The Robbers Page 11

  DANIEL. Not a word of the kind.

  FRANCIS. That certain circumstances restrained him-that one must sometimes wear a mask in order to get at one's enemies-that he would be revenged, most terribly revenged?

  DANIEL. Not a syllable of all this.

  FRANCIS. What? Nothing at all? Recollect yourself. That he knew the old count well-most intimately-that he loved him-loved him exceedingly-loved him like a son!

  DANIEL. Something of that sort I remember to have heard him say.

  FRANCIS (turning pale). Did he say so? did he really? How? let me hear! He said he was my brother?

  DANIEL (astonished). What, my master? He did not say that. But as Lady Amelia was conducting him through the gallery-I was just dusting the picture frames-he suddenly stood still before the portrait of my late master, and seemed thunderstruck. Lady Amelia pointed it out, and said, "An excellent man!" "Yes, a most excellent man!" he replied, wiping a tear from his eye.

  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.

  FRANCIS. Stuff! nonsense! Are you not ashamed of yourself? An old man, and believe that Christmas tale! Go, Daniel! that was a stupid remark. You know that I am your master. It is on me that God and conscience will be avenged, if, indeed, there be a God and a conscience.

  DANIEL (clasping his hands together). Merciful Heaven!

  FRANCIS. By your obedience! Do you understand that word? By your obedience, I command you. With to-morrow's dawn the count must no longer be found among the living.

  DANIEL. Merciful Heaven! and wherefore?

  FRANCIS. By your blind obedience! I shall rely upon you implicitly.

  DANIEL. On me? May the Blessed Virgin have mercy on me! On me? What evil, then, have I, an old man, done!

  FRANCIS. There is no time now for reflection; your fate is in my hands. Would you rather pine away the remainder of your days in the deepest of my dungeons, where hunger shall compel you to gnaw your own bones, and burning thirst make you suck your own blood? Or would you rather eat your bread in peace, and have rest in your old age?

  DANIEL. What, my lord! Peace and rest in my old age? And I a murderer?

  FRANCIS. Answer my question!

  DANIEL. My gray hairs! my gray hairs!

  FRANCIS. Yes or no!

  DANIEL. No! God have mercy upon me!

  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. Mercy, master! mercy!

  FRANCIS. Yes or no!

  DANIEL. Most gracious master! I am this day seventy-one years of age! and have honored my father and my mother, and, to the best of my knowledge, have never in the whole course of my life defrauded any one to the value of a farthing,-and I have adhered to my creed truly and honestly, and have served in your house four-and-forty years, and am now calmly awaiting a quiet, happy end. Oh, master! master! (violently clasping his knees) and would you deprive me of my only solace in death, that the gnawing worm of an evil conscience may cheat me of my last prayer? that I may go to my long home an abomination in the sight of God and man? No, no! my dearest, best, most excellent, most gracious master! you do not ask that of an old man turned threescore and ten!

  FRANCIS. Yes or no! What is the use of all this palaver?

  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?

  DANIEL. That is very true? but to murder an innocent man-one-

  FRANCIS. Am I responsible to you? Is the axe to question the hangman why he strikes this way and not that? But see how forbearing I am. I offer you a reward for performing what you owe me in virtue of your allegiance.

  DANIEL. But, when I swore allegiance to you, I at least hoped that I should be allowed to remain a Christian.

  FRANCIS. No contradiction! Look you! I give you the whole day to think about it! Ponder well on it. Happiness or misery. Do you hear- do you understand? The extreme of happiness or the extreme of misery! I can do wonders in the way of torture.

  DANIEL (after some reflection). I'll do it; I will do it to-morrow.

  [Exit.]

  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.]

  SCENE III.-Another Room in the Castle.

  CHARLES VON MOOR enters from one side, DANIEL from the other.

  CHARLES (hastily). Where is Lady Amelia?

  DANIEL. Honored sir! permit an old man to ask you a favor.

  CHARLES. It is granted. What is it you ask?

  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. Your hand, your hand! I beseech you.

  CHARLES. That must not be.

  DANIEL. It must! (He takes hold of it, surveys it quickly, and falls down before him.) Dear, dearest Charles!

  CHARLES (startled; he composes himself, and says in a distant tone). What mean you, my friend? I don't understand you.

  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! t
hat 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.

  CHARLES (falls on his neck). Yes! Daniel! I will no longer hide it from you! I am your Charles, your lost Charles! And now tell me, how does my Amelia?

  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.

  CHARLES. No mistake, Daniel! (DANIEL is about to throw himself on his knees before him.) Rise! Tell me, how does my Amelia?

  DANIEL. Heaven reward you! Heaven reward you! O gracious me! Your Amelia will never survive it, she will die for joy?

  CHARLES (eagerly). She has not forgotten me then?

  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-

  CHARLES. What do you say? my brother-

  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. Your brother? No, on no account; he must not know it! Certainly not! If he know not already more than he ought to know. Oh, I can tell you, there are wicked men, wicked brothers, wicked masters; but I would not for all my master's gold be a wicked servant. His honor thought you were dead.

  CHARLES. Humph! What are you muttering about?

  DANIEL (in a half-suppressed voice). And to be sure when a man rises from the dead thus uninvited-your brother was the sole heir of our late master!

  CHARLES. Old man! what is it you are muttering between your teeth, as if some dreadful secret were hovering on your tongue which you fear to utter, and yet ought? Out with it!

  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.]

  CHARLES (starting up, after a terrible pause). Betrayed! Betrayed! It flashes upon my soul like lightning! A, fiendish trick! A murderer and a robber through fiend-like machinations! Calumniated by him! My letters falsified, suppressed! his heart full of love! Oh, what a monstrous fool was I! His fatherly heart full of love! oh, villainy, villainy! It would have cost me but once kneeling at his feet-a tear would have done it-oh blind, blind fool that I was! (running up against the wall). I might have been happy-oh villainy, villainy!

  Knavishly, yes, knavishly cheated out of all happiness in this life! (He runs up and down in a rage.) A murderer, a robber, all through a knavish trick! He was not even angry! Not a thought of cursing ever entered his heart. Oh, miscreant! inconceivable, hypocritical, abominable miscreant!

  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!

  KOSINSKY. You are joking.

  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.*

  *[Here, in the acting edition, is added, 'Assuredly, if the
spirits

  of the departed wander among the living, then must this stranger be

  Charles's angel!']

  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 (starting back). Ha-and does he deserve to be so idolized? Does he deserve it?

  AMELIA. Had you but known him!

  CHARLES. I should have envied him.

  AMELIA. Adored, you mean.

  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.*