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The Complete Works of Johann Wolfgang von Goethe - Part 10
THE COMPLETE WORKS OF
Jobann Wolfgang von (Boetbe
/ N
TEN
VOLUMES
VOLUME X
FAUST C LAV I GO EGMONT
THE WAYWARD LOVER
REYNARD, THE FOX
TRANSLATED BY
A. HAYWARD, SIR WALTER SCOTT
AND ANNA SWANWICK
NEW YORK : P. F. COLLIER & SON : PUBLISHERS
lo
HABOLD B. LEE LIBRARY
**HAM YOUNG JfiSsff
PWOVO, UTAH
DRAMATIC WORKS
A — Goethe Vol 10
/
THE WOLF AND THE CRANE
—Reijiiard Ike Fox
CONTENTS.
I. Faust. Prose Translation.
II. Clavigo. A Tragedy.
III. Egmont. A Tragedy,
IV. The Wayward Lover. A Drama.
V. Reynard, the Fox.
\
FAUST: •
A DKAMATIC POEM.
TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH PROSE, BY A! HAYWARD. Esq.
FAUST,
PEOLOGUE IN HEAVEN.
The Lokd; the Heavenly Hosts; afterwards Mephis-
topheles.
The three Archangels come forward.
Eaphael. The sun chimes in, as ever, with the emulous
music of his brother spheres, and performs his prescribed
journey with thunder-speed. His aspect gives strength to
the angels, though none can fathom him. Thy inconceiv-
ably sublime works are glorious as on the first day.
Gabriel. And rapid, inconceivably rapid, the pomp of
the earth revolves; the brightness of paradise alternates
with deep, fearful night. The sea foams up in broad waves
at the deep base of the rocks ; and rock and sea are whirled
on in the ever rapid course of the spheres.
Michael. And storms are roaring as if in rivalry, from
sea to land, from land to sea, and form all around a chain
of the deepest ferment in their rage. There, flashing deso-
lation flares before the path of the thunder-clap. But thy
messengers, Lord, respect the mild going of thy day.
The Three. Thy aspect gives strength to the angels,
though none can fathom thee, and all thy sublime works
are glorious as on the first day.
Mephistopheles. Since, Lord, you approach once again,
and inquire how things are going on with us, and on other
occasions were not displeased to see me — therefore is it
that you see me also amongst your suite. Excuse me, I
cannot talk fine, not though the whole circle should cry
scorn on me. My pathos would certainly make you laugh,
had you not left off laughing. I have nothing to say about
suns and worlds ; I only mark how men are plaguing them-
selves. T he little god of the world continues ever of the
same stamp, and is as odd as on the first day." "He would
lea^ ITsomewhat better life of it had you not given lrTm~a
7
8 THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
glimmering of he aven's light. He calls it reason, and uses
lTTSnJy to be thelnost brutal of brutes. He seems to me,
with your Grace's leave, like one of the long-legged grass-
hoppers, which is ever flying, and bounding as it flies, and
then sings its old song in the grass ; — and would that he
did but lie always in the grass ! He thrusts his nose into
every puddle.
The Lord. Have you nothing else to say to me ? Are
you always coming to me for no other purpose than to com-
plain ? Is nothing ever to your liking upon earth ?
Mephistopheles. No, Lord ! I find things there, as
ever, miserably bad. Men, in their days of wretchedness,
move my pity ; even I myself have not the heart to torment
the poor things.
The Lord. Do you know Faust ?
Mephistopheles. The Doctor?
The Lord. My servant !
Mephistopheles. Verily ! he serves you after a fashion
of his own. The fool's meat and drink are not of earth.
The ferment of his spirit impels him towards the far away.
He himself is half conscious of his madness. Of heaven —
he demands its brightest stars ; and of earth — its very
highest enjoyment^ and all the near, and all the far, con-
tent not his deeply-agitated breast.
The Lord. Although he does' but serve me in perplex-
ity now, I shall soon lead him into light. When the tree
buds, the gardener knows that blossom and fruit will deck
the coming years.
Mephistopheles. What will you wager ? you shall lose
him yet, if you give me leave to guide him quietly my own
way.
The Lord. So long as he lives upon the earth, so long
be it not forbidden to thee. Man is liable to error whilst
his struggle lasts.
Mephistopheles. I am much obliged to you for that ;
f \ for I have never had any fancy for the dead. I like plump,
V) J fresh cheeks the best. I am not at home to a corpse. I am
like the cat to the mouse.
The Lord. Enough, it is permitted thee. Divert this
spirit from his original source, and bear him, if thou canst
seize him, down on thy own path with thee. And stand
abashed, when thou art compelled to own — a good man,
in his dark strivings, may still be conscious of the right
way.
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST. 9
Mephistopheles. Well, well — only it will not last long.
I am not at all in pain for my wager. Should I succeed,
excuse my triumphing with my whole soul. Dust shall he
eat, and with a relish, like my cousin, the renowned snake.
The Lord. The re also you ^ac %fpee-4o- a ct as you like. I
have never hatecT the like of you. Of all the" spirits that
deny, the scoffer is the least offensive to me. Man^activity
is all too prone to slumb er : he soon gets fond of uncondi-
tional repose : I^mTthe j^fore^gladJj Q gjy - e h im a companion,
who stirs and works* anoT lhlTstras devil, be doing . But ye,
the true children of heaven, rejoice in the living profusion
of beauty. The creative essence, which works and lives
through all time, embrace you within the happy bounds of
love ; and what hovers in changeful seeming do ye fix firm
with everlasting thoughts. (Heaven closes, the archangels
disperse.)
Mephistopheles alone. I like to see the Ancient One
occasionally, and take care not to break with him. It is
really civil in so great a Lord to speak so kindly with the
Devil himself.
FAUST.
NIGHT.
Fattbt in a higJi-vaulted, narrow, Gothic chamber^ seated
restlessly at his desk.
Faust. Have now, alas ! by zealous exertion, thoroughly
mastered philosophy, the jurist's craft, and medicine, — and,
to my sorrow, theology, too. Here I stand, poor fool that I
am, just as wise as before. I am called Master, ay, and
Doctor, and have now for nearly ten years been leading my
pupils about — up and down, cross-ways and crooked ways —
L by the nose ; and see that we ca n kno wjiothing ! This it is
that almost burWTJp^e^earTwithinme. True, I am clev-
erer than all the solemn triflers — doctors, masters, writers,
and priests. No doubts nor scruples of any sort trouble me ;
I fear neither hell nor the devil. For this very reason is all
v I j°y torn from me. I no longer fancy I know anything worth
1 (knowing ; I no longer fancy I could reach anything to better
and convert mankind. Then I have neither land nor money,
nor honor and rank in the world. No dog would like to live
so any longer. I have therefore devoted myself to magic —
whether, through the power and voice of the Spirit, many a
mystery might not become known to me ; tha t I may no
longer, with bitter sweat, be obliged to spea k of what I do
not know ; that I may learn what it is that "EoTTsTft~e~world
togetheFin its inmost core^see all the springs and seeds of
production, and drive no longer a paltry traffic in words.
Oh ! would that thou, radiant moonlight, wert looking for
the last time upon my misery ; thou, for whom I have sat
watching so many a midnight at this desk ; then, over books
and papers, melancholy friend, didst thou appear to me ! —
Oh ! that I might wander on the mountain-tops in thy loved
light — hover with spirits around the mountain caves — flit
over the fields in thy glimmer, and, disencumbered from all
the fumes of knowledge, bathe myself sound in thy dew!
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST. 11
Woe is me! am I still penned up in this dungeon? —
accursed, musty, walled hole! — where even the precious
light of heaven breaks mournfully through painted panes,
stinted by this heap of books, — which worms eat — dust
begrimes — which, up to the very top of the vault, a smoke-
smeared paper encompasses ; with glasses and boxes ranged
round, with instruments piled up on all sides, ancestral lum-
ber stuffed in with the rest! This is thy world, and a
precious world it is !
And dost thou still ask, why thy heart flutters so confinedly
in thy bosom ? — Why a vague aching deadens within thee
every stirring principle of life? — Instead of the animated
nature, for which God made man, thou hast naught around
thee but beasts' skeletons and dead men's bones, in smoke
and mould.
Up ! away ! out into the wide world ! And this mys-
terious book, from Nostradamus' own hand, is it not guide
enough for thee ? Thou then knowest the course of the
stars, and, when nature instructs thee, the soul's essence then
rises up to thee, as one spirit speaks to another. Vain ! that
dull poring here expounds the holy signs to thee ! Ye are
hovering, ye Spirits, near me; answer me, if you hear. {He
opens the book and perceives the sign of the Macrocosm.)
Ah ! what rapture thrills at once through all my senses at
this sight! I feel a fresh, hallowed life-joy, new-glowing,
shoot through nerve and vein. Was it a god that traced
these signs ? — which still the storm within me, fill my poor
heart with gladness, and, by a mystical inspiration, unveil the
powers of nature all around me. Am T a god ? All grows
so bright ! I see, in these pure lines, nature herself working
in my soul's presence. Now for the first time do I conceive
what the sage saith, — " The spirit-world is not closed. Thy
sense is shut, thy heart is dead ! Up, acolyte ! bathe, un-
tired, thy earthly breast in the morning-red." {He contem-
plates the sign.)
How all weaves itself into the whole ; one works and lives
in the other. How heavenly influences ascend and descend,
and reach each other the golden buckets, — on bliss-exhaling
pinions, press from heaven through earth, all ringing harmo-
niously through the All.
What a show ! but, ah ! a show only ! Where shall I seize
thee, infinite nature ? Ye breasts, where ? ye sources of all
life, on which hang heaven and earth, towards which the
blighted breast presses — ye gush, ye suckle, and am I thus
12 THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
languishing in vain ? {He turns over the book indignantly^
and sees the sign of the Spirit of the Earth.)
How differently this sign affects me ! Thou, Spirit of the
Earth, art nearer to me ! Already do I feel my energies ex-
alted, already glow as with new wine ; I feel courage to ven-
ture into the world ; to endure earthly weal, earthly woe ; to
wrestle with storms, and stand unshaken 'mid the ship-
wreck's crash. — Clouds thicken over me ; the moon pales
her light ; the lamp dies away ; exhalations arise ; red beams
flash round my head ; a cold shuddering flickers down from
the vaulted roof and fastens on me ! I feel it — thou art
flitting round me, prayer-compelled Spirit. Unveil thyself !
Ah! what a tearing in my heart — all my senses are up-
stirring to new sensations ! I feel my whole heart surren-
dered to thee. Thou must — thou must ! — should it cost me
my-JHe. {He seizes the booh and pronounces mystically the
signqfthe Spirit. A red flame flashes up £ the Spirit ap-
pears in the flame.)
Spirit. Who calls me ?
Faust {averting his face). Horrible vision!
Spirit. Thou hast compelled me hither, by dint of long
sucking at my sphere. And now —
Faust. Torture ! I endure thee not.
Spirit. Thou prayest, panting, to see me, to hear my voice,
to gaze upon my face. Thy powerful invocation works upon
me. I am here ! What a pitiful terror seizes thee, the demi-
god ! Where is the soul's calling ? Where the breast that
created a world in itself, and upbore and cherished it ? which,
with tremors of delight swelled to lift itself to a level with us,
the Spirits. Where art thou, Faust ? — whose voice rang to
me, who pressed towards me with all his energies ! Art thou
he ? thou, who, at the bare perception of my breath art shiver-
ing through all the depths of life, a trembling, writhing worm ?
Faust. Shall I yield to thee, child of fire ? I am he, am
Faust, thy equal.
Spirit.
In the tides of life,
In the storm of action,
I am tossed up and down,
I drift hither and thither,
Birth and grave,
An eternal sea,
A changeful weaving,
A glowing life —
Thus I work at the whizzing loom of time,
And weave the living clothing of the Deity.
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST. 13
Faust. Busy Spirit, thou who sweepest round the wide
world, how near I feel to thee !
Spirit. Thou art mate for the spirit whom thou conceiv-
est, not for me. ( The Spirit vanishes.)
Faust, collapsing. Not for thee ! For whom then ? I,
the image of the Deity, and not mate for even thee! {A
knocking at the door.) Oh, death ! I know it : that is my
amanuensis. My fairest fortune is turned to naught. That
the unidea'd groveller must disturb this fulness of visions !
(Wagner enters in his dressing-gown and night-cap^ with a
lamp in his hand. Faust turns round in displeasure.) v
Wagner. Excuse me — I hear you declaiming ; you were ^
surely reading a Greek tragedy. I should like to improve ^'
myself in this art, for nowadays it^ in fluences a good d eal.^)
I have often heard say, a player might instruct a priest.
Faust. Yes, when the priest is a player, as may likely
enough come to pass occasionally.
Wagner. Ah ! when a man is so confined' to his study,
and hardly sees the world of a holiday — hardly through a
telescope, only from afar — how is he to lead it by persua-
sion?
Faust. If you do not feel it, you will not get it by hunt-
ing for it, — if it does not gush from the soul, and subdue
the hearts of all hearers with original delight. Sit at it for-
ever — glue together — cook up a hash from the feast of
others, and blow the paltry flames out of your own little
heap of ashes ! You may gain the admiration of children
and apes, if you have a stomach for it; but yoji will npvftr
touclu lhe hearts of others, if it does not flow fresh from'
your own.
Wagner. But it is elocution that makes the orator's
success. I feel well that I am still far behindhand.
Faust. Try what can be got by honest means. — Be no
tinkling fool ! — Reason and good sense express the mseLEes*^^
with litt le, ^ And when you are seriously intent on say-
ing something, is it necessary to hunt for words? Your
speeches, I say, which are so highly polished, in which ye
crisp the shreds of humanity, are unrefreshing as the mist-
wind which whistles through the withered leaves in autumn.
Wagner. Oh, God ! art is long, and our life is short.
Often, indeed, during my critical studies do I suffer both
in head and heart. How hard it is to compass the means
by which one mounts to the fountain-head ; and before he
has got half way, a poor devil must probably die !
\j
A
14 THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
Faust. Is parchment the holy well, a drink from which
allays the thirst forever? Thou hast not gained the cordial.
^ if it gushes not from thy own soul.
f* Wagner. Excuse me ! it is a great pleasure to trans-
J port one's self into the spirit of the times ; to see how a wise
* man has thought before us, and to what a glorious height
\ we have at last carried it.
Faust. Oh, yes, far up to the very stars. My friend,
the past ages are to us a book with seven seals. What you
term the sp i rit of the times, is at bottom only your qw ji.
spirit, in which the times ar ejjaflp^d A miserable exhibi-
tion, too, it frequently is ! One runs away from it at the
first glance ! A dirt-tub and a lumber-room ! — and, at best,
a puppet-show play, with fine pragmatical saws, such as may
happen to sound well in the mouths of the puppets !
Wagner. But the world, ! the heart and mind of man !
every one would like to know something about that.
Faust. Ay, what is called knowing ! Who dares call
.the child by its true name V The few who have ever known i
anything about it, who sillily enough did not keep a guard §
over their full hearts, who revealed what they had felt and
seem to the multitude, — these, time immemorial, have been
crucified and burned. I beg, friend — the night is far
advanced — for the present we must break off.
Wagner. I could fain have kept waking to converse
with you so learnedly. To-morrow, however, the first day
of Easter, permit me a question or two more. Zealously
have I devoted myself to study. True I know much ; but I
would fain know all. (Exit.)
Faust, alone. How all hope only quits not the brain,
which clings perseveringly to trash, — gropes with greedy
hand for treasures, and exults at finding earth-worms !
Dare such a human voice sound here, where all around
me teemed with spirits ? Yet, ah ! this once I thank 'thee,
thou poorest of all the sons of earth. Thou hast snatched
me from despair, which had well-nigh got the better of
sense. Alas ! the vision was so giant-great that I felt quite
shrunk into a dwarf.
I, jormed jn_fiooTs own i mage, wh o already thought my-
seTT near to_the_m irror oF eternal truth ; who revelled in
heaven's lu^tre^nT^learhTssTlHtlrThe earthly part of me
stripped off; I, more than cherub, whose free spirit al-
ready, in its imaginative soarings, aspired to glide through
nature's veins, and in creating, enjoy the life of gods —
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
how must I atone for it ! a thunder-word has swept
wide away;
I dare not presume to mate myself with thee. If I h
possessed the power to draw thee to me, I had no power
hold thee. In that blest moment, I felt so little, so great J
you fiercely thrust me back upon the uncertain lot of
humanity. Who will teach me? What am I to shun?
Must I obey that impulse ? Alas ! our actions, equally with
our sufferings, clog the course of our lives.
Something foreign, and more foreign, is ever clinging to
the noblest conception the mind can form. When we have
attained to the good of this world, what is better i5"ternTed
fafeehoo j^and van i ty: — The glorious feelings which gave us
life grow torpid in the worldly throng.
If phantasy at one time, on daring wing and full of hope,
dilates to infirmity, — a little space is now enough for her,
when venture after venture has been wrecked in the whirl-
pool of time. Care straightway builds her nest in the
depth of the heart, hatches vague tortures there, rocks her-
self restlessly, and frightens joy and peace away. She is
ever putting on some new mask ; she may appear as house
and land, as wife and child, as fire, water, dagger, poison.
You tremble before all that does not befall you, and must be
.always wailing what you never lose.
I am not like the heavenly essences; I feel it but too
deeply. I am.4ike the worm, which drags itself through the
dust, — which, as it seeks its living in the dust, is crushed
and buried by the step of the passer-by.
Is it not dust ? all that in a hundred shelves contracts
this lofty wall -—the frippery, which, with its thousand
forms of emptiness, cramps me up in this world of moths?
Is this the ,:place for. finding what I want? Must I go on
reading, in a thousand .books, that men have everywhere
been miserable, and now and then there has been a happy
one?
Thou hollow skull, what mean'st thou by that grin?
but that thy brain, like mine, was once bewildered, — sought
the bright day, and, with an ardent longing after truth,
went miserably astray in the twilight ?
Ye instruments, too, forsooth, are mocking me, with your
wheels and cogs, cylinders and collars. I stood at the gate,
ye were to be the key; true, your wards are curiously
twisted, but you raise not the bolt. Inscrutable at broad
day, nature does not suffer herself to be robbed of her veil;
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
what she does not choose to reveal to thy mind thou
\ not wrest from her by levers and screws.
hou, antiquated lumber, which I have never used, thou
t here, only because my father had occasion for you.
Thou, old roll, hast been growing smoke-besmeared since
the dim lamp first smouldered at this desk. Far better
would it be for me to have squandered away the little I pos-
sess than to be sweating here under the burden of that lit-
tle. To possess what thou hast inherited from thy sires, en-
joy it. What one does not profit by, is an oppressive
burden; what the moment brings forth, that only can it
profit by.
But why are my looks fastened on that spot ? is that phial
there a magnet to my eyes ? Why, of a sudden, is all so ex-
quisitely bright, as when the moonlight breathes round one
benighted in the wood? I hail thee, thou precious phial,
which I now take down with reverence ; in thee I honor the
wit and art of man. Thou abstraction of kind soporific
juices, thou concentration of all refined deadly essences,
vouchsafe thy master a token of thy grace ! I see thee, and
the pang is mitigated ; I grasp thee, and the struggle abates ;
the spirit's flood-tide ebbs by degrees. I am beckoned out
into the wide sea; the glassy wave glitters at my feet;
another day invites to other shores. A chariot of nre
waves, on light pinions, down to me. I feel prepared to
permeate the realms of space on a new track, to new spheres
of pure activity. This sublime existence, this godlike beat-
itude ! And thou, worm as thou wert but now, dost thou
merit it ? Ay, only resolutely turn thy back on the lovely
sun of this earth ! Dare to tear up the gates which each
willingly slinks by ! Now is the time to show by dppds tha^
man'sjiignity_4deldsji^ — to quail not
in the presence of that dark abyss, in which phantasy
damns itself to its own torments — to struggle onwards to
that pass, round whose narrow mouth all Hell is flaming ;
calmly to resolve upon the step, even at the risk of drop-
ping into nothingness.
Now come down, pure crystal goblet, on which I have
not thought for many a year, — forth from your old recep-
tacle! You glittered at my father's festivities; you glad-
dened the grave guests, as one pledged you to the other.
The gorgeousness of the many artfully- wrought images, —
the drinker's duty to explain them in rhyme, and empty the
contents at a draught, — remind me of many a night of my
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST. 17
youth. I shall not now pass you to a neighbor ; I shall not
now display my wit on your devices. Here is a juice which
soon intoxicates. It fills your cavity with its brown flood.
Be this last draught — which I have brewed, which I choose
— quaffed, with my whole soul, as a solemn festal greeting
to the morn. (He places the goblet to his mouth.)
( The ringing of bells and singing of choruses.)
Chorus of Angels.
Christ has arisen!
Joy to the mortal,
Whom the corrupting,
Creeping, hereditary
Imperfections enveloped.
Faust. What deep humming, what clear strain, draws
irresistibly the goblet from my mouth? Are ye hollow
sounding bells already proclaiming the first festal hour of
Easter? Are ye choruses already singing the comforting
hymn, which once, round the night of the sepulchre, pealed
forth, from angel lips, the assurance of a new covenant ?
Chorus op Women.
With spices
Had we embalmed him;
We, his faithful ones,
Had laid him out.
Clothes and bands
Cleanlily swathed we round;
Ah! and we find
Christ no longer here!
Chorus of Angels.
Christ is arisen!
Happy the loving one,
Who the afflicting, &
Wholesome and chastening
Trial hath stood !
Faust. Why, ye heavenly tones, subduing and soft, do
you seek me out in the dust? Peal out, where weak men
are to be found ! I hear the message, but want faith. I
dare not aspire to those spheres from whence the glad
tidings sound ; and yet, accustomed to this sound from in-
fancy, it even now calls me back to life. In other days, the
kiss of heavenly love descended upon me in the solemn still-
ness of the Sabbath; then the full-toned bell sounded so
fraught with mystic meaning, and a prayer was burning en-
18 THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
joyraent. A longing, inconceivably sweet, drove me forth
to wander over wood and plain, and amidst a thousand
burning tears, I felt a world rise up to me. This anthem
harbmgered the gay sports of youth, the unchecked happi-
ness of spring festivity. — Recollection now holds me back
with childlike feeling, from the last decisive step. Oh'
sound on, ye sweet heavenly strains ! The tear is flowing
earth has me again. 6 '
Choeus of Disciples.
The Buried One,
Already on high,
Living, sublime,
Has gloriously raised himself!
He is, in reviving bliss,
Near to creating joy.
Ah! on earth's bosom
Are we for suffering here.
He left us, his own,
Languishing here below!
Alas ! we weep over,
Master, thy happy lot.
Chorus of Angels.
Christ is arisen
Out of corruption's lap.
Joyfully tear yourselves
Loose from your bonds !
Ye, in deeds giving praise to him
Love manifesting,
Living brethren-like,
Travelling and preaching him,
Bliss promising— '
You is the Master nigh
For you is he here!
BEFORE THE GATE.
Promenaders of all kinds pass out.
Some Mechanics. Why that way 9
^he JwT e *n P ing UP t0 Ja ^ haus -
aIX t U We are goin - to the mill.
The Othees. What shall vou do ?
THE TEAGEDY OF FAUST. 19
A Third. I am going with the others.
A Fourth. Come up to Burgdorf ; you are there sure
of finding the prettiest girls and best beer, and rows of the
first order.
A Fifth. You wild fellow, is your skin itching for the
third time ? I don't like going there ; I have a horror of
the place.
Servant Girl. No, no, I shall return to the town.
Another. We shall find him to a certainty by those
poplars.
The First. That is no great gain for me. He will walk
by your side. With you alone does he dance upon the
green. What have I to do with your pleasures ?
The Second. He is sure not to be alone to-day. The
curly head, he said, would be with him.
Student. The devil ! how the brave wenches step out ;
come along, brother, we must go with them. Strong beer,
stinging tobacco, and a girl in full trim, — that now is my
taste.
Citizens' Daughters. Now do you but look at those
fine lads ! It is really a shame. They might have the
best of company, and are running after these servant-girls.
Second Student to the First. Not so fast ! there are
two coming up behind ; they are trimly dressed out. One
of them is my neighbor ; I have a great liking for the girl.
They are walking in their quiet way, and yet will suffer us
to join them in the end.
The First. No, brother. I do not like to be under re-
straint. Quick, lest we lose the game. The hand that
twirls the mop on a Saturday will fondle you best on Sun-
days.
Townsman. No, the new Burgomaster is not to my taste ;
now that he has become so, he is daily getting bolder ; and
what is he doing for the town ? Is it not growing worse
every day? One is obliged to submit to more restraints
than ever, and pay more than in any time before.
Beggar, sings. Ye good gentlemen, ye lovely ladies, so
trimly dressed and rosy cheeked, be pleased to look upon
me, to regard and relieve my wants. Do not suffer me to
sing here in vain. The free-handed only is light-hearted.
Be the day, which is a holiday to all, a harvest-day to me.
Another Townsman. I know nothing better on Sun-
days and holidays than a chat of war and war's alarms,
when people are fighting, behind, far away in Turkey. A
20 THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
man stands at the window, takes off his glass, and sees the
painted vessels glide down the river ; then returns home
glad at heart at eve, and blesses peace and times of peace.
Third Townsman. Ay, neighbor, I have no objection to
that ; they may break one another's heads, and turn every-
thing topsy turvy, for aught I care, only let things at home
remain as they are.
An Old Woman to the Citizens' Daughters. Hey-
dey : how smart ! the pretty young creatures. Who would
not fall in love with you ? Only not so proud ! it is all very
well ; and what you wish, I should know how to put you in
the way of getting.
Citizen's Daughter. Come along, Agatha. I take care
not to be seen with such witches in public ; true, on St.
Andrew's eve, she showed me my future sweetheart in flesh
and blood.
The Other. She showed me mine in the glass, soldier-
like, with other bold fellows ; I looked around, I seek him
everywhere, but I can never meet with him.
Soldier.
Towns with lofty
Walls and battlements
Maidens with proud
Scornful thoughts,
I fain would win.
Bold the adventure,
Noble the reward.
And the trumpets
Are our summoners
As to joy
So to death.
That is storming,
That is life for you!
Maidens and towns
Must surrender.
Bold the adventure,
Noble the reward —
And the soldiers
Are off.
Faust and Wagner.
Faust. River and rivulet are freed from ice by the gay,
quickening glance of the spring. The joys of hope are bud-
ding in the dale. Old Winter, in his weakness, has retreated
to the bleak mountains ; from thence he sends, in his flight,
nothing but impotent showers of hail, in flakes ? over the
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST. 21
green-growing meadows. But the Sun endures no white.
Production and growth are everywhere stirring; he is about
to enliven everything with colors. The landscape wants
flower's ; he takes gaily-dressed men and women instead.
Turn and look back, from this rising ground, upon the town.
Forth from the gloomy portal presses a motley crowd. Every
one suns himself so willingly to-day. They celebrate the
rising of the Lord, for they themselves have arisen ; — from
the damp rooms of mean houses, from the bondage of me-
chanical drudgery, from the confinement of gables and roofs,
from the stifling narrowness of streets, from the venerable
gloom of churches, are they raised up to the open light of
day. But look, look ! how quickly the mass scatters itself
through the gardens and fields ; how the river, broad and
long, tosses many a merry bark upon its surface, and how
this last wherry, overladen almost to sinking, moves off!
Even from the farthest paths of the mountain gay-colored
dresses glance upon us. I hear already the bustle of the vil-
lage ; Jthis is the tru e heaven of the multitud e ; big anoHittle
.axe huzzaing joyously^ Here, 1 am a man — here I may be
one. "^"~~ ; — "
Wagner. To walk with you, Sir Doctor, is honor and
profit. But I would not lose myself alone, because I am an
enemy to coarseness of every sort. Fiddling, shouting, skit-
tle-playing, are sounds thoroughly detestable to me. People
run riot as if the devil was driving them, and call it merri-
ment, call it singing.
Rustics under the IAme Tree.
Dance and Song.
The swain dressed himself out for the dance.
With parti-colored jacket, ribbon and garland,
Smartly was he dressed !
The ring round the lime-tree was already full,
And all were dancing like mad.
Huzza! Huzza!
Tira-lira-hara-la !
Merrily went the fiddle-stick.
He pressed eagerly in,
Gave a maiden a push
With his elbow :
The buxom girl turned round
And said — " Now that I call stupid/'
Huzza! Huzza!
Tira-lira-hara-la !
" Don't be so rude."
22 THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
Yet nimbly sped it in the ring;
They turned right, they turned left,
And all the petticoats were flying.
They grew red, they grew warm,
And rested panting arm-in-arm,
Huzza! Huzza!
Tira-lira-hara-la!
And elbow on the hip.
" Have done now! don't be so fond!
How many a man has cajoled and
Deceived his betrothed! "
But he coaxed her aside,
And far and wide echoed from the lime-tree
Huzza! Huzza!
Tira-lira-hara-la !
Shouts and fiddle-sticks.
Old Peasant. Doctor, this is really good of you, not to
scorn us to-day, and, great scholar as you are, to mingle in
this crowd. Take, then, the fairest jug, which we have filled
with fresh liquor : I pledge you in it, and pray aloud that it
may do more than quench your thirst — may the number of
drops which it holds be added to your days !
Faust. I accept the refreshing draught, and wish you all
health and happiness in return. ( The people collect round
him.)
Old Peasant. Of a surety it is well done of you to ap-
pear on this glad day. You have been our friend in evil
days, too, before now. Many a one stands here alive whom
your father tore from the hot fever's rage, when he stayed
the pestilence. You, too, at that time a young man, went
into every sick house : many a dead body was borne forth,
but you came out safe. You endured many a sore trial.
The Helper above helped the helper.
All. Health to the tried friend — may he long have the
power to help !
Faust. Bend before Him on high, who teaches how to
help, and sends help. {He proceeds with Wagner.)
Wagner. What a feeling, great man, must you experi-
ence at the ho nors paid yoTrby -thi s~^aultit ud r e ! Oh, happy
he wHo can turn his gifts to so good an account ! The father
points you out to his boy ; all ask, and press, and hurry
round. The fiddle stops, the dancer pauses. As you go by,
they range themselves in rows, caps fly into the air, and they
all but bend the knee as if the Host were passing.
Faust. Only a few steps further, up to that stone yonder !
Here we will rest from our walk. Here many a time have I
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST. 23
sat, thoughtful and solitary, and mortified myself with prayer
and fasting. Rich in hope, firm in faith, I thought to extort
the stoppage of that pestilence from the Lord of heaven
with tears, and sighs, and wringing of hands. The applause
of the multitude now sounds like derision in my ears. Oh !
couldst thou read in my soul how little father and son mer-
ited such an honor ! My father was a worthy, sombre man,
who, honestly but in his own way, meditated, with whimsi-
cal application, on nature and her hallowed circles ; who, in
the company of adepts, shut himself up in the dark labora-
tory, and fused contraries together after numberless recipes.
There was a red lion, a bold lover, married to the lily in the
tepid bath, and then both, with open flame, tortured from
one bridal chamber to another. If the young queen, with
varied hues, then appeared in the glass — this was the medi-
cine ; the patients died, and no one inquired who recovered.
Thus did we, with our hellish electuaries, rage in these vales
and mountains far worse than the pestilence. I myself have
given the poison to thousands ; they pined away, and I must
survive to hear the reckless murderers praised !
Wagner. How can you make yourself uneasy on that
account? Is it not enough for a good man to practise con-
scientiously and scrupulously the art that has been entrusted
to him ? If, in youth, you honor your father, you will will-
ingly learn from him: if, in manhood, you extend the
bonds of knowledge, your son may mount still higher than
you.
Faust. Oh, happy he, who can still hope to emerge
from this sea of error ! We would use the very thing we
know ribtj and cannot use what we know. But let us not
embitter the blessing of this hour by such melancholy reflec-
tions. See, how the green-girt cottages shimmer in the
setting Sun ! He bends and sinks — the day is over-lived.
Yonder he hurries off, and quickens other life. Oh ! that I
have no wing to lift me from the ground, to struggle after,
forever after, him ! I should see, in everlasting evening
beams, the stilly world at my feet , — every height on fire, —
every vale in repose, — the silver brook flowing into golden
streams. The rugged mountain, with all its dark defiles,
would not then break my god-like course. Already the sea,
with its heated bays, opens on my enraptured sight. Yet,
the god seems at last to sink away. But the new impulse
wakes. I hurry on to drink his everlasting light, — the day
before me and the night behind — the heavens above, and
24 THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
under me the waves. A glorious dream ! as it is passing,
he is gone. Alas ! no bodily wing will so easily keep pace
with the wings of the mind. Yet it is the inborn tendency
of our being for feeling to strive upwards and onwards;
when, over us, lost in the blue expanse, the lark sings its
trilling lay: when, over rugged, pine-covered heights, the
outspread eagle soars ; and, over marsh and sea, the crane
struggles onward to her home.
Wagner. I myself have often had my capricious
moments, but I never yet experienced an impulse of the
kind. One soon looks one's fill of woods and fields. I shall
never envy the wings of the bird. How differently the
pleasures of the mind bear us, from book to book, from page
to page! With them, winter nights become cheerful and
bright, a happy life warms every limb, and, ah ! when you
actually unroll a precious manuscript, ail heaven comes down
to you.
Faust. Thou art conscious only of one impulse. Oh,
never became acquainted with the other ! Two souls., alas .
dwell m my breast ; the one struggles to separate itself
from the other. The one clings with persevering fondness
to the world^ with organs like cramps of steel; the other
lifts itself energetically from "The mist to the realms of an
'exaltecT~ancestry: OfiTlflihere be spirits hovering in the
aTr7raImg"*CwixE"earth and heaven, descend ye, from your
golden atmosphere, and lead me off to a new, variegated
life ! Ay, were but a magic mantle mine, and could it bear
me into foreign lands, I would not part with it for the cost-
liest garments — not for a king's mantle.
Wagner. Invoke not the well-known troop, which
diffuses itself, streaming, through the atmosphere, and pre-
pares danger in a thousand forms, from every -quarter, to
man. The sharp-fanged spirits, with arrowy tongues, press
upon you from the north ; from the east, they come parch-
ing, and feed upon your lungs. If the south sends from the
desert those which heap fire after fire upon thy brain, the
west brings the swarm which only refreshes to drown fields,
meadows, and yourself. They are fond of listening, ever
keenly alive for mischief : they obey with pleasure, because
they take pleasure to delude: they feign to be sent from
heaven, and lisp like angels when they lie. But let us be
going ; the earth is already grown gray, the air is chill, the
mist is falling ; it is only in the evening that we set a proper
value on our homes. Why do you stand still and gaze with
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
astonishment thus ? What can thus attract your attention
in the gloaming ?
Faust. Seest thou the black dog ranging through the
corn and stubble ?
Wagner. I saw him long ago ; he did not strike me as
anything particular.
Faust. Mark him well ! for what do you take the brute ?
Wagner. For a poodle, who, poodle-fashion, is puzzling
out the track of his master.
Faust. Dost thou mark how, in wide spiral curves, he
quests round and ever nearer us? and, if I err not, a line of
fire follows upon his track.
Wagner. I see nothing but a black poodle ; you may be
deceived by some optical illusion.
Faust. It appears to me that he is drawing light magi-
cal nooses, to form a toil around our feet.
Wagner. I see him bounding hesitatingly and shyly
around us, because, instead of his master, he sees two
strangers.
Faust. The circle grows narrow ; he is already close.
Wagner. You see it is a dog, and no spirit. He growls
and hesitates, crouches on his belly and wags with his tail —
all as dogs are wont to do.
Faust. Come to us ! — Hither !
Wagner. It's a droll creature. Stand still, and he will
sit on his hind legs ; speak to him, and he will jump up on
you ; lose aught, and he will fetch it to you, and jump into
the water for your stick.
Faust. I believe you are right; I find no trace of a
spirit, and all is the result of training.
Wagner. Even a wise man may become attached to a
dog when he is well brought up. And he richly deserves
all your favor, — he, the accomplished pupil of your stu-
dents, as he is. ( They enter the gate of the town.)
STUDY.
Faust (entering with the poodle). I have left plain and
meadow veiled in deep night, which wakes the better soul
within us with a holy feeling of foreboding awe. Wild de-
sires are now sunk in sleep, with every deed of violence:
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
the love of man is stirring — the love of God is stirring
now.
Be quiet, poodle, run not hither and thither. What are
you snuffing at on the threshold? Lie down behind the
stove ; there is my best cushion for you. As without, upon
the mountain-path, you amused us by running and gam-
bolling, so now receive my kindness as a welcome quiet
guest.
Ah ! when the lamp is burning again friendly in our nar-
row cell, then all becomes clear in our bosom, — in the heart
that knows itself. Reason begi ns to speaks and hope to
bloom, again; we yearn "for the streams — oh, yesT~for the
fountain of life. ;
Growl hot, poodle ; the brutish sound ill harmonizes with
the hallowed tones which now possess my whole soul. We
are accustomed to see men deride what they do not under-
stand — to see them snarl at the good and beautiful, which
is often troublesome to them. Is the dog disposed to snarl
at it like them ? But, ah ! I feel already that, much as I
may wish for it, contentment wells no longer from my
breast. Yet why must the stream be so soon dried up, and
we again lie thirsting? I have had so much experience
of that ! This want, however, admits of being compensated.
We learn to prize ibhat which is not of this earth ; we long
for revelatiohj^whicE nowhere buTns~Tnore majestically"" or
"more beautifully than in the new Testament. I feel im-
pelled to open the original text — to translate for once, with
upright feeling, the sacred original into my darling German.
(He opens a volume, and disposes himself for the task.)
It is written : " In the beginning was the Word." Here
I am already at a stand — who will help me on ? I cannot
possibly value the Word so highly ; I must translate it dif-
ferently, if I am truly inspired by the spirit. It is written :
" In the beginning was the Sense." Consider well the first
line, that your pen be not over-hasty. Is it the sense that
influences and produces everything ? It should stand thus :
" In the beginning was the Power." Yet, even as I am
writing down this, something warns me not to keep to it. The
spirit comes ,to my aid ! At once I see my way, and write
confidently : f" In the beginn ing was the Deed."^ ^ : ->
If I am to share the chamber with you, poodle, cease your
howling — cease your barking. I cannot endure so trouble-
some a companion near to me. One of us two must quit
the cell. It is with reluctance that I withdraw the rites of
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST. 27
'hospitality; the door is open — the way is clear for you.
But what do I see? Can that come to pass by natural
means ? Is it shadow — is it reality ? How long and broad
my poodle grows ! He raises himself powerfully ; that is
not the form of a dog! What a phantom I have brought
into the house ! — he looks already like a hippopotamus,
with fiery eyes, terrific teeth. Ah ! I am sure of thee ! Sol-
omon's key is good for such a half-hellish brood.
Spirits in the Passage.
One is caught within!
Stay without, follow none !
As in the gin the fox,
Quakes an old lynx of hell.
But take heed !
Hover hither, hover back,
Up and down,
And he is loose !
If ye can aid him,
Leave him not in the lurch,
For he has already done
Much to serve us.
Faust.
First to confront the beast,
Use I the spell of the four:
Salamander shall grow,
Undine twine,
Sylph vanish,
Kobold stir himself.
Who did not know
The elements,
Their power and properties,
Were no master
Over the spirits.
Vanish in flame,
Salamander!
Rushingly flow together
Undine !
Shine in meteor beauty,
Sylph!
Bring homely help,
Incubus! Incubus!
Step forth and make an end of it.
No one of the four sticks in the beast. He lies undis-
turbed and grins at me. I have not yet made him feel.
Thou shalt hear me conjure stronger.
Art thou, fellow,
A scapeling from hell?
Then see this sign !
To which bend the dark troop.
28 THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
He is already swelling, and bristling his hair.
Reprobate !
Canst thou read him? —
The unoriginated,
Unpronounceable,
Through all heaven diffused,
Vilely transpierced?
Driven behind the stove, it is swelling like an elephant ; it
fills the whole space ; it is about to vanish in the mist. Rise
not to the ceiling ! Down at thy master's feet ! Thou seest
I do not threaten in vain. I will scorch thee with holy fire.
Wait not for the thrice-glowing light. Wait not for the
strongest of my spells.
Mephistopheles. ( Comes forward as the mist sinks, in the
dress of a travelling scholar, from behind the stove.) Where-
fore such a fuss ? What may be your pleasure ?
Faust. This, then, was the kernel of the poodle. A
travelling scholar? The casus makes me laugh.
Mephistopheles. I salute your learned worship. You
have made me sweat with a vengeance.
Faust. What is thy name ?
Mephistopheles. The question strikes me as trifling for
one who rates the Word so low ; who, far estranged from all
mere outward seeming, looks only to the essence of things.
Faust. With such gentlemen as you one may generally
learn the essence from the name, since it appears but too
plainly if your name be fly-god, destroyer, liar. Now, in a
word, who art thou, then ?
Mephistopheles. A part of that power which is ever
willing evil and ever producing good.
Faust. What is meant by this riddle ?
Mephistopheles. I am the spirit that constantly denies,
and that rightly ; for everything that has originated, deserves
to be annihilated. Therefore, better were it that nothing
should originate. Thus, all that you call sin, destruction, in
a word, Evil, is my proper element.
Faust. You call yourself a part, and yet stand whole be-
fore me.
Mephistopheles. I tell thee the modest truth. Although
man, that microcosm of folly, commonly esteems himself a
whole, I am a part of the part which in the beginning was
all ; a part of the darkness which brought forth light, — the
proud light, which now contests her ancient rank and space
with mother night. But he succeeds not ; since, strive as he
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST. 29
will, he cleaves, as_if^bqundj to bodies^ he streams from
bodies, he gives beauty to bodies, a body stops him in his
course, and so, I hope, he will perish with bodies before
long.
Faust. Now I know thy dignified calling. Thou art not
able to destroy on a great scale, and so art just beginning on
a small one.
Mephistopheles. And, to say truth, I have made .little
progress in it. That which is opposed to nothing — the
something, this clumsy world, much as I have tried already,
I have not yet learnt how to come at it, — with waves, storms,
earthquakes, fire. Sea and land remain undisturbed, after
all ! And the damned set, the brood of brutes and men, there
is no such thing as getting the better of them, neither. How
many I have already buried ! And new, fresh blood is con-
stantly circulating! Things go on so — it is enough to
make one mad ! From air, water, earth, in wet, dry, hot,
cold — germs by thousands evolve themselves. Had I not
reserved fire, I should have nothing apart for myself.
Faust. So thou opposest thy cold devil's fist, clenched
in impotent malice, to the ever-stirring, the beneficent crea-
ting power. Try thy hand at something else, wondrous son
of Chaos.
Mephistopheles. We will think about it in good earnest
— more of that anon ! Might I be permitted this time to
depart ?
Faust. I see not why you ask. I have now made ac-
quaintance with you ; call on me in future as you feel in*
clined. Here is the window, here the door ; there is also a
chimney for you.
Mephistopheles. To confess the truth, a small obstacle
prevents me from walking out — - the wizard-foot upon your
threshold.
Faust. The Pentagram embarrassesyou ? Tell me, then,
thou child of hell, if that repels thee, how earnest thou in ?
How was such a spirit entrapped ? .
Mephistopheles. Mark it well ; it- is not well drawn ;
one angle, the outward one, is, as thou seest, a little open.
Faust. It is a lucky accident. Thou shouldst be my pris-
oner, then ? This is a chance hit.
Mephistopheles. The poodle observed nothing when he
jumped in. The thing looks differently now ; the devil can-
not get out.
Faust. But why do you not go through the window ?
30 THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
Mephistopheles. It is a law, binding on devils and
phantoms, that they must go out the same way they stole in.
The first is free to us ; we are slaves as regards the second.
Faust. Hell itsel£-bas4ts laws ? I am glad of it ; in that
case a compact, a binding one, may be made with you gentle-
men?
Mephistopheles. What is promised, that shalt thou
enjoy to the letter; not the smallest deduction shall be made
from it. But this is not to be discussed so summarily, and
we will speak of it the next time. But I must earnestly beg
of you to let me go this once.
Faust. Wait yet another moment, and tell me some-
thing worth telling.
Mephistopheles. Let me go now! I will soon come
back ; you may then question me as you like.
Faust. I have laid no snare for thee ; thou hast run into
the net of thy own free will. Let whoever has got hold of
the devil keep hold of him ; he will not catch him a second
time in a hurry.
Mephistopheles. If you like, I am ready to stay and
keep you company here, but upon condition that I may
beguile the time properly for you by my arts.
Faust. I shall attend with pleasure; you may do so,
provided only that the art be an agreeable one.
Mephistopheles. My friend, you will gain more for your
senses in this one hour than in the whole year's monotony.
What the delicate spirits sing to you, the lovely images
which they call up, are not an unsubstantial play of enchant-
ment. Your smell will be charmed, you will then delight
your palate, and then your feelings will be entranced. No
preparation is necessary ; we are all assembled — strike up t
Spirits.
Vanish, ye dark
Arched ceilings above,
More charmingly look In
The friendly blue sky,
Were the dark clouds
Melted away.
Little stars sparkle,
Softer suns shine in.
Ethereal beauty
Of the children of heaven,
Tremulous bending
Hovers across ;
Longing desire
Follows after.
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST. SI
And the fluttering
Ribbons of drapery
Cover the plains,
Cover the bower,
Where lovers,
Deep in thought,
Give themselves for life v
Bower on bower!
Sprouting tendrils !
Down-weighing grapes
Gush into the vat
Of the hard-squeezing press.
The foaming wines
Gush in brooks,
Rustle through
Pure, precious stones,
Leave the heights
Behind them lying,
Broaden to seas
Around the charm of
Green-growing hill.
And the winged throng
Sips happiness,
Flies to meet the sun,
Flies to meet the bright
Isles, which dancingly
Float on the waves;
Where we hear
Shouting in choruses,
Where we see
Dancers on meads ;
In the open air
All disporting alike.
Some are clambering
Over the heights,
Others are swimming
Over the seas,
Others are hovering —
All towards the life,
All towards the far away
Loving stars of
Bliss-giving grace.
Mephistopheles. He slumbers ! Well done, my airy,
delicate youngsters ! Ye have fairly sung him to sleep. I
am your debtor for this concert. Thou art not yet the man
to hold fast the devil! Play round him with sweet dreamy
visionsi^plunge him in a sea^..I][lii&iQnr ' But to break the
spell of this threshold I need a rat's tooth.. I have not to
conjure long; one is already rustling hither, and will hear
me in a moment. The lord of rats and mice, of flies, frogs,
bugs, and lice, commands thee to venture forth and gnaw this
threshold so soon as he has smeared it with oil. Thou
32 THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST
comest hopping forth already ! Instantly to the work ! The
point which repelled me is towards the front on the ledge;
one bite more, and it is done. — Now, Faust, dream on, till
we meet again.
Faust, waking. Am I, then, once again deceived ? Does
the throng of spirits vanish thus ? Was it in a lying dream
that the devil appeared to me, and was it a poodle that
escaped ?
STUDY.
Faust; Mephistopheles.
Faust. Does any one knock? Come in ! Who wants to
disturb me again ?
Mephistopheles. It is I.
Faust. Come in.
Mephistopheles. You must say so three times.
Faust. Come in, then !
Mephistopheles. So far, so good. We shall go on very
well together, I hope ; for, to chase away your fancies, I am
here, like a youth of condition, in a coat of scarlet laced with
gold, a mantle of stiff silk, a cock's feather in my hat, and a
long pointed sword at my side. And, to make no more words
about it, my advice to you is to array yourself in the same
manner immediately, that, unrestrained, emancipated, you
may try what life is.
Faust. In every dress, I dare say, I shall feel the torture
of the contracted life of this earth. I am too old for mere
play, too young to be without a wishT" What can the world
afford me ? — " Thou shalt renounce ! " " Thou shalt re-
nounce ! " — ThatT is~the eternal song which is rung in every
one's ears ; which, our whole life long, every hour is hoarsely
singing to us. In the morning I wake only to horror. I
would fain weep bitter tears to see the day, which, in its
course, will not accomplish a wish for me ; no, not one ; which,
with wayward captiousness, weakens even the presentiment
of every joy, and disturbs the creation of my busy breast by
a thousand ugly realities. Then again, at the approach of
night, I must stretch myself in anguish on my couch ; here,
too, jop rest is vouchsafed to me ; wild dreams are sure to
harrow me up. The God that dwells in my bosom, that can
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST. 33
[stir my inmost soul, that sways all my energies — he is pow- \J.
erless as regards things without ; and thus existence is a load
to me, death an object of earnest prayer, and life detestable.
Mephistopheles. And yet death is never an entirely
welcome guest.
Faust. Oh! happy the man around whose brow he
wreathes the bloody laure) in the glitter of victory — whom,
after the maddening danoe, he finds in a maiden's arms. Oh,
that I had sunk away, enrapt, exanimate, before the great
spirit's power.
Mephistopheles. And yet a certain person did not drink
a certain brown juice on a certain night.
Faust. Playing the spy, it seems, is thy amusement.
Mephistopheles. I am not omniscient, but I know much.
Faust. Since a sweet familiar tone drew me from those
thronging horrors, and played on what of childlike feeling
remained in me with the concording note of happier times,
— my curse on everything that entwines the soul with its
jugglery, and chains it to this den of wretchedness with
blinding and nattering influences. Accursed, first, be the
lofty opinion in which the mind wraps itself ! Accursed, the
blinding of appearances, by which our senses are oppressed !
Accursed, what plays the pretender to us in dreams, — the
cheat of glory, of the lasting of a name ! Accursed, wha
flatters us as property, as wife and child, as slave and plough !
Accursed be Mammon when he stirs us to bold deeds with
treasures, when he smooths our couch for indolent delight !
Accursed, the balsam- juice of the grape ! Accursed, that
highest grace of love ! Accursed be Hope, accursed be Faith 9
and accursed, above all, be Patience !
Chorus of Spirits (invisible).
Woe, woe,
Thou hast destroyed it,
The beautiful world,
With violent hands ;
It tumbles, it falls abroad.
A demi-god has shattered it to pieces!
We bear away
The wrecks into nothingness,
And wail over
The beauty that is lost.
Mighty
Among the sons of earth,
Proudlier
Build it again,
B — Goethe Build it up in thy bosom ! Vol 10
ol THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
A new career of life,
With unstained sense
Begin,
And new lays
Shall peal out thereupon.
Mephistopheles. These are the little ones of my train.
Listen, how, with wisdom beyond their years, they counsel
you to pleasure and action. Out into the world, away from
solitariness, where the senses and the juices of life stagnate
— would they fain lure you. Cease to trifle with your grief,
which, like the vulture, feeds upon your vitals. The worst
company will make you feel that you are a man amongst
men. Yet I do not mean to thrust you amongst the pack.
I am none of your great men ; but if, united with me, you will
wend your way through life, I will readily accommodate my-
self to be yours upon the spot. I am your companion ; and,
if it suits you, your servant, your slave !
Faust. And what am I to do for you in return ?
Mephistopheles. For that you have still a long day of
grace.
Faust. No, no ; the devil is an egotist, and is not likely
to do for God's sake what may advantage another. Speak
the condition plainly out ; such a servant is a dangerous in-
mate.
Mephistopheles. I will bipd myself to your service here*
and never sleep nor slumber at your call. When we meet
on the other side, you shall do as much for me.
Faust. I care little about the other side ; if you first knock
this world to pieces, the other may arise afterwards if it will.
My joys flow from this earth, and this sun shines upon my
sufferings : if I can only separate myself from them, what
will and can may come to pass. I will hear no more about
it — whether there be hating and loving in the world to
come, and whether there be an Above or Below in those
spheres like our own.
Mephistopheles. In this sense, you may venture. Bind
yourself ; and during these days you shall be delighted by ,
my arts ; I will give thee what no human being ever saw
yet.
Faust. What, poor devil, wilt thou give ? Was the mind
of a man, in its high aspiring, ever comprehended by the like
of thee? But if thou hast food which never satisfies ; ruddy
gold, which, volatile like quicksilver, melts away in the
hand ; a game at which one never wins ; a maiden, who, on
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST. 35
my breast, is already ogling my neighbor ; the bright god-
like joy of honor, which vanishes like a meteor ! « — Show me
the fruit that rots before it is plucked, and trees which every
day grow green anew.
Mephistopheles. Such a task affrights me not. I have
such treasures at my disposal. But, my good friend, the
time will come round when we may feast on what is really
good in peace.
Faust. If ever I stretch myself, calm and composed, upon
a couch, be there at once an end of me. If thou canst everj^
flatteringly delude me into being pleased w"th myself — itr
thou canst cheat me with enjoyment, be that day my last.'
I offer the wager.
Mephistopheles. Done*
Faust. And my hand upon it! If I ever say to the
passing moment — " Stay, thou art so fair!" then mayest
thou cast me into chains ; then wUFI readily perish ; then
may the death-bell toll ; then art thou free from thy service.
The clock may stand, the index hand may fall : be time a
thing no more for me !
Mephistopheles. Think well of it; we shall bear it in
mind.
Faust. You have a perfect right so to do. I have formed
no rash estimate of myself. As I remain I am a slave;
what care I whether thine or another's ?
^Mephistopheles. This very day, at the doctor's feast, I
shall enter upon my duty as servant. Only one thing — to
guard against accidents, I must trouble you for a line or two.
Faust. Pedant, dost thou, too, require writing? Hast
thou never known man nor man's word? Is it not enough
that my word of mouth disposes of my days "Tor all eternity?
Does not the world rave on in all its currents, and am I to
be bound by a promise ? Yet this prejudice is implanted in
our hearts: who would willingly free himself from it?
Happy the man who bears truth pure in his breast ; he will
never have cause to repent any sacrifice ! But a parchment,
written and stamped, is a spectre which all shrink from.
The word dies away in the very pen ; in wax and leather is
the mastery. What, evil spirit, wouldst thou of me ? Brass,
marble, parchment, paper ? Shall I write with style, graver,
pen ? I leave the choice to thee. •
Mephistopheles. How can you put yourself in a passion
and overwork your oratory in this manner ? Any scrap will
do : you will subscribe your name with a drop of blood.
36 THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
Faust. If this will fully satisfy you, the whim shall be
complied with.
Mephistopheles. Blood is quite a peculiar sort of juice.
Faust. But fear not that I shall break this compact.
What I promise, is precisely what all my energies are striv-
ing for. I have aspired too high : I belong only to thy
class. The Great Spirit has spurned me ; Nature shuts her-
self against me. The thread of thought is snapped ; I have
long loathed every sort of knowledge. Let us quench our
glowing passions in the depths of sensuality]" let every won-
der be forthwith prepared beneath the hitherto impervious
veil of sorcery. Let us cast ourselves into the rushing of
time, into the rolling of accident. There pain and pleasure,
success and disappointment, may succeed each other as they
will — man's proper element is restless activity.
Mephistopheles. Nor end nor limit is prescribed to you.
If it is your pleasure to sip the sweets of everything, to
snatch at all as you fly by, much good may it do you — only
fall to, and don't be coy.
Faust. I tell thee again, p leasure is not the question : I
devote myself to the intoxicating whirl ; — to the most ago-
nizing enjoyment — to enamored hate — to animating vexa-
tion. My breast, cured of the thirst of knowledge, shall
henceforth bare itself to every pang. I will enjoy in my
own heart's core all that is parcelled out amongst mankind ;
grapple in spirit with the highest and deepest; heap the
weal and woe of the whole race upon my breast, and thus
dilate my own individuality to theirs and perish also, in the
end, like them.
Mephistopheles. Oh, believe me, who many thousand
years have chewed the cud on this hard food, that, from the
cradle to the bier, no human being digests the old leaven.
Believe a being like me, this Whole is only made for a god.
He exists in an eternal halo ; us he has brought forth in
*> darkness ; and only day and night are proper for you,
Faust. But I will.
Mephistopheles. That is well enough to say! But I
am only troubled about one thing ; time is short, art is long.
I should suppose you would suffer yourself to be instructed.
Take a poet to counsel ; make the gentleman set his imagin-
ation at work, and heap all noble qualities on your honored
head, — the lion's courage, the stag's swiftness, the fiery
blood of the Italian, the enduring firmness of the North.
Make him find out the secret of combining magnanimity
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST. 37
with cunning, and of being in love, after a set plan, with the
burning desires of youth. I myself should like to know such
a gentleman — I would call him Mr. Microcosm.
Faust. What, then, am I, if it be not possible to attain
tjie crown of humanity, which every sense is striving for?
Mephistopheles. Thou art in the end — what thou ail.
Put on wigs with millions of curls — set thy foot upon ell-
high socks, — thou abidest ever what thou art.
Faust. I feel it; in vain have I scraped together and
accumulated all the treasures of the human mind upon my-
self ; and when I sit down at the end, still no new power
wells up within : I am not a hair's breadth higher, nor a whit
nearer the Infinite.
Mephistopheles. My good sir, you see things precisely
as they are ordinarily seen ; we must manage matters better,
before the joys of life pass away from us. What the deuce!
you have surely hands and feet and head and — And what
I enjoy with spirit, is that, then, the less my own? If I can
pay for six horses, are not their powers mine ? I dash along
and am a proper man, as if I had four-and-twenty legs.
Quick, then, have done with poring, and straight away
into the world with me. I tell you, a fellow that specu-
lates is like a brute driven in a circle on a barren heath
by an evil spirit, whilst fair green meadow lies everywhere
around.
Faust. How shall we set about it ?
Mephistopheles. We will just start and take our
chance. What a place of martyrdom ! what a precious life
to lead ! — wearying one's self and a set of youngsters to
death. Leave that to your neighbor, Mr. Paunch ! Why
will you plague yourself to thrash straw? The best that
you can know, you dare not tell the lads. Even now I hear
one in the passage.
Faust. I cannot possibly see him.
Mephistopheles. The poor boy has waited long ; he
must not be sent away disconsolate. Come, give me your
cap and gown : the mask will become me to admiration. {He
changes his dress.) Now trust to my wit. I require but a
quarter of an hour. In the meantime prepare for our
pleasant trip. {Eotit Faust.)
Mephistopheles, in Faust's gown. Only despise reason
and knowledge, the highest strength of humanity ; only per-
mit thyself to be confirmed in delusion and sorcery-work by
the spirit of lies, — and I have thee unconditionally. Fate
38 THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
has given him a spirit which is ever pressing onwards
uncurbed, — whose overstrained striving o'erleaps the joys of
earth. Him will I drag through the wild passages of life,
through vapid unmeaningness. He shall sprawl, stand
amazed, stick fast, — and meat and drink shall hang, for his
insatiableness, before his craving lips: he shall pray for
refreshment in vain ; and had he not already given himself
up to the devil, he would, notwithstanding, inevitably be
lost. (A Student enters.)
Student. I am but just arrived, and come, full of devo-
tion, to address and know a man whom all name to me with
reverence.
Mephistopheles. I am flattered by your politeness.
You see a man like many others. Have you yet made any
inquiry elsewhere ?
Student. Interest yourself for me, I pray you. I come
with every good disposition, a little money, and youthful
spirits ; my mother could hardly be brought to part with me,
but I would fain learn something worth learning in the world.
Mephistopheles. You are here at the very place for it.
Student. Honestly speaking, I already wish myself
away. These walls, these halls, are by no means to my
taste. The space is exceedingly confined ; there is not a
tree, nothing green, to be seen ; and in the lecture-rooms.,
on the benches, — hearing, sight, and thinking fail me.
Mephistopheles. It all depends on habit. Thus, at
first, the child does not take kindly to the mother's breast,
but soon finds a pleasure in nourishing itself. Just so will
you daily experience a greater pleasure at the breasts of
wisdom.
Student. I shall hang delightedly upon her neck ; do
but tell me how I am to attain it.
Mephistopheles. Tell me, before you go further, what
faculty you fix upon ?
Student. I should wish to be profoundly learned, and
should like to comprehend what is upon earth or in heaven,
science and nature.
Mephistopheles. You are here upon the right scent ;
but you must not suffer your attention to be distracted.
Student. I am heart and soul in the cause. A little re-
laxation and pastime, to be sure, would not come amiss on
bright summer holidays.
Mephistopheles. Make the most of time, it glides away
so fast. But method teaches you to gain time. For this
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST. 39
reason^ my good friend, I advise jou to begin with a course
pi logic). I 11 this study, the mind is well broken in, — laced
up in Spanish boots, so that it creeps circumspectly along the
path of thought, and runs no risk of flickering, ignis fatuus-
like, in all directions. Then many a day will be spent in
teaching you that one, two, three' — is necessary for that
which formerly you hit off at a blow, as easily as eating and
drinking. It is with the fabric of thought as with a weaver's
masterpiece ; where one treadle moves a thousand threads :
the shuttles shoot backwards and forwards ; the threads flow
unseen : ties, by thousands, are struck off at a blow. Your
philosopher, — he steps in and proves to you, it must have
been so : the first would be so, the second so, and therefore
the third and fourth so : and if the first and second were not,
the third and fourth would never be. The students of all
countries put a high value on this, but none have become
weavers. IJe who wishes to know and describe anything
living, seeks first to drive the spirit out of it ; he has then
the parts in his hand ; only, unluckily, the spiritual bond is
wanting. Chemistry terms it encheiresis n aturce, and mocks
herself without knowing it.
Student. I cannot quite comprehend you.
Mephistopheles. You will soon improve in that respect,
if you learn to reduce and classify all things properly.
Student. I am so confounded by all this ; I feel as if a
mill-wheel was turning round in my head.
Mephistopheles. In the next place, before everything
else, you must set to at metaphysics. There see that you
conceive profoundly what is not made foi human brains. A
fine word will stand you in stead for what enters and what
does not enter there. And be sure, for this half-year, to
adopt the strictest regularity. You will have five lectures
every day. Be in as the clock strikes. Be well prepared
beforehand with the paragraphs carefully conned, that you
may see the better that he says nothing but what is in the
book ; yet write away as zealously as if the Holy Ghost were
dictating to you.
Student. You need not tell me that a second time. I
can imagine how useful it is. For what one has in black and
white one can carry home in comfort.
Mephistopheles. But choose a faculty.
Student. I cannot reconcile myself in jurisprudence.
Mephistopheles. I cannot much blame you. I know
the nature of this science. Laws descend, like an inveterate
40 THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST
hereditary disease ; they trail from generation to generation,
and glide imperceptibly from place to place, geason be-
comes nonsense ; beneficence a plague. Woe to thee that
thou art a grandson ! Of the law that is born with us — of
that, unfortunately, there is never a question.
Student. You increase my repugnance. Oh, happy he
whom you instruct ! I should almost like to study theology,
Mephistopheles. I do not wish to mislead you. As for
this science, it is so difficult to avoid the wrong way ; there
is so much hidden poison in it, which is hardly to be distin-
guished from the medicine. Here, again, it is best to attend
but one master, and swear by his words. Generally speak-
ing, stick to words ; you will then pass through the safe gate
into the temple of certainty.
Student. But there must be some meaning connected
with the word.
Mephistopheles. Right! only we must not be too anx-
ious about that ; for it is precisely where meaning fails that
a word comes in most opportunely. Disputes may be ad-
mirably carried on with words ; a system may be built with
words ; words form a capital subject for belief ; a word admits
not of an iota being taken from it.
Student. Your pardon, I detain you by my many ques-
tions, but I must still trouble you. Would you be so kind
as to add a pregnant word or two on medicine? Three
years is a short time, and the field, God knows, is far too
wide. If one has but a hint, one can feel one's way along
further.
Mephistopheles (aside). I begin to be tired of the pros-
ing style. I must play the devil properly again (aloud). The
spirit of medicine is easy to be caught ; you study through
the great and little world, and let things go on in the end —
as it pleases God. It is vain that you wander scientifically
about ; no man will learn more than he can ; he who avails
himself of the passing moment — that is the proper man.
You are tolerably well built, nor will you be wanting in bold-
ness, and if you do but confide in yourself other souls will
confide in you. In particular, learn how to treat the women :
their eternal ohs ! and ahs ! so thousandfold, are to be cured
from a single point, and if you only assume a moderately de-
mure air, you will have them all under your thumb. You
must have a title to convince them that your art is superior
to most others, and then you are admitted from the first to
all those little privileges which another spends years in coax-
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST. 41
ing for. — Learn how to feel the pulse adroitly, and boldly
clasp them, with hot wanton looks, around the tapering hip,
to see how tightly it is laced.
Student. There is some sense in that ; one sees, at any
rate, the where and the how.
Mephistopheles. Gray, my dear friend, is all theory, and
green the golden tree*oTuf^
Student. I vow to you all is a dream to me. Might I
trouble you another time to hear your wisdom speak upon
the grounds ?
Mephistopheles. I am at your service, to the extent of
my poor abilities.
Student. I cannot possibly go away without placing my
album in your hands. Do not grudge me this token of your
favor.
Mephistopheles. With all my heart. (He writes and
gives it back.)
Student reads. Eritis sicut Deus, scientes bonum et
malum, (He closes the book reverentially r , and takes his
leave.)
Mephistopheles. Only follow the old saying and my
cousin the snake, and some time 01 other you, with your
likeness to God, will be sorry enough.
Faust enters. Whither now ?
Mephistopheles. Where you please ; to see the little,
then the great world. With what joy, what profit, will you
revel through the course.
Faust. But with my long beard, I want the easy manners
of society. I shall fail in the attempt. I never knew how
to present myself in the world ; I feel so little in the pres-
ence of others. I shall be in a constant state of embarrass-
ment.
Mephistopheles. My dear friend, all that will come of
its own accord ;, so soon as you feel confidence in yourself v^
you know the art of life.
Faust. How, then, are we to start? Where are your
carriages, horses, and servants?
Mephistopheles. We have but to spread out this mantle
that shall bear us through the air. Only you will have no
heavy baggage on this bold trip. A little inflammable air,
which I will get ready, will lift us quickly from this earth ;
and if we are light, we shall mount rapidly. I wish you
joy of your new course of life.
42 THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
AUERBACH'S CELLAR IN LEIPSIC.
(Drinking bout of merry fellovis.)
Frosch. Will no one drink ? No one laugh ? I will
teach you to grin. Why, you are like wet straw to-day, yet
at other times you blaze brightly enough.
Brander. That is your fault, you contribute nothing to-
wards it : no nonsense, no beastliness
Frosch (throics a glass of wine over Brander' s head).
There are both for you !
Brander. You double hog!
Frosch. Why, you wanted me to be so.
Siebel. Out with him who quarrels ! With open heart
strike up the song ! swill and shout ! holla, holla, ho !
Altmayer. Woe is me, I am a lost man. Cotton, here !
the knave splits my ears.
Siebel. It is only when the vault echoes again that one
feels the true power of the bass.
Frosch. Right : out with him who takes anything amiss.
A ! taralara, da !
Altmayer. A! taralara!
Frosch. Our throats are tuned. (He sings.) The dear
holy Romish empire, how holds it still together ?
Brander. A nasty song ! psha, a political song ! an offens-
ive song ! Thank God every morning of your life that you
have not the Roman empire to care for. I, at least, esteem
it no slight gain that I am not emperor nor chancellor. But
we cannot do without a head. We will choose a pope. You
know what sort of qualification turns the scale and elevates
the man.
Frosch sings. Soar up, Madam Nightingale, give my
sweetheart ten thousand greetings for me.
Siebel. No greeting to the sweetheart ; I will not hear
of it.
Frosch. Greeting to the sweetheart, and a kiss, too ! Thou
shalt not hinder me.
(He sings.)
Open bolts ! in stilly night.
Open bolts ! the lover wakes.
Shut bolts! at morning's dawn.
Siebel. Ay, sing, sing on, and praise and celebrate her',
my turn for laughing will come, She has taken me in ; she
will do the same for you. May she have a hobgoblin for a
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST. 43
lover! He may toy with her on a cross way. An old he-
goat, on his return from the Blocksberg, may wicker good
night to her on the gallop. A hearty fellow of genuine flesh
and blood is far too good for the wench. I will hear of no
greeting, unless it be to smash her windows.
Brander (striking on the table). Attend, attend; listen
to me ! You gentlemen must allow me to know something
of life. Lovesick folks sit here, and I must give them some-
thing suitable to their condition by way of good night.
Attend ! a song of the newest cut ! and strike boldly in with
the chorus.
{He sings.)
There was a rat in the cellar, who lived on nothing but fat and but.
ter, and had raised himself up a paunch fit for Doctor Luther himself.
The cook had laid poison for him, then the world became too hot for
him, as if he had love in his body.
Chorus. — As if he had love in his body.
He ran round, he ran out, he drank of every puddle; he gnawed and
scratched the whole house, but his fury availed nothing; he gave
many a bound of agony; the poor beast was soon done for, as if he
had love in his body,
Chorus. — As if, etc.
He came running into the kitchen, for sheer pain, in open daylight,
fell on the earth, and lay convulsed, and panted pitiably. Then the
poisoner exclaimed, with a laugh — Ha ! he is at his last gasp, as if he
had love in his body.
Chorus. — As if, etc.
Siebel. How the flats chuckle ! It is a fine thing, to be
sure, to lay poison for the poor rats.
Brander. They stand high in your favor, I dare say.
Altmayer. The bald-pated paunch ! The misadventure
makes him humble and mild. He sees in the swollen rat his
own image drawn to the life.
Faust and Mephistopheles.
Mephistopheles. Before all things else, I must bring
you into merry company, that you may see how lightly life
may be passed. These people make every day a feast,
With little wit and much self-complacency, each turns
round in the narrow circle-dance, like kittens playing with
their tails. So long as they have no headache to complain
of, and so long as they can get credit from their host, they
are merry and free from care.
Brander. They are just off their journey ; one may see
as much from their strange manner. They have not been
here, an hour.
44 THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
Frosch. Thou art right ; Leipsic is the place for me : it is
a little Paris, and gives its folks a finish.
Siebel. What do you take the strangers to be?
Frosch. Let me alone ; in the drinking of a bumper I
will worm it out of them as easily as draw a child's tooth.
They appear to me to be noble ; they have a proud and dis-
contented look.
Brander. Mountebanks to a certainty, I wager.
Altmayer. Likely enough.
Frosch. Now mark ; I will smoke them.
Mephistopheles to Faust. These people would never
scent the devil if he had them by the throat.
Faust. Good morrow, gentlemen.
Siebel. Thanks, and good morrow to you. {Aside, look-
ing at Mephistopheles aska?ice.) Why does the fellow
halt on one foot ?
Mephistopheles. Will you permit us to sit down with
vou? We shall have company to cheer us, instead of good
liquor, which is not to be had.
Altmayer. You seem a very dainty gentleman.
Frosch. I dare say you are lately from Rippach. Did
you sup with Mr. Hans before you left?
Mephistopheles. We passed him without stopping to-
day. The last time we spoke to him, he had much to say
of his cousins; he charged us with compliments to each.
( With an inclination towards Frosch.)
Altmayer {aside). Thou hast it there ! he knows a thing
or two.
Siebel. A knowing fellow.
Frosch. Only wait, I shall have him presently.
Mephistopheles. If I am not mistaken, we heard some
practised voices singing in chorus ? No doubt singing must
echo admirably from this vaulted roof.
Frosch. I dare say you are a dilettante.
Mephistopheles. Oh, no ! The power is weak, but the
desire is strong.
Altmayer. Give us a song.
Mephistopheles. As many as you like.
Siebel. Only let it be bran new.
Mephistopheles. We are just returned from Spain, the
fair land of wine and song. {He sings.) There was once
upon a time a king who had a great flea
Frosch. Hark! A flea ! Did you catch that? A flea
is a fine sort of chap.
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST. 45
Mephistopheles sings. There was once upon a time a
"king ; he had a great flea, and was as fond of it as if it had
been his own son. Then he called his tailor ; the tailor came,
" There, measure the youngster for clothes, and measure him
for breeches."
Brander. Only don't forget to impress it on the tailor tc
measure with the greatest nicety, and, as he loves his head,
to make the breeches sit smoothly.
Mephistopheles sings. He was now attired in velvet
and silk, had ribbons on his coat, had a cross besides, and was
forthwith made minister, and had a great star. Then his
brothers and sisters also became great folks. And the ladies
and gentlemen at court were dreadfully tormented ; from the
queen to the waiting-women they were pricked and bitten,
yet dared not crack nor scratch them away. But we crack
and stifle fast enough when one pricks. Chorus. — But we
crack, etc.
Frosch. Bravo ! bravo ! That was capital.
Siebel. So perish every flea.
Brander. Point your fingers, and nick them cleverly.
Altmayer. Liberty forever ! Wine forever !
Mephistopheles. I would willingly drink a glass in honor
of liberty, were your wine a thought better.
Siebel. You had better not let us hear that again !
Mephistopheles. I am afraid of giving offence to the
landlord, or I would treat these worthy gentlemen out of our
own stock.
Siebel. O, bring it in ; I take the blame upon myself.
Frosch. Give us a good glass, and we shall not be spar-
ing of our praise ; only don't let your samples be too small ;
for, if I am to give an opinion, I require a regular mouth-
ful.
Altmayer {aside). They are from the Rhine, I guess.
Mephistopheles. Bring a gimlet.
Brander. What for ? You surely have not the casks at
the door?
Altmayer. Behind there, is a tool-chest of the land-
lord's.
Mephistopheles {taking the gimlet) to Frosch. Now
say, what wine do you wish to taste ?
Frosch. What do you mean ? Have you so many sorts ?
Mephistopheles. I give every man his choice.
Altmayer to Frosch. Ah ! you begin to lick your lips
already.
46. THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
Frosch. "Well ! if I am to choose, I will take Rhine wine.
Our fatherland affords the best of gifts.
Mephistopheles {boring a hole in the edge of the table
where Frosch is sitting). Get a little wax to make stoppers,
immediately.
Altmayer. Ah ! these are juggler's tricks.
Mephistopheles to Brander. And you ?
Brander. I choose champagne, and right sparkling it
must be. (Mephistopheles bores again ; one of the others
has in the meantime prepared the wax-stoppers and stopped
the holes.) One cannot always avoid what is foreign ; what
is good often lies so far off. .£.. true German cannot abide
Frenchmen, but has no objection to their wine.
Siebel (as Mephistopheles approaches him) . I must own
I do not like acid wine ; give me a glass of genuine sweet.
Mephistopheles (bores). You shall have Tokay in a
twinkling.
Altmayer. No, gentlemen, look me in the face. I see
plainly you are only making fun of us.
Mephistopheles. Ha ! ha ! that would be taking too
great a liberty with such distinguished guests. Quick ! only
speak out at once. What wine can I have the pleasure of
serving you with ?
Altmayer. With any; there is no need of much ques-
tioning. (After all the holes are bored and stopped)
Mephistopheles (with strange gestures)*
The vine bears grapes.
The he-goat bears horns.
Wine is juicy,
Vines are wood ;
The wooden table can also give wine.
A deep insight into nature :
Behold a miracle, only have faith;
Now draw the stoppers, and drink.
All (as they draw the stoppers, and the wine he chose
runs into each man's glass). Oh, beautiful spring that flows
for us !
Mephistopheles. Only take care not to spill any of it.
( They drink repeatedly^)
All sing. We are as happy as cannibals — - as five hundred
swine.
Mephistopheles. These people are now in their glory',
mark, how merry they are.
Faubt, I should like to be off now,
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST. 47
Mephistopheles. But first attend ; their brutishness will
display itself right gloriously.
Siebel. (Drinks carelessly ; the wine is spilt upon the
ground, and turns to flame.) Help ! fire, heip ! Hell is
burning.
Mephistopheles {conjuring the flame) . Be quiet, friendly
element ! ( To Siebel.) This time it was only a drop of the
fire of purgatory.
Siebel. What may that be ? Hold ! you shall pay dearly
for it. It seems that you do not know us.
Frosch. He had better not try that a second time.
Altmayer. I think we had better send him packing
quietly.
Siebel. What, sir, you dare play off your hocus-pocus here?
Mephistopheles. Silence, old wine-butt !
Siebel. Broomstick ! will you be rude to us, too ?
Brander. But hold ! or blows shall rain.
Altmayer. (Draws a stopper from the table; fire flies
out against him.) I burn ! I burn !
Siebel. Sorcery! thrust home! the knave is fair game.
{They draw their knives and attack Mephistopheles.)
Mephistopheles (with solemn gestures).
False form and word,
Change sense and place,
Be here, be there !
( They stand amazed, and gaze on each other.)
Altmayer. Where am I ? What a beautiful country !
Frosch. Vineyards ! Can I believe my eyes ?
Siebel. And grapes close at hand !
Brander. Here, under these green leaves, see, what a
stem ! see what a bunch ! (He seizes Siebel by the nose.
The others do the same one with the other, and brandish
their knives.)
Mephistopheles (as before). Error, loose the bandage
from their eyes ! And do ye remember the devil's mode of
jesting. (He disappears with Faust. The fellows start back
from one another.)
Siebel. What's the matter ?
Altmayer. How?
Frosch. Was that your nose?
Brander to Siebel. And I have yours in my hand!
Altmayer. It was a shock that thrilled through every
limb ! Give me a chair ; I am sinking.
48 THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
Frosch. No, do but tell me what has happened ?
Siebel. Where is the fellow? If I meet with him, it
shall be as much as his life is worth.
Altmayer. I saw him with my own eyes riding omt of
the cellar door upon a cask. My feet feel as heavy as lead.
(Turning tovmrds the table?) My! I wonder whether the
wine is flowing still?
Siebel. It was all a cheat, a lie, a make-believe. Yet it
seemed to me as if I was drinking wine.
Brander. But how was it with the grapes ?
Altmayer. Let any one tell me, after that, that one is
not to believe in wonders !
WITCHES' KITCHEN.
A large caldron is hanging over the fire on a low hearth
Different figures are seen in the fumes which rise from it.
A female monkey is sitting by the caldron and skimming
it, and taking care that it does not run over. The male
' monkey is seated near with the young ones, and warming
himself The walls and ceiling are hung with the strangest
articles of witch furniture.
Faust. I loathe this mad concern of witchcraft. Do you
promise me that I shall recover in this chaos of insanity?
bo I need an old hag's advice^- And will this mess of
cookery really take thirty years f rorri .jny. body ? Woe is
me, if you know of nothing •better ! Hope is already gone.
Has nature and has a noble spirit discovered no sort of
balsam ?
Mephistopheles. My friend, now again you speak wisely!
There is also a natural mode of renewing youth. But it is
in another book, and is a strange chapter.
Faust. Let me know it.
Mephistopheles. Well, to have a mean without money,
physician, or sorcery; betake thyself straightway to the
field, begin to back and dig, confine thyself and thy sense
within a narrow circle ; support thyself on simple food ; live
with beasts as a beast, and think it no robbery to manure
the land you crop. That is the best way, believe me, to
keep a man young to eighty.
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST. 49
Faust. I am not used to it. I cannot bring myself to
take the spade in hand. The confined life does not suit me
at all.
Mephistopheles. Then you must have recourse to the
witch, after all.
Faust. But why the old woman in particular? Cannot
you brew the drink yourself?
Mephistopheles. That were a pretty pastime ! I could
build a thousand bridges in the time. Not art and science
only, but patience is required for the job. A quiet spirit is
busy at it for years ; time only makes this fine liquor strong.
And the ingredients are exceedingly curious. The devil,
it is true, has taught it to her, but the devil cannot make it.
{Perceiving the Monkeys.) See what a pretty breed!
That is the lass — that the lad. ( To the Monkeys.) — It
seems your mistress is not at home ?
The Monkeys.
At the feast,
Out of the house,
Out and away by the chimney-stone !
Mephistopheles. How long does she usually rake !
The Monkeys. Whilst we are warming our paws.
Mephistopheles {to Faust). What think you of the
pretty creatures ?
Faust. The most disgusting I ever saw.
Mephistopheles. Nay, a discourse like the present is
precisely what I am fondest of engaging in. {To the
Monkeys.) Tell me, accursed whelps, what are ye stirring
up with the porridge ?
Monkeys. We are cooking coarse beggars' broth.
Mephistopheles. You will have plenty of customers.
The He-Monkey. {Approaches and fawns on Mephis-
topheles.)
Oh, quick, throw the dice,
And make me rich —
And let me win !
My fate is a sorry one,
And had I money
I should not want for consideration.
Mephistopheles. How happy the monkey would think
himself, if he could only put into the lottery.
{The Young Monkeys have in the meantime, begun play-
ing with a large globe, and roll it forwards^
60 THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
The He-Monkey.
That is the world ;
It rises and falls,
And rolls unceasingly.
It rings like glass :
How soon breaks that ?
It is hollow within ;
It glitters much here,
And still more here —
I am alive !
My dear son,
Keep thee aloof;
Thou must die !
It is of clay,
This makes potsherds.
Mephistopheles. What is the sieve for ?
The He-Monkey {takes it down). Wert thou a thief, I
should know thee at once. (He runs to the female and
makes her look through.)
Look through the sieve!
Dost thou recognize the thief ?
And darest not name him ?
Mephistopheles (approaching the fire). And this pot?
The Monkeys.
The half-witted sot!
He knows not the pot !
He knows not the kettle !
Mephistopheles. Uncivil brute !
The He-Monkey. Take the brush here and sit down on
the settle. (He makes Mephistopheles sit down.)
Faust (who all this time has been standing before a
looking-glass, now approaching and now standing off from
it). What do I see? What heavenly image shows itself in
this magic mirror ! O love ! lend me the swiftest of thy
wings, and bear me to her region. Ah ! when I stir from
this spot, when I venture to go near, I can only see her as in
a mist. The loveliest image of a woman ! Is it possible — is
woman so lovely ? Must I see in these recumbent limbs the
innermost essence of all heavens? Is there anything like
it upon earth ?
Mephistopheles. When a God first works hard for sixdays,
and himself says bravo at the end, it is but natural that some-
thing clever should come of it. For this time look your
fill. I know where to find out such a love for you, and
happy he whose fortune it is to bear her home as a bride*
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST. 51
groom. (Faust continues looking into the mirror. Me-
phistopheles, stretching himself on the settle, and playing
with the brush, continues speaking.) Here I sit, like the
king upon his throne ; here is my sceptre — I only want the
crown.
The Monkeys (who have hitherto been playing all sorts
of strange antics, bring Mephistopheles a crown, with loud
acclamations) . O be so good as to glue the crown with sweat
and blood. ( They handle the crown awkwardly, and break
it into two pieces, icith which they jump about.)
Now it is done.
We speak and see ;
We hear and rhyme —
Fatjst (before the mirror). Woe is me! I am becoming
almost mad !
Mephistopheles (pointing to the Monkeys). My own
head begins to totter now.
The Monkeys.
— And if we are lucky —
And if things fit,
Then there are thoughts.
Faust (as before). My heart is beginning to burn. Do
but let us be gone immediately.
Mephistopheles (in the same position). Well, no one
can deny, at any rate, that they are sincere poets. (The
caldron, which the She-Monkey has neglected, begins to boil
over ; a great flame arises, and streams up the chimney.
The Witch comes shooting down through the flame with
horrible cries.)
The Witch.
Ough, ough, ough, ough !
Damned beast! accursed sow I
Neglecting the caldron, scorching your dame —
Cursed beast!
Espying Faust and Mephistopheles.)
What now ?
iVho are ye ?
What would ye here ?
Who hath come slinking in ?
The red plague of fire
Into your bones !
{/She dips the skimming ladle into the caldron, and sprinkles
flames at Faust, Mephistopheles, and th$ Monkeys,
The Monkeys whimper.)
52 THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
Mephistopheles (who inverts the brush which he holds in
his hand, and strikes amongst the glasses and pots).
To pieces !
To pieces !
There lies the porridge!
There lies the glass !
It is only carrying on the jest — beating time, thou carrion,
to thy melody. (As the Witch steps back in rage and
amazement.) Dost thou recognize me, thou atomy, thou
scare-crow? Dost thou recognize thy lord and master?
What is there to hinder me from striking in good earnest,
from dashing thee and thy monkey-spirits to pieces ? Hast
thou no more any respect for the red doublet ? Canst thou
not distinguish the cock's feather? Have I concealed this
face? Must I then name myself ?
The Witch. O master, pardon this rough reception. But
I see no cloven foot. Where, then, are your two ravens ?
Mephistopheles. This once the apology may serve. For,
to be sure, it is long since last we met. The march of in-
tellect, too, which licks all the world into shape has even
reached the devil. The northern phantom is no more to be
seen. Where do you now see horns, tail and claws ? And
as for the foot, which I cannot do without, it would prejudice
me in society ; therefore, like many a gallant, I have worn
ialse. calves these many years.
The Witch (dancing). I am almost beside myself to see
the gallant Satan here again.
Mephistopheles. The name, woman, I beg to be spared.
The Witch. Wherefore? What has it done to you?
Mephistopheles. It has long been written in story-books;
but men are not the better for that ; they are rid of the
wicked one, the wicked have remained. You may call me
Barony that will do very well. I am a cavalier, like other
cavaliers. You doubt not of my gentle blood ; see here,
these are the arms I bear! (He makes an unseemly
gesture.)
The Witch laughs immoderately. Ha, ha ! That is in
your way. You are the same mad wag as ever.
Mephistopheles (to Faust). My friend, attend to this.
This is the way to deal with witches.
The Witch. Now, sirs, say what you are for.
Mephistopheles. A good glass of the juice you wot of.
I must beg you to let it be of the oldest. Years double its
power.
Anc
Andtl
Then artH
Lose the four !
Out of five and six^
So says the Witch,
Make seven and eight,
Then it is done,
And nine is one,
And ten is none.
That is the witches' one-times-c^
Faust. It seems to me that the hag is ravTJ
Mephistopheles. There is a good deal mo
I know it well ; the whole book is to the same tuj
wasted many an hour upon it, for a downright coiF
remains equally mysterious to wise folks and foc^
friend, the art is old and new. It has ever been the^
to spread error instead of truth by three and one, ai^
and three. It is taught and prattled uninterruptedly,
will concern themselves about dolts ? Men are wont to^
ITCH
3t not
you.
td if I can do any-
mention it to me on
Jong ! if you sing it occasionally,
feet on you.
Faust). Come quick, and be guided
tecessarily expire, to make the spirit
and bone. I will afterwards teach you
[ity of idleness, and you will feel ere long,
ight, how Cupid bestirs himself and bounds
bher.
jet me only look another moment in the glass,
form was too, too lovely.
(topheles. Nay, nay ; you shall soon see the model
^mankind in flesh and blood. (Aside.) With this
in your body, you will soon see a Helen in every
you meet.
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST. 55
THE STREET.
Faust. (Margaret passing by.) My pretty lady, may
I take the liberty of offering you my arm and escort ?
Margaret. I am neither lady, nor pretty, and can go
home without an escort. (She disengages herself and exit.)
Faust. By heaven this girl is lovely ! I have never seen
the like of her. She is so well-behaved and virtuous, and
something snappish, withal. The redness of her lip, the light
of her cheek — I shall never forget them all the days of my
life. The manner in which she cast down her eyes is deeply
stamped upon my heart : and how tart she was — it was ab-
solutely ravishing !
Mephistopheles enters.
Faust. Hark, you must get me the girl.
Mephistopheles. Which?
Faust. She passed but now.
Mephistopheles. What, she ? She came from her con-
fessor, who absolved her from all her sins. I stole up close
to the chair. It is an innocent little thing, that went for
next to nothing to the confessional. Over her I have no
power.
Faust. Yet she is past fourteen !
Mephistopheles. You positively speak like Jack Rake,
who covets every sweet flower for himself, and fancies that
there is neither honor nor favor which is not to be had for
the plucking. But this will not always do.
Faust. My good Mr. Sermonizer, don't plague me with
your morality. And, in a word, I tell you this : if the sweet
young creature does not lie this very night in my arms at
midnight our compact is at an end. ,
Mephistopheles. Consider what fe possible. I need a
fortnight, at least, to find an opportunity.
Faust. Had I but seven hours clear, I should not want
the devil's assistance to seduce such a child.
Mephistopheles. You talk now almost like a French-
man : but don't fret about it, I beg. What boots it to go
straight to enjoyment ? The delight is not so great by far,
as when you have kneaded and molded the doll on all sides
with all sorts of nonsense, as many a French story teaches.
Faust. But I have appetite without all that.
Mephistopheles. Now seriously, and without offence, I
tell you, once for all, that the lovely girl is not to be had in
56 THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
such a hurry ; nothing here is to be taken by storm ; we
must have recourse to stratagem.
Faust. Get me something belonging to the angel. Carry
me to her place of repose; get me a kerchief from her bosom,
a garter of my love.
Mephistopheles. That you may see my anxiety to min-
ister to your passion, — we will not lose a moment ; this very
day I will conduct you to her chamber.
Faust. And shall I see her? have her? —
Mephistopheles. No. She will be at a neighbor's. In
the meantime, you, all alone, and in her atmosphere, may
feast to satiety on anticipated joy.
Faust. Can we go now ?
Mephistopheles. It is too early.
Faust. Get me a present for her. [Exit.
Mephistopheles. Presents directly ! Now that's capital!
That's the way to succeed ! I know many a fine place, and
many a long-buried treasure. I must look them over a bit,
[Mat.
EVENING.
A neat little Room.
Margaret (braiding and binding up her hair.) I would
give something to know who that gentleman was to-day!
He had a gallant bearing, and is of a noble family, I am sure.
I could read that on his brow ; he would not else have been
so impudent. \_Exit.
Mephistopheles — Faust.
Mephistopheles. Come in — as softly as possible — only
come in !
Faust {after a pause). Leave me alone, I beg of you.
Mephistopheles (looking round). It is not every maiden
that is so neat. [Exit.
Faust (looking round). Welcome, sweet twilight, that
pervades this sanctuary ! Possess my heart, delicious pangs
of love, you who live languishing on the dew of hope ! What
a feeling of peace, order, and contentment breathes round !
What abundance in this poverty ! What bliss in this cell \
(He throics himself upon the leathern easy-chair by the side of
the bed.) Oh I receive me, thou, who hast welcomed with open
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST. 57
arms, in joy and sorrow, the generations that are past. Ah,
how often has a swarm of children clustered about this pa-
triarchal throne. Here, perhaps, in gratitude for her Christ-
mas-box, with the warm round cheek of childhood — has my
beloved piously kissed the withered hand of her grandsire.
Maiden, I feel thy spirit of abundance and order flutter
around me — that spirit which daily instructs thee like 'a
mother — which bids thee spread the neat cloth upon the
table and curl the sand upon the floor. Dear hand ! so god-
like ; you make the hut a heaven ; and here — (He lifts up a
bed-curtain), what blissful tremor seizes me ! Here could I
linger for hours ! Nature, here, in light dreams, you matured
the born angel. Here lay the child ! its gentle bosom filled
with warm life ; and here, with weavings of hallowed purity,
the divine image developed itself. And thou, what has
brought thee hither? How deeply moved I feel! What
wouldst thou here? Why grows thy heart so heavy?
Poor Faust, I no longer know thee. Am I breathing an en-
chanted atmosphere? I panted so for instant enjoyment,
and feel myself dissolving into a dream of love. Are we
the sport of every pressure of the air? And if she entered
this very moment, how wouldst thou atone for thy guilt!
The big boaster, alas, how shrunk ! would lie, dissolved away,
at her feet.
Mephistopheles. Quick ! I see her coming below.
Faust. Away, away ! I return no more.
Mephistopheles. Here is a casket tolerably heavy. I
took it from somewhere else. Place it instantly in the press.
I promise you she will be fairly beside herself. I put baubles
in it to gain another ; but children are children, and play is
play, all the world over.
Faust. I know not — shall I ?
Mephistopheles. Is that a thing to ask about? Per-
chance you mean to keep the treasure for yourself, in that
case, I advise, you to spare the precious hours for your lusts,
and further trouble to me. I hope you are not avaricious.
I scratch my head, rub my hands — (He places the casket
in the press and closes the lock.) But quick, away to
bend the sweet young creature to your heart's desire ; and
now you look as if you were going to the lecture-room — as
if Physic and Metaphysic were standing gray and bodily
before you there. But away ! [Exeunt,
Margaret (with a lamp.) It feels so close, so sultry here.
(She opens the window.) And yet it is not so very warm with-
58 THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
out. I begin to feel I know not how. I wish ray mother
would come home. I tremble all over ; but I am a silly, timid
woman. (She begins to sing as she undresses herself.)
Song. There was a king in Thule, faithful even to the
grave, to whom his dying mistress gave a golden goblet.
He prized nothing above it ; he emptied it at every feast ;
his eyes overflowed as often as he drank out of it.
And when he came to die, he reckoned up the cities in
his kingdom ; he grudged none of them to his heir, but not
so with the goblet.
He sat at the royal banquet, with his knights around him,
in his proud ancestral hall, there in his castle on the sea.
There stood the old toper, took a parting draught of life's
glow, and threw the hallowed goblet down into the waves.
He saw it splash, fill, and sink deep into the sea ; his eyes
fell, he never drank a drop more. (She opens the press to
put away her clothes, and perceives the casket.) How came
this beautiful casket here ? I am sure I locked the press.
It is very strange ! What is in it I wonder ? Perhaps some one
brought it as a pledge, and my mother lent money upon it. A
little key hangs by the ribbon : I have a good mind to open
it. What is here ? Good heavens ! look ! I have never
seen anything like it in all my born days ! A set of trinkets a
countess might wear on the highest festival. How would
the chain become me ? To whom can such finery belong ?
(She puts them on and walks before the looking-glass.) If
the earrings were but mine ! one cuts quite a different figure
in them. What avails your beauty, poor maiden ? That
may be all very pretty and good, but they let it all be. You
are praised, half in pity ; but after gold presses — on gold
hangs — everything, — Alas, for us poor ones !
PROMENADE.
Fatjst, walking up and down thoughtfully. To him Meph-
istopheles. By all despised love ! By the elements of
hell ! Would that I know something worse to curse by !
Faust. What is the matter? What is it that pinches
you so sharply ? I never saw such a face in my life !
Mephistopheles. I could give myself to the devil
directly were I not the devil myself.
THE TRAGED ( OF FAUST 59
Faust. Is your brain disordered ? It becomes you truly
to rave like a madman.
Mephistopheles. Only think I A priest has carried off
the jewels provided for Margaret. The mother gets sight
of the thing, and begins at once to have a secret horror of
it. Truly the woman hath a fine nose, is ever snuffling in
her prayer-book, and smells in every piece of furniture,
whether the thing be holy or profane ; and she plainly
smells out in the jewels that there was not much blessing
connected with them. " My child," said she, " ill-gotten
wealth ensnares the soul, consumes the blood. We will con-
secrate it to the Mother of God ; she will gladden us with
heavenly manna." Margaret made a wry face ; it is, after
all, thought she, a gift-horse ; and truly, he cannot be god-
less, who brought it here so handsomely. The mother sent
for a priest. — Scarcely had he heard the jest, but he seemed
well pleased with the sight. He spoke, " This shows a good
disposition; who conquers himself, — he is the gainer. The
church has a good stomach; she has eaten up whole
countries, and has never yet overeaten herself. The church
alone, my good woman, can digest unrighteous wealth."
Faust. That is a general custom ; a Jew and a king can
do it, too.
Mephistopheles. So saying, he swept off clasp, chain,
and ring, as if they were so many mushrooms ; thanked
them neither more nor less than if it had been a basket of
nuts ; promised them all heavenly reward — and very much
edified they were.
Faust. And Margaret
Mephistopheles. Is now sitting full of restlessness, not
knowing what to do with herself ; thinks day and night on
the trinkets, and still more on him who gave them to her.
Faust. My love's grief distresses me. Get her another
set immediately. The first were no great things after all.
Mephistopheles. Oh ! to be sure, all is child's play to
the gentleman !
Faust. Do it, and order it as I wish. Stick close to her
neighbor. Don't be a milk-and-water devil ; and fetch a
fresh set of jewels.
Mephistopheles. With all my heart, honored sir. (Faust
exit.) A love-sick fool like this puffs away sun, moon, and
all the stars indifferently, by way of pastime for his mistress.
00 THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
THE NEIGHBOR'S HOUSE.
Martha {alone). God forgive my dear husband; he has
not acted well towards me. He goes straight away into the
world, and leaves me widowed and lonely. Yet truly I
never did anything to vex him ; God knows I loved him to
my heart. {She weeps.) Perhaps he is actually dead. Oh,
torture ! Had I but a certificate of his death !
Margaret {enters). Martha!
Martha. What is the matter, Margaret ?
Margaret. My knees almost sink under me! I have
found just such another ebony casket in my press — and
things absolutely magnificent, far costlier than the first.
Martha. You must say nothing about it to your mother.
She would carry it to the confessional again.
Margaret. Now, only see ! only look at them !
Martha {dresses her up in them). Oh ! you happy creature.
Margaret. Unfortunately, I must not be seen in them
in the street, nor in the church.
Martha. Do but come over frequently to me, and put
on the trinkets here in private. Walk a little hour up and
down before the looking-glass ; we shall have our enjoyment
in that. And then an occasion offers, a festival occurs,
where, little by little, one lets folks see them ; — first a chain,
then the pearl earrings. Your mother, perhaps, will not
observe it, or one may make some pretence to her.
Margare i\ But who could have brought the two caskets ?
There is something not rigkl about it. {Some one knocks.)
Good God ! can that be my mother ?
Martha {looking through the blinds). It is a stranger —
come in.
Mephistopheles {enters). I have made free to come in at
once ; I have to beg pardon of the ladies. {He steps back
respectfully before Margaret.) I came to inquire after Mrs.
Martha Schwerdtlein.
Martha. I am she; what is your pleasure, sir?
Mephistopheles {aside to her). I know you now — that
is enough. You have a visitor of distinction there. Excuse
the liberty I have taken. I will call again in the afternoon.
Martha {aloud). Only think, child — of all things in
the world ! this gentleman takes you for a lady.
Margaret. I am a poor young creature. Oh ! heavens,
the gentleman is too obliging. The jewels and ornaments
are none of mine.
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST. 61
Mephistopheles. Ah! it is not the jewels alone. She
has a mien, a look, so striking. How glad I am that I may
stay.
Martha. What do you bring, then ? I am very curious — «
Mephistopheles. I wish I had better news. I hope
you will not make me suffer for it. Your husband is dead,
and sends you his compliments.
Martha. Is dead ! the good soul ! Oh, woe is me ! My
husband is dead ! Ah, I shall die !
Margaret. Dear, good Martha, don't despair.
Mephistopheles. Listen to the melancholy tale.
Margaret. For this reason I should wish never to be in
love for all the days of my life. The loss would grieve me
to death.
Mephistopheles. Joy must have sorrow — sorrow joy.
Martha. Relate to me the close of his life.
Mephistopheles. He lies buried in Padua, at St. An-
tony's, in a spot well consecrated for a bed of rest, — eter-
nally cool.
Martha. Have you nothing else for me ?
Mephistopheles. Yes, a request, big and heavy! be
sure to have three hundred masses sung for him. For the
rest, my pockets are empty.
Martha. What ! not a coin by way of token ? Not a
trinket? what every journeyman mechanic husbands at the
bottom of his pouch, saved as a keepsake, and rather starves,
rather begs —
Mephistopheles. Madam, I am very sorry. But he
really has not squandered away his money. He, too, bit-
terly repented of his sins; aye, and bewailed his ill-luck
still more.
Margaret. Ah! that mortals should be so unlucky.
Assuredly I will sing many a requiem for him.
Mephistopheles. You deserve to be married directly.
You are an amiable girl.
Margaret. Oh, no, there is time enough for that.
Mephistopheles. If not a husband, then a gallant in
the meantime. It were one of the best gifts of heaven to
have so sweet a thing in one's arms.
Margaret. That is not the custom in this country.
Mephistopheles. Custom or not, such things do come
to pass, though.
Martha. But relate to me —
Mephistopheles. I stood by his death-bed. It was
62 THE TEAGEDY OF FAUST.
somewhat better than dung, — of half-rotten straw ; but he
died like a Christian, and found that he had still much more
upon his score. " How thoroughly," he cried, " must I de«
test myself — to run away from my business and my wife
in such a manner. Oh ! the recollection is death to me. If
she could but forgive me in this life ! "
Martha {weeping). The good man ! I have long since
forgiven him.
Mephistopheles. "But, God knows, she was more in
fault than I."
Martha. He lied, then ! What, tell lies on the brink of
the grave !
Mephistopheles. He certainly fabled with his last
breath, if I am but half a connoisseur. " I," said he, " had
no occasion to gape for pastime — first to get children, and
then bread for them, and bread in the widest sense, — and
could not even eat my share in peace."
Martha. Did he thus forget all my faith, all my love — ■
my drudgery by day and night ?
Mephistopheles. Not so ; he affectionately reflected on
it. He said : " When I left Malta, I prayed fervently for
my wife and children ; and heaven was so far favorable that
our ship took a Turkish vessel, which carried a treasure of
the great Sultan. Bravery had its reward, and, as was no
more than right, I got my fair share of it."
Martha. How ! where ! Can he have buried it ?
Mephistopheles. Who knows where it is now scat-
tered to the four winds of heaven? A fair damsel took
an interest in him as he was strolling about, a stranger,
in Naples. She manifested great fondness and fidelity to-
wards him ; so much so that he felt it even unto his blessed
end.
Martha. The villain ! the robber of his children ! And
all the wretchedness, all the poverty, could not check his
scandalous life.
Mephistopheles. But consider, he has paid for it with
his life. Now, were I in your place, I would mourn him
for one chaste year, and have an eye towards a new sweet-
heart in the meantime.
Martha. Oh, God ! but I shall not easily in this world
find another like my first. There could hardly be a kinder-
hearted fool ; he only loved being away from home too
much, and stranger women, and stranger wine, and the
cursed dicing.
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST. 63
Mephtstopheles. Well, well, things might have gone
on very well if he, on his part, only winked at an equal
number of peccadillos in you. I protest, upon this condi-
tion, I would change rings with you myself !
Martha. Oh, the gentleman is pleased to jest.
Mephistopheles (aside). Now it is full time to be off.
I dare say she would take the devil himself at his word.
( To Margaret.) How feels your heart ?
Margaret. What do you mean ?
Mephistopheles (aside). Good, innocent child. {Aloud,)
Farewell, ladies !
Margaret. Farewell !
Martha. Oh, but tell me quickly ! I should like to
have a certificate where, how, and when my love died and
was buried. I was always a friend to regularity, and should
like to read his death in the weekly papers.
Mephistopheles. Ay, my good madam, the truth is
manifested by the testimony of two witnesses all the world
over ; and I have a gallant companion whom I will bring
before the judge for you. I will fetch him here.
Martha. Oh, pray do !
Mephistopheles. And the young lady will be here, too?
— a fine lad! has travelled much, and shows all possible
politeness to the ladies.
Margaret. I should be covered with confusion in the
presence of the gentleman.
Mephistopheles. In the presence of no king on earth.
Martha. Behind the house there, in my garden, we
shall expect you both this evening.
THE STREET.
Faust — Mephistopheles.
Faust. How have you managed ? Is it in train ? Will
it soon do ?
Mephistopheles. Bravo! Do I find you all on fire?
Margaret will very shortly be yours. This evening you
will see her at her neighbor Martha's. That is a woman
especially chosen, as it were, for the procuress and gypsy
calling.
64 THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
Faust. So far so good.
Mephistopheles. Something, however, is required of us
Faust. One good turn deserves another.
Mephistopheles. We have only to make a formal depo-
sition that the extended limbs of her lord repose in holy
ground in Padua.
Faust. Wisely done ! We shall first be obliged to take
the journey thither, I suppose.
Mephistopheles. Sancta simplicitas ! There is no
necessity for that. Only bear witness without knowing
much about the matter.
Faust. If you have nothing better to propose, the
scheme is at an end.
Mephistopheles. Oh, holy man ! There's for you now !
Is. it the first time in your life that you have borne false te s-
t imony ? Have you not confrdently given definitions ot UOd,
of the world, and of whatever moves in it — of man, and of
the working of his head and heart — with unabashed front,
dauntless breast ? And, looking fairly at the real nature of
things, did you — you must confess you did not — did you
know as much of these matters as of Mr. Schwerdtlein's
death ?
Faust. Thou art and ever wilt be a liar, a sophist.
Mephistopheles. Ay, if one did not look a little deeper.
To-morrow, too, will you not, in all honor, make a fool of
poor Margaret, and swear to love her with all your soul ?
Faust. And truly from my heart.
Mephistopheles. Fine talking! Then will you speak
of eternal truth and love — of one exclusive, all-absorbing
passion ; will that also come from the heart ?
Faust. Peace — it will ! — when I feel, and seek a name
for the passion, the frenzy, but find none ; then range with
all my senses through the world, grasp at all the most
sublime expressions, and call this flame, which is consuming
me, endless, eternal, eternal! — is that a devilish play of
lies?
Mephistopheles. I am right, for all that.
Faust. Hark ! mark this, I beg of you, and spare my
lungs. He who is determined to be right, and has but a
tongue, will be right undoubtedly. But, come, I am tired
of gossiping. For you are right, particularly because I can-
not help myself.
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST. 65
GARDEN".
Margaret on Faust's arm, Martha with Mephistophe-
les, walking up and down.
Margaret. I am sure that you are only trifling with me
— letting yourself down to shame me. Travellers are wont
to put up with things out of complacency. I know too well
that my poor prattle cannot entertain a man of your experi-
ence.
Faust. A glance, a word from thee, gives greater pleas-
ure than all the wisdom of this world. {He kisses her hand.)
Margaret. Don't inconvenience yourself ! How can
you kiss it ? It is so coarse, so hard. I have been obliged
to do — heaven knows what not ; my mother is indeed too
close. ( They pass on.) •
Martha. And you, sir, are always travelling in this man-
ner?
Mephistopheles. Alas, that business and duty should
force us to it ! How many a place one quits with regret, and
yet may not tarry in it !
Martha. It does very well, in the wild years of youth, to
rove about freely through the world. But the evil day comes
at last, and to sneak a solitary old bachelor to the grave —
that was never well for any one yet.
Mephistopheles. I shudder at the distant view of it.
Martha. Then, worthy sir, think better of it in time.
( They pass on.)
Margaret. Ay ! out of sight out of mind ! Politeness
sits easily on you. But you have friends in abundance : they
are more sensible than I am.
Faust. O, thou excellent creature ! believe me, what is
called sensible often better deserves the name of vanity and
narrow-mindedness.
Margaret. How ?
Faust. Alas, that simplicity, that innocence, never ap-
preciates itself and its own hallowed worth ! That humility,
lowliness — the highest gifts of love-fraught, bounteous na-
ture —
Margaret. Only think of me one little minute ; I shall
have time enough to think of you.
Faust. You are much alone, I dare say ?
Margaret. Yes, our household is but small, and yet it
must be looked after, We keep no maid ; I am obliged to
C— Goethe Vol 10
66 THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
cook, sweep, knit, and sew, and run early and late. And
my mother is so precise in everything ! Not that she has
such pressing occasion to restrict herself. We might do
more than many others. My father left a nice little prop-
erty — a small house and garden near the town. However,
my days at present are tolerably quiet. My brother is a
soldier ; my little sister is dead. I had my full share of
trouble with her, but I would gladly take all the anxiety
upon myself again so dear was the child to me.
Faust. An angel, if it resembled thee !
Margaret. I brought it up, and it loved me dearly. It
was born after my father's death. We gave up my mother
for lost, so sad was the condition she then lay in ; and she
recovered very slowly, by degrees. Thus she could not
think of suckling the poor little worm, and so I brought it
up, all by myself, with milk and water. It thus became my
own. On my arm, in my bosom it smiled and sprawled
and grew.
Faust. You have felt, no doubt, the purest joy.
Margaret. And many anxious hours, too. The little
one's cradle stood at night by my bedside ; it could scarcely
move but I was awake ; now obliged to give it drink ;
now to take it to bed to me ; now, when it would not be
quiet, to rise from bed and walk up and down in the room,
dandling it; and early in the morning, stand already at the
wash-tub ; then go to market, and see to the house ; and so
on, day after day. Under such circumstances, sir, one is
not always in spirits ; but food and rest relish the better for
it. {They pass on.)
Martha. The poor women have the worst of it. It is
no easy matter to convert an old bachelor.
Mephistopheles. It only depends on one like you to
teach me better.
Martha. Tell me plainly, sir, have you never met with
any one ? Has your heart never attached itself anywhere?
Mephistopheles. The proverb says — a hearth of one's
own, a good wife, are worth pearls and gold.
Martha. I mean, have you never had an inclination?
Mephistopheles. I have been in general very politely
received.
Martha. I wished to say — was your heart never seri-
ously affected ?
Mephistopheles. One should never venture to joke
with women.
THE TEAGEDY OF FAUST. 67
Martha. Ah, you do not understand me.
Mephistopheles. I am heartily sorry for it. But I
understand — that you are very kind. ( They pass on.)
Faust. You knew me again, you little angel, the moment
I entered the garden.
Margaret. Did you not see it ? I cast down my eyes.
Faust. And you forgive the liberty I took — my im-
prudence, as you were leaving the cathedral ?
Margaret. I was quite abashed. Such a thing had
never happened to me before; no one could say anything
bad of me. Alas, thought I, has he seen anything bold,
unmaidenly, in thy behavior? It seemed as if the thought
suddenly struck him, " I need stand on no ceremony with
this girl." I must own I knew not what began to stir in
your favor here; but certainly I was right angry with my-
self for not being able to be more angry with you.
Faust. Sweet love !
Margaret. Wait a moment! {She plucks a star-flower
and picks off the leaves one after the other.)
Faust. What is that for — a nosegay ?
Margaret. No, only for a game.
Faust. How !
Margaret. Go ! You will laugh at me. (She plucks
off the leaves, and murmurs to herself.)
Faust. What are you murmuring ?
Margaret (half aloud). He loves me — he loves me
not!
Faust. Thou angelic being !
Margaret continues. Loves me — not — loves me —
not — (Plucking off the last leaf with fond delight.) He
loves me !
Faust. Yes, my child. Let this flower-prophecy be to
thee as a judgment from heaven. He loves thee! Dost
thou understand what that means ? He loves thee ! (He
takes both her hands.)
Margaret. I tremble all over !
Faust. Oh, tremble not. Let this look, let this pressure
of the hand, say to thee what is unutterable ! — to give our-
selves up wholly, and feel a bliss which must be eternal !
Eternal ! — its end would be despair \ No, no end ! no end !
(Margaret presses his hand, breaks from him, and runs
away. He stands a moment in thought, and then follows
her.)
Martha (approaching). The night is coming on.
68 THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
Mephistopheles. Ay, and we will away.
Martha. I would ask you to stay here longer, but it is
a wicked place. One would suppose no one had any other
object or occupation than to gape after his neighbor's in-
comings and outgoings. And one comes to be talked about,
behave as one will. And our pair of lovers ?
Mephistopheles. Have flown up the walk yonder.
Wanton butterflies !
Martha. He seems fond of her.
Mephistopheles. And she of him. Such is the way of
the world.
A SUMMER-HOUSE.
(Margaret runs in, gets behind the door, holds the tip of
her finger to her lips, and peeps through the crevice.)
Margaret. He comes!
Faust {enters). Ah, rogue, is it thus you trifle with me?
I have caught you at last. (He kisses her.)
Margaret {embracing him, and returning the kiss).
Dearest! from my heart I love thee! (Mephistopheles
JcnocJcs.)
Faust (stamping). Who is there?
Mephistopheles. A friend.
Faust. A brute.
Mephistopheles. It is time to part, I believe.
Martha (comes up). Yes, it is late, sir.
Faust. May I not accompany you ?
Margaret. My mother would — farewell!
Faust. Must I then go ? Farewell !
Martha. Adieu !
Margaret. Till our next speedy meeting! (Faust
and Mephistopheles exeunt.)
Margaret. Gracious God! How many things such a
man can think about ! How abashed I stand in his pres-
ence, and say yea to everything ! I am but a poor, silly
girl ; I cannot conceive what he sees in me.
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST. 69
FOREST AND CAVERN.
Faust {alone). Sublime spirit! thou gavest me, gavest
me everything I prayed for. Not in vain didst thou turn
thy face in fire to me. Thou gavest me glorious nature for
a kingdom, with power to feel, to enjoy her. It is not
merely a cold, wondering visit that thou permittest me;
thou grudgest me not to look into her deep bosom, as into
the bosom of a friend. Thou passest in review before me
the whole series of animated things, and teachest me to
know my brothers in the still wood, in the air, and in the
water. And when the storm roars and creaks in the forest,
and the giant pine, precipitating its neighbor-boughs and
neighbor-stems, sweeps, crushing, down — and the mountain
thunders with a dead hollow muttering to the fall, — then
thou bearest me off to the sheltered cave; then thou showest
me to myself, and deep mysterious wonders of my own
breast reveal themselves. And when the clear moon, with
its soothing influences, rises full in my view, — from the
wall-like rocks, out of the damp underwood, the silvery
forms of past ages hover up to me, and soften the austere
pleasure of contemplation. Oh, now I feel that nothing
perfect falls to the lot of man ! With this beatitude, which
brings me nearer and nearer to the gods, thou gavest me
the companion, whom already I cannot do without ; although,
cold and insolent, he degrades me in my own eyes, and turns
thy gifts to nothing with a breath. He is ever kindling a wild-
fire in my heart for that lovely image. Thus do I reel from
desire to enjoyment, and in enjoyment languish for desire.
Mephistopheles {enters). Have you not had enough of
this kind of life ? How can you delight in it so long ? It is all
well enough to try once, but then on again to something new.
Faust. I would you had something else to do than to
plague me in my happier hour.
Mephistopheles. Well, well ! I will let you alone, if you
wish. You need not say so in earnest. Truly, it is little to
lose an ungracious, peevish, and crazy companion in you.
The livelong day one has one's hands full. One cannot read
in your worship's face what pleases you, and what to let alone.
Faust. That is just the right tone ! He would fain be
thanked for wearying me to death.
Mephistopheles. Poor son of earth ! what sort of life
would you have led without me ! I have cured you, for some
time to come, of the crotchets 4>f imagination, and, but for
70 THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
me, you would already have taken your departure from this
globe. Why mope in caverns and fissures of rocks, like an
owl ? Why sip in nourishment from sodden moss and drip-
ping stone, like a toad ? A fair, sweet pastime ! The doc-
tor still sticks to you.
Faust. Dost thou understand what new life-power this
wandering in the desert procures for me? Ay, couldst thou
have but a dim presentiment of it, thou wouldst be devil
enough to grudge me my enjoyment.
Mephistopheles. A super-earthly pleasure ! To lie on
the mountains in darkness and dew — clasp earth and heaven
ecstatically — swell yourself up to a godhead — rake through
the earth's marrow with your thronging presentiments —
feel the whole six days' work in your bosom — in haughty
might enjoy I know not what — now overflow in love's rap-
tures, into all, with your earthly nature cast aside — and
then the lofty intuition (with a gesture) — I must not say how
— to end !
Faust. Fie upon you !
Mephistopheles. That is not your mind. You are en-
titled to cry fie ! so morally ! We must not name to chaste
ears what chaste hearts cannot renounce. And, in a word,
I do not grudge you the pleasure of lying to yourself occa-
sionally. But you will not keep it up long. You are already
driven back into your old course, and, if this holds much
longer, will be fretted into madness or torture and horror.
Enough of this ! your little love sits yonder at home, and all
to her is confined and melancholy. You are never absent
from her thoughts. She loves you all subduingly. At first,
your passion came overflowing, like a snow-flushed rivulet;
you have poured it into her heart and, lo ! your rivulet is dry
again. Methinks, instead of reigning in the woods, your
worship would do well to reward the poor young monkey
for her love. The time seems lamentably long to her ; she
stands at the window and watches the clouds roll away over
the old walls of the town. " Were I a bird ! " so runs her
song, during all the day and half the night. One while she
is cheerful, mostly sad, — one while fairly outwept; — then,
again, composed, to all appearance — and ever lovesick !
Faust. Serpent ! serpent !
Mephistopheles (aside). Good ! if I can but catch you !
Faust. Reprobate ! take thyself away, and name not the
lovely woman. Bring not the desire for her sweet body be*
^r— fore my half-distracted senses again !
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST. 71
Mephistopheles. What is to be done, then ? She thinks
that you are off, and in some manner you are.
Faust. I am near her, and were I ever so far off I can
never forget, never lose her. Nay, I already envy the very
body of the Lord when her lips are touching it.
Mephistopheles. Very well, my friend. I have often
envied you the twin-pair, which feed among roses.
Faust. Pander ! begone.
Mephistopheles. Good again ! You rail, and I cannot
help laughing. The God who made lad and lass well un-
derstood the noble calling of making opportunity, too. But
away, it is a mighty matter to be sad about ! You should
betake yourself to your mistress' chamber — not, I think, to
death.
Faust. What are the joys of heaven in her arms ? Let
me kindle on her breast ! Do I not feel her wretchedness
unceasingly ? Am I not the outcast — the houseless one ? —
the monster without aim or rest, — who, like a cataract,
dashed from rock to rock, in devouring fury towards the
precipice ? And she, upon the side, with childlike simplicity,
in her little cot upon the little mountain field, and all her
homely cares embraced within that little world ! And I, the
hated of God — it was not enough for me to grasp the rocks ^p
and smite them to shatters ! Her, her peace, must I under^^jp
mine! — Hell, thou couldst not rest without this sacrifice.
Devil, help me to shorten the pang ! Let what must be, be
quickly ! Let her fate fall crushing upon me, and both of
us perish together !
Mephistopheles. How it seethes and glows again ! Get
in, and comfort her, you fool ! — When such a noddle sees
no outlet it immediately represents to itself the end. He
who bears himself bravely, forever ! And yet, on other oc-
casions, you have a fair spice of the devil in you. I know \^
nothing in the world more insipid than a devil that despairs*
MARGARET'S ROOM.
Margaret alone, at the spinning -ivheel.
My peace is gone,
My heart is heavy;
I shall find it never.
And never more.
72 THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
Where I have him not P
Is the grave to me.
The whole world
Is embittered to me
My poor head
Is wandering,
My feeble sense
Distraught.
My peace is gone ;
My heart is heavy ;
I shall find it never,
And never more.
For him alone look I
Out at the window !
For him alone go I
Out of the house !
His stately step,
His noble form ;
The smile of his mouth,
The power of his eyes,
And of his speech
The witching flow;
The pressure of his hand,
And, ah! his kiss!
My peace is gone ;
My heart is heavy ;
I shall find it never,
And never more.
My bosom struggles
After him.
Ah ! could I enfold him
And hold him ! and kiss him
As I would !
On his kisses
Would I die away.
MARTHA'S GARDEN.
Margaret — Faust.
Margaret. Promise me, Henry !
Faust. What I can !
Margaret. Now, tell me, how do you feel as to religion?
You are a dear, good man, but I believe you don't think
much of it.
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST. 73
Faust. No more of that, ray child ! you feel I Jove you ;
I would lay down my life for those I love, nor would I de- cz? {
prive any of their feeling and their church.
Margaret. That is not right ; we must believe in it.
Faust. Must we ?
Margaret. Ah ! if I had any influence over you ! Be-
sides, you do not honor the holy sacraments.
Faust. I honor them.
Margaret. But without desiring them. It is long since
you went to mass or confession. Do you believe in God ?
Faust. My love, who dares say I believe in God ? You
may ask priests and philosophers, and their answer will
appear but a mockery of the questioner.
Margaret. You don't believe, then ?
Faust. Mistake me not, thou lovely one ! Who dare
name him ? and who avow : " I believe in him ? " Who feel
— and dare to say; "I believe in him not?" The All-
embracer, the All-sustainer, does he not embrace and sustain
thee, me, himself ? Does not the heaven arch itself there
above? — Lies not the earth firm here below? — And do not
eternal stars rise, kindly twinkling, on high ? — Are we not
looking into each other's eyes, and is not all thronging to
thy head and heart, and weaving in eternal mystery, in-
visibly — visibly, about thee ? With it fill thy heart, big as
it is, and when thou art wholly blest in the feeling, then call
it what thou wilt ! Call it Bliss ! — Heart ! — Love ! —
God ! I have no name for it ! Feeling is all in all. Name
is sound and smoke, clouding heaven's glow.
Margaret. That is all very fine and good. The priest
says nearly the same, only with somewhat different words.
Faust. All hearts in all places under the blessed light
of day say it, each in its own language — why not in
mine?
Margaret. Thus taken, it may pass ; but, for all that,
there is something wrong about it, for thou hast no Chris-
tianity.
Faust. Dear child !
Margaret. I have long been grieved at the company I
see you in.
Faust. How so ?
Margaret. The man you have with you is hateful to
me in my inmost soul. Nothing in the whole course of my
life has given my heart such a pang as the repulsive visage
of that man.
74 THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
Faust. Fear him not, dear child.
Margaret. His presence makes my blood creep. With
this exception, I have kind feelings towards everybody.
But, much as I long to see you, I have an unaccountable
horror of that man, and hold him for a rogue besides, God
forgive me if I do him wrong.
Faust. There must be such oddities, notwithstanding.
Margaret. I would not live with the like of him.
Whenever he comes to the door, he looks in so mockingly,
and with fury but half-suppressed ; one sees that he sym-
pathizes with nothing. It is written on his forehead that
he can love no living soul. I feel so happy in thy arms —
so unrestrained — in such glowing abandonment ; and his
presence closes up my heart's core.
Faust. You misgiving angel, you !
Margaret. It overcomes me to such a degree that when
he but chances to join us, I even think I do not love you any
longer. And in his presence I should never be able to pray ;
and this eats into my heart. You, too, Henry, must feel the
same.
Faust. You have an antipathy, that is all.
Margaret. I must go now.
Faust. Ah, can I never recline one little hour undisturbed
upon thy bosom, and press heart to heart, and soul to soul !
Margaret. Ah ! did I but sleep alone ! I would gladly
leave the door unbolted for you this very night. But my
mother does not sleep sound, and were she to catch us I
should die upon the spot.
Faust. Thou angel, there is no fear of that. You see
this phial? Only three drops in her drink will gently
envelop nature in deep sleep.
Margaret. What would I not do for thy sake ? It will
do her no harm, I hope.
Faust. Would I recommend it to you, my love, if it
could ?
Margaret. If, best of men, I do but look on you, I
know not what drives me to comply with your will. I have
already done so much for you that next to nothing now
remains for me to do. {Exit.)
(Mephistopheles enters.)
Mephistopheles. The silly monkey ! is she gone.
Faust. Hast thou been playing the spy again ?
Mephistopheles. I heard what passed, plainly enough.
You were catechized, doctor. Much good may it do you.
THE TliAGEDY OF FAUST. 75
The girls are certainly deeply interested in knowing whether
a man be pious and plain after the old fashion. They say
to themselves : " If he is pliable in that matter, he will also
be pliable to us."
Faust. Thou, monster as thou art, canst not conceive
how this fond, faithful soul, full of her faith, which, accord-
ing to her notions, is alone capable of conferring eternal
happiness, feels a holy horror to think that she must hold
her best beloved for lost, r
Mephistopheles. Thou super-sensual, sensual lover, a
chit of a girl leads thee by the nose.
Faust. Thou abortion of dirt and fire !
Mephistopheles. And she is knowing in physiognomy,
too. In my presence she feels she knows not how. This
little mask betokens some hidden sense. She feels that I
am most assuredly a genius — perhaps the devil himself.
To-night, then — ?
Faust. What is that to you ?
Mephistopheles. I have my pleasure in it, though.
AT THE WELL.
Margaret and Bessy with pitchers.
Bessy. Have you heard nothing of Barbara ?
Margaret. Not a word. I go very little abroad.
Bessy. Certainly, Sybella told it me to-day. She has
even made a fool of herself at last. That comes of playing
the fine lady.
Margaret. How so ?
Bessy. It is a bad business. She feeds two now when
she eats and drinks.
Margaret. Ah !
Bessy. She is rightly served at last. What a time she
has hung upon the fellow! There was a promenading and
a gallanting to village junketings and dancing booths —
she, forsooth, must be the first in everything — he was ever
treating her to tarts and wine. She thought great things
of her beauty, and was so lost to honor as not to be ashamed
to receive presents from him. There was then a hugging
and kissing — and, lo, the flower is gone!
76 THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
Margaret. Poor thing !
Bessy. You really pity her ! When the like of us were
at the spinning our mothers never let us go down at night.
She stood sweet with her lover; on the bench before the
door, and in the dark walk, the time was never too long for
them. But now she may humble herself, and do penance
in a white sheet, in the church.
Margaret. He will surely make her his wife.
Bessy. He would be a fool if he did. A brisk young
fellow has the world before him. Besides he's off.
Margaret. That's not handsome.
Bessy. If she gets him, it will go ill with her. The boys
will tear her garland for her, and we will strew cut straw
before her door. {Exit.)
Margaret {going home). How stoutly I could formerly
revile, if a poor maiden chanced to make a slip ! How I
could never find words enough to speak of another's shame !
How black it seemed to me ! and, blacken it as I would, it
was never black enough for me — and blessed myself and
felt so grand, and am now myself a prey to sin? Yet —
all that drove me to it, was, God knows, so sweet, so dear !
ZWINGER.
(In the niche of the wall a devotional image of tJie Mater
Dolorosa, with pots offloicers before it.)
Margaret places fresh flowers in the pots.
Ah, incline,
Thou full of pain,
Thy countenance graciously to my distress.
The sword in thy heart,
With thousand pangs
Up-lookest thou to thy Son's death.
To the Father look'st thou,
And sendest sighs
Aloft for his and thy distress.
Who feels
How rages
My torment to the quick ?
How the poor heart in me throbbeth,
How it trembleth, how it yearneth
Knowest thou, and thou alone !
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST. 77
Whithersoe'er I go.
What woe, what woe, what woe,
Grows within my bosom here!
Hardly, alas, am I alone,
I weep, I weep, I weep,
My heart is bursting within me .
The flower-pots on my window-sill
Bedewed I with my tears, alas !
When I at morning's dawn
Plucked these flowers for thee.
When brightly in my chamber
The rising sun's rays shone,
Already, in all wretchedness,
Was I sitting up in my bed.
Help! rescue me from shame and death!
Ah, incline,
Thou full of pain,
Thy countenance graciously to my distress!
NIGHT.
STREET BEFORE MARGARET'S DOOR.
Valentine (a soldier, Margaret's brother). When I
made one of a company, where many like to show off, and
the fellows were loud in their praises of the flower of maid-
ens, and drowned their commendation in bumpers, — with
my elbows leaning on the board, I sat in quiet confidence,
and listened to all their swaggering ! then I stroke my beard
with a smile, and take the bumper in my hand, and say :
" All very well in its way ! but is there one in the whole coun-
try to compare with my dear Margaret ; — who is fit to hold
a candle to my sister ? " Hob and nob, kling ! klang ! so it
went round ! Some shouted, " He is right ; she is the pearl
of the whole sex ; " and all those praisers were dumb. And
now — it is enough to make one tear out one's hair by the
roots, and run up the walls — I shall be twitted by the sneers
and taunts of every knave, shall sit like a bankrupt debtor,
and sweat at every chance word. And though I might crush
them at a blow, yet I could not call them liars. Who comes
there ? Who is slinking this way ? If I mistake not, there
are two of them. If it is he, I will have at him at once ; he
shall not leave this spot alive.
Faust. How, from the window of the sacristy there, the
light of the eternal lamp flickers upwards, and glimmers
78 THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
weaker and weaker at the sides, and darkness thickens round?.
Just so is all night-like in my breast.
Mephistopheles. And I feel languishing like the torn*
cat, that sneaks along the fire-ladders and then creep*
stealthily round the walls. I feel quite virtuously, — with
a spice of thievish pleasure, a spice of wantonness. In sucb
a manner does the glorious Walpurgis night already thril)
me through every limb. The day after to-morrow it
comes round to us again ; there one knows what one wakes
for.
Faust. In the meantime, can that be the treasure ris'
ing, — that which I see glimmering yonder ?
Mephistopheles. You will soon enjoy the lifting up of:
the casket. I lately took a squint at it. There are capital
lion-dollars within.
Faust. Not a trinket — not a ring — to adorn my lovely
mistress with?
Mephistopheles. I think I saw some such thing there
as a sort of pearl necklace.
Faust. That is well. I feel sorry when I go to her
without a present.
Mephistopheles. You ought not to regret having some
enjoyment gratis. Now that the heavens are studded thick
with stars, you shall hear a true piece of art. I will sing
her a moral song, to make a fool of her the more certainly.
{He sings to the guitar.) What are you doing here, Cath-
erine, before your lover's door at morning dawn ? Stay,
and beware ! he lets thee in a maid, not to come out a maid.
Beware ! If it be done, then good night to you, you poor,
poor things. If you love yourselves, do nothing to pleasure
any spoiler, except with the ring on the finger.
Valentine {comes forward). Whom art thou luring
here ? by God ! thou cursed rat-catcher ! First, to the devil
with the instrument, then to the devil with the singer.
Mephistopheles. The guitar is broken to pieces ! It is
all up with it !
Valentine. Now, then, for a skull-cracking.
Mephistopheles (^o Faust). Don't give way, doctor!
Courage ! Stick close, and do as I tell you. Out with your
toasting-iron ! Thrust away, and I will parry.
Valentlne. Parry that !
Mephistopheles. Why not?
Valentine. And that!
Mephistopheles. To be sure.
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST. 79
Valentine. I believe the devil is fighting. What is
that? My hand is already getting powerless.
Mephistopheles (to Faust). Thrust home!
Valentine (falls). Oh, torture!
Mephistopheles. The clown is tamed now. But away!
We must vanish in a twinkling, for a horrible outcry is
already raised. I am perfectly at home with the police, but
should find it hard to clear scores with the criminal courts.
Martha (at the window). Out ! out !
Margaret (at the window). Bring a light!
Martha (as before). They are railing and scuffling,
screaming and fighting.
People. Here lies one dead, already !
Martha (coming out) . Have the murderers escaped ?
Margaret (coming out). Who lies here?
People. Thy mother's son.
Margaret. Almighty God ! what misery !
Valentine. I am dying ! that is soon said, and sooner
still done. What are you women howling and wailing
about ? Approach and listen to me. (All come round him.)
Look ye, Margaret ! you are still young ! you are not yet
adroit enough, and manage your matters ill. I tell it you
in confidence ; since you are, once for all, a whore, be one
in good earnest.
Margaret. Brother ! God ! What do you mean ?
Valentine. Leave God out of the game. What is done,
alas ! cannot be undone, and things will take their course.
You begin privately with one ; more of them will soon fol-
low ; and when a dozen have had you, the whole town will
have you, too.
When first shame is born, she is brought into the world
clandestinely, and the veil of night is drawn over her head
and ears. Ay, people would fain stifle her. But when she
grows and waxes big, she walks flauntingly in open day,
and yet is not a whit the fairer. The uglier her face be-
comes the more she courts the light of day.
I already see the time when all honest citizens will turn
aside from you, you whore, as from an infected corpse.
Your heart will sink within you when they look you in the
face. You will wear no golden chain again ! No more will
you stand at the altar in the church, or take pride in a fair
lace collar at the dance. You will hide yourself in some
dark, miserable corner, amongst beggars and cripples, and,
even should God forgive you, be cursed upon earth !
80 THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
Martha. Commend your soul to God's mercy. Will
you yet heap the sin of slander upon your soul?
Valentine. Could I but get at thy withered body, thou
shameless bawd, I should hope to find a full measure of par-
don for all my sins !
Margaret. My brother ! Oh this agonizing pang !
Valentine. Have done with tears, I tell you. When
you renounced honor, you gave me the deepest heart-stab
of all. I go through death's sleep unto God, a soldier and a
brave one. (He dies.)
CATHEDRAL.
SERVICE, ORGAN, and ANTHEM.
Margaret amongst a number of People, Evil Spirit b&
hind Margaret.
Evil Spirit.
How different was it with thee, Margaret,
When still full of innocence
Thou earnest to the altar there —
Out of the well-worn little book,
Lispedst prayers,
Half child-spirit,
Half God in the heart!
Margaret !
Where is thy head ?
In thy heart
What crime ?
Prayest thou for thy mother's soul — who
Slept over into long, long pain through thee ?
Whose blood on thy threshold ?
And under thy heart
Stirs it not quickening, even now,
Torturing itself and thee
With its foreboding presence ?
Margaret.
Woe I woe!
Would that I were free from the thoughts
That come over and across me
Despite of me !
Chorus.
Dies irse, dies ilia
Solvet sseclum in favilla. {Organ phay8.\
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST 81
Evil Spirit.
Horror seizes thee !
The trump sounds !
The graves tremble !
And thy heart
From the repose of its ashes
For fiery torment
Brought to life again
Trembles up !
Margaret.
Would that I were hence.
I feel as if the organ
Stifled my breath,
As if the anthem
Dissolved my heart's care I
Chorus.
Judex ergo cum cedebit
Quidquid latet adparebit
Nil inultum remanebit.
Margaret.
I feel so thronged !
The wall-pillars
Close on me !
The vaulted roof
Presses on me! — Air!
Evil Spirit.
Hide thyself ! sin and shame
Remain unhidden.
Air ? Light ?
Woe to thee !
Chorus.
Quid sum miser tunc dicturus ?
Quern patronum rogaturus ?
Cum vix Justus sit securus.
Evil Spirit.
The glorified from thee
Avert their faces.
The pure shudder
To reach thee their hands.
Woe!
Chorus.
Quid sum miser tunc dicturus ?
Margaret.
Neighbor; your smelling-bottle 1
(She swoons away,)
82 THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
MAY-DAY NIGHT.
THE HAKTZ MOUNTAINS.
District of Schirke and Elend.
Faust — Mephistopheles.
Mephistopheles. Do you not long for a broomstick?
For my part I should be glad of the roughest he-goat. By
this road we are still far from our destination.
Faust. So long as I feel fresh upon my legs this
knotted stick suffices me. What is the use of shortening
the way? To creep along the labyrinth of the vales, and
then ascend these rocks, from which the ever-bubbling
spring precipitates itself, — this is the pleasure which gives
zest to such a path. The spring is already weaving in the
birch-trees, and even the pine is beginning to feel it, —
ought it not to have some effect upon our limbs ?
Mephistopheles. Verily, I feel nothing of it. All is
wintry in my body, and I should prefer frost and snow upon
my path. How melancholy the imperfect disk of the red
moon rises with belated glare ! and gives so bad a light,
that, at every step, one runs against a tree or a rock. With
your leave, I will call a will-o'-the-wisp. I see one yonder,
burning right merrily. Holloa, there, my friend ! may I
entreat your company? Why wilt thou blaze away so
uselessly ? Be so good as to light us up along here.
Will-o'the-Wisp. Out of reverence, I hope, I shall
succeed in subduing my unsteady nature. Our course is
ordinarily but a zigzag one.
Mephistopheles. Ha! ha! you think to imitate men.
But go straight, in the devil's name, or I will blow your
nickering life out.
Will-o'-the-Wisp. I see well that you are master here,
and will willingly accommodate myself to you. But con-
sider! the mountain is magic-mad to-night, and if a will-
o'-the-wisp is to show you the way you must not be too
particular.
Faust, Mephistopheles, Will-o'-the-Wisp (in alternate
S07ig). Into the sphere of dreams and enchantments, it
seems, have we entered. Lead us right, and do yourself
credit ! — that we may advance betimes in the wide, deso-
late regions.
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST. 83
See trees after trees, how rapidly they move by ; and the
cliffs, that bow, and the long-snouted rocks, how they snort,
how they blow !
Thrcugh the stones, through the turf, brook and brook-
ling hurry down. Do I hear rustling ? do I hear songs ? do
I hear the sweet plaint of love? — voices of those blest
days — what we hope, what we love ! And Echo, like the
tale of old times, sends back the sound.
Tu-whit-tu-whoo — it sounds nearer ; the owl, the pewit,
and the jay, — have they all remained awake? Are those
salamanders through the brake, with their long legs, thick
paunches? And the roots, like snakes, wind from out of
V rock and sand, and stretch forth strange filaments to terrify,
to seize us : from coarse speckles, instinct with life, they set
\ polypus-fibres for the traveller. And the mice, thousand-
^ colored, in whole tribes, through the moss and through the
heath ! And the glow-worms fly, in crowded swarms, a
confounding escort.
But tell me whether we stand still, or whether we are
r- moving on. Everything seems to turn round, — rocks and
trees, which make grimaces, and the will-o'-the-wisps, which
multiply, which swell themselves out.
Mephistopheles. Keep a stout hold of my skirt ! Here
is a central peak, from which one sees with wonder how
Mammon is glowing in the mountain.
Faust. How strangely a melancholy light, of morning
red, glimmers through the mountain gorges, and quivers
even to the deepest recesses of the precipice ! Here rises a
mine-damp, there float exhalations. Here the glow sparkles
out of gauze-like vapor, then steals along like a fine thread,
and then again bursts forth like a fountain. Here it winds,
a whole track, with a hundred veins, through the valley ; and
here, in the compressed corner, it scatters itself at once.
There sparks are sputtering near, like golden sand un-
sprinkled in the air. But, see the wall of rocks is on fire
in all its height.
Mephistopheles. Does not Sir Mammon illuminate his
palace magnificently for this festival? It is lucky that
you have seen it. I already see traces of the boisterous
guests.
Faust. How the storm-blast is raging through the air.
With what thumps it strikes against my neck !
Mephistopheles. You must lay hold of the old ribs
of the rock or it will hurl you down into this abyss. A
84 THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
mist thickens the night. Hark ! what a crashing through
the forest ! The owls fly scared away. Hark, to the splin-
tering of the pillars of the evergreen palaces! the crackling
and snapping of the boughs, the mighty groaning of the
trunks, the creaking and yawning of the roots ! — All come
crashing down, one over the other, in fearfully-confused
fall ; and the winds hiss and howl through the wreck-cov-
ered cliffs ! Dost thou hear voices aloft? — in the distance?
— close at hand ? — Ay, a raving witch-song streams along
the whole mountain.
The Witches (in chorus). To the Brocken the witches
repair ! The stubble is yellow, the sown-fields are green. —
There the huge multitude is assembled. Sir Urian sits at
the top. On they go, over stone and stock ; the witch s,
the he-goat s.
Voices. Old Baubo comes alone ; she rides upon a farrow
sow.
Chorus. Then honor to whom honor is due ! Mother
Baubo to the front, and lead the way ! A proper sow and
mother upon her, — then follows the whole swarm of witches.
Voice. Which way did you come ?
Voice. By Ilsenstein. I there peeped into the owl's nest.
She gave me such a look !
Voice. Oh, drive to hell ! What a rate you are riding
at!
Voice. She has grazed me in passing ; only look at the
wound !
Chorus of Witches. The way is broad — the way is
long. What mad throng is this ? The fork sticks — the
besom scratches : the child is suffocated — the mother bursts.
Wizards — Half-Chorus. We steal along like snails in
their house ; the women are all before ; for, in going to the
house of the wicked one, woman is a thousand steps in ad-
vance.
The other Half. We do not take that so, precisely.
The woman does it with a thousand steps ; but, let her make
as much haste as she can, the man does it at a single bound.
Voices (above). Come with us, come with us, from Fel-
sensee !
Voices (from below). We should like to mount with you.
We wash and are thoroughly clean, but we are ever barren.
Both Choruses. The wind is still, the stars fly, the mel-
ancholy moon is glad to hide herself. The magic-choir sput-
ters forth sparks by thousands in its whizzing.
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST. 85
Voice (from below). Hold ! hold !
Voice (from above). Who calls there, from the cleft in
the rock ?
Voice (from below). Take me with you ! take me with
you ! I have been mounting for three hundred years already,
and cannot reach the top. I would fain be with my fellows.
Both Choruses. The besom carries, the stick carries,
the fork carries, the he-goat carries. Who cannot raise him-
self to-night is lost forever.
Demi-Witch (below). I have been tottering after such a
length of time, — how far the others are ahead already ! I
have no rest at home, — and don't get it here, neither.
Chorus op Witches. The salve gives courage to the
witches ; a rag is good for a sail ; every trough makes a good
ship ; he will never fly who flew not to-night.
Both Choruses. And when we round the peak, sweep
along the ground, and cover the heath far and wide with
your swarm of witch-hood. ( They let themselves down.)
Mephistopheles. There's crowding and pushing, rustling
and clattering ! There's whizzing and twirling, bustling and
babbling ! There's glittering, sparkling, stinking, burning !
A true witch-element ! But stick close to me, or we shall
be separated in a moment. Where art thou ?
Faust (in the distance). Here!
Mephistopheles. What! already torn away so far? I
must exert my authority as master. Room ! Squire Voland
comes ! Make room, sweet people, make room ! Here, Doc-
tor, take hold of me ! and now, at one bound, let us get clear
of the crowd. It is too mad, even for the like of me. Hard
by there, shines something with a peculiar light. Something
attracts me towards those bushes. Come along, we will slip
in there.
Faust. Thou spirit of contradiction ! But go on ! thou
may'st lead me. But it was wisely done, to be sure ! We
repair to the Brocken on Walpurgis night — to try and iso-
late ourselves when we get there.
Mephistopheles. Only see what variegated flames ! A
merry club is met together. One is not alone in a small com-
pany.
Faust. I should prefer being above, though ! I already
see flame and eddying smoke. Yonder the multitude is
streaming to the Evil One. Many a riddle must there be
untied.
Mephistopheles. And many a riddle is also tied anewt
86 THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
Let the great world bluster as it will, we will here house our-
selves in peace. It is an old saying, that in the great world
one makes little worlds. Yonder I see young witches, naked
and bare, and old ones who prudently cover themselves. Be
compliant, if only for my sake ; the trouble is small, the
sport is great. I hear the timing of instruments. Con-
founded jangle ! One must accustom one's self to it. Come
along, come along! it cannot be otherwise. I will go for-
ward and introduce you, and I shall lay you under fresh ob-
ligation. What sayest thou, friend? This is no trifling
space. Only look? you can hardly see the end. A hundred
fires are burning in a row. People are dancing, talking,
cooking, drinking, love-making ! Now, tell me where any-
thing better is to be found !
Faust. To introduce us here, do you intend to present
yourself as wizard or devil ?
Mephistopheles. In truth, I am much used to go incog-
nito. But one shows one's orders on gala days. I have no
garter to distinguish me, but the cloven foot is held in high
honor here. Do you see the snail there ? she comes creeping
up, and with her feelers has already found out something in
me. Even if I would, I could not deny myself here. But
come ! we will go from fire to fire ; I will be the pander, and
you shall be the gallant. {To some who are sitting round
some expiring embers.) Old gentlemen, what are you doing
here at the extremity? I should commend you, did I find
you nicely in the middle, in the thick of the riot and youth-
ful revelry. Every one is surely enough alone at home.
General. Who can put his trust in nations, though he
has done ever so much for them ? For with the people, as
\ with the women, youth has always the upper hand.
Minister. At present, people are wide astray from the
right path — the good old ones for me! For verily, when
we were all in all, that was the true golden age.
Parvenu. We, too, were certainly no fools, and often
did what we ought not. But now, everything is turned
topsy-turvy, and just when we wished to keep it firm.
Author. Who nowadays, speaking generally, likes to
read a work of even moderate sense ? And as for the rising
generation they were never so malapert.
Mephistopheles {icho all at once appears very old). I
feel the people ripe for doomsday, now that I ascend the
witch-mountain for the last time ; and because my own cask
runs thick, the world also is come to the dregs.
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST. 87
A Witch (who sells old clothes and frippery). Do not
pass by in this manner, gentlemen ! Now is your time.
Look at my wares attentively ; I have them of all sorts.
And yet there is nothing in my shop which has not its
fellow upon earth — that has not, at some time or other,
wrought proper mischief to mankind and to the world.
There is no dagger here from which blood has not flowed ;
no chalice from which hot consuming poison has not been
poured into a healthy body ; no trinket which has not se-
duced some amiable woman ; no sword which has not cut
some tie asunder, which has not perchance stabbed an ad-
versary from behind.
Mephistopheles. Cousin, you understand but ill the tem-
per of the times. Done, happened ! Happened, done !
Take to dealing in novelties ; novelties only have any attrac-
tion for us.
Faust. If I can but keep my senses! This is a fair
with a vengeance !
Mepihstopheles. The whole throng struggles upwards.
You think to shove, and you yourself are shoved.
Faust. Who, then, is that ?
Mephistopheles. Mark her well, that is Lilith.
Faust. Who?
Mephistopheles. Adam's first wife. Beware of her
fair hair, of that ornament in which she shines pre-eminent.
When she ensnares a young man with it she does not let
him off again so easily.
Faust. There sit two, the old one with the young one.
They have already capered a good bit !
Mephistopheles. That has neither stop nor stay to-
night. A new dance is beginning ; come we will set to.
Faust (dancing with the young one). I had once upon a
time a fair dream. In it I saw an apple-tree ; two lovely
apples glittered on it ; they enticed me, I climbed up.
The Fair One. You are very fond of apples, and have
been so from Paradise downwards. I feel moved with joy
that my garden also bears such.
Mephistopheles (with the old one). I had once upon
a time a wild dream. In it I saw a cleft tree. It had a
— ; as it was it pleased me, notwith-
standing.
The Old One. I present my best respects to the
knight of the cloven foot. Let him have a ready,
if he does not fear .
88 THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
Proctophantasmist. Confounded mob ! how dare you V
Was it not long since demonstrated to you? A spirit never
stands upon ordinary feet ; and you are actually dancing
away like us other mortals !
The Fair One. What does he come to our ball for, then ?
Faust {dancing). Ha! He is absolutely everywhere.
He must appraise what others dance. If he cannot talk
about every step, the step is as good as never made at
all. He is most vexed when we go forwards. If you
would but turn round in a circle, as he does in his old mill,
he would term that good, I dare say ; particularly were you
to consult him about it.
Proctophantasmist. You are still there, then ! No, that
is unheard of ! But vanish ! We have enlightened the
world, you know. That devils crew, they pay no attention
to rules. We are so wise, and Tegel is haunted, notwith-
standing ! How long have I been sweeping away at the de-
lusion ; and it never becomes clean ? It is unheard of !
The Fair One. Have done boring us here at any rate,
then!
Proctophantasmist. I tell you, spirits, to your faces, I
endure not the despotism of the spirit. My spirit cannot ex-
ercise it. ( The dancing goes on.) To-night I see I shall
succeed in nothing; but I am always ready for a journey;
and still hope, before my last step, to get the better of devils
and poets.
Mephistopheles. He will forthwith seat himself in a
puddle ; that is his mode of soothing himself ; and when
leeches have amused themselves on his rump, he is cured of
spirits and spirit. {To Faust, who has left the dance,) Why
do you leave the pretty girl who sung so sweetly to you in
the dance ?
Faust. Ah! in the middle of the song a red mouse
jumped out of her mouth. *r*
Mephistopheles. There is nothing out of the way in
that. One must not be too nice about such matters. Enough
that the mouse was not gray. Who cares for such things
in a moment of enjoyment?
Faust. Then I saw —
Mephistopheles. What?
Faust. Mephisto, do you see yonder a pale, fair girl,
standing alone and far off? She drags herself but slowly
from the place; she seems to move with fettered feet. I
must own, she seems to me to resemble poor Margaret.
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST. 89
Mephistopheles. Have nothing to do with that! no
good can come of it to any one. It is a creation of enchant-
ment, is lifeless, — an idol. It is not well to meet it ; the
blood of man thickens at its chill look, and he is well-nigh
turned to stone. You have heard, no doubt, of Medusa.
Faust. In truth they are the eyes of a corpse, which
there was no fond hand to close. That is the bosom, which
Margaret yielded to me ; that is the sweet body which I en-
joyed.
Mephistopheles. That is sorcery, thou easily deluded
fool ! for she wears to every one the semblance of his beloved.
Faust. What bliss ! what suffering ! I cannot tear my-
self from that look. How strangely does a single red line, no
thicker than the back of a knife, adorn that lovely neck !
Mephistopheles. Right ! I see it, too. She can also
carry her head under her arm, for Perseus has cut it off for
her. But ever this fondness for delusion ! Come up the hill,
however ; here all is as merry as in the Prater ; and, if I am
not bewitched, I actually see a theatre. What is going on
here, then?
Servibilis. They will recommence immediately. A new
piece, the last of seven ; — it is the custom here to give so
many. A dilettante has written it, and dilettanti play it.
Excuse me, gentlemen, but I must be off. It is my dilettante
office to draw up the curtain.
Mephistopheles. When I find you upon the Blocksberg,
— that is just what I approve ; for this is the proper place
for you.
WALPURGIS-NIGHT'S DREAM.
Theatre-Manager. To-day we rest for once ; we, the
brave sons of Mieding. Old mountain and damp dale — that
is the whole scenery.
Herald. That the wedding-feast may be golden, fifty
years are to be past ; but if the quarrel is over, I shall like
the golden the better.
Oberon. If ye spirits are with me, this is the time to show
it : the king and the queen, they are united anew.
Puck. When Puck comes and whirls himself about and
his foot goes whisking in the dance, — hundreds come after
to rejoice along with him.
90 THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
Ariel. Ariel awakes the song, in tones of heavenly purity ;
his music lures many trifles, but it also lures the fair.
Oberon. Wedded ones, who would agree, — let them
take a lesson from us two. To make a couple love eacb
other it is only necessary to separate them.
Titania. If the husband looks gruff, and the wife be
/ whimsical, take hold of both of them immediately. Conduct
Vjne her to the South, and him to the extremity of the North.
Orchestra tutti.
Fortissimo. Flies' snouts, and gnats' noses, with their
kindred ! Frog in the leaves, and cricket in the grass : they
are the musicians.
Solo. See, here comes the bag]:>ipe ! It is the soap-bub-
ble. Hark to the Schnecke-schnicke-schnack through its
snub-nose.
Spirit that is fashioning itself. Spider's foot and
toad's belly, and little wings for the little wight ! It does
not make an animalcula, it is true, but it makes a little
poem.
A Pair of Lovers. Little step and high bound, through
honey-dew and exhalations. Truly, you trip it me enough,
but you do not mount into the air.
Inquisitive Traveller. Is not this masquerading-mock'
ery ? Can I believe my eyes ? To see the beauteous god,
Oberon, here to-night, too !
Orthodox. No claws, no tail ! Yet it stands beyond a
doubt, that, even as " The Gods of Greece," so is he too a
devil.
Northern Artist. What I catch is at present only
sketch-ways, as it were ; but I prepare myself betimes for the
Italian journey.
Purist. Ah ! my ill-fortune brings me hither ; what a
constant scene of rioting ! and of the whole host of witches,
only two are powdered.
Young Witch. Powder as well as petticoats are for
little old and gray women. Therefore I sit naked upon my
he-goat, and show a stout body.
Matron. We have too much good breeding to squabble
with you here. But I hope you will rot, young and delicate
as you are.
Leader of the Band. Flies' snouts and gnats' noses,
don't swarm so about the naked. Frog in leaves, and
cricket in the grass ! Continue, however, to keep time, I
beg of you.
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST. 91
Weathercock (towards one side). Company to one's
heart's content ! Truly, nothing but brides ! and young
bachelors, man for man ! the hopefullest people !
Weathercock (towards the other side). And if the
ground does not open, to swallow up all of them — with
a quick run, I will immediately jump into hell.
Xenien. We are here as insects, with little sharp nebs,
to honor Satan, our worshipful papa, according to his
dignity.
Hennings. See ! how naively they joke together in
a crowded troop. They will e'en say, in the end, that they
had good hearts.
Musaget. I like full well to lose myself in this host
of witches ; for, truly, I should know how manage these
better than Muses.
Ci-Devant Genius of the Age. With proper people,
one becomes somebody. Come, take hold of my skirt !
The Blocksberg, Kke the German Parnassus, has a very
broad top.
Inquisitive Traveller. Tell me, what is the name
of that stiff man ? He walks with stiff steps. He snuffles
everything he can snuffle. " He is scenting out Jesuits."
The Crane. I like to fish in clear and even in troubled
waters. On the same principle you see the pious gentleman
associate even with devils.
Worldling. Ay, for the pious, believe me, everything
is a vehicle. They actually form many a conventicle here
upon the Blocksberg.
Dancer. Here is surely a new choir coming ! I hear
distant drums. But don't disturb yourselves ! there are
single-toned bitterns among the reeds.
Dancing-Master.* How each throws up his legs ! gets
on as best he may ! The crooked jumps, the clumsy hops,
and asks not how it looks.
Fiddler. How deeply this pack of ragamuffins hate each
other, and how gladly they would give each other the fin-
ishing blow ! the bagpipe unites them here, as Orpheus' lyre
the beasts.
Dogmatist. I will not be put out of my opinion, not by
either critics or doubts. The devil, though, must be some-
thing; for how else could there be devils?
* This and the following stanza were added in the last complete
edition of Goethe's Works.
92 THE TEAGEDY OF FAUST.
Idealist. Phantasy, this once, is really too masterful in
my mind. Truly, if I be that All, I must be beside myself
to-day.
Realist. Entity is a regular plague to me, and cannot
but vex me much. I stand here, for the first time, not firm
upon my feet.
Supernaturalist. I am greatly pleased at being here,
and am delighted with these ; for, from devils, I can certainly
draw conclusions as to good spirits.
Skeptic. They follow the track of the flame, and believe
themselves near the treasure. Only doubt (zweifel) rhymes
to devil {teufel). Here I am quite at home.
Leadee oe the Band. Frog in the leaves, and cricket
in the grass ! Confounded dilettanti ! Flies' snouts and
gnats' noses; you are fine musicians!
The Knowing Ones. Sansoud, that is the name of the
host of merry creatures. There is no longer any walking
upon feet, wherefore we walk upon our heads.
The Maladroit Ones. In times past we have sponged
many a tit-bit; but now, good-bye to all that! Our shoes
are danced through ; we run on bare soles.
Will-o'-the-Wisps. We come from the bog, from which
we are just sprung ; but we are the glittering gallants here
in the dance directly.
Star-Shoot. From on high, in star-and-fi re-light, I shot
hither. I am now lying crooked-ways in the grass ; who
will help me upon my legs ?
The Massive Ones. Room ! room ! and round about !
so down go the grass-stalks. Spirits are coming, but, spirits
as they are, they have plump limbs.
Puck. Don't tread so heavily, like elephants' calves ;
and the plumpest on this day be the stout Puck himself.
Ariel. If kind nature gave — if the spirit gave you
wings, follow my light track up to the hill of roses !
Orchestra (pianissimo). Drifting clouds, and wreathed
mists, brighten from on high ! Breeze in the leaves, and
wind in the rushes, and all is dissipated !
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST. 93
A GLOOMY DAY. — A PLAIN.
Faust — Mephistopiieles.
Faust. In misery! Despairing! Long a wretched
wanderer upon the earth, and now a prisoner! The dear,
unhappy being, cooped up in the dungeon, as a malefactor
for horrid tortures. Even to that ! to that ! Treacherous,
worthless Spirit, and this hast thou concealed from me !
Stand, only stand ? roll thy devilish eyes infuriated in thy
head ! Stand and brave me with thy unbearable presence !
A prisoner! In irremediable misery! Given over to evil
spirits, and to sentence-passing, unfeeling man ! And me, in
the meantime, hast thou been lulling with tasteless dissi-
pations, concealing her growing wretchedness from me, and
leaving her to perish without help.
Mephistopheles. She is not the first.
Faust. Dog ! horrible monster ! Turn him, thou Infin.
ite Spirit ! turn the reptile back again into his dog's shape,
in which he was often pleased to trot before me by night,
to roll before the feet of the harmless wanderer, and fasten
on his shoulders when he fell. Turn him again into his fa-
vorite shape, that he may crouch on his belly before me in
the sand, whilst I spurn him with my foot, the reprobate !
Not the first ! Woe ! woe ! It is inconceivable by any
human soul, that more than one creature can have sunk into
such a depth of misery, — that the first in its writhing death-
agony was not sufficient to atone for the guilt of all the
rest in the sight of the Ever-pardoning. It harrows up my
marrow and my very life, — the misery of this one : thou
art grinning calmly at the fate of thousands.
Mephistopheles. Now are we already at our wits' end
again ! just where the sense of you mortals snaps with over-
straining. Why dost thou enter into fellowship with us, if
thou canst not go through with it ? Will'st fly, and art not
safe from dizziness? Did we force ourselves on thee, or
thou thyself on us ? If
Faust. Gnash not thy greedy teeth thus defyingly at
me! I loathe thee? Great, glorious Spirit, thou who
deignest to appear to me, thou who knowest my heart and
my soul, why yoke me to this shame-fellow, who feeds on
mischief, and battens on destruction ! *
Mephistopheles. Hast done ?
94 THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
Faust. Save her ! or woe to thee ! The most horrible
curse on thee for thousands of years !
Mephistopheles. I cannot loosen the shackles of the
avenger, nor undo his bolts. — Save her ! Who was it that
plunged her into ruin ? I or thou ? (Faust looks wildly
around.) Art thou grasping after the thunder? Well,
that it is not given to you wretched mortals ! To dash to
pieces one who replies to you in all innocence — that is just
the tyrant's way of venting himself in perplexities.
Faust. Bring me thither ! She shall be free !
Mephistopheles. And the danger to which you expose
yourself! Know, the guilt of blood, from your hand, still
lies upon the town. Avenging spirits hover over the place
of the slain, and lie in wait for the returning murderer.
Faust. That, too, from thee ? Murder and death of a
world upon thee, monster ! Conduct me thither, I say, and
free her !
Mephistopheles. I will conduct thee, and what I can,
hear ! Have I all power in heaven and upon earth ? I will
cloud the jailer's senses ; do you possess yourself of the keys,
and bear her off with human hand. I will watch! The
magic horses will be ready ; I will bear you off. This much
I can do.
Faust. Up and away !
NIGHT. — OPEN PLAIN.
Faust and Mephistopheles rushing alo7ig upon black
horses.
Faust. What are they working — those about the Raven-
stone yonder ?
Mephistopheles. Can't tell what they're cooking and
making.
Faust. Are waving upwards — waving downwards —
bending — stooping.
Mephistopheles. A witch company.
Faust. They are sprinkling and charming.
Mephistopheles. On ! on '
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST. 95
DUNGEON.
Faust (with a bunch of keys and a lamp, before an iron
wicket). A tremor, long unfelt, seizes me ; the concentrated
misery of mankind fastens on me. Here, behind these damp
walls, is her dwelling-place, and her crime was a good delu-
sion ! Thou hesitatest to go to her ! Thou f earest to see
her again ! On ! thy irresolution lingers death hitherwards.
(He takes hold of the lock. — Singing within.)
My mother, the whore,
That killed me!
My father, the rogue,
That ate me up !
My little sister
Picked up the bones
At a cool place !
There I became a beautiful little wood-bird.
* Fly away ! fly away !
Faust (opening the lock). She has no presentiment that
her lover is listening, hears the chains clank, the straw rus-
tle. (He enters.)
Margaret (hiding her face in the bed of straw). Woe!
woe ! They come. Bitter death !
Faust (softly). Hush ! hush! I come to free thee.
Margaret (throwing herself before him). If thou art
human, feel for my wretchedness.
Faust. You will wake the guard by your cries! (He
takes hold of the chains to unlock them.
Margaret (on her knees) . Who has given you, headsman,
this power over me ? You come for me whilst it is yet mid-
night. Be merciful and let me live. Is not to-morrow
morning soon enough? (She stands up.) I am yet so
young, so young ! and am to die already ! I was fair, too,
and that was my undoing ! My true-love was near — he is
now far away. Torn lies my garland, scattered the flowers.
Don't take hold of me so roughly ! Spare me ! What have
I done to you ? Let me not implore in vain ! I never saw
you before in all my life, you know !
Faust. Can I endure this misery ?
Margaret. I am now entirely in thy power. Only let
me first give suck to the child. I pressed it this whole night
to my heart. They took it away to vex me, and now say I
killed it. And I shall never be happy again. They sing
96 THE TRAGEDY OF FAUSX-
songs upon me ! It is wicked of the people. An old tale
ends so, — who bids them apply it?
Faust {throws himself on the ground). A lover lies at thy
feet, to unloose the bonds of wretchedness.
Margaret {throws herself by his side). Ay, let us kneel
to invoke the saints. See under these steps, under the thresh-
old, hell is seething ! The Evil One, with fearful fury, is
making a din.
Faust {passionately). Margaret! Margaret!
Margaret {listening). That was my true-love's voice.
{She springs up. The chains fall off.) Where is he ! I
heard him call. I am free ! Nobody shall hinder me. I
will fly to his neck ! lie on his bosom ! He called Mar-
garet ! He stood upon the threshold. In the midst, through
the howling and clattering of hell, through the grim, devil-
ish scoffing, I knew the sweet, the loving tone again.
Faust. 'Tis I.
Margaret. 'Tis thou ! Ah, say so once again ! ( Clasp
ing him.) 'Tis he ! ' Tis he ! Whither is all my wretch,
edness ! Whither the agony of the dungeon ! — the
chains ! 'Tis thou ! Thou comest to save me. I am
saved ! — There again already is the street, where I saw
thee for the first time ; and the cheerful garden where I and
Martha waited for thee.
Faust {striving to take her away). Come ! come with
me!
Margaret. Oh, stay! I like to stay where thou stay-
est. ( Caressing him.)
Faust. Haste ! If you do not make haste we shall pay
dearly for it.
Margaret. What ! You can no longer kiss ? So short
a time away from me, my love, and already forgotten how
to kiss ! Why do I feel so sad upon your neck? when in
other times a whole heaven came over me from your
words, your looks ; and you kissed me as if you were
going to smother me ! Kiss me ! or I will kiss you ! {She
embraces him.) O woe ! your lips are cold, — are dumb.
Where have you left your love ? Who has robbed me of it ?
{She turns from him.)
Faust. Come ! follow me ! take courage, my love. I will
press thee to my heart with a thousandfold warmth — only
follow me ! I ask thee but this.
Margaret {turning to him). And is it thou, then ? And
IS it thou, indeed ?
THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST. 97
Faust. 'Tis I. Come along.
Margaret. You undo my fetters, you take me to your
bosom again ! How comes it that you are not afraid of
me? And do you then know, my love, whom you are
freeing ?
Faust. Come, come ! the depth of night is already pass-
ing away.
Margaret. I have killed my mother, I have drowned
my child. Was it not bestowed on thee and me? — on
thee, too ? 'Tis thou! I scarcely believe it. Give me thy
hand. It is no dream — thy dear hand ! — but oh, 'tis
damp ! Wipe it off. It seems to me as if there was blood
on it. Oh, God ! what hast thou done ! Put up thy sword !
I pray thee, do !
Faust. Let what is past be past. Thou wilt kill me.
Margaret. No, you must remain behind. I will de-
scribe the graves to you! you must see to them the first
thing to-morrow. Give my mother the best place ; — my
brother close by; — me a little on one side, only not too far off.
And the little one on my right breast ; no one else will lie
by me. To nestle to thy side, — that was a sweet, a dear
delight ! But it will never be mine again ! I fear as if I
were irresistibly drawn to you, and you were thrusting me
off. And yet, 'tis you ; you look so good, so kind.
Faust. If you feel that 'tis I, come along.
Margaret. Out there?
Faust. Into the free air !
Margaret. If the grave is without, if death lies in
wait, — then come ! Hence into the eternal resting-place,
and not a step further. — Thou art now going away ? O
Henry, could I but go, too!
Faust. Thou canst! Only consent! The door stands
open.
Margaret. I dare not go out ; there is no hope for me !
What avails it flying? They are lying in wait for me. It
is so miserable to be obliged to beg, — and, what is worse,
with an evil conscience, too. It is so miserable to wander
in a strange land, — and they will catch me, do as I will.
Faust. I shall be with thee.
Margaret. Quick, quick! Save thy poor child. Away!
Keep the path up by the brook — over the bridge — into
the wood — to the left where the plank is — in the pond.
Only quick and catch hold of it ! it tries to rise ! it is still
Struggling ! Help ! help !
D— Goethe Vol 10
98 THE TRAGEDY OF FAUST.
Faust. Be calm, I pray ! Only one step, and thou art
free.
Margaret. Were we but past the hill ! There sits my
mother on a stone — my brain grows chill! — there sits my
mother on a stone, and waves her head to and fro. She
beckons not, she nods not, her head is heavy ; she slept so
long, she'll wake no more. She slept that we might enjoy
ourselves. Those were pleasant times !
Faust. As no prayer, no persuasion, is here of any avail,
I will risk the bearing thee away.
Margaret. Let me go ! No, I endure no violence ! Lay
not hold of me so murderously ! Time was, you know, when
I did all to pleasure you.
Faust. The day is dawning ! My love ! my love !
Margaret. Day! Yes, it is growing day! The last day
is breaking in! My wedding-day it was to be ! Tell no one
that thou hadst been with Margaret already. Woe to my
garland ! It is all over now ! We shall meet again, but not
at the dance. The crowd thickens ; it is not heard. The
square, the streets, cannot hold them. The bell tolls — the
staff breaks ! How they bind and seize me ! Already am
I hurried off to the blood-seat ! Already quivering for every
neck is the sharp steel which quivers for mine. Dumb lies the
world as the grave.
Faust. O that I had never been born !
Mephistopheles (appears icithout). Up! or you are lost.
Vain hesitation ) Lingering and prattling! My horses
shudder ; the morning is gloaming up.
Margaret. What rises up from the floor ? He ! He !
Send him away ! What would he at the holy place ? He
would me !
Faust. Thou shalt live !
Margaret. Judgment of God ! I have given myself up
to thee.
Mephistopheles (to Faust). Come ! come ! I will leave
you in the scrape with her.
Margaret. Thine am I, Father ! save me, ye angels !
Ye holy hosts, range yourselves round about to guard me !
Henry ! I tremble to look upon thee.
Mephistopheles. -She is judged !
Voice (from above). Is saved !
Mephistopheles (to Faust). Hither to me! (Disap*
pears with Faust.
V oice (from within, dying away). Henry! Henry!
CLAVIGO:
A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS.
Clavigo was written in 1774, a few months before the publication of "The
Sorrows of Young Werther," and a year after the appearance of Goetz von
Berlichingen. It has always been popular in Germany, where it still holds a
place on the stage; but it has not been translated into English before.
V
«
>
^
b
INTRODUCTION TO CLAVIGO.
^^The story on which Clavigo is founded is not only an
authentic one, but the circumstances occurred only ten years
before the publication of the play. They are as follows : —
Beaumarchais (the well-known French writer) had two sis-
ters living in Madrid, one married to an architect, the other,
Marie, engaged to Clavijo, a young author without fortune,
No sooner had Clavijo obtained an office which he had long
solicited than he refused to fulfil his promise. Beaumarchais
hurried to Madrid ; his object was twofold ; to save the rep-
utation of his sister, and to put a little speculation of his own
3 on foot. He sought Clavijo, and by his sang-froid and cour-
age extorted from him a written avowal of his contemptible
conduct. No sooner is this settled than Clavijo, alarmed at
the consequences, solicits a reconciliation with Marie, offer-
ing to marry her. Beaumarchais consents, but just as the
marriage is about to take place he learns that Clavijo is
secretly conspiring against him, accusing him of having
extorted the marriage by force, in consequence of which he has
procured an order from the government to expel Beaumar-
chais from Madrid. Irritated at such villainy, Beaumarchais
goes to the Ministers, reaches the King, and avenges himself
by getting Clavijo dismissed from his post.
This story was published by Beaumarchais under title of
a " Memoire, " in the year 1774; the circumstances having
occurred in 1764. Goethe once, at a friendly meeting, read
the recently published Memoire, and in the conversation that
ensued promised to produce a play on the subject in the course
of the following week. He fulfilled his promise, and it will
be seen how closely, with the exception of the tragic denoue-
ment,he adhered to the original story. The real Clavijo sub-
sequently became a man of considerable eminence in Madrid,
though Goethe could not have been aware of his existence
when he wrote the play.*
* The above details are derived from Mr. G. H. Lewes' "Life of
Goethe.' *
3
4 CLAVIGO.
It belongs to the period just after the composition of
Werther, and is one of the less important of his literary-
works; but the exceedingly dramatic presentation of the
incidents has given it great popularity on the German
stage, and helped considerably to establish the fame
of the author.
DRAMATIS PERSONS.
Clavigo.
Carlos, Ms friend.
Beaumarchais.
Marie Beaumarchais.
Sophie Guilbert (nee Beaumarchais)
Guilbert, her husband.
Buenco.
St. George.
The scene is at Madrid.
CLAVIGO.
ACT I.
Scene I. Clavigo's Dwelling.
Miter Clavigo and Carlos.
Clavigo (rising up from the writing-table) . The journal
will do a good work, it must charm all women. Tell me,
Carlos, do you not think that my weekly periodical is now
one of the first in Europe ?
Carlos. We Spaniards, at least, have no modern author
who unites such great strength of thought, so much florid
imagination, with so brilliant and easy a style.
Clavigo. Please don't. I must still be among the peo-
ple the creator of the good style ; people are ready to take
all sorts of impressions ; I have a reputation among my fel-
low-citizens, their confidence : and, between ourselves, my
acquirements extend daily ; my experience widens, and my
style becomes ever truer and stronger.
Carlos. Good, Clavigo ! Yet, if you will not take it ill,
your paper pleased me far better when you yet wrote it at
Marie's feet, when the lovely cheerful creature had still an
influence over you. I know not how, the whole had a more
youthful blooming appearance.
Clavigo. Those were good times, Carlos, which are now
gone. I gladly avow to thee, I wrote then with opener
heart; and, it is true, she had a large share in the approba-
tion which the public accorded me at the very beginning.
But at length, Carlos, one becomes very soon weary of women ;
and were you not the first to applaud my resolution, when I
determined to forsake her ?
Carlos. You would have become rusty. Women are far
too monotonous. Only, it seems to me, it were again time
that you cast about for a new plan, for it is all up when one
is so entirely aground.
Clavigo. My plan is the Court ; there there is no leisure
nor holiday. For a stranger, who, without standing, with-
5
6 CLAVIGO.
out name, without fortune, came here, have I not already
advanced far enough ? Here in a Court ! amid the throng of
men, where it is not easy to attract attention? I do so
rejoice, when I look on the road I have left behind me. Loved
by the first in the kingdom ! Honored for my attainments,
my rank ! Recorder of the king ! Carlos, all that spurs me
on ; I were nothing if I remained what I am. Forward ! for-
ward ! There it costs toil and art ! One needs all his wits ;
and the women ! the women ! one loses far too much time
with them.
Carlos. Simpleton, that is your fault. I can never live
without women, and they are not in my way at all. More-
over, I do not say so very many fine things to them, I do not
amuse myself entire months with sentiment and such like ;
for I do not at all like to have to do with prudish girls. One
has soon said his say with them : afterwards, if you have
carried on with them for a while, scarcely have they been
warmed up a little, when straightway — the deuce — you
are pestered with thoughts of marriage and promises of
marriage, which I fear as the plague. You are pensive,
Clavigo ?
Clavigo. T cannot get rid of the recollection that I jilted,
deceived Marie, call it as you will.
Carlos. Wonderful ! It seems to me, however, that one
lives only once in this world, has only once this power, these
prospects, and he who does not make the most of them, and
rise as high as possible, is a fool. And to marry ! to marry
just at the time when life is for the first time about to soar
aloft on widespread pinions ! to bury one's self in domestic
repose, to shut one's self up when one has not traversed the
half of his iournev — has not vet achieved the half of his
conquests ! To love her was natural ; to promise her mar-
riage was folly, and if you had kept your word it would have
been downright madness.
Clavigo. Hold ! I do not understand men. I loved
her truly, she drew me to her, she held me, and as I sat
at her feet I vowed to her — I vowed to myself — that it
should ever be so, that I would be hers as soon as 1 had an
office, a position — and now, Carlos !
Carlos. It will be quite time enough when you are a
made man, when you have reached the desired goal, if then
— to crown and confirm all your happiness — you seek to
ally yourself by a prudent marriage with a family of wealth
and consequence.
CLAVIGO. 7
Clavigo. She has vanished ! quite out of my heart
vanished, and if her unhappiness does not sometimes remind
me — strange that one is so changeable !
Carlos. If one were constant I should wonder. Look,
pray, does not everything in the world change? Why
should our passions endure? Be tranquil; she is not the
first jilted girl, nor the first that has consoled herself. If
I were to advise you, there is the young widow over the
way
Clavigo. You know I do not set much store on such
proposals. A love affair which does not come of its own
accord has no charm for me.
Carlos. So dainty people !
Clavigo. Be it so, and forget not that our chief work
at present is, to render ourselves necessary to the new
minister. That Whal resigns the government of India is
troublesome enough for us. In truth, otherwise it does not
disquiet me; his influence abides — Grimaldi and he are
friends, and we know how to talk and manoeuvre.
Carlos. And think and do what we will.
Clavigo. That is the grand point in the world. {Rings
for the servant.) Take this sheet to the printing-office.
Carlos. Are you to be seen in the evening?
Clavigo. I do not think so. However, you can inquire.
Carlos. This evening I should like to undertake some-
thing which gladdened my heart ; all this afternoon I must
write again, there is no end of it.
Clavigo. Have patience. If we did not toil for so
many persons we would not get the ascendancy over so
many. [Exit.
Scene II. Guilbert's Dwelling.
Sophie Guilbert, Marie, and Don Buenco.
Buenco. You have had a bad night ?
Sophie. I told her so yesterday evening. She was so
foolishly merry and prattled till eleven, then she was over-
heated, could not sleep, and now again she has no breath
and weeps the whole morning.
Marie. Strange that our brother comes not ! It is two
days past the time.
Sophie. Only have patience, he will not fail us.
8 CLAVIGO.
Marie (rising). How anxious I am to see this brother,
my avenger and my saviour. I scarcely remember him.
Sophie. Indeed ! Oh, I can well picture him to myself ;
he was a fiery, open, brave boy of thirteen when our father
sent us here.
Marie. A noble great soul. You have read the letter
which he wrote when he learnt my unhappiness; each
character of it is enshrined in my heart. " If you are guilty,"
writes he, " expect no forgiveness ; over and above your
misery the contempt of a brother will fall heavy upon you,
and the curse of a father. If you are innocent, oh, then, all
vengeance, all, all glowing vengeance on the traitor!" — I
tremble ! He will come. I tremble, not for myself, I stand
before God in my innocence ! You must, my friends — I
know not what I want ! O Clavigo !
Sophie. You will not listen ! You will kill yourself.
Marie. I will be still. Yes, I will not weep. It seems
to me, however, I could have no more tears. And why
tears ? I am only sorry that I make my life bitter to you.
For when all is said and done, what have I to complain of?
I have had much joy as long as our old friend still lived.
Clavigo's love has caused me much joy, perhaps more than
mine for him. And now what is it after all? of what im-
portance am I ? What matters it if a girl's heart is broken ?
What matters it whether she pines away and torments her
poor young heart ?
Buenco. For God's sake, Mademoiselle !
Marie. Whether it is all one to him — that he loves me
no more? Ah! why am I not more amiable? But he
should pity, at least pity me! — that the hapless girl, to
whom he had made himself so needful, now without him
should pine and weep her life away — Pity! I wish not to
be pitied by this man.
Sophie. If I could teach you to despise him — the worth-
less, detestable man.
Marie. No, sister, worthless he is not ; and must I then
despise him whom I hate ? Hate ! Indeed, sometimes I
can hate him — sometimes, when the Spanish spirit possesses
me. Lately, oh ! lately, when we met him, his look wrought
full, warm love in me ! And as I again came home, and his
manner recurred to me, and the calm, cold glance that he
cast over me, while beside the brilliant donna; then I
became a Spaniard in my heart, and seized my dagger and
poison, and disguised myself. Are you amazed, Buenco?
All in thought only, of course !
CLAVIGO. 9
Sophie. Foolish girl !
Marie. My imagination led me after him. I saw him as
he lavished all the tenderness, all the gentleness at the feet
of his new love — the charms with which he poisoned me
— I aimed at the heart of the traitor ! Ah ! Buenco ! —
all at once the good-hearted French girl was again there,
who knows of no love-sickness, and no daggers for revenge.
We are badly off! Vaudevilles to entertain our lovers,
fans to punish them, and, if they are faithless? — Say,
sister, what do they do in France when lovers are faithless ?
Sophie. They curse them.
Marie. And
Sophie. And let them go their ways.
Marie. Go ! — and why shall not I let Clavigo go ? If
that is the French fashion, why shall it not be so in Spain ?
Why shall a Frenchwoman not be a Frenchwoman in Spain ?
We will let him go, and take to ourselves another; it
appears to me they do so with us, too.
Buenco. He has broken a sacred promise, and no light
love-affair, no friendly attachment. Mademoiselle, you are
pained, hurt even to the depths of your heart. Oh ! never
was my position of an unknown, peaceful citizen of Madrid
so burdensome, so painful as at this moment, in which I feel
myself so feeble, so powerless to obtain justice for you
against the treacherous courtier !
Marie. When he was still Clavigo, not yet Recorder of
the King; when he was still the stranger, the guest, the
new-comer in our house, how amiable he was, how good !
How all his ambition, all his desire to rise, seemed to be a
child of his love ! For me he struggled for name, rank,
fortune ; he has all now, and T !
Guilbert comes.
Guilbert {privately to his vrife). Our brother is coming?
Marie. My brother! (She trembles; they conduct her
to a seat). Where? where? Bring him to me! Take me
to him !
Beaumarchais comes.
Beaumarchais. My sister ! ( Quitting the eldest to rush
towards the youngest). My sister! My friends! O my
sister !
Marie. Is it you, indeed ? God be thanked it is you !
Beaumarchais. Let me regain composure.
10 CLAVIGO.
Marie. My heart ! — my poor heart !
Sophie. Be calm. Dear brother, I hoped to see you
more tranquil.
Beaumarchais. More tranquil ! Are you, then, tranquil ?
Do I not behold in the wasted figure of this dear one, in
your tearful eyes, your sorrowful paleness, in the dead
silence of your friends, that you are as wretched as I have
imagined you to be during all the long way? and more
wretched; for I see you, I hold you in my arms; your
presence redoubles my sufferings. O my sister !
Sophie. And our father ?
Beaumarchais. He blesses you, and me, if I save you.
Buenco. Sir, permit one unknown who, at the first look,
recognizes in you a noble, brave man, to bear witness to the
deep interest which all this matter inspires in me. Sir, you
undertake this long journey to save, to avenge your sister !
Welcome ! be welcome as a guardian angel, though, at the
same time, you put us all to the blush !
Beaumarchais. I hoped, sir, to find in Spain such hearts
as yours ; that encouraged me to take this step. Nowhere,
nowhere in the world are feeling, congenial souls wanting,
if only one steps forward whose circumstances leave him full
freedom to carry his courage through. And oh, my friends,
I feel full of hope ! Everywhere there are men of honor
among the powerful and great, and the ear of Majesty is
rarely deaf ; only our voice is almost always too weak to
reach to their height.
Sophie. Come, sister! come, rest a moment. She is
quite beside herself. ( They lead her away.)
Marie. My brother !
Beaumarchais. God willing if you are innocent, then
all, all vengeance on the traitor ! {Exeunt Marie and
Sophie.) My brother ! — my friends ! — I see it in your
looks that you are so. Let me regain composure and then ! —
a pure impartial recital of the whole story. This must de-
termine my actions. The feeling of a good cause shall con-
firm my courage ; and, believe me, if we are right, we shall
get justice.
CLAVIGO. 11
AC? II.
Scene I. Clavigo's House,
Clavigo. Who may these Frenchmen be, that have got
themselves announced in my house? Frenchmen! In
former days this nation was welcome to me ! And why not
now ? It is singular that a man who sets so much at naught
is yet bound with feeble thread to a single point. It is too
much ! And did I owe more to Marie than to myself ?
and is it a duty to make myself unhappy because a girl loves
me ?
A Servant.
Servant. The foreign gentlemen, sir.
Clavigo. Bid them enter. Pray, did you tell their ser-
vant that I expect them to breakfast ?
Servant. As you ordered.
Clavigo. I shall be back presently. [Exit.
Beaumarchais — St. George.
The Servant places chairs for them and withdraws.
Beaumarchais. I feel so much at ease ; so content, my
friend, to be at length here, to hold him ; he shall not escape
me. Be calm : at least show him a calm exterior. My
sister ! my sister ! who could believe that you are as innocent
as you are unhappy ? It shall come to light ; you shall be
terribly avenged ! And Thou, good God ! preserve to me
the tranquillity of soul which Thou accordest to me at this
moment, that, amid this frightful grief, I may act as pru-
dently as possible and with all moderation.
St. George. Yes ; this wisdom — all the prudence, my
friend, you have ever shown — I claim now. Promise me
once more, dear friend, that you will reflect where you are. In
a strange kingdom, where all your protectors, all your money
cannot secure you from the secret machinations of worthless
foes.
Beaumarchais. Be tranquil : play your part well ; he
shall not know with which of us he has to do. I will tor-
ture him ! Oh, I am just in a fine humor to roast this fellow
over a slow fire !
Clavigo returns.
Clavigo. Gentlemen, it gives me joy to see in my house
men of a nation that I have always esteemeed,
12 CLAVlGO.
Beaumarchais. Sir, I wish that we, too, may be worthy
of the honor which you are good enough to confer on our
fellow-countrymen.
St. George. The pleasure of making your acquaintance
has surmounted the fear of being troublesome to you.
Clavigo. Persons, whom the first look recommends,
should not push modesty so far.
Beaumarchais. In truth it cannot be a novelty to you
to be sought out by strangers ; for by the excellence of your
WTitings, you have made yourself as much known in foreign
lands as the important offices which his majesty has entrust-
ed to you distinguish you in your fatherland.
Clavigo. The king looks with much favor on my
humble services, and the public with much indulgence on
the trifling essays of my pen ; I have wished that I could
contribute in some measure to the improvement of taste, to
the propagation of the sciences in my country ; for they only
uuite us with other nations, they only make friends of the
most distant spirits, and maintain the sweetest union among
those even, who, alas ! are too often disunited through po-
litical interests.
Beaumarchais. It is captivating to hear a man so speak
who has equal influence in the state and in letters. I must
also avow you have taken the word out of my mouth and
brought me straight to the purpose, on account of which
you see me here. A society of learned, worthy men has
commissioned me, in every place through which I travel
and find opportunity, to establish a correspondence between
them and the best minds in the kingdom. As no Spaniard
writes better than the author of the journal called the
Thinker — a man with whom I have the honor to speak
(Clavigo makes a polite bow), and who is an especial
ornament of learned men, since he has known how to unite
with his literary talents so great a capacity for political
affairs, he cannot fail to climb the highest steps of which
his character and acquirements render him worthy. I
believe I can perform no more acceptable service to my
friends than to put them in connection with a man of such
merit.
Clavigo. No proposal in the world could be more
agreeable to me, gentlemen ; I thereby see fulfilled the
sweetest hopes, with which my heart was often occupied
without any prospect of their happy accomplishment. Not
that I believe I shall be able, through my correspondence,
CLAVIGO. 13
to satisfy the wishes of your learned friends ; my vanity
does not go so far. But as I have the happiness to be in
accordance with the best minds in Spain, as nothing can
remain unknown to me which is achieved in our vast king-
dom by isolated, often obscure, individuals for the Arts and
Sciences, I have looked upon myself, till now, as a kind of
colporteur, who possesses the feeble merit of rendering the
inventions of others generally useful ; but now I become,
through your intervention, a merchant, happy enough through
the exportation of native products to extend the renown
of his fatherland and thereby to enrich it with foreign
treasures. So then, allow me, sir, to treat as not a stranger
a man who, with such frankness, brings such agreeable
news; allow me to ask what business — what project made
you undertake this long journey ? It is not that I would,
through this officiousness, gratify vain curiosity ; no, believe
rather that it is with the purest intention of exerting in
your behalf all the resources, all the influence which I
may perchance possess ; for I tell you beforehand, you have
come to a place where countless difficulties encounter a
stranger in the prosecution of his business, especially at the
Court.
Beaumarchais. I accept so obliging an offer with
warmest thanks. I have no secrets with you, sir, nor will
this friend be in the way during my statement; he is
sufficiently acquainted with what I have to say. (Clavigo
looks at St. George with attention.) A French merchant,
with a large family and a limited fortune, had many business
friends in Spain. One of the richest came to Paris fifteen
years ago, and made him this proposal : " Give me two of
your daughters, and I shall take them with me to Madrid
and provide for them. I am not married, am getting old
and have no relatives ; they will form the happiness of my
declining years, and after my decease I shall leave them one
of the most considerable establishments in Spain. The
eldest and one of the younger sisters were confided to his
care. The father undertook to supply the house with all
kinds of French merchandise which might be required, and
so all went well till the friend died without the least
mention of the Frenchwomen in his will, who then saw
themselves in the embarrassing position of superintending
alone a new business. The eldest had meanwhile married,
and notwithstanding their moderate fortune, they secured
through their good conduct and varied accomplishments a
14 CLAVIGO.
multitude of friends who were eager to extend their credit
and business. (Clavigo becomes more and more attentive.')
About the same time a young man, a native of the Canary-
Islands, had got himself introduced into the family. (Cla-
vigo's countenance loses all cheerfulness, and his seriousness
changes gradually into embarrassment, more and more visible.)
Despite his humble standing and fortune they receive him
kindly. The Frenchwomen, remarking in him a great love
of the French language, favored him with every means of
making rapid progress in its study. Extremely anxious to
make himself known, he forms the design of giving to the
city of Madrid the pleasure, hitherto unknown to Spain, of
reading a weekly periodical in the style of the English
Spectator. His lady friends fail not to aid him in every
way ; they do not doubt that such an undertaking would
meet with great success ; in short, animated by the hope of
soon becoming a man of some consequence, he ventures to
make an offer of marriage to the younger. Hopes are held
out to him. " Try to make your fortune," quoth the elder,
" and if an appointment, the favor of the Court, or any other
means of subsistence shall have given you a right to think
of my sister, if she still prefers you to other suitors, I cannot
refuse you my consent." (Clavigo, covered with confusion,
moves uneasily on his seat.) The younger declines several
advantageous offers; her fondness for the man increases,
and helps her to bear the anxiety of an uncertain expecta-
tion ; she interests herself for his happiness as for her own,
and encourages him to issue the first number of his periodi-
cal, which appears under an imposing title. (Clavigo is
terribly embarrassed. Beaumarchais, icy cold.) The
success of the journal was astonishing; the King even,
delighted with this charming production, gave the author
public tokens of his favor. He was promised the first honor
able office that might be vacant. From that moment he
removed all rivals from his beloved, while quite openly
striving hard to win her good graces. The marriage was
delayed only in expectation of the promised situation. At
last, after six years' patient waiting, unbroken friendship,
aid, and love on the part of the girl ; after six year's' devo-
tion, gratitude, attentions, solemn assurances on the part of
the man, the office is forthcoming — and he vanishes.
(Clavigo utters a deep sigh, which he tries to stifle, and is
quite overcome.) The matter had made so great a noise in
the world that the issue could not be regarded with indiffer-
CLAVIGO. 15
ence. A house had been rented for two families. The whole
town was talking of it. The hearts of all friends were
wrung and sought revenge. Application was made to
powerful protectors; but the worthless fellow, already
initiated in the cabals of the Court, knew how to render
fruitless all their efforts, and went so far in his insolence as
to dare to threaten the unhappy ladies ; to dare to say, in
the very face of those friends who had gone to find him,
that the Frenchwomen should take care ; he defied them to
injure him, and if they made bold to undertake aught against
him, it would be easy for him to ruin them in a foreign land,
where they would be without protection and help. At this
intelligence the poor girl fell into convulsions, which threat-
ened death. In the depth of her grief, the elder wrote to
France about the public outrage which had been done to
them. The news most powerfully moves her brother; he
demands leave of absence to obtain counsel and aid in so
complicated an affair, he flies from Paris to Madrid, and the
brother — it is I ! who have left all — my country, duties,
family, standing, pleasures, in order to avenge, in Spain, an
innocent, unhappy sister. I come, armed with the best cause
and firm determination to unmask a traitor, to mark with
bloody strokes his soul on his face, and the traitor — art thou !
Ola vigo. Hear me, sir — I am — I have — I doubt not
Beaumarchais. Interrupt me not. You have nothing
to say to me and much to hear from me. Now, to make a
beginning, have the goodness, in the presence of this gentle-
man, who has come from France expressly with me, to
declare wmether my sister has deserved this public outrage
from you through any treachery, levity, weakness, rudeness,
or any other blemish.
Clavigo. No, sir. Your sister, Donna Maria, is a lady
overflowing with wit, amiability, and goodness.
Beaumarchais. Has she ever during your acquaintance
given you any occasion to complain of her or to esteem her
less?
Clavigo. Never! never!
Beaumarchais (rising). And why, monster, had you the
barbarity to torture the girl to death ? Only because her
heart preferred you to ten others, all more honorable and
richer than you ?
Clavigo. Ah, sir ! If you knew how I have been insti-
gated; how I, through manifold advisers and circum-
stances — —
16 CLAVIGO.
Beaumarchais. Enough ! ( To St. George.) You have
heard the vindication of my sister ; go and publish it. What
I have further to say to the gentleman, needs no witnesses.
(Clavigo rises. St. George retires.) Stay ! Stay ! (Both
sit down again.) Having now got so far, I shall make a pro-
posal to you, which I hope you will accept. It is equally
agreeable to you and to me that you do not wed Marie, and
you are deeply sensible that I have not come to play the part
of a theatrical brother, who will unravel the drama, and pre-
sent a husband to his sister. You have cast a slur upon an
honorable lady in cold blood because you supposed that in a
foreign land she was without prop and avenger. Thus acts
a base, worthless fellow. And so, first of all, testify with
your own hand, spontaneously, with open doors, in presence
of your servants, that you are an abominable man, who have
deceived, betrayed my sister without the least cause ; and
with this declaration I will set out for Aranjuez, where our
ambassador resides ; I will show it, get it printed, and the
day after to-morrow the court and the town shall be flooded
with it. I have powerful friends here, I have time and
money, and of all shall I avail myself to pursue you in the
most furious manner possible till the resentment of my sis-
ter is appeased and satisfied, and she herself says, " Stop."
Clavigo. I will not make such a declaration.
Beaumarchais. I believe you, for in your place I should,
perhaps, not make it either. But here is the reverse of
the medal. If you do not write it I shall remain beside
you, from this moment I shall not quit you. I shall follow
you everywhere, till you, disgusted with such society, will
have sought to get rid of me behind Buenretiro. If I am more
fortunate than you, without seeing the ambassador, without
speaking here with any one, I take my dying sister in my
arms, place her in my carriage, and return to France with
her. Should fate favor you, I am played out, and you may
have a laugh at our expense. Meanwhile, breakfast. (Beau-
marchais rings the bell. An Attendant brings the choco-
late. Beaumarchais takes a cup, and walks in the adjoin*
ing gallery, examining the pictures.)
Clavigo. Air! air! I have been surprised and seized
like a boy. Where are you then, Clavigo ? How will you
end this ? How can you end it ? Frightful position, into
which your folly, your treachery has plunged you ? (He
seizes his sword on the table.) Ha ! short and good ! (Lays
it down.) And is there no way, no means, but death? — or
CLAVIGO. : 17
murder? — horrible murder! To deprive the hapless lady
of her last solace, her only stay, her brother ! To see gush-
ing out the blood of a noble, brave man ! And to draw upon
yourself the double, insupportable curse of a ruined family!
O, this was not the prospect when this amiable creature,
even from your first meeting, attracted you with so many
winsome ways! And when you abandoned her, did you not
seethe frightful consequences of your crime ? What blessed-
ness awaited you in her arms ! in the friendship of such a
brother! Marie! Marie! O that you could forgive ! that at
your feet I could atone for all by my tears ! — And why not ?
— My heart overflows ; my soul mounts up in hope ! Sir !
Beaumarchais. What is your determination ?
Clavigo. Hear me ! My deceit towards your sister is
unpardonable. Vanity has misled me. I feared by this
marriage to ruin all my plans, all my projects for a world-
wide celebrity. Could I have known that she had such a
brother she would have been in my eyes no unimportant
stranger ; I should have expected from our union very con-
siderable advantages. You inspire me, sir, with the highest
esteem, and, in making me so keenly sensible of my errors,
you impart to me a desire, a power, to make all good again.
I throw myself at your feet ! Help ! help, if it is possible, to
efface my guilt and put an end to unhappiness. Give your
sister to me, again, sir, give me to her ! How happy were I
to receive from your hand a wife and the forgiveness of all
my faults !
Beaumarchais. It is too late ! My sister loves you no
more, and I detest you. Write the desired declaration, that
is a41 that I exact from you, and leave me to provide for a
choice revenge.
Clavigo. Your obstinacy is neither right nor prudent.
I grant you that it does not depend on me, whether I will
make good again so irremediable an evil. Whether I can make
it good ? That rests with the heart of your excellent sister,
whether she may again look upon a wretch who does not
deserve to see the light of day. Only it is your duty to
ascertain that and to conduct yourself accordingly, if your
demeanor is not to resemble the inconsiderate passion of a
young man. If Donna Maria is immovable. O, I know her
heart ! O, her good, heavenly soul hovers before me quite
vividly ! If she is inexorable, then it is time, sir.
Beaumarchais. I insist on the vindication.
Clavigo {approaching the table) . And if I seize the sword ?
18 CLAVIGO.
Beaumarchais (advancing) . Good, sir ! Excellent, sir I
Clavigo (holding him back). One word more! You
have the better case ; let me have prudence for you. Con-
sider what you are doing. Whether you or I fall, we are
irrecoverably lost. Should I not die of pain, of remorse, if
your blood were to stain my sword, if I, to complete her
wretchedness, bereft her of her brother ; and on the other
hand — the murderer of Clavigo would not re-cross the Pyre=
nees.
Beaumarchais. The vindication, sir, the vindication !
Clavigo. Well ! be it so. I will do all to convince you
of the upright feeling with which your j)resence inspires
me. I will write the vindication, I will write it at your
dictation. Only promise me not to make use of it till I am
able to convince Donna Maria of the change and repentance
of my heart, till I have spoken to her elder sister ; till she
has put in a good word for me with my beloved one. Not
before, sir. •
Beaumarchais. I am going to Aranjuez.
Clavigo. Well, then, till your return, let the vindication
remain in your portfolio ; if I have not been forgiven, then
let your vengeance have full swing. This proposal is just,
fair, and prudent ; and if you do not agree to it let us then
play the game of life and death. And whichever of us two
become the victim of his own rashness, you and your poor
sister will suffer in any case.
Beaumarchais. It becomes you to pity those you have
made wretched.
Clavigo (sitting down). Are you satisfied?
Beaumarchais. Well, then, I yield the point. But not a
moment longer. I shall come back from Aranjuez, shall ask,
shall hear ! And if they have not forgiven you, which is
what I hope and desire, I am off directly with the paper to
the printing-office.
Clavigo (sitting down) . How do you demand it ?
Beaumarchais. Sir ! in presence of your attendants.
Clavigo. Why ?
Beaumarchais. Command only that they be present in
the adjoining gallery. It shall not be said that I have con-
strained you.
Clavigo. What scruples !
Beaumarchais. I am in Spain and have to deal with you.
Clavigo. Now then! (Rings. A Servant.) Call
my attendants together, and betake yourselves to the gallery
CLAVIGO. 19
there. ( The Servant retires. The rest come and occupy
the gallery.) You allow me to write the vindication ?
Beaumarchais. No, sir ! Write it, I must beg of you,
write it as I dictate it to you. (Clavigo writes.) " I, the
undersigned, Joseph Clavigo, Recorder of the King"
Clavigo. " Of the King."
Beaumarchais. " Acknowledge that after I was received
into the family of Madame Guilbert as a friend "
Clavigo. " As a friend."
Beaumarchais. "I made her sister, Mademoiselle de
Beaumarchais, a promise of marriage, repeated many times,
which I have unscrupulously broken." Have you got it
down?
Clavigo. But, sir!
Beaumarchais. Have you another expression for it ?
Clavigo. I should think
Beaumarchais. " Unscrupulously broken." What you
have done you need not hesitate to write. — "I have aban-
doned her, without any fault or weakness on her part having
suggested a pretext or an excuse for this perfidy."
Clavigo. Well !
Beaumarchais. " On the contrary, the demeanor of the
lady has been always pure, blameless, and worthy of all
honor."
Clavigo. — " Worthy of all honor."
Beaumarchais. " I confess that, through my deceit, the
levity of my conversations, the construction of which they
were susceptible, I have publicly humiliated this .virtuous
lady ; and on this account I entreat her forgiveness, although
I do not regard myself as worthy of receiving it." (Cla-
vigo stops.) Write ! write ! " And this testimony of my
own free will, and unforced, I have given, with this especial
promise, that if this satisfaction should not please the injured
lady, I am ready to afford it in every other way required.
Madrid."
Clavigo (rises, beckons to the servants to withdraw, and
hands him the paper). I have to do with an injured, but a
noble man. You will keep your word, and put off your ven-
geance. Only on this consideration, in this hope, I have
granted you the shameful document, to which nothing else
would have reduced me. But before I venture to appear
before Donna Maria, I have resolved to engage some one to
put in a word for me, to speak in my behalf — and you are
the man.
20 CLAVIGO.
Beaumarchais. Do not reckon on that.
Clavigo. At least make her aware of the bitter heart,
felt repentance which you have seen in me. That is all, all,
that I beg of you ; do not deny me this ; I should have to
choose another less powerful intercessor, and even you owe
her anyhow a faithful account. Do tell her how you have
found me !
Beaumarchais. Well! this I can do, this I shall do.
Good-bye, then.
Clavigo. Farewell ! {He wishes to take his hand ; Beau-
marchais draws it back.)
Clavigo {alone). So unexpectedly from one position into
the other. It is an infatuation, a dream ! — I should not have
given this vindication. — It came so quickly, so suddenly,
like a thunder-storm !
Carlos enters.
Carlos. What visit is this you have had ? The whole
house is astir. What is the matter ?
Clavigo. Marie's brother.
Carlos. I suspected it. This old dog of a servant, who
was formerly with Guilbert, and who at present acts the spy
for me, knew yesterday that he .was expected, and found me
only this moment. He was here then ?
Clavigo. An excellent young man.
Carlos. Of whom we shall soon be rid. Already I have
spread nets on his way ! — What, then, was the matter? A
challenge? An apology? Was he very hot, the fellow?
Clavigo. He demanded a declaration, that his sister gave
me no occasion for the change in my feelings towards her.
Carlos. And have you granted it?
Qh a Vigo. I thought it was best.
Carlos. Well, very well ! Was that all ?
Clavigo. He insisted on a duel or the vindication.
Carlos. The latter was the more judicious. Who will
risk his life for a boy so romantic ? And did he exact the
paper with violence ?
Clavigo. He dictated it to me, and I had to call the ser-
vants into the gallery.
Carlos. I understand ! ah ! now I have you, little mas-
ter ! That will prove his ruin. Call me a scrivener if in
two days I have not the varlet in prison and off for India by
the next transport.
Clavigo. No, Carlos, The matter stands otherwise
than as you think.
CLAVIGO. 21
Carlos. What ?
Clavigo. I hope through his intervention, through my
earnest endeavors, to obtain forgiveness from the unhappy
girl.
Carlos. Clavigo !
Clavigo. I hope to efface all the past, to heal the breach,
and so in my own eyes and in the eyes of the world again to
become an honorable man.
Carlos. The devil ! Have you become childish ? One
can still detect the bookworm in you. — To let yourself be
so befooled ! Do you not see that that is a stupidly laid plan
to entrap you ?
Clavigo. No, Carlos, he does not wish marriage ; they
are even opposed to it ; she will not listen to aught from me.
Carlos. That is the very point. No, my good friend,
take it not ill ; I may, perhaps, in plays have seen a country
squire thus cheated.
Clavigo. You pain me. I beg you will reserve your
humor for my wedding. I have resolved to marry Marie,
of my own accord, from the impulse of rny heart. All my
hope, all my felicity, rests on the thought of procuring her
forgiveness. And then away, Pride ! Heaven still lies, as
before, in the breast of this loved one. All the fame which
I acquire, all the greatness to which I rise, will fill me with
double joy, for it is shared by the lady who makes me twice
a man. Farewell ! I must hence. I must at least speak
with Guilbert.
Carlos. Wait only till after dinner.
Clavigo. Not a moment. [Exit,
Carlos (looking after him in silence for some time).
There, some one is going to burn his fingers again !
ACT III.
Scene I. Guilbert's abode.
Sophie Guilbert, Marie, Beaumarchais.
Marie. You have seen him? All my limbs tremble!
You have seen him ? I had almost fainted when I heard he
was come; and you have seen him? No, I can — I will —
no — I can never see him again.
22 CLAVIGO.
Sophie. I was beside myself when he stepped in. For ah !
did not I love him as you did, with the fullest, purest, most
sisterly love ? Has not his estrangement grieved, tortured
me? And now, the returning, the repentent one, at my
feet ! Sister, there is something so charming in his look, in
the tone of his voice. He
Marie. Never, never more !
Sophie. He is the same as ever; has still that good,
soft, feeling heart ; still even that impetuosity of passion.
There is still even the desire to be loved, and the excru-
tiatingly painful torture when love is denied him. All! all!
and of thee he speaks, Marie ! as in those happy days of the
most ardent passion. It is, as if your good genius had even
brought about this interval of infidelity and separation to
break the uniformity and tediousness of a prolonged attach-
ment, and impart to the feeling a fresh vivacity.
Marie. Do you speak a word for him?
Sophie. No, sister. Nor have I promised to do so.
Only, dearest, I see things as they are. You and your
brother see them in a light far too romantic. You have
this experience in common with many a very good girl, that
your lover became faithless and forsook you. And that he
comes again penitent, will amend his fault, revive all old
hopes — that is a happiness which another would not lightly
reject.
Marie. My heart would break !
Sophie. I believe you. The first moment must make a
sensible impression on you — and then, my dear, I beseech
you, regard not this anxiety, this embarrassment, which
seems to overpower all your senses, as a result of hatred
and ill-will. Your heart speaks more for him than you sup-
pose, and even on that account you do not trust yourself to
see him, because you so anxiously desire his return.
Marie. Spare me, dearest !
Sophie. You should be happy. Did I feel that you
despise him, that he is indifferent to you, I would not
say another word, he should see my face no more. Yet,
as it is, my love, you will thank me that I have helped you
to overcome this painful irresolution, which is a token of the
deepest love.
GUILBERT, BlJENCO.
Sophie. Come, Buenco ! Guilbert, come ! Help me to
give this darling courage, resolution, now while we may.
CLAVIGO. 23
Buenco. Would that I dared say — receive him again.
Sophie. Buenco !
Buenco. The thought makes my blood boil — that he
should still possess this angel, whom he has so shamefully
injured, whom he has dragged to the grave. He — possess
her ? Why ? How does he repair all that he has violated ?
He returns ; once more it pleases him to return and say :
"Now I may; now I will," just as if this excellent creature
were suspected wares, which in the end you toss to the
buyer after he has tormented you to the marrow by the
meanest offers, and haggling like a Jew. No, my voice he
will never obtain, not even if the heart of Marie herself
should speak for him. To return ; and why, then, now ? —
now? — Must he wait till a valiant brother come, whose
vengeance he must fear, and, like a schoolboy, come and
crave pardon ? Ha ! he is as cowardly as he is worthless.
Guilbert. You speak like a Spaniard, and as if you did
not know Spaniards. This moment we are in greater danger
than any of you perceive.
Marie. Good Guilbert !
Guilbert. I honor our brother's bold soul. In silence I
have observed his heroic conduct. That all may turn out
well, I wish that Marie could resolve to give Clavigo her
hand ; for — (smiling) — her heart he has still.
Marie. You are cruel.
Sophie. Listen to him, I beseech you, listen to him !
Guilbert. Your brother has wrung from him a declara-
tion which will vindicate you in the eyes of the world and
ruin us.
Buenco. What ?
Marie. O God I
Guilbert. He gave it in the hope of touching your
heart. If you remain unmoved, then he must with might
and main destroy the paper. This he can do ; this he will
do. Your brother will print and publish it immediately
after his return from Aranjuez. I fear, if you persist, he
will not return.
Sophie. My dear Guilbert !
Marie. It is killing me !
Guilbert. Clavigo cannot let the paper be published.
If you reject his offer and he is a man of honor he goes to
meet your brother, and one of them falls ; and whether your
brother perish or triumph he is lost. A stranger in Spain !
The murderer of this beloved courtier ! My sister, it is all
24 CLAVIGO.
very well to think and feel nobly, but to ruin yourself and
yours
Marie. Advise me, Sophie ; help me !
Guilbert. And Buenco, contradict me, if you can.
Buenco. He dares not ; he fears for his life ; otherwise
he would not have written at all ; he would not have offered
Marie his hand.
Guilbert. So much the worse. He will get a hundred
to lend him their arm ; a hundred to take away our brother's
life on the way. Ha ! Buenco, are you then so young ?
Should not a courtier have assassins in his pay ?
Buenco. The king is great and good.
Guilbert. Go, then, traverse the walls which surround
him, the guards, the ceremonial, and all that his courtiers
have put between his people and him ; press through and
save us. Who comes ?
Clavigo appears.
Clavigo. I must ! I must ! (Marie utters a shriek, and
falls into Sophie's arms.)
Sophie. Cruel man, in what a position you place us!
(Guilbert and Buenco draw near to her.)
Clavigo. Yes, it is she ! it is she ! and I am Clavigo !
Listen to me, gentle Marie, if you will not look on me. At
the time that Guilbert received me as a friend into his house,
when I was a poor unknown youth, and when in my heart
I felt for you an overpowering passion, was that any merit
in me ? or was it not rather an inner harmony of characters,
a secret union of soul, so that you neither could remain
unmoved by me, and I could flatter myself with the sole
possession of this heart? And now — am I not even the
same? Are you not even the same? Why should I not
venture to hope ? Why not entreat ? Would you not once
more take to your bosom a friend, a lover, whom you had
long believed lost, if after a perilous, hapless voyage he
returned unexpectedly and laid his preserved life at your
feet? And have I not also tossed upon a raging sea? Are
not our passions, with which we live in perpetual strife,
more terrible and indomitable than those waves which drive
the unfortunate far from his fatherland ? Marie ! Marie !
How can you hate me when I have never ceased to love
you? Amid all infatuation, and in the very lap of all the
enchanting seductions of vanity and pride, I have ever
remembered those happy days of liberty, which I spent at
CLAVIGO. 25
your feet in sweet retirement, as we saw lie before us a
succession of blooming prospects. And now why would
you not realize with me all that we hoped ? Will you now
not enjoy the happiness of life because a gloomy interval
has deferred our hopes? No, my love, believe that the best
friends in the world are not quite pure ; the highest joy is
also interrupted through our passions, through fate. Shall
we complain that it has happened to us as to all others, and
shall we chastise ourselves in casting away this opportunity
of repairing the past, of consoling a ruined family, of reward-
ing the heroic deed of a noble brother, and of establishing
our own happiness forever? My friends! from whom I
deserve nothing; my friends, who must be so, because they
are the friends of virtue, to which I return, unite your en-
treaties with mine, Marie ! {He falls on his knees.) Marie !
Do you no longer recognize my voice? Do you no more
feel the pulse of my heart ? Is it so ? Marie ! Marie !
Marie. O Clavigo!
Clavigo (leaps up and kisses her hand ivith transport).
She forgives me ! She loves me ! (He embraces Guilbert
and Buenco.) She loves me still ! O Marie, my heart told
me so ! I might have thrown myself at your feet silently,
uttered with tears my anguish, my penitence ; without
words you would have understood me, as I without words
receive my forgiveness. No, this intimate union of our
souls is not destroyed ; no, still they understand each other
as in the olden time, in which no sound, no sign was needful
to impart our deepest emotions. Marie ! Marie ! Marie !
Beaumarchais advances.
Beaumarchais. Ha !
Clavigo (rushing towards him). My brother!
Beaumarchais. Do you forgive him ?
Marie. No more, no more ! my senses abandon me.
( They lead her away.)
Beaumarchais. Has she forgiven him ?
Buenco. It seems so.
Beaumarchais. You do not deserve your happiness.
Clavigo. I feel it, believe me.
Sophie (returns). She forgives him. A stream of tears
broke from her eyes. Let him withdraw, said she, sobbing,
till I recover ! I forgive him. — " Ah, my sister ! " she ex-
claimed, and fell upon my neck, " whereby knows he that I
love him so ? "
26 CLAVIGO.
Clavigo {kissing her hand). I am the happiest man
under the sun. My brother !
Beaumarchais {embraces him). With all my heart then.
Although I must tell you : even yet I cannot be your
friend, even yet I cannot love you. So now you are one of
us, and let all be forgotten. The paper you gave me —
here it is. {He takes it from his portfolio, tears it, and
gives it to him.)
Clavigo. I am yours, ever yours.
Sophie. I beseech you to retire, that she may not hear
your voice, that she may rest.
Clavigo {embracing them in turn). Farewell! Farewell!
A thousand kisses to the angel. [Exit.
Beaumarchais. After all, it may be for the best,
although I should have preferred it otherwise {smiling). A
girl is a good-natured creature, I must say — and, my
friends, I should tell you, too, it was truly the thought, the
wish of our ambassador, that Marie should forgive him, and
that a happy marriage might end this vexatious business.
Guilbert. I, too, am taking heart again.
Buenco. He is your brother-in-law, and so, good-bye!
You shall see me in your house no more.
Beaumarchais. Sir !
Guilbert. Buenco !
Buenco. I hate him, and shall hate him till the day of
judgment. And look out with what kind of a man you
have to deal. [Exit.
Guilbert. He is a melancholy bird of ill-omen. But
yet in time he will be persuaded, when he sees that all goes
well.
Beaumarchais. Yet it was hasty to return him the
paper.
Guilbert. No more ! no more ! no visionary cares. [Exit.
ACT IV.
Scene I. Clavigo' s abode. Carlos, alone,
Carlos. It is praiseworthy to place under guardianship
a man, who, by his dissipation or other follies, shows that
his reason is deranged. If the magistrate does that, who
CLAVIGO. 27
otherwise does not much concern himself about us, why
should not we do it for a friend ? Clavigo, you are in a bad
position ; but there is still hope. And, provided that you
retain a little of your former docility, there is time yet to
keep you from a folly which, with your lively and sensitive
character, will cause the misery of your life and lead you to
an untimely grave. He comes.
Clavigo (thoughtful). Good day, Carlos.
Caelos. A very sad, dull . . . Good day ! Is that the
mood in which you come from your bride ?
Clavigo. She is an angel ! They are excellent people !
Caelos. You will not so hasten with the wedding that
we cannot get an embroidered dress for the occasion ?
Clavigo. Jest or earnest, at our wedding no embroidered
dresses will make a parade.
Caelos. I believe it, indeed.
Clavigo. Pleasure in each other's society, friendly har-
mony, shall constitute the splendor of this festival.
Caelos. You will have a quiet little wedding.
Clavigo. As those who feel that their happiness rests
entirely with themselves.
Caelos. In those circumstances it is very proper.
Clavigo. Circumstances! What do you mean by
" those circumstances ? "
Caelos. As the matter now stands and remains.
Clavigo. Listen, Carlos, I cannot bear a tone of reserve
between friends. I know you are not in favor of this mar-
riage ; notwithstanding, if you have aught to say against it,
you may say it ; come, out with it. How then does the
matter stand ? how goes it ?
Caelos. More things, unexpected, astonishing, happen to
one in life, and it were not well if all went smoothly. So-
ciety would have nothing to wonder at, nothing to whisper
in the ear, nothing to pull to pieces.
Clavigo. It will make some stir.
Caelos. Clavigo's wedding ! that is a matter of course.
How many a girl in Madrid waits for thee to make her an
offer, and if you now play them this trick ?
Clavigo. That cannot be helped now.
Caelos. 'Tis strange, I have known few men who
make so great and general an impression on women as
you. In all ranks there are good girls who occupy their
time with plans and projects to become yours. One relies
on her beauty, another on her riches, another on her rank,
28 CLAVIGO.
another on her wit, and another on her connections. What
compliments have been paid to me on your account ! For,
indeed, neither my flat nose, nor crisp hair, nor my known
contempt for women can bring me such good luck.
Clavigo. You mock.
Carlos. As if I have not already had in my hands dec-
larations, offers, written with their own white fond little
fingers, as badly spelt as an original love-letter of a girl can
only be ! How many pretty duennas have come under my
thumb on this account !
Clavigo. And you did not say a word of all this ?
Carlos. I did not wish to trouble you with mere trifles,
and I could not have advised you to take any matter
seriously. O Clavigo, my heart has watched over your fate
as over my own ! I have no other friend but you ; all men
are not to be tolerated and you even begin to be unbear-
able.
CLAVigo. I entreat you, be calm.
Carlos. Burn the house of a man who has taken ten
years to build it, and then send him a confessor to recom-
mend Christian patience ! A man ought to look out for
no one but himself ; people do not deserve
Clavigo. Are your misanthropic visions returning?
Carlos. If I harp anew on that string who is to blame
but you? I said to myself: What would avail him at
present the most advantageous marriage ? him, who for an
ordinary man has doubtless advanced far enough ? But
with his genius, with his gifts, it is not probable, it is not
possible that he can remain stationary. I concerted my
plans. There are so few men at once so enterprising and so
supple, so highly gifted and so diligent. He is well qualified
in all departments. As Recorder, he can rapidly acquire
the most important knowledge ; he will make himself
necessary; and should a change take place, he becomes
minister.
Clavigo. I avow it. Often, too, were these my dreams.
Carlos. Dreams ! As surely as I should succeed in
reaching the top of a tower, if I set off with the firm deter-
mination not to yield till I had carried, my point, so surely
would you have overcome all obstacles ; and afterwards the
rest would have given me no disquietude. You have no
fortune from your family, so much the better ! You would
have become more zealous to acquire, more attentive to
preserve. Besides, he who sits at the receipt of custom with-
CLAVIGO. 29
out enriching himself is a great fool ; and I do not see why
the country does not owe taxes to the minister as well as to
the king. The latter gives his name, and the former the
power. When I had arranged all that, I then sought out a
fit match for you. I saw many a proud family which would
have shut their eyes to your origin, many of the richest,
who would have gladly supported the maintenance of your
rank, to share the dignity of the second king — and now —
Clavigo. You are unjust, you lower my actual condition
too much ; and do you fancy then that I cannot rise higher,
and advance still further.
Carlos. My dear friend, if you lop off the heart of a young
plant, in vain will it afterwards and incessantly put forth
countless shoots ; it will form, perhaps, a large bush, but it
is all over with the kingly attempt of its first growth. And
think not that at the court this marriage is regarded with
indifference. Have you forgotten what sort of men disap-
proved your attachment, your union with Marie ? Have you
forgotten who inspired you with the wise thought of aban-
doning her ? Must I count them all on my fingers ?
Clavigo. This thought has already distressed me ; yes,
few will approve this step.
Carlos. Nobody ; and will not your powerful friends be
indignant that you, without asking their leave, without con-
sulting them, should have hastily sacrificed yourself like a
thoughtless child, who throws away his money in the market
on worm-eaten nuts ?
Clavigo. That is impolite, Carlos, and exaggerated.
Carlos. Not at all. Let one commit an egregious error
through passion, I allow it. To marry a chambermaid be-
cause she is as beautiful as an angel! Well, the man is
blamed, and yet people envy him.
Clavigo. People, always the people !
Carlos. You know I do not inquire very curiously after
the success of others ; but it is ever true that he who does
nothing for others does nothing for himself ; and if men do
not wonder at or envy you you are not happy either.
Clavigo. The world judges by appearances. Oh! he
who possesses Marie's heart is to be envied.
Carlos. Things appear what they are ; but, frankly, I
have always thought that there were hidden qualities that
render your happiness enviable ; for what one sees with
his eyes and can comprehend with his understanding
Clavigo. You wish to make me desperate.
30 CLAVIGO.
Carlos. " How has that happened ? " they will ask in
the town. " How has that happened ? " they will ask at
court. " But, good God ! how has that happened ? She ^
poor, without position. If Clavigo had not had an intrigue
with her one would not have known that she is in the world ;
she is said to be well-bred, agreeable, witty ! " But who takes
to himself a wife for that ? That passes away in the first years
of marriage. " Ah ! " says some one, " she must be beauti-
ful, charmingly, ravishingly beautiful." "That explains the
matter," says another.
Clavigo {troubled, lets a deep sigh escape). Alas !
Carlos. " Beautiful? Oh," says one lady, "very good ! I
have not seen her for six years." " She may well be
altered," says another. " One must, however, see her, he
will soon bring her forth," says a third. People ask, look,
are eager, wait, and are impatient; they recall the ever-
proud Clavigo, who never let himself be seen in public with-
ous leading out in triumph some stately, splendid, haughty
Spaniard lady, whose full bosom, blooming cheeks, im-
passioned eyes — all, all, seemed to ask the world encircling
her: "Am not I worthy of my companion?" and who in
her pride lets flaunt so widely in the breeze the train of her
silken robe, to render her appearance more imposing and
remarkable. And now appears the gentleman — and sur-
prise renders the people dumb — he comes accompanied by
his tripping little Frenchwoman, whose hollow eyes, whose
whole appearance announces consumption, in spite of the
red and white with which she has daubed her death-pale
countenance. Yes, brother ! I become frantic, I run away,
when people stop me now and ask, and question, and say
they cannot understand
Clavigo {seizing his hand). My friend, my brother, I
am in a frightful position. I tell you, I avow, I was horror-
struck when I saw Marie again. How changed she is!
— how pale and exhausted ! Oh ! it is my fault, my
treacheries !
Carlos. Follies ! visions ! She was in consumption when
the romance of your love was still unfolding. I told you a
thousand times, and . . . But you lovers have your eyes,
nay, all your senses closed. Clavigo, it is a shame. All, yes,
all to forget thus ! A sick wife, who will plague all your
posterity, so that all your children and grandchildren will m
a few years be politely extinguished, like the sorry lamp of
a beggar. — A man who could have been the founder of a
CLAVIGO. 31
family, which perhaps in future . . . Ah ! I shall yet turn
crazy, my reason fails me.
Clavigo. Carlos, what shall I say to thee ? When I saw
her again, in the first transport, my heart went out towards
her; and alas! when that was gone, compassion — a deep,
heartfelt pity was breathed into me : but love . . . Lo ! in
the warm fuhness of joy, I seemed to feel on my neck the
cold hand of death, I strove to be cheerful ; to play the
part of a happy man again, in presence of those who sur-
rounded me : it was all gone, all so stiff, so painfully anxious !
Had they not somewhat lost their self-possession they would
have remarked it.
Carlos. Hell ! death and devil ! and you are going to
marry her ! (Clavigo remains absorbed, without giving any
answer.) It is all over with thee ; lost for ever. Farewell,
brother, and let me forget all ; let me, all the rest of my sol-
itary life, furiously curse your fatal blindness. Ah ! to sac-
rifice all, to render oneself despicable in the eyes of the world,
and not even then satisfy thereby a passion, a desire ! To
contract a malady voluntarily, which, while undermining
your inmost strength, will make you hideous in the eyes of
men !
Clavigo. Carlos! Carlos!
Carlos. Would that you had never been elevated, at
least you would never have fallen ! With what eyes will
they look on all thisM " There is the brother," they will say ;
" he must be a lad of spirit ; he has put to the last shift Cla-
vigo, who dared not draw the sworct." " Ah ! " our flaunting
courtiers will say, " 'Twas to be seen all along that he was
not a gentleman." " Ah, ah ! " exclaims another, while draw-
ing his hat over his eyes, " the Frenchman should have come
to me ! " And he claps himself on the paunch — a fellow,
who perhaps were not worthy of being your groom !
Clavigo (expresses the most acute distress, and falls into
the arms of Carlos amid a torrent of tears). Save me !
My friend ! my best friend, save me ! Save me from a dou-
ble perjury ! from an unutterable disgrace, from myself. I
am undone !
Carlos. Poor, hapless fellow ! I hoped that these youth-
ful furies, these stormy tears, this absorbing melancholy would
have been gone ; I hoped to behold you, as a man, agitated
no more, no more plunged in that overwhelming sorrow,
which in other days you so often uttered on my breast with
tears. Be a man, Clavigo, quit yourself like a man !
E— -Goethe Vol 10
32 CLAVIGO.
Clavigo. Let me weep ! {Throws himself into a chair.)
Carlos. Alas for you, that you have entered on a career
which you will not pursue to the end ! With your heart,
with your sentiments, which would make a tranquil citizen
happy, you must unite this unhappy hankering after great-
ness ! And what is greatness, Clavigo ? To raise oneself
above others in rank and consequence ? Believe it not. If
your heart is not greater than that of others ; if you are not
able to place yourself calmly above the circumstances which
would embarrass an ordinary man, then with all your ribbons,
all your stars, even with the crown itself, you are but an
ordinary man. Take heart, compose your mind ! (Clavigo
rises, looks on Carlos, and holds out his hand, which Car-
los eagerly seizes.) Come, come, my friend ! make up your
mind. Look, I will put everything aside, and will say to you :
Here lie two proposals on equal scales ; either you marry
Marie and find your happiness in a quiet citizen-like life, in
tranquil homely joys ; or you bend your steps along the path
of honor to a near goal. — I will put all aside, and say : The
beam of the balance is in equilibrium ; your decision will set-
tle which of the two scales will carry the day ! Good ! But
decide ! There is nothing in the world so pitiable as an un-
decided man, who wavers between two feelings, hoping to
reconcile them, and does not understand that nothing can
unite them except the doubt, the disquietude, which rack him.
Go, and give Marie your hand, act as an honorable man, who,
to keep his word, sacrifices the happiness of his life, who re-
gards it a duty to repair the wrong he has committed ; but
who, on the other hand, has never extended the sphere of his
passions and activity further than to be in a position to repair
the wrong he has committed; and thus enjoy the happiness
of a tranquil retirement, the approval of a peaceful conscience,
and all the blessedness belonging to those who are able to
create their own happiness and provide the joy of their fam-
ilies. Decide, and then shall I say — You are every inch a
man.
Clavigo. Carlos ! Oh, for a spark of your strength — of
your courage !
Carlos. It slumbers in thee, and I will blow till it burst
forth into flames. Behold on the one side the fortune and
the greatness which await you. I shall not set off this
future with the variegated hues of poetry ; represent it to
yourself with such vivacity as it clearly appeared before
your mind till the hot-headed Frenchman made you lose
CLAVIGO. 33
your wits. But there, too, Clavigo, be a man thoroughly,
and take your way straight, without looking to the right or
left. May your soul expand, and this great idea become
deeply rooted there, that extraordinary men are extraordi-
nary, precisely because their duties differ from the duties
of ordinary men ; that he, whose task it is to watch over, to
govern, to preserve a great whole, needs not reproach him-
self with having overlooked trifling circumstances, with
having sacrificed small matters to the good of the whole.
Thus acts the Creator in nature, and the king in the state ;
why should not we do the same, in order to resemble
them ?
Clavigo. Carlos, I am a little man.
Carlos. We are not little when circumstances trouble
us, only when they overpower us. Yet another breath,
and you are yourself again. Cast away the remnant of a
pitiable passion, which in these days as little becomes you
as the little gray jacket and modest mien with which you
arrived at Madrid. What the poor girl has done for
you, you have long ago returned ; and that your first
friendly reception was from her hands. Oh, another would,
for the pleasure of your acquaintance, have done as much
and more, without putting forth such pretensions . . . and
would you take it into your head to give your schoolmas-
ter the half of your fortune because he taught you the alpha-
bet thirty years ago ? What say you, Clavigo !
Clavigo. That is all very well. On the whole you may
be right, it may be so; only how are we. to get out of the
embarrassment in which we stick fast? Advise me there,
help me there, and then lecture.
Carlos. All right ! You are, then, resolved.
Clavigo. Give me the power and I shall exert it. I am
not able to think ; think for me.
Carlos. Thus then. First you will go and meet this
person, and then you will demand, sword in hand, the
vindication which you inconsiderately and involuntarily
gave.
Clavigo. I have it already ; he tore it and returned it
to me.
Carlos. Excellent ! excellent ! That step taken already
— and you have let me speak so long ? — Your course is so
much the shorter ! Write him quite coolly : " You find it
inconvenient to marry his sister ; the reason he can learn
if he will repair to-night to a certain place, attended by
34 CLAVIGO.
a friend, and armed with any weapons he likes." And then
follows the signature. Come, Clavigo, write that ; I shall
be your second — and the devil is in it if (Clavigo
approaches the table.) Listen ! A word ! If I think aright
of it, it is an extravagant proposal. Who are we to risk our
lives with a mad adventurer? Besides, the man's conduct,
his standing, do not deserve that we regard him as an equal,
Listen, then ! Now if I were to bring forward a criminal
charge against him, that he arrived secretly at Madrid, got
himself announced under a pseudonym with an accomplice,
at first gained your confidence with friendly words, and
thereafter fell upon you all of a sudden, forcibly obtained a
declaration, and afterwards went off to spread it abroad —
that will prove his ruin : he shall learn what it means —
to invade the tranquillity of a Spaniard under his own
roof.
Clavigo. You are right.
Carlos. But till the lawsuit has begun, in which inter-
val the gentleman might play all sorts of tricks, if now we
could meanwhile play a dead-sure game, and seize him tight
by the head.
Clavigo. I understand, and know you are the man to
carry it out.
Carlos. Ah ! well ! if I, who have been at it for five-and-
twenty years, and have witnessed tears of anguish trickling
down the cheeks of the foremost men, if I cannot unravel
such child's play ! So then, give me full power ; you need
do nothing, write nothing. He, who orders the imprison-
ment of the brother, pantomimically intimates that he will
have nothing to do with the sister.
Clavigo. No, Carlos ! Let it go as it may, I cannot, I
will not suffer that. Beaumarchais is a worthy man, and he
shall not languish in an ignominious prison on account of his
righteous cause. Another plan, Carlos, another!
Carlos. Bah ! bah ! Stuff and nonsense ! We will not
devour him. He will be well lodged and well cared for, and
thereafter he cannot hold out long : for, observe, when he
perceives that we are in earnest, all his theatrical rage will
cease ; he will come to terms, return smarting to France, and
be only too thankful, if we secure a yearly pension for his
sister — perhaps the only thing he had in view.
Clavigo. So be it then ! Only let him be kindly dealt
with.
Carlos. Leave that to me. — One precaution more I We
CLAVIGO. 35
cannot know but that it may be blabbed out — that the thing
may get wind, and then he gets over you, and all is lost.
Therefore, leave your house, so that not even your servants
know where you have gone. Take with you only absolute
necessaries. I shall despatch you a fellow, who will conduct
you and bring you to a place where the holy Hermandad her-
self will not find you. I have always in readiness a few of
these mouse-holes. Adieu !
Clavigo. Good bye !
Carlos. Cheer up ! cheerily ! When it is all over,
brother, we will enjoy ourselves. \_Exit.
Scene II. Guilbert's abode.
Sophie Guilbert, Marie Beaumarchais at work.
Marie, With such violence did Buenco depart ?
Sophie. It was natural. He loves you, and how could he
endure the sight of the man whom he must doubly hate ?
Marie. He is the best, most upright citizen I have ever
known. {Showing her tvork to her sister.) It seems to me
I must do it thus. I shall take in that and turn the end up.
That will do nicely.
Sophie. Very well. And I am going to put a straw-col-
ored ribbon on my bonnet ; it becomes me best. Do you
smile ?
Marie. I am laughing at myself. We girls are a queer
set of people, I must say : hardly are our spirits but a little
raised when straightway we are busy with finery and rib-
bons.
Sophie. You cannot well apply that to yourself ; from
the moment Clavigo forsook you, nothing could give you the
least pleasure. (Marie starts up and looks toioards the
door.) What is the matter ?
Marie {anxious) . I thought I heard some one come in !
My poor heart ! O, it will destroy me yet ! Feel how it
beats with that groundless terror !
Sophie. You look pale. Be calm, I beseech you, my
love !
Marie (pointing to her chest). I feel here an oppression
— a sudden pain. It will kill me.
Sophie. Be careful.
Marie. I am a foolish, hapless girl. Pain and joy with
all their force have undermined my poor life. I tell you
36 CLAVIGO.
'tis but half a joy that I have him again. Little shall I
enjoy the happiness that awaits me in his arms; perhaps
not at all.
Sophie. My uster, my only love ! You are wearing
yourself out v/xth these visions.
Mari::. Why shall I deceive myself?
Sophie. You are young and happy, and can hope for
all.
Marie. Hope ! O the only sweet balm of life ! How
often it charms my soul ! Happy youthful dreams hover
before me and accompany the beloved form of the peerless
one, who now is mine again. O Sophie, he is so winsome !
Whilst I saw him not, he has — I know not how I shall
express it; — all the qualities which in former days lay hid
in him through his diffidence, have unfolded themselves.
He has become a man, and must with this pure feeling of
his, with which he advances, that is so entirely devoid of
pride and vanity — he must captivate all hearts. — And he
shall be mine ? No, my sister, I was not worthy of him —
and now I am much less so !
Sophie. Take him, however, and be happy. I hear
your brother !
Beaumarchais enters.
Beaumarchais. Where is Guilbert ?
Sophie. He has been gone some time ; he cannot be much
longer.
Marie. What is the matter, brother? {Springing up
and falling on his neck.) Dear brother, what is the matter?
Beaumarchais. Nothing, nothing at all, my Marie !
Marie. If I am thy Marie, do tell me what is on thy
mind !
Sophie. Let him be. Men often look vexed without
having aught particular on their mind !
Marie. No, no. I have seen thy face only a little while ;
but already I read all thy thoughts, all the feelings of thy
pure and sincere soul are stamped on thy brow. There is
somewhat which makes thee anxious. Speak, what is it?
Beaumarchais. It is nothing, my love. I hope that at
bottom it is nothing. Clavigo —
Marie. How ?
Beaumarchais. I was at Clavigo's house. He is not at
home.
Sophie. And does that perplex you ?
CLAVIGO. 37
Beaumarchais. His porter says he has gone he knows
not where ; no one knows how long. If he should be hiding
himself ! If he be really gone ! Whither? for what reason ?
Marie. We will wait.
Beaumarchais. Thy tongue lies. Ah ! the paleness of
thy cheeks, the trembling of thy limbs, all speaks and
testifies that thou canst not wait. Dear sister ! {Clasps her
in his arms.) On this beating, painfully trembling heart
I vow, — hear me, O God, who art righteous! hear me, all
His saints! — thou shalt be avenged if he — my senses
abandon me at the thought — if he fail, if he make himself
guilty of a frightful, double perjury; if he mock at our
misery . . . No, it is, it is not possible, not possible — Thou
shalt be avenged.
Sophie. All too soon, too precipitate. Be careful of
her health, I beseech you, my brother. (Marie sits down.)
What ails thee ? You are fainting.
Marie. No, no. You are so anxious.
Sophie {gives her water). Take this glass.
Marie. No, no! what avails that? Well, for my own
sake, give it me.
Beaumarchais. Where is Guilbert ? Where is Buenco ?
Send for them, I entreat you. (Sophie exit.) How dost
thou feel, Marie?
Marie. Well, quite well! Think'st thou then, bro-
ther
Beaumarchais. What, my love ?
Marie. Ah !
Beaumarchais. Is your breathing painful ?
Marie. The disordered beating of my heart oppresses me.
Beaumarchais. Have you then no remedy? Do you
use no anodyne?
Marie. I know of only one remedy, and for that I have
prayed to God many a time and oft.
Beaumarchais. Thou shalt have it, and I hope from my
hand.
Marie. That will do well.
Sophie enters.
Sophie. A courier has just brought this letter; he comes
from Aranjuez.
Beaumarchais. That is the seal and the hand of our
ambassador.
Sophie. I bade him dismount and take some refreshment;
he would not, because he had yet more dispatches.
38 CLAVIGO.
Marie. Will you, my love, send the servant for the
physician ?
Sophie. Are you ill? Holy God! what ails thee?
Marie. You will make me so anxious that at last I shall
scarcely dare ask for a glass of water . . . Sophie ! Brother !
— What is in the letter ? See, how he trembles ! how all
courage leaves him!
Sophie. Brother, my brother ! (Beaumarchais throws
himself speechless into a chair and lets the letter fall.) My
brother ! {Lifts up the letter and reads it.)
Marie. Let me see it ! I must — (tries to rise). Alas !
I feel it. It is the last. Oh, sister, spare not, for mercy's
sake, the last quick death-stroke ! — He betrays us !
Beaumarchais (springing up). He betrays us ! (Beating
on his brow and breast.) Here ! here ! All is as dumb, as
dead before my soul, as if a thunder-clap had disordered my
senses. Marie ! Marie ! thou art betrayed ! — and I stand
here ! Whither ? — What ? — I see nothing, nothing ! no
way, no safety ! ( Throws himself into a seat.)
Guilbert enters.
Sophie. Guilbert ! Counsel ! Help ! We are lost !
Guilbert. My wife !
Sophie. Read ! read ! The ambassador makes known to
our brother: that Clavigo has made a criminal complaint
against him, under the pretext that he introduced himself
into his house under a false name ; and that, taking him by
surprise in bed and presenting a pistol, he compelled him to
sign a disgraceful vindication; and if he do not quickly
withdraw from the kingdom they will get him thrown into
prison, from which the ambassador himself, perhaps, will not
be able to deliver him.
Beaumarchais (springing up). Indeed, they shall do so!
they shall do so ! shall get me imprisoned ; but from his
corpse, from the place where I shall have glutted my ven-
geance with his blood. Ah ! the stern, frightful thirst after
his blood fills my whole soul. Thanks to Thee, God in
heaven, that Thou vouchsafest to man, amid burning, in-
supportable wrongs, a solace, a refreshment! What a thirst
for vengeance I feel in my breast! how the glorious feeling,
the lust for his blood, raises me out of my utter dejection,
out of my sluggish indecision ; raises me above myself !
Vengeance! How I rejoice in it! how all within me strives
after him, to seize him, to destroy him.
Sophie. Thou art terrible, brother !
CLAVIGO. 39
Beaumarchais. So much the better. — Ah ! No sword,
no weapon ! with these hands will I strangle him, that the
triumph may be mine ! all my own the feeling : I have
destroyed him!
Marie. My heart ! my heart !
Beaumarchais. I have not been able to save thee, so
thou shalt be avenged. I pant after his footsteps, my teeth
lust after his flesh, my gums after his blood. Have I become
a frantic wild beast ! There burns in every vein, there glows
in every nerve, the desire after him, after him ! — I could
hate forever, who should make away with him by poison,
who should rid me of him by assassination. Oh, help me,
Guilbert, to seek him out. Where is Buenco ? Help me to
find him!
Guilbert. Save yourself ! save yourself ! you have lost
your reason.
Marie. Flee, my brother !
Sophie. Take him away ; he will cause his sister's death.
Buenco appears.
Buenco. Up, sir ! away ! I foresaw it. I gave heed to
all. • And now they are in hot pursuit ; you are lost if you
do not leave the town this moment.
Beaumarchais. Never ! where is Clavigo ?
Buenco. I do not know.
Beaumarchais. Thou knowest. I entreat you on my
knees, tell me.
Sophie. For God's sake, Buenco !
Marie. Ah! air! air! {Falls back.) Clavigo! —
Buenco. Help ! she is dying !
Sophie. Forsake us not, God in heaven ; — Hence, my
brother, away !
Beaumarchais {falls down before Marie, who despite every
aid does not recover). To forsake thee ! to forsake thee !
Sophie. Stay, then, and ruin us all, as you have killed
Marie. You are gone, then, O my sister, through the heed-
lessness of your own brother !
Beaumarchais. Stop, sister!
Sophie {mocking). Saviour! — Avenger! — help your-
self!
Beaumarchais. Do I deserve this ?
Sophie. Give her to me again ! And then go to the
prison, to the stake ; go, pour forth thy blood and give me
her again.
Beaumarchais. Sophie !
40
CLAVIGO.
Sophie. Ha! and she is gone ; she is dead — save your-
self for us ! {falling on his neck) my brother, for us ! for our
father ! Haste, haste ! That was her fate ! she has met it !
And there is a God in Heaven ; to Him leave vengeance.
Buenco. Hence ! away ! Come with me ; I will hide
you till we find means to get you out of the kingdom.
Beaumarchais (falls on Marie and kisses her). Sister
dear ! ( They tear him away, he clasps Sophie, she disen-
gages herself They remove Marie, and Buenco and Beau-
marchais retire.)
Guilbert, a Physician.
Sophie {returning from the room to which they had taken
Marie). Too late ! She is gone ! she is dead !
Guilbert. Come in, sir! See for yourself! It is not
possible ! \_JExit.
ACT V.
Scene T. Tlie Street before the house of Guilbert. Night.
( The house is op>en, and before the door stand three men-clad
in black mantles, holding torches. Clavigo enters,
wrapped in a cloak, his sword under his arm; a Ser-
vant goes before him with a torch.)
Clavigo. I told you to avoid this street.
Servant. We must have gone a great way round, sir,
and you are in such haste. It is not far hence where Don
Carlos is lodged.
Clavigo. Torches there !
Servant. A funeral. Come on, sir.
Clavigo. Marie's abode! A funeral! A death-agony
shudders through all my limbs ! Go, ask whom they are
going to bury.
Servant (to the men). Whom are you going to bury?
The Men. Marie de Beaumarchais.
(Clavigo sits down on a stone and covers him-
self with a cloak.)
Servant (comes back). They are going to bury Marie
de Beaumarchais.
Clavigo (springing iqi). Must thou repeat it? Repeat
that word of thunder which strikes all the marrow out of
my bones ?
CLAVIGO. 41
Servant. Peace, sir ! Come on, sir. Consider the dan-
ger by which you are surrounded.
Clavigo. To hell with thee, reptile ! I remain.
Servant. O Carlos ! O that I could find thee ! — Car-
los! — he has lost his reason. [Exit.
Scene II. Clavigo. The Mutes in the distance.
Clavigo. Dead ! Marie dead ! Torches ! her dismal
attendants ! it is a trick of enchantment, a night vision,
that terrifies me ; that holds up to me a mirror, in which I
may see foreboded the end of all my treacheries. But there
is still time. Still ! — I tremble ! — my heart melts with
horror ! No ! no ! thou shalt not die — I come, I come !
Vanish, ye spirits of the night, who with your horrible ter-
rors set yourselves in my way. {He goes up to them.)
Vanish — they remain ! Ha ! they look round after me !
Woe ! woe is me ! They are men like myself. It is true !
true ! Canst thou comprehend it ? She is dead. It seizes
me amid all the horrors of midnight — the feeling — she is
dead. There she lies, the flower at your feet ! and thou —
O have mercy on me, God in heaven — I have not killed
her ! Hide yourselves, ye stars ; look not down ! Ye, who
have so often beheld the villain, with feelings of the most
heartfelt happiness, leave this threshold ; through this very
street float along in golden dreams, with music and song,
and enrapture his maiden listening at the secret casement
and lingering in transport. And now I fill the house with
wailing and sorrow — and this scene of my bliss with the
funeral song — Marie ! Marie ! take me with thee ! take me
with thee ! {Mournful music breathes forth a few sounds
from within.) They are setting out on the w T ay to the
grave. Stop ! stop ! Shut not the coffin. Let me see her
once more. {He runs up to the house.) Ha ! into whose
presence am I rushing ? Whom to face in his terrible sor-
row ? Her friends ! her brother ! whose breast is panting
with raving grief! {The music recommences.) She calls
me ! she calls me ! I come ! What anguish is this which
overwhelms me ? What shuddering withholds me ?
( The music begins for the third time and continues. The
torches move before the door; three others come out to
them, who range themselves in order to enclose the fune-
ral procession, which now comes out of the house. Six
bearers carry the bier, upon which lies the coffin, covered.)
42 CLAVIGO.
Scene III. Guilbert and Buenco (in deep mourning.)
Clavigo (coming forward). Stay!
Guilbert. What voice is that ?
Clavigo. Stay ! ( The bearers stojy.)
Buenco. Who dares to interrupt the solemn funeral ?
Clavigo. Set it down.
Guilbert. Ha !
Buenco. Wretch ! are thy deeds of shame not yet
ended ? Is thy victim not safe from thee in the coffin?
Clavigo. No more ! Make me not frantic. The
wretched are dangerous ; I must see her. (He tears off the
pall and the lid of the coffin. Marie is seen lying within it,
clad in white, her hands clasped before her; Clavigo steps
back and covers his face.)
Buenco. Wilt thou awake her to murder her again ?
Clavigo. Poor mocker ! Marie ! (He falls down before
the coffin.)
Scene IV. Miter Beaumarchais. The preceding.
Beaumarchais. Buenco has left me. They say she is
not "dead. I must see, spite of hell, I must see her. Ha!
torches ! a funeral ! (He runs hastily up to it, gazes on the
coffin, and falls down speechless. They raise him up; he is
as if deprived of sense; Guilbert holds him.)
Clavigo (who is standing on the other side of the coffin).
Marie! Marie!
Beaumarchais (springing up). That is his voice. Who
calls Marie ? At the sound of that voice what burning rage
starts into my veins !
Clavigo. It is I. (Beaumarchais staring wildly around
and grasping his sword. Guilbert holds him.) I fear not
thy blazing eyes, nor the point of thy sword. Oh! look
here, here, on these closed eyes — these clasped hands !
Beaumarchais. Dost thou show me that sight? (He
tears himself loose, runs \ipon Clavigo, who instantly draws;
they fight; Beaumarchais pierces him through the breast.)
Clavigo (falling). I thank thee, brother; thou marriest
us. {He falls upon the coffin.)
Beaumarchais {tearing him away). Hence from this
saint, thou fiend !
Clavigo. Alas! (The bearers raise up his body and
support him.)
CLAVIGO. 43
Beaumarchais. His blood ! Look up, Marie, look upon
thy bridal ornaments, and then close thine eyes forever.
See how I have consecrated thy place of rest with the blood
of thy murderer ! Charming ! Glorious !
Scene V. Enter Sophie. The preceding.
Sophie. My brother ? O my God, what is the matter ?
Beaumarchais. Draw nearer, my love, and see ! I
hoped to have strewn her bridal bed with roses ; see the
roses with which I adorn her on her way to heaven !
Sophie. We are lost I
Clavigo. Save yourself, rash one ! save yourself, ere the
dawn of day. May God, who sent you for an avenger, con-
duct you ! Sophie, forgive me. Brothers, friends, forgive
me.
Beaumarchais. How the sight of his gushing blood ex-
tinguishes all the glowing vengeance within me ! how with
his departing life vanishes all my rage ! ( Going up to him.)
Die, I forgive thee.
Clavigo. Your hand ! and yours, Sophie ! and yours !
(Buenco hesitates.)
Sophie. Give it him, Buenco.
Clavigo. I thank you; you are as good as ever; I
thank you. And thou, O spirit of my beloved, if thou still
hoverest around this place, look down, see these heavenly
favors, bestow thy blessing, and do thou too forgive me.
I come ! I come ! Save yourself, my brother. Tell me,
did she forgive me ? How did she die ?
Sophie. Her last word was thy unhappy name. She
departed without taking leave of us.
Clavigo. I will follow her and bear your farewells to
her.
Scene VI. Carlos, a Servant. The preceding.
Carlos. Clavigo ! murderers !
Clavigo. Hear me, Carlos! Thou seest here the vic-
tim of thy prudence ; and now, I conjure thee, for the sake
of that blood, in which my life irrevocably flows away, save
my brother.
Carlos. O my friend! (to the Servant). You stand-
ing there ? Fly for a surgeon. \jEkdt Servant.
44 CLAVIGO.
Clavigo. It is in vain ; save, save my unhappy brother!
thy hand thereon. They have forgiven me, and so forgive
I thee. Accompany him to the frontiers, and — oh !
Carlos {stamping with his feet). Clavigo 1 Clavigo !
Clavigo {drawing nearer to the coffin, upon which they
lag him down). Marie ! Thy hand ! {He unfolds her
hands and grasps the right hand.)
Sophie {to Beaumarchais). Hence, unhappy one, away !
Clavigo. I have her hand, her cold, dead hand. Thou
art mine. Yet this last bridal kiss ! Alas !
Sophie. He is dying ! Save thyself, brother ! (Beau-
marchais falls on Sophie's neck. She returns the embrace
and makes a sign for him to withdraw,)
EGMONT:
A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS.
TRANSLATED BY ANNA SWANWIOK.
This tragedy was commenced in the year 1775, when Goethe was twenty-six
years of age— but it was not finished until eleven years later. A rough draft of
the whole was made in 1782, hut it was only completed and finally re-written dur-
ing Goethe's residence in Rome, in 1786.
EGMONT. 3
INTRODUCTION TO EGMONT.
In Schiller's critique upon the tragedy of Egmont, Goethe is
censured for departing from the truth of history in the delin-
eation of his hero's character, and also for misrepresenting
the circumstances of his domestic life. The Egmont of his-
tory left behind him a numerous family, anxiety for whose
welfare detained him in Brussels when most of his friends
sought safety in flight. His withdrawal would have entailed
the confiscation of his property, and he shrank from expos-
ing to privation those whose happiness was dearer to him
than life ; — a consideration which he repeatedly urged in
his conferences with the Prince of Orange, when the latter
insisted upon the necessity of escape. We see here, not the
victim of a blind and foolhardy confidence, as portrayed in
Goethe's drama, but the husband and father, regardless of
his personal safety in anxiety for the interests of his family.
I shall not inquire which conception is best suited for the
purposes of art, but merely subjoin a few extracts from
the same critique, in which Schiller does ample justice to
Goethe's admirable delineation of the age and country in
which the drama is cast, and which are peculiarly valuable
from the pen of so competent an authority as the historian
of the Fall of the Netherlands.
"Egmont's tragical death resulted from the relation in
which he stood to the nation and the government ; hence the
action of the drama is intimately connected with the politi-
cal life of the period — an exhibition of which forms its indis-
pensable groundwork. But if we consider what an infinite
number of minute circumstances must concur in order to
exhibit the spirit of an age, and the political condition of a
people, and the art required to combine so many isolated
features into an intelligible and organic whole ; and if we
contemplate, moreover, the peculiar character of the Nether-
lands, consisting not of one nation, but of an aggregate of
EGMONT.
many smaller states, separated from each other by the sharp-
est contrasts, we shall not cease to wonder at the creative
genius, which, triumphing over all these difficulties, conjures
up before us, as with an enchanter's wand, the Netherlands
of the sixteenth century.
" Not only do we behold these men living and working be-
fore us, we dwell among them as their familiar associates ; we
see, on the other hand, the joyous sociability, the hospitality,
the loquacity, the somewhat boastful temper of the people,
their republican spirit, ready to boil up at the slightest inno-
vation, and often subsiding again as rapidly on the most triv-
ial grounds ; and, on the other hand, we are made acquainted
with the burdens under which they groaned, from the new
mitres of the bishops, to the French psalms which they were
forbidden to sing; — nothing is omitted, no feature intro-
duced which does not bear the stamp of nature and of truth.
Such delineation is not the result of premeditated effort, nor
can it be commanded by art ; it can only be achieved by the
poet whose mind is thoroughly imbued with his subject;
from him such traits escape unconsciously, and without de-
sign, as they do from the individuals whose characters they
serve to portray.
" The few scenes in which the citizens of Brussels are intro-
duced appear to us to be the result of profound study,
and it would be difficult to find, in so few words, a more
admirable historical monument of the Netherlands of that
period.
" Equally graphic is that portion of the picture which
portrays the spirit of the government, though it must be con-
fessed that the artist has here somewhat softened down the
harsher features of the original. This is especially true in
reference to the character of the Duchess of Parma. Before
his Duke of Alva we tremble, without ever turning from
him with aversion ; he is a firm, rigid, inaccessible character;
4 a brazen tower without gates, the garrison of which must
be furnished with wings.' The prudent forecast with which
he makes his arrangements for Egmont's arrest excites our
admiration, while it removes him from our sympathy. The
remaining characters of the drama are delineated with a
few masterly strokes. The subtle, taciturn Orange, with
his timid, yet comprehensive and all-combining mind, is
depicted in a single scene. Both Alva and Egmont are
mirrored in the men by whom they are surrounded. This
mode of delineation is admirable. The poet, in order to
EGMONT. 5
concentrate the interest upon Egmont, has isolated his hero,
and omitted all mention of Count Horn, who shared the
same melancholy fate."
The Appendix to Schiller's "History of the Fall of the
Netherlands " contains an interesting account of the trial
and execution of the Counts Egmont and Horn, which is,
however, too long for insertion here.
DRAMATIS PERSONS.
> in the service of Alva,
Margaret of Parma, Daughter of Charles V. f and Regent
of the Netherlands.
Count Egmont, Prince of Gaure,
William of Orange.
The Duke of Alva.
Ferdinand, his Natural Son.
Machiavel, in the service of the Regent,
Richard, EgmonVs Private Secretary.
Silva,
Gomez,
Clara, the beloved of Egmont.
Her Mother.
Brackenburg, a Citizen's Son.
Soest, a Shopkeeper,
Jetter, a Tailor.
A Carpenter,
A Soapboiler,
Buyck, a Hollander, a Soldier under Egmont.
Ruysum, a Frieslander, an invalid Soldier and deaf.
Vansen, a Clerk.
People, Attendants, Guards, etc.
The Scene is laid in Brussels.
, Citizens of Brussels.
EGMONT.
ACT I.
Scene I. Soldiers and Citizens {with cross-bows).
Jetter (steps forward, and bends his cross-bow). Soest,
Buyck, Ruysum.
Soest. Come, shoot away, and have done with it ! You
won't beat me ! Three black rings, you never made such a
shot in all your life. And so I'm master for this year.
Jetter. Master and king to boot ; who envies you ?
You'll have to pay double reckoning ; 'tis only fair you should
pay for your dexterity.
Buyck. Jetter, I'll buy your shot, share the prize, and
treat the company. I have already been here so long, and
am a debtor for so many civilities. If I miss, then it shall be
as if you had shot.
Soest. I ought to have a voice, for in fact I am the loser.
No matter ! Come, Buyck, shoot away.
Buyck (shoots). Now, corporal, look out ! — One ! Two !
Three! Four!
Soest. Four rings ! So be it !
All. Hurrah ! Long live the king ! Hurrah ! Hurrah !
Buyck. Thanks, sirs, master even were too much ! Thanks
for the honor.
Jetter. You have no one to thank but yourself.
Ruysum. Let me tell you !
Soest. How now, gray-beard ?
Ruysum. Let me tell you ! — He shoots like his master,
he shoots like Egmont.
Buyck. Compared with him I am only a bungler. He
aims with the rifle as no one else does. Not only when he's
lucky or in the vein ; no ! he levels, and the bull's-eye is
pierced. I have learned from him. He were, indeed, a block-
head, who could serve under him and learn nothing ! — But,
7
8 EGMONT.
sirs, let us not forget : A king maintains his followers ; and
so, wine here, at the king's charge !
Jetter. We have agreed among ourselves that each —
Buyck. I am a foreigner and a king, and care not a jot
for your laws and customs.
Jetter. Why you are worse than the Spaniard, who has
not yet ventured to meddle with them.
Ruysum. What does he say ?
Soest {loud to Ruysum). He wants to treat us ; he will
not hear of our clubbing together, the king paying only a
double share.
Ruysum. Let him! under protest, however! 'Tis his
master's fashion, too, to be munificent, and to let the money
flow in a good cause. ( Wine is brought.)
All. Here's to his majesty ! Hurrah !
Jetter (to Buyck). That means your majesty, of
course.
Buyck. My hearty thanks, if it be so.
Soest. Assuredly ! A Netherlander does not find it easy
to drink the health of his Spanish majesty from his heart.
Ruysum. Who ?
Soest (aloud). Philip the Second, King of Spain.
Ruysum. Our most gracious king and master ! Long life
to him.
Soest. Did you not like his father, Charles the Fifth,
better?
Ruysum. God bless him ! He was a king, indeed ! His
hand reached over the whole earth, and he was all in all.
Yet, when he met you, he'd greet you just as one neighbor
greets another, — and if you were frightened, he knew so
well how to put you at your ease — ay, you understand me
— he walked out, rode out, just as it came into his head,
with very few followers. We all wept when he resigned the
government here to his son. You understand me — he is
another sort of man, he's more majestic.
Jetter. When he was here, he never appeared in public,
except in pomp and royal state. He speaks little, they say.
Soest. He is no king for us Netherlanders. Our princes
must be joyous and free like ourselves, must live and let
live. We will neither be despised nor oppressed, good-
natured fools though we be.
Jetter. The king, methinks, were a gracious sovereign
enough, if he had only better counsellors.
Soest. No, no! He has no affection for us Nether-
EGMONT. 9
landers ; he has no heart for the people ; he loves us not ;
how then can we love him ? Why is everybody so fond of
Count Egmont ? Why are we all so devoted to him ? Why,
because one can read in his face that he loves us; because
joyousness, open-heartedness, and good-nature speak in his
eyes ; because he possesses nothing that he does not share
with him who needs it, ay, and with him who needs it not.
Long live Count Egmont ! Buyck, it is for you to give the
first toast ; give us your master's health.
Buyck. With all my heart; here's to Count Egmont!
Hurrah !
Ruysum. Conqueror of St. Quintin.
Buyck. The hero of Gravelines.
All. Hurrah !
Ruysum. St. Quintin was my last battle. I was hardly
able to crawl along, and could with difficulty carry my
heavy rifle. I managed, notwithstanding, to singe the skin
of the French once more, and, as a parting gift, received a
grazing shot in my right leg.
Buyck. Gravelines! Ha, my friends, we had sharp
work of it there ! The victory was all our own. Did not
those French dogs carry fire and desolation into the very
heart of Flanders ? We gave it them, however ! The old,
hard-fisted veterans held out bravely for a while, but we
pushed on, fired away, and laid about us till they made wry
faces, and their lines gave way. Then Egmont's horse was
shot under him ; and for a long time we fought pell-mell,
man to man, horse to horse, troop to troop, on the broad,
flat sea-sand. Suddenly, as if from heaven, down came the
cannon-shot from the mouth of the river, bang, bang, right
into the midst of the French. These were English who, under
Admiral Malin, happened to be sailing past from Dunkirk.
They did not help us much, 'tis true ; they could only
approach with their smallest vessels, and that not near
enough; — besides, their shot fell sometimes among our
troops. It did some good, however ! It broke the French
lines, and raised our courage. Away it went. Helter-
skelter ! topsy-turvy ! all struck dead, or forced into the
water ; the fellows were drowned the moment they tasted
the water, while we Hollanders dashed in after them.
Being amphibious, we were as much in our element as frogs,
and hacked away at the enemy, and shot them down as if
they had been ducks. The few who struggled through
were struck dead in their flight by the peasant women,
10 EGMONT.
armed with hoes and pitchforks. His Gallic majesty was
compelled at once to hold out his paw and make peace.
And that peace you owe to us, to the great Egmont.
All. Hurrah for the great Egmont ! Hurrah ! Hurrah 1
Jetter. Had they but appointed him Regent instead of
Margaret of Parma !
Soest. Not so! Truth is truth! I'll not hear Mar-
garet abused. Now it is my turn. Long live our gracious
lady!
All. Long life to her !
Soest. Truly, there are excellent women in that family.
Long live the Regent !
Jetter. Prudent she is, and moderate in all she does ;
if she would only not hold so fast and stiffly with the priests.
It is partly her fault, too, that we have the fourteen new
mitres in the land. Of what use are they, I should like to
know ? Why, that foreigners may be shoved into the good
benefices, where formerly abbots were chosen out of the
chapters ! And we're to believe it's for the sake of religion.
We know better. Three bishops were enough for us;
things went on decently and reputably. Now each must
busy himself as if he were needed ; and this gives rise every
moment to dissensions and ill-will. And the more you
agitate the matter, so much the worse it grows. {They
d/rink.)
Soest. But it was the will of the king ; she cannot alter
it, one way or another.
Jetter. Then we may not even sing the new psalms ;
but ribald songs, as many as we please. And why ? There
is heresy in them, they say, and heaven knows what. I
have sung some of them, however ; they are new, to be sure,
but I see no harm in them.
Buyck. Ask their leave, forsooth ! In our province we
sing just what we please. That's because Count Egmont is
our stadtholder, who does not trouble himself about such
matters. In Ghent, Ypres, and throughout the whole of
Flanders, anybody sings them that chooses. {Aloud to
Ruysum.) There is nothing more harmless than a church
hymn — is there, father ?
Ruysum. What, indeed ! It is a godly work, and truly
edifying.
Jetter. They say, however, that they are not of the
right sort, not of their sort, and, since it is dangerous, we
had better leave them alone. The officers of the Inquisition
EGMONT. 11
are always lurking and spying about ; many an honest fellow
lias already fallen into their clutches. They had not gone so
far as to meddle with conscience ! If they will not allow mo
to do what I like, they might at least let me think and sing
as I please.
Soest. The Inquisition won't do here. We are not made
like the Spaniards, to let our consciences be tyrannized over.
The nobles must look to it, and clip its wings betimes.
Jetter. It is a great bore. Whenever it comes into
their worships' heads to break into my house, and I am
sitting there at my work, humming a French psalm,
thinking nothing about it, neither good nor bad — singing
it just because it is in my throat ; — forthwith I am a heretic,
and am clapped into prison. Or, if I am passing through
the country, and stand near a crowd listening to a new
preacher, one of those who have come from Germany ;
instantly I am called a rebel, and am in danger of losing my
head ! Have you ever heard one of these preachers ?
Soest. A worthy set of people ! Not long ago I heard
one of them preach in afield, before thousands and thousands
of people. He gave us a sort of dish very different from
that of our humdrum preachers, who, from the pulpit, choke
their hearers with scraps of Latin. He spoke from his hearty
told us how we had till now been led by the nose, how we
had been kept in darkness, and how we might procure moire
light ; — ay, and he proved it all out of the Bible.
Jetter. There may be something in it. I always saio
as much, and have often pondered over the matter. It has
long been running in my head.
Buyck. All the people run after them.
Soest. No wonder, since they hear both what is good
and what is new.
Jetter. And what is it all about ? Surely they might
let every one preach after his own fashion.
Buyck. Come, sirs ! While you are talking, you forget
the wine and the Prince of Orange.
Jetter. We must not forget him. He's a very wall of
defence. In thinking of him, one fancies that if one could
only hide behind him, the devil himself could not get at one.
Here's to William of Orange ! Hurrah !
All. Hurrah! Hurrah!
Soest. Now, gray-beard, let's have your toast.
Ruysum. Here's to old soldiers ! To all soldiers ! War
forever !
12 EGMONT.
Buyck, Bravo, old fellow. Here's to all soldiers. War
forever !
Jetter. War ! War ! Do ye know what ye are shouting
about? That it should slip glibly from your tongue is
natural enough ; but what wretched work it is for us, I
have not words to tell you. To be stunned the whole year
round by the beating of the drum ; to hear of nothing
except how one troop marched here, and another there ;
how they came over this height, and halted near that mill ;
how many were left dead on this field, and how many on
that ; how they press forward, and how one wins, and
another loses, without being able to comprehend what they
are fighting about ; how a town is taken, how the citizens
are put to the sword, and how it fares with the poor women
and innocent children. This is a grief and a trouble, and
then one thinks every moment, " Here they come ! It will
be our turn next."
Soest. Therefore every citizen must be practised in the
use of arms.
Jetter. Fine talking, indeed, for him who has a wife
and children. And yet I would rather hear of soldiers than
see them.
Buyck. I might take offence at that.
Jetter. It was not intended for you, countryman.
When we got rid of the Spanish garrison we breathed
freely again.
Soest. Faith ! they pressed on you heavily enough.
Jetter. Mind your own business.
Soest. They came to sharp quarters with you.
Jetter. Hold your tongue.
Soest. They drove him out of kitchen, cellar, chamber —
and bed. ( They laugh.)
Jetter. You are a blockhead.
Buyck. Peace, sirs ! Must the soldier cry peace ?
Since you will not hear anything about us, let us have a
toast of your own — a citizen's toast.
Jetter. We're all ready for that ! Safety and peace !
Soest. Order and freedom !
Buyck. Bravo ! That will content us all.
( They ring their glasses together, and joyously repeat
the words, but in such a manner that each utters a
different sound, and it becomes a kind of chant. The
old man listens, and at length joins in.
All. Safety and peace ! Order and freedom !
EGMONT. 13
Scene II. Palace of the Regent.
Margaret of Parma (in a hunting dress). Courtiers,
Pages, Servants.
Regent. Put off the hunt, I shall not ride to-day. Bid
Machiavel attend me. [Exeunt all but the Regent.
The thought of these terrible events leaves me no repose !
Nothing can amuse, nothing divert my mind. These images,
these cares are always before me. The king will now say
that these are the natural fruits of my kindness, of my clem-
ency ; yet my conscience assures me that I have adopted the
wisest, the most prudent course. Ought I sooner to have
kindled and spread abroad these flames with the breath of
wrath? my hope was to keep them in, to let them smoul-
der in their own ashes. Yes, my inward conviction,
and my knowledge of the circumstances, justify my con-
duct in my own eyes ; but in what light will it appear to
my brother? For can it be denied that the insolence
of these foreign teachers waxes daily more audacious?
They have desecrated our sanctuaries, unsettled the dull
minds of the people, and conjured up amongst them a
spirit of delusion. Impure spirits have mingled among
the insurgents, horrible deeds have been perpetrated, which
to think of makes one shudder, and of these a circumstantial
account must be transmitted to court instantly. Prompt
and minute must be my communication, lest rumor outrun
my messenger, and the king suspect that some particulars
have been purposely withheld. I can see no means, severe
or mild, by which to stem the evil. Oh, what are we great
ones on the waves of humanity ? We think to control them,
and are ourselves driven to and fro, hither and thither.
Enter Machiavel
Regent. Are the despatches to the king prepared ?
Machiavel. In an hour they will be ready for your sig-
nature.
Regent. Have you made the report sufficiently circum-
stantial ?
Machiavel. Full and circumstantial, as the king loves
to have it. I relate how the rage of the iconoclasts first
broke out at St. Omer. How a furious multitude, with
staves, hatchets, hammers, ladders and cords, accompanied
by a few armed men, first assailed the chapels, churches,
14 EGMONT.
and convents, drove out the worshippers, forced the barred
gates, threw everything into confusion, tore down the altars,
destroyed the statues of the saints, defaced the pictures,
and dashed to atoms, and trampled under foot whatever
that was consecrated and holy came in their way. How
the crowd increased as it advanced, and how the inhabi-
tants of Ypres opened their gates at its approach. How,
with incredible rapidity, they demolished the cathedral, and
burned the library of the bishop. How a vast multitude,
possessed by the like frenzy, dispersed themselves through
Menin, Comines, Venders, Lille, nowhere encountered oppo-
sition ; and how, through almost the whole of Flanders, in
a single moment, the monstrous conspiracy declared itself
and was accomplished.
Regent. Alas ! Your recital rends my heart anew ;
and the fear that the evil will wax greater and greater adds
to my grief. Tell me your thoughts, Machiavel !
Machiavel. Pardon me, your Highness, my thoughts
will appear to you but as idle fancies ; and though you
always seem well satisfied with my services, you have sel-
dom felt inclined to follow my advice. How often have
you said in jest : " You see too far, Machiavel ! You should
be an historian ; he who acts must provide for the exigency
of the hour." And yet, have I not predicted this terrible
history? Have I not foreseen it all?
Regent. I, too, foresee many things without being able
to avert them.
Machiavel. In one word, then: — you will not be able
to suppress the new faith. Let it be recognized, separate
its votaries from the true believers, give them churches of
their own, include them within the pale of social order,
subject them to the restraints of law, — do this, and you
will at once tranquillize the insurgents. All other measures
will prove abortive, and you will depopulate the country.
Regent. Have you forgotten with what aversion the
mere suggestion of toleration was rejected by my brother?
Know you not, how in every letter he urgently recommends
to me the maintenance of the true faith ? That he will not
hear of tranquillity and order being restored at the expense
of religion ? Even in the provinces, does he not maintain
spies, unknown to us, in order to ascertain who inclines to
the new doctrines ? Has he not, to our astonishment, named
to us this or that individual residing in our very neighbor-
hood, who, without its being known, was obnoxious to the
EGMONT 15
charge of heresy? Does he not enjoin harshness and
severity? and am I to be lenient? Am I to recommend for
his adoption measures of indulgence and toleration ? Should
I not thus lose all credit with him, and at once forfeit his
confidence ?
Machiavel. I know it. The king commands, and puts
you in full possession of his intentions. You are to restore
tranquillity and peace by measures which cannot fail still
more to embitter men's minds, and which must inevitably
kindle the flames of war from one extremity of the country
to the other. Consider well what you are doing. The
principal merchants are infected — nobles, citizens, soldiers.
What avails persisting in our opinion when everything is
changing around us? Oh, that some good genius would
suggest to Philip that it better becomes a monarch to gov-
ern burghers of two different creeds, than to excite them to
mutual destruction!
Regent. Never let me hear such words again. Full
well I know that the policy of statesmen rarely maintains
truth and fidelity ; that it excludes from the heart candor,
charity, toleration. In secular affairs, this is, alas ! only too
true ; but shall we trifle with God as we do with each other ?
Shall we be indifferent to our established faith, for the sake
of which so many have sacrificed their lives? Shall we
abandon it to these far-fetched, uncertain, and self-contra-
dicting heresies ?
Machiavel. Think not the worse of me for what I have
uttered.
Regent. I know you and your fidelity. I know, too, that
a man may be both honest and sagacious, and yet miss the
best and nearest way to the salvation of his soul. There
are others, Machiavel, men whom I esteem, yet whom I
needs must blame.
Machiavel. To whom do you refer ?
Regent. I must confess that Egmont caused me to-day
deep and heartfelt annoyance
Machiavel. How so?
Regent. By his accustomed demeanor, his usual indif-
ference and levity. I received the fatal tidings as I was
leaving church, attended by him and several others. I did
not restrain my anguish, I broke forth into lamentations,
loud and deep, and turning to him, exclaimed, " See what is
going on in your province ! Do you suffer it, Count, you
in whom the king confided so implicitly ? "
16 EGMONT.
Machiavel. And what was his reply ?
Regent. As if it were a mere trifle, an affair of no mo-
ment, he answered : " Were the Netherlander but satisfied
as to their constitution, the rest would soon follow."
Machiavel. There was, perhaps, more truth than dis-
cretion or piety in his words. How can we hope to acquire
and to maintain the confidence of the Netherlander when
he sees that we are more interested in appropriating his
possessions than in promoting his welfare, temporal or spir-
itual ? Does the number of souls saved by the new bishops
exceed that of the fat benefices they have swallowed ? And
are they not for the most part foreigners? As yet, the
office of stadtholder has been held by Netherlander; but
do not the Spaniards betray their great and irresistible
desire to possess themselves of these places? Will not
people prefer being governed by their own countrymen,
and according to their ancient customs, rather than by for-
eigners, who, from their first entrance into the land, en-
deavor to enrich themselves at the general expense, who
measure everything by a foreign standard, and exercise
their authority without cordiality or sympathy?
Regent. You take part with our opponents ?
Machiavel. Assuredly not in my heart. Would that
with my understanding I could be wholly on our side.
Regent. If such is your opinion, it were better I should
resign the regency to them ; for both Egmont and Orange
entertained great hopes of occupying this position. Then
they were adversaries ; now they are leagued against me,
and have become friends — inseparable friends.
Machiavel. A dangerous pair.
Regent. To speak candidly, I fear Orange. — I fear for
Egmont. — Orange meditates some dangerous scheme, his
thoughts are far-reaching, he is reserved, appears to accede
to everything, never contradicts, and while maintaining the
show of reverence, with clear foresight accomplishes his
own designs.
Machiavel. Egmont, on the contrary, advances with a
bold step, as if the world were all his own.
Regent. He bears his head as proudly as if the hand of
majesty were not suspended over him.
Machiavel. The eyes of all the people are fixed upon
him, and he is the idol of their hearts.
Regent. He has never assumed the least disguise, and
carries himself as if no one had a right to call him to
EGMONT 17
account. He still bears the name of Egmont. Count
Egmont is the title by which he loves to hear himself
addressed, as though he would fain be reminded that his
ancestors were masters of Guelderland. Why does he not
assume his proper title, — Prince of Gaure? What object
has he in view? Would he again revive extinguished
claims ?
Machiavel. I hold him to be a faithful servant of the
king.
Regent. Were he so inclined,' what important service
he could render to the government ! Whereas now, with-
out benefiting himself, he has caused us unspeakable vexa-
tion. His banquets and entertainments have done more to
unite the nobles and to knit them together than the most
dangerous secret associations. With his toasts his guests
have drunk in a permanent intoxication, a giddy frenzy,
that never subsides. How often have his facetious jests
stirred up the minds of the populace ? and what an excite-
ment was produced among the mob by the new liveries and
the extravagant devices of his followers !
Machiavel. I am convinced he had no design.
Regent. Be that as it may, it is bad enough. As I said
before, he injures us without benefiting himself. He treats
as a jest matters of serious import ; and, not to appear neg-
ligent and remiss, we are forced to treat seriously what he
intended as a jest. Thus one urges on the other; and what
we are endeavoring to avert is actually brought to pass.
He is more dangerous than the acknowledged head of a
conspiracy ; and I am much mistaken if it is not all remem-
bered against him at court. I cannot deny that scarcely a
day passes in which he does not wound me — deeply
wound me.
Machiavel. He appears to me to act on all occasions
according to the dictates of his conscience.
Regent. His conscience has a convenient mirror. His
demeanor is often offensive. He carries himself as if he felt
he were the master here, and were withheld by courtesy
alone from making us feel his supremacy ; as if he would
not exactly drive us out of the country ; there'll be no need
for that.
Machiavel. I entreat you, put not too harsh a construc-
tion upon his frank and joyous temper, which treats lightly
matters of serious moment. You but injure yourself and
him.
18 EGMONT.
Regent. I interpret nothing. I speak only of inevitable
consequences, and I know him. His patent of nobility and
the Golden Fleece upon his breast strengthen his confidence,
his audacity. Both can protect him against any sudden out-
break of royal displeasure. Consider the matter closely, and
he is alone responsible for the whole mischief that has broken
out in Flanders. From the first, he connived at the pro-
ceedings of the foreign teachers, avoided stringent measures,
and perhaps rejoiced in secret that they gave us so much to
do. Let me alone ; on this occasion, I will give utterance to
that which weighs upon my heart ; I will not shoot ray arrow
in vain. I know where he is vulnerable. For he is vulnera-
ble.
Machiavel. Have you summoned the council ? Will
Orange attend ?
Regent. I have sent for him to Antwerp. I will lay
upon their shoulders the burden of responsibility ; they shall
either strenuously co-operate with me in quelling the evil, or
at once declare themselves rebels. Let the letters be com-
pleted without delay, and bring them for my signature.
Then hasten to despatch the trusty Vasca to Madrid ; he is
faithful and indefatigable ; let him use all diligence, that he
may not be anticipated by common report, that my brother
may receive the intelligence first through him. I will myself
speak with him ere he departs.
Machiavel. Your orders shall be promptly and punctu-
ally obeyed.
Scene III. Citizen's Souse,
Clara, her Mother, Brackenburg.
Clara. Will you not hold the yarn for me, Bracken-
burg?
Brackenburg. I entreat you, excuse me, Clara.
Clara. What ails you ? Why refuse me this trifling ser-
vice?
Brackenburg. When I hold the yarn, I stand as it
were spell-bound before you, and cannot escape your eyes.
Clara. Nonsense ! Come and hold !
Mother (knitting in her arm-chair). Give us a song!
Brackenburg sings so good a second. You used to be merry
once, and I had always something to laugh at.
Brackenburg. Once !
Clara. Well, let us sing.
EGMONT. 19
Brackenburg. As you please.
Clara. Merrily, then, and sing away. 'Tis a soldier's
song, my favorite. (She winds yarn, and sings with BRACK-
ENBURG.)
The drum is resounding,
And shrill the fife plays;
My love, for the battle,
His brave troop arrays ;
He lifts his lance high,
And the people he sways.
My blood it is boiling!
My heart throbs pit-pat!
Oh, had I a jacket,
With hose and with hat!
How boldly I'd follow,
And march through the gate;
Through all the wide province
I'd follow him straight.
The foe yield, we capture
Or shoot them ! Ah, me !
What heart-thrilling rapture
A soldier to be !
(During the song, Brackenburg has frequently looked at
Clara ; at length his voice falters, his eyes fill with
tears, he lets the skein fall, and goes to the window.
Clara finishes the song alone, her mother motions to
her, half displeased, she rises, advances a feio steps
towards him, turns back as if irresolute, and again sits
down.)
Mother. What is going on in the street, Brackenburg ?
I hear soldiers marching.
Brackenburg. It is the Regent's body-guard.
Clara. At this hour? What can it mean? (She rises
and joins Brackenburg at the window.) That is not the
daily guard ; it is more numerous ! almost all the troops !
Oh, Brackenburg, go ! Learn what it means. It must be
something unusual. Go, good Brackenburg, do me this
favor.
Brackenburg. I am going ! I will return immediately.
(He offers his hand to Clara, and she gives him hers.)
[Exit Brackenburg.
Mother. Thou sendest him away so soon !
Clara. I am curious ; and, besides — do not be angry,
mother — his presence pains me. I never know how I
ought to behave towards him. I have done him a wrong,
F— Goethe Vol 10
20 EGMONT.
and it goes to my very heart to see how deeply he feels it.
Well, it can't be helped now !
Mother. He is such a true-hearted fellow !
Clara. I cannot help it, I must treat him kindly. Often,
without a thought, I return the gentle, loving pressure of
his hand. I reproach myself that I am deceiving him, that
I am nourishing in his heart a vain hope. I am in a
sad plight! God knows I do not willingly deceive him. I
do not wish him to hope, yet I cannot let him despair !
Mother. That is not as it should be.
Clara. I liked him once, and in my soul I like him still.
I could have married him ; yet I believe I was never really
in love with him.
Mother. Thou wouldst always have been happy with
him.
Clara. I should have been provided for, and have led a
quiet life.
Mother. And through thy fault it has all been trifled
away.
Clara. I am in a strange position. When I think how
it has come to pass, I know it, indeed, and I know it not.
But I have only to look upon Egmont, and I understand
it all; ay, and stranger things would seem natural then.
Oh, what a man he is ! All the provinces worship him.
And in his arms should not I be the happiest creature in the
world ?
Mother. And how will it be in the future ?
Clara. I only ask does he love me? — does he love me?
— as if there were any doubt about it.
Mother. One has nothing but anxiety of heart with
one's children. Always care and sorrow, whatever may be
the end of it ! It cannot come to good ! Thou hast made
thyself wretched ! Thou hast made thy mother wretched,
too.
Clara {quietly). Yet thou didst allow it in the begin-
ning.
Mother. Alas ! I was too indulgent ; I am always too
indulgent.
Clara. When Egmont rode by, and I ran to the window,
did you chide me then? Did you not come to the window
yourself? When he looked up, smiled, nodded, and greeted
me, was it displeasing to you ? Did you not feel yourself
honored in your daughter ?
Mother. Go on with your reproaches.
EGMONT. 21
Clara {with emotion). Then, when he passed more fre-
quently, and we felt sure that it was on my account that he
came this way, did you not remark it yourself with secret
joy? Did you call me away when I stood behind the
window-pane and awaited him ?
Mother. Could I imagine that it would go so far?
Clara (with faltering voice, and repressed tears). And
then, one evening, when, enveloped in his mantle, he sur-
prised us as we sat at our lamp, who busied herself in
receiving him, while I remained, lost in astonishment, as if
fastened to my chair ?
Mother/ Could I imagine that the prudent Clara would
so soon be carried away by this unhappy love ? I must now
endure that, my daughter
Clara {bursting into tears). Mother! How can you?
You take pleasure in tormenting me !
Mother {weeping). Ay, weep away ! Make me yet
more wretched by thy grief. Is it not misery enough that
my only daughter is a castaway !
Clara {rising, and speaking coldly). A castaway! The
beloved of Egmont a castaway ! — What princess would not
envy the poor Clara a place in his heart ? Oh, mother, —
my own mother, you were not wont to speak thus ! Dear
mother, be kind ! — Let the people think, let the neighbors
whisper, what they like — this chamber, this lowly house, is
a paradise since Egmont's love has had its abode in it.
Mother. One cannot help liking him, that is true. He
is always so kind, frank, and open-hearted.
Clara. There is not a drop of false blood in his veins.
And then, mother, he is indeed the great Egmont ; yet, when
he comes to me, how tender he is, how kind ! How he tries
to conceal from me his rank, his bravery ! How anxious he
is about me ! so entirely the man, the friend, the lover.
Mother. Do you expect him to-day?
Clara. Have you not seen how often I go the window?
Have you not noticed how I listen to every noise at the
door ? — Though I know that he will not come before night,
yet, from the time when I rise in the morning, I keep
expecting him every moment. Were I but a boy, to follow
him always, to the court and everywhere! Could I but
carry his colors in the field !
Mother. You were always such a lively, restless creature;
even as a little child, now wild, now thoughtful. Will you
not dress yourself a little better?
22 EGMONT.
Clara. Perhaps, mother, if I have nothing better to do.
— Yesterday, some of his people went by singing songs in
his honor. At least his name was in the songs ! The rest I
could not understand. My heart leaped up into my throat,
— I would fain have called them back if I had not felt
ashamed.
Mother. Take care ! Thy impetuous nature will ruin
all. Thou wilt betray thyself before the people ; as, not
long ago, at thy cousin's, when thou foundest out the wood-
cut with the description, and didst exclaim, with a cry:
" Count Egmont ! " — I grew as red as fire.
Clara. Could I help crying out? It was the battle of
Gravelines, and I found in the picture the letter C. and then
looked for it in the description below. There it stood,
" Count Egmont, with his horse shot under him." I shuddered,
and afterwards I could not help laughing at the woodcut
figure of Egmont, as tall as the neighboring tower of Grave-
lines, and the English ships at the side. — When I remember
how I used to conceive of a battle, and what an idea I had,
as a girl, of Count Egmont ; when I listened to descriptions
of him, and of all the other earls and princes ; — and think
how it is with me now !
Enter Brackenburg.
Clara. Well, what is going on ?
Brackenburg. Nothing certain is known. It is rumored
that an insurrection has lately broken out in Flanders ; the
Regent is afraid of its spreading here. The castle is strongly
garrisoned, the burghers are crowding to the gates, and the
streets are thronged with people. I will hasten at once to
my old father. (As if about to go.)
Clara. Shall we see you to-morrow ? I must change my
dress a little. I am expecting my cousin, and I look too
untidy. Come, mother, help me a moment. Take the book,
Brackenburg, and bring me such another story.
Mother. Farewell.
Brackenburg (extending his hand). Your hand !
Clara (refusing hers). When you come next.
[Exeunt Mother and Daughter.]
Brackenburg (alone). I had resolved to go away again
at once ; and yet, when she takes me at my word, and lets
me leave her, I feel as if I could go mad. — Wretched man !
Does the fate of thy fatherland, does the growing disturb-
ance fail to move thee ?-«- Are countryman and Spaniard the
EGMONT. 23
same to thee ? and carest thou not who rules, and who is
in the right ? — I was a different sort of fellow as a school-
boy ! — Then, when an exercise in oratory was given ;
" Brutus' Speech for Liberty," for instance, Fritz was ever
Ihe first, and the rector would say : " If it were only spoken
more deliberately, the words not all huddled together." —
Then my blood boiled, and longed for action. — Now I drag
along, bound by the eyes of a maiden. I cannot leave her !
yet she, alas, cannot love me ! — ah — no — she — she cannot
have entirely rejected me — not entirely — yet half love is
no love ! — I will endure it no longer ! — Can it be true
what a friend lately whispered in my ear, that she secretly
admits a man into the house by night, when she always sends
me away modestly before evening ? No, it cannot be true !
It is a lie ! A base, slanderous lie ! Clara is as innocent as
I am wretched. — She has rejected me, has thrust me from
her heart — and shall I live on thus? I cannot, I will not
endure it. Already my native land is convulsed by internal
strife, and do I perish abjectly amid the tumult? I will not
endure it ! When the trumpet sounds, when a shot falls, it
thrills through my bone and marrow ! But, alas, it does
not rouse me ! It does not summon me to join the onslaught,
to rescue, to dare. — Wretched, degrading position ! Better
end it at once ! Not long ago I threw myself into the water ;
I sank — but nature in her agony was too strong for me ;
I felt that I could swim, and saved myself against my will.
Could I but forget the time when she loved me, seemed to
love me ! — Why has this happiness penetrated my very bone
and marrow ? Why have these hopes, while disclosing to
me a distant paradise, consumed all the enjoyment of life ?
— And that first, that only kiss! — Here (laying his hand
upon the table), here we were alone, — she had always been
kind and friendly towards me, — then she seemed to soften,
— she looked at me, — my brain reeled, — I felt her lips
on mine, — and — and now ? — Die, wretch ! Why dost
thou hesitate ? (lie draws a phial from his pocket.) Thou
healing poison, it shall not have been in vain that I stole
thee from my brother's medicine chest ? From this anxious
fear, this dizziness, this death-agony, thou shalt deliver me
at once.
24 EGMONT.
ACT II.
Scene I. Square in Brussels.
Jetter and a Master Carpenter (meeting).
Carpenter. Did I not tell you beforehand ? Eight days
ago at the guild I said there would be serious disturbances?
Jetter. Is it really true that they have plundered the
churches in Flanders ?
Carpenter. They have utterly destroyed both churches
and chapels. They have left nothing standing but the four
bare walls. The lowest rabble! And this it is that
damages our good cause. We ought rather to have laid
our claims before the Regent, formally and decidedly, and
then have stood by them. If we speak now, if we assemble
now, it will be said that we are joining the insurgents.
Jetter. Ay, so every one thinks at first. Why should
you thrust your nose into the mess ? The neck is closely
connected with it.
Carpenter. I am always uneasy when tumults arise
among the mob — among people who have nothing to lose.
They use as a pretext that to which we also must apj)eal,
and plunge the country in misery.
Enter Soest.
Soest. Good-day, sirs? What news? Is it true that
the image-breakers are coming straight in this direction ?
Carpenter. Here they shall touch nothing at any rate.
Soest. A soldier came into my shop just now to buy
tobacco ! I questioned him about the matter. The Regent,
though so brave and prudent a lady, has for once lost her
presence of mind. Things must be bad, indeed, when she
thus takes refuge behind her guards. The castle is strongly
garrisoned. It is even rumored that she means to flee from
the town.
Carpenter. Forth she shall not go ! Her presence
protects us, and we will insure her safety better than her
mustachioed gentry. If she only maintains our rights and
privileges, we will stand faithfully by her.
Enter a Soapboiler.
Soapboiler. An ugly business this ! a bad business !
Troubles are beginning ; all things are going wrong ! Mind
you keep quiet, or they'll take you also for rioters.
EGMONT. 25
Soest. Here come the seven wise men of Greece.
Soapboiler. I know there are many who in secret hold
with the Calvinists, abuse the bishops, and care not for the
king. But a loyal subject, a sincere Catholic! (By
degrees others join the speakers and listen.)
Enter Vansen.
"Van-sen. God save you, sirs ! What news ?
Carpenter. Have nothing to do with him, he's a danger-
ous fellow.
Jetter. Is he not secretary to Dr. Wiets ?
Carpenter. He has had several masters. First he was
a clerk, and as one patron after another turned him off, on
account of his roguish tricks, he now dabbles in the business
of notary and advocate, and is a brandy-drinker to boot.
(More people gather round and stand in groups.)
Vansen. So here you are putting your heads together.
Well, it is worth talking about.
Soest. I think so, too.
Vansen. Now, if only one of you had heart and another
head enough for the work, we might break the Spanish
fetters at once.
Soest. Sirs ! you must not talk thus. We have taken
our oath to the king.
Vansen. And the king to us. Mark that !
Jetter. There's sense in that ? Tell us your opinion.
Others. Hearken to him ; he's a clever fellow. He's
sharp enough.
Vansen. I had an old master once, who possessed a col-
lection of parchments, among which were charters of ancient
constitutions, contracts, and privileges. He set great store
too, by the rarest books. One of these contained our whole
constitution; how, at first we Netherlanders had princes of
our own, who governed according to hereditary laws, rights,
and usages; how our ancestors paid due honor to their sov-
ereign so long as he governed them equitably; and how
they were immediately on their guard the moment he was
for overstepping his bounds. The states were down upon
him at once ; for every province, however small, had its own
chamber and representatives.
Carpenter. Hold your tongue ! we knew that long ago !
Every honest citizen learns as much about the constitution
as he needs.
Jetter. Let him speak ; one may always learn something.
26 EGMONT.
Soest. He is quite right.
Several Citizens. Go on ! Go on ! One does not
hear this every day.
Vansen. You, citizens, forsooth ! You live only in the
present ; and as you tamely follow the trade inherited from
your fathers, so you let the government do with you just as
it pleases. You make no inquiry into the origin, the his-
tory, or the rights of a Regent ; and, in consequence of this
negligence, the Spaniard has drawn the net over your ears.
Soest. Who cares for that, if one only has daily bread ?
Jetter. The devil ! Why did not some one come for-
ward and tell us this in time ?
Vansen. I tell it you now. The King of Spain, whose
good fortune it is to bear sway over these provinces, has no
right to govern them otherwise than the petty princes who
formerly possessed them separately. Do you understand
that?
Jetter. Explain it to us.
Vansen. Why it is as clear as the sun. Must you not be
governed according to your provincial laws ? How comes
that?
A Citizen. Certainly !
Vansen. Has not the burgher of Brussels a different
law from the burgher of Antwerp? The burgher of Ant-
werp from the burgher of Ghent ? How comes that ?
Another Citizen. By heaven !
Vansen. But if you let matters run on thus they will
soon tell you a different story. Fie on you ! Philip,
through a woman, now ventures to do what neither Charles
the Bold, Frederick the Warrior, nor Charles the Fifth
could accomplish.
Soest. Yes, yes ! The old princes tried it also.
Vansen. Ay! but our ancestors kept a sharp lookout.
If they thought themselves aggrieved by their sovereign,
they would perhaps get his son and heir into their hands,
detain him as a hostage, and surrender him only on the most
favorable conditions. Our fathers were men ! They knew
their own interests ! They knew how to lay hold on what
they wanted, and to get it established ! They were men of
the right sort; and hence it is that our privileges are so
clearly defined, our liberties so well secured.
Soest. What are you saying about our liberties ?
All. Our liberties! our privileges! Tell us about our
privileges.
EGMONT. 27
Vansen. All the provinces have their peculiar advan-
tages, but we of Brabant are the most splendidly provided
for. I have read it all.
Soest. Say on.
Jetter. Let us hear.
A Citizen. Pray do.
Vansen. First, it stands written : — The Duke of Bra-
bant shall be to us a good and faithful sovereign.
Soest. Good ! Stands it so ?
Jetter. Faithful ? Is that true ?
Vansen. As I tell you. He is bound to us as we are to
him. Secondly : in the exercise of his authority he shall
neither exert arbitrary power nor exhibit caprice himself,
nor shall he, either directly or indirectly, sanction them in
others.
Jetter. Bravo ! Bravo ! Not exert arbitrary power.
Soest. Nor exhibit caprice.
Another. And not sanction them in others ! That is
the main point. Not sanction them, either directly or
indirectly.
Vansen. In express words.
Jetter. Get us the book.
A Citizen. Yes, we must see it.
Others. The book ! The book !
Another. We will to the Regent with the book.
Another. Sir doctor, you shall be spokesman.
Soapboiler. Oh, the dolts !
Others. Something more out of the book !
Soapboiler. I'll knock his teeth down his throat if he
says another word.
People. We'll see who dares to lay hands upon him.
Tell us about our privileges ! Have we any more privileges ?
Vansen. Many, very good and very wholesome ones,
too. Thus it stands : The sovereign shall neither benefit
the clergy, nor increase their number, without the consent
of the nobles and of the states. Mark that ! Nor shall he
alter the constitution of the country.
Soest. Stands it so?
Vansen. I'll show it you, as it was written down two or
three centuries ago.
A Citizen. And we tolerate the new bishop? The
nobles must protect us, we will make a row else !
Others. And we suffer ourselves to be intimidated by
the Inquisition?
28 EGMONT.
Vansen. It is your own fault.
People. We have Egmont ! We have Orange ! They
will protect our interests.
Vansen. Your brothers in Flanders are beginning the
good work.
Soapboiler. Dog ! {Strikes him.)
Others oppose the Soapboiler, and exclaim. Are you also
a Spaniard?
Another. What ! This honorable man ?
Another. This learned man ?
( They attack the Soapboiler.)
Carpenter. For heaven's sake, peace !
{Others mingle in the fray.)
Carpenter. Citizens, what means this ?
{Boys whistle, throw stones, set on dogs ; citizens stand
and gape, people come running up, others walk quietly
to and fro, others play all sorts of pranks, shout and
huzza.)
Others. Freedom and privilege ! Privilege and freedom !
Enter Egmont, with followers
Egmont. Peace! Peace! good people. What is the
matter? Peace, I say! Separate them.
Carpenter. My good lord, you come like an angel from
heaven. Hush! See you nothing? Count Egmont! Honor
to Count Egmont !
Egmont. Here, too ! What are you about ? Burgher
against burgher! Does not even the neighborhood of our
royal mistress oppose a barrier to this frenzy? Disperse
yourselves, and go about your business. 'Tis a bad sign
when you thus keep holiday on working days. How did the
disturbance begin ?
( The tumult gradually subsides, and the people gather
around Egmont.)
Carpenter. They are fighting about their privileges.
Egmont. Which they will forfeit through their own
folly — and who are you ? You seem honest people.
Carpenter. 'Tis our wish to be so.
Egmont. Your calling?
Carpenter. A carpenter, and master of the guild.
Egmont. And you ?
Soest. A shopkeeper.
Egmont. And you ?
Jetter. A tailor.
EGMONT. 29
Egmont. I remember, you were employed upon the liv-
eries of my people. Your name is Jetter.
Jetter. To think of your grace remembering it!
Egmont. I do not easily forget any one whom I have
seen or conversed with. Do what you can, good people, to
keep the peace ; you stand in bad enough repute already.
Provoke not the king still farther. The power, after all, is
in his hands. An honest burgher, who maintains himself
industriously, has everywhere as much freedom as he needs.
Carpenter. To be sure ; that is just our misfortune !
With all due deference, your grace, 'tis the idle portion of
the community, your drunkards and vagabonds, who quarrel
for want of something to do, and clamor about privilege
because they are hungry ; they impose upon the curious and
the credulous, and, in order to obtain a pot of beer, excite
disturbances that will bring misery upon thousands. That
is just what they want. We keep our houses and chests
too well guarded ; they would fain drive us away from them
with firebrands.
Egmont. You shall have all needful assistance ; meas-
ures have been taken to stem the evil by force. Make a
firm stand against the new doctrines, and do not imagine
that privileges are secured by sedition. Remain at home;
suffer no crowds to assemble in the streets. Sensible people
can accomplish much. (In the meantime the crowd has for
the most part dispersed.)
Carpenter. Thanks, your excellency — thanks for your
good opinion ! We will do what in us lies. (Exit Egmont.)
A gracious lord! A true Netherlander! Nothing of the
Spaniard about him.
Jetter. If we had only him for a regent. 'Tis a pleas-
ure to follow him.
Soest. The king won't hear of that. He takes care to
appoint his own people to the place.
Jetter. Did you notice his dress ? It was of the new-
est fashion — after the Spanish cut.
Carpenter. A handsome gentleman.
Jetter. His head now were a dainty morsel for a heads-
man.
Soest. Are you mad? What are you thinking about?
Jetter. It is stupid enough that such an idea should
come into one's head ! But so It is. Whenever I see a fine,
long neck, I cannot help thinking how well it would suit the
block. These cursed executions ! One cannot get them out
30 EGMOttT.
of one's head. When the lads are swimming, and I chance
to see a naked back, I think forthwith of the dozens I have
seen beaten with rods. If I meet a portly gentleman, I
fancy I already see him being roasted at the stake. At
night, in my dreams, I am tortured in every limb ; one can-
not have a single hour's enjoyment ; all merriment and fun
have long been forgotten. These terrible images seem
burnt in upon my brain.
Scene II. Egmont's residence.
His Secretary (at a desk with papers. He rises impa-
tiently).
Secretary. He is not yet here ! And I have been
waiting already full two hours, pen in hand, the paper be-
fore me ; and just to-day I am anxious to be off early. The
floor burns under my feet. I can with difficulty restrain
my impatience. " Be punctual to the hour." Such was his
parting injunction ; now he comes not. There is so much
business to get through, I shall not have finished before
midnight. He overlooks one's faults, it is true ; methinks
it would be better, though, were he more strict, so he dis-
missed one at the appointed time. One could then arrange
one's plans. It is now full two hours since he came away
from the Regent ; who knows whom he may have chanced
to meet by the way ?
Miter Egmont.
Egmont. Well, how do matters look ?
Secretary. I am ready, and three couriers are waiting.
Egmont. I have detained you too long ; you look some-
what out of humor.
Secretary. In obedience to your command I have been
in attendance for some time. Here are the papers.
Egmont. Donna Elvira will be angry with me when she
learns that I have detained you.
Secretary. You are pleased to jest.
Egmont. No, no. Be not ashamed. I admire your
taste. She is pretty, and I have no objection that you
should have a friend at the castle. What say the letters ?
Secretary. Much, my lord, but withal little that is sat-
isfactory.
Egmont. 'Tis well that we have pleasures at home ; we
have the less occasion to seek them from abroad. Is there
much that requires attention ? %
EGMONT. 31
Secretary. Enough, my lord; three couriers are in
attendance.
Egmont. Proceed ! The most important.
Secretary. All are important.
Egmont. One after the other ; only be prompt.
Secretary. Captain Breda sends an account of the occur-
rences that have further taken place in Ghent and the sur-
rounding districts. The tumult is for the most part allayed.
Egmont. He doubtless reports individual acts of folly
and temerity ?
Secretary. He does, my lord.
Egmont. Spare me the recital.
Secretary. Six of the mob who tore down the image
of the Virgin at Verviers have been arrested. He inquires
whether they are to be hanged like the others.
Egmont. I am weary of hanging ; let them be flogged
and discharged.
Secretary. There are two women ; are they to be
flogged also?
Egmont. He may admonish them and let them go.
Secretary. Brink, of Breda's company, wants to marry;
the captain hopes you will not allow it. There are so many
women among the troops, he writes, that when on the
march they resemble a gang of gypsies rather than regular
soldiers.
Egmont. We must overlook it in his case. He is a fine
young fellow, and moreover entreated me so earnestly before
I came away. This must be the last time, however ; though
it grieves me to refuse the poor fellows their best pastime ;
they have enough without that to torment them.
Secretary. Two of your people, Seter and Hart, have
ill-treated a damsel, the daughter of an inn-keeper. They
got her alone, and she could not escape from them.
Egmont. If she be an honest maiden, and they used vio-
lence, let them be flogged three days in succession ; and if
they have any property, let him retain as much as will por-
tion the girl.
Secretary. One of the foreign preachers has been dis-
covered passing secretly through Comines. He swore that
he was on the point of leaving for France. According to
orders, he ought to be beheaded.
Egmont. Let him be conducted quietly to the frontier,
and there admonished that the next time he will not escape
so easily.
32 EGMONT.
Secretary. A letter from your steward. He writes
that money comes in slowly; he can with difficulty send
you the required sum within the week ; the late disturbances
have thrown everything into the greatest confusion.
Egmont. Money must be had ! It is for him to look to
the means.
Secretary. He says he will do his utmost, and at length
proposes to sue and imprison Raymond, who has been so
long in your debt.
Egmont. But he has promised to pay !
Secretary. The last time he fixed a fortnight himself.
Egmont. Well, grant him another fortnight ; after that
he may proceed against him.
Secretary. You do well. His non-payment of the
money proceeds not from inability, but from want of incli-
nation. He will trifle no longer when he sees that you are
in earnest. The steward further proposes to withhold, for
half a month, the pensions which you allow to the old sol-
diers, widows, and others. In the meantime some expe-
dient may be devised ; they must make their arrangements
accordingly.
Egmont. But what arrangements can be made here?
These poor people want the money more than I. He must
not think of it.
Secretary. How then, my lord, is he to raise the
required sum ?
Egmont. It is his business to think of that. He was told
so in a former letter.
Secretary. And therefore he makes these proposals.
Egmont. They will never do ; — he must think of some-
thing else. Let him suggest expedients that are admissible,
and, above all, let him procure the money.
Secretary. I have again before me the letter from Count
Oliva. Pardon my recalling it to your remembrance. Above
all others, the aged count deserves a detailed reply. You
proposed writing to him with your own hand. Doubtless,
he loves you as a father.
Egmont. I cannot command the time ; — and of all detest-
able things, writing is to me the most detestable. You imi-
tate my hand so admirably, do you write in my name. I am
expecting Orange. I cannot do it ; — I wish, however, that
something soothing should be written to allay his fears.
Secretary. Just give me a notion of what you wish to
communicate; I will at once draw up the answer, and lay it
EGMONT. 33
before you. It shall be so written that it might pass for your
hand in a court of justice.
Egmont. Give me the letter. {After glancing over it.)
Good, honest, old man ! Wert thou so cautious in thy own
youth? Didst thou never mount a breach? Didst thou re-
main in the rear of battle at the suggestion of prudence ? —
What affectionate solicitude ! He has, indeed, my safety
and happiness at heart, but considers not that he who lives
but to save his life is already dead. — Charge him not to
be anxious on my account ; I act as circumstances require,
and shall be upon my guard. Let him use his influence at
court in my favor, and be assured of my warmest thanks.
Secretary. Is that all ? He expects still more.
Egmont. What can I say ? If you choose to write more
fully, do so. The matter turns upon a single point; he
would have me live as I cannot live. That I am joyous, live
fast, take matters easily, is my good fortune ; nor would I
exchange it for the safety of a sepulchre. My blood rebels
against the Spanish mode of life, nor have I the least incli-
nation to regulate my movements by the new and cautious
measures of the court. Do I live only to think of life ? Am
I to forego the enjoyment of the present moment in order to
secure the next ? And must that in its turn be consumed in
anxieties and idle fears?
Secretary. I entreat you, my lord, be not so harsh
towards the venerable man. You are wont to be friendly
towards every one. Say a kindly word to allay the anxiety
of your noble friend. See how considerate he is, with what
delicacy he warns you.
Egmont. Yet he harps continually on the same string.
He knows of old how I detest these admonitions. They
serve only to perplex and are of no avail. What if I were a
somnambulist, and trod the giddy summit of a lofty house,
— were it the part of friendship to call me by my name, to
warn me of my danger, to waken, to kill me ? Let each
choose his own path, and provide for his own safety.
Secretary. It may become you to be without a fear,
but those who know and love you
Egmont {looking over the letter). Then he recalls the old
story of our sayings and doings one evening in the wanton-
ness of conviviality and wine ; and what conclusions and in-
ferences were thence drawn and circulated throughout the
whole kingdom ! Well, we had a cap and bells embroidered
on the sleeves of our servants' liveries, and afterwards
34 EGMOtfH
exchanged this senseless device for a bundle of arrows ; — a
still more dangerous symbol for those who are bent upon dis-
covering a meaning where nothing is meant. These and sim-
ilar follies were conceived and brought forth in a moment of
merriment. It was at our suggestion that a noble troop,
with beggars' wallets and a self-chosen nick-name, with
mock humility recalled the king's duty to his remembrance.
It was at our suggestion, too — well, what does it signify?
Is a carnival jest to be construed into high treason? Are
we to be grudged the scanty, variegated rags, wherewith a
youthful spirit and heated imagination would adorn the poor
nakedness of life ? Take life too seriously, and what is it
worth ? If the morning wake us to no new joys, if in the
evening we have no pleasures to hope for, is it worth the
trouble of dressing and undressing ? Does the sun shine on
me to-day that I may reflect on what happened yesterday ?
That I may endeavor to foresee and control what can neither
be foreseen nor controlled, — the destiny of the morrow ?
Spare me these reflections, we will leave them to scholars
and courtiers. Let them ponder and contrive, creep hither
and thither, and surreptitiously achieve their ends. — If you
can make use of these suggestions, without swelling your
letter into a volume, it is well. Everything appears of exag-
gerated importance to the good old man. 'Tis thus the
friend, who has long held our hand, grasps it more warmly
ere he quits his hold.
Secretary. Pardon me, the pedestrian grows dizzy
when he beholds the charioteer drive past with whirling
speed.
Egmont. Child! Child! Forbear! As if goaded by
invisible spirits, the sun-steeds of time bear onward the
light car of our destiny ; and nothing remains for us, but,
with calm self-possession, firmly to grasp the reins, and now
right, now left, to steer the wheels here from the precipice
and there from the rock. Whither he is hasting, who
knows ? He hardly remembers whence he came ?
Secretary. My lord ! my lord !
Egmont. I stand high, but I can and must rise yet
higher. Courage, strength, and hope possess my soul.
Not yet have I attained the height of my ambition ; that
once achieved, I want to stand firmly and without fear.
Should I fall, should a thunder-clap, a storm-blast, ay, a
false step of my own, precipitate me into the abyss, so
be it! I shall lie there with thousands of others. I have
EGMONT. 35
never disdained, even for a trifling stake, to throw the
bloody die with my gallant comrades ; and shall I hesitate
now, when all that is most precious in life is set upon the
cast?
Secretary. Oh, my lord ! you know not what you say !
May Heaven protect you !
Egmont. Collect your papers. Orange is coming. Des-
patch what is most urgent, that the couriers may set forth
before the gates are closed. The rest may wait. Leave the
Count's letter till to-morrow. Fail not to visit Elvira, and
greet her from me. Inform yourself concerning the Re-
gent's health. She cannot be well, though she would fain
conceal it. \_Exit Secretary.
Enter Orange.
Egmont. Welcome, Orange ; you appear somewhat dis-
turbed.
Orange. What say you to our conference with the
Regent ?
Egmont. I found nothing extraordinary in her manner
of receiving us. I have often seen her thus before. She
appeared to me to be somewhat indisposed.
Orange. Marked you not that she was more reserved
than usual ? She began by cautiously approving our con-
duct during the late insurrection ; glanced at the false light
in which, nevertheless, it might be viewed ; and finally
turned the discourse to her favorite topic — that her gracious
demeanor, her friendship for us Netherlander, had never
been sufficiently recognized, never appreciated as it de-
served ; that nothing came to a prosperous issue ; that for
her part she was beginning to grow weary of it ; that the
king must at last resolve upon other measures. Did you
hear that?
Egmont. Not all ; I was thinking at the time of some-
thing else. She is a woman, good Orange, and all women
expect that every one shall submit passively to their gentle
yoke; that every Hercules shall lay aside his lion's skin,
assume the distaff, and swell their train ; and, because they
are themselves peaceably inclined, imagine, forsooth, that the
ferment which seizes a nation, the storm which powerful
rivals excite against one another, may be allayed by one
soothing word, and the most discordant elements be brought
to unite in tranquil harmony at their feet. 'Tis thus with
her; and since she cannot accomplish her object, why she
36 EGMONT.
has no resource left but to lose her temper, to menace us
with direful prospects for the future, and to threaten to take
her departure.
Orange. Think you not that this time she will fulfil her
threat ?
Egmont. Never ! How often have I seen her actually
prepared for the journey? Whither should she go? Being
here a stadtholder, a queen, think you that she could endure
to spend her days in insignificance at her brother's court, or
to repair to Italy, and there drag on her existence among
her old family connections ?
Orange. She is held incapable of this determination,
because you have already seen her hesitate and draw back ;
nevertheless, it is in her to take this step ; new circumstances
may impel her to the long-delayed resolve. What if she
were to depart, and the king to send another ?
Egmont. Why, he would come, and he also would have
business enough upon his hands. He would arrive with
vast projects and schemes to reduce all things to order, to
subjugate, and combine ; and to-day he would be occupied
with this trifle, to-morrow with that, and the day following
have to deal with some unexpected hinderance. He would
spend one month in forming plans, another in mortification
at their failure, and half a year would be consumed in cares
for a single province. With him also time would pass, his
head grow dizzy, and things hold on their ordinary course,
till, instead of sailing into the open sea, according to the
plan which he had previously marked out, he might thank
God if, amid the tempest, he were able to keep his vessel off
the rocks.
Orange. What if the king were advised to try an
experiment ?
Egmont. Which should be ?
Orange. To try how the body would get on without the
head.
Egmont. What ?
Orange. Egmont, our interests have for years weighed
upon my heart ; I ever stand as over a chess-board, and
regard no move of my adversary as insignificant ; and as
men of science carefully investigate the secrets of nature,
so I hold it to be the duty, ay, the very vocation of a prince,
to acquaint himself with the dispositions and intentions of
all parties. I have reason to fear an outbreak. The king
has long acted according to certain principles ; he finds that
EGMONT. 37
they do not lead to a prosperous issue ; what more probable
than that he should seek it some other way ?
Egmont. I do not believe it ! When a man grows old,
has attempted much, and finds that the world cannot be
made to move according to his will, he must needs grow
weary of it at last.
Orange. One thing he has not yet attempted.
Egmont. What ?
Orange. To spare the people, and to put an end to the
princes.
Egmont. How many have long been haunted by this
dread ? There is no cause for such anxiety.
Orange. Once I felt anxious ; gradually I became sus-
picious ; suspicion has at length grown into certainty.
Egmont. Has the king more faithful servants than our-
selves ?
Orange. We serve him after our own fashion ; and,
between ourselves, it must be confessed that we understand
pretty well how to make the interests of the king square
with our own.
Egmont. And who does not? He has our duty and
submission in so far as they are his due.
Orange. But what if he should arrogate still more, and
regard as disloyalty what we esteem the maintenance of our
just rights?
Egmont. We shall know in that case how to defend
ourselves. Let him assemble the Knights of the Golden
Fleece ; we will submit ourselves to their decision.
Orange. What if the sentence were to precede the trial?
punishment the sentence ?
Egmont. It were an injustice of which Philip is inca-
pable ; a folly which I cannot impute either to him or to his
counsellors.
Orange. And what if they were both unjust and
foolish ?
Egmont. No, Orange, it is impossible. Who would
venture to lay hands on us? The attempt to capture us
were a vain and fruitless enterprise. No, they dare not
raise the standard of tyranny so high. The breeze that
should waft these tidings over the land would kindle a
mighty conflagration. And what object would they have
in view? The king alone has no power either to judge
or to condemn us; and would they attempt our lives by
assassination? They cannot intend it. A terrible league
38 EGMONT.
would unite the entire people. Direful hate and eternal
separation from the crown of Spain would, on the instant,
\>e forcibly declared.
Orange. The flames would then rage over our grave,
and the blood of our enemies flow, a vain oblation. Let us
consider, Egmont.
Egmont. But how could they effect this purpose ?
Orange. Alva is on the way.
Egmont. I do not believe it.
Orange. I know it.
Egmont. The Regent appeared to know nothing of it.
Orange. And, therefore, the stronger is my conviction.
The Regent will give place to him. I know his bloodthirsty
disposition, and he brings an army with him.
Egmont. To harass the provinces anew? The people
will be exasperated to the last degree.
Orange. Their leaders will be secured.
Egmont. No! No!
Orange. Let us retire, each to his province. There we
can strengthen ourselves ; the duke will not begin with open
violence.
Egmont. Must we not greet him when he comes ?
Orange. We will delay.
Egmont. What if, on his arrival, he should summon us
in the king's name ?
Orange. We will answer evasively.
Egmont. And if he is urgent?
Orange. We will excuse ourselves.
Egmont. If he insist ?
Orange. We shall be the less disposed to come.
Egmont. Then war is declared ; and we are rebels. Do
not suffer prudence to mislead you, Orange. I know it is
not fear that makes you yield. Consider this step.
Orange. I have considered it.
Egmont. Consider for what you are answerable if you
are wrong. For the most fatal war that ever yet desolated
a country. Your refusal is the signal that at once summons
the provinces to arms, that justifies every cruelty for which
Spain has hitherto so anxiously sought a pretext. With a
single nod you will excite to the direst confusion what, with
patient effort, we have so long kept in abeyance. Think of
the towns, the nobles, the people ; think of commerce, agri-
culture, trade ! Realize the murder, the desolation I Calmly
the soldier beholds his comrade fall beside him in the battle-
EGMONT. 39
field But towards you, carried down by the stream, will
float the corpses of citizens, of children, of maidens, till,
aghast with horror, you shall no longer know whose cause
you are defending, since you will see those for whose liberty
you drew the sword perish around you. And what will be
your emotions when conscience whispers, " It was for my
own safety that I drew it ? "
Orange. We are not ordinary men, Egmont. If it
becomes us to sacrifice ourselves for thousands, it becomes
us no less to spare ourselves for thousands.
Egmont. He who spares himself becomes an object of
suspicion even to himself.
Orange. He who is sure of his own motives can with
confidence advance or retreat.
Egmont. Your own act will render certain the evil that
you dread.
Orange. Wisdom and courage alike prompt us to meet
an inevitable evil.
Egmont. When the danger is imminent the faintest
hope should be taken into account.
Orange. We have not the smallest footing left ; we are
on the very brink of the precipice.
Egmont. Is the king's favor on ground so narrow ?
Orange. Not narrow, perhaps, but slippery.
Egmont. By heavens! he is belied. I cannot endure
that he should be so meanly thought of! He is Charles'
son, and incapable of meanness.
Orange. Kings of course do nothing mean.
Egmont. He should be better known.
Orange. Our knowledge counsels us not to wait the
result of a dangerous experiment.
Egmont. No experiment is dangerous the result of which
we have the courage to meet.
Orange. You are irritated, Egmont.
Egmont. I must see with my own eyes.
Orange. Oh, that for once you saw with mine ! My
friend, because your eyes are open you imagine that you
see. I go ! Await Alva's arrival, and God be with you !
My refusal to do so may perhaps save you. The dragon
may deem the prey not worth seizing if he cannot swallow
us both. Perhaps he may delay in order more surely to
execute his purpose ; in the meantime you may see matters
in their true light. But, then, be prompt ! Lose not a
moment ! Save, — oh, save yourself ! Farewell ! — Let
40
EGMONT.
nothing escape your vigilance : — how many troops he
brings with him; how he garrisons the town; what force
the Regent retains ; how your friends are prepared. Send
me tidings — Egmont
Egmont. What would you ?
Orange {grasping his hand). Be persuaded ! Go with
me !
What ? Tears, Orange ?
Egmont.
Orange.
Egmont.
Orange.
is left you.
Egmont.
To weep for a lost friend is not unmanly.
You deem me lost?
You are lost ! Consider ! Only a brief respite
Farewell. {Exit.
Strange that the thoughts of other men should
exert such an influence over us. These fears would never
have entered my mind ; and this man infects me with his
solicitude. Away ! 'Tis a foreign drop in my blood ! Kind
nature cast it forth ! And to erase the furrowed lines from
my brow there yet remains, indeed, a friendly means.
act in.
Scene I. Palace of the Regent.
Margaret of Parma.
Regent. I might have expected it. Ha ! when we live
immersed in anxiety and toil we imagine that we achieve
the utmost that is possible ; while he, who, from a distance,
looks on and commands, believes that he requires only the
possible. Oh, ye kings ! I had not thought it could have
galled me thus. It is so sweet to reign ! — and to abdicate?
I know not how my father could do so ; but I will also.
Machiavel appears in the background.
Regent. Approach, Machiavel. I am pondering over
my brother's letter.
Machiavel. May I know what it contains ?
Regent. As much tender consideration for me as anxiety
for his states. He extols the firmness, the industry, the
fidelity, with which I have hitherto watched over the inter-
ests of his majesty in these provinces. He condoles with
me that the unbridled people occasion me so much trouble.
EGMONT. 41
He is so thoroughly convinced of the depth of my views, so
extraordinarily satisfied with the prudence of my conduct,
that I must almost say the letter is too politely written for
a king — certainly for a brother.
Machtavel. It is not the first time that he has testified
to you his just satisfaction.
Regent. But the first time that it is a mere rhetorical
figure.
Machiavel. I do not understand you.
Regent. You soon will. For after this preamble he is
of opinion that without soldiers, without a small army, in-
deed, I shall always cut a sorry figure here ! We did
wrong, he says, to withdraw our troops from the provinces
at the remonstrance of the inhabitants ; a garrison, he
thinks, which shall press upon the neck of the burgher, will
prevent him, by its weight, from making any lofty spring.
Machiavel. It would irritate the public mind to the
last degree.
Regent. The king thinks, however, do you hear ? — he
thinks that a clever general, one who never listens to reason,
will be able to deal promptly with all parties ; — people and
nobles, citizens and peasants ; he therefore sends, with a
powerful army, the Duke of Alva.
Machiavel. Alva ?
Regent. You are surprised.
Machiavel. You say he sends, he asks, doubtless, whether
he should send.
Regent. The king asks not, he sends.
Machiavel. You will then have an experienced warrior
in your service.
Regent. In my service ? Speak your mind, Machiavel.
Machivel. I would not anticipate you.
Regent. And I would I could dissimulate. It wounds
me — wounds me to the quick. I had rather my brother
would speak his mind than attach his signature to formal
epistles drawn up by a secretary of state.
Machiavel. Can they not comprehend ?
Regent. I know them both within and without. They
would fain make a clean sweep ; and since they cannot set
about it themselves, they give their confidence to any one
who comes with a besom in his hand. Oh, it seems to me
as if I saw the king and his council worked upon this tap-
estry.
Machiavel. So distinctly J
42 EGMONT.
Regent. No feature is wanting. There are good men
among them. The honest Roderigo, so experienced and so
moderate, who does not aim too high, yet lets nothing sink
too low ; the upright Alonzo, the diligent Freneda, the stead-
fast Las Vargas, and others who join them when the good
party are in power. But there sits the hollow-eyed Tole-
dan, with brazen front and deep fire-glance, muttering
between his teeth about womanish softness, ill-timed con-
cession, and that women can ride trained steeds well
enough, but are themselves bad masters of the horse, and
the like pleasantries, which in former times I have been
compelled to hear from political gentlemen.
Machiavel. You have chosen good colors for your
picture.
Regent. Confess, Machiavel, among the tints from
which I might select, there is no hue so livid, so jaundice-
like as Alva's complexion, and the color he is wont to paint
with. He regards every one as a blasphemer or traitor ; for
under this head they can all be racked, impaled, quartered,
and burnt at pleasure. The good I have accomplished here
appears as nothing seen from a distance, just because it is
good. Then he dwells on every outbreak that is past, re-
calls every disturbance that is quieted, and brings before the
king such a picture of mutiny, sedition, and audacity, that
we appear to him to be actually devouring one another,
when with us the transient explosion of a rude people has
been long forgotten. Thus he conceives a cordial hatred
for the poor people ; he views them with horror, as beasts
and monsters ; looks around for fire and sword, and imag-
ines that by such means human beings are subdued.
Machiavel. You appear to me too vehement ; you take
the matter too seriously. Do you not remain Regent ?
Regent. I am aware of that. He will bring his instruc-
tions. I am old enough in state affairs to understand how
people can be supplanted without being actually deprived
of office. First, he will produce a commission couched in
terms somewhat obscure and equivocal ; he will stretch his
authority, for the power is in his hands ; if I complain, he
will hint at secret instructions ; if I desire to see them, he
will answer evasively ; if I insist, he will produce a paper of
totally different import ; and if this fail to satisfy me, he will
go on precisely as if I had never interfered. Meanwhile he
will have accomplished what I dread, and will have frus-
trated my most cherished schemes.
EGMONT. 43
Machiavel. I wish I could contradict you.
Regent. His harshness and cruelty will again arouse the
turbulent spirit, which, with unspeakable patience, I have
succeeeded in quelling; I shall see my work destroyed
before my eyes, and have besides to bear the blame of his
wrong-doing^
Machiavel. Await it, your highness.
Regent. I have sufficient self-command to remain quiet.
Let him come ; I will make way for him with the best grace
ere he pushes me aside.
Machiavel. So important a step thus suddenly ?
Regent. "Tis harder than you imagine. He who is
accustomed to rule, to hold daily in his hand the destiny of
thousands, descends from the throne as into the grave.
Better thus, however, than linger a spectre among the
living, and with hollow aspect endeavor to maintain a place
which another has inherited, and already possesses and en-
Scene II. Clara's dwelling
Clara and her Mother.
Mother. Such a love as Brackenburg's I have never
seen; I thought it was to be found only in romance books.
Clara {walking up and doion the room, humming a song).
With love's thrilling rapture
What joy can compare !
Mother. He suspects thy intercourse with Egmont ; and
yet, if thou wouldst but treat him somewhat kindly, I do
believe he would marry thee still, if thou wouldst have him.
Clara (sings).
Blissful
And tearful,*
With thought-teeming brain;
Hoping
And fearing
In wavering pain ;
Kow shouting in triumph,
Now sunk in despair; —
With love's thrilling rapture
What joy can compare !
Mother. Have done with such oaby nonsense !
Clara. Nay, do not abuse it ; 'tis a song of marvellous
virtue. Many a time have I lulled a grown child to sleep
with it.
44 EGMONT.
Mothee. Ay ! Thou canst think of nothing but thy love.
If only it did not put everything else out of thy head. Thou
shouldst have more regard for Brackenburg, I tell thee. He
may make thee happy yet some day.
Claea. He ?
Mothee. Oh, yes ! A time will come ! You children
live only in the present, and give no ear to our experience.
Youth and happy love, all has an end ; and there comes a
time when one thanks God if one has any corner to creep
into. ^
Claea {shudder 's, and after a pause starts up). Mother,
let that time come — like death. To think of it beforehand
is horrible ! And if it come ! If we must — then — we will
bear ourselves as we may. Live without thee, Egmont!
( Weeping.) No ! It is impossible.
Enter Egmont {enveloped in a horseman's cloak, his hat
drawn over his face).
Egmont. Clara !
Claea {utters a cry and starts bach). Egmont ! {She
hastens towards him.) Egmont ! {She embraces and leans
upon him.) O thou good, kind, sweet Egmont ! Art thou
come ? Art thou here, indeed !
Egmont. Good evening, mother?
Mothee. God save you, noble sir ! My daughter has
well-nigh pined to death because you have stayed away so
long ; she talks and sings about you the livelong day.
Egmont. You will give me some supper ?
Mothee. You do us too much honor. If we only had
anything
Claea. Certainly ! Be quiet, mother ; I have provided
everything; there is something prepared. Do not betray
me, mother.
Mothee. There's little enough.
Claea. Never mind ! And then I think when he is with
me I am never hungry ; so he cannot, I should think, have
any great appetite when I am with him.
Egmont. Do you think so ? (Claea stamps with her foot
and turns pettishly away.) What ails you ?
Claea. How cold you are to-day ! You have not yet
offered me a kiss. Why do you keep your arms enveloped
in your mantle, like a new-born babe ? It becomes neither
a soldier nor a lover to keep his arms muffled up.
Egmont. Sometimes, dearest, sometimes. When the sol-
EGMONT. 45
dier stands in ambush and would delude the foe, he collects
his thoughts, gathers his mantle around him, and matures
his plan ; and a lover
Mother. Will you not take a seat and make yourself
comfortable ? I must to the kitchen, Clara thinks of noth-
ing when you are here. You must put up with what we
have.
Egmont. Your good-will is the best seasoning.
{Exit Mother.
Clara. And what then is my love ?
Egmont. Just what thou wilt.
Clara. Liken it to anything, if you have the heart.
Egmont. But first. {He flings aside his mantle, and
appears arrayed in a magnificent dress.)
Clara. Oh, heavens!
Egmont. Now my arms are free ! {Embraces her.)
Clara. Don't! You will spoil your dress. (She steps
back.) How magnificent ! I dare not touch you.
Egmont. Art thou satisfied ! I promised to come once
arrayed in Spanish fashion.
Clara. I had ceased to remind you of it ; I thought
you did not like it — ah, and the Golden Fleece !
Egmont. Thou seest it now.
Clara. And did the emperor really hang it round thy
neck!
Egmont. He did, my child ! And this chain and Order
invest the wearer with the noblest privileges. On earth I
acknowledge no judge over my actions, except the grand
master of the Order, with the assembled chapter of knights.
Clara. Oh, thou mightest let the whole world sit in
judgment over thee. The velvet is too splendid ! and the
braiding ! and the embroidery ! One knows not where to
begin.
Egmont. There, look thy fill.
Clara. And the Golden Fleece ! You told me its
history, and said it is the symbol of everything great and
precious, of everything that can be merited and won by
diligence and toil. It is very precious — I may liken it to
thy love ; — even so I wear it next my heart ; — and then —
Egmont. What wilt thou say?
Clara. And then again it is not like.
Egmont. How so ?
Clara. I have not won it by diligence and toil, I have
not deserved it.
46 EGMONT.
Egmont. It is otherwise in love. Thou dost deserve it
because thou hast not sought it — and, for the most part,
those only obtain who seek it not.
Clara. Is it from thine own experience that thou hast
learned this ? Didst thou make that proud remark in ref-
erence to thyself ? Thou, whom all the people love ?
Egmont. Would that I had done something for them !
That I could do anything for them ! It is their own good
pleasure to love.
Clara. Thou hast doubtless been with the Regent to-
day?
Egmont. I have.
Clara. Art thou upon good terms with her?
Egmont. So it would appear. We are kind and service-
able to each other.
Clara. And in thy heart ?
Egmont. I like her. True, we have each our own
views ; but that is nothing to the purpose. She is an ex-
cellent woman, knows with whom she has to deal, and
would be penetrating enough were she not quite so sus-
picious. I give her plenty of employment, because she is
always suspecting some secret motive in my conduct when,
in fact, I have none.
Clara. Really none ?
Egmont. Well, with one little exception, perhaps. All
wine deposits lees in the cask in the course of time. Orange
furnishes her still better entertainment, and is a perpetual
riddle. He has got the credit of harboring some secret
design ; and she studies his brow to discover his thoughts,
and his steps, to learn in what direction they are bent.
Clara. Does she dissemble ?
Egmont. She is Regent — and do you ask ?
Clara. Pardon me ; 1 meant to say, is she false ?
Egmont. Neither more nor less than every one who has
his own objects to attain.
Clara. I should never feel at home in the world. But
she has a masculine spirit, and is another sort of woman
than we housewives and seamstresses. She is great, stead-
fast, resolute.
Egmont. Yes, when matters are not too much involved.
For once, however, she is a little disconcerted.
Clara. How is that ?
Egmont. She has a moustache, too, on her upper lip,
and occasionally an attack of the gout. A regular Amazon,
EGMONT. 47
Clara. A majestic woman ! I should dread to appear
before her.
Egmont. Yet thou art not wont to be timid ! It would
not be fear, only maidenly bashfulness.
(Clara casts down her eyes, takes his hand, and
leans upon him.)
Egmont. I understand thee, dearest ! Thou mayest raise
thine eyes. (He kisses her eyes.)
Clara. Let me be silent ! Let me embrace thee ! Let
me look into thine eyes, and find there everything — hope
and comfort, joy and sorrow ! (She embraces and gazes on
him.) Tell me ! Oh, tell me ! It seems so strange — art
thou, indeed, Egmont ! Count Egmont ! The great Eg-
mont, who makes so much noise in the world, who figures
in the newspapers, who is the support and stay of the
provinces ?
Egmont. No, Clara, I am not he.
Clara. How ?
Egmont. Seest thou, Clara! Let me sit down! (He
seats himself, she kneels on a footstool before him, rests her
arms on his knees, and looks up in his face.) That Egmont
is a morose, cold, unbending Egmont, obliged to be upon
his guard, to assume now this appearance and now that;
harassed, misapprehended and perplexed, when the crowd
esteem him light-hearted and gay ; beloved by a people
who do not know their own mind ; honored and extolled by
the intractable multitude ; surrounded by friends in whom
he dares not confide ; observed by men who are on the
watch to supplant him ; toiling and striving, often without
an object, generally without a reward. O let me conceal
how it fares with him, let me not speak of his feelings!
But this Egmont, Clara, is calm, unreserved, happy, beloved
and known by the best of hearts, which is also thoroughly
known to him, and which he presses to his own with
unbounded confidence and love. (JSe embraces her.) This
is thy Egmont.
Clara. So let me die! The world has no joy after
this!
48 EGMONT.
ACT IV.
Scene I. A /Street.
Jetter, Carpenter.
Jetter. Hist ! neighbor, — a word !
Carpenter. Go your way and be quiet.
Jetter. Only one word. Is there nothing new ?
Carpenter. Nothing, except that we are anew for*
bidden to speak.
Jetter. How ?
Carpenter. Step here, close to this house. Take heed !
Immediately on his arrival, the Duke of Alva published a
decree, by which two or three, found conversing together
in the streets, are, without trial, declared guilty of high
treason.
Jetter. Alas !
Carpenter. To speak of state affairs is prohibited on
pain of perpetual imprisonment.
Jetter. Alas for our liberty !
Carpenter. And no one, on pain of death, shall censure
the measures of government.
Jetter. Alas for our heads !
Carpenter. And fathers, mothers, children, kindred,
friends, and servants are invited, by the promise of large
rewards, to disclose what passes in the privacy of our homes,
before an expressly appointed tribunal.
Jetter. Let us go home.
Carpenter. And the obedient are promised that they
shall suffer no injury either in person or estate.
Jetter. How gracious ! — I felt ill at ease the moment
the duke entered the town. Since then it has seemed to
me as though the heavens were covered with black crape,
which hangs so low that one must stoop down to avoid
knocking one's head against it.
Carpenter. And how do you like his soldiers ? They
are a different sort of crabs from those we have been used to.
Jetter. Faugh ! It gives one the cramp at one's heart
to see such a troop march down the street. As straight as
tapers, with fixed look, only one step, however many there
may be ; and when they stand sentinel, and you pass one of
them, it seems as though he would look you through and
through ; and he looks so stiff and morose that you fancy
EGMONT. 49
you see a task-master at every corner. They offend my
sio-ht. Our militia were merry fellows ; they took liberties,
stood their legs astride, their hats over their ears, they lived
and let live ! these fellows are like machines with a devil
inside them.
Carpenter. Were such an one to cry " Halt ! " and to
level his musket, think you one would stand ?
Jetter. I should fall dead upon the spot.
Carpenter. Let us go home !
Jetter. ISTo good can come of it. Farewell.
Enter Soest.
Soest. Friends ! Neighbors !
Carpenter. Hush ! Let us go.
Soest. Have you heard ?
Jetter. Only too much !
Soest. The Regent is gone.
Jetter. Then Heaven help us.
Carpenter. She was some stay to us.
Soest. Her departure was sudden and secret. She
could not agree with the duke ; she has sent word to the
nobles that she intends to return. No one believes it,
however.
Carpenter. God pardon the nobles for letting this new
yoke be laid upon our necks. They might have prevented
it. Our privileges are gone.
Jetter. For Heaven's sake not a word about privileges.
I already scent an execution ; the sun will not come forth ;
the fogs are rank.
Soest. Orange, too, is gone.
Carpenter. Then are we quite deserted
Soest. Count Egmont is still here.
Jetter. God be thanked ! Strengthen him, all ye saints,
to do his utmost ; he is the only one who can help us.
Enter Vansen.
Vansen. Have I at length found a few, brave citizens
who have not crept out of sight ?
Jetter. Do us the favor to pass on.
Vansen. You are not civil.
Jetter. This is no time for compliments. Does your
back itch again ? are your wounds already healed ?
Vansen. Ask a soldier about his wounds ! Had I cared
for blows, nothing good would have come of me.
50 EGMONT
.
Jetter. Matters may grow more serious.
Vansen. You feel from the gathering storm a pitiful
weakness in your limbs it seems.
Carpenter. Your limbs will soon be in motion else-
where if you do not keep quiet.
Vansen. Poor mice ! The master of the house procures
a new cat, and ye are straight in despair ! The difference
is very trifling ; we shall get on as we did before, only be
quiet.
Carpenter. You are an insolent knave.
Vansen. Gossip ! Let the duke alone. The old cat
looks as though he had swallowed devils instead of mice,
and could not now digest them. Let him alone, I say ; he
must eat, drink, and sleep like other men. I am not afraid
if we only watch our opportunity. At first he makes quick
work of it ; by-and-by, however, he too will find that it is
pleasanter to live in the larder, among flitches of bacon, and
to rest by night, than to entrap a few solitary mice in the
granary. Go to ! I know the stadtholders.
Carpenter. What such a fellow can say with impunity !
Had I said such a thing I should not hold myself safe a
moment.
Vansen. Do not make yourselves uneasy ! God in
heaven does not trouble himself about you poor worms,
much less the Regent.
Jetter. Slanderer !
Vansen. I know some for whom it would be better if,
instead of their own high spirits, they had a little tailor's
blood in their veins.
Carpenter. What means you by that ?
Vansen. Hum ! I mean the count.
Jetter. Egmont ! What has he to fear ?
Vansen. I'm a poor devil, and could live a whole year
round on what he loses in a single night ; yet he would do
well to give me his revenue for a twelvemonth, to have my
head upon his shoulders for one quarter of an hour.
Jetter. You think yourself very clever; yet there is
more sense in the hairs of Egmont's head than in your
brains.
Vansen. Perhaps so ! Not more shrewdness, however.
These gentry are the most apt to deceive themselves. He
should be more chary of his confidence.
Jetter. How his tongue wags ! Such a gentleman !
Vansen. Just because he is not a tailor.
EGMONT 51
Jettee. You audacious scoundrel !
Vansen. I only wish he had your courage in his limbs
for an hour to make him uneasy, and plague and torment
him till he were compelled to leave the town.
Jetter. What nonsense you talk ; why he's as safe as
a star in heaven.
Vansen. Have you ever seen one snuff itself out ? Off
it went !
Carpenter. Who would dare to meddle with him ?
Vansen. Will you interfere to prevent it ? Will you
stir up an insurrection if he is arrested ?
Jetter. Ah !
Vansen. Will you risk your ribs for his sake ?
Soest. Eh !
Van sen (mimicking them). Eh! Oh! Ah! Run through
the alphabet in your wonderment. So it is, and so it will
remain. Heaven help him !
Jetter. Confound your impudence. Can such a noble,
upright man have anything to fear ?
Vansen. In this world the rogue has everywhere the
advantage. At the bar, he makes a fool of the judge ; on
the bench, he takes pleasure in convicting the accused. I
have had to copy out a protocol, where the commissary was
handsomely rewarded by the court, both with praise and
money, because, through his cross-examination, an honest
devil, against whom they had a grudge, was made out to be
a rogue.
Carpenter. Why, that again is a downright lie. What
3an they want to get out of a man if he is innocent ?
Vansen. Oh, you blockhead ! When nothing can be
worked out of a man by cross-examination they work it
into him. Honesty is rash and withal somewhat presump-
tuous ; at first they question quietly enough, and the pris-
oner, proud of his innocence, as they call it, comes out with
much that a sensible man would keep back; then, from
these answers the inquisitor proceeds to put new questions,
and is on the watch for the slightest contradictions ; there
he fastens his line ; and, let the poor devil lose his self-
possession, say too much here or too little there, or, Heaven
knows from what whim or other, let him withhold some
trifling circumstance, or at any moment give way to fear —
then we're on the right track, and I assure you no beggar-
woman seeks for rags among the rubbish with more care
than such a fabricator of rogues, from trifling, crooked. /i; -
G— -Goethe Vol 10
52 EGMONT.
jointed, misplaced, misprinted, and concealed facts and
information, acknowledged or denied, endeavors at length
to patch np a scare-crow, by means of which he may at least
hang his victim in effigy: and the poor devil may thank
Heaven if he is in a condition to see himself hanged.
Jetter. He has a ready tongue of his own.
Carpenter. This may serve well enough with flies.
Wasps laugh at your cunning web.
Vansen. According to the kind of spider. The tall
duke, now, has just the look of your garden-spider ; not the
large-bellied kind — they are less dangerous ; but your long-
footed, meagre-bodied gentleman, that does not fatten on
his diet, and whose threads are slender, indeed, but not the
less tenacious.
Jetter. Egmont is knight of the Golden Fleece ; who
dares lay hands on him ? He can be tried only by his peers,
by the assembled knights of his Order. Your own foul
tongue and evil conscience betray you into this nonsense.
Vansen. Think you that I wish him ill ? I like it well
enough. He is an excellent gentleman. He once let off
with a sound drubbing some good friends of mine who
would else have been hanged. Now take yourselves off !
begone, I advise you ! Yonder I see the patrol again com-
mencing their round. They do not look as if they would
be willing to fraternize with us over a glass. We must
wait, and bide our time. I have a couple of nieces and a
tapster; if after enjoying themselves in their company,
they are not tamed, they are regular wolves.
Scene II. The Palace of Euleriberg^ Residence of the Duke
of Alva.
Silva and Gomez (meeting).
Silva. Have you executed the duke's commands ?
Gomez. Punctually. All the day-patrols have received
orders to assemble at the appointed time, at the various
points that I have indicated. Meanwhile, they march as
usual through the town to maintain order. ' Each is ignorant
respecting the movements of the rest, and imagines the com-
mand to have reference to himself alone ; thus in a moment
the cordon can be formed, and all the avenues to the palace
occupied. Know you the reason of this command ?
Silva. I am accustomed blindly to obey ; and to whom
EGMONT. 53
can one more easily render obedience than to the duke, since
the event always proves the wisdom of his commands ?
Gomez. Well ! Well ! I am not surprised that you are
become as reserved and monosyllabic as the duke, since you
are obliged to be always about his person ; to me, however,
who am accustomed to the lighter service of Italy, it seems
strange enough. In loyalty and obedience, I am the same
old sailor as ever ; but I am wont to indulge in gossip and
discussion ; here you are all silent, and seem as though you
knew not how to enjoy yourselves. The duke, methinks, is
like a brazen tower without gates, the garrison of which must
be furnished with wings. Not long ago I heard him say at
the table of a gay, jovial fellow that he was like a bad spirit-
shop, with a brandy sign displayed, to allure idlers, vaga-
bonds, and thieves.
Silva. And has he not brought us hither in silence ?
Gomez. Nothing can be said against that. Of a truth,
we, who witnessed the address with which he lead the troops
hither out of Italy, have seen something. How he advanced
warily through friends and foes ; through the French, both
royalists and heretics ; through the Swiss and their confed-
erates ; maintained the strictest discipline, and accomplished
with ease, and without the slightest hinderance, a march that
that was esteemed so perilous ! — We have seen and learned
something.
Silva. Here, too ! Is not everything as still and quiet as
though there had been no disturbance ?
Gomez. Why, as for that, it was tolerably quiet when we
arrived.
Silva. The provinces have become much more tranquil ;
if there is any movement now it is only among those who
wish to escape ; and to them, methinks, the duke will speed-
ily close every outlet.
Gomez. This service cannot fail to win for him the favor
of the king.
Silva. And nothing is more expedient for us than to re-
tain his. Should the king come hither, the duke doubtless
and all whom he recommends will not go without their re-
ward.
Gomez. Do you really believe then that the king will
come?
Silva. So many preparations are made that the report
appears highly probable.
Gomez. I am not convinced, however.
54 EGMONT.
Silva. Keep your thoughts to yourself then. For if it
should not be the king's intention to come it is at least cer-
tain that he wishes the rumor to be believed.
Enter Ferdinand.
Ferdinand. Is my father not yet abroad ?
Silva. We are waiting to receive his commands.
Ferdinand. The princes will soon be here.
Gomez. Are they expected to-day?
Ferdinand. Orange and Egmont.
Gomez (aside to Silva). A light breaks in upon me.
Silva. Well, then, say nothing about it.
Enter the Duke of Alva (as he advances the rest draw
back),
Alva. Gomez.
Gomez (steps forward). My lord.
Alva. You have distributed the guards and given them
your instructions?
Gomez. Most accurately. The day-patrols
Alva. Enough. Attend in the gallery. Silva will
announce to you the moment when you are to draw them
together, and to occupy the avenues leading to the palace.
The rest you know.
Gomez. I do, my lord. [Exit.
Alva. Silva.
Silva. Here, my lord.
Alva. I shall require you to manifest to-day all the
qualities I have hitherto prized in you: courage, resolve,
unswerving execution.
Silva. I thank you for the opportunity of showing that
your old servant is unchanged.
Alva. The moment the princes enter my cabinet hasten
to arrest Egmont's private secretary. You have made all
needful preparations for securing the others who are speci-
fied?
Silva. Rely upon us. Their doom, like a well-calculated
eclipse, will overtake them with terrible certainty.
Alva. Have you had them all narrowly watched ?
Silva. All. Egmont especially. He is the only one
whose demeanor since your arrival remains unchanged.
The livelong day he is now on one horse and now on
another ; he invites guests as usual, is merry and entertain-
ing at table, plays at dice, shoots, and at night steals to his
EGMONT. 55
mistress. The others, on the contrary, have made a mani-
fest pause in their mode of life ; they remain at home, and,
from the outward aspect of their houses, you would imagine
that there was a sick man within.
Alva. To work then ere they recover in spite of us.
Silva. I shall brin^ them without fail. In obedience to
your commands we load them with officious honors ; they
are alarmed ; cautiously, yet anxiously they tender their
thanks, feel that flight would be the most prudent course,
yet none venture to adopt it ; they hesitate, are unable to
work together, while the bond which unites them prevents
their acting boldly as individuals. They are anxious to
withdraw themselves from suspicion, and thus only render
themselves more obnoxious to it. I already contemplate
with joy the successful realization of your scheme.
Alva. I rejoice only over what is accomplished, and not
easily over that ; for there ever remains ground for serious
and anxious thought. Fortune is capricious ; the common,
the worthless, she oft-times ennobles, while she dishonors
with a contemptible issue the most maturely-considered
schemes. Await the arrival of the princes, then order
Gomez to occupy the streets, and hasten yourself to arrest
Egmont's secretary, and the others who are specified. This
done, return, and announce to my son that he may bring me
the tidings of the council.
Silva. I trust this evening I shall dare to appear in your
presence. (Alva approaches his son, who has hitherto been
standing in the gallery.) I dare not whisper it even to my-
self my mind misgives me. The event will, I fear, be differ-
ent from what he anticipates. I see before me spirits who,
still and thoughtful, weigh in ebon scales the doom of princes
and of many thousands. Slowly the beam moves up and
down ; deeply the judges appear to ponder ; at length one
scale sinks, the other rises, breathed on by the caprice of
destiny, and all is decided. [Exit.
Alva (advancing with his son). How did you find the
town?
Ferdinand. All is quiet again. I rode, as for pastime,
from street to street. Your well-distributed patrols hold
Fear so tightly yoked that she does not venture even to
whisper. The town resembles a plain when the lightning's
glare announces the impending storm : no bird, no beast is
to be seen, that is not stealing to a place of shelter.
Alva. Has nothing further occurred ?
56 EGMONT.
Ferdinand. Egmont, with a few companions, rode into
the market-place ; we exchanged greetings ; he was mounted
on an unbroken charger, which excited my admiration,
" Let us hasten to break in our steeds," he exclaimed ; " we
shall need them ere long ! " He said that he should see me
again to-day ; he is coming here at your desire to deliberate
with you.
Alva. He will see you again.
Ferdinand. Among all the knights whom I know here
he pleases me the best. I think we shall be friends.
Alva. You are always rash and inconsiderate. I recog-
nize in you your mother's levity, which threw her uncondi-
tionally into my arms. Appearances have already allured
you precipitately into many dangerous connections.
Ferdinand. You will find me ever submissive.
Alva. I pardon this inconsiderate kindness, this heed-
less gaiety, in consideration of your youthful blood. Only
forget not on what mission I am sent, and what part in it I
would assign to you.
Ferdinand. Admonish me, and spare me not, when you
deem it needful.
Alva {after a pause). My son!
Ferdinand. Father !
Alva. The princes will be here anon ; Orange and Eg-
mont. It is not mistrust that has withheld me till now from
disclosing to you what is about to take place. They will
not depart hence.
Ferdinand. What do you purpose ?
Alva. It has been resolved to arrest them. You are
astonished ! Learn what you have to do ; the reasons you
shall know when all is accomplished. Time fails now to
unfold them. With you alone I wish to deliberate on the
weightiest, the most secret matters ; a powerful bond holds
us linked together ; you are dear and precious to me ; on
you I would bestow everything. Not the habit of obe-
dience alone would I impress upon you ; I desire also to
implant within your mind the power to realize, to command,
to execute ; to you I would bequeath a vast inheritance, to
the king a most useful servant ; I would endow you with
the noblest of my possessions, that you may not be ashamed
to appear among your brethren.
Ferdinand. How deeply I am indebted to you for this
love, which you manifest for me alone, while a whole king-
dom stands in fear of you I
EGMONT. 57
Alva. Now hear what is to be done. As soon as the
princes have entered every avenue to the palace will be
guarded. This duty is confided to Gomez. Silva will
hasten to arrest Egmonc's secretary, together with those
whom we hold most in suspicion. You, meanwhile, will
take the command of the guards stationed at the gates and
in the courts. Above all, take care to occupy the adjoining
apartment with the trustiest soldiers. Wait in the gallery
till Silva returns, then bring me any unimportant paper, as
a signal that his commission is executed. Remain in the
antechamber till Orange retires ; follow him ; I will detain
Egmont here as though I had some further communication
to make to him. At the end of the gallery demand Orange's
sword, summon the guards, secure promptly the most dan-
gerous man ; I meanwhile will seize Egmont here.
Ferdinand. I obey, my father — for the first time with
a heavy and an anxious heart.
Alva. I pardon you ; this is the first great day of your
life.
Enter Silva.
Silva. A courier from Antwerp. Here is Orange's let-
ter. He is not coming.
Alva. Says the messenger so?
Silva. No, my own heart tells me.
Alva. In thee speaks my evil genius. (After reading
the letter he makes a sign to the tivo, and they retire to the
gallery. Alva remains alone in front of the stage.) He
comes not ! Till the last moment he delays declaring him-
self. He dares not to come ! So, then, the cautious man,
contrary to all expectation, is for once cautious enough to
lay aside his wonted caution. The hour moves on. Let
the hand travel but a shorl space over the dial, and a great
work is done or lost — irrevocably lost ; for the opportunity
can never be retrieved, nor can our intention remain con-
cealed. Long had I maturely weighed everything, foreseen
even this contingency, and firmly resolved in my own mind
what in that case was to be done ; and now, when I am
called upon to act, I can with difficulty guard my mind from
being again distracted by conflicting doubts. Is it expedient
to seize the others if he escape me? Shall I delay, and
suffer Egmont to elude my grasp, together with his friends,
and so many others who now, and perhaps for to-day only,
are in my hands? Thus destiny controls even thee — the
uncontrollable ! How long matured ! How well prepared \
58 EGMONT.
How great, how admirable the plan ! How nearly had hope
attained the goal ! And now, at the decisive moment, thou
art placed between two evils ; as into a lottery thou dost
grasp into the dark future ; what thou hast drawn remains
still unrolled, to thee unknown whether it is a prize or a
blank ! {He becomes attentive, like one who hears a noise,
and steps to the window.) 'Tis he ! Egmont ! Did thy
steed bear thee hither so lightly, and started not at the
scent of blood, at the spirit with the naked sword who
received thee at the gate ? Dismount ! Lo, now thou hast
one foot in the grave ! And now both ! Aye, caress him,
and for the last time stroke his neck for the gallant service
he has rendered thee. And for me no choice is left. The
delusion in which Egmont ventures here to-day cannot a
second time deliver him into my hands ! Hark ! (Ferdi-
nand and Silva enter hastily.) Obey my orders. I swerve
not from my purpose. I shall detain Egmont here as best I
may till you bring me tidings from Silva. Then remain at
hand. Thee, too, fate has robbed of the proud honor of
arresting with thine own hand the king's greatest enemy.
( To Silva.) Be prompt ! ( To Ferdinand.) Advance to
meet him. (Alva remains some moments alone, pacing the
chamber in silence.)
Enter Egmont.
Egmont. I come to learn the king's commands ; to hear
what service he demands from our loyalty, which remains
eternally devoted to him.
Alva. He desires above all to hear your counsel.
Egmont. Upon what subject ? Does Orange come also ?
I thought I should find him here.
Alva. I regret that he fails us at this important crisis.
The king desires your counseh/your opinion as to the best
means of tranquillizing these states. He trusts, indeed, that
you will zealously co-operate with him in quelling these dis-
turbances, and in securing to these provinces the benefit of
complete and permanent order.
Egmont. You, my lord, should know better than I that
tranquillity is already sufficiently restored, and was still
more so till the appearance of fresh troops again agitated
the public mind, and filled it anew with anxiety and
alarm.
Alva. You seem to intimate that it would have been
more advisable if the king had not placed me in a position
to interrogate you.
EGMONT. 59
Egmont. Pardon me ! It is not for me to determine
whether the king acted advisedly in sending the army-
hither, whether the might of his royal presence alone would
not have operated more powerfully. The army is here, the
king is not. But we should be most ungrateful were we to
forget what we owe to the Regent. Let it be acknowl-
edged ! By her prudence and valor, by her judicious use of
authority and force, of persuasion and finesse, she pacified
the insurgents, and, to the astonishment of the world, suc-
ceeded, in the course of a few months, in bringing a rebel-
lious people back to their duty.
Alva. I deny it not. The insurrection is quelled; and
the people appear to be already forced back within the
bounds of obedience. But does it not depend upon their
caprice alone to overstep these bounds ? Who shall pre-
vent them from again breaking loose ? Where is the power
capable of restraining them ? Who will be answerable to us
for their future loyalty and submission ? Their own good-
will is the sole pledge we have.
Egmont. And is not the good-will of a people the surest,
the noblest pledge ? By heaven ! when can a monarch hold
himself more secure, ay, against both foreign and domestic
foes, than when all can stand for one, and one for all?
Alva. You would not have us believe, however, that
such is the case here at present ?
Egmont. Let the king proclaim a general pardon ; he
will thus tranquillize the public mind ; and it will be seen
how speedily loyalty and affection will return when con-
fidence is restored.
Alva. How ! And suffer those who have insulted the
majesty of the king, who have violated the sanctuaries of,
our religion, to go abroad unchallenged ! living witnesses
that enormous crimes may be perpetrated with impunity !
Egmont. And ought not a crime of frenzy, of intoxica-
tion, to be excused rather than cruelly chastised ? Especially
when there is the sure hope, nay, more, where there is
positive certainty, that the evil will never again recur?
Would not sovereigns thus be more secure ? Are not those
monarchs most extolled by the world and by posterity who can
pardon, pity, despise an offence against their dignity ? Are
they not on that account likened to God himself, who is far
too exalted to be assailed by every idle blasphemy ?
Alva. And, therefore, should the king contend for the
honor of God and of religion, we for the authority of the
60 EGMONT.
king. What the supreme power disdains to avert, it is ou*
duty to avenge. Were I to counsel, no guilty person should
live to rejoice in his impunity.
Egmont. Think you that you will be able to reach them
all ? Do we not daily hear that fear is driving them to and
fro, and forcing them out of the land ? The more wealthy
will escape to other countries with their property, their
children, and their friends ; while the poor will carry their
industrious hands to our neighbors.
Alva. They will, if they cannot be prevented. It is on
this account that the king desires counsel and aid from
every prince, zealous co-operation from every stadtholder ;
not merely a description of the present posture of affairs,
or conjectures as to what might take place were events
suffered to hold on their course without interruption. To
contemplate a mighty evil, to flatter oneself with hope, to
trust to time, to strike a blow, like the clown in a play,
so as to make a noise and appear to do something, when
in fact one would fain do nothing ; is not such conduct
calculated to awaken a suspicion that those who act thus
contemplate with satisfaction a rebellion, which they would
not indeed excite, but which they are by no means unwilling
to encourage ?
Egmont (about to break forth, restrains himself, and after
a brief pause, speaks with composure). Not every design is
obvious, and many a man's design is misconstrued. It is
widely rumored, however, that the object which the king
has in view is not so much to govern the provinces accord-
ing to uniform and clearly-defined laws, to maintain the
majesty of religion, and to give his people universal peace,
as unconditionally to subjugate them, to rob them of their
ancient rights, to appropriate their possessions, to curtail
the fair privileges of the nobles, for whose sake alone they
are ready to serve him with life and limb. Religion, it is
said, is merely a splendid device, behind which every
dangerous design may be contrived with the greater ease ;
the prostrate crowds adore the sacred symbols pictured
there, while behind lurks the fowler ready to ensnare them.
Alva. This I must hear from you ?
Egmont. I speak not my own sentiments ! I but repeat
what is loudly rumored, and uttered now here and now there
by great and by humble, by wise men and fools. The
Netherlanders fear a double yoke, and who will be surety
to them for their liberty ?
EGMONT. 61
•
Alva. Liberty ! A fair word when rightly understood.
What liberty would they have ? What is the freedom of
the most free? To do 'right! And in that the monarch
will not hinder them. No ! No ! They imagine themselves
enslaved when they have not the power to injure them-
selves and others. Would it not be better to abdicate at
once rather than rule such a people ? When the country
is threatened by foreign invaders, the burghers, occupied
only with their immediate interests, bestow no thought
upon the advancing foe, and when the king requires their
aid, they quarrel among themselves, and thus, as it were,
conspire with the enemy. Far better is it to circumscribe
their power, to control and guide them for their good, as
children are controlled and guided. Trust me, a people
grows neither old nor wise, a people remains always in its
infancy.
Egmont. How rarely does a king attain wisdom ! And
is it not lit that the many should confide their interests
to the many rather than to the one ? And not even to the
one, but to the few servants of the one, men who have grown
old under the eyes of their master. To grow wise, it seems,
is the exclusive privilege of these favored individuals.
Alva. Perhaps for the very reason that they are not
left to themselves.
Egmont. And therefore they would fain leave no one else
to his own guidance. Let them do what they like, however ;
I have replied to your questions, and I repeat, the measures
you propose will never succeed ! They cannot succeed ! I
know my countrymen. They are men worthy to tread God's
earth ; each complete in himself, a little king, steadfast, act-
ive, capable, loyal, attached to ancient customs. It may be
difficult to win their confidence, but it is easy to retain it.
Firm and unbending ! They may be crushed but not sub-
dued.
Alva (who during this speech has looked round several
times). Would you venture to repeat what you have uttered
in the king's presence ?
Egmont. It were the worse, if in his presence I were re-
strained by fear ! The better for him and for his people if
he inspired me with confidence, if he encouraged me to give
yet freer utterance to" my thoughts.
Alva. What is profitable I can listen to as well as he.
Egmont. I would say to him — 'Tis easy for the shep-
herd to drive before him a flock of sheep ; the ox draws the
62 EGMONT.
•
plough without opposition ; but if you would ride the noble
steed, you must study his thoughts, you must require noth-
ing unreasonable, nor unreasonably, from him. The burgher
desires to retain his ancient constitution ; to be governed
by his own countrymen; and why? Because he knows
in that case how he shall be ruled, because he can rely
upon their disinterestedness, upon their sympathy with his
fate.
Alva. And ought not the Regent to be empowered to alter
these ancient usages? Should not this constitute his fair-
est privilege ? What is permanent in this world ? And shall
the constitution of a state alone remain unchanged ? Must
not every relation alter in the course of time, and, on that
very account, an ancient constitution become the source of a
thousand evils, because not adapted to the present condition
of the people ? These ancient rights afford, doubtless, con-
venient loopholes, through which the crafty and the powerful
may creep, and wherein they may lie concealed to the injury
of the people and of the entire community ; and it is on this
account, I fear, that they are held in such high esteem.
Egmont. And these arbitrary changes, these unlimited
encroachments of the supreme power, are they not indica-
tions that one will permit himself to do what is forbidden to
thousands ? The monarch would alone be free, that he may
have it in his power to gratify his every wish, to realize his
every thought. And though we should confide in him as a
good and virtuous sovereign, will he be answerable to us for
his successors ? That none who come after him shall rule
without consideration, without forbearance ! And who would
deliver us from absolute caprice, should he send hither his
servants, his minions, who, without knowledge of the coun-
try and its requirements, should govern according to their
own good pleasure, meet with no opposition, and know them-
selves exempt from all responsibility ?
Alva {who has meanwhile again looked round). There is
nothing more natural than that a king should choose to re-
tain the power in his own hands, and that he should select as
the instruments of his authority those who best understand
him, who desire to understand him, and who will uncondi-
tionally execute his will.
Egmont. And just as natural is it that the burgher
should prefer being governed by one born and reared in the
same land, whose notions of right and wrong are in harmony
with his own, and whom he can regard as his brother.
EGMONT. 63
Alva. And yet the noble, methinks, has shared rather
unequally with these brethren of his.
Egmont. That took place centuries ago, and is now sub-
mitted to without envy. But should new men, whose pres-
ence is not needed in the country, be sent to enrich them-
selves a second time at the cost of the nation ; should the
people see themselves exposed to their bold, unscrupulous
rapacity, it would excite a ferment that would not soon be
quelled.
Alva. You utter words to which I ought not to listen ;
— I, too, am a foreigner.
Egmont. That they are spoken in your presence is a suf-
ficient proof that they have no reference to you.
Alva. Be that as it may, I would rather not hear them
from you. The king sent me here in the hope that I should
obtain the support of the nobles. The king wills, and will
have his will obeyed. After profound deliberation, the king
at length discerns what course will best promote the welfare
of the people ; matters cannot be permitted to go on as here-
tofore ; it is the king's intention to limit their power for their
own good ; if necessary, to force upon them their salvation :
to sacrifice the more dangerous burghers in order that the
rest may find repose, and enjoy in peace the blessing of a
wise government. This is his resolve ; this I am commis-
sioned to announce to the nobles ; and in his name I require
from them advice, not as to the course to be pursued — on
that he is resolved — but as to the best means of carrying
his purpose into effect.
Egmont. Your words, alas, justify the fears of the
people, the universal fear ! The king then has resolved as
no sovereign ought to resolve. In order to govern his sub-
jects more easily, he would crush, subvert, nay, ruthlessly
destroy, their strength, their spirit, and their self-respect !
He would violate the inmost core of their individuality,
doubtless with the view of promoting their happiness. He
would annihilate them, that they may assume a new, a
different form. Oh! if his purpose be good, he is fatally
misguided ! It is not the king whom we resist ; — we but
place ourselves in the way of the monarch, who, unhappily,
is about to take the first rash step in a wrong direction.
Alva. Such being your sentiments, it were a vain at-
tempt for us to endeavor to agree. You must, indeed, think
poorly of the king, and contemptibly of his counsellors, if
you imagine that everything has not already been thought
64 EGMONT.
of and maturley weighed. I have no commission a second
time to balance conflicting arguments. From these people
I demand submission ; — and from you, their leaders and
princes, I demand counsel and support as pledges of this
unconditional duty.
Egmont. Demand our heads, and your object is attained;
to a noble soul it must be indifferent whether he stoop his
neck to such a yoke or lay it upon the block. I have
spoken much to little purpose. I have agitated the air, but
accomplished nothing.
Enter Ferdinand.
Ferdinand. Pardon my intrusion. Here is a letter,
the bearer of which urgently demands an answer.
Alva. Allow me to peruse its contents. (Steps aside).
Ferdinand (to Egmont). 'Tis a noble steed that your
people have brought to carry you away.
Egmont. I have seen worse. I have had him some time ;
I think of parting with him. If he pleases you we shall
probably soon agree as to the price.
Ferdinand. We will think about it.
(Alva motions to his son, who retires to the background.,
Egmont. Farewell ! Allow me to retire ; for, by heaven,
I know not what more I can say.
Alva. Fortunately for you, chance prevents you from
making a fuller disclosure of your sentiments. You in-
cautiously lay bare the recesses of your heart, and your
own lips furnish evidence against you more fatal than could
be produced by your bitterest adversary.
Egmont. This reproach disturbs me not. I know my
own heart ; I know with what honest zeal I am devoted to
the king; I know that my allegiance is more true than that
of many who, in his service, seek only to serve themselves.
I regret that our discussion should terminate so unsatisfac-
torily, and trust that, in spite of our opposing views, the ser-
vice of the king, our master, and the welfare of our country,
may speedily unite us ; another conference, the presence of
the princes who to-day are absent, may, perchance, in a
more propitious moment, accomplish what at present appears
impossible. In this hope I take my leave.
Alva (who at the same time makes a sign to Ferdinand).
Hold, Egmont ! — Your sword ! — ( The centre door opens
and discloses the gallery, which is occupied with guards^
who remain motio?iless.)
EGMONT. 65
Egmont {after a pause of astonishment) . This was the
intention ? For this thou hast summoned me ? ( Grasping
his sword as if to defend himself) Am I then weaponless ?
Alva. The king commands. Thou art my prisoner.
{At the same time guards enter from both sides.)
Egmont (after a pause). The king ? — Orange ! Orange !
(After a pause, resigning his sword.) Take it ! It has
been employed far oftener in defending the cause of my
king than in protecting this breast. (He retires by the
centre door, followed by the guard and Alva's son. Alva
remains standing while the curtain falls.)
ACT V.
Scene I. A /Street. Twilight.
CLAEA, BEACKENBUEG, BUEGHEES.
Beackenbueg. Dearest, for heaven's sake, what wouldst
thou do?
Claea. Come with me, Brackenburg! Thou canst not
know the people, we are certain to rescue him ; for what
can equal their love for him ? Each feels, I could swear it,
the burning desire to deliver him, to avert danger from
a life so precious, and to restore freedom to the most free.
Come ! A voice only is wanting to call them together.
In their souls the memory is still fresh of all they owe him,
and well they know that his mighty arm alone shields them
from destruction. For his sake, for their own sake, they
must peril everything. And what do we peril? At most
our lives, which, if he perish, are not worth preserving.
Beackenbueg. Unhappy girl ! Thou seest not the power
that holds us fettered as with bands of iron.
Claea. To me it does not appear invincible. Let us not
lose time in idle words. Here comes some of our old, honest,
valiant burghers ! Hark ye, friends ! Neighbors ! Hark ! —
Say, how fares it with Egmont ?
Cabpenteb. What does the girl want? Tell her to
hold her peace.
Claea. Step nearer, that we may speak low, till we
are united and more strong. Not a moment is to be lost I
66 EGMONT.
Audacious tyranny, that dared to fetter him, already lifts
the dagger against his life. Oh, my friends ! With the
advancing twilight my anxiety grows more intense. I
dread this night. Come ! Let us disperse ; let us hasten
from quarter to quarter, and call out the burghers. Let
every one grasp his ancient weapons. In the market-place
we meet again, and every one will be carried onward by our
gathering stream. The enemy will see themselves sur-
rounded, overwhelmed, and be compelled to yield. How
can a handful of slaves resist us? And he will return
among us, he will see himself rescued, and can for once
thank us, us, who are already so deeply in his debt. He
will behold, perchance, ay, doubtless, he will again behold
the morn's red dawn in the free heavens.
Carpenter. What ails thee, maiden ?
Clara. Can ye misunderstand me ? I speak of the
Count ! I speak of Egmont.
Jetter. Speak not the name ! 'tis deadly.
Clara. Not speak his name ? How ? Not Egmont's
name ? Is it not on every tongue ? Where stands it not
inscribed ? Often have I read it emblazoned with all its
letters among these stars. Not utter it ? What mean ye ?
Friends! good, kind neighbors, ye are dreaming; collect
yourselves. Gaze not upon me with those fixed and anxious
looks ! Cast not such timid glances on every side ! I but
give utterance to the wish of all. Is not my voice the
voice of your own hearts ? Who, in this fearful night, ere
he seeks his restless couch, but on bended knee will, in
earnest prayer, seek to wrest his life as a cherished boon
from heaven ? Ask each other ! Let each ask his own heart !
And who but exclaims with me, — "Egmont's liberty, or
death!"
Jetter. God help us ! This is a sad business.
Clara. Stay ! Stay ! Shrink not away at the sound
of his name, to meet whom ye were wont to press forward
so joyously! — When rumor announced his approach, when
the cry arose, " Egmont comes ! He comes from Ghent ! "
— then happy, indeed, were those citizens who dwelt in the
streets through which he was to pass. And when the
neighing of his steed was heard, did not every one throw
aside his work, while a ray of hope and joy, like a sunbeam
from his countenance, stole over the toil-worn faces that
peered from every window. Then, as ye stood in the door-
ways, ye would lift up your children in your arms, and,
EGMONT. 67
pointing to him, exclaim: "See, that is Egmont, he who
towers above the rest? 'Tis from him that ye must look
for better times than those your poor fathers have
known/ 7 Let not your children inquire at some future
day, "Where is he? Where are the better times ye
promised us? 7 '— Thus we waste the time in idle words!
do nothing, — betray him.
Soest. Shame on thee, Brackenburg! Let her not
run on thus ! Prevent the mischief !
Brackenburg. Dear Clara ! Let us go ! What will
your mother say? Perchance
Clara. Thinkest thou I am a child, or frantic? What
avails perchance? — With no vain hope canst thou hide
from me this dreadful certainty ... Ye shall hear me
and ye will: for I see it, ye are overwhelmed, ye cannot
hearken to the voice of your own hearts. Through the
present peril cast but one glance into the past, — the recent
past. Send your thoughts forward into the future. Could
ye live, would ye live, were he to perish ? With him expires
the last breath of freedom. What was he not to you ? For
whose sake did he expose himself to the direst perils ?
His blood flowed, his wounds were healed for you alone.
The mighty spirit that upheld you all a dungeon now
confines, while the horrors of secret murder are hovering
around. Perhaps he thinks of you — perhaps he hopes in
you, — he who has been accustomed only to grant favors to
others and to fulfil their prayers.
Carpenter. Come, gossip.
Clara. I have neither the arms nor the vigor of a man ;
but I have that which ye all lack — courage and contempt
of danger. Oh, that my breath could kindle your souls !
That, pressing you to this bosom, I could arouse and animate
you! Come! I will march in your midst! — As a waving
banner, though weaponless, leads on a gallant army of
warriors, so shall my spirit hover, like a flame, over your
ranks, while love and courage shall unite the dispersed and
wavering multitude into a terrible host.
Jetter. Take her away ; I pity her, poor thing !
\_Exeunt Burghers.
Brackenburg. Clara ! Seest thou not where we are ?
Clara. Where ! Under the dome of heaven, which has
so often seemed to arch itself more gloriously as the noble
Egmont passed beneath it. From these windows I have
seen them look forth, four or five heads one above the
68 EGMONT.
i
other; at these doors the cowards have stood, bowing and
scraping, if he but chanced to look down upon them ! Oh,
how dear they were to me when they honored him. Had
he been a tyrant they might have turned with indifference
from his fall ! But they loved him ! Oh, ye hands so
prompt to wave caps in his honor, can ye not grasp a
sword ? Brackenburg, and we ? — do we chide them ?
These arms that have so often embraced him, what do they
for him now ? Stratagem has accomplished so much in the
world. Thou knowest the ancient castle, every passage,
every secret way. Nothing is impossible, — suggest some
plan
Brackenburg. That we might go home !
Clara. Well.
Brackenburg. There, at the corner, I see Alva's guard ;
let the voice of reason penetrate to thy heart ! Dost thou
deem me a coward ? Dost thou doubt that for thy sake
I would peril my life ? Here we are both mad, I as well as
thou. Dost thou not perceive that thy scheme is imprac-
ticable ? Oh, be calm ! Thou art beside thyself.
Clara. Beside myself ! Horrible. You, Brackenburg,
are beside yourself. When you hailed the hero with loud
acclaim, called him your friend, your hope, your refuge,
shouted vivats as he passed ; — then I stood in my corner,
half-opened the window, concealed myself while I listened,
and my heart beat higher than yours who greeted him so
loudly. Now it again beats higher ! In the hour of peril
you conceal yourselves, deny him, and feel not, that if he
perish, you are lost.
Brackenburg. Come home.
Clara. Home ?
Brackenburg. Recollect thyself ! Look around thee !
These are the streets in which thou wert wont to appear
only on the Sabbath-day, when thou didst walk modestly to
church ; where, over-decorous perhaps, thou wert displeased
if I but joined thee with a kindly greeting. And now thou
dost stand, speak, and act before the eyes of the whole
world. Recollect thyself, love ! How can this avail us ?
Clara. Home! Yes, I remember. Come, Bracken-
burg, let us go home ! Knowest thou where my home lies ?
\_Exeunk
EGMONT. 69
Scene II. A Prison.
Lighted by a lamp, a couch in the bach-ground.
Egmont (alone). Old friend! Ever faithful sleep, dost
thou, too, forsake me like my other friends ? How thou
wert wont of yore to descend unsought upon my free brow,
cooling my temples as with a myrtle wreath of love!
Amidst the din of battle, on the waves of life, I rested in
thine arms, breathing lightly as a growing boy. When
tempests whistled through the leaves and boughs, when the
summits of the lofty trees swung creaking in the blast, the
inmost core of my heart remained unmoved. What agi-
tates thee now ? What shakes thy firm and steadfast mind ?
I feel it ; 'tis the sound of the murderous axe gnawing at
thy root. Yet I stand erect, but an inward shudder runs
through my frame. Yes, it prevails, this treacherous power;
it undermines the firm, the lofty stem, and ere the bark
withers thy verdant crown falls crashing to the earth.
Yet wherefore now, thou who hast so often chased the
weightiest cares like bubbles from thy brow, wherefore
canst thou not dissipate this dire foreboding which inces-
santly haunts thee in a thousand different shapes ? Since
when hast thou trembled at the approach of death, amid
whose varying forms thou wert wont calmly to dwell, as
with the other shapes of this familiar earth ? But 'tis not
he, the sudden foe, to encounter whom the sound bosom
emulously pants ; — 'tis the dungeon, emblem of the grave,
revolting alike to the hero and the coward. How intol-
erable I used to feel it, in the stately hall, girt round by
gloomy walls, when, seated on my cushioned chair in the
solemn assembly of the princes, questions which scarcely
required deliberation were overlaid with endless discussions,
while the rafters of the ceiling seemed to stifle and oppress
me. Then I would hurry forth as soon as possible, fling
myself upon my horse with deep-drawn breath, and away
to the wide champaign, man's natural element, where,
exhaling from the earth, nature's richest treasures are
poured forth around us, while, from the wide heavens, the
stars shed down their blessings through the still air ; where,
like earth-born giants, we spring aloft, invigorated by our
mother's touch ; where our entire humanity and our human
desires throb in every vein ; where the desire to press for-
ward, to vanquish, to snatch, to use his clenched fist, to
70 EGMONT.
possess, to conquer, glows through the soul of the young
hunter; where the warrior, with rapid stride, assumes his
inborn right to dominion over the world, and, with terrible
liberty, sweeps like a desolating hail-storm over field and
grove, knowing no boundaries traced by the hand of man.
Thou art but a shadow, a dream of the happiness I so
long possessed ; where has treacherous fate conducted thee ?
Did she deny thee to meet the rapid stroke of never-shunned
death in the open face of day only to prepare for thee a
foretaste of the grave, in the midst of this loathsome cor-
ruption ? How revoltingly its rank odor exhales from these
damp stones ! Life stagnates, and my foot shrinks from
the couch as from the grave.
O care, care ! Thou who dost begin prematurely the
work of murder, forbear; — since when has Egmont been
alone, so utterly alone in the world? 'Tis doubt renders
thee insensible, not happiness. The justice of the king, in
which through life thou hast confided, the friendship of the
regent, which, thou may'st confess it, was akin to love, —
have these suddenly vanished, like a meteor of the night,
and left thee alone upon thy gloomy path ? Will not
Orange, at the head of thy friends, contrive some daring
scheme ? Will not the people assemble, and with gathering
might attempt the rescue of their faithful friend ?
Ye walls, which thus gird me round, separate me not
from the well-intentioned zeal of so many kindly souls.
And may the courage with which my glance was wont to
inspire them now return again from their hearts to mine.
Yes ! they assemble in thousands ! they come ! they stand
beside me ! their pious wish rises urgently to heaven, and
implores a miracle ; and if no angel stoops for my deliver-
ance, I see them grasp eagerly their lance and sword. The
gates are forced, the bolts are riven, the walls fall beneath
their conquering hands, and Egmont advances, joyously, to
hail the freedom of the rising morn. How many well-
known faces receive me with loud acclaim ! O Clara ! wert
thou a man I should see thee here the very first, and thank
Tthee for that which it is galling to owe even to a king —
liberty.
Scene III. Claris House.
Clara {enters from her chamber with a lamp and a glass
of water ; she places the glass upon the table and steps to the
window). Brackenburg, is it you? What noise was that?
EGMONT. 71
No one yet? No one ! I will set the lamp in the window,
that he may see that I am still awake, that I still watch
for him. He promised me tidings. Tidings? horrible
certainty ! — Egmont condemned ! — what tribunal has the
right to summon him? — And they dare to condemn him!
— Does the king condemn him, or the duke? And the
regent withdraws herself! Orange hesitates, and all his
friends ? — Is this the world, of whose fickleness and
treachery I have heard so much, and as yet experienced
nothing? Is this the world ? — Who could be so base as to
bear malice against one so dear ? Could villainy itself be
audacious enough to overwhelm with sudden destruction
the object of a nation's homage? Yet so it is — it is — O
Egmont, I held thee safe before God and man, safe as in my
arms ! What was I to thee ? Thou hast called me thine, my
whole beino- was devoted to thee. What am I now ? In
vain I stretch out my hand to the toils that environ thee.
Thou helpless and I free ! — Here is the key that unlocks
my chamber door. My going out and my coming in depend
upon my own caprice ; yet, alas, to aid thee I am powerless !
— Oh, bind me that I may not despair ; hurl me into the
deepest dungeon, that I may dash my head against the
damp walls, groan for freedom, and dream how I would
. rescue him if fetters did not hold me bound. — Now I am
\free, and in freedom lies the anguish of impotence. — Con-
scious of my own existence, yet unable to stir a limb in his
behalf, alas ! even this insignificant portion of thy being, thy
Clara, is, like thee, a captive, and, separated from thee,
consumes her expiring energies in the agonies of death. —
I hear a stealthy step, — a cough — Brackenburg, — 'tis he!
— Kind, unhappy man, thy destiny remains ever the same ;
thy love opens to thee the door at night, alas ! to what a
doleful meeting. {Enter Brackenburg.) Thou comest so
pale, so terrified ! Brackenburg ! What is it ?
Brackenburg. I have sought thee through perils and
circuitous paths. The principal streets are occupied with
troops; — through lanes and by-ways have I stolen to thee!
Clara. Tell me, how is it ?
Brackenburg {seating himself}. O Clara, let me weep.
I loved him not. He was the rich man who lured to better
pasture the poor man's solitary lamb. I have never cursed
him, God has created me with a true and tender heart. My
life was consumed in anguish, and each day I hoped would
end my misery.
72 EGMONT.
Clara. Let that be forgotten, Brackenburg! Forget
thyself. Speak to me of him! Is it true? Is he con-
demned ?
Brackenburg. He is ! I know it.
Clara. And still lives ?
Brackenburg. Yes, he still lives.
Clara. How canst thou be sure of that? Tyranny
murders the hero in the night ! His blood flows concealed
from every eye. The people, stunned and bewildered, lie
buried in sleep, dream of deliverance, dream of the fulfil-
ment of their impotent wishes, while, indignant at our
supineness, his spirit abandons the world. He is no more !
Deceive me not ; deceive not thyself !
Brackenburg. No, — he lives ! and the Spaniards, alas,
are preparing for the people, on whom they are about to
trample, a terrible spectacle, in order to crush forever, by
a violent blow, each heart that yet pants for freedom.
Clara. Proceed ! Calmly pronounce my death-warrant
also ! Near and more near I approach that blessed land,
and already from those realms of peace I feel the breath of
consolation. Say on.
Brackenburg. From casual words, dropped here and
there by the guards, I learned that secretly in the market-
place they were preparing some terrible spectacle. Through
by-ways and familiar lanes I stole to my cousin's house,
and from a back window looked out upon the market-place.
Torches waved to and fro, in the hands of a wide circle of
Spanish soldiers. I sharpened my unaccustomed sight, and
out of the darkness there arose before me a scaffold, black,
spacious and lofty! The sight filled me with horror.
Several persons were employed in covering with black cloth
such portions of the woodwork as yet remained white and
visible. The steps were covered last, also with black ; — I
saw it all. They seemed preparing for the celebration of
some horrible sacrifice. A white crucifix, that shone like
silver through the night, was raised on one side. As I
gazed, the terrible conviction strengthened in my mind.
Scattered torches still gleamed here and there; gradually
they flickered and went out. Suddenly the hideous birth of
night returned into its mother's womb.
Clara. Hush, Brackenburg ! Be still ! Let this veil
rest upon my soul. The spectres are vanished ; and thou,
gentle night, lend thy mantle to the inwardly fermenting
earth, she will no longer endure the loathsome burden,
EGMONT. 73
shuddering, she rends open her yawning chasms, and with
a crash swallows the murderous scaffold. And that God,
whom in their rage they have insulted, sends down His
angel from on high ; at the hallowed touch of the messen-
ger bolts and bars fly back ; he pours around our friend
a mild radiance, and leads him gently through the night to
liberty. My path leads also through the darkness to meet
him.
Brackenburg {detaining her) . My child, whither wouldst
thou go ? What wouldst thou do ?
Clara. Softly, my friend, lest some one should awake!
Lest we should awake ourselves ! Knowest thou this phial,
Brackenburg? I took it from thee once in jest, when thou,
as was thy wont, didst threaten, in thy impatience, to end
thy days. And now my friend
Brackenburg. In the name of all the saints !
Clara. Thou canst not hinder me. Death is my por-
tion ! Grudge me not the quiet and easy death which thou
hadst prepared for thyself. Give me thine hand ! At the
moment when I unclose that dismal portal through which
there is no return, I may tell thee, with this pressure of the
hand, how sincerely I have loved, how deeply I have pitied
thee. My brother died young ; I chose thee to fill his place ;
thy heart rebelled, thou didst torment thyself and me, de-
manding, with ever-increasing fervor, that which fate had
not destined for thee. Forgive me and farewell ! Let me
call thee brother. 'Tis a name that embraces many names.
Receive, with a true heart, the last fair token of the departing
spirit — take this kiss. Death unites all, Brackenburg — us
too it will unite !
Brackenburg. Let me then die with thee ! Share it !
oh, share it ! There is enough to extinguish two lives !
Clara. Hold ! Thou must live, thou canst live. Sup-
port my mother, who, without thee, would be a prey to
want. Be to her what I can no longer be, live together,
and weep for me. Weep for our country, and for him who
could alone have upheld it. The present generation must
still endure this bitter woe ; vengeance itself could not
obliterate it. Poor souls, live on, through this gap in time,
which is time no longer. To-day the world suddenly stands
still, its course is arrested, and my pulse will beat but for a
few minutes longer. Farewell.
Brackenburg. Oh, live with us, as we live only for thy
sake ! In taking thine own life thou wilt take ours also ;
74 EGMONT.
still live and suffer. We will stand by thee ; nothing shall
sever us from thy side, and love, with ever-watchful soli-
citude, shall prepare for thee the sweetest consolation in its
loving arms. Be ours ! Ours ! I dare not say, mine.
Clara. Hush, Brackenburg! Thou feelest not what
chord thou touchest. Where hope appears to thee I see
only despair.
Brackenburg. Share hope with the living ! Pause on
the brink of the precipice, cast one glance into the gulf
below, and then look back on us.
Clara. I have conquered ; call me not back to the
struggle.
Brackenburg. Thou art stunned ; enveloped in night,
thou seekest the abyss. Every light is not yet extinguished,
yet many days !
Clara. Alas ! Alas ! Cruelly thou dost rend the veil
from before mine eyes. Yes, the day will dawn ! Despite
its misty shroud it needs must dawn. Timidly the burgher
gazes from his window, night leaves behind an ebon speck ;
he looks, and the scaffold looms fearfully in the morning
light. With re-awakened anguish the desecrated image of
the Saviour lifts to the Father its imploring eyes. The sun
veils his beams, he will not mark the hero's death-hour.
Slowly the fingers go their round — one hour strikes after
another — hold! Now is the time. The thought of the
morning scares me into the grave. {She goes to the window
as if to look out, and drinks secretly.)
Brackenburg. Clara ! Clara !
Clara {goes to the table and drinks water). Here is the
remainder. I invite thee not to follow me. Do as thou
wilt : farewell. Extinguish this lamp silently and without
delay ; I am going to rest. Steal quietly away, close the
door after thee. Be still! Wake not my mother! Go,
save thyself, if thou wouldst not be taken for my murderer.
[Exit.
Brackenburg. She leaves me for the last time as she
has ever done. What human soul could conceive how
cruelly she lacerates the heart that loves her. She leaves
me to myself, leaves me to choose between life and death,
and both are alike hateful to me. To die alone ! Weep, ye
tender souls! Fate has no sadder doom than mine. She
shares with me the death-potion, yet sends me from her side!
She draws me after her, yet thrusts me back into life ! Oh,
Egmont, how enviable a lot falls to thee ! She goes before
EGMONT. 75
thee ! The crown of victory from her hand is thine, she
brings all heaven to meet thee ! — And shall I follow ?
Again to stand aloof? To carry the inextinguishable jeal-
ousy even to yon distant realms? Earth is no longer a
tarrying place for me, and hell and heaven both offer equal
torture. Now welcome to the wretched the dread hand of
annihilation ! [Exit,
( The scene remains some time unchanged. Music sounds,
indicating Clara's death ; the lamp, which Bracken-
burg had forgotten to extinguish, flares up once or
twice, and then suddenly expires. The scene changes
to
Scene IV. A Prison.
Egmont is discovered sleeping on a couch. A rustling of
keys is heard; the door opens ; servants enter with
torches ; Ferdinand and Sil va follow, accompanied by
soldiers ; Egmont starts from his sleep.
Egmont. Who are ye that thus rudely banish slumber
from my eyes? What mean these vague and insolent
glances? Why this fearful procession ? With what dream
of horror come ye to delude my half awakened soul ?
Silva. The duke sends us to announce your sentence.
Egmont. Do you also bring the headsman who is to exe-
cute it ?
Silva. Listen, and you will know the doom that awaits
you.
Egmont. It is in keeping with the rest of your infamous
proceedings. Hatched in night and in night achieved, so
would this audacious act of injustice shroud itself from
observation! — Step boldly forth, thou who dost bear the
sword concealed beneath thy mantle ; here is my head, the
freest ever severed by tyranny from the trunk.
Silva. You err ! The righteous judges who have con-
demned you will not conceal their sentence from the light of
day.
Egmont. Then does their audacity exceed all imagina-
tion and belief.
Silva (takes the sentence from an attendant, unfolds it,
and reads). "In the king's name, and invested by his
majesty with authority to judge all his subjects of whatever
rank, not excepting the knights of the Golden Fleece, we
declare "
76 EGMONT.
Egmont. Can the king transfer that authority ?
Silva. " We declare, after a strict and legal investigfi-
tion, thee, Henry, Count Egmont, Prince of Gaure, guilty
of high treason, and pronounce thy sentence : — That at
early dawn thou be led from this prison to the market-
place, and that there, in sight of the j>eople, and as a warn-
ing to all traitors, thou with the sword be brought from
life to death. Given at Brussels." {Date and year so in-
distinctly read as to be imperfectly heard by the OAidience.)
" Ferdinand, Duke of Alva, President of the Tribunal of
Twelve." Thou knowest now thy doom. Brief time re-
mains for the impending stroke, to arrange thy affairs, and
to take leave of thy friends. \_Exit Silva with followers.
Ferdinand remains with two torch-bearers. The stage is
dimly lighted.
Egmont (stands for a time as if buried in thought, and
allows Silva to retire without looking round. lie imagines
himself alone, and, on raising his eyes, beholds Alva's son).
Thou tarriest here ? Wouldst thou by thy presence aug-
ment my amazement, my horror ? Wouldst thou carry to
thy father the welcome tidings that in unmanly fashion I
despair. Go. Tell him that he deceives neither the world
nor me. At first it will be whispered cautiously behind his
back, then spoken more and more loudly, and when at some
future day the ambitious man descends from his proud
eminence, a thousand voices will proclaim — that 'twas not
the welfare of the state, not the honor of the king, not the
tranquillity of the provinces, that brought him hither. For
his own selfish ends he, the warrior, has counselled war, that
in war the value of his services might be enhanced. He has
excited this monstrous insurrection that his presence might
be deemed necessary in order to quell it. And I fall a vic-
tim to his mean hatred, his contemptible envy. Yes, I know
it, dying and mortally wounded I may utter it ; long has the
proud man envied me, long has he meditated and planned
my ruin.
Even then, when still young, we played at dice together,
and the heaps of gold, one after the other, passed rapidly
from his side to mine ; he would look on with affected com-
posure, while inwardly consumed with rage, more at my
success than at his own loss. Well do I remember the fiery
glance, the treacherous pallor that overspread his features,
when, at a public festival, we shot for a wager before as-
sembled thousands. He challenged me, and both nations
EGMONT. 77
stood by; Spaniards and Netherlander wagered on either
side ; I was the victor ; his ball missed, mine hit the mark,
and the air was rent by acclamations from my friends. His
shot now hits me. Tell him that I know this, that I know
him, that the world despises every trophy that a paltry
spirit erects for itself by base and surreptitious arts. And
thou ! If it be possible for a son to swerve from the man-
ners of his father, practise shame betimes, while thou art
compelled to feel shame for him whom thou wouldst fain
revere with thy whole heart.
Ferdinand. I listen without interrupting thee ! Thy
reproaches fall like blows upon a helmet. I feel the shock,
but I am armed. They strike, they wound me not; I am
sensible only to the anguish that lacerates my heart. Alas !
Alas! Have I lived to witness such a scene? Am I sent
hither to behold a spectacle like this ?
Egmont. Dost thou break out into lamentations ? What
moves, what agitates thee thus ? Is it a late remorse at
having lent thyself to this infamous conspiracy ? Thou art
so young, thy exterior is so prepossessing. Thy demeanor
towards me was so friendly, so unreserved ! So long as I
beheld thee, I was reconciled with thy father ; and crafty,
ay, more crafty than he, thou hast lured me into the toils.
Thou art the wretch ! The monster ! Whoso confides in
him does so at his own peril; but who could apprehend
danger in trusting thee ? Go ! Go ! rob me not of the few
moments that are left to me ! Go, that I may collect my
thoughts, forget the world, and first of all thee !
Ferdinand. What can I say? I stand and gaze on
thee, yet see thee not ; I am scarcely conscious of my own
existence. Shall I seek to excuse myself ? Shall I assure
thee that it was not till the last moment that I was made
aware of my father's intentions ? That I acted as a con-
strained, a passive instrument of his will ? What signifies
now the opinion thou mayest entertain of me ? Thou art
lost ; and I, miserable wretch, stand here only to assure
thee of it, only to lament thy doom.
Egmont. What strange voice, what unexpected conso-
lation comes thus to cheer my passage to the grave ? Thou,
the son of my first, of almost my only enemy, thou dost
pity me, thou art not associated with my murderers?
Speak ! In what light must I regard thee ?
Ferdinand. Cruel father ! Yes, I recognize thy nature
in this command. Thou didst know my heart, my disposi-
78 EGMONT.
tion, which thou hast so often censured as the inheritance
of a tender-hearted mother. To mould me into thine own
likeness thou hast sent me hither. Thou dost compel me
to behold this man on the verge of the yawning grave, in
the grasp of an arbitrary doom, that I may experience the
profoundest anguish ; that thus, rendered callous to every
fate, I may henceforth meet every event with a heart un-
moved.
Egmont. I am amazed ! Be calm ! Act, speak like a
man.
Ferdinand. Oh, that I were a woman! That they
might say — what moves, what agitates thee ? Tell me of a
greater, a more monstrous crime, make me the spectator of
a more direful deed ; I will thank thee, I will say : this was
nothing.
Egmont. Thou dost forget thyself. Consider where
thou art !
Ferdinand. Let this passion rage, let me give vent to
my anguish ! I will not seem composed when my whole
inner being is convulsed. Thee must I behold here ?
Thee ? It is horrible ! Thou understandest me not ! How
shouldst thou understand me ? Egmont ! Egmont !
{Falling on his neck.)
Egmont. Explain this mystery.
Ferdinand. It is no mystery.
Egmont. Why art thou moved so deeply by the fate of
a stranger ?
Ferdinand. Not a stranger ! Thou art no stranger to
me. Thy name it was that, even from my boyhood, shone
before me like a star in heaven ! How often have I made
inquiries concerning thee, and listened to the story of thy
deeds. The youth is the hope of the boy, the man of the
youth. Thus didst thou walk before me, ever before me ;
I saw thee without envy, and followed after, step by step ;
at length I hoped to see thee — I saw thee, and my heart
flew to thy embrace. I had destined thee for myself, and
when I beheld thee, I made choice of thee anew. I hoped
now to know thee, to live with thee, to be thy friend, — -
thy — 'tis over now and I see thee here !
Egmont. My friend, if it can be any comfort to thee,
be assured that the very moment we met my heart wag
drawn towards thee. Now listen ! Let us exchange a few
quiet words. Tell me : is it the stern, the settled purpose
of thy father to take my life ?
EGMONT. 79
Ferdinand. It is.
Egmont. This sentence is not a mere empty scare-crow,
designed to terrify me, to punish me through fear and
intimidation, to humiliate me, that he may then raise me
again by the royal favor ?
Ferdinand. Alas, no ! At first I flattered myself with
this delusive hope ; and even then my heart was filled with
grief and anguish to behold thee thus. Thy doom is real !
is certain ! No, I cannot command myself. Who will
counsel, who will aid me, to meet the inevitable ?
Egmont. Hearken then to me ! If thy heart is impelled
so powerfully in my favor, if thou dost abhor the tyranny
that holds me fettered, then deliver me ! The moments are
precious. Thou art the son of the all-powerful, and thou hast
power thyself. Let us fly ! I know the roads ; the means
of effecting our escape cannot be unknown to thee. These
walls, a few short miles, alone separate me from my friends.
Loose these fetters, conduct me to them ; be ours. The
king, on some future day, will doubtless thank my deliverer.
Now he is taken by surprise, or perchance he is ignorant of
the whole proceeding. Thy father ventures on this daring
step, and majesty, though horror-struck at the deed, must
needs sanction the irrevocable. Thou dost deliberate ?
Oh, contrive for me the way to freedom ! Speak ; nourish
hope in a living soul.
Ferdinand. Cease ! Oh, cease ! Every word deepens
my despair. There is here no outlet, no counsel, no es-
cape. — 'Tis this thought that tortures me, that seizes my
heart, and rends it as with talons. I have myself spread
the net. I know its firm, inextricable knots ; I know that
every avenue is barred alike to courage and to stratagem.
I feel that I, too, like thyself, like all the rest, am fettered.
Think'st thou that I should give way to lamentation if any
means of safety remained untried ? I have thrown myself
at his feet, remonstrated, implored. He has sent me hither,
in order to blast in this fatal moment every remnant of joy
and happiness that yet survived within my heart.
Egmont. And is there no deliverance ?
Ferdinand. None !
Egmont {stamping his foot). No deliverance ! — Sweet
life ! Sweet pleasant habitude of existence and of activity !
from thee must I part ! Not in the tumult of battle, amid
the din of arms, the excitement of the fray, dost thou send
me a hasty farewell; thine is no hurried leave; thou dost
80 EGMONT.
not abridge the moment of separation. Once more let me
clasp thy hand, gaze once more into thine eyes, feel with
keen emotion, thy beauty and thy worth, then resolutely
tear myself away, and say ; — depart !
Ferdinand. Must I stand by and look passively on;
unable to save thee or to give thee aid ! What voice avails
for lamentation ! What heart but must break under the
pressure of such anguish ?
Egmont. Be calm!
Ferdinand. Thou canst be calm, thou canst renounce,
led on by necessity, thou canst advance to the direful
struggle with the courage of a hero. What can I do ?
What ought I to do ? Thou dost conquer thyself and us ;
thou art the victor ; I survive both myself and thee. I have
lost my light at the banquet, my banner on the field. The
future lies before me dark, desolate, perplexed.
Egmont. Young friend, whom by a strange fatality, at
the same moment I both win and lose, who dost feel for
me, who dost suffer for me the agonies of death, — look on
me ; — thou wilt not lose me. If my life was a mirror in
which thou didst love to contemplate thyself so be also
my death. Men are not together only when in each other's
presence ; — the distant, the departed, also live for us.
I shall live for thee, and for myself I have lived long enough.
I have enjoyed each day ; each day I have performed, with
prompt activity, the duties enjoined by my conscience
Now my life ends, as it might have ended, long, long ago,
on the sands of Gravelines. I shall cease to live ; but I have
lived. My friend, follow in my steps, lead a cheerful and a
joyous life, and dread not the approach of death.
Ferdinand. Thou shouldst have saved thyself for us,
thou couldst have saved thyself. Thou art the cause of thine
own destruction. Often have I listened when able men
discoursed concerning thee ; foes and friends, they would
dispute long as to thy worth ; but on one point they were
agreed, none ventured to deny, every one confessed, that
thou wert treading a dangerous path. How often have I
longed to warn thee ! Hadst thou then no friends ?
Egmont. I was warned.
Ferdinand. And when I found all these allegations,
point for point, in the indictment, together with thy
answers, containing much that might serve to palliate
thy conduct, but no evidence weighty enough fully to ex-
culpate thee
EGMONT. 81
Egmont. No more of this. Man imagines that ha
directs his life, that he governs his actions, when in fact his
existence is irresistibly controlled by his destiny. Let ua
not dwell upon this subject ; these reflections I can dismiss
with ease — not so my apprehensions for these provinces ;
yet they too will be cared for. Could my blood flow for
many, bring peace to my people, how freely should it flow !
Alas ! This may not be. Yet it ill becomes a man idly to
speculate when the power to act is no longer his. If thou
canst restrain or guide the fatal power of thy father, do so.
Alas, who can? — Farewell!
Ferdinand. I cannot leave thee.
Egmont. Let me urgently recommend my followers to
thy care ! I have worthy men in my service ; let them not
be dispersed, let them not become destitute ! How fares it
with Richard, my secretary ?
Ferdinand. He is gone before thee. They have beheaded
him as thy accomplice in high treason.
Egmont. Poor soul ! — Yet one word, and then farewell,
I can no more. However powerfully the spirit may be
stirred, nature at length irresistibly asserts her rights;
and like a child, who, enveloped in a serpent's folds, enjoys
refreshing slumber, so the weary one lays himself down
to rest before the gates of death, and sleeps soundly, as
though a toilsome journey yet lay before him. — One word
more, — I know a maiden ; thou wilt not despise her because
she was mine. Since I can recommend her to thy care, I
shall die in peace. Thy soul is noble ! in such a man a
woman is sure to find a protector. Lives my old Adolphus ?
Is he free ?
Ferdinand. The active old man, who alwavs attended
thee on horseback ?
Egmont. The same.
Ferdinand. He lives, he is free.
Egmont. He knows her dwelling; let him guide thy
steps thither, and reward him to his dying day for having
shown thee the way to this jewel. — Farewell!
Ferdinand. I cannot leave thee.
Egmont {urging him towards the door.) Farewell !
Ferdinand. Oh, let me linger yet a moment !
Egmont. No leave-taking, my friend.
{He accompanies Ferdinand to the door, and then tears
himself away; Ferdinand, overwhelmed with griefs
hastily retires.)
82 EGMONT.
Egmont. Hostile man ! Thou didst not think thou would
render me this service through thy son. He has been the
means of relieving my mind from the pressure of care and
sorrow, from fear and every anxious feeling. Gently, yet
urgently, nature claims her final tribute. 'Tis past ! — 'Tis
resolved! And the reflections which, in the suspense of
last night, kept me wakeful on my couch, now hill my senses
to repose with invincible certainty. (He seats himself upon
the couch; music.) Sweet sleep ! Like the purest happi-
ness, thou comest most willingly, uninvited, unsought. Thou
dost loosen the knots of earnest thoughts, dost mingle all
images of joy and of sorrow ; unimpeded the circle of inner
harmony flows on, and, wrapped in fond delusion, we sink
away and cease to be.
ijffe sleeps ; music accompanies his slumber. Behind his couch the
wall appears to open and discovers a brilliant apparition. Free-
dom in a celestial garb, surrounded by a glory, reposes on a
cloud. Her features are those of Clara, and she inclines
towards the sleeping hero. Her countenance betokens compas-
sion, she seems to lament his fate. Quickly she recovers herself
and with an encouraging gesture exhibits the symbols of free-
dom, the bundle of arrows, with the staff and cap. She encour-
ages him to be of good cheer, and while she signifies to him that
his death will secure the freedom of the provinces, she hails him
as a conqueror, and extends to him a laurel crown. As the
wreath approaches his head, Egmont moves like one asleep, and
reclines with his face towards her. She holds the wreath sus-
pended over his head ; — martial music is heard in the distance;
at the first sound the vision disappears. The music grows louder
and louder. Egmont awakes. The prison is dimly illuminated
by the dawn. — His first impulse is to lift his hand to his head;
he stands up, and gazes round, his hand still upraised.)
The crown is vanished ! Beautiful vision, the light of
day has frighted thee ! Yes, they revealed themselves to
my sight uniting in one radiant form the two sweetest joys
of my heart. Divine Liberty borrowed the mien of my
beloved one ; the lovely maiden arrayed herself in the celes-
tial garb of my friend. In a solemn moment they appeared
united, with aspect more earnest than tender. With blood-
stained feet the vision approached ; the waving folds of her
robe also were tinged with blood. It was my blood, and
the blood of many brave hearts. No ! It shall not be shed
in vain ! Forward ! Brave people ! The goddess of lib-
erty leads you on ! And as the sea breaks through and
destroys the barriers that would oppose its fury, so do ye
EGMONT. 83
overwhelm the bulwark of tyranny, and with her impet-
uous flood sweep it away from the land which it usurps.
{Drums.)
Hark! Hark! How often has this sound summoned
my joyous steps to the field of battle and of victory ! How
bravely did I tread, with my gallant comrades, the danger-
ous path of fame ! And now from this dungeon I shall go
forth to meet a glorious death ; I die for freedom, for the
cause of which I have lived and fought, and for which I
now offer myself up a sorrowing sacrifice. {The back-
ground is occupied by /Spanish soldiers with halberts.)
Yes, lead them on ! Close your ranks ; ye terrify me not.
I am accustomed to stand amid the serried ranks of war,
and environed by the threatening forms of death ; to feel,
with double zest, the energy of life. {Drums.)
The foe closes round on every side ! Swords are flashing ;
courage, friends! Behind are your parents, your wives,
your children ! {Pointing to the guard.)
And these are impelled by the word of their leader, not
by their own free will. Protect your homes ! And to save
those who are most dear to you, be ready to follow my
example, and to fall with joy.
{Drums. As he advances through the guards towards the
door in the background the curtain falls. The music
joins in, and the scene closes with a symphony of
victory.)
H— Goethe Vol. 10
THE WAYWARD LOVER:
A PASTORAL DRAMA IN VERSE AND IN ONE ACT
TRANSLATED BY EDGAR A. BOWRING, C. B.
This little drama was written in the years 1767 and 1768, whilst Goethe, at the
age of eighteen, was still a student at Leipsic. It commemorates his attachment
to Katarina Schonkopf , the circumstances of which are illustrated by the char
acters of Eridon and Amina.
DRAMATIS PERSONS.
Egle. Eridon.
Amina. Lamon.
THE WAYWARD LOVER.
Scene I.
Amina and Egle are sitting on one side of the theatre
making garlands. Lamon enters, bringing a basket of
flowers.
lamon {putting down the basket).
I've brought more flowers.
EGLE.
Oh, thanks !
LAMON.
How fair they are ! Just see !
This pink is thine.
EGLE.
3 rose? -
rn
LAMON.
Dear child, that's not for thee I
Amina shall to-day receive this floweret fair ;
I think a rose looks best contrasted with black hair.
EGLE.
And this thou callest polite, obliging in a lover?
LAMON.
For one who loves, thou'rt slow my nature to discover.
I'm perfectly aware thou lovest only me,
And my true heart in turn will ever beat for thee ;
Thou knowest it. Yet thou seekest still stronger chains
than these?
Is it so wrong to think that other maids can please ?
I let thee say ; that youth is handsome, this one charming,
Or full of wit, and I see nothing there alarming,
But say so too.
3
4 THE WAYWARD LOVER.
EGLE.
Ne'er lose thy temper, nor will I.
Both make the same mistake. To words of flattery
Oft listen I well pleased ; soft words dost thou address,
When I'm not there to hear, to many a shepherdess.
The heart should never deem a little jesting hard ;
'Gainst fickleness a mind that's cheerful is a guard.
I'm subject less than thou to jealousy's dominion.
( To Amina.)
Thou smilest at us ? Say, dear friend, what's thy opinion ?
AMINA.
I've none.
EGLE.
And yet thou knowest I'm happy whilst thou'rt sad.
AMINA.
How so ?
EGLE.
How so ! Instead of being, like us, glad,
And making all Love's sulks before your laughter fly,
Thy pain begins whene'er thy lover meets thine eye.
I never knew a more unpleasant, selfish creature.
Thou think'st he loves thee. No, I better know his nature ;
He sees that thou obeyest. The tyrant loves thee solely
Because thou art a maid who will obey him wholly.
AMINA.
He oft obeys me, too.
EGLE.
To be still more thy master.
Thou watchest all his looks, for fear of some disaster ;
The power that in our looks Dame Nature has installed,
Whereby mankind are cowed, and charmingly enthralled,
Hast thou to him transferred, and thou art happy now
If he looks only pleased. With deeply wrinkled brow,
Contracted eyebrows, eyes all wild and dark as night,
And tightly fastened lips, a very charming sight
Appears he every day, till kisses, tears, harangues,
Disperse each wintry cloud that o'er his forehead hangs.
AMINA.
Thou knowest him not enough, thou never wert his lover ;
It is not selfishness that clouds his forehead over.
THE WAYWARD LOVER. 5
\ whimsical chagrin upon his bosom preys,
And spoils for both of us the finest summer days :
And yet I'm well content that when my voice he hears,
And all my coaxing words, each whim soon disappears.
EGLE.
A mighty bliss, indeed, which one full well might spare !
But name one single joy that he allowed thee e'er.
How throbbed thy breast, whene'er a dance appeared in
view !
Thy lover flies the dance, and takes thee with him, too.
No wonder he can't bear thy presence at a feast ;
He hates the very glass touched by thee in the least.
As rivals deems he e'en the birds that chance to please thee;
How could he happy be, to see another seize thee,
And press thee to his heart, and whisper words of love,
As in the whirling dance before his eyes ye move ?
AMINA.
Pray be not so unfair , without the least objection
He let me join this feast, with thee as my protection.
EGLE.
Thou'lt learn the truth soon.
AMINA.
How?
EGLE.
Now, wherefore comes he not?
AMINA.
He little loves the dance.
EGLE.
Tis nothing but a plot.
If thou returnest well pleased, he'll ask thee in a trice : —
" You had a happy day ? " — « Yes." — " That is very nice.
"You played? " — "At forf eits." — " Ah ! was Damon also
there?
"You danced?" — "Yes, round the tree." — "I fain had
seen the pair.
"He danced right well? And what reward received the
youth?"
amina (smilinq.
Yes.
6 THE WAYWARD LOVER.
EGLE.
Smilest thou ?
AMINA.
Yes, my friend, that is his tone, in truth. — «
More flowers !
LAMON.
The best are these.
AMINA.
It is with joy I see
How he the world doth grudge the slightest look from me ;
I in this envy see how deep my lover's love,
And this proud consciousness doth all my pangs remove.
EGLE.
I pity thee, poor child. No hope for thee remains,
Since thou thy misery lovest ; thou dost but shake thy chains;
And makest thyself believe 'tis music.
AMINA.
For this bow
One ribbon still I need.
egle (to Lamon).
A little time ago
Thou stolest one from me, at that last feast in May.
LAMON.
I'll fetch it.
EGLE.
Make good haste ; return without delay.
Scene II.
Egle, Amina.
amina.
He sets but little store on what his love presented.
egle.
With his demeanor I myself am not contented.
For playful signs of love too little careth he,
Which please a feeling heart, however small they be.
And yet believe me, friend, the torment is far less
To be too little loved, than worshipped to excess.
THE WAYWARD LOVER.
Fidelity I prize ; 'tis that alone can give
With certainty true calm, to last us whilst we live.
AMINA.
Ah, friend ! indeed a heart thus tender is a prize.
'Tis true he grieves me oft, yet pities he my sighs.
If from his lips a sound of blame or wrath is heard,
I've nothing more to do than speak a kindly word,
And straightway he is changed, his anger disappears,
He even weeps with me, when he observes my tears,
Falls humbly at my feet, and begs me to forgive.
EGLE.
And thou f orgivest him ?
AMINA.
Yes.
EGLE.
What a way to live I
The lover who offends to go on pardoning ever !
Take pains to win his love, and be rewarded never !
AMINA.
What cannot e'er be changed
EGLE.
To alter him.
How so ?
Not changed ? 'Twould easy be
AMINA.
EGLE.
I'll teach the way to thee.
The source of all thy griefs, the discontent oppressive
Of Eridon
AMINA.
Is what ?
EGLE.
Thy tenderness excessive.
AMINA.
I thought my plan would love reciprocal engender.
EGLE.
Thou'rt wrong ; be harsh and cold, and thou wilt find him
tender.
8 THE WAYWARD LOVER.
Just try this course for once, make him some pain endure:
A man prefers to strive, he cares not to be sure.
If Eridon should come to spend with thee an hour,
He knows it but too well, thou'rt wholly in his power.
No rival is at hand, with whom to disagree,
He knows thou lovest him far more than he loves thee.
His bliss is far too great, he well deserves our laughter ;
As he no pangs e'er feels, he needs must pangs run after.
He sees that in the world thou lovest him alone,
He doubts, because by thee no doubts are ever shown.
So treat him that he'll think thou carest little for him ;
He'll storm, indeed, but that will very soon pass o'er him.
One look from thee will then please more than now a kiss;
Make him afraid, and he will then soon know true bliss.
AMINA.
Yes, that is very well ; but then I'm quite unable
To carry out thy plan.
EGLE.
Thy courage is unstable.
Go, thou art far too weak. Look there !
AMTNA.
EGLE.
My Eridon !
I thought so. Ah, my poor child ! he comes, and thou anon
Dost shake with joy : that ne'er will do. To make him
change,
Thou must, when he appears, a calmer mien arrange ;
That heaving of thy breast ! Thy face, too, all aglow !
And then
AMINA.
O let me be, Amina loves not so.
Scene III.
Eridon advances slowly, with his arms crossed. Amina
arises and runs to meet him. Egle continues sitting over
her work.
amina (taking him by the hand).
My own dear Eridon !
THE WAYWARD LOVER. 9
eridon (kissing her hand).
My darling !
egle (aside).
Ah, how pleasant ?
AMINA.
What flowers ! Explain my friend, who gave thee such a
present ?
ERIDON.
Who ? My own loved one.
AMINA.
What ! my gift of yesterday,
As fresh as they were then ?
ERIDON.
Whate'er thou givest, say,
Is it not dear to me ? But those I gave thee ?
AMINA.
Oh,
I in this festal wreath have placed them.
ERIDON.
Be it so !
Love in each young man's heart, and envy in each maid
Wilt thou excite.
EGLE.
Rejoice to find thy love repaid
By such a maiden's love, for which so many vie.
ERIDON.
I cannot happy be to hear so many sigh.
EGLE.
Thou shouldst be ; few men's lot with thine could e'er com-
pare.
ERIDON (tO AMINA).
Now speak about the fete ; will Damon, too, be there ?
egle (interrupting).
That he would present be, I heard him say by chance.
10 THE WAYWARD LOVER.
ERIDON (tO AMINA).
My child, and who will be thy partner in the dance ?
(As Amina does not answer he turns to Egle.)
Take care to choose for her the one she holds most dear.
AMINA.
That cannot be, my friend, since thou ^ilt not be near !
EGLE.
Now, hear me, Eridon, I cannot bear it more,
Strange pleasure is it thus to plague Amina sore.
Forsake her if thou thinkest that she's no longer true,
But if thou thinkest she loves, this course no more pursue.
ERIDON.
I never plague her.
EGLE.
No ? How strange are all thy measures
From jealousy to cast a gloom upon her pleasures.
To doubt, although the fact is known to thee full clearly,
If 8 he
ERIDON.
Wilt thou be bail that she doth love me dearly?
AMINA.
I love thee not ?
ERDDON.
What proof hast thou at thy command ?
Who let bold Damon steal a nosegay from her hand ?
Who took that ribbon fair which youthful Thirsis brought ?
AMINA.
My Eridon !
ERDDON.
All this was not a dream, methought.
And what was their reward ? Thou kisses canst bestow I
AMINA.
Canst thou not, dearest, too ?
EGLE.
Oh, peace, he'll nothing know !
Whate'er there was to say thou said'st it o'er and o'er,
He listens for a time, and then complains once more.
THE WAYWARD LOVER. 11
And what's the use ? If thou his charges shouldst disclaim
He'll go away in peace, and next time do the same.
EEIDON.
With justice, too, perchance.
AMINA.
What! I unfaithful? oh,
Amina false, my friend ? Dost thou believe it ?
EEIDON.
No!
I cannot, will not.
AMINA.
Say, in all my life did I
E'er give occasion ?
EEIDON.
Thou dost oft a cause supply.
AMINA.
When was I faithless ?
EEIDON.
Ne'er ! Hence all these cares of mine :
Through levity thou err'st, and never by design.
As trifles thou dost hold the things I weighty deem ;
The things that vex me most to thee as nothing seem.
EG'IiE.
Well ! If she deems them naught where is the mischief,
pray?
EEIDON.
She often asked the same ; it vexes me, I say.
EQTjE*
What then ? Amina ne'er forgets her own position.
EEIDON.
Too much to deem her true, too little for suspicion.
EGrltE.
More than a woman's heart e'er loved she loveth thee.
EEIDON.
And dances, pleasures, games, she loves as much as me.
12 THE WAYWARD LOVER.
EGLE.
Who cannot this endure should only love our mothers !
AMINA.
Peace, Egle! Eridon, my joy thy language smothers.
Our friends will tell thee how I think of thee all day,
E'en when we're far from thee, and full of mirth and play;
How oft I with chagrin, that spoils my pleasure, cry,
" I wonder where he is ! " because thou art not nigh.
If thou believest me not, O come to-day with me,
And settle for thyself if I'm untrue to thee.
I'll dance with thee alone, I'll never leave thy side,
This arm shall cling to thine, this hand in thine abide.
If my behavior then the least mistrust should wake
ERIDON.
To keep oneself in check, no proof of love can make-
EGLE.
Behold her falling tears ! they're flowing in thy honor ;
Ne'er thought I that thy heart so basely looked upon her.
The boundless discontent, incessant and diseased,
Which ever asks for more, the more it is appeased, —
The pride which will not let within thy sight appear
The guileless joys of youth her bosom holds so dear, — -
Within thy hateful heart alternately they reign,
Thou heedest not her love, thou heedest not her pain.
She's dear to me, and thou no more shalt treat her ill ;
To fly thee will be hard ; to love thee, harder still.
amina {aside).
Ah, wherefore must my heart with love be flowing o'er !
ERIDON
{standing still for a moment, and then timidly approaching
Amina and taking her hand).
Amina, dearest child ! Canst thou forgive once more ?
AMINA.
Have I not granted oft forgiveness full, complete ?
ERIDON.
Thou noble, best of hearts, let me before thy feet —
AMINA.
Arise, my Eridon!
THE WAYWAKD LOVER. 13
EGLE.
Thy many thanks withhold ;
What one too warmly feels, will soon again grow cold.
ERIDON.
And all this warmth of heart with which I honor her—
EGLE.
A greater bliss would be, if somewhat less it were.
More calmly would ye live, and all her pain and thine —
ERIDON.
Forgive me once again, more wisdom shall be mine.
AMINA.
Dear Eridon, now go, a nosegay pick for me ;
If gathered by thy hand, how charming it will be !
ERIDON.
Thou hast a rose there now I
AMTNA.
Her Lamon gave me this.
It suits me well.
eridon (t&uchily)*
Indeed —
AMINA.
O take it not amiss,
And thou shalt have it, dear.
eridon (embracing her, and kissing her hand).
I'll bring thee flowers with speed.
[Exit.
Scene IV.
Amina, Egle. Presently Lamon.
EGLE*
O poor, good-hearted child, this plan will ne'er succeed !
The more that it is fed, more hungry grows his pride.
Take heed, 'twill rob thee else of all thou lovest beside.
amina.
One care alone I have, lest he should not be true.
14 THE WAYWARD LOVER.
EGLE.
How charming ! One can see thy love is very new.
'Tis always so at first ; when once one's heart is given,
One thinks of nothing else but love from morn till even.
If we then, at this time a touching novel read,
How greatly this one loved, and that one, true indeed,
That hero soft of heart, so bold when dangers hover,
So mighty in the fight, because he was a lover, —
Our head 'gins whirling round, we deem it our own story.
We fain would wretched be, or covered o'er with glory.
A youthful heart soon takes impressions from a novel;
A loving heart still less inclines on earth to grovel;
And so we long time love, until we find that we,
Instead of being true, were fools to a degree.
AMINA.
Yet that is not my case.
EGLE.
A patient oft will tell
The doctor in a rage that he is sound and well.
Do we believe him? No. Despite his opposition,
His medicine he must take. And that is thy condition.
AMINA.
? Tis true of children, yes; but 'tis not true of me;
Am I a child?
EGLE.
Thou lovest!
AMINA.
EGLE.
Thou, too !
Yes, love as we !
First moderate the storm which hurries thee along !
One can be very calm, although one's love is strong.
LAMON.
Here is the ribbon!
AMINA.
Thanks !
EGLE.
Thou art a laggard wooer !
THE WAYWARD LOVER. 15
LAMON".
I was upon the hill when Chloris called me to her,
Aad made me deck her hat with flowers ere she dismissed
me.
EGLE.
And what was thy reward?
LAMON.
Mine? None; she only kissed me.
Whatever one may do, no maiden can afford
To give a greater prize than kisses in reward.
amina (showing Egle the wreath with the loop).
Is all now right ?
EGLE.
Yes, come !
(She hangs the wreath on Amina, so that the loop comes on
the right shoulder. In the meantime she talks to Lamon.)
To-day right merry be!
LAMON.
Eight noisy be to-day. We feel not half the glee
When we demurely meet, discussing in full quorum
Our loved one's whims, or else the duties of decorum.
EGLE.
Thou'rt very right.
LAMON.
0, yes!
EGLE.
Amina ! Sit thou here !
(Amina sits down. Egle puts flowers in her hair, while
she continues.)
Come, give me back the kiss that Chloris gave thee, dear !
Lamon (hissing her).
Most gladly. Here it is.
AMINA.
How very strange ye are !
EGLE.
Were Eridon the same, thou wouldst be happier far.
16 THE WAYWARD LOVER.
AMINA.
He ne'er, instead of me, would kiss another maicL
LAM0N.
,Where is the rose ?
EGLE.
When he attempted to upbraid,
She gave it him for peace.
AMINA.
I wish to be polite.
LAMON.
If thou dost pardon him, he'll pardon thee. Quite right !
Yes, each the other plagues in turn, I clearly see.
EGLE.
'(As a sign that she is ready with the decoration for the
head.) There!
LAMON.
Good!
AMINA.
I wish the flowers were ready now for me
That Eridon should bring.
EGLE.
Do thou await him here.
I'll go and deck myself. Come also, Lamon, dear !
We'll leave thee here alone, but soon be back again.
Scene V.
AMINA. (Presently Eridon.)
What enviable bliss ! 0, what a tender swain !
How wish I that it but depended- upon me
My Eridon content, myself made blest, to see !
Did I not to his hands such influence o'er me give,
Far happier he would be, and I in peace should live.
If to o'ercome this power I seeming coldness try,
lAt my indifference he'll into fury fly.
I know his wrath, and dread to feel it ; thou, my heart,
[Wouldat very badly play so difficult a part.
THE WAYWARD LOVER. 17
\
Yet, if thou wouldst succeed as fully as thy friend,
Arid 'stead of serving him, his will to thine wouldst bend,
To-day's the very time ; I never must allow
The chance to pass ... He comes ! My heart, take cour-
age now !
eridon {giving her flowers)*
They're not so very good, my child ! pray, pardon me,
I gathered them in haste.
AMINA.
Enough, they are from thee.
ERIDON.
They're not so blooming quite, as those fair roses were
That Damon stole from thee.
amina (placing them in her bosom).
I'll keep them safely there.
There where thou art enshrined, these flowers should also
blow.
ERIDON.
If there alone they're safe
AMINA.
Hast thou suspicions ? ■■■
ERIDON.
No!
I've none, my child ; 'tis fear alone I feel to-day.
The best of hearts forgets, 'midst merry sport and play,
When happy in the dance, and at the noisy fete,
What duty may enjoin, and wisdom may dictate.
Thou may's t perhaps think of me, when in this joyous vein,
Yet thou dost not attempt the freedom to restrain
Which youths allow themselves to practise, bit by bit,
If maidens but in jest a liberty permit.
Their idle pride presumes to treat as love ere long
A pleasant playful mien.
AMINA.
Enough, if they are wrong *
'Tis true that loving sighs pursue me by the score ;
Yet thou dost hold my heart, and say, what wouldst thou
more?
18 THE WAYWARD LOVER.
Poor fellows ! upon me thou mightest let them look ;
They think that wonder
ERIDON.
No, such thoughts I will not brook
'Tis that that vexes me. Well know I thou art mine;
Yet one of them perchance the same thing may opine,
And gaze upon thine eyes, and think to give a kiss,
And triumph in the thought that he has spoiled my bliss.
AMINA.
Destroy his triumph, then ! Beloved one, with me go ;
Let them the preference see which thou
ERIDON.
I thank thee, no.
That sacrifice to claim would show a cruel will ;
Thou, child, wouldst be ashamed of one who danced so ill ;
I know whom in the dance as partner thou appro vest ;
The one who dances best, and not the one thou lovest.
amtna. *
That is the truth.
eridon (with restrained irony).
Ah, yes, I often have regretted
The gifts of Damaris, so light of foot, and petted !
How well he dances !
AMINA.
Yes, none like him in the dance.
ERIDON.
And each maid
AMINA.
Prizes him
ERIDON.
Adores him for't !
AMINA.
Perchance.
ERIDON.
Perchance ? The devil ! Yes !
AMINA.
What mean those strange grimaces?
THE WAYWARD LOVER. 19
ERIDON.
Thou askest ? Thou'lt drive me mad. Thy conduct a dis-
grace is !
AMINA.
Mine ? Art not thou the cause of my and thy great woe ?
Oh, cruel Eridon ! How canst thou treat me so ?
ERIDON.
I must; I love thee well. 'Tis love that makes me vex
thee.
Loved I not thee so much I never should perplex thee.
My feeling, tender heart with ecstasy beats high,
When thy hand presses mine, when on me smiles thine eye.
I thank the gods who give such bliss without alloy,
Yet only I demand that none shall share my joy.
AMINA.
Of what dost thou complain ! No others share it now.
ERIDON.
Yet thou endurest them? No hatred feelest thou?
AMENA.
I hate them ? Why should I ?
ERIDON.
Because they dare to love thee.
AMINA.
A pretty ground !
ERIDON.
I see thou lettest their sighing move thee;
Their feelings thou must spare ; and lessened is thy pleasure,
Unless thou
AMINA.
Eridon's injustice knows no measure !
Does love require that we humanity should shun ?
A heart that truly loves, can hate no other one.
This tender feeling ne'er with such base thoughts can dwell,
Never at least with me.
ERIDON.
Thou vindicatest well
The gentle sex's proud and high prerogative,
H twenty blockheads kneel, the twenty to deceive !
20 THE WAYWARD LOVER.
To-day's a day when pride may specially enfold thee.
To-day thou'lt many see, who as a goddess hold thee ;
Full many a youthful heart will throb for thee right hard,
Remember me, when swarms of fools around thee run ;
I am the greatest ! Go !
amtna {aside).
Fly, weak heart, he has won.
Ye gods, lives he for naught but to destroy my peace?
Must my distress still last, and never, never cease ?
(To Ekidon.)
The gentle bonds of love thou turnest to a yoke :
A tyrant thou to me, yet I my love invoke !
With tenderness to all thy wrath have I replied,
I ever yield to thee, yet thou'rt not satisfied.
No sacrifice I've spared. Contented ne'er art thou.
My pleasure of to-day thou claimest ? Thou hast it now !
(She takes the wreaths out of her hair and from her shoulder,
throws them away and continues in a restrained calm voice.)
Now say, dear Eridon ? Thou lovest me better so,
Than for the feast arrayed ? Thine anger now forego.
Thou wilt not look at me ? Remains thy heart still hard-
ened?
eridon (falling down before her).
Amina, thee I love ! Be my vile conduct pardoned !
Go to the feast. .
AMINA.
My friend, with thee I'd sooner stay ;
A loving song will serve to while the time away.
ERIDON.
Dear child, now go !
AMINA.
Go thou, and quickly fetch thy flute.
ERIDON.
Thouwill'stit?
THE WAYWARD LOVER. 21
SCENE VI.
AMTNA.
He seems sad, yet feels rejoicings mute.
In vain wilt thou on him thy tenderness bestow.
He feels my sacrifice ? He little heeds it ; no,
He deems it but his due. What wouldst thou, my poor
heart ?
Thou murmurest in my breast. Deserved I all this smart ?
Yes, thou deservest it well ! Thou seest he never ceases
To torture thee, and yet thy love for him increases.
I will not bear it more. Hush ! Ha, I hear the din
Of music there. My heart doth throb, my foot joins in.
I'll go ! My troubled breast my misery proclaims !
How wretched do I feel ! Mv heart with burning flames
Consumes. Off, to the feast f He will not let me move!
Unhappy maiden ! See this is the bliss of love !
{She throws herself on a bank, and weeps ; as the other $
enter, she dries her eyes and rises.)
Alas, they now approach! How can I face their jeers!
Scene VII.
Amina, Egle, Lamon.
EGLE.
Make haste? The march begins! Amina! What! In
tears ?
lamon (picking up the wreaths).
The garlands ?
EGLE.
What means this ? Who tore them off ? Confess !
AMINA.
Myself.
EGLE.
Wilt thou not go ?
AMINA.
If he will let me, yes.
22 THE WAYWARD LOVER.
EGLE.
If who will let thee ? Say, why talk in this mysterious
And unaccustomed tone ? Be not so shy and serious !
Is'tEridon?
AMTNA.
Yes, he !
EGLE.
I thought that it was so.
Thou fool ! and will thy wrongs ne'er make thee wiser grow?
Thou hast a promise made that thou with him wilt stay,
And pass in tears and sighs such a delightful day ?
He's flattered, child, when thou for all his whims thus
carest.
(After a pause, whilst she makes signs to Lamon.)
Yet thou far better lookest when thou the garland wearest.
Come, put it on ! and hang the other o'er thee thus !
Thou'rt charming now.
(Amina stands with downcast eyes, and lets Egle have her
way, Egle gives a sign to Lamon.)
But, ah ! 'tis fully time for us
To join the march.
LAMON.
Quite right ! My dearest child, adieu i
amtna (sorrowfully).
Farewell!
egle (departing).
Amina ! now, wilt thou join us, too ?
(Amina looks at her sadly, and is silent.)
lamon (taking Egle by the hand to lead her off).
leave her to herself ! With spite I'm fit to die ;
The charming dance she'll spoil with her perversity !
The dance both right and left, she knows it all by heart ;
1 fully thought that she would take her proper part.
She'll stop at home now ! Come, I've nothing more to say.
EGLE.
Thou dost forego the dance ! I pity thee to-day.
He dances well ! Good-bye !
(Egle seeks to kiss Amina. Amina falls on her neck y and
weeps.)
THE WAYWARD LOVER. 23
AMINA.
Complete is my dismay.
bgle. .
Thou weepest.
AMINA.
My saddened heart in grief despairing sinks !
I tain would . . . Eridon, I hate thee now, methinks !
EGLE.
He merits it. But no ! A lover who e'er hated ?
Love him thou shouldst, nor let thyself be subjugated.
I long have told thee this. Come !
LAMON.
Join the dance with me !
AMINA.
And Eridon?
EGLE.
Now go ! I'll stay ! He'll yield, thou'lt see,
And join thee. Say, would this afford thee any pleasure ?
AMINA.
Immense 1
LAMON.
Now come ! Dost hear the shawm's soft, dulcet measure?
The charming melody ?
(He takes Amina by the hand, and sings and dances.)
egle (sings).
If ever a lover with jealousy vile
Annoys thee, complains of a nod or a smile,
Accuses of falsehood or other invention,
Then sing thou, and dance thou, and pay no attention.
(Lamon carries Amina off with him to the dance.)
amtna (as she goes).
Fail not in thy persuasion !
24 THE WAYWARD LOVER.
Scene VIII.
Egle, and presently Eridon, with a flute and songs,
egle
'Tis well ! We soon shall see ! I long have sought occasion
This shepherd to convert, and make his ways more courtly.
To-day's my wish fulfilled ; I'll teach thee manners shortly !
I'll show thee who thou art ; and at the least suggestion —
He comes ! List, Eridon !
ERIDON,
Where is she ?
EGLE.
What a question !
With Lamon yonder, where thou hearest the cornets blow.
eridon {throwing his flute on the ground and tearing the
songs).
Vile infidelity !
EGLE.
Art mad?
ERIDON.
I should be so.*
The hypocrite first tears the garland from her brow
With smiling face, and says : I will not dance, dear, now !
Did I insist on that ? And . . . O !
(He stamps with his foot, and throws the torn songs away.)
egle (in a composed voice).
Let me inquire
What right hast thou to make her from the dance retire?
Thou wish est that a heart, which with thy love is filled,
Should know no other joys than those by thee instilled ?
Dost think all impulses for pleasure are suppressed,
As soon as thoughts of love pervade a maiden's breast ?
Enough, if she to thee her dearest hours will give,
On thee, when absent, think, with thee would ever live.
'Tis folly, then, my friend, in grief to make her dwell ;
So let her love the dance, and games, and thee, as well.
* This line in the original contains the only false Alexandrine in
the play, — E. A. B.
THE WAYWARD LOVER 25
eeidon (dropping his arms and looking up).
Ah!
EGLE.
Tell rue, dost thou deem that any love is shown
By keeping her with thee ? 'Tis slavery alone.
Thou comest : at the fete no other she may see ,
Thou goest : and forthwith she needs must go with thee ;
She lingers : straightway thou dost give her looks unkind ;
She follows thee, but oft her heart is left behind.
EEIDON.
Perhaps always!
EGLE.
People hear, when bitter words are said,
There where no freedom is, all joys will soon be dead.
Thus are we made. A child a few words may have sung ;
You bid him sing away. He starts and holds his tongue.
If thou her freedom leavest, her love thou'st forfeit ne'er;
If thou behavest too ill, she'll hate thee ; so beware !
EEIDON.
She'll hate me?
EGLE.
Rightly too. Then seize a day like this,
And for thyself procure love's tenderness and bliss !
None but a tender heart, by its own glow impelled,
Can constant be, by love incessantly upheld.
Confess now, canst thou tell if any bird is true,
When kept within a cage ?
EEIDON.
No!
EGLE.
If, with freedom new
It flies o'er gardens, fields, and yet to thee returns ?
EEIDON.
Quite right, I understand !
EGLE.
What rapture in thee burns,
To see the little thing, which loves thee tenderly,
Its freedom know, and yet the preference give to thee t
26 THE WAYWARD LOVER.
And if thy maiden e'er, excited by the dance,
From any fete comes back, and seeks thee, while each
glance
Betrays that all her joys imperfect bliss supply,
While thou, her lover, thou, her own one, art not by ;
If she will then declare one kiss of thine to be
More than a thousand fetes : who would not envy thee ?
idon (moved).
OEgle!
EGLE.
Tremble lest the gods should take amiss
That one so blest as thou so little knows his bliss !
Up ! Be contented, friend ! Or they'll the tears that flow
From that poor maid, avenge.
ERIDON.
Could I accustomed grow,
To see how in the dance her hands so many press, —
While this one ogles her, she looks at that one ! Yes,
When I on this reflect, my heart feels like to break !
EGLE.
What nonsense ! What a fuss for trifles thou dost make !
There's nothing in a kiss !
ERIDON.
A kiss is naught, say'st thou ?
EGLE.
Methinks that in his heart there is some feeling now,
If thus he talks. But say, wilt thou forgive her, friend ?
For when thou art displeased, her sorrow knows no end.
ERIDON.
Ah, friend !
egle (flatteringly).
This will not do ! Thou also art a lover.
Farewell! (She takes him by the hand).
Thou'rt all aglow !
ERIDON.
My blood is boiling over-~— .
EGLE.
With anger still ? Enough ! Thy pardon now has she.
I'll hasten to her straight. She'll trembling ask for thee ;
THE WAYWAED LOVER. 27
I'll tell her : he is kind ; composure this will give her,
Her heart will softer beat, she'll love thee more than ever.
(She looks at him sentimentally.)
She'll surely seek thee out when ended is the feast,
And by the search itself her love will be increased.
(Eglb affects still more tenderness, and leans upon his
shoulder. He takes her hand and kisses it.)
She'll find thee presently ! O what a moment this !
Press her against thy breast and feel thy perfect bliss !
A maid, when dancing, looks more fair, her cheeks are
glowing.
Her mouth is wreathed with smiles, her loosened locks are
flowing
Over her heaving breast, more tender charms enhance
The beauties of her form, when whirling in the dance ;
Her throbbing pulses glow, and as her body sways,
Each nerve appears to thrill and greater life displays.
(She pretends to feel a tender rapture, and sinks upon his
breast, whilst he places his arm around her waist.)
The bliss of seeing this what rapture can excel ?
Thou'lt go not to the fete, and therefore canst not tell.
ERIDON.
Dear friend, upon thy breast I feel it all too well !
(He falls upon Egle's neck and kisses her, while she offers
no resistance. She then steps back a few paces, and
asks in an indifferent tone.)
Lovest thou Amina ?
EEIDON.
As myself !
EGLE.
Yet darest thou
To kiss me ? Thou shalt pay the penalty, I vow !
Thou faithless man !
ERIDON.
But what dost thou suppose that I —
EGLE.
Yes, I suppose it all. My friend, right tenderly
Thou kissedst me, 'tis true. Therewith I'm well content.
Was my kiss good ? No doubt : thy hot lips prove assent.
And ask for more. Poor child ! Amina, wert thou here !
28 THE WAYWARD LOVEB.
ERIDON.
I would she were !
EGLE.
How vain ! She'd wretched be, poor dear !
ERIDON".
Ay she would scold me well. Thou must betray me not.
I've kissed thee, but that kiss will not hurt her a jot ;
And if Amina give me kisses most enchanting,
May I not feel that thine in rapture are not wanting?
EGLE.
Best ask herself.
SCENE IX.
Amina, Egle, Eridon.
ERIDON.
Woe's me !
AMINA.
I long to see him so !
My own dear Eridon ! 'Twas Egle made me go.
Alas, I broke my word ; my friend, I'll go not now.
eridon (aside).
Wretch that I am !
AMINA.
Thou'rt wroth? thy face avertest thou?
eridon (aside).
What can I say?
AMINA.
Alas ! Is all this anger due
For such a little fault ? Thou'rt in the right, 'tis true,
And yet
EGLE.
O let him go ! He gave me such a kiss !
And likes it still.
AMINA.
Kissed thee?
THE WAYWARD LOVER. 29
i
EGLE.
Right tenderly !
AMINA.
Ah, this
Too much is for my heart ! Thy love is thus unsteady ?
Unhappy I ! My friend deserteth me already !
Who kisses other maids, his own will shortly fly.
Ah ! since I thee have loved, like this ne'er acted I ;
To try to reach my lips, no youth has been so daring ;
E'en when I forfeits played my kisses have been sparing.
My heart as much as thine is plagued by jealousy,
Yet I'll forgive thee all, if thou wilt turn to me.
And yet, poor heart, in vain art thou so well protected !
No love for me he feels, since he thy wiles suspected.
The mighty advocate for thee in vain doth plead.
ERIDON.
What loving tenderness ! How vast my shame, indeed !
AMINA.
My friend, oh, how couldst thou seduce away my lover ?
EGLE.
Be comforted, good child ! Thy woes will soon be over.
Well know I Eridon, and know that he is true.
AMINA.
And has —
EGXiE.
Ay, thou art right, and he has kissed me, too.
I know how it occurred ; his fault thou mayest condone.
How deeply he repents !
eridon {falling down before Amina).
Amina ! O my own !
Oh, blame her ! she appeared so pretty when I kissed
Her mouth was very close, and I could not resist.
Yet, if thou knowest me well, thou pardon must impart ;
A little joy like that will not despoil my heart.
EGLE.
Amina, kiss him, since he answers so discreetly !
Despite those little joys, ye love each other sweetly.
30 THE WAYWARD LOVER.
To Eridon.
My friend, thou on thyself must judgment pass this time ;
Although she loves the dance, thou see'st that is no crime.
(Mocking Mm.)
If in the dance a youth her hand may chance to press, —
While this one ogles her, she looks at that one, — yes,
Of even this, thou knowest, thou oughtest not to complain
I trust that thou wilt ne'er Amina plague again.
Methinks thou'lt with us go.
AMINA.
Come, join the fete,
ERIDON.
I will;
A kiss has been my cure.
egle (to Amina).
Thou'lt take that kiss not ill.
Should jealousy again his bosom seek to kindle,
Remind him of that kiss, and 'twill to nothing dwindle.—
And, O ye jealous ones, if maidens plague you e'er,
Recall your own false tricks, and blame them, if ye dare.
REYNARD, THE FOX
I— Goethe Vol 1Q
REYNARD THE FOX.
CHAPTER THE FIRST.
THE ACCUSATION.
The pleasant feast of Whitsuntide was come ;
The woods and hills were clad in vernal bloom;
The full-awakened birds, from every tree,
Made the air ring with cheerful melody;
Sweet were the meadows after passing shower;
Brilliant the heaven with light, the earth with flowers.
Noble, the King of Beasts, now holds his Court;
Thither his summoned Vassals all resort ;
From North and South they troop, from East and West,
Of Birds and Quadrupeds the First and Best.
The Royal will had been proclaimed, that all
Of ev'ry class should come, both Great and Small,
To grace the pomp of that high festival:
Not One should fail; and yet there did fail One;
Reynard the Fox, the Rogue, was seen of none;
His many crimes from Court kept him away;
An evil conscience shuns the light of day.
To face that grave Assembly much he feared,
For all accused him; no one had he spared:
Greybeard, the Badger, stood his friend alone,
The Badger, who was Reynard's Brother's son.
Begirt with many a Relative and Friend,
Who aid in war, in peace might counsel lend,
Sir Isegrim, the Wolf, approached the throne,
3
4 REYNARD THE FOX.
And with due rev'rence bowing humbly down,
His suit in plaintive accents he began,
And thus his wrathful accusation ran: —
"Most gracious Lord and King! in pity hear!
Let my complaint find favor in Your ear.
Happy the subjects of Your glorious reign;
Here none who seek for justice seek in vain.
Vouchsafe, then, to commis'rate my distress;
For Keynard's malice grant me some redress.
Me in all ways the Wretch hath wronged and shamed,
My spouse dishonored and my Children maimed
Three lie at home, the youngest born of six,
Befouled and blinded by his filthy tricks.
" ? T is long ago my plaint in Court was filed,
Showing by Eeynard how Fd been beguiled;
The cunning Fox knew well a plea to draw,
And boldly he presumed to wage his law:
He dared not come at the appointed day;
So I had judgment — and my costs to pay.
All present here can vouch this tale is true;
But none can tell such things as I can do.
Had I the tongues of Angels, lungs of brass,
Whole days and weeks — nay, months and years would
pass
Ere I could mention all my injuries,
Or tell one half his crimes and tricks and lies.
If all the Sheep on earth were killed and flayed
And all their skins were into parchment made,
Not half sufficient were they to contain,
The wrongs whereof I justly could complain:
The worst is the dishonor of my Wife;
That eats away my heart, and sours my life:
Desire of vengeance haunts me, night and day,
And vengeance I will have, come what may."
He ceased, and stood in silent mood apart,
Gloom on his brow and anger in his heart.
Up jumped a Poodle from a neighboring bench,
Hight Frizpate, who addressed the King in French.
And he complained, it was not long-ago,
REYNARD THE FOX.
In winter, when the ground was deep in snow,
That not a single Beast could hunt his prey,
He'd given much in charity away,
And for himself had but one sausage left;
By the false Fox of this he was bereft:
A foul and almost sacrilegious theft!
Scant had he spoken when with fiery eyes,
Tybalt, the Cat, sprang forth in angry wise,
And kneeling cried — "My august and gracious King,
Eeynard must answer many a grievous thing:
Most dreaded of all living beasts is he,
Ay, more than e'en Your sacred Majesty.
Grant me Your patience, though; and hear me out:
Frizpate hath little to complain about:
The thing he speaks of happened years bygone;
That sausage ne'er was his; it was my own,
My all, my only remaining sustenance;
I stumbled on it by the merest chance.
I happened once into a mill to creep;
It was deep night; the Miller fast asleep;
Being at that time stinted in my diet,
I took the sausage; why should I deny it?
But Frizpate filched it from me; so that he
Should be the last to speak of robbery."
The Panther then — "These jars are little use;
Keynard's misdeeds admit of no excuse;
He is a Eobber and a Murderer;
That, in this Presence I boldly aver.
No kind of crime but he doth exercise;
Nought sacred is there in his impious eyes:
His soul is fixed upon ungodly pelf;
Although the Nobles, nay, the King himself
Should suffer loss of health and wealth and all,
And the whole state to helpless ruin fall,
So he could get the leg of a fat Capon, he
Would never care the value of a half -penny.
"Let me relate the trick he tried to play
To Puss, the gentle Hare, but yesterday; —
Poor Puss, who lives just like an Anchoret,
6 REYNARD THE EOX.
And never injured mortal Being yet.
Reynard, who latterly has given out
That he has turned ascetic and devout,
Promis'd he'd teach him at the quickest rate,
How he, as Chaplain, might officiate;
'The service you shall chant;' quoth he, 'as we do;
And we'll begin our lesson with the Credo P
So down they sat together and began;
For he had no misgivings — the good Man.
But not long time continued they to sing;
For, 'gainst the Peace of our dread Lord, the King,
And setting at defiance all his laws,
He seized on Puss with his pernicious claws.
I heard their song as I was passing by,
And wondered that it stopped so suddenly;
I'd scarce proceeded though a dozen span, ere
I took the Felon Eeynard with the mainour.
Fast hold had he of Pussy by the throat,
That he could scarce articulate one note.
Certes, at that time had I not come up,
He'd gone that night in Paradise to sup.
Yon stands our timid Friend; and in his flesh
You still may see his wounds all raw and fresh.
"Will not our Sov'reign Lord these ills abate ?
Will you, brave Peers and pillars of the state,
Such daily breaches of the peace permit,
Such violations of the Eoyal writ?
If there no stop be put to these foul crimes,
Much, do I fear me, that in future times
Frequent reproach the King will have to hear
From all to whom Justice and Right are dear."
Again spake Isegrim: " 'T is even so,
Eeynard has ever been the common Foe;
J T were better he had perished long ago.
For while that wretch shall live, no rest will be
For honest, loyal, peaceful Folk, like me.
Albeit, according to the present fashion,
The Felon ever meets with most compassion;
If such crimes pass unpunished, not a year hence
REYNARD THE FOX.
We all shall rue our most unwise forbearance."
Undaunted by his host of angry Foes,
The Badger, Beynard's Nephew, now uprose;
Boldly prepared to plead his Uncle's cause,
All stained with crime and falsehood as he was.
"Now fair and soft, Sir Isegrim," said he;
"Your words smack less of truth than enmity.
'T is known you hate my Uncle; and, in sooth,
A fair word had he ne'er from your foul mouth.
Yet from your malice hath he nought to fear.
In the King's favor stood he now but here,
He'd give you ample reason to repent
Stirring in these stale subjects of complaint.
You take good care too not to say one word
Of ills that he for your sake hath incurred.
Yet many of the Barons here well know
What happened not so very long ago;
When you and he a solemn covenant sware,
That friendship Each should to the Other bear,
And, like true Comrades, Good and Evil share.
I must relate, it is not long to tell,
The strange adventure which that time befell,
When you and he, in the cold winter weather,
Went through the country travelling together.
"It chanced a Carter, on the King's high road,
Was driving homeward with a heavy load;
Your subtle nostrils soon sniffed out 't was fish;
You'd soon have had them if you'd had your wish:
But they were closely packed; and what was worse,
You'd not a single stiver in your purse.
What then did my kind-hearted Uncle do?
Ah! what indeed hath he not done for you?
Down in the road he laid himself for dead:
'T was a bold thought to come into his head!
And when the Carter saw him lying there
To kill him out-an-end did he prepare;
But, cunning Eeynard still held in his breath,
Stiff'ning his limbs and counterfeiting death;
'T was a consummate masterpiece of art,
8 REYNARD THE FOX.
That showed him cool of head as brave of heart;
The Carter picked him up, and pitched him in his cart.
A cap he thought to make out of his skin,
And a bag too to keep his dollars in.
This did my Uncle do for Isegrim:
When would he venture such a risk for him?
While onward went the Carter with his load,
Reynard kept throwing fish down in the road;
And Isegrim, who was in haste to sup,
Fast as he threw them down, gobbled them up.
Reynard grew weary of this sport at last,
And thought 'twas his turn now to break his fast;
So down he sprang; but with disgust and wonder
Found Isegrim had pilfered all the plunder:
He'd stuffed till he was nigh to burst in sunder.
He told my Uncle he had left his share —
But nothing but the heads and bones were there.
" Another of his tricks I must narrate;
And so Heav'n help me, as I truth relate.
A Countryman had lately killed a Swine;
Large were its hams and noble was its chine.
Reynard had found out where the carcase hung
And told it Isegrim with truthful tongue.
And they agreed in common they would toil,
Would share the danger and divide the spoil:
To Reynard's share the danger fell alone;
But of the spoil, forsooth, he'd next to none.
The larder-walls were strong and steep and high;
My Uncle clomb them, though, right skillfully;
True to his word, did he the Porker throw
Out of the window to the Wolf below.
Now, by bad fortune, there were in the grounds
A couple of most ill-conditioned Hounds;
They chased my Uncle with appalling din;
He got away, but not with a whole skin:
And straight unto the Wolf his way did make,
To show what he had suffered for his sake,
And claim his lawful share; then Isegrim
Said he'd reserved the prime tit-bit for him;
REYNARD THE FOX. 9
And thrusting in his cheek his lying tongue,
Produced the hook by which the Pig had hung.
His feelings Reynard had no words t ? express,
But what he felt all present here may guess.
"Scores of such pranks I might remember well,
Were you inclined to hear, and I to tell
But 't is enough: were Reynard summoned here,
Soon would he make his innocence appear
"As for the other charge, 't is most absurd;
You, my dread Liege, and you, my Lords, have heard
What Isegrim has said about his Wife,
Whom } t was his duty to protect with life.
In all its details that affair I know;
It happened now just seven years ago,
That Reynard's bosom first received a wound
From the soft eyes of Lady Gieremund.
My Uncle is not to be blamed at all:
They met together at a fancy ball:
Is'grim had gone upon a tour to Rome:
Husbands, if wise, would always stay at home.
My Uncle proffered her his faith and troth;
She sanctioned his attentions, nothing loth.
Is it not, therefore, a most crying shame,
That her own Lord should sully her fair fame ?
What any Man of honor would conceal,
He seems to take a pleasure to reveal.
"What have we next? This trumpery affair,
The Panther has brought up about the Hare.
Such utter trash! what! shall a Master scruple
To chastise a perverse or sluggish Pupil?
If this be so, how are our Youth to be
Trained up in learning and morality?
The wisest book that ever was compiled
Says, if you spare the rod you spoil the child.
"Then we have Mounseer Frizpate, who complains
He was deprived of his ill-gotten gains.
A pretty fuss, forsooth, about a sausage!
? T were better he said nothing of that passage.
For it turns out ? t was stolen; and the Thief
10 REYNARD THE FOX.
Has the assurance now to ask relief.
The evil on his own head has recoiled:
'T is only just the Spoiler should be spoiled.
Is Eeynard blamed, that from a Eobber he
Has wrung the fruits of his dishonesty?
He did his duty, that deny who can,
Like a true Fox and loyal Gentleman.
Why, had he hanged him on the spot, I ween,
He must assuredly have pardoned been:
But he respects the King's Prerogative,
And therefore spared the Thief and let him live.
"But little justice can my Uncle get;
At least, but little hath he got as yet;
Since the King's Peace was publicly made known,
No one hath led the life that he hath done,
With books he passes half his time away,
And takes but one abstemious meal a day.
Water his only drink, and roots his food;
Poultry and butchers' meat he hath eschew'd,
And cannot bear the very thought of blood;
With whips doth mortify his flesh, and wear
Next to his very skin a shirt of hair.
I, heard it mentioned only yesterday,
By one who happened to have passed that way;
His castle, Malepartus, he hath shut,
And in the desert built a Hermit's hut.
So lean and pale and haggard he hath grown,
By his best Friends he scarcely would be known.
But 'tis the burden of a good old song,
That absent Folks are ever in the wrong.
I only wish to Heav'n that he were here;
From all these scandals he would soon be clear."
Scarce had he ceased, when from a neighb'ring hill
A cry resounded, like a clarion shrill.
The voice it was of honest Chanticleer,
Who with his Wives and Concubines drew near;
A dead Hen borne behind him on a bier.
It was the headless corpse of young Greyleg,
As good a Fowl as ever laid an egg;
REYNARD THE FOX. 11
His fav'rite Daughter of a num'rous brood;
And impious Reynard now had shed her blood.
Foremost the sad and .mourning Sire doth stride,
His dappled wings low trailing by his side;
While after him two youthful Cock'rells march,
Each bearing in his grasp a burning torch;
Cantart of one, Cryart the other's name;
'Twixt France and Holland none more known to fame;
They were the Brothers of the murdered Dame.
Four tender Pullets bore their Mother's bier,
Clucking so loud 't was pitiful to ear;
Dire was the clatter, awful were the cries,
And the shrill clamor pierced the startled skies.
Soon as the Heralds silence had restor'd,
Unto the throne stepped up the martial Bird;
O'erwhelm'd with woe he thrice essayed to speak,
And thrice the words died choking in his beak.
Ashamed so chicken-hearted to appear,
He gave one vig'rous crow his voice to clear,
And thus began; — "My Liege and Sov'reign, hail!
With pity listen to my grievous tale:
See upon yonder blood-stained bier,
A proof of Eeynard's cruel spite,
And wanton enmity to right,
Partlett, the best and most submissive Wife
That ever solaced a poor Husband's life.
How joyed was I with her and them to rove,
And watch my Offspring full of life and love.
That time no terrors for their lot I felt,
For in complete security we dwelt:
Our home was in a convent's spacious yard,
Whose lofty walls its inmates safely guard;
And six stout Dogs belonging to the farm,
Who loved us well, protected us from harm.
"Reynard, it seems, that lawless Reprobate,
Like Satan, envying our happy state,
Around our Eden often lay in wait.
Stealthily round the walls by night he'd creep,
And through the crannies of the gates would peep.
12 REYNARD THE EOX.
The trusty Guardians of myself and Wife
Oft made the Kuffian scamper for dear life;
Once they did catch him, and well tanned his hide,
He got away, though sorely scarified;
And for a good while after let us bide.
"But, ah, Sire! now begins my tale of woe:
Again he came, and that not long ago;
Within our convent walls he slily slunk
Clad in the vestments of a holy Monk,
Wore a long frock, and sandals 'stead of shoes
And looked for all the world like a Eecluse.
Water his only drink and roots his food;
All flesh of every kind he had eschewed,
And could not bear the very thought of blood.
But that my Wife and Daughters present were,
He said he would have shown the shirt of hair,
Which he for penance next his skin must wear
And, on the word and honor of a Fowl,
I myself saw the tonsure 'neath his cowl.
Tow'rds him I own I felt my heart relent,
He seem'd so really, truly penitent;
He spoke of his past sins with such compunction,
And of the Heavenly grace with so much unction.
Tare well!' at length he cried, 'I needs must go;
'I still have many pious deeds to do;
'I have the Nones and Vespers yet to say,
'And by a dying Vulture's bed to pray.
'He too was a sad Sinner in his day.
'Bless you, my Children, may you ever thrive
'In the calm peace which this World cannot give/
And saying thus, the odious Hypocrite
Crossing himself departed from our sight.
He left us, all his soul on mischief bent;
While ours were filled with happiest content.
"We ventured forth; and habit, more than fear,
Kept us at first to the old convent near.
Keynard we daily saw near our abode;
It seem'd some bus'ness led him oft that road;
His looks were ever bent upon the ground,
REYNARD THE FOX. 13
As though his mind were lost in thought profound;
Or, if he chanced our family to see,
It was 'Good'en' and 'Benedicite;'
And he would tell his beads and seem to pray,
And smite his breast, and so pass on his way.
"Now, bolder grown, we further went abroad,
In search of pleasure and our daily food.
Ah! fatal error! from behind a bush
Eeynard among us made a sudden rush.
Scattering and squandering to the left and right,
Tow'rds our old home we took our screaming flight,
In vain, alas! our Foe was there before;
In threatening guise he barred us from the door:
With surer aim this time he bore away
Of all my Sons the fairest as his prey:
And I was there, and impotent to save!
My Son! my Son! my Beautiful! my Brave!
"And now he once had tasted of our blood,
It seemed as he disdained all other food:
At all times came he on us — night and day —
Nor Dogs, nor Men, nor gates, kept him away.
Of all mine Offspring I'm well nigh bereft;
Five, out of twenty, all that now are left:
With grief and terror I am all but wild;
Soon he will leave me neither Chick nor Child.
Oh, give me justice! 'twas but yesterday
He tore my daughter from my side away;
Villain! without or pity or remorse:
The Dogs were but in time to save her corse.
See, there she lies! my Child whom Eeynard slew!
Help me, or he will have the Others too!
Oh! Cock-a-doodle, cock-a-doodle doo!"
Fierce was the fire that in the King's eye burned,
As to the Badger wrathfully he turned,
And thus began; "Come hither, Sir, and see
This sample of your Uncle's piety!
Now by my royal name I make a vow,
This Miscreant shall not pass unpunish'd so,
If Heav'n preserve my life another year.
14 REYNARD THE FOX.
But words avail not. Honest Chanticleer,
I claim the right your injuries to redress,
To share, if not to lessen, your distress.
Entombed shall your fair Daughter be, with all
The pomp befits a royal funeral:
A Vigil shall be sung, a Mass be said,
The more to honor the illustrious Dead :
We with our Council will the while take thought
How may the Murd'rer be to justice brought."
In sable was the Chapel Royal hung;
The Mass was duly said, the Vigil sung.
The People, joining with the Quiristers
Sang Domino 'placebo, verse by verse.
I could relate who gave each versicle,
Who the responses; but 't were long to tell;
And so I pass it by: 't is just as well.
Deep in a grave they laid the honor'd Dead,
And placed a marble tablet at her head;
? T was thick, and square, and polished bright as glass,
With this inscription graven on its face:
Greyleg the speckled one lies buried here
The dear-loved Daughter op brave Chanticleer
Throughout the earth 't were vain to seek her
MATCH
ISTo Hen could oft'ner lay or featlier scratch
In Reynard's clutch she drew her latest breath
And passed untimely to the realms of death
Let all good men her murd'rer execrate
And shed a tear of pity for her fate.
Meanwhile the King in solemn Council sate,
Discussing with the Wisest in his state,
How they the Culprit might to Justice draw
And vindicate the majesty of Law.
At length it was resolved, by one and all,
To send a summons to the Criminal,
Commanding him, all business laid aside,
He should to Court repair, and there his doom abide.
REYNARD THE FOX. 15
The summons writ and sealed, Bruin, the Bear,
Selected they to be the Messenger;
And him the King addressed; "Sir Bruin, see
That you perform your mission faithfully.
We know you stout of limb and brave of heart;
Yet we would counsel caution on your part;
Courage is oft but a poor match for art.
Eeynard, remember, speaks but to deceive;
Neither his lies nor flattery believe,
Or you may soon have too good cause to grieve/'
"Fear not, my Liege," the trusty Bear replied,
Confident in his strength and shaggy hide
"Eeynard, however tricksy he may be,
Will not, I wager, try his tricks on me.
Me or my mission can he treat with scorn,
Fll make him rue the hour that he was born."
CHAPTER THE SECOND.
THE FIRST SUMMONS.
Now with his ragged staff the Bear set forth,
And with his best grease larded the lean earth.
Through the forests vast he went and deserts drear;
But his bold heart knew neither doubt nor fear.
At length the mountain region he approached,
Wherein Sir Reynard generally poached:
But Bruin would not tarry or delay;
Tow'rds Malepartus held he on his way,
The fav'rite fastness of the Robber Chief;
And there he hoped to catch the wily Thief:
Thither for safety usually he fled,
When threatening danger overhung his head.
At length Sir Bruin stood before the gate,
And, finding it was shut, he scratched his pate,
Not knowing whether best to go or wait.
Then he began to cry, with mighty din;
"What, cousin Reynard, ho! are you within?
Bruin the Bear it is who calls. t I bring
A missive from our Sovereign'Lord, the King:
He orders you, all business laid aside,
Repair to Court and there your doom abide;
That equal right and justice may be done,
And satisfaction given to every one.
Lam to fetch you: if you hesitate,
The gallows or the wheel will be your fate.
Better come at once, fair cousin, sith
The king, you know, will not be trifled with."
Reynard, from the beginning to the end,
Had heard this summons; and did now perpend
16
REYNARD THE FOX. 17i
In what way he might punish his fat Friend.
Into a private corner he had fled,
Where he could hear securely all was said.
His keep was built with many a secret door,
With traps above and pits beneath the floor;
With labyrinthine passages and channels,
With secret chambers and with sliding panels.
There he would often hide, the cunning Hound,
When he was wanted, and would not be found.
Amid this intricate obscurity,
Where none could safely find his path but he,
Full many a simple Beast has lost his way,
And to the wily Robber fall'n a prey.
Reynard suspected there might be some cheat;
For the Deceitful always fear deceit.
Was Bruin quite alone? He felt afraid,
There might be others hid in ambuscade.
But soon as he was fully satisfied
His fears were vain, forth from the door he hied;
And, "Welcome, dearest Uncle, here;" quoth he,
With studied look of deep humility,
And the most Jesuitical of whispers,
"I heard you call; but I was reading Vespers.
I am quite grieved you should have had to wait,
In this cold wind too, standing at my gate.
How glad I am you're come; for I feel sure
With your kind aid, my cause will be secure;
However that may be, at least, I know
More welcome nobody could be than you.
But truly 't was a pity I must say
T' have sent you such a long and tedious way.
Good Heav'ns! how hot you are! you're tired to death!
How wet your hair is, and how scant your breath!
Although no slight our good king could have meant,
Some other Messenger he might have sent
Than Bruin, the chief glory of his Court,
His kingdom's main adornment and support.
Though I should be the last to blame his choice,
Who have in sooth no cause but to rejoice.
18 REYNARD THE FOX.
How I am slandered well aware am I,
But on your love of Justice I rely,
That you will speak of things just as you find them;
As to my Enemies I need not mind them:
Their malice vainly shall my cause assail;
For Truth, we know, is great, and must prevail.
"To Court to-morrow we will take our way:
I should myself prefer to start to-day,
Not having cause — why should I have? — to hide;
But I am rather bad in my inside.
By what I've eaten I am quite upset,
And nowise fitted for a journey yet/'
"What was it?" asked Sir Bruin, quite prepar'd,
For Beynard had not thrown him off his guard.
"Ah!" quoth the Fox, "what boots it to explain?
E'en }^our kind pity could not ease my pain.
Since flesh I have abjured, for my soul's weal,
I'm often sadly put to 't for a meal.
I bear my wretched life as best I can;
A Hermit fares not like an Alderman.
But yesterday, as other viands failed,
I ate some honey, — see how I am swelled!
Of that there's always to be had enough:
Would I had never touched the cursed stuff.
I ate it out of sheer necessity;
Physic is not so nauseous near to me."
"Honey!" exclaimed the Bear; "did you say honey?
Would I could get any for love or money!
How can you speak so ill of what's so good?,
Honey has ever been my fav'rite food;
It is so wholesome, and so sweet and luscious;
I can't conceive how you can call it nauseous.
Do get me some on't; and you may depend
You'll make me evermore your steadfast friend."
"You're surely joking, Uncle!" Reynard cried;
"No, on my sacred word!" the Bear replied;
"I'd not, though jokes as blackberries were rife,
Joke upon such a subject for my life." «
"Well! you surprise me;" said the knavish Beast;
REYNARD THE POX. 19
"There's no accounting certainly for taste;
And one Man's meat is oft Another's poison.
I'll wager that you never set your eyes on
Such store of honey as you soon shall spy
At Gaffer Joiner's, who lives here hard by."
In fancy o'er the treat did Bruin gloat;
While his mouth fairly watered at the thought.
"Oh, take me, take me there, dear Coz," quoth he,
"And I will ne'er forget your courtesy.
Oh, let me have a taste, if not my fill:
Do, Cousin." Eeynard grinned, and said, "I will.
Honey you shall not long time be without:
'Tis true just now I'm rather sore of foot;
But what of that? the love I bear to you
Shall make the road seem short and easy too.
Not one of all my kith or kin is there
Whom I so honor as th' illustrious Bear.
Come then! and in return I know you'll say
A good word for me on the Council-day.
You shall have honey to your heart's content,
And wax too, if your fancy's that way bent."
Whacks of a different sort the sly Rogue meant.
Off starts the wily Fox, in merry trim,
And Bruin blindly follows after him.
"If you have luck," thought Reynard, with a titter,
"I guess you'll find our honey rather bitter."
When they at length reached Goodman Joiner's yard,
The joy that Bruin felt he might have spar'd.
But Hope, it seems, by some eternal rule,
Beguiles the Wisest as the merest Fool.
'Twas ev'ning now, and Reynard knew, he said,
The Goodman would be safe and sound in bed.
A good and skilful Carpenter was he:
Within his yard there lay an old oak tree,
Whose gnarled and knotted trunk he had to split;
A stout wedge had he driven into it:
The cleft gaped open a good three foot wide;
Towards this spot the crafty Reynard hied;
"Uncle," quoth he, "your steps this way direct,
20 REYNARD THE FOX.
You'll find more honey here than you suspect.
In at this fissure boldly thrust your pate;
But I beseech j^ou to be moderate:
Remember, sweetest things the soonest cloy,
And Temperance enhances every joy."
"What!" said the Bear, a shock'd look as he put on
Of self-restraint; "d'ye take me for a Glutton?
With thanks I use the gifts of Providence,
But to abuse them count a grave offense."
And so Sir Bruin let himself be fooled:
As Strength will be whene'er by Craft 'tis ruled.
Into the cleft he thrust his greedy maw
Up to the ears, and either foremost paw.
Reynard drew near; and tugging might and main
Pull'd forth the wedge; and the trunk closed again.
By head and foot was Bruin firmly caught:
Nor threats nor flatt'ry could avail him aught.
He howled, he raved, he struggled and he tore,
Till the whole place re-echoed with his roar;
And Goodman Joiner, wakened by the rout,
Jumped up much wond'ring what 'twas all about;
And seized his axe, that he might be prepaid,
And danger, if it came, might find him on his guard.
Still howled the Bear and struggled to get free
From the accursed grip of that cleft tree.
He strove and strained; but strained and strove in vain,
His mightiest efforts but increased his pain:
He thought he never should get loose again.
And Eeynard thought the same, for his own part;
And wished it too, devoutly from his heart.
And as the Joiner coming he espied,
Armed with his axe, the jesting Ruffian cried:
"Uncle, what cheer? Is th' honey to your taste?
Don't eat too quick, there's no such need of haste.
The Joiner's coming; and I make no question,
He brings you your dessert, to help digestion."
Then deeming 'twas not longer safe to stay,
To Malepartus back he took his way.
The Joiner, when he came and saw the Bear;
REYNARD THE FOX. 21
Off to the ale-house did with speed repair,
Where oft the Villagers would sit and swill;
And a good many sat carousing still.
"Neighbors," quoth he, "be quick! In my court-yard
A Bear is trapped; come, and come well prepared:
I vow, 'tis true." Up started every Man,
And pell-mell, helter-skelter off they ran;
Seizing whatever handiest they could take,
A pitch-fork One, Another grasps a rake,
A Third a flail; and arm'd was ev'ry one
With some chance weapon, stick or stake or stone.
The Priest and Sacristan both joined the throng,
A mattock this, the other bore a prong.
The Parson's Maid came too; Judith her name,
And fair was she of face and fair of fame;
(His Rev'rence could not live without her aid;
She cooked his victuals, and she warmed his bed.)
She brought the distaff she had used all day,
With which she hoped the luckless Bear to pay.
Bruin with terror heard th' approaching roar,
And with fresh desperation tugged and tore:
His head he thus got free from out the cleft;
But hide and hair, alack! behind he left;
While from the hideous wound the crimson blood
Adown his breast in copious currents flow'd.
Was never seen so pitiable a Beast!
It holp him not his head to have releas'd;
His feet still being fastened in the tree,
These with one more huge effort he set free.
But than his head no better fared his paws;
For he rent off alike the skin and claws.
This was in sooth a different sort of treat
From what he had expected there to meet;
He wished to Heav'n he ne'er had ventured there:
It was a most unfortunate affair!
Bleeding upon the ground he could but sprawl,
For he could neither stand, nor walk, nor crawl.
The Joiner now came up with all his Crew:
To the attack with eager souls they flew:
22 REYNARD THE FOX.
With thwacks and thumps belaboring the poor Wight ;
They hoped to slay him on the spot outright.
The Priest kept poking at him with his prong,
From afar off — the handle being long.
Bruin in anguish rolled and writhed about;
Each howl of his called forth an answering shout.
On every side his furious Foemen swarmed,
With spits and spades, with hoes and hatchets armed;
Weapons all wielded too by nerves of pith:
His huge sledge-hammer bore the sinewy Smith.
They struck, they yelled, they pelted and they hallooed;
While in a pool of filth poor Bruin wallowed.
To name these Heroes were too long by half:
There was long-nosed Jem, the bandy Ralph;
These were the worst; but crooked-fingered Jack,
With his flail fetched him many a grievous thwack:
His Step-brother, hight Cuckelson the Fat,
Stood, but aloof, with an enormous bat:
Dame Judith was not idle with her distaff:
While Gaffer Grumble stirr'd him up with his staff;
And Men and Women many more were there,
All vowing vengeance 'gainst th' unhappy Bear.
The foremost — in the noise — was Cuckelson:
He boasted that he was Dame Gertrude's Son:
And all the World believed that this was true;
But who his father, no one ever knew.
Fame indeed said — but Fame is such a Liar,
That Brother Joseph, the Franciscan Friar,
Might, if he chose, claim the paternity;
Or share the same with Others, it might be.
Now stones and brick-bats from all sides were show-
er'd;
And Bruin, tho' he scorned to die a Coward,
Was by opposing numbers all but overpower'd.
The Joiner's Brother then, whose name was Scrub,
Whirling around his head a massive club,
Eushed in the midst, with execrations horrid,
And dealt the Bear a blow plump on the forehead.
That blow was struck with such tremendous might,
REYNARD THE FOX. 23
Bruin lost both his hearing and his sight.
One desperate plunge he made though, and as luck
Would have it, 'mong the Women ran a-muck.
Ye Saints! how they did scream and shriek and squall!
Over each other how they tumbled all!
And some fell in the stream that ran hard by,
And it was deep just there, unluckily.
The pastor cried aloud — "Look, neighbors, look!
See, yonder — in the water — Jude, my Cook;
With all her wool — she's left her distaff here,
Help! save her! you shall have a cask of beer;
As well as absolution for past crimes,
And full indulgence for all future times/'
Fired with the promised boon, they left the Bear,
Who lay half dead, all stunned and stupid there;
Plunged to the Women's rescue; fished out five;
All that had fallen in, and all alive.
The miserable Bear, while thus his Foes
Were busied, finding respite from their blows;
Managed to scramble to the river's brim;
And in he rolled; but not with hopes to swim;
For life a very burden was to him :
Those shameful blows no more he could abide;
They pierced his soul more than they pained his hide.
He wished to end his days in that deep water,
Nor feared t' incur the perils of self -slaughter.
But no! against his will he floated down;
It seemed in truth he was not born to drown.
Now when the Bear's escape the Men descried,
"Oh shame! insufferable shame!" they cried;
Then in a rage began to rate the Women;
"See where the Bear away from us is swimming;
Had you but stayed at home, your proper place,
We should not have encountered this disgrace."
Then to the cleft tree turning, they found there
The bleeding strips of Bruin's hide and hair;
At this into loud laughter they broke out,
And after him thus sent a jeering shout;
"You'll sure come back again, old Devil-spawn,
24 REYNARD THE EOX.
As you have left your wig and gloves in pawn."
Thus insult added they to injury,
And Bruin heard them and sore hurt was he;
He cursed them all, and his own wretched fate;
He cursed the Honey that had heen his bait;
He cursed the Fox who led him in the Snare;
He even cursed the King who sent him there.
Such were his pray'rs as quick he swept along,
For the stream bore him onward, swift and strong;
So, without effort, in a little while,
He floated down the river near a mile.
Then with a heavy heart he crawled on shore,
For he was wet and weary, sick and sore.
The Sun throughout his course would never see
A Beast in such a shocking plight as he.
Hard and with pain he fetched his lab'ring breath,
And every moment looked and wished for death.
His head swam round with a strange sort of dizziness,
As he thought o'er the whole perplexing business.
"Oh, Beynard!" he gasped out, 'Thou Traitor vile!
Oh, Scoundrel, Thief!" and more in the same style.
He thought upon the tree; the jibes and knocks
He had endured; and once more cursed the Fox.
Keynard, well pleased t' have cozened Uncle Bruin,
And lured him, as he thought, to his sure ruin,
Had started off upon a Chicken-chase;
He knew, close by, a tried and fav'rite place.
A fine fat Pullet soon became his prey,
Which in his felon clutch he bore away:
This he devoured, bones and all, right speedily;
And, if the truth be spoken, somewhat greedily.
Prepared for any chance that might betide,
He slowly sauntered by the river side;
Stopping from time to time to take a draught;
And thought aloud, while in his sleeve he laugh'd:
"How pleased I am t' have trick'd that stupid Bear!
Honey he longed for, and has had his share;
I'm not to blame ; I warned him of the wax;
By this he knows how tastes a Joiner's axe.
REYNARD THE FOX. 25
I'm glad to have shown him this good turn, as he
Has ever been so good and kind to me.
Poor Uncle! well; by chance should he be dead,
I'll for his soul have scores of masses said.
It is the best methinks that I can do."
While musing thus he chanced to look below;
And saw Sir Bruin on the other shore
Writhing and welt'ring in a pool of gore.
Reynard could scarce, so great was his surprise,
Believe the evidence of his own eyes.
"Bruin alive! and in this place!" quoth he,
"Why, Joiner, what a Booby you must be!
A Bear's hams make the most delicious food!
You could not surely know they were so good.
A dish, by which a Duke would set vast store,
To be so slighted by a stupid Boor!
My friend has left though, I am glad to see,
A pledge for your kind hospitality."
Thus spake the Fox, as he beheld the Bear,
Lying all weary-worn and bleeding there.
Then he called out — "Why, Uncle, is that you?
What upon earth can you have here to do?
You've something at the Joiner's left, I fear,
Shall I run back and let him know you're here?
Prithee, is stolen Honey very sweet?
Or did you honestly pay for your treat?
How red your face is! you have ate too quick;
I trust you have not gorged till you are sick.
Really you should have been more moderate;
I could have got you lots at the same rate.
Nay, I declare — I trust there is no harm in't —
You seem t' have on some sort of Priestly garment;
With scarlet gloves, and collar too, and hat;
Rather a dangerous prank to play is that.
Yet, now I look more close, your ears are gone, sure;
Have you of late submitted to the tonsure,
And did the stupid Barber cut them off?"
Thus did the cruel-hearted Reynard scoff;
While Bruin, all unable to reply,
26 REYNARD THE FOX.
Could only moan with grief and agony.
No longer could he these sharp gibes sustain,
So crept into the water back again:
He floated downward with the stream once more,
And again landed on the shelving shore.
There in a miserable state he lay,
And piteously unto himself did say;
"That Some one would but slay me here outright !
Ne'er shall I reach the Court in this sad plight;
But on this spot in shame and grief shall die,
A mortal proof of Eeynard's treachery.
Oh! I will have a dire revenge, I swear,
If it please Providence my life to spare."
With firm resolve his pain to overcome,
At length he started on his journey home;
And after four long toilsome days were past,
Crippled and maimed, he reached the Court at last.
When the King saw the Bear so sorely maimed,
"Great Heaven! Is this Sir Bruin?" he exclaimed;
"My trusty Messenger in such a state!"
"Ah, Sire!" said Bruin, "and is this the fate
That should a King's Ambassador befall?
But spare my breath — the Fox has done it all."
Then spake the King in wrath; "Now by the Mass,
This outrage vile shall not unpunished pass.
What! shall the noblest Baron of our court
Afford this Traitor means of savage sport?
No; by the sceptre and my crown I swear,
If crown or sceptre I am fit to bear,
Or of stern Justice longer wield the sword,
Eight shall be done ! Pledged is my royal word."
Summoned in haste the Council promptly sate,
On this fresh outrage to deliberate.
Subject to the King's will, they all agree
That Eeynard once again must summoned be;
At Court he should appear; and, if he might,
Answer th ? impeachment and defend his right.
Tybalt, the Cat, should now the summons carry,
As he was well known to be wise and wary.
REYNARD THE FOX. 271
So counselled One and All: the King, concurr'd;
And thus to Tybalt spoke his Sovereign Lord;
"Now mark your mission and the sequence well;
If a third summons Reynard should compel,
He and his whole Race, I have sworn an oath,
Shall feel the deadly power of my wrath.
So let him come in time, if he be wise;
Nor this last warning recklessly despise."
Tybalt replied: "My Liege, I fear that I
Shall scarcely prosper in this embassy;
Not that indeed I ought to say, 'I fear;'
To do Your will all danger would I dare:
I merely hint, that for this task, of All
I am least fit, being so very small.
If the stout, stalwart Eear was so abused,
What can poor I do? Hold me, pray, excused."
"Nay," said the King, "Wisdom and Wit, 't is. known,
Are not the attributes of Strength alone.
How often do we see a little Man
Succeed more neatly than a great one can.
Though not a Giant, you are learned and wise,
And Wisdom compensates for want of Size."
The Cat was flattered and he bowed his head;
"Your will be done, my Sovereign Liege," he said;
"If on my right I only see a sign,
A prosperous journey will, I know, be mine."
CHAPTEE THE THIRD.
THE SECOND SUMMONS.
Not far did Tybalt on his journey get,
Before a Magpie on the wing he met:
"Hail, noble bird;" quoth he, "vouchsafe to 'light,
As a propitious omen, on my right."
The Magpie screeched; his onward way he cleft;
Then stooped his wing and perched on Tybalt's left.
The Cat much serious ill from this forbode,
But on it put the best face that he could.
To Malepartus he proceeded straight,
And found Sir Reynard sitting at his gate.
"Good Even, gentle Cousin," Tybalt said,
"May bounteous Heav'n show'r blessings on your head.
I bring sad news; the King has sent to say,
If you come not to Court without delay,
Not only your own life will forfeit be,
His wrath will fall on your whole Family."
"Welcome, dear Nephew," quoth the Fox; "not less
I wish you ev'ry kind of happiness."
Though thus he spoke, it went against his will;
For in his heart he wished him ev'ry ill;
And thought 't would be the very best of sport
To send him also back disgraced to Court.
"Nephew," said he; for he still called him Nephew;
"Step in and see what supper we can give you;
You must be tired; and all physicians tell ye,
You can't sleep soundly on an empty belly.
I am your host for once; you stay to-night;
And we'll to Court start with to-morrow's light.
For you of all my Kindred love I best,
28
REYNARD THE FOX. 29
To you confide myself the readiest.
That brutal Bear was here the other day,
Bouncing and swaggering in such a way,
That not for all the world contains would I
Myself have trusted in his company.
But having you my Comrade, travelling
Will be a very different sort of thing.
So you will share our potluck, then to bed,
And off we start by sunrise: that's agreed."
"Nay," replied Tybalt, "why not go to-night?
The roads are dry; the moon is shining bright."
May be, the omen on his mem'ry struck;
May be, he had no fancy for potluck.
"I am not fond of travelling after nightfall;"
Replies the Fox; "some People are so spiteful;
Who, though by day they civilly would greet you,
Would cut your throat, if they by night should meet
you."
"Well, but," says Tybalt, in a careless way,
"What have you got for supper if I stay?"
Says Reynard, "Well, I candidly avow,
Our larder is but poorly stocked just now;
But we've some honey-comb, if you like that."
"Like such infernal rubbish!" quoth the Cat,
And spat, and sware a loud and lusty oath,
As he was wont to do when he was wroth;
"If you indeed had got a Mouse or so,
I should much relish them; but honey — pooh!"
"What!" answers Reynard, "are you fond of Mice?
I think I can procure some in a trice,
If you are in earnest; for the Priest, my Neighbor,
Vows that to keep them down is quite a labor;
In his tithe barn so num'rously they swarm;
They do him, he declares, no end of harm."
Thoughtlessly said the Cat, "Do me the favor
To take me where these Mice are; for in flavor
All other game they beat out of the field;
Beside the sport which they in hunting yield."
"Well," says the Fox, "now that I know your taste,
30 EEYNARD THE FOX.
Fll promise you shall have a sumptuous feast.
We'll start at once and not a moment waste."
Tybalt had faith and followed; quickly they
Beached the Priest's tithe barn, built with walls of clay.
Only the day before, Reynard a hole
Had through it scratched, and a fat Pullel stole.
Martin, the Priest's young Son — or Nephew rather,
For he was ne'er allowed to call him Father, —
Had found the theft out, and, if possible,
Determined to find out the Thief as well;
So, craftily, a running noose he tied,
And fixed it firmly by the hole inside;
Thus hoped he to avenge the stolen Pullet,
Should the Thief chance return, upon his gullet.
Eeynard, suspecting something of the sort,
Said, "Nephew dear, I wish you lots of sport;
In at this opening you can safely glide;
And while you're mousing, Fll keep watch outside.
You'll catch them by the dozen, now 'tis dark.
How merrily they chirrup; only hark!
I shall be waiting here till you come back;
So come as soon as you have had your whack.
To-night, whatever happens, we'll not part,
As we so early in the morning start."
Tybalt replies, as any prudent Beast would,
"I've no great faith, I own it, in the Priesthood:
Is't quite safe, think ye?" Eeynard answers, "Well;
Perhaps not: 't is impossible to tell;
We'd best return at once, as you're so nervous;
My Wife, I'll answer for it, will not starve us;
She'll toss us up for supper something nice,
If not quite so much to your taste as Mice."
Stung to the quick by Reynard's taunting tongue,
Into the op'ning Tybalt boldly sprung,
And plunged directly in the ready snare:
Such entertainment and such dainty fare
Did the sly Fox for all his Guests prepare.
When the Cat felt the string about his neck,
He gave a sideward spring and got a check;
REYNARD THE FOX. 31
This made him throw a wondrous somersault,
And, the noose tightening, lie was fairly caught.
To Keynard then he loudly called for aid,
Who listening at the hole in mockery said;
"Nephew, how are the Mice? I hope they're fat;
They are well fed enough, I'm sure of that:
If the Priest knew his vermin were your venison,
I'm sure he'd bring some mustard, with his benison;
Or send his son with it, — that best of Boys.
But Nephew, prithee, why make such a noise?
Is it at Court the fashion so to sing
At meals? It seems an inconvenient thing.
Oh! but I wish the gentle Isegrim
Were in your place; how I would badger him!
I stake my tail on't I would make him pay
For all the ill he's wrought me many a day."
Then off he starts t' indulge some other vice;
No matter what; he was not over nice:
There never lived a Soul, at any time,
More foully tainted with all kinds of crime;
Murder and theft, adultery and perjury;
'T was past the skill of spiritual surgery;
He'd broke the Ten Commandments o'er and o'er
And would as readily have broke a score.
He fancied now some fresh sport might be found
In a short visit to Dame Gieremund;
This he proposed with a two-fold intent;
To learn the grounds of Isegrim's complaint;
And likewise to renew an ancient sin,
Which he especially delighted in.
Is'grim, he knew, was absent at the Court;
And it was common subject of report,
The She- Wolf 's passion for the shameless Fox
Had made her Husband's hatred orthodox.
When Eeynard to the Wolf's retreat had come,
He found Dame Gieremund was not at home:
"God bless you, my Stepchildren dear:" quoth he;
And to the young ones nods good-humour'dly;
The object of his call he never mentions; '
32 REYNARD THE FOX.
But hastes away after his own inventions.
Dame Gieremund returns at break of day;
"Has no one called here, while I've been away?"
Asks she; her Children answer, "Yes, Mamma:
We've had a visit from our Godpapa,
Eeynard; he called us his Stepchildren though;
What did he mean by that?" "I'll let him know;"
Quoth she, and angrily she hurried off,
Determined to avenge this cutting scoff.
She knew where it was likely she should meet him;
And when she found him thus began to greet him:
"Wretch, Monster, Brute!" her rage was quite bewilde-
ring;
"How dare you use such language to my Children?
You, of all Men, t' attack my character!
But you shall dearly pay for it, I swear."
With that she flew at him, and — oh disgrace!
She pulled him by the beard and scratched his face.
Then first he felt the power of her teeth,
As, grappled by the throat; he gasped for breath;
He 'scaped her clutches though, and fled amain;
She, after him; and mark, what happened then.
It chanced a ruined abbey stood in sight,
And thitherward in haste both bent their flight:
A fissure was there in the crumbling wall,
Narrow it was and low and all ways small;
Through this the subtle Fox contrived to pass,
Though hardly, thin and lanky as he was;
My Lady, who was anything but slim,
Rammed in her head and tried to follow him;
But fast she stuck — it seemed Fate helped the Black-
guard, —
And she could neither forward get nor backward.
Soon as the Fox saw how she was confined,
Quick he whipped round and fell on her behind;
And not without full many a bitter scoff,
For all she'd done he amply paid her off.
Wearied with vengeance, if not satiated,
The mischief-loving Rogue at length retreated.
REYNARD THE FOX. 33
And when Dame Gieremund at length, got free,
No where in all the neighborhood was he.
Homeward, with tott'ring steps, she then returned;
"While with revenge and shame her panting bosom
burn'd.
Keturn we now to Tybalt; when he found
How in that slipknot durance he was bound,
That strength and struggling nothing might avail,
After the mode of Cats, he 'gan to wail.
This Martin heard, and swift sprang out of bed:
"The Lord be praised;" the spiteful Urchin said,
"The Thief is caught that stole our Hen away;
And, please the pigs, he shall the piper pay;
And that right dearly too, if but the noose hold:"
Then struck a light and woke up all the Household;
Both old and young, and great and small,
Forthwith assembled there.
The Priest himself, in morning gown
Thrown loosely round him, hurried down,
And ran to join the throng:
A pitchfork's double steel he bore —
His faithful cook-maid went before,
For she was bold and strong. —
Stout Martin too, a cudgel plies,
And knocks out one of Tybalt's eyes;
Meanwhile the Parson, with his fork,
Thrusts, hacks, and hews, like any Turk,
Poor Tybalt thought to die!
But frantic both with rage and pain,
'Neath the Priest's robe he dash'd amain;
And there revenged in cruel way,
The wounds he'd suffer'd in the fray,
And his extinguished eye.
The Parson roll'd upon the ground,
Lamenting loud his frightful wound,
And terror seized on all around,
While loud the cook-maid vow'd; —
The devil's self was in the beast,
And she'd give all that she possest^
J— Goethe Vol 10
3-i REYNARD THE FOX.
Nay (if she had it), gold in store,
The Parson had his own once more: —
Meanwhile the others crowd,
To bear their master to his bed,
Leaving the luckless Cat for dead.
But Tybalt woke from out his swoon
And found his enemies were gone:
He set to work with might and main
And gnawed the hateful cord in twain.
He hastened on his road, in shame and sorrow,
Towards the Court, and reached it on the morrow.
And bitterly did he himself upbraid:
"Me! to be so completely gulled!" he said;
"How shall I ever show my face for shame,
All batter'd as I am, half blind, and lame?
The very Sparrows in the hedge will cry out,
'There you go, Master Tybalt, with your eye out!' "
Who shall describe the wrath King Noble felt,
When at his feet the injured Tybalt knelt?
He swore the Traitor vile should die the death:
His Council in all haste he summoneth:
The Lords Spiritual and Temporal
Assembled in obedience to his call:
And the King said — He wished it to be known
He would maintain the honor of His Crown;
That is, so it were done consistently
With the true principles of liberty:
But something must at once be done to stem
Eebellion; and He left it all to them. —
Judgment, 't was moved, against the Fox should pass,
he
Being doomed at once to death for contumacy.
The Badger, seeing what a storm was brewing,
How all conspired to work his Kinsman's ruin,
Thus spake: "My Liege, it boots not to deny;
These charges press on Eeynard grievously
But Justice follows one eternal plan
Remember, Sire, the Fox is a Free Man;
The Law in such a case is most precise,
REYNARD THE FOX. 35
Requiring that lie should be summoned thrice:
If then he fail, there is nought more to say;
But Law and Justice both must have their way."
"Ha!" said the Monarch sternly, "say you so?
Where shall be found the Messenger to go?
"Who hath an eye too many? who will stake
His life and limbs for this bad Traitor's sake?
'Gainst Reynard's cunning who will wage his wit?
I doubt if any one will venture it."
The Badger answered, "I will venture Sire;
And undertake the task, if You desire
Happen what may. Whether 't is better, I
A summons bear straight from Your Majesty;
Or of my own accord appear to go:
Whichever You think best, that will I do."
"Go then! so let it be;" the Monarch said;
"You know what crimes to Reynard's charge are laid;
You know too all his malice; so beware,
Your Predecessors' fate lest you may share."
Greybeard replied, "I trust I may prevail;
But shall have done my duty, if I fail."
Away to Malepartus doth he hie;
Finds Reynard with his Wife and Family;
And greets him; "Save you, Uncle: I can't .tell
How charmed I am to see you look so well.
E'en let your Enemies say what they can,
You're a most extraordinary Man:
Prudent and wise and wary as you are.,
Yet the King's wrath so scornfully to dare.
You'd best be warned in time: on every side
Are ill reports against you multiplied.
Take my advice; with me to Court away
'T will help you nothing longer to delay.
You're charged with almost every sort of crime;
You're summoned now to-day for the third time,
And surely sentenced if you fail t' appear:
The King will straightway lead his Barons here;
And what can you expect will then befall?
You will be ta'en and hanged: nor is that all:
36 REYNARD THE FOX.
Your fortress razed, your children and your Wife
Cruelly butchered, or enslaved for life.
From the King's wrath you cannot hope to flee;
Better then, surely, to return with me.
You need not dread to stand before your Judges;
You're never at a loss for cunning dodges:
With your consummate skill and artifice,
You've got thro' many a scrape, and will thro' this."
Thus Greybeard spake, and Eeynard thus replied;
"Your counsel, Nephew, shall my conduct guide:
I were to blame, should I your warning slight;
I will to Court; and Heav'n defend the right;
The King besides, I trust, some grace may show;
The use I've been to him he well doth know;
That for no other cause than this I'm hated,
And, save your presence, like a Badger baited.
The Court would go to pieces but for me;
I don't pretend that from all blame I'm free;
But were I ten times deeper in disgrace,
Could I but see my Sov'reign face to face,
And come to speech with him, I would engage
To soothe the transports of his Eoyal rage.
Many 't is true may at his council sit;
But many heads have oft but scanty wit:
When they get fixed in one of their deadlocks,
To whom send they for aid, but to the Fox?
No matter how involved the case may be,
They find it smooth and easy, thanks to me.
For this I meet with envy; even those
I most befriend turn out my bitt'rest foes;
But moralists agree 't is not more hateful,
Than it is natural, to be ungrateful.
'T is this I have to fear; for well I know
My death they have intended long ago.
Ten of the mightiest Barons in the land
My utter downfall seek — a pow'rful band:
Can I alone such odds as these withstand?
? T was only this kept me from Court, I vow;
But I agree 't were best to go there now.
REYNARD THE FOX. 37
By far more honorable that will he,
Than bring my dearest Wife and Family,
By tarrying here, into disgrace and trouble;
For that would only make the mischief double.
And of the King I stand in wholesome awe,
His arm is mighty and his will is law.
Mine Enemies perchance by courtesy
I may subdue; at least I can but try."
Then to his Wife, who stood with weeping eyne,
He turned and said — "My gentle Ermelyne,
Be mindful of our Children; yet I know
You need no hint from me to make you so.
Our youngest, Grey kin, will most care require;
He'll be the living image of his Sire,
If these convulsions do not stop his breathing,
And by Heaven's blessing he survive his teething.
And here's this cunning little rascal, Russell,
He thro' the world will manage well to bustle;
His pluck may get him into many a scrape,
His craft will ever teach him how to 'scape;
I love him well, and have no fear for him;
He'll be a match, I ween, for Isegrim
And all his Brood. And now, farewell, dear Chuck;
When I return, as, have I any luck,
I soon shall do, I'll prove me sensible
Of all your kindness: so once more, farewell."
Then from his home with Greybeard he departed;
And sad he felt in spirit and down-hearted;
And sad too, grieving for her mate and sick son,
Was the leal soul of Ermelyne, the Vixen.
Reynard nor Greybeard neither silence brake
For near an hour; then thus the former spake:
"Ah, Nephew, heavy is my soul to-night;
For, truth to speak, I'm in a mortal fright;
My frame with strange forebodings shuddereth;
I feel assured I go to certain death;
My conscience sinks 'neath mine enormities;
You little think how ill I am at ease.
Will you, dear Nephew, my confession hear?
38 REYNARD THE FOX.
There is, alas! no reverend Pastor near:
Could I but of this load my bosom free,
I then should face the King more cheerfully."
"Confession certes benefits the soul/'
Quoth Greybeard, "but you must confess the whole;
All treasons, felonies and misdemeanors,
However great — and great, no doubt, have been yours."
"Yea," answered Reynard, "I will nought conceal;
List then, oh, list, while I my crimes reveal.
Confiteor tibi, Pater — ■' "Nay, no Latin !"
Quoth Greybeard: " 't is a tongue I'm nowise pat in.
It would not much avail you to be shriven,
If I knew not the sins I had forgiven/'
"So be it then;" the Fox rejoined; "I ween
A very wicked sinner I have been;
And I must do what penance you enjoin
To save this miserable soul of mine.
The Otter, and the Dog, and many more,
With many a trick I have tormented sore:
Indeed of living beasts there scarce is one
To whom I've not some turn of mischief done.
Mine Uncle Bruin I beguiled of late;
With honey he prepared his maw to sate;
I sent him back with bloody paws and pate:
And Cousin Tibby, he came here to mouse;
I cozen'd him into a running noose,
And there, I'm told, an eye he chanced to lose.
But I must say the fault was somewhat theirs;
They should have minded more the King's affairs,
With justice too complains Sir Chanticleer;
I ate his chicks— and very good they were.
Nay, with unfeigned repentance I must own
I have not spared the King upon the throne;
And, Heaven forgive me for it! even the Queen
Has not been safe from my malicious spleen.
But most I've outraged Isegrim, the Wolf;
'Twixt him and me yawns an abysmal gulf.
Him I've disgraced in every way I could;
And if I might have done so more, I would.
REYNARD THE FOX. 39
I've even called him Uncle, as a gibe;
For I'm no kin to any of his tribe.
"He came to me about six years ago;
I lived then in the cloister, down below;
He sought my help a Monk to get him made:
His fancy was to toll the bells, he said;
He loved the sound so much: so with a loop,
I fastened his fore-feet into the rope:
He was delighted, and began to toll —
'T was a great hell — with all his heart and soul;
But not much credit did his efforts win;
For he kicked up such an infernal din,
Out rushed the People when the noise they heard,
Thinking some dread mishap must have occurr'd.
They came and found my friend the Wolf; and ere
His purpose to turn Monk he could declare,
They fell to work and so belabored him,
'T was all but up with Master Isegrim.
"The Fool was still unsatisfied; still craved
To be a Monk and have his noddle shaved;
With a hot iron then I singed his poll,
Till the swart skin all shriveled on his skull.
Ah! many are the blows and thumps and kicks
That he has been regaled with through my tricks.
I taught him the best manner to catch Fish;
And he caught just as many as I'd wish.
"Once, when in partnership we chanced t' engage,
We groped our way into a parsonage;
Well stored the larder was of the good Priest,
For he was rich and amply benefic'd.
Bacon there was and hams more than enough,
And lots of pork lay salting in a trough.
Is'grim contrived to scratch the stone wall through,
And crept in at the hole with much ado,
Urged on by me and his own appetite;
For with long fasting he was rav'nous quite.
I did not follow, as I had some doubt
How, if I once got in, I might get out.
Isegrim gorged till chuck-full to the eyes,
40 REYNARD THE FOX.
And s weird to nearly twice his former size;
So that, although he strove with might and main,
He could not for his life get out again.
"Thou lett'st me in/ he cried, 'oh, faithless hole!
Empty, and will not let me out when full/
Away I hastened; raised a loud alarm,
On the Wolf's track in hopes the Boors might swarm.
Into the Parson's dwelling then I run;
And find him to his dinner sitting down, —
A fine fat capon just brought on the tray, —
This I snapped up, and with it stole away.
Up rose the Priest in haste and overthrew
The table with the food and liquors too;
On every side the glass and crockery flew.
'Kill him!' call'd out th' enraged Ecclesiastic;
'Oh! that the bones in his damn'd gullet may stick!'
Then, his feet catching in the cloth, he stumbled,
And all among the mess and fragments tumbled.
But loudly he continued still to bawl:
The hubbub brought the Household, one and all.
Away I sped, as fast as I could go;
They after me, with whoop and tally-ho:
The Parson shouting loud as he was able,
'The Thief! he's stole my dinner from my table!'
I ne'er until I reached the pantry, stopped;
But there, ah, well-a-day! the fowl I dropped;
I could not longer toil beneath its weight,
But lightened of my load escaped by flight.
The Parson, stooping to pick up the fowl,
Spied Master Is'grim stuck fast in the hole:
'Halloo!' he cried, 'halloo! come here, my friends!
'See what a scapegoat righteous Heaven sends!
'Here's a Wolf caught; if he should get away
'We were disgraced forever and a day.'
The Wolf no doubt wished he'd ne'er seen the larder;
Meanwhile their blows rained on him harder and harder;
And many a grievous thump and kick and thwack
He got upon his shoulders, sides and back;
And all the while, as if the Devil stirr'd them,
REYNARD THE FOX. '41
They yelled and screamed and swore — I stood and heard
them.
At length it seemed all up with Isegrim;
He swooned; and then they left off beating him.
I'd lay a bet he never had before
His hide so curried, and will never more.
'T would make an altar-piece, to paint the way
They made him for the Parson's victuals pay.
At length out in the street for dead they threw him;
And over shards and pebbles rough they drew him:
Then flung him, as no signs of life he show'd,
Into a stagnant ditch beside the road,
And left him buried there in slime and mud.
How he recovered's more than I can tell;
It almost seems a sort of miracle.
"Yet after this, about a year, he swore
To be my Friend and firm Ally once more:
I cannot say his word I quite believed;
I felt that one of us would be deceived.
I soon found out his object was to get
A meal of Fowls on which his heart was set.
I told him of a rafter, where there us'd
A Cock with seven fine fat Hens to roost.
It was past twelve o'clock, one cloudy night
When moon and stars gave not one ray of light,
I took him to a house Fd known before,
Where was a window on the second floor;
The lattice shutter by good luck stood ope;
To this along the wall we slily crope;
And, being never barren in expedients,
I prayed mine Uncle he would take precedence:
'Go boldly in/ I whispered; 'do not fear;
'You never saw such Fowls, as you'll find here:
Til warrant, you ne'er finer met or plumper;
'I'd lay my life you'll carry off a thumper/
Cautiously in he stole, while I stayed out;
And here and there he 'gan to grope about:
But before long in tones subdued he said,
'Eeynard, by all that's Holy, I'm betrayed;
42 REYNARD THE FOX.
'You've led me, I suspect, a wildgoose chase:
'Of Fowls I find not the remotest trace/
'The foremost I've long had/ said I; 'you'll find
'The others just a little way behind:
'You'd better make your way across the rafter;
'Don't be afraid; I'll follow closely after.'
This rafter now was anything but broad
And no ways suited to sustain a load;
And Isegrim was fain to use his talons
In order any how to keep his balance.
Out of the window I contrived to back,
And then slammed to the shutter in a crack;
It jarred the rafter, and the Wolf fell plump, ere
He could restore himself, a monstrous thumper.
Thus was again my prophecy fulfill'd;
In such prophetic warnings am I skill'd.
The Housecarles, who around the chimney dozed,
Were, by his heavy fall, from slumber roused;
'What's that fall'n from the window?' cried they all,
And lit the lamp and searched about the hall;
And in a corner found they Isegrim;
Good Saints in Heav'n! how they did punish him!
Yet somehow he contrived to get away
With a whole skin, but how I cannot say.
"I must confess, too, even though it wound
A lady's honor, with Dame Gieremund
I've oftentimes committed mortal sin: —
It is so hard to stop when you begin.
This fault with deep contrition I deplore,
And trust I never may be tempted more.
"Such are my sins, Father! if not all,
At least I have confessed the principal.
I pray for absolution, and submit
To whatsoever penance you think fit."
Then Greybeard shook his head, looked wise and big;
And from a neighb'ring bush plucked off a twig.
"My Son," quoth he, "this rod receive; with it
Three times your back in penance must you smite;
Next, having laid it gently on the ground,
REYNARD THE FOX. 43
Three times across it must you gravely bound;
Lastly, in humble and obedient mood,
Three times with reverence must you kiss the rod.
This done, I pardon and absolve you quite,
And every other punishment remit."
This penance cheerfully by Eeynard done,
Greybeard resumed; "Let your good works, my Son,
Prove the sincerity of your repentance.
Eead psalms, and learn by heart each pious sentence;
Go oft to Church; mind what the Pastor says;
And duly fast on the appointed days;
Show those, who seek, the right path; from your store
Give willingly and largely to the poor;
And from your heart and soul renounce the Devil
And all his works, and ev'ry thought of evil.
So shall you come to Grace at last." "To do
All this," said Eeynard, "solemnly I vow."
The shrift now ended, tow'rds the Court they bent
Their steps, — the Confessor and Penitent
In seeming meditation wrapt: their way
Through pleasant woods and fertile pastures lay.
On their right hand an ancient cloister stood,
Where holy women of religious mood,
Passed a pure life in social solitude.
Stored was their yard with Cocks and Hens and Chick-
ens,
Who often roamed abroad in search of pickings.
Eeynard, when not with weightier matters busied,
Would pay them frequently a friendly visit.
And now to Greybeard did he turn and say,
"By yonder wall you'll find our shortest way."
He did not mean exactly what he said;
His Confessor towards the wall he led;
While greedily his eyes rolled in his roguish head.
One Cock'rell notes he in particular,
Who plump and proud was strutting in the rear:
On him pounced Eeynard sudden from behind,
And made his feathers scatter in the wind.
While the Fox licked his disappointed chaps,
44 REYNARD THE FOX.
Greybeard incensed at such a sad relapse,
Exclaimed, "Alas! alas! what have you done?
Is this your penitence, unworthy Son?
Fresh from confession, for a paltry Fowl
Will you so peril your unhappy soul?"
Said Reynard, "You rebuke me as you ought:
For I have sinned in truth, tho' but in thought,
Pray for me, dearest Nephew, pray to Heaven,
With other sins that this may be forgiven.
Never, oh! never more will I offend."
The cloister passed, the highway they regain'd:
Their pathway lay across a narrow nook:
The Fox behind cast many a longing look
Towards those tempting Fowls; it was in vain
He strove his carnal yearnings to restrain.
If any one had then struck off his head,
Back to the Fowls it must perforce have fled.
Greybeard said sternly, "Whither doth your eye
Still wander? This is hateful gluttony."
Quoth Reynard, "You quite misconceive th' affair;
You should not interrupt me when in pray'r.
Let me conclude my orisons for those
Whose souls I've sent to premature repose;
Their bodies to my maw a prey were given:
For thus accomplished was the will of Heaven."
Greybeard was silent; Reynard did not turn
His head, while yet the Fowls he could discern.
They've left the cloister now behind them quite:
They near the Court: the Palace is in sight:
Reynard's bold heart beats faintly in his breast:
So grave the charges that against him prest.
CHAPTEK THE FOURTH.
THE TRIAL.
Soon as J t was known by general report
Eeynard was really coming to the Court,
Out they all rushed in haste, both Great and Small,
Eager to see the famous Criminal:
In flocks and herds and droves they thronged to meet
him,
But scarce did one with word of welcome greet him.
Reynard cared little though for this : he thought —
Or seemed at least to think — it mattered nought.
With Greybeard on indifFrent things he talked
As, bold as brass, along the street he walked;
He could not, had he been the King's own Son,
Free from all crime, with prouder step have gone:
And so before the King and all his Peers
He stood, as though he felt nor doubts nor fears.
"Dread Lord and gracious Sovereign!" thus said he,
"For ever gracious have you proved to me; —
Therefore I stand before You, void of fear,
Sure that my tale With patience you will hear; —
A more devoted Servant to the Crown,
Than I have been, my Liege hath never known:
? T is this brings me such hosts of Enemies,
Who strive to work me mischief in Your eyes;
And bitter reason should I have to grieve,
Could You one half their calumnies believe.
But high and just and righteous all Your views are;
Your hear the Accused, as well as the Accuser;
Howev'r behind my back they slander me,
You know how great is my integrity."
"Silence that lying tongue!" the Monarch cries,
45
46 REYNARD THE FOX.
"Nor think to veil your crimes with sophistries.
In one career of vice your life is spent;
It calls aloud to Heav'n for punishment.
How have you kept the peace that I ordained
Throughout My kingdom's breadth should be main-
tained?
Yon mourns the Cock, disconsolate with grief;
His Children slain by you, false-hearted thief!
You boast of your devotion to the Crown,
Is't by your treatment of My Servants shown?
Bruin, by your devices, hath been lamed;
My faithful Tybalt so severely maimed,
The Leech doubts if he may his health restore —
But I will waste My words on you no more;
Lo! your Accusers press on every side;
All further subterfuge seems now denied."
"Ah! Sire," rejoined the Fox, "am I to blame
My Uncle Bruin has returned so lame?
Or is it my fault he has tastes so funny,
He must needs pilfer honest People's honey?
What if the Peasants caught him in the fact,
And, 'spite his size and strength, he got well whack'd?
I could not help it, nor could succor him; —
In sooth 't was lucky he knew how to swim.
Then as for Tybalt, when he came to me,
I shewed him ev'ry hospitality.
Gave him the best I had; but not content,
His mind was wholly upon thieving bent:
He scorned my larder, and would poke his nose in
The Parson's granary to go a mousing,
In spite of all my caution and advice —
It seems he has a strange penchant for Mice.
Shall I be punished because they were Fools?
Does that comport with Justice' sacred rules?
But You will do Your royal will I know;
And I must e'en submit for weal or woe:
Whether I am imprisoned, tortured, martyred,
Burnt or beheaded, or hung, drawn and quartered;
So it must be, if so it be You list:
REYNARD THE FOX. 47
Your pow'r is great, how can the Weak resist?
Tho' to the State small good my death will bring;
I shall at least die loyal to my King."
Up spake the Earn then, "Friends, the time is come;
Urge now your plaints, or evermore be dumb!"
Then, all confederate for Reynard's ruin,
Stept Tybalt forth, and Isegrim, and Bruin;
And other beasts came swarming by the score,
The thin-skinned Eoebuck and the thick-skinn'd Boar,
Neddy the Donkey too, and many more.
Frizzy the Poodle also, and the Goat,
The Squirrel, and the Weasel, and the Stoat;
Nor did the Ox or Horse fail to appear;
And Beasts of savage nature too were there;
The flitting Rabbit, and the nimble Hare.
The Swan, the Stork, the Heron and the Crane;
All thither flew, all eager to complain.
Sibby the Goose, with angry hissing, came,
And the Duck Quackley, who was sadly lame;
And Chanticleer, that most unhappy Cock,
Whose sorrows might have touched a heart of rock,
With the few Children that to him were left,
Accused the Fox of murder and of theft.
In countless flocks came swarming in the Birds,
The Beasts in vast innumerable herds;
All vehement alike on vengeance bent,
All clam'rous press'd for Reynard's punishment.
Charge upon charge there followed, thick and fast,
And each fresh plaint more weighty than the last.
Since Noble sat upon his Father's throne,
Was never yet such a Grand Oyer known;
Indeed so numerous the complainants were,
It seemed an Oyer with no Terminer.
Meanwhile the Fox conducted his defence
With most consummate skill and impudence;
One time a Witness he would browbeat so,
That what he said the poor man scarce should know;
Or else repeat his answers in a tone,
Which gave a sense quite different from his own;
48 REYNARD THE FOX.
Or interrupt with some facetious jest,
Or tell a story with such hum'rous zest,
That, serious things forgotten in the sport,
They laugh/d the Prosecutor out of Court.
And when he spoke, Truth seemed to tip his tongue,
Indignant as each charge aside he flung;
They heard with wonder and diversion blent,
Almost disposed to think him innocent;
Nay, some there were who more than half believed
He was himself the Party most aggrieved.
At length came Witnesses who stood so high
For unimpeachable veracity,
That all his crimes and outrages, as clear
As is the sun at noon, were made appear.
The Council all agreeing, with one breath,
Pronounced him guilty and condemned to death;
Bound, to the gallows he should thence be led,
And hanged there by the neck till he was dead.
And Eeynard now gave up the game for lost;
His skill had served him for display at most;
And as the King himself his doom pronounced,
All hope of mercy he as vain renounced;
For seized and pinioned, hopeless was his case,
With ignominious death before his face.
As there he stood, disgraced, disconsolate,
His Foes bestirred themselves to speed his fate
His Friends the while in silent awe stood round;
Great was their trouble, and their pain profound;
Martin the Ape, Greybeard, and many more,
Who to the hapless Culprit kindred bore
The King's will they respected as they ought;
But sorrow' d all — more than one might have thought:
For Eeynard was a Peer of high degree,
And now stood stripped of every dignity;
Adjudged to die a death of infamy.
A sight indeed to make his Kinsmen grieve;
Then of the King they one and all took leave,
And left the Court, as many as were there;
Eeynard's disgrace they had no mind to share.
REYNARD THE FOX. 49
The King was sore chagrined though in his heart,
To see so many Peers and Knights depart:
It proved the Fox had some Adherents still
Too much disposed to take his sentence ill.
Then turning to his Chancellor, he said,
"Though Reynard's crimes his doom have merited,
'T is cause for anxious thought and deepest care
How we his numerous friends from Court may spare/'
But Bruin, Isegrim and Tybalt, all
Were busied round the luckless Criminal.
Anxious to execute the King's decree,
They hurried forth their hated Enemy,
And onward hastened to the fatal tree.
Thus to the Wolf then spake the spiteful Cat:
"Sir Isegrim, you've now got tit-for-tat;
You need not be reminded, I'll be sworn,
Of all the wrongs from Eeynard you have borne.
You'll not forget, unless your heart's grown callous,
He had your Brother hanged on that same gallows,
And taunted him with many a biting scoff;
In his own coin you now can pay him off.
Remember too the foul trick you were played,
Sir Bruin, when by Reynard's craft betrayed
To that base Joiner and his rabble Crew;
The insults you received, the beating too;
Besides the deep and scandalous disgrace
To be the talking-stock of every place.
Keep close together then and have a care;
Lest he slip off before one is aware:
For if, by any artifice or chance,
He now contrive to 'scape our vigilance,
We shall remain eternally disgrac'd,
Nor ever shall the sweets of vengeance taste."
Quoth Isegrim, "What boots it chattering so?
Fetch me a halter without more ado.
A halter, ho! and see that it be strong:
We would not have his suff'ring last too long."
Thus against Reynard did they vent their wrath,
As tow'rds the gibbet they held on their path.
50 REYNARD THE FOX.
He'd heard all they had said, and not yet spoke;
But now, with sidelong leer, he silence broke;
"If you a halter want, Tybalt's the man
To fit you one upon the newest plan;
He knows how best to make a running noose,
From which one cannot possibly get loose;
He learnt it at the Parson's granary,
Where to catch Mice he went, and lost an eye.
But, Isegrim! and Bruin! why pretend
Such zeal to hasten your poor Uncle's end?
In sooth it does not to your credit tend."
Now rose the King, with all his Lords, to see
Justice was done with due solemnity;
And, by her courtly Dames accompanied,
The Queen herself walked by the Monarch's side:
And never was there seen a Crowd so great
As followed them to witness Reynard's fate.
Meanwhile Sir Isegrim his Friends besought
To march close packed, and keep a sharp lookout;
For much he feared, lest by some shifty wile
The Fox might yet their watchfulness beguile:
And specially did he conjure his Wife;
"See that the Wretch escape not, on thy life;
If he should this time slip from out our pow'r,
We ne'er should know another peaceful hour.
Think of your wrongs;" thus Bruin he addressed;
"And see you pay them with full interest.
Tybalt can clamber; he the rope shall fix;
You hold Sir Reynard tight, and mind his tricks:
I'll raise the ladder, and you may depend on't
In a few minutes we shall make an end on't."
Quoth Bruin, "Quick! and get the ladder plac'd:
I'll warrant me I'll hold the Ruffian fast."
"Why should you take," again thus Reynard saith,
"Such pains to expedite your Uncle's death?
You know, the more the haste, the worse the speed.
Ah! sad and cruel is my lot indeed,
To meet with hate from such old Friends as you!
I know 't were vain, or I for grace would sue.
REYNARD THE FOX. 51
Stern Isegrim hath e'en compelled his Wife
Join this unkindly plot against rny life:
Her memories of the past might surely wake
Some feelings of compassion for my sake:
But when you can foretell to-morrow's wind,
Then trust the constancy of Womankind.
But if so he it must; so let it be.
The sooner done, the sooner I am free.
My fate will but with my poor Father's match;
Albeit, good Soul, he died with more despatch.
Neither did such a goodly Company
Attend his death, as now has honor'd me.
You seem to fancy, if you spared me now
You'd all be shamed; and haply, 't would be so."
"Hear him!". cried Bruin; "hear the Ruffian boast;
Quick! prithee, quick! let no more time be lost."
Then Reynard seriously to think began —
"Could I but now devise some cunning plan;
That, in this hour of my extremest need,
I might be pardoned and from bondage freed;
Escape with credit from death's bitter throes,
And heap disgrace on these detested Foes.
What can be done ? 't is worth some pains to take,
Since nothing less than life is here at stake.
Slight seem the chances for me; strong, against;
The King, no doubt, is bitterly incens'd;
My Enemies all here; my Friends away;
All my misdeeds brought to the light of day: —
And, truth to speak, but little good Eve done,
Yet ever hoped this evil hour to shun.
If they'd but grant me liberty of speech,
Some of their cruel hearts I yet might reach;
And so get free of this accursed rope;
At least Ell try it: — while there's life, there's hope."
Then turning on the ladder where he stood,
He thus addressed th' assembled Multitude:
"My doom is fixed; chance of escape is none;
Grant then a dying man one trifling boon:
Before you all, as many as axe here,
52 REYNARD THE FOX.
Ere yet I close my criminal career,
Fain would I freely all my sins confess,
Lamenting that their number is not less;
Else for some crime in secret done by me,
The Innocent perchance might punished be:
And thus my sinful soul some hope may have
Of mercy on the other side the grave."
Many were moved at this and 'gan to say;
"Small is the favor, brief is the delay/'
And as it seemed a reasonable thing,
They begged it and obtained it of the King.
A load was now removed from Keynard's heart,
And he at once prepared to play his part:
While through the Crowd expectant murmurs ran,
With well-feigned penitence he thus began:
"Oh, aid me now Spiritus Domini!
For I am sentenced and must shortly die.
Vast as this meeting, scarce can I see one,
To whom I've not some grievous inj'ry done.
Whilst I was still a tiny little Brat,
Scarce weaned, and not much higher than my hat,
I loved to watch the Lambs and Kids at play
When from their watchful Herds they chanced to stray:
It made my bosom throb to hear them bleat,
My bowels yearn too for substantial meat.
Ere long, in jest, I bit to death a Lamb,
Who'd stroll'd away some distance from its Dam;
While yet 'twas warm and fresh, I licked the blood,
And found that it was exquisitely good.
Four of the youngest Kids I next did slaughter:
The thought — Heav'n help me! — makes my mouth yet
water.
Grown bolder, I indulged each wild caprice;
My tooth spared neither Fowls nor Ducks nor Geese;
I caught and ate them wheresoever found,
And some, half-eaten, buried in the ground.
"One winter, on the Ehine, it chanced I met
Is'grim, — a meeting I may well regret.
He claimed direct relationship with me,
REYNARD THE FOX. 53
Showed we were Cousins, and in what degree.
Guileless myself, I readily believed;
Perhaps too ready to be so deceived.
Ourselves we bound then in a solemn league;
Force should be used by him; by me, intrigue;
Eternal friendship each to each we swore,
Ah! little did I ween what fruit his friendship bore.
"The provinces we traversed, one and all;
He the large booty stealing; I, the small.
Our bargain was, we should divide all fair;
But what he chose to leave was all my share;
Nor was this all th' injustice I must bear.
If e'er he chanced a Goat or Sheep to steal,
And I came up, and found him at his meal;
Or caught him gorging a fresh-slaughtered Calf,
Of which he'd not devoured more than half;
He'd grin his teeth at me, and swear and curse;
I was e'en glad that matters were no worse.
And thus it was he always treated me,
However large the booty chanced to be.
In hunting, if we ever caught, by luck,
Some head of noble game, as Hind, or Buck,
Or Ox, or Cow, whose carcase vast was more
Than e'en his gluttony could all devour;
His Wife and Children straight made their appearance,
And in a trice there was a total clearance;
Not e'en a spare rib fell unto my share,
But what was gnawed and polished, clean and bare:
And thus was I forever forced to fare.
But Heav'n be thanked I never suffered hunger;
I'd means to live on, twenty years or longer;
A treasure vast of silver and of gold,
Securely hidden in a secret hold.
More than a single waggon, I might say
Even at seven loadings, could convey."
Noble, the King, heard all that Eeynard said,
And bending forward now his Eoyal head;
"Say then, where did you get it from?" he cried,
"I mean the treasure." And the Fox replied,
54: KEYNAED THE FOX.
"It boots me nought to keep my secret now;
I cannot take my wealth to where I go.
All, as Your Grace commands me, will I tell;
From fear or favor nought will I conceal.
Stol'n was the treasure; Fll not tell a lie:
Th' occasion though the theft shall justify.
"There was a plot, a most atrocious thing!
Even to murder You, my Lord and King;
And then to seize upon the vacant Throne:
Beyond all doubt the deed would have been done,
If but secure that treasure had been left;
Your life, my Liege, depended on that theft.
It helped indeed to lay my Father low,
Perchance involved his soul in endless woe:
But private interests, however dear,
With public duties must not interfere."
The Queen had heard this lengthy rigmarole
With most extreme bewilderment of soul,
Alternating between alarm and pleasure;
Her husband's murder, heaps of glitt'ring treasure,
And widow's weeds, and bridal garments white,
In wild confusion danced before her sight
"Keynard," she cried, "your hour is almost come;
Before you lies the road to your long home;
Nought but true penitence can save your soul;
Tell nothing but the truth, and tell the whole."
Then spake the King, "Be silent, ev'ry one!
Let Eeynard from the gallows-tree come down;
And let him, — but still bound, — approach mine ear,
'T is fit that this strange hist'ry I should hear."
With cheerful hopes buoyed up the Fox descends,
While grieved his Foes were, and rejoiced his Friends;
Approached, as he was bid, the King and Queen;
Who longed to know what might this myst'ry mean.
His web of lies he straight prepared to spin;
'If the King's grace,' he thought, 'I could but win,
And, by some cunning trick of policy,
Could ruin those who seek to ruin me,
From peril then should I be wholly freed.
REYNARD THE FOX. 55
Ah! that would be a master stroke indeed.
'T is a bold cast: if I would prosper in 't,
'T will need the use of falsehood without stint/
The Queen impatient questioned him again:
"The whole proceeding, Eeynard, now explain;
Speak truth, and ease your conscience and your soul/'
"Truly/' said Eeynard, "will I tell the whole.
Am I not doomed, too justly doomed, to die?
No chance there is to 'scape my destinjr.
My soul to burden more at such a time
Were but to add a folly to my crime.
Better to speak the truth at any rate,
Though Friends and Kinsmen I may implicate.
There is no help for it, I know right well;
Before mine eyes I have the pains of Hell."
And the King's heart with gloom was overspread;
"And speak' st thou nought but sober truth?" he said.
Eeynard replied with sanctimonious mien,
"A miserable Sinner have I been;
And oft have lied to serve mine interest;
But surely now the truth shall aid me best:
Falsely to make a dying declaration
Would be to court eternal condemnation.
Yourself, my Liege, have doomed that I must die;
With my last words I dare not breathe a lie/'
While thus did Eeynard, vile Dissembler, speak,
Eemorse and terror seemed to blanch his cheek.
And the Queen said, "His anguish moves my ruth:
Encourage him, dear Lord, to speak the truth;
And hear his story calmly to the end:
Our safety may upon his tale depend.
Give your commands that no one silence break,
And let him publicly his statement make."
At the King's bidding not a sound was heard;
And Eeynard spake, "Please you, my gracious Lord,
Eeceive with favor what I have to say;
Though note nor minute have I here to-day,
The whole conspiracy will I lay bare,
And no one, be he Friend or Foe, will spare."
CHAPTER THE FIFTH.
THE PARDON".
Now hear what lying tales the Fox dared state,
To screen himself, and others inculpate;
To what base falsehoods utterance he gave,
Slandered his very Father in the grave,
Traduced the Badger, too, his staunchest Friend;
He thought all means were sanctioned by the end;
So he could but get credit for his lies,
And have revenge upon his Enemies.
Thus he began: "It chanced that once my Sire,
Whose wit and wisdom still the World admire,
Discovered, hid in an obscure retreat,
The treasures of King Emmerick the Great;
It seemed a Godsend, but it brought such evil,
'T was much more likely sent him from the Devil.
With his new fortune he waxed h aught and proud;
For his old Comrades deemed himself too good;
Fancied that by assistance of his pelf
To higher circles he might raise himself;
Conceived ideas the most absurd and vain,
And hatched the strangest maggots in his brain.
He sent off Tybalt to Ardennes' wild regions
For Bruin, tend'ring him his sworn allegiance;
Inviting him to Flanders to repair,
And promising to make him King when there.
Bruin with vast delight his letter read,
Without delay to Flanders off he sped;
Him did my Sire exultingly receive;
And planned how their designs they might achieve.
56
REYNARD THE FOX. 57
They got to join them in the enterprise,
Is'grim the savage, and Greybeard the wise.
These four in the conspiracy combined;
Four persons truly, though but one in mind;
While Tybalt joined their counsels for a fifth:
They journeyed onwards till they came to Ifth;
A little village is there of that name,
Obscure it is and all unknown to fame;
'Twixt this and Ghent, in a sequestered spot,
They met together to arrange their plot.
Over the meeting, which murk night did hide,
The Devil and my Father did preside;
One o'er their minds with false hopes kept his hold,
One, with the influence of his dirty gold.
Eegardless of all loyalty and faith,
They compassed and imagined the King's death;
The five then swore on Is'grim's cursed head,
Bruin the Bear should reign in Noble's stead;
And at Aix-la-Chapelle, upon the throne,
Should bind his temples with the golden crown.
If any one their trait'rous scheme withstood,
Bound to the King by fealty or blood,
Him should my Sire with words or bribes persuade,
Or, failing these, call force in to his aid.
I learnt the bus'ness in the strangest way;
The Badger had been drinking hard one day,
Th' uxorious blockhead, though it risked his life,
Told the whole secret to his wheedling Wife;
He bound her though to solemn secrecy,
And the Fool fancied that he safe would be.
But what are woman's vows? His Wife and mine
Gossips had been together from lang syne;
And when they met, the former, as with child
Of her grand secret, nodded, smirked and smil'd;
And having made my Wife first swear an oath,
By the three Kings, and by her faith and troth,
Never to breathe one word to mortal soul,
Believed her lab'ring bosom of the whole.
My Wife was horror-struck, and straightway she
58 REYNARD THE FOX.
Felt it her duty to tell all to me;
Of course: for Moralists have all one mind,
That inofficious vows can never bind.
I saw at once — what man of sense would not? —
The wickedness and folly of the plot:
All living Beasts had gone unto the Dogs, —
And fared, as formerly those stupid Frogs;
Who with their ceaseless croakings worried Heaven,
To change the King who first to them was given;
His tranquil reign inglorious they deemed;
They long'd for greater freedom, as it seemed;
Then o'er them to preside Heav'n sent the Stork;
Like a Legitimate he set to work;
All who opposed he banished from the State,
Decreed their lands and chattels confiscate;
And while he thus enrich' d himself, he swore
'T was all to benefit the Church and Poor;
While love for law and order he professed,
Freedom in speech and action were repressed;
And none were heard, or suffered, to repine;
Thus did he prove he ruled by Right Divine.
The poor Fools curst their self-invited fate,
And wished the old King back; but 't was too late."
Thus spake the Fox, and lied at ev'ry word,
That all who heard him wondered as they heard.
"The State," he thus proceeded, "had been lost;
But 'twas Your Safety, Sire, concerned me most:
The risks I ran to save You were immense,
And merited some better recompense.
Bruin's fell mind I knew; his temper curst,
His love of cruelty forebode the worst;
Our lives, if he had chanced to get the sway,
Had not been worth the purchase of a day.
Our present King enjoys a diff'rent fame;
Noble alike by nature and by name.
A sad and stupid change indeed it were —
A royal Lion for a clownish Bear!
Thus with myself I oft communed in thought;
And means to ward this evil daily fought.
REYNARD THE FOX. 59
t
"One thing was certain; if my Sire retained
This vast amount of wealth at his command,
Hosts of Allies together he might bring,
Would win his game, while we should lose our King.
And now my chiefest study was to trace
This secret treasure to its hiding place;
Then bear it safe away, if so I might;
Of this I dreamed by day and schemed by night.
Wherever now the crafty Old-one went,
Through field or forest where his steps he bent,
Whether in cold, or heat, or wet, or dry,
Close on his track incessantly was I.
"But Chance at length, or rather, Heaven's high will,
Procured me what I could not gain by skill.
Concealed behind a bush, one summer's day,
Chewing the cud of bitter thought, I lay;
Grinding all .sorts of plans within my pate,
This treasure to secure, and save the State:
When from a fissure in the rocks hard by,
I saw my Father creep out stealthily;
With expectation breathless I lay hid:
While, cautious, he looked round on ev'ry side;
Thought himself safe, perceiving no one near,
And then began his games, as you shall hear.
The hole with sand he filled, and all around
He levelled skilfully th/ adjacent ground;
Nor was this all; before he left the place,
All marks of footsteps he contrived t' efface:
Bent to the earth, he swished his tail about,
And smoothed it o'er with his elastic snout.
Ah! truly was my Sire a wondrous Man!
The wide World now may watch him, if it can!
How many quips and cranks and wanton wiles
I learnt from him, most cunning of old Files!
"But to proceed. He quickly left the spot;
'Here then the treasure is concealed/ I thought.
I hastened to the rocks with eager soul,
Soon scratched away the sand and cleared the hole,
And down into the cleft with caution stole.
60 REYNARD THE FOX.
Good Heav'ns! what precious things there met my sight!
What masses of red gold and silver white!
The oldest present here, I'm bold to say,
Ne'er saw snch stores as I beheld that day.
My Wife I brought the glorious sight to see;
To move the treasure hourly labored we;
And sooth, it was a work of toil and pain;
We'd nought to help us, — neither cart nor wain.
My good Wife held out bravely to the last,
Till we in safety had the treasure plac'd.
"Meanwhile my Sire consulted day by day,
With those who sought our Sov'reign to betray.
For dread and horror now your souls prepare,
Their machinations base whilst I lay bare.
By Isegrim and Bruin briefs were sent, ,
To raise recruits and stir up discontent;
All were allured in Bruin's host to serve;
Whom lucre might from duty tempt to swerve.
And that the call they sooner might obey,
They were assured a month's advance of pay.
These briefs my Father round the country bore*
He deemed in safety he had left his store;
Though if with all his friends he'd searched for ever,
He ne'er had found a solitary stiver.
No pains he spared to further the design;
Sought ev'ry spot between the Elbe and the Ehine,
And many Converts to the cause he made; —
Who largely promises may soon persuade.
"At length the summertide once more was come;
With it returned my weary Father home;
Of troubles and mishaps he'd much to tell,
Of many hair-breadth 'scapes by field and fell;
How for his life he had been forced to flee,
Among the towered heights of Saxony;
Where wicked hunters chased him out of spite,
With horse and hound, from morn till starry night;
That scarce he saved his skin by rapid flight.
With joy then to his comrades he display'd
The long list of Adherents he had made.
REYNARD THE FOX. 61
Bruin was charmed, and, with the other four,
Studied th' important writing o'er and o'er.
Twelve hundred souls of Is'grim's savage Clan,
Had pledged themselves to join him to a man,
With sharp and hungry teeth and open jaws,
They promised to support King Bruin's cause.
The Cats and Bears enrolled without a hrihe;
And all the Glutton, all the Badger tribe;
But, less devoted, or more cautious, they
Had bargained for the month's advance of pay.
All these and many more had sworn t' attend,
At the first summons which the Bear should send.
By me this plot was foiled: but thanks be given
Not unto me for this; but unto Heaven!
"My Sire now hastened to the cave once more;
Eager to tell his cherished treasure o'er:
But, though the firmest faith possessed his mind,
The more he sought the more he did not find.
Yain were his labors, his regrets as vain,
Doomed never to behold his wealth again.
Three days disconsolate he roamed the wood,
Shunning his mates, and never tasting food;
The fourth — sad day for me! although his Heir —
He hanged himself from grief and sheer despair.
"Thus have I done, thus suffered, good my Lord,
To countervail a plot my soul abhorr'd.
Though for my pains this strange return I get.
The steps I took I never can regret,
Is'grim and Bruin sit at Your right hand,
Doomed as a Traitor the poor Fox must stand;
But yet this thought shall consolation bring;
I lost my Father, but I saved my King.
The ill I've done be buried in my grave,
My name this one good deed from infamy shall save."
He ceased: a murmur ran through all the crowd;
But what all thought, none dared to speak aloud.
The King and Queen both felt a strong desire
This wondrous store of treasure to acquire;
They call'd the Fox aside and bade him say
62 REYNARD THE FOX.
In what place he had stowed it all away.
Though Reynard found it hard his joy to hide,
Still in desponding accents he replied;
"Why should I tell this secret to my Lord,
Who dooms my death and ever doubts my word?
In Traitors he prefers his trust to place,
Whose triumph is achieved in my disgrace."
"Nay," said the Queen, impatient; "nay, not so!
His vengeance just my Lord may yet forego,
The past he may forgive, may e'en forget;
And you may live a life of credit yet;
Could he hut have some certain pledge, that you
Would for the future loyal prove and true."
"Ah gracious Queen!" the wily Fox replies,
"Let me find favor in King Noble's eyes;
Through your mild influence let me pardoned be,
And hence depart in life and member free;
Amply will I atone for all my crimes;
Nor King nor Kaiser lives of modern times
Can truly boast one half the wealth to own,
Which I will lay before my Sov'reign's throne."
"Believe him not.!" the angry Monarch cries;
"Whose lips ne'er open but to utter lies.
If he would teach you how to cheat or thieve,
His words you then might readily believe."
And the Queen said — "Let not my Lord be wroth:
Though Eeynard's life ill augurs for his truth;
Yet surely this time hath he spoken sooth.
His Father and his Uncle hath he not
Shown to have shared in that accursed plot?
He might have sure devised some stratagem,
While blaming others, to exon'rate them.
And if he do speak truth, how great a prize
We lose, if now with him his secret dies."
Awhile the Monarch paused, immersed in thought,
In his soul's depths as though he counsel sought.
Then answered — "If you think 'twere better so,
Nor deem that ill from such a course may flow,
I may pursue the bent of my own mind,
REYNARD THE FOX. 63
To mercy more than vengeance still inclin'd.
The Culprit I will pardon, and restore,
As a new man, to all he held before.
This time I trust him — let him though take heed —
This time I trust him, for the last indeed;
For by my Father's crown I make a vow,
If with false tidings he deceive me now,
On all who claim his kin, where'er they be,
My wrath shall fall, e'en to the tenth degree,
In torture shall they perish utterly."
Seeing the King so easily was sway'd,
Eeynard took heart and spoke out undismayed:
"To lie now were most criminal, no doubt;
When I should be so speedily found out."
Thus the sly Knave the Eoyal pardon won,
Both for his Father's treason and his own.
Freed from the gallows and his Enemies,
Great was his joy nor less was their surprise.
"Noblest of Kings!" he cried, "and best of Lords!
My gratitude is .all too vast for words.
But the warm thanks of this poor heart are given
To you, and your august Spouse, next to Heaven.
My life You spare; my wealth is but Your due;
For life and wealth alike belong to You.
The favors heaped on my unworthy self
Far, far outweigh all thoughts of paltry pelf.
To You as a free gift I now make o'er
The whole of good King Emmerick's mighty store.
Then listen, Sire, while I its hiding place
By certain signs enable you to trace.
"Now mark me! Far in Flanders, to the east,
There lies a wild inhospitable waste;
There grows a single copse named Husterlow,
Near it the waters of a fountain now,
Called Krekelburn: these names remember well;
Why they're so called is more than I can tell.
It is a savage and romantic scene,
Where foot of Beast hath ne'er or rarely been;
There dwell alone the Owl, the Bat, the Jay;
64 REYNARD THE FOX.
And there it was I stow'd my wealth away.
Kemember, Sire, close each to each they lie,
The copse, and the spring Krekelburn hard by.
Yourself and Koyal Spouse had best go there,
It were not safe to send a Messenger:
'T were far too great a risk to trust a Stranger;
And with the truest Friend not much less danger.
Now further mark my words: at Krekelburn
Sharp to the left you take a sudden turn;
A stone's throw off two birches shall you see,
Their pensile branches drooping gracefully.
Directly up to these then must you go;
There delve forthwith; the treasure lies below.
At first but moss you'll find about the roots,
But soon your toil will meet with richer fruits;
Heaps of red gold you'll find; in ingots part, —
Part fabricated by the Goldsmith's art;
Among it will be seen King Emmerick's crown,
Which silly Bruin hoped to call his own;
And many a costly chain and jewel rare,
Far more than I can reckon up, are there.
Then, gracious Sire! when all this wealth You see,
Will You not think with kindness on poor Me?
'That honest Fox!' methinks I hear You say,
'With so much skill to store his wealth away!
'My blessing be upon him day and night!'"
Thus Eeynard spake, the wily Hypocrite.
And the King answered: "You must with me go,
Or ne'er shall I find out this Husterlow?
Of Lubeck and Cologne I've oft heard tell,
Of Paris also and Aix-la-Chapelle;
But never yet of Husterlow before,
Or Krekelburn, until this very hour.
How may I know that this is not again
A pure invention of your subtle brain?"
Ee joined the Fox, with brazen face,
"My Lord I send thee not to trace
The weary way to foreign strand,
The place lies here in Flemish land,
REYNARD THE FOX. 65
It is enough to drive one to despair,
To find one's word so doubted every where!
Haply there may be some one here in Court
Who may avouch the truth of my report."
He looked around and call'd the Hare, — who came — ■
A timid terror trembling through his frame.
"Come hither, Master Puss!" the Fox began;
"Hold up your head, and look, Sir, like a man!
The King desires to learn if aught you know
Of either Krekelburn or Husterlow;
Speak truly now, on your allegiance oath."
And the Hare answered — "Sire! I know them' both.
Far off in Flanders in the waste they lie,
Husterlow first, and Krekelburn close by:
Husterlow is the name they give a copse,
Where crookback Simon had his working shops;
He coined false money; that was years ago.
It is a dreary spot, as well I know;
From cold and hunger there I've suffered much,
When flying from the cruel Beagles' clutch."
"Enough," cried Eeynard, "thou canst go,
The King has heard what he would know."
Then Noble spoke once more;
"Eeynard, forget my hasty speech,
But now at once set out and teach.
The way to this thy store."
Quoth Eeynard "Gladly would I go
With thee, at once the path to show;
But ah! a deadly sin 't would be,
To take me in this company,
The cause with shame I tell!
"How Isegrim turned Monk, Sire, you have heard;
'Twas more to serve his belly, than the Lord.
Soon were his Brethren weary of his tricks;
Almost starved out; he ate enough for six;
For flesh on fast days would he rave and howl.
And caring nothing for his wretched soul,
At last, one afternoon, about Mid-Lent,
He sent for me, and straight to him I went: •
K — Goethe Vol 10
66 REYNARD THE FOX.
And I must needs coniess that I was staggerM
To see him look so sadly gaunt and haggard.
He thus entreated me, with tearful eyes,
By all our loves, Ly all our kindred ties;
c Get me some food, or I shall die of famine!
'Sweet Coz, you see the wretched plight I am in.'
My heart was softened; for he is my kin;
And in my weakness I committed sin :
To the next town I hied and stole some meat;
Placed it before the Wolf, and he did eat.
But for my goodness ill was I repaid,
By this vile Judas treach'rously betray'd.
And I, for this offense, more heinous than
All my past crimes, lie 'neath the Church's ban.
But now I have escaped my threatened doom,
I thought, with Your kind leave, to wend to Rome;
By penitence and alms I there might hope
To purchase absolution of the Pope;
Thence, having kissed his Holiness's toe,
I purposed to Jerusalem to go;
With cockle hat and staff and sandal shoon,
Why should a Fox not take a Palmer's tone?
Returned, from all sins purged, I might with pride
Then take my place, Sire, at Your honored side.
But if perchance I ventured this to-day,
Would not the pious Scandal-mongers say;
f Lo! how the King seeks Reynard's company,
'Whom he so lately had condemned to die;
'And he still excommunicated too!'
But judge You, Sire, what may be best to do."
"Heav'ns!" cried the King, "how should I know all
this?
It were a sin to keep you here, I wis;
The Hare, or some one else, can show the way:
You have Our leave to go without delay.
For worlds I'd not your pilgrimage prevent;
Since I believe you truly penitent.
May Heaven, which alone your heart can read,
Prosper jour purpose and your journey speed!"
CHAPTER THE SIXTH.
THE RELAPSE.
Thus Reynard gained once more his Sov'reign's grace
Who slowly mounting up to his high place,
Prepared t' address the meeting from his throne;
Bade them he silent all, and all sit down,
After their rank, ranged on the verdant sward;
On either hand drew up the Royal Guard;
At the Queen's side th' undaunted Reynard stood;
And thus the Monarch spake in thoughtful mood:
"Be still and listen, all ye Beasts and Birds,
Both small and great, hear and attend Our words!
Here, in Our mercy, see where Reynard stands,
Late doomed to suffer by the Hangman's hands.
But now for certain reasons, grave and high,
Touching Ourself, Our crown and dignity,
And, at the intercession of Our Queen,
Restored to grace and favor hath he been;
And free We here pronounce him, from this date,
In life and limb, in person and estate.
In Our protection him and his We take,
Desiring they be honored, for our sake:
And furthermore, it is Our Royal will,
Henceforth of him none dare to utter ill;
Convinced, as We his former faults forgive,
In future he a better life will live.
To-morrow will he leave his hearth and home,
And start upon a pilgrimage for Rome;
Thence will he make, as he doth now aver,
A journey to the Holy Sepulchre;
And then return, his sins confessed and shrive.
67
68 REYNARD THE FOX.
Completely reconciled to Us and Heaven."
He ceased. The Cat, in anger and despair,
Sought out his dear Allies, the Wolf and Bear:
"Our labor's lost;" he cried, "ah! well-a-day,
The very Devil is there here to pay!
From this curst place would I were safe away!
If Eeynard once get power, be sure that he
His fierce revenge will wreak on all us three.
Of my right eye already am I reft;
Alas! the other will not long be left."
"Woe's me! what shall we do?" exclaimed the Bear.
"Let us," said Is'grim, "to the Throne repair!
Sure 't is the strangest thing that e'er was seen!"
Forthwith they knelt before the King and Queen:
For justice loud they spoke, or rather stammered;
For justice, inarticulately clamored.
But angrily the King broke forth: — "My Lords!
Either you did not hear, or mark my words.
It is my pleasure Eeynard to forgive;
It is a branch of my prerogative;
For is it not to every Schoolboy known,
Mercy's the brightest jewel of the Crown?"
His mighty wrath had now to fury risen;
He bade them both be seized and cast in prison;
Deeming they still might plot, if left at large,
The treasons, laid by Reynard to their charge.
The Fox was now well paid for all his pains;
Himself in favor, and his Foes in chains:
Nay more — he from the King contrived to win
The grant of a square-foot of Bruin's skin;
He vowed — and never could enough extol it —
It was the very thing to make a wallet.
Thus was he for his pilgrim-journey suited;
But liking not to make it quite bare-footed,
He sued the Queen; "May 't please your Majesty,
Your own devoted Pilgrim now am I;
The road I have to go is rough and long,
And I in health am anything but strong;
It greatly would protect my tender toes,
REYNARD THE FOX. 69
Saving your presence, if I had some shoes.
Now Isegrim the Wolf hath got two pair;
Stout-built and strong; and one he may well spare;
It cannot incommode him much to lose them,
Since he has no occasion now to use them.
Speak for me, gracious Madam, to the King,
He will not sure deny so small a thing.
Dame Gieremund, too, cannot he averse
To let me have the loan of two of hers;
As she'll not see her Lord some time to come,
Like a good Housewife, she will stay at home."
The Queen replied, she thought it was but fair
That each of them should let him have a pair:
And Reynard thanked her with his best of bows,
Saying; "I promise, if I get the shoes,
Your Majesty shall have my daily pray'rs,
That Heaven preserve you free from fretting cares;
Besides, what holy relicts back I bring,
You shall be sure to share them with the King."
He had his wish: from Isegrim's fore paws
Two shoes they stripped him off, both skin and claws;
And Gieremund, his next to widowed Dame,
As to her hinder feet, they served the same.
Now while the Wolf and Bear together lie
In prison and in pain, and wish to die;
With shoes and wallet fitted out, the Fox
Draws near to Gieremund, whom thus he mocks;
"Look, best and dearest one, these shoes, you see,
Fit just as though they had been made for me!
Though you have wished me ill in days by-gone,
Such well-timed kindness can for all atone.
Who would have thought, a few short hours ago,
To see me honored and accoutred so?
But Fortune's wheel is ever on the move;
And what is now depressed soon mounts above.
Act on this maxim, and you baffle Fate;
Hope, when in trouble; fear, when fortunate.
Whene'er to Rome I get, or cross the sea,
My heart untra veiled with my Friends will be;
70 REYNARD THE FOX.
And you the largest portion shall obtain
Of those indulgences I hope to gain."
Poor Gieremund meanwhile in torture lay,
And scarce could master strength enough to say;
"This hour is thine, and we must needs submit;
But there may come a day of reck'ning yet."
Thus Isegrim and Bruin both remained
Wounded, disgraced, imprisoned and enchained;
And Eeynard's triumph seemed complete to be, —
Although he grieved that Tybalt still was free.
When morning came, the Hypocrite arose,
And first he greased, and then he donned his shoes;
Next to the Eoyal levee hastening,
To make his conge, thus addressed the King;
"Your Servant, Sire, your notice would engage
Ere he sets out on his long pilgrimage.
Sad is my lot: the Church's ban hangs o'er me,
A dreary, dang'rous journey lies before me:
'T would give me hope, and confidence of heart
To have your Chaplain's blessing ere I start;
Success would then my onward steps attend,
And bring my travels to a happy end."
Now Noble's private Chaplain was the Earn;
A gentle Brute, and Bellyn was his name;
The King, who of his services was chary,
Employed him also as his Secretary.
Him now he bade come forth, and thus address'd;
"Speak over Eeynard, — 't is his own request, —
Some holy words, his deep remorse t' assuage,
And cheer him on his lonely pilgrimage;
He goes, you know, to Eome; then o'er the sea;
And by your blessing sanctified would be;
Then, having hung his wallet by his side,
Give him a Palmer's staff his steps to guide."
And Bellyn answered thus; "My gracious Lord,
What Eeynard has avowed you surely heard;
He owns he still is excommunicate;
And truly I lament his wretched state;
But should I do the thing you now require,
REYNARD THE EOX. 71
I might incur my worthy Bishop's ire;
The matter easily might reach his ear;
And he could punish me, and would, I fear.
To Reynard, certes, I wish nothing ill;
And gladly would perform my Sovereign's will;
For this, all things in reason would I venture,
Could I be sure to 'scape my Bishop's censure:
But the good Prelate is an awful Man,
And such a strict Disciplinarian;
Besides, there are th' Archdeacon and the Dean" —
The King no longer could contain his spleen, —
"What," he exclaimed, "boots all this idle prate?
I asked for deeds, not words, Sir Woolypate."
And then he swore, and loudly, at the Ram,
Saying, "Are you aware, Sir, who I am?
Nor Priest nor Pope shall in my realm have sway;
I look My Subjects shall their King obey.
And whether you wish Reynard well or ill
Can have no influence on My Royal will.
It is my pleasure he should go to Rome;
May be 'tis yours he should remain at home."
Astounded by the Monarch's stern reproof
The poor Ram trembled to his very hoof;
And straight he took his book and 'gan to read
A blessing over Reynard's sinful head;
But little did that Wretch attend to it,
Or little care about the benefit.
The blessing o'er, they bring his scrip and staff;
How in his sleeve doth the false Pilgrim laugh;
While down his cheeks dissembling tear-drops course,
As though his heart were melting with remorse.
And in good sooth he did feel some regret,
That Tybalt was not in his power yet:
He wished to cage him with the other Three,
Whom he had brought to such extremity.
He begged them all, and chiefly Isegrim,
That they would pardon and would pray for him;
Then, with some fear still ling'ring at his heart,
Lest he might be detained, prepared to start.
72 REYNARD THE FOX.
And Noble, King of Beasts, much edified
To see such symptoms of repentance, cried;
"Say, my good Reynard, prithee, why such haste?
Some few hours with your Friends you sure may waste."
"Nay, my kind Lord," said that false-hearted Loon,
"A good work ne'er can be commenced too soon.
Dismiss me, Sire; th' important hour is come,
Big with the fate that Reynard leads to Rome."
The Monarch, taken in by Reynard's art,
Gave him his gracious license to depart;
And bade th' assembled Barons of his Court
The Pilgrim a short distance to escort.
The Wolf and Bear 'scaped this humiliation;
And from their fetters forged some consolation.
To the King's favor quite restored again,
Reynard sets forth with all that lordly train,
Upon his pious journey to be shriven, —
Much the same road that Lawyers go to Heaven; —
Pleased to have brought the King to such a pass,
Led by the nose as easy as an Ass.
Honored was he and waited on by those
Who even now had been his bitter Foes.
Nor could he yet let his old tricks alone;
But turning back he knelt before the Throne,
Kissed the King's hand, and cried; — "Ah, dearest Lord!
Vouchsafe to let me speak one parting word:
Remember what great int'rests are at stake,
And of those Traitors an example make:
Some acts of mercy Reason will condemn;
Your People suffer, if You pardon them."
And then with downcast look away he went,
And all the bearing of a Penitent.
The King broke up his Court without delay;
Then to his royal palace took his way:
And those who, to their shame, and Reynard's pride,
His progress had some way accompanied,
Now took their leave and hastened to depart.
Meanwhile the Rogue so well had plied his art,
Insisting on the blessings of repentance,
REYNARD THE FOX. 73
He'd softened not a few of his Attendants;
And specially the tender-hearted Hare
From sympathetic tears could not forbear.
Him now the cunning Fox accosted thus;
"And must we part indeed, dear Cousin Puss?
If you and Bellyn could persuaded be
A little further yet to go with me,
'T would be an act of kindness on your part,
And comfort much my poor afflicted heart.
How greatly to my credit 'twill redound
If I in such society am found;
Pleasant Companions are ye both, I ken,
And, what's far better, honest gentlemen ;
Ne'er doing wrong, you others' wrongs forgive,
And, as I lately did, you always live,
Of grass and herbs and leaves you make your food,
And never soil your guiltless teeth with blood;
Hence are your consciences serene and quiet; —
Such good results from vegetable diet."
And thus into the snare he laid they fell:
A little flattery sometimes does well.
To Malepartus, journeying on, they came;
When thus the wily Fox addressed the silly Ram;
"Dear Bellyn, will you tarry here a little?
You must, by this time, surely want some victual ;
And hereabouts you'll find enough to eat;
The herbage is particularly sweet,
In fact we rather of our pastures vaunt;
I'll just take Pussy in to see his Aunt; —
Poor Soul! she sits alone disconsolate,
And mourning over my unhappy fate;
And when she hears that I to Rome must go,
'Twill cause 4 her quite an ecstacy of woe.
Pussy, I know, for his dear Uncle's sake,
Will to his Aunt the sad news gently break."
And thus, to carry out his own vile ends,
The Fox contrived to separate the Friends.
Puss entered with him; when — omen of ill!
His footsteps stumbled on the very sill;
74 REYNARD THE FOX.
But Reynard smiled, and they passed onward, where
His vixen Wife and cubby Children were.
How Ermelyne rejoiced to see her Lord
In safety to her longing arms restored!
She'd suffered much anxiety and pain,
Lest by his wrathful Foes he should be slain,
Or a close prisoner for his life remain,
And seeing him decked out with scrip and staff,
She scarce knew whether first to cry or laugh,
So great her joy and wonder: thus she spoke;
"Beynie, my Love; my heart had almost broke;
How glad I am you're come ! Where have you been?
And what does all this masquerading mean ?"
And thus the Fox replied — "Ah, dearest Wife!
But narrowly have I escaped with life:
My Foes were powerful, and I was weak;
I had the halter round my very neck;
But our good King, with that peculiar sense
That marks all Sovereigns, saw my innocence;
And, as a testimonial to my worth,
In pious Palmer's weeds has sent me forth;
My character without the slightest stain;
The Wolf and the Bear as hostages remain;
And Master Puss, you see, has by the King
Been giv'n to me as a peace-offering:
For the King said, — 'Beynard, you see that Hare.
'Yon trembling Coward, who stands crouching there;
'That is the wretch by whom you've been betray' d/
And for his treason he shall now be paid."
Puss heard these threat'ning words with mortal fear;
They seemed to ring a death-knell in his ear;
Confused and scared he strove in haste to fly,
But Beynard darted on him viciously,
And clutched him by the throat; Puss shrieked amain,
"Help, Bellyn, help!" he cried, and cried again,
"Help! or by this false Pilgrim I am slain."
But long he did not cry: for Beynard's teeth
Soon cut his windpipe, and let out his breath.
Thus did this cursed and incarnate Fiend
REYNARD THE FOX. 75
Betray and murder his too-trusting Friend.
"Come now," he said, "to supper let us haste;
Our Friend is fat and delicate to taste;
The Simpleton was ne'er of use before;
To make him so long time ago I swore.
He wished to wound, but was afraid to strike;
So perish every one who does the like!"
Then the whole family sat down to sup;
The Hare was skinned and shared and eaten up:
The Vixen greatly the repast enjoyed,
And oft exclaimed, as with the bones she toyed;
"Heaven bless the King and Queen! how good they are,
To cater for us such delicious fare."
"For this time," said the Fox, "it may suffice;
I hope ere long a nobler sacrifice;
That I may let the whole world plainly see,
None injured Reynard with impunity."
Quoth Ermelyne — "Dear Lord, I prithee tell,
How you got away so safe and well."
" 'T would take," said he, "full many a weary hour
To show how I escaped the Law's grim pow'r;
T' explain the tricks, I played my Enemies,
And how I dammed — with dust — King Noble's eyes.
In sooth the bonds that now our hearts unite,
Though we are sworn as Lieges, are but slight;
And when the truth shall break upon his mind,
Within no bounds his rage will be confin'd.
Me if again within his power he hold
No wealth can save of silver or of gold;
No chance of mercy left, my fate will be
To hang like fruit, upon the gallows tree.
"Let us, dear Love, at once to Swabia fly;
