# The Robbers (Schiller)/Act II

ACT II.
SCENE, Moor's Castle.
Francis de Moor alone in his apartment.
I'VE lost all patience with these doctors.—An old man's life is an eternity.—Must my noble plans creep the snail's pace of a dotard's lingering hours of life? If one could point a new track for death to enter the fort!—That to tear the soul should kill the body!—Ay, that were something! an original invention!—He that should make that discovery were a second Columbus in the empire of death!—Think on that, Moor.—'Twere an art worthy to have thee for its inventor!—How then shall we begin the work?—What horrible emotion would have the force to break at once the thread of life? Rage? No! that hungry wolf surfeits himself, and regorges his meal! Grief? That's a worm that lingers in the flesh, and mines his way too slowly!—Fear? No! hope blunts his dart, and will not let him strike his prey!—What! are these our only executioners? Is the arsenal of ​death so soon exhausted? Hum!—hum! (Musing,) What now?—No more?—Ha! I have it! Terror is the word!—What is proof against Terror? Reason, religion, hope—all must give way before this giant fiend!—And then—should he even bear the shock—there's more behind.—Anguish of mind, come aid the imperfect work!—Repentance, gnawing viper of the soul—monster that ruminatest thy baneful food!—And thou Remorse! that livest on thy mother's flesh, and wast'st thine own inheritance!—And you, even you, ye powers of Grace and Mercy! give your aid! Ye blissful years o'erpast, display your charms to memory's fond retrospect, and poison with your sweets the present hour!—Ye scenes of future bliss, combine to wound—shew him the joys of paradise before him, and hold the dazzling mirror out to hope, but cheat his feeble grasp!—Thus let me play my battery of death—stroke after stroke incessant—till nature's mound is broken—and the whole troop of furies seize the soul, and end their work by horror and despair! Triumphant thought!—So now—the plan's my own! Now for the work!
Enter Herman.
Ha! Deus ex machinâ! Herman!
Herman.
Herman, at your service, good Sir!
Francis.
(Gives him his hand.) I am much obliged to you, Herman. I am not ungrateful.
Herman.
I have proofs of that, Sir.
Francis.
You shall have more anon—anon, good Herman!—I have something to say to you, Herman.
Herman.
I hear you with a thousand ears!
Francis.
I know you well—you're resolute and brave—you have a soldier's heart!—My father, Herman—by heavens, he wrong'd you much!
Herman.
By hell, I won't forget it!
Francis.
That's spoken like a man! Revenge becomes ​a man! I like you, Herman! Here, take this purse!—It should be heavier, were I the master here.
Herman.
Good Sir, I thank you heartily.—'Tis my most earnest wish you were so.
Francis.
Say you so, good Herman? Do you really,—do you in your heart wish me to be the master?—But my father,—he has the marrow of a lion in his bones; and I am but a younger son.—
Herman.
I wish you were the elder,—and he in the last stage of a consumption.
Francis.
Ha! were that the case, the eldest son would not forget you, my friend.—Then would he raise you from the dust;—from that low condition which so ill becomes your merits,—nay, your birth:—he would draw you forth into light:—Then should you roll in gold,—a splendid equipage;—then would,—but I have wandered from what I meant to say.—Have you quite forgot the fair Edelreich, Herman?
Herman.
Thunder of Heaven! Why have you called up that idea?
Francis.
You lost her.—'Twas my brother that was the conjurer there.——
Herman.
He shall pay dearly for it.
Francis.
She dismissed you, I believe,—and he thrust you down stairs.——
Herman.
I shall thrust him down to hell for that.
Francis.
He used to say, 'twas whispered, that your father never could look at you, without smiting his breast, and crying "God-a-mercy on my sins!"
Herman.
(Furiously.) Lightning blast him!—Stop there!
Francis.
He advised you to sell your patent of nobility to mend your stockings.
Herman.
Hell consume him! I'll tear his eyes out with these nails.——
Francis.
What! you are exasperated at him.—Poor Herman! What signifies your malice? What harm can you do to him? What can a rat do to a lion?—Your rage but makes his triumph the sweeter:—You have nothing for it but to grind your teeth in silence,—to spend your fury in gnawing at a dry crust.
Herman.
(Stamping with his feet.) I'll crush him,—trample him beneath my feet!
Francis.
(Clapping him on the shoulder.) Fy, Herman! You are a gentleman.—This affront must not be put up with.—You would not renounce the lady? No, not for the world.—Fire and fury! I would move heaven and earth if I were in your place!
Herman.
I will not rest till I have him under my feet.
Francis.
Not quite so outrageous, Herman.—Come near,—thou shalt have Amelia.
Herman.
I'll have her! in spite of hell, I'll have her!
Francis.
You shall have her, I tell you,—and from my hand.—Come near!—You don't know perhaps that Charles is as good as disinherited.
Herman.
(Coming near.) Impossible! I never heard a syllable of that.
Francis.
Be quiet, and hear me!—Another time I'll tell you more of this.—It's now eleven months since he has been in a manner banished.—But the old man begins to repent a little of the precipitate step he has taken; though (smiling) I flatter myself it was not all his own doing neither;—and the girl too,—Amelia I mean,—pursues him incessantly with her tears and reproaches.—He'll be sending in quest of him by and by all over the ​world; and if he is found, good night to you, Herman!—You may then make your obeisance, and humbly open the coach-door when he goes to church with her.
Herman.
I'll strangle him at the altar!
Francis.
His father will soon give up his estates to him, and live in retirement at his solitary castle.—Then that proud hot-headed blusterer will have the reins in his own hand,—and laugh his enemies to scorn;—and I, Herman, I who would make a man of you, and load you with riches,—I myself must make my humble obeisance at his door.—
Herman.
(Warmly.) No, as sure as my name is Herman, that shall never be! If there is a spark of invention in this head, that shall never be.
Francis.
Will you prevent it? You too, my dear Herman, must sink beneath his scourge.—He'll spit in your face when he meets you in the streets;—and woe be to you, if you but shrug a shoulder, or crook ​your mouth at him!—Ay—there's the amount of all your fine prospects, your hopes of love, your mighty plans.——
Herman.
(Eagerly.) Tell me then what I must do.
Francis.
Hear then, Herman! You see how I enter into your feelings like a true friend.—Go, change your cloaths—disguise yourself, so as not to be known—get yourself announced to the old man as one that is just returned from Hungary—give out, that you was with my brother at the last battle, and that you was present when he breathed his last upon the field!——
Herman.
Will they believe me?
Francis.
Pho! let me alone for that.—Take this packet—Here you'll find a commission, and all the necessary documents, that would convince suspicion itself of the truth of your story.—Only be quick in getting out, and take care you are not seen.—Slip out by the back door into the court, and ​thence over the garden-wall.—As for the winding up of the plot, leave that to me!
Herman.
And then it will be, "Long live our new master, our noble Lord, Francis de Moor!"
Francis.
(Patting him on the cheek.) Ha! what a cunning rogue you are—you see it at the first glance! For look'ye how sure and how quick the project works—Amelia's hopes are gone at once—The old man lays his son's death at his own door—he falls sick—A tottering house does not need an earthquake to bring it down—He'll never outlive your intelligence—Then—then I am his only son—Amelia has lost every support, and is the plaything of my will—Then you may easily guess what follows—you—in short all goes to a wish.—But you must not flinch from your word!
Herman.
Francis.
(Running after him.) Remember, 'tis all for yourself you are working. (Follows him with his eyes to the end of the stage—and then breaks out into an infernal laugh.) Keen, earnest, to a wish!—How impetuously the blockhead throws off his honesty, to snatch at an object, that the smallest spark of common sense must convince him he can never attain. (Peevishly.) No—that's unpardonable! This fellow is an arrant knave—and yet he trusts to one's promise.—It costs him nothing to deceive an honest man—and yet when deceived himself he never will forgive it.—Is this the boasted lord of the creation! Pardon me, Dame Nature! if I owe you a grudge for that form you have given me.—Complete your work, by stripping me of every vestige of humanity.—Man! thou hast forfeited all my regard—nor in my conscience do I think there is the smallest crime in doing all I can to injure thee!
(Exit.
SCENE, Count de Moor's Bed-chamber.
The Count asleep, Amelia.
Amelia.
Softly,—oh, softly,—he is asleep. (She stops and looks at him.) How good! how venerable!—Such is the countenance with which they paint the blessed saints!—Angry with thee! Oh no—with that gray head! Oh never, never! (She scatters a bunch of roses upon the bed.)—Sweet be thy slumber, as the roses sweet perfume. May the image of Charles visit you in your dreams! May you wake in a bed of roses!—I too will go sleep amidst perfumes;—mine is the Rosemary. (She goes a few steps.)
O. Moor.
(In his sleep.) My Charles! my Charles! my Charles!
Amelia.
Hark! His guardian angel has heard my prayer! (Coming near him.) 'Tis sweet to breathe the air in which his name was uttered.—I'll stay here.
O. Moor.
(Still in his sleep.) Are you there? Are you truly there? Ah! do not look so pitifully upon me!—I am miserable enough already! (He stirs restlessly.)
Amelia.
(Wakens him hastily.) Uncle! my dear uncle!—'Twas but a dream!
O. Moor.
(Half awake.) Was he not there? Had I not his hand in mine?—Is not this the smell of roses? O hateful Francis, will you not let me dream of him?
Amelia.
(Drawing back.) Mark'st thou that, Amelia!
O. Moor.
(Wakens.) Where am I?—Are you here, my niece?
Amelia.
You had a delightful sleep, uncle.
O. Moor.
I was dreaming of my Charles.—Why did they break my dreams?—I might have had my pardon from his mouth.
Amelia.
(Passionately) His pardon! Angels have no resentment. He forgives you, uncle. (Pressing his hand.) Father of my Charles, I forgive you too.
O. Moor.
No, no, my child,—that wan cheek,—that deadly pale bears witness,—in spite of thee! Poor girl!—I have blasted all the promise of thy spring,—thy joys of youth.—Don't forgive me,—but oh, do not curse me!
Amelia.
Can there be a curse of love?—Here it is then, my father. (Kisses his hand with tenderness.)
O. Moor.
(Rising from the bed.) What's here, my child? Roses? Did you strew these roses here? On me?—On me, who killed your Charles?
Amelia.
I strew'd them on his father! (Falling on his neck.) No more on him can I strew them!
O. Moor.
With what delight would'st thou have done so!—And yet, my child, unknowingly 'tis done;—for see,—know you that picture? (Drawing aside the curtain of the bed.)
Amelia.
(Rushing towards the picture.) 'Tis Charles!
O. Moor.
Such was he in his sixteenth year.—But now how changed!—I shudder to think upon it—That sweetness, now fell misanthropy—that smile, despair!—Is't not so, Amelia?——It was upon his birth-day—in the bower of jessamine, that you drew that picture of him.
Amelia.
O, never will I forget that day!—Past and gone for ever! He sat just before me—a ray of the setting sun shone full upon his face—and his dark locks floated carelessly on his neck! O, in that hour 'twas all the woman here—the artist was forgot—the pencil fell from my hand—and my trembling lips fed, in imagination, on every line and track of that dear countenance!—My heart was full of the original.—The weak, inanimate ​touches fell feebly on the canvas—languid as those faint traces which the memory bears of music that is past——
O. Moor.
Say on! continue thus! these images bring back past time.—O my child, I was so happy in your loves!
Amelia.
(Keeping her eyes still on the picture.) No, no—it is not he!—no, no, by heaven! 'Tis not my Charles!—Here! (Striking her heart and her forehead,) Here he is quite himself—so like—but there so different.—The pencil can give no idea of that soul that spoke in his countenance!—Away with it—'tis a poor image—an ordinary man!—Oh! I was a mere novice in the art!
Enter Daniel.
Daniel.
There is a man without who wishes to see you, Sir. He says he brings tidings of importance.
O. Moor.
To me, Amelia, there is but one subject of ​such tidings—you know it.—Perhaps 'tis some poor wretch who comes to me for charity—for relief—he shall not go hence in sorrow.
(Exit Daniel.
Amelia.
A beggar!—and he is let in at once!
O. Moor.
Amelia! Oh spare me, my child!
Enter Francis, Herman in disguise, and Daniel.
Francis.
Here is the man, Sir. He says he has terrible news for you.—Can you bear to hear it, Sir?
O. Moor.
I know but one thing terrible to hear.—Speak it out, friend.—Give him some wine there.
Herman.
(In a feigned voice.) Will your honour take no offence at a poor man because he brings you bad news?—'tis against his will. I am a stranger in this country—but I know you well: you are the father of Charles de Moor.
O. Moor.
How know you that?
Herman.
I know your son——
Amelia.
Is he alive?—is he alive?—Do you know him?—Where is he?—where, where? (Is running out.)
O. Moor.
Do you know my son?
Herman.
He studied at the university of Leipzick.—Whither he went from thence I know not.—He wandered all over Germany bare headed and bare footed, as he told me himself, and begg'd his bread from door to door!—About five months afterwards that terrible war broke out between the Poles and Turks—and being quite desperate, he followed the victorious army of King Matthias to the town of Pest.—Give me leave, said he to the King, to die on the bed of heroes!—I have no father now!——
O. Moor.
O do not look at me, Amelia!
Herman.
He got a pair of colours—he followed Matthias in his victories;—he and I slept in the same tent—often did he speak of his old father—of the days of his former happiness—and of his blasted hopes—till his eyes ran over at the thought!—
O. Moor.
(Hiding his head.) Enough, enough,—no more!—
Herman.
Eight days afterwards, we had a hot engagement.—Your son behaved like a gallant soldier.—He did prodigies that day,—as the whole army witnessed;—he saw five regiments successively relieved, and he kept his ground. A whole shower of fire was poured in on every quarter.—Your son kept his ground;—a ball shattered his right hand;—he seized the colours with the left, and still he kept his ground.—
Amelia.
(In transport.) He kept his ground, father! he kept his ground!
Herman.
On the evening of the day of battle, I found ​him lying on the field,—on that same spot.—With his left hand he was stopping the blood that flowed from a large wound. He had buried his right hand in the earth.—Fellow soldier, said he, I am told that the General has fallen an hour ago.—He is fallen, said I, and you—Well then! said he,—every brave soldier ought to follow his General.—He took his hand from the wound;—and in a few moments—he breathed his last—like a hero.
Francis.
(Pretending rage.) Curs'd be that tongue!—May it be dumb for ever—Wretch! Are you come here, to be our father's executioner?—to murder him?—My father! Amelia! My dear father!
Herman.
It was the last request of my dying friend.—Take this sword, said he, in a faultering voice,—carry it to my old father.—It is marked with the blood of his son.—Tell him, his malediction was my doom:—'twas that which made me rush on battle, and on death.—I die in despair.—The last word he uttered was,—Amelia.
Amelia.
(As if starting from a deep reverie.) The last word was Amelia!
O. Moor.
(With a dreadful shriek, and tearing his hair.) My malediction was his death! He died in despair!
Herman.
Here is the sword,—and here a picture that he took from his bosom at the same time.—Methinks it is this lady's picture.—This, said he, my brother Francis will——What more he would have said, I know not.
Francis.
(With astonishment.) To me, that picture? To me? Amelia to me?
Amelia.
(Coming up to Herman with fury.) Impostor! Villain, base, hired, perfidious villain! (Seizes him rudely.)
Herman.
Madam, I know nothing of it.—Look at it yourself:—See whether it is your picture:—Perhaps you gave it him yourself.
Francis.
By heavens! Amelia, 'tis your picture! Yours, as I live!
Amelia.
(Giving it back.) 'Tis mine!—'tis mine! O heaven and earth!
O. Moor.
(With an agonizing cry.) Oh, Oh! My malediction was his death! He died in despair!
Herman.
(With real emotion, and much agitated.) I cannot stand it! This sight of misery unmans me! My Lord, farewel.——(Aside to Francis.) Have you a heart? How could you do this?
(Exit hastily.
Amelia.
(Running after him.) Stay, stay! what was his last word?
Herman.
(Coming back.) With his last breath, he sigh'd Amelia!
(Exit.
Amelia.
Amelia! with his last sigh!—No, thou art no impostor—it is true—alas, too true! He is dead! my Charles is dead!
Francis.
What do I see? What is that upon the sword?—written in blood—Amelia!
Amelia.
With his blood?
Francis.
Am I in a dream? or is it really so?—Look at these characters—they are traced in blood: "Francis, do not abandon my Amelia!" See again—see here, on the other side, "Amelia, all-powerful death has freed you from your vows!" Do you mark that? With his dying hand he traced it—he wrote it with his heart's ​blood—yes, on the awful brink of eternity he wrote it!
Amelia.
Almighty God! it is his hand.—Oh! he never loved me!
(Exit.
Francis.
(Stamping with his feet.) Damnation! he has a heart of adamant! thus buffetted, and yet unbroken—all my art is lost upon him!——
O. Moor.
O misery! My child, my daughter, do not abandon me! (To Francis.) Wretch! give me back my son!
Francis.
Who was it that gave him his malediction?—who was it that made him rush on battle and on death?—who drove him to despair?—Oh! he was a charming youth! a curse upon his murderers!
O. Moor.
(Beating his breast and forehead.) A curse! a curse! curse on the father who murdered his own son! I am that cursed father! He loved me, even in death! To expiate my vengeance, he rush'd on battle and on death!—Monster that I am! Oh monster!
Francis.
(With malignant irony.) He's dead—what signifies this idle lamentation.—'Tis easier to murder a man than to bring him alive!
O. Moor.
Wretch! it was you who made me throw him off,—who forced that malediction from my heart!—'Twas you!—you!—O give me back my son!
Francis.
Rouse not my fury.—I abandon you in death!
O. Moor.
Monster! inhuman monster! give me back my son! (He rises furiously, and endeavours to seize Francis by the throat, who runs out.) Ten thousand curses on thy head! lightning of heaven consume thee!—Thou hast robb'd me of my only son! (He sinks down.) Oh! oh!—to be in despair—and not to die!—They abandon me in death.—Is my good angel fled?—Yes! every angel must desert the murderer—the hoary murderer!—Oh! oh! will none for pity hold this head—will none release this spirit—no son! no daughter! no friend!—Is there to be found not one kind—Oh! despair—and not to die! (He faints.)
Amelia.
(Coming slowly in, sees him, and shrieks.) Dead! quite dead! (Rushes out in despair.)
SCENE, The Forests of Bohemia.
Razman enters from one side of the stage, and Spiegelberg, with a band of robbers, from the other.
Razman.
Welcome, brother! welcome, my brave fellow, to the forests of Bohemia. (They embrace.) Where have you ranged, in lightning and in tempest? Whence come you now?
Spiegelberg.
Hot from the fair of Leipzick at present.—There was rare sport!—ask Schufterle.—He bid me congratulate you on your safe return.—He has joined our Captain's great troop on the road. (Sitting down on the ground.) And how has it fared with you since we left you? How goes the trade?—I could tell you of such feats, my boy, that you would forego your dinner to hear them.
Razman.
I have no doubt on't.—We heard of you in all the newspapers—But where the devil have you picked up all this canaille?—Blood and thunder! you've brought us a little army—you recruit like a hero!
Spiegelberg.
Han't I?—ay, and a set of clever dogs too!—Hang up your hat in the sun, and I'll lay you five pounds 'tis gone in a twinkling, and the devil himself shan't tell where.
Razman.
(Laughing.) The Captain will make you welcome with these brave boys.—He has got some fine fellows too.
Spiegelberg.
Pshaw! your Captain!—Put his men and mine in comparison!—Bha!
Razman.
Well, well, yours may have good fingers—but I tell you our Captain's reputation has got him some brave fellows! Men of honour!
Spiegelberg.
So much the worse.
Enter Grimm, running in.
Razman.
What now? Who's there? Are there any travellers in the forest?
Grimm.
Quick! Quick! Where are the rest? Zounds! do you stand chattering there?—Don't you know—poor Roller?
Razman.
What now? What of him?
Grimm.
He's hang'd, that's all,—he and four more.
Razman.
Roller? What?—When?—Where did you hear it?
Grimm.
We heard nothing of him for three weeks.—He was all that time in jail, and we knew nothing of it:—He was three times put to the rack, to make him discover his captain:—The brave fellow never squeak'd.—Yesterday he got his sen​tence,—and this morning—he went off express to the devil.——
Razman.
Damnation! Has the Captain heard of it?
Grimm.
He heard of it only yesterday:—He is foaming with rage:—You know he always thought highly of Roller;—and now that he underwent the rack—We got ropes and a ladder to try to get him out,—but it was all in vain.—Moor himself put on the dress of a Capuchin, and got in to him.—He endeavoured to persuade him to change clothes with him,—but Roller positively refused—And now the Captain has sworn an oath, that made all our hairs stand on end! He vows he will light him such a funeral pile as never king had;—he will burn them alive.—The town itself, I fear, will go for it:—He has long owed them a spite for their intolerable bigotry:—And you know, when he says, "I'll do it," 'tis as good as if we had done it already.
Razman.
Ah! good God! poor Roller!
Spiegelberg.
"Memento mori." What care I? (Sings.)
Razman.
(Hastily rising.) Hark! a shot! (A great noise is heard of firing and huzzaing.)
Spiegelberg.
Another!
Razman.
And another! 'Tis the Captain. (A noise of singing behind the scenes.)
Da capo.
Roller's voice is heard, and Switzer's. Halloa! Halloa.
Razman.
Roller, by heavens! 'tis Roller!
Switzer and Roller.
(Still behind the scene.) Razman, Grimm, Spiegelberg, Razman!
Razman.
Roller! Thunder and lightning! Fire and fury! (They run to meet them.)
Enter Moor, as dismounting from his horse, Roller, Switzer, Schufterle, and the whole band, all bespattered as from the road.
Moor.
Liberty! Liberty! my boys! Roller is free.—Take my horse,—and dash a bottle of wine over him!——(He sits down on the ground.) 'Twas hot work!
Razman.
(To Roller.) By the forge of Pluto! you have had a resurrection from the wheel!
Spiegelberg.
Are you his ghost? or are you flesh and blood?
Roller.
(Quite breathless.) Flesh and blood, my boy! Where do you think I come from?
Grimm.
Who the devil knows?—Ask the witch on whose broomstick you rode.—Hadn't you received sentence?
Roller.
Ay truly,—and something more.—I was at the foot of the gallows, man! Stay till I get my breath—Switzer will tell you—Give me a glass of brandy!—Are you there, Maurice?—Come back too? I thought to have met you somewhere else.—Give me a glass of brandy! I have not one bone sticking to another,—that damn'd rack! The Captain! Where's my Captain?
Razman.
Have patience, man, have patience.—Come, tell us,—tell us,—How did you escape? How came you off? I am in a maze!—From the foot of the gallows, did you say?
Roller.
(Drinks off a bumper of brandy.) Ha! that smacks;—'t has the right bite;—strait from the gallows, boy.—You stare at me!—What, you don't believe it?—I was but three steps off from Abraham's bosom—No more.—You would not have given a pinch of snuff for my life.—'Twas my Captain; I thank my Captain for my breath, my liberty, my life!
Switzer.
Hah! 'twas a trick worth the telling.—It was but yesterday we got notice by our spies, that Roller lay snug in a pickle; and that unless the sky fell, or some such accident, before morning,—that's to day, he would be gone the way of all flesh.—Come, said the Captain! Shall our friend go swing, and we do nothing for him—Save him or not. I promise you, I'll light him such a pile, as few have seen the like!—He gave his orders to the band.—We sent a trusty fellow, who contrived to give Roller notice, by slipping a scrap of paper into his soup.
Roller.
I had no hopes of the thing succeeding.
Switzer.
We watched for the moment when everything was quiet,—the streets deserted,—every mortal gone to see the sight,—horse, foot, coaches, all pell-mell.—We heard even the noise at the gallows, and the psalm singing.—Now, said the Captain, now's the time! Set fire!—Our fellows ​darted like a shot through the whole town,—set fire to it at once in three and thirty different places;—they threw burning matches on the powder magazine,—into the churches and the storehouses.—'Sdeath! It was scarcely a quarter of an hour,—when a brisk gale from the north-east, that certainly owed them a spite, like us, gave us all the help we wished, and in a moment the whole was in a whirlwind of fire.—We ran up and down the streets like furies, crying, Fire! Fire! in every quarter!—Then there was such a horrible noise and confusion.—The great bells were set a-ringing.—The powder magazine blew up.—'Twas as if heaven, earth, and hell had all gone together.
Roller.
Then my attendants began to look behind them.—'Twas like Sodom and Gomorrah;—the whole town in a blaze:—Sulphur, smoke, and fire:—All the range of hills re-echoed with the explosions:—The terror was universal:—Now was the time:—They had taken off my irons;—so very near was it;—touch and go;—off I went like an arrow;—out of sight in a moment while they stood petrified, like Lot's wife.—Luckily I had but a few paces to run to the river—I tore off my clothes, jump'd in, and swam under water, till I ​thought they had lost sight of me.—Our brave Captain was on t'other side, with horses ready, and clothes for me.—And here, my boys,—here I am! Moor, Moor, my brave fellow,—I wish only you were in the same scrape, that I might help you out of it.
Razman.
Spoke like a brute;—a beast that ought to be hang'd!—Egad it was a masterly stroke!
Roller.
Ay so it was.—Help at a pinch!—A friend in need is a friend indeed, say I;—but you can't judge of it.—No,—unless you had the rope about your neck, and were walking all alive to your grave.—Then those hellish preparations,—and every foot you went, a step nearer that curs'd machine, which met you so in full view,—clear,—damnably illuminated by the rising sun;—then the executioner and his men sneaking behind you,—and that infernal psalm-singing.—Zounds, my ears are ringing with it yet;—and then the croaking of a whole legion of carrion-crows that had been feasting on the precious corruption of my predecessor, that hung there half-rotted away:—But above all, the hellish joy that those rascals ​expressed when they saw me coming.—Oh, I shall never forget it.—No, for all the treasures of Crœsus, I would not undergo that again.—Dying! Zounds, 'tis no more than cutting a caper:—'Tis what goes before that's the devil.
Spiegelberg.
And the powder-magazine was blown in the air?—that accounts for the stink of brimstone we smelt far and near, as if the devil's wardrobe had been on fire.
Switzer.
Damnation! If they made a holiday for the hanging of our poor comrade, why shouldn't we make a holiday for the burning of their town,—when he was to escape by it.—Schufterle, can you tell how many were killed?
Schufterle.
Eighty-three, they say;—the steeple crush'd sixty of them to death.
Moor.
(In a very serious tone.) Roller, you were dearly bought.
Schufterle.
Pah! pah! what signifies all that?—Indeed, if they had been men—but they were babies in leading-strings, mere bantlings—or old Mother Shiptons, their nurses—and perhaps a few poor atomies that had not strength to crawl to their doors.—All that had any soul or spirit in them were at the show.—'Twas the mere scum, the dregs, that staid at home.
Moor.
Poor wretches! the old, the decrepid, and the infants!
Schufterle.
Ay, devil burn 'em! a few sick wretches too—women in labour, perhaps, or just at the down-lying.—Ha! ha! in passing one of those little barracks, I heard some squalling—I peep'd in, and what do you think it was? a child, a stout little rogue, that lay on the floor beneath a table, and the fire just catching it!—Poor little fellow, said I, you are starving for cold there—and so I chuck'd him into the fire!
Moor.
Did you so, Schufterle? May that fire consume ​you, body and soul, to all eternity!—Out of my sight, you monster!—never be seen in my troop again! (The band begin to murmur.) What! you murmur, do ye!—Who dares to murmur, when I command?—Out of my sight, I say, Sir!—There are others among you who are ripe for my indignation.—Spiegelberg, I know you—It won't be long e'er I call over the roll, and I'll make such a muster as shall make you all tremble.
(They go out much agitated.
Moor.
(Alone, walking backwards and forewards in great agitation.) Hear it not, O God of vengeance! Am I to blame for this? Art thou to blame, O Father of Heaven! when the instruments of thy wrath, the pestilence, flood, and famine, overwhelm at once the righteous and the guilty? Who can command the flames to stay their course, to destroy only the noxious vermin, and spare the fertile field?—Poor fool! O shame! hast thou then presumptuously dared to wield Jove's thunder, and with thy aimless arm to let the Titan 'scape, while the poor pigmy suffers.—Go, slave! 'tis not for thee to wield the sword of the Most High! Behold thy first essay!—Here then I renounce the rash design—hence! let me seek some ​cavern of the earth to hide me—to hide my shame from the eye of day!
(Is going out.
Enter Roller.
Roller.
Take care of yourself, Captain—the spirits are walking—there are several troops of Bohemian horsemen patroling all around us—that hellish Blueshanks must have betrayed us.
Enter Grimm.
Grimm.
Captain, Captain, we are discovered, track'd!—there's a circle drawn in the forest, and some thousands surrounding us!
Enter Spiegelberg.
Spiegelberg.
O Lord! O Lord! O Lord! we are all taken—every man of us hang'd, drawn, and quarter'd!—Ten thousand Hussars, Dragoons, and Jaghers, have got to the heights above us, and block'd up all the passes.
(Moor exit.
Enter Switzer, Razman, Schufterle, and other robbers, from every side of the stage.
Switzer.
Ha! have we unkennel'd them at last? Give you joy, Roller!—It's long since I have wish'd to have a fair tilting-bout with the regulars.—Where is the Captain? Is all the band assembled? Have we ammunition enough?
Razman.
Plenty of that—but we're only eighty in all—not one to twenty!
Switzer.
So much the better—these poor dogs are shot at for sixpence—we fight for life and liberty—we'll pour down on them like the deluge—give them a volley like thunder!—Where the devil is our Captain?
Spiegelberg.
He deserts us at this extremity.—Is there no way left for an escape then?
Switzer.
Escape! coward, beast! may hell choke you ​for that word! You gape there with your lanthorn jaws, and when you hear a shot——Zounds, sirrah! show your face in the ranks, or you shall be sew'd alive in a sack, and thrown to the dogs!
Razman.
The Captain! the Captain!
Enter Moor, with a slow pace.
Moor.
(Apart.) I have let them be completely surrounded—they must fight like desperadoes.——Well, my boys, we're tied to the stake—one choice—fight or die!
Switzer.
Ha! I'll rip them up alive! Lead us on, Captain, we'll follow you to the gates of hell!
Moor.
Load all your muskets.—Have you powder enough?
Swizter.
(Starting up.) Powder enough! ay, to blow the earth up to the moon!
Razman.
Each of us have five pair of pistols loaded, and three carabines.
Moor.
Well done.—Some of you must get upon the trees, and others conceal themselves in the thickets, and fire upon them in ambush.
Switzer.
Spiegelberg, that will be your post.
Moor.
The rest of us will fall like furies on their flanks.
Switzer.
I'll be one, by heavens!
Moor.
And every man too must sound his whistle, and gallop through the wood, that our numbers may appear the more terrible. We must set loose all our dogs, and spirit them to fly at the ranks, and throw them into confusion, that they may run upon our fire.—We three, Roller, Switzer, and I, will fight wherever the main force is.
Enter a Commissary.
Grimm.
Ha! here comes one of the blood-hounds of justice!
Swizter.
Kill him on the spot.—Don't let him open his mouth!
Moor.
Peace there! I'll hear what he has to say.
Commissary.
With your leave, gentlemen.——I have in my person the full authority of justice; and there are eight hundred soldiers here at hand, who watch over every hair of my head.
Switzer.
A very persuasive argument to stay our stomachs.
Moor.
Comrade, be quiet! Speak, Sir, and be brief.—What are your commands for us?
Commissary.
I come, Sir, by authority of that august magis​trate who decides upon life and death;—and I have one word for you,—and two for your band.
Moor.
Which is?——(Reflecting upon his sword.)
Commissary.
Abominable wretch!—Are not those cursed hands imbrued in the noble blood of a Count of the empire?—Hast thou not, with sacrilegious arm, broke open the sanctuary of the Lord, and impiously carried off the sacred vessels? Hast thou not set fire to our most upright and sanctified city, and blown up our holy powder-magazine over the heads of many pious Christians? (Clasping his hands.) Abomination of abominations! The horrible favour of thy sins has ascended to Heaven, and will bring on the day of judgement before its time, to punish such a wicked—damn'd—infernal monster!——
Moor.
A masterly oration, upon my word!—but now to the point in hand.—What did the most august magistrate please to inform me of by your mouth?
Commissary.
What you never will be worthy to receive.—Look around you, you horrible incendiary,—as far as your eye can reach, you are surrounded by our horsemen.—No escape for you—You may as soon expect these stunted oaks and pines to bear peaches and cherries.
Moor.
Hear you that, Switzer? Roller?—But go on, Sir.
Commissary.
Hear then how merciful, how long-suffering is Justice to the wicked.—If this very moment you lay down your arms, and humbly entreat for mercy and a mitigation of your punishment, then Justice will be like an indulgent mother—she will shut her eyes on one half of your horrible crimes—and only condemn you—think well of it—to be broken alive upon the wheel!
Switzer.
Captain, shall I cut his throat?
Roller.
Hell, fire, and fury! Captain!—How he bites ​his lip! Shall I cut down this fellow like a cabbage?
Moor.
Don't touch him—let none of you dare to lay a finger on him.—Hearkee, Sir! (To the Commissary, with a solemn tone.) There are here seventy-nine of us, and I, their Captain.—Not a man of us has been taught to trot at a signal, or dance to the music of artillery; and on your side there are eight hundred disciplined troops, staunch and experienced veterans.—Now, hear me, Sir! hear what Moor says, the Captain of these incendiaries.—It is true I have assassinated a Count of the empire.—It is true I have burnt and plundered the church of the Dominicans.—It is true I have set fire to your bigotted town, and blown up your powder-magazine.—But I have done more than all that.—Look here, (holding out his right hand), look at these four rings of value.—This ruby I drew from the finger of a minister whom I cut down at the chace, at his prince's feet. He had built his fortune on the miseries of his fellow-creatures, and his elevation was mark'd by the tears of the fatherless and the widow.—This diamond I took from a treasurer-general, who made a traffic of offices and trust, and sold ho​nours, the rewards of merit, to the highest bidder.—This Cornelian I wear in honour of a priest whom I strangled with my own hand, for his most pious and passionate lamentation over the fall of the Inquisition.—I could expatiate at large, Sir, on the history of these rings, if I did not repent already that I have wasted words on a man unworthy to hear me.
Commissary.
Is there so much pride in a vile felon?
Moor.
Stop, Sir.—I shall now talk with some pride to you!—Go, tell your most august magistrate—he that throws the dice on life and death—tell him, I am none of those banditti who are in compact with sleep, and with the midnight hour—I scale no walls in the dark, and force no locks to plunder.—What I have done shall be engraven in that book where all the actions of mankind are recorded—in heaven's eternal register:—But with you poor ministers of earthly justice, I hold no further communing.—Tell your master, that my trade is the lex talionis; Like for like:—Vengeance is my trade! (He turns his back upon him with contempt.)
Commissary.
Do you refuse then to hearken to the voice of mercy?—If that is the case, I have done with you. (Turns to the band.) Hear, you fellows,—hear the mouth of justice!—If you immediately deliver up to me this condemned malefactor, you shall have a full pardon—even the remembrance of your crimes shall be blotted out—our holy mother Church will open her bosom to receive you, like the strayed sheep of the flock—you shall be purified in the waters of regeneration, the road of salvation shall be open to you, and every one of you shall get—posts and places!—Here—read with your own eyes—here is a general pardon—signed and sealed—(He gives Switzer a paper with an air of triumph.)—Well, how does your honour like that?—Come, courage! bind your leader, hand and foot—and be free men!
Moor.
Do you hear that, gentlemen?—hear you that? Why stand you thus in amaze?—What stops you? How can you hesitate?—You are already prisoners, and you have an offer of your liberty—You are already under sentence of death, and you have an offer of your lives—You are promised honours, places, and emoluments—and what can you gain, ​even if you conquer, but execration, infamy, and persecution—You have the grace of heaven offer'd to you, and at present you are in a state of reprobation—Not a hair of your heads but must blaze in everlasting flames!—How now, still in doubt? Is it so difficult to make a choice between heaven and hell?—Help me to persuade them, Mr Commissary.
Commissary.
What can be that devil's name that speaks out of his mouth?—he makes me all quiver.
Moor.
What! have you no answer? Do you hope to gain your liberty by your swords? Look around you—look well, my friends—'tis impossible to think so—'twere to think like children, if you did.—Perhaps you flatter yourself with an honourable death, that you'll fight like men, and die like heroes—You think so, because you have seen Moor exult in a scene of carnage and of horror—O, never dream it—there's none of you a Moor—you are a set of miserable thieves—poor instruments of my great designs—despicable as the rope in the hands of the hangman!—No, no,—a thief cannot die like a hero—a thief may be allowed to quake at the sight of death.—Hark, how those trumpets ​echo through the forest! See there, how their sabres gleam! What! still irresolute? Are you mad?—Do you think I thank you for my life? Not at all—I disdain the sacrifice you are making! (The sound of warlike instruments is heard.)
Commissary.
(In astonishment.) This is beyond belief—never saw anything like it—I must make off!—
Moor.
You are afraid, perhaps, that I put myself to death, and that, as the bargain is to deliver me alive, that may break it.—No, my friends, that you have no reason to fear.—See, there is my dagger, my pistols, and, what I have always carried with me,—my poison!—(Throws them away.) What! not determin'd yet?—But perhaps you think I shall struggle when you seize me.—Look here—I tie my right hand to this branch of an oak!—Now I am quite defenceless—a child might take me.—Now come on! who will be the first to betray his Captain?
Roller.
(With a frantic gesture.) Ay, if all hell ​should open! Who is the scoundrel that will betray his Captain?
Switzer.
(Tears the pardon in pieces, and throws it in the Commissary's face.) There! Our pardon is at the mouth of our muskets.—Tell your magistrate, that you have not found one traitor in all our company.—Huzza! Save the Captain! Huzza! Save the Captain!
All.
Save the Captain! Save him! Save our noble Captain!
Moor.
(Untwisting his hand from the tree, and in a transport of joy.) Now my brave lads—Now we are free indeed.—I have a whole host in this single arm.—Death, or liberty! We shall not leave a man of them alive! (They sound the charge with great noise, and exeunt sword in hand.)
END OF ACT SECOND.
* ↑ Germ. Die liebe hat nur einen fluch gelernt. Love has learnt but one curse.
* ↑ Germ. Gestriche adagio. Soft music of yesterday.
* ↑ Germ. Liege tuchtig im saltz.
* ↑ The executions in Germany are performed at day-break.
* ↑ Germ. Wer hund kein ist rette den Hauptman. He who is not a dog, let him save his Captain.