# The Robbers (Schiller)/Act I

T H E
R O B B E R S.
ACT I.
Scene, Franconia.
A Hall in Count de Moor's Castle.
The Old Count de Moor, and his Son Francis.
Francis.
But you are not well, Sir:—You look pale.
Old Moor.
Quite well, my son.—What have you to say to me?
Francis.
O. Moor.
(Earnestly.) Any news of my son Charles?
Francis.
Hm, hm. Why, yes—but—I am afraid—If—you were ailing at all—or in the least indisposed—I beg your pardon—I will tell you at a more convenient time. (Half apart.) Such tidings are not for a frail old man.
O. Moor.
God Almighty! What am I to hear!
Francis.
Let me step aside on moment, while I drop a tear of compassion for my poor lost brother.—But on this subject, as he is your son, I should be silent.—As he is my brother, I ought for ever to conceal his shame—Yet it is my first duty to obey you—in this instance, a melancholy duty.—Pity me, Sir! I need your pity!
O. Moor.
O Charles, Charles! if you knew how you tear your father's heart at this moment!—How the smallest good intelligence of you would add ​years to his life.—Alas! every fresh account I hear brings me a step nearer to the grave!
Francis.
Is it so, old man?—Live then for me! Heaven forbid that I should e'er abridge your days!
O. Moor.
Stay! There is but one step more;—one little step. Let him accomplish his will, (sitting down.) The sins of the fathers must be punished, to the third and fourth generation.—Be it even so!
Francis.
(Taking the letter out of his pocket.) You know our correspondent's writing. There—I would give a finger of my right hand, to be able to say he is a liar;—a black infernal liar. Call up all your fortitude, Sir.—Pardon me if I don't let you read this letter;—it were too much to know all at once.
O. Moor.
All, did you say? My son, you wish to spare this gray head; but——
Francis.
(Reads.) "Leipzick, the 1st of May.—Your brother seems now to have filled up the measure of his shame—unless indeed his genius passes my comprehension. After contracting debts to the amount of 40,000 ducats," (a pretty sum this, Sir), "and seducing the daughter of a rich banker, whose lover, a brave young gentleman, he mortally wounded in a duel, he thought proper last night, at midnight, to decamp, with seven others of his profligate associates, and thus evade the pursuit of justice." Father, for God's sake,—Father,—How is it with you?
O. Moor.
It is enough.—Stop there, my son!
Francis.
Yes, I will spare you—I will indeed.—"They have sent off warrants—the injured parties cry aloud for justice—there is a price set upon his head.—The name of Moor"——No—these lips shall not be guilty of a father's murder. (Tears the letter in pieces.) Believe it not, Sir; believe not a syllable of it.
O. Moor.
(Weeps bitterly.) My name!—My honourable name!
Francis.
Oh that he never had borne the name of Moor!—that my heart had not beat thus warmly for him!—Impious affection, that will not be suppressed, that must one day rise in judgement against me at the throne of God!
O. Moor.
O—all my prospects!—My golden dreams!
Francis.
I knew it well—'Twas what I always predicted.—That spirit of fire, said you, which sparkled forth even in his boyish years, which showed itself in an exquisite sensibility to every thing that was great or beautiful—that generous openness of character—the soul which spoke forth in his eyes—that tenderness of feeling, that manly courage, that youthful thirst of honour, that inflexible resolution, and all those shining qualities that adorn my darling son, will make him one day the delight of his friends, the support of his country, ​—the hero, the great man! And now, Sir, what has all come to? That spirit of fire has indeed displayed itself! broke out with a vengeance—and produced glorious fruits indeed!—Observe that admired openness of character,—now confirmed audacity: That tenderness of feeling,—awake only to the ailurements of the wanton: sensible only to the charms of a Phryne! Where now is that bright genius?—Is the oil which supplied that resplendent lamp quite extinguished?—Have six short years consumed it to the dregs? And where is now your hero? a spectre,—a body without life, that walks the earth, whom the mob shall point at as they pass along, and, scoffing, say, "'Twas love, forsooth, that made him so." See now that spirit of enterprise, which has planned and executed such schemes, that the exploits of a Cartouche vanish before them. But when these splendid blossoms come to their full maturity,—for how can one expect perfection at so early an age,—perhaps, Father, you may have the satisfaction of seeing him at the head of one of those troops that chuse the hallowed recess of the forest for their abode, and humanly ease the weary traveller of a part of his burden!—Perhaps, before you go to the grave, you may have it in your power to make a pilgrimage to the monument ​which will be raised for him between heaven and earth!—Perhaps, Father—O my poor father! find out for yourself another name,—or the very boys in the streets will point their fingers at you, the boys who have seen your son's effigy in the market-place of Leipzick.
O. Moor.
And you too, my Francis—must you likewise?—O my children! how you pierce my heart!
Francis.
You see that I too have a spirit;—but my spirit is a scorpion's spirit!—Yes, that poor ordinary creature, that Francis, that stock, that wooden puppet, so frigid, so insensible;—and all those pretty epithets with which you were pleased to mark the contract 'twixt the brothers, when he sat on your knee and pinched your cheek.—He, poor creature,—'twas of me you spoke,—he will die within his own bounds, moulder away, and be forgotten,—while his brother's fame, the renown of that great, that universal genius, shall fly from one extremity of the earth to the other!—Yes, with uplifted hands, I thank thee, Heaven! that the poor Francis, the cold, the stupid stock—has no resemblance of his brother.
O. Moor.
Pardon me, my child.—Reproach not thy miserable father, whose fondest hopes are blasted for ever.—That God, who has ordained these tears to flow for the crimes of thy brother, has mercifully appointed that thou shouldst wipe them away.
Francis.
Yes, my Father,—thy Francis will wipe those tears away;—thy Francis will sacrifice his own life to prolong the days of his father;—thy life shall be the rule of all my actions—the spring of every thought:—nor shall there be in nature a tie so strong, a bond so sacred, as not to yield to that first of duties, the preservation, the comfort, of that precious life!—Do you not believe me, Sir?
O. Moor.
Thou hast many and great duties to fulfil, my son.—May Heaven bless you for what you have done, and what you shall yet do for me.
Francis.
Say then at once, that you were happy if you could not call that wretch your son.
O. Moor.
Peace, O peace! when he first came into life, when my arms sustained for the first time his infant limbs, did I not then appeal to heaven, did I not call God himself to witness of my happiness.
Francis.
You said so then.—How have you found it now? Is there even among your own servants, so low, so abject a being, that you would not exchange conditions with him;—enviable in this respect his lot, that he is not the father of such a son. Yes,—while he lives, what have you to look for but bitterness of soul—but still increasing torments? till nature herself shall sink under the weight of her affliction.
O. Moor.
Oh what a load of years has affliction already anticipated on these gray hairs!
Francis.
Well then—suppose you throw him off at once;—renounce for ever this———
O. Moor.
(Starting with emotion.) What didst thou ​say? renounce him!—Wouldst thou I should curse my son?
Francis.
Not so, my Father,—curse thy son! God forbid.—But whom dost thou call thy son?—Is it the monster to whom thou gavest life, and who in return does his utmost to abridge thy life?
O. Moor.
Unnatural child! ah me!—but still, still my child!
Francis.
Yes, an amiable, a precious child, whose continual study is to get rid of an old father.—O that you should be thus slow to discover his character:—Will nothing remove the scales from your eyes?—No—your indulgence must rivet him in all his vices; your support encourage, and even warrant them.—Thus you may avert the curse from his head—that eternal curse, which must now fall upon your own.
O. Moor.
'Tis just, most just:—Mine, mine alone is all the guilt.
Francis
How many thousands, who have drank deep of the cup of pleasure, have been reclaimed by suffering?—Is not the bodily pain which is the consequence of vice a certain mark of the interposition of Heaven? And must the tenderness of man impiously strive to avert that salutary consequence?—Think on that, Sir.—If he is exposed for some time to the pressure of misfortune, is it not probable he will amend?—But if, in the great school of affliction, he still remains incorrigible, then—woe be to that misguided parent, who counteracts the decrees of eternal Wisdom!—What say you, Father?
O. Moor.
I will write to him, that I throw him off for ever!
Francis.
'Twere right, and wisely done.
O. Moor.
That he never see my face again.--
Francis.
That will have a good effect.
O. Moor.
(With emotion), Till he become another man.—
Francis.
Right Sir, quite right.—But suppose him now to come like a hypocrite, and woo you to compassion, and fawn and flatter till he obtains his pardon; and the next moment he laughs at the fond weakness of his father, in the arms of his harlots.—No, no, Sir. Let him alone, till conscience awakens him;—then he will of his own accord return to his duty,—then may we expect a sincere amendment.
O. Moor.
I must write to him immediately. (He is going out.)
Francis.
Stop, Sir; one word more—I am afraid your anger may make you say something too harsh.—It would be cruel to drive him at once to despair.—And—besides, don't you think—that he might be apt to interpret a letter from your own hand, as perhaps a—sort of pardon—Would it not be better, Sir, if I should write to him?
O. Moor
Do so, my son.—Oh, it would have broke my heart to have written to him! Write to him, that—
Francis.
(Hastily.) Is that agreed then?
O. Moor.
Write to him, that a thousand tears of blood, a thousand sleepless nights—But don't my son, don't drive him to despair.
Francis.
Come, Sir, Won't you go to bed,—this affects you too much.
O. Moor.
Write to him, that his father's heart—But do not drive him to despair! (He goes off in great agitation.)
Francis.
(Looking at him with an air of mockery.) Ay, be comforted, my good dotard. Never more shall you press your darling to your bosom;—no, there is a gulph between—distant as heaven from hell.— ​He was torn for ever from your arms, before you knew it was possible you ever could have wished it.—These papers must not be seen;—that might be dangerous—if the hand-writing were known. (He gathers up all the scraps of paper.)—I should be a pitiful bungler indeed, if I knew not yet how to tear a son from the heart of his father, were they link'd together with chains of iron.—Courage my boy! the favourite's removed;—that's a giant's step.—But there is another heart, from which I must tear that image; ay, were that heart to break for it.—(He walks with a striding step across the stage.) I have a heavy debt of hatred against Nature; and by my soul! I'll make it good.—Why was that hideous burden of deformity laid upon me alone;—of all my race, on me alone? (Stamps with his foot!) Hell and damnation! on me alone;—as if she had formed me only of the scum, the very refuse of her stuff! She damn'd me from my birth! And here I swear eternal enmity against her—I'll blast her fairest works.—What are to me the ties of kindred! I'll burst those trammels of affection,—bonds of the soul.—I never knew their force:—She denied me the sweet play of the heart, and all its persuasive eloquence.—What must its place supply? Im​perious force;—henceforth be that the only servant of my wishes,—and all shall yield before me.
(Enter Amelia.—She comes slowly forward from the back part of the stage.)
Francis.
She comes! Aha! the medicine works;—I know it by her step.—I love her not;—but I cannot bear that another should be happy in those charms.—In my arms, shall they be choked and withered in the bud;—nor ever man shall reap their bloom.—Ha, what are you doing there? (Amelia without observing him, tears a nosegay in pieces, and treads it under foot.)
(Francis, Approaching with a malicious air.) What have these poor violets done to offend you?
Amelia
(Starting, and measuring him with a long look.) Is it you!—you here! whom of all mankind I most desired to see.
Francis.
Me? Is it possible!—me of all mankind!
Amelia.
You, Sir, even you.—I have hungered—I have ​thirsted for the sight of you.—Stay, I conjure you.—Here, poisoner, let me enjoy my highest pleasure, let me curse thee to thy face.
Francis.
Why am I thus treated?—You wrong me, child;—go to the father, who——
Amelia.
The father, Ha! that father, who gives his son the bread of despair to eat—while he pampers himself with the richest delicacies;—who gluts his palled appetite with costly wines, and rests his palsied limbs in down,—while his son,—his noble son,—the paragon of all that's worthy, all that's amiable, that's great,—wants the bare necessaries of life.—Shame to you, monsters of inhumanity, unfeeling, brutal monsters!—His only son!
Francis.
I thought he had two sons.
Amelia
Ay! he deserves many sons such as you.—Yes, when stretch'd on the bed of death, he shall extend his feeble hands, and seek to grasp for the last time his injured noble Charles, let him feel thy ​icy hand, thou fiend, and shudder at the touch!—Oh how sweet,—how delicious the curse of a dying father!
Francis
You rave, my child! I pity you!
Amelia
Dost thou so?—Dost thou pity thy brother?—No, savage, thou hatest him! Thou hatest me too, I hope.
Francis.
I love thee, Amelia,—as my own soul I love thee.
Amelia.
Well!—If you love me, can you refuse me one small request?
Francis.
Nothing can I refuse thee,—were it my life itself.
Amelia.
Well then!—I ask what you will grant, with all your soul.—(Proudly.)—I ask you to—hate me! I should die for shame, if, while I thought on Charles, I could for a moment believe that thou didst not hate me.—Promise me that thou wilt, and go,—villain as thou art,—leave me.
Francis.
Charming enthusiast! How that empassioned soul enchants me! (Puts his hand on Amelia's heart.) Sweet flutterer! Palace of delight, where Charles reign'd sole monarch.—Temple sacred to his divinity!—He was ever present to those beauteous eyes—present even in thy dreams.—In him all animated being seemed concentrated.—Creation itself spoke but of Charles alone to that enraptured soul!
Amelia.
(With great emotion.) Yes!—I own it was so!—Yes, in spite of you, barbarians, to the world I will avow it.—I love him—I adore him!
Francis.
How ungenerous, how cruel! to make so ill a return to so much fondness—nay, to forget——
Amelia.
Forget!—What mean'st thou, wretch?
Francis.
Wore he not once a ring of yours;—a ring you put yourself upon his finger? A diamond ring, a pledge of your fond love? It is a hard trial, I own, for the heat of youthful blood—and hardly ​resistible.—Those wantons have such arts, such fascinating charms—there is some apology for a young man—and then, how could he help it? he had nothing else to give her—surely she paid him amply for it by her caresses.
Amelia.
My ring to a wanton? how sayst thou?
Francis.
Fy, fy! 'twas infamous indeed—But still, if that had been all—was it not easy to have redeem'd it, however costly—a good Jew might have lent the money.—But perhaps she did not like the fashion of it—it may be he changed it himself for a handsomer!
Amelia
(Warmly.) But my ring!—my ring!
Francis.
Ay, think of that.—Had I had such a jewel—and from Amelia too!—death itself should not have ravish'd it from this hand.—What think you, Amelia?—'Tis not the value of the diamond, 'tis not the costliness of the work—'tis love that gives it value.—Dear child! she weeps—Oh! curs'd be ​he that caus'd those precious tears to flow.—Ah! and if you knew all—could you but see him now—see him with those features!——
Amelia.
With what features, monster!
Francis.
Hush, hush, my gentle soul! ask me no further. (Speaking as if apart, but loud enough to be heard by her.) 'Twere something if that abominable vice had but a veil to conceal its deformity from the sight of the world—but how hideous its aspect, mark'd by the yellow livid eye—the hollow death-like features, the bones that pierce the shrivell'd skin—the broken faultering voice—the frail and tottering carcase, while the poison preys into the very marrow of the bones—Horrible and loathsome picture—Faugh! how the thought sickens! Do you remember, Amelia, that miserable object who died lately in the hospital—whose contagious breath tainted the air—whom modesty forbade to look at.—Recal, if thou canst, that loathsome image.—Such, O horrible to think! is now thy once lov'd Charles! His lips distil poison—his kisses pestilence and death——
Amelia.
Detested, shameless slanderer!
Francis.
Does this image of thy lover inspire thee with horror? Then paint him, Amelia, in your own imagination—the lovely, the divine, the angelic Charles! Go! enjoy the ambrosia of his lips—inhale his balmy breath! (Amelia hides her face with her hands.) Oh extacy! What rapture in those embraces!—But is it not most unjust—nay cruel, to condemn a man because he is so unfortunate as to be the victim of disease? May not a great soul inhabit a foul carcase? (With malignant irony.) May not the beauties of the mind dwell in a tainted body—or the soft voice of love issue from the lips of corruption?—True indeed, if the poison of debauchery should taint the soul as well as the body; if impurity and virtue were inconsistent, as a withered rose loses its perfume, then——
Amelia.
(With rapture.) Ha! once more I know my Charles! my own Charles! Liar! 'tis false as hell! You know, monster! it is impossible! (Francis remains for a while absorpt in thought, ​and then turns away suddenly, as if going out.) Whither art thou going?—Does shame overpower thee?
Francis.
(Covering his face.) Let me begone—let my tears have their free course.—Cruel, tyrannic father! that could abandon to misery the best, the worthiest of thy children!—Let me hence this moment, to throw myself at his feet—and on my knees intreat him to heap upon my head that heavy malediction—To throw me off, disinherit me for ever—To sacrifice my blood, my life, my all for him!
Amelia.
(Throws herself upon his neck.) Brother of my own Charles—most kind, most tender!
Francis.
O Amelia! how I love, how I admire that matchless constancy of affection!—Wilt thou pardon me that most severe, that cruel trial of thy love?—How hast thou justified all I hoped, all I could have wished to have found in thee! Those tears, those sighs—that ardent indignation!—Ah! such are the certain proofs how much our souls have ever sympathised!
Amelia.
(Shakes her head.) No! by the chaste light of heaven! Not an atom of him,—not a spark of his soul,—not a particle of his sensibility!—
Francis.
'Twas on a calm, still evening, the last before his departure for Leipzick, when taking me along with him to that grove which has so often witnessed the rapturous expressions of your passion, your vows of mutual love;—there, after a long silence, he took my hand in his; and while the tears almost choked his utterance, I leave my Amelia, said he—I know not how to account for it—but I have a sad presentiment that it is for ever! Do not abandon her, my dear brother.—Be her friend, her Charles! Should it happen, that Charles—should never return;—that he were gone for ever. (He throws himself at Amelia's feet, and kisses her hand with ardour:)—And he is gone for ever,—no more will he return;—and I have pledged my sacred promise.——
Amelia.
(Springing back.) Traitor! Are you now detected!—'Twas in that very grove that we ex​changed our solemn plighted oaths, that no other love,—even after death—What an impious wretch art thou,—how execrable!—Quit my sight!
Francis.
You know me not, Amelia.—Still, still you know me not.
Amelia.
O I know you well,—most completely well at this instant.—And you my Charles's confidant! Yes sure—to you he would have opened all his soul;—on your bosom he would have shed those tears for me! sigh'd forth my name in your blasted ear.—As soon would he have written it on the pillory!—Quit my sight!
Francis.
You insult me grossly, Madam.
Amelia.
Quit my sight!—Thou hast robb'd me of a precious hour. May it be counted on thy worthless life!
Francis.
You hate me then?
Amelia.
I scorn you, wretch. Begone!
Francis.
What! (Stamping with fury on the ground.) Thou shalt quake for this.—To be sacrificed to an outcast! (Goes off in a frenzy of passion.)
Amelia.
Go, mean and infamous wretch!—Now am once more with Charles!—Outcast, did he say? the world is then unhinged:—Outcasts are kings, and kings are outcasts! I would not change the rags which that poor outcast wears for the imperial purple! What must be that look with which he begs his bread! An eye of majesty itself,—a look that dazzles into nought the splendour of the proud, the pageant triumphs of the rich and great. (She tears the jewels from her neck.) To the dust with you, ye useless ornaments:—Go load the unfeeling head of vanity.—Ye rich, ye proud, be that wealth ye glory in your curse! be your pleasures your poison!—Charles, Charles, now I am worthy thee!
(Exit.
SCENE, An Inn on the frontiers of Saxony.
Charles de Moor.
(Alone walking about with impatience.) What is become of those fellows? Sure they have been upon some scamper.—Here, house! get me some more wine! 'Tis very late, and the post not yet arrived. (Putting his hand on his heart.) How it beats here! Halloah! More wine! wine, I say! I need a double portion of courage to day—for joy, or for despair. (Wine is brought,—Moor drinks, and strikes the table violently with the glass.) What a damn'd inequality in the lot of mankind!—While the gold lies useless in the moudly coffer of the miser, the leaden hand of poverty checks the daring flight of youth, and chills the fire of enterprise:—Wretches, whose income is beyond computation, have worn my threshold in dunning payment of a few miserable debts;—yet so kindly have I entreated them;—grasp'd them by the hand;—give me but a single day!—All in vain.—What are prayers, oaths, tears to them;—they touch not the scaly armour of an impenetrable heart!—
Enter Spiegelberg with Letters.
Spiegelberg.
A plague consume it! One stroke after ano​ther! Damnation! What thinkest thou, Moor? It drives one to madness!——
Moor.
What is the matter now?
Spiegelberg.
The matter!—read—read it yourself.—Our trade's at an end;—peace proclaimed in Germany;—the devil consume those priests!
Moor.
Peace in Germany!
Spiegelberg.
'Tis enough to make a man hang himself:—Club-law is gone for ever:—All fighting prohibited, on pain of death:—Death and fury! Moor, go hang yourself!—Pens must scribble, where swords hack'd before!
Moor.
(Throws away his sword.) Then let cowards ​rule, and men throw by their arms.—Peace in Germany! Germany, this news has blasted thee for ever! Goose-quills for swords:—No, I won't think of it! Shall I tie down my tongue;—chain my will to their curst laws?—Peace in Germany! Curse on that peace, that would confine to earth the flight of an eagle.—Did peace ever make a great man?—'Tis war that makes the hero!—O, if the spirit of Herman were yet alive in his ashes!—Place me but at the head of a troop of men like myself, and out of Germany, beyond her limits.—No, no, no! It will not do.—'Tis all over with her,—her hour is come! Not an atom of spirit, not a free pulse in the posterity of Barbarossa!—Here, I bid adieu to all noble enterprise,—and seek once more my native peaceful fields!
Spiegelberg.
What the devil! you'll play the prodigal son upon us?—A fellow like you, who has made more gashes with his sword than an attorney's clerk has written lines in a leap year! Fie, fie! shame upon it! Misfortune shall never make a coward of a man!
Moor.
Maurice!—I will ask pardon of my father, and think it no shame! Call it weakness, if you please ​—it is the weakness of a man;—and he who feels it not, must be either above humanity—or below it.—I steer the middle course.
Spiegelberg.
Go then! I know thee no longer for Moor! Have you forgot how many thousand times, with the glass in your hand, you scoff'd at the old hunks?—"Let him scrape and hoard as he will—I'll drink the more for it." Have you forgot that, Moor?—That was spoke like a man—like a gentleman—but now——
Moor.
Curse on you for that remembrance! May I be curs'd for ever having uttered it!—'Twas the speech of intoxication—my heart abhorr'd what my tongue expressed.
Spiegelberg.
(Shaking his head.) No, no—that's impossible—impossible, brother.—Confess that it is necessity that makes thee talk thus.—Come man, never fear! let things be ever so bad.—The more peril the more courage, the more they crush us, the higher we'll rise.—If the fates throw bars in our way, 'tis to make heroes of us.—Come along!
Moor.
(Peevishly.) 'Tis my opinion, there's little occasion now for courage—when there's nothing to be done with it.
Spiegelberg.
So!—You would then give up the game—bury your talents in the earth?—Do you think our paultry exploits at Leipzick were the limits of human genius? Let us launch into the great world—Paris and London for me! There, if you give one the title of honest man, he knocks you down for it.—There a man has some pleasure in the trade—'tis on a grand scale—What do you stare at? Such charming counterfeiting of hands, loading of dice, picking of locks, gutting of strong boxes!—Ay, Spiegelberg must be your master! Let the poor dog be hanged who chuses to starve rather than crook his fingers!
Moor.
(Ironically.) What, have you got that length?
Spiegelberg.
I think you mistrust me.—Stay till I get warm'd in the business, and you see wonders.—Your shallow brains will turn in your head when you hear the projects I shall form. (Striking the ta​ble.) Aut Cesar, aut nihil.—You shall be jealous of me.
Moor.
(Looking at him steadfastly.) Maurice!
Spiegelberg.
(Warmly.) Yes, jealous of me—madly jealous you, and all of you.—I will invent such plans as shall confound every one of you.—How the light breaks in!—What great ideas dawn upon my mind—What giant-projects formed in this creative brain?—Curs'd lethargy of the soul! (Striking his head.) that chain'd my better judgement, cramp'd all my strength of mind—ruin'd all my prospects—I am now awake—I feel what I am, what I must yet be.—Go leave me—you shall all be indebted to my bounty for your support!
Moor.
You are a fool! The wine has got into your head! 'Tis that makes you bluster so.
Spiegelberg.
(Still more animated.) Spiegelberg, they will say, Art thou a magician, Spiegelberg?—What a pity, Spiegelberg, says the King, thou wert not a general, thou would'st have made the Turks ​creep into their holes like rats.—Now I think I hear the Doctors say, what a loss it is this man had not been bred to physic;—he would have found out the Elixir vite. Ah, had he turned his thoughts to finance, say your Sullys, what a figure would he have made;—he would have changed the very stones into gold.—The name of Spiegelberg shall fly from pole to pole! And you, ye cowards, ye reptiles, ye shall crawl in the dirt, while Spiegelberg shall soar to the temple of glory, with an eagle's flight!——
Moor.
A good journey to you! soar away from the top of the gallows to the pinnacle of glory!—In the shade of my paternal woods, in the arms of my Amelia, I court far nobler pleasures.—'Tis now eight days since I have written to my father to entreat his pardon. I have not concealed from him the smallest circumstance of my misconduct; and sincere repentance will ever find forgiveness.—Maurice, let us part—part never to meet again—the post is arrived—at this very hour my father's pardon is within these walls.
Enter Switzer, Grimm, Roller, and Schufterle.
Roller.
Do you know, that there is a search for us?
Grimm.
That every moment we may expect to be apprehended?
Moor.
I am not surprised at it,—nor do I care how matters go.—Have none of you seen Razman? Did he speak of no letters that he had for me?
Roller.
I suppose he has some, for he has been looking for you a long time.
Moor.
Where is he? Where, where? (Is going out.)
Roller.
Stay, we desired him to be at this place. You tremble, Sir?
Moor.
I do not tremble.—What should I tremble for? Friends, this letter,—rejoice with me,—I am the happiest of men! Tremble! why should I tremble?—(Switzer sits down in Spiegelberg's place, and drinks his wine.)
Enter Razman.
Moor.
(Running up to him.) The letter! where is the letter?
Razman.
(Giving him the letter, which he opens with eagerness.) What now? Why, you seem petrified!
Moor.
My brother's hand!
Roller.
What the devil is Spiegelberg about there?
Grimm.
The fellow's out of his senses;—he's playing tricks like a monkey;—he has got St. Vitus's dance.
Schufterle.
His wits are a-wool-gathering:—He's making verses, I suppose.
Roller.
Spiegelberg! hey, Spiegelberg!—The beast does not hear me.——
Grimm.
(Shaking him by the shoulder.) Hallo! fellow, are you in a dream?
Spiegelberg.
(Who all this time had been making gestures on his seat, like a man who is conceiving some great project, starts up with a wild aspect, and seizes Switzer by the throat.) Your purse, or your life!
(Switzer, with great coolness, drives him against the wall.—All laugh. Moor lets fall the letter, and is going out in distraction.—The rest keep silence for a while, and look at each other.)
Roller.
(Stopping him.) Moor, Where are you going?—What's the matter, Moor?
Grimm.
What can be the matter?—He's as pale as a corpse.——
Moor.
Lost! lost for ever! (Rushes out.)
Grimm.
He must have got strange news.—Let's see what it can be!
Roller.
(Takes up the letter and reads.) "Unfortunate brother," A pleasant beginning! "I am sorry to inform you, that you have nothing more to hope for.—Your father says, you may go wherever your evil genius shall direct you:—He gives you up to perdition. He bids me tell you, that though you were to come in tears, and cling to his knees, you need not hope for pardon;—that you may expect a dungeon of the castle for your apartment, and bread and water for your sustenance, till your bristly hairs shall outgrow the feathers of an eagle, and your nails the claws of a vulture. These are his very words.—He orders me to stop here,—to bid you an eternal adieu.—I pity you from my soul."
"Francis de Moor."
Switzer
There's a pretty, sweet, little brother for you!—And this vermin is called Francis?
Spiegelberg.
(Sneaking forwards.) Bread and water, was that the word?—A fine life indeed! No, I shall ​find a better for you than that.—Didn't I always tell you, that I must think for you?
Switzer.
What does that blockhead say? This ass pretends to think for us all.
Spiegelberg.
Poor creatures! poor, lame, helpless animals! No hearts have you to attempt any thing that's great!
Roller.
Well, so we are—you are quite right.—But what do you propose for our relief?—What's your plan for raising us from this pitiful state? Come, give it us!
Spiegelberg.
(Laughing with self-conceit.) Poor things! to raise you from this pitiful state—Ha, ha, ha! Pitiful indeed! I thought you had a thimble-full of brains at least. You have made a fine cavalcade, and now you may stable your horses! Spiegelberg were an ass indeed, if he did not know his own course! I would make heroes of you—barons, princes, demigods!
Razman.
Why, that's pretty well to begin with.—This is some break-neck enterprise, I dare engage—something that will cost a head or two at least.
Spiegelberg.
Not your head, I answer for it.—There's nothing wanting but courage!—As for the genius, the contrivance. I take that all upon myself.—Courage, I say! Switzer, courage! Roller, Grimm, Razman, Schufterle—Courage is the word!
Switzer.
Courage! if that were all, I have enough to go bare-foot through hell!
Razman.
Courage! I could fight the devil in his own shape, for a thief's body under the gallows!
Spiegelberg.
That's what I like! Well, if you have courage, let any one of you step forward, and say, "I have something yet to lose—I am not quite thread-bare." (After a long pause.) What, not a word among you?
Roller.
What's the use of all this palaver?—If we have sense to comprehend it, and courage to execute it, speak it out!
Spiegelberg.
Well then, hearkee! (He places himself in the middle of them, and with a solemn tone of adjuration.) If there is a drop of German blood—of the blood of heroes, in your veins—come!—let us betake ourselves to the forests of Bohemia—form a troop of robbers, and——What do you stare at? Is your little flash of courage out already?
Roller.
You are not the first rogue indeed who has set the gallows at defiance—and yet—what choice is left us?
Spiegelberg.
What choice?—Why, you have no choice.—Would you chuse to take up your abode in the dungeon for debtors, and spin hemp till you are bailed by the last trumpet—or would you gain your miserable morsel of bread with the spade and mattock? Would you beg an alms with a doleful tale under a window?—or would you enlist for recruits?—that's to say, if your hang-dog visages ​did not betray you—and submit to the torments of purgatory, at the pleasure of an overbearing scoundrelly corporal—to run the gantlope, and dance to the music of the drum; or be chained like a galley-slave to a train of artillery?—There's what you have to chuse upon—a charming catalogue of delightful occupations!
Roller.
You are the prince of orators, Spiegelberg, when you want to make an honest man a scoundrel—But say, gentlemen, what's become of Moor?
Spiegelberg.
Honest man, say you? Will you be the less an honest man, if you follow my advice, than you are at present? What do you call honest? To ease the miser of a part of his load, and give him sound sleep and golden dreams for it; to bring the stagnating metal into circulation, to regulate the unequal balance of fortunes—in short, to bring back the golden age—to rid Providence of a burden, and save Him the trouble of sending war, pestilence, famine, and physic, among us;—to have the proud thought when you sit down to your meal, This is the fruit of my own ingenuity—this was gained by the courage of a lion—or ​this the reward of my watchful nights—to draw the respect of all ranks and conditions.——
Roller.
And lastly, to enjoy the beatitude of translation into heaven, bodily, and alive; to set storm, and tempest, and Time himself at defiance, to soar away under the sun, moon, and stars, with the sweet birds in concert around you; and while kings and potentates are the food of worms, to have the honour of frequent visits from the royal bird of Jove.—Maurice, Maurice, have a care of yourself;—beware of the beast that has three legs.
Spiegelberg.
And you are afraid of that, you pitiful animal? Many a noble fellow, fit to have reformed the world, has rotted between heaven and earth.—And does not the renown of such men live for centuries?—ay for a millennium;—while the vulgar herd of kings and princes would be overlooked in the catalogue, but that the historian finds it necessary to complete his genealogical tree, and swell the number of his pages, for which his bookseller pays him by the sheet.—Ay! and when the traveller sees him dangling in the wind,—there, says he, muttering to himself, that man had no ​water in his brains, I'll warrant him,—and curses the hardship of the times.
Razman.
Great and masterly, by heaven!—Spiegelberg, thou hast a charm, like Orpheus, to lull the yelling Cerberus, conscience.—Take me to yourself;—I am yours for ever.
Grimm.
—And let them call it infamy.—What then? At the worst, 'tis but carrying a small dose of powder in our pocket, which will send us quietly over Styx,—to take a nap in that country where no cocks will crow to waken us—Courage, Maurice!—that's Grimm's confession of faith. (Gives him his hand.)
Schufterle
—Zounds! What a hurly-burly's in this head of mine. It's a fair auction:—Mountebanks, Lotteries,—Alchymists,—Pickpockets,—you have all your chance;—and he that offers most, shall have me.—Give me your hand, cousin.
Switzer.
(Comes forward slowly, and gives his hand to ​Spiegelberg.) Maurice, thou art a great man;—or rather—the blind sow has swel't out the mast.
Roller.
(After a long silence, with his eyes fixed on Switzer.) What, And you too, friend—give me your hand.—Roller and Switzer for ever;—ay, to the pit of hell!
Spiegelberg.
(Cuts a caper.) Up to the stars, my boys! A free course to your Cæsars and your Catilines.—Courage! Off with your glasses.—Here's a health to the god Mercury!
All (drinking.) Here he goes!
Spiegelberg.
Now, for business! A twelvemonth hence we shall be able to buy earldoms.
Switzer.
(Muttering.) Yes, if we are not broke on the wheel. (They are going off.)
Roller.
Softly, my boys, softly,—where are you going? ​—The beast must have a head to its body.—Rome and Sparta could never have stood without a chief to command them.
Spiegelberg.
(In a tone of complacence.) Yes,—very right.—Roller speaks to the purpose;—we must have a chief,—a man of talents, great reach, a politic head.—Ha, ha! (Standing with his arms across.) When I think what you were a few minutes ago, and what a single lucky thought has made of you now.—Yes, truly you must have a chief;—and you'll own, that he that struck out a thought of that kind had a head-piece,—wise, crafty, politic.——
Roller.
If there was any hope,—any chance that,—but I despair of his consent.
Spiegelberg.
(Cajoling.) Why despair, my friend;—difficult as it may be to guide the ship when she's buffeted by the winds and waves, and however cumbersome may be the weight of a diadem,—speak it out boldly, my boy.—Perhaps—he may be prevailed upon.
Roller.
It will be all children's play if he's not our leader.—Without Moor, we are a body without a soul.
Spiegelberg.
(Turning aside peevishly.) Blockhead!
Enter Moor, with wild gestures, stalks backwards and forwards, speaking to himself.
Moor.
Men!—Men! false! treacherous crocodiles! Your eyes are water! your hearts are iron! kisses on your lips! and poniards in your bosom! The lion and the panther feed their whelps—the raven strips the carrion to bring to her young; and he—he!—Whatever malice can devise I have learnt to bear—I could smile when my enemy drinks of my heart's blood.—But when a father's love becomes a fury's hate—O then, let fire rage here where once was humanity!—the tender-hearted lamb become a tyger—and every fibre of this tortured frame be rack'd—to ruin and despair!
Roller.
Harkee, Moor—what's your opinion—Isn't the ​life of a robber better than starving in a dungeon on bread and water?
Moor.
Why did not this soul inhabit the tyger's bosom, that satiates his maw on human flesh!—Was that a father's kinkness!—Love for love!—Would I were a bear of the North, and could arm my ravenous kind against those murderers!—To repent, and not to be forgiven!—Oh! I could poison the ocean, that they might drink death in every source!—I trusted to his compassion—relied on it wholly—and found no pity!
Roller.
Hear me, Moor, hear what I say!
Moor.
It is incredible—all a dream.—So earnest a request, a picture of misery so strong—contrition so sincere!—the most savage beast would have melted to compassion—stones would have wept; and yet—If I should publish it to the world, it would not be believed—'twould be thought a libel on the human species; and yet—Oh! that I could blow the trumpet of rebellion through all nature, and summon heaven, earth, and seas, to war against this savage race!
Grimm.
Do you hear, Moor! This frenzy makes him deaf!
Moor.
Begone! fly.——Is not your name Man? Was not you born of woman? Out of my sight, with that human face!—I loved him with such unutterable affection.—No son ever loved a father so! I would have sacrificed a thousand lives for him. (Stamping with fury.) Ha! where is he that will put a sword in my hand, to extinguish with one mortal blow this viperous race!—that will teach me where to strike, that I might destroy the germ of existence!—Oh! he were my friend, my angel, my god!—I would fall down and worship him!
Roller.
We will be such friends—let us but speak to you.
Grimm.
Come with us to the forests of Bohemia—we'll form a troop of robbers—and then—(Moor stares at him.)——
Switzer.
Thou shalt be our Captain!—Thou must be our Captain!
Spiegelberg.
(Sits down in rage.) Slaves and poltroons!
Moor.
Who put that thought in your head? tell me, sirrah! (Seizing Roller with a rough grasp.) That man's heart of thine never conceived the project! Who put it in your head?—Yes, by the thousand arms of death! that we will—that we shall do! 'Tis a thought worthy of a divinity!—Robbers and assassins—as my soul lives, I will be your Captain!
All.
(With a loud shout.) Long live the Captain!
Spiegelberg.
(Aside.) Till I give him his mittimus!
Moor.
So now!—The scales drop from my eyes! What a fool I was to think of returning to my cage! My soul thirsts for action, my spirit pants for liberty!—Robbers and assassins! with those words I set all laws at defiance!—Man had no humanity when I appealed to humanity! Pity and compassion! here let me throw you off for ever!—I have no ​father—no affection more! Come, Death and Murder be my masters! and teach me to forget that this heart e'er knew what fondness was! Come to my soul, ye fiends! Now for some horrible exploit.—'Tis resolved, I am your Captain,—and glory to him who most shall murder and destroy—he shall have a king's reward.—Here, stand around in a circle, and swear to be true to me till death!
All.
(Giving him their hands.) Till death! (Spiegelberg walks aside dissatisfied.)
Moor.
And now, by this man's right hand, (Stretching out his hand.) I swear to be your faithful commander—till death! Now, by my soul, I'll make a corpse of him who first shews fear among you! And when I break this oath, be such my fate from you!—Are you agreed?
All.
(Throwing their hats in the air.) We're all agreed——(Spiegelberg grins a malicious smile.)
Moor.
Then let us go! Fear neither danger nor death ​—our destiny has long been fixed, unalterable—and each shall meet his end as fate decrees—on the down bed, or in the bloody field—the gibbet, or the wheel—one of these deaths we die for certain!—
(Exeunt.
Spiegelberg.
The catalogue's defective! you have forgot treason!
END OF ACT FIRST.
* ↑ Germ. Wir wurden noch heute die haare ausraufen uber euerm sarge. We will not tear our hair out over your coffin to-day.
* ↑ The action of this play is supposed to have passed in the reign of the Emperor Maximilian, (grandfather of Charles V.) who in 1506 procured that great enactment of the Imperial Diet, which established a perpetual peace between all the different States that compose the Germanic body. Before his time, they were constantly at war with each other, a state of society favourable to every species of depredation and outrage.