full to suit the present occasion, and would be
better brought into play hereafter with due regard to time and
circumstances. A few days after his arrival he caused a copy of the
first instructions to be laid before the several councils and the
states, and had them printed to insure their rapid circulation. As the
regent resided in the palace, he took up his quarters temporarily in
Kuilemberg house, the same in which the association of the Gueux had
received its name, and before which, through a wonderful vicissitude,
Spanish tyranny now planted its flag.
When the day arrived which had been fixed upon for the execution of this
plan, the duke summoned all the counsellors and knights before him to
confer with them upon matters of state. On this occasion the Duke of
Arschot, the Counts Mansfeld, Barlaimont, and Aremberg attended on the
part of the Netherlands, and on the part of the Spaniards besides the
duke's sons, Vitelli, Serbellon, and Ibarra. The young Count Mansfeld,
who likewise appeared at the meeting, received a sign from his father to
withdraw with all speed, and by a hasty flight avoid the fate which was
impending over him as a former member of the Geusen league. The duke
purposely prolonged the consultation to give time before he acted for
the arrival of the couriers from Antwerp, who were to bring him the
tidings of the arrest of the other parties. To avoid exciting any
suspicion, the engineer, Pacotto, was required to attend the meeting to
lay before it the plans for some fortifications. At last intelligence
was brought him that Lodrona had successfully executed his commission.
Upon this the duke dexterously broke off the debate and dismissed the
council. And now, as Count Egmont was about to repair to the apartment
of Don Ferdinand, to finish a game that he had commenced with him, the
captain of the duke's body guard, Sancho D'Avila, stopped him, and
demanded his sword in the king's name. At the same time he was
surrounded by a number of Spanish soldiers, who, as had been
preconcerted, suddenly advanced from their concealment. So unexpected
a blow deprived Egmont for some moments of all powers of utterance and
recollection; after a while, however, he collected himself, and taking
his sword from his side with dignified composure, said, as he delivered
it into the hands of the Spaniard, "This sword has before this on more
than one occasion successfully defended the king's cause." Another
Spanish officer arrested Count Horn as he was returning to his house
without the least suspicion of danger. Horn's first inquiry was after
Egmont. On being told that the same fate had just happened to his
friend he surrendered himself without resistance. "I have suffered
myself to be guided by him," he exclaimed, "it is fair that I should
share his destiny." The two counts were placed in confinement in
separate apartments. While this was going on in the interior of
Kuilemberg house the whole garrison were drawn out under arms in front
of it. No one knew what had taken place inside, a mysterious terror
diffused itself throughout Brussels until rumor spread the news of this
fatal event. Each felt as if he himself were the sufferer; with many
indignation at Egmont's blind infatuation preponderated over sympathy
for his fate; all rejoiced that Orange had escaped. The first question
of the Cardinal Granvella, too, when these tidings reached him in Rome,
is said to have been, whether they had taken the Silent One also. On
being answered in the negative he shook his head "then as they have let
him escape they have got nothing." Fate ordained better for the Count
of Hogstraten. Compelled by ill-health to travel slowly, he was met by
the report of this event while he was yet on his way. He hastily turned
back, and fortunately escaped destruction. Immediately after Egmont's
seizure a writing was extorted from him, addressed to the commandant of
the citadel of Ghent, ordering that officer to deliver the fortress to
the Spanish Colonel Alphonso d'Ulloa. Upon this the two counts were
then (after they had been for some weeks confined in Brussels) conveyed
under a guard of three thousand Spaniards to Ghent, where they remained
imprisoned till late in the following year. In the meantime all their
papers had been seized. Many of the first nobility who, by the
pretended kindness of the Duke of Alva, had allowed themselves to be
cajoled into remaining experienced the same fate. Capital punishment
was also, without further delay, inflicted on all who before the duke's
arrival had been taken with arms in their hands. Upon the news of
Egmont's arrest a second body of about twenty thousand inhabitants took
up the wanderer's staff, besides the one hundred thousand who, prudently
declining to await the arrival of the Spanish general, had already
placed themselves in safety.
After so noble a life had been assailed no one counted himself safe any
longer; but many found cause to repent that they had so long deferred
this salutary step; for every day flight was rendered more difficult,
for the duke ordered all the ports to be closed, and punished the
attempt at emigration with death. The beggars were now esteemed
fortunate, who had abandoned country and property in order to preserve
at least their liberty and their lives.
Alva's first step, after securing the most suspected of the nobles, was
to restore the Inquisition to its former authority, to put the decrees
of Trent again in force, abolish the "moderation," and promulgate anew
the edicts against heretics in all their original severity. The court
of Inquisition in Spain had pronounced the whole nation of the
Netherlands guilty of treason in the highest degree, Catholics and
heterodox, loyalists and rebels, without distinction; the latter as
having offended by overt acts, the former as having incurred equal guilt
by their supineness. From this sweeping condemnation a very few were
excepted, whose names, however, were purposely reserved, while the
general sentence was publicly confirmed by the king. Philip declared
himself absolved from all his promises, and released from all
engagements which the regent in his name had entered into with the
people of the Netherlands, and all the justice which they had in future
to expect from him must depend on his own good-will and pleasure. All
who had aided in the expulsion of the minister, Granvella, who had taken
part in the petition of the confederate nobles, or had but even spoken
in favor of it; all who had presented a petition against the decrees of
Trent, against the edicts relating to religion, or against the
installation of the bishops; all who had permitted the public
preachings, or had only feebly resisted them; all who had worn the
insignia of the Gueux, had sung Geusen songs, or who in any way
whatsoever had manifested their joy at the establishment of the league;
all who had sheltered or concealed the reforming preachers, attended
Calvinistic funerals, or had even merely known of their secret meetings,
and not given information of them; all who had appealed to the national
privileges; all, in fine, who had expressed an opinion that they ought
to obey God rather than man; all these indiscriminately were declared
liable to the penalties which the law imposed upon any violation of the
royal prerogative, and upon high treason; and these penalties were,
according to the instruction which Alva had received, to be executed on
the guilty persons without forbearance or favor; without regard to rank,
sex, or age, as an example to posterity, and for a terror to all future
times. According to this declaration there was no longer an innocent
person to be found in the whole Netherlands, and the new viceroy had it
in his power to make a fearful choice of victims. Property and life
were alike at his command, and whoever should have the good fortune to
preserve one or both must receive them as the gift of his generosity and
humanity. By this stroke of policy, as refined as it was detestable,
the nation was disarmed, and unanimity rendered impossible. As it
absolutely depended on the duke's arbitrary will upon whom the sentence
should be carried in force which had been passed without exception upon
all, each individual kept himself quiet, in order to escape, if
possible, the notice of the viceroy, and to avoid drawing the fatal
choice upon himself. Every one, on the other hand, in whose favor he
was pleased to make an exception stood in a degree indebted to him, and
was personally under an obligation which must be measured by the value
he set upon his life and property. As, however, this penalty could only
be executed on the smaller portion of the nation, the duke naturally
secured the greater by the strongest ties of fear and gratitude, and for
one whom he sought out as a victim he gained ten others whom he passed
over. As long as he continued true to this policy he remained in quiet
possession of his rule, even amid the streams of blood which he caused
to flow, and did not forfeit this advantage till the want of money
compelled him to impose a burden upon the nation which oppressed all
indiscriminately.
[The sentences passed upon the most eminent persons (for example,
the sentence of death passed upon Strahlen, the burgomaster of
Antwerp), were signed only by Vargas, Del Rio, and De la Torre.]
From the council of twelve (which, from the object of its institution,
was called the council for disturbances, but on account of its
proceedings is more generally known under the appellation of the council
of blood, a name which the nation in their exasperation bestowed upon
it), no appeal was allowed. Its proceedings could not be revised. Its
verdicts were irrevocable and independent of all other authority. No
other tribunal in the country could take cognizance of cases which
related to the late insurrection, so that in all the other courts
justice was nearly at a standstill. The great council at Malines was
as good as abolished; the authority of the council of state entirely
ceased, insomuch that its sittings were discontinued. On some rare
occasions the duke conferred with a few members of the late assembly,
but even when this did occur the conference was held in his cabinet, and
was no more than a private consultation, without any of the proper forms
being observed. No privilege, no charter of immunity, however carefully
protected, had any weight with the council for disturbances.
It compelled all deeds and contracts to be laid before it, and often
forced upon them the most strained interpetations and alterations. If
the duke caused a sentence to be drawn out which there was reason to
fear might be opposed by the states of Brabant, it was legalized without
the Brabant seal. The most sacred rights of individuals were assailed,
and a tyranny without example forced its arbitrary will even into the
circle of domestic life. As the Protestants and rebels had hitherto
contrived to strengthen their party so much by marriages with the first
families in the country, the duke issued an edict forbidding all
Netherlanders, whatever might be their rank or office, under pain of
death and confiscation of property, to conclude a marriage without
previously obtaining his permission.
All whom the council for disturbances thought proper to summon before it
were compelled to appear, clergy as well as laity; the most venerable
heads of the senate, as well as the reprobate rabble of the Iconoclasts.
Whoever did not present himself, as indeed scarcely anybody did, was
declared an outlaw, and his property was confiscated; but those who were
rash or foolish enough to appear, or who were so unfortunate as to be
seized, were lost without redemption. Twenty, forty, often fifty were
summoned at the same time and from the same town, and the richest were
always the first on whom the thunderbolt descended. The meaner
citizens, who possessed nothing that could render their country and
their homes dear to them, were taken unawares and arrested without any
previous citation. Many eminent merchants, who had at their disposal
fortunes of from sixty thousand to one hundred thousand florins, were
seen with their hands tied behind their backs, dragged like common
vagabonds at the horse's tail to execution, and in Valenciennes
fifty-five persons were decapitated at one time. All the prisons--and the
duke immediately on commencing his administration had built a great
number of them--were crammed full with the accused; hanging, beheading,
quartering, burning were the prevailing and ordinary occupations of the
day; the punishment of the galleys and banishment were more rarely heard
of, for there was scarcely any offence which was reckoned too trival to
be punished with death. Immense sums were thus brought into the treasury,
which, however, served rather to stimulate the new viceroy's and his
colleagues' thirst for gold than to quench it. It seemed to be his insane
purpose to make beggars of the whole people, and to throw all their
riches into the hands of the king and his servants. The yearly income
derived from these confiscations was computed to equal the revenues of
the first kingdoms of Europe; it is said to have been estimated, in a
report furnished to the king, at the incredible amount of twenty million
of dollars. But these proceedings were the more inhuman, as they often
bore hardest precisely upon the very persons who were the most peaceful
subjects, and most orthodox Roman Catholics, whom they could not want to
injure. Whenever an estate was confiscated all the creditors who had
claims upon it were defrauded. The hospitals, too, and public
institutions, which such properties had contributed to support, were now
ruined, and the poor, who had formerly drawn a pittance from this source,
were compelled to see their only spring of comfort dried up. Whoever
ventured to urge their well-grounded claims on the forfeited property
before the council of twelve (for no other tribunal dared to interfere
with these inquiries), consumed their substance in tedious and expensive
proceedings, and were reduced to beggary before they saw the end of them.
The histories of civilized states furnish but one instance of a similar
perversion of justice, of such violation of the rights of property, and
of such waste of human life; but Cinna, Sylla, and Marius entered
vanquished Rome as incensed victors, and practised without disguise what
the viceroy of the Netherlands performed under the venerable veil of the
laws.
Up to the end of the year 1567 the king's arrival had been confidently
expected, and the well-disposed of the people had placed all their last
hopes on this event. The vessels, which Philip had caused to be
equipped expressly for the purpose of meeting him, still lay in the
harbor of Flushing, ready to sail at the first signal; and the town of
Brussels had consented to receive a Spanish garrison, simply because the
king, it was pretended, was to reside within its walls. But this hope
gradually vanished, as he put off the journey from one season to the
next, and the new viceroy very soon began to exhibit powers which
announced him less as a precursor of royalty than as an absolute
minister, whose presence made that of the monarch entirely superfluous.
To compete the distress of the provinces their last good angel was now
to leave them in the person of the regent. From the moment when the
production of the duke's extensive powers left no doubt remaining as to
the practical termination of her own rule, Margaret had formed the
resolution of relinquishing the name also of regent. To see a successor
in the actual possession of a dignity which a nine years' enjoyment had
made indispensable to her; to see the authority, the glory, the
splendor, the adoration, and all the marks of respect, which are the
usual concomitants of supreme power, pass over to another; and to feel
that she had lost that which she could never forget she had once held,
was more than a woman's mind could endure; moreover, the Duke of Alva
was of all men the least calculated to make her feel her privation the
less painful by a forbearing use of his newly-acquired dignity. The
tranquillity of the country, too, which was put in jeopardy by this
divided rule, seemed to impose upon the duchess the necessity of
abdicating. Many governors of provinces refused, without an express
order from the court, to receive commands from the duke and to recognize
him as co-regent.
The rapid change of their point of attraction could not be met by the
courtiers so composedly and imperturbably but that the duchess observed
the alteration, and bitterly felt it. Even the few who, like State
Counsellor Viglius, still firmly adhered to her, did so less from
attachment to her person than from vexation at being displaced by
novices and foreigners, and from being too proud to serve a fresh
apprenticeship under a new viceroy. But far the greater number, with
all their endeavors to keep an exact mean, could not help making a
difference between the homage they paid to the rising sun and that which
they bestowed on the setting luminary. The royal palace in Brussels
became more and more deserted, while the throng at Kuilemberg house
daily increased. But what wounded the sensitiveness of the duchess most
acutely was the arrest of Horn and Egmont, which was planned and
executed by the duke without her knowledge or consent, just as if there
had been no such person as herself in existence. Alva did, indeed,
after the act was done, endeavor to appease her by declaring that the
design had been purposely kept secret from her in order to spare her
name from being mixed up in so odious a transaction; but no such
considerations of delicacy could close the wound which had been
inflicted on her pride. In order at once to escape all risk of similar
insults, of which the present was probably only a forerunner, she
despatched her private secretary, Macchiavell, to the court of her
brother, there to solicit earnestly for permission to resign the
regency. The request was granted without difficulty by the king, who
accompanied his consent with every mark of his highest esteem. He would
put aside (so the king expressed himself) his own advantage and that of
the provinces in order to oblige his sister. He sent a present of
thirty thousand dollars, and allotted to her a yearly pension of twenty
thousand.
[Which, however, does not appear to have been very punctually paid,
if a pamphlet maybe trusted which was printed during her lifetime.
(It bears the title: Discours sur la Blessure de Monseigneur Prince
d'Orange, 1582, without notice of the place where it was printed,
and is to be found in the Elector's library at Dresden.) She
languished, it is there stated, at Namur in poverty, and so ill-
supported by her son (the then governor of the Netherlands), that
her own secretary, Aldrobandin, called her sojourn there an exile.
But the writer goes on to ask what better treatment could she
expect from a son who, when still very young, being on a visit to
her at Brussels, snapped his fingers at her behind her back.]
Gladly would Margaret have learned that she was permitted to resign the
regency before a solemn assembly of the states, a wish which she had not
very obscurely hinted to the king. But she was not gratified. She was
particularly fond of solemnity, and the example of the Emperor, her
father, who had exhibited the extraordinary spectacle of his abdication
of the crown in this very city, seemed to have great attractions for
her. As she was compelled to part with supreme power, she could
scarcely be blamed for wishing to do so with as much splendor as
possible. Moreover, she had not failed to observe how much the general
hatred of the duke had effected in her own favor, and she looked,
therefore, the more wistfully forward to a scene, which promised to be
at once so flattering to her and so affecting. She would have been glad
to mingle her own tears with those which she hoped to see shed by the
Netherlanders for their good regent. Thus the bitterness of her descent
from the throne would have been alleviated by the expression of general
sympathy. Little as she had done to merit the general esteem during the
nine years of her administration, while fortune smiled upon her, and the
approbation of her sovereign was the limit to all her wishes, yet now
the sympathy of the nation had acquired a value in her eyes as the only
thing which could in some degree compensate to her for the
disappointment of all her other hopes. Fain would she have persuaded
herself that she had become a voluntary sacrifice to her goodness of
heart and her too humane feelings towards the Netherlanders. As,
however, the king was very far from being disposed to incur any danger
by calling a general assembly of the states, in order to gratify a mere
caprice of his sister, she was obliged to content herself with a
farewell letter to them. In this document she went over her whole
administration, recounted, not without ostentation, the difficulties
with which she had had to struggle, the evils which, by her dexterity,
she had prevented, and wound up at last by saying that she left a
finished work, and had to transfer to her successor nothing but the
punishment of offenders. The king, too, was repeatedly compelled to hear
the same statement, and she left nothing undone to arrogate to herself
the glory of any future advantages which it might be the good fortune of
the duke to realize. Her own merits, as something which did not admit
of a doubt, but was at the same time a burden oppressive to her modesty,
she laid at the feet of the king.
The Netherlander seems to have concentrated all his hatred upon the
Spanish name. To lay the blame of the national evils on the regent
would tend to remove from the king and his minister the curses which he
would rather shower upon them alone and undividedly; and the Duke of
Alva's government of the Netherlands was, perhaps, not the proper point
of view from which to test the merits of his predecessor. It was
undoubtedly no light task to meet the king's expectations without
infringing the rights of the people and the duties of humanity; but
in struggling to effect these two contradictory objects Margaret had
accomplished neither. She had deeply injured the nation, while
comparatively she had done little service to the king. It is true that
she at last crushed the Protestant faction, but the accidental outbreak
of the Iconoclasts assisted her in this more than all her dexterity.
She certainly succeeded by her intrigues in dissolving the league of the
nobles, but not until the first blow had been struck at its roots by
internal dissensions. The object, to secure which she had for many
years vainly exhausted her whole policy, was effected at last by a single
enlistment of troops, for which, however, the orders were issued from
Madrid. She delivered to the duke, no doubt, a tranquillized country;
but it cannot be denied that the dread of his approach had the chief
share in tranquillizing it. By her reports she led the council in Spain
astray; because she never informed it of the disease, but only of the
occasional symptoms; never of the universal feeling and voice of the
nation, but only of the misconduct of factions. Her faulty
administration, moreover, drew the people into the crime, because
she exasperated without sufficiently awing them. She it was that
brought the murderous Alva into the country by leading the king to
believe that the disturbances in the provinces were to be ascribed, not
so much to the severity of the royal ordinances, as to the unworthiness
of those who were charged with their execution. Margaret possessed
natural capacity and intellect; and an acquired political tact enabled
her to meet any ordinary case; but she wanted that creative genius
which, for new and extraordinary emergencies, invents new maxims, or
wisely oversteps old ones. In a country where honesty was the best
policy, she adopted the unfortunate plan of practising her insidious
Italian policy, and thereby sowed the seeds of a fatal distrust in the
minds of the people. The indulgence which has been so liberally imputed
to her as a merit was, in truth, extorted from her weakness and timidity
by the courageous opposition of the nation; she had never departed from
the strict letter of the royal commands by her own spontaneous
resolution; never did the gentle feelings of innate humanity lead her
to misinterpret the cruel purport of her instructions. Even the few
concessions to which necessity compelled her were granted with an
uncertain and shrinking hand, as if fearing to give too much; and she
lost the fruit of her benefactions because she mutilated them by a
sordid closeness. What in all the other relations of her life she was
too little, she was on the throne too much--a woman! She had it in her
power, after Granvella's expulsion, to become the benefactress of the
Belgian nation, but she did not. Her supreme good was the approbation
of her king, her greatest misfortune his displeasure; with all the
eminent qualities of her mind she remained an ordinary character because
her heart was destitute of native nobility. She used a melancholy power
with much moderation, and stained her government with no deed of
arbitrary cruelty; nay, if it had depended on her, she would have always
acted humanely. Years afterwards, when her idol, Philip II., had long
forgotten her, the Netherlanders still honored her memory; but she was
far from deserving the glory which her successor's inhumanity reflected
upon her.
She left Brussels about the end of December, 1567. The duke escorted
her as far as the frontiers of Brabant, and there left her under the
protection of Count Mansfeld in order to hasten back to the metropolis
and show himself to the Netherlanders as sole regent.
The two counts were a few weeks after their arrest conveyed to Ghent
under an escort of three thousand Spaniards, where they were confined in
the citadel for more than eight months. Their trial commenced in due
form before the council of twelve, and the solicitor-general, John Du
Bois, conducted the proceedings. The indictment against Egmont
consisted of ninety counts, and that against Horn of sixty. It would
occupy too much space to introduce them here. Every action, however
innocent, every omission of duty, was interpreted on the principle which
had been laid down in the opening of the indictment, "that the two
counts, in conjunction with the Prince of Orange, had planned the
overthrow of the royal authority in the Netherlands, and the usurpation
of the government of the country;" the expulsion of Granvella; the
embassy of Egmont to Madrid; the confederacy of the Gueux; the
concessions which they made to the Protestants in the provinces under
their government--all were made to have a connection with, and reference
to, this deliberate design. Thus importance was attached to the most
insignificant occurrences, and one action made to darken and discolor
another. By taking care to treat each of the charges as in itself a
treasonable offence it was the more easy to justify a sentence of high
treason by the whole.
The accusations were sent to each of the prisoners, who were required to
reply to them within five days. After doing so they were allowed to
employ solicitors and advocates, who were permitted free access to them;
but as they were accused of treason their friends were prohibited from
visiting them. Count Egmont employed for his solicitor Von Landas, and
made choice of a few eminent advocates from Brussels.
The first step was to demur against the tribunal which was to try them,
since by the privilege of their order they, as Knights of the Golden
Fleece, were amenable only to the king himself, the grand master. But
this demurrer was overruled, and they were required to produce their
witnesses, in default of which they were to be proceeded against _in
contumaciam._ Egmont had satisfactorily answered to eighty-two counts,
while Count Horn had refuted the charges against him, article by
article. The accusation and the defence are still extant; on that
defence every impartial tribunal would have acquitted them both. The
Procurator Fiscal pressed for the production of their evidence, and the
Duke of Alva issued his repeated commands to use despatch. They
delayed, however, from week to week, while they renewed their protests
against the illegality of the court. At last the duke assigned them
nine days to produce their proofs; on the lapse of that period they were
to be declared guilty, and as having forfeited all right of defence.
During the progress of the trial the relations and friends of the two
counts were not idle. Egmont's wife, by birth a duchess of Bavaria,
addressed petitions to the princes of the German empire, to the Emperor,
and to the King of Spain. The Countess Horn, mother of the imprisoned
count, who was connected by the ties of friendship or of blood with the
principal royal families of Germany, did the same. All alike protested
loudly against this illegal proceeding, and appealed to the liberty of
the German empire, on which Horn, as a count of the empire, had special
claims; the liberty of the Netherlands and the privileges of the Order
of the Golden Fleece were likewise insisted upon. The Countess Egmont
succeeded in obtaining the intercession of almost every German court in
behalf of her husband. The King of Spain and his viceroy were besieged
by applications in behalf of the accused, which were referred from one
to the other, and made light of by both. Countess Horn collected
certificates from all the Knights of the Golden Fleece in Spain,
Germany, and Italy to prove the privileges of the order. Alva rejected
them with a declaration that they had no force in such a case as the
present. "The crimes of which the counts are accused relate to the
affairs of the Belgian provinces, and he, the duke, was appointed by the
king sole judge of all matters connected with those countries."
The duke had reason to hasten the execution of the sentence. Count
Louis of Nassau had given battle to the Count of Aremberg, near the
monastery of Heiligerlee, in Groningen, and had the good fortune to
defeat him. Immediately after his victory he had advanced against
Groningen, and laid siege to it. The success of his arms had raised the
courage of his faction; and the Prince of Orange, his brother, was close
at hand with an army to support him. These circumstances made the
duke's presence necessary in those distant provinces; but he could not
venture to leave Brussels before the fate of two such important
prisoners was decided. The whole nation loved them, which was not a
little increased by their unhappy fate. Even the strict papists
disapproved of the execution of these eminent nobles. The slightest
advantage which the arms of the rebels might gain over the duke, or even
the report of a defeat, would cause a revolution in Brussels, which
would immediately set the two counts at liberty. Moreover, the
petitions and intercessions which came to the viceroy, as well as to
the King of Spain, from the German princes, increased daily; nay, the
Emperor, Maximilian II., himself caused the countess to be assured "that
she had nothing to fear for the life of her spouse." These powerful
applications might at last turn the king's heart in favor of the
prisoners. The king might, perhaps, in reliance on his viceroy's usual
dispatch, put on the appearance of yielding to the representations of so
many sovereigns, and rescind the sentence of death under the conviction
that his mercy would come too late. These considerations moved the duke
not to delay the execution of the sentence as soon as it was pronounced.
On the day after the sentence was passed the two counts were brought,
under an escort of three thousand Spaniards, from Ghent to Brussels, and
placed in confinement in the Brodhause, in the great market-place. The
next morning the council of twelve were assembled; the duke, contrary to
his custom, attended in person, and both the sentences, in sealed
envelopes, were opened and publicly read by Secretary Pranz. The two
counts were declared guilty of treason, as having favored and promoted
the abominable conspiracy of the Prince of Orange, protected the
confederated nobles, and been convicted of various misdemeanors against
their king and the church in their governments and other appointments.
Both were sentenced to be publicly beheaded, and their heads were to be
fixed upon pikes and not taken down without the duke's express command.
All their possessions, fiefs, and rights escheated to the royal
treasury. The sentence was signed only by the duke and the secretary,
Pranz, without asking or caring for the consent of the other members of
the council.
During the night between the 4th and 5th of June the sentences were
brought to the prisoners, after they had already gone to rest. The duke
gave them to the Bishop of Ypres, Martin Rithov, whom he had expressly
summoned to Brussels to prepare the prisoners for death. When the
bishop received this commission he threw himself at the feet of the
duke, and supplicated him with tears in his eyes for mercy, at least for
respite for the prisoners; but he was answered in a rough and angry
voice that he had been sent for from Ypres, not to oppose the sentence,
but by his spiritual consolation to reconcile the unhappy noblemen to
it.
Egmont was the first to whom the bishop communicated the sentence of
death. "That is indeed a severe sentence," exclaimed the count, turning
pale, and with a faltering voice. "I did not think that I had offended
his majesty so deeply as to deserve such treatment. If, however, it
must be so I submit to my fate with resignation. May this death atone
for my offence, and save my wife and children from suffering. This at
least I think I may claim for my past services. As for death, I will
meet it with composure, since it so pleases God and my king." He then
pressed the bishop to tell him seriously and candidly if there was no
hope of pardon. Being answered in the negative, he confessed and
received the sacrament from the priest, repeating after him the mass
with great devoutness. He asked what prayer was the best and most
effective to recommend him to God in his last hour. On being told that
no prayer could be more effectual than the one which Christ himself had
taught, he prepared immediately to repeat the Lord's prayer. The
thoughts of his family interrupted him; he called for pen and ink, and
wrote two letters, one to his wife, the other to the king. The latter
was as follows:
"Sire,--This morning I have heard the sentence which your majesty has
been pleased to pass upon me. Far as I have ever been from attempting
anything against the person or service of your majesty, or against the
true, old, and Catholic religion, I yet submit myself with patience to
the fate which it has pleased God to ordain should suffer. If, during
the past disturbances, I have omitted, advised, or done anything that
seems at variance with my duty, it was most assuredly performed with the
best intentions, or was forced upon me by the pressure of circumstances.
I therefore pray your majesty to forgive me, and, in consideration of my
past services, show mercy to my unhappy wife, my poor children, and
servants. In a firm hope of this, I commend myself--to the infinite
mercy of God.
This letter he placed in the hands of the bishop, with the strongest
injunctions for its safe delivery; and for greater security he sent a
duplicate in his own handwriting to State Counsellor Viglius, the most
upright man in the senate, by whom, there is no doubt, it was actually
delivered to the king. The family of the count were subsequently
reinstated in all his property, fiefs, and rights, which, by virtue of
the sentence, had escheated to the royal treasury.
Egmont had at first shown a desire to address the people from the
scaffold. He desisted, however, on the bishop's representing to him
that either he would not be heard, or that if he were, he might--such at
present was the dangerous disposition of the people--excite them to acts
of violence, which would only plunge his friends into destruction. For
a few moments he paced the scaffold with noble dignity, and lamented
that it had not been permitted him to die a more honorable death for his
king and his country. Up to the last he seemed unable to persuade
himself that the king was in earnest, and that his severity would be
carried any further than the mere terror of execution. When the
decisive period approached, and he was to receive the extreme unction,
he looked wistfully round, and when there still appeared no prospect of
a reprieve, he turned to Julian Romero, and asked him once more if there
was no hope of pardon for him. Julian Romero shrugged his shoulders,
looked on the ground, and was silent.
He then closely clenched his teeth, threw off his mantle and robe, knelt
upon the cushion, and prepared himself for the last prayer. The bishop
presented him the crucifix to kiss, and administered to him extreme
unction, upon which the count made him a sign to leave him. He drew a
silk cap over his eyes, and awaited the stroke. Over the corpse and the
streaming blood a black cloth was immediately thrown.
All Brussels thronged around the scaffold, and the fatal blow seemed to
fall on every heart. Loud sobs alone broke the appalling silence. The
duke himself, who watched the execution from a window of the townhouse,
wiped his eyes as his victim died.
The heads of both were fixed upon the poles which were set up on the
scaffold, where they remained until past three in the afternoon, when
they were taken down, and, with the two bodies, placed in leaden coffins
and deposited in a vault.
SIEGE OF ANTWERP BY THE PRINCE OF PARMA, IN THE YEARS 1584 AND 1585.
Twelve years had the war continued which the northern provinces of
Belgium had commenced at first in vindication simply of their religious
freedom, and the privileges of their states, from the encroachments of
the Spanish viceroy, but maintained latterly in the hope of establishing
their independence of the Spanish crown. Never completely victors, but
never entirely vanquished, they wearied out the Spanish valor by tedious
operations on an unfavorable soil, and exhausted the wealth of the
sovereign of both the Indies while they themselves were called beggars,
and in a degree actually were so. The league of Ghent, which had united
the whole Netherlands, Roman Catholic and Protestant, in a common and
(could such a confederation have lasted) invincible body, was indeed
dissolved; but in place of this uncertain and unnatural combination the
northern provinces had, in the year 1579, formed among themselves the
closer union of Utrecht, which promised to be more lasting, inasmuch as
it was linked and held together by common political and religious
interests. What the new republic had lost in extent through this
separation from the Roman Catholic provinces it was fully compensated
for by the closeness of alliance, the unity of enterprise, and energy of
execution; and perhaps it was fortunate in thus timely losing what no
exertion probably would ever have enabled it to retain.
The greater part of the Walloon provinces had, in the year 1584, partly
by voluntary submission and partly by force of arms, been again reduced
under the Spanish yoke. The northern districts alone had been able at
all successfully to oppose it. A considerable portion of Brabant and
Flanders still obstinately held out against the arms of the Duke
Alexander of Parma, who at that time administered the civil government
of the provinces, and the supreme command of the army, with equal energy
and prudence, and by a series of splendid victories had revived the
military reputation of Spain. The peculiar formation of the country,
which by its numerous rivers and canals facilitated the connection of
the towns with one another and with the sea, baffled all attempts
effectually to subdue it, and the possession of one place could only be
maintained by the occupation of another. So long as this communication
was kept up Holland and Zealand could with little difficulty assist
their allies, and supply them abundantly by water as well as by land
with all necessaries, so that valor was of no use, and the strength of
the king's troops was fruitlessly wasted on tedious sieges.
Of all the towns in Brabant Antwerp was the most important, as well
from, its wealth, its population, and its military force, as by its
position on the mouth of the Scheldt. This great and populous town,
which at this date contained more than eighty thousand inhabitants, was
one of the most active members of the national league, and had in the
course of the war distinguished itself above all the towns of Belgium by
an untamable spirit of liberty. As it fostered within its bosom all the
three Christian churches, and owed much of its prosperity to this
unrestricted religious liberty, it had the more cause to dread the
Spanish rule, which threatened to abolish this toleration, and by the
terror of the Inquisition to drive all the Protestant merchants from its
markets. Moreover it had had but too terrible experience of the
brutality of the Spanish garrisons, and it was quite evident that if it
once more suffered this insupportable yoke to be imposed upon it it
would never again during the whole course of the war be able to throw it
off.
But both the natural position and fortifications of the town appeared to
defy attacks. Surrounded on the side of Brabant with insurmountable
works and moats, and towards Flanders covered by the broad and rapid
stream of the Scheldt, it could not be carried by storm; and to blockade
a town of such extent seemed to require a land force three times larger
than that which the duke had, and moreover a fleet, of which he was
utterly destitute. Not only did the river yield the town all necessary
supplies from Ghent, it also opened an easy communication with the
bordering province of Zealand. For, as the tide of the North Sea
extends far up the Scheldt, and ebbs and flows regularly, Antwerp enjoys
the peculiar advantage that the same tide flows past it at different
times in two opposite directions. Besides, the adjacent towns of
Brussels, Malines, Ghent, Dendermonde, and others, were all at this time
in the hands of the league, and could aid the place from the land side
also. To blockade, therefore, the town by land, and to cut off its
communication with Flanders and Brabant, required two different armies,
one on each bank of the river. A sufficient fleet was likewise needed
to guard the passage of the Scheldt, and to prevent all attempts at
relief, which would most certainly be made from Zealand. But by the war
which he had still to carry on in other quarters, and by the numerous
garrisons which he was obliged to leave in the towns and fortified
places, the army of the duke was reduced to ten thousand infantry and
seventeen hundred horse, a force very inadequate for an undertaking of
such magnitude. Moreover, these troops were deficient in the most
necessary supplies, and the long arrears of pay had excited them to
subdued murmurs, which hourly threatened to break out into open mutiny.
If, notwithstanding these difficulties, he should still attempt the
siege, there would be much occasion to fear from the strongholds of the
enemy, which were left in the rear, and from which it would be easy, by
vigorous sallies, to annoy an army distributed over so many places, and
to expose it to want by cutting off its supplies.
But objections, which he had already made to himself and refuted, could
not shake the Duke of Parma in his purpose. Not in ignorance of its
inseparable dangers, not from thoughtless overvaluing his forces had he
taken this bold resolve. But that instinctive genius which leads great
men by paths which inferior minds either never enter upon or never
finish, raised him above the influence of the doubts which a cold and
narrow prudence would oppose to his views; and, without being able to
convince his generals, he felt the correctness of his calculations in a
conviction indistinct, indeed, but not on that account less indubitable.
A succession of fortunate results had raised his confidence, and the
sight of his army, unequalled in Europe for discipline, experience, and
valor, and commanded by a chosen body of the most distinguished
officers, did not permit him to entertain fear for a moment. To those
who objected to the small number of his troops, he answered, that
however long the pike, it is only the point that kills; and that in
military enterprise, the moving power was of more importance than the
mass to be moved. He was aware, indeed, of the discontent of his
troops, but he knew also their obedience; and he thought, moreover, that
the best means to stifle their murmurs was by keeping them employed in
some important undertaking, by stimulating their desire of glory by the
splendor of the enterprise, and their rapacity by hopes of the rich
booty which the capture of so wealthy a town would hold out.
In the plan which he now formed for the conduct of the siege he
endeavored to meet all these difficulties. Famine was the only
instrument by which he could hope to subdue the town; but effectually to
use this formidable weapon, it would be expedient to cut off all its
land and water communications. With this view, the first object was to
stop, or at least to impede, the arrival of supplies from Zealand. It
was, therefore, requisite not only to carry all the outworks, which the
people of Antwerp had built on both shores of the Scheldt for the
protection of their shipping; but also, wherever feasible, to throw up
new batteries which should command the whole course of the river; and to
prevent the place from drawing supplies from the land side, while
efforts were being made to intercept their transmission by sea, all the
adjacent towns of Brabant and Flanders were comprehended in the plan of
the siege, and the fall of Antwerp was based on the destruction of all
those places. A bold and, considering the duke's scanty force, an
almost extravagant project, which was, however, justified by the genius
of its author, and crowned by fortune with a brilliant result.
In the meantime the main force was directed against Antwerp, which he
now closely invested. He fixed his headquarters at Bevern in Flanders,
a few miles from Antwerp, where he found a fortified camp. The
protection of the Flemish bank of the Scheldt was entrusted to the
Margrave of Rysburg, general of cavalry; the Brabant bank to the Count
Peter Ernest Von Mansfeld, who was joined by another Spanish leader,
Mondragone. Both the latter succeeded in crossing the Scheldt upon
pontoons, notwithstanding the Flemish admiral's ship was sent to oppose
them, and, passing Antwerp, took up their position at Stabroek in
Bergen. Detached corps dispersed themselves along the whole Brabant
side, partly to secure the dykes and the roads.
Some miles below Antwerp the Scheldt was guarded by two strong forts, of
which one was situated at Liefkenshoek on the island Doel, in Flanders,
the other at Lillo, exactly opposite the coast of Brabant. The last had
been erected by Mondragone himself, by order of the Duke of Alvaa, when
the latter was still master of Antwerp, and for this very reason the
Duke of Parma now entrusted to him the attack upon it. On the
possession of these two forts the success of the siege seemed wholly to
depend, since all the vessels sailing from Zealand to Antwerp must pass
under their guns. Both forts had a short time before been strengthened
by the besieged, and the former was scarcely finished when the Margrave
of Rysburg attacked it. The celerity with which he went to work
surprised the enemy before they were sufficiently prepared for defence,
and a brisk assault quickly placed Liefkenshoek in the hands of the
Spaniards. The confederates sustained this loss on the same fatal day
that the Prince of Orange fell at Delft by the hands of an assassin.
The other batteries, erected on the island of Doel, were partly
abandoned by their defenders, partly taken by surprise, so that in a
short time the whole Flemish side was cleared of the enemy. But the
fort at Lillo, on the Brabant shore, offered a more vigorous resistance,
since the people of Antwerp had had time to strengthen its
fortifications and to provide it with a strong garrison. Furious
sallies of the besieged, led by Odets von Teligny, supported by the
cannon of the fort, destroyed all the works of the Spaniards, and an
inundation, which was effected by opening the sluices, finally drove
them away from the place after a three weeks' siege, and with the loss
of nearly two thousand killed. They now retired into their fortified
camp at Stabroek, and contented themselves with taking possession of the
dams which run across the lowlands of Bergen, and oppose a breastwork to
the encroachments of the East Scheldt.
The failure of his attempt upon the fort of Lillo compelled the Prince
of Parma to change his measures. As he could not succeed in stopping
the passage of the Scheldt by his original plan, on which the success of
the siege entirely depended, he determined to effect his purpose by
throwing a bridge across the whole breadth of the river. The thought
was bold, and there were many who held it to be rash. Both the breadth
of the stream, which at this part exceeds twelve hundred paces, as well
as its violence, which is still further augmented by the tides of the
neighboring sea, appeared to render every attempt of this kind
impracticable. Moreover, he had to contend with a deficiency of timber,
vessels, and workmen, as well as with the dangerous position between the
fleets of Antwerp and of Zealand, to which it would necessarily be an
easy task, in combination with a boisterous element, to interrupt so
tedious a work. But the Prince of Parma knew his power, and his settled
resolution would yield to nothing short of absolute impossibility.
After he had caused the breadth as well as the depth of the river to be
measured, and had consulted with two of his most skilful engineers,
Barocci and Plato, it was settled that the bridge should be constructed
between Calloo in Flanders and Ordain in Brabant. This spot was
selected because the river is here narrowest, and bends a little to the
right, and so detains vessels a while by compelling them to tack. To
cover the bridge strong bastions were erected at both ends, of which the
one on the Flanders side was named Fort St. Maria, the other, on the
Brabant side, Fort St. Philip, in honor of the king.
While active preparations were making in the Spanish camp for the
execution of this scheme, and the whole attention of the enemy was
directed to it, the duke made an unexpected attack upon Dendermonde, a
strong town between Ghent and Antwerp, at the confluence of the Dender
and the Scheldt. As long as this important place was in the hands of
the enemy the towns of Ghent and Antwerp could mutually support each
other, and by the facility of their communication frustrate all the
efforts of the besiegers. Its capture would leave the prince free to
act against both towns, and might decide the fate of his undertaking.
The rapidity of his attack left the besieged no time to open their
sluices and lay the country under water. A hot cannonade was opened
upon the chief bastion of the town before the Brussels gate, but was
answered by the fire of the besieged, which made great havoc amongst the
Spaniards. It increased, however, rather than discouraged their ardor,
and the insults of the garrison, who mutilated the statue of a saint
before their eyes, and after treating it with the most contumelious
indignity, hurled it down from the rampart, raised their fury to the
highest pitch. Clamorously they demanded to be led against the bastion
before their fire had made a sufficient breach in it, and the prince, to
avail himself of the first ardor of their impetuosity, gave the signal
for the assault. After a sanguinary contest of two hours the rampart
was mounted, and those who were not sacrificed to the first fury of the
Spaniards threw themselves into the town. The latter was indeed now
more exposed, a fire being directed upon it from the works which had
been carried; but its strong walls and the broad moat which surrounded
it gave reason to expect a protracted resistance. The inventive
resources of the Prince of Parma soon overcame this obstacle also.
While the bombardment was carried on night and day, the troops were
incessantly employed in diverting the course of the Dender, which
supplied the fosse with water, and the besieged were seized with despair
as they saw the water of the trenches, the last defence of the town,
gradually disappear. They hastened to capitulate, and in August, 1584,
received a Spanish garrison. Thus, in the space of eleven days, the
Prince of Parrna accomplished an undertaking which, in the opinion of
competent judges, would require as many weeks.
The town of Ghent, now cut off from Antwerp and the sea, and hard
pressed by the troops of the king, which were encamped in its vicinity,
and without hope of immediate succor, began to despair, as famine, with
all its dreadful train, advanced upon them with rapid steps. The
inhabitants therefore despatched deputies to the Spanish camp at Bevern,
to tender its submission to the king upon the same terms as the prince
had a short time previously offered. The deputies were informed that
the time for treaties was past, and that an unconditional submission
alone could appease the just anger of the monarch whom they had offended
by their rebellion. Nay, they were even given to understand that it
would be only through his great mercy if the same humiliation were not
exacted from them as their rebellious ancestors were forced to undergo
under Charles V., namely, to implore pardon half-naked, and with a cord
round their necks. The deputies returned to Ghent in despair, but three
days afterwards a new deputation was sent to the Spanish camp, which at
last, by the intercession of one of the prince's friends, who was a
prisoner in Ghent, obtained peace upon moderate terms. The town was to
pay a fine of two hundred thousand florins, recall the banished papists,
and expel the Protestant inhabitants, who, however, were to be allowed
two years for the settlement of their affairs. All the inhabitants
except six, who were reserved for capital punishment (but afterwards
pardoned), were included in a general amnesty, and the garrison, which
amounted to two thousand men, was allowed to evacuate the place with the
honors of war. This treaty was concluded in September of the same year,
at the headquarters at Bevern, and immediately three thousand Spaniards
marched into the town as a garrison.
It was more by the terror of his name and the dread of famine than by
the force of arms that the Prince of Parma had succeeded in reducing
this city to submission, the largest and strongest in the Netherlands,
which was little inferior to Paris within the barriers of its inner
town, consisted of thirty-seven thousand houses, and was built on twenty
islands, connected by ninety-eight stone bridges. The important
privileges which in the course of several centuries this city had
contrived to extort from its rulers fostered in its inhabitants a spirit
of independence, which not unfrequently degenerated into riot and
license, and naturally brought it in collision with the Austrian-Spanish
government. And it was exactly this bold spirit of liberty which
procured for the Reformation the rapid and extensive success it met with
in this town, and the combined incentives of civil and religious freedom
produced all those scenes of violence by which, during the rebellion, it
had unfortunately distinguished itself. Besides the fine levied, the
prince found within the walls a large store of artillery, carriages,
ships, and building materials of all kinds, with numerous workmen and
sailors, who materially aided him in his plans against Antwerp.
Before Ghent surrendered to the king Vilvorden and Herentals had fallen
into the hands of the Spaniards, and the capture of the block-houses
near the village of Willebrock had cut off Antwerp from Brussels and
Malines. The loss of these places within so short a period deprived
Antwerp of all hope of succor from Brabant and Flanders, and limited all
their expectations to the assistance which might be looked for from
Zealand. But to deprive them also of this the Prince of Parma was now
making the most energetic preparations.
The citizens of Antwerp had beheld the first operations of the enemy
against their town with the proud security with which the sight of their
invincible river inspired them. This confidence was also in a degree
justified by the opinion of the Prince of Orange, who, upon the first
intelligence of the design, had said that the Spanish army would
inevitably perish before the walls of Antwerp. That nothing, however,
might be neglected, he sent, a short time before his assassination, for
the burgomaster of Antwerp, Philip Marnix of St. Aldegonde, his intimate
friend, to Delft, where he consulted with him as to the means of
maintaining defensive operations. It was agreed between then that it
would be advisable to demolish forthwith the great dam between Sanvliet
and Lillo called the Blaaugarendyk, so as to allow the waters of the
East Scheldt to inundate, if necessary, the lowlands of Bergen, and
thus, in the event of the Scheldt being closed, to open a passage for
the Zealand vessels to the town across the inundated country. Aldegonde
had, after his return, actually persuaded the magistrate and the
majority of the citizens to agree to this proposal, when it was resisted
by the guild of butchers, who claimed that they would be ruined by such
a measure; for the plain which it was wished to lay under water was a
vast tract of pasture land, upon which about twelve thousand oxen--were
annually put to graze. The objection of the butchers was successful,
and they managed to prevent the execution of this salutary scheme until
the enemy had got possession of the dams as well as the pasture land.
The magistrate, in order to avert an evil that would have pressed upon
individuals only, had recourse to an expedient which endangered the
safety of all. Some enterprising persons in Zealand had freighted a
large fleet with provisions, which succeeded in passing the guns of the
enemy, and discharged its cargo at Antwerp. The hope of a large profit
had tempted the merchants to enter upon this hazardous speculation; in
this, however, they were disappointed, as the magistrate of Antwerp had,
just before their arrival, issued an edict regulating the price of all
the necessaries of life. At the same time to prevent individuals from
buying up the whole cargo and storing it in their magazines with a view
of disposing of it afterwards at a dearer rate, he ordered that the
whole should be publicly sold in any quantities from the vessels. The
speculators, cheated of their hopes of profit by these precautions, set
sail again, and left Antwerp with the greater part of their cargo, which
would have sufficed for the support of the town for several months.
This neglect of the most essential and natural means of preservation can
only be explained by the supposition that the inhabitants considered it
absolutely impossible ever to close the Scheldt completely, and
consequently had not the least apprehension that things would come to
extremity. When the intelligence arrived in Antwerp that the prince
intended to throw a bridge over the Scheldt the idea was universally
ridiculed as chimerical. An arrogant comparison was drawn between the
republic and the stream, and it was said that the one would bear the
Spanish yoke as little as the other. "A river which is twenty-four
hundred feet broad, and, with its own waters alone, above sixty feet
deep, but which with the tide rose twelve feet more--would such a
stream," it was asked, "submit to be spanned by a miserable piece of
paling? Where were beams to be found high enough to reach to the bottom
and project above the surface? and how was a work of this kind to stand
in winter, when whole islands and mountains of ice, which stone walls
could hardly resist, would be driven by the flood against its weak
timbers, and splinter them to pieces like glass? Or, perhaps, the
prince purposed to construct a bridge of boats; if so, where would he
procure the latter, and how bring them into his intrenchments? They
must necessarily be brought past Antwerp, where a fleet was ready to
capture or sink them."
But while they were trying to prove the absurdity of the Prince of
Parma's undertaking he had already completed it. As soon as the forts
St. Maria and St. Philip were erected, and protected the workmen and the
work by their fire, a pier was built out into the stream from both
banks, for which purpose the masts of the largest vessels were employed;
by a skilful arrangement of the timbers they contrived to give the whole
such solidity that, as the result proved, it was able to resist the
violent pressure of the ice. These timbers, which rested firmly and
securely on the bottom of the river, and projected a considerable height
above it, being covered with planks, afforded a commodious roadway. It
was wide enough to allow eight men to cross abreast, and a balustrade
that ran along it on both sides, protected them from the fire of
small-arms from the enemy's vessels. This "stacade," as it was called,
ran from the two opposite shores as far as the increasing depth and force
of the stream allowed. It reduced the breadth of the river to about
eleven hundred feet; as, however, the middle and proper current would not
admit of such a barrier, there remained, therefore, between the two
stacades a space of more than six hundred paces through which a whole
fleet of transports could sail with ease. This intervening space the
prince designed to close by a bridge of boats, for which purpose the
craft must be procured from Dunkirk. But, besides that they could not be
obtained in any number at that place, it would be difficult to bring them
past Antwerp without great loss. He was, therefore, obliged to content
himself for the time with having narrowed the stream one-half, and
rendered the passage of the enemy's vessels so much the more difficult.
Where the stacades terminated in the middle of the stream they spread out
into parallelograms, which were mounted with heavy guns, and served as a
kind of battery on the water. From these a heavy fire was opened on every
vessel that attempted to pass through this narrow channel. Whole fleets,
however, and single vessels still attempted and succeeded in passing this
dangerous strait.
By this step the prince was again thrown into embarrassment. He was far
from having as yet a sufficient number of vessels, either for the
construction of the bridge or for its defence, and the passage by which
the former convoy had arrived was now closed by the fort erected by
Teligny. While he was reconnoitring the country to discover a new way
for his, fleets an idea occurred to him which not only put an end to his
present dilemma, but greatly accelerated the success of his whole plan.
Not far from the village of Stecken, in Waes, which is within some five
thousand paces of the commencement of the inundation, flows a small
stream called the Moer, which falls into the Scheldt near Ghent. From
this river he caused a canal to be dug to the spot where the inundations
began, and as the water of these was not everywhere deep enough for the
transit of his boats, the canal between Bevern and Verrebroek was
continued to Calloo, where it was met by the Scheldt. At this work five
hundred pioneers labored without intermission, and in order to cheer the
toil of the soldiers the prince himself took part in it. In this way
did he imitate the example of the two celebrated Romans, Drusus and
Corbulo, who by similar works had united the Rhine with the Zuyder Zee,
and the Maes with the Rhine?
This canal, which the army in honor of its projector called the canal of
Parma, was fourteen thousand paces in length, and was of proportion able
depth and breadth, so as to be navigable for ships of a considerable
burden. It afforded to the vessels from Ghent not only a more secure,
but also a much shorter course to the Spanish quarters, because it was
no longer necessary to follow the many windings of the Scheldt, but
entering the Moer at once near Ghent, and from thence passing close to
Stecken, they could proceed through the canal and across the inundated
country as far as Calloo. As the produce of all Flanders was brought to
the town of Ghent, this canal placed the Spanish camp in communication
with the whole province. Abundance poured into the camp from all
quarters, so that during the whole course of the siege the Spaniards
suffered no scarcity of any kind. But the greatest benefit which the
prince derived from this work was an adequate supply of flat-bottomed
vessels to complete his bridge.
Amid these delays the winter expired, and scarcely had the ice begun to
disappear when the construction of the bridge of boats was actively
resumed by the besiegers. Between the two piers a space of more than
six hundred paces still remained to be filled up, which was effected in
the following manner: Thirty-two flat-bottomed vessels, each sixty-six
feet long and twenty broad, were fastened together with strong cables
and iron chains, but at a distance from each other of about twenty feet
to allow a free passage to the stream. Each boat, moreover, was moored
with two cables, both up and down the stream, but which, as the water
rose with the tide, or sunk with the ebb, could be slackened or
tightened. Upon the boats great masts were laid which reached from one
to another, and, being covered with planks, formed a regular road,
which, like that along the piers, was protected with a balustrade. This
bridge of boats, of which the two piers formed a continuation, had,
including the latter, a length of twenty-four thousand paces. This
formidable work was so ingeniously constructed, and so richly furnished
with the instruments of destruction, that it seemed almost capable, like
a living creature, of defending itself at the word of command,
scattering death among all who approached. Besides the two forts of St.
Maria and St. Philip, which terminated the bridge on either shore, and
the two wooden bastions on the bridge itself, which were filled with
soldiers and mounted with guns on all sides, each of the two-and-thirty
vessels was manned with thirty soldiers and four sailors, and showed the
cannon's mouth to the enemy, whether he came up from Zealand or down
from Antwerp. There were in all ninety-seven cannon, which were
distributed beneath and above the bridge, and more than fifteen hundred
men who were posted, partly in the forts, partly in the vessels, and, in
case of necessity, could maintain a terrible fire of small-arms upon the
enemy.
But with all this the prince did not consider his work sufficiently
secure. It was to be expected that the enemy would leave nothing
unattempted to burst by the force of his machines the middle and weakest
part. To guard against this, he erected in a line with the bridge of
boats, but at some distance from it, another distinct defence, intended
to break the force of any attack that might be directed against the
bridge itself. This work consisted of thirty-three vessels of
considerable magnitude, which were moored in a row athwart the stream
and fastened in threes by masts, so that they formed eleven different
groups. Each of these, like a file of pikemen, presented fourteen long
wooden poles with iron heads to the approaching enemy. These vessels
were loaded merely with ballast, and were anchored each by a double but
slack cable, so as to be able to give to the rise and fall of the tide.
As they were in constant motion they got from the soldiers the name of
"swimmers." The whole bridge of boats and also a part of the piers were
covered by these swimmers, which were stationed above as well as below
the bridge. To all these defensive preparations was added a fleet of
forty men-of-war, which were stationed on both coasts and served as a
protection to the whole.
This astonishing work was finished in March, 1585, the seventh month of
the siege, and the day on which it was completed was kept as a jubilee
by the troops. The great event was announced to the besieged by a grand
_fete de joie_, and the army, as if to enjoy ocular demonstration of its
triumph, extended itself along the whole platform to gaze upon the proud
stream, peacefully and obediently flowing under the yoke which had been
imposed upon it. All the toil they had undergone was forgotten in the
delightful spectacle, and every man who had had a hand in it, however
insignificant he might be, assumed to himself a portion of the honor
which the successful execution of so gigantic an enterprise conferred on
its illustrious projector. On the other hand, nothing could equal the
consternation which seized the citizens of Antwerp when intelligence was
brought them that the Scheldt was now actually closed, and all access
from Zealand cut off. To increase their dismay they learned the fall of
Brussels also, which had at last been compelled by famine to capitulate.
An attempt made by the Count of Hohenlohe about the same time on
Herzogenbusch, with a view to recapture the town, or at least form a
diversion, was equally unsuccessful; and thus the unfortunate city lost
all hope of assistance, both by sea and land.
These evil tidings were brought them by some fugitives who had succeeded
in passing the Spanish videttes, and had made their way into the town;
and a spy, whom the burgomaster had sent out to reconnoitre the enemy's
works, increased the general alarm by his report. He had been seized
and carried before the Prince of Parma, who commanded him to be
conducted over all the works, and all the defences of the bridge to be
pointed out to him. After this had been done he was again brought
before the general, who dismissed him with these words: "Go," said he,
"and report what you have seen to those who sent you. And tell them,
too, that it is my firm resolve to bury myself under the ruins of this
bridge or by means of it to pass into your town."
But the certainty of danger now at last awakened the zeal of the
confederates, and it was no fault of theirs if the former half of the
prince's vow was not fulfilled. The latter had long viewed with
apprehension the preparations which were making in Zealand for the
relief of the town. He saw clearly that it was from this quarter that
he had to fear the most dangerous blow, and that with all his works he
could not make head against the combined fleets of Zealand and Antwerp
if they were to fall upon him at the same time and at the proper moment.
For a while the delays of the admiral of Zealand, which he had labored
by all the means in his power to prolong, had been his security, but now
the urgent necessity accelerated the expedition, and without waiting for
the admiral the states at Middleburg despatched the Count Justin of
Nassau, with as many ships as they could muster, to the assistance of
the besieged. This fleet took up a position before Liefkenshoek, which
was in possession of the Spaniards, and, supported by a few vessels from
the opposite fort of Lillo, cannonaded it with such success that the
walls were in a short time demolished, and the place carried by storm.
The Walloons who formed the garrison did not display the firmness which
might have been expected from soldiers of the Duke of Parma; they
shamefully surrendered the fort to the enemy, who in a short time were
in possession of the whole island of Doel, with all the redoubts
situated upon it. The loss of these places, which were, however, soon
retaken, incensed the Duke of Parma so much that he tried the officers
by court-martial, and caused the most culpable among them to be
beheaded. Meanwhile this important conquest opened to the Zealanders a
free passage as far as the bridge, and after concerting with the people
of Antwerp the time was fixed for a combined attack on this work. It
was arranged that, while the bridge of boats was blown up by machines
already prepared in Antwerp, the Zealand fleet, with a sufficient supply
of provisions, should be in the vicinity, ready to sail to the town
through the opening.
As soon as this artist perceived that the project of erecting the bridge
was seriously intended, and that the work was fast approaching to
completion, he applied to the magistracy for three large vessels, from a
hundred and fifty to five hundred tons, in which he proposed to place
mines. He also demanded sixty boats, which, fastened together with
cables and chains, furnished with projecting grappling-irons, and put in
motion with the ebbing of the tide, were intended to second the
operation of the mine-ships by being directed in a wedgelike form
against the bridge. But he had to deal with men who were quite
incapable of comprehending an idea out of the common way, and even where
the salvation of their country was at stake could not forget the
calculating habits of trade.
His scheme was rejected as too expensive, and with difficulty he at last
obtained the grant of two smaller vessels, from seventy to eighty tons,
with a number of flat-bottomed boats. With these two vessels, one of
which he called the "Fortune" and the other the "Hope," he proceeded in
the following manner: In the hold of each he built a hollow chamber of
freestone, five feet broad, three and a half high, and forty long. This
magazine he filled with sixty hundredweight of the finest priming powder
of his own compounding, and covered it with as heavy a weight of large
slabs and millstones as the vessels could carry. Over these he further
added a roof of similar stones, which ran up to a point and projected
six feet above the ship's side. The deck itself was crammed with iron
chains and hooks, knives, nails, and other destructive missiles; the
remaining space, which was not occupied by the magazine, was likewise
filled up with planks. Several small apertures were left in the chamber
for the matches which were to set fire to the mine. For greater
certainty he had also contrived a piece of mechanism which, after the
lapse of a given time, would strike out sparks, and even if the matches
failed would set the ship on fire. To delude the enemy into a belief
that these machines were only intended to set the bridge on fire, a
composition of brimstone and pitch was placed in the top, which could
burn a whole hour. And still further to divert the enemy's attention
from the proper seat of danger, he also prepared thirty-two flatbottomed
boats, upon which there were only fireworks burning, and whose sole
object was to deceive the enemy. These fire-ships were to be sent down
upon the bridge in four separate squadrons, at intervals of half an
hour, and keep the enemy incessantly engaged for two whole hours, so
that, tired of firing and wearied by vain expectation, they might at
last relax their vigilance before the real fire-ships came. In addition
to all this he also despatched a few vessels in which powder was
concealed in order to blow up the floating work before the bridge, and
to clear a passage for the two principal ships. At the same time he
hoped by this preliminary attack to engage the enemy's attention, to
draw them out, and expose them to the full deadly effect of the volcano.
The night between the 4th and 5th of April was fixed for the execution
of this great undertaking. An obscure rumor of it had already diffused
itself through the Spanish camp, and particularly from the circumstance
of many divers from Antwerp having been detected endeavoring to cut the
cables of the vessels. They were prepared, therefore, for a serious
attack; they only mistook the real nature of it, and counted on having
to fight rather with man than the elements. In this expectation the
duke caused the guards along the whole bank to be doubled, and drew up
the chief part of his troops in the vicinity of the bridge, where he was
present in person; thus meeting the danger while endeavoring to avoid
it.
No sooner was it dark than three burning vessels were seen to float down
from the city towards the bridge, then three more, and directly after
the same number. They beat to arms throughout the Spanish camp, and the
whole length of the bridge was crowded with soldiers. Meantime the
number of the fire-ships increased, and they came in regular order down
the stream, sometimes two and sometimes three abreast, being at first
steered by sailors on board them. The admiral of the Antwerp fleet,
Jacob Jacobson (whether designedly or through carelessness is not
known), had committed the error of sending off the four squadrons of
fire-ships too quickly one after another, and caused the two large
mine-ships also to follow them too soon, and thus disturbed the intended
order of attack.
The array of vessels kept approaching, and the darkness of night still
further heightened the extraordinary spectacle. As far as the eye could
follow the course of the stream all was fire; the fire-ships burning as
brilliantly as if they were themselves in the flames; the surface of the
water glittered with light; the dykes and the batteries along the shore,
the flags, arms, and accoutrements of the soldiers who lined the rivers
as well as the bridges were clearly distinguishable in the glare. With
a mingled sensation of awe and pleasure the soldiers watched the unusual
sight, which rather resembled a fete than a hostile preparation, but
from the very strangeness of the contrast filled the mind with a
mysterious awe. When the burning fleet had come within two thousand
paces of the bridge those who had the charge of it lighted the matches,
impelled the two mine-vessels into the middle of the stream, and leaving
the others to the guidance of the current of the waves, they hastily
made their escape in boats which had been kept in readiness.
At this critical moment he was standing at the farthest end of the left
pier, where it formed a bastion in the water and joined the bridge of
boats. By his side stood the Margrave of Rysburg, general of cavalry
and governor of the province of Artois, who had formerly-served the
states, but from a protector of the republic had become its worst enemy;
the Baron of Billy, governor of Friesland and commander of the German
regiments; the Generals Cajetan and Guasto, with several of the
principal officers; all forgetful of their own danger and entirely
occupied with averting the general calamity. At this moment a Spanish
ensign approached the Prince of Parma and conjured him to remove from a
place where his life was in manifest and imminent peril. No attention
being paid to his entreaty he repeated it still more urgently, and at
last fell at his feet and implored him in this one instance to take
advice from his servant. While he said this he had laid hold of the
duke's coat as though he wished forcibly to draw him away from the spot,
and the latter, surprised rather at the man's boldness than persuaded by
his arguments, retired at last to the shore, attended by Cajetan and
Guasto. He had scarcely time to reach the fort St. Maria at the end of
the bridge when an explosion took place behind him, just as if the earth
had burst or the vault of heaven given way. The duke and his whole army
fell to the ground as dead, and several minutes elapsed before they
recovered their consciousness.
But then what a sight presented itself! The waters of the Scheldt had
been divided to its lowest depth, and driven with a surge which rose
like a wall above the dam that confined it, so that all the
fortifications on the banks were several feet under water. The earth
shook for three miles round. Nearly the whole left pier, on which the
fire-ship had been driven, with a part of the bridge of boats, had been
burst and shattered to atoms, with all that was upon it; spars, cannon,
and men blown into the air. Even the enormous blocks of stone which had
covered the mine had, by the force of the explosion, been hurled into
the neighboring fields, so that many of them were afterwards dug out of
the ground at a distance of a thousand paces from the bridge. Six
vessels were buried, several had gone to pieces. But still more
terrible was the carnage which the murderous machine had dealt amongst
the soldiers. Five hundred, according to other reports even eight
hundred, were sacrificed to its fury, without reckoning those who
escaped with mutilated or injured bodies. The most opposite kinds of
death were combined in this frightful moment. Some were consumed by the
flames of the explosion, others scalded to death by the boiling water of
the river, others stifled by the poisonous vapor of the brimstone; some
were drowned in the stream, some buried under the hail of falling masses
of rock, many cut to pieces by the knives and hooks, or shattered by the
balls which were poured from the bowels of the machine. Some were found
lifeless without any visible injury, having in all probability been
killed by the mere concussion of the air. The spectacle which presented
itself directly after the firing of the mine was fearful. Men were seen
wedged between the palisades of the bridge, or struggling to release
themselves from beneath ponderous masses of rock, or hanging in the
rigging of the ships; and from all places and quarters the most
heartrending cries for help arose, but as each was absorbed in his own
safety these could only be answered by helpless wailings.
Many had escaped in the most wonderful manner. An officer named Tucci
was carried by the whirlwind like a feather high into the air, where he
was for a moment suspended, and then dropped into the river, where he
saved himself by swimming. Another was taken up by the force of the
blast from the Flanders shore and deposited on that of Brabant,
incurring merely a slight contusion on the shoulder; he felt, as he
afterwards said, during this rapid aerial transit, just as if he had
been fired out of a cannon. The Prince of Parma himself had never been
so near death as at that moment, when half a minute saved his life. He
had scarcely set foot in the fort of St. Maria when he was lifted off
his feet as if by a hurricane, and a beam which struck him on the head
and shoulders stretched him senseless on the earth. For a long time he
was believed to be actually killed, many remembering to have seen him on
the bridge only a few minutes before the fatal explosion. He was found
at last between his attendants, Cajetan and Guasto, raising himself up
with his hand on his sword; and the intelligence stirred the spirits of
the whole army. But vain would be the attempt to depict his feelings
when he surveyed the devastation which a single moment had caused in the
work of so many months. The bridge of boats, upon which all his hopes
rested, was rent asunder; a great part of his army was destroyed;
another portion maimed and rendered ineffective for many days; many of
his best officers were killed; and, as if the present calamity were not
sufficient, he had now to learn the painful intelligence that the
Margrave of Rysburg, whom of all his officers he prized the highest, was
missing. And yet the worst was still to come, for every moment the
fleets of the enemy were to be expected from Antwerp and Lillo, to which
this fearful position of the army would disable him from offering any
effectual resistance. The bridge was entirely destroyed, and nothing
could prevent the fleet from Zealand passing through in full sail; while
the confusion of the troops in this first moment was so great and
general that it would have been impossible to give or obey orders, as
many corps had lost their commanding officers, and many commanders their
corps; and even the places where they had been stationed were no longer
to be recognized amid the general ruin. Add to this that all the
batteries on shore were under water, that several cannon were sunk, that
the matches were wet, and the ammunition damaged. What a moment for the
enemy if they had known how to avail themselves of it!
Both above and below Lillo, the Netherlanders had in several places cut
through the dam, which follows the Brabant shore of the Scheldt; and
where a short time before had been green fields, a new element now
presented itself, studded with masts and boats. A Zealand fleet,
commanded by Count Hohenlohe, navigated the inundated fields, and made
repeated movements against the Cowenstein dam, without, however,
attempting a serious attack on it, while another fleet showed itself in
the Scheldt, threatening the two coasts alternately with a landing, and
occasionally the bridge of boats with an attack. For several days this
manoeuvre was practised on the enemy, who, uncertain of the quarter
whence an attack was to be expected, would, it was hoped, be exhausted
by continual watching, and by degrees lulled into security by so many
false alarms. Antwerp had promised Count Hohenlohe to support the
attack on the dam by a flotilla from the town; three beacons on the
principal tower were to be the signal that this was on the way. When,
therefore, on a dark night the expected columns of fire really ascended
above Antwerp, Count Hohenlohe immediately caused five hundred of his
troops to scale the dam between two of the enemy's redoubts, who
surprised part of the Spanish garrison asleep, and cut down the others
who attempted to defend themselves. In a short time they had gained a
firm footing upon the dam, and were just on the point of disembarking
the remainder of their force, two thousand in number, when the Spaniards
in the adjoining redoubts marched out and, favored by the narrowness of
the ground, made a desperate attack on the crowded Zealanders. The guns
from the neighboring batteries opened upon the approaching fleet, and
thus rendered the landing of the remaining troops impossible; and as
there were no signs of co-operation on the part of the city, the
Zealanders were overpowered after a short conflict and again driven down
from the dam. The victorious Spaniards pursued them through the water
as far as their boats, sunk many of the latter, and compelled the rest
to retreat with heavy loss. Count Hohenlohe threw the blame of this
defeat upon the inhabitants of Antwerp, who had deceived him by a false
signal, and it certainly must be attributed to the bad arrangement of
both parties that the attempt failed of better success.
Early on the morning of the 16th of May the enemy's forces were in
motion. With the dusk of dawn there came floating down from Lillo, over
the inundated country, four burning vessels, which so alarmed the guards
upon the dams, who recollected the former terrible explosion, that they
hastily retreated to the next battery. This was exactly what the enemy
desired. In these vessels, which had merely the appearance of
fire-ships, soldiers were concealed, who now suddenly jumped ashore, and
succeeded in mounting the dam at the undefended spot, between the St.
George and Pile batteries. Immediately afterward the whole Zealand
fleet showed itself, consisting of numerous ships-of-war, transports,
and a crowd of smaller craft, which were laden with great sacks of
earth, wool, fascines, gabions, and the like, for throwing up
breastworks wherever necessary, The ships-of-war were furnished with
powerful artillery, and numerously and bravely manned, and a whole army
of pioneers accompanied it in order to dig through the dam as soon as it
should be in their possession.
The Zealanders had scarcely begun on their side to ascend the dam when
the fleet of Antwerp advanced from Osterweel and attacked it on the
other. A high breastwork was hastily thrown up between the two nearest
hostile batteries, so as at once to divide the two garrisons and to
cover the pioneers. The latter, several hundreds in number, now fell to
work with their spades on both sides of the dam, and dug with such
energy that hopes were entertained of soon seeing the two seas united.
But meanwhile the Spaniards also had gained time to hasten to the spot
from the two nearest redoubts, and make a spirited assault, while the
guns from the battery of St. George played incessantly on the enemy's
fleet. A furious battle now raged in the quarter where they were
cutting through the dike and throwing up the breastworks. The
Zealanders had drawn a strong line of troops round the pioneers to keep
the enemy from interrupting their work, and in this confusion of battle,
in the midst of a storm of bullets from the enemy, often up to the
breast in water, among the dead and dying, the pioneers pursued their
work, under the incessant exhortations of the merchants, who impatiently
waited to see the dam opened and their vessels in safety. The
importance of the result, which it might be said depended entirely upon
their spades, appeared to animate even the common laborers with heroic
courage. Solely intent upon their task, they neither saw nor heard the
work of death which was going on around them, and as fast as the
foremost ranks fell those behind them pressed into their places. Their
operations were greatly impeded by the piles which had been driven in,
but still more by the attacks of the Spaniards, who burst with desperate
courage through the thickest of the enemy, stabbed the pioneers in the
pits where they were digging, and filled up again with dead bodies the
cavities which the living had made. At last, however, when most of
their officers were killed or wounded, and the number of the enemy
constantly increasing, while fresh laborers were supplying the place of
those who had been slain, the courage of these valiant troops began to
give way, and they thought it advisable to retreat to their batteries.
Now, therefore, the confederates saw themselves masters of the whole
extent of the dam, from Fort St. George as far as the Pile battery. As,
however, it seemed too long to wait for the thorough demolition of the
dam, they hastily unloaded a Zealand transport, and brought the cargo
over the dam to a vessel of Antwerp, with which Count Hohenlohe sailed
in triumph to that city. The sight of the provisions at once filled the
inhabitants with joy, and as if the victory was already won, they gave
themselves up to the wildest exultation. The bells were rung, the
cannon discharged, and the inhabitants, transported by their unexpected
success, hurried to the Osterweel gate, to await the store-ships which
were supposed to be at hand.
While both parties were fighting on the dam with the most obstinate fury
the bridge over the Scheldt had been attacked from Antwerp with new
machines, in order to give employment to the prince in that quarter.
But the sound of the firing soon apprised him of what was going on at
the dyke, and as soon as he saw the bridge clear he hastened to support
the defence of the dyke. Followed by two hundred Spanish pikemen, he
flew to the place of attack, and arrived just in time to prevent the
complete defeat of his troops. He hastily posted some guns which he had
brought with him in the two nearest redoubts, and maintained from thence
a heavy fire upon the enemy's ships. He placed himself at the head of
his men, and, with his sword in one hand and shield in the other, led
them against the enemy. The news of his arrival, which quickly spread
from one end of the dyke to the other, revived the drooping spirits of
his troops, and the conflict recommenced with renewed violence, made
still more murderous by the nature of the ground where it was fought.
Upon the narrow ridge of the dam, which in many places was not more than
nine paces broad, about five thousand combatants were fighting; so
confined was the spot upon which the strength of both armies was
assembled, and which was to decide the whole issue of the siege. With
the Antwerpers the last bulwark of their city was at stake; with the
Spaniards it was to determine the whole success of their undertaking.
Both parties fought with a courage which despair alone could inspire.
From both the extremities of the dam the tide of war rolled itself
towards the centre, where the Zealanders and Antwerpers had the
advantage, and where they had collected their whole strength. The
Italians and Spaniards, inflamed by a noble emulation, pressed on from
Stabroek; and from the Scheldt the Walloons and Spaniards advanced, with
their general at their head. While the former endeavored to relieve the
Pile battery, which was hotly pressed by the enemy, both by sea and
land, the latter threw themselves on the breastwork, between the St.
George and the Pile batteries, with a fury which carried everything
before it. Here the flower of the Belgian troops fought behind a
well-fortified rampart, and the guns of the two fleets covered this
important post. The prince was already pressing forward to attack this
formidable defence with his small army when he received intelligence that
the Italians and Spaniards, under Capizucchi and Aquila, had forced their
way, sword in hand, into the Pile battery, had got possession of it, and
were now likewise advancing from the other side against the enemy's
breastwork. Before this intrenchment, therefore, the whole force of both
armies was now collected, and both sides used their utmost efforts to
carry and to defend this position. The Netherlanders on board the fleet,
loath to remain idle spectators of the conflict, sprang ashore from their
vessels. Alexander attacked the breastwork on one side, Count Mansfeld on
the other; five assaults were made, and five times they were repulsed.
The Netherlanders in this decisive moment surpassed themselves; never in
the whole course of the war had they fought with such determination. But
it was the Scotch and English in particular who baffled the attempts of
the enemy by their valiant resistance. As no one would advance to the
attack in the quarter where the Scotch fought, the duke himself led on
the troops, with a javelin in his hand, and up to his breast in water. At
last, after a protracted struggle, the forces of Count Mansfeld succeeded
with their halberds and pikes in making a breach in the breastwork, and
by raising themselves on one another's shoulders scaled the parapet.
Barthelemy Toralva, a Spanish captain, was the first who showed himself
on the top; and almost at the same instant the Italian, Capizucchi,
appeared upon the edge of it; and thus the contest of valor was decided
with equal glory for both nations. It is worth while to notice here the
manner in which the Prince of Parma, who was made arbiter of this emulous
strife, encouraged this delicate sense of honor among his warriors. He
embraced the Italian, Capizucchi, in presence of the troops, and
acknowledged aloud that it was principally to the courage of this officer
that he owed the capture of the breastwork. He caused the Spanish
captain, Toralva, who was dangerously wounded, to be conveyed to his own
quarters at Stabroek, laid on his own bed, and covered with the cloak
which he himself had worn the day before the battle.
For the tide had begun to ebb, and the commanders of the fleet, from
fear of being stranded with their heavy transports, and, in case of an
unfortunate issue to the engagement, becoming the prey of the enemy,
retired from the dam, and made for deep water. No sooner did Alexander
perceive this than he pointed out to his troops the flying vessels, and
encouraged them to finish the action with an enemy who already despaired
of their safety. The Dutch auxiliaries were the first that gave way,
and their example was soon followed by the Zealanders. Hastily leaping
from the dam they endeavored to reach the vessels by wading or swimming;
but from their disorderly flight they impeded one another, and fell in
heaps under the swords of the pursuers. Many perished even in the
boats, as each strove to get on board before the other, and several
vessels sank under the weight of the numbers who rushed into them. The
Antwerpers, who fought for their liberty, their hearths, their faith,
were the last who retreated, but this very circumstance augmented their
disaster. Many of their vessels were outstripped by the ebb-tide, and
grounded within reach of the enemy's cannon, and were consequently
destroyed with all on board. Crowds of fugitives endeavored by swimming
to gain the other transports, which had got into deep water; but such
was the rage and boldness of the Spaniards that they swam after them
with their swords between their teeth, and dragged many even from the
ships. The victory of the king's troops was complete but bloody; for of
the Spaniards about eight hundred, of the Netherlanders some thousands
(without reckoning those who were drowned), were left on the field, and
on both sides many of the principal nobility perished. More than thirty
vessels, with a large supply of provisions for Antwerp, fell into the
hands of the victors, with one hundred and fifty cannon and other
military stores. The dam, the possession of which had been so dearly
maintained, was pierced in thirteen different places, and the bodies of
those who had cut through it were now used to stop up the openings.
The attack upon the Cowenstein dam was the last attempt which was made
to relieve Antwerp. From this time the courage of the besieged sank,
and the magistracy of the town vainly labored to inspirit with distant
hopes the lower orders, on whom the present distress weighed heaviest.
Hitherto the price of bread had been kept down to a tolerable rate,
although the quality of it continued to deteriorate; by degrees,
however, provisions became so scarce that a famine was evidently near at
hand. Still hopes were entertained of being able to hold out, at least
until the corn between the town and the farthest batteries, which was
already in full ear, could be reaped; but before that could be done the
enemy had carried the last outwork, and had appropriated the whole
harvest to their use. At last the neighboring and confederate town of
Malines fell into the enemy's hands, and with its fall vanished the only
remaining hope of getting supplies from Brabant. As there was,
therefore, no longer any means of increasing the stock of provisions
nothing was left but to diminish the consumers. All useless persons,
all strangers, nay even the women and children were to be sent away out
of the town, but this proposal was too revolting to humanity to be
carried into execution. Another plan, that of expelling the Catholic
inhabitants, exasperated them so much that it had almost ended in open
mutiny. And thus St. Aldegonde at last saw himself compelled to yield
to the riotous clamors of the populace, and on the 17th of August, 1585,
to make overtures to the Duke of Parma for the surrender of the town.
AND
SPORT OF DESTINY
FROM THE PAPERS OF COUNT O-------
As the prince wished to enjoy himself, and his small revenues did not
permit him to maintain the dignity of his rank, he lived at Venice in
the strictest incognito. Two noblemen, in whom he had entire
confidence, and a few faithful servants, composed all his retinue. He
shunned expenditure, more however from inclination than economy. He
avoided all kinds of dissipation, and up to the age of thirty-five years
had resisted the numerous allurements of this voluptuous city. To the
charms of the fair sex he was wholly indifferent. A settled gravity and
an enthusiastic melancholy were the prominent features of his character.
His affections were tranquil, but obstinate to excess. He formed his
attachments with caution and timidity, but when once formed they were
cordial and permanent. In the midst of a tumultuous crowd he walked in
solitude. Wrapped in his own visionary ideas, he was often a stranger
to the world about him; and, sensible of his own deficiency in the
knowledge of mankind, he scarcely ever ventured an opinion of his own,
and was apt to pay an unwarrantable deference to the judgment of others.
Though far from being weak, no man was more liable to be governed; but,
when conviction had once entered his mind, he became firm and decisive;
equally courageous to combat an acknowledged prejudice or to die for a
new one.
The next evening the prince said to me, "Suppose we go to the square of
St. Mark, and seek for our mysterious Armenian. I long to see this
comedy unravelled." I consented. We walked in the square till eleven.
The Armenian was nowhere to be seen. We repeated our walk the four
following evenings, and each time with the same bad success.
We had not recovered from our surprise when the Armenian stood before
us. "You are known here, my prince!" said he. "Hasten to your hotel.
You will find there the deputies from the Senate. Do not hesitate to
accept the honor they intend to offer you. Baron I--forgot to tell you
that your remittances are arrived." He disappeared among the crowd.
We hastened to our hotel, and found everything as the Armenian had told
us. Three noblemen of the republic were waiting to pay their respects
to the prince, and to escort him in state to the Assembly, where the
first nobility of the city were ready to receive him. He had hardly
time enough to give me a hint to sit up for him till his return.
"Gracious prince!" replied I, "you seem to forget that you are retiring
to your pillow greatly enriched in prospect." The deceased was the
hereditary prince.
"Do not remind me of it," said the prince; "for should I even have
acquired a crown I am now too much engaged to occupy myself with such a
trifle. If that Armenian has not merely guessed by chance"
I have mentioned this purposely to show how far every ambitious idea was
then distant from his thoughts.
The following evening we went earlier than usual to the square of St.
Mark. A sudden shower of rain obliged us to take shelter in a
coffee-house, where we found a party engaged at cards. The prince took his
place behind the chair of a Spaniard to observe the game. I went into
an adjacent chamber to read the newspapers. A short time afterwards I
heard a noise in the card-room. Previously to the entrance of the
prince the Spaniard had been constantly losing, but since then he had
won upon every card. The fortune of the game was reversed in a striking
manner, and the bank was in danger of being challenged by the pointeur,
whom this lucky change of fortune had rendered more adventurous. A
Venetian, who kept the bank, told the prince in a very rude manner that
his presence interrupted the fortune of the game, and desired him to
quit the table. The latter looked coldly at him, remained in his place,
and preserved the same countenance, when the Venetian repeated his
insulting demand in French. He thought the prince understood neither
French nor Italian; and, addressing himself with a contemptuous laugh to
the company, said "Pray, gentlemen, tell me how I must make myself
understood to this fool." At the same time he rose and prepared to
seize the prince by the arm. His patience forsook the latter; he
grasped the Venetian with a strong hand, and threw him violently on the
ground. The company rose up in confusion. Hearing the noise, I hastily
entered the room, and unguardedly called the prince by his name. "Take
care," said I, imprudently; "we are in Venice." The name of the prince
caused a general silence, which ended in a whispering which appeared to
me to have a dangerous tendency. All the Italians present divided into
parties, and kept aloof. One after the other left the room, so that we
soon found ourselves alone with the Spaniard and a few Frenchmen. "You
are lost, prince," said they, "if you do not leave the city immediately.
The Venetian whom you have handled so roughly is rich enough to hire a
bravo. It costs him but fifty zechins to be revenged by your death."
The Spaniard offered, for the security of the prince, to go for the
guards, and even to accompany us home himself. The Frenchmen proposed
to do the same. We were still deliberating what to do when the doors
suddenly opened, and some officers of the Inquisition entered the room.
They produced an order of government, which charged us both to follow
them immediately. They conducted us under a strong escort to the canal,
where a gondola was waiting for us, in which we were ordered to embark.
We were blindfolded before we landed. They led us up a large stone
staircase, and through a long, winding passage, over vaults, as I judged
from the echoes that resounded under our feet. At length we came to
another staircase, and, having descended a flight of steps, we entered a
hall, where the bandage was removed from our eyes. We found ourselves
in a circle of venerable old men, all dressed in black; the hall was
hung round with black and dimly lighted. A dead silence reigned in the
assembly, which inspired us with a feeling of awe. One of the old men,
who appeared to be the principal Inquisitor, approached the prince with
a solemn countenance, and said, pointing to the Venetian, who was led
forward:
"Do you recognize this man as the same who offended you at the
coffee-house?"
Then addressing the prisoner: "Is this the same person whom you meant to
have assassinated to-night?"
In the same instant the circle opened, and we saw with horror the head
of the Venetian severed from his body.
"Are you content with this satisfaction?" said the Inquisitor. The
prince had fainted in the arms of his attendants. "Go," added the
Inquisitor, turning to me, with a terrible voice, "Go; and in future
judge less hastily of the administration of justice in Venice."
Who the unknown friend was who had thus saved us from inevitable death,
by interposing in our behalf the active arm of justice, we could not
conjecture. Filled with terror we reached our hotel. It was past
midnight. The chamberlain, Z-------, was waiting anxiously for us at
the door.
"I sent you a message!" said the prince. "When? I know nothing of it."
"This evening, after eight, you sent us word that we must not be alarmed
if you should come home later to-night than usual."
The prince looked at me. "Perhaps you have taken this precaution
without mentioning it to me."
"It must be so, however," replied the chamberlain, "since here is your
repeating-watch, which you sent me as a mark of authenticity."
The prince put his hand to his watch-pocket. It was empty, and he
recognized the watch which the chamberlain held as his own.
We stood looking at each other. "What do you think of this?" said the
prince at last, after a long silence. "I have a secret guardian here in
Venice."
The frightful transaction of this night threw the prince into a fever,
which confined him to his room for a week. During this time our hotel
was crowded with Venetians and strangers, who visited the prince from a
deference to his newly-discovered rank. They vied with each other in
offers of service, and it was not a little entertaining to observe that
the last visitor seldom failed to hint some suspicion derogatory to the
character of the preceding one. Billets-doux and nostrums poured in
upon us from all quarters. Every one endeavored to recommend himself in
his own way. Our adventure with the Inquisition was no more mentioned.
The court of --------, wishing the prince to delay his departure from
Venice for some time, orders were sent to several bankers to pay him
considerable sums of money. He was thus, against his will, compelled to
protract his residence in Italy; and at his request I also resolved to
postpone my departure for some time longer.
As soon as the prince had recovered strength enough to quit his chamber
he was advised by his physician to take an airing in a gondola upon the
Brenta, for the benefit of the air, to which, as the weather was serene,
he readily consented. Just as the prince was about to step into the
boat he missed the key of a little chest in which some very valuable
papers were enclosed.. We immediately turned back to search for it. He
very distinctly remembered that he had locked the chest the day before,
and he had never left the room in the interval. As our endeavors to
find it proved ineffectual, we were obliged to relinquish the search in
order to avoid being too late. The prince, whose soul was above
suspicion, gave up the key as lost, and desired that it might not be
mentioned any more.
In the meantime our company had increased. An English lord, whom the
prince had seen before at Nice, some merchants of Leghorn, a German
prebendary, a French abbe with some ladies, and a Russian officer,
attached themselves to our party. The physiognomy of the latter had
something so uncommon as to attract our particular attention. Never in
my life did I see such various features and so little expression; so
much attractive benevolence and such forbidding coldness in the same
face. Each passion seemed by turns to have exercised its ravages on it,
and to have successively abandoned it. Nothing remained but the calm,
piercing look of a person deeply skilled in the knowledge of mankind;
but it was a look that abashed every one on whom it was directed. This
extraordinary man followed us at a distance, and seemed apparently to
take but little interest in what was passing.
We came to a booth where there was a lottery. The ladies bought shares.
We followed their example, and the prince himself purchased a ticket.
He won a snuffbox. As he opened it I saw him turn pale and start back.
It contained his lost key.
The sun was setting when we arrived at the pleasurehouse, where a supper
had been prepared for us. The prince's name had augmented our company
to sixteen. Besides the above-mentioned persons there was a virtuoso
from Rome, several Swiss gentlemen, and an adventurer from Palermo in
regimentals, who gave himself out for a captain. We resolved to spend
the evening where we were, and to return home by torchlight. The
conversation at table was lively. The prince could not forbear relating
his adventure of the key, which excited general astonishment. A warm
dispute on the subject presently took place. Most of the company
positively maintained that the pretended occult sciences were nothing
better than juggling tricks. The French abbe, who had drank rather too
much wine, challenged the whole tribe of ghosts, the English lord
uttered blasphemies, and the musician made a cross to exorcise the
devil. Some few of the company, amongst whom was the prince, contended
that opinions respecting such matters ought to be kept to oneself. In
the meantime the Russian officer discoursed with the ladies, and did not
seem to pay attention to any part of conversation. In the heat of the
dispute no one observed that the Sicilian had left the room. In less
than half an hour he returned wrapped in a cloak, and placed himself
behind the chair of the Frenchman. "A few moments ago," said he, "you
had the temerity to challenge the whole tribe of ghosts. Would you wish
to make a trial with one of them?"
"I will," answered the abbe, "if you will take upon yourself to
introduce one."
"That I am ready to do," replied the Sicilian, turning to us, "as soon
as these ladies and gentlemen have left us."
"Why only then?" exclaimed the Englishman. "A courageous ghost will
surely not be afraid of a cheerful company."
"I would not answer for the consequences," said the Sicilian.
"For heaven's sake, no!" cried the ladies, starting affrighted from
their chairs.
"Call your ghost," said the abbe, in a tone of defiance, "but warn him
beforehand that there are sharp-pointed weapons here." At the same time
he asked one of the company for a sword.
"If you preserve the same intention in his presence," answered the
Sicilian, coolly, "you may then act as you please." He then turned
towards the prince: "Your highness," said he, "asserts that your key has
been in the hands of a stranger; can you conjecture in whose?"
"No"
"Undoubtedly."
The Sicilian, throwing back his cloak, took out a looking-glass and held
it before the prince. "Is this the man?"
"The Armenian."
"Is it the person whom you thought of?" demanded the whole company.
"The same."
"The fellow is in league with the devil," exclaimed the Frenchman, and
rushed out of the house. The ladies ran shrieking from the room. The
virtuoso followed them. The German prebendary was snoring in a chair.
The Russian officer continued sitting in his place as before, perfectly
indifferent to what was passing.
"Perhaps your attention was only to raise a laugh at the expense of that
boaster," said the prince, after they were gone, "or would you indeed
fulfil your promise to us?"
"It is true," replied the Sicilian; "I was but jesting with the abbe.
I took him at his word, because I knew very well that the coward would
not suffer me to proceed to extremities. The matter itself is, however,
too serious to serve merely as a jest."
The sorcerer maintained a long silence, and kept his look fixed steadily
on the prince, as if to examine him.
The prince's curiosity was now raised to the highest pitch. A fondness
for the marvellous had ever been his prevailing weakness. His improved
understanding and a proper course of reading had for some time
dissipated every idea of this kind; but the appearance of the Armenian
had revived them. He stepped aside with the Sicilian, and I heard them
in very earnest conversation.
"You see in me," said the prince, "a man who burns with impatience to be
convinced on this momentous subject. I would embrace as a benefactor,
I would cherish as my best friend him who could dissipate my doubts
and remove the veil from my eyes. Would you render me this important
service?"
"For the present I only beg some proof of your art. Let me see an
apparition."
"I have the greatest esteem for your highness, gracious prince. A
secret power in your countenance, of which you yourself are as yet
ignorant, drew me at first sight irresistibly towards you. You are more
powerful than you are yourself aware. You may command me to the utmost
extent of my power, but--"
"But I must first be certain that you do not require it from mere
curiosity. Though the invisible powers are in some degree at my
command, it is on the sacred condition that I do not abuse my
authority."
They left their places, and removed to a distant window, where I could
no longer hear them. The English lord, who had likewise overheard this
conversation, took me aside. "Your prince has a noble mind. I am sorry
for him. I will pledge my salvation that he has to do with a rascal."
"I am content." The Englishman threw six guineas upon a plate, and went
round gathering subscriptions. Each of us contributed some louis-d'ors.
The Russian officer was particularly pleased with our proposal; he laid
a bank-note of one hundred zechins on the plate, a piece of extravagance
which startled the Englishman. We brought the collection to the prince.
"Be so kind," said the English lord, "as to entreat this gentleman in
our names to let us see a specimen of his art, and to accept of this
small token of our gratitude." The prince added a ring of value, and
offered the whole to the Sicilian. He hesitated a few moments.
"Gentlemen," answered he, "I am humbled by this generosity, but I yield
to your request. Your wishes shall be gratified." At the same time he
rang the bell. "As for this money," continued he, "to which I have no
right myself, permit me to send it to the next monastery to be applied
to pious uses. I shall only keep this ring as a precious memorial of
the worthiest of princes."
Here the landlord entered; and the Sicilian handed him over the money.
"He is a rascal notwithstanding," whispered the Englishman to me.
"He refuses the money because at present his designs are chiefly on the
prince."
The prince considered for a moment. "We may as well have a great man at
once," said the Englishman. "Ask for Pope Ganganelli. It can make no
difference to this gentleman."
The Sicilian bit his lips. "I dare not call one of the Lord's
anointed."
"The Marquis de Lanoy," began the prince, "was a French brigadier in the
late war, and my most intimate friend. Having received a mortal wound
in the battle of Hastinbeck, he was carried to my tent, where he soon
after died in my arms. In his last agony he made a sign for me to
approach. 'Prince,' said he to me, 'I shall never again behold my
native land. I must, therefore, acquaint you with a secret known to
none but myself. In a convent on the frontiers of Flanders lives
a --------' He expired. Death cut short the thread of his discourse.
I wish to see my friend to hear the remainder."
"You ask much," exclaimed the Englishman, with an oath. "I proclaim you
the greatest sorcerer on earth if you can solve this problem," continued
he, turning to the Sicilian. We admired the wise choice of the prince,
and unanimously gave our approval to the proposition. In the meantime
the sorcerer paced up and down the room with hasty steps, apparently
struggling with himself.
"It is all."
"Did you make no further inquiries about the matter in his native
country?"
"Had the Marquis de Lanoy led an irreproachable life? I dare not call
up every shade indiscriminately."
"I do." (The prince had really a snuff-box with the marquis' portrait
enamelled in miniature on the lid, which he had placed upon the table
near his plate during the time of supper.)
"I do not want to know what it is. If you will leave me you shall see
the deceased."
It was past eleven, and a dead silence reigned throughout the whole
house. As we were retiring from the saloon the Russian officer asked me
whether we had loaded pistols. "For what purpose?" asked I. "They may
possibly be of some use," replied he. "Wait a moment. I will provide
some." He went away. The Baron F------ and I opened a window opposite
the pavilion we had left. We fancied we heard two persons whispering
to each other, and a noise like that of a ladder applied to one of the
windows. This was, however, a mere conjecture, and I did not dare
affirm it as a fact. The Russian officer came back with a brace of
pistols, after having been absent about half an hour. We saw him load
them with powder and ball. It was almost two o'clock in the morning
when the sorcerer came and announced that all was prepared. Before we
entered the room he desired us to take off our shoes, and to appear in
our shirts, stockings, and under-garments. He bolted the doors after us
as before.
We found in the middle of the room a large, black circle, drawn with
charcoal, the space within which was capable of containing us all very
easily. The planks of the chamber floor next to the wall were taken up
all round the room, so that we stood as it were upon an island. An
altar covered with black cloth was placed in the centre upon a carpet of
red satin. A Chaldee Bible was laid open, together with a skull; and a
silver crucifix was fastened upon the altar. Instead of candles some
spirits of wine were burning in a silver vessel. A thick smoke of
frankincense darkened the room and almost extinguished the lights. The
sorcerer was undressed like ourselves, but barefooted; about his bare
neck he wore an amulet, suspended by a chain of human hair; round his
middle was a white apron marked with cabalistic characters and
symbolical figures.
"Thy friend," answered the sorcerer, "who respects thy memory, and prays
for thy soul." He named the prince.
The answers of the apparition were always given at very long intervals.
"He wants to hear the remainder of the confession which then had begun
to impart to him in thy dying hour, but did not finish."
During all this time the prince stood fearless and tranquil, his eyes
riveted on the second apparition. "Yes, I know thee," said he at
length, with emotion; "thou art Lanoy; thou art my friend. Whence
comest thou?"
The thunder again rolled; a black cloud of smoke filled the room; when
it had dispersed the figure was no longer visible. I forced open one of
the window shutters. It was daylight.
The sorcerer now recovered from his swoon. "Where are we?" asked he,
seeing the daylight.
The Russian officer stood close beside him, and looked over his
shoulder. "Juggler," said he to him, with a terrible countenance,
"Thou shalt summon no more ghosts."
A violent battering against the door roused us at last from this stupor.
The door fell in pieces into the room, and several officers of justice,
with a guard, rushed in. "Here they are, all together," said the leader
to his followers. Then addressing himself to us, "In the name of the
government," continued he, "I arrest you." We had no time to recollect
ourselves; in a few moments we were surrounded. The Russian officer,
whom I shall again call the Armenian, took the chief officer aside, and,
as far as I in my confusion could notice, I observed him whisper a few
words to the latter, and show him a written paper. The officer, bowing
respectfully, immediately quitted him, turned to us, and taking off his
hat, said "Gentlemen, I humbly beg your pardon for having confounded
you with this impostor. I shall not inquire who you are, as this
gentleman assures me you are men of honor." At the same time he gave
his companions a sign to leave us at liberty. He ordered the Sicilian
to be bound and strictly guarded. "The fellow is ripe for punishment,"
added he; "we have been searching for him these seven months."
The wretched sorcerer was really an object of pity. The terror caused
by the second apparition, and by this unexpected arrest, had together
overpowered his senses. Helpless as a child, he suffered himself to be
bound without resistance. His eyes were wide open and immovable; his
face was pale as death; his lips quivered convulsively, but he was
unable to utter a sound. Every moment we expected he would fall into a
fit. The prince was moved by the situation in which he saw him. He
undertook to procure his discharge from the leader of the police, to
whom he discovered his rank. "Do you know, gracious prince," said the
officer, "for whom your highness is so generously interceding? The
juggling tricks by which he endeavored to deceive you are the least of
his crimes. We have secured his accomplices; they depose terrible facts
against him. He may think himself fortunate if he is only punished with
the galleys."
In the meantime we saw the innkeeper and his family led bound through
the yard. "This man, too?" said the prince; "and what is his crime?"
"He was his comrade and accomplice," answered the officer. "He assisted
him in his deceptions and robberies, and shared the booty with him.
Your highness shall be convinced of it presently. Search the house,"
continued he, turning to his followers, "and bring me immediate notice
of what you find."
The prince looked around for the Armenian, but he had disappeared. In
the confusion occasioned by the arrival of the watch he had found means
to steal away unperceived. The prince was inconsolable; he declared he
would send all his servants, and would himself go in search of this
mysterious man; and he wished me to go with him. I hastened to the
window; the house was surrounded by a great number of idlers, whom the
account of this event had attracted to the spot. It was impossible to
get through the crowd. I represented this to the prince. "If," said I,
"it is the Armenian's intention to conceal himself from us, he is
doubtless better acquainted with the intricacies of the place than we,
and all our inquiries would prove fruitless. Let us rather remain here
a little longer, gracious prince," added I. "This officer, to whom, if
I observed right, he discovered himself, may perhaps give us some
information respecting him."
We now for the first time recollected that we were still undressed.
We hastened to the other pavilion and put on our clothes as quickly
as possible. When we returned they had finished searching the house.
On removing the altar and some of the boards of the floor a spacious
vault was discovered. It was high enough, for a man might sit upright
in it with ease, and was separated from the cellar by a door and a
narrow staircase. In this vault they found an electrical machine, a
clock, and a little silver bell, which, as well as the electrical
machine, was in communication with the altar and the crucifix that was
fastened upon it. A hole had been made in the window-shutter opposite
the chimney, which opened and shut with a slide. In this hole, as we
learnt afterwards, was fixed a magic lantern, from which the figure of
the ghost had been reflected on the opposite wall, over the chimney.
From the garret and the cellar they brought several drums, to which
large leaden bullets were fastened by strings; these had probably been
used to imitate the roaring of thunder which we had heard.
"Jesus Maria! I am wounded," repeated the man in the chimney. The ball
had fractured his right leg. Care was immediately taken to have the
wound dressed.
"But who art thou?" said the English lord; "and what evil spirit
brought thee here?"
"I am a poor mendicant friar," answered the wounded man; "a strange
gentleman gave me a zechin to--"
"Repeat a speech. And why didst thou not withdraw as soon as thy task
was finished?"
The wounded man fainted away; nothing more could be got from him. In
the meantime the prince turned towards the principal officer of the
watch, giving him at the same time some pieces of gold. "You have
rescued us," said he, "from the hands of an impostor, and done us
justice without even knowing who we were; would you increase our
gratitude by telling us the name of the stranger who, by speaking
only a few words, was able to procure us our liberty."
"Whom do you mean?" inquired the party addressed, with an air which
plainly showed that the question was useless.
"The gentleman in a Russian uniform, who took you aside, showed you a
written paper, and whispered a few words, in consequence of which you
immediately set us free."
"Do not you know the gentleman? Was he not one of your company?"
"No," answered the prince; "and I have very important reasons for
wishing to be more intimately acquainted with him."
"I know very little of him myself. Even his name is unknown to me, and
I saw him to-day for the first time in my life."
"How? And was he in so short a time, and by using only a few words,
able to convince you both of our innonocence and his own?"
"Undoubtedly, with a single word."
"I will tell your highness more. It was upon his information that I
have been sent here to arrest the sorcerer."
"Now we know," said the English lord at length, "why the poor devil of a
sorcerer started in such a terror when he looked more closely into his
face. He knew him to be a spy, and that is why he uttered that shriek,
and fell down before him."
"The sorcerer himself will probably explain it the best," said the
English lord, "if that gentleman," pointing to the officer, "will afford
us an opportunity of speaking with his prisoner."
The officer consented to it, and, having agreed with the Englishman to
visit the Sicilian in the morning, we returned to Venice.
Lord Seymour (this was the name of the Englishman) called upon us very
early in the forenoon, and was soon after followed by a confidential
person whom the officer had entrusted with the care of conducting us to
the prison.
I forgot to mention that one of the prince's domestics, a native of
Bremen, who had served him many years with the strictest fidelity, and
had entirely gained his confidence, had been missing for several days.
Whether he had met with any accident, whether he had been kidnapped,
or had voluntarily absented himself, was a secret to every one. The
last supposition was extremely improbable, as his conduct had always
been quiet and regular, and nobody had ever found fault with him. All
that his companions could recollect was that he had been for some time
very melancholy, and that, whenever he had a moment's leisure, he used
to visit a certain monastery in the Giudecca, where he had formed an
acquaintance with some monks. This induced us to suppose that he might
have fallen into the hands of the priests and had been persuaded to turn
Catholic; and as the prince was very tolerant, or rather indifferent
about matters of this kind, and the few inquiries he caused to be made
proved unsuccessful, he gave up the search. He, however, regretted the
loss of this man, who had constantly attended him in his campaigns,
had always been faithfully attached to him, and whom it was therefore
difficult to replace in a foreign country. The very same day the
prince's banker, whom he had commissioned to provide him with another
servant, was announced at the moment we were going out. He presented to
the prince a middle-aged man, well-dressed, and of good appearance, who
had been for a long time secretary to a procurator, spoke French and a
little German, and was besides furnished with the best recommendations.
The prince was pleased with the man's physiognomy; and as he declared
that he would be satisfied with such wages as his service should be
found to merit, the prince engaged him immediately.
"I come," said the prince, "to request an explanation of you on two
subjects. You owe me the one, and it shall not be to your disadvantage
if you grant me the other."
"My part is now acted," replied the Sicilian, "my destiny is in your
hands."
"But how could you read my thoughts so accurately as to hit upon the
Armenian?"
"This was not difficult, your highness. You must frequently have
mentioned your adventure with the Armenian at table in the presence of
your domestics. One of my accomplices accidentally got acquainted with
one of your domestics in the Giudecca, and learned from him gradually as
much as I wished to know."
"Where is the man?" asked the prince; "I have missed him, and doubtless
you know of his desertion."
"I swear to your honor, sir, that I know not a syllable about it. I
have never seen him myself, nor had any other concern with him than the
one before mentioned."
"By this means, also, I received the first information of your residence
and of your adventures at Venice; and I resolved immediately to profit
by them. You see, prince, I am sincere. I was apprised of your
intended excursion on the Brenta. I prepared for it, and a key that
dropped by chance from your pocket afforded me the first opportunity of
trying my art upon you."
"How! Have I been mistaken? The adventure of the key was then a trick
of yours, and not of the Armenian? You say this key fell from my
pocket?"
"I understand you. And the monk who stopped me in my way and addressed
me in a manner so solemn."
"Was the same who, as I hear, has been wounded in the chimney. He is
one of my accomplices, and under that disguise has rendered me many
important services."
"To render you thoughtful; to inspire you with such a train of ideas as
should be favorable to the wonders I intended afterwards to show you."
"I had taught the girl who represented the queen. Her performance was
the result of my instructions. I supposed your highness would be not a
little astonished to find yourself known in this place, and (I entreat
your pardon, prince) your adventure with the Armenian gave me reason to
hope that you were already disposed to reject natural interpretations,
and to attribute so marvellous an occurrence to supernatural agency."
"Indeed," exclaimed the prince, at once angry and amazed, and casting
upon me a significant look; "indeed, I did not expect this."
"But," continued he, after a long silence, "how did you produce the
figure which appeared on the wall over the chimney?"
"But how did it happen that not one of us perceived the lantern?" asked
Lord Seymour.
"Exactly; it was the ladder upon which my assistants stood to direct the
magic-lantern."
"Your highness must recollect that you had at table a snuff-box by your
plate, with an enamelled portrait of an officer in a uniform. I asked
whether you had anything about you as a memento of your friend, and as
your highness answered in the affirmative, I conjectured that it might
be the box. I had attentively examined the picture during supper, and
being very expert in drawing and not less happy in taking likenesses, I
had no difficulty in giving to my shade the superficial resemblance you
have perceived, the more so as the marquis' features are very marked."
"It appeared so, yet it was not the figure that moved but the smoke
on which the light was reflected."
"And the man who fell down in the chimney spoke for the apparition?"
"He did."
"There was no occasion for it. Your highness will recollect that I
cautioned you all very strictly not to propose any question to the
apparition yourselves. My inquiries and his answers were preconcerted
between us; and that no mistake might happen, I caused him to speak at
long intervals, which he counted by the beating of a watch."
"To save the man in the chimney from the danger of being suffocated;
because the chimneys in the house communicate with each other, and I did
not think myself very secure from your retinue."
"How did it happen," asked Lord Seymour, "that your ghost appeared
neither sooner nor later than you wished him?"
"The ghost was in the room for some time before I called him, but while
the room was lighted, the shade was too faint to be perceived. When the
formula of the conjuration was finished, I caused the cover of the box,
in which the spirit was burning, to drop down, the saloon was darkened,
and it was not till then that the figure on the wall could be distinctly
seen, although it had been reflected there a considerable time before."
"When the ghost appeared, we all felt an electric shock. How was that
managed?"
"You have discovered the machine under the altar. You have also seen
that I was standing upon a silk carpet. I directed you to form a
half-moon around me, and to take each other's hands. When the crisis
approached, I gave a sign to one of you to seize me by the hair. The
silver crucifix was the conductor, and you felt the electric shock when
I touched it with my hand."
"You ordered Count O----- and myself," continued Lord Seymour, "to hold
two naked swords crossways over your head, during the whole time of the
conjuration; for what purpose?"
"I own," cried Lord Seymour, "you acted with due precaution--but why
were we obliged to appear undressed?"
"The second apparition prevented your ghost from speaking," said the
prince. "What should we have learnt from him?"
"Nearly the same as what you heard afterwards. It was not without
design that I asked your highness whether you had told me everything
that the deceased communicated to you, and whether you had made any
further inquiries on this subject in his country. I thought this was
necessary, in order to prevent the deposition of the ghost from being
contradicted by facts with which you were previously acquainted.
Knowing likewise that every man in his youth is liable to error,
I inquired whether the life of your friend had been irreproachable,
and on your answer I founded that of the ghost."
"No conditions! Justice, in whose hands you now are, might perhaps not
interrogate you with so much delicacy. Who was this unknown at whose
feet we saw you fall? What do you know of him? How did you get
acquainted with him? And in what way was he connected with the
appearance of the second apparition?
"Your highness"--
"On looking at him more attentively, you gave a loud scream, and fell at
his feet. What are we to understand by that?"
"This man, your highness"--He stopped, grew visibly perplexed, and with
an embarrassed countenance looked around him. "Yes, prince, by all that
is sacred, this unknown is a terrible being."
"What do you know of him? What connection have you with him? Do not
hope to conceal the truth from us."
"I shall take care not to do so,--for who will warrant that he is not
among us at this very moment?"
"To judge from his appearance he can scarcely have passed forty."
"Quite right; and I must tell you that I was but a boy of seventeen when
my grandfather spoke to me of this marvellous man whom he had seen at
Famagusta; at which time he appeared nearly of the same age as he does
at present."
"The twelfth in the night. When the clock strikes twelve at midnight
he ceases to belong to the living. In whatever place he is he must
immediately be gone; whatever business he is engaged in he must
instantly leave it. The terrible sound of the hour of midnight tears
him from the arms of friendship, wrests him from the altar, and would
drag him away even in the agonies of death. Whither he then goes, or
what he is then engaged in, is a secret to every one. No person
ventures to interrogate, still less to follow him. His features, at
this dread ful hour, assume a sternness of expression so gloomy and
terrifying that no person has courage sufficient to look him in the
face, or to speak a word to him. However lively the conversation may
have been, a dead silence immediately succeeds it, and all around wait
for his return in respectful silence without venturing to quit their
seats, or to open the door through which he has passed."
"Did no person ever attempt to conceal the approach of this hour from
him, or endeavor to preoccupy his mind in such a manner as to make him
forget it?"
"Once only, it is said, he missed the appointed time. The company was
numerous and remained together late in the night. All the clocks and
watches were purposely set wrong, and the warmth of conversation carried
him away. When the stated hour arrived he suddenly became silent and
motionless; his limbs continued in the position in which this instant
had arrested them; his eyes were fixed; his pulse ceased to beat. All
the means employed to awake him proved fruitless, and this situation
endured till the hour had elapsed. He then revived on a sudden without
any assistance, opened his eyes, and resumed his speech at the very
syllable which he was pronouncing at the moment of interruption. The
general consternation discovered to him what had happened, and he
declared, with an awful solemnity, that they ought to think themselves
happy in having escaped with the fright alone. The same night he
quitted forever the city where this circumstance had occurred. The
common opinion is that during this mysterious hour he converses with his
genius. Some even suppose him to be one of the departed who is allowed
to pass twenty-three hours of the day among the living, and that in the
twenty-fourth his soul is obliged to return to the infernal regions to
suffer its punishment. Some believe him to be the famous Apollonius of
Tyana; and others the disciple of John, of whom it is said, 'He shall
remain until the last judgment.'"
"If it concerns something," continued the prince, "that you do not wish
to be made known, I promise you, in the name of these two gentlemen, the
most inviolable secrecy. But speak candidly and without reserve."
"Could I hope," answered the prisoner, after a long silence, "that you
would not make use of what I am going to relate as evidence against me,
I would tell you a remarkable adventure of this Armenian, of which I
myself was witness, and which will leave you no doubt of his
supernatural powers. But I beg leave to conceal some of the names."
"It is about five years ago," began the Sicilian, "that at Naples, where
I was practising my art with tolerable success, I became acquainted with
a person of the name of Lorenzo del M-------, chevalier of the Order of
St. Stephen, a young and rich nobleman, of one of the first families in
the kingdom, who loaded me with kindnesses, and seemed to have a great
esteem for my occult knowledge. He told me that the Marquis del M--nte,
his father, was a zealous admirer of the cabala, and would think himself
happy in having a philosopher like myself (for such he was pleased to
call me) under his roof. The marquis lived in one of his country seats
on the sea-shore, about seven miles from Naples. There, almost entirely
secluded from the world, he bewailed, the loss of a beloved son, of whom
he had been deprived by a terrible calamity. The chevalier gave me to
understand that he and his family might perhaps have occasion to employ
me on a matter of the most grave importance, in the hope of gaining
through my secret science some information, to procure which all natural
means had been tried in vain. He added, with a very significant look,
that he himself might, perhaps at some future period, have reason to
look upon me as the restorer of his tranquillity, and of all his earthly
happiness. The affair was as follows:--
"This Lorenzo was the younger son of the marquis, and for that reason
had been destined for the church; the family estates were to descend to
the eldest. Jeronymo, which was the name of the latter, had spent many
years on his travels, and had returned to his country about seven years
prior to the event which I am about to relate, in order to celebrate his
marriage with the only daughter of the neighboring Count C----tti. This
marriage had been determined on by the parents during the infancy of the
children, in order to unite the large fortunes of the two houses. But
though this agreement was made by the two families, without consulting
the hearts of the parties concerned, the latter had mutually pledged
their faith to each other in secret. Jeronymo del M------ and Antonia
C----- had been brought up together, and the little restraint imposed on
two children, whom their parents were already accustomed to regard as
destined for each other, soon produced between them a connection of the
tenderest kind; the congeniality of their tempers cemented this
intimacy; and in later years it ripened insensibly into love. An
absence of four years, far from cooling this passion, had only served to
inflame it; and Jeronymo returned to the arms of his intended bride as
faithful and as ardent as if they had never been separated.
"The raptures occasioned by his return had not yet subsided, and the
preparations for the happy day were advancing with the utmost zeal and
activity, when the bridegroom disappeared. He used frequently to pass
whole afternoons in a summer-house which commanded a prospect of the
sea, and was accustomed to take the diversion of sailing on the water.
One day, on an evening spent in this manner, it was observed that he
remained absent a much longer time than usual, and his friends began to
be very uneasy on his account. Messengers were despatched after him,
vessels were sent to sea in quest of him; no person had seen him. None
of his servants were missed; he must, therefore, have gone alone. Night
came on, and he did not appear. The next morning dawned; the day
passed, the evening succeeded--, Jeronymo came not. Already they had
begun to give themselves up to the most melancholy conjectures when the
news arrived that an Algerine pirate had landed the preceeding day on
that coast, and carried off several of the inhabitants. Two galleys
which were ready for sea were immediately manned; the old marquis
himself embarked in one of them, to attempt the deliverance of his son
at the peril of his own life. On the third morning they perceived the
corsair. They had the advantage of the wind; they were just about to
overtake the pirate, and had even approached so near that Lorenzo, who
was in one of the galleys, fancied that he saw upon the deck of the
adversary's ship a signal made by his brother, when a sudden storm
separated the vessels. Hardly could the damaged galleys sustain the
fury of the tempest. The pirate in the meantime had disappeared, and
the distressed state of the other vessels obliged them to land at Malta.
The affliction of the family knew no bounds. The distracted old marquis
tore his gray hairs in the utmost violence of grief; and fears were
entertained for the life of the young countess. Five years were
consumed in fruitless inquiries. Diligent search was made along all the
coast of Barbary; immense sums were offered for the ransom of the poor
marquis, but no person came forward to claim them. The only probable
conjecture which remained for the family to form was, that the same
storm which had separated the galleys from the pirate had destroyed the
latter, and that the whole ship's company had perished in the waves.
"But, however this supposition might be, it did not by any means amount
to a certainty, and could not authorize the family altogether to
renounce the hope that the lost Jeronymo might again appear. In case,
however, that he was really dead, either the family must become extinct,
or the younger son must relinquish the church, and assume the rights of
the elder. As justice, on the one hand, seemed to oppose the latter
measure, so, on the other hand, the necessity of preserving the family
from annihilation required that the scruple should not be carried too
far. In the meantime through grief and the infirmities of age, the old
marquis was fast sinking to his grave; every unsuccessful attempt
diminished the hope of finding his lost son; he saw the danger of his
family's becoming extinct, which might be obviated by a trifling
injustice on his part, in consenting to favor his younger son at the
expense of the elder. The consummation of his alliance with the house
of Count C---tti required only that a name should be changed, for the
object of the two families was equally accomplished, whether Antonia
became the wife of Lorenzo or of Jeronymo. The faint probability of the
latter's appearing again weighed but little against the certain and
pressing danger of the total extinction of the family, and the old
marquis, who felt the approach of death every day more and more,
ardently wished at least to die free from this inquietude.
"But all the arguments which fraternal delicacy could adduce were
insufficient to reconcile the old marquis to the idea of being obliged
to witness the extinction of a pedigree which nine centuries had beheld
flourishing. All that Lorenzo could obtain was a respite of two years
before leading the affianced bride of his brother to the altar. During
this period they continued their inquiries with the utmost diligence.
Lorenzo himself made several voyages, and exposed his person to many
dangers. No trouble, no expense was spared to recover the lost
Jeronymo. These two years, however, like those which preceded them,
were in vain?"
"And the Countess Antonia?" said the prince, "You tell us nothing of
her. Could she so calmly submit to her fate? I cannot suppose it."
"This was the state of affairs when the chevalier engaged me to visit
him at his father's villa. The earnest recommendation of my patron
procured me a reception which exceeded my most sanguine hopes. I must
not forget to mention that by some remarkable operations I had
previously rendered my name famous in different lodges of Freemasons,
which circumstance may, perhaps, have contributed to strengthen the old
marquis' confidence in me, and to heighten his expectations. I beg you
will excuse me from describing particularly the lengths I went with him,
and the means which I employed; you may judge of them from what I have
already confessed to you. Profiting by the mystic books which I found
in his very extensive library, I was soon able to converse with him in
his own language, and to adorn my system of the invisible world with the
most extraordinary inventions. In a short time I could make him believe
whatever I pleased, and he would have sworn as readily as upon an
article in the canon. Moreover, as he was very devout, and was by nature
somewhat credulous, my fables received credence the more readily, and in
a short time I had so completely surrounded and hemmed him in with
mystery that he cared for nothing that was not supernatural. In short I
became the patron saint of the house. The usual subject of my lectures
was the exaltation of human nature, and the intercourse of men with
superior beings; the infallible Count Gabalis was my oracle.
"The young countess, whose mind since the loss of her lover had been more
occupied in the world of spirits than in that of nature, and who had,
moreover, a strong shade of melancholy in her composition, caught my
hints with a fearful satisfaction. Even the servants contrived to have
some business in the room when I was speaking, and seizing now and then
one of my expressions, joined the fragments together in their own way.
"Two months were passed in this manner at the marquis' villa, when the
chevalier one morning entered my apartment. A deep sorrow was painted
on his countenance, his features were convulsed, he threw himself into a
chair, with gestures of despair.
"'Captain,' said he, 'it is all over with me, I must begone; I can
remain here no longer.'
"'Oh! this fatal passion!' said he, starting frantically from his chair.
'I have combated it like a man; I can resist it no longer.'
"'And whose fault is it but yours, my dear chevalier? Are they not all
in your favor? Your father, your relations.'
"'My father, my relations! What are they to me? I want not a forced
union, but one of inclination, Have not I a rival? Alas! and what a
rival! Perhaps among the dead! Oh! let me go! Let me go to the end
of the world,--I must find my brother.'
"'What! after so many unsuccessful attempts can you still cherish hope?'
"'Hope!' replied the chevalier; 'alas! no. It has long since vanished
from my heart, but it has not from hers. Of what consequence are my
sentiments? Can I be happy while there remains a gleam of hope in
Antonia's heart? Two words, my friend, would end my torments. But it
is in vain. My destiny must continue to be miserable till eternity
shall break its long silence, and the grave shall speak in my behalf.'
"'The whole earthly happiness! Ah, my friend, I feel what you say is
but too true; my entire felicity.'
"'For God's sake, my friend,' said he, interrupting me, no more of this.
Once, I avow it, I had such a thought; I think I mentioned it to you;
but I have long since rejected it as horrid and abominable.'
"You will have conjectured already," continued the Sicilian, "to what
this conversation led us. I endeavored to overcome the scruples of the
chevalier, and at last succeeded. We resolved to summon the spirit of
the deceased Jeronymo. I only stipulated for the delay of a fortnight,
in order, as I pretended, to prepare myself in a suitable manner for so
solemn an act. The time being expired, and my machinery in readiness,
I took advantage of a very gloomy day, when we were all assembled as
usual, to obtain the consent of the family, or rather, gradually to lead
them to the subject, so that they themselves requested it of me. The
most difficult part of the task was to obtain the approbation of
Antonia, whose presence was most essential. My endeavors were, however,
greatly assisted by the melancholy turn of her mind, and perhaps still
more so by a faint hope that Jeronymo might still be living, and
therefore would not appear. A want of confidence in the thing itself,
or a doubt of my ability, was the only obstacle which I had not to
contend with.
"Having obtained the consent of the family, the third day was fixed on
for the operation. I prepared them for the solemn transaction by
mystical instruction, by fasting, solitude, and prayers, which I ordered
to be continued till late in the night. Much use was also made of a
certain musical instrument, unknown till that time, and which, in such
cases, has often been found very powerful. The effect of these
artifices was so much beyond my expectation that the enthusiasm to which
on this occasion I was obliged to force myself was infinitely heightened
by that of my audience. The anxiously-expected hour at last arrived."
"I guess," said the prince, "whom you are now going to introduce. But
go on, go on."
"Do not fear, your highness. He will appear but too soon. I omit the
description of the farce itself, as it would lead me to too great a
length. Be it sufficient to say that it answered my utmost
expectations. The old marquis, the young countess, her mother, Lorenzo,
and a few others of the family, were present. You may imagine that
during my long residence in this house I had not wanted opportunities of
gathering information respecting everything that concerned the deceased.
Several portraits of him enabled me to give the apparition the most
striking likeness, and as I suffered the ghost to speak only by signs,
the sound of his voice could excite no suspicion.
"I think you judged rightly," said the prince. "In whatever respects
apparitions the most probable is the least acceptable. If their
communications are easily comprehended we undervalue the channel by
which they are obtained. Nay, we even suspect the reality of the
miracle if the discoveries which it brings to light are such as might
easily have been imagined. Why should we disturb the repose of a spirit
if it is to inform us of nothing more than the ordinary powers of the
intellect are capable of teaching us? But, on the other hand, if the
intelligence which we receive is extraordinary and unexpected it
confirms in some degree the miracle by which it is obtained; for who can
doubt an operation to be supernatural when its effect could not be
produced by natural means? I interrupt you," added the prince.
"Proceed in your narrative."
"I asked the ghost whether there was anything in this world which he
still considered as his own," continued the Sicilian, "and whether he
had left anything behind that was particularly dear to him? The ghost
shook his head three times, and lifted up his hand towards heaven.
Previous to his retiring he dropped a ring from his finger, which was
found on the floor after he had disappeared. Antonia took it, and,
looking at it attentively, she knew it to be the ring she had given her
intended husband on their betrothal."
"The ring!" exclaimed the prince, surprised. "How did you get it?"
"Who? I? It was not the true one, your highness; I got it. It was only
a counterfeit."
"Long before that time. It was a plain gold ring, and had, I believe,
the name of the young countess engraved on it. But you made me lose the
connection."
"The family felt convinced that Jeronymo was no more. From that day
forward they publicly announced his death, and went into mourning. The
circumstance of the ring left no doubt, even in the mind of Antonia, and
added a considerable weight to the addresses of the chevalier.
"In the meantime the violent shock which the young countess had received
from the sight of the apparition brought on her a disorder so dangerous
that the hopes of Lorenzo were very near being destroyed forever. On
her recovery she insisted upon taking the veil; and it was only at the
most serious remonstrances of her confessor, in whom she placed implicit
confidence, that she was induced to abandon her project. At length the
united solicitations of the family, and of the confessor, forced from
her a reluctant consent. The last day of mourning was fixed on for the
day of marriage, and the old marquis determined to add to the solemnity
of the occasion by making over all his estates to his lawful heir.
"The day arrived, and Lorenzo received his trembling bride at the altar.
In the evening a splendid banquet was prepared for the cheerful guests
in a hall superbly illuminated, and the most lively and delightful music
contributed to increase the general gladness. The happy old marquis
wished all the world to participate in his joy. All the entrances of
the palace were thrown open, and every one who sympathized in his
happiness was joyfully welcomed. In the midst of the throng--"
"'Have you invited him, and has he failed to come?' asked the monk.
It was the first time he had spoken. We looked at him in alarm.
"'What means he?' whispered the company to one another. Lorenzo changed
color. I will not deny that my own hair began to stand on end.
"'Be you who you may, reverend father!' exclaimed the old marquis, 'you
have pronounced a name dear to us all, and you are heartily welcome
here;' then turning to us, he offered us full glasses. 'Come, my
friends!' continued he, 'let us not be surpassed by a stranger. The
memory of my son Jeronymo!
"'There is one glass still unemptied," said the marquis. 'Why does my
son Lorenzo refuse to drink this friendly toast?'
"Lorenzo, trembling, received the glass from the hands of the monk;
tremblingly he put it to his lips. 'To my dearly-beloved brother
Jeronymo!' he stammered out, and replaced the glass with a shudder.
"Do not ask me the rest," added the Sicilian, with every symptom of
horror in his countenance. "I lost my senses the moment I looked at
this apparition. The same happened to every one present. When we
recovered the monk and the ghost had disappeared; Lorenzo was writhing
in the agonies of death. He was carried to bed in the most dreadful
convulsions. No person attended him but his confessor and the sorrowful
old marquis, in whose presence he expired. The marquis died a few weeks
after him. Lorenzo's secret is locked in the bosom of the priest who
received his last confession; no person ever learnt what it was.
"Soon after this event a well was cleaned in the farmyard of the
marquis' villa. It had been disused for many years, and was almost
closed up by shrubs and old trees. On digging among the rubbish a human
skeleton was found. The house where this happened is now no more; the
family del M-----nte is extinct, and Antonia's tomb may be seen in a
convent not far from Salerno.
"You see," continued the Sicilian, seeing us all stand silent and
thoughtful, "you see how my acquaintance with this Russian officer,
Armenian, or Franciscan friar originated. Judge now whether I had not
good cause to tremble at the sight of a being who has twice placed
himself in my way in a manner so terrible."
"I beg you will answer me one question more," said the prince, rising
from his seat. "Have you been always sincere in your account of
everything relating to the chevalier?"
"How! He gave me no ring. I did not say that he gave me the ring."
"Very well!" said the prince, pulling the bell, and preparing to
depart. "And you believe" (going back to the prisoner) "that the ghost
of the Marquis de Lanoy, which the Russian officer introduced after your
apparition, was a true and real ghost?"
"Let us go!" said the prince, addressing himself to us. The gaoler came
in. "We have done," said the prince to him. "You, sir," turning to the
prisoner, "you shall hear further from me."
"I am tempted to ask your highness the last question you proposed to the
sorcerer," said I to the prince, when we were alone. "Do you believe
the second ghost to have been a real and true one?"
"I confess I was tempted for a moment to believe it something more than
the contrivance of a juggler."
"And I could wish to see the man who under similar circumstances would
not have had the same impression. But what reasons have you for
retracting your opinion? What the prisoner has related of the Armenian
ought to increase rather than diminish your belief in his super natural
powers."
"What this wretch has related of him," said the prince, interrupting me
very gravely. "I hope," continued he, "you have now no doubt but that
we have had to do with a villain."
"No; but must his evidence on that account--"
"But what motives could he have for giving so great a character to a man
whom he has so many reasons to hate?"
"I am not to conclude that he can have no motives for doing this because
I am unable to comprehend them. Do I know who has bribed him to deceive
me? I confess I cannot penetrate the whole contexture of his plan; but
he has certainly done a material injury to the cause he advocates by
proving himself to be at least an impostor, and perhaps something
worse."
"I have nothing to reply to all this, but the apparition we saw
yesterday is to me not the less incomprehensible."
"Do not you recollect that the second apparition, as soon as he entered,
walked directly up to the altar, took the crucifix in his hand, and
placed himself upon the carpet?"
"This is true with respect to the sword. But the pistol fired by the
Sicilian, the ball of which we heard roll slowly upon the altar?"
"Are you convinced that this was the same ball which was fired from the
pistol?" replied the prince. "Not to mention that the puppet, or the
man who represented the ghost, may have been so well accoutred as to be
invulnerable by sword or bullet; but consider who it was that loaded the
pistols."
"True," said I, and a sudden light broke upon my mind; "the Russian.
officer had loaded them, but it was in our presence. How could he have
deceived us?"
"Why should he not have deceived us? Did you suspect him sufficiently
to observe him? Did you examine the ball before it was put into the
pistol? May it not have been one of quicksilver or clay? Did you take
notice whether the Russian officer really put it into the barrel, or
dropped it into his other hand? But supposing that he actually loaded
the pistols, what is to convince you that he really took the loaded ones
into the room where the ghost appeared, and did not change them for
another pair, which he might have done the more easily as nobody ever
thought of noticing him, and we were besides occupied in undressing?
And could not the figure, at the moment when we were prevented from
seeing it by the smoke of the pistol, have dropped another ball, with
which it had been beforehand provided, on the the altar? Which of these
conjectures is impossible?"
"You are right. But that striking resemblance to your deceased friend!
I have often seen him with you, and I immediately recognized him in the
apparition."
"I did the same, and I must confess the illusion was complete. But if
the juggler from a few stolen glances at my snuff-box was able to give
to his apparition a resemblance, what was to prevent the Russian
officer, who had used the box during the whole time of supper, who had
had liberty to observe the picture unnoticed, and to whom I had
discovered in confidence whom it represented, what was to prevent him
from doing the same? Add to this what has been before observed by the
Sicilian, that the prominent features of the marquis were so striking as
to be easily imitated; what is there so inexplicable in this second
ghost?"
"But the words he uttered? The information he gave you about your
friend?"
"What?" said the prince, "Did not the Sicilian assure us, that from
the little which he had learnt from me he had composed a similar story?
Does not this prove that the invention was obvious and natural?
Besides, the answers of the ghost, like those of an oracle, were so
obscure that he was in no danger of being detected in a falsehood. If
the man who personated the ghost possessed sagacity and presence of
mind, and knew ever-so-little of the affair on which he was consulted,
to what length might not he have carried the deception?"
"Though the fact will not justify a conclusion such as you have
condemned, you must, however, grant that it is far beyond our
conception."
"I am almost tempted to dispute even this," said the prince, with a
quiet smile. "What would you say, my dear count, if it should be
proved, for instance, that the operations of the Armenian were prepared
and carried on, not only during the half-hour that he was absent from
us, not only in haste and incidentally, but during the whole evening and
the whole night? You recollect that the Sicilian employed nearly three
hours in preparation."
"And how will you convince me that this juggler had not as much concern
in the second apparition as in the first?"
"We will allow this. But is it consistent with the Armenian's plan that
he himself should destroy the illusion which he has created, and
disclose the mysteries of his science to the eyes of the uninitiated?"
"I cannot, however, yet prevail on myself to look upon the whole as a
mere preconcerted scheme. What! the Sicilian's terror, his convulsive
fits, his swoon, the deplorable situation in which we saw him, and which
was even such as to move our pity, were all these nothing more than a
studied part? I allow that a skilful performer may carry imitation to a
very high pitch, but he certainly has no power over the organs of life."
"As for that, my friend," replied the prince, "I have seen Richard III.
performed by Garrick. But were we at that moment sufficiently cool to
be capable of observing dispassionately? Could we judge of the emotion
of the Sicilian when we were almost overcome by our own? Besides, the
decisive crisis even of a deception is so momentous to the deceiver
himself that excessive anxiety may produce in him symptoms as violent
as those which surprise excites in the deceived. Add to this the
unexpected entrance of the watch."
"I am glad you remind me of that, prince. Would the Armenian have
ventured to discover such a dangerous scheme to the eye of justice; to
expose the fidelity of his creature to so severe a test? And for what
purpose?"
"You ask what could be his motives for delivering this man into the
hands of justice?" continued the prince. "By what other method, except
this violent one, could he have wrested from the Sicilian such an
infamous and improbable confession, which, however, was so material to
the success of his plan? Who but a man whose case is desperate, and who
has nothing to lose, would consent to give so humiliating an account of
himself? Under what other circumstances could we have believed such a
confession?"
"I grant all this, my prince. That the two apparitions were mere
contrivances of art; that the Sicilian has imposed upon us a tale which
the Armenian his master, had previously taught him; that the efforts of
both have been directed to the same end, and, from this mutual
intelligence all the wonderful incidents which have astonished us in
this adventure may be easily explained. But the prophecy in the square
of St. Mark, that first miracle, which, as it were, opened the door to
all the rest, still remains unexplained; and of what use is the key to
all his other wonders if we despair of resolving this single one?"
BOOK II.
"Not long after these events," continues Count O-----, in his narrative,
"I began to observe an extraordinary alteration in the disposition of
the prince, which was partly the immediate consequence of the last event
and partly produced by the concurrence of many adventitious
circumstances. Hitherto he had avoided every severe trial of his faith,
and contented himself with purifying the rude and abstract notions of
religion, in which he had been educated, by those more rational ideas
upon this subject which forced themselves upon his attention, or
comparing the many discordant opinions with each other, without
inquiring into the foundations of his faith. Religious subjects, he has
many times confessed to me, always appeared to him like an enchanted
castle, into which one does not set one's foot without horror, and that
they act therefore much the wiser part who pass it in respectful
silence, without exposing themselves to the danger of being bewildered
in its labyrinths. A servile and bigoted education was the source of
this dread; this had impressed frightful images upon his tender brain,
which, during the remainder of his life, he was never able wholly to
obliterate. Religious melancholy was an hereditary disorder in his
family. The education which he and his brothers had received was
calculated to produce it; and the men to whose care they were entrusted,
selected with this object, were also either enthusiasts or hypocrites.
"The confessions of the Sicilian left a deeper impression upon his mind
than they ought, considering the circumstances; and the small victory
which his reason had thence gained over this weak imposture, remarkably
increased his reliance upon his own powers. The facility with which he
had been able to unravel this deception appeared to have surprised him.
Truth and error were not yet so accurately distinguished from each other
in his mind but that he often mistook the arguments which were in favor
of the one for those in favor of the other. Thence it arose that the
same blow which destroyed his faith in wonders made the whole edifice of
it totter. In this instance, he fell into the same error as an
inexperienced man who has been deceived in love or friendship, because
he happened to make a bad choice, and who denies the existence of these
sensations, because he takes the occasional exceptions for
distinguishing features. The unmasking of a deception made even truth
suspicious to him, because he had unfortunately discovered truth by
false reasoning.
"Among the circles into which he had been introduced there was a private
society called the Bucentauro, which, under the mask of a noble and
rational liberality of sentiment, encouraged the most unbridled
licentiousness of manners and opinion. As it enumerated many of the
clergy among its members, and could even boast of some cardinals at its
head, the prince was the more easily induced to join it. He thought
that certain dangerous truths, which reason discovers, could be nowhere
better preserved than in the hands of such persons, whose rank compelled
them to moderation, and who had the advantage of hearing and examining
the other side of the question. The prince did not recollect that
licentiousness of sentiment and manners takes so much the stronger hold
among persons of this rank, inasmuch as they for that reason feel one
curb less; and this was the case with the Bucentauro, most of whose
members, through an execrable philosophy, and manners worthy of such a
guide, were not only a disgrace to their own rank, but even to human
nature itself. The society had its secret degrees; and I will believe,
for the credit of the prince, that they never thought him worthy of
admission into the inmost sanctuary. Every one who entered this society
was obliged, at least so long as he continued to be a member of it, to
lay aside all distinctions arising from rank, nation, or religion, in
short, every general mark or distinction whatever, and to submit himself
to the condition of universal equality. To be elected a member was
indeed a difficult matter, as superiority of understanding alone paved
the way to it. The society boasted of the highest ton and the most
cultivated taste, and such indeed was its fame throughout all Venice.
This, as well as the appearance of equality which predominated in it,
attracted the prince irresistibly. Sensible conversations, set off by
the most admirable humor, instructive amusements, and the flower of the
learned and political world, which were all attracted to this point as
to their common centre, concealed from him for a long time the danger
of this connection. As he by degrees discovered through its mask the
spirit of the institution, as they grew tired of being any longer on
their guard before him, to recede was dangerous, and false shame and
anxiety for his safety obliged him to conceal the displeasure he felt.
But he already began, merely from familiarity with men of this class and
their sentiments, though they did not excite him to imitation, to lose
the pure and charming simplicity of his character, and the delicacy of
his moral feelings. His understanding, supported by real knowledge,
could not without foreign assistance solve the fallacious sophisms with
which he had been here ensnared; and this fatal poison had already
destroyed all, or nearly all, the basis on which his morality rested.
He surrendered the natural and indispensable safeguards of his happiness
for sophisms which deserted him at the critical moment, and he was
consequently left to the operation of any specious argument which came
in his way.
"Perhaps the hand of a friend might yet have been in time to extricate
him from this abyss; but, besides that I did not become acquainted with
the real character of the Bucentauro till long after the evil had taken
place, an urgent circumstance called me away from Venice just at the
beginning of this period. Lord Seymour, too, a valuable acquaintance of
the prince, whose cool understanding was proof against every species of
deception, and who would have infallibly been a secure support to him,
left us at this time in order to return to his native country. Those in
whose hands I left the prince were indeed worthy men, but inexperienced,
excessively narrow in their religious opinions, deficient in their
perception of the evil, and wanting in credit with the prince. They had
nothing to oppose to his captious sophisms except the maxims of a blind
and uninquiring faith, which either irritated him or excited his
ridicule. He saw through them too easily, and his superior reason soon
silenced those weak defenders of the good cause, as will be clearly
evinced from an instance which I shall introduce in the sequel. Those
who, subsequent to this, possessed themselves of his confidence, were
much more interested in plunging him deeper into error. When I returned
to Venice in the following year how great a change had already taken
place in everything!
"The influence of this new philosophy soon showed itself in the prince's
conduct. The more openly he pursued pleasure, and acquired new friends,
the more did he lose in the estimation of his old ones. He pleased me
less and less every day; we saw each other more seldom, and indeed he
was seldom accessible. He had launched out into the torrent of the
great world. His threshold was eternally thronged when he was at home.
Amusements, banquets, and galas followed each other in rapid succession.
He was the idol whom every one courted, the great attraction of every
circle. In proportion as he, in his secluded life, had fancied living
in society to be difficult, did he to his astonishment find it easy.
Everything met his wishes. Whatever he uttered was admirable, and when
he remained silent it was like committing a robbery upon the company.
They understood the art of drawing his thoughts insensibly from his
soul, and then with a little delicate management to surprise him with
them. This happiness, which accompanied him everywhere, and this
universal success, raised him indeed too much in his own ideas, because
it gave him too much confidence and too much reliance upon himself.
"The heightened opinion which he thus acquired of his own worth made him
credit the excessive and almost idolatrous adoration that was paid to
his understanding; which but for this increased self-complacency, must
have necessarily recalled him from his aberrations. For the present,
however, this universal voice was only a confirmation of what his
complacent vanity whispered in his ear; a tribute which he felt entitled
to by right. He would have infallibly disengaged himself from this
snare had they allowed him to take breath; had they granted him a moment
of uninterrupted leisure to compare his real merit with the picture that
was exhibited to him in this seducing mirror; but his existence was a
continued state of intoxication, a whirl of excitement. The higher he
had been elevated the more difficulty had he to support himself in his
elevation. This incessant exertion slowly undermined him; rest had
forsaken even his slumbers. His weakness had been discovered, and the
passion kindled in his breast turned to good account.
"His worthy attendants soon found to their cost that their lord had
become a wit. That anxious sensibility, those glorious truths which his
heart once embraced with the greatest enthusiasm, now began to be the
objects of his ridicule. He revenged himself on the great truths of
religion for the oppression which he had so long suffered from
misconception. But, since from too true a voice his heart combated the
intoxication of his head, there was more of acrimony than of humor in
his jests. His disposition began to alter, and caprice to exhibit
itself. The most beautiful ornament of his character, his modesty,
vanished; parasites had poisoned his excellent heart. That tender
delicacy of address which frequently made his attendants forget that he
was their lord, now gave place to a decisive and despotic tone, which
made the more sensible impression, because it was not founded upon
distinction of rank, for the want of which they could have consoled
themselves, but upon an arrogant estimation of his own superior merit.
When at home he was attacked by reflections that seldom made their
appearance in the bustle of company; his own people scarcely ever saw
him otherwise than gloomy, peevish, and unhappy, whilst elsewhere a
forced vivacity made him the soul of every circle. With the sincerest
sorrow did we behold him treading this dangerous path, but in the vortex
in which he was involved the feeble voice of friendship was no longer
heard, and he was too much intoxicated to understand it.
LETTER I.
May 17.
I thank you, my most honored friend, for the permission you have given
me to continue in your absence that confidential intercourse with you,
which during your stay here formed my great pleasure. You must be aware
that there is no one here with whom I can venture to open my heart on
certain private matters. Whatever you may urge to the contrary, I
detest the people here. Since the prince has become one of them, and
since we have lost your society, I feel solitary in the midst of this
populous city. Z------ takes it less to heart, and the fair ones of
Venice manage to make him forget the mortifications he is compelled to
share with me at home. And why should he make himself unhappy? He
desires nothing more in the prince than a master, whom he could also
find elsewhere. But I!--you know how deep an interest I feel in our
prince's weal and woe, and how much cause I have for doing so; I have
now lived with him sixteen years, and seem to exist only for his sake.
As a boy of nine years old I first entered his service, and since that
time we have never been separated. I have grown up under his eye--a
long intercourse has insensibly attached me more and more to him--I have
borne a part in all his adventures, great and small. Until this last
unhappy year I had been accustomed to look upon him in the light of a
friend, or of an elder brother--I have basked in his smile as in the
sunshine of a summer's day--no cloud hung over my happiness!--and all
this must now go to ruin in this unlucky Venice!
Our internal arrangements remain the same as of old, except that the
prince, no longer held in check by your presence, is, if possible, more
reserved and distant towards us than ever; we see very little of him,
except while dressing or undressing him. Under the pretext that we
speak the French language very badly, and the Italian not at all, he has
found means to exclude us from most of his entertainments, which to me
personally is not a very great grievance; but I believe I know the true
reason of it--he is ashamed of us; and this hurts me, for we have not
deserved it of him.
As you wish to know all our minor affairs, I must tell you, that of all
his attendants, the prince almost exclusively employs Biondello, whom he
took into his service, as you will recollect, on the disappearance of
his huntsman, and who, in his new mode of life, has become quite
indispensable to him. This man knows Venice thoroughly, and turns
everything to some account. It is as though he had a thousand eyes,
and could set a thousand hands in motion at once. This he accomplishes,
as he says, by the help of the gondoliers. To the prince he renders
himself very useful by making him acquainted with all the strange faces
that present themselves at his assemblies, and the private information
he gives his highness has always proved to be correct. Besides this,
he speaks and writes both Italian and French excellently, and has in
consequence already risen to be the prince's secretary. I must,
however, relate to you an instance of fidelity in him which is rarely
found among people of his station. The other day a merchant of good
standing from Rimini requested an audience of the prince. The object
of his visit was an extraordinary complaint concerning Biondello. The
procurator, his former master, who must have been rather an odd fellow,
had lived in irreconcilable enmity with his relations; this enmity he
wished if possible to continue even after his death. Biondello
possessed his entire confidence, and was the repository of all his
secrets; while on his deathbed he obliged him to swear that he would
keep them inviolably, and would never disclose them for the benefit of
his relations; a handsome legacy was to be the reward of his silence.
When the deceased procurator's will was opened and his papers inspected,
many blanks and irregularities were found to which Biondello alone could
furnish a key. He persisted in denying that he knew anything about it,
gave up his very handsome legacy to the heirs, and kept his secrets to
himself. Large offers were made to him by the relations, but all in
vain; at length, in order to escape from their importunities and their
threats of legally prosecuting him he entered the service of the prince.
The merchant, who was the chief heir, now applied to the prince, and
made larger offers than, before if Biondello would alter his
determination. But even the persuasions of the prince were fruitless.
He admitted that secrets of consequence had really been confided to him;
he did not deny that the deceased had perhaps carried his enmity towards
his relations too far; but, added he, he was my dear master and
benefactor, and died with a firm belief in my integrity. I was the only
friend he had left in the world, and will therefore never prove myself
unworthy of his confidence. At the same time he hinted that the avowals
they wished him to make would not tend to the honor of the deceased.
Was not that acting nobly and delicately? You may easily imagine that
the prince did not renew his endeavors to shake so praiseworthy a
determination. The extraordinary fidelity which he has shown towards
his deceased master has procured him the unlimited confidence of his
present one!
Farewell, my dear friend. How I sigh for the quiet life we led when
first you came amongst us, for the stillness of which your society so
agreeably indemnified us. I fear my happy days in Venice are over, and
shall be glad if the same remark does not also apply to the prince. The
element in which he now lives is not calculated to render him
permanently happy, or my sixteen years' experience has deceived me.
LETTER II.
I should never have thought that our stay at Venice would have been
productive of any good consequences. It has been the means of saving a
man's life, and I am reconciled to it.
Some few evenings ago the prince was being carried home late at night
from the Bucentauro; two domestics, of whom Biondello was one,
accompanied him. By some accident it happened that the sedan, which had
been hired in haste, broke down, and the prince was obliged to proceed
the remainder of the way-on foot. Biondello walked in front; their
course lay through several dark, retired streets, and, as daybreak was
at hand, the lamps were either burning dimly or had gone out altogether.
They had proceeded about a quarter of an hour when Biondello discovered
that he had lost his way. The similarity of the bridges had deceived
him, and, instead of crossing that of St. Mark, they found themselves in
Sestiere di Castello. It was in a by-street, and not a soul was
stirring; they were obliged to turn back in order to gain a main street
by which to set themselves right. They had proceeded but a few paces
when they heard cries of "murder" in a neighboring street. With his
usual determined courage, the prince, unarmed as he was, snatched a
stick from one of his attendants, and rushed forward in the direction
whence the sound came. Three ruffianly-looking fellows were just about
to assassinate a man, who with his companion was feebly defending
himself; the prince appeared just in time to arrest the fatal blow. The
voices of the prince and his followers alarmed the murderers, who did
not expect any interruption in so lonely a place; after inflicting a few
slight wounds with their daggers, they abandoned their victim and took
to their heels. Exhausted with the unequal combat, the wounded man sunk
half fainting into the arms of the prince; his companion informed my
master that the man whose life he had saved was the Marquis Civitella,
a nephew of the Cardinal A------. As the marquis' wounds bled freely,
Biondello acted as surgeon to the best of his ability, and the prince
took care to have him conveyed to the palace of his uncle, which was
near at hand, and whither he himself accompanied him. This done, he
left the house without revealing his name.
"I must dismiss this man," said he to me next morning, "for I am unable
to reward him according to his merits." Biondello, who had overheard
these words, came forward, "If you dismiss me, gracious prince," said
he, "you deprive me of my best reward."
"Do not press upon me any better fortune, gracious sir, than that which
I have chosen for myself."
LETTER III.
The Marquis of Civitella, who is now entirely recovered from his wounds,
was last week introduced to the prince by his uncle, the cardinal, and
since then he has followed him like his shadow. Biondello cannot have
told me the truth respecting this marquis, or at any rate his account
must be greatly exaggerated. His mien is highly engaging, and his
manners irresistibly winning.
The prince has now assumed the authority of a preceptor towards him, and
treats him with all the watchfulness fulness and strictness of a Mentor.
But this intimacy also gives the marquis a certain degree of influence,
of which he well knows how to avail himself. He hardly stirs from his
side; he is present at all parties where the prince is one of the
guests; for the Bucentauro alone he is fortunately as yet too young.
Wherever be appears in public with the prince he manages to draw him
away from the rest of the company by the pleasing manner in which he
engages him in conversation and arrests his attention. Nobody, they
say, has yet been able to reclaim him, and the prince will deserve to
be immortalized in an epic should he accomplish such an Herculean task.
I am much afraid, however, that the tables may be turned, and the guide
be led away by the pupil, of which, in fact, there seems to be every
prospect.
[The harsh judgment which Baron F----- (both here and in some
passages of his first letter) pronounces upon this talented prince
will be found exaggerated by every one who has the good fortune to
be acquainted with him, and must be attributed to the prejudiced
views of the young observer.--Note of the Count von O------.]
The wiser course would certainly have been not to enter into competition
at all with an adversary of this description, and a few months back this
is the part which the prince would have taken. But now he has launched
too far into the stream easily to regain the shore. These trifles have,
perhaps by the circumstances in which he is placed, acquired a certain
degree of importance in his eyes, and had he even despised them his
pride would not have allowed him to retire at a moment when his yielding
would have been looked upon less as a voluntary act than as a confession
of inferiority. Added to this, an unlucky revival of forgotten
satirical speeches had taken place, and the spirit of rivalry which took
possession of his followers had affected the prince himself. In order,
therefore, to maintain that position in society which public opinion had
now assigned him, he deemed it advisable to seize every possible
opportunity of display, and of increasing the number of his admirers;
but this could only be effected by the most princely expenditure;
he was therefore eternally giving feasts, entertainments, and expensive
concerts, making costly presents, and playing high. As this strange
madness, moreover, had also infected the prince's retinue, who are
generally much more punctilious in respect to what they deem "the honor
of the family" than their masters, the prince was obliged to assist the
zeal of his followers by his liberality. Here, then, is a whole
catalogue of ills, all irremediable consequences of a sufficiently
excusable weakness to which the prince in an unguarded moment gave way.
We have, it is true, got rid of our rival, but the harm he has done will
not so soon be remedied. The finances of the prince are exhausted; all
that he had saved by the wise economy of years is spent; and he must
hasten from Venice if he would escape plunging into debt, which till now
he has most scrupulously avoided. It is decisively settled that we
leave as soon as fresh remittances arrive.
I should not have minded all this splendor if the prince had but reaped
the least real satisfaction from it. But he was never less happy than
at present. He feels that he is not what he formerly was; he seeks to
regain his self-respect; he is dissatisfied with himself, and launches
into fresh dissipation in order to drown the recollection of the last.
One new acquaintance follows another, and each involves him more deeply.
I know not where this will end. We must away--there is no other chance
of safety--we must away from Venice.
But, my dear friend, I have not yet received a single line from you.
How am I to interpret this long and obstinate silence?
LETTER IV.
I thank you, my dear friend, for the token of your remembrance which
young B---hl brought me. But what is it you say about letters I ought
to have received? I have received no letter from you; not a single one.
What a circuitous route must they have taken. In future, dear O------,
when you honor me with an epistle despatch it via Trent, under cover to
the prince, my master.
I remained silent.
"Why do you not answer me? Do I not perceive that your heart is almost
bursting to vent some of its vexation? I insist on your speaking,
otherwise you will begin to fancy that you are keeping some terribly
momentous secret."
"I know," continued he, "that you have been dissatisfied with me for
some time past--that you disapprove of every step I take--that--what
does Count O------ say in his letters?"
"Count O------," replied I, "has not yet answered any of the three
letters which I have written to him."
"I have done wrong," continued he; "don't you think so?" (taking up one
of the rouleaus) "I should not have done this?"
"If it was but a trial, gracious sir, I have no more to say; for the
experience you have gained would not be dearly bought at three times the
price it has cost. It grieves me, I confess, to think that the opinion
of the world should be concerned in determining the question--how are
you to choose your own happiness."
"It is well for you that you can afford to despise the world's opinion,"
replied he, "I am its creature, I must be its slave. What are we
princes but opinion? With us it is everything. Public opinion is our
nurse and preceptor in infancy, our oracle and idol in riper years, our
staff in old age. Take from us what we derive from the opinion of the
world, and the poorest of the humblest class is in a better position
than we, for his fate has taught him a lesson of philosophy which
enables him to bear it. But a prince who laughs at the world's opinion
destroys himself, like the priest who denies the existence of a God."
"I see what you would say; I can break through the circle which my birth
has drawn around me. But can I also eradicate from my memory all the
false impressions which education and early habit have implanted, and
which a hundred thousand fools have been continually laboring to impress
more and more firmly? Everybody naturally wishes to be what he is in
perfection; in short, the whole aim of a prince's existence is to appear
happy. If we cannot be happy after your fashion, is that any reason why
we should discard all other means of happiness, and not be happy at all?
If we cannot drink of joy pure from the fountain-head, can there be any
reason why we should not beguile ourselves with artificial pleasure--
nay, even be content to accept a sorry substitute from the very hand
that robs us of the higher boon?"
"You were wont to look for this compensation in your own heart."
"My dearest prince"--He had risen, and was pacing up and down the room
in unusual agitation.
"When everything gives way before me and behind me; when the past lies
in the distance in dreary monotony, like a city of the dead; when the
future offers me naught; when I see my whole being enclosed within the
narrow circle of the present, who can blame me if I clasp this niggardly
present of time in my arms with fiery eagerness, as though it were a
friend whom I was embracing for the last time? Oh, I have learnt to
value the present moment. The present moment is our mother; let us love
it as such."
"Do but make the enchantment last and fervently will I embrace it. But
what pleasure can it give to me to render beings happy who to-morrow
will have passed away like myself? Is not everything passing away
around me? Each one bustles and pushes his neighbor aside hastily to
catch a few drops from the fountain of life, and then departs thirsting.
At this very moment, while I am rejoicing in lily strength, some being
is waiting to start into life at my dissolution. Show me one being who
will endure, and I will become a virtuous man."
"But what, then, has become of those benevolent sentiments which used to
be the joy and the rule of your life? To sow seeds for the future, to
assist in carrying out the designs of a high and eternal Providence"--
"Future! Eternal Providence! If you take away from man all that he
derives from his own heart, all that he associates with the idea of a
godhead, and all that belongs to the law of nature, what, then, do you
leave him?
"What has already happened to me, and what may still follow, I look upon
as two black, impenetrable curtains hanging over the two extremities of
human life, and which no mortal has ever yet drawn aside. Many hundred
generations have stood before the second of these curtains, casting the
light of their torches upon its folds, speculating and guessing as to
what it may conceal. Many have beheld themselves, in the magnified
image of their passions, reflected upon the curtain which hides futurity
from their gaze, and have turned away shuddering from their own shadows.
Poets, philosophers, and statesmen have painted their fancies on the
curtain in brighter or more sombre colors, according as their own
prospects were bright or gloomy. Many a juggler has also taken
advantage of the universal curiosity, and by well-managed deceptions
led astray the excited imagination. A deep silence reigns behind this
curtain; no one who passes beyond it answers any questions; all the
reply is an empty echo, like the sound yielded by a vault.
"Sooner or later all must go behind this curtain, and they approach it
with fear and trembling, in doubt who may be waiting there behind to
receive them; _quid sit id, quod tanturn morituri vident_. There have
been infidels who asserted that this curtain only deluded mankind, and
that we saw nothing behind it, because there was nothing there to see;
but, to convince them, they were quickly sent behind it themselves."
"It was indeed a rash conclusion," said I, "if they had no better ground
for it than that they saw nothing themselves."
"You see, my dear friend, I am modest enough not to wish to look behind
this curtain, and the wisest course will doubtless be to abstain from
all curiosity. But while I draw this impassable circle around me, and
confine myself within the bounds of present existence, this small point
of time, which I was in danger of neglecting in useless researches,
becomes the more important to me. What you call the chief end and aim
of my existence concerns me no longer. I cannot escape my destiny; I
cannot promote its consummation; but I know, and firmly believe, that I
am here to accomplish some end, and that I do accomplish it. But the
means which nature has chosen to fulfil my destiny are so much the more
sacred to me; to me it is everything; my morality, my happiness. All
the rest I shall never learn. I am like a messenger who carries a
sealed letter to its place of destination. What the letter contains is
indifferent to him; his business is only to earn his fee for carrying
it."
As the time of our departure from Venice is now approaching with rapid
steps, this week was to be devoted to seeing everything worthy of notice
in pictures and public edifices; a task which, when one intends making a
long stay in a place, is always delayed till the last moment.
Civitella shook his head. "Do not mistake my motive," said he; "in this
there can be no question as to diminishing the extent of my obligations
towards the prince, which all my uncle's wealth would be insufficient to
cancel. My object is simply to spare him a few unpleasant moments. My
uncle possesses a large fortune which I can command as freely as though
it were my own. A fortunate circumstance occurs, which enables me to
avail myself of the only means by which I can possibly be of the
slightest use to your master. I know," continued he, "how much delicacy
the prince possesses, but the feeling is mutual, and it would be noble
on his part to afford me this slight gratification, were it only to make
me appear to feel less heavily the load of obligation under which I
labor."
In the heat of our conversation we had strayed far away from the rest of
the company, and were returning, when Z-------- came to meet us.
"We were just going to him," was our reply. "We thought to find him
with the rest of the party."
It was past ten o'clock when he made his appearance. The tidings he
brought did not make the prince more communicative. He returned in an
ill-humor to the company, the gondola was ordered, and we returned.
home.
"But this figure, your highness? Are you certain that it was something
living, something real, and not perhaps a picture, or an illusion of
your fancy?"
With regard to the Madonna, of whom the prince spoke, the case is this:
Shortly after your departure he made the acquaintance of a Florentine
painter, who had been summoned to Venice to paint an altar-piece for
some church, the name of which I do not recollect. He had brought with
him three paintings, which had been intended for the gallery in the
Cornari palace. They consisted of a Madonna, a Heloise, and a Venus,
very lightly apparelled. All three were of great beauty; and, although
the subjects were quite different, they were so intrinsically equal that
it seemed almost impossible to determine which to prefer. The prince
alone did not hesitate for a moment. As soon as the pictures were
placed before him the Madonna absorbed his whole attention; in the two
others he admired the painter's genius; but in this he forgot the artist
and his art, his whole soul being absorbed in the contemplation of the
work. He was quite moved, and could scarcely tear himself away from it.
We could easily see by the artist's countenance that in his heart he
coincided with the prince's judgment; he obstinately refused to separate
the pictures, and demanded fifteen hundred zechins for the three. The
prince offered him half that sum for the Madonna alone, but in vain.
The artist insisted on his first demand, and who knows what might have
been the result if a ready purchaser had not stepped forward.
Two hours afterwards all three pictures were sold, and we never saw them
again. It was this Madonna which now recurred to the prince's mind.
"I stood," continued he, "gazing at her in silent admiration. She did
not observe me; my arrival did not disturb her, so completely was she
absorbed in her devotion. She prayed to her Deity, and I prayed to her
--yes, I adored her! All the pictures of saints, all the altars and the
burning tapers around me had failed to remind me of what now for the
first time burst upon me, that I was in a sacred place. Shall I confess
it to you? In that moment I believed firmly in Him whose image was
clasped in her beautiful hand. I read in her eyes that he answered her
prayers. Thanks be to her charming devotion, it had revealed him to me.
I wandered with her through all the paradise of prayer.
"She rose, and I recollected myself. I stepped aside confused; but the
noise I made in moving discovered me. I thought that the unexpected
presence of a man might alarm, that my boldness would offend her; but
neither of these feelings were expressed in the look with which she
regarded me. Peace, benign peace, was portrayed in her countenance, and
a cheerful smile played upon her lips. She was descending from her
heaven; and I was the first happy mortal who met her benevolent look.
Her mind was still wrapt in her concluding prayer; she had not yet come
in contact with earth.
"I now heard something stir in the opposite corner of the chapel. It
was an elderly lady, who rose from a cushion close behind me. Till now
I had not observed her. She had been distant only a few steps from me.
and must have seen my every motion. This confused me. I cast my eyes
to the earth, and both the ladies passed by me."
"But consider, gracious prince," said I, "the excitable mood you were in
when this apparition surprised you, and how all the circumstances
conspired to inflame your imagination. Quitting the dazzling light of
day and the busy throng of men, you were suddenly surrounded by twilight
and repose. You confess that you had quite given yourself up to those
solemn emotions which the majesty of the place was calculated to awaken;
the contemplation of fine works of art had rendered you more susceptible
to the impressions of beauty in any form. You supposed yourself alone--
when you saw a maiden who, I will readily allow, may have been very
beautiful, and whose charms were heightened by a favorable illumination
of the setting sun, a graceful attitude, and an expression of fervent
devotion--what is more natural than that your vivid fancy should look
upon such a form as something supernaturally perfect?"
"Can the imagination give what it never received?" replied he. "In the
whole range of my fancy there is nothing which I can compare with that
image. It is impressed on my mind distinctly and vividly as in the
moment when I beheld it. I can think of nothing but that picture; but
you might offer me whole worlds for it in vain."
"He has undertaken to find out the gondolier, but he is not one of those
with whom he associates. The mendicants, whom he questioned, could give
him no further information than that the signora had come to the church
for the last few Saturdays, and had each time divided a gold-piece among
them. It was a Dutch ducat, which Biondello changed for them, and
brought to me."
"Why not? She may have changed her religion. But there is certainly
some mystery in the affair. Why should she go only once a week? Why
always on Saturday, on which day, as Biondello tells me, the church is
generally deserted. Next Saturday, at the latest, must decide this
question. Till then, dearest friend, you must help me to while away the
hours. But it is in vain. They will go their lingering pace, though my
soul is burning with expectation!"
"And when this day at length arrives--what, then, gracious prince? What
do you purpose doing?"
"What do I purpose doing? I shall see her. I will discover where she
lives and who she is. But to what does all this tend? I hear you ask.
What I saw made me happy; I therefore now know wherein my happiness
consists!
"And our departure from Venice, which is fixed for next Monday?"
"How could I know that Venice still contained such a treasure for me?
You ask me questions of my past life. I tell you that from this day
forward I will begin a new existence."
"I thought that now was the opportunity to keep my word to the marquis.
I explained to the prince that a protracted stay in Venice was
altogether incompatible with the exhausted state of his finances, and
that, if he extended his sojourn here beyond the appointed time, he
could not reckon on receiving funds from his court. On this occasion,
I learned what had hitherto been a secret to me, namely, that the prince
had, without the knowledge of his other brothers, received from his
sister, the reigning ----- of --------, considerable loans, which she
would gladly double if his court left him in the lurch. This sister,
who, as you know, is a pious enthusiast, thinks that the large savings
which she makes at a very economical court cannot be deposited in better
hands than in those of a brother whose wise benevolence she well knows,
and whose character she warmly honors. I have, indeed, known for some
time that a very close intercourse has been kept up between the two,
and that many letters have been exchanged; but, as the prince's own
resources have hitherto always been sufficient to cover his expenditure,
I had never guessed at this hidden channel. It is clear, therefore,
that the prince must have had some expenses which have been and still
are unknown to me; but if I can judge of them by his general character,
they will certainly not be of such a description as to tend to his
disgrace. And yet I thought I understood him thoroughly. After this
disclosure, I of course did not hesitate to make known to him the
marquis' offer, which, to my no small surprise, he immediately accepted.
He gave me the authority to transact the business with the marquis in
whatever way I thought most advisable, and then immediately to settle
the account with the usurer. To his sister he proposed to write without
delay.
LETTER VI.
The whole of the present week has been consumed in inquiries after the
mysterious Greek. Biondello set all his engines to work, but until now
in vain. He certainly discovered the gondolier; but from him he could
learn nothing, save that the ladies had disembarked on the island of
Murano, where they entered two sedan chairs which were waiting for them.
He supposed them to be English because they spoke a foreign language,
and had paid him in gold. He did not even know their guide, but
believed him to be a glass manufacturer from Murano. We were now, at
least, certain that we must not look for her in the Giudecca, and that
in all probability she lived in the island of Murano; but, unluckily,
the description the prince gave of her was not such as to make her
recognizable by a third party. The passionate interest with which he
had regarded her had hindered him from observing her minutely; for all
the minor details, which other people would not have failed to notice,
had escaped his observation; from his description one would have sooner
expected to find her prototype in the works of Ariosto or Tasso than on
a Venetian island. Besides, our inquiries had to be conducted with the
utmost caution, in order not to become prejudicial to the lady, or to
excite undue attention. As Biondello was the only man besides the
prince who had seen her, even through her veil, and could therefore
recognize her, he strove to be as much as possible in all the places
where she was likely to appear; the life of the poor man, during the
whole week, was a continual race through all the streets of Venice. In
the Greek church, particularly, every inquiry was made, but always with
the same ill-success; and the prince, whose impatience increased with
every successive failure, was at last obliged to wait till Saturday,
with what patience he might. His restlessness was excessive. Nothing
interested him, nothing could fix his attention. He was in constant
feverish excitement; he fled from society, but the evil increased in
solitude. He had never been so much besieged by visitors as in this
week. His approaching departure had been announced, and everybody
crowded to see him. It was necessary to occupy the attention of the
people in order to lull their suspicions, and to amuse the prince with
the view of diverting his mind from its all-engrossing object. In this
emergency Civitella hit upon play; and, for the purpose of driving away
most of the visitors, proposed that the stakes should be high. He hoped
by awakening in the prince a transient liking for play, from which it
would afterwards be easy to wean him, to destroy the romantic bent of
his passion. "The cards," said Civitella, "have saved me from many a
folly which I had intended to commit, and repaired many which I had
already perpetrated. At the faro table I have often recovered my
tranquillity of mind, of which a pair of bright eyes had robbed me, and
women never had more power over me than when I had not money enough to
play."
I will not enter into a discussion as to how far Civitella was right;
but the remedy we had hit upon soon began to be worse than the disease
it was intended to cure. The prince, who could only make the game at
all interesting to himself by staking extremely high, soon overstepped
all bounds. He was quite out of his element. Everything he did seemed
to be done in a passion; all his actions betrayed the uneasiness of his
mind. You know his general indifference to money; he seemed now to have
become totally insensible to its value. Gold flowed through his hands
like water. As he played without the slightest caution he lost almost
invariably. He lost immense sums, for he staked like a desperate
gamester. Dearest O------- , with an aching heart I write it, in four
days he had lost above twelve thousand zechins.
The most unfortunate thing was that these tremendous sacrifices did not
even effect their object. One would have thought that the prince would
at least feel some interest in his play. But such was not the case.
His thoughts were wandering far away, and the passion which we wished to
stifle by his ill-luck in play seemed, on the contrary, only to gather
strength. When, for instance, a decisive stroke was about to be played,
and every one's eyes were fixed, full of expectation, on the board, his
were searching for Biondello, in order to catch the news he might have
brought him, from the expression of his countenance. Biondello brought
no tidings, and his master's losses continued.
The gains, however, fell into very needy hands. A few "your
excellencies," whom scandal reports to be in the habit of carrying home
their frugal dinner from the market in their senatorial caps, entered
our house as beggars, and left it with well-lined purses. Civitella
pointed them out to me. "Look," said he, "how many poor devils make
their fortunes by one great man taking a whim into his head. This is
what I like to see. It is princely and royal. A great man must, even
by his failings, make some one happy, like a river which by its
overflowing fertilizes the neighboring fields."
Civitella has a noble and generous way of thinking, but the prince owes
him twenty-four thousand zechins.
Never, perhaps, was there offered up in any church such ardent prayers
for success, and never were hopes so cruelly disappointed. The prince
waited till after sunset, starting in expectation at every sound which
approached the chapel, and at every creaking of the church door. Seven
full hours passed, and no Greek lady. I need not describe his state of
mind. You know what hope deferred is, hope which one has nourished
unceasingly for seven days and nights.
LETTER VII.
(Here follows the subjoined fragment, which appeared in the eighth part
of the Thalia, and was originally intended for the second volume of the
Ghost-Seer. It found a place here after Schiller had given up the idea
of completing the Ghost-Seer.)
"In the spring of last year," began Civitella, "I had the misfortune to
embroil myself with the Spanish ambassador, a gentleman who, in his
seventieth year, had been guilty of the folly of wishing to marry a
Roman girl of eighteen. His vengeance pursued me, and my friends
advised me to secure my safety by a timely flight, and to keep out of
the way until the hand of nature, or an adjustment of differences, had
secured me from the wrath of this formidable enemy. As I felt it too
severe a punishment to quit Venice altogether, I took up my abode in a
distant quarter of the town, where I lived in a lonely house, under a
feigned name, keeping myself concealed by day, and devoting the night to
the society of my friends and of pleasure.
"My windows looked upon a garden, the west side of which was bounded by
the walls of a convent, while towards the east it jutted out into the
Laguna in the form of a little peninsula. The garden was charmingly
situated, but little frequented. It was my custom every morning, after
my friends had left me, to spend a few moments at the window before
retiring to rest, to see the sun rise over the Adriatic, and then to bid
him goodnight. If you, my dear prince, have not yet enjoyed this
pleasure, I recommend exactly this station, the only eligible one
perhaps in all Venice to enjoy so splendid a prospect in perfection.
A purple twilight hangs over the deep, and a golden mist on the Laguna
announces the sun's approach. The heavens and the sea are wrapped in
expectant silence. In two seconds the orb of day appears, casting a
flood of fiery light on the waves. It is an enchanting sight.
"I soon lost sight of them among the foliage of the garden, and some
time elapsed before they again emerged to view. Meanwhile a delightful
song was heard. It proceeded from the gondolier, who was in this manner
shortening the time, and was answered by a comrade a short way off.
They sang stanzas from Tasso; time and place were in unison, and the
melody sounded sweetly, in the profound silence around.
"Day in the meantime had dawned, and objects were discerned more
plainly. I sought my people, whom I found walking hand-in-hand up a
broad walk, often standing still, but always with their backs turned
towards me, and proceeding further from my residence. Their noble, easy
carriage convinced me at once that they were people of rank, and the
splendid figure of the lady made me augur as much of her beauty. They
appeared to converse but little; the lady, however, more than her
companion. In the spectacle of the rising sun, which now burst out in
all its splendor, they seemed to take not the slightest interest.
"In the heat of conversation they lingered near me, and I had full
opportunity to contemplate her. Scarcely, however, had I cast my eyes
upon her companion, but even her beauty was not powerful enough to fix
my attention. He appeared to be a man still in the prime of life,
rather slight, and of a tall, noble figure. Never have I beheld so much
mind, so much noble expression, in a human countenance. Though
perfectly secured from observation, I was unable to meet the lightning
glance that shot from beneath his dark eyebrows. There was a moving
expression of sorrow about his eyes, but an expression of benevolence
about the mouth which relieved the settled gravity spread over his whole
countenance. A certain cast of features, not quite European, together
with his dress, which appeared to have been chosen with inimitable good
taste from the most varied costumes, gave him a peculiar air, which not
a little heightened the impression produced by his appearance. A degree
of wildness in his looks warranted the supposition that he was an
enthusiast, but his deportment and carriage showed that his character
had been formed by mixing in society."
Z--------, who you know must always give utterance to what he thinks,
could contain himself no longer. "Our Armenian!" cried he. "Our very
Armenian, and nobody else."
"Has no one told you of the farce?" replied the prince. "But no
interruption! I begin to feel interested in your hero. Pray continue
your narrative."
"There was something inexplicable in his whole demeanor," continued
Civitella. "His eyes were fixed upon his companion with an expression
of anxiety and passion, but the moment they met hers he looked down
abashed. 'Is the man beside himself!' thought I. I could stand for
ages and gaze at nothing else but her.
"The foliage again concealed them from my sight. Long, long did I look
for their reappearance, but in vain. At length I caught sight of them
from another window.
"This scene moved me strangely. It was the man that chiefly excited my
sympathy and interest. Some violent emotion seemed to struggle in his
breast; it was as if some irresistible force drew him towards her, while
an unseen arm held him back. Silent, but agonizing, was the struggle,
and beautiful the temptation. 'No,' I thought, 'he attempts too much;
he will, he must yield.'
"At his silent intimation the young negro disappeared. I now expected
some touching scene--a prayer on bended knees, and a reconciliation
sealed with glowing kisses. But no! nothing of the kind occurred. The
incomprehensible being took from his pocketbook a sealed packet, and
placed it in the hands of the lady. Sadness overcast her face as she
she looked at it, and a tear bedewed her eye.
"The women at length look round, seem uneasy at not finding him, and
pause as if to await his coming. He comes not. Anxious glances are
cast around, and steps are redoubled. My eyes aid in searching through
the garden; he comes not, he is nowhere to be seen.
"Suddenly I see a plash in the canal, and see a gondola moving from the
shore. It is he, and I scarcely can refrain from calling to him. Now
the whole thing is clear--it was a parting.
"Her former companion was with her, and led by the hand a little boy;
but the fair girl herself walked apart, and seemed absorbed in thought.
All spots were visited that had been rendered memorable by the presence
of her friend. She paused for a long time before the basin, and her
fixed gaze seemed to seek on its crystal mirror the reflection of one
beloved form.
"Although her noble beauty had attracted me when I first saw her the
impression produced was even stronger on this occasion, although perhaps
at the same time more conducive to gentler emotions. I had now ample
opportunity of considering this divine form; the surprise of the first
impression gradually gave place to softer feelings. The glory that
seemed to invest her had departed, and I saw before me the loveliest of
women, and felt my senses inflamed. In a moment the resolution was
formed that she must be mine.
"At this moment I was called from the window by the arrival of my usual
evening visitor. I carefully avoided approaching the spot again as I
had no desire to share my conquest with another. For a whole hour I was
obliged to endure this painful constraint before I could succeed in
freeing myself from my importunate guest, and when I hastened to the
window all had disappeared.
"The garden was empty when I entered it; no vessel of any kind was
visible in the canal; no trace of people on any side; I neither knew
whence she had come nor whither she bad gone. While I was looking round
me in all directions I observed something white upon the ground. On
drawing near I found it was a piece of paper folded in the shape of a
note. What could it be but the letter which the Carmelite had brought?
'Happy discovery!' I exclaimed; 'this will reveal the whole secret, and
make me master of her fate.'
"The letter was sealed with a sphinx, had no superscription, and was
written in cyphers; this, however, did not discourage me, for I have
some knowledge of this mode of writing. I copied it hastily, as there
was every reason to expect that she would soon miss it and return in
search of it. If she should not find it she would regard its loss as an
evidence that the garden was resorted to by different persons, and such
a discovery might easily deter her from visiting it again. And what
worse fortune could attend my hopes.
"That which I had conjectured actually took place, and I had scarcely
ended my copy when she reappeared with her former companion, anxiously
intent on the search. I attached the note to a tile which I had
detached from the roof, and dropped it at a spot which she would pass.
Her gracefully expressed joy at finding it rewarded me for my
generosity. She examined it in every part with keen, searching glances,
as if she were seeking to detect the unhallowed hands that might have
touched it; but the contented look with which she hid it in her bosom
showed that she was free from all suspicion. She went, and the parting
glance she threw on the garden seemed expressive of gratitude to the
guardian deities of the spot, who had so faithfully watched over the
secret of her heart.
"I now hastened to decipher the letter. After trying several languages,
I at length succeeded by the use of English. Its contents were so
remarkable that my memory still retains a perfect recollection of them."
LETTER VIII.
You think it strange that this Biondello should have kept all his great
talents concealed, and in no way have attracted attention during the
early months of our acquaintance with him, when you were still with us.
This I grant; but what opportunity had he then of distinguishing
himself? The prince had not yet called his powers into requisition, and
chance, therefore, could alone aid us in discovering his talents.
"You understand the art of keeping a secret," remarked the other; "but
you have still to learn that of parting with it to advantage."
"Am I likely to find a purchaser for any that I may have to dispose of?"
asked Biondello.
On this the other guests withdrew from the apartment, and left him alone
with his two neighbors, who continued the conversation in the same
strain. The substance of the whole was, however, briefly as follows:
Biondello was to procure them certain information regarding the
intercourse of the prince with the cardinal and his nephew, acquaint
them with the source from whence the prince derived his money, and to
intercept all letters written to Count O------. Biondello put them off
to a future occasion, but he was unsuccessful in his attempts to draw
from them the name of the person by whom they were employed. From the
splendid nature of the proposals made to him it was evident, however,
that they emanated from some influential and extremely wealthy party.
Last night he related the whole occurrence to the prince, whose first
impulse was without further ceremony to secure the maneuverers at once,
but to this Biondello strongly objected. He urged that he would be
obliged to set them at liberty again, and that, in this case, he should
endanger not only his credit among this class of men, but even his life.
All these men were connected together, and bound by one common interest,
each one making the cause of the others his own; in fact, he would
rather make enemies of the senate of Venice than be regarded by these
men as a traitor--and, besides, he could no longer be useful to the
prince if he lost the confidence of this class of people.
We have pondered and conjectured much as to the source of all this. Who
is there in Venice that can care to know what money my master receives
or pays out, what passess between Cardinal A-----i and himself, and what
I write to you? Can it be some scheme of the Prince of ---d-----, or is
the Armenian again on the alert?
LETTER IX.
The prince is revelling in love and bliss. He has recovered his fair
Greek. I must relate to you how this happened.
A traveller, who had crossed from Chiozza, gave the prince so animated
an account of the beauty of this place, which is charmingly situated on
the shores of the gulf, that he became very anxious to see it.
Yesterday was fixed upon for the excursion; and, in order to avoid all
restraint and display, no one was to accompany him but Z------- and
myself, together with Biondello, as my master wished to remain unknown.
We found a vessel ready to start, and engaged our passage at once. The
company was very mixed but not numerous, and the passage was made
without the occurrence of any circumstance worthy of notice.
We did not remain long, for the captain, who had more passengers for the
return voyage, was obliged to be in Venice at an early hour, and there
was nothing at Chiozza to make the prince desirous of remaining. All
the passengers were on board when we reached the vessel. As we had
found it so difficult to place ourselves on a social footing with the
company on the outward passage, we determined on this occasion to secure
a cabin to ourselves. The prince inquired who the new-comers were, and
was informed that they were a Dominican and some ladies, who were
returning to Venice. My master evincing no curiosity to see them, we
immediately betook ourselves to our cabin.
The Greek was the subject of our conversation throughout the whole
passage, as she had been during our former transit. The prince dwelt
with ardor on her appearance in the church; and whilst numerous plans
were in turn devised and rejected, hours passed like a moment of time,
and we were already in sight of Venice. Some of the passengers now
disembarked, the Dominican amongst the number. The captain went to the
ladies, who, as we now first learned, had been separated from us by only
a thin wooden partition, and asked them where they wished to land. The
island of Murano was named in reply to his inquiry, and the house
indicated . "The island of Murano!" exclaimed the prince, who seemed
suddenly struck by a startling presentiment. Before I could reply to
his exclamation, Biondello rushed into the cabin. "Do you know," asked
he eagerly, "who is on board with us?" The prince started to his feet,
as Biondello continued, "She is here! she herself! I have just spoken
to her companion!"
He was still holding her hand in his, probably from absence of mind, and
without being conscious of the fact.
Here she gently withdrew her hand from his--he was evidently
embarrassed; but Biondello, who had in the meantime been speaking to the
servant, now came to his aid.
"Si-nor," said he, "the ladies had ordered sedans to be in readiness for
them; they have not yet come, for we are here before the expected time.
But there is a garden close by in which you may remain until the crowd
has dispersed."
The proposal was accepted; you may conceive with what alacrity on the
part of the prince! We remained in the garden till late in the evening;
and, fortunately, Z-------- and myself so effectually succeeded in
occupying the attention of the elder lady that the prince was enabled,
undisturbed, to carry on his conversation with the fair Greek. You will
easily believe that he made good use of his time, when I tell you that
he obtained permission to visit her. At the very moment that I am now
writing he is with her; on his return I shall be able to give you
further particulars regarding her.
LETTER X.
The prince has fallen out with his court, and all resources have
consequently been cut off from home.
The term of six weeks, at the end of which my master was to pay the
marquis, has already elapsed several days; but still no remittances
have been forwarded, either from his cousin, of whom he had earnestly
requested an additional allowance in advance, or from his sister. You
may readily suppose that Civitella has not reminded him of his debt; the
prince's memory is, however, all the more faithful. Yesterday morning
at length brought an answer from the seat of government.
We had shortly before concluded a new arrangement with the master of our
hotel, and the prince had publicly announced his intention to remain
here sometime longer. Without uttering a word my master put the letter
into my hand. His eyes sparkled, and I could read the contents in his
face.
Can you believe it, dear O; all my master's proceedings here are known
at and have been most calumniously misrepresented by an abominable
tissue of lies? "Information has been received," says the letter,
amongst other things, "to the effect that the prince has for some time
past belied his former character, and adopted a node of conduct totally
at variance with his former exemplary manner of acting and thinking."
"It is known," the writer says, "that he has addicted himself with the
greatest excess to women and play; that he is overwhelmed with debts;
puts his confidence in visionaries and charlatans, who pretend to have
power over spirits; maintains suspicious relations with Roman Catholic
prelates, and keeps up a degree of state which exceeds both his rank and
his means. Nay, it is even said, that he is about to bring this highly
offensive conduct to a climax by apostacy to the Church of Rome! and in
order to clear himself from this last charge he is required to return
immediately. A banker at Venice, to whom he must make known the true
amount of his debts, has received instructions to satisfy his creditors
immediately after his departure; for, under existing circumstances, it
does not appear expedient to remit the money directly into his hands."
What accusations, and what a mode of preferring them. I read the letter
again and again, in the hope of discovering some expression that
admitted of a milder construction, but in vain; it was wholly
incomprehensible.
Z------- now reminded me of the secret inquiries which had been made
some time before of Biondello. The true nature of the inquiries and
circumstances all coincided. He had falsely ascribed them to the
Armenian; but now the source from whence the came was very evident.
Apostacy! But who can have any interest in calumniating my master so
scandalously? I should fear it was some machination of the Prince of
---d-----, who is determined on driving him from Venice.
In the meantime the prince remained absorbed in thought, with his eyes
fixed on the ground. His continued silence alarmed me. I threw myself
at his feet. "For God's sake, your highness," I cried, "moderate your
feelings--you will--nay, you shall have satisfaction. Leave the whole
affair to me. Let me be your emissary. It is beneath your dignity to
reply to such accusations; but you will not, I know, refuse me the
privilege of doing so for you. The name of your calumniator must be
given up, and -------'s eyes must be opened."
"I am in your debt, marquis," said he, as Civitella gave him back the
letter, after perusing it, with evident astonishment, "but do not let
that circumstance occasion you any uneasiness; grant me but a respite of
twenty days, and you shall be fully satisfied."
"You have refrained from pressing me, and I gratefully appreciate your
delicacy. In twenty days, as I before said, you shall be fully
satisfied."
"But how is this?" asked Civitella, with agitation and surprise. "What
means all this? I cannot comprehend it."
We explained to him all that we knew, and his indignation was unbounded.
The prince, he asserted, must insist upon full satisfaction; the insult
was unparalleled.
When the marquis left us the prince still continued silent. He paced
the apartment with quick and determined steps, as if some strange and
unusual emotion were agitating his frame. At length he paused,
muttering between his teeth, "Congratulate yourself; he died at ten
o'clock."
"What has reminded you of those words?" I asked; "and what have they to
do with the present business?"
"I did not then understand what the man meant, but now I do. Oh, it is
intolerable to be subject to a master."
"Gracious prince!"
"Who can make us feel our dependence. Ha! it must be sweet, indeed."
He again paused. His looks alarmed me, for I had never before seen him
thus agitated.
"Whether a man be poorest of the poor," he continued, "or the next heir
to the throne, it is all one and the same thing. There is but one
difference between men--to obey or to command."
"You know the man," he continued, "who has dared to write these words to
me. Would you salute him in the street if fate had not made him your
master? By Heaven, there is something great in a crown."
How will this end, my dear friend? I tremble for the future. The
rupture with his court has placed my master in a state of humiliating
dependence on one sole person--the Marquis Civitella. This man is now
master of our secrets--of our whole fate. Will he always conduct
himself as nobly as he does now? Are his good intentions to be relied
upon; and is it expedient to confide so much weight and power to one
person--even were he the best of men? The prince's sister has again
been written to--the result of this fresh appeal you shall learn in my
next letter.
This letter never reached me. Three months passed without my receiving
any tidings from Venice,--an interruption to our correspondence which
the sequel but too clearly explained. All my friend's letters to me had
been kept back and suppressed. My emotion may be conceived when, in the
December of the same year, the following letter reached me by mere
accident (as it afterwards appeared), owing to the sudden illness of
Biondello, into whose hands it had been committed.
"You do not write; you do not answer me. Come, I entreat you, come on
the wings of friendship! Our hopes are fled! Read the enclosed,--all
our hopes are at an end!
"The wounds of the marquis are reported mortal. The cardinal vows
vengeance, and his bravos are in pursuit of the prince. My master--oh!
my unhappy master! Has it come to this! Wretched, horrible fate! We
are compelled to hide ourselves, like malefactors, from assassins and
creditors.
"I am writing to you from the convent of --------, where the prince has
found an asylum. At this moment he is resting on his hard couch by my
side, and is sleeping--but, alas! it is only the sleep of deadly
exhaustion, that will but give him new strength for new trials. During
the ten days that she was ill no sleep closed his eyes. I was present
when the body was opened. Traces of poison were detected. To-day she
is to be buried.
"The one sole redeeming church which has made so glorious a conquest of
the Prince of -------- will surely not refuse to supply him with means
to pursue the mode of life to which she owes this conquest. I have
tears and prayers for one that has gone astray, but nothing further to
bestow on one so worthless! HENRIETTE."
"Return, dearest O-----, to whence you came. The prince no longer needs
you or me. His debts have been paid; the cardinal is reconciled to him,
and the marquis has recovered. Do you remember the Armenian who
perplexed us so much last year? In his arms you will find the prince,
who five days since attended mass for the first time."
G------ had attained this vast influence at too early an age, and had
risen by too rapid strides to enjoy his power with moderation. The
eminence on which he beheld himself made his ambition dizzy, and no
sooner was the final object of his wishes attained than his modesty
forsook him. The respectful deference shown him by the first nobles of
the land, by all who, in birth, fortune, and reputation, so far
surpassed him, and which was even paid to him, youth as he was, by the
oldest senators, intoxicated his pride, while his unlimited power served
to develop a certain harshness which had been latent in his character,
and which, throughout all the vicissitudes of his fortune, remained.
There was no service, however considerable or toilsome, which his
friends might not safely ask at his hands; but his enemies might well
tremble! for, in proportion as he was extravagant in rewards, so was he
implacable in revenge. He made less use of his influence to enrich
himself than to render happy a number of beings who should pay homage
to him as the author of their prosperity; but caprice alone, and not
justice, dictated the choice of his subjects. By a haughty, imperious
demeanor he alienated the hearts even of those whom he had most
benefited; while at the same time he converted his rivals and secret
enviers into deadly enemies.
Amongst those who watched all his movements with jealousy and envy, and
who were silently preparing instruments for his destruction, was Joseph
Martinengo, a Piedmontese count belonging to the prince's suite, whom
G------ himself had formerly promoted, as an inoffensive creature,
devoted to his interests, for the purpose of supplying his own place in
attending upon the pleasures of the prince--an office which he began to
find irksome, and which he willingly exchanged for more useful
employment. Viewing this man merely as the work of his own hands, whom
he might at any period consign to his former insignificance, he felt
assured of the fidelity of his creature from motives of fear no less
than of gratitude. He fell thus into the error committed by Richelieu,
when he made over to Louis XII., as a sort of plaything, the young Le
Grand. Without Richelieu's sagacity, however, to repair his error, he
had to deal with a far more wily enemy than fell to the lot of the
French minister. Instead of boasting of his good fortune, or allowing
his benefactor to feel that he could now dispense with his patronage,
Martinengo was, on the contrary, the more cautious to maintain a show of
dependence, and with studied humility affected to attach himself more
and more closely to the author of his prosperity. Meanwhile, he did not
omit to avail himself, to its fullest extent, of the opportunities
afforded him by his office, of being continually about the prince's
person, to make himself daily more useful, and eventually indispensable
to him. In a short time he had fathomed the prince's sentiments
thoroughly, had discovered all the avenues to his confidence, and
imperceptibly stolen himself into his favor. All those arts which a
noble pride, and a natural elevation of character, had taught the
minister to disdain, were brought into play by the Italian, who scrupled
not to avail himself of the most despicable means for attaining his
object. Well aware that man never stands so much in need of a guide and
assistant as in the paths of vice, and that nothing gives a stronger
title to bold familiarity than a participation in secret indiscretions,
he took measures for exciting passions in the prince which had hitherto
lain dormant, and then obtruded himself upon him as a confidant and an
accomplice. He plunged him especially into those excesses which least
of all endure witnesses, and imperceptibly accustomed the prince to make
him the depository of secrets to which no third person was admitted.
Upon the degradation of the prince's character he now began to found his
infamous schemes of aggrandizement, and, as he had made secrecy a means
of success, he had obtained entire possession of his master's heart
before G------ even allowed himself to suspect that he shared it with
another.
Martinengo was not the man to rest satisfied with so subordinate a part.
At each step which he advanced in the prince's favor his hopes rose
higher, and his ambition began to grasp at a more substantial
gratification. The deceitful humility which he had hitherto found it
necessary to maintain towards his benefactor became daily more irksome
to him, in proportion as the growth of his reputation awakened his
pride. On the other hand, the minister's deportment toward him by no
means improved with his marked progress in the prince's favor, but was
often too visibly directed to rebuke his growing pride by reminding him
of his humble origin. This forced and unnatural position having become
quite insupportable, he at length formed the determination of putting an
end to it by the destruction of his rival. Under an impenetrable veil
of dissimulation he brought his plan to maturity. He dared not venture
as yet to come into open conflict with his rival; for, although the
first glow of the minister's favor was at an end, it had commenced too
early, and struck root too deeply in the bosom of the prince, to be torn
from it abruptly. The slightest circumstance might restore it to all
its former vigor; and therefore Martinengo well understood that the blow
which he was about to strike must be a mortal one. Whatever ground
G------ might have lost in the prince's affections he had gained in his
respect. The more the prince withdrew himself from the affairs of
state, the less could he dispense with the services of a man, who with
the most conscientious devotion and fidelity had consulted his master's
interests, even at the expense of the country,--and G------ was now as
indispensable to him as a minister as he had formerly been dear to him
as a friend.
By what means the Italian accomplished his purpose has remained a secret
between those on whom the blow fell and those who directed it. It was
reported that he laid before the prince the original draughts of a
secret and very suspicious correspondence which G------ is said to have
carried on with a neighboring court; but opinions differ as to whether
the letters were authentic or spurious. Whatever degree of truth there
may have been in the accusation it is but too certain that it fearfully
accomplished the end in view. In the eyes of the prince G-----
appeared the most ungrateful and vilest of traitors, whose treasonable
practices were so thoroughly proved as to warrant the severest measures
without further investigation. The whole affair was arranged with the
most profound secrecy between Martinengo and his master, so that G------
had not the most distant presentiment of the impending storm. He
continued wrapped in this fatal security until the dreadful moment in
which he was destined, from being the object of universal homage and
envy, to become that of the deepest commiseration.
When this procedure was ended he was conducted through rows of thronging
spectators to the extremity of the parade, where a covered carriage was
in waiting. He was motioned to ascend, an escort of hussars being
ready-mounted to attend to him. Meanwhile the report of this event had
spread through the whole city; every window was flung open, every street
lined with throngs of curious spectators, who pursued the carriage,
shouting his name, amid cries of scorn and malicious exultation, or of
commiseration more bitter to bear than either. At length he cleared the
town, but here a no less fearful trial awaited him. The carriage turned
out of the high road into a narrow, unfrequented path--a path which led
to the gibbet, and alongside which, by command of the prince, he was
borne at a slow pace. After he had suffered all the torture of
anticipated execution the carriage turned off into the public road.
Exposed to the sultry summer-heat, without refreshment or human
consolation, he passed seven dreadful hours in journeying to the place
of destination--a prison fortress. It was nightfall before he arrived;
when, bereft of all consciousness, more dead than alive, his giant
strength having at length yielded to twelve hours' fast and consuming
thirst, he was dragged from the carriage; and, on regaining his senses,
found himself in a horrible subterraneous vault. The first object that
presented itself to his gaze was a horrible dungeon-wall, feebly
illuminated by a few rays of the moon, which forced their way through
narrow crevices to a depth of nineteen fathoms. At his side he found a
coarse loaf, a jug of water, and a bundle of straw for his couch. He
endured this situation until noon the ensuing day, when an iron wicket
in the centre of the tower was opened, and two hands were seen lowering
a basket, containing food like that he had found the preceding night.
For the first time since the terrible change in his fortunes did pain
and suspense extort from him a question or two. Why was he brought
hither? What offence had he committed? But he received no answer; the
hands disappeared; and the sash was closed. Here, without beholding the
face, or hearing the voice of a fellow-creature; without the least clue
to his terrible destiny; fearful doubts and misgivings overhanging alike
the past and the future; cheered by no rays of the sun, and soothed by
no refreshing breeze; remote alike from human aid and human compassion;
--here, in this frightful abode of misery, he numbered four hundred and
ninety long and mournful days, which he counted by the wretched loaves
that, day after day, with dreary monotony, were let down into his
dungeon. But a discovery which he one day made early in his confinement
filled up the measure of his affliction. He recognized the place. It
was the same which he himself, in a fit of unworthy vengeance against a
deserving officer, who had the misfortune to displease him, had ordered
to be constructed only a few months before. With inventive cruelty he
had even suggested the means by which the horrors of captivity might be
aggravated; and it was but recently that he had made a journey hither in
order personally to inspect the place and hasten its completion. What
added the last bitter sting to his punishment was that the same officer
for whom he had prepared the dungeon, an aged and meritorious colonel,
had just succeeded the late commandant of the fortress, recently
deceased, and, from having been the victim of his vengeance, had become
the master of his fate. He was thus deprived of the last melancholy
solace, the right of compassionating himself, and of accusing destiny,
hardly as it might use him, of injustice. To the acuteness of his other
suffering was now added a bitter self-contempt, contempt, and the pain
which to a sensitive mind is the severest--dependence upon the
generosity of a foe to whom he had shown none.
But that upright man was too noble-minded to take a mean revenge.
It pained him deeply to enforce the severities which his instructions
enjoined; but as an old soldier, accustomed to fulfil his orders to
the letter with blind fidelity, he could do no more than pity,
compassionate. The unhappy man found a more active assistant in the
chaplain of the garrison, who, touched by the sufferings of the
prisoner, which had just reached his ears, and then only through vague
and confused reports, instantly took a firm resolution to do something
to alleviate them. This excellent man, whose name I unwillingly
suppress, believed he could in no way better fulfil his holy vocation
than by bestowing his spiritual support and consolation upon a wretched
being deprived of all other hopes of mercy.
After a lapse of sixteen months, the first human face which the unhappy
G------ beheld was that of his new benefactor. The only friend he had
in the world he owed to his misfortunes, all his prosperity had gained
him none. The good pastor's visit was like the appearance of an angel--
it would be impossible to describe his feelings, but from that day forth
his tears flowed more kindly, for he had found one human being who
sympathized with and compassionated him.
The pastor was filled with horror on entering the frightful vault. His
eyes sought a human form, but beheld, creeping towards him from a corner
opposite, which resembled rather the lair of a wild beast than the abode
of anything human, a monster, the sight of which made his blood run
cold. A ghastly deathlike skeleton, all the hue of life perished from a
face on which grief and despair had traced deep furrows--his beard and
nails, from long neglect, grown to a frightful length-his clothes rotten
and hanging about him in tatters; and the air he breathed, for want of
ventilation and cleansing, foul, fetid, and infectious. In this state
be found the favorite of fortune;--his iron frame had stood proof
against it all! Seized with horror at the sight, the pastor hurried
back to the governor, in order to solicit a second indulgence for the
poor wretch, without which the first would prove of no avail.
Several long years were spent by him in the fortress, but in a much more
supportable condition, after the short summer of the new favorite's
reign had passed, and others succeeded in his place, who either
possessed more humanity or no motive for revenge. At length, after ten
years of captivity, the hour of his delivery arrived, but without any
judicial investigation or formal acquittal. He was presented with his
freedom as a boon of mercy, and was, at the same time, ordered to quit
his native country forever.
Here the oral traditions which I have been able to collect respecting
his history begin to fail; and I find myself compelled to pass in
silence over a period of about twenty years. During the interval
G------ entered anew upon his military career, in a foreign service,
which eventually brought him to a pitch of greatness quite equal to that
from which he had, in his native country, been so awfully precipitated.
At length time, that friend of the unfortunate, who works a slow but
inevitable retribution, took into his hands the winding up of this
affair. The prince's days of passion were over; humanity gradually
resumed its sway over him as his hair whitened with age. At the brink
of the grave he felt a yearning towards the friend of his early youth.
In order to repay, as far as possible, the gray-headed old man, for the
injuries which had been heaped upon the youth, the prince, with friendly
expressions, invited the exile to revisit his native land, towards which
for some time past G------'s heart had secretly yearned. The meeting
was extremely trying, though apparently warm and cordial, as if they had
only separated a few days before. The prince looked earnestly at his
favorite, as if trying to recall features so well known to him, and yet
so strange; he appeared as if numbering the deep furrows which he had
himself so cruelly traced there. He looked searchingly in the old man's
face for the beloved features of the youth, but found not what he
sought. The welcome and the look of mutual confidence were evidently
forced on both sides; shame on one side and dread on the other had
forever separated their hearts. A sight which brought back to the
prince's soul the full sense of his guilty precipitancy could not be
gratifying to him, while G------ felt that he could no longer love the
author of his misfortunes. Comforted, nevertheless, and in
tranquillity, he looked back upon the past as the remembrance of a
fearful dream.
In a short time G------ was reinstated in all his former dignities, and
the prince smothered his feelings of secret repugnance by showering upon
him the most splendid favors as some indemnification for the past. But
could he also restore to him the heart which he had forever untuned for
the enjoyment of life? Could he restore his years of hope? or make
even a shadow of reparation to the stricken old man for what he had
stolen from him in the days of his youth?
THE ROBBERS.
By Frederich Schiller
SCHILLER'S PREFACE.
PUBLISHED IN 1781.
It is, however, not so much the bulk of my play as its contents which
banish it from the stage. Its scheme and economy require that several
characters should appear who would offend the finer feelings of virtue
and shock the delicacy of our manners. Every delineator of human
character is placed in the same dilemma if he proposes to give a
faithful picture of the world as it really is, and not an ideal
phantasy, a mere creation of his own. It is the course of mortal things
that the good should be shadowed by the bad, and virtue shine the
brightest when contrasted with vice. Whoever proposes to discourage
vice and to vindicate religion, morality, and social order against their
enemies, must unveil crime in all its deformity, and place it before the
eyes of men in its colossal magnitude; he must diligently explore its
dark mazes, and make himself familiar with sentiments at the wickedness
of which his soul revolts.
Next to this man (Francis) stands another who would perhaps puzzle not
a few of my readers. A mind for which the greatest crimes have only
charms through the glory which attaches to them, the energy which their
perpetration requires, and the dangers which attend them. A remarkable
and important personage, abundantly endowed with the power of becoming
either a Brutus or a Catiline, according as that power is directed. An
unhappy conjunction of circumstances determines him to choose the latter
for, his example, and it is only after a fearful straying that he is
recalled to emulate the former. Erroneous notions of activity and
power, an exuberance of strength which bursts through all the barriers
of law, must of necessity conflict with the rules of social life. To
these enthusiast dreams of greatness and efficiency it needed but a
sarcastic bitterness against the unpoetic spirit of the age to complete
the strange Don Quixote whom, in the Robber Moor, we at once detest and
love, admire and pity. It is, I hope, unnecessary to remark that I no
more hold up this picture as a warning exclusively to robbers than the
greatest Spanish satire was levelled exclusively at knight-errants.
Thus we have a _Da capo_ of the old story of Democritus and the
Abderitans, and our worthy Hippocrates would needs exhaust whole
plantations of hellebore, were it proposed to remedy this mischief by a
healing decoction.
--This has never before been printed with any of the editions.--
In this second edition the several songs have been arranged for the
pianoforte, which will enhance its value to the musical part of the
public. I am indebted for this to an able composer,* who has performed
his task in so masterly a manner that the hearer is not unlikely to
forget the poet in the melody of the musician.
DR. SCHILLER.
THE ROBBERS.
A TRAGEDY.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
CHARLES,|
FRANCIS,| his Sons.
AMELIA VON EDELREICH, his Niece.
SPIEGELBERG,|
SCHWEITZER, |
GRIMM, |
RAZMANN, | Libertines, afterwards Banditti
SCHUFTERLE, |
ROLLER, |
KOSINSKY, |
SCHWARTZ, |
HERMANN, the natural son of a Nobleman.
DANIEL, an old Servant of Count von Moor.
PASTOR MOSER.
FATHER DOMINIC, a Monk.
BAND OF ROBBERS, SERVANTS, ETC.
THE ROBBERS
ACT I.
SCENE I.--Franconia.
FRANCIS. But are you really well, father? You look so pale.
FRANCIS. If you are unwell--or are the least apprehensive of being so--
permit me to defer--I will speak to you at a fitter season.--(Half
aside.) These are no tidings for a feeble frame.
FRANCIS. First let me retire and shed a tear of compassion for my lost
brother. Would that my lips might be forever sealed--for he is your
son! Would that I could throw an eternal veil over his shame--for he is
my brother! But to obey you is my first, though painful, duty--forgive
me, therefore.
OLD M. Oh, Charles! Charles! Didst thou but know what thorns thou
plantest in thy father's bosom! That one gladdening report of thee would
add ten years to my life! yes, bring back my youth! whilst now, alas,
each fresh intelligence but hurries me a step nearer to the grave!
FRANCIS. Is it so, old man, then farewell! for even this very day we
might all have to tear our hair over your coffin.*
OLD M. Stay! There remains but one short step more--let him have his
will! (He sits down.) The sins of the father shall be visited unto the
third and fourth generation--let him fulfil the decree.
FRANCIS (takes the letter out of his pocket). You know our
correspondent! See! I would give a finger of my right hand might I
pronounce him a liar--a base and slanderous liar! Compose yourself!
Forgive me if I do not let you read the letter yourself. You cannot,
must not, yet know all.
[* _Du ersparst mir die Krucke_; meaning that the contents of the
letter can but shorten his declining years, and so spare him the
necessity of crutches.]
FRANCIS. "Pale as death, sinking down on his chair, and cursing the day
when his ear was first greeted with the lisping cry of 'Father!' I have
not yet been able to discover all, and of the little I do know I dare
tell you only a part. Your brother now seems to have filled up the
measure of his infamy. I, at least, can imagine nothing beyond what he
has already accomplished; but possibly his genius may soar above my
conceptions. After having contracted debts to the amount of forty
thousand ducats,"--a good round sum for pocket-money, father" and having
dishonored the daughter of a rich banker, whose affianced lover, a
gallant youth of rank, he mortally wounded in a duel, he yesterday, in
the dead of night, took the desperate resolution of absconding from the
arm of justice, with seven companions whom he had corrupted to his own
vicious courses." Father? for heaven's sake, father! How do you feel?
FRANCIS. I will spare your feelings. "The injured cry aloud for
satisfaction. Warrants have been issued for his apprehension--a price
is set on his head--the name of Moor"--No, these unhappy lips shall not
be guilty of a father's murder (he tears the letter). Believe it not,
my father, believe not a syllable.
FRANCIS. Ay, well I knew it. Exactly what I always feared. That fiery
spirit, you used to say, which is kindling in the boy, and renders him
so susceptible to impressions of the beautiful and grand--the
ingenuousness which reveals his whole soul in his eyes--the tenderness
of feeling which melts him into weeping sympathy at every tale of
sorrow--the manly courage which impels him to the summit of giant oaks,
and urges him over fosse and palisade and foaming torrents--that
youthful thirst of honor--that unconquerable resolution--all those
resplendent virtues which in the father's darling gave such promise--
would ripen into the warm and sincere friend--the excellent citizen--the
hero--the great, the very great man! Now, mark the result, father; the
fiery spirit has developed itself--expanded--and behold its precious
fruits. Observe this ingenuousness--how nicely it has changed into
effrontery;--this tenderness of soul--how it displays itself in
dalliance with coquettes, in susceptibility to the blandishments of a
courtesan! See this fiery genius, how in six short years it hath burnt
out the oil of life, and reduced his body to a living skeleton; so that
passing scoffers point at him with a sneer and exclaim--"_C'est l'amour
qui a fait cela_." Behold this bold, enterprising spirit--how it
conceives and executes plans, compared to which the deeds of a Cartouche
or a Howard sink into insignificance. And presently, when these
precious germs of excellence shall ripen into full maturity, what may
not be expected from the full development of such a boyhood? Perhaps,
father, you may yet live to see him at the head of some gallant band,
which assembles in the silent sanctuary of the forest, and kindly
relieves the weary traveller of his superfluous burden. Perhaps you may
yet have the opportunity, before you go to your own tomb, of making a
pilgrimage to the monument which he may erect for himself, somewhere
between earth and heaven! Perhaps,--oh, father--father, look out for
some other name, or the very peddlers and street boys who have seen the
effigy of your worthy son exhibited in the market-place at Leipsic will
point at you with the finger of scorn!
OLD M. And thou, too, my Francis, thou too? Oh, my children, how
unerringly your shafts are levelled at my heart.
FRANCIS. You see that I too have a spirit; but my spirit bears the
sting of a scorpion. And then it was "the dry commonplace, the cold,
the wooden Francis," and all the pretty little epithets which the
contrast between us suggested to your fatherly affection, when he was
sitting on your knee, or playfully patting your cheeks? "He would die,
forsooth, within the boundaries of his own domain, moulder away, and
soon be forgotten;" while the fame of this universal genius would spread
from pole to pole! Ah! the cold, dull, wooden Francis thanks thee,
heaven, with uplifted hands, that he bears no resemblance to his
brother.
OLD M. Forgive me, my child! Reproach not thy unhappy father, whose
fondest hopes have proved visionary. The merciful God who, through
Charles, has sent these tears, will, through thee, my Francis, wipe them
from my eyes!
FRANCIS. Yes, father, we will wipe them from your eyes. Your Francis
will devote--his life to prolong yours. (Taking his hand with affected
tenderness.) Your life is the oracle which I will especially consult on
every undertaking--the mirror in which I will contemplate everything.
No duty so sacred but I am ready to violate it for the preservation of
your precious days. You believe me?
OLD M. Great are the duties which devolve on thee, my son--Heaven bless
thee for what thou has been, and wilt be to me.
FRANCIS. Now tell me frankly, father. Should you not be a happy man,
were you not obliged to call this son your own?
OLD M. In mercy, spare me! When the nurse first placed him in my arms,
I held him up to Heaven and exclaimed, "Am I not truly blest?"
FRANCIS. So you said then. Now, have you found it so? You may envy
the meanest peasant on your estate in this, that he is not the father of
such a son. So long as you call him yours you are wretched. Your
misery will grow with his years--it will lay you in your grave.
FRANCIS. Is not your love for him the source of all your grief? Root
out this love, and he concerns you no longer. But for this weak and
reprehensible affection he would be dead to you;--as though he had never
been born. It is not flesh and blood, it is the heart that makes us
sons and fathers! Love him no more, and this monster ceases to be your
son, though he were cut out of your flesh. He has till now been the
apple of your eye; but if thine eye offend you, says Scripture, pluck it
out. It is better to enter heaven with one eye than hell with two! "It
is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not
that thy whole body should be cast into hell." These are the words of
the Bible!
FRANCIS. By no means, father. God forbid! But whom do you call your
son? Him to whom you have given life, and who in return does his utmost
to shorten yours.
OLD M. Oh, it is all too true! it is a judgment upon me. The Lord has
chosen him as his instrument.
FRANCIS. See how filially your bosom child behaves. He destroys you by
your own excess of paternal sympathy; murders you by means of the very
love you bear him--has coiled round a father's heart to crush it. When
you are laid beneath the turf he becomes lord of your possessions, and
master of his own will. That barrier removed, and the torrent of his
profligacy will rush on without control. Imagine yourself in his place.
How often he must wish his father under ground--and how often, too, his
brother--who so unmercifully impede the free course of his excesses.
But call you this a requital of love? Is this filial gratitude for a
father's tenderness? to sacrifice ten years of your life to the lewd
pleasures of an hour? in one voluptuous moment to stake the honor of an
ancestry which has stood unspotted through seven centuries? Do you call
this a son? Answer? Do you call this your son?
FRANCIS. How many thousands who have drained the voluptuous bowl of
pleasure to the dregs have been reclaimed by suffering! And is not the
bodily pain which follows every excess a manifest declaration of the
divine will! And shall man dare to thwart this by an impious exercise
of affection? Shall a father ruin forever the pledge committed to his
charge? Consider, father, if you abandon him for a time to the pressure
of want will not he be obliged to turn from his wickedness and repent?
Otherwise, untaught even in the great school of adversity, he must
remain a confirmed reprobate? And then--woe to the father who by a
culpable tenderness bath frustrated the ordinances of a higher wisdom!
Well, father?
FRANCIS. Stop, father, one word more. Your just indignation might
prompt reproaches too severe, words which might break his heart--and
then--do you not think that your deigning to write with your own hand
might be construed into an act of forgiveness? It would be better, I
think, that you should commit the task to me?
FRANCIS. Had you not better retire to rest, father? This affects you
too strongly.
OLD M. Write to him that a father's heart--But I charge you, drive him
not to despair. [Exit in sadness.]
FRANCIS (looking after him with a chuckle). Make thyself easy, old
dotard! thou wilt never more press thy darling to thy bosom--there is a
gulf between thee and him impassable as heaven is from hell. He was
torn from thy arms before even thou couldst have dreamed it possible to
decree the separation. Why, what a sorry bungler should I be had I not
skill enough to pluck a son from a father's heart; ay, though he were
riveted there with hooks of steel! I have drawn around thee a magic
circle of curses which he cannot overleap. Good speed to thee, Master
Francis. Papa's darling is disposed of--the course is clear. I must
carefully pick up all the scraps of paper, for how easily might my
handwriting be recognized. (He gathers the fragments of the letter.)
And grief will soon make an end of the old gentleman. And as for her--
I must tear this Charles from her heart, though half her life come with
him.
No small cause have I for being dissatisfied with Dame Nature, and, by
my honor, I will have amends! Why did I not crawl the first from my
mother's womb? why not the only one? why has she heaped on me this
burden of deformity? on me especially? Just as if she had spawned me
from her refuse.* Why to me in particular this snub of the Laplander?
these negro lips? these Hottentot eyes? On my word, the lady seems to
have collected from all the race of mankind whatever was loathsome into
a heap, and kneaded the mass into my particular person. Death and
destruction! who empowered her to deny to me what she accorded to him?
Could a man pay his court to her before he was born? or offend her
before he existed? Why went she to work in such a partial spirit?
***So Falstaff, Hen. IV., Pt. I., Act V., Sc. 1, "Honor is a mere
scutcheon."
Well! these are all most admirable institutions for keeping fools in
awe, and holding the mob underfoot, that the cunning may live the more
at their ease. Rare institutions, doubtless. They are something like
the fences my boors plant so closely to keep out the hares--yes
I' faith, not a hare can trespass on the enclosure, but my lord claps
spurs to his hunter, and away he gallops over the teeming harvest!
Poor hare! thou playest but a sorry part in this world's drama, but your
worshipful lords must needs have hares!
Then courage, and onward, Francis. The man who fears nothing is as
powerful as he who is feared by everybody. It is now the mode to wear
buckles on your smallclothes, that you may loosen or tighten them at
pleasure. I will be measured for a conscience after the newest fashion,
one that will stretch handsomely as occasion may require. Am I to
blame? It is the tailor's affair? I have heard a great deal of twaddle
about the so-called ties of blood--enough to make a sober man beside
himself. He is your brother, they say; which interpreted, means that he
was manufactured in the same mould, and for that reason he must needs be
sacred in your eyes! To what absurd conclusions must this notion of a
sympathy of souls, derived from the propinquity of bodies, inevitably
tend? A common source of being is to produce community of sentiment;
identity of matter, identity of impulse! Then again,--he is thy father!
He gave thee life, thou art his flesh and blood--and therefore he must
be sacred to thee! Again a most inconsequential deduction! I should
like to know why he begot me;** certainly not out of love for me--for I
must first have existed!
[Exit.]
CHARLES VON M. (lays the book aside). I am disgusted with this age of
puny scribblers when I read of great men in my Plutarch.
SPIEGEL. (places a glass before him, and drinks). Josephus is the book
you should read.
CHARLES VON M. The glowing spark of Prometheus is burnt out, and now
they substitute for it the flash of lycopodium,* a stage-fire which will
not so much as light a pipe. The present generation may be compared to
rats crawling about the club of Hercules.**
CHARLES VON M. Fie! fie upon this weak, effeminate age, fit for nothing
but to ponder over the deeds of former times, and torture the heroes of
antiquity with commentaries, or mangle them in tragedies. The vigor of
its loins is dried up, and the propagation of the human species has
become dependent on potations of malt liquor.
Set me at the head of an army of fellows like myself, and out of Germany
shall spring a republic compared to which Rome and Sparta will be but as
nunneries. (Rises and flings his sword upon the table.)
SPIEGEL. (jumping up). Bravo! Bravissimo! you are coming to the right
key now. I have something for your ear, Moor, which has long been on my
mind, and you are the very man for it--drink, brother, drink! What if
we turned Jews and brought the kingdom of Jerusalem again on the tapis?
But tell me is it not a clever scheme? We send forth a manifesto to the
four quarters of the world, and summon to Palestine all that do not eat
Swineflesh. Then I prove by incontestable documents that Herod the
Tetrarch was my direct ancestor, and so forth. There will be a victory,
my fine fellow, when they return and are restored to their lands, and
are able to rebuild Jerusalem. Then make a clean sweep of the Turks out
of Asia while the iron is hot, hew cedars in Lebanon, build ships, and
then the whole nation shall chaffer with old clothes and old lace
throughout the world. Meanwhile--
CHARLES VON M. (smiles and takes him by the hand). Comrade! There must
be an end now of our fooleries.
SPIEGEL. (with surprise). Fie! you are not going to play the prodigal
son!--a fellow like you who with his sword has scratched more
hieroglyhics on other men's faces than three quill-drivers could
inscribe in their daybooks in a leap-year! Shall I tell you the story
of the great dog funeral? Ha! I must just bring back your own picture
to your mind; that will kindle fire in your veins, if nothing else has
power to inspire you. Do you remember how the heads of the college
caused your dog's leg to be shot off, and you, by way of revenge,
proclaimed a fast through the whole town? They fumed and fretted at
your edict. But you, without losing time, ordered all the meat to be
bought up in Leipsic, so that in the course of eight hours there was not
a bone left to pick all over the place, and even fish began to rise in
price. The magistrates and the town council vowed vengeance. But we
students turned out lustily, seventeen hundred of us, with you at our
head, and butchers and tailors and haberdashers at our backs, besides
publicans, barbers, and rabble of all sorts, swearing that the town
should be sacked if a single hair of a student's head was injured. And
so the affair went off like the shooting at Hornberg,* and they were
obliged to be off with their tails between their legs.
You sent for doctors--a whole posse of them--and offered three ducats to
any one who would write a prescription for your dog. We were afraid the
gentlemen would stand too much upon honor and refuse, and had already
made up our minds to use force. But this was quite unnecessary; the
doctors got to fisticuffs for the three ducats, and their competition
brought down the price to three groats; in the course of an hour a dozen
prescriptions were written, of which, of course, the poor beast very
soon died.
SPIEGEL. The funeral procession was arranged with all due pomp; odes
for the dog were indited by the gross; and at night we all turned out,
near a thousand of us, a lantern in one hand and our rapier in the
other, and so proceeded through the town, the bells chiming and ringing,
till the dog was entombed. Then came a, feed which lasted till broad
daylight, when you sent your acknowledgments to the college dons for
their kind sympathy, and ordered the meat to be sold at half-price.
_Mort de ma vie_, if we had not as great a respect for you as a garrison
for the conqueror of a fortress.
CHARLES VON M. And are you not ashamed to boast of these things? Have
you not shame enough in you to blush even at the recollection of such
pranks?
SPIEGEL. Come, come! You are no longer the same Moor. Do you remember
how, a thousand times, bottle in hand, you made game of the miserly old
governor, bidding him by all means rake and scrape together as much as
he could, for that you would swill it all down your throat? Don't you
remember, eh?--don't you remember?' O you good-for-nothing, miserable
braggart! that was speaking like a man, and a gentleman, but--
SPIEGEL. (shakes his head). No, no! that cannot be! Impossible,
brother! You are not in earnest! Tell me! most sweet brother, is it
not poverty which has brought you to this mood? Come! let me tell you a
little story of my youthful days. There was a ditch close to my house,
eight feet wide at the least, which we boys were trying to leap over for
a wager. But it was no go. Splash! there you lay sprawling, amidst
hisses and roars of laughter, and a relentless shower of snowballs. By
the side of my house a hunter's dog was lying chained, a savage beast,
which would catch the girls by their petticoats with the quickness of
lightning if they incautiously passed too near him. Now it was my
greatest delight to tease this brute in every possible way; and it was
enough to make one burst with laughing to see the beast fix his eyes on
me with such fierceness that he seemed ready to tear me to pieces if he
could but get at me. Well, what happened? Once, when I was amusing
myself in this manner, I hit him such a bang in the ribs with a stone
that in his fury he broke loose and ran right upon me. I tore away like
lightning, but--devil take it!--that confounded ditch lay right in my
way. What was to be done? The dog was close at my heels and quite
furious; there was no time to deliberate. I took a spring and cleared
the ditch. To that leap I was indebted for life and limb; the beast
would have torn me to atoms.
SPIEGEL. To this--that you may be taught that strength grows with the
occasion. For which reason I never despair even when things are the
worst. Courage grows with danger. Powers of resistance increase by
pressure. It is evident by the obstacles she strews in my path that
fate must have designed me for a great man.
CHARLES VON M. (in a fit of absence). How now? I should not wonder if
your proficiency went further still.
SPIEGEL. I begin to think you mistrust me. Only wait till I have grown
warm at it; you shall see wonders; your little brain shall whirl clean
round in your pericranium when my teeming wit is delivered. (He rises
excited.) How it clears up within me! Great thoughts are dawning in on
my soul! Gigantic plans are fermenting in my creative brain. Cursed
lethargy (striking his forehead), which has hitherto enchained my
faculties, cramped and fettered my prospects! I awake; I feel what I
am--and what I am to be!
CHARLES VON M. You are a fool! The wine is swaggering in your brain.
GRIMM. That we are not for a moment safe from being taken?
Enter SCHWARZ.
CHARLES VON M. (rushes towards him). Brother, brother! the letter, the
letter!
SCHW. (gives him a letter, which he opens hastily). What's the matter?
You have grown as pale as a whitewashed wall!
GRIMM. The fellow's mad. He jumps about as if he had St. Vitus' dance.
SCHUF. His wits are gone a wool gathering! He's making verses, I'll be
sworn!
SPIEGEL. (who has all this time been making gestures in a corner of the
room, as if working out some great project, jumps up wildly). Your
money or your life! (He catches SCHWEITZER by the throat, who very
coolly flings him against the wall; Moor drops the letter and rushes
out. A general sensation.)
ROLLER. (calling after him). Moor! where are you going? What's the
matter?
GRIMM. What ails him? What has he been doing? He is as pale as death.
ROLLER. (picks up the letter from the ground, and reads). "Unfortunate
brother!"--a pleasant beginning--"I have only briefly to inform you that
you have nothing more to hope for. You may go, your father directs me
to tell you, wherever your own vicious propensities lead. Nor are you
to entertain, he says, any hope of ever gaining pardon by weeping at his
feet, unless you are prepared to fare upon bread and water in the lowest
dungeon of his castle until your hair shall outgrow eagles' feathers,
and your nails the talons of a vulture. These are his very words. He
commands me to close the letter. Farewell forever! I pity you.
SCHW. A most amiable and loving brother, in good truth! And the
scoundrel's name is Francis.
SPIEGEL. (slinking forward). Bread and water! Is that it? A
temperate diet! But I have made a better provision for you. Did I not
say that I should have to think for you all at last?
SCHWEIT. What does the blockhead say! The jackass is going to think
for us all!
SPIEGEL. Cowards, cripples, lame dogs are ye all if you have not
courage enough to venture upon something great.
ROLLER. Well, of course, so we should be, you are right; but will your
proposed scheme get us out of this devil of a scrape? eh?
SPIEGEL. (with a proud laugh). Poor thing! Get us out of this scrape?
Ha, ha, ha! Get us out of the scrape!--and is that all your thimbleful
of brain can reach? And with that you trot your mare back to the
stable? Spiegelberg would have been a miserable bungler indeed if that
were the extent of his aim. Heroes, I tell you, barons, princes, gods,
it will make of you.
RAZ. That's pretty well for one bout, truly! But no doubt it is some
neck-breaking piece of business; it will cost a head or so at the least.
SCHUFT. And I courage enough to fight the very devil himself under the
open gallows for the rescue of any poor sinner.
SPIEGEL. That's just what it should be! If ye have courage, let any
one of you step forward and say he has still something to lose, and not
everything to gain?
SCHW. Verily, I should have a good deal to lose, if I were to lose all
that I have yet to win!
PAZ. Yes, by Jove! and I much to win, if I could win all that I have
not got to lose.
SPIEGEL. Very well then! (He takes his place in the middle of them,
and says in solemn adjuration)--if but a drop of the heroic blood of the
ancient Germans still flow in your veins--come! We will fix our abode
in the Bohemian forests, draw together a band of robbers, and--What are
you gaping at? Has your slender stock of courage oozed out already?
ROLLER. You are not the first rogue by many that has defied the
gallows;--and yet what other choice have we?
SCHUFT. The devil's in you! you are pretty nearly hitting on my own
schemes. I have been thinking to myself how would it answer were I to
turn Methodist, and hold weekly prayer-meetings?
GRIMM. Capital! and, if that fails, turn atheist! We might fall foul of
the four Gospels, get our book burned by the hangman, and then it would
sell at a prodigious rate.
SPIEGEL. Honest, say you? Do you think you'll be less honest then than
you are now? What do you call honest? To relieve rich misers of half
of those cares which only scare golden sleep from their eyelids; to
force hoarded coin into circulation; to restore the equalization of
property; in one word, to bring back the golden age; to relieve
Providence of many a burdensome pensioner, and so save it the trouble of
sending war, pestilence, famine, and above all, doctors--that is what I
call honesty, d'ye see; that's what I call being a worthy instrument in
the hand of Providence,--and then, at every meal you eat, to have the
sweet reflection: this is what thy own ingenuity, thy lion boldness, thy
night watchings, have procured for thee--to command the respect both of
great and small!
ROLLER. And at last to mount towards heaven in the living body, and in
spite of wind and storm, in spite of the greedy maw of old father Time,
to be hovering beneath the sun and moon and all the stars of the
firmament, where even the unreasoning birds of heaven, attracted by
noble instinct, chant their seraphic music, and angels with tails hold
their most holy councils? Don't you see? And, while monarchs and
potentates become a prey to moths and worms, to have the honor of
receiving visits from the royal bird of Jove. Moritz, Moritz, Moritz!
beware of the three-legged beast.*
SPIEGEL. And does that fright thee, craven-heart? Has not many a
universal genius, who might have reformed the world, rotted upon the
gallows? And does not the renown of such a man live for hundreds and
thousands of years, whereas many a king and elector would be passed over
in history, were not historians obliged to give him a niche to complete
the line of succession, or that the mention of him did not swell the
volume a few octavo pages, for which he counts upon hard cash from the
publisher. And when the wayfarer sees you swinging to and fro in the
breeze he will mutter to himself, "That fellow's brains had no water in
them, I'll warrant me," and then groan over the hardship of the times.
RAZ. Like a second Orpheus, Spiegelberg, you have charmed to sleep that
howling beast, conscience! Take me as I stand, I am yours entirely!
ROLLER. And you too, Schweitzer? (he gives his right hand to
SPIEGELBERG). Thus I consign my soul to the devil.
SPIEGEL. And your name to the stars! What does it signify where the
soul goes to? If crowds of _avantcouriers_ give notice of our descent
that the devils may put on their holiday gear, wipe the accumulated soot
of a thousand years from their eyelashes, and myriads of horned heads
pop up from the smoking mouth of their sulphurous chimneys to welcome
our arrival! 'Up, comrades! (leaping up). Up! What in the world is
equal to this ecstacy of delight? Come along, comrades!
ROLLER. Gently, gently! Where are you going? Every beast must have a
head, boys!
SPIEGEL. (With bitterness). What is that incubus preaching about? Was
not the head already there before a single limb began to move? Follow
me, comrades!
ROLLER. Gently, I say! even liberty must have its master. Rome and
Sparta perished for want of a chief.
ROLLER. If one could hope, if one could dream, but I fear he will not
consent.
ROLLER. And if he does not the whole vessel will be crazy enough.
Without Moor we are a "body without a soul."
CHARLES VON M. Why was not this spirit implanted in a tiger which gluts
its raging jaws with human flesh? Is this a father's tenderness? Is
this love for love? Would I were a bear to rouse all the bears of the
north against this murderous race! Repentance, and no pardon! Oh, that
I could poison the ocean that men might drink death from every spring!
Contrition, implicit reliance, and no pardon!
GRIMM. Hear me, only hear me! You are deaf with raving.
CHARLES VON M. Avaunt, avaunt! Is not thy name man? Art thou not born
of woman? Out of my sight, thou thing with human visage! I loved him
so unutterably!--never son so loved a father; I would have sacrificed a
thousand lives for him (foaming and stamping the ground). Ha! where is
he that will put a sword into my hand that I may strike this generation
of vipers to the quick! Who will teach me how to reach their heart's
core, to crush, to annihilate the whole race? Such a man shall be my
friend, my angel, my god--him will I worship!
SCHW. Come with us into the Bohemian forests! We will form a band of
robbers there, and you (MOOR stares at him).
CHARLES VON M. Who inspired thee with that thought? Hark, fellow!
(grasping ROLLER tightly) that human soul of thine did not produce it;
who suggested it to thee? Yes, by the thousand arms of death! that's
what we will, and what we must do! the thought's divine. He who
conceived it deserves to be canonized. Robbers and murderers! As my
soul lives, I am your captain!
SPIEGEL. (starting up, aside). Till I give him his _coup de grace_!
CHARLES VON M. See, it falls like a film from my eyes! What a fool was
I to think of returning to be caged? My soul's athirst for deeds, my
spirit pants for freedom. Murderers, robbers! with these words I
trample the law underfoot--mankind threw off humanity when I appealed to
it. Away, then, with human sympathies and mercy! I no longer have a
father, no longer affections; blood and death shall teach me to forget
that anything was ever dear to me! Come! come! Oh, I will recreate
myself with some most fearful vengeance;--'tis resolved, I am your
captain! and success to him who Shall spread fire and slaughter the
widest and most savagely--I pledge myself He shall be right royally
rewarded. Stand around me, all of you, and swear to me fealty and
obedience unto death! Swear by this trusty right hand.
ALL (place their hands in his). We swear to thee fealty and obedience
unto death!
CHARLES VON M. And, by this same trusty right Hand, I here swear to you
to remain your captain, true and faithful unto death! This arm shall
make an instant corpse of him who doubts, or fears, or retreats. And
may the same befall me from your hands if I betray my oath! Are you
content?
[SPIEGELBERG runs up and down in a furious rage.]
CHARLES VON M. Well, then, let us be gone! Fear neither death nor
danger, for an unalterable destiny rules over us. Every man has his
doom, be it to die on the soft pillow of down, or in the field of blood,
or on the scaffold, or the wheel! One or the other of these must be our
lot! [Exeunt.]
SPIEGEL. (looking after them after a pause). Your catalogue has a hole
in it. You have omitted poison.
[Exit.]
FRANCIS, AMELIA.
FRANCIS. Your face is averted from me, Amelia? Am I less worthy than
he who is accursed of his father?
AMELIA. Yes, he deserves to have such sons as you are. On his deathbed
he will in vain stretch out his withered hands for his Charles, and
recoil with a shudder when he feels the ice-cold hand of his Francis.
Oh, it is sweet, deliciously sweet, to be cursed by such a father! Tell
me, Francis, dear brotherly soul--tell me what must one do to be cursed
by him?
AMELIA. Oh! indeed. Do you pity your brother? No, monster, you hate
him! I hope you hate me too.
AMELIA. If you love me you will not refuse me one little request.
AMELIA. Oh, if that is the case! then one request, which you will so
easily, so readily grant. (Loftily.) Hate me! I should perforce blush
crimson if, whilst thinking of Charles, it should for a moment enter my
mind that you do not hate me. You promise me this? Now go, and leave
me; I so love to be alone!
AMELIA (with emotion). Yes, verily, I own it. Despite of you all,
barbarians as you are, I will own it before all the world. I love him!
FRANCIS. Did you not place a ring on his finger?--a diamond ring, the
pledge of your love? To be sure how is it possible for youth to resist
the fascinations of a wanton? Who can blame him for it, since he had
nothing else left to give away? and of course she repaid him with
interest by her caresses and embraces.
AMELIA. Monster! what do you mean? What form do you speak of?
FRANCIS (hiding his face). Let me go, let me go! to give free vent to
my tears! tyrannical father, thus to abandon the best of your sons to
misery and disgrace on every side! Let me go, Amelia! I will throw
myself at his feet, on my knees I will conjure him to transfer to me the
curse that he has pronounced, to disinherit me, to hate me, my blood, my
life, my all----.
FRANCIS. Oh, Amelia! how I love you for this unshaken constancy to my
brother. Forgive me for venturing to subject your love to so severe a
trial! How nobly you have realized my wishes! By those tears, those
sighs, that divine indignation--and for me too, for me--our souls did so
truly harmonize.
AMELIA (shakes her head). No, no! by that chaste light of heaven! not
an atom of him, not the least spark of his soul.
FRANCIS. So entirely the same in our dispositions; the rose was his
favorite flower, and what flower do I esteem above the rose? He loved
music beyond expression; and ye are witnesses, ye stars! how often you
have listened to me playing on the harpsichord in the dead silence of
night, when all around lay buried in darkness and slumber; and how is it
possible for you, Amelia, still to doubt? if our love meets in one
perfection, and if it is the self-same love, how can its fruits
degenerate? (AMELIA looks at him with astonishment.) It was a calm,
serene evening, the last before his departure for Leipzic, when he took
me with him to the bower where you so often sat together in dreams of
love,--we were long speechless; at last he seized my hand, and said, in
a low voice, and with tears in his eyes, "I am leaving Amelia; I know
not, but I have a sad presentiment that it is forever; forsake her not,
brother; be her friend, her Charles--if Charles--should never--never
return." (He throws himself down before her, and kisses her hand with
fervor.) Never, never, never will he return; and I stand pledged by a
sacred oath to fulfil his behest!
AMELIA (starting back). Traitor! Now thou art unmasked! In that very
bower he conjured me, if he died, to admit no other love. Dost thou see
how impious, how execrable----. Quit my sight!
FRANCIS. You know me not, Amelia; you do not know me in the least!
AMELIA. Oh, yes, I know you; from henceforth I know you; and you
pretend to be like him? You mean to say that he wept for me in your
presence? Yours? He would sooner have inscribed my name on the
pillory? Begone--this instant!
FRANCIS (stamping with fury). Only wait! you shall learn to tremble
before me!--To sacrifice me for a beggar!
[Exit in anger.]
AMELIA. Go, thou base villain! Now, Charles, am I again thine own.
Beggar, did he say! then is the world turned upside down, beggars are
kings, and kings are beggars! I would not change the rags he wears for
the imperial purple. The look with which he begs must, indeed, be a
noble, a royal look, a look that withers into naught the glory, the
pomp, the triumphs of the rich and great! Into the dust with thee,
glittering baubles! (She tears her pearls from her neck.) Let the rich
and the proud be condemned to bear the burden of gold, and silver, and
jewels! Be they condemned to carouse at the tables of the voluptuous!
To pamper their limbs on the downy couch of luxury! Charles! Charles!
Thus am I worthy of thee!
[Exit.]
ACT II.
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.
FRANCIS (shakes him by the hand). You will not find it that of an
ungrateful master.
FRANCIS. And you shall have more soon--very soon, Hermann!--I have
something to say to thee, Hermann.
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.
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?
FRANCIS. She gave you the sack. And, if I remember right, he kicked
you down stairs.
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. I will not rest till I have him, and him, too, under ground.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!
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? (Exultingly.) 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!
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. 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.
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. 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!
ANDROMACHE.
HECTOR.
Enter DANIEL.
ANDROMACHE.
HECTOR.
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.
AMELIA (starting up). He lives then? He lives! You know him? Where
is he? Where? (About to rush out.)
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.
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!
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 staunching 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.
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!
HERMANN. Here is the sword; and here, too, is a picture which he drew
from his breast at the same time. It is the very image of this young
lady. "This for my brother Francis," he said; I know not what he meant
by it.
AMELIA (returns him the picture) My picture, mine! Oh! heavens and
earth!
OLD M. (screaming and tearing his face.) Woe, woe! my curse drove him
into death! He fell in despair!
FRANCIS. And he thought of me in the last and parting hour--of me.
Angelic soul! When the black banner of death already waved over him he
thought of me!
AMELIA (rises and rushes after him). Stay! stay! What were nis last
words?
AMELIA. His last sigh was Amelia! No, thou art no impostor. It is too
true--true--he is dead--dead! (staggering to and fro till she sinks
down)--dead--Charles is dead!
AMELIA. By him?
FRANCIS (stamping the ground). Confusion! her stubborn heart foils all
my cunning!
FRANCIS. Who was it that cursed him? Who was it that drove his son
into battle, and death, and despair? Oh, he was an angel, a jewel of
heaven! A curse on his destroyers! A curse, a curse upon yourself!
OLD MOOR (strikes his breast and forehead with his clenched fist). He
was an angel, a jewel of heaven! A curse, a curse, perdition, a curse
on myself! I am the father who slew his noble son! He loved me even to
death! To expiate my vengeance he rushed into battle and into death!
Monster, monster that I am! (He rages against himself.)
OLD Moon. Never, never, never bring him back from the grave! Gone!
lost for ever! And you it was that beguiled my heart to curse him.--
you--you--Give me back my son!
FRANCIS. Rouse not my fury, lest I forsake you even in the hour of
death!
OLD MOOR. May the thunder of a thousand curses light upon thee! thou
hast robbed me of my son. (Throwing himself about in his chair full of
despair). Alas! alas! to despair and yet not die. They fly, they
forsake me in death; my guardian angels fly from me; all the saints
withdraw from the hoary murderer. Oh, misery! will no one support this
head, no one release this struggling soul? No son, no daughter, no
friend, not one human being--will no one? Alone--forsaken. Woe, woe!
To despair, yet not to die!
OLD MOOR. Murdered him, you mean. With the weight of this impeachment
I shall present myself before the judgment-seat of God.
AMELIA. Not so, old man! Our heavenly Father has taken him to himself.
We should have been too happy in this world. Above, above, beyond the
stars, we shall meet again.
OLD MOOR. Meet again! Meet again! Oh! it will pierce my soul like a
Sword--should I, a saint, meet him among the saints. In the midst of
heaven the horrors of hell will strike through me! The remembrance of
that deed will crush me in the presence of the Eternal: I have murdered
my son!
AMELIA. Oh, his smiles will chase away the bitter remembrance from your
soul! Cheer up, dear father! I am quite cheerful. Has he not already
sung the name of Amelia to listening angels on seraphic harps, and has
not heaven's choir sweetly echoed it? Was not his last sigh, Amelia?
And will not Amelia be his first accent of joy?
OLD MOOR. Heavenly consolation flows from your lips! He will smile
upon me, you say? He will forgive me? You must stay with my, beloved
of my Charles, when I die.
AMELIA. To die is to fly to his arms. Oh, how happy and enviable is
your lot! Would that my bones were decayed!--that my hairs were gray!
Woe upon the vigor of youth! Welcome, decrepid age, nearer to heaven
and my Charles!
Enter FRANCIS.
OLD MOOR. Come near, my son! Forgive me if I spoke too harshly to you
just now! I forgive you all. I wish to yield up my spirit in peace.
FRANCIS. Have you done weeping for your son? For aught that I see you
had but one.
OLD MOOR. Jacob had twelve sons, but for his Joseph he wept tears of
blood.
FRANCIS. Hum!
OLD MOOR. Bring the Bible, my daughter, and read to me the story of
Jacob and Joseph! It always appeared to me so touching, even before I
myself became a Jacob.
AMELIA. What part shall I read to you? (Takes the Bible and turns over
the leaves.)
OLD MOOR. Read to me the grief of the bereaved father, when he found
his Joseph no more among his children;--when he sought him in vain
amidst his eleven sons;--and his lamentation when he heard that he was
taken from him forever.
AMELIA (reads). "And they took Joseph's coat, and killed a kid of the
goats, and dipped the coat in the blood; and they sent the coat of many
colors, and they brought it to their father, and said, 'This have we
found: know now whether it be thy son's coat or no.' (Exit FRANCIS
suddenly.) And he knew it and said, 'It is my son's coat; an evil beast
hath devoured him; Joseph is without doubt rent in pieces'"
OLD MOOR (falls back upon the pillow). An evil beast hath devoured
Joseph!
AMELIA (continues reading). "And Jacob rent his clothes, and put
sackcloth upon his loins, and mourned for his son many days. And all
his sons and all his daughters rose up to comfort him, but he refused to
be comforted, and he said, 'For I will go down into the grave'"
AMELIA (running towards him, lets fall the book). Heaven help us! What
is this?
OLD MOOR. Fled--fled from his father's deathbed? And is that all--all
--of two children full of promise--thou hast given--thou hast--taken
away--thy name be--
FRANCIS. Dead, they cry, dead! Now am I master. Through the whole
castle it rings, dead! but stay, perchance he only sleeps? To be sure,
yes, to be sure! that certainly is a sleep after which no "good-morrow"
is ever said. Sleep and death are but twin-brothers. We will for once
change their names! Excellent, welcome sleep! We will call thee death!
(He closes the eyes of OLD MOOR.) Who now will come forward and dare to
accuse me at the bar of justice, or tell me to my face, thou art a
villain? Away, then, with this troublesome mask of humility and virtue!
Now you shall see Francis as he is, and tremble! My father was
overgentle in his demands, turned his domain into a family-circle, sat
blandly smiling at the gate, and saluted his peasants as brethren and
children. My brows shall lower upon you like thunderclouds; my lordly
name shall hover over you like a threatening comet over the mountains;
my forehead shall be your weather-glass! He would caress and fondle
the child that lifted its stubborn head against him. But fondling and
caressing is not my mode. I will drive the rowels of the spur into
their flesh, and give the scourge a trial. Under my rule it shall be
brought to pass that potatoes and small-beer shall be considered a
holiday treat; and woe to him who meets my eye with the audacious front
of health. Haggard want and crouching fear are my insignia; and in this
livery I will clothe ye.
[Exit.]
RAZ. Are you come? Is it really you? Oh, let me squeeze thee into a
jelly, my dear heart's brother! Welcome to the Bohemian forests! Why,
you are grown quite stout and jolly! You have brought us recruits in
right earnest, a little army of them; you are the very prince of crimps.
SPIEGEL. Eh, brother? Eli? And proper fellows they are! You must
confess the blessing of heaven is visibly upon me; I was a poor, hungry
wretch, and had nothing but this staff when I went over the Jordan, and
now there are eight-and-seventy of us, mostly ruined shopkeepers,
rejected masters of arts, and law-clerks from the Swabian provinces.
They are a rare set of fellows, brother, capital fellows, I promise you;
they will steal you the very buttons off each other's trousers in
perfect security, although in the teeth of a loaded musket,* and they
live in clover and enjoy a reputation for forty miles round, which is
quite astonishing.
*[The acting edition reads, "Hang your hat up in the sun, and I'll
take you a wager it's gone the next minute, as clean out of sight
as if the devil himself had walked off with it."]
There is not a newspaper in which you will not find some little feat or
other of that cunning fellow, Spiegelberg; I take in the papers for
nothing else; they have described me from head to foot; you would think
you saw me; they have not forgotten even my coat-buttons. But we lead
them gloriously by the nose. The other day I went to the
printing-office and pretended that I had seen the famous Spiegelberg,
dictated to a penny-a-liner who was sitting there the exact image of a
quack doctor in the town; the matter gets wind, the fellow is arrested,
put to the rack, and in his anguish and stupidity he confesses the devil
take me if he does not--confesses that he is Spiegelberg. Fire and fury!
I was on the point of giving myself up to a magistrate rather than have
my fair fame marred by such a poltroon; however, within three months he
was hanged. I was obliged to stuff a right good pinch of snuff into my
nose as some time afterwards I was passing the gibbet and saw the
pseudo-Spiegelberg parading there in all his glory; and, while
Spiegelberg's representative is dangling by the neck, the real
Spiegelberg very quietly slips himself out of the noose, and makes jolly
long noses behind the backs of these sagacious wiseacres of the law.
RAZ. (laughing). You are still the same fellow you always were.
SPIEGEL. Ay, sure! body and soul. But I must tell you a bit of fun,
my boy, which I had the other day in the nunnery of St. Austin. We fell
in with the convent just about sunset; and as I had not fired a single
cartridge all day,--you know I hate the _diem perdidi_ as I hate death
itself,--I was determined to immortalize the night by some glorious
exploit, even though it should cost the devil one of his ears! We kept
quite quiet till late in the night. At last all is as still as a mouse
--the lights are extinguished. We fancy the nuns must be comfortably
tucked up. So I take brother Grimm along with me, and order the others
to wait at the gate till they hear my whistle--I secure the watchman,
take the keys from him, creep into the maid-servants' dormitory, take.
away all their clothes, and whisk the bundle out at the window. We go
on from cell to cell, take away the clothes of one sister after another,
and lastly those of the lady-abbess herself. Then I sound my whistle,
and my fellows outside begin to storm and halloo as if doomsday was at
hand, and away they rush with the devil's own uproar into the cells of
the sisters! Ha, ha, ha! You should have seen the game--how the poor
creatures were groping about in the dark for their petticoats, and how
they took on when they found they were gone; and we, in the meantime, at
'em like very devils; and now, terrified and amazed, they wriggled under
their bedclothes, or cowered together like cats behind the stoves.
There was such shrieking and lamentation; and then the old beldame of an
abbess--you know, brother, there is nothing in the world I hate so much
as a spider and an old woman--so you may just fancy that wrinkled old
hag standing naked before me, conjuring me by her maiden modesty
forsooth! Well, I was determined to make short work of it; either, said
I, out with your plate and your convent jewels and all your shining
dollars, or--my fellows knew what I meant. The end of it was I brought
away more than a thousand dollars' worth out of the convent, to say
nothing of the fun, which will tell its own story in due time.
SPIEGEL. Do you see? Now tell me, is not that life? 'Tis that which
keeps one fresh and hale, and braces the body so that it swells hourly
like an abbot's paunch; I don't know, but I think I must be endowed with
some magnetic property, which attracts all the vagabonds on the face of
the earth towards me like steel and iron.
RAZ. A precious magnet, indeed. But I should like to know, I'll be
hanged if I shouldn't, what witchcraft you use?
*[In the first (and suppressed) edition was added, "Go to the
Grisons, for instance; that is what I call the thief's Athens."
This obnoxious passage has been carefully expunged from all the
subsequent editions. It gave mortal offence to the Grison
magistrates, who made a formal complaint of the insult and caused
Schiller to be severely rebuked by the Grand Duke. This incident
forms one of the epochs in our author's history.]
SPIEGEL. Yes, yes! Give the devil his due. Italy makes a very noble
figure; and if Germany goes on as it has begun, and if the Bible gets
fairly kicked out, of which there is every prospect, Germany, too, may
in time arrive at something respectable; but I should tell you that
climate does not, after all, do such a wonderful deal; genius thrives
everywhere; and as for the rest, brother, a crab, you know, will never
become a pineapple, not even in Paradise. But to pursue our subject,
where did I leave off?
SPIEGEL. Ah, yes! my stratagems. Well, when you get into a town, the
first thing is to fish out from the beadles, watchmen, and turnkeys, who
are their best customers, and for these, accordingly, you must look out;
then ensconce yourself snugly in coffee-houses, brothels, and
beer-shops, and observe who cry out most against the cheapness of the
times, the reduced five per cents., and the increasing nuisance of police
regulations; who rail the loudest against government, or decry
physiognomical science, and such like? These are the right sort of
fellows, brother. Their honesty is as loose as a hollow tooth; you have
only to apply your pincers. Or a shorter and even better plan is to drop
a full purse in the public highway, conceal yourself somewhere near, and
mark who finds it. Presently after you come running up, search, proclaim
your loss aloud, and ask him, as it were casually, "Have you perchance
picked up a purse, sir?" If he says "Yes," why then the devil fails you.
But if he denies it, with a "pardon me, sir, I remember, I am sorry,
sir," (he jumps up), then, brother, you've done the trick. Extinguish
your lantern, cunning Diogenes, you have found your match.
SPIEGEL. My God! As if that had ever been doubted. Well, then, when
you have got your man into the net, you must take great care to land him
cleverly. You see, my son, the way I have managed is thus: as soon as I
was on the scent I stuck to my candidate like a leech; I drank
brotherhood with him, and, _nota bene_, you must always pay the score.
That costs a pretty penny, it is true, but never mind that. You must go
further; introduce him to gaming-houses and brothels; entangle him in
broils and rogueries till he becomes bankrupt in health and strength, in
purse, conscience, and reputation; for I must tell you, by the way, that
you will make nothing of it unless you ruin both body and soul. Believe
me, brother, and I have experienced it more than fifty times in my
extensive practice, that when the honest man is once ousted from his
stronghold, the devil has it all his own way--the transition is then as
easy as from a whore to a devotee. But hark! What bang was that?
SPIEGEL. Or, there is a yet shorter and still better way. You strip
your man of all he has, even to his very shirt, and then he will come to
you of his own accord; you won't teach me to suck eggs, brother; ask
that copper-faced fellow there. My eyes, how neatly I got him into my
meshes. I showed him forty ducats, which I promised to give him if he
would bring me an impression in wax of his master's keys. Only think,
the stupid brute not only does this, but actually brings me--I'll be
hanged if he did not--the keys themselves; and then thinks to get the
money. "Sirrah," said I, "are you aware that I am going to carry these
keys straight to the lieutenant of police, and to bespeak a place for
you on the gibbet?" By the powers! you should have seen how the
simpleton opened his eyes, and began to shake from head to foot like a
dripping poodle. "For heaven's sake, sir, do but consider. I will--
will--" "What will you? Will you at once cut your stick and go to the
devil with me?" "Oh, with all my heart, with great pleasure." Ha! ha!
ha! my fine fellow; toasted cheese is the thing to catch mice with; do
have a good laugh at him, Razman; ha! ha! ha!
RAZ. Yes, yes, I must confess. I shall inscribe that lesson in letters
of gold upon the tablet of my brain. Satan must know his people right
well to have chosen you for his factor.
RAZ. Zounds! I smelt it long ago. You may depend upon it there has
being something going forward hereabouts. Yes, yes! I can tell you,
Spiegelberg, you will be welcome to our captain with your recruits; he,
too, has got hold of some brave fellows.
RAZ. Without joking. And they are not ashamed to serve under such a
leader. He does not commit murder as we do for the sake of plunder; and
as to money, as soon as he had plenty of it at command, he did not seem
to care a straw for it; and his third of the booty, which belongs to him
of right, he gives away to orphans, or supports promising young men with
it at college. But should he happen to get a country squire into his
clutches who grinds down his peasants like cattle, or some gold-laced
villain, who warps the law to his own purposes, and hoodwinks the eyes
of justice with his gold, or any chap of that kidney; then, my boy, he
is in his element, and rages like a very devil, as if every fibre in his
body were a fury.
SPIEGEL. Humph!
RAZ. The other day we were told at a tavern that a rich count from
Ratisbon was about to pass through, who had gained the day in a suit
worth a million of money by the craftiness of his lawyer. The captain
was just sitting down to a game of backgammon. "How many of us are
there?" said he to me, rising in haste. I saw him bite his nether lip,
which he never does except when he is very determined. "Not more than
five," I replied. "That's enough," he said; threw his score on the
table, left the wine he had ordered untouched, and off we went. The
whole time he did not utter a syllable, but walked aloof and alone, only
asking us from time to time whether we heard anything, and now and then
desiring us to lay our ears to the ground. At last the count came in
sight, his carriage heavily laden, the lawyer, seated by his side, an
outrider in advance, and two horsemen riding behind. Then you should
have seen the man. With a pistol in each hand he ran before us to the
carriage,--and the voice with which he thundered, "Halt!" The coachman,
who would not halt, was soon toppled from his box; the count fired out
of the carriage and missed--the horseman fled. "Your money, rascal!"
cried Moor, with his stentorian voice. The count lay like a bullock
under the axe: "And are you the rogue who turns justice into a venal
prostitute?" The lawyer shook till his teeth chattered again; and a
dagger soon stuck in his body, like a stake in a vineyard. "I have done
my part," cried the captain, turning proudly away; "the plunder is your
affair." And with this he vanished into the forest.
SPIEGEL. Hum! hum! Brother, what I told you just now remains between
ourselves; there is no occasion for his knowing it. You understand me?
SPIEGEL. You know the man! He has his own notions! You understand me?
SCHWARZ. Quick, quick! Where are the others? Zounds! there you stand
gossiping! Don't you know--do you know nothing of it?--that poor
Roller--
SCHWARZ. He's hanged, that's all, and four others with him--
SCHWARZ. He has been in limbo more than three weeks, and we knew
nothing of it. He was brought up for examination three several days,
and still we heard nothing. They put him to the rack to make him tell
where the captain was to be found--but the brave fellow would not slip.
Yesterday he got his sentence, and this morning was dispatched express
to the devil!
RAZ. That is true! I know the captain. If he had pledged his word to
the devil to go to hell he never would pray again, though half a
pater-noster would take him to heaven. Alas! poor Roller!--poor Roller!
SPIEGEL. _Memento mori_! But it does not concern me. (Hums a tune).
RAZ. (Jumping up). Hark! a shot! (Firing and noise is heard behind the
scenes).
SPIEGEL. Another!
SCHWEITZER and ROLLER (behind the scenes). Holla, ho! Holla, ho!
RAZ. (to ROLLER). Well, by the fires of Pluto! Art thou risen from
the wheel?
SCHWARZ. Art thou his ghost? or am I a fool? or art thou really the
man?
SCHWARZ. It would puzzle a witch to tell! The staff was already broken
over you.
ROLLER. Ay, that it was, and more than that! I come straightway from
the gallows. Only let me get my breath. Schweitzer will tell you all.
Give me a glass of brandy! You there too, Spiegelberg! I thought we
should have met again in another place. But give me a glass of brandy!
my bones are tumbling to pieces. Oh, my captain! Where is my captain?
SCHWEITZER. It was a trick worth the telling. We had heard the day
before, through our spies, that Roller was in the devil's own pickle;
and unless the vault of heaven fell in suddenly he would, on the morrow
--that is, to-day--go the way of all flesh. Up! says the captain, and
follow me--what is not a friend worth? Whether we save him or not, we
will at least light him up a funeral pile such as never yet honored
royalty; one which shall burn them black and blue. The whole troop was
summoned. We sent Roller a trusty messenger, who conveyed the notice to
him in a little billet, which he slipped into his porridge.
ROLLER. Now my guards looked behind them--there lay the city, like
Sodom and Gomorrah--the whole horizon was one mass of fire, brimstone,
and smoke; and forty hills echoed and reflected the infernal prank far
and wide. A panic seized them all--I take advantage of the moment, and,
quick as lightning--my fetters had been taken off, so nearly was my time
come--while my guards were looking away petrified, like Lot's wife, I
shot off--tore through the crowd--and away! After running some sixty
paces I throw off my clothes, plunge into the river, and swim along
under water till I think they have lost sight of me. My captain stood
ready, with horses and clothes--and here I am. Moor! Moor! I only
wish that you may soon get into just such another scrape that I may
requite you in like manner.
ROLLER. It was help in need; you cannot judge of it. You should have
marched, like me, with a rope round your neck, travelling to your grave
in the living body, and seen their horrid sacramental forms and
hangman's ceremonies--and then, at every reluctant step, as the
struggling feet were thrust forward, to see the infernal machine, on
which I was to be elevated, glaring more and more hideously in the blaze
of a noonday sun--and the hangman's rapscallions watching for their prey
--and the horrible psalm-singing--the cursed twang still rings in my
ears--and the screeching hungry ravens, a whole flight of them, who were
hovering over the half-rotten carcass of my predecessor. To see all
this--ay, more, to have a foretaste of the blessedness which was in
store for me! Brother, brother! And then, all of a sudden, the signal
of deliverance. It was an explosion as if the vault of heaven were rent
in twain. Hark ye, fellows! I tell you, if a man were to leap out of a
fiery furnace into a freezing lake he could not feel the contrast half
so strongly as I did when I gained the opposite shore.
SPIEGEL. (Laughs.) Poor wretch! Well, you have got over it. (Pledges
him). Here's to a happy regeneration!
ROLLER (flings away his glass). No, by all the treasures of Mammon, I
should not like to go through it a second time. Death is something more
than a harlequin's leap, and its terrors are even worse than death
itself.
SPIEGEL. And the powder-magazine leaping into the air! Don't you see
it now, Razman? That was the reason the air stunk so, for miles round,
of brimstone, as if the whole wardrobe of Moloch was being aired under
the open firmament. It was a master-stroke, captain! I envy you for
it.
ONE OF THE TROOP. I crept into St. Stephen's church during the hubbub,
and tore the gold lace from the altarcloth. The patron saint, thought I
to myself, can make gold lace out of packthread.
A SECOND. I and Brizal broke into a merchant's store, and have brought
stuffs enough with us to serve fifty men.
A THIRD. I have filched two gold watches and a dozen silver spoons.
SCHWEITZER. Well done, well done! And we have lighted them a bonfire
that will take a fortnight to put out again. And, to get rid of the
fire, they must ruin the city with water. Do you know, Schufterle, how
many lives have been lost?
SCHUF. Bah! bah! What of that? If they had but been men it would have
been another matter--but they were babes in swaddling clothes, and
shrivelled old nurses that kept the flies from them, and dried-up
stove-squatters who could not crawl to the door--patients whining for the
doctor, who, with his stately gravity, was marching to the sport. All
that had the use of their legs had gone forth in the sight, and nothing
remained at home but the dregs of the city.
CHARLES. Alas for the poor creatures! Sick people, sayest thou, old
men and infants?
SCHUF. Ay, the devil go with them! And lying-in-women into the
bargain; and women far gone with child, who were afraid of miscarrying
under the gibbet; and young mothers, who thought the sight might do them
a mischief, and mark the gallows upon the foreheads of their unborn
babes--poor poets, without a shoe, because their only pair had been sent
to the cobbler to mend--and other such vermin, not worth the trouble of
mentioning. As I chanced to pass by a cottage I heard a great squalling
inside. I looked in; and, when I came to examine, what do you think it
was? Why, an infant--a plump and ruddy urchin--lying on the floor under
a table which was just beginning to burn. Poor little wretch! said I,
you will be cold there, and with that I threw it into the flames!
CHARLES. Indeed, Schufterle? Then may those flames burn in thy bosom
to all eternity! Avaunt, monster! Never let me see thee again in my
troop! What! Do you murmur? Do you hesitate? Who dares hesitate when
I command? Away with him, I say! And there are others among you ripe
for my vengeance. I know thee, Spiegelberg. But I will step in among
you ere long, and hold a fearful muster-roll.
[Exeunt, trembling.]
CHARLES (alone, walking up and down in great agitation). Hear them not,
thou avenger in heaven! How can I avert it? Art thou to blame, great
God, if thy engines, pestilence, and famine, and floods, overwhelm the
just with the unjust? Who can stay the flame, which is kindled to
destroy the hornet's nest, from extending to the blessed harvest? Oh!
fie on the slaughter of women, and children, and the sick! How this
deed weighs me down! It has poisoned my fairest achievements! There he
stands, poor fool, abashed and disgraced in the sight of heaven; the boy
that presumed to wield Jove's thunder, and overthrew pigmies when he
should have crushed Titans. Go, go! 'tis not for thee, puny son of
clay, to wield the avenging sword of sovereign justice! Thou didst fail
at thy first essay. Here, then, I renounce the audacious scheme. I go
to hide myself in some deep cleft of the earth, where no daylight will
be witness of my shame. (He is about to fly.)
3D ROBBER. Woe, woe, woe! we are all taken, hanged drawn, and
quartered. Thousands of hussars, dragoons, and chasseurs are mustering
on the heights, and guard all the passes.
[Exit CHARLES VON MOOR.]
RAZ. Powder, I believe you; but we are only eighty in all and therefore
scarcely one to twenty.
SCHWEITZER. So much the better! And though there were fifty against
my great toe-nail--fellows who have waited till we lit the straw under
their very seats. Brother, brother, there is nothing to fear. They
sell their lives for tenpence; and are we not fighting for our necks?
We will pour into them like a deluge, and fire volleys upon their heads
like crashes of thunder. But where the devil is the captain.
SCHWEITZER. Escape?
SCHWEITZER. Ha! I'll rip them open with my tusks, till their entrails
protrude by the yard! Lead on, captain! we will follow you into the
very jaws of death.
RAZ. Every one of us has five brace of pistols, ready loaded, and three
carbines to boot.
CHARLES. Good! good! Now some of you must climb up the trees, or
conceal yourselves in the thickets, and some fire upon them in ambush--
CHARLES. The rest will follow me, and fall upon their flanks like
furies.
CHARLES. At the same time let every man make his whistle ring through
the forest, and gallop about in every direction, so that our numbers may
appear the more formidable. And let all the dogs be unchained, and set
on upon their ranks, that they may be broken and dispersed and run in
the way of our fire. We three, Roller, Schweitzer, and myself, will
fight wherever the fray is hottest.
CHARLES. Silence!
CHARLES. Away! Let him have the benefit of his disgrace; it has saved
him. He shall not die on the same field with myself, my Schweitzer, and
my Roller. Let him change his apparel, and I will say he is a traveller
whom I have plundered. Make yourself easy, Schweitzer. Take my word
for it he will be hanged yet.
FATHER DOM. (to himself, starts). Is this the dragon's nest? With your
leave, sirs! I am a servant of the church; and yonder are seventeen
hundred men who guard every hair of my head.
CHARLES. Silence, comrade! Will you tell us briefly, good father, what
is your errand here?
FATHER Dom. I am delegated by the high justices, on whose sentence
hangs life or death--ye thieves--ye incendiaries--ye villains--ye
venomous generation of vipers, crawling about in the dark, and stinging
in secret--ye refuse of humanity--brood of hell--food for ravens and
worms--colonists for the gallows and the wheel--
CHARLES. Fie, fie, Schweitzer! You cut the thread of his discourse.
He has got his sermon so nicely by heart. Pray go on, Sir! "for the
gallows and the wheel?"
CHARLES. How, Sir? You were not prepared for that, it seems? Go on--
by all means go on. What more were you going to say?
FATHER DOM. (heated). Abominable wretch! Avaunt! Does not the blood
of a murdered count of the empire cling to thy accursed fingers? Hast
thou not, with sacrilegious hands, dared to break into the Lord's
sanctuary, and carry off the consecrated vessels of the _sanctissimum_?
Hast thou not flung firebrands into our godly city, and brought down the
powder-magazine upon the heads of devout Christians? (Clasps his
hands). Horrible, horrible wickedness! that stinketh in the nostrils of
Heaven, and provoketh the day of judgment to burst upon you suddenly!
ripe for retribution--rushing headlong to the last trump!
CHARLES. Masterly guesses thus far! But now, sir, to the point! What
is it that the right worshipful justices wish to convey to me through
you?
FATHER Dom. What you are not worthy to receive. Look around you,
incendiary! As far as your eye can reach you are environed by our
horsemen--there is no chance of escape. As surely as cherries grow on
these oaks, and peaches on these firs, so surely shall you turn your
backs upon these oaks and these firs in safety.
FATHER DOM. Hear, then, what mercy and forbearance justice shows
towards such miscreants. If you instantly prostrate yourselves in
submission and sue for mercy and forgiveness, then severity itself will
relent to compassion, and justice be to thee an indulgent mother. She
will shut one eye upon your horrible crimes, and be satisfied--only
think!--to let you be broken on the wheel.
ROLLER. Captain! Fire and fury! Captain! How he bites his lip!
Shall I topple this fellow upside down like a ninepin?
SCHWEITZER. Mine, mine be the job! Let me kneel to you, captain; let
me implore you! I beseech you to grant me the delight of pounding him
to a jelly! (FATHER DOMINIC screams.)
CHARLES. Touch him not! Let no one lay a finger on him!--(To FATHER
DOMINIC, drawing his sword.) Hark ye, sir father! Here stand
nine-and-seventy men, of whom I am the captain, and not one of them has
been taught to trot at a signal, or learned to dance to the music of
artillery; while yonder stand seventeen hundred men grown gray under the
musket. But now listen! Thus says Moor, the captain of incendiaries. It
is true I have slain a count of the empire, burnt and plundered the
church of St. Dominic, flung firebrands into your bigoted city, and
brought down the powder-magazine upon the heads of devout Christians. But
that is not all,--I have done more. (He holds out his right hand.) Do you
observe these four costly rings, one on each finger? Go and report
punctually to their worships, on whose sentence hangs life or death what
you shall hear and see. This ruby I drew from the finger of a minister,
whom I stretched at the feet of his prince, during the chase. He had
fawned himself up from the lowest dregs, to be the first favorite;--the
ruin of his neighbor was his ladder to greatness--orphans' tears helped
him to mount it. This diamond I took from a lord treasurer, who sold
offices of honor and trust to the highest bidder, and drove the sorrowing
patriot from his door. This opal I wear in honor of a priest of your
cloth, whom I dispatched with my own hand, after he had publicly deplored
in his pulpit the waning power of the Inquisition. I could tell you more
stories about my rings, but that I repent the words I have already wasted
upon you--
CHARLES. Do you hear it? Did you mark that sigh? Does he not stand
there as if he were imploring fire from heaven to descend and destroy
this troop of Korah? He pronounces judgment with a shrug of the
shoulders, and eternal damnation with a Christian "Alas!" Is it
possible for humanity to be so utterly blind? He who has the hundred
eyes of Argus to spy out the faults of his brother--can he be so totally
blind to his own? They thunder forth from their clouds about gentleness
and forbearance, while they sacrifice human victims to the God of love
as if he were the fiery Moloch. They preach the love of one's neighbor,
while they drive the aged and blind with curses from their door. They
rave against covetousness; yet for the sake of gold they have
depopulated Peru, and yoked the natives, like cattle, to their chariots.
They rack their brains in wonder to account for the creation of a Judas
Iscariot, yet the best of them would betray the whole Trinity for ten
shekels. Out upon you, Pharisees! ye falsifiers of truth! ye apes of
Deity! You are not ashamed to kneel before crucifixes and altars; you
lacerate your backs with thongs, and mortify your flesh with fasting;
and with these pitiful mummeries you think, fools as you are, to veil
the eyes of Him whom, with the same breath, you address as the
Omniscient, just as the great are the most bitterly mocked by those who
flatter them while they pretend to hate flatterers. You boast of your
honesty and your exemplary conduct; but the God who sees through your
hearts would be wroth with Him that made you, were He not the same that
had also created the monsters of the Nile. Away with him out of my
sight!
CHARLES. That's not all. Now I will speak proudly. Go and tell the
right worshipful justices--who set men's lives upon the cast of a die--
I am not one of those thieves who conspire with sleep and midnight, and
play the hero and the lordling on a scaling-ladder. What I have done I
shall no doubt hereafter be doomed to read in the register of heaven;
but with his miserable ministers of earth I will waste no more words.
Tell your masters that my trade is retribution--vengeance my occupation!
(He turns his back upon him.)
FATHER DOM. Then you despise mercy and forbearance?---Be it so, I have
done with you. (Turning to the troop.) Now then, sirs, you shall hear
what the high powers direct me to make known to you!--If you will
instantly deliver up to me this condemned malefactor, bound hand and
foot, you shall receive a full pardon--your enormities shall be entirely
blotted out, even from memory. The holy church will receive you, like
lost sheep, with renewed love, into her maternal bosom, and the road to
honorable employment shall be open to you all. (With a triumphant
smile.) Now sir! how does your majesty relish this? Come on! bind him!
and you are free!
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?
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!
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!
ACT III.
Enter FRANCIS.
FRANCIS. Here again already, perverse enthusiast? You stole away from
the festive banquet, and marred the mirthful pleasures of my guests.
FRANCIS. Wilt thou sorrow, then, forever? Let the dead sleep in peace,
and do thou make the living happy! I come--
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. 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. 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!
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 the 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).
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.
HERMANN (with bitter irony). "You shall have Amelia--and that from my
hand--"
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?
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?
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!
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).
FRANCIS (runs to the wall, and takes down a pistol). Here is treason!
I must be resolute--
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.
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! The 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.]
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!
HERMANN (detaining her). No; stay! In the name of Heaven! In the name
of the Eternal! You must know all!
AMELIA. Not another word. I forgive you. Depart in peace. (In the
act of going.)
HERMANN. Only one word--listen; it will restore all your peace of mind.
AMELIA (seizing his hand with compassion). Good sir! Can one word from
thy lips burst asunder the portals of eternity?
CHARLES. Here must I lie (throwing himself upon the ground). I feel as
if my limbs were all shattered. My tongue is as dry as a potsherd
(SCHWEITZER disappears unperceived.) I would ask one of you to bring me
a handful of water from that stream, but you are all tired to death.
CHARLES. See how beautiful the harvest looks! The trees are breaking
with the weight of their fruit. The vines are full of promise.
CHARLES. Do you think so? Then at least one toil in the world will be
repaid. One? Yet in the night a hailstorm may come and destroy it all.
CHARLES. Just what I say. All will be destroyed. Why should man
prosper in that which he has in common with the ant, while he fails in
that which places him on a level with the gods. Or is this the aim and
limit of his destiny?
CHARLES. Thou hast said well; and wilt have done better, if thou never
seekest to know. Brother, I have looked on men, their insect cares and
their giant projects,--their god-like plans and mouse-like occupations,
their intensely eager race after happiness--one trusting to the
fleetness of his horse,--another to the nose of his ass,--a third to his
own legs; this checkered lottery of life, in which so many stake their
innocence and their leaven to snatch a prize, and,--blanks are all they
draw--for they find, too late, that there was no prize in the wheel. It
is a drama, brother, enough to bring tears into your eyes, while it
shakes your sides with laughter.
CHARLES. When I, was but a boy--it was my darling thought to live like
him, like him to die--(with suppressed grief.) It was a boyish thought!
SCHWARZ. Moor! Moor! Why, what the deuce! How his color changes.
CHARLES. There was a time when I could not have slept had I forgotten
my evening prayers.
GRIMM. Are you beside yourself? Would you let the remembrances of your
boyish years school you now?
CHARLES (lays his head upon the breast of GRIMM). Brother! Brother!
SCHWARZ (to the others). How strange! I never saw him thus before.
CHARLES. There was a time when my tears flowed so freely. Oh, those
days of peace! Dear home of my fathers--ye verdant halcyon vales!
O all ye Elysian scenes of my childhood!--will you never return?--will
your delicious breezes never cool my burning bosom? Mourn with me,
Nature, mourn! They will never return! never will their delicious
breezes cool my burning bosom! They are gone! gone! irrevocably gone!
SCHWEITZER. A bit of a freak, you fool, which had well-nigh cost me two
legs and a neck. As I was frolicking along the steep sandbanks of the
river, plump, in a moment, the whole concern slid from under me, and I
after it, some ten fathoms deep;--there I lay, and, as I was recovering
my five senses, lo and behold, the most sparkling water in the gravel!
Not so much amiss this time, said I to myself, for the caper I have cut.
The captain will be sure to relish a drink.
CHARLES (returns him the hat and wipes his face). But you are covered
with mud, Schweitzer, and we can't see the scar which the Bohemian
horseman marked on your forehead--your water was good, Schweitzer--and
those scars become you well.
CHARLES. Yes, boys--it was a hot day's work--and only one man lost.
Poor Roller! he died a noble death. A marble monument would be erected
to his memory had he died in any other cause than mine. Let this
suffice. (He wipes the tears from his eyes.) How many, did you say, of
the enemy were left on the field?
CHARLES. Three hundred for one! Every one of you has a claim upon this
head. (He bares his head.) By this uplifted dagger! As my Soul liveth,
I will never forsake you!
SCHWEITZER. Swear not! You do not know but you may yet be happy, and
repent your oath.
Enter KOSINSKY.
KOSINSKY (aside). Hereabouts, they say, I shall find him. Ha! What
faces are these? Should they be--if these--they must be the men! Yes,
'tis they,'tis they! I will accost them.
KOSINSKY. Men!
KOSINSKY. I am in search of men who can look death in the face, and let
danger play around then like a tamed snake; who prize liberty above life
or honor; whose very names, hailed by the poor and the oppressed, appal
the boldest, and make tyrants tremble.
SCHWEITZER (to the Captain). I like that fellow. Hark ye, friend! You
have found your men.
SCHWEITZER (taking him warmly by the hand). There's a good lad. You
and I must be chums.
SCHWEITZER (with a leap into the air). Hurrah! Hurrah! Our Roller
replaced ten hundred-fold! An out-and-out brother cut-throat for our
troop.
KOSINSKY. Kosinsky.
CHARLES. What? Kosinsky! And do you know that you are but a
thoughtless boy, and are embarking on the most weighty passage of your
life as heedlessly as a giddy girl? You will find no playing at bowls
or ninepins here, as you probably imagine.
CHARLES. Indeed, young gentleman? And was it for this that you took
fencing lessons, to run poor travellers through the body for the sake of
a dollar, or stab women in the back? Go! go! You have played truant to
your nurse because she shook the rod at you.
SCHWEITZER. Why, what the devil, captain! what are you about? Do you
mean to turn away such a Hercules? Does he not look as if he could
baste Marechal Saxe across the Ganges with a ladle?
CHARLES. Because your silly schemes miscarry, you come here to turn
rogue and assassin! Murder, boy, do you know the meaning of that word?
You may have slumbered in peace after cropping a few poppy-heads, but to
have a murder on your soul--
CHARLES. Has your tutor let the story of Robin Hood--get into your
hands? Such careless rascals ought to be sent to the galleys. And has
it heated your childish fancy, and infected you with the mania of
becoming a hero? Are you thirsting for honor and fame? Would you buy
immortality by deeds of incendiarism? Mark me, ambitious youth! No
laurel blooms for the incendiary. No triumph awaits the victories of
the bandit--nothing but curses, danger, death, disgrace. Do you see the
gibbet yonder on the hill?
CHARLES. Bravo! Capital! You have made good use of your time at
school; you have got your Seneca cleverly by heart. But, my good
friend, you will not be able with these fine phrases to cajole nature
in the hour of suffering; they will never blunt the biting tooth of
remorse. Ponder on it well, my son! (Takes him by the hand.) I advise
you as a father. First learn the depth of the abyss before you plunge
headlong into it. If in this world you can catch a single glimpse of
happiness--moments may come when you-awake,--and then--it may be too
late. Here you step out as it were beyond the pale of humanity--you
must either be more than human or a demon. Once more, my son! if but
a single spark of hope glimmer for you elsewhere, fly this fearful
compact, where nought but despair enters, unless a higher wisdom has so
ordained it. You may deceive yourself--believe me, it is possible to
mistake that for strength of mind which in reality is nothing more than
despair. Take my counsel! mine! and depart quickly.
KOSINSKY. No! I will not stir. If my entreaties fail to move you, hear
but the story of my misfortunes. And then you will force the dagger
into my hand as eagerly as you now seek to withhold it. Seat yourselves
awhile on the grass and listen.
KOSINSKY. Blood, blood! Only hear on! Blood will fill your whole
soul. She was of citizen birth, a German--but her look dissolved all
the prejudices of aristocracy. With blushing modesty she received the
bridal ring from my hand, and on the morrow I was to have led my AMELIA
to the altar. (CHARLES rises suddenly.) In the midst of my intoxicating
dream of happiness, and while our nuptials were preparing, an express
summoned me to court. I obeyed the summons. Letters were shown me
which I was said to have written, full of treasonable matter. I grew
scarlet with indignation at such malice; they deprived me of my sword,
thrust me into prison, and all my senses forsook me.
KOSINSKY. There I lay a whole month, and knew not what was taking
place. I was full of anxiety for my Amelia, who I was sure would suffer
the pangs of death every moment in apprehension of my fate. At last the
prime minister makes his appearance,--congratulates me in honey-sweet
words on the establishment of my innocence,--reads to me a warrant of
discharge,--and returns me my sword. I flew in triumph to my castle, to
the arms of my Amelia, but she had disappeared! She had been carried
off, it was said, at midnight, no one knew whither, and no eye had
beheld her since. A suspicion instantly flashed across my mind. I
rushed to the capital--I made inquiries at court--all eyes were upon
me,--no one would give me information. At last I discovered her through
a grated window of the palace--she threw me a small billet.
KOSINSKY. Death and destruction! The contents were these! They had
given her the choice between seeing me put to death, and becoming the
mistress of the prince. In the struggle between honor and love she
chose the latter, and (with a bitter smile) I was saved.
SCHWEITZER. And what did you do then?
SCHWEITZER (stamping the ground). And so the fellow got off clear, and
you lost your labor?
SCHWEITZER (rising and whetting his sword). That is grist to our mill,
captain! There is something here for the incendiaries!
CHARLES (who has been walking up and down in violent agitation, with a
sudden start to the ROBBERS). I must see her. Up! collect your
baggage--you'll stay with us, Kosinsky! Quick, pack up!
CHARLES (falling on his neck). Dear brother! thou shalt follow me. She
weeps, she mourns away her life. Up! quickly! all of you! to
Franconia! In a week we must be there.
[Exeunt.]
ACT IV.
CHARLES. Go forward, and announce me. You remember what you have to
say?
KOSINSKY. You are Count Brand, you come from Mecklenburg. I am your
groom. Do not fear, I shall take care to play my part. Farewell!
[Exit.]
See there! the old swallow-nests in the castle yard!---and the little
garden-gate!--and this corner of the fence where I so often watched in
ambuscade to teaze old Towzer!--and down there in the green valley,
where, as the great Alexander, I led my Macedonians to the battle of
Arbela; and the grassy hillock yonder, from which I hurled the Persian
satrap--and then waved on high my victorious banner! (He smiles.) The
golden age of boyhood lives again in the soul of the outcast. I was
then so happy, so wholly, so cloudlessly happy--and now--behold all my
prospects a wreck! Here should I have presided, a great, a noble, an
honored man--here have--lived over again the years of boyhood in the
blooming--children of my Amelia--here!--here have been the idol of my
people--but the foul fiend opposed it (Starting.) Why am I here? To
feel like the captive when the clanking of his chains awakes him from
his dream of liberty. No, let me return to my wretchedness! The
captive had forgotten the light of day, but the dream of liberty flashes
past his eyes like a blaze of lightning in the night, which leaves it
darker than before. Farewell, ye native vales! once ye saw Charles as a
boy, and then Charles was happy. Now ye have seen the man his happiness
turned to despair! (He moves rapidly towards the most distant point of
the landscape, where he suddenly stops and casts a melancholy look
across to the castle.) Not to behold her! not even one look?--and only
a wall between me and Amelia! No! see her I must!--and him too!--though
it crush me! (He turns back.) Father! father! thy son approaches. Away
with thee, black, reeking gore! Away with that grim, ghastly look of
death! Oh, give me but this one hour free! Amelia! Father! thy
Charles approaches! (He goes quickly towards the castle.) Torment me
when the morning dawns--give me no rest with the coming night--beset me
in frightful dreams! But, oh! poison not this my only hour of bliss!
(He is standing at the gate.) What is it I feel? What means this, Moor?
Be a man! These death-like shudders--foreboding terrors.
[Enters.]
AMELIA. And are you sure that you should know his portrait among these
pictures?
CHARLES. Oh, most certainly! his image has always been fresh in my
memory. (Passing along thee pictures.) This is not it.
AMELIA. You are right! He was the first count, and received his patent
of nobility from Frederic Barbarossa, to whom he rendered some service
against the corsairs.
AMELIA. You surprise me. What! not seen him for eighteen years, and
still--
CHARLES (quickly, with a hectic blush). Yes, this is he! (He stands as
if struck by lightning.)
AMELIA. Gone! as our best joys perish. (Gently taking him by the
hand.) Dear Sir, no happiness ripens in this world.
CHARLES. Most true, most true! And have you already proved this truth
by sad experience? You, who can scarcely yet have seen your
twenty-third year?
AMELIA. Yes, alas, I have proved it. Whatever lives, lives to die in
sorrow. We engage our hearts, and grasp after the things of this world,
only to undergo the pang of losing them.
AMELIA. That portrait on the left is the son of the count, the present
count. Come, let us pass on!
CHARLES. She loves me, she loves me! Her whole being began to rebel,
and the traitor tears rolled down her cheeks. She loves me! Wretch,
hast thou deserved this at her hands? Stand I not here like a condemned
criminal before the fatal block? Is this the couch on which we so often
sat--where I have hung in rapture on her neck? Are these my ancestral
halls? (Overcome by the sight of his father's portrait.) Thou--thou--
Flames of fire darting from thine eyes--His curse--His curse--He disowns
me--Where am I? My sight grows dim--Horrors of the living God--'Twas I,
'twas I that killed my father!
[He rushes off]
FRANCIS. Away with that image! Away with it! Craven heart! Why dost
thou tremble, and before whom? Have I not felt, during the few hours
that the count has been within these walls as if a spy from hell were
gliding at my heels. Methinks I should know him! There is something so
lofty, so familiar, in his wild, sunburnt features, which makes me
tremble. Amelia, too, is not indifferent towards him! Does she not
dart eager, languishing looks at the fellow looks of which she is so
chary to all the world beside? Did I not see her drop those stealthy
tears into the wine, which, behind my back, he quaffed so eagerly that
he seemed to swallow the very glass? Yes, I saw it--I saw it in the
mirror with my own eyes. Take care, Francis! Look about you! Some
destruction-brooding monster is lurking beneath all this! (He stops,
with a searching look, before the portrait of CHARLES.)
Enter DANIEL.
FRANCIS. Nothing. Go, fill this goblet with wine, and quickly! (Exit
DANIEL.) Wait a little, old man! I shall find you out! I will fix my
eye upon you so keenly that your stricken conscience shall betray itself
through your mask! He shall die! He is but a sorry bungler who leaves
his work half finished, and then looks on idly, trusting to chance for
what may come of it.
Bring it here! Look me steadfastly in the face! How your knees knock
together! How you tremble! Confess, old man! what have you been
doing?
FRANCIS. Drink this wine! What? you hesitate? Out with it quickly!
What have you put into the wine?
FRANCIS. You have poisoned it! Are you not as white as snow? Confess,
confess! Who gave it you? The count? Is it not so? The count gave it
you?
DANIEL. The count? Jesu Maria! The count has not given me anything.
FRANCIS (grasping him tight). I will throttle you till you are black in
the face, you hoary-headed liar! Nothing? Why, then, are you so often
closeted together? He, and you, and Amelia? And what are you always
whispering about? Out with it! What secrets, eh? What secrets has he
confided to you?
DANIEL. I call the Almighty to witness that he has not confided any
secrets to me.
FRANCIS. Do you mean to deny it? What schemes have you been hatching
to get rid of me? Am I to be smothered in my sleep? or is my throat to
be cut in shaving? or am I to be poisoned in wine or chocolate? Eh?
Out with it, out with it! Or am I to have my quietus administered in my
soup? Out with it! I know it all!
DANIEL. May heaven so help me in the hour of need as I now tell you the
truth, and nothing but the pure, unvarnished truth!
FRANCIS. Well, this time I will forgive you. But the money! he most
certainly put money into your purse? And he pressed your hand more
warmly than is customary? something in the manner of an old
acquaintance?
FRANCIS. He told you, for instance, that he had known you before? that
you ought to know him? that the scales would some day fall from your
eyes? that--what? Do you mean to say that he never spoke thus to you?
FRANCIS (turning pale). Did he say so? did he really? How? let me
hear! He said he was my brother?
FRANCIS. Hark, Daniel! You know I have ever been a kind master to you;
I have given you food and raiment, and have spared you labor in
consideration of your advanced age.
DANIEL. For which may heaven reward you! and I, on my part, have
always served you faithfully.
FRANCIS. That is just what I was going to say. You have never in all
your life contradicted me; for you know much too well that you owe me
obedience in all things, whatever I may require of you.
DANIEL. In all things with all my heart, so it be not against God and
my conscience.
DANIEL. On me? May the Blessed Virgin have mercy on me! On me? What
evil, then, have I, an old man, done!
FRANCIS (in the act of going). Very well! you shall have need of it.
(DANIEL detains him and falls on his knees before him.)
DANIEL. I will serve you from this day forward more diligently than
ever; I will wear out my old bones in your service like a common
day-laborer; I will rise earlier and lie down later. Oh, and I will
remember you in my prayers night and morning; and God will not reject
the prayer of an old man.
FRANCIS. Obedience is better than sacrifice. Did you ever hear of the
hangman standing upon ceremony when he was told to execute a sentence?
FRANCIS. The temptation is strong, and I should think he was not born
to die a martyr to his faith. Have with you, sir count! According to
all ordinary calculations, you will sup to-morrow with old Beelzebub.
In these matters all depends upon one's view of a thing; and he is a
fool who takes any view that is contrary to his own interest. A father
quaffs perhaps a bottle of wine more than ordinary--he is in a certain
mood--the result is a human being, the last thing that was thought of in
the affair. Well, I, too, am in a certain mood,--and the result is that
a human being perishes; and surely there is more of reason and purpose
in this than there was in his production. If the birth of a man is the
result of an animal paroxysm, who should take it into his head to attach
any importance to the negation of his birth? A curse upon the folly of
our nurses and teachers, who fill our imaginations with frightful tales,
and impress fearful images of punishment upon the plastic brain of
childhood, so that involuntary shudders shake the limbs of the man with
icy fear, arrest his boldest resolutions, and chain his awakening reason
in the fetters of superstitious darkness. Murder! What a hell full of
furies hovers around that word. Yet 'tis no more than if nature forgets
to bring forth one man more or the doctor makes a mistake--and thus the
whole phantasmagoria vanishes. It was something, and it is nothing.
Does not this amount to exactly the same thing as though it had been
nothing, and came to nothing; and about nothing it is hardly worth while
to waste a word. Man is made of filth, and for a time wades in filth,
and produces filth, and sinks back into filth, till at last he fouls the
boots of his own posterity.*
*["To what base uses we may return, Horatio! why, may not
imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander, till we find it
stopping a bunghole?"--HAMLET, Act v, Sc. 1.]
That is the burden of the song--the filthy cycle of human fate; and with
that--a pleasant journey to you, sir brother! Conscience, that
splenetic, gouty moralist, may drive shrivelled old drones out of
brothels, and torture usurers on their deathbeds--with me it shall never
more have audience.
[Exit.]
CHARLES VON MOOR enters from one side, DANIEL from the other.
DANIEL. Not much, and yet all--but little, and yet a great deal.
Suffer me to kiss your hand!
CHARLES. That I cannot permit, good old man (embraces him), from one
whom I should like to call my father.
DANIEL. Yes, you may deny it, you may dissemble as much as you please?
'Tis very well! very well. For all that you are my dearest, my
excellent young master. Good Heaven! that I, poor old man, should live
to have the joy--what a stupid blockhead was I that I did not at a
glance--oh, gracious powers! And you are really come back, and the dear
old master is underground, and here you are again! What a purblind dolt
I was, to be sure! (striking his forehead) that I did not on the
instant--Oh, dear me!---who could have dreamt it--What I have so often
prayed for with tears--Oh, mercy me! There he stands again, as large as
life, in the old room!
CHARLES. What's all this oration about? Are you in a fit of delirium,
and have escaped from your keepers; or are you rehearsing a
stage-player's part with me
DANIEL. Oh, fie! fie! It is not pretty of you to make game of an old
servant. That scar! Eh! do you remember it? Good Heaven! what a
fright you put me into--I always loved you so dearly; and what misery
you might have brought upon me. You were sitting in my lap--do you
remember? there in the round chamber. Has all that quite vanished from
your memory--and the cuckoo, too, that you were so fond of listening to?
Only think! the cuckoo is broken, broken all to shivers--old Susan
smashed it in sweeping the room--yes, indeed, and there you sat in my
lap, and cried, "Cockhorse!" and I ran off to fetch your wooden horse--
mercy on me! what business had I, thoughtless old fool, to leave you
alone--and how I felt as if I were in a boiling caldron when I heard you
screaming in the passage; and, when I rushed in, there was your red
blood gushing forth, and you lying on the ground. Oh, by the Blessed
Virgin! did I not feel as if a bucket of icy cold water was emptied all
over me?--but so it happens, unless one keeps all one's eyes upon
children. Good Heaven! if it had gone into your eye! Unfortunately it
happened to be the right hand. "As long as I live," said I, "never
again shall any child in my charge get hold of a knife or scissors, or
any other edge tool." 'Twas lucky for me that both my master and
mistress were gone on a journey. "Yes, yes! this shall be a warning to
me for the rest of my life," said I--Gemini, Gemini! I might have lost
my place, I might--God forgive you, you naughty boy--but, thank Heaven!
it healed fairly, all but that ugly scar.
CHARLES. I do not comprehend one word of all that you are talking
about.
DANIEL. Eh? eh? that was the time! was it not? How many a ginger-cake,
and biscuit, and macaroon, have I slipped into your bands--I was always
so fond of you. And do you recollect what you said to me down in the
stable, when I put you upon old master's hunter, and let you scamper
round the great meadow? "Daniel!" said you, "only wait till I am grown
a big man, and you shall be my steward, and ride in the coach with me."
"Yes," said I, laughing, "if heaven grants me life and health, and you
are not ashamed of the old man," I said, "I shall ask you to let me have
the little house down in the village, that has stood empty so long; and
then I will lay in a few butts of good wine, and turn publican in my old
age." Yes, you may laugh, you may laugh! Eh, young gentleman, have you
quite forgotten all that? You do not want to remember the old man, so
you carry yourself strange and loftily;--but, you are my jewel of a
young master, for all that. You have, it is true, been a little bit
wild--don't be angry!--as young blood is apt to be! All may be well yet
in the end.
DANIEL (begins to cry). That I, old sinner, should live to have this
happiness--and my late blessed master wept so long in vain! Begone,
begone, hoary old head! Ye weary bones, descend into the grave with
joy! My lord and master lives! my own eyes have beheld him!
CHARLES. And he will keep his promise to you. Take that, honest
graybeard, for the old hunter (forces a heavy purse upon him). I have
not forgotten the old man.
DANIEL. How? What are you doing? Too much! You have made a mistake.
DANIEL. Heaven reward you! Heaven reward you! O gracious me! Your
Amelia will never survive it, she will die for joy?
DANIEL. Forgotten you? How can you talk thus? Forgotten you, indeed!
You should have been there, you should have seen how she took on, when
the news came of your death, which his honor caused to be spread
abroad--
DANIEL. Yes, your brother; his honor, your brother--another day I will
tell you more about it, when we have time--and how cleverly she sent him
about his business when he came a wooing every blessed day, and offered
to make her his countess. Oh, I must go; I must go and tell her; carry
her the news (is about to run of).
CHARLES. Stay! stay! she must not know--nobody must know, not even my
brother!
DANIEL. But I would rather gnaw my old bones with hunger, and suck my
own blood for thirst, than gain a life of luxury by murder.
[Exit hastily.]
Enter KOSINSKY.
KOSINSKY. Well, captain, where are you loitering? What is the matter?
You are for staying here some time longer, I perceive?
CHARLES. Up! Saddle the horses! Before sunset we must be over the
frontier!
CHARLES (in a commanding tone). Quick! quick! delay not! leave every
thing behind! and let no eye see you!
(Exit KOSINSKY.)
I fly from these walls. The least delay might drive me raving road; and
he my father's son! Brother! brother! thou hast made me the most
miserable wretch on earth; I never injured thee; this was not brotherly.
Reap the fruits of thy crime in quiet, my presence shall no longer
embitter thy enjoyment--but, surely, this was not acting like a brother.
May oblivion shroud thy misdeed forever, and death not bring it back to
light.
Enter KOSINSKY.
KOSINSKY. The horses are ready saddled, you can mount as soon as you
please.
CHARLES. Why in such haste? Why so urgent? Shall I see her no more?
KOSINSKY. I will take off the bridles again, if you wish it; you bade
me hasten head over heels.
CHARLES. One more farewell! one more! I must drain this poisoned cup
of happiness to the dregs, and then--Stay, Kosinsky! Ten minutes more--
behind, in the castle yard--and we gallop off.
Scene IV.--In the Garden.
AMELIA. "You are in tears, Amelia!" These were his very words--and
spoken with such expressionsuch a voice!--oh, it summoned up a thousand
dear remembrances!--scenes of past delight, as in my youthful days of
happiness, my golden spring-tide of love. The nightingale sung with the
same sweetness, the flowers breathed the same delicious fragrance, as
when I used to hang enraptured on his neck.*
Ha! false, perfidious heart! And dost thou seek thus artfully to veil
thy perjury? No, no! begone forever from my soul, thou sinful image!
I have not broken my oath, thou only one! Avaunt, from my soul, ye
treacherous impious wishes! In the heart where Charles reigns no son
of earth may dwell. But why, my soul, dost thou thus constantly, thus
obstinately turn towards this stranger? Does he not cling to my heart
in the very image of my only one! Is he not his inseparable companion
in my thoughts? "You are in tears, Amelia?" Ha! let me fly from him!--
--fly!--never more shall my eyes behold this stranger!
[CHARLES opens the garden gate.]
AMELIA (starting). Hark! hark! did I not hear the gate creak? (She
perceives CHARLES and starts up.) He?--whither?--what? I am rooted to
the spot,--I can not fly! Forsake me not, good Heaven! No! thou shalt
not tear me from my Charles! My soul has no room for two deities, I am
but a mortal maid! (She draws the picture of CHARLES from her bosom.)
Thou, my Charles! be thou my guardian angel against this stranger, this
invader of our loves! At thee will I look, at thee, nor turn away my
eyes--nor cast one sinful look towards him! (She sits silent, her eyes
fixed upon the picture.)
CHARLES. You here, Lady Amelia?--and so sad? and a tear upon that
picture? (AMELIA gives him no answer.) And who is the happy man for
whom these silver drops fall from an angel's eyes? May I be permitted
to look at--(He endeavors to look at the picture.)
AMELIA. No--yes--no!
CHARLES. Ha!
AMELIA. Oh, you would so have loved him?---there was so much, so much
in his face--in his eyes--in the tone of his voice,--which was so like
yours--that I love so dearly! (CHARLES casts his eyes down to the
ground.) Here, where you are standing, he has stood a thousand times--
and by his side, one who, by his side, forgot heaven and earth. Here
his eyes feasted on nature's most glorious panorama,--which, as if
conscious of his approving glance, seemed to increase in beauty under
the approbation of her masterpiece. Here he held the audience of the
air captive with his heavenly music. Here, from this bush, he plucked
roses, and plucked those roses for me. Here, here, he lay on my neck;
here he imprinted burning kisses on my lips, and the flowers hung their
heads with pleasure beneath the foot-tread of the lovers.*
*[In the acting edition the scene changes materially at this point,
and the most sentimental part of the whole drama is transformed
into the most voluptuous. The stage direction here is,--(They give
way to their transports without control, and mingle their kisses.
MOOR hangs in ecstacy on her lips, while she sinks half delirious
on the couch.) O Charles! now avenge thyself; my vow is broken.
AMELIA (perceiving the ring upon her finger, starts up from the
couch). What! Art thou still there--on that guilty hand? Witness
of my perjury. Away with thee! (She pulls the ring from her
finger and gives it to CHARLES.) Take it--take it, beloved
seducer! and with it what I hold most sacred--take my all--my
Charles! (She falls back upon the couch.)
MOOR (changes color). O thou Most High! was this thy almighty
will? It is the very ring I gave her in pledge of our mutual
faith. Hell be the grave of love! She has returned my ring.
MOOR (mournfully). Oh, she was such a lovely maiden, and faithful
as an angel. When we parted we exchanged rings, and vowed eternal
constancy. She heard that I was dead--believed it--yet remained
constant to the dead. She heard again that I was living--yet
became faithless to the living. I flew into her arms--was happy
as--the blest in Paradise. Think what my heart was doomed to feel,
Amelia! She gave me back my ring--she took her own.
CHARLES. He is no more?
AMELIA (pale). What? You love another? Alas! what have I said?
CHARLES. Oh, she is an unhappy maid. Her love is fixed upon one who is
lost--and it can never--never be rewarded.
CHARLES. Yes, a world where the veil is lifted--where the phantom love
will make terrible discoveries--Eternity is its name. My Amelia is an
unhappy maid.
SCHWEITZER. The night is far advanced, and the captain has not yet
returned.
RAZ. And yet he promised to be back before the clock struck eight.
GRIMM. Let him alone. He no doubt has some feat in hand that will put
us to shame.
SCHWEITZER. Then you are out, by old Harry! He did not part from us
like one that had any masterpiece of roguery in view. Have you
forgotten what he said as he marched us across the heath? "The fellow
that takes so much as a turnip out of a field, if I know it, leaves his
head behind him, as true as my name is Moor." We dare not plunder.
RAZ. (aside to SPIEGELBERG). What are you driving at? Speak plainer.
SPIEGEL. Hush! hush! I know not what sort of a notion you and I have of
liberty, that we should toil under the yoke like bullocks, while we are
making such wonderful fine speeches about independence. I like it not.
SCHWEITZER (to GRIMM). What crotchet has that swaggering booby got in
his numskull, I wonder?
SPIEGEL. Hush! I tell you; hush! He has got his eavesdroppers all
around us. Captain, did you say? Who made him captain over us? Has he
not, in fact, usurped that title, which by right belongs to me? What?
Is it for this that we stake our lives--that we endure all the splenetic
caprices of fortunes--that we may in the end congratulate ourselves upon
being the serfs of a slave? Serfs! When we might be princes? By
heaven! Razmann, I could never brook it.
SPIEGEL. (to RAZMANN). Yes--and for years I have been intent upon it.
There must be an alteration, Razmann. If you are the man I always took
you for--Razmann! He is missing--he is almost given up--Razmann--
methinks his hour is come. What? does not the color so much as mount to
your cheek when you hear the chimes of liberty ringing in your ears?
Have you not courage enough to take the hint?
RAZ. Ha! Satan! What bait art thou spreading for my soul?
SPIEGEL. Does it take? Good! then follow me! I have marked in what
direction he slunk off. Come along! a brace of pistols seldom fail;
and then--we shall be the first to strangle sucking babes. (He
endeavors to draw him of.)
SCHWEITZER (throwing the sword on the body). There let him rot! Be
still, my comrades! Don't let such a trifle disturb you. The brute has
always been inveterate against the captain and has not a single scar on
his whole body. Once more, be still. Ha, the scoundrel! He would stab
a man behind his back--skulk and murder! Is it for this that the hot
sweat has poured down us in streams? that we may sneak out of the world
at last like contemptible wretches? The brute! Is it for this that we
have lived in fire and brimstone? To perish at last like rats?
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.)
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.
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.)
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.
[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.
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. '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!
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?
CHARLES. Speak! Who art thou? What brought thee here? Speak!
HERMANN. Mercy, mercy! gracious sir! Hear but one word before you
kill me.
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?
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.)
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!
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.
OLD MOOR. Curse him not! 'Tis my son, Francis, who did this.
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--
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.
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.
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!
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!
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?
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.)
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.)
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?
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?
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?
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?
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!
DANIEL. You are as pale as death, my lord; your voice is weak and
faltering.
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.
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. 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!
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!"
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!
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. 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!
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?
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. 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.
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!
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!
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 (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. 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?
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!
SERVANT. The Lady Amelia has fled. The count has suddenly disappeared.
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!
SCHWEIT. (in the street). Storm the place! Kill all before you!
Force the gates! I see lights! He must be there!
DANIEL. Mercy on me! What are you saying? What a wicked prayer!
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!
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.
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).
*[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.]
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.
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.
CHARLES. He does not come! (Strikes his dagger against a stone till
the sparks fly.)
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.)
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."
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!
OLD MOOR. Stranger, stranger! why didst thou drag me forth from the
dungeon to remind me of my sorrows?
CHARLES (falling on his knees before him). 'Twas I who burst the bars
of your dungeon. I crave thy blessing!
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!
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.)
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. Tear her from my neck! Kill her! Kill him! Kill me--
yourselves--everybody! Let the whole world perish! (About to rush of.)
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!
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.)
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?
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!
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!
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.*
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:--
SCENE VIII.
SCENE IX.
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?
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.
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.
ZENTURIONE, |
ZIBO, | Malcontents.
ASSERATO, |
ACT I.
SCENE I.--A Saloon in FIESCO'S House. The distant sound of dancing and
music is heard.
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 (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.
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?
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!
SCENE IL
MOOR. Well----
MOOR. Well----
MOOR. Well--well--well----
GIANETTINO. Dost thou mark me? Thou canst only fail here! (pointing to
his heart).
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?
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.
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.
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. 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?
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.
FIESCO (upon one knee). Not till you tell me what impertinent----
JULIA. To break up! To push away her chair! To turn her back upon the
table--that table, Count, where I was sitting----
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.
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.
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.
[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 (with vehemence). Can you? Can you? Lomellino, you were a
candidate for the procuratorship. You shall have it.
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?
LOMELLINO. The damsel is at this moment alone. Her father is here, and
one of those three masks.
LOMELLINO. But you will seek in her a mistress, and find a prude.
SCENE VI.
LOMELLINO. Fiesco has become a mere votary of pleasure. The great world
has lost much in you.
FIESCO. But Fiesco has lost nothing in giving up the world. To live is
to dream, and to dream pleasantly is to be wise. Can this be done more
certainly amid the thunders of a throne, where the wheels of government
creak incessantly upon the tortured ear, than on the heaving bosom of an
enamored woman? Let Gianettino rule over Genoa; Fiesco shall devote
himself to love.
GIANETTINO (haughtily, rushing through the three masks). Make way there
for Doria!
THE GUESTS (in motion). The prince is going. Good night, Lavagna!
(They depart.)
SCENE VII.
FIESCO. I perceive some guests here who do not share the pleasure of the
feast.
MASKS (murmuring to each other with indignation). No! Not one of us.
FIESCO. I understand you not. But what means that crape of mourning
around your arm? Can death have robbed Verrina of a friend, and Fiesco
not know the loss?
VRRRINA. Both! both! Oh, 'tis but too true we both should mourn--yet
not all sons lament their mother.
FIESCO. 'Tis long since your mother was mingled with the dust.
FIESCO (jocosely). Oh, is it only that? You meant then but to jest?
The mourning dress is worn for Genoa! True, she lies indeed in her last
agonies. The thought is new and singular. Our cousin begins to be a
wit.
FIESCO. Be merry, brother. Let us act the part of the cunning heir, who
walks in the funeral procession with loud lamentations, laughing to
himself the while, under the cover of his handkerchief. 'Tis true we may
be troubled with a harsh step-mother. Be it so--we will let her scold,
and follow our own pleasures.
FIESCO. O rigid censor! Let Doria put Genoa in his pocket, or barter it
with the robbers of Tunis. Why should it trouble us? We will drown
ourselves in floods of Cyprian wine, and revel it in the sweet caresses
of our fair ones.
VERRINA (looking at him with earnestness). Are these indeed your serious
thoughts?
FIESCO. Why should they not be, my friend? Think you 'tis a pleasure to
be the foot of that many-legged monster, a republic? No--thanks be to
him who gives it wings, and deprives the feet of their functions! Let
Gianettino be the duke, affairs of state shall ne'er lie heavy on our
heads.
FIESCO. Andreas adopts his nephew as a son, and makes him heir to his
estates; what madman will dispute with him the inheritance of his power?
SCENE VIII.
MASK. That is useless--I shall send one horse: we want no more, for only
one of us, I hope, will return.
FIESCO. I understand you now; but let me ask who 'tis that offers so
strange a challenge?
MASK. It is the same that once adored the lady Zibo, and yielded her to
Fiesco.
FIESCO (embraces him with ardor). Noble youth! thanks to the sufferings
of my consort, which have drawn forth the manly feelings of your soul; I
admire your generous indignation--but I refuse your challenge.
FIESCO (with animation). By heaven, youth, that thou shalt never do--not
even if virtue fall in value, shall I become a bankrupt. (Taking him by
the hand, with a look of earnestness.) Did you ever feel for me--what
shall I say--respect?
BOURGOGNINO. Had I not thought you were the first of men I should not
have yielded to you.
Go! noble youth! if spirits such as thine break out in flames in thy
country's cause, let the Dorias see that they stand fast!
SCENE IX.
FIESCO (fixing his eye on him sharply). What wouldst thou here? Who art
thou?
FIESCO (keeping his eye sharply upon him). Slavery is a wretched craft.
What dost thou seek?
FIESCO. 'Tis well thou hast told me that--and yet--'tis not well either
(impatiently). What dost thou seek?
MOOR (again approaching). Evil designs are formed against you, Count.
FIESCO (turning round dexterously, and seizing the MOOR'S arm.) Stop,
scoundrel! (Wrests the dagger from him.)
FIESCO. No--be comforted--not on the horns of the moon, but higher than
ever yet were gallows--yet hold! Thy scheme was too politic to be of thy
own contrivance speak, fellow! who hired thee?
FIESCO. What, is the scoundrel proud? Speak, sirrah! Who hired thee?
MOOR (aside). Shall I alone be called a fool? Who hired me? 'Twas but
a hundred miserable sequins. Who hired me, did you ask? Prince
Gianettino.
MOOR (throwing the money resolutely upon the table). Sir, that money I
have not earned--I deserve it not.
FIESCO. Blockhead, thou hast deserved the gallows; but the offended
elephant tramples on men not on worms. Were thy life worth but two words
I would have thee hanged.
MOOR (bowing with an air of pleasure at his escape). Sir, you are too
good----
MOOR (in a tone of confidence). Count, your hand! honor for honor. If
any man in this country has a throat too much--command me, and I'll cut
it--gratis.
MOOR. Which is, perhaps, more to be relied on than that of your men of
character. They break their oaths made in the name of God. We keep ours
pledged to the devil.
MOOR. I rejoice to meet your approbation. Try me; you will find in me a
man who is a thorough master of his profession. Examine me; I can show
my testimonials of villany from every guild of rogues--from the lowest to
the highest.
FIESCO. Indeed! (seating himself.) There are laws and systems then even
among thieves. What canst thou tell me of the lowest class?
MOOR. Oh, sir, they are petty villains, mere pick-pockets. They are a
miserable set. Their trade never produces a man of genius; 'tis confined
to the whip and workhouse--and at most can lead but to the gallows.
FIESCO. A charming prospect! I should like to hear something of a
superior class.
MOOR. Then come the conspirators, villains that deal in poison, and
bravoes that rush upon their victims from some secret covert. Cowards
they often are, but yet fellows that sell their souls to the devil as the
fees of their apprenticeship. The hand of justice binds their limbs to
the rack or plants their cunning heads on spikes--this is the third
class.
MOOR. Patience, my lord--that is the very point I'm coming to--I have
already passed through all the stages that I mentioned: my genius soon
soared above their limits. 'Twas but last night I performed my
masterpiece in the third; this evening I attempted the fourth, and proved
myself a bungler.
MOOR (with energy). They are men who seek their prey within four walls,
cutting their way through every danger. They strike at once, and, by
their first salute, save him whom they approach the trouble of returning
thanks for a second. Between ourselves they are called the express
couriers of hell: and when Beelzebub is hungry they want but a wink, and
he gets his mutton warm.
FIESCO. Fear not! I would not set the wolf to guard the lamb. Go thou
through Genoa to-morrow and sound the temper of the people. Narrowly
inquire what they think of the government, and of the house of Doria--
what of me, my debaucheries, and romantic passion. Flood their brains
with wine, until the sentiments of the heart flow over. Here's money--
lavish it among the manufacturers----
MOOR. Sir!
FIESCO. Be not afraid--no honesty is in the case. Go, collect what help
thou canst. To-morrow I will hear thy report.
[Exit.
[Exit.
BERTHA. Fly! fly! or let me fly! Father, your sight is dreadful to me!
BERTHA (tearing herself from him). Great God! You know, then----
VERRINA (after a long pause, with a hollow voice). One word more, my
daughter--thy last! Who was it?
BERTHA. Alas, what an angry deathlike paleness! Great God, support me!
How his words falter! His whole frame trembles!
BERTHA. A mask----
BERTHA. Taller.
VERRINA (covering his face with his hands, falls on the couch). No more.
This can be nothing but a dream!
VERRINA. Come, sit by me, Bertha! (in a solemn manner.) Tell me,
Bertha, what did that hoary-headed Roman, when his daughter--like you--
how can I speak it! fell a prey to ignominy? Tell me, Bertha, what said
Virginius to his dishonored daughter?
BERTHA (shuddering). I know not.
BERTHA (terrified, rushes into his arms). Great God! What would you do,
my father?
VERRINA (throwing away the sword). No! There is still justice left in
Genoa.
SCENE XI.
SACCO (to CALCAGNO). But what do I see? A naked sword! Verrina staring
wildly! Bertha in tears!
SACCO. No.
VERRINA. I am the last of my family. My wife has long been dead. This
daughter is all she left me. You are witnesses, my friends, how I have
brought her up. Can anyone accuse me of neglect?
CALCAGNO. No. Your daughter is a bright example to her sex.
SACCO and CALCAGNO. Forbid it, heaven! (BERTHA on the couch, appears
much affected.)
VERRINA. No. Despair not, daughter! These men are just and brave. If
they feel thy wrongs they will expiate them with blood. Be not
astonished, friends! He who tramples upon Genoa may easily overcome a
helpless female.
SCENE XII.
BOURGOGNINO--the former.
VERRINA. What, youth! Wouldst thou mix thy heart's pure tide with a
polluted stream?
BOURGOGNINO (clasps his hand to his sword, but suddenly draws it back).
'Twas her father said it.
VERRINA. No--every rascal in Italy will say it. Are you contented with
the leavings of other men's repasts?
BOURGOGNINO (enraged, rushing towards BERTHA). The truth? Has the girl
then mocked me?
BOURGOGNINO. Inhuman father! What is it thou hast done? Why pour forth
this horrible and monstrous curse against thy guiltless daughter?
VERRINA. Youth, thou say'st true!--it is most horrible. Now who among
you will stand forth and prate still of patience and delay? My
daughter's fate is linked with that of Genoa. I sacrifice the affections
of a father to the duties of a citizen. Who among us is so much a coward
as to hesitate in the salvation of his country, when this poor guiltless
being must pay for his timidity with endless sufferings? By heavens,
'twas not a madman's speech! I have sworn an oath, and till Doria lie in
the agonies of death I will show no mercy to my child. No--not though,
like an executioner, I should invent unheard-of torments for her, or with
my own hands rend her innocent frame piecemeal on the barbarous rack.
You shudder--you stare at me with ghastly faces. Once more, Scipio--I
keep her as a hostage for the tyrant's death. Upon this precious thread
do I suspend thy duty, my own, and yours (to SACCO and CALCAGNO). The
tyrant of Genoa falls, or Bertha must despair--I retract not.
VERRINA. Ye couple, the first that ever owed their union to the Furies,
join hands! Thou wilt sheathe thy sword in Doria's heart? Take her! she
is thine!
CALCAGNO (kneeling). Here kneels another citizen of Genoa and lays his
faithful sword before the feet of innocence. As surely may Calcagno find
the way to heaven as this steel shall find its way to Gianettino's heart!
(Rises.)
SACCO (kneeling). Last, but not less determined, Raffaelle Sacco kneels.
If this bright steel unlock not the prison doors of Bertha, mayest thou,
my Saviour, shut thine ear against my dying prayers! (Rises.)
VERRINA (with a calm look). Through me Genoa thanks you. Now go, my
daughter; rejoice to be the mighty sacrifice for thy country!
[BERTHA retires.
SCENE XIII.
ACT II.
ARABELLA. No, no, you were mistaken: your eyes were blinded by jealousy.
SCENE II.
The former and JULIA.
JULIA (before a glass). You are not accustomed to such things, miss!
But hark ye, miss! pray has your mistress also hired your tongue? Madam,
'tis fine, indeed, to permit your domestics thus to address your guests.
LEONORA. I know but one way, Countess. Let yours ever be the
sympathetic medium.
JULIA (pretending not to mind her). How you dress, madam! For shame!
Pay more attention to your personal appearance! Have recourse to art
where nature has been unkind. Put a little paint on those cheeks, which
look so pale with spleen. Poor creature! Your puny face will never find
a bidder.
JULIA. Do you talk of losing Fiesco? Good God! How could you ever
conceive the ambitious idea of possessing him? Why, my child, aspire to
such a height? A height where you cannot but be seen, and must come into
comparison with others. Indeed, my dear, he was a knave or a fool who
joined you with FIESCO. (Taking her hand with a look of compassion.)
Poor soul! The man who is received in the assemblies of fashionable life
could never be a suitable match for you. (She takes a dish of
chocolate.)
JULIA. Good! This sting shall return into your own bosom. Tremble for
your mockery! But before you tremble--blush!
LEONORA. Do you then know what it is to blush, signora? But why not?
'Tis a toilet trick.
JULIA. Oh, see! This poor creature must be provoked if one would draw
from her a spark of wit. Well--let it pass this time. Madam, you were
bitter. Give me your hand in token of reconciliation.
JULIA (offering her hand). Generous, indeed! Yet may I not be so, too?
(Maliciously.) Countess, do you not think I must love that person whose
image I bear constantly about me?
LEONORA (blushing and confused). What do you say? Let me hope the
conclusion is too hasty.
JULIA. I think so, too. The heart waits not the guidance of the senses
--real sentiment needs no breastwork of outward ornament.
JULIA. 'Twas in mere compassion that I spoke it; for observe, madam, the
reverse is no less certain. Such is Fiesco's love for you. (Gives her
the picture, laughing maliciously.)
JULIA. Have I retaliated? Have I? Now, madam, have you any other sting
to wound me with? (Goes to side scene.) My carriage! My object is
gained. (To LEONORA, patting her cheek.) Be comforted, my dear; he gave
me the picture in a fit of madness.
SCENE III.
CALCAGNO. Did not the Countess Imperiali depart in anger? You, too, so
excited, madam?
LEONORA. 'Tis but a piece of villany common enough among your sex!
CALCAGNO (grasping her hand with vehemence). Lady, I have a heart for
weeping virtue.
CALCAGNO. For you alone--yours only. Would that you knew how much, how
truly yours----
LEONORA. Man, thou art untrue. Thy words would be refuted by thy
actions----
CALCAGNO. Nay, madam, your anger makes you unjust. Is the whole sex to
answer for the crime of one?
LEONORA. I tell thee in that one was centred all my affection for the
sex. In him I will detest them all.
CALCAGNO. Countess,--you once bestowed your hand amiss. Would you again
make trial, I know one who would deserve it better.
LEONORA. The limits of creation cannot bound your falsehoods. I'll hear
no more.
CALCAGNO. Oh, that you would retract this cruel sentence in my arms!
CALCAGNO (kneeling before her with ardor). Yes, I have said it. Love,
madam! Life and death hang on your tongue. If my passion be criminal
then let the extremes of virtue and vice unite, and heaven and hell be
joined together in one perdition.
LEONORA. Was it not enough to break the sacred seal of confidence? but
even on the unsullied mirror of virtue does this hypocrite breathe
pestilence, and would seduce my innocence to perjury.
SCENE IV.
FIESCO. This handkerchief was left upon the sofa. My wife has been
here.
MOOR. Miss Bella likes to hear that she is fair. She will inform me.
FIESCO (seating himself). Then tell me how they talk of Doria, and of
the government.
MOOR. Oh, most vilely. The very name of Doria shakes them like an
ague-fit. Gianettino is as hateful to them as death itself--there's
naught but murmuring. They say the French have been the rats of Genoa,
the cat Doria has devoured them, and now is going to feast upon the mice.
FIESCO. That may perhaps be true. But do they not know of any dog
against that cat?
MOOR (fixing his eyes upon him). Hear me, Count of Lavagna! Genoa must
think highly of you. They can not imagine why a descendant of the first
family--with such talents and genius--full of spirit and popularity--
master of four millions--his veins enriched with princely blood--a
nobleman like Fiesco, whom, at the first call, all hearts would fly to
meet----
MOOR. Many lamented that the chief of Genoa should slumber over the ruin
of his country. And many sneered. Most men condemned you. All bewailed
the state which thus had lost you. A Jesuit pretended to have smelt out
the fox that lay disguised in sheep's clothing.
FIESCO. One fox smells out another. What say they to my passion for the
Countess Imperiali?
FIESCO. Out with it--the bolder the more welcome. What are their
murmurings?
FIESCO. Well, take this sequin for these tidings. Now have I put on a
fool's cap that these Genoese may have wherewith to rack their wits.
Next I will shave my head, that they may play Merry Andrew to my Clown.
How did the manufacturers receive my presents?
MOOR (humorously). Why, Mr. Fool, they looked like poor knaves----
FIESCO (laughing, gives him another sequin). Well. "Like poor knaves."
MOOR. Who receive pardon at the very block. They are yours both soul
and body.
FIESCO. I'm glad of it. They turn the scale among the populace of
Genoa.
FIESCO. That thought was better than the soil which gave it birth.
These words are favorable; but do they bespeak actions of equal import?
MOOR (going to the window). It is the tumult of the crowd returning from
the senate-house.
FIESCO. The tumult comes nearer. Hark! 'Tis not the sound of
approbation. Quick! Unlock the gates; I guess the matter. Doria has
been rash. The state balances upon a needle's point. There has
assuredly been some disturbance at the senate-house.
MOOR (at the window). What's here! They're coming down the street of
Balbi--a crowd of many thousands--the halberds glitter--ah, swords too!
Halloo! Senators! They come this way.
ASSERATO. Doria has trampled on the golden book of which each noble
Genoese is a leaf.
ZIBO. The whole nobility are outraged in his person; the whole nobility
must rise and vent their rage in fire and flames.
ASSERATO. The rights of the nation are trodden under foot; the liberty
of the republic has received a deadly blow.
ZIBO. He was the twenty-ninth among the electing senators, and had drawn
forth a golden ball to vote for the procurator. Of the eight-and-twenty
votes collected, fourteen were for me, and as many for Lomellino. His
and Doria's were still wanting----
ASSERATO (interrupting him). Such a thing was never heard of since the
sea washed the walls of Genoa.
ASSERATO. And called out, "'Tis good-for-nothing!" and threw his sword
upon the table.
FIESCO. Zenturione, rushes may yield to a breath, but the oak requires a
storm. I ask, on what are you resolved?
ZIBO. Methinks the question shall be, on what does Genoa resolve?
FIESCO. Genoa! Genoa! name it not. 'Tis rotten, and crumbles wherever
you touch it. Do you reckon on the nobles? Perhaps because they put on
grave faces, look mysterious when state affairs are mentioned--talk not
of them! Their heroism is stifled among the bales of their Levantine
merchandise. Their souls hover anxiously over their India fleet.
ZIBO. The people are enraged. What may we not expect from the fury of
the wounded boar!
FIESCO. Stay! stay! Upon what project are you brooding, Zibo?
ZIBO. On nothing.
FIESCO. Travel through all the countries of the globe, and among the
most beautiful of living female models, seek one which shall unite all
the charms of this ideal Venus.
FIESCO. Then, then? (Laughing.) Then your attention will have been
diverted from observing the fall of Genoa's liberty.
SCENE VI.
FIESCO. 'Tis well! 'tis well. The straw of the republic has caught
fire--the flames have seized already on palaces and towers. Let it go
on! May the blaze be general! Let the tempestuous wind spread wide the
conflagration!
SCENE VII.
FIESCO. Throw open wide the gates. Let all that choose enter.
FIESCO. Fools! who believe that Fiesco of Lavagna will carry on what
Fiesco of Lavagna did not begin. The tumult comes opportunely; but the
conspiracy must be my own. They are rushing hither----
MOOR (going out). Halloo! halloo! You are very obligingly battering the
house down. (The people rush in; the doors broken down.)
SCENE VIII.
ALL (with impetuosity). Down with the Dorias! Down with them, uncle and
nephew!
SOME OF THEM. These Dorias must away! the state must be reformed!
1ST ARTISAN. To throw our magistrates down stairs! The magistrates!
2D ARTISAN. To come into the senate dressed in scarlet! Not like the
other senators, in black.
2D ARTISAN. To hire two hundred Germans from the Emperor for his
body-guard.
1ST ARTISAN. To have the arms of the republic painted on his coach!
1ST ARTISAN. You should not suffer it. You should keep him down.
2D ARTISAN. You are a wise man, and should not suffer it. You should
direct us by your counsel.
1ST ARTISAN. You are a better nobleman. You should chastise them and
curb their insolence.
FIESCO. The people gained it. The government was democratical; each
citizen had a vote, and everything was submitted to a majority. But a
few weeks passed ere man declared war against the new republic. The
state assembled. Horse, lion, tiger, bear, elephant, and rhinoceros,
stepped forth, and roared aloud, "To arms!" The rest were called upon to
vote. The lamb, the hare, the stag, the ass, the tribe of insects, with
the birds and timid fishes, cried for peace. See, Genoese! The cowards
were more numerous than the brave; the foolish than the wise. Numbers
prevailed--the beasts laid down their arms, and man exacted contributions
from them. The democratic system was abandoned. Genoese, what would you
next have chosen?
FIESCO. That was adopted. The business of the state was all arranged
in separate departments. Wolves were the financiers, foxes their
secretaries, doves presided in the criminal courts, and tigers in
the courts of equity. The laws of chastity were regulated by goats;
hares were the soldiers; lions and elephants had charge of the baggage.
The ass was the ambassador of the empire, and the mole appointed
inspector-general of the whole administration. Genoese, what think you
of this wise distribution? Those whom the wolf did not devour the fox
pillaged; whoever escaped from him was knocked down by the ass. The
tiger murdered innocents, whilst robbers and assassins were pardoned by
the doves. And at the last, when each had laid down his office, the mole
declared that all were well discharged. The animals rebelled. "Let us,"
they cried unanimously, "choose a monarch endowed with strength and
skill, and who has only one stomach to appease." And to one chief they
all did homage. Genoese--to one---but (rising and advancing
majestically)--that one was--the lion!
1ST ARTISAN. And Genoa shall follow that example. Genoa, also, has its
lion!
FIESCO. Tell me not of that lion; but go home and think upon him. (The
ARTISANS depart tumultuously.) It is as I would have it. The people and
the senate are alike enraged against Doria; the people and the senate
alike approve FIESCO. Hassan! Hassan! I must take advantage of this
favorable gale. Hoa! Hassan! Hassan! I must augment their hatred--
improve my influence. Hassan! Come hither! Whoreson of hell, come
hither!
SCENE IX.
MOOR. My feet are quite on fire with running. What is the matter now?
FIESCO. Hear my commands!
FIESCO. I will excuse thy running this time. Thou shalt be dragged.
Prepare thyself. I intend to publish thy attempted assassination, and
deliver thee up in chains to the criminal tribunal.
FIESCO. Be not alarmed. 'Tis but a farce. At this moment 'tis of the
utmost consequence that Gianettino's attempt against my life should be
made public. Thou shalt be tried before the criminal tribunal.
FIESCO. Deny. They will put thee to the torture. Thou must hold out
against the first degree. This, by the by, will serve to expiate thy
real crime. At the second thou mayest confess.
MOOR (shaking his head with a look of apprehension). The devil is a sly
rogue. Their worships might perhaps desire my company a little longer
than I should wish; and, for sheer farce sake, I may be broken on the
wheel.
MOOR. Well--I agree to it. They will draw out my joints a little; but
that will only make them the more flexible.
FIESCO. Then scratch this arm with thy dagger, till the blood flows. I
will pretend that I have just now seized thee in fact. 'Tis well.
(Hallooing violently). Murder! Murder! Guard the passages! Make fast
the gates! (He drags the MOOR out by the throat; servants run across the
stage hastily.)
SCENE X.
ROSA. Surely 'twas but a common tumult, such as happens every day in
Genoa.
LEONORA. Arabella will catch his dying look. The happy Arabella!
Wretch that I am? 'twas I that murdered him. If I could have engaged
his heart he would not have plunged into the world, nor rushed upon the
daggers of assassins. Ah! she comes. Away! Oh, Arabella, speak not
to me!
SCENE XI.
ARABELLA. The Count is living and unhurt. I saw him gallop through the
city. Never did he appear more handsome. The steed that bore him
pranced haughtily along, and with its proud hoof kept the thronging
multitude at a distance from its princely rider. He saw me as I passed,
and with a gracious smile, pointing thither, thrice kissed his hand to
me. (Archly.) What can I do with those kisses, madam?
[Exeunt.
GIANETTINO. Let them roar for their liberty as a lioness for her young.
I am resolved.
LOMELLINO. The people are indeed the fuel; but the nobility fan the
flame. The whole republic is in a ferment, people and patricians.
GIANETTINO. Then will I stand upon the mount like Nero, and regale
myself with looking upon the paltry flames.
LOMELLINO. Till the whole mass of sedition falls into the hands of some
enterprising leader, who will take advantage of the general devastation.
GIANETTINO. Poh! Poh! I know but one who might be dangerous, and he is
taken care of.
[Exit LOMELLINO.
SCENE XIII.
ANDREAS. Hear first what thou hast done; then answer me. Thou hast
pulled down an edifice which I have labored for fifty years to raise--
that which should have been thy uncle's mausoleum, his only pyramid--the
affections of his countrymen. This rashness Andreas pardons thee----
ANDREAS. Interrupt me not. Thou hast injured that most glorious work of
mine, the constitution, which I brought down from heaven for Genoa, which
cost me so many sleepless nights, so many dangers, and so much blood.
Before all Genoa thou hast cast a stain upon my honor, in violating my
institutions. Who will hold them sacred if my own blood despise them?
This folly thy uncle pardons thee.
ANDREAS. Be silent. Thou art a traitor to the state, and hast attacked
its vital principle. Mark me, boy! That principle is--subordination.
Because the shepherd retired in the evening from his labor, thoughtest
thou the flock deserted? Because Andreas' head is white with age,
thoughtest thou, like a villain, to trample on the laws?
SCENE XIV.
LOMELLINO. What have I seen! What have I heard! Fly, prince! Fly
quickly! All is lost.
LOMELLINO. Genoa, prince: I come from the market-place. The people were
crowding round a Moor who was dragged along bound with cords. The Count
of Lavagna, with above three hundred nobles, followed to the criminal
court. The Moor had been employed to assassinate Fiesco, and in the
attempt was seized.
GIANETTINO (stamping violently on the ground). What, are all the devils
of hell let loose at once?
LOMELLINO. Hear the rest! Scarcely was the word Doria uttered--I would
sooner have seen my name inscribed in the infernal register than have
heard yours thus mentioned--scarcely was it uttered when Fiesco showed
himself to the people. You know the man--how winningly he pleads--how he
is wont to play the usurer with the hearts of the multitude. The whole
assembly hung upon his looks, breathless with indignation. He spoke
little, but bared his bleeding arm. The crowd contended for the falling
drops as if for sacred relics. The Moor was given up to his disposal--
and Fiesco--a mortal blow for us! Fiesco pardoned him. Now the confined
anger of the people burst forth in one tumultuous clamor. Each breath
annihilated a Doria, and Fiesco was borne home amidst a thousand joyful
acclamations.
GIANETTINO. Fool that thou art! The throne will absolve the deed. I
consulted with the ministers of Charles on the strong party which France
still has in Genoa, and by which she might a second time seize on it
unless they should be rooted out. This worked upon the emperor--he
approved my projects--and thou shalt write what I will dictate to thee.
LOMELLINO. Calva.
LOMELLINO. Have a care! Have a care! That black stone will yet prove
fatal to you.
LOMELLINO. I should intercede for his life until he shall have paid my
five thousand crowns. (Writes.) Death strikes the balance.
LOMELLINO. He is the very head of the viper that threatens us. (Rises
and presents the paper to GIANETTINO.) Two days hence death shall make a
splendid feast, at which twelve of the chief of Genoa's nobles will be
present.
GIANETTINO (signs the paper). 'Tis done. Two days hence will be the
ducal election. When the senate shall be assembled for that purpose
these twelve shall, on the signal of a handkerchief, be suddenly laid
low. My two hundred Germans will have surrounded the senate-house. At
that moment I enter and claim homage as the Duke. (Rings the bell.)
GIANETTINO. Take it, and let it be circulated among our party. This
letter must be dispatched by express to Levanto. 'Tis to inform Spinola
of our intended plan, and bid him reach the capital early in the morning.
(Going.)
GIANETTINO (looking back). Genoa will easily supply one more assassin.
I'll see to that.
FIESCO (opens the letters and runs over them). Welcome! welcome news!
(In high spirits.) Let the messengers be treated in a princely manner.
FIESCO. Stop! I've another piece of business for thee. The arrival of
the galleys will excite suspicion in the city. If any one inquire of
thee about them, say thou hast heard it rumored that thy master intends
to cruise against the Turks. Dost thou understand me?
MOOR. Yes, yes--the beards of the Mussulmen at the masthead, but the
devil for a steersman. (Going.)
MOOR. Ha! luckily I am acquainted with one Diana Buononi, whom I have
served above a year as procurer. The other day I saw the Signor
Lomellino coming out of her house.
FIESCO. That suits my purpose well. This very Lomellino is the key to
all Doria's follies. To-morrow thou shalt go thither. Perhaps he is
to-night the Endymion of this chaste Diana.
MOOR. One more question, my lord. Suppose the people ask me--and that
they will, I'll pawn my soul upon it--suppose they ask, "What does Fiesco
think of Genoa?" Would you still wear the mask?--or--how shall I answer
them?
FIESCO. Answer? Hum! The fruit is ripe. The pains of labor announce
the approaching birth. Answer that Genoa lies upon the block, and that
thy master's name is--John Louis Fiesco----
[Runs off.
SCENE XVI.
FIESCO alone.
SCENE XVII.
VERRINA. Do not count the hours, Fiesco! Heavy burdens have in that
interval weighed down my aged head. But enough of this----
ROMANO. Alas! my lord, I've thrown away my pencil. The lamp of genius
burns quicker than the lamp of life. Beyond a certain moment the flame
flickers and dies. This is my last production.
FIESCO (in a lively manner). It could not come more opportune. I feel
to-day a more than usual cheerfulness. A sentiment of calm delight
pervades my being, and fits it to receive the impression of Nature's
beauties. Let us view your picture. I shall feast upon the sight.
Come, friends, we will devote ourselves entirely to the artist. Place
your picture.
ROMANO (placing the picture). The light must fall upon it thus. Draw up
that curtain--let fall the other,--right. (Standing on one side). It is
the story of Virginia and Appius Claudius. (A long pause; all
contemplate the picture.)
FIESCO (to the painter, smiling). Could you desire greater applause?
Your art has transformed this old man into a youthful enthusiast.
FIESCO. My friend, amidst this admiration you have overlooked the parts
most truly beauteous. Does this Roman's head thus strike you? Look
there! Observe that damsel--what soft expression! What feminine
delicacy! How sweetly touched are those pale lips! How exquisite that
dying look! Inimitable! Divine, Romano! And that white, dazzling
breast, that heaves with the last pulse of life. Draw more such
beauties, Romano, and I will give up Nature to worship thy creative
fancy.
VERRINA. Take courage, son! The Almighty has rejected the arm of
FIESCO. Upon ours he must rely.
FIESCO (to ROMANO). Well--'tis your last work, Romano. Your powers are
exhausted. Lay down your pencil. Yet, whilst I am admiring the artist,
I forget to satiate on the work. I could stand gazing on it, regardless
of an earthquake. Take away your picture--the wealth of Genoa would
scarcely reach the value of this Virginia. Away with it.
FIESCO. Stay, Romano! (He walks majestically up and down the room,
seeming to reflect on something of importance. Sometimes he casts a
quick and penetrating glance at the others; at last he takes ROMANO
by the hand, and leads him to the picture.) Come near, painter.
(With dignified pride.) Proudly stand'st thou there because, upon
the dead canvas, thou canst simulate life, and immortalize great deeds
with small endeavor. Thou canst dilate with the poet's fire on the
empty puppet-show of fancy, without heart and without the nerve of
life-inspiring deeds; depose tyrants on canvas, and be thyself a
miserable slave! Thou canst liberate Republics with a dash of the
pencil, yet not break thy own chains! (In a loud and commanding tone.)
Go! Thy work is a mere juggle. Let the semblance give place to reality!
(With haughtiness, overturning the picture.) I have done what thou hast
only painted. (All struck with astonishment; ROMANO carries away the
picture in confusion.)
SCENE XVIII.
FIESCO. Did you suppose the lion slept because he ceased to roar? Did
your vain thoughts persuade you that none but you could feel the chains
of Genoa? That none but you durst break them? Before you knew their
weight, Fiesco had already broken them. (He opens an escritoire, takes
out a parcel of letters, and throws them on the table.) These bring
soldiers from Parma;--these, French money;-these, four galleys from the
Pope. What now is wanting to rouse the tyrant in his lair? Tell me,
what think you wanting? (All stand silent with astonishment.)
Republicans! you waste your time in curses when you should overthrow the
tyrant. (All but VERRINA throw themselves at FIESCO'S feet.)
VERRINA. Fiesco, my spirit bends to thine, but my knee cannot. Thy soul
is great; but--rise, Genoese! (They rise.)
FIESCO. All Genoa was indignant at the effeminate Fiesco; all Genoa
cursed the profligate FIESCO. Genoese! my amours have blinded the
cunning despot. My wild excesses served to guard my plans from the
danger of an imprudent confidence. Concealed beneath the cloak of luxury
the infant plot grew up. Enough--I'm known sufficiently to Genoa in
being known to you. I have attained my utmost wish.
FIESCO. But let us turn from thought to action. All the engines are
prepared--I can storm the city by sea and land. Rome, France, and Parma
cover me; the nobles are disaffected; the hearts of the populace are
mine; I have lulled to sleep the tyrants; the state is ripe for
revolution. We are no longer in the hands of Fortune. Nothing is
wanting. Verrina is lost in thought.
BOURGOGNINO. Patience! I have a word to say, which will more quickly
rouse him than the trumpet of the last day. (To VERRINA--calls out to
him emphatically.) Father! Awake! Thy Bertha will despair.
FIESCO. Think on the means of forwarding our plan. Night has advanced
upon our discourse; Genoa is wrapped in sleep; the tyrant sinks exhausted
beneath the sins of the day. Let us watch o'er both.
FIESCO (to the others). Depart by the back gates, that Doria's spies may
not suspect us.
BOURGOGNINO (stands still). Whither are you leading me, father. The
heavy grief that hung upon your brow when first you bade me follow you
still seems to labor in your panting breast. Break this dreadful
silence! Speak. I will go no further.
BOURGOGNINO. You could not choose a spot more awful. Father, if the
deed you purpose be like the place--father--my hair will stand on end
with horror.
VERRINA. And yet 'tis cheerfulness itself to the gloom that enwraps my
soul. Follow me to yon churchyard, where corruption preys on the
mouldering remnants of mortality, and death holds his fearful banquet--
where shrieks of damned souls delight the listening fiends, and sorrow
weeps her fruitless tears into the never-filling urn. Follow me, my son,
to where the condition of this world is changed; and God throws off his
attributes of mercy--there will I speak to thee in agony, and thou shalt
hear with despair.
VERRINA. Not so, my son--Verrina will not wound thy heart with it. O
Scipio, heavy burdens lie on me. A thought more dark and horrible than
night, too vast to be contained within the breast of man! Mark me--my
hand alone shall execute the deed; but my mind cannot alone support the
weight of it. If I were proud, Scipio, I might say greatness unshared is
torture. It was a burden to the Deity himself, and he created angels to
partake his counsels. Hear, Scipio!
FIESCO. What do I see! The moon hath hid its face. The morn is rising
fiery from the sea. Wild fancies have beset my sleep, and kept my soul
convulsed by one idea. Let me inhale the pure, refreshing breeze. (He
opens a window; the city and ocean appear red with the tint of morning.
FIESCO walking up and down the room with energy.) I the greatest man in
Genoa! And should not lesser souls bow down before the greater? But is
not this to trample upon virtue? (Musing.) Virtue? The elevated mind
is exposed to other than ordinary temptations--shall it then be governed
by the ordinary rules of virtue? Is the armor which encases the pigmy's
feeble frame suited to the giant? (The sun rises over Genoa.) This
majestic city mine! (Spreading out his arms as if to embrace it.) To
flame above it like the god of day! To rule over it with a monarch mind!
To hold in subjection all the raging passions, all the insatiable desires
in this fathomless ocean! 'Tis certain, though the cunning of the thief
ennoble not the theft, yet doth the prize ennoble the thief. It is base
to filch a purse--daring to embezzle a million,--but it is immeasurably
great to steal a diadem. As guilt extends its sphere, the infamy
decreaseth. (A pause, then with energy.) To obey! or to command! A
fearful dizzying gulf--that absorbs whate'er is precious in the eyes of
men. The trophies of the conqueror--the immortal works of science and of
art--the voluptuous pleasures of the epicure--the whole wealth
encompassed by the seas. To obey! or to command! To be, or not to be!
The space between is as wide as from the lowest depths of hell to the
throne of the Almighty. (In an elevated tone.) From that awful height
to look down securely upon the impetuous whirlpool of mankind, where
blind fortune holds capricious sway! To quaff at the fountainhead
unlimited draughts from the rich cup of pleasure! To hold that armed
giant law beneath my feet in leading-strings, and see it struggle with
fruitless efforts against the sacred power of majesty! To tame the
stubborn passions of the people, and curb them with a playful rein, as a
skilful horseman guides the fiery steed! With a breath--one single
breath--to quell the rising pride of vassals, whilst the prince, with the
motion of his sceptre, can embody even his wildest dreams of fancy! Ah!
What thoughts are these which transport the astounded mind beyond its
boundaries! Prince! To be for one moment prince comprises the essence
of a whole existence. 'Tis not the mere stage of life--but the part we
play on it that gives the value. The murmurs which compose the thunder's
roar might singly lull an infant to repose--but united their crash can
shake the eternal vault of heaven. I am resolved. (Walking up and down
majestically.)
SCENE III.
FIESCO. Charming countess, you expose your beauty to the rude breath of
morning.
LEONORA. I know not why I should preserve its small remains for grief to
feed on.
LEONORA. My heart is a poor trembling thing which you should pity. Even
the least remembrance of my visionary joy might wound my sickly fancy. I
therefore restore the last memorials of your kindness to their rightful
owner. (She lays some trinkets on the table.) This, too, that like a
dagger struck my heart (presenting a letter). This, too (going to rush
out of the door in tears), and I will retain nothing but the wound.
FIESCO (agitated, hastens after and detains her). Leonora! For God's
sake, stay!
LEONORA (falls into his arms exhausted). To be your wife was more than I
deserved. But she who was your wife deserved at least respect. How
bitter is the tongue of calumny. How the wives and maidens of Genoa now
look down upon me! "See," they say, "how droops the haughty one whose
vanity aspired to Fiesco!" Cruel punishment of my pride! I triumphed
over my whole sex when Fiesco led me to the altar----
SCENE IV.
FIESCO (throws the letter on the table with horror). Thou woolly-pated
rascal! How camest thou by that letter?
MOOR. Much in the same way as your grace will come by the republic. An
express was sent with it towards Levanto. I smelt out the game; waylaid
the fellow in a narrow pass, despatched the fox, and brought the poultry
hither----
FIESCO. His blood be on thy head! As for the letter, 'tis not to be
paid with gold.
MOOR. Yet I will be content with silver for it--(seriously, and with a
look of importance). Count of Lavagna! 'twas but the other day I sought
your life. To-day (pointing to the letter) I have preserved it. Now I
think his lordship and the scoundrel are even. My further service is an
act of friendship--(presents another letter) number two!
MOOR. Number two--(with an arrogant air--his arms akimbo) the lion has
not acted foolishly in pardoning the mouse. Ah! 'twas a deed of policy.
Who else could e'er have gnawed the net with which he was surrounded?
Now, sir, how like you that?
MOOR. But one, sir, at your service; and he is in your grace's keeping.
FIESCO. What! Doria's own signature! Whence dost thou bring this
paper?
MOOR. Fresh from the hands of my Diana. I went to her last night,
tempted her with your charming words, and still more charming sequins.
The last prevailed. She bade me call early in the morning. Lomellino
had been there as you predicted, and paid the toll to his contraband
heaven with this deposit.
MOOR. Even so--and that upon the morning of the ducal election, the
third of this month.
MOOR. I have a budget full of news beside. Two thousand soldiers are
safely smuggled into the city. I've lodged them with the Capuchins,
where not even a prying sunbeam can espy them. They burn with eagerness
to see their leader. They are fine fellows.
FIESCO. Each head of them shall yield thee a ducat. Is there no talk
about my galleys?
MOOR. Oh, I've a pleasant story of them, my lord. Above four hundred
adventurers, whom the peace 'twixt France and Spain has left without
employ, besought my people to recommend them to your grace to fight
against the infidels. I have appointed them to meet this evening in the
palace-court.
FIESCO. Peace, fellow! Hitherto I have moved the vast machine alone;
shall I now, at the very goal, be put to shame by the greatest rascal
under the sun? Here's my hand upon it, fellow--whate'er the Count
remains indebted to thee, the Duke shall pay.
MOOR. And here, too, is a note from the Countess Imperiali. She
beckoned to me from her window, when I went up received me graciously,
and asked me ironically if the Countess of Lavagna had not been lately
troubled with the spleen. Does your grace, said I, inquire but for one
person?
FIESCO (having read the letter throws it aside). Well said. What answer
made she?
MOOR. She answered, that she still lamented the fate of the poor
bereaved widow--that she was willing to give her satisfaction, and meant
to forbid your grace's attentions.
MOOR (ironically). My lord, the affairs of the ladies are next to those
of state.
FIESCO. Without a doubt, and these especially. But for what purpose are
these papers?
MOOR. To remove one plague by another. These powders the signora gave
me, to mix one every day with your wife's chocolate.
FIESCO (snatching them from him eagerly). If thou liest, rascal, I'll
hang thee up alive in irons at the weathercock of the Lorenzo tower,
where the wind shall whirl thee nine times round with every blast. The
powders?
MOOR. Very well. The latter I can afford--she paid me ready money.
FIESCO. This note invites me to her. I'll be with you, madam!--and find
means to lure you hither, too. Now haste thee, with all thy speed, and
call together the conspirators.
FIESCO. I hear the sound of footsteps. They are here. Fellow, thy
villany deserves a gallows of its own, on which no son of Adam was ever
yet suspended. Wait in the ante-chamber till I call for thee.
MOOR. The Moor has done his work--the Moor may go.
[Exit.
SCENE V.
VERRINA. Eight chambers have I made fast behind. Suspicion cannot come
within a hundred steps of us.
FIESCO. Well spoken. The tyrants. I entreat you weigh well the
importance of the word. Is he who threatens the overthrow of liberty--or
he who has it in his power--the greater tyrant?
VERRINA. The first I hate, I fear the latter. Let Andreas Doria fall!
BOURGOGNINO. The chain of iron, and the cord of silk, alike are bonds.
Let Andreas perish!
FIESCO (going to the table). The sentence, then is passed upon the uncle
and the nephew. Sign it! (They all sign.) The question who is settled.
How must be next determined. Speak first, Calcagno.
SACCO. Calcagno's reasons please me, but the means he chooses my mind
revolts at. Better were it that Fiesco should invite both the uncle and
nephew to a feast, where, pressed on all sides by the vengeance of the
republic, they must swallow death at the dagger's point, or in a bumper
of good Cyprian. This method is at least convenient.
FIESCO (with horror). Ah, Sacco! What if the wine their dying tongues
shall taste become for us torments of burning pitch in hell! Away with
this advice! Speak thou, Verrina.
BOURGOGNINO (embracing him). And with armed hand wrest Fortune's favors
from her. This is the voice of honor, and is mine.
FIESCO. And mine. Shame on you, Genoese! (to SACCO and CALCAGNO).
Fortune has already done too much for us, let something be our own.
Therefore open revolt! And that, Genoese, this very night----(VERRINA
and BOURGOGNINO astonished--the others terrified.)
CALCAGNO. What! To-night! The tyrants are yet too powerful, our force
too small.
FIESCO. Your doubts are reasonable, but read these papers. (He gives
them GIANETTINO'S papers, and walks up and down with a look of
satisfaction, whilst they read them eagerly.) Now, farewell, thou proud
and haughty star of Genoa, that didst seem to fill the whole horizon with
thy brightness. Knowest thou not that the majestic sun himself must quit
the heavens, and yield his sceptre to the radiant moon? Farewell, Doria,
beauteous star!
BOURGOGNINO. Give me these papers, and I will ride with them through
Genoa, holding them up to view. The very stones will rise in mutiny, and
even the dogs will howl against the tyrant.
FIESCO. Now you have reached the point. At sunset I will invite hither
the principal malcontents--those that stand upon the bloody list of
Gianettino! Besides the Sauli, the Gentili, Vivaldi, Vesodimari, all
mortal enemies of the house of Doria; but whom the tyrant forgot to fear.
They, doubtless, will embrace my plan with eagerness.
FIESCO. Above all things, we must render ourselves masters of the sea.
Galleys and seamen I have ready. The twenty vessels of the Dorias are
dismantled, and may be easily surprised. The entrance of the inner
harbor must be blocked up, all hope of flight cut off. If we secure this
point, all Genoa is in our power.
VERRINA. Doubtless.
FIESCO. Then we must seize the strongest posts in the city, especially
the gate of St. Thomas, which, leading to the harbor, connects our land
and naval forces. Both the Dorias must be surprised within their
palaces, and killed. The bells must toll, the citizens be called upon to
side with us, and vindicate the liberties of Genoa. If Fortune favor us,
you shall hear the rest in the senate.
VERRINA. The plan is good. Now for the distribution of our parts.
FIESCO. Verrina, dost thou know the principle of all warlike enterprise?
Instruct him, Genoese. It is subordination. If your will be not
subjected to mine--observe me well--if I be not the head of the
conspiracy, I am no more a member.
FIESCO. Then leave me now. Let one of you reconnoitre the city and
inform me of the strength or weakness of the several posts. Let
another find out the watchword. A third must see that the galleys
are in readiness. A fourth conduct the two thousand soldiers into my
palace-court. I myself will make all preparations here for the evening,
and pass the interval perhaps in play. At nine precisely let all be at
my palace to hear my final orders. (Rings the bell.)
[Exeunt.
SCENE VI.
FIESCO, MOOR.
FIESCO (seated at a desk, and writing). Did they not struggle against
the word subordination as the worm against the needle which transfixes
it? But 'tis too late, republicans.
FIESCO (giving him a paper). Invite all those whose names are written
here to see a play this evening at my palace.
MOOR. Perhaps to act a part, and pay the admittance with their heads.
FIESCO (in a haughty and contemptuous manner). When that is over I will
no longer detain thee here in Genoa. (Going, throws him a purse.) This
is thy last employment.
[Exit.
SCENE VII.
MOOR, alone.
MOOR (taking up the purse slowly, and looking after FIESCO with
surprise). Are we, then, on these terms? "I will detain thee in Genoa
no longer." That is to say, translated from the Christian language into
my heathen tongue, "When I am duke I shall hang up my friend the Moor
upon a Genoese gallows." Hum! He fears, because I know his tricks, my
tongue may bring his honor into danger when he is duke. When he is duke?
Hold, master count! That event remains to be considered. Ah! old Doria,
thy life is in my hands. Thou art lost unless I warn thee of thy danger.
Now, if I go to him and discover the plot, I save the Duke of Genoa no
less than his existence and his dukedom, and gain at least this hatful of
gold for my reward. (Going, stops suddenly.) But stay, friend Hassan,
thou art going on a foolish errand. Suppose this scene of riot is
prevented, and nothing but good is the result. Pshaw! what a cursed
trick my avarice would then have played me! Come, devil, help me to make
out what promises the greatest mischief; to cheat Fiesco, or to give up
Doria to the dagger. If Fiesco succeed then Genoa may prosper. Away!
That must not be. If this Doria escape, then all remains as it was
before, and Genoa is quiet. That's still worse! Ay, but to see these
rebels' heads upon the block! Hum! On the other hand 'twould be amusing
to behold the illustrious Dorias in this evening's massacre the victims
of a rascally Moor. No. This doubtful question a Christian might
perhaps resolve, but 'tis too deep a riddle for my Moorish brains. I'll
go propose it to some learned man.
[Exit.
SCENE VIII.
JULIA. As usual.
GIANETTINO. In that lies our security. Common crimes but move the blood
and stir it to revenge: atrocious deeds freeze it with terror, and
annihilate the faculties of man. You know the fabled power of Medusa's
head--they who but looked on it were turned to stone. What may not be
done, my boy, before stories are warmed to animation?
GIANETTINO. That would never do! We must deal more cautiously with her
attachment to FIESCO. When she shares the sweets, the cost will soon be
forgotten. Come, I expect troops this evening from Milan, and must give
orders at the gates for their reception. (To JULIA.) Well, sister, have
you almost thrummed away your anger?
SCENE X.
FIESCO (with politeness). Prince, you spare me a visit which I was just
now about to pay.
FIESCO. Not at all; for, consider, the prettiest novelty loses all its
zest when once become familiar. Our senses are but the rabble of our
inward republic. The noble live by them, but elevate themselves above
their low, degenerate tastes. (Having adjusted her toilet, he leads her
to a glass.) Now, by my honor! this must on the morrow be Genoa's
fashion--(politely)--may I have the honor of leading you so abroad,
countess?
JULIA. The cunning flatterer! How artfully he lays his plans to ensnare
me. No! I have a headache, and will stay at home.
FIESCO. Pardon me, countess. You may be so cruel, but surely you will
not. To-day a company of Florentine comedians arrive at my palace. Most
of the Genoese ladies will be present this evening at their performance,
and I am uncertain whom to place in the chief box without offending
others. There is but one expedient. (Making a low bow.) If you would
condescend, signora----
FIESCO. The circumstance might cause a concourse toward the harbor, and
about my palace, which the duke your uncle might misinterpret.
GIANETTINO (in a friendly manner). I'll manage that for you. Continue
your preparations, and may success attend your enterprise!
SCENE XI.
GERMAN. Very well. From the convent of the Capuchins, too, suspicious
rabble are pouring, and steal toward the market-place. From their gait
and appearance I should suppose them soldiers.
GIANETTINO (angrily). Out upon this fool's zeal! (To LOMELLINO, aside.)
These are undoubtedly my Milanese.
[Exit hastily.
FIESCO. The play awaits us, too, signora. May I offer you my hand?
ACT IV.
SCENE II.
ZENTURIONE entering.
SENTINEL THERE. Back! (ZENTURIONE starts, and goes to the door on the
left.)
ZENTURIONE. To-morrow will be the ducal election. Zibo, all's not right
here, depend upon it.
SCENE IV.
The former, four of the ASSERATO family.
SENTINEL. Back!
ZENTURIONE. I think it has begun, and we are acting our parts as fools.
ZIBO. We are sold! betrayed! The comedy was a bait, and we're caught in
a trap.
SCENE V.
The former--VERRINA, SACCO, and NOBLES.
VERRINA. And yet too quick to gain his wishes. Bourgognino! There is a
thought that freezes me.
SCENE VI.
FIESCO (aloud to the SENTINELS). Make fast the gates! (He takes off his
hat, and steps forward with dignity towards the assembly.) My friends--I
have invited you hither to a play--not as spectators, but to allot to
each a part therein.
Long enough have we borne the insolence of Gianettino Doria, and the
usurpation of Andreas. My friends, if we would deliver Genoa, no time is
to be lost. For what purpose, think you, are those twenty galleys which
beset our harbor? For what purpose the alliances which the Dorias have
of late concluded? For what purpose the foreign forces which they have
collected even in the heart of Genoa? Murmurs and execrations avail no
longer. To save all we must dare all. A desperate disease requires a
desperate remedy. Is there one base enough in this assembly to own an
equal for his master? (Murmurs.) Here is not one whose ancestors did
not watch around the cradle of infant Genoa. What!--in Heaven's name!--
what, I ask you, have these two citizens to boast of that they could urge
their daring flight so far above our head? (Increasing murmurs.) Every
one of you is loudly called upon to fight for the cause of Genoa against
its tyrants. No one can surrender a hair's-breadth of his rights without
betraying the soul of the whole state. (Interrupted by violent
commotions he proceeds.)
ZIBO. And may he who is not roused by it pant at the slavish oar till
the last trumpet break his chains----
FIESCO. Spoken like men. Now you deserve to know the danger that hung
over yourselves and Genoa. (Gives them the papers of the MOOR.) Lights,
soldiers! (The nobles crowd about the lights, and read--FIESCO aside to
VERRINA.) Friend, it went as I could wish.
VERRINA. Be not too certain. Upon the left I saw countenances that grew
pale, and knees that tottered.
CALCAGNO (without, eagerly). Open the gate! A friend! for God's sake,
open!
SCENE VII.
CALCAGNO. All is lost! all is lost! Fly, every one that can!
BOURGOGNINO. What's lost? Have they flesh of brass? Are our swords
made of rushes?
FIESCO (bursting into a loud laugh). Stay! stay! Is this the valor that
should punish tyrants? Well didst thou play thy part, Calcagno. Did
none of you perceive that this alarm was my contrivance? Speak,
Calcagno? Was it not my order that you should put these Romans to this
trial?
VERRINA. Well, if you can laugh I'll believe you--or never more think
you man.
FIESCO. Shame on you, men! to fail in such a boyish trial! Resume your
arms--you must fight like lions to atone for this disgrace. (Aside to
CALCAGNO.) Were you there yourself?
FIESCO (aloud). So the old man is gone to bed--we'll drum him out of his
feathers. (Low.) Did he talk long with the duke?
CALCAGNO (low). My sudden fright and your impending danger drove me away
in haste----
CALCAGNO (aloud). You should have carried on the jest. (Low.) For
God's sake, friend, what will this artifice avail us?
FIESCO. 'Twill gain us time, and dissipate the first panic. (Aloud.)
Ho! bring wine here! (Low.) Did the duke turn pale? (Aloud.) Well,
brothers, let us drink success to this night's entertainment. (Low.)
Did the duke turn pale?
CALCAGNO. The Moor's first word must have been conspiracy; for the old
man started back as pale as ashes.
A VOICE. The guard of the duke's. (The NOBLES rush about the court in
despair.)
SCENE VIII.
MOOR (hallooing after them). Mine, too--and tell the duke had he not
employed an ass for his messenger he would have learned that two thousand
soldiers are concealed within these palace walls.
SCENE IX.
THE CONSPIRATORS (shuddering at the sight of the MOOR). Ha! what means
this?
FIESCO (after reading the note with suppressed anger). Genoese, the
danger is past--but the conspiracy is likewise at an end----
VERRINA (stopping him). Art thou mad? Was, then, our enterprise some
thievish act of villany? Was it not our country's cause? Was Andreas
the object of thy hatred, and not the tyrant? Stay! I arrest thee as a
traitor to thy country.
FIESCO (snatching up his sword, and making way through them). Gently!
Who will be the first to throw the cord around the tiger? See, Genoese,
--I stand here at liberty, and might force my way with ease, had I the
will--but I will stay--I have other thoughts----
FIESCO (haughtily). Ha! boy! learn first to know thy own--and towards me
restrain that tongue! Be appeased, Genoese,--our plans remain unaltered.
(To the MOOR, whose cords he cuts with a sword). Thou hast the merit of
causing a noble act--fly!
MOOR. So, then, the devil does not forsake his friends. Your servant,
gentlemen! I see that Italy does not produce my halter; I must seek it
elsewhere.
[Exit, laughing.
SCENE X.
SERVANT. The Countess Imperiali has already asked three times for your
grace.
FIESCO. Ha! then the comedy must indeed begin! Tell her I come
directly. Desire my wife to hasten to the concert-room, and there remain
concealed behind the tapestry. (Exit SERVANT.) In these papers your
several stations are appointed: let each but act his part, the plan is
perfect. Verrina will lead the forces to the harbor, and when the ships
are seized will fire a shot as a signal for the general attack. I now
leave you upon important business; when you hear the bell come all
together to my concert-room. Meanwhile enjoy my Cyprian wine within.
(They depart into the palace.)
SCENE XI.
LEONORA. Fiesco promised to meet me here, and comes not. 'Tis past
eleven. The sound of arms and men rings frightfully through the palace,
and no Fiesco comes.
ROSA. You are to conceal yourself behind the tapestry--what can the
count intend?
LEONORA. He directs and I obey. Why should I fear? And yet I tremble,
Arabella, and my heart beats fearfully with apprehension. For heaven's
sake, damsels, do not leave me.
LEONORA. Where'er I turn my eyes strange shapes appear with hollow and
distracted countenances. Whomsoever I address trembles like a criminal,
and withdraws into the thickest gloom of night, that fearful refuge of a
guilty conscience. Whate'er they answer falls from the trembling tongue
in doubtful accents. Oh, Fiesco! what horrid business dost thou
meditate? Ye heavenly powers! watch over my Fiesco!
LEONORA. Some one approaches. Quick! behind the curtain. (They conceal
themselves.)
SCENE XII.
FIESCO. To this spot where timid love grows bold, and where emotions
mingle unrestrained.
JULIA. Hold, Fiesco! For Heaven's sake no more! 'Tis the thick veil of
night alone which covers the burning blushes on my cheeks, else wouldst
thou pity me.
FIESCO. Rather, Julia, thy blushes would inflame my passions, and urge
them to their utmost height. (Kisses her hand eagerly.)
JULIA. Thy countenance is glowing as thy words! Ah! and my own, too,
burns with guilty fire. Hence, I entreat thee, hence--let us seek the
light! The tempting darkness might lead astray the excited senses, and
in the absence of the modest day might stir them to rebellion. Haste, I
conjure thee, leave this solitude!
JULIA. O man, eternal paradox! then are you truly conquerors, when you
bow as captives before our self-conceit. Shall I confess, Fiesco? It
was my vice alone that could protect my virtue--my pride alone defied
your artifices--thus far, my principles prevailed, and all your arts were
foiled--but in despair of every other suit you made appeal to Julia's
passion--and here my principles deserted me----
JULIA. Certainly, nowhere better, and nowhere worse? Tell me, Fiesco,
how long will this endless passion endure? But, alas! I've risked too
much already now to hesitate at staking my last. I trusted boldly to my
charms to captivate thee--to preserve thy love, I fear they'll prove too
weak. Fie upon me!--what am I uttering? (Hides her face with her
hands.)
FIESCO (with great indifference). True, madam! You judge most rightly;
we both have risked our honor. (Bowing ceremoniously.) I will await the
pleasure of your company among my guests. (Going.)
JULIA (stops him). Stay! art thou mad? Must I, then, declare a passion
which the whole race of men, upon their knees, should not extort from my
inflexible pride? Alas! in vain the darkness strives to hide the blushes
which betray my guilt. Fiesco--I wound the pride of all my sex--my sex
will all detest me--Fiesco--I adore thee--(falls at his feet).
FIESCO (steps back without raising her, laughing with exultation). That
I am sorry for, signora--(rings the bell--draws the tapestry, and
discovers LEONORA). Here is my wife--an angel of a woman! (Embracing
her.)
SCENE XIII.
JULIA (biting her lips with rage). Good! Good! Very good, Sir!
(Going.)
FIESCO (leads her back by the arm). You must have patience, madam;
something else remains. My friends, perhaps, would gladly learn why I
debased my reason with the farce of love for Genoa's silliest coquette.
FIESCO. Poor, indeed, if that be your only sting! Know that Fiesco of
Lavagna has changed the diadem of your illustrious brother for a halter,
and means this night to hang the thief of the republic. (She is struck
with terror--he continues with a sarcastic laugh.) Ha! that was
unexpected. And do you see, madam, 'twas for this purpose that I tried
to blind the eyes of the Dorias. For this I assumed a mock passion--
(pointing to JULIA.) For this I cast away this precious jewel--(pointing
to LEONORA); and by shining bait ensnared my prey. I thank you for your
complaisance, signora--(to JULIA;) and resign the trappings of my assumed
character. (Delivers her the miniature with a bow.)
FIESCO (to the guests). You were witnesses; let your report in Genoa
preserve my honor. (To the CONSPIRATORS.) Call on me as soon as the
cannon gives the signal. (All the guests retire.)
SCENE XIV.
LEONORA (clasping her hands together, and throwing herself into a chair).
O God! My very fears! I am undone!
FIESCO (seriously, and with dignity). Let me speak out, my love. Two of
my ancestors wore the triple crown. The blood of the Fiescos flows not
pure unless beneath the purple. Shall your husband only reflect a
borrowed splendor? (In a more energetic manner.) What! shall he owe his
rank alone to capricious chance, which, from the ashes of mouldering
greatness, has patched together a John Louis Fiesco? No, Leonora, I am
too proud to accept from others what my own powers may achieve. This
night the hereditary titles of my ancestors shall return to deck their
tombs--Lavagna's counts exist no longer--a race of princes shall begin.
FIESCO (tenderly seizing her hand). Be calm, my love. The only ball
will not strike me.
LEONORA (looking steadfastly at him). Does Fiesco so confidently
challenge Heaven? If, in the scope of countless possibilities, one
chance alone were adverse, that one might happen, and I should lose my
husband. Think that thou venturest Heaven, Fiesco; and though a million
chances were in thy favor, wouldst thou dare tempt the Almighty by
risking on a cast thy hopes of everlasting happiness? No, my husband!
When thy whole being is at stake each throw is blasphemy.
LEONORA. Ah! say you so, Fiesco? You, who have watched the
soul-convulsing game, which some call pastime? Have you not seen
the sly deceiver, Fortune, how she leads on her votary with gradual
favors, till, heated with success, he rushes headlong and stakes his all
upon a single cast? Then in the decisive moment she forsakes him, a
victim of his rashness--and stood you then unmoved? Oh, my husband,
think not that thou hast but to show thyself among the people to be
adored. 'Tis no slight task to rouse republicans from their slumber and
turn them loose, like the unbridled steed, just conscious of his hoofs.
Trust not those traitors. They among them who are most discerning, even
while they instigate thy valor, fear it; the vulgar worship thou with
senseless and unprofitable adoration. Whichever way I look Fiesco is
undone.
LEONORA. Greatness, Fiesco! Alas! thy towering spirit ill accords with
the fond wishes of my heart. Should fortune favor thy attempt--shouldst
thou obtain dominion--alas! I then shall be but the more wretched.
Condemned to misery shouldst thou fail--if thou succeed, to misery still
greater. Here is no choice but evil. Unless he gain the ducal power,
Fiesco perishes--if I embrace the duke I lose my husband.
LEONORA. And yet the picture is not finished. Let love be sacrificed to
greatness--and even peace of mind--if Fiesco but remained unchanged. O
God! that thought is racking torture. Seldom do angels ascend the
throne--still seldomer do they descend it such. Can he know pity who is
raised above the common fears of man? Will he speak the accents of
compassion who at every wish can launch a bolt of thunder to enforce it.
(She stops, then timidly advances, and takes his hand with a look of
tender reproach.) Princes, Fiesco--these abortions of ambition and
weakness--who presume to sit in judgment 'twixt the godhead and
mortality. Wicked servants--worse rulers.
FIESCO (with great emotion). Leonora--what hast thou done? (He falls,
overcome, on her neck.) I shall never more dare to meet the eyes of
Genoa's citizens.
LEONORA (with lively expression). Let us fly, Fiesco! let us with scorn
reject these gaudy nothings, and pass our future days only in the
retreats of love! (She presses him to her breast with rapture.) Our
souls, serene as the unclouded sky, shall never more be blackened by the
poisonous breath of sorrow; our lives shall flow harmoniously as the
music of the murmuring brook. (A cannon-shot is heard--FIESCO disengages
himself--all the conspirators enter.)
SCENE XV.
SCENE I.-After midnight. The great street of Genoa. A few lamps, which
gradually become extinguished. In the background is seen the Gate of St.
Thomas, which is shut. Men pass over the stage with lanterns. The
patrol go their round. Afterwards, everything is quiet except the waves
of the sea, which are heard at a distance, rather tempestuous.
FIESCO. The old man has kept his word. The lights are all extinguished
in the palace--the guards dismissed--I'll ring. (Rings at the gate.)
Ho! Halloo! Awake, Doria! Thou art betrayed. Awake! Halloo! Halloo!
FIESCO (in a feigned voice). Ask not, but follow me! Duke, thy star has
set; Genoa is in arms against thee! Thy executioners are near, and canst
thou sleep, Andreas?
ANDREAS (with dignity). I remember when the raging sea contended with my
gallant vessel--when her keel cracked and the wind split her topmast.
Yet Andreas Doria then slept soundly. Who sends these executioners!
FIESCO. A man more terrible than your raging sea--John Louis Fiesco.
ANDREAS (laughs). You jest, my friend. Come in the daytime to play your
tricks. Midnight suits them badly.
ANDREAS. I thank him and retire to rest. Fiesco, wearied with his
rioting, sleeps, and has no time to think of Doria.
FIESCO. Wretched old man! Trust not the artful serpent! Its back is
decked with beauteous colors; but when you would approach to view it you
are suddenly entwined within its deadly folds. You despised the
perfidious Moor. Do not despise the counsels of a friend. A horse
stands ready saddled for you; fly, while you have time!
ANDREAS. Fiesco has a noble mind. I never injured him, and he will not
betray me.
FIESCO. Fiesco has a noble mind and yet betrays thee. He gives thee
proof of both.
ANDREAS (in an elevated manner). Vain scoffer! Knowest thou not that
Andreas has seen his eightieth year, and that Genoa beneath his rule is
happy? (Leaves the balcony.)
FIESCO (looks after him with astonishment). Must I then destroy this man
before I have learnt how difficult it is to equal him? (He walks up and
down some time in meditation). 'Tis past, Andreas. I have repaid the
debt of greatness. Destruction take thy course! (He hastens into a
remote street. Drums are heard on all sides. A hot engagement at the
St. Thomas' Gate. The gate is forced, and opens a prospect in the
harbor, in which lie several ships with lights on board.)
SCENE II.
GIANETTINO. The gate is open. The guards are in confusion. (To the
servants.) Quick, rascals! Light us to the harbor. (Proceeding hastily
towards the gate.)
SCENE III.
LOMELLINO (to GIANETTINO). Prince, they are enemies. Turn to the left.
ZENTURIONE. St. Thomas' gate our own! Gianettino slain! Haste some of
you and tell Fiesco.
SCENE IV.
GERMAN. The storm drove that way. Mount your horse, duke!
GERMAN. The enemy is all around us. Away! Fly! Beyond the boundaries!
ANDREAS (throwing himself upon the dead body of his nephew). Here will I
die. Let no one talk of flight. Here lies the prop of my old age--my
career is ended. (CALCAGNO appears at a distance, with CONSPIRATORS.)
ANDREAS. Hark, Germans, bark! These are the Genoese whose chains I
broke. (Hiding his face.) Do your countrymen thus recompense their
benefactors?
GERMAN. Away! Away! while we stay here, and notch their swords upon our
German bones. (CALCAGNO comes nearer.)
ANDREAS. Save yourselves! Leave me! and go, declare the horrid story to
the shuddering nations that Genoa slew its father----
GERMAN. Slew! 'Sdeath, that shall not be. Comrades, stand firm!
Surround the duke! (They draw their swords.) Teach these Italian dogs
to reverence his gray head----
SCENE V.
LEONORA. This way the tumult rages--hark! was not that a dying groan?
Ah, they surround him! At Fiesco's breast they point their fatal
muskets--at my breast they point them. Hold! hold! It is my husband!
(Throws her arms up in agony.)
ARABELLA. Hark! hark! How terrible it sounds yonder, from the tower of
the Dominicans! God have mercy on us!
LEONORA. Cold-blooded wretch; canst thou see and hear all this, and yet
not rave? The very stones are ready to weep that they have not feet to
run and join Fiesco. These palaces upbraid the builder, who had laid
their foundations so firmly in the earth that they cannot fly to join
Fiesco. The very shores, were they able, would forsake their office in
order to follow his glorious banner, though by so doing they abandoned
Genoa to the mercy of the ocean. What might shake death himself out of
his leaden sleep has not power to rouse thy courage? Away! I'll find my
way alone.
SCENE VI.
SACCO. Numbers have flocked already to our standard, and all the gates
are ours.
CALCAGNO. He guards, like Cerberus, the passage between Genoa and the
sea--an anchovy could scarcely pass him.
SCENE VII.
MOOR. Now I'll let you into a secret, my boys; 'twas I that cooked this
soup, but the devil a spoonful do they give me. Well, I care not. This
hubbub is just to my taste. We'll set about burning and plundering.
While they are squabbling for a dukedom we'll make a bonfire in the
churches that shall warm the frozen apostles. (They disperse themselves
among the neighboring houses.)
SCENE VIII.
BOURGOGNINO. Rest here, dear youth; thou art in safety. Dost thou
bleed?
BOURGOGNINO (with energy). Rise, then, I'll lead thee where thou mayst
gain wounds for Genoa--wounds beautiful like these. (Uncovering his
arm.)
BOURGOGNINO. Art thou frightened, youth? Too early didst thou put on
the man. What age hast thou?
BOURGOGNINO. Go, quickly! Carry her this ring. Say it shall be our
wedding-ring; and tell her the blue crest fights bravely. Now farewell!
I must hasten yonder. The danger is not yet over. (Some houses are seen
on fire.)
BOURGOGNINO (calling out loudly). Thou art free, Bertha! The tyrant is
dead! This sword has passed through his heart.
BOURGOGNINO. For thee, Bertha! They are our marriage chimes. Leave
this horrid dungeon and follow me to the altar.
BOURGOGNINO. They are proclaiming Fiesco duke. The populace adore him,
and with eager acclamations brought him the purple; the nobles looked on
with dismay, but dared not refuse their sanction.
VERRINA (laughs bitterly). You see, my son, I must away with speed to be
the first to tender the oath of allegiance to the new monarch.
VERRINA. My son, I have converted all my possessions into gold, and have
conveyed it on board thy ship. Take thy bride and embark without delay.
Perhaps I shall soon follow, perhaps never. Hasten to Marseilles, and
(embracing them with emotion) God be with you.
BOURGOGNINO (determinedly). Verrina, I must stay; the danger is not yet
past.
VERRINA (leading him towards BERTHA). Look to thy bride, thou proud,
insatiable one. Thou hast despatched thy tyrant, leave me to deal with
mine. [Exeunt.
SCENE IX.
FIESCO (wildly). They say so only! Who say? Declare, upon your honor,
has he escaped?
ZIBO. 'Tis but eight minutes since I saw him in the crowd dressed in his
scarlet cloak and yellow plume.
FIESCO (wildly). Heaven and hell! Zibo! Bourgognino shall answer for
it with his head. Hasten, Zibo! secure the barriers. Sink all the boats
that he may not escape by sea. This diamond, Zibo--the richest in all
Italy--this diamond shall reward the man who brings me tidings of
Gianettino's death. (ZIBO hastens away.) Fly, Zibo!
SCENE X.
SACCO. We found this Moor throwing a lighted match into the convent of
the Jesuits.
FIESCO. No.
FIESCO. Sober.
MOOR. Well, if it must be so, the devil may make ready for an extra
guest. (Soldiers lead him off, and hang him at a little distance.)
SCENE XI.
SCENE XII.
ZIBO. By me Verrina sends his greeting to you from the admiral's galley,
with the dominion of the sea.
ZENTURIONE. By me the governor of the city sends his keys and staff of
office.
SACCO. And in me (kneeling) the less and greater senate of the republic
kneel down before their master, and supplicate for favor and protection.
ALL (taking off their hats). Hail! Hail, Duke of Genoa! (March of
triumph--FIESCO stands the whole time with his head sunk upon his breast,
in a meditating posture.)
CALCAGNO. The people and the senate wait to see their gracious sovereign
invested in the robes of dignity. Great duke, permit us to follow you in
triumph to the senate-house.
CALCAGNO. Shall this murderous villain lie here, and hide his infamy in
obscurity?
ZIBO. Let his mangled carcass sweep the streets! (They hold lights
toward the body.)
FIESCO (fixes his eyes upon it with an eager look, which he withdraws
slowly--then, with convulsive wildness, exclaims). No! ye devils! That
is not the face of Gianettino--Oh, malicious fiend! Genoa is mine, say
you? Mine? (Rushing forward with a dreadful shriek.) Oh, trickery of
hell! It is my wife! (He sinks to the ground in agony--The CONSPIRATORS
stand around in groups, shuddering--a dead silence.)
SCENE XIII.
ARABELLA. Let them kill me! What have I now to dread? Have pity on me,
Genoese. 'Twas here I left my dearest mistress, and nowhere can I find
her.
ARABELLA (with pleasure). Are you there, my most gracious and dear good
lord? Be not displeased with us. We could no longer restrain her.
FIESCO (in a transport of rage). Get thee to the abyss of hell! The
mantle?
SOME OF THE CONSPIRATORS (talking apart). 'Twas here that Gianettino was
killed.
ZIBO. This event must be concealed from the people. 'Twould damp the
ardor of our party and elevate the enemy with hope.
SCENE XIV.
ANDREAS, LOMELLINO.
LOMELLINO. They are intoxicated with success. The gates are deserted
and all are hastening toward the senate-house.
ANDREAS. It was my nephew only whom Genoa could not brook. My nephew is
no more. Hear, Lomellino!
ANDREAS (sternly). And dost thou tremble for my life, and mock me with
the name of duke the while thou wouldst forbid me hope.
LOMELLINO. My gracious lord, a raging nation lies in Fiesco's scale;
what counterpoise in yours?
ANDREAS. Wretch that thou art! Wouldst thou bereave an aged head of its
support, its God. (In an earnest and commanding tone.) Go! Make it
known throughout Genoa that Andreas Doria is still alive. Say that
Andreas entreats the citizens, his children, not to drive him, in his old
age, to dwell with foreigners, who ne'er would pardon the exalted state
to which he raised his country. Say this--and further say, Andreas begs
but so much ground within his fatherland as may contain his bones.
ANDREAS. Stay; take with thee this snowy lock, and say it was the last
upon my head. Say that I plucked it on that night when ungrateful Genoa
tore itself from my heart. For fourscore years it hung upon my temples,
and now has left my bald head, chilled with the winter of age. The lock
is weak, but 'twill suffice to fasten the purple on that young usurper.
SCENE XV.
BOURGOGNINO. The populace adore him, and with transports hailed him as
their duke. The nobles looked on with horror, but dared not oppose it.
SCENE XVI.
FIESCO. See, then, how idle is the observation that power makes a
tyrant. Since we parted I am become the Duke of Genoa, and yet Verrina
(pressing him to his bosom) finds my embrace still glowing as before.
FIESCO (bites his lips). Verrina, say this to no one but Fiesco.
VERRINA. Oh, of course! Great indeed must be that mind which can hear
the voice of truth without offence. But alas! the cunning gamester has
failed in one single card. He calculated all the chances of envious
opposition, but unfortunately overlooked one antagonist--the patriot--
(very significantly). But perhaps the oppressor of liberty has still in
store some scheme for banishing patriotic virtue. I swear by the living
God that posterity shall sooner collect my mouldering bones from off the
wheel than from a sepulchre within that country which is governed by a
duke.
FIESCO (taking him tenderly by the hand). Not even when that duke is thy
brother? Not if he should make his principality the treasury of that
benevolence which was restrained by his domestic poverty? Not even then,
Verrina.
VERRINA. No--not even then! We pardon not the robber because he made
gifts of his plunder, nor does such generosity suit Verrina. I might
permit my fellow-citizens to confer a benefit on me--because I should
hope some day to make them an adequate return. That which a prince
confers is bounty; but bounty undeserved I would receive alone from God.
FIESCO (angrily). It were as easy to tear Italy from the bosom of the
ocean as to shake this stubborn enthusiast from his prejudices.
VERRINA. Well mayst thou talk of tearing: thou hast torn the republic
from Doria, as a lamb from the jaws of the wolf, only that thou mightest
devour it thyself. But enough of this--just tell me, duke, what crime
the poor wretch committed whom you ordered to be hung up at the church of
the Jesuits?
FIESCO (sharply). Let them be the first fruits of my tyranny. Go, and
announce to them their deliverance.
VERRINA. You will enjoy but half the pleasure unless you see their
happiness. Perform this deed thyself. The great are seldom witnesses of
the evils which they cause. And shall they, too, do good by stealth and
in obscurity? Methinks the duke is not too great to sympathize with a
beggar.
FIESCO. Man, thou art dreadful; yet I know not why I must follow thee.
(Both go toward the sea.)
VERRINA (stops, much affected). But once more embrace me, Fiesco. Here
is no one by to see Verrina weep, or to behold a prince give way to
feeling--(he embraces him eagerly). Surely never beat two greater hearts
together--we loved each other so fraternally--(weeping violently on
Fiasco's neck). Fiesco! Fiesco! Thou makest a void in my bosom which
all mankind, thrice numbered, could not fill up.
VERRINA. Throw off this hateful purple, and I will be so. The first
prince was a murderer, and assumed the purple to hide the bloody stains
of his detested deeds. Hear me, Fiesco! I am a warrior, little used to
weeping--Fiesco--these are my first tears--throw off this purple!
FIESCO. Peace.
VERRINA (more vehemently). Fiesco, place on the one side all the honors
of this great globe, on the other all its tortures; they should not make
me kneel before a mortal--Fiesco (falling on his knee), this is the first
bending of my knee--throw off this purple!
VERRINA (in a determined tone). I rise then, and will no longer irritate
thee. (They stand on a board leading to a galley.) The prince must take
precedence.
VERRINA (with bitter irony). If the purple falls the duke must after it.
(He pushes him into the sea.)
FIESCO (calls out of the waves). Help, Genoa! Help! Help thy duke!
(Sinks.)
SCENE XVII.
A TRAGEDY.
By Frederich Schiller
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
ACT I.
SCENE I.
MILLER--MRS. MILLER.
MILLER (walking quickly up and down the room). Once for all! The
affair is becoming serious. My daughter and the baron will soon be the
town-talk--my house lose its character--the president will get wind of
it, and--the short and long of the matter is, I'll show the younker the
door.
MRS MILLER. You did not entice him to your house--did not thrust your
daughter upon him!
MILLER. Didn't entice him to my house--didn't thrust the girl upon him!
Who'll believe me? I was master of my own house. I ought to have taken
more care of my daughter. I should have bundled the major out at once,
or have gone straight to his excellency, his papa, and disclosed all.
The young baron will get off merely with a snubbing, I know that well
enough, and all the blame will fall upon the fiddler.
MRS MILLER (sipping her coffee). Pooh! nonsense! How can it fall upon
you? What have people to do with you? You follow your profession, and
pick up pupils wherever you can find them.
MILLER. All very fine, but please to tell me what will be the upshot of
the whole affair? He can't marry the girl--marriage is out of the
question, and to make her his--God help us! "Good-by t'ye!" No, no--when
such a sprig of nobility has been nibbling here and there and everywhere,
and has glutted himself with the devil knows what all, of course it will
be a relish to my young gentleman to get a mouthful of sweet water. Take
heed! Take heed! If you were dotted with eyes, and could place a
sentinel for every hair of your head, he'll bamboozle her under your very
nose; add one to her reckoning, take himself off, and the girl's ruined
for life, left in the lurch, or, having once tasted the trade, will carry
it on. (Striking his forehead.) Oh, horrible thought!
MILLER. We shall want his protection. You may well say that. What
other object can such a scapegrace have? The girl is handsome--well
made--can show a pretty foot. How the upper story is furnished matters
little. That's blinked in you women if nature has not played the niggard
in other respects. Let this harum-scarum but turn over this chapter--ho!
ho! his eyes will glisten like Rodney's when he got scent of a French
frigate; then up with all sail and at her, and I don't blame him for it--
flesh is flesh. I know that very well.
MRS MILLER. You should only read the beautiful billy-doux which the
baron writes to your daughter. Gracious me! Why it's as clear as the
sun at noonday that he loves her purely for her virtuous soul.
MILLER. That's the right strain! We beat the sack, but mean the ass's
back. He who wishes to pay his respects to the flesh needs only a kind
heart for a go-between. What did I myself? When we've once so far
cleared the ground that the affections cry ready! slap! the bodies follow
their example, the appetites are obedient, and the silver moon kindly
plays the pimp.
MRS MILLER. And then only think of the beautiful books that the major
has sent us. Your daughter always prays out of them.
MILLER (whistles). Prays! You've hit the mark. The plain, simple food
of nature is much too raw and indigestible for this maccaroni gentleman's
stomach. It must be cooked for him artificially in the infernal
pestilential pitcher of your novel-writers. Into the fire with the
rubbish! I shall have the girl taking up with--God knows what all--about
heavenly fooleries that will get into her blood, like Spanish flies, and
scatter to the winds the handful of Christianity that cost her father so
much trouble to keep together. Into the fire with them I say! The girl
will take the devil's own nonsense into her head; amidst the dreams of
her fool's paradise she'll not know her own home, but forget and feel
ashamed of her father, the music-master; and, lastly, I shall lose a
worthy, honest son-in-law who might have nestled himself so snugly into
my connections. No! damn it! (Jumps up in a passion.) I'll break the
neck of it at once, and the major--yes, yes, the major! shall be shown
where the carpenter made the door. (Going.)
MRS MILLER. Be civil, Miller! How many a bright shilling have his
presents----
MILLER (comes back, and goes up to her). The blood money of my daughter?
To Beelzebub with thee, thou infamous bawd! Sooner will I vagabondize
with my violin and fiddle for a bit of bread--sooner will I break to
pieces my instrument and carry dung on the sounding-board than taste a
mouthful earned by my only child at the price of her soul and future
happiness. Give up your cursed coffee and snuff-taking, and there will
be no need to carry your daughter's face to market. I have always had my
bellyful and a good shirt to my back before this confounded scamp put his
nose into my crib.
MRS MILLER. Now don't be so ready to pitch the house out of window. How
you flare up all of a sudden. I only meant to say that we shouldn't
offend the major, because he is the son of the president.
MILLER. There lies the root of the mischief. For that reason--for that
very reason the thing must be put a stop to this very day! The
president, if he is a just and upright father, will give me his thanks.
You must brush up my red plush, and I will go straight to his excellency.
I shall say to him,--"Your excellency's son has an eye to my daughter; my
daughter is not good enough to be your excellency's son's wife, but too
good to be your excellency's son's strumpet, and there's an end of the
matter. My name is Miller."
SCENE II.
MRS MILLER. Ah! Good morning, Mr. Seckertary! Have we indeed the
pleasure of seeing you again?
MRS MILLER. How can you think so, Mr. Seckertary? His lordship the
baron, Major Ferdinand, certainly does us the honor to look in now and
then; but, for all that, we don't undervalue others.
WORM (lays aside hat and stick, and seats himself). Well, well--and how
then is my future--or past--bride? I hope she'll not be--may I not have
the honor of seeing--Miss Louisa?
MRS MILLER. Thanks for inquiries, Mr. Seckertary, but my daughter is not
at all proud.
MRS MILLER. Sorry she can't have that honor, Mr. Seckertary. My
daughter is now at mass.
MRS MILLER. If our family can serve you in any other way--with the
greatest pleasure, Mr. Seckertary----
WORM. Understand. Not exac---. Oh, yes. But what do you really mean?
WORM (jumping from his chair). What's that you say? what?
MILLER. Keep your seat, keep your seat, Mr. Secretary! The woman's an
out-and-out fool! Where's the great lady to come from? How you show
your donkey's ears by talking such stuff.
MRS MILLER. Scold as long as you will. I know what I know, and what the
major said he said.
MILLER (snatches up his fiddle in anger). Will you hold your tongue?
Shall I throw my fiddle at your head? What can you know? What can he
have said? Take no notice of her clack, kinsman! Away with you to your
kitchen! You'll not think me first cousin of a fool, and that I'm
looking out so high for the girl? You'll not think that of me, Mr.
Secretary?
WORM. Nor have I deserved it of you, Mr. Miller! You have always shown
yourself a man of your word, and my contract to your daughter was as good
as signed. I hold an office that will maintain a thrifty manager; the
president befriends me; the door to advancement is open to me whenever I
may choose to take advantage of it. You see that my intentions towards
Miss Louisa are serious; if you have been won over by a fop of rank----
MILLER. Hold your tongue, I say. Never mind her, kinsman. Things
remain as they were. The answer I gave you last harvest, I repeat
to-day. I'll not force my daughter. If you suit her, well and good;
then it's for her to see that she can be happy with you. If she shakes
her head--still better--be it so, I should say--then you must be content
to pocket the refusal, and part in good fellowship over a bottle with her
father. 'Tis the girl who is to live with you--not I. Why should I, out
of sheer caprice, fasten a husband upon the girl for whom she has no
inclination? That the evil one may haunt me down like a wild beast in my
old age--that in every drop I drink--in every bit of bread I bite, I
might swallow the bitter reproach: Thou art the villain who destroyed his
child's happiness!
MRS MILLER. The short and the long of it is--I refuse my consent
downright; my daughter's intended for a lofty station, and I'll go to law
if my husband is going to be talked over.
WORM (to MILLER). Paternal advice goes a great way with the daughter,
and I hope you know me, Mr. Miller?
MILLER. Plague take you! 'Tis the girl must know you. What an old
crabstick like me can see in you is just the very last thing that a
dainty young girl wants. I'll tell you to a hair if you're the man for
an orchestra--but a woman's heart is far too deep for a music-master.
And then, to be frank with you--you know that I'm a blunt,
straightforward fellow--you'll not give thank'ye for my advice. I'll
persuade my daughter to no one--but from you Mr. Sec--I would dissuade
her! A lover who calls upon the father for help--with permission--is not
worth a pinch of snuff. If he has anything in him, he'll be ashamed to
take that old-fashioned way of making his deserts known to his
sweetheart. If he hasn't the courage, why he's a milksop, and no Louisas
were born for the like of him. No! he must carry on his commerce with
the daughter behind the father's back. He must manage so to win her
heart, that she would rather wish both father and mother at Old Harry
than give him up--or that she come herself, fall at her father's feet,
and implore either for death on the rack, or the only one of her heart.
That's the fellow for me! that I call love! and he who can't bring
matters to that pitch with a petticoat may--stick the goose feather in
his cap.
WORM (seizes hat and stick and hurries out of the room). Much obliged,
Mr. Miller!
MILLER (going after him slowly). For what? for what? You haven't taken
anything, Mr. Secretary! (Comes back.) He won't hear, and off he's
gone. The very sight of that quill-driver is like poison and brimstone
to me. An ugly, contraband knave, smuggled into the world by some lewd
prank of the devil--with his malicious little pig's eyes, foxy hair, and
nut-cracker chin, just as if Nature, enraged at such a bungled piece of
goods, had seized the ugly monster by it, and flung him aside. No!
rather than throw away my daughter on a vagabond like him, she may--God
forgive me!
MILLER. Ay, and you too, with your pestilential baron--you, too, must
put my bristles up. You're never more stupid than when you have the most
occasion to show a little sense. What's the meaning of all that trash
about your daughter being a great lady? If it's to be cried out about
the town to-morrow, you need only let that fellow get scent of it. He is
one of your worthies who go sniffing about into people's houses, dispute
upon everything, and, if a slip of the tongue happen to you, skurry with
it straight to the prince, mistress, and minister, and then there's the
devil to pay.
SCENE III.
LOUISA. Ah! I forgot that there are others in the world besides him--my
head wanders so. Was he not here? Ferdinand?
LOUISA (uneasy, goes to the window). Where can he be now? Ah! the
high-born ladies who see him--listen to him----I am a poor forgotten
maiden. (Startles at that word, and rushes to her father.) But no, no!
forgive me. I do not repine at my lot. I ask but little--to think on
him--that can harm no one. Ah! that I might breathe out this little
spark of life in one soft fondling zephyr to cool his check! That this
fragile floweret, youth, were a violet, on which he might tread, and I
die modestly beneath his feet! I ask no more, father! Can the proud,
majestic day-star punish the gnat for basking in its rays?
MILLER (deeply affected, leans on the arm of his chair, and covers his
face). My child, my child, with joy would I sacrifice the remnant of my
days hadst thou never seen the major.
LOUISA (terrified.) How; how? What did you say? No, no! that could not
be your meaning, good father. You know not that Ferdinand is mine! You
know not that God created him for me, and for my delight alone! (After a
pause of recollection.) The first moment that I beheld him--and the
blood rushed into my glowing cheeks--every pulse beat with joy; every
throb told me, every breath whispered, "'Tis he!" And my heart,
recognizing the long-desired one, repeated "'Tis he!" And the whole
world was as one melodious echo of my delight! Then--oh! then was the
first dawning of my soul! A thousand new sentiments arose in my bosom,
as flowers arise from the earth when spring approaches. I forgot there
was a world, yet never had I felt that world so dear to me! I forgot
there was a God, yet never had I so loved him!
MILLER (runs to her and clasps her to his bosom). Louisa! my beloved, my
admirable child! Do what thou wilt. Take all--all--my life--the baron--
God is my witness--him I can never give thee! [Exit.
LOUISA. Nor would I have him now, father! Time on earth is but a
stinted dewdrop in the ocean of eternity. 'Twill swiftly glide in one
delicious dream of Ferdinand. I renounce him for this life! But then,
mother--then when the bounds of separation are removed--when the hated
distinctions of rank no longer part us--when men will be only men--I
shall bring nothing with me save my innocence! Yet often has my father
told me that at the Almighty's coming riches and titles will be
worthless; and that hearts alone will be beyond all price. Oh! then
shall I be rich! There, tears will be reckoned for triumphs, and purity
of soul be preferred to an illustrious ancestry. Then, then, mother,
shall I be noble! In what will he then be superior to the girl of his
heart?
MRS. MILLER (starts from her seat). Louisa! the baron! He is jumping
over the fence! Where shall I hide myself?
[Exit.
SCENE IV.
FERDINAND (takes her hand and raises it to his lips). And does my Louisa
still love me? My heart is yesterday's; is thine the same? I flew
hither to see if thou wert happy, that I might return and be so too. But
I find thee whelmed in sorrow!
FERDINAND. Confess, Louisa! you are not happy. I see through your soul
as clearly as through the transparent lustre of this brilliant. No spot
can harbor here unmarked by me--no thought can cloud your brow that does
not reach your lover's heart. Whence comes this grief? Tell me, I
beseech you! Ah! could I feel assured this mirror still remained
unsullied, there'd seem to me no cloud in all the universe! Tell me,
dear Louisa, what afflicts you?
FERDINAND (surprised). What say'st thou? Tell me, girl! how camest thou
by that thought? Thou art my Louisa! who told thee thou couldst be aught
else? See, false one, see, for what coldness I must chide thee! Were
indeed thy whole soul absorbed by love for me, never hadst thou found
time to draw comparisons! When I am with thee, my prudence is lost in
one look from thine eyes: when I am absent in a dream of thee! But thou
--thou canst harbor prudence in the sane breast with love! Fie on thee!
Every moment bestowed on this sorrow was a robbery from affection and
from me!
LOUISA (pressing his hand and shaking her head with a melancholy air).
Ferdinand, you would lull my apprehensions to sleep; you would divert my
eyes from the precipice into which I am falling. I can see the future!
The voice of honor--your prospects, your father's anger--my nothingness.
(Shuddering and suddenly drops his hands.) Ferdinand! a sword hangs over
us! They would separate us!
FERDINAND (detaining her). Stay, Louisa! stay! Why this agitation? Why
those anxious looks?
The PRESIDENT, with the grand order of the cross about his neck,
and a star at his breast--SECRETARY WORM.
PRESIDENT. A serious attachment, say you? No, no, Worm; that I never
can believe.
WORM. If your excellency pleases, I will bring proofs of my assertions.
WORM (with warmth). A most captivating and lovely blondine, who, without
saying too much, might figure advantageously beside the greatest beauties
of the court.
PRESIDENT (laughs). It's very plain, Worm, that you have an eye upon the
jade yourself--I see that. But listen, Worm. That my son has a passion
for the fair sex gives me hope that he will find favor with the ladies.
He may make his way at court. The girl is handsome, you say; I am glad
to think my son has taste. Can he deceive the silly wench by holding out
honorable intentions--still better; it will show that he is shrewd enough
to play the hypocrite when it serves his purpose. He may become prime
minister--if he accomplishes his purpose! Admirable! that will prove to
me that fortune favors him. Should the farce end with a chubby
grandchild--incomparable! I will drink an extra bottle of Malaga to the
prospects of my pedigree, and cheerfully pay the wench's lying-in
expenses.
WORM. All I wish is that your excellency may not have to drink that
bottle to drown your sorrow.
PRESIDENT. And, besides, you may soon have the satisfaction of turning
the laugh most handsomely against your rival. At this very moment it is
under consideration in the cabinet, that, upon the arrival of the new
duchess, Lady Milford shall apparently be discarded, and, to complete the
deception, form an alliance. You know, Worm, how greatly my influence
depends upon this lady--how my mightiest prospects hang upon the passions
of the prince. The duke is now seeking a partner for Lady Milford. Some
one else may step in--conclude the bargain for her ladyship, win the
confidence of the prince, and make himself indispensable, to my cost.
Now, to retain the prince in the meshes of my family, I have resolved
that my Ferdinand shall marry Lady Milford. Is that clear to you?
WORM. Pardon me, my lord! The sullen face which he most assuredly will
put upon it may be placed equally to the account of the bride you offer
to him as of her from whom you wish to separate him. I would beg of you
a more positive test! Propose to him some perfectly unexceptionable
woman. Then, if he consents, let Secretary Worm break stones on the
highway for the next three years.
WORM. Such is the case, you may rest assured! The mother--stupidity
itself--has, in her simplicity, betrayed all to me.
PRESIDENT (pacing the room, and trying to repress his rage). Good! this
very morning, then!
WORM. Yet, let me entreat your excellency not to forget that the major--
is my master's son----
[Exit.
PRESIDENT. Yes, yes, you are safe enough! I hold you in the fetters of
your own knavery, like a trout on the hook!
Enter SERVANT.
SERVANT. Marshal Kalb----
[Exit SERVANT.
SCENE VI.
MARSHAL. Ah! good morning, my dear baron! Quite delighted to see you
again--pray forgive my not having paid my respects to you at an earlier
hour--the most pressing business--the duke's bill of fare--invitation
cards--arrangements for the sledge party to-day--ah!--besides it was
necessary for me to be at the levee, to inform his highness of the state
of the weather.
MARSHAL. Nor is that all! One misfortune follows at the heels of the
other to-day! Only hear me!
MARSHAL. Just listen! Scarce had I quitted my carriage, when the horses
became restive, and began to plunge and rear--only imagine!--splashed my
breeches all over with mud! What was to be done? Fancy, my dear baron,
just fancy yourself for a moment in my predicament! There I stood! the
hour was late! a day's journey to return--yet to appear before his
highness in this--good heavens! What did I bethink me of? I pretended
to faint! They bundle me into my carriage! I drive home like mad--
change my dress--hasten back--and only think!--in spite of all this I was
the first person in the antechamber! What say you to that?
PRESIDENT. God bless me!--and yet, marshal, I have even greater news to
tell you. Lady Milford will soon become my daughter-in-law. That, I
think will be new to you?
SCENE VII.
PRESIDENT--FERDINAND.
PRESIDENT. "To-day," you rogue? and your "to-day" with such a vinegar
look? (Seriously.) Ferdinand! For whose sake have I trod that
dangerous path which leads to the affections of the prince? For whose
sake have I forever destroyed my peace with Heaven and my conscience?
Hear me, Ferdinand--I am speaking to my son. For whom have I paved the
way by the removal of my predecessor? a deed which the more deeply gores
my inward feelings the more carefully I conceal the dagger from the
world! Tell me, Ferdinand, for whose sake have I done all this?
FERDINAND (recoiling with horror). Surely not for mine, father, not for
mine? Surely not on me can fall the bloody reflection of this murder?
By my Almighty Maker, it were better never to have been born than to be
the pretext for such a crime!
PRESIDENT. What sayest thou? How? But I will attribute these strange
notions to thy romantic brain, Ferdinand; let me not lose my temper--
ungrateful boy! Thus dost thou repay me for my sleepless nights? Thus
for my restless anxiety to promote thy good? Thus for the never-dying
scorpion of my conscience? Upon me must fall the burden of
responsibility; upon me the curse, the thunderbolt of the Judge. Thou
receivest thy fortune from another's hand--the crime is not attached to
the inheritance.
PRESIDENT. Hear me, sirrah! and do not incense me! Were you left to
your own direction you would crawl through life in the dust.
FERDINAND. Oh! better, father, far, far better, than to crawl about a
throne!
PRESIDENT (repressing his anger). So! Then compulsion must make you
sensible of your good fortune! To that point, which, with the utmost
striving a thousand others fail to reach, you have been exalted in your
very sleep. At twelve you received a commission; at twenty a command. I
have succeeded in obtaining for you the duke's patronage. He bids you
lay aside your uniform, and share with me his favor and his confidence.
He spoke of titles--embassies--of honors bestowed but upon few. A
glorious prospect spreads itself before you! The direct path to the
place next the throne lies open to you! Nay, to the throne itself, if
the actual power of ruling is equivalent to the mere symbol. Does not
that idea awaken your ambition?
PRESIDENT. Nay, more. I would ask her hand myself, if she would take a
man of fifty. Would not you call yourself that infamous father's son?
FERDINAND. No! as God lives! that would I not!
PRESIDENT. Are you distracted, boy? What reasonable man would not
thirst after a distinction which makes him, as one of a trio, the equal
and co-partner of his sovereign?
PRESIDENT. Where in the world couldst thou collect such notions, boy?
PRESIDENT (his eye still fixed upon him). I expect your gratitude,
Ferdinand!
FERDINAND (rushes towards him and kisses his hands). Father, your
goodness awakens every spark of sentiment in my bosom. Father! receive
my warmest thanks for your kind intentions. Your choice is
unexceptionable! But I cannot--I dare not--pity me, father, I never can
love the countess.
PRESIDENT (draws back). Ha! ha! now I've caught you, young gentleman!
The cunning fox has tumbled into the trap. Oh, you artful hypocrite! It
was not then honor which made you refuse Lady Milford? It was not the
woman, but the nuptials which alarmed you! (FERDINAND stands petrified
for a moment; then recovers himself and prepares to quit the chamber
hastily.) Whither now? Stay, sir. Is this the respect due to your
father? (FERDINAND returns slowly.) Her ladyship expects you. The duke
has my promise! Both court and city believe all is settled. If thou
makest me appear a liar, boy! If, before the duke--the lady--the court
and city--thou shouldst make me appear a liar!--tremble, boy!--or when I
have gained information of certain circumstances--how now? Why does the
color so suddenly forsake your cheeks?
[Exit.
[Exit.
ACT II.
SCENE I.--A room in LADY MILFORD'S house. On the right of the stage
stands a sofa, on the left a pianoforte.
SOPHY. The parade is over, and the officers are separating, but I see no
signs of the major.
LADY MILFORD (rises and walks up and down the room in visible agitation).
I know not what ails me to-day, Sophy! I never felt so before--you say
you do not see him! It is evident enough that he is by no means
impatient for this meeting--my heart feels oppressed as if by some heavy
crime. Go! Sophy, order the most spirited horse in the stable to be
saddled for me--I must away into the open air where I may look on the
blue sky and hear the busy hum of man. I must dispel this gloominess by
change and motion.
SOPHY. If you feel out of spirits, my lady, why not invite company! Let
the prince give an entertainment here, or have the ombre table brought to
you. If the prince and all his court were at my beck and call I would
let no whim or fancy trouble me!
LADY MILFORD (throwing herself on the couch). Pray, spare me. I would
gladly give a jewel in exchange for every hour's respite from the
infliction of such company! I always have my rooms tapestried with these
creatures! Narrow-minded, miserable beings, who are quite shocked if by
chance a candid and heartfelt word should escape one's lips! and stand
aghast as though they saw an apparition; slaves, moved by a single
puppet-wire, which I can govern as easily as the threads of my
embroidery! What can I have in common with such insipid wretches, whose
souls, like their watches, are regulated by machinery? What pleasure can
I have in the society of people whose answers to my questions I know
beforehand? How can I hold communion with men who dare not venture on an
opinion of their own lest it should differ from mine! Away with them--I
care not to ride a horse that has not spirit enough to champ the bit!
(Goes to the window.)
SOPHY. But surely, my lady, you except the prince, the handsomest, the
wittiest, and the most gallant man in all his duchy.
LADY MILFORD (returning). Yes, in his duchy, that was well said--and it
is only a royal duchy, Sophy, that could in the least excuse my weakness.
You say the world envies me! Poor thing! It should rather pity me!
Believe me, of all who drink of the streams of royal bounty there is none
more miserable than the sovereign's favorite, for he who is great and
mighty in the eyes of others comes to her but as the humble suppliant!
It is true that by the talisman of his greatness he can realize every
wish of my heart as readily as the magician calls forth the fairy palace
from the depths of the earth! He can place the luxuries of both Indies
upon my table, turn the barren wilderness to a paradise, can bid the
broad rivers of his land play in triumphal arches over my path, or expend
all the hard-earned gains of his subjects in a single feu-de-joie to my
honor. But can he school his heart to respond to one great or ardent
emotion? Can he extort one noble thought from his weak and indigent
brain? Alas! my heart is thirsting amid all this ocean of splendor; what
avail, then, a thousand virtuous sentiments when I am only permitted to
indulge in the pleasures of the senses.
SOFHY (regarding her with surprise). Dear lady, you amaze me! how long
is it since I entered your service?
LADY MILFORD. Do you ask because this is the first day on which you have
learnt to know me? I have sold my honor to the prince, it is true, but
my heart is still my own--a heart, dear Sophy, which even yet may be
worth the acceptance of an honorable man--a heart over which the
pestilential blast of courtly corruption has passed as the breath which
for a moment dims the mirror's lustre. Believe me my spirit would long
since have revolted against this miserable thraldom could my ambition
have submitted to see another advanced to my place.
SOPHY. And could a heart like yours so readily surrender itself to mere
ambition?
LADY MILFORD (with energy). Has it not already been avenged? nay, is it
not even at this very moment making me pay a heavy atonement (with
emphasis laying her hand on SOPHY'S shoulder)? Believe me, Sophy, woman
has but to choose between ruling and serving, but the utmost joy of power
is a worthless possession if the mightier joy of being slave to the man
we love be denied us.
SOPHY. A truth, dear lady, which I could least of all have expected to
hear from your lips!
LADY MILFORD. And wherefore, Sophy? Does not woman show, by her
childish mode of swaying the sceptre of power, that she is only fit to go
in leading-strings! Have not my fickle humors--my eager pursuit of wild
dissipation--betrayed to you that I sought in these to stifle the still
wilder throbbings of my heart?
LADY MILFORD (in surprise). You change color! To what have I given
utterance? Yet, since I have said thus much, let me say still more--let
my confidence be a pledge of your fidelity,--I will tell you all.
LADY MILFORD. This alliance with the major--you, like the rest of the
world, believe to be the result of a court intrigue--Sophy, blush not--be
not ashamed of me--it is the work of--my love!
LADY MILFORD. Yes, Sophy, they are all deceived. The weak prince--the
diplomatic baron--the silly marshal--each and all of these are firmly
convinced that this marriage is a most infallible means of preserving me
to the prince, and of uniting us still more firmly! But this will prove
the very means of separating us forever, and bursting asunder these
execrable bonds. The cheater cheated--outwitted by a weak woman. Ye
yourselves are leading me to the man of my heart--this was all I sought.
Let him but once be mine--be but mine--then, oh, then, a long farewell to
all this despicable pomp!
SCENE II.--An old valet of the DUKE'S, with a casket of jewels. The
former.
VALET. Nothing!
VALET. Yesterday seven thousand children of the land left their homes to
go to America--they pay for all.
LADY MILFORD (sets the casket suddenly down, and paces up and down the
room; after a pause, to the VALET). What distresses you, old man? you
are weeping!
VALET (wiping his eyes, and trembling violently). Yes, for these jewels.
My two sons are among the number.
VALET (laughing bitterly). Oh! dear no! they were all volunteers! There
were certainly some few forward lads who pushed to the front of the ranks
and inquired of the colonel at what price the prince sold his subjects
per yoke, upon which our gracious ruler ordered the regiments to be
marched to the parade, and the malcontents to be shot. We heard the
report of the muskets, and saw brains and blood spurting about us, while
the whole band shouted--"Hurrah for America!"
VALET. No, most gracious lady, because you rode off to the bear-hunt
with his highness just at the moment the drum was beating for the march.
'Tis a pity your ladyship missed the pleasure of the sight--here, crying
children might be seen following their wretched father--there, a mother
distracted with grief was rushing forward to throw her tender infant
among the bristling bayonets--here, a bride and bridegroom were separated
with the sabre's stroke--and there, graybeards were seen to stand in
despair, and fling their very crutches after their sons in the New World
--and, in the midst of all this, the drums were beating loudly, that the
prayers and lamentations might not reach the Almighty ear.
VALET (with warmth). Yes, heaven knows! We shall meet again! As they
passed the city gates they turned round and cried aloud: "God bless our
wives and children--long life to our gracious sovereign. At the day of
judgment we shall all meet again!"
LADY MILFORD (walks up and down the room in great agitation). Horrible!
most horrible!--and they would persuade me that I had dried up all the
tears in the land. Now, indeed, my eyes are fearfully opened! Go--tell
the prince that I will thank him in person! (As the valet is going she
drops the purse into his hat.) And take this as a recompense for the
truth you have revealed to me.
VALET (throws the purse with contempt on the table). Keep it, with your
other treasures. [Exit.
SOPHY. What has made your ladyship just think of that? Yes--such was
certainly the fact, and most of these poor creatures are either compelled
to serve their creditors as bondsmen, or are dragging out their miserable
days in the depths of the royal silver mines.
LADY MILFORD (giving him the case of jewels). Carry this to my treasurer
without delay. Let the jewels be sold and the money distributed among
the four hundred families who were ruined by the fire.
SOPHY. Consider, my lady, the risk you run of displeasing his highness.
LADY MILFORD (with dignity). Should I encircle my brows with the curses
of his subjects? (Makes a sign to the servant, who goes away with the
jewel case.) Wouldst thou have me dragged to the earth by the dreadful
weight of the tears of misery? Nay! Sophy, it is better far to wear
false jewels on the brow, and to have the consciousness of a good deed
within the breast!
SOPHY. But diamonds of such value! Why not rather give some that are
less precious? Truly, my lady, it is an unpardonable act.
LADY MILFORD. Foolish girl! For this deed more brilliants and pearls
will flow for me in one moment than kings ever wore in their richest
diadems! Ay, and infinitely more beautiful!
SOPHY (running hastily to the help of LADY MILFORD, who seems fainting).
Heavens, my lady, you change color!
LADY MILFORD. The first man who ever made me tremble. (To the SERVANT.)
I am not well--but stay--what said the major?--how? O Sophy! I look
sadly ill, do I not?
SERVANT. Is it your ladyship's wish that I should deny you to the major?
LADY MILFORD (hesitating). Tell him--I shall be happy to see him. (Exit
SERVANT.) What shall I say to him, Sophy? how shall I receive him? I
will be silent--alas! I fear he will despise my weakness. He will--ah,
me! what sad forebodings oppress my heart! You are going Sophy! stay,
yet--no, no--he comes--yes, stay, stay with me----
LADY MILFORD (changing color and trembling). And not of your own heart?
FERDINAND. A soldier!
LADY MILFORD (in a soft, affectionate manner). Thus far you have only
enumerated advantages which you share in common with many others. Why
are you so silent regarding those noble qualities which are peculiarly
your own?
FERDINAND. 'Twas the state which gave it, by the hands of the prince.
God bestowed on me an honest heart. My nobility is derived from a line
of ancestry extending through centuries.
LADY MILFORD (in extreme distress turning away). Major! I have not
deserved this!
FERDINAND (taking her hand). Pardon me, lady--we are without witnesses.
The circumstance which brings us together to-day--and only to-day--
justifies me, nay, compels me, to reveal to you my most secret feelings.
I cannot comprehend, lady, how a being gifted with so much beauty and
spirit--qualities which a man cannot fail to admire--could throw herself
away on a prince incapable of valuing aught beyond her mere person--and
yet not feel some visitings of shame, when she steps forth to offer her
heart to a man of honor!
LADY MILFORD (looking at him with an air of pride). Say on, sir, without
reserve.
LADY MILFORD (with gentleness and dignity). This is the first time,
Baron von Walter, that words such as these have been addressed to me--and
you are the only man to whom I would in return have vouchsafed an answer.
Your rejection of my hand commands my esteem. Your invectives against my
heart have my full forgiveness, for I will not believe you sincere, since
he who dares hold such language to a woman, that could ruin him in an
instant--must either believe that she possesses a great and noble heart--
or must be the most desperate of madmen. That you ascribe the misery of
this land to me may He forgive, before whose throne you, and I, and the
prince shall one day meet! But, as in my person you have insulted the
daughter of Britain, so in vindication of my country's honor you must
hear my exculpation.
LADY MILFORD. Hear, then, that which I have never yet breathed to
mortal, and which none but yourself will ever learn from my lips. I am
not the low adventurer you suppose me, sir! Nay! did I listen to the
voice of pride, I might even boast myself to be of royal birth; I am
descended from the unhappy Thomas Norfolk, who paid the penalty of his
adherence to the cause of Mary, Queen of Scots, by a bloody death on the
scaffold. My father, who, as royal chamberlain, had once enjoyed his
sovereign's confidence, was accused of maintaining treasonable relations
with France, and was condemned and executed by a decree of the Parliament
of Great Britain. Our estates were confiscated, and our family banished
from their native soil. My mother died on the day of my father's
execution, and I--then a girl of fourteen--fled to Germany with one
faithful attendant. A casket of jewels, and this crucifix, placed in my
bosom by my dying mother, were all my fortune!
FERDINAND (greatly agitated, follows her and leads her back). Lady!
heavens! what do I hear! What have I done? The guilt of my conduct is
unveiled in all its deformity! It is impossible you should forgive me.
LADY MILFORD. This gloomy period was succeeded by one still more gloomy.
The court swarmed with French and Italian adventurers--the royal sceptre
became the plaything of Parisian harlots, and the people writhed and bled
beneath their capricious rule. Each had her day. I saw them sink before
me, one by one, for I was the most skilful coquette of all! It was then
that I seized and wielded the tyrant's sceptre whilst he slumbered
voluptuously in my embrace--then, Walter, thy country, for the first
time, felt the hand of humanity, and reposed in confidence on my bosom.
(A pause, during which she gazes upon him with tenderness.) Oh! 'that
the man, by whom, of all others, I least wish to be misunderstood, should
compel me to turn braggart and parade my unobtrusive virtues to the glare
of admiration! Walter, I have burst open the doors of prisons--I have
cancelled death-warrants and shortened many a frightful eternity upon the
galleys. Into wounds beyond my power to heal I have at least poured
soothing balsam. I have hurled mighty villains to the earth, and oft
with the tears of a harlot saved the cause of innocence from impending
ruin. Ah! young man, how sweet were then my feelings! How proudly did
these actions teach my heart to support the reproaches of my noble blood!
And now comes the man who alone can repay me for all that I have
suffered--the man, whom perhaps my relenting destiny created as a
compensation for former sorrows--the man, whom with ardent affection, I
already clasped in my dreams.
FERDINAND (interrupting her). Hold, lady, hold! You exceed the bounds of
our conference! You undertook to clear yourself from reproach, and you
make me a criminal! Spare me, I beseech you! Spare a heart already
overwhelmed by confusion and remorse!
LADY MILFORD (grasping his hand). You must hear me, Walter! hear me now
or never. Long enough has the heroine sustained me; now you must feel
the whole weight of these tears! Mark me, Walter! Should an
unfortunate--impetuously, irresistibly attracted towards you--clasp you
to her bosom full of unutterable, inextinguishable love--should this
unfortunate--bowed down with the consciousness of shame--disgusted with
vicious pleasures--heroically exalted by the inspiration of virtue--throw
herself--thus into your arms (embracing him in an eager and supplicating
manner); should she do this, and you still pronounce the freezing word
"Honor!" Should she pray that through you she might be saved--that
through you she might be restored to her hopes of heaven! (Turning away
her head, and speaking in a hollow, faltering voice.) Or should she, her
prayer refused, listen to the voice of despair, and to escape from your
image plunge herself into yet more fearful depths of infamy and vice----
FERDINAND (breaking from her in great emotion). No, by heaven! This is
more than I can endure! Lady, I am compelled--Heaven and earth compels
me--to make the honest avowal of my sentiments and situation.
LADY MILFORD (hastening from him). Oh! not now! By all that is holy I
entreat you--spare me in this dreadful moment when my lacerated heart
bleeds from a thousand wounds. Be your decision life or death--I dare
not--I will not hear it!
FERDINAND. A third?
LADY MILFORD. Never can you marry Louisa; never can you be happy with
me. We shall all be the victims of your father's rashness. I can never
hope to possess the heart of a husband who has been forced to give me his
hand.
FERDINAND. Forced, lady? Forced? And yet given? Will you enforce a
hand without a heart? Will you tear from a maiden a man who is the whole
world to her? Will you tear a maiden from a man who has centered all his
hopes of happiness on her alone? Will you do this, lady? you who but a
moment before were the lofty, noble-minded daughter of Britain?
MILLER (running up and down the room). My cloak, there. Quick, quick!
I must be beforehand with him. My cloak, I say! Yes, yes! this was just
what I expected!
MILLER (throwing down his wig). Let that go to the friezer. What is the
matter, indeed? And my beard, too, is nearly half an inch long. What's
the matter? What do you think, you old carrion. The devil has broke
loose, and you may look out for squalls.
MRS. MILLER. There, now, that's just the way! When anything goes wrong
it is always my fault.
MILLER. Your fault? Yes, you brimstone fagot! and whose else should it
be? This very morning when you were holding forth about that confounded
major, did I not say then what would be the consequence? That knave,
Worm, has blabbed.
MILLER. And you, too, with that languishing air? (laughs bitterly).
But, right! Right! There is an old saying that where the devil keeps a
breeding-cage he is sure to hatch a handsome daughter.
MRS. MILLER. But how do you know that Louisa is in question? You may
have been recommended to the duke; he may want you in his orchestra.
MILLER (jumping up, and seizing his fiddlestick). May the sulphurous
rain of hell consume thee! Orchestra, indeed! Ay, where you, you old
procuress, shall howl the treble whilst my smarting back groans the base
(Throwing himself upon a chair.) Oh! God in heaven!
MILLER (starting up with anger). But let me only lay hands on that
infernal quill-driver! I'll make him skip--be it in this world or the
next; if I don't pound him to a jelly, body and soul; if I don't write
all the Ten Commandments, the seven Penitential Psalms, the five books of
Moses, and the whole of the Prophets upon his rascally hide so distinctly
that the blue hieroglyphics shall be legible at the day of judgment--if I
don't, may I----
MRS. MILLER. Yes, yes, curse and swear your hardest! That's the way to
frighten the devil! Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Oh, gracious heavens! What
shall we do? Who can advise us? Speak, Miller, speak; this silence
distracts me! (She runs screaming up and down the room.)
SCENE V.
MRS. MILLER (wringing her hands). The minister here? Then it's all
over with us!
MILLER (laughs bitterly). Thank God! Thank God! Now comes our
benefit!
FERDINAND (rushing towards LOUISA, and clasping her in his arms). Mine
thou art, though heaven and hell were placed between us!
LOUISA. I am doomed! Speak, Ferdinand! Did you not utter that dreaded
name? Your father?
FERDINAND. Be not alarmed! the danger has passed! I have thee again!
again thou hast me! Let me regain my breath on thy dear bosom. It was a
dreadful hour!
LOUISA. What was a dreadful hour? Answer me, Ferdinand! I die with
apprehension!
[LOUISA sinks back upon her chair, and conceals her face.
LOUISA. No, no, Ferdinand, conceal nothing from me! Declare boldly the
dreadful decree! You named your father! You spoke of the baroness! The
shivering of death seizes my heart! 'Tis said she is about to be
married!
FERDINAND (quite overcome, throws himself at her feet). Yes, and to me,
dear unfortunate. Such is my father's will!
MILLER. Louisa! Louisa! O merciful heaven! she has lost her senses!
My daughter! My poor child! Curses upon thy seducer! Curses upon the
pandering mother who threw thee in his way!
LOUISA (rises trembling from the sofa, and attempts to follow him).
Stay, oh, stay! Whither are you going? Father! Mother! He deserts us
in this fearful hour!
MRS. MILLER (hastens towards him, and detains him). The president is
coming hither? He will ill-use my child! He will ill-use us all,--and
yet, major, you are going to leave us.
FERDINAND (returns, and walks to and fro in deep thought). 'Tis true,
the President's power is great--parental authority is a mighty word--even
crimes claim respect when concealed within its folds. He may push that
authority far--very far! But love goes beyond it. Hear me, Louisa; give
me thy hand! (clasping it firmly). As surely as I hope for Heaven's
mercy in my dying hour, I swear that the moment which separates these
hands shall also rend asunder the thread that binds me to existence!
LOUISA. You terrify me! Turn from me! Your lips tremble! Your eyes
roll fearfully!
SCENE VI.
PRESIDENT (to LOUISA). Has he given you any assurance of his love?
FERDINAND. But a few minutes since, the most solemn, and God was my
witness.
PRESIDENT (to his son angrily). Silence! You shall have opportunity
enough of confessing your folly. (To LOUISA.) I await your answer.
LOUISA. He swore eternal love to me.
LOUISA (to FERDINAND, with dignity and emotion). Baron von Walter, now
you are free!
FERDINAND (drawing his sword). Father, you gave me life, and, till now,
I acknowledged your claim on it. That debt is cancelled. (Replaces his
sword in the scabbard, and points to LOUISA.) There lies the bond of
filial duty torn to atoms!
MILLER (who has stood apart trembling, now comes forward, by turns
gnashing his teeth in rage, and shrinking back in terror). Your
excellency, the child is the father's second self. No offence, I hope!
Who strikes the child hits the father--blow for blow--that's our rule
here. No offence, I hope!
MRS. MILLER. God have mercy on us! Now the old man has begun--we shall
all catch it with a vengeance!
PRESIDENT (who has not understood what MILLER said). What? is the old
pander stirred up? We shall have something to settle together presently,
Mr. Pander!
MILLER. You mistake me, my lord. My name is Miller, at your service for
an adagio--but, as to ladybirds, I cannot serve you. As long as there is
such an assortment at court, we poor citizens can't afford to lay in
stock! No offence, I hope!
MRS. MILLER. For Heaven's sake, man, hold your tongue! would you ruin
both wife and child?
FERDINAND (to his father). You play but a sorry part here, my lord, and
might well have dispensed with these witnesses.
PRESIDENT (pale with anger, and approaching MILLER). What? What's that
you dare to utter?
FERDINAND (to MILLER, in a collected and firm manner). Oh! not so! Fear
not, friends! I am your protector. (Turning to the PRESIDENT, with
deference). Be not so rash, father! For your own sake let me beg of you
no violence. There is a corner of my heart where the name of father has
never yet been heard. Oh! press not into that!
PRESIDENT. To the duke, will you? Have you forgotten that I am the
threshold over which you must pass, or failing, perish? To the duke, you
fool? Try to reach him with your lamentations, when, reduced to a living
skeleton, you lie buried in a dungeon five fathoms deep, where light and
sound never enter; where darkness goggles at hell with gloating eyes!
There gnash thy teeth in anguish; there rattle thy chains in despair, and
groan, "Woe is me! This is beyond human endurance!"
SCENE VII.
FERDINAND (flies to LOUISA, who, overcome with fear, faints in his arms.)
Louisa!--Help, for God's sake! Terror overpowers her!
PRESIDENT (to the officers, showing his star). Arrest these offenders in
the duke's name. Boy, let go that strumpet! Fainting or not--when once
her neck is fitted with the iron collar the mob will pelt her till she
revives.
MILLER (snatching her from the ground with violence). Kneel to God, you
howling fool, and not to villains--since I must to prison any way!
FERDINAND (fiercely). Touch her who dare! (He draws his sword and
flourishes it.) Let no one presume to lay a finger on her, whose life is
not well insured. (To the PRESIDENT.) As you value your own safety,
father, urge me no further!
FERDINAND. Hell and furies! Back, I say! (Driving them away.) Once
more, father, I warn you--have some thought for your own safety! Drive
me not to extremity!
PRESIDENT. The more entertaining will be the exhibition. Away with her!
FERDINAND (wrests LOUISA from the officer and holds her with one arm,
with the other points his sword at her bosom.) Father, rather than
tamely see my wife branded with infamy I will plunge this sword into her
bosom. Do you still insist?
ACT III.
SCENE I.
WORM. Just what I feared, your excellency. Opposition may inflame the
enthusiast, but never converts him.
WORM. Be not too certain of that! There is no folly too gross for
excited passion! You say that the baron has always looked upon
government with an eye of disapprobation. I can readily believe it. The
principles which he brought with him from college are ill-suited to our
atmosphere. What have the fantastic visions of personal nobility and
greatness of soul to do in court, where 'tis the perfection of wisdom to
be great and little by turns, as occasion demands? The baron is too
young and too fiery to take pleasure in the slow and crooked paths of
intrigue. That alone can give impulse to his ambition which seems
glorious and romantic!
WORM. Never fear, my lord, I will lead you back in safety! May I speak
without restraint?
WORM. Forgive me, then. It seems to me that you have to ascribe all
your influence as president to the courtly art of intrigue; why not
resort to the same means for attaining your ends as a father? I well
remember with what seeming frankness you invited your predecessor to a
game at piquet, and caroused half the night with him over bumpers of
Burgundy; and yet it was the same night on which the great mine you had
planned to annihilate him was to explode. Why did you make a public
exhibition of enmity to the major? You should by no means have let it
appear that you knew anything of his love affair. You should have made
the girl the object of your attacks and have preserved the affection of
your son; like the prudent general who does not engage the prime of the
enemy's force but creates disaffection among the ranks?
WORM. In the simplest manner--even now the game is not entirely lost!
Forget for a time that you are a father. Do not contend against a
passion which opposition only renders more formidable. Leave me to
hatch, from the heat of their own passions, the basilisk which shall
destroy them.
WORM. Now, then, I come to the point. But first explain to me how much
depends upon the major's compliance. How far is it of consequence that
the romance with the music-master's daughter should be brought to a
conclusion and the marriage with Lady Milford effected?
PRESIDENT. How can you ask me, Worm? If the match with Lady Milford is
broken off I stand a fair chance of losing my whole influence; on the
other hand, if I force the major's consent, of losing my head.
WORM (with animation). Now have the kindness to listen to me. The major
must be entangled in a web. Your whole power must be employed against
his mistress. We must make her write a love-letter, address it to a
third party, and contrive to drop it cleverly in the way of the major.
WORM. She must do so if you will but let me follow my own plan. I know
her gentle heart thoroughly; she has but two vulnerable sides by which
her conscience can be attacked; they are her father and the major. The
latter is entirely out of the question; we must, therefore, make the most
of the musician.
WORM. From the description your excellency gave me of what passed in his
house nothing can be easier than to terrify the father with the threat of
a criminal process. The person of his favorite, and of the keeper of the
seals, is in some degree the representative of the duke himself, and he
who offends the former is guilty of treason towards the latter. At any
rate I will engage with these pretences to conjure up such a phantom as
shall scare the poor devil out of his seven senses.
PRESIDENT. But recollect, Worm, the affair must not be carried so far as
to become serious.
WORM. Louisa loves her father--I might say even to adoration! The
danger which threatens his life, or at least his freedom--the reproaches
of her conscience for being the cause of his misfortunes--the
impossibility of ever becoming the major's wife--the confusion of her
brain, which I take upon myself to produce--all these considerations make
our plan certain of success. She must be caught in the snare.
WORM. Leave that to me, your excellency! The old folks shall not be set
at liberty till they and their daughter have taken the most solemn oath
to keep the whole transaction secret, and never to confess the deception.
WORM. None upon us, my lord, but the most binding upon people of their
stamp. Observe, how dexterously by this measure we shall both reach the
goal of our desires. The girl loses at once the affection of her lover,
and her good name; the parents will lower their tone, and, thoroughly
humbled by misfortune, will esteem it an act of mercy, if, by giving her
my hand, I re-establish their daughter's reputation.
WORM. It must necessarily be some one who has all to gain or all to lose
by your son's decision in this affair.
PRESIDENT. And why not? What a strange notion! A man who dresses in
the height of fashion--who carries with him an atmosphere of eau de mille
fleurs and musk--who can garnish every silly speech with a handful of
ducats--could all this possibly fail to overcome the delicacy of a
tradesman's daughter? No, no, my good friend, jealousy is not quite so
hard of belief. I shall send for the marshal immediately. (Rings.)
WORM. While your excellency takes care of him, and of the fiddler's
arrest, I will go and indite the aforesaid letter.
[Exit WORM.
See this arrest executed without a moment's delay, and let Marshal von
Kalb be informed that I wish to see him immediately.
PRESIDENT. So much the better--as for the arrest, let it be managed with
such precaution that no disturbance arise.
PRESIDENT. You understand me? The business must be kept quite secret.
[Exit SERVANT.
SCENE II.
PRESIDENT. Ask him yourself and you'll hear what he will answer.
PRESIDENT. That he will publish to the world the crime by which we rose
to power--that he will denounce our forged letters and receipts--that he
will send us both to the scaffold. That is what he can answer.
PRESIDENT. That might have blown over. But my spies have just brought
me notice that the grand cupbearer, von Bock, is on the point of offering
himself as a suitor to her ladyship.
MARSHAL. You drive me distracted! Whom did you say? Von Bock? Don't
you know that we are mortal enemies? And don't you know why?
MARSHAL. My dear count! You shall hear--your hair will stand on end!
You must remember the famous court ball--it is now just twenty years ago.
It was the first time that English country-dances were introduced--you
remember how the hot wax trickled from the great chandelier on Count
Meerschaum's blue and silver domino. Surely, you cannot have forgotten
that affair!
MARSHAL. Well, then, in the heat of the dance Princess Amelia lost her
garter. The whole ball, as you may imagine, was instantly thrown into
confusion. Von Bock and myself--we were then fellow-pages--crept through
the whole saloon in search of the garter. At length I discovered it.
Von Bock perceives my good-fortune--rushes forward--tears it from my
hands, and, just fancy--presents it to the princess, and so cheated me of
the honor I had so fortunately earned. What do you think of that?
MARSHAL. And is dumb! But till the day of judgment will I remember his
conduct--the mean, sneaking sycophant! And as if that were not
aggravation enough, he actually, as we were struggling on the ground for
the garter, rubbed all the powder from one side of my peruke with his
sleeve, and ruined me for the rest of the evening.
PRESIDENT. This is the man who will marry Lady Milford, and consequently
soon take the lead at court.
MARSHAL. You plunge a dagger in my heart! But why must he? Why should
he marry her? Why he? Where is the necessity?
PRESIDENT. I know but one means of accomplishing this, and that rests
entirely with you.
PRESIDENT. You must set Ferdinand and his mistress against each other.
MARSHAL. Against each other? How do you mean?--and how would that be
possible.
PRESIDENT. Pshaw!--he would never believe that! No, no--I mean that she
is carrying on an intrigue with another.
PRESIDENT. Yourself!
PRESIDENT. What will never do? Nonsense, man! Who in the name of
wonder would think of asking a pair of rosy cheeks for their owner's
pedigree?
MARSHAL. And what am I to do? It is very fine for you to talk thus!
You are a man of learning! But I--mon Dieu! What shall I be if his
highness dismisses me?
PRESIDENT. And drop the letter where the major cannot fail to find it.
PRESIDENT. And when the baron questions you will you assume the
character of a favored rival?
MARSHAL. Mort de ma vie! I'll teach him manners! I'll cure him of
interfering in my amours!
PRESIDENT. Good! Now you speak in the right key. The letter shall be
written immediately! Come in the evening to receive it, and we will talk
over the part you are to play.
MARSHAL. I will be with you the instant I have paid sixteen visits of
the very highest importance. Permit me, therefore, to take my leave
without delay. (Going.)
[Exit MARSHAL.
SCENE III.
WORM. The music-master and his wife have been arrested without the least
disturbance. Will your excellency read this letter?
LOUISA. Oh! cease! No more! I tremble to think what you would say.
LOUISA (very seriously). Cease, then, and leave me. I have a father who
possesses no treasure save one only daughter. To-morrow he will be sixty
years old--that he will fall a victim to the vengeance of the President
is most certain!
LOUISA. Resign you? Oh! horrible beyond all measure is the thought.
Horrible enough to pierce the immortal spirit and pale the glowing cheeks
of joy! Ferdinand! To resign you! Yet how can one resign what one
never possessed? Your heart is the property of your station. My claim
was sacrilege, and, shuddering, I withdraw it!
LOUISA. Nay! look upon me, dearest Ferdinand. Gnash not your teeth so
bitterly! Come, let my example rouse your slumbering courage. Let me be
the heroine of this moment. Let me restore to a father his lost son. I
will renounce a union which would sever the bonds by which society is
held together, and overthrow the landmarks of social order. I am the
criminal. My bosom has nourished proud and foolish wishes, and my
present misery is a just punishment. Oh! leave me then the sweet, the
consoling idea that mine is the sacrifice. Canst thou deny me this last
satisfaction? (FERDINAND, stupefied with agitation and anger, seizes a
violin and strikes a few notes upon it; and then tears away the strings,
dashes the instrument upon the ground, and, stamping it to pieces, bursts
into a loud laugh.) Walter! God in Heaven! What mean you? Be not thus
unmanned! This hour requires fortitude; it is the hour of separation!
You have a heart, dear Walter; I know that heart--warm as life is your
love--boundless and immeasurable--bestow it on one more noble, more
worthy--she need not envy the most fortunate of her sex! (Striving to
repress her tears.) You shall see me no more! Leave the vain
disappointed girl to bewail her sorrow in sad and lonely seclusion; where
her tears will flow unheeded. Dead and gone are all my hopes of
happiness in this world; yet still shall I inhale ever and anon the
perfumes of the faded wreath! (Giving him her trembling hand, while her
face is turned away.) Baron Walter, farewell!
LOUISA (who has retreated to the further end of the apartment, conceals
her countenance with her hands). My duty bids me stay, and suffer.
LOUISA (in a tone of the most heartfelt sorrow). Encourage that belief.
Haply it may make our parting more supportable.
FERDINAND. What? Oppose freezing duty to fiery love! And dost thou
think to cheat me with that delusion? Some rival detains thee here, and
woe be to thee and him should my suspicions be confirmed!
[Exit.
SCENE V.
LOUISA (she remains for some time motionless in the seat upon which she
has thrown herself. At length she rises, comes forward, and looks
timidly around). Where can my parents be? My father promised to return
in a few minutes; yet full five dreadful hours have passed since his
departure. Should any accident----good Heavens! What is come over me?
Why does my heart palpitate so violently? (Here WORM enters, and remains
standing unobserved in the background.) It can be nothing real. 'Tis
but the terrible delusion of my over-heated blood. When once the soul is
wrapped in terror the eye behold spectres in every shadow.
SCENE VI.
LOUISA. Quick, quick, for God's sake! Oh! my foreboding heart! Where
is my father!
LOUISA (with a look towards heaven). This, too! This, too! In prison,
said you? And why in prison?
WORM. Who thinking his own dignity offended by the insults offered to
the person of his representative----
LOUISA. This was still wanting! This! Yes, in truth. I now feel that
my heart does love another besides Ferdinand! That could not be allowed
to escape! The prince's dignity offended? Heavenly Providence! Save,
oh! save my sinking faith! (After a moment's pause, she turns to WORM.)
And Ferdinand?
WORM. Must choose between Lady Milford's hand and his father's curse and
disinheritance.
LOUISA. But not that which is yet to happen! (Another pause, during
which she surveys WORM from head to foot.) Unfortunate man! you
have entered on a melancholy employment, which can never lead you to
happiness. To cause misery to others is sad enough--but to be the
messenger of evil is horrible indeed--to be the first to shriek the
screech-owl's song, to stand by when the bleeding heart trembles upon
the iron shaft of necessity, and the Christian doubts the existence of a
God--Heaven protect me! Wert thou paid a ton of gold for every tear of
anguish which thou must witness, I would not be a wretch like thee! What
is there yet to happen?
LOUISA. Terrible man! Some hangman must have schooled thee! Else thou
hast not so well learned to prolong the torture of thy victim before
giving the finishing stroke to the agonized heart! Speak! What fate
awaits my father? Death thou canst announce with a laughing sneer--what
then must that be which thou dost hesitate to disclose? Speak out! Let
me at once receive the overwhelming weight of thy tidings! What fate
awaits my father?
LOUISA. To the duke. Do you not hear? Even to that very duke whose
will is to decide upon my father's life or death. Yet no?--'tis not his
will that decides, but the will of wicked men who surround his throne.
He lends naught to this process, save the shadow of his majesty, and his
royal signature.
LOUISA (stopping suddenly). What said you? Do you yourself advise the
step? (Returns hastily). What am I about to do? Something wicked
surely, since this man approves it--how know you that the prince will
grant my suit?
LOUISA. Not unrewarded? And what price does he set on his humanity?
WORM. And I trust that you will not think your father's life over-valued
when 'tis purchased at so gracious a price.
LOUISA (with great indignation). True, oh! true! The great are
entrenched from truth behind their own vices, safely as behind the swords
of cherubim. The Almighty protect thee, father! Your child can die--
but not sin for thee.
WORM. This will be agreeable news for the poor disconsolate old man.
"My Louisa," says he, "has bowed me down to the earth; but my Louisa will
raise me up again." I hasten to him with your answer. (Affects to be
about to depart.)
LOUISA (flies after him and holds him back). Stay! stay! one moment's
patience! How nimble this Satan is, when his business is to drive
humanity distracted! I have bowed him to the earth! I must raise him up
again! Speak to me! Counsel me! What can I, what must I do?
WORM. Suppose you were to release the major from his engagement?
LOUISA. Release him! Do you mock me? Do you call that a choice to
which force compelled me?
WORM. You mistake me, dear girl! The major must resign you willingly,
and be the first to retract his engagement.
WORM. So it appears. Should we, do you think, have had recourse to you
were it not that you alone are able to help us?
WORM. Be seated. Here are paper, pens, and ink. Write what I dictate.
LOUISA. Ah! How well thou knowest to torture souls to thy purpose.
(Takes a pen.)
WORM (dictating to her). "My dear Sir (LOUISA writes with a trembling
hand,) three days, three insupportable days, have already passed--already
passed--since last we met."
LOUISA (starts, and lays down her pen). To whom is the letter?
WORM. "But for this you must blame the major--the major--who watches me
all day with the vigilance of an Argus."
WORM (seizing his hat). As you please, miss! It rests entirely on your
own pleasure!
WORM. "The president was here yesterday. It was amusing to see how warm
the poor major was in defence of my honor."
WORM. "But the mask which I have worn so long is becoming insupportable
--insupportable. Oh! if I could but rid myself of him."
LOUISA (rises, and walks a few turns with her head bent down, as if she
sought something upon the floor: then returns to her place, and continues
to write). "Rid myself of him."
WORM. "To the usual place, to meet your devotedly attached Louisa."
WORM. Oh! Not so! Despair not, dear girl! You inspire me with the
most heartfelt pity! Perhaps--who knows? I might even now overlook
certain parts of your conduct--yes! Heaven is my witness, how deeply I
compassionate your sorrows!
LOUISA (giving him a piercing look). Do not explain yourself! You are
on the point of asking something more terrible than all.
WORM (attempting to kiss her hand). What if I asked this little hand?
Would that be terrible, Louisa?
LOUISA (with great indignation). Yes! for I should strangle you on the
bridal night: and for such a deed I would joyfully yield my body to be
torn on the rack! (She is going, but comes hurriedly back.) Is all
settled between us, sir? May the dove be released?
WORM. A trifle yet remains, maiden! You must swear, by the holy
sacrament, to acknowledge this letter for your free and voluntary act.
LOUISA. Oh God! Oh God! And wilt thou grant thine own seal to confirm
the works of hell? (WORM leads her away.)
ACT IV.
FERDINAND. Tell his honor, in the name of all the devils in hell, to
make his appearance this instant!
[Exit SERVANT.
SCENE II.
When I unfolded to her the dangers which threatened our affection, with
what convincing artifice did the false one turn pale! With what
overpowering dignity did she repulse my father's licentious scoffs! yet
at that very moment the deceiver was conscious of her guilt! Nay, did
she not even undergo the fiery ordeal of truth? Forsooth, the hypocrite
fainted! What must now be thy language, sensibility, since coquettes
faint? How wilt thou vindicate thyself, innocence?--for even strumpets
faint?
She knows her power over me--she has seen through my very heart! My soul
shone conspicuous in my eyes at the blush of her first kiss. And that
she should have felt nothing! or perhaps felt only the triumph of her
art; whilst my happy delirium fancied that in her I embraced a whole
heaven, my wildest wishes were hushed! No thought but of her and
eternity was present to my mind. Oh, God! and yet she felt nothing?
Nothing? but that her artifice had triumphed! That her charms were
flattered! Death and vengeance! Nothing, but that I was betrayed!
SCENE III.
MARSHAL (tripping into the room). I am told, my dear baron, that you
have expressed a wish----
MARSHAL. You?
FERDINAND. Read it, sir, read it! (Turning from him.) If I am not good
enough for a lover perhaps I may do for a pimp. (While the MARSHAL
reads, FERDINAND goes to the wall and takes down the pistols.)
KALB (throws the letter upon the table, and rushes off). Confusion!
FERDINAND (leads him back by the arm). Wait a little, my dear marshal!
The intelligence contained in that letter appears to be agreeable! The
finder must have his reward. (Showing him the pistols.)
MARSHAL (starts back in alarm). Have you lost your senses, baron?
FERDINAND (in a terrible voice). I have more than enough left to rid the
world of such a scoundrel as you! Choose one of these instantly! (He
forces a pistol into the MARSHAL'S hand, and then draws out his
handkerchief.) And now take the other end of this handkerchief! It was
given me by the strumpet herself!
MARSHAL. What, shoot over the handkerchief? Baron, are you mad? What
can you be thinking of?
FERDINAND. Lay hold of it, I say! or you will be sure to miss your aim,
coward! How the coward trembles! You should thank God, you pitiful
coward, that you have a chance for once of getting something in your
empty brain-box. (The MARSHAL takes to his heels.) Gently, gently!
I'll take care of that. (Overtakes him and bolts the door.)
MARSHAL (wiping his forehead). Yet consider, I entreat. Would you risk
your precious life, young and promising as you are, in this desperate
manner?
FERDINAND. Thou, wretch--thou? What hast thou to do, but to play the
stop-gap, where honest men keep aloof! To stretch or shrink seven times
in an instant, like the butterfly on a pin? To be privy registrar in
chief and clerk of the jordan? To be the cap-and-bell buffoon on which
your master sharpens his wit? Well, well, let it be so. I will carry you
about with me, as I would a marmot of rare training. You shall skip and
dance, like a tamed monkey, to the howling of the damned; fetch, carry,
and serve; and with your courtly arts enliven the wailings of everlasting
despair!
MARSHAL. Anything you please, dear major! Whatever you please! Only
take away the pistols!
FERDINAND. I will let him live! That toleration which spares the
caterpillar shall be extended to him! Men shall look on him in wonder,
and, shrugging their shoulders, admire the wise dispensation of
Providence, which can feed its creatures with husks and scourings; which
spreads the table for the raven on the gallows, and for the courtier in
the slime of majesty. We wonder at the wisdom of Providence, which even
in the world of spirits maintains its staff of venomous reptiles for the
dissemination of poison. (Relapsing into rage.) But such vermin shall
not pollute my rose; sooner will I crush it to atoms (seizing the MARSHAL
and shaking him roughly), thus--and thus--and thus----
MARSHAL. Oh! God, that I were away from here! hundreds of miles away in
the asylum for maniacs at Paris! Anywhere but near this man!
MARSHAL. Mon Dieu! My God! You mistake my words! Only listen for a
moment. When a father----
MARSHAL. You rave! You will not listen! I never saw her! I don't know
her! I know nothing at all about her!
FERDINAND (drawing back). You never saw her? You don't know her? Know
nothing at all about her? Louisa is lost to me forever on thy account,
and yet in one breath hast thou denied her thrice. Go, wretch, go (he
gives him a blow with the pistol, and thrusts him out of the chamber);
powder were thrown away on such a miscreant.
[Exit MARSHAL.
SCENE IV.
An eternity passed with her upon the rack of everlasting perdition! Her
melting eye-balls riveted on mine! Our blazing locks entwined together!
Our shrieks of agony dissolving into one! And then to renew to her my
vows of love, and chant unceasingly her broken oaths! God! God! The
union is dreadful--and eternal! (As he is about to rush off, the
PRESIDENT meets him.)
SCENE V.
FERDINAND (after gazing upon him for some time with a vacant stare). My
father! (Going to him with emotion, and grasping his hand.) My father!
(Kissing it, and falling at his feet.) Oh, father!
PRESIDENT. What is the matter? Rise, my son. Your hand burns and
trembles!
FERDINAND. This Louisa, dear father! Oh! You understand mankind! Your
anger was so just, so noble, so truly the zeal of a father! had not its
very earnestness led you to mistake the way. This Louisa!
FERDINAND (starting up). What? You, too? Father, even you? And is she
not, father, the very personification of innocence? And is it not so
natural to love this maiden?
LADY MILFORD. You have seen her then? Will she come?
LADY MILFORD. Leave me, Sophia! Pity me! I must blush if she is but an
ordinary woman--despair if she is more!
LADY MILFORD (to SOPHIA). Hence with you! Leave the room instantly!
(Imperiously, as the latter hesitates.) Must I repeat my orders?
(SOPHIA retires--LADY MILFORD takes a few turns hastily.) So; 'tis well
that I have been excited! I am in the fitter mood for this meeting. (To
the SERVANT.) Let her approach.
SCENE VII.
LADY MILFORD (turning towards LOUISA, and making a slight and distant
motion with her head.) Oh! Are you there? I presume the young lady--a
certain----. Pray what is your name?
LOUISA (with firmness and dignity). No, my lady--I despise the opinion
of the multitude!
LADY MILFORD (aside). Well, to be sure! She has learnt this boldness
from him. (To LOUISA.) You have been recommended to me, miss! I am
told that you have been decently educated, and are well disposed. I can
readily believe it; besides, I would not, for the world, doubt the word
of so warm an advocate.
LOUISA. And yet I remember no one, my lady, who would be at the trouble
to seek your ladyship's patronage for me!
LADY MILFORD (significantly). Does that imply my unworthiness, or your
humility?
LADY MILFORD. More cunning than I should have expected from that open
countenance. (To LOUISA.) Your name is Louisa, I believe? May I
inquire your age?
LADY MILFORD (starting up). Ha! There it is! Sixteen! The first
pulsation of love! The first sweet vibration upon the yet unsounded
harp! Nothing is more fascinating. (To LOUISA.) Be seated, lovely
girl--I am anxious about you. (To herself.) And he, too, loves for the
first time! What wonder, if the ruddy morning beams should meet and
blend? (To LOUISA, taking her hand affectionately.) 'Tis settled: I
will make your fortune. (To herself.) Oh! there is nothing in it:
nothing, but the sweet transient vision of youth! (To LOUISA, patting
her on the cheek.) My Sophy is on the point of leaving me to be married:
you shall have her place. But just sixteen? Oh! it can never last.
LADY MILFORD (relapsing into disdain and anger). Only hear the great
lady! Girls of your station generally think themselves fortunate to
obtain such promotion. What is your dependence, my dainty one? Are
these fingers too delicate for work?--or is it your pretty baby-face that
makes you give yourself these airs?
LADY MILFORD. Perhaps you believe that your beauty will last forever?
Poor creature! Whoever put that into your head--be he who he may--has
deceived both you and himself! The colors of those cheeks are not burnt
in with fire: what your mirror passes off upon you as solid and enduring
is but a slight tinselling, which, sooner or later, will rub off in the
hands of the purchaser. What then, will you do?
LADY MILFORD (affecting not to hear her). A damsel of your age has ever
two mirrors, the real one, and her admirer. The flattering complaisance
of the latter counterbalances the rough honesty of the former. What the
one proclaims frightful pock-marks, the other declares to be dimples that
would adorn the Graces. The credulous maid believes only so much of the
former as is confirmed by the latter, and hies from one to the other till
she confounds their testimonies, and concludes by fancying them to be
both of one opinion. Why do you stare at me so?
LOUISA. Pardon me, lady! I was just then pitying those gorgeous
sparkling brilliants, which are unconscious that their possessor is so
strenuous a foe to vanity.
LADY MILFORD (reddening). No evasion, miss. Were it not that you depend
upon personal attractions, what in the world could induce you to reject a
situation, the only one where you can acquire polish of manners and
divest yourself of your plebeian prejudices?
LOUISA (with calm dignity). And what if you do discover it? Suppose the
contemptuous trampling of your foot should rouse the injured worm, which
its Creator has furnished with a sting to protect it against misusage. I
fear not your vengeance, lady! The poor criminal extended on the rack
can look unappalled even on the dissolution of the world. My misery is
so exquisite that even sincerity cannot draw down upon me any further
infliction! (After a pause.) You say that you would raise me from the
obscurity of my station. I will not examine the motives of this
suspicious favor. I will only ask, what could induce you to think me so
foolish as to blush at my station? What could induce you to become the
architect of my happiness, before you knew whether I was willing to
receive that happiness at your hands? I had forever renounced all claims
upon the pleasures of the world. I had forgiven fortune that she had
dealt with me so niggardly. Ah! why do you remind me of all this. If
the Almighty himself hides his glory from the eyes of his creatures, lest
the highest seraph should be overwhelmed by a sense of his own
insignificance, why should mortals be so cruelly compassionate? Lady,
lady! why is your vaunted happiness so anxious to excite the envy and
wonder of the wretched? Does your bliss stand in need of the exhibition
of despair for entertainment? Oh! rather grant me that blindness which
alone can reconcile me to my barbarous lot! The insect feels itself as
happy in a drop of water as though that drop was a paradise: so happy,
and so contented! till some one tells it of a world of water, where
navies ride and whales disport themselves! But you wish to make me
happy, say you? (After a pause, she advances towards LADY MILFORD, and
asks her suddenly.) Are you happy, lady? (LADY MILFORD turns from her
hastily, and overpowered. LOUISA follows her, and lays her hand upon her
bosom.) Does this heart wear the smile of its station? Could we now
exchange breast for breast, and fate for fate--were I, in childlike
innocence, to ask you on your conscience--were I to ask you as a mother--
would you really counsel me to make the exchange?
LADY MILFORD (starting up). 'Tis not to be borne! Well, then, since I
cannot escape you, I know him--know everything--know more than I wish to
know! (Suddenly restraining herself, then continuing with a violence
which by degrees increases to frenzy.) But dare, unhappy one!--dare but
still to love, or be beloved by him! What did I say? Dare but to think
of him, or to be one of his thoughts! I am powerful, unhappy one!--
dreadful in my vengeance! As sure as there is a God in heaven thou art
lost forever!
LOUISA (undaunted). Past all redemption, my lady, the moment you succeed
in compelling him to love you!
LADY MILFORD. I understand you--but I care not for his love! I will
conquer this disgraceful passion. I will torture my own heart; but thine
will I crush to atoms! Rocks and chasms will I hurl between you. I will
rush, like a fury, into the heaven of your joys. My name shall affright
your loves as a spectre scares an assassin. That young and blooming form
in his embrace shall wither to a skeleton. I cannot be blest with him--
neither shalt thou. Know, wretched girl; that to blast the happiness of
others is in itself a happiness!
SCENE VIII.
LADY MILFORD. What was that? What preys so on my heart? What said the
unhappy one? Still, O heaven, the dreadful, damning words ring in my
ears! "Take him! Take him!" What should I take, unfortunate? the
bequest of your dying groan--the fearful legacy of your despair?
Gracious heaven! am I then fallen so low? Am I so suddenly hurled from
the towering throne of my pride that I greedily await what a beggar's
generosity may throw me in the last struggle of death? "Take him! Take
him!" And with what a tone was it uttered!--with what a look! What!
Amelia! is it for this thou hast overleaped the bounds of thy sex? For
this didst thou vaunt the glorious title of a free-born Briton, that thy
boasted edifice of honor might sink before the nobler soul of a despised
and lowly maiden? No, proud unfortunate! No! Amelia Milford may blush
for shame,--but shall never be despised. I, too, have courage to resign.
(She walks a few paces with a majestic gait.) Hide thyself, weak,
suffering woman! Hence, ye sweet and golden dreams of love! Magnanimity
alone be now my guide. These lovers are lost, or Amelia must withdraw
her claim, and renounce the prince's heart. (After a pause, with
animation.) It is determined! The dreadful obstacle is removed--broken
are the bonds which bound me to the duke--torn from my bosom this raging
passion. Virtue, into thy arms I throw myself. Receive thy repentant
daughter. Ha! how happy do I feel! How suddenly relieved my heart, and
how exalted! Glorious as the setting sun, will I this day descend from
the pinnacle of my greatness; my grandeur shall expire with my love, and
my own heart be the only sharer of my proud exile! (Going to her
writing-table with a determined air.) It must be done at once--now, on
the spot--before the recollection of Ferdinand renews the cruel conflict
in my bosom! (She seats herself, and begins to write).
SCENE IX.
LADY MILFORD, an ATTENDANT, SOPHIA, afterwards the MARSHAL,
and then SERVANTS.
LADY MILFORD (not hearing him in the eagerness of writing). How the
illustrious puppet will stare! The idea is singular enough, I own, the
presuming to astonish his serene numskull. In what confusion will his
court be thrown! The whole country will be in a ferment.
LADY MILFORD (turning round). Who? the marshal? So much the better!
Such creatures were designed by nature to carry the ass' panniers.
[Exit SERVANT.
LADY MILFORD (while she peruses hastily what she has written). He will
tax me with black ingratitude! "I was poor and forsaken! He raised me
from misery! From misery." Detestable exchange! Annul my bond,
seducer! The blush of my eternal shame repays my debt with interest.
LADY MILFORD (rising, with a laugh). One or the other, sweet sir. In
the meantime take this paper to your duke for his dessert. (To SOPHIA.)
Do you, Sophia, give directions to have my carriage brought to the door
without delay, and call my whole household together in this saloon.
LADY MILFORD. The greater the chance of my letting you into a little
truth. Rejoice, my Lord Marshal! There is a place vacant at court. A
fine time for panders. (As the MARSHAL throws a look of suspicion upon
the paper.) Read it, read it! 'Tis my desire that the contents should
be made public. (While he reads it, the domestics enter, and range
themselves in the background.)
MARSHAL (replaces the letter upon the table in terror). God forbid, my
dear and most excellent lady! The bearer of such a letter would be as
mad as the writer!
MARSHAL (who all this while has been gazing in vacant astonishment at the
letter). And must I be the person to put this letter into the most
august hands of his most serene highness?
LADY MILFORD. Pitiful creature, even thou! Thou must deliver into his
most august hands, and convey to his most august ears, that, as I cannot
go barefoot to Loretto, I will support myself by the labor of my hands,
that I may be purified from the disgrace of having condescended to rule
him. (She hurries off--the rest silently disperse.)
ACT V.
LOUISA, MILLER.
MILLER. She is not here either. No, she is not here! I have wandered
through every street; I have sought her with every acquaintance; I have
inquired at every door! No one has seen my child! (A silence of some
moments.) Patience, poor unhappy father! Patience till morning; then
perhaps the corpse of your only one may come floating to shore. Oh, God
in heaven! What though my heart has hung too idolatrously upon this
daughter, yet surely the punishment is severe! Heavenly Father! Surely
it is severe! I will not murmur, Heavenly Father; but the punishment is
indeed severe! (Throws himself sorrowfully into a chair.)
LOUISA (without moving from her seat). Thou dost well, wretched old man!
Learn betimes to lose.
MILLER (starts up eagerly). Ah! art thou there, my child? Art thou
there? But wherefore thus alone, and without a light?
LOUISA. Yet am I not alone. When all things around me are dark and
gloomy then have I the companionship which most I love.
MILLER. God defend thee, my child! The worm of conscience alone wakes
and watches with the owl; none shun the light but criminals and evil
spirits.
LOUISA (rises, and comes forward). I have fought a hard fight--you know
it, father! but God gave me the strength! The fight is over! Father,
our sex is called timid and weak; believe it no more! We tremble at a
spider, but the black monster, corruption, we hug to our arms in sport!
This for your edification, father. Your Louisa is merry.
LOUISA. How I will outwit him, father! How I shall cheat the tyrant!
Love is more crafty than malice, and bolder--he knew not that, the man of
the unlucky star! Oh! they are cunning so long as they have but to do
with the head; but when they have to grapple with the heart the villains
are at fault. He thought to seal his treachery with an oath! Oaths,
father, may bind the living, but death dissolves even the iron bonds of
the sacrament! Ferdinand will learn to know his Louisa. Father, will
you deliver this letter for me? Will you do me the kindness?
LOUISA. As you please, father! but you will not understand it. The
characters lie there like inanimate corpses, and live but for the eye of
love.
LOUISA. Don't you know it, father? Do you really not know it? 'Tis
strange! I have described it unmistakably! Ferdinand will not fail to
find it.
LOUISA. I can think of no pleasing name for it just now! You must not
be alarmed, father, if the name I give it has a terrible sound. That
place,----Oh! why has no lover invented a name for it! He would have
chosen the softest, the sweetest--that place, my dear father--but you
must not interrupt me--that place is--the grave!
LOUISA (hastens to him, and supports him). Nay, father, be not alarmed!
These are but terrors which hover round an empty word! Take away the
name and the grave will seem to be a bridal-bed over which Aurora spreads
her golden canopy and spring strews her fairest flowers. None but a
groaning sinner pictures death as a skeleton; to others he is a gentle,
smiling boy, blooming as the god of love, but not so false--a silent,
ministering spirit who guides the exhausted pilgrim through the desert of
eternity, unlocks for him the fairy palace of everlasting joy, invites
him in with friendly smiles, and vanishes forever!
MILLER. What meanest thou, my child? Surely, thou wilt not lay guilty
hands on thine own life?
MILLER. That is to say, you will repent the theft as soon as the
treasure is secure! Daughter! Daughter! beware how you mock your God
when you most need his help! Oh! you have gone far, far astray! You have
forgotten the worship of your Creator, and he has withdrawn his
protecting hand from you!
MILLER. So long as thou lovest God thou wilt never love man to idolatry.
Thou hast bowed me down low, my only one! low! very low! perhaps to the
grave! Yet will I not increase the sadness of thy heart. Daughter! I
gave vent to my feelings as I entered. I thought myself alone! Thou
hast overheard me! and why should I longer conceal the truth. Thou wert
my idol! Hear me, Louisa, if there is yet room in thy heart for a
father's feelings. Thou wert my all! Of thine own thou hast nothing
more to lose, but I have my all at stake! My life depends on thee! My
hairs are turning gray, Louisa; they show that the time is drawing nigh
with me when fathers look for a return of the capital invested in the
hearts of their children. Wilt thou defraud me of this, Louisa? Wilt
thou away and bear with thee all the wealth of thy father?
LOUISA (kissing his hand in the deepest emotion). No, father, no! I go
from this world deeply in your debt, and will repay you with usury in the
world to come.
LOUISA (following and detaining him). Stay! stay! Oh! father, father!--
to think that affection should wound more cruelly than a tyrant's rage!
What shall I?--I cannot!--what must I do?
MILLER. If thy lover's kisses burn hotter than thy father's tears--then
die!
LOUISA. But let us hasten from this place, my father! Let us fly from
the city, where my companions scoff at me, and my good name is lost
forever--let us away, far away, from a spot where every object tells of
my ruined happiness,--let us fly if it be possible!
MILLER. Whither thou wilt, my daughter! The bread of the Lord grows
everywhere, and He will grant ears to listen to my music. Yes! we will
fly and leave all behind. I will set the story of your sorrows to the
lute, and sing of the daughter who rent her own heart to preserve her
father's. We will beg with the ballad from door to door, and sweet will
be the alms bestowed by the hand of weeping sympathy!
SCENE II.
LOUISA (who perceives him first, throws herself shrieking into MILLER'S
arms). God! There he is! I am lost!
LOUISA (points, with averted face, to the MAJOR, and presses closer to
her father). 'Tis he! 'Tis he! himself! Look round, father, look
round!--he comes to murder me!
MILLER (perceives him and starts back). How, baron? You here?
FERDINAND (approaches slowly, stands opposite to LOUISA, and fixes a
stern and piercing look upon her. After a pause, he says). Stricken
conscience, I thank thee! Thy confession is dreadful, but swift and
true, and spares me the torment of an explanation! Good evening, Miller!
MILLER. For God's sake! baron, what seek you? What brings you hither?
What means this surprise?
FERDINAND. I knew a time when the day was divided into seconds, when
eagerness for my presence hung upon the weights of the tardy clock, and
when every pulse-throb was counted until the moment of my coming. How is
it that I now surprise?
MILLER. Oh, leave us, leave us, baron! If but one spark of humanity
still linger in your bosom;--if you seek not utterly to destroy her whom
you profess to love, fly from this house, stay not one moment longer.
The blessing of God deserted us when your foot first crossed its
threshold. You have brought misery under a roof where all before was joy
and happiness. Are you not yet content? Do you seek to deepen the wound
which your fatal passion has planted in the heart of my only child?
MILLER. Perchance fresh hopes, to add to her despair. Away, away, thou
messenger of ill! Thy looks belie thy words.
MILLER. Dost thou hear him, my child? Dost thou hear him mock at thy
cheated hopes? Oh, truly, baron! It is so worthy of the deceiver to
make a jest of his own crime!
MILLER (not observing this). What can this mean, baron? I do not
understand you.
MILLER (throws himself on his knees beside her). Oh, God! my child!
MILLER. Back! Away, boy! Trifle not with a father's feelings. I could
not defend her from your caresses, but I can from your insults.
FERDINAND. What wouldst thou, old man? With thee I have naught to do.
Engage not in a game so irrevocably lost. Or hast thou, too, been wiser
than I thought? Hast thou employed the wisdom of thy sixty years in
pandering to thy daughter's amours, and disgraced those hoary locks with
the office of a pimp? Oh! if it be not so, wretched old man, then lay
thyself down and die. There is still time. Thou mayest breathe by last
in the sweet delusion, "I was a happy father!" Wait but a moment longer
and thine own hand will dash to her infernal home this poisonous viper;
thou wilt curse the gift, and him who gave it, and sink to the grave in
blasphemy and despair. (To LOUISA.) Speak, wretched one, speak! Didst
thou write this letter?
MILLER (to LOUISA, impressively). For God's sake, daughter, forget not!
forget not!
FERDINAND. Oh! that it should have fallen into the wrong hands. Now
blessed be the accident! It has effected more than the most consummate
prudence, and will at the day of judgment avail more than the united
wisdom of sages. Accident, did I say? Oh! Providence directs, when a
sparrow falls, why not when a devil is unmasked? But I will be answered!
Didst thou write that letter?
FERDINAND (stands aghast). No! As my soul liveth, thou hast lied. Even
innocence itself, when extended on the rack, confesses crime which it
never committed--I ask too passionately. Is it not so, Louisa? Thou
didst but confess, because I asked passionately?
FERDINAND. No, I tell thee! No! no! Thou didst not write that letter!
It is not like thy hand! And, even though it were, why should it be more
difficult to counterfeit a writing than to undo a heart? Tell me truly,
Louisa! Yet no, no, do not! Thou mightest say yes again, and then I
were lost forever. A lie, Louisa! A lie! Oh! if thou didst but know
one now--if thou wouldst utter it with that open angelic mien--if thou
wouldst but persuade mine ear and eye, though it should deceive my heart
ever so monstrously! Oh, Louisa! Then might truth depart in the same
breath--depart from our creation, and the sacred cause itself henceforth
bow her stiff neck to the courtly arts of deception.
LOUISA. By the Almighty God! by Him who is so terrible and true! I did!
FERDINAND. 'Tis well! 'tis well! You see I am calm; calm, too, they
say, is the shuddering land through which the plague has swept. I am
calm. Yet ere I go, Louisa, one more request! It shall be my last. My
brain burns with fever! I need refreshment! Will you make me some
lemonade?
[Exit LOUISA.
SCENE III.
MILLER. How, baron? Don't you remember? You came to take lessons on
the flute.
MILLER (warmly). I have no other, baron, and I wish for no other. That
child is my only solace in this world, and on her have I embarked my
whole stock of affection.
FERDINAND (much agitated). Ha! Pray see for the drink, good Miller!
[Exit MILLER.
SCENE IV.
FERDINAND alone.
FERDINAND. His only child! Dost thou feel that, murderer? His only
one! Murderer, didst thou hear, his only one? The man has nothing in
God's wide world but his instrument and that only daughter! And wilt
thou rob him of her?
Rob him? Rob a beggar of his last pittance? Break the lame man's
crutch, and cast the fragments at his feet? How? Have I the heart to do
this? And when he hastens home, impatient to reckon in his daughter's
smiles the whole sum of his happiness; and when he enters the chamber,
and there lies the rose--withered--dead--crushed--his last, his only, his
sustaining hope. Ha! And when he stands before her, and all nature
looks on in breathless horror, while his vacant eye wanders hopelessly
through the gloom of futurity, and seeks God, but finds him nowhere, and
then returns disappointed and despairing! Great God! and has not my
father, too, an only son? an only child, but not his only treasure.
(After a pause.) Yet stay! What will the old man lose? She who could
wantonly jest with the most sacred feelings of love, will she make a
father happy? She cannot! She will not! And I deserve thanks for
crushing this viper ere the parent feels its sting.
SCENE V.
MILLER. You shall be served instantly, baron! The poor thing is sitting
without, weeping as though her heart would break! Your drink will be
mingled with her tears.
FERDINAND. 'Twere well for her were it only with tears! We were
speaking of my lessons, Miller. (Taking out a purse.) I remember that I
am still in your debt.
MILLER. How? What? Go along with you, baron! What do you take me for?
There is time enough for payment. Do not put such an affront on me; we
are not together for the last time, please God.
FERDINAND. Who can tell? Take your money. It is for life or death.
MILLER (laughing). Oh! for the matter of that, baron! As regards that I
don't think I should run much risk with you!
FERDINAND. You would run the greatest. Have you never heard that youths
have died. That damsels and youths have died, the children of hope, the
airy castles of their disappointed parents? What is safe from age and
worms has often perished by a thunderbolt. Even your Louisa is not
immortal.
FERDINAND. Hear me! I say to you your Louisa is not immortal. That
daughter is the apple of your eye; you hang upon her with your whole
heart and soul. Be prudent, Miller! None but a desperate gamester
stakes his all upon a single cast. The merchant would be called a madman
who embarked his whole fortune in one ship. Think upon this, and
remember that I warned you. But why do you not take your money?
MILLER. How, baron, how? All that enormous purse? What can you be
thinking of?
MILLER (astonished). Mercy on us! what is this? The sound was not of
silver! (Goes to the table and cries out in astonishment.) In heaven's
name, baron, what means this? What are you about? You must be out of
your mind! (Clasping his hands.) There it lies! or I am bewitched.
'Tis damnable! I feel it now; the beauteous, shining, glorious heap of
gold! No, Satan, thou shalt not catch my soul with this!
MILLER. Let me implore you, baron! In the name of all the saints in
heaven, I entreat you! It is gold!
FERDINAND (moved). Make yourself quite easy, dear Miller! You have well
earned the money. God forbid that I should use it to the corruption of
your conscience!
MILLER (jumping about like a madman). It is mine, then! Mine indeed!
Mine with the knowledge and consent of God! (Hastening to the door.)
Daughter, wife, hurrah, come hither! (Returning.) But, for heaven's
sake, how have I all at once deserved this awful treasure? How am I to
earn it? How repay it, eh?
FERDINAND. Not by your music lessons, Miller! With this gold do I pay
you for (stops suddenly, and shudders)--I pay you--(after a pause, with
emotion)--for my three months' unhappy dream of your daughter!
MILLER (still fixing his eyes in transport on the money). Mine, then, it
remains? Mine? Yet it grieves me that you are going to leave us. Only
just wait a little and you shall see how I'll come out! I'll hold up my
head with the best of them. (Puts on his hat with an air, and struts up
and down the room.) I'll give my lessons in the great concert-room, and
won't I smoke away at the best puyke varinas--and, when you catch me
again fiddling at the penny-hop, may the devil take me!
MILLER (still more vehemently grasping his hand, full of inward joy).
And my daughter, baron! my daughter! (Letting go.) No, no! Money does
not make the man--whether I feed on vegetables or on partridges, enough
is enough, and this coat will do very well as long as the sunbeams don't
peep in at the elbows. To me money is mere dross. But my girl shall
benefit by the blessing; whatever wish I can read in her eyes shall be
gratified.
MILLER (still more warmly). And she shall learn to speak French like a
born native, and to dance minuets, and to sing, so that people shall read
of her in the newspapers; and she shall wear a cap like the judge's
daughter, and a kidebarri [meaning, no doubt, Cul de Paris, a bustle], as
they call it; and the fiddler's daughter shall be talked of for twenty
miles round.
SCENE VI.
FERDINAND (takes the glass, places it on the table, and turns to MILLER).
Oh! I had almost forgotten! Good Miller, I have a request to make. Will
you do me a little favor?
FERDINAND. Not himself. Give your message to one of the servants in the
ante-chamber. Here is my watch as a credential that I sent you. I shall
be here when you return. You will wait for an answer.
MILLER. It is night, my child! and you must not venture out alone!
[Exit.
FERDINAND. Light your father down, Louisa. (LOUISA takes a candle and
follows MILLER. FERDINAND in the meantime approaches the table and
throws poison into the lemonade). Yes! she must die! The higher powers
look down, and nod their terrible assent. The vengeance of heaven
subscribes to my decree. Her good angels forsake her, and leave her to
her fate!
SCENE VII.
LOUISA. You owe me a revenge at chess. Will you play a game with me,
Baron von Walter? (Another pause.)
LOUISA. It is not my fault, Baron von Walter, that you are so badly
entertained!
FERDINAND (with an insulting laugh). You are not to blame for my bashful
modesty----
FERDINAND. Yes, pray do so! And I too will go and invite some of mine.
LOUISA. Oh, heavens! 'Twas not without reason that I dreaded this
meeting.
[LOUISA, offended, takes the glass and drinks. The moment she
raises the cup to her lips, FERDINAND turns away with a sudden
paleness, and recedes to the further corner of the chamber.]
FERDINAND (his face averted and shuddering.) Much good may it do thee!
LOUISA (sets down the glass). Oh! could you but know, Walter, how
cruelly you wrong me!
FERDINAND. Indeed!
LOUISA. When the remembrance of this evening will lie heavy on your
heart!
FERDINAND (begins to walk to and fro more vehemently, and to become more
agitated; he throws away his sash and sword.) Farewell the prince's
service!
LOUISA (rushing into his arms with the deepest expression of love). That
to thy Louisa, Ferdinand?
FERDINAND (thrusting her from him). Away! away! Hence with those soft
and melting eyes! they subdue me. Come to me, snake, in all thy
monstrous terrors! Spring upon me, scorpion! Display thy hideous folds,
and rear thy proud coils to heaven! Stand before my eyes, hateful as the
abyss of hell e'er saw thee! but not in that angel form! Take any shape
but that! 'Tis too late. I must crush thee like a viper, or despair!
Mercy on thy soul!
FERDINAND. And that soft, melodious voice! How can broken chords
discourse such harmony? (Gazing rapturously upon her figure.) All so
lovely! so full of symmetry! so divinely perfect! Throughout the whole
such signs that 'twas the favorite work of God! By heaven, as though all
mankind had been created but to practise the Creator, ere he modelled
this his masterpiece! And that the Almighty should have failed in the
soul alone? Is it possible that this monstrous abortion of nature should
have escaped as perfect? (Quitting her hastily.) Or did God see an
angel's form rising beneath his chisel, and balance the error by giving
her a heart wicked in proportion?
LOUISA. Alas for this criminal wilfulness! Rather than confess his own
rashness, he accuses the wisdom of heaven!
FERDINAND (falls upon her neck, weeping bitterly). Yet once more, my
Louisa! Yet once again, as on the day of our first kiss, when you
faltered forth the name of Ferdinand, and the first endearing "Thou!"
trembled on thy burning lips. Oh! a harvest of endless and unutterable
joys seemed to me at that moment to be budding forth. There lay eternity
like a bright May-day before our eyes; thousands of golden years, fair as
brides, danced around our souls. Then was I so happy! Oh! Louisa!
Louisa! Louisa! Why hast thou used me thus?
LOUISA. Weep, Walter, weep! Your compassion will be more just towards
me than your wrath.
FERDINAND. You deceive yourself. These are not nature's tears! not that
warm delicious dew which flows like balsam on the wounded soul, and
drives the chilled current of feeling swiftly along its course. They are
solitary ice-cold drops! the awful, eternal farewell of my love! (With
fearful solemnity, laying his hand on her head.) They are tears for thy
soul, Louisa! tears for the Deity, whose inexhaustible beneficence has
here missed its aim, and whose noblest work is cast away thus wantonly.
Oh methinks the whole universe should clothe itself in black, and weep at
the fearful example now passing in its centre. 'Tis but a common sorrow
when mortals fall and Paradise is lost; but, when the plague extends its
ravages to angels, then should there be wailing throughout the whole
creation!
FERDINAND (in violent agitation). No! no! That revenge were too
satanic! No! God forbid! I will not extend my anger beyond the grave!
Louisa, didst thou love the marshal? Thou wilt leave this room no more!
LOUISA (sitting down). Ask what you will. I shall give no answer.
FERDINAND (in a solemn voice). Take heed for thy immortal soul! Louisa!
Didst thou love the marshal? Thou wilt leave this room no more!
LOUISA (starting from her seat in terror). Merciful Jesus! what was
that? And I feel so ill! (She falls back into her chair.)
FERDINAND. Ay, be that thy chief concern: I will join thee in that
prayer.
LOUISA. Thou too, Ferdinand? Poison, Ferdinand! From thee! Oh! God
forgive him! God of mercy, lay not this crime on him!
FERDINAND (terrified). Ah! What do I hear? Would she rush into the
presence of her Maker with a lie on her lips?
LOUISA. I lie not! I do not lie! In my whole life I never lied but
once! Ugh! what an icy shivering creeps through my veins! When I wrote
that letter to the marshal.
LOUISA (her voice every moment becomes more indistinct. Her fingers
tremble with a convulsive motion). That letter. Prepare yourself for a
terrible disclosure! My hand wrote what my heart abhorred. It was
dictated by your father! (Ferdinand stands like a statue petrified with
horror. After a long silence, he falls upon the floor as if struck by
lightning.) Oh! that sorrowful act!----Ferdinand--I was compelled--
forgive me--thy Louisa would have preferred death--but my father--his
life in danger! They were so crafty in their villany.
SCENE VIII.
FERDINAND, the PRESIDENT, WORM, and SERVANTS, who all rush in alarm
into the room. Afterwards MILLER, with a crowd, and OFFICERS of
justice, who assemble in the background.
PRESIDENT (an open letter in his hand). My son! what means this? I
never can believe----
PRESIDENT (looking round the circle with rolling eyes). Is there no one
here who weeps for a despairing father?
MILLER (calling behind the scenes). Let me in! For God's sake, let
me in!
MILLER (in the most dreadful alarm). My child! My child! Poison, they
cry--poison has been here! My daughter! Where art thou?
PRESIDENT (extending his arms convulsively towards heaven). Not from me,
Judge of the world. Ask not these souls from me, but from him!
(Pointing to WORM.)
PRESIDENT. Accursed villain, from thee! From thee, Satan! Thou gavest
the serpent's counsel! thine be the responsibility; their blood be not on
my head, but on thine!
MILLER (who has lain upon LOUISA'S corpse in silent anguish, starts
suddenly up, and throws the purse before the MAJOR'S feet.) Poisoner,
take back thy accursed gold! Didst thou think to purchase my child with
it? (Rushes distractedly out of the chamber.)
PRESIDENT (recovering from his stupor). Ferdinand! my son! Not one last
look for a despairing father? (FERDINAND is laid by the side of LOUISA.)
PRESIDENT (falling down before him in the most dreadful agony). The
Creator and the created abandon me! Not one last look to cheer me in the
hour of death! (FERDINAND stretches out his trembling hand to him, and
expires.)
PRESIDENT (springing up). He forgave me! (To the OFFICERS.) Now, lead
on, sirs! I am your prisoner.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
SCENE I.
SON.
Father, I fear it will come to harm,
So let us be off from this soldier swarm;
But boist'rous mates will ye find in the shoal--
'Twere better to bolt while our skins are whole.
FATHER.
How now, boy! the fellows wont eat us, though
They may be a little unruly, or so.
See, yonder, arriving a stranger train,
Fresh comers are they from the Saal and Mayne;
Much booty they bring of the rarest sort--
'Tis ours, if we cleverly drive our sport.
A captain, who fell by his comrade's sword,
This pair of sure dice to me transferred;
To-day I'll just give them a trial to see
If their knack's as good as it used to be.
You must play the part of a pitiful devil,
For these roaring rogues, who so loosely revel,
Are easily smoothed, and tricked, and flattered,
And, free as it came, their gold is scattered.
But we--since by bushels our all is taken,
By spoonfuls must ladle it back again;
And, if with their swords they slash so highly,
We must look sharp, boy, and do them slyly.
SON.
From the kitchen a couple are coming this way,
Not much shall we make by such blades as they.
FATHER.
They're born Bohemian knaves--the two--
Belonging to Terzky's carabineers,
Who've lain in these quarters now for years;
The worst are they of the worthless crew.
Strutting, swaggering, proud and vain,
They seem to think they may well disdain
With the peasant a glass of his wine to drain
But, soft--to the left o' the fire I see
Three riflemen, who from the Tyrol should be
Emmerick, come, boy, to them will we.
Birds of this feather 'tis luck to find,
Whose trim's so spruce, and their purse well lined.
SCENE II.
TRUMPETER.
What would the boor? Out, rascal, away!
PEASANT.
Some victuals and drink, worthy masters, I pray,
For not a warm morsel we've tasted to day.
TRUMPETER.
Ay, guzzle and guttle--'tis always the way.
TRUMPETER.
Why, the duchess arrives to-day, we know,
And her daughter too--
SERGEANT.
Tush! that's mere show--
'Tis the troops collected from other lands
Who here at Pilsen have joined our bands--
We must do the best we can t' allure 'em,
With plentiful rations, and thus secure 'em.
Where such abundant fare they find,
A closer league with us to bind.
TRUMPETER.
Yes!--there's something in the wind.
SERGEANT.
The generals and commanders too--
TRUMPETER.
A rather ominous sight, 'tis true.
SERGEANT.
Who're met together so thickly here--
TRUMPETER.
Have plenty of work on their hands, that's clear.
SERGEANT.
The whispering and sending to and fro--
TRUMPETER.
Ay! Ay!
SERGEANT.
The big-wig from Vienna, I trow,
Who since yesterday's seen to prowl about
In his golden chain of office there--
Something's at the bottom of this, I'll swear.
TRUMPETER.
A bloodhound is he beyond a doubt,
By whom the duke's to be hunted out.
SERGEANT.
Mark ye well, man!--they doubt us now,
And they fear the duke's mysterious brow;
He hath clomb too high for them, and fain
Would they beat him down from his perch again.
TRUMPETER.
But we will hold him still on high--
That all would think as you and I!
SERGEANT.
Our regiment, and the other four
Which Terzky leads--the bravest corps
Throughout the camp, are the General's own,
And have been trained to the trade by himself alone
The officers hold their command of him,
And are all his own, or for life or limb.
SCENE III.
SHARPSHOOTER.
Croat, where stole you that necklace, say?
Get rid of it man--for thee 'tis unmeet:
Come, take these pistols in change, I pray.
CROAT.
Nay, nay, Master Shooter, you're trying to cheat.
SHARPSHOOTER.
Then I'll give you this fine blue cap as well,
A lottery prize which just I've won:
Look at the cut of it--quite the swell!
TRUMPETER.
See, now!--how cleanly the Croat is done
Snacks! Master Shooter, and mum's the word.
SERGEANT.
Art thou, indeed, in such hasty fret?
Why the roads, as I think, are scarce passable yet.
ARTILLERYMAN.
For me they are not--I'm snug enough here--
But a courier's come, our wits to waken
With the precious news that Ratisbon's taken.
TRUMPETER.
Ha! then we soon shall have work in hand.
SERGEANT.
Indeed! to protect the Bavarian's land,
Who hates the duke, as we understand,
We won't put ourselves in a violent sweat.
ARTILLERYMAN.
Heyday!--you'll find you're a wiseacre yet.
SCENE V.
FIRST YAGER.
See! see!
Here meet we a jovial company!
TRUMPETER.
Who can these greencoats be, I wonder,
That strut so gay and sprucely yonder!
SERGEANT.
They're the Yagers of Holk--and the lace they wear,
I'll be sworn, was ne'er purchased at Leipzig fair.
FIRST YAGER.
Zounds, how now?
Gustel of Blasewitz here, I vow!
SUTLER-WOMAN.
The same in sooth--and you I know,
Are the lanky Peter of Itzeho:
Who at Glueckstadt once, in revelling night,
With the wags of our regiment, put to flight
All his father's shiners--then crowned the fun--
FIRST YAGER.
By changing his pen for a rifle-gun.
SUTLER-WOMAN.
We're old acquaintance, then, 'tis clear.
FIRST YAGER.
And to think we should meet in Bohemia here!
SUTLER-WOMAN.
Oh, here to-day--to-morrow yonder--
As the rude war-broom, in restless trace,
Scatters and sweeps us from place to place.
Meanwhile I've been doomed far round to wander.
FIRST YAGER.
So one would think, by the look of your face.
SUTLER-WOMAN.
Up the country I've rambled to Temsewar,
Whither I went with the baggage-car,
When Mansfeld before us we chased away;
With the duke near Stralsund next we lay,
Where trade went all to pot, I may say.
I jogged with the succors to Mantua;
And back again came, under Feria:
Then, joining a Spanish regiment,
I took a short cut across to Ghent;
And now to Bohemia I'm come to get
Old scores paid off, that are standing yet,
If a helping hand by the duke be lent--
And yonder you see my sutler's tent.
FIRST YAGER.
Well, all things seem in a flourishing way,
But what have you done with the Scotchman, say,
Who once in the camp was your constant flame?
SUTLER-WOMAN.
A villain, who tricked me clean, that same
He bolted, and took to himself whate'er
I'd managed to scrape together, or spare,
Leaving me naught but the urchin there.
FIRST YAGER.
Well, the emperor now must father this elf,
For the army must ever recruit itself.
SCHOOLMASTER.
Forth to the school, ye rogue--d'ye hear?
FIRST YAGER.
He, too, of a narrow room has fear.
SUTLER-WOMAN.
I come apace.
FIRST YAGER.
What gypsy is that with the roguish face?
SUTLER-WOMAN.
My sister's child from the south, is she.
FIRST YAGER.
Ay, ay, a sweet little niece--I see.
GIRL.
The customers wait, sir, and I must go.
[Disengages herself, and exit.
FIRST YAGER.
That maiden's a dainty morsel, I trow!
And her aunt--by heaven! I mind me well,--
When the best of the regiment loved her so,
To blows for her beautiful face they fell.
What different folks one's doomed to know!
How time glows off with a ceaseless flow!
And what sights as yet we may live to see!
(To the Sergeant and Trumpeter.)
Your health, good sirs, may we be free,
A seat beside you here to take?
SCENE VI.
SERGEANT.
We thank ye--and room will gladly make.
To Bohemia welcome.
FIRST YAGER.
Snug enough here!
In the land of the foe our quarters were queer.
TRUMPETER.
You haven't the look on't--you're spruce to view.
SERGEANT.
Ay, faith, on the Saal, and in Meissen, too,
Your praises are heard from the lips of few.
SECOND YAGER.
Tush, man! why, what the plague d'ye mean?
The Croat had swept the fields so clean,
There was little or nothing for us to glean.
TRUMPETER.
Yet your pointed collar is clean and sightly,
And, then, your hose that sit so tightly!
Your linen so fine, with the hat and feather,
Make a show of smartness altogether!
(To Sergeant.)
That fortune should upon younkers shine--
While nothing in your way comes, or mine.
SERGEANT.
But then we're the Friedlander's regiment
And, thus, may honor and homage claim.
FIRST YAGER.
For us, now, that's no great compliment,
We, also, bear the Friedlander's name.
SERGEANT.
True--you form part of the general mass.
FIRST YAGER.
And you, I suppose, are a separate class!
The difference lies in the coats we wear,
And I have no wish to change with you there.
SERGEANT.
Sir Yager, I can't but with pity melt,
When I think how much among boors you've dwelt.
The clever knack and the proper tone,
Are caught by the general's side alone.
FIRST YAGER.
Then the lesson is wofully thrown away,--
How he hawks and spits, indeed, I may say
You've copied and caught in the cleverest way;
But his spirit, his genius--oh, these I ween,
On your guard parade are but seldom seen.
SECOND YAGER.
Why, zounds! ask for us wherever you will,
Friedland's wild hunt is our title still!
Never shaming the name, all undaunted we go
Alike through the field of a friend, or a foe;
Through the rising stalk, or the yellow corn,
Well know they the blast of Holk's Yager horn.
In the flash of an eye, we are far or near,
Swift as the deluge, or there or here--
As at midnight dark, when the flames outbreak
In the silent dwelling where none awake;
Vain is the hope in weapons or flight,
Nor order nor discipline thwart its might.
Then struggles the maid in our sinewy arms,
But war hath no pity, and scorns alarms.
Go, ask--I speak not with boastful tongue--
In Bareuth, Westphalia, Voigtland, where'er
Our troops have traversed--go, ask them there--
Children and children's children long,
When hundreds and hundreds of years are o'er,
Of Holk will tell and his Yager corps.
SERGEANT.
Why, hark! Must a soldier then be made
By driving this riotous, roaring trade!
'Tis drilling that makes him, skill and sense--
Perception--thought--intelligence.
FIRST YAGER.
'Tis liberty makes him! Here's a fuss!
That I should such twaddle as this discuss.
Was it for this that I left the school?
That the scribbling desk, and the slavish rule,
And the narrow walls, that our spirits cramp,
Should be met with again in the midst of the camp?
No! Idle and heedless, I'll take my way,
Hunting for novelty every day;
Trust to the moment with dauntless mind,
And give not a glance or before or behind.
For this to the emperor I sold my hide,
That no other care I might have to bide.
Through the foe's fierce firing bid me ride,
Through fathomless Rhine, in his roaring flow,
Where ev'ry third man to the devil may go,
At no bar will you find me boggling there;
But, farther than this, 'tis my special prayer,
That I may not be bothered with aught like care.
SERGEANT.
If this be your wish, you needn't lack it,
'Tis granted to all with the soldier's jacket.
FIRST YAGER.
What a fuss and a bother, forsooth, was made
By that man-tormentor, Gustavus, the Swede,
Whose camp was a church, where prayers were said
At morning reveille and evening tattoo;
And, whenever it chanced that we frisky grew,
A sermon himself from the saddle he'd read.
SERGEANT.
Ay, that was a man with the fear of God.
FIRST YAGER.
Girls he detested; and what's rather odd,
If caught with a wench you in wedlock were tacked,--
I could stand it no longer, so off I packed.
SERGEANT.
Their discipline now has a trifle slacked.
FIRST YAGER.
Well, next to the League I rode over; their men
Were mustering in haste against Magdeburg then.
Ha! that was another guess sort of a thing!
In frolic and fun we'd a glorious swing;
With gaming, and drinking, and girls at call,
I'faith, sirs, our sport was by no means small.
For Tilly knew how to command, that's plain;
He held himself in but gave us the rein;
And, long as he hadn't the bother of paying,
"Live and let live!" was the general's saying.
But fortune soon gave him the slip; and ne'er
Since the day of that villanous Leipzig affair
Would aught go aright. 'Twas of little avail
That we tried, for our plans were sure to fail.
If now we drew nigh and rapped at the door,
No greeting awaited, 'twas opened no more;
From place to place we went sneaking about,
And found that their stock of respect was out;
Then touched I the Saxon bounty, and thought
Their service with fortune must needs be fraught.
SERGEANT.
You joined them then just in the nick to share
Bohemia's plunder?
FIRST YAGER.
I'd small luck there.
Strict discipline sternly ruled the day,
Nor dared we a foeman's force display;
They set us to guard the imperial forts,
And plagued us all with the farce of the courts.
War they waged as a jest 'twere thought--
And but half a heart to the business brought,
They would break with none; and thus 'twas plain
Small honor among them could a soldier gain.
So heartily sick in the end grew I
That my mind was the desk again to try;
When suddenly, rattling near and far,
The Friedlander's drum was heard to war.
SERGEANT.
And how long here may you mean to stay?
FIRST YAGER.
You jest, man. So long as he bears the sway,
By my soul! not a thought of change have I;
Where better than here could the soldier lie?
Here the true fashion of war is found,
And the cut of power's on all things round;
While the spirit whereby the movement's given
Mightily stirs, like the winds of heaven,
The meanest trooper in all the throng.
With a hearty step shall I tramp along
On a burgher's neck as undaunted tread
As our general does on the prince's head.
As 'twas in the times of old 'tis now,
The sword is the sceptre, and all must bow.
One crime alone can I understand,
And that's to oppose the word of command.
What's not forbidden to do make bold,
And none will ask you what creed you hold.
Of just two things in this world I wot,
What belongs to the army and what does not,
To the banner alone is my service brought.
SERGEANT.
Thus, Yager, I like thee--thou speakest, I vow,
With the tone of a Friedland trooper now.
FIRST YAGER.
'Tis not as an office he holds command,
Or a power received from the emperor's hand;
For the emperor's service what should he care,
What better for him does the emperor fare?
With the mighty power he wields at will,
Has ever he sheltered the land from ill?
No; a soldier-kingdom he seeks to raise,
And for this would set the world in a blaze,
Daring to risk and to compass all--
TRUMPETER.
Hush--who shall such words as these let fall?
FIRST YAGER.
Whatever I think may be said by me,
For the general tells us the word is free.
SERGEANT.
True--that he said so I fully agree,
I was standing by. "The word is free--
The deed is dumb--obedience blind!"
His very words I can call to mind.
FIRST YAGER.
I know not if these were his words or no,
But he said the thing, and 'tis even so.
SECOND YAGER.
Victory ne'er will his flag forsake,
Though she's apt from others a turn to take:
Old Tilly outlived his fame's decline,
But under the banner of Wallenstein,
There am I certain that victory's mine!
Fortune is spell-bound to him, and must yield;
Whoe'er under Friedland shall take the field
Is sure of a supernatural shield:
For, as all the world is aware full well,
The duke has a devil in hire from hell.
SERGEANT.
In truth that he's charmed is past a doubt,
For we know how, at Luetzen's bloody affair,
Where firing was thickest he still was there,
As coolly as might be, sirs, riding about.
The hat on his head was shot thro' and thro',
In coat and boots the bullets that flew
Left traces full clear to all men's view;
But none got so far as to scratch off his skin,
For the ointment of hell was too well rubbed in.
FIRST YAGER.
What wonders so strange can you all see there?
An elk-skin jacket he happens to wear,
And through it the bullets can make no way.
SERGEANT.
'Tis an ointment of witches' herbs, I say,
Kneaded and cooked by unholy spell.
TRUMPETER.
No doubt 'tis the work of the powers of hell.
SERGEANT.
That he reads in the stars we also hear,
Where the future he sees--distant or near--
But I know better the truth of the case
A little gray man, at the dead of night,
Through bolted doors to him will pace--
The sentinels oft have hailed the sight,
And something great was sure to be nigh,
When this little gray-coat had glided by.
FIRST YAGER.
Ay, ay, he's sold himself to the devil,
Wherefore, my lads, let's feast and revel.
SCENE VII.
RECRUIT.
To father and uncle pray make my bow,
And bid 'em good-by--I'm a soldier now.
FIRST YAGER.
See, yonder they're bringing us something new,
CITIZEN.
Oh, Franz, remember, this day you'll rue.
RECRUIT (sings).
The drum and the fife,
War's rattling throng,
And a wandering life
The world along!
Swift steed--and a hand
To curb and command--
With a blade by the side,
We're off far and wide.
As jolly and free,
As the finch in its glee,
On thicket or tree,
Under heaven's wide hollow--
Hurrah! for the Friedlander's banner I'll follow!
SECOND YAGER.
Foregad! a jolly companion, though.
CITIZEN.
He comes of good kin; now pray let him go.
FIRST YAGER.
And we wern't found in the streets you must know.
CITIZEN.
I tell you his wealth is a plentiful stock;
Just feel the fine stuff that he wears for a frock.
TRUMPETER.
The emperor's coat is the best he can wear.
CITIZEN.
To a cap manufactory he is the heir.
SECOND YAGER.
The will of a man is his fortune alone.
CITIZEN.
His grandmother's shop will soon be his own.
FIRST YAGER.
Pish! traffic in matches! who would do't?
CITIZEN.
A wine-shop his grandfather leaves, to boot,
A cellar with twenty casks of wine.
TRUMPETER.
These with his comrades he'll surely share.
SECOND YAGER.
Hark ye, lad--be a camp-brother of mine.
CITIZEN.
A bride he leaves sitting, in tears, apart.
FIRST YAGER.
Good--that now's a proof of an iron heart.
CITIZEN.
His grandmother's sure to die with sorrow.
SECOND YAGER.
The better--for then he'll inherit to-morrow.
SERGEANT (advances gravely, and lays his hand on the
Recruit's tin cap).
The matter no doubt you have duly weighed,
And here a new man of yourself have made;
With hanger and helm, sir, you now belong
To a nobler and more distinguished throng.
Thus, a loftier spirit 'twere well to uphold--
FIRST YAGER.
And, specially, never be sparing of gold.
SERGEANT.
In Fortune's ship, with an onward gale,
My, friend, you have made up your mind to sail.
The earth-ball is open before you--yet there
Naught's to be gained, but by those who dare.
Stupid and sluggish your citizen's found,
Like a dyer's dull jade, in his ceaseless round,
While the soldier can be whatever he will,
For war o'er the earth is the watchword still.
Just look now at me, and the coat I wear,
You see that the emperor's baton I bear--
And all good government, over the earth,
You must know from the baton alone has birth;
For the sceptre that's swayed by the kingly hand
Is naught but a baton, we understand.
And he who has corporal's rank obtained,
Stands on the ladder where all's to be gained,
And you, like another, may mount to that height--
FIRST YAGER.
Provided you can but read and write.
SERGEANT.
Now, hark to an instance of this from me,
And one, which I've lived myself to see
There's Butler, the chief of dragoons, why he,
Whose rank was not higher a whit than mine,
Some thirty years since, at Cologne on Rhine,
Is a major-general now--because
He put himself forward and gained applause;
Filling the world with his martial fame,
While slept my merits without a name.
And even the Friedlander's self--I've heard--
Our general and all-commanding lord,
Who now can do what he will at a word,
Had at first but a private squire's degree;
In the goddess of war yet trusting free,
He reared the greatness which now you see,
And, after the emperor, next is he.
Who knows what more he may mean or get?
(Slyly.)
For all-day's evening isn't come yet.
FIRST YAGER.
He was little at first, though now so great--
For at Altorf, in student's gown he played
By your leave, the part of a roaring blade,
And rattled away at a queerish rate.
His fag he had well nigh killed by a blow,
And their Nur'mburg worships swore he should go
To jail for his pains--if he liked it or no.
'Twas a new-built nest to be christened by him
Who first should be lodged. Well, what was his whim?
Why, he sent his dog forward to lead the way,
And they call the jail from the dog to this day.
That was the game a brave fellow should play,
And of all the great deeds of the general, none
E'er tickled my fancy, like this one.
SECOND YAGER.
Why, who the devil shall say me nay!
DRAGOON.
I've only to tell you the girl's my own.
FIRST YAGER.
Such a morsel as this, for himself alone!--
Dragoon, why say, art thou crazy grown?
SECOND YAGER.
In the camp to be keeping a wench for one!
No! the light of a pretty girl's face must fall,
Like the beams of the sun, to gladden us all.
(Kisses her.)
DRAGOON (tears her away).
I tell you again, that it shan't be done.
FIRST YAGER.
The pipers are coming, lads! now for fun!
SERGEANT.
Peace, my good fellows!--a kiss goes free.
SCENE VIII.
CAPUCHIN.
Hurrah! halloo! tol, lol, de rol, le!
The fun's at its height! I'll not be away!
Is't an army of Christians that join in such works?
Or are we all turned Anabaptists and Turks?
Is the Sabbath a day for this sport in the land,
As though the great God had the gout in his hand,
And thus couldn't smite in the midst of your band?
Say, is this a time for your revelling shouts,
For your banquetings, feasts, and holiday bouts?
Quid hic statis otiosi? declare
Why, folding your arms, stand ye lazily there?
While the furies of war on the Danube now fare
And Bavaria's bulwark is lying full low,
And Ratisbon's fast in the clutch of the foe.
Yet, the army lies here in Bohemia still,
And caring for naught, so their paunches they fill!
Bottles far rather than battles you'll get,
And your bills than your broad-swords more readily wet;
With the wenches, I ween, is your dearest concern,
And you'd rather roast oxen than Oxenstiern.
In sackcloth and ashes while Christendom's grieving,
No thought has the soldier his guzzle of leaving.
'Tis a time of misery, groans, and tears!
Portentous the face of the heavens appears!
And forth from the clouds behold blood-red,
The Lord's war-mantle is downward spread--
While the comet is thrust as a threatening rod,
From the window of heaven by the hand of God.
The world is but one vast house of woe,
The ark of the church stems a bloody flow,
The Holy Empire--God help the same!
Has wretchedly sunk to a hollow name.
The Rhine's gay stream has a gory gleam,
The cloister's nests are robbed by roysters;
The church-lands now are changed to lurch-lands;
Abbacies, and all other holy foundations
Now are but robber-sees--rogues' habitations.
And thus is each once-blest German state,
Deep sunk in the gloom of the desolate!
Whence comes all this? Oh, that will I tell--
It comes of your doings, of sin, and of hell;
Of the horrible, heathenish lives ye lead,
Soldiers and officers, all of a breed.
For sin is the magnet, on every hand,
That draws your steel throughout the land!
As the onion causes the tear to flow,
So vice must ever be followed by woe--
The W duly succeeds the V,
This is the order of A, B, C.
Ubi erit victoriae spes,
Si offenditur Deus? which says,
How, pray ye, shall victory e'er come to pass,
If thus you play truant from sermon and mass,
And do nothing but lazily loll o'er the glass?
The woman, we're told in the Testament,
Found the penny in search whereof she went.
Saul met with his father's asses again,
And Joseph his precious fraternal train,
But he, who 'mong soldiers shall hope to see
God's fear, or shame, or discipline--he
From his toil, beyond doubt, will baffled return,
Though a hundred lamps in the search he burn.
To the wilderness preacher, th' Evangelist says,
The soldiers, too, thronged to repent of their ways,
And had themselves christened in former days.
Quid faciemus nos? they said:
Toward Abraham's bosom what path must we tread?
Et ait illis, and, said he,
Neminem concutiatis;
From bother and wrongs leave your neighbors free.
Neque calumniam faciatis;
And deal nor in slander nor lies, d'ye see?
Contenti estote--content ye, pray,
Stipendiis vestris--with your pay--
And curse forever each evil way.
There is a command--thou shalt not utter
The name of the Lord thy God in vain;
But, where is it men most blasphemies mutter?
Why here, in Duke Friedland's headquarters, 'tie plain
If for every thunder, and every blast,
Which blazing ye from your tongue-points cast,
The bells were but rung, in the country round,
Not a bellman, I ween, would there soon be found;
And if for each and every unholy prayer
Which to vent from your jabbering jaws you dare,
From your noddles were plucked but the smallest hair,
Ev'ry crop would be smoothed ere the sun went down,
Though at morn 'twere as bushy as Absalom's crown.
Now, Joshua, methinks, was a soldier as well--
By the arm of King David the Philistine fell;
But where do we find it written, I pray,
That they ever blasphemed in this villanous way?
One would think ye need stretch your jaws no more,
To cry, "God help us!" than "Zounds!" to roar.
But, by the liquor that's poured in the cask, we know
With what it will bubble and overflow.
Again, it is written--thou shalt not steal,
And this you follow, i'faith! to the letter,
For open-faced robbery suits ye better.
The gripe of your vulture claws you fix
On all--and your wiles and rascally tricks
Make the gold unhid in our coffers now,
And the calf unsafe while yet in the cow--
Ye take both the egg and the hen, I vow.
Contenti estote--the preacher said;
Which means--be content with your army bread.
But how should the slaves not from duty swerve?
The mischief begins with the lord they serve,
Just like the members so is the head.
I should like to know who can tell me his creed.
FIRST YAGER.
Sir priest, 'gainst ourselves rail on as you will--
Of the general we warn you to breathe no ill.
CAPUCHIN.
Ne custodias gregem meam!
An Ahab is he, and a Jerobeam,
Who the people from faith's unerring way,
To the worship of idols would turn astray,
CAPUCHIN.
Such a Bramarbas, whose iron tooth
Would seize all the strongholds of earth forsooth!
Did he not boast, with ungodly tongue,
That Stralsund must needs to his grasp be wrung,
Though to heaven itself with a chain 'twere strung?
TRUMPETER.
Will none put a stop to his slanderous bawl?
CAPUCHIN.
A wizard he is!--and a sorcerer Saul!--
Holofernes!--a Jehu!--denying, we know,
Like St. Peter, his Master and Lord below;
And hence must he quail when the cock doth crow--
BOTH YAGERS.
Now, parson, prepare; for thy doom is nigh.
CAPUCHIN.
A fox more cunning than Herod, I trow--
CROATS (interfering.)
Stick to it, father; we'll shield you, ne'er fear;
The close of your preachment now let's hear.
SCENE IX.
FIRST YAGER.
He's one and the same with the lion in that.
SERGEANT.
Mouse-still must all around him creep,
Strict watch in this the sentinels keep,
For he ponders on matters most grave and deep.
[Voices in the tent. A tumult.
Seize the rascal! Lay on! lay on!
PEASANT'S VOICE.
Help!--mercy--help!
OTHERS.
Peace! peace! begone!
FIRST YAGER.
Deuce take me, but yonder the swords are out!
SECOND YAGER.
Then I must be off, and see what 'tis about.
TRUMPETER.
Good hostess, the cause of this clamorous grief?
SUTLER-WOMAN.
A cut-purse! a scoundrel! the-villain I call.
That the like in my tent should ever befall!
I'm disgraced and undone with the officers all.
SERGEANT.
Well, coz, what is it?
SUTLER-WOMAN.
Why, what should it be?
But a peasant they've taken just now with me--
A rogue with false dice, to favor his play.
TRUMPETER.
See I they're bringing the boor and his son this way.
SCENE X.
Soldiers dragging in the peasant, bound.
FIRST YAGER.
He must hang!
SERGEANT.
'Tis the latest order that forth has gone.
SUTLER-WOMAN.
In an hour I hope to behold him swinging!
SERGEANT.
Bad work bad wages will needs be bringing.
TRUMPETER.
How now! the rascal's cause would you plead?
The cur! the devil is in you indeed!
FIRST ARQUEBUSIER.
The boor is a man--as a body may say.
SCENE XI.
The above.--Cuirassiers.
FIRST CUIRASSIER.
Peace! what's amiss with the boor, may I crave?
FIRST SHARPSHOOTER.
He has cheated at play, the cozening knave!
FIRST CUIRASSIER.
But say, has he cheated you, man, of aught?
FIRST SHARPHOOTER.
Just cleaned me out--and not left me a groat.
FIRST CUIRASSIER.
And can you, who've the rank of a Friedland man,
So shamefully cast yourself away,
As to try your luck with the boor at play?
Let him run off, so that run he can.
[The peasant escapes, the others throng together.
FIRST ARQUEBUSIER.
He makes short work--is of resolute mood--
And that with such fellows as these is good.
Who is he? not of Bohemia, that's clear.
SUTLER-WOMAN.
He's a Walloon--and respect, I trow,
Is due to the Pappenheim cuirassier!
FIRST ARQUEBUSIER.
Durst they, indeed, presume so far?
FIRST DRAGOON.
This regiment is something above the rest.
It has ever been foremost through the war,
And may manage its laws, as it pleases best;
Besides, 'tis by Friedland himself caressed.
SECOND CUIRASSIER.
From the lips of the colonel himself I heard it.
FIRST CUIRASSIER.
The devil! we're not their dogs, I weep!
FIRST YAGER.
How now, what's wrong? You're swollen with spleen!
SECOND YAGER.
Is it anything, comrades, may us concern?
FIRST CUIRASSIER.
'Tis what none need be wondrous glad to learn.
SUTLER-WOMAN.
What! What! again the old wandering way--
I got back from Flanders but yesterday!
FIRST CUIRASSIER.
And we, the Walloons, must doubtless be gone.
SUTLER-WOMAN.
Why, of all our squadrons these are the best.
FIRST CUIRASSIER.
To march where that Milanese fellow leads on.
FIRST YAGER.
The infant? that's queer enough in its way.
SECOND YAGER.
The priest--then, egad! there's the devil to pay.
FIRST CUIRASSIER.
Shall we then leave the Friedlander's train,
Who so nobly his soldiers doth entertain--
And drag to the field with this fellow from Spain!
A niggard whom we in our souls disdain!
That'll never go down--I'm off, I swear.
TRUMPETER.
Why, what the devil should we do there?
We sold our blood to the emperor--ne'er
For this Spanish red hat a drop we'll spare!
SECOND YAGER.
On the Friedlander's word and credit alone
We ranged ourselves in the trooper line,
And, but for our love to Wallenstein,
Ferdinand ne'er had our service known.
FIRST DRAGOON.
Was it not Friedland that formed our force?
His fortune shall still be the star of our course.
SERGEANT.
Silence, good comrades, to me give ear--
Talking does little to help us here.
Much farther in this I can see than you all,
And a trap has been laid in which we're to fall;
FIRST YAGER.
List to the order-book! hush--be still!
SERGEANT.
But first, Cousin Gustel, I pray thee fill
A glass of Melneck, as my stomach's but weak
When I've tossed it off, my mind I'll speak.
SUTLER-WOMAN.
Take it, good sergeant. I quake for fear--
Think you that mischief is hidden here?
SERGEANT.
Look ye, my friends, 'tis fit and clear
That each should consider what's most near.
But as the general says, say I,
One should always the whole of a case descry.
We call ourselves all the Friedlander's troops;
The burgher, on whom we're billeted, stoops
Our wants to supply, and cooks our soups.
His ox, or his horse, the peasant must chain
To our baggage-car, and may grumble in vain.
Just let a lance-corp'ral, with seven good men,
Tow'rd a village from far but come within ken,
You're sure he'll be prince of the place, and may
Cut what capers he will, with unquestioned sway.
Why, zounds! lads, they heartily hate us all--
And would rather the devil should give them a call,
Than our yellow collars. And why don't they fall
On us fairly at once and get rid of our lumber?
They're more than our match in point of number,
And carry the cudgel as we do the sword.
Why can we laugh them to scorn? By my word
Because we make up here a terrible horde.
FIRST YAGER.
Ay, ay, in the mass lies the spell of our might,
And the Friedlander judged the matter aright,
When, some eight or nine years ago, he brought
The emperor's army together. They thought
Twelve thousand enough for the general. In vain,
Said he, such a force I can never maintain.
Sixty thousand I'll bring ye into the plain,
And they, I'll be sworn, won't of hunger die,
And thus were we Wallenstein's men, say I.
SERGEANT.
For example, cut one of my fingers off,
This little one here from my right hand doff.
Is the taking my finger then all you've done?
No, no, to the devil my hand is gone!
'Tis a stump--no more--and use has none.
The eight thousand horse they wish to disband
May be but a finger of our army's hand.
But when they're once gone may we understand
We are but one-fifth the less? Oh, no--
By the Lord, the whole to the devil will go!
All terror, respect, and awe will be over,
And the peasant will swell his crest once more;
And the Board of Vienna will order us where
Our troops must be quartered and how we must fare,
As of old in the days of their beggarly care.
Yes, and how long it will be who can say
Ere the general himself they may take away?
For they don't much like him at court I learn?
And then it's all up with the whole concern!
For who, to our pay, will be left to aid us?
And see that they keep the promise they made us?
Who has the energy--who the mind--
The flashing thought--and the fearless hand--
Together to bring, and thus fastly bind
The fragments that form our close-knit band.
For example, dragoon--just answer us now,
From which of the countries of earth art thou?
DRAGOON.
From distant Erin came I here.
FIRST CUIRASSIER.
Who I may be, faith! I never could say;
In my infant years they stole me away.
SERGEANT.
And you, from what far land may you be?
FIRST ARQUEBUSIER.
I come from Buchau--on the Feder Sea.
SERGEANT.
Neighbor, and you?
SECOND ARQUEBUSIER.
I am a Swiss.
SECOND YAGER.
Up above Wismar my fathers dwell.
FIRST YAGER.
In my life it ne'er was a thought of mine
Whether we suited each other or not,
I let myself go with the rest of the lot.
FIRST CUIRASSIER.
I quite agree in the sergeant's opinion--
They'd fain have an end of our camp dominion,
And trample the soldier down, that they
May govern alone in their own good way.
'Tis a conspiration--a plot, I say!
SUTLER-WOMAN.
A conspiration--God help the day!
Then my customers won't have cash to pay.
SERGEANT.
Why, faith, we shall all be bankrupts made;
The captains and generals, most of them, paid
The costs of the regiments with private cash,
And, wishing, 'bove all, to cut a dash,
Went a little beyond their means--but thought,
No doubt, that they thus had a bargain bought.
Now they'll be cheated, sirs, one and all,
Should our chief, our head, the general fall.
SUTLER-WOMAN.
Oh, Heaven! this curse I never can brook
Why, half of the army stand in my book.
Two hundred dollars I've trusted madly
That Count Isolani who pays so badly.
FIRST CUIRASSIER.
Well, comrades, let's fix on what's to be done--
Of the ways to save us, I see but one;
If we hold together we need not fear;
So let us stand out as one man here;
And then they may order and send as they will,
Fast planted we'll stick in Bohemia still.
We'll never give in--no, nor march an inch,
We stand on our honor, and must not flinch.
SECOND YAGER.
We're not to be driven the country about,
Let 'em come here, and they'll find it out.
FIRST ARQUEBUSIER.
Good sirs, 'twere well to bethink ye still,
That such is the emperor's sovereign will.
TRUMPETER.
Oh, as to the emperor, we needn't be nice.
FIRST ARQUEBUSIER.
Let me not hear you say so twice.
TRUMPETER.
Why, 'tis even so--as I just have said.
FIRST YAGER.
True, man--I've always heard 'em say,
'Tis Friedland, alone, you've here to obey.
SERGEANT.
By our bargain with him it should be so,
Absolute power is his, you must know,
We've war, or peace, but as he may please,
Or gold or goods he has power to seize,
And hanging or pardon his will decrees.
Captains and colonels he makes--and he,
In short, by the imperial seal is free,
To hold all the marks of sovereignty.
FIRST ARQUEBUSIER.
The duke is high and of mighty will,
But yet must remain, for good or for ill,
Like us all, but the emperor's servant still.
SERGEANT.
Not like us all--I there disagree--
Friedland is quite independent and free,
The Bavarian is no more a prince than he
For, was I not by myself to see,
When on duty at Brandeis, how the emperor said,
He wished him to cover his princely head.
FIRST ARQUEBUSIER.
That was because of the Mecklenburgh land,
Which he held in pawn from the emperor's hand.
SUTLER-WOMAN.
Oh! that is a Wallenstein's, sure!
SERGEANT-MAJOR.
Well, there, you have it--what doubt can rest
Is he not prince, just as good as the best?
Coins he not money like Ferdinand?
Hath he not his own subjects and land?
Is he not called your highness, I pray?
And why should he not have his soldiers in?
FIRST ARQUEBUSIER.
That no one has ever meant to gainsay;
But we're still at the emperor's beck and call,
For his majesty 'tis who pays us all.
TRUMPETER.
In your teeth I deny it--and will again--
His majesty 'tis who pays us not,
For this forty weeks, say, what have we got
But a promise to pay, believed in vain?
FIRST ARQUEBUSIER.
What then! 'tis kept in safe hands, I suppose.
FIRST CUIRASSIER.
Peace, good sirs, will you come to blows?
Have you a quarrel and squabble to know
If the emperor be our master or no?
'Tis because of our rank, as his soldiers brave,
That we scorn the lot of the herded slave;
And will not be driven from place to place,
As priest or puppies our path may trace.
And, tell me, is't not the sovereign's gain,
If the soldiers their dignity will maintain?
Who but his soldiers give him the state
Of a mighty, wide-ruling potentate?
Make and preserve for him, far and near,
The voice which Christendom quakes to hear?
Well enough they may his yoke-chain bear,
Who feast on his favors, and daily share,
In golden chambers, his sumptuous fare.
We--we of his splendors have no part,
Naught but hard wearying toil and care,
And the pride that lives in a soldier's heart.
SECOND YAGER.
All great tyrants and kings have shown
Their wit, as I take it, in what they've done;
They've trampled all others with stern command,
But the soldier they've led with a gentle hand.
FIRST CUIRASSIER.
The soldier his worth must understand;
Whoe'er doesn't nobly drive the trade,
'Twere best from the business far he'd stayed.
If I cheerily set my life on a throw,
Something still better than life I'll know;
Or I'll stand to be slain for the paltry pelf,
As the Croat still does--and scorn myself.
BOTH PAGERS.
Yes--honor is dearer than life itself.
FIRST CUIRASSIER.
The sword is no plough, nor delving tool,
He, who would till with it, is but a fool.
For us, neither grass nor grain doth grow,
Houseless the soldier is doomed to go,
A changeful wanderer over the earth,
Ne'er knowing the warmth of a home-lit hearth.
The city glances--he halts--not there--
Nor in village meadows, so green and fair;
The vintage and harvest wreath are twined
He sees, but must leave them far behind.
Then, tell me, what hath the soldier left,
If he's once of his self-esteem bereft?
Something he must have his own to call,
Or on slaughter and burnings at once he'll fall.
FIRST ARQUEBUSIER.
God knows, 'tis a wretched life to live!
FIRST CUIRASSIER.
Yet one, which I, for no other would give,
Look ye--far round in the world I've been,
And all of its different service seen.
The Venetian Republic--the Kings of Spain
And Naples I've served, and served in vain.
Fortune still frowned--and merchant and knight,
Craftsmen and Jesuit, have met my sight;
Yet, of all their jackets, not one have I known
To please me like this steel coat of my own.
FIRST ARQUEBUSIER.
Well--that now is what I can scarcely say.
FIRST CUIRASSIER.
In the world, a man who would make his way,
Must plague and bestir himself night and day.
To honor and place if he choose the road,
He must bend his back to the golden load.
And if home-delights should his fancy please,
With children and grandchildren round his knees,
Let him follow an honest trade in peace.
I've no taste for this kind of life--not I!
Free will I live, and as freely die.
No man's spoiler nor heir will I be--
But, throned on my nag, I will smile to see
The coil of the crowd that is under me.
FIRST YAGER.
Bravo!--that's as I've always done.
FIRST ARQUEBUSIER.
In truth, sirs, it may be far better fun
To trample thus over your neighbor's crown.
FIRST CUIRASSIER.
Comrade, the times are bad of late--
The sword and the scales live separate.
But do not then blame that I've preferred,
Of the two, to lean, as I have, to the sword.
For mercy in war I will yield to none,
Though I never will stoop to be drummed upon.
FIRST ARQUEBUSIER.
Who but the soldier the blame should bear
That the laboring poor so hardly fare?
The war with its plagues, which all have blasted
Now sixteen years in the land hath lasted.
FIRST CUIRASSIER.
Why, brother, the blessed God above
Can't have from us all an equal love.
One prays for the sun, at which t'other will fret
One is for dry weather-t'other for wet.
What you, now, regard as with misery rife,
Is to me the unclouded sun of life.
If 'tis at the cost of the burgher and boor,
I really am sorry that they must endure;
But how can I help it? Here, you must know,
'Tis just like a cavalry charge 'gainst the foe:
The steeds loud snorting, and on they go!
Whoever may lie in the mid-career--
Be it my brother or son so dear,
Should his dying groan my heart divide,
Yet over his body I needs must ride,
Nor pitying stop to drag him aside.
FIRST YAGER.
True--who ever asks how another may bide?
FIRST CUIRASSIER.
Thus, my lads, 'tis my counsel, while
On the soldier Dame Fortune deigns to smile,
That we with both hands her bounty clasp,
For it may not be much longer left to our grasp.
Peace will be coming some over-night,
And then there's an end of our martial might.
The soldier unhorsed, and fresh mounted to boor,
Ere you can think it 'twill be as before.
As yet we're together firm bound in the land,
The hilt is yet fast in the soldier's hand.
But let 'em divide us, and soon we shall find,
Short commons is all that remains behind.
FIRST YAGER.
No, no, by the Lord! That won't do for me.
Come, come, lads, let's all now, as one, agree.
SECOND YAGER.
Yes, let us resolve on what 'tis to be.
FIRST ARQUEBUSIER (To the Sutler-woman, drawing out his leather purse).
Hostess, tell us how high you've scored.
SUTLER-WOMAN.
Oh, 'tis unworthy a single word.
[They settle.
TRUMPETER.
You do well, sirs, to take a further walk,
Your company only disturbs our talk.
[Exeunt Arquebusiers.
FIRST CUIRASSIER.
Plague take the fellows--they're brave, I know.
FIRST YAGER.
They haven't a soul 'bove a soapboiler's, though.
SECOND YAGER.
We're now alone, so teach us who can
How best we may meet and mar their plan.
TRUMPETER.
How? Why, let's tell them we will not go!
FIRST CUIRASSIER.
Despising all discipline! No, my lads, no,
Rather his corps let each of us seek,
And quietly then with his comrades speak,
That every soldier may clearly know,
It were not for his good so far to go;
For my Walloons to answer I'm free,
Every man of 'em thinks and acts with me.
SERGEANT.
The Terzky regiments, both horse and foot,
Will thus resolve, and will keep them to't.
FIRST YAGER.
Freedom is Yagers' own element.
SECOND YAGER.
Freedom must ever with might entwine--
I live and will die by Wallenstein.
FIRST SHARPSHOOTER.
The Lorrainers go on with the strongest tide,
Where spirits are light and courage tried.
DRAGOON.
An Irishman follows his fortune's star.
SECOND SHARPSHOOTER.
The Tyrolese for their sovereign war.
FIRST CUIRASSIER.
Then, comrades, let each of our corps agree
A pro memoria to sign--that we,
In spite of all force or fraud, will be
To the fortunes of Friedland firmly bound,
For in him is the soldier's father found.
This we will humbly present, when done,
To Piccolomini--I mean the son--
Who understands these kind of affairs,
And the Friedlander's highest favor shares;
Besides, with the emperor's self, they say
He holds a capital card to play.
SECOND YAGER.
Well, then, in this, let us all agree,
That the colonel shall our spokesman be!
ALL (going).
Good! the colonel shall our spokesman be.
SERGEANT.
Hold, sirs--just toss off a glass with me
To the health of Piccolomini.
BOTH YAGERS.
The peasant shall pay
[The soldiers from the background have come forward during the singing
of this verse and form the chorus.
CHORUS.
DRAGOON.
CHORUS.
FIRST YAGER.
CHORUS.
SERGEANT.
CHORUS.
FIRST YAGER.
CHORUS.
SECOND CUIRASSIER.
CHORUS.
FIRST YAGER.
He takes the two next to him by the hand--the others do the same--and
form a large semi-circle.
CHORUS.
THE PICCOLOMINI,
Translated by S. T. Coleridge.
"Upon the whole there can be no doubt that this trilogy forms, in its
original tongue, one of the most splendid specimens of tragic art the
world has witnessed; and none at all, that the execution of the version
from which we have quoted so largely, places Mr. Coleridge in the very
first rank of poetical translators. He is, perhaps, the solitary example
of a man of very great original genius submitting to all the labors, and
reaping all the honors of this species of literary exertion."--Blackwood,
1823.
PREFACE.
The admirers of Schiller, who have abstracted their idea of that author
from the Robbers, and the Cabal and Love, plays in which the main
interest is produced by the excitement of curiosity, and in which the
curiosity is excited by terrible and extraordinary incident, will not
have perused without some portion of disappointment the dramas, which it
has been my employment to translate. They should, however, reflect that
these are historical dramas taken from a popular German history; that we
must, therefore, judge of them in some measure with the feelings of
Germans; or, by analogy, with the interest excited in us by similar
dramas in our own language. Few, I trust, would be rash or ignorant
enough to compare Schiller with Shakspeare; yet, merely as illustration,
I would say that we should proceed to the perusal of Wallenstein, not
from Lear or Othello, but from Richard II., or the three parts of Henry
VI. We scarcely expect rapidity in an historical drama; and many prolix
speeches are pardoned from characters whose names and actions have formed
the most amusing tales of our early life. On the other hand, there exist
in these plays more individual beauties, more passages whose excellence
will bear reflection than in the former productions of Schiller. The
description of the Astrological Tower, and the reflections of the Young
Lover, which follow it, form in the original a fine poem; and my
translation must have been wretched indeed if it can have wholly
overclouded the beauties of the scene in the first act of the first play
between Questenberg, Max, and Octavio Piccolomini. If we except the
scene of the setting sun in the Robbers, I know of no part in Schiller's
plays which equals the first scene of the fifth act of the concluding
plays. [In this edition, scene iii., act v.] It would be unbecoming in
me to be more diffuse on this subject. A translator stands connected
with the original author by a certain law of subordination which makes it
more decorous to point out excellences than defects; indeed, he is not
likely to be a fair judge of either. The pleasure or disgust from his
own labor will mingle with the feelings that arise from an afterview of
the original. Even in the first perusal of a work in any foreign
language which we understand, we are apt to attribute to it more
excellence than it really possesses from our own pleasurable sense of
difficulty overcome without effort. Translation of poetry into poetry is
difficult, because the translator must give a brilliancy to his language
without that warmth of original conception from which such brilliancy
would follow of its own accord. But the translator of a living author is
incumbered with additional inconveniences. If he render his original
faithfully as to the sense of each passage, he must necessarily destroy a
considerable portion of the spirit; if he endeavor to give a work
executed according to laws of compensation he subjects himself to
imputations of vanity or misrepresentation. I have thought it my duty to
remain bound by the sense of my original with as few exceptions as the
nature of the languages rendered possible. S. T. C.
THE PICCOLOMINI.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
ACT I.
SCENE I.
ILLO.
Ye have come too late-but ye are come! The distance,
Count Isolani, excuses your delay.
ISOLANI.
Add this too, that we come not empty-handed.
At Donauwerth [1] it was reported to us,
A Swedish caravan was on its way,
Transporting a rich cargo of provision,
Almost six hundreds wagons. This my Croats
Plunged down upon and seized, this weighty prize!--
We bring it hither----
ILLO.
Just in time to banquet
The illustrious company assembled here.
BUTLER.
'Tis all alive! a stirring scene here!
ISOLANI.
Ay!
The very churches are full of soldiers.
[Casts his eye round.
And in the council-house, too, I observe,
You're settled quite at home! Well, well! we soldiers
Must shift and suit us in what way we can.
ILLO.
We have the colonels here of thirty regiments.
You'll find Count Terzky here, and Tiefenbach,
Kolatto, Goetz, Maradas, Hinnersam,
The Piccolomini, both son and father--
You'll meet with many an unexpected greeting
From many an old friend and acquaintance. Only
Gallas is wanting still, and Altringer.
BUTLER.
Expect not Gallas.
ILLO (hesitating).
How so? Do you know----
ILLO.
You'll see him yet ere evening. He conducts
The Duchess Friedland hither, and the princess [2]
From Caernthen [3]. We expect them here at noon.
BUTLER.
Both wife and daughter does the duke call hither?
He crowds in visitants from all sides.
ISOLANI.
Hm!
So much the better! I had framed my mind
To hear of naught but warlike circumstance,
Of marches and attacks, and batteries;
And lo! the duke provides, and something too
Of gentler sort and lovely, should be present
To feast our eyes.
BUTLER.
Because
He importuned me to remain behind.
BUTLER.
After the obligation which the duke
Had laid so newly on me----
ILLO.
I had forgotten
A pleasant duty--major-general,
I wish you joy!
ISOLANI.
What, you mean, of this regiment?
I hear, too, that to make the gift still sweeter,
The duke has given him the very same
In which he first saw service, and since then
Worked himself step by step, through each preferment,
From the ranks upwards. And verily, it gives
A precedent of hope, a spur of action
To the whole corps, if once in their remembrance
An old deserving soldier makes his way.
BUTLER.
I am perplexed and doubtful whether or no
I dare accept this your congratulation.
The emperor has not yet confirmed the appointment.
ISOLANI.
Seize it, friend, seize it! The hand which in that post
Placed you is strong enough to keep you there,
Spite of the emperor and his ministers!
ILLO.
Ay, if we would but so consider it!--
If we would all of us consider it so!
The emperor gives us nothing; from the duke
Comes all--whate'er we hope, whate'er we have.
ILLO.
Oh that his power but kept pace with his wishes!
Why, friend! he'd give the whole world to his soldiers.
But at Vienna, brother!--here's the grievance,--
What politic schemes do they not lay to shorten
His arm, and where they can to clip his pinions.
Then these new dainty requisitions! these
Which this same Questenberg brings hither!
BUTLER.
Ay!
Those requisitions of the emperor--
I too have heard about them; but I hope
The duke will not draw back a single inch!
ILLO.
Not from his right most surely, unless first
From office!
ISOLANI (at the same time with BUTLER, and in a hurrying voice).
We should be ruined, every one of us!
ILLO.
Yonder I see our worthy friend [spoken with a sneer] approaching
With the Lieutenant-General Piccolomini.
SCENE II.
QUESTENBERG.
Let none approach a camp of Friedland's troops
Who dares to think unworthily of war;
E'en I myself had nigh forgot its evils
When I surveyed that lofty soul of order,
By which, while it destroys the world--itself
Maintains the greatness which itself created.
ISOLANI.
My noble brother!
Even now am I arrived; it has been else my duty----
OCTAVIO.
And Colonel Butler--trust me, I rejoice
Thus to renew acquaintance with a man
Whose worth and services I know and honor.
See, see, my friend!
There might we place at once before our eyes
The sum of war's whole trade and mystery--
QUESTENBERG.
Once before
I stood beside these colors.
ILLO.
Perchance too you remember where that was;
It was at Znaeim [4] in Moravia, where
You did present yourself upon the part
Of the emperor to supplicate our duke
That he would straight assume the chief command.
QUESTENBURG.
To supplicate? Nay, bold general!
So far extended neither my commission
(At least to my own knowledge) nor my zeal.
ILLO.
Well, well, then--to compel him, if you choose,
I can remember me right well, Count Tilly
Had suffered total rout upon the Lech.
Bavaria lay all open to the enemy,
Whom there was nothing to delay from pressing
Onwards into the very heart of Austria.
At that time you and Werdenberg appeared
Before our general, storming him with prayers,
And menacing the emperor's displeasure,
Unless he took compassion on this wretchedness.
QUESTENBERG.
ILLO.
A worthy office! After with our blood
We have wrested this Bohemia from the Saxon,
To be swept out of it is all our thanks,
The sole reward of all our hard-won victories.
QUESTENBERG.
Unless that wretched land be doomed to suffer
Only a change of evils, it must be
Freed from the scourge alike of friend or foe.
ILLO.
What? 'Twas a favorable year; the boors
Can answer fresh demands already.
QUESTENBERG.
Nay,
If you discourse of herds and meadow-grounds----
ISOLANI.
The war maintains the war. Are the boors ruined
The emperor gains so many more new soldiers.
QUESTENBERG.
And is the poorer by even so many subjects.
ISOLANI.
Poh! we are all his subjects.
QUESTENBERG.
Yet with a difference, general! The one fill
With profitable industry the purse,
The others are well skilled to empty it.
The sword has made the emperor poor; the plough
Must reinvigorate his resources.
ISOLANI.
Sure!
Times are not yet so bad. Methinks I see
[Examining with his eye the dress and ornaments of QUESTENBERG.
Good store of gold that still remains uncoined.
QUESTENBERG.
Thank Heaven! that means have been found out to hide
Some little from the fingers of the Croats.
ILLO.
There! The Stawata and the Martinitz,
On whom the emperor heaps his gifts and graces,
To the heart-burning of all good Bohemians--
Those minions of court favor, those court harpies,
Who fatten on the wrecks of citizens
Driven from their house and home--who reap no harvests
Save in the general calamity--
Who now, with kingly pomp, insult and mock
The desolation of their country--these,
Let these, and such as these, support the war,
The fatal war, which they alone enkindled!
BUTLER.
And those state-parasites, who have their feet
So constantly beneath the emperor's table,
Who cannot let a benefice fall, but they
Snap at it with dogs' hunger--they, forsooth,
Would pare the soldiers bread and cross his reckoning!
ISOLANI.
My life long will it anger me to think,
How when I went to court seven years ago,
To see about new horses for our regiment,
How from one antechamber to another
They dragged me on and left me by the hour
To kick my heels among a crowd of simpering
Feast-fattened slaves, as if I had come thither
A mendicant suitor for the crumbs of favor
That fell beneath their tables. And, at last,
Whom should they send me but a Capuchin!
Straight I began to muster up my sins
For absolution--but no such luck for me!
This was the man, this Capuchin, with whom
I was to treat concerning the army horses!
And I was forced at last to quit the field,
The business unaccomplished. Afterwards
The duke procured me in three days what I
Could not obtain in thirty at Vienna.
QUESTENBERG.
Yes, yes! your travelling bills soon found their way to us!
Too well I know we have still accounts to settle.
ILLO.
War is violent trade; one cannot always
Finish one's work by soft means; every trifle
Must not be blackened into sacrilege.
If we should wait till you, in solemn council,
With due deliberation had selected
The smallest out of four-and-twenty evils,
I' faith we should wait long--
"Dash! and through with it!" That's the better watchword.
Then after come what may come. 'Tis man's nature
To make the best of a bad thing once past.
A bitter and perplexed "what shall I do?"
Is worse to man than worst necessity.
QUESTENBERG.
Ay, doubtless, it is true; the duke does spare us
The troublesome task of choosing.
BUTLER.
Yes, the duke
Cares with a father's feelings for his troops;
But how the emperor feels for us, we see.
QUESTENBERG.
His cares and feelings all ranks share alike,
Nor will he offer one up to another.
ISOLANI.
And therefore thrusts he us into the deserts
As beasts of prey, that so he may preserve
His dear sheep fattening in his fields at home.
ILLO.
Why, were we all the court supposes us
'Twere dangerous, sure, to give us liberty.
QUESTENBERG (gravely).
You have taken liberty--it was not given you,
And therefore it becomes an urgent duty
To rein it in with the curbs.
ILLO.
Expect to find a restive steed in us.
QUESTENBERG.
A better rider may be found to rule it.
ILLO.
He only brooks the rider who has tamed him.
QUESTENBERG.
Ay, tame him once, and then a child may lead him.
ILLO.
The child, we know, is found for him already.
QUESTENBERG.
Be duty, sir, your study, not a name.
BUTLER (who has stood aside with PICCOLOMINI, but with visible interest
in the conversation, advances).
Sir president, the emperor has in Germany
A splendid host assembled; in this kingdom
Full twenty thousand soldiers are cantoned,
With sixteen thousand in Silesia;
Ten regiments are posted on the Weser,
The Rhine, and Maine; in Swabia there are six,
And in Bavaria twelve, to face the Swedes;
Without including in the account the garrisons
Who on the frontiers hold the fortresses.
This vast and mighty host is all obedient
To Friedland's captains; and its brave commanders,
Bred in one school, and nurtured with one milk,
Are all excited by one heart and soul;
They are as strangers on the soil they tread,
The service is their only house and home.
No zeal inspires then for their country's cause,
For thousands like myself were born abroad;
Nor care they for the emperor, for one half
Deserting other service fled to ours,
Indifferent what their banner, whether 'twere,
The Double Eagle, Lily, or the Lion.
Yet one sole man can rein this fiery host
By equal rule, by equal love and fear;
Blending the many-nationed whole in one;
And like the lightning's fires securely led
Down the conducting rod, e'en thus his power
Rules all the mass, from guarded post to post,
From where the sentry hears the Baltic roar,
Or views the fertile vales of the Adige,
E'en to the body-guard, who holds his watch
Within the precincts of the imperial palace!
QUESTENBERG.
What's the short meaning of this long harangue?
BUTLER.
That the respect, the love, the confidence,
Which makes us willing subjects of Duke Friedland,
Are not to be transferred to the first comer
That Austria's court may please to send to us.
We have not yet so readily forgotten
How the command came into Friedland's hands.
Was it, forsooth, the emperor's majesty
That gave the army ready to his hand,
And only sought a leader for it? No.
The army then had no existence. He,
Friedland, it was who called it into being,
And gave it to his sovereign--but receiving
No army at his hand; nor did the emperor
Give Wallenstein to us as general. No,
It was from Wallenstein we first received
The emperor as our master and our sovereign;
And he, he only, binds us to our banners!
ILLO.
The sentries are saluting them: this signal
Announces the arrival of the duchess.
SCENE III.
OCTAVIO.
Hm!
You're now acquainted with three-fourths of the army.
QUESTENBERG.
Where must we seek, then, for a second host
To have the custody of this? That Illo
Thinks worse, I fear me, than he speaks. And then
This Butler, too--he cannot even conceal
The passionate workings of his ill intentions.
OCTAVIO.
Quickness of temper--irritated pride;
'Twas nothing more. I cannot give up Butler.
I know a spell that will soon dispossess
The evil spirit in him.
OCTAVIO.
Now you see yourself
Of what a perilous kind the office is,
Which you deliver to me from the court.
The least suspicion of the general
Costs me my freedom and my life, and would
But hasten his most desperate enterprise.
QUESTENBERG.
Where was our reason sleeping when we trusted
This madman with the sword, and placed such power
In such a hand? I tell you, he'll refuse,
Flatly refuse to obey the imperial orders.
Friend, he can do it, and what he can, he will.
And then the impunity of his defiance--
Oh! what a proclamation of our weakness!
OCTAVIO.
D'ye think, too, he has brought his wife and daughter
Without a purpose hither? Here in camp!
And at the very point of time in which
We're arming for the war? That he has taken
These, the last pledges of his loyalty,
Away from out the emperor's dominions--
This is no doubtful token of the nearness
Of some eruption.
QUESTENBERG.
How shall we hold footing
Beneath this tempest, which collects itself
And threats us from all quarters? The enemy
Of the empire on our borders, now already
The master of the Danube, and still farther,
And farther still, extending every hour!
In our interior the alarum-bells
Of insurrection--peasantry in arms--
All orders discontented--and the army,
Just in the moment of our expectation
Of aidance from it--lo! this very army
Seduced, run wild, lost to all discipline,
Loosened, and rent asunder from the state
And from their sovereign, the blind instrument
Of the most daring of mankind, a weapon
Of fearful power, which at his will he wields.
OCTAVIO.
Nay, nay, friend! let us not despair too soon
Men's words are even bolder than their deeds;
And many a resolute, who now appears
Made up to all extremes, will, on a sudden,
Find in his breast a heart he wot not of,
Let but a single honest man speak out
The true name of his crime! Remember, too,
We stand not yet so wholly unprotected.
Counts Altringer and Gallas have maintained
Their little army faithful to its duty,
And daily it becomes more numerous.
Nor can he take us by surprise; you know
I hold him all encompassed by my listeners.
What'er he does, is mine, even while 'tis doing--
No step so small, but instantly I hear it;
Yea, his own mouth discloses it.
QUESTENBERG.
'Tis quite
Incomprehensible, that he detects not
The foe so near!
OCTAVIO.
Beware, you do not think,
That I, by lying arts, and complaisant
Hypocrisy, have sulked into his graces,
Or with the substance of smooth professions
Nourish his all-confiding friendship! No--
Compelled alike by prudence, and that duty
Which we all owe our country and our sovereign,
To hide my genuine feelings from him, yet
Ne'er have I duped him with base counterfeits!
QUESTENBERG.
It is the visible ordinance of heaven.
OCTAVIO.
I know not what it is that so attracts
And links him both to me and to my son.
Comrades and friends we always were--long habit,
Adventurous deeds performed in company,
And all those many and various incidents
Which stores a soldier's memory with affections,
Had bound us long and early to each other--
Yet I can name the day, when all at once
His heart rose on me, and his confidence
Shot out into sudden growth. It was the morning
Before the memorable fight at Luetzen.
Urged by an ugly dream, I sought him out,
To press him to accept another charger.
At a distance from the tents, beneath a tree,
I found him in a sleep. When I had waked him
And had related all my bodings to him,
Long time he stared upon me, like a man
Astounded: thereon fell upon my neck,
And manifested to me an emotion
That far outstripped the worth of that small service.
Since then his confidence has followed me
With the same pace that mine has fled from him.
QUESTENBERG.
You lead your son into the secret?
OCTAVIO.
No!
QUESTENBERG.
What! and not warn him either, what bad hands
His lot has placed him in?
OCTAVIO.
I must perforce
Leave him in wardship to his innocence.
His young and open soul--dissimulation
Is foreign to its habits! Ignorance
Alone can keep alive the cheerful air,
The unembarrassed sense and light free spirit,
That makes the duke secure.
QUESTENBERG (anxiously).
My honored friend! most highly do I deem
Of Colonel Piccolomini--yet--if--
Reflect a little----
OCTAVIO.
I must venture it.
Hush! There he comes!
SCENE IV.
MAX.
Ha! there he is himself. Welcome, my father!
OCTAVIO.
How, Max.? Look closer at this visitor.
Attention, Max., an old friend merits--reverence
Belongs of right to the envoy of your sovereign.
MAX. (drily).
Von Questenberg!--welcome--if you bring with you
Aught good to our headquarters.
MAX.
Heh! Noble minister! You miss your part.
You come not here to act a panegyric.
You're sent, I know, to find fault and to scold us--
I must not be beforehand with my comrades.
MAX.
What now have they contrived to find out in him?
That he alone determines for himself
What he himself alone doth understand!
Well, therein he does right, and will persist in't
Heaven never meant him for that passive thing
That can be struck and hammered out to suit
Another's taste and fancy. He'll not dance
To every tune of every minister.
It goes against his nature--he can't do it,
He is possessed by a commanding spirit,
And his, too, is the station of command.
And well for us it is so! There exist
Few fit to rule themselves, but few that use
Their intellects intelligently. Then
Well for the whole, if there be found a man
Who makes himself what nature destined him,
The pause, the central point, to thousand thousands
Stands fixed and stately, like a firm-built column,
Where all may press with joy and confidence--
Now such a man is Wallenstein; and if
Another better suits the court--no other
But such a one as he can serve the army.
QUESTENBERG.
The army? Doubtless!
MAX.
What delight to observe
How he incites and strengthens all around him,
Infusing life and vigor. Every power
Seems as it were redoubled by his presence
He draws forth every latent energy,
Showing to each his own peculiar talent,
Yet leaving all to be what nature made them,
And watching only that they be naught else
In the right place and time; and he has skill
To mould the power's of all to his own end.
QUESTENBERG.
But who denies his knowledge of mankind,
And skill to use it? Our complaint is this:
That in the master he forgets the servant,
As if he claimed by birth his present honors.
MAX.
And does he not so? Is he not endowed
With every gift and power to carry out
The high intents of nature, and to win
A ruler's station by a ruler's talent?
QUESTENBERG.
So then it seems to rest with him alone
What is the worth of all mankind beside!
MAX.
Uncommon men require no common trust;
Give him but scope and he will set the bounds.
QUESTENBERG.
The proof is yet to come.
MAX.
Thus are ye ever.
Ye shrink from every thing of depth, and think
Yourselves are only safe while ye're in shallows.
MAX. (continuing).
In their fear
They call a spirit up, and when he comes,
Straight their flesh creeps and quivers, and they dread him
More than the ills for which they called him up.
The uncommon, the sublime, must seem and be
Like things of every day. But in the field,
Ay, there the Present Being makes itself felt.
The personal must command, the actual eye
Examine. If to be the chieftain asks
All that is great in nature, let it be
Likewise his privilege to move and act
In all the correspondences of greatness.
The oracle within him, that which lives,
He must invoke and question--not dead books,
Not ordinances, not mould-rotted papers.
OCTAVIO.
My son! of those old narrow ordinances
Let us not hold too lightly. They are weights
Of priceless value, which oppressed mankind,
Tied to the volatile will of their oppressors.
For always formidable was the League
And partnership of free power with free will.
The way of ancient ordinance, though it winds,
Is yet no devious path. Straight forward goes
The lightning's path, and straight the fearful path
Of the cannon-ball. Direct it flies, and rapid;
Shattering that it may reach, and shattering what it reaches,
My son, the road the human being travels,
That, on which blessing comes and goes, doth follow
The river's course, the valley's playful windings,
Curves round the cornfield and the hill of vines,
Honoring the holy bounds of property!
And thus secure, though late, leads to its end.
QUESTENBERG.
Oh, hear your father, noble youth! hear him
Who is at once the hero and the man.
OCTAVIO.
My son, the nursling of the camp spoke in thee!
A war of fifteen years
Hath been thy education and thy school.
Peace hast thou never witnessed! There exists
An higher than the warrior's excellence.
In war itself war is no ultimate purpose,
The vast and sudden deeds of violence,
Adventures wild, and wonders of the moment,
These are not they, my son, that generate
The calm, the blissful, and the enduring mighty!
Lo there! the soldier, rapid architect!
Builds his light town of canvas, and at once
The whole scene moves and bustles momently.
With arms, and neighing steeds, and mirth and quarrel
The motley market fills; the roads, the streams
Are crowded with new freights; trade stirs and hurries,
But on some morrow morn, all suddenly,
The tents drop down, the horde renews its march.
Dreary, and solitary as a churchyard;
The meadow and down-trodden seed-plot lie,
And the year's harvest is gone utterly.
MAX.
Oh, let the emperor make peace, my father!
Most gladly would I give the blood-stained laurel
For the first violet [5] of the leafless spring,
Plucked in those quiet fields where I have journeyed.
OCTAVIO.
What ails thee? What so moves thee all at once?
MAX.
Peace have I ne'er beheld? I have beheld it.
From thence am I come hither: oh, that sight,
It glimmers still before me, like some landscape
Left in the distance,--some delicious landscape!
My road conducted me through countries where
The war has not yet reached. Life, life, my father--
My venerable father, life has charms
Which we have never experienced. We have been
But voyaging along its barren coasts,
Like some poor ever-roaming horde of pirates,
That, crowded in the rank and narrow ship,
House on the wild sea with wild usages,
Nor know aught of the mainland, but the bays
Where safeliest they may venture a thieves' landing.
Whate'er in the inland dales the land conceals
Of fair and exquisite, oh, nothing, nothing,
Do we behold of that in our rude voyage.
MAX.
'Twas the first leisure of my life. O tell me,
What is the meed and purpose of the toil,
The painful toil which robbed me of my youth,
Left me a heart unsouled and solitary,
A spirit uninformed, unornamented!
For the camp's stir, and crowd, and ceaseless larum,
The neighing war-horse, the air-shattering trumpet,
The unvaried, still returning hour of duty,
Word of command, and exercise of arms--
There's nothing here, there's nothing in all this,
To satisfy the heart, the gasping heart!
Mere bustling nothingness, where the soul is not--
This cannot be the sole felicity,
These cannot be man's best and only pleasures!
OCTAVIO.
Much hast thou learnt, my son, in this short journey.
MAX.
Oh day, thrice lovely! when at length the soldier
Returns home into life; when he becomes
A fellow-man among his fellow-men.
The colors are unfurled, the cavalcade
Mashals, and now the buzz is hushed, and hark!
Now the soft peace-march beats, home, brothers, home!
The caps and helmet are all garlanded
With green boughs, the last plundering of the fields.
The city gates fly open of themselves,
They need no longer the petard to tear them.
The ramparts are all filled with men and women,
With peaceful men and women, that send onwards.
Kisses and welcomings upon the air,
Which they make breezy with affectionate gestures.
From all the towers rings out the merry peal,
The joyous vespers of a bloody day.
O happy man, O fortunate! for whom
The well-known door, the faithful arms are open,
The faithful tender arms with mute embracing.
QUESTENBERG.
Alas! alas! and stands it so?
[Then in pressing and impatient tones.
What friend! and do we let him go away
In this delusion--let him go away?
Not call him back immediately, not open
His eyes, upon the spot?
QUESTENBERG.
What is it?
OCTAVIO.
Curse on this journey!
QUESTENBERG.
But why so? What is it?
OCTAVIO.
Come, come along, friend! I must follow up
The ominous track immediately. Mine eyes
Are opened now, and I must use them. Come!
QUESTENBERG.
What now? Where go you then?
OCTAVIO.
To her herself.
QUESTENBERG.
To----
QUESTENBERG.
Nay, but explain yourself.
OCTAVIO.
And that I should not
Foresee it, not prevent this journey! Wherefore
Did I keep it from him? You were in the right.
I should have warned him. Now it is too late.
QUESTENBERG.
But what's too late? Bethink yourself, my friend,
That you are talking absolute riddles to me.
OCTAVIO (more collected).
Come I to the duke's. 'Tis close upon the hour
Which he appointed you for audience. Come!
A curse, a threefold curse, upon this journey!
ACT II.
SCENE I.
FIRST SERVANT. Come--to it, lads, to it! Make an end of it. I hear the
sentry call out, "Stand to your arms!" They will be here in a minute.
SECOND SERVANT. Why were we not told before that the audience would be
held here? Nothing prepared--no orders--no instructions.
THIRD SERVANT. Ay, and why was the balcony chamber countermanded, that
with the great worked carpet? There one can look about one.
FIRST SERVANT. Nay, that you must ask the mathematician there. He says
it is an unlucky chamber.
SECOND SERVANT. Poh! stuff and nonsense! that's what I call a hum. A
chamber is a chamber; what much can the place signify in the affair?
FIRST SERVANT (to the second). Say nothing to him, Nat. The duke
himself must let him have his own will.
SENI (counts the chairs, half in a loud, half in a low voice, till
he comes to eleven, which he repeats).
Eleven! an evil number! Set twelve chairs.
Twelve! twelve signs hath the zodiac: five and seven,
The holy numbers, include themselves in twelve.
SECOND SERVANT. And what may you have to object against eleven? I
should like to know that now.
SENI.
Eleven is transgression; eleven oversteps
The ten commandments.
SECOND SERVANT. That's good? and why do you call five a holy number?
SENI.
Five is the soul of man: for even as man
Is mingled up of good and evil, so
The five is the first number that's made up
Of even and odd.
FIRST SERVANT. Ay! let him alone though. I like to hear him; there is
more in his words than can be seen at first sight.
[They hurry off: SENI follows slowly. A page brings the staff
of command on a red cushion, and places it on the table, near the
duke's chair. They are announced from without, and the wings of
the door fly open.
SCENE II.
WALLENSTEIN, DUCHESS.
WALLENSTEIN.
You went, then, through Vienna, were presented
To the Queen of Hungary?
DUCHESS.
Yes; and to the empress, too,
And by both majesties were we admitted
To kiss the hand.
WALLENSTEIN.
And how was it received,
That I had sent for wife and daughter hither
To the camp, in winter-time?
DUCHESS.
I did even that
Which you commissioned me to do. I told them
You had determined on our daughter's marriage,
And wished, ere yet you went into the field,
To show the elected husband his betrothed.
WALLENSTEIN.
And did they guess the choice which I had made?
DUCHESS.
They only hoped and wished it may have fallen
Upon no foreign nor yet Lutheran noble.
WALLENSTEIN.
And you--what do you wish, Elizabeth?
DUCHESS.
Your will, you know, was always mine.
DUCHESS.
O! my dear lord, all is not what it was.
A canker-worm, my lord, a canker-worm
Has stolen into the bud.
WALLENSTEIN.
Ay! is it so?
What, they were lax? they failed of the old respect?
DUCHESS.
Not of respect. No honors were omitted,
No outward courtesy; but in the place
Of condescending, confidential kindness,
Familiar and endearing, there were given me
Only these honors and that solemn courtesy.
Ah! and the tenderness which was put on,
It was the guise of pity, not of favor.
No! Albrecht's wife, Duke Albrecht's princely wife,
Count Harrach's noble daughter, should not so--
Not wholly so should she have been received.
WALLENSTEIN.
Yes, yes; they have taken offence. My latest conduct
They railed at it, no doubt.
DUCHESS.
O that they had!
I have been long accustomed to defend you,
To heal and pacify distempered spirits.
No; no one railed at you. They wrapped them up,
O Heaven! in such oppressive, solemn silence!
Here is no every-day misunderstanding,
No transient pique, no cloud that passes over;
Something most luckless, most unhealable,
Has taken place. The Queen of Hungary
Used formerly to call me her dear aunt,
And ever at departure to embrace me----
WALLENSTEIN.
Now she omitted it?
WALLENSTEIN.
The ambassador from Spain, who once was wont
To plead so warmly for me?
DUCHESS.
Silent, silent!
WALLENSTEIN.
These suns then are eclipsed for us. Henceforward
Must we roll on, our own fire, our own light.
DUCHESS.
And were it--were it, my dear lord, in that
Which moved about the court in buzz and whisper,
But in the country let itself be heard
Aloud--in that which Father Lanormain
In sundry hints and----
WALLENSTEIN (eagerly).
Lanormain! what said he?
DUCHESS.
That you're accused of having daringly
O'erstepped the powers intrusted to you, charged
With traitorous contempt of the emperor
And his supreme behests. The proud Bavarian,
He and the Spaniards stand up your accusers--
That there's a storm collecting over you
Of far more fearful menace than the former one
Which whirled you headlong down at Regensburg.
And people talk, said he, of----Ah!
[Stifling extreme emotion.
WALLENSTEIN.
Proceed!
DUCHESS.
I cannot utter it!
WALLENSTEIN.
Proceed!
DUCHESS.
They talk----
WALLENSTEIN.
Well!
DUCHESS.
Of a second----
(catches her voice and hesitates.)
WALLENSTEIN.
Second----
DUCHESS.
Most disgraceful
Dismission.
WALLENSTEIN.
Talk they?
[Strides across the chamber in vehement agitation.
Oh! they force, they thrust me
With violence, against my own will, onward!
SCENE III.
Enter the Countess TERZKY, leading in her hand the Princess THEKLA,
richly adorned with brilliants.
COUNTESS.
How sister? What, already upon business?
[Observing the countenance of the DUCHESS.
And business of no pleasing kind I see,
Ere he has gladdened at his child. The first
Moment belongs to joy. Here, Friedland! father!
This is thy daughter.
[THEKLA approaches with a shy and timid air, and bends herself as
about to kiss his hand. He receives her in his arms, and remains
standing for some time lost in the feeling of her presence.
WALLENSTEIN.
Yes! pure and lovely hath hope risen on me,
I take her as the pledge of greater fortune.
DUCHESS.
'Twas but a little child when you departed
To raise up that great army for the emperor
And after, at the close of the campaign,
When you returned home out of Pomerania,
Your daughter was already in the convent,
Wherein she has remained till now.
WALLENSTEIN.
The while
We in the field here gave our cares and toils
To make her great, and fight her a free way
To the loftiest earthly good; lo! mother Nature
Within the peaceful, silent convent walls,
Has done her part, and out of her free grace
Hath she bestowed on the beloved child
The god-like; and now leads her thus adorned
To meet her splendid fortune, and my hope.
THEKLA.
O yes, yes, mother!
At the first glance! My father has not altered.
The form that stands before me falsifies
No feature of the image that hath lived
So long within me!
WALLENSTEIN.
The voice of my child!
[Then after a pause.
I was indignant at my destiny,
That it denied me a man-child, to be
Heir of my name and of my prosperous fortune,
And re-illume my soon-extinguished being
In a proud line of princes.
I wronged my destiny. Here upon this head,
So lovely in its maiden bloom, will I
Let fall the garland of a life of war,
Nor deem it lost, if only I can wreath it,
Transmuted to a regal ornament,
Around these beauteous brows.
SCENE IV.
Enter MAX. PICCOLOMINI, and some time after COUNT TERZKY, the
others remaining as before.
COUNTESS.
There comes the Paladin who protected us.
WALLENSTEIN.
Max.! Welcome, ever welcome! Always wert thou
The morning star of my best joys!
MAX.
My general----
WALLENSTEIN.
Till now it was the emperor who rewarded thee,
I but the instrument. This day thou hast bound
The father to thee, Max.! the fortunate father,
And this debt Friedland's self must pay.
MAX.
My prince!
You made no common hurry to transfer it.
I come with shame: yea, not without a pang!
For scarce have I arrived here, scarce delivered
The mother and the daughter to your arms,
But there is brought to me from your equerry [6]
A splendid richly-plated hunting dress
So to remunerate me for my troubles--
Yes, yes, remunerate me,--since a trouble
It must be, a mere office, not a favor
Which I leaped forward to receive, and which
I came with grateful heart to thank you for.
No! 'twas not so intended, that my business
Should be my highest best good fortune!
THEKLA.
Then I too must have scruples of his love:
For his munificent hands did ornament me
Ere yet the father's heart had spoken to me.
MAX
Yes; 'tis his nature ever to be giving
And making happy.
[He grasps the hand of the DUCHESS with still increasing warmth.
How my heart pours out
Its all of thanks to him! O! how I seem
To utter all things in the dear name--Friedland.
While I shall live, so long will I remain
The captive of this name: in it shall bloom
My every fortune, every lovely hope.
Inextricably as in some magic ring
In this name hath my destiny charm-bound me!
COUNTESS (who during this time has been anxiously watching the DUKE,
and remarks that he is lost in thought over the letters).
My brother wishes us to leave him. Come.
SCENE V.
TERZKY.
And if
Thou loiterest longer, all will fall away,
One following the other.
WALLENSTEIN.
Altringer
Is master of the Tyrol passes. I must forthwith
Send some one to him, that he let not in
The Spaniards on me from the Milanese.
--Well, and the old Sesin, that ancient trader
In contraband negotiations, he
Has shown himself again of late. What brings he
From the Count Thur?
TERZKY.
The count communicates
He has found out the Swedish chancellor
At Halberstadt, where the convention's held,
Who says, you've tired him out, and that he'll have
No further dealings with you.
WALLENSTEIN.
And why so?
TERZKY.
He says, you are never in earnest in your speeches;
That you decoy the Swedes--to make fools of them;
Will league yourself with Saxony against them,
And at last make yourself a riddance of them
With a paltry sum of money.
WALLENSTEIN.
So then, doubtless,
Yes, doubtless, this same modest Swede expects
That I shall yield him some fair German tract
For his prey and booty, that ourselves at last
On our own soil and native territory
May be no longer our own lords and masters!
An excellent scheme! No, no! They must be off,
Off, off! away! we want no such neighbors.
TERZKY.
Nay, yield them up that dot, that speck of land--
It goes not from your portion. If you win
The game, what matters it to you who pays it?
WALLENSTEIN.
Off with them, off! Thou understand'st not this.
Never shall it be said of me, I parcelled
My native land away, dismembered Germany,
Betrayed it to a foreigner, in order
To come with stealthy tread, and filch away
My own share of the plunder--Never! never!
No foreign power shall strike root in the empire,
And least of all these Goths! these hungry wolves!
Who send such envious, hot, and greedy glances
Toward the rich blessings of our German lands!
I'll have their aid to cast and draw my nets,
But not a single fish of all the draught
Shall they come in for.
TERZKY.
You will deal, however,
More fairly with the Saxons? they lose patience
While you shift round and make so many curves.
Say, to what purpose all these masks? Your friends
Are plunged in doubts, baffled, and led astray in you.
There's Oxenstiern, there's Arnheim--neither knows
What he should think of your procrastinations,
And in the end I prove the liar; all
Passes through me. I've not even your handwriting.
WALLENSTEIN.
I never give handwriting; and thou knowest it.
TERZKY.
But how can it be known that you are in earnest,
If the act follows not upon the word?
You must yourself acknowledge, that in all
Your intercourses hitherto with the enemy,
You might have done with safety all you have done.
Had you meant nothing further than to gull him
For the emperor's service.
TERZKY.
So hast thou always played thy game with us.
[Enter ILLO.
SCENE VI.
WALLENSTEIN.
How stand affairs without? Are they prepared?
ILLO.
You'll find them in the very mood you wish.
They know about the emperor's requisition,
And are tumultuous.
WALLENSTEIN.
How hath Isolani
declared himself?
ILLO.
He's yours, both soul and body,
Since you built up again his faro-bank.
WALLENSTEIN.
And which way doth Kolatto bend? Hast thou
Made sure of Tiefenbach and Deodati?
ILLO.
What Piccolomini does that they do too.
WALLENSTEIN.
You mean, then, I may venture somewhat with them?
ILLO.
If you are assured of the Piccolomini.
WALLENSTEIN.
Not more assured of mine own self.
TERZKY.
And yet
I would you trusted not so much to Octavio,
The fox!
WALLENSTEIN.
Thou teachest me to know my man?
Sixteen campaigns I have made with that old warrior.
Besides, I have his horoscope;
We both are born beneath like stars--in short,
[With an air of mystery.
To this belongs its own peculiar aspect,
If therefore thou canst warrant me the rest----
ILLO.
There is among them all but this one voice,
You must not lay down the command. I hear
They mean to send a deputation to you.
WALLENSTEIN.
If I'm in aught to bind myself to them
They too must bind themselves to me.
ILLO.
Of course.
WALLENSTEIN.
Their words of honor they must give, their oaths,
Give them in writing to me, promising
Devotion to my service unconditional.
ILLO.
Why not?
TERZKY.
Devotion unconditional?
The exception of their duties towards Austria
They'll always place among the premises.
With this reserve----
ILLO.
A thought has struck me.
Does not Count Terzky give us a set banquet
This evening?
TERZKY.
Yes; and all the generals
Have been invited.
WALLENSTEIN.
Gain me their signatures!
How you come by them that is your concern.
ILLO.
And if I bring it to you in black on white,
That all the leaders who are present here
Give themselves up to you, without condition;
Say, will you then--then will you show yourself
In earnest, and with some decisive action
Try your fortune.
WALLENSTEIN.
Get but the signatures!
ILLO.
Think what thou dost, thou canst not execute
The emperor's orders, nor reduce thine army,
Nor send the regiments to the Spaniards' aid,
Unless thou wouldst resign thy power forever.
Think on the other hand--thou canst not spurn
The emperor's high commands and solemn orders,
Nor longer temporize, nor seek evasion,
Wouldst thou avoid a rupture with the court.
Resolve then! Wilt thou now by one bold act
Anticipate their ends, or, doubting still,
Await the extremity?
WALLENSTEIN.
There's time before
The extremity arrives.
ILLO.
Seize, seize the hour,
Ere it slips from you. Seldom comes the moment
In life, which is indeed sublime and weighty.
To make a great decision possible,
O! many things, all transient and all rapid,
Must meet at once: and, haply, they thus met
May by that confluence be enforced to pause
Time long-enough for wisdom, though too short,
Far, far too short a time for doubt and scruple!
This is that moment. See, our army chieftains,
Our best, our noblest, are assembled round you,
Their king-like leader! On your nod they wait.
The single threads, which here your prosperous fortune
Hath woven together in one potent web
Instinct with destiny, O! let them not
Unravel of themselves. If you permit
These chiefs to separate, so unanimous
Bring you them not a second time together.
'Tis the high tide that heaves the stranded ship,
And every individual's spirit waxes
In the great stream of multitudes. Behold
They are still here, here still! But soon the war
Bursts them once more asunder, and in small
Particular anxieties and interests
Scatters their spirit, and the sympathy
Of each man with the whole. He who to-day
Forgets himself, forced onward with the stream,
Will become sober, seeing but himself.
Feel only his own weakness, and with speed
Will face about, and march on in the old
High road of duty, the old broad-trodden road,
And seek but to make shelter in good plight.
WALLENSTEIN.
The time is not yet come.
TERZKY.
So you say always.
But when will it be time?
WALLENSTEIN.
When I shall say it.
ILLO.
You'll wait upon the stars, and on their hours,
Till the earthly hour escapes you. Oh, believe me,
In your own bosom are your destiny's stars.
Confidence in yourself, prompt resolution,
This is your Venus! and the sole malignant,
The only one that harmeth you is doubt.
WALLENSTEIN.
Thou speakest as thou understandest. How oft
And many a time I've told thee Jupiter,
That lustrous god, was setting at thy birth.
Thy visual power subdues no mysteries;
Mole-eyed thou mayest but burrow in the earth,
Blind as the subterrestrial, who with wan
Lead-colored shine lighted thee into life.
The common, the terrestrial, thou mayest see,
With serviceable cunning knit together,
The nearest with the nearest; and therein
I trust thee and believe thee! but whate'er
Full of mysterious import Nature weaves,
And fashions in the depths--the spirit's ladder,
That from this gross and visible world of dust,
Even to the starry world, with thousand rounds,
Builds itself up; on which the unseen powers
Move up and down on heavenly ministries--
The circles in the circles, that approach
The central sun with ever-narrowing orbit--
These see the glance alone, the unsealed eye,
Of Jupiter's glad children born in lustre.
[He walks across the chamber, then returns, and standing still, proceeds.
PAGE (entering).
My lords, the generals.
WALLENSTEIN.
Let them come in.
TERZKY.
Shall all the chiefs be present?
WALLENSTEIN.
'Twere needless. Both the Piccolomini
Maradas, Butler, Forgoetsch, Deodati,
Karaffa, Isolani--these may come.
ILLO.
I have watched him closely--and he spoke with none
But with Octavio.
SCENE VII.
WALLENSTEIN.
I have understood,
'Tis true, the sum and import, Questenberg,
Of your instructions. I have weighed them well,
And formed my final, absolute resolve;
Yet it seems fitting that the generals
Should hear the will of the emperor from your mouth.
May it please you then to open your commission
Before these noble chieftains?
QUESTENBERG.
I am ready
To obey you; but will first entreat your highness,
And all these noble chieftains, to consider,
The imperial dignity and sovereign right
Speaks from my mouth, and not my own presumption.
WALLENSTEIN.
We excuse all preface.
QUESTENBERG.
When his majesty
The emperor to his courageous armies
Presented in the person of Duke Friedland
A most experienced and renowned commander,
He did it in glad hope and confidence
To give thereby to the fortune of the war
A rapid and auspicious change. The onset
Was favorable to his royal wishes.
Bohemia was delivered from the Saxons,
The Swede's career of conquest checked! These lands
Began to draw breath freely, as Duke Friedland
From all the streams of Germany forced hither
The scattered armies of the enemy;
Hither invoked as round one magic circle
The Rhinegrave, Bernhard, Banner, Oxenstiern,
Yea, and the never-conquered king himself;
Here finally, before the eye of Nuernberg,
The fearful game of battle to decide.
WALLENSTEIN.
To the point, so please you.
QUESTENBERG.
A new spirit
At once proclaimed to us the new commander.
No longer strove blind rage with rage more blind;
But in the enlightened field of skill was shown
How fortitude can triumph over boldness,
And scientific art outweary courage.
In vain they tempt him to the fight. He only
Entrenches him still deeper in his hold,
As if to build an everlasting fortress.
At length grown desperate, now, the king resolves
To storm the camp and lead his wasted legions,
Who daily fall by famine and by plague,
To quicker deaths and hunger and disease.
Through lines of barricades behind whose fence
Death lurks within a thousand mouths of fire,
He yet unconquered strives to storm his way.
There was attack, and there resistance, such
As mortal eye had never seen before;
Repulsed at last, the king withdrew his troops
From this so murderous field, and not a foot
Of ground was gained by all that fearful slaughter.
WALLENSTEIN.
Pray spare us these recitals from gazettes,
Which we ourselves beheld with deepest horror.
QUESTENBERG.
In Nuernberg's camp the Swedish monarch left
His fame--in Luetzen's plains his life. But who
Stood not astounded, when victorious Friedland
After this day of triumph, this proud day,
Marched toward Bohemia with the speed of flight,
And vanished from the theatre of war?
While the young Weimar hero [7] forced his way
Into Franconia, to the Danube, like
Some delving winter-stream, which, where it rushes,
Makes its own channel; with such sudden speed
He marched, and now at once 'fore Regensburg
Stood to the affright of all good Catholic Christians.
Then did Bavaria's well-deserving prince
Entreat swift aidance in his extreme need;
The emperor sends seven horsemen to Duke Friedland,
Seven horsemen couriers sends he with the entreaty
He superadds his own, and supplicates
Where as the sovereign lord he can command.
In vain his supplication! At this moment
The duke hears only his old hate and grudge,
Barters the general good to gratify
Private revenge--and so falls Regensburg.
WALLENSTEIN.
Max., to what period of the war alludes he?
My recollection fails me here.
MAX.
He means
When we were in Silesia.
WALLENSTEIN.
Ay! is it so!
But what had we to do there?
MAX.
To beat out
The Swedes and Saxons from the province.
WALLENSTEIN.
True;
In that description which the minister gave,
I seemed to have forgotten the whole war.
[TO QUESTENBERG.
Well, but proceed a little.
QUESTENBERG.
We hoped upon the Oder to regain
What on the Danube shamefully was lost.
We looked for deeds of all-astounding grandeur
Upon a theatre of war, on which
A Friedland led in person to the field,
And the famed rival of the great Gustavus
Had but a Thurn and Arnheim to oppose him!
Yet the encounter of their mighty hosts
Served but to feast and entertain each other.
Our country groaned beneath the woes of war,
Yet naught but peace prevailed in Friedland's camp!
WALLENSTEIN.
Full many a bloody strife is fought in vain,
Because its youthful general needs a victory.
But 'tis the privilege of the old commander
To spare the costs of fighting useless battles
Merely to show that he knows how to conquer.
It would have little helped my fame to boast
Of conquest o'er an Arnheim; but far more
Would my forbearance have availed my country,
Had I succeeded to dissolve the alliance
Existing 'twixt the Saxon and the Swede.
QUESTENBERG.
But you did not succeed, and so commenced
The fearful strife anew. And here at length,
Beside the river Oder did the duke
Assert his ancient fame. Upon the fields
Of Steinau did the Swedes lay down their arms,
Subdued without a blow. And here, with others,
The righteousness of heaven to his avenger
Delivered that long-practised stirrer-up
Of insurrection, that curse-laden torch
And kindler of this war, Matthias Thurn.
But he had fallen into magnanimous hands
Instead of punishment he found reward,
And with rich presents did the duke dismiss
The arch-foe of his emperor.
WALLENSTEIN (laughs).
I know,
I know you had already in Vienna
Your windows and your balconies forestalled
To see him on the executioner's cart.
I might have lost the battle, lost it too
With infamy, and still retained your graces--
But, to have cheated them of a spectacle,
Oh! that the good folks of Vienna never,
No, never can forgive me!
QUESTENBERG.
So Silesia
Was freed, and all things loudly called the duke
Into Bavaria, now pressed hard on all sides.
And he did put his troops in motion: slowly,
Quite at his ease, and by the longest road
He traverses Bohemia; but ere ever
He hath once seen the enemy, faces round,
Breaks up the march, and takes to winter-quarters.
WALLENSTEIN.
The troops were pitiably destitute
Of every necessary, every comfort,
The winter came. What thinks his majesty
His troops are made of? Aren't we men; subjected
Like other men to wet, and cold, and all
The circumstances of necessity?
Oh, miserable lot of the poor soldier!
Wherever he comes in all flee before him,
And when he goes away the general curse
Follows him on his route. All must be seized.
Nothing is given him. And compelled to seize
From every man he's every man's abhorrence.
Behold, here stand my generals. Karaffa!
Count Deodati! Butler! Tell this man
How long the soldier's pay is in arrears.
BUTLER.
Already a full year.
WALLENSTEIN.
And 'tis the hire
That constitutes the hireling's name and duties,
The soldier's pay is the soldier's covenant. [8]
QUESTENBERG.
Ah! this is a far other tone from that
In which the duke spoke eight, nine years ago.
WALLENSTEIN.
Yes! 'tis my fault, I know it: I myself
Have spoilt the emperor by indulging him.
Nine years ago, during the Danish war,
I raised him up a force, a mighty force,
Forty or fifty thousand men, that cost him
Of his own purse no doit. Through Saxony
The fury goddess of the war marched on,
E'en to the surf-rocks of the Baltic, bearing
The terrors of his name. That was a time!
In the whole imperial realm no name like mine
Honored with festival and celebration--
And Albrecht Wallenstein, it was the title
Of the third jewel in his crown!
But at the Diet, when the princes met
At Regensburg, there, there the whole broke out,
There 'twas laid open, there it was made known
Out of what money-bag I had paid the host,
And what were now my thanks, what had I now
That I, a faithful servant of the sovereign,
Had loaded on myself the people's curses,
And let the princes of the empire pay
The expenses of this war that aggrandizes
The emperor alone. What thanks had I?
What? I was offered up to their complaint
Dismissed, degraded!
QUESTENBERG.
But your highness knows
What little freedom he possessed of action
In that disastrous Diet.
WALLENSTEIN.
Death and hell!
I had that which could have procured him freedom
No! since 'twas proved so inauspicious to me
To serve the emperor at the empire's cost,
I have been taught far other trains of thinking
Of the empire and the Diet of the empire.
From the emperor, doubtless, I received this staff,
But now I hold it as the empire's general,--
For the common weal, the universal interest,
And no more for that one man's aggrandizement!
But to the point. What is it that's desired of me?
QUESTENBERG.
First, his imperial majesty hath willed
That without pretexts of delay the army
Evacuate Bohemia.
WALLENSTEIN.
In this season?
And to what quarter wills the emperor
That we direct our course?
QUESTENBERG.
To the enemy.
His majesty resolves, that Regensburg
Be purified from the enemy ere Easter,
That Lutheranism may be no longer preached
In that cathedral, nor heretical
Defilement desecrate the celebration
Of that pure festival.
WALLENSTEIN.
My generals,
Can this be realized?
ILLO.
'Tis not possible.
BUTLER.
It can't be realized.
QUESTENBERG.
The emperor
Already hath commanded Colonel Suys
To advance towards Bavaria.
WALLENSTEIN.
What did Suys?
QUESTENBERG.
That which his duty prompted. He advanced.
WALLENSTEIN.
What! he advanced? And I, his general,
Had given him orders, peremptory orders
Not to desert his station! Stands it thus
With my authority? Is this the obedience
Due to my office, which being thrown aside,
No war can be conducted? Chieftains, speak
You be the judges, generals. What deserves
That officer who, of his oath neglectful,
Is guilty of contempt of orders?
ILLO.
Death.
WALLENSTEIN (raising his voice, as all but ILLO had remained silent
and seemingly scrupulous).
Count Piccolomini! what has he deserved?
ISOLANI.
Death.
BUTLER.
Death, by the laws of war.
WALLENSTEIN.
To this the law condemns him, and not I.
And if I show him favor, 'twill arise
From the reverence that I owe my emperor.
QUESTENBERG.
If so, I can say nothing further--here!
WALLENSTEIN.
I accepted the command but on conditions!
And this the first, that to the diminution
Of my authority no human being,
Not even the emperor's self, should be entitled
To do aught, or to say aught, with the army.
If I stand warranter of the event,
Placing my honor and my head in pledge,
Needs must I have full mastery in all
The means thereto. What rendered this Gustavus
Resistless, and unconquered upon earth?
This--that he was the monarch in his army!
A monarch, one who is indeed a monarch,
Was never yet subdued but by his equal.
But to the point! The best is yet to come,
Attend now, generals!
QUESTENBERG.
The Prince Cardinal
Begins his route at the approach of spring
From the Milanese; and leads a Spanish army
Through Germany into the Netherlands.
That he may march secure and unimpeded,
'Tis the emperor's will you grant him a detachment
Of eight horse-regiments from the army here.
WALLENSTEIN.
Yes, yes! I understand! Eight regiments! Well,
Right well concerted, Father Lanormain!
Eight thousand horse! Yes, yes! 'tis as it should be
I see it coming.
QUESTENBERG.
There is nothing coming.
All stands in front: the counsel of state-prudence,
The dictate of necessity!
WALLENSTEIN.
What then?
What, my lord envoy? May I not be suffered
To understand that folks are tired of seeing
The sword's hilt in my grasp, and that your court
Snatch eagerly at this pretence, and use
The Spanish title, and drain off my forces,
To lead into the empire a new army
Unsubjected to my control? To throw me
Plumply aside,--I am still too powerful for you
To venture that. My stipulation runs,
That all the imperial forces shall obey me
Where'er the German is the native language.
Of Spanish troops and of prince cardinals,
That take their route as visitors, through the empire,
There stands no syllable in my stipulation.
No syllable! And so the politic court
Steals in on tiptoe, and creeps round behind it;
First makes me weaker, then to be dispensed with,
Till it dares strike at length a bolder blow,
And make short work with me.
What need of all these crooked ways, lord envoy?
Straightforward, man! his compact with me pinches
The emperor. He would that I moved off!
Well! I will gratify him!
[Here there commences an agitation among the generals,
which increases continually.
It grieves me for my noble officers' sakes;
I see not yet by what means they will come at
The moneys they have advanced, or how obtain
The recompense their services demand.
Still a new leader brings new claimants forward,
And prior merit superannuates quickly.
There serve here many foreigners in the army,
And were the man in all else brave and gallant,
I was not wont to make nice scrutiny
After his pedigree or catechism.
This will be otherwise i' the time to come.
Well; me no longer it concerns.
[He seats himself.
Forbid it, Heaven, that it should come to this!
Our troops will swell in dreadful fermentation--
The emperor is abused--it cannot be.
ISOLANI.
It cannot be; all goes to instant wreck.
WALLENSTEIN.
Thou hast said truly, faithful Isolani!
What we with toil and foresight have built up
Will go to wreck--all go to instant wreck.
What then? Another chieftain is soon found,
Another army likewise (who dares doubt it?)
Will flock from all sides to the emperor,
At the first beat of his recruiting drum.
TERZKY.
Away! let us away! in the antechamber
Find we the others.
[They go.
WALLENSTEIN.
A salutary counsel--Thou, Octavio!
Wilt answer for the safety of our guest.
Farewell, von Questenberg!
[QUESTENBURG is about to speak.
Nay, not a word.
Not one word more of that detested subject!
You have performed your duty. We know now
To separate the office from the man.
GOETZ.
Where's he who means to rob us of our general?
TIEFENBACH (at the same time).
What are we forced to bear? That thou wilt leave us?
[While all are going off the stage, the curtain drops.
ACT III.
SCENE I.
A Small Chamber.
TERZKY.
Now for this evening's business! How intend you
To manage with the generals at the banquet?
ILLO.
Attend! We frame a formal declaration,
Wherein we to the duke consign ourselves
Collectively, to be and to remain
His, both with life and limb, and not to spare
The last drop of our blood for him, provided,
So doing we infringe no oath or duty
We may be under to the emperor. Mark!
This reservation we expressly make
In a particular clause, and save the conscience.
Now hear! this formula so framed and worded
Will be presented to them for perusal
Before the banquet. No one will find in it
Cause of offence or scruple. Hear now further!
After the feast, when now the vapering wine
Opens the heart, and shuts the eyes, we let
A counterfeited paper, in the which
This one particular clause has been left out,
Go round for signatures.
TERZKY.
How! think you then
That they'll believe themselves bound by an oath,
Which we have tricked them into by a juggle?
ILLO.
We shall have caught and caged them! Let them then
Beat their wings bare against the wires, and rave
Loud as they may against our treachery;
At court their signatures will be believed
Far more than their most holy affirmations.
Traitors they are, and must be; therefore wisely
Will make a virtue of necessity.
TERZKY.
Well, well, it shall content me: let but something
Be done, let only some decisive blow
Set us in motion.
ILLO.
Besides, 'tis of subordinate importance
How, or how far, we may thereby propel
The generals. 'Tis enough that we persuade
The duke that they are his. Let him but act
In his determined mood, as if he had them,
And he will have them. Where he plunges in,
He makes a whirlpool, and all stream down to it.
TERZKY.
His policy is such a labyrinth,
That many a time when I have thought myself
Close at his side, he's gone at once, and left me
Ignorant of the ground where I was standing.
He lends the enemy his ear, permits me
To write to them, to Arnheim; to Sesina
Himself comes forward blank and undisguised;
Talks with us by the hour about his plans,
And when I think I have him--off at once--
He has slipped from me, and appears as if
He had no scheme, but to retain his place.
ILLO.
He give up his old plans! I'll tell you, friend!
His soul is occupied with nothing else,
Even in his sleep--they are his thoughts, his dreams,
That day by day he questions for this purpose
The motions of the planets----
TERZKY.
Ah! you know
This night, that is now coming, he with Seni,
Shuts himself up in the astrological tower
To make joint observations--for I hear
It is to be a night of weight and crisis;
And something great, and of long expectation,
Takes place in heaven.
ILLO.
O that it might take place
On earth! The generals are full of zeal,
And would with ease be led to anything
Rather than lose their chief. Observe, too, that
We have at last a fair excuse before us
To form a close alliance 'gainst the court,
Yet innocent its title, bearing simply
That we support him only in command.
But in the ardor of pursuit thou knowest
Men soon forget the goal from which they started.
The object I've in view is that the prince
Shall either find them, or believe them ready
For every hazard. Opportunity
Will tempt him on. Be the great step once taken,
Which at Vienna's court can ne'er be pardoned,
The force of circumstances will lead him onward
The farther still and farther. 'Tis the choice
That makes him undecisive--come but need,
And all his powers and wisdom will come with it.
TERZKY.
'Tis this alone the enemy awaits
To change their chief and join their force with ours.
ILLO.
Come! be we bold and make despatch. The work
In this next day or two must thrive and grow
More than it has for years. And let but only
Things first turn up auspicious here below--
Mark what I say--the right stars, too, will show themselves.
Come to the generals. All is in the glow,
And must be beaten while 'tis malleable.
TERZKY.
Do you go thither, Illo? I must stay
And wait here for the Countess Terzky. Know
That we, too, are not idle. Break one string,
A second is in readiness.
ILLO.
Yes! yes!
I saw your lady smile with such sly meaning.
What's in the wind?
TERZKY.
A secret. Hush! she comes.
[Exit ILLO.
SCENE II.
TERZKY.
Well--is she coming? I can keep him back
No longer.
COUNTESS.
She will be here instantly,
You only send him.
TERZKY.
I am not quite certain,
I must confess it, countess, whether or not
We are earning the duke's thanks hereby. You know
No ray has broke out from him on this point.
You have o'erruled me, and yourself know best
How far you dare proceed.
COUNTESS.
I take it on me.
[Talking to herself while she is advancing.
Here's no heed of full powers and commissions;
My cloudy duke! we understand each other--
And without words. What could I not unriddle,
Wherefore the daughter should be sent for hither,
Why first he, and no other should be chosen
To fetch her hither? This sham of betrothing her
To a bridegroom [9], whom no one knows--No! no!
This may blind others! I see through thee, brother!
But it beseems thee not to draw a card
At such a game. Not yet! It all remains
Mutely delivered up to my finessing.
Well--thou shalt not have been deceived, Duke Friedland,
In her who is thy sister.
SERVANT (enters).
The commanders!
[Exit.
COUNTESS.
Take care of your guests! Go, send him hither.
TERZKY.
All rests upon his undersigning.
TERZKY.
Instantly! instantly!
[To the COUNTESS.
And let him not
Stay here too long. It might awake suspicion
In the old man----
COUNTESS.
A truce with your precautions!
COUNTESS.
Look but somewhat narrowly
In yonder corner, lest perhaps she lie
Concealed behind that screen.
MAX.
There lie her gloves!
COUNTESS.
And this the thanks you give me for my trouble?
MAX.
O, if you felt the oppression at my heart!
Since we've been here, so to constrain myself
With such poor stealth to hazard words and glances.
These, these are not my habits!
COUNTESS.
You have still
Many new habits to acquire, young friend!
But on this proof of your obedient temper
I must continue to insist; and only
On this condition can I play the agent
For your concerns.
MAX.
But wherefore comes she not?
Where is she?
COUNTESS.
Into my hands you must place it
Whole and entire. Whom could you find, indeed,
More zealously affected to your interest?
No soul on earth must know it--not your father;
He must not, above all.
MAX.
Alas! what danger?
Here is no face on which I might concentre
All the enraptured soul stirs up within me.
O lady! tell me, is all changed around me?
Or is it only I?
I find myself,
As among strangers! Not a trace is left
Of all my former wishes, former joys.
Where has it vanished to? There was a time
When even, methought, with such a world as this,
I was not discontented. Now how flat!
How stale! No life, no bloom, no flavor in it!
My comrades are intolerable to me.
My father--even to him I can say nothing.
My arms, my military duties--O!
They are such wearying toys!
COUNTESS.
But gentle friend!
I must entreat it of your condescension,
You would be pleased to sink your eye, and favor
With one short glance or two this poor stale world,
Where even now much, and of much moment,
Is on the eve of its completion.
MAX.
Something,
I can't but know is going forward round me.
I see it gathering, crowding, driving on,
In wild uncustomary movements. Well,
In due time, doubtless, it will reach even me.
Where think you I have been, dear lady? Nay,
No raillery. The turmoil of the camp,
The spring-tide of acquaintance rolling in,
The pointless jest, the empty conversation,
Oppressed and stifled me. I gasped for air--
I could not breathe--I was constrained to fly,
To seek a silence out for my full heart;
And a pure spot wherein to feel my happiness.
No smiling, countess! In the church was I.
There is a cloister here "To the heaven's gate," [10]
Thither I went, there found myself alone.
Over the altar hung a holy mother;
A wretched painting 'twas, yet 'twas the friend
That I was seeking in this moment. Ah,
How oft have I beheld that glorious form
In splendor, 'mid ecstatic worshippers;
Yet, still it moved me not! and now at once
Was my devotion cloudless as my love.
COUNTESS.
Enjoy your fortune and felicity!
Forget the world around you. Meantime, friendship
Shall keep strict vigils for you, anxious, active.
Only be manageable when that friendship
Points you the road to full accomplishment.
MAX.
But where abides she then? Oh, golden time
Of travel, when each morning sun united
And but the coming night divided us;
Then ran no sand, then struck no hour for us,
And time, in our excess of happiness,
Seemed on its course eternal to stand still.
Oh, he hath fallen from out his heaven of bliss
Who can descend to count the changing hours,
No clock strikes ever for the happy!
COUNTESS.
How long is it since you declared your passion?
MAX.
This morning did I hazard the first word.
COUNTESS.
This morning the first time in twenty days?
MAX.
'Twas at that hunting-castle, betwixt here
And Nepomuck, where you had joined us, and
That was the last relay of the whole journey;
In a balcony we were standing mute,
And gazing out upon the dreary field
Before us the dragoons were riding onward,
The safeguard which the duke had sent us--heavy;
The inquietude of parting lay upon me,
And trembling ventured at length these words:
This all reminds me, noble maiden, that
To-day I must take leave of my good fortune.
A few hours more, and you will find a father,
Will see yourself surrounded by new friends,
And I henceforth shall be but as a stranger,
Lost in the many--"Speak with my Aunt Terzky!"
With hurrying voice she interrupted me.
She faltered. I beheld a glowing red
Possess her beautiful cheeks, and from the ground
Raised slowly up her eye met mine--no longer
Did I control myself.
[The Princess THEKLA appears at the door, and remains standing,
observed by the COUNTESS, but not by PICCOLOMINI.
With instant boldness
I caught her in my arms, my lips touched hers;
There was a rustling in the room close by;
It parted us--'Twas you. What since has happened
You know.
MAX.
Of your secret?
COUNTESS.
Why, yes! When in the instant after you
I stepped into the room, and found my niece there;
What she in this first moment of the heart
Taken with surprise----
SCENE IV.
COUNTESS.
Yes; and soon must go,
Where have you stayed so long?
THEKLA.
Alas! my mother,
Wept so again! and I--I see her suffer,
Yet cannot keep myself from being happy.
MAX.
Now once again I have courage to look on you.
To-day at noon I could not.
The dazzle of the jewels that played round you
Hid the beloved from me.
THEKLA.
Then you saw me
With your eye only--and not with your heart?
MAX.
This morning, when I found you in the circle
Of all your kindred, in your father's arms,
Beheld myself an alien in this circle,
O! what an impulse felt I in that moment
To fall upon his neck, to call him father!
But his stern eye o'erpowered the swelling passion,
It dared not but be silent. And those brilliants,
That like a crown of stars enwreathed your brows,
They scared me too! O wherefore, wherefore should be
At the first meeting spread as 'twere the ban
Of excommunication round you,--wherefore
Dress up the angel as for sacrifice.
And cast upon the light and joyous heart
The mournful burden of his station? Fitly
May love dare woo for love; but such a splendor
Might none but monarchs venture to approach.
THEKLA.
Hush! not a word more of this mummery;
You see how soon the burden is thrown off.
[To the COUNTESS.
He is not in spirits. Wherefore is he not?
'Tis you, aunt, that have made him all so gloomy!
He had quite another nature on the journey--
So calm, so bright, so joyous eloquent.
[To MAX.
It was my wish to see you always so,
And never otherwise!
MAX.
You find yourself
In your great father's arms, beloved lady!
All in a new world, which does homage to you,
And which, were't only by its novelty,
Delights your eye.
THEKLA.
Yes; I confess to you
That many things delight me here: this camp,
This motley stage of warriors, which renews
So manifold the image of my fancy,
And binds to life, binds to reality,
What hitherto had but been present to me
As a sweet dream!
MAX.
Alas! not so to me.
It makes a dream of my reality.
Upon some island in the ethereal heights
I've lived for these last days. This mass of men
Forces me down to earth. It is a bridge
That, reconducting to my former life,
Divides me and my heaven.
THEKLA.
The game of life
Looks cheerful, when one carries in one's heart
The unalienable treasure. 'Tis a game,
Which, having once reviewed, I turn more joyous
Back to my deeper and appropriate bliss.
[Breaking off, and in a sportive tone.
In this short time that I've been present here.
What new unheard-of things have I not seen;
And yet they all must give place to the wond
Which this mysterious castle guards.
COUNTESS (recollecting).
And what
Can this be then? Methought I was acquainted
With all the dusky corners of this house.
THEKLA (smiling).
Ay, but the road thereto is watched by spirits,
Two griffins still stand sentry at the door.
COUNTESS (laughs).
The astrological tower! How happens it
That this same sanctuary, whose access
Is to all others so impracticable,
Opens before you even at your approach?
THEKLA.
A dwarfish old man with a friendly face
And snow-white hairs, whose gracious services
Were mine at first sight, opened me the doors.
MAX.
That is the duke's astrologer, old Seni.
THEKLA.
He questioned me on many points; for instance,
When I was born, what month, and on what day,
Whether by day or in the night.
COUNTESS.
He wished
To erect a figure for your horoscope.
THEKLA.
My hand too he examined, shook his head
With much sad meaning, and the lines, methought,
Did not square over truly with his wishes.
COUNTESS.
Well, princess, and what found you in this tower?
My highest privilege has been to snatch
A side-glance, and away!
THEKLA.
It was a strange
Sensation that came o'er me, when at first
From the broad sunshine I stepped in; and now
The narrowing line of daylight, that ran after
The closing door, was gone; and all about me
'Twas pale and dusky night, with many shadows
Fantastically cast. Here six or seven
Colossal statues, and all kings, stood round me
In a half-circle. Each one in his hand
A sceptre bore, and on his head a star;
And in the tower no other light was there
But from these stars all seemed to come from them.
"These are the planets," said that low old man,
"They govern worldly fates, and for that cause
Are imaged here as kings. He farthest from you,
Spiteful and cold, an old man melancholy,
With bent and yellow forehead, he is Saturn.
He opposite, the king with the red light,
An armed man for the battle, that is Mars;
And both these bring but little luck to man."
But at his side a lovely lady stood,
The star upon her head was soft and bright,
Oh, that was Venus, the bright star of joy.
And the left hand, lo! Mercury, with wings
Quite in the middle glittered silver bright.
A cheerful man, and with a monarch's mien;
And this was Jupiter, my father's star
And at his side I saw the Sun and Moon.
MAX.
Oh, never rudely will I blame his faith
In the might of stars and angels. 'Tis not merely
The human being's pride that peoples space
With life and mystical predominance;
Since likewise for the stricken heart of love
This visible nature, and this common world,
Is all too narrow; yea, a deeper import
Lurks in the legend told my infant years
Than lies upon that truth, we live to learn.
For fable is love's world, his home, his birth-place;
Delightedly dwells he among fays and talismans,
And spirits; and delightedly believes
Divinities, being himself divine
The intelligible forms of ancient poets,
The fair humanities of old religion,
The power, the beauty, and the majesty,
That had her haunts in dale, or piny mountain,
Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring,
Or chasms, and watery depths, all these have vanished.
They live no longer in the faith of reason!
But still the heart doth need a language, still
Doth the old instinct bring back the old names;
And to yon starry world they now are gone,
Spirits or gods, that used to share this earth
With man as with their friend [11], and to the lover
Yonder they move, from yonder visible sky
Shoot influence down: and even at this day
'This Jupiter who brings whate'er is great,
And Venus who brings everything that's fair!
THEKLA.
And if this be the science of the stars,
I, too, with glad and zealous industry,
Will learn acquaintance with this cheerful faith.
It is a gentle and affectionate thought,
That in immeasurable heights above us,
At our first birth, the wreath of love was woven,
With sparkling stars for flowers.
COUNTESS.
Not only roses
And thorns too hath the heaven, and well for you
Leave they your wreath of love inviolate:
What Venus twined, the bearer of glad fortune,
The sullen orb of Mars soon tears to pieces.
MAX.
Soon will this gloomy empire reach its close.
Blest be the general's zeal: into the laurel
Will he inweave the olive-branch, presenting
Peace to the shouting nations. Then no wish
Will have remained for his great heart. Enough
Has he performed for glory, and can now
Live for himself and his. To his domains will
He retire; he has a stately seat
Of fairest view at Gitschin, Reichenberg,
And Friedland Castle, both lie pleasantly;
Even to the foot of the huge mountains here
Stretches the chase and covers of his forests:
His ruling passion to create the splendid
He can indulge without restraint; can give
A princely patronage to every art,
And to all worth a sovereign's protection.
Can build, can plant, can watch the starry courses----
COUNTESS.
Yet I would have you look, and look again,
Before you lay aside your arms, young friend!
A gentle bride, as she is, is well worth it,
That you should woo and win her with the sword.
MAX.
Oh, that the sword could win her!
COUNTESS.
What was that?
Did you hear nothing? Seemed as if I heard
Tumult and larum in the banquet-room.
[Exit COUNTESS.
SCENE V.
MAX.
Impossible!
THEKLA.
Trust no one here but me. I saw at once,
They had a purpose.
MAX.
Purpose! but what purpose?
And how can we be instrumental to it?
THEKLA.
I know no more than you; but yet believe me
There's some design in this; to make us happy,
To realize our union--trust me, love!
They but pretend to wish it.
MAX.
But these Terzkys--
Why use we them at all? Why not your mother?
Excellent creature! She deserves from us
A full and filial confidence.
THEKLA.
She doth love you,
Doth rate you high before all others--but--
But such a secret--she would never have
The courage to conceal it from my father.
For her own peace of mind we must preserve it
A secret from her too.
MAX.
Why any secret?
I love not secrets. Mark what I will do.
I'll throw me at your father's feet--let him
Decide upon my fortune! He is true,
He wears no mask--he hates all crooked ways--
He is so good, so noble!
MAX.
You knew him only from this morn! But I
Have lived ten years already in his presence;
And who knows whether in this very moment
He is not merely waiting for us both
To own our loves in order to unite us?
You are silent!
You look at me with such a hopelessness!
What have you to object against your father?
THEKLA.
I? Nothing. Only he's so occupied--
He has no leisure time to think about
The happiness of us two.
[Taking his hand tenderly.
Follow me
Let us not place too great a faith in men.
These Terzkys--we will still be grateful to them
For every kindness, but not trust them further
Than they deserve;--and in all else rely
On our own hearts!
MAX.
O! shall we e'er be happy?
THEKLA.
Are we not happy now? Art thou not mine?
Am I not thine? There lives within my soul
A lofty courage--'tis love gives it me!
I ought to be less open--ought to hide
My heart more from thee--so decorum dictates:
But where in this place couldst thou seek for truth,
If in my mouth thou didst not find it?
We now have met, then let us hold each other
Clasped in a lasting and a firm embrace.
Believe me this was more than their intent.
Then be our loves like some blest relic kept
Within the deep recesses of the heart.
From heaven alone the love has been bestowed,
To heaven alone our gratitude is due;
It can work wonders for us still.
SCENE VI.
THEKLA.
Oh, not yet!
It has been scarce a moment.
COUNTESS.
Ay! Then time
Flies swiftly with your highness, princess niece!
MAX.
There is no hurry, aunt.
COUNTESS.
Away! Away!
The folks begin to miss you. Twice already
His father has asked for him.
THEKLA.
Ha! His father!
COUNTESS.
You understand that, niece!
THEKLA.
Why needs he
To go at all to that society?
'Tis not his proper company. They may
Be worthy men, but he's too young for them;
In brief, he suits not such society.
COUNTESS.
You mean, you'd rather keep him wholly here?
COUNTESS.
What! have you lost your senses, niece?
Count, you remember the conditions. Come!
MAX (to THEKLA).
Lady, I must obey. Fairwell, dear lady!
[THEKLA turns away from him with a quick motion.
What say you then, dear lady?
MAX.
Can I when you are angry----
[He draws up to her, their eyes meet, she stands silent a moment,
then throws herself into his arms; he presses her fast to his heart.
COUNTESS.
Off! Heavens! if any one should come!
Hark! What's that noise! It comes this way. Off!
[MAX. tears himself away out of her arms and goes. The COUNTESS
accompanies him. THEKLA follows him with her eyes at first, walks
restlessly across the room, then stops, and remains standing, lost
in thought. A guitar lies on the table, she seizes it as by a
sudden emotion, and after she has played awhile an irregular and
melancholy symphony, she falls gradually into the music and sings.
SCENE VII.
SCENE VIII.
COUNTESS.
Fie, lady niece! to throw yourself upon him
Like a poor gift to one who cares not for it,
And so must be flung after him! For you,
Duke Friedland's only child, I should have thought
It had been more beseeming to have shown yourself
More chary of your person.
THEKLA (rising).
And what mean you?
DUCHESS.
I mean, niece, that you should not have forgotten
Who you are, and who he is. But perchance
That never once occurred to you.
THEKLA.
What then?
COUNTESS.
That you're the daughter of the Prince Duke Friedland.
THEKLA.
Well, and what farther?
DUCHESS.
What? A pretty question!
THEKLA.
He was born that which we have but become.
He's of an ancient Lombard family,
Son of a reigning princess.
COUNTESS.
Are you dreaming?
Talking in sleep? An excellent jest, forsooth!
We shall no doubt right courteously entreat him
To honor with his hand the richest heiress
In Europe.
THEKLA.
That will not be necessary.
COUNTESS.
Methinks 'twere well, though, not to run the hazard.
THEHLA.
His father loves him; Count Octavio
Will interpose no difficulty----
COUNTESS.
His!
His father! His! But yours, niece, what of yours?
THERLA.
Why, I begin to think you fear his father,
So anxiously you hide it from the man!
His father, his, I mean.
THEBLA.
Are you then wounded? O, be friends with me!
COUNTESS.
You hold your game for won already. Do not
Triumph too soon!
THEKLA (interrupting her, and attempting to soothe her).
Nay now, be friends with me.
COUNTESS.
It is not yet so far gone.
THEKLA.
I believe you.
COUNTESS.
Did you suppose your father had laid out
His most important life in toils of war,
Denied himself each quiet earthly bliss,
Had banished slumbers from his tent, devoted
His noble head to care, and for this only,
To make a happier pair of you? At length
To draw you from your convent, and conduct
In easy triumph to your arms the man
That chanced to please your eyes! All this, methinks,
He might have purchased at a cheaper rate.
THEKLA.
That which he did not plant for me might yet
Bear me fair fruitage of its own accord.
And if my friendly and affectionate fate,
Out of his fearful and enormous being,
Will but prepare the joys of life for me----
COUNTESS.
Thou seest it with a lovelorn maiden's eyes,
Cast thine eye round, bethink thee who thou art;--
Into no house of joyance hast thou stepped,
For no espousals dost thou find the walls
Decked out, no guests the nuptial garland wearing;
Here is no splendor but of arms. Or thinkest thou
That all these thousands are here congregated
To lead up the long dances at thy wedding!
Thou see'st thy father's forehead full of thought,
Thy mother's eye in tears: upon the balance
Lies the great destiny of all our house.
Leave now the puny wish, the girlish feeling;
Oh, thrust it far behind thee! Give thou proof
Thou'rt the daughter of the mighty--his
Who where he moves creates the wonderful.
Not to herself the woman must belong,
Annexed and bound to alien destinies.
But she performs the best part, she the wisest,
Who can transmute the alien into self,
Meet and disarm necessity by choice;
And what must be, take freely to her heart,
And bear and foster it with mother's love.
THEKLA.
Such ever was my lesson in the convent.
I had no loves, no wishes, knew myself
Only as his--his daughter--his, the mighty!
His fame, the echo of whose blast drove to me
From the far distance, weakened in my soul
No other thought than this--I am appointed
To offer myself up in passiveness to him.
COUNTESS.
That is thy fate. Mould thou thy wishes to it--
I and thy mother gave thee the example.
THEKLA.
My fate hath shown me him, to whom behoves it
That I should offer up myself. In gladness
Him will I follow.
COUNTESS.
Not thy fate hath shown him!
Thy heart, say rather--'twas thy heart, my child!
THEKLA.
Faith hath no voice but the heart's impulses.
I am all his! His present--his alone.
Is this new life, which lives in me? He hath
A right to his own creature. What was I
Ere his fair love infused a soul into me?
COUNTESS.
Thou wouldst oppose thy father, then, should he
Have otherwise determined with thy person?
[THEKLA remains silent. The COUNTESS continues.
Thou meanest to force him to thy liking? Child,
His name is Friedland.
THEKLA.
My name too is Friedland.
He shall have found a genuine daughter in me.
COUNTESS.
What! he has vanquished all impediment,
And in the wilful mood of his own daughter
Shall a new struggle rise for him? Child! child!
As yet thou hast seen thy father's smiles alone;
The eye of his rage thou hast not seen. Dear child,
I will not frighten thee. To that extreme,
I trust it ne'er shall come. His will is yet
Unknown to me; 'tis possible his aims
May have the same direction as thy wish.
But this can never, never be his will,
That thou, the daughter of his haughty fortunes,
Shouldest e'er demean thee as a lovesick maiden
And like some poor cost-nothing, fling thyself
Toward the man, who, if that high prize ever
Be destined to await him, yet with sacrifices
The highest love can bring, must pay for it.
[Exit COUNTESS.
SCENE IX.
THEKLA (who during the last speech had been standing evidently
lost in her reflections).
I thank thee for the hint. It turns
My sad presentiment to certainty.
And it is so! Not one friend have we here,
Not one true heart! we've nothing but ourselves!
Oh, she said rightly--no auspicious signs
Beam on this covenant of our affections.
This is no theatre where hope abides
The dull thick noise of war alone stirs here,
And love himself, as he were armed in steel,
Steps forth, and girds him for the strife of death.
[Music from the banquet-room is heard.
There's a dark spirit walking in our house.
And swiftly will the destiny close on us.
It drove me hither from my calm asylum,
It mocks my soul with charming witchery,
It lures me forward in a seraph's shape,
I see it near, I see it nearer floating,
It draws, it pulls me with a godlike power--
And lo! the abyss--and thither am I moving--
I have no power within me not to move!
[The music from the banquet-room becomes louder.
Oh, when a house is, doomed in fire to perish,
Many and dark Heaven drives his clouds together,
Yea, shoots his lightnings down from sunny heights,
Flames burst from out the subterraneous chasms,
And fiends and angels, mingling in their fury,
Sling firebrands at the burning edifice. [13]
[Exit THEKLA.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
ISOLANI.
Here, brother, what we love! Why, where hast been?
Off to thy place--quick! Terzky here has given
The mother's holiday wine up to free booty.
Here it goes on as at the Heidelberg castle.
Already hast thou lost the best. They're giving
At yonder table ducal crowns in shares;
There Sternberg's lands and chattels are put up,
With Eggenberg's, Stawata's, Lichtenstein's,
And all the great Bohemian feudalities.
Be nimble, lad! and something may turn up
For thee, who knows? off--to thy place! quick! march!
TIEFENBACH and GOETZ (call out from the second and third tables).
Count Piccolomini!
TERZKY.
Stop, ye shall have him in an instant. Read
This oath here, whether as 'tis here set forth,
The wording satisfies you. They've all read it,
Each in his turn, and each one will subscribe
His individual signature.
MAX. (reads).
"Ingratis servire nefas."
ISOLANI.
That sounds to my ears very much like Latin,
And being interpreted, pray what may it mean?
TERZKY.
No honest man will serve a thankless master.
TERZKY.
Now! are you willing to subscribe to this paper?
ISOLANI.
Why should he not? All officers of honor
Can do it, ay, must do it. Pen and ink here!
TERZKY.
Nay, let it rest till after meal.
TERZKY, NEUMANN.
NEUMANN.
I have copied it
Letter by letter, line by line; no eye
Would e'er discover other difference,
Save only the omission of that clause,
According to your excellency's order.
TERZKY.
Right I lay it yonder and away with this--
It has performed its business--to the fire with it.
[NEUMANN lays the copy on the table, and steps back again
to the side-table.
SCENE III.
ILLO.
How goes it with young Piccolomini!
TERZKY.
All right, I think. He has started no object.
ILLO.
He is the only one I fear about--
He and his father. Have an eye on both!
TERZKY.
How looks it at your table: you forget not
To keep them warm and stirring?
ILLO.
Oh, quite cordial,
They are quite cordial in the scheme. We have them
And 'tis as I predicted too. Already
It is the talk, not merely to maintain
The duke in station. "Since we're once for all
Together and unanimous, why not,"
Says Montecuculi, "ay, why not onward,
And make conditions with the emperor
There in his own Venice?" Trust me, count,
Were it not for these said Piccolomini,
We might have spared ourselves the cheat.
TERZEY.
And Butler?
How goes it there? Hush!
SCENE IV.
BUTLER.
Don't disturb yourselves;
Field-marshal, I have understood you perfectly.
Good luck be to the scheme; and as to me,
[With an air of mystery.
You may depend upon me.
BUTLER.
With or without the clause, all one to me!
You understand me! My fidelity
The duke may put to any proof--I'm with him
Tell him so! I'm the emperor's officer,
As long as 'tis his pleasure to remain
The emperor's general! and Friedland's servant,
As soon as it shall please him to become
His own lord.
TERZKY.
You would make a good exchange.
No stern economist, no Ferdinand,
Is he to whom you plight your services.
ILLO.
Who is ignorant,
That the whole army looks to Colonel Butler
As to a light that moves before them?
BUTLER.
Ay?
Then I repent me not of that fidelity
Which for the length of forty years I held,
If in my sixtieth year my good old name
Can purchase for me a revenge so full.
Start not at what I say, sir generals!
My real motives--they concern not you.
And you yourselves, I trust, could not expect
That this your game had crooked my judgment--or
That fickleness, quick blood, or such like cause,
Has driven the old man from the track of honor,
Which he so long had trodden. Come, my friends!
I'm not thereto determined with less firmness,
Because I know and have looked steadily
At that on which I have determined.
ILLO.
Say,
And speak roundly, what are we to deem you?
BUTLER.
A friend! I give you here my hand! I'm yours
With all I have. Not only men, but money
Will the duke want. Go, tell him, sirs!
I've earned and laid up somewhat in his service,
I lend it him; and is he my survivor,
It has been already long ago bequeathed to him;
He is my heir. For me, I stand alone
Here in the world; naught know I of the feeling
That binds the husband to a wife and children.
My name dies with me, my existence ends.
ILLO.
'Tis not your money that he needs--a heart
Like yours weighs tons of gold down, weighs down millions!
BUTLER.
I came a simple soldier's boy from Ireland
To Prague--and with a master, whom I buried.
From lowest stable duty I climbed up,
Such was the fate of war, to this high rank,
The plaything of a whimsical good fortune.
And Wallenstein too is a child of luck:
I love a fortune that is like my own.
ILLO.
All powerful souls have kindred with each other.
BUTLER.
This is an awful moment! to the brave,
To the determined, an auspicious moment.
The Prince of Weimar arms, upon the Maine,
To found a mighty dukedom. He of Halberstadt,
That Mansfeldt, wanted but a longer life
To have marked out with his good sword a lordship
That should reward his courage. Who of these
Equals our Friedland? There is nothing, nothing
So high, but he may set the ladder to it!
TERZKY.
That's spoken like a man!
BUTLER.
Do you secure the Spaniard and Italian--
I'll be your warrant for the Scotchman Lesly.
Come to the company!
TERZKY.
Where is the master of the cellar? Ho!
Let the best wines come up. Ho! cheerly, boy!
Luck comes to-day, so give her hearty welcome.
SCENE V.
MASTER OF THE CELLAR. The best wine! Oh, if my old mistress, his lady
mother, could but see these wild goings on she would turn herself round
in her grave. Yes, yes, sir officer! 'tis all down the hill with this
noble house! no end, no moderation! And this marriage with the duke's
sister, a splendid connection, a very splendid connection! but I will
tell you, sir officer, it looks no good.
NEUMANN. Heaven forbid! Why, at this very moment the whole prospect is
in bud and blossom!
MASTER OF THE CELLAR. You think so? Well, well! much may be said on
that head.
MASTER OF THE CELLAR. Now, sir lieutenant, if this aint the seventieth
flask----
FIRST SERVANT. Why, the reason is, that German lord, Tiefenbach, sits at
that table.
RUNNER (comes). The great service-cup is wanted, sir, that rich gold cup
with the Bohemian arms on it. The count says you know which it is.
MASTER OF THE CELLAR. Ay! that was made for Frederick's coronation by
the artist William--there was not such another prize in the whole booty
at Prague.
MASTER OF THE CELLAR (shaking his head while he fetches and rinses the
cups). This will be something for the tale-bearers--this goes to Vienna.
NEUMANN. Permit me to look at it. Well, this is a cup indeed! How
heavy! as well it may be, being all gold. And what neat things are
embossed on it! how natural and elegant they look! There, on the first
quarter, let me see. That proud amazon there on horseback, she that is
taking a leap over the crosier and mitres, and carries on a wand a hat
together with a banner, on which there's a goblet represented. Can you
tell me what all this signifies?
MASTER OF THE CELLAR. The woman you see there on horseback is the Free
Election of the Bohemian Crown. That is signified by the round hat and
by that fiery steed on which she is riding. The hat is the pride of man;
for he who cannot keep his hat on before kings and emperors is no free
man.
MASTER OF THE CELLAR. The cup signifies the freedom of the Bohemian
Church, as it was in our forefathers' times. Our forefathers in the wars
of the Hussites forced from the pope this noble privilege; for the pope,
you know, will not grant the cup to any layman. Your true Moravian
values nothing beyond the cup; it is his costly jewel, and has cost the
Bohemians their precious blood in many and many a battle.
NEUMANN. And what says that chart that hangs in the air there, over it
all?
NEUMANN. Why, my good Master of the Cellar! you are deep read in the
chronicles of your country.
MASTER OF THE CELLAR. So were my forefathers, and for that reason were
they minstrels, and served under Procopius and Ziska. Peace be with
their ashes! Well, well! they fought for a good cause though. There!
carry it up!
NEUMANN. Stay! let me but look at this second quarter. Look there!
That is, when at Prague Castle, the imperial counsellors, Martinitz and
Stawata, were hurled down head over heels. 'Tis even so! there stands
Count Thur who commands it.
MASTER OF THE CELLAR. Oh, let me never more hear of that day. It was
the three-and-twentieth of May in the year of our Lord one thousand six
hundred and eighteen. It seems to me as it were but yesterday--from that
unlucky day it all began, all the heartaches of the country. Since that
day it is now sixteen years, and there has never once been peace on the
earth.
[Health drunk aloud at the second table.
SECOND SERVANT (comes in running). Did you hear? They have drunk the
Prince of Weimar's health.
SECOND SERVANT. Just before, when Count Deodati gave out the emperor's
health, they were all as mum as a nibbling mouse.
MASTER OF THE CELLAR. Po, po! When the wine goes in strange things come
out. A good servant hears, and hears not! You should be nothing but
eyes and feet, except when you are called to.
SECOND SERVANT.
[To the RUNNER, to whom he gives secretly a flask of wine, keeping
his eye on the MASTER OF THE CELLAR, standing between him and the
RUNNER.
Quick, Thomas! before the Master of the Cellar runs this way; 'tis a
flask of Frontignac! Snapped it up at the third table. Canst go off
with it?
THIRD SERVANT (aside to the FIRST). Be on the hark, Jack! that we may
have right plenty to tell to Father Quivoga. He will give us right
plenty of absolution in return for it.
MASTER OF THE CELLAR (to NEUMANN). Who, pray, may that swarthy man be,
he with the cross, that is chatting so confidently with Esterhats?
NEUMANN. Ay, he too is one of those to whom they confide too much. He
calls himself Maradas; a Spaniard is he.
NEUMANN. Fy, fy! you should not say so, friend. There are among them
our very best generals, and those on whom the duke at this moment relies
the most.
MASTER OF THE CELLAR.
[Taking the flask out of RUNNER'S pocket.
My son, it will be broken to pieces in your pocket.
[TERZKY hurries in, fetches away the paper, and calls to a servant
for pen and ink, and goes to the back of the stage.
[They rise at all the tables, the SERVANTS hurry off the front of
the stage to the tables; part of the guests come forward.
SCENE VI.
GOETZ (to TIEFENBACH). Noble brother! (making the usual compliment after
meals).
TIEFENBACH. There was not her like in all Bohemia for setting out a
table.
TERZKY (advances with the paper to ISOLANI). Noble brother; two minutes
longer! Here is something to subscribe.
TERZKY. There is no need. It is the oath which you have already read.
Only a few marks of your pen!
TERKZY. Where's the hurry? Come, one other composing draught. (To the
SERVANTS). Ho!
TERZKY. A thimble-full.
TIEFENBACH (sits down). Pardon me, nobles! This standing does not agree
with me.
ISOLANI (pointing at his corpulence). Poor legs! how should they! Such
an unmerciful load!
[OCTAVIO subscribes his name, and reaches over the paper to TERZKY,
who gives it to ISOLANI; and he goes to the table to sign his name.
TIEFENBACH. 'Twas that war in Pomerania that first brought it on. Out
in all weathers--ice and snow--no help for it. I shall never get the
better of it all the days of my life.
GOETZ. Why, in simple verity, your Swedes make no nice inquiries about
the season.
ISOLANI. The sins of youth! I have already tried the chalybeate waters.
Well--I must bear it.
[The paper comes to TIEFENBACH, who glances over it at the same time
with GOETZ and KOLATTO. MARADAS in the meantime returns to OCTAVIO.
All this takes places, the conversation with BUTLER proceeding
uninterrupted.
[BUTLER bows.
[The paper comes to BUTLER, who goes to the table to subscribe it.
The front of the stage is vacant, so that both the PICCOLOMINIS,
each on the side where he had been from the commencement of the
scene, remain alone.
OCTAVIO (after having some time watched his son in silence, advances
somewhat nearer to him). You were long absent from us, friend!
MAX. You know this crowd and bustle always makes me silent.
OCTAVIO. He was the only one who did not miss you.
ISOLANI (who has been attending to them for some distance steps up).
Well done, father! Rout out his baggage! Beat up his quarters! there is
something there that should not be.
TERZKY (with the paper). Is there none wanting? Have the whole
subscribed?
OCTAVIO. All.
TERZKY (calling aloud). Ho! Who subscribes?
BUTLER (to TERZKY). Count the names. There ought to be just thirty.
ISOLANI. He cannot write; but his cross is a good cross, and is honored
by Jews as well as Christians.
ISOLANI (pointing to MAX.). Look! that is your man, that statue there,
who has had neither eye, ear, nor tongue for us the whole evening.
[MAX. receives the paper from TERZKY, which he looks upon vacantly.
SCENE VII.
To these enter ILLO from the inner room. He has in his hand a
golden service-cup, and is extremely distempered with drinking;
GOETZ and BUTLER follow him, endeavoring to keep him back.
ILLO.
What do you want! Let me go.
ILLO (goes up to OCTAVIO, and shakes him cordially by the hand, and then
drinks). Octavio! I bring this to you! Let all grudge be drowned in
this friendly bowl! I know well enough you never loved me--devil take
me! and I never loved you! I am always even with people in that way!
Let what's past be past--that is, you understand--forgotten! I esteem
you infinitely. (Embracing him repeatedly.) You have not a dearer
friend on earth than I, but that you know. The fellow that cries rogue
to you calls me villain, and I'll strangle him! my dear friend!
TERZKY (whispering to him). Art in thy senses? For heaven's sake, Illo,
think where you are!
ILLO (aloud). What do you mean? There are none but friends here, are
there? (Looks round the whole circle with a jolly and triumphant air.)
Not a sneaker amongst us, thank heaven.
TERZKY (to BUTLER, eagerly). Take him off with you, force him off, I
entreat you, Butler!
ILLO (cordially). A thousand for one. Fill; fill it once more up to the
brim. To this gallant man's health!
ISOLANI (to MAX., who all the while has been staring on the paper with
fixed but vacant eyes). Slow and sure, my noble brother! Hast parsed it
all yet? Some words yet to go through? Ha?
TERZKY, and at the same time ISOLANI. Sign your name. (OCTAVIO directs
his eyes on him with intense anxiety).
ISOLANI. Awake man, awake! Come, thy signature, and have done with it!
What! Thou art the youngest in the whole company, and would be wiser
than all of us together! Look there! thy father has signed; we have all
signed.
ILLO. No! you come not off so! The duke shall learn who are his
friends. (All collect round ILLO and MAX.)
MAX. What my sentiments are towards the duke, the duke knows, every one
knows--what need of this wild stuff?
ILLO. This is the thanks the duke gets for his partiality to Italians
and foreigners. Us Bohemians he holds for little better than dullards--
nothing pleases him but what's outlandish.
ILLO (raising his voice to the highest pitch). Unless they can slip out
by a proviso. What of the proviso? The devil take this proviso!
MAX. (has his attention roused, and looks again into the paper). What is
there here then of such perilous import? You make me curious--I must
look closer at it.
TERZKY (in a low voice to ILLO). What are you doing, Illo? You are
ruining us.
TIEFENBACH (to KOLATTO). Ay, ay! I observed, that before we sat down to
supper, it was read differently.
ISOLANI. What do I care for that? Where there stand other names mine
can stand too.
BUTLER (to one of the Commanders). For shame, for shame! Bethink you.
What is the main business here? The question now is, whether we shall
keep our general, or let him retire. One must not take these things too
nicely, and over-scrupulously.
ISOLANI (to one of the Generals). Did the duke make any of these
provisos when he gave you your regiment?
MAX. (having read the paper gives it back). Till to-morrow therefore!
ILLO (stammering with rage and fury, loses all command over himself and
presents the paper to MAX. With one hand, and his sword in the other).
Subscribe--Judas!
MAX. (rushes on him suddenly and disarms him, then to COUNT TERZKY).
Take him off to bed!
[MAX leaves the stage. ILLO cursing and raving is held back by some
of the officers, and amidst a universal confusion the curtain drops.
ACT V.
SCENE I.
A Chamber in PICCOLOMINI's Mansion. It is Night.
OCTAVIO.
And when my son comes in, conduct him hither.
What is the hour?
VALET.
'Tis on the point of morning.
OCTAVIO.
Set down the light. We mean not to undress.
You may retire to sleep.
MAX.
Art thou offended with me? Heaven knows
That odious business was no fault of mine.
'Tis true, indeed, I saw thy signature,
What thou hast sanctioned, should not, it might seem,
Have come amiss to me. But--'tis my nature--
Thou know'st that in such matters I must follow
My own light, not another's.
MAX.
Declare thyself less darkly.
OCTAVIO.
I will do so;
For after what has taken place this night,
There must remain no secrets 'twixt us two.
[Both seat themselves.
Max. Piccolomini! what thinkest thou of
The oath that was sent round for signatures?
MAX.
I hold it for a thing of harmless import,
Although I love not these set declarations.
OCTAVIO.
And on no other ground hast thou refused
The signature they fain had wrested from thee?
MAX.
It was a serious business. I was absent--
The affair itself seemed not so urgent to me.
OCTAVIO.
Be open, Max. Thou hadst then no suspicion?
MAX.
Suspicion! what suspicion? Not the least.
OCTAVIO.
Thank thy good angel, Piccolomini;
He drew thee back unconscious from the abyss.
MAX.
I know not what thou meanest.
OCTAVIO.
I will tell thee.
Fain would they have extorted from thee, son,
The sanction of thy name to villany;
Yes, with a single flourish of thy pen,
Made thee renounce thy duty and thy honor!
MAX. (rises).
Octavio!
OCTAVIO.
Patience! Seat Yourself. Much yet
Hast thou to hear from me, friend! Hast for years
Lived in incomprehensible illusion.
Before thine eyes is treason drawing out
As black a web as e'er was spun for venom:
A power of hell o'erclouds thy understanding.
I dare no longer stand in silence--dare
No longer see thee wandering on in darkness,
Nor pluck the bandage from thine eyes.
MAX.
My father!
Yet, ere thou speakest, a moment's pause of thought!
If your disclosures should appear to be
Conjectures only--and almost I fear
They will be nothing further--spare them! I
Am not in that collected mood at present,
That I could listen to them quietly.
OCTAVIO.
The deeper cause thou hast to hate this light,
The more impatient cause have I, my son,
To force it on thee. To the innocence
And wisdom of thy heart I could have trusted thee
With calm assurance--but I see the net
Preparing--and it is thy heart itself
Alarms me, for thine innocence--that secret,
[Fixing his eyes steadfastly on his son's face.
Which thou concealest, forces mine from me.
MAX.
That low priest's legend I know well, but did not
Expect to hear it from thy mouth.
OCTAVIO.
That mouth,
From which thou hearest it at this present moment,
Doth warrant thee that it is no priest's legend.
MAX.
How mere a maniac they supposed the duke;
What, he can meditate?--the duke?--can dream
That he can lure away full thirty thousand
Tried troops and true, all honorable soldiers,
More than a thousand noblemen among them,
From oaths, from duty, from their honor lure them,
And make them all unanimous to do
A deed that brands them scoundrels?
OCTAVIO.
Such a deed,
With such a front of infamy, the duke
No way desires--what he requires of us
Bears a far gentler appellation. Nothing
He wishes but to give the empire peace.
And so, because the emperor hates this peace,
Therefore the duke--the duke will force him to it.
All parts of the empire will he pacify,
And for his trouble will retain in payment
(What he has already in his gripe)--Bohemia!
MAX.
Has he, Octavio, merited of us,
That we--that we should think so vilely of him?
OCTAVIO.
What we would think is not the question here,
The affair speaks for itself--and clearest proofs!
Hear me, my son--'tis not unknown to thee,
In what ill credit with the court we stand.
But little dost thou know, or guess what tricks,
What base intrigues, what lying artifices,
Have been employed--for this sole end--to sow
Mutiny in the camp! All bands are loosed--
Loosed all the bands that link the officer
To his liege emperor, all that bind the soldier
Affectionately to the citizen.
Lawless he stands, and threateningly beleaguers
The state he's bound to guard. To such a height
'Tis swollen, that at this hour the emperor
Before his armies--his own armies--trembles;
Yea, in his capital, his palace, fears
The traitor's poniard, and is meditating
To hurry off and hide his tender offspring--
Not from the Swedes, not from the Lutherans--no,
From his own troops to hide and hurry them!
MAX.
Cease, cease! thou torturest, shatterest me. I know
That oft we tremble at an empty terror;
But the false phantasm brings a real misery.
OCTAVIO.
It is no phantasm. An intestine war,
Of all the most unnatural and cruel,
Will burst out into flames, if instantly
We do not fly and stifle it. The generals
Are many of them long ago won over;
The subalterns are vacillating; whole
Regiments and garrisons are vacillating.
To foreigners our strongholds are intrusted;
To that suspected Schafgotch is the whole
Force of Silesia given up: to Terzky
Five regiments, foot and horse; to Isolani,
To Illo, Kinsky, Butler, the best troops.
MAX.
Likewise to both of us.
OCTAVIO.
Because the duke
Believes he has secured us, means to lure us
Still further on by splendid promises.
To me he portions forth the princedoms, Glatz
And Sagan; and too plain I see the bait
With which he doubts not but to catch thee.
MAX.
No! no!
I tell thee, no!
OCTAVIO.
Oh, open yet thine eyes!
And to what purpose think'st thou he has called
Hither to Pilsen? to avail himself
Of our advice? Oh, when did Friedland ever
Need our advice? Be calm, and listen to me.
To sell ourselves are we called hither, and
Decline we that, to be his hostages.
Therefore doth noble Gallas stand aloof;
Thy father, too, thou wouldst not have seen here,
If higher duties had not held him fettered.
MAX.
He makes no secret of it--needs make none--
That we're called hither for his sake--he owns it.
He needs our aidance to maintain himself--
He did so much for us; and 'tis but fair
That we, too, should do somewhat now for him.
OCTAVIO.
And know'st thou what it is which we must do?
That Illo's drunken mood betrayed it to thee.
Bethink thyself, what hast thou heard, what seen?
The counterfeited paper, the omission
Of that particular clause, so full of meaning,
Does it not prove that they would bind us down
To nothing good?
MAX.
That counterfeited paper
Appears to me no other than a trick
Of Illo's own device. These underhand
Traders in great men's interests ever use
To urge and hurry all things to the extreme.
They see the duke at variance with the court,
And fondly think to serve him, when they widen
The breach irreparably. Trust me, father,
The duke knows nothing of all this.
OCTAVIO.
It grieves me
That I must dash to earth, that I must shatter
A faith so specious; but I may not spare thee!
For this is not a time for tenderness.
Thou must take measured, speedy ones, must act.
I therefore will confess to thee that all
Which I've intrusted to thee now, that all
Which seems to thee so unbelievable,
That--yes, I will tell thee, (a pause) Max.! I had it all
From his own mouth, from the duke's mouth I had it.
OCTAVIO.
Himself confided to me
What I, 'tis true, had long before discovered
By other means; himself confided to me,
That 'twas his settled plan to join the Swedes;
And, at the head of the united armies,
Compel the emperor----
MAX.
He is passionate,
The court has stung him; he is sore all over
With injuries and affronts; and in a moment
Of irritation, what if he, for once,
Forgot himself? He's an impetuous man.
OCTAVIO.
Nay, in cold blood he did confess this to me
And having construed my astonishment
Into a scruple of his power, he showed me
His written evidences--showed me letters,
Both from the Saxon and the Swede, that gave
Promise of aidance, and defined the amount.
MAX.
It cannot be!--cannot be! cannot be!
Dost thou not see, it cannot!
Thou wouldst of necessity have shown him
Such horror, such deep loathing--that or he
Had taken thee for his better genius, or
Thou stood'st not now a living man before me.
OCTAVIO.
I have laid open my objections to him,
Dissuaded him with pressing earnestness;
But my abhorrence, the full sentiment
Of my whole heart--that I have still kept safe
To my own consciousness.
MAX.
And thou hast been
So treacherous? That looks not like my father!
I trusted not thy words, when thou didst tell me
Evil of him; much less can I now do it,
That thou calumniatest thy own self.
OCTAVIO.
I did not thrust myself into his secrecy.
MAX.
Uprightness merited his confidence.
OCTAVIO.
He was no longer worthy of sincerity.
MAX.
Dissimulation, sure, was still less worthy
Of thee, Octavio!
OCTAVIO.
Gave I him a cause
To entertain a scruple of my honor?
MAX.
That he did not evince his confidence.
OCTAVIO.
Dear son, it is not always possible
Still to preserve that infant purity
Which the voice teaches in our inmost heart,
Still in alarm, forever on the watch
Against the wiles of wicked men: e'en virtue
Will sometimes bear away her outward robes
Soiled in the wrestle with iniquity.
This is the curse of every evil deed
That, propagating still, it brings forth evil.
I do not cheat my better soul with sophisms;
I but perform my orders; the emperor
Prescribes my conduct to me. Dearest boy,
Far better were it, doubtless, if we all
Obeyed the heart at all times; but so doing,
In this our present sojourn with bad men,
We must abandon many an honest object.
'Tis now our call to serve the emperor;
By what means he can best be served--the heart
May whisper what it will--this is our call!
MAX.
It seems a thing appointed, that to-day
I should not comprehend, not understand thee.
The duke, thou sayest, did honestly pour out
His heart to thee, but for an evil purpose:
And thou dishonestly hast cheated him
For a good purpose! Silence, I entreat thee--
My friend, thou stealest not from me--
Let me not lose my father!
MAX.
Oh, nothing rash, my sire! By all that's good,
Let me invoke thee--no precipitation!
OCTAVIO.
With light tread stole he on his evil way,
And light of tread hath vengeance stole on after him.
Unseen she stands already, dark behind him
But one step more--he shudders in her grasp!
Thou hast seen Questenberg with me. As yet
Thou knowest but his ostensible commission:
He brought with him a private one, my son!
And that was for me only.
MAX.
May I know it?
OCTAVIO.
Oh, my son!
I trust thy heart undoubtingly. But am I
Equally sure of thy collectedness?
Wilt thou be able, with calm countenance,
To enter this man's presence, when that I
Have trusted to thee his whole fate?
MAX.
According
As thou dost trust me, father, with his crime.
MAX.
What! how! a full imperial patent!
OCTAVIO.
Read it.
OCTAVIO.
Even so.
OCTAVIO.
Read on. Collect thyself.
MAX. (after he has read further, with a look of affright and astonishment
on his father).
How! what! Thou! thou!
OCTAVIO.
But for the present moment, till the King
Of Hungary may safely join the army,
Is the command assigned to me.
MAX.
And think'st thou,
Dost thou believe, that thou wilt tear it from him?
Oh, never hope it! Father! father! father!
An inauspicious office is enjoined thee.
This paper here!--this! and wilt thou enforce it?
The mighty in the middle of his host,
Surrounded by his thousands, him wouldst thou
Disarm--degrade! Thou art lost, both thou and all of us.
OCTAVIO.
What hazard I incur thereby, I know.
In the great hand of God I stand. The Almighty
Will cover with his shield the imperial house,
And shatter, in his wrath, the work of darkness.
The emperor hath true servants still; and even
Here in the camp, there are enough brave men
Who for the good cause will fight gallantly.
The faithful have been warned--the dangerous
Are closely watched. I wait but the first step,
And then immediately----
Max.
What? On suspicion?
Immediately?
OCTAVIO.
The emperor is no tyrant.
The deed alone he'll punish, not the wish.
The duke hath yet his destiny in his power.
Let him but leave the treason uncompleted,
He will be silently displaced from office,
And make way to his emperor's royal son.
An honorable exile to his castles
Will be a benefaction to him rather
Than punishment. But the first open step----
MAX.
What callest thou such a step? A wicked step
Ne'er will he take; but thou mightest easily,
Yea, thou hast done it, misinterpret him.
OCTAVIO.
Nay, howsoever punishable were
Duke Friedland's purposes, yet still the steps
Which he hath taken openly permit
A mild construction. It is my intention
To leave this paper wholly unenforced
Till some act is committed which convicts him
Of high treason, without doubt or plea,
And that shall sentence him.
MAX.
But who the judge
OCTAVIO.
Thyself.
MAX.
Forever, then, this paper will lie idle.
OCTAVIO.
Too soon, I fear, its powers must all be proved.
After the counter-promise of this evening,
It cannot be but he must deem himself
Secure of the majority with us;
And of the army's general sentiment
He hath a pleasing proof in that petition,
Which thou delivered'st to him from the regiments.
Add this too--I have letters that the Rhinegrave
Hath changed his route, and travels by forced marches
To the Bohemian forests. What this purports
Remains unknown; and, to confirm suspicion,
This night a Swedish nobleman arrived here.
MAX.
I have thy word. Thou'lt not proceed to action
Before thou hast convinced me--me myself.
OCTAVIO.
Is it possible? Still, after all thou know'st,
Canst thou believe still in his innocence?
OCTAVIO.
I will await it.
SCENE II.
OCTAVIO.
How now, then?
VALET.
A despatch is at the door.
OCTAVIO.
So early? From whom comes he then? Who is it?
VALET.
That he refused to tell me.
OCTAVIO.
Lead him in:
And, hark you--let it not transpire.
OCTAVIO.
Ha! cornet--is it you; and from Count Gallas?
Give me your letters.
CORNET.
The lieutenant-general
Trusted it not to letters.
OCTAVIO.
And what is it?
CORNET.
He bade me tell you--Dare I speak openly here?
OCTAVIO.
My son knows all.
CORNET.
We have him.
OCTAVIO.
Whom?
CORNET.
Sesina,
The old negotiator.
OCTAVIO (eagerly).
And you have him?
CORNET.
In the Bohemian Forest Captain Mohrbrand
Found and secured him yester-morning early.
He was proceeding then to Regensburg,
And on him were despatches for the Swede.
OCTAVIO.
And the despatches----
CORNET.
The lieutenant-general
Sent them that instant to Vienna, and
The prisoner with them.
OCTAVIO.
This is, indeed, a tiding!
That fellow is a precious casket to us,
Enclosing weighty things. Was much found on him?
CORNET.
I think, six packets, with Count Terzky's arms.
OCTAVIO.
None in the duke's own hand?
CORNET.
Not that I know.
OCTAVIO.
And old Sesina.
CORNET.
He was sorely frightened.
When it was told him he must to Vienna;
But the Count Altringer bade him take heart,
Would he but make a full and free confession.
OCTAVIO.
Is Altringer then with your lord? I heard
That he lay sick at Linz.
CORNET.
These three days past
He's with my master, the lieutenant-general,
At Frauenburg. Already have they sixty
Small companies together, chosen men;
Respectfully they greet you with assurances,
That they are only waiting your commands.
OCTAVIO.
In a few days may great events take place.
And when must you return?
CORNET.
I wait your orders.
OCTAVIO.
Remain till evening.
[CORNET signifies his assent and obeisance, and is going.
No one saw you--ha?
CORNET.
No living creature. Through the cloister wicket
The capuchins, as usual, let me in.
OCTAVIO.
Go, rest your limbs, and keep yourself concealed.
I hold it probable that yet ere evening
I shall despatch you. The development
Of this affair approaches: ere the day,
That even now is dawning in the heaven,
Ere this eventful day hath set, the lot
That must decide our fortunes will be drawn.
[Exit CORNET.
SCENE III.
OCTAVIO.
Well--and what now, son? All will soon be clear;
For all, I'm certain, went through that Sesina.
MAX. (who through the whole of the foregoing scene has been in
a violent and visible struggle of feelings, at length starts
as one resolved).
I will procure me light a shorter way.
Farewell.
OCTAVIO.
Where now? Remain here.
MAX.
To the Duke.
OCTAVIO (alarmed).
What----
MAX. (returning).
If thou hast believed that I shall act
A part in this thy play, thou hast
Miscalculated on me grievously.
My way must be straight on. True with the tongue,
False with the heart--I may not, cannot be
Nor can I suffer that a man should trust me--
As his friend trust me--and then lull my conscience
With such low pleas as these: "I ask him not--
He did it all at his own hazard--and
My mouth has never lied to him." No, no!
What a friend takes me for, that I must be.
I'll to the duke; ere yet this day is ended
Will I demand of him that he do save
His good name from the world, and with one stride
Break through and rend this fine-spun web of yours.
He can, he will! I still am his believer,
Yet I'll not pledge myself, but that those letters
May furnish you, perchance, with proofs against him.
How far may not this Terzky have proceeded--
What may not he himself too have permitted
Himself to do, to snare the enemy,
The laws of war excusing? Nothing, save
His own mouth shall convict him--nothing less!
And face to face will I go question him.
OCTAVIO.
Thou wilt.
MAX.
I will, as sure as this heart beats.
OCTAVIO.
I have, indeed, miscalculated on thee.
I calculated on a prudent son,
Who would have blessed the hand beneficent
That plucked him back from the abyss--and lo!
A fascinated being I discover,
Whom his two eyes befool, whom passion wilders,
Whom not the broadest light of noon can heal.
Go, question him! Be mad enough, I pray thee.
The purpose of thy father, of thy emperor,
Go, give it up free booty! Force me, drive me
To an open breach before the time. And now,
Now that a miracle of heaven had guarded
My secret purpose even to this hour,
And laid to sleep suspicion's piercing eyes,
Let me have lived to see that mine own son,
With frantic enterprise, annihilates
My toilsome labors and state policy.
MAX.
Ay--this state policy! Oh, how I curse it!
You will some time, with your state policy,
Compel him to the measure: it may happen,
Because ye are determined that he is guilty,
Guilty ye'll make him. All retreat cut off,
You close up every outlet, hem him in
Narrower and narrower, till at length ye force him--
Yes, ye, ye force him, in his desperation,
To set fire to his prison. Father! father!
That never can end well--it cannot--will not!
And let it be decided as it may,
I see with boding heart the near approach
Of an ill-starred, unblest catastrophe.
For this great monarch-spirit, if he fall,
Will drag a world into the ruin with him.
And as a ship that midway on the ocean
Takes fire, at once, and with a thunder-burst
Explodes, and with itself shoots out its crew
In smoke and ruin betwixt sea and heaven!
So will he, falling, draw down in his fall
All us, who're fixed and mortised to his fortune,
Deem of it what thou wilt; but pardon me,
That I must bear me on in my own way.
All must remain pure betwixt him and me;
And, ere the daylight dawns, it must be known
Which I must lose--my father or my friend.
FOOTNOTES.
[2] The Dukes in Germany being always reigning powers, their sons
and daughters are entitled princes and princesses.
[3] Carinthia.
[4] A town not far from the Mine-mountains, on the high road
from Vienna to Prague.
[9] In Germany, after honorable addresses have been paid and formally
accepted, the lovers are called bride and bridegreoom, even though
the marriage should not take place till years afterwards.
LITERAL TRANSLATION.
THEKLA (plays and sings). The oak-forest bellows, the clouds
gather, the damsel walks to and fro on the green of the shore; the
wave breaks with might, with might, and she sings out into the dark
night, her eye discolored with weeping: the heart is dead, the world
is empty, and further gives it nothing more to the wish. Thou Holy
One, call thy child home. I have enjoyed the happiness of this
world, I have lived and have loved.
[13] There are few who will not have taste enough to laugh at the
two concluding lines of this soliloquy: and still fewer, I would
fain hope, who would not have been more disposed to shudder, had I
given a faithful translation. For the readers of German I have
added the original:--
Translated by S. T. Coleridge.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
ACT I.
SCENE I.
[In the fifth scene of this act it must be dropped; but in the
seventh scene it must be again drawn up wholly or in part.]
WALLENSTEIN.
All well--and now let it be ended, Seni. Come,
The dawn commences, and Mars rules the hour;
We must give o'er the operation. Come,
We know enough.
SENI.
Your highness must permit me
Just to contemplate Venus. She is now rising
Like as a sun so shines she in the east.
WALLENSTEIN.
She is at present in her perigee,
And now shoots down her strongest influences.
[Contemplating the figure on the table.
Auspicious aspect! fateful in conjunction,
At length the mighty three corradiate;
And the two stars of blessing, Jupiter
And Venus, take between them the malignant
Slyly-malicious Mars, and thus compel
Into my service that old mischief-founder:
For long he viewed me hostilely, and ever
With beam oblique, or perpendicular,
Now in the Quartile, now in the Secundan,
Shot his red lightnings at my stars, disturbing
Their blessed influences and sweet aspects:
Now they have conquered the old enemy,
And bring him in the heavens a prisoner to me.
WALLENSTEIN.
And sun and moon, too, in the Sextile aspect,
The soft light with the vehement--so I love it.
Sol is the heart, Luna the head of heaven,
Bold be the plan, fiery the execution.
SENI.
And both the mighty Lumina by no
Maleficus affronted. Lo! Saturnus,
Innocuous, powerless, in cadente Domo.
WALLENSTEIN.
The empire of Saturnus is gone by;
Lord of the secret birth of things is he;
Within the lap of earth, and in the depths
Of the imagination dominates;
And his are all things that eschew the light.
The time is o'er of brooding and contrivance,
For Jupiter, the lustrous, lordeth now,
And the dark work, complete of preparation,
He draws by force into the realm of light.
Now must we hasten on to action, ere
The scheme, and most auspicious positure
Parts o'er my head, and takes once more its flight,
For the heaven's journey still, and adjourn not.
[There are knocks at the door.
There's some one knocking there. See who it is.
WALLENSTEIN.
Ay--'tis Terzky.
What is there of such urgence? We are busy.
WALLENSTEIN.
Open, Seni!
[While SENI opens the door for TERZKY, WALLENSTEIN draws the curtain
over the figures.
SCENE II.
TERZKY (enters).
Hast thou already heard it? He is taken.
Gallas has given him up to the emperor.
TERZKY.
The man who knows our secrets, who knows every
Negotiation with the Swede and Saxon,
Through whose hands all and everything has passed----
TERZKY.
All on his road for Regensburg to the Swede
He was plunged down upon by Gallas' agent,
Who had been long in ambush, lurking for him.
There must have been found on him my whole packet
To Thur, to Kinsky, to Oxenstiern, to Arnheim:
All this is in their hands; they have now an insight
Into the whole--our measures and our motives.
SCENE III.
TERZKY.
He has heard it.
TERZKY.
They have documents against us, and in hands,
Which show beyond all power of contradiction----
WALLENSTEIN.
Of my handwriting--no iota. Thee
I punish or thy lies.
ILLO.
And thou believest,
That what this man, and what thy sister's husband,
Did in thy name, will not stand on thy reckoning?
His word must pass for thy word with the Swede,
And not with those that hate thee at Vienna?
TERZKY.
In writing thou gavest nothing; but bethink thee,
How far thou venturedst by word of mouth
With this Sesina! And will he be silent?
If he can save himself by yielding up
Thy secret purposes, will he retain them?
ILLO.
Thyself dost not conceive it possible;
And since they now have evidence authentic
How far thou hast already gone, speak! tell us,
What art thou waiting for? Thou canst no longer
Keep thy command; and beyond hope of rescue
Thou'rt lost if thou resign'st it.
WALLENSTEIN.
In the army
Lies my security. The army will not
Abandon me. Whatever they may know,
The power is mine, and they must gulp it down
And if I give them caution for my fealty,
They must be satisfied, at least appear so.
ILLO.
The army, duke, is thine now; for this moment
'Tis thine: but think with terror on the slow,
The quiet power of time. From open violence
The attachment of thy soldiery secures thee
To-day, to-morrow: but grant'st thou them a respite,
Unheard, unseen, they'll undermine that love
On which thou now dost feel so firm a footing,
With wily theft will draw away from thee
One after the other----
WALLENSTEIN.
'Tis a cursed accident!
Oh! I will call it a most blessed one,
If it work on thee as it ought to do,
Hurry thee on to action--to decision.
The Swedish general?
WALLENSTEIN.
He's arrived! Know'st
What his commission is----
ILLO.
To thee alone
Will he intrust the purpose of his coming.
WALLENSTEIN.
A cursed, cursed accident! Yes, yes,
Sesina knows too much, and won't be silent.
TERZKY.
He's a Bohemian fugitive and rebel,
His neck is forfeit. Can he save himself
At thy cost, think you he will scruple it?
And if they put him to the torture, will he,
Will he, that dastardling, have strength enough----
ILLO.
Ruin thee,
That it will do! Not thy fidelity,
Thy weakness will be deemed the sole occasion----
ILLO.
Now--now--ere they can ward and parry it!
TERZRY.
It was--be fancied----
ILLO.
Mere self-willedness.
There needed no such thing 'twixt him and you.
WALLENSTEIN.
He is quite right; there needed no such thing.
The regiments, too, deny to march for Flanders
Have sent me in a paper of remonstrance,
And openly resist the imperial orders.
The first step to revolt's already taken.
ILLO.
Believe me, thou wilt find it far more easy
To lead them over to the enemy
Than to the Spaniard.
WALLENSTEIN.
I will hear, however,
What the Swede has to say to me.
WALLENSTEIN.
Stay!
Stay but a little. It hath taken me
All by surprise; it came too quick upon me;
'Tis wholly novel that an accident,
With its dark lordship, and blind agency,
Should force me on with it.
ILLO.
First hear him only,
And then weigh it.
SCENE IV.
[Pauses again.
SCENE V.
WRANGEL.
Gustave Wrangel, General
Of the Sudermanian Blues.
WALLENSTEIN.
It was a Wrangel
Who injured me materially at Stralsund,
And by his brave resistance was the cause
Of the opposition which that seaport made.
WRANGEL.
It was the doing of the element
With which you fought, my lord! and not my merit,
The Baltic Neptune did assert his freedom:
The sea and land, it seemed were not to serve
One and the same.
WALLENSTEIN
You plucked the admiral's hat from off my head.
WRANGEL.
I come to place a diadem thereon.
WALLENSTEIN (makes the motion for him to take a seat, and seats himself).
And where are your credentials
Come you provided with full powers, sir general?
WRANGEL.
There are so many scruples yet to solve----
WRANGEL.
He says the truth. Our great king, now in heaven,
Did ever deem most highly of your grace's
Pre-eminent sense and military genius;
And always the commanding intellect,
He said, should have command, and be the king.
WALLENSTEIN.
Yes, he might say it safely. General Wrangel,
[Taking his hand affectionately.
Come, fair and open. Trust me, I was always
A Swede at heart. Eh! that did you experience
Both in Silesia and at Nuremberg;
I had you often in my power, and let you
Always slip out by some back door or other.
'Tis this for which the court can ne'er forgive me,
Which drives me to this present step: and since
Our interests so run in one direction,
E'en let us have a thorough confidence
Each in the other.
WRANGEL.
Confidence will come
Has each but only first security.
WALLENSTEIN.
The chancellor still, I see, does not quite trust me;
And, I confess--the game does not lie wholly
To my advantage. Without doubt he thinks,
If I can play false with the emperor,
Who is my sovereign, I can do the like
With the enemy, and that the one, too, were
Sooner to be forgiven me than the other.
Is not this your opinion, too, sir general?
WRANGEL.
I have here a duty merely, no opinion.
WALLENSTEIN.
The emperor hath urged me to the uttermost
I can no longer honorably serve him.
For my security, in self-defence,
I take this hard step, which my conscience blames.
WRANGEL.
That I believe. So far would no one go
Who was not forced to it.
[After a pause.
What may have impelled
Your princely highness in this wise to act
Toward your sovereign lord and emperor,
Beseems not us to expound or criticise.
The Swede is fighting for his good old cause,
With his good sword and conscience. This concurrence,
This opportunity is in our favor,
And all advantages in war are lawful.
We take what offers without questioning;
And if all have its due and just proportions----
WALLENSTEIN.
Of what then are ye doubting? Of my will?
Or of my power? I pledged me to the chancellor,
Would he trust me with sixteen thousand men,
That I would instantly go over to them
With eighteen thousand of the emperor's troops.
WRANGEL.
Your grace is known to be a mighty war-chief,
To be a second Attila and Pyrrhus.
'Tis talked of still with fresh astonishment,
How some years past, beyond all human faith,
You called an army forth like a creation:
But yet----
WALLENSTEIN.
But yet?
WRANGEL.
But still the chancellor thinks
It might yet be an easier thing from nothing
To call forth sixty thousand men of battle,
Than to persuade one-sixtieth part of them----
WALLENSTEIN.
What now? Out with it, friend?
WRANGEL.
To break their oaths.
WALLENSTEIN.
And he thinks so? He judges like a Swede,
And like a Protestant. You Lutherans
Fight for your Bible. You are interested
About the cause; and with your hearts you follow
Your banners. Among you whoe'er deserts
To the enemy hath broken covenant
With two lords at one time. We've no such fancies.
WRANGEL.
Great God in heaven! Have then the people here
No house and home, no fireside, no altar?
WALLENSTEIN.
I will explain that to you, how it stands:
The Austrian has a country, ay, and loves it,
And has good cause to love it--but this army
That calls itself the imperial, this that houses
Here in Bohemia, this has none--no country;
This is an outcast of all foreign lands,
Unclaimed by town or tribe, to whom belongs
Nothing except the universal sun.
And this Bohemian land for which we fight
Loves not the master whom the chance of war,
Not its own choice or will, hath given to it.
Men murmur at the oppression of their conscience,
And power hath only awed but not appeased them.
A glowing and avenging memory lives
Of cruel deeds committed on these plains;
How can the son forget that here his father
Was hunted by the bloodhound to the mass?
A people thus oppressed must still be feared,
Whether they suffer or avenge their wrongs.
WRANGEL.
But then the nobles and the officers?
Such a desertion, such a felony,
It is without example, my lord duke,
In the world's history.
WALLENSTEIN.
They are all mine--
Mine unconditionally--mine on all terms.
Not me, your own eyes you must trust.
[He gives him the paper containing the written oath. WRANGEL reads
it through, and, having read it, lays it on the table,--remaining
silent.
So then;
Now comprehend you?
WRANGEL.
Comprehend who can!
My lord duke, I will let the mask drop--yes!
I've full powers for a final settlement.
The Rhinegrave stands but four days' march from here
With fifteen thousand men, and only waits
For orders to proceed and join your army.
These orders I give out immediately
We're compromised.
WALLENSTEIN.
What asks the chancellor?
WRANGEL (considerately).
Twelve regiments, every man a Swede--my head
The warranty--and all might prove at last
Only false play----
WALLENSTEIN (starting).
Sir Swede!
WRANGEL (calmly proceeding).
Am therefore forced
To insist thereon, that he do formally,
Irrevocably break with the emperor,
Else not a Swede is trusted to Duke Friedland.
WALLENSTEIN.
Come, brief and open! What is the demand?
WRANGEL.
That he forthwith disarm the Spanish regiments
Attached to the emperor, that he seize on Prague,
And to the Swedes give up that city, with
The strong pass Egra.
WALLENSTEIN.
That is much indeed!
Prague!--Egra's granted--but--but Prague! 'Twon't do.
I give you every security
Which you may ask of me in common reason--
But Prague--Bohemia--these, sir general,
I can myself protect.
WRANGEL.
We doubt it not.
But 'tis not the protection that is now
Our sole concern. We want security,
That we shall not expend our men and money
All to no purpose.
WALLENSTEIN.
'Tis but reasonable.
WRANGEL.
And till we are indemnified, so long
Stays Prague in pledge.
WALLENSTEIN.
Then trust you us so little?
WRANGEL (rising).
The Swede, if he would treat well with the German,
Must keep a sharp lookout. We have been called
Over the Baltic, we have saved the empire
From ruin--with our best blood have we sealed
The liberty of faith and gospel truth.
But now already is the benefaction
No longer felt, the load alone is felt.
Ye look askance with evil eye upon us,
As foreigners, intruders in the empire,
And would fain send us with some paltry sum
Of money, home again to our old forests.
No, no! my lord duke! it never was
For Judas' pay, for chinking gold and silver,
That we did leave our king by the Great Stone. [1]
No, not for gold and silver have there bled
So many of our Swedish nobles--neither
Will we, with empty laurels for our payment,
Hoist sail for our own country. Citizens
Will we remain upon the soil, the which
Our monarch conquered for himself and died.
WALLENSTEIN.
Help to keep down the common enemy,
And the fair border land must needs be yours.
WRANGEL.
But when the common enemy lies vanquished,
Who knits together our new friendship then?
We know, Duke Friedland! though perhaps the Swede
Ought not to have known it, that you carry on
Secret negotiations with the Saxons.
Who is our warranty that we are not
The sacrifices in those articles
Which 'tis thought needful to conceal from us?
WALLENSTEIN (rises).
Think you of something better, Gustave Wrangel!
Of Prague no more.
WRANGEL.
Here my commission ends.
WALLENSTEIN.
Surrender up to you my capital!
Far liever would I force about, and step
Back to my emperor.
WRANGEL.
If time yet permits----
WALLENSTEIN.
That lies with me, even now, at any hour.
WRANGEL.
Some days ago, perhaps. To-day, no longer;
No longer since Sesina's been a prisoner.
[WALLENSTEIN is struck, and silenced.
My lord duke, hear me--we believe that you
At present do mean honorably by us.
Since yesterday we're sure of that--and now
This paper warrants for the troops, there's nothing
Stands in the way of our full confidence.
Prague shall not part us. Hear! The chancellor
Contents himself with Alstadt; to your grace
He gives up Ratschin and the narrow side.
But Egra above all must open to us,
Ere we can think of any junction.
WALLENSTEIN.
You,
You therefore must I trust, and not you me?
I will consider of your proposition.
WRANGEL.
I must entreat that your consideration
Occupy not too long a time. Already
Has this negotiation, my lord duke!
Crept on into the second year. If nothing
Is settled this time, will the chancellor
Consider it as broken off forever?
WALLENSTEIN.
Ye press me hard. A measure such as this
Ought to be thought of.
WRANGEL.
Ay! but think of this too,
That sudden action only can procure it.
Success--think first of this, your highness.
[Exit WRANGEL.
SCENE VI.
ILLO.
Is't all right?
TERZKY.
Are you compromised?
ILLO.
This Swede
Went smiling from you. Yes! you're compromised.
WALLENSTEIN.
As yet is nothing settled; and (well weighed)
I feel myself inclined to leave it so.
TERZKY.
How? What is that?
WALLENSTEIN.
Come on me what will come,
The doing evil to avoid an evil
Cannot be good!
TERZKY.
Nay, but bethink you, duke.
WALLENSTEIN.
To live upon the mercy of these Swedes!
Of these proud-hearted Swedes!--I could not bear it.
ILLO.
Goest thou as fugitive, as mendicant?
Bringest thou not more to them than thou receivest?
WALLENSTEIN.
How fared it with the brave and royal Bourbon
Who sold himself unto his country's foes,
And pierced the bosom of his father-land?
Curses were his reward, and men's abhorrence
Avenged the unnatural and revolting deed.
ILLO.
Is that thy case?
WALLENSTEIN.
True faith, I tell thee,
Must ever be the dearest friend of man
His nature prompts him to assert its rights.
The enmity of sects, the rage of parties,
Long-cherished envy, jealousy, unite;'
And all the struggling elements of evil
Suspend their conflict, and together league
In one alliance 'gainst their common foe--
The savage beast that breaks into the fold,
Where men repose in confidence and peace.
For vain were man's own prudence to protect him.
'Tis only in the forehead nature plants
The watchful eye; the back, without defence,
Must find its shield in man's fidelity.
TERZKY.
Think not more meanly off thyself than do
Thy foes, who stretch their hands with joy to greet thee.
Less scrupulous far was the imperial Charles,
The powerful head of this illustrious house;
With open arms he gave the Bourbon welcome;
For still by policy the world is ruled.
SCENE VII.
WALLENSTEIN.
Who sent for you? There is no business here
For women.
COUNTESS
I am come to bid you joy.
WALLENSTEIN.
Use thy authority, Terzky; bid her go.
COUNTESS.
Come I perhaps too early? I hope not.
WALLENSTEIN.
Set not this tongue upon me, I entreat you:
You know it is the weapon that destroys me.
I am routed, if a woman but attack me:
I cannot traffic in the trade of words
With that unreasoning sex.
COUNTESS.
I had already
Given the Bohemians a king.
WALLENSTEIN (sarcastically).
They have one,
In consequence, no doubt.
TERZKY.
The duke will not.
COUNTESS.
He will not what he must!
ILLO.
It lies with you now. Try. For I am silenced
When folks begin to talk to me of conscience
And of fidelity.
COUNTESS.
How? then, when all
Lay in the far-off distance, when the road
Stretched out before thine eyes interminably,
Then hadst thou courage and resolve; and now,
Now that the dream is being realized,
The purpose ripe, the issue ascertained,
Dost thou begin to play the dastard now?
Planned merely, 'tis a common felony;
Accomplished, an immortal undertaking:
And with success comes pardon hand in hand,
For all event is God's arbitrament.
SERVANT (enters).
The Colonel Piccolomini.
COUNTESS (hastily).
--Must wait.
WALLENSTEIN.
I cannot see him now. Another time.
SERVANT.
But for two minutes he entreats an audience
Of the most urgent nature is his business.
WALLENSTEIN.
Who knows what he may bring us! I will hear him.
COUNTESS (laughs).
Urgent for him, no doubt? but thou may'st wait.
WALLENSTEIN.
What is it?
COUNTESS.
Thou shalt be informed hereafter.
First let the Swede and thee be compromised.
[Exit SERVANT.
WALLENSTEIN.
If there were yet a choice! if yet some milder
Way of escape were possible--I still
Will choose it, and avoid the last extreme.
COUNTESS.
Desirest thou nothing further? Such a way
Lies still before thee. Send this Wrangel off.
Forget thou thy old hopes, cast far away
All thy past life; determine to commence
A new one. Virtue hath her heroes too,
As well as fame and fortune. To Vienna
Hence--to the emperor--kneel before the throne;
Take a full coffer with thee--say aloud,
Thou didst but wish to prove thy fealty;
Thy whole intention but to dupe the Swede.
ILLO.
For that too 'tis too late. They know too much;
He would but bear his own head to the block.
COUNTESS.
I fear not that. They have not evidence
To attaint him legally, and they avoid
The avowal of an arbitrary power.
They'll let the duke resign without disturbance.
I see how all will end. The King of Hungary
Makes his appearance, and 'twill of itself
Be understood, and then the duke retires.
There will not want a formal declaration.
The young king will administer the oath
To the whole army; and so all returns
To the old position. On some morrow morning
The duke departs; and now 'tis stir and bustle
Within his castles. He will hunt and build;
Superintend his horses' pedigrees,
Creates himself a court, gives golden keys,
And introduceth strictest ceremony
In fine proportions, and nice etiquette;
Keeps open table with high cheer: in brief,
Commenceth mighty king--in miniature.
And while he prudently demeans himself,
And gives himself no actual importance,
He will be let appear whate'er he likes:
And who dares doubt, that Friedland will appear
A mighty prince to his last dying hour?
Well now, what then? Duke Friedland is as others,
A fire-new noble, whom the war hath raised
To price and currency, a Jonah's gourd,
An over-night creation of court-favor,
Which, with an undistinguishable ease,
Makes baron or makes prince.
WALLENSTEIN (in extreme agitation).
Take her away.
Let in the young Count Piccolomini.
COUNTESS.
Art thou in earnest? I entreat thee!
Canst thou consent to bear thyself to thy own grave,
So ignominiously to be dried up?
Thy life, that arrogated such an height
To end in such a nothing! To be nothing,
When one was always nothing, is an evil
That asks no stretch of patience, a light evil;
But to become a nothing, having been----
COUNTESS.
What is there here, then,
So against nature? Help me to perceive it!
Oh, let not superstition's nightly goblins
Subdue thy clear, bright spirit! Art thou bid
To murder? with abhorred, accursed poniard,
To violate the breasts that nourished thee?
That were against our nature, that might aptly
Make thy flesh shudder, and thy whole heart sicken. [3]
Yet not a few, and for a meaner object,
Have ventured even this, ay, and performed it.
What is there in thy case so black and monstrous?
Thou art accused of treason--whether with
Or without justice is not now the question--
Thou art lost if thou dost not avail thee quickly
Of the power which thou possessest--Friedland! Duke!
Tell me where lives that thing so meek and tame,
That doth not all his living faculties
Put forth in preservation of his life?
What deed so daring, which necessity
And desperation will not sanctify?
WALLENSTEIN.
Once was this Ferdinand so gracious to me;
He loved me; he esteemed me; I was placed
The nearest to his heart. Full many a time
We like familiar friends, both at one table,
Have banqueted together--he and I;
And the young kings themselves held me the basin
Wherewith to wash me--and is't come to this?
COUNTESS.
So faithfully preservest thou each small favor,
And hast no memory for contumelies?
Must I remind thee, how at Regensburg
This man repaid thy faithful services?
All ranks and all conditions in the empire
Thou hadst wronged to make him great,--hadst loaded on thee,
On thee, the hate, the curse of the whole world.
No friend existed for thee in all Germany,
And why? because thou hadst existed only
For the emperor. To the emperor alone
Clung Friedland in that storm which gathered round him
At Regensburg in the Diet--and he dropped thee!
He let thee fall! he let thee fall a victim
To the Bavarian, to that insolent!
Deposed, stripped bare of all thy dignity
And power, amid the taunting of thy foe
Thou wert let drop into obscurity.
Say not, the restoration of thy honor
Has made atonement for that first injustice.
No honest good-will was it that replaced thee;
The law of hard necessity replaced thee,
Which they had fain opposed, but that they could not.
WALLENSTEIN.
Not to their good wishes, that is certain,
Nor yet to his affection I'm indebted
For this high office; and if I abuse it,
I shall therein abuse no confidence.
COUNTESS.
Affection! confidence!--they needed thee.
Necessity, impetuous remonstrant!
Who not with empty names, or shows of proxy,
Is served, who'll have the thing and not the symbol,
Ever seeks out the greatest and the best,
And at the rudder places him, e'en though
She had been forced to take him from the rabble--
She, this necessity, it was that placed thee
In this high office; it was she that gave thee
Thy letters-patent of inauguration.
For, to the uttermost moment that they can,
This race still help themselves at cheapest rate
With slavish souls, with puppets! At the approach
Of extreme peril, when a hollow image
Is found a hollow image and no more,
Then falls the power into the mighty hands
Of nature, of the spirit-giant born,
Who listens only to himself, knows nothing
Of stipulations, duties, reverences,
And, like the emancipated force of fire,
Unmastered scorches, ere it reaches them,
Their fine-spun webs, their artificial policy.
WALLENSTEIN.
'Tis true! they saw me always as I am--
Always! I did not cheat them in the bargain.
I never held it worth my pains to hide
The bold all-grasping habit of my soul.
COUNTESS.
Nay rather--thou hast ever shown thyself
A formidable man, without restraint;
Hast exercised the full prerogatives
Of thy impetuous nature, which had been
Once granted to thee. Therefore, duke, not thou,
Who hast still remained consistent with thyself,
But they are in the wrong, who, fearing thee,
Intrusted such a power in hands they feared.
For, by the laws of spirit, in the right
Is every individual character
That acts in strict consistence with itself:
Self-contradiction is the only wrong.
Wert thou another being, then, when thou
Eight years ago pursuedst thy march with fire,
And sword, and desolation, through the circles
Of Germany, the universal scourge,
Didst mock all ordinances of the empire,
The fearful rights of strength alone exertedst,
Trampledst to earth each rank, each magistracy,
All to extend thy Sultan's domination?
Then was the time to break thee in, to curb
Thy haughty will, to teach thee ordinance.
But no, the emperor felt no touch of conscience;
What served him pleased him, and without a murmur
He stamped his broad seal on these lawless deeds.
What at that time was right, because thou didst it
For him, to-day is all at once become
Opprobrious, foul, because it is directed
Against him. O most flimsy superstition!
WALLENSTEIN (rising).
I never saw it in this light before,
'Tis even so. The emperor perpetrated
Deeds through my arm, deeds most unorderly.
And even this prince's mantle, which I wear,
I owe to what were services to him,
But most high misdemeanors 'gainst the empire.
COUNTESS.
Then betwixt thee and him (confess it, Friedland!)
The point can be no more of right and duty,
Only of power and the opportunity.
That opportunity, lo! it comes yonder
Approaching with swift steeds; then with a swing
Throw thyself up into the chariot-seat,
Seize with firm hand the reins ere thy opponent
Anticipate thee, and himself make conquest
Of the now empty seat. The moment comes;
It is already here, when thou must write
The absolute total of thy life's vast sum.
The constellations stand victorious o'er thee,
The planets shoot good fortune in fair junctions,
And tell thee, "Now's the time!" The starry courses
Hast thou thy life-long measured to no purpose?
The quadrant and the circle, were they playthings?
WALLENSTEIN (during this last speech walks up and down with inward
struggles, laboring with passion; stops suddenly, stands still, then
interrupting the COUNTESS).
Send Wrangel to me--I will instantly
Despatch three couriers----
WALLENSTEIN.
It is his evil genius and mine.
Our evil genius! It chastises him
Through me, the instrument of his ambition;
And I expect no less, than that revenge
E'en now is whetting for my breast the poinard.
Who sows the serpent's teeth let him not hope
To reap a joyous harvest. Every crime
Has, in the moment of its perpetration,
Its own avenging angel--dark misgiving,
An ominous sinking at the inmost heart.
He can no longer trust me. Then no longer
Can I retreat--so come that which must come.
Still destiny preserves its due relations,
The heart within us is its absolute
Vicegerent. [To TERZKY.
Go, conduct you Gustave Wrangel
To my state cabinet. Myself will speak to
The couriers. And despatch immediately
A servant for Octavio Piccolomini.
ACT II.
SCENE I.
SCENE II.
WALLENSTEIN.
That I am no longer, if
Thou stylest thyself the emperor's officer.
MAX.
Then thou wilt leave the army, general?
WALLENSTEIN.
I have renounced the service of the emperor.
MAX.
And thou wilt leave the army?
WALLENSTEIN.
Rather hope I
To bind it nearer still and faster to me.
[He seats himself.
Yes, Max., I have delayed to open it to thee,
Even till the hour of acting 'gins to strike.
Youth's fortunate feeling doth seize easily
The absolute right, yea, and a joy it is
To exercise the single apprehension
Where the sums square in proof;
But where it happens, that of two sure evils
One must be taken, where the heart not wholly
Brings itself back from out the strife of duties,
There 'tis a blessing to have no election,
And blank necessity is grace and favor.
This is now present: do not look behind thee,--
It can no more avail thee. Look thou forwards!
Think not! judge not! prepare thyself to act!
The court--it hath determined on my ruin,
Therefore I will be beforehand with them.
We'll join the Swedes--right gallant fellows are they,
And our good friends.
[He stops himself, expecting PICCOLOMINI's answer.
I have taken thee by surprise. Answer me not:
I grant thee time to recollect thyself.
MAX.
My general, this day thou makest me
Of age to speak in my own right and person,
For till this day I have been spared the trouble
To find out my own road. Thee have I followed
With most implicit, unconditional faith,
Sure of the right path if I followed thee.
To-day, for the first time, dost thou refer
Me to myself, and forcest me to make
Election between thee and my own heart.
WALLENSTEIN.
Soft cradled thee thy fortune till to-day;
Thy duties thou couldst exercise in sport,
Indulge all lovely instincts, act forever
With undivided heart. It can remain
No longer thus. Like enemies, the roads
Start from each other. Duties strive with duties,
Thou must needs choose thy party in the war
Which is now kindling 'twixt thy friend and him
Who is thy emperor.
MAX.
War! is that the name?
War is as frightful as heaven's pestilence,
Yet it is good, is it heaven's will as that is.
Is that a good war, which against the emperor
Thou wagest with the emperor's own army?
O God of heaven! what a change is this.
Beseems it me to offer such persuasion
To thee, who like the fixed star of the pole
Wert all I gazed at on life's trackless ocean?
O! what a rent thou makest in my heart!
The ingrained instinct of old reverence,
The holy habit of obediency,
Must I pluck life asunder from thy name?
Nay, do not turn thy countenance upon me--
It always was as a god looking upon me!
Duke Wallenstein, its power has not departed;
The senses still are in thy bonds, although
Bleeding, the soul hath freed itself.
WALLENSTEIN.
Max., hear me.
MAX.
Oh, do it not, I pray thee, do it not!
There is a pure and noble soul within thee,
Knows not of this unblest unlucky doing.
Thy will is chaste, it is thy fancy only
Which hath polluted thee--and innocence,
It will not let itself be driven away
From that world-awing aspect. Thou wilt not,
Thou canst not end in this. It would reduce
All human creatures to disloyalty
Against the nobleness of their own nature.
'Twill justify the vulgar misbelief,
Which holdeth nothing noble in free will,
And trusts itself to impotence alone,
Made powerful only in an unknown power.
WALLENSTEIN.
The world will judge me harshly, I expect it.
Already have I said to my own self
All thou canst say to me. Who but avoids
The extreme, can he by going round avoid it?
But here there is no choice. Yes, I must use
Or suffer violence--so stands the case,
There remains nothing possible but that.
MAX.
Oh, that is never possible for thee!
'Tis the last desperate resource of those
Cheap souls, to whom their honor, their good name,
Is their poor saving, their last worthless keep,
Which, having staked and lost, they staked themselves
In the mad rage of gaming. Thou art rich
And glorious; with an unpolluted heart
Thou canst make conquest of whate'er seems highest!
But he who once hath acted infamy
Does nothing more in this world.
MAX.
Whate'er is human to the human being
Do I allow--and to the vehement
And striving spirit readily I pardon
The excess of action; but to thee, my general!
Above all others make I large concession.
For thou must move a world and be the master--
He kills thee who condemns thee to inaction.
So be it then! maintain thee in thy post
By violence. Resist the emperor,
And if it must be force with force repel;
I will not praise it, yet I can forgive it.
But not--not to the traitor--yes! the word
Is spoken out--
Not to the traitor can I yield a pardon.
That is no mere excess! that is no error
Of human nature--that is wholly different,
Oh, that is black, black as the pit of hell!
[WALLENSTEIN betrays a sudden agitation.
Thou canst not hear it named, and wilt thou do it?
O turn back to thy duty. That thou canst,
I hold it certain. Send me to Vienna;
I'll make thy peace for thee with the emperor.
He knows thee not. But I do know thee. He
Shall see thee, duke! with my unclouded eye,
And I bring back his confidence to thee.
WALLENSTEIN.
It is too late! Thou knowest not what has happened.
MAX.
Were it too late, and were things gone so far,
That a crime only could prevent thy fall,
Then--fall! fall honorably, even as thou stoodest,
Lose the command. Go from the stage of war!
Thou canst with splendor do it--do it too
With innocence. Thou hast lived much for others,
At length live thou for thy own self. I follow thee.
My destiny I never part from thine.
WALLENSTEIN.
It is too late! Even now, while thou art losing
Thy words, one after another, are the mile-stones
Left fast behind by my post couriers,
Who bear the order on to Prague and Egra.
SCENE III.
WALLENSTEIN, TERZKY.
TERZKY.
Max. Piccolomini just left you?
WALLENSTEIN.
Where is Wrangel?
TERZKY.
He is already gone.
WALLENSTEIN.
In such a hurry?
TERZKY.
It is as if the earth had swallowed him.
He had scarce left thee, when I went to seek him.
I wished some words with him--but he was gone.
How, when, and where, could no one tell me.
Nay, I half believe it was the devil himself;
A human creature could not so at once
Have vanished.
ILLO (enters).
Is it true that thou wilt send
Octavio?
TERZKY.
How, Octavio! Whither send him?
WALLENSTEIN.
He goes to Frauenberg, and will lead hither
The Spanish and Italian regiments.
ILLO.
No!
Nay, heaven forbid!
WALLENSTEIN.
And why should heaven forbid?
ILLO.
Him!--that deceiver! Wouldst thou trust to him
The soldiery? Him wilt thou let slip from thee,
Now in the very instant that decides us----
TERZKY.
Thou wilt not do this! No! I pray thee, no!
WALLENSTEIN.
Ye are whimsical.
ILLO.
O but for this time, duke,
Yield to our warning! Let him not depart.
WALLENSTEIN.
And why should I not trust him only this time,
Who have always trusted him? What, then, has happened
That I should lose my good opinion of him?
In complaisance to your whims, not my own,
I must, forsooth, give up a rooted judgment.
Think not I am a woman. Having trusted him
E'en till to-day, to-day too will I trust him.
TERZKY.
Must it be he--he only? Send another.
WALLENSTEIN.
It must be he, whom I myself have chosen;
He is well fitted for the business.
Therefore I gave it him.
ILLO.
Because he's an Italian--
Therefore is he well fitted for the business!
WALLENSTEIN.
I know you love them not, nor sire nor son,
Because that I esteem them, love them, visibly
Esteem them, love them more than you and others,
E'en as they merit. Therefore are they eye-blights,
Thorns in your footpath. But your jealousies,
In what affect they me or my concerns?
Are they the worse to me because you hate them?
Love or hate one another as you will,
I leave to each man his own moods and likings;
Yet know the worth of each of you to me.
ILLO.
Von Questenberg, while he was here, was always
Lurking about with this Octavio.
WALLENSTEIN.
It happened with my knowledge and permission.
ILLO.
I know that secret messengers came to him
From Gallas----
WALLENSTEIN.
That's not true.
ILLO.
O thou art blind,
With thy deep-seeing eyes!
WALLENSTEIN.
Thou wilt not shake
My faith for me; my faith, which founds itself
On the profoundest science. If 'tis false,
Then the whole science of the stars is false;
For know, I have a pledge from Fate itself,
That he is the most faithful of my friends.
ILLO.
Hast thou a pledge that this pledge is not false?
WALLENSTEIN.
There exist moments in the life of man,
When he is nearer the great Soul of the world
Than is man's custom, and possesses freely
The power of questioning his destiny:
And such a moment 'twas, when in the night
Before the action in the plains of Luetzen,
Leaning against a tree, thoughts crowding thoughts,
I looked out far upon the ominous plain.
My whole life, past and future, in this moment
Before my mind's eye glided in procession,
And to the destiny of the next morning
The spirit, filled with anxious presentiment,
Did knit the most removed futurity.
Then said I also to myself, "So many
Dost thou command. They follow all thy stars,
And as on some great number set their all
Upon thy single head, and only man
The vessel of thy fortune. Yet a day
Will come, when destiny shall once more scatter
All these in many a several direction:
Few be they who will stand out faithful to thee."
I yearned to know which one was faithfulest
Of all, my camp included. Great destiny,
Give me a sign! And he shall be the man,
Who, on the approaching morning, comes the first
To meet me with a token of his love:
And thinking this, I fell into a slumber,
Then midmost in the battle was I led
In spirit. Great the pressure and the tumult!
Then was my horse killed under me: I sank;
And over me away, all unconcernedly,
Drove horse and rider--and thus trod to pieces
I lay, and panted like a dying man;
Then seized me suddenly a savior arm;
It was Octavio's--I woke at once,
'Twas broad day, and Octavio stood before me.
"My brother," said he, "do not ride to-day
The dapple, as you're wont; but mount the horse
Which I have chosen for thee. Do it, brother!
In love to me. A strong dream warned me so."
It was the swiftness of this horse that snatched me
From the hot pursuit of Bannier's dragoons.
My cousin rode the dapple on that day,
And never more saw I or horse or rider.
ILLO.
That was a chance.
WALLENSTEIN (significantly).
There's no such thing as chance
And what to us seems merest accident
Springs from the deepest source of destiny.
In brief, 'tis signed and sealed that this Octavio
Is my good angel--and now no word more.
[He is retiring.
TERZKY.
This is my comfort--Max. remains our hostage.
ILLO.
And he shall never stir from here alive.
[Exeunt.
SCENE IV.
OCTAVIO.
Is the detachment here?
ADJUTANT.
It waits below.
OCTAVIO.
And are the soldiers trusty, adjutant?
Say, from what regiment hast thou chosen them?
ADJUTANT.
From Tiefenbach's.
OCTAVIO.
That regiment is loyal,
Keep them in silence in the inner court,
Unseen by all, and when the signal peals
Then close the doors, keep watch upon the house.
And all ye meet be instantly arrested.
[Exit ADJUTANT.
I hope indeed I shall not need their service,
So certain feel I of my well-laid plans;
But when an empire's safety is at stake
'Twere better too much caution than too little.
SCENE V.
ISOLANI.
Here am I--well! who comes yet of the others?
OCTAVIO.
That may happen.
ISOLANI.
Noble brother, I am
Not one of those men who in words are valiant,
And when it comes to action skulk away.
The duke has acted towards me as a friend:
God knows it is so; and I owe him all;
He may rely on my fidelity.
OCTAVIO.
That will be seen hereafter.
ISOLANI.
Be on your guard,
All think not as I think; and there are many
Who still hold with the court--yes, and they say
That these stolen signatures bind them to nothing.
OCTAVIO.
Indeed! Pray name to me the chiefs that think so;
ISOLANI.
Plague upon them! all the Germans think so
Esterhazy, Kaunitz, Deodati, too,
Insist upon obedience to the court.
OCTAVIO.
I am rejoiced to hear it.
ISOLANI.
You rejoice?
OCTAVIO.
That the emperor has yet such gallant servants,
And loving friends.
ISOLANI.
Nay, jeer not, I entreat you.
They are no such worthless fellows, I assure you.
OCTAVIO.
I am assured already. God forbid
That I should jest! In very serious earnest,
I am rejoiced to see an honest cause
So strong.
ISOLANI.
The devil!--what!--why, what means this?
Are you not, then----For what, then, am I here?
OCTAVIO.
That you may make full declaration, whether
You will be called the friend or enemy
Of the emperor.
ISOLANI (stammering).
Why,--why--what! this is the emperor's hand and seal
[Reads.
"Whereas the officers collectively
Throughout our army will obey the orders
Of the Lieutenant-General Piccolomini,
As from ourselves."--Hem!--Yes! so!--Yes! yes!
I--I give you joy, lieutenant-general!
OCTAVIO.
And you submit to the order?
ISOLANI.
I--
But you have taken me so by surprise
Time for reflection one must have----
OCTAVIO.
Two minutes.
ISOLANI.
My God! But then the case is----
OCTAVIO.
Plain and simple.
You must declare you, whether you determine
To act a treason 'gainst your lord and sovereign,
Or whether you will serve him faithfully.
ISOLANI.
Treason! My God! But who talks then of treason?
OCTAVIO.
That is the case. The prince-duke is a traitor--
Means to lead over to the enemy
The emperor's army. Now, count! brief and full--
Say, will you break your oath to the emperor?
Sell yourself to the enemy? Say, will you?
ISOLANI.
What mean you? I--I break my oath, d'ye say,
To his imperial majesty?
Did I say so! When, when have I said that?
OCTAVIO.
You have not said it yet--not yet. This instant
I wait to hear, count, whether you will say it.
ISOLANI.
Ay! that delights me now, that you yourself
Bear witness for me that I never said so.
OCTAVIO.
And you renounce the duke then?
ISOLANI.
If he's planning
Treason--why, treason breaks all bonds asunder.
OCTAVIO.
And are determined, too, to fight against him?
ISOLANI.
He has done me service--but if he's a villain,
Perdition seize him! All scores are rubbed off.
OCTAVIO.
I am rejoiced that you are so well disposed.
This night break off in the utmost secrecy
With all the light-armed troops--it must appear
As came the order from the duke himself.
At Frauenberg's the place of rendezvous;
There will Count Gallas give you further orders.
ISOLANI.
It shall be done. But you'll remember me
With the emperor--how well disposed you found me.
OCTAVIO.
I will not fail to mention it honorably.
ISOLANI (returning).
Forgive me too my bearish ways, old father!
Lord God! how should I know, then, what a great
Person I had before me.
OCTAVIO.
No excuses!
ISOLANI.
I am a merry lad, and if at time
A rash word might escape me 'gainst the court
Amidst my wine,--you know no harm was meant.
OCTAVIO.
You need not be uneasy on that score.
That has succeeded. Fortune favor us
With all the others only but as much.
[Exit.
SCENE VI.
OCTAVIO.
Welcome, as honored friend and visitor.
BUTLER.
You do me too much honor.
BUTLER.
'Tis only the like-minded can unite.
OCTAVIO.
True! and I name all honest men like-minded.
I never charge a man but with those acts
To which his character deliberately
Impels him; for alas! the violence
Of blind misunderstandings often thrusts
The very best of us from the right track.
You came through Frauenberg. Did the Count Gallas
Say nothing to you? Tell me. He's my friend.
BUTLER.
His words were lost on me.
OCTAVIO.
It grieves me sorely
To hear it: for his counsel was most wise.
I had myself the like to offer.
BUTLER.
Spare
Yourself the trouble--me the embarrassment.
To have deserved so ill your good opinion.
OCTAVIO.
The time is precious--let us talk openly.
You know how matters stand here. Wallenstein
Meditates treason--I can tell you further,
He has committed treason; but few hours
Have past since he a covenant concluded
With the enemy. The messengers are now
Full on their way to Egra and to Prague.
To-morrow he intends to lead us over
To the enemy. But he deceives himself;
For prudence wakes--the emperor has still
Many and faithful friends here, and they stand
In closest union, mighty though unseen.
This manifesto sentences the duke--
Recalls the obedience of the army from him,
And summons all the loyal, all the honest,
To join and recognize in me their leader.
Choose--will you share with us an honest cause?
Or with the evil share an evil lot?
BUTLER (rises).
His lot is mine.
OCTAVIO.
Is that your last resolve?
BUTLER.
It is.
OCTAVIO.
Nay, but bethink you, Colonel Butler.
As yet you have time. Within my faithful breast
That rashly uttered word remains interred.
Recall it, Butler! choose a better party;
You have not chosen the right one.
BUTLER (going).
Any other
Commands for me, lieutenant-general?
OCTAVIO.
See your white hairs; recall that word!
BUTLER.
Farewell!
OCTAVIO.
What! Would you draw this good and gallant sword
In such a cause? Into a curse would you
Transform the gratitude which you have earned
By forty years' fidelity from Austria?
[He is going.
OCTAVIO (permits him to go as far as the door, then calls after him).
Butler!
BUTLER.
What wish you?
OCTAVIO.
How was't with the count?
BUTLER.
Count? what?
OCTAVIO (coldly).
The title that you wished, I mean.
OCTAVIO (coldly).
You petitioned for it--
And your petition was repelled--was it so?
BUTLER.
Your insolent scoff shall not go by unpunished.
Draw!
OCTAVIO.
Nay! your sword to its sheath! and tell me calmly
How all that happened. I will not refuse you
Your satisfaction afterwards. Calmly, Butler!
BUTLER.
Be the whole world acquainted with the weakness
For which I never can forgive myself,
Lieutenant-general! Yes; I have ambition.
Ne'er was I able to endure contempt.
It stung me to the quick that birth and title
Should have more weight than merit has in the army.
I would fain not be meaner than my equal,
So in an evil hour I let myself
Be tempted to that measure. It was folly!
But yet so hard a penance it deserved not.
It might have been refused; but wherefore barb
And venom the refusal with contempt?
Why dash to earth and crush with heaviest scorn
The gray-haired man, the faithful veteran?
Why to the baseness of his parentage
Refer him with such cruel roughness, only
Because he had a weak hour and forgot himself?
But nature gives a sting e'en to the worm
Which wanton power treads on in sport and insult.
OCTAVIO.
You must have been calumniated. Guess you
The enemy who did you this ill service?
BUTLER.
Be't who it will--a most low-hearted scoundrel!
Some vile court-minion must it be, some Spaniard;
Some young squire of some ancient family,
In whose light I may stand; some envious knave,
Stung to his soul by my fair self-earned honors!
OCTAVIO.
But tell me, did the duke approve that measure?
BUTLER.
Himself impelled me to it, used his interest
In my behalf with all the warmth of friendship.
OCTAVIO.
Ay! are you sure of that?
BUTLER.
I read the letter.
OCTAVIO.
And so did I--but the contents were different.
[BUTLER is suddenly struck.
By chance I'm in possession of that letter--
Can leave it to your own eyes to convince you.
BUTLER.
Ha! what is this?
OCTAVIO.
I fear me, Colonel Butler,
An infamous game have they been playing with you.
The duke, you say, impelled you to this measure?
Now, in this letter, talks he in contempt
Concerning you; counsels the minister
To give sound chastisement to your conceit,
For so he calls it.
OCTAVIO.
More than forgive you. He would fain compensate
For that affront, and most unmerited grievance
Sustained by a deserving gallant veteran.
From his free impulse he confirms the present,
Which the duke made you for a wicked purpose.
The regiment, which you now command, is yours.
OCTAVIO.
What wish you? Recollect yourself, friend.
BUTLER.
Take it.
OCTAVIO.
But to what purpose? Calm yourself.
BUTLER.
O take it!
I am no longer worthy of this sword.
OCTAVIO.
Receive it then anew, from my hands--and
Wear it with honor for the right cause ever.
BUTLER.
Perjure myself to such a gracious sovereign?
OCTAVIO.
You'll make amends. Quick! break off from the duke!
BUTLER.
Break off from him.
OCTAVIO.
What now? Bethink thyself.
OCTAVIO.
Come after me to Frauenberg, where now
All who are loyal are assembling under
Counts Altringer and Gallas. Many others
I've brought to a remembrance of their duty
This night be sure that you escape from Pilsen.
OCTAVIO.
He who repents so deeply of it dares.
BUTLER.
Then leave me here upon my word of honor!
OCTAVIO.
What's your design?
BUTLER.
Leave me and my regiment.
OCTAVIO.
I have full confidence in you. But tell me
What are you brooding?
BUTLER.
That the deed will tell you.
Ask me no more at present. Trust me.
Ye may trust safely. By the living God,
Ye give him over, not to his good angel!
Farewell.
[Exit BUTLER.
[Exit SERVANT.
OCTAVIO (reads).
"Be sure, make haste! Your faithful Isolani."
--O that I had but left this town behind me.
To split upon a rock so near the haven!
Away! This is no longer a safe place
For me! Where can my son be tarrying!
SCENE VII.
MAX.
Farewell.
OCTAVIO.
Thou wilt soon follow me?
MAX.
I follow thee?
Thy way is crooked--it is not my way.
[OCTAVIO drops his hand and starts back.
Oh, hadst thou been but simple and sincere,
Ne'er had it come to this--all had stood otherwise.
He had not done that foul and horrible deed,
The virtuous had retained their influence over him
He had not fallen into the snares of villains.
Wherefore so like a thief, and thief's accomplice
Didst creep behind him lurking for thy prey!
Oh, unblest falsehood! Mother of all evil!
Thou misery-making demon, it is thou
That sinkest us in perdition. Simple truth,
Sustainer of the world, had saved us all!
Father, I will not, I cannot excuse thee!
Wallenstein has deceived me--oh, most foully!
But thou has acted not much better.
OCTAVIO.
Son
My son, ah! I forgive thy agony!
OCTAVIO.
God in heaven!
MAX.
Oh, woe is me! sure I have changed my nature.
How comes suspicion here--in the free soul?
Hope, confidence, belief, are gone; for all
Lied to me, all that I e'er loved or honored.
No, no! not all! She--she yet lives for me,
And she is true, and open as the heavens
Deceit is everywhere, hypocrisy,
Murder, and poisoning, treason, perjury:
The single holy spot is our love,
The only unprofaned in human nature.
OCTAVIO.
Max.!--we will go together. 'Twill be better.
MAX.
What? ere I've taken a last parting leave,
The very last--no, never!
OCTAVIO.
Spare thyself
The pang of necessary separation.
Come with me! Come, my son!
MAX.
No! as sure as God lives, no!
MAX.
Command me what is human. I stay here.
OCTAVIO.
Max.! in the emperor's name I bid thee come.
MAX.
No emperor has power to prescribe
Laws to the heart; and wouldst thou wish to rob me
Of the sole blessing which my fate has left me,
Her sympathy? Must then a cruel deed
Be done with cruelty? The unalterable
Shall I perform ignobly--steal away,
With stealthy coward flight forsake her? No!
She shall behold my suffering, my sore anguish,
Hear the complaints of the disparted soul,
And weep tears o'er me. Oh! the human race
Have steely souls--but she is as an angel.
From the black deadly madness of despair
Will she redeem my soul, and in soft words
Of comfort, plaining, loose this pang of death!
OCTAVIO.
Thou wilt not tear thyself away; thou canst not.
Oh, come, my son! I bid thee save thy virtue.
MAX.
Squander not thou thy words in vain.
The heart I follow, for I dare trust to it.
MAX.
Oh, hadst thou always better thought of men,
Thou hadst then acted better. Curst suspicion,
Unholy, miserable doubt! To him
Nothing on earth remains unwrenched and firm
Who has no faith.
OCTAVIO.
And if I trust thy heart,
Will it be always in thy power to follow it?
MAX.
The heart's voice thou hast not o'erpowered--as little
Will Wallenstein be able to o'erpower it.
OCTAVIO.
O, Max.! I see thee never more again!
MAX.
Unworthy of thee wilt thou never see me.
OCTAVIO.
I go to Frauenberg--the Pappenheimers
I leave thee here, the Lothrings too; Tsokana
And Tiefenbach remain here to protect thee.
They love thee, and are faithful to their oath,
And will far rather fall in gallant contest
Than leave their rightful leader and their honor.
MAX.
Rely on this, I either leave my life
In the struggle, or conduct them out of Pilsen.
OCTAVIO.
Farewell, my son!
MAX.
Farewell!
OCTAVIO.
How! not one look
Of filial love? No grasp of the hand at parting?
It is a bloody war to which we are going,
And the event uncertain and in darkness.
So used we not to part--it was not so!
Is it then true? I have a son no longer?
[MAX. falls into his arms, they hold each other for a long time
in a speechless embrace, then go away at different sides.
ACT III.
SCENE I.
THEKLA.
To-day and yesterday I have not seen him.
COUNTESS.
And not heard from him, either? Come, be open.
THEKLA.
No Syllable.
COUNTESS.
And still you are so calm?
THEKLA.
I am.
COUNTESS.
May it please you, leave us, Lady Neubrunn.
SCENE II.
COUNTESS.
It does not please me, princess, that he holds
Himself so still, exactly at this time.
THEKLA.
Exactly at this time?
COUNTESS.
He now knows all
'Twere now the moment to declare himself.
THEKLA.
If I'm to understand you, speak less darkly.
COUNTESS.
'Twas for that purpose that I bade her leave us.
Thekla, you are no more a child. Your heart
Is no more in nonage: for you love,
And boldness dwells with love--that you have proved
Your nature moulds itself upon your father's
More than your mother's spirit. Therefore may you
Hear what were too much for her fortitude.
THEKLA.
Enough: no further preface, I entreat you.
At once, out with it! Be it what it may,
It is not possible that it should torture me
More than this introduction. What have you
To say to me? Tell me the whole, and briefly!
COUNTESS.
You'll not be frightened----
THEKLA.
Name it, I entreat you.
COUNTESS.
Lies within my power to do your father
A weighty service----
THEKLA.
Lies within my power.
COUNTESS.
Max. Piccolomini loves you. You can link him
Indissolubly to your father.
THEKLA.
I?
What need of me for that? And is he not
Already linked to him?
COUNTESS.
He was.
THEKLA.
And wherefore
Should he not be so now--not be so always?
COUNTESS.
He cleaves to the emperor too.
THEKLA.
Not more than duty
And honor may demand of him.
COUNTESS.
We ask
Proofs of his love, and not proofs of his honor.
Duty and honor!
Those are ambiguous words with many meanings.
You should interpret them for him: his love
Should be the sole definer of his honor.
THEKLA.
How?
COUNTESS.
The emperor or you must he renounce.
THEKLA.
He will accompany my father gladly
In his retirement. From himself you heard,
How much he wished to lay aside the sword.
COUNTESS.
He must not lay the sword aside, we mean;
He must unsheath it in your father's cause.
THEKLA.
He'll spend with gladness and alacrity
His life, his heart's blood in my father's cause,
If shame or injury be intended him.
COUNTESS.
You will not understand me. Well, hear then:
Your father has fallen off from the emperor,
And is about to join the enemy
With the whole soldiery----
THEKLA.
Alas, my mother!
COUNTESS.
There needs a great example to draw on
The army after him. The Piccolomini
Possess the love and reverence of the troops;
They govern all opinions, and wherever
They lead the way, none hesitate to follow.
The son secures the father to our interests--
You've much in your hands at this moment.
THEKLA.
Ah,
My miserable mother! what a death-stroke
Awaits thee! No! she never will survive it.
COUNTESS.
She will accommodate her soul to that
Which is and must be. I do know your mother:
The far-off future weighs upon her heart
With torture of anxiety; but is it
Unalterably, actually present,
She soon resigns herself, and bears it calmly.
THEKLA.
O my foreboding bosom! Even now,
E'en now 'tis here, that icy hand of horror!
And my young hope lies shuddering in its grasp;
I knew it well--no sooner had I entered,
An heavy ominous presentiment
Revealed to me that spirits of death were hovering
Over my happy fortune. But why, think I
First of myself? My mother! O my mother!
COUNTESS.
THEKLA.
Prove good! What good?
Must we not part; part ne'er to meet again?
COUNTESS.
He parts not from you! He cannot part from you.
THEKLA.
Alas, for his sore anguish! It will rend
His heart asunder.
COUNTESS.
If indeed he loves you.
His resolution will be speedily taken.
THEKLA.
His resolution will be speedily taken--
Oh, do not doubt of that! A resolution!
Does there remain one to be taken?
COUNTESS.
Hush!
Collect yourself! I hear your mother coming.
THERLA.
How shall I bear to see her?
COUNTESS.
Collect yourself.
SCENE III.
COUNTESS.
Nay! there was no one.
DUCHESS.
I am growing so timorous, every trifling noise
Scatters my spirits, and announces to me
The footstep of some messenger of evil.
And you can tell me, sister, what the event is?
Will he agree to do the emperor's pleasure,
And send the horse regiments to the cardinal?
Tell me, has he dismissed von Questenberg
With a favorable answer?
COUNTESS.
No, he has not.
DUCHESS.
Alas! then all is lost! I see it coming,
The worst that can come! Yes, they will depose him;
The accursed business of the Regensburg diet
Will all be acted o'er again!
COUNTESS.
No! never!
Make your heart easy, sister, as to that.
DUCHESS.
Yes, my poor child!
Thou too hast lost a most affectionate godmother
In the empress. Oh, that stern, unbending man!
In this unhappy marriage what have I
Not suffered, not endured? For even as if
I had been linked on to some wheel of fire
That restless, ceaseless, whirls impetuous onward,
I have passed a life of frights and horrors with him,
And ever to the brink of some abyss
With dizzy headlong violence he bears me.
Nay, do not weep, my child. Let not my sufferings
Presignify unhappiness to thee,
Nor blacken with their shade the fate that waits thee.
There lives no second Friedland; thou, my child,
Hast not to fear thy mother's destiny.
THEELA.
Oh, let us supplicate him, dearest mother!
Quick! quick! here's no abiding-place for us.
Here every coming hour broods into life
Some new affrightful monster.
DUCHESS.
Thou wilt share
An easier, calmer lot, my child! We, too,
I and thy father, witnessed happy days.
Still think I with delight of those first years,
When he was making progress with glad effort,
When his ambition was a genial fire,
Not that consuming flame which now it is.
The emperor loved him, trusted him; and all
He undertook could not but be successful.
But since that ill-starred day at Regensburg,
Which plunged him headlong from his dignity,
A gloomy, uncompanionable spirit,
Unsteady and suspicious, has possessed him.
His quiet mind forsook him, and no longer
Did he yield up himself in joy and faith
To his old luck and individual power;
But thenceforth turned his heart and best affections
All to those cloudy sciences which never
Have yet made happy him who followed them.
COUNTESS.
You see it, sister! as your eyes permit you,
But surely this is not the conversation
To pass the time in which we are waiting for him.
You know he will be soon here. Would you have him
Find her in this condition?
DUCHESS.
Come, my child!
Come, wipe away thy tears, and show thy father
A cheerful countenance. See, the tie-knot here
Is off; this hair must not hang so dishevelled.
Come, dearest! dry thy tears up. They deform
Thy gentle eye. Well, now--what was I saying?
Yes, in good truth, this Piccolomini
Is a most noble and deserving gentleman.
COUNTESS.
That is he, sister!
(Is going).
COUNTESS.
But, whither? See, your father comes!
THEKLA.
I cannot see him now.
COUNTESS.
Nay, but bethink you.
THEKLA.
Believe me, I cannot sustain his presence.
COUNTESS.
But he will miss you, will ask after you.
DUCHESS.
What, now? Why is she going?
COUNTESS.
She's not well.
DUCHESS (anxiously).
What ails, then, my beloved child?
SCENE IV.
WALLENSTEIN.
All quiet in the camp?
ILLO.
It is all quiet.
WALLENSTEIN.
In a few hours may couriers come from Prague
With tidings that this capital is ours.
Then we may drop the mask, and to the troops
Assembled in this town make known the measure
And its result together. In such cases
Example does the whole. Whoever is foremost
Still leads the herd. An imitative creature
Is man. The troops at Prague conceive no other,
Than that the Pilsen army has gone through
The forms of homage to us; and in Pilsen
They shall swear fealty to us, because
The example has been given them by Prague.
Butler, you tell me, has declared himself?
ILLO.
At his own bidding, unsolicited,
He came to offer you himself and regiment.
WALLENSTEIN,
I find we must not give implicit credence
To every warning voice that makes itself
Be listened to in the heart. To hold us back,
Oft does the lying spirit counterfeit
The voice of truth and inward revelation,
Scattering false oracles. And thus have I
To entreat forgiveness for that secretly.
I've wronged this honorable gallant man,
This Butler: for a feeling of the which
I am not master (fear I would not call it),
Creeps o'er me instantly, with sense of shuddering,
At his approach, and stops love's joyous motion.
And this same man, against whom I am warned,
This honest man is he who reaches to me
The first pledge of my fortune.
ILLO.
And doubt not
That his example will win over to you
The best men in the army.
WALLENSTEIN.
Go and send
Isolani hither. Send him immediately.
He is under recent obligations to me:
With him will I commence the trial. Go.
[Exit ILLO.
COUNTESS.
'Tis long since we've been thus together, brother.
COUNTESS.
Not yet.
WALLENSTEIN.
Come here, my sweet girl! Seat thee by me,
For there is a good spirit on thy lips.
Thy mother praised to me thy ready skill;
She says a voice of melody dwells in thee,
Which doth enchant the soul. Now such a voice
Will drive away from me the evil demon
That beats his black wings close above my head.
DUCHESS.
Where is thy lute, my daughter? Let thy father
Hear some small trial of thy skill.
THEKLA.
My mother
I----
DUCHESS.
Trembling? Come, collect thyself. Go, cheer
Thy father.
THEKLA.
O my mother! I--I cannot.
COUNTESS.
How, what is that, niece?
DUCHESS.
How, Thekla! Humorsome!
What! shall thy father have expressed a wish
In vain?
COUNTESS.
Here is the lute.
THEKLA.
My God! how can I----
DUCHESS.
My child! Oh, she is ill----
WALLENSTEIN.
What ails the maiden?
Say, is she often so?
COUNTESS.
Since then herself
Has now betrayed it, I too must no longer
Conceal it.
WALLENSTEIN.
What?
COUNTESS.
She loves him!
WALLENSTEIN.
Loves him? Whom?
COUNTESS.
Max. does she love! Max. Piccolomini!
Hast thou never noticed it? Nor yet my sister?
DUCHESS.
Was it this that lay so heavy on her heart?
God's blessing on thee,--my sweet child! Thou needest
Never take shame upon thee for thy choice.
COUNTESS.
This journey, if 'twere not thy aim, ascribe it
To thine own self. Thou shouldst have chosen another
To have attended her.
WALLENSTEIN.
And does he know it?
COUNTESS.
Yes, and he hopes to win her.
WALLENSTEIN.
Hopes to win her!
Is the boy mad?
COUNTESS.
Well--hear it from themselves.
WALLENSTEIN.
He thinks to carry off Duke Friedland's daughter!
Ay? The thought pleases me.
The young man has no groveling spirit.
COUNTESS.
Since
Such and such constant favor you have shown him----
WALLENSTEIN.
He chooses finally to be my heir.
And true it is, I love the youth; yea, honor him.
But must he therefore be my daughter's husband?
Is it daughters only? Is it only children
That we must show our favor by?
DUCHESS.
His noble disposition and his manners----
WALLENSTEIN.
Win him my heart, but not my daughter.
DUCHESS.
Then
His rank, his ancestors----
WALLENSTEIN.
Ancestors! What?
He is a subject, and my son-in-law
I will seek out upon the thrones of Europe.
DUCHESS
O dearest Albrecht! Climb we not too high
Lest we should fall too low.
WALLENSTEIN.
What! have I paid
A price so heavy to ascend this eminence,
And jut out high above the common herd,
Only to close the mighty part I play
In life's great drama with a common kinsman?
Have I for this----
[Stops suddenly, repressing himself.
She is the only thing
That will remain behind of me on earth;
And I will see a crown around her head,
Or die in the attempt to place it there.
I hazard all--all! and for this alone,
To lift her into greatness.
Yea, in this moment, in the which we are speaking
[He recollects himself.
And I must now, like a soft-hearted father,
Couple together in good peasant fashion
The pair that chance to suit each other's liking--
And I must do it now, even now, when I
Am stretching out the wreath that is to twine
My full accomplished work--no! she is the jewel,
Which I have treasured long, my last, my noblest,
And 'tis my purpose not to let her from me
For less than a king's sceptre.
DUCHESS.
O my husband!
You're ever building, building to the clouds,
Still building higher, and still higher building,
And ne'er reflect, that the poor narrow basis
Cannot sustain the giddy tottering column.
COUNTESS.
No! not yet,
'Twere better you yourself disclosed it to her.
DUCHESS.
How? Do we not return to Carinthia then?
WALLENSTEIN.
No.
DUCHESS.
And to no other of your lands or seats?
WALLENSTEIN.
You would not be secure there.
DUCHESS.
Not secure.
In the emperor's realms, beneath the emperor's
Protection?
WALLENSTEIN.
Friedland's wife may be permitted
No longer to hope that.
DUCHESS.
O God in heaven!
And have you brought it even to this!
WALLENSTEIN.
In Holland
You'll find protection.
DUCHESS
In a Lutheran country?
What? And you send us into Lutheran countries?
WALLENSTEIN.
Duke Franz of Lauenburg conducts you thither.
DUCHESS.
Duke Franz of Lauenburg?
The ally of Sweden, the emperor's enemy.
WALLENSTEIN.
The emperor's enemies are mine no longer.
SCENE V.
COUNTESS.
Terzky!
What ails him? What an image of affright!
He looks as he had seen a ghost.
TERZKY (leading WALLENSTEIN aside).
Is it thy command that all the Croats----
WALLENSTEIN.
Mine!
TERZKY.
We are betrayed.
WALLENSTEIN.
What?
TERZKY.
They are off! This night
The Jaegers likewise--all the villages
In the whole round are empty.
WALLENSTEIN.
Isolani!
TERZKY.
Him thou hast sent away. Yes, surely.
WALLENSTEIN.
I?
TERZKY.
No? Hast thou not sent him off? Nor Deodati?
They are vanished, both of them.
SCENE VI.
ILLO.
Has Terzky told thee?
TERZKY.
He knows all.
ILLO.
And likewise
That Esterhatzy, Goetz, Maradas, Kaunitz,
Kolatto, Palfi, have forsaken thee.
TERZKY.
Damnation!
COUNTESS (who has been watching them anxiously from the distance and
now advances to them).
Terzky! Heaven! What is it? What has happened?
PAGE (enters).
An aide-de-camp inquires for the Count Terzky.
WALLENSTEIN.
Go, hear his business.
[To ILLO.
This could not have happened
So unsuspected without mutiny.
Who was on guard at the gates?
ILLO.
'Twas Tiefenbach.
WALLENSTEIN.
Let Tiefenbach leave guard without delay,
And Terzky's grenadiers relieve him.
[ILLO is going.
Stop!
Hast thou heard aught of Butler?
ILLO.
Him I met
He will be here himself immediately.
Butler remains unshaken,
COUNTESS.
Let him not leave thee, sister! go, detain him!
There's some misfortune.
WALLENSTEIN.
Be tranquil! leave me, sister! dearest wife!
We are in camp, and this is naught unusual;
Here storm and sunshine follow one another
With rapid interchanges. These fierce spirits
Champ the curb angrily, and never yet
Did quiet bless the temples of the leader;
If I am to stay go you. The plaints of women
Ill suit the scene where men must act.
COUNTESS.
No--never!
WALLENSTEIN.
'Tis my will.
DUCHESS.
Sister, come! since he commands it.
SCENE VII.
WALLENSTEIN, TERZKY.
TERZKY.
There are strange movements among all the troops,
And no one knows the cause. Mysteriously,
With gloomy silentness, the several corps
Marshal themselves, each under its own banners;
Tiefenbach's corps make threatening movements; only
The Pappenheimers still remain aloof
In their own quarters and let no one enter.
WALLENSTEIN.
Does Piccolomini appear among them?
TERZKY.
We are seeking him: he is nowhere to be met with.
WALLENSTEIN.
What did the aide-de-camp deliver to you?
TERZKY.
My regiments had despatched him; yet once more
They swear fidelity to thee, and wait
The shout for onset, all prepared, and eager.
WALLENSTEIN.
But whence arose this larum in the camp?
It should have been kept secret from the army
Till fortune had decided for us at Prague.
TERZKY.
Oh, that thou hadst believed me! Yester-evening
Did we conjure thee not to let that skulker,
That fox, Octavio, pass the gates of Pilsen.
Thou gavest him thy own horses to flee from thee.
WALLENSTEIN.
The old tune still! Now, once for all, no more
Of this suspicion--it is doting folly.
TERZKY.
Thou didst confide in Isolani too;
And lo! he was the first that did desert thee.
WALLENSTEIN.
It was but yesterday I rescued him
From abject wretchedness. Let that go by;
I never reckoned yet on gratitude.
And wherein doth he wrong in going from me?
He follows still the god whom all his life
He has worshipped at the gaming-table. With
My fortune and my seeming destiny
He made the bond and broke it, not with me.
I am but the ship in which his hopes were stowed,
And with the which, well-pleased and confident,
He traversed the open sea; now he beholds it
In eminent jeopardy among the coast-rocks,
And hurries to preserve his wares. As light
As the free bird from the hospitable twig
Where it had nested he flies off from me:
No human tie is snapped betwixt us two.
Yea, he deserves to find himself deceived
Who seeks a heart in the unthinking man.
Like shadows on a stream, the forms of life
Impress their characters on the smooth forehead,
Naught sinks into the bosom's silent depth:
Quick sensibility of pain and pleasure
Moves the light fluids lightly; but no soul
Warmeth the inner frame.
TERZKY.
Yet, would I rather
Trust the smooth brow than that deep furrowed one.
SCENE VIII.
TERZKY.
And what further now?
ILLO.
Tiefenbach's soldiers, when I gave the orders.
To go off guard--mutinous villains!
TERZKY.
Well!
WALLENSTEIN.
What followed?
ILLO.
They refused obedience to them.
TERZKY.
Fire on them instantly! Give out the order.
WALLENSTEIN.
Gently! what cause did they assign?
ILLO.
No other,
They said, had right to issue orders but
Lieutenant-General Piccolomini.
ILLO.
He takes that office on him by commission,
Under sign-manual from the emperor.
TERZKY.
From the emperor--hearest thou, duke?
ILLO.
At his incitement
The generals made that stealthy flight----
TERZKY.
Duke, hearest thou?
ILLO.
Caraffa too, and Montecuculi,
Are missing, with six other generals,
All whom he had induced to follow him.
This plot he has long had in writing by him
From the emperor; but 'twas finally concluded,
With all the detail of the operation,
Some days ago with the Envoy Questenberg.
TERZKY.
Oh, hadst thou but believed me!
SCENE IX.
COUNTESS.
This suspense,
This horrid fear--I can no longer bear it.
For heaven's sake tell me what has taken place?
ILLO.
The regiments are falling off from us.
TERZKY.
Octavio Piccolomini is a traitor.
COUNTESS.
O my foreboding!
TERZKY.
Hadst thou but believed me!
Now seest thou how the stars have lied to thee.
WALLENSTEIN.
The stars lie not; but we have here a work
Wrought counter to the stars and destiny.
The science is still honest: this false heart
Forces a lie on the truth-telling heaven,
On a divine law divination rests;
Where nature deviates from that law, and stumbles
Out of her limits, there all science errs.
True I did not suspect! Were it superstition
Never by such suspicion to have affronted
The human form, oh, may the time ne'er come
In which I shame me of the infirmity.
The wildest savage drinks not with the victim,
Into whose breast he means to plunge the sword.
This, this, Octavio, was no hero's deed
'Twas not thy prudence that did conquer mine;
A bad heart triumphed o'er an honest one.
No shield received the assassin stroke; thou plungest
Thy weapon on an unprotected breast--
Against such weapons I am but a child.
SCENE X.
WALLENSTEIN (meets him with outspread arms and embraces him with warmth).
Come to my heart, old comrade! Not the sun
Looks out upon us more revivingly,
In the earliest month of spring,
Than a friend's countenance in such an hour.
BUTLER.
My general; I come----
BUTLER.
Forget the false one.
What is your present purpose?
WALLENSTEIN.
Well remembered!
Courage, my soul! I am still rich in friends,
Still loved by destiny; for in the moment
That it unmasks the plotting hypocrite
It sends and proves to me one faithful heart.
Of the hypocrite no more! Think not his loss
Was that which struck the pang: Oh, no! his treason
Is that which strikes the pang! No more of him!
Dear to my heart, and honored were they both,
And the young man--yes--he did truly love me,
He--he--has not deceived me. But enough,
Enough of this--swift counsel now beseems us.
The courier, whom Count Kinsky sent from Prague,
I expect him every moment: and whatever
He may bring with him we must take good care
To keep it from the mutineers. Quick then!
Despatch some messenger you can rely on
To meet him, and conduct him to me.
[ILLO is going.
WALLENSTEIN.
The courier
Who brings me word of the event at Prague.
BUTLER (hesitating).
Hem!
WALLENSTEIN.
And what now?
BUTLER.
You do not know it?
WALLENSTEIN.
Well?
BUTLER.
From what that larum in the camp arose?
WALLENSTEIN.
From what?
BUTLER.
That courier----
BUTLER.
Is already here.
WALLENSTEIEN.
My courier?
BUTLER.
For some hours.
WALLENSTEIN.
And I not know it?
BUTLER.
The sentinels detain him
In custody.
BUTLER.
And his letter
Was broken open, and is circulated
Through the whole camp.
WALLENSTEIN.
You know what it contains?
BUTLER.
Question me not.
TERZKY.
Illo! Alas for us.
WALLENSTEIN.
Hide nothing from me--I can bear the worst.
Prague then is lost. It is. Confess it freely.
BUTLER.
Yes! Prague is lost. And all the several regiments
At Budweiss, Tabor, Braunau, Koenigingratz,
At Brunn, and Znaym, have forsaken you,
And taken the oaths of fealty anew
To the emperor. Yourself, with Kinsky, Terzky,
And Illo have been sentenced.
WALLENSTEIN.
'Tis decided! 'Tis well! I have received a sudden cure
From all the pangs of doubt: with steady stream
Once more my life-blood flows! My soul's secure!
In the night only Friedland stars can beam.
Lingering irresolute, with fitful fears
I drew the sword--'twas with an inward strife,
While yet the choice was mine. The murderous knife
Is lifted for my heart! Doubt disappears!
I fight now for my head and for my life.
SCENE XI.
SCENE XII.
DUCHESS.
No! Here is yet
Some frightful mystery that is hidden from me.
Why does my sister shun me? Don't I see her
Full of suspense and anguish roam about
From room to room? Art thou not full of terror?
And what import these silent nods and gestures
Which stealthwise thou exchangest with her?
THEKLA.
Nothing
Nothing, dear mother!
COUNTESS.
What boots it now to hide it from her? Sooner
Or later she must learn to hear and bear it.
'Tis not the time now to indulge infirmity;
Courage beseems us now, a heart collect,
And exercise and previous discipline
Of fortitude. One word, and over with it!
Sister, you are deluded. You believe
The duke has been deposed--the duke is not
Deposed--he is----
COUNTESS.
The duke is----
COUNTESS.
Revolted is the duke; he is preparing
To join the enemy; the army leave him,
And all has failed.
SCENE XIII.
SCENE XIV.
TERZKY.
What do they want?
WALLENSTEIN.
What now?
TERZKY.
Ten cuirassiers
From Pappenheim request leave to address you
In the name of the regiment.
SCENE XV.
ANSPESSADE.
Halt! Front! Present!
WALLENSTEIN (after he has run through them with his eye, to the
NSPESSADE).
I know thee well. Thou art out of Brueggen in Flanders:
Thy name is Mercy.
ANSPESSADE.
Henry Mercy.
WALLENSTEIN. Thou were cut off on the march, surrounded by the Hessians,
and didst fight thy way with an hundred and eighty men through their
thousand.
ANSPESSADE. That which I asked for: the honor to serve in this corps.
WALLENSTEIN. Why does not your colonel deliver in your request according
to the custom of service?
ANSPESSADE.
There came to hand a letter from the emperor
Commanding us----
ANSPESSADE.
Every company
Drew its own man by lot.
WALLENSTEIN.
Now! to the business.
ANSPESSADE.
There came to hand a letter from the emperor
Commanding us, collectively, from thee
All duties of obedience to withdraw,
Because thou wert an enemy and traitor.
WALLENSTEIN.
And what did you determine?
ANSPESSADE.
All our comrades
At Braunau, Budweiss, Prague, and Olmutz, have
Obeyed already; and the regiments here,
Tiefenbach and Toscano, instantly
Did follow their example. But--but we
Do not believe that thou art an enemy
And traitor to thy country, hold it merely
For lie and trick, and a trumped-up Spanish story!
[With warmth.
Thyself shall tell us what thy purpose is,
For we have found thee still sincere and true
No mouth shall interpose itself betwixt
The gallant general and the gallant troops.
WALLENSTEIN.
Therein I recognize my Pappenheimers.
ANSPESSADE.
And this proposal makes thy regiment to thee:
Is it thy purpose merely to preserve
In thine own hands this military sceptre,
Which so becomes thee, which the emperor
Made over to thee by a covenant!
Is it thy purpose merely to remain
Supreme commander of the Austrian armies?
We will stand by thee, general! and guarantee
Thy honest rights against all opposition.
And should it chance, that all the other regiments
Turn from thee, by ourselves we will stand forth
Thy faithful soldiers, and, as is our duty,
Far rather let ourselves be cut to pieces
Than suffer thee to fall. But if it be
As the emperor's letter says, if it be true,
That thou in traitorous wise wilt lead us over
To the enemy, which God in heaven forbid!
Then we too will forsake thee, and obey
That letter----
WALLENSTEIN.
Hear me, children!
ANSPESSADE.
Yes, or no,
There needs no other answer.
WALLENSTEIN.
Yield attention.
You're men of sense, examine for yourselves;
Ye think, and do not follow with the herd:
And therefore have I always shown you honor
Above all others, suffered you to reason;
Have treated you as free men, and my orders
Were but the echoes of your prior suffrage.
ANSPESSADE.
Most fair and noble has thy conduct been
To us, my general! With thy confidence
Thou has honored us, and shown us grace and favor
Beyond all other regiments; and thou seest
We follow not the common herd. We will
Stand by thee faithfully. Speak but one word--
Thy word shall satisfy us that it is not
A treason which thou meditatest--that
Thou meanest not to lead the army over
To the enemy; nor e'er betray thy country.
WALLENSTEIN.
Me, me are they betraying. The emperor
Hath sacrificed me to my enemies,
And I must fall, unless my gallant troops
Will rescue me. See! I confide in you.
And be your hearts my stronghold! At this breast
The aim is taken, at this hoary head.
This is your Spanish gratitude, this is our
Requital for that murderous fight at Luetzen!
For this we threw the naked breast against
The halbert, made for this the frozen earth
Our bed, and the hard stone our pillow! never stream
Too rapid for us, nor wood too impervious;
With cheerful spirit we pursued that Mansfeldt
Through all the turns and windings of his flight:
Yea, our whole life was but one restless march:
And homeless, as the stirring wind, we travelled
O'er the war-wasted earth. And now, even now,
That we have well-nigh finished the hard toil,
The unthankful, the curse-laden toil of weapons,
With faithful indefatigable arm
Have rolled the heavy war-load up the hill,
Behold! this boy of the emperor's bears away
The honors of the peace, an easy prize!
He'll weave, forsooth, into his flaxen locks
The olive branch, the hard-earned ornament
Of this gray head, grown gray beneath the helmet.
ANSPESSADE.
That shall he not, while we can hinder it!
No one, but thou, who has conducted it
With fame, shall end this war, this frightful war.
Thou leadest us out to the bloody field
Of death; thou and no other shalt conduct us home,
Rejoicing, to the lovely plains of peace--
Shalt share with us the fruits of the long toil.
WALLENSTEIN.
What! Think you then at length in late old age
To enjoy the fruits of toil? Believe it not.
Never, no never, will you see the end
Of the contest! you and me, and all of us,
This war will swallow up! War, war, not peace,
Is Austria's wish; and therefore, because I
Endeavored after peace, therefore I fall.
For what cares Austria how long the war
Wears out the armies and lays waste the world!
She will but wax and grow amid the ruin
And still win new domains.
[The CUIRASSIERS express agitation by their gestures.
Ye're moved--I see
A noble rage flash from your eyes, ye warriors!
Oh, that my spirit might possess you now
Daring as once it led you to the battle
Ye would stand by me with your veteran arms,
Protect me in my rights; and this is noble!
But think not that you can accomplish it,
Your scanty number! to no purpose will you
Have sacrificed you for your general.
[Confidentially.
No! let us tread securely, seek for friends;
The Swedes have proffered us assistance, let us
Wear for a while the appearance of good-will,
And use them for your profit, till we both
Carry the fate of Europe in our hands,
And from our camp to the glad jubilant world
Lead peace forth with the garland on her head!
ANSPESSADE.
'Tis then but mere appearances which thou
Dost put on with the Swede! Thou'lt not betray
The emperor? Wilt not turn us into Swedes?
This is the only thing which we desire
To learn from thee.
WALLENSTEIN.
What care I for the Swedes?
I hate them as I hate the pit of hell,
And under Providence I trust right soon
To chase them to their homes across their Baltic.
My cares are only for the whole: I have
A heart--it bleeds within me for the miseries
And piteous groanings of my fellow-Germans.
Ye are but common men, but yet ye think
With minds not common; ye appear to me
Worthy before all others, that I whisper thee
A little word or two in confidence!
See now! already for full fifteen years,
The war-torch has continued burning, yet
No rest, no pause of conflict. Swede and German,
Papist and Lutheran! neither will give way
To the other; every hand's against the other.
Each one is party and no one a judge.
Where shall this end? Where's he that will unravel
This tangle, ever tangling more and more
It must be cut asunder.
I feel that I am the man of destiny,
And trust, with your assistance, to accomplish it.
SCENE XVI.
BUTLER (passionately).
General! this is not right!
WALLENSTEIN.
What is not right?
BUTLER.
It must needs injure us with all honest men.
WALLENSTEIN.
But what?
BUTLER.
It is an open proclamation
Of insurrection.
WALLENSTEIN.
Well, well--but what is it?
BUTLER.
Count Terzky's regiments tear the imperial eagle
From off his banners, and instead of it
Have reared aloft their arms.
SCENE XVII.
DUCHESS.
O Albrecht!
What hast thou done?
WALLENSTEIN.
And now comes this beside.
COUNTESS.
Forgive me, brother! It was not in my power--
They know all.
DUCHESS.
What hast thou done?
TERZKY.
All lost. No hope. Prague in the emperor's hands,
The soldiery have taken their oaths anew.
COUNTESS.
That lurking hypocrite, Octavio!
Count Max. is off too.
TERZKY.
Where can he be? He's
Gone over to the emperor with his father.
[THEKLA rushes out into the arms of her mother, hiding her face
in her bosom.
DUCHESS (enfolding her in her arms).
Unhappy child! and more unhappy mother!
ILLO.
Hear'st thou the uproar?
The whole corps of the Pappenheimers is
Drawn out: the younger Piccolomini,
Their colonel, they require: for they affirm,
That he is in the palace here, a prisoner;
And if thou dost not instantly deliver him,
They will find means to free him with the sword.
TERZKY.
What shall we make of this?
WALLENSTEIN.
Said I not so?
O my prophetic heart! he is still here.
He has not betrayed me--he could not betray me.
I never doubted of it.
COUNTESS.
If he be
Still here, then all goes well; for I know what
[Embracing THEKLA.
Will keep him here forever.
TERZKY.
It can't be.
His father has betrayed us, is gone over
To the emperor--the son could not have ventured
To stay behind.
SCENE XVIII.
MAX.
Yes, here he is! I can endure no longer
To creep on tiptoe round this house, and lurk
In ambush for a favorable moment:
This loitering, this suspense exceeds my powers.
[Advancing to THEKLA, who has thrown herself into her mother's arms.
[THEKLA, avoiding his look, points with her hand to her father.
MAX. turns round to the DUKE, whom he had not till then perceived.
WALLENSTEIN.
Think'st thou that, fool-like, I shall let thee go,
And act the mock-magnanimous with thee?
Thy father is become a villain to me;
I hold thee for his son, and nothing more
Nor to no purpose shalt thou have been given
Into my power. Think not, that I will honor
That ancient love, which so remorselessly
He mangled. They are now passed by, those hours
Of friendship and forgiveness. Hate and vengeance
Succeed--'tis now their turn--I too can throw
All feelings of the man aside--can prove
Myself as much a monster as thy father!
MAX (calmly).
Thou wilt proceed with me as thou hast power.
Thou knowest I neither brave nor fear thy rage.
What has detained me here, that too thou knowest.
[Taking THEKLA by the hand.
See, duke! All--all would I have owed to thee,
Would have received from thy paternal hand
The lot of blessed spirits. That hast thou
Laid waste forever--that concerns not thee.
Indifferent thou tramplest in the dust
Their happiness who most are thine. The god
Whom thou dost serve is no benignant deity,
Like as the blind, irreconcilable,
Fierce element, incapable of compact.
Thy heart's wild impulse only dost thou follow. [5]
WALLENSTEIN.
Thou art describing thy own father's heart.
The adder! Oh, the charms of hell o'erpowered me
He dwelt within me, to my inmost soul
Still to and fro he passed, suspected never.
On the wide ocean, in the starry heaven
Did mine eyes seek the enemy, whom I
In my heart's heart had folded! Had I been
To Ferdinand what Octavio was to me,
War had I ne'er denounced against him.
No, I never could have done it. The emperor was
My austere master only, not my friend.
There was already war 'twixt him and me
When he delivered the commander's staff
Into my hands; for there's a natural
Unceasing war twixt cunning and suspicion;
Peace exists only betwixt confidence
And faith. Who poisons confidence, he murders
The future generations.
MAX.
I will not
Defend my father. Woe is me, I cannot!
Hard deeds and luckless have taken place; one crime
Drags after it the other in close link.
But we are innocent: how have we fallen
Into this circle of mishap and guilt?
To whom have we been faithless? Wherefore must
The evil deeds and guilt reciprocal
Of our two fathers twine like serpents round us?
Why must our fathers'
Unconquerable hate rend us asunder,
Who love each other?
WALLENSTEIN.
Max., remain with me.
Go you not from me, Max.! Hark! I will tell thee----
How when at Prague, our winter quarters, thou
Wert brought into my tent a tender boy,
Not yet accustomed to the German winters;
Thy hand was frozen to the heavy colors;
Thou wouldst not let them go.
At that time did I take thee in my arms,
And with my mantle did I cover thee;
I was thy nurse, no woman could have been
A kinder to thee; I was not ashamed
To do for thee all little offices,
However strange to me; I tended thee
Till life returned; and when thine eyes first opened,
I had thee in my arms. Since then, when have
Altered my feelings toward thee? Many thousands
Have I made rich, presented them with lands;
Rewarded them with dignities and honors;
Thee have I loved: my heart, my self, I gave
To thee; They all were aliens: thou wert
Our child and inmate. [6] Max.! Thou canst not leave me;
It cannot be; I may not, will not think
That Max. can leave me.
MAX.
Ob, my God!
WALLENSTEIN
I have
Held and sustained thee from thy tottering childhood.
What holy bond is there of natural love,
What human tie that does not knit thee to me?
I love thee, Max.! What did thy father for thee,
Which I too have not done, to the height of duty?
Go hence, forsake me, serve thy emperor;
He will reward thee with a pretty chain
Of gold; with his ram's fleece will he reward thee;
For that the friend, the father of thy youth,
For that the holiest feeling of humanity,
Was nothing worth to thee.
MAX.
O God! how can I
Do otherwise. Am I not forced to do it,
My oath--my duty--my honor----
WALLENSTEIN.
How? Thy duty?
Duty to whom? Who art thou? Max.! bethink thee
What duties may'st thou have? If I am acting
A criminal part toward the emperor,
It is my crime, not thine. Dost thou belong
To thine own self? Art thou thine own commander?
Stand'st thou, like me, a freeman in the world,
That in thy actions thou shouldst plead free agency?
On me thou art planted, I am thy emperor;
To obey me, to belong to me, this is
Thy honor, this a law of nature to thee!
And if the planet on the which thou livest
And hast thy dwelling, from its orbit starts.
It is not in thy choice, whether or no
Thou'lt follow it. Unfelt it whirls thee onward
Together with his ring, and all his moons.
With little guilt steppest thou into this contest;
Thee will the world not censure, it will praise thee,
For that thou held'st thy friend more worth to thee
Than names and influences more removed
For justice is the virtue of the ruler,
Affection and fidelity the subject's.
Not every one doth it beseem to question
The far-off high Arcturus. Most securely
Wilt thou pursue the nearest duty: let
The pilot fix his eye upon the pole-star.
SCENE XIX.
WALLENSTEIN.
What now?
NEUMANN.
The Pappenheimers are dismounted,
And are advancing now on foot, determined
With sword in hand to storm the house, and free
The count, their colonel.
COUNTESS.
Let him go, I entreat thee, let him go.
WALLENSTEIN.
What is it?
ILLO.
They scale the council-house, the roof's uncovered,
They level at this house the cannon----
MAX.
Madmen
ILLO.
They are making preparations now to fire on us.
WALLENSTEIN.
Not a step!
SCENE XX.
TERZKY.
Message and greeting from our faithful regiments.
Their ardor may no longer be curbed in.
They entreat permission to commence the attack;
And if thou wouldst but give the word of onset
They could now charge the enemy in rear,
Into the city wedge them, and with ease
O'erpower them in the narrow streets.
ILLO.
Oh come
Let not their ardor cool. The soldiery
Of Butler's corps stand by us faithfully;
We are the greater number. Let us charge them
And finish here in Pilsen the revolt.
WALLENSTEIN.
What? shall this town become a field of slaughter,
And brother-killing discord, fire-eyed,
Be let loose through its streets to roam and rage?
Shall the decision be delivered over
To deaf remorseless rage, that hears no leader?
Here is not room for battle, only for butchery.
Well, let it be! I have long thought of it,
So let it burst then!
[Turns to MAX.
Well, how is it with thee?
Wilt thou attempt a heat with me. Away!
Thou art free to go. Oppose thyself to me,
Front against front, and lead them to the battle;
Thou'rt skilled in war, thou hast learned somewhat under me,
I need not be ashamed of my opponent,
And never hadst thou fairer opportunity
To pay me for thy schooling.
COUNTESS.
Is it then,
Can it have come to this? What! Cousin, cousin!
Have you the heart?
MAX.
The regiments that are trusted to my care
I have pledged my troth to bring away from Pilsen
True to the emperor; and this promise will I
Make good, or perish. More than this no duty
Requires of me. I will not fight against thee,
Unless compelled; for though an enemy,
Thy head is holy to me still,
[Two reports of cannon. ILLO and TERZKY hurry to the window.
WALLENSTEIN.
What's that?
TERZBY.
He falls.
WALLENSTEIN.
Falls! Who?
ILLO.
Tiefenbach's corps
Discharged the ordnance.
WALLENSTEIN.
Upon whom?
ILLO.
On--Neumann,
Your messenger.
TERZKY.
Expose thyself to their blind frenzy?
ILLO.
Not yet, my general!
Oh, hold him! hold him!
WALLENSTEIN.
Leave me----
MAX.
Do it not;
Not yet! This rash and bloody deed has thrown them
Into a frenzy-fit--allow them time----
WALLENSTEIN.
Away! too long already have I loitered.
They are emboldened to these outrages,
Beholding not my face. They shall behold
My countenance, shall hear my voice--
Are they not my troops? Am I not their general,
And their long-feared commander! Let me see,
Whether indeed they do no longer know
That countenance which was their sun in battle!
From the balcony (mark!) I show myself
To these rebellious forces, and at once
Revolt is mounded, and the high-swollen current
Shrinks back into the old bed of obedience.
[Exit WALLENSTEIN; ILLO, TERZKY, and BUTLER follow.
SCENE XXI.
DUCHESS.
Hope! I have none!
MAX. (who during the last scene has been standing at a distance, in a
visible struggle of feelings advances).
This can I not endure.
With most determined soul did I come hither;
My purposed action seemed unblamable
To my own conscience--and I must stand here
Like one abhorred, a hard, inhuman being:
Yea, loaded with the curse of all I love!
Must see all whom I love in this sore anguish,
Whom I with one word can make happy--O!
My heart revolts within me, and two voices
Make themselves audible within my bosom.
My soul's benighted; I no longer can
Distinguish the right track. Oh, well and truly
Didst thou say, father, I relied too much
On my own heart. My mind moves to and fro--
I know not what to do.
COUNTESS.
What! you know not?
Does not your own heart tell you? Oh! then I
Will tell it you. Your father is a traitor,
A frightful traitor to us--he has plotted
Against our general's life, has plunged us all
In misery--and you're his son! 'Tis yours
To make the amends. Make you the son's fidelity
Outweigh the father's treason, that the name
Of Piccolomini be not a proverb
Of infamy, a common form of cursing
To the posterity of Wallenstein.
MAX.
Where is that voice of truth which I dare follow!
It speaks no longer in my heart. We all
But utter what our passionate wishes dictate:
Oh that an angel would descend from heaven,
And scoop for me the right, the uncorrupted,
With a pure hand from the pure Fount of light.
[His eyes glance on THEKLA.
What other angel seek I? To this heart,
To this unerring heart, will I submit it;
Will ask thy love, which has the power to bless
The happy man alone, averted ever
From the disquieted and guilty--canst thou
Still love me, if I stay? Say that thou canst,
And I am the duke's----
COUNTESS.
Think, niece----
MAX.
Think nothing, Thekla!
Speak what thou feelest.
COUNTESS.
Think upon your father.
MAX.
I did not question thee, as Friedland's daughter.
Thee, the beloved and the unerring God
Within thy heart, I question. What's at stake?
Not whether diadem of royalty
Be to be won or not--that mightest thou think on.
Thy friend, and his soul's quiet are at stake:
The fortune of a thousand gallant men,
Who will all follow me; shall I forswear
My oath and duty to the emperor?
Say, shall I send into Octavio's camp
The parricidal ball? For when the ball
Has left its cannon, and is on its flight,
It is no longer a dead instrument!
It lives, a spirit passes into it;
The avenging furies seize possession of it,
And with sure malice, guide it the worst way.
THEKLA.
Oh! Max.----
THEKLA.
Oh, thy own
Hath long ago decided. Follow thou
Thy heart's first feeling----
COUNTESS.
Oh! ill-fated woman!
THEKLA.
Is it possible, that that can be the right,
The which thy tender heart did not at first
Detect and seize with instant impulse? Go,
Fulfil thy duty! I should ever love thee.
Whate'er thou hast chosen, thou wouldst still have acted
Nobly and worthy of thee--but repentance
Shall ne'er disturb thy soul's fair peace.
MAX.
Then I
Must leave thee, must part from thee!
THEKLA.
Being faithful
To thine own self, thou art faithful, too, to me:
If our fates part, our hearts remain united.
A bloody hatred will divide forever
The houses Piccolomini and Friedland;
But we belong not to our houses. Go!
Quick! quick! and separate thy righteous cause
From our unholy and unblessed one!
The curse of heaven lies upon our head:
'Tis dedicate to ruin. Even me
My father's guilt drags with it to perdition.
Mourn not for me:
My destiny will quickly be decided.
SCENE XXII.
TERZKY.
All is lost!
COUNTESS.
What! they regarded not his countenance?
TERZKY.
'Twas all in vain.
DUCHESS.
They shouted Vivat!
TERZKY.
To the emperor.
COUNTESS.
The traitors?
TERZKY.
Nay! he was not permitted
Even to address them. Soon as he began,
With deafening noise of warlike instruments
They drowned his words. But here he comes.
SCENE XXIII.
TERZKY.
My general!
WALLENSTEIN.
Let our regiments hold themselves
In readiness to march; for we shall leave
Pilsen ere evening.
[Exit TERZKY.
Butler!
BUTLER.
Yes, my general.
WALLENSTEIN.
The Governor of Egra is your friend
And countryman. Write him instantly
By a post courier. He must be advised,
That we are with him early on the morrow.
You follow us yourself, your regiment with you.
BUTLER.
It shall be done, my general!
WALLENSTEIN (steps between MAX. and THEKLA, who have remained during this
time in each other's arms).
Part!
MAX.
O God!
MAX.
Thou know'st that I have not yet learnt to live
Without thee! I go forth into a desert,
Leaving my all behind me. Oh, do not turn
Thine eyes away from me! Oh, once more show me
Thy ever dear and honored countenance.
My mother!
DUCHESS.
MAX.
You give me hope; you would not
Suffer me wholly to despair. No! no!
Mine is a certain misery. Thanks to heaven!
That offers me a means of ending it.
[The military music begins again. The stage fills more and more
with armed men. MAX. sees BUTLER and addresses him.
ILLO.
Go--seek for traitors
In Gallas', in your father's quarters. Here
Is only one. Away! away! and free us
From his detested sight! Away!
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
SCENE II.
GORDON.
Is it you?
How my heart sinks! The duke a fugitive traitor!
His princely head attainted! Oh, my God!
Tell me, general, I implore thee, tell me
In full, of all these sad events at Pilsen.
BUTLER.
You have received the letter which I sent you
By a post-courier?
GORDON.
Yes: and in obedience to it
Opened the stronghold to him without scruple,
For an imperial letter orders me
To follow your commands implicitly.
But yet forgive me! when even now I saw
The duke himself, my scruples recommenced.
For truly, not like an attainted man,
Into this town did Friedland make his entrance;
His wonted majesty beamed from his brow,
And calm, as in the days when all was right,
Did he receive from me the accounts of office.
'Tis said, that fallen pride learns condescension.
But sparing and with dignity the duke
Weighed every syllable of approbation,
As masters praise a servant who has done
His duty and no more.
BUTLER.
'Tis all precisely
As I related in my letter. Friedland
Has sold the army to the enemy,
And pledged himself to give up Prague and Egra.
On this report the regiments all forsook him,
The five excepted that belong to Terzky,
And which have followed him, as thou hast seen.
The sentence of attainder is passed on him,
And every loyal subject is required
To give him in to justice, dead or living.
GORDON.
A traitor to the emperor. Such a noble!
Of such high talents! What is human greatness?
I often said, this can't end happily.
His might, his greatness, and this obscure power
Are but a covered pitfall. The human being
May not be trusted to self-government.
The clear and written law, the deep-trod footmarks
Of ancient custom, are all necessary
To keep him in the road of faith and duty.
The authority intrusted to this man
Was unexampled and unnatural,
It placed him on a level with his emperor,
Till the proud soul unlearned submission. Woe is me!
I mourn for him! for where he fell, I deem
Might none stand firm. Alas! dear general,
We in our lucky mediocrity
Have ne'er experienced, cannot calculate,
What dangerous wishes such a height may breed
In the heart of such a man.
BUTLER.
Spare your laments
Till he need sympathy; for at this present
He is still mighty, and still formidable.
The Swedes advance to Egra by forced marches,
And quickly will the junction be accomplished.
This must not be! The duke must never leave
This stronghold on free footing; for I have
Pledged life and honor here to hold him prisoner,
And your assistance 'tis on which I calculate.
GORDON.
O that I had not lived to see this day!
From his hand I received this dignity,
He did himself intrust this stronghold to me,
Which I am now required to make his dungeon.
We subalterns have no will of our own:
The free, the mighty man alone may listen
To the fair impulse of his human nature.
Ah! we are but the poor tools of the law,
Obedience the sole virtue we dare aim at!
BUTLER.
Nay! let it not afflict you, that your power
Is circumscribed. Much liberty, much error!
The narrow path of duty is securest.
And all then have deserted him you say?
He has built up the luck of many thousands
For kingly was his spirit: his full hand
Was ever open! Many a one from dust
[With a sly glance on BUTLER.
Hath he selected, from the very dust
Hath raised him into dignity and honor.
And yet no friend, not one friend hath he purchased,
Whose heart beats true to him in the evil hour.
BUTLER.
Here's one, I see.
GORDON.
I have enjoyed from him
No grace or favor. I could almost doubt,
If ever in his greatness he once thought on
An old friend of his youth. For still my office
Kept me at distance from him; and when first
He to this citadel appointed me,
He was sincere and serious in his duty.
I do not then abuse his confidence,
If I preserve my fealty in that
Which to my fealty was first delivered.
BUTLER.
Say, then, will you fulfil the attainder on him,
And lend your aid to take him in arrest?
BUTLER.
I have heard so----
GORDON.
'Tis full thirty years since then,
A youth who scarce had seen his twentieth year
Was Wallenstein, when he and I were friends
Yet even then he had a daring soul:
His frame of mind was serious and severe
Beyond his years: his dreams were of great objects
He walked amidst us of a silent spirit,
Communing with himself; yet I have known him
Transported on a sudden into utterance
Of strange conceptions; kindling into splendor
His soul revealed itself, and he spake so
That we looked round perplexed upon each other,
Not knowing whether it were craziness,
Or whether it were a god that spoke in him.
BUTLER.
But was it where he fell two story high
From a window-ledge, on which he had fallen asleep
And rose up free from injury? From this day
(It is reported) he betrayed clear marks
Of a distempered fancy.
GORDON.
He became
Doubtless more self-enwrapped and melancholy;
He made himself a Catholic. [7] Marvellously
His marvellous preservation had transformed him.
Thenceforth he held himself for an exempted
And privileged being, and, as if he were
Incapable of dizziness or fall,
He ran along the unsteady rope of life.
But now our destinies drove us asunder;
He paced with rapid step the way of greatness,
Was count, and prince, duke-regent, and dictator,
And now is all, all this too little for him;
He stretches forth his hands for a king's crown,
And plunges in unfathomable ruin.
BUTLER.
No more, he comes.
SCENE III.
To these enter WALLENSTEIN, in conversation with the
BURGOMASTER of Egra.
WALLENSTEIN.
You were at one time a free town. I see
Ye bear the half eagle in your city arms.
Why the half eagle only?
BURGOMASTER.
We were free,
But for these last two hundred years has Egra
Remained in pledge to the Bohemian crown;
Therefore we bear the half eagle, the other half
Being cancelled till the empire ransom us,
If ever that should be.
WALLENSTEIN.
Ye merit freedom.
Only be firm and dauntless. Lend your ears
To no designing whispering court-minions.
What may your imposts be?
BURGOMASTER.
So heavy that
We totter under them. The garrison
Lives at our costs.
WALLENSTEIN.
I will relieve you. Tell me,
There are some Protestants among you still?
[The BURGOMASTER hesitates.
Yes, yes; I know it. Many lie concealed
Within these walls. Confess now, you yourself----
[Fixes, his eye on him. The BURGOMASTER alarmed.
Be not alarmed. I hate the Jesuits.
Could my will have determined it they had
Been long ago expelled the empire. Trust me--
Mass-book or Bible, 'tis all one to me.
Of that the world has had sufficient proof.
I built a church for the Reformed in Glogau
At my own instance. Hark ye, burgomaster!
What is your name?
BURGOMASTER.
Pachhalbel, my it please you.
WALLENSTEIN.
Hark ye! But let it go no further, what I now
Disclose to you in confidence.
[Laying his hand on the BURGOMASTER'S shoulder with a certain
solemnity.
The times
Draw near to their fulfilment, burgomaster!
The high will fall, the low will be exalted.
Hark ye! But keep it to yourself! The end
Approaches of the Spanish double monarchy--
A new arrangement is at hand. You saw
The three moons that appeared at once in the heaven?
BURGOMASTER.
With wonder and affright!
WALLENSTEIN.
Whereof did two
Strangely transform themselves to bloody daggers,
And only one, the middle moon, remained
Steady and clear.
BURGOMASTER.
We applied it to the Turks.
WALLENSTEIN.
The Turks! That all? I tell you that two empires
Will set in blood, in the East and in the West,
And Lutherism alone remain.
[Observing GORDON and BUTLER.
I'faith,
'Twas a smart cannonading that we heard
This evening, as we journeyed hitherward:
'Twas on our left hand. Did ye hear it here?
GORDON.
Distinctly. The wind brought it from the south.
BUTLER.
It seemed to come from Weiden or from Neustadt.
WALLENSTEIN.
'Tis likely. That's the route the Swedes are taking.
How strong is the garrison?
GORDON.
Not quite two hundred
Competent men, the rest are invalids.
WALLENSTEIN.
Good! And how many in the vale of Jochim?
GORDON.
Two hundred arquebusiers have I sent thither
To fortify the posts against the Swedes.
WALLENSTEIN.
Good! I commend your foresight. At the works too
You have done somewhat?
GORDON.
Two additional batteries
I caused to be run up. They were needless;
The Rhinegrave presses hard upon us, general!
WALLENSTEIN.
You have been watchful in your emperor's service.
I am content with you, lieutenant-colonel.
[To BUTLER.
Release the outposts in the vale of Jochim,
With all the stations in the enemy's route.
[To GORDON.
Governor, in your faithful hands I leave
My wife, my daughter, and my sister. I
Shall make no stay here, and wait but the arrival
Of letters to take leave of you, together
With all the regiments.
SCENE IV.
TERZKY.
Joy, general, joy! I bring you welcome tidings.
WALLENSTEIN.
And what may they be?
TERZKY.
There has been an engagement
At Neustadt; the Swedes gained the victory.
WALLENSTEIN.
From whence did you receive the intelligence?
TERZKY.
A countryman from Tirschenreut conveyed it.
Soon after sunrise did the fight begin
A troop of the imperialists from Tachau
Had forced their way into the Swedish camp;
The cannonade continued full two hours;
There were left dead upon the field a thousand
Imperialists, together with their colonel;
Further than this he did not know.
WALLENSTEIN.
How came
Imperial troops at Neustadt? Altringer,
But yesterday, stood sixty miles from there.
Count Gallas' force collects at Frauenberg,
And have not the full complement. Is it possible
That Suys perchance had ventured so far onward?
It cannot be.
TERZKY.
We shall soon know the whole,
For here comes Illo, full of haste, and joyous.
SCENE V.
TERZKY (eagerly).
Does he bring confirmation of the victory?
ILLO.
From the Rhinegrave,
And what he brings I can announce to you
Beforehand. Seven leagues distant are the Swedes;
At Neustadt did Max. Piccolomini
Throw himself on them with the cavalry;
A murderous fight took place! o'erpowered by numbers
The Pappenheimers all, with Max. their leader,
[WALLENSTEIN shudders and turns pale.
Were left dead on the field.
NEUBRUNN.
Help! Help!
NEUBRUNN.
The princess!
[Hurries off the stage, when WALLENSTEIN and TERZKY follow her.
SCENE VI.
GORDON.
What's this?
BUTLER.
She has lost the man she loved--
Young Piccolomini, who fell in the battle.
GORDON.
Unfortunate lady!
BUTLER.
You have heard what Illo
Reporteth, that the Swedes are conquerers,
And marching hitherward.
GORDON.
Too well I heard it.
BUTLER.
They are twelve regiments strong, and there are five
Close by us to protect the duke. We have
Only my single regiment; and the garrison
Is not two hundred strong.
GORDON.
'Tis even so.
BUTLER.
It is not possible with such small force
To hold in custody a man like him.
GORDON.
I grant it.
BUTLER.
Soon the numbers would disarm us,
And liberate him.
GORDON.
It were to be feared.
GORDON.
Sutler! What?
Do I understand you? Gracious God! You could----
BUTLER.
He must not live.
GORDON.
And you can do the deed?
BUTLER.
Either you or I. This morning was his last.
GORDON.
You would assassinate him?
BUTLER.
'Tis my purpose.
GORDON.
Who leans with his whole confidence upon you!
BUTLER.
Such is his evil destiny!
GORDON.
Your general!
The sacred person of your general!
BUTLER.
My general he has been.
GORDON.
That 'tis only
An "has been" washes out no villany,
And without judgment passed.
BUTLER.
The execution
Is here instead of judgment.
GORDON.
This were murder,
Not justice. The most guilty should be heard.
BUTLER.
His guilt is clear, the emperor has passed judgment,
And we but execute his will.
GORDON.
We should not
Hurry to realize a bloody sentence.
A word may be recalled, a life never can be.
BUTLER.
Despatch in service pleases sovereigns.
GORDON.
No honest man's ambitious to press forward
To the hangman's service.
BUTLER.
And no brave man loses
His color at a daring enterprise.
GORDON.
A brave man hazards life, but not his conscience.
BUTLER.
What then? Shall he go forth anew to kindle
The unextinguishable flame of war?
GORDON.
Seize him, and hold him prisoner--do not kill him.
BUTLER.
Had not the emperor's army been defeated
I might have done so. But 'tis now passed by.
GORDON.
Oh, wherefore opened I the stronghold to him?
BUTLER.
His destiny, and not the place destroys him.
GORDON.
Upon these ramparts, as beseemed a soldier--
I had fallen, defending the emperor's citadel!
BUTLER.
Yes! and a thousand gallant men have perished!
GORDON.
Doing their duty--that adorns the man!
But murder's a black deed, and nature curses it.
GORDON.
I? Gracious God!
BUTLER.
Take it on yourself.
Come of it what may, on you I lay it.
GORDON.
Oh, God in heaven!
BUTLER.
Can you advise aught else
Wherewith to execute the emperor's purpose?
Say if you can. For I desire his fall,
Not his destruction.
GORDON.
Merciful heaven! what must be
I see as clear as you. Yet still the heart
Within my bosom beats with other feelings!
BUTLER.
Mine is of harder stuff! Necessity
In her rough school hath steeled me. And this Illo,
And Terzky likewise, they must not survive him.
GORDON.
I feel no pang for these. Their own bad hearts
Impelled them, not the influence of the stars.
'Twas they who strewed the seeds of evil passions
In his calm breast, and with officious villany
Watered and nursed the poisonous plants. May they
Receive their earnests to the uttermost mite!
BUTLER.
And their death shall precede his!
We meant to have taken them alive this evening
Amid the merrymaking of a feast,
And keep them prisoners in the citadel,
But this makes shorter work. I go this instant
To give the necessary orders.
SCENE VII.
TERZKY.
Our luck is on the turn. To-morrow come
The Swedes--twelve thousand gallant warriors, Illo!
Then straightwise for Vienna. Cheerily, friend!
What! meet such news with such a moody face?
ILLO.
It lies with us at present to prescribe
Laws, and take vengeance on those worthless traitors
Those skulking cowards that deserted us;
One has already done his bitter penance,
The Piccolomini: be his the fate
Of all who wish us evil! This flies sure
To the old man's heart; he has his whole life long
Fretted and toiled to raise his ancient house
From a count's title to the name of prince;
And now must seek a grave for his only son.
BUTLER.
'Twas pity, though! A youth of such heroic
And gentle temperament! The duke himself,
'Twas easily seen, how near it went to his heart.
ILLO.
Hark ye, old friend! That is the very point
That never pleased me in our general--
He ever gave the preference to the Italians.
Yea, at this very moment, by my soul!
He'd gladly see us all dead ten times over,
Could he thereby recall his friend to life.
TERZKY.
Hush, hush! Let the dead rest! This evening's business
Is, who can fairly drink the other down--
Your regiment, Illo! gives the entertainment.
Come! we will keep a merry carnival
The night for once be day, and 'mid full glasses
Will we expect the Swedish avant-garde.
ILLO.
Yes, let us be of good cheer for to-day,
For there's hot work before us, friends! This sword
Shall have no rest till it is bathed to the hilt
In Austrian blood.
GORDON.
Shame, shame! what talk is this,
My lord field-marshal? Wherefore foam you so
Against your emperor?
BUTLER.
Hope not too much
From this first victory. Bethink you, sirs!
How rapidly the wheel of fortune turns;
The emperor still is formidably strong.
ILLO.
The emperor has soldiers, no commander,
For this King Ferdinand of Hungary
Is but a tyro. Gallas? He's no luck,
And was of old the ruiner of armies.
And then this viper, this Octavio,
Is excellent at stabbing in the back,
But ne'er meets Friedland in the open field.
TERZKY.
Trust me, my friends, it cannot but succeed;
Fortune, we know, can ne'er forsake the duke!--
And only under Wallenstein can Austria
Be conqueror.
ILLO.
The duke will soon assemble
A mighty army: all come crowding, streaming
To banners, dedicate by destiny
To fame, and prosperous fortune. I behold
Old times come back again! he will become
Once more the mighty lord which he has been.
How will the fools, who've how deserted him,
Look then? I can't but laugh to think of them,
For lands will he present to all his friends,
And like a king and emperor reward
True services; but we've the nearest claims.
[To GORDON.
You will not be forgotten, governor!
He'll take from you this nest, and bid you shine
In higher station: your fidelity
Well merits it.
GORDON.
I am content already,
And wish to climb no higher; where great height is,
The fall must needy be great. "Great height, great depth."
ILLO.
Here you have no more business, for to-morrow
The Swedes will take possession of the citadel.
Come, Terzky, it is supper-time. What think you?
Nay, shall we have the town illuminated
In honor of the Swede? And who refuses
To do it is a Spaniard and a traitor.
TERZKY.
Nay! nay! not that, it will not please the duke----
ILLO.
What; we are masters here; no soul shall dare
Avow himself imperial where we've the rule.
Gordon! good-night, and for the last time take
A fair leave of the place. Send out patrols
To make secure, the watchword may be altered.
At the stroke of ten deliver in the keys
To the duke himself, and then you've quit forever
Your wardship of the gates, for on to-morrow
The Swedes will take possession of the citadel.
BUTLER.
At the right time.
SCENE VIII.
BUTLER.
Do as he ordered you. Send round patrols,
Take measures for the citadel's security;
When they are within I close the castle-gate
That nothing may transpire.
BUTLER.
You have heard already,
To-morrow to the Swedes belongs. This night
Alone is ours. They make good expedition.
But we will make still greater. Fare you well.
GORDON.
Ah! your looks tell me nothing good. Nay, Butler,
I pray you promise me!
BUTLER.
The sun has set;
A fateful evening doth descend upon us,
And brings on their long night! Their evil stars
Deliver them unarmed into our hands,
And from their drunken dream of golden fortunes
The dagger at their hearts shall rouse them. Well,
The duke was ever a great calculator;
His fellow-men were figures on his chess-board
To move and station, as his game required.
Other men's honor, dignity, good name,
Did he shift like pawns, and made no conscience of
Still calculating, calculating still;
And yet at last his calculation proves
Erroneous; the whole game is lost; and low!
His own life will be found among the forfeits.
GORDON.
Oh, think not of his errors now! remember
His greatness, his munificence; think on all
The lovely features of his character,
On all the noble exploits of his life,
And let them, like an angel's arm, unseen,
Arrest the lifted sword.
BUTLER.
It is too late.
I suffer not myself to feel compassion,
Dark thoughts and bloody are my duty now.
[Grasping GORDON's hand.
Gordon! 'tis not my hatred (I pretend not
To love the duke, and have no cause to love him).
Yet 'tis not now my hatred that impels me
To be his murderer. 'Tis his evil fate.
Hostile occurrences of many events
Control and subjugate me to the office.
In vain the human being meditates
Free action. He is but the wire-worked [8] puppet
Of the blind Power, which, out of its own choice,
Creates for him a dread necessity.
What too would it avail him if there were
A something pleading for him in my heart--
Still I must kill him.
GORDON.
If your heart speak to you
Follow its impulse. 'Tis the voice of God.
Think you your fortunes will grow prosperous
Bedewed with blood--his blood? Believe it not!
BUTLER.
You know not. Ask not! Wherefore should it happen
That the Swedes gained the victory, and hasten
With such forced marches hitherwards? Fain would I
Have given him to the emperor's mercy. Gordon!
I do not wish his blood,--but I must ransom
The honor of my word,--it lies in pledge--
And he must die, or----
[Passionately grasping GORDON's hand.
Listen, then, and know
I am dishonored if the duke escape us.
GORDON.
Oh! to save such a man----
BUTLER.
What!
GORDON.
It is worth
A sacrifice. Come, friend! Be noble-minded!
Our own heart, and not other men's opinions,
Forms our true honor.
GORDON.
I am endeavoring to move a rock.
Thou hadst a mother, yet no human feelings.
I cannot hinder you, but may some God
Rescue him from you!
[Exit GORDON.
BUTLER [9] (alone).
I treasured my good name all my life long;
The duke has cheated me of life's best jewel,
So that I blush before this poor weak Gordon!
He prizes above all his fealty;
His conscious soul accuses him of nothing;
In opposition to his own soft heart
He subjugates himself to an iron duty.
Me in a weaker moment passion warped;
I stand beside him, and must feel myself
The worst man of the two. What though the world
Is ignorant of my purposed treason, yet
One man does know it, and can prove it, too--
High-minded Piccolomini!
There lives the man who can dishonor me!
This ignominy blood alone can cleanse!
Duke Friedland, thou or I. Into my own hands
Fortune delivers me. The dearest thing a man has is himself.
SCENE IX.
WALLENSTEIN.
How knew she it so soon?
COUNTESS.
She seems to have
Foreboded some misfortune. The report
Of an engagement, in which had fallen
A colonel of the imperial army, frightened her.
I saw it instantly. She flew to meet
The Swedish courier, and with sudden questioning,
Soon wrested from him the disastrous secret.
Too late we missed her, hastened after her,
We found her lying in his arms, all pale,
And in a swoon.
WALLENSTEIN.
A heavy, heavy blow!
And she so unprepared! Poor child! how is it?
[Turning to the DUCHESS.
Is she coming to herself?
DUCHESS.
Her eyes are opening----
COUNTESS.
She lives!
DUCHESS.
Who gone, my daughter?
THEKLA.
He--the man who uttered
That word of misery.
DUCHESS.
Oh, think not of it!
My Thekla!
WALLENSTEIN.
Give her sorrow leave to talk!
Let her complain--mingle your tears with hers,
For she hath suffered a deep anguish; but
She'll rise superior to it, for my Thekla
Hath all her father's unsubdued heart.
THEKLA.
I am not ill. See, I have power to stand.
Why does my mother weep? Have I alarmed her?
It is gone by--I recollect myself.
[She casts her eyes round the room, as seeking some one.
Where is he? Please you, do not hide him from me.
You see I have strength enough: now I will hear him.
DUCHESS.
No; never shall this messenger of evil
Enter again into thy presence, Thekla!
THEKLA.
My father----
WALLENSTEIN.
Dearest daughter!
THEKLA.
I'm not weak.
Shortly I shall be quite myself again.
You'll grant me one request?
WALLENSTEIN.
Name it, my daughter.
THEKLA.
Permit the stranger to be called to me,
And grant me leave, that by myself I may
Hear his report and question him.
DUCHESS.
No, never!
COUNTESS.
'Tis not advisable--assent not to it.
WALLENSTEIN.
Hush! Wherefore wouldst thou speak with him, my daughter?
THEKLA.
Knowing the whole, I shall be more collected;
I will not be deceived. My mother wishes
Only to spare me. I will not be spared--
The worst is said already: I can hear
Nothing of deeper anguish!
THEKLA.
The horror overpowered me by surprise,
My heart betrayed me in the stranger's presence:
He was a witness of my weakness, yea,
I sank into his arms; and that has shamed me.
I must replace myself in his esteem,
And I must speak with him, perforce, that he,
The stranger, may not think ungently of me.
WALLENSTEIN.
I see she is in the right, and am inclined
To grant her this request of hers. Go, call him.
DUCHESS.
But I, thy mother, will be present----
THEKLA.
'Twere
More pleasing to me if alone I saw him;
Trust me, I shall behave myself the more
Collectedly.
WALLENSTEIN.
Permit her her own will.
Leave her alone with him: for there are sorrows,
Where of necessity the soul must be
Its own support. A strong heart will rely
On its own strength alone. In her own bosom,
Not in her mother's arms, must she collect
The strength to rise superior to this blow.
It is mine own brave girl. I'll have her treated
Not as the woman, but the heroine.
[Going.
WALLENSTEIN.
Yes, ye stay here, placed under the protection
Of gallant men.
COUNTESS.
Oh, take us with you, brother.
Leave us not in this gloomy solitude.
To brood o'er anxious thoughts. The mists of doubt
Magnify evils to a shape of horror.
WALLENSTEIN.
Who speaks of evil? I entreat you, sister,
Use words of better omen.
COUNTESS.
Then take us with you.
Oh leave us not behind you in a place
That forces us to such sad omens. Heavy
And sick within me is my heart--
These walls breathe on me like a churchyard vault.
I cannot tell you, brother, how this place
Doth go against my nature. Take us with you.
Come, sister, join you your entreaty! Niece,
Yours too. We all entreat you, take us with you!
WALLENSTEIN.
The place's evil omens will I change,
Making it that which shields and shelters for me
My best beloved.
WALLENSTEIN.
Leave her alone with me.
THEKLA.
The Lady Neubrunn then may stay with me.
SCENE X.
CAPTAIN.
I fear you hate my presence,
For my tongue spake a melancholy word.
THEKLA.
The fault is mine. Myself did wrest it from you.
The horror which came o'er me interrupted
Your tale at its commencement. May it please you,
Continue it to the end.
CAPTAIN.
Princess, 'twill
Renew your anguish.
THEKLA.
I am firm,--
I will be firm. Well--how began the engagement?
CAPTAIN.
We lay, expecting no attack, at Neustadt,
Intrenched but insecurely in our camp,
When towards evening rose a cloud of dust
From the wood thitherward; our vanguard fled
Into the camp, and sounded the alarm.
Scarce had we mounted ere the Pappenheimers,
Their horses at full speed, broke through the lines,
And leaped the trenches; but their heedless courage
Had borne them onward far before the others--
The infantry were still at distance, only
The Pappenheimers followed daringly
Their daring leader----
CAPTAIN.
Both in van and flanks
With our whole cavalry we now received them;
Back to the trenches drove them, where the foot
Stretched out a solid ridge of pikes to meet them.
They neither could advance, nor yet retreat;
And as they stood on every side wedged in,
The Rhinegrave to their leader called aloud,
Inviting a surrender; but their leader,
Young Piccolomini----
[THEKLA, as giddy, grasps a chair.
Known by his plume,
And his long hair, gave signal for the trenches;
Himself leaped first: the regiment all plunged after.
His charger, by a halbert gored, reared up,
Flung him with violence off, and over him
The horses, now no longer to be curbed,----
NEUBRUNN.
My dearest lady!
CAPTAIN.
I retire.
THERLA.
'Tis over.
Proceed to the conclusion.
CAPTAIN.
Wild despair
Inspired the troops with frenzy when they saw
Their leader perish; every thought of rescue
Was spurned; they fought like wounded tigers; their
Frantic resistance roused our soldiery;
A murderous fight took place, nor was the contest
Finished before their last man fell.
THEKLA (faltering).
And where--
Where is--you have not told me all.
THEKLA.
Where is his grave?
CAPTAIN.
At Neustadt, lady; in a cloister church
Are his remains deposited, until
We can receive directions from his father.
THEKLA.
What is the cloister's name?
CAPTAIN.
Saint Catherine's.
THEKLA.
And how far is it thither?
CAPTAIN.
Near twelve leagues.
THEKLA.
And which the way?
CAPTAIN.
You go by Tirschenreut
And Falkenberg, through our advanced posts.
THEKLA
Who
Is their commander?
CAPTAIN.
Colonel Seckendorf.
[THEKLA steps to the table, and takes a ring from a casket.
THEKLA.
You have beheld me in my agony,
And shown a feeling heart. Please you, accept
[Giving him the ring.
A small memorial of this hour. Now go!
CAPTAIN (confusedly).
Princess----
[THEKLA silently makes signs to him to go, and turns from him.
The captain lingers, and is about to speak. LADY NEUBRUNN repeats
the signal, and he retires.
SCENE XI.
NEUBRUNN.
Away! and whither?
THEKLA.
Whither! There is but one place in the world.
Thither, where he lies buried! To his coffin!
NEUBRUNN.
What would you do there?
THEKLA.
What do there?
That wouldst thou not have asked, hadst thou e'er loved.
There, that is all that still remains of him!
That single spot is the whole earth to me.
NEUBRUNN.
That place of death----
THEKLA.
Is now the only place
Where life yet dwells for me: detain me not!
Come and make preparations; let us think
Of means to fly from hence.
NEUBRUNN.
Your father's rage
THEKLA.
That time is past--
And now I fear no human being's rage.
NEUBRUNN.
The sentence of the world! The tongue of calumny!
THEKLA.
Whom am I seeking? Him who is no more.
Am I then hastening to the arms--O God!
I haste--but to the grave of the beloved.
NEUBRUNN.
And we alone, two helpless, feeble women?
THEKLA.
We will take weapons: my arm shall protect thee.
NEUBRUNN.
In the dark night-time?
THEKLA.
Darkness will conceal us.
NEUBRUNN.
This rough tempestuous night----
THEKLA.
Had he a soft bed
Under the hoofs of his war-horses?
NEUBRUNN.
Heaven!
And then the many posts of the enemy!
THEKLA.
They are human beings. Misery travels free
Through the whole earth.
NEUBRUNN.
The journey's weary length----
THEKLA.
The pilgrim, travelling to a distant shrine
Of hope and healing doth not count the leagues.
NEUBRUNN.
How can we pass the gates?
THEKLA.
Gold opens them.
Go, do but go.
NEUBRUNN.
Should we be recognized----
THEKLA.
In a despairing woman, a poor fugitive,
Will no one seek the daughter of Duke Friedland.
NEUBRUNN.
And where procure we horses for our flight?
THEKLA.
My equerry procures them. Go and fetch him.
NEUBRUNN.
Dares he, without the knowledge of his lord?
THEKLA.
He will. Go, only go. Delay no longer.
NEUBRUNN.
Dear lady! and your mother?
THEKLA.
Oh! my mother!
NEUBRUNN.
So much as she has suffered too already;
Your tender mother. Ah! how ill prepared
For this last anguish!
THEKLA.
Woe is me! My mother!
[Pauses.
Go instantly.
NEUBRUNN.
But think what you are doing!
THEKLA.
What can be thought, already has been thought.
NEUBRUNN.
And being there, what purpose you to do?
THEKLA.
There a divinity will prompt my soul.
NEUBRUNN.
Your heart, dear lady, is disquieted!
And this is not the way that leads to quiet.
THEKLA.
To a deep quiet, such as he has found,
It draws me on, I know not what to name it,
Resistless does it draw me to his grave.
There will my heart be eased, my tears will flow.
Oh hasten, make no further questioning!
There is no rest for me till I have left
These walls--they fall in on me--a dim power
Drives me from hence--oh mercy! What a feeling!
What pale and hollow forms are those! They fill,
They crowd the place! I have no longer room here!
Mercy! Still more! More still! The hideous swarm,
They press on me; they chase me from these walls--
Those hollow, bodiless forms of living men!
NEUBRUNN.
You frighten me so, lady, that no longer
I dare stay here myself. I go and call
Rosenberg instantly.
SCENE XII.
THEKLA.
His spirit 'tis that calls me: 'tis the troop
Of his true followers, who offered up
Themselves to avenge his death: and they accuse me
Of an ignoble loitering--they would not
Forsake their leader even in his death; they died for him,
And shall I live?
For me too was that laurel garland twined
That decks his bier. Life is an empty casket:
I throw it from me. Oh, my only hope;
To die beneath the hoofs of trampling steeds--
That is a lot of heroes upon earth!
SCENE XIII.
NEUBRUNN.
He is here, lady, and he will procure them.
THEKLA.
Wilt thou provide us horses, Rosenberg?
ROSENBERG.
I will, my lady.
THEKLA.
And go with us as well?
ROSENBERG.
To the world's end, my lady.
THEKLA.
But consider,
Thou never canst return unto the duke.
ROSENBERG.
I will remain with thee.
THEKLA.
I will reward thee.
And will commend thee to another master.
Canst thou unseen conduct us from the castle?
ROSENBERG.
I can.
THEKLA.
When can I go?
ROSENBERG.
This very hour.
But whither would you, lady?
THEKLA.
To--Tell him, Neubrunn.
NEUBRUNN.
To Neustadt.
ROSENBERG.
So; I leave you to get ready.
[Exit.
NEUBRUNN.
Oh, see, your mother comes.
THEKLA.
Indeed! O Heaven!
SCENE XIV.
DUCHESS.
He's gone! I find thee more composed, my child.
THEKLA.
I am so, mother; let me only now
Retire to rest, and Neubrunn here be with me.
I want repose.
DUCHESS.
My Thekla, thou shalt have it.
I leave thee now consoled, since I can calm
Thy father's heart.
THEKLA.
Good night, beloved mother!
DUCHESS.
Thou scarcely art composed e'en now, my daughter.
Thou tremblest strongly, and I feel thy heart
Beat audibly on mine.
THEKLA.
Sleep will appease
Its beating: now good-night, good-night, dear mother.
(As she withdraws from her mother's arms the curtain falls).
ACT V.
SCENE I.
Butler's Chamber.
BUTLER.
Find me twelve strong dragoons, arm them with pikes
For there must be no firing--
Conceal them somewhere near the banquet-room,
And soon as the dessert is served up, rush all in
And cry--"Who is loyal to the emperor?"
I will overturn the table--while you attack
Illo and Terzky, and despatch them both.
The castle-palace is well barred and guarded,
That no intelligence of this proceeding
May make its way to the duke. Go instantly;
Have you yet sent for Captain Devereux
And the Macdonald?
GERALDIN.
They'll be here anon.
[Exit GERALDIN.
BUTLER.
Here's no room for delay. The citizens
Declare for him--a dizzy drunken spirit
Possesses the whole town. They see in the duke
A prince of peace, a founder of new ages
And golden times. Arms, too, have been given out
By the town-council, and a hundred citizens
Have volunteered themselves to stand on guard.
Despatch! then, be the word; for enemies
Threaten us from without and from within.
SCENE II.
MACDONALD.
Here we are, general.
DEVEREUX.
What's to be the watchword?
BUTLER.
Long live the emperor!
BOTH (recoiling).
How?
BUTLER.
Live the house of Austria.
DEVEREUX.
Have we not sworn fidelity to Friedland?
MACDONALD.
Have we not marched to this place to protect him?
BUTLER.
Protect a traitor and his country's enemy?
DEVEREUX.
Why, yes! in his name you administered
Our oath.
MACDONALD.
And followed him yourself to Egra.
BUTLER.
I did it the more surely to destroy him.
DEVEREUX.
So then!
MACDONALD.
An altered case!
DEVEREUX.
The devil! I but followed your example;
If you could prove a villain, why not we?
MACDONALD.
We've naught to do with thinking--that's your business.
You are our general, and give out the orders;
We follow you, though the track lead to hell.
BUTLER (appeased).
Good, then! we know each other.
MACDONALD.
I should hope so.
DEVEREUX.
Soldiers of fortune are we--who bids most
He has us.
MACDONALD.
'Tis e'en so!
BUTLER.
Well, for the present
You must remain honest and faithful soldiers.
DEVEREUX.
We wish no other.
BUTLER.
Ay, and make your fortunes.
MACDONALD.
That is still better.
BUTLER.
Listen!
BOTH.
We attend.
BUTLER.
It is the emperor's will and ordinance
To seize the person of the Prince-Duke Friedland
Alive or dead.
DEVEREUX.
It runs so in the letter.
MACDONALD.
Alive or dead--these were the very words.
BUTLER.
And he shall be rewarded from the state
In land and gold who proffers aid thereto.
DEVEREUX.
Ay! that sounds well. The words sound always well
That travel hither from the court. Yes! yes!
We know already what court-words import.
A golden chain perhaps in sign of favor,
Or an old charger, or a parchment-patent,
And such like. The prince-duke pays better.
MACDONALD.
Yes,
The duke's a splendid paymaster.
BUTLER.
All over
With that, my friends. His lucky stars are set.
MACDONALD.
And is that certain?
BUTLER.
You have my word for it.
DEVEREUX.
His lucky fortune's all passed by?
BUTLER.
Forever.
He is as poor as we.
MACDONALD.
As poor as we?
DEVEREUX.
Macdonald, we'll desert him.
BUTLER.
We'll desert him?
Full twenty thousand have done that already;
We must do more, my countrymen! In short--
We--we must kill him.
BUTLER.
Yes, must kill him;
And for that purpose have I chosen you.
BOTH.
Us!
BUTLER.
You, Captain Devereux, and thee, Macdonald.
BUTLER.
What! art dastardly?
Thou, with full thirty lives to answer for--
Thou conscientious of a sudden?
DEVEREUX.
Nay
To assassinate our lord and general----
MACDONALD.
To whom we swore a soldier's oath----
BUTLER.
The oath
Is null, for Friedland is a traitor.
DEVEREUX.
No, no! it is too bad!
MACDONALD.
Yes, by my soul!
It is too bad. One has a conscience too----
DEVEREUX.
If it were not our chieftain, who so long
Has issued the commands, and claimed our duty----
BUTLER.
Is that the objection?
DEVEREUX.
Were it my own father,
And the emperor's service should demand it of me,
It might be done perhaps--but we are soldiers,
And to assassinate our chief commander,
That is a sin, a foul abomination,
From which no monk or confessor absolves us.
BUTLER.
I am your pope, and give you absolution.
Determine quickly!
DEVEREUX.
'Twill not do.
MACDONALD.
'Twont do!
BUTLER.
Well, off then! and--send Pestalutz to me.
DEVEREUX (hesitates).
The Pestalutz----
MACDONALD.
What may you want with him?
BUTLER.
If you reject it, we can find enough----
DEVEREUX.
Nay, if he must fall, we may earn the bounty
As well as any other. What think you,
Brother Macdonald?
MACDONALD.
Why, if he must fall,
And will fall, and it can't be otherwise,
One would not give place to this Pestalutz.
BUTLER.
This night.
To-morrow will the Swedes be at our gates.
DEVEREUX.
You take upon you all the consequences?
BUTLER.
I take the whole upon me.
DEVEREUX.
And it is
The emperor's will, his express absolute will?
For we have instances that folks may like
The murder, and yet hang the murderer.
BUTLER.
The manifesto says--"alive or dead."
Alive--'tis not possible--you see it is not.
DEVEREUX.
Well, dead then! dead! But bow can we come at him.
The town is filled with Terzky's soldiery.
MACDONALD.
Ay! and then Terzky still remains, and Illo----
BUTLER.
With these you shall begin--you understand me?
DEVEREUX.
How! And must they too perish?
BUTLER.
They the first.
MACDONALD.
Hear, Devereux! A bloody evening this.
DEVEREUX.
Have you a man for that? Commission me----
BUTLER.
'Tis given in trust to Major Geraldin;
This is a carnival night, and there's a feast
Given at the castle--there we shall surprise them,
And hew them down. The Pestalutz and Lesley
Have that commission. Soon as that is finished----
DEVEREUX.
Hear, general! It will be all one to you--
Hark ye, let me exchange with Geraldin.
BUTLER.
'Twill be the lesser danger with the duke.
DEVEREUX.
Danger! The devil! What do you think me, general,
'Tis the duke's eye, and not his sword, I fear.
BUTLER.
What can his eye do to thee?
DEVEREUX.
Death and hell!
Thou knowest that I'm no milksop, general!
But 'tis not eight days since the duke did send me
Twenty gold pieces for this good warm coat
Which I have on! and then for him to see me
Standing before him with the pike, his murderer.
That eye of his looking upon this coat--
Why--why--the devil fetch me! I'm no milksop!
BUTLER.
The duke presented thee this good warm coat,
And thou, a needy wight, hast pangs of conscience
To run him through the body in return,
A coat that is far better and far warmer
Did the emperor give to him, the prince's mantle.
How doth he thank the emperor? With revolt
And treason.
DEVEREUX.
That is true. The devil take
Such thankers! I'll despatch him.
BUTLER.
And would'st quiet
Thy conscience, thou hast naught to do but simply
Pull off the coat; so canst thou do the deed
With light heart and good spirits.
DEVEREUX.
You are right,
That did not strike me. I'll pull off the coat--
So there's an end of it.
MACDONALD.
Yes, but there's another
Point to be thought of.
BUTLER.
And what's that, Macdonald?
MACDONALD.
What avails sword or dagger against him?
He is not to be wounded--he is----
MACDONALD.
Safe against shot, and stab, and flash! Hard frozen.
Secured and warranted by the black art
His body is impenetrable, I tell you.
DEVEREUX.
In Ingolstadt there was just such another:
His whole skin was the same as steel; at last
We were obliged to beat him down with gunstocks.
MACDONALD.
Hear what I'll do.
DEVEREUX.
Well.
MACDONALD.
In the cloister here
There's a Dominican, my countryman.
I'll make him dip my sword and pike for me
In holy water, and say over them
One of his strongest blessings. That's probatum!
Nothing can stand 'gainst that.
BUTLER.
So do, Macdonald!
But now go and select from out the regiment
Twenty or thirty able-bodied fellows,
And let them take the oaths to the emperor.
Then when it strikes eleven, when the first rounds
Are passed, conduct them silently as may be
To the house. I will myself be not far off.
DEVEREUX.
But how do we get through Hartschier and Gordon,
That stand on guard there in the inner chamber?
BUTLER.
I have made myself acquainted with the place,
I lead you through a back door that's defended
By one man only. Me my rank and office
Give access to the duke at every hour.
I'll go before you--with one poinard-stroke
Cut Hartschier's windpipe, and make way for you.
DEVEREUX.
And when we are there, by what means shall we gain
The duke's bed-chamber, without his alarming
The servants of the court? for he has here
A numerous company of followers.
BUTLER.
The attendants fills the right wing: he hates bustle,
And lodges in the left wing quite alone.
DEVEREUX.
Were it well over--hey, Macdonald! I
Feel queerly on the occasion, devil knows.
MACDONALD.
And I, too. 'Tis too great a personage.
People will hold us for a brace of villains.
BUTLER.
In plenty, honor, splendor--you may safely
Laugh at the people's babble.
DEVEREUX.
If the business
Squares with one's honor--if that be quite certain.
BUTLER.
Set your hearts quite at ease. Ye save for Ferdinand
His crown and empire. The reward can be
No small one.
DEVEREUX.
And 'tis his purpose to dethrone the emperor?
BUTLER.
Yes! Yes! to rob him of his crown and life.
DEVEREUX.
And must he fall by the executioner's hands,
Should we deliver him up to the emperor
Alive?
BUTLER.
It were his certain destiny.
DEVEREUX.
Well! Well! Come then, Macdonald, he shall not
Lie long in pain.
SCENE III.
WALLENSTEIN.
Commend me to your lord. I sympathize
In his good fortune; and if you have seen me
Deficient in the expressions of that joy,
Which such a victory might well demand,
Attribute it to no lack of good-will,
For henceforth are our fortunes one. Farewell,
And for your trouble take my thanks. To-morrow
The citadel shall be surrendered to you
On your arrival.
WALLENSTEIN.
Comest thou from her? Is she restored? How is she?
COUNTESS.
My sister tells me she was more collected
After her conversation with the Swede.
She has now retired to rest.
WALLENSTEIN.
The pang will soften
She will shed tears.
COUNTESS.
I find thee altered, too,
My brother! After such a victory
I had expected to have found in thee
A cheerful spirit. Oh, remain thou firm!
Sustain, uphold us! For our light thou art,
Our sun.
WALLENSTEIN.
Be quiet. I ail nothing. Where's
Thy husband?
COUNTESS.
At a banquet--he and Illo.
COUNTESS.
Bid me not go, oh, let me stay with thee!
WALLENSTEIN.
Methinks
If I but saw him, 'twould be well with me.
He is the star of my nativity,
And often marvellously hath his aspect
Shot strength into my heart.
COUNTESS.
Thou'lt see him again.
WALLENSTEIN (remains for awhile with absent mind, then assumes a livelier
manner, and turning suddenly to the COUNTESS).
See him again? Oh, never, never again!
COUNTESS.
How?
WALLENSTEIN.
He is gone--is dust.
COUNTESS.
Whom meanest thou, then?
WALLENSTEIN.
He, the more fortunate! yea, he hath finished!
For him there is no longer any future,
His life is bright--bright without spot it was,
And cannot cease to be. No ominous hour
Knocks at his door with tidings of mishap,
Far off is he, above desire and fear;
No more submitted to the change and chance
Of the unsteady planets. Oh, 'tis well
With him! but who knows what the coming hour
Veiled in thick darkness brings us?
COUNTESS.
Thou speakest of Piccolomini. What was his death?
The courier had just left thee as I came.
WALLENSTEIN.
This anguish will be wearied down [12], I know;
What pang is permanent with man? From the highest,
As from the vilest thing of every day,
He learns to wean himself: for the strong hours
Conquer him. Yet I feel what I have lost
In him. The bloom is vanished from my life,
For oh, he stood beside me, like my youth,
Transformed for me the real to a dream,
Clothing the palpable and the familiar
With golden exhalations of the dawn,
Whatever fortunes wait my future toils,
The beautiful is vanished--and returns not.
COUNTESS.
Oh, be not treacherous to thy own power.
Thy heart is rich enough to vivify
Itself. Thou lovest and prizest virtues in him,
The which thyself didst plant, thyself unfold.
COUNTESS.
Oh, 'tis so hard to me this night to leave thee;
A boding fear possesses me!
WALLENSTEIN.
Fear! Wherefore?
COUNTESS.
Shouldst thou depart this night, and we at waking
Never more find thee!
WALLENSTEIN.
Fancies!
COUNTESS.
Ob, my soul
Has long been weighed down by these dark forebodings,
And if I combat and repel them waking,
They still crush down upon my heart in dreams,
I saw thee, yesternight with thy first wife
Sit at a banquet, gorgeously attired.
WALLENSTHIN.
This was a dream of favorable omen,
That marriage being the founder of my fortunes.
COUNTESS.
To-day I dreamed that I was seeking thee
In thy own chamber. As I entered, lo!
It was no more a chamber: the Chartreuse
At Gitschin 'twas, which thou thyself hast founded,
And where it is thy will that thou shouldst be
Interred.
WALLENSTEIN.
Thy soul is busy with these thoughts.
COUNTESS.
What! dost thou not believe that oft in dreams
A voice of warning speaks prophetic to us?
WALLENSTEIN.
There is no doubt that there exist such voices,
Yet I would not call them
Voices of warning that announce to us
Only the inevitable. As the sun,
Ere it is risen, sometimes paints its image
In the atmosphere, so often do the spirits
Of great events stride on before the events,
And in to-day already walks to-morrow.
That which we read of the fourth Henry's death
Did ever vex and haunt me like a tale
Of my own future destiny. The king
Felt in his breast the phantom of the knife
Long ere Ravaillac armed himself therewith.
His quiet mind forsook him; the phantasma
Started him in his Louvre, chased him forth
Into the open air; like funeral knells
Sounded that coronation festival;
And still with boding sense he heard the tread
Of those feet that even then were seeking him
Throughout the streets of Paris.
COUNTESS.
And to thee
The voice within thy soul bodes nothing?
WALLENSTEIN.
Nothing.
Be wholly tranquil.
COUNTESS.
And another time
I hastened after thee, and thou rann'st from me
Through a long suite, through many a spacious hall.
There seemed no end of it; doors creaked and clapped;
I followed panting, but could not overtake thee;
When on a sudden did I feel myself
Grasped from behind,--the hand was cold that grasped me;
'Twas thou, and thou didst kiss me, and there seemed
A crimson covering to envelop us.
WALLENSTEIN.
That is the crimson tapestry of my chamber.
WALLENSTEIN.
The emperor's proclamation weighs upon thee--
Alphabets wound not--and he finds no hands.
COUNTESS.
If he should find them, my resolve is taken--
I bear about me my support and refuge.
[Exit COUNTESS.
SCENE V.
WALLENSTEIN, GORDON.
WALLENSTEIN.
All quiet in the town?
GORDON.
The town is quiet.
WALLENSTEIN.
I hear a boisterous music! and the castle
Is lighted up. Who are the revellers?
GORDON.
There is a banquet given at the castle
To the Count Terzky and Field-Marshal Illo.
WALLENSTEIN.
In honor of the victory--this tribe
Can show their joy in nothing else but feasting.
[Rings. The GROOM OF THE CHAMBER enters.
Unrobe me. I will lay me down to sleep.
[WALLENSTEIN takes the keys from GORDON.
So we are guarded from all enemies,
And shut in with sure friends.
For all must cheat me, or a face like this
[Fixing his eyes on GORDON.
Was ne'er a hypocrite's mask.
[The GROOM OF THE CHAMBER takes off his mantle, collar, and scarf.
WALLENSTEIN.
Take care--what is that?
WALLENSTEIN.
Well, it has lasted long enough. Here--give it.
[He takes and looks at the chain.
'Twas the first present of the emperor.
He hung it round me in the war of Friule,
He being then archduke; and I have worn it
Till now from habit--
From superstition, if you will. Belike,
It was to be a talisman to me;
And while I wore it on my neck in faith,
It was to chain to me all my life-long
The volatile fortune, whose first pledge it was.
Well, be it so! Henceforward a new fortune
Must spring up for me; for the potency
Of this charm is dissolved.
GORDON.
My prince
With light heart the poor fisher moors his boat,
And watches from the shore the lofty ship
Stranded amid the storm.
WALLENSTEIN.
Art thou already
In harbor, then, old man? Well! I am not.
The unconquered spirit drives me o'er life's billows;
My planks still firm, my canvas swelling proudly.
Hope is my goddess still, and youth my inmate;
And while we stand thus front to front almost,
I might presume to say, that the swift years
Have passed by powerless o'er my unblanched hair.
[He moves with long strides across the saloon, and remains
on the opposite side over against GORDON.
GORDON.
And yet remember I the good old proverb,
"Let the night come before we praise the day."
I would be slow from long-continued fortune
To gather hope: for hope is the companion
Given to the unfortunate by pitying heaven.
Fear hovers round the head of prosperous men,
For still unsteady are the scales of fate.
WALLENSTEIN (smiling).
I hear the very Gordon that of old
Was wont to preach, now once more preaching;
I know well, that all sublunary things
Are still the vassals of vicissitude.
The unpropitious gods demand their tribute.
This long ago the ancient pagans knew
And therefore of their own accord they offered
To themselves injuries, so to atone
The jealousy of their divinities
And human sacrifices bled to Typhon.
[After a pause, serious, and in a more subdued manner.
I too have sacrificed to him--for me
There fell the dearest friend, and through my fault
He fell! No joy from favorable fortune
Can overweigh the anguish of this stroke.
The envy of my destiny is glutted:
Life pays for life. On his pure head the lightning
Was drawn off which would else have shattered me.
SCENE V.
WALLENSTEIN.
Is not that Seni! and beside himself,
If one can trust his looks? What brings thee hither
At this late hour, Baptista?
SENI.
Terror, duke!
On thy account.
WALLENSTEIN.
What now?
SENI.
Flee ere the day break!
Trust not thy person to the Swedes!
WALLENSTEIN.
What now
Is in thy thoughts?
WALLENSTEIN.
What is it, then?
WALLENSTEIN.
Baptista, thou art dreaming!--fear befools thee.
SENI.
Believe not that an empty fear deludes me.
Come, read it in the planetary aspects;
Read it thyself, that ruin threatens thee
From false friends.
WALLENSTEIN.
From the falseness of my friends
Has risen the whole of my unprosperous fortunes.
The warning should have come before! At present
I need no revelation from the stars
To know that.
SENI.
Come and see! trust thine own eyes.
A fearful sign stands in the house of life--
An enemy; a fiend lurks close behind
The radiance of thy planet. Oh, be warned!
Deliver not up thyself to these heathens,
To wage a war against our holy church.
GORDON (who during the whole of this dialogue has shown marks
of extreme agitation, and now turns to WALLENSTEIN).
My duke and general! May I dare presume?
WALLENSTEIN.
Speak freely.
GORDON.
What if 'twere no mere creation
Of fear, if God's high providence vouchsafed
To interpose its aid for your deliverance,
And made that mouth its organ?
WALLENSTEIN.
Ye're both feverish!
How can mishap come to me from the Swedes?
They sought this junction with me--'tis their interest.
SENI.
Oh hear him! hear him!
GORDON (rises).
The Rhinegrave's still far off. Give but the orders,
This citadel shall close its gates upon him.
If then he will besiege us, let him try it.
But this I say; he'll find his own destruction,
With his whole force before these ramparts, sooner
Than weary down the valor of our spirit.
He shall experience what a band of heroes,
Inspirited by an heroic leader,
Is able to perform. And if indeed
It be thy serious wish to make amend
For that which thou hast done amiss,--this, this
Will touch and reconcile the emperor,
Who gladly turns his heart to thoughts of mercy;
And Friedland, who returns repentant to him,
Will stand yet higher in his emperor's favor
Then e'er he stood when he had never fallen.
[The GROOM OF THE CHAMBER, who had entered during the last dialogue,
and had been standing at a distance and listening to it with visible
expressions of the deepest interest, advances in extreme agitation
and throws himself at the DUKE's feet.
SCENE VI.
BUTLER.
The lights are out. All lies in profound sleep.
GORDON.
What shall I do, shall I attempt to save him?
Shall I call up the house? alarm the guards?
GORDON.
But then I break my oath to the emperor;
If he escape and strengthen the enemy,
Do I not hereby call down on my head
All the dread consequences.
GORDON.
'Tis better, I resign it to the hands
Of Providence. For what am I, that I
Should take upon myself so great a deed?
I have not murdered him, if he be murdered;
But all his rescue were my act and deed;
Mine--and whatever be the consequences
I must sustain them.
BUTLER (advances).
I should know that voice.
GORDON.
Butler!
BUTLER.
'Tis Gordon. What do you want here?
Was it so late, then, when the duke dismissed you?
GORDON.
Your hand bound up and in a scarf?
BUTLER.
'Tis wounded.
That Illo fought as he were frantic, till
At last we threw him on the ground.
GORDON (shuddering).
Both dead?
BUTLER.
Is he in bed?
GORDON.
Ah, Butler!
BUTLER.
Is he? speak.
GORDON.
He shall not perish! Not through you! The heaven
Refuses your arm. See--'tis wounded!
BUTLER.
There is no need of my arm.
GORDON.
The most guilty
Have perished, and enough is given to justice.
[The GROOM OF THE CHAMBER advances from the gallery with his finger
on his mouth commanding silence.
GORDON.
He sleeps! Oh, murder not the holy sleep!
BUTLER.
No! he shall die awake.
[Is going.
GORDON.
His heart still cleaves
To earthly things: he's not prepared to step
Into the presence of his God!
BUTLER (going).
God's merciful!
BUTLER.
Unhold me! What
Can that short respite profit him?
GORDON.
Oh, time
Works miracles. In one hour many thousands
Of grains of sand run out; and quick as they
Thought follows thought within the human soul.
Only one hour! Your heart may change its purpose,
His heart may change its purpose--some new tidings
May come; some fortunate event, decisive,
May fall from heaven and rescue him. Oh, what
May not one hour achieve!
BUTLER.
You but remind me
How precious every minute is!
SCENE VII.
BUTLER.
Down with him!
GROOM OF THE CHAMBER (run through the body by DEVEREUX, falls at
the entrance of the gallery).
Jesus Maria!
BUTLER.
Burst the doors open.
[They rush over the body into the gallery--two doors are heard to
crash one after the other. Voices, deadened by the distance--clash
of arms--then all at once a profound silence:
SCENE VIII.
SCENE IX.
COUNTESS, GORDON.
COUNTESS.
You're come then from the castle? Where's my husband?
COUNTESS.
Not till
You have discovered to me----
GORDON.
On this moment
Does the world hang. For God's sake! to the duke.
While we are speaking----
[Calling loudly.
Butler! Butler! God!
COUNTESS.
Why, he is at the castle with my husband.
GORDON.
'Twas a mistake. 'Tis not the Swedes--it is
The imperialists' lieutenant-general
Has sent me hither--will be here himself
Instantly. You must not proceed.
BUTLER.
He comes
Too late.
GORDON.
Oh, God of mercy!
COUNTESS.
What, too late?
Who will be here himself? Octavio
In Egra? Treason! Treason! Where's the duke?
SCENE X.
Servants run across the stage full of terror. The whole scene
must be spoken entirely without pauses.
COUNTESS.
What is it, Seni?
COUNTESS.
What is it? For God's sake!
SENI.
And do you ask?
Within the duke lies murdered--and your husband
Assassinated at the castle.
GORDON.
Your house is cursed to all eternity.
In your house doth the duke lie murdered!
FIRST SERVANT.
Fly! fly! they murder us all!
[At these words the COUNTESS starts from her stupor, collects
herself, and retires suddenly.
SCENE XI.
To these enter OCTAVIO PICCOLOMINI with all his train. At the same
time DEVEREUX and MACDONALD enter from out the corridor with the
Halberdiers. WALLENSTEIN's dead body is carried over the back part
of the stage, wrapped in a piece of crimson tapestry.
MACDONALD.
Is it your order----
BUTLER.
Your hand is pure. You have
Availed yourself of mine.
OCTAVIO.
Merciless man!
Thus to abuse the orders of thy lord--
And stain thy emperor's holy name with murder,
With bloody, most accursed assassination!
BUTLER (calmly).
I've but fulfilled the emperor's own sentence.
OCTAVIO.
Oh, curse of kings,
Infusing a dread life into their words,
And linking to the sudden, transient thought
The unchanging, irrevocable deed.
Was there necessity for such an eager
Despatch? Couldst thou not grant the merciful
A time for mercy? Time is man's good angel.
To leave no interval between the sentence,
And the fulfilment of it, doth beseem
God only, the immutable!
BUTLER.
For what
Rail you against me? What is my offence?
The empire from a fearful enemy
Have I delivered, and expect reward.
The single difference betwixt you and me
Is this: you placed the arrow in the bow;
I pulled the string. You sowed blood, and yet stand
Astonished that blood is come up. I always
Knew what I did, and therefore no result
Hath power to frighten or surprise my spirit.
Have you aught else to order; for this instant
I make my best speed to Vienna; place
My bleeding sword before my emperor's throne,
And hope to gain the applause which undelaying
And punctual obedience may demand
From a just judge.
[Exit BUTLER.
SCENE XII.
COUNTESS.
They are the fruits
Of your contrivances. The duke is dead,
My husband too is dead, the duchess struggles
In the pangs of death, my niece has disappeared;
This house of splendor, and of princely glory,
Doth now stand desolated: the affrighted servants
Rush forth through all its doors. I am the last
Therein; I shut it up, and here deliver
The keys.
COUNTESS.
Who next is to be murdered? Who is next
To be maltreated? Lo! the duke is dead.
The emperor's vengeance may be pacified!
Spare the old servants; let not their fidelity
Be imputed to the faithful as a crime--
The evil destiny surprised my brother
Too suddenly: he could not think on them.
OCTAVIO.
Speak not of vengeance! Speak not of maltreatment!
The emperor is appeased; the heavy fault
Hath heavily been expiated--nothing
Descended from the father to the daughter,
Except his glory and his services.
The empress honors your adversity,
Takes part in your afflictions, opens to you
Her motherly arms. Therefore no further fears.
Yield yourself up in hope and confidence
To the imperial grace!
OCTAVIO.
Countess, you tremble, you turn pale!
COUNTESS (reassembles all her powers, and speaks with energy and
dignity).
You think
More worthily of me than to believe
I would survive the downfall of my house.
We did not hold ourselves too mean to grasp
After a monarch's crown--the crown did fate
Deny, but not the feeling and the spirit
That to the crown belong! We deem a
Courageous death more worthy of our free station
Than a dishonored life. I have taken poison.
OCTAVIO.
Help! Help! Support her!
COUNTESS.
Nay, it is too late.
In a few moments is my fate accomplished.
[Exit COUNTESS.
GORDON.
Oh, house of death and horrors!
[An OFFICER enters, and brings a letter with the great seal.
GORDON steps forward and meets him.
What is this
It is the imperial seal.
[He reads the address, and delivers the letter to OCTAVIO with
a look of reproach, and with an emphasis on the word.
FOOTNOTES.
[1] A great stone near Luetzen, since called the Swede's Stone, the body
of their great king having been found at the foot of it, after the
battle in which he lost his life.
[2] Could I have hazarded such a Germanism as the use of the word
afterworld for posterity,--"Es spreche Welt und Nachwelt meinen
Namen"--might have been rendered with more literal fidelity: Let
world and afterworld speak out my name, etc.
[3] I have not ventured to affront the fastidious delicacy of our age
with a literal translation of this line,
werth
Die Eingeweide schaudernd aufzuregen.
WALLENSTEIN.
"Du schilderst deines Vaters Herz. Wie Du's
Beschreibst, so ist's in seinem Eingeweide,
In dieser schwarzen Heuchlers Brust gestaltet.
Oh, mich hat Hoellenkunst getaeuscht! Mir sandte
Der Abgrund den verflecktesten der Geister,
Den Luegenkundigsten herauf, und stellt' ihn
Als Freund an meiner Seite. Wer vermag
Der Hoelle Macht zu widersthn! Ich zog
Den Basilisken auf an meinem Busen,
Mit meinem Herzblut naehrt' ich ihn, er sog
Sich schwelgend voll an meiner Liebe Bruesten,
Ich hatte nimmer Arges gegen ihn,
Weit offen liess ich des Gedankens Thore,
Und warf die Schluessel weiser Vorsicht weg,
Am Sternenhimmel," etc.
LITERAL TRANSLATION.
"Alas! for those who place their confidence on thee, against thee
lean their secure hut of their fortune, allured by thy hospitable
form. Suddenly, unexpectedly, in a moment still as night, there is
a fermentation in the treacherous gulf of fire; it discharges
itself with raging force, and away over all the plantations of men
drives the wild stream in frightful devastation."
[11] These four lines are expressed in the original with exquisite
felicity:--
The words "wanken" and "schweben" are not easily translated. The
English words, by which we attempt to render them, are either vulgar
or antic, or not of sufficiently general application. So "der
Wolken Zug"--The Draft, the Procession of Clouds. The Masses of the
Clouds sweep onward in swift stream.
LITERALLY.
WILHELM TELL.
By Frederich Schiller
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
WERNER STAUFFACHER, |
CONRAD HUNN, |
HANS AUF DER MAUER, |
JORG IM HOFE, | People of Schwytz.
ULRICH DER SCHMIDT, |
JOST VON WEILER, |
ITEL REDING, |
WALTER FURST, |
WILHELM TELL, |
ROSSELMANN, the Priest, |
PETERMANN, Sacristan, | People of Uri.
KUONI, Herdsman, |
WERNI, Huntsman, |
RUODI, Fisherman, |
ARNOLD OF MELCHTHAL, |
CONRAD BAUMGARTEN, |
MEYER VON SARNEN, |
STRUTH VON WINKELRIED, | People of Unterwald.
KLAUS VON DER FLUE, |
BURKHART AM BUHEL, |
ARNOLD VON SEWA, |
PFEIFFER OF LUCERNE.
KUNZ OF GERSAU.
JENNI, Fisherman's Son.
SEPPI, Herdsman's Son.
GERTRUDE, Stauffacher's Wife.
HEDWIG, Wife of Tell, daughter of Furst.
BERTHA OF BRUNECK, a rich heiress.
ARMGART, |
MECHTHILD, | Peasant women.
ELSBETH, |
HILDEGARD, |
WILHELM TELL.
ACT I.
SCENE I.
RUODI.
Bestir thee, Jenni, haul the boat on shore.
The grizzly Vale-king [1] comes, the glaciers moan,
The lofty Mytenstein [2] draws on his hood,
And from the Stormcleft chilly blows the wind;
The storm will burst before we are prepared.
KUONI.
'Twill rain ere long; my sheep browse eagerly,
And Watcher there is scraping up the earth.
WERNI.
The fish are leaping, and the water-hen
Dives up and down. A storm is coming on.
KUONI.
Then all are safe; she ever ranges farthest.
RUODI.
You've a fine yoke of bells there, master herdsman.
WERNI.
And likely cattle, too. Are they your own?
KUONI.
I'm not so rich. They are the noble lord's
Of Attinghaus, and trusted to my care.
RUODI.
How gracefully yon heifer bears her ribbon!
KUONI.
Ay, well she knows she's leader of the herd,
And, take it from her, she'd refuse to feed.
RUODI.
You're joking now. A beast devoid of reason.
WERNI.
That's easy said. But beasts have reason too--
And that we know, we men that hunt the chamois.
They never turn to feed--sagacious creatures!
Till they have placed a sentinel ahead,
Who pricks his ears whenever we approach,
And gives alarm with clear and piercing pipe.
KUONI.
The Alp is grazed quite bare.
WERNI.
A safe return, my friend!
KUONI.
The same to you?
Men come not always back from tracks like yours.
RUODI.
But who comes here, running at topmost speed?
WERNI.
I know the man; 'tis Baumgart of Alzellen.
RUODI.
How now?
Why all this haste?
BAUMGARTEN.
Cast off! My life's at stake!
Set me across!
KUONI.
Why, what's the matter, friend?
WERNI.
Who are pursuing you? First tell us that.
RUODI.
Why are the troopers in pursuit of you?
BAUMGARTEN.
First save my life and then I'll tell you all.
WERNI.
There's blood upon your garments--how is this?
BAUMGARTEN.
The imperial seneschal, who dwelt at Rossberg.
KUONI.
How! What! The Wolfshot? [3] Is it he pursues you?
BAUMGARTEN.
He'll ne'er hunt man again; I've settled him.
BAUMGARTEN.
What every free man in my place had done.
I have but used mine own good household right
'Gainst him that would have wronged my wife--my honor.
KUONI.
And has he wronged you in your honor, then?
BAUMGARTEN.
That he did not fulfil his foul desire
Is due to God and to my trusty axe.
WERNI.
You've cleft his skull, then, have you, with your axe?
KUONI.
Oh, tell us all! You've time enough, before
The boat can be unfastened from its moorings.
BAUMGARTEN.
When I was in the forest, felling timber,
My wife came running out in mortal fear:
"The seneschal," she said, "was in my house,
Had ordered her to get a bath prepared,
And thereupon had taken unseemly freedoms,
From which she rid herself and flew to me."
Armed as I was I sought him, and my axe
Has given his bath a bloody benediction.
WERNI.
And you did well; no man can blame the deed.
KUONI.
The tyrant! Now he has his just reward!
We men of Unterwald have owed it long.
BAUMGARTEN.
The deed got wind, and now they're in pursuit.
Heavens! whilst we speak, the time is flying fast.
KUONI.
Quick, ferrymen, and set the good man over.
RUODI.
Impossible! a storm is close at hand,
Wait till it pass! You must.
BAUMGARTEN.
Almighty heavens!
I cannot wait; the least delay is death.
RUODI.
The south wind's up! [4] See how the lake is rising!
I cannot steer against both storm and wave.
WERNI.
His life's at stake. Have pity on him, man!
KUONI.
He is a father: has a wife and children.
RUODI.
What! and have I not, then, a life to lose,
A wife and child at home as well as he?
See, how the breakers foam, and toss, and whirl,
And the lake eddies up from all its depths!
Right gladly would I save the worthy man,
But 'tis impossible, as you must see.
BAUMGARTEN (still kneeling).
Then must I fall into the tyrant's hands,
And with the port of safety close in sight!
Yonder it lies! My eyes can measure it,
My very voice can echo to its shores.
There is the boat to carry me across,
Yet must I lie here helpless and forlorn.
KUONI.
Look! who comes here?
RUODI.
'Tis Tell, brave Tell, of Buerglen. [5]
TELL.
Who is the man that here implores for aid?
KUONI.
He is from Alzellen, and to guard his honor
From touch of foulest shame, has slain the Wolfshot!
The imperial seneschal, who dwelt at Rossberg.
The viceroy's troopers are upon his heels;
He begs the boatman here to take him over,
But he, in terror of the storm, refuses.
RUODI.
Well, there is Tell can steer as well as I.
He'll be my judge, if it be possible.
TELL.
The brave man thinks upon himself the last.
Put trust in God, and help him in his need!
RUODI.
Safe in the port, 'tis easy to advise.
There is the boat, and there the lake! Try you!
TELL.
The lake may pity, but the viceroy will not.
Come, venture, man!
RUODI.
Though 'twere my brother, or my darling child,
I would not go. It is St. Simon's day,
The lake is up, and calling for its victim.
TELL.
Naught's to be done with idle talking here.
Time presses on--the man must be assisted.
Say, boatman, will you venture?
RUODI.
No; not I.
TELL.
In God's name, then, give me the boat! I will
With my poor strength, see what is to be done!
KUONI.
Ha, noble Tell!
WERNI.
That's like a gallant huntsman!
BAUMGARTEN.
You are my angel, my preserver, Tell.
TELL.
I may preserve you from the viceroy's power
But from the tempest's rage another must.
Yet you had better fall into God's hands,
Than into those of men.
[To the herdsman.
Herdsman, do thou
Console my wife, should aught of ill befall me.
I do but what I may not leave undone.
RUODI.
Far better men than I would not ape Tell.
There does not live his fellow 'mong the mountains.
SEPPI.
Here come the troopers hard as they can ride!
KUONI.
Heavens! so they do! Why, that was help, indeed.
FIRST HORSEMAN.
Give up the murderer! You have him here!
SECOND HORSEMAN.
This way he came! 'Tis useless to conceal him!
SECOND HORSEMAN.
Curse on you, he's escaped!
WERNI.
The tyrants!
[Exeunt severally.
SCENE II.
PFEIFFER.
Ay, ay, friend Stauffacher, as I have said,
Swear not to Austria, if you can help it.
Hold by the empire stoutly as of yore,
And God preserve you in your ancient freedom!
STAUFFACHER.
Wait till my mistress comes. Now do! You are
My guest in Schwytz--I in Lucerne am yours.
PFEIFFER.
Thanks! thanks! But I must reach Gersau to-day.
Whatever grievances your rulers' pride
And grasping avarice may yet inflict,
Bear them in patience--soon a change may come.
Another emperor may mount the throne.
But Austria's once, and you are hers forever.
[Exit.
GERTRUDE.
So sad, my love! I scarcely know thee now.
For many a day in silence I have marked
A moody sorrow furrowing thy brow.
Some silent grief is weighing on thy heart;
Trust it to me. I am thy faithful wife,
And I demand my half of all thy cares.
STAUFFACHER.
The house is strongly built, and handsomely,
But, ah! the ground on which we built it totters.
GERTRUDE.
Tell me, dear Werner, what you mean by that?
STAUFFACHER.
No later since than yesterday, I sat
Beneath this linden, thinking with delight,
How fairly all was finished, when from Kuessnacht
The viceroy and his men came riding by.
Before this house he halted in surprise:
At once I rose, and, as beseemed his rank,
Advanced respectfully to greet the lord,
To whom the emperor delegates his power,
As judge supreme within our Canton here.
"Who is the owner of this house?" he asked,
With mischief in his thoughts, for well he knew.
With prompt decision, thus I answered him:
"The emperor, your grace--my lord and yours,
And held by one in fief." On this he answered,
"I am the emperor's viceregent here,
And will not that each peasant churl should build
At his own pleasure, bearing him as freely
As though he were the master in the land.
I shall make bold to put a stop to this!"
So saying he, with menaces, rode off,
And left me musing, with a heavy heart,
On the fell purpose that his words betrayed.
GERTRUDE.
Mine own dear lord and husband! Wilt thou take
A word of honest counsel from thy wife?
I boast to be the noble Iberg's child,
A man of wide experience. Many a time,
As we sat spinning in the winter nights,
My sisters and myself, the people's chiefs
Were wont to gather round our father's hearth,
To read the old imperial charters, and
To hold sage converse on the country's weal.
Then heedfully I listened, marking well
What or the wise men thought, or good man wished,
And garnered up their wisdom in my heart.
Hear then, and mark me well; for thou wilt see,
I long have known the grief that weighs thee down.
The viceroy hates thee, fain would injure thee,
For thou hast crossed his wish to bend the Swiss
In homage to this upstart house of princes,
And kept them stanch, like their good sires of old,
In true allegiance to the empire. Say.
Is't not so, Werner? Tell nee, am I wrong?
STAUFFACHER.
'Tis even so. For this doth Gessler hate me.
GERTRUDE.
He burns with envy, too, to see thee living
Happy and free on thy inheritance,
For he has none. From the emperor himself
Thou holdest in fief the lands thy fathers left thee.
There's not a prince in the empire that can show
A better title to his heritage;
For thou hast over thee no lord but one,
And he the mightiest of all Christian kings.
Gessler, we know, is but a younger son,
His only wealth the knightly cloak he wears;
He therefore views an honest man's good fortune
With a malignant and a jealous eye.
Long has he sworn to compass thy destruction
As yet thou art uninjured. Wilt thou wait
Till he may safely give his malice scope?
A wise man would anticipate the blow.
STAUFFACHER.
What's to be done?
GERTRUDE.
Now hear what I advise.
Thou knowest well, how here with us in Schwytz,
All worthy men are groaning underneath
This Gessler's grasping, grinding tyranny.
Doubt not the men of Unterwald as well,
And Uri, too, are chafing like ourselves,
At this oppressive and heart-wearying yoke.
For there, across the lake, the Landenberg
Wields the same iron rule as Gessler here--
No fishing-boat comes over to our side
But brings the tidings of some new encroachment,
Some outrage fresh, more grievous than the last.
Then it were well that some of you--true men--
Men sound at heart, should secretly devise
How best to shake this hateful thraldom off.
Well do I know that God would not desert you,
But lend his favor to the righteous cause.
Hast thou no friend in Uri, say, to whom
Thou frankly may'st unbosom all thy thoughts?
STAUFFACHER.
I know full many a gallant fellow there,
And nobles, too,--great men, of high repute,
In whom I can repose unbounded trust.
[Rising.
GERTRUDE.
You, too, are men; can wield a battle-axe
As well as they. God ne'er deserts the brave.
STAUFFACHER.
Oh wife! a horrid, ruthless fiend is war,
That strikes at once the shepherd and his flock.
GERTRUDE.
Whate'er great heaven inflicts we must endure;
No heart of noble temper brooks injustice.
STAUFFACHER.
This house--thy pride--war, unrelenting war,
Will burn it down.
GERTRUDE.
And did I think this heart
Enslaved and fettered to the things of earth,
With my own hand I'd hurl the kindling torch.
STAUFFACHER.
Thou hast faith in human kindness, wife; but war
Spares not the tender infant in its cradle.
GERTRUDE.
There is a friend to innocence in heaven
Look forward, Werner--not behind you, now!
STAUFFACHER.
We men may perish bravely, sword in hand;
But oh, what fate, my Gertrude, may be thine?
GERTRUDE.
None are so weak, but one last choice is left.
A spring from yonder bridge, and I am free!
TELL.
Now, then, you have no further need of me.
Enter yon house. 'Tis Werner Stauffacher's,
A man that is a father to distress.
See, there he is himself! Come, follow me.
FIRST WORKMAN.
'Tis very hard that we must bear the stones,
To make a keep and dungeon for ourselves!
TASKMASTER.
What's that you mutter? 'Tis a worthless race,
And fit for nothing but to milk their cows,
And saunter idly up and down the mountains.
FIRST WORKMAN.
Have you no bowels of compassion, thus
To press so hard upon a poor old man,
That scarce can drag his feeble limbs along?
TASKMASTER.
Mind your own business. I but do my duty.
FIRST WORKMAN.
Pray, master, what's to be the name of this
Same castle when 'tis built?
TASKMASTER.
The keep of Uri;
For by it we shall keep you in subjection.
WORKMEN.
The keep of Uri.
TASKMASTER.
Well, why laugh at that?
SECOND WORKMAN.
So you'll keep Uri with this paltry place!
FIRST WORKMAN.
How many molehills such as that must first
Be piled above each other ere you make
A mountain equal to the least in Uri?
MASTER MASON.
I'll drown the mallet in the deepest lake,
That served my hand on this accursed pile.
STAUFFACHER.
Oh, that I had not lived to see this sight!
TELL.
Here 'tis not good to be. Let us proceed.
STAUFFACHER.
Am I in Uri, in the land of freedom?
MASTER MASON.
Oh, sir, if you could only see the vaults
Beneath these towers. The man that tenants them
Will never hear the cock crow more.
STAUFFACHER.
O God!
MASTER MASON.
Look at these ramparts and these buttresses,
That seem as they were built to last forever.
TELL.
Hands can destroy whatever hands have reared.
FIRST WORKMAN.
What means the drum? Give heed!
MASTER MASON.
Why here's a mumming!
And look, the cap,--what can they mean by that?
CRIER.
In the emperor's name, give ear!
WORKMEN.
Hush! silence! hush!
CRIER.
Ye men of Uri, ye do see this cap!
It will be set upon a lofty pole
In Altdorf, in the market-place: and this
Is the lord governor's good will and pleasure,
The cap shall have like honor as himself,
And all shall reverence it with bended knee,
And head uncovered; thus the king will know
Who are his true and loyal subjects here:
His life and goods are forfeit to the crown,
That shall refuse obedience to the order.
FIRST WORKMAN.
A strange device to fall upon, indeed!
Do reverence to a cap! a pretty farce!
Heard ever mortal anything like this?
MASTER MASON.
Down to a cap on bended knee, forsooth!
Rare jesting this with men of sober sense!
FIRST WORKMAN.
Nay, were it but the imperial crown, indeed!
But 'tis the cap of Austria! I've seen it
Hanging above the throne in Gessler's hall.
MASTER MASON.
The cap of Austria! Mark that! A snare
To get us into Austria's power, by heaven!
WORKMEN.
No freeborn man will stoop to such disgrace.
MASTER MASON.
Come--to our comrades, and advise with them!
STAUFFACHER.
Whither away? Oh, leave us not so soon.
TELL.
They look for me at home. So fare ye well.
STAUFFACHER.
My heart's so full, and has so much to tell you.
TELL.
Words will not make a heart that's heavy light.
STAUFFACHER.
Yet words may possibly conduct to deeds.
TELL.
All we can do is to endure in silence.
STAUFFACHER.
But shall we bear what is not to be borne?
TELL.
Impetuous rulers have the shortest reigns.
When the fierce south wind rises from his chasms,
Men cover up their fires, the ships in haste
Make for the harbor, and the mighty spirit
Sweeps o'er the earth, and leaves no trace behind.
Let every man live quietly at home;
Peace to the peaceful rarely is denied.
STAUFFACHER.
And is it thus you view our grievances?
TELL.
The serpent stings not till it is provoked.
Let them alone; they'll weary of themselves,
Whene'er they see we are not to be roused.
STAUFFACHER.
Much might be done--did we stand fast together.
TELL.
When the ship founders, he will best escape
Who seeks no other's safety but his own.
STAUFFACHER.
And you desert the common cause so coldly?
TELL.
A man can safely count but on himself!
STAUFFACHER.
Nay, even the weak grow strong by union.
TELL.
But the strong man is the strongest when alone.
STAUFFACHER.
Your country, then, cannot rely on you
If in despair she rise against her foes.
TELL.
Tell rescues the lost sheep from yawning gulfs:
Is he a man, then, to desert his friends?
Yet, whatsoe'er you do, spare me from council!
I was not born to ponder and select;
But when your course of action is resolved,
Then call on Tell; you shall not find him fail.
MASTER MASON.
Hence with your gold,--your universal charm,
And remedy for ill! When you have torn
Fathers from children, husbands from their wives,
And scattered woe and wail throughout the land,
You think with gold to compensate for all.
Hence! Till we saw you we were happy men;
With you came misery and dark despair.
[Exit.
SCENE IV.
MELCHTHAL.
Good Walter Furst.
FURST.
If we should be surprised!
Stay where you are. We are beset with spies.
MELCHTHAL.
Have you no news for me from Unterwald?
What of my father? 'Tis not to be borne,
Thus to be pent up like a felon here!
What have I done of such a heinous stamp,
To skulk and hide me like a murderer?
I only laid my staff across the fingers
Of the pert varlet, when before my eyes,
By order of the governor, he tried
To drive away my handsome team of oxen.
FURST.
You are too rash by far. He did no more
Than what the governor had ordered him.
You had transgressed, and therefore should have paid
The penalty, however hard, in silence.
MELCHTHAL.
Was I to brook the fellow's saucy words?
"That if the peasant must have bread to eat;
Why, let him go and draw the plough himself!"
It cut me to the very soul to see
My oxen, noble creatures, when the knave
Unyoked them from the plough. As though they felt
The wrong, they lowed and butted with their horns.
On this I could contain myself no longer,
And, overcome by passion, struck him down.
FURST.
Oh, we old men can scarce command ourselves!
And can we wonder youth shall break its bounds?
MELCHTHAL.
I'm only sorry for my father's sake!
To be away from him, that needs so much
My fostering care! The governor detests him,
Because he hath, whene'er occasion served,
Stood stoutly up for right and liberty.
Therefore they'll bear him hard--the poor old man!
And there is none to shield him from their gripe.
Come what come may, I must go home again.
FURST.
Compose yourself, and wait in patience till
We get some tidings o'er from Unterwald.
Away! away! I hear a knock! Perhaps
A message from the viceroy! Get thee in!
You are not safe from Landenberger's [6] arm
In Uri, for these tyrants pull together.
MELCHTHAL.
They teach us Switzers what we ought to do.
FURST.
Away! I'll call you when the coast is clear.
[MELCHTHAL retires.
FURST.
You bring them with you. See how I'm rejoiced,
My heart leaps at the very sight of you.
Sit down--sit down, and tell me how you left
Your charming wife, fair Gertrude? Iberg's child,
And clever as her father. Not a man,
That wends from Germany, by Meinrad's Cell, [7]
To Italy, but praises far and wide
Your house's hospitality. But say,
Have you come here direct from Flueelen,
And have you noticed nothing on your way,
Before you halted at my door?
FURST.
O friend! you've lighted on my thought at once.
STAUFFACHER.
Such things in Uri ne'er were known before.
Never was prison here in man's remembrance,
Nor ever any stronghold but the grave.
FURST.
You name it well. It is the grave of freedom.
STAUFFACHER.
Friend, Walter Furst, I will be plain with you.
No idle curiosity it is
That brings me here, but heavy cares. I left
Thraldom at home, and thraldom meets me here.
Our wrongs, e'en now, are more than we can bear.
And who shall tell us where they are to end?
From eldest time the Switzer has been free,
Accustomed only to the mildest rule.
Such things as now we suffer ne'er were known
Since herdsmen first drove cattle to the hills.
FURST.
Yes, our oppressions are unparalleled!
Why, even our own good lord of Attinghaus,
Who lived in olden times, himself declares
They are no longer to be tamely borne.
STAUFFACHER.
In Unterwalden yonder 'tis the same;
And bloody has the retribution been.
The imperial seneschal, the Wolfshot, who
At Rossberg dwelt, longed for forbidden fruits--
Baumgarten's wife, that lives at Alzellen,
He wished to overcome in shameful sort,
On which the husband slew him with his axe.
FURST.
Oh, Heaven is just in all its judgments still!
Baumgarten, say you? A most worthy man.
Has he escaped, and is he safely hid?
STAUFFACHER.
Your son-in-law conveyed him o'er the lake,
And he lies hidden in my house at Steinen.
He brought the tidings with him of a thing
That has been done at Sarnen, worse than all,
A thing to make the very heart run blood!
FURST (attentively).
Say on. What is it?
STAUFFACHER.
There dwells in Melchthal, then,
Just as you enter by the road from Kearns,
An upright man, named Henry of the Halden,
A man of weight and influence in the Diet.
FURST.
Who knows him not? But what of him? Proceed.
STAUFFACHER.
The Landenberg, to punish some offence,
Committed by the old man's son, it seems,
Had given command to take the youth's best pair
Of oxen from his plough: on which the lad
Struck down the messenger and took to flight.
FURST.
But the old father--tell me, what of him?
STAUFFACHER.
The Landenberg sent for him, and required
He should produce his son upon the spot;
And when the old man protested, and with truth,
That he knew nothing of the fugitive,
The tyrant called his torturers.
FURST.
Merciful heavens!
FURST.
Oh, miserable hour!
STAUFFACHER.
Who is it, tell me?
MELCHTHAL.
And I
Must be from thence! What! into both his eyes?
FURST.
Be calm, be calm; and bear it like a man!
MELCHTHAL.
And all for me--for my mad wilful folly!
Blind, did you say? Quite blind--and both his eyes?
STAUFFACHER.
Even so. The fountain of his sight's dried up.
He ne'er will see the blessed sunshine more.
FURST.
Oh, spare his anguish!
MELCHTHAL.
Never, never more!
[Presses his hands upon his eyes and is silent for some
moments; then turning from one to the other, speaks in a
subdued tone, broken by sobs.
STAUFFACHER.
Ah, I must swell the measure of your grief,
Instead of soothing it. The worst, alas!
Remains to tell. They've stripped him of his all;
Naught have they left him, save his staff, on which,
Blind and in rags, he moves from door to door.
MELCHTHAL.
Naught but his staff to the old eyeless man!
Stripped of his all--even of the light of day,
The common blessing of the meanest wretch.
Tell me no more of patience, of concealment!
Oh, what a base and coward thing am I,
That on mine own security I thought
And took no care of thine! Thy precious head
Left as a pledge within the tyrant's grasp!
Hence, craven-hearted prudence, hence! And all
My thoughts be vengeance, and the despot's blood!
I'll seek him straight--no power shall stay me now--
And at his hands demand my father's eyes.
I'll beard him 'mid a thousand myrmidons!
What's life to me, if in his heart's best blood
I cool the fever of this mighty anguish.
[He is going.
FURST.
Stay, this is madness, Melchthal! What avails
Your single arm against his power? He sits
At Sarnen high within his lordly keep,
And, safe within its battlemented walls,
May laugh to scorn your unavailing rage.
MELCHTHAL.
And though he sat within the icy domes
Of yon far Schreckhorn--ay, or higher, where
Veiled since eternity, the Jungfrau soars,
Still to the tyrant would I make my way;
With twenty comrades minded like myself,
I'd lay his fastness level with the earth!
And if none follow me, and if you all,
In terror for your homesteads and your herds,
Bow in submission to the tyrant's yoke,
I'll call the herdsmen on the hills around me,
And there beneath heaven's free and boundless roof,
Where men still feel as men, and hearts are true
Proclaim aloud this foul enormity!
STAUFFACHER (to FURST).
'Tis at its height--and are we then to wait
Till some extremity----
MELCHTHAL.
What extremity
Remains for apprehension, where men's eyes
Have ceased to be secure within their sockets?
Are we defenceless? Wherefore did we learn
To bend the crossbow--wield the battle-axe?
What living creature, but in its despair,
Finds for itself a weapon of defence?
The baited stag will turn, and with the show
Of his dread antlers hold the hounds at bay;
The chamois drags the huntsman down the abyss;
The very ox, the partner of man's toil,
The sharer of his roof, that meekly bends
The strength of his huge neck beneath the yoke,
Springs up, if he's provoked, whets his strong horn,
And tosses his tormenter to the clouds.
FURST.
If the three Cantons thought as we three do,
Something might, then, be done, with good effect.
STAUFFACHER.
When Uri calls, when Unterwald replies,
Schwytz will be mindful of her ancient league. [8]
MELCHTHAL.
I've many friends in Unterwald, and none
That would not gladly venture life and limb
If fairly backed and aided by the rest.
Oh, sage and reverend fathers of this land,
Here do I stand before your riper years,
An unskilled youth whose voice must in the Diet
Still be subdued into respectful silence.
Do not, because that I am young and want
Experience, slight my counsel and my words.
'Tis not the wantonness of youthful blood
That fires my spirit; but a pang so deep
That even the flinty rocks must pity me.
You, too, are fathers, heads of families,
And you must wish to have a virtuous son
To reverence your gray hairs and shield your eyes
With pious and affectionate regard.
Do not, I pray, because in limb and fortune
You still are unassailed, and still your eyes
Revolve undimmed and sparkling in their spheres;
Oh, do not, therefore, disregard our wrongs!
Above you, too, doth hang the tyrant's sword.
You, too, have striven to alienate the land
From Austria. This was all my father's crime:
You share his guilt and may his punishment.
MELCHTHAL.
Is there a name within the Forest Mountains
That carries more respect than thine--and thine?
To names like these the people cling for help
With confidence--such names are household words.
Rich was your heritage of manly virtue,
And richly have you added to its stores.
What need of nobles? Let us do the work
Ourselves. Although we stood alone, methinks
We should be able to maintain our rights.
STAUFFACHER.
The nobles' wrongs are not so great as ours.
The torrent that lays waste the lower grounds
Hath not ascended to the uplands yet.
But let them see the country once in arms
They'll not refuse to lend a helping hand.
FURST.
Were there an umpire 'twixt ourselves and Austria,
Justice and law might then decide our quarrel.
But our oppressor is our emperor, too,
And judge supreme. 'Tis God must help us, then,
And our own arm! Be yours the task to rouse
The men of Schwytz; I'll rally friends in Uri.
But whom are we to send to Unterwald?
MELCHTHAL.
Thither send me. Whom should it more concern?
FURST.
No, Melchthal, no; thou art my guest, and I
Must answer for thy safety.
MELCHTHAL.
Let me go.
I know each forest track and mountain pass;
Friends too I'll find, be sure, on every hand,
To give me willing shelter from the foe.
STAUFFACHER.
Nay, let him go; no traitors harbor there:
For tyranny is so abhorred in Unterwald
No minions can be found to work her will.
In the low valleys, too, the Alzeller
Will gain confederates and rouse the country.
MELCHTHAL.
But how shall we communicate, and not
Awaken the suspicion of the tyrants?
STAUFFACHER.
Might we not meet at Brunnen or at Treib,
Hard by the spot where merchant-vessels land?
FURST.
We must not go so openly to work.
Hear my opinion. On the lake's left bank,
As we sail hence to Brunnen, right against
The Mytenstein, deep-hidden in the wood
A meadow lies, by shepherds called the Rootli,
Because the wood has been uprooted there.
'Tis where our Canton boundaries verge on yours;--
[To MELCHTHAL.
[To STAUFFACHER.
STAUFFACHER.
So let it be. And now your true right hand!
Yours, too, young man! and as we now three men
Among ourselves thus knit our hands together
In all sincerity and truth, e'en so
Shall we three Cantons, too, together stand
In victory and defeat, in life and death.
[They hold their hands clasped together for some moments in silence.
MELCHTHAL.
Alas, my old blind father!
Thou canst no more behold the day of freedom;
But thou shalt hear it. When from Alp to Alp
The beacon-fires throw up their flaming signs,
And the proud castles of the tyrants fall,
Into thy cottage shall the Switzer burst,
Bear the glad tidings to thine ear, and o'er
Thy darkened way shall Freedom's radiance pour.
ACT II.
SCENE I.
RUDENZ.
Uncle, I'm here! Your will?
ATTINGHAUSEN.
First let me share,
After the ancient custom of our house,
The morning-cup with these my faithful servants!
ATTINGHAUSEN.
Go, children, and at eve, when work is done,
We'll meet and talk the country's business over.
[Exeunt Servants.
RUDENZ.
Yes, uncle. Longer may I not delay----
RUDENZ.
I see, my presence is not needed here,
I am but as a stranger in this house.
RUDENZ.
All honor due to him I gladly pay,
But must deny the right he would usurp.
ATTINGHAUSEN.
The sore displeasure of the king is resting
Upon the land, and every true man's heart
Is full of sadness for the grievous wrongs
We suffer from our tyrants. Thou alone
Art all unmoved amid the general grief.
Abandoning thy friends, thou takest thy stand
Beside thy country's foes, and, as in scorn
Of our distress, pursuest giddy joys,
Courting the smiles of princes, all the while
Thy country bleeds beneath their cruel scourge.
RUDENZ.
The land is sore oppressed; I know it, uncle.
But why? Who plunged it into this distress?
A word, one little easy word, might buy
Instant deliverance from such dire oppression,
And win the good-will of the emperor.
Woe unto those who seal the people's eyes,
And make them adverse to their country's good;
The men who, for their own vile, selfish ends,
Are seeking to prevent the Forest States
From swearing fealty to Austria's house,
As all the countries round about have done.
It fits their humor well, to take their seats
Amid the nobles on the Herrenbank; [10]
They'll have the Caesar for their lord, forsooth,
That is to say, they'll have no lord at all.
ATTINGHAUSEN.
Must I hear this, and from thy lips, rash boy!
RUDENZ.
You urged me to this answer. Hear me out.
What, uncle, is the character you've stooped
To fill contentedly through life? Have you
No higher pride, than in these lonely wilds
To be the Landamman or Banneret, [11]
The petty chieftain of a shepherd race?
How! Were it not a far more glorious choice
To bend in homage to our royal lord,
And swell the princely splendors of his court,
Than sit at home, the peer of your own vassals,
And share the judgment-seat with vulgar clowns?
ATTINGHAUSEN.
Ah, Uly, Uly; all too well I see,
The tempter's voice has caught thy willing ear,
And poured its subtle poison in thy heart.
RUDENZ.
Yes, I conceal it not. It doth offend
My inmost soul to hear the stranger's gibes,
That taunt us with the name of "Peasant Nobles."
Think you the heart that's stirring here can brook,
While all the young nobility around
Are reaping honor under Hapsburg's banner,
That I should loiter, in inglorious ease,
Here on the heritage my fathers left,
And, in the dull routine of vulgar toil,
Lose all life's glorious spring? In other lands
Deeds are achieved. A world of fair renown
Beyond these mountains stirs in martial pomp.
My helm and shield are rusting in the hall;
The martial trumpet's spirit-stirring blast,
The herald's call, inviting to the lists,
Rouse not the echoes of these vales, where naught
Save cowherd's horn and cattle-bell is heard,
In one unvarying, dull monotony.
ATTINGHAUSEN.
Deluded boy, seduced by empty show!
Despise the land that gave thee birth! Ashamed
Of the good ancient customs of thy sires!
The day will come, when thou, with burning tears,
Wilt long for home, and for thy native hills,
And that dear melody of tuneful herds,
Which now, in proud disgust, thou dost despise!
A day when thou wilt drink its tones in sadness,
Hearing their music in a foreign land.
Oh! potent is the spell that binds to home!
No, no, the cold, false world is not for thee.
At the proud court, with thy true heart thou wilt
Forever feel a stranger among strangers.
The world asks virtues of far other stamp
Than thou hast learned within these simple vales.
But go--go thither; barter thy free soul,
Take land in fief, become a prince's vassal,
Where thou might'st be lord paramount, and prince
Of all thine own unburdened heritage!
O, Uly, Uly, stay among thy people!
Go not to Altdorf. Oh, abandon not
The sacred cause of thy wronged native land!
I am the last of all my race. My name
Ends with me. Yonder hang my helm and shield;
They will be buried with me in the grave. [12]
And must I think, when yielding up my breath,
That thou but wait'st the closing of mine eyes,
To stoop thy knee to this new feudal court,
And take in vassalage from Austria's hands
The noble lands, which I from God received
Free and unfettered as the mountain air!
RUDENZ.
'Tis vain for us to strive against the king.
The world pertains to him:--shall we alone,
In mad, presumptuous obstinacy strive
To break that mighty chain of lands, which he
Hath drawn around us with his giant grasp.
His are the markets, his the courts; his too
The highways; nay, the very carrier's horse,
That traffics on the Gotthardt, pays him toll.
By his dominions, as within a net,
We are enclosed, and girded round about.
--And will the empire shield us? Say, can it
Protect itself 'gainst Austria's growing power?
To God, and not to emperors, must we look!
What store can on their promises be placed,
When they, to meet their own necessities,
Can pawn, and even alienate the towns
That flee for shelter 'neath the eagle's wings? [13]
No, uncle. It is wise and wholesome prudence,
In times like these, when faction's all abroad,
To own attachment to some mighty chief.
The imperial crown's transferred from line to line, [14]
It has no memory for faithful service:
But to secure the favor of these great
Hereditary masters, were to sow
Seed for a future harvest.
ATTINGHAUSEN.
Art so wise?
Wilt thou see clearer than thy noble sires,
Who battled for fair freedom's costly gem,
With life, and fortune, and heroic arm?
Sail down the lake to Lucerne, there inquire,
How Austria's rule doth weigh the Cantons down.
Soon she will come to count our sheep, our cattle,
To portion out the Alps, e'en to their summits,
And in our own free woods to hinder us
From striking down the eagle or the stag;
To set her tolls on every bridge and gate,
Impoverish us to swell her lust of sway,
And drain our dearest blood to feed her wars.
No, if our blood must flow, let it be shed
In our own cause! We purchase liberty
More cheaply far than bondage.
RUDENZ.
What can we,
A shepherd race, against great Albert's hosts?
ATTINGHAUSEN.
Learn, foolish boy, to know this shepherd race!
I know them, I have led them on in fight--
I saw them in the battle at Favenz.
Austria will try, forsooth, to force on us
A yoke we are determined not to bear!
Oh, learn to feel from what a race thou'rt sprung!
Cast not, for tinsel trash and idle show,
The precious jewel of thy worth away.
To be the chieftain of a freeborn race,
Bound to thee only by their unbought love,
Ready to stand--to fight--to die with thee,
Be that thy pride, be that thy noblest boast!
Knit to thy heart the ties of kindred--home--
Cling to the land, the dear land of thy sires,
Grapple to that with thy whole heart and soul!
Thy power is rooted deep and strongly here,
But in yon stranger world thou'lt stand alone,
A trembling reed beat down by every blast.
Oh come! 'tis long since we have seen thee, Uly!
Tarry but this one day. Only to-day
Go not to Altdorf. Wilt thou? Not to-day!
For this one day bestow thee on thy friends.
RUDENZ.
I gave my word. Unhand me! I am bound.
RUDENZ.
No more; I've heard enough. So fare you well.
[Exit.
ATTINGHAUSEN.
Stay, Uly! Stay! Rash boy, he's gone! I can
Nor hold him back, nor save him from destruction.
And so the Wolfshot has deserted us;--
Others will follow his example soon.
This foreign witchery, sweeping o'er our hills,
Tears with its potent spell our youth away:
O luckless hour, when men and manners strange
Into these calm and happy valleys came,
To warp our primitive and guileless ways.
The new is pressing on with might. The old,
The good, the simple, fleeteth fast away.
New times come on. A race is springing up,
That think not as their fathers thought before!
What do I here? All, all are in the grave
With whom ere while I moved and held converse;
My age has long been laid beneath the sod:
Happy the man who may not live to see
What shall be done by those that follow me!
SCENE II.
WINKELRIED.
Hark!
SEWA.
The coast is clear.
MEYER.
None of our comrades come?
We are the first, we Unterwaldeners.
MELCHTHAL.
How far is't in the night?
BAUMGARTEN.
The beacon watch
Upon the Selisberg has just called two.
MEYER.
Hush! Hark!
BUHEL.
The forest chapel's matin bell
Chimes clearly o'er the lake from Switzerland.
FLUE.
The air is clear, and bears the sound so far.
MELCHTHAL.
Go, you and you, and light some broken boughs,
Let's bid them welcome with a cheerful blaze.
SEWA.
The moon shines fair to-night. Beneath its beams
The lake reposes, bright as burnished steel.
BUHEL.
They'll have an easy passage.
MEYER.
What is it? Ay, indeed!
A rainbow in the middle of the night.
MELCHTHAL.
Formed by the bright reflection of the moon!
FLUE.
A sign most strange and wonderful, indeed!
Many there be who ne'er have seen the like.
SEWA.
'Tis doubled, see, a paler one above!
BAUMGARTEN.
A boat is gliding yonder right beneath it.
MELCHTHAL.
That must be Werner Stauffacher! I knew
The worthy patriot would not tarry long.
MEYER.
The Uri men are like to be the last.
BUHEL.
They're forced to take a winding circuit through
The mountains; for the viceroy's spies are out.
[All retire up the stage, towards the party landing from the boat.
Enter STAUFFACHER, ITEL, REDING, HANS AUF DER MAUER, JORG IM HOPE,
CONRAD HUNN, ULRICH DER SCHMIDT, JOST VON WEILER, and three other
peasants, armed.
ALL.
Welcome!
STAUFFACHER.
Speak not of vengeance. We are here to meet
The threatened evil, not to avenge the past.
Now tell me what you've done, and what secured,
To aid the common cause in Unterwald.
How stands the peasantry disposed, and how
Yourself escaped the wiles of treachery?
MELCHTHAL.
Through the Surenen's fearful mountain chain,
Where dreary ice-fields stretch on every side,
And sound is none, save the hoarse vulture's cry,
I reached the Alpine pasture, where the herds
From Uri and from Engelberg resort,
And turn their cattle forth to graze in common.
Still as I went along, I slaked my thirst
With the coarse oozings of the lofty glacier,
That through the crevices come foaming down,
And turned to rest me in the herdsman's cots, [15]
Where I was host and guest, until I gained
The cheerful homes and social haunts of men.
Already through these distant vales had spread
The rumor of this last atrocity;
And wheresoe'er I went, at every door,
Kind words and gentle looks were there to greet me.
I found these simple spirits all in arms
Against our rulers' tyrannous encroachments.
For as their Alps through each succeeding year
Yield the same roots,--their streams flow ever on
In the same channels,--nay, the clouds and winds
The selfsame course unalterably pursue,
So have old customs there, from sire to son,
Been handed down, unchanging and unchanged;
Nor will they brook to swerve or turn aside
From the fixed, even tenor of their life.
With grasp of their hard hands they welcomed me--
Took from the walls their rusty falchions down--
And from their eyes the soul of valor flashed
With joyful lustre, as I spoke those names,
Sacred to every peasant in the mountains,
Your own and Walter Fuerst's. Whate'er your voice
Should dictate as the right they swore to do;
And you they swore to follow e'en to death.
So sped I on from house to house, secure
In the guest's sacred privilege--and when
I reached at last the valley of my home,
Where dwell my kinsmen, scattered far and near--
And when I found my father stripped and blind,
Upon the stranger's straw, fed by the alms
Of charity----
STAUFFACHER.
Great heaven!
MELCHTHAL.
Yet wept I not!
No--not in weak and unavailing tears
Spent I the force of my fierce, burning anguish;
Deep in my bosom, like some precious treasure,
I locked it fast, and thought on deeds alone.
Through every winding of the hills I crept--
No valley so remote but I explored it;
Nay, even at the glacier's ice-clad base,
I sought and found the homes of living men;
And still, where'er my wandering footsteps turned,
The self-same hatred of these tyrants met me.
For even there, at vegetation's verge,
Where the numbed earth is barren of all fruits,
There grasping hands had been stretched forth for plunder.
Into the hearts of all this honest race,
The story of my wrongs struck deep, and now
They to a man are ours; both heart and hand.
Great things, indeed, you've wrought in little time.
MELCHTHAL.
I did still more than this. The fortresses,
Rossberg and Sarnen, are the country's dread;
For from behind their rocky walls the foe
Swoops, as the eagle from his eyrie, down,
And, safe himself, spreads havoc o'er the land.
With my own eyes I wished to weigh its strength,
So went to Sarnen, and explored the castle.
STAUFFACHER.
How! Risk thyself even in the tiger's den?
MELCHTHAL.
Disguised in pilgrim's weeds I entered it;
I saw the viceroy feasting at his board--
Judge if I'm master of myself or no!
I saw the tyrant, and I slew him not!
STAUFFACHER.
Fortune, indeed, has smiled upon your boldness.
MEYER.
In the three Cantons, who, sir, knows not you?
Meyer of Sarnen is my name; and this
Is Struth of Winkelried, my sister's son.
STAUFFACHER.
No unknown name. A Winkelried it was
Who slew the dragoon in the fen at Weiler,
And lost his life in the encounter, too.
WINKELRIED.
That, Master Stauffacher, was my grandfather.
HUNN.
That is Herr Reding, sir, our old Landamman.
MEYER.
I know him well. There is a suit between us,
About a piece of ancient heritage.
Herr Reding, we are enemies in court,
Here we are one.
STAUFFACHER.
That's well and bravely said.
WINKELRIED.
Listen! They come. Hark to the horn of Uri!
[On the right and left armed men are seen descending
the rocks with torches.
MAUER.
Look, is not that God's pious servant there?
A worthy priest! The terrors of the night,
And the way's pains and perils scare not him,
A faithful shepherd caring for his flock.
BAUMGARTEN.
The Sacrist follows him, and Walter Fuerst.
But where is Tell? I do not see him there.
FURST.
Thus must we, on the soil our fathers left us,
Creep forth by stealth to meet like murderers,
And in the night, that should their mantle lend
Only to crime and black conspiracy,
Assert our own good rights, which yet are clear
As is the radiance of the noonday sun.
MELCHTHAL.
So be it. What is woven in gloom of night
Shall free and boldly meet the morning light.
ROSSELMANN.
Confederates! listen to the words which God
Inspires my heart withal. Here we are met
To represent the general weal. In us
Are all the people of the land convened.
Then let us hold the Diet, as of old,
And as we're wont in peaceful times to do.
The time's necessity be our excuse
If there be aught informal in this meeting.
Still, wheresoe'er men strike for justice, there
Is God, and now beneath his heaven we stand.
STAUFFACHER.
'Tis well advised. Let us, then, hold the Diet
According to our ancient usages.
Though it be night there's sunshine in our cause.
MELCHTHAL.
Few though our numbers be, the hearts are here
Of the whole people; here the best are met.
HUNN.
The ancient books may not be near at hand,
Yet are they graven in our inmost hearts.
ROSSELMANN.
'Tis well. And now, then, let a ring be formed,
And plant the swords of power within the ground. [16]
MAUER.
Let the Landamman step into his place,
And by his side his secretaries stand.
SACRIST.
There are three Cantons here. Which hath the right
To give the head to the united council?
Schwytz may contest the dignity with Uri,
We Unterwaldeners enter not the field.
MELCHTHAL.
We stand aside. We are not suppliants here,
Invoking aid from our more potent friends.
STAUFFACHER.
Let Uri have the sword. Her banner takes
In battle the precedence of our own.
FURST.
Schwytz, then, must share the honor of the sword;
For she's the honored ancestor of all.
ROSSELMANN.
Let me arrange this generous controversy.
Uri shall lead in battle--Schwytz in council.
STAUFFACHER.
Not I. Some older man.
HOFE.
Ulrich, the smith, is the most aged here.
MAUER.
A worthy man, but he is not a freeman;
No bondman can be judge in Switzerland.
STAUFFACHER.
Is not Herr Reding here, our old Landamman?
Where can we find a worthier man than he?
FURST.
Let him be Amman and the Diet's chief?
You that agree with me hold up your hands!
[The two swords are placed before him, and a circle formed;
Schwytz in the centre, Uri on his right, Unterwald on his left.
WINKELRIED.
Then is the burden of our legends true,
That we came hither from a distant land?
Oh, tell us what you know, that our new league
May reap fresh vigor from the leagues of old.
STAUFFACHER.
Hear, then, what aged herdsmen tell. There dwelt
A mighty people in the land that lies
Back to the north. The scourge of famine came;
And in this strait 'twas publicly resolved,
That each tenth man, on whom the lot might fall
Should leave the country. They obeyed--and forth,
With loud lamentings, men and women went,
A mighty host; and to the south moved on,
Cutting their way through Germany by the sword,
Until they gained that pine-clad hills of ours;
Nor stopped they ever on their forward course,
Till at the shaggy dell they halted, where
The Mueta flows through its luxuriant meads.
No trace of human creature met their eye,
Save one poor hut upon the desert shore,
Where dwelt a lonely man, and kept the ferry.
A tempest raged--the lake rose mountains high
And barred their further progress. Thereupon
They viewed the country; found it rich in wood,
Discovered goodly springs, and felt as they
Were in their own dear native land once more.
Then they resolved to settle on the spot;
Erected there the ancient town of Schwytz;
And many a day of toil had they to clear
The tangled brake and forest's spreading roots.
Meanwhile their numbers grew, the soil became
Unequal to sustain them, and they crossed
To the black mountain, far as Weissland, where,
Concealed behind eternal walls of ice,
Another people speak another tongue.
They built the village Stanz, beside the Kernwald
The village Altdorf, in the vale of Reuss;
Yet, ever mindful of their parent stem,
The men of Schwytz, from all the stranger race,
That since that time have settled in the land,
Each other recognize. Their hearts still know,
And beat fraternally to kindred blood.
MAUER.
Ay, we are all one heart, one blood, one race!
STAUFFACHER.
The nations round us bear a foreign yoke;
For they have yielded to the conqueror.
Nay, even within our frontiers may be found
Some that owe villein service to a lord,
A race of bonded serfs from sire to son.
But we, the genuine race of ancient Swiss,
Have kept our freedom from the first till now,
Never to princes have we bowed the knee;
Freely we sought protection of the empire.
ROSSELMANN.
Freely we sought it--freely it was given.
'Tis so set down in Emperor Frederick's charter.
STAUFFACHER.
For the most free have still some feudal lord.
There must be still a chief, a judge supreme,
To whom appeal may lie in case of strife.
And therefore was it that our sires allowed
For what they had recovered from the waste,
This honor to the emperor, the lord
Of all the German and Italian soil;
And, like the other freemen of his realm,
Engaged to aid him with their swords in war;
And this alone should be the freeman's duty,
To guard the empire that keeps guard for him.
MELCHTHAL.
He's but a slave that would acknowledge more.
STAUFFACHER.
They followed, when the Heribann [17] went forth,
The imperial standard, and they fought its battles!
To Italy they marched in arms, to place
The Caesars' crown upon the emperor's head.
But still at home they ruled themselves in peace,
By their own laws and ancient usages.
The emperor's only right was to adjudge
The penalty of death; he therefore named
Some mighty noble as his delegate,
That had no stake or interest in the land.
He was called in, when doom was to be passed,
And, in the face of day, pronounced decree,
Clear and distinctly, fearing no man's hate.
What traces here, that we are bondsmen? Speak,
If there be any can gainsay my words!
HOFE.
No! You have spoken but the simple truth;
We never stooped beneath a tyrant's yoke.
STAUFFACHER.
Even to the emperor we refused obedience,
When he gave judgment in the church's favor;
For when the Abbey of Einsiedlen claimed
The Alp our fathers and ourselves had grazed,
And showed an ancient charter, which bestowed
The land on them as being ownerless--
For our existence there had been concealed--
What was our answer? This: "The grant is void,
No emperor can bestow what is our own:
And if the empire shall deny us justice,
We can, within our mountains, right ourselves!"
Thus spake our fathers! And shall we endure
The shame and infamy of this new yoke,
And from the vassal brook what never king
Dared in the fulness of his power attempt?
This soil we have created for ourselves,
By the hard labor of our hands; we've changed
The giant forest, that was erst the haunt
Of savage bears, into a home for man;
Extirpated the dragon's brood, that wont
To rise, distent with venom, from the swamps;
Rent the thick misty canopy that hung
Its blighting vapors on the dreary waste;
Blasted the solid rock; o'er the abyss
Thrown the firm bridge for the wayfaring man
By the possession of a thousand years
The soil is ours. And shall an alien lord,
Himself a vassal, dare to venture here,
On our own hearths insult us,--and attempt
To forge the chains of bondage for our hands,
And do us shame on our own proper soil?
Is there no help against such wrong as this?
MAUER.
What says the priest? To Austria allegiance?
BUHEL.
Hearken not to him!
WINKELRLED.
'Tis a traitor's counsel,
His country's foe!
REDING.
Peace, peace, confederates!
SEWA.
Homage to Austria, after wrongs like these!
FLUE.
Shall Austria exert from us by force
What we denied to kindness and entreaty?
MEYER.
Then should we all be slaves, deservedly.
MAUER.
Yes! Let him forfeit all a Switzer's rights
Who talks of yielding to the yoke of Austria!
I stand on this, Landamman. Let this be
The foremost of our laws!
MELCHTHAL.
Even so! Whoever
Shall talk of tamely bearing Austria's yoke,
Let him be stripped of all his rights and honors;
And no man hence receive him at his hearth!
ROSSELMANN.
Now you are free--by this law you are free.
Never shall Austria obtain by force
What she has failed to gain by friendly suit.
WEILER.
On with the order of the day! Proceed!
REDING.
Confederates! Have all gentler means been tried?
Perchance the emperor knows not of our wrongs,
It may not be his will that thus we suffer:
Were it not well to make one last attempt,
And lay our grievances before the throne,
Ere we unsheath the sword? Force is at best
A fearful thing even in a righteous cause;
God only helps when man can help no more.
HUNN.
I was at Rheinfeld, at the emperor's palace,
Deputed by the Cantons to complain
Of the oppression of these governors,
And claim the charter of our ancient freedom,
Which each new king till now has ratified.
I found the envoys there of many a town,
From Suabia and the valley of the Rhine,
Who all received their parchments as they wished
And straight went home again with merry heart.
They sent for me, your envoy, to the council,
Where I was soon dismissed with empty comfort;
"The emperor at present was engaged;
Some other time he would attend to us!"
I turned away, and passing through the hall,
With heavy heart in a recess I saw
The Grand Duke John [18] in tears, and by his side
The noble lords of Wart and Tegerfeld,
Who beckoned me, and said, "Redress yourselves.
Expect not justice from the emperor.
Does he not plunder his own brother's child,
And keep from him his just inheritance?"
The duke claims his maternal property,
Urging he's now of age, and 'tis full time
That he should rule his people and dominions;
What is the answer made to him? The king
Places a chaplet on his head: "Behold,
The fitting ornament," he cries, "of youth!"
MAUER.
You hear. Expect not from the emperor
Or right, or justice. Then redress yourselves!
REDING.
No other course is left us. Now, advise
What plan most likely to insure success.
FURST.
To shake a thraldom off that we abhor,
To keep our ancient rights inviolate,
As we received them from our forefathers--this,
Not lawless innovation, is our aim.
Let Caesar still retain what is his due;
And he that is a vassal let him pay
The service he is sworn to faithfully.
MEYER.
I hold my land of Austria in fief.
FURST.
Continue, then, to pay your feudal service.
WEILER.
I'm tenant of the lords of Rappersweil.
FURST.
Continue, then, to pay them rent and tithe.
ROSSELMANN.
Of Zurich's lady, I'm the humble vassal.
FURST.
Give to the cloister what the cloister claims.
STAUFFACHER.
The empire only is my feudal lord.
FURST.
What needs must be, we'll do, but nothing further.
We'll drive these tyrants and their minions hence,
And raze their towering strongholds to the ground,
Yet shed, if possible, no drop of blood.
Let the emperor see that we were driven to cast
The sacred duties of respect away;
And when he finds we keep within our bounds,
His wrath, belike, may yield to policy;
For truly is that nation to be feared,
That, when in arms, is temperate in its wrath.
REDING.
But, prithee, tell us how may this be done?
The enemy is armed as well as we,
And, rest assured, he will not yield in peace.
STAUFFACHER.
He will, whene'er he sees us up in arms;
We shall surprise him, ere he is prepared.
MEYER.
'Tis easily said, but not so easily done.
Two fortresses of strength command the country.
They shield the foe, and should the king invade us,
The task would then be dangerous indeed.
Rossberg and Sarnen both must be secured,
Before a sword is drawn in either Canton.
STAUFFACHER.
Should we delay, the foe will soon be warned;
We are too numerous for secrecy.
MEYER.
There is no traitor in the Forest States.
ROSSELMANN.
But even zeal may heedlessly betray.
FURST.
Delay it longer, and the keep at Altdorf
Will be complete,--the governor secure.
MEYER.
You think but of yourselves.
SACRISTAN.
You are unjust!
MEYER.
Unjust! said you? Dares Uri taunt us so?
REDING.
Peace, on your oath!
MEYER.
If Schwytz be leagued with Uri,
Why then, indeed, we must perforce be silent.
REDING.
And let me tell you, in the Diet's name,
Your hasty spirit much disturbs the peace.
Stand we not all for the same common cause?
WINKELRIED.
What, if we delay till Christmas? 'Tis then
The custom for the serfs to throng the castle,
Bringing the governor their annual gifts.
Thus may some ten or twelve selected men
Assemble unobserved within its walls,
Bearing about their persons pikes of steel,
Which may be quickly mounted upon staves,
For arms are not admitted to the fort.
The rest can fill the neighboring wood, prepared
To sally forth upon a trumpet's blast,
Whene'er their comrades have secured the gate;
And thus the castle will be ours with ease.
MELCHTHAL.
The Rossberg I will undertake to scale,
I have a sweetheart in the garrison,
Whom with some tender words I could persuade
To lower me at night a hempen ladder.
Once up, my friends will not be long behind.
REDING.
Are all resolved in favor of delay?
FURST.
If on the appointed day the castles fall,
From mountain on to mountain we shall pass
The fiery signal: in the capital
Of every Canton quickly rouse the Landsturm. [19]
Then, when these tyrants see our martial front,
Believe me, they will never make so bold
As risk the conflict, but will gladly take
Safe conduct forth beyond our boundaries.
STAUFFACHER.
Not so with Gessler. He will make a stand.
Surrounded with his dread array of horse,
Blood will he shed before he quits the field.
And even expelled he'd still be terrible.
'Tis hard, indeed 'tis dangerous, to spare him.
BAUMGARTEN.
Place me where'er a life is to be lost;
I owe my life to Tell, and cheerfully
Will pledge it for my country. I have cleared
My honor, and my heart is now at rest.
REDING.
Counsel will come with circumstance. Be patient.
Something must still be trusted to the moment.
Yet, while by night we hold our Diet here,
The morning, see, has on the mountain-tops
Kindled her glowing beacon. Let us part,
Ere the broad sun surprise us.
FURST.
Do not fear.
The night wanes slowly from these vales of ours.
ROSSELMANN.
By this fair light, which greeteth us, before
Those other nations, that, beneath us far,
In noisome cities pent, draw painful breath,
Swear we the oath of our confederacy!
We swear to be a nation of true brothers,
Never to part in danger or in death!
STAUFFACHER.
Now every man pursue his several way
Back to his friends his kindred, and his home.
Let the herd winter up his flock and gain
In silence, friends, for our confederacy!
What for a time must be endured, endure.
And let the reckoning of the tyrants grow,
Till the great day arrive, when they shall pay
The general and particular debt at once.
Let every man control his own just rage,
And nurse his vengeance for the public wrongs;
For he whom selfish interest now engage
Defrauds the general weal of what to it belongs.
SCENE I.
WALTER (sings).
TELL.
Not I; a true-born archer helps himself.
[Boys retire.
HEDWIG.
The boys begin to use the bow betimes.
TELL.
'Tis early practice only makes the master.
HEDWIG.
Ah! Would to heaven they never learnt the art!
TELL.
But they shall learn it, wife, in all its points.
Whoe'er would carve an independent way
Through life must learn to ward or plant a blow.
HEDWIG.
Alas, alas! and they will never rest
Contentedly at home.
TELL.
No more can I!
I was not framed by nature for a shepherd.
Restless I must pursue a changing course;
I only feel the flush and joy of life
In starting some fresh quarry every day.
HEDWIG.
Heedless the while of all your wife's alarms
As she sits watching through long hours at home.
For my soul sinks with terror at the tales
The servants tell about your wild adventures.
Whene'er we part my trembling heart forebodes
That you will ne'er come back to me again.
I see you on the frozen mountain steeps,
Missing, perchance, your leap from cliff to cliff;
I see the chamois, with a wild rebound,
Drag you down with him o'er the precipice.
I see the avalanche close o'er your head,
The treacherous ice give way, and you sink down
Entombed alive within its hideous gulf.
Ah! in a hundred varying forms does death
Pursue the Alpine huntsman on his course.
That way of life can surely ne'er be blessed,
Where life and limb are perilled every hour.
TELL.
The man that bears a quick and steady eye,
And trusts to God and his own lusty sinews,
Passes, with scarce a scar, through every danger.
The mountain cannot awe the mountain child.
HEDWIG.
Whither away!
TELL.
To Altdorf, to your father.
HEDWIG.
You have some dangerous enterprise in view? Confess!
TELL.
Why think you so?
HEDWIG.
Some scheme's on foot,
Against the governors. There was a Diet
Held on the Rootli--that I know--and you
Are one of the confederacy I'm sure.
TELL.
I was not there. Yet will I not hold back
Whene'er my country calls me to her aid.
HEDWIG.
Wherever danger is, will you be placed.
On you, as ever, will the burden fall.
TELL.
Each man shall have the post that fits his powers.
HEDWIG.
You took--ay, 'mid the thickest of the storm--
The man of Unterwald across the lake.
'Tis a marvel you escaped. Had you no thought
Of wife and children then?
TELL.
Dear wife, I bad;
And therefore saved the father for his children.
HEDWIG.
To brave the lake in all its wrath; 'Twas not
To put your trust in God! 'Twas tempting him.
TELL.
The man that's over-cautious will do little.
HEDWIG.
Yes, you've a kind and helping hand for all;
But be in straits and who will lend you aid?
TELL.
God grant I ne'er may stand in need of it!
HEDWIG.
Why take your crossbow with you? Leave it here.
TELL.
I want my right hand when I want my bow.
WALTER.
Where, father, are you going?
TELL.
To grand-dad, boy--
To Altdorf. Will you go?
WALTER.
Ay, that I will!
HEDWIG.
The viceroy's there just now. Go not to Altdorf.
TELL.
He leaves to-day.
HEDWIG.
Then let him first be gone,
Cross not his path. You know he bears us grudge.
TELL.
His ill-will cannot greatly injure me.
I do what's right, and care for no man's hate.
HEDWIG.
'Tis those who do what's right whom he most hates.
TELL.
Because he cannot reach them. Me, I ween,
His knightship will be glad to leave in peace.
HEDWIG.
Ay! Are you sure of that?
TELL.
Not long ago,
As I was hunting through the wild ravines
Of Shechenthal, untrod by mortal foot,--
There, as I took my solitary way
Along a shelving ledge of rocks, where 'twas
Impossible to step on either side;
For high above rose, like a giant wall,
The precipice's side, and far below
The Shechen thundered o'er its rifted bed;--
HEDWIG.
He trembled then before you? Woe the while
You saw his weakness; that he'll not forgive.
TELL.
I shun him, therefore, and he'll not seek me.
HEDWIG.
But stay away to day. Go hunting rather!
TELL.
What do you fear?
HEDWIG.
I am uneasy. Stay.
TELL.
Why thus distress yourself without a cause?
HEDWIG.
Because there is no cause. Tell, Tell! stay here!
TELL.
Dear wife, I gave my promise I would go.
HEDWIG.
Must you,--then go. But leave the boys with me.
WALTER.
No, mother dear, I'm going with my father.
HEDWIG.
How, Walter! Will you leave your mother then?
WALTER.
I'll bring you pretty things from grandpapa.
WILHELM.
Mother, I'll stay with you!
SCENE II.
BERTHA.
He follows me. Now to explain myself!
BERTHA.
But are you sure they will not follow us?
RUDENZ.
See, yonder goes the chase. Now, then, or never!
I must avail me of the precious moment,--
Must hear my doom decided by thy lips,
Though it should part me from thy side forever.
Oh, do not arm that gentle face of thine
With looks so stern and harsh! Who--who am I,
That dare aspire so high as unto thee?
Fame hath not stamped me yet; nor may I take
My place amid the courtly throng of knights,
That, crowned with glory's lustre, woo thy smiles.
Nothing have I to offer but a heart
That overflows with truth and love for thee.
RUDENZ.
How! This reproach from thee! Whom do I seek
On Austria's side, my own beloved, but thee?
BERTHA.
Think you to find me in the traitor's ranks?
Now, as I live, I'd rather give my hand
To Gessler's self, all despot though he be,
Than to the Switzer who forgets his birth,
And stoops to be the minion of a tyrant.
RUDENZ.
Oh heaven, what must I hear!
BERTHA.
Say! what can lie
Nearer the good man's heart than friends and kindred?
What dearer duty to a noble soul
Than to protect weak, suffering innocence,
And vindicate the rights of the oppressed?
My very soul bleeds for your countrymen;
I suffer with them, for I needs must love them;
They are so gentle, yet so full of power;
They draw my whole heart to them. Every day
I look upon them with increased esteem.
But you, whom nature and your knightly vow,
Have given them as their natural protector,
Yet who desert them and abet their foes,
In forging shackles for your native land,
You--you it is, that deeply grieve and wound me.
I must constrain my heart, or I shall hate you.
RUDENZ.
Is not my country's welfare all my wish?
What seek I for her but to purchase peace
'Neath Austria's potent sceptre?
BERTHA.
Bondage, rather!
You would drive freedom from the last stronghold
That yet remains for her upon the earth.
The people know their own true interests better:
Their simple natures are not warped by show,
But round your head a tangling net is wound.
RUDENZ.
Bertha, you hate me--you despise me!
BERTHA.
Nay! And if I did, 'twere better for my peace.
But to see him despised and despicable,--
The man whom one might love.
RUDENZ.
Oh, Bertha! You
Show me the pinnacle of heavenly bliss,
Then, in a moment, hurl me to despair!
BERTHA.
No, no! the noble is not all extinct
Within you. It but slumbers,--I will rouse it.
It must have cost you many a fiery struggle
To crush the virtues of your race within you.
But, heaven be praised, 'tis mightier than yourself,
And you are noble in your own despite!
RUDENZ.
You trust me, then? Oh, Bertha, with thy love
What might I not become?
BERTHA.
Be only that
For which your own high nature destined you.
Fill the position you were born to fill;--
Stand by your people and your native land.
And battle for your sacred rights!
RUDENZ.
Alas! How can I hope to win you--to possess you,
If I take arms against the emperor?
Will not your potent kinsman interpose,
To dictate the disposal of your hand?
BERTHA.
All my estates lie in the Forest Cantons;
And I am free, when Switzerland is free.
RUDENZ.
Oh! what a prospect, Bertha, hast thou shown me!
BERTHA.
Hope not to win my hand by Austria's favor;
Fain would they lay their grasp on my estates,
To swell the vast domains which now they hold.
The selfsame lust of conquest that would rob
You of your liberty endangers mine.
Oh, friend, I'm marked for sacrifice;--to be
The guerdon of some parasite, perchance!
They'll drag me hence to the imperial court
That hateful haunt of falsehood and intrigue;
There do detested marriage bonds await me.
Love, love alone,--your love can rescue me.
RUDENZ.
And thou could'st be content, love, to live here,
In my own native land to be my own?
Oh, Bertha, all the yearnings of my soul
For this great world and its tumultuous strife,
What were they, but a yearning after thee?
In glory's path I sought for thee alone
And all my thirst of fame was only love.
But if in this calm vale thou canst abide
With me, and bid earth's pomps and pride adieu,
Then is the goal of my ambition won;
And the rough tide of the tempestuous world
May dash and rave around these firm-set hills!
No wandering wishes more have I to send
Forth to the busy scene that stirs beyond.
Then may these rocks that girdle us extend
Their giants walls impenetrably round,
And this sequestered happy vale alone
Look up to heaven, and be my paradise!
BERTHA.
Now art thou all my fancy dreamed of thee.
My trust has not been given to thee in vain.
RUDENZ.
Away, ye idle phantoms of my folly!
In mine own home I'll find my happiness.
Here where the gladsome boy to manhood grew,
Where every brook, and tree, and mountain peak,
Teems with remembrances of happy hours,
In mine own native land thou wilt be mine.
Ah, I have ever loved it well, I feel
How poor without it were all earthly joys.
BERTHA.
Where should we look for happiness on earth,
If not in this dear land of innocence?
Here, where old truth hath its familiar home,
Where fraud and guile are strangers, envy ne'er
Shall dim the sparkling fountain of our bliss,
And ever bright the hours shall o'er us glide.
There do I see thee, in true manly worth,
The foremost of the free and of thy peers,
Revered with homage pure and unconstrained,
Wielding a power that kings might envy thee.
RUDENZ.
And thee I see, thy sex's crowning gem,
With thy sweet woman grace and wakeful love,
Building a heaven for me within my home,
And, as the springtime scatters forth her flowers,
Adorning with thy charms my path of life,
And spreading joy and sunshine all around.
BERTHA.
And this it was, dear friend, that caused my grief,
To see thee blast this life's supremest bliss,
With thine own hand. Ah! what had been my fate,
Had I been forced to follow some proud lord,
Some ruthless despot, to his gloomy castle!
Here are no castles, here no bastioned walls
Divide me from a people I can bless.
RUDENZ.
Yet, how to free myself; to loose the coils
Which I have madly twined around my head?
BERTHA.
Tear them asunder with a man's resolve.
Whatever the event, stand by the people.
It is thy post by birth.
[Exeunt severally.
SCENE III.
FRIESSHARDT.
We keep our watch in vain. There's not a soul
Will pass and do obeisance to the cap.
But yesterday the place swarmed like a fair;
Now the whole green looks like a very desert,
Since yonder scarecrow hung upon the pole.
LEUTHHOLD.
Only the vilest rabble show themselves,
And wave their tattered caps in mockery at us.
All honest citizens would sooner make
A tedious circuit over half the town
Than bend their backs before our master's cap.
FRIESSHARDT.
They were obliged to pass this way at noon,
As they were coming from the council house.
I counted then upon a famous catch,
For no one thought of bowing to the cap.
But Rosselmann, the priest, was even with me:
Coming just then from some sick penitent,
He stands before the pole--raises the Host--
The Sacrist, too, must tinkle with his bell--
When down they dropped on knee--myself and all
In reverence to the Host, but not the cap.
LEUTHOLD.
Hark ye, companion, I've a shrewd suspicion,
Our post's no better than the pillory.
It is a burning shame, a trooper should
Stand sentinel before an empty cap,
And every honest fellow must despise us,
To do obeisance to a cap, too! Faith,
I never heard an order so absurd!
FRIESSHARDT.
Why not, an't please thee, to an empty cap.
Thou'st ducked, I'm sure, to many an empty sconce.
LEUTHOLD.
And thou art an officious sneaking knave,
That's fond of bringing honest folks to trouble.
For my part, he that likes may pass the cap
I'll shut my eyes and take no note of him.
MECHTHILD.
There hangs the viceroy! Your obeisance, children!
ELSBETH.
I would to God he'd go, and leave his cap!
The country would be none the worse for it.
TELL.
Who says so, boy?
WALTER.
The master herdsman, father!
He tells us there's a charm upon the trees,
And if a man shall injure them, the hand
That struck the blow will grow from out the grave.
TELL.
There is a charm about them, that's the truth.
Dost see those glaciers yonder, those white horns,
That seem to melt away into the sky?
WALTER.
They are the peaks that thunder so at night,
And send the avalanches down upon us.
TELL.
They are; and Altdorf long ago had been
Submerged beneath these avalanches' weight,
Did not the forest there above the town
Stand like a bulwark to arrest their fall.
TELL.
Yes, if we travel downwards from our heights,
And keep descending in the rivers' courses,
We reach a wide and level country, where
Our mountain torrents brawl and foam no more,
And fair, large rivers glide serenely on.
All quarters of the heaven may there be scanned
Without impediment. The corn grows there
In broad and lovely fields, and all the land
Is fair as any garden to the view.
WALTER.
But, father, tell me, wherefore haste we not
Away to this delightful land, instead
Of toiling here, and struggling as we do?
TELL.
The land is fair and bountiful as Heaven;
But they who till it never may enjoy
The fruits of what they sow.
WALTER.
Live they not free,
As you do, on the land their fathers left them?
TELL.
The fields are all the bishop's or the king's.
WALTER.
But they may freely hunt among the woods?
TELL.
The game is all the monarch's--bird and beast.
WALTER.
But they, at least, may surely fish the streams?
TELL.
Stream, lake, and sea, all to the king belong.
WALTER.
Who is this king, of whom they're so afraid?
TELL.
He is the man who fosters and protects them.
WALTER.
Have they not courage to protect themselves?
TELL.
The neighbor there dare not his neighbor trust.
WALTER.
I should want breathing room in such a land,
I'd rather dwell beneath the avalanches.
TELL.
'Tis better, child, to have these glacier peaks
Behind one's back than evil-minded men!
WALTER.
See, father, see the cap on yonder pole!
TELL.
What is the cap to us? Come, let's be gone.
FRIESSHARDT.
Stand, I command you, in the emperor's name.
FRIESSHARDT.
You've broke the mandate, and must go with us.
LEUTHOLD.
You have not done obeisance to the cap.
TELL.
Friend, let me go.
FRIESSHARDT.
Away, away to prison!
WALTER.
Father to prison! Help!
[Calling to the side scene.
This way, you men!
Good people, help! They're dragging him to prison!
SACRISTAN.
What's here amiss?
ROSSELMANN.
Why do you seize this man?
FRIESSHARDT.
He is an enemy of the king--a traitor!
ROSSELMANN.
Friend, thou art wrong. 'Tis Tell,
An honest man, and worthy citizen.
FRIESSHARDT.
Away to prison!
LEUTHOLD.
He has contemned the viceroy's sovereign power,
Refusing flatly to acknowledge it.
STAUFFACHER.
Has Tell done this?
MELCHTHAL.
Villain, thou knowest 'tis false!
LEUTHOLD.
He has not made obeisance to the cap.
FURST.
And shall for this to prison? Come, my friend,
Take my security, and let him go.
FRIESSHARDT.
Keep your security for yourself--you'll need it.
We only do our duty. Hence with him.
SACRISTAN.
We are the strongest. Don't endure it, friends.
Our countrymen will back us to a man.
FRIESSHARDT.
Who dares resist the governor's commands?
OTHER THREE PEASANTS (running in).
We'll help you. What's the matter? Down with them!
TELL.
Go, go, good people, I can help myself.
Think you, had I a mind to use my strength,
These pikes of theirs should daunt me?
FRIESSHARDT (loudly).
Riot! Insurrection, ho!
WOMEN.
The governor!
STAUFFACHER.
Roar, till you burst, knave!
FURST.
The viceroy here! Then we shall smart for this!
HARRAS.
Room for the viceroy!
GESSLER.
Drive the clowns apart.
Why throng the people thus? Who calls for help?
[General silence.
FRIESSHARDT.
Dread sir, I am a soldier of your guard,
And stationed sentinel beside the cap;
This man I apprehended in the act
Of passing it without obeisance due,
So I arrested him, as you gave order,
Whereon the people tried to rescue him.
TELL.
Pardon me, good my lord! The action sprung
From inadvertence,--not from disrespect.
Were I discreet, I were not William Tell.
Forgive me now--I'll not offend again.
WALTER.
That must be true, sir! At a hundred yards
He'll shoot an apple for you off the tree.
GESSLER.
Is that boy thine, Tell?
TELL.
Yes, my gracious lord.
GESSLER.
Hast any more of them?
TELL.
Two boys, my lord.
GESSLER.
And, of the two, which dost thou love the most?
TELL.
Sir, both the boys are dear to me alike.
GESSLER.
Then, Tell, since at a hundred yards thou canst
Bring down the apple from the tree, thou shalt
Approve thy skill before me. Take thy bow--
Thou hast it there at hand--and make thee ready
To shoot an apple from the stripling's head!
But take this counsel,--look well to thine aim,
See that thou hittest the apple at the first,
For, shouldst thou miss, thy head shall pay the forfeit.
TELL.
What monstrous thing, my lord, is this you ask?
That I, from the head of mine own child!--No, no!
It cannot be, kind sir, you meant not that--
God in His grace forbid! You could not ask
A father seriously to do that thing!
GESSLER.
Thou art to shoot an apple from his head!
I do desire--command it so.
TELL.
What, I!
Level my crossbow at the darling head
Of mine own child? No--rather let me die!
GESSLER.
Or thou must shoot, or with thee dies the boy.
TELL.
Shall I become the murderer of my child!
You have no children, sir--you do not know
The tender throbbings of a father's heart.
GESSLER.
How now, Tell, so discreet upon a sudden
I had been told thou wert a visionary,--
A wanderer from the paths of common men.
Thou lovest the marvellous. So have I now
Culled out for thee a task of special daring.
Another man might pause and hesitate;
Thou dashest at it, heart and soul, at once.
BERTHA.
Oh, do not jest, my lord, with these poor souls!
See, how they tremble, and how pale they look,
So little used are they to hear thee jest.
GESSLER.
Who tells thee that I jest?
HARRAS:
Heavens! this grows serious--down, boy, on your knees,
And beg the governor to spare your life.
GESSLER.
Open a way there--quick! Why this delay?
Thy life is forfeited; I might despatch thee,
And see I graciously repose thy fate
Upon the skill of thine own practised hand.
No cause has he to say his doom is harsh,
Who's made the master of his destiny.
Thou boastest of thy steady eye. 'Tis well!
Now is a fitting time to show thy skill.
The mark is worthy, and the prize is great.
To hit the bull's-eye in the target; that
Can many another do as well as thou;
But he, methinks, is master of his craft
Who can at all times on his skill rely,
Nor lets his heart disturb or eye or hand.
FURST.
My lord, we bow to your authority;
But, oh, let justice yield to mercy here.
Take half my property, nay, take it all,
But spare a father this unnatural doom!
WALTER.
Grandfather, do not kneel to that bad man!
Say, where am I to stand? I do not fear;
My father strikes the bird upon the wing,
And will not miss now when 'twould harm his boy!
STAUFFACHER.
Does the child's innocence not touch your heart?
ROSSELMANN.
Bethink you, sir, there is a God in heaven,
To whom you must account for all your deeds.
WALTER.
Bind me? No, I will not be bound! I will be still,
Still as a lamb--nor even draw my breath!
But if you bind me I cannot be still.
Then I shall writhe and struggle with my bonds.
HARRAS.
But let your eyes at least be bandaged, boy!
WALTER.
And why my eyes? No! Do you think I fear
An arrow from my father's hand? Not I!
I'll wait it firmly, nor so much as wink!
Quick, father, show them that thou art an archer!
He doubts thy skill--he thinks to ruin us.
Shoot then and hit though but to spite the tyrant!
[He goes to the lime tree, and an apple is placed on his head.
STAUFFACHER.
'Tis all in vain. We have no weapons here;
And see the wood of lances that surrounds us!
MELCHTHAL.
Oh! would to heaven that we had struck at once!
God pardon those who counselled the delay!
STAUFFACHER.
What, Tell? You would--no, no!
You shake--your hand's unsteady--your knees tremble!
WOMEN.
Great Heaven!
TELL.
Release me from this shot!
Here is my heart!
TELL.
It must be!
RUDENZ (who all the while has been standing in a state of violent
excitement, and has with difficulty restrained himself, advances).
My lord, you will not urge this matter further.
You will not. It was surely but a test.
You've gained your object. Rigor pushed too far
Is sure to miss its aim, however good,
As snaps the bow that's all too straightly bent.
GESSLER.
Peace, till your counsel's asked for!
RUDENZ.
I will speak! Ay, and I dare! I reverence my king;
But acts like these must make his name abhorred.
He sanctions not this cruelty. I dare
Avouch the fact. And you outstep your powers
In handling thus an unoffending people.
GESSLER.
Ha! thou growest bold methinks!
RUDENZ.
I have been dumb
To all the oppressions I was doomed to see.
I've closed mine eyes that they might not behold them,
Bade my rebellious, swelling heart be still,
And pent its struggles down within my breast.
But to be silent longer were to be
A traitor to my king and country both.
RUDENZ.
My people I forsook, renounced my kindred--
Broke all the ties of nature that I might
Attach myself to you. I madly thought
That I should best advance the general weal,
By adding sinews to the emperor's power.
The scales have fallen from mine eyes--I see
The fearful precipice on which I stand.
You've led my youthful judgment far astray,--
Deceived my honest heart. With best intent,
I had well nigh achieved my country's ruin.
GESSLER.
Audacious boy, this language to thy lord?
RUDENZ.
The emperor is my lord, not you! I'm free
As you by birth, and I can cope with you
In every virtue that beseems a knight.
And if you stood not here in that king's name,
Which I respect e'en where 'tis most abused,
I'd throw my gauntlet down, and you should give
An answer to my gage in knightly fashion.
Ay, beckon to your troopers! Here I stand;
But not like these--
[Pointing to the people.
unarmed. I have a sword,
And he that stirs one step----
STAUFFACHER (exclaims).
The apple's down!
ROSSELMANN.
The boy's alive!
MANY VOICES.
The apple has been struck!
GESSLER (astonished).
How? Has he shot? The madman!
BERTHA.
Worthy father!
Pray you compose yourself. The boy's alive!
BERTHA.
Oh, ye kind heavens!
STAUFFACHER.
God be praised!
LEUTHOLD.
Almighty powers! That was a shot indeed!
It will be talked of to the end of time.
HARRAS.
This feat of Tell, the archer, will be told
While yonder mountains stand upon their base.
GESSLER.
By heaven! the apple's cleft right through the core.
It was a master shot I must allow.
ROSSELMANN.
The shot was good. But woe to him who drove
The man to tempt his God by such a feat!
STAUFFACHER.
Cheer up, Tell, rise! You've nobly freed yourself,
And now may go in quiet to your home.
ROSSELMANN.
Come, to the mother let us bear her son!
GESSLER.
A word, Tell.
TELL.
Sir, your pleasure?
GESSLER.
Thou didst place
A second arrow in thy belt--nay, nay!
I saw it well--what was thy purpose with it?
TELL (confused).
It is the custom with all archers, sir.
GESSLER.
No, Tell, I cannot let that answer pass.
There was some other motive, well I know.
Frankly and cheerfully confess the truth;--
Whate'er it be I promise thee thy life,
Wherefore the second arrow?
TELL.
Well, my lord,
Since you have promised not to take my life,
I will, without reserve, declare the truth.
[He draws the arrow from his belt, and fixes his eyes
sternly upon the governor.
GESSLER.
Well, Tell, I promised thou shouldst have thy life;
I gave my knightly word, and I will keep it.
Yet, as I know the malice of thy thoughts,
I will remove thee hence to sure confinement,
Where neither sun nor moon shall reach thine eyes,
Thus from thy arrows I shall be secure.
Seize on him, guards, and bind him.
STAUFFACHER.
How, my lord--
How can you treat in such a way a man
On whom God's hand has plainly been revealed?
GESSLER.
Well, let us see if it will save him twice!
Remove him to my ship; I'll follow straight.
In person I will see him lodged at Kuessnacht.
ROSSELMANN.
You dare not do it. Nor durst the emperor's self,
So violate our dearest chartered rights.
GESSLER.
Where are they? Has the emperor confirmed them?
He never has. And only by obedience
Need you expect to win that favor from him.
You are all rebels 'gainst the emperor's power
And bear a desperate and rebellious spirit.
I know you all--I see you through and through.
Him do I single from amongst you now,
But in his guilt you all participate.
The wise will study silence and obedience.
TELL.
Let him be calm who feels the pangs I felt.
STAUFFACHER.
Alas! alas! Our every hope is gone.
With you we all are fettered and enchained.
TELL.
Farewell!
STAUFFACHER.
Hast thou no message, Tell, to send your wife?
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
KUNZ.
I saw it with these eyes! Believe me, friend,
It happen'd all precisely as I've said.
FISHERMAN.
Tell, made a prisoner, and borne off to Kuessnacht?
The best man in the land, the bravest arm,
Had we resolved to strike for liberty!
KUNZ.
The Viceroy takes him up the lake in person:
They were about to go on board, as I
Left Flueelen; but still the gathering storm,
That drove me here to land so suddenly,
Perchance has hindered their abrupt departure.
FISHERMAN.
Our Tell in chains, and in the viceroy's power!
Oh, trust me, Gessler will entomb him where
He never more shall see the light of day;
For, Tell once free, the tyrant well may dread
The just revenge of one so deep incensed.
KUNZ.
The old Landamman, too--von Attinghaus--
They say, is lying at the point of death.
FISHERMAN.
Then the last anchor of our hopes gives way!
He was the only man who dared to raise
His voice in favor of the people's rights.
KUNZ.
The storm grows worse and worse. So, fare ye well!
I'll go and seek out quarters in the village.
There's not a chance of getting off to-day.
[Exit.
FISHERMAN.
Tell dragged to prison, and the baron dead!
Now, tyranny, exalt thy insolent front--
Throw shame aside! The voice of truth is silenced,
The eye that watched for us in darkness closed,
The arm that should have struck thee down in chains!
BOY.
'Tis hailing hard--come, let us to the cottage
This is no weather to be out in, father!
FISHERMAN.
Rage on, ye winds! Ye lightnings, flash your fires!
Burst, ye swollen clouds! Ye cataracts of heaven,
Descend, and drown the country! In the germ,
Destroy the generations yet unborn!
Ye savage elements, be lords of all!
Return, ye bears; ye ancient wolves, return
To this wide, howling waste! The land is yours.
Who would live here when liberty is gone?
BOY.
Hark! How the wind whistles and the whirlpool roars;
I never saw a storm so fierce as this!
FISHERMAN.
To level at the head of his own child!
Never had father such command before.
And shall not nature, rising in wild wrath,
Revolt against the deed? I should not marvel,
Though to the lake these rocks should bow their heads,
Though yonder pinnacles, yon towers of ice,
That, since creation's dawn, have known no thaw,
Should, from their lofty summits, melt away;
Though yonder mountains, yon primeval cliffs,
Should topple down, and a new deluge whelm
Beneath its waves all living men's abodes!
[Bells heard.
BOY.
Hark! they are ringing on the mountain yonder!
They surely see some vessel in distress,
And toll the bell that we may pray for it.
[Ascends a rock.
FISHERMAN.
Woe to the bark that now pursues its course,
Rocked in the cradle of these storm-tossed waves.
Nor helm nor steersman here can aught avail;
The storm is master. Man is like a ball,
Tossed 'twixt the winds and billows. Far, or near,
No haven offers him its friendly shelter!
Without one ledge to grasp, the sheer, smooth rocks
Look down inhospitably on his despair,
And only tender him their flinty breasts.
FISHERMAN.
Heaven pity the poor wretches! When the storm
Is once entangled in this strait of ours,
It rages like some savage beast of prey,
Struggling against its cage's iron bars.
Howling, it seeks an outlet--all in vain;
For the rocks hedge it round on every side,
Walling the narrow pass as high as heaven.
BOY.
It is the governor of Uri's ship;
By its red poop I know it, and the flag.
FISHERMAN.
Judgments of Heaven! Yes, it is he himself.
It is the governor! Yonder he sails,
And with him bears the burden of his crimes!
Soon has the arm of the avenger found him;
Now over him he knows a mightier lord.
These waves yield no obedience to his voice,
These rocks bow not their heads before his cap.
Boy, do not pray; stay not the Judge's arm!
BOY.
I pray not for the governor; I pray
For Tell, who is on board the ship with him.
FISHERMAN.
Alas, ye blind, unreasoning elements!
Must ye, in punishing one guilty head,
Destroy the vessel and the pilot too?
BOY.
See, see, they've cleared the Buggisgrat [20]; but now
The blast, rebounding from the Devil's Minster [21],
Has driven them back on the Great Axenberg. [22]
I cannot see them now.
FISHERMAN.
The Hakmesser [23]
Is there, that's foundered many a gallant ship.
If they should fail to double that with skill,
Their bark will go to pieces on the rocks
That hide their jagged peaks below the lake.
They have on board the very best of pilots;
If any man can save them, Tell is he;
But he is manacled, both hand and foot.
FISHERMAN.
He clutches at the earth with both his hands,
And looks as though he were beside himself.
BOY (advancing).
What do I see? Father, come here, and look!
FISHERMAN (approaches).
Who is it? God in heaven! What! William Tell,
How came you hither? Speak, Tell!
BOY.
Were you not
In yonder ship, a prisoner, and in chains?
FISHERMAN.
Were they not bearing you away to Kuessnacht?
TELL (rising).
I am released.
BOY.
Whence came you here?
TELL.
From yonder vessel!
FISHERMAN.
What?
BOY.
Where is the viceroy?
TELL.
Drifting on the waves.
FISHERMAN.
Is't possible? But you! How are you here?
How 'scaped you from your fetters and the storm?
TELL.
By God's most gracious providence. Attend.
TELL.
You know what passed at Altdorf?
FISHERMAN.
I do--say on!
TELL.
How I was seized and bound,
And ordered by the governor to Kuessnacht.
FISHERMAN.
And how with you at Flueelen he embarked.
All this we know. Say, how have you escaped?
TELL.
I lay on deck, fast bound with cords, disarmed,
In utter hopelessness. I did not think
Again to see the gladsome light of day,
Nor the dear faces of my wife and children;
And eyed disconsolate the waste of waters----
FISHERMAN.
Oh, wretched man!
TELL.
Then we put forth; the viceroy,
Rudolph der Harras, and their suite. My bow
And quiver lay astern beside the helm;
And just as we had reached the corner, near
The Little Axen [24], heaven ordained it so,
That from the Gotthardt's gorge, a hurricane
Swept down upon us with such headlong force,
That every rower's heart within him sank,
And all on board looked for a watery grave.
Then heard I one of the attendant train,
Turning to Gessler, in this strain accost him:
"You see our danger, and your own, my lord
And that we hover on the verge of death.
The boatmen there are powerless from fear,
Nor are they confident what course to take;
Now, here is Tell, a stout and fearless man,
And knows to steer with more than common skill.
How if we should avail ourselves of him
In this emergency?" The viceroy then
Addressed me thus: "If thou wilt undertake
To bring us through this tempest safely, Tell,
I might consent to free thee from thy bonds."
I answered, "Yes, my lord, with God's assistance,
I'll see what can be done, and help us heaven!"
On this they loosed me from my bonds, and I
Stood by the helm and fairly steered along;
Yet ever eyed my shooting-gear askance,
And kept a watchful eye upon the shore,
To find some point where I might leap to land
And when I had descried a shelving crag,
That jutted, smooth atop, into the lake----
FISHERMAN.
I know it. 'Tis at foot of the Great Axen;
But looks so steep, I never could have dreamed
'Twere possible to leap it from the boat.
TELL.
I bade the men put forth their utmost might,
Until we came before the shelving crag.
For there, I said, the danger will be past!
Stoutly they pulled, and soon we neared the point;
One prayer to God for his assisting grace,
And straining every muscle, I brought round
The vessel's stern close to the rocky wall;
Then snatching up my weapons, with a bound
I swung myself upon the flattened shelf,
And with my feet thrust off, with all my might,
The puny bark into the hell of waters.
There let it drift about, as heaven ordains!
Thus am I here, delivered from the might
Of the dread storm, and man, more dreadful still.
FISHERMAN.
Tell, Tell, the Lord has manifestly wrought
A miracle in thy behalf! I scarce
Can credit my own eyes. But tell me, now,
Whither you purpose to betake yourself?
For you will be in peril should the viceroy
Chance to escape this tempest with his life.
TELL.
I heard him say, as I lay bound on board,
His purpose was to disembark at Brunnen;
And, crossing Schwytz, convey me to his castle.
FISHERMAN.
Means he to go by land?
TELL.
So he intends.
FISHERMAN.
Oh, then, conceal yourself without delay!
Not twice will heaven release you from his grasp.
TELL.
Which is the nearest way to Arth and Kuessnacht?
FISHERMAN.
The public road leads by the way of Steinen,
But there's a nearer road, and more retired,
That goes by Lowerz, which my boy can show you.
FISHERMAN.
Yes, I was there,
And took the oath of the confederacy;
TELL.
Then do me this one favor; speed to Buerglen
My wife is anxious at my absence--tell her
That I am free, and in secure concealment.
FISHERMAN.
But whither shall I tell her you have fled?
TELL.
You'll find her father with her, and some more,
Who took the oath with you upon the Rootli;
Bid them be resolute, and strong of heart,
For Tell is free and master of his arm;
They shall hear further news of me ere long.
FISHERMAN.
What have you, then, in view? Come, tell me frankly!
TELL.
When once 'tis done 'twill be in every mouth.
[Exit.
FISHERMAN.
Show him the way, boy. Heaven be his support!
Whate'er he has resolved, he'll execute.
[Exit.
SCENE II.
Baronial mansion of Attinghausen. The BARON upon a couch dying.
WALTER FURST, STAUFFACHER, MELCHTHAL, and BAUMGARTEN attending round
him. WALTER TELL kneeling before the dying man.
FURST.
All now is over with him. He is gone.
STAUFFACHER.
He lies not like one dead. The feather, see,
Moves on his lips! His sleep is very calm,
And on his features plays a placid smile.
FURST.
Who's there?
BAUGMARTEN (returning).
Tell's wife, your daughter; she insists
That she must speak with you, and see her boy.
FURST.
I who need comfort--can I comfort her?
Does every sorrow centre on my head?
STAUFFACHER.
Be calm! Reflect you're in the house of death!
WALTER.
Dear mother!
HEDWIG.
And is it surely so? Art thou unhurt?
FURST.
His soul was racked with anguish when he did it.
No choice was left him, but to shoot or die!
HEDWIG.
Oh, if he had a father's heart, he would
Have sooner perished by a thousand deaths!
STAUFFACHER.
You should be grateful for God's gracious care,
That ordered things so well.
HEDWIG.
Can I forget
What might have been the issue. God of heaven!
Were I to live for centuries, I still
Should see my boy tied up,--his father's mark,
And still the shaft would quiver in my heart!
MELCHTHAL.
You know not how the viceroy taunted him!
HEDWIG.
Oh, ruthless heart of man! Offend his pride,
And reason in his breast forsakes her seat;
In his blind wrath he'll stake upon a cast
A child's existence, and a mother's heart!
BAUMGARTEN.
Is then your husband's fate not hard enough,
That you embitter it by such reproaches?
Have you no feeling for his sufferings?
FURST.
It had been madness to attempt his rescue,
Unarmed, and few in numbers as we were.
STAUFFACHER.
Pray you be calm! And, hand in hand, we'll all
Combine to burst his prison doors.
HEDWIG.
Without him,
What have you power to do? While Tell was free,
There still, indeed, was hope--weak innocence
Had still a friend, and the oppressed a stay.
Tell saved you all! You cannot all combined
Release him from his cruel prison bonds.
BAUMGARTEN.
Hush, hush! He starts!
STAUFFACHER.
Who?
ATTINGHAUSEN.
He leaves me,--
In my last moments he abandons me.
STAUFFACHER.
He means his nephew. Have they sent for him?
FURST.
He has been summoned. Cheerily, Sir! Take comfort!
He has found his heart at last, and is our own.
ATTINGHAUSEN.
Say, has he spoken for his native land?
STAUFFACHER.
Ay, like a hero!
ATTINGHAUSEN.
Wherefore comes he not,
That he may take my blessing ere I die?
I feel my life fast ebbing to a close.
STAUFFACHER.
Nay, talk not thus, dear Sir! This last short sleep
Has much refreshed you, and your eye is bright.
ATTINGHAUSEN.
Life is but pain, and even that has left me;
My sufferings, like my hopes, have passed away.
FURST.
Bless him. Oh, good my lord!
He is my grandson, and is fatherless.
ATTINGHAUSEN.
And fatherless I leave you all, ay, all!
Oh, wretched fate, that these old eyes should see
My country's ruin, as they close in death.
Must I attain the utmost verge of life,
To feel my hopes go with me to the grave.
ATTINGHAUSEN.
Who shall deliver you?
FURST.
Ourselves. For know
The Cantons three are to each other pledged
To hunt the tyrants from the land. The league
Has been concluded, and a sacred oath
Confirms our union. Ere another year
Begins its circling course--the blow shall fall.
In a free land your ashes shall repose.
ATTINGHAUSEN.
The league concluded! Is it really so?
MELCHTHAL.
On one day shall the Cantons rise together.
All is prepared to strike--and to this hour
The secret closely kept though hundreds share it;
The ground is hollow 'neath the tyrant's feet;
Their days of rule are numbered, and ere long
No trace of their dominion shall remain.
ATTINGHAUSEN.
Ay, but their castles, how to master them?
MELCHTHAL.
On the same day they, too, are doomed to fall.
ATTINGHAUSEN.
And are the nobles parties to this league?
STAUFFACHER.
We trust to their assistance should we need it;
As yet the peasantry alone have sworn.
ATTINGHAUSEN.
From their old towers the nobles are descending,
And swearing in the towns the civic oath.
In Uechtland and Thurgau the work's begun;
The noble Bern lifts her commanding head,
And Freyburg is a stronghold of the free;
The stirring Zurich calls her guilds to arms;
And now, behold! the ancient might of kings
Is shivered against her everlasting walls.
[He falls back upon the cushion. His lifeless hands continue
to grasp those of FURST and STAUFFACHER, who regard him for
some moments in silence, and then retire, overcome with sorrow.
Meanwhile the servants have quietly pressed into the chamber,
testifying different degrees of grief. Some kneel down beside
him and weep on his body: while this scene is passing the castle
bell tolls.
RUDENZ (entering hurriedly).
Lives he? Oh, say, can he still hear my voice?
STAUFFACHER.
When dying he was told what you had done,
And blessed the valor that inspired your words!
FURST.
Give him your hands, my friends! A heart like his
That sees and owns its error claims our trust.
MELCHTHAL.
You ever held the peasantry in scorn;
What surety have we that you mean us fair?
RUDENZ.
Oh, think not of the error of my youth!
MELCHTHAL.
The arm, my lord, that tames the stubborn earth,
And makes its bosom blossom with increase,
Can also shield a man's defenceless breast.
RUDENZ.
Then you shall shield my breast and I will yours;
Thus each be strengthened by the others' aid!
Yet wherefore talk we while our native land
Is still to alien tyranny a prey?
First let us sweep the foeman from the soil,
Then reconcile our difference in peace!
STAUFFACHER.
We swore to wait till Christmas.
RUDENZ.
I was not there,--I did not take the oath.
If you delay I will not!
MELCHTHAL.
What! You would----
RUDENZ.
I count me now among the country's fathers,
And to protect you is my foremost duty.
FURST.
Within the earth to lay these dear remains,
That is your nearest and most sacred duty.
RUDENZ.
When we have set the country free, we'll place
Our fresh, victorious wreaths upon his bier.
Oh, my dear friends, 'tis not your cause alone!
I have a cause to battle with the tyrants
That more concerns myself. Know, that my Bertha
Has disappeared,--been carried off by stealth,
Stolen from amongst us by their ruffian bands!
STAUFFACHER.
And has the tyrant dared so fell an outrage
Against a lady free and nobly born?
RUDENZ.
Alas! my friends, I promised help to you,
And I must first implore it for myself?
She that I love is stolen--is forced away,
And who knows where the tyrant has concealed her.
Or with what outrages his ruffian crew
May force her into nuptials she detests?
Forsake me not! Oh help me to her rescue!
She loves you! Well, oh well, has she deserved
That all should rush to arms in her behalf.
STAUFFACHER.
What course do you propose?
RUDENZ.
Alas! I know not.
In the dark mystery that shrouds her fate,
In the dread agony of this suspense,
Where I can grasp at naught of certainty,
One single ray of comfort beams upon me.
From out the ruins of the tyrant's power
Alone can she be rescued from the grave.
Their strongholds must be levelled! Everyone,
Ere we can pierce into her gloomy prison.
MELCHTHAL.
Come, lead us on! We follow! Why defer
Until to-morrow what to-day may do?
Tell's arm was free when we at Rootli swore,
This foul enormity was yet undone.
And change of circumstance brings change of law.
Who such a coward as to waver still?
SCENE III.
[Sits down.
[Rises.
STUSSI.
There goes the bridal party of the steward
Of Moerlischachen's cloister. He is rich!
And has some ten good pastures on the Alps.
He goes to fetch his bride from Imisee,
There will be revelry to-night at Kuessnacht.
Come with us--every honest man's invited.
TELL.
A gloomy guest fits not a wedding feast.
STUSSI.
If grief oppress you, dash it from your heart!
Bear with your lot. The times are heavy now,
And we must snatch at pleasure while we can.
Here 'tis a bridal, there a burial.
TELL.
And oft the one treads close upon the other.
STUSSI.
So runs the world at present. Everywhere
We meet with woe and misery enough.
There's been a slide of earth in Glarus, and
A whole side of the Glaernisch has fallen in.
TELL.
Strange! And do even the hills begin to totter?
There is stability for naught on earth.
STUSSI.
Strange tidings, too, we hear from other parts.
I spoke with one but now, that came from Baden,
Who said a knight was on his way to court,
And as he rode along a swarm of wasps
Surrounded him, and settling on his horse,
So fiercely stung the beast that it fell dead,
And he proceeded to the court on foot.
TELL.
Even the weak are furnished with a sting.
STUSSI.
'Tis thought to bode disaster to the country,
Some horrid deed against the course of nature.
TELL.
Why, every day brings forth such fearful deeds;
There needs no miracle to tell their coming.
STUSSI.
Too true! He's blessed who tills his field in peace,
And sits untroubled by his own fireside.
TELL.
The very meekest cannot rest in quiet,
Unless it suits with his ill neighbor's humor.
STUSSI.
So fare you well! You're waiting some one here?
TELL.
I am.
STUSSI.
A pleasant meeting with your friends!
You are from Uri, are you not? His grace
The governor's expected thence to-day.
TRAVELLER (entering).
Look not to see the governor to-day.
The streams are flooded by the heavy rains,
And all the bridges have been swept away.
[TELL rises.
STUSSI.
And do you seek him?
ARMGART.
Alas, I do!
STUSSI.
But why thus place yourself
Where you obstruct his passage down the pass?
ARMGART.
Here he cannot escape me. He must hear me.
FRIESSHARDT (coming hastily down the pass, and calls upon the stage).
Make way, make way! My lord, the governor,
Is coming down on horseback close behind me.
[Exit TELL.
FRIESSHARDT.
We've battled with the billows; and, my friend,
An Alpine torrent's nothing after that.
STUSSI.
How! Were you out, then, in that dreadful storm?
FRIESSHARDT.
Ay, that we were! I shall not soon forget it.
STUSSI.
Stay, speak----
FRIESSHARDT.
I cannot. I must to the castle,
And tell them that the governor's at hand.
[Exit.
STUSSI.
If honest men, now, had been in the ship,
It had gone down with every soul on board:--
Some folks are proof 'gainst fire and water both.
[Looking round.
[Exit.
GESSLER.
Say what you please; I am the emperor's servant,
And my first care must be to do his pleasure.
He did not send me here to fawn and cringe
And coax these boors into good humor. No!
Obedience he must have. We soon shall see
If king or peasant is to lord it here?
ARMGART.
Now is the moment! Now for my petition!
GESSLER.
'Twas not in sport that I set up the cap
In Altdorf--or to try the people's hearts--
All this I knew before. I set it up
That they might learn to bend those stubborn necks
They carry far too proudly--and I placed
What well I knew their eyes could never brook
Full in the road, which they perforce must pass,
That, when their eyes fell on it, they might call
That lord to mind whom they too much forget.
HARRAS.
But surely, sir, the people have some rights----
GESSLER.
This is no time to settle what they are.
Great projects are at work, and hatching now;
The imperial house seeks to extend its power.
Those vast designs of conquests, which the sire
Has gloriously begun, the son will end.
This petty nation is a stumbling-block--
One way or other it must be subjected.
ARMGART.
Mercy, lord governor! Oh, pardon, pardon!
GESSLER.
Why do you cross me on the public road?
Stand back, I say.
ARMGART.
My husband lies in prison;
My wretched orphans cry for bread. Have pity,
Pity, my lord, upon our sore distress!
HARRAS.
Who are you, woman; and who is your husband?
ARMGART.
A poor wild hay-man of the Rigiberg,
Kind sir, who on the brow of the abyss,
Mows down the grass from steep and craggy shelves,
To which the very cattle dare not climb.
[To ARMGART.
ARMGART.
No, no, I will not stir from where I stand,
Until your grace restore my husband to me.
Six months already has he been in prison,
And waits the sentence of a judge in vain.
GESSLER.
How! Would you force me, woman? Hence! Begone!
ARMGART.
Justice, my lord! Ay, justice! Thou art judge!
The deputy of the emperor--of Heaven!
Then do thy duty, as thou hopest for justice
From Him who rules above, show it to us!
GESSLER.
Hence! drive this daring rabble from my sight!
GESSLER.
Woman, hence!
Give way, I say, or I will ride thee down.
ARMGART.
Well, do so; there!
[Throws her children and herself upon the ground before him.
HARRAS.
Are you mad, woman?
GESSLER.
Where are my knaves?
Drag her away, lest I forget myself,
And do some deed I may repent hereafter.
HARRAS.
My lord, the servants cannot force a passage;
The pass is blocked up by a marriage party.
GESSLER.
Too mild a ruler am I to this people,
Their tongues are all too bold; nor have they yet
Been tamed to due submission, as they shall be.
I must take order for the remedy;
I will subdue this stubborn mood of theirs,
And crush the soul of liberty within them.
I'll publish a new law throughout the land;
I will----
HARRAS.
My lord! my lord! Oh God! What's this? Whence came it?
GESSLER.
That shot was Tell's.
TELL.
Thou knowest the archer, seek no other hand.
Our cottages are free, and innocence
Secure from thee: thou'lt be our curse no more.
STUSSI.
What is the matter? Tell me what has happened?
ARMGART.
The governor is shot,--killed by an arrow!
HARRAS.
He's bleeding fast to death.
Away, for help--pursue the murderer!
Unhappy man, is't thus that thou must die?
Thou wouldst not heed the warnings that I gave thee!
STUSSI.
By heaven, his cheek is pale! His life ebbs fast.
MANY VOICES.
Who did the deed?
HARRAS.
What! Are the people mad
That they make music to a murder? Silence!
STUSSI.
See there! how pale he grows! Death's gathering now
About his heart; his eyes grow dim and glazed.
HARRAS.
Mad hag!
Have you no touch of feeling that you look
On horrors such as these without a shudder?
Help me--take hold. What, will not one assist
To pull the torturing arrow from his breast?
WOMEN.
We touch the man whom God's own hand has struck!
HARRAS.
All curses light on you!
ALL.
The country's free!
HARRAS.
And is it come to this?
Fear and obedience at an end so soon?
STUSSI.
The victim's slain, and now the ravens stoop.
[While they are repeating the last two lines, the curtain falls.
ACT V.
SCENE I.
RUODI, KUONI, WERNI, MASTER MASON, and many other country people,
also women and children.
RUODI.
Look at the fiery signals on the mountains!
MASTER MASON.
Hark to the bells above the forest there!
RUODI.
The enemy's expelled.
MASTER MASON.
The forts are taken.
RUODI.
And we of Uri, do we still endure
Upon our native soil the tyrant's keep?
Are we the last to strike for liberty?
MASTER MASON.
Shall the yoke stand that was to bow our necks?
Up! Tear it to the ground!
ALL.
Down, down with it!
RUODI.
Where is the Stier of Uri?
URI.
Here. What would ye?
RUODI.
Up to your tower, and wind us such a blast,
As shall resound afar, from hill to hill;
Rousing the echoes of each peak and glen,
And call the mountain men in haste together!
FURST.
Stay, stay, my friends! As yet we have not learned
What has been done in Unterwald and Schwytz.
Let's wait till we receive intelligence!
RUODI.
Wait, wait for what? The accursed tyrant's dead,
And the bright day of liberty has dawned!
MASTER MASON.
How! Do these flaming signals not suffice,
That blaze on every mountain top around?
RUODI.
Come all, fall to--come, men and women, all!
Destroy the scaffold! Tear the arches down!
Down with the walls; let not a stone remain.
MASTER MASON.
Come, comrades, come! We built it, and we know
How best to hurl it down.
ALL.
Come! Down with it!
FURST.
The floodgate's burst. They're not to be restrained.
MELCHTHAL.
What! Stands the fortress still, when Sarnen lies
In ashes, and when Rossberg is a ruin?
FURST.
You, Melchthal, here? D'ye bring us liberty?
Say, have you freed the country of the foe?
MELCHTHAL.
We've swept them from the soil. Rejoice, my friend;
Now, at this very moment, while we speak,
There's not a tyrant left in Switzerland!
FURST.
How did you get the forts into your power?
MELCHTHAL.
Rudenz it was who with a gallant arm,
And manly daring, took the keep at Sarnen.
The Rossberg I had stormed the night before.
But hear what chanced. Scarce had we driven the foe
Forth from the keep, and given it to the flames,
That now rose crackling upwards to the skies,
When from the blaze rushed Diethelm, Gessler's page,
Exclaiming, "Lady Bertha will be burnt!"
FURST.
Good heavens!
MELCHTHAL.
'Twas she herself. Here had she been
Immured in secret by the viceroy's orders.
Rudenz sprang up in frenzy. For we heard
The beams and massive pillars crashing down,
And through the volumed smoke the piteous shrieks
Of the unhappy lady.
FURST.
Is she saved?
MELCHTHAL.
Here was a time for promptness and decision!
Had he been nothing but our baron, then
We should have been most chary of our lives;
But he was our confederate, and Bertha
Honored the people. So without a thought,
We risked the worst, and rushed into the flames.
FURST.
But is she saved?
MELCHTHAL.
She is. Rudenz and I
Bore her between us from the blazing pile,
With crashing timbers toppling all around.
And when she had revived, the danger past,
And raised her eyes to meet the light of heaven,
The baron fell upon my breast; and then
A silent vow of friendship passed between us--
A vow that, tempered in yon furnace heat,
Will last through every shock of time and fate.
FURST.
Where is the Landenberg?
MELCHTHAL.
Across the Bruenig.
No fault of mine it was, that he, who quenched
My father's eyesight, should go hence unharmed.
He fled--I followed--overtook and seized him,
And dragged him to my father's feet. The sword
Already quivered o'er the caitiff's head,
When at the entreaty of the blind old man,
I spared the life for which he basely prayed.
He swore Urphede [26], never to return:
He'll keep his oath, for he has felt our arm.
FURST.
Thank God, our victory's unstained by blood!
FURST.
Oh! what a joyous scene! These children will,
E'en to their latest day, remember it.
RUODI.
Here is the cap, to which we were to bow!
BAUMGARTEN.
Command us, how we shall dispose of it.
FURST.
Heavens! 'Twas beneath this cap my grandson stood!
SEVERAL VOICES.
Destroy the emblem of the tyrant's power!
Let it burn!
FURST.
No. Rather be preserved!
'Twas once the instrument of despots--now
'Twill be a lasting symbol of our freedom.
MELCHTHAL.
Thus now, my friends, with light and merry hearts,
We stand upon the wreck of tyranny;
And gallantly have we fulfilled the oath,
Which we at Rootli swore, confederates!
FURST.
The work is but begun. We must be firm.
For, be assured, the king will make all speed,
To avenge his viceroy's death, and reinstate,
By force of arms, the tyrant we've expelled.
MELCHTHAL.
Why, let him come, with all his armaments!
The foe within has fled before our arms;
We'll give him welcome warmly from without!
RUODI.
The passes to the country are but few;
And these we'll boldly cover with our bodies.
BAUMGARTEN.
We are bound by an indissoluble league,
And all his armies shall not make us quail.
PEASANT.
What is the matter?
ROSSELMANN.
In what times we live!
FURST.
Say on, what is't? Ha, Werner, is it you?
What tidings?
PEASANT.
What's the matter?
ROSSELMANN.
Hear and wonder.
STAUFFACHER.
We are released from one great cause of dread.
ROSSELMANN.
The emperor is murdered.
FURST.
Gracious heaven!
ALL.
Murdered! the emperor? What! The emperor! Hear!
MELCHTHAL.
Impossible! How came you by the news?
STAUFFACHER.
'Tis true! Near Bruck, by the assassin's hand,
King Albert fell. A most trustworthy man,
John Mueller, from Schaffhausen, brought the news.
FURST.
Who dared commit so horrible a deed?
STAUFFACHER.
The doer makes the deed more dreadful still;
It was his nephew, his own brother's child,
Duke John of Austria, who struck the blow.
MELCHTHAL.
What drove him to so dire a parricide?
STAUFFACHER.
The emperor kept his patrimony back,
Despite his urgent importunities;
'Twas said, indeed, he never meant to give it,
But with a mitre to appease the duke.
However this may be, the duke gave ear,
To the ill counsel of his friends in arms;
And with the noble lords, von Eschenbach,
Von Tegerfeld, von Wart, and Palm, resolved,
Since his demands for justice were despised,
With his own hands to take revenge at least.
FURST.
But say, how compassed he the dreadful deed?
STAUFFACHER.
The king was riding down from Stein to Baden,
Upon his way to join the court at Rheinfeld,--
With him a train of high-born gentlemen,
And the young princes, John and Leopold.
And when they reached the ferry of the Reuss,
The assassins forced their way into the boat,
To separate the emperor from his suite.
His highness landed, and was riding on
Across a fresh-ploughed field--where once, they say,
A mighty city stood in Pagan times--
With Hapsburg's ancient turrets full in sight,
Where all the grandeur of his line had birth--
When Duke John plunged a dagger in his throat,
Palm ran him through the body with his lance,
Eschenbach cleft his skull at one fell blow,
And down he sank, all weltering in his blood,
On his own soil, by his own kinsmen slain.
Those on the opposite bank, who saw the deed,
Being parted by the stream, could only raise
An unavailing cry of loud lament.
But a poor woman, sitting by the way,
Raised him, and on her breast he bled to death.
MELCHTHAL.
Thus has he dug his own untimely grave,
Who sought insatiably to grasp at all.
STAUFFACHER.
The country round is filled with dire alarm.
The mountain passes are blockaded all,
And sentinels on every frontier set;
E'en ancient Zurich barricades her gates,
That for these thirty years have open stood,
Dreading the murderers, and the avengers more,
For cruel Agnes comes, the Hungarian queen,
To all her sex's tenderness a stranger,
Armed with the thunders of the church to wreak
Dire vengeance for her parent's royal blood,
On the whole race of those that murdered him,--
Upon their servants, children, children's children,--
Nay on the stones that build their castle walls.
Deep has she sworn a vow to immolate
Whole generations on her father's tomb,
And bathe in blood as in the dew of May.
MELCHTHAL.
Know you which way the murderers have fled?
STAUFFACHER.
No sooner had they done the deed than they
Took flight, each following a different route,
And parted, ne'er to see each other more.
Duke John must still be wandering in the mountains.
FURST.
And thus their crime has yielded them no fruits.
Revenge is barren. Of itself it makes
The dreadful food it feeds on; its delight
Is murder--its satiety despair.
STAUFFACHER.
The assassins reap no profit by their crime;
But we shall pluck with unpolluted hands
The teeming fruits of their most bloody deed,
For we are ransomed from our heaviest fear;
The direst foe of liberty has fallen,
And, 'tis reported, that the crown will pass
From Hapsburg's house into another line.
The empire is determined to assert
Its old prerogative of choice, I hear.
STAUFFACHER.
The Count
Of Luxembourg is widely named already.
FURST.
'Tis well we stood so stanchly by the empire!
Now we may hope for justice, and with cause.
STAUFFACHER.
The emperor will need some valiant friends,
And he will shelter us from Austria's vengeance.
SACRIST.
Here are the worthy chiefs of Switzerland!
SACRISTAN.
A courier brings this letter.
FURST (reading).
"To the worthy men
Of Uri, Schwytz, and Unterwald, the Queen
Elizabeth sends grace and all good wishes!"
MANY VOICES.
What wants the queen with us? Her reign is done.
FURST (reads).
"In the great grief and doleful widowhood,
In which the bloody exit of her lord
Has plunged her majesty, she still remembers
The ancient faith and love of Switzerland."
MELCHTHAL.
She ne'er did that in her prosperity.
ROSSELMANN.
Hush, let us hear.
FURST (reads).
"And she is well assured,
Her people will in due abhorrence hold
The perpetrators of this damned deed.
On the three Cantons, therefore, she relies,
That they in nowise lend the murderers aid;
But rather, that they loyally assist
To give them up to the avenger's hand,
Remembering the love and grace which they
Of old received from Rudolph's princely house."
MANY VOICES.
The love and grace!
STAUFFACHER.
Grace from the father we, indeed, received,
But what have we to boast of from the son?
Did he confirm the charter of our freedom,
As all preceding emperors had done?
Did he judge righteous judgment, or afford
Shelter or stay to innocence oppressed?
Nay, did he e'en give audience to the envoys
We sent to lay our grievances before him?
Not one of all these things e'er did the king.
And had we not ourselves achieved our rights
By resolute valor our necessities
Had never touched him. Gratitude to him!
Within these vales he sowed not gratitude.
He stood upon an eminence--he might
Have been a very father to his people,
But all his aim and pleasure was to raise
Himself and his own house: and now may those
Whom he has aggrandized lament for him!
FURST.
We will not triumph in his fall, nor now
Recall to mind the wrongs we have endured.
Far be't from us! Yet, that we should avenge
The sovereign's death, who never did us good,
And hunt down those who ne'er molested us,
Becomes us not, nor is our duty. Love
Must bring its offerings free and unconstrained;
From all enforced duties death absolves--
And unto him we are no longer bound.
MELCHTHAL.
And if the queen laments within her bower,
Accusing heaven in sorrow's wild despair;
Here see a people from its anguish freed.
To that same heaven send up its thankful praise,
For who would reap regrets must sow affection.
[Exeunt omnes.
SCENE II.
HEDWIG.
Boys, dearest boys! your father comes to-day.
He lives, is free, and we and all are free!
The country owes its liberty to him!
WALTER.
And I too, mother, bore my part in it;
I shall be named with him. My father's shaft
Went closely by my life, but yet I shook not!
WILHELM.
See, mother, yonder stands a holy friar;
He's asking alms, no doubt.
HEDWIG.
Go lead him in,
That we may give him cheer, and make him feel
That he has come into the house of joy.
WALTER.
Come in, and rest, then go refreshed away!
WALTER.
Have you lost
Your way, that you are ignorant of this?
You are at Buerglen, in the land of Uri,
Just at the entrance of the Sheckenthal.
HEDWIG.
I momently expect him. But what ails you?
You look as one whose soul is ill at ease.
Whoe'er you be, you are in want; take that.
MONK.
Howe'er my sinking heart may yearn for food,
I will take nothing till you've promised me----
HEDWIG.
Touch not my dress, nor yet advance one step.
Stand off, I say, if you would have me hear you.
MONK.
Oh, by this hearth's bright, hospitable blaze,
By your dear children's heads, which I embrace----
HEDWIG.
Stand back, I say! What is your purpose, man?
Back from my boys! You are no monk,--no, no.
Beneath that robe content and peace should dwell,
But neither lives within that face of thine.
MONK.
I am the veriest wretch that breathes on earth.
HEDWIG.
The heart is never deaf to wretchedness;
But thy look freezes up my inmost soul.
HEDWIG.
Oh, my God!
WALTER (without).
Thou'rt here once more!
WILHELM (without).
My father, my dear father!
TELL (without).
Yes, here I am once more! Where is your mother?
[They enter.
WALTER.
There at the door she stands, and can no further,
She trembles so with terror and with joy.
TELL.
Oh Hedwig, Hedwig, mother of my children!
God has been kind and helpful in our woes.
No tyrant's hand shall e'er divide us more.
TELL.
Forget it now, and live for joy alone!
I'm here again with you! This is my cot
I stand again on mine own hearth!
WILHELM.
But, father,
Where is your crossbow left? I see it not.
TELL.
Nor shalt thou ever see it more, my boy.
It is suspended in a holy place,
And in the chase shall ne'er be used again.
HEDWIG.
Oh, Tell, Tell!
TELL.
What alarms thee, dearest wife?
HEDWIG.
How--how dost thou return to me? This hand--
Dare I take hold of it? This hand--Oh God!
HEDWIG.
Ah, I forgot him.
Speak thou with him; I shudder at his presence.
TELL.
Yes, I am he. I hide the fact from no man.
MONK.
You are that Tell! Ah! it is God's own hand
That hath conducted me beneath your roof.
MONK.
You have slain
The governor, who did you wrong. I too,
Have slain a foe, who late denied me justice.
He was no less your enemy than mine.
I've rid the land of him.
HEIWIG.
Heavens, who is it?
TELL.
Do not ask.
Away! away! the children must not hear it.
Out of the house--away! Thou must not rest
'Neath the same roof with this unhappy man!
HEDWIG.
Alas! What is it? Come!
DUKE JOHN.
He robbed me of my patrimony.
TELL.
How!
Slain him--thy king, thy uncle! And the earth
Still bears thee! And the sun still shines on thee!
DUKE JOHN.
Tell, hear me, ere you----
TELL.
Reeking with the blood
Of him that was thy emperor and kinsman,
Durst thou set foot within my spotless house?
Show thy fell visage to a virtuous man,
And claim the rites of hospitality?
DUKE JOHN.
I hoped to find compassion at your hands.
You also took revenge upon your foe!
TELL.
Unhappy man! And dar'st thou thus confound
Ambition's bloody crime with the dread act
To which a father's direful need impelled him?
Hadst thou to shield thy children's darling heads?
To guard thy fireside's sanctuary--ward off
The last, worst doom from all that thou didst love?
To heaven I raise my unpolluted hands,
To curse thine act and thee! I have avenged
That holy nature which thou hast profaned.
I have no part with thee. Thou art a murderer;
I've shielded all that was most dear to me.
DUKE JOHN.
You cast me off to comfortless despair!
TELL.
My blood runs cold even while I talk with thee.
Away! Pursue thine awful course! Nor longer
Pollute the cot where innocence abides!
TELL.
And yet my soul bleeds for thee--gracious heaven!
So young, of such a noble line, the grandson
Of Rudolph, once my lord and emperor,
An outcast--murderer--standing at my door,
The poor man's door--a suppliant, in despair!
DUKE JOHN.
If thou hast power to weep, oh let my fate
Move your compassion--it is horrible.
I am--say, rather was--a prince. I might
Have been most happy had I only curbed
The impatience of my passionate desires;
But envy gnawed my heart--I saw the youth
Of mine own cousin Leopold endowed
With honor, and enriched with broad domains,
The while myself, that was in years his equal,
Was kept in abject and disgraceful nonage.
TELL.
Unhappy man, thy uncle knew thee well,
When he withheld both land and subjects from thee;
Thou, by thy mad and desperate act hast set
A fearful seal upon his sage resolve.
Where are the bloody partners of thy crime?
DUKE JOHN.
Where'er the demon of revenge has borne them;
I have not seen them since the luckless deed.
TELL.
Know'st thou the empire's ban is out,--that thou
Art interdicted to thy friends, and given
An outlawed victim to thine enemies!
DUKE JOHN.
Therefore I shun all public thoroughfares,
And venture not to knock at any door--
I turn my footsteps to the wilds, and through
The mountains roam, a terror to myself.
From mine own self I shrink with horror back,
Should a chance brook reflect my ill-starred form.
If thou hast pity for a fellow-mortal----
TELL.
Stand up, stand up!
DUKE JOHN.
Not till thou shalt extend
Thy hand in promise of assistance to me.
TELL.
Can I assist thee? Can a sinful man?
Yet get thee up,--how black soe'er thy crime,
Thou art a man. I, too, am one. From Tell
Shall no one part uncomforted. I will
Do all that lies within my power.
TELL.
Let go my band! Thou must away. Thou canst not
Remain here undiscovered, and discovered
Thou canst not count on succor. Which way, then,
Wilt bend thy steps? Where dost thou hope to find
A place of rest?
DUKE JOHN.
Alas! alas! I know not.
TELL.
Hear, then, what heaven suggested to my heart,
Thou must to Italy,--to Saint Peter's city,--
There cast thyself at the pope's feet,--confess
Thy guilt to him, and ease thy laden soul!
DUKE JOHN.
But will he not surrender me to vengeance!
TELL.
Whate'er he does receive as God's decree.
DUKE JOHN.
But how am I to reach that unknown land?
I have no knowledge of the way, and dare not
Attach myself to other travellers.
TELL.
I will describe the road, and mark me well
You must ascend, keeping along the Reuss,
Which from the mountains dashes wildly down.
TELL.
The road you take lies through the river's gorge,
And many a cross proclaims where travellers
Have perished 'neath the avalanche's fall.
DUKE JOHN.
I have no fear for nature's terrors, so
I can appease the torments of my soul.
TELL.
At every cross kneel down and expiate
Your crime with burning penitential tears
And if you 'scape the perils of the pass,
And are not whelmed beneath the drifted snows
That from the frozen peaks come sweeping down,
You'll reach the bridge that hangs in drizzling spray;
Then if it yield not 'neath your heavy guilt,
When you have left it safely in your rear,
Before you frowns the gloomy Gate of Rocks,
Where never sun did shine. Proceed through this,
And you will reach a bright and gladsome vale.
Yet must you hurry on with hasty steps,
For in the haunts of peace you must not linger.
DUKE JOHN.
Oh, Rudolph, Rudolph, royal grandsire! thus
Thy grandson first sets foot within thy realms!
TELL.
Ascending still you gain the Gotthardt's heights,
On which the everlasting lakes repose,
That from the streams of heaven itself are fed,
There to the German soil you bid farewell;
And thence, with rapid course, another stream
Leads you to Italy, your promised land.
TELL.
Go, dearest wife, and give this man to eat.
Spare not your bounty. For his road is long,
And one where shelter will be hard to find.
Quick! they approach.
HEDWIG.
Who is he?
TELL.
Do not ask
And when he quits thee, turn thine eyes away
That they may not behold the road he takes.
SCENE III.
The whole valley before TELL'S house, the heights which enclose
it occupied by peasants, grouped into tableaux. Some are seen
crossing a lofty bridge which crosses to the Sechen. WALTER
FURST with the two boys. WERNER and STAUFFACHER come forward.
Others throng after them. When TELL appears all receive him
with loud cheers.
ALL.
Long live brave Tell, our shield, our liberator.
[While those in front are crowding round TELL and embracing him,
RUDENZ and BERTHA appear. The former salutes the peasantry, the
latter embraces HEDWIG. The music, from the mountains continues
to play. When it has stopped, BERTHA steps into the centre of
the crowd.
BERTHA.
Peasants! Confederates! Into your league
Receive me here that happily am the first
To find protection in the land of freedom.
To your brave hands I now intrust my rights.
Will you protect me as your citizen?
PEASANTS.
Ay, that we will, with life and fortune both!
BERTHA.
'Tis well! And to this youth I give my hand.
A free Swiss maiden to a free Swiss man!
RUDENZ.
And from this moment all my serfs are free!
FOOTNOTES.
[2] A steep rock standing on the north of Ruetli, and nearly opposite to
Brumen.
[4] Literally, the Foehn is loose! "When," says Mueller, in his History
of Switzerland, "the wind called the Foehn is high the navigation of the
lake becomes extremely dangerous. Such is its vehemence that the laws of
the country require that the fires shall be extinguished in the houses
while it lasts, and the night watches are doubled. The inhabitants lay
heavy stones upon the roofs of their houses to prevent their being blown
away."
[8] The League, or Bond, of the Three Cantons was of very ancient
origin. They met and renewed it from time to time, especially when their
liberties were threatened with danger. A remarkable instance of this
occurred in the end of the thirteenth century, when Albert of Austria
became emperor, and when, possibly, for the first time, the bond was
reduced to writing. As it is important to the understanding of many
passages of the play, a translation is subjoined of the oldest known
document relating to it. The original, which is in Latin and German, is
dated in August, 1291, and is under the seals of the whole of the men of
Schwytz, the commonalty of the vale of Uri, and the whole of the men of
the upper and lower vales of Stanz.
THE BOND.
Be it known to every one, that the men of the Dale of Uri, the Community
of Schwytz, as also the men of the mountains of Unterwald, in
consideration of the evil times, have full confidently bound themselves,
and sworn to help each other with all their power and might, property and
people, against all who shall do violence to them, or any of them. That
is our Ancient Bond.
Whoever hath a Seignior, let him obey according to the conditions of his
service.
Whoever injures another, or robs him, and hath property in our country,
shall make satisfaction out of the same.
No one shall distrain a debtor without a judge, nor any one who is not
his debtor, or the surety for such debtor.
Every one in these dales shall submit to the judge, or we, the sworn
confederates, all will take satisfaction for all the injury occasioned by
his contumacy. And if in any internal division the one party will not
accept justice, all the rest shall help the other party. These decrees
shall, God willing, endure eternally for our general advantage.
[11] The Landamman was an officer chosen by the Swiss Gemeinde, or Diet,
to preside over them. The Banneret was an officer intrusted with the
keeping of the state banner, and such others as were taken in battle.
[12] According to the custom by which, when the last male descendant of
a noble family died, his sword, helmet, and shield were buried with him.
[15] These are the cots, or shealings, erected by the herdsmen for
shelter while pasturing their herds on the mountains during the summer.
These are left deserted in winter, during which period Melchthal's
journey was taken.
[16] It was the custom at the meetings of the Landes Gemeinde, or Diet,
to set swords upright in the ground as emblems of authority.
[17] The Heribann was a muster of warriors similar to the arriere ban in
France.
[18] The Duke of Suabia, who soon afterwards assassinated his uncle, for
withholding his patrimony from him.
[20, 21, 22, 23] Rocks on the shore of the Lake of Lucerne.
[26] The Urphede was an oath of peculiar force. When a man who was at
feud with another, invaded his lands and was worsted, he often made terms
with his enemy by swearing the Urphede, by which he bound himself to
depart and never to return with a hostile intention;
DON CARLOS.
By Frederich Schiller
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
Grandees of Spain:
COUNT LERMA, Colonel of the Body Guard,
DUKE OF FERIA, Knight of the Golden Fleece,
DUKE OF MEDINA SIDONIA, Admiral,
DON RAIMOND DE TAXIS, Postmaster-General,
ACT I.
SCENE I.
DOMINGO.
Gracious prince!
DOMINGO.
Is it possible
That this reproach disturbs your conscience, prince?
CARLOS.
And my new mother! Hath she not already
Cost me my father's heart? Scarce loved at best.
My claim to some small favor lay in this--
I was his only child! 'Tis over! She
Hath blest him with a daughter--and who knows
What slumbering ills the future hath in store?
DOMINGO.
You jest, my prince. All Spain adores its queen.
Shall it be thought that you, of all the world,
Alone should view her with the eyes of hate--
Gaze on her charms, and yet be coldly wise?
How, prince? The loveliest lady of her time,
A queen withal, and once your own betrothed?
No, no, impossible--it cannot be!
Where all men love, you surely cannot hate.
Carlos could never so belie himself.
I prithee, prince, take heed she do not learn
That she hath lost her son's regard. The news
Would pain her deeply.
DOMINGO.
Your highness doubtless will remember how,
At the late tournament in Saragossa,
A lance's splinter struck our gracious sire.
The queen, attended by her ladies, sat
High in the centre gallery of the palace,
And looked upon the fight. A cry arose,
"The king! he bleeds!" Soon through the general din,
A rising murmur strikes upon her ear.
"The prince--the prince!" she cries, and forward rushed,
As though to leap down from the balcony,
When a voice answered, "No, the king himself!"
"Then send for his physicians!" she replied,
And straight regained her former self-composure.
[After a short pause.
But you seem wrapped in thought?
DOMINGO.
This caution, prince, is wise. Be circumspect
With men--but not with every man alike.
Repel not friends and hypocrites together;
I mean you well, believe me!
DOMINGO (starts).
CARLOS.
How!
DOMINGO.
I dare not, prince, presume to penetrate
The sacred mystery of your secret grief,
Yet I implore your highness to remember
That, for a conscience ill at ease, the church
Hath opened an asylum, of which kings
Hold not the key--where even crimes are purged
Beneath the holy sacramental seal.
You know my meaning, prince--I've said enough.
CARLOS.
No! be it, never said, I tempted so
The keeper of that seal.
DOMINGO.
Prince, this mistrust--
You wrong the most devoted of your servants.
CARLOS.
Then give me up at once without a thought
Thou art a holy man--the world knows that--
But, to speak plain, too zealous far for me.
The road to Peter's chair is long and rough,
And too much knowledge might encumber you.
Go, tell this to the king, who sent thee hither!
DOMINGO.
Who sent me hither?
DOMINGO.
The king is minded, ere the set of sun,
To reach Madrid: I see the court is mustering.
Have I permission, prince?
[Exit DOMINGO.
SCENE II.
CARLOS.
Lo! Who comes here? 'Tis he! O ye kind heavens,
My Roderigo!
MARQUIS. Carlos!
CARLOS.
What brings thee back so suddenly from Brussels?
Whom must I thank for this most glad surprise?
And dare I ask? Whom should I thank but thee,
Thou gracious and all bounteous Providence?
Forgive me, heaven! if joy hath crazed my brain.
Thou knewest no angel watched at Carlos' side,
And sent me this! And yet I ask who sent him.
MARQUIS.
Pardon, dear prince, if I can only meet
With wonder these tumultuous ecstacies.
Not thus I looked to find Don Philip's son.
A hectic red burns on your pallid cheek,
And your lips quiver with a feverish heat.
What must I think, dear prince? No more I see
The youth of lion heart, to whom I come
The envoy of a brave and suffering people.
For now I stand not here as Roderigo--
Not as the playmate of the stripling Carlos--
But, as the deputy of all mankind,
I clasp thee thus:--'tis Flanders that clings here
Around thy neck, appealing with my tears
To thee for succor in her bitter need.
This land is lost, this land so dear to thee,
If Alva, bigotry's relentless tool,
Advance on Brussels with his Spanish laws.
This noble country's last faint hope depends
On thee, loved scion of imperial Charles!
And, should thy noble heart forget to beat
In human nature's cause, Flanders is lost!
CARLOS.
Then it is lost.
MARQUIS.
What do I hear? Alas!
CARLOS.
Thou speakest of times that long have passed away.
I, too, have had my visions of a Carlos,
Whose cheek would fire at freedom's glorious name,
But he, alas! has long been in his grave.
He, thou seest here, no longer is that Carlos,
Who took his leave of thee in Alcala,
Who in the fervor of a youthful heart,
Resolved, at some no distant time, to wake
The golden age in Spain! Oh, the conceit,
Though but a child's, was yet divinely fair!
Those dreams are past!
MARQUIS.
Said you, those dreams, my prince!
And were they only dreams?
CARLOS.
Oh, let me weep,
Upon thy bosom weep these burning tears,
My only friend! Not one have I--not one--
In the wide circuit of this earth,--not one
Far as the sceptre of my sire extends,
Far as the navies bear the flag of Spain,
There is no spot--none--none, where I dare yield
An outlet to my tears, save only this.
I charge thee, Roderigo! Oh, by all
The hopes we both do entertain of heaven,
Cast me not off from thee, my friend, my friend!
[POSA bends over him in silent emotion.
Look on me, Posa, as an orphan child,
Found near the throne, and nurtured by thy love.
Indeed, I know not what a father is.
I am a monarch's son. Oh, were it so,
As my heart tells me that it surely is,
That thou from millions hast been chosen out
To comprehend my being; if it be true,
That all-creating nature has designed
In me to reproduce a Roderigo,
And on the morning of our life attuned
Our souls' soft concords to the selfsame key;
If one poor tear, which gives my heart relief,
To thee were dearer than my father's favor----
MARQUIS.
Oh, it is dearer far than all the world!
CARLOS.
I'm fallen so low, have grown so poor withal,
I must recall to thee our childhood's years,--
Must ask thee payment of a debt incurred
When thou and I were scarce to boyhood grown.
Dost thou remember, how we grew together,
Two daring youths, like brothers, side by side?
I had no sorrow but to see myself
Eclipsed by thy bright genius. So I vowed,
Since I might never cope with thee in power,
That I would love thee with excess of love.
Then with a thousand shows of tenderness,
And warm affection, I besieged thy heart,
Which cold and proudly still repulsed them all.
Oft have I stood, and--yet thou sawest it never
Hot bitter tear-drops brimming in mine eyes,
When I have marked thee, passing me unheeded,
Fold to thy bosom youths of humbler birth.
"Why only these?" in anguish, once I asked--
"Am I not kind and good to thee as they?"
But dropping on thy knees, thine answer came,
With an unloving look of cold reserve,
"This is my duty to the monarch's son!"
MARQUIS.
Oh, spare me, dearest prince, nor now recall
Those boyish acts that make me blush for shame.
CARLOS.
I did not merit such disdain from thee--
You might despise me, crush my heart, but never
Alter my love. Three times didst thou repulse
The prince, and thrice he came to thee again,
To beg thy love, and force on thee his own.
At length chance wrought what Carlos never could.
Once we were playing, when thy shuttlecock
Glanced off and struck my aunt, Bohemia's queen,
Full in the face! She thought 'twas with intent,
And all in tears complained unto the king.
The palace youth were summoned on the spot,
And charged to name the culprit. High in wrath
The king vowed vengeance for the deed: "Although
It were his son, yet still should he be made
A dread example!" I looked around and marked
Thee stand aloof, all trembling with dismay.
Straight I stepped forth; before the royal feet
I flung myself, and cried, "'Twas I who did it;
Now let thine anger fall upon thy son!"
MARQUIS.
Ah, wherefore, prince, remind me?
CARLOS.
Hear me further!
Before the face of the assembled court,
That stood, all pale with pity, round about,
Thy Carlos was tied up, whipped like a slave;
I looked on thee, and wept not. Blow rained on blow;
I gnashed my teeth with pain, yet wept I not!
My royal blood streamed 'neath the pitiless lash;
I looked on thee, and wept not. Then you came,
And fell half-choked with sobs before my feet:
"Carlos," you cried, "my pride is overcome;
I will repay thee when thou art a king."
CARLOS.
Now! now!
The hour has come; thou canst repay me all.
I have sore need of love. A fearful secret
Burns in my breast; it must--it must be told.
In thy pale looks my death-doom will I read.
Listen; be petrified; but answer not.
I love--I love--my mother!
MARQUIS.
O my God!
CARLOS.
Nay, no forbearance! spare me not! Speak! speak!
Proclaim aloud, that on this earth's great round
There is no misery to compare with mine.
Speak! speak!--I know all--all that thou canst say
The son doth love his mother. All the world's
Established usages, the course of nature,
Rome's fearful laws denounce my fatal passion.
My suit conflicts with my own father's rights,
I feel it all, and yet I love. This path
Leads on to madness, or the scaffold. I
Love without hope, love guiltily, love madly,
With anguish, and with peril of my life;
I see, I see it all, and yet I love.
MARQUIS.
The queen--does she know of your passion?
CARLOS.
Could I
Reveal it to her? She is Philip's wife--
She is the queen, and this is Spanish ground,
Watched by a jealous father, hemmed around
By ceremonial forms, how, how could I
Approach her unobserved? 'Tis now eight months,
Eight maddening months, since the king summoned me
Home from my studies, since I have been doomed
To look on her, adore her day by day,
And all the while be silent as the grave!
Eight maddening months, Roderigo; think of this!
This fire has seethed and raged within my breast!
A thousand, thousand times, the dread confession
Has mounted to my lips, yet evermore
Shrunk, like a craven, back upon my heart.
O Roderigo! for a few brief moments
Alone with her!
MARQUIS.
Ah! and your father, prince!
CARLOS.
Unhappy me! Remind me not of him.
Tell me of all the torturing pangs of conscience,
But speak not, I implore you, of my father!
MARQUIS.
Then do you hate your father?
CARLOS.
No, oh, no!
I do not hate my father; but the fear
That guilty creatures feel,--a shuddering dread,--
Comes o'er me ever at that terrible name.
Am I to blame, if slavish nurture crushed
Love's tender germ within my youthful heart?
Six years I'd numbered, ere the fearful man,
They told me was my father, met mine eyes.
One morning 'twas, when with a stroke I saw him
Sign four death-warrants. After that I ne'er
Beheld him, save when, for some childish fault,
I was brought out for chastisement. O God!
I feel my heart grow bitter at the thought.
Let us away! away!
MARQUIS.
Nay, Carlos, nay,
You must, you shall give all your sorrow vent,
Let it have words! 'twill ease your o'erfraught heart.
CARLOS.
Oft have I struggled with myself, and oft
At midnight, when my guards were sunk in sleep,
With floods of burning tears I've sunk before
The image of the ever-blessed Virgin,
And craved a filial heart, but all in vain.
I rose with prayer unheard. O Roderigo!
Unfold this wondrous mystery of heaven,
Why of a thousand fathers only this
Should fall to me--and why to him this son,
Of many thousand better? Nature could not
In her wide orb have found two opposites
More diverse in their elements. How could
She bind the two extremes of human kind--
Myself and him--in one so holy bond?
O dreadful fate! Why was it so decreed?
Why should two men, in all things else apart,
Concur so fearfully in one desire?
Roderigo, here thou seest two hostile stars,
That in the lapse of ages, only once,
As they sweep onwards in their orbed course,
Touch with a crash that shakes them to the centre,
Then rush apart forever and forever.
MARQUIS.
I feel a dire foreboding.
CARLOS.
So do I.
Like hell's grim furies, dreams of dreadful shape
Pursue me still. My better genius strives
With the fell projects of a dark despair.
My wildered subtle spirit crawls through maze
On maze of sophistries, until at length
It gains a yawning precipice's brink.
O Roderigo! should I e'er in him
Forget the father--ah! thy deathlike look
Tells me I'm understood--should I forget
The father--what were then the king to me?
CARLOS.
All, all I promise that thy love can ask!
I throw myself entirely upon thee!
MARQUIS.
The king, I hear, is going to Madrid.
The time is short. If with the queen you would
Converse in private, it is only here,
Here in Aranjuez, it can be done.
The quiet of the place, the freer manners,
All favor you.
CARLOS.
And such, too, was my hope;
But it, alas! was vain.
MARQUIS.
Not wholly so.
I go to wait upon her. If she be
The same in Spain she was in Henry's court,
She will be frank at least. And if I can
Read any hope for Carlos in her looks--
Find her inclined to grant an interview--
Get her attendant ladies sent away----
CARLOS.
Most of them are my friends--especially
The Countess Mondecar, whom I have gained
By service to her son, my page.
MARQUIS.
'Tis well;
Be you at hand, and ready to appear,
Whene'er I give the signal, prince.
CARLOS.
I will,--
Be sure I will:--and all good speed attend thee!
MARQUIS.
I will not lose a moment; so, farewell.
[Exeunt severally.
SCENE III.
EBOLI.
'Twere idle to conceal, my queen, that I
Shall be most glad to see Madrid once more.
MONDECAR.
And will your majesty not be so, too?
Are you so grieved to quit Aranjuez?
QUEEN.
To quit--this lovely spot at least I am.
This is my world. Its sweetness oft and oft
Has twined itself around my inmost heart.
Here, nature, simple, rustic nature greets me,
The sweet companion of my early years--
Here I indulge once more my childhood's sports,
And my dear France's gales come blowing here.
Blame not this partial fondness--all hearts yearn
For their own native land.
EBOLI.
But then how lone,
How dull and lifeless it is here! We might
As well be in La Trappe.
QUEEN.
I cannot see it.
To me Madrid alone is lifeless. But
What saith our duchess to it?
OLIVAREZ.
Why, methinks,
Your majesty, since kings have ruled in Spain,
It hath been still the custom for the court
To pass the summer months alternately
Here and at Pardo,--in Madrid, the winter.
QUEEN.
Well, I suppose it has! Duchess, you know
I've long resigned all argument with you.
MONDECAR.
Next month Madrid will be all life and bustle.
They're fitting up the Plaza Mayor now,
And we shall have rare bull-fights; and, besides,
A grand auto da fe is promised us.
QUEEN.
Promised? This from my gentle Mondecar!
MONDECAR.
Why not? 'Tis only heretics they burn!
QUEEN.
I hope my Eboli thinks otherwise!
EBOLI.
What, I? I beg your majesty may think me
As good a Christian as the marchioness.
QUEEN.
Alas! I had forgotten where I am,--
No more of this! We were speaking, I think,
About the country? And methinks this month
Has flown away with strange rapidity.
I counted on much pleasure, very much,
From our retirement here, and yet I have not
Found that which I expected. Is it thus
With all our hopes? And yet I cannot say
One wish of mine is left ungratified.
OLIVAREZ.
You have not told us, Princess Eboli,
If there be hope for Gomez,--and if we may
Expect ere long to greet you as his bride?
QUEEN.
True--thank you, duchess, for reminding me!
[Addressing the PRINCESS.
I have been asked to urge his suit with you.
But can I do it? The man whom I reward
With my sweet Eboli must be a man
Of noble stamp indeed.
OLIVAREZ.
And such he is,
A man of mark and fairest fame,--a man
Whom our dear monarch signally has graced
With his most royal favor.
QUEEN.
He's happy in
Such high good fortune; but we fain would know,
If he can love, and win return of love.
This Eboli must answer.
EBOLI (stands speechless and confused, her eyes bent on the ground;
at last she falls at the QUEEN's feet).
Gracious queen!
Have pity on me! Let me--let me not,--
For heaven's sake, let me not be sacrificed.
QUEEN.
Be sacrificed! I need no more. Arise!
'Tis a hard fortune to be sacrificed.
I do believe you. Rise. And is it long
Since you rejected Gomez' suit?
EBOLI.
Some months--
Before Prince Carlos came from Alcala.
QUEEN.
One's enough,
You do not love him. That suffices me.
Now let it pass.
[To her other ladies.
I have not seen the Infanta
Yet this morning. Pray bring her, marchioness.
QUEEN.
Not yet the hour for me to be a mother!
That's somewhat hard. Forget not, then, to tell me
When the right hour does come.
OLIVAREZ.
The Marquis Posa!
May it please your majesty.
QUEEN.
The Marquis Posa!
OLIVAREZ.
He comes from France, and from the Netherlands,
And craves the honor to present some letters
Intrusted to him by your royal mother.
QUEEN.
Is this allowed?
OLIVAREZ (hesitating).
A case so unforeseen
Is not provided for in my instructions.
When a Castilian grandee, with despatches
From foreign courts, shall in her garden find
The Queen of Spain, and tender them----
QUEEN.
Enough! I'll venture, then, on mine own proper peril.
OLIVAREZ.
May I, your majesty, withdraw the while?
QUEEN.
E'en as you please, good duchess!
[Exit the DUCHESS, the QUEEN gives the PAGE a sign, who
thereupon retires.
SCENE IV.
QUEEN.
I bid you welcome, sir, to Spanish ground!
MARQUIS.
Ground which I never with so just a pride
Hailed for the country of my sires as now.
MARQUIS.
Most true, my liege!
For at that time I never could have dreamed
That France should lose to us the only thing
We envied her possessing.
QUEEN.
How, proud Spaniard!
The only thing! And you can venture this--
This to a daughter of the house of Valois!
MARQUIS.
I venture now to say it, gracious queen,
Since now you are our own.
QUEEN.
Your journey hither
Has led you, as I hear, through France. What news
Have you brought with you from my honored mother
And from my dearest brothers?
QUEEN.
Could she be aught
But happy in the dear remembrances
Of relatives so kind--in the sweet thoughts
Of the old time when--Sir, you've visited
Full many a court in these your various travels,
And seen strange lands and customs manifold;
And now, they say, you mean to keep at home
A greater prince in your retired domain
Than is King Philip on his throne--a freer.
You're a philosopher; but much I doubt
If our Madrid will please you. We are so--
So quiet in Madrid.
MARQUIS.
And that is more
Than all the rest of Europe has to boast.
QUEEN.
I've heard as much. But all this world's concerns
Are well-nigh blotted from my memory.
[To PRINCESS EBOLI.
Princess, methinks I see a hyacinth
Yonder in bloom. Wilt bring it to me, sweet?
MARQUIS.
I have found a sad one--one that in this world
A ray of sunshine----
EBOLI.
As this gentleman
Has seen so many countries, he, no doubt,
Has much of note to tell us.
MARQUIS.
Doubtless, and
To seek adventures is a knight's first duty--
But his most sacred is to shield the fair.
MONDECAR.
From giants! But there are no giants now!
MARQUIS.
Power is a giant ever to the weak.
QUEEN.
The chevalier says well. There still are giants;
But there are knights no more.
MARQUIS.
Not long ago,
On my return from Naples, I became
The witness of a very touching story,
Which ties of friendship almost make my own
Were I not fearful its recital might
Fatigue your majesty----
QUEEN.
Have I a choice?
The princess is not to be lightly balked.
Proceed. I too, sir, love a story dearly.
MARQUIS.
Two noble houses in Mirandola,
Weary of jealousies and deadly feuds,
Transmitted down from Guelphs and Ghibellines,
Through centuries of hate, from sire to son,
Resolved to ratify a lasting peace
By the sweet ministry of nuptial ties.
Fernando, nephew of the great Pietro,
And fair Matilda, old Colonna's child,
Were chosen to cement this holy bond.
Nature had never for each other formed
Two fairer hearts. And never had the world
Approved a wiser or a happier choice.
Still had the youth adored his lovely bride
In the dull limner's portraiture alone.
How thrilled his heart, then, in the hope to find
The truth of all that e'en his fondest dreams
Had scarcely dared to credit in her picture!
In Padua, where his studies held him bound;
Fernando panted for the joyful hour,
When he might murmur at Matilda's feet
The first pure homage of his fervent love.
QUEEN.
And what did then Fernando?
MARQUIS.
On the wings
Of Jove, unconscious of the fearful change,
Delirious with the promised joy, he speeds
Back to Mirandola. His flying steed
By starlight gains the gate. Tumultuous sounds
Of music, dance, and jocund revelry
Ring from the walls of the illumined palace.
With faltering steps he mounts the stair; and now
Behold him in the crowded nuptial hall,
Unrecognized! Amid the reeling guests
Pietro sat. An angel at his side--
An angel, whom he knows, and who to him
Even in his dreams, seemed ne'er so beautiful.
A single glance revealed what once was his--
Revealed what now was lost to him forever.
EBOLI.
O poor Fernando!
QUEEN.
Surely, sir, your tale
Is ended? Nay, it must be.
MARQUIS.
No, not quite.
QUEEN.
Did you not say Fernando was your friend?
MARQUIS.
I have no dearer in the world.
EBOLI.
But pray
Proceed, sir, with your story.
MARQUIS.
Nay, the rest
Is very sad--and to recall it sets
My sorrow fresh abroach. Spare me the sequel.
[A general silence.
MARQUIS.
Matilda's heart has no one fathomed yet--
Great souls endure in silence.
QUEEN.
You look around you. Who is it you seek?
MARQUIS.
Just then the thought came over me, how one,
Whose name I dare not mention, would rejoice,
Stood he where I do now.
QUEEN.
And who's to blame,
That he does not?
QUEEN (alarmed).
Now, marquis, now? What do you mean by this?
MARQUIS.
Might he, then, hope?
QUEEN.
You terrify me, marquis.
Surely he will not----
MARQUIS.
He is here already.
SCENE V.
QUEEN.
What headlong folly's this? And dare you break
Into my presence thus? Arise, rash man!
We are observed; my suite are close at hand.
CARLOS.
I will not rise. Here will I kneel forever,
Here will I lie enchanted at your feet,
And grow to the dear ground you tread on?
QUEEN.
Madman! To what rude boldness my indulgence leads!
Know you, it is the queen, your mother, sir,
Whom you address in such presumptuous strain?
Know, that myself will to the king report
This bold intrusion----
CARLOS.
And that I must die!
Let them come here, and drag me to the scaffold!
A moment spent in paradise like this
Is not too dearly purchased by a life.
QUEEN.
But then your queen?
CARLOS (rising).
O God, I'll go, I'll go!
Can I refuse to bend to that appeal?
I am your very plaything. Mother, mother,
A sign, a transient glance, one broken word
From those dear lips can bid me live or die.
What would you more? Is there beneath the sun
One thing I would not haste to sacrifice
To meet your lightest wish?
QUEEN.
Then fly!
CARLOS.
God!
QUEEN.
With tears I do conjure you, Carlos, fly!
I ask no more. O fly! before my court,
My guards, detecting us alone together,
Bear the dread tidings to your father's ear.
CARLOS.
I bide my doom, or be it life or death.
Have I staked every hope on this one moment,
Which gives thee to me thus at length alone,
That idle fears should balk me of my purpose?
No, queen! The world may round its axis roll
A hundred thousand times, ere chance again
Yield to my prayers a moment such as this.
QUEEN.
It never shall to all eternity.
Unhappy man! What would you ask of me?
CARLOS.
Heaven is my witness, queen, how I have struggled,
Struggled as mortal never did before,
But all in vain! My manhood fails--I yield.
QUEEN.
No more of this--for my sake--for my peace.
CARLOS.
You were mine own,--in face of all the world,--
Affianced to me by two mighty crowns,
By heaven and nature plighted as my bride,
But Philip, cruel Philip, stole you from me!
QUEEN.
He is your father?
CARLOS.
And he is your husband!
QUEEN.
And gives to you for an inheritance,
The mightiest monarchy in all the world.
CARLOS.
And you, as mother!
QUEEN.
Mighty heavens! You rave!
CARLOS.
And is he even conscious of his treasure?
Hath he a heart to feel and value yours?
I'll not complain--no, no, I will forget,
How happy, past all utterance, I might
Have been with you,--if he were only so.
But he is not--there, there, the anguish lies!
He is not, and he never--never can be.
Oh, you have robbed me of my paradise,
Only to blast it in King Philip's arms!
QUEEN.
Horrible thought!
CARLOS.
Oh, yes, right well I know
Who 'twas that knit this ill-starred marriage up.
I know how Philip loves, and how he wooed.
What are you in this kingdom--tell me, what?
Regent, belike! Oh, no! If such you were,
How could fell Alvas act their murderous deeds,
Or Flanders bleed a martyr for her faith?
Are you even Philip's wife? Impossible,--
Beyond belief. A wife doth still possess
Her husband's heart. To whom doth his belong?
If ever, perchance, in some hot feverish mood,
He yields to gentler impulse, begs he not
Forgiveness of his sceptre and gray hairs?
QUEEN.
Who told you that my lot, at Philip's side
Was one for men to pity?
CARLOS.
My own heart!
Which feels, with burning pangs, how at my side
It had been to be envied.
QUEEN.
Thou vain man!
What if my heart should tell me the reverse?
How, sir, if Philip's watchful tenderness,
The looks that silently proclaim his love,
Touched me more deeply than his haughty son's
Presumptuous eloquence? What, if an old man's
Matured esteem----
CARLOS.
That makes a difference! Then,
Why then, forgiveness!--I'd no thought of this;
I had no thought that you could love the king.
QUEEN.
To honor him's my pleasure and my wish.
CARLOS.
Then you have never loved?
QUEEN.
Singular question!
CARLOS.
Then you have never loved?
QUEEN.
I love no longer!
CARLOS.
Because your heart forbids it, or your oath?
QUEEN.
Leave me; nor never touch this theme again.
CARLOS.
Because your oath forbids it, or your heart?
QUEEN.
Because my duty--but, alas, alas!
To what avails this scrutiny of fate,
Which we must both obey?
CARLOS.
Must--must obey?
QUEEN.
What means this solemn tone?
CARLOS.
Thus much it means
That Carlos is not one to yield to must
Where he hath power to will! It means, besides,
'That Carlos is not minded to live on,
The most unhappy man in all his realm,
When it would only cost the overthrow
Of Spanish laws to be the happiest.
QUEEN.
Do I interpret rightly? Still you hope?
Dare you hope on, when all is lost forever?
CARLOS.
I look on naught as lost--except the dead.
QUEEN.
For me--your mother, do you dare to hope?
CARLOS.
Merciful heavens, finish not the picture!
QUEEN.
End all by wedding with his mother.
CARLOS.
Oh!
Accursed son!
[He remains for some time paralyzed and speechless.
Yes, now 'tis out, 'tis out!
I see it clear as day. Oh, would it had
Been veiled from me in everlasting darkness!
Yes, thou art gone from me--gone--gone forever.
The die is cast; and thou art lost to me.
Oh, in that thought lies hell; and a hell, too,
Lies in the other thought, to call thee mine.
Oh, misery! I can bear my fate no longer,
My very heart-strings strain as they would burst.
QUEEN.
Alas, alas! dear Charles, I feel it all,
The nameless pang that rages in your breast;
Your pangs are infinite, as is your love,
And infinite as both will be the glory
Of overmastering both. Up, be a man,
Wrestle with them boldly. The prize is worthy
Of a young warrior's high, heroic heart;
Worthy of him in whom the virtues flow
Of a long ancestry of mighty kings.
Courage! my noble prince! Great Charles's grandson
Begins the contest with undaunted heart,
Where sons of meaner men would yield at once.
CARLOS.
Too late, too late! O God, it is too late!
QUEEN.
Too late to be a man! O Carlos, Carlos!
How nobly shows our virtue when the heart
Breaks in its exercise! The hand of Heaven
Has set you up on high,--far higher, prince,
Than millions of your brethren. All she took
From others she bestowed with partial hand
On thee, her favorite; and millions ask,
What was your merit, thus before your birth
To be endowed so far above mankind?
Up, then, and justify the ways of Heaven;
Deserve to take the lead of all the world,
And make a sacrifice ne'er made before.
CARLOS.
I will, I will; I have a giant's strength
To win your favor; but to lose you, none.
QUEEN.
Confess, my Carlos, I have harshly read thee;
It is but spoken, and waywardness, and pride,
Attract you thus so madly to your mother!
The heart you lavish on myself belongs
To the great empire you one day shall rule.
Look that you sport not with your sacred trust!
Love is your high vocation; until now
It hath been wrongly bent upon your mother:
Oh, lead it back upon your future realms,
And so, instead of the fell stings of conscience,
Enjoy the bliss of being more than man.
Elizabeth has been your earliest love,
Your second must be Spain. How gladly, Carlos,
Will I give place to this more worthy choice!
QUEEN.
How can I ask from you what I myself
Am not disposed to grant?
QUEEN.
Oh God!
MARQUIS.
Away, away! fly from these precincts, prince!
QUEEN.
His jealousy is dreadful--should he see you----
CARLOS.
I'll stay.
QUEEN.
And who will be the victim then?
QUEEN.
Your mother's friendship.
CARLOS.
Friendship! Mother!
QUEEN.
And
These tears with it--they're from the Netherlands.
[She gives him some letters. Exit CARLOS with the MARQUIS.
The QUEEN looks restlessly round in search of her ladies,
who are nowhere to be seen. As she is about to retire up,
the KING enters.
SCENE VI.
KING.
How, madam, alone; not even one of all
Your ladies in attendance? Strange! Where are they?
QUEEN.
My gracious lord!
KING.
Why thus alone, I say?
[To his attendants.
I'll take a strict account of this neglect.
'Tis not to be forgiven. Who has the charge
Of waiting on your majesty to-day?
QUEEN.
Oh, be not angry! Good, my lord, 'tis I
Myself that am to blame--at my request
The Princess Eboli went hence but now.
KING.
At your request!
QUEEN.
To call the nurse to me,
With the Infanta, whom I longed to see.
KING.
And was your retinue dismissed for that?
This only clears the lady first in waiting.
Where was the second?
MONDECAR (who has returned and mixed with the other ladies,
steps forward).
Your majesty, I feel
I am to blame for this.
KING.
You are, and so
I give you ten years to reflect upon it,
At a most tranquil distance from Madrid.
QUEEN.
What weep you for, dear marchioness?
[To the KING.
If I
Have erred, my gracious liege, the crown I wear,
And which I never sought, should save my blushes
Is there a law in this your kingdom, sire,
To summon monarch's daughters to the bar?
Does force alone restrain your Spanish ladies?
Or need they stronger safeguard than their virtue?
Now pardon me, my liege; 'tis not my wont
To send my ladies, who have served me still
With smiling cheerfulness, away in tears.
Here, Mondecar.
KING.
Can a reproach, that in my love had birth,
Afflict you so? A word so trouble you,
Which the most anxious tenderness did prompt?
[He turns towards the GEANDEES.
Here stand the assembled vassals of my throne.
Did ever sleep descend upon these eyes,
Till at the close of the returning day
I've pondered, how the hearts of all my subjects
Were beating 'neath the furthest cope of heaven?
And should I feel more anxious for my throne
Than for the partner of my bosom? No!
My sword and Alva can protect my people,
My eye alone assures thy love.
QUEEN.
My liege,
If that I have offended----
KING.
I am called
The richest monarch in the Christian world;
The sun in my dominions never sets.
All this another hath possessed before,
And many another will possess hereafter.
That is mine own. All that the monarch hath
Belongs to chance--Elizabeth to Philip.
This is the point in which I feel I'm mortal.
QUEEN.
What fear you, sire?
KING.
Should these gray hairs not fear?
But the same instant that my fear begins
It dies away forever.
[To the grandees.
I run over
The nobles of my court and miss the foremost.
Where is my son, Don Carlos?
[No one answers.
He begins
To give me cause of fear. He shuns my presence
Since he came back from school at Alcala.
His blood is hot. Why is his look so cold?
His bearing all so stately and reserved?
Be watchful, duke, I charge you.
ALVA.
So I am:
Long as a heart against this corslet beats,
So long may Philip slumber undisturbed;
And as God's cherub guards the gates of heaven
So doth Duke Alva guard your royal throne.
LERMA.
Dare I, in all humility, presume
To oppose the judgment of earth's wisest king?
Too deeply I revere his gracious sire
To judge the son so harshly. I fear much
From his hot blood, but nothing from his heart.
KING.
Lerma, your speech is fair to soothe the father,
But Alva here will be the monarch's shield--
No more of this.
[Turning to his suite.
Now speed we to Madrid,
Our royal duties summon us. The plague
Of heresy is rife among my people;
Rebellion stalks within my Netherlands--
The times are imminent. We must arrest
These erring spirits by some dread example.
The solemn oath which every Christian king
Hath sworn to keep I will redeem to-morrow.
'Twill be a day of doom unparalleled.
Our court is bidden to the festival.
SCENE VII.
CARLOS.
I am resolved--Flanders shall yet be saved:
So runs her suit, and that's enough for me!
MARQUIS.
There's not another moment to be lost:
'Tis said Duke Alva in the cabinet
Is named already as the governor.
CARLOS.
Betimes to-morrow will I see the king
And ask this office for myself. It is
The first request I ever made to him,
And he can scarce refuse. My presence here
Has long been irksome to him. He will grasp
This fair pretence my absence to secure.
And shall I confess to thee, Roderigo?
My hopes go further. Face to face with him,
'Tis possible the pleading of a son
May reinstate him in his father's favor.
He ne'er hath heard the voice of nature speak;
Then let me try for once, my Roderigo,
What power she hath when breathing from my lips.
MARQUIS.
Now do I hear my Carlos' voice once more;
Now are you all yourself again!
SCENE VIII.
COUNT.
Your grace,
His majesty has left Aranjuez;
And I am bidden----
CARLOS.
Very well, my lord--
I shall overtake the king----
CARLOS.
Nothing. A pleasant journey to Madrid!
You may, hereafter, tell me more of Flanders.
SCENE IX.
CARLOS.
I understood thy hint, and thank thee for it.
A stranger's presence can alone excuse
This forced and measured tone. Are we not brothers?
In future, let this puppet-play of rank
Be banished from our friendship. Think that we
Had met at some gay masking festival,
Thou in the habit of a slave, and I
Robed, for a jest, in the imperial purple.
Throughout the revel we respect the cheat,
And play our parts with sportive earnestness,
Tripping it gayly with the merry throng;
But should thy Carlos beckon through his mask,
Thou'dst press his hand in silence as he passed,
And we should be as one.
MARQUIS.
The dream's divine!
But are you sure that it will last forever?
Is Carlos, then, so certain of himself
As to despise the charms of boundless sway?
A day will come--an all-important day--
When this heroic mind--I warn you now--
Will sink o'erwhelmed by too severe a test.
Don Philip dies; and Carlos mounts the throne,
The mightiest throne in Christendom. How vast
The gulf that yawns betwixt mankind and him--
A god to-day, who yesterday was man!
Steeled to all human weakness--to the voice
Of heavenly duty deaf. Humanity--
To-day a word of import in his ear--
Barters itself, and grovels 'mid the throng
Of gaping parasites; his sympathy
For human woe is turned to cold neglect,
His virtue sunk in loose voluptuous joys.
Peru supplies him riches for his folly,
His court engenders devils for his vices.
Lulled in this heaven the work of crafty slaves,
He sleeps a charmed sleep; and while his dream
Endures his godhead lasts. And woe to him
Who'd break in pity this lethargic trance!
What could Roderigo do? Friendship is true,
And bold as true. But her bright flashing beams
Were much too fierce for sickly majesty:
You would not brook a subject's stern appeal,
Nor I a monarch's pride!
CARLOS.
Tearful and true,
Thy portraiture of monarchs. Yes--thou'rt right,
But 'tis their lusts that thus corrupt their hearts,
And hurry them to vice. I still am pure.
A youth scarce numbering three-and-twenty years.
What thousands waste in riotous delights,
Without remorse--the mind's more precious part--
The bloom and strength of manhood--I have kept,
Hoarding their treasures for the future king.
What could unseat my Posa from my heart,
If woman fail to do it?
MARQUIS.
I, myself!
Say, could I love you, Carlos, warm as now,
If I must fear you?
CARLOS.
That will never be.
What need hast thou of me? What cause hast thou
To stoop thy knee, a suppliant at the throne?
Does gold allure thee? Thou'rt a richer subject
Than I shall be a king! Dost covet honors?
E'en in thy youth, fame's brimming chalice stood
Full in thy grasp--thou flung'st the toy away.
Which of us, then, must be the other's debtor,
And which the creditor? Thou standest mute.
Dost tremble for the trial? Art thou, then,
Uncertain of thyself?
MARQUIS.
Carlos, I yield!
Here is my band.
CARLOS.
Is it mine own?
MARQUIS.
Forever--
In the most pregnant meaning of the word!
CARLOS.
And wilt thou prove hereafter to the king
As true and warm as to the prince to-day?
MARQUIS.
I swear!
CARLOS.
And when round my unguarded heart
The serpent flattery winds its subtle coil,
Should e'er these eyes of mine forget the tears
They once were wont to shed; or should these ears
Be closed to mercy's plea,--say, wilt thou, then,
The fearless guardian of my virtue, throw
Thine iron grasp upon me, and call up
My genius by its mighty name?
MARQUIS.
I will.
CARLOS.
And now one other favor let me beg.
Do call me thou! Long have I envied this
Dear privilege of friendship to thine equals.
The brother's thou beguiles my ear, my heart,
With sweet suggestions of equality.
Nay, no reply:--I guess what thou wouldst say--
To thee this seems a trifle--but to me,
A monarch's son, 'tis much. Say, wilt thou be
A brother to me?
MARQUIS.
Yes; thy brother, yes!
CARLOS.
Now to the king--my fears are at an end.
Thus, arm-in-arm with thee, I dare defy
The universal world into the lists.
[Exeunt.
ACT II.
SCENE I.
CARLOS.
The kingdom takes precedence--willingly
Doth Carlos to the minister give place--
He speaks for Spain; I am but of the household.
KING.
Here stands his friend.
CARLOS.
And have I e'er deserved
To think the duke should be a friend of mine?
KING.
Or tried to make him one? I scarce can love
Those sons who choose more wisely than their fathers.
CARLOS.
And can Duke Alva's knightly spirit brook
To look on such a scene? Now, as I live,
I would not play the busy meddler's part,
Who thrusts himself, unasked, 'twixt sire and son,
And there intrudes without a blush, condemned
By his own conscious insignificance,
No, not, by heaven, to win a diadem!
SCENE II.
CARLOS (as soon as the DUKE has left the apartment, advances to the KING,
throws himself at his feet, and then, with great emotion).
My father once again!
Thanks, endless thanks, for this unwonted favor!
Your hand, my father! O delightful day!
The rapture of this kiss has long been strange
To your poor Carlos. Wherefore have I been
Shut from my father's heart? What have I done?
KING.
Carlos, thou art a novice in these arts--
Forbear, I like them not----
CARLOS (rising).
And is it so?
I hear your courtiers in those words, my father!
All is not well, by heaven, all is not true,
That a priest says, and a priest's creatures plot.
I am not wicked, father; ardent blood
Is all my failing;--all my crime is youth;--
Wicked I am not--no, in truth, not wicked;--
Though many an impulse wild assails my heart,
Yet is it still untainted.
KING.
Ay, 'tis pure--
I know it--like thy prayers----
CARLOS.
Now, then, or never!
We are, for once, alone--the barrier
Of courtly form, that severed sire and son
Has fallen! Now a golden ray of hope
Illumes my soul--a sweet presentment
Pervades my heart--and heaven itself inclines,
With choirs of joyous angels, to the earth,
And full of soft emotion, the thrice blest
Looks down upon this great, this glorious scene!
Pardon, my father!
KING.
Rise, and leave me.
CARLOS.
Father!
CARLOS.
A son's devotion
Too bold! Alas!
KING.
And, to crown all, in tears!
Degraded boy! Away, and quit my sight!
CARLOS.
Now, then, or never!--pardon, O my father!
KING.
Away, and leave my sight! Return to me
Disgraced, defeated, from the battle-field,
Thy sire shall meet thee with extended arms:
But thus in tears, I spurn thee from my feet.
A coward's guilt alone should wash its stains
In such ignoble streams. The man who weeps
Without a blush will ne'er want cause for tears!
CARLOS.
Who is this man? By what mistake of nature
Has he thus strayed amongst mankind? A tear
Is man's unerring, lasting attribute.
Whose eye is dry was ne'er of woman born!
Oh, teach the eye that ne'er hath overflowed,
The timely science of a tear--thou'lt need
The moist relief in some dark hour of woo.
KING.
Think'st thou to shake thy father's strong mistrust
With specious words?
CARLOS.
Mistrust! Then I'll remove it.
Here will I hang upon my father's breast,
Strain at his heart with vigor, till each shred
Of that mistrust, which, with a rock's endurance,
Clings firmly round it, piecemeal fall away.
And who are they who drive me from the king--
My father's favor? What requital hath
A monk to give a father for a son?
What compensation can the duke supply
For a deserted and a childless age?
Would'st thou be loved? Here in this bosom springs
A fresher, purer fountain, than e'er flowed
From those dark, stagnant, muddy reservoirs,
Which Philip's gold must first unlock.
KING.
No more,
Presuming boy! For know the hearts thou slanderest
Are the approved, true servants of my choice.
'Tis meet that thou do honor to them.
CARLOS.
Never!
I know my worth--all that your Alva dares--
That, and much more, can Carlos. What cares he,
A hireling! for the welfare of the realm
That never can be his? What careth he
If Philip's hair grow gray with hoary age?
Your Carlos would have loved you:--Oh, I dread
To think that you the royal throne must fill
Deserted and alone.
CARLOS.
The Omniscient be my judge! You till this hour
Have still debarred me from your heart, and all
Participation in your royal cares.
The heir of Spain has been a very stranger
In Spanish land--a prisoner in the realm
Where he must one day rule. Say, was this just,
Or kind? And often have I blushed for shame,
And stood with eyes abashed, to learn perchance
From foreign envoys, or the general rumor,
Thy courtly doings at Aranjuez.
KING.
Thy blood flows far too hotly in thy veins.
Thou would'st but ruin all.
CARLOS.
But try me, father.
'Tis true my blood flows hotly in my veins.
Full three-and-twenty years I now have lived,
And naught achieved for immortality.
I am aroused--I feel my inward powers--
My title to the throne arouses me
From slumber, like an angry creditor;
And all the misspent hours of early youth,
Like debts of honor, clamor in mine ears.
It comes at length, the glorious moment comes
That claims full interest on the intrusted talent.
The annals of the world, ancestral fame,
And glory's echoing trumpet urge me on.
Now is the blessed hour at length arrived
That opens wide to me the list of honor.
My king, my father! dare I utter now
The suit which led me hither?
KING.
Still a suit?
Unfold it.
CARLOS.
The rebellion in Brabant
Increases to a height--the traitor's madness
By stern, but prudent, vigor must be met.
The duke, to quell the wild enthusiasm,
Invested with the sovereign's power, will lead
An army into Flanders. Oh, how full
Of glory is such office! and how suited
To open wide the temple of renown
To me, your son! To my hand, then, O king,
Intrust the army; in thy Flemish lands
I am well loved, and I will freely gage
My life for their fidelity and truth.
KING.
Thou speakest like a dreamer. This high office
Demands a man--and not a stripling's arm.
CARLOS.
It but demands a human being, father:
And that is what Duke Alva ne'er hath been.
KING.
Terror alone can tie rebellion's hands:
Humanity were madness. Thy soft soul
Is tender, son: they'll tremble at the duke.
Desist from thy request.
CARLOS.
Despatch me, sire,
To Flanders with the army--dare rely
E'en on my tender soul. The name of prince,
The royal name emblazoned on my standard,
Conquers where Alva's butchers but dismay.
Here on my knees I crave it--this the first
Petition of my life. Trust Flanders to me.
CARLOS.
Great God! and is this all--is this the fruit
Of a momentous hour so long desired!
[After some thought, in a milder tone.
Oh, speak to me more kindly--send me not
Thus comfortless away--dismiss me not
With this afflicting answer, oh, my father!
Use me more tenderly, indeed, I need it.
This is the last resource of wild despair--
It conquers every power of firm resolve
To beat it as a man--this deep contempt--
My every suit denied: Let me away--
Unheard and foiled in all my fondest hopes,
I take my leave. Now Alva and Domingo
May proudly sit in triumph where your son
Lies weeping in the dust. Your crowd of courtiers,
And your long train of cringing, trembling nobles,
Your tribe of sallow monks, so deadly pale,
All witnessed how you granted me this audience.
Let me not be disgraced. Oh, strike me not
With this most deadly wound--nor lay me bare
To sneering insolence of menial taunts!
"That strangers riot on your bounty, whilst
Carlos, your son, may supplicate in vain."
And as a pledge that you would have me honored,
Despatch me straight to Flanders with the army.
KING.
Urge thy request no farther--as thou wouldst
Avoid the king's displeasure.
CARLOS.
I must brave
My king's displeasure, and prefer my suit
Once more, it is the last. Trust Flanders to me!
I must away from Spain. To linger here
Is to draw breath beneath the headsman's axe:
The air lies heavy on me in Madrid
Like murder on a guilty soul--a change,
An instant change of clime alone can cure me.
If you would save my life, despatch me straight
Without delay to Flanders.
CARLOS (wildly).
Assist me, ye good angels!
KING (starting).
Hold, what mean
Those looks so wild?
CARLOS.
Father, do you abide
Immovably by this determination?
KING.
It was the king's.
CARLOS.
Then my commission's done.
SCENE III.
KING.
Hold yourself ready to depart for Brussels
Upon a moment's notice.
ALVA.
All is prepared, my liege.
KING.
And your credentials
Lie ready sealed within my cabinet,--
Meanwhile obtain an audience of the queen,
And bid the prince farewell.
ALVA.
As I came in
I met him with a look of frenzy wild
Quitting the chamber; and your majesty
Is strangely moved, methinks, and bears the marks
Of deep excitement--can it be the theme
Of your discourse----
KING.
Concerned the Duke of Alva.
[The KING keeps his eye steadfastly fixed on him.
I'm pleased that Carlos hates my councillors,
But I'm disturbed that he despises them.
[ALVA, coloring deeply, is about to speak.
No answer now: propitiate the prince.
ALVA.
Sire!
KING.
Tell me who it was that warned me first
Of my son's dark designs? I listened then
To you, and not to him. I will have proof.
And for the future, mark me, Carlos stands
Nearer the throne--now duke--you may retire.
[The KING retires into his cabinet. Exit DUKE by another door.
SCENE IV.
CARLOS.
For me this letter? And a key! How's this?
And both delivered with such mystery!
Come nearer, boy:--from whom didst thou receive them?
PAGE (mysteriously).
It seemed to me the lady would be guessed
Rather than be described.
CARLOS (starting).
The lady, what!
Who art thou, boy?
PAGE.
A page that serves the queen.
[He tears open the letter hastily, and retires to read it; meanwhile
DUKE ALVA comes, and passing the Prince, goes unperceived by him
into the QUEEN'S apartment, CARLOS trembles violently and changes
color; when he has read the letter he remains a long time
speechless, his eyes steadfastly fixed on it; at last he turns to
the PAGE.
PAGE.
With her own hands.
CARLOS.
She gave this letter to you then herself?
Deceive me not: I ne'er have seen her writing,
And I must credit thee, if thou canst swear it;
But if thy tale be false, confess it straight,
Nor put this fraud on me.
PAGE.
This fraud, on whom?
CARLOS (looking once more at the letter, then at the PAGE with doubt
and earnestness).
Your parents--are they living? and your father--
Serves he the king? Is he a Spaniard born?
PAGE.
He fell a colonel on St. Quentin's field,
Served in the cavalry of Savoy's duke--
His name Alonzo, Count of Henarez.
PAGE.
Follow me, prince, and I will lead the way.
CARLOS.
Then let me first collect my scattered thoughts.
The alarm of joy still trembles in my bosom.
Did I e'er lift my fondest hopes so high,
Or trust my fancy to so bold a flight?
Show me the man can learn thus suddenly
To be a god. I am not what I was.
I feel another heaven--another sun
That was not here before. She loves--she loves me!
CARLOS.
The king! My father!
[The PAGE returns. CARLOS lays his hand on his shoulder, and looks
him steadily in the face.
A direful secret hast thou in thy keeping,
Which, like a poison of terrific power,
Shivers the cup that holds it into atoms.
Guard every look of thine, nor let thy head
Guess at thy bosom's secret. Be thou like
The senseless speaking-trumpet that receives
And echoes back the voice, but hears it not.
Thou art a boy! Be ever so; continue
The pranks of youth. My correspondent chose
Her messenger of love with prudent skill!
The king will ne'er suspect a serpent here.
PAGE.
And I, my prince, shall feel right proud to know
I am one secret richer than the king.
CARLOS.
Vain, foolish boy! 'tis this should make thee tremble.
Approach me ever with a cold respect:
Ne'er be induced by idle pride to boast
How gracious is the prince! No deadlier sin
Canst thou commit, my son, than pleasing me.
Whate'er thou hast in future for my ear,
Give not to words; intrust not to thy lips,
Ne'er on that common high road of the thoughts
Permit thy news to travel. Speak with an eye,
A finger; I will answer with a look.
The very air, the light, are Philip's creatures,
And the deaf walls around are in his pay.
Some one approaches; fly, we'll meet again.
PAGE.
Be careful, prince, to find the right apartment.
[Exit.
CARLOS.
It is the duke! Fear not, I'll find the way.
SCENE V.
CARLOS.
Some other time.
[Going.
ALVA.
The place is not the fittest, I confess;
Perhaps your royal highness may be pleased
To grant me audience in your private chamber.
CARLOS.
For what? And why not here? Only be brief.
ALVA.
The special object which has brought me hither,
Is to return your highness lowly thanks
For your good services.
CARLOS.
Thanks to me--
For what? Duke Alva's thanks!
ALVA.
You scarce had left
His majesty, ere I received in form
Instructions to depart for Brussels.
CARLOS.
What!
For Brussels!
ALVA.
And to what, most gracious prince,
Must I ascribe this favor, but to you--
Your intercession with the king?
CARLOS.
Ob, no!
Not in the least to me; but, duke, you travel,
So Heaven be with your grace!
ALVA.
And is this all?
It seems, indeed, most strange! And has your highness
No further orders, then, to send to Flanders?
CARLOS.
What should I have?
ALVA.
Not long ago, it seemed,
The country's fate required your presence.
CARLOS.
How?
But yes, you're right,--it was so formerly;
But now this change is better as it is.
ALVA.
I am amazed----
CARLOS.
You are an able general,
No one doubts that--envy herself must own it.
For me, I'm but a youth--so thought the king.
CARLOS.
The king was right, quite right. I see it now
Myself, and am content--and so no more.
God speed your journey, as you see, just now
My hands are full, and weighty business presses.
The rest to-morrow, or whene'er you will,
Or when you come from Brussels.
ALVA.
What is this?
CARLOS.
The season favors, and your route will lie
Through Milan, Lorraine, Burgundy, and on
To Germany! What, Germany? Ay, true,
In Germany it was--they know you there.
'Tis April now, May, June,--in July, then,
Just so! or, at the latest, soon in August,--
You will arrive in Brussels, and no doubt
We soon shall hear of your victorious deeds.
You know the way to win our high esteem,
And earn the crown of fame.
ALVA (significantly).
Indeed! condemned
By my own conscious insignificance!
CARLOS.
You're sensitive, my lord, and with some cause,
I own it was not fair to use a weapon
Against your grace you were unskilled to wield.
ALVA.
Unskilled!
CARLOS.
'Tis pity I've no leisure now
To fight this worthy battle fairly out
But at some other time, we----
ALVA.
Prince, we both
Miscalculate--but still in opposite ways.
You, for example, overrate your age
By twenty years, whilst on the other band,
I, by as many, underrate it----
CARLOS.
Well
ALVA.
And this suggests the thought, how many nights
Beside this lovely Lusitanian bride--
Your mother--would the king right gladly give
To buy an arm like this, to aid his crown.
Full well he knows, far easier is the task
To make a monarch than a monarchy;
Far easier too, to stock the world with kings
Than frame an empire for a king to rule.
CARLOS.
Most true, Duke Alva, yet----
ALVA.
And how much blood,
Your subjects' dearest blood, must flow in streams
Before two drops could make a king of you.
CARLOS.
Most true, by heaven! and in two words comprised,
All that the pride of merit has to urge
Against the pride of fortune. But the moral--
Now, Duke Alva!
ALVA.
Woe to the nursling babe
Of royalty that mocks the careful hand
Which fosters it! How calmly it may sleep
On the soft cushion of our victories!
The monarch's crown is bright with sparkling gems,
But no eye sees the wounds that purchased them.
This sword has given our laws to distant realms,
Has blazed before the banner of the cross,
And in these quarters of the globe has traced
Ensanguined furrows for the seed of faith.
God was the judge in heaven, and I on earth.
CARLOS.
God, or the devil--it little matters which;
Yours was his chosen arm--that stands confessed.
And now no more of this. Some thoughts there are
Whereof the memory pains me. I respect
My father's choice,--my father needs an Alva!
But that he needs him is not just the point
I envy in him: a great man you are,
This may be true, and I well nigh believe it,
Only I fear your mission is begun
Some thousand years too soon. Alva, methinks,
Were just the man to suit the end of time.
Then when the giant insolence of vice
Shall have exhausted Heaven's enduring patience,
And the rich waving harvest of misdeeds
Stand in full ear, and asks a matchless reaper,
Then should you fill the post. O God! my paradise!
My Flanders! But of this I must not think.
'Tis said you carry with you a full store
Of sentences of death already signed.
This shows a prudent foresight! No more need
To fear your foes' designs, or secret plots:
Oh, father! ill indeed I've understood thee.
Calling thee harsh, to save me from a post,
Where Alva's self alone can fitly shine!
'Twas an unerring token of your love.
ALVA.
These words deserve----
CARLOS.
What!
ALVA.
But your birth protects you.
ALVA (slightingly).
On whom?
ALVA.
Then be it so.
[They fight.
SCENE VI.
Prince Carlos!
CARLOS (agitated at the QUEEN's look, drops his arm, stands motionless,
then rushes to the DUKE, and embraces him).
Pardon, duke!
Your pardon, sir! Forget, forgive it all!
ALVA.
By heaven, 'tis strange!
SCENE VII.
PAGE (abruptly).
Are you alone? I wonder much
He is not here already; but he must
Be here upon the instant.
PRINCESS.
Do you say must!
Then he will come, this much is certain then.
PAGE.
He's close upon my steps. You are beloved,
Adored, and with more passionate regard
Than mortal ever was, or can be loved.
Oh! what a scene I witnessed!
PAGE.
Dearest lady, hear me!
Both key and note I placed within his hands,
In the queen's antechamber, and he started
And gazed with wonder when I told him that
A lady sent me!
PRINCESS.
Did he start? go on!
That's excellent. Proceed, what next ensued?
PAGE.
I would have told him more, but he grew pale,
And snatched the letter from my hand, and said
With look of deadly menace, he knew all.
He read the letter with confusion through,
And straight began to tremble.
PRINCESS.
He knew all!
He knew it all? Were those his very words?
PAGE.
He asked me, and again he asked, if you
With your own hands had given me the letter?
PRINCESS.
If I? Then did he mention me by name?
PAGE.
By name! no name he mentioned: there might be
Listeners, he said, about the palace, who
Might to the king disclose it.
PRINCESS (surprised).
Said he that?
PAGE.
He further said, it much concerned the king;
Deeply concerned--to know of that same letter.
PRINCESS.
The king! Nay, are you sure you heard him right?
The king! Was that the very word he used?
PAGE.
It was. He called it a most perilous secret,
And warned me to be strictly on my guard,
Never with word or look to give the king
Occasion for suspicion.
PAGE.
Which, he said, conveyed
Such bliss as made him tremble, and till then
He had not dared to dream of. As he spoke
The duke, by evil chance, approached the room,
And this compelled us----
PRINCESS (angrily).
What in all the world
Could bring the duke to him at such a time?
What can detain him? Why appears he not?
See how you've been deceived; how truly blest
Might he have been already--in the time
You've taken to describe his wishes to me!
PAGE.
The duke, I fear----
PRINCESS.
Again, the duke! What can
The duke want here? What should a warrior want
With my soft dreams of happiness? He should
Have left him there, or sent him from his presence.
Where is the man may not be treated thus?
But Carlos seems as little versed in love
As in a woman's heart--he little knows
What minutes are. But hark! I hear a step;
Away, away!
[PAGE hastens out.
Where have I laid my lute?
I must not seem to wait for him. My song
Shall be a signal to him.
SCENE VIII.
CARLOS.
Where am I? Senseless error; I have missed
The right apartment.
PRINCESS.
With what dexterous skill
Carlos contrives to hit the very room
Where ladies sit alone!
CARLOS.
Your pardon, princess!
I found--I found the antechamber open.
PRINCESS.
Can it be possible? I fastened it
Myself; at least I thought so----
CARLOS.
Ay! you thought,
You only thought so; rest assured you did not.
You meant to lock it, that I well believe:
But most assuredly it was not locked.
A lute's sweet sounds attracted me, some hand
Touched it with skill; say, was it not a lute?
[Looking round inquiringly.
Yes, there it lies, and Heaven can bear me witness
I love the lute to madness. I became
All ear, forgot myself in the sweet strain,
And rushed into the chamber to behold
The lovely eyes of the divine musician
Who charmed me with the magic of her tones.
PRINCESS.
Innocent curiosity, no doubt!
But it was soon appeased, as I can prove.
[After a short silence, significantly.
I must respect the modesty that has,
To spare a woman's blushes, thus involved
Itself in so much fiction.
CARLOS.
Princess, I feel
What such a look in such a place imports:
This virtuous embarrassment has claims
To which my manhood never can be deaf.
Woe to the wretch whose boldness takes new fire
From the pure blush of maiden modesty!
I am a coward when a woman trembles.
PRINCESS.
Is't possible?--such noble self-control
In one so young, and he a monarch's son!
Now, prince, indeed you shall remain with me,
It is my own request, and you must stay.
Near such high virtue, every maiden fear
Takes wing at once; but your appearance here
Disturbed me in a favorite air, and now
Your penalty shall be to hear me sing it.
PRINCESS
What! you heard it all?
Nay, that was too bad, prince. It was, I think,
A song of love.
CARLOS.
And of successful love,
If I mistake not--dear delicious theme
From those most beauteous lips--but scarce so true,
Methinks, as beautiful.
PRINCESS.
What! not so true?
Then do you doubt the tale?
CARLOS.
I almost doubt
That Carlos and the Princess Eboli,
When they discourse on such a theme as love,
May not quite understand each other's hearts.
CARLOS (who has been lost in absence of mind, suddenly recovers himself
by the silence of the PRINCESS, and starts up).
Charming! inimitable! Princess, sing
That passage, pray, again.
CARLOS.
Into the open air.
Nay, do not hold me, princess, for I feel
As though the world behind me were in flames.
CARLOS.
Would write a letter for me, a few words
Of kindly intercession to my father;--
They say your influence is great.
PRINCESS.
Who says so?
[Aside.
Ha! was it jealousy that held thee mute!
CARLOS.
Perchance my story is already public.
I had a sudden wish to visit Brabant
Merely to win my spurs--no more. The king,
Kind soul, is fearful the fatigues of war
Might spoil my singing!
PRINCESS.
Prince, you play me false!
Confess that by this serpent subterfuge
You would mislead me. Look me in the face,
Deceitful one! and say would he whose thoughts
Were only bent on warlike deeds--would he
E'er stoop so low as, with deceitful hand,
To steal fair ladies' ribbons when they drop,
And then--your pardon! hoard them--with such care?
[With light action she opens his shirt frill, and seizes
a ribbon which is there concealed.
PRINCESS.
Are you then
Surprised at this? What will you wager, Carlos
But I recall some stories to your heart?
Nay, try it with me; ask whate'er you please,
And if the triflings of my sportive fancy--
The sound half-uttered by the air absorbed--
The smile of joy checked by returning gloom--
If motions--looks from your own soul concealed
Have not escaped my notice--judge if I
Can err when thou wouldst have me understand thee?
CARLOS.
Why, this is boldly ventured; I accept
The wager, princess. Then you undertake
To make discoveries in my secret heart
Unknown even to myself.
PRINCESS.
Nor yet that other scene within the chapel,
Which doubtless Carlos hath long since forgotten.
Prostrate before the holy Virgin's image,
You lay in prayer, when suddenly you heard--
'Twas not your fault--a rustling from behind
Of ladies' dresses. Then did Philip's son,
A youth of hero courage, tremble like
A heretic before the holy office.
On his pale lips died the half-uttered prayer.
In ecstasy of passion, prince--the scene
Was truly touching--for you seized the hand,
The blessed Virgin's cold and holy hand,
And showered your burning kisses on the marble.
CARLOS.
Princess, you wrong me: that was pure devotion!
PRINCESS.
Indeed! that's quite another thing. Perhaps
It was the fear of losing, then, at cards,
When you were seated with the queen and me,
And you with dexterous skill purloined my glove.
[CARLOS starts surprised.
That prompted you to play it for a card?
CARLOS.
What words are these? O Heaven, what have I done?
PRINCESS.
Nothing I hope of which you need repent!
How pleasantly was I surprised to find
Concealed within the glove a little note,
Full of the warmest tenderest romance,
CARLOS.
As I before you stand.
PRINCESS (leaves him suddenly, walks a few steps up and down in silence,
apparently lost in deep thought. After a pause, gravely and solemnly).
Then thus at last--
I must resolve to speak, and Carlos, you
Shall be my judge. Yours is a noble nature,
You are a prince--a knight--a man of honor.
I throw myself upon your heart--protect me
Or if I'm lost beyond redemption's power,
Give me your tears in pity for my fate.
PRINCESS.
No; but hear all--'tis not enough that I
Am sacrificed to cold state policy,
A snare is laid to entrap my innocence.
Here is a letter will unmask the saint!
CARLOS.
At length you yielded! Yielded? No.
For God's sake say not so!
PRINCESS.
Yielded! to whom?
Poor piteous reasoning. Weak beyond contempt
Your haughty minds, who hold a woman's favor,
And love's pure joys, as wares to traffic for!
Love is the only treasure on the face
Of this wide earth that knows no purchaser
Besides itself--love has no price but love.
It is the costly gem, beyond all price,
Which I must freely give away, or--bury
For ever unenjoyed--like that proud merchant
Whom not the wealth of all the rich Rialto
Could tempt--a great rebuke to kings! to save
From the deep ocean waves his matchless pearl,
Too proud to barter it beneath its worth!
CARLOS (aside).
Now, by great heaven, this woman's beautiful.
PRINCESS.
Call it caprice or pride, I ne'er will make
Division of my joys. To him, alone,
I choose as mine, I give up all forever.
One only sacrifice I make; but that
Shall be eternal. One true heart alone
My love shall render happy: but that one
I'll elevate to God. The keen delight
Of mingling souls--the kiss--the swimming joys
Of that delicious hour when lovers meet,
The magic power of heavenly beauty--all
Are sister colors of a single ray--
Leaves of one single blossom. Shall I tear
One petal from this sweet, this lovely flower,
With reckless hand, and mar its beauteous chalice?
Shall I degrade the dignity of woman,
The masterpiece of the Almighty's hand,
To charm the evening of a reveller?
CARLOS.
Incredible! that in Madrid should dwell
This matchless creature! and unknown to me
Until this day.
PRINCESS.
Long since had I forsaken
This court--the world--and in some blest retreat
Immured myself; but one tie binds me still
Too firmly to existence. Perhaps--alas!
'Tis but a phantom--but 'tis dear to me.
I love--but am not loved in turn.
PRINCESS.
You swear it, you!--sure 'twas an angel's voice.
Oh, if you swear it, Carlos, I'll believe it.
Then I am truly loved!
CARLOS.
Thou shalt. I will unfold myself to thee,
To thy unspotted innocence, dear maid,
Thy pure, unblemished nature. In this court
Thou art the worthiest--first--the only one
To whom this soul has stood revealed.
Then, yes! I will not now conceal it--yes,
I love!
PRINCESS.
Oh, cruel heart! Does this avowal prove
So painful to thee? Must I first deserve
Thy pity--ere I hope to win thy love?
CARLOS (starting).
What say'st thou?
PRINCESS.
So to trifle with me, prince!
Indeed it was not well--and to deny
The key----
CARLOS.
The key! the key! Oh yes, 'tis so!
PRINCESS.
Oh, horrible! What have I done!
CARLOS.
Hurled down
So far from all my heavenly joys! 'Tis dreadful!
PRINCESS (hiding her face in the cushion).
Oh, God! What have I said?
CARLOS.
No, I will not leave thee thus.
In this dread anguish leave thee----
[CARLOS going.
CARLOS.
The other letter?
PRINCESS.
That from the king, to me----
CARLOS (terrified).
From whom?
PRINCESS.
The one I just now gave you.
CARLOS.
From the king!
To you!
PRINCESS.
Oh, heavens, how dreadfully have I
Involved myself! The letter, sir! I must
Have it again.
CARLOS.
The letter from the king!
To you!
PRINCESS.
The letter! give it, I implore you
By all that's sacred! give it.
CARLOS.
What, the letter
That will unmask the saint! Is this the letter?
PRINCESS.
Now I'm undone! Quick, give it me----
CARLOS.
The letter----
CARLOS.
This letter comes, then, from the king! Princess,
That changes all indeed, and quickly, too.
This letter is beyond all value--priceless!
All Philip's crowns are worthless, and too poor
To win it from my hands. I'll keep this letter.
[Exit CARLOS.
SCENE IX.
PRINCESS.
Prince, but one word! Prince, hear me. He is gone.
And this, too, I am doomed to bear--his scorn!
And I am left in lonely wretchedness,
Rejected and despised!
[Sinks down upon a chair. After a pause
And yet not so;
I'm but displaced--supplanted by some wanton.
He loves! of that no longer doubt is left;
He has himself confessed it--but my rival--
Who can she be? Happy, thrice happy one!
This much stands clear: he loves where he should not.
He dreads discovery, and from the king
He hides his guilty passion! Why from him
Who would so gladly hail it? Or, is it not
The father that he dreads so in the parent?
When the king's wanton purpose was disclosed,
His features glowed with triumph, boundless joy
Flashed in his eyes, his rigid virtue fled;
Why was it mute in such a cause as this?
Why should he triumph? What hath he to gain
If Philip to his queen----
[Exit.
SCENE X.
DOMINGO.
Something to tell me!
ALVA.
Ay! a thing of moment,
Of which I made discovery to-day,
And I would have your judgment on it.
DOMINGO.
How!
Discovery! To what do you allude?
ALVA.
Prince Carlos and myself this morning met
In the queen's antechamber. I received
An insult from him--we were both in heat--
The strife grew loud--and we had drawn our swords.
Alarmed, from her apartments rushed the queen.
She stepped between us,--with commanding eye
Of conscious power, she looked upon the prince.
'Twas but a single glance,--but his arm dropped,
He fell upon my bosom--gave me then
A warm embrace, and vanished.
ALVA.
And why in Spain?
DOMINGO.
There is a chance in every court but this
For passion to forget itself, and fall.
Here it is warned by ever-wakeful laws.
Our Spanish queens would find it hard to sin--
And only there do they meet obstacles,
Where best 'twould serve our purpose to surprise them.
ALVA.
But listen further: Carlos had to-day
An audience of the king; the interview
Lasted an hour, and earnestly he sought
The government of Flanders for himself.
Loudly he begged, and fervently. I heard him
In the adjoining cabinet. His eyes
Were red with tears when I encountered him.
At noon he wore a look of lofty triumph,
And vowed his joy at the king's choice of me.
DOMINGO.
And is it come to this at last? to this?
And has one moment crumbled into dust
What cost us years to build? And you so calm,
So perfectly at ease! Know you this youth?
Do you foresee the fate we may expect
Should he attain to power? The prince! No foe
Am I of his. Far other cares than these
Gnaw at my rest--cares for the throne--for God,
And for his holy church! The royal prince--
(I know him, I can penetrate his soul),
Has formed a horrible design, Toledo!
The wild design--to make himself the regent,
And set aside our pure and sacred faith.
His bosom glows with some new-fangled virtue,
Which, proud and self-sufficient, scorns to rest
For strength on any creed. He dares to think!
His brain is all on fire with wild chimeras;
He reverences the people! And is this
A man to be our king?
ALVA.
Fantastic dreams!
No more. A boy's ambition, too, perchance
To play some lofty part! What can he less?
These thoughts will vanish when he's called to rule.
DOMINGO.
I doubt it! Of his freedom he is proud,
And scorns those strict restraints all men must bear
Who hope to govern others. Would he suit
Our throne? His bold gigantic mind
Would burst the barriers of our policy.
In vain I sought to enervate his soul
In the loose joys of this voluptuous age.
He stood the trial. Fearful is the spirit
That rules this youth; and Philip soon will see
His sixtieth year.
ALVA.
Your vision stretches far!
DOMINGO.
He and the queen are both alike in this.
Already works, concealed in either breast,
The poisonous wish for change and innovation.
Give it but way, 'twill quickly reach the throne.
I know this Valois! We may tremble for
The secret vengeance of this quiet foe
If Philip's weakness hearken to her voice!
Fortune so far hath smiled upon us. Now
We must anticipate the foe, and both
Shall fall together in one fatal snare.
Let but a hint of such a thing be dropped
Before the king, proved or unproved, it reeks not!
Our point is gained if he but waver. We
Ourselves have not a doubt; and once convinced,
'Tis easy to convince another's mind.
Be sure we shall discover more if we
Start with the faith that more remains concealed.
ALVA.
But soft! A vital question! Who is he
Will undertake the task to tell the king?
DOMINGO.
Nor you, nor I! Now shall you learn, what long
My busy spirit, full of its design,
Has been at work with, to achieve its ends.
Still is there wanting to complete our league
A third important personage. The king
Loves the young Princess Eboli--and I
Foster this passion for my own designs.
I am his go-between. She shall be schooled
Into our plot. If my plan fail me not,
In this young lady shall a close ally--
A very queen, bloom for us. She herself
Asked me, but now, to meet her in this chamber.
I'm full of hope. And in one little night
A Spanish maid may blast this Valois lily.
ALVA.
What do you say! Can I have heard aright?
By Heaven! I'm all amazement. Compass this,
And I'll bow down to thee, Dominican!
The day's our own.
DOMINGO.
Soft! Some one comes: 'tis she--
'Tis she herself!
ALVA.
I'm in the adjoining room
If you should----
DOMINGO.
Be it so: I'll call you in.
[Exit ALVA.
SCENE XI.
PRINCESS, DOMINGO.
DOMINGO.
At your command, princess.
PRINCESS.
We are perhaps
Not quite alone?
[Looking inquisitively after the DUKE.
You have, as I observe,
A witness still by you.
DOMINGO.
How?
PRINCESS.
Who was he,
That left your side but now?
DOMINGO.
It was Duke ALVA.
Most gracious princess, he requests you will
Admit him to an audience after me.
PRINCESS.
Duke Alva! How? What can he want with me?
You can, perhaps, inform me?
DOMINGO.
I?--and that
Before I learn to what important chance
I owe the favor, long denied, to stand
Before the Princess Eboli once more?
[Pauses awaiting her answer.
Has any circumstance occurred at last
To favor the king's wishes? Have my hopes
Been not in vain, that more deliberate thought
Would reconcile you to an offer which
Caprice alone and waywardness could spurn?
I seek your presence full of expectation----
PRINCESS.
Was my last answer to the king conveyed?
DOMINGO.
I have delayed to inflict this mortal wound.
There still is time, it rests with you, princess,
To mitigate its rigor.
PRINCESS.
Tell the king
That I expect him.
DOMINGO.
May I, lovely princess,
Indeed accept this as your true reply?
PRINCESS.
I do not jest. By heaven, you make me tremble
What have I done to make e'en you grow pale?
DOMINGO.
Nay, lady, this surprise--so sudden--I
Can scarcely comprehend it.
PRINCESS.
Reverend sir!
You shall not comprehend it. Not for all
The world would I you comprehended it.
Enough for you it is so--spare yourself
The trouble to investigate in thought,
Whose eloquence hath wrought this wondrous change.
But for your comfort let me add, you have
No hand in this misdeed,--nor has the church.
Although you've proved that cases might arise
Wherein the church, to gain some noble end,
Might use the persons of her youthful daughters!
Such reasonings move not me; such motives, pure,
Right reverend sir, are far too high for me.
DOMINGO.
When they become superfluous, your grace,
I willingly retract them.
PRINCESS.
Seek the king,
And ask him as from me, that he will not
Mistake me in this business. What I have been
That am I still. 'Tis but the course of things
Has changed. When I in anger spurned his suit,
I deemed him truly happy in possessing
Earth's fairest queen. I thought his faithful wife
Deserved my sacrifice. I thought so then,
But now I'm undeceived.
DOMINGO.
Princess, go on!
I hear it all--we understand each other.
PRINCESS.
Enough. She is found out. I will not spare her.
The hypocrite's unmasked!--She has deceived
The king, all Spain, and me. She loves, I know
She loves! I can bring proofs that will make you tremble.
The king has been deceived--but he shall not,
By heaven, go unrevenged! The saintly mask
Of pure and superhuman self-denial
I'll tear from her deceitful brow, that all
May see the forehead of the shameless sinner.
'Twill cost me dear, but here my triumph lies,
That it will cost her infinitely more.
DOMINGO.
Now all is ripe, let me call in the duke.
[Goes out.
PRINCESS (astonished).
What means all this?
SCENE XII.
ALVA.
My visit, then,
Will not so much surprise her, but I never
Trust my own eyes in these discoveries.
They need a woman's more discerning glance.
PRINCESS.
Discoveries! How mean you?
DOMINGO.
Would we knew
What place and fitter season you----
PRINCESS.
Just So!
To-morrow noon I will expect you both.
Reasons I have why this clandestine guilt
Should from the king no longer be concealed.
ALVA.
'Tis this that brings us here. The king must know it.
And he shall hear the news from you, princess,
From you alone:--for to what tongue would he
Afford such ready credence as to yours,
Friend and companion ever of his spouse?
DOMINGO.
As yours, who more than any one at will
Can o'er him exercise supreme command.
ALVA.
I am the prince's open enemy.
DOMINGO.
And that is what the world believes of me.
The Princess Eboli's above suspicion.
We are compelled to silence, but your duty,
The duty of your office, calls on you
To speak. The king shall not escape our hands.
Let your hints rouse him, we'll complete the work.
ALVA.
It must be done at once, without delay;
Each moment now is precious. In an hour
The order may arrive for my departure.
PRINCESS.
The next to hers. But of what use is that?
DOMINGO.
Oh, for some skill in locks! Have you observed
Where she is wont to keep her casket key?
DOMINGO.
Letters, you know,
Need messengers. Her retinue is large;
Who do you think could put us on the scent?
Gold can do much.
ALVA.
Can no one tell us whether
The prince has any trusty confidant?
DOMINGO.
Not one; in all Madrid not one.
ALVA.
That's strange!
DOMINGO.
Rely on me in this. He holds in scorn
The universal court. I have my proofs.
ALVA.
Stay! It occurs to me, as I was leaving
The queen's apartments, I beheld the prince
In private conference with a page of hers.
DOMINGO.
Could we not ascertain the fact? It seems
Suspicious.
[To the DUKE.
Did you know the page, my lord!
PRINCESS.
Some trifle; what else could it be?
Enough, I'm sure of that. So we shall meet again
Before I see the king; and by that time
We may discover much.
PRINCESS.
In a few days I will feign sickness, and
Shall be excused from waiting on the queen.
Such is, you know, the custom of the court,
And I may then remain in my apartment.
DOMINGO.
'Tis well devised! Now the great game is won,
And we may bid defiance to all queens!
PRINCESS.
Hark! I am called. I must attend the queen,
So fare you well.
[Exit.
SCENE XIII.
ALVA.
And your god!--why, even so
Thus we'll await the lightning that will scathe us!
[Exeunt.
SCENE XIV.
A Carthusian Convent.
DON CARLOS and the PRIOR.
PRIOR.
Yes, thrice since morning. 'Tis about an hour
Since he went hence.
CARLOS.
But he will sure return.
Has he not left some message?
PRIOR.
Yes; he promised
To come again at noon.
PRIOR.
Or as the entrance to another world.
CARLOS.
Most worthy sir, to your fidelity
And honor, have I now intrusted all
I hold most dear and sacred in the world.
No mortal man must know, or even suspect,
With whom I here hold secret assignation.
Most weighty reasons prompt me to deny,
To all the world, the friend whom I expect,
Therefore I choose this convent. Are we safe
From traitors and surprise? You recollect
What you have sworn.
PRIOR.
Good sir, rely on us.
A king's suspicion cannot pierce the grave,
And curious ears haunts only those resorts
Where wealth and passion dwell--but from these walls
The world's forever banished.
CARLOS.
You may think,
Perhaps, beneath this seeming fear and caution
There lies a guilty conscience?
PRIOR.
I think nothing.
CARLOS.
If you imagine this, most holy father,
You err--indeed you err. My secret shuns
The sight of man--but not the eye of God.
PRIOR.
Such things concern us little. This retreat
To guilt, and innocence alike, is open,
And whether thy designs be good or ill,
Thy purpose criminal or virtuous,--that
We leave to thee to settle with thy heart.
CARLOS (with warmth).
Our purpose never can disgrace your God.
'Tis his own noblest work. To you indeed,
I may reveal it.
PRIOR.
To what end, I pray?
Forego, dear prince, this needless explanation.
The world and all its troubles have been long
Shut from my thoughts--in preparation for
My last long journey. Why recall them to me
For the brief space that must precede my death?
'Tis little for salvation that we need--
But the bell rings, and summons me to prayer.
[Exit PRIOR.
SCENE XV.
CARLOS.
At length once more,--at length----
MARQUIS.
Oh, what a trial
For the impatience of a friend! The sun
Has risen twice--twice set--since Carlos' fate
Has been resolved, and am I only now
To learn it: speak,--you're reconciled!
CARLOS.
With whom?
MARQUIS.
The king! And Flanders, too,--its fate is settled!
CARLOS.
The duke sets out to-morrow. That is fixed.
MARQUIS.
That cannot be--it is not surely so.
Can all Madrid be so deceived? 'Tis said
You had a private audience, and the king----
CARLOS.
Remained inflexible, and we are now
Divided more than ever.
MARQUIS.
Do you go
To Flanders?
CARLOS.
No!
MARQUIS.
Alas! my blighted hopes!
CARLOS.
Of this hereafter. Oh, Roderigo! since
We parted last, what have I not endured?
But first thy counsel? I must speak with her!
MARQUIS.
Your mother? No! But wherefore?
CARLOS.
I have hopes--
But you turn pale! Be calm--I should be happy.
And I shall be so: but of this anon--
Advise me now, how I may speak with her.
MARQUIS.
What mean you? What new feverish dream is this?
CARLOS.
By the great God of wonders 'tis no dream!
'Tis truth, reality----
[Taking out the KING's letter to the PRINCESS EBOLI.
Contained in this
Important paper--yes, the queen is free,--
Free before men and in the eyes of heaven;
There read, and cease to wonder at my words.
CARLOS.
To Princess Eboli.
Two days ago, a page who serves the queen,
Brought me, from unknown hands, a key and letter,
Which said that in the left wing of the palace,
Where the queen lodges, lay a cabinet,--
That there a lady whom I long had loved
Awaited me. I straight obeyed the summons.
MARQUIS.
Fool! madman! you obeyed it----
CARLOS.
Not that I
The writing knew; but there was only one
Such woman, who could think herself adored
By Carlos. With delight intoxicate
I hastened to the spot. A heavenly song,
Re-echoing from the innermost apartment,
Served me for guide. I reached the cabinet--
I entered and beheld--conceive my wonder!
MARQUIS.
I guess it all----
CARLOS.
I had been lost forever,
But that I fell into an angel's hands!
She, hapless chance, by my imprudent looks,
Deceived, had yielded to the sweet delusion
And deemed herself the idol of my soul.
Moved by the silent anguish of my breast,
With thoughtless generosity, her heart
Nobly determined to return my love;
Deeming respectful fear had caused my silence,
She dared to speak, and all her lovely soul
Laid bare before me.
MARQUIS.
And with calm composure,
You tell this tale! The Princess Eboli
Saw through your heart; and doubtless she has pierced
The inmost secret of your hidden love.
You've wronged her deeply, and she rules the king.
CARLOS (confidently).
But she is virtuous!
MARQUIS.
She may be so
From love's mere selfishness. But much I fear
Such virtue--well I know it: know how little
It hath the power to soar to that ideal,
Which, first conceived in sweet and stately grace,
From the pure soul's maternal soil, puts forth
Spontaneous shoots, nor asks the gardener's aid
To nurse its lavish blossoms into life.
'Tis but a foreign plant, with labor reared,
And warmth that poorly imitates the south,
In a cold soil and an unfriendly clime.
Call it what name you will--or education,
Or principle, or artificial virtue
Won from the heat of youth by art and cunning,
In conflicts manifold--all noted down
With scrupulous reckoning to that heaven's account,
Which is its aim, and will requite its pains.
Ask your own heart! Can she forgive the queen
That you should scorn her dearly-purchased virtue,
To pine in hopeless love for Philip's wife.
CARLOS.
Knowest thou the princess, then, so well?
MARQUIS.
Not I--
I've scarcely seen her twice. And yet thus much
I may remark. To me she still appears
To shun alone the nakedness of vice,
Too weakly proud of her imagined virtue.
And then I mark the queen. How different, Carlos,
Is everything that I behold in her!
In native dignity, serene and calm,
Wearing a careless cheerfulness--unschooled
In all the trained restraints of conduct, far
Removed from boldness and timidity,
With firm, heroic step, she walks along
The narrow middle path of rectitude,
Unconscious of the worship she compels,
Where she of self-approval never dreamed.
Say, does my Carlos in this mirror trace
The features of his Eboli? The princess
Was constant while she loved; love was the price,
The understood condition of her virtue.
You failed to pay that price--'twill therefore fall.
MARQUIS.
Deserve I this?
Friend of my soul, this would I never do--
By heaven I would not. Oh, this Eboli!
She were an angel to me, and before
Her glory would I bend me prostrate down,
In reverence deep as thine, if she were not
The mistress of thy secret.
CARLOS.
See how vain,
How idle are thy fears! What proofs has she
That will not stamp her maiden brow with shame?
Say, will she purchase with her own dishonor
The wretched satisfaction of revenge?
MARQUIS.
Ay! to recall a blush, full many a one
Has doomed herself to infamy.
MARQUIS.
Now? for what?
CARLOS.
Because I've nothing more to care for now.
And I must know my fate. Only contrive
That I may speak with her.
MARQUIS.
And wilt thou show
This letter to her?
CARLOS.
Question me no more,
But quickly find the means that I may see her.
MARQUIS (significantly).
Didst thou not tell me that thou lov'st thy mother?
And wouldst thou really show this letter to her?
[CARLOS gives him the letter, and the MARQUIS tears it.
CARLOS.
What! art thou mad?
[Moderating his warmth.
In truth--I must confess it,
That letter was of deepest moment to me.
MARQUIS.
So it appeared: on that account I tore it.
CARLOS.
What dost thou think, Roderigo?
MARQUIS.
Oh, I feel
From what it is that I must wean myself.
Once it was otherwise! Yes, once thy soul
Was bounteous, rich, and warm, and there was room
For a whole world in thy expanded heart.
Those feelings are extinct--all swallowed up
In one poor, petty, selfish passion. Now
Thy heart is withered, dead! No tears last thou
For the unhappy fate of wretched Flanders--
No, not another tear. Oh, Carlos! see
How poor, how beggarly, thou hast become,
Since all thy love has centered in thyself!
MARQUIS.
Not so, my Carlos. Well I understand
This fiery passion: 'tis the misdirection
Of feelings pure and noble in themselves.
The queen belonged to thee: the king, thy father,
Despoiled thee of her--yet till now thou hast
Been modestly distrustful of thy claims.
Philip, perhaps, was worthy of her! Thou
Scarce dared to breathe his sentence in a whisper--
This letter has resolved thy doubts, and proved
Thou art the worthier man. With haughty joy
Thou saw'st before thee rise the doom that waits
On tyranny convicted of a theft,
But thou wert proud to be the injured one:
Wrongs undeserved great souls can calmly suffer,
Yet here thy fancy played thee false: thy pride
Was touched with satisfaction, and thy heart
Allowed itself to hope: I plainly saw
This time, at least, thou didst not know thyself.
MARQUIS.
And am I then e'en here so little known?
See, Carlos, when thou errest, 'tis my way,
Amid a hundred virtues, still to find
That one to which I may impute thy fall.
Now, then, we understand each other better,
And thou shalt have an audience of the queen.
MARQUIS.
Take my word,
And leave the rest to me. A wild, bold thought,
A happy thought is dawning in my mind;
And thou shalt hear it from a fairer mouth,
I hasten to the queen. Perhaps to-morrow
Thy wish may be achieved. Till then, my Carlos,
Forget not this--"That a design conceived
Of lofty reason, which involves the fate,
The sufferings of mankind, though it be baffled
Ten thousand times, should never be abandoned."
Dost hear? Remember Flanders.
CARLOS.
Yes! all, all
That thou and virtue bid me not forget.
CARLOS.
Dost thou go
Straight to Madrid?
MARQUIS.
Yes, straight.
CARLOS.
Hold! one word more.
How nearly it escaped me! Yet 'twas news
Of deep importance. "Every letter now
Sent to Brabant is opened by the king!"
So be upon thy guard. The royal post
Has secret orders.
MARQUIS.
How have you learned this?
CARLOS.
Don Raymond Taxis is my trusty friend.
ACT III.
SCENE I.
KING.
Of a warm fancy she has ever been!
Who can deny it? I could never love her,
Yet has she never seemed to miss my love.
And so 'tis plain--she's false!
All
Asleep within the antechamber, too?
SCENE II.
KING.
The left Pavilion of the palace was in flames:
Did you not hear the alarum?
LERMA.
No, my liege.
KING.
No! What? And did I only dream it then?
'Twas surely real! Does not the queen sleep there?
LERMA.
She does, your majesty.
KING.
This dream affrights me!
In future let the guards be doubled there
As soon as it grows dark. Dost hear? And yet
Let it be done in secret. I would not----
Why do you gaze on me?
LERMA.
Your bloodshot eyes,
I mark, that beg repose. Dare I remind
My liege of an inestimable life,
And of your subjects, who with pale dismay
Would in such features read of restless nights?
But two brief hours of morning sleep would----
LERMA.
My great, my best of kings!
LERMA.
What true, my liege?
KING.
Oh, nothing, nothing! Leave me! Get thee gone!
LERMA.
I am, your majesty.
KING.
What! married--yet
You dare to watch a night here with your king!
Your hair is gray, and yet you do not blush
To think your wife is honest. Get thee home;
You'll find her locked, this moment, in your son's
Incestuous embrace. Believe your king.
Now go; you stand amazed; you stare at me
With searching eye, because of my gray hairs.
Unhappy man, reflect. Queens never taint
Their virtue thus: doubt it, and you shall die!
KING.
The best!
The best, from you, too! She has ardent friends,
I find, around. It must have cost her much--
More than methinks she could afford to give.
You are dismissed; now send the duke to me.
LERMA.
I hear him in the antechamber.
[Going.
SCENE III.
KING (has seated himself, and taken hold of the medallion on the table.
Looks at the DUKE for some time in silence).
Is it true
I have no faithful servant!
ALVA.
How?
KING.
A blow
Aimed at my life in its most vital part!
Full well 'twas known, yet no one warned me of it.
ALVA.
It is the prince's hand.
ALVA.
Ambition is a word of largest import,
And much it may comprise.
KING.
And had you naught
Of special purport to disclose?
ALVA (reads them, and turns to the KING with a look of terror).
Who was the madman placed these fatal papers
In my king's bands?
KING.
You know, then, who is meant?
No name you see is mentioned in the paper.
KING.
But you know!
ALVA (rising).
Your majesty,
Perchance, may bear in your remembrance still
What happened in the garden at Aranjuez.
You found the queen deserted by her ladies,
With looks confused--alone, within a bower,--
KING.
Proceed. What further have I yet to hear?
ALVA.
The Marchioness of Mondecar was banished
Because she boldly sacrificed herself
To save the queen! It has been since discovered
She did no more than she had been commanded.
Prince Carlos had been there.
KING (starting).
The prince! What more?
ALVA.
Upon the ground the footsteps of a man
Were traced, till finally they disappeared
Close to a grotto, leftward of the bower,
Where lay a handkerchief the prince had dropped.
This wakened our suspicions. But besides,
The gardener met the prince upon the spot,--
Just at the time, as near as we can guess,
Your majesty appeared within the walk.
[A long and deep silence. He sits down and hides his face.
ALVA.
But, gracious sire, all this is not enough----
ALVA.
The prince,
In welcoming a mother--lost his bride!
Long had they nursed a mutual passion, long
Each other's ardent feelings understood,
Which her new state forbade her to indulge.
The fear which still attends love's first avowal
Was long subdued. Seduction, bolder grown,
Spoke in those forms of easy confidence
Which recollections of the past allowed.
Allied by harmony of souls and years,
And now by similar restraints provoked,
They readily obeyed their wild desires.
Reasons of state opposed their early union--
But can it, sire, be thought she ever gave
To the state council such authority?
That she subdued the passion of her soul
To scrutinize with more attentive eye
The election of the cabinet. Her heart
Was bent on love, and won a diadem.
ALVA.
And has my zeal
A second time displeased your majesty?
[Exit ALVA.
SCENE IV.
KING.
Surprised!
DOMINGO.
And heaven be thanked my fears were groundless!
Now may I hope the best.
KING.
Your fears! What feared you?
DOMINGO.
I dare not hide it from your majesty
That I had learned a secret----
KING (gloomily).
And have I
Expressed a wish to share your secret with you?
Who ventures to anticipate me thus?
Too forward, by mine honor!
DOMINGO.
Gracious monarch!
The place, the occasion, seal of secrecy
'Neath which I learned it--free me from this charge.
It was intrusted to me at the seat
Of penitence--intrusted as a crime
That deeply weighed upon the tender soul
Of the fair sinner who confessed her guilt,
And sought the pardon of offended heaven.
Too late the princess weeps a foul misdeed
That may involve the queen herself in ruin.
KING.
Indeed! Kind soul! You have correctly guessed
The occasion of your summons. You must guide me
Through this dark labyrinth wherein blind zeal
Has tangled me. From you I hope for truth.
Be candid with me; what must I believe,
And what determine? From your sacred office
I look for strictest truth.
DOMINGO.
And if, my liege,
The mildness ever incident to this
My holy calling, did not such restraint
Impose upon me, still I would entreat
Your majesty, for your own peace of mind,
To urge no further this discovery,
And cease forever to pursue a secret
Which never can be happily explained.
All that is yet discovered may be pardoned.
Let the king say the word--and then the queen
Has never sinned. The monarch's will bestows
Virtue and fortune, both with equal ease.
And the king's undisturbed tranquillity
Is, in itself, sufficient to destroy
The rumors set on foot by calumny.
KING.
What! Rumors! and of me! among my subjects!
DOMINGO.
All falsehood, sire! Naught but the vilest falsehood!
I'll swear 'tis false! Yet what's believed by all,
Groundless and unconfirmed although it be,
Works its effect, as sure as truth itself.
KING.
Not in this case, by heaven!
DOMINGO.
A virtuous name
Is, after all, my liege, the only prize
Which queens and peasants' wives contest together.
KING.
For which I surely have no need to tremble.
DOMINGO.
The people, sire, are liable to err,
Nay err assuredly. What people think
Should not alarm the king. Yet that they should
Presume so far as to indulge such thoughts----
KING.
Why must I beg this poisonous draught so long?
DOMINGO.
The people often muse upon that month
Which brought your majesty so near the grave,
From that time, thirty weeks had scarce elapsed,
Before the queen's delivery was announced.
DOMINGO (he and DUKE ALVA exchange embarrassed looks. After a pause).
Could we have but foreseen that this occurrence
Would be avenged upon its mere relater.
KING.
Said you a bastard? I had scarce, you say,
Escaped the pangs of death when first she felt
She should, in nature's time, become a mother.
Explain how this occurred! 'Twas then, if I
Remember right, that you, in every church,
Ordered devotions to St. Dominick,
For the especial wonder he vouchsafed.
On one side or the other, then, you lie!
What would you have me credit? Oh, I see
Full plainly through you now! If this dark plot
Had then been ripe your saint had lost his fame.
ALVA.
This plot?
KING.
How can you with a harmony
So unexampled in your very thoughts
Concur, and not have first conspired together?
Would you persuade me thus? Think you that I
Perceived not with what eagerness you pounced
Upon your prey? With what delight you fed
Upon my pain,--my agony of grief?
Full well I marked the ardent, burning zeal
With which the duke forestalled the mark of grace
I destined for my son. And how this priest
Presumed to fortify his petty spleen
With my wrath's giant arm! I am, forsooth,
A bow which each of you may bend at pleasure
But I have yet a will. And if I needs
Must doubt--perhaps I may begin with you.
ALVA.
Reward like this our truth did ne'er expect.
KING.
Your truth! Truth warns of apprehended danger.
'Tis malice that speaks only of the past.
What can I gain by your officiousness?
Should your suspicion ripen to full truth,
What follows but the pangs of separation,
The melancholy triumphs of revenge?
But no: you only fear--you feed me with
Conjectures vague. To hell's profound abyss
You lead me on, then flee yourself away.
DOMINGO.
What other proofs than these are possible,
When our own eyes can scarcely trust themselves?
KING (turns round with astonishment and looks at the DUKE for
a long time without moving).
That's boldly said! But thou hast risked thy life
In stubborn conflicts for far less a prize.
Has risked it with a gamester's recklessness--
For honor's empty bubble. What is life
To thee? I'll not expose the royal blood
To such a madman's power, whose highest hope
Must be to yield his wretched being up
With some renown. I spurn your offer. Go;
And wait my orders in the audience chamber.
[Exeunt.
SCENE V.
SCENE VI.
ALVA.
Somewhat ill
For you, and for the news you bring.
MEDINA SIDONIA.
My heart
Was lighter 'mid the roar of English cannon
Than here on Spanish ground.
CARLOS.
Still hope the best both from my father's favor,
And your own innocence.
MEDINA SIDONIA.
Prince, I have lost
A fleet more mighty than e'er ploughed the waves.
And what is such a head as mine to set
'Gainst seventy sunken galleons? And therewith
Five hopeful sons! Alas! that breaks my heart.
SCENE VII.
PARMA.
That question let her ask
When I have fought my maiden battle, sire.
KING.
Be satisfied; your turn will come at last,
When these old props decay.
[To the DUKE OF FERIA.
What brings you here?
KING (takes the order and looks round the whole circle).
And who is worthiest after him to wear it?
MEDINA SIDONIA.
And here you see, great king,
All that remains of the Armada's might,
And of the flower of Spain.
LERMA.
The chevalier is just returned from travel,
Completed through all Europe. He is now
Here in Madrid, and waits a public day
To cast himself before his sovereign's feet.
ALVA.
The Marquis Posa? Right, he is the same
Bold Knight of Malta, sire, of whom renown
Proclaims this gallant deed. Upon a summons
Of the Grand Master, all the valiant knights
Assembled in their island, at that time
Besieged by Soliman. This noble youth,
Scarce numbering eighteen summers, straightway fled
From Alcala, where he pursued his studies,
And suddenly arrived at La Valette.
"This Cross," he said, "was bought for me; and now
To prove I'm worthy of it." He was one
Of forty knights who held St. Elmo's Castle,
At midday, 'gainst Piali, Ulucciali,
And Mustapha, and Hassem; the assault
Being thrice repeated. When the castle fell,
And all the valiant knights were killed around him,
He plunged into the ocean, and alone
Reached La Valette in safety. Two months after
The foe deserts the island, and the knight
Returned to end his interrupted studies.
FERIA.
It was the Marquis Posa, too, who crushed
The dread conspiracy in Catalonia;
And by his marked activity preserved
That powerful province to the Spanish crown.
KING.
I am amazed! What sort of man is this
Who can deserve so highly, yet awake
No pang of envy in the breasts of three
Who speak his praise? The character he owns
Must be of noble stamp indeed, or else
A very blank. I'm curious to behold
This wondrous man.
[To DUKE ALVA.
Conduct him to the council
When mass is over.
[Exit DUKE. The KING calls FERIA.
And do you preside
Here in my place.
[Exit.
FERIA.
The king is kind to-day.
MEDIA SIDONIA.
Call him a god! So he has proved to me!
FERIA.
You well deserve your fortune, admiral!
You have my warmest wishes.
A SECOND.
And also mine.
A THIRD.
My heart exults with joy--
So excellent a general!
THE FIRST.
The king
Showed you no kindness, 'twas your strict desert.
LERMA (to MEDINA SIDONIA, taking leave).
Oh, how two little words have made your fortune!
[Exeunt all.
SCENE VIII.
ALVA.
To know you.
MARQUIS.
Curiosity!
No more; I regret the precious minutes
That I must lose: time passes swiftly by.
ALVA.
I now commend you to your lucky stars.
The king is in your hands. Employ this moment
To your own best advantage; for, remember,
If it is lost, you are alone to blame.
SCENE IX.
MARQUIS.
Duke, 'tis well spoken! Turn to good account
The moment which presents itself but once!
Truly this courtier reads a useful lesson
If not in his sense good, at least in mine.
SCENE X.
MARQUIS.
No.
KING.
You did my crown
Some service? Why then do you shun my thanks?
My memory is thronged with suitor's claims.
One only is omniscient. 'Twas your duty
To seek your monarch's eye! Why did you not?
MARQUIS.
Two days have scarce elapsed since my return
From foreign travel, sire.
KING.
I would not stand
Indebted to a subject; ask some favor----
MARQUIS.
I enjoy the laws.
KING.
So does the murderer!
MARQUIS.
Then how much more the honest citizen!
My lot contents me, sire.
KING (aside).
By heavens! a proud
And dauntless mind! That was to be expected.
Proud I would have my Spaniards. Better far
The cup should overflow than not be full.
They say you've left my service?
MARQUIS.
To make way
For some one worthier, I withdrew.
KING.
'Tis pity. When spirits such as yours make holiday,
The state must suffer. But perchance you feared
To miss the post best suited to your merits.
MARQUIS.
Oh, no! I doubt not the experienced judge,
In human nature skilled--his proper study,--
Will have discovered at a glance wherein
I may be useful to him, wherein not.
With deepest gratitude, I feel the favor
Wherewith, by so exalted an opinion,
Your majesty is loading me; and yet----
[He pauses.
KING.
You hesitate?
MARQUIS.
I am, I must confess,
Sire, at this moment, unprepared to clothe
My thoughts, as the world's citizen, in phrase
Beseeming to your subject. When I left
The court forever, sire, I deemed myself
Released from the necessity to give
My reasons for this step.
KING.
Are they so weak?
What do you fear to risk by their disclosure?
MARQUIS.
My life at farthest, sire,--were time allowed
For me to weary you--but this denied--
MARQUIS.
I cannot be the servant of a prince.
[The KING looks at him with astonishment.
I will not cheat the buyer. Should you deem
Me worthy of your service, you prescribe
A course of duty for me; you command
My arm in battle and my head in council.
Then, not my actions, but the applause they meet
At court becomes their object. But for me
Virtue possesses an intrinsic worth.
I would, myself, create that happiness
A monarch, with my hand, would seek to plant,
And duty's task would prove an inward joy,
And be my willing choice. Say, like you this?
And in your own creation could you hear
A new creator? For I ne'er could stoop
To be the chisel where I fain would be--
The sculptor's self. I dearly love mankind,
My gracious liege, but in a monarchy
I dare not love another than myself.
KING.
This ardor is most laudable. You wish
To do good deeds to others; how you do them
Is but of small account to patriots,
Or to the wise. Choose then within these realms
The office where you best may satisfy
This noble impulse.
MARQUIS.
'Tis not to be found.
KING.
How!
MARQUIS.
What your majesty would spread abroad,
Through these my hands--is it the good of men?
Is it the happiness that my pure love
Would to mankind impart? Before such bliss
Monarchs would tremble. No! Court policy
Has raised up new enjoyments for mankind.
Which she is always rich enough to grant;
And wakened, in the hearts of men, new wishes
Which such enjoyments only can content.
In her own mint she coins the truth--such truth!
As she herself can tolerate: all forms
Unlike her own are broken. But is that
Which can content the court enough for me?
Must my affection for my brother pledge
Itself to work my brother injury?
To call him happy when he dare not think?
Sire, choose not me to spread the happiness
Which you have stamped for us. I must decline
To circulate such coin. I cannot be
The servant of a prince.
KING (suddenly).
You are, perhaps,
A Protestant?
KING.
Say, am I
The first to whom your views are known?
MARQUIS.
You are.
MARQUIS.
Sire, I perceive how small,
How mean, your notions are of manly worth.
Suspecting, in an honest man's discourse,
Naught but a flatterer's artifice--methinks
I can explain the cause of this your error.
Mankind compel you to it. With free choice
They have disclaimed their true nobility,
Lowered themselves to their degraded state.
Before man's inward worth, as from a phantom,
They fly in terror--and contented with
Their poverty, they ornament their chains
With slavish prudence; and they call it virtue
To bear them with a show of resignation.
Thus did you find the world, and thus it was
By your great father handed o'er to you.
In this debased connection--how could you
Respect mankind?
KING.
Your words contain some truth.
MARQUIS.
Alas! that when from the Creator's hand
You took mankind, and moulded him to suit
Your own ideas, making yourself the god
Of this new creature, you should overlook
That you yourself remained a human being--
A very man, as from God's hands you came.
Still did you feel a mortal's wants and pains.
You needed sympathy; but to a God
One can but sacrifice, and pray, and tremble--
Wretched exchange! Perversion most unblest
Of sacred nature! Once degrade mankind,
And make him but a thing to play upon,
Who then can share the harmony with you?
KING (aside).
By heaven, he moves me!
MARQUIS.
But this sacrifice
To you is valueless. You thus become
A thing apart, a species of your own.
This is the price you pay for being a god;
'Twere dreadful were it not so, and if you
Gained nothing by the misery of millions!
And if the very freedom you destroyed
Were the sole blessing that could make you happy.
Dismiss me, sire, I pray you; for my theme
Bears me too far; my heart is full; too strong
The charm, to stand before the only man
To whom I may reveal it.
KING.
Proceed; you had
Yet more to say to me.
MARQUIS.
Your majesty,
I lately passed through Flanders and Brabant,
So many rich and blooming provinces,
Filled with a valiant, great, and honest people.
To be the father of a race like this
I thought must be divine indeed; and then
I stumbled on a heap of burnt men's bones.
KING.
When, think you, would that blessed age arrive,
If I had shrunk before the curse of this?
Behold my Spain, see here the burgher's good
Blooms in eternal and unclouded peace.
A peace like this will I bestow on Flanders.
MARQUIS (hastily).
The churchyard's peace! And do you hope to end
What you have now begun? Say, do you hope
To check the ripening change of Christendom,
The universal spring, that shall renew
The earth's fair form? Would you alone, in Europe,
Fling yourself down before the rapid wheel
Of destiny, which rolls its ceaseless course,
And seize its spokes with human arm. Vain thought!
Already thousands have your kingdom fled
In joyful poverty: the honest burgher
For his faith exiled, was your noblest subject!
See! with a mother's arms, Elizabeth
Welcomes the fugitives, and Britain blooms
In rich luxuriance, from our country's arts.
Bereft of the new Christian's industry,
Granada lies forsaken, and all Europe
Exulting, sees his foe oppressed with wounds,
By its own hands inflicted!
MARQUIS.
In very truth you did--
Yes, I repeat it--by the Almighty power!
Restore us all you have deprived us of,
And, generous as strong, let happiness
Flow from your horn of plenty--let man's mind
Ripen in your vast empire--give us back
All you have taken from us--and become,
Amidst a thousand kings, a king indeed!
MARQUIS.
Look round on all the glorious face of nature,
On freedom it is founded--see how rich,
Through freedom it has grown. The great Creator
Bestows upon the worm its drop of dew,
And gives free-will a triumph in abodes
Where lone corruption reigns. See your creation,
How small, how poor! The rustling of a leaf
Alarms the mighty lord of Christendom.
Each virtue makes you quake with fear. While he,
Not to disturb fair freedom's blest appearance,
Permits the frightful ravages of evil
To waste his fair domains. The great Creator
We see not--he conceals himself within
His own eternal laws. The sceptic sees
Their operation, but beholds not Him.
"Wherefore a God!" he cries, "the world itself
Suffices for itself!" And Christian prayer
Ne'er praised him more than doth this blasphemy.
KING.
And will you undertake to raise up this
Exalted standard of weak human nature
In my dominions?
MARQUIS.
You can do it, sire.
Who else? Devote to your own people's bliss
The kingly power, which has too long enriched
The greatness of the throne alone. Restore
The prostrate dignity of human nature,
And let the subject be, what once he was,
The end and object of the monarch's care,
Bound by no duty, save a brother's love.
And when mankind is to itself restored,
Roused to a sense of its own innate worth,
When freedom's lofty virtues proudly flourish--
Then, sire, when you have made your own wide realms
The happiest in the world, it then may be
Your duty to subdue the universe.
MARQUIS.
Indeed!
MARQUIS (quickly).
And, sire, my fellow-subjects? Not for me,
Nor my own cause, I pleaded. Sire! your subjects----
KING.
Nay, if you know so well how future times
Will judge me, let them learn at least from you,
That when I found a man, I could respect him.
MARQUIS.
Oh, let not the most just of kings at once
Be the most unjust! In your realm of Flanders
There are a thousand better men than I.
But you--sire! may I dare to say so much--
For the first time, perhaps, see liberty
In milder form portrayed.
MARQUIS.
Pray leave me as I am. What value, sire,
Should I be to you were you to corrupt me?
KING.
This pride I will not bear. From this day forth
I hold you in my service. No remonstrance--
For I will have it so.
[After a pause.
But how is this?
What would I now? Was it not truth I wished?
But here is something more. Marquis, so far
You've learned to know me as a king; but yet
You know me not as man--
[The MARQUIS seems to meditate.
I understand you--
Were I the most unfortunate of fathers,
Yet as a husband may I not be blest?
MARQUIS.
If the possession of a hopeful son,
And a most lovely spouse, confer a claim
On mortal to assume that title, sire,
In both respects, you are supremely blest.
MARQUIS.
The prince possesses a right noble mind.
I ne'er have known him otherwise.
KING.
I have
The treasure he has robbed me of, no crown
Can e'er requite. So virtuous a queen!
MARQUIS.
Who dare assert it, sire?
KING.
The world! and scandal!
And I myself! Here lie the damning proofs
Of doubtless guilt--and others, too, exist,
From which I fear the worst. But still 'tis hard
To trust one proof alone. Who brings the charge?
And oh! if this were possible--that she,
The queen, so foully could pollute her honor,
Then how much easier were it to believe
An Eboli may be a slanderer!
Does not that priest detest my son and her?
And can I doubt that Alva broods revenge?
My wife has higher worth than all together.
MARQUIS.
And there exists besides in woman's soul
A treasure, sire, beyond all outward show,
Above the reach of slander--female virtue!
KING.
Marquis! those thoughts are mine. It costs too much
To sink so low as they accuse the queen.
The sacred ties of honor are not broken
With so much ease, as some would fain persuade me.
Marquis, you know mankind. Just such a man
As you I long have wished for--you are kind--
Cheerful--and deeply versed in human nature--
Therefore I've chosen you----
KING.
You stand
Before your king and ask no special favor--
For yourself nothing!--that is new to me--
You will be just--ne'er weakly swayed by passion.
Watch my son close--search the queen's inmost heart.
You shall have power to speak with her in private.
Retire.
[He rings a bell.
MARQUIS.
And if with but one hope fulfilled
I now depart, then is this day indeed
The happiest of my life.
SCENE I.
[She observes PRINCESS EBOLI, who approaches and kisses her hand.
QUEEN.
I wished to visit you, dear Eboli,
But dared not.
OLIVAREZ.
Oh! the Princess Eboli
Was not in want of company.
QUEEN.
Why, that
I readily believe, but what's the matter?
You tremble----
PRINCESS.
Nothing--nothing, gracious queen.
Permit me to retire.
QUEEN.
You hide it from us--
And are far worse than you would have us think.
Standing must weary you. Assist her, countess,
And let her rest awhile upon that seat.
PRINCESS (going).
I shall be better in the open air.
QUEEN.
Attend her, countess. What a sudden illness!
OLIVAREZ.
The Marquis Posa waits, your majesty,
With orders from the king.
QUEEN.
Admit him then.
[PAGE admits the MARQUIS and exit.
SCENE II.
QUEEN.
What are my lord's commands? And may I dare
Thus publicly to hear----
MARQUIS.
My business is
In private with your royal majesty.
SCENE III.
MARQUIS.
Does this
Seem such a wonder to your majesty?
To me 'tis otherwise.
QUEEN.
The world must sure
Have wandered from its course! That you and he--
I must confess----
MARQUIS.
It does sound somewhat strange--
But be it so. The present times abound
In prodigies.
QUEEN.
But none can equal this.
MARQUIS.
Suppose I had at last allowed myself
To be converted, and had weary grown
Of playing the eccentric at the court
Of Philip. The eccentric! What is that?
He who would be of service to mankind
Must first endeavor to resemble them.
What end is gained by the vain-glorious garb
Of the sectarian? Then suppose--for who
From vanity is so completely free
As for his creed to seek no proselytes?
Suppose, I say, I had it in my mind
To place my own opinions on the throne!
QUEEN.
No, marquis! no! Not even in jest could I
Suspect you of so wild a scheme as this;
No visionary you! to undertake
What you can ne'er accomplish.
MARQUIS.
But that seems
To be the very point at issue.
QUEEN.
What
I chiefly blame you, marquis, for, and what
Could well estrange me from you--is----
MARQUIS.
Perhaps
Duplicity!
QUEEN.
At least--a want of candor.
Perhaps the king himself has no desire
You should impart what now you mean to tell me.
MARQUIS.
No.
QUEEN.
And can evil means be justified
By honest ends? And--pardon me the doubt--
Can your high bearing stoop to such an office?
I scarce can think it.
MARQUIS.
Nor, indeed, could I,
Were my sole purpose to deceive the king.
'Tis not my wish--I mean to serve him now
More honestly than he himself commands.
QUEEN.
'Tis spoken like yourself. Enough of this--
What would the king?
MARQUIS.
The king? I can, it seems,
Retaliate quickly on my rigid judge
And what I have deferred so long to tell,
Your majesty, perhaps, would willingly
Longer defer to hear. But still it must
Be heard. The king requests your majesty
Will grant no audience to the ambassador
Of France to-day. Such were my high commands--
They're executed.
QUEEN.
Marquis, is that all
You have to tell me from him?
MARQUIS.
Nearly all
That justifies me thus to seek your presence.
QUEEN.
Well, marquis, I'm contented not to hear
What should, perhaps, remain a secret from me.
MARQUIS.
True, queen! though were you other than yourself,
I should inform you straight of certain things--
Warn you of certain men--but this to you
Were a vain office. Danger may arise
And disappear around you, unperceived.
You will not know it--of too little weight
To chase the slumber from your angel brow.
But 'twas not this, in sooth, that brought me hither,
Prince Carlos----
QUEEN.
What of him? How have you left him?
MARQUIS.
E'en as the only wise man of his time,
In whom it is a crime to worship truth--
And ready, for his love to risk his life,
As the wise sage for his. I bring few words--
But here he is himself.
MARQUIS.
So do I.
QUEEN.
And will he thus
Be happy--when he sees with his own eyes,
That I am wretched?
MARQUIS.
No; but more resolved,
More active.
QUEEN.
How?
MARQUIS.
Duke Alva is appointed
To Flanders.
QUEEN.
Yes, appointed--so I hear.
MARQUIS.
The king cannot retract:--we know the king.
This much is clear, the prince must not remain
Here in Madrid, nor Flanders be abandoned.
QUEEN.
And can you hinder it?
MARQUIS.
Perhaps I can,
But then the means are dangerous as the evil--
Rash as despair--and yet I know no other.
QUEEN.
Name them.
MARQUIS.
To you, and you alone, my queen,
Will I reveal them; for from you alone,
Carlos will hear them named without a shudder.
The name they bear is somewhat harsh.
QUEEN.
Rebellion!
MARQUIS.
He must prove faithless to the king, and fly
With secrecy to Brussels, where the Flemings
Wait him with open arms. The Netherlands
Will rise at his command. Our glorious cause
From the king's son will gather matchless strength,
The Spanish throne shall tremble at his arms,
And what his sire denied him in Madrid,
That will he willingly concede in Brussels.
QUEEN.
You've spoken with the king to-day--and yet
Maintain all this.
MARQUIS.
Yes, I maintain it all,
Because I spoke with him.
MARQUIS.
It was my wish that he should hear it first
From your own lips.
QUEEN.
The plan is doubtless good,
But then the prince's youth----
MARQUIS.
No disadvantage!
He there will find the bravest generals
Of the Emperor Charles--an Egmont and an Orange--
In battle daring, and in council wise.
MARQUIS.
It is ready.
QUEEN.
I, too, know means.
MARQUIS.
May I then give him hopes
Of seeing you?
QUEEN.
I will consider it.
MARQUIS.
The prince, my queen, is urgent for an answer.
I promised to procure it.
[Presenting his writing tablet to the QUEEN.
Two short lines
Will be enough.
MARQUIS.
Whene'er you wish.
QUEEN.
Whene'er I wish it, marquis!
How can I understand this privilege?
MARQUIS.
As innocently, queen, as e'er you may.
But we enjoy it--that is sure enough.
QUEEN (interrupting).
How will my heart rejoice should this become
A refuge for the liberties of Europe,
And this through him! Count on my silent aid!
MARQUIS (with animation).
Right well I knew your heart would understand me.
SCENE IV.
A Gallery.
DON CARLOS, COUNT LERMA.
CARLOS.
Here we are undisturbed. What would you now
Impart to me?
LERMA.
Your highness has a friend
Here at the court.
CARLOS (starting).
A friend! I knew it not!
But what's your meaning?
LERMA.
I must sue for pardon
That I am learned in more than I should know.
But for your highness' comfort I've received it
From one I may depend upon--in short,
I have it from myself.
CARLOS.
Whom speak you of?
LERMA.
The Marquis Posa.
CARLOS.
What!
LERMA.
And if your highness
Has trusted to him more of what concerns you
Than every one should know, as I am led
To fear----
CARLOS.
You fear!
LERMA.
He has been with the king.
CARLOS.
Indeed!
LERMA.
Two hours in secret converse too.
CARLOS.
Indeed!
LERMA.
The subject was no trifling matter.
CARLOS.
That I can well believe.
LERMA.
And several times
I heard your name.
CARLOS.
That's no bad sign, I hope.
LERMA.
And then, this morning, in the king's apartment,
The queen was spoken of mysteriously.
LERMA.
When the marquis had retired
I was commanded to admit his lordship
In future unannounced.
CARLOS.
Astonishing!
LERMA.
And without precedent do I believe,
Long as I served the king----
CARLOS.
'Tis strange, indeed!
How did you say the queen was spoken of?
CARLOS.
'Tis somewhat strange! One secret you impart.
The other you withhold.
LERMA.
The first was due
To you, the other to the king.
CARLOS.
You're right.
LERMA.
And still I've thought you, prince, a man of honor.
CARLOS.
Then you have judged me truly.
LERMA.
But all virtue
Is spotless till it's tried.
CARLOS.
Some stand the trial.
LERMA.
A powerful monarch's favor is a prize
Worth seeking for; and this alluring bait
Has ruined many a virtue.
CARLOS.
Truly said!
LERMA.
And oftentimes 'tis prudent to discover--
What scarce can longer be concealed.
CARLOS.
Yes, prudent
It may be, but you say you've ever known
The marquis prove himself a man of honor.
LERMA.
And if he be so still my fears are harmless,
And you become a double gainer, prince.
[Going.
[Exit LERMA.
SCENE V.
MARQUIS.
Carlos! My Carlos!
CARLOS.
Who calls me? Ah! 'tis thou--I was in haste
To gain the convent! You will not delay.
[Going.
MARQUIS.
Hold! for a moment.
CARLOS.
We may be observed.
MARQUIS.
No chance of that. 'Tis over now. The queen----
CARLOS.
You've seen my father.
MARQUIS.
Yes! he sent for me.
MARQUIS.
'Tis all settled--you may see the queen.
CARLOS.
Yes! but the king! What said the king to you?
MARQUIS.
Not much. Mere curiosity to learn
My history. The zeal of unknown friends--
I know not what. He offered me employment.
CARLOS.
Which you, of course, rejected?
MARQUIS.
Yes, of course
CARLOS.
How did you separate?
MARQUIS.
Oh, well enough!
CARLOS.
And was I mentioned?
MARQUIS.
Yes; in general terms.
MARQUIS.
Yes! But stay
Why in such haste? No one is coming hither.
MARQUIS.
To-day--
Wherefore to-day?
CARLOS.
What writes the queen to me?
MARQUIS.
Have you not read this instant?
CARLOS.
I? Oh yes.
MARQUIS.
What is't disturbs you now?
MARQUIS.
And, Carlos, if I knew,
Say, art thou now prepared to hear it from me?
CARLOS.
Have I offended thee? I was distracted.
Roderigo, pardon me.
MARQUIS.
Distracted! How?
CARLOS.
I scarcely know! But may I keep this tablet?
MARQUIS.
Not so! I came to ask thee for thine own.
CARLOS.
My tablet! Why?
MARQUIS.
And whatsoever writings
You have, unfit to meet a stranger's eye--
Letters or memorandums, and in short,
Your whole portfolio.
CARLOS.
Why?
MARQUIS.
That we may be
Prepared for accidents. Who can prevent
Surprise? They'll never seek them in my keeping.
Here, give them to me----
CARLOS (uneasy).
Strange! What can it mean?
MARQUIS.
Be not alarmed! 'Tis nothing of importance
A mere precaution to prevent surprise.
You need not be alarmed!
MARQUIS.
Be sure I will.
MARQUIS.
Not more than I have often had from thee.
The rest we'll talk of yonder. Now farewell.
[Going.
MARQUIS.
I yield unwillingly--
For 'twas that letter which I most required.
CARLOS.
Farewell!
[Exit hastily.
SCENE VI.
[Exit.
SCENE VII.
LERMA.
Her majesty is in the antechamber.
KING.
What! Now?
LERMA.
And begs the favor of an audience.
KING.
Now! At this unaccustomed hour! Not now--
I cannot see her yet.
LERMA.
Here comes the queen.
[Exit LERMA.
SCENE IX.
QUEEN.
My lord! My husband! I'm constrained to seek
Justice before the throne!
KING.
What? Justice!
QUEEN.
Yes!
I'm treated with dishonor at the court!
My casket has been rifled.
KING.
What! Your casket?
QUEEN.
And things I highly value have been plundered.
KING.
Things that you highly value.
QUEEN.
From the meaning
Which ignorant men's officiousness, perhaps,
Might give to them----
KING.
What's this? Officiousness,
And meaning! How? But rise.
QUEEN.
Oh no, my husband!
Not till you bind yourself by sacred promise,
By virtue of your own authority,
To find the offender out, and grant redress,
Or else dismiss my suite, which hides a thief.
KING.
But rise! In such a posture! Pray you, rise.
QUEEN (rises).
'Tis some one of distinction--I know well;
My casket held both diamonds and pearls
Of matchless value, but he only took
My letters.
KING.
May I ask----
QUEEN.
Undoubtedly,
My husband. They were letters from the prince:
His miniature as well.
KING.
From whom?
QUEEN.
The prince,
Your son.
KING.
To you?
QUEEN.
Sent by the prince to me.
KING.
What! From Prince Carlos! Do you tell me that?
QUEEN.
Why not tell you, my husband?
KING.
And not blush.
QUEEN.
What mean you? You must surely recollect
The letters Carlos sent me to St. Germains,
With both courts' full consent. Whether that leave
Extended to the portrait, or alone
His hasty hope dictated such a step,
I cannot now pretend to answer; but
If even rash, it may at least be pardoned
For thus much I may be his pledge--that then
He never thought the gift was for his mother.
[Observes the agitation of the KING.
What moves you? What's the matter?
INFANTA (who has found the miniature on the ground, and has been
playing with it, brings it to the QUEEN).
Look, dear mother!
See what a pretty picture!
QUEEN.
What then my----
KING.
'Tis for me to question.
QUEEN.
Let my suspicions spare the innocent.
And if by your command this theft was done----
KING.
It was so done!
QUEEN.
Then I have none to blame,
And none to pity--other than yourself--
Since you possess a wife on whom such schemes
Are thrown away.
KING.
This language is not new--
Nor shall you, madam, now again deceive me
As in the gardens of Aranjuez--
My queen of angel purity, who then
So haughtily my accusation spurned--
I know her better now.
QUEEN.
What mean you, sire?
KING.
Madam! thus briefly and without reserve--
Say is it true? still true, that you conversed
With no one there? Is really that the truth?
QUEEN.
I spoke there with the prince.
KING.
Then is clear
As day! So daring! heedless of mine honor!
QUEEN.
Your honor, sire! If that be now the question,
A greater honor is, methinks, at stake
Than Castile ever brought me as a dowry.
KING.
Why did you then deny the prince's presence?
QUEEN.
Because I'm not accustomed to be questioned
Like a delinquent before all your courtiers;
I never shall deny the truth when asked
With kindness and respect. Was that the tone
Your majesty used towards me in Aranjuez?
Are your assembled grandees the tribunal
Queens must account to for their private conduct?
I gave the prince the interview he sought
With earnest prayer, because, my liege and lord,
I--the queen--wished and willed it, and because
I never can admit that formal custom
Should sit as judge on actions that are guiltless;
And I concealed it from your majesty
Because I chose not to contend with you
About this right in presence of your courtiers.
KING.
You speak with boldness, madam!
QUEEN.
I may add,
Because the prince, in his own father's heart,
Scarce finds that kindness he so well deserves.
KING.
So well deserves!
QUEEN.
Why, sire! should I conceal it!
Highly do I esteem him--yes! and love him
As a most dear relation, who was once
Deemed worthy of a dearer--tenderer--title.
I've yet to learn that he, on this account,
Should be estranged from me beyond all others,--
Because he once was better loved than they.
Though your state policy may knit together
What bands it pleases--'tis a harder task
To burst such ties! I will not hate another
For any one's command--and since I must
So speak--such dictates I will not endure.
KING.
Elizabeth! you've seen me in weak moments--
And their remembrance now emboldens you.
On that strong influence you now depend,
Which you have often, with so much success,
Against my firmness tried. But fear the more
The power which has seduced me to be weak
May yet inflame me to some act of madness.
QUEEN.
What have I done?
QUEEN.
What crime
Have I committed?
KING.
On my own account then
Shall blood be shed.
QUEEN.
And has it come to this?
Oh, Heaven!
KING.
I shall forget myself--I shall
Regard no usage and no voice of nature--
Not e'en the law of nations.
QUEEN.
Oh, how much
I pity you!
KING.
The pity of a harlot!
[Going.
KING (embarrassed).
Queen!
QUEEN.
I can bear no more--it is too much!
[Hastening to the door, she falls with her child on the threshold.
[Runs out.
SCENE X.
KING.
Now let the queen
Be led to her apartment; she's unwell.
ALVA.
The queen in tears, and blood upon her face!
KING.
Does that surprise the devils who've misled me?
KING.
You have said enough to drive me mad.
But nothing to convince me.
ALVA.
We gave you
What we ourselves possessed.
KING.
May hell reward you!
I've done what I repent of! Ah! was hers,
The language of a conscience dark with guilt?
MARQUIS POSA (from without).
Say, can I see the king?
SCENE XI.
SCENE XII.
MARQUIS.
That old soldier, sire,
Who has faced death, in twenty battles, for you,
Must hold it thankless to be so dismissed.
KING.
'Tis thus for you to think--for me to act;
In a few hours you have been more to me
Than that man in a lifetime. Nor shall I
Keep my content a secret. On your brow
The lustre of my high and royal favor
Shall shine resplendent--I will make that man
A mark for envy whom I choose my friend.
MARQUIS.
What if the veil of dark obscurity
Were his sole claim to merit such a title?
KING.
What come you now to tell me?
MARQUIS.
As I passed
Along the antechamber a dread rumor
Fell on my ear,--it seemed incredible,--
Of a most angry quarrel--blood--the queen----
KING.
Come you from her?
MARQUIS.
I should be horrified
Were not the rumor false: or should perhaps
Your majesty meantime have done some act--
Discoveries of importance I have made,
Which wholly change the aspect of affairs.
KING.
How now?
MARQUIS.
I found an opportunity
To seize your son's portfolio, with his letters,
Which, as I hope, may throw some light----
MARQUIS.
The queen's writing!
Impossible!
KING.
The Princess Eboli's.
MARQUIS.
Then, it was true, what the queen's page confessed,
Not long since--that he brought this key and letter.
MARQUIS.
Then it was lucky----
KING.
Marquis! O marquis! I begin to fear
I've wronged my wife.
MARQUIS.
If there exist between
The prince and queen some secret understandings,
They are of other import, rest assured,
Than those they charge her with. I know, for certain,
The prince's prayer to be despatched to Flanders
Was by the queen suggested.
KING.
I have thought so.
MARQUIS.
The queen's ambitious. Dare I speak more fully?
She sees, with some resentment, her high hopes
All disappointed, and herself shut out
From share of empire. Your son's youthful ardor
Offers itself to her far-reaching views,
Her heart! I doubt if she can love.
KING.
Her schemes
Of policy can never make me tremble.
MARQUIS.
Whether the Infant loves her--whether we
Have something worse to fear from him,--are things
Worthy our deep attention. To these points
Our strictest vigilance must be directed.
KING.
You must be pledge for him.
MARQUIS.
And if the king
Esteem me capable of such a task,
I must entreat it be intrusted to me
Wholly without conditions.
KING.
So it shall.
MARQUIS.
That in the steps which I may think required,
I may be thwarted by no coadjutors,
Whatever name they bear.
KING.
I pledge my word
You shall not. You have proved my guardian angel.
How many thanks I owe you for this service!
LERMA.
But scarce recovered
From her deep swoon.
KING.
You are quite right--but how?
MARQUIS.
Your majesty
May sign a secret warrant of arrest
And place it in my hands, to be employed,
As may seem needful, in the hour of danger.
SCENE XIII.
A Gallery.
CARLOS.
I have been seeking you.
LERMA.
And I your highness.
CARLOS.
For heaven's sake is it true?
LERMA.
What do you mean?
CARLOS.
That the king drew his dagger, and that she
Was borne, all bathed in blood, from the apartment?
Now answer me, by all that's sacred; say,
What am I to believe? What truth is in it?
LERMA.
She fainted, and so grazed her skin in falling
That is the whole.
CARLOS.
Is there no further danger?
Count, answer on your honor.
LERMA.
For the queen
No further danger; for yourself, there's much!
CARLOS.
None for my mother. Then, kind Heaven, I thank thee.
A dreadful rumor reached me that the king
Raved against child and mother, and that some
Dire secret was discovered.
LERMA.
And the last
May possibly be true.
CARLOS.
Be true! What mean you?
LERMA.
One warning have I given you, prince, already,
And that to-day, but you despised it; now
Perhaps you'll profit better by a second.
CARLOS.
Explain yourself.
LERMA.
If I mistake not, prince,
A few days since I noticed in your hands
An azure-blue portfolio, worked in velvet
And chased with gold.
LERMA.
And on the cover, if I recollect, a portrait
Set in pearls?
CARLOS.
'Tis right; go on.
LERMA.
I entered the king's chamber on a sudden,
And in his hands I marked that same portfolio,
The Marquis Posa standing by his side.
LERMA (warmly).
Then I'm a traitor!
LERMA.
Well, I forgive you.
LERMA.
Prince, I respect the grief which renders you
So far unjust.
CARLOS.
Heaven shield me from suspicion!
LERMA.
And I remember, too, the king's own words.
Just as I entered he addressed the marquis:
"How many thanks I owe you for this news."
CARLOS.
Oh, say no more!
LERMA.
Duke Alva is disgraced!
The great seal taken from the Prince Ruy Gomez,
And given to the marquis.
LERMA.
As minister all-powerful, the court
Looks on him now--as favorite unrivalled!
CARLOS.
He loved me--loved me greatly: I was dear
As his own soul is to him. That I know--
Of that I've had a thousand proofs. But should
The happiness of millions yield to one?
Must not his country dearer to him prove
Than Carlos? One friend only is too few
For his capacious heart. And not enough
Is Carlos' happiness to engross his love.
He offers me a sacrifice to virtue;
And shall I murmur at him? Now 'tis certain
I have forever lost him.
LERMA.
Dearest prince!
How can I serve you?
LERMA.
Will you then stay and brave the ill that follows?
CARLOS.
My safety! Generous man!
LERMA:
And is there, then,
No other person you should tremble for?
ALVA.
If we may be permitted, gracious queen----
QUEEN.
What are your wishes?
DOMINGO.
A most true regard
For your high majesty forbids us now
To watch in careless silence an event
Pregnant with danger to your royal safety.
ALVA.
We hasten, by a kind and timely warning,
To counteract a plot that's laid against you.
DOMINGO.
And our warm zeal, and our best services,
To lay before your feet, most gracious queen!
ALVA.
You will beware a certain Marquis Posa
He has of late been secretly employed
In the king's service.
QUEEN.
With delight I hear
The king has made so excellent a choice.
Report, long since, has spoken of the marquis
As a deserving, great, and virtuous man--
The royal grace was ne'er so well bestowed!
DOMINGO.
So well bestowed! We think far otherwise.
ALVA.
It is no secret now, for what designs
This man has been employed.
QUEEN.
How! What designs?
You put my expectation on the rack.
DOMINGO.
How long is it since last your majesty
Opened your casket?
QUEEN.
Why do you inquire?
DOMINGO.
Did you not miss some articles of value?
QUEEN.
Why these suspicions? What I missed was then
Known to the court! But what of Marquis Posa?
Say, what connection has all this with him?
ALVA.
The closest, please your majesty--the prince
Has lost some papers of importance;
And they were seen this morning with the king
After the marquis had an audience of him.
ALVA.
To us!
QUEEN.
To you yourselves!
DOMINGO.
To me! Duke Alva!
ALVA.
For mine? You would not sure do that!
QUEEN.
Why not?
ALVA.
'Twould counteract the services we might
Render in secret to you.
QUEEN.
How! in secret?
[With stern dignity.
I fain would know what secret projects, duke,
Your sovereign's spouse can have to form with you,
Or, priest! with you--her husband should not know?
Think you that I am innocent or guilty?
DOMINGO.
Strange question!
ALVA.
Should the monarch prove unjust--
And at this time----
QUEEN.
Then I must wait for justice
Until it come--and they are happiest far
Whose consciences may calmly wait their right.
SCENE XV.
EBOLI.
Is it then true--the strange intelligence,
That fills the court with wonder?
CARLOS (enters).
Do not fear
Princess! I shall be gentle as a child.
EBOLI.
Prince, this intrusion!
CARLOS.
Are you angry still?
Offended still with me----
EBOLI.
Prince!
CARLOS (earnestly).
Are you angry?
I pray you answer me.
EBOLI.
What can this mean?
You seem, prince, to forget--what would you with me?
CARLOS.
Of your kindness, dearest!
And of my deep ingratitude. Alas,
Too well I know it! deeply have I wronged thee--
Wounded thy tender heart, and from thine eyes,
Thine angel eyes, wrung precious tears, sweet maid!
But ah! 'tis not repentance leads me hither.
EBOLI.
Prince! leave me--I----
CARLOS.
I come to thee, because
Thou art a maid of gentle soul--because
I trust thy heart--thy kind and tender heart.
Think, dearest maiden! think, I have no friend,
No friend but thee, in all this wretched world--
Thou who wert once so kind wilt not forever
Hate me, nor will thy anger prove eternal.
CARLOS.
Let me remind thee of those golden hours--
Let me remind thee of thy love, sweet maid--
That love which I so basely have offended!
Oh, let me now appear to thee again
As once I was--and as thy heart portrayed me.
Yet once again, once only, place my image,
As in days past, before thy tender soul,
And to that idol make a sacrifice
Thou canst not make to me.
EBOLI.
Oh, Carlos, cease!
Too cruelly thou sportest with my feelings!
CARLOS.
Be nobler than thy sex! Forgive an insult!
Do what no woman e'er has done before thee,
And what no woman, after thee, can equal.
I ask of thee an unexampled favor.
Grant me--upon my knees I ask of thee
Grant me two moments with the queen, my mother!
SCENE XVI.
SCENE XVII.
EBOLI.
For Heaven's sake let me leave this place----
EBOLI.
Oh, leave me! Nothing.
EBOLI.
Mercy!
What have I then committed?
[He lets the dagger fall and hurries out. The PRINCESS
hastens out through another door.
SCENE XVIII.
SCENE XIX.
The QUEEN, PRINCESS EBOLI.
QUEEN.
Who?
EBOLI.
He's arrested
By the king's orders given to Marquis Posa.
QUEEN.
Who is arrested? Who?
EBOLI.
The prince!
QUEEN.
Thou ravest
EBOLI.
This moment they are leading him away.
QUEEN.
And who arrested him?
EBOLI.
The Marquis Posa.
QUEEN.
Then heaven be praised! it was the marquis seized him!
EBOLI.
Can you speak thus, and with such tranquil mien?
Oh, heavens! you do not know--you cannot think----
QUEEN.
The cause of his arrest! some trifling error,
Doubtless arising from his headlong youth!
EBOLI.
No! no! I know far better. No, my queen!
Remorseless treachery! There's no help for him.
He dies!
QUEEN.
He dies!
EBOLI.
And I'm his murderer!
QUEEN.
What! Dies? Thou ravest! Think what thou art saying?
EBOLI.
And wherefore--wherefore dies he? Had I known
That it would come to this!
QUEEN (takes her affectionately by the hand).
Oh, dearest princess,
Your senses are distracted, but collect
Your wandering spirits, and relate to me
More calmly, not in images of horror
That fright my inmost soul, whate'er you know!
Say, what has happened?
EBOLI.
Oh, display not, queen,
Such heavenly condescension! Like hot flames
This kindness sears my conscience. I'm not worthy
To view thy purity with eyes profane.
Oh, crush the wretch, who, agonized by shame,
Remorse, and self-reproach writhes at thy feet!
QUEEN.
Unhappy woman! Say, what is thy guilt?
EBOLI.
Angel of light! Sweet saint! thou little knowest
The demon who has won thy loving smiles.
Know her to-day; I was the wretched thief
Who plundered thee.
QUEEN.
What! Thou?
EBOLI.
And gave thy letters
Up to the king?
QUEEN.
What! Thou?
EBOLI.
And dared accuse thee!
QUEEN.
Thou! Couldst thou this?
EBOLI.
Revenge and madness--love--
I hated thee, and loved the prince!
QUEEN.
And did
His love so prompt thee?
QUEEN.
And who arrested him?
EBOLI.
I had owned my love,
But met with no return.
EBOLI.
No, no; a foul confession still remains.
I will not rise, great queen, till I----
QUEEN.
Then speak!
What have I yet to hear?
EBOLI.
The king! Seduction!
Oh, now you turn away. And in your eyes
I read abhorrence. Yes; of that foul crime
I charged you with, I have myself been guilty.
SCENE XX.
EBOLI.
Heavens! she has left me. I am now undone!
EBOLI.
I know your business,
Duchess, and you come hither from the queen,
To speak my sentence to me; do it quickly.
OLIVAREZ.
I am commanded by your majesty
To take your cross and key.
EBOLI (takes from her breast a golden cross, and gives it to the UCHESS).
And but once more
May I not kiss my gracious sovereign's hand?
OLIVAREZ.
In holy Mary's convent shall you learn
Your fate, princess.
SCENE XXI.
QUEEN.
Ah, marquis, I am glad you're come at last!
QUEEN.
No one! But why? What news would you impart?
MARQUIS.
You know, perhaps, already.
QUEEN.
That Carlos is arrested--and they add,
By you! Is it then true? From no one else
Would I believe it but yourself.
MARQUIS.
'Tis true.
QUEEN.
By you?
MARQUIS.
By me?
MARQUIS.
And I have lost it.
QUEEN.
Merciful heaven!
MARQUIS.
Queen, fear not! He is safe,
But I am lost myself.
QUEEN.
What do I hear?
MARQUIS.
Who bade me hazard all on one chance throw?
All? And with rash, foolhardy confidence,
Sport with the power of heaven? Of bounded mind,
Man, who is not omniscient, must not dare
To guide the helm of destiny. 'Tis just!
But why these thoughts of self. This hour is precious
As life can be to man: and who can tell
Whether the parsimonious hand of fate
May not have measured my last drops of life.
QUEEN.
The hand of fate! What means this solemn tone?
I understand these words not--but I shudder.
MARQUIS.
He's saved! no matter at what price--he's saved!
But only for to-day--a few short hours
Are his. Oh, let him husband them! This night
The prince must leave Madrid.
QUEEN.
This very night?
MARQUIS.
All measures are prepared. The post will meet him
At the Carthusian convent, which has served
So long as an asylum to our friendship.
Here will he find, in letters of exchange,
All in the world that fortune gifts me with.
Should more be wanting, you must e'en supply it.
In truth, I have within my heart full much
To unburden to my Carlos--it may chance
I shall want leisure now to tell him all
In person--but this evening you will see him,
And therefore I address myself to you.
QUEEN.
Oh, for my peace of mind, dear marquis, speak!
Explain yourself more clearly! Do not use
This dark, and fearful, and mysterious language!
Say, what has happened?
MARQUIS.
I have yet one thing,
A matter of importance on my mind:
In your hands I deposit it. My lot
Was such as few indeed have e'er enjoyed--
I loved a prince's son. My heart to one--
To that one object given.--embraced the world!
I have created in my Carlos' soul,
A paradise for millions! Oh, my dream
Was lovely! But the will of Providence
Has summoned me away, before my hour,
From this my beauteous work. His Roderigo
Soon shall be his no more, and friendship's claim
Will be transferred to love. Here, therefore, here,
Upon this sacred altar--on the heart
Of his loved queen--I lay my last bequest
A precious legacy--he'll find it here,
When I shall be no more.
QUEEN.
This is the language
Of a dying man--it surely emanates
But from your blood's excitement--or does sense
Lie hidden in your language?
QUEEN.
Till death?
MARQUIS.
Oh, bid him realize the dream,
The glowing vision which our friendship painted,
Of a new-perfect realm! And let him lay
The first hand on the rude, unshapened stone.
Whether he fail or prosper--all alike--
Let him commence the work. When centuries
Have rolled away shall Providence again
Raise to the throne a princely youth like him,
And animate again a favorite son
Whose breast shall burn with like enthusiasm.
Tell him, in manhood, he must still revere
The dreams of early youth, nor ope the heart
Of heaven's all-tender flower to canker-worms
Of boasted reason,--nor be led astray
When, by the wisdom of the dust, he hears
Enthusiasm, heavenly-born, blasphemed.
I have already told him.
QUEEN.
Whither, marquis? Whither does all this tend?
MARQUIS.
And tell him further, I lay upon his soul the happiness
Of man--that with my dying breath I claim,
Demand it of him--and with justest title.
I had designed a new, a glorious morn,
To waken in these kingdoms: for to me
Philip had opened all his inmost heart--
Called me his son--bestowed his seals upon me--
And Alva was no more his counsellor.
[He pauses, and looks at the QUEEN for a few moments in silence.
QUEEN.
Now, now, at last, I comprehend your meaning,
Unhappy man! What have you done?
MARQUIS.
Cut off
Two transient hours of evening to secure
A long, bright summer-day! I now give up
The king forever. What were I to the king?
In such cold soil no rose of mine could bloom;
In my great friend must Europe's fortune ripen.
Spain I bequeath to him, still bathed in blood
From Philip's iron hand. But woe to him,
Woe to us both, if I have chosen wrong!
But no--oh, no! I know my Carlos better--
'Twill never come to pass!--for this, my queen,
You stand my surety.
[After a silence.
Yes! I saw his love
In its first blossom--saw his fatal passion
Take root in his young heart. I had full power
To check it; but I did not. The attachment
Which seemed to me not guilty, I still nourished.
The world may censure me, but I repent not,
Nor does my heart accuse me. I saw life
Where death appeared to others. In a flame
So hopeless I discerned hope's golden beam.
I wished to lead him to the excellent--
To exalt him to the highest point of beauty.
Mortality denied a model to me,
And language, words. Then did I bend his views
To this point only--and my whole endeavor
Was to explain to him his love.
QUEEN.
Your friend,
Marquis! so wholly occupied your mind,
That for his cause you quite forgot my own--
Could you suppose that I had thrown aside
All woman's weaknesses, that you could dare
Make me his angel, and confide alone
In virtue for his armor? You forget
What risks this heart must run, when we ennoble
Passion with such a beauteous name as this.
MARQUIS.
Yes, in all other women--but in one,
One only, 'tis not so. For you, I swear it.
And should you blush to indulge the pure desire
To call heroic virtue into life?
Can it affect King Philip, that his works
Of noblest art, in the Escurial, raise
Immortal longings in the painter's soul,
Who stands entranced before them? Do the sounds
That slumber in the lute, belong alone
To him who buys the chords? With ear unmoved
He may preserve his treasure:--he has bought
The wretched right to shiver it to atoms,
But not the power to wake its silver tones,
Or, in the magic of its sounds, dissolve.
Truth is created for the sage, as beauty
Is for the feeling heart. They own each other.
And this belief, no coward prejudice
Shall make me e'er disclaim. Then promise, queen,
That you will ever love him. That false shame,
Or fancied dignity, shall never make you
Yield to the voice of base dissimulation:--
That you will love him still, unchanged, forever.
Promise me this, oh, queen! Here solemnly
Say, do you promise?
QUEEN.
That my heart alone
Shall ever vindicate my love, I promise----
QUEEN.
Now, Posa,
I understand you. Why have you done this?
MARQUIS.
Carlos or I myself!
QUEEN.
No! no! you rush
Headlong into a deed you deem, sublime.
Do not deceive yourself: I know you well:
Long have you thirsted for it. If your pride
But have its fill, what matters it to you
Though thousand hearts should break. Oh! now, at length,
I comprehend your feelings--'tis the love
Of admiration which has won your heart----
MARQUIS.
None.
QUEEN.
None? Oh, consider well! None possible!
Not e'en by me?
MARQUIS.
Not even, queen, by thee.
QUEEN.
You but half know me--I have courage, marquis----
MARQUIS.
I know it----
QUEEN.
And no means of safety?
MARQUIS.
None
[He starts up and rushes out. The QUEEN retires into her cabinet.
SCENE XXII.
DUKE ALVA and DOMINGO walking up and down in silence and separately.
COUNT LERMA comes out of the KING's cabinet, and afterwards DON
RAYMOND OF TAXIS, the Postmaster-General.
LERMA.
Has not the marquis yet appeared?
ALVA.
Not yet.
LERMA.
His majesty cannot be seen.
TAXIS.
But say
That I must see him; that my business is
Of urgent import to his majesty.
Make haste--it will admit of no delay.
ALVA.
Dear Taxis, you must learn a little patience--
You cannot see the king.
TAXIS.
Not see him! Why?
ALVA.
You should have been considerate, and procured
Permission from the Marquis Posa first--
Who keeps both son and father in confinement.
TAXIS.
The Marquis Posa! Right--that is the man
From whom I bring this letter.
ALVA.
Ah! What letter?
TAXIS.
A letter to be forwarded to Brussels.
ALVA (attentively).
To Brussels?
TAXIS.
And I bring it to the king.
ALVA.
Indeed! to Brussels! Heard you that, Domingo?
TAXIS.
And with anxious mien,
And deep embarrassment he gave it to me.
DOMINGO.
Embarrassment! To whom is it directed?
TAXIS.
The Prince of Orange and Nassau.
ALVA.
To William!
There's treason here, Domingo!
DOMINGO.
Nothing less!
In truth this letter must, without delay,
Be laid before the king. A noble service
You render, worthy man--to be so firm
In the discharge of duty.
TAXIS.
Reverend sir!
'Tis but my duty.
ALVA.
But you do it well.
DOMINGO.
He has been sought for everywhere.
ALVA.
'Tis strange!
The prince is a state prisoner! And the king
Knows not the reason why!
DOMINGO.
He never came
To explain the business here.
ALVA.
What says the king?
LERMA.
The king spoke not a word.
ALVA.
What noise is that?
DOMINGO.
That look of fear! This intercepted letter!
It augurs nothing good.
ALVA.
He sends for Lerma!
Yet he must know full well that you and I
Are both in waiting.
DOMINGO.
Ah! our day is over!
ALVA.
And am I not the same to whom these doors
Flew open once? But, ah! how changed is all
Around me and how strange!
DOMINGO.
The double tapestry absorbs the sounds!
ALVA.
Away! there's some one coming. All appears
So solemn and so still--as if this instant
Some deep momentous question were decided.
SCENE XXIII.
PARMA.
Say, can we see the king?
ALVA.
No!
PARMA.
Who is with him?
FERIA.
The Marquis Posa, doubtless?
ALVA.
Every instant
He is expected here.
PARMA.
This moment we
Arrive from Saragossa. Through Madrid
Terror prevails! Is the announcement true?
Domingo.
Alas, too true!
FERIA.
That he has been arrested
By the marquis!
ALVA.
Yes.
PARMA.
And wherefore? What's the cause?
ALVA.
Wherefore? That no one knows, except the king
And Marquis Posa.
PARMA.
And without the warrant
Of the assembled Cortes of the Realm?
FERIA.
That man shall suffer, who has lent a hand
To infringe the nation's rights.
ALVA.
And so say I!
MEDINA SIDONIA.
And I!
ALVA.
Who'll follow me
Into the cabinet? I'll throw myself
Before the monarch's feet.
DOMINGO.
Then God be praised at last!
LERMA.
When Marquis Posa
Comes, say the king's engaged and he'll be sent for.
DOMINGO (to LERMA; all the others having gathered round him,
full of anxious expectation).
Count! What has happened? You are pale as death!
MEDINA SIDONIA.
How is the king?
DOMINGO (at the same time).
Fell villany! Explain----
LERMA.
The king shed tears!
DOMINGO.
Shed tears!
DOMINGO.
Count, yet one word.
Pardon! He's gone! We're fettered in amazement.
SCENE XXIV.
FERIA.
The monarch is
Engaged in urgent business. No one now
Can be admitted.
EBOLI.
Has he signed, as yet,
The fatal sentence? He has been deceived.
[She seizes his hand and would drag him into the cabinet.
DOMINGO.
I? You rave, princess!
FERIA.
Hold back. The king cannot attend you now.
EBOLI.
But he must hear me; he must hear the truth
The truth, were he ten times a deity.
EBOLI.
Man, tremble at the anger of thy idol.
I have naught left to hazard.
ALVA.
Let each church
Resound with high To Dennis. Victory
At length is ours.
DOMINGO.
What! Ours?
ACT V.
SCENE I.
MARQUIS.
Carlos! 'tie I.
MARQUIS.
Here I thought
Thou mightest need a friend.
CARLOS.
Indeed! was that
Thy real thought? Oh, joy unspeakable!
Right well I knew thou still wert true to me.
MARQUIS.
I have deserved this from thee.
CARLOS.
Hast thou not?
And now we understand each other fully,
It joys my heart. This kindness, this forbearance
Becomes our noble souls. For should there be
One rash, unjust demand amongst my wishes,
Wouldst thou, for that, refuse me what was just?
Virtue I know may often be severe,
But never is she cruel and inhuman.
Oh! it hath cost thee much; full well I know
How thy kind heart with bitter anguish bled
As thy hands decked the victim for the altar.
MARQUIS.
What meanest thou, Carlos?
CARLOS.
Thou, thyself, wilt now
Fulfil the joyous course I should have run.
Thou wilt bestow on Spain those golden days
She might have hoped in vain to win from me.
I'm lost, forever lost; thou saw'st it clearly.
This fatal love has scattered, and forever,
All the bright, early blossoms of my mind.
To all the great, exalted hopes I'm dead.
Chance led thee to the king--or Providence,--
It cost thee but my secret--and at once
He was thine own--thou may'st become his angel:
But I am lost, though Spain perhaps may flourish.
Well, there is nothing to condemn, if not
My own mad blindness. Oh, I should have known
That thou art no less great than tender-hearted.
MARQUIS.
No! I foresaw not, I considered not
That friendship's generous heart would lead thee on
Beyond my worldly prudence. I have erred,
My fabric's shattered--I forgot thy heart.
CARLOS.
Yet, if it had been possible to spare
Her fate--oh, how intensely I had thanked thee!
Could I not bear the burden by myself?
And why must she be made a second victim?
But now no more, I'll spare thee this reproach.
What is the queen to thee? Say, dost thou love her?
Could thy exalted virtue e'er consult
The petty interests of my wretched passion?
Oh, pardon me! I was unjust----
MARQUIS.
Thou art so!
But not for this reproach. Deserved I one,
I merit all--and then I should not stand
Before you as I do.
[He takes out his portfolio.
I have some letters
To give you back of those you trusted to me.
MARQUIS.
I return them now because they may
Prove safer in thy custody than mine.
CARLOS.
What meanest thou? Has his majesty not read them?
Have they not been before him?
MARQUIS.
What, these letters!
CARLOS.
Thou didst not show them all, then?
MARQUIS.
Who has said
That ever I showed one?
CARLOS (astonished).
Can it be so?
Count Lerma----
MARQUIS.
He! he told thee so! Now all
Is clear as day. But who could have foreseen it?
Lerma! Oh, no, he hath not learned to lie.
'Tis true, the king has all the other letters.
MARQUIS.
For caution's sake,
Lest thou should chance, a second time, to make
An Eboli thy confidant.
SCENE II.
And I, in truth,
Am fortunate to have this honor first----
ALVA.
As far as I know, prince, 'twas through an error,
To which the king was driven by a traitor.
CARLOS.
Then am I here by order of the king?
ALVA.
Yes, through an error of his majesty.
CARLOS.
That gives me pain, indeed. But when the king
Commits an error, 'twould beseem the king,
Methinks, to remedy the fault in person.
I am Don Philip's son--and curious eyes
And slanderous looks are on me. What the king
Hath done from sense of duty ne'er will I
Appear to owe to your considerate favor.
I am prepared to appear before the Cortes,
And will not take my sword from such a hand.
ALVA.
The king will never hesitate to grant
Your highness a request so just. Permit
That I conduct you to him.
CARLOS.
Here I stay
Until the king or all Madrid shall come
To lead me from my prison. Take my answer.
SCENE III.
CARLOS.
Success! What mean you?
Thy words perplex me.
CARLOS.
But thou----
MARQUIS.
Thus to my breast
I press thee now, with friendship's fullest right,
A right I've bought with all I hold most dear.
How great, how lovely, Carlos, is this moment
Of self-approving joy?
CARLOS.
What sudden change
I mark upon thy features! Proudly now
Thy bosom heaves, thine eyes dart vivid fire!
MARQUIS.
We must say farewell, Carlos! Tremble 'not,
But be a man! And what thou more shalt hear,
Promise me, not by unavailing sorrow,
Unworthy of great souls, to aggravate
The pangs of parting. I am lost to thee,
Carlos, for many years--fools say forever.
CARLOS.
Go on! go on! I hear thee.
MARQUIS.
To this point
I'm guiltless. But the unaccustomed beams
Of royal favor dazzled me. The rumor,
As I had well foreseen, soon reached thine ears
But by mistaken delicacy led,
And blinded by my vain desire to end
My enterprise alone, I kept concealed
From friendship's ear my hazardous design.
This was my fatal error! Here I failed!
I know it. My self-confidence was madness.
Pardon that confidence--'twas founded, Carlos,
Upon our friendship's everlasting base.
CARLOS.
No! her heart
Was moved, thou dost mistake, her heart was moved.
MARQUIS.
Night overspread my mind. No remedy,
No refuge, no retreat was left to me
In nature's boundless compass. Blind despair
Transformed me to a fury--to a tiger--
I raised my dagger to a woman's breast.
But in that moment--in that dreadful moment--
A radiant sunbeam fell upon my soul.
"Could I mislead the king! Could I succeed
In making him think me the criminal!
However improbable, the very guilt
Will be enough to win the king's belief.
I'll dare the task--a sudden thunderbolt
May make the tyrant start--what want I further?
He stops to think, and Carlos thus gains time
To fly to Brussels."
CARLOS.
And hast thou done this?
MARQUIS.
I have despatched a letter to Prince William,
Saying I loved the queen, and had escaped
The king's mistrust in the unjust suspicion
Which falsely fell on thee--that I had found
Means, through the monarch's favor, to obtain
Free access to the queen. I added, further,
That I was fearful of discovery--
That thou hadst learned my secret, and hadst sped
To Princess Eboli, with hopes through her
To warn the queen--that I had made thee prisoner--
And now that all seemed lost, I had resolved
To fly to Brussels. This same letter I----
MARQUIS.
Are given to the king; and as things go
Taxis would seem to have discharged his duty.
CARLOS.
Heavens! then I'm lost.
MARQUIS.
How lost? What meanest thou?
CARLOS.
And thou, alas! art lost together with me--
This dreadful fraud my father ne'er will pardon.
MARQUIS.
This fraud! Thou'rt mad! Who will disclose it to him?
CARLOS (regards him with a fixed look).
Who! Dost thou ask? I will myself.
MARQUIS.
Thou ravest!
Stand back----
CARLOS.
Away! For heaven's sake hold me not.
While I stay here, he's hiring the assassins.
MARQUIS.
Then is our time more precious--and we still
Have much to say.
CARLOS.
What! Before all is finished?
MARQUIS.
Carlos! was I so scrupulous--so eager--
When thou, a boy, didst shed thy blood for me?
MARQUIS.
Reserve thyself for Flanders!
The kingdom is thy destiny--'tis mine
To give my life for thee.
MARQUIS.
He is quick--the king.
I had hoped--a little longer--Carlos--think
Of means of flight--dost hear me?--of thy flight.
Thy mother--knows it all--I can no more.
[Dies.
SCENE IV.
The KING, CARLOS, the DUKESS ALVA, FERIA, and MEDINA SIDONIA,
PRINCE OF PARMA, COUNT LERMA, DOMINGO, and numerous GRANDEES.
[CARLOS raises his eyes and looks around him like one awakened
from a dream. His eyes are fixed now on the KING, now on the
corpse; he gives no answer.
[He approaches him, holds out his hand, and assists him to rise.
CARLOS.
Whither? You stir not from this spot.
[Detaining the KING forcibly with both hands, while with one
he manages to seize the sword which the KING has brought with
him, and it comes from the scabbard.
KING.
What! Draw
A sword upon thy father?
CARLOS (holding the KING firmly with one hand, the naked sword
in the other).
Put up your swords! What! Think you I am mad?
I am not so: or you were much to blame
Thus to remind me, that upon the point
Of this my sword, his trembling life doth hover.
I pray you, stand aloof; for souls like mine
Need soothing. There--hold back! And with the king
What I have yet to settle touches not
Your loyalty. See there--his hand is bloody!
Do you not see it? And now look you here!
CARLOS.
Nature
I know her not. Murder is now the word!
The bonds of all humanity are severed,
Thine own hands have dissolved them through the realm.
Shall I respect a tie which thou hast scorned?
Oh, see! see here! the foulest deed of blood
That e'er the world beheld. Is there no God
That kings, in his creation, work such havoc?
Is there no God, I ask? Since mother's wombs
Bore children, one alone--and only one--
So guiltlessly hath died. And art thou sensible
What thou hast done? Oh, no! he knows it not:
Knows not that he has robbed--despoiled the world
Of a more noble, precious, dearer life
Than he and all his century can boast.
CARLOS.
Is't possible!
Did you then never guess how dear to me
Was he who here lies dead? Thou lifeless corpse!
Instruct him--aid his wisdom, to resolve
This dark enigma now. He was my friend.
And would you know why he has perished thus?
He gave his life for me.
KING.
Ha? my suspicions!
CARLOS.
Pardon, thou bleeding corpse, that I profane
Thy virtue to such ears. But let him blush
With deep-felt shame, the crafty politician,
That his gray-headed wisdom was o'erreached,
E'en by the judgment of a youth. Yes, sire,
We two were brothers! Bound by nobler bands
Than nature ties. His whole life's bright career
Was love. His noble death was love for me.
E'en in the moment when his brief esteem
Exalted you, he was my own. And when
With fascinating tongue he sported with
Your haughty, giant mind, 'twas your conceit
To bridle him; but you became yourself
The pliant tool of his exalted plans.
That I became a prisoner, my arrest,
Was his deep friendship's meditated work.
That letter to Prince William was designed
To save my life. It was the first deceit
He ever practised. To insure my safety
He rushed on death himself, and nobly perished.
You lavished on him all your favor; yet
For me he died. Your heart, your confidence,
You forced upon him. As a toy he held
Your sceptre and your power; he cast them from him,
And gave his life for me.
How could it be
That you gave credit to this strange deceit?
Meanly indeed he valued you, to try
By such coarse artifice to win his ends.
You dared to court his friendship, but gave way
Before a test so simple. Oh, no! never
For souls like yours was such a being formed.
That well he knew himself, when he rejected
Your crowns, your gifts, your greatness, and yourself.
This fine-toned lyre broke in your iron hand,
And you could do no more than murder him.
ALVA (never having taken his eyes from the KING, and observing his
emotion with uneasiness, approaches him with apprehension).
Keep not this deathlike silence, sire. Look round,
And speak at least to us.
CARLOS.
Once you were not
Indifferent to him. And deeply once
You occupied his thoughts. It might have been
His lot to make you happy. His full heart
Might have enriched you; with its mere abundance
An atom of his soul had been enough
To make a god of you. You've robbed yourself--
Plundered yourself and me. What could you give,
To raise again a spirit like to this?
[He sinks down on the corpse, and takes no part in what follows.
A confused tumult and the noise of a crowd is heard in the distance.
All is deep silence round the KING. His eyes scan the circle over,
but no one returns his looks.
KING.
What! Will no one make reply?
Each eye upon the ground, each look abashed!
My sentence is pronounced. I read it here
Proclaimed in all this lifeless, mute demeanor.
My vassals have condemned me.
LERMA.
Here's rebellion!
LERMA.
It approaches! They are coming!
SCENE V.
KING (rousing from his stupor, and advancing with dignity among then).
Stands my throne firm, and am I sovereign yet
Over this empire? No! I'm king no more.
These cowards weep--moved by a puny boy.
They only wait the signal to desert me.
I am betrayed by rebels!
ALVA.
Dreadful thought!
KING.
There! fling yourselves before him--down before
The young, the expectant king; I'm nothing now
But a forsaken, old, defenceless man!
ALVA.
Spaniards! is't come to this?
[All crowd round the KING, and fall on their knees before
him with drawn swords. CARLOS remains alone with the corpse,
deserted by all.
LERMA.
For heaven's sake, help!
FERIA.
Oh, sad, disastrous chance!
LERMA.
He faints!
SCENE VI.
CARLOS remains behind with the corpse. After a few moments Louis
MERCADO appears, looks cautiously round him, and stands a long time
silent behind the PRINCE, who does not observe him.
MERCADO.
I come, prince, from her majesty the queen.
[CARLOS turns away and makes no reply.
My name, Mercado, I'm the queen's physician
See my credentials.
[Shows the PRINCE a signet ring. CARLOS remains still silent.
And the queen desires
To speak with you to-day--on weighty business.
CARLOS.
Nothing is weighty in this world to me.
MERCADO.
A charge the Marquis Posa left with her.
MERCADO.
No, not yet,
Most gracious prince! you must delay till night.
Each avenue is watched, the guards are doubled
You ne'er could reach the palace unperceived;
You would endanger everything.
CARLOS.
And yet----
MERCADO.
I know one means alone that can avail us.
'Tis the queen's thought, and she suggests it to you;
But it is bold, adventurous, and strange!
CARLOS.
What is it?
MERCADO.
A report has long prevailed
That in the secret vaults, beneath the palace,
At midnight, shrouded in a monk's attire,
The emperor's departed spirit walks.
The people still give credit to the tale,
And the guards watch the post with inward terror.
Now, if you but determine to assume
This dress, you may pass freely through the guards,
Until you reach the chamber of the queen,
Which this small key will open. Your attire
Will save you from attack. But on the spot,
Prince! your decision must be made at once.
The requisite apparel and the mask
Are ready in your chamber. I must haste
And take the queen your answer.
CARLOS.
And the hour?
MERCADO.
It is midnight.
CARLOS.
Then inform her I will come.
[Exit MERCADO.
SCENE VII.
LERMA.
Save yourself, prince! The king's enraged against you.
Your liberty, if not your life's in danger!
Ask me no further--I have stolen away
To give you warning--fly this very instant!
CARLOS.
Heaven will protect me!
LERMA.
As the queen observed
To me, this moment, you must leave Madrid
This very day, and fly to Brussels, prince.
Postpone it not, I pray you. The commotion
Favors your flight. The queen, with this design,
Has raised it. No one will presume so far
As to lay hand on you. Swift steeds await you
At the Carthusian convent, and behold,
Here are your weapons, should you be attacked.
CARLOS.
Thanks, thanks, Count Lerma!
LERMA.
This day's sad event
Has moved my inmost soul! No faithful friend
Will ever love like him. No patriot breathes
But weeps for you. More now I dare not say.
CARLOS.
Count Lerma! he who's gone considered you
A man of honor.
LERMA.
Farewell, prince, again!
Success attend you! Happier times will come--
But I shall be no more. Receive my homage!
SCENE VIII.
ALVA.
The town is quieted. How is the king?
FERIA.
In the most fearful state. Within his chamber
He is shut up, and whatso'er may happen
He will admit no person to his presence.
The treason of the marquis has at once
Changed his whole nature. We no longer know him.
ALVA.
I must go to him, nor respect his feelings.
A great discovery which I have made----
FERIA.
A new discovery!
ALVA.
A Carthusian monk
My guards observed, with stealthy footsteps, creep
Into the prince's chamber, and inquire
With anxious curiosity, about
The Marquis Posa's death. They seized him straight,
And questioned him. Urged by the fear of death,
He made confession that he bore about him
Papers of high importance, which the marquis
Enjoined him to deliver to the prince,
If, before sunset, he should not return.
FERIA.
Well, and what further?
ALVA.
These same letters state
That Carlos from Madrid must fly before
The morning dawn.
FERIA.
Indeed!
ALVA.
And that a ship at Cadiz lies
Ready for sea, to carry him to Flushing.
And that the Netherlands but wait his presence,
To shake the Spanish fetters from their arms.
FERIA.
Can this be true?
ALVA.
And other letters say
A fleet of Soliman's will sail for Rhodes,
According to the treaty, to attack
The Spanish squadron in the Midland seas.
FERIA.
Impossible.
ALVA.
And hence I understand
The object of the journeys, which of late
The marquis made through Europe. 'Twas no less
Than to rouse all the northern powers to arms
In aid of Flanders' freedom.
FERIA.
Was it so?
ALVA.
There is besides appended to these letters
The full concerted plan of all the war
Which is to disunite from Spain's control
The Netherlands forever. Naught omitted;
The power and opposition close compared;
All the resources accurately noted,
Together with the maxims to be followed,
And all the treaties which they should conclude.
The plan is fiendish, but 'tis no less splendid.
FERIA.
The deep, designing traitor!
ALVA.
And, moreover,
There is allusion made, in these same letters,
To some mysterious conference the prince
Must with his mother hold upon the eve
Preceding his departure.
FERIA.
That must be
This very day.
ALVA.
At midnight. But for this
I have already taken proper steps.
You see the case is pressing. Not a moment
Is to be lost. Open the monarch's chamber.
FERIA.
Impossible! All entrance is forbidden.
ALVA.
I'll open then myself; the increasing danger
Must justify my boldness.
FERIA.
'Tis himself.
SCENE IX.
All are alarmed at his appearance, fall back, and let him
pass through them. He appears to be in a waking dream, like a
sleep-walker. His dress and figure indicate the disorder caused
by his late fainting. With slow steps he walks past the GRANDEES
and looks at each with a fixed eye, but without recognizing any of
them. At last he stands still, wrapped in thought, his eyes fixed
on the ground, till the emotions of his mind gradually express
themselves in words.
KING.
Restore me back the dead! Yes, I must have him.
KING.
He died despising me!
Have him again I must, and make him think
More nobly of me.
ALVA (approaching with fear).
Sire!
ALVA.
Gracious king!
No more of him: a new and mightier foe
Arises in the bosom of your realm.
FERIA.
Prince Carlos----
KING.
Had a friend who died for him;
For him! With me he might have shared an empire.
How he looked down upon me! From the throne
Kings look not down so proudly. It was plain
How vain his conquest made him. His keen sorrow
Confessed how great his loss. Man weeps not so
For aught that's perishable. Oh, that he might
But live again! I'd give my Indies for it!
Omnipotence! thou bring'st no comfort to me:
Thou canst not stretch thine arm into the grave
To rectify one little act, committed
With hasty rashness, 'gainst the life of man.
The dead return no more. Who dare affirm
That I am happy? In the tomb he dwells,
Who scorned to flatter me. What care I now
For all who live? One spirit, one free being,
And one alone, arose in all this age!
He died despising me!
ALVA.
Our lives are useless!
Spaniards, let's die at once! E'en in the grave
This man still robs us of our monarch's heart.
DOMINGO.
What spell is this?
KING.
And, say, for whom did he desert me thus?
A boy,--my son? Oh, no, believe it not!
A Posa would not perish for a boy;
The scanty flame of friendship could not fill
A Posa's heart. It beat for human kind.
His passion was the world, and the whole course
Of future generations yet unborn.
To do them service he secured a throne--
And lost it. Such high treason 'gainst mankind
Could Posa e'er forgive himself? Oh, no;
I know his feelings better. Not that he
Carlos preferred to Philip, but the youth--
The tender pupil,--to the aged monarch.
The father's evening sunbeam could not ripen
His novel projects. He reserved for this
The young son's orient rays. Oh, 'tis undoubted,
They wait for my decease.
ALVA.
And of your thoughts,
Read in these letters strongest confirmation.
KING.
'Tis possible he may miscalculate.
I'm still myself. Thanks, Nature, for thy gifts;
I feel within my frame the strength of youth;
I'll turn their schemes to mockery. His virtue
Shall be an empty dream--his death, a fool's.
His fall shall crush his friend and age together.
We'll test it now--how they can do without me.
The world is still for one short evening mine,
And this same evening will I so employ,
That no reformer yet to cone shall reap
Another harvest, in the waste I'll leave,
For ten long generations after me.
He would have offered me a sacrifice
To his new deity--humanity!
So on humanity I'll take revenge.
And with his puppet I'll at once commence.
[To the DUKE ALVA.
What you have now to tell me of the prince,
Repeat. What tidings do these letters bring?
ALVA.
These letters, sire, contain the last bequest
Of Posa to Prince Carlos.
KING (reads the papers, watched by all present. He then lays them aside
and walks in silence up and down the room).
Summon straight
The cardinal inquisitor; and beg
He will bestow an hour upon the king,
This very night!
TAXIS.
Just on the stroke of two
The horses must be ready and prepared,
At the Carthusian monastery.
ALVA.
Spies
Despatched by me, moreover, have observed
Equipments at the convent for a journey,
On which the prince's arms were recognized.
FERIA.
And it is rumored that large sums are raised
In the queen's name, among the Moorish agents,
Destined for Brussels.
KING.
Where is Carlos?
ALVA.
With Posa's body.
KING.
And there are lights as yet
Within the queen's apartments?
ALVA.
Everything
Is silent there. She has dismissed her maids
Far earlier than as yet has been her custom.
The Duchess of Arcos, who was last with her,
Left her in soundest sleep.
[An officer of the Body Guard enters, takes the DUKE OF FERIA
aside, and whispers to him. The latter, struck with surprise,
turns to DUKE ALVA. The others crowd round him, and a murmuring
noise arises.
KING.
What is the matter!
FERIA.
News scarce credible!
DOMINGO.
Two soldiers, who have just returned from duty,
Report--but--oh, the tale's ridiculous!
KING.
What do they say?
ALVA.
They say, in the left wing
Of the queen's palace, that the emperor's ghost
Appeared before them, and with solemn gait
Passed on. This rumor is confirmed by all
The sentinels, who through the whole pavilion
Their watches keep. And they, moreover, add,
The phantom in the queen's apartment vanished.
KING.
And in what shape appeared it?
OFFICER.
In the robes,
The same attire he in Saint Justi wore
For the last time, apparelled as a monk.
KING.
A monk! And did the sentries know his person
Whilst he was yet alive? They could not else
Determine that it was the emperor.
OFFICER.
The sceptre which he bore was evidence
It was the emperor.
DOMINGO.
And the story goes
He often has been seen in this same dress.
KING.
Did no one speak to him?
OFFICER.
No person dared.
The sentries prayed, and let him pass in silence.
KING.
The phantom vanished in the queen's apartments!
OFFICER.
In the queen's antechamber.
[General silence.
ALVA.
Sire! we are silent.
PAGE.
The cardinal inquisitor.
SCENE X.
GRAND INQUISITOR.
Say, do I stand before the king?
KING.
You do.
GRAND INQUISITOR.
I never thought it would be so again!
KING.
I now renew the scenes of early youth,
When Philip sought his sage instructor's counsel.
GRAND INQUISITOR.
Your glorious sire, my pupil, Charles the Fifth,
Nor sought or needed counsel at my hands.
KING.
So much happier he! I, cardinal,
Am guilty of a murder, and no rest----
GRAND INQUISITOR.
KING.
'Twas
A fraud unparalleled----
GRAND INQUISITOR.
I know it all.
KING.
What do you know? Through whom, and since what time?
GRAND INQUISITOR.
GRAND INQUISITOR.
All his life is noted
From its commencement to its sudden close,
In Santa Casa's holy registers.
KING.
Yet he enjoyed his liberty!
GRAND INQUISITOR.
The chain
With which he struggled, but which held him bound,
Though long, was firm, nor easy to be severed.
KING.
He has already been beyond the kingdom.
GRAND INQUISITOR.
Where'er he travelled I was at his side.
GRAND INQUISITOR.
This rebuke
I pay you back. Why did you not consult us
Before you sought the arms of such a man?
You knew him: one sole glance unmasked him to you.
Why did you rob the office of its victim?
Are we thus trifled with! When majesty
Can stoop to such concealment, and in secret,
Behind our backs, league with our enemies,
What must our fate be then? If one be spared
What plea can justify the fate of thousands?
KING.
But he, no less, has fallen a sacrifice.
GRAND INQUISITOR.
No; he is murdered--basely, foully murdered.
The blood that should so gloriously have flowed
To honor us has stained the assassin's hand.
What claim had you to touch our sacred rights?
He but existed, by our hands to perish.
God gave him to this age's exigence,
To perish, as a terrible example,
And turn high-vaunting reason into shame.
Such was my long-laid plan--behold, destroyed
In one brief hour, the toil of many years.
We are defrauded, and your only gain
Is bloody hands.
KING.
Passion impelled me to it.
Forgive me.
GRAND INQUISITOR.
Passion! And does royal Philip
Thus answer me? Have I alone grown old?
[Shaking his head angrily.
Passion! Make conscience free within your realms,
If you're a slave yourself.
KING.
In things like this
I'm but a novice. Bear in patience with me.
GRAND INQUISITOR.
No, I'm ill pleased with you--to see you thus
Tarnish the bygone glories of your reign.
Where is that Philip, whose unchanging soul,
Fixed as the polar star in heaven above,
Round its own axis still pursued its course?
Is all the memory of preceding years
Forever gone? And did the world become
New moulded when you stretched your hand to him?
Was poison no more poison? Did distinction
'Twixt good and evil, truth and falsehood, vanish?
What then is resolution? What is firmness?
What is the faith of man, if in one weak,
Unguarded hour, the rules of threescore years
Dissolve in air, like woman's fickle favor?
KING.
I looked into his eyes. Oh, pardon me
This weak relapse into mortality.
The world has one less access to your heart;
Your eyes are sunk in night.
GRAND INQUISITOR.
What did this man
Want with you? What new thing could he adduce,
You did not know before? And are you versed
So ill with fanatics and innovators?
Does the reformer's vaunting language sound
So novel to your ears? If the firm edifice
Of your conviction totters to mere words,
Should you not shudder to subscribe the fate
Of many thousand poor, deluded souls
Who mount the flaming pile for nothing worse?
KING.
I sought a human being. These Domingos----
GRAND INQUISITOR.
How! human beings! What are they to you?
Cyphers to count withal--no more! Alas!
And must I now repeat the elements
Of kingly knowledge to my gray-haired pupil?
An earthly god must learn to bear the want
Of what may be denied him. When you whine
For sympathy is not the world your equal?
What rights should you possess above your equals?
GRAND INQUISITOR.
No, sire; I am not thus to be deceived.
I see you through. You would escape from us.
The church's heavy chains pressed hard upon you;
You would be free, and claim your independence.
[He pauses. The KING is silent.
We are avenged. Be thankful to the church,
That checks you with the kindness of a mother.
The erring choice you were allowed to make
Has proved your punishment. You stand reproved!
Now you may turn to us again. And know
If I, this day, had not been summoned here,
By Heaven above! before to-morrow's sun,
You would yourself have stood at my tribunal!
KING.
Forbear this language, priest. Restrain thyself.
I'll not endure it from thee. In such tones
No tongue shall speak to me.
GRAND INQUISITOR.
Then why, O king
Call up the ghost of Samuel? I've anointed
Two monarchs to the throne of Spain. I hoped
To leave behind a firm-established work.
I see the fruit of all my life is lost.
Don Philip's hands have shattered what I built.
But tell me, sire, wherefore have I been summoned?
What do I hear? I am not minded, king,
To seek such interviews again.
KING.
But one
One service more--the last--and then in peace
Depart. Let all the past be now forgotten--
Let peace be made between us. We are friends.
GRAND INQUISITOR.
When Philip bends with due humility.
GRAND INQUISITOR,
Well!
And what do you resolve?
KING.
On all, or nothing.
GRAND INQUISITOR.
What mean you by this all?
KING.
He must escape,
Or die.
GRAND INQUISITOR.
Well, sire! decide.
KING.
And can you not
Establish some new creed to justify
The bloody murder of one's only son?
GRAND INQUISITOR.
To appease eternal justice God's own Son
Expired upon the cross.
KING.
And can you spread
This creed throughout all Europe?
GRAND INQUISITOR.
Ay, as far
As the true cross is worshipped.
KING.
But I sin--
Sin against nature. Canst thou, by thy power,
Silence her mighty voice.
GRAND INQUISITOR.
The voice of nature
Avails not over faith.
KING.
My right to judge
I place within your hands. Can I retrace
The step once taken?
GRAND INQUISITOR.
Give him to me!
KING.
My only son! For whom then have I labored?
GRAND INQUISITOR.
For the grave rather than for liberty!
GRAND INQUISITOR.
Monarch! Whither
KING.
From his own father's hands to take the victim.
SCENE XI.
Queen's Apartment.
CARLOS.
Elizabeth!
CARLOS.
'Tis thus we meet again!
[A silence.
QUEEN.
Thus did I hope to find thee! This was still
The mighty purpose of his death. On me
Devolves the last fulfilment of his plans,
And I will now fulfil my solemn oath.
Yet one more legacy your dying friend
Bequeathed to me. I pledged my word to him,
And wherefore should I now conceal it from you?
To me did he resign his Carlos--I
Defy suspicion, and no longer tremble
Before mankind, but will for once assume
The courage of a friend; My heart shall speak.
He called our passion--virtue! I believe him,
And will my heart no longer----
CARLOS.
Hold, O queen!
Long was I sunk in a delusive dream.
I loved, but now I am at last awake
Forgotten be the past. Here are your letters,--
Destroy my own. Fear nothing from my passion,
It is extinct. A brighter flame now burns,
And purifies my being. All my love
Lies buried in the grave. No mortal wish
Finds place within this bosom.
[After a pause, taking her hand.
I have come
To bid farewell to you, and I have learned
There is a higher, greater good, my mother,
Than to call thee mine own. One rapid night
Has winged the tardy progress of my years,
And prematurely ripened me to manhood.
I have no further business in the world,
But to remember him. My harvest now
Is ended.
[He approaches the QUEEN, who conceals her face.
Mother! will you not reply!
QUEEN.
Carlos! regard not these my tears. I cannot
Restrain then. But believe me I admire you.
CARLOS.
Thou wert the only partner of our league
And by this name thou shalt remain to me
The most beloved object in this world.
No other woman can my friendship share,
More than she yesterday could win my love.
But sacred shall the royal widow be,
Should Providence conduct me to the throne.
QUEEN.
Oh, Carlos!
How you exalt me! but I dare not soar
To such a height of greatness:--yet I may
Contemplate now your noble mind with wonder.
CARLOS.
Am I not firm, Elizabeth? I hold thee
Thus in my arms and tremble not. The fear
Of instant death had, yesterday, not torn me
From this dear spot.
[He leaves her.
All that is over now,
And I defy my mortal destinies.
I've held thee in these arms and wavered not.
Hark! Heard you nothing!
[A clock strikes.
QUEEN.
Nothing but the bell
That tolls the moment of our separation.
CARLOS.
Good night, then, mother! And you shall, from Ghent,
Receive a letter, which will first proclaim
Our secret enterprise aloud. I go
To dare King Philip to an open contest.
Henceforth there shall be naught concealed between us!
You need not shun the aspect of the world.
Be this my last deceit.
KING.
It is thy last.
[Exit.
DEMETRIUS
By Frederich Schiller
ACT I.
SCENE I.
ARCHBISHOP OF GNESEN.
Thus then hath this tempestuous Diet been
Conducted safely to a prosperous close;
And king and commons part as cordial friends.
The nobles have consented to disarm,
And straight disband the dangerous Rocoss [1];
Whilst our good king his sacred word has pledged,
That every just complaint shall have redress.
And now that all is peace at home, we may
Look to the things that claim our care abroad.
Is it the will of the most high Estates
That Prince Demetrius, who hath advanced
A claim to Russia's crown, as Ivan's son,
Should at their bar appear, and in the face
Of this august assembly prove his right?
CASTELLAN OF CRACOW.
Honor and justice both demand he should;
It were unseemly to refuse his prayer.
BISHOP OF WERMELAND.
The documents on which he rests have been
Examined, and are found authentic. We
May give him audience.
SEVERAL DEPUTIES.
Nay! We must, we must!
LEO SAPIEHA.
To hear is to admit his right.
ODOWALSKY.
And not
To hear is to reject his claims unheard.
ARCHBISHOP OF GNESEN.
Is it your will that he have audience?
I ask it for the second time--and third.
IMPERIAL CHANCELLOR.
Let him stand forth before our throne!
SENATORS.
And speak!
DEPUTIES.
Yes, yes! Let him be heard!
ARCHBISHOP OF GNESEN.
Prince Dmitri, son of Ivan! if the pomp
Of this great Diet scare thee, or a sight
So noble and majestic chain thy tongue,
Thou may'st--for this the senate have allowed--
Choose thee a proxy, wheresoe'er thou list,
And do thy mission by another's lips.
DEMETRIUS.
My lord archbishop, I stand here to claim
A kingdom, and the state of royalty.
'Twould ill beseem me should I quake before
A noble people, and its king and senate.
I ne'er have viewed a circle so august,
But the sight swells my heart within my breast
And not appals me. The more worthy ye,
To me ye are more welcome; I can ne'er
Address my claim to nobler auditory.
ARCHBISHOP OF GNESEN.
. . . . The august republic
Is favorably bent. . . . .
DEMETRIUS.
Most puissant king! Most worthy and most potent
Bishops and palatines, and my good lords,
The deputies of the august republic!
It gives me pause and wonder to behold
Myself, Czar Ivan's son, now stand before
The Polish people in their Diet here.
Both realms were sundered by a bloody hate,
And, whilst my father lived, no peace might be.
Yet now hath Heaven so ordered these events,
That I, his blood, who with my nurse's milk
Imbibed the ancestral hate, appear before you
A fugitive, compelled to seek my rights
Even here in Poland's heart. Then, ere I speak,
Forget magnanimously all rancors past,
And that the Czar, whose son I own myself,
Rolled war's red billows to your very homes.
I stand before you, sirs, a prince despoiled.
I ask protection. The oppressed may urge
A sacred claim on every noble breast.
And who in all earth's circuit shall be just,
If not a people great and valiant,--one
In plenitude of power so free, it needs
To render 'count but to itself alone,
And may, unchallenged, lend an open ear
And aiding hand to fair humanity.
ARCHBISHOP OF GNESEN.
You do allege you are Czar Ivan's son;
And truly, nor your bearing nor your speech
Gainsays the lofty title that you urge,
But shows us that you are indeed his son.
And you shall find that the republic bears
A generous spirit. She has never quailed
To Russia in the field! She loves, alike,
To be a noble foe--a cordial friend.
DEMETRIUS.
Ivan Wasilowitch, the mighty Czar
Of Moscow, took five spouses to his bed,
In the long years that spared him to the throne.
The first, a lady of the heroic line
Of Romanoff, bare him Feodor, who reigned
After his father's death. One only son,
Dmitri, the last blossom of his strength,
And a mere infant when his father died,
Was born of Marfa, of Nagori's line.
Czar Feodor, a youth, alike effeminate
In mind and body, left the reins of power
To his chief equerry, Boris Godunow,
Who ruled his master with most crafty skill.
Feodor was childless, and his barren bride
Denied all prospect of an heir. Thus, when
The wily Boiar, by his fawning arts,
Had coiled himself into the people's favor,
His wishes soared as high as to the throne.
Between him and his haughty hopes there stood
A youthful prince, the young Demetrius
Iwanowitsch, who with his mother lived
At Uglitsch, where her widowhood was passed.
Now, when his fatal purpose was matured,
He sent to Uglitsch ruffians, charged to put
The Czarowitsch to death.
One night, when all was hushed, the castle's wing,
Where the young prince, apart from all the rest,
With his attendants lay, was found on fire.
The raging flames ingulfed the pile; the prince
Unseen, unheard, was spirited away,
And all the world lamented him as dead.
All Moscow knows these things to be the truth.
ARCHBISHOP OF GNESEN.
Yes, these are facts familiar to us all.
The rumor ran abroad, both far and near,
That Prince Demetrius perished in the flames
When Uglitsch was destroyed. And, as his death
Raised to the throne the Czar who fills it now,
Fame did not hesitate to charge on him
This murder foul and pitiless. But yet,
His death is not the business now in hand!
This prince is living still! He lives in you!
So runs your plea. Now bring us to the proofs!
Whereby do you attest that you are he?
What are the signs by which you shall be known?
How 'scaped you those were sent to hunt you down
And now, when sixteen years are passed, and you
Well nigh forgot, emerge to light once more?
DEMETRIUS.
'Tis scarce a year since I have known myself;
I lived a secret to myself till then,
Surmising naught of my imperial birth.
I was a monk with monks, close pent within
The cloister's precincts, when I first began
To waken to a consciousness of self.
My impetuous spirit chafed against the bars,
And the high blood of princes began to course
In strange unbidden moods along my veins.
At length I flung the monkish cowl aside,
And fled to Poland, where the noble Prince
Of Sendomir, the generous, the good,
Took me as guest into his princely house,
And trained me up to noble deeds of arms.
ARCHBISHOP OF GNESEN.
How? You still ignorant of what you were?
Yet ran the rumor then on every side,
That Prince Demetrius was still alive.
Czar Boris trembled on his throne, and sent
His sassafs to the frontiers, to keep
Sharp watch on every traveller that stirred.
Had not the tale its origin with you?
Did you not give the rumor birth yourself?
Had you not named to any that you were
Demetrius?
DEMETRIUS.
I relate that which I know.
If a report went forth I was alive,
Then had some god been busy with the fame.
Myself I knew not. In the prince's house,
And in the throng of his retainers lost,
I spent the pleasant springtime of my youth.
In silent homage
My heart was vowed to his most lovely daughter.
Yet in those days it never dreamed to raise
Its wildest thoughts to happiness so high.
My passion gave offence to her betrothed,
The Castellan of Lemberg. He with taunts
Chafed me, and in the blindness of his rage
Forgot himself so wholly as to strike me.
Thus savagely provoked, I drew my sword;
He, blind with fury, rushed upon the blade,
And perished there by my unwitting hand.
MEISCHEK.
Yes, it was even so.
DEMETRIUS.
Mine was the worst mischance! A nameless youth,
A Russian and a stranger, I had slain
A grandee of the empire--in the house
Of my kind patron done a deed of blood,
And sent to death his son-in-law and friend.
My innocence availed not; not the pity
Of all his household, nor his kindness--his,
The noble Palatine's,--could save my life;
For it was forfeit to the law, that is,
Though lenient to the Poles, to strangers stern.
Judgment was passed on me--that judgment death.
I knelt upon the scaffold, by the block;
To the fell headsman's sword I bared my throat,
And in the act disclosed a cross of gold,
Studded with precious gems, which had been hung
About my neck at the baptismal font.
This sacred pledge of Christian redemption
I had, as is the custom of my people,
Worn on my neck concealed, where'er I went,
From my first hours of infancy; and now,
When from sweet life I was compelled to part,
I grasped it as my only stay, and pressed it
With passionate devotion to my lips.
ARCHBISHOP OF GNESEN.
And shall we trust a scroll which might have found
Its way by merest chance into your hands
Backed by the tale of some poor renegades?
Forgive me, noble youth! Your tone, I grant,
And bearing, are not those of one who lies;
Still you in this may be yourself deceived.
Well may the heart be pardoned that beguiles
Itself in playing for so high a stake.
What hostage do you tender for your word?
DEMETRIUS.
I tender fifty, who will give their oaths,--
All Piasts to a man, and free-born Poles
Of spotless reputation,--each of whom
Is ready to enforce what I have urged.
There sits the noble Prince of Sendomir,
And at his side the Castellan of Lublin;
Let them declare if I have spoke the truth.
ARCHBISHOP OF GNESEN.
How seem these things to the august Estates?
To the enforcement of such numerous proofs
Doubt and mistrust, methinks, must needs give way.
Long has a creeping rumor filled the world
That Dmitri, Ivan's son, is still alive.
The Czar himself confirms it by his fears.
--Before us stands a youth, in age and mien
Even to the very freak that nature played,
The lost heir's counterpart, and of a soul
Whose noble stamp keeps rank with his high claims.
He left a cloister's precincts, urged by strange,
Mysterious promptings; and this monk-trained boy
Was straight distinguished for his knightly feats.
He shows a trinket which the Czarowitsch
Once wore, and one that never left his side;
A written witness, too, by pious hands,
Gives us assurance of his princely birth;
And, stronger still, from his unvarnished speech
And open brow truth makes his best appeal.
Such traits as these deceit doth never don;
It masks its subtle soul in vaunting words,
And in the high-glossed ornaments of speech.
No longer, then, can I withhold the title
Which he with circumstance and justice claims
And, in the exercise of my old right,
I now, as primate, give him the first voice.
ARCHBISHOP OF LEMBERG.
My voice goes with the primate's.
SEVERAL VOICES.
So does mine.
SEVERAL PALATINES.
And mine!
ODOWALSKY.
And mine.
DEPUTIES.
And all!
SAPIEHA.
My gracious sirs!
Weigh well ere you decide! Be not so hasty!
It is not meet the council of the realm
Be hurried on to----
ODOWALSKY.
There is nothing here
For us to weigh; all has been fully weighed.
The proofs demonstrate incontestably.
This is not Moscow, sirs! No despot here
Keeps our free souls in manacles. Here truth
May walk by day or night with brow erect.
I will not think, my lords, in Cracow here,
Here in the very Diet of the Poles,
That Moscow's Czar should have obsequious slaves.
DEMETRIUS.
Oh, take my thanks, ye reverend senators!
That ye have lent your credence to these proofs;
And if I be indeed the man whom I
Protest myself, oh, then, endure not this
Audacious robber should usurp my seat,
Or longer desecrate that sceptre which
To me, as the true Czarowitsch, belongs.
Yes, justice lies with me,--you have the power.
'Tis the most dear concern of every state
And throne, that right should everywhere prevail,
And all men in the world possess their own.
For there, where justice holds uncumbered sway,
There each enjoys his heritage secure,
And over every house and every throne
Law, truth, and order keep their angel watch.
It is the key-stone of the world's wide arch,
The one sustaining and sustained by all,
Which, if it fail, brings all in ruin down.
DEMETRIUS.
Oh, look on me, renowned Sigismund!
Great king, on thine own bosom turn thine eyes.
And in my destiny behold thine own.
Thou, too, hast known the rude assaults of fate;
Within a prison camest thou to the world;
Thy earliest glances fell on dungeon walls.
Thou, too, hadst need of friends to set thee free,
And raise thee from a prison to a throne.
These didst thou find. That noble kindness thou
Didst reap from them, oh, testify to me.
And you, ye grave and honored councillors,
Most reverend bishops, pillars of the church,
Ye palatines and castellans of fame,
The moment has arrived, by one high deed,
To reconcile two nations long estranged.
Yours be the glorious boast, that Poland's power
Hath given the Muscovites their Czar, and in
The neighbor who oppressed you as a foe
Secure an ever-grateful friend. And you,
The deputies of the august republic,
Saddle your steeds of fire! Leap to your seats!
To you expand high fortune's golden gates;
I will divide the foeman's spoil with you.
Moscow is rich in plunder; measureless
In gold and gems, the treasures of the Czar;
I can give royal guerdons to my friends,
And I will give them, too. When I, as Czar,
Set foot within the Kremlin, then, I swear,
The poorest of you all, that follows me,
Shall robe himself in velvet and in sables;
With costly pearls his housings shall he deck,
And silver be the metal of least worth,
That he shall shoe his horses' hoofs withal.
ODOWALSKY.
How! shall we leave the Cossack to despoil us
At once of glory and of booty both?
We've made a truce with Tartar and with Turk,
And from the Swedish power have naught to fear.
Our martial spirit has been wasting long
In slothful peace; our swords are red with rust.
Up! and invade the kingdom of the Czar,
And win a grateful and true-hearted friend,
Whilst we augment our country's might and glory.
MANY DEPUTIES.
War! War with Moscow!
OTHERS.
Be it so resolved!
On to the votes at once!
SAPIEHA (rises).
Grand marshal, please
To order silence! I desire to speak.
A CROWD OF VOICES.
War! War with Moscow!
SAPIEHA.
Nay, I will be heard.
Ho, marshal, do your duty!
GRAND MARSHAL.
'Tis, you see,
Quite fruitless.
SAPIEHA.
What? The marshal's self suborned?
Is this our Diet, then, no longer free?
Throw down your staff, and bid this brawling cease;
I charge you, on your office, to obey!
DEMETRIUS.
Prince Leo Sapieha! You concluded
A bond of peace, you say, with Moscow's Czar?
That did you not; for I, I am that Czar.
In me is Moscow's majesty; I am
The son of Ivan, and his rightful heir.
Would the Poles treat with Russia for a peace,
Then must they treat with me! Your compact's null,
As being made with one whose's title's null.
ODOWALSKY.
What reck we of your treaty? So we willed
When it was made--our wills are changed to-day.
SAPIEHA.
Is it, then, come to this? If none beside
Will stand for justice, then, at least, will I.
I'll rend the woof of cunning into shreds,
And lay its falsehoods open to the day.
Most reverend primate! art thou, canst thou be
So simple-souled, or canst thou so dissemble?
Are ye so credulous, my lords? My liege,
Art thou so weak? Ye know not--will not know,
Ye are the puppets of the wily Waywode
Of Sendomir, who reared this spurious Czar,
Whose measureless ambition, while we speak,
Clutches in thought the spoils of Moscow's wealth.
Is't left for me to tell you that even now
The league is made and sworn betwixt the twain,--
The pledge the Waywode's youngest daughter's hand?
And shall our great republic blindly rush
Into the perils of an unjust war,
To aggrandize the Waywode, and to crown
His daughter as the empress of the Czar?
There's not a man he has not bribed and bought.
He means to rule the Diet, well I know;
I see his faction rampant in this hall,
And, as 'twere not enough that he controlled
The Seym Walmy by a majority,
He's girt the Diet with three thousand horse,
And all Cracow is swarming like a hive
With his sworn feudal vassals. Even now
They throng the halls and chambers where we sit,
To hold our liberty of speech in awe.
Yet stirs no fear in my undaunted heart;
And while the blood keeps current in my veins,
I will maintain the freedom of my voice!
Let those who think like men come stand by me
Whilst I have life shall no resolve be passed
That is at war with justice and with reason.
'Twas I that ratified the peace with Moscow,
And I will hazard life to see it kept.
ODOWALSKY.
Give him no further hearing! Take the votes!
MANY.
War, war with Moscow!
SAPIEHA.
And let them to a man! Yet I say no!
I urge my veto--I break up the Diet.
Stay further progress! Null and void fire all
The resolutions passed----
Majority?
What is it? The majority is madness;
Reason has still ranked only with the few.
What cares he for the general weal that's poor?
Has the lean beggar choice, or liberty?
To the great lords of earth, that hold the purse,
He must for bread and raiment sell his voice.
'Twere meet that voices should be weighed, not counted.
Sooner or later must the state be wrecked,
Where numbers sway and ignorance decides.
ODOWALSKY.
Hark to the traitor!----
DEPUTIES.
Hew him into shreds!
Down with him!
ODOWALSKY.
That point miscarried,--
Yet shall you not lack aid because of this:
If the republic holds the peace with Moscow,
At our own charges we shall push your claims.
KORELA.
Who ever could have dreamed, that he alone
Would hold his ground against the assembled Diet?
MEISCHEK.
The king! the king!
KING.
Let me embrace you, prince!
At length the high republic does you justice;
My heart has done so long, and many a day.
Your fate doth move me deeply, as, indeed,
What monarch's heart but must be moved by it?
DEMETRIUS.
The past, with all its sorrows, is forgot;
Here on your breast I feel new life begin.
KING.
I love not many words; yet what a king
May offer, who has vassals richer far
Than his poor self, that do I offer you.
You have been witness of an untoward scene,
But deem not ill of Poland's realm because
A tempest jars the vessel of the state.
MEISCHEK.
When winds are wild the steersman backs his helm,
And makes for port with all the speed he may.
KING.
The Diet is dissolved. Although I wished,
I could not break the treaty with the Czar.
But you have powerful friends; and if the Pole,
At his own risk, take arms on your behalf,
Or if the Cossack choose to venture war,
They are free men, I cannot say them nay.
MEISCHEK.
The whole Rocoss is under arms already.
Please it but you, my liege, the angry stream
That raved against your sovereignty may turn
Its wrath on Moscow, leaving you unscathed.
KING.
The best of weapons Russia's self will give thee;
Thy surest buckler is the people's heart.
By Russia only Russia will be vanquished.
Even as the Diet heard thee speak to-day,
Speak thou at Moscow to thy subjects, prince.
So chain their hearts, and thou wilt be their king.
In Sweden I by right of birth ascended
The throne of my inheritance in peace;
Yet did I lose the kingdom of my sires
Because my people's hearts were not with me.
Enter MARINA.
MEISCHEK.
My gracious liege, here, kneeling at your feet,
Behold Marina, youngest of my daughters;
The prince of Moscow offers her his heart.
Thou art the stay and pillar of our house,
And only from thy royal hand 'tis meet
That she receive her spouse and sovereign.
KING.
Well, if you wish it, cousin, gladly I
Will do the father's office to the Czar.
MARINA.
My liege, I humbly thank your grace, and shall
Esteem me still your slave where'er I be.
KING.
Rise up, Czaritza! This is not a place
For you, the plighted bridesmaid of the Czar;
For you, the daughter of my foremost Waywode.
You are the youngest of your sisters; yet
Your spirit wings a high and glorious course,
And nobly grasps the top of sovereignty.
DEMETRIUS.
Be thou, great monarch, witness of my oath,
As, prince to prince, I pledge it here to you!
This noble lady's hand I do accept
As fortune's dearest pledge, and swear that, soon
As on my father's throne I take my seat,
I'll lead her home in triumph as my bride,
With all the state that fits a mighty queen.
And, for a dowry, to my bride I give
The principalities Pleskow and Great Neugart,
With all towns, hamlets, and in-dwellers there,
With all the rights and powers of sovereignty,
In absolute possession evermore;
And this, my gift, will I as Czar confirm
In my free city, Moscow. Furthermore,
As compensation to her noble sire
For present charges, I engage to pay
A million ducats, Polish currency.
So help me God, and all his saints, as I
Have truly sworn this oath, and shall fulfil it.
KING.
You will do so; you never will forget
For what you are the noble Waywode's debtor;
Who, for your wishes, perils his sure wealth,
And, for your hopes, a child his heart adores,
A friend so rare is to be rarely prized!
Then when your hopes are crowned forget not ever
The steps by which you mounted to the throne,
Nor with your garments let your heart be changed!
Think, that in Poland first you knew yourself,
That this land gave you birth a second time.
DEMETRIUS.
I have been nurtured in adversity;
And learned to reverence the beauteous bond
Which links mankind with sympathies of love.
KING.
But now you enter on a realm where all--
Use, custom, morals--are untried and strange,
In Poland here reigns freedom absolute;
The king himself, although in pomp supreme,
Must ofttime be the serf of his noblesse;
But there the father's sacred power prevails,
And in the subject finds a passive slave.
DEMETRIUS.
That glorious freedom which surrounds me here
I will transplant into my native land,
And turn these bond-serfs into glad-souled men;
Not o'er the souls of slaves will I bear rule.
KING.
Do naught in haste; but by the time be led!
Prince, ere we part, three lessons take from me,
And truly follow them when thou art king.
It is a king that gives them, old and tried,
And they may prove of profit to thy youth.
DEMETRIUS.
Oh, share thy wisdom with me! Thou hast won
The reverence of a free and mighty people;
What must I do to earn so fair a prize?
KING.
You come from a strange land,
Borne on the weapons of a foreign foe;
This first felt wrong thou hast to wash away.
Then bear thee like a genuine son of Moscow,
With reverence due to all her usages.
Keep promise with the Poles, and value them,
For thou hast need of friends on thy new throne:
The arm that placed thee there can hurl thee down.
Esteem them honorably, yet ape them not;
Strange customs thrive not in a foreign soil.
And, whatsoe'er thou dost, revere thy mother--
You'll find a mother----
DEMETRIUS.
Oh, my liege!
KING.
High claim
Hath she upon thy filial reverence.
Do her all honor. 'Twixt thy subjects and
Thyself she stands, a sacred, precious link.
No human law o'errides the imperial power;
Nothing but nature may command its awe;
Nor can thy people own a surer pledge,
That thou art gentle, than thy filial love.
I say no more. Much yet is to be done,
Ere thou mak'st booty of the golden fleece.
Expect no easy victory!
Czar Boris rules with strong and skilful hand;
You take the field against no common man.
He that by merit hath achieved the throne,
Is not puffed from his seat by popular breath;
His deeds do serve to him for ancestors.
To your good fortune I commend you now;
Already twice, as by a miracle,
Hath it redeemed you from the grasp of death;
'Twill put the finish on its work, and crown you.
ODOWALSKY.
Say, lady, how have I fulfilled my charge?
Truly and well, and wilt thou laud my zeal?
MARINA.
'Tis, Odowalsky, well we are alone;
Matters of weight have we to canvass which
'Tis meet the prince know nothing of. May he
Pursue the voice divine that goads him on!
If in himself he have belief, the world
Will catch the flame, and give him credence too.
He must be kept in that vague, shadowing mist,
Which is a fruitful mother of great deeds,
While we see clear, and act in certainty.
He lends the name--the inspiration; we
Must bear the brain, the shaping thought, for him;
And when, by art and craft, we have insured
The needful levies, let him still dream on,
And think they dropped, to aid him, from the clouds.
ODOWALSKY.
Give thy commands: I live but for thy service.
Think'st thou this Moscovite or his affairs
Concern my thoughts? 'Tis thou, thou and thy glory
For which I will adventure life and all.
For me no fortune blossoms; friendless, landless,
I dare not let my hopes aspire to thee.
Thy grace I may not win, but I'll deserve it.
To make thee great be my one only aim;
Then, though another should possess thee, still
Thou wilt be mine--being what I have made thee.
MARINA.
Therefore my whole heart do I pledge to thee;
To thee I trust the acting of my thoughts.
The king doth mean us false. I read him through.
'Twas a concerted farce with Sapieha,
A juggle, all! 'Twould please him well, belike,
To see my father's power, which he dreads deeply,
Enfeebled in this enterprise--the league
Of the noblesse, which shook his heart with fear,
Drawn off in this campaign on foreign bounds,
While he himself sits neutral in the fray.
He thinks to share our fortune, if we win;
And if we lose, he hopes with greater ease
To fix on us the bondage of his yoke.
We stand alone. This die is cast. If he
Cares for himself, we shall be selfish too.
You lead the troops to Kioff. There let them swear
Allegiance to the prince, and unto me;--
Mark you, to me! 'Tis needful for our ends.
I want your eye, and not your arm alone.
ODOWALSKY.
Command me--speak--
MARINA.
You lead the Czarowitsch.
Keep your eye on him; stir not from his side,
Render me 'count of every step he makes.
ODOWALSKY.
Rely on me, he'll never cast us off.
MARINA.
No man is grateful. Once his throne is sure,
He'll not be slow to cast our bonds aside.
The Russian hates the Pole--must hate him ever;
No bond of amity can link their hearts.
MARINA.
The Bishop of Kaminieck and Culm
Lends money on the pawn of land and serfs.
Sell, barter, pledge the hamlets of your boors,
Turn all to silver, horses, means of war!
War is the best of chapmen. He transmutes
Iron into gold. Whate'er you now may lose
You'll find in Moscow twenty-fold again.
BIELSKY.
Two hundred more wait in the tavern yonder;
If you will show yourself, and drain a cup
With them, they're yours, all yours--I know them well.
MARINA.
Expect me! You shall introduce me to them.
OPALINSKY.
'Tis plain that you were born to be a queen.
MARINA.
I was, and therefore I must be a queen.
BIELSKY.
Ay, mount the snow-white steed, thine armor on,
And so, a second Vanda, lead thy troops,
Inspired by thee, to certain victory.
MARINA.
My spirit leads you. War is not for women.
The rendezvous is in Kioff. Thither my father
Will lead a levy of three thousand horse.
My sister's husband gives two thousand more,
And the Don sends a Cossack host in aid.
Do you all swear you will be true to me?
ALL.
All, all--we swear! (draw their swords.)
Vivat Marina, Russiae Regina!
Enter MEISCHEK.
MARINA.
Wherefore so sad, when fortune smiles on us,
When every step thrives to our utmost wish,
And all around are arming in our cause?
MEISCHEK.
'Tis even because of this, my child! All, all
Is staked upon the cast. Thy father's means
Are in these warlike preparations swamped.
I have much cause to ponder seriously;
Fortune is false, uncertain the result.
Mad, venturous girl, what hast thou brought me to?
What a weak father have I been, that I
Did not withstand thy importunities!
I am the richest Waywode of the empire,
The next in honor to the king. Had we
But been content to be so, and enjoyed
Our stately fortunes with a tranquil soul!
Thy hopes soared higher--not for thee sufficed
The moderate station which thy sisters won.
Thou wouldst attain the loftiest mark that can
By mortals be achieved, and wear a crown.
I, thy fond, foolish father, longed to heap
On thee, my darling one, all glorious gains,
So by thy prayers I let myself be fooled,
And peril my sure fortunes on a chance.
MARINA.
How? My dear father, dost thou rue thy goodness?
Who with the meaner prize can live content,
When o'er his head the noblest courts his grasp?
MEISCHEK.
Thy sisters wear no crowns, yet they are happy.
MARINA.
What happiness is that to leave the home
Of the Waywode, my father, for the house
Of some count palatine, a grateful bride?
What do I gain of new from such a change?
And can I joy in looking to the morrow
When it brings naught but what was stale to-day?
Oh, tasteless round of petty, worn pursuits!
Oh, wearisome monotony of life!
Are they a guerdon for high hopes, high aims?
Or love or greatness I must have: all else
Are unto me alike indifferent.
Smooth off the trouble from thy brow, dear father!
Let's trust the stream that bears us on its breast,
Think not upon the sacrifice thou makest,
Think on the prize, the goal that's to be won--
When thou shalt see thy daughter robed in state,
In regal state, aloft on Moscow's throne,
And thy son's sons the rulers of the world!
MEISCHEK.
I think of naught, see naught, but thee, my child,
Girt with the splendors of the imperial crown.
Thou'rt bent to have it; I cannot gainsay thee.
MARINA.
Yet one request, my dearest, best of fathers,
I pray you grant me!
MEISCHEK.
Name thy wish, my child.
MARINA.
Shall I remain shut up at Sambor with
The fires of boundless longing in my breast?
Beyond the Dnieper will my die be cast,
While boundless space divides me from the spot;
Can I endure it? Oh, the impatient spirit
Will lie upon the rack of expectation
And measure out this monstrous length of space
With groans and anxious throbbings of the heart.
MEISCHEK.
What dost thou wish? What is it thou wouldst have?
MARINA.
Let me abide the issue in Kioff!
There I can gather tidings at their source.
There on the frontier of both kingdoms----
MEISCHEK.
Thy spirit's over-bold. Restrain it, child!
MARINA.
Yes, thou dost yield,--thou'lt take me with thee, then?
MEISCHEK.
Thou rulest me. Must I not do thy will?
MARINA.
My own dear father, when I am Moscow's queen
Kioff, you know, must be our boundary.
Kioff must then be mine, and thou shalt rule it.
MEISCHEK.
Thou dreamest, girl! Already the great Moscow
Is for thy soul too narrow; thou, to grasp
Domains, wilt strip them from thy native land.
MARINA.
Kioff belonged not to our native land;
There the Varegers ruled in days of yore.
I have the ancient chronicles by heart;
'Twas from the Russian empire wrenched by force.
I will restore it to its former crown.
MEISCHEK.
Hush, hush! The Waywode must not hear such talk.
ACT II.
SCENE I.
A Greek convent in a bleak district near the sea Belozero.
A train of nuns, in black robes and veils, passes over the
back of the stage. MARFA, in a white veil, stands apart
from the others, leaning on a tombstone. OLGA steps out
from the train, remains gazing at her for a time, and then
advances to her.
OLGA.
And does thy heart not urge thee forth with us
To taste reviving nature's opening sweets?
The glad sun comes, the long, long night retires,
The ice melts in the streams, and soon the sledge
Will to the boat give place and summer swallow.
The world awakes once more, and the new joy
Woos all to leave their narrow cloister cells
For the bright air and freshening breath of spring.
And wilt thou only, sunk in lasting grief,
Refuse to share the general exultation?
MARFA.
On with the rest, and leave me to myself!
Let those rejoice who still have power to hope.
The time that puts fresh youth in all the world
Brings naught to me; to me the past is all,
My hopes, my joys are with the things that were.
OLGA.
Dost thou still mourn thy son--still, still lament
The sovereignty which thou has lost? Does time,
Which pours a balm on every wounded heart,
Lose all its potency with thee alone?
Thou wert the empress of this mighty realm,
The mother of a blooming son. He was
Snatched from thee by a dreadful destiny;
Into this dreary convent wert thou thrust,
Here on the verge of habitable earth.
Full sixteen times since that disastrous day
The face of nature hath renewed its youth;
Still have I seen no change come over thine,
That looked a grave amid a blooming world.
Thou'rt like some moonless image, carved in stone
By sculptor's chisel, that doth ever keep
The selfsame fixed unalterable mien.
MARFA.
Yes, time, fell time, hath signed and set me up
As a memorial of my dreadful fate.
I will not be at peace, will not forget.
That soul must be of poor and shallow stamp
Which takes a cure from time--a recompense
For what can never be compensated!
Nothing shall buy my sorrow from me. No,
As heaven's vault still goes with the wanderer,
Girds and environs him with boundless grasp,
Turn where he will, by sea or land, so goes
My anguish with me, wheresoe'er I turn;
It hems me round, like an unbounded sea;
My ceaseless tears have failed to drain its depths.
OLGA.
Oh, see! what news can yonder boy have brought,
The sisters round him throng so eagerly?
He comes from distant shores, where homes abound,
And brings us tidings from the land of men.
The sea is clear, the highways free once more.
Art thou not curious to learn his news?
Though to the world we are as good as dead,
Yet of its changes willingly we hear,
And, safe upon the shore, with wonder mark
The roar and ferment of the trampling waves.
XENIA--HELENA.
Speak, speak, and tell us all the news you bring.
ALEXIA.
Relate what's passing in the world beyond.
FISHER BOY.
Good, pious ladies, give me time to speak!
XENIA.
Is't war--or peace?
ALEXIA.
Who's now upon the throne?
FISHER BOY.
A ship is to Archangel just come in
From the north pole, where everything is ice.
OLGA.
How came a vessel into that wild sea?
FISHER BOY.
It is an English merchantman, and it
Has found a new way out to get to us.
ALEXIA.
What will not man adventure for his gain?
XENIA.
And so the world is nowhere to be barred!
FISHER BOY.
But that's the very smallest of the news.
'Tis something very different moves the world.
ALEXIA.
Oh, speak and tell us!
OLGA.
Say, what has occurred?
FISHER BOY.
We live to hear strange marvels nowadays:
The dead rise up, and come to life again.
OLGA.
Explain yourself.
FISHER BOY.
Prince Dmitri, Ivan's son,
Whom we have mourned for dead these sixteen years,
Is now alive, and has appeared in Poland.
OLGA.
The prince alive?
MARFA (starting).
My son!
OLGA.
Compose thyself!
Calm down thy heart till we have learned the whole.
ALEXIA.
How can this possibly be so, when he
Was killed, and perished in the flames at Uglitsch?
FISHER BOY.
He managed somehow to escape the fire,
And found protection in a monastery.
There he grew up in secrecy, until
His time was come to publish who he was.
MARFA.
I know
That it must be delusion, yet so little
Is my heart steeled 'gainst fear and hope e'en now,
That in my breast it flutters like a bird.
OLGA.
Why should it be delusion? Mark his words!
How could this rumor spread without good cause?
FISHER BOY.
Without good cause? The Lithuanians
And Poles are all in arms upon his side.
The Czar himself quakes in his capital.
XENIA.
Speak on, speak, tell us everything you know.
ALEXIA.
And tell us, too, of whom you stole the news.
FISHER BOY.
I stole the news? A letter has gone forth
To every town and province from the Czar.
This letter the Posadmik of our town
Read to us all, in open market-place.
It bore, that busy schemers were abroad,
And that we should not lend their tales belief.
But this made us believe them; for, had they
Been false, the Czar would have despised the lie.
MARFA.
Is this the calm I thought I had achieved?
And clings my heart so close to temporal things,
That a mere word can shake my inward soul?
For sixteen years have I bewailed my son,
And yet at once believe that still he lives.
OLGA.
Sixteen long years thou'st mourned for him as dead,
And yet his ashes thou hast never seen!
Naught countervails the truth of the report.
Nay, does not Providence watch o'er the fate
Of kings and monarchies? Then welcome hope!
More things befall than thou canst comprehend.
Who can set limits to the Almighty's power?
MARFA.
Shall I turn back to look again on life,
To which long since I spoke a sad farewell?
It was not with the dead my hopes abode.
Oh, say no more of this. Let not my heart
Hang on this phantom hope! Let me not lose
My darling son a second time. Alas!
My peace of mind is gone,--my dream of peace
I cannot trust these tidings,--yet, alas,
I can no longer dash them from my soul!
Woe's me, I never lost my son till now.
Oh, now I can no longer tell if I
Shall seek him 'mongst the living or the dead,
Tossed on the rock of never-ending doubt.
PORTERESS.
The lord archbishop waits without; he brings
A message from the Czar, and craves an audience.
OLGA.
Does the archbishop stand within our gates?
What strange occurrence can have brought him here?
XENIA.
Come all, and give him greeting as befits.
OLGA.
Sir, we kiss
In humblest reverence thy paternal hand!
Command thy daughters!
ARCHBISHOP.
My mission is addressed to Sister Marfa.
OLGA.
See, here she stands, and waits to know thy will.
ARCHBISHOP.
It is the mighty prince who sends me here;
Upon his distant throne he thinks of thee;
For as the sun, with his great eye of flame,
Sheds light and plenty all abroad the world,
So sweeps the sovereign's eye on every side;
Even to the farthest limits of his realm
His care is wakeful and his glance is keen.
MARFA.
How far his arm can strike I know too well.
ARCHBISHOP.
He knows the lofty spirit fills thy soul,
And therefore feels indignantly the wrong
A bold-faced villain dares to offer thee.
Learn, then, in Poland, an audacious churl,
A renegade, who broke his monkish vows,
Laid down his habit, and renounced his God,
Doth use the name and title of thy son,
Whom death snatched from thee in his infancy.
The shameless varlet boasts him of thy blood,
And doth affect to be Czar Ivan's son;
A Waywode breaks the peace; from Poland leads
This spurious monarch, whom himself created,
Across our frontiers, with an armed power:
So he beguiles the Russians' faithful hearts,
And lures them on to treason and revolt.
The Czar,
With pure, paternal feeling, sends me to thee.
Thou hold'st the manes of thy son in honor;
Nor wilt permit a bold adventurer
To steal his name and title from the tomb,
And with audacious hand usurp his rights.
Thou wilt proclaim aloud to all the world
That thou dost own him for no son of thine.
Thou wilt not nurse a bastard's alien blood
Upon thy heart, that beats so nobly; never!
Thou wilt--and this the Czar expects from thee--
Give the vile counterfeit the lie, with all
The righteous indignation it deserves.
MARFA (who has during the last speech subdued the most violent emotion).
What do I hear, archbishop? Can it be?
Oh, tell me, by what signs and marks of proof
This bold-faced trickster doth uphold himself
As Ivan's son, whom we bewailed as dead?
ARCHBISHOP.
By some faint, shadowy likeness to the Czar,
By documents which chance threw in his way,
And by a precious trinket, which he shows,
He cheats the credulous and wondering mob.
MARFA.
What is the trinket? Oh, pray, tell me what?
ARCHBISHOP.
A golden cross, gemmed with nine emeralds,
Which Ivan Westislowsky, so he says,
Hung round his neck at the baptismal font.
MARFA.
What do you say? He shows this trinket, this?
ARCHBISHOP.
A faithful servant and Diak, he says,
Preserved him from the assassins and the flames,
And bore him to Smolenskow privily.
MARFA.
But where was he brought up? Where, gives he forth,
Was he concealed and fostered until now?
ARCHBISHOP.
In Tschudow's monastery he was reared,
Unknowing who he was; from thence he fled
To Lithuania and Poland, where
He served the Prince of Sendomir, until
An accident revealed his origin.
MARFA.
With such a tale as this can he find friends
To peril life and fortune in his cause?
ARCHBISHOP.
Oh, madam, false, false-hearted is the Pole,
And enviously he eyes our country's wealth.
He welcomes every pretext that may serve
To light the flames of war within our bounds!
MARFA.
And were there credulous spirits, even in Moscow,
Could by this juggle be so lightly stirred?
ARCHBISHOP.
Oh, fickle, princess, is the people's heart!
They dote on alteration, and expect
To reap advantage from a change of rulers.
The bold assurance of the falsehood charms;
The marvellous finds favor and belief.
Therefore the Czar is anxious thou shouldst quell
This mad delusion, as thou only canst.
A word from thee annihilates the traitor
That falsely claims the title of thy son.
It joys me thus to see thee moved. I see
The audacious juggle rouses all thy pride,
And, with a noble anger paints thy cheek.
MARFA.
And where, where, tell me, does he tarry now,
Who dares usurp the title of my son?
ARCHBISHOP.
E'en now he's moving on to Tscherinsko;
His camp at Kioff has broke up, 'tis rumored;
And with a force of mounted Polish troops
And Don Cossacks, he comes to push his claims.
MARFA.
Oh, God Almighty, thanks, thanks, thanks, that thou
Hast sent me rescue and revenge at last!
ARCHBISHOP.
How, Marfa, how am I to construe this?
MARFA.
Ob, heavenly powers, conduct him safely here!
Hover, oh all ye angels, round his banners!
ARCHBISHOP.
Can it be so? The traitor, canst thou trust----
MARFA.
He is my son. Yes! by these signs alone
I recognize him. By thy Czar's alarm
I recognize him. Yes! He lives! He comes!
Down, tyrant, from thy throne, and shake with fear!
There still doth live a shoot from Rurik's stem;
The genuine Czar--the rightful heir draws nigh,
He comes to claim a reckoning for his own.
ARCHBISHOP.
Dost thou bethink thee what thou say'st? 'Tis madness!
MARFA.
At length--at length has dawned the day of vengeance,
Of restoration. Innocence is dragged
To light by heaven from the grave's midnight gloom.
The haughty Godunow, my deadly foe,
Must crouch and sue for mercy at my feet;
Oh, now my burning wishes are fulfilled!
ARCHBISHOP.
Can hate and rancorous malice blind you so?
MARFA.
Can terror blind your monarch so, that he
Should hope deliverance from me--from me--
Whom he hath done immeasurable wrong?
I shall, forsooth, deny the son whom heaven
Restores me by a miracle from the grave,
And to please him, the butcher of my house,
Who piled upon me woes unspeakable?
Yes, thrust from me the succor God has sent
In the sad evening of my heavy anguish?
No, thou escap'st me not. No, thou shalt hear me,
I have thee fast, I will not let thee free.
Oh, I can ease my bosom's load at last!
At last launch forth against mine enemy
The long-pent anger of my inmost soul!
Who was it, who,
That shut me up within this living tomb,
In all the strength and freshness of my youth,
With all its feelings glowing in my breast?
Who from my bosom rent my darling son,
And chartered ruffian hands to take his life?
Oh, words can never tell what I have suffered,
When, with a yearning that would not be still,
I watched throughout the long, long starry nights,
And noted with my tears the hours elapse!
The day of succor comes, and of revenge;
I see the mighty glorying in his might.
ARCHBISHOP.
You think the Czar will dread you--you mistake.
MARFA.
He's in my power--one little word from me,
One only, sets the seal upon his fate!
It was for this thy master sent thee here!
The eyes of Russia and of Poland now
Are closely bent upon me. If I own
The Czarowitsch as Ivan's son and mine,
Then all will do him homage; his the throne.
If I disown him, then he is undone;
For who will credit that his rightful mother,
A mother wronged, so foully wronged as I,
Could from her heart repulse its darling child,
To league with the despoilers of her house?
I need but speak one word and all the world
Deserts him as a traitor. Is't not so?
This word you wish from me. That mighty service,
Confess, I can perform for Godunow!
ARCHBISHOP.
Thou wouldst perform it for thy country, and
Avert the dread calamities of war,
Shouldst thou do homage to the truth. Thyself,
Ay, thou hast ne'er a doubt thy son is dead;
And couldst thou testify against thy conscience?
MARFA.
These sixteen years I've mourned his death; but yet
I ne'er have seen his ashes. I believed
His death, there trusting to the general voice
And my sad heart--I now believe he lives,
Trusting the general voice and my strong hope.
'Twere impious, with audacious doubts, to seek
To set a bound to the Almighty's will;
And even were he not my heart's dear son,
Yet should he be the son of my revenge.
In my child's room I take him to my breast,
Whom heaven has sent me to avenge my wrongs.
ARCHBISHOP.
Unhappy one, dost thou defy the strong?
From his far-reaching arm thou art not safe
Even in the convent's distant solitude.
MARFA.
Kill me he may, and stifle in the grave,
Or dungeon's gloom, my woman's voice, that it
Shall not reverberate throughout the world.
This he may do; but force me to speak aught
Against my will, that can he not; though backed
By all thy craft--no, he has missed his aim!
ARCHBISHOP.
Is this thy final purpose. Ponder well!
Hast thou no gentler message for the Czar?
MARFA.
Tell him to hope for heaven, if so he dare,
And for his people's love, if so he can.
ARCHBISHOP.
Enough! thou art bent on thy destruction.
Thou lean'st upon a reed, will break beneath thee;
One common ruin will o'erwhelm ye both.
[Exit.
MARFA.
It is my son, I cannot doubt 'tis he.
Even the wild hordes of the uncultured wastes
Take arms upon his side; the haughty Pole,
The palatine, doth stake his noble daughter
On the pure gold of his most righteous cause,
And I alone reject him--I, his mother?
I, only I, shook not beneath the storm
Of joy that lifts all hearts with dizzying whirl,
And scatters turmoil widely o'er the earth.
He is my son--I must, will trust in him,
And grasp with living confidence the hand
Which heaven hath sent for my deliverance.
'Tis he, he comes with his embattled hosts,
To set me free, and to avenge my shame!
Hark to his drums, his martial trumpets' clang!
Ye nations come--come from the east and south.
Forth from your steppes, your immemorial woods
Of every tongue, of every raiment come!
Bridle the steed, the reindeer, and the camel!
Sweep hither, countless as the ocean waves,
And throng around the banners of your king!
Oh, wherefore am I mewed and fettered here,
A prisoned soul with longings infinite!
Thou deathless sun, that circlest earth's huge ball,
Be thou the messenger of my desires!
Thou all-pervading, chainless breeze that sweep'st
With lightning speed to earth's remotest bound,
Oh, bear to him the yearnings of my heart.
My prayers are all I have to give; but these
I pour all glowing from my inmost soul,
And send them up to heaven on wings of flame,
Like armed hosts, I send them forth to hail him.
SCENE II.
ODOWALSKY.
Go, lead the army downward by the wood,
Whilst we look round us here upon the height.
Enter DEMETRIUS.
ODOWALSKY.
Sire, thou see'st thy kingdom
Spread out before thee. That is Russian land.
RAZIN.
Why, e'en this pillar here bears Moscow's arms;
Here terminates the empire of the Poles.
DEMETRIUS.
Is that the Dnieper, rolls its quiet stream
Along these meadows?
ODOWALSKY.
That, sire, is the Desna;
See, yonder rise the towers of Tschernizow!
RAZIN.
Yon gleam you see upon the far horizon
Is from the roofs of Sewerisch Novogrod.
DEMETRIUS.
What a rich prospect! What fair meadow lands!
ODOWALSKY.
The spring has decked them with her trim array;
A teeming harvest clothes the fruitful soil.
DEMETRIUS.
The view is lost in limitless expanse.
RAZIN.
Yet is this but a small beginning, sire,
Of Russia's mighty empire. For it spreads
Towards the east to confines unexplored,
And on the north has ne'er a boundary,
Save the productive energy of earth.
Behold, our Czar is quite absorbed in thought.
DEMETRIUS.
On these fair meads dwell peace, unbroken peace,
And with war's terrible array I come
To scatter havoc, like a listed foe!
ODOWALSKY.
Hereafter 'twill be time to think of that.
DEMETRIUS.
Thou feelest as a Pole, I am Moscow's son.
It is the land to which I owe my life;
Forgive me, thou dear soil, land of my home,
Thou sacred boundary-pillar, which I clasp,
Whereon my sire his broad-spread eagle graved,
That I, thy son, with foreign foemen's arms,
Invade the tranquil temple of thy peace.
'Tis to reclaim my heritage I come,
And the proud name that has been stolen from me.
Here the Varegers, my forefathers, ruled,
In lengthened line, for thirty generations;
I am the last of all their lineage, snatched
From murder by God's special providence.
SCENE III.
GLEB.
Whence come ye hither with your wives and children?
IGOR.
Fly, fly! The Pole has fallen upon the land
At Maromesk, and slaughters all he finds.
OLEG.
Fly into the interior--to strong towns!
We've fired our cottages, there's not a soul
Left in the village, and we're making now
Up country for the army of the Czar.
TIMOSKA.
Here comes another troop of fugitives.
IWANSKA.
Long live the Czar! The mighty prince Dmitri!
GLEB.
How! What is this!
ILIA.
What do you mean?
TIMOSKA.
Who are you?
PETRUSCHKA.
Join all who're loyal to our princely line!
TIMOSKA.
What means all this? There a whole village flies
Up country to escape the Poles, while you
Make for the very point whence these have fled,
To join the standard of the country's foe!
PETRUSCHKA.
What foe? It is no foe that comes; it is
The people's friend, the emperor's rightful heir.
* * * * *
Camp of the army of the CZAR BORIS. He is absent himself, and this
injures his cause, as he is feared but not loved. His army is strong,
but not to be relied on. The leaders are not unanimous, and partly
incline to the side of Demetrius from a variety of motives. One of their
number, Soltikow, declares for him from conviction. His adherence is
attended with the most important results; a large portion of the army
deserts to DEMETRIUS.
Bad news pours in from all sides, and Boris' danger grows momently more
imminent. He hears of the revolt of the peasantry and the provincial
towns,--of the inactivity and mutiny of the army,--of the commotions in
Moscow,--of the advance of Demetrius. Romanow, whom he has deeply
wronged, arrives in Moscow. This gives rise to new apprehensions. Now
come the tidings that the Boiars are flying to the camp of Demetrius, and
that the whole army has gone over to him.
BORIS and AXINIA. The Czar appears in a touching aspect as father, and
in the dialogue with his daughter unfolds his inmost nature.
BORIS has made his way to the throne by crime, but undertaken and
fulfilled all the duties of a monarch; to the country he is a valuable
prince and a true father of his people. It is only in his personal
dealings with individuals that he is cunning, revengeful, and cruel. His
spirit as well as his rank elevates him above all that surround him. The
long possession of supreme power, the habit of ruling over men, and the
despotic form of government, have so nursed his pride that it is
impossible for him to outlive his greatness. He sees clearly what awaits
him; but still he is Czar, and not degraded, though he resolves to die.
Shortly before his death his nature changes; he grows milder, even
towards the messengers of evil, and is ashamed of the bursts of rage with
which he had received them before. He permits the worst to be told to
him, and even rewards the narrator.
So soon as he learns the misfortune that seals his fate, he leaves the
stage without further explanation, with composure and resignation.
Shortly afterwards he returns in the habit of a monk, and removes his
daughter from the sight of his last moments. She is to seek protection
from insult in a cloister; his son, Feodor, as a child, will perhaps have
less to fear. He takes poison, and enters a retired chamber to die in
peace.
General confusion at the tidings of the Czar's death. The Boiars form an
imperial council and rule in the Kremlin. Romanow (afterwards Czar, and
founder of the now ruling house) enters at the head of an armed force,
swears, on the bosom of the Czar, an oath of allegiance to his son
Feodor, and compels the Boiars to follow his example. Revenge and
ambition are far from his soul; he pursues only justice. He loves Axinia
without hope, and is, without knowing it, beloved by her in return.
DEMETRIUS in Tula, at the pinnacle of success. The army is his own; the
keys of numerous towns are brought to him. Moscow alone appears to offer
resistance. He is mild and amiable, testifies a noble emotion at the
intelligence of the death of Boris, pardons a detected conspiracy against
his life, despises the servile adulations of the Russians, and is for
sending them away. The Poles, on the other hand, by whom he is
surrounded, are rude and violent, and treat the Russians with contempt.
Demetrius longs for a meeting with his mother, and sends a messenger to
Marina.
MARFA and OLGA await Demetrius under a magnificent tent. Marfa speaks of
the approaching interview with more doubt and fear than hope, and
trembles as the moment draws near which should assure her highest
happiness. Olga speaks to her, herself without faith. During the long
journey they have both had time to recall the whole circumstances; the
first exultation had given place to reflection. The gloomy silence and
the repulsive glances of the guards who surround the tent serve still
further to augment their despondency.
DEMETRIUS. Does thy heart say nothing? Dost thou not recognize thy
blood in me?
MARFA is silent.
DEMETRIUS. Oh, these golden drops are welcome to me. Let them flow!
Show thyself thus to the people!
Romanow, who came to the army too late, has returned to Moscow to protect
Feodor and Axinia. It is all in vain; he is himself thrown into prison.
Axinia flies to Marfa, and at her feet implores protection against the
Poles. Here Demetrius sees her, and a violent and irresistible passion
is kindled in his breast. Axinia detests him.
After the marriage Marina discloses to him that she does not consider him
to be the true Demetrius, and never did. She then coldly leaves him in a
state of extreme anguish and dismay.
Meanwhile SCHINSKOI, one of the former generals of the Czar Boris, avails
himself of the growing discontent of the people, and becomes the head of
a conspiracy against Demetrius.
The conspiracy breaks out. Demetrius is with Marfa when the leading
conspirators force their way into the room. The dignity and courage of
Demetrius have a momentary effect upon the rebels. He nearly succeeds in
disarming them by a promise to place the Poles at their disposal. But at
this point SCHINSKOI rushes in with an infuriated band. An explicit
declaration is demanded from the ex-empress; she is required to swear,
upon the cross, that Demetrius is her son. To testify against her
conscience in a manner so solemn is impossible. She turns from Demetrius
in silence, and is about to withdraw. "Is she silent?" exclaims the
tumultuous throng. "Does she disown him?" "Then, traitor, die!" and
Demetrius falls, pierced by their swords, at Marfa's feet.
MARY STUART.
A TRAGEDY.
By Frederich Schiller
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
ACT I.
SCENE I.
KENNEDY.
How now, sir? what fresh outrage have we here?
Back from that cabinet!
PAULET.
Whence came the jewel?
I know 'twas from an upper chamber thrown;
And you would bribe the gardener with your trinkets.
A curse on woman's wiles! In spite of all
My strict precaution and my active search,
Still treasures here, still costly gems concealed!
And doubtless there are more where this lay hid.
KENNEDY.
Intruder, back! here lie my lady's secrets.
PAULET.
Exactly what I seek.
[Drawing forth papers.
KENNEDY.
Mere trifling papers;
The amusements only of an idle pen,
To cheat the dreary tedium of a dungeon.
PAULET.
In idle hours the evil mind is busy.
KENNEDY.
Those writings are in French.
PAULET.
So much the worse!
That tongue betokens England's enemy.
KENNEDY.
Sketches of letters to the Queen of England.
PAULET.
I'll be their bearer. Ha! what glitters here?
[Exit DRURY.
KENNEDY.
Oh, insolent
And tyrant power, to which we must submit.
PAULET.
She can work ill as long as she hath treasures;
For all things turn to weapons in her hands.
KENNEDY (supplicating).
Oh, sir! be merciful; deprive us not
Of the last jewel that adorns our life!
'Tis my poor lady's only joy to view
This symbol of her former majesty;
Your hands long since have robbed us of the rest.
PAULET.
'Tis in safe custody; in proper time
'Twill be restored to you with scrupulous care.
KENNEDY.
Who that beholds these naked walls could say
That majesty dwelt here? Where is the throne?
Where the imperial canopy of state?
Must she not set her tender foot, still used
To softest treading, on the rugged ground?
With common pewter, which the lowliest dame
Would scorn, they furnish forth her homely table.
PAULET.
Thus did she treat her spouse at Stirling once;
And pledged, the while, her paramour in gold.
KENNEDY.
Even the mirror's trifling aid withheld.
PAULET.
The contemplation of her own vain image
Incites to hope, and prompts to daring deeds.
KENNEDY.
Books are denied her to divert her mind.
PAULET.
The Bible still is left to mend her heart.
KENNEDY.
Even of her very lute she is deprived!
PAULET.
Because she tuned it to her wanton airs.
KENNEDY.
Is this a fate for her, the gentle born,
Who in her very cradle was a queen?
Who, reared in Catherine's luxurious court,
Enjoyed the fulness of each earthly pleasure?
Was't not enough to rob her of her power,
Must ye then envy her its paltry tinsel?
A noble heart in time resigns itself
To great calamities with fortitude;
But yet it cuts one to the soul to part
At once with all life's little outward trappings!
PAULET.
These are the things that turn the human heart
To vanity, which should collect itself
In penitence; for a lewd, vicious life,
Want and abasement are the only penance.
KENNEDY.
If youthful blood has led her into error,
With her own heart and God she must account:
There is no judge in England over her.
PAULET.
She shall have judgment where she hath transgressed.
KENNEDY.
Her narrow bonds restrain her from transgression.
PAULET.
And yet she found the means to stretch her arm
Into the world, from out these narrow bonds,
And, with the torch of civil war, inflame
This realm against our queen (whom God preserve).
And arm assassin bands. Did she not rouse
From out these walls the malefactor Parry,
And Babington, to the detested crime
Of regicide? And did this iron grate
Prevent her from decoying to her toils
The virtuous heart of Norfolk? Saw we not
The first, best head in all this island fall
A sacrifice for her upon the block?
[The noble house of Howard fell with him.]
And did this sad example terrify
These mad adventurers, whose rival zeal
Plunges for her into this deep abyss?
The bloody scaffold bends beneath the weight
Of her new daily victims; and we ne'er
Shall see an end till she herself, of all
The guiltiest, be offered up upon it.
Oh! curses on the day when England took
This Helen to its hospitable arms.
KENNEDY.
Did England then receive her hospitably?
Oh, hapless queen! who, since that fatal day
When first she set her foot within this realm,
And, as a suppliant--a fugitive--
Came to implore protection from her sister,
Has been condemned, despite the law of nations,
And royal privilege, to weep away
The fairest years of youth in prison walls.
And now, when she hath suffered everything
Which in imprisonment is hard and bitter,
Is like a felon summoned to the bar,
Foully accused, and though herself a queen,
Constrained to plead for honor and for life.
PAULET.
She came amongst us as a murderess,
Chased by her very subjects from a throne
Which she had oft by vilest deeds disgraced.
Sworn against England's welfare came she hither,
To call the times of bloody Mary back,
Betray our church to Romish tyranny,
And sell our dear-bought liberties to France.
Say, why disdained she to subscribe the treaty
Of Edinborough--to resign her claim
To England's crown--and with one single word,
Traced by her pen, throw wide her prison gates?
No:--she had rather live in vile confinement,
And see herself ill-treated, than renounce
The empty honors of her barren title.
Why acts she thus? Because she trusts to wiles,
And treacherous arts of base conspiracy;
And, hourly plotting schemes of mischief, hopes
To conquer, from her prison, all this isle.
KENNEDY.
You mock us, sir, and edge your cruelty
With words of bitter scorn:--that she should form
Such projects; she, who's here immured alive,
To whom no sound of comfort, not a voice
Of friendship comes from her beloved home;
Who hath so long no human face beheld,
Save her stern gaoler's unrelenting brows;
Till now, of late, in your uncourteous cousin
She sees a second keeper, and beholds
Fresh bolts and bars against her multiplied.
PAULET.
No iron-grate is proof against her wiles.
How do I know these bars are not filed through?
How that this floor, these walls, that seem so strong
Without, may not be hollow from within,
And let in felon treachery when I sleep?
Accursed office, that's intrusted to me,
To guard this cunning mother of all ill!
Fear scares me from my sleep; and in the night
I, like a troubled spirit, roam and try
The strength of every bolt, and put to proof
Each guard's fidelity:--I see, with fear,
The dawning of each morn, which may confirm
My apprehensions:--yet, thank God, there's hope
That all my fears will soon be at an end;
For rather would I at the gates of hell
Stand sentinel, and guard the devilish host
Of damned souls, than this deceitful queen.
KENNEDY.
Here comes the queen.
PAULET.
Christ's image in her hand.
Pride, and all worldly lusts within her heart.
SCENE II.
MARY.
Be calm--
Say, what has happened?
KENNEDY.
See! thy cabinet
Is forced--thy papers--and thy only treasure,
Which with such pains we had secured, the last
Poor remnant of thy bridal ornaments
From France, is in his hands--naught now remains
Of royal state--thou art indeed bereft!
MARY.
Compose yourself, my Hannah! and believe me,
'Tis not these baubles that can make a queen--
Basely indeed they may behave to us,
But they cannot debase us. I have learned
To use myself to many a change in England;
I can support this too. Sir, you have taken
By force what I this very day designed
To have delivered to you. There's a letter
Amongst these papers for my royal sister
Of England. Pledge me, sir, your word of honor,
To give it to her majesty's own hands,
And not to the deceitful care of Burleigh.
PAULET.
I shall consider what is best to do.
MARY.
Sir, you shall know its import. In this letter
I beg a favor, a great favor of her,--
That she herself will give me audience,--she
Whom I have never seen. I have been summoned
Before a court of men, whom I can ne'er
Acknowledge as my peers--of men to whom
My heart denies its confidence. The queen
Is of my family, my rank, my sex;
To her alone--a sister, queen, and woman--
Can I unfold my heart.
PAULET.
Too oft, my lady,
Have you intrusted both your fate and honor
To men less worthy your esteem than these.
MARY.
I, in the letter, beg another favor,
And surely naught but inhumanity
Can here reject my prayer. These many years
Have I, in prison, missed the church's comfort,
The blessings of the sacraments--and she
Who robs me of my freedom and my crown,
Who seeks my very life, can never wish
To shut the gates of heaven upon my soul.
PAULET.
Whene'er you wish, the dean shall wait upon you.
PAULET.
[That is against the published laws of England.
MARY.
The laws of England are no rule for me.
I am not England's subject; I have ne'er
Consented to its laws, and will not bow
Before their cruel and despotic sway.
If 'tis your will, to the unheard-of rigor
Which I have borne, to add this new oppression,
I must submit to what your power ordains;
Yet will I raise my voice in loud complaints.]
I also wish a public notary,
And secretaries, to prepare my will--
My sorrows and my prison's wretchedness
Prey on my life--my days, I fear, are numbered--
I feel that I am near the gates of death.
PAULET.
These serious contemplations well become you.
MARY.
And know I then that some too ready hand
May not abridge this tedious work of sorrow?
I would indite my will and make disposal
Of what belongs tome.
PAULET.
This liberty
May be allowed to you, for England's queen
Will not enrich herself by plundering you.
MARY.
I have been parted from my faithful women,
And from my servants; tell me, where are they?
What is their fate? I can indeed dispense
At present with their service, but my heart
Will feel rejoiced to know these faithful ones
Are not exposed to suffering and to want!
PAULET.
Your servants have been cared for; [and again
You shall behold whate'er is taken from you
And all shall be restored in proper season.]
[Going.
MARY.
And will you leave my presence thus again,
And not relieve my fearful, anxious heart
From the fell torments of uncertainty?
Thanks to the vigilance of your hateful spies,
I am divided from the world; no voice
Can reach me through these prison-walls; my fate
Lies in the hands of those who wish my ruin.
A month of dread suspense is passed already
Since when the forty high commissioners
Surprised me in this castle, and erected,
With most unseemly haste, their dread tribunal;
They forced me, stunned, amazed, and unprepared,
Without an advocate, from memory,
Before their unexampled court, to answer
Their weighty charges, artfully arranged.
They came like ghosts,--like ghosts they disappeared,
And since that day all mouths are closed to me.
In vain I seek to construe from your looks
Which hath prevailed--my cause's innocence
And my friends' zeal--or my foes' cursed counsel.
Oh, break this silence! let me know the worst;
What have I still to fear, and what to hope.
PAULET.
Close your accounts with heaven.
MARY.
From heaven I hope
For mercy, sir; and from my earthly judges
I hope, and still expect, the strictest justice.
PAULET.
Justice, depend upon it, will be done you.
MARY.
Is the suit ended, sir?
PAULET.
I cannot tell.
MARY.
Am I condemned?
PAULET.
I cannot answer, lady.
MARY.
[Sir, a good work fears not the light of day.
PAULET.
The day will shine upon it, doubt it not.]
MARY.
Despatch is here the fashion. Is it meant
The murderer shall surprise me, like the judges?
PAULET.
Still entertain that thought and he will find you
Better prepared to meet your fate than they did.
PAULET.
The sovereigns of England have no fear
But for their conscience and their parliament.
What justice hath decreed her fearless hand
Will execute before the assembled world.
SCENE III.
MORTIMER.
Uncle, you're sought for.
[He retires in the same manner. The QUEEN remarks it, and
turns towards PAULET, who is about to follow him.
MARY.
Sir, one favor more
If you have aught to say to me--from you
I can bear much--I reverence your gray hairs;
But cannot bear that young man's insolence;
Spare me in future his unmannered rudeness.
PAULET.
I prize him most for that which makes you hate him
He is not, truly, one of those poor fools
Who melt before a woman's treacherous tears.
He has seen much--has been to Rheims and Paris,
And brings us back his true old English heart.
Lady, your cunning arts are lost on him.
[Exit.
SCENE IV.
MARY, KENNEDY.
KENNEDY.
And dare the ruffian venture to your face
Such language! Oh, 'tis hard--'tis past endurance.
KENNEDY.
So downcast, so depressed, my dearest lady!
You, who before so gay, so full of hope,
Were used to comfort me in my distress;
More gracious were the task to check your mirth
Than chide your heavy sadness.
MARY.
Well I know him--
It is the bleeding Darnley's royal shade,
Rising in anger from his darksome grave
And never will he make his peace with me
Until the measures of my woes be full.
KENNEDY.
What thoughts are these--
MARY.
Thou may'st forget it, Hannah;
But I've a faithful memory--'tis this day
Another wretched anniversary
Of that regretted, that unhappy deed--
Which I must celebrate with fast and penance.
KENNEDY.
Dismiss at length in peace this evil spirit.
The penitence of many a heavy year,
Of many a suffering, has atoned the deed;
The church, which holds the key of absolution,
Pardons the crime, and heaven itself's appeased.
MARY.
This long-atoned crime arises fresh
And bleeding from its lightly-covered grave;
My husband's restless spirit seeks revenge;
No sacred bell can exorcise, no host
In priestly hands dismiss it to his tomb.
KENNEDY.
You did not murder him; 'twas done by others.
MARY.
But it was known to me; I suffered it,
And lured him with my smiles to death's embrace.
KENNEDY.
Your youth extenuates your guilt. You were
Of tender years.
MARY.
So tender, yet I drew
This heavy guilt upon my youthful head.
KENNEDY.
You were provoked by direst injuries,
And by the rude presumption of the man,
Whom out of darkness, like the hand of heaven,
Your love drew forth, and raised above all others.
Whom through your bridal chamber you conducted
Up to your throne, and with your lovely self,
And your hereditary crown, distinguished
[Your work was his existence, and your grace
Bedewed him like the gentle rains of heaven.]
Could he forget that his so splendid lot
Was the creation of your generous love?
Yet did he, worthless as he was, forget it.
With base suspicions, and with brutal manners,
He wearied your affections, and became
An object to you of deserved disgust:
The illusion, which till now had overcast
Your judgment, vanished; angrily you fled
His foul embrace, and gave him up to scorn.
And did he seek again to win your love?
Your favor? Did he e'er implore your pardon?
Or fall in deep repentance at your feet?
No; the base wretch defied you; he, who was
Your bounty's creature, wished to play your king,
[And strove, through fear, to force your inclination.]
Before your eyes he had your favorite singer,
Poor Rizzio, murdered; you did but avenge
With blood the bloody deed----
MARY.
And bloodily,
I fear, too soon 'twill be avenged on me:
You seek to comfort me, and you condemn me.
KENNEDY.
You were, when you consented to this deed,
No more yourself; belonged not to yourself;
The madness of a frantic love possessed you,
And bound you to a terrible seducer,
The wretched Bothwell. That despotic man
Ruled you with shameful, overbearing will,
And with his philters and his hellish arts
Inflamed your passions.
MARY.
All the arts he used
Were man's superior strength and woman's weakness.
KENNEDY.
No, no, I say. The most pernicious spirits
Of hell he must have summoned to his aid,
To cast this mist before your waking senses.
Your ear no more was open to the voice
Of friendly warning, and your eyes were shut
To decency; soft female bashfulness
Deserted you; those cheeks, which were before
The seat of virtuous, blushing modesty,
Glowed with the flames of unrestrained desire.
You cast away the veil of secrecy,
And the flagitious daring of the man
O'ercame your natural coyness: you exposed
Your shame, unblushingly, to public gaze:
You let the murderer, whom the people followed
With curses, through the streets of Edinburgh,
Before you bear the royal sword of Scotland
In triumph. You begirt your parliament
With armed bands; and by this shameless farce,
There, in the very temple of great justice,
You forced the judges of the land to clear
The murderer of his guilt. You went still further--
O God!
MARY.
Conclude--nay, pause not--say for this
I gave my hand in marriage at the altar.
KENNEDY.
O let an everlasting silence veil
That dreadful deed: the heart revolts at it.
A crime to stain the darkest criminal!
Yet you are no such lost one, that I know.
I nursed your youth myself--your heart is framed
For tender softness: 'tis alive to shame,
And all your fault is thoughtless levity.
Yes, I repeat it, there are evil spirits,
Who sudden fix in man's unguarded breast
Their fatal residence, and there delight
To act their dev'lish deeds; then hurry back
Unto their native hell, and leave behind
Remorse and horror in the poisoned bosom.
Since this misdeed, which blackens thus your life,
You have done nothing ill; your conduct has
Been pure; myself can witness your amendment.
Take courage, then; with your own heart make peace.
Whatever cause you have for penitence,
You are not guilty here. Nor England's queen,
Nor England's parliament can be your judge.
Here might oppresses you: you may present
Yourself before this self-created court
With all the fortitude of innocence.
MARY.
I hear a step.
KENNEDY.
It is the nephew--In.
SCENE V.
MORTIMER.
Fear not, my gracious lady--learn to know me.
MARY (to KENNEDY, who hesitates, and looks at the QUEEN inquiringly).
Go in; do as he bids you.
SCENE VI.
MARY, MORTIMER.
MARY.
From my uncle
In France--the worthy Cardinal of Lorrain?
[She reads.
MORTIMER (kneeling).
Oh, pardon,
My gracious liege, for the detested mask,
Which it has cost me pain enough to wear;
Yet through such means alone have I the power
To see you, and to bring you help and rescue.
MARY.
Arise, sir; you astonish me; I cannot
So suddenly emerge from the abyss
Of wretchedness to hope: let me conceive
This happiness, that I may credit it.
MORTIMER.
Our time is brief: each moment I expect
My uncle, whom a hated man attends;
Hear, then, before his terrible commission
Surprises you, how heaven prepares your rescue.
MARY.
You come in token of its wondrous power.
MORTIMER.
Allow me of myself to speak.
MARY.
Say on.
MORTIMER.
I scarce, my liege, had numbered twenty years,
Trained in the path of strictest discipline
And nursed in deadliest hate to papacy,
When led by irresistible desire
For foreign travel, I resolved to leave
My country and its puritanic faith
Far, far behind me: soon with rapid speed
I flew through France, and bent my eager course
On to the plains of far-famed Italy.
'Twas then the time of the great jubilee:
And crowds of palmers filled the public roads;
Each image was adorned with garlands; 'twas
As if all human-kind were wandering forth
In pilgrimage towards the heavenly kingdom.
The tide of the believing multitude
Bore me too onward, with resistless force,
Into the streets of Rome. What was my wonder,
As the magnificence of stately columns
Rushed on my sight! the vast triumphal arches,
The Colosseum's grandeur, with amazement
Struck my admiring senses; the sublime
Creative spirit held my soul a prisoner
In the fair world of wonders it had framed.
I ne'er had felt the power of art till now.
The church that reared me hates the charms of sense;
It tolerates no image, it adores
But the unseen, the incorporeal word.
What were my feelings, then, as I approached
The threshold of the churches, and within,
Heard heavenly music floating in the air:
While from the walls and high-wrought roofs there streamed
Crowds of celestial forms in endless train--
When the Most High, Most Glorious pervaded
My captivated sense in real presence!
And when I saw the great and godlike visions,
The Salutation, the Nativity,
The Holy Mother, and the Trinity's
Descent, the luminous transfiguration
And last the holy pontiff, clad in all
The glory of his office, bless the people!
Oh! what is all the pomp of gold and jewels
With which the kings of earth adorn themselves!
He is alone surrounded by the Godhead;
His mansion is in truth an heavenly kingdom,
For not of earthly moulding are these forms!
MARY.
O spare me, sir! No further. Spread no more
Life's verdant carpet out before my eyes,
Remember I am wretched, and a prisoner.
MORTIMER.
I was a prisoner, too, my queen; but swift
My prison-gates flew open, when at once
My spirit felt its liberty, and hailed
The smiling dawn of life. I learned to burst
Each narrow prejudice of education,
To crown my brow with never-fading wreaths,
And mix my joy with the rejoicing crowd.
Full many noble Scots, who saw my zeal,
Encouraged me, and with the gallant French
They kindly led me to your princely uncle,
The Cardinal of Guise. Oh, what a man!
How firm, how clear, how manly, and how great!
Born to control the human mind at will!
The very model of a royal priest;
A ruler of the church without an equal!
MARY.
You've seen him then,--the much loved, honored man,
Who was the guardian of my tender years!
Oh, speak of him! Does he remember me?
Does fortune favor him? And prospers still
His life? And does he still majestic stand,
A very rock and pillar of the church?
MORTIMER.
The holy man descended from his height,
And deigned to teach me the important creed
Of the true church, and dissipate my doubts.
He showed me how the glimmering light of reason
Serves but to lead us to eternal error:
That what the heart is called on to believe
The eye must see: that he who rules the church
Must needs be visible; and that the spirit
Of truth inspired the councils of the fathers.
How vanished then the fond imaginings
And weak conceptions of my childish soul
Before his conquering judgment, and the soft
Persuasion of his tongue! So I returned
Back to the bosom of the holy church,
And at his feet abjured my heresies.
MARY.
Then of those happy thousands you are one,
Whom he, with his celestial eloquence,
Like the immortal preacher of the mount,
Has turned and led to everlasting joy!
MORTIMER.
The duties of his office called him soon
To France, and I was sent by him to Rheims,
Where, by the Jesuits' anxious labor, priests
Are trained to preach our holy faith in England.
There, 'mongst the Scots, I found the noble Morgan,
And your true Lesley, Ross's learned bishop,
Who pass in France their joyless days of exile.
I joined with heartfelt zeal these worthy men,
And fortified my faith. As I one day
Roamed through the bishop's dwelling, I was struck
With a fair female portrait; it was full
Of touching wond'rous charms; with magic might
It moved my inmost soul, and there I stood
Speechless, and overmastered by my feelings.
"Well," cried the bishop, "may you linger thus
In deep emotion near this lovely face!
For the most beautiful of womankind,
Is also matchless in calamity.
She is a prisoner for our holy faith,
And in your native land, alas! she suffers."
MARY.
Excellent man! All is not lost, indeed,
While such a friend remains in my misfortunes!
MORTIMER.
Then he began, with moving eloquence,
To paint the sufferings of your martyrdom;
He showed me then your lofty pedigree,
And your descent from Tudor's royal house.
He proved to me that you alone have right
To reign in England, not this upstart queen,
The base-born fruit of an adult'rous bed,
Whom Henry's self rejected as a bastard.
[He from my eyes removed delusion's mist,
And taught me to lament you as a victim,
To honor you as my true queen, whom I,
Deceived, like thousands of my noble fellows,
Had ever hated as my country's foe.]
I would not trust his evidence alone;
I questioned learned doctors; I consulted
The most authentic books of heraldry;
And every man of knowledge whom I asked
Confirmed to me your claim's validity.
And now I know that your undoubted right
To England's throne has been your only wrong,
This realm is justly yours by heritage,
In which you innocently pine as prisoner.
MARY.
Oh, this unhappy right!--'tis this alone
Which is the source of all my sufferings.
MORTIMER.
Just at this time the tidings reached my ears
Of your removal from old Talbot's charge,
And your committal to my uncle's care.
It seemed to me that this disposal marked
The wond'rous, outstretched hand of favoring heaven;
It seemed to be a loud decree of fate,
That it had chosen me to rescue you.
My friends concur with me; the cardinal
Bestows on me his counsel and his blessing,
And tutors me in the hard task of feigning.
The plan in haste digested, I commenced
My journey homewards, and ten days ago
On England's shores I landed. Oh, my queen.
[He pauses.
MARY.
'Twere well with her,
If every Briton saw her with your eyes!
MORTIMER.
Were each, like me, a witness of your wrongs,
Your meekness, and the noble fortitude
With which you suffer these indignities--
Would you not then emerge from all these trials
Like a true queen? Your prison's infamy,
Hath it despoiled your beauty of its charms?
You are deprived of all that graces life,
Yet round you life and light eternal beam.
Ne'er on this threshold can I set my foot,
That my poor heart with anguish is not torn,
Nor ravished with delight at gazing on you.
Yet fearfully the fatal time draws near,
And danger hourly growing presses on.
I can delay no longer--can no more
Conceal the dreadful news.
MARY.
My sentence then!
It is pronounced? Speak freely--I can bear it.
MORTIMER.
It is pronounced! The two-and-forty judges
Have given the verdict, "guilty"; and the Houses
Of Lords and Commons, with the citizens
Of London, eagerly and urgently
Demand the execution of the sentence:--
The queen alone still craftily delays,
That she may be constrained to yield, but not
From feelings of humanity or mercy.
MARY (collected).
Sir, I am not surprised, nor terrified.
I have been long prepared for such a message.
Too well I know my judges. After all
Their cruel treatment I can well conceive
They dare not now restore my liberty.
I know their aim: they mean to keep me here
In everlasting bondage, and to bury,
In the sepulchral darkness of my prison,
My vengeance with me, and my rightful claims.
MORTIMER.
Oh, no, my gracious queen;--they stop not there:
Oppression will not be content to do
Its work by halves:--as long as e'en you live,
Distrust and fear will haunt the English queen.
No dungeon can inter you deep enough;
Your death alone can make her throne secure.
MARY.
Will she then dare, regardless of the shame,
Lay my crowned head upon the fatal block?
MORTIMER.
She will most surely dare it, doubt it not.
MARY.
And can she thus roll in the very dust
Her own, and every monarch's majesty?
MORTIMER.
She thinks on nothing now but present danger,
Nor looks to that which is so far removed.
MARY.
And fears she not the dread revenge of France?
MORTIMER.
With France she makes an everlasting peace;
And gives to Anjou's duke her throne and hand.
MARY.
Will not the King of Spain rise up in arms?
MORTIMER.
She fears not a collected world in arms?
If with her people she remains at peace.
MARY.
Were this a spectacle for British eyes?
MORTIMER.
This land, my queen, has, in these latter days,
Seen many a royal woman from the throne
Descend and mount the scaffold:--her own mother
And Catherine Howard trod this fatal path;
And was not Lady Grey a crowned head?
MORTIMER.
No:--neither open or disguised murder
Shall e'er prevail against you:--fear no more;
All is prepared;--twelve nobles of the land
Are my confederates, and have pledged to-day,
Upon the sacrament, their faith to free you,
With dauntless arm, from this captivity.
Count Aubespine, the French ambassador,
Knows of our plot, and offers his assistance:
'Tis in his palace that we hold our meetings.
NARY.
You make me tremble, sir, but not for joy!
An evil boding penetrates my heart.
Know you, then, what you risk? Are you not scared
By Babington and Tichburn's bloody heads,
Set up as warnings upon London's bridge?
Nor by the ruin of those many victims
Who have, in such attempts, found certain death,
And only made my chains the heavier?
Fly hence, deluded, most unhappy youth!
Fly, if there yet be time for you, before
That crafty spy, Lord Burleigh, track your schemes,
And mix his traitors in your secret plots.
Fly hence:--as yet, success hath never smiled
On Mary Stuart's champions.
MORTIMER.
I am not scared
By Babington and Tichburn's bloody heads
Set up as warnings upon London's bridge;
Nor by the ruin of those many victims
Who have, in such attempts, found certain death:
They also found therein immortal honor,
And death, in rescuing you, is dearest bliss.
MARY.
It is in vain: nor force nor guile can save me:--
My enemies are watchful, and the power
Is in their hands. It is not Paulet only
And his dependent host; all England guards
My prison gates: Elizabeth's free will
Alone can open them.
MORTIMER.
Expect not that.
MARY.
One man alone on earth can open them.
MORTIMER.
Oh, let me know his name!
MARY.
Lord Leicester.
MORTIMER.
He!
MARY.
If I am to be saved at all, 'twill be
Through him, and him alone. Go to him, sir;
Freely confide in him: and, as a proof
You come from me, present this paper to him.
MORTIMER.
Oh, my queen! Explain
This mystery.
MARY.
Lord Leicester will resolve it.
Confide in him, and he'll confide in you.
Who comes?
MORTIMER.
It is Lord Burleigh.
Collect yourself, my queen, and strive to hear
The news he brings with equanimity.
SCENE VII.
MARY.
I hope with dignity, as it becomes
My innocence, and my exalted station.
BURLEIGH.
I come deputed from the court of justice.
MARY.
Lord Burleigh lends that court his willing tongue,
Which was already guided by his spirit.
PAULET.
You speak as if no stranger to the sentence.
MARY.
Lord Burleigh brings it; therefore do I know it.
PAULET.
[It would become you better, Lady Stuart,
To listen less to hatred.
MARY.
I but name
My enemy: I said not that I hate him.]
But to the matter, sir.
BURLEIGH.
You have acknowledged
The jurisdiction of the two-and-forty.
MARY.
My lord, excuse me, if I am obliged
So soon to interrupt you. I acknowledged,
Say you, the competence of the commission?
I never have acknowledged it, my lord;
How could I so? I could not give away
My own prerogative, the intrusted rights
Of my own people, the inheritance
Of my own son, and every monarch's honor
[The very laws of England say I could not.]
It is enacted by the English laws
That every one who stands arraigned of crime
Shall plead before a jury of his equals:
Who is my equal in this high commission?
Kings only are my peers.
BURLEIGH.
But yet you heard
The points of accusation, answered them
Before the court----
MARY.
'Tis true, I was deceived
By Hatton's crafty counsel:--he advised me,
For my own honor, and in confidence
In my good cause, and my most strong defence,
To listen to the points of accusation,
And prove their falsehoods. This, my lord, I did
From personal respect for the lords' names,
Not their usurped charge, which I disclaim.
BURLEIGH.
Acknowledge you the court, or not, that is
Only a point of mere formality,
Which cannot here arrest the course of justice.
You breathe the air of England; you enjoy
The law's protection, and its benefits;
You therefore are its subject.
MARY.
Sir, I breathe
The air within an English prison walls:
Is that to live in England; to enjoy
Protection from its laws? I scarcely know
And never have I pledged my faith to keep them.
I am no member of this realm; I am
An independent, and a foreign queen.
BURLEIGH.
And do you think that the mere name of queen
Can serve you as a charter to foment
In other countries, with impunity,
This bloody discord? Where would be the state's
Security, if the stern sword of justice
Could not as freely smite the guilty brow
Of the imperial stranger as the beggar's?
MARY.
I do not wish to be exempt from judgment,
It is the judges only I disclaim.
BURLEIGH.
The judges? How now, madam? Are they then
Base wretches, snatched at hazard from the crowd?
Vile wranglers that make sale of truth and justice;
Oppression's willing hirelings, and its tools?
Are they not all the foremost of this land,
Too independent to be else than honest,
And too exalted not to soar above
The fear of kings, or base servility?
Are they not those who rule a generous people
In liberty and justice; men, whose names
I need but mention to dispel each doubt,
Each mean suspicion which is raised against them?
Stands not the reverend primate at their head,
The pious shepherd of his faithful people,
The learned Talbot, keeper of the seals,
And Howard, who commands our conquering fleets?
Say, then, could England's sovereign do more
Than, out of all the monarchy, elect
The very noblest, and appoint them judges
In this great suit? And were it probable
That party hatred could corrupt one heart;
Can forty chosen men unite to speak
A sentence just as passion gives command?
BURLEIGH.
You say you are not versed in England's laws,
You seem well read, methinks, in her disasters.
MARY.
And these men are my judges?
[As LORD BURLEIGH seems to wish to speak.
My lord treasurer,
Towards you I will be just, be you but just
To me. 'Tis said that you consult with zeal
The good of England, and of England's queen;
Are honest, watchful, indefatigable;
I will believe it. Not your private ends,
Your sovereign and your country's weal alone,
Inspire your counsels and direct your deeds.
Therefore, my noble lord, you should the more
Distrust your heart; should see that you mistake not
The welfare of the government for justice.
I do not doubt, besides yourself, there are
Among my judges many upright men:
But they are Protestants, are eager all
For England's quiet, and they sit in judgment
On me, the Queen of Scotland, and the papist.
It is an ancient saying, that the Scots
And England to each other are unjust;
And hence the rightful custom that a Scot
Against an Englishman, or Englishman
Against a Scot, cannot be heard in judgment.
Necessity prescribed this cautious law;
Deep policy oft lies in ancient customs:
My lord, we must respect them. Nature cast
Into the ocean these two fiery nations
Upon this plank, and she divided it
Unequally, and bade them fight for it.
The narrow bed of Tweed alone divides
These daring spirits; often hath the blood
Of the contending parties dyed its waves.
Threatening, and sword in hand, these thousand years,
From both its banks they watch their rival's motions,
Most vigilant and true confederates,
With every enemy of the neighbor state.
No foe oppresses England, but the Scot
Becomes his firm ally; no civil war
Inflames the towns of Scotland, but the English
Add fuel to the fire: this raging hate
Will never be extinguished till, at last,
One parliament in concord shall unite them,
One common sceptre rule throughout the isle.
BURLEIGH.
And from a Stuart, then, should England hope
This happiness?
MARY.
Oh! why should I deny it?
Yes, I confess, I cherished the fond hope;
I thought myself the happy instrument
To join in freedom, 'neath the olive's shade,
Two generous realms in lasting happiness!
I little thought I should become the victim
Of their old hate, their long-lived jealousy;
And the sad flames of that unhappy strife,
I hoped at last to smother, and forever:
And, as my ancestor, great Richmond, joined
The rival roses after bloody contest,
To join in peace the Scotch and English crowns.
BURLEIGH.
An evil way you took to this good end,
To set the realm on fire, and through the flames
Of civil war to strive to mount the throne.
MARY.
I wished not that:--I wished it not, by Heaven!
When did I strive at that? Where are your proofs?
BURLEIGH.
I came not hither to dispute; your cause
Is no more subject to a war of words.
The great majority of forty voices
Hath found that you have contravened the law
Last year enacted, and have now incurred
Its penalty.
MARY.
Upon this statute, then,
My lord, is built the verdict of my judges?
BURLEIGH (reading).
Last year it was enacted, "If a plot
Henceforth should rise in England, in the name
Or for the benefit of any claimant
To England's crown, that justice should be done
On such pretender, and the guilty party
Be prosecuted unto death." Now, since
It has been proved----
MARY.
Lord Burleigh, I can well
Imagine that a law expressly aimed
At me, and framed to compass my destruction
May to my prejudice be used. Oh! Woe
To the unhappy victim, when the tongue
That frames the law shall execute the sentence.
Can you deny it, sir, that this same statute
Was made for my destruction, and naught else?
BURLEIGH.
It should have acted as a warning to you:
By your imprudence it became a snare.
You saw the precipice which yawned before you;
Yet, truly warned, you plunged into the deep.
With Babington, the traitor, and his bands
Of murderous companions, were you leagued.
You knew of all, and from your prison led
Their treasonous plottings with a deep-laid plan.
MARY.
When did I that, my lord? Let them produce
The documents.
BURLEIGH.
You have already seen them
They were before the court, presented to you.
MARY.
Mere copies written by another hand;
Show me the proof that they were dictated
By me, that they proceeded from my lips,
And in those very terms in which you read them.
BURLEIGH.
Before his execution, Babington
Confessed they were the same which he received.
MARY.
Why was he in his lifetime not produced
Before my face? Why was he then despatched
So quickly that he could not be confronted
With her whom he accused?
BURLEIGH.
Besides, my lady,
Your secretaries, Curl and Nau, declare
On oath, they are the very selfsame letters
Which from your lips they faithfully transcribed.
MARY.
And on my menials' testimony, then,
I am condemned; upon the word of those
Who have betrayed me, me, their rightful queen!
Who in that very moment, when they came
As witnesses against me, broke their faith!
BURLEIGH.
You said yourself, you held your countryman
To be an upright, conscientious man.
MARY.
I thought him such; but 'tis the hour of danger
Alone, which tries the virtue of a man.
[He ever was an honest man, but weak
In understanding; and his subtle comrade,
Whose faith, observe, I never answered for,
Might easily seduce him to write down
More than he should;] the rack may have compelled him
To say and to confess more than he knew.
He hoped to save himself by this false witness,
And thought it could not injure me--a queen.
BURLEIGH.
The oath he swore was free and unconstrained.
MARY.
But not before my face! How now, my lord?
The witnesses you name are still alive;
Let them appear against me face to face,
And there repeat what they have testified.
Why am I then denied that privilege,
That right which e'en the murderer enjoys?
I know from Talbot's mouth, my former keeper,
That in this reign a statute has been passed
Which orders that the plaintiff be confronted
With the defendant; is it so, good Paulet?
I e'er have known you as an honest man;
Now prove it to me; tell me, on your conscience,
If such a law exist or not in England?
PAULET.
Madam, there does: that is the law in England.
I must declare the truth.
MARY.
Well, then, my lord,
If I am treated by the law of England
So hardly, when that law oppresses me,
Say, why avoid this selfsame country's law,
When 'tis for my advantage? Answer me;
Why was not Babington confronted with me?
Why not my servants, who are both alive?
BURLEIGH.
Be not so hasty, lady; 'tis not only
Your plot with Babington----
MARY.
'Tis that alone
Which arms the law against me; that alone
From which I'm called upon to clear myself.
Stick to the point, my lord; evade it not.
BURLEIGH.
It has been proved that you have corresponded
With the ambassador of Spain, Mendoza----
MARY.
Stick to the point, my lord.
BURLEIGH.
That you have formed
Conspiracies to overturn the fixed
Religion of the realm; that you have called
Into this kingdom foreign powers, and roused
All kings in Europe to a war with England.
MARY.
And were it so, my lord--though I deny it--
But e'en suppose it were so: I am kept
Imprisoned here against all laws of nations.
I came not into England sword in hand;
I came a suppliant; and at the hands
Of my imperial kinswoman I claimed
The sacred rights of hospitality,
When power seized upon me, and prepared
To rivet fetters where I hoped protection.
Say, is my conscience bound, then, to this realm?
What are the duties that I owe to England?
I should but exercise a sacred right,
Derived from sad necessity, if I
Warred with these bonds, encountered might with might,
Roused and incited every state in Europe
For my protection to unite in arms.
Whatever in a rightful war is just
And loyal, 'tis my right to exercise:
Murder alone, the secret, bloody deed,
My conscience and my pride alike forbid.
Murder would stain me, would dishonor me:
Dishonor me, my lord, but not condemn me,
Nor subject me to England's courts of law:
For 'tis not justice, but mere violence,
Which is the question 'tween myself and England.
BURLEIGH (significantly).
Talk not, my lady, of the dreadful right
Of power: 'tis seldom on the prisoner's side.
MARY.
I am the weak, she is the mighty one:
'Tis well, my lord; let her, then, use her power;
Let her destroy me; let me bleed, that she
May live secure; but let her, then, confess
That she hath exercised her power alone,
And not contaminate the name of justice.
Let her not borrow from the laws the sword
To rid her of her hated enemy;
Let her not clothe in this religious garb
The bloody daring of licentious might;
Let not these juggling tricks deceive the world.
[Exit.
SCENE VIII.
BURLEIGH, PAULET.
BURLEIGH.
She scorns us, she defies us! will defy us,
Even at the scaffold's foot. This haughty heart
Is not to be subdued. Say, did the sentence
Surprise her? Did you see her shed one tear,
Or even change her color? She disdains
To make appeal to our compassion. Well
She knows the wavering mind of England's queen.
Our apprehensions make her bold.
PAULET.
My lord,
Take the pretext away which buoys it up,
And you shall see this proud defiance fail
That very moment. I must say, my lord,
Irregularities have been allowed
In these proceedings; Babington and Ballard
Should have been brought, with her two secretaries,
Before her, face to face.
BURLEIGH.
No, Paulet, no.
That was not to be risked; her influence
Upon the human heart is too supreme;
Too strong the female empire of her tears.
Her secretary, Curl, if brought before her,
And called upon to speak the weighty word
On which her life depends, would straight shrink back
And fearfully revoke his own confession.
PAULET.
Then England's enemies will fill the world
With evil rumors; and the formal pomp
Of these proceedings to the minds of all
Will only signalize an act of outrage.
BURLEIGH.
That is the greatest torment of our queen,
[That she can never 'scape the blame. Oh God!]
Had but this lovely mischief died before
She set her faithless foot on English ground.
PAULET.
Amen, say I!
BURLEIGH.
Had sickness but consumed her!
PAULET.
England had been secured from such misfortune.
BURLEIGH.
And yet, if she had died in nature's course,
The world would still have called us murderers.
PAULET.
'Tis true, the world will think, despite of us,
Whate'er it list.
BURLEIGH.
Yet could it not be proved?
And it would make less noise.
PAULET.
Why, let it make
What noise it may. It is not clamorous blame,
'Tis righteous censure only which can wound.
BURLEIGH.
We know that holy justice cannot 'scape
The voice of censure; and the public cry
Is ever on the side of the unhappy:
Envy pursues the laurelled conqueror;
The sword of justice, which adorns the man,
Is hateful in a woman's hand; the world
Will give no credit to a woman's justice
If woman be the victim. Vain that wo,
The judges, spoke what conscience dictated;
She has the royal privilege of mercy;
She must exert it: 'twere not to be borne,
Should she let justice take its full career.
PAULET.
And therefore----
BURLEIGH.
Therefore should she live? Oh, no,
She must not live; it must not be. 'Tis this,
Even this, my friend, which so disturbs the queen,
And scares all slumber from her couch; I read
Her soul's distracting contest in her eyes:
She fears to speak her wishes, yet her looks,
Her silent looks, significantly ask,
"Is there not one amongst my many servants
To save me from this sad alternative?
Either to tremble in eternal fear
Upon my throne, or else to sacrifice
A queen of my own kindred on the block?"
PAULET.
'Tis even so; nor can it be avoided----
BURLEIGH.
Well might it be avoided, thinks the queen,
If she had only more attentive servants.
PAULET.
How more attentive?
BURLEIGH.
Such as could interpret
A silent mandate.
PAULET.
What? A silent mandate!
BURLEIGH.
Who, when a poisonous adder is delivered
Into their hands, would keep the treacherous charge
As if it were a sacred, precious jewel?
PAULET.
A precious jewel is the queen's good name
And spotless reputation: good my lord,
One cannot guard it with sufficient care.
BURLEIGH.
When out of Shrewsbury's hands the Queen of Scots
Was trusted to Sir Amias Paulet's care,
The meaning was----
PAULET.
I hope to God, my lord,
The meaning was to give the weightiest charge
Into the purest hands; my lord, my lord!
By heaven I had disdained this bailiff's office
Had I not thought the service claimed the care
Of the best man that England's realm can boast.
Let me not think I am indebted for it
To anything but my unblemished name.
BURLEIGH.
Spread the report she wastes; grows sicker still
And sicker; and expires at last in peace;
Thus will she perish in the world's remembrance,
And your good name is pure.
PAULET.
But not my conscience.
BURLEIGH.
Though you refuse us, sir, your own assistance,
You will not sure prevent another's hand.
PAULET.
No murderer's foot shall e'er approach her threshold
Whilst she's protected by my household gods.
Her life's a sacred trust; to me the head
Of Queen Elizabeth is not more sacred.
Ye are the judges; judge, and break the staff;
And when 'tis time then let the carpenter
With axe and saw appear to build the scaffold.
My castle's portals shall be open to him,
The sheriff and the executioners:
Till then she is intrusted to my care;
And be assured I will fulfil my trust,
She shall nor do nor suffer what's unjust.
[Exeunt.
ACT II.
SCENE I.
DAVISON.
Is that my Lord of Kent? So soon returned?
Is then the tourney, the carousal over?
KENT.
How now? Were you not present at the tilt?
DAVISON.
My office kept me here.
KENT.
Believe me, sir,
You've lost the fairest show which ever state
Devised, or graceful dignity performed:
For beauty's virgin fortress was presented
As by desire invested; the Earl-Marshal,
The Lord-High Admiral, and ten other knights
Belonging to the queen defended it,
And France's cavaliers led the attack.
A herald marched before the gallant troop,
And summoned, in a madrigal, the fortress;
And from the walls the chancellor replied;
And then the artillery was played, and nosegays
Breathing delicious fragrance were discharged
From neat field-pieces; but in vain, the storm
Was valiantly resisted, and desire
Was forced, unwillingly, to raise the siege.
DAVISON.
A sign of evil-boding, good my lord,
For the French Suitors.
KENT.
Why, you know that this
Was but in sport; when the attack's in earnest
The fortress will, no doubt, capitulate.
DAVISON.
Ha! think you so? I never can believe it.
KENT.
The hardest article of all is now
Adjusted and acceded to by France;
The Duke of Anjou is content to hold
His holy worship in a private chapel;
And openly he promises to honor
And to protect the realm's established faith.
Had ye but heard the people's joyful shouts
Where'er the tidings spread, for it has been
The country's constant fear the queen might die
Without immediate issue of her body;
And England bear again the Romish chains
If Mary Stuart should ascend the throne.
DAVISON.
This fear appears superfluous; she goes
Into the bridal chamber; Mary Stuart
Enters the gates of death.
KENT.
The queen approaches.
SCENE II.
AUBESPINE.
The court of England has one lady only
To show the wondering foreigner; but all
That charms our hearts in the accomplished sex
Is seen united in her single person.
BELLIEVRE.
Great majesty of England, suffer us
To take our leave, and to our royal master,
The Duke of Anjou, bring the happy news.
The hot impatience of his heart would not
Permit him to remain at Paris; he
At Amiens awaits the joyful tidings;
And thence to Calais reach his posts to bring
With winged swiftness to his tranced ear
The sweet consent which, still we humbly hope,
Your royal lips will graciously pronounce.
ELIZABETH.
Press me no further now, Count Bellievre.
It is not now a time, I must repeat,
To kindle here the joyful marriage torch.
The heavens lower black and heavy o'er this land;
And weeds of mourning would become me better
Than the magnificence of bridal robes.
A fatal blow is aimed against my heart;
A blow which threatens to oppress my house.
BELLIEVRE.
We only ask your majesty to promise
Your royal hand when brighter days shall come.
ELIZABETH.
Monarchs are but the slaves of their condition;
They dare not hear the dictates of their hearts;
My wish was ever to remain unmarried,
And I had placed my greatest pride in this,
That men hereafter on my tomb might read,
"Here rests the virgin queen." But my good subjects
Are not content that this should be: they think,
E'en now they often think upon the time
When I shall be no more. 'Tis not enough
That blessings now are showered upon this land;
They ask a sacrifice for future welfare,
And I must offer up my liberty,
My virgin liberty, my greatest good,
To satisfy my people. Thus they'd force
A lord and master on me. 'Tis by this
I see that I am nothing but a woman
In their regard; and yet methought that I
Had governed like a man, and like a king.
Well wot I that it is not serving God
To quit the laws of nature; and that those
Who here have ruled before me merit praise,
That they have oped the cloister gates, and given
Thousands of victims of ill-taught devotion
Back to the duties of humanity.
But yet a queen who hath not spent her days
In fruitless, idle contemplation; who,
Without murmur, indefatigably
Performs the hardest of all duties; she
Should be exempted from that natural law
Which doth ordain one half of human kind
Shall ever be subservient to the other.
AUBESPINE.
Great queen, you have upon your throne done honor
To every virtue; nothing now remains
But to the sex, whose greatest boast you are
To be the leading star, and give the great
Example of its most consistent duties.
'Tis true, the man exists not who deserves
That you to him should sacrifice your freedom;
Yet if a hero's soul, descent, and rank,
And manly beauty can make mortal man
Deserving of this honor----
ELIZABETH.
Without doubt,
My lord ambassador, a marriage union
With France's royal son would do me honor;
Yes, I acknowledge it without disguise,
If it must be, if I cannot prevent it,
If I must yield unto my people's prayers,
And much I fear they will o'erpower me,
I do not know in Europe any prince
To whom with less reluctance I would yield
My greatest treasure, my dear liberty.
Let this confession satisfy your master.
BELLIEVRE.
It gives the fairest hope, and yet it gives
Nothing but hope; my master wishes more.
ELIZABETH.
What wishes he?
[She takes a ring from her finger, and thoughtfully examines it.
In this a queen has not
One privilege above all other women.
This common token marks one common duty,
One common servitude; the ring denotes
Marriage, and 'tis of rings a chain is formed.
Convey this present to his highness; 'tis
As yet no chain, it binds me not as yet,
But out of it may grow a link to bind me.
BELLIEVRE (kneeling).
This present, in his name, upon my knees,
I do receive, great queen, and press the kiss
Of homage on the hand of her who is
Henceforth my princess.
ELIZABETH (to the EARL OF LEICESTER, whom she, during the last speeches,
had continually regarded).
By your leave, my lord.
[She takes the blue ribbon from his neck [1], and invests Bellievre
with it.
BELLIEVRE.
Most sovereign queen, this is a day of joy;
Oh that it could be so for all, and no
Afflicted heart within this island mourn.
See! mercy beams upon thy radiant brow;
Let the reflection of its cheering light
Fall on a wretched princess, who concerns
Britain and France alike.
ELIZABETH.
No further, count!
Let us not mix two inconsistent things;
If France be truly anxious for my hand,
It must partake my interests, and renounce
Alliance with my foes.
AUBESPINE.
In thine own eyes
Would she not seem to act unworthily,
If in this joyous treaty she forgot
This hapless queen, the widow of her king;
In whose behalf her honor and her faith
Are bound to plead for grace.
ELIZABETH.
Thus urged, I know
To rate this intercession at its worth;
France has discharged her duties as a friend,
I will fulfil my own as England's queen.
[1] Till the time of Charles the First, the Knights of the Garter
wore the blue ribbon with the George about their necks, as they
still do the collars, on great days.--TRANSLATOR.
SCENE III.
BURLEIGH.
Illustrious sovereign, thou crown'st to-day
The fervent wishes of thy people; now
We can rejoice in the propitious days
Which thou bestowest upon us; and we look
No more with fear and trembling towards the time
Which, charged with storms, futurity presented.
Now, but one only care disturbs this land;
It is a sacrifice which every voice
Demands; Oh! grant but this and England's peace
Will be established now and evermore.
ELIZABETH.
What wish they still, my lord? Speak.
BURLEIGH.
They demand
The Stuart's head. If to thy people thou
Wouldst now secure the precious boon of freedom,
And the fair light of truth so dearly won,
Then she must die; if we are not to live
In endless terror for thy precious life
The enemy must fall; for well thou know'st
That all thy Britons are not true alike;
Romish idolatry has still its friends
In secret, in this island, who foment
The hatred of our enemies. Their hearts
All turn toward this Stuart; they are leagued
With the two plotting brothers of Lorrain,
The foes inveterate of thy house and name.
'Gainst thee this raging faction hath declared
A war of desolation, which they wage
With the deceitful instruments of hell.
At Rheims, the cardinal archbishop's see,
There is the arsenal from which they dart
These lightnings; there the school of regicide;
Thence, in a thousand shapes disguised, are sent
Their secret missionaries to this isle;
Their bold and daring zealots; for from thence
Have we not seen the third assassin come?
And inexhausted is the direful breed
Of secret enemies in this abyss.
While in her castle sits at Fotheringay,
The Ate [1] of this everlasting war,
Who, with the torch of love, spreads flames around;
For her who sheds delusive hopes on all,
Youth dedicates itself to certain death;
To set her free is the pretence--the aim
Is to establish her upon the throne.
For this accursed House of Guise denies
Thy sacred right; and in their mouths thou art
A robber of the throne, whom chance has crowned.
By them this thoughtless woman was deluded,
Proudly to style herself the Queen of England;
No peace can be with her, and with her house;
[Their hatred is too bloody, and their crimes
Too great;] thou must resolve to strike, or suffer--
Her life is death to thee, her death thy life.
ELIZABETH.
My lord, you bear a melancholy office;
I know the purity which guides your zeal,
The solid wisdom which informs your speech;
And yet I hate this wisdom, when it calls
For blood, I hate it in my inmost soul.
Think of a milder counsel--Good my Lord
Of Shrewsbury, we crave your judgment here.
TALBOT.
[Desire you but to know, most gracious queen,
What is for your advantage, I can add
Nothing to what my lord high-treasurer
Has urged; then, for your welfare, let the sentence
Be now confirmed--this much is proved already:
There is no surer method to avert
The danger from your head and from the state.
Should you in this reject our true advice,
You can dismiss your council. We are placed
Here as your counsellors, but to consult
The welfare of this land, and with our knowledge
And our experience we are bound to serve you!
But in what's good and just, most gracious queen,
You have no need of counsellors, your conscience
Knows it full well, and it is written there.
Nay, it were overstepping our commission
If we attempted to instruct you in it.
ELIZABETH.
Yet speak, my worthy Lord of Shrewsbury,
'Tis not our understanding fails alone,
Our heart too feels it wants some sage advice.]
TALBOT.
Well did you praise the upright zeal which fires
Lord Burleigh's loyal breast; my bosom, too,
Although my tongue be not so eloquent,
Beats with no weaker, no less faithful pulse.
Long may you live, my queen, to be the joy
Of your delighted people, to prolong
Peace and its envied blessings in this realm.
Ne'er hath this isle beheld such happy days
Since it was governed by its native kings.
Oh, let it never buy its happiness
With its good name; at least, may Talbot's eyes
Be closed in death e'er this shall come to pass.
ELIZABETH.
Forbid it, heaven, that our good name be stained!
TALBOT.
Then must you find some other way than this
To save thy kingdom, for the sentence passed
Of death against the Stuart is unjust.
You cannot upon her pronounce a sentence
Who is not subject to you.
ELIZABETH.
Then, it seems,
My council and my parliament have erred;
Each bench of justice in the land is wrong,
Which did with one accord admit this right.
ELIZABETH.
Lord Shrewsbury is a fervent advocate
For mine and England's enemy; I must
Prefer those counsellors who wish my welfare.
TALBOT.
Her advocates have an invidious task!
None will, by speaking in her favor, dare
To meet thy anger: stiffer, then, an old
And faithful counsellor (whom naught on earth
Can tempt on the grave's brink) to exercise
The pious duty of humanity.
It never shall be said that, in thy council,
Passion and interest could find a tongue,
While mercy's pleading voice alone was mute,
All circumstances have conspired against her;
Thou ne'er hast seen her face, and nothing speaks
Within thy breast for one that's stranger to thee.
I do not take the part of her misdeeds;
They say 'twas she who planned her husband's murder:
'Tis true that she espoused his murderer.
A grievous crime, no doubt; but then it happened
In darksome days of trouble and dismay,
In the stern agony of civil war,
When she, a woman, helpless and hemmed in
By a rude crowd of rebel vassals, sought
Protection in a powerful chieftain's arms.
God knows what arts were used to overcome her!
For woman is a weak and fragile thing.
ELIZABETH.
Woman's not weak; there are heroic souls
Among the sex; and, in my presence, sir,
I do forbid to speak of woman's weakness.
TALBOT.
Misfortune was for thee a rigid school;
Thou wast not stationed on the sunny side
Of life; thou sawest no throne, from far, before thee;
The grave was gaping for thee at thy feet.
At Woodstock, and in London's gloomy tower,
'Twas there the gracious father of this land
Taught thee to know thy duty, by misfortune.
No flatterer sought thee there: there learned thy soul,
Far from the noisy world and its distractions,
To commune with itself, to think apart,
And estimate the real goods of life.
No God protected this poor sufferer:
Transplanted in her early youth to France,
The court of levity and thoughtless joys,
There, in the round of constant dissipation,
She never heard the earnest voice of truth;
She was deluded by the glare of vice,
And driven onward by the stream of ruin.
Hers was the vain possession of a face,
And she outshone all others of her sex
As far in beauty, as in noble birth.
ELIZABETH.
Collect yourself, my Lord of Shrewsbury;
Bethink you we are met in solemn council.
Those charms must surely be without compare,
Which can engender, in an elder's blood,
Such fire. My Lord of Leicester, you alone
Are silent; does the subject which has made
Him eloquent, deprive you of your speech?
LEICESTER.
Amazement ties my tongue, my queen, to think
That they should fill thy soul with such alarms,
And that the idle tales, which, in the streets,
Of London, terrify the people's ears,
Should reach the enlightened circle of thy council,
And gravely occupy our statesmen's minds.
Astonishment possesses me, I own,
To think this lackland Queen of Scotland, she
Who could not save her own poor throne, the jest
Of her own vassals, and her country's refuse,
[Who in her fairest days of freedom, was
But thy despised puppet,] should become
At once thy terror when a prisoner.
What, in Heaven's name, can make her formidable?
That she lays claim to England? that the Guises
Will not acknowledge thee as queen?
[Did then Thy people's loyal fealty await
These Guises' approbation?] Can these Guises,
With their objections, ever shake the right
Which birth hath given thee; which, with one consent,
The votes of parliament have ratified?
And is not she, by Henry's will, passed o'er
In silence? Is it probable that England,
As yet so blessed in the new light's enjoyment,
Should throw itself into this papist's arms?
From thee, the sovereign it adores, desert
To Darnley's murderess? What will they then,
These restless men, who even in thy lifetime
Torment thee with a successor; who cannot
Dispose of thee in marriage soon enough
To rescue church and state from fancied peril?
Stand'st thou not blooming there in youthful prime
While each step leads her towards the expecting tomb?
By Heavens, I hope thou wilt full many a year
Walk o'er the Stuart's grave, and ne'er become
Thyself the instrument of her sad end.
BURLEIGH.
Lord Leicester hath not always held this tone.
LEICESTER.
'Tis true, I in the court of justice gave
My verdict for her death; here, in the council,
I may consistently speak otherwise
Here, right is not the question, but advantage.
Is this a time to fear her power, when France,
Her only succor, has abandoned her?
When thou preparest with thy hand to bless
The royal son of France, when the fair hope
Of a new, glorious stem of sovereigns
Begins again to blossom in this land?
Why hasten then her death? She's dead already.
Contempt and scorn are death to her; take heed
Lest ill-timed pity call her into life.
'Tis therefore my advice to leave the sentence,
By which her life is forfeit, in full force.
Let her live on; but let her live beneath
The headsman's axe, and, from the very hour
One arm is lifted for her, let it fall.
ELIZABETH (rises).
My lords, I now have heard your several thoughts,
And give my ardent thanks for this your zeal.
With God's assistance, who the hearts of kings
Illumines, I will weigh your arguments,
And choose what best my judgment shall approve.
[To BURLEIGH.
SCENE IV.
ELIZABETH.
There's Sir Amias Paulet; noble sir,
What tidings bring you?
PAULET.
Gracious sovereign,
My nephew, who but lately is returned
From foreign travel, kneels before thy feet,
And offers thee his first and earliest homage,
Grant him thy royal grace, and let him grow
And flourish in the sunshine of thy favor.
ELIZABETH.
Arise, sir knight; and welcome here in England;
You've made, I hear, the tour, have been in France
And Rome, and tarried, too, some time at Rheims:
Tell me what plots our enemies are hatching?
MORTIMER.
May God confound them all! And may the darts
Which they shall aim against my sovereign,
Recoiling, strike their own perfidious breasts!
ELIZABETH.
Did you see Morgan, and the wily Bishop
Of Ross?
MORTIMER.
I saw, my queen, all Scottish exiles
Who forge at Rheims their plots against this realm.
I stole into their confidence in hopes
To learn some hint of their conspiracies.
PAULET.
Private despatches they intrusted to him,
In cyphers, for the Queen of Scots, which he,
With loyal hand, hath given up to us.
ELIZABETH.
Say, what are then their latest plans of treason?
MORTIMER.
It struck them all as 'twere a thunderbolt,
That France should leave them, and with England close
This firm alliance; now they turn their hopes
Towards Spain----
ELIZABETH.
This, Walsingham hath written us.
MORTIMER.
Besides, a bull, which from the Vatican
Pope Sixtus lately levelled at thy throne,
Arrived at Rheims, as I was leaving it;
With the next ship we may expect it here.
LEICESTER.
England no more is frightened by such arms.
BURLEIGH.
They're always dangerous in bigots' hands.
MORTIMER.
So I pretended, that I must confess;
Such was my anxious wish to serve my queen.
PAULET.
'Tis from the Queen of Scots.
'Tis a petition, and to thee addressed.
PAULET.
What it contains
She did not hide from me; she asks a boon;
She begs to be admitted to the grace
Of speaking with the queen.
BURLEIGH.
It cannot be.
TALBOT.
Why not? Her supplication's not unjust.
BURLEIGH.
For her, the base encourager of murder;
Her, who hath thirsted for our sovereign's blood,
The privilege to see the royal presence
Is forfeited: a faithful counsellor
Can never give this treacherous advice.
TALBOT.
And if the queen is gracious, sir, are you
The man to hinder pity's soft emotions?
BURLEIGH.
She is condemned to death; her head is laid
Beneath the axe, and it would ill become
The queen to see a death-devoted head.
The sentence cannot have its execution
If the queen's majesty approaches her,
For pardon still attends the royal presence,
As sickness flies the health-dispensing hand.
TALBOT.
Oh, queen! the God of mercy hath informed
Your heart; Oh! hearken to this heavenly guidance.
Most grievously, indeed, hath she atoned.
Her grievous crime, and it is time that now,
At last, her heavy penance have an end.
Stretch forth your hand to raise this abject queen,
And, like the luminous vision of an angel,
Descend into her gaol's sepulchral night.
BURLEIGH.
Be steadfast, mighty queen; let no emotion
Of seeming laudable humanity
Mislead thee; take not from thyself the power
Of acting as necessity commands.
Thou canst not pardon her, thou canst not save her:
Then heap not on thyself the odious blame,
That thou, with cruel and contemptuous triumph,
Didst glut thyself with gazing on thy victim.
LEICESTER.
Let us, my lords, remain within our bounds;
The queen is wise, and doth not need our counsels
To lead her to the most becoming choice.
This meeting of the queens hath naught in common
With the proceedings of the court of justice.
The law of England, not the monarch's will,
Condemns the Queen of Scotland, and 'twere worthy
Of the great soul of Queen Elizabeth,
To follow the soft dictates of her heart,
Though justice swerves not from its rigid path.
ELIZABETH.
Retire, my lords. We shall, perhaps, find means
To reconcile the tender claims of pity
With what necessity imposes on us.
And now retire.
[The LORDS retire; she calls SIR EDWARD MORTIMER back.
Sir Edward Mortimer!
SCENE V.
ELIZABETH, MORTIMER.
ELIZABETH (having measured him for some time with her eyes in silence).
You've shown a spirit of adventurous courage
And self-possession, far beyond your years.
He who has timely learnt to play so well
The difficult dissembler's needful task
Becomes a perfect man before his time,
And shortens his probationary years.
Fate calls you to a lofty scene of action;
I prophesy it, and can, happily
For you, fulfil, myself, my own prediction.
MORTIMER.
Illustrious mistress, what I am, and all
I can accomplish, is devoted to you.
ELIZABETH.
You've made acquaintance with the foes of England.
Their hate against me is implacable;
Their fell designs are inexhaustible.
As yet, indeed, Almighty Providence
Hath shielded me; but on my brows the crown
Forever trembles, while she lives who fans
Their bigot-zeal, and animates their hopes.
MORTIMER.
She lives no more, as soon as you command it.
ELIZABETH.
Oh, sir! I thought I saw my labors end,
And I am come no further than at first,
I wished to let the laws of England act,
And keep my own hands pure from blood's defilement.
The sentence is pronounced--what gain I by it?
It must be executed, Mortimer,
And I must authorize the execution.
The blame will ever light on me, I must
Avow it, nor can save appearances.
That is the worst----
MORTIMER.
But can appearances
Disturb your conscience where the cause is just?
ELIZABETH.
You are unpractised in the world, sir knight;
What we appear, is subject to the judgment
Of all mankind, and what we are, of no man.
No one will be convinced that I am right:
I must take care that my connivance in
Her death be wrapped in everlasting doubt.
In deeds of such uncertain double visage
Safety lies only in obscurity.
Those measures are the worst that stand avowed;
What's not abandoned, is not wholly lost.
ELIZABETH (quick).
Ay, surely 'twere
The best; Oh, sir, my better angel speaks
Through you;--go on then, worthy sir, conclude
You are in earnest, you examine deep,
Have quite a different spirit from your uncle.
MORTIMER (surprised).
Have you imparted then your wishes to him?
ELIZABETH.
I am sorry that I have.
MORTIMER.
Excuse his age,
The old man is grown scrupulous; such bold
Adventures ask the enterprising heart
Of youth----
ELIZABETH.
And may I venture then on you----
MORTIMER.
My hand I'll lend thee; save then as thou canst
Thy reputation----
ELIZABETH.
Yes, sir; if you could
But waken me some morning with this news
"Maria Stuart, your bloodthirsty foe,
Breathed yesternight her last"----
MORTIMER.
Depend on me.
ELIZABETH.
When shall my head lie calmly down to sleep?
MORTIMER.
The next new moon will terminate thy fears.
ELIZABETH.
And be the selfsame happy day the dawn
Of your preferment--so God speed you, sir;
And be not hurt, if, chance, my thankfulness
Should wear the mask of darkness. Silence is
The happy suitor's god. The closest bonds,
The dearest, are the works of secrecy.
[Exit.
SCENE VI.
MORTIMER (alone).
SCENE VII.
MORTIMER, PAULET.
PAULET.
What said the queen to you?
MORTIMER.
'Twas nothing, sir;
Nothing of consequence----
MORTIMER.
Was it not yourself that brought me to the court?
PAULET.
Oh, would to God I had not done as much!
The honor of our house was never reaped
In courts--stand fast, my nephew--purchase not
Too dear, nor stain your conscience with a crime.
MORTIMER.
What are these fears? What are you dreaming of?
PAULET.
How high soever the queen may pledge herself
To raise you, trust not her alluring words.
[The spirit of the world's a lying spirit,
And vice is a deceitful, treacherous friend.]
She will deny you, if you listen to her;
And, to preserve her own good name, will punish
The bloody deed, which she herself enjoined.
MORTIMER.
The bloody deed!----
PAULET.
Away, dissimulation!--
I know the deed the queen proposed to you.
She hopes that your ambitious youth will prove
More docile than my rigid age. But say,
Have you then pledged your promise, have you?
MORTIMER.
Uncle!
PAULET.
If you have done so, I abandon you,
And lay my curse upon you----
LEICESTER (entering).
Worthy sir!
I with your nephew wish a word. The queen
Is graciously inclined to him; she wills
That to his custody the Scottish queen
Be with full powers intrusted. She relies
On his fidelity.
PAULET.
Relies!--'tis well----
LEICESTER.
What say you, sir?
PAULET.
Her majesty relies
On him; and I, my noble lord, rely
Upon myself, and my two open eyes.
[Exit.
SCENE VIII.
LEICESTER, MORTIMER.
LEICESTER (surprised).
What ailed the knight?
MORTIMER.
My lord, I cannot tell
What angers him: the confidence, perhaps,
The queen so suddenly confers on me.
LEICESTER.
Are you deserving then of confidence?
MORTIMER.
This would I ask of you, my Lord of Leicester.
LEICESTER.
You said you wished to speak with me in private.
MORTIMER.
Assure me first that I may safely venture.
LEICESTER.
Who gives me an assurance on your side?
Let not my want of confidence offend you;
I see you, sir, exhibit at this court
Two different aspects; one of them must be
A borrowed one; but which of them is real?
MORTIMER.
The selfsame doubts I have concerning you.
LEICESTER.
Which, then, shall pave the way to confidence?
MORTIMER.
He, who by doing it, is least in danger.
LEICESTER.
Well, that are you----
MORTIMER.
No, you; the evidence
Of such a weighty, powerful peer as you
Can overwhelm my voice. My accusation
Is weak against your rank and influence.
LEICESTER.
Sir, you mistake. In everything but this
I'm powerful here; but in this tender point
Which I am called upon to trust you with,
I am the weakest man of all the court,
The poorest testimony can undo me.
MORTIMER.
If the all-powerful Earl of Leicester deign
To stoop so low to meet me, and to make
Such a confession to me, I may venture
To think a little better of myself,
And lead the way in magnanimity.
LEICESTER.
Lead you the way of confidence, I'll follow.
MORTIMER.
Not I.
LEICESTER.
Indeed! She surely hath informed you.
MORTIMER.
Nothing hath she informed me of. She said
You would explain this riddle to me--'tis
To me a riddle, that the Earl of Leicester,
The far-famed favorite of Elizabeth,
The open, bitter enemy of Mary,
And one of those who spoke her mortal sentence,
Should be the man from whom the queen expects
Deliverance from her woes; and yet it must be;
Your eyes express too plainly what your heart
Feels for the hapless lady.
LEICESTER.
Tell me, Sir,
First, how it comes that you should take so warm
An interest in her fate; and what it was
Gained you her confidence?
MORTIMER.
My lord, I can,
And in few words, explain this mystery.
I lately have at Rome abjured my creed,
And stand in correspondence with the Guises.
A letter from the cardinal archbishop
Was my credential with the Queen of Scots.
LEICESTER.
I am acquainted, sir, with your conversion;
'Twas that which waked my confidence towards you.
[Each remnant of distrust be henceforth banished;]
Your hand, sir, pardon me these idle doubts,
I cannot use too much precaution here.
Knowing how Walsingham and Burleigh hate me,
And, watching me, in secret spread their snares;
You might have been their instrument, their creature
To lure me to their toils.
MORTIMER.
How poor a part
So great a nobleman is forced to play
At court! My lord, I pity you.
LEICESTER.
With joy
I rest upon the faithful breast of friendship,
Where I can ease me of this long constraint.
You seem surprised, sir, that my heart is turned
So suddenly towards the captive queen.
In truth, I never hated her; the times
Have forced me to be her enemy.
She was, as you well know, my destined bride,
Long since, ere she bestowed her hand on Darnley,
While yet the beams of glory round her smiled,
Coldly I then refused the proffered boon.
Now in confinement, at the gates of death,
I claim her at the hazard of my life.
MORTIMER.
True magnanimity, my lord.
LEICESTER.
The state
Of circumstances since that time is changed.
Ambition made me all insensible
To youth and beauty. Mary's hand I held
Too insignificant for me; I hoped
To be the husband of the Queen of England.
MORTIMER.
It is well known she gave you preference
Before all others.
LEICESTER.
So, indeed, it seemed.
Now, after ten lost years of tedious courtship
And hateful self-constraint--oh, sir, my heart
Must ease itself of this long agony.
They call me happy! Did they only know
What the chains are, for which they envy me!
When I had sacrificed ten bitter years
To the proud idol of her vanity;
Submitted with a slave's humility
To every change of her despotic fancies
The plaything of each little wayward whim.
At times by seeming tenderness caressed,
As oft repulsed with proud and cold disdain;
Alike tormented by her grace and rigor:
Watched like a prisoner by the Argus eyes
Of jealousy; examined like a schoolboy,
And railed at like a servant. Oh, no tongue
Can paint this hell.
MORTIMER.
My lord, I feel for you.
LEICESTER.
To lose, and at the very goal, the prize
Another comes to rob me of the fruits
Of my so anxious wooing. I must lose
To her young blooming husband all those rights
Of which I was so long in full possession;
And I must from the stage descend, where I
So long have played the most distinguished part.
'Tis not her hand alone this envious stranger
Threatens, he'd rob me of her favor too;
She is a woman, and he formed to please.
MORTIMER.
He is the son of Catherine. He has learnt
In a good school the arts of flattery.
LEICESTER.
Thus fall my hopes; I strove to seize a plank
To bear me in this shipwreck of my fortunes,
And my eye turned itself towards the hope
Of former days once more; then Mary's image
Within me was renewed, and youth and beauty
Once more asserted all their former rights.
No more 'twas cold ambition; 'twas my heart
Which now compared, and with regret I felt
The value of the jewel I had lost.
With horror I beheld her in the depths.
Of misery, cast down by my transgression;
Then waked the hope in me that I might still
Deliver and possess her; I contrived
To send her, through a faithful hand, the news
Of my conversion to her interests;
And in this letter which you brought me, she
Assures me that she pardons me, and offers
Herself as guerdon if I rescue her.
MORTIMER.
But you attempted nothing for her rescue.
You let her be condemned without a word:
You gave, yourself, your verdict for her death;
A miracle must happen, and the light
Of truth must move me, me, her keeper's nephew,
And heaven must in the Vatican at Rome
Prepare for her an unexpected succour,
Else had she never found the way to you.
LEICESTER.
Oh, sir, it has tormented me enough!
About this time it was that they removed her
From Talbot's castle, and delivered her
Up to your uncle's stricter custody.
Each way to her was shut. I was obliged
Before the world to persecute her still;
But do not think that I would patiently
Have seen her led to death. No, Sir; I hoped,
And still I hope, to ward off all extremes,
Till I can find some certain means to save her.
MORTIMER.
These are already found: my Lord of Leicester;
Your generous confidence in me deserves
A like return. I will deliver her.
That is my object here; my dispositions
Are made already, and your powerful aid
Assures us of success in our attempt.
LEICESTER.
What say you? You alarm me! How? You would----
MORTIMER.
I'll open forcibly her prison-gates;
I have confederates, and all is ready.
LEICESTER.
You have confederates, accomplices?
Alas! In what rash enterprise would you
Engage me? And these friends, know they my secret?
MORTIMER.
Fear not; our plan was laid without your help,
Without your help it would have been accomplished,
Had she not signified her resolution
To owe her liberty to you alone.
LEICESTER.
And can you, then, with certainty assure me
That in your plot my name has not been mentioned?
MORTIMER.
You may depend upon it. How, my lord,
So scrupulous when help is offered you?
You wish to rescue Mary, and possess her;
You find confederates; sudden, unexpected,
The readiest means fall, as it were from Heaven,
Yet you show more perplexity than joy.
LEICESTER.
We must avoid all violence; it is
Too dangerous an enterprise.
MORTIMER.
Delay
Is also dangerous.
LEICESTER.
I tell you, Sir,
'Tis not to be attempted----
MORTIMER.
My lord,
Too hazardous for you, who would possess her;
But we, who only wish to rescue her,
We are more bold.
LEICESTER.
Young man, you are too hasty
In such a thorny, dangerous attempt.
MORTIMER.
And you too scrupulous in honor's cause.
LEICESTER.
I see the trammels that are spread around us.
MORTIMER.
And I feel courage to break through them all.
LEICESTER.
Foolhardiness and madness, is this courage?
MORTIMER.
This prudence is not bravery, my lord.
LEICESTER.
You surely wish to end like Babington.
MORTIMER.
You not to imitate great Norfolk's virtue.
LEICESTER.
Norfolk ne'er won the bride he wooed so fondly.
MORTIMER.
But yet he proved how truly he deserved her.
LEICESTER.
If we are ruined, she must fall with us.
MORTIMER.
If we risk nothing, she will ne'er be rescued.
LEICESTER.
You will not weigh the matter, will not hear;
With blind and hasty rashness you destroy
The plans which I so happily had framed.
MORTIMER.
And what were then the plans which you had framed?
What have you done then to deliver her?
And how, if I were miscreant enough
To murder her, as was proposed to me
This moment by Elizabeth, and which
She looks upon as certain; only name
The measures you have taken to protect her?
LEICESTER.
Did the queen give you, then, this bloody order?
MORTIMER.
She was deceived in me, as Mary is in you.
LEICESTER.
And have you promised it? Say, have you?
MORTIMER.
That she might not engage another's hand,
I offered mine.
LEICESTER.
Well done, sir; that was right;
This gives us leisure, for she rests secure
Upon your bloody service, and the sentence
Is unfulfilled the while, and we gain time.
MORTIMER (angrily).
No, we are losing time.
LEICESTER.
The queen depends
On you, and will the readier make a show
Of mercy; and I may prevail on her
To give an audience to her adversary;
And by this stratagem we tie her hands
Yes! I will make the attempt, strain every nerve.
MORTIMER.
And what is gained by this? When she discovers
That I am cheating her, that Mary lives;
Are we not where we were? She never will
Be free; the mildest doom which can await her
At best is but perpetual confinement.
A daring deed must one day end the matter;
Why will you not with such a deed begin?
The power is in your hands, would you but rouse
The might of your dependents round about
Your many castles, 'twere an host; and still
Has Mary many secret friends. The Howards
And Percies' noble houses, though their chiefs
Be fallen, are rich in heroes; they but wait
For the example of some potent lord.
Away with feigning--act an open part,
And, like a loyal knight, protect your fair;
Fight a good fight for her! You know you are
Lord of the person of the Queen of England,
Whene'er you will: invite her to your castle,
Oft hath she thither followed you--then show
That you're a man; then speak as master; keep her
Confined till she release the Queen of Scots.
LEICESTER.
I am astonished--I am terrified!
Where would your giddy madness hurry you?
Are you acquainted with this country? Know you
The deeps and shallows of this court? With what
A potent spell this female sceptre binds
And rules men's spirits round her? 'Tis in vain
You seek the heroic energy which once
Was active in this land! it is subdued,
A woman holds it under lock and key,
And every spring of courage is relaxed.
Follow my counsel--venture nothing rashly.
Some one approaches-go----
MORTIMER.
And Mary hopes--
Shall I return to her with empty comfort?
LEICESTER.
Bear her my vows of everlasting love.
MORTIMER.
Bear them yourself! I offered my assistance
As her deliverer, not your messenger.
[Exit.
SCENE IX.
ELIZABETH, LEICESTER.
ELIZABETH.
Say, who was here? I heard the sound of voices.
ELIZABETH.
How now, my lord:
Why so confused?
ELIZABETH.
Whence this sigh?
LEICESTER.
Have I no reason, then,
To sigh? When I behold you in your glory,
I feel anew, with pain unspeakable,
The loss which threatens me.
ELIZABETH.
What loss, my lord?
LEICESTER.
Your heart; your own inestimable self
Soon will you feel yourself within the arms
Of your young ardent husband, highly blessed;
He will possess your heart without a rival.
He is of royal blood, that am not I.
Yet, spite of all the world can say, there lives not
One on this globe who with such fervent zeal
Adores you as the man who loses you.
Anjou hath never seen you, can but love
Your glory and the splendor of your reign;
But I love you, and were you born of all
The peasant maids the poorest, I the first
Of kings, I would descend to your condition,
And lay my crown and sceptre at your feet!
ELIZABETH.
Oh, pity me, my Dudley; do not blame me;
I cannot ask my heart. Oh, that had chosen
Far otherwise! Ah, how I envy others
Who can exalt the object of their love!
But I am not so blest: 'tis not my fortune
To place upon the brows of him, the dearest
Of men to me, the royal crown of England.
The Queen of Scotland was allowed to make
Her hand the token of her inclination;
She hath had every freedom, and hath drunk,
Even to the very dregs, the cup of joy.
LEICESTER.
And now she drinks the bitter cup of sorrow.
ELIZABETH.
She never did respect the world's opinion;
Life was to her a sport; she never courted
The yoke to which I bowed my willing neck.
And yet, methinks, I had as just a claim
As she to please myself and taste the joys
Of life: but I preferred the rigid duties
Which royalty imposed on me; yet she,
She was the favorite of all the men
Because she only strove to be a woman;
And youth and age became alike her suitors.
Thus are the men voluptuaries all!
The willing slaves of levity and pleasure;
Value that least which claims their reverence.
And did not even Talbot, though gray-headed,
Grow young again when speaking of her charms?
LEICESTER.
Forgive him, for he was her keeper once,
And she has fooled him with her cunning wiles.
ELIZABETH.
And is it really true that she's so fair?
So often have I been obliged to hear
The praises of this wonder--it were well
If I could learn on what I might depend:
Pictures are flattering, and description lies;
I will trust nothing but my own conviction.
Why gaze you at me thus?
LEICESTER.
I placed in thought
You and Maria Stuart side by side.
Yes! I confess I oft have felt a wish,
If it could be but secretly contrived,
To see you placed beside the Scottish queen,
Then would you feel, and not till then, the full
Enjoyment of your triumph: she deserves
To be thus humbled; she deserves to see,
With her own eyes, and envy's glance is keen,
Herself surpassed, to feel herself o'ermatched,
As much by thee in form and princely grace
As in each virtue that adorns the sex.
ELIZABETH.
In years she has the advantage----
LEICESTER.
Has she so?
I never should have thought it. But her griefs,
Her sufferings, indeed! 'tis possible
Have brought down age upon her ere her time.
Yes, and 'twould mortify her more to see thee
As bride--she hath already turned her back
On each fair hope of life, and she would see thee
Advancing towards the open arms of joy.
See thee as bride of France's royal son,
She who hath always plumed herself so high
On her connection with the house of France,
And still depends upon its mighty aid.
LEICESTER.
She asks it
As a favor; grant it as a punishment.
For though you should conduct her to the block,
Yet would it less torment her than to see
Herself extinguished by your beauty's splendor.
Thus can you murder her as she hath wished
To murder you. When she beholds your beauty,
Guarded by modesty, and beaming bright,
In the clear glory of unspotted fame
(Which she with thoughtless levity discarded),
Exalted by the splendor of the crown,
And blooming now with tender bridal graces--
Then is the hour of her destruction come.
Yes--when I now behold you--you were never,
No, never were you so prepared to seal
The triumph of your beauty. As but now
You entered the apartment, I was dazzled
As by a glorious vision from on high.
Could you but now, now as you are, appear
Before her, you could find no better moment.
ELIZABETH.
Now? no, not now; no, Leicester; this must be
Maturely weighed--I must with Burleigh----
LEICESTER.
Burleigh!
To him you are but sovereign, and as such
Alone he seeks your welfare; but your rights,
Derived from womanhood, this tender point
Must be decided by your own tribunal,
Not by the statesman; yet e'en policy
Demands that you should see her, and allure
By such a generous deed the public voice.
You can hereafter act as it may please you,
To rid you of the hateful enemy.
ELIZABETH.
But would it then become me to behold
My kinswoman in infamy and want?
They say she is not royally attended;
Would not the sight of her distress reproach me?
LEICESTER.
You need not cross her threshold; hear my counsel.
A fortunate conjuncture favors it.
The hunt you mean to honor with your presence
Is in the neighborhood of Fotheringay;
Permission may be given to Lady Stuart
To take the air; you meet her in the park,
As if by accident; it must not seem
To have been planned, and should you not incline,
You need not speak to her.
ELIZABETH.
If I am foolish,
Be yours the fault, not mine. I would not care
To-day to cross your wishes; for to-day
I've grieved you more than all my other subjects.
[Tenderly.
Let it then be your fancy. Leicester, hence
You see the free obsequiousness of love.
Which suffers that which it cannot approve.
SCENE I.
KENNEDY.
You hasten on as if endowed with wings;
I cannot follow you so swiftly; wait.
MARY.
Freedom returns! Oh let me enjoy it.
Let me be childish; be thou childish with me.
Freedom invites me! Oh, let me employ it
Skimming with winged step light o'er the lea;
Have I escaped from this mansion of mourning?
Holds me no more the sad dungeon of care?
Let me, with joy and with eagerness burning,
Drink in the free, the celestial air.
KENNEDY.
Oh, my dear lady! but a very little
Is your sad gaol extended; you behold not
The wall that shuts us in; these plaited tufts
Of trees hide from your sight the hated object.
MARY.
Thanks to these friendly trees, that hide from me
My prison walls, and flatter my illusion!
Happy I now may deem myself, and free;
Why wake me from my dream's so sweet confusion?
The extended vault of heaven around me lies,
Free and unfettered range my wandering eyes
O'er space's vast, immeasurable sea!
From where yon misty mountains rise on high
I can my empire's boundaries explore;
And those light clouds which, steering southwards, fly,
Seek the mild clime of France's genial shore.
Fast fleeting clouds! ye meteors that fly;
Could I but with you sail through the sky!
Tenderly greet the dear land of my youth!
Here I am captive! oppressed by my foes,
No other than you may carry my woes.
Free through the ether your pathway is seen,
Ye own not the power of this tyrant queen.
KENNEDY.
Alas! dear lady! You're beside yourself,
This long-lost, long-sought freedom makes you rave.
MARY.
Yonder's a fisher returning to his home;
Poor though it be, would he lend me his wherry,
Quick to congenial shores would I ferry.
Spare is his trade, and labor's his doom;
Rich would I freight his vessel with treasure;
Such a draught should be his as he never had seen;
Wealth should he find in his nets without measure,
Would he but rescue a poor captive queen.
KENNEDY.
Fond, fruitless wishes! See you not from far
How we are followed by observing spies?
A dismal, barbarous prohibition scares
Each sympathetic being from our path.
MARY.
No, gentle Hannah! Trust me, not in vain
My prison gates are opened. This small grace
Is harbinger of greater happiness.
No! I mistake not; 'tis the active hand
Of love to which I owe this kind indulgence.
I recognize in this the mighty arm
Of Leicester. They will by degrees expand
My prison; will accustom me, through small,
To greater liberty, until at last
I shall behold the face of him whose hand
Will dash my fetters off, and that forever.
KENNEDY.
Oh, my dear queen! I cannot reconcile
These contradictions. 'Twas but yesterday
That they announced your death, and all at once,
To-day, you have such liberty. Their chains
Are also loosed, as I have oft been told,
Whom everlasting liberty awaits.
MARY.
Hear'st then the bugle, so blithely resounding?
Hear'st thou its echoes through wood and through plain?
Oh, might I now, on my nimble steed bounding,
Join with the jocund, the frolicsome train.
SCENE II.
Enter PAULET.
PAULET.
Well, have I acted right at last, my lady?
Do I for once, at least, deserve your thanks?
MARY.
How! Do I owe this favor, sir, to you?
PAULET.
Why not to me? I visited the court,
And gave the queen your letter.
MARY.
Did you give it?
In very truth did you deliver it?
And is this freedom which I now enjoy
The happy consequence?
PAULET (significantly).
Nor that alone;
Prepare yourself to see a greater still.
MARY.
A greater still! What do you mean by that?
PAULET.
You heard the bugle-horns?
PAULET.
The queen is hunting in the neighborhood----
MARY.
What!
PAULET.
In a few moments she'll appear before you.
PAULET.
How? Is't not well? Was it not then your prayer?
'Tis granted now, before it was expected;
You who had ever such a ready speech,
Now summon all your powers of eloquence,
The important time to use them now is come.
MARY.
Oh, why was I not told of this before?
Now I am not prepared for it--not now
What, as the greatest favor, I besought,
Seems to me now most fearful; Hannah, come,
Lead me into the house, till I collect
My spirits.
PAULET.
Stay; you must await her here.
Yes! I believe you may be well alarmed
To stand before your judge.
SCENE III.
MARY.
'Tis not for that, O God!
Far other thoughts possess me now.
Oh, worthy Shrewsbury! You come as though
You were an angel sent to me from heaven.
I cannot, will not see her. Save me, save me
From the detested sight!
SHREWSBURY.
Your majesty,
Command yourself, and summon all your courage,
'Tis the decisive moment of your fate.
MARY.
For years I've waited, and prepared myself.
For this I've studied, weighed, and written down
Each word within the tablet of my memory
That was to touch and move her to compassion.
Forgotten suddenly, effaced is all,
And nothing lives within me at this moment
But the fierce, burning feeling of my wrongs.
My heart is turned to direst hate against her;
All gentle thoughts, all sweet forgiving words,
Are gone, and round me stand with grisly mien,
The fiends of hell, and shake their snaky locks!
SHREWSBURY.
Command your wild, rebellious blood;--constrain
The bitterness which fills your heart. No good
Ensues when hatred is opposed to hate.
How much soe'er the inward struggle cost
You must submit to stern necessity,
The power is in her hand, be therefore humble.
MARY.
To her? I never can.
SHREWSBURY.
But pray, submit.
Speak with respect, with calmness! Strive to move
Her magnanimity; insist not now
Upon your rights, not now--'tis not the season.
MARY.
Ah! woe is me! I've prayed for my destruction,
And, as a curse to me, my prayer is heard.
We never should have seen each other--never!
Oh, this can never, never come to good.
Rather in love could fire and water meet,
The timid lamb embrace the roaring tiger!
I have been hurt too grievously; she hath
Too grievously oppressed me;--no atonement
Can make us friends!
SHREWSBURY.
First see her, face to face:
Did I not see how she was moved at reading
Your letter? How her eyes were drowned in tears?
No--she is not unfeeling; only place
More confidence in her. It was for this
That I came on before her, to entreat you
To be collected--to admonish you----
SHREWSBURY.
Let all be now forgot, and only think
How to receive her with submissiveness.
MARY.
Is Burleigh with her, too, my evil genius?
SHREWSBURY.
No one attends her but the Earl of Leicester.
MARY.
Lord Leicester?
SHREWSBURY.
Fear not him; it is not he
Who wishes your destruction;--'twas his work
That here the queen hath granted you this meeting.
MARY.
Ah! well I knew it.
SHREWSBURY.
What?
PAULET.
The queen approaches.
SCENE IV.
LEICESTER.
'Tis Fotheringay.
MARY (who the whole time had leaned, almost fainting, on KENNEDY, rises
now, and her eyes meet the steady, piercing look of ELIZABETH; she
shudders and throws herself again upon KENNEDY'S bosom).
O God! from out these features speaks no heart.
ELIZABETH.
What lady's that?
LEICESTER.
You are at Fotheringay,
My liege!
LEICESTER.
'Tis past, my queen;--and now that heaven hath led
Your footsteps hither, be magnanimous;
And let sweet pity be triumphant now.
SHREWSBURY.
Oh, royal mistress! yield to our entreaties;
Oh, cast your eyes on this unhappy one
Who stands dissolved in anguish.
ELIZABETH.
How, my lords!
Which of you then announced to me a prisoner
Bowed down by woe? I see a haughty one
By no means humbled by calamity.
MARY.
Well, be it so:--to this will I submit.
Farewell high thought, and pride of noble mind!
I will forget my dignity, and all
My sufferings; I will fall before her feet
Who hath reduced me to this wretchedness.
[She turns towards the QUEEN.
MARY.
Oh! how shall I begin? Oh, how shall I
So artfully arrange my cautious words
That they may touch, yet not offend your heart?
Strengthen my words, O Heaven! and take from them
Whate'er might wound. Alas! I cannot speak
In my own cause without impeaching you,
And that most heavily, I wish not so;
You have not as you ought behaved to me:
I am a queen, like you: yet you have held me
Confined in prison. As a suppliant
I came to you, yet you in me insulted
The pious use of hospitality;
Slighting in me the holy law of nations,
Immured me in a dungeon--tore from me
My friends and servants; to unseemly want
I was exposed, and hurried to the bar
Of a disgraceful, insolent tribunal.
No more of this;--in everlasting silence
Be buried all the cruelties I suffered!
See--I will throw the blame of all on fate,
'Twere not your fault, no more than it was mine.
An evil spirit rose from the abyss,
To kindle in our hearts the flame of hate,
By which our tender youth had been divided.
It grew with us, and bad, designing men
Fanned with their ready breath the fatal fire:
Frantics, enthusiasts, with sword and dagger
Armed the uncalled-for hand! This is the curse
Of kings, that they, divided, tear the world
In pieces with their hatred, and let loose
The raging furies of all hellish strife!
No foreign tongue is now between us, sister,
ELIZABETH.
My better stars preserved me. I was warned,
And laid not to my breast the poisonous adder!
Accuse not fate! your own deceitful heart
It was, the wild ambition of your house
As yet no enmities had passed between us,
When your imperious uncle, the proud priest,
Whose shameless hand grasps at all crowns, attacked me
With unprovoked hostility, and taught
You, but too docile, to assume my arms,
To vest yourself with my imperial title,
And meet me in the lists in mortal strife:
What arms employed he not to storm my throne?
The curses of the priests, the people's sword,
The dreadful weapons of religious frenzy;--
Even here in my own kingdom's peaceful haunts
He fanned the flames of civil insurrection;
But God is with me, and the haughty priest
Has not maintained the field. The blow was aimed
Full at my head, but yours it is which falls!
MARY.
I'm in the hand of heaven. You never will
Exert so cruelly the power it gives you.
ELIZABETH.
Who shall prevent me? Say, did not your uncle
Set all the kings of Europe the example,
How to conclude a peace with those they hate.
Be mine the school of Saint Bartholomew;
What's kindred then to me, or nation's laws?
The church can break the bands of every duty;
It consecrates the regicide, the traitor;
I only practise what your priests have taught!
Say then, what surety can be offered me,
Should I magnanimously loose your bonds?
Say, with what lock can I secure your faith,
Which by Saint Peter's keys cannot be opened?
Force is my only surety; no alliance
Can be concluded with a race of vipers.
MARY.
Oh! this is but your wretched, dark suspicion!
For you have constantly regarded me
But as a stranger, and an enemy.
Had you declared me heir to your dominions,
As is my right, then gratitude and love
In me had fixed, for you, a faithful friend
And kinswoman.
ELIZABETH.
Your friendship is abroad,
Your house is papacy, the monk your brother.
Name you my successor! The treacherous snare!
That in my life you might seduce my people;
And, like a sly Armida, in your net
Entangle all our noble English youth;
That all might turn to the new rising sun,
And I----
MARY.
O sister, rule your realm in peace;
I give up every claim to these domains--
Alas! the pinions of my soul are lamed;
Greatness entices me no more: your point
Is gained; I am but Mary's shadow now--
My noble spirit is at last broke down
By long captivity:--you've done your worst
On me; you have destroyed me in my bloom!
Now, end your work, my sister;--speak at length
The word, which to pronounce has brought you hither;
For I will ne'er believe that you are come,
To mock unfeelingly your hapless victim.
Pronounce this word;--say, "Mary, you are free:
You have already felt my power,--learn now
To honor too my generosity."
Say this, and I will take my life, will take
My freedom, as a present from your hands.
One word makes all undone;--I wait for it;--
Oh, let it not be needlessly delayed.
Woe to you if you end not with this word!
For should you not, like some divinity,
Dispensing noble blessings, quit me now,
Then, sister, not for all this island's wealth,
For all the realms encircled by the deep,
Would I exchange my present lot for yours.
ELIZABETH.
And you confess at last that you are conquered:
Are all your schemes run out? No more assassins
Now on the road? Will no adventurer
Attempt again for you the sad achievement?
Yes, madam, it is over:--you'll seduce
No mortal more. The world has other cares;--
None is ambitious of the dangerous honor
Of being your fourth husband--you destroy
Your wooers like your husbands.
MARY.
This is too much!
MARY.
Moderation! I've supported
What human nature can support: farewell,
Lamb-hearted resignation, passive patience,
Fly to thy native heaven; burst at length
Thy bonds, come forward from thy dreary cave,
In all thy fury, long suppressed rancor!
And thou, who to the angered basilisk
Impart'st the murderous glance, oh, arm my tongue
With poisoned darts!
SHREWSBURY.
She is beside herself!
Exasperated, mad! My liege, forgive her.
SCENE V.
MARY, KENNEDY.
KENNEDY.
What have you done? She has gone hence in wrath
All hope is over now!
KENNEDY.
Unhappy lady! Frenzy overcomes you.
Yes, you have wounded your inveterate foe;
'Tis she who wields the lightning, she is queen,
You have insulted her before her minion.
MARY.
I have abased her before Leicester's eyes;
He saw it, he was witness of my triumph.
How did I hurl her from her haughty height,
He saw it, and his presence strengthened me.
SCENE VI.
Enter MORTIMER.
KENNEDY.
Oh, Sir! What an occurrence!
MORTIMER.
I heard all--
MARY.
Sir, satisfy, I beg you, my impatience;
What says his lordship? Say, sir, may I hope?
MORTIMER.
Who?--he?--he is a wretch, a very coward,
Hope naught from him; despise him, and forget him!
MARY.
What say you?
MORTIMER.
He deliver, and possess you!
Why let him dare it:--he!--he must with me
In mortal contest first deserve the prize!
MARY.
You gave him not my letter? Then, indeed
My hopes are lost!
MORTIMER.
The coward loves his life.
Whoe'er would rescue you, and call you his,
Must boldly dare affront e'en death itself!
MARY.
Will he do nothing for me?
MORTIMER.
Speak not of him.
What can he do? What need have we of him?
I will release you; I alone.
MARY.
Alas!
What power have you?
MORTIMER.
Deceive yourself no more;
Think not your case is now as formerly;
The moment that the queen thus quitted you,
And that your interview had ta'en this turn,
All hope was lost, each way of mercy shut.
Now deeds must speak, now boldness must decide,
To compass all must all be hazarded;
You must be free before the morning break.
MARY.
What say you, sir--to-night?--impossible!
MORTIMER.
Hear what has been resolved:--I led my friends
Into a private chapel, where a priest
Heard our confession, and, for every sin
We had committed, gave us absolution;
He gave us absolution too, beforehand,
For every crime we might commit in future;
He gave us too the final sacrament,
And we are ready for the final journey.
MARY.
Oh, what an awful, dreadful preparation!
MORTIMER.
We scale, this very night, the castle's walls;
The keys are in my power; the guards we murder!
Then from thy chamber bear thee forcibly.
Each living soul must die beneath our hands,
That none remain who might disclose the deed.
MARY.
And Drury, Paulet, my two keepers, they
Would sooner spill their dearest drop of blood.
MORTIMER.
They fall the very first beneath my steel.
MARY.
What, sir! Your uncle? How! Your second father!
MORTIMER.
Must perish by my hand--I murder him!
MARY.
Oh, bloody outrage!
MORTIMER.
We have been absolved
Beforehand; I may perpetrate the worst;
I can, I will do so!
MARY.
Oh, dreadful, dreadful!
MORTIMER.
And should I be obliged to kill the queen,
I've sworn upon the host, it must be done!
MARY.
No, Mortimer; ere so much blood for me----
MORTIMER.
What is the life of all compared to thee,
And to my love? The bond which holds the world
Together may be loosed, a second deluge
Come rolling on, and swallow all creation!
Henceforth I value nothing; ere I quit
My hold on thee, may earth and time be ended!
MARY (retiring)
Heavens! Sir, what language, and what looks! They scare,
They frighten me!
MARY.
Madman, avaunt!
MORTIMER.
To rest upon this bosom,
To press upon this passion-breathing mouth----
MARY.
Leave me, for God's sake, sir; let me go in----
MORTIMER.
He is a madman who neglects to clasp
His bliss in folds that never may be loosed,
When Heaven has kindly given it to his arms.
I will deliver you, and though it cost
A thousand lives, I do it; but I swear,
As God's in Heaven I will possess you too!
MARY.
Oh! will no God, no angel shelter me?
Dread destiny! thou throwest me, in thy wrath,
From one tremendous terror to the other!
Was I then born to waken naught but frenzy?
Do hate and love conspire alike to fright me!
MORTIMER.
Yes, glowing as their hatred is my love;
They would behead thee, they would wound this neck,
So dazzling white, with the disgraceful axe!
Oh! offer to the living god of joy
What thou must sacrifice to bloody hate!
Inspire thy happy lover with those charms
Which are no more thine own. Those golden locks
Are forfeit to the dismal powers of death,
Oh! use them to entwine thy slave forever!
MARY.
Alas! alas! what language must I hear!
My woe, my sufferings should be sacred to you,
Although my royal brows are so no more.
MORTIMER.
The crown is fallen from thy brows, thou hast
No more of earthly majesty. Make trial,
Raise thy imperial voice, see if a friend,
If a deliverer will rise to save you.
Thy moving form alone remains, the high,
The godlike influence of thy heavenly beauty;
This bids me venture all, this arms my hand
With might, and drives me tow'rd the headsman's axe.
MARY.
Oh! who will save me from his raging madness?
MORTIMER.
Service that's bold demands a bold reward.
Why shed their blood the daring? Is not life
Life's highest good? And he a madman who
Casts life away? First will I take my rest,
Upon the breast that glows with love's own fire!
MARY.
Oh, must I call for help against the man
Who would deliver me!
MORTIMER.
Thou'rt not unfeeling,
The world ne'er censured thee for frigid rigor;
The fervent prayer of love can touch thy heart.
Thou mad'st the minstrel Rizzio blest, and gavest
Thyself a willing prey to Bothwell's arms.
MARY.
Presumptuous man!
MORTIMER.
He was indeed thy tyrant,
Thou trembled'st at his rudeness, whilst thou loved'st him;
Well, then--if only terror can obtain thee--
By the infernal gods!
MARY.
Away--you're mad!
MORTIMER.
I'll teach thee then before me, too, to tremble.
MARY.
O Hannah! save me, save me from his hands.
Where shall I find, poor sufferer, an asylum?
Oh! to what saint shall I address my prayers?
Here force assails me, and within is murder!
SCENE VII.
PAULET.
Shut all the portals--draw the bridges up.
MORTIMER.
What is the matter, uncle?
PAULET.
Where is the murderess?
Down with her, down into the darkest dungeon!
MORTIMER.
What is the matter? What has passed?
PAULET.
The queen!
Accursed hand! Infernal machination!
MORTIMER.
The queen! What queen?
PAULET.
What queen! The Queen of England;
She has been murdered on the road to London.
SCENE VIII.
MORTIMER.
What then is lost?
O'KELLY.
Stand not on question. Think
On speedy flight.
MORTIMER.
What has occurred?
O'KELLY.
Sauvage,
That madman, struck the blow.
MORTIMER.
It is then true!
O'KELLY.
True, true--oh! save yourself.
MORTIMER (exultingly).
The queen is murdered--
And Mary shall ascend the English throne!
O'KELLY.
Is murdered! Who said that?
MORTIMER.
Yourself.
O'KELLY.
She lives,
And I, and you, and all of us are lost.
MORTIMER.
She lives!
O'KELLY.
The blow was badly aimed, her cloak
Received it. Shrewsbury disarmed the murderer.
MORTIMER.
She lives!
O'KELLY.
She lives to whelm us all in ruin;
Come, they surround the park already; come.
MORTIMER.
Who did this frantic deed?
O'KELLY.
It was the monk
From Toulon, whom you saw immersed in thought,
As in the chapel the pope's bull was read,
Which poured anathemas upon the queen.
He wished to take the nearest, shortest way,
To free, with one bold stroke, the church of God,
And gain the crown of martyrdom: he trusted
His purpose only to the priest, and struck
The fatal blow upon the road to London.
O'KELLY.
Say, whither will you take your flight? I go
To hide me in the forests of the north.
MORTIMER.
Fly thither, and may God attend your flight;
I will remain, and still attempt to save
My love; if not, my bed shall be upon her grave.
ACT IV.
SCENE I.--Antechamber.
AUBESPINE.
How fares her majesty? My lords, you see me
Still stunned, and quite beside myself for terror!
How happened it? How was it possible
That in the midst of this most loyal people----
LEICESTER.
The deed was not attempted by the people.
The assassin was a subject of your king,
A Frenchman.
AUBESPINE.
Sure a lunatic.
LEICESTER.
A papist,
Count Aubespine!
SCENE II.
BURLEIGH.
Sir; let the death-warrant
Be instantly made out, and pass the seal;
Then let it be presented to the queen;
Her majesty must sign it. Hasten, sir,
We have no time to lose.
DAVISON.
It shall be done.
[Exit.
AUBESPINE.
My lord high-treasurer, my faithful heart
Shares in the just rejoicings of the realm.
Praised be almighty Heaven, who hath averted
Assassination from our much-loved queen!
BURLEIGH.
Praised be His name, who thus hath turned to scorn
The malice of our foes!
AUBESPINE.
May heaven confound
The perpetrator of this cursed deed!
BURLEIGH.
Its perpetrator and its base contriver!
AUBESPINE.
Please you, my lord, to bring me to the queen,
That I may lay the warm congratulations
Of my imperial master at her feet.
BURLEIGH.
There is no need of this.
AUBESPINE (officiously).
My Lord of Burleigh,
I know my duty.
BURLEIGH.
Sir, your duty is
To quit, and that without delay, this kingdom.
BURLEIGH.
The sacred character
Of an ambassador to-day protects you,
But not to-morrow.
AUBESPINE.
What's my crime?
BURLEIGH.
Should I
Once name it, there were then no pardon for it.
AUBESPINE.
I hope, my lord, my charge's privilege----
BURLEIGH.
Screens not a traitor.
AUBESPINE.
My Lord,
Consider well----
BURLEIGH.
Your passport was discovered
In the assassin's pocket.
KENT.
Righteous heaven!
AUBESPINE.
Sir, many passports are subscribed by me;
I cannot know the secret thoughts of men.
BURLEIGH.
He in your house confessed, and was absolved.
AUBESPINE.
My house is open----
BURLEIGH.
To our enemies.
AUBESPINE.
I claim a strict inquiry.
BURLEIGH.
Tremble at it.
AUBESPINE.
My monarch in my person is insulted,
He will annul the marriage contract.
BURLEIGH.
That
My royal mistress has annulled already;
England will not unite herself with France.
My Lord of Kent, I give to you the charge
To see Count Aubespine embarked in safety.
The furious populace has stormed his palace,
Where a whole arsenal of arms was found;
Should he be found, they'll tear him limb from limb,
Conceal him till the fury is abated--
You answer for his life.
AUBESPINE.
I go--I leave
This kingdom where they sport with public treaties
And trample on the laws of nations. Yet
My monarch, be assured, will vent his rage
In direst vengeance!
BURLEIGH.
Let him seek it here.
SCENE III.
LEICESTER, BURLEIGH.
LEICESTER.
And thus you loose yourself the knot of union
Which you officiously, uncalled for, bound!
You have deserved but little of your country,
My lord; this trouble was superfluous.
BURLEIGH.
My aim was good, though fate declared against it;
Happy is he who has so fair a conscience!
LEICESTER.
Well know we the mysterious mien of Burleigh
When he is on the hunt for deeds of treason.
Now you are in your element, my lord;
A monstrous outrage has been just committed,
And darkness veils as yet its perpetrators:
Now will a court of inquisition rise;
Each word, each look be weighed; men's very thoughts
Be summoned to the bar. You are, my lord,
The mighty man, the Atlas of the state,
All England's weight lies upon your shoulders.
BURLEIGH.
In you, my lord, I recognize my master;
For such a victory as your eloquence
Has gained I cannot boast.
LEICESTER.
What means your lordship?
BURLEIGH.
You were the man who knew, behind my back,
To lure the queen to Fotheringay Castle.
LEICESTER.
Behind your back! When did I fear to act
Before your face?
BURLEIGH.
You led her majesty?
Oh, no--you led her not--it was the queen
Who was so gracious as to lead you thither.
LEICESTER.
What mean you, my lord, by that?
BURLEIGH.
The noble part
You forced the queen to play! The glorious triumph
Which you prepared for her! Too gracious princess!
So shamelessly, so wantonly to mock
Thy unsuspecting goodness, to betray thee
So pitiless to thy exulting foe!
This, then, is the magnanimity, the grace
Which suddenly possessed you in the council!
The Stuart is for this so despicable,
So weak an enemy, that it would scarce
Be worth the pains to stain us with her blood.
A specious plan! and sharply pointed too;
'Tis only pity this sharp point is broken.
LEICESTER.
Unworthy wretch! this instant follow me,
And answer at the throne this insolence.
BURLEIGH.
You'll find me there, my lord; and look you well
That there your eloquence desert you not.
[Exit.
SCENE IV.
MORTIMER.
Lord Leicester! Is it you! Are we alone?
LEICESTER.
Ill-fated wretch, away! What seek you here?
MORTIMER.
They are upon our track--upon yours, too;
Be vigilant!
LEICESTER.
Away, away!
MORTIMER.
They know
That private conferences have been held
At Aubespine's----
LEICESTER.
What's that to me?
MORTIMER.
They know, too,
That the assassin----
LEICESTER.
That is your affair--
Audacious wretch! to dare to mix my name
In your detested outrage: go; defend
Your bloody deeds yourself!
MORTIMER.
But only hear me.
MORTIMER.
You will not hear me, then!
I came to warn you; you too are detected.
LEICESTER.
How! What?
MORTIMER.
Lord Burleigh went to Fotheringay
Just as the luckless deed had been attempted;
Searched with strict scrutiny the queen's apartments,
And found there----
LEICESTER.
What?
MORTIMER.
A letter which the queen
Had just addressed to you----
LEICESTER.
Unhappy woman!
MORTIMER.
In which she calls on you to keep your word,
Renews the promise of her hand, and mentions
The picture which she sent you.
LEICESTER.
Death and hell!
MORTIMER.
Lord Burleigh has the letter.
LEICESTER.
I am lost!
MORTIMER.
Improve the moment; be beforehand with him,
And save yourself--save her! An oath can clear
Your fame; contrive excuses to avert
The worst. I am disarmed, can do no more;
My comrades are dispersed--to pieces fallen
Our whole confederacy. For Scotland I
To rally such new friends as there I may.
'Tis now your turn, my lord; try what your weight,
What bold assurance can effect.
MORTIMER (stands for a time petrified with wonder; collects himself soon,
and follows LEICESTER with his looks expressive of the most
sovereign contempt).
Infamous wretch! But I deserve it all.
Who told me then to trust this practised villain?
Now o'er my head he strides, and on my fall
He builds the bridge of safety! be it so;
Go, save thyself--my lips are sealed forever;
I will not join even thee in my destruction;
I would not own thee, no, not even in death;
Life is the faithless villain's only good!
[To the officer of the guard, who steps forward to seize him.
[Drawing a dagger.
OFFICER.
He's armed; rush in and wrest his weapon from him.
OFFICER.
Hear you these blasphemies? Rush forward--seize him.
MORTIMER.
Beloved queen! I could not set thee free;
Yet take a lesson from me how to die.
Mary, thou holy one, O! pray for me!
And take me to thy heavenly home on high.
SCENE V.
The apartment of the Queen.
ELIZABETH.
To lure me thither! trifle with me thus!
The traitor! Thus to lead me, as in triumph,
Into the presence of his paramour!
Oh, Burleigh! ne'er was woman so deceived.
BURLEIGH.
I cannot yet conceive what potent means,
What magic he exerted, to surprise
My queen's accustomed prudence.
ELIZABETH.
Oh, I die
For shame! How must he laugh to scorn my weakness!
I thought to humble her, and was myself
The object of her bitter scorn.
BURLEIGH.
By this
You see how faithfully I counselled you.
ELIZABETH.
Oh, I am sorely punished, that I turned
My ear from your wise counsels; yet I thought
I might confide in him. Who could suspect
Beneath the vows of faithfullest devotion
A deadly snare? In whom can I confide
When he deceives me? He, whom I have made
The greatest of the great, and ever set
The nearest to my heart, and in this court
Allowed to play the master and the king.
BURLEIGH.
Yet in that very moment he betrayed you,
Betrayed you to this wily Queen of Scots.
ELIZABETH.
Oh, she shall pay me for it with her life!
Is the death-warrant ready?
BURLEIGH.
'Tis prepared
As you commanded.
ELIZABETH.
She shall surely die--
He shall behold her fall, and fall himself!
I've driven him from my heart. No longer love,
Revenge alone is there: and high as once
He stood, so low and shameful be his fall!
A monument of my severity,
As once the proud example of my weakness.
Conduct him to the Tower; let a commission
Of peers be named to try him. He shall feel
In its full weight the rigor of the law.
BURLEIGH.
But he will seek thy presence; he will clear----
ELIZABETH.
How can he clear himself? Does not the letter
Convict him. Oh, his crimes are manifest!
BURLEIGH.
But thou art mild and gracious! His appearance,
His powerful presence----
ELIZABETH.
I will never see him;
No never, never more. Are orders given
Not to admit him should he come?
BURLEIGH.
'Tis done.
PAGE (entering).
The Earl of Leicester!
ELIZABETH.
The presumptuous man!
I will not see him. Tell him that I will not.
PAGE.
I am afraid to bring my lord this message,
Nor would he credit it.
ELIZABETH.
And I have raised him
So high that my own servants tremble more
At him than me!
BURLEIGH.
Yet, gracious queen, consider.
SCENE VI.
LEICESTER (bursts open the door with violence,
and enters with an imperious air).
LEICESTER.
Fain would I see the shameless man who dares
Forbid me the apartments of my queen!
Audacious slave!
LEICESTER.
To turn me from the door!
BURLEIGH.
My lord, you are
Too bold, without permission to intrude.
LEICESTER.
My lord, you are too arrogant, to take
The lead in these apartments. What! Permission!
I know of none who stands so high at court
As to permit my doings, or refuse them.
LEICESTER.
'Tis not my gracious queen I hear, but Burleigh,
My enemy, in these ungentle words.
To my imperial mistress I appeal;
Thou hast lent him thine ear; I ask the like.
ELIZABETH.
Speak, shameless wretch! Increase your crime--deny it.
LEICESTER.
Dismiss this troublesome intruder first.
Withdraw, my lord; it is not of your office
To play the third man here: between the queen
And me there is no need of witnesses.
Retire----
LEICESTER.
What has a third to do 'twixt thee and me?
I have to clear myself before my queen,
My worshipped queen; I will maintain the rights
Which thou hast given me; these rights are sacred,
And I insist upon it, that my lord
Retire.
ELIZABETH.
This haughty tone befits you well.
LEICESTER.
It well befits me; am not I the man,
The happy man, to whom thy gracious favor
Has given the highest station? this exalts me
Above this Burleigh, and above them all.
Thy heart imparted me this rank, and what
Thy favor gave, by heavens I will maintain
At my life's hazard. Let him go, it needs
Two moments only to exculpate me.
ELIZABETH.
Think not, with cunning words, to hide the truth.
LEICESTER.
That fear from him, so voluble of speech:
But what I say is to the heart addressed;
And I will justify what I have dared
To do, confiding in thy generous favor,
Before thy heart alone. I recognize
No other jurisdiction.
ELIZABETH.
Base deceiver
'Tis this, e'en this, which above all condemns you.
My lord, produce the letter.
[To BURLEIGH.
BURLEIGH.
Here it is.
LEICESTER (running over the letter without losing his presence of mind).
'Tis Mary Stuart's hand----
ELIZABETH.
Read and be dumb!
ELIZABETH.
Can you deny your secret correspondence
With Mary?--that she sent and you received
Her picture, that you gave her hopes of rescue?
LEICESTER.
It were an easy matter, if I felt
That I were guilty of a crime, to challenge
The testimony of my enemy:
Yet bold is my good conscience. I confess
That she hath said the truth.
ELIZABETH.
Well then, thou wretch!
BURLEIGH.
His own words sentence him----
ELIZABETH.
Out of my sight!
Away! Conduct the traitor to the Tower!
LEICESTER.
I am no traitor; it was wrong, I own,
To make a secret of this step to thee;
Yet pure was my intention, it was done
To search into her plots and to confound them.
ELIZABETH.
Vain subterfuge!
BURLEIGH.
And do you think, my lord----
LEICESTER.
I've played a dangerous game, I know it well,
And none but Leicester dare be bold enough
To risk it at this court. The world must know
How I detest this Stuart, and the rank
Which here I hold; my monarch's confidence,
With which she honors me, must sure suffice
To overturn all doubt of my intentions.
Well may the man thy favor above all
Distinguishes pursue a daring course
To do his duty!
BURLEIGH.
If the course was good,
Wherefore conceal it?
LEICESTER.
You are used, my lord,
To prate before you act; the very chime
Of your own deeds. This is your manner, lord;
But mine is first to act, and then to speak.
BURLEIGH.
Yes, now you speak because you must.
LEICESTER.
Yes, I, my lord; the queen confided
In Mortimer; she opened to the youth
Her inmost soul! Yes, she went further still;
She gave him, too, a secret, bloody charge,
Which Paulet had before refused with horror.
Say, is it so, or not?
BURLEIGH.
Whence know ye this?
LEICESTER.
Nay, is it not a fact? Now answer me.
And where, my lord, where were your thousand eyes,
Not to discover Mortimer was false?
That he, the Guise's tool, and Mary's creature,
A raging papist, daring fanatic,
Was come to free the Stuart, and to murder
The Queen of England!
LEICESTER.
'Twas he through whom our correspondence passed.
This plot it was which introduced me to him.
This very day she was to have been torn
From her confinement; he, this very moment,
Disclosed his plan to me: I took him prisoner,
And gave him to the guard, when in despair
To see his work o'erturned, himself unmasked,
He slew himself!
ELIZABETH.
Oh, I indeed have been
Deceived beyond example, Mortimer!
BURLEIGH.
This happened then but now? Since last we parted?
LEICESTER.
For my own sake, I must lament the deed;
That he was thus cut off. His testimony,
Were he alive, had fully cleared my fame,
And freed me from suspicion; 'twas for this
That I surrendered him to open justice.
I thought to choose the most impartial course
To verify and fix my innocence
Before the world.
BURLEIGH.
He killed himself, you say
Is't so? Or did you kill him?
LEICESTER.
Vile suspicion!
Hear but the guard who seized him.
[He goes to the door, and calls.
Ho! who waits?
[Enter the officer of the guard.
Sir, tell the queen how Mortimer expired.
OFFICER.
I was on duty in the palace porch,
When suddenly my lord threw wide the door,
And ordered me to take the knight in charge,
Denouncing him a traitor: upon this
He grew enraged, and with most bitter curses
Against our sovereign and our holy faith,
He drew a dagger, and before the guards
Could hinder his intention, plunged the steel
Into his heart, and fell a lifeless corpse.
LEICESTER.
'Tis well; you may withdraw. Her majesty
Has heard enough.
ELIZABETH.
LEICESTER.
Who was it, then, my queen,
Who saved you? Was it Burleigh? Did he know
The dangers which surrounded you? Did he
Avert them from your head? Your faithful Leicester
Was your good angel.
BURLEIGH.
This same Mortimer
Died most conveniently for you, my lord.
ELIZABETH.
What I should say I know not. I believe you,
And I believe you not. I think you guilty,
And yet I think you not. A curse on her
Who caused me all this anguish.
LEICESTER.
She must die;
I now myself consent unto her death.
I formerly advised you to suspend
The sentence, till some arm should rise anew
On her behalf; the case has happened now,
And I demand her instant execution.
BURLEIGH.
You give this counsel? You?
LEICESTER.
Howe'er it wound
My feelings to be forced to this extreme,
Yet now I see most clearly, now I feel
That the queen's welfare asks this bloody victim.
'Tis my proposal, therefore, that the writ
Be drawn at once to fix the execution.
LEICESTER.
Who? I?
BURLEIGH.
Yes, you; you surely ne'er could find
A better means to shake off the suspicion
Which rests upon you still, than to command
Her, whom 'tis said you love, to be beheaded.
LEICESTER.
It were but fit that my exalted rank
Should free me from so mournful a commission,
Which would indeed, in every sense, become
A Burleigh better than the Earl of Leicester.
The man who stands so near the royal person
Should have no knowledge of such fatal scenes:
But yet to prove my zeal, to satisfy
My queen, I waive my charge's privilege,
And take upon myself this hateful duty.
ELIZABETH.
Lord Burleigh shall partake this duty with you.
[To BURLEIGH.
SCENE VII.
ELIZABETH.
How now, my Lord of Kent? What uproar's this
I hear without?
KENT.
My queen, it is thy people,
Who, round the palace ranged, impatiently
Demand to see their sovereign.
ELIZABETH.
What's their wish?
KENT.
A panic terror has already spread
Through London, that thy life has been attempted;
That murderers commissioned from the pope
Beset thee; that the Catholics have sworn
To rescue from her prison Mary Stuart,
And to proclaim her queen. Thy loyal people
Believe it, and are mad; her head alone
Can quiet them; this day must be her last.
ELIZABETH.
How! Will they force me, then?
KENT.
They are resolved----
SCENE VIII.
ELIZABETH.
Well, Davison?
ELIZABETH.
What orders, sir?
[As she is about to take the paper, she shudders, and starts back.
Oh, God!
BURLEIGH.
Obey
Thy people's voice; it is the voice of God.
SHREWSBURY.
Hold fast, my queen, they wish to hurry thee;
ELIZABETH.
Good Shrewsbury! I am constrained----
SHREWSBURY.
Who can constrain thee? Thou art Queen of England,
Here must thy majesty assert its rights:
Command those savage voices to be silent,
Who take upon themselves to put constraint
Upon thy royal will, to rule thy judgment.
Fear only, blind conjecture, moves thy people;
Thou art thyself beside thyself; thy wrath
Is grievously provoked: thou art but mortal,
And canst not thus ascend the judgment seat.
BURLEIGH.
Judgment has long been past. It is not now
The time to speak but execute the sentence.
SHREWSBURY.
I only ask a respite;
A single word traced by thy hand decides
The peace, the happiness of all thy life!
Thou hast for years considered, let not then
A moment ruled by passion hurry thee--
But a short respite--recollect thyself!
Wait for a moment of tranquillity.
BURLEIGH (violently).
Wait for it--pause--delay--till flames of fire
Consume the realm; until the fifth attempt
Of murder be successful! God, indeed,
Hath thrice delivered thee; thy late escape
Was marvellous, and to expect again
A miracle would be to tempt thy God!
SHREWSBURY.
That God, whose potent hand hath thrice preserved thee,
Who lent my aged feeble arm its strength
To overcome the madman:--he deserves
Thy confidence. I will not raise the voice
Of justice now, for now is not the time;
Thou canst not hear it in this storm of passion.
Yet listen but to this! Thou tremblest now
Before this living Mary--tremble rather
Before the murdered, the beheaded Mary.
She will arise, and quit her grave, will range
A fiend of discord, an avenging ghost,
Around thy realm, and turn thy people's hearts
From their allegiance. For as yet the Britons
Hate her, because they fear her; but most surely
Will they avenge her when she is no more.
They will no more behold the enemy
Of their belief, they will but see in her
The much-lamented issue of their kings
A sacrifice to jealousy and hate.
Then quickly shalt thou see the sudden change
When thou hast done the bloody deed; then go
Through London, seek thy people, which till now
Around thee swarmed delighted; thou shalt see
Another England, and another people;
For then no more the godlike dignity
Of justice, which subdued thy subjects' hearts,
Will beam around thee. Fear, the dread ally
Of tyranny, will shuddering march before thee,
And make a wilderness in every street--
The last, extremest crime thou hast committed.
What head is safe, if the anointed fall?
ELIZABETH.
Ah! Shrewsbury, you saved my life, you turned
The murderous steel aside; why let you not
The dagger take its course? then all these broils
Would have been ended; then, released from doubt,
And free from blame, I should be now at rest
In my still, peaceful grave. In very sooth
I'm weary of my life, and of my crown.
If Heaven decree that one of us two queens
Must perish, to secure the other's life--
And sure it must be so--why should not I
Be she who yields? My people must decide;
I give them back the sovereignty they gave.
God is my witness that I have not lived
For my own sake, but for my people's welfare.
If they expect from this false, fawning Stuart,
The younger sovereign, more happy days,
I will descend with pleasure from the throne,
Again repair to Woodstock's quiet bowers,
Where once I spent my unambitious youth;
Where far removed from all the vanities
Of earthly power, I found within myself
True majesty. I am not made to rule--
A ruler should be made of sterner stuff:
My heart is soft and tender. I have governed
These many years this kingdom happily,
But then I only needed to make happy:
Now, comes my first important regal duty,
And now I feel how weak a thing I am.
BURLEIGH.
Now by mine honor, when I hear my queen,
My royal liege, speak such unroyal words,
I should betray my office, should betray
My country, were I longer to be silent.
You say you love your people 'bove yourself,
Now prove it. Choose not peace for your own heart,
And leave your kingdom to the storms of discord.
Think on the church. Shall, with this papist queen
The ancient superstition be renewed?
The monk resume his sway, the Roman legate
In pomp march hither; lock our churches up,
Dethrone our monarchs? I demand of you
The souls of all your subjects--as you now
Shall act, they all are saved, or all are lost!
Here is no time for mercy;--to promote
Your people's welfare is your highest duty.
If Shrewsbury has saved your life, then I
Will save both you and England--that is more!
ELIZABETH.
I would be left alone. No consolation,
No counsel can be drawn from human aid
In this conjecture:--I will lay my doubts
Before the Judge of all:--I am resolved
To act as He shall teach. Withdraw, my lords.
SCENE X.
ELIZABETH alone.
Oh, no! this fear must end. Her head must fall!
I will have peace. She is the very fury
Of my existence; a tormenting demon,
Which destiny has fastened on my soul.
Wherever I had planted me a comfort,
A flattering hope, my way was ever crossed
By this infernal viper! She has torn
My favorite, and my destined bridegroom from me.
The hated name of every ill I feel
Is Mary Stuart--were but she no more
On earth I should be free as mountain air.
[Standing still.
SCENE XI.
ELIZABETH, DAVISON.
ELIZABETH.
Where are their lordships?
DAVISON.
They are gone to quell
The tumult of the people. The alarm
Was instantly appeased when they beheld
The Earl of Shrewsbury. That's he! exclaimed
A hundred voices--that's the man--he saved
The queen; hear him--the bravest man in England!
And now began the gallant Talbot, blamed
In gentle words the people's violence,
And used such strong, persuasive eloquence,
That all were pacified, and silently
They slunk away.
ELIZABETH.
The fickle multitude!
Which turns with every wind. Unhappy he
Who leans upon this reed! 'Tis well, Sir William;
You may retire again----
[As he is going towards the door.
And, sir, this paper,
Receive it back; I place it in your hands.
ELIZABETH.
I had but to subscribe it--I have done so--
A paper sure cannot decide--a name
Kills not.
DAVISON.
Thy name, my queen, beneath this paper
Is most decisive--kills--'tis like the lightning,
Which blasteth as it flies! This fatal scroll
Commands the sheriff and commissioners
To take departure straight for Fotheringay,
And to the Queen of Scots announce her death,
Which must at dawn be put in execution.
There is no respite, no discretion here.
As soon as I have parted with this writ
Her race is run.
ELIZABETH.
Yes, sir, the Lord has placed
This weighty business in your feeble hands;
Seek him in prayer to light you with his wisdom;
I go--and leave you, sir, to do your duty.
[Going.
DAVISON.
No; leave me not, my queen, till I have heard
Your will. The only wisdom that I need
Is, word for word, to follow your commands.
Say, have you placed this warrant in my hands
To see that it be speedily enforced?
ELIZABETH.
That you must do as your own prudence dictates.
ELIZABETH.
Its name declares its meaning.
DAVISON.
Do you, then,
My liege, command its instant execution?
ELIZABETH.
I said not that; I tremble but to think it.
DAVISON.
Shall I retain it, then, 'till further orders?
ELIZABETH.
At your own risk; you answer the event.
DAVISON.
I! gracious heavens! Oh, speak, my queen, your pleasure!
ELIZABETH.
My pleasure is that this unhappy business
Be no more mentioned to me; that at last
I may be freed from it, and that forever.
DAVISON.
It costs you but a word--determine then
What shall I do with this mysterious scroll?
ELIZABETH.
I have declared it, plague me, sir, no longer.
DAVISON.
You have declared it, say you? Oh, my queen,
You have said nothing. Please, my gracious mistress,
But to remember----
DAVISON.
Oh, be indulgent to me! I have entered
Unwittingly, not many months ago,
Upon this office; I know not the language
Of courts and kings. I ever have been reared
In simple, open wise, a plain blunt man.
Be patient with me; nor deny your servant
A light to lead him clearly to his duty.
ELIZABETH.
Go, sir;--fulfil the duty of your office.
[Exit.
SCENE XII.
DAVISON.
She goes! She leaves me doubting and perplexed
With this dread paper! How to act I know not;
Should I retain it, should I forward it?
BURLEIGH.
How now? Take courage, sir! Where is the warrant?
The queen was with you.
DAVISON.
She has quitted me
In bitter anger. Oh, advise me, help me,
Save me from this fell agony of doubt!
My lord, here is the warrant: it is signed!
BURLEIGH.
Indeed! Oh, give it, give it me!
DAVISON.
I may not.
BURLEIGH.
How!
DAVISON.
She has not yet explained her final will.
BURLEIGH.
Explained! She has subscribed it;--give it to me.
DAVISON.
I am to execute it, and I am not.
Great heavens! I know not what I am to do!
DAVISON.
So am I also if I act too rashly.
BURLEIGH.
What strange infatuation. Give it me.
DAVISON.
What would you? Hold? You will be my destruction.
ACT V.
SCENE I.
MELVIL enters.
MELVIL.
Yes, faithful Kennedy, we meet once more.
KENNEDY.
After this long, long, painful separation!
MELVIL.
A most unhappy, bitter meeting this!
KENNEDY.
You come----
MELVIL.
To take an everlasting leave
Of my dear queen--to bid a last farewell!
KENNEDY.
And now at length, now on the fatal morn
Which brings her death, they grant our royal lady
The presence of her friends. Oh, worthy sir,
I will not question you, how you have fared,
Nor tell you all the sufferings we've endured,
Since you were torn away from us: alas!
There will be time enough for that hereafter.
O, Melvil, Melvil, why was it our fate
To see the dawn of this unhappy day?
MELVIL.
Let us not melt each other with our grief.
Throughout my whole remaining life, as long
As ever it may be, I'll sit and weep;
A smile shall never more light up these cheeks,
Ne'er will I lay this sable garb aside,
But lead henceforth a life of endless mourning.
Yet on this last sad day I will be firm;
Pledge me your word to moderate your grief;
And when the rest of comfort all bereft,
Abandoned to despair, wail round her, we
Will lead her with heroic resolution,
And be her staff upon the road to death!
KENNEDY.
Melvil! You are deceived if you suppose
The queen has need of our support to meet
Her death with firmness. She it is, my friend,
Who will exhibit the undaunted heart.
Oh! trust me, Mary Stuart will expire
As best becomes a heroine and queen!
MELVIL.
Received she firmly, then, the sad decree
Of death?--'tis said that she was not prepared.
KENNEDY.
She was not; yet they were far other terrors
Which made our lady shudder: 'twas not death,
But her deliverer, which made her tremble.
Freedom was promised us; this very night
Had Mortimer engaged to bear us hence:
And thus the queen, perplexed 'twixt hope and fear,
And doubting still if she should trust her honor
And royal person to the adventurous youth,
Sat waiting for the morning. On a sudden
We hear a boisterous tumult in the castle;
Our ears are startled by repeated blows
Of many hammers, and we think we hear
The approach of our deliverers: hope salutes us,
And suddenly and unresisted wakes
The sweet desire of life. And now at once
The portals are thrown open--it is Paulet,
Who comes to tell us--that--the carpenters
Erect beneath our feet the murderous scaffold!
MELVIL.
O God in Heaven! Oh, tell me then how bore
The queen this terrible vicissitude?
MELVIL.
Where is she now? Can you not lead me to her?
KENNEDY.
She spent the last remainder of the night
In prayer, and from her dearest friends she took
Her last farewell in writing: then she wrote
Her will [1] with her own hand. She now enjoys
A moment of repose, the latest slumber
Refreshes her weak spirits.
MELVIL.
Who attends her?
KENNEDY.
None but her women and physician Burgoyn:
You seem to look around you with surprise;
Your eyes appear to ask me what should mean
This show of splendor in the house of death.
Oh, sir, while yet we lived we suffered want;
But at our death plenty returns to us.
SCENE II.
KENNEDY.
How, madam, fares the queen? Is she awake?
KENNEDY.
I go:--
[To MELVIL, who seems to wish to accompany her.
But follow not until the queen
Has been prepared to see you.
[Exit.
CURL.
Melvil, sure,
The ancient steward?
MELVIL.
Yes, the same.
CURL.
Oh, sir,
This is a house which needs no steward now!
Melvil, you come from London; can you give
No tidings of my husband?
MELVIL.
It is said
He will be set at liberty as soon----
CURL.
As soon as our dear queen shall be no more.
Oh, the unworthy, the disgraceful traitor!
He is our lady's murderer--'tis said
It was his testimony which condemned him.
MELVIL.
'Tis true.
CURL.
Oh, curse upon him! Be his soul
Condemned forever! he has borne false witness.
MELVIL.
Think, madam, what you say.
CURL.
I will maintain it
With every sacred oath before the court,
I will repeat it in his very face;
The world shall hear of nothing else. I say
That she dies innocent!
MELVIL..
God grant it true!
SCENE III.
MELVIL.
Is the queen then sick?
KENNEDY.
She thinks that she is strong; she is deceived
By her heroic courage; she believes
She has no need of nourishment; yet still
A hard and painful task's allotted her.
Her enemies shall not enjoy the triumph;
They shall not say that fear hath blanched her cheeks
When her fatigues have conquered human weakness.
MELVIL.
May I approach her?
KENNEDY.
She will come herself.
SCENE IV.
BURGOYN.
Oh, Melvil!
MELVIL.
Oh, Burgoyn!
SCENE V.
MELVIL.
How, madam! What has frightened you?
KENNEDY.
Oh God!
BURGOYN.
Speak, madam!
CURL.
What, alas! have I beheld!
MELVIL.
Come to yourself, and say what you have seen!
CURL.
As I went down the staircase which conducts
To the great hall below, a door stood open;
I looked into the chamber, and I saw--
Oh heaven!
MELVIL.
What saw you?
CURL.
All the walls were hung
With black; a spacious scaffold, too, o'erspread
With sable cloth, was raised above the floor,
And in the middle of the scaffold stood
A dreadful sable block! upon it lay
A naked, polished axe:--the hall was full
Of cruel people, crowding round the scaffold
Who, with a horrid thirst for human blood,
Seemed waiting for the victim!
THE WOMEN.
Gracious heaven,
Protect our queen!
MELVIL.
Be calm; the queen approaches.
SCENE VI.
MELVIL.
No other evil galled me but my grief
For thee, and that I wanted power to serve thee.
MARY.
How fares my chamberlain, old Didier?
But sure the faithful servant long has slept
The sleep of death, for he was full of years.
MELVIL.
God hath not granted him as yet this grace;
He lives to see the grave o'erwhelm thy youth.
MARY.
Oh! could I but have felt before my death,
The happiness of pressing one descendant
Of the dear blood of Stuart to my bosom.
But I must suffer in a foreign land,
None but my servants to bewail my fate!
Sir; to your loyal bosom I commit
My latest wishes. Bear then, sir, my blessing
To the most Christian king, my royal brother,
And the whole royal family of France.
I bless the cardinal, my honored uncle,
And also Henry Guise, my noble cousin.
I bless the holy father, the vicegerent
Of Christ on earth, who will, I trust, bless me.
I bless the King of Spain, who nobly offered
Himself as my deliverer, my avenger.
They are remembered in my will: I hope
That they will not despise, how poor soe'er
They be, the presents of a heart which loves them.
MARY.
What I, though poor and plundered, still possess,
Of which I am allowed to make disposal,
Shall be amongst you shared; for I have hope
In this at least my will may be fulfilled.
And what I wear upon my way to death
Is yours--nor envy me on this occasion
The pomp of earth upon the road to heaven.
KENNEDY.
O Melvil! I cannot support it.
MARY.
Come,
Come all and now receive my last farewell.
SCENE VII.
MARY, MELVIL.
MELVIL.
Disclose it to me; ease your bosom, trust
Your doubts, your sorrows, to your faithful friend.
MARY.
I see eternity's abyss before me;
Soon must I stand before the highest Judge,
And have not yet appeased the Holy One.
A priest of my religion is denied me,
And I disdain to take the sacrament,
The holy, heavenly nourishment, from priests
Of a false faith; I die in the belief
Of my own church, for that alone can save.
MELVIL.
Compose your heart; the fervent, pious wish
Is prized in heaven as high as the performance.
The might of tyrants can but bind the hands,
The heart's devotion rises free to God,
The word is dead--'tis faith which brings to life.
MARY.
The heart is not sufficient of itself;
Our faith must have some earthly pledge to ground
Its claim to the high bliss of heaven. For this
Our God became incarnate, and enclosed
Mysteriously his unseen heavenly grace
Within an outward figure of a body.
The church it is, the holy one, the high one,
Which rears for us the ladder up to heaven:--
'Tis called the Catholic Apostolic church,--
For 'tis but general faith can strengthen faith;
Where thousands worship and adore the heat
Breaks out in flame, and, borne on eagle wings,
The soul mounts upwards to the heaven of heavens.
Ah! happy they, who for the glad communion
Of pious prayer meet in the house of God!
The altar is adorned, the tapers blaze,
The bell invites, the incense soars on high;
The bishop stands enrobed, he takes the cup,
And blessing it declares the solemn mystery,
The transformation of the elements;
And the believing people fall delighted
To worship and adore the present Godhead.
Alas! I only am debarred from this;
The heavenly benediction pierces not
My prison walls: its comfort is denied me.
MELVIL.
Yes! it can pierce them--put thy trust in Him
Who is almighty--in the hand of faith,
The withered staff can send forth verdant branches
And he who from the rock called living water,
He can prepare an altar in this prison,
Can change----
[Seizing the cup, which stands upon the table.
The earthly contents of this cup
Into a substance of celestial grace.
MARY.
Melvil! Oh, yes, I understand you, Melvil!
Here is no priest, no church, no sacrament;
But the Redeemer says, "When two or three
Are in my name assembled, I am with them,"
What consecrates the priest? Say, what ordains him
To be the Lord's interpreter? a heart
Devoid of guile, and a reproachless conduct.
Well, then, though unordained, be you my priest;
To you will I confide my last confession,
And take my absolution from your lips.
MELVIL.
If then thy heart be with such zeal inflamed,
I tell thee that for thine especial comfort,
The Lord may work a miracle. Thou say'st
Here is no priest, no church, no sacrament--
Thou err'st--here is a priest--here is a God;
A God descends to thee in real presence.
MARY.
Is then a heavenly happiness prepared
To cheer me on the very verge of death?
As an immortal one on golden clouds
Descends, as once the angel from on high,
Delivered the apostle from his fetters:--
He scorns all bars, he scorns the soldier's sword,
He steps undaunted through the bolted portals,
And fills the dungeon with his native glory;
Thus here the messenger of heaven appears
When every earthly champion had deceived me.
And you, my servant once, are now the servant
Of the Most High, and his immortal Word!
As before me your knees were wont to bend,
Before you humbled, now I kiss the dust.
MARY.
Before my God and thee, my heart lies open.
MELVIL.
What calls thee to the presence of the Highest?
MARY.
I humbly do acknowledge to have erred
Most grievously, I tremble to approach,
Sullied with sin, the God of purity.
MELVIL.
Declare the sin which weighs so heavily
Upon thy conscience since thy last confession.
MARY.
My heart was filled with thoughts of envious hate,
And vengeance took possession of my bosom.
I hope forgiveness of my sins from God,
Yet could I not forgive my enemy.
MELVIL.
Repentest thou of the sin? Art thou, in sooth,
Resolved to leave this world at peace with all?
MARY.
As surely as I wish the joys of heaven.
MELVIL.
What other sin hath armed thy heart against thee?
MARY.
Ah! not alone through hate; through lawless love
Have I still more abused the sovereign good.
My heart was vainly turned towards the man
Who left me in misfortune, who deceived me.
MELVIL.
Repentest thou of the sin? And hast thou turned
Thy heart, from this idolatry, to God?
MARY.
It was the hardest trial I have passed;
This last of earthly bonds is torn asunder.
MELVIL.
What other sin disturbs thy guilty conscience?
MARY.
A bloody crime, indeed of ancient date,
And long ago confessed; yet with new terrors.
It now attacks me, black and grisly steps
Across my path, and shuts the gates of heaven:
By my connivance fell the king, my husband--
I gave my hand and heart to a seducer--
By rigid penance I have made atonement;
Yet in my soul the worm is gnawing still.
MELVIL.
Has then thy heart no other accusation,
Which hath not been confessed and washed away?
MARY.
All you have heard with which my heart is charged.
MELVIL.
Think on the presence of Omniscience;
Think on the punishments with which the church
Threatens imperfect and reserved confessions
This is the sin to everlasting death,
For this is sinning 'gainst his Holy Spirit.
MARY.
So may eternal grace with victory
Crown my last contest, as I wittingly
Have nothing hid----
MELVIL.
How? Wilt thou then conceal
The crime from God for which thou art condemned?
Thou tell'st me nothing of the share thou hadst
In Babington and Parry's bloody treason:
Thou diest for this a temporal death; for this
Wilt thou, too, die the everlasting death?
MARY.
I am prepared to meet eternity;
Within the narrow limits of an hour
I shall appear before my Judge's throne.
But, I repeat it, my confession's ended.
MELVIL.
Consider well--the heart is a deceiver.
Thou hast, perhaps, with sly equivocation,
The word avoided, which would make thee guilty
Although thy will was party to the crime.
Remember, that no juggler's tricks can blind
The eye of fire which darts through every breast.
MARY.
'Tis true that I have called upon all princes
To free me from unworthy chains; yet 'tis
As true that, neither by intent or deed,
Have I attempted my oppressor's life.
MELVIL.
Your secretaries then have witnessed falsely.
MARY.
It is as I have said;--what they have witnessed
The Lord will judge.
MELVIL.
Thou mountest, then, satisfied
Of thy own innocence, the fatal scaffold?
MARY.
God suffers me in mercy to atone,
By undeserved death, my youth's transgressions.
MELVIL (returning).
A painful conflict is in store for thee.
Feel'st thou within thee strength enough to smother
Each impulse of malignity and hate?
MARY.
I fear not a relapse. I have to God
Devoted both my hatred and my love.
MELVIL.
Well, then, prepare thee to receive my Lords
Of Leicester and of Burleigh. They are here.
SCENE VIII.
MARY.
Thanks, my lord.
BURLEIGH.
It is the pleasure of my royal mistress
That nothing reasonable be denied you.
MARY.
My will, my lord, declares my last desires;
I've placed it in the hand of Sir Amias,
And humbly beg that it may be fulfilled.
PAULET.
You may rely on this.
MARY.
I beg that all
My servants unmolested may return
To France, or Scotland, as their wishes lead.
BURLEIGH.
It shall be as you wish.
MARY.
And since my body
Is not to rest in consecrated ground,
I pray you suffer this my faithful servant
To bear my heart to France, to my relations--
Alas! 'twas ever there.
BURLEIGH.
It shall be done.
What wishes else?
MARY.
Unto her majesty
Of England bear a sister's salutation;
Tell her that from the bottom of my heart
I pardon her my death; most humbly, too,
I crave her to forgive me for the passion
With which I spoke to her. May God preserve her
And bless her with a long and prosperous reign.
BURLEIGH.
Say, do you still adhere to your resolve,
And still refuse assistance from the dean?
MARY.
My lord, I've made my peace with God.
[To PAULET.
Good sir,
I have unwittingly caused you much sorrow,
Bereft you of your age's only stay.
Oh, let me hope you do not hate my name.
SCENE IX.
MARY.
What ails thee, Hannah? Yes, my hour is come.
The sheriff comes to lead me to my fate,
And part we must. Farewell!
BURLEIGH.
For this I have no warrant.
MARY.
How, my lord;
Can you deny me, then, this small petition?
Respect my sex; who shall attend me else,
And yield me the last service? Sure, it never
Can be my sister's pleasure that in me
My sex should be insulted; that these men
With their rude hands should touch my royal person.
BURLEIGH.
'Tis ordered that no woman shall ascend
The scaffold steps with you. Their tears and moans----
MARY.
She shall not weep, my lord; she shall not moan;
I answer for my Hannah's resolution;
Be merciful; divide me not so soon
From my true foster-mother, from my friend.
She bore me on her arms into this life;
Let her then gently lead me to my death.
MARY.
I now
Have nothing in this world to wish for more.
SCENE X.
SCENE XI.
ELIZABETH (entering from a side door; her gait and action expressive
of the most violent uneasiness).
No message yet arrived! What! no one here!
Will evening never come! Stands the sun still
In its ethereal course? I can no more
Remain upon the rack of expectation!
Is it accomplished? Is it not? I shudder
At both events, and do not dare to ask.
My Lord of Leicester comes not,--Burleigh too,
Whom I appointed to fulfil the sentence.
If they have quitted London then 'tis done,
The bolt has left its rest--it cuts the air--
It strikes; has struck already: were my realm
At stake I could not now arrest its course.
Who's there?
SCENE XII.
Enter a PAGE.
ELIZABETH.
Returned alone? Where are the lords?
PAGE.
My Lord High-Treasurer and the Earl of Leicester?
ELIZABETH.
Where are they?
PAGE.
They are not in London.
ELIZABETH.
No!
Where are they then?
PAGE.
That no one could inform me;
Before the dawn, mysteriously, in haste
They quitted London.
ELIZABETH (exultingly).
I am Queen of England!
[Exit PAGE.
SCENE XIII.
Enter SHREWSBURY.
ELIZABETH.
Welcome, my noble lord. What tidings; say
It cannot be a trifle which hath led
Your footsteps hither at so late an hour.
SHREWSBURY.
My liege, the doubts that hung upon my heart,
And dutiful concern for your fair fame,
Directed me this morning to the Tower,
Where Mary's secretaries, Nau and Curl,
Are now confined as prisoners, for I wished
Once more to put their evidence to proof.
On my arrival the lieutenant seemed
Embarrassed and perplexed; refused to show me
His prisoners; but my threats obtained admittance.
God! what a sight was there! With frantic looks,
With hair dishevelled, on his pallet lay
The Scot like one tormented by a fury.
The miserable man no sooner saw me
Than at my feet he fell, and there, with screams,
Clasping my knees, and writhing like a worm,
Implored, conjured me to acquaint him with
His sovereign's destiny, for vague reports
Had somehow reached the dungeons of the Tower
That she had been condemned to suffer death.
When I confirmed these tidings, adding, too,
That on his evidence she had been doomed,--
He started wildly up,--caught by the throat
His fellow-prisoner; with the giant strength
Of madness tore him to the ground and tried
To strangle him. No sooner had we saved
The wretch from his fierce grapple than at once
He turned his rage against himself and beat
His breast with savage fists; then cursed himself
And his companions to the depths of hell!
His evidence was false; the fatal letters
To Babington, which he had sworn were true,
He now denounced as forgeries; for he
Had set down words the queen had never spoken;
The traitor Nau had led him to this treason.
Then ran he to the casement, threw it wide
With frantic force, and cried into the street
So loud that all the people gathered round:
I am the man, Queen Mary's secretary,
The traitor who accused his mistress falsely;
I bore false witness and am cursed forever!
ELIZABETH.
You said yourself that he had lost his wits;
A madman's words prove nothing.
SHREWSBURY.
Yet this madness
Serves in itself to swell the proof. My liege,
Let me conjure thee; be not over-hasty;
Prithee, give order for a new inquiry!
ELIZABETH.
I will, my lord, because it is your wish,
Not that I can believe my noble peers
Have in this case pronounced a hasty judgment.
To set your mind at rest the inquiry shall
Be straight renewed. Well that 'tis not too late!
Upon the honor of our royal name,
No, not the shadow of a doubt shall rest.
SCENE XIV.
Enter DAVISON.
ELIZABETH.
The sentence, sir, which I but late intrusted
Unto your keeping; where is it?
DAVISON.
Into my charge, my liege!
ELIZABETH.
The people urged
And baited me to sign it. I perforce
Was driven to yield obedience to their will.
I did so; did so on extreme constraint,
And in your hands deposited the paper.
To gain time was my purpose; you remember
What then I told you. Now, the paper, sir!
SHREWSBURY.
Restore it, sir, affairs have changed since then,
The inquiry must be set on foot anew.
DAVISON.
Anew! Eternal mercy!
ELIZABETH.
Why this pause,
This hesitation? Where, sir, is the paper?
DAVISON.
I am undone! Undone! My fate is sealed!
DAVISON.
Oh, I am lost!
I have it not.
ELIZABETH.
How? What?
SHREWSBURY.
Oh, God in heaven!
DAVISON.
It is in Burleigh's hands--since yesterday.
ELIZABETH.
Wretch! Is it thus you have obeyed my orders?
Did I not lay my strict injunction on you
To keep it carefully?
DAVISON.
No such injunction
Was laid on me, my liege.
ELIZABETH.
Give me the lie?
Opprobrious wretch! When did I order you
To give the paper into Burleigh's hands?
DAVISON.
Never expressly in so many words.
ELIZABETH.
And, paltering villain I dare you then presume
To construe, as you list, my words--and lay
Your bloody meaning on them? Wo betide you,
If evil come of this officious deed!
Your life shall answer the event to me.
Earl Shrewsbury, you see how my good name
Has been abused!
SHREWSBURY.
I see! Oh, God in heaven!
ELIZABETH.
What say you?
SHREWSBURY.
If the knight has dared to act
In this, upon his own authority,
Without the knowledge of your majesty,
He must be cited to the Court of Peers
To answer there for subjecting thy name
To the abhorrence of all after time.
SCENE XV.
Enter BURLEIGH.
ELIZABETH.
Speak, my lord; did you
From me receive the warrant?
BURLEIGH.
No, my queen;
From Davison.
ELIZABETH.
And did he in my name
Deliver it?
BURLEIGH.
No, that I cannot say.
ELIZABETH.
And dared you then to execute the writ
Thus hastily, nor wait to know my pleasure?
Just was the sentence--we are free from blame
Before the world; yet it behooved thee not
To intercept our natural clemency.
For this, my lord, I banish you my presence;
And as this forward will was yours alone
Bear you alone the curse of the misdeed!
[To DAVISON.
SHREWSBURY.
Oh! banish not the truest of your friends;
Nor cast those into prison, who for you
Have acted; who for you are silent now.
But suffer me, great queen, to give the seal,
Which, these twelve years, I've borne unworthily,
Back to your royal hands, and take my leave.
ELIZABETH (surprised).
No, Shrewsbury; you surely would not now
Desert me? No; not now.
SHREWSBURY.
Pardon, I am
Too old, and this right hand is growing too stiff
To set the seal upon your later deeds.
ELIZABETH.
Will he forsake me, who has saved my life?
SHREWSBURY.
'Tis little I have done: I could not save
Your nobler part. Live--govern happily!
Your rival's dead! Henceforth you've nothing more
To fear--henceforth to nothing pay regard.
[Exit.
KENT.
He desires
To be excused--he is embarked for France.
By Frederich Schiller
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
PROLOGUE.
SCENE I.
THIBAUT.
Ay, my good neighbors! we at least to-day
Are Frenchmen still, free citizens and lords
Of the old soil which our forefathers tilled.
Who knows whom we to-morrow must obey?
For England her triumphal banner waves
From every wall: the blooming fields of France
Are trampled down beneath her chargers' hoofs;
Paris hath yielded to her conquering arms,
And with the ancient crown of Dagobert
Adorns the scion of a foreign race.
Our king's descendant, disinherited,
Must steal in secret through his own domain;
While his first peer and nearest relative
Contends against him in the hostile ranks;
Ay, his unnatural mother leads them on.
Around us towns and peaceful hamlets burn.
Near and more near the devastating fire
Rolls toward these vales, which yet repose in peace.
Therefore, good neighbors, I have now resolved,
While God still grants us safety, to provide
For my three daughters; for 'midst war's alarms
Women require protection, and true love
Hath power to render lighter every load.
[To the first Shepherd.
Come, Etienne! You seek my Margot's hand.
Fields lying side by side and loving hearts
Promise a happy union!
[To the second.
Claude! You're silent,
And my Louison looks upon the ground?
How, shall I separate two loving hearts
Because you have no wealth to offer me?
Who now has wealth? Our barns and homes afford
Spoil to the foe, and fuel to the fires.
In times like these a husband's faithful breast
Affords the only shelter from the storm.
LOUISON.
My father!
CLAUDE MARIE.
My Louison!
THIBAUT.
I give to each a yard, a stall and herd,
And also thirty acres; and as God
Gave me his blessing, so I give you mine!
THIBAUT.
Now go; make all things ready; for the morn
Shall see the wedding. Let our village friends
Be all assembled for the festival.
SCENE II.
THIBAUT.
Thy sisters, Joan, will soon be happy brides;
I see them gladly; they rejoice my age;
But thou, my youngest, giv'st me grief and pain.
RAIMOND.
What is the matter? Why upbraid thy child?
THIBAUT.
Here is this noble youth, the flower and pride
Of all our village; he hath fixed on thee
His fond affections, and for three long years
Has wooed thee with respectful tenderness;
But thou dost thrust him back with cold reserve.
Nor is there one 'mong all our shepherd youths
Who e'er can win a gracious smile from thee.
I see thee blooming in thy youthful prime;
Thy spring it is, the joyous time of hope;
Thy person, like a tender flower, hath now
Disclosed its beauty, but I vainly wait
For love's sweet blossom genially to blow,
And ripen joyously to golden fruit!
Oh, that must ever grieve me, and betrays
Some sad deficiency in nature's work!
The heart I like not which, severe and cold,
Expands not in the genial years of youth.
RAIMOND.
Forbear, good father! Cease to urge her thus!
A noble, tender fruit of heavenly growth
Is my Johanna's love, and time alone
Bringeth the costly to maturity!
Still she delights to range among the hills,
And fears descending from the wild, free heath,
To tarry 'neath the lowly roofs of men,
Where dwell the narrow cares of humble life.
From the deep vale, with silent wonder, oft
I mark her, when, upon a lofty hill
Surrounded by her flock, erect she stands,
With noble port, and bends her earnest gaze
Down on the small domains of earth. To me
She looketh then, as if from other times
She came, foreboding things of import high.
THIBAUT.
'Tis that precisely which displeases me!
She shuns her sisters' gay companionship;
Seeks out the desert mountains, leaves her couch
Before the crowing of the morning cock,
And in the dreadful hour, when men are wont
Confidingly to seek their fellow-men,
She, like the solitary bird, creeps forth,
And in the fearful spirit-realm of night,
To yon crossway repairs, and there alone
Holds secret commune with the mountain wind.
Wherefore this place precisely doth she choose?
Why hither always doth she drive her flock?
For hours together I have seen her sit
In dreamy musing 'neath the Druid tree,
Which every happy creature shuns with awe.
For 'tis not holy there; an evil spirit
Hath since the fearful pagan days of old
Beneath its branches fixed his dread abode.
The oldest of our villagers relate
Strange tales of horror of the Druid tree;
Mysterious voices of unearthly sound
From its unhallowed shade oft meet the ear.
Myself, when in the gloomy twilight hour
My path once chanced to lead me near this tree,
Beheld a spectral figure sitting there,
Which slowly from its long and ample robe
Stretched forth its withered hand, and beckoned me.
But on I went with speed, nor looked behind,
And to the care of God consigned my soul.
THIBAUT.
No! not in vain hath it in fearful dreams
And apparitions strange revealed itself.
For three successive nights I have beheld
Johanna sitting on the throne at Rheims,
A sparkling diadem of seven stars
Upon her brow, the sceptre in her hand,
From which three lilies sprung, and I, her sire,
With her two sisters, and the noble peers,
The earls, archbishops, and the king himself,
Bowed down before her. In my humble home
How could this splendor enter my poor brain?
Oh, 'tis the prelude to some fearful fall!
This warning dream, in pictured show, reveals
The vain and sinful longing of her heart.
She looks with shame upon her lowly birth.
Because with richer beauty God hath graced
Her form, and dowered her with wondrous gifts
Above the other maidens of this vale,
She in her heart indulges sinful pride,
And pride it is through which the angels fell,
By which the fiend of hell seduces man.
RAIMOND.
Who cherishes a purer, humbler mind
Than doth thy pious daughter? Does she not
With cheerful spirit work her sisters' will?
She is more highly gifted far than they,
Yet, like a servant maiden, it is she
Who silently performs the humblest tasks.
Beneath her guiding hands prosperity
Attendeth still thy harvest and thy flocks;
And around all she does there ceaseless flows
A blessing, rare and unaccountable.
THIBAUT.
Ah truly! Unaccountable indeed!
Sad horror at this blessing seizes me!
But now no more; henceforth I will be silent.
Shall I accuse my own beloved child?
I can do naught but warn and pray for her.
Yet warn I must. Oh, shun the Druid tree!
Stay not alone, and in the midnight hour
Break not the ground for roots, no drinks prepare,
No characters inscribe upon the sand!
'Tis easy to unlock the realm of spirits;
Listening each sound, beneath a film of earth
They lay in wait, ready to rush aloft.
Stay not alone, for in the wilderness
The prince of darkness tempted e'en the Lord.
SCENE III.
RAIMOND.
Hush! here is Bertrand coming back from town;
What bears he in his hand?
BERTRAND.
You look at me
With wondering gaze; no doubt you are surprised
To see this martial helm!
THIBAUT.
We are indeed!
Come, tell us how you come by it? Why bring
This fearful omen to our peaceful vale?
BERTRAND.
I scarce can tell you how I came by it.
I had procured some tools at Vaucouleurs;
A crowd was gathered in the market-place,
For fugitives were just arrived in haste
From Orleans, bringing most disastrous news.
In tumult all the town together flocked,
And as I forced a passage through the crowds,
A brown Bohemian woman, with this helm,
Approached me, eyed me narrowly, and said:
"Fellow, you seek a helm; I know it well.
Take this one! For a trifle it is yours."
"Go with it to the soldiers," I replied,
"I am a husbandman, and want no helm."
She would not cease, however, and went on:
"None knoweth if he may not want a helm.
A roof of metal for the Head just now
Is of more value than a house of stone."
Thus she pursued me closely through the streets,
Still offering the helm, which I refused.
I marked it well, and saw that it was bright,
And fair and worthy of a knightly head;
And when in doubt I weighed it in my hand,
The strangeness of the incident revolving,
The woman disappeared, for suddenly
The rushing crowd had carried her away.
And I was left the helmet in my hand.
BERTRAND.
Why, what boots it you?
It is not suited to a maiden's head.
THIBAUT.
What whim is this?
RAIMOND.
Nay, let her have her way!
This warlike ornament becomes her well,
For in her bosom beats a manly heart.
Remember how she once subdued the wolf,
The savage monster which destroyed our herds,
And filled the neighb'ring shepherds with dismay.
She all alone--the lion-hearted maid
Fought with the wolf, and from him snatched the lamb
Which he was bearing in his bloody jaws.
How brave soe'er the head this helm adorned,
It cannot grace a worthier one than hers!
BERTRAND.
May God
Have pity on our land, and save the king!
In two great battles we have lost the day;
Our foes are stationed in the heart of France,
Far as the river Loire our lands are theirs--
Now their whole force they have combined, and lay
Close siege to Orleans.
THIBAUT.
God protect the king!
BERTRAND.
Artillery is brought from every side,
And as the dusky squadrons of the bees
Swarm round the hive upon a summer day,
As clouds of locusts from the sultry air
Descend and shroud the country round for miles,
So doth the cloud of war, o'er Orleans' fields,
Pour forth its many-nationed multitudes,
Whose varied speech, in wild confusion blent,
With strange and hollow murmurs fill the air.
For Burgundy, the mighty potentate,
Conducts his motley host; the Hennegarians,
The men of Liege and of Luxemburg,
The people of Namur, and those who dwell
In fair Brabant; the wealthy men of Ghent,
Who boast their velvets, and their costly silks;
The Zealanders, whose cleanly towns appear
Emerging from the ocean; Hollanders
Who milk the lowing herds; men from Utrecht,
And even from West Friesland's distant realm,
Who look towards the ice-pole--all combine,
Beneath the banner of the powerful duke,
Together to accomplish Orleans' fall.
THIBAUT.
Oh, the unblest, the lamentable strife,
Which turns the arms of France against itself!
BERTRAND.
E'en she, the mother-queen, proud Isabel
Bavaria's haughty princess--may be seen,
Arrayed in armor, riding through the camp;
With poisonous words of irony she fires
The hostile troops to fury 'gainst her son,
Whom she hath clasped to her maternal breast.
THIBAUT.
A curse upon her, and may God prepare
For her a death like haughty Jezebel's!
BERTRAND.
The fearful Salisbury conducts the siege,
The town-destroyer; with him Lionel,
The brother of the lion; Talbot, too,
Who, with his murd'rous weapon, moweth down
The people in the battle: they have sworn,
With ruthless insolence to doom to shame
The hapless maidens, and to sacrifice
All who the sword have wielded, with the sword.
Four lofty watch-towers, to o'ertop the town,
They have upreared; Earl Salisbury from on high
Casteth abroad his cruel, murd'rous glance,
And marks the rapid wanderers in the streets.
Thousands of cannon-balls, of pond'rous weight,
Are hurled into the city. Churches lie
In ruined heaps, and Notre Dame's royal tower
Begins at length to bow its lofty head.
They also have formed powder-vaults below,
And thus, above a subterranean hell,
The timid city every hour expects,
'Midst crashing thunder, to break forth in flames.
THIBAUT.
But where were then our heroes? Where the swords
Of Saintrailles, and La Hire, and brave Dunois,
Of France the bulwark, that the haughty foe
With such impetuous force thus onward rushed?
Where is the king? Can he supinely see
His kingdom's peril and his cities' fall?
BERTRAND.
The king at Chinon holds his court; he lacks
Soldiers to keep the field. Of what avail
The leader's courage, and the hero's arm,
When pallid fear doth paralyze the host?
A sudden panic, as if sent from God,
Unnerves the courage of the bravest men.
In vain the summons of the king resounds
As when the howling of the wolf is heard,
The sheep in terror gather side by side,
So Frenchmen, careless of their ancient fame,
Seek only now the shelter of the towns.
One knight alone, I have been told, has brought
A feeble company, and joins the king
With sixteen banners.
JOHANNA (quickly).
What's the hero's name?
BERTRAND.
'Tis Baudricour. But much I fear the knight
Will not be able to elude the foe,
Who track him closely with too numerous hosts.
JOHANNA.
Where halts the knight? Pray tell me, if you know.
BERTRAND.
About a one day's march from Vaucouleurs.
BERTRAND.
The foe being now so strong, and from the king
No safety to be hoped, at Vaucouleurs
They have with unanimity resolved
To yield them to the Duke of Burgundy.
Thus we avoid the foreign yoke, and still
Continue by our ancient royal line;
Ay, to the ancient crown we may fall back
Should France and Burgundy be reconciled.
BERTRAND.
Alas! no miracle will happen now!
JOHANNA.
Yes, there shall yet be one--a snow-white dove
Shall fly, and with the eagle's boldness, tear
The birds of prey which rend her fatherland.
She shall o'erthrow this haughty Burgundy,
Betrayer of the kingdom; Talbot, too,
The hundred-handed, heaven-defying scourge;
This Salisbury, who violates our fanes,
And all these island robbers shall she drive
Before her like a flock of timid lambs.
The Lord will be with her, the God of battle;
A weak and trembling creature he will choose,
And through a tender maid proclaim his power,
For he is the Almighty!
THIBAULT.
What strange power
Hath seized the maiden?
RAIMOND.
Doubtless 'tis the helmet
Which doth inspire her with such martial thoughts.
Look at your daughter. Mark her flashing eye,
Her glowing cheek, which kindles as with fire.
JOHANNA.
This realm shall fall! This ancient land of fame,
The fairest that, in his majestic course,
The eternal sun surveys--this paradise,
Which, as the apple of his eye, God loves--
Endure the fetters of a foreign yoke?
Here were the heathen scattered, and the cross
And holy image first were planted here;
Here rest St. Louis' ashes, and from hence
The troops went forth who set Jerusalem free.
JOHANNA.
We shall no longer serve a native prince!
The king, who never dies, shall pass away--
The guardian of the sacred plough, who fills
The earth with plenty, who protects our herds,
Who frees the bondmen from captivity,
Who gathers all his cities round his throne--
Who aids the helpless, and appals the base,
Who envies no one, for he reigns supreme;
Who is a mortal, yet an angel too,
Dispensing mercy on the hostile earth.
For the king's throne, which glitters o'er with gold,
Affords a shelter for the destitute;
Power and compassion meet together there,
The guilty tremble, but the just draw near,
And with the guardian lion fearless sport!
The stranger king, who cometh from afar,
Whose fathers' sacred ashes do not lie
Interred among us; can he love our land?
Who was not young among our youth, whose heart
Respondeth not to our familiar words,
Can he be as a father to our sons?
THIBAUT.
God save the king and France! We're peaceful folk,
Who neither wield the sword, nor rein the steed.
--Let us await the king whom victory crowns;
The fate of battle is the voice of God.
He is our lord who crowns himself at Rheims,
And on his head receives the holy oil.
--Come, now to work! come! and let every one
Think only of the duty of the hour!
Let the earth's great ones for the earth contend,
Untroubled we may view the desolation,
For steadfast stand the acres which we till.
The flames consume our villages, our corn
Is trampled 'neath the tread of warlike steeds;
With the new spring new harvests reappear,
And our light huts are quickly reared again!
SCENE IV.
JOHANNA (alone).
ACT I.
SCENE I.
DUNOIS.
No longer I'll endure it. I renounce
This recreant monarch who forsakes himself.
My valiant heart doth bleed, and I could rain
Hot tear-drops from mine eyes, that robber-swords
Partition thus the royal realm of France;
That cities, ancient as the monarchy,
Deliver to the foe the rusty keys,
While here in idle and inglorious ease
We lose the precious season of redemption.
Tidings of Orleans' peril reach mine ear,
Hither I sped from distant Normandy,
Thinking, arrayed in panoply of war,
To find the monarch with his marshalled hosts;
And find him--here! begirt with troubadours,
And juggling knaves, engaged in solving riddles,
And planning festivals in Sorel's honor,
As brooded o'er the land profoundest peace!
The Constable hath gone; he will not brook
Longer the spectacle of shame. I, too,
Depart, and leave him to his evil fate.
DUCHATEL.
Here comes the king.
SCENE II.
CHARLES.
The Constable hath sent us back his sword
And doth renounce our service. Now, by heaven!
He thus hath rid us of a churlish man,
Who insolently sought to lord it o'er us.
DUNOIS.
A man is precious in such perilous times;
I would not deal thus lightly with his loss.
CHARLES.
Thou speakest thus from love of opposition;
While he was here thou never wert his friend.
DUNOIS.
He was a tiresome, proud, vexatious fool,
Who never could resolve. For once, however,
He hath resolved. Betimes he goeth hence,
Where honor can no longer be achieved.
CHARLES.
Thou'rt in a pleasant humor; undisturbed
I'll leave thee to enjoy it. Hark, Duchatel!
Ambassadors are here from old King Rene,
Of tuneful songs the master, far renowned.
Let them as honored guests be entertained,
And unto each present a chain of gold.
[To the Bastard.
Why smilest thou, Dunois?
DUNOIS.
That from thy mouth
Thou shakest golden chains.
DUCHATEL.
Alas! my king!
No gold existeth in thy treasury.
CHARLES.
Then gold must be procured. It must not be
That bards unhonored from our court depart.
'Tis they who make our barren sceptre bloom,
'Tis they who wreath around our fruitless crown
Life's joyous branch of never-fading green.
Reigning, they justly rank themselves as kings,
Of gentle wishes they erect their throne,
Their harmless realm existeth not in space;
Hence should the bard accompany the king,
Life's higher sphere the heritage of both!
DUCHATEL.
My royal liege! I sought to spare thine ear
So long as aid and counsel could be found;
Now dire necessity doth loose my tongue.
Naught hast thou now in presents to bestow,
Thou hast not wherewithal to live to-morrow!
The spring-tide of thy fortune is run out,
And lowest ebb is in thy treasury!
The soldiers, disappointed of their pay,
With sullen murmurs, threaten to retire.
My counsel faileth, not with royal splendor
But meagerly, to furnish out thy household.
CHARLES.
My royal customs pledge, and borrow gold
From the Lombardians.
DUCHATEL.
Sire, thy revenues,
Thy royal customs are for three years pledged.
DUNOIS.
And pledge meanwhile and kingdom both are lost.
CHARLES.
Still many rich and beauteous lands are ours.
DUNOIS.
So long as God and Talbot's sword permit!
When Orleans falleth into English hands
Then with King Rene thou may'st tend thy sheep!
CHARLES.
Still at this king thou lov'st to point thy jest;
Yet 'tis this lackland monarch who to-day
Hath with a princely crown invested me.
DUNOIS.
Not, in the name of heaven, with that of Naples,
Which is for sale, I hear, since he kept sheep.
CHARLES.
It is a sportive festival, a jest,
Wherein he giveth to his fancy play,
To found a world all innocent and pure
In this barbaric, rude reality.
Yet noble--ay, right royal is his aim!
He will again restore the golden age,
When gentle manners reigned, when faithful love
The heroic hearts of valiant knights inspired,
And noble women, whose accomplished taste
Diffuseth grace around, in judgment sat.
The old man dwelleth in those bygone times,
And in our workday world would realize
The dreams of ancient bards, who picture life
'Mid bowers celestial, throned on golden clouds.
He hath established hence a court of love
Where valiant knights may dwell, and homage yield
To noble women, who are there enthroned,
And where pure love and true may find a home.
Me he hath chosen as the prince of love.
DUNOIS.
I am not such a base, degenerate churl
As love's dominion rudely to assail.
I am her son, from her derive my name,
And in her kingdom lies my heritage.
The Prince of Orleans was my sire, and while
No woman's heart was proof against his love,
No hostile fortress could withstand his shock!
Wilt thou, indeed, with honor name thyself
The prince of love--be bravest of the brave!
As I have read in those old chronicles,
Love aye went coupled with heroic deeds,
And valiant heroes, not inglorious shepherds,
So legends tell us, graced King Arthur's board.
The man whose valor is not beauty's shield
Is all unworthy of her golden prize.
Here the arena! combat for the crown,
Thy royal heritage! With knightly sword
Thy lady's honor and thy realm defend--
And hast thou with hot valor snatched the crown
From streams of hostile blood,--then is the time,
And it would well become thee as a prince,
Love's myrtle chaplet round thy brows to wreathe.
PAGE.
Senators from Orleans
Entreat an audience, sire.
CHARLES.
Conduct them hither!
[PAGE retires.
Doubtless they succor need; what can I do,
Myself all-succorless!
SCENE III.
CHARLES.
Welcome, my trusty citizens of Orleans!
What tidings bring ye from my faithful town?
Doth she continue with her wonted zeal
Still bravely to withstand the leaguering foe?
SENATOR.
Ah, sire! the city's peril is extreme;
And giant ruin, waxing hour by hour,
Still onward strides. The bulwarks are destroyed--
The foe at each assault advantage gains;
Bare of defenders are the city walls,
For with rash valor forth our soldiers rush,
While few, alas! return to view their homes,
And famine's scourge impendeth o'er the town.
In this extremity the noble Count
Of Rochepierre, commander of the town,
Hath made a compact with the enemy,
According to old custom, to yield up,
On the twelfth day, the city to the foe,
Unless, meanwhile, before the town appear
A host of magnitude to raise the siege.
CHARLES.
The interval is brief.
SENATOR.
We hither come,
Attended by a hostile retinue,
To implore thee, sire, to pity thy poor town,
And to send succor ere the appointed day,
When, if still unrelieved, she must surrender.
DUNOIS.
And could Saintrailles consent to give his voice
To such a shameful compact?
SENATOR.
Never, sir!
Long as the hero lived, none dared to breathe
A single word of treaty or surrender.
DUNOIS.
He then is dead?
SENATOR.
The noble hero fell,
His monarch's cause defending on our walls.
CHARLES.
What! Saintrailles dead! Oh, in that single man
A host is foundered!
DUNOIS.
That too!
CHARLES.
Well? What is it?
DUNOIS.
Count Douglass sendeth here. The Scottish troops
Revolt, and threaten to retire at once.
Unless their full arrears are paid to-day.
CHARLES.
Duchatel!
CHARLES.
Pledge, promise all, even unto half my realm.
DUCHATEL.
'Tis vain! They have been fed with hope too often.
CHARLES.
They are the finest troops of all my hosts!
They must not now, not now abandon me!
SCENE IV.
CHARLES.
My Agnes! Oh, my love! My dearest life!
Thou comest here to snatch me from despair!
Refuge I take within thy loving arms!
Possessing thee I feel that nothing is lost.
SOREL.
My king, beloved!
[looking round with an anxious, inquiring gaze.
Dunois! Say, is it true,
Duchatel?
DUCHATEL.
'Tis, alas!
SOREL.
So great the need?
No treasure left? The soldiers will disband?
DUCHATEL.
Alas! It is too true!
CHARLES.
Well now, Dunois! Duchatel! Do ye still
Account me poor, when I possess the crown
Of womankind? She's nobly born as I;
The royal blood of Valois not more pure;
The most exalted throne she would adorn--
Yet she rejects it with disdain, and claims
No other title than to be my love.
No gift more costly will she e'er receive
Than early flower in winter, or rare fruit!
No sacrifice on my part she permits,
Yet sacrificeth all she had to me!
With generous spirit she doth venture all
Her wealth and fortune in my sinking bark.
DUNOIS.
Ay, she is mad indeed, my king, as thou;
She throws her all into a burning house,
And draweth water in the leaky vessel
Of the Danaides. Thee she will not save,
And in thy ruin but involve herself.
SOREL.
Believe him not! Full many a time he hath
Perilled his life for thee, and now, forsooth,
Chafeth because I risk my worthless gold!
How? Have I freely sacrificed to thee
What is esteemed far more than gold and pearls,
And shall I now hold back the gifts of fortune?
Oh, come! Let my example challenge thee
To noble self-denial! Let's at once
Cast off the needless ornaments of life!
Thy courtiers metamorphose into soldiers;
Thy gold transmute to iron; all thou hast,
With resolute daring, venture for thy crown!
Peril and want we will participate!
Let us bestride the war-horse, and expose
Our tender person to the fiery glow
Of the hot sun, take for our canopy
The clouds above, and make the stones our pillow.
The rudest warrior, when he sees his king
Bear hardship and privation like the meanest
Will patiently endure his own hard lot!
CHARLES (laughing).
Ay! now is realized an ancient word
Of prophesy, once uttered by a nun
Of Clairmont, in prophetic mood, who said,
That through a woman's aid I o'er my foes
Should triumph, and achieve my father's crown.
Far off I sought her in the English camp;
I strove to reconcile a mother's heart;
Here stands the heroine--my guide to Rheims!
My Agnes! I shall triumph through thy love!
SOREL.
Thou'lt triumph through the valiant swords of friends.
CHARLES.
And from my foes' dissensions much I hope
For sure intelligence hath reached mine ear,
That 'twixt these English lords and Burgundy
Things do not stand precisely as they did;
Hence to the duke I have despatched La Hire,
To try if he can lead my angry vassal
Back to his ancient loyalty and faith:
Each moment now I look for his return.
CHARLES.
A welcome messenger! We soon shall learn
Whether we're doomed to conquer or to yield.
SCENE V.
LA HIRE.
Expect naught, sire, save from thine own good sword.
CHARLES.
The haughty duke will not be reconciled!
Speak! How did he receive my embassy?
LA HIRE.
His first and unconditional demand,
Ere he consent to listen to thine errand,
Is that Duchatel be delivered up,
Whom he doth name the murderer of his sire.
CHARLES.
This base condition we reject with scorn!
LA HIRE.
Then be the league dissolved ere it commence!
CHARLES.
Hast thou thereon, as I commanded thee,
Challenged the duke to meet him in fair fight
On Montereau's bridge, whereon his father fell?
LA HIRE.
Before him on the ground I flung thy glove,
And said: "Thou wouldst forget thy majesty,
And like a knight do battle for thy realm."
He scornfully rejoined "He needed not
To fight for that which he possessed already,
But if thou wert so eager for the fray,
Before the walls of Orleans thou wouldst find him,
Whither he purposed going on the morrow;"
Thereon he laughing turned his back upon me.
CHARLES.
Say, did not justice raise her sacred voice,
Within the precincts of my parliament?
LA HIRE.
The rage of party, sire, hath silenced her.
An edict of the parliament declares
Thee and thy race excluded from the throne.
DUNOIS.
These upstart burghers' haughty insolence!
CHARLES.
Hast thou attempted with my mother aught?
LA HIRE.
With her?
CHARLES.
Ay! How did she demean herself?
SOREL.
They could huzza--huzza, while trampling thus
Upon a gracious sovereign's loving heart!
LA HIRE.
I saw young Harry Lancaster--the boy--
On good St. Lewis' regal chair enthroned;
On either side his haughty uncles stood,
Bedford and Gloucester, and before him kneeled,
To render homage for his lands, Duke Philip.
CHARLES.
Oh, peer dishonored! Oh, unworthy cousin!
LA HIRE.
The child was timid, and his footing lost
As up the steps he mounted towards the throne.
An evil omen! murmured forth the crowd,
And scornful laughter burst on every side.
Then forward stepped Queen Isabel--thy mother,
And--but it angers me to utter it!
CHARLES.
Say on.
LA HIRE.
Within her arms she clasped the boy,
And herself placed him on thy father's throne.
CHARLES.
Oh, mother! mother!
LA HIRE.
E'en the murderous bands
Of the Burgundians, at this spectacle,
Evinced some tokens of indignant shame.
The queen perceived it, and addressed the crowds,
Exclaiming with loud voice: "Be grateful, Frenchmen,
That I engraft upon a sickly stock
A healthy scion, and redeem you from
The misbegotten son of a mad sire!"
DUNOIS.
She-wolf of France! Rage-breathing Megara!
DUNOIS.
What say'st thou, sire? Thou wilt abandon Orleans!
DUNOIS.
Have we been routed? Is it lawful, sire,
To leave the English masters of the field,
Without a single stroke to save the town?
And thinkest thou, with careless breath, forsooth,
Ere blood hath flowed, rashly to give away
The fairest city from the heart of France?
CHARLES.
Blood hath been poured forth freely, and in vain
The hand of heaven is visibly against me;
In every battle is my host o'erthrown,
I am rejected of my parliament,
My capital, my people, hail me foe,
Those of my blood,--my nearest relatives,--
Forsake me and betray--and my own mother
Doth nurture at her breast the hostile brood.
Beyond the Loire we will retire, and yield
To the o'ermastering hand of destiny
Which sideth with the English.
SOREL.
God forbid
That we in weak despair should quit this realm!
This utterance came not from thy heart, my king,
Thy noble heart, which hath been sorely riven
By the fell deed of thy unnatural mother,
Thou'lt be thyself again, right valiantly
Thou'lt battle with thine adverse destiny,
Which doth oppose thee with relentless ire.
SOREL.
In thee 'twill rise with renovated life!
Oh, in thyself have faith!--believe me, king,
Not vainly hath a gracious destiny
Redeemed thee from the ruin of thy house,
And by thy brethren's death exalted thee,
The youngest born, to an unlooked-for throne
Heaven in thy gentle spirit hath prepared
The leech to remedy the thousand ills
By party rage inflicted on the land.
The flames of civil discord thou wilt quench,
And my heart tells me thou'lt establish peace,
And found anew the monarchy of France.
CHARLES.
Not I! The rude and storm-vexed times require
A pilot formed by nature to command.
A peaceful nation I could render happy
A wild, rebellious people not subdue.
I never with the sword could open hearts
Against me closed in hatred's cold reserve.
SOREL.
The people's eye is dimmed, an error blinds them,
But this delusion will not long endure;
The day is not far distant when the love
Deep rooted in the bosom of the French,
Towards their native monarch, will revive,
Together with the ancient jealousy,
Which forms a barrier 'twixt the hostile nations.
The haughty foe precipitates his doom.
Hence, with rash haste abandon not the field,
With dauntless front contest each foot of ground,
As thine own heart defend the town of Orleans!
Let every boat be sunk beneath the wave,
Each bridge be burned, sooner than carry thee
Across the Loire, the boundary of thy realm,
The Stygian flood, o'er which there's no return.
CHARLES.
What could be done I have done. I have offered,
In single fight, to combat for the crown.
I was refused. In vain my people bleed,
In vain my towns are levelled with the dust.
Shall I, like that unnatural mother, see
My child in pieces severed with the sword?
No; I forego my claim, that it may live.
DUNOIS.
How, sire! Is this fit language for a king?
Is a crown thus renounced? Thy meanest subject,
For his opinion's sake, his hate and love,
Sets property and life upon a cast;
When civil war hangs out her bloody flag,
Each private end is drowned in party zeal.
The husbandman forsakes his plough, the wife
Neglects her distaff; children, and old men,
Don the rude garb of war; the citizen
Consigns his town to the devouring flames,
The peasant burns the produce of his fields;
And all to injure or advantage thee,
And to achieve the purpose of his heart.
Men show no mercy, and they wish for none,
When they at honor's call maintain the fight,
Or for their idols or their gods contend.
A truce to such effeminate pity, then,
Which is not suited to a monarch's breast.
Thou didst not heedlessly provoke the war;
As it commenced, so let it spend its fury.
It is the law of destiny that nations
Should for their monarchs immolate themselves.
We Frenchmen recognize this sacred law,
Nor would annul it. Base, indeed, the nation
That for its honor ventures not its all.
DUNOIS.
As thou dost turn thy back upon thy realm,
So may the God of battle aye avert
His visage from thee. Thou forsak'st thyself,
So I forsake thee. Not the power combined
Of England and rebellious Burgundy,
Thy own mean spirit hurls thee from the throne.
Born heroes ever were the kings of France;
Thou wert a craven, even from thy birth.
[To the SENATORS.
The king abandons you. But I will throw
Myself into your town--my father's town--
And 'neath its ruins find a soldier's grave.
CHARLES.
Our way lies over the Loire. Duchatel,
See all our equipage embarked.
[He turns quickly round, and goes out. The SENATORS follow.
SCENE VI.
CHARLES.
Is, then, the sceptre such a peerless treasure?
Is it so hard to loose it from our grasp?
Believe me, 'tis more galling to endure
The domineering rule of these proud vassals.
To be dependent on their will and pleasure
Is, to a noble heart, more bitter far
Than to submit to fate.
[To DUCHATEL, who still lingers.
Duchatel, go,
And do what I commanded.
CHARLES.
No more! Thou'st heard my absolute resolve!
DUCHATEL.
Sire, with the Duke of Burgundy make peace!
'Tis the sole outlet from destruction left!
CHARLES.
Thou giv'st this counsel, and thy blood alone
Can ratify this peace.
DUCHATEL.
Here is my head.
I oft have risked it for thee in the fight,
And with a joyful spirit I, for thee,
Would lay it down upon the block of death.
Conciliate the duke! Deliver me
To the full measure of his wrath, and let
My flowing blood appease the ancient hate.
CHARLES (looks at him for some time in silence, and with deep emotion).
Can it be true? Am I, then, sunk so low,
That even friends, who read my inmost heart,
Point out for my escape the path of shame?
Yes, now I recognize my abject fall.
My honor is no more confided in.
DUCHATEL.
Reflect----
CHARLES.
Be silent, and incense me not!
Had I ten realms, on which to turn my back,
With my friend's life I would not purchase them.
Do what I have commanded. Hence, and see
My equipage embarked.
DUCHATEL.
'Twill speedily
Be done.
SCENE VII.
SOREL.
Oh, must I contemplate this day of woe!
The king must roam in banishment! the son
Depart, an exile from his father's house,
And turn his back upon his childhood's home!
Oh, pleasant, happy land that we forsake,
Ne'er shall we tread thee joyously again.
SCENE VIII.
SOREL.
You come alone? You do not bring him back?
[Observing him more closely.
La Hire! What news? What does that look announce?
Some new calamity?
LA HIRE.
Calamity
Hath spent itself; sunshine is now returned.
SOREL.
What is it? I implore you.
CHARLES.
Why? What is it?
LA HIRE.
Summon them back! Thy fortune is reversed.
A battle has been fought, and thou hast conquered.
SOREL.
Conquered! Oh, heavenly music of that word!
CHARLES.
La Hire! A fabulous report deceives thee;
Conquered! In conquest I believe no more.
LA HIRE.
Still greater wonders thou wilt soon believe.
Here cometh the archbishop. To thine arms
He leadeth back Dunois.
SOREL.
O beauteous flower
Of victory, which doth the heavenly fruits
Of peace and reconcilement bear at once!
SCENE IX.
CHARLES.
Relieve my wonder and perplexity.
What may this solemn earnestness portend?
Whence this unlooked-for change of fortune?
ARCHBISHOP (leads the KNIGHT forward, and presents him to the KING).
Speak!
RAOUL.
We had assembled sixteen regiments
Of Lotharingian troops to join your host;
And Baudricourt, a knight of Vaucouleurs,
Was our commander. Having gained the heights
By Vermanton, we wound our downward way
Into the valley watered by the Yonne.
There, in the plain before us, lay the foe,
And when we turned, arms glittered in our rear.
We saw ourselves surrounded by two hosts,
And could not hope for conquest or for flight.
Then sank the bravest heart, and in despair
We all prepared to lay our weapons down.
The leaders with each other anxiously
Sought counsel and found none; when to our eyes
A spectacle of wonder showed itself.
For suddenly from forth the thickets' depths
A maiden, on her head a polished helm,
Like a war-goddess, issued; terrible
Yet lovely was her aspect, and her hair
In dusky ringlets round her shoulders fell.
A heavenly radiance shone around the height;
When she upraised her voice and thus addressed us:
"Why be dismayed, brave Frenchmen? On the foe!
Were they more numerous than the ocean sands,
God and the holy maiden lead you on"!
Then quickly from the standard-bearer's hand
She snatched the banner, and before our troop
With valiant bearing strode the wondrous maid.
Silent with awe, scarce knowing what we did,
The banner and the maiden we pursue,
And fired with ardor, rush upon the foe,
Who, much amazed, stand motionless and view
The miracle with fixed and wondering gaze.
Then, as if seized by terror sent from God,
They suddenly betake themselves to flight,
And casting arms and armor to the ground,
Disperse in wild disorder o'er the field.
No leader's call, no signal now avails;
Senseless from terror, without looking back,
Horses and men plunge headlong in the stream,
Where they without resistance are despatched.
It was a slaughter rather than a fight!
Two thousand of the foe bestrewed the field,
Not reckoning numbers swallowed by the flood,
While of our company not one was slain.
CHARLES.
'Tis strange, by heaven! most wonderful and strange!
SOREL.
A maiden worked this miracle, you say?
Whence did she come? Who is she?
RAOUL.
Who she is
She will reveal to no one but the king!
She calls herself a seer and prophetess
Ordained by God, and promises to raise
The siege of Orleans ere the moon shall change.
The people credit her, and thirst for war.
The host she follows--she'll be here anon.
CHARLES.
She comes! Dunois, now occupy my place!
We will make trial of this wondrous maid.
Is she indeed inspired and sent by God
She will be able to discern the king.
SCENE X.
CHARLES.
Maiden, thou ne'er hast seen my face before.
Whence hast thou then this knowledge?
JOHANNA.
Thee I saw
When none beside, save God in heaven, beheld thee.
CHARLES.
What! to Heaven confided need not be
From men concealed. Disclose to me my prayer,
And I shall doubt no more that God inspires thee.
JOHANNA.
Three prayers thou offeredst, Dauphin; listen now
Whether I name them to thee! Thou didst pray
That if there were appended to this crown
Unjust possession, or if heavy guilt,
Not yet atoned for, from thy father's times,
Occasioned this most lamentable war,
God would accept thee as a sacrifice,
Have mercy on thy people, and pour forth
Upon thy head the chalice of his wrath.
JOHANNA.
To God thou offeredst this second prayer:
That if it were his will and high decree
To take away the sceptre from thy race,
And from thee to withdraw whate'er thy sires,
The monarchs of this kingdom, once possessed,
He in his mercy would preserve to thee
Three priceless treasures--a contented heart,
Thy friend's affection, and thine Agnes' love.
CHARLES.
Enough; I credit thee! This doth surpass
Mere human knowledge: thou art sent by God!
ARCHBISHOP.
Who art thou, wonderful and holy maid?
What favored region bore thee? What blest pair,
Beloved of Heaven, may claim thee as their child?
JOHANNA.
Most reverend father, I am named Johanna,
I am a shepherd's lowly daughter, born
In Dom Remi, a village of my king.
Included in the diocese of Toul,
And from a child I kept my father's sheep.
And much and frequently I heard them tell
Of the strange islanders, who o'er the sea
Had come to make us slaves, and on us force
A foreign lord, who loveth not the people;
How the great city, Paris, they had seized,
And had usurped dominion o'er the realm.
Then earnestly God's Mother I implored
To save us from the shame of foreign chains,
And to preserve to us our lawful king.
Not distant from my native village stands
An ancient image of the Virgin blest,
To which the pious pilgrims oft repaired;
Hard by a holy oak, of blessed power,
Standeth, far-famed through wonders manifold.
Beneath the oak's broad shade I loved to sit
Tending my flock--my heart still drew me there.
And if by chance among the desert hills
A lambkin strayed, 'twas shown me in a dream,
When in the shadow of this oak I slept.
And once, when through the night beneath this tree
In pious adoration I had sat,
Resisting sleep, the Holy One appeared,
Bearing a sword and banner, otherwise
Clad like a shepherdess, and thus she spake:
"'Tis I; arise, Johanna! leave thy flock,
The Lord appoints thee to another task!
Receive this banner! Gird thee with this sword!
Therewith exterminate my people's foes;
Conduct to Rheims thy royal master's son,
And crown him with the kingly diadem!"
And I made answer: "How may I presume
To undertake such deeds, a tender maid,
Unpractised in the dreadful art of war!"
And she replied: "A maiden pure and chaste
Achieves whate'er on earth is glorious
If she to earthly love ne'er yields her heart.
Look upon me! a virgin, like thyself;
I to the Christ, the Lord divine, gave birth,
And am myself divine!" Mine eyelids then
She touched, and when I upward turned my amaze,
Heaven's wide expanse was filled with angel-boys,
Who bore white lilies in their hands, while tones
Of sweetest music floated through the air.
And thus on three successive nights appeared
The Holy One, and cried,--"Arise, Johanna!
The Lord appoints thee to another task!"
And when the third night she revealed herself,
Wrathful she seemed, and chiding spake these words:
"Obedience, woman's duty here on earth;
Severe endurance is her heavy doom;
She must be purified through discipline;
Who serveth here, is glorified above!"
While thus she spake, she let her shepherd garb
Fail from her, and as Queen of Heaven stood forth
Enshrined in radiant light, while golden clouds
Upbore her slowly to the realms of bliss.
DUNOIS.
I credit not her wonders, but her eyes
Which beam with innocence and purity.
CHARLES.
Am I, a sinner, worthy of such favor?
Infallible, All-searching eye, thou seest
Mine inmost heart, my deep humility!
JOHANNA.
Humility shines brightly in the skies;
Thou art abased, hence God exalteth thee.
CHARLES.
Shall I indeed withstand mine enemies?
JOHANNA.
France I will lay submissive at thy feet!
CHARLES.
And Orleans, say'st thou, will not be surrendered?
JOHANNA.
The Loire shall sooner roll its waters back.
CHARLES.
Shall I in triumph enter into Rheims?
JOHANNA.
I through ten thousand foes will lead you there.
DUNOIS.
Appoint the maiden to command the host!
We follow blindly whereso'er she leads!
The Holy One's prophetic eye shall guide,
And this brave sword from danger shall protect her!
LA HIRE.
A universe in arms we will not fear,
If she, the mighty one, precede our troops.
The God of battle walketh by her side;
Let her conduct us on to victory!
CHARLES.
Yes, holy maiden, do thou lead mine host;
My chiefs and warriors shall submit to thee.
This sword of matchless temper, proved in war,
Sent back in anger by the Constable,
Hath found a hand more worthy. Prophetess,
Do thou receive it, and henceforward be----
JOHANNA.
No, noble Dauphin! conquest to my liege
Is not accorded through this instrument
Of earthly might. I know another sword
Wherewith I am to conquer, which to thee,
I, as the Spirit taught, will indicate;
Let it be hither brought.
CHARLES.
Name it, Johanna.
JOHANNA.
Send to the ancient town of Fierbois;
There in Saint Catherine's churchyard is a vault
Where lie in heaps the spoils of bygone war.
Among them is the sword which I must use.
It by three golden lilies may be known,
Upon the blade impressed. Let it be brought
For thou, my liege, shalt conquer through this sword.
CHARLES.
Perform what she commands.
JOHANNA.
And a white banner,
Edged with a purple border, let me bear.
Upon this banner let the Queen of Heaven
Be pictured with the beauteous Jesus child
Floating in glory o'er this earthly ball.
For so the Holy Mother showed it me.
CHARLES.
So be it as thou sayest.
ARCHBISHOP.
Not blessings to receive, but to dispense
Art thou appointed. Go, with power divine!
But we are sinners all and most unworthy.
PAGE.
A herald from the English generals.
JOHANNA.
Let him appear, for he is sent by God!
SCENE XI.
CHARLES.
Thy tidings, herald? What thy message! Speak!
HERALD.
Who is it, who for Charles of Valois,
The Count of Pointhieu, in this presence speaks?
DUNOIS.
Unworthy herald! base, insulting knave!
Dost thou presume the monarch of the French
Thus in his own dominions to deny?
Thou art protected by thine office, else----
HERALD.
One king alone is recognized by France,
And he resideth in the English camp.
CHARLES.
Peace, peace, good cousin! Speak thy message, herald!
HERALD.
My noble general laments the blood
Which hath already flowed, and still must flow.
Hence, in the scabbard holding back the sword,
Before by storm the town of Orleans falls,
He offers thee an amicable treaty.
CHARLES.
Proceed!
CHARLES.
Do so, maid!
Determine thou, for peace, or bloody war.
HERALD.
The Earl of Salisbury; the British chief.
JOHANNA.
Herald, 'tis false! The earl speaks not through thee.
Only the living speak, the dead are silent.
HERALD.
The earl is well, and full of lusty strength;
He lives to bring down ruin on your heads.
JOHANNA.
When thou didst quit the British army he lived.
This morn, while gazing from Le Tournelle's tower,
A ball from Orleans struck him to the ground.
Smilest thou that I discern what is remote?
Not to my words give credence; but believe
The witness of thine eyes! his funeral train
Thou shalt encounter as you goest hence!
Now, herald, speak, and do thine errand here.
HERALD.
If what is hidden thou canst thus reveal,
Thou knowest mine errand ere I tell it thee.
JOHANNA.
It boots me not to know it. But do thou
Give ear unto my words! This message bear
In answer to the lords who sent thee here.
Monarch of England, and ye haughty dukes,
Bedford and Gloucester, regents of this realm!
To heaven's high King you are accountable
For all the blood that hath been shed. Restore
The keys of all the cities ta'en by force
In opposition to God's holy law!
The maiden cometh from the King of Heaven
And offers you or peace or bloody war.
Choose ye! for this I say, that you may know it:
To you this beauteous realm is not assigned
By Mary's son;--but God hath given it
To Charles, my lord and Dauphin, who ere long
Will enter Paris with a monarch's pomp,
Attended by the great ones of his realm.
Now, herald, go, and speedily depart,
For ere thou canst attain the British camp
And do thine errand, is the maiden there,
To plant the sign of victory at Orleans.
ACT II.
SCENE I.
TALBOT.
Here let us make a halt beneath these rocks,
And pitch our camp, in case our scattered troops,
Dispersed in panic fear, again should rally.
Choose trusty sentinels, and guard the heights!
'Tis true the darkness shields us from pursuit,
And sure I am, unless the foe have wings,
We need not fear surprisal. Still 'tis well
To practice caution, for we have to do
With a bold foe, and have sustained defeat.
LIONEL.
Defeat! My general, do not speak that word.
It stings me to the quick to think the French
To-day have seen the backs of Englishmen.
Oh, Orleans! Orleans! Grave of England's glory!
Our honor lies upon thy fatal plains
Defeat most ignominious and burlesque!
Who will in future years believe the tale!
The victors of Poictiers and Agincourt,
Cressy's bold heroes, routed by a woman?
BURGUNDY.
That must console us. Not by mortal power,
But by the devil have we been o'erthrown!
TALBOT.
The devil of our own stupidity!
How, Burgundy? Do princes quake and fear
Before the phantom which appals the vulgar?
Credulity is but a sorry cloak
For cowardice. Your people first took flight.
BURGUNDY.
None stood their ground. The flight was general.
TALBOT.
'Tis false! Your wing fled first. You wildly broke
Into our camp, exclaiming: "Hell is loose,
The devil combats on the side of France!"
And thus you brought confusion 'mong our troops.
LIONEL.
You can't deny it. Your wing yielded first.
BURGUNDY.
Because the brunt of battle there commenced.
TALBOT.
The maiden knew the weakness of our camp;
She rightly judged where fear was to be found.
BURGUNDY.
How? Shall the blame of our disaster rest
With Burgundy?
LIONEL.
By heaven! were we alone,
We English, never had we Orleans lost!
BURGUNDY.
No, truly! for ye ne'er had Orleans seen!
Who opened you a way into this realm,
And reached you forth a kind and friendly hand
When you descended on this hostile coast?
Who was it crowned your Henry at Paris,
And unto him subdued the people's hearts?
Had this Burgundian arm not guided you
Into this realm, by heaven you ne'er had seen
The smoke ascending from a single hearth!
LIONEL.
Were conquests with big words effected, duke,
You, doubtless, would have conquered France alone.
BURGUNDY.
The loss of Orleans angers you, and now
You vent your gall on me, your friend and ally.
What lost us Orleans but your avarice?
The city was prepared to yield to me,
Your envy was the sole impediment.
TALBOT.
We did not undertake the siege for you.
BURGUNDY.
How would it stand with you if I withdrew
With all my host?
LIONEL.
We should not be worse off
Than when, at Agincourt, we proved a match
For you and all the banded power of France.
BURGUNDY.
Yet much you stood in need of our alliance;
The regent purchased it at heavy cost.
TALBOT.
Most dearly, with the forfeit of our honor,
At Orleans have we paid for it to-day.
BURGUNDY.
Urge me no further, lords. Ye may repent it!
Did I forsake the banners of my king,
Draw down upon my head the traitor's name,
To be insulted thus by foreigners?
Why am I here to combat against France?
If I must needs endure ingratitude,
Let it come rather from my native king!
TALBOT.
You're in communication with the Dauphin,
We know it well, but we soon shall find means
To guard ourselves 'gainst treason.
BURGUNDY.
Death and hell!
Am I encountered thus? Chatillon, hark!
Let all my troops prepare to quit the camp.
We will retire into our own domain.
LIONEL.
God speed you there! Never did Britain's fame
More brightly shine than when she stood alone,
Confiding solely in her own good sword.
Let each one fight his battle for himself,
For 'tis eternal truth that English blood
Cannot, with honor, blend with blood of France.
SCENE II.
ISABEL.
What must I hear? This fatal strife forbear!
What brain-bewildering planet o'er your minds
Sheds dire perplexity? When unity
Alone can save you, will you part in hate,
And, warring 'mong yourselves, prepare your doom?--
I do entreat you, noble duke, recall
Your hasty order. You, renowned Talbot,
Seek to appease an irritated friend!
Come, Lionel, aid me to reconcile
These haughty spirits and establish peace.
LIONEL.
Not I, madame. It is all one to me.
'Tis my belief, when things are misallied,
The sooner they part company the better.
ISABEL.
How? Do the arts of hell, which on the field
Wrought such disastrous ruin, even here
Bewilder and befool us? Who began
This fatal quarrel? Speak! Lord-general!
Your own advantage did you so forget,
As to offend your worthy friend and ally?
What could you do without his powerful arm?
'Twas he who placed your monarch on the throne,
He holds him there, and he can hurl him thence;
His army strengthens you--still more his name.
Were England all her citizens to pour
Upon our coasts, she never o'er this realm
Would gain dominion did she stand alone;
No! France can only be subdued by France!
TALBOT.
A faithful friend we honor as we ought;
Discretion warns us to beware the false.
BURGUNDY.
The liar's brazen front beseemeth him
Who would absolve himself from gratitude.
ISABEL.
How, noble duke? Could you so far renounce
Your princely honor, and your sense of shame,
As clasp the hand of him who slew your sire?
Are you so mad to entertain the thought
Of cordial reconcilement with the Dauphin,
Whom you yourself have hurled to ruin's brink?
His overthrow you have well nigh achieved,
And madly now would you renounce your work?
Here stand your allies. Your salvation lies
In an indissoluble bond with England?
BURGUNDY.
Far is my thought from treaty with the Dauphin;
But the contempt and insolent demeanor
Of haughty England I will not endure.
ISABEL.
Come, noble duke? Excuse a hasty word.
Heavy the grief which bows the general down,
And well you know misfortune makes unjust.
Come! come! embrace; let me this fatal breach
Repair at once, ere it becomes eternal.
TALBOT.
What think you, Burgundy? A noble heart,
By reason vanquished, doth confess its fault.
A wise and prudent word the queen hath spoken;
Come, let my hand with friendly pressure heal
The wound inflicted by my angry tongue.
BURGUNDY.
Discreet the counsel offered by the queen!
My just wrath yieldeth to necessity.
ISABEL.
'Tis well! Now, with a brotherly embrace
Confirm and seal the new-established bond;
And may the winds disperse what hath been spoken.
ISABEL.
Fate hath proved adverse, we have lost a battle,
But do not, therefore, let your courage sink.
The Dauphin, in despair of heavenly aid,
Doth make alliance with the powers of hell;
Vainly his soul he forfeits to the devil,
For hell itself cannot deliver him.
A conquering maiden leads the hostile force;
Yours, I myself will lead; to you I'll stand
In place of maiden or of prophetess.
LIONEL.
Madame, return to Paris! We desire
To war with trusty weapons, not with women.
TALBOT.
GO! go! Since your arrival in the camp,
Fortune hath fled our banners, and our course
Hath still been retrograde. Depart at once!
BURGUNDY.
Your presence here doth scandalize the host.
BURGUNDY.
Go! go! The thought of combating for you
Unnerves the courage of the bravest men.
ISABEL.
I scarce among you have established peace,
And you already form a league against me!
TALBOT.
Go, in God's name. When you have left the camp
No devil will again appal our troops.
ISABEL.
Say, am I not your true confederate?
Are we not banded in a common cause?
TALBOT.
Thank God! your cause of quarrel is not ours.
We combat in an honorable strife.
BURGUNDY.
A father's bloody murder I avenge.
Stern filial duty consecrates my arms.
TALBOT.
Confess at once. Your conduct towards the Dauphin
Is an offence alike to God and man.
ISABEL.
Curses blast him and his posterity!
The shameless son who sins against his mother!
BURGUNDY.
Ay! to avenge a husband and a father!
ISABEL.
To judge his mother's conduct he presumed!
LIONEL.
That was, indeed, irreverent in a son!
ISABEL.
And me, forsooth, he banished from the realm.
TALBOT.
Urged to the measure by the public voice.
ISABEL.
A curse light on him if I e'er forgive him!
Rather than see him on his father's throne----
TALBOT.
His mother's honor you would sacrifice!
ISABEL.
Your feeble natures cannot comprehend
The vengeance of an outraged mother's heart.
Who pleasures me, I love; who wrongs, I hate.
If he who wrongs me chance to be my son,
All the more worthy is he of my hate.
The life I gave I will again take back
From him who doth, with ruthless violence,
The bosom rend which bore and nourished him.
Ye, who do thus make war upon the Dauphin,
What rightful cause have ye to plunder him?
What crime hath he committed against you?
What insult are you called on to avenge?
Ambition, paltry envy, goad you on;
I have a right to hate him--he's my son.
TALBOT.
He feels his mother in her dire revenge!
ISABEL.
Mean hypocrites! I hate you and despise.
Together with the world, you cheat yourselves!
With robber-hands you English seek to clutch
This realm of France, where you have no just right,
Nor equitable claim, to so much earth
As could be covered by your charger's hoof.
--This duke, too, whom the people style the Good,
Doth to a foreign lord, his country's foe,
For gold betray the birthland of his sires.
And yet is justice ever on your tongue.
--Hypocrisy I scorn. Such as I am,
So let the world behold me!
BURGUNDY.
It is true!
Your reputation you have well maintained.
ISABEL.
I've passions and warm blood, and as a queen
Came to this realm to live, and not to seem.
Should I have lingered out a joyless life
Because the curse of adverse destiny
To a mad consort joined my blooming youth?
More than my life I prize my liberty.
And who assails me here----But why should I
Stoop to dispute with you about my rights?
Your sluggish blood flows slowly in your veins!
Strangers to pleasure, ye know only rage!
This duke, too--who, throughout his whole career,
Hath wavered to and fro, 'twixt good and ill--
Can neither love or hate with his whole heart.
--I go to Melun. Let this gentleman,
[Pointing to LIONEL.
Who doth my fancy please, attend me there,
To cheer my solitude, and you may work
Your own good pleasure! I'll inquire no more
Concerning the Burgundians or the English.
LIONEL.
Rely upon us, we will send to Melun
The fairest youths whom we in battle take.
[Coming back.
ISABEL.
Skilful your arm to wield the sword of death,
The French alone can round the polished phrase.
SCENE III.
TALBOT.
Heavens! What a woman!
LIONEL.
Now, brave generals,
Your counsel! Shall we prosecute our flight,
Or turn, and with a bold and sudden stroke
Wipe out the foul dishonor of to-day?
BURGUNDY.
We are too weak, our soldiers are dispersed,
The recent terror still unnerves the host.
TALBOT.
Blind terror, sudden impulse of a moment,
Alone occasioned our disastrous rout.
This phantom of the terror-stricken brain,
More closely viewed will vanish into air.
My counsel, therefore, is, at break of day,
To lead the army back, across the stream,
To meet the enemy.
BURGUNDY.
Consider well----
LIONEL.
Your pardon! Here is nothing to consider
What we have lost we must at once retrieve,
Or look to be eternally disgraced.
TALBOT.
It is resolved. To-morrow morn we fight,
This dread-inspiring phantom to destroy,
Which thus doth blind and terrify the host
Let us in fight encounter this she-devil.
If she oppose her person to our sword,
Trust me, she never will molest us more;
If she avoid our stroke--and be assured
She will not stand the hazard of a battle--
Then is the dire enchantment at an end?
LIONEL.
So be it! And to me, my general. leave
This easy, bloodless combat, for I hope
Alive to take this ghost, and in my arms,
Before the Bastard's eyes--her paramour--
To bear her over to the English camp,
To be the sport and mockery of the host.
BURGUNDY.
Make not too sure.
TALBOT.
If she encounter me,
I shall not give her such a soft embrace.
Come now, exhausted nature to restore
Through gentle sleep. At daybreak we set forth.
[They go out.
SCENE IV.
JOHANNA.
Ho! torches here. Hurl fire into the tents!
Let the devouring flames augment the horror,
While threatening death doth compass them around!
LA HIRE.
Point out the path of conquest to the host;
Before us, in pure hand, the banner bear.
But wield the fatal weapon not thyself;
Tempt not the treacherous god of battle, for
He rageth blindly, and he spareth not.
JOHANNA.
Who dares impede my progress? Who presume
The spirit to control which guideth me?
Still must the arrow wing its destined flight!
Where danger is, there must Johanna be;
Nor now, nor here, am I foredoomed to fall;
Our monarch's royal brow I first must see
Invested with the round of sovereignty.
No hostile power can rob me of my life,
Till I've accomplished the commands of God.
LA HIRE.
Come, let us follow after her, Dunois,
And let our valiant bosoms be her shield!
[Exit.
SCENE V.
1 SOLDIER.
The maiden in the camp!
2 SOLDIER.
Impossible!
It cannot be! How came she in the camp?
3 SOLDIER.
Why, through the air! The devil aided her!
4 AND 5 SOLDIERS.
Fly! fly! We are dead men!
TALBOT (enters).
They heed me not! They stay not at my call!
The sacred bands of discipline are loosed!
As hell had poured her damned legions forth,
A wild, distracting impulse whirls along,
In one mad throng, the cowardly and brave.
I cannot rally e'en the smallest troop
To form a bulwark gainst the hostile flood,
Whose raging billows press into our camp!
Do I alone retain my sober senses,
While all around in wild delirium rave?
To fly before these weak, degenerate Frenchmen
Whom we in twenty battles have overthrown?
Who is she then--the irresistible--
The dread-inspiring goddess, who doth turn
At once the tide of battle, and transform
The lions bold a herd of timid deer?
A juggling minx, who plays the well-learned part
Of heroine, thus to appal the brave?
A woman snatch from me all martial fame?
SCENE VI.
MONTGOMERY (alone).
Where shall I flee? Foes all around and death! Lo! here
The furious general, who with threatening sword, prevents
Escape, and drives us back into the jaws of death.
The dreadful maiden there--the terrible--who like
Devouring flame, destruction spreads; while all around
Appears no bush wherein to hide--no sheltering cave!
Oh, would that o'er the sea I never had come here!
Me miserable--empty dreams deluded me--
Cheap glory to achieve on Gallia's martial fields.
And I am guided by malignant destiny
Into this murderous flight. Oh, were I far, far hence.
Still in my peaceful home, on Severn's flowery banks,
Where in my father's house, in sorrow and in tears,
I left my mother and my fair young bride.
JOHANNA, MONTGOMERY.
JOHANNA.
Prepare to die! A British mother bore thee!
JHANNA.
Deluded mortal! to destruction doomed!
Thou'rt fallen in the maiden's hand, from which
Redemption or deliverance there is none.
Had adverse fortune given thee a prey
To the fierce tiger or the crocodile--
Hadst robbed the lion mother of her brood--
Compassion thou might'st hope to find and pity;
But to encounter me is certain death.
For my dread compact with the spirit realm--
The stern inviolable--bindeth me,
To slay each living thing whom battle's God,
Full charged with doom, delivers to my sword.
MONTGOMERY.
Thy speech is fearful, but thy look is mild;
Not dreadful art thou to contemplate near;
My heart is drawn towards thy lovely form.
Oh! by the mildness of thy gentle sex,
Attend my prayer. Compassionate my youth.
JOHANNA.
Name me not woman! Speak not of my sex!
Like to the bodiless spirits, who know naught
Of earth's humanities, I own no sex;
Beneath this vest of steel there beats no heart.
MONTGOMERY.
Oh! by love's sacred, all-pervading power,
To whom all hearts yield homage, I conjure thee.
At home I left behind a gentle bride,
Beauteous as thou, and rich in blooming grace:
Weeping she waiteth her betrothed's return.
Oh! if thyself dost ever hope to love,
If in thy love thou hopest to be happy,
Then ruthless sever not two gentle hearts,
Together linked in love's most holy bond!
JOHANNA.
Thou dost appeal to earthly, unknown gods,
To whom I yield no homage. Of love's bond,
By which thou dost conjure me, I know naught
Nor ever will I know his empty service.
Defend thy life, for death doth summon thee.
MONTGOMERY.
Take pity on my sorrowing parents, whom
I left at home. Doubtless thou, too, hast left
Parents, who feel disquietude for thee.
JOHANNA.
Unhappy man! thou dost remember me
How many mothers of this land your arms
Have rendered childless and disconsolate;
How many gentle children fatherless;
How many fair young brides dejected widows!
Let England's mothers now be taught despair,
And learn to weep the bitter tear oft shed
By the bereaved and sorrowing wives of France.
MONTGOMERY.
'Tis hard in foreign lands to die unwept.
JOHANNA.
Who called you over to this foreign land,
To waste the blooming culture of our fields,
To chase the peasant from his household hearth,
And in our cities' peaceful sanctuary
To hurl the direful thunderbolt of war?
In the delusion of your hearts ye thought
To plunge in servitude the freeborn French,
And to attach their fair and goodly realm,
Like a small boat, to your proud English bark!
Ye fools! The royal arms of France are hung
Fast by the throne of God; and ye as soon
From the bright wain of heaven might snatch a star
As rend a single village from this realm,
Which shall remain inviolate forever!
The day of vengeance is at length arrived;
Not living shall ye measure back the sea,
The sacred sea--the boundary set by God
Betwixt our hostile nations--and the which
Ye ventured impiously to overpass.
JOHANNA.
Die, friend! Why tremble at the approach of death?
Of mortals the irrevocable doom?
Look upon me! I'm born a shepherd maid;
This hand, accustomed to the peaceful crook,
Is all unused to wield the sword of death.
Yet, snatched away from childhood's peaceful haunts,
From the fond love of father and of sisters,
Urged by no idle dream of earthly glory,
But heaven-appointed to achieve your ruin,
Like a destroying angel I must roam,
Spreading dire havoc around me, and at length
Myself must fall a sacrifice to death!
Never again shall I behold my home!
Still, many of your people I must slay,
Still, many widows make, but I at length
Myself shall perish, and fulfil my doom.
Now thine fulfil. Arise! resume thy sword,
And let us fight for the sweet prize of life.
[He seizes his sword and shield, and rushes upon her;
martial music is heard in the distance. After a short
conflict MONTGOMERY falls.
SCENE VIII.
JOHANNA (alone).
To death thy foot did bear thee--fare thee well!
SCENE IX.
KNIGHT.
Accursed one! thy hour of death has come!
Long have I sought thee on the battle-field,
Fatal delusion! get thee back to hell,
Whence thou didst issue forth.
JOHANNA.
Say, who art thou,
Whom his bad genius sendeth in my way?
Princely thy port, no Briton dost thou seem,
For the Burgundian colors stripe thy shield,
Before the which my sword inclines its point.
KNIGHT.
Vile castaway! Thou all unworthy art
To fall beneath a prince's noble hand.
The hangman's axe should thy accursed head
Cleave from thy trunk, unfit for such vile use
The royal Duke of Burgundy's brave sword.
JOHANNA.
Art thou indeed that noble duke himself?
SCENE X.
DUNOIS.
Hold, Burgundy!
Turn! combat now with men, and not with maids.
LA HIRE.
We will defend the holy prophetess;
First must thy weapon penetrate this breast.
BURGUNDY.
I fear not this seducing Circe; no,
Nor you, whom she hath changed so shamefully!
Oh, blush, Dunois! and do thou blush, La Hire
To stoop thy valor to these hellish arts--
To be shield-bearer to a sorceress!
Come one--come all! He only who despairs
Of heaven's protection seeks the aid of hell.
JOHANNA.
Forbear!
BURGUNDY.
Dost tremble for thy lover? Thus
Before thine eyes he shall----
DUNOIS.
Why, maiden, now hold back my upraised arm?
Why check the just decision of the sword?
My weapon pants to deal the fatal blow
Which shall avenge and heal the woes of France.
JOHANNA.
Fall back, Dunois! Stand where thou art, La Hire!
Somewhat I have to say to Burgundy.
BURGUNDY.
What, syren! wilt thou with seducing words
Allure thy victim? Cunning sorceress,
Me thou deludest not. Mine ears are closed
Against thy treacherous words; and vainly dart
Thy fiery glances 'gainst this mail of proof.
To arms, Dunois!
With weapons let us fight, and not with words.
DUNOIS.
First words, then weapons, Burgundy! Do words
With dread inspire thee? 'Tis a coward's fear,
And the betrayer of an evil cause.
JOHANNA.
'Tis not imperious necessity
Which throws us at thy feet! We do not come
As suppliants before thee. Look around!
The English tents are level with the ground,
And all the field is covered with your slain.
Hark! the war-trumpets of the French resound;
God hath decided--ours the victory!
Our new-culled laurel garland with our friend
We fain would share. Come, noble fugitive!
Oh, come where justice and where victory dwell!
Even I, the messenger of heaven, extend
A sister's hand to thee. I fain would save
And draw thee over to our righteous cause!
Heaven hath declared for France! Angelic powers,
Unseen by thee, do battle for our king;
With lilies are the holy ones adorned,
Pure as this radiant banner is our cause;
Its blessed symbol is the queen of heaven.
BURGUNDY.
Falsehood's fallacious words are full of guile,
But hers are pure and simple as a child's.
If evil spirits borrow this disguise,
They copy innocence triumphantly.
I'll hear no more. To arms, Dunois! to arms!
Mine ear, I feel, is weaker than mine arm.
JOHANNA.
You call me an enchantress, and accuse
Of hellish arts. Is it the work of hell
To heal dissension and to foster peace?
Comes holy concord from the depths below?
Say, what is holy, innocent, and good,
If not to combat for our fatherland?
Since when hath nature been so self-opposed
That heaven forsakes the just and righteous cause,
While hell protects it? If my words are true,
Whence could I draw them but from heaven above?
Who ever sought me in my shepherd-walks,
To teach the humble maid affairs of state?
I ne'er have stood with princes, to these lips
Unknown the arts of eloquence. Yet now,
When I have need of it to touch thy heart,
Insight and varied knowledge I possess;
The fate of empires and the doom of kings
Lie clearly spread before my childish mind,
And words of thunder issue from my mouth.
JOHANNA.
Oh, he is moved! I have not prayed in vain,
Wrath's thunder-cloud dissolves in gentle tears,
And leaves his brow, while mercy's golden beams
Break from his eyes and gently promise peace.
Away with arms, now clasp him to your hearts,
He weeps--he's conquered, he is ours once more!
ACT III.
SCENE I.
DUNOIS, LA HIRE.
DUNOIS.
We have been true heart-friends, brothers in arms,
Still have we battled in a common cause,
And held together amid toil and death.
Let not the love of woman rend the bond
Which hath resisted every stroke of fate.
LA HIRE.
Hear me, my prince!
DUNOIS.
You love the wondrous maid,
And well I know the purpose of your heart.
You think without delay to seek the king,
And to entreat him to bestow on you
Her hand in marriage. Of your bravery
The well-earned guerdon he cannot refuse
But know,--ere I behold her in the arms
Of any other----
LA HIRE.
Listen to me, prince!
DUNOIS.
'Tis not the fleeting passion of the eye
Attracts me to her. My unconquered sense
Had set at naught the fiery shafts of love
Till I beheld this wondrous maiden, sent
By a divine appointment to become
The savior of this kingdom, and my wife;
And on the instant in my heart I vowed
A sacred oath, to bear her home, my bride.
For she alone who is endowed with strength
Can be the strong man's friend. This glowing heart
Longs to repose upon a kindred breast,
Which can sustain and comprehend its strength.
LA HIRE.
How dare I venture, prince, my poor deserts
To measure with your name's heroic fame!
When Count Dunois appeareth in the lists,
Each humbler suitor must forsake the field;
Still it doth ill become a shepherd maid
To stand as consort by your princely side.
The royal current in your veins would scorn
To mix with blood of baser quality.
DUNOIS.
She, like myself, is holy Nature's child,
A child divine--hence we by birth are equal.
She bring dishonor on a prince's hand,
Who is the holy angel's bride, whose head
Is by a heavenly glory circled round,
Whose radiance far outshineth earthly crowns,
Who seeth lying far beneath her feet
All that is greatest, highest of this earth!
For thrones on thrones, ascending to the stars,
Would fail to reach the height where she abides
In angel majesty!
LA HIRE.
Our monarch must decide.
DUNOIS.
Not so! she must
Decide! Free hath she made this realm of France,
And she herself must freely give her heart.
LA HIRE.
Here comes the king!
SCENE II.
CHATILLON.
Here, in his royal town of Chalons, sire,
The duke, my master, will fall down before thee.
He did command me, as my lord and king,
To give thee greeting. He'll be here anon.
SOREL.
He comes! Hail beauteous and auspicious day,
Which bringeth joy, and peace, and reconcilement!
CHATILLON.
The duke, attended by two hundred knights,
Will hither come; he at thy feet will kneel;
But he expecteth not that thou to him
Should yield the cordial greeting of a kinsman.
CHARLES.
I long to clasp him to my throbbing heart.
CHATILLON.
The duke entreats that at this interview,
No word be spoken of the ancient strife!
CHARLES.
In Lethe be the past forever sunk!
The smiling future now invites our gaze.
CHATILLON.
All who have combated for Burgundy
Shall be included in the amnesty.
CHARLES.
So shall my realm be doubled in extent!
CHATILLON.
Queen Isabel, if she consent thereto,
Shall also be included in the peace.
CHARLES.
She maketh war on me, not I on her.
With her alone it rests to end our quarrel.
CHATILLON.
Twelve knights shall answer for thy royal word.
CHARLES.
My word is sacred.
CHATILLON.
The archbishop shall
Between you break the consecrated host,
As pledge and seal of cordial reconcilement.
CHARLES.
Let my eternal weal be forfeited,
If my hand's friendly grasp belie my heart.
What other surety doth the duke require?
CHARLES.
Depart, Duchatel, and remain concealed
Until the duke can bear thee in his sight.
CHATILLON.
This instrument doth name the other points.
CHARLES (to the ARCHBISHOP).
Let it be settled. We agree to all.
We count no price too high to gain a friend.
Go now, Dunois, and with a hundred knights,
Give courteous conduct to the noble duke.
Let the troops, garlanded with verdant boughs,
Receive their comrades with a joyous welcome.
Be the whole town arrayed in festive pomp,
And let the bells with joyous peal, proclaim
That France and Burgundy are reconciled.
PAGE.
The Duke of Burgundy hath stayed his march.
[Exit.
DUNOIS.
Up! forth to meet him!
CHARLES.
They're a good people, in whom love flames forth
As suddenly as wrath. In how brief space
They do forget that 'tis this very duke
Who slew, in fight, their fathers and their sons;
The moment swallows up the whole of life!
Be tranquil, Sorel. E'en thy passionate joy
Perchance might to his conscience prove a thorn.
Nothing should either shame or grieve him here.
SCENE III.
CHARLES.
You have surprised us; it was our intent
To fetch you hither, but your steeds are fleet.
BURGUNDY.
They bore me to my duty.
[He embraces SOREL, and kisses her brow.
With your leave!
At Arras, niece, it is our privilege,
And no fair damsel may exemption claim.
CHARLES.
Rumor doth speak your court the seat of love,
The mart where all that's beautiful must tarry.
BURGUNDY.
We are a traffic-loving people, sire;
Whate'er of costly earth's wide realms produce,
For show and for enjoyment, is displayed
Upon our mart at Bruges; but above all
There woman's beauty is pre-eminent.
SOREL.
More precious far is woman's truth; but it
Appeareth not upon the public mart.
CHARLES.
Kinsman, 'tis rumored to your prejudice
That woman's fairest virtue you despise.
BURGUNDY.
The heresy inflicteth on itself
The heaviest penalty. 'Tis well for you,
From your own heart, my king, you learned betimes
What a wild life hath late revealed to me.
ARCHBISHOP.
Now let my Master call me when he will;
My heart is full, I can with joy depart,
Since that mine eyes have seen this day!
CHARLES.
Receive this present; 'tis a twofold pledge
Of reconcilement and of fairest love.
[At the same moment the three Burgundian knights hasten to DUNOIS,
LA HIRE, and the ARCHBISHOP. They embrace each other. The two
PRINCES remain for a time speechless in each other's arms.
CHARLES.
Hush! hush! No further!
BURGUNDY.
I this English king
Could crown! Swear fealty to this foreigner!
And you, my sovereign, into ruin plunge!
CHARLES.
Forget it! Everything's forgiven now!
This single moment doth obliterate all.
'Twas a malignant star! A destiny!
CHARLES.
We are united. Now I fear no foe.
BURGUNDY.
Trust me, it was not with a joyous spirit
That I bore arms against you. Did you know?
Oh, wherefore sent you not this messenger?
[Pointing to SOREL.
BURGUNDY.
Oh, sire! an angel walketh by your side.
Where is she? Why do I behold her not?
CHARLES.
Where is Johanna? Wherefore faileth she
To grace the festival we owe to her?
ARCHBISHOP.
She loves not, sire, the idleness of the court,
And when the heavenly mandate calls her not
Forth to the world's observance, she retires,
And doth avoid the notice of the crowd.
Doubtless, unless the welfare of the realm
Claims her regard, she communes with her God,
For still a blessing on her steps attends.
SCENE IV.
The same.
JOHANNA enters. She is clad in armor, and wears
a garland in her hair.
CHARLES.
Thou comest as a priestess decked, Johanna,
To consecrate the union formed by thee!
BURGUNDY.
How dreadful was the maiden in the fight!
How lovely circled by the beams of peace!
My word, Johanna, have I now fulfilled?
Art thou contented? Have I thine applause?
JOHANNA.
The greatest favor thou hast shown thyself.
Arrayed in blessed light thou shinest now,
Who didst erewhile with bloody, ominous ray,
Hang like a moon of terror in the heavens.
[Looking round.
Many brave knights I find assembled here,
And joy's glad radiance beams in every eye;
One mourner, one alone I have encountered;
He must conceal himself, where all rejoice.
BURGUNDY.
And who is conscious of such heavy guilt,
That of our favor he must needs despair?
JOHANNA.
May he approach? Oh, tell me that he may;
Complete thy merit. Void the reconcilement
That frees not the whole heart. A drop of hate
Remaining in the cup of joy converts
The blessed draught to poison. Let there be
No deed so stained with blood that Burgundy
Cannot forgive it on this day of joy.
BURGUNDY.
Ha! now I understand!
JOHANNA.
And thou'lt forgive?
Thou wilt indeed forgive? Come in, Duchatel!
BURGUNDY.
What makest thou
Of me, Johanna? Know'st thou what thou askest?
JOHANNA.
A gracious sovereign throws his portals wide,
Admitting every guest, excluding none;
As freely as the firmament the world,
So mercy must encircle friend and foe.
Impartially the sun pours forth his beams
Through all the regions of infinity;
The heaven's reviving dew falls everywhere,
And brings refreshment to each thirsty plant;
Whate'er is good, and cometh from on high,
Is universal, and without reserve;
But in the heart's recesses darkness dwells!
BURGUNDY.
Oh, she can mould me to her wish; my heart
Is in her forming hand like melted wax.
--Duchatel, I forgive thee--come, embrace me!
Shade of my sire! oh, not with wrathful eye
Behold me clasp the hand that shed thy blood.
Ye death-gods, reckon not to my account,
That my dread oath of vengeance I abjure.
With you, in yon drear realm of endless night,
There beats no human heart, and all remains
Eternal, steadfast, and immovable.
Here in the light of day 'tis otherwise.
Man, living, feeling man, is aye the sport
Of the o'ermastering present.
JOHANNA.
Sire, in prosperity be still humane,
As in misfortune thou hast ever been;
And on the height of greatness ne'er forget
The value of a friend in times of need;
Thou hast approved it in adversity.
Refuse not to the lowest of thy people
The claims of justice and humanity,
For thy deliverer from the fold was called.
Beneath thy royal sceptre thou shalt gather
The realm entire of France. Thou shalt become
The root and ancestor of mighty kings;
Succeeding monarchs, in their regal state,
Shall those outshine, who filled the throne before.
Thy stock, in majesty shall bloom so long
As it stands rooted in the people's love.
Pride only can achieve its overthrow,
And from the lowly station, whence to-day
God summoned thy deliverer, ruin dire
Obscurely threats thy crime-polluted sons!
BURGUNDY.
Exalted maid! Possessed with sacred fire!
If thou canst look into the gulf of time,
Speak also of my race! Shall coming years
With ampler honors crown my princely line!
JOHANNA.
High as the throne, thou, Burgundy, hast built
Thy seat of power, and thy aspiring heart
Would raise still higher, even to the clouds,
The lofty edifice. But from on high
A hand omnipotent shall check its rise.
Fear thou not hence the downfall of thy house!
Its glory in a maiden shall survive;
Upon her breast shall sceptre-bearing kings,
The people's shepherds, bloom. Their ample sway
Shall o'er two realms extend, they shall ordain
Laws to control the known world, and the new,
Which God still veils behind the pathless waves.
CHARLES.
Oh, if the Spirit doth reveal it, speak;
Shall this alliance which we now renew
In distant ages still unite our sons?
SOREL.
Exalted maid!
Thou canst explore my heart, thou readest there
If after worldly greatness it aspires,
To me to give a joyous oracle.
JOHANNA.
Of empires only I discern the doom;
In thine own bosom lies thy destiny!
DUNOIS.
What, holy maid, will be thy destiny?
Doubtless, for thee, who art beloved of heaven,
The fairest earthly happiness shall bloom,
For thou art pure and holy.
JOHANNA.
Happiness
Abideth yonder, with our God, in heaven.
CHARLES.
Thy fortune be henceforth thy monarch's care!
For I will glorify thy name in France,
And the remotest age shall call thee blest.
Thus I fulfil my word. Kneel down!
[He draws his sword and touches her with it.
And rise!
A noble! I, thy monarch, from the dust
Of thy mean birth exalt thee. In the grave
Thy fathers I ennoble--thou shalt bear
Upon thy shield the fleur-de-lis, and be
Of equal lineage with the best in France.
Only the royal blood of Valois shall
Be nobler than thine own! The highest peer
Shall feel himself exalted by thy hand;
To wed thee nobly, maid, shall be my care!
DUNOIS (advancing).
My heart made choice of her when she was lowly.
The recent honor which encircles her,
Neither exalts her merit nor my love.
Here in my sovereign's presence, and before
This holy bishop, maid, I tender thee
My hand, and take thee as my princely wife,
If thou esteem me worthy to be thine.
CHARLES.
Resistless maiden! wonder thou dost add
To wonder! Yes, I now believe that naught's
Impossible to thee! Thou hast subdued
This haughty heart, which still hath scoffed till now
At love's omnipotence.
LA HIRE (advancing).
If I have read
Aright Johanna's soul, her modest heart's
Her fairest jewel. She deserveth well
The homage of the great, but her desires
Soar not so high. She striveth not to reach
A giddy eminence; an honest heart's
True love content's her, and the quiet lot
Which with this hand I humbly proffer her.
CHARLES.
Thou, too, La Hire! two brave competitors,--
Peers in heroic virtue and renown!
--Wilt thou, who hast appeased mine enemies,
My realms united, part my dearest friends?
One only can possess her; I esteem
Each to be justly worthy such a prize.
Speak, maid! thy heart alone must here decide.
SOREL.
The noble maiden is surprised, her cheek
Is crimsoned over with a modest blush.
Let her have leisure to consult her heart,
And in confiding friendship to unseal
Her long-closed bosom. Now the hour is come
When, with a sister's love, I also may
Approach the maid severe, and offer her
This silent, faithful breast. Permit us women
Alone to weigh this womanly affair;
Do you await the issue.
JOHANNA.
No, sire, not so! the crimson on my cheek
Is not the blush of bashful modesty.
Naught have I for this noble lady's ear
Which in this presence I may not proclaim.
The choice of these brave knights much honors me,
But I did not forsake my shepherd-walks,
To chase vain worldly splendor, nor array
My tender frame in panoply of war,
To twine the bridal garland in my hair.
Far other labor is assigned to me,
Which a pure maiden can alone achieve.
I am the soldier of the Lord of Hosts,
And to no mortal man can I be wife.
ARCHBISHOP.
To be a fond companion unto man
Is woman born--when nature she obeys,
Most wisely she fulfils high heaven's decree!
When His behest who called thee to the field
Shall be accomplished, thou'lt resign thy arms,
And once again rejoin the softer sex,
Whose gentle nature thou dost now forego,
And which from war's stern duties is exempt.
JOHANNA.
Most reverend sir! as yet I cannot say
What work the Spirit will enjoin on me.
But when the time comes round, his guiding voice
Will not be mute, and it I will obey.
Now he commands me to complete my task;
My royal master's brow is still uncrowned,
'Twere better for me I had ne'er been born!
Henceforth no more of this, unless ye would
Provoke the Spirit's wrath who in me dwells!
The eye of man, regarding me with love,
To me is horror and profanity.
CHARLES.
Forbear! It is in vain to urge her further.
JOHANNA.
Command the trumpets of the war to sound!
This stillness doth perplex and harass me;
An inward impulse drives me from repose,
It still impels me to achieve my work,
And sternly beckons me to meet my doom.
SCENE V.
A KNIGHT, entering hastily.
CHARLES.
What tidings? Speak!
KNIGHT.
The foe has crossed the Marne,
And marshalleth his army for the fight.
JOHANNA (inspired).
Battle and tumult! Now my soul is free.
Arm, warriors, arm! while I prepare the troops.
CHARLES.
Follow, La Hire! E'en at the gates of Rheims
They will compel us to dispute the crown!
DUNOIS.
No genuine courage prompts them. This essay
Is the last effort of enraged despair.
CHARLES.
I do not urge you, duke. To-day's the time
To compensate the errors of the past.
BURGUNDY.
You shall be satisfied with me.
CHARLES.
Myself
Will march before you on the path of fame;
Here, with my royal town of Rheims in view,
I'll fight, and gallantry achieve the crown.
Thy knight, my Agnes, bids thee now farewell!
SCENE VI.
The scene changes to an open country skirted with trees. During the
music soldiers are seen retreating hastily across the background.
TALBOT.
Here lay me down beneath the trees, and then
Betake you back, with speed, unto the fight;
I need no aid to die.
FASTOLFE.
Oh, woful day!
[LIONEL enters.
Behold what sign awaits you, Lionel!
Here lies our general wounded unto death.
LIONEL.
Now, God forbid! My noble lord, arise!
No moment this to falter and to sink.
Yield not to death. By your all-powerful will
Command your ebbing spirit still to live.
TALBOT.
In vain! The day of destiny is come,
Which will o'erthrow the English power in France.
In desperate combat I have vainly risked
The remnant of our force to ward it off.
Struck by the thunderbolt I prostrate lie,
Never to rise again. Rheims now is lost,
Hasten to succor Paris!
LIONEL.
Paris is with the Dauphin reconciled;
A courier even now has brought the news.
LIONEL.
I may no longer tarry: Fastolfe, haste!
Convey our leader to a place of safety.
No longer now can we maintain this post;
Our flying troops disperse on every side,
On, with resistless might, the maiden comes.
TALBOT.
Folly, thou conquerest, and I must yield!
Against stupidity the very gods.
Themselves contend in vain. Exalted reason,
Resplendent daughter of the head divine,
Wise foundress of the system of the world,
Guide of the stars, who art thou then if thou,
Bound to the tail of folly's uncurbed steed,
Must, vainly shrieking with the drunken crowd,
Eyes open, plunge down headlong in the abyss.
Accursed, who striveth after noble ends,
And with deliberate wisdom forms his plans!
To the fool-king belongs the world.
LIONEL.
My lord,
But for a few brief moments can you live--
Think of your Maker!
TALBOT.
Had we, like brave men,
Been vanquished by the brave, we might, indeed,
Console ourselves that 'twas the common lot;
For fickle fortune aye revolves her wheel.
But to be baffled by such juggling arts!
Deserved our earnest and laborious life
Not a more earnest issue?
[Exit.
TALBOT.
Soon is the struggle past, and to the earth,
To the eternal sun, I render back
These atoms, joined in me for pain and pleasure.
And of the mighty Talbot, who the world
Filled with his martial glory, there remains
Naught save a modicum of senseless dust.
Such is the end of man--the only spoil
We carry with us from life's battle-field,
Is but an insight into nothingness,
And utter scorn of all which once appeared
To us exalted and desirable.
SCENE VII.
BURGUNDY.
The trench is stormed!
DUNOIS.
The victory is ours!
FASTOLFE.
Back! Stand apart! Respect the mighty dead,
Whom ye in life ne'er ventured to approach!
BURGUNDY.
What do I see? Lord Talbot in his blood!
FASTOLFE.
Traitor, avaunt! Let not the sight of thee
Poison the dying hero's parting glance.
DUNOIS.
Resistless hero! Dread-inspiring Talbot!
Does such a narrow space suffice thee now,
And this vast kingdom could not satisfy
The large ambition of thy giant soul!
Now first I can salute you, sire, as king:
The diadem but tottered on your brow,
While yet a spirit tenanted this clay.
[Exit DUCHATEL.
SCENE VIII.
DUNOIS.
La Hire, where is the maiden?
LA HIRE.
That I ask
Of you; I left her fighting by your side.
DUNOIS.
I thought she was protected by your arm,
When I departed to assist the king.
BURGUNDY.
Not long ago I saw her banner wave
Amidst the thickest of the hostile ranks.
DUNOIS.
Alas! where is she? Evil I forebode?
Come, let us haste to rescue her. I fear
Her daring soul hath led her on too far;
Alone she combats in the midst of foes,
And without succor yieldeth to the crowd.
CHARLES.
Haste to her rescue!
LA HIRE.
Come!
BURGUNDY.
We follow all!
[Exit.
SCENE IX.
JOHANNA.
Deluder! now I see thy stratagem!
Thou hast deceitfully, through seeming flight,
Allured me from the battle, doom and death
Averting thus from many a British head.
Destruction now doth overtake thyself.
BLACK KNIGHT.
Why dost thou follow after me and track
My steps with quenchless rage? I am not doomed
To perish by thy hand.
JOHANNA.
Deep in my soul
I hate thee as the night, which is thy color;
To blot thee out from the fair light of day
An irresistible desire impels me.
Who art thou? Raise thy visor. I had said
That thou wert Talbot had I not myself
Seen warlike Talbot in the battle fall.
BLACK KNIGHT.
Is the divining-spirit mute in thee?
JOHANNA.
His voice speaks loudly in my spirit's depth
The near approach of woe.
BLACK KNIGHT.
Johanna D'Arc!
Borne on the wings of conquest, thou hast reached
The gates of Rheims. Let thy achieved renown
Content thee. Fortune, like thy slave, till now
Hath followed thee; dismiss her, ere in wrath
She free herself; fidelity she hates;
She serveth none with constancy till death.
JOHANNA.
Why check me in the midst of my career?
Why bid me falter and forsake my work?
I will complete it and fulfil my vow!
BLACK KNIGHT.
Nothing can thee, thou mighty one, withstand,
In battle thou art aye invincible.
But henceforth shun the fight; attend my warning.
JOHANNA.
Not from my hand will I resign this sword
Till haughty England's prostrate in the dust.
BLACK KNIGHT.
Behold! there Rheims ariseth with its towers,
The goal and end of thy career. Thou seest
The lofty minster's sun-illumined dome;
Thou in triumphal pomp wouldst enter there,
Thy monarch crown, and ratify thy vow.
Enter not there! Return! Attend my warning!
JOHANNA.
What art thou, double-tongued, deceitful being,
Who wouldst bewilder and appal me? Speak!
By what authority dost thou presume
To greet me with fallacious oracles?
BLACK KNIGHT (touches her with his hand, she remains motionless).
Slay what is mortal!
[Darkness, thunder and lightning. The KNIGHT sinks into the earth.
JOHANNA (stands at first in amazement, but soon recovers herself).
'Twas nothing living. 'Twas a base delusion,
An instrument of hell, a juggling fiend,
Uprisen hither from the fiery pool
To shake and terrify my steadfast heart.
Wielding the sword of God, whom should I fear!
I will triumphantly achieve my work.
My courage should not waver, should not fail
Were hell itself to champion me to fight!
SCENE X.
LIONEL, JOHANNA.
LIONEL.
Accursed one, prepare thee for the fight!
Not both of us shall quit this field alive.
Thou hast destroyed the bravest of our host
The noble Talbot hath his mighty soul
Breathed forth upon my bosom. I'll avenge
The hero, or participate his doom.
And wouldst thou know who brings thee glory now,
Whether he live or die,--I'm Lionel,
The sole survivor of the English chiefs,
And still unconquered is this valiant arm.
Perfidious fortune!
JOHANNA.
Suffer, what thou soughtest!
The Virgin sacrifices thee through me!
LIONEL.
Why linger, why withhold the stroke of death?
My glory thou hast taken--take my life!
I want no mercy, I am in thy power.
LIONEL.
I hate alike thee and thy proffered gift.
I want no mercy--kill thine enemy
Who loathes and would have slain thee.
JOHANNA.
Slay me, then,
And fly!
LIONEL.
Ha! What is this?
LIONEL.
Wherefore namest thou
The Holy Virgin? she knows naught of thee;
Heaven hath no part in thee.
JOHANNA.
Away!
LIONEL.
Thy youth, thy beauty, move my soul to pity!
Thy look sinks in my heart. I fain would save thee!
How may I do so? tell me. Come! oh, come!
Renounce this fearful league--throw down these arms!
JOHANNA.
I am unworthy now to carry them!
LIONEL.
Then throw them from thee--quick! come, follow me!
LIONEL.
Thou may'st be saved. Oh, come!
I will deliver thee, but linger not.
Strange sorrow for thy sake doth seize my heart,
Unspeakable desire to rescue thee----
JOHANNA.
The Bastard comes! 'Tis they! They seek for me!
If they should find thee----
LIONEL.
I'll defend thee, maid.
JOHANNA.
I die if thou shouldst perish by their hands!
LIONEL.
Am I then dear to thee?
JOHANNA.
Ye heavenly powers!
LIONEL.
Shall I again behold thee--hear from thee?
JOHANNA.
No! never!
LIONEL.
Thus this sword I seize in pledge
That I again behold thee!
JOHANNA.
Madman, hold!
Thou darest?
LIONEL.
Now I yield to force--again
I'll see thee!
[He retires.
SCENE XI.
LA HIRE.
It is she! The maiden lives!
DUNOIS.
Fear not, Johanna! friends are at thy side.
LA HIRE.
Is not that Lionel who yonder flies?
DUNOIS.
Let him escape! Maiden, the righteous cause
Hath triumphed now. Rheims opens wide its gates;
The joyous crowds pour forth to meet their king.
LA HIRE.
What ails thee, maiden? She grows pale--she sinks!
DUNOIS.
She's wounded--rend her breastplate--'tis her arm!
The wound is not severe.
LA HIRE.
Her blood doth flow.
JOHANNA.
Oh, that my life would stream forth with my blood!
ACT IV.
SCENE I.
JOHANNA.
[The music behind the scene passes into a soft and moving melody.
[Flutes are again heard, and she subsides into a quiet melancholy.
SCENE II.
SOREL.
Forbid me not! 'tis the excess of joy
Which throws me at thy feet--I must pour forth
My o'ercharged heart in gratitude to God;
I worship the Invisible in thee.
Thou art the angel who has led my lord
To Rheims, to crown him with the royal crown.
What I ne'er dreamed to see is realized!
The coronation march will soon set forth;
Arrayed in festal pomp the monarch stands;
Assembled are the nobles of the realm,
The mighty peers to bear the insignia;
To the cathedral rolls the billowy crowd;
Glad songs resound, the bells unite their peal:
Oh, this excess of joy I cannot bear!
[JOHANNA seizes her hand passionately, but soon lets it fall again.
JOHANNA.
What wouldst thou have me do?
SOREL.
Unarm thyself!
Put off this coat of mail! The God of Love
Fears to approach a bosom clad in steel.
Oh, be a woman, thou wilt feel his power!
JOHANNA.
What, now unarm myself? Midst battle's roar
I'll bare my bosom to the stroke of death!
Not now! Would that a sevenfold wall of brass
Could hide me from your revels, from myself!
SOREL.
Thou'rt loved by Count Dunois. His noble heart,
Which virtue and renown alone inspire,
With pure and holy passion glows for thee.
Oh, it is sweet to know oneself beloved
By such a hero--sweeter still to love him!
JOHANNA.
Oh, pity me! Lament my hapless fate!
SOREL.
What can be wanting to complete thy joy?
Thou hast fulfilled thy promise, France is free,
To Rheims, in triumph, thou hast led the king,
Thy mighty deeds have gained thee high renown,
A happy people praise and worship thee;
Thy name, the honored theme of every tongue;
Thou art the goddess of this festival;
The monarch, with his crown and regal state,
Shines not with greater majesty than thou!
JOHANNA.
Oh, could I hide me in the depths of earth!
SOREL.
Why this emotion? Whence this strange distress?
Who may to-day look up without a fear
If thou dost cast thine eyes upon the ground!
It is for me to blush, me, who near thee
Feel all my littleness; I cannot reach
The lofty virtue, thy heroic strength!
For--all my weakness shall I own to thee?
Not the renown of France, my Fatherland,
Not the new splendor of the monarch's crow,
Not the triumphant gladness of the crowds,
Engage this woman's heart. One only form
Is in its depths enshrined; it hath no room
For any feeling save for one alone:
He is the idol, him the people bless,
Him they extol, for him they strew these flowers,
And he is mine, he is my own true love!
JOHANNA.
Oh, thou art happy! thou art blessed indeed!
Thou lovest, where all love. Thou may'st, unblamed
Pour forth thy rapture, and thine inmost heart,
Fearless discover to the gaze of man!
Thy country's triumph is thy lover's too.
The vast, innumerable multitudes,
Who, rolling onward, crowd within these walls,
Participate thy joy, they hallow it;
Thee they salute, for thee they twine the wreath,
Thou art a portion of the general joy;
Thou lovest the all-inspiring soul, the sun,
And what thou seest is thy lover's glory!
SOREL.
Thou frighten'st me, I understand thee not,
I ne'er have understood thee--for from me
Thy dark mysterious being still was veiled.
Who may divine what thus disturbs thy heart,
Thus terrifies thy pure and sacred soul!
JOHANNA.
Thou art the pure, the holy one! Couldst thou
Behold mine inmost heart, thou, shuddering,
Wouldst fly the traitoress, the enemy!
SCENE III.
DUNOIS.
Johanna, thee we seek. All is prepared;
The king hath sent us, 'tis his royal will
That thou before him shouldst thy banner bear,
The company of princes thou shalt join;
And march immediately before the king:
For he doth not deny it, and the world
Shall witness, maiden, that to thee alone
He doth ascribe the honor of this day.
LA HIRE.
Here is the banner. Take it, noble maiden
Thou'rt stayed for by the princes and the people.
JOHANNA.
I march before him? I the banner bear?
DUNOIS.
Whom else would it become? What other hand
Is pure enough to bear the sacred ensign!
Amid the battle thou hast waved it oft;
To grace our glad procession bear it now.
[LA HIRE presents the banner to her, she draws back, shuddering.
JOHANNA.
Away! away!
LA HIRE.
Art thou terrified
At thine own banner, maiden? Look at it!
SOREL.
Alas, she raveth! Maiden, be composed!
Collect thyself! Thou seest nothing real!
That is her pictured image; she herself
Wanders above, amid the angelic choir!
JOHANNA.
Thou comest, fearful one, to punish me?
Destroy, o'erwhelm, thy lightnings hurl,
And let them fall upon my guilty head.
Alas, my vow I've broken. I've profaned
And desecrated thy most holy name!
DUNOIS.
Woe's us! What may this mean? What unblest words?
DUCHATEL.
That which I see, I see--I long have feared it.
DUNOIS.
What sayest thou?
DUCHATEL.
I dare not speak my thoughts.
I would to heaven that the king were crowned!
LA HIRE.
How! hath the awe this banner doth inspire
Turned back upon thyself? before this sign
Let Britons tremble; to the foes of France
'Tis fearful, but to all true citizens
It is auspicious.
JOHANNA.
Yes, thou sayest truly!
To friends 'tis gracious! but to enemies
It causeth horror!
DUNOIS.
Take thy banner, then!
The march begins--no time is to be lost!
[They press the banner upon her; she seizes it with
evident emotion, and retires; the others follow.
SCENE IV.
BERTRAND.
Hark to the music! They approach already!
What had we better do? Shall we mount up
Upon the platform, or press through the crowd,
That we may nothing lose of the procession?
ETIENNE.
It is not to be thought of. All the streets
Are thronged with horsemen and with carriages.
Beside these houses let us take our stand,
Here we without annoyance may behold
The train as it goes by.
CLAUDE MARIE.
Almost it seems
As were the half of France assembled here,
So mighty is the flood that it hath reached
Even our distant Lotharingian land
And borne us thither!
BERTRAND.
Who would sit at home
When great events are stirring in the land!
It hath cost plenty, both of sweat and blood,
Ere the crown rested on its rightful head!
Nor shall our lawful king, to whom we give
The crown, be worse accompanied than he
Whom the Parisians in St. Denis crowned!
He is no loyal, honest-minded man
Who doth absent him from this festival,
And joins not in the cry: "God save the King!"
SCENE V.
LOUISON.
We shall again behold our sister, Margot!
How my heart beats!
MARGOT.
In majesty and pomp
We shall behold her, saying to ourselves:
It is our sister, it is our Johanna!
LOUISON.
Till I have seen her, I can scarce believe
That she, whom men the Maid of Orleans name,
The mighty warrior, is indeed Johanna,
Our sister whom we lost!
MARGOT.
Thou doubtest still!
Thou wilt thyself behold her!
BERTRAND.
SCENE VI.
SCENE VII.
MARGOT.
Saw you our sister?
CLAUDE MARIE.
She in golden armor,
Who with the banner walked before the king?
MARGOT.
It was Johanna. It was she, our sister!
LOUISON.
She recognized us not! She did not feel
That we, her sisters, were so near to her.
She looked upon the ground, and seemed so pale,
And trembled so beneath her banner's weight
When I beheld her, I could not rejoice.
MARGOT.
So now, arrayed in splendor and in pomp,
I have beheld our sister--who in dreams
Would ever have imagined or conceived,
When on our native hills she drove the flock,
That we should see her in such majesty?
LOUISON.
Our father's dream is realized, that we
In Rheims before our sister should bow down.
That is the church, which in his dream he saw
And each particular is now fulfilled.
But images of woe he also saw!
Alas! I'm grieved to see her raised so high!
BERTRAND.
Why stand we idly here? Let's to the church
To view the coronation!
MARGOT.
Yes! perchance
We there may meet our sister; let us go!
LOUISON.
We have beheld her. Let us now return
Back to our village.
MARGOT.
How? Ere we with her
Have interchanged a word?
LOUISON.
She doth belong
To us no longer; she with princes stands
And monarchs. Who are we, that we should seek
With foolish vanity to near her state?
She was a stranger while she dwelt with us!
MARGOT.
Will she despise, and treat us with contempt?
BERTRAND.
The king himself is not ashamed of us,
He kindly greets the meanest of the crowd.
How high soever she may be exalted,
The king is raised still higher!
CLAUDE MARIE.
Let's to the church!
[They hasten to the background, where they are lost among the crowd.
SCENE VIII.
RAIMOND.
Stay, father Thibaut! Do not join the crowds!
Here, at this joyous festival you meet
None but the happy, whom your grief offends.
Come! Let us quit the town with hasty steps.
THIBAUT.
Hast thou beheld my child? My wretched child?
Didst thou observe her?
RAIMMOND.
I entreat you, fly!
THIBAUT.
Didst mark her tottering and uncertain steps,
Her countenance, so pallid and disturbed?
She feels her dreadful state; the hour is come
To save my child, and I will not neglect it.
RAIMOND.
What would you do?
THIBAUT.
Surprise her, hurl her down
From her vain happiness, and forcibly
Restore her to the God whom she denies.
RAIMOND.
Oh, do not work the ruin of your child!
THIBAUT.
If her soul lives, her mortal part may die.
RAIMOND.
Farewell! Require not my attendance further!
Hopeful I came, and sorrowful depart.
Your daughter once again I have beheld,
And feel again that she is lost to me!
JOHANNA (she has freed herself from the crowd and comes forward).
Remain I cannot--spirits chase me forth!
The organ's pealing tones like thunder sound,
The dome's arched roof threatens to overwhelm me!
I must escape and seek heaven's wide expanse!
I left my banner in the sanctuary,
Never, oh, never, will I touch it more!
It seemed to me as if I had beheld
My sisters pass before me like a dream.
'Twas only a delusion!--they, alas!
Are far, far distant--inaccessible--
E'en as my childhood, as mine innocence!
JOHANNA.
Then it was no delusion--you are here--
Thee I embrace, Louison! Thee, my Margot?
Here in this strange and crowded solitude,
I clasp once more my sisters' faithful breasts!
MARGOT.
She knows us still, she is our own kind sister.
JOHANNA.
Your love hath led you to me here so far!
So very far! You are not wroth with her
Who left her home without one parting word!
LOUISON.
God's unseen providence conducted thee.
MARGOT.
Thy great renown, which agitates the world,
Which makes thy name the theme of every tongue,
Hath in our quiet village wakened us,
And led us hither to this festival.
To witness all thy glory we are come;
And we are not alone!
JOHANNA (quickly).
Our father's here!
Where is he? Why doth he conceal himself?
MARGOT.
Our father is not with us.
JOHANNA.
Not with you?
He will not see me, then! You do not bring
His blessing for his child?
LOUISON.
He knoweth not
That we are here.
JOHANNA.
Not know it! Wherefore not?
You are embarrassed, and you do not speak;
You look upon the ground! Where is our father?
MARGOT.
Since thou hast left----
MARGOT.
Our father hath
Become dejected.
JOHANNA.
Ah!
LOUISON.
Console thyself!
Our sire's foreboding spirit well thou knowest!
He will collect himself, and be composed,
When he shall learn from us that thou art happy.
MARGOT.
And thou art happy? Yes, it must be so,
For thou art great and honored!
JOHANNA.
I am so,
Now I again behold you, once again
Your voices hear, whose fond, familiar tones
Bring to my mind my dear paternal fields.
When on my native hills I drove my herd,
Then I was happy as in paradise--
I ne'er can be so more, no, never more!
MARGOT.
Come, Bertrand! Claude Marie! come, Etienne!
Our sister is not proud: she is so gentle,
And speaks so kindly,--more so than of yore,
When in our village she abode with us.
JOHANNA.
Where am I? Tell me! Was it all a dream,
A long, long dream? And am I now awake?
Am I away from Dom Remi? Is't so?
I fell asleep beneath the Druid tree,
And I am now awake; and round me stand
The kind, familiar forms? I only dreamed
Of all these battles, kings, and deeds of war,--
They were but shadows which before me passed;
For dreams are always vivid 'neath that tree.
How did you come to Rheims? How came I here?
No, I have never quitted Dom Remi!
Confess it to me, and rejoice my heart.
LOUISON.
We are at Rheims. Thou hast not merely dreamed
Of these great deeds--thou hast achieved them all.
Come to thyself, Johanna! Look around--
Thy splendid armor feel, of burnished gold!
BERTRAND.
Out of my hand thou didst receive this helm.
CLAUDE MARIE.
No wonder thou shouldst think it all a dream;
For nothing in a dream could come to pass
More wonderful than what thou hast achieved.
JOHANNA (quickly).
Come, let us fly! I will return with you
Back to our village, to our father's bosom.
LOUISON.
Oh, come! Return with us!
JOHANNA.
The people here
Exalt me far above what I deserve.
You have beheld me weak and like a child;
You love me, but you do not worship me.
MARGOT.
Thou wilt abandon this magnificence.
JOHANNA.
I will throw off the hated ornaments
Which were a barrier 'twixt my heart and yours,
And I will be a shepherdess again,
And like a humble maiden I will serve you,
And will with bitter penitence atone,
That I above you vainly raised myself.
[Trumpets sound.
SCENE X.
[The trumpets sound. Upon a signal from the KING, the HERALDS
with their staves command silence.
KING.
Thanks, my good people! Thank you for your love!
The crown which God hath placed upon our brow
Hath with our valiant swords been hardly won:
With noble blood 'tis wetted; but henceforth
The peaceful olive branch shall round it twine.
Let those who fought for us receive our thanks;
Our pardon, those who joined the hostile ranks,
For God hath shown us mercy in our need,
And our first royal word shall now be, mercy!
PEOPLE.
Long live the king! Long live King Charles the good!
KING.
From God alone, the highest potentate,
The monarchs of the French receive the crown;
But visibly from his Almighty hand
Have we received it.
[Turning to the MAIDEN.
Here stands the holy delegate of heaven,
Who hath restored to you your rightful king,
And rent the yoke of foreign tyranny.
Her name shall equal that of holy Denis,
The guardian and protector of this realm,
And to her fame an altar shall be reared.
PEOPLE.
Hail to the maiden, the deliverer!
[Trumpets.
SCENE XI.
THIBAUT comes forth from the crowd, and stands opposite to her.
Many voices exclaim,--
Her father!
THIBAUT.
Yes, her miserable father,
Who did beget her, and whom God impels
Now to accuse his daughter.
BURGUNDY.
Ha! What's this?
DUCHATEL.
Now will the fearful truth appear!
DUNOIS.
Is this man mad?
THIBAUT.
Not I, but thou art mad.
And this wise bishop, and these noble lords,
Who think that through a weak and sinful maid
The God of heaven would reveal himself.
Come, let us see if to her father's face
She will maintain the specious, juggling arts
Wherewith she hath deluded king and people.
Now, in the name of the blest Trinity,
Belongst thou to the pure and holy ones?
SOREL.
God! she is dumb!
THIBAUT.
Before that awful name,
Which even in the depths of hell is feared,
She must be silent! She a holy one,
By God commissioned? On a cursed spot
It was conceived; beneath the Druid tree
Where evil spirits have from olden time
Their Sabbath held. There her immortal soul
She bartered with the enemy of man
For transient, worldly glory. Let her bare
Her arm, and ye will see impressed thereon
The fatal marks of hell!
BURGUNDY.
Most horrible!
Yet we must needs believe a father's words
Who 'gainst his daughter gives his evidence.
DUNOIS.
The madman cannot be believed
Who in his child brings shame upon himself.
LA HIRE.
She's frightened. Horror and astonishment
Impede her utterance. Before a charge
So horrible e'en innocence must tremble.
DUNOIS.
Why do the people fear, the princes tremble?
I'll stake my honor on her innocence!
Here on the ground I throw my knightly gage;
Who now will venture to maintain her guilt?
THIBAUT.
Answer, by Him whose thunders roll above!
Give me the lie! Proclaim thine innocence;
Say that the enemy hath not thy heart!
BURGUNDY.
God guard and save us! What appalling signs!
DUCHATEL (to the KING).
Come, come, my king! Forsake this fearful place!
SCENE XII.
DUNOIS, JOHANNA.
DUNOIS.
Thou art my wife; I have believed in thee
From the first glance, and I am still unchanged.
In thee I have more faith than in these signs,
Than in the thunder's voice, which speaks above.
In noble anger thou art silent thus;
Enveloped in thy holy innocence,
Thou scornest to refute so base a charge.
Still scorn it, maiden, but confide in me;
I never doubted of thine innocence.
Speak not one word; only extend thy hand
In pledge and token that thou wilt confide
In my protection and thine own good cause.
[He extends his hand to her; she turns from him with
a convulsive motion; he remains transfixed with horror.
SCENE XIII.
DUCHATEL (returning).
Johanna d'Arc! uninjured from the town
The king permits you to depart. The gates
Stand open to you. Fear no injury,--
You are protected by the royal word.
Come follow me, Dunois! You cannot here
Longer abide with honor. What an issue!
RAIMOND.
Embrace this opportunity. The streets
Are empty now. Your hand! I will conduct you.
ACT V.
SCENE I.
CHARCOAL-BURNER.
This is a fearful storm, the heavens seem
As if they would vent themselves in streams of fire;
So thick the darkness which usurps the day,
That one might see the stars. The angry winds
Bluster and howl like spirits loosed from hell.
The firm earth trembles, and the aged elms
Groaning, bow down their venerable tops.
Yet this terrific tumult, o'er our heads,
Which teacheth gentleness to savage beasts,
So that they seek the shelter of their caves,
Appeaseth not the bloody strife of men--
Amidst the raging of the wind and storm
At intervals is heard the cannon's roar;
So near the hostile armaments approach,
The wood alone doth part them; any hour
May see them mingle in the shock of battle.
WIFE.
May God protect us then! Our enemies,
Not long ago, were vanquished and dispersed.
How comes it that they trouble us again?
CHARCOAL-BURNER.
Because they now no longer fear the king,
Since that the maid turned out to be a witch
At Rheims, the devil aideth us no longer,
And things have gone against us.
WIFE.
Who comes here?
SCENE II.
RAIMOND and JOHANNA enter.
RAIMOND.
See! here are cottages; in them at least
We may find shelter from the raging storm.
You are not able longer to endure it.
Three days already you have wandered on,
Shunning the eye of man--wild herbs and root
Your only nourishment. Come, enter in.
These are kind-hearted cottagers.
CHARCOAL-BURNER.
You seem
To need refreshment and repose--you're welcome
To what our humble roof can offer you!
WIFE.
What has a tender maid to do with arms?
Yet truly! these are rude and troublous times
When even women don the coat of mail!
The queen herself, proud Isabel, 'tis said,
Appears in armor in the hostile camp;
And a young maid, a shepherd's lowly daughter,
Has led the armies of our lord the king.
CHARCOAL-BURNER.
What sayest thou? Enter the hut, and bring
A goblet of refreshment for the damsel.
CHARCOAL-BURNER.
I fancy, as you travel thus in arms,
You seek the army of the king. Take heed!
Not far remote the English are encamped,
Their troops are roaming idly through the wood.
RAIMOND.
Alas for us! how then can we escape?
CHARCOAL-BURNER.
Stay here till from the town my boy returns.
He shall conduct you safe by secret paths.
You need not fear-we know each hidden way.
SCENE III.
WIFE.
It is our boy whom we expected back.
[To JOHANNA.
Drink, noble maiden! may God bless it to you!
BOY.
Oh, mother! mother!
Whom do you entertain? This is the witch
Of Orleans!
SCENE IV.
RAIMOND, JOHANNA.
RAIMOND.
I leave thee! now
Alas, who then would bear thee company?
JOHANNA.
I am not unaccompanied. Thou hast
Heard the loud thunder rolling o'er my head--
My destiny conducts me. Do not fear;
Without my seeking I shall reach the goal.
RAIMOND.
And whither wouldst thou go? Here stand our foes,
Who have against thee bloody vengeance sworn--
There stand our people who have banished thee.
JOHANNA.
Naught will befall me but what heaven ordains.
RAIMOND.
Who will provide thee food? and who protect thee
From savage beasts, and still more savage men?
Who cherish thee in sickness and in grief?
JOHANNA.
I know all roots and healing herbs; my sheep
Taught me to know the poisonous from the wholesome.
I understand the movements of the stars,
And the clouds' flight; I also hear the sound
Of hidden springs. Man hath not many wants,
And nature richly ministers to life.
JOHANNA.
Thou hold'st me guilty of this heavy sin?
RAIMOND.
Needs must I--thou didst silently confess----
JOHANNA.
Thou, who hast followed me in misery,
The only being who continued true,
Who slave to me when all the world forsook,
Thou also hold'st me for a reprobate
Who hath renounced her God----
[RAIMOND is silent.
Oh, this is hard!
JOHANNA.
A sorceress!
RAIMOND.
And all these miracles
Thou hast accomplished through the power of God
And of his holy saints?
JOHANNA.
Through whom besides?
RAIMOND.
And thou wert silent to that fearful charge?
Thou speakest now, and yet before the king,
When words would have availed thee, thou wert dumb!
JOHANNA.
I silently submitted to the doom
Which God, my lord and master, o'er me hung.
RAIMOND.
Thou couldst not to thy father aught reply?
JOHANNA.
Coming from him, methought it came from God;
And fatherly the chastisement will prove.
RAIMOND.
The heavens themselves bore witness to thy guilt!
JOHANNA.
The heavens spoke, and therefore I was silent.
RAIMOND.
Thou with one word couldst clear thyself, and hast
In this unhappy error left the world?
JOHANNA.
It was no error--'twas the will of heaven.
RAIMOND.
Thou innocently sufferedst this shame,
And no complaint proceeded from thy lips!
--I am amazed at thee, I stand o'erwhelmed.
My heart is troubled in its inmost depths.
Most gladly I receive the word as truth,
For to believe thy guilt was hard indeed.
But could I ever dream a human heart
Would meet in silence such a fearful doom!
JOHANNA.
Should I deserve to be heaven's messenger
Unless the Master's will I blindly honored?
And I am not so wretched as thou thinkest.
I feel privation--this in humble life
Is no misfortune; I'm a fugitive,--
But in the waste I learned to know myself.
When honor's dazzling radiance round me shone,
There was a painful struggle in my breast;
I was most wretched, when to all I seemed
Most worthy to be envied. Now my mind
Is healed once more, and this fierce storm in nature,
Which threatened your destruction, was my friend;
It purified alike the world and me!
I feel an inward peace--and come, what may,
Of no more weakness am I conscious now!
RAIMOND.
Oh, let us hasten! come, let us proclaim
Thine innocence aloud to all the world!
JOHANNA.
He who sent this delusion will dispel it!
The fruit of fate falls only when 'tis ripe!
A day is coming that will clear my name,
When those who now condemn and banish me,
Will see their error and will weep my doom.
RAIMOND.
And shall I wait in silence, until chance----
SCENE V.
RAIMOND.
Alas! the foe!
ISABEL.
What now obstructs the march?
SOLDIERS.
May God protect us!
ISABEL.
Do ye see a spirit?
How! Are ye soldiers! Ye are cowards all!
[She presses forward, but starts back on beholding the MAIDEN.
What do I see!
[She collects herself quickly and approaches her.
Submit thyself! Thou art
My prisoner!
JOHANNA.
I am.
JOHANNA.
I am banished.
ISABEL.
What say'st thou? Thou art banished? By the Dauphin?
JOHANNA.
Inquire no further! I am in thy power,
Decide my fate.
ISABEL.
Banished, because thou hast
Snatched him from ruin, placed upon his brow
The crown at Rheims, and made him King of France?
Banished! Therein I recognize my son!
--Conduct her to the camp, and let the host
Behold the phantom before whom they trembled!
She a magician? Her sole magic lies
In your delusion and your cowardice!
She is a fool who sacrificed herself
To save her king, and reapeth for her pains
A king's reward. Bear her to Lionel.
The fortune of the French! send him bound;
I'll follow anon.
JOHANNA.
To Lionel?
Slay me at once, ere send me unto him.
[Exit.
SCENE VI.
JOHANNA, SOLDIERS.
JOHANNA.
Must I be yet more wretched than I was!
Unpitying Virgin! Heavy is thy hand
Hast thou completely thrust me from thy favor?
No God appears, no angel shows himself;
Closed are heaven's portals, miracles have ceased.
SCENE VII.
ARCHBISHOP.
Conquer your sullen indignation, prince!
Return with us! Come back unto your king!
In this emergency abandon not
The general cause, when we are sorely pressed,
And stand in need of your heroic arm.
DUNOIS.
Why are ye sorely pressed? Why doth the foe
Again exalt himself? all was achieved;--
France was triumphant--war was at an end;--
The savior you have banished; you henceforth
May save yourselves; I'll not again behold
The camp wherein the maid abideth not.
DUCHATEL.
Think better of it, prince! Dismiss us not
With such an answer!
DUNOIS.
Silence, Duchatel!
You're hateful to me; I'll hear naught from you;
You were the first who doubted of her truth.
ARCHBISHOP.
Who had not wavered on that fatal day,
And been bewildered, when so many signs
Bore evidence against her! We were stunned,
Our hearts were crushed beneath the sudden blow.
--Who in that hour of dread could weigh the proofs?
Our calmer judgment now returns to us,
We see the maid as when she walked with us,
Nor have we any fault to charge her with.
We are perplexed--we fear that we have done
A grievous wrong. The king is penitent,
The duke remorseful, comfortless La Hire,
And every heart doth shroud itself in woe.
DUNOIS.
She a deluder? If celestial truth
Would clothe herself in a corporeal form,
She needs must choose the features of the maiden.
If purity of heart, faith, innocence,
Dwell anywhere on earth, upon her lips
And in her eyes' clear depths they find their home.
ARCHBISHOP.
May the Almighty, through a miracle,
Shed light upon this awful mystery,
Which baffles human insight. Howsoe'er
This sad perplexity may be resolved,
One of two grievous sins we have committed!
Either in fight we have availed ourselves
Of hellish arms, or banished hence a saint!
And both call down upon this wretched land
The vengeance and the punishment of heaven.
SCENE VIII.
NOBLEMAN.
A shepherd youth inquires after your highness,
He urgently entreats an interview,
He says he cometh from the maiden----
DUNOIS.
Haste!
Conduct him hither! He doth come from her!
[The NOBLEMAN opens the door to RAIMOND, DUNOIS hastens to meet him.
RAIMOND.
Hail! noble prince!
And blessed am I that I find with you
This holy man, the shield of the oppressed,
The father of the poor and destitute!
DUNOIS.
Where is the maiden?
ARCHBISHOP.
Speak, my son, inform us!
RAIMOND.
She is not, sir, a wicked sorceress!
To God and all his saints I make appeal.
An error blinds the people. You've cast forth
God's messenger, you've banished innocence!
DUNOIS.
Where is she?
RAIMOND.
I accompanied her flight
Towards the woods of Ardennes; there she hath
Revealed to me her spirit's inmost depths.
In torture I'll expire, and will resign
My hopes of everlasting happiness,
If she's not guiltless, sir, of every sin!
DUNOIS.
The sun in heaven is not more pure than she!
Where is she? Speak!
RAIMOND.
If God hath turned your hearts,
Oh hasten, I entreat you--rescue her
She is a prisoner in the English camp.
DUNOIS.
A prisoner say you?
ARCHBISHOP.
Poor unfortunate!
RAIMOND.
There in the forest as we sought for shelter,
We were encountered by Queen Isabel,
Who seized and sent her to the English host.
Oh, from a cruel death deliver her
Who hath full many a time delivered you!
DUNOIS.
Sound an alarm! to arms! up! beat the drums.
Forth to the field! Let France appear in arms!
The crown and the palladium are at stake!
Our honor is in pledge! risk blood and life!
She must be rescued ere the day is done!
[Exit.
SCENE IX.
LIONEL.
Let them storm on. In fury let them rage!
Firm is this castle, and beneath its ruins
I will be buried ere I yield to them.
--Johanna, answer me! only be mine,
And I will shield thee 'gainst a world in arms.
ISABEL.
Are you a man?
LIONEL.
Thy friends have cast thee off.
To thy ungrateful country then dost owe
Duty and faith no longer. The false cowards
Who sought thy hand, forsake thee in thy need.
They for thy honor venture not the fight,
But I, against my people and 'gainst thine,
Will be thy champion. Once thou didst confess
My life was dear to thee; in combat then
I stood before thee as thine enemy--
Thou hast not now a single friend but me.
JOHANNA.
Thou art my people's enemy and mine.
Between us there can be no fellowship.
Thee I can never love, but if thy heart
Cherish affection for me, let it bring
A blessing on my people. Lead thy troops
Far from the borders of my fatherland;
Give up the keys of all the captured towns,
Restore the booty, set the captives free,
Send hostages the compact to confirm,
And peace I offer thee in my king's name.
ISABEL.
Wilt thou, a captive, dictate laws to us?
JOHANNA.
It must be done; 'tis useless to delay.
Never, oh never, will this land endure
The English yoke; sooner will France become
A mighty sepulchre for England's hosts.
Fallen in battle are your bravest chiefs.
Think how you may achieve a safe retreat;
Your fame is forfeited, your power is lost.
ISABEL.
Can you endure her raving insolence?
SCENE X.
A CAPTAIN enters hastily.
CAPTAIN.
Haste, general! Prepare the host for battle.
The French with flying banners come this way,
Their shining weapons glitter in the vale.
FASTOLFE.
Deluded woman, moderate your joy!
You will not see the issue of this day.
JOHANNA.
My friends will win the fight and I shall die!
The gallant heroes need my arm no more.
LIONEL.
These dastard enemies I scorn. They have
In twenty battles fled before our arms,
Ere this heroic maiden fought for them.
All the whole nation I despise, save one,
And this one they have banished. Come, Fastolfe,
We soon will give them such another day
As that of Poictiers and of Agincourt.
Do you remain with the fortress, queen,
And guard the maiden till the fight is o'er.
I leave for your protection fifty knights.
FASTOLFE.
How! general, shall we march against the foe
And leave this raging fury in our rear?
JOHANNA.
What! can a fettered woman frighten thee?
LIONEL.
Promise, Johanna, not to free thyself.
JOHANNA.
To free myself is now my only wish.
ISABEL.
Bind her with triple chains. I pledged my life
That she shall not escape.
FASTOLFE (urgently).
Away, away, my general!
JOHANNA.
Spare thy words,
The French are drawing near. Defend thyself!
FASTOLFE.
You know your duty, queen! if fate declares
Against us, should you see our people fly.
[Exit.
SCENE XI.
JOHANNA.
Ay! that I will! no power can hinder me.
Hark to that sound, the war-march of my people!
How its triumphant notes inspire my heart!
Ruin to England! victory to France!
Up, valiant countrymen! The maid is near;
She cannot, as of yore, before you bear
Her banner--she is bound with heavy chains;
But freely from her prison soars her soul,
Upon the pinions of your battle-song.
[SOLDIER ascends.
JOHANNA.
Courage, my people! 'Tis the final struggle--
Another victory, and the foe lies low!
ISABEL.
What see'st thou?
SOLDIER.
They're already in close fight.
A furious warrior on a Barbary steed,
In tiger's skin, leads forward the gens d'armes.
JOHANNA.
That's Count Dunois! on, gallant warrior!
Conquest goes with thee.
SOLDIER.
The Burgundian duke
Attacks the bridge.
ISABEL.
Would that ten hostile spears
Might his perfidious heart transfix, the traitor!
SOLDIER.
Lord Fastolfe gallantly opposes him.
Now they dismount--they combat man to man
Our people and the troops of Burgundy.
ISABEL.
Behold'st thou not the Dauphin? See'st thou not
The royal wave?
SOLDIER.
A cloud of dust
Shrouds everything. I can distinguish naught.
JOHANNA.
Had he my eyes, or stood I there aloft,
The smallest speck would not elude my gaze!
The wild fowl I can number on the wing,
And mark the falcon in his towering flight.
SOLDIER.
There is a fearful tumult near the trench;
The chiefs, it seems, the nobles, combat there.
ISABEL.
Still doth our banner wave?
SOLDIER.
It proudly floats.
JOHANNA.
Could I look through the loopholes of the wall,
I with my lance the battle would control.
SOLDIER.
Alas! What do I see? Our general's
Surrounded by the foe!
SOLDIER (quickly).
He's free!
The gallant Fastolfe in the rear attacks
The enemy--he breaks their serried ranks.
ISABEL.
Who fly?
SOLDIER.
The French and the Burgundians fly;
The field is covered o'er with fugitives.
JOHANNA.
My God! Thou wilt not thus abandon me!
SOLDIER.
Yonder they lead a sorely wounded knight;
The people rush to aid him--he's a prince.
ISABEL.
One of our country, or a son of France?
SOLDIER.
They loose his helmet--it is Count Dunois.
SOLDIER.
Look yonder! Who the azure mantle wears
Bordered with gold?
JOHANNA.
That is my lord, the king.
SOLDIER.
His horse is restive, plunges, rears and falls--
He struggles hard to extricate himself.
JOHANNA.
Oh, have the heavens above no angels more!
JOHANNA (throws herself upon her knees, and prays with passionate
violence).
Hear me, O God, in my extremity!
In fervent supplication up to Thee,
Up to thy heaven above I send my soul.
The fragile texture of a spider's web,
As a ship's cable, thou canst render strong;
Easy it is to thine omnipotence
To change these fetters into spider's webs--
Command it, and these massy chains shall fall,
And these thick walls be rent, Thou, Lord of old,
Didst strengthen Samson, when enchained and blind
He bore the bitter scorn of his proud foes.
Trusting in thee, he seized with mighty power
The pillars of his prison, bowed himself,
And overthrew the structure.
SOLDIER.
Triumph!
ISABEL.
How?
SOLDIER.
The king is taken!
SCENE XII.
ISABEL.
Is she below?
SOLDIER.
She strides amidst the fight:
Her course outspeeds my sight--now she is here--
Now there--I see her everywhere at once!
--She separates the troops--all yield to her:
The scattered French collect--they form anew!
--Alas! what do I see! Our people cast
Their weapons to the ground, our banners sink----
ISABEL.
What? Will she snatch from us the victory?
SOLDIER.
She presses forward, right towards the king.
She reaches him--she bears him from the fight--
Lord Fastolfe falls--the general is taken!
ISABEL.
I'll hear no more! Come down!
SOLDIER.
Fly, queen! you will be taken by surprise.
Armed soldiers are advancing tow'rds the tower.
SCENE IV.
ISABEL.
Every place
The same, where I encounter not the Dauphin.
[She resigns her sword, and follows him with the soldiers.
SCENE XIV.
Soldiers with flying banners occupy the background. Before them the
KING and the DUKE OF BURGUNDY appear, bearing JOHANNA in their arms;
she is mortally wounded, and apparently lifeless. They advance
slowly to the front of the stage. AGNES SOREL rushes in.
KING.
Yes, I am free--I am so at this price!
[Pointing to JOHANNA.
SOREL.
Johanna! God! she's dying!
BURGUNDY.
She is gone
An angel passeth hence! See, how she lies,
Easy and tranquil, like a sleeping child!
The peace of heaven around her features plays,
The breath of life no longer heaves her breast,
But vital warmth still lingers in her hand.
KING.
She's gone! She never will awaken more,
Her eye will gaze no more on earthly things.
She soars on high, a spirit glorified,
She seeth not our grief, our penitence.
SOREL.
Her eyes unclose--she lives!
BURGUNDY.
With thine own people, maiden--with thy friends!
KING.
Supported by thy friend, and by thy king.
KING.
Thou'rt holy, as an angel;
A cloud of error dimmed our mental sight.
JOHANNA.
See you the rainbow yonder in the air?
Its golden portals heaven doth wide unfold,
Amid the angel choir she radiant stands,
The eternal Son she claspeth to her breast,
Her arms she stretcheth forth to me in love.
How is it with me? Light clouds bear me up--
My ponderous mail becomes a winged robe;
I mount--I fly--back rolls the dwindling earth--
Brief is the sorrow--endless is the joy!
AND
By Frederich Schiller
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
SCENE I.
ISABELLA.
Forth from my silent chamber's deep recesses,
Gray Fathers of the State, unwillingly
I come; and, shrinking from your gaze, uplift
The veil that shades my widowed brows: the light
And glory of my days is fled forever!
And best in solitude and kindred gloom
To hide these sable weeds, this grief-worn frame,
Beseems the mourner's heart. A mighty voice
Inexorable--duty's stern command,
Calls me to light again.
Not twice the moon
Has filled her orb since to the tomb ye bore
My princely spouse, your city's lord, whose arm
Against a world of envious foes around
Hurled fierce defiance! Still his spirit lives
In his heroic sons, their country's pride:
Ye marked how sweetly from their childhood's bloom
They grew in joyous promise to the years
Of manhood's strength; yet in their secret hearts,
From some mysterious root accursed, upsprung
Unmitigable, deadly hate, that spurned
All kindred ties, all youthful, fond affections,
Still ripening with their thoughtful age; not mine
The sweet accord of family bliss; though each
Awoke a mother's rapture; each alike
Smiled at my nourishing breast! for me alone
Yet lives one mutual thought, of children's love;
In these tempestuous souls discovered else
By mortal strife and thirst of fierce revenge.
Diego!
DIEGO.
Honored mistress!
ISABELLA.
Old faithful servant, then true heart, cone near me;
Sharer of all a mother's woes, be thine
The sweet communion of her joys: my treasure
Shrined in thy heart, my dear and holy secret
Shall pierce the envious veil, and shine triumphant
To cheerful day; too long by harsh decrees,
Silent and overpowered, affection yet
Shall utterance find in Nature's tones of rapture!
And this imprisoned heart leap to the embrace
Of all it holds most dear, returned to glad
My desolate halls;
So bend thy aged steps
To the old cloistered sanctuary that guards
The darling of my soul, whose innocence
To thy true love (sweet pledge of happier days)!
Trusting I gave, and asked from fortune's storm
A resting place and shrine. Oh, in this hour
Of bliss; the dear reward of all thy cares.
Give to my longing arms my child again!
Messina is awake!
Hark! how the stream of tongues hoarse murmuring
Rolls on the breeze,--'tis they! my mother's heart
Feels their approach, and beats with mighty throes
Responsive to the loud, resounding march!
They come! they come! my children! oh, my children!
[Exit.
A second (MANFRED).
First Chorus.
Chorus (BOHEMUND).
DON MANUEL.
My mother!
DON CAESAR.
Hear me
Chorus (CAJETAN).
DON MANUEL.
One gracious word, an instant,
My tongue is rival in the strife of love!
DON CAESAR.
I am the guiltier--weaker----
DON MANUEL.
Say not so!
Who doubts thy noble heart, knows thee not well;
The words were prouder, if thy soul were mean.
DON CAESAR.
It burns indignant at the thought of wrong--
But thou--methinks--in passion's fiercest mood,
'Twas aught but scorn that harbored in thy breast.
DON MANUEL.
Oh! had I known thy spirit thus to peace
Inclined, what thousand griefs had never torn
A mother's heart!
DON CAESAR.
I find thee just and true:
Men spoke thee proud of soul.
DON MANUEL.
The curse of greatness!
Ears ever open to the babbler's tale.
DON CAESAR.
Thou art too proud to meanness--I to falsehood!
DON MANUEL.
We are deceived, betrayed!
DON CAESAR.
The sport of frenzy!
DON MANUEL.
And said my mother true, false is the world?
DON CAESAR.
Believe her, false as air.
DON MANUEL.
Give me thy hand!
DON CAESAR.
And thine be ever next my heart!
DON MANUEL.
I gaze
Upon thy brow, and still behold my mother
In some dear lineament.
DON CAESAR.
Her image looks
From thine, and wondrous in my bosom wakes
Affection's springs.
DON MANUEL.
And is it thou?--that smile
Benignant on thy face?--thy lips that charm
With gracious sounds of love and dear forgiveness?
DON CAESAR.
Is this my brother, this the hated foe?
His mien all gentleness and truth, his voice,
Whose soft prevailing accents breathe of friendship!
[After a pause.
DON MANUEL.
Shall aught divide us?
DON CAESAR.
We are one forever!
A MESSENGER enters.
MESSENGER.
Health to me, and health
To this delivered state! Oh sight of bliss,
That lights mine eyes with rapture! I behold
Their hands in sweet accord entwined; the sons
Of my departed lord, the princely pair
Dissevered late by conflict's hottest rage.
DON CAESAR.
Yes, from the flames of hate, a new-born Phoenix,
Our love aspires!
MESSENGER.
I bring another joy;
My staff is green with flourishing shoots.
DON CAESAR (taking him aside).
Oh, tell me
Thy gladsome message.
MESSENGER.
All is happiness
On this auspicious day; long sought, the lost one
Is found.
DON CAESAR.
Discovered! Oh, where is she? Speak!
MESSENGER.
Within Messina's walls she lies concealed.
DON MANUEL.
Make no delay;
And happiness attend thee!
DON MANUEL.
The blossom
Betokens goodly fruit.
DON CAESAR.
I tear myself
Reluctant from thy arms, but think not less
If thus I break this festal hour--my heart
Thrills with a holy joy.
DON CESAR.
What calls me hence----
DON MANUEL.
Enough! thou leav'st thy heart.
DON CAESAR.
No envious secret
Shall part us long; soon the last darkening fold
Shall vanish from my breast.
Attend! Forever
Stilled is our strife; he is my deadliest foe,
Detested as the gates of hell, who dares
To blow the fires of discord; none may hope
To win my love, that with malicious tales
Encroach upon a brother's ear, and point
With busy zeal of false, officious friendship.
The dart of some rash, angry word, escaped
From passion's heat; it wounds not from the lips,
But, swallowed by suspicion's greedy ear,
Like a rank, poisonous weed, embittered creeps,
And hangs about her with a thousand shoots,
Perplexing nature's ties.
Chorus (CAJETAN).
Wondering, my prince,
I gaze, for in thy looks some mystery
Strange-seeming shows: scarce with abstracted mien
And cold thou answered'st, when with earnest heart
Thy brother poured the strain of dear affection.
As in a dream thou stand'st, and lost in thought,
As though--dissevered from its earthly frame--
Thy spirit roved afar. Not thine the breast
That deaf to nature's voice, ne'er owned the throbs
Of kindred love:--nay more--like one entranced
In bliss, thou look'st around, and smiles of rapture
Play on thy cheek.
DON MANUEL.
How shall my lips declare
The transports of my swelling heart? My brother
Revels in glad surprise, and from his breast
Instinct with strange new-felt emotions, pours
The tide of joy; but mine--no hate came with me,
Forgot the very spring of mutual strife!
High o'er this earthly sphere, on rapture's wings,
My spirit floats; and in the azure sea,
Above--beneath--no track of envious night
Disturbs the deep serene! I view these halls,
And picture to my thoughts the timid joy
Of my sweet bride, as through the palace gates,
In pride of queenly state, I lead her home.
She loved alone the loving one, the stranger,
And little deems that on her beauteous brow
Messina's prince shall 'twine the nuptial wreath.
How sweet, with unexpected pomp of greatness,
To glad the darling of my soul! too long
I brook this dull delay of crowning bliss!
Her beauty's self, that asks no borrowed charm,
Shall shine refulgent, like the diamond's blaze
That wins new lustre from the circling gold!
Chorus (CAJETAN).
Long have I marked thee, prince, with curious eye,
Foreboding of some mystery deep enshrined
Within thy laboring breast. This day, impatient,
Thy lips have burst the seal; and unconstrained
Confess a lover's joy;--the gladdening chase,
The Olympian coursers, and the falcon's flight
Can charm no more:--soon as the sun declines
Beneath the ruddy west, thou hiest thee quick
To some sequestered path, of mortal eye
Unseen--not one of all our faithful train
Companion of thy solitary way.
Say, why so long concealed the blissful flame?
Stranger to fear--ill-brooked thy princely heart
One thought unuttered.
DON MANUEL.
Ever on the wing
Is mortal joy;--with silence best we guard
The fickle good;--but now, so near the goal
Of all my cherished hopes, I dare to speak.
To-morrow's sun shall see her mine! no power
Of hell can make us twain! With timid stealth
No longer will I creep at dusky eve,
To taste the golden fruits of Cupid's tree,
And snatch a fearful, fleeting bliss: to-day
With bright to-morrow shall be one! So smooth
As runs the limpid brook, or silvery sand
That marks the flight of time, our lives shall flow
In continuity of joy!
Chorus (CAJETAN).
Already
Our hearts, my prince, with silent vows have blessed
Thy happy love; and now from every tongue,
For her--the royal, beauteous bride--should sound
The glad acclaim; so tell what nook unseen,
What deep umbrageous solitude, enshrines
The charmer of thy heart? With magic spells
Almost I deem she mocks our gaze, for oft
In eager chase we scour each rustic path
And forest dell; yet not a trace betrayed
The lover's haunts, ne'er were the footsteps marked
Of this mysterious fair.
DON MANUEL.
The spell is broke!
And all shall be revealed: now list my tale:--
'Tis five months flown,--my father yet controlled
The land, and bowed our necks with iron sway;
Little I knew but the wild joys of arms,
And mimic warfare of the chase;--
One day,--
Long had we tracked the boar with zealous toil
On yonder woody ridge:--it chanced, pursuing
A snow-white hind, far from your train I roved
Amid the forest maze;--the timid beast,
Along the windings of the narrow vale,
Through rocky cleft and thick-entangled brake,
Flew onward, scarce a moment lost, nor distant
Beyond a javelin's throw; nearer I came not,
Nor took an aim; when through a garden's gate,
Sudden she vanished:--from my horse quick springing,
I followed:--lo! the poor scared creature lay
Stretched at the feet of a young, beauteous nun,
That strove with fond caress of her fair hands
To still its throbbing heart: wondering, I gazed;
And motionless--my spear, in act to strike,
High poised--while she, with her large piteous eyes
For mercy sued--and thus we stood in silence
Regarding one another.
How long the pause
I know not--time itself forgot;--it seemed
Eternity of bliss: her glance of sweetness
Flew to my soul; and quick the subtle flame
Pervaded all my heart:--
But what I spoke,
And how this blessed creature answered, none
May ask; it floats upon my thought, a dream
Of childhood's happy dawn! Soon as my sense
Returned, I felt her bosom throb responsive
To mine,--then fell melodious on my ear
The sound, as of a convent bell, that called
To vesper song; and, like some shadowy vision
That melts in air, she flitted from my sight,
And was beheld no more.
Chorus (CAJETAN).
Thy story thrills
My breast with pious awe! Prince, thou hast robbed
The sanctuary, and for the bride of heaven
Burned with unholy passion! Oh, remember
The cloister's sacred vows!
DON MANUEL.
Thenceforth one path
My footsteps wooed; the fickle train was still
Of young desires--new felt my being's aim,
My soul revealed! and as the pilgrim turns
His wistful gaze, where, from the orient sky,
With gracious lustre beams Redemption's star;--
So to that brightest point of heaven, her presence,
My hopes and longings centred all. No sun
Sank in the western waves, but smiled farewell
To two united lovers:--thus in stillness
Our hearts were twined,--the all-seeing air above us
Alone the faithful witness of our joys!
Oh, golden hours! Oh, happy days! nor Heaven
Indignant viewed our bliss;--no vows enchained
Her spotless soul; naught but the link which bound it
Eternally to mine!
Chorus (CAJETAN).
Those hallowed walls,
Perchance the calm retreat of tender youth,
No living grave?
DON MANUEL.
In infant innocence
Consigned a holy pledge, ne'er has she left
Her cloistered home.
Chorus (CAJETAN).
But what her royal line?
The noble only spring from noble stem.
DON MANUEL.
A secret to herself,--she ne'er has learned
Her name or fatherland.
Chorus (CAJETAN).
And not a trace
Guides to her being's undiscovered springs?
DON MANUEL.
An old domestic, the sole messenger
Sent by her unknown mother, oft bespeaks her
Of kingly race.
Chorus (CAJETAN).
And hast thou won naught else
From her garrulous age?
DON MANUEL.
Too much I feared to peril
My secret bliss!
Chorus (CAJETAN).
What were his words? What tidings
He bore--perchance thou know'st.
DON MANUEL.
Oft he has cheered her
With promise of a happier time, when all
Shall be revealed.
Chorus (CAJETAN).
Oh, say--betokens aught
The time is near?
DON MANUEL.
Not distant far the day
That to the arms of kindred love once more
Shall give the long forsaken, orphaned maid--
Thus with mysterious words the aged man
Has shadowed oft what most I dread--for awe
Of change disturbs the soul supremely blest:
Nay, more; but yesterday his message spoke
The end of all my joys--this very dawn,
He told, should smile auspicious on her fate,
And light to other scenes--no precious hour
Delayed my quick resolves--by night I bore her
In secret to Messina.
Chorus (CAJETAN).
Rash the deed
Of sacrilegious spoil! forgive, my prince,
The bold rebuke; thus to unthinking youth
Old age may speak in friendship's warning voice.
DON MANUEL.
Hard by the convent of the Carmelites,
In a sequestered garden's tranquil bound,
And safe from curious eyes, I left her,--hastening
To meet my brother: trembling there she counts
The slow-paced hours, nor deems how soon triumphant
In queenly state, high on the throne of fame,
Messina shall behold my timid bride.
For next, encompassed by your knightly train,
With pomp of greatness in the festal show,
Her lover's form shall meet her wondering gaze!
Thus will I lead her to my mother; thus--
While countless thousands on her passage wait
Amid the loud acclaim--the royal bride
Shall reach my palace gates!
Chorus (CAJETAN).
Command us, prince,
We live but to obey!
DON MANUEL.
I tore myself
Reluctant from her arms; my every thought
Shall still be hers: so come along, my friends,
To where the turbaned merchant spreads his store
Of fabrics golden wrought with curious art;
And all the gathered wealth of eastern climes.
First choose the well-formed sandals--meet to guard
And grace her delicate feet; then for her robe
The tissue, pure as Etna's snow that lies
Nearest the sun-light as the wreathy mist
At summer dawn--so playful let it float
About her airy limbs. A girdle next,
Purple with gold embroidered o'er, to bind
With witching grace the tunic that confines
Her bosom's swelling charms: of silk the mantle,
Gorgeous with like empurpled hues, and fixed
With clasp of gold--remember, too, the bracelets
To gird her beauteous arms; nor leave the treasure
Of ocean's pearly deeps and coral caves.
About her locks entwine a diadem
Of purest gems--the ruby's fiery glow
Commingling with the emerald's green. A veil,
From her tiara pendent to her feet,
Like a bright fleecy cloud shall circle round
Her slender form; and let a myrtle wreath
Crown the enchanting whole!
Chorus (CAJETAN).
We haste, my prince.
Amid the Bazar's glittering rows, to cull
Each rich adornment.
DON MANUEL.
From my stables lead
A palfrey, milk-white as the steeds that draw
The chariot of the sun; purple the housings,
The bridle sparkling o'er with precious gems,
For it shall bear my queen! Yourselves be ready
With trumpet's cheerful clang, in martial train
To lead your mistress home: let two attend me,
The rest await my quick return; and each
Guard well my secret purpose.
Chorus (CAJETAN).
A second (BERENGAR).
First (MANFRED).
Second (BERENGAR).
A third (CAJETAN).
BERENGAR.
And thus to sad unhallowed rites
Of an ill-omened nuptial tie,
Too well ye know their father bore
A bride of mournful destiny,
Torn from his sire, whose awful curse has sped
Heaven's vengeance on the impious bed!
This fierce, unnatural rage atones
A parent's crime--decreed by fate,
Their mother's offspring, strife and hate!
BEATRICE (steps forward from an alcove. She walks to and fro with an
agitated air, looking round in every direction. Suddenly she
stands still and listens).
No! 'tis not he: 'twas but the playful wind
Rustling the pine-tops. To his ocean bed
The sun declines, and with o'erwearied heart
I count the lagging hours: an icy chill
Creeps through my frame; the very solitude
And awful silence fright my trembling soul!
Where'er I turn naught meets my gaze--he leaves me
Forsaken and alone!
And like a rushing stream the city's hum
Floats on the breeze, and dull the mighty sea
Rolls murmuring to the rocks: I shrink to nothing
With horrors compassed round; and like the leaf,
Borne on the autumn blast, am hurried onward
Through boundless space.
Alas! that e'er I left
My peaceful cell--no cares, no fond desires
Disturbed my breast, unruffled as the stream
That glides in sunshine through the verdant mead:
Nor poor in joys. Now--on the mighty surge
Of fortune, tempest-tossed--the world enfolds me
With giant arms! Forgot my childhood's ties
I listened to the lover's flattering tale--
Listened, and trusted! From the sacred dome
Allured--betrayed--for sure some hell-born magic
Enchained my frenzied sense--I fled with him,
The invader of religion's dread abodes!
Where art thou, my beloved? Haste--return--
With thy dear presence calm my struggling soul!
[She listens.
DON CAESAR.
Angelic sweetness! fear not.
[To the Chorus.
Retire! your gleaming arms and rude array
Affright the timorous maid.
[To BEATRICE.
Fear nothing! beauty
And virgin shame are sacred in my eyes.
I see thee
Once more; and may the spirit from this frame
Be severed ere we part! Now let me snatch
This glad, auspicious moment, and defy
Or chance, or envious demon's power, to shake
Henceforth my solid bliss; here I proclaim thee,
Before this listening warlike train my bride,
With pledge of knightly honors!
[He shows her to the Chorus.
Who thou art,
I ask not: thou art mine! But that thy soul
And birth are pure alike one glance informed
My inmost heart; and though thy lot were mean,
And poor thy lowly state, yet would I strain thee
With rapture to my arms: no choice remains,
Thou art my love--my wife! Know too, that lifted
On fortune's height, I spurn control; my will
Can raise thee to the pinnacle of greatness--
Enough my name--I am Don Caesar! None
Is nobler in Messina!
What a grace
Lives in thy soft surprise and modest silence!
Yes! gentle humbleness is beauty's crown--
The beautiful forever hid, and shrinking
From its own lustre: but thy spirit needs
Repose, for aught of strange--e'en sudden joy--
Is terror-fraught. I leave thee.
Chorus (BOHEMUND).
(ROGER).
And thrice I bid thee hail,
Thou happy fair!
Sent in auspicious hour to bless
This favored race--the god's peculiar care.
Here twine the immortal wreaths of fame
And evermore, from sire to son,
Rolls on the sceptered sway,
To heirs of old renown, a race of deathless name!
(BOHEMUND).
(ROGER.)
Chorus (BOHEMUND).
(ROGER).
(BOHEMUND.)
(ROGER).
(BOHEMUND.)
ISABELLA.
The long-expected, festal day is come,
My children's hearts are twined in one, as thus
I fold their hands. Oh, blissful hour, when first
A mother dares to speak in nature's voice,
And no rude presence checks the tide of love.
The clang of arms affrights mine ear no more;
And as the owls, ill-omened brood of night,
From some old, shattered homestead's ruined walls,
Their ancient reign, fly forth a dusky swarm,
Darkening the cheerful day; when absent long,
The dwellers home return with joyous shouts,
To build the pile anew; so Hate departs
With all his grisly train; pale Envy, scowling Malice,
And hollow-eyed Suspicion; from our gates,
Hoarse murmuring, to the realms of night; while Peace,
By Concord and fair Friendship led along,
Comes smiling in his place.
[She pauses.
But not alone
This day of joy to each restores a brother;
It brings a sister! Wonderstruck you gaze!
Yet now the truth, in silence guarded long,
Bursts from my soul. Attend! I have a daughter!
A sister lives, ordained by heaven to bind ye
With ties unknown before.
DON CAESAR.
We have a sister!
What hast thou said, my mother? never told
Her being till this hour!
DON MANUEL.
In childhood's years,
Oft of a sister we have heard, untimely
Snatched in her cradle by remorseless death;
So ran the tale.
ISABELLA.
She lives!
DON CAESAR.
And thou wert silent!
ISABELLA.
Hear how the seed was sown in early time,
That now shall ripen to a joyful harvest.
Ye bloomed in boyhood's tender age; e'en then
By mutual, deadly hate, the bitter spring
Of grief to this torn, anxious heart, dissevered;
Oh, may your strife return no more! A vision,
Strange and mysterious, in your father's breast
Woke dire presage: it seemed that from his couch,
With branches intertwined, two laurels grew,
And in the midst a lily all in flames,
That, catching swift the boughs and knotted stems,
Burst forth with crackling rage, and o'er the house
Spread in one mighty sea of fire: perplexed
By this terrific dream, my husband sought
An Arab, skilled to read the stars, and long
The trusted oracle, whose counsels swayed
His inmost purpose: thus the boding sage
Spoke Fate's decrees: if I a daughter bore,
Destruction to his sons and all his race
From her should spring. Soon, by heaven's will, this child
Of dreadful omen saw the light; your sire
Commanded instant in the waves to throw
The new-born innocent; a mother's love
Prevailed, and, aided by a faithful servant,
I snatched the babe from death.
DON CAESAR.
Blest be the hands
The ministers of thy care! Oh, ever rich
Of counsels was a parent's love!
ISABELLA.
But more
Than Nature's mighty voice, a warning dream
Impelled to save my child: while yet unborn
She slumbered in my womb, sleeping I saw
An infant, fair as of celestial kind,
That played upon the grass; soon from the wood
A lion rushed, and from his gory jaws,
Caressing, in the infant's lap let fall
His prey, new-caught; then through the air down swept
An eagle, and with fond caress alike
Dropped from his claws a trembling kid, and both
Cowered at the infant's feet, a gentle pair.
A monk, the saintly guide whose counsels poured
In every earthly need, the balm of heaven
Upon my troubled soul, my dream resolved.
Thus spoke the man of God: a daughter, sent
To knit the warring spirits of my sons
In bonds of tender love, should recompense
A mother's pains! Deep in my heart I treasured
His words, and, reckless of the Pagan seer,
Preserved the blessed child, ordained of heaven
To still your growing strife; sweet pledge of hope
And messenger of peace!
ISABELLA.
In a lone spot obscure, by stranger hands
Nurtured, the secret flower has grown; to me
Denied the joy to mark each infant charm
And opening grace from that sad hour of parting;
These arms ne'er clasped my child again! her sire,
To jealousy's corroding fears a prey,
And brooding dark suspicion, restless tracked
Each day my steps.
DON CAESAR.
Yet three months flown, my father
Sleeps in the tranquil grave; say, whence delayed
The joyous tidings? Why so long concealed
The maid, nor earlier taught our hearts to glow
With brother's love?
ISABELLA.
The cause, your frenzied hate,
That raging unconfined, e'en on the tomb
Of your scarce buried father, lit the flames
Of mortal strife. What! could I throw my daughter
Betwixt your gleaming blades? Or 'mid the storm
Of passion would ye list a woman's counsels?
Could she, sweet pledge of peace, of all our hopes
The last and holy anchor, 'mid the rage
Of discord find a home? Ye stand as brothers,
So will I give a sister to your arms!
The reconciling angel comes; each hour
I wait my messenger's return; he leads her
From her sequestered cell, to glad once more
A mother's eyes.
DON MANUEL.
Nor her alone this day
Thy arms shall fold; joy pours through all our gates;
Soon shall the desolate halls be full, the seat
Of every blooming grace. Now hear my secret:
A sister thou hast given; to thee I bring
A daughter; bless thy son! My heart has found
Its lasting shrine: ere this day's sun has set
Don Manuel to thy feet shall lead his bride,
The partner of his days.
ISABELLA.
And to my breast
With transport will I clasp the chosen maid
That makes my first-born happy. Joy shall spring
Where'er she treads, and every flower that blooms
Around the path of life smile in her presence!
May bliss reward the son, that for my brows
Has twined the choicest wreath a mother wears.
DON CAESAR.
Yet give not all the fulness of thy blessing
To him, thy eldest born. If love be blest,
I, too, can give thee joy. I bring a daughter,
Another flower for thy most treasured garland!
The maid that in this ice-cold bosom first
Awoke the rapturous flame! Ere yonder sun
Declines, Don Caesar's bride shall call thee mother.
DON MANUEL.
Almighty Love! thou godlike power--for well
We call thee sovereign of the breast! Thy sway
Controls each warring element, and tunes
To soft accord; naught lives but owns thy greatness.
Lo! the rude soul that long defied thee melts
At thy command!
[He embraces DON CAESAR.
Now I can trust thy heart,
And joyful strain thee to a brother's arms!
I doubt thy faith no more, for thou canst love!
ISABELLA.
Thrice blest the day, when every gloomy care
From my o'erlabored breast has flown. I see
On steadfast columns reared our kingly race,
And with contented spirit track the stream
Of measureless time. In these deserted halls,
Sad in my widow's veil, but yesterday
Childless I roamed; and soon, in youthful charms
Arrayed, three blooming daughters at my side
Shall stand! Oh, happiest mother! Chief of women,
In bliss supreme; can aught of earthly joy
O'erbalance thine?
But say, of royal stem,
What maidens grace our isle? For ne'er my sons
Would stoop to meaner brides.
DON MANUEL.
Seek not to raise
The veil that hides my bliss; another day
Shall tell thee all. Enough--Don Manuel's bride
Is worthy of thy son and thee.
ISABELLA.
Thy sire
Speaks in thy words; thus to himself retired
Forever would he brood o'er counsels dark,
And cloak his secret purpose;--your delay
Be short, my son.
[Turning to DON CAESAR.
But thou--some royal maid,
Daughter of kings, hath stirred thy soul to love;
So speak--her name----
DON CAESAR.
I have no art to veil
My thoughts with mystery's garb--my spirit free
And open as my brows; which thou wouldst know
Concerned me never. What illumes above
Heaven's flaming orb? Himself! On all the world
He shines, and with his beaming glory tells
From light he sprung:--in her pure eyes I gazed,
I looked into her heart of hearts:--the brightness
Revealed the pearl. Her race--her name--my mother,
Ask not of me!
ISABELLA.
My son, explain thy words,
For, like some voice divine, the sudden charm
Has thralled thy soul: to deeds of rash emprise
Thy nature prompted, not to fantasies
Of boyish love:--tell me, what swayed thy choice?
DON CAESAR.
My choice? my mother! Is it choice when man
Obeys the might of destiny, that brings
The awful hour? I sought no beauteous bride,
No fond delusion stirred my tranquil breast,
Still as the house of death; for there, unsought,
I found the treasure of my soul. Thou know'st
That, heedless ever of the giddy race,
I looked on beauty's charms with cold disdain,
Nor deemed of womankind there lived another
Like thee--whom my idolatrous fancy decked
With heavenly graces:--
'Twas the solemn rite
Of my dead father's obsequies; we stood
Amid the countless throng, with strange attire
Hid from each other's glance; for thus ordained
Thy thoughtful care lest with outbursting rage,
E' en by the holy place unawed, our strife
Should mar the funeral pomp.
With sable gauze
The nave was all o'erhung; the altar round
Stood twenty giant saints, uplifting each
A torch; and in the midst reposed on high
The coffin, with o'erspreading pall, that showed,
In white, redemption's sign;--thereon were laid
The staff of sovereignty, the princely crown,
The golden spurs of knighthood, and the sword,
With diamond-studded belt:--
And all was hushed
In silent prayer, when from the lofty choir,
Unseen, the pealing organ spoke, and loud
From hundred voices burst the choral strain!
Then, 'mid the tide of song, the coffin sank
With the descending floor beneath, forever
Down to the world below:--but, wide outspread
Above the yawning grave, the pall upheld
The gauds of earthly state, nor with the corpse
To darkness fell; yet on the seraph wings
Of harmony, the enfranchised spirit soared
To heaven and mercy's throne:
Thus to thy thought,
My mother, I have waked the scene anew,
And say, if aught of passion in my breast
Profaned the solemn hour; yet then the beams
Of mighty love--so willed my guiding star--
First lit my soul; but how it chanced, myself
I ask in vain.
ISABELLA.
I would hear all; so end
Thy tale.
DON CAESAR.
What brought her to my side, or whence
She came, I know not:--from her presence quick
Some secret all-pervading inward charm
Awoke; 'twas not the magic of a smile,
Nor playful Cupid in her cheeks, nor more,
The form of peerless grace;--'twas beauty's soul,
The speaking virtue, modesty inborn,
That as with magic spells, impalpable
To sense, my being thralled. We breathed together
The air of heaven:--enough!--no utterance asked
Of words, our spiritual converse;--in my heart,
Though strange, yet with familiar ties inwrought
She seemed, and instant spake the thought--'tis she!
Or none that lives!
DON MANUEL (interposing with eagerness).
That is the sacred fire
From heaven! the spark of love--that on the soul
Bursts like the lightning's flash, and mounts in flame,
When kindred bosoms meet! No choice remains--
Who shall resist? What mortal break the band
That heaven has knit? Brother, my blissful fortune
Was echoed in thy tale--well thou hast raised
The veil that shadows yet my secret love.
ISABELLA.
Thus destiny has marked the wayward course
Of my two sons: the mighty torrent sweeps
Down from the precipice; with rage he wears
His proper bed, nor heeds the channel traced
By art and prudent care. So to the powers
That darkly sway the fortunes of our house,
Trembling I yield. One pledge of hope remains;
Great as their birth--their noble souls.
ISABELLA.
But see,
My faithful messenger returns. Come near me,
Honest Diego. Quick! Where is she? Tell me,
Where is my child? There is no secret here.
Oh, speak! No longer from my eyes conceal her;
Come! we are ready for the height of joy.
ISABELLA.
Where is she? Anguish tears my breast!
DIEGO.
She comes not.
I bring no daughter to thy arms.
ISABELLA.
Declare
Thy message! Speak! by all the saints!
What has befallen?
DON MANUEL.
Where is my sister? Tell us,
Thou harbinger of ill!
DIEGO.
The maid is stolen
By corsairs! lost! Oh! that I ne'er had seen
This day of woe!
DON MANUEL.
Compose thyself, my mother!
DON CAESAR.
Be calm; list all this tale.
DIEGO.
At thy command
I sought in haste the well-known path that leads
To the old sanctuary:--joy winged my footsteps;
The journey was my last!
DON CAESAR.
Be brief!
DON MANUEL.
Proceed!
DIEGO.
Soon as I trod the convent's court--impatient--
I ask--"Where is thy daughter?" Terror sate
In every eye; and straight, with horror mute,
I heard the worst.
DON CAESAR.
Say'st thou by pirates stolen?
Who saw the band?--what tongue relates the spoil?
DIEGO.
Not far a Moorish galley was descried,
At anchor in the bay----
DON CAESAR.
The refuge oft
From tempests' rage; where is the bark?
DIEGO.
At down,
With favoring breeze she stood to sea.
DON CAESAR.
But never
One prey contents the Moor; say, have they told
Of other spoil?
DIEGO.
A herd that pastured near
Was dragged away.
DON CAESAR.
Yet from the convent's bound
How tear the maid unseen?
DIEGO.
'Tis thought with ladders
They scaled the wall.
DON CAESAR.
Thou knowest what jealous care
Enshrines the bride of Heaven; scarce could their steps
Invade the secret cells.
DIEGO.
Bound by no vows
The maiden roved at will; oft would she seek
Alone the garden's shade. Alas! this day,
Ne'er to return!
DON CAESAR.
Saidst thou--the prize of corsairs?
Perchance, at other bidding, she forsook
The sheltering dome----
DON CAESAR.
Farewell--I fly
To vengeance!
[He goes away.
DON MANUEL.
Speak! within the convent's walls
When first unseen----
DIEGO.
This day at dawn.
ISABELLA.
No question! Fly!
DON MANUEL.
Yet tell me----
ISABELLA.
Haste! Begone! Why this delay?
Follow thy brother.
DON MANUEL.
I conjure thee--speak----
DON MANUEL.
Where was she hid? What region
Concealed my sister?
ISABELLA.
Scarce from curious eyes
In the deep bosom of the earth more safe
My child had been!
DIEGO.
Oh! now a sudden horror
Starts in my breast.
DON MANUEL.
What gives thee fear?
DIEGO.
'Twas I
That guiltless caused this woe!
ISABELLA.
Unhappy man!
What hast thou done?
DIEGO.
To spare thy mother's heart
One anxious pang, my mistress, I concealed
What now my lips shall tell: 'twas on the day
When thy dead husband in the silent tomb
Was laid; from every side the unnumbered throng
Pressed eager to the solemn rites; thy daughter--
For e'en amid the cloistered shade was noised
The funeral pomp, urged me, with ceaseless prayers,
To lead her to the festival of Death.
In evil hour I gave consent; and, shrouded
In sable weeds of mourning, she surveyed
Her father's obsequies. With keen reproach
My bosom tells (for through the veil her charms
Resistless shone), 'twas there, perchance, the spoiler
Lurked to betray.
DIEGO.
Oh, never have I strayed
From duty's path! My mistress, in her prayers
I heard the voice of Nature; thus from Heaven
Ordained,--methought, the secret impulse moves
Of kindred blood, to hallow with her tears
A father's grave: the tender office owned
Thy servant's care, and thus with good intent
I wrought but ill.
DON MANUEL.
Away! Let no man follow.
[Exit.
ISABELLA.
In wonder lost
I gaze; some mystery lurks----
DON CAESAR.
Thou mark'st, my mother,
My quick return; with eager zeal I flew
At thy command, nor asked one trace to guide
My footsteps to thy daughter. Whence was torn
Thy treasure? Say, what cloistered solitude
Enshrined the beauteous maid?
ISABELLA.
'Tis consecrate
To St. Cecilia; deep in forest shades,
Beyond the woody ridge that slowly climbs
Toward's Etna's towering throne, it seems a refuge
Of parted souls!
DON CAESAR.
Have courage, trust thy sons;
She shall be thine, though with unwearied quest
O'er every land and sea I track her presence
To earth's extremest bounds: one thought alone
Disturbs,--in stranger hands my timorous bride
Waits my return; to thy protecting arms
I give the pledge of all my joy! She comes;
Soon on her faithful bosom thou shalt rest
In sweet oblivion of thy cares.
[Exit.
ISABELLA.
When will the ancient curse be stilled that weighs
Upon our house? Some mocking demon sports
With every new-formed hope, nor envious leaves
One hour of joy. So near the haven smiled--
So smooth the treacherous main--secure I deemed
My happiness: the storm was lulled; and bright
In evening's lustre gleamed the sunny shore!
Then through the placid air the tempest sweeps,
And bears me to the roaring surge again!
CAJETAN.
Seest thou not
Thy presence irks?
BOHEMUND.
Thou hast it, then, the longer!
CAJETAN.
My place is here! What arm repels me?
BOHEMUND,
Mine!
CAJETAN.
Don Manuel sent me hither.
BOHEMUND.
I obey
My Lord Don Caesar.
CAJETAN.
To the eldest born
Thy master reverence owes.
BOHEMUND.
The world belongs
To him that wins!
CAJETAN.
Unmannered knave, give place!
BOHEMUND.
Our swords be measured first!
CAJETAN.
I find thee ever
A serpent in my path.
BOHEMUND.
Where'er I list
Thus will I meet thee!
CAJETAN.
Say, why cam'st thou hither
To spy?----
BOHEMUND.
And thou to question and command?
CAJETAN.
To parley I disdain!
BOHEMUND.
Too much I grace thee
By words!
CAJETAN.
Thy hot, impetuous youth should bow
To reverend age.
BOHEMUND.
Older thou art--not braver.
BOHEMUND.
I serve a master
Better than thine.
BEATRICE.
Alas! Should he appear!
CAJETAN.
Thou liest! Don Manuel thousandfold excels.
BOHEMUND.
In every strife the wreath of victory decks
Don Caesar's brows!
BEATRICE.
Now he will come! Already
The hour is past!
CAJETAN.
'Tis peace, or thou shouldst know
My vengeance!
BOHEMUND.
Fear, not peace, thy arm refrains.
BEATRICE.
Oh! Were he thousand miles remote!
CAJETAN.
Thy looks
But move my scorn; the compact I obey.
BOHEMUND.
The coward's ready shield!
CAJETAN.
Come on! I follow.
BOHEMUND.
To arms!
[She runs into the alcove. At the moment when the two
Choruses are about to engage, DON MANUEL appears.
DON MANUEL.
What do I see!
CAJETAN.
'Tis the prince!
BOHEMUND.
Be still!
DON MANUEL.
I stretch him dead
Upon this verdant turf that with one glance
Of scorn prolongs the strife, or threats his foe!
Why rage ye thus? What maddening fiend impels
To blow the flames of ancient hate anew,
Forever reconciled? Say, who began
The conflict? Speak----
DON MANUEL.
Slave! Is no refuge safe? Shall discord thus
Profane the bower of virgin innocence,
The home of sanctity and peace?
[To the Second Chorus.
Retire--
Your warlike presence ill beseems; away!
I would be private.
[They hesitate.
In your master's name
I give command; our souls are one, our lips
Declare each other's thoughts; begone!
[To the First Chorus.
Remain!
And guard the entrance.
BOHEMUND.
So! What next? Our masters
Are reconciled; that's plain; and less he wins
Of thanks than peril, that with busy zeal
In princely quarrel stirs; for when of strife
His mightiness aweary feels, of guilt
He throws the red-dyed mantle unconcerned
On his poor follower's luckless head, and stands
Arrayed in virtue's robes! So let them end
E'en as they will their brawls, I hold it best
That we obey.
DON MANUEL.
Beatrice!
BEATRICE.
No words! The moment
Is precious! Haste.
DON MANUEL.
Yet tell me----
BEATRICE.
Quick! Away!
Ere those fierce men return.
DON MANUEL.
Be calm, for naught
Shall trouble thee of ill.
BEATRICE.
Oh, fly! alas,
Thou know'st them not!
DON MANUEL.
Protected by this arm
Canst thou fear aught?
BEATRICE.
Oh, trust me; mighty men
Are here!
DON MANUEL.
Beloved! mightier none than I!
BEATRICE.
And wouldst thou brave this warlike host alone?
DON MANUEL.
Alone! the men thou fear'st----
BEATRICE.
Thou know'st them not,
Nor whom they serve.
DON MANUEL.
Myself! I am their lord!
BEATRICE.
Thou art--a shudder creeps through all my frame!
DON MANUEL.
Far other than I seemed; learn at last
To know me, Beatrice. Not the poor knight
Am I, the stranger and unknown, that loving
Taught thee to love; but what I am--my race--
My power----
BEATRICE.
And art thou not Don Manuel? Speak--
Who art thou?
DON MANUEL.
Chief of all that bear the name,
I am Don Manuel, Prince of Messina!
BEATRICE.
Art thou Don Manuel, Don Caesar's brother?
DON MANUEL.
Don Caesar is my brother.
BEATRICE.
Is thy brother!
DON MANUEL.
What means this terror? Know'st thou, then, Don Caesar?
None other of my race?
BEATRICE.
Art thou Don Manuel,
That with thy brother liv'st in bitter strife
Of long inveterate hate?
DON MANUEL.
This very sun
Smiled on our glad accord! Yes, we are brothers!
Brothers in heart!
BEATRICE.
And reconciled? This day?
DON MANUEL.
What stirs this wild disorder? Hast thou known
Aught but our name? Say, hast thou told me all?
Is there no secret? Hast thou naught concealed?
Nothing disguised?
BEATRICE.
Thy words are dark; explain,
What shall I tell thee?
DON MANUEL.
Of thy mother naught
Hast thou e'er told; who is she? If in words
I paint her, bring her to thy sight----
BEATRICE.
Thou know'st her!
And thou wert silent!
DON MANUEL.
If I know thy mother,
Horrors betide us both!
BEATRICE.
Oh, she is gracious
As the sun's orient beam! Yes! I behold her;
Fond memory wakes;--and from my bosom's depths
Her godlike presence rises to my view!
I see around her snowy neck descend
The tresses of her raven hair, that shade
The form of sculptured loveliness; I see
The pale, high-thoughted brow; the darkening glance
Of her large lustrous orbs; I hear the tones
Of soul-fraught sweetness!
DON MANUEL.
'Tis herself!
BEATRICE.
This day,
Perchance had give me to her arms, and knit
Our souls in everlasting love;--such bliss
I have renounced, yes! I have lost a mother
For thee!
DON MANUEL.
Console thyself, Messina's princess
Henceforth shall call thee daughter; to her feet
I lead thee; come--she waits. What hast thou said?
BEATRICE.
Thy mother and Don Caesar's? Never! never!
DON MANUEL.
Thou shudderest! Whence this horror? Hast thou known
My mother? Speak----
BEATRICE.
O grief! O dire misfortune!
Alas! that e'er I live to see this day!
DON MANUEL.
What troubles thee? Thou know'st me, thou hast found,
In the poor stranger knight, Messina's prince!
BEATRICE.
Give me the dear unknown again! With him
On earth's remotest wilds I could be blest!
DON CAESAR (behind the scene).
Away! What rabble throng is here?
BEATRICE.
That voice!
Oh heavens! Where shall I fly!
DON MANUEL.
Know'st thou that voice?
No! thou hast never heard it; to thine ear
'Tis strange----
BEATRICE.
Oh, come--delay not----
DON MANUEL.
Wherefore I fly?
It is my brother's voice! He seeks me--how
He tracked my steps----
BEATRICE.
By all the holy saints!
Brave not his wrath! oh quit this place--avoid him--
Meet not thy brother here!
DON MANUEL.
My soul! thy fears
Confound; thou hear'st me not; our strife is o'er.
Yes! we are reconciled.
BEATRICE.
Protect me, heaven,
In this dread hour!
DON MANUEL.
A sudden dire presage
Starts in my breast--I shudder at the thought:
If it be true! Oh, horror! Could she know
That voice! Wert thou--my tongue denies to utter
The words of fearful import--Beatrice!
Say, wert thou present at the funeral rites
Of my dead sire?
BEATRICE.
Alas!
DON MANUEL.
Thou wert!
BEATRICE.
Forgive me!
DON MANUEL.
Unhappy woman!
BEATRICE.
I was present!
DON MANUEL.
Horror!
BEATRICE.
Some mighty impulse urged me to the scene--
Oh, be not angry--to thyself I owned
The ardent fond desire; with darkening brow
Thou listened'st to my prayer, and I was silent,
But what misguiding inauspicious star
Allured, I know not; from my inmost soul
The wish, the dear emotion spoke; and vain
Aught else:--Diego gave consent--oh, pardon me!
I disobeyed thee.
DON CAESAR (rushes forward furiously, and at the sight of his brother
starts back with horror).
Some hell-born magic cheats
My senses; in her arms! Envenomed snake!
Is this thy love? For this thy treacherous heart
Could lure with guise of friendship! Oh, from heaven
Breathed my immortal hate! Down, down to hell,
Thou soul of falsehood!
DON MANUEL.
Beatrice!--my brother!
I die!
DON CAESAR.
Too late your grief--
Here give your help.
[Pointing to BEATRICE.
Call her to life, and quick
Depart this scene of terror and of death.
I must away and seek my sister:--Hence!
Conduct her to my mother--
And tell her that her son, Don Caesar, sends her!
[Exit.
Chorus (CAJETAN).
A third (CAJETAN).
Chorus (BERENGAR).
First (CAJETAN).
Second (BERENGAR).
[The Chorus goes away, bearing the corpse of DON MANUEL on a bier.
ISABELLA.
As yet no joyful tidings, not a trace
Found of the lost one!
DIEGO.
Nothing have we heard,
My mistress; yet o'er every track, unwearied,
Thy sons pursue. Ere long the rescued maid
Shall smile at dangers past.
ISABELLA.
Alas! Diego,
My heart is sad; 'twas I that caused this woe!
DIEGO.
Vex not thy anxious bosom; naught escaped
Thy thoughtful care.
ISABELLA.
Oh! had I earlier shown
The hidden treasure!
DIEGO.
Prudent were thy counsels,
Wisely thou left'st her in retirement's shade;
So, trust in heaven.
ISABELLA.
Alas! no joy is perfect
Without this chance of ill my bliss were pure.
DIEGO.
Thy happiness is but delayed; enjoy
The concord of thy sons.
ISABELLA.
The sight was rapture
Supreme, when, locked in one another's arms,
They glowed with brothers' love.
DIEGO.
And in the heart
It burns; for ne'er their princely souls have stooped
To mean disguise.
ISABELLA.
Now, too, their bosoms wake
To gentler thoughts, and own their softening sway
Of love. No more their hot, impetuous youth
Revels in liberty untamed, and spurns
Restraint of law, attempered passion's self,
With modest, chaste reserve.
To thee, Diego,
I will unfold my secret heart; this hour
Of feeling's opening bloom, expected long,
Wakes boding fears: thou know'st to sudden rage
Love stirs tumultuous breasts; and if this flame
With jealousy should rouse the slumbering fires
Of ancient hate--I shudder at the thought!
If these discordant souls perchance have thrilled
In fatal unison! Enough; the clouds
That black with thundering menace o'er me hung
Are past; some angel sped them tranquil by,
And my enfranchised spirit breathes again.
DIEGO.
Rejoice, my mistress; for thy gentle sense
And soft, prevailing art more weal have wrought
Than all thy husband's power. Be praise to thee
And thy auspicious star!
ISABELLA.
Yes, fortune smiled;
Nor light the task, so long with apt disguise
To veil the cherished secret of my heart,
And cheat my ever-jealous lord: more hard
To stifle mighty nature's pleading voice,
That, like a prisoned fire, forever strove
To rend its confines.
DIEGO.
All shall yet be well;
Fortune, propitious to our hopes, gave pledge
Of bliss that time will show.
ISABELLA.
I praise not yet
My natal star, while darkening o'er my fate
This mystery hangs: too well the dire mischance
Tells of the fiend whose never-slumbering rage
Pursues our house. Now list what I have done,
And praise or blame me as thou wilt; from thee
My bosom guards no secret: ill I brook
This dull repose, while swift o'er land and sea
My sons unwearied, track their sister's flight,
Yes, I have sought; heaven counsels oft, when vain
All mortal aid.
DIEGO.
What I may know, my mistress,
Declare.
ISABELLA.
On Etna's solitary height
A reverend hermit dwells,--benamed of old
The mountain seer,--who to the realms of light
More near abiding than the toilsome race
Of mortals here below, with purer air
Has cleansed each earthly, grosser sense away;
And from the lofty peak of gathered years,
As from his mountain home, with downward glance
Surveys the crooked paths of worldly strife.
To him are known the fortunes of our house;
Oft has the holy sage besought response
From heaven, and many a curse with earnest prayer
Averted: thither at my bidding flew,
On wings of youthful haste, a messenger,
To ask some tidings of my child: each hour
I wait his homeward footsteps.
DIEGO.
If mine eyes
Deceive me not, he comes; and well his speed
Has earned thy praise.
MESSENGER.
His answer: "Quick! retrace thy steps; the lost one
Is found."
ISABELLA.
Auspicious tongue! Celestial sounds
Of peace and joy! thus ever to my vows.
Thrice honored sage, thy kindly message spoke!
But say, which heaven-directed brother traced
My daughter?
MESSENGER.
'Twas thy eldest born that found
The deep-secluded maid.
ISABELLA.
Is it Don Manuel
That gives her to my arms? Oh, he was ever
The child of blessing! Tell me, hast thou borne
My offering to the aged man? the tapers
To burn before his saint? for gifts, the prize
Of worldly hearts, the man of God disdains.
MESSENGER.
He took the torches from my hands in silence
And stepping to the altar--where the lamp
Burned to his saint--illumed them at his fire,
And instant set in flames the hermit cell,
Where he has honored God these ninety years!
ISABELLA.
What hast thou said? What horrors fright my soul?
MESSENGER.
And three times shrieking "Woe!" with downward course,
He fled; but silent with uplifted arm
Beckoned me not to follow, nor regard him
So hither I have hastened, terror-sped.
ISABELLA.
Oh, I am tossed amid the surge again
Of doubt and anxious fears; thy tale appals
With ominous sounds of ill. My daughter found--
Thou sayest; and by my eldest born, Don Manuel?
The tidings ne'er shall bless, that heralded
This deed of woe!
MESSENGER.
My mistress! look around
Behold the hermit's message to thine eyes
Fulfilled. Some charm deludes my sense, or hither
Thy daughter comes, girt by the warlike train
Of thy two sons!
Chorus (BOHEMUND).
Here at thy feet we lay
The maid, obedient to our lord's command:
'Twas thus he spoke--"Conduct her to my mother;
And tell her that her son, Don Caesar, sends her!"
ISABELLA (is advancing towards her with outstretched arms, and starts
back in horror).
Heavens! she is motionless and pale!
Chorus (BOHEMUND).
She lives,
She will awake, but give her time to rouse
From the dread shock that holds each sense enthralled.
ISABELLA.
My daughter! Child of all my cares and pains!
And is it thus I see thee once again?
Thus thou returnest to thy father's halls!
Oh, let my breath relume thy vital spark;
Yes! I will strain thee to a mother's arms
And hold thee fast--till from the frost of death
Released thy life-warm current throbs again.
Chorus (BOHEMUND).
My lips are dumb!
Ask not of me: thy son will tell thee all--
Don Caesar--for 'tis he that sends her.
ISABELLA
'Tell me
Would'st thou not say Don Manuel?
Chorus (BOHEMUND).
'Tis Don Caesar
That sends her to thee.
MESSENGER.
'Twas he!
Thy elder born.
ISABELLA.
Be blessings on his head
Which e'er it be; to him I owe a daughter,
Alas! that in this blissful hour, so long
Expected, long implored, some envious fiend
Should mar my joy! Oh, I must stem the tide
Of nature's transport! In her childhood's home
I see my daughter; me she knows not--heeds not--
Nor answers to a mother's voice of love
Ope, ye dear eyelids--hands be warm--and heave
Thou lifeless bosom with responsive throbs
To mine! 'Tis she! Diego, look! 'tis Beatrice!
The long-concealed--the lost--the rescued one!
Before the world I claim her for my own!
Chorus (BOHEMUND).
New signs of terror to my boding soul
Are pictured;--in amazement lost I stand!
What light shall pierce this gloom of mystery?
DIEGO.
She opes her eyes!
She moves! She lives!
ISABELLA.
She lives! On me be thrown
Her earliest glance!
DIEGO.
See! They are closed again--
She shudders!
RORER.
Well pleased I shun her sight.
DIEGO.
With outstretched eyes,
And wonderstruck, she seems to measure thee.
BEATRICE.
Not strange those lineaments--where am I?
ISABELLA.
Slowly
Her sense returns.
DIEGO.
Behold! upon her knees
She sinks.
BEATRICE.
Oh, angel visage of my mother!
ISABELLA.
Child of my heart!
BEATRICE.
See! kneeling at thy feet
The guilty one!
ISABELLA.
I hold thee in my arms!
Enough--forgotten all!
DIEGO.
Look in my face,
Canst thou remember me?
BEATRICE.
The reverend brows
Of honest old Diego!
ISABELLA.
Faithful guardian
Of thy young years.
BEATRICE.
And am I once again
With kindred?
ISABELLA.
Naught but death shall part us more!
BEATRICE.
Will thou ne'er send me to the stranger?
ISABELLA.
Never!
Fate is appeased.
BEATRICE.
And am I next thy heart?
And was it all a dream--a hideous dream?
My mother! at my feet he fell! I know not
What brought me hither--yet 'tis well. Oh, bliss!
That I am safe in thy protecting arms;
They would have ta'en me to the princess, mother--
Sooner to death!
ISABELLA.
My daughter, calm thy fears;
Messina's princess----
BEATRICE.
Name her not again!
At that ill-omened sound the chill of death
Creeps through my trembling frame.
ISABELLA.
My child! but hear me----
BEATRICE.
She has two sons by mortal hate dissevered,
Don Manuel and Don Caesar----
ISABELLA.
'Tis myself!
Behold thy mother!
BEATRICE.
Have I heard thee? Speak!
ISABELLA.
I am thy mother, and Messina's princess!
BEATRICE.
Art thou Don Manuel's and Don Caesar's mother?
ISABELLA.
And thine! They are thy brethren whom thou namest.
BEATRICE.
Oh, gleam of horrid light!
ISABELLA.
What troubles thee?
Say, whence this strange emotion?
BEATRICE.
Yes! 'twas they!
Now I remember all; no dream deceived me,
They met--'tis fearful truth! Unhappy men!
Where have ye hid him?
[She rushes towards the Chorus; they turn away from her.
A funeral march is heard in the distance.
CHORUS.
Horror! Horror!
ISABELLA.
Hid!
Speak--who is hid? and what is true? Ye stand
In silent dull amaze--as though ye fathomed
Her words of mystery! In your faltering tones--
Your brows--I read of horrors yet unknown,
That would refrain my tongue! What is it? Tell me!
I will know all! Why fix ye on the door
That awe-struck gaze? What mournful music sounds?
Chorus (BOHEMUND).
It comes! it comes! and all shall be declared
With terrible voice. My mistress! steel thy heart,
Be firm, and bear with courage what awaits thee--
For more than women's soul thy destined griefs
Demand.
ISABELLA.
What comes? and what awaits me? Hark
With fearful tones the death-wail smites mine ear--
It echoes through the house! Where are my sons?
[The first Semi-chorus brings in the body of DON MANUEL
on a bier, which is placed at the side of the stage.
A black pall is spread over it.
Both Choruses.
BERENGAR.
CAJETAN.
ISABELLA.
What shall I hear? What horrors lurk beneath
This funeral pall?
[She steps towards the bier, but suddenly pauses,
and stands irresolute.
[To BEATRICE, who has thrown herself between her and the bier.
[On raising the pall she discovers the body of DON MANUEL.
CHORUS.
Unhappy mother! 'tis thy son. Thy lips
Have uttered what my faltering tongue denied.
ISABELLA.
My soul! My Manuel! Oh, eternal grief!
And is it thus I see thee? Thus thy life
Has bought thy sister from the spoiler's rage?
Where was thy brother? Could no arm be found
To shield thee? Oh, be cursed the hand that dug
These gory wounds! A curse on her that bore
The murderer of my son! Ten thousand curses
On all their race!
CHORUS.
Woe! Woe!
ISABELLA.
And is it thus
Ye keep your word, ye gods? Is this your truth?
Alas for him that trusts with honest heart
Your soothing wiles! Why have I hoped and trembled?
And this the issue of my prayers! Attend,
Ye terror-stricken witnesses, that feed
Your gaze upon my anguish; learn to know
How warning visions cheat, and boding seers
But mock our credulous hopes; let none believe
The voice of heaven!
When in my teeming womb
This daughter lay, her father, in a dream
Saw from his nuptial couch two laurels grow,
And in the midst a lily all in flames,
That, catching swift the boughs and knotted stems
Burst forth with crackling rage, and o'er the house
Spread in one mighty sea of fire. Perplexed
By this terrific dream my husband sought
The counsels of the mystic art, and thus
Pronounced the sage: "If I a daughter bore,
The murderess of his sons, the destined spring
Of ruin to our house, the baleful child
Should see the light."
ISABELLA.
For this her ruthless father spoke
The dire behest of death. I rescued her,
The innocent, the doomed one; from my arms
The babe was torn; to stay the curse of heaven,
And save my sons, the mother gave her child;
And now by robber hands her brother falls;
My child is guiltless. Oh, she slew him not!
CHORUS.
Woe! Woe!
ISABELLA.
No trust the fabling readers of the stars
Have e'er deserved. Hear how another spoke
With comfort to my soul, and him I deemed
Inspired to voice the secrets of the skies!
"My daughter should unite in love the hearts
Of my dissevered sons;" and thus their tales
Of curse and blessing on her head proclaim
Each other's falsehood. No, she ne'er has brought
A curse, the innocent; nor time was given
The blessed promise to fulfil; their tongues
Were false alike; their boasted art is vain;
With trick of words they cheat our credulous ears,
Or are themselves deceived! Naught ye may know
Of dark futurity, the sable streams
Of hell the fountain of your hidden lore,
Or yon bright spring of everlasting light!
ISABELLA.
My tongue shall speak as prompts my swelling heart;
My griefs shall cry to heaven. Why do we lift
Our suppliant hands, and at the sacred shrines
Kneel to adore? Good, easy dupes! What win we
From faith and pious awe? to touch with prayers
The tenants of yon azure realms on high,
Were hard as with an arrow's point to pierce
The silvery moon. Hid is the womb of time,
Impregnable to mortal glance, and deaf
The adamantine walls of heaven rebound
The voice of anguish:--Oh, 'tis one, whate'er
The flight of birds--the aspect of the stars!
The book of nature is a maze--a dream
The sage's art--and every sign a falsehood!
BEATRICE.
Why hast thou saved thy daughter, and defied
The curse of heaven, that marked me in thy womb
The child of woe? Short-sighted mother!--vain
Thy little arts to cheat the doom declared
By the all-wise interpreters, that knit
The far and near; and, with prophetic ken,
See the late harvest spring in times unborn.
Oh, thou hast brought destruction on thy race,
Withholding from the avenging gods their prey;
Threefold, with new embittered rage, they ask
The direful penalty; no thanks thy boon
Of life deserves--the fatal gift was sorrow!
CAJETAN.
BEATRICE.
Alas! 'tis he----
ISABELLA (stepping to meet him).
My Caesar! Oh, my son!
And is it thus I meet the? Look! Behold!
The crime of hand accursed!
ISABELLA.
Shuddering with earnest gaze, and motionless,
Thou stand'st.--yes! there my hopes repose, and all
That earth has of thy brother; in the bud
Nipped is your concord's tender flower, nor ever
With beauteous fruit shall glad a mother's eyes,
DON CAESAR.
Be comforted; thy sons, with honest heart,
To peace aspired, but heaven's decree was blood!
ISABELLA.
I know thou lovedst him well; I saw between ye,
With joy, the bands old Nature sweetly twined;
Thou wouldst have borne him in thy heart of hearts
With rich atonement of long wasted years!
But see--fell murder thwarts thy dear design,
And naught remains but vengeance!
DON CAESAR.
Come, my mother,
This is no place for thee. Oh, haste and leave
This sight of woe.
BEATRICE.
Alas! my mother!
DON CAESAR.
On this faithful bosom
Weep out thy pains; nor lost thy son,--his love
Shall dwell immortal in thy Caesar's breast.
DON CAESAR.
Oh, 'tis ecstasy! my mother,
To see her in thy arms! henceforth in love
A daughter--sister----
ISABELLA.
She stands before thine eyes--
Thy sister.
DON CAESAR.
She! My sister?
ISABELLA.
Ay, What other?
DON CAESAR.
My sister!
ISABELLA.
Thou hast sent her to me!
DON CAESAR.
Horror!
His sister, too!
CHORUS.
Woe! woe!
BEATRICE.
Alas! my mother!
ISABELLA.
Speak! I am all amaze!
DON CASAR.
Be cursed the day
When I was born!
ISABELLA.
Eternal powers!
DON CAESAR.
Accursed
The womb that bore me; cursed the secret arts,
The spring of all this woe; instant to crush thee,
Though the dread thunder swept--ne'er should this arm
Refrain the bolts of death: I slew my brother!
Hear it and tremble! in her arms I found him;
She was my love, my chosen bride; and he--
My brother--in her arms! Thou hast heard all!
If it be true--oh, if she be my sister--
And his! then I have done a deed that mocks
The power of sacrifice and prayers to ope
The gates of mercy to my soul!
Chorus (BOHEMUND).
ISABELLA.
The gods have done their worst; if they be true
Or false, 'tis one--for nothing they can add
To this--the measure of their rage is full.
Why should I tremble that have naught to fear?
My darling son lies murdered, and the living
I call my son no more. Oh! I have borne
And nourished at my breast a basilisk
That stung my best-beloved child. My daughter, haste,
And leave this house of horrors--I devote it
To the avenging fiends! In an evil hour
'Twas crime that brought me hither, and of crime
The victim I depart. Unwillingly
I came--in sorrow I have lived--despairing
I quit these halls; on me, the innocent,
Descends this weight of woe! Enough--'tis shown
That Heaven is just, and oracles are true!
[Exit.
Chorus (CAJETAN).
BOHEMUND.
My prince, it shall be quickly done; for still
Upreared, the gorgeous catafalque recalls
The dread solemnity; no hand disturbed
The edifice of death.
DON CAESAR.
The yawning grave
Amid the haunts of life? No goodly sign
Was this: the rites fulfilled, why lingered yet
The trappings of the funeral show?
BOHEMUND.
Your strife
With fresh embittered hate o'er all Messina
Woke discord's maddening flames, and from the deed
Our cares withdrew--so resolute remained,
And closed the sanctuary.
DON CAESAR.
Make no delay;
This very night fulfil your task, for well
Beseems the midnight gloom! To-morrow's sun
Shall find this palace cleansed of every stain,
And light a happier race.
CAJETAN.
Shall I invite
The brotherhood of monks, with rights ordained
By holy church of old, to celebrate
The office of departed souls, and hymn
The buried one to everlasting rest?
DON CAESAR.
Their strains above my tomb shall sound for ever
Amid the torches' blaze--no solemn rites
Beseem the day when gory murder scares
Heaven's pardoning grace.
CAJETAN.
Oh, let not wild despair
Tempt thee to impious, rash resolve. My prince
No mortal arm shall e'er avenge this deed;
And penance calms, with soft, atoning power,
The wrath on high.
DON CAESAR.
If for eternal justice
Earth has no minister, myself shall wield
The avenging sword; though heaven, with gracious ear,
Inclines to sinners' prayers, with blood alone
Atoned is murder's guilt.
CAJETAN.
To stem the tide
Of dire misfortune, that with maddening rage
Bursts o'er your house, were nobler than to pile
Accumulated woe.
DON CAESAR.
The curse of old
Shall die with me! Death self-imposed alone
Can break the chain of fate.
CAJETAN.
Thou owest thyself
A sovereign to this orphaned land, by thee
Robbed of its other lord!
DON CAESAR.
The avenging gods
Demand their prey--some other deity
May guard the living!
CAJETAN.
Wide as e'er the sun
In glory beams, the realm of hope extends;
But--oh remember! nothing may we gain
From Death!
DON CAESAR.
Remember thou thy vassal's duty;
Remember and be silent! Leave to me
To follow, as I list, the spirit of power
That leads me to the goal. No happy one
May look into my breast: but if thy prince
Owns not a subject's homage, dread at least
The murderer!--the accursed!--and to the head
Of the unhappy--sacred to the gods--
Give honors due. The pangs that rend my soul--
What I have suffered--what I feel--have left
No place for earthly thoughts!
Chorus.
DON CAESAR.
Heedless and vain, my mother, are thy prayers
For me and for thyself; I have no place
Among the living: if thine eyes may brook
The murderer's sight abhorred--I could not bear
The mute reproach of thy eternal sorrow.
ISABELLA.
Silent or loud, my son, reproach shall never
Disturb thy breast--ne'er in these halls shall sound
The voice of wailing, gently on my tears
My griefs shall flow away: the sport alike
Of pitiless fate together we will mourn,
And veil the deed of blood.
ISABELLA.
All Christendom is rich
In shrines of mercy, where the troubled heart
May find repose. Oh! many a heavy burden
Have sinners in Loretto's mansion laid;
And Heaven's peculiar blessing breathes around
The grave that has redeemed the world! The prayers
Of the devout are precious--fraught with store
Of grace, they win forgiveness from the skies;--
And on the soil by gory murder stained
Shall rise the purifying fane.
DON CAESAR.
We pluck
The arrow from the wound--but the torn heart
Shall ne'er be healed. Let him who can, drag on
A weary life of penance and of pain,
To cleanse the spot of everlasting guilt;--
I would not live the victim of despair;
No! I must meet with beaming eye the smile
Of happy ones, and breathe erect the air
Of liberty and joy. While yet alike
We shared thy love, then o'er my days of youth
Pale envy cast his withering shade; and now,
Think'st thou my heart could brook the dearer ties
That bind thee in thy sorrow to the dead?
Death, in his undecaying palace throned,
To the pure diamond of perfect virtue
Sublimes the mortal, and with chastening fire
Each gathered stain of frail humanity
Purges and burns away: high as the stars
Tower o'er this earthly sphere, he soars above me;
And as by ancient hate dissevered long,
Brethren and equal denizens we lived,
So now my restless soul with envy pines,
That he has won from me the glorious prize
Of immortality, and like a god
In memory marches on to times unborn!
ISABELLA.
My Sons! Why have I called you to Messina
To find for each a grave? I brought ye hither
To calm your strife to peace. Lo! Fate has turned
My hopes to blank despair.
DON CAESAR.
Whate'er was spoke,
My mother, is fulfilled! Blame not the end
By Heaven ordained. We trode our father's halls
With hopes of peace; and reconciled forever,
Together we shall sleep in death.
ISABELLA.
My son,
Live for thy mother! In the stranger's land,
Say, wouldst thou leave me friendless and alone,
To cruel scorn a prey--no filial arm
To shield my helpless age?
DON CAESAR.
When all the world
With heartless taunts pursues thee, to our grave
For refuge fly, my mother, and invoke
Thy sons' divinity--we shall be gods!
And we will hear thy prayers:--and as the twins
Of heaven, a beaming star of comfort shine
To the tossed shipman--we will hover near thee
With present help, and soothe thy troubled soul!
ISABELLA.
Live--for thy mother, live, my son--
Must I lose all?
DON CAESAR.
Farewell!
ISABELLA.
I can no more;
Too well my tortured bosom owns how weak
A mother's prayers: a mightier voice shall sound
Resistless on thy heart.
My daughter, come.
A brother calls him to the realms of night;
Perchance with golden hues of earthly joy
The sister, the beloved, may gently lure
The wanderer to life again.
DON CAESAR (on seeing her, covers his face with his hands).
My mother!
What hast thou done?
DON CAESAR.
Deceitful mother, thus
Thou triest thy son! And wouldst thou stir my soul
Again to passion's strife, and make the sun
Beloved once more, now when I tread the paths
Of everlasting night? See where he stands--
Angel of life!--and wondrous beautiful,
Shakes from his plenteous horn the fragrant store
Of golden fruits and flowers, that breathe around
Divinest airs of joy;--my heart awakes
In the warm sunbeam--hope returns, and life
Thrills in my breast anew.
BEATRICE.
The loved one
A sacrifice demands. Oh, let me die
To soothe a brother's shade! Yes, I will be
The victim! Ere I saw the light forewarned
To death, I live a wrong to heaven! The curse
Pursues me still: 'twas I that slew thy son--
I waked the slumbering furies of their strife--
Be mine the atoning blood!
CAJETAN.
Ill-fated mother!
Impatient all thy children haste to doom,
And leave thee on the desolate waste alone
Of joyous life.
BEATRICE.
Oh, spare thy precious days
For nature's band. Thy mother needs a son;
My brother, live for her! Light were the pang
To lose a daughter--but a moment shown,
Then snatched away!
BEATRICE.
Say, dost thou envy
Thy brother's ashes?
DON CAESAR.
In thy grief he lives
A hallowed life!--my doom is death forever!
BEATRICE.
My brother!
DON CAESAR.
Sister! are thy tears for me?
BEATRICE.
Live for our mother!
Chorus (BOHEMUND).
She has won!
Resistless are her prayers. Despairing mother,
Awake to hope again--his choice is made!
Thy son shall live!
THE END
On these grounds I might safely leave the chorus to be its own advocate,
if we had ever seen it presented in an appropriate manner. But it must
be remembered that a dramatic composition first assumes the character of
a whole by means of representation on the stage. The poet supplies only
the words, to which, in a lyrical tragedy, music and rhythmical motion
are essential accessories. It follows, then, that if the chorus is
deprived of accompaniments appealing so powerfully to the senses, it will
appear a superfluity in the economy of the drama--a mere hinderance to
the development of the plot--destructive to the illusion of the scene,
and wearisome to the spectators.
Every one expects from the imaginative arts a certain emancipation from
the bounds of reality: we are willing to give a scope to fancy, and
recreate ourselves with the possible. The man who expects it the least
will nevertheless forget his ordinary pursuits, his everyday existence
and individuality, and experience delight from uncommon incidents:--if he
be of a serious turn of mind he will acknowledge on the stage that moral
government of the world which he fails to discover in real life. But he
is, at the same time, perfectly aware that all is an empty show, and that
in a true sense he is feeding only on dreams. When he returns from the
theatre to the world of realities, he is again compressed within its
narrow bounds; he is its denizen as before--for it remains what it was,
and in him nothing has been changed. What, then, has he gained beyond a
momentary illusive pleasure which vanished with the occasion?
Art has for its object not merely to afford a transient pleasure, to
excite to a momentary dream of liberty; its aim is to make us absolutely
free; and this it accomplishes by awakening, exercising, and perfecting
in us a power to remove to an objective distance the sensible world;
(which otherwise only burdens us as rugged matter, and presses us down
with a brute influence;) to transform it into the free working of our
spirit, and thus acquire a dominion over the material by means of ideas.
For the very reason also that true art requires somewhat of the objective
and real, it is not satisfied with a show of truth. It rears its ideal
edifice on truth itself--on the solid and deep foundations of nature.
But how art can be at once altogether ideal, yet in the strictest sense
real; how it can entirely leave the actual, and yet harmonize with
nature, is a problem to the multitude; and hence the distorted views
which prevail in regard to poetical and plastic works; for to ordinary
judgments these two requisites seem to counteract each other.
Yet, in truth, even art cannot present it to the senses, but by means of
her creative power to the imaginative faculty alone; and it is thus that
she becomes more true than all reality, and more real than all
experience. It follows from these premises that the artist can use no
single element taken from reality as he finds it--that his work must be
ideal in all its parts, if it be designed to have, as it were, an
intrinsic reality, and to harmonize with nature.
What is true of art and poetry, in the abstract, holds good as to their
various kinds; and we may apply what has been advanced to the subject of
tragedy. In this department it is still necessary to controvert the
ordinary notion of the natural, with which poetry is altogether
incompatible. A certain ideality has been allowed in painting, though, I
fear, on grounds rather conventional than intrinsic; but in dramatic
works what is desired is allusion, which, if it could be accomplished by
means of the actual, would be, at best, a paltry deception. All the
externals of a theatrical representation are opposed to this notion; all
is merely a symbol of the real. The day itself in a theatre is an
artificial one; the metrical dialogue is itself ideal; yet the conduct of
the play must forsooth be real, and the general effect sacrificed to a
part. Thus the French, who have utterly misconceived the spirit of the
ancients, adopted on their stage the unities of tine and place in the
most common and empirical sense; as though there were any place but the
bare ideal one, or any other time than the mere sequence of the
incidents.
It is well-known that the Greek tragedy had its origin in the chorus; and
though in process of time it became independent, still it may be said
that poetically, and in spirit, the chorus was the source of its
existence, and that without these persevering supporters and witnesses of
the incident a totally different order of poetry would have grown out of
the drama. The abolition of the chorus, and the debasement of this
sensibly powerful organ into the characterless substitute of a confidant,
is by no means such an improvement in the tragedy as the French, and
their imitators, would have it supposed to be.
The old tragedy, which at first only concerned itself with gods, heroes
and kings introduced the chorus as an essential accompaniment. The poets
found it in nature, and for that reason employed it. It grew out of the
poetical aspect of real life. In the new tragedy it becomes an organ of
art, which aids in making the poetry prominent. The modern poet no
longer finds the chorus in nature; he must needs create and introduce it
poetically; that is, he must resolve on such an adaption of his story as
will admit of its retrocession to those primitive times and to that
simple form of life.
The chorus thus renders more substantial service to the modern dramatist
than to the old poet--and for this reason, that it transforms the
commonplace actual world into the old poetical one; that it enables him
to dispense with all that is repugnant to poetry, and conducts him back
to the most simple, original, and genuine motives of action. The palaces
of kings are in these days closed--courts of justice have been
transferred from the gates of cities to the interior of buildings;
writing has narrowed the province of speech; the people itself--the
sensibly living mass--when it does not operate as brute force, has become
a part of the civil polity, and thereby an abstract idea in our minds;
the deities have returned within the bosoms of mankind. The poet must
reopen the palaces--he must place courts of justice beneath the canopy of
heaven--restore the gods, reproduce every extreme which the artificial
frame of actual life has abolished--throw aside every factitious
influence on the mind or condition of man which impedes the manifestation
of his inward nature and primitive character, as the statuary rejects
modern costume:--and of all external circumstances adopts nothing but
what is palpable in the highest of forms--that of humanity.
But precisely as the painter throws around his figures draperies of ample
volume, to fill up the space of his picture richly and gracefully, to
arrange its several parts in harmonious masses, to give due play to
color, which charms and refreshes the eye--and at once to envelop human
forms in a spiritual veil, and make them visible--so the tragic poet
inlays and entwines his rigidly contracted plot and the strong outlines
of his characters with a tissue of lyrical magnificence, in which, as in
flowing robes of purple, they move freely and nobly, with a sustained
dignity and exalted repose.
But as the painter finds himself obliged to strengthen the tone of color
of the living subject, in order to counterbalance the material
influences--so the lyrical effusions of the chorus impose upon the poet
the necessity of a proportionate elevation of his general diction. It is
the chorus alone which entitles the poet to employ this fulness of tone,
which at once charms the senses, pervades the spirit, and expands the
mind. This one giant form on his canvas obliges him to mount all his
figures on the cothurnus, and thus impart a tragical grandeur to his
picture. If the chorus be taken away, the diction of the tragedy must
generally be lowered, or what is now great and majestic will appear
forced and overstrained. The old chorus introduced into the French
tragedy would present it in all its poverty, and reduce it to nothing;
yet, without doubt, the same accompaniment would impart to Shakspeare's
tragedy its true significance.
As the chorus gives life to the language--so also it gives repose to the
action; but it is that beautiful and lofty repose which is the
characteristic of a true work of art. For the mind of the spectator
ought to maintain its freedom through the most impassioned scenes; it
should not be the mere prey of impressions, but calmly and severely
detach itself from the emotions which it suffers. The commonplace
objection made to the chorus, that it disturbs the illusion, and blunts
the edge of the feelings, is what constitutes its highest recommendation;
for it is this blind force of the affections which the true artist
deprecates--this illusion is what he disdains to excite. If the strokes
which tragedy inflicts on our bosoms followed without respite, the
passion would overpower the action. We should mix ourselves with the
subject-matter, and no longer stand above it. It is by holding asunder
the different parts, and stepping between the passions with its composing
views, that the chorus restores to us our freedom, which would else be
lost in the tempest. The characters of the drama need this intermission
in order to collect themselves; for they are no real beings who obey the
impulse of the moment, and merely represent individuals--but ideal
persons and representatives of their species, who enunciate the deep
things of humanity.
Thus much on my attempt to revive the old chorus on the tragic stage. It
is true that choruses are not unknown to modern tragedy; but the chorus
of the Greek drama, as I have employed it--the chorus, as a single ideal
person, furthering and accompanying the whole plot--if of an entirely
distinct character; and when, in discussion on the Greek tragedy, I hear
mention made of choruses, I generally suspect the speaker's ignorance of
his subject. In my view the chorus has never been reproduced since the
decline of the old tragedy.
SCHILLER'S POEMS
CONTENTS:
Hymn to Joy
The Invincible Armada
The Gods of Greece
Resignation
The Conflict
The Artists
The Celebrated Woman
Written in a Young Lady's Album
The Meeting
The Secret
The Assignation
Longing
Evening (After a Picture)
The Pilgrim
The Ideals
The Youth by the Brook
To Emma
The Favor of the Moment
The Lay of the Mountain
The Alpine Hunter
Dithyramb
The Four Ages of the World
The Maiden's Lament
To My Friends
Punch Song
Nadowessian Death Lament
The Feast of Victory
Punch Song
The Complaint of Ceres
The Eleusinian Festival
The Ring of Polycrates
The Cranes of Ibycus (A Ballad)
The Playing Infant
Hero and Leander (A Ballad)
Cassandra
The Hostage (A Ballad)
Greekism
The Diver (A Ballad)
The Fight with the Dragon
Female Judgment
Fridolin; or, the Walk to the Iron Foundry
The Genius with the Inverted Torch
The Count of Hapsburg (A Ballad)
The Forum of Women
The Glove (A Tale)
The Circle of Nature
The Veiled Statue at Sais
The Division of the Earth
The Fairest Apparition
The Ideal and the Actual Life
Germany and her Princes
Dangerous Consequences
The Maiden from Afar
The Honorable
Parables and Riddles
The Virtue of Woman
The Walk
The Lay of the Bell
The Power of Song
To Proselytizers
Honor to Woman
Hope
The German Art
Odysseus
Carthage
The Sower
The Knights of St. John
The Merchant
German Faith
The Sexes
Love and Desire
The Bards of Olden Time
Jove to Hercules
The Antiques of Paris
Thekla (A Spirit Voice)
The Antique to the Northern Wanderer
The Iliad
Pompeii and Herculaneum
Naenia
The Maid of Orleans
Archimedes
The Dance
The Fortune-Favored
Bookseller's Announcement
Genius
Honors
The Philosophical Egotist
The Best State Constitution
The Words of Belief
The Words of Error
The Power of Woman
The Two Paths of Virtue
The Proverbs of Confucius
Human Knowledge
Columbus
Light and Warmth
Breadth and Depth
The Two Guides of Life
The Immutable
VOTIVE TABLETS
Different Destinies
The Animating Principle
Two Descriptions of Action
Difference of Station
Worth and the Worthy
The Moral Force
Participation
To----
The Present Generation
To the Muse
The Learned Workman
The Duty of All
A Problem
The Peculiar Ideal
To Mystics
The Key
The Observer
Wisdom and Prudence
The Agreement
Political Precept
Majestas Populi
The Difficult Union
To a World-Reformer
My Antipathy
Astronomical Writings
The Best State
To Astronomers
My Faith
Inside and Outside
Friend and Foe
Light and Color
Genius
Beauteous Individuality
Variety
The imitator
Geniality
The Inquirers
Correctness
The Three Ages of Nature
The Law of Nature
Choice
Science of Music
To the Poet
Language
The Master
The Girdle
The Dilettante
The Babbler of Art
The Philosophies
The Favor of the Muses
Homer's Head as a Seal
TRIFLES
The Epic Hexameter
The Distich
The Eight-line Stanza
The Obelisk
The Triumphal Arch
The Beautiful Bridge
The Gate
St. Peter's
The Philosophers
The Homerides
G. G.
The Moral Poet
The Danaides
The Sublime Subject
The Artifice
Immortality
Jeremiads
Shakespeare's Ghost
The Rivers
Zenith and Nadir
Kant and his Commentators
The Philosophers
The Metaphysician
Pegasus in harness
Knowledge
The Poetry of Life
To Goethe
The Present
Departure from Life
Verses written in the Album of a Learned Friend
Verses written in the Album of a Friend
The Sunday Children
The Highest
The Puppet-show of Life
To Lawgivers
False Impulse to Study
To the Prince of Weimar
The Ideal of Woman (To Amanda)
The Fountain of Second Youth
William Tell
To a Young Friend Devoting Himself to Philosophy
Expectation and Fulfilment
The Common Fate
Human Action
Nuptial Ode
The Commencement of the New Century
Grecian Genius
The Father
The Connecting Medium
The Moment
German Comedy
Farewell to the Reader
Dedications to Death
Preface
SUPPRESSED POEMS
[This and the following poem are, with some alterations, introduced
in the Play of "The Robbers."]
ANDROMACHE.
Will Hector leave me for the fatal plain,
Where, fierce with vengeance for Patroclus slain,
Stalks Peleus' ruthless son?
Who, when thou glid'st amid the dark abodes,
To hurl the spear and to revere the gods,
Shall teach thine orphan one?
HECTOR.
Woman and wife beloved--cease thy tears;
My soul is nerved--the war-clang in my ears!
Be mine in life to stand
Troy's bulwark!--fighting for our hearths, to go
In death, exulting to the streams below,
Slain for my fatherland!
ANDROMACHE.
No more I hear thy martial footsteps fall--
Thine arms shall hang, dull trophies, on the wall--
Fallen the stem of Troy!
Thou goest where slow Cocytus wanders--where
Love sinks in Lethe, and the sunless air
Is dark to light and joy!
HECTOR.
Longing and thought--yes, all I feel and think
May in the silent sloth of Lethe sink,
But my love not!
Hark, the wild swarm is at the walls!--I hear!
Gird on my sword--Beloved one, dry the tear--
Lethe for love is not!
AMALIA.
A FUNERAL FANTASIE.
FANTASIE--TO LAURA.
RAPTURE--TO LAURA.
MELANCHOLY--TO LAURA.
THE BATTLE.
ROUSSEAU.
FRIENDSHIP.
ELYSIUM.
THE FUGITIVE.
In search of repose
From my heart-rending woes,
Oh, where shall my sad spirit flee?
The earth's smiling face,
With its sweet youthful grace,
A tomb must, alas, be for me!
TO MINNA.
THE FLOWERS.
A HYMN.
. . . . .
. . . . .
. . . . .
. . . . .
. . . . .
TO A MORALIST.
A WAR SONG.
TO THE SPRING.
SEMELE:
IN TWO SCENES.
Dramatis Personae.
JUNO.
SEMELE, Princess of Thebes.
JUPITER.
MERCURY.
SEMELE.
Ha! Do I dream? Am I awake? Gods! Beroe!
JUNO.
Is't possible that Semele can e'er
Forget her nurse?
SEMELE.
How, my good nurse? Thy language ne'er was wont
To be mysterious or of hidden meaning;
The spirit of gray hairs 'tis speaks in thee;
Thou sayest I ne'er shall taste of Lethe's draught?
JUNO.
I said so, yes! But wherefore ridicule
Gray hairs? 'Tis true that they, unlike fair tresses,
Have ne'er been able to ensnare a god!
SEMELE.
Pardon poor thoughtless me! What cause have I
To ridicule gray hairs? Can I suppose
That mine forever fair will grace my neck?
But what was that I heard thee muttering
Between thy teeth? A god?
JUNO.
My daughter! Inspiration spurs thee on,
Raising thy heart to flights of Helicon!
If thus in strains of Delphic ecstasy
Ascends the short-lived blissful memory
Of his bright charms,--Oh, how divine must be
His own sweet voice,--his look how heavenly!
But why of that great attribute
Kronion joys in most, be mute,--
The majesty that hurls the thunder,
And tears the fleeting clouds asunder?
Wilt thou say naught of that alone?
Prometheus and Deucalion
May lend the fairest charms of love,
But none can wield the bolt save Jove!
The thunderbolt it is alone
Which he before thy feet laid down
That proves thy right to beauty's crown.
SEMELE.
What sayest thou? What are thunder-bolts to me?
JUNO. (Smiling.)
Ah, Semele! A jest becomes thee well!
SEMELE.
Deucalion has no offspring so divine
As is my Zeus--of thunder naught I know.
JUNO.
Mere envy! Fie!
JUNO.
Thou swearest?
JUNO.
Repeat the word that dooms thee to become
the wretchedest of all on earth's wide face!--
Alas, lost creature! 'Twas not Zeus!
JUNO. (Hastily.)
Thou must not let him sink into thine arms.
Till he unveils himself--so hearken, child,
To what thy faithful nurse now counsels thee,--
To what affection whispers in mine ear,
And will accomplish!--Say! will he soon come?
SEMELE.
Before Hyperion sinks in Thetis' bed,
He promised to appear.
JUNO. (Forgetting herself hastily.) Is't so, indeed?
He promised? Ha! To-day? (Recovering herself.) Let him approach,
And when he would attempt, inflamed with love,
To clasp his arms around thee, then do thou,--
Observe me well,--as if by lightning struck,
Start back in haste. Ha! picture his surprise!
Leave him not long in wonderment, my child;
Continue to repulse him with a look
As cold as ice--more wildly, with more ardor
He'll press thee then--the coyness of the fair
Is but a dam, that for awhile keeps back
The torrent, only to increase the flood
With greater fury. Then begin to weep
'Gainst giants he might stand,--look calmly on
When Typheus, hundred-armed, in fury hurled
Mount Ossa and Olympus 'gainst his throne:
But Zeus is soon subdued by beauty's tears.
Thou smilest?--Be it so! Is, then, the scholar
Wiser, perchance, than she who teaches her?--
Then thou must pray the god one little, little
Most innocent request to grant to thee--
One that may seal his love and godhead too.
He'll swear by Styx. The Styx he must obey!
That oath he dares not break! Then speak these words:
"Thou shalt not touch this body, till thou comest
To Cadmus' daughter clothed in all the might
Wherein thou art embraced by Kronos' daughter!"
Be not thou terrified, my Semele,
If he, in order to escape thy wish,
As bugbears paints the horrors of his presence--
Describes the flames that round about him roar,
The thunder round him rolling when he comes:
These, Semele, are naught but empty fears--
The gods dislike to show to us frail mortals
These the most glorious of their attributes;
Be thou but obstinate in thy request,
And Juno's self will gaze on thee with envy.
SEMELE.
The frightful ox-eyed one! How often he
Complains, in the blest moments of our love,
Of her tormenting him with her black gall--
SEMELE.
My Beroe! What art thou murmuring there?
SEMELE.
Oh, Beroe, for shame! they're quite the worst
That any head can possibly contain!
And then her cheeks of green and yellow hues,
The obvious penalty of poisonous envy--
Zeus oft complains to me that that same shrew
Each night torments him with her nauseous love,
And with her jealous whims,--enough, I'm sure,
Into Ixion's wheel to turn all heaven.
SEMELE.
Here let her wander, and give birth to scorn!
What is't to me?--My Jupiter protects
My every hair,--what harm can Juno do?
But now, enough of this, my Beroe!
Zeus must appear to-day in all his glory;
And if Saturnia should on that account
Find out the path to Orcus--
SEMELE. (Inspired.)
I will harken to their prayer,
And will drive away their care,--
Quench with my tears the lightning of great Jove,
His breast to pity with entreaty move!
JUNO. (Aside.)
Poor thing! that wilt thou ne'er have power to do. (Meditating.)
Ere long will melt . . . yet--yet--she called me ugly!--
No pity only when in Tartarus!
(To Semele.)
Fly now, my love! Make haste to leave this spot,
That Zeus may not observe thee--Let him wait
Long for thy coming, that he with more fire
May languish for thee--
SCENE II.
ZEUS.
Thou son of Maia!
MERCURY. (Rising.)
Let but thy head a nod almighty give,
And in an instant I am there,--am back
In the same instant--
MERCURY.
With trembling haste I execute thy wrath,--
With joyous speed thy messages of grace,
Father of all! For to the deities
'Tis bliss to make man happy; to destroy him
Is anguish to the gods. Thy will be done!
Where shall I pour into thine ears their thanks,--
Below in dust, or at thy throne on high?
ZEUS.
Here at my throne on earth--within the palace,
Of Semele! Away! [Exit Mercury.
Does she not come,
As is her wont, Olympus' mighty king
To clasp against her rapture-swelling breast?
Why hastens not my Semele to meet me?
A vacant, deathlike, fearful silence reigns
On every side around the lonely palace,
So wont to ring with wild bacchantic shouts--
No breath is stirring--on Cithaeron's height
Exulting Juno stands. Will Semele
Never again make haste to meet her Zeus?
(A pause, after which he continues.)
Ha! Can yon impious one perchance have dared
To set her foot in my love's sanctuary?--
Saturnia--Mount Cithaeron--her rejoicings
Fearful foreboding!--Semele--yet peace!--
Take courage!--I'm thy Zeus! the scattered heavens
Shall learn, my Semele, that I'm thy Zeus!
Where is the breath of air that dares presume
Roughly to blow on her whom Zeus calls His?
I scoff at all her malice.--Where art thou,
O Semele? I long have pined to rest
My world-tormented head upon thy breast,--
To lull my wearied senses to repose
From the wild storm of earthly joys and woes,--
To dream away the emblems of my might,
My reins, my tiller, and my chariot bright,
And live for naught beyond the joys of love!
Oh heavenly inspiration, that can move
Even the Gods divine! What is the blood
Of mighty Uranus--what all the flood
Of nectar and ambrosia--what the throne
Of high Olympus--what the power I own,
The golden sceptre of the starry skies--
What the omnipotence that never dies,
What might eternal, immortality--
What e'en a god, oh love, if reft of thee?
The shepherd who, beside the murmuring brooks,
Leans on his true love's breast, nor cares to look
After his straying lambs, in that sweet hour
Envies me not my thunderbolt of power!
She comes--she hastens nigh! Pearl of my works,
Woman! the artist who created thee
Should be adored. 'Twas I--myself I worship
Zeus worships Zeus, for Zeus created thee.
Ha! Who will now, in all the being-realm,
Condemn me? How unseen, yes, how despised
Dwindle away my worlds, my constellations
So ray-diffusing, all my dancing systems,
What wise men call the music of my spheres!--
How dead are all when weighed against a soul!
(Semele approaches, without looking up.)
My pride! my throne on earth! Oh Semele!
(He rushes towards her; she seeks to fly.)
Thou flyest?--art mute?--Ha! Semele! thou flyest?
SEMELE.
Out of my sight!
SEMELE.
My heart was vowed to him whose ape thou art!
Men ofttimes come beneath a godlike form
To snare a woman. Hence! thou art not Zeus!
ZEUS.
Thou doubtest? What! Can Semele still doubt
My godhead?
SEMELE. (Mournfully.)
Would that thou wert Zeus! No son
Of morrow-nothingness shall touch this mouth;
This heart is vowed to Zeus! Would thou wert he!
ZEUS.
Pygmalion bowed before his masterpiece--
And Zeus now worships his own Semele!
SEMELE. Arise!
Zeus reigns on high, above the thunderbolts,
And, clasped in Juno's arms, a reptile scorns.
ZEUS. (Hastily.)
Ha! Semele and Juno!--which the reptile!
SEMELE.
How blessed beyond all utterance would be
Cadmus' daughter--wert thou Zeus! Alas!
Thou art not Zeus!
SEMELE.
Strong is that mortal's arm whom gods protect,--
Saturnius loves thee--none can I e'er love
But deities--
SEMELE.
Withdraw, withdraw thy hand!--Oh, mercy, mercy,
For the poor nation! Yes, thou art the child
Of great Saturnius--
SEMELE.
Would Zeus do that?
ZEUS. Speak, Semele! What more?
Apollo's self confesses that 'tis bliss
To be a man 'mongst men--a sign from thee,
And I'm a man!
SEMELE. Saturnia--
SEMELE.
Methinks thou'rt niggard of thy majesty!
ZEUS.
Accursed be my majesty, that now
Has blinded thee! Accursed be my greatness,
That must destroy thee! Cursed be I myself
For having built my bliss on crumbling dust!
SEMELE.
These are but empty terrors, Zeus! In truth
I do not dread thy threats!
ZEUS. Deluded child!
Go! take a last farewell forever more
Of all thy friends beloved--naught, naught has power
To save thee, Semele! I am thy Zeus!
Yet that no more--Go--
ZEUS.
No! Juno shall not triumph.--She shall tremble--
Aye, and by virtue of the deadly might
That makes the earth and makes the heavens my footstool,
Upon the sharpest rock in Thracia's land
With adamantine chains I'll bind her fast.
But, oh, this oath--
[Mercury appears in the distance.
What means thy hasty flight?
MERCURY.
I bring the fiery, winged, and weeping thanks
Of those whom thou hast blessed--
HYMN TO JOY.
CHORUS.
Welcome, all ye myriad creatures!
Brethren, take the kiss of love!
Yes, the starry realms above
Hide a Father's smiling features!
CHORUS.
All who Nature's tribes are swelling
Homage pay to sympathy;
For she guides us up on high,
Where the unknown has his dwelling.
CHORUS.
Bow before him, all creation!
Mortals, own the God of love!
Seek him high the stars above,--
Yonder is his habitation!
CHORUS.
As through heaven's expanse so glorious
In their orbits suns roll on,
Brethren, thus your proud race run,
Glad as warriors all-victorious!
CHORUS.
Mortals, meekly wait for heaven
Suffer on in patient love!
In the starry realms above,
Bright rewards by God are given.
CHORUS.
Sense of wrongs forget to treasure--
Brethren, live in perfect love!
In the starry realms above,
God will mete as we may measure.
CHORUS.
He whom seraphs worship ever;
Whom the stars praise as they roll,
Yes to him now drain the bowl
Mortal eye can see him never!
CHORUS.
Draw the sacred circle closer!
By this bright wine plight your troth
To be faithful to your oath!
Swear it by the Star-Disposer!
CHORUS.
When the golden bowl is broken,
Gentle sleep within the tomb!
Brethren, may a gracious doom
By the Judge of man be spoken!
To-morrow to receive
New life, she digs her proper grave to-day;
And icy moons with weary sameness weave
From their own light their fulness and decay.
Home to the poet's land the gods are flown,
Light use in them that later world discerns,
Which, the diviner leading-strings outgrown,
On its own axle turns.
THE ARTISTS.
THE MEETING.
THE SECRET.
LONGING.
EVENING.
(AFTER A PICTURE.)
THE PILGRIM.
THE IDEALS.
TO EMMA.
DITHYRAMB. [23]
It murmurs, it sparkles,
The fount of delight;
The bosom grows tranquil--
The eye becomes bright.
TO MY FRIENDS.
PUNCH SONG.
NADOWESSIAN DEATH-LAMENT.
PUNCH SONG.
A BALLAD.
A BALLAD.
A BALLAD.
CASSANDRA.
A BALLAD.
GREEKISM.
THE DIVER.
A BALLAD.
A BALLAD.
FEMALE JUDGMENT.
Man frames his judgment on reason; but woman on love founds her verdict;
If her judgment loves not, woman already has judged.
FRIDOLIN; OR, THE WALK TO THE IRON FOUNDRY.
Lovely he looks, 'tis true, with the light of his torch now extinguished;
But remember that death is not aesthetic, my friends!
A BALLAD.
And behold! 'mongst the princes who stand round the throne
Steps the bard, in his robe long and streaming,
While, bleached by the years that have over him flown,
His silver locks brightly are gleaming;
"Sweet harmony sleeps in the golden strings,
The minstrel of true love reward ever sings,
And adores what to virtue has tended--
What the bosom may wish, what the senses hold dear;
But say, what is worthy the emperor's ear
At this, of all feasts the most splendid?"
"'Then may God, the sure rock, whom no time can e'er move,
And who lists to the weak's supplication,
For the honor thou pay'st Him, permit thee to prove
Honor here, and hereafter salvation!
Thou'rt a powerful Count, and thy knightly command
Hath blazoned thy fame through the Switzer's broad land;
Thou art blest with six daughters admired;
May they each in thy house introduce a bright crown,
Filling ages unborn with their glorious renown'--
Thus exclaimed he in accents inspired."
THE GLOVE.
A TALE.
All, thou gentle one, lies embraced in thy kingdom; the graybeard
Back to the days of his youth, childish and child-like, returns.
"Take the world!" Zeus exclaimed from his throne in the skies
To the children of man--"take the world I now give;
It shall ever remain as your heirloom and prize,
So divide it as brothers, and happily live."
Thou hast produced mighty monarchs, of whom thou art not unworthy,
For the obedient alone make him who governs them great.
But, O Germany, try if thou for thy rulers canst make it
Harder as kings to be great,--easier, though, to be men!
DANGEROUS CONSEQUENCES.
THE HONORABLE.
I.
II.
III.
Upon a spacious meadow play
Thousands of sheep, of silvery hue;
And as we see them move to-day,
The man most aged saw them too.
IV.
V.
VI.
VII.
VIII.
IX.
We children six our being had
From a most strange and wondrous pair,--
Our mother ever grave and sad,
Our father ever free from care.
X.
XI.
XII.
Upon a disk my course I trace,
There restlessly forever flit;
Small is the circuit I embrace,
Two hands suffice to cover it.
Yet ere that field I traverse, I
Full many a thousand mile must go,
E'en though with tempest-speed I fly,
Swifter than arrow from a bow.
XIII.
THE WALK.
Deep at the foot of the mountain, that under me falls away steeply,
Wanders the greenish-hued stream, looking like glass as it flows.
Endlessly under me see I the ether, and endlessly o'er
Giddily look I above, shudderingly look I below,
But between the infinite height and the infinite hollow
Safely the wanderer moves over a well-guarded path.
Smilingly past me are flying the banks all teeming with riches,
And the valley so bright boasts of its industry glad.
See how yonder hedgerows that sever the farmer's possessions
Have by Demeter been worked into the tapestried plain!
Kindly decree of the law, of the Deity mortal-sustaining,
Since from the brazen world love vanished forever away.
But in freer windings the measured pastures are traversed
(Now swallowed up in the wood, now climbing up to the hills)
By a glimmering streak, the highway that knits lands together;
Over the smooth-flowing stream, quietly glide on the rafts.
Ofttimes resound the bells of the flocks in the fields that seem living,
And the shepherd's lone song wakens the echo again.
Joyous villages crown the stream, in the copse others vanish,
While from the back of the mount, others plunge wildly below.
Man still lives with the land in neighborly friendship united,
And round his sheltering roof calmly repose still his fields;
Trustingly climbs the vine high over the low-reaching window,
While round the cottage the tree circles its far-stretching boughs.
Happy race of the plain! Not yet awakened to freedom,
Thou and thy pastures with joy share in the limited law;
Bounded thy wishes all are by the harvest's peaceable circuit,
And thy lifetime is spent e'en as the task of the day!
Far in the roads the pilot calls, and the vessels are waiting,
That to the foreigner's land carry the produce of home;
Others gladly approach with the treasures of far-distant regions,
High on the mast's lofty head flutters the garland of mirth.
See how yon markets, those centres of life and of gladness, are swarming!
Strange confusion of tongues sounds in the wondering ear.
On to the pile the wealth of the earth is heaped by the merchant,
All that the sun's scorching rays bring forth on Africa's soil,
All that Arabia prepares, that the uttermost Thule produces,
High with heart-gladdening stores fills Amalthea her horn.
Fortune wedded to talent gives birth there to children immortal,
Suckled in liberty's arms, flourish the arts there of joy.
With the image of life the eyes by the sculptor are ravished,
And by the chisel inspired, speaks e'en the sensitive stone.
Skies artificial repose on slender Ionian columns,
And a Pantheon includes all that Olympus contains.
Light as the rainbow's spring through the air, as the dart from
the bowstring,
Leaps the yoke of the bridge over the boisterous stream.
But in his silent chamber the thoughtful sage is projecting
Magical circles, and steals e'en on the spirit that forms,
Proves the force of matter, the hatreds and loves of the magnet,
Follows the tune through the air, follows through ether the ray,
Seeks the familiar law in chance's miracles dreaded,
Looks for the ne'er-changing pole in the phenomena's flight.
Bodies and voices are lent by writing to thought ever silent,
Over the centuries' stream bears it the eloquent page.
Then to the wondering gaze dissolves the cloud of the fancy,
And the vain phantoms of night yield to the dawning of day.
Man now breaks through his fetters, the happy one! Oh, let him never
Break from the bridle of shame, when from fear's fetters he breaks
Freedom! is reason's cry,--ay, freedom! The wild raging passions
Eagerly cast off the bonds Nature divine had imposed.
Ah! in the tempest the anchors break loose, that warningly held him
On to the shore, and the stream tears him along in its flood,--
Into infinity whirls him,--the coasts soon vanish before him,
High on the mountainous waves rocks all-dismasted the bark;
Under the clouds are hid the steadfast stars of the chariot,
Naught now remains,--in the breast even the god goes astray.
Truth disappears from language, from life all faith and all honor
Vanish, and even the oath is but a lie on the lips.
Into the heart's most trusty bond, and into love's secrets,
Presses the sycophant base, tearing the friend from the friend.
Treason on innocence leers, with looks that seek to devour,
And the fell slanderer's tooth kills with its poisonous bite.
In the dishonored bosom, thought is now venal, and love, too,
Scatters abroad to the winds, feelings once god-like and free.
All thy holy symbols, O truth, deceit has adopted,
And has e'en dared to pollute Nature's own voices so fair,
That the craving heart in the tumult of gladness discovers;
True sensations are now mute and can scarcely be heard.
Justice boasts at the tribune, and harmony vaunts in the cottage,
While the ghost of the law stands at the throne of the king.
Years together, ay, centuries long, may the mummy continue,
And the deception endure, apeing the fulness of life.
Until Nature awakes, and with hands all-brazen and heavy
'Gainst the hollow-formed pile time and necessity strikes.
Like a tigress, who, bursting the massive grating iron,
Of her Numidian wood suddenly, fearfully thinks,--
So with the fury of crime and anguish, humanity rises
Hoping nature, long-lost in the town's ashes, to find.
Oh then open, ye walls, and set the captive at freedom
To the long desolate plains let him in safety return!
Come in--come in
My merry men--we'll form a ring
The new-born labor christening;
And "Concord" we will name her!--
To union may her heartfelt call
In brother-love attune us all!
May she the destined glory win
For which the master sought to frame her--
Aloft--(all earth's existence under),
In blue-pavillioned heaven afar
To dwell--the neighbor of the thunder,
The borderer of the star!
Be hers above a voice to rise
Like those bright hosts in yonder sphere,
Who, while they move, their Maker praise,
And lead around the wreathed year!
To solemn and eternal things
We dedicate her lips sublime!--
As hourly, calmly, on she swings
Fanned by the fleeting wings of time!--
No pulse--no heart--no feeling hers!
She lends the warning voice to fate;
And still companions, while she stirs,
The changes of the human state!
So may she teach us, as her tone
But now so mighty, melts away--
That earth no life which earth has known
From the last silence can delay!
TO PROSELYTIZERS.
HONOR TO WOMAN.
HOPE.
ODYSSEUS.
CARTHAGE.
THE SOWER.
Oh, nobly shone the fearful cross upon your mail afar,
When Rhodes and Acre hailed your might, O lions of the war!
When leading many a pilgrim horde, through wastes of Syrian gloom;
Or standing with the cherub's sword before the holy tomb.
Yet on your forms the apron seemed a nobler armor far,
When by the sick man's bed ye stood, O lions of the war!
When ye, the high-born, bowed your pride to tend the lowly weakness,
The duty, though it brought no fame, fulfilled by Christian meekness--
Religion of the cross, thou blend'st, as in a single flower,
The twofold branches of the palm--humility and power. [49]
THE MERCHANT.
THE SEXES.
From lowering brows this struggling world the fearless youth observes,
And hardened for the strife betimes, he strains the willing nerves;
Far to the armed throng and to the race prepared to start,
Inviting glory calls him forth, and grasps the troubled heart:--
Protect thy work, O Nature now! one from the other flies,
Till thou unitest each at last that for the other sighs.
There art thou, mighty one! where'er the discord darkest frown,
Thou call'st the meek harmonious peace, the god-like soother down.
The noisy chase is lulled asleep, day's clamor dies afar,
And through the sweet and veiled air in beauty comes the star.
Soft-sighing through the crisped reeds, the brooklet glides along,
And every wood the nightingale melodious fills with song.
O virgin! now what instinct heaves thy bosom with the sigh?
O youth! and wherefore steals the tear into thy dreaming eye?
Alas! they seek in vain within the charm around bestowed,
The tender fruit is ripened now, and bows to earth its load.
And restless goes the youth to feed his heart upon its fire,
All, where the gentle breath to cool the flame of young desire!
And now they meet--the holy love that leads them lights their eyes,
And still behind the winged god the winged victory flies.
O heavenly love!--'tis thy sweet task the human flowers to bind,
For ay apart, and yet by thee forever intertwined!
Rightly said, Schlosser! Man loves what he has; what he has not, desireth;
None but the wealthy minds love; poor minds desire alone.
THE BARDS OF OLDEN TIME.
Say, where is now that glorious race, where now are the singers
Who, with the accents of life, listening nations enthralled,
Sung down from heaven the gods, and sung mankind up to heaven,
And who the spirit bore up high on the pinions of song?
Ah! the singers still live; the actions only are wanting,
And to awake the glad harp, only a welcoming ear.
Happy bards of a happy world! Your life-teeming accents
Flew round from mouth unto mouth, gladdening every race.
With the devotion with which the gods were received, each one welcomed
That which the genius for him, plastic and breathing, then formed.
With the glow of the song were inflamed the listener's senses,
And with the listener's sense, nourished the singer the glow--
Nourished and cleansed it,--fortunate one! for whom in the voices
Of the people still clear echoed the soul of the song,
And to whom from without appeared, in life, the great godhead,
Whom the bard of these days scarcely can feel in his breast.
JOVE TO HERCULES.
THEKLA.
A SPIRIT VOICE.
Thou hast crossed over torrents, and swung through wide-spreading ocean,--
Over the chain of the Alps dizzily bore thee the bridge,
That thou might'st see me from near, and learn to value my beauty,
Which the voice of renown spreads through the wandering world.
And now before me thou standest,--canst touch my altar so holy,--
But art thou nearer to me, or am I nearer to thee?
THE ILIAD.
NAENIA.
Even the beauteous must die! This vanquishes men and immortals;
But of the Stygian god moves not the bosom of steel.
Once and once only could love prevail on the ruler of shadows,
And on the threshold, e'en then, sternly his gift he recalled.
Venus could never heal the wounds of the beauteous stripling,
That the terrible boar made in his delicate skin;
Nor could his mother immortal preserve the hero so godlike,
When at the west gate of Troy, falling, his fate he fulfilled.
But she arose from the ocean with all the daughters of Nereus,
And o'er her glorified son raised the loud accents of woe.
See! where all the gods and goddesses yonder are weeping,
That the beauteous must fade, and that the perfect must die.
Even a woe-song to be in the mouth of the loved ones is glorious,
For what is vulgar descends mutely to Orcus' dark shades.
ARCHIMEDES.
THE DANCE.
See how, like lightest waves at play, the airy dancers fleet;
And scarcely feels the floor the wings of those harmonious feet.
Ob, are they flying shadows from their native forms set free?
Or phantoms in the fairy ring that summer moonbeams see?
As, by the gentle zephyr blown, some light mist flees in air,
As skiffs that skim adown the tide, when silver waves are fair,
So sports the docile footstep to the heave of that sweet measure,
As music wafts the form aloft at its melodious pleasure,
Now breaking through the woven chain of the entangled dance,
From where the ranks the thickest press, a bolder pair advance,
The path they leave behind them lost--wide open the path beyond,
The way unfolds or closes up as by a magic wand.
See now, they vanish from the gaze in wild confusion blended;
All, in sweet chaos whirled again, that gentle world is ended!
No!--disentangled glides the knot, the gay disorder ranges--
The only system ruling here, a grace that ever changes.
For ay destroyed--for ay renewed, whirls on that fair creation;
And yet one peaceful law can still pervade in each mutation.
And what can to the reeling maze breathe harmony and vigor,
And give an order and repose to every gliding figure?
That each a ruler to himself doth but himself obey,
Yet through the hurrying course still keeps his own appointed way.
What, would'st thou know? It is in truth the mighty power of tune,
A power that every step obeys, as tides obey the moon;
That threadeth with a golden clue the intricate employment,
Curbs bounding strength to tranquil grace, and tames the wild enjoyment.
And comes the world's wide harmony in vain upon thine ears?
The stream of music borne aloft from yonder choral spheres?
And feel'st thou not the measure which eternal Nature keeps?
The whirling dance forever held in yonder azure deeps?
The suns that wheel in varying maze?--That music thou discernest?
No! Thou canst honor that in sport which thou forgettest in earnest.
[52]
BOOKSELLER'S ANNOUNCEMENT.
"Do I believe," sayest thou, "what the masters of wisdom would teach me,
And what their followers' band boldly and readily swear?
Cannot I ever attain to true peace, excepting through knowledge,
Or is the system upheld only by fortune and law?
Must I distrust the gently-warning impulse, the precept
That thou, Nature, thyself hast in my bosom impressed,
Till the schools have affixed to the writ eternal their signet,
Till a mere formula's chain binds down the fugitive soul?
Answer me, then! for thou hast down into these deeps e'en descended,--
Out of the mouldering grave thou didst uninjured return.
Is't to thee known what within the tomb of obscure works is hidden,
Whether, yon mummies amid, life's consolations can dwell?
Must I travel the darksome road? The thought makes me tremble;
Yet I will travel that road, if 'tis to truth and to right."
Friend, hast thou heard of the golden age? Full many a story
Poets have sung in its praise, simply and touchingly sung--
Of the time when the holy still wandered over life's pathways,--
When with a maidenly shame every sensation was veiled,--
When the mighty law that governs the sun in his orbit,
And that, concealed in the bud, teaches the point how to move,
When necessity's silent law, the steadfast, the changeless,
Stirred up billows more free, e'en in the bosom of man,--
When the sense, unerring, and true as the hand of the dial,
Pointed only to truth, only to what was eternal?
Then no profane one was seen, then no initiate was met with,
And what as living was felt was not then sought 'mongst the dead;
Equally clear to every breast was the precept eternal,
Equally hidden the source whence it to gladden us sprang;
But that happy period has vanished! And self-willed presumption
Nature's godlike repose now has forever destroyed.
Feelings polluted the voice of the deities echo no longer,
In the dishonored breast now is the oracle dumb.
Save in the silenter self, the listening soul cannot find it,
There does the mystical word watch o'er the meaning divine;
There does the searcher conjure it, descending with bosom unsullied;
There does the nature long-lost give him back wisdom again.
If thou, happy one, never hast lost the angel that guards thee,
Forfeited never the kind warnings that instinct holds forth;
If in thy modest eye the truth is still purely depicted;
If in thine innocent breast clearly still echoes its call;
If in thy tranquil mind the struggles of doubt still are silent,
If they will surely remain silent forever as now;
If by the conflict of feelings a judge will ne'er be required;
If in its malice thy heart dims not the reason so clear,
Oh, then, go thy way in all thy innocence precious!
Knowledge can teach thee in naught; thou canst instruct her in much!
Yonder law, that with brazen staff is directing the struggling,
Naught is to thee. What thou dost, what thou mayest will is thy law,
And to every race a godlike authority issues.
What thou with holy hand formest, what thou with holy mouth speakest,
Will with omnipotent power impel the wondering senses;
Thou but observest not the god ruling within thine own breast,
Not the might of the signet that bows all spirits before thee;
Simple and silent thou goest through the wide world thou hast won.
HONORS.
Hast thou the infant seen that yet, unknowing of the love
Which warms and cradles, calmly sleeps the mother's heart above--
Wandering from arm to arm, until the call of passion wakes,
And glimmering on the conscious eye--the world in glory breaks?
And hast thou seen the mother there her anxious vigil keep?
Buying with love that never sleeps the darling's happy sleep?
With her own life she fans and feeds that weak life's trembling rays,
And with the sweetness of the care, the care itself repays.
And dost thou Nature then blaspheme--that both the child and mother
Each unto each unites, the while the one doth need the other?--
All self-sufficing wilt thou from that lovely circle stand--
That creature still to creature links in faith's familiar band?
Ah! dar'st thou, poor one, from the rest thy lonely self estrange?
Eternal power itself is but all powers in interchange!
Two are the pathways by which mankind can to virtue mount upward;
If thou should find the one barred, open the other will lie.
'Tis by exertion the happy obtain her, the suffering by patience.
Blest is the man whose kind fate guides him along upon both!
I.
II.
HUMAN KNOWLEDGE.
Since thou readest in her what thou thyself hast there written,
And, to gladden the eye, placest her wonders in groups;--
Since o'er her boundless expanses thy cords to extend thou art able,
Thou dost think that thy mind wonderful Nature can grasp.
Thus the astronomer draws his figures over the heavens,
So that he may with more ease traverse the infinite space,
Knitting together e'en suns that by Sirius-distance are parted,
Making them join in the swan and in the horns of the bull.
But because the firmament shows him its glorious surface,
Can he the spheres' mystic dance therefore decipher aright?
COLUMBUS.
Steer on, bold sailor--Wit may mock thy soul that sees the land,
And hopeless at the helm may droop the weak and weary hand,
Yet ever--ever to the West, for there the coast must lie,
And dim it dawns, and glimmering dawns before thy reason's eye;
Yea, trust the guiding God--and go along the floating grave,
Though hid till now--yet now behold the New World o'er the wave!
With genius Nature ever stands in solemn union still,
And ever what the one foretells the other shall fulfil.
Two genii are there, from thy birth through weary life to guide thee;
Ah, happy when, united both, they stand to aid beside thee?
With gleesome play to cheer the path, the one comes blithe with beauty,
And lighter, leaning on her arm, the destiny and duty.
With jest and sweet discourse she goes unto the rock sublime,
Where halts above the eternal sea [57] the shuddering child of time.
The other here, resolved and mute and solemn, claspeth thee,
And bears thee in her giant arms across the fearful sea.
Never admit the one alone!--Give not the gentle guide
Thy honor--nor unto the stern thy happiness confide!
THE IMMUTABLE.
VOTIVE TABLETS.
DIFFERENT DESTINIES.
DIFFERENCE OF STATION.
If thou feelest not the beautiful, still thou with reason canst will it;
And as a spirit canst do, that which as man thou canst not.
PARTICIPATION.
E'en by the hand of the wicked can truth be working with vigor;
But the vessel is filled by what is beauteous alone.
TO ----
Tell me all that thou knowest, and I will thankfully hear it!
But wouldst thou give me thyself,--let me, my friend, be excused!
TO ----
Wouldst thou teach me the truth? Don't take the trouble! I wish not,
Through thee, the thing to observe,--but to see thee through the thing.
TO ----
TO THE MUSE.
Ne'er does he taste the fruit of the tree that he raised with such trouble;
Nothing but taste e'er enjoys that which by learning is reared.
Ever strive for the whole; and if no whole thou canst make thee,
Join, then, thyself to some whole, as a subservient limb!
A PROBLEM.
Let none resemble another; let each resemble the highest!
How can that happen? let each be all complete in itself.
What thou thinkest, belongs to all; what thou feelest, is thine only.
Wouldst thou make him thine own, feel thou the God whom thou thinkest!
TO MYSTICS.
That is the only true secret, which in the presence of all men
Lies, and surrounds thee for ay, but which is witnessed by none.
THE KEY.
THE OBSERVER.
THE AGREEMENT.
Both of us seek for truth--in the world without thou dost seek it,
I in the bosom within; both of us therefore succeed.
If the eye be healthy, it sees from without the Creator;
And if the heart, then within doubtless it mirrors the world.
POLITICAL PRECEPT.
All that thou doest is right; but, friend, don't carry this precept
On too far,--be content, all that is right to effect.
It is enough to true zeal, if what is existing be perfect;
False zeal always would find finished perfection at once.
MAJESTAS POPULI.
TO A WORLD-REFORMER.
"I Have sacrificed all," thou sayest, "that man I might succor;
Vain the attempt; my reward was persecution and hate."
Shall I tell thee, my friend, how I to humor him manage?
Trust the proverb! I ne'er have been deceived by it yet.
Thou canst not sufficiently prize humanity's value;
Let it be coined in deed as it exists in thy breast.
E'en to the man whom thou chancest to meet in life's narrow pathway,
If he should ask it of thee, hold forth a succoring hand.
But for rain and for dew, for the general welfare of mortals,
Leave thou Heaven to care, friend, as before, so e'en now.
MY ANTIPATHY.
ASTRONOMICAL WRITINGS.
TO ASTRONOMERS.
MY FAITH.
Thou that art ever the same, with the changeless One take up thy dwelling!
Color, thou changeable one, kindly descends upon man!
GENIUS.
BEAUTEOUS INDIVIDUALITY.
Thou in truth shouldst be one, yet not with the whole shouldst thou be so.
'Tis through the reason thou'rt one,--art so with it through the heart.
Voice of the whole is thy reason, but thou thine own heart must be ever;
If in thy heart reason dwells evermore, happy art thou.
VARIETY.
Many are good and wise; yet all for one only reckon,
For 'tis conception, alas, rules them, and not a fond heart.
Sad is the sway of conception,--from thousandfold varying figures,
Needy and empty but one it is e'er able to bring.
But where creative beauty is ruling, there life and enjoyment
Dwell; to the ne'er-changing One, thousands of new forms she gives.
THE IMITATOR.
Good from the good,--to the reason this is not hard of conception;
But the genius has power good from the bad to evoke.
'Tis the conceived alone, that thou, imitator, canst practise;
Food the conceived never is, save to the mind that conceives.
GENIALITY.
How does the genius make itself known? In the way that in nature
Shows the Creator himself,--e'en in the infinite whole.
Clear is the ether, and yet of depth that ne'er can be fathomed;
Seen by the eye, it remains evermore closed to the sense.
THE INQUIRERS.
Men now seek to explore each thing from within and without too!
How canst thou make thy escape, Truth, from their eager pursuit?
That they may catch thee, with nets and poles extended they seek thee
But with a spirit-like tread, glidest thou out of the throng.
CORRECTNESS.
Life she received from fable; the schools deprived her of being,
Life creative again she has from reason received.
It has ever been so, my friend, and will ever remain so:
Weakness has rules for itself,--vigor is crowned with success.
CHOICE.
If thou canst not give pleasure to all by thy deeds and thy knowledge,
Give it then, unto the few; many to please is but vain.
SCIENCE OF MUSIC.
Let the creative art breathe life, and the bard furnish spirit;
But the soul is expressed by Polyhymnia alone.
TO THE POET.
LANGUAGE.
THE MASTER.
Other masters one always can tell by the words that they utter;
That which he wisely omits shows me the master of style.
THE GIRDLE.
THE DILETTANTE.
Dost thou desire the good in art? Of the good art thou worthy,
Which by a ne'er ceasing war 'gainst thee thyself is produced?
THE PHILOSOPHIES.
Fame with the vulgar expires; but, Muse immortal, thou bearest
Those whom thou lovest, who love thee, into Mnemosyne's arms.
Only two virtues exist. Oh, would they were ever united!
Ever the good with the great, ever the great with the good!
THE IMPULSES.
Fear with his iron staff may urge the slave onward forever;
Rapture, do thou lead me on ever in roseate chains!
GERMAN GENIUS.
THEOPHANIA.
When the happy appear, I forget the gods in the heavens;
But before me they stand, when I the suffering see.
TRIFLES.
THE DISTICH.
THE OBELISK.
"Fear not," the builder exclaimed, "the rainbow that stands in the heavens;
I will extend thee, like it, into infinity far!"
Under me, over me, hasten the waters, the chariots; my builder
Kindly has suffered e'en me, over myself, too, to go!
THE GATE.
ST. PETER'S.
PUPIL.
I am rejoiced, worthy sirs, to find you in pleno assembled;
For I have come down below, seeking the one needful thing.
ARISTOTLE.
Quick to the point, my good friend! For the Jena Gazette comes
to hand here,
Even in hell,--so we know all that is passing above.
PUPIL.
So much the better! So give me (I will not depart hence without it)
Some good principle now,--one that will always avail!
FIRST PHILOSOPHER.
Cogito, ergo sum. I have thought, and therefore existence!
If the first be but true, then is the second one sure.
PUPIL.
As I think, I exist. 'Tis good! But who always is thinking?
Oft I've existed e'en when I have been thinking of naught.
SECOND PHILOSOPHER.
Since there are things that exist, a thing of all things there must
needs be;
In the thing of all things dabble we, just as we are.
THIRD PHILOSOPHER.
Just the reverse, say I. Besides myself there is nothing;
Everything else that there is is but a bubble to me.
FOURTH PHILOSOPHER.
Two kinds of things I allow to exist,--the world and the spirit;
Naught of others I know; even these signify one.
FIFTH PHILOSOPHER.
I know naught of the thing, and know still less of the spirit;
Both but appear unto me; yet no appearance they are.
SIXTH PHILOSOPHER.
I am I, and settle myself,--and if I then settle
Nothing to be, well and good--there's a nonentity formed.
SEVENTH PHILOSOPHER.
There is conception at least! A thing conceived there is, therefore;
And a conceiver as well,--which, with conception, make three.
PUPIL.
All this nonsense, good sirs, won't answer my purpose a tittle:
I a real principle need,--one by which something is fixed.
EIGHTH PHILOSOPHER.
Nothing is now to be found in the theoretical province;
Practical principles hold, such as: thou canst, for thou shouldst.
PUPIL.
If I but thought so! When people know no more sensible answer,
Into the conscience at once plunge they with desperate haste.
DAVID HUME.
Don't converse with those fellows! That Kant has turned them all crazy;
Speak to me, for in hell I am the same that I was.
LAW POINT.
I have made use of my nose for years together to smell with;
Have I a right to my nose that can be legally proved?
PUFFENDORF.
Truly a delicate point! Yet the first possession appeareth
In thy favor to tell; therefore make use of it still!
SCRUPLE OF CONSCIENCE.
Willingly serve I my friends; but, alas, I do it with pleasure;
Therefore I often am vexed that no true virtue I have.
DECISION.
As there is no other means, thou hadst better begin to despise them;
And with aversion, then, do that which thy duty commands.
THE HOMERIDES.
Who is the bard of the Iliad among you? For since he likes puddings,
Heyne begs he'll accept these that from Gottingen come.
"Give them to me! The kings' quarrel I sang!"--
"I, the fight near the vessels!"--"Hand me the puddings!
I sang what upon Ida took place!"
Gently! Don't tear me to pieces! The puddings will not be sufficient;
He by whom they are sent destined them only for one.
G. G.
Man is in truth a poor creature,--I know it,--and fain would forget it;
Therefore (how sorry I am!) came I, alas, unto thee!
THE DANAIDES.
Into the sieve we've been pouring for years,--
o'er the stone we've been brooding;
But the stone never warms,--nor does the sieve ever fill.
THE ARTIFICE.
IMMORTALITY.
JEREMIADS.
A PARODY.
THE RIVERS.
RHINE.
DANUBE IN ----
MAIN.
SAALE.
ILM.
PLEISSE.
ELBE.
SPREE.
WESER.
Nothing, alas, can be said about me; I really can't furnish
Matter enough to the Muse e'en for an epigram, small.
PEGNTTZ.
SALZACH.
THE METAPHYSICIAN.
PEGASUS IN HARNESS.
KNOWLEDGE.
TO GOETHE,
THE PRESENT.
Two are the roads that before thee lie open from life to conduct thee;
To the ideal one leads thee, the other to death.
See that while yet thou art free, on the first thou commencest thy journey,
Ere by the merciless fates on to the other thou'rt led!
Years has the master been laboring, but always without satisfaction;
To an ingenious race 'twould be in vision conferred.
What they yesterday learned, to-day they fain would be teaching:
Small compassion, alas, is by those gentlemen shown!
THE HIGHEST.
TO LAWGIVERS.
Oh, how many new foes against truth! My very soul bleedeth
When I behold the owl-race now bursting forth to the light.
TO AMANDA.
Trust me, 'tis not a mere tale,--the fountain of youth really runneth,
Runneth forever. Thou ask'st, where? In the poet's sweet art!
Into life's ocean the youth with a thousand masts daringly launches;
Mute, in a boat saved from wreck, enters the gray-beard the port.
See how we hate, how we quarrel, how thought and how feeling divide us!
But thy locks, friend, like mine, meanwhile are bleachening fast.
HUMAN ACTION.
GRECIAN GENIUS.
TO MEYER IN ITALY.
Speechless to thousands of others, who with deaf hearts would consult him,
Talketh the spirit to thee, who art his kinsman and friend.
THE FATHER.
THE MOMENT.
GERMAN COMEDY.
With the most profound flesh-creeping I take the liberty of kissing the
rattling leg-bones of your voracious Majesty, and humbly laying this
little book at your dried-up feet. My predecessors have always been
accustomed, as if on purpose to annoy you, to transport their goods and
chattels to the archives of eternity, directly under your nose,
forgetting that, by so doing, they only made your mouth water the more,
for the proverb--Stolen bread tastes sweetest--is applicable even to you.
No! I prefer to dedicate this work to you, feeling assured that you will
throw it aside.
But, joking apart! methinks we two know each other better than by mere
hearsay. Enrolled in the order of Aesculapius, the first-born of
Pandora's box, as old as the fall of man, I have stood at your altar,--
have sworn undying hatred to your hereditary foe, Nature, as the son of
Hamilcar to the seven hills of Rome,--have sworn to besiege her with a
whole army of medicines,--to throw up barricades round the obstinate
soul,--to drive from the field the insolents who cut down your fees and
cripple your finances,--and on the Archaean battle-plain to plant your
midnight standard. In return (for one good turn deserves another), you
must prepare for me the precious TALISMAN, which can save me from the
gallows and the wheel uninjured, and with a whole skin--
Come then! act the generous Maecenas; for observe, I should be sorry to
fare like my foolhardy colleagues and cousins, who, armed with stiletto
and pocket-pistol, hold their court in gloomy ravines, or mix in the
subterranean laboratory the wondrous polychrest, which, when taken with
proper zeal, tickles our political noses, either too little or too much,
with throne vacancies or state-fevers. D'Amiens and Ravaillac!--Ho, ho,
ho!--'Tis a good thing for straight limbs!
Perhaps you have been whetting your teeth at Easter and Michaelmas?--the
great book-epidemic times at Leipzig and Frankfort! Hurrah for the
waste-paper!--'twill make a royal feast. Your nimble brokers, Gluttony
and Lust, bring you whole cargoes from the fair of life. Even Ambition,
your grandpapa--War, Famine, Fire, and Plague, your mighty huntsmen, have
provided you with many a jovial man-chase. Avarice and Covetousness,
your sturdy butlers, drink to your health whole towns floating in the
bubbling cup of the world-ocean. I know a kitchen in Europe where the
rarest dishes have been served up in your honor with festive pomp. And
yet--who has ever known you to be satisfied, or to complain of
indigestion? Your digestive faculties are of iron; your entrails
fathomless!
TOBOLSKO, 2d February.
Flowers in Siberia? Behind this lies a piece of knavery, or the sun must
make face against midnight. And yet--if ye were to exert yourselves!
'Tis really so; we have been hunting sables long enough; let us for once
in a way try our luck with flowers. Have not enough Europeans come to us
stepsons of the sun, and waded through our hundred years' snow, to pluck
a modest flower? Shame upon our ancestors--we'll gather them ourselves,
and frank a whole basketful to Europe. Do not crush them, ye children of
a milder heaven!
If your Homers talk in their sleep, and your Herculeses kill flies with
their clubs--if every one who knows how to give vent to his portion of
sorrow in dreary Alexandrines, interprets that as a call to Helicon,
shall we northerns be blamed for tinkling the Muses' lyre?--Your matadors
claim to have coined silver when they have stamped their effigy on
wretched pewter; and at Tobolsko coiners are hanged. 'Tis true that you
may often find paper-money amongst us instead of Russian roubles, but war
and hard times are an excuse for anything.
Go forth then, Siberian anthology! Go! Thou wilt make many a coxcomb
happy, wilt be placed by him on the toilet-table of his sweetheart, and
in reward wilt obtain her alabaster, lily-white hand for his tender kiss.
Go! thou wilt fill up many a weary gulf of ennui in assemblies and
city-visits, and may be relieve a Circassienne, who has confessed herself
weary amidst a shower of calumnies. Go! thou wilt be consulted in the
kitchens of many critics; they will fly thy light, and like the
screech-owl, retreat into thy shadow. Ho, ho, ho! Already I hear the
ear-cracking howls in the inhospitable forest, and anxiously conceal
myself in my sable.
SUPPRESSED POEMS.
SPINOSA.
TO THE FATES.
THE PARALLEL.
AN ANECDOTE OF HELICON.
BOOK I.
BOOK II.
REPROACH--TO LAURA.
MATTHEW.
Gossip, you'll like to hear, no doubt!
A learned work has just come out--
Messias is the name 'twill bear;
The man has travelled through the air,
And on the sun-beplastered roads
Has lost shoe-leather by whole loads,--
Has seen the heavens lie open wide,
And hell has traversed with whole hide.
The thought has just occurred to me
That one so skilled as he must be
May tell us how our flax and wheat arise.
What say you?--Shall I try to ascertain?
LUKE.
You fool, to think that any one so wise
About mere flax and corn would rack his brain.
ACTAEON.
MAN'S DIGNITY.
THE MESSIAD.
How joyous then the stream that our whole soul pervades!
What life from out our glances pours!
Sweet Philomela's song, resounding through the glades,
Ourselves, our youthful strength restores!
QUIRL.
THE PLAGUE.
A PHANTASY.
'Tis ended!
Welcome! 'tis ended
Oh thou sinner majestic,
All thy terrible part is now played!
Crumble,--decay
In the cradle of wide-open heaven!
Terrible sight to each sinner that breathes,
When the hot thirst for glory
Raises its barriers over against the dread throne!
See! to eternity shame has consigned thee!
To the bright stars of fame
Thou hast clambered aloft, on the shoulders of shame!
Yet time will come when shame will crumble beneath thee,
When admiration at length will be thine!
THE WIRTEMBERGER.
THE MOLE.
HUSBAND.
The boy's my very image! See!
Even the scars my small-pox left me!
WIFE.
I can believe it easily
They once of all my senses reft me.
HYMN TO THE ETERNAL.
DIALOGUE.
A.
Hark, neighbor, for one moment stay!
Herr Doctor Scalpel, so they say,
Has got off safe and sound;
At Paris I your uncle found
Fast to a horse's crupper bound,--
Yet Scalpel made a king his prey.
B.
Oh, dear me, no! A real misnomer!
The fact is, he has his diploma;
The other one has not.
A.
Eh? What? Has a diploma?
In Suabia may such things be got?
EPITAPH
ON A CERTAIN PHYSIOGNOMIST.
TRUST IN IMMORTALITY.
APPENDIX.
ANDROMACHE.
Wilt thou, Hector, leave me?--leave me weeping,
Where Achilles' murderous blade is heaping
Bloody offerings on Patroclus' grave?
Who, alas, will teach thine infant truly
Spears to hurl, the gods to honor duly,
When thou'rt buried 'neath dark Xanthus' wave?
HECTOR.
Dearest wife, go,--fetch my death-spear glancing,
Let me join the battle-dance entrancing,
For my shoulders bear the weight of Troy!
Heaven will be our Astyanax' protector!
Falling as his country's savior, Hector
Soon will greet thee in the realms of joy.
CHORUS OF ROBBERS.
What so good for banishing sorrow
As women, theft, and bloody affray?
We must dance in the air to-morrow,
Therefore let's be right merry to-day!
MOOR'S SONG.
BRUTUS.
Ye are welcome, peaceful realms of light!
Oh, receive Rome's last-surviving son!
From Philippi, from the murderous fight,
Come I now, my race of sorrow run.--
Cassius, where art thou?--Rome overthrown!
All my brethren's loving band destroyed!
Safety find I at death's door alone,
And the world to Brutus is a void!
CAESAR.
Who now, with the ne'er-subdued-one's tread,
Hither from yon rocks makes haste to come?--
Ha! if by no vision I'm misled,
'Tis the footstep of a child of Rome.--
Son of Tiber--whence dost thou appear?
Stands the seven-hilled city as of yore
Oft her orphaned lot awakes my tear,
For alas, her Caesar is no more?
BRUTUS.
Ha! thou with the three-and-twenty wounds!
Who hath, dead one, summoned thee to light?
Back to gaping Orcus' fearful bonds,
Haughty mourner! triumph not to-night!
On Philippi's iron altar, lo!
Reeks now freedom's final victim's blood;
Rome o'er Brutus' bier feels her death-throe,--
He seeks Minos.--Back to thy dark flood!
CAESAR.
Oh, the death-stroke Brutus' sword then hurled!
Thou, too--Brutus--thou? Could this thing be?
Son! It was thy father!--Son! the world
Would have fallen heritage to thee!
Go--'mongst Romans thou art deemed immortal,
For thy steel hath pierced thy father's breast.
Go--and shout it even to yon portal:
"Brutus is 'mongst Romans deemed immortal,
For his steel hath pierced his father's breast."
Go--thou knowest now what on Lethe's strand
Made me a prisoner stand.--
Now, grim steersman, push thy bark from land!
BRUTUS.
Father, stay!--In all earth's realms so fair,
It hath been my lot to know but one,
Who with mighty Caesar could compare;
And of yore thou called'st him thy son.
None but Caesar could a Rome o'erthrow,
Brutus only made great Caesar fear;
Where lives Brutus, Caesar's blood must flow;
If thy path lies yonder, mine is here.
RECRUIT'S SONG.
CHORUS.
None other can there our places supply,
Each must stand alone,--on himself must rely.
DRAGOON.
Now freedom appears from the world to have flown,
None but lords and their vassals one traces;
While falsehood and cunning are ruling alone
O'er the living cowardly races.
The man who can look upon death without fear--
The soldier,--is now the sole freeman left here.
CHORUS.
The man who can look upon death without fear--
The soldier,--is now the sole freeman left here.
FIRST YAGER.
The cares of this life, he casts them away,
Untroubled by fear or by sorrow;
He rides to his fate with a countenance gay,
And finds it to-day or to-morrow;
And if 'tis to-morrow, to-day we'll employ
To drink full deep of the goblet of joy,
CHORUS.
And if 'tis to-morrow, to-day we'll employ
To drink full deep of the goblet of joy.
[They refill their glasses and drink.
CAVALRY SERGEANT.
The skies o'er him shower his lot filled with mirth,
He gains, without toil, its full measure;
The peasant, who grubs in the womb of the earth,
Believes that he'll find there the treasure,
Through lifetime he shovels and digs like a slave,
And digs--till at length he has dug his own grave.
CHORUS.
Through lifetime he shovels and digs like a slave,
And digs--till at length he has dug his own grave.
FIRST YAGER.
The horseman, as well as his swift-footed beast,
Are guests by whom all are affrighted,
When glimmer the lamps at the wedding feast,
In the banquet he joins uninvited;
He woos not long, and with gold he ne'er buys,
But carries by storm love's blissful prize.
CHORUS.
He woos not long, and with gold he ne'er buys,
But carries by storm love's blissful prize.
SECOND CUIRASSIER.
Why weeps the maiden? Why sorrows she so?
Let me hence, let me hence, girl, I pray thee?
The soldier on earth no sure quarters can know,
With true love he ne'er can repay thee.
Fate hurries him onward with fury blind,
His peace he never can leave behind.
CHORUS.
Fate hurries him onward with fury blind,
His peace he can never leave behind,
FIRST YAGER.
(Taking his two neighbors by the hand. The rest do the same,
forming a large semi-circle.)
Away, then, my comrades, our chargers let's mount!
In the battle the bosom bounds lightly!
Youth boils, and life's goblet still foams at the fount,
Away! while the spirit glows brightly!
Unless ye have courage your life to stake,
That life ye never your own can make!
CHORUS.
Unless ye have courage your life to stake,
That life ye never your own can make!
The lake forms an inlet in the land; a cottage is near the shore;
a fisher-boy is rowing in a boat. Beyond the lake are seen the green
pastures, the villages and farms of Schwytz glowing in the sunshine.
On the left of the spectator are the peaks of the Hacken, enveloped in
clouds; on his right, in the distance, are seen the glaciers. Before
the curtain rises the RANZ DES VACHES, and the musical sound of the
cattle-bells are heard, and continue also for some time after the scene
opens.
Ye meadows, farewell!
Ye pastures so glowing!
The herdsman is going,
For summer has fled!
We depart to the mountain; we'll come back again,
When the cuckoo is calling,--when wakens the strain,--
When the earth is tricked out with her flowers so gay,
When the stream sparkles bright in the sweet month of May.
Ye meadows, farewell!
Ye pastures so glowing!
The herdsman is going,
For summer has fled!
O'er the heights growls the thunder, while quivers the bridge,
Yet no fear feels the hunter, though dizzy the ridge;
He strides on undaunted,
O'er plains icy-bound,
Where spring never blossoms,
Nor verdure is found;
And, a broad sea of mist lying under his feet,
Man's dwellings his vision no longer can greet;
The world he but views
When the clouds broken are--
With its pastures so green,
Through the vapor afar.
WALTER sings.
RIDDLE.
SCENE--A Park. MARY advances hastily from behind some trees. HANNAH
KENNEDY follows her slowly.
MARY.
SCENE--A hall prepared for a festival. The pillars are covered with
festoons of flowers; flutes and hautboys are heard behind the scene.
(The music behind the scene changes into a soft, melting melody.)
FOOTNOTES.
[2] This most exquisite love poem is founded on the platonic notion, that
souls were united in a pre-existent state, that love is the yearning
of the spirit to reunite with the spirit with which it formerly made
one--and which it discovers on earth. The idea has often been made
subservient to poetry, but never with so earnest and elaborate a beauty.
[6] Venus.
[8] Tityus.
[9] This concluding and fine strophe is omitted in the later editions
of Schiller's "Poems."
[10] Hercules who recovered from the Shades Alcestis, after she had
given her own life to save her husband, Admetus. Alcestis, in the hands
of Euripides (that woman-hater as he is called!) becomes the loveliest
female creation in the Greek drama.
[14] In Schiller the eight long lines that conclude each stanza of
this charming love-poem, instead of rhyming alternately as in the
translation, chime somewhat to the tune of Byron's Don Juan--six lines
rhyming with each other, and the two last forming a separate couplet.
In other respects the translation, it is hoped, is sufficiently close
and literal.
[17] The idea diffused by the translator through this and the preceding
stanza is more forcibly condensed by Schiller in four lines.
[21] The Devil's Bridge. The Land of Delight (called in Tell "a serene
valley of joy") to which the dreary portal (in Tell the black rock gate)
leads, is the Urse Vale. The four rivers, in the next stanza, are the
Reus, the Rhine, the Tessin, and the Rhone.
[25] Ulysses.
[26] Achilles.
[27] Diomed.
[28] Cassandra.
[32] For this story, see Herodotus, book iii, sections 40-43.
[35] This notes the time of year--not the time of day--viz., about the
23d of September.--HOFFMEISTER.
[37] This story, the heroes of which are more properly known to us under
the names of Damon and Pythias (or Phintias), Schiller took from Hyginus
in whom the friends are called Moerus and Selinuntius. Schiller has
somewhat amplified the incidents in the original, in which the delay of
Moerus is occasioned only by the swollen stream--the other hindrances are
of Schiller's invention. The subject, like "The Ring of Polycrates,"
does not admit of that rich poetry of description with which our author
usually adorns some single passage in his narratives. The poetic spirit
is rather shown in the terse brevity with which picture after picture is
not only sketched but finished--and in the great thought at the close.
Still it is not one of Schiller's best ballads. His additions to the
original story are not happy. The incident of the robbers is commonplace
and poor. The delay occasioned by the thirst of Moerus is clearly open
to Goethe's objection (an objection showing very nice perception of
nature)--that extreme thirst was not likely to happen to a man who had
lately passed through a stream on a rainy day, and whose clothes must
have been saturated with moisture--nor in the traveller's preoccupied
state of mind, is it probable that he would have so much felt the mere
physical want. With less reason has it been urged by other critics, that
the sudden relenting of the tyrant is contrary to his character. The
tyrant here has no individual character at all. He is the mere
personation of disbelief in truth and love--which the spectacle of
sublime self-abnegation at once converts. In this idea lies the deep
philosophical truth, which redeems all the defects of the piece--for
poetry, in its highest form, is merely this--"Truth made beautiful."
[38] The somewhat irregular metre of the original has been preserved
in this ballad, as in other poems; although the perfect anapaestic metre
is perhaps more familiar to the English ear.
[41] The law, i. e., the Kantian ideal of truth and virtue. This stanza
and the next embody, perhaps with some exaggeration, the Kantian doctrine
of morality.
[44] "I call the living--I mourn the dead--I break the lightning."
These words are inscribed on the great bell of the Minster of
Schaffhausen--also on that of the Church of Art near Lucerne. There was
an old belief in Switzerland that the undulation of air caused by the
sound of a bell, broke the electric fluid of a thunder-cloud.
[48] Literally, "the manners." The French word moeurs corresponds best
with the German.
[50] For this interesting story, see Cox's "House of Austria," vol i,
pp. 87-98 (Bohn's Standard Library).
[52] This poem is very characteristic of the noble ease with which
Schiller often loves to surprise the reader, by the sudden introduction
of matter for the loftiest reflection in the midst of the most familiar
subjects. What can be more accurate and happy than the poet's description
of the national dance, as if such description were his only object--the
outpouring, as it were, of a young gallant intoxicated by the music, and
dizzy with the waltz? Suddenly and imperceptibly the reader finds himself
elevated from a trivial scene. He is borne upward to the harmony of the
sphere. He bows before the great law of the universe--the young gallant
is transformed into the mighty teacher; and this without one hard conceit
--without one touch of pedantry. It is but a flash of light; and where
glowed the playful picture shines the solemn moral.
[53] The first five verses in the original of this poem are placed as
a motto on Goethe's statue in the Library at Weimar. The poet does not
here mean to extol what is vulgarly meant by the gifts of fortune; he
but develops a favorite idea of his, that, whatever is really sublime
and beautiful, comes freely down from heaven; and vindicates the seeming
partiality of the gods, by implying that the beauty and the genius given,
without labor, to some, but serve to the delight of those to whom they are
denied.
[54] Achilles.
[55] "Nur ein Wunder kann dich tragen
In das schoene Wunderland."--SCHILLER, Sehnsucht.
[57] By this Schiller informs us elsewhere that he does not mean death
alone; but that the thought applies equally to every period of life when
we can divest ourselves of the body and perceive or act as pure spirits;
we are truly then under the influence of the sublime.
[58] Duke Bernard of Weimar, one of the heroes of the Thirty Years' war.
[59] These verses were sent by Schiller to the then Electoral High
Chancellor, with a copy of his "William Tell."
[61] This was the title of the publication in which many of the finest
of Schiller's "Poems of the Third Period" originally appeared.
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
VOCABULARY OF TERMINOLOGY
AESTHETICAL ESSAYS:--
PREFATORY REMARKS
THEOSOPHY OF JULIUS
ON THE CONNECTION BETWEEN THE ANIMAL AND THE SPIRITUAL NATURE IN MAN
PHYSICAL CONNECTION
PHILOSOPHICAL CONNECTION
INTRODUCTION.
The special subject of the greater part of the letters and essays of
Schiller contained in this volume is Aesthetics; and before passing to
any remarks on his treatment of the subject it will be useful to offer a
few observations on the nature of this topic, and on its treatment by the
philosophical spirit of different ages.
First, then, aesthetics has for its object the vast realm of the
beautiful, and it may be most adequately defined as the philosophy of art
or of the fine arts. To some the definition may seem arbitrary, as
excluding the beautiful in nature; but it will cease to appear so if it
is remarked that the beauty which is the work of art is higher than
natural beauty, because it is the offspring of the mind. Moreover, if,
in conformity with a certain school of modern philosophy, the mind be
viewed as the true being, including all in itself, it must be admitted
that beauty is only truly beautiful when it shares in the nature of mind,
and is mind's offspring.
Viewed in this light, the beauty of nature is only a reflection of the
beauty of the mind, only an imperfect beauty, which as to its essence is
included in that of the mind. Nor has it ever entered into the mind of
any thinker to develop the beautiful in natural objects, so as to convert
it into a science and a system. The field of natural beauty is too
uncertain and too fluctuating for this purpose. Moreover, the relation
of beauty in nature and beauty in art forms a part of the science of
aesthetics, and finds again its proper place.
Many have indeed undertaken to defend art on this score, and to show
that, far from being a mere luxury, it has serious and solid advantages.
It has been even apparently exaggerated in this respect, and represented
as a kind of mediator between reason and sense, between inclination and
duty, having as its mission the work of reconciling the conflicting
elements in the human heart. A strong trace of this view will be found
in Schiller, especially in all that he says about the play-instinct in
his "Aesthetical Letters."
For it is in their works of art that the nations have imprinted their
favorite thoughts and their richest intuitions, and not unfrequently the
fine arts are the only means by which we can penetrate into the secrets
of their wisdom and the mysteries of their religion.
Nor is this all: the representations of art are more expressive and
transparent than the phenomena of the real world or the events of
history. The mind finds it harder to pierce through the hard envelop of
nature and common life than to penetrate into works of art.
Two more reflections appear completely to meet the objection that art or
aesthetics is not entitled to the name of science.
It will be generally admitted that the mind of man has the power of
considering itself, of making itself its own object and all that issues
from its activity; for thought constitutes the essence of the mind. Now
art and its work, as creations of the mind, are themselves of a spiritual
nature. In this respect art is much nearer to the mind than nature. In
studying the works of art the mind has to do with itself, with what
proceeds from itself, and is itself.
The most plausible theory of beauty is that which makes it consist in two
contrary and equally necessary elements--unity and variety. A beautiful
flower has all the elements we have named; it has unity, symmetry, and
variety of shades of color. There is no beauty without life, and life is
movement, diversity. These elements are found in beautiful and also in
sublime objects. A beautiful object is complete, finished, limited with
symmetrical parts. A sublime object whose forms, though not out of
proportion, are less determined, ever awakens in us the feeling of the
infinite. In objects of sense all qualities that can produce the feeling
of the beautiful come under one class called physical beauty. But above
and beyond this in the region of mind we have first intellectual beauty,
including the laws that govern intelligence and the creative genius of
the artist, the poet, and the philosopher. Again, the moral world has
beauty in its ideas of liberty, of virtue, of devotion, the justice of
Aristides, the heroism of Leonidas.
Intellectual beauty, the splendor of the true, can only have for
principle that of all truth.
Many questions bearing on art and relating to the beautiful had been
propounded before, even as far back as Plotinus, Plato, and Socrates, but
recent times have been the real cradle of aesthetics as a science.
Modern philosophy was the first to recognize that beauty in art is one of
the means by which the contradictions can be removed between mind
considered in its abstract and absolute existence and nature constituting
the world of sense, bringing back these two factors to unity.
Kant was the first who felt the want of this union and expressed it, but
without determining its conditions or expressing it scientifically. He
was impeded in his efforts to effect this union by the opposition between
the subjective and the objective, by his placing practical reason above
theoretical reason, and he set up the opposition found in the moral
sphere as the highest principle of morality. Reduced to this difficulty,
all that Kant could do was to express the union under the form of the
subjective ideas of reason, or as postulates to be deduced from the
practical reason, without their essential character being known, and
representing their realization as nothing more than a simple you ought,
or imperative "Du sollst."
This unity of the general and of the particular, of liberty and necessity
of the spiritual and material, which Schiller understood scientifically
as the spirit of art, and which he tried to make appear in real life by
aesthetic art and education, was afterwards put forward under the name of
idea as the principle of all knowledge and existence. In this way,
through the agency of Schelling, science raised itself to an absolute
point of view. It was thus that art began to claim its proper nature and
dignity. From that time its proper place was finally marked out for it
in science, though the mode of viewing it still labored under certain
defects. Its high and true distinction were at length understood.
Art is intended to make us contemplate the true and the infinite in forms
of sense. Yet even art does not fully satisfy the deepest need of the
soul. The soul wants to contemplate truth in its inmost consciousness.
Religion is placed above the dominion of art.
But the ideal manifested in the world becomes action, and action implies
a form of society, a determinate situation with collision, and an action
properly so called. The heroic age is the best society for the ideal in
action; in its determinate situation the ideal in action must appear as
the manifestation of moral power, and in action, properly so called, it
must contain three points in the ideal: first, general principles;
secondly, personages; thirdly, their character and their passions. Hegel
winds up by considering the qualities necessary in an artist:
imagination, genius, inspiration, originality, etc.
"After the bitterness of the world, the sweetness of art soothes and
refreshes us. This is the high value of the beautiful--that it solves
the contradiction of mind and matter, of the moral and sensuous world, in
harmony. Thus the beautiful and its representation in art procures for
intuition what philosophy gives to the cognitive insight and religion to
the believing frame of mind. Hence the delight with which Schiller's
wonderful poem on the Bell celebrates the accord of the inner and outer
life, the fulfilment of the longing and demands of the soul by the events
in nature. The externality of phenomena is removed in the beautiful; it
is raised into the circle of ideal existence; for it is recognized as the
revelation of the ideal, and thus transfigured it gives to the latter
additional splendor."
"Beauty is the world secret that invites us in image and word," is the
poetical expression of Plato; and we may add, because it is revealed in
both. We feel in it the harmony of the world; it breaks forth in a
beauty, in a lovely accord, in a radiant point, and starting thence we
penetrate further and yet further, and find as the ground of all
existence the same charm which had refreshed us in individual forms.
Thus Christ pointed to the lilies of the field to knit His followers'
reliance on Providence with the phenomena of nature: and could they jet
forth in royal beauty, exceeding that of Solomon, if the inner ground of
nature were not beauty?
In the midst of the temporal the eternal is made palpable and present to
us in the beautiful, and offers itself to our enjoyment. The separation
is suppressed, and the original unity, as it is in God, appears as the
first, as what holds together even the past in the universe, and what
constitutes the aim of the development in a finite accord.
But art and aesthetics, in the sense in which these terms are used and
understood by German philosophical writers, such as Schiller, embrace a
wider field than the fine arts. Lessing, in his "Laocoon," had already
shown the point of contrast between painting and poetry; and aesthetics,
being defined as the science of the beautiful, must of necessity embrace
poetry. Accordingly Schiller's essays on tragic art, pathos, and
sentimental poetry, contained in this volume, are justly classed under
his aesthetical writings.
The first classical period of German poetry and literature was contained
between A. D. 1190 and 1300. It exhibits the intimate blending of the
German and Christian elements, and their full development in splendid
productions, for this was the period of the German national epos, the
"Nibelungenlied," and of the "Minnegesang."
The poetical efforts of that early age may be grouped under--(1) national
epos: the "Nibelungenlied;" (2) art epos: the "Rolandslied," "Percival,"
etc.; (3) the introduction of antique legends: Veldeck's "Aeneide," and
Konrad's "War of Troy;" (4) Christian legends "Barlaam," "Sylvester,"
"Pilatus," etc.; (5) poetical narratives: "Crescentia," "Graf Rudolf,"
etc.; (6) animal legends; "Reinecke Vos;" (7) didactic poems: "Der
Renner;" (8) the Minne-poetry, and prose.
The fourth group, though introduced from a foreign source, gives the
special character and much of the charm of the period we consider. This
is the sphere of legends derived from ecclesiastical ground. One of the
best German writers on the history of German literature remarks: "If the
aim and nature of all poetry is to let yourself be filled by a subject
and to become penetrated with it; if the simple representation of
unartificial, true, and glowing feelings belongs to its most beautiful
adornments; if the faithful direction of the heart to the invisible and
eternal is the ground on which at all times the most lovely flowers of
poetry have sprouted forth, these legendary poems of early Germany, in
their lovely heartiness, in their unambitious limitation, and their pious
sense, deserve a friendly acknowledgment. What man has considered the
pious images in the prayer-books of the Middle Ages, the unadorned
innocence, the piety and purity, the patience of the martyrs, the calm,
heavenly transparency of the figures of the holy angels, without being
attracted by the simple innocence and humility of these forms, the
creation of pious artists' hands? Who has beheld them without tranquil
joy at the soft splendor poured, over them, without deep sympathy, nay,
without a certain emotion and tenderness? And the same spirit that
created these images also produced those poetical effusions, the same
spirit of pious belief, of deep devotion, of heavenly longing. If we
make a present reality of the heroic songs of the early German popular
poetry, and the chivalrous epics of the art poetry, the military
expeditions and dress of the Crusades, this legendary poetry appears as
the invention of humble pilgrims, who wander slowly on the weary way to
Jerusalem, with scollop and pilgrim's staff, engaged in quiet prayer,
till they are all to kneel at the Saviour's sepulchre; and thus
contented, after touching the holy earth with their lips, they return,
poor as they were, but full of holy comfort, to their distant home.
"While the knightly poetry is the poetry of the splendid secular life,
full of cheerful joy, full of harp-tones and song, full of tournaments
and joyous festivals, the poetry of the earthly love for the earthly
bride, the poetry of the legends is that of the spontaneous life of
poverty, the poetry of the solitary cloister cell, of the quiet,
well-walled convent garden, the poetry of heavenly brides, who without
lamenting the joys of the world, which they need not, have their joy in
their Saviour in tranquil piety and devout resignation--who attend at the
espousals of Anna and Joachim, sing the Magnificat with the Holy Mother
of God, stand weeping beneath the cross, to be pierced also by the sword,
who hear the angel harp with St. Cecilia, and walk with St. Theresa in
the glades of Paradise. While the Minne-poetry was the tender homage
offered to the beauty, the gentleness, the grace, and charm of noble
women of this world, legendary poetry was the homage given to the Virgin
Mother, the Queen of Heaven, transfiguring earthly love into a heavenly
and eternal love."
"For the twelfth and thirteenth centuries were the time of woman cultus,
such as has never been before or since seen; it is also the time of the
deepest and simplest and truest, most enthusiastic and faithful
veneration of the Virgin Mary. If we, by a certain effort, manage to
place ourselves back on the standpoint of childlike poetic faith of that
time, and set aside in thought the materializing and exaggeration of the
hagiology and Mariolatry produced by later centuries, rendering the
reaction of the Reformation unavoidable--if now in our age, turned
exclusively to logical ideas and a negative dialectic, we live again by
thought in those ages of feeling and poetry--if we acknowledge all these
things to be something more than harmless play of words and fancy, and as
the true lifelike contents of the period, then we can properly appreciate
this legendary poetry as a necessary link in the crown of pearls of our
ancient poetry."
Then came degeneracy and artifice; after that the great shock of the
Reformation; subsequently a servile and pedantic study of classical forms
without imbibing their spirit, but preparing the way for a truer art
spirit, extracted from their study by the masterly criticism of
Winckelmann and Lessing, till the second classical period of German
literature and poetry bloomed forth in full beauty, blending the national
and legendary elements so well expressed by Herder with the highest
effusions of dramatic poetry, partly creative and partly imitative of the
Greek models, in Schiller and Goethe.
Modern German literature presents a very remarkable spectacle, though far
from unique in history, for there we see criticism begetting genius.
Lessing, the founder of the modern German drama, sought to banish all
pomp from the theatre, and in doing so some critics have thought that he
banished the ideal and fell into affectation. At any rate, his
"Dramaturgy" is full of original ideas, and when he drew out the sphere
of poetry contrasted with that of painting in his "Laocoon," all Germany
resounded with his praise. "With that delight," says Goethe, "we saluted
this luminous ray which a thinker of the first order caused to break
forth from its clouds. It is necessary to have all the fire of youth to
conceive the effect produced on us by the 'Laocoon' of Lessing." Another
great contemporary, whose name is imperishable as that of art, struck a
mortal blow at a false taste in the study of the antique. Winckelmann
questioned the works of the Greek chisel with an intelligence full of
love, and initiated his countrymen into poetry by a feeling for
sculpture! What an enthusiasm he displayed for classical beauty! what a
worship of the form! what a fervor of paganism is found in its eloquent
pages when he also comments on the admirable group of the Laocoon, or the
still purer masterpiece of the Apollo of Belvedere.
These men were the vanguard of the great Germanic army; Schiller and
Goethe alone formed its main column. In them German poetry shows itself
in its perfection, and completely realizes the ideal designed for it by
the critic. Every factitious precept and conventional law was now
overthrown; these poetical Protestants broke away entirely from the yoke
of tradition. Yet their genius was not without a rule. Every work bears
in itself the organic laws of its development. Thus, although they laugh
at the famous precept of the three unities, it is because they dig still
deeper down to the root of things, to grasp the true principle from which
the precept issued. "Men have not understood," said Goethe, "the basis
of this law. The law of the comprehensive--'das Fassliche'--is the
principle; and the three unities have only value as far as they attain
it. When they become an obstacle to the comprehension it is madness to
wish to observe them. The Greeks themselves, from whom the rule is
derived, did not always follow it. In the 'Phaeton' of Euripides, and in
other pieces, there was change, place; accordingly they prefer to give a
perfect exposition of their subject, rather than blindly respect a law
never very essential in itself. The pieces of Shakspeare violate in the
highest degree the unity of time and of place; but they are full of
comprehensiveness; nothing is easier to grasp, and for that reason they
would have found favor with the Greeks. The French poets tried to obey
exactly the law of the three unities; but they violate the law of
comprehensiveness, as they do not expound dramatic subjects by dramas but
by recitals."
Poetical creation was therefore viewed as free, but at the same time
responsible. Immediately, as if fecundity were the reward of
correctness, the German theatre became filled with true and living
characters. The stage widens under their steps that they may have room
to move. History with its great proportions and its terrible lessons, is
now able to take place on the stage. The whole Thirty Years' War passes
before us in "Wallenstein." We hear the tumult of camps, the disorder of
a fanatical and undisciplined army, peasants, recruits, sutlers,
soldiers. The illusion is complete, and enthusiasm breaks out among the
spectators. Similar merits attach to many other of Schiller's plays.
This new drama, which seemed to give all to the natural sphere, concedes
still more to the ideal. An able critic has said the details which are
the truth of history are also its poetry. Here the German school
professes a principle of the highest learning, and one that seems to be
borrowed from its profoundest philosophers; it is that of the universal
beauty of life, of the identity of beauty and existence. "Our
aesthetics," says Goethe, "speak a great deal of poetical or antipoetical
subjects; fundamentally there is no subject that has not its poetry; it
is for the poet to find it there."
Schiller and Goethe divide the empire over modern German poetry, and
represent its two principal powers; the one, Schiller, impassioned and
lyrical, pours his soul over all the subjects he touches; in him every
composition, ode, or drama is always one of his noble ideas, borrowing
its dress and ornament from the external world. He is a poet especially
through the heart, by the force with which he rushes in and carries you
with him. Goethe is especially an epic; no doubt he paints the passions
with admirable truth, but he commands them; like the god of the seas in
Virgil, he raises above the angry waves his calm and sublime forehead.
The Aesthetical Essays in this volume appeared for the most part since
1792, in the "Thalia" and the "Hours" periodicals. The first "On the
Ground of our Pleasure in Tragic Subjects" (1792), applies Kantian
principles of the sublime to tragedy, and shows Schiller's lofty estimate
of this class of poetry. With Kant he shows that the source of all
pleasure is suitableness; the touching and sublime elicit this feeling,
implying the existence of unsuitableness. In this article he makes the
aim and source of art to consist in giving enjoyment, in pleasing. To
nature pleasure is a mediate object, to art its main object. The same
proposition appears in Schiller's paper on Tragic Art (1792), closely
connected with the former. This article contains views of the affection
of pity that seem to approximate the Aristotelian propositions about
tragedy.
His views on the sublime are expressed in two papers, "The Sublime" and
"The Pathetic," in which we trace considerable influence of Lessing and
Winckelmann. He is led especially to strong antagonism against the
French tragedy, and he indulges in a lengthy consideration of the passage
of Virgil on Laocoon, showing the necessity of suffering and the pathetic
in connection with moral adaptations to interest us deeply.
All these essays bespeak the poet who has tried his hand at tragedy, but
in his next paper, "On Grace and Dignity," we trace more of the moralist.
Those passages where he takes up a medium position between sense and
reason, between Goethe and Kant, are specially attractive. The theme of
this paper is the conception of grace, or the expression of a beautiful
soul and dignity, or that of a lofty mind. The idea of grace has been
developed more deeply and truly by Schiller than by Wieland or
Winckelmann, but the special value of the paper is its constantly
pointing to the ideal of a higher humanity. In it he does full justice
to the sensuous and to the moral, and commencing with the beautiful
nature of the Greeks, to whom sense was never mere sense, nor reason mere
reason, he concludes with an image of perfected humanity in which grace
and dignity are united, the former by architectonic beauty (structure),
the last supported by power.
The free play of the faculty of cognition which had been determined by
Kant is also developed by Schiller. His representation of this matter is
this: Man, as a spirit, is reason and will, self-active, determining,
form-giving; this is described by Schiller as the form-instinct; man, as
a sensuous being, is determinable, receptive, termed to matter; Schiller
describes this as the material instinct, "Stofftrieb." In the midst
between these two is situated the beautiful, in which reason and the
sensuous penetrate each other, and their enjoyable product is designated
by Schiller the play instinct. This expression is not happily chosen.
Schiller means to describe by it the free play of the forces, activity
according to nature, which is at once a joy and a happiness; he reminds
us of the life of Olympus, and adds: "Man is only quite a man when he
plays." Personality is that which lasts, the state of feeling is the
changeable in man; he is the fixed unity remaining eternally himself in
the floods of change. Man in contact with the world is to take it up in
himself, but to unite with it the highest freedom and independence, and,
instead of being lost in the world, to subject it to his reason. It is
only by his being independent that there is reality out of him; only by
being susceptible of feeling that there is reality in him. The object of
sensuous instinct is life; that of the purer instinct figure; living
figure or beauty is the object of the play instinct.
Schiller adds that beauty knits together thought and feeling; the fullest
unity of spirit and matter. Its freedom is not lack, but harmony, of
laws; its conditions are not exclusions, inclusion of all infinity
determined in itself. A true work of art generates lofty serenity and
freedom of mind. Thus the aesthetic disposition bestows on us the
highest of all gifts, that of a disposition to humanity, and we may call
beauty our second creator.
In these letters Schiller spoke out the mildest and highest sentiments on
art, and in his paper on Simple and Sentimental Poetry (1795) he
constructs the ideal of the perfect poet. This is by far the most
fruitful of Schiller's essays in its results. It has much that is
practically applicable, and contains a very able estimate of German
poetry. The writing is also very pointed and telling, because it is
based upon actual perceptions, and it is interesting because the contrast
drawn out throughout it between the simple and the sentimental has been
referred to his own contrast with Goethe. He also wished to vindicate
modern poetry, which Goethe seemed to wish to sacrifice to the antique.
Schiller came up ten years later than Goethe, and concluded the cyclus of
genius that Goethe had inaugurated. But as he was the last arrival of
that productive period of tempestuous agitation, he retained more of its
elements in his later life and poetry than any others who had passed
through earlier agitations, such as Goethe. For Goethe cast himself free
in a great measure from the early intoxication of his youthful
imagination, devoting himself partly to nobler matter and partly to purer
forms.
Schiller derived from the stormy times of his youth his direction to the
ideal, to the hostility against the narrow spirit of civil relations, and
to all given conditions of society in general. He derived from it his
disposition, not to let himself be moulded by matter, but to place his
own creative and determining impress on matter, not so much to grasp
reality poetically and represent it poetically as to cast ideas into
reality, a disposition for lively representation and strong oratorical
coloring. All this he derived from the genial period, though later on
somewhat modified, and carried it over into his whole life and poetry;
and for this very reason he is not only together with Goethe, but before
Goethe, the favorite poet of the nation, and especially with that part of
the nation which sympathizes with him in the choice of poetic material
and in his mode of feeling.
Gervinus remarks that Schiller had at Weimar long fallen off from
Christianity, and occupied his mind tranquilly for a time with the views
of Spinoza (realistic pantheism). Like Herder and Goethe, he viewed life
in its great entirety and sacrificed the individual to the species.
Accordingly, through the gods of Greece, he fell out with strict,
orthodox Christians.
But Schiller had deeply religious and even Christian elements, as became
a German and a Kantian. He receives the Godhead in His will, and He
descends from His throne, He dwells in his soul; the poet sees divine
revelations, and as a seer announces them to man. He is a moral educator
of his people, who utters the tones of life in his poetry from youth
upwards. Philosophy was not disclosed to Plato in the highest and purest
thought, nor is poetry to Schiller merely an artificial edifice in the
harmony of speech; philosophy and poetry are to both a vibration of love
in the soul upwards to God, a liberation from the bonds of sense, a
purification of man, a moral art. On this reposes the religious
consecration of the Platonic spirit and of that of Schiller.
Issuing from the philosophical school of Kant, and imbued with the
antagonism of the age against constituted authorities, it is natural that
Schiller should be a rationalist in his religious views. It has been
justly said of him that while Goethe's system was an apotheosis of nature
Schiller's was an apotheosis of man.
Historically he was not prepared enough to test and search the question
of evidence as applied to divine things handed down by testimony, and his
Kantian coloring naturally disposed him to include all religions within
the limits of pure reason, and to seek it rather in the subject than in
anything objective.
But more than this: in very advanced societies the very grandeur of
ideas, the abundance of models, the satiety of the public render the task
of the artist more and more difficult. The artist himself has no longer
the enthusiasm of the first ages, the youth of imagination and of the
heart; he is an old man whose riches have increased, but who enjoys his
wealth less.
The middle ages introduced spiritualism in art; before this new idea the
smiling untruths of Greek poetry fled away frightened. The classical
form so beautiful, so pure, cannot contain high Catholic thought. A new
art is formed; on this side the Alps it does not reach the maturity that
produces masterpieces. But at that time all Europe was one fatherland;
Italy completes what is lacking in France and elsewhere.
Schiller, like all great men of genius, was a representative man of his
country and of his age. A German, a Protestant free-thinker, a
worshipper of the classical, he was the expression of these aspects of
national and general thought.
The religious reformation was the work of the North. The instinct of
races came in it to complicate the questions of dogmas. The awakening of
individual nationalities was one of the characters of the epoch.
The nations compressed in the severe unity of the Middle Ages escaped in
the Reformation from the uniform mould that had long enveloped them, and
tended to that other unity, still very distant, which must spring from
the spontaneous view of the same truth by all men, result from the free
and original development of each nation, and, as in a vast concert, unite
harmonious dissonances. Europe, without being conscious of its aim,
seized greedily at the means--insurrection; the only thought was to
overthrow, without yet thinking of a reconstruction. The sixteenth
century was the vanguard of the eighteenth. At all times the North had
fretted under the antipathetic yoke of the South. Under the Romans,
Germany, though frequently conquered, had never been subdued. She had
invaded the Empire and determined its fall. In the Middle Ages the
struggle had continued; not only instincts, but ideas, were in conflict;
force and spirit, violence and polity, feudalism and the Catholic
hierarchy, hereditary and elective forms, represented the opposition of
two races. In the sixteenth century the schism long anticipated took
place. The Catholic dogma had hitherto triumphed over all outbreaks--
over Arnaldo of Brescia, the Waldenses, and Wickliffe. But Luther
appeared, and the work was accomplished: Catholic unity was broken.
And this breaking with authority went on fermenting in the nations till
its last great outburst at the French Revolution; and Schiller was born
at this convulsive period, and bears strong traces of his parentage in
his anti-dogmatic spirit.
Yet there is another side to Germanism which is prone to the ideal and
the mystical, and bears still the trace of those lovely legends of
mediaeval growth to which we have adverted. For Christianity was not a
foreign and antagonistic importation in Germany; rather, the German
character obtained its completeness through Christianity. The German
found himself again in the Church of Christ, only raised, transfigured,
and sanctified. The apostolic representation of the Church as the bride
of Christ has found its fullest and truest correspondence in that of
Germany. Hence when the German spirit was thoroughly espoused to the
Christian spirit, we find that character of love, tenderness, and depth
so characteristic of the early classics of German poetry, and reappearing
in glorious afterglow in the second classics, in Klopstock, Herder, and,
above all, Schiller.
It is this special instinct for the ideal and mystical in German nature
that has enabled spirits born of negation and revolution, like Schiller,
to unite with those elements the most genial and creative inspirations of
poetry.
VOCABULARY OF TERMINOLOGY.
Feeling (Gefuehl). That part of our nature which relates to passion and
instinct. Feelings are connected both with our sensuous nature, our
imagination, and the pure reason.
Matter and Form. "These two conceptions are at the foundation of all
other reflection, being inseparably connected with every mode of
exercising the understanding. By the former is implied that which can be
determined in general; the second implies its determination, both in a
transcendental sense, abstraction being made of any difference in that
which is given, and of the mode in which it is determined. That which in
the phenomenon corresponds to the sensation, I term its matter; but that
which effects that the content of the phenomenon can be arranged under
certain relations, I call its form."--Kant, "Critique," op. cit.
LETTER I.
That which I would beg of you as a favor, you generously impose upon me
as a duty; and, when I solely consult my inclination, you impute to me a
service. The liberty of action you prescribe is rather a necessity for
me than a constraint. Little exercised in formal rules, I shall scarcely
incur the risk of sinning against good taste by any undue use of them; my
ideas, drawn rather from within than from reading or from an intimate
experience with the world, will not disown their origin; they would
rather incur any reproach than that of a sectarian bias, and would prefer
to succumb by their innate feebleness than sustain themselves by borrowed
authority and foreign support.
In truth, I will not keep back from you that the assertions which follow
rest chiefly upon Kantian principles; but if in the course of these
researches you should be reminded of any special school of philosophy,
ascribe it to my incapacity, not to those principles. No; your liberty
of mind shall be sacred to me; and the facts upon which I build will be
furnished by your own sentiments; your own unfettered thought will
dictate the laws according to which we have to proceed.
LETTER II.
But I might perhaps make a better use of the opening you afford me if I
were to direct your mind to a loftier theme than that of art. It would
appear to be unseasonable to go in search of a code for the aesthetic
world, when the moral world offers matter of so much higher interest, and
when the spirit of philosophical inquiry is so stringently challenged by
the circumstances of our times to occupy itself with the most perfect of
all works of art--the establishment and structure of a true political
freedom.
It is unsatisfactory to live out of your own age and to work for other
times. It is equally incumbent on us to be good members of our own age
as of our own state or country. If it is conceived to be unseemly and
even unlawful for a man to segregate himself from the customs and manners
of the circle in which he lives, it would be inconsistent not to see that
it is equally his duty to grant a proper share of influence to the voice
of his own epoch, to its taste and its requirements, in the operations in
which he engages.
But the voice of our age seems by no means favorable to art, at all
events to that kind of art to which my inquiry is directed. The course
of events has given a direction to the genius of the time that threatens
to remove it continually further from the ideal of art. For art has to
leave reality, it has to raise itself boldly above necessity and
neediness; for art is the daughter of freedom, and it requires its
prescriptions and rules to be furnished by the necessity of spirits and
not by that of matter. But in our day it is necessity, neediness, that
prevails, and lends a degraded humanity under its iron yoke. Utility is
the great idol of the time, to which all powers do homage and all
subjects are subservient. In this great balance on utility, the
spiritual service of art has no weight, and, deprived of all
encouragement, it vanishes from the noisy Vanity Fair of our time. The
very spirit of philosophical inquiry itself robs the imagination of one
promise after another, and the frontiers of art are narrowed in
proportion as the limits of science are enlarged.
The eyes of the philosopher as well as of the man of the world are
anxiously turned to the theatre of political events, where it is presumed
the great destiny of man is to be played out. It would almost seem to
betray a culpable indifference to the welfare of society if we did not
share this general interest. For this great commerce in social and moral
principles is of necessity a matter of the greatest concern to every
human being, on the ground both of its subject and of its results. It
must accordingly be of deepest moment to every man to think for himself.
It would seem that now at length a question that formerly was only
settled by the law of the stronger is to be determined by the calm
judgment of the reason, and every man who is capable of placing himself
in a central position, and raising his individuality into that of his
species, can look upon himself as in possession of this judicial faculty
of reason; being moreover, as man and member of the human family, a party
in the case under trial and involved more or less in its decisions. It
would thus appear that this great political process is not only engaged
with his individual case, it has also to pronounce enactments, which he
as a rational spirit is capable of enunciating and entitled to pronounce.
LETTER III.
Man is not better treated by nature in his first start than her other
works are; so long as he is unable to act for himself as an independent
intelligence she acts for him. But the very fact that constitutes him a
man is that he does not remain stationary, where nature has placed him,
that he can pass with his reason, retracing the steps nature had made him
anticipate, that he can convert the work of necessity into one of free
solution, and elevate physical necessity into a moral law.
When man is raised from his slumber in the senses he feels that he is a
man; he surveys his surroundings and finds that he is in a state. He was
introduced into this state by the power of circumstances, before he could
freely select his own position. But as a moral being he cannot possibly
rest satisfied with a political condition forced upon him by necessity,
and only calculated for that condition; and it would be unfortunate if
this did satisfy him. In many cases man shakes off this blind law of
necessity, by his free spontaneous action, of which among many others we
have an instance, in his ennobling by beauty and suppressing by moral
influence the powerful impulse implanted in him by nature in the passion
of love. Thus, when arrived at maturity, he recovers his childhood by an
artificial process, he founds a state of nature in his ideas, not given
him by any experience, but established by the necessary laws and
conditions of his reason, and he attributes to this ideal condition an
object, an aim, of which he was not cognizant in the actual reality of
nature. He gives himself a choice of which he was not capable before,
and sets to work just as if he were beginning anew, and were exchanging
his original state of bondage for one of complete independence, doing
this with complete insight and of his free decision. He is justified in
regarding this work of political thraldom as non-existing, though a wild
and arbitrary caprice may have founded its work very artfully; though it
may strive to maintain it with great arrogance and encompass it with a
halo of veneration. For the work of blind powers possesses no authority
before which freedom need bow, and all must be made to adapt itself to
the highest end which reason has set up in his personality. It is in
this wise that a people in a state of manhood is justified in exchanging
a condition of thraldom for one of moral freedom.
Now the term natural condition can be applied to every political body
which owes its establishment originally to forces and not to laws, and
such a state contradicts the moral nature of man, because lawfulness can
alone have authority over this. At the same time this natural condition
is quite sufficient for the physical man, who only gives himself laws in
order to get rid of brute force. Moreover, the physical man is a
reality, and the moral man problematical. Therefore when the reason
suppresses the natural condition, as she must if she wishes to substitute
her own, she weighs the real physical man against the problematical moral
man, she weighs the existence of society against a possible, though
morally necessary, ideal of society. She takes from man something which
he really possesses, and without which he possesses nothing, and refers
him as a substitute to something that he ought to possess and might
possess; and if reason had relied too exclusively on him she might, in
order to secure him a state of humanity in which he is wanting and can
want without injury to his life, have robbed him even of the means of
animal existence, which is the first necessary condition of his being a
man. Before he had opportunity to hold firm to the law with his will,
reason would have withdrawn from his feet the ladder of nature.
This prop is not found in the natural character of man, who, being
selfish and violent, directs his energies rather to the destruction than
to the preservation of society. Nor is it found in his moral character,
which has to be formed, which can never be worked upon or calculated on
by the lawgiver, because it is free and never appears. It would seem,
therefore, that another measure must be adopted. It would seem that the
physical character of the arbitrary must be separated from moral freedom;
that it is incumbent to make the former harmonize with the laws and the
latter dependent on impressions; it would be expedient to remove the
former still farther from matter and to bring the latter somewhat more
near to it; in short, to produce a third character related to both the
others--the physical and the moral--paving the way to a transition from
the sway of mere force to that of law, without preventing the proper
development of the moral character, but serving rather as a pledge in the
sensuous sphere of a morality in the unseen.
LETTER IV.
When the mechanical artist places his hand on the formless block, to give
it a form according to his intention, he has not any scruples in doing
violence to it. For the nature on which he works does not deserve any
respect in itself, and he does not value the whole for its parts, but the
parts on account of the whole. When the child of the fine arts sets his
hand to the same block, he has no scruples either in doing violence to
it, he only avoids showing this violence. He does not respect the matter
in which he works any more than the mechanical artist; but he seeks by an
apparent consideration for it to deceive the eye which takes this matter
under its protection. The political and educating artist follows a very
different course, while making man at once his material and his end. In
this case the aim or end meets in the material, and it is only because
the whole serves the parts that the parts adapt themselves to the end.
The political artist has to treat his material--man--with a very
different kind of respect than that shown by the artist of fine art to
his work. He must spare man's peculiarity and personality, not to
produce a defective effect on the senses, but objectively and out of
consideration for his inner being.
But the state is an organization which fashions itself through itself and
for itself, and for this reason it can only be realized when the parts
have been accorded to the idea of the whole. The state serves the
purpose of a representative, both to pure ideal and to objective
humanity, in the breast of its citizens, accordingly it will have to
observe the same relation to its citizens in which they are placed to it;
and it will only respect their subjective humanity in the same degree
that it is ennobled to an objective existence. If the internal man is
one with himself he will be able to rescue his peculiarity, even in the
greatest generalization of his conduct, and the state will only become
the exponent of his fine instinct, the clearer formula of his internal
legislation. But if the subjective man is in conflict with the
objective, and contradicts him in the character of a people, so that only
the oppression of the former can give victory to the latter, then the
state will take up the severe aspect of the law against the citizen, and
in order not to fall a sacrifice, it will have to crush under foot such a
hostile individuality without any compromise.
Consequently, when reason brings her moral unity into physical society,
she must not injure the manifold in nature. When nature strives to
maintain her manifold character in the moral structure of society, this
must not create any breach in moral unity; the victorious form is equally
remote from uniformity and confusion. Therefore, totality of character
must be found in the people which is capable and worthy to exchange the
state of necessity for that of freedom.
LETTER V.
Does the present age, do passing events, present this character? I
direct my attention at once to the most prominent object in this vast
structure.
Man paints himself in his actions, and what is the form depicted in the
drama of the present time? On the one hand, he is seen running wild, on
the other, in a state of lethargy; the two extremest stages of human
degeneracy, and both seen in one and the same period.
On the other hand, the civilized classes give us the still more repulsive
sight of lethargy, and of a depravity of character which is the more
revolting because it roots in culture. I forget who of the older or more
recent philosophers makes the remark, that what is more noble is the more
revolting in its destruction. The remark applies with truth to the world
of morals. The child of nature, when he breaks loose, becomes a madman;
but the art scholar, when he breaks loose, becomes a debased character.
The enlightenment of the understanding, on which the more refined classes
pride themselves with some ground, shows on the whole so little of an
ennobling influence on the mind that it seems rather to confirm
corruption by its maxims. We deny nature on her legitimate field and
feel her tyranny in the moral sphere, and while resisting her
impressions, we receive our principles from her. While the affected
decency of our manners does not even grant to nature a pardonable
influence in the initial stage, our materialistic system of morals allows
her the casting vote in the last and essential stage. Egotism has
founded its system in the very bosom of a refined society, and without
developing even a sociable character, we feel all the contagions and
miseries of society. We subject our free judgment to its despotic
opinions, our feelings to its bizarre customs, and our will to its
seductions. We only maintain our caprice against her holy rights. The
man of the world has his heart contracted by a proud self-complacency,
while that of the man of nature often beats in sympathy; and every man
seeks for nothing more than to save his wretched property from the
general destruction, as it were from some great conflagration. It is
conceived that the only way to find a shelter against the aberrations of
sentiment is by completely foregoing its indulgence, and mockery, which
is often a useful chastener of mysticism, slanders in the same breath the
noblest aspirations. Culture, far from giving us freedom, only develops,
as it advances, new necessities; the fetters of the physical close more
tightly around us, so that the fear of loss quenches even the ardent
impulse toward improvement, and the maxims of passive obedience are held
to be the highest wisdom of life. Thus the spirit of the time is seen to
waver between perversion and savagism, between what is unnatural and mere
nature, between superstition and moral unbelief, and it is often nothing
but the equilibrium of evils that sets bounds to it.
LETTER VI.
It was culture itself that gave these wounds to modern humanity. The
inner union of human nature was broken, and a destructive contest divided
its harmonious forces directly; on the one hand, an enlarged experience
and a more distinct thinking necessitated a sharper separation of the
sciences, while, on the other hand, the more complicated machinery of
states necessitated a stricter sundering of ranks and occupations.
Intuitive and speculative understanding took up a hostile attitude in
opposite fields, whose borders were guarded with jealousy and distrust;
and by limiting its operation to a narrow sphere, men have made unto
themselves a master who is wont not unfrequently to end by subduing and
oppressing all the other faculties. Whilst on the one hand a luxuriant
imagination creates ravages in the plantations that have cost the
intelligence so much labor; on the other hand, a spirit of abstraction
suffocates the fire that might have warmed the heart and inflamed the
imagination.
This subversion, commenced by art and learning in the inner man, was
carried out to fulness and finished by the spirit of innovation in
government. It was, no doubt, reasonable to expect that the simple
organization of the primitive republics should survive the quaintness of
primitive manners and of the relations of antiquity. But, instead of
rising to a higher and nobler degree of animal life, this organization
degenerated into a common and coarse mechanism. The zoophyte condition
of the Grecian states, where each individual enjoyed an independent life,
and could, in cases of necessity, become a separate whole and unit in
himself, gave way to an ingenious mechanism, when, from the splitting up
into numberless parts, there results a mechanical life in the
combination. Then there was a rupture between the state and the church,
between laws and customs; enjoyment was separated from labor, the means
from the end, the effort from the reward. Man himself, eternally chained
down to a little fragment of the whole, only forms a kind of fragment;
having nothing in his ears but the monotonous sound of the perpetually
revolving wheel, he never develops the harmony of his being, and instead
of imprinting the seal of humanity on his being, he ends by being nothing
more than the living impress of the craft to which he devotes himself, of
the science that he cultivates. This very partial and paltry relation,
linking the isolated members to the whole, does not depend on forms that
are given spontaneously; for how could a complicated machine, which shuns
the light, confide itself to the free will of man? This relation is
rather dictated, with a rigorous strictness, by a formulary in which the
free intelligence of man is chained down. The dead letter takes the
place of a living meaning, and a practised memory becomes a safer guide
than genius and feeling.
Thus compressed between two forces, within and without, could humanity
follow any other course than that which it has taken? The speculative
mind, pursuing imprescriptible goods and rights in the sphere of ideas,
must needs have become a stranger to the world of sense, and lose sight
of matter for the sake of form. On its part, the world of public
affairs, shut up in a monotonous circle of objects, and even there
restricted by formulas, was led to lose sight of the life and liberty of
the whole, while becoming impoverished at the same time in its own
sphere. Just as the speculative mind was tempted to model the real after
the intelligible, and to raise the subjective laws of its imagination
into laws constituting the existence of things, so the state spirit
rushed into the opposite extreme, wished to make a particular and
fragmentary experience the measure of all observation, and to apply
without exception to all affairs the rules of its own particular craft.
The speculative mind had necessarily to become the prey of a vain
subtlety, the state spirit of a narrow pedantry; for the former was
placed too high to see the individual, and the latter too low to survey
the whole. But the disadvantage of this direction of mind was not
confined to knowledge and mental production; it extended to action and
feeling. We know that the sensibility of the mind depends, as to degree,
on the liveliness, and for extent on the richness of the imagination.
Now the predominance of the faculty of analysis must necessarily deprive
the imagination of its warmth and energy, and a restricted sphere of
objects must diminish its wealth. It is for this reason that the
abstract thinker has very often a cold heart, because he analyzes
impressions, which only move the mind by their combination or totality;
on the other hand, the man of business, the statesman, has very often a
narrow heart, because, shut up in the narrow circle of his employment,
his imagination can neither expand nor adapt itself to another manner of
viewing things.
There was no other way to develop the manifold aptitudes of man than to
bring them in opposition with one another. This antagonism of forces is
the great instrument of culture, but it is only an instrument: for as
long as this antagonism lasts man is only on the road to culture. It is
only because these special forces are isolated in man, and because they
take on themselves to impose all exclusive legislation, that they enter
into strife with the truth of things, and oblige common sense, which
generally adheres imperturbably to external phenomena, to dive into the
essence of things. While pure understanding usurps authority in the
world of sense, and empiricism attempts to subject this intellect to the
conditions of experience, these two rival directions arrive at the
highest possible development, and exhaust the whole extent of their
sphere. While, on the one hand, imagination, by its tyranny, ventures to
destroy the order of the world, it forces reason, on the other side, to
rise up to the supreme sources of knowledge, and to invoke against this
predominance of fancy the help of the law of necessity.
But whatever may be the final profit for the totality of the world, of
this distinct and special perfecting of the human faculties, it cannot be
denied that this final aim of the universe, which devotes them to this
kind of culture, is a cause of suffering, and a kind of malediction for
individuals. I admit that the exercises of the gymnasium form athletic
bodies; but beauty is only developed by the free and equal play of the
limbs. In the same way the tension of the isolated spiritual forces may
make extraordinary men; but it is only the well-tempered equilibrium of
these forces that can produce happy and accomplished men. And in what
relation should we be placed with past and future ages if the perfecting
of human nature made such a sacrifice indispensable? In that case we
should have been the slaves of humanity, we should have consumed our
forces in servile work for it during some thousands of years, and we
should have stamped on our humiliated, mutilated nature the shameful
brand of this slavery--all this in order that future generations, in a
happy leisure, might consecrate themselves to the cure of their moral
health, and develop the whole of human nature by their free culture.
But can it be true that man has to neglect himself for any end whatever?
Can nature snatch from us, for any end whatever, the perfection which is
prescribed to us by the aim of reason? It must be false that the
perfecting of particular faculties renders the sacrifice of their
totality necessary; and even if the law of nature had imperiously this
tendency, we must have the power to reform by a superior art this
totality of our being, which art has destroyed.
LETTER VII.
In the physical creation, nature shows us the road that we have to follow
in the moral creation. Only when the struggle of elementary forces has
ceased in inferior organizations, nature rises to the noble form of the
physical man. In like manner, the conflict of the elements of the moral
man and that of blind instincts must have ceased, and a coarse antagonism
in himself, before the attempt can be hazarded. On the other hand, the
independence of man's character must be secured, and his submission to
despotic forms must have given place to a suitable liberty, before the
variety in his constitution can be made subordinate to the unity of the
ideal. When the man of nature still makes such an anarchial abuse of his
will, his liberty ought hardly to be disclosed to him. And when the man
fashioned by culture makes so little use of his freedom, his free will
ought not to be taken from him. The concession of liberal principles
becomes a treason to social order when it is associated with a force
still in fermentation, and increases the already exuberant energy of its
nature. Again, the law of conformity under one level becomes tyranny to
the individual when it is allied to a weakness already holding sway and
to natural obstacles, and when it comes to extinguish the last spark of
spontaneity and of originality.
The tone of the age must therefore rise from its profound moral
degradation; on the one hand it must emancipate itself from the blind
service of nature, and on the other it must revert to its simplicity, its
truth, and its fruitful sap; a sufficient task for more than a century.
However, I admit readily, more than one special effort may meet with
success, but no improvement of the whole will result from it, and
contradictions in action will be a continual protest against the unity of
maxims. It will be quite possible, then, that in remote corners of the
world humanity may be honored in the person of the negro, while in Europe
it may be degraded in the person of the thinker. The old principles will
remain, but they will adopt the dress of the age, and philosophy will
lend its name to an oppression that was formerly authorized by the
church. In one place, alarmed at the liberty which in its opening
efforts always shows itself an enemy, it will cast itself into the arms
of a convenient servitude. In another place, reduced to despair by a
pedantic tutelage, it will be driven into the savage license of the state
of nature. Usurpation will invoke the weakness of human nature, and
insurrection will invoke its dignity, till at length the great sovereign
of all human things, blind force, shall come in and decide, like a vulgar
pugilist, this pretended contest of principles.
LETTER VIII.
Must philosophy therefore retire from this field, disappointed in its
hopes? Whilst in all other directions the dominion of forms is extended,
must this the most precious of all gifts be abandoned to a formless
chance? Must the contest of blind forces last eternally in the political
world, and is social law never to triumph over a hating egotism?
Not in the least. It is true that reason herself will never attempt
directly a struggle with this brutal force which resists her arms, and
she will be as far as the son of Saturn in the "Iliad" from descending
into the dismal field of battle, to fight them in person. But she
chooses the most deserving among the combatants, clothes him with divine
arms as Jupiter gave them to his son-in-law, and by her triumphing force
she finally decides the victory.
Reason has done all that she could in finding the law and promulgating
it; it is for the energy of the will and the ardor of feeling to carry it
out. To issue victoriously from her contest with force, truth herself
must first become a force, and turn one of the instincts of man into her
champion in the empire of phenomena. For instincts are the only motive
forces in the material world. If hitherto truth has so little manifested
her victorious power, this has not depended on the understanding, which
could not have unveiled it, but on the heart which remained closed to it
and on instinct which did not act with it.
It is therefore not going far enough to say that the light of the
understanding only deserves respect when it reacts on the character; to a
certain extent it is from the character that this light proceeds; for the
road that terminates in the head must pass through the heart.
Accordingly, the most pressing need of the present time is to educate the
sensibility, because it is the means, not only to render efficacious in
practice the improvement of ideas, but to call this improvement into
existence.
LETTER IX.
I have now reached the point to which all the considerations tended that
have engaged me up to the present time. This instrument is the art of
the beautiful; these sources are open to us in its immortal models.
Art, like science, is emancipated from all that is positive, and all that
is humanly conventional; both are completely independent of the arbitrary
will of man. The political legislator may place their empire under an
interdict, but he cannot reign there. He can proscribe the friend of
truth, but truth subsists; he can degrade the artist, but he cannot
change art. No doubt, nothing is more common than to see science and art
bend before the spirit of the age, and creative taste receive its law
from critical taste. When the character becomes stiff and hardens
itself, we see science severely keeping her limits, and art subject to
the harsh restraint of rules; when the character is relaxed and softened,
science endeavors to please and art to rejoice. For whole ages
philosophers as well as artists show themselves occupied in letting down
truth and beauty to the depths of vulgar humanity. They themselves are
swallowed up in it; but, thanks to their essential vigor and
indestructible life, the true and the beautiful make a victorious fight,
and issue triumphant from the abyss.
No doubt the artist is the child of his time, but unhappy for him if he
is its disciple or even its favorite! Let a beneficent deity carry off
in good time the suckling from the breast of its mother, let it nourish
him on the milk of a better age, and suffer him to grow up and arrive at
virility under the distant sky of Greece. When he has attained manhood,
let him come back, presenting a face strange to his own age; let him
come, not to delight it with his apparition, but rather to purify it,
terrible as the son of Agamemnon. He will, indeed, receive his matter
from the present time, but he will borrow the form from a nobler time and
even beyond all time, from the essential, absolute, immutable unity.
There, issuing from the pure ether of its heavenly nature, flows the
source of all beauty, which was never tainted by the corruptions of
generations or of ages, which roll along far beneath it in dark eddies.
Its matter may be dishonored as well as ennobled by fancy, but the
ever-chaste form escapes from the caprices of imagination. The Roman had
already bent his knee for long years to the divinity of the emperors, and
yet the statues of the gods stood erect; the temples retained their
sanctity for the eye long after the gods had become a theme for mockery,
and the noble architecture of the palaces that shielded the infamies of
Nero and of Commodus were a protest against them. Humanity has lost its
dignity, but art has saved it, and preserves it in marbles full of
meaning; truth continues to live in illusion, and the copy will serve to
re-establish the model. If the nobility of art has survived the nobility
of nature, it also goes before it like an inspiring genius, forming and
awakening minds. Before truth causes her triumphant light to penetrate
into the depths of the heart, poetry intercepts her rays, and the summits
of humanity shine in a bright light, while a dark and humid night still
hangs over the valleys.
But how will the artist avoid the corruption of his time which encloses
him on all hands? Let him raise his eyes to his own dignity, and to law;
let him not lower them to necessity and fortune. Equally exempt from a
vain activity which would imprint its trace on the fugitive moment, and
from the dreams of an impatient enthusiasm which applies the measure of
the absolute to the paltry productions of time, let the artist abandon
the real to the understanding, for that is its proper field. But let the
artist endeavor to give birth to the ideal by the union of the possible
and of the necessary. Let him stamp illusion and truth with the effigy
of this ideal; let him apply it to the play of his imagination and his
most serious actions, in short, to all sensuous and spiritual forms; then
let him quietly launch his work into infinite time.
But the minds set on fire by this ideal have not all received an equal
share of calm from the creative genius--that great and patient temper
which is required to impress the ideal on the dumb marble, or to spread
it over a page of cold, sober letters, and then intrust it to the
faithful hands of time. This divine instinct, and creative force, much
too ardent to follow this peaceful walk, often throws itself immediately
on the present, on active life, and strives to transform the shapeless
matter of the moral world. The misfortune of his brothers, of the whole
species, appeals loudly to the heart of the man of feeling; their
abasement appeals still louder: enthusiasm is inflamed, and in souls
endowed with energy the burning desire aspires impatiently to action and
facts. But has this innovator examined himself to see if these disorders
of the moral world wound his reason, or if they do not rather wound his
self-love? If he does not determine this point at once, he will find it
from the impulsiveness with which he pursues a prompt and definite end.
A pure, moral motive has for its end the absolute; time does not exist
for it, and the future becomes the present to it directly; by a necessary
development, it has to issue from the present. To a reason having no
limits the direction towards an end becomes confounded with the
accomplishment of this end, and to enter on a course is to have finished
it.
If, then, a young friend of the true and of the beautiful were to ask me
how, notwithstanding the resistance of the times, he can satisfy the
noble longing of his heart, I should reply: Direct the world on which you
act towards that which is good, and the measured and peaceful course of
time will bring about the results. You have given it this direction if
by your teaching you raise its thoughts towards the necessary and the
eternal; if, by your acts or your creations, you make the necessary and
the eternal the object of your leanings. The structure of error and of
all that is arbitrary must fall, and it has already fallen, as soon as
you are sure that it is tottering. But it is important that it should
not only totter in the external but also in the internal man. Cherish
triumphant truth in the modest sanctuary of your heart; give it an
incarnate form through beauty, that it may not only be in the
understanding that does homage to it, but that feeling may lovingly grasp
its appearance. And that you may not by any chance take from external
reality the model which you yourself ought to furnish, do not venture
into its dangerous society before you are assured in your own heart that
you have a good escort furnished by ideal nature. Live with your age,
but be not its creation; labor for your contemporaries, but do for them
what they need, and not what they praise. Without having shared their
faults, share their punishment with a noble resignation, and bend under
the yoke which they find it as painful to dispense with as to bear. By
the constancy with which you will despise their good fortune, you will
prove to them that it is not through cowardice that you submit to their
sufferings. See them in thought such as they ought to be when you must
act upon them; but see them as they are when you are tempted to act for
them. Seek to owe their suffrage to their dignity; but to make them
happy keep an account of their unworthiness: thus, on the one hand, the
nobleness of your heart will kindle theirs, and, on the other, your end
will not be reduced to nothingness by their unworthiness. The gravity of
your principles will keep them off from you, but in play they will still
endure them. Their taste is purer than their heart, and it is by their
taste you must lay hold of this suspicious fugitive. In vain will you
combat their maxims, in vain will you condemn their actions; but you can
try your moulding hand on their leisure. Drive away caprice, frivolity,
and coarseness from their pleasures, and you will banish them
imperceptibly from their acts, and at length from their feelings.
Everywhere that you meet them, surround them with great, noble, and
ingenious forms; multiply around them the symbols of perfection, till
appearance triumphs over reality, and art over nature.
LETTER X.
I do not speak of those who calumniate art because they have never been
favored by it. These persons only appreciate a possession by the trouble
it takes to acquire it, and by the profit it brings: and how could they
properly appreciate the silent labor of taste in the exterior and
interior man? How evident it is that the accidental disadvantages
attending liberal culture would make them lose sight of its essential
advantages? The man deficient in form despises the grace of diction as a
means of corruption, courtesy in the social relations as dissimulation,
delicacy and generosity in conduct as an affected exaggeration. He
cannot forgive the favorite of the Graces for having enlivened all
assemblies as a man of the world, of having directed all men to his views
like a statesman, and of giving his impress to the whole century as a
writer: while he, the victim of labor, can only obtain with all his
learning, the least attention or overcome the least difficulty. As he
cannot learn from his fortunate rival the secret of pleasing, the only
course open to him is to deplore the corruption of human nature, which
adores rather the appearance than the reality.
But there are also opinions deserving respect, that pronounce themselves
adverse to the effects of the beautiful, and find formidable arms in
experience, with which to wage war against it. "We are free to admit"--
such is their language--"that the charms of the beautiful can further
honorable ends in pure hands; but it is not repugnant to its nature to
produce, in impure hands, a directly contrary effect, and to employ in
the service of injustice and error the power that throws the soul of man
into chains. It is exactly because taste only attends to the form and
never to the substance; it ends by placing the soul on the dangerous
incline, leading it to neglect all reality and to sacrifice truth and
morality to an attractive envelope. All the real difference of things
vanishes, and it is only the appearance that determines the value! How
many men of talent"--thus these arguers proceed--"have been turned aside
from all effort by the seductive power of the beautiful, or have been led
away from all serious exercise of their activity, or have been induced to
use it very feebly? How many weak minds have been impelled to quarrel
with the organizations of society, simply because it has pleased the
imagination of poets to present the image of a world constituted
differently, where no propriety chains down opinion and no artifice holds
nature in thraldom? What a dangerous logic of the passions they have
learned since the poets have painted them in their pictures in the most
brilliant colors, and since, in the contest with law and duty, they have
commonly remained masters of the battle-field. What has society gained
by the relations of society, formerly under the sway of truth, being now
subject to the laws of the beautiful, or by the external impression
deciding the estimation in which merit is to be held? We admit that all
virtues whose appearance produces an agreeable effect are now seen to
flourish, and those which, in society, give a value to the man who
possesses them. But, as a compensation, all kinds of excesses are seen
to prevail, and all vices are in vogue that can be reconciled with a
graceful exterior." It is certainly a matter entitled to reflection
that, at almost all the periods of history when art flourished and taste
held sway, humanity is found in a state of decline; nor can a single
instance be cited of the union of a large diffusion of aesthetic culture
with political liberty and social virtue, of fine manners associated with
good morals, and of politeness fraternizing with truth and loyalty of
character and life.
LETTER XI.
Now from this source issue for man two opposite exigencies, the two
fundamental laws of sensuous-rational nature. The first has for its
object absolute reality; it must make a world of what is only form,
manifest all that in it is only a force. The second law has for its
object absolute formality; it must destroy in him all that is only world,
and carry out harmony in all changes. In other terms, he must manifest
all that is internal, and give form to all that is external. Considered
in its most lofty accomplishment, this twofold labor brings back to the
idea of humanity, which was my starting-point.
LETTER XII.
This twofold labor or task, which consists in making the necessary pass
into reality in us and in making out of us reality subject to the law of
necessity, is urged upon us as a duty by two opposing forces, which are
justly styled impulsions or instincts, because they impel us to realize
their object. The first of these impulsions, which I shall call the
sensuous instinct, issues from the physical existence of man, or from
sensuous nature; and it is this instinct which tends to enclose him in
the limits of time, and to make of him a material being; I do not say to
give him matter, for to do that a certain free activity of the
personality would be necessary, which, receiving matter, distinguishes it
from the Ego, or what is permanent. By matter I only understand in this
place the change or reality that fills time. Consequently the instinct
requires that there should be change, and that time should contain
something. This simply filled state of time is named sensation, and it
is only in this state that physical existence manifests itself.
As all that is in time is successive, it follows by that fact alone that
something is: all the remainder is excluded. When one note on an
instrument is touched, among all those that it virtually offers, this
note alone is real. When man is actually modified, the infinite
possibility of all his modifications is limited to this single mode of
existence. Thus, then, the exclusive action of sensuous impulsion has
for its necessary consequence the narrowest limitation. In this state
man is only a unity of magnitude, a complete moment in time; or, to speak
more correctly, he is not, for his personality is suppressed as long as
sensation holds sway over him and carries time along with it.
This instinct extends its domains over the entire sphere of the finite in
man, and as form is only revealed in matter, and the absolute by means of
its limits, the total manifestation of human nature is connected on a
close analysis with the sensuous instinct. But though it is only this
instinct that awakens and develops what exists virtually in man, it is
nevertheless this very instinct which renders his perfection impossible.
It binds down to the world of sense by indestructible ties the spirit
that tends higher, and it calls back to the limits of the present,
abstraction which had its free development in the sphere of the infinite.
No doubt, thought can escape it for a moment, and a firm will
victoriously resist its exigencies: but soon compressed nature resumes
her rights to give an imperious reality to our existence, to give it
contents, substance, knowledge, and an aim for our activity.
The second impulsion, which may be named the formal instinct, issues from
the absolute existence of man, or from his rational nature, and tends to
set free, and bring harmony into the diversity of its manifestations, and
to maintain personality notwithstanding all the changes of state. As
this personality, being an absolute and indivisible unity, can never be
in contradiction with itself, as we are ourselves forever, this
impulsion, which tends to maintain personality, can never exact in one
time anything but what it exacts and requires forever. It therefore
decides for always what it decides now, and orders now what it orders
forever. Hence it embraces the whole series of times, or what comes to
the same thing, it suppresses time and change. It wishes the real to be
necessary and eternal, and it wishes the eternal and the necessary to be
real; in other terms, it tends to truth and justice.
Accordingly, when the formal impulse holds sway and the pure object acts
in us, the being attains its highest expansion, all barriers disappear,
and from the unity of magnitude in which man was enclosed by a narrow
sensuousness, he rises to the unity of idea, which embraces and keeps
subject the entire sphere of phenomena. During this operation we are no
longer in time, but time is in us with its infinite succession. We are
no longer individuals but a species; the judgment of all spirits is
expressed by our own, and the choice of all hearts is represented by our
own act.
LETTER XIII.
But man can invert this relation, and thus fail in attaining his
destination in two ways. He can hand over to the passive force the
intensity demanded by the active force; he can encroach by material
impulsion on the formal impulsion, and convert the receptive into the
determining power. He can attribute to the active force the
extensiveness belonging to the passive force, he can encroach by the
formal impulsion on the material impulsion, and substitute the
determining for the receptive power. In the former case, he will never
be an Ego, a personality; in the second case, he will never be a Non-Ego,
and hence in both cases he will be neither the one nor the other,
consequently he will be nothing.
LETTER XIV.
We have been brought to the idea of such a correlation between the two
impulsions that the action of the one establishes and limits at the same
time the action of the other, and that each of them, taken in isolation,
does arrive at its highest manifestation just because the other is
active.
The sensuous impulsion excludes from its subject all autonomy and
freedom; the formal impulsion excludes all dependence and passivity. But
the exclusion of freedom is physical necessity; the exclusion of
passivity is moral necessity. Thus the two impulsions subdue the mind:
the former to the laws of nature, the latter to the laws of reason. It
results from this that the instinct of play, which unites the double
action of the two other instincts, will content the mind at once morally
and physically. Hence, as it suppresses all that is contingent, it will
also suppress all coercion, and will set man free physically and morally.
When we welcome with effusion some one who deserves our contempt, we feel
painfully that nature is constrained. When we have a hostile feeling
against a person who commands our esteem, we feel painfully the
constraint of reason. But if this person inspires us with interest, and
also wins our esteem, the constraint of feeling vanishes together with
the constraint of reason, and we begin to love him, that is to say, to
play, to take recreation, at once with our inclination and our esteem.
LETTER XV.
But perhaps the objection has for some time occurred to you, Is not the
beautiful degraded by this, that it is made a mere play? and is it not
reduced to the level of frivolous objects which have for ages passed
under that name? Does it not contradict the conception of the reason and
the dignity of beauty, which is nevertheless regarded as an instrument of
culture, to confine it to the work of being a mere play? and does it not
contradict the empirical conception of play, which can coexist with the
exclusion of all taste, to confine it merely to beauty?
But what is meant by a mere play, when we know that in all conditions of
humanity that very thing is play, and only that is play which makes man
complete and develops simultaneously his twofold nature? What you style
limitation, according to your representation of the matter, according to
my views, which I have justified by proofs, I name enlargement.
Consequently I should have said exactly the reverse: man is serious only
with the agreeable, with the good, and with the perfect, but he plays
with beauty. In saying this we must not indeed think of the plays that
are in vogue in real life, and which commonly refer only to his material
state. But in real life we should also seek in vain for the beauty of
which we are here speaking. The actually present beauty is worthy of the
really, of the actually present play-impulse; but by the ideal of beauty,
which is set up by the reason, an ideal of the play-instinct is also
presented, which man ought to have before his eyes in all his plays.
For, to speak out once for all, man only plays when in the full meaning
of the word he is a man, and he is only completely a man when he plays.
This proposition, which at this moment perhaps appears paradoxical, will
receive a great and deep meaning if we have advanced far enough to apply
it to the twofold seriousness of duty and of destiny. I promise you that
the whole edifice of aesthetic art and the still more difficult art of
life will be supported by this principle. But this proposition is only
unexpected in science; long ago it lived and worked in art and in the
feeling of the Greeks, her most accomplished masters; only they removed
to Olympus what ought to have been preserved on earth. Influenced by the
truth of this principle, they effaced from the brow of their gods the
earnestness and labor which furrow the cheeks of mortals, and also the
hollow lust that smoothes the empty face. They set free the ever serene
from the chains of every purpose, of every duty, of every care, and they
made indolence and indifference the envied condition of the godlike race;
merely human appellations for the freest and highest mind. As well the
material pressure of natural laws as the spiritual pressure of moral laws
lost itself in its higher idea of necessity, which embraced at the same
time both worlds, and out of the union of these two necessities issued
true freedom. Inspired by this spirit the Greeks also effaced from the
features of their ideal, together with desire or inclination, all traces
of volition, or, better still, they made both unrecognizable, because
they knew how to wed them both in the closest alliance. It is neither
charm, nor is it dignity, which speaks from the glorious face of Juno
Ludovici; it is neither of these, for it is both at once. While the
female god challenges our veneration, the godlike woman at the same time
kindles our love. But while in ecstacy we give ourselves up to the
heavenly beauty, the heavenly self-repose awes us back. The whole form
rests and dwells in itself--a fully complete creation in itself--and as
if she were out of space, without advance or resistance; it shows no
force contending with force, no opening through which time could break
in. Irresistibly carried away and attracted by her womanly charm, kept
off at a distance by her godly dignity, we also find ourselves at length
in the state of the greatest repose, and the result is a wonderful
impression for which the understanding has no idea and language no name.
LETTER XVI.
From the antagonism of the two impulsions, and from the association of
two opposite principles, we have seen beauty to result, of which the
highest ideal must therefore be sought in the most perfect union and
equilibrium possible of the reality and of the form. But this
equilibrium remains always an idea that reality can never completely
reach. In reality, there will always remain a preponderance of one of
these elements over the other, and the highest point to which experience
can reach will consist in an oscillation between two principles, when
sometimes reality and at others form will have the advantage. Ideal
beauty is therefore eternally one and indivisible, because there can only
be one single equilibrium; on the contrary, experimental beauty will be
eternally double, because in the oscillation the equilibrium may be
destroyed in two ways--this side and that.
I have called attention in the foregoing letters to a fact that can also
be rigorously deduced from the considerations that have engaged our
attention to the present point; this fact is that an exciting and also a
moderating action may be expected from the beautiful. The tempering
action is directed to keep within proper limits the sensuous and the
formal impulsions; the exciting, to maintain both of them in their full
force. But these two modes of action of beauty ought to be completely
identified in the idea. The beautiful ought to temper while uniformly
exciting the two natures, and it ought also to excite while uniformly
moderating them. This result flows at once from the idea of a
correlation, in virtue of which the two terms mutually imply each other,
and are the reciprocal condition one of the other, a correlation of which
the purest product is beauty. But experience does not offer an example
of so perfect a correlation. In the field of experience it will always
happen more or less that excess on the one side will give rise to
deficiency on the other, and deficiency will give birth to excess. It
results from this that what in the beau-ideal is only distinct in the
idea is different in reality in empirical beauty. The beau-ideal, though
simple and indivisible, discloses, when viewed in two different aspects,
on the one hand, a property of gentleness and grace, and on the other, an
energetic property; in experience there is a gentle and graceful beauty
and there is an energetic beauty. It is so, and it will be always so, so
long as the absolute is enclosed in the limits of time, and the ideas of
reason have to be realized in humanity. For example, the intellectual
man has the ideal of virtue, of truth, and of happiness; but the active
man will only practise virtues, will only grasp truths, and enjoy happy
days. The business of physical and moral education is to bring back this
multiplicity to unity, to put morality in the place of manners, science
in the place of knowledge; the business of aesthetic education is to make
out of beauties the beautiful.
LETTER XVII.
While we were only engaged in deducing the universal idea of beauty from
the conception of human nature in general, we had only to consider in the
latter the limits established essentially in itself, and inseparable from
the notion of the finite. Without attending to the contingent
restrictions that human nature may undergo in the real world of
phenomena, we have drawn the conception of this nature directly from
reason, as a source of every necessity, and the ideal of beauty has been
given us at the same time with the ideal of humanity.
But now we are coming down from the region of ideas to the scene of
reality, to find man in a determinate state, and consequently in limits
which are not derived from the pure conception of humanity, but from
external circumstances and from an accidental use of his freedom. But,
although the limitation of the idea of humanity may be very manifold in
the individual, the contents of this idea suffice to teach us that we can
only depart from it by two opposite roads. For if the perfection of man
consist in the harmonious energy of his sensuous and spiritual forces, he
can only lack this perfection through the want of harmony and the want of
energy. Thus, then, before having received on this point the testimony
of experience, reason suffices to assure us that we shall find the real
and consequently limited man in a state of tension or relaxation,
according as the exclusive activity of isolated forces troubles the
harmony of his being, or as the unity of his nature is based on the
uniform relaxation of his physical and spiritual forces. These opposite
limits are, as we have now to prove, suppressed by the beautiful, which
re-establishes harmony in man when excited, and energy in man when
relaxed; and which, in this way, in conformity with the nature of the
beautiful, restores the state of limitation to an absolute state, and
makes of man a whole, complete in himself.
Thus the beautiful by no means belies in reality the idea which we have
made of it in speculation; only its action is much less free in it than
in the field of theory, where we were able to apply it to the pure
conception of humanity. In man, as experience shows him to us, the
beautiful finds a matter, already damaged and resisting, which robs him
in ideal perfection of what it communicates to him of its individual mode
of being. Accordingly in reality the beautiful will always appear a
peculiar and limited species, and not as the pure genus; in excited minds
in a state of tension it will lose its freedom and variety; in relaxed
minds, it will lose its vivifying force; but we, who have become familiar
with the true character of this contradictory phenomenon, cannot be led
astray by it. We shall not follow the great crowd of critics, in
determining their conception by separate experiences, and to make them
answerable for the deficiencies which man shows under their influence.
We know rather that it is man who transfers the imperfections of his
individuality over to them, who stands perpetually in the way of their
perfection by his subjective limitation, and lowers their absolute ideal
to two limited forms of phenomena.
It was advanced that soft beauty is for an unstrung mind, and the
energetic beauty for the tightly strung mind. But I apply the term
unstrung to a man when he is rather under the pressure of feelings than
under the pressure of conceptions. Every exclusive sway of one of his
two fundamental impulses is for man a state of compulsion and violence,
and freedom only exists in the co-operation of his two natures.
Accordingly, the man governed preponderately by feelings, or sensuously
unstrung, is emancipated and set free by matter. The soft and graceful
beauty, to satisfy this twofold problem, must therefore show herself
under two aspects--in two distinct forms. First, as a form in repose,
she will tone down savage life, and pave the way from feeling to thought.
She will, secondly, as a living image, equip the abstract form with
sensuous power, and lead back the conception to intuition and law to
feeling. The former service she does to the man of nature, the second to
the man of art. But because she does not in both cases hold complete
sway over her matter, but depends on that which is furnished either by
formless nature or unnatural art, she will in both cases bear traces of
her origin, and lose herself in one place in material life and in another
in mere abstract form.
LETTER XVIII.
By beauty the sensuous man is led to form and to thought; by beauty the
spiritual man is brought back to matter and restored to the world of
sense.
From this statement it would appear to follow that between matter and
form, between passivity and activity, there must be a middle state, and
that beauty plants us in this state. It actually happens that the
greater part of mankind really form this conception of beauty as soon as
they begin to reflect on its operations, and all experience seems to
point to this conclusion. But, on the other hand, nothing is more
unwarrantable and contradictory than such a conception, because the
aversion of matter and form, the passive and the active, feeling and
thought, is eternal, and cannot be mediated in any way. How can we
remove this contradiction? Beauty weds the two opposed conditions of
feeling and thinking, and yet there is absolutely no medium between them.
The former is immediately certain through experience, the other through
the reason.
This is the point to which the whole question of beauty leads, and if we
succeed in settling this point in a satisfactory way, we have at length
found the clue that will conduct us through the whole labyrinth of
aesthetics.
But this requires two very different operations, which must necessarily
support each other in this inquiry. Beauty, it is said, weds two
conditions with one another which are opposite to each other, and can
never be one. We must start from this opposition; we must grasp and
recognize them in their entire purity and strictness, so that both
conditions are separated in the most definite manner; otherwise we mix,
but we do not unite them. Secondly, it is usual to say, beauty unites
those two opposed conditions, and therefore removes the opposition. But
because both conditions remain eternally opposed to one another, they
cannot be united in any other way than by being suppressed. Our second
business is therefore to make this connection perfect, to carry them out
with such purity and perfection that both conditions disappear entirely
in a third one, and no trace of separation remains in the whole;
otherwise we segregate, but do not unite. All the disputes that have
ever prevailed and still prevail in the philosophical world respecting
the conception of beauty have no other origin than their commencing
without a sufficiently strict distinction, or that it is not carried out
fully to a pure union. Those philosophers who blindly follow their
feeling in reflecting on this topic can obtain no other conception of
beauty, because they distinguish nothing separate in the totality of the
sensuous impression. Other philosophers, who take the understanding as
their exclusive guide, can never obtain a conception of beauty, because
they never see anything else in the whole than the parts; and spirit and
matter remain eternally separate, even in their most perfect unity. The
first fear to suppress beauty dynamically, that is, as a working power,
if they must separate what is united in the feeling. The others fear to
suppress beauty logically, that is, as a conception, when they have to
hold together what in the understanding is separate. The former wish to
think of beauty as it works; the latter wish it to work as it is thought.
Both therefore must miss the truth; the former, because they try to
follow infinite nature with their limited thinking power; the others,
because they wish to limit unlimited nature according to their laws of
thought. The first fear to rob beauty of its freedom by a too strict
dissection, the others fear to destroy the distinctness of the conception
by a too violent union. But the former do not reflect that the freedom
in which they very properly place the essence of beauty is not
lawlessness, but harmony of laws; not caprice, but the highest internal
necessity. The others do not remember that distinctness, which they with
equal right demand from beauty, does not consist in the exclusion of
certain realities, but the absolute including of all; that is not
therefore limitation but infinitude. We shall avoid the quicksands on
which both have made shipwreck if we begin from the two elements in which
beauty divides itself before the understanding, but then afterwards rise
to a pure aesthetic unity by which it works on feeling, and in which both
those conditions completely disappear.
LETTER XIX.
Now it is necessary that his sensuous nature should be modified, and that
in the indefinite series of possible determinations one alone should
become real. One perception must spring up in it. That which, in the
previous state of determinableness, was only an empty potency becomes now
an active force, and receives contents; but, at the same time, as an
active force it receives a limit, after having been, as a simple power,
unlimited. Reality exists now, but the infinite has disappeared. To
describe a figure in space, we are obliged to limit infinite space; to
represent to ourselves a change in time, we are obliged to divide the
totality of time. Thus we only arrive at reality by limitation, at the
positive, at a real position, by negation or exclusion; to determination,
by the suppression of our free determinableness.
But mere exclusion would never beget a reality, nor would a mere sensuous
impression ever give birth to a perception, if there were not something
from which it was excluded, if by an absolute act of the mind the
negation were not referred to something positive, and if opposition did
not issue out of non-position. This act of the mind is styled judging or
thinking, and the result is named thought.
But this assumes that the freedom of the intellectual faculties can be
balked, which appears contradictory to the conception of an autonomous
power. For a power which only receives the matter of its activity from
without can only be hindered in its action by the privation of this
matter, and consequently by way of negation; it is therefore a
misconception of the nature of the mind to attribute to the sensuous
passions the power of oppressing positively the freedom of the mind.
Experience does indeed present numerous examples where the rational
forces appear compressed in proportion to the violence of the sensuous
forces. But instead of deducing this spiritual weakness from the energy
of passion, this passionate energy must rather be explained by the
weakness of the human mind. For the sense can only have a sway such as
this over man when the mind has spontaneously neglected to assert its
power.
Here we must remember that we have before us, not the infinite mind, but
the finite. The finite mind is that which only becomes active through
the passive, only arrives at the absolute through limitation, and only
acts and fashions in as far as it receives matter. Accordingly, a mind
of this nature must associate with the impulse towards form or the
absolute, an impulse towards matter or limitation, conditions without
which it could not have the former impulse nor satisfy it. How can two
such opposite tendencies exist together in the same being? This is a
problem that can no doubt embarrass the metaphysician, but not the
transcendental philosopher. The latter does not presume to explain the
possibility of things, but he is satisfied with giving a solid basis to
the knowledge that makes us understand the possibility of experience.
And as experience would be equally impossible without this autonomy in
the mind, and without the absolute unity of the mind, it lays down these
two conceptions as two conditions of experience equally necessary without
troubling itself any more to reconcile them. Moreover, this immanence of
two fundamental impulses does not in any degree contradict the absolute
unity of the mind, as soon as the mind itself, its selfhood, is
distinguished from those two motors. No doubt, these two impulses exist
and act in it, but itself is neither matter nor form, nor the sensuous
nor reason, and this is a point that does not seem always to have
occurred to those who only look upon the mind as itself acting when its
acts are in harmony with reason, and who declare it passive when its acts
contradict reason.
But as soon as these two faculties have passed into action, and man has
verified by his experience, through the medium of sensation, a
determinate existence, and through the medium of consciousness its
absolute existence, the two fundamental impulses exert their influence
directly their object is given. The sensuous impulse is awakened with
the experience of life--with the beginning of the individual; the
rational impulsion with the experience of law--with the beginning of his
personality; and it is only when these two inclinations have come into
existence that the human type is realized. Up to that time, everything
takes place in man according to the law of necessity; but now the hand of
nature lets him go, and it is for him to keep upright humanity, which
nature places as a germ in his heart. And thus we see that directly the
two opposite and fundamental impulses exercise their influence in him,
both lose their constraint, and the autonomy of two necessities gives
birth to freedom.
LETTER XX.
That freedom is an active and not a passive principle results from its
very conception; but that liberty itself should be an effect of nature
(taking this word in its widest sense), and not the work of man, and
therefore that it can be favored or thwarted by natural means, is the
necessary consequence of that which precedes. It begins only when man is
complete, and when these two fundamental impulsions have been developed.
It will then be wanting whilst he is incomplete, and while one of these
impulsions is excluded, and it will be re-established by all that gives
back to man his integrity.
There is a moment, in fact, when the instinct of life, not yet opposed to
the instinct of form, acts as nature and as necessity; when the sensuous
is a power because man has not begun; for even in man there can be no
other power than his will. But when man shall have attained to the power
of thought, reason, on the contrary, will be a power, and moral or
logical necessity will take the place of physical necessity. Sensuous
power must then be annihilated before the law which must govern it can be
established. It is not enough that something shall begin which as yet
was not; previously something must end which had begun. Man cannot pass
immediately from sensuousness to thought. He must step backwards, for it
is only when one determination is suppressed that the contrary
determination can take place. Consequently, in order to exchange passive
against active liberty, a passive determination against an active, he
must be momentarily free from all determination, and must traverse a
state of pure determinability. He has then to return in some degree to
that state of pure negative indetermination in which he was before his
senses were affected by anything. But this state was absolutely empty of
all contents, and now the question is to reconcile an equal determination
and a determinability equally without limit, with the greatest possible
fulness, because from this situation something positive must immediately
follow. The determination which man received by sensation must be
preserved, because he should not lose the reality; but at the same time,
in so far as finite, it should be suppressed, because a determinability
without limit would take place. The problem consists then in
annihilating the determination of the mode of existence, and yet at the
same time in preserving it, which is only possible in one way: in
opposing to it another. The two sides of a balance are in equilibrium
when empty; they are also in equilibrium when their contents are of equal
weight.
LETTER XXII.
That which flatters our senses in immediate sensation opens our weak and
volatile spirit to every impression, but makes us in the same degree less
apt for exertion. That which stretches our thinking power and invites to
abstract conceptions strengthens our mind for every kind of resistance,
but hardens it also in the same proportion, and deprives us of
susceptibility in the same ratio that it helps us to greater mental
activity. For this very reason, one as well as the other brings us at
length to exhaustion, because matter cannot long do without the shaping,
constructive force, and the force cannot do without the constructible
material. But on the other hand, if we have resigned ourselves to the
enjoyment of genuine beauty, we are at such a moment of our passive and
active powers in the same degree master, and we shall turn with ease from
grave to gay, from rest to movement, from submission to resistance, to
abstract thinking and intuition.
This high indifference and freedom of mind, united with power and
elasticity, is the disposition in which a true work of art ought to
dismiss us, and there is no better test of true aesthetic excellence. If
after an enjoyment of this kind we find ourselves specially impelled to a
particular mode of feeling or action, and unfit for other modes, this
serves as an infallible proof that we have not experienced any pure
aesthetic effect, whether this is owing to the object, to our own mode of
feeling--as generally happens--or to both together.
Nor is it only the limits inherent in the specific character of each kind
of art that the artist ought to overstep in putting his hand to the work;
he must also triumph over those which are inherent in the particular
subject of which he treats. In a really beautiful work of art, the
substance ought to be inoperative, the form should do everything; for by
the form the whole man is acted on; the substance acts on nothing but
isolated forces. Thus, however vast and sublime it may be, the substance
always exercises a restrictive action on the mind, and true aesthetic
liberty can only be expected from the form. Consequently the true search
of the matter consists in destroying matter by the form; and the triumph
of art is great in proportion as it overcomes matter and maintains its
sway over those who enjoy its work. It is great particularly in
destroying matter when most imposing, ambitious, and attractive, when
therefore matter has most power to produce the effect proper to it, or,
again, when it leads those who consider it more closely to enter directly
into relation with it. The mind of the spectator and of the hearer must
remain perfectly free and intact; it must issue pure and entire from the
magic circle of the artist, as from the hands of the Creator. The most
frivolous subject ought to be treated in such a way that we preserve the
faculty to exchange it immediately for the most serious work. The arts
which have passion for their object, as a tragedy for example, do not
present a difficulty here; for, in the first place, these arts are not
entirely free, because they are in the service of a particular end (the
pathetic), and then no connoisseur will deny that even in this class a
work is perfect in proportion as amidst the most violent storms of
passion it respects the liberty of the soul. There is a fine art of
passion, but an impassioned fine art is a contradiction in terms, for the
infallible effect of the beautiful is emancipation from the passions.
The idea of an instructive fine art (didactic art) or improving (moral)
art is no less contradictory, for nothing agrees less with the idea of
the beautiful than to give a determinate tendency to the mind.
However, from the fact that a work produces effects only by its
substance, it must not always be inferred that there is a want of form in
this work; this conclusion may quite as well testify to a want of form in
the observer. If his mind is too stretched or too relaxed, if it is only
accustomed to receive things either by the senses or the intelligence,
even in the most perfect combination, it will only stop to look at the
parts, and it will only see matter in the most beautiful form. Only
sensible of the coarse elements, he must first destroy the aesthetic
organization of a work to find enjoyment in it, and carefully disinter
the details which genius has caused to vanish, with infinite art, in the
harmony of the whole. The interest he takes in the work is either solely
moral or exclusively physical; the only thing wanting to it is to be
exactly what it ought to be--aesthetical. The readers of this class
enjoy a serious and pathetic poem as they do a sermon: a simple and
playful work, as an inebriating draught; and if on the one hand they have
so little taste as to demand edification from a tragedy or from an epos,
even such as the "Messias," on the other hand they will be infallibly
scandalized by a piece after the fashion of Anacreon and Catullus.
LETTER XXIII.
But that the pure form should be capable of it, and that there is in
general a pure form for sensuous man, is that, I maintain, which should
be rendered possible by the aesthetic disposition of the soul. Truth is
not a thing which can be received from without like reality or the
visible existence of objects. It is the thinking force, in his own
liberty and activity, which produces it, and it is just this liberty
proper to it, this liberty which we seek in vain in sensuous man. The
sensuous man is already determined physically, and thenceforth he has no
longer his free determinability; he must necessarily first enter into
possession of this lost determinability before he can exchange the
passive against an active determination. Therefore, in order to recover
it, he must either lose the passive determination that he had, or he
should enclose already in himself the active determination to which he
should pass. If he confined himself to lose passive determination, he
would at the same time lose with it the possibility of an active
determination, because thought needs a body, and form can only be
realized through matter. He must therefore contain already in himself
the active determination, that he may be at once both actively and
passively determined, that is to say, he becomes necessarily aesthetic.
And that he can effect without thwarting in the least degree his physical
aim. The exigencies of nature with regard to him turn only upon what he
does--upon the substance of his acts; but the ends of nature in no degree
determine the way in which he acts, the form of his actions. On the
contrary, the exigencies of reason have rigorously the form of his
activity for its object. Thus, so much as it is necessary for the moral
destination of man, that he be purely moral, that he shows an absolute
personal activity, so much is he indifferent that his physical
destination be entirely physical, that he acts in a manner entirely
passive. Henceforth with regard to this last destination, it entirely
depends on him to fulfil it solely as a sensuous being and natural force
(as a force which acts only as it diminishes) or, at the same time, as
absolute force, as a rational being. To which of these does his dignity
best respond? Of this there can be no question. It is as disgraceful
and contemptible for him to do under sensuous impulsion that which he
ought to have determined merely by the motive of duty, as it is noble and
honorable for him to incline towards conformity with laws, harmony,
independence; there even where the vulgar man only satisfies a legitimate
want. In a word, in the domain of truth and morality, sensuousness must
have nothing to determine; but in the sphere of happiness, form may find
a place, and the instinct of play prevail.
What is man before beauty liberates him from free pleasure, and the
serenity of form tames down the savageness of life? Eternally uniform in
his aims, eternally changing in his judgments, self-seeking without being
himself, unfettered without being free, a slave without serving any rule.
At this period, the world is to him only destiny, not yet an object; all
has existence for him only in as far as it procures existence to him; a
thing that neither seeks from nor gives to him is non-existent. Every
phenomenon stands out before him separate and cut off, as he finds
himself in the series of beings. All that is, is to him through the bias
of the moment; every change is to him an entirely fresh creation, because
with the necessary in him, the necessary out of him is wanting, which
binds together all the changing forms in the universe, and which holds
fast the law on the theatre of his action, while the individual departs.
It is in vain that nature lets the rich variety of her forms pass before
him; he sees in her glorious fulness nothing but his prey, in her power
and greatness nothing but his enemy. Either he encounters objects, and
wishes to draw them to himself in desire, or the objects press in a
destructive manner upon him, and he thrusts them away in dismay and
terror. In both cases his relation to the world of sense is immediate
contact; and perpetually anxious through its pressure, restless and
plagued by imperious wants, he nowhere finds rest except in enervation,
and nowhere limits save in exhausted desire.
It is true we cannot point out this state of rude nature as we have here
portrayed it in any definite people and age. It is only an idea, but an
idea with which experience agrees most closely in special features. It
may be said that man was never in this animal condition, but he has not,
on the other hand, ever entirely escaped from it. Even in the rudest
subjects, unmistakable traces of rational freedom can be found, and even
in the most cultivated, features are not wanting that remind us of that
dismal natural condition. It is possible for man, at one and the same
time, to unite the highest and the lowest in his nature; and if his
dignity depends on a strict separation of one from the other, his
happiness depends on a skilful removal of this separation. The culture
which is to bring his dignity into agreement with his happiness will
therefore have to provide for the greatest purity of these two principles
in their most intimate combination.
Even the divine part in man, the moral law, in its first manifestation in
the sensuous cannot avoid this perversion. As this moral law is only
prohibited, and combats in man the interest of sensuous egotism, it must
appear to him as something strange until he has come to consider this
self-love as the stranger, and the voice of reason as his true self.
Therefore he confines himself to feeling the fetters which the latter
imposes on him, without having the consciousness of the infinite
emancipation which it procures for him. Without suspecting in himself
the dignity of lawgiver, he only experiences the constraint and the
impotent revolt of a subject fretting under the yoke, because in this
experience the sensuous impulsion precedes the moral impulsion, he gives
to the law of necessity a beginning in him, a positive origin, and by the
most unfortunate of all mistakes he converts the immutable and the
eternal in himself into a transitory accident. He makes up his mind to
consider the notions of the just and the unjust as statutes which have
been introduced by a will, and not as having in themselves an eternal
value. Just as in the explanation of certain natural phenomena he goes
beyond nature and seeks out of her what can only be found in her, in her
own laws; so also in the explanation of moral phenomena he goes beyond
reason and makes light of his humanity, seeking a god in this way. It is
not wonderful that a religion which he has purchased at the cost of his
humanity shows itself worthy of this origin, and that he only considers
as absolute and eternally binding laws that have never been binding from
all eternity. He has placed himself in relation with, not a holy being,
but a powerful. Therefore the spirit of his religion, of the homage that
he gives to God, is a fear that abases him, and not a veneration that
elevates him in his own esteem.
Though these different aberrations by which man departs from the ideal of
his destination cannot all take place at the same time, because several
degrees have to be passed over in the transition from the obscure of
thought to error, and from the obscure of will to the corruption of the
will; these degrees are all, without exception, the consequence of his
physical state, because in all the vital impulsion sways the formal
impulsion. Now, two cases may happen: either reason may not yet have
spoken in man, and the physical may reign over him with a blind
necessity, or reason may not be sufficiently purified from sensuous
impressions, and the moral may still be subject to the physical; in both
cases the only principle that has a real power over him is a material
principle, and man, at least as regards his ultimate tendency, is a
sensuous being. The only difference is, that in the former case he is an
animal without reason, and in the second case a rational animal. But he
ought to be neither one nor the other: he ought to be a man. Nature
ought not to rule him exclusively; nor reason conditionally. The two
legislations ought to be completely independent, and yet mutually
complementary.
LETTER XXV.
That which first connects man with the surrounding universe is the power
of reflective contemplation. Whereas desire seizes at once its object,
reflection removes it to a distance and renders it inalienably her own by
saving it from the greed of passion. The necessity of sense which he
obeyed during the period of mere sensations, lessens during the period of
reflection; the senses are for the time in abeyance; even ever-fleeting
time stands still whilst the scattered rays of consciousness are
gathering and shape themselves; an image of the infinite is reflected
upon the perishable ground. As soon as light dawns in man, there is no,
longer night outside of him; as soon as there is peace within him the
storm lulls throughout the universe, and the contending forces of nature
find rest within prescribed limits. Hence we cannot wonder if ancient
traditions allude to these great changes in the inner man as to a
revolution in surrounding nature, and symbolize thought triumphing over
the laws of time, by the figure of Zeus, which terminates the reign of
Saturn.
But whilst I have been merely searching for an issue from the material
world, and a passage into the world of mind, the bold flight of my
imagination has already taken me into the very midst of the latter world.
The beauty of which we are in search we have left behind by passing from
the life of mere sensations to the pure form and to the pure object.
Such a leap exceeds the condition of human nature; in order to keep pace
with the latter we must return to the world of sense.
LETTER XXVI.
But man possesses sovereign power only in the world of appearance, in the
unsubstantial realm of imagination, only by abstaining from giving being
to appearance in theory, and by giving it being in practice. It follows
that the poet transgresses his proper limits when he attributes being to
his ideal, and when he gives this ideal aim as a determined existence.
For he can only reach this result by exceeding his right as a poet, that
of encroaching by the ideal on the field of experience, and by pretending
to determine real existence in virtue of a simple possibility, or else he
renounces his right as a poet by letting experience encroach on the
sphere of the ideal, and by restricting possibility to the conditions of
reality.
LETTER XXVII.
Do not fear for reality and truth. Even if the elevated idea of
aesthetic appearance become general, it would not become so, as long as
man remains so little cultivated as to abuse it; and if it became
general, this would result from a culture that would prevent all abuse of
it. The pursuit of independent appearance requires more power of
abstraction, freedom of heart, and energy of will than man requires to
shut himself up in reality; and he must have left the latter behind him
if he wishes to attain to aesthetic appearance. Therefore, a man would
calculate very badly who took the road of the ideal to save himself that
of reality. Thus, reality would not have much to fear from appearance,
as we understand it; but, on the other hand, appearance would have more
to fear from reality. Chained to matter, man uses appearance for his
purposes before he allows it a proper personality in the art of the
ideal: to come to that point a complete revolution must take place in his
mode of feeling, otherwise, he would not be even on the way to the ideal.
Consequently, when we find in man the signs of a pure and disinterested
esteem, we can infer that this revolution has taken place in his nature,
and that humanity has really begun in him. Signs of this kind are found
even in the first and rude attempts that he makes to embellish his
existence, even at the risk of making it worse in its material
conditions. As soon as he begins to prefer form to substance and to risk
reality for appearance (known by him to be such), the barriers of animal
life fall, and he finds himself on a track that has no end.
The animal works, when a privation is the motor of its activity, and it
plays when the plenitude of force is this motor, when an exuberant life
is excited to action. Even in inanimate nature a luxury of strength and
a latitude of determination are shown, which in this material sense might
be styled play. The tree produces numberless germs that are abortive
without developing, and it sends forth more roots, branches, and leaves,
organs of nutrition, than are used for the preservation of the species.
Whatever this tree restores to the elements of its exuberant life,
without using it or enjoying it, may be expended by life in free and
joyful movements. It is thus that nature offers in her material sphere a
sort of prelude to the limitless, and that even there she suppresses
partially the chains from which she will be completely emancipated in the
realm of form. The constraint of superabundance or physical play answers
as a transition from the constraint of necessity, or of physical
seriousness, to aesthetical play; and before shaking off, in the supreme
freedom of the beautiful, the yoke of any special aim, nature already
approaches, at least remotely, this independence, by the free movement
which is itself its own end and means.
The imagination, like the bodily organs, has in man its free movement and
its material play, a play in which, without any reference to form, it
simply takes pleasure in its arbitrary power and in the absence of all
hinderance. These plays of fancy, inasmuch as form is not mixed up with
them, and because a free succession of images makes all their charm,
though confined to man, belong exclusively to animal life, and only prove
one thing--that he is delivered from all external sensuous constraint
without our being entitled to infer that there is in it an independent
plastic force.
Soon it will not be sufficient for things to please him; he will wish to
please: in the first place, it is true, only by that which belongs to
him; afterwards by that which he is. That which he possesses, that which
he produces, ought not merely to bear any more the traces of servitude,
nor to mark out the end, simply and scrupulously, by the form.
Independently of the use to which it is destined, the object ought also
to reflect the enlightened intelligence which imagines it, the hand which
shaped it with affection, the mind free and serene which chose it and
exposed it to view. Now, the ancient German searches for more
magnificent furs, for more splendid antlers of the stag, for more elegant
drinking-horns; and the Caledonian chooses the prettiest shells for his
festivals. The arms themselves ought to be no longer only objects of
terror, but also of pleasure; and the skilfully-worked scabbard will not
attract less attention than the homicidal edge of the sword. The
instinct of play, not satisfied with bringing into the sphere of the
necessary an aesthetic superabundance for the future more free, is at
last completely emancipated from the bonds of duty, and the beautiful
becomes of itself an object of man's exertions. He adorns himself. The
free pleasure comes to take a place among his wants, and the useless soon
becomes the best part of his joys. Form, which from the outside
gradually approaches him, in his dwelling, his furniture, his clothing,
begins at last to take possession of the man himself, to transform him,
at first exteriorly, and afterwards in the interior. The disordered
leaps of joy become the dance, the formless gesture is changed into an
amiable and harmonious pantomime, the confused accents of feeling are
developed, and begin to obey measures and adapt themselves to song.
When, like the flight of cranes, the Trojan army rushes on to the field
of battle with thrilling cries, the Greek army approaches in silence and
with a noble and measured step. On the one side we see but the
exuberance of a blind force, on the other the triumph of form, and the
simple majesty of law.
Now, a nobler necessity binds the two sexes mutually, and the interests
of the heart contribute in rendering durable an alliance which was at
first capricious and changing like the desire that knits it. Delivered
from the heavy fetters of desire, the eye, now calmer, attends to the
form, the soul contemplates the soul, and the interested exchange of
pleasure becomes a generous exchange of mutual inclination. Desire
enlarges and rises to love, in proportion as it sees humanity dawn in its
object; and, despising the vile triumphs gained by the senses, man tries
to win a nobler victory over the will. The necessity of pleasing
subjects the powerful nature to the gentle laws of taste; pleasure may be
stolen, but love must be a gift. To obtain this higher recompense, it is
only through the form and not through matter that it can carry on the
contest. It must cease to act on feeling as a force, to appear in the
intelligence as a simple phenomenon; it must respect liberty, as it is
liberty it wishes to please. The beautiful reconciles the contrast of
different natures in its simplest and purest expression. It also
reconciles the eternal contrast of the two sexes in the whole complex
framework of society, or at all events it seeks to do so; and, taking as
its model the free alliance it has knit between manly strength and
womanly gentleness, it strives to place in harmony, in the moral world,
all the elements of gentleness and of violence. Now, at length, weakness
becomes sacred, and an unbridled strength disgraces; the injustice of
nature is corrected by the generosity of chivalrous manners. The being
whom no power can make tremble, is disarmed by the amiable blush of
modesty, and tears extinguish a vengeance that blood could not have
quenched. Hatred itself hears the delicate voice of honor, the
conqueror's sword spares the disarmed enemy, and a hospitable hearth
smokes for the stranger on the dreaded hillside where murder alone
awaited him before.
In the midst of the formidable realm of forces, and of the sacred empire
of laws, the aesthetic impulse of form creates by degrees a third and a
joyous realm, that of play and of the appearance, where she emancipates
man from fetters, in all his relations, and from all that is named
constraint, whether physical or moral.
If in the dynamic state of rights men mutually move and come into
collision as forces, in the moral (ethical) state of duties, man opposes
to man the majesty of the laws, and chains down his will. In this realm
of the beautiful or the aesthetic state, man ought to appear to man only
as a form, and an object of free play. To give freedom through freedom
is the fundamental law of this realm.
The dynamic state can only make society simple possibly by subduing
nature through nature; the moral (ethical) state can only make it morally
necessary by submitting the will of the individual to the general will.
The aesthetic state alone can make it real, because it carries out the
will of all through the nature of the individual. If necessity alone
forces man to enter into society, and if his reason engraves on his soul
social principles, it is beauty only that can give him a social
character; taste alone brings harmony into society, because it creates
harmony in the individual. All other forms of perception divide the man,
because they are based exclusively either in the sensuous or in the
spiritual part of his being. It is only the perception of beauty that
makes of him an entirety, because it demands the co-operation of his two
natures. All other forms of communication divide society, because they
apply exclusively either to the receptivity or to the private activity of
its members, and therefore to what distinguishes men one from the other.
The aesthetic communication alone unites society because it applies to
what is common to all its members. We only enjoy the pleasures of sense
as individuals, without the nature of the race in us sharing in it;
accordingly, we cannot generalize our individual pleasures, because we
cannot generalize our individuality. We enjoy the pleasures of knowledge
as a race, dropping the individual in our judgment; but we cannot
generalize the pleasures of the understanding, because we cannot
eliminate individuality from the judgments of others as we do from our
own. Beauty alone can we enjoy both as individuals and as a race, that
is, as representing a race. Good appertaining to sense can only make one
person happy, because it is founded on inclination, which is always
exclusive; and it can only make a man partially happy, because his real
personality does not share in it. Absolute good can only render a man
happy conditionally, for truth is only the reward of abnegation, and a
pure heart alone has faith in a pure will. Beauty alone confers
happiness on all, and under its influence every being forgets that he is
limited.
Taste does not suffer any superior or absolute authority, and the sway of
beauty is extended over appearance. It extends up to the seat of
reason's supremacy, suppressing all that is material. It extends down to
where sensuous impulse rules with blind compulsion, and form is
undeveloped. Taste ever maintains its power on these remote borders,
where legislation is taken from it. Particular desires must renounce
their egotism, and the agreeable, otherwise tempting the senses, must in
matters of taste adorn the mind with the attractions of grace.
Duty and stern necessity must change their forbidding tone, only excused
by resistance, and do homage to nature by a nobler trust in her. Taste
leads our knowledge from the mysteries of science into the open expanse
of common sense, and changes a narrow scholasticism into the common
property of the human race. Here the highest genius must leave its
particular elevation, and make itself familiar to the comprehension even
of a child. Strength must let the Graces bind it, and the arbitrary lion
must yield to the reins of love. For this purpose taste throws a veil
over physical necessity, offending a free mind by its coarse nudity, and
dissimulating our degrading parentage with matter by a delightful
illusion of freedom. Mercenary art itself rises from the dust; and the
bondage of the bodily, at its magic touch, falls off from the inanimate
and animate. In the aesthetic state the most slavish tool is a free
citizen, having the same rights as the noblest; and the intellect which
shapes the mass to its intent must consult it concerning its destination.
Consequently, in the realm of aesthetic appearance, the idea of equality
is realized, which the political zealot would gladly see carried out
socially. It has often been said that perfect politeness is only found
near a throne. If thus restricted in the material, man has, as elsewhere
appears, to find compensation in the ideal world.
AESTHETICAL ESSAYS.
The author of the article which appeared in the eleventh number of "The
Hours," of 1795, upon "The Danger of Aesthetic Manners," was right to
hold as doubtful a morality founded only on a feeling for the beautiful,
and which has no other warrant than taste; but it is evident that a
strong and pure feeling for the beautiful ought to exercise a salutary
influence upon the moral life; and this is the question of which I am
about to treat.
The same with respect to morality; we might have more or less resistance
to offer in order on the instant to obey our reason, according as it
awakens or not in us those instincts which struggle against its precepts,
and which must be put aside. In this sense morality is susceptible of
more or of less. Our morality is greater, or at least more in relief,
when we immediately obey reason, however powerful the instincts are which
push us in a contrary direction; but it is not suspended because we have
had no temptation to disobey, or that this force had been paralyzed by
some other force other than our will. We are incited to an action solely
because it is moral, without previously asking ourselves if it is the
most agreeable. It is enough that such an action is morally good, and it
would preserve this character even if there were cause to believe that we
should have acted differently if the action had cost us any trouble, or
had deprived us of a pleasure.
It can be admitted, for the honor of humanity, that no man could fall so
low as to prefer evil solely because it is evil, but rather that every
man, without exception, would prefer the good because it is the good, if
by some accidental circumstance the good did not exclude the agreeable,
or did not entail trouble. Thus in reality all moral action seems to
have no other principle than a conflict between the good and the
agreeable; or, that which comes to the same thing, between desire and
reason; the force of our sensuous instincts on one side, and, on the
other side, the feebleness of will, the moral faculty: such apparently is
the source of all our faults.
There may be, therefore, two different ways of favoring morality, the
same as there are two kinds of obstacles which thwart it: either we must
strengthen the side of reason, and the power of the good will, so that no
temptation can overcome it; or we must break the force of temptation, in
order that the reason and the will, although feebler, should yet be in a
state to surmount it.
It might be said, without doubt, that true morality gains little by this
second proceeding, because it happens without any modification of the
will, and yet that it is the nature of the will that alone give to
actions their moral character. But I say also, in the case in question,
a change of will is not at all necessary; because we do not suppose a bad
will which should require to be changed, but only a will turned to good,
but which is feeble. Therefore, this will, inclined to good, but too
feeble, does not fail to attain by this route to good actions, which
might not have happened if a stronger impulsion had drawn it in a
contrary sense. But every time that a strong will towards good becomes
the principle of an action, we are really in presence of a moral action.
I have therefore no scruple in advancing this proposition--that all which
neutralizes the resistance offered to the law of duty really favors
morality.
But the sensuous instinct does not recognize the moral law; it wishes to
enjoy its object and to induce the will to realize it also,
notwithstanding what the reason may advance. This tendency of the
faculty of our appetites, of immediately directing the will without
troubling itself about superior laws, is perpetually in conflict with our
moral destination, and it is the most powerful adversary that man has to
combat in his moral conduct. The coarse soul, without either moral or
aesthetic education, receives directly the law of appetite, and acts only
according to the good pleasure of the senses. The moral soul, but which
wants aesthetic culture, receives in a direct manner the law of reason,
and it is only out of respect for duty that it triumphs over temptation.
In the purified aesthetic soul, there is moreover another motive, another
force, which frequently takes the place of virtue when virtue is absent,
and which renders it easier when it is present--that is, taste.
The Greek princess, Anna Comnena, speaks of a rebel prisoner, whom her
father Alexis, then a simple general of his predecessor, had been charged
to conduct to Constantinople. During the journey, as they were riding
side by side, Alexis desired to halt under the shade of a tree to refresh
himself during the great heat of the day. It was not long before he fell
asleep, whilst his companion, who felt no inclination to repose with the
fear of death awaiting him before his eyes, remained awake. Alexis
slumbered profoundly, with his sword hanging upon a branch above his
head; the prisoner perceived the sword, and immediately conceived the
idea of killing his guardian and thus of regaining his freedom. Anna
Comnena gives us to understand that she knows not what might have been
the result had not Alexis fortunately awoke at that instant. In this
there is a moral of the highest kind, in which the sensuous instinct
first raised its voice, and of which the reason had only afterwards taken
cognizance in quality of judge. But suppose that the prisoner had
triumphed over the temptation only out of respect for justice, there
could be no doubt the action would have been a moral action.
When the late Duke Leopold of Brunswick, standing upon the banks of the
raging waters of the Oder, asked himself if at the peril of his life he
ought to venture into the impetuous flood in order to save some
unfortunates who without his aid were sure to perish; and when--I suppose
a case--simply under the influence of duty, he throws himself into the
boat into which none other dares to enter, no one will contest doubtless
that he acted morally. The duke was here in a contrary position to that
of the preceding one. The idea of duty, in this circumstance, was the
first which presented itself, and afterwards only the instinct of
self-preservation was roused to oppose itself to that prescribed by
reason, But in both cases the will acted in the same way; it obeyed
unhesitatingly the reason, yet both of them are moral actions.
But would the action have continued moral in both cases, if we suppose
the aesthetic taste to have taken part in it? For example, suppose that
the first, who was tempted to commit a bad action, and who gave it up
from respect for justice, had the taste sufficiently cultivated to feel
an invincible horror aroused in him against all disgraceful or violent
action, the aesthetic sense alone will suffice to turn him from it; there
is no longer any deliberation before the moral tribunal, before the
conscience; another motive, another jurisdiction has already pronounced.
But the aesthetic sense governs the will by the feeling and not by laws.
Thus this man refuses to enjoy the agreeable sensation of a life saved,
because he cannot support his odious feelings of having committed a
baseness. Therefore all, in this, took place before the feelings alone,
and the conduct of this man, although in conformity with the law, is
morally indifferent; it is simply a fine effect of nature.
Now let us suppose that the second, he to whom his reason prescribed to
do a thing against which natural instinct protested; suppose that this
man had to the same extent a susceptibility for the beautiful, so that
all which is great and perfect enraptured him; at the same moment, when
reason gave the order, the feelings would place themselves on the same
side, and he would do willingly that which without the inclination for
the beautiful he would have had to do contrary to inclination. But would
this be a reason for us to find it less perfect? Assuredly not, because
in principle it acts out of pure respect for the prescriptions of reason;
and if it follows these injunctions with joy, that can take nothing away
from the moral purity of the act. Thus, this man will be quite as
perfect in the moral sense; and, on the contrary, he will be incomparably
more perfect in the physical sense, because he is infinitely more capable
of making a virtuous subject.
In this light, if the taste never injures true morality, and if in many
cases it is of evident use--and this circumstance is very important--then
it is supremely favorable to the legality of our conduct. Suppose that
aesthetic education contributes in no degree to the improvement of our
feelings, at least it renders us better able to act, although without
true moral disposition, as we should have acted if our soul had been
truly moral. Therefore, it is quite true that, before the tribunal of
the conscience, our acts have absolutely no importance but as the
expression of our feelings: but it is precisely the contrary in the
physical order and in the plan of nature: there it is no longer our
sentiments that are of importance; they are only important so far as they
give occasion to acts which conduce to the aims of nature. But the
physical order which is governed by forces, and the moral order which
governs itself by laws, are so exactly made one for the other, and are so
intimately blended, that the actions which are by their form morally
suitable, necessarily contain also a physical suitability; and as the
entire edifice of nature seems to exist only to render possible the
highest of all aims, which is the good, in the same manner the good can
in its turn be employed as the means of preserving the edifice. Thus,
the natural order has been rendered dependent upon the morality of our
souls, and we cannot go against the moral laws of the world without at
the same time provoking a perturbation in the physical world.
ON THE SUBLIME.
Thus beyond the point in question his freedom would be lost, were he only
susceptible of physical education. But he must be man in the full sense
of the term, and consequently he must have nothing to endure, in any
case, contrary to his will. Accordingly, when he can no longer oppose to
the physical forces any proportional physical force, only one resource
remains to him to avoid suffering any violence: that is, to cause to
cease entirely that relation which is so fatal to him. It is, in short,
to annihilate as an idea the violence he is obliged to suffer in fact.
The education that fits man for this is called moral education.
Nature has given to us two genii as companions in our life in this lower
world. The one, amiable and of good companionship, shortens the troubles
of the journey by the gayety of its plays. It makes the chains of
necessity light to us, and leads us amidst joy and laughter, to the most
perilous spots, where we must act as pure spirits and strip ourselves of
all that is body, on the knowledge of the true and the practice of duty.
Once when we are there, it abandons us, for its realm is limited to the
world of sense; its earthly wings could not carry it beyond. But at this
moment the other companion steps upon the stage, silent and grave, and
with his powerful arm carries us beyond the precipice that made us giddy.
Nature herself has actually used a sensuous means to teach us that we are
something more than mere sensuous natures. She has even known how to
make use of our sensations to put us on the track of this discovery--that
we are by no means subject as slaves to the violence of the sensations.
And this is quite a different effect from that which can be produced by
the beautiful; I mean the beautiful of the real world, for the sublime
itself is surpassed by the ideal. In the presence of beauty, reason and
sense are in harmony, and it is only on account of this harmony that the
beautiful has attraction for us. Consequently, beauty alone could never
teach us that our destination is to act as pure intelligences, and that
we are capable of showing ourselves such. In the presence of the
sublime, on the contrary, reason and the sensuous are not in harmony, and
it is precisely this contradiction between the two which makes the charm
of the sublime--its irresistible action on our minds. Here the physical
man and the moral man separate in the most marked manner; for it is
exactly in the presence of objects that make us feel at once how limited
the former is that the other makes the experience of its force. The very
thing that lowers one to the earth is precisely that which raises the
other to the infinite.
Let us imagine a man endowed with all the virtues of which the union
constitutes a fine character. Let us suppose a man who finds his delight
in practising justice, beneficence, moderation, constancy, and good
faith. All the duties whose accomplishment is prescribed to him by
circumstances are only a play to him, and I admit that fortune favors him
in such wise that none of the actions which his good heart may demand of
him will be hard to him. Who would not be charmed with such a delightful
harmony between the instincts of nature and the prescriptions of reason?
and who could help admiring such a man? Nevertheless, though he may
inspire us with affection, are we quite sure that he is really virtuous?
Or in general that he has anything that corresponds to the idea of
virtue? If this man had only in view to obtain agreeable sensations,
unless he were mad he could not act in any other possible way; and he
would have to be his own enemy to wish to be vicious. Perhaps the
principle of his actions is pure, but this is a question to be discussed
between himself and his conscience. For our part, we see nothing of it;
we do not see him do anything more than a simply clever man would do who
had no other god than pleasure. Thus all his virtue is a phenomenon that
is explained by reasons derived from the sensuous order, and we are by no
means driven to seek for reasons beyond the world of sense.
Let us suppose that this same man falls suddenly under misfortune. He is
deprived of his possessions; his reputation is destroyed; he is chained
to his bed by sickness and suffering; he is robbed by death of all those
he loves; he is forsaken in his distress by all in whom he had trusted.
Let us under these circumstances again seek him, and demand the practice
of the same virtues under trial as he formerly had practised during the
period of his prosperity. If he is found to be absolutely the same as
before, if his poverty has not deteriorated his benevolence, or
ingratitude his kindly offices of good-will, or bodily suffering his
equanimity, or adversity his joy in the happiness of others; if his
change of fortune is perceptible in externals, but not in his habits, in
the matter, but not in the form of his conduct; then, doubtless, his
virtue could not be explained by any reason drawn from the physical
order; the idea of nature--which always necessarily supposes that actual
phenomena rest upon some anterior phenomenon, as effects upon cause--this
idea no longer suffices to enable us to comprehend this man; because
there is nothing more contradictory than to admit that effect can remain
the same when the cause has changed to its contrary. We must then give
up all natural explanation or thought of finding the reason of his acts
in his condition; we must of necessity go beyond the physical order, and
seek the principle of his conduct in quite another world, to which the
reason can indeed raise itself with its ideas, but which the
understanding cannot grasp by its conceptions. It is this revelation of
the absolute moral power which is subjected to no condition of nature, it
is this which gives to the melancholy feeling that seizes our heart at
the sight of such a man that peculiar, inexpressible charm, which no
delight of the senses, however refined, could arouse in us to the same
extent as the sublime.
Thus the sublime opens to us a road to overstep the limits of the world
of sense, in which the feeling of the beautiful would forever imprison
us. It is not little by little (for between absolute dependence and
absolute liberty there is no possible transition), it is suddenly and by
a shock that the sublime wrenches our spiritual and independent nature
away from the net which feeling has spun round us, and which enchains the
soul the more tightly because of its subtle texture. Whatever may be the
extent to which feeling has gained a mastery over men by the latent
influence of a softening taste, when even it should have succeeded in
penetrating into the most secret recesses of moral jurisdiction under the
deceptive envelope of spiritual beauty, and there poisoning the holiness
of principle at its source--one single sublime emotion often suffices to
break all this tissue of imposture, at one blow to give freedom to the
fettered elasticity of spiritual nature, to reveal its true destination,
and to oblige it to conceive, for one instant at least, the feeling of
its liberty. Beauty, under the shape of the divine Calypso, bewitched
the virtuous son of Ulysses, and the power of her charms held him long a
prisoner in her island. For long he believed he was obeying an immortal
divinity, whilst he was only the slave of sense; but suddenly an
impression of the sublime in the form of Mentor seizes him; he remembers
that he is called to a higher destiny--he throws himself into the waves,
and is free.
As long as man was only the slave of physical necessity, while he had
found no issue to escape from the narrow circle of his appetites, and
while he as yet felt none of that superior liberty which connects him
with the angels, nature, so far as she is incomprehensible, could not
fail to impress him with the insufficiency of his imagination, and again,
as far as she is a destructive force, to recall his physical
powerlessness. He is forced then to pass timidly towards one, and to
turn away with affright from the other. But scarcely has free
contemplation assured him against the blind oppression of the forces of
nature--scarcely has he recognized amidst the tide of phenomena something
permanent in his own being--than at once the coarse agglomeration of
nature that surrounds him begins to speak in another language to his
heart, and the relative grandeur which is without becomes for him a
mirror in which he contemplates the absolute greatness which is within
himself. He approaches without fear, and with a thrill of pleasure,
those pictures which terrified his imagination, and intentionally makes
an appeal to the whole strength of that faculty by which we represent the
infinite perceived by the senses, in order if she fails in this attempt,
to feel all the more vividly how much these ideas are superior to all
that the highest sensuous faculty can give. The sight of a distant
infinity--of heights beyond vision, this vast ocean which is at his feet,
that other ocean still more vast which stretches above his head,
transport and ravish his mind beyond the narrow circle of the real,
beyond this narrow and oppressive prison of physical life. The simple
majesty of nature offers him a less circumscribed measure for estimating
its grandeur, and, surrounded by the grand outlines which it presents to
him, he can no longer bear anything mean in his way of thinking. Who can
tell how many luminous ideas, how many heroic resolutions, which would
never have been conceived in the dark study of the imprisoned man of
science, nor in the saloons where the people of society elbow each other,
have been inspired on a sudden during a walk, only by the contact and the
generous struggle of the soul with the great spirit of nature? Who knows
if it is not owing to a less frequent intercourse with this sublime
spirit that we must partially attribute the narrowness of mind so common
to the dwellers in towns, always bent under the minutiae which dwarf and
wither their soul, whilst the soul of the nomad remains open and free as
the firmament beneath which he pitches his tent?
In the same manner as for the observant traveller, the strange wildness
of nature is so attractive in physical nature--thus, and for the same
reason, every soul capable of enthusiasm finds even in the regrettable
anarchy found in the moral world a source of singular pleasure. Without
doubt he who sees the grand economy of nature only from the impoverished
light of the understanding; he who has never any other thought than to
reform its defiant disorder and to substitute harmony, such a one could
not find pleasure in a world which seems given up to the caprice of
chance rather than governed according to a wise ordination, and where
merit and fortune are for the most part in opposition. He desires that
the whole world throughout its vast space should be ruled like a house
well regulated; and when this much-desired regularity is not found, he
has no other resource than to defer to a future life, and to another and
better nature, the satisfaction which is his due, but which neither the
present nor the past afford him. On the contrary, he renounces willingly
the pretension of restoring this chaos of phenomena to one single notion;
he regains on another side, and with interest, what he loses on this
side. Just this want of connection, this anarchy, in the phenomena,
making them useless to the understanding, is what makes them valuable to
reason. The more they are disorderly the more they represent the freedom
of nature. In a sense, if you suppress all connection, you have
independence. Thus, under the idea of liberty, reason brings back to
unity of thought that which the understanding could not bring to unity of
notion. It thus shows its superiority over the understanding, as a
faculty subject to the conditions of a sensuous order. When we consider
of what value it is to a rational being to be independent of natural
laws, we see how much man finds in the liberty of sublime objects as a
set-off against the checks of his cognitive faculty. Liberty, with all
its drawbacks, is everywhere vastly more attractive to a noble soul than
good social order without it--than society like a flock of sheep, or a
machine working like a watch. This mechanism makes of man only a
product; liberty makes him the citizen of a better world.
Away then with that false theory which supposes falsely a harmony binding
well being and well doing. Let evil destiny show its face. Our safety
is not in blindness, but in facing our dangers. What can do so better
than familiarity with the splendid and terrible evolution of events, or
than pictures showing man in conflict with chance; evil triumphant,
security deceived--pictures shown us throughout history, and placed
before us by tragedy? Whoever passes in review the terrible fate of
Mithridates, of Syracuse, and Carthage, cannot help keeping his appetite
in check, at least for a time, and, seeing the vanity of things, strive
after that which is permanent. The capacity of the sublime is one of the
noblest aptitudes of man. Beauty is useful, but does not go beyond man.
The sublime applies to the pure spirit. The sublime must be joined to
the beautiful to complete the aesthetic education, and to enlarge man's
heart beyond the sensuous world.
Many things in nature offer man the beautiful and sublime. But here
again he is better served at second-hand. He prefers to have them
ready-made in art rather than seek them painfully in nature. This
instinct for imitation in art has the advantage of being able to make
those points essential that nature has made secondary. While nature
suffers violence in the organic world, or exercises violence, working
with power upon man, though she can only be aesthetical as an object of
pure contemplation, art, plastic art, is fully free, because it throws
off all accidental restrictions and leaves the mind free, because it
imitates the appearance, not the reality of objects. As all sublimity
and beauty consists in the appearance, and not in the value of the object,
it follows that art has all the advantages of nature without her shackles.
THE PATHETIC.
It is impossible to know if the empire which man has over his affections
is the effect of a moral force, till we have acquired the certainty that
it is not an effect of insensibility. There is no merit in mastering the
feelings which only lightly and transitorily skim over the surface of the
soul. But to resist a tempest which stirs up the whole of sensuous
nature, and to preserve in it the freedom of the soul, a faculty of
resistance is required infinitely superior to the act of natural force.
Accordingly it will not be possible to represent moral freedom, except by
expressing passion, or suffering nature, with the greatest vividness; and
the hero of tragedy must first have justified his claim to be a sensuous
being before aspiring to our homage as a reasonable being, and making us
believe in his strength of mind.
The latter case is offered in the purer French tragedy, where it is very
rare, or perhaps unexampled, for the author to place before the reader
suffering nature, and where generally, on the contrary, it is only the
poet who warms up and declaims, or the comedian who struts about on
stilts. The icy tone of declamation extinguishes all nature here, and
the French tragedians, with their superstitious worship of decorum, make
it quite impossible for them to paint human nature truly. Decorum,
wherever it is, even in its proper place, always falsifies the expression
of nature, and yet this expression is rigorously required by art. In a
French tragedy, it is difficult for us to believe that the hero ever
suffers, for he explains the state of his soul, as the coolest man would
do, and always thinking of the effect he is making on others, he never
lets nature pour forth freely. The kings, the princesses, and the heroes
of Corneille or Voltaire never forget their rank even in the most violent
excess of passion; and they part with their humanity much sooner than
with their dignity. They are like those kings and emperors of our old
picture-books, who go to bed with their crowns on.
What a difference from the Greeks and those of the moderns who have been
inspired with their spirit in poetry! Never does the Greek poet blush at
nature; he leaves to the sensuous all its rights, and yet he is quite
certain never to be subdued by it. He has too much depth and too much
rectitude in his mind not to distinguish the accidental, which is the
principal point with false taste, from the really necessary; but all that
is not humanity itself is accidental in man. The Greek artist who has to
represent a Laocoon, a Niobe, and a Philoctetes, does not care for the
king, the princess, or the king's son; he keeps to the man. Accordingly
the skilful statuary sets aside the drapery, and shows us nude figures,
though he knows quite well it is not so in real life. This is because
drapery is to him an accidental thing, and because the necessary ought
never to be sacrificed to the accidental. It is also because, if decency
and physical necessities have their laws, these laws are not those of
art. The statuary ought to show us, and wishes to show us, the man
himself; drapery conceals him, therefore he sets that aside, and with
reason.
The soft emotions, only producing tenderness, are of the nature of the
agreeable, with which the fine arts are not concerned. They only caress
the senses, while relaxing and creating languidness, and only relate to
external nature, not at all to the inner nature of man. A good number of
our romances and of our tragedies, particularly those that bear the name
of dramas--a sort of compromise between tragedy and comedy--a good number
also of those highly-appreciated family portraits, belong to this class.
The only effect of these works is to empty the lachrymal duct, and soothe
the overflowing feelings; but the mind comes back from them empty, and
the moral being, the noblest part of our nature, gathers no new strength
whatever from them. "It is thus," says Kant, "that many persons feel
themselves edified by a sermon that has nothing edifying in it." It
seems also that modern music only aims at interesting the sensuous, and
in this it flatters the taste of the day, which seeks to be agreeably
tickled, but not to be startled, nor strongly moved and elevated.
Accordingly we see music prefer all that is tender; and whatever be the
noise in a concert-room, silence is immediately restored, and every one
is all ears directly a sentimental passage is performed. Then an
expression of sensibility common to animalism shows itself commonly on
all faces; the eyes are swimming with intoxication, the open mouth is all
desire, a voluptuous trembling takes hold of the entire body, the breath
is quick and full, in short, all the symptoms of intoxication appear.
This is an evident proof that the senses swim in delight, but that the
mind or the principle of freedom in man has become a prey to the violence
of the sensuous impression. Real taste, that of noble and manly minds,
rejects all these emotions as unworthy of art, because they only please
the senses, with which art has nothing in common.
But, on the other hand, real taste excludes all extreme affections, which
only put sensuousness to the torture, without giving the mind any
compensation. These affections oppress moral liberty by pain, as the
others by voluptuousness; consequently they can excite aversion, and not
the emotion that would alone be worthy of art. Art ought to charm the
mind and give satisfaction to the feeling of moral freedom. This man who
is a prey to his pain is to me simply a tortured animate being, and not a
man tried by suffering. For a moral resistance to painful affections is
already required of man--a resistance which can alone allow the principle
of moral freedom, the intelligence, to make itself known in it.
If it is so, the poets and the artists are poor adepts in their art when
they seek to reach the pathetic only by the sensuous force of affection
and by representing suffering in the most vivid manner. They forget that
suffering in itself can never be the last end of imitation, nor the
immediate source of the pleasure we experience in tragedy. The pathetic
only has aesthetic value in as far as it is sublime. Now, effects that
only allow us to infer a purely sensuous cause, and that are founded only
on the affection experienced by the faculty of sense, are never sublime,
whatever energy they may display, for everything sublime proceeds
exclusively from the reason.
These ideas must present themselves to the eye in the portraiture of the
affections, or be awakened by this portraiture in order that the pathetic
may exist. But it is impossible to represent ideas, in the proper sense
of the word, and positively, as nothing corresponds to pure ideas in the
world of sense. But they can be always represented negatively and in an
indirect way if the sensuous phenomenon by which they are manifested
has some character of which you would seek in vain the conditions in
physical nature. All phenomena of which the ultimate principle cannot
be derived from the world of sense are an indirect representation of
the upper-sensuous element.
And how does one succeed in representing something that is above nature
without having recourse to supernatural means? What can this phenomenon
be which is accomplished by natural forces--otherwise it would not be a
phenomenon--and yet which cannot be derived from physical causes without
a contradiction? This is the problem; how can the artist solve it?
But there is also in man a second order of phenomena, which are subject
to the influence and empire of the will, or which may be considered at
all events as being of such a kind that will might always have prevented
them, consequently phenomena for which the person and not instinct is
responsible. It is the office of instinct to watch with a blind zeal
over the interests of the senses; but it is the office of the person to
hold instinct in proper bounds, out of respect for the moral law.
Instinct in itself does not hold account of any law; but the person ought
to watch that instinct may not infringe in any way on the decrees of
reason. It is therefore evident that it is not for instinct alone to
determine unconditionally all the phenomena that take place in man in the
state of affection, and that on the contrary the will of man can place
limits to instinct. When instinct only determines all phenomena in man,
there is nothing more that can recall the person; there is only a
physical creature before you, and consequently an animal; for every
physical creature subject to the sway of instinct is nothing else.
Therefore, if you wish to represent the person itself, you must propose
to yourself in man certain phenomena that have been determined in
opposition to instinct, or at least that have not been determined by
instinct. That they have not been determined by instinct is sufficient
to refer them to a higher source, the moment we see that instinct would
no doubt have determined them in another way if its force had not been
broken by some obstacle.
We find here realized the first of the three conditions of the sublime
that have been mentioned further back,--a very powerful natural force,
armed for destruction, and ridiculing all resistance. But that this
strong element may at the same time be terrible, and thereby sublime, two
distinct operations of the mind are wanted; I mean two representations
that we produce in ourselves by our own activity. First, we recognize
this irresistible natural force as terrible by comparing it with the
weakness of the faculty of resistance that the physical man can oppose to
it; and, secondly, it is by referring it to our will, and recalling to
our consciousness that the will is absolutely independent of all
influence of physical nature, that this force becomes to us a sublime
object. But it is we ourselves who represent these two relations; the
poet has only given us an object armed with a great force seeking to
manifest itself. If this object makes us tremble, it is only because we
in thought suppose ourselves, or some one like us, engaged with this
force. And if trembling in this way, we experience the feeling of the
sublime, it is because our consciousness tells us that, if we are the
victims of this force, we should have nothing to fear, from the freedom
of our Ego, for the autonomy of the determinations of our will. In short
the description up to here is sublime, but quite a contemplative,
intuitive sublimity:--
It is no more in our power to measure this force with ours, and to refer
it or not to our own existence. This happens without our co-operation,
and is given us by the object itself. Accordingly our fear has not, as
in the preceding moment, a purely subjective ground, residing in our
soul; it has an objective ground, residing in the object. For, even if
we recognize in this entire scene a simple fiction of the imagination, we
nevertheless distinguish in this fiction a conception communicated to us
from without, from another conception that we produce spontaneously in
ourselves.
Thus the mind loses a part of her freedom, inasmuch as she receives now
from without that which she produced before her own activity. The idea
of danger puts on an appearance of objective reality, and affection
becomes now a serious affair.
In the truly moral soul the terrible trial (of the imagination) passes
quickly and readily into the sublime. In proportion as imagination loses
its liberty, reason makes its own prevail, and the soul ceases not to
enlarge within when it thus finds outward limits. Driven from all the
intrenchments which would give physical protection to sensuous creatures,
we seek refuge in the stronghold of our moral liberty, and we arrive by
that means at an absolute and unlimited safety, at the very moment when
we seem to be deprived in the world of phenomena of a relative and
precarious rampart. But precisely because it was necessary to have
arrived at the physical oppression before having recourse to the
assistance of our moral nature, we can only buy this high sentiment of
our liberty through suffering. An ordinary soul confines itself entirely
to this suffering, and never comprehends in the sublime or the pathetic
anything beyond the terrible. An independent soul, on the contrary,
precisely seizes this occasion to rise to the feeling of his moral force,
in all that is most magnificent in this force, and from every terrible
object knows how to draw out the sublime.
The moral man (the father) [see Aeneid, ii. 213-215] is here attacked
before the physical man, and that has a grand effect. All the affections
become more aesthetic when we receive them second-hand; there is no
stronger sympathy than that we feel for sympathy.
The moment [see Aeneid, ii. 216-217] had arrived when the hero himself
had to be recommended to our respect as a moral personage, and the poet
seized upon that moment. We already know by his description all the
force, all the rage of the two monsters who menace Laocoon, and we know
how all resistance would be in vain. If Laocoon were only a common man
he would better understand his own interests, and, like the rest of the
Trojans, he would find safety in rapid flight. But there is a heart in
that breast; the danger to his children holds him back, and decides him
to meet his fate. This trait alone renders him worthy of our pity. At
whatever moment the serpents had assailed him, we should have always been
touched and troubled. But because it happens just at the moment when as
father he shows himself so worthy of respect, his fate appears to us as
the result of having fulfilled his duty as parent, of his tender
disquietude for his children. It is this which calls forth our sympathy
in the highest degree. It appears, in fact, as if he deliberately
devoted himself to destruction, and his death becomes an act of the will.
Thus there are two conditions in every kind of the pathetic: 1st.
Suffering, to interest our sensuous nature; 2d. Moral liberty, to
interest our spiritual nature. All portraiture in which the expression
of suffering nature is wanting remains without aesthetic action, and our
heart is untouched. All portraiture in which the expression of moral
aptitude is wanting, even did it possess all the sensuous force possible,
could not attain to the pathetic, and would infallibly revolt our
feelings. Throughout moral liberty we require the human being who
suffers; throughout all the sufferings of human nature we always desire
to perceive the independent spirit, or the capacity for independence.
But the independence of the spiritual being in the state of suffering can
manifest itself in two ways. Either negatively, when the moral man does
not receive the law from the physical man, and his state exercises no
influence over his manner of feeling; or positively, when the moral man
is a ruler over the physical being, and his manner of feeling exercises
an influence upon his state. In the first case, it is the sublime of
disposition; in the second, it is the sublime of action.
The reply of Medea in the tragedy belongs also to this order of the
sublime.
It follows that the first alone can be expressed by the plastic arts,
because these arts give but that which is simultaneous; but the poet can
extend his domain over one and the other. Even more; when the plastic
art has to represent a sublime action, it must necessarily bring it back
to sublimity.
In order that the sublimity of action should take place, not only must
the suffering of man have no influence upon the moral constitution, but
rather the opposite must be the case. The affection is the work of his
moral character. This can happen in two ways: either mediately, or
according to the law of liberty, when out of respect for such and such a
duty it decides from free choice to suffer--in this case, the idea of
duty determines as a motive, and its suffering is a voluntary act--or
immediately, and according to the necessity of nature, when he expiates
by a moral suffering the violation of duty; in this second case, the idea
of duty determines him as a force, and his suffering is no longer an
effect. Regulus offers us an example of the first kind, when, to keep
his word, he gives himself up to the vengeance of the Carthaginians; and
he would serve as an example of the second class, if, having betrayed his
trust, the consciousness of this crime would have made him miserable. In
both cases suffering has a moral course, but with this difference, that
on the one part Regulus shows us its moral character, and that, on the
other, he only shows us that he was made to have such a character. In
the first case he is in our eyes a morally great person; in the second he
is only aesthetically great.
Man is already a sublime object, but only in the aesthetic sense, when
the state in which he is gives us an idea of his human destination, even
though we might not find this destination realized in his person. He
only becomes sublime to us in a moral point of view, when he acts,
moreover, as a person, in a manner conformable with this destination; if
our respect bears not only on his moral faculty, but on the use he makes
of this faculty; if dignity, in his case, is due, not only to his moral
aptitude; but to the real morality of his conduct. It is quite a
different thing to direct our judgment and attention to the moral faculty
generally, and to the possibility of a will absolutely free, and to be
directing it to the use of this faculty, and to the reality of this
absolute freedom of willing.
It is, I repeat, quite a different thing; and this difference is
connected not only with the objects to which we may have to direct our
judgment, but to the very criterion of our judgment. The same object can
displease us if we appreciate it in a moral point of view, and be very
attractive to us in the aesthetical point of view. But even if the moral
judgment and the aesthetical judgment were both satisfied, this object
would produce this effect on one and the other in quite a different way.
It is not morally satisfactory because it has an aesthetical value, nor
has it an aesthetical value because it satisfies us morally. Let us
take, as example, Leonidas and his devotion at Thermopylae. Judged from
the moral point of view, this action represents to me the moral law
carried out notwithstanding all the repugnance of instinct. Judged from
the aesthetic point of view, it gives me the idea of the moral faculty,
independent of every constraint of instinct. The act of Leonidas
satisfies the moral sense, the reason; it enraptures the aesthetical
sense, the imagination.
Whence comes this difference in the feelings in connection with the same
object? I account for it thus:--
In the same way that our being consists of two principles and natures, so
also and consequently our feelings are divided into two kinds, entirely
different. As reasonable beings we experience a feeling of approbation
or of disapprobation; as sensuous creatures we experience pleasure or
displeasure. The two feelings, approbation and pleasure, repose on
satisfaction: one on a satisfaction given to a requirement of reason--
reason has only requirements, and not wants. The other depends on a
satisfaction given to a sensuous want--sense only knows of wants, and
cannot prescribe anything. These two terms--requirements of reason,
wants of the senses--are mutually related, as absolute necessity and the
necessity of nature. Accordingly, both are included in the idea of
necessity, but with this difference, that the necessity of reason is
unconditional, and the necessity of sense only takes place under
conditions. But, for both, satisfaction is a purely contingent thing.
Accordingly every feeling, whether of pleasure or approbation, rests
definitively on an agreement between the contingent and the necessary.
If the necessary has thus an imperative character, the feeling
experienced will be that of approbation. If necessity has the character
of a want, the feeling experienced will be that of pleasure, and both
will be strong in proportion as the satisfaction will be contingent.
Now, underlying every moral judgment there is a requirement of reason
which requires us to act conformably with the moral law, and it is an
absolute necessity that we should wish what is good. But as the will is
free, it is physically an accidental thing that we should do in fact what
is good. If we actually do it, this agreement between the contingent in
the use of free will and the imperative demand of reason gives rise to
our assent or approbation, which will be greater in proportion as the
resistance of the inclinations made this use that we make of our free
will more accidental and more doubtful. Every aesthetic judgment, on the
contrary, refers the object to the necessity which cannot help willing
imperatively, but only desires that there should be an agreement between
the accidental and its own interest. Now what is the interest of
imagination? It is to emancipate itself from all laws, and to play its
part freely. The obligation imposed on the will by the moral law, which
prescribes its object in the strictest manner, is by no means favorable
to this need of independence. And as the moral obligation of the will is
the object of the moral judgment, it is clear that in this mode of
judging, the imagination could not find its interest. But a moral
obligation imposed on the will cannot be conceived, except by supposing
this same will absolutely independent of the moral instincts and from
their constraint. Accordingly the possibility of the moral act requires
liberty, and therefore agrees here in the most perfect manner with the
interest of imagination. But as imagination, through the medium of its
wants, cannot give orders to the will of the individual, as reason does
by its imperative character, it follows that the faculty of freedom, in
relation to imagination, is something accidental, and consequently that
the agreement between the accidental and the necessary (conditionally
necessary) must excite pleasure. Therefore, if we bring to bear a moral
judgment on this act of Leonidas, we shall consider it from a point of
view where its accidental character strikes the eye less than its
necessary side. If, on the other hand, we apply the aesthetical judgment
to it, this is another point of view, where its character of necessity
strikes us less forcibly than its accidental character. It is a duty for
every will to act thus, directly it is a free will; but the fact that
there is a free will that makes this act possible is a favor of nature in
regard to this faculty, to which freedom is a necessity. Thus an act of
virtue judged by the moral sense--by reason--will give us as its only
satisfaction the feeling of approbation, because reason can never find
more, and seldom finds as much as it requires. This same act, judged, on
the contrary, by the aesthetic sense--by imagination--will give us a
positive pleasure, because the imagination, never requiring the end to
agree with the demand, must be surprised, enraptured, at the real
satisfaction of this demand as at a happy chance. Our reason will merely
approve, and only approve, of Leonidas actually taking this heroic
resolution; but that he could take this resolution is what delights and
enraptures us.
This distinction between the two sorts of judgments becomes more evident
still, if we take an example where the moral sense and the aesthetic
sense pronounce a different verdict. Suppose we take the act of
Perigrinus Proteus burning himself at Olympia. Judging this act morally,
I cannot give it my approbation, inasmuch as I see it determined by
impure motives, to which Proteus sacrifices the duty of respecting his
own existence. But in the aesthetic judgment this same act delights
me; it delights me precisely because it testifies to a power of will
capable of resisting even the most potent of instincts, that of
self-preservation. Was it a moral feeling, or only a more powerful
sensuous attraction, that silenced the instinct of self-preservation in
this enthusiast. It matters little, when I appreciate the act from an
aesthetic point of view. I then drop the individual, I take away the
relation of his will to the law that ought to govern him; I think of
human will in general, considered as a common faculty of the race, and I
regard it in connection with all the forces of nature. We have seen that
in a moral point of view, the preservation of our being seemed to us a
duty, and therefore we were offended at seeing Proteus violate this duty.
In an aesthetic point of view the self-preservation only appears as an
interest, and therefore the sacrifice of this interest pleases us. Thus
the operation that we perform in the judgments of the second kind is
precisely the inverse of that which we perform in those of the first. In
the former we oppose the individual, a sensuous and limited being, and
his personal will, which can be effected pathologically, to the absolute
law of the will in general, and of unconditional duty which binds every
spiritual being; in the second case, on the contrary, we oppose the
faculty of willing, absolute volition, and the spiritual force as an
infinite thing, to the solicitations of nature and the impediments of
sense. This is the reason why the aesthetical judgment leaves us free,
and delights and enraptures us. It is because the mere conception of
this faculty of willing in an absolute manner, the mere idea of this
moral aptitude, gives us in itself a consciousness of a manifest
advantage over the sensuous. It is because the mere possibility of
emancipating ourselves from the impediments of nature is in itself a
satisfaction that flatters our thirst for freedom. This is the reason
why moral judgment, on the contrary, makes us experience a feeling of
constraint that humbles us. It is because in connection with each
voluntary act we appreciate in this manner, we feel, as regards the
absolute law that ought to rule the will in general, in a position of
inferiority more or less decided, and because the constraint of the will
thus limited to a single determination, which duty requires of it at all
costs, contradicts the instinct of freedom which is the property of
imagination. In the former case we soared from the real to the possible,
and from the individual to the species; in the latter, on the contrary,
we descend from the possible to the real, and we shut up the species in
the narrow limits of the individual. We cannot therefore be surprised if
the aesthetical judgment enlarges the heart, while the moral judgment
constrains and straitens it.
It results, therefore, from all that which precedes, that the moral
judgment and the aesthetic, far from mutually corroborating each other,
impede and hinder each other, because they impress on the soul two
directions entirely opposite. In fact, this observance of rule which
reason requires of us as moral judge is incompatible with the
independence which the imagination calls for as aesthetic judge. It
follows that an object will have so much the less aesthetic value the
more it has the character of a moral object, and if the poet were obliged
notwithstanding that to choose it, he would do well in treating of it,
not to call the attention of our reason to the rule of the will, but that
of our imagination to the power of the will. In his own interest it is
necessary for the poet to enter on this path, for with our liberty his
empire finishes. We belong to him only inasmuch as we look beyond
ourselves; we escape from him the moment we re-enter into our innermost
selves, and that is what infallibly takes place the moment an object
ceases to be a phenomenon in our consideration, and takes the character
of a law which judges us.
Even in the manifestation of the most sublime virtue, the poet can only
employ for his own views that which in those acts belongs to force. As
to the direction of the force, he has no reason to be anxious. The poet,
even when he places before our eyes the most perfect models of morality,
has not, and ought not to have, any other end than that of rejoicing our
soul by the contemplation of this spectacle. Moreover, nothing can
rejoice our soul except that which improves our personality, and nothing
can give us a spiritual joy except that which elevates the spiritual
faculty. But in what way can the morality of another improve our own
personality, and raise our spiritual force? That this other one
accomplishes really his duty results from an accidental use which he
makes of his liberty, and which for that very reason can prove nothing to
us. We only have in common with him the faculty to conform ourselves
equally to duty; the moral power which he exhibits reminds us also of our
own, and that is why we then feel something which upraises our spiritual
force. Thus it is only the idea of the possibility of an absolutely free
will which makes the real exercise of this will in us charming to the
aesthetic feeling.
We shall be still more convinced when we think how little the poetic
force of impression which is awakened in us by an act or a moral
character is dependent on their historic reality. The pleasure which we
take in considering an ideal character will in no way be lessened when we
come to think that this character is nothing more than a poetic fiction;
for it is on the poetic truth, and not on historic truth, that every
aesthetic impression of the feelings rest. Moreover, poetic truth does
not consist in that this or that thing has effectually taken place, but
in that it may have happened, that is to say, that the thing is in itself
possible. Thus the aesthetic force is necessarily obliged to rest in the
first place in the idea of possibility.
Even in real subjects, for which the actors are borrowed from history, it
is not the reality of the simple possibility of the fact, but that which
is guaranteed to us by its very reality which constitutes the poetic
element. That these personages have indeed existed, and that these
events have in truth taken place, is a circumstance which can, it is
true, in many cases add to our pleasure, but that which it adds to it is
like a foreign addition, much rather unfavorable than advantageous to the
poetical impression.
It was long thought that a great service was rendered to German poetry by
recommending German poets to treat of national themes. Why, it was
asked, did Greek poetry have so much power over the mind? Because it
brought forward national events and immortalized domestic exploits. No
doubt the poetry of the ancients may have been indebted to this
circumstance for certain effects of which modern poetry cannot boast; but
do these effects belong to art and the poet? It is small glory for the
Greek genius if it had only this accidental advantage over modern genius;
still more if it were necessary for the poets, in order to gain this
advantage, to obtain it by this conformity of their invention with real
history! It is only a barbarous taste that requires this stimulant of a
national interest to be captivated by beautiful things; and it is only a
scribbler who borrows from matter a force to which he despairs of giving
a form.
Poetry ought not to take its course through the frigid region of memory;
it ought never to convert learning into its interpreter, nor private
interest its advocate with the popular mind. It ought to go straight to
the heart, because it has come from the heart; and aim at the man in the
citizen, not the citizen in the man.
Happily, true genius does not make much account of all these counsels
that people are so anxious to give her with better intentions than
competence. Otherwise, Sulzer and his school might have made German
poetry adopt a very equivocal style. It is no doubt a very honorable aim
in a poet to moralize the man, and excite the patriotism of the citizen,
and the Muses know better than any one how well the arts of the sublime
and of the beautiful are adapted to exercise this influence. But that
which poetry obtains excellently by indirect means it would accomplish
very badly as an immediate end. Poetry is not made to serve in man for
the accomplishment of a particular matter, nor could any instrument be
selected less fitted to cause a particular object to succeed, or to carry
out special projects and details. Poetry acts on the whole of human
nature, and it is only by its general influence on the character of a man
that it can influence particular acts. Poetry can be for man what love
is for the hero. It can neither counsel him, nor strike for him, nor do
anything for him in short; but it can form a hero in him, call him to
great deeds, and arm him with a strength to be all that he ought to be.
Thus the degree of aesthetical energy with which sublime feelings and
sublime acts take possession of our souls, does not rest at all on the
interest of reason, which requires every action to be really conformable
with the idea of good. But it rests on the interest of the imagination,
which requires conformity with good should be possible, or, in other
terms, that no feeling, however strong, should oppress the freedom of the
soul. Now this possibility is found in every act that testifies with
energy to liberty, and to the force of the will; and if the poet meets
with an action of this kind, it matters little where, he has a subject
suitable for his art. To him, and to the interest we have in him, it is
quite the same, to take his hero in one class of characters or in
another, among the good or the wicked, as it often requires as much
strength of character to do evil conscientiously and persistently as to
do good. If a proof be required that in our aesthetic judgments we
attend more to the force than to its direction, to its freedom than to
its lawfulness, this is sufficient for our evidence. We prefer to see
force and freedom manifest themselves at the cost of moral regularity,
rather than regularity at the cost of freedom and strength. For directly
one of those cases offers itself, in which the general law agrees with
the instincts which by their strength threaten to carry away the will,
the aesthetic value of the character is increased, if he be capable of
resisting these instincts. A vicious person begins to interest us as
soon as he must risk his happiness and life to carry out his perverse
designs; on the contrary, a virtuous person loses in proportion as he
finds it useful to be virtuous. Vengeance, for instance, is certainly an
ignoble and a vile affection, but this does not prevent it from becoming
aesthetical, if to satisfy it we must endure painful sacrifice. Medea
slaying her children aims at the heart of Jason, but at the same time she
strikes a heavy blow at her own heart, and her vengeance aesthetically
becomes sublime directly we see in her a tender mother.
In this sense the aesthetic judgment has more of truth than is ordinarily
believed. The vices which show a great force of will evidently announce
a greater aptitude for real moral liberty than do virtues which borrow
support from inclination; seeing that it only requires of the man who
persistently does evil to gain a single victory over himself, one simple
upset of his maxims, to gain ever after to the service of virtue his
whole plan of life, and all the force of will which he lavished on evil.
And why is it we receive with dislike medium characters, whilst we at
times follow with trembling admiration one which is altogether wicked?
It is evident, that with regard to the former, we renounce all hope, we
cannot even conceive the possibility of finding absolute liberty of the
will; whilst with the other, on the contrary, each time he displays his
faculties, we feel that one single act of the will would suffice to raise
him up to the fullest height of human dignity.
Thus, in the aesthetic judgment, that which excites our interest is not
morality itself, but liberty alone; and moral purity can only please our
imagination when it places in relief the forces of the will. It is then
manifestly to confound two very distinct orders of ideas, to require in
aesthetic things so exact a morality, and, in order to stretch the domain
of reason, to exclude the imagination from its own legitimate sphere.
But we see, moreover, that the goddess of beauty can part with this
girdle, and grant it, with its quality and effects, to a being less
endowed with beauty. Thus grace is not the exclusive privilege of the
beautiful; it can also be handed over, but only by beauty, to an object
less beautiful, or even to an object deprived of beauty.
If these same Greeks saw a man gifted in other respects with all the
advantages of mind, but lacking grace, they advised him to sacrifice to
the Graces. If, therefore, they conceived these deities as forming an
escort to the beauty of the other sex, they also thought that they would
be favorable to man, and that to please he absolutely required their
help.
Grace is a kind of movable beauty, I mean a beauty which does not belong
essentially to its subject, but which may be produced accidentally in it,
as it may also disappear from it. It is in this that grace is
distinguished from beauty properly so called, or fixed beauty, which is
necessarily inherent in the subject itself. Venus can no doubt take off
her girdle and give it up for the moment to Juno, but she could only give
up her beauty with her very person. Venus, without a girdle, is no
longer the charming Venus, without beauty she is no longer Venus.
Thus the girdle of charms operates not by a natural effect (for then it
would not change anything in the person itself) but by a magical effect;
that is to say, its virtue extends beyond all natural conditions. By
this means, which is nothing more, I admit, than an expedient, it has
been attempted to avoid the contradiction to which the mind, as regards
its representative faculty, is unavoidably reduced, every time it asks an
expression from nature herself, for an object foreign to nature and which
belongs to the free field of the ideal. If this magic girdle is the
symbol of an objective property which can be separated from its subject
without modifying in any degree its nature, this myth can only express
one thing--the beauty of movement, because movement is the only
modification that can affect an object without changing its identity.
Without her girdle, and without the Graces, Venus represents the ideal of
beauty, such as she could have come forth from the hands of nature, and
such as she is made without the intervention of mind endowed with
sentiment and by the virtue alone of plastic forces. It is not without
reason that the fable created a particular divinity to represent this
sort of beauty, because it suffices to see and to feel in order to
distinguish it very distinctly from the other, from that which derives
its origin from the influence of a mind endowed with sentiments.
This first beauty, thus formed by nature solely and in virtue of the laws
of necessity, I shall distinguish from that which is regulated upon
conditions of liberty, in calling it, if allowed, beauty of structure
(architectonic beauty). It is agreed, therefore, to designate under this
name that portion of human beauty which not only has as efficient
principle the forces and agents of physical nature (for we can say as
much for every phenomenon), but which also is determined, so far as it is
beauty solely, by the forces of this nature.
Venus came forth perfect and complete from the foam of the sea. Why
perfect? because she is the finished and exactly determined work of
necessity, and on that account she is neither susceptible of variety nor
of progress. In other terms, as she is only a beautiful representation
of the various ends which nature had in view in forming man, and thence
each of her properties is perfectly determined by the idea that she
realizes; hence it follows that we can consider her as definitive and
determined (with regard to its connection with the first conception)
although this conception is subject, in its development, to the
conditions of time.
The architectonic beauty of the human form and its technical perfection
are two ideas, which we must take good care not to confound. By the
latter, the ensemble of particular ends must be understood, such as they
co-ordinate between themselves towards a general and higher end; by the
other, on the contrary, a character suited to the representation of these
ends, as far as these are revealed, under a visible form, to our faculty
of seeing and observing. When, then, we speak of beauty, we neither take
into consideration the justness of the aims of nature in themselves, nor
formally, the degree of adaptation to the principles of art which their
combination could offer. Our contemplative faculties hold to the manner
in which the object appears to them, without taking heed to its logical
constitution. Thus, although the architectonic beauty, in the structure
of man, be determined by the idea which has presided at this structure,
and by the ends that nature proposes for it, the aesthetic judgment,
making abstraction of these ends, considers this beauty in itself; and in
the idea which we form of it, nothing enters which does not immediately
and properly belong to the exterior appearance.
We are, then, not obliged to say that the dignity of man and of his
condition heightens the beauty of his structure. The idea we have of his
dignity may influence, it is true, the judgment that we form on the
beauty of his structure; but then this judgment ceases to be purely
aesthetic. Doubtless, the technical constitution of the human form is an
expression of its destiny, and, as such, it ought to excite our
admiration; but this technical constitution is represented to the
understanding and not to sense; it is a conception and not a phenomenon.
The architectonic beauty, on the contrary, could never be an expression
of the destiny of man, because it addresses itself to quite a different
faculty from that to which it belongs to pronounce upon his destiny.
If, then, man is, amongst all the technical forces created by nature,
that to whom more especially we attribute beauty, this is exact and true
only under one condition, which is, that at once and upon the simple
appearance he justifies this superiority, without the necessity, in order
to appreciate it, that we bring to mind his humanity. For, to recall
this, we must pass through a conception; and then it would no longer be
the sense, but the understanding, that would become the judge of beauty,
which would imply contradiction. Man, therefore, cannot put forward the
dignity of his moral destiny, nor give prominence to his superiority as
intelligence, to increase the price of his beauty. Man, here, is but a
being thrown like others into space--a phenomenon amongst other
phenomena. In the world of sense no account is made of the rank he holds
in the world of ideas; and if he desires in that to hold the first place,
he can only owe it to that in him which belongs to the physical order.
From what we have said, up to the present time, it would appear that the
beautiful can offer absolutely no interest to the understanding, because
its principle belongs solely to the world of sense, and amongst all our
faculties of knowledge it addresses itself only to our senses. And in
fact, the moment that we sever from the idea of the beautiful, as a
foreign element, all that is mixed with the idea of technical perfection,
almost inevitably, in the judgment of beauty, it appears that nothing
remains to it by which it can become the object of an intellectual
pleasure. And nevertheless, it is quite as incontestable that the
beautiful pleases the understanding, as it is beyond doubt that the
beautiful rests upon no property of the object that could not be
discovered but by the understanding.
The architectonic beauty of man is then, in the way I have explained it,
the visible expression of a rational conception, but it is so only in the
same sense and the same title as are in general all the beautiful
creations of nature. As to the degree, I agree that it surpasses all the
other beauties; but with regard to kind, it is upon the same rank as they
are, because it also manifests that which alone is perceptible of its
subject, and it is only when we represent it to ourselves that it
receives a super-sensuous value.
If the ends of creation are marked in man with more of success and of
beauty than in the organic beings, it is to some extent a favor which the
intelligence, inasmuch as it dictated the laws of the human structure,
has shown to nature charged to execute those laws. The intelligence, it
is true, pursues its end in the technique of man with a rigorous
necessity, but happily its exigencies meet and accord with the necessary
laws of nature so well, that one executes the order of the other whilst
acting according to its own inclination.
But this can only be true respecting the architectonic beauty of man,
where the necessary laws of physical nature are sustained by another
necessity, that of the teleological principle which determines them. It
is here only that the beautiful could be calculated by relation to the
technique of the structure, which can no longer take place when the
necessity is on one side alone, and the super-sensuous cause which
determines the phenomenon takes a contingent character. Thus, it is
nature alone who takes upon herself the architectonic beauty of man,
because here, from the first design, she had been charged once for all by
the creating intelligence with the execution of all that man needs in
order to arrive at the ends for which he is destined, and she has in
consequence no change to fear in this organic work which she
accomplishes.
If man were only a physical creature, nature, at the same time that she
establishes the general laws of his being, would determine also the
various causes of application. But here she divides her empire with free
arbitration; and, although its laws are fixed, it is the mind that
pronounces upon particular cases.
The domain of mind extends as far as living nature goes, and it finishes
only at the point at which organic life loses itself in unformed matter,
at the point at which the animal forces cease to act. It is known that
all the motive forces in man are connected one with the other, and this
makes us understand how the mind, even considered as principle of
voluntary movement, can propagate its action through all organisms. It
is not only the instruments of the will, but the organs themselves upon
which the will does not immediately exercise its empire, that undergo,
indirectly at least, the influence of mind; the mind determines then, not
only designedly when it acts, but again, without design, when it feels.
And thus man by reason that, making use of his liberty, he raises himself
into the sphere of pure intelligences, would find himself in danger of
sinking, inasmuch as he is a creature of sense, and of losing in the
judgment of taste that which he gains at the tribunal of reason. This
moral destiny, therefore, accomplished by the moral action of man, would
cost him a privilege which was assured to him by this same moral destiny
when only indicated in his structure; a purely sensuous privilege, it is
true, but one which receives, as we have seen, a signification and a
higher value from the understanding. No; nature is too much enamored
with harmony to be guilty of so gross a contradiction, and that which is
harmonious in the world of the understanding could not be rendered by a
discord in the world of sense.
As soon, then, as in man the person, the moral and free agent, takes upon
himself to determine the play of phenomena, and by his intervention takes
from nature the power to protect the beauty of her work, he then, as it
were, substitutes himself for nature, and assumes in a certain measure,
with the rights of nature, a part of the obligations incumbent on her.
When the mind, taking possession of the sensuous matter subservient to
it, implicates it in his destiny and makes it depend on its own
modifications, it transforms itself to a certain point into a sensuous
phenomenon, and, as such, is obliged to recognize the law which regulates
in general all the phenomena. In its own interest it engages to permit
that nature in its service, placed under its dependence, shall still
preserve its character of nature, and never act in a manner contrary to
its anterior obligations. I call the beautiful an obligation of
phenomena, because the want which corresponds to it in the subject has
its reason in the understanding itself, and thus it is consequently
universal and necessary. I call it an anterior obligation because the
senses, in the matter of beauty, have given their judgment before the
understanding commences to perform its office.
Thus it is now free arbitration which rules the beautiful. If nature has
furnished the architectonic beauty, the soul in its turn determines the
beauty of the play, and now also we know what we must understand by charm
and grace. Grace is the beauty of the form under the influence of free
will; it is the beauty of this kind of phenomena that the person himself
determines. The architectonic beauty does honor to the author of nature;
grace does honor to him who possesses it. That is a gift, this is a
personal merit.
Grace can be found only in movement, for a modification which takes place
in the soul can only be manifested in the sensuous world as movement.
But this does not prevent features fixed and in repose also from
possessing grace. There immobility is, in its origin, movement which,
from being frequently repeated, at length becomes habitual, leaving
durable traces.
But all the movements of man are not capable of grace. Grace is never
otherwise than beauty of form animated into movement by free will; and
the movements which belong only to physical nature could not merit the
name. It is true that an intellectual man, if he be keen, ends by
rendering himself master of almost all the movements of the body; but
when the chain which links a fine lineament to a moral sentiment
lengthens much, this lineament becomes the property of the structure, and
can no longer be counted as a grace. It happens, ultimately, that the
mind moulds the body, and that the structure is forced to modify itself
according to the play that the soul imprints upon the organs, so
entirely, that grace finally is transformed--and the examples are not
rare--into architectonic beauty. As at one time an antagonistic mind
which is ill at ease with itself alters and destroys the most perfect
beauty of structure, until at last it becomes impossible to recognize
this magnificent chef-d'oeuvre of nature in the state to which it is
reduced under the unworthy hands of free will, so at other times the
serenity and perfect harmony of the soul come to the aid of the hampered
technique, unloose nature and develop with divine splendor the beauty of
form, enveloped until then, and oppressed.
The person (it is known what I mean by the expression) prescribes the
movements of the body, either through the will, when he desires to
realize in the world of sense an effect of which he has proposed the
idea, and in that case the movements are said to be voluntary or
intentional; or, on the other hand, they take place without its will
taking any part in it--in virtue of a fatal law of the organism--but on
the occasion of a sentiment, in the latter case, I say that the movements
are sympathetic. The sympathetic movement, though it may be involuntary
and provoked by a sentiment, ought not to be confounded with those purely
instinctive movements that proceed from physical sensibility. Physical
instinct is not a free agent, and that which it executes is not an act of
the person; I understand then here exclusively, by sympathetic movements,
those which accompany a sentiment, a disposition of the moral order.
The question that now presents itself is this: Of these two kinds of
movement, having their principle in the person, which is capable of
grace?
It follows that we can infer from the words of a man the kind of
character he desires to have attributed to him; but if we desire to know
what is in reality his character we must seek to divine it in the mimic
expression which accompanies his words, and in his gestures, that is to
say, in the movements which he did not desire. If we perceive that this
man wills even the expression of his features, from the instant we have
made this discovery we cease to believe in his physiognomy and to see in
it an indication of his sentiments.
It is true that a man, by dint of art and of study, can at last arrive at
this result, to subdue to his will even the concomitant movements; and,
like a clever juggler, to shape according to his pleasure such or such a
physiognomy upon the mirror from which his soul is reflected through
mimic action. But then, with such a man all is dissembling, and art
entirely absorbs nature. The true grace, on the contrary, ought always
to be pure nature, that is to say, involuntary (or at least appear to be
so), to be graceful. The subject even ought not to appear to know that
it possesses grace.
By which we can also see incidentally what we must think of grace, either
imitated or learned (I would willingly call it theatrical grace, or the
grace of the dancing-master). It is the pendant of that sort of beauty
which a woman seeks from her toilet-table, reinforced with rouge, white
paint, false ringlets, pads, and whalebone. Imitative grace is to true
grace what beauty of toilet is to architectonic beauty. One and the
other could act in absolutely the same manner upon the senses badly
exercised, as the original of which they wish to be the imitation; and at
times even, if much art is put into it, they might create an illusion to
the connoisseur. But there will be always some indication through which
the intention and constraint will betray it in the end, and this
discovery will lead inevitably to indifference, if not even to contempt
and disgust. If we are warned that the architectonic beauty is
factitious, at once, the more it has borrowed from a nature which is not
its own, the more it loses in our eyes of that which belongs to humanity
(so far as it is phenomenal), and then we, who forbid the renunciation
lightly of an accidental advantage, how can we see with pleasure or even
with indifference an exchange through which man sacrifices a part of his
proper nature in order to substitute elements taken from inferior nature?
How, even supposing we could forgive the illusion produced, how could we
avoid despising the deception? If we are told that grace is artificial,
our heart at once closes; our soul, which at first advanced with so much
vivacity to meet the graceful object, shrinks back. That which was mind
has suddenly become matter. Juno and her celestial beauty has vanished,
and in her place there is nothing but a phantom of vapour.
We now know in what kind of movements he must ask for grace; but we know
nothing more, and a movement can have these different characters, without
on that account being graceful; it is as yet only speaking (or mimic).
I call speaking (in the widest sense of the word) every physical
phenomenon which accompanies and expresses a certain state of the soul;
thus, in this acceptation, all the sympathetic movements are speaking,
including those which accompany the simple affections of the animal
sensibility.
The aspect, even, under which the animals present themselves, can be
speaking, as soon as they outwardly show their inward dispositions. But,
with them, it is nature alone which speaks, and NOT LIBERTY. By the
permanent configuration of animals through their fixed and architectonic
features, nature expresses the aim she proposed in creating them; by
their mimic traits she expresses the want awakened and the want
satisfied. Necessity reigns in the animal as well as in the plant,
without meeting the obstacle of a person. The animals have no
individuality farther than each of them is a specimen by itself of a
general type of nature, and the aspect under which they present
themselves at such or such an instant of their duration is only a
particular example of the accomplishment of the views of nature under
determined natural conditions.
I say it is only in this sort of phenomena; for, in all the others, man
is in the same rank as the rest of sensible beings. By the permanent
configuration of man, by his architectonic features, nature only
expresses, just as in the animals and other organic beings, her own
intention. It is true the intention of nature may go here much further,
and the means she employs to reach her end may offer in their combination
more of art and complication; but all that ought to be placed solely to
the account of nature, and can confer no advantage on man himself.
In the animal, and in the plant, nature gives not only the destination;
she acts herself and acts alone in the accomplishment of her ends. In
man, nature limits herself in marking her views; she leaves to himself
their accomplishment, it is this alone that makes of him a man.
The configuration of the animal not only expresses the idea of his
destination, but also the relation of his present state with this
destination. And as in the animal it is nature which determines and at
the same time accomplishes its destiny, the configuration of the animal
can never express anything else than the work of nature.
If then nature, whilst determining the destiny of man, abandons to the
will of man himself the care to accomplish it, the relation of his
present state with his destiny cannot be a work of nature, but ought to
be the work of the person; it follows, that all in the configuration
which expresses this relation will belong, not to nature, but to the
person, that is to say, will be considered as a personal expression; if
then, the architectonic part of his configuration tells us the views that
nature proposed to herself in creating him, the mimic part of his face
reveals what he has himself done for the accomplishment of these views.
It is not then enough for us, when there is question of the form of man,
to find in it the expression of humanity in general, or even of that
which nature has herself contributed to the individual in particular, in
order to realize the human type in it; for he would have that in common
with every kind of technical configuration. We expect something more of
his face; we desire that it reveal to us at the same time, up to what
point man himself, in his liberty, has contributed towards the aim of
nature; in other words, we desire that his face bear witness to his
character. In the first case we see that nature proposed to create in
him a man; but it is in the second case only that we can judge if he has
become so in reality.
Thus, the face of a man is truly his own only inasmuch as his face is
mimic; but also all that is mimic in his face is entirely his own. For,
if we suppose the case in which the greatest part, and even the totality,
of these mimic features express nothing more than animal sensations or
instincts, and, in consequence, would show nothing more than the animal
in him, it would still remain that it was in his destiny and in his power
to limit, by his liberty, his sensuous nature. The presence of these
kinds of traits clearly witness that he has not made use of this faculty.
We see by that he has not accomplished his destiny, and in this sense
his face is speaking; it is still a moral expression, the same as the
non-accomplishment of an act commanded by duty is likewise a sort of
action.
It is not also easy to determine with precision where the dumb traits or
features end, where the speaking traits commence. The plastic forces on
one side, with their uniform action, and, on the other, the affections
which depend on no law, dispute incessantly the ground; and that which
nature, in its dumb and indefatigable activity, has succeeded in raising
up, often is overturned by liberty, as a river that overflows and spreads
over its banks: the mind when it is gifted with vivacity acquires
influence over all the movements of the body, and arrives at last
indirectly to modify by force the sympathetic play as far as the
architectonic and fixed forms of nature, upon which the will has no hold.
In a man thus constituted it becomes at last characteristic; and it is
that which we can often observe upon certain heads which a long life,
strange accidents, and an active mind have moulded and worked. In these
kinds of faces there is only the generic character which belongs to
plastic nature; all which here forms individuality is the act of the
person himself, and it is this which causes it to be said, with much
reason, that those faces are all soul.
Look at that man, on the contrary, who has made for himself a mechanical
existence, those disciples of the rule. The rule can well calm the
sensuous nature, but not awaken human nature, the superior faculties:
look at those flat and inexpressive physiognomies; the finger of nature
has alone left there its impression; a soul inhabits these bodies, but it
is a sluggish soul, a discreet guest, and, as a peaceful and silent
neighbour who does not disturb the plastic force at its work, left to
itself. Never a thought which requires an effort, never a movement of
passion, hurries the calm cadence of physical life. There is no danger
that the architectonic features ever become changed by the play of
voluntary movements, and never would liberty trouble the functions of
vegetative life. As the profound calm of the mind does not bring about a
notable degeneracy of forces, the expense would never surpass the
receipts; it is rather the animal economy which would always be in
excess. In exchange for a certain sum of well-being which it throws as
bait, the mind makes itself the servant, the punctual major-domo of
physical nature, and places all his glory in keeping his books in order.
Thus will be accomplished that which organic nature can accomplish; thus
will the work of nutrition and of reproduction prosper. So happy a
concord between animal nature and the will cannot but be favorable to
architectonic beauty, and it is there that we can observe this beauty in
all its purity. But the general forces of nature, as every one knows,
are eternally at warfare with the particular or organic forces, and,
however cleverly balanced is the technique of a body, the cohesion and
the weight end always by getting the upper hand. Also architectonic
beauty, so far as it is a simple production of nature, has its fixed
periods, its blossoming, its maturity, and its decline--periods the
revolution of which can easily be accelerated, but not retarded in any
case, by the play of the will, and this is the way in which it most
frequently finishes; little by little matter takes the upper hand over
form, and the plastic principle, which vivified the being, prepares for
itself its tomb under the accumulation of matter.
But a great difficulty now presents itself from the idea alone of the
expressive movements which bear witness to the morality of the subject:
it appears that the cause of these movements is necessarily a moral
cause, a principle which resides beyond the world of sense; and from the
sole idea of beauty it is not less evident that its principle is purely
sensuous, and that it ought to be a simple effect of nature, or at the
least appear to be such. But if the ultimate reason of the movements
which offer a moral expression is necessarily without, and the ultimate
reason of the beautiful necessarily within, the sensuous world, it
appears that grace, which ought to unite both of them, contains a
manifest contradiction.
To avoid this contradiction we must admit that the moral cause, which in
our soul is the foundation of grace, brings, in a necessary manner, in
the sensibility which depends on that cause, precisely that state which
contains in itself the natural conditions of beauty. I will explain.
The beautiful, as each sensuous phenomenon, supposes certain conditions,
and, in as far as it is beautiful, these are purely conditions of the
senses; well, then, in that the mind (in virtue of a law that we cannot
fathom), from the state in which it is, itself prescribes to physical
nature which accompanies it, its own state, and in that the state of
moral perfection is precisely in it the most favorable for the
accomplishment of the physical conditions of beauty, it follows that it
is the mind which renders beauty possible; and there its action ends.
But whether real beauty comes forth from it, that depends upon the
physical conditions alluded to, and is consequently a free effect of
nature. Therefore, as it cannot be said that nature is properly free in
the voluntary movements, in which it is employed but as a means to attain
an end, and as, on the other side, it cannot be said that it is free in
its involuntary movements, which express the moral, the liberty with
which it manifests itself, dependent as it is on the will of the subject,
must be a concession that the mind makes to nature; and, consequently, it
can be said that grace is a favor in which the moral has desired to
gratify the sensuous element; the same as the architectonic beauty may be
considered as nature acquiescing to the technical form.
But just as when a people feels itself free under the constraint of a
foreign will, it is in a great degree due to the sentiments animating the
prince; and as this liberty would run great risks if the prince took
opposite sentiments, so also it is in the moral dispositions of the mind
which suggests them that we must seek the beauty of free movements. And
now the question which is presented is this one: What then are the
conditions of personal morality which assure the utmost amount of liberty
to the sensuous instruments of the will? and what are the moral
sentiments which agree the best in their expression with the beautiful?
Of these two relations between the moral nature of man and his physical
nature, the first makes us think of a monarchy, where strict surveillance
of the prince holds in hand all free movement; the second is an
ochlocracy, where the citizen, in refusing to obey his legitimate
sovereign, finds he has liberty quite as little as the human face has
beauty when the moral autonomy is oppressed; nay, on the contrary, just
as the citizens are given over to the brutal despotism of the lowest
classes, so the form is given over here to the despotism of matter. Just
as liberty finds itself between the two extremes of legal oppression and
anarchy, so also we shall find the beautiful between two extremes,
between the expression of dignity which bears witness to the domination
exercised by the mind, and the voluptuous expression which reveals the
domination exercised by instinct.
Up to the present time I believe I have been in perfect accord with the
rigorists in morals. I shall not become, I hope, a relaxed moralist in
endeavoring to maintain in the world of phenomena and in the real
fulfilment of the law of duty those rights of sensuous nature which, upon
the ground of pure reason and in the jurisdiction of the moral law, are
completely set aside and excluded.
What, in fact, was the moral of his time, either in theory or in its
application? On one side, a gross materialism, of which the shameless
maxims would revolt his soul; impure resting-places offered to the
bastard characters of a century by the unworthy complacency of
philosophers; on the other side, a pretended system of perfectibility,
not less suspicious, which, to realize the chimera of a general
perfection common to the whole universe, would not be embarrassed for a
choice of means. This is what would meet his attention. So he carried
there, where the most pressing danger lay and reform was the most urgent,
the strongest forces of his principles, and made it a law to pursue
sensualism without pity, whether it walks with a bold face, impudently
insulting morality, or dissimulates under the imposing veil of a moral,
praiseworthy end, under which a certain fanatical kind of order know how
to disguise it. He had not to disguise ignorance, but to reform
perversion; for such a cure a violent blow, and not persuasion or
flattery, was necessary; and the more the contrast would be violent
between the true principles and the dominant maxims, the more he would
hope to provoke reflection upon this point. He was the Draco of his
time, because his time seemed to him as yet unworthy to possess a Solon,
neither capable of receiving him. From the sanctuary of pure reason he
drew forth the moral law, unknown then, and yet, in another way, so
known; he made it appear in all its saintliness before a degraded
century, and troubled himself little to know whether there were eyes too
enfeebled to bear the brightness.
But what had the children of the house done for him to have occupied
himself only with the valets? Because strongly impure inclinations often
usurp the name of virtue, was it a reason for disinterested inclinations
in the noblest heart to be also rendered suspicious? Because the moral
epicurean had willingly relaxed the law of reason, in order to fit it as
a plaything to his customs, was it a reason to thus exaggerate harshness,
and to make the fulfilment of duty, which is the most powerful
manifestation of moral freedom, another kind of decorated servitude of a
more specious name? And, in fact, between the esteem and the contempt of
himself has the truly moral man a more free choice than the slave of
sense between pleasure and pain? Is there less of constraint there for a
pure will than here for a depraved will? Must one, by this imperative
form given to the moral law, accuse man and humble him, and make of this
law, which is the most sublime witness of our grandeur, the most crushing
argument for our fragility? Was it possible with this imperative force
to avoid that a prescription which man imposes on himself, as a
reasonable being, and which is obligatory only for him on that account,
and which is conciliatory with the sentiment of his liberty only--that
this prescription, say I, took the appearance of a foreign law, a
positive law, an appearance which could hardly lessen the radical
tendency which we impute to man to react against the law?
It is said of a man that he has a great soul when the moral sense has
finished assuring itself of all the affections, to the extent of
abandoning without fear the direction of the senses to the will, and
never incurring the risk of finding himself in discord with its
decisions. It follows that in a noble soul it is not this or that
particular action, it is the entire character which is moral. Thus we
can make a merit of none of its actions because the satisfaction of an
instinct could not be meritorious. A noble soul has no other merit than
to be a noble soul. With as great a facility as if the instinct alone
were acting, it accomplishes the most painful duties of humanity, and the
most heroic sacrifice that she obtains over the instinct of nature seems
the effect of the free action of the instinct itself. Also, it has no
idea of the beauty of its act, and it never occurs to it that any other
way of acting could be possible; on the contrary, the moralist formed by
the school and by rule, is always ready at the first question of the
master to give an account with the most rigorous precision of the
conformity of its acts with the moral law. The life of this one is like
a drawing where the pencil has indicated by harsh and stiff lines all
that the rule demands, and which could, if necessary, serve for a student
to learn the elements of art. The life of a noble soul, on the contrary,
is like a painting of Titian; all the harsh outlines are effaced, which
does not prevent the whole face being more true, lifelike and harmonious.
It is then in a noble soul that is found the true harmony between reason
and sense, between inclination and duty, and grace is the expression of
this harmony in the sensuous world. It is only in the service of a noble
soul that nature can at the same time be in possession of its liberty,
and preserve from all alteration the beauty of its forms; for the one,
its liberty would be compromised under the tyranny of an austere soul,
the other, under the anarchical regimen of sensuousness. A noble soul
spreads even over a face in which the architectonic beauty is wanting an
irresistible grace, and often even triumphs over the natural disfavor.
All the movements which proceed from a noble soul are easy, sweet, and
yet animated. The eye beams with serenity as with liberty, and with the
brightness of sentiment; gentleness of heart would naturally give to the
mouth a grace that no affectation, no art, could attain. You trace there
no effort in the varied play of the physiognomy, no constraint in the
voluntary movements--a noble soul knows not constraint; the voice becomes
music, and the limpid stream of its modulations touches the heart. The
beauty of structure can excite pleasure, admiration, astonishment; grace
alone can charm. Beauty has its adorers; grace alone has its lovers: for
we pay our homage to the Creator, and we love man. As a whole, grace
would be met with especially amongst women; beauty, on the contrary, is
met with more frequently in man, and we need not go far without finding
the reason. For grace we require the union of bodily structure, as well
as that of character: the body, by its suppleness, by its promptitude to
receive impressions and to bring them into action; the character, by the
moral harmony of the sentiments. Upon these two points nature has been
more favorable to the woman than to man.
The more delicate structure of the woman receives more rapidly each
impression and allows it to escape as rapidly. It requires a storm to
shake a strong constitution, and when vigorous muscles begin to move we
should not find the ease which is one of the conditions of grace. That
which upon the face of woman is still a beautiful sensation would express
suffering already upon the face of man. Woman has the more tender
nerves; it is a reed which bends under the gentlest breath of passion.
The soul glides in soft and amiable ripples upon her expressive face,
which soon regains the calm and smooth surface of the mirror.
The same also for the character: for that necessary union of the soul
with grace the woman is more happily gifted than man. The character of
woman rises rarely to the supreme ideal of moral purity, and would rarely
go beyond acts of affection; her character would often resist
sensuousness with heroic force. Precisely because the moral nature of
woman is generally on the side of inclination, the effect becomes the
same, in that which touches the sensuous expression of this moral state,
as if the inclination were on the side of duty. Thus grace would be the
expression of feminine virtue, and this expression would often be wanting
in manly virtue.
ON DIGNITY.
He cannot attain to it because his nature is thus made and it will not
change; the physical conditions of his existence themselves are opposed
to it.
But although nature had to give up to him this care which she reserves
exclusively to herself in those creatures which have only a vegetative
life, still it was necessary that the satisfaction of so essential a
want, in which even the existence of the individual and of the species is
interested, should not be absolutely left to the discretion of man, and
his doubtful foresight. It has then provided for this interest, which in
the foundation concerns it, and it has also interfered with regard to the
form in placing in the determination of free arbitration a principle of
necessity. From that arises natural instinct, which is nothing else than
a principle of physical necessity which acts upon free arbitration by the
means of sensation.
The natural instinct solicits the sensuous faculty through the combined
force of pain and of pleasure: by pain when it asks satisfaction, and by
pleasure when it has found what it asks.
But here begins the great difference: with the lower creature action
succeeds to desire or aversion quite as of necessity, as the desire to
the sensation, and the expression to the external impression. It is here
a perpetual circle, a chain, the links of which necessarily join one to
the other. With man there is one more force--the will, which, as a
super-sensuous faculty, is not so subject to the law of nature, nor that
of reason, that he remains without freedom to choose, and to guide
himself according to this or to that. The animal cannot do otherwise
than seek to free itself from pain; man can decide to suffer.
Every time, then, that nature manifests an exigence and seeks to draw the
will along with it by the blind violence of affective movement, it is the
duty of the will to order nature to halt until reason has pronounced.
The sentence which reason pronounces, will it be favorable or the
contrary to the interest of sensuousness? This is, up to the present
time, what the will does not know. Also it should observe this conduct
for all the affective movements without exception, and when it is nature
which has spoken the first, never allow it to act as an immediate cause.
Man would testify only by that to his independence. It is when, by an
act of his will, he breaks the violence of his desires, which hasten
towards the object which should satisfy them, and would dispense entirely
with the co-operation of the will,--it is only then that he reveals
himself in quality of a moral being, that is to say, as a free agent,
which does not only allow itself to experience either aversion or desire,
but which at all times must will his aversions and his desires.
Thus in the affective movements in which nature (instinct) acts the first
and seeks to do without the will, or to draw it violently to its side,
the morality of character cannot manifest itself but by its resistance,
and there is but one means of preventing the instinct from restraining
the liberty of the will: it is to restrain the instinct itself. Thus we
can only have agreement between the law of reason and the affective
phenomena, under the condition of putting both in discord with the
exigencies of instinct. And as nature never gives way to moral reasons,
and recalls her claims, and as on her side, consequently, all remains in
the same state, in whatever manner the will acts towards her, it results
that there is no possible accord between the inclination and duty,
between reason and sense; and that here man cannot act at the same time
with all his being and with all the harmony of his nature, but
exclusively with his reasonable nature. Thus in these sorts of actions
we could not find moral beauty, because an action is morally good only as
far as inclination has taken part in it, and here the inclination
protests against much more than it concurs with it. But these actions
have moral grandeur, because all that testifies to a preponderating
authority exercised over the sensuous nature has grandeur, and grandeur
is found only there.
It is, then, in the affective movements that this great soul of which we
speak transforms itself and becomes sublime; and it is the touchstone to
distinguish the soul truly great from what is called a good heart, or
from the virtue of temperament. When in man the inclination is ranged on
the side of morality only because morality itself is happily on the side
of inclination, it will happen that the instinct of nature in the
affective movements will exercise upon the will a full empire, and if a
sacrifice is necessary it is the moral nature, and not the sensuous
nature, that will make it. If, on the contrary, it is reason itself
which has made the inclination pass to the side of duty (which is the
case in the fine character), and which has only confided the rudder to
the sensuous nature, it will be always able to retake it as soon as the
instinct should misuse its full powers. Thus the virtue of temperament
in the affective movements falls back to the state of simple production
of nature, whilst the noble soul passes to heroism and rises to the rank
of pure intelligence.
The rule over the instincts by moral force is the emancipation of mind,
and the expression by which this independence presents itself to the eyes
in the world of phenomena is what is called dignity.
Thus in dignity the mind reigns over the body and bears itself as ruler:
here it has its independence to defend against imperious impulse, always
ready to do without it, to act and shake off its yoke. But in grace, on
the contrary, the mind governs with a liberal government, for here the
mind itself causes sensuous nature to act, and it finds no resistance to
overcome. But obedience only merits forbearance, and severity is only
justifiable when provoked by opposition.
Thus grace is nothing else than the liberty of voluntary movements, and
dignity consists in mastering involuntary movements. Grace leaves to
sensuous nature, where it obeys the orders of the mind, a certain air of
independence; dignity, on the contrary, submits the sensuous nature to
mind where it would make the pretensions to rule; wherever instinct takes
the initiative and allows itself to trespass upon the attributes of the
will, the will must show it no indulgence, but it must testify to its own
independence (autonomy), in opposing to it the most energetic resistance.
If, on the contrary, it is the will that commences, and if instinct does
but follow it, the free arbitration has no longer to display any rigor,
now it must show indulgence. Such is in a few words the law which ought
to regulate the relation of the two natures of man in what regards the
expression of this relation in the world of phenomena.
In the second case, when the action commanded by duty cannot be placed in
harmony with the exigencies of instinct without going against the idea of
human nature, the resistance of the inclination is necessary, and then
only the sight of the combat can convince us of the possibility of
victory. Thus we ask here of the features and attitudes an expression of
this interior struggle, not being able to take upon ourselves to believe
in virtue where there is no trace of humanity. Where then the moral law
commands of us an action which necessarily makes the sensuous nature
suffer, there the matter is serious, and ought not to be treated as play;
ease and lightness in accomplishing this act would be much more likely to
revolt us than to satisfy us; and thus, in consequence, expression is no
longer grace, but dignity. In general, the law which prevails here is,
that man ought to accomplish with grace all the acts that he can execute
in the sphere of human nature; and with dignity all those for the
accomplishment of which he is obliged to go beyond his nature.
We require grace of him who obliges, dignity of the person obliged: the
first, to set aside an advantage which he has over the other, and which
might wound, ought to give to his actions, though his decision may have
been disinterested, the character of an affective movement, that thus,
from the part which he allows inclination to take, he may have the
appearance of being the one who gains the most: the second, not to
compromise by the dependence in which he put himself the honor of
humanity, of which liberty is the saintly palladium, ought to raise what
is only a pure movement of instinct to the height of an act of the will,
and in this manner, at the moment when he receives a favor, return in a
certain sense another favor.
We must censure with grace, and own our faults with dignity: to put
dignity into our remonstrances is to have the air of a man too penetrated
by his own advantage: to put grace into our confessions is to forget the
inferiority in which our fault has placed us. Do the powerful desire to
conciliate affection? Their superiority must be tempered by grace. The
feeble, do they desire to conciliate esteem? They must through dignity
rise above their powerlessness. Generally it is thought that dignity is
suitable to the throne, and every one knows that those seated upon it
desire to find in their councillors, their confessors, and in their
parliaments--grace. But that which may be good and praiseworthy in a
kingdom is not so always in the domain of taste. The prince himself
enters into this domain as soon as he descends from his throne (for
thrones have their privileges), and the crouching courtier places himself
under the saintly and free probation of this law as soon as he stands
erect and becomes again a man. The first we would counsel to supplement
from the superfluity of the second that which he himself needs, and to
give him as much of his dignity as he requires to borrow grace from him.
Although dignity and grace have each their proper domain in which they
are manifest, they do not exclude each other. They can be met with in
the same person, and even in the same state of that person. Further, it
is grace alone which guarantees and accredits dignity, and dignity alone
can give value to grace.
Dignity alone, wherever met with, testifies that the desires and
inclinations are restrained within certain limits. But what we take for
a force which moderates and rules, may it not be rather an obliteration
of the faculty of feeling (hardness)? Is it really the moral autonomy,
and may it not be rather the preponderance of another affection, and in
consequence a voluntary interested effort that restrains the outburst of
the present affection? This is what grace alone can put out of doubt in
joining itself to dignity. It is grace, I mean to say, that testifies to
a peaceful soul in harmony with itself and a feeling heart.
With grace, on the contrary, as with beauty in general, reason finds its
demands satisfied in the world of sense, and sees with surprise one of
its own ideas presented to it, realized in the world of phenomena. This
unexpected encounter between the accident of nature and the necessity of
reason awakens in us a sentiment of joyous approval (contentment) which
calms the senses, but which animates and occupies the mind, and it
results necessarily that we are attracted by a charm towards the sensuous
object. It is this attraction which we call kindliness, or love--a
sentiment inseparable from grace and beauty.
We can say of esteem that it inclines towards its object; of love, that
it approaches with inclination towards its object; of desire, that it
precipitates itself upon its object; with esteem, the object is reason,
and the subject is sensuous nature; with love, the object is sensuous,
and the subject is moral nature; with desire, the object and the subject
are purely sensuous.
The culpable man is perpetually a prey to fear, that he may meet in the
world of sense the legislator within himself; and sees an enemy in all
that bears the stamp of greatness, of beauty, and of perfection: the man,
on the contrary, in whom a noble soul breathes, knows no greater pleasure
than to meet out of himself the image or realization of the divine that
is in him; and to embrace in the world of sense a symbol of the immortal
friend he loves. Love is at the same time the most generous and the most
egotistical thing in nature; the most generous, because it receives
nothing and gives all--pure mind being only able to give and not receive;
the most egotistical, for that which he seeks in the subject, that which
he enjoys in it, is himself and never anything else.
But precisely because he who loves receives from the beloved object
nothing but that which he has himself given, it often happens that he
gives more than he has received.
The exterior senses believe to have discovered in the object that which
the internal sense alone contemplates in it, in the end believing what is
desired with ardor, and the riches belonging to the one who loves hide
the poverty of the object loved. This is the reason why love is subject
to illusion, whilst esteem and desire are never deceived. As long as the
super-excitement of the internal senses overcomes the internal senses,
the soul remains under the charm of this Platonic love, which gives place
only in duration to the delights enjoyed by the immortals. But as soon
as internal sense ceases to share its visions with the exterior sense,
these take possession of their rights and imperiously demand that which
is its due--matter. It is the terrestrial Venus who profits by the fire
kindled by the celestial Venus, and it is not rare to find the physical
instinct, so long sacrificed, revenge itself by a rule all the more
absolute. As external sense is never a dupe to illusion, it makes this
advantage felt with a brutal insolence over its noble rival; and it
possesses audacity to the point of asserting that it has settled an
account that the spiritual nature had left under sufferance.
Dignity prevents love from degenerating into desire, and grace, from
esteem turning into fear. True beauty, true grace, ought never to cause
desire. Where desire is mingled, either the object wants dignity, or he
who considers it wants morality in his sentiments. True greatness ought
never to cause fear. If fear finds a place, you may hold for certain
either that the object is wanting in taste and grace, or that he who
considers it is not at peace with his conscience.
There is a kind of grace which animates, and another which calms the
heart. One touches nearly the sphere of the senses, and the pleasure
which is found in these, if not restrained by dignity, would easily
degenerate into concupiscence; we may use the word attraction [Reiz] to
designate this grace. A man with whom the feelings have little
elasticity does not find in himself the necessary force to awaken his
affections: he needs to borrow it from without and to seek from
impressions which easily exercise the phantasy, by rapid transition from
sentiment to action, in order to establish in himself the elasticity he
had lost. It is the advantage that he will find in the society of an
attractive person, who by conversation and look would stir his
imagination and agitate this stagnant water.
Dignity has also its degrees and its shades. If it approaches grace and
beauty, it takes the name of nobleness; if, on the contrary, it inclines
towards the side of fear, it becomes haughtiness.
Grace and dignity are too high in value for vanity and stupidity not to
be excited to appropriate them by imitation. There is only one means of
attaining this: it is to imitate the moral state of which they are the
expression. All other imitation is but to ape them, and would be
recognized directly through exaggeration.
But false dignity is not always wrong to keep the mimic play of its
features under sharp discipline, because it might betray more than would
be desired, a precaution true dignity has not to consider. True dignity
wishes only to rule, not to conceal nature; in false dignity, on the
contrary, nature rules the more powerfully within because it is
controlled outwardly. [Art can make use of a proper solemnity. Its
object is only to prepare the mind for something important. When the
poet is anxious to produce a great impression he tunes the mind to
receive it.]
ON THE NECESSARY LIMITATIONS IN THE USE OF BEAUTY OF FORM.
The mode of presenting a theme may be called free when the understanding,
while determining the connection of ideas, does so with so little
prominence that the imagination appears to act quite capriciously in the
matter, and to follow only the accident of time. The presentation of a
subject becomes sensuous when it conceals the general in the particular,
and when the fancy gives the living image (the whole representation),
where attention is merely concerned with the conception (the part
representation). Accordingly, sensuous presentation is, viewed in one
aspect, rich, for in cases where only one condition is desired, a
complete picture, an entirety of conditions, an individual is offered.
But viewed in another aspect it is limited and poor, because it only
confines to a single individual and a single case what ought to be
understood of a whole sphere. It therefore curtails the understanding in
the same proportion that it grants preponderance to the imagination; for
the completer a representation is in substance, the smaller it is in
compass.
Thought remains the same; the medium that represents it is the only thing
that changes. It is thus that an eloquent writer knows how to extract
the most splendid order from the very centre of anarchy, and that he
succeeds in erecting a solid structure on a constantly moving ground, on
the very torrent of imagination.
Starting from the principle that we have just established, it will not be
difficult to assign its proper part and sphere to each of the three forms
of diction. Generally it may be laid down as a rule that preference
ought to be given to the scientific style whenever the chief
consideration is not only the result, but also the proofs. But when the
result merely is of the most essential importance the advantage must be
given to popular elocution and fine language. But it may be asked in
what cases ought popular elocution to rise to a fine, a noble style?
This depends on the degree of interest in the reader, or which you wish
to excite in his mind.
The student accumulates in view of an ulterior end and for a future use;
accordingly the professor ought to endeavor to transmit the full and
entire property of the knowledge that he communicates to him. Now,
nothing belongs to us as our own but what has been communicated to the
understanding. The orator, on the other hand, has in view an immediate
end, and his voice must correspond with an immediate want of the public.
His interest is to make his knowledge practically available as soon as
possible; and the surest way is to hand it over to the senses, and to
prepare it for the use of sensation. The professor, who only admits
hearers on certain conditions, and who is entitled to suppose in his
hearers the dispositions of mind in which a man ought to be to receive
the truth, has only in view in his lecture the object of which he is
treating; while the orator, who cannot make any conditions with his
audience, and who needs above everything sympathy, to secure it on his
side, must regulate his action and treatment according to the subjects on
which he turns his discourse. The hearers of the professor have already
attended his lectures, and will attend them again; they only want
fragments that will form a whole after having been linked to the
preceding lectures. The audience of the orator is continually renewed;
it comes unprepared, and perhaps will not return; accordingly in every
address the orator must finish what he wishes to do; each of his
harangues must form a whole and contain expressly and entirely his
conclusion.
For the same reason I consider that it is hurtful to choose for the
instruction of youth books in which scientific matters are clothed in an
attractive style. I do not speak here of those in which the substance is
sacrificed to the form, but of certain writings really excellent, which
are sufficiently well digested to stand the strictest examination, but
which do not offer their proofs by their very form. No doubt books of
this kind attain their end, they are read; but this is always at the cost
of a more important end, the end for which they ought to be read. In
this sort of reading the understanding is never exercised save in as far
as it agrees with the fancy; it does not learn to distinguish the form
from the substance, nor to act alone as pure understanding. And yet the
exercise of the pure understanding is in itself an essential and capital
point in the instruction of youth; and very often the exercise itself of
thought is much more important than the object on which it is exercised.
If you wish for a matter to be done seriously, be very careful not to
announce it as a diversion. It is preferable, on the contrary, to secure
attention and effort by the very form that is employed, and to use a kind
of violence to draw minds over from the passive to an active state. The
professor ought never to hide from his pupil the exact regularity of the
method; he ought rather to fix his attention on it, and if possible to
make him desire this strictness. The student ought to learn to pursue an
end, and in the interest of that end to put up with a difficult process.
He ought early to aspire to that loftier satisfaction which is the reward
of exertion. In a scientific lecture the senses are altogether set
aside; in an aesthetic address it is wished to interest them. What is
the result? A writing or conversation of the aesthetic class is devoured
with interest; but questions are put as to its conclusions; the hearer is
scarcely able to give an answer. And this is quite natural, as here the
conceptions reach the mind only in entire masses, and the understanding
only knows what it analyzes. The mind during a lecture of this kind is
more passive than active, and the intellect only possesses what it has
produced by its own activity.
However, all this applies only to the vulgarly beautiful, and to a vulgar
fashion of perceiving beauty. True beauty reposes on the strictest
limitation, on the most exact definition, on the highest and most
intimate necessity. Only this limitation ought rather to let itself be
sought for than be imposed violently. It requires the most perfect
conformity to law, but this must appear quite natural. A product that
unites these conditions will fully satisfy the understanding as soon as
study is made of it. But exactly because this result is really
beautiful, its conformity is not expressed; it does not take the
understanding apart to address it exclusively; it is a harmonious unity
which addresses the entire man--all his faculties together; it is nature
speaking to nature.
A vulgar criticism may perhaps find it empty, paltry, and too little
determined. He who has no other knowledge than that of distinguishing,
and no other sense than that for the particular, is actually pained by
what is precisely the triumph of art, this harmonious unity where the
parts are blended in a pure entirety. No doubt it is necessary, in a
philosophical discourse, that the understanding, as a faculty of
analysis, find what will satisfy it; it must obtain single concrete
results; this is the essential that must not by any means be lost sight
of. But if the writer, while giving all possible precision to the
substance of his conceptions, has taken the necessary measures to enable
the understanding, as soon as it will take the trouble, to find of
necessity these truths, I do not see that he is a less good writer
because he has approached more to the highest perfection. Nature always
acts as a harmonious unity, and when she loses this in her efforts after
abstraction, nothing appears more urgent to her than to re-establish it,
and the writer we are speaking of is not less commendable if he obeys
nature by attaching to the understanding what had been separated by
abstraction, and when, by appealing at the same time to the sensuous and
to the spiritual faculties, he addresses altogether the entire man. No
doubt the vulgar critic will give very scant thanks to this writer for
having given him a double task. For vulgar criticism has not the feeling
for this harmony, it only runs after details, and even in the Basilica of
St. Peter would exclusively attend to the pillars on which the ethereal
edifice reposes. The fact is that this critic must begin by translating
it to understand it--in the same way that the pure understanding, left to
itself, if it meets beauty and harmony, either in nature or in art, must
begin by transferring them into its own language--and by decomposing it,
by doing in fact what the pupil does who spells before reading. But it
is not from the narrow mind of his readers that the writer who expresses
his conceptions in the language of the beautiful receives his laws. The
ideal which he carries in himself is the goal at which he aims without
troubling himself as to who follows and who remains behind. Many will
stay behind; for if it be a rare thing to find readers simply capable of
thinking, it is infinitely more rare to meet any who can think with
imagination. Thus our writer, by the force of circumstances, will fall
out, on the one hand, with those who have only intuitive ideas and
feelings, for he imposes on them a painful task by forcing them to think;
and, on the other hand, he aggravates those who only know how to think,
for he asks of them what is absolutely impossible--to give a living,
animated form to conception. But as both only represent true humanity
very imperfectly--that normal humanity which requires the absolute
harmony of these two operations--their contradictory objections have no
weight, and if their judgments prove anything, it is rather that the
author has succeeded in attaining his end. The abstract thinker finds
that the substance of the work is solidly thought; the reader of
intuitive ideas finds his style lively and animated; both consequently
find and approve in him what they are able to understand, and that alone
is wanting which exceeds their capacity.
But precisely for this very reason a writer of this class is not adapted
to make known to an ignorant reader the object of what he treats, or, in
the most proper sense of the word, to teach. Happily also, he is not
required for that, for means will not be wanting for the teaching of
scholars. The professor in the strictest acceptation is obliged to bind
himself to the needs of his scholars; the first thing he has to
presuppose is the ignorance of those who listen to him; the other, on the
other hand, demands a certain maturity and culture in his reader or
audience. Nor is his office confined to impart to them dead ideas; he
grasps the living object with a living energy, and seizes at once on the
entire man--his understanding, his heart, and his will.
The other sex, by its very nature and fair destiny, cannot and ought not
to rival ours in scientific knowledge; but it can share truth with us by
the reproduction of things. Man agrees to have his taste offended,
provided compensation be given to his understanding by the increased
value of its possessions. But women do not forgive negligence in form,
whatever be the nature of the conception; and the inner structure of all
their being gives them the right to show a strict severity on this point.
The fair sex, even if it did not rule by beauty, would still be entitled
to its name because it is ruled by beauty, and makes all objects
presented to it appear before the tribunal of feeling, and all that does
not speak to feeling or belies it is lost in the opinion of women. No
doubt through this medium nothing can be made to reach the mind of woman
save the matter of truth, and not truth itself, which is inseparable from
its proofs. But happily woman only needs the matter of truth to reach
her highest perfection, and the few exceptions hitherto seen are not of a
nature to make us wish that the exception should become the rule. As,
therefore, nature has not only dispensed but cut off the other sex from
this task, man must give a double attention to it if he wishes to vie
with woman and be equal to her in what is of great interest in human
life. Consequently he will try to transfer all that he can from the
field of abstraction, where he is master, to that of imagination, of
feeling, where woman is at once a model and a judge. The mind of woman
being a ground that does not admit of durable cultivation, he will try to
make his own ground yield as many flowers and as much fruit as possible,
so as to renew as often as possible the quickly-fading produce on the
other ground, and to keep up a sort of artificial harvest where natural
harvests could not ripen. Taste corrects or hides the natural
differences of the two sexes. It nourishes and adorns the mind of woman
with the productions of that of man, and allows the fair sex to feel
without being previously fatigued by thought, and to enjoy pleasures
without having bought them with labors. Thus, save the restrictions I
have named, it is to the taste that is intrusted the care of form in
every statement by which knowledge is communicated, but under the express
condition that it will not encroach on the substance of things. Taste
must never forget that it carries out an order emanating elsewhere, and
that it is not its own affairs it is treating of. All its parts must be
limited to place our minds in a condition favorable to knowledge; over
all that concerns knowledge itself it has no right to any authority. For
it exceeds its mission, it betrays it, it disfigures the object that it
ought faithfully to transmit, it lays claim to authority out of its
proper province; if it tries to carry out there, too, its own law, which
is nothing but that of pleasing the imagination and making itself
agreeable to the intuitive faculties; if it applies this law not only to
the operation, but also to the matter itself; if it follows this rule not
only to arrange the materials, but also to choose them. When this is the
case the first consideration is not the things themselves, but the best
mode of presenting them so as to recommend them to the senses. The
logical sequence of conceptions of which only the strictness should have
been hidden from us is rejected as a disagreeable impediment. Perfection
is sacrificed to ornament, the truth of the parts to the beauty of the
whole, the inmost nature of things to the exterior impression. Now,
directly the substance is subordinated to form, properly speaking it
ceases to exist; the statement is empty, and instead of having extended
our knowledge we have only indulged in an amusing game.
The writers who have more wit than understanding and more taste than
science, are too often guilty of this deception; and readers more
accustomed to feel than to think are only too inclined to forgive them.
In general it is unsafe to give to the aesthetical sense all its culture
before having exercised the understanding as the pure thinking faculty,
and before having enriched the head with conceptions; for as taste always
looks at the carrying out and not at the basis of things, wherever it
becomes the only arbiter, there is an end of the essential difference
between things. Men become indifferent to reality, and they finish by
giving value to form and appearance only.
Hence arises that superficial and frivolous bel-esprit that we often see
hold sway in social conditions and in circles where men pride themselves,
and not unreasonably, on the finest culture. It is a fatal thing to
introduce a young man into assemblies where the Graces hold sway before
the Muses have dismissed him and owned his majority. Moreover, it can
hardly be prevented that what completes the external education of a young
man whose mind is ripe turns him who is not ripened by study into a fool.
I admit that to have a fund of conceptions, and not form, is only a half
possession. For the most splendid knowledge in a head incapable of
giving them form is like a treasure buried in the earth. But form
without substance is a shadow of riches, and all possible cleverness in
expression is of no use to him who has nothing to express.
The beautiful produces its effect by mere intuition; the truth demands
study. Accordingly, the man who among all his faculties has only
exercised the sense of the beautiful is satisfied even when study is
absolutely required, with a superficial view of things; and he fancies he
can make a mere play of wit of that which demands a serious effort. But
mere intuition cannot give any result. To produce something great it is
necessary to enter into the fundamental nature of things, to distinguish
them strictly, to associate them in different manners, and study them
with a steady attention. Even the artist and the poet, though both of
them labor to procure us only the pleasure of intuition, can only by most
laborious and engrossing study succeed in giving us a delightful
recreation by their works.
I believe this to be the test to distinguish the mere dilettante from the
artist of real genius. The seductive charm exercised by the sublime and
the beautiful, the fire which they kindle in the young imagination, the
apparent ease with which they place the senses under an illusion, have
often persuaded inexperienced minds to take in hand the palette or the
harp, and to transform into figures or to pour out in melody what they
felt living in their heart. Misty ideas circulate in their heads, like a
world in formation, and make them believe that they are inspired. They
take obscurity for depth, savage vehemence for strength, the undetermined
for the infinite, what has not senses for the super-sensuous. And how
they revel in these creations of their brain! But the judgment of the
connoisseur does not confirm this testimony of an excited self-love.
With his pitiless criticism he dissipates all the prestige of the
imagination and of its dreams, and carrying the torch before these
novices he leads them into the mysterious depths of science and life,
where, far from profane eyes, the source of all true beauty flows ever
towards him who is initiated. If now a true genius slumbers in the young
aspirant, no doubt his modesty will at first receive a shock; but soon
the consciousness of real talent will embolden him for the trial. If
nature has endowed him with gifts for plastic art, he will study the
structure of man with the scalpel of the anatomist; he will descend into
the lowest depths to be true in representing surfaces, and he will
question the whole race in order to be just to the individual. If he is
born to be a poet, he examines humanity in his own heart to understand
the infinite variety of scenes in which it acts on the vast theatre of
the world. He subjects imagination and its exuberant fruitfulness to the
discipline of taste, and charges the understanding to mark out in its
cool wisdom the banks that should confine the raging waters of
inspiration. He knows full well that the great is only formed of the
little--from the imperceptible. He piles up, grain by grain, the
materials of the wonderful structure, which, suddenly disclosed to our
eyes, produces a startling effect and turns our head. But if nature has
only intended him for a dilettante, difficulties damp his impotent zeal,
and one of two things happens: either he abandons, if he is modest, that
to which he was diverted by a mistaken notion of his vocation; or, if he
has no modesty, he brings back the ideal to the narrow limits of his
faculties, for want of being able to enlarge his faculties to the vast
proportions of the ideal. Thus the true genius of the artist will be
always recognized by this sign--that when most enthusiastic for the
whole, he preserves a coolness, a patience defying all obstacles, as
regards details. Moreover, in order not to do any injury to perfection,
he would rather renounce the enjoyment given by the completion. For the
simple amateur, it is the difficulty of means that disgusts him and turns
him from his aim; his dreams would be to have no more trouble in
producing than he had in conception and intuition.
How does the character become thus gradually depraved? The process may
be explained thus: So long as man is only a savage, and his instincts'
only bear on material things and a coarse egotism determines his actions,
sensuousness can only become a danger to morality by its blind strength,
and does not oppose reason except as a force. The voice of justice,
moderation, and humanity is stifled by the appetites, which make a
stronger appeal. Man is then terrible in his vengeance, because he is
terribly sensitive to insults. He robs, he kills, because his desires
are still too powerful for the feeble guidance of reason. He is towards
others like a wild beast, because the instinct of nature still rules him
after the fashion of animals.
The man of taste willingly escapes the gross thraldom of the appetites.
He submits to reason the instinct which impels him to pleasure, and he is
willing to take counsel from his spiritual and thinking nature for the
choice of the objects he ought to desire. Now, reason is very apt to
mistake a spiritualized instinct for one of its own instincts, and at
length to give up to it the guidance of the will, and this in proportion
as moral judgment and aesthetic judgment, the sense of the good and the
sense of the beautiful, meet in the same object and in the same decision.
Esteem is a feeling that can only be felt for law, and what corresponds
to it. Whatever is entitled to esteem lays claim to an unconditional
homage. The ennobled inclination which has succeeded in captivating our
esteem will, therefore, no longer be satisfied with being subordinate to
reason; it aspires to rank alongside it. It does not wish to be taken
for a faithless subject in revolt against his sovereign; it wishes to be
regarded as a queen; and, treating reason as its peer, to dictate, like
reason, laws to the conscience. Thus, if we listen to her, she would
weigh by right equally in the scale; and then have we not good reason to
fear that interest will decide?
Of all the inclinations that are decided from the feeling for the
beautiful and that are special to refined minds, none commends itself so
much to the moral sense as the ennobled instinct of love; none is so
fruitful in impressions which correspond to the true dignity of man. To
what an elevation does it raise human nature! and often what divine
sparks does it kindle in the common soul! It is a sacred fire that
consumes every egotistical inclination, and the very principles of
morality are scarcely a greater safeguard of the soul's chastity than
love is for the nobility of the heart. How often it happens while the
moral principles are still struggling that love prevails in their favor,
and hastens by its irresistible power the resolutions that duty alone
would have vainly demanded from weak human nature! Who, then, would
distrust an affection that protects so powerfully what is most excellent
in human nature, and which fights so victoriously against the moral foe
of all morality, egotism?
But do not follow this guide till you have secured a better. Suppose a
loved object be met that is unhappy, and unhappy because of you, and that
it depends only on you to make it happy by sacrificing a few moral
scruples. You may be disposed to say, "Shall I let this loved being
suffer for the pleasure of keeping our conscience pure? Is this
resistance required by this generous, devoted affection, always ready to
forget itself for its object? I grant it is going against conscience to
have recourse to this immoral means to solace the being we love; but can
we be said to love if in presence of this being and of its sorrow we
continue to think of ourselves? Are we not more taken up with ourselves
than with it, since we prefer to see it unhappy rather than consent to be
so ourselves by the reproaches of our conscience?" These are the
sophisms that the passion of love sets against conscience (whose voice
thwarts its interests), making its utterances despicable as suggestions
of selfishness, and representing our moral dignity as one of the
components of our happiness that we are free to alienate. Then, if the
morality of our character is not strongly backed by good principles, we
shall surrender, whatever may be the impetus of our exalted imagination,
to disgraceful acts; and we shall think that we gain a glorious victory
over our self-love, while we are only the despicable victims of this
instinct. A well-known French romance, "Les Liaisons Dangereuses," gives
us a striking example of this delusion, by which love betrays a soul
otherwise pure and beautiful. The Presidente de Tourvel errs by
surprise, and seeks to calm her remorse by the idea that she has
sacrificed her virtue to her generosity.
Secondary and imperfect duties, as they are styled, are those that the
feeling for the beautiful takes most willingly under its patronage, and
which it allows to prevail on many occasions over perfect duties. As
they assign a much larger place to the arbitrary option of the subject,
and at the same time as they have the appearance of merit, which gives
them lustre, they commend themselves far more to the aesthetic taste than
perfect or necessary duties, which oblige us strictly and
unconditionally. How many people allow themselves to be unjust that they
may be generous! How many fail in their duties to society that they may
do good to an individual, and reciprocally! How many people forgive a
lie sooner than a rudeness, a crime against humanity rather than an
insult to honor! How many debase their bodies to hasten the perfection
of their minds, and degrade their character to adorn their understanding!
How many do not scruple to commit a crime when they have a laudable end
in view, pursue an ideal of political happiness through all the terrors
of anarchy, tread under foot existing laws to make way for better ones,
and do not scruple to devote the present generation to misery to secure
at this cost the happiness of future generations! The apparent
unselfishness of certain virtues gives them a varnish of purity, which
makes them rash enough to break and run counter to the moral law; and
many people are the dupes of this strange illusion, to rise higher than
morality and to endeavor to be more reasonable than reason.
These are the dangers that threaten the morality of the character when
too intimate an association is attempted between sensuous instincts and
moral instincts, which can never perfectly agree in real life, but only
in the ideal. I admit that the sensuous risks nothing in this
association, because it possesses nothing except what it must give up
directly duty speaks and reason demands the sacrifice. But reason, as
the arbiter of the moral law, will run the more risk from this union if
it receives as a gift from inclination what it might enforce; for, under
the appearance of freedom, the feeling of obligation may be easily lost,
and what reason accepts as a favor may quite well be refused it when the
sensuous finds it painful to grant it. It is, therefore, infinitely
safer for the morality of the character to suspend, at least for a time,
this misrepresentation of the moral sense by the sense of the beautiful.
It is best of all that reason should command by itself without mediation,
and that it should show to the will its true master. The remark is,
therefore, quite justified, that true morality only knows itself in the
school of adversity, and that a continual prosperity becomes easily a
rock of offence to virtue. I mean here by prosperity the state of a man
who, to enjoy the goods of life, need not commit injustice, and who to
conform to justice need not renounce any of the goods of life. The man
who enjoys a continual prosperity never sees moral duty face to face,
because his inclinations, naturally regular and moderate, always
anticipate the mandate of reason, and because no temptation to violate
the law recalls to his mind the idea of law. Entirely guided by the
sense of the beautiful, which represents reason in the world of sense, he
will reach the tomb without having known by experience the dignity of his
destiny. On the other hand, the unfortunate man, if he be at the same
time a virtuous man, enjoys the sublime privilege of being in immediate
intercourse with the divine majesty of the moral law; and as his virtue
is not seconded by any inclination, he bears witness in this lower world,
and as a human being, of the freedom of pure spirits!
REFLECTIONS ON THE USE OF THE VULGAR AND LOW ELEMENTS IN WORKS OF ART.
I call vulgar (common) all that does not speak to the mind, of which all
the interest is addressed only to the senses. There are, no doubt, an
infinite number of things vulgar in themselves from their material and
subject. But as the vulgarity of the material can always be ennobled by
the treatment, in respect of art the only question is that relating to
the vulgarity in form. A vulgar mind will dishonor the most noble matter
by treating it in a common manner. A great and noble mind, on the
contrary, will ennoble even a common matter, and it will do so by
superadding to it something spiritual and discovering in it some aspect
in which this matter has greatness. Thus, for example, a vulgar
historian will relate to us the most insignificant actions of a hero with
a scrupulousness as great as that bestowed on his sublimest exploit, and
will dwell as lengthily on his pedigree, his costume, and his household
as on his projects and his enterprises. He will relate those of his
actions that have the most grandeur in such wise that no one will
perceive that character in them. On the contrary, a historian of genius,
himself endowed with nobleness of mind, will give even to the private
life and the least considerable actions of his hero an interest and a
value that will make them considerable. Thus, again, in the matter of
the plastic arts, the Dutch and Flemish painters have given proof of a
vulgar taste; the Italians, and still more the ancient Greeks, of a grand
and noble taste. The Greeks always went to the ideal; they rejected
every vulgar feature, and chose no common subject.
The poet treats his subject in a common manner when in the execution of
his theme he dwells on valueless facts and only skims rapidly over those
that are important. He treats his theme with grandeur when he associates
with it what is great. For example, Homer treated the shield of Achilles
grandly, though the making of a shield, looking merely at the matter, is
a very commonplace affair.
One degree below the common or the vulgar is the element of the base or
gross, which differs from the common in being not only something
negative, a simple lack of inspiration or nobleness, but something
positive, marking coarse feelings, bad morals, and contemptible manners.
Vulgarity only testifies that an advantage is wanting, whereof the
absence is a matter of regret; baseness indicates the want of a quality
which we are authorized to require in all. Thus, for example, revenge,
considered in itself, in whatever place or way it manifests itself, is
something vulgar, because it is the proof of a lack of generosity. But
there is, moreover, a base vengeance, when the man, to satisfy it,
employs means exposed to contempt. The base always implies something
gross, or reminds one of the mob, while the common can be found in a
well-born and well-bred man, who may think and act in a common manner if
he has only mediocre faculties. A man acts in a common manner when he is
only taken up with his own interest, and it is in this that he is in
opposition with the really noble man, who, when necessary, knows how to
forget himself to procure some enjoyment for others. But the same man
would act in a base manner if he consulted his interests at the cost of
his honor, and if in such a case he did not even take upon himself to
respect the laws of decency. Thus the common is only the contrary of the
noble; the base is the contrary both of the noble and the seemly. To
give yourself up, unresisting, to all your passions, to satisfy all your
impulses, without being checked even by the rules of propriety, still
less by those of morality, is to conduct yourself basely, and to betray
baseness of the soul.
The artist also may fall into a low style, not only by choosing ignoble
subjects, offensive to decency and good taste, but moreover by treating
them in a base manner. It is to treat a subject in a base manner if
those sides are made prominent which propriety directs us to conceal, or
if it is expressed in a manner that incidentally awakens low ideas. The
lives of the greater part of men can present particulars of a low kind,
but it is only a low imagination that will pick out these for
representation.
There are pictures describing sacred history in which the Apostles, the
Virgin, and even the Christ, are depicted in such wise that they might be
supposed to be taken from the dregs of the populace. This style of
execution always betrays a low taste, and might justly lead to the
inference that the artist himself thinks coarsely and like the mob.
No doubt there are cases where art itself may be allowed to produce base
images: for example, when the aim is to provoke laughter. A man of
polished manners may also sometimes, and without betraying a corrupt
taste, be amused by certain features when nature expresses herself
crudely but with truth, and he may enjoy the contrast between the manners
of polished society and those of the lower orders. A man of position
appearing intoxicated will always make a disagreeable impression on us;
but a drunken driver, sailor, or carter will only be a risible object.
Jests that would be insufferable in a man of education amuse us in the
mouth of the people. Of this kind are many of the scenes of
Aristophanes, who unhappily sometimes exceeds this limit, and becomes
absolutely condemnable. This is, moreover, the source of the pleasure we
take in parodies, when the feelings, the language, and the mode of action
of the common people are fictitiously lent to the same personages whom
the poet has treated with all possible dignity and decency. As soon as
the poet means only to jest, and seeks only to amuse, we can overlook
traits of a low kind, provided he never stirs up indignation or disgust.
This is not all: even in the serious and the tragic there are certain
places where the low element can be brought into play. But in this case
the affair must pass into the terrible, and the momentary violation of
our good taste must be masked by a strong impression, which brings our
passion into play. In other words, the low impression must be absorbed
by a superior tragic impression. Theft, for example, is a thing
absolutely base, and whatever arguments our heart may suggest to excuse
the thief, whatever the pressure of circumstances that led him to the
theft, it is always an indelible brand stamped upon him, and,
aesthetically speaking, he will always remain a base object. On this
point taste is even less forgiving than morality, and its tribunal is
more severe; because an aesthetical object is responsible even for the
accessory ideas that are awakened in us by such an object, while moral
judgment eliminates all that is merely accidental. According to this
view a man who robs would always be an object to be rejected by the poet
who wishes to present serious pictures. But suppose this man is at the
same time a murderer, he is even more to be condemned than before by the
moral law. But in the aesthetic judgment he is raised one degree higher
and made better adapted to figure in a work of art. Continuing to judge
him from the aesthetic point of view, it may be added that he who abases
himself by a vile action can to a certain extent be raised by a crime,
and can be thus reinstated in our aesthetic estimation. This
contradiction between the moral judgment and the aesthetical judgment is
a fact entitled to attention and consideration. It may be explained in
different ways. First, I have already said that, as the aesthetic
judgment depends on the imagination, all the accessory ideas awakened in
us by an object and naturally associated with it, must themselves
influence this judgment. Now, if these accessory ideas are base, they
infallibly stamp this character on the principal object.
But what can be granted to the poet is not always allowed in the artist.
The poet only addresses the imagination; the painter addresses the senses
directly. It follows not only that the impression of the picture is more
lively than that of the poem, but also that the painter, if he employ
only his natural signs, cannot make the minds of his personages as
visible as the poet can with the arbitrary signs at his command: yet it
is only the sight of the mind that can reconcile us to certain exteriors.
When Homer causes his Ulysses to appear in the rags of a beggar
["Odyssey," book xiii. v. 397], we are at liberty to represent his image
to our mind more or less fully, and to dwell on it as long as we like.
But in no case will it be sufficiently vivid to excite our repugnance or
disgust. But if a painter, or even a tragedian, try to reproduce
faithfully the Ulysses of Homer, we turn away from the picture with
repugnance. It is because in this case the greater or less vividness of
the impression no longer depends on our will: we cannot help seeing what
the painter places under our eyes; and it is not easy for us to remove
the accessory repugnant ideas which the picture recalls to our mind.
The distance between the good and the agreeable is that which strikes the
eyes the most. The good widens our understanding, because it procures
and supposes an idea of its object; the pleasure which it makes us
perceive rests on an objective foundation, even when this pleasure itself
is but a certain state in which we are situated. The, agreeable, on the
contrary, produces no notion of its object, and, indeed, reposes on no
objective foundation. It is agreeable only inasmuch as it is felt by the
subject, and the idea of it completely vanishes the moment an obstruction
is placed on the affectibility of the senses, or only when it is
modified. For a man who feels the cold the agreeable would be a warm
air; but this same man, in the heat of summer, would seek the shade and
coolness; but we must agree that in both cases he has judged well.
The distinction between the beautiful and the agreeable, great as it is,
moreover, strikes the eye less. The beautiful approaches the agreeable
in this--that it must always be proposed to the senses, inasmuch as it
pleases only as a phenomenon. It comes near to it again in as far as it
neither procures nor supposes any notion of its object. But, on the
other hand, it is widely separated from the agreeable, because it pleases
by the form under which it is produced, and not by the fact of the
material sensation. No doubt it only pleases the reasonable subject in
so far as it is also a sensuous subject; but also it pleases the sensuous
subject only inasmuch as it is at the same time a reasonable subject.
The beautiful is not only pleasing to the individual but to the whole
species; and although it draws its existence but from its relation with
creatures at the same time reasonable and sensuous, it is not less
independent of all empirical limitations of sensuousness, and it remains
identical even when the particular constitution of the individual is
modified. The beautiful has exactly in common with the good that by
which it differs from the agreeable, and it differs from the good exactly
in that in which it approximates to the agreeable.
The difference separating the agreeable, the good, and the beautiful
being thus established, it is evident that the same object can be ugly,
defective, even to be morally rejected, and nevertheless be agreeable and
pleasing to the senses; that an object can revolt the senses, and yet be
good, i.e., please the reason; that an object can from its inmost nature
revolt the moral senses, and yet please the imagination which
contemplates it, and still be beautiful. It is because each one of these
ideas interests different faculties, and interests differently.
Another example. In the midst of a green and smiling plain there rises a
naked and barren hillock, which hides from the sight a part of the view.
Each one would wish that this hillock were removed which disfigures the
beauty of all the landscape. Well, let us imagine this hillock rising,
rising still, without indeed changing at all its shape, and preserving,
although on a greater scale, the same proportions between its width and
height. To begin with, our impression of displeasure will but increase
with the hillock itself, which will the more strike the sight, and which
will be the more repulsive. But continue; raise it up twice as high as a
tower, and insensibly the displeasure will efface itself to make way for
quite another feeling. The hill has at last become a mountain, so high a
mountain that it is quite impossible for our eyes to take it in at one
look. There is an object more precocious than all this smiling plain
which surrounds it, and the impression that it makes on us is of such a
nature that we should regret to exchange it for any other impression,
however beautiful it might be. Now, suppose this mountain to be leaning,
and of such an inclination that we could expect it every minute to crash
down, the previous impression will be complicated with another
impression: terror will be joined to it: the object itself will be but
still more attractive. But suppose it were possible to prop up this
leaning mountain with another mountain, the terror would disappear, and
with it a good part of the pleasure we experienced. Suppose that there
were beside this mountain four or five other mountains, of which each one
was a fourth or a fifth part lower than the one which came immediately
after; the first impression with which the height of one mountain
inspired us will be notably weakened. Something somewhat analogous would
take place if the mountain itself were cut into ten or twelve terraces,
uniformly diminishing; or again if it were artificially decorated with
plantations. We have at first subjected one mountain to no other
operation than that of increasing its size, leaving it otherwise just as
it was, and without altering its form; and this simple circumstance has
sufficed to make an indifferent or even disagreeable object satisfying to
the eyes. By the second operation, this enlarged object has become at
the same time an object of terror; and the pleasure which we have found
in contemplating it has but been the greater. Finally, by the last
operation which we have made, we have diminished the terror which its
sight occasioned, and the pleasure has diminished as much. We have
diminished subjectively the idea of its height, whether by dividing the
attention of the spectator between several objects, or in giving to the
eyes, by means of these smaller mountains, placed near to the large one,
a measure by which to master the height of the mountain all the more
easily. The great and the terrible can therefore be of themselves in
certain cases a source of aesthetic pleasure.
There is not in the Greek mythology a more terrible, and at the same time
more hideous, picture than the Furies, or Erinyes, quitting the infernal
regions to throw themselves in the pursuit of a criminal. Their faces
frightfully contracted and grimacing, their fleshless bodies, their heads
covered with serpents in the place of hair--revolt our senses as much as
they offend our taste. However, when these monsters are represented to
us in the pursuit of Orestes, the murderer of his mother, when they are
shown to us brandishing the torches in their hands, and chasing their
prey, without peace or truce, from country to country, until at last, the
anger of justice being appeased, they engulf themselves in the abyss of
the infernal regions; then we pause before the picture with a horror
mixed with pleasure. But not only the remorse of a criminal which is
personified by the Furies, even his unrighteous acts nay, the real
perpetration of a crime, are able to please us in a work of art. Medea,
in the Greek tragedy; Clytemnestra, who takes the life of her husband;
Orestes, who kills his mother, fill our soul with horror and with
pleasure. Even in real life, indifferent and even repulsive or frightful
objects begin to interest us the moment that they approach the monstrous
or the terrible. An altogether vulgar and insignificant man will begin
to please us the moment that a violent passion, which indeed in no way
upraises his personal value, makes him an object of fear and terror, in
the same way that a vulgar, meaningless object becomes to us the source
of aesthetic pleasure the instant we have enlarged it to the point where
it threatens to overstep our comprehension. An ugly man is made still
more ugly by passion, and nevertheless it is in bursts of this passion,
provided that it turns to the terrible and not to the ridiculous, that
this man will be to us of the most interest. This remark extends even to
animals. An ox at the plow, a horse before a carriage, a dog, are common
objects; but excite this bull to the combat, enrage this horse who is so
peaceable, or represent to yourself this dog a prey to madness; instantly
these animals are raised to the rank of aesthetic objects, and we begin
to regard them with a feeling which borders on pleasure and esteem. The
inclination to the pathetic--an inclination common to all men--the
strength of the sympathetic sentiment--this force which in mature makes
us wish to see suffering, terror, dismay, which has so many attractions
for us in art, which makes us hurry to the theatre, which makes us take
so much pleasure in the picturing of great misfortune,--all this bears
testimony to a fourth source of aesthetic pleasure, which neither the
agreeable, nor the good, nor the beautiful are in a state to produce.
All the examples that I have alleged up to the present have this in
common--that the feeling they excite in us rests on something objective.
In all these phenomena we receive the idea of something "which oversteps,
or which threatens to overstep, the power of comprehension of our senses,
or their power of resistance"; but not, however, going so far as to
paralyze these two powers, or so far as to render us incapable of
striving, either to know the object, or to resist the impression it makes
on us. There is in the phenomena a complexity which we cannot retrace to
unity without driving the intuitive faculty to its furthest limits.
We have the idea of a force in comparison with which our own vanishes,
and which we are nevertheless compelled to compare with our own. Either
it is an object which at the same time presents and hides itself from our
faculty of intuition, and which urges us to strive to represent it to
ourselves, without leaving room to hope that this aspiration will be
satisfied; or else it is an object which appears to upraise itself as an
enemy, even against our existence--which provokes us, so to say, to
combat, and makes us anxious as to the issue. In all the alleged
examples there is visible in the same way the same action on the faculty
of feeling. All throw our souls into an anxious agitation and strain its
springs. A certain gravity which can even raise itself to a solemn
rejoicing takes possession of our soul, and whilst our organs betray
evident signs of internal anxiety, our mind falls back on itself by
reflection, and appears to find a support in a higher consciousness of
its independent strength and dignity. This consciousness of ourselves
must always dominate in order that the great and the horrible may have
for us an aesthetic value. It is because the soul before such sights as
these feels itself inspired and lifted above itself that they are
designated under the name of sublime, although the things themselves are
objectively in no way sublime; and consequently it would be more just to
say that they are elevating than to call them in themselves elevated or
sublime.
There are moments in life when nature inspires us with a sort of love and
respectful emotion, not because she is pleasing to our senses, or because
she satisfies our mind or our taste (it is often the very opposite that
happens), but merely because she is nature. This feeling is often
elicited when nature is considered in her plants, in her mineral kingdom,
in rural districts; also in the case of human nature, in the case of
children, and in the manners of country people and of the primitive
races. Every man of refined feeling, provided he has a soul, experiences
this feeling when he walks out under the open sky, when he lives in the
country, or when he stops to contemplate the monuments of early ages; in
short, when escaping from factitious situations and relations, he finds
himself suddenly face to face with nature. This interest, which is often
exalted in us so as to become a want, is the explanation of many of our
fancies for flowers and for animals, our preference for gardens laid out
in the natural style, our love of walks, of the country and those who
live there, of a great number of objects proceeding from a remote
antiquity, etc. It is taken for granted that no affectation exists in
the matter, and moreover that no accidental interest comes into play.
But this sort of interest which we take in nature is only possible under
two conditions. First the object that inspires us with this feeling must
be really nature, or something we take for nature; secondly this object
must be in the full sense of the word simple, that is, presenting the
entire contrast of nature with art, all the advantage remaining on the
side of nature. Directly this second condition is united to the first,
but no sooner, nature assumes the character of simplicity.
These objects which captivate us are what we were, what we must be again
some day. We were nature as they are; and culture, following the way of
reason and of liberty, must bring us back to nature. Accordingly, these
objects are an image of our infancy irrevocably past--of our infancy
which will remain eternally very dear to us, and thus they infuse a
certain melancholy into us; they are also the image of our highest
perfection in the ideal world, whence they excite a sublime emotion in
us.
But the perfection of these objects is not a merit that belongs to them,
because it is not the effect of their free choice. Accordingly they
procure quite a peculiar pleasure for us, by being our models without
having anything humiliating for us. It is like a constant manifestation
of the divinity surrounding us, which refreshes without dazzling us. The
very feature that constitutes their character is precisely what is
lacking in ours to make it complete; and what distinguishes us from them
is precisely what they lack to be divine. We are free and they are
necessary; we change and they remain identical. Now it is only when
these two conditions are united, when the will submits freely to the laws
of necessity, and when, in the midst of all the changes of which the
imagination is susceptible, reason maintains its rule--it is only then
that the divine or the ideal is manifested. Thus we perceive eternally
in them that which we have not, but which we are continually forced to
strive after; that which we can never reach, but which we can hope to
approach by continual progress. And we perceive in ourselves an
advantage which they lack, but in which some of them--the beings deprived
of reason--cannot absolutely share, and in which the others, such as
children, can only one day have a share by following our way.
Accordingly, they procure us the most delicious feeling of our human
nature, as an idea, though in relation to each determinate state of our
nature they cannot fail to humble us.
We are moved in the presence of childhood, but it is not because from the
height of our strength and of our perfection we drop a look of pity on
it; it is, on the contrary, because from the depths of our impotence, of
which the feeling is inseparable from that of the real and determinate
state to which we have arrived, we raise our eyes to the child's
determinableness and pure innocence. The feeling we then experience is
too evidently mingled with sadness for us to mistake its source. In the
child, all is disposition and destination; in us, all is in the state of
a completed, finished thing, and the completion always remains infinitely
below the destination. It follows that the child is to us like the
representation of the ideal; not, indeed, of the ideal as we have
realized it, but such as our destination admitted; and, consequently, it
is not at all the idea of its indigence, of its hinderances, that makes
us experience emotion in the child's presence; it is, on the contrary,
the idea of its pure and free force, of the integrity, the infinity of
its being. This is the reason why, in the sight of every moral and
sensible man, the child will always be a sacred thing; I mean an object
which, by the grandeur of an idea, reduces to nothingness all grandeur
realized by experience; an object which, in spite of all it may lose in
the judgment of the understanding, regains largely the advantage before
the judgment of reason.
The simplicity resulting from surprise can only be encountered in man and
that only in as far as at the moment he ceases to be a pure and innocent
nature. This sort of simplicity implies a will that is not in harmony
with that which nature does of her own accord. A person simple after
this fashion, when recalled to himself, will be the first to be alarmed
at what he is; on the other hand, a person in whom simplicity is found as
a feeling, will only wonder at one thing, that is, at the way in which
men feel astonishment. As it is not the moral subject as a person, but
only his natural character set free by affection, that confesses the
truth, it follows from this that we shall not attribute this sincerity to
man as a merit, and that we shall be entitled to laugh at it, our
raillery not being held in check by any personal esteem for his
character. Nevertheless, as it is still the sincerity of nature which,
even in the simplicity caused by surprise, pierces suddenly through the
veil of dissimulation, a satisfaction of a superior order is mixed with
the mischievous joy we feel in having caught any one in the act. This is
because nature, opposed to affectation, and truth, opposed to deception,
must in every case inspire us with esteem. Thus we experience, even in
the presence of simplicity originating in surprise, a really moral
pleasure, though it be not in connection with a moral object.
If a father relates to his son that such and such a person is dying of
hunger, and if the child goes and carries the purse of his father to this
unfortunate being, this is a simple action. It is in fact a healthy
nature that acts in the child; and in a world where healthy nature would
be the law, he would be perfectly right to act so. He only sees the
misery of his neighbor and the speediest means of relieving him. The
extension given to the right of property, in consequence of which part of
the human race might perish, is not based on mere nature. Thus the act
of this child puts to shame real society, and this is acknowledged by our
heart in the pleasure it experiences from this action.
Nay, more; though this admission seems more difficult to support, even
the greatest philosophers and great commanders, if great by their genius,
have simplicity in their character. Among the ancients I need only name
Julius Caesar and Epaminondas; among the moderns Henry IV. in France,
Gustavus Adolphus in Sweden, and the Czar Peter the Great. The Duke of
Marlborough, Turenne, and Vendome all present this character. With
regard to the other sex, nature proposes to it simplicity of character as
the supreme perfection to which it should reach. Accordingly, the love
of pleasing in women strives after nothing so much as the appearance of
simplicity; a sufficient proof, if it were the only one, that the
greatest power of the sex reposes in this quality. But, as the
principles that prevail in the education of women are perpetually
struggling with this character, it is as difficult for them in the moral
order to reconcile this magnificent gift of nature with the advantages of
a good education as it is difficult for men to preserve them unchanged in
the intellectual order: and the woman who knows how to join a knowledge
of the world to this sort of simplicity in manners is as deserving of
respect as a scholar who joins to the strictness of scholastic rules the
freedom and originality of thought.
This freedom, this natural mode by which genius expresses itself in works
of intellect, is also the expression of the innocence of heart in the
intercourse of life. Every one knows that in the world men have departed
from simplicity, from the rigorous veracity of language, in the same
proportion as they have lost the simplicity of feelings. The guilty
conscience easily wounded, the imagination easily seduced, made an
anxious decency necessary. Without telling what is false, people often
speak differently from what they think; we are obliged to make
circumlocutions to say certain things, which however, can never afflict
any but a sickly self-love, and that have no danger except for a depraved
imagination. The ignorance of these laws of propriety (conventional
laws), coupled with a natural sincerity which despises all kinds of bias
and all appearance of falsity (sincerity I mean, not coarseness, for
coarseness dispenses with forms because it is hampered), gives rise in
the intercourse of life to a simplicity of expression that consists in
naming things by their proper name without circumlocution. This is done
because we do not venture to designate them as they are, or only to do so
by artificial means. The ordinary expressions of children are of this
kind. They make us smile because they are in opposition to received
manners; but men would always agree in the bottom of their hearts that
the child is right.
Therefore, let the man with a sensible heart and a loving nature question
himself closely. Is it your indolence that longs for its repose, or your
wounded moral sense that longs for its harmony? Ask yourself well, when,
disgusted with the artifices, offended by the abuses that you discover in
social life, you feel yourself attracted towards inanimate nature, in the
midst of solitude ask yourself what impels you to fly the world. Is it
the privation from which you suffer, its loads, its troubles? or is it
the moral anarchy, the caprice, the disorder that prevail there? Your
heart ought to plunge into these troubles with joy, and to find in them
the compensation in the liberty of which they are the consequence. You
can, I admit, propose as your aim, in a distant future, the calm and the
happiness of nature; but only that sort of happiness which is the reward
of your dignity. Thus, then, let there be no more complaint about the
loads of life, the inequality of conditions, or the hampering of social
relations, or the uncertainty of possession, ingratitude, oppression, and
persecution. You must submit to all these evils of civilization with a
free resignation; it is the natural condition of good, par excellence, of
the only good, and you ought to respect it under this head. In all these
evils you ought only to deplore what is morally evil in them, and you
must do so not with cowardly tears only. Rather watch to remain pure
yourself in the midst of these impurities, free amidst this slavery,
constant with yourself in the midst of these capricious changes, a
faithful observer of the law amidst this anarchy. Be not frightened at
the disorder that is without you, but at the disorder which is within;
aspire after unity, but seek it not in uniformity; aspire after repose,
but through equilibrium, and not by suspending the action of your
faculties. This nature which you envy in the being destitute of reason
deserves no esteem: it is not worth a wish. You have passed beyond it;
it ought to remain for ever behind you. The ladder that carried you
having given way under your foot, the only thing for you to do is to
seize again on the moral law freely, with a free consciousness, a free
will, or else to roll down, hopeless of safety, into a bottomless abyss.
But when you have consoled yourself for having lost the happiness of
nature, let its perfection be a model to your heart. If you can issue
from the circle in which art keeps you enclosed and find nature again, if
it shows itself to you in its greatness and in its calm, in its simple
beauty, in its childlike innocence and simplicity, oh! then pause before
its image, cultivate this feeling lovingly. It is worthy of you, and of
what is noblest in man. Let it no more come into your mind to change
with it; rather embrace it, absorb it into your being, and try to
associate the infinite advantage it has over you with that infinite
prerogative that is peculiar to you, and let the divine issue from this
sublime union. Let nature breathe around you like a lovely idyl, where
far from artifice and its wanderings you may always find yourself again,
where you may go to draw fresh courage, a new confidence, to resume your
course, and kindle again in your heart the flame of the ideal, so readily
extinguished amidst the tempests of life.
Whence can arise this difference between the spirit of the ancients and
the modern spirit? How comes it that, being, for all that relates to
nature, incomparably below the ancients, we are superior to them
precisely on this point, that we render a more complete homage to nature;
that we have a closer attachment to it; and that we are capable of
embracing even the inanimate world with the most ardent sensibility. It
is because nature, in our time, is no longer in man, and that we no
longer encounter it in its primitive truth, except out of humanity, in
the inanimate world. It is not because we are more conformable to
nature--quite the contrary; it is because in our social relations, in our
mode of existence, in our manners, we are in opposition with nature.
This is what leads us, when the instinct of truth and of simplicity is
awakened--this instinct which, like the moral aptitude from which it
proceeds, lives incorruptible and indelible in every human heart--to
procure for it in the physical world the satisfaction which there is no
hope of finding in the moral order. This is the reason why the feeling
that attaches us to nature is connected so closely with that which makes
us regret our infancy, forever flown, and our primitive innocence. Our
childhood is all that remains of nature in humanity, such as civilization
has made it, of untouched, unmutilated nature. It is, therefore, not
wonderful, when we meet out of us the impress of nature, that we are
always brought back to the idea of our childhood.
The poet of a young world, simple and inspired, as also the poet who at
an epoch of artificial civilization approaches nearest to the primitive
bards, is austere and prudish, like the virginal Diana in her forests.
Wholly unconfiding, he hides himself from the heart that seeks him, from
the desire that wishes to embrace him. It is not rare for the dry truth
with which he treats his subject to resemble insensibility. The whole
object possesses him, and to reach his heart it does not suffice, as with
metals of little value, to stir up the surface; as with pure gold, you
must go down to the lowest depths. Like the Deity behind this universe,
the simple poet hides himself behind his work; he is himself his work,
and his work is himself. A man must be no longer worthy of the work, nor
understand it, or be tired of it, to be even anxious to learn who is its
author.
The same thing happened to me in the case of Homer, with whom I made
acquaintance at a later date. I remember now that remarkable passage of
the sixth book of the "Iliad," where Glaucus and Diomed meet each other
in the strife, and then, recognizing each other as host and guest,
exchange presents. With this touching picture of the piety with which
the laws of hospitality were observed even in war, may be compared a
picture of chivalrous generosity in Ariosto. The knights, rivals in
love, Ferragus and Rinaldo--the former a Saracen, the latter a Christian
--after having fought to extremity, all covered with wounds, make peace
together, and mount the same horse to go and seek the fugitive Angelica.
These two examples, however different in other respects, are very similar
with regard to the impression produced on our heart: both represent the
noble victory of moral feeling over passion, and touch us by the
simplicity of feeling displayed in them. But what a difference in the
way in which the two poets go to work to describe two such analogous
scenes! Ariosto, who belongs to an advanced epoch, to a world where
simplicity of manners no longer existed, in relating this trait, cannot
conceal the astonishment, the admiration, he feels at it. He measures
the distance from those manners to the manners of his own age, and this
feeling of astonishment is too strong for him. He abandons suddenly the
painting of the object, and comes himself on the scene in person. This
beautiful stanza is well known, and has been always specially admired at
all times:--
Now let us turn to old Homer. Scarcely has Diomed learned by the story
of Glaucus, his adversary, that the latter has been, from the time of
their fathers, the host and friend of his family, when he drives his
lance into the ground, converses familiarly with him, and both agree
henceforth to avoid each other in the strife. But let us hear Homer
himself:--
It would have been difficult for a modern poet (at least to one who would
be modern in the moral sense of the term) even to wait as long as this
before expressing his joy in the presence of such an action. We should
pardon this in him the more easily, because we also, in reading it, feel
that our heart makes a pause here, and readily turns aside from the
object to bring back its thoughts on itself. But there is not the least
trace of this in Homer. As if he had been relating something that is
seen everyday--nay, more, as if he had no heart beating in his breast--he
continues, with his dry truthfulness:--
"Then the son of Saturn blinded Glaucus, who, exchanging his armor with
Diomed, gave him golden arms of the value of one hecatomb, for brass arms
only worth nine beeves." ["Iliad," vi. 234-236.]
The poets of this order,--the genuinely simple poets, are scarcely any
longer in their place in this artificial age. Accordingly they are
scarcely possible in it, or at least they are only possible on the
condition of traversing their age, like scared persons, at a running
pace, and of being preserved by a happy star from the influence of their
age, which would mutilate their genius. Never, for ay and forever, will
society produce these poets; but out of society they still appear
sometimes at intervals, rather, I admit, as strangers, who excite wonder,
or as ill-trained children of nature, who give offence. These
apparitions, so very comforting for the artist who studies them, and for
the real connoisseur, who knows how to appreciate them, are, as a general
conclusion, in the age when they are begotten, to a very small degree
preposterous. The seal of empire is stamped on their brow, and we,--we
ask the Muses to cradle us, to carry us in their arms. The critics, as
regular constables of art, detest these poets as disturbers of rules or
of limits. Homer himself may have been only indebted to the testimony of
ten centuries for the reward these aristarchs are kindly willing to
concede him. Moreover, they find it a hard matter to maintain their
rules against his example, or his authority against their rules.
SENTIMENTAL POETRY.
The poetic spirit is immortal, nor can it disappear from humanity; it can
only disappear with humanity itself, or with the aptitude to be a man, a
human being. And actually, though man by the freedom of his imagination
and of his understanding departs from simplicity, from truth, from the
necessity of nature, not only a road always remains open to him to return
to it, but, moreover, a powerful and indestructible instinct, the moral
instinct, brings him incessantly back to nature; and it is precisely the
poetical faculty that is united to this instinct by the ties of the
closest relationship. Thus man does not lose the poetic faculty directly
he parts with the simplicity of nature; only this faculty acts out of him
in another direction.
Even at present nature is the only flame that kindles and warms the
poetic soul. From nature alone it obtains all its force; to nature alone
it speaks in the artificial culture-seeking man. Any other form of
displaying its activity is remote from the poetic spirit. Accordingly it
may be remarked that it is incorrect to apply the expression poetic to
any of the so-styled productions of wit, though the high credit given to
French literature has led people for a long period to class them in that
category. I repeat that at present, even in the existing phase of
culture, it is still nature that powerfully stirs up the poetic spirit,
only its present relation to nature is of a different order from
formerly.
As long as man dwells in a state of pure nature (I mean pure and not
coarse nature), all his being acts at once like a simple sensuous unity,
like a harmonious whole. The senses and reason, the receptive faculty
and the spontaneously active faculty, have not been as yet separated in
their respective functions: a fortiori they are not yet in contradiction
with each other. Then the feelings of man are not the formless play of
chance; nor are his thoughts an empty play of the imagination, without
any value. His feelings proceed from the law of necessity; his thoughts
from reality. But when man enters the state of civilization, and art has
fashioned him, this sensuous harmony which was in him disappears, and
henceforth he can only manifest himself as a moral unity, that is, as
aspiring to unity. The harmony that existed as a fact in the former
state, the harmony of feeling and thought, only exists now in an ideal
state. It is no longer in him, but out of him; it is a conception of
thought which he must begin by realizing in himself; it is no longer a
fact, a reality of his life. Well, now let us take the idea of poetry,
which is nothing else than expressing humanity as completely as possible,
and let us apply this idea to these two states. We shall be brought to
infer that, on the one hand, in the state of natural simplicity, when all
the faculties of man are exerted together, his being still manifests
itself in a harmonious unity, where, consequently, the totality of his
nature expresses itself in reality itself, the part of the poet is
necessarily to imitate the real as completely as is possible. In the
state of civilization, on the contrary, when this harmonious competition
of the whole of human nature is no longer anything but an idea, the part
of the poet is necessarily to raise reality to the ideal, or, what
amounts to the same thing, to represent the ideal. And, actually, these
are the only two ways in which, in general, the poetic genius can
manifest itself. Their great difference is quite evident, but though
there be great opposition between them, a higher idea exists that
embraces both, and there is no cause to be astonished if this idea
coincides with the very idea of humanity.
This is not the place to pursue this thought any further, as it would
require a separate discussion to place it in its full light. But if we
only compare the modern and ancient poets together, not according to the
accidental forms which they may have employed, but according to their
spirit, we shall be easily convinced of the truth of this thought. The
thing that touches us in the ancient poets is nature; it is the truth of
sense, it is a present and a living reality modern poets touch us through
the medium of ideas.
All that we say here of the different forms of humanity may be applied
equally to the two orders of poets who correspond to them.
To the man who is not disposed beforehand to issue from reality in order
to enter the field of the ideal, the richest and most substantial poetry
is an empty appearance, and the sublimest flights of poetic inspiration
are an exaggeration. Never will a reasonable man think of placing
alongside Homer, in his grandest episodes, any of our modern poets; and
it has a discordant and ridiculous effect to hear Milton or Klopstock
honored with the name of a "new Homer." But take in modern poets what
characterizes them, what makes their special merit, and try to compare
any ancient poet with them in this point, they will not be able to
support the comparison any better, and Homer less than any other. I
should express it thus: the power of the ancients consists in compressing
objects into the finite, and the moderns excel in the art of the
infinite.
What we have said here may be extended to the fine arts in general,
except certain restrictions that are self-evident. If, then, the
strength of the artists of antiquity consists in determining and limiting
objects, we must no longer wonder that in the field of the plastic arts
the ancients remain so far superior to the moderns, nor especially that
poetry and the plastic arts with the moderns, compared respectively with
what they were among the ancients, do not offer the same relative value.
This is because an object that addresses itself to the eyes is only
perfect in proportion as the object is clearly limited in it; whilst a
work that is addressed to the imagination can also reach the perfection
which is proper to it by means of the ideal and the infinite. This is
why the superiority of the moderns in what relates to ideas is not of
great aid to them in the plastic arts, where it is necessary for them to
determine in space, with the greatest precision, the image which their
imagination has conceived, and where they must therefore measure
themselves with the ancient artist just on a point where his superiority
cannot be contested. In the matter of poetry it is another affair, and
if the advantage is still with the ancients on that ground, as respects
the simplicity of forms--all that can be represented by sensuous
features, all that is something bodily--yet, on the other hand, the
moderns have the advantage over the ancients as regards fundamental
wealth, and all that can neither be represented nor translated by
sensuous signs, in short, for all that is called mind and idea in the
works of art.
From the moment that the simple poet is content to follow simple nature
and feeling, that he is contented with the imitation of the real world,
he can only be placed, with regard to his subject, in a single relation.
And in this respect he has no choice as to the manner of treating it. If
simple poetry produces different impressions--I do not, of course, speak
of the impressions that are connected with the nature of the subject, but
only of those that are dependent on poetic execution--the whole
difference is in the degree; there is only one way of feeling, which
varies from more to less; even the diversity of external forms changes
nothing in the quality of aesthetic impressions. Whether the form be
lyric or epic, dramatic or descriptive, we can receive an impression
either stronger or weaker, but if we remove what is connected with the
nature of the subject, we shall always be affected in the same way. The
feeling we experience is absolutely identical; it proceeds entirely from
one single and the same element to such a degree that we are unable to
make any distinction. The very difference of tongues and that of times
does not here occasion any diversity, for their strict unity of origin
and of effect is precisely a characteristic of simple poetry.
SATIRICAL POETRY.
Properly speaking, the object of poetry is not compatible either with the
tone of punishment or that of amusement. The former is too grave for
play, which should be the main feature of poetry; the latter is too
trifling for seriousness, which should form the basis of all poetic play.
Our mind is necessarily interested in moral contradictions, and these
deprive the mind of its liberty. Nevertheless, all personal interest,
and reference to a personal necessity, should be banished from poetic
feeling. But mental contradictions do not touch the heart, nevertheless
the poet deals with the highest interests of the heart--nature and the
ideal. Accordingly it is a hard matter for him not to violate the poetic
form in pathetic satire, because this form consists in the liberty of
movement; and in sportive satire he is very apt to miss the true spirit
of poetry, which ought to be the infinite. The problem can only be
solved in one way: by the pathetic satire assuming the character of the
sublime, and the playful satire acquiring poetic substance by enveloping
the theme in beauty.
Accordingly the satire of pathos must always issue from a mind deeply
imbued with the ideal. It is nothing but an impulsion towards harmony
that can give rise to that deep feeling of moral opposition and that
ardent indignation against moral obliquity which amounted to the fulness
of enthusiasm in Juvenal, Swift, Rousseau, Haller, and others. These
same poets would have succeeded equally well in forms of poetry relating
to all that is tender and touching in feeling, and it was only the
accidents of life in their early days that diverted their minds into
other walks. Nay, some amongst them actually tried their hand
successfully in these other branches of poetry. The poets whose names
have been just mentioned lived either at a period of degeneracy, and had
scenes of painful moral obliquity presented to their view, or personal
troubles had combined to fill their souls with bitter feelings. The
strictly austere spirit in which Rousseau, Haller, and others paint
reality is a natural result, moreover, of the philosophical mind, when
with rigid adherence to laws of thought it separates the mere phenomenon
from the substance of things. Yet these outer and contingent influences,
which always put restraint on the mind, should never be allowed to do
more than decide the direction taken by enthusiasm, nor should they ever
give the material for it. The substance ought always to remain
unchanged, emancipated from all external motion or stimulus, and it ought
to issue from an ardent impulsion towards the ideal, which forms the only
true motive that can be put forth for satirical poetry, and indeed for
all sentimental poetry.
While the satire of pathos is only adapted to elevated minds, playful
satire can only be adequately represented by a heart imbued with beauty.
The former is preserved from triviality by the serious nature of the
theme; but the latter, whose proper sphere is confined to the treatment
of subjects of morally unimportant nature, would infallibly adopt the
form of frivolity, and be deprived of all poetic dignity, were it not
that the substance is ennobled by the form, and did not the personal
dignity of the poet compensate for the insignificance of the subject.
Now, it is only given to mind imbued with beauty to impress its
character, its entire image, on each of its manifestations, independently
of the object of its manifestations. A sublime soul can only make itself
known as such by single victories over the rebellion of the senses, only
in certain moments of exaltation, and by efforts of short duration. In a
mind imbued with beauty, on the contrary, the ideal acts in the same
manner as nature, and therefore continuously; accordingly it can manifest
itself in it in a state of repose. The deep sea never appears more
sublime than when it is agitated; the true beauty of a clear stream is in
its peaceful course.
The tragic poet is supported by the theme, while the comic poet, on the
contrary, has to keep up the aesthetic character of his theme by his own
individual influence. The former may soar, which is not a very difficult
matter, but the latter has to remain one and the same in tone; he has to
be in the elevated region of art, where he must be at home, but where the
tragic poet has to be projected and elevated by a bound. And this is
precisely what distinguishes a soul of beauty from a sublime soul. A
soul of beauty bears in itself by anticipation all great ideas; they flow
without constraint and without difficulty from its very nature--an
infinite nature, at least in potency, at whatever point of its career you
seize it. A sublime soul can rise to all kinds of greatness, but by an
effort; it can tear itself from all bondage, to all that limits and
constrains it, but only by strength of will. Consequently the sublime
soul is only free by broken efforts; the other with ease and always.
It is for this reason that the tragic poet invariably treats his theme in
a practical manner, and the comic poet in a theoretic manner, even when
the former, as happened with Lessing in his "Nathan," should have the
curious fancy to select a theoretical, and the latter should have that of
choosing a practical subject. A piece is constituted a tragedy or a
comedy not by the sphere from which the theme is taken, but by the
tribunal before which it is judged. A tragic poet ought never to indulge
in tranquil reasoning, and ought always to gain the interest of the
heart; but the comic poet ought to shun the pathetic and bring into play
the understanding. The former displays his art by creating continual
excitement, the latter by perpetually subduing his passion; and it is
natural that the art in both cases should acquire magnitude and strength
in proportion as the theme of one poet is abstract and that of the other
pathetic in character. Accordingly, if tragedy sets out from a more
exalted place, it must be allowed, on the other hand, that comedy aims at
a more important end; and if this end could be actually attained it would
make all tragedy not only unnecessary, but impossible. The aim that
comedy has in view is the same as that of the highest destiny of man, and
this consists in liberating himself from the influence of violent
passions, and taking a calm and lucid survey of all that surrounds him,
and also of his own being, and of seeing everywhere occurrence rather
than fate or hazard, and ultimately rather smiling at the absurdities
than shedding tears and feeling anger at sight of the wickedness of man.
Now, public taste scarcely if ever soars above the sphere of the
agreeable, and authors gifted with this sort of elegance of mind and
style do not find it a difficult matter to usurp a glory which is or
ought to be the reward of so much real labor. Nevertheless, an
infallible text exists to enable us to discriminate a natural facility of
manner from ideal gentleness, and qualities that consist in nothing more
than natural virtue from genuine moral worth of character. This test is
presented by trials such as those presented by difficulty and events
offering great opportunities. Placed in positions of this kind, the
genius whose essence is elegance is sure infallibly to fall into
platitudes, and that virtue which only results from natural causes drops
down to a material sphere. But a mind imbued with true and spiritual
beauty is in cases of the kind we have supposed sure to be elevated to
the highest sphere of character and of feeling. So long as Lucian merely
furnishes absurdity, as in his "Wishes," in the "Lapithae," in "Jupiter
Tragoedus," etc., he is only a humorist, and gratifies us by his sportive
humor; but he changes character in many passages in his "Nigrinus," his
"Timon," and his "Alexander," when his satire directs its shafts against
moral depravity. Thus he begins in his "Nigrinus" his picture of the
degraded corruption of Rome at that time in this way: "Wretch, why didst
thou quit Greece, the sunlight, and that free and happy life? Why didst
thou come here into this turmoil of splendid slavery, of service and
festivals, of sycophants, flatterers, poisoners, orphan-robbers, and
false friends?" It is on such occasions that the poet ought to show the
lofty earnestness of soul which has to form the basis of all plays, if a
poetical character is to be obtained by them. A serious intention may
even be detected under the malicious jests with which Lucian and
Aristophanes pursue Socrates. Their purpose is to avenge truth against
sophistry, and to do combat for an ideal which is not always prominently
put forward. There can be no doubt that Lucian has justified this
character in his Diogenes and Demonax. Again, among modern writers, how
grave and beautiful is the character depicted on all occasions by
Cervantes in his Don Quixote! How splendid must have been the ideal that
filled the mind of a poet who created a Tom Jones and a Sophonisba! How
deeply and strongly our hearts are moved by the jests of Yorick when he
pleases! I detect this seriousness also in our own Wieland: even the
wanton sportiveness of his humor is elevated and impeded by the goodness
of his heart; it has an influence even on his rhythm; nor does he ever
lack elastic power, when it is his wish, to raise us up to the most
elevated planes of beauty and of thought.
ELEGIAC POETRY.
When the poet opposes nature to art, and the ideal to the real, so that
nature and the ideal form the principal object of his pictures, and that
the pleasure we take in them is the dominant impression, I call him an
elegiac poet. In this kind, as well as in satire, I distinguish two
classes. Either nature and the ideal are objects of sadness, when one is
represented as lost to man and the other as unattained; or both are
objects of joy, being represented to us as reality. In the first case it
is elegy in the narrower sense of the term; in the second case it is the
idyl in its most extended acceptation.
Among the poets of Germany who belong to this class, I shall only mention
here Haller, Kleist, and Klopstock. The character of their poetry is
sentimental; it is by the ideal that they touch us, not by sensuous
reality; and that not so much because they are themselves nature, as
because they know how to fill us with enthusiasm for nature. However,
what is true in general, as well of these three poets as of every
sentimental poet, does not evidently exclude the faculty of moving us, in
particular, by beauties of the simple genus; without this they would not
be poets. I only mean that it is not their proper and dominant
characteristic to receive the impression of objects with a calm feeling,
simple, easy, and to give forth in like manner the impression received.
Involuntarily the imagination in them anticipates intuition, and
reflection is in play before the sensuous nature has done its function;
they shut their eyes and stop their ears to plunge into internal
meditations. Their souls could not be touched by any impression without
observing immediately their own movements, without placing before their
eyes and outside themselves what takes place in them. It follows from
this that we never see the object itself, but what the intelligence and
reflection of the poet have made of the object; and even if this object
be the person itself of the poet, even when he wishes to represent to us
his own feelings, we are not informed of his state immediately or at
first hand; we only see how this state is reflected in his mind and what
he has thought of it in the capacity of spectator of himself. When
Haller deplores the death of his wife--every one knows this beautiful
elegy--and begins in the following manner:--
we feel that this description is strictly true, but we feel also that the
poet does not communicate to us, properly speaking, his feelings, but the
thoughts that they suggest to him. Accordingly, the emotion we feel on
hearing him is much less vivid! people remark that the poet's mind must
have been singularly cooled down to become thus a spectator of his own
emotion.
Haller scarcely treated any subjects but the super-sensuous, and part of
the poems of Klopstock are also of this nature: this choice itself
excludes them from the simple kind. Accordingly, in order to treat these
super-sensuous themes in a poetic fashion, as no body could be given to
them, and they could not be made the objects of sensuous intuition, it
was necessary to make them pass from the finite to the infinite, and
raise them to the state of objects of spiritual intuition. In general,
it may be said, that it is only in this sense that a didactic poetry can
be conceived without involving contradiction; for, repeating again what
has been so often said, poetry has only two fields, the world of sense
and the ideal world, since in the sphere of conceptions, in the world of
the understanding, it cannot absolutely thrive. I confess that I do not
know as yet any didactic poem, either among the ancients or among the
moderns, where the subject is completely brought down to the individual,
or purely and completely raised to the ideal. The most common case, in
the most happy essays, is where the two principles are used together; the
abstract idea predominates, and the imagination, which ought to reign
over the whole domain of poetry, has merely the permission to serve the
understanding. A didactic poem in which thought itself would be poetic,
and would remain so, is a thing which we must still wait to see.
For the solidity and depth of ideas, Kleist is far inferior to Haller; in
point of grace, perhaps, he would have the advantage--if, as happens
occasionally, we did not impute to him as a merit, on the one side, that
which really is a want on the other. The sensuous soul of Kleist takes
especial delight at the sight of country scenes and manners; he withdraws
gladly from the vain jingle and rattle of society, and finds in the heart
of inanimate nature the harmony and peace that are not offered to him by
the moral world. How touching is his "Aspiration after Repose"! how much
truth and feeling there is in these verses!--
But if the poetic instinct of Kleist leads him thus far away from the
narrow circle of social relations, in solitude, and among the fruitful
inspirations of nature, the image of social life and of its anguish
pursues him, and also, alas! its chains. What he flees from he carries
in himself, and what he seeks remains entirely outside him: never can he
triumph over the fatal influence of his time. In vain does he find
sufficient flame in his heart and enough energy in his imagination to
animate by painting the cold conceptions of the understanding; cold
thought each time kills the living creations of fancy, and reflection
destroys the secret work of the sensuous nature. His poetry, it must be
admitted, is of as brilliant color and as variegated as the spring he
celebrated in verse; his imagination is vivid and active; but it might be
said that it is more variable than rich, that it sports rather than
creates, that it always goes forward with a changeful gait, rather than
stops to accumulate and mould things into shape. Traits succeed each
other rapidly, with exuberance, but without concentrating to form an
individual, without completing each other to make a living whole, without
rounding to a form, a figure. Whilst he remains in purely lyrical
poetry, and pauses amidst his landscapes of country life, on the one hand
the greater freedom of the lyrical form, and on the other the more
arbitrary nature of the subject, prevent us from being struck with this
defect; in these sorts of works it is in general rather the feelings of
the poet, than the object in itself, of which we expect the portraiture.
But this defect becomes too apparent when he undertakes, as in Cisseis
and Paches, or in his Seneca, to represent men and human actions; because
here the imagination sees itself kept in within certain fixed and
necessary limits, and because here the effect can only be derived from
the object itself. Kleist becomes poor, tiresome, jejune, and
insupportably frigid; an example full of lessons for those who, without
having an inner vocation, aspire to issue from musical poetry, to rise to
the regions of plastic poetry. A spirit of this family, Thomson, has
paid the same penalty to human infirmity.
I have said that this poet was great specially in the elegiac style, and
it is scarcely necessary to confirm this judgment by entering into
particulars. Capable of exercising all kinds of action on the heart, and
having graduated as master in all that relates to sentimental poetry, he
can sometimes shake the soul by the most sublime pathos, at others cradle
it with sweet and heavenly sensations. Yet his heart prefers to follow
the direction of a lofty spiritual melancholy; and, however sublime be
the tones of his harp and of his lyre, they are always the tender notes
of his lute that resound with most truth and the deepest emotion. I take
as witnesses all those whose nature is pure and sensuous: would they not
be ready to give all the passages where Klopstock is strong, and bold;
all those fictions, all the magnificent descriptions, all the models of
eloquence which abound in the "Messiah," all those dazzling comparisons
in which our poet excels,--would they not exchange them for the pages
breathing tenderness, the "Elegy to Ebert" for example, or that admirable
poem entitled "Bardalus," or again, the "Tombs Opened before the Hour,"
the "Summer's Night," the "Lake of Zurich," and many other pieces of this
kind? In the same way the "Messiah" is dear to me as a treasure of
elegiac feelings and of ideal paintings, though I am not much satisfied
with it as the recital of an action and as an epic.
It has been seen, by the examples which precede, how sentimental poetry
conceives and treats subjects taken from nature; perhaps the reader may
be curious to know how also simple poetry treats a subject of the
sentimental order. This is, as it seems, an entirely new question, and
one of special difficulty; for, in the first place, has a subject of the
sentimental order ever been presented in primitive and simple periods?
And in modern times, where is the simple poet with whom we could make
this experiment? This has not, however, prevented genius from setting
this problem, and solving it in a wonderfully happy way. A poet in whose
mind nature works with a purer and more faithful activity than in any
other, and who is perhaps of all modern poets the one who departs the
least from the sensuous truth of things, has proposed this problem to
himself in his conception of a mind, and of the dangerous extreme of the
sentimental character. This mind and this character have been portrayed
by the modern poet we speak of, a character which with a burning
sensuousness embraces the ideal and flies the real, to soar up to an
infinite devoid of being, always occupied in seeking out of himself what
he incessantly destroys in himself; a mind that only finds reality in his
dreams, and to whom the realities of life are only limits and obstacles;
in short, a mind that sees only in its own existence a barrier, and goes
on, as it were, logically to break down this barrier in order to
penetrate to true reality.
But does not poetical literature also offer, even in its classical
monuments, some analogous examples of injuries inflicted or attempted
against the ideal and its superior purity? Are there not some who, by
the gross, sensuous nature of their subject, seem to depart strangely
from the spiritualism I here demand of all works of art? If this is
permitted to the poet, the chaste nurseling of the muses, ought it not to
be conceded to the novelist, who is only the half-brother of the poet,
and who still touches by so many points? I can the less avoid this
question because there are masterpieces, both in the elegiac and in the
satirical kind, where the authors seek and preach up a nature quite
different from that I am discussing in this essay, and where they seem to
defend it, not so much against bad as against good morals. The natural
conclusion would be either that this sort of poem ought to be rejected,
or that, in tracing here the idea of elegiac poetry, we have granted far
too much to what is arbitrary.
The question I asked was, whether what was permitted by the poet might
not be tolerated in a prose narrator too? The answer is contained in the
question. What is allowed in the poet proves nothing about what must be
allowed in one who is not a poet. This tolerancy in fact reposes on the
very idea which we ought to make to ourselves of the poet, and only on
this idea; what in his case is legitimate freedom, is only a license
worthy of contempt as soon as it no longer takes its source in the ideal,
in those high and noble inspirations which make the poet.
Let us remark in the first place that nature only can justify these
licenses; whence it follows that you could not legitimately take them up
of your own choice, nor with a determination of imitating them; the will,
in fact, ought always to be directed according to the laws of morality,
and on its part all condescending to the sensuous is absolutely
unpardonable. These licenses must, therefore, above all, be simplicity.
But how can we be convinced that they are actually simple? We shall hold
them to be so if we see them accompanied and supported by all the other
circumstances which also have their spring of action in nature; for
nature can only be recognized by the close and strict consistency, by the
unity and uniformity of its effects. It is only a soul that has on all
occasions a horror of all kinds of artifice, and which consequently
rejects them even where they would be useful--it is only that soul which
we permit to be emancipated from them when the artificial
conventionalities hamper and hinder it. A heart that submits to all the
obligations of nature has alone the right to profit also by the liberties
which it authorizes. All the other feelings of that heart ought
consequently to bear the stamp of nature: it will be true, simple, free,
frank, sensible, and straightforward; all disguise, all cunning, all
arbitrary fancy, all egotistical pettiness, will be banished from his
character, and you will see no trace of them in his writings.
Second rule: beautiful nature alone can justify freedoms of this kind;
whence it follows that they ought not to be a mere outbreak of the
appetites; for all that proceeds exclusively from the wants of sensuous
nature is contemptible. It is, therefore, from the totality and the
fulness of human nature that these vivid manifestations must also issue.
We must find humanity in them. But how can we judge that they proceed in
fact from our whole nature, and not only from an exclusive and vulgar
want of the sensuous nature? For this purpose it is necessary that we
should see--that they should represent to us--this whole of which they
form a particular feature. This disposition of the mind to experience
the impressions of the sensuous is in itself an innocent and an
indifferent thing. It does not sit well on a man only because of its
being common to animals with him; it augurs in him the lack of true and
perfect humanity. It only shocks us in the poem because such a work
having the pretension to please us, the author consequently seems to
think us capable, us also, of this moral infirmity. But when we see in
the man who has let himself be drawn into it by surprise all the other
characteristics that human nature in general embraces; when we find in
the work where these liberties have been taken the expression of all the
realities of human nature, this motive of discontent disappears, and we
can enjoy, without anything changing our joy, this simple expression of a
true and beautiful nature. Consequently this same poet who ventures to
allow himself to associate us with feelings so basely human, ought to
know, on the other hand, how to raise us to all that is grand, beautiful,
and sublime in our nature.
IDYL.
It remains for me to say a few words about this third kind of sentimental
poetry--some few words and no more, for I propose to speak of it at
another time with the developments particularly demanded by the theme.
But a state such as this is not merely met with before the dawn of
civilization; it is also the state to which civilization aspires, as to
its last end, if only it obeys a determined tendency in its progress.
The idea of a similar state, and the belief of the possible reality of
this state, is the only thing that can reconcile man with all the evils
to which he is exposed in the path of civilization; and if this idea were
only a chimera, the complaints of those who accuse civil life and the
culture of the intelligence as an evil for which there is no
compensation, and who represent this primitive state of nature that we
have renounced as the real end of humanity--their complaints, I say,
would have a perfectly just foundation. It is, therefore, of infinite
importance for the man engaged in the path of civilization to see
confirmed in a sensuous manner the belief that this idea can be
accomplished in the world of sense, that this state of innocence can be
realized in it; and as real experience, far from keeping up this belief,
is rather made incessantly to contradict it, poetry comes here, as in
many other cases, in aid of reason, to cause this idea to pass into the
condition of an intuitive idea, and to realize it in a particular fact.
No doubt this innocence of pastoral life is also a poetic idea, and the
imagination must already have shown its creative power in that. But the
problem, with this datum, becomes infinitely simpler and easier to solve;
and we must not forget that the elements of these pictures already
existed in real life, and that it was only requisite to gather up the
separate traits to form a whole. Under a fine sky, in a primitive
society, when all the relations are still simple, when science is limited
to so little, nature is easily satisfied, and man only turns to savagery
when he is tortured by want. All nations that have a history have a
paradise, an age of innocence, a golden age. Nay, more than this, every
man has his paradise, his golden age, which he remembers with more or
less enthusiasm, according as he is more or less poetical. Thus
experience itself furnishes sufficient traits to this picture which the
pastoral idyl executes. But this does not prevent the pastoral idyl from
remaining always a beautiful and an encouraging fiction; and poetic
genius, in retracing these pictures, has really worked in favor of the
ideal. For, to the man who has once departed from simple nature, and who
has been abandoned to the dangerous guidance of his reason, it is of the
greatest importance to find the laws of nature expressed in a faithful
copy, to see their image in a clear mirror, and to reject all the stains
of artificial life. There is, however, a circumstance which remarkably
lessens the aesthetic value of these sorts of poetry. By the very fact
that the idyl is transported to the time that precedes civilization, it
also loses the advantages thereof; and by its nature finds itself in
opposition to itself. Thus, in a theoretical sense, it takes us back at
the same time that in a practical sense it leads us on and ennobles us.
Unhappily it places behind us the end towards which it ought to lead us,
and consequently it can only inspire us with the sad feeling of a loss,
and not the joyous feeling of a hope. As these poems can only attain
their end by dispensing with all art, and by simplifying human nature,
they have the highest value for the heart, but they are also far too poor
for what concerns the mind, and their uniform circle is too quickly
traversed. Accordingly we can only seek them and love them in moments in
which we need calm, and not when our faculties aspire after movement and
exercise. A morbid mind will find its cure in them, a sound soul will
not find its food in them. They cannot vivify, they can only soften.
This defect, grounded in the essence of the pastoral idyll, has not been
remedied by the whole art of poets. I know that this kind of poem is not
without admirers, and that there are readers enough who prefer an Amyntus
and a Daphnis to the most splendid masterpieces of the epic or the
dramatic muse; but in them it is less the aesthetical taste than the
feeling of an individual want that pronounces on works of art; and their
judgment, by that very fact, could not be taken into consideration here.
The reader who judges with his mind, and whose heart is sensuous, without
being blind to the merit of these poems, will confess that he is rarely
affected by them, and that they tire him most quickly. But they act with
so much the more effect in the exact moment of need. But must the truly
beautiful be reduced to await our hours of need? and is it not rather its
office to awaken in our soul the want that it is going to satisfy?
The reproaches I here level against the bucolic idyl cannot be understood
of the sentimental. The simple pastoral, in fact, cannot be deprived of
aesthetic value, since this value is already found in the mere form. To
explain myself: every kind of poetry is bound to possess an infinite
ideal value, which alone constitutes it a true poetry; but it can satisfy
this condition in two different ways. It can give us the feeling of the
infinite as to form, by representing the object altogether limited and
individualizing it; it can awaken in us the feeling of the infinite as to
matter, in freeing its object from all limits in which it is enclosed, by
idealizing this object; therefore it can have an ideal value either by an
absolute representation or by the representation of an absolute. Simple
poetry takes the former road, the other is that of sentimental poetry.
Accordingly the simple poet is not exposed to failure in value so long as
he keeps faithfully to nature, which is always completely circumscribed,
that is, is infinite as regards form. The sentimental poet, on the
contrary, by that very fact, that nature only offers him completely
circumscribed objects, finds in it an obstruction when he wishes to give
an absolute value to a particular object. Thus the sentimental poet
understands his interests badly when he goes along the trail of the
simple poet, and borrows his objects from him--objects which by
themselves are perfectly indifferent, and which only become poetical by
the way in which they are treated. By this he imposes on himself without
any necessity the same limits that confine the field of the simple poet,
without, however, being able to carry out the limitation properly, or to
vie with his rival in absolute definiteness of representation. He ought
rather, therefore, to depart from the simple poet, just in the choice of
object; because, the latter having the advantage of him on the score of
form, it is only by the nature of the objects that he can resume the
upper hand.
Applying this to the pastoral idyls of the sentimental poet, we see why
these poems, whatever amount of art and genius be displayed in them, do
not fully satisfy the heart or the mind. An ideal is proposed in it,
and, at the same time, the writer keeps to this narrow and poor medium of
pastoral life. Would it not have been better, on the contrary, to choose
for the ideal another frame, or for the pastoral world another kind of
picture? These pictures are just ideal enough for painting to lose its
individual truth in them, and, again, just individual enough for the
ideal in them to suffer therefrom. For example, a shepherd of Gessner
can neither charm by the illusion of nature nor by the beauty of
imitation; he is too ideal a being for that, but he does not satisfy us
any more as an ideal by the infinity of the thought: he is a far too
limited creature to give us this satisfaction. He will, therefore,
please up to a certain point all classes of readers, without exception,
because he seeks to unite the simple with the sentimental, and he thus
gives a commencement of satisfaction to the two opposite exigencies that
may be brought to bear on any particular part of a poem; but the author,
in trying to unite the two points, does not fully satisfy either one or
the other exigency, as you do not find in him either pure nature or the
pure ideal; he cannot rank himself as entirely up to the mark of a
stringent critical taste, for taste does not accept anything equivocal or
incomplete in aesthetical matters. It is a strange thing that, in the
poet whom I have named, this equivocal character extends to the language,
which floats undecided between poetry and prose, as if he feared either
to depart too far from nature, by speaking rhythmical language, or if he
completely freed himself from rhythm, to lose all poetic flight. Milton
gives a higher satisfaction to the mind, in the magnificent picture of
the first human pair, and of the state of innocence in paradise;--the
most beautiful idyl I know of the sentimental kind. Here nature is
noble, inspired, simple, full of breadth, and, at the same time, of
depth; it is humanity in its highest moral value, clothed in the most
graceful form.
Now, what are the relations of the two poetries to one another, and their
relations to the poetic ideal? Here are the principles we have
established.
Nature has granted this favor to the simple poet, to act always as an
indivisible unity, to be at all times identical and perfect, and to
represent, in the real world, humanity at its highest value. In
opposition, it has given a powerful faculty to the sentimental poet, or,
rather, it has imprinted an ardent feeling on him; this is to replace out
of himself this first unity that abstraction has destroyed in him, to
complete humanity in his person, and to pass from a limited state to an
infinite state. They both propose to represent human nature fully, or
they would not be poets; but the simple poet has always the advantage of
sensuous reality over the sentimental poet, by setting forth as a real
fact what the other aspires only to reach. Every one experiences this in
the pleasure he takes in simple poetry.
We there feel that the human faculties are brought into play; no vacuum
is felt; we have the feeling of unity, without distinguishing anything of
what we experience; we enjoy both our spiritual activity and also the
fulness of physical life. Very different is the disposition of mind
elicited by the sentimental poet. Here we feel only a vivid aspiration
to produce in us this harmony of which we had in the other case the
consciousness and reality; to make of ourselves a single and same
totality; to realize in ourselves the idea of humanity as a complete
expression. Hence it comes that the mind is here all in movement,
stretched, hesitating between contrary feelings; whereas it was before
calm and at rest, in harmony with itself, and fully satisfied.
But if the simple poet has the advantage over the sentimental poet on the
score of reality; if he causes really to live that of which the other can
only elicit a vivid instinct, the sentimental poet, in compensation, has
this great advantage over the simple poet: to be in a position to offer
to this instinct a greater object than that given by his rival, and the
only one he could give. All reality, we know, is below the ideal; all
that exists has limits, but thought is infinite. This limitation, to
which everything is subject in sensuous reality, is, therefore, a
disadvantage for the simple poet, while the absolute, unconditional
freedom of the ideal profits the sentimental poet. No doubt the former
accomplishes his object, but this object is limited; the second, I admit,
does not entirely accomplish his, but his object is infinite. Here I
appeal to experience. We pass pleasantly to real life and things from
the frame of mind in which the simple poet has placed us. On the other
hand, the sentimental poet will always disgust us, for a time, with real
life. This is because the infinite character has, in a manner, enlarged
our mind beyond its natural measure, so that nothing it finds in the
world of sense can fill its capacity. We prefer to fall back in
contemplation on ourselves, where we find food for this awakened impulse
towards the ideal world; while, in the simple poet, we only strive to
issue out of ourselves, in search of sensuous objects. Sentimental
poetry is the offspring of retirement and science, and invites to it;
simple poetry is inspired by the spectacle of life, and brings back life.
I have styled simple poetry a gift of nature to show that thought has no
share in it. It is a first jet, a happy inspiration, that needs no
correction, when it turns out well, and which cannot be rectified if ill
turned out. The entire work of the simple genius is accomplished by
feeling; in that is its strength, and in it are its limits. If, then, he
has not felt at once in a poetic manner--that is, in a perfectly human
manner--no art in the world can remedy this defect. Criticism may help
him to see the defect, but can place no beauty in its stead. Simple
genius must draw all from nature; it can do nothing, or almost nothing,
by its will; and it will fulfil the idea of this kind of poetry provided
nature acts in it by an inner necessity. Now, it is true that all which
happens by nature is necessary, and all the productions, happy or not, of
the simple genius, which is disassociated from nothing so much as from
arbitrary will, are also imprinted with this character of necessity;
momentary constraint is one thing, and the internal necessity dependent
on the totality of things another. Considered as a whole, nature is
independent and infinite; in isolated operations it is poor and limited.
The same distinction holds good in respect to the nature of the poet.
The very moment when he is most happily inspired depends on a preceding
instant, and consequently only a conditional necessity can be attributed
to him. But now the problem that the poet ought to solve is to make an
individual state similar to the human whole, and consequently to base it
in an absolute and necessary manner on itself. It is therefore necessary
that at the moment of inspiration every trace of a temporal need should
be banished, and that the object itself, however limited, should not
limit the flight of the poet. But it may be conceived that this is only
possible in so far as the poet brings to the object an absolute freedom,
an absolute fulness of faculties, and in so far as he is prepared by an
anterior exercise to embrace all things with all his humanity. Now he
cannot acquire this exercise except by the world in which he lives, and
of which he receives the impressions immediately. Thus simple genius is
in a state of dependence with regard to experience, while the sentimental
genius is forced from it. We know that the sentimental genius begins its
operation at the place where the other finishes its own: its virtue is to
complete by the elements which it derives from itself a defective object,
and to transport itself by its own strength from a limited state to one
of absolute freedom. Thus the simple poet needs a help from without,
while the sentimental poet feeds his genius from his own fund, and
purifies himself by himself. The former requires a picturesque nature, a
poetical world, a simple humanity which casts its eyes around; for he
ought to do his work without issuing from the sensuous sphere. If
external aid fails him, if he be surrounded by matter not speaking to
mind, one of two things will happen: either, if the general character of
the poet-race is what prevails in him, he issues from the particular
class to which he belongs as a poet, and becomes sentimental to be at any
rate poetic; or, if his particular character as simple poet has the upper
hand, he leaves his species and becomes a common nature, in order to
remain at any rate natural. The former of these two alternatives might
represent the case of the principal poets of the sentimental kind in
Roman antiquity and in modern times. Born at another period of the
world, transplanted under another sky, these poets who stir us now by
ideas, would have charmed us by individual truth and simple beauty. The
other alternative is the almost unavoidable quicksand for a poet who,
thrown into a vulgar world, cannot resolve to lose sight of nature.
I mean, to lose sight of actual nature; but the greatest care must be
given to distinguish actual nature from true nature, which is the subject
of simple poetry. Actual nature exists everywhere; but true nature is so
much the more rare because it requires an internal necessity that
determines its existence. Every eruption of passion, however vulgar, is
real--it may be even true nature; but it is not true human nature, for
true human nature requires that the self-directing faculty in us should
have a share in the manifestation, and the expression of this faculty is
always dignified. All moral baseness is an actual human phenomenon, but
I hope not real human nature, which is always noble. All the faults of
taste cannot be surveyed that have been occasioned in criticism or the
practice of art by this--confusion between actual human nature and true
human nature. The greatest trivialities are tolerated and applauded
under the pretext that they are real nature. Caricatures not to be
tolerated in the real world are carefully preserved in the poetic world
and reproduced according to nature! The poet can certainly imitate a
lower nature; and it enters into the very definition of a satirical poet:
but then a beauty by its own nature must sustain and raise the object,
and the vulgarity of the subject must not lower the imitator too much.
If at the moment he paints he is true human nature himself, the object of
his paintings is indifferent; but it is only on this condition we can
tolerate a faithful reproduction of reality. Unhappy for us readers when
the rod of satire falls into hands that nature meant to handle another
instrument, and when, devoid of all poetic talent, with nothing but the
ape's mimicry, they exercise it brutally at the expense of our taste!
But vulgar nature has even its dangers for the simple poet; for the
simple poet is formed by this fine harmony of the feeling and thinking
faculty, which yet is only an idea, never actually realized. Even in the
happiest geniuses of this class, receptivity will always more or less
carry the day over spontaneous activity. But receptivity is always more
or less subordinate to external impressions, and nothing but a perpetual
activity of the creative faculty could prevent matter from exercising a
blind violence over this quality. Now, every time this happens the
feeling becomes vulgar instead of poetical.
No genius of the simple class, from Homer down to Bodmer, has entirely
steered clear of this quicksand. It is evident that it is most perilous
to those who have to struggle against external vulgarity, or who have
parted with their refinement owing to a want of proper restraint. The
first-named difficulty is the reason why even authors of high cultivation
are not always emancipated from platitudes--a fact which has prevented
many splendid talents from occupying the place to which they were
summoned by nature. For this reason, a comic poet whose genius has
chiefly to deal with scenes of real life, is more liable to the danger
of acquiring vulgar habits of style and expression--a fact evidenced in
the case of Aristophanes, Plautus, and all the poets who have followed
in their track. Even Shakspeare, with all his sublimity, suffers us to
fall very low now and then. Again, Lope De Vega, Moliere, Regnard,
Goldoni worry us with frequent trifling. Holberg drags us down into
the mire. Schlegel, a German poet, among the most remarkable for
intellectual talent, with genius to raise him to a place among poets of
the first order; Gellert, a truly simple poet, Rabener, and Lessing
himself, if I am warranted to introduce his name in this category--this
highly-cultivated scholar of criticism and vigilant examiner of his own
genius--all these suffer in different degrees from the platitudes and
uninspired movements of the natures they chose as the theme of their
satire. With regard to more recent authors of this class, I avoid naming
any of them, as I can make no exceptions in their case.
But not only is simple genius exposed to the danger of coming too near to
vulgar reality; the ease of expression, even this too close approximation
to reality, encourages vulgar imitators to try their hand in poetry.
Sentimental poetry, though offering danger enough, has this advantage, to
keep this crowd at a distance, for it is not for the first comer to rise
to the ideal; but simple poetry makes them believe that, with feeling and
humor, you need only imitate real nature to claim the title of poet. Now
nothing is more revolting than platitude when it tries to be simple and
amiable, instead of hiding its repulsive nature under the veil of art.
This occasions the incredible trivialities loved by the Germans under the
name of simple and facetious songs, and which give them endless amusement
round a well-garnished table. Under the pretext of good humor and of
sentiment people tolerate these poverties: but this good humor and this
sentiment ought to be carefully proscribed. The Muses of the Pleisse, in
particular, are singularly pitiful; and other Muses respond to them, from
the banks of the Seine, and the Elbe. If these pleasantries are flat,
the passion heard on our tragic stage is equally pitiful, for, instead of
imitating true nature, it is only an insipid and ignoble expression of
the actual. Thus, after shedding torrents of tears, you feel as you
would after visiting a hospital or reading the "Human Misery" of
Saltzmann. But the evil is worse in satirical poetry and comic romance,
kinds which touch closely on every-day life, and which consequently, as
all frontier posts, ought to be in safer hands. In truth, he less than
any other is called on to become the painter of his century, who is
himself the child and caricature of his century. But as, after all,
nothing is easier than to take in hand, among our acquaintances, a comic
character--a big, fat man--and draw a coarse likeness of him on paper,
the sworn enemies of poetic inspiration are often led to blot some paper
in this way to amuse a circle of friends. It is true that a pure heart,
a well-made mind, will never confound these vulgar productions with the
inspirations of simple genius. But purity of feeling is the very thing
that is wanting, and in most cases nothing is thought of but satisfying a
want of sense, without spiritual nature having any share. A
fundamentally just idea, ill understood, that works of bel esprit serve
to recreate the mind, contributes to keep up this indulgence, if
indulgence it may be called when nothing higher occupies the mind, and
reader as well as writer find their chief interest therein. This is
because vulgar natures, if overstrained, can only be refreshed by
vacuity; and even a higher intelligence, when not sustained by a
proportional culture, can only rest from its work amidst sensuous
enjoyments, from which spiritual nature is absent.
Poetic genius ought to have strength enough to rise with a free and
innate activity above all the accidental hinderances which are
inseparable from every confined condition, to arrive at a representation
of humanity in the absolute plenitude of its powers; it is not, however,
permitted, on the other hand, to emancipate itself from the necessary
limits implied by the very idea of human nature; for the absolute only in
the circle of humanity is its true problem. Simple genius is not exposed
to overstep this sphere, but rather not to fill it entirely, giving too
much scope to external necessity, to accidental wants, at the expense of
the inner necessity. The danger for the sentimental genius is, on the
other hand, by trying to remove all limits, of nullifying human nature
absolutely, and not only rising, as is its right and duty, beyond finite
and determinate reality, as far as absolute possibility, or in other
terms to idealize; but of passing even beyond possibility, or, in other
words, dreaming. This fault--overstraining--is precisely dependent on
the specific property of the sentimental process, as the opposite defect,
inertia, depends on the peculiar operation of the simple genius. The
simple genius lets nature dominate, without restricting it; and as nature
in her particular phenomena is always subject to some want, it follows
that the simple sentiment will not be always exalted enough to resist the
accidental limitations of the present hour. The sentimental genius, on
the contrary, leaves aside the real world, to rise to the ideal and to
command its matter with free spontaneity. But while reason, according to
law, aspires always to the unconditional, so the sentimental genius will
not always remain calm enough to restrain itself uniformly and without
interruption within the conditions implied by the idea of human nature,
and to which reason must always, even in its freest acts, remain
attached. He could only confine himself in these conditions by help of a
receptivity proportioned to his free activity; but most commonly the
activity predominates over receptivity in the sentimental poet, as much
as receptivity over activity in the simple poet. Hence, in the
productions of simple genius, if sometimes inspiration is wanting, so
also in works of sentimental poetry the object is often missed. Thus,
though they proceed in opposite ways, they will both fall into a vacuum,
for before the aesthetic judgment an object without inspiration, and
inspiration without an object, are both negations.
The poets who borrow their matter too much from thought, and rather
conceive poetic pictures by the internal abundance of ideas than by the
suggestions of feeling, are more or less likely to be addicted to go thus
astray. In their creations reason makes too little of the limits of the
sensuous world, and thought is always carried too far for experience to
follow it. Now, when the idea is carried so far that not only no
experience corresponds to it--as is the case in the beau ideal--but also
that it is repugnant to the conditions of all possible experience, so
that, in order to realize it, one must leave human nature altogether, it
is no longer a poetic but an exaggerated thought; that is, supposing it
claims to be representable and poetical, for otherwise it is enough if it
is not self-contradictory. If thought is contradictory it is not
exaggeration, but nonsense; for what does not exist cannot exceed. But
when the thought is not an object proposed to the fancy, we are just as
little justified in calling it exaggerated. For simple thought is
infinite, and what is limitless also cannot exceed. Exaggeration,
therefore, is only that which wounds, not logical truth, but sensuous
truth, and what pretends to be sensuous truth. Consequently, if a poet
has the unhappy chance to choose for his picture certain natures that are
merely superhuman and cannot possibly be represented, he can only avoid
exaggeration by ceasing to be a poet, and not trusting the theme to his
imagination. Otherwise one of two things would happen: either
imagination, applying its limits to the object, would make a limited and
merely human object of an absolute object--which happened with the gods
of Greece--or the object would take away limits from fancy, that is,
would render it null and void, and this is precisely exaggeration.
Vulgar people may be excused what happens to the best capacities. Those
moments of repose demanded by nature after lengthy labor are not
favorable to aesthetic judgment, and hence in the busy classes few can
pronounce safely on matters of taste. Nothing is more common than for
scholars to make a ridiculous figure, in regard to a question of beauty,
besides cultured men of the world; and technical critics are especially
the laughing-stock of connoisseurs. Their opinion, from exaggeration,
crudeness, or carelessness guides them generally quite awry, and they can
only devise a technical judgment, and not an aesthetical one, embracing
the whole work, in which feeling should decide. If they would kindly
keep to technicalities they might still be useful, for the poet in
moments of inspiration and readers under his spell are little inclined to
consider details. But the spectacle which they afford us is only the
more ridiculous inasmuch as we see these crude natures--with whom all
labor and trouble only develop at the most a particular aptitude,--when
we see them set up their paltry individualities as the representation of
universal and complete feeling, and in the sweat of their brow pronounce
judgment on beauty.
We have just seen that the kind of recreation poetry ought to afford is
generally conceived in too restricted a manner, and only referred to a
simple sensuous want. Too much scope, however, is also given to the
other idea, the moral ennobling the poet should have in view, inasmuch as
too purely an ideal aim is assigned.
Sulzer has remarked that the stage has arisen from an irresistible
longing for the new and extraordinary. Man, oppressed by divided cares,
and satiated with sensual pleasure, felt an emptiness or want. Man,
neither altogether satisfied with the senses, nor forever capable of
thought, wanted a middle state, a bridge between the two states, bringing
them into harmony. Beauty and aesthetics supplied that for him. But a
good lawgiver is not satisfied with discovering the bent of his people--
he turns it to account as an instrument for higher use; and hence he
chose the stage, as giving nourishment to the soul, without straining it,
and uniting the noblest education of the head and heart.
The man who first pronounced religion to be the strongest pillar of the
state, unconsciously defended the stage, when he said so, in its noblest
aspect. The uncertain nature of political events, rendering religion a
necessity, also demands the stage as a moral force. Laws only prevent
disturbances of social life; religion prescribes positive orders
sustaining social order. Law only governs actions; religion controls the
heart and follows thought to the source.
Where the influence of civil laws ends that of the stage begins. Where
venality and corruption blind and bias justice and judgment, and
intimidation perverts its ends, the stage seizes the sword and scales and
pronounces a terrible verdict on vice. The fields of fancy and of
history are open to the stage; great criminals of the past live over
again in the drama, and thus benefit an indignant posterity. They pass
before us as empty shadows of their age, and we heap curses on their
memory while we enjoy on the stage the very horror of their crimes. When
morality is no more taught, religion no longer received, or laws exist,
Medea would still terrify us with her infanticide. The sight of Lady
Macbeth, while it makes us shudder, will also make us rejoice in a good
conscience, when we see her, the sleep-walker, washing her hands and
seeking to destroy the awful smell of murder. Sight is always more
powerful to man than description; hence the stage acts more powerfully
than morality or law.
But in this the stage only aids justice. A far wider field is really
open to it. There are a thousand vices unnoticed by human justice, but
condemned by the stage; so, also, a thousand virtues overlooked by man's
laws are honored on the stage. It is thus the handmaid of religion and
philosophy. From these pure sources it draws its high principles and the
exalted teachings, and presents them in a lovely form. The soul swells
with noblest emotions when a divine ideal is placed before it. When
Augustus offers his forgiving hand to Cinna, the conspirator, and says to
him: "Let us be friends, Cinna!" what man at the moment does not feel
that he could do the same. Again, when Francis von Sickingen, proceeding
to punish a prince and redress a stranger, on turning sees the house,
where his wife and children are, in flames, and yet goes on for the sake
of his word--how great humanity appears, how small the stern power of
fate!
The stage does even more than this. It cultivates the ground where
religion and law do not think it dignified to stop. Folly often troubles
the world as much as crime; and it has been justly said that the heaviest
loads often hang suspended by the slightest threads. Tracing actions to
their sources, the list of criminals diminish, and we laugh at the long
catalogue of fools. In our sex all forms of evil emanate almost entirely
from one source, and all our excesses are only varied and higher forms of
one quality, and that a quality which in the end we smile at and love;
and why should not nature have followed this course in the opposite sex
too? In man there is only one secret to guard against depravity; that
is, to protect his heart against wickedness.
The stage alone can do this with impunity, chastising us as the anonymous
fool. We can bear this rebuke without a blush, and even gratefully.
But the stage does even more than this. It is a great school of
practical wisdom, a guide for civil life, and a key to the mind in all
its sinuosities. It does not, of course, remove egoism and stubbornness
in evil ways; for a thousand vices hold up their heads in spite of the
stage, and a thousand virtues make no impression on cold-hearted
spectators. Thus, probably, Moliere's Harpagon never altered a
usurer's heart, nor did the suicide in Beverley save any one from the
gaming-table. Nor, again, is it likely that the high roads will be safer
through Karl Moor's untimely end. But, admitting this, and more than
this, still how great is the influence of the stage! It has shown us the
vices and virtues of men with whom we have to live. We are not surprised
at their weaknesses, we are prepared for them. The stage points them out
to us, and their remedy. It drags off the mask from the hypocrite, and
betrays the meshes of intrigue. Duplicity and cunning have been forced
by it to show their hideous features in the light of day. Perhaps the
dying Sarah may not deter a single debauchee, nor all the pictures of
avenged seduction stop the evil; yet unguarded innocence has been shown
the snares of the corrupter, and taught to distrust his oaths.
The stage also teaches men to bear the strokes of fortune. Chance and
design have equal sway over life. We have to bow to the former, but we
control the latter. It is a great advantage if inexorable facts do not
find us unprepared and unexercised, and if our breast has been steeled to
bear adversity. Much human woe is placed before us on the stage. It
gives us momentary pain in the tears we shed for strangers' troubles, but
as a compensation it fills us with a grand new stock of courage and
endurance. We are led by it, with the abandoned Ariadne, through the
Isle of Naxos, and we descend the Tower of Starvation in Ugolino; we
ascend the terrible scaffold, and we are present at the awful moment of
execution. Things remotely present in thought become palpable realities
now. We see the deceived favorite abandoned by the queen. When about to
die, the perfidious Moor is abandoned by his own sophistry. Eternity
reveals the secrets of the unknown through the dead, and the hateful
wretch loses all screen of guilt when the tomb opens to condemn him.
The great of the world ought to be especially grateful to the stage, for
it is here alone that they hear the truth.
Not only man's mind, but also his intellectual culture, has been promoted
by the higher drama. The lofty mind and the ardent patriot have often
used the stage to spread enlightenment.
Considering nations and ages, the thinker sees the masses enchained by
opinion and cut off by adversity from happiness; truth only lights up a
few minds, who perhaps have to acquire it by the trials of a lifetime.
How can the wise ruler put these within the reach of his nation.
The thoughtful and the worthier section of the people diffuse the light
of wisdom over the masses through the stage. Purer and better principles
and motives issue from the stage and circulate through society: the night
of barbarism and superstition vanishes. I would mention two glorious
fruits of the higher class of dramas. Religious toleration has latterly
become universal. Before Nathan the Jew and Saladin the Saracen put us
to shame, and showed that resignation to God's will did not depend on a
fancied belief of His nature--even before Joseph II. contended with the
hatred of a narrow piety--the stage had sown seeds of humanity and
gentleness: pictures of fanaticism had taught a hatred of intolerance,
and Christianity, seeing itself in this awful mirror, washed off its
stains. It is to be hoped that the stage will equally combat mistaken
systems of education. This is a subject of the first political
importance, and yet none is so left to private whims and caprice. The
stage might give stirring examples of mistaken education, and lead
parents to juster, better views of the subject. Many teachers are led
astray by false views, and methods are often artificial and fatal.
Another advantage belongs to the stage; one which seems to have become
acknowledged even by its censurers. Its influence on intellectual and
moral culture, which we have till now been advocating, may be doubted;
but its very enemies have admitted that it has gained the palm over all
other means of amusement. It has been of much higher service here than
people are often ready to allow.
Human nature cannot bear to be always on the rack of business, and the
charms of sense die out with their gratification. Man, oppressed by
appetites, weary of long exertion, thirsts for refined pleasure, or
rushes into dissipations that hasten his fall and ruin, and disturb
social order. Bacchanal joys, gambling, follies of all sorts to disturb
ennui, are unavoidable if the lawgiver produces nothing better. A man of
public business, who has made noble sacrifices to the state, is apt to
pay for them with melancholy, the scholar to become a pedant, and the
people brutish, without the stage. The stage is an institution combining
amusement with instruction, rest with exertion, where no faculty of the
mind is overstrained, no pleasure enjoyed at the cost of the whole. When
melancholy gnaws the heart, when trouble poisons our solitude, when we
are disgusted with the world, and a thousand worries oppress us, or when
our energies are destroyed by over-exercise, the stage revives us, we
dream of another sphere, we recover ourselves, our torpid nature is
roused by noble passions, our blood circulates more healthily. The
unhappy man forgets his tears in weeping for another. The happy man is
calmed, the secure made provident. Effeminate natures are steeled,
savages made man, and, as the supreme triumph of nature, men of all
clanks, zones, and conditions, emancipated from the chains of
conventionality and fashion, fraternize here in a universal sympathy,
forget the world, and come nearer to their heavenly destination. The
individual shares in the general ecstacy, and his breast has now only
space for an emotion: he is a man.
Many attempts have been made to account for the pleasure of pity, but
most of these solutions had little chance of meeting the problem, because
the principle of this phenomenon was sought for rather in the
accompanying circumstances than in the nature of the affection itself.
To many persons the pleasure of pity is simply the pleasure taken by the
mind in exercising its own sensibility. To others it is the pleasure of
occupying their forces energetically, of exercising the social faculty
vividly--in short, of satisfying the instinct of restlessness. Others
again make it derived from the discovery of morally fine features of
character, placed in a clear light by the struggle against adversity or
against the passions. But there is still the difficulty to explain why
it should be exactly the very feeling of pain,--suffering properly so
called,--that in objects of pity attracts us with the greatest force,
while, according to those elucidations, a less degree of suffering ought
evidently to be more favorable to those causes to which the source of the
emotion is traced. Various matters may, no doubt, increase the pleasure
of the emotion without occasioning it. Of this nature are the vividness
and force of the ideas awakened in our imagination, the moral excellence
of the suffering persons, the reference to himself of the person feeling
pity. I admit that the suffering of a weak soul, and the pain of a
wicked character, do not procure us this enjoyment. But this is because
they do not excite our pity to the same degree as the hero who suffers,
or the virtuous man who struggles. Thus we are constantly brought back
to the first question: why is it precisely the degree of suffering that
determines the degree of sympathetic pleasure which we take in an
emotion? and one answer only is possible; it is because the attack made
on our sensibility is precisely the condition necessary to set in motion
that quality of mind of which the activity produces the pleasure we feel
in sympathetic affections.
Now this faculty is no other than the reason; and because the free
exercise of reason, as an absolutely independent activity, deserves par
excellence the name of activity; as, moreover, the heart of man only
feels itself perfectly free and independent in its moral acts, it follows
that the charm of tragic emotions is really dependent on the fact that
this instinct of activity finds its gratification in them. But, even
admitting this, it is neither the great number nor the vivacity of the
ideas that are awakened then in our imagination, nor in general the
exercise of the social faculty, but a certain kind of ideas and a certain
activity of the social faculty brought into play by reason, which is the
foundation of this pleasure.
Hence the state of mind which allows most effectually the manifestation
of this force, and awakens most successfully its activity, is that state
which is most suitable to a rational being, and which best satisfies our
instincts of activity: whence it follows that a greater amount of
pleasure must be attached necessarily to this state. Now it is the
tragic states that place our soul in this state, and the pleasure found
in them is necessarily higher than the charm produced by gay affections,
in the same degree that moral power in us is superior to the power of the
senses.
Points that are only subordinate and partial in a system of final causes
may be considered by art independently of that relation with the rest,
and may be converted into principal objects. It is right that in the
designs of nature pleasure should only be a mediate end, or a means; but
for art it is the highest end. It is therefore essentially important for
art not to neglect this high enjoyment attaching to the tragic emotion.
Now, tragic art, taking this term in its widest acceptation, is that
among the fine arts which proposes as its principal object the pleasure
of pity.
After what we have established in our essay "On the Cause of the Pleasure
we derive from Tragic Objects," it is known that in every tragic emotion
there is an idea of incongruity, which, though the emotion may be
attended with charm, must always lead on to the conception of a higher
consistency. Now it is the relation that these two opposite conceptions
mutually bear which determines in an emotion if the prevailing impression
shall be pleasurable or the reverse. If the conception of incongruity be
more vivid than that of the contrary, or if the end sacrificed is more
important than the end gained, the prevailing impression will always be
displeasure, whether this be understood objectively of the human race in
general, or only subjectively of certain individuals.