"How? Where is the Armenian?"

"Do not fear, your highness. He will appear but too soon. I omit the
description of the farce itself, as it would lead me to too great a
length. Be it sufficient to say that it answered my utmost
expectations. The old marquis, the young countess, her mother, Lorenzo,
and a few others of the family, were present. You may imagine that
during my long residence in this house I had not wanted opportunities of
gathering information respecting everything that concerned the deceased.
Several portraits of him enabled me to give the apparition the most
striking likeness, and as I suffered the ghost to speak only by signs,
the sound of his voice could excite no suspicion.

"The departed Jeronymo appeared--in the dress of a Moorish slave, with a
deep wound in his neck. You observe that in this respect I was
counteracting the general supposition that he had perished in the waves,
for I had reason to hope that the unexpectedness of this circumstance
would heighten their belief in the apparition itself, while, on the
other hand, nothing appeared to me more dangerous than to keep too
strictly to what was natural."

"I think you judged rightly," said the prince. "In whatever respects
apparitions the most probable is the least acceptable. If their
communications are easily comprehended we undervalue the channel by
which they are obtained. Nay, we even suspect the reality of the
miracle if the discoveries which it brings to light are such as might
easily have been imagined. Why should we disturb the repose of a spirit
if it is to inform us of nothing more than the ordinary powers of the
intellect are capable of teaching us? But, on the other hand, if the
intelligence which we receive is extraordinary and unexpected it
confirms in some degree the miracle by which it is obtained; for who can
doubt an operation to be supernatural when its effect could not be
produced by natural means? I interrupt you," added the prince.
"Proceed in your narrative."

"I asked the ghost whether there was anything in this world which he
still considered as his own," continued the Sicilian, "and whether he
had left anything behind that was particularly dear to him? The ghost
shook his head three times, and lifted up his hand towards heaven.
Previous to his retiring he dropped a ring from his finger, which was
found on the floor after he had disappeared. Antonia took it, and,
looking at it attentively, she knew it to be the ring she had given her
intended husband on their betrothal."

"The ring!" exclaimed the prince, surprised. "How did you get it?"

"Who? I? It was not the true one, your highness; I got it. It was only
a counterfeit."

"A counterfeit!" repeated the prince. "But in order to counterfeit you
required the true one. How did you come by it? Surely the deceased
never went without it."

"That is true," replied the Sicilian, with symptoms of confusion. "But
from a description which was given me of the genuine ring"

"A description which was given you! By whom?"

"Long before that time. It was a plain gold ring, and had, I believe,
the name of the young countess engraved on it. But you made me lose the
connection."

"What happened further?" said the prince, with a very dissatisfied
countenance.

"The family felt convinced that Jeronymo was no more. From that day
forward they publicly announced his death, and went into mourning. The
circumstance of the ring left no doubt, even in the mind of Antonia, and
added a considerable weight to the addresses of the chevalier.

"In the meantime the violent shock which the young countess had received
from the sight of the apparition brought on her a disorder so dangerous
that the hopes of Lorenzo were very near being destroyed forever. On
her recovery she insisted upon taking the veil; and it was only at the
most serious remonstrances of her confessor, in whom she placed implicit
confidence, that she was induced to abandon her project. At length the
united solicitations of the family, and of the confessor, forced from
her a reluctant consent. The last day of mourning was fixed on for the
day of marriage, and the old marquis determined to add to the solemnity
of the occasion by making over all his estates to his lawful heir.

"The day arrived, and Lorenzo received his trembling bride at the altar.
In the evening a splendid banquet was prepared for the cheerful guests
in a hall superbly illuminated, and the most lively and delightful music
contributed to increase the general gladness. The happy old marquis
wished all the world to participate in his joy. All the entrances of
the palace were thrown open, and every one who sympathized in his
happiness was joyfully welcomed. In the midst of the throng--"

The Sicilian paused. A trembling expectation suspended our breath.

"In-the midst of the throng," continued the prisoner, "appeared a
Franciscan monk, to whom my attention was directed by the person who sat
next to me at table. He was standing motionless like a marble pillar.
His shape was tall and thin; his face pale and ghastly; his eyes were
fixed with a grave and mournful expression on the new-married couple.
The joy which beamed on the face of every one present appeared not on
his. His countenance never once varied. He seemed like a statue among
the living. Such an object, appearing amidst the general joy, struck me
more forcibly from its contrast with everything around. It left on my
mind so indelible an impression that from it alone I have been enabled
(which would otherwise have been impossible) to recollect the features
of the Franciscan monk in the Russian officer; for, without doubt, you
must have already conceived that the person I have described was no
other than your Armenian.

"I frequently attempted to withdraw my eyes from this terrible figure,
but they wandered back involuntarily, and found his countenance
unaltered. I pointed him out to the person who sat nearest to me on the
other side, and he did the same to the person next to him. In a few
minutes a general curiosity and astonishment pervaded the whole company.
The conversation languished; a general silence succeeded; the monk did
not heed it. He continued motionless as before; his grave and mournful
looks constantly fixed upon the new-married couple; his appearance
struck every one with terror. The young countess alone, who found the
transcript of her own sorrow in the fact of the stranger, beheld with
a melancholy satisfaction the only object that seemed to understand and
sympathize in her sufferings. The crowd insensibly diminished. It was
past midnight; the music became fainter and more languid; the tapers
grew dim, and many of them went out. The conversation, declining by
degrees, lost itself at last in secret murmurs, and the faintly
illuminated hall was nearly deserted. The monk, in the meantime,
continued motionless, with the same grave and mournful look still fixed
on the new-married couple. The company at length rose from the table;
the guests dispersed; the family assembled in a separate group, and the
monk, though uninvited, continued near them. How it happened that no
person spoke to him I cannot conceive.

"The female friends now surrounded the trembling bride, who cast a
supplicating and distressed look on the venerable stranger; he did not
answer it. The gentlemen assembled in the same manner around the
bridegroom. A solemn and anxious silence prevailed among them. 'That
we should be so happy here together,' began at length the old marquis,
who alone seemed not to behold the stranger, or at least seemed to
behold him without dismay. 'That we should be so happy here together,
and my son Jeronymo cannot be with us!'

"'Have you invited him, and has he failed to come?' asked the monk.
It was the first time he had spoken. We looked at him in alarm.

"'Alas! he is gone to a place from whence there is no return,' answered
the old man. 'Reverend father I you misunderstood me. My son Jeronymo
is dead.'

"'Perhaps he only fears to appear in this company,' replied the monk.
'Who knows how your son Jeronymo may be situated? Let him now hear the
voice which he heard the last. Desire your son Lorenzo to call him.'

"'What means he?' whispered the company to one another. Lorenzo changed
color. I will not deny that my own hair began to stand on end.

"In the meantime the monk approached a sideboard; he took a glass of
wine and carried to his lips. 'To the memory of our dear Jeronymo!'
said he. 'Let every one who loved the deceased follow my example.'

"'Be you who you may, reverend father!' exclaimed the old marquis, 'you
have pronounced a name dear to us all, and you are heartily welcome
here;' then turning to us, he offered us full glasses. 'Come, my
friends!' continued he, 'let us not be surpassed by a stranger. The
memory of my son Jeronymo!

"Never, I believe, was any toast less heartily received.

"'There is one glass still unemptied," said the marquis. 'Why does my
son Lorenzo refuse to drink this friendly toast?'

"Lorenzo, trembling, received the glass from the hands of the monk;
tremblingly he put it to his lips. 'To my dearly-beloved brother
Jeronymo!' he stammered out, and replaced the glass with a shudder.

"'That was my murderer's voice!' exclaimed a terrible figure, which
appeared suddenly in the midst of us, covered with blood, and disfigured
with horrible wounds.

"Do not ask me the rest," added the Sicilian, with every symptom of
horror in his countenance. "I lost my senses the moment I looked at
this apparition. The same happened to every one present. When we
recovered the monk and the ghost had disappeared; Lorenzo was writhing
in the agonies of death. He was carried to bed in the most dreadful
convulsions. No person attended him but his confessor and the sorrowful
old marquis, in whose presence he expired. The marquis died a few weeks
after him. Lorenzo's secret is locked in the bosom of the priest who
received his last confession; no person ever learnt what it was.

"Soon after this event a well was cleaned in the farmyard of the
marquis' villa. It had been disused for many years, and was almost
closed up by shrubs and old trees. On digging among the rubbish a human
skeleton was found. The house where this happened is now no more; the
family del M-----nte is extinct, and Antonia's tomb may be seen in a
convent not far from Salerno.

"You see," continued the Sicilian, seeing us all stand silent and
thoughtful, "you see how my acquaintance with this Russian officer,
Armenian, or Franciscan friar originated. Judge now whether I had not
good cause to tremble at the sight of a being who has twice placed
himself in my way in a manner so terrible."

"I beg you will answer me one question more," said the prince, rising
from his seat. "Have you been always sincere in your account of
everything relating to the chevalier?"

"To the best of my knowledge I have," replied the Sicilian.

"You really believed him to be an honest man?"

"I did; by heaven! I did," answered he again.

"Even at the tine he gave you the ring?"

"How! He gave me no ring. I did not say that he gave me the ring."

"Very well!" said the prince, pulling the bell, and preparing to
depart. "And you believe" (going back to the prisoner) "that the ghost
of the Marquis de Lanoy, which the Russian officer introduced after your
apparition, was a true and real ghost?"

"I cannot think otherwise."

"Let us go!" said the prince, addressing himself to us. The gaoler came
in. "We have done," said the prince to him. "You, sir," turning to the
prisoner, "you shall hear further from me."

"I am tempted to ask your highness the last question you proposed to the
sorcerer," said I to the prince, when we were alone. "Do you believe
the second ghost to have been a real and true one?"

"I believe it! No, not now, most assuredly."

"Not now? Then you did once believe it?"

"I confess I was tempted for a moment to believe it something more than
the contrivance of a juggler."

"And I could wish to see the man who under similar circumstances would
not have had the same impression. But what reasons have you for
retracting your opinion? What the prisoner has related of the Armenian
ought to increase rather than diminish your belief in his super natural
powers."

"What this wretch has related of him," said the prince, interrupting me
very gravely. "I hope," continued he, "you have now no doubt but that
we have had to do with a villain."

"No; but must his evidence on that account--"

"The evidence of a villain, even supposing I had no other reason for
doubt, can have no weight against common sense and established truth.
Does a man who has already deceived me several times, and whose trade it
is to deceive, does he deserve to be heard in a cause in which the
unsupported testimony of even the most sincere adherent to truth could
not be received? Ought we to believe a man who perhaps never once spoke
truth for its own sake? Does such a man deserve credit, when he appears
as evidence against human reason and the eternal laws of nature? Would
it not be as absurd as to admit the accusation of a person notoriously
infamous against unblemished and irreproachable innocence?"

"But what motives could he have for giving so great a character to a man
whom he has so many reasons to hate?"

"I am not to conclude that he can have no motives for doing this because
I am unable to comprehend them. Do I know who has bribed him to deceive
me? I confess I cannot penetrate the whole contexture of his plan; but
he has certainly done a material injury to the cause he advocates by
proving himself to be at least an impostor, and perhaps something
worse."

"The circumstance of the ring, I allow, appears somewhat suspicions."

"It is more than suspicious," answered the prince; "it is decisive. He
received this ring from the murderer, and at the moment he received it
he must have been certain that it was from the murderer. Who but the
assassin, could have taken from the finger of the deceased a ring which
he undoubtedly never took off himself? Throughout the whole of his
narration the Sicilian has labored to persuade us that while he was
endeavoring to deceive Lorenzo, Lorenzo was in reality deceiving him.
Would he have had recourse to this subterfuge if he had not been
sensible how much he should lose in our estimation by confessing himself
an accomplice with the assassin? The whole story is visibly nothing but
a series of impostures, invented merely to connect the few truths he has
thought proper to give us. Ought I then to hesitate in disbelieving the
eleventh assertion of a person who has already deceived me ten times,
rather than admit a violation of the fundamental laws of nature, which I
have ever found in the most perfect harmony?"

"I have nothing to reply to all this, but the apparition we saw
yesterday is to me not the less incomprehensible."

"It is also incomprehensible to me, although I have been tempted to
believe that I have found a key to it."

"How so?" asked I.

"Do not you recollect that the second apparition, as soon as he entered,
walked directly up to the altar, took the crucifix in his hand, and
placed himself upon the carpet?"

"It appeared so to me."

"And this crucifix, according to the Sicilian's confession, was a
conductor. You see that the apparition hastened to make himself
electrical. Thus the blow which Lord Seymour struck him with a sword
was of course ineffectual; the electric stroke disabled his arm."

"This is true with respect to the sword. But the pistol fired by the
Sicilian, the ball of which we heard roll slowly upon the altar?"

"Are you convinced that this was the same ball which was fired from the
pistol?" replied the prince. "Not to mention that the puppet, or the
man who represented the ghost, may have been so well accoutred as to be
invulnerable by sword or bullet; but consider who it was that loaded the
pistols."

"True," said I, and a sudden light broke upon my mind; "the Russian.
officer had loaded them, but it was in our presence. How could he have
deceived us?"

"Why should he not have deceived us? Did you suspect him sufficiently
to observe him? Did you examine the ball before it was put into the
pistol? May it not have been one of quicksilver or clay? Did you take
notice whether the Russian officer really put it into the barrel, or
dropped it into his other hand? But supposing that he actually loaded
the pistols, what is to convince you that he really took the loaded ones
into the room where the ghost appeared, and did not change them for
another pair, which he might have done the more easily as nobody ever
thought of noticing him, and we were besides occupied in undressing?
And could not the figure, at the moment when we were prevented from
seeing it by the smoke of the pistol, have dropped another ball, with
which it had been beforehand provided, on the the altar? Which of these
conjectures is impossible?"

"You are right. But that striking resemblance to your deceased friend!
I have often seen him with you, and I immediately recognized him in the
apparition."

"I did the same, and I must confess the illusion was complete. But if
the juggler from a few stolen glances at my snuff-box was able to give
to his apparition a resemblance, what was to prevent the Russian
officer, who had used the box during the whole time of supper, who had
had liberty to observe the picture unnoticed, and to whom I had
discovered in confidence whom it represented, what was to prevent him
from doing the same? Add to this what has been before observed by the
Sicilian, that the prominent features of the marquis were so striking as
to be easily imitated; what is there so inexplicable in this second
ghost?"

"But the words he uttered? The information he gave you about your
friend?"

"What?" said the prince, "Did not the Sicilian assure us, that from
the little which he had learnt from me he had composed a similar story?
Does not this prove that the invention was obvious and natural?
Besides, the answers of the ghost, like those of an oracle, were so
obscure that he was in no danger of being detected in a falsehood. If
the man who personated the ghost possessed sagacity and presence of
mind, and knew ever-so-little of the affair on which he was consulted,
to what length might not he have carried the deception?"

"Pray consider, your highness, how much preparation such a complicated
artifice would have required from the Armenian; how much time it takes
to paint a face with sufficient exactness; how much time would have been
requisite to instruct the pretended ghost, so as to guard him against
gross errors; what a degree of minute attention to regulate every minor
attendant or adventitious circumstance, which must be answered in some
manner, lest they should prove detrimental! And remember that the
Russian officer was absent but half an hour. Was that short space
of time sufficient to make even such arrangements as were most
indispensable? Surely, my prince, not even a dramatic writer, who has
the least desire to preserve the three terrible unities of Aristotle,
durst venture to load the interval between one act and another with such
a variety of action, or to presume upon such a facility of belief in his
audience."

"What! You think it absolutely impossible that every necessary
preparation should have been made in the space of half an hour?"

"Indeed, I look upon it as almost impossible."

"I do not understand this expression. Does it militate against the
physical laws of time and space, or of matter and motion, that a man so
ingenious and so expert as this Armenian must undoubtedly be, assisted
by agents whose dexterity and acuteness are probably not inferior to his
own; favored by the time of night, and watched by no one, provided with
such means and instruments as a man of this profession is never without
--is it impossible that such a man, favored by such circumstances,
should be able to effect so much in so short a time? Is it ridiculous
or absurd to suppose, that by a very small number of words or signs he
can convey to his assistants very extensive commissions, and direct very
complex operations? Nothing ought to be admitted that is contrary to
the established laws of nature, unless it is something with which these
laws are absolutely incompatible. Would you rather give credit to a
miracle than admit an improbability? Would you solve a difficulty
rather by overturning the powers of nature than by believing an artful
and uncommon combination of them?"

"Though the fact will not justify a conclusion such as you have
condemned, you must, however, grant that it is far beyond our
conception."

"I am almost tempted to dispute even this," said the prince, with a
quiet smile. "What would you say, my dear count, if it should be
proved, for instance, that the operations of the Armenian were prepared
and carried on, not only during the half-hour that he was absent from
us, not only in haste and incidentally, but during the whole evening and
the whole night? You recollect that the Sicilian employed nearly three
hours in preparation."

"The Sicilian? Yes, my prince."

"And how will you convince me that this juggler had not as much concern
in the second apparition as in the first?"

"How so, your highness?"

"That he was not the principal assistant of the Armenian? In a word,
how will you convince me that they did not co-operate?"

"It would be a difficult task to prove that," exclaimed I, with no
little surprise.

"Not so difficult, my dear count, as you imagine. What! Could it have
happened by mere chance that these two men should form a design so
extraordinary and so complicated upon the same person, at the same time,
and in the same place? Could mere chance have produced such an exact
harmony between their operations, that one of them should play so
exactly the game of the other? Suppose for a moment that the Armenian
intended to heighten the effect of his deception, by introducing it
after a less refined one--that he created a Hector to make himself his
Achilles. Suppose that he has done all this to discover what degree of
credulity he could expect to find in me, to examine the readiest way to
gain my confidence, to familiarize himself with his subject by an
attempt that might have miscarried without any prejudice to his plan; in
a word, to tune the instrument on which he intended to play. Suppose he
did this with the view of exciting my suspicions on one subject in order
to divert my attention from another more important to his design.
Lastly, suppose he wishes to have some indirect methods of information,
which he had himself occasion to practise, imputed to the sorcerer, in
order to divert suspicion from the true channel."

"How do you mean?" said I.

"Suppose, for instance, that he may have bribed some of my servants to
give him secret intelligence, or, perhaps, even some papers which may
serve his purpose. I have missed one of my domestics. What reason have
I to think that the Armenian is not concerned in his leaving me? Such a
connection, however, if it existed, may be accidently discovered; a
letter may be intercepted; a servant, who is in the secret, may betray
his trust. Now all the consequence of the Armenian is destroyed if I
detect the source of his omniscience. He therefore introduces this
sorcerer, who must be supposed to have some design upon me. He takes
care to give me early notice of him and his intentions, so that whatever
I may hereafter discover my suspicions must necessarily rest upon the
Sicilian. This is the puppet with which he amuses me, whilst he
himself, unobserved and unsuspected, is entangling me in invisible
snares."

"We will allow this. But is it consistent with the Armenian's plan that
he himself should destroy the illusion which he has created, and
disclose the mysteries of his science to the eyes of the uninitiated?"

"What mysteries does he disclose? None, surely, which he intends to
practise on me. He therefore loses nothing by the discovery. But,
on the other hand, what an advantage will he gain, if this pretended
victory over juggling and deception should render me secure and
unsuspecting; if he succeeds in diverting my attention from the right
quarter, and in fixing my wavering suspicions on an object the most
remote from the real one! He could naturally expect that, sooner or
later, either from my own doubts, or at the suggestion of another, I
should be tempted to seek a key to his mysterious wonders, in the mere
art of a juggler; how could he better provide against such an inquiry
than by contrasting his prodigies with juggling tricks. By confining
the latter within artificial limits, and by delivering, as it were, into
my hands a scale by which to appreciate them, he naturally exalts and
perplexes my ideas of the former. How many suspicions he precludes by
this single contrivance! How many methods of accounting for his
miracles, which afterwards have occurred to me, does he refute
beforehand!"

"But in exposing such a finished deception he has acted very much
against his own interest, both by quickening the penetration of those
whom he meant to impose upon, and by staggering their belief in miracles
in general. Your highness' self is the best proof of the insufficiency
of his plan, if indeed he ever had one."

"Perhaps he has been mistaken in respect to myself," said the prince;
"but his conclusions have nevertheless been well founded. Could he
foresee that I should exactly notice the very circumstance which
threatens to become the key to the whole artifice? Was it in his plan
that the creature he employed should render himself thus vulnerable?
Are we certain that the Sicilian has not far exceeded his commission?
He has undoubtedly done so with respect to the ring, and yet it is
chiefly this single circumstance which determined my distrust in him.
How easily may a plan, whose contexture is most artful and refined, be
spoiled in the execution by an awkward instrument. It certainly was not
the Armenian's intention that the sorcerer should trumpet his fame to us
in the style of a mountebank, that he should endeavor to impose upon us
such fables as are too gross to bear the least reflection. For
instance, with what countenance could this impostor affirm that the
miraculous being he spoke of must renounce all commerce with mankind at
twelve in the night? Did we not see him among us at that very hour?"

"That is true," cried I. "He must have forgotten it."

"It often happens, to people of this description, that they overact
their parts; and, by aiming at too much, mar the effects which a
well-managed deception is calculated to produce."

"I cannot, however, yet prevail on myself to look upon the whole as a
mere preconcerted scheme. What! the Sicilian's terror, his convulsive
fits, his swoon, the deplorable situation in which we saw him, and which
was even such as to move our pity, were all these nothing more than a
studied part? I allow that a skilful performer may carry imitation to a
very high pitch, but he certainly has no power over the organs of life."

"As for that, my friend," replied the prince, "I have seen Richard III.
performed by Garrick. But were we at that moment sufficiently cool to
be capable of observing dispassionately? Could we judge of the emotion
of the Sicilian when we were almost overcome by our own? Besides, the
decisive crisis even of a deception is so momentous to the deceiver
himself that excessive anxiety may produce in him symptoms as violent
as those which surprise excites in the deceived. Add to this the
unexpected entrance of the watch."

"I am glad you remind me of that, prince. Would the Armenian have
ventured to discover such a dangerous scheme to the eye of justice; to
expose the fidelity of his creature to so severe a test? And for what
purpose?"

"Leave that matter to him; he is no doubt acquainted with the people he
employs. Do we know what secret crimes may have secured him the silence
of this man? You have been informed of the office he holds in Venice;
what difficulty will he find in saving a man of whom he himself is the
only accuser?"

[This suggestion of the prince was but too well justified by the event.
For, some days after, on inquiring after the prisoner, we were told that
he had escaped, and had not since been heard of.]

"You ask what could be his motives for delivering this man into the
hands of justice?" continued the prince. "By what other method, except
this violent one, could he have wrested from the Sicilian such an
infamous and improbable confession, which, however, was so material to
the success of his plan? Who but a man whose case is desperate, and who
has nothing to lose, would consent to give so humiliating an account of
himself? Under what other circumstances could we have believed such a
confession?"

"I grant all this, my prince. That the two apparitions were mere
contrivances of art; that the Sicilian has imposed upon us a tale which
the Armenian his master, had previously taught him; that the efforts of
both have been directed to the same end, and, from this mutual
intelligence all the wonderful incidents which have astonished us in
this adventure may be easily explained. But the prophecy in the square
of St. Mark, that first miracle, which, as it were, opened the door to
all the rest, still remains unexplained; and of what use is the key to
all his other wonders if we despair of resolving this single one?"

"Rather invert the proposition, my dear count," answered the prince,
"and say what do all these wonders prove if I can demonstrate that a
single one among them is a juggling trick? The prediction, I own, is
totally beyond my conception. If it stood alone; if the Armenian had
closed the scene with it, instead of beginning it, I confess I do not
know how far I might have been carried. But in the base alloy with
which it is mixed it is certainly rather suspicious. Time may explain,
or not explain it; but believe me, my friend!" added the prince, taking
my hand, with a grave countenance,--"a man who can command supernatural
powers has no occasion to employ the arts of a juggler; he despises
them."

"Thus," says Count O------, "ended a conversation which I have related
word for word, because it shows the difficulties which were to be
overcome before the prince could be effectually imposed upon; and I
hope it may free his memory from the imputation of having blindly and
inconsiderately thrown himself into a snare, which was spread for his
destruction by the most unexampled and diabolical wickedness. Not all,"
continues Count O------, "who, at the moment I am writing, smile
contemptuously at the prince's credulity, and, in the fancied
superiority of their own yet untempted understanding, unconditionally
condemn him; not all of these, I apprehend, would have stood his first
trial so courageously. If afterwards, notwithstanding this providential
warning, we witness his downfall; if we see that the black design
against which, at the very outset, he was thus cautioned, is finally
successful, we shall be less inclined to ridicule his weakness than to
be astonished at the infamous ingenuity of a plot which could seduce an
understanding so fully prepared. Considerations of worldly interest can
have no influence upon my testimony; he, who alone would be thankful for
it, is now no more. His dreadful destiny is accomplished; his soul has
long since been purified before the throne of truth, where mine will
likewise have appeared before these passages meet the eyes of the world.
Pardon the involuntary tears which now flow at the remembrance of my
dearest friend. But for the sake of justice I must write this. His was
a noble character, and would have adorned a throne which, seduced by the
most atrocious artifice, he attempted to ascend by the commission of a
crime.






BOOK II.

"Not long after these events," continues Count O-----, in his narrative,
"I began to observe an extraordinary alteration in the disposition of
the prince, which was partly the immediate consequence of the last event
and partly produced by the concurrence of many adventitious
circumstances. Hitherto he had avoided every severe trial of his faith,
and contented himself with purifying the rude and abstract notions of
religion, in which he had been educated, by those more rational ideas
upon this subject which forced themselves upon his attention, or
comparing the many discordant opinions with each other, without
inquiring into the foundations of his faith. Religious subjects, he has
many times confessed to me, always appeared to him like an enchanted
castle, into which one does not set one's foot without horror, and that
they act therefore much the wiser part who pass it in respectful
silence, without exposing themselves to the danger of being bewildered
in its labyrinths. A servile and bigoted education was the source of
this dread; this had impressed frightful images upon his tender brain,
which, during the remainder of his life, he was never able wholly to
obliterate. Religious melancholy was an hereditary disorder in his
family. The education which he and his brothers had received was
calculated to produce it; and the men to whose care they were entrusted,
selected with this object, were also either enthusiasts or hypocrites.

"To stifle all the sprightliness of the boy, by a gloomy restraint of
his mental faculties, was the only method of securing to themselves the
highest approbation of his royal parents. The whole of our prince's
childhood wore a dark and gloomy aspect; mirth was banished even from
his amusements. All his ideas of religion were accompanied by some
frightful image; and the representations of terror and severity were
those which first took hold of his lively imagination, and which the
longest retained their empire over it. His God was an object of terror,
a being whose occupation is to chastise; and the adoration he paid him
was either slavish fear, or a blind submission which stifled all his
energies. In all his youthful propensities, which a vigorous growth and
a fine constitution naturally excited to break out with the greater
violence, religion stood in his way; it opposed everything upon which
his young heart was bent; he learned to consider it not as a friend,
but as the scourge of his passions; so that a silent indignation was
gradually kindled against it in his heart, which, together with a
bigoted faith and a blind fear, produced an incongruous mixture of
feelings, and an abhorrence of a ruler before whom he trembled.

"It is no wonder, therefore, that he took the first opportunity of
escaping from so galling a yoke--but he fled from it as a bond-slave
who, escaping from his rigorous master, drags along with him a sense of
his servitude, even in the midst of freedom; for, as he did not renounce
the faith of his earlier years from a deliberate conviction, and did not
wait till the maturity and improvement of his reasoning had weaned him
from it, but escaped from it like a fugitive, upon whose person the
rights of his master are still in force, so was he obliged, even after
his widest separation, to return to it at last. He had escaped with his
chain, and for that reason must necessarily become the prey of any one
who should discover it, and know how to make use of the discovery. That
such a one presented himself, the sequel of this history will prove;
most likely the reader has already surmised it.

"The confessions of the Sicilian left a deeper impression upon his mind
than they ought, considering the circumstances; and the small victory
which his reason had thence gained over this weak imposture, remarkably
increased his reliance upon his own powers. The facility with which he
had been able to unravel this deception appeared to have surprised him.
Truth and error were not yet so accurately distinguished from each other
in his mind but that he often mistook the arguments which were in favor
of the one for those in favor of the other. Thence it arose that the
same blow which destroyed his faith in wonders made the whole edifice of
it totter. In this instance, he fell into the same error as an
inexperienced man who has been deceived in love or friendship, because
he happened to make a bad choice, and who denies the existence of these
sensations, because he takes the occasional exceptions for
distinguishing features. The unmasking of a deception made even truth
suspicious to him, because he had unfortunately discovered truth by
false reasoning.

"This imaginary triumph pleased him in proportion to the magnitude of
the oppression from which it seemed to deliver him. From this instant
there arose in his mind a scepticism which did not spare even the most
sacred objects.

"Many circumstances concurred to encourage, and still more to confirm,
him in this turn of mind. He now quitted the retirement in which he had
hitherto lived, and gave way to a more dissipated mode of life. His
rank was discovered; attentions which he was obliged to return,
etiquettes for which he was indebted to his rank, drew him imperceptibly
within the vortex of the great world. His rank, as well as his personal
attractions, opened to him the circles of all the beaux esprits in
Venice, and he soon found himself on terms of intimacy with the most
enlightened persons in the republic, men of learning as well as
politicians. This obliged him to en large the monotonous and limited
circle to which his understanding had hitherto been confined. He began
to perceive the poverty and feebleness of his ideas, and to feel the
want of more elevated impressions. The old-fashioned turn of his
understanding, in spite of the many advantages with which it was
accompanied, formed an unpleasing contrast with the current ideas of
society; his ignorance of the commonest things frequently exposed him to
ridicule, than which he dreaded nothing more. The unfortunate prejudice
which attached to his native country appeared to him a challenge to
overcome it in his own person. Besides this, there was a peculiarity in
his character; he was offended with every attention that he thought was
paid him on account of his rank rather than his personal qualities. He
felt this humiliation principally in the company of persons who shone by
their abilities, and triumphed, as it were, over their birth by their
merit. To perceive himself distinguished as a prince, in such a
society, was always a deep humiliation to him, because he unfortunately
fancied himself excluded by his rank from all competition. These
circumstances convinced him of the necessity of cultivating his mind,
in order to raise it to a level with the thinking part of the world,
from which he had hitherto been so separated; and for that purpose he
chose the most modern books, and applied himself to them with all the
ardor with which he was accustomed to pursue every object to which he
devoted himself. But the unskilful hand that directed his choice always
prompted him to select such as were little calculated to improve either
his heart or his reason; besides that, he was influenced by a propensity
which rendered everything irresistible which was incomprehensible. He
had neither attention nor memory for anything that was not of that
character, and both his reason and his heart remained untouched, while
he was filling the vacuities of his brain with confused ideas. The
dazzling style of some writers captivated his imagination, while the
subtlety of others ensnared his reason. Together, they easily took
possession of a mind which became the prey of whatever was obtruded upon
it with a certain degree of dogmatism. A course of reading, which had
been continued with ardor for more than a year, had scarcely enriched
him with one benevolent idea, but had filled his head with doubts,
which, as a natural consequence with such a character, had almost found
an unfortunate road to his heart. In a word, he had entered this
labyrinth as a credulous enthusiast, had left it as a sceptic, and at
length became a perfect free-thinker.

"Among the circles into which he had been introduced there was a private
society called the Bucentauro, which, under the mask of a noble and
rational liberality of sentiment, encouraged the most unbridled
licentiousness of manners and opinion. As it enumerated many of the
clergy among its members, and could even boast of some cardinals at its
head, the prince was the more easily induced to join it. He thought
that certain dangerous truths, which reason discovers, could be nowhere
better preserved than in the hands of such persons, whose rank compelled
them to moderation, and who had the advantage of hearing and examining
the other side of the question. The prince did not recollect that
licentiousness of sentiment and manners takes so much the stronger hold
among persons of this rank, inasmuch as they for that reason feel one
curb less; and this was the case with the Bucentauro, most of whose
members, through an execrable philosophy, and manners worthy of such a
guide, were not only a disgrace to their own rank, but even to human
nature itself. The society had its secret degrees; and I will believe,
for the credit of the prince, that they never thought him worthy of
admission into the inmost sanctuary. Every one who entered this society
was obliged, at least so long as he continued to be a member of it, to
lay aside all distinctions arising from rank, nation, or religion, in
short, every general mark or distinction whatever, and to submit himself
to the condition of universal equality. To be elected a member was
indeed a difficult matter, as superiority of understanding alone paved
the way to it. The society boasted of the highest ton and the most
cultivated taste, and such indeed was its fame throughout all Venice.
This, as well as the appearance of equality which predominated in it,
attracted the prince irresistibly. Sensible conversations, set off by
the most admirable humor, instructive amusements, and the flower of the
learned and political world, which were all attracted to this point as
to their common centre, concealed from him for a long time the danger
of this connection. As he by degrees discovered through its mask the
spirit of the institution, as they grew tired of being any longer on
their guard before him, to recede was dangerous, and false shame and
anxiety for his safety obliged him to conceal the displeasure he felt.
But he already began, merely from familiarity with men of this class and
their sentiments, though they did not excite him to imitation, to lose
the pure and charming simplicity of his character, and the delicacy of
his moral feelings. His understanding, supported by real knowledge,
could not without foreign assistance solve the fallacious sophisms with
which he had been here ensnared; and this fatal poison had already
destroyed all, or nearly all, the basis on which his morality rested.
He surrendered the natural and indispensable safeguards of his happiness
for sophisms which deserted him at the critical moment, and he was
consequently left to the operation of any specious argument which came
in his way.

"Perhaps the hand of a friend might yet have been in time to extricate
him from this abyss; but, besides that I did not become acquainted with
the real character of the Bucentauro till long after the evil had taken
place, an urgent circumstance called me away from Venice just at the
beginning of this period. Lord Seymour, too, a valuable acquaintance of
the prince, whose cool understanding was proof against every species of
deception, and who would have infallibly been a secure support to him,
left us at this time in order to return to his native country. Those in
whose hands I left the prince were indeed worthy men, but inexperienced,
excessively narrow in their religious opinions, deficient in their
perception of the evil, and wanting in credit with the prince. They had
nothing to oppose to his captious sophisms except the maxims of a blind
and uninquiring faith, which either irritated him or excited his
ridicule. He saw through them too easily, and his superior reason soon
silenced those weak defenders of the good cause, as will be clearly
evinced from an instance which I shall introduce in the sequel. Those
who, subsequent to this, possessed themselves of his confidence, were
much more interested in plunging him deeper into error. When I returned
to Venice in the following year how great a change had already taken
place in everything!

"The influence of this new philosophy soon showed itself in the prince's
conduct. The more openly he pursued pleasure, and acquired new friends,
the more did he lose in the estimation of his old ones. He pleased me
less and less every day; we saw each other more seldom, and indeed he
was seldom accessible. He had launched out into the torrent of the
great world. His threshold was eternally thronged when he was at home.
Amusements, banquets, and galas followed each other in rapid succession.
He was the idol whom every one courted, the great attraction of every
circle. In proportion as he, in his secluded life, had fancied living
in society to be difficult, did he to his astonishment find it easy.
Everything met his wishes. Whatever he uttered was admirable, and when
he remained silent it was like committing a robbery upon the company.
They understood the art of drawing his thoughts insensibly from his
soul, and then with a little delicate management to surprise him with
them. This happiness, which accompanied him everywhere, and this
universal success, raised him indeed too much in his own ideas, because
it gave him too much confidence and too much reliance upon himself.

"The heightened opinion which he thus acquired of his own worth made him
credit the excessive and almost idolatrous adoration that was paid to
his understanding; which but for this increased self-complacency, must
have necessarily recalled him from his aberrations. For the present,
however, this universal voice was only a confirmation of what his
complacent vanity whispered in his ear; a tribute which he felt entitled
to by right. He would have infallibly disengaged himself from this
snare had they allowed him to take breath; had they granted him a moment
of uninterrupted leisure to compare his real merit with the picture that
was exhibited to him in this seducing mirror; but his existence was a
continued state of intoxication, a whirl of excitement. The higher he
had been elevated the more difficulty had he to support himself in his
elevation. This incessant exertion slowly undermined him; rest had
forsaken even his slumbers. His weakness had been discovered, and the
passion kindled in his breast turned to good account.

"His worthy attendants soon found to their cost that their lord had
become a wit. That anxious sensibility, those glorious truths which his
heart once embraced with the greatest enthusiasm, now began to be the
objects of his ridicule. He revenged himself on the great truths of
religion for the oppression which he had so long suffered from
misconception. But, since from too true a voice his heart combated the
intoxication of his head, there was more of acrimony than of humor in
his jests. His disposition began to alter, and caprice to exhibit
itself. The most beautiful ornament of his character, his modesty,
vanished; parasites had poisoned his excellent heart. That tender
delicacy of address which frequently made his attendants forget that he
was their lord, now gave place to a decisive and despotic tone, which
made the more sensible impression, because it was not founded upon
distinction of rank, for the want of which they could have consoled
themselves, but upon an arrogant estimation of his own superior merit.
When at home he was attacked by reflections that seldom made their
appearance in the bustle of company; his own people scarcely ever saw
him otherwise than gloomy, peevish, and unhappy, whilst elsewhere a
forced vivacity made him the soul of every circle. With the sincerest
sorrow did we behold him treading this dangerous path, but in the vortex
in which he was involved the feeble voice of friendship was no longer
heard, and he was too much intoxicated to understand it.

"Just at the beginning of this epoch an affair of the greatest
consequence required my presence in the court of my sovereign, which
I dared not postpone even for the dearest interests of friendship.
An invisible hand, the agency of which I did not discover till long
afterwards, had contrived to derange my affairs, and to spread reports
concerning me which I was obliged to contradict by my presence. The
parting from the prince was painful to me, but did not affect him. The
ties which united us had been severed for some time, but his fate had
awakened all my anxiety. I, on that account, prevailed on Baron von
F------ to inform me by letter of every event, which he has done in the
most conscientious manner. As I was for a considerable time no longer
an eye-witness of these events, it will be allowable for me to introduce
the Baron von F------ in my stead, and to fill up the gap in my
narrative by the contents of his letters. Notwithstanding that the
representation of my friend F------ is not always what I should have
given, I would not alter any of his expressions, so that the reader will
be enabled to discover the truth with very little trouble."




LETTER I.

BARON VON F----- TO COUNT VON O---------.

May 17.

I thank you, my most honored friend, for the permission you have given
me to continue in your absence that confidential intercourse with you,
which during your stay here formed my great pleasure. You must be aware
that there is no one here with whom I can venture to open my heart on
certain private matters. Whatever you may urge to the contrary, I
detest the people here. Since the prince has become one of them, and
since we have lost your society, I feel solitary in the midst of this
populous city. Z------ takes it less to heart, and the fair ones of
Venice manage to make him forget the mortifications he is compelled to
share with me at home. And why should he make himself unhappy? He
desires nothing more in the prince than a master, whom he could also
find elsewhere. But I!--you know how deep an interest I feel in our
prince's weal and woe, and how much cause I have for doing so; I have
now lived with him sixteen years, and seem to exist only for his sake.
As a boy of nine years old I first entered his service, and since that
time we have never been separated. I have grown up under his eye--a
long intercourse has insensibly attached me more and more to him--I have
borne a part in all his adventures, great and small. Until this last
unhappy year I had been accustomed to look upon him in the light of a
friend, or of an elder brother--I have basked in his smile as in the
sunshine of a summer's day--no cloud hung over my happiness!--and all
this must now go to ruin in this unlucky Venice!

Since your departure several changes have taken place in our
establishment. The Prince of --d----- arrived here last week, with a
numerous and brilliant retinue, and has caused a new and tumultuous life
in our circle. As he is so nearly related to our prince, and as they
are moreover at present upon pretty good terms, they will be very little
apart during his sojourn, which I hear is to last until after the feast
of the Ascension. A good beginning has already been made; for the last
ten days our prince has hardly had time to breathe. The Prince of
--d---- has all along been living in a very expensive way, which was
excusable in him, as he will soon take his departure; but the worst of
the business is that he has inoculated our prince with his extravagance,
because he could not well withdraw himself from his company, and, in the
peculiar relation which exists between the two houses, thought it
incumbent upon himself to assert the dignity of his own. We shall,
moreover, depart from Venice in a few weeks, which will relieve the
prince from the necessity of continuing for any length of time this
extraordinary expenditure.

The Prince of --d-----, it is reported, is here on business of the
Order, in which he imagines that he plays an important part. That he
has taken advantage of all the acquaintances of our prince you may
readily imagine. He has been introduced with distinguished honor into
the society of the Bucentauro, as he is pleased to consider himself a
wit, and a man of great genius, and allows himself to be styled in his
correspondences, which he keeps up throughout all parts of the world,
the "prince philosophique." I do not know whether you have ever had the
pleasure of meeting him. He displays a promising exterior, piercing
eyes, a countenance full of expression, much show of reading, much
acquired naturalness (if I may be allowed the expression), joined to a
princely condescension towards the human race, a large amount of
confidence in himself, and an eloquence which talks down all opposition.
Who could refuse to pay homage to such splendid qualities in a "Royal
Highness?" But to what advantage the quiet and sterling worth of our
prince will appear, when contrasted with these dazzling accomplishments,
the event must show.

In the arrangement of our establishment, various and important changes
have taken place. We have rented a new and magnificent house opposite
the new Procuracy, because the lodging at the Moor Hotel became too
confined for the prince. Our suite has been augmented by twelve
persons, pages, Moors, guards, etc. During your stay here you
complained of unnecessary expense--you should see us now!

Our internal arrangements remain the same as of old, except that the
prince, no longer held in check by your presence, is, if possible, more
reserved and distant towards us than ever; we see very little of him,
except while dressing or undressing him. Under the pretext that we
speak the French language very badly, and the Italian not at all, he has
found means to exclude us from most of his entertainments, which to me
personally is not a very great grievance; but I believe I know the true
reason of it--he is ashamed of us; and this hurts me, for we have not
deserved it of him.

As you wish to know all our minor affairs, I must tell you, that of all
his attendants, the prince almost exclusively employs Biondello, whom he
took into his service, as you will recollect, on the disappearance of
his huntsman, and who, in his new mode of life, has become quite
indispensable to him. This man knows Venice thoroughly, and turns
everything to some account. It is as though he had a thousand eyes,
and could set a thousand hands in motion at once. This he accomplishes,
as he says, by the help of the gondoliers. To the prince he renders
himself very useful by making him acquainted with all the strange faces
that present themselves at his assemblies, and the private information
he gives his highness has always proved to be correct. Besides this,
he speaks and writes both Italian and French excellently, and has in
consequence already risen to be the prince's secretary. I must,
however, relate to you an instance of fidelity in him which is rarely
found among people of his station. The other day a merchant of good
standing from Rimini requested an audience of the prince. The object
of his visit was an extraordinary complaint concerning Biondello. The
procurator, his former master, who must have been rather an odd fellow,
had lived in irreconcilable enmity with his relations; this enmity he
wished if possible to continue even after his death. Biondello
possessed his entire confidence, and was the repository of all his
secrets; while on his deathbed he obliged him to swear that he would
keep them inviolably, and would never disclose them for the benefit of
his relations; a handsome legacy was to be the reward of his silence.
When the deceased procurator's will was opened and his papers inspected,
many blanks and irregularities were found to which Biondello alone could
furnish a key. He persisted in denying that he knew anything about it,
gave up his very handsome legacy to the heirs, and kept his secrets to
himself. Large offers were made to him by the relations, but all in
vain; at length, in order to escape from their importunities and their
threats of legally prosecuting him he entered the service of the prince.
The merchant, who was the chief heir, now applied to the prince, and
made larger offers than, before if Biondello would alter his
determination. But even the persuasions of the prince were fruitless.
He admitted that secrets of consequence had really been confided to him;
he did not deny that the deceased had perhaps carried his enmity towards
his relations too far; but, added he, he was my dear master and
benefactor, and died with a firm belief in my integrity. I was the only
friend he had left in the world, and will therefore never prove myself
unworthy of his confidence. At the same time he hinted that the avowals
they wished him to make would not tend to the honor of the deceased.
Was not that acting nobly and delicately? You may easily imagine that
the prince did not renew his endeavors to shake so praiseworthy a
determination. The extraordinary fidelity which he has shown towards
his deceased master has procured him the unlimited confidence of his
present one!

Farewell, my dear friend. How I sigh for the quiet life we led when
first you came amongst us, for the stillness of which your society so
agreeably indemnified us. I fear my happy days in Venice are over, and
shall be glad if the same remark does not also apply to the prince. The
element in which he now lives is not calculated to render him
permanently happy, or my sixteen years' experience has deceived me.




LETTER II.

BARON VON F---- TO COUNT VON O------
June 4.

I should never have thought that our stay at Venice would have been
productive of any good consequences. It has been the means of saving a
man's life, and I am reconciled to it.

Some few evenings ago the prince was being carried home late at night
from the Bucentauro; two domestics, of whom Biondello was one,
accompanied him. By some accident it happened that the sedan, which had
been hired in haste, broke down, and the prince was obliged to proceed
the remainder of the way-on foot. Biondello walked in front; their
course lay through several dark, retired streets, and, as daybreak was
at hand, the lamps were either burning dimly or had gone out altogether.
They had proceeded about a quarter of an hour when Biondello discovered
that he had lost his way. The similarity of the bridges had deceived
him, and, instead of crossing that of St. Mark, they found themselves in
Sestiere di Castello. It was in a by-street, and not a soul was
stirring; they were obliged to turn back in order to gain a main street
by which to set themselves right. They had proceeded but a few paces
when they heard cries of "murder" in a neighboring street. With his
usual determined courage, the prince, unarmed as he was, snatched a
stick from one of his attendants, and rushed forward in the direction
whence the sound came. Three ruffianly-looking fellows were just about
to assassinate a man, who with his companion was feebly defending
himself; the prince appeared just in time to arrest the fatal blow. The
voices of the prince and his followers alarmed the murderers, who did
not expect any interruption in so lonely a place; after inflicting a few
slight wounds with their daggers, they abandoned their victim and took
to their heels. Exhausted with the unequal combat, the wounded man sunk
half fainting into the arms of the prince; his companion informed my
master that the man whose life he had saved was the Marquis Civitella,
a nephew of the Cardinal A------. As the marquis' wounds bled freely,
Biondello acted as surgeon to the best of his ability, and the prince
took care to have him conveyed to the palace of his uncle, which was
near at hand, and whither he himself accompanied him. This done, he
left the house without revealing his name.

This, however, was discovered by a servant who had recognized Biondello.
Already on the following morning the cardinal, an old acquaintance from
the Bucentauro, waited upon the prince. The interview lasted an hour;
the cardinal was much moved; tears stood in his eyes when they parted;
the prince, too, was affected. The same evening a visit was paid to the
sick man, of whose case the surgeon gives a very favorable report; the
mantle in which he was wrapped had rendered the thrusts unsteady, and
weakened their force. Since this event not a day has passed without the
prince's paying a visit at the cardinal's, or receiving one from him,
and a close intimacy has begun to exist between him and the cardinal's
family.

The cardinal is a venerable man of sixty, with a majestic aspect, but
full of gayety and good health. He is said to be the richest prelate
throughout all the dominions of the republic. He is reported to manage
his immense fortune in a very liberal manner, and, although prudently
economical, to despise none of the joys of this life. This nephew, who
is his sole heir, is not always on the best of terms with his uncle.
For, although the cardinal is anything but an enemy to youthful
pleasures, the conduct of the nephew must exhaust the utmost tolerance.
His loose principles and dissipated manner of living, aided unhappily by
all the attractions which can make vice tempting and excite sensuality,
have rendered him the terror of all fathers and the bane of all
husbands; this last attack also was said to have been caused by an
intrigue he had begun with the wife of the ambassador, without speaking
of other serious broils from which the power and the money of the
cardinal could scarcely extricate him. But for this the cardinal would
be the happiest man in Italy, for he possesses everything that can make
life agreeable; but by this one domestic misfortune all the gifts of
fortune are annulled, and the enjoyment of his wealth is embittered to
the cardinal by the continual fear of finding nobody to inherit it.

The whole of this information I have obtained from Biondello. The
prince has found in this man a real treasure. Every day he becomes more
indispensable, and we are continually discovering in him some new
talent. Some days ago the prince felt feverish and could not sleep; the
night-lamp was extinguished, and all his ringing failed to arouse the
valet-de-chambre, who had gone to sleep out of the house with an
opera-dancer. At length the prince determined to rise himself, and to
rouse one of his people. He had not proceeded far when a strain of
delicious melody met his ear. Like one enchanted, he followed the sound,
and found Biondello in his room playing upon the flute, with his
fellow-servants assembled around him. The prince could hardly believe his
senses, and commanded him to proceed. With a surprising degree of
facility he began to vary a touching adagio air with some fine extempore
variations, which he executed with all the taste of a virtuoso. The
prince, who, as you know, is a judge of music, says that he might play
with confidence in the finest choir in Italy.

"I must dismiss this man," said he to me next morning, "for I am unable
to reward him according to his merits." Biondello, who had overheard
these words, came forward, "If you dismiss me, gracious prince," said
he, "you deprive me of my best reward."

"You are born to something better than to serve," answered my master.
"I must not stand in the way of your fortune."

"Do not press upon me any better fortune, gracious sir, than that which
I have chosen for myself."

"To neglect talent like yours--No! I can never permit it."

"Then permit me, gracious sir, sometimes to exercise it in your
presence."

Preparations were immediately made for carrying this proposition into
effect. Biondello had a room assigned to him next the apartment of the
prince, so that he can lull him to sleep with his strains, and wake him
in the same manner. The prince wished to double his salary, but
Biondello declined, requesting that this intended boon should be
retained in his master's hands as a capital of which he might some day
wish to avail himself. The prince expects that he will soon come to ask
a favor at his hands; and whatever it may be it is granted beforehand.
Farewell, dearest friend. I am waiting with impatience for tidings from
K-----n.




LETTER III.

BARON VON F------ TO COUNT VON O-------
June 4.

The Marquis of Civitella, who is now entirely recovered from his wounds,
was last week introduced to the prince by his uncle, the cardinal, and
since then he has followed him like his shadow. Biondello cannot have
told me the truth respecting this marquis, or at any rate his account
must be greatly exaggerated. His mien is highly engaging, and his
manners irresistibly winning.

It is impossible to be out of humor with him; the first sight of him
has disarmed me. Imagine a man of the most enchanting figure, with
corresponding grace and dignity, a countenance full of thought and
genius, an expression frank and inviting; a persuasive tone of voice,
the most flowing eloquence, and a glow of youthful beauty, joined to all
the advantages of a most liberal education. He has none of that
contemptuous pride, none of that solemn starchness, which we disliked so
much in all the other nobles. His whole being is redolent of youthful
joyousness, benevolence, and warmth of feeling. His excesses must have
been much exaggerated; I never saw a more perfect picture of health. If
he is really so wholly abandoned as Biondello represents him he is a
syren whom none can resist.

Towards me he behaved with much frankness. He confessed with the most
pleasing sincerity that he was by no means on the best of terms with his
uncle, the cardinal, and that it was his own fault. But he was
seriously resolved to amend his life, and the merit would be entirely
the prince's. At the same time he hoped through his instrumentality to
be reconciled to his uncle, as the prince's influence with the cardinal
was unbounded. The only thing he had wanted till now was a friend and a
guide, and he trusted he should find both in the person of the prince.

The prince has now assumed the authority of a preceptor towards him, and
treats him with all the watchfulness fulness and strictness of a Mentor.
But this intimacy also gives the marquis a certain degree of influence,
of which he well knows how to avail himself. He hardly stirs from his
side; he is present at all parties where the prince is one of the
guests; for the Bucentauro alone he is fortunately as yet too young.
Wherever be appears in public with the prince he manages to draw him
away from the rest of the company by the pleasing manner in which he
engages him in conversation and arrests his attention. Nobody, they
say, has yet been able to reclaim him, and the prince will deserve to
be immortalized in an epic should he accomplish such an Herculean task.
I am much afraid, however, that the tables may be turned, and the guide
be led away by the pupil, of which, in fact, there seems to be every
prospect.

The Prince of ---d------ has taken his departure, much to the
satisfaction of us all, my master not excepted. What I predicted, my
dear O-----, has come to pass. Two characters so widely opposed must
inevitably clash together, and cannot maintain a good understanding for
any length of time. The Prince of ---d------ had not been long in
Venice before a terrible schism took place in the intellectual world,
which threatened to deprive our prince of one-half of his admirers.
Wherever he went he was crossed by this rival, who possessed exactly
the requisite amount of small cunning to avail himself of every little
advantage he gained. As he besides never scrupled to make use of any
petty manoeuvres to increase his consequence, he in a short time drew
all the weak-minded of the community on his side, and shone at the head
of a company of parasites worthy of such a leader.

   [The harsh judgment which Baron F----- (both here and in some
   passages of his first letter) pronounces upon this talented prince
   will be found exaggerated by every one who has the good fortune to
   be acquainted with him, and must be attributed to the prejudiced
   views of the young observer.--Note of the Count von O------.]

The wiser course would certainly have been not to enter into competition
at all with an adversary of this description, and a few months back this
is the part which the prince would have taken. But now he has launched
too far into the stream easily to regain the shore. These trifles have,
perhaps by the circumstances in which he is placed, acquired a certain
degree of importance in his eyes, and had he even despised them his
pride would not have allowed him to retire at a moment when his yielding
would have been looked upon less as a voluntary act than as a confession
of inferiority. Added to this, an unlucky revival of forgotten
satirical speeches had taken place, and the spirit of rivalry which took
possession of his followers had affected the prince himself. In order,
therefore, to maintain that position in society which public opinion had
now assigned him, he deemed it advisable to seize every possible
opportunity of display, and of increasing the number of his admirers;
but this could only be effected by the most princely expenditure;
he was therefore eternally giving feasts, entertainments, and expensive
concerts, making costly presents, and playing high. As this strange
madness, moreover, had also infected the prince's retinue, who are
generally much more punctilious in respect to what they deem "the honor
of the family" than their masters, the prince was obliged to assist the
zeal of his followers by his liberality. Here, then, is a whole
catalogue of ills, all irremediable consequences of a sufficiently
excusable weakness to which the prince in an unguarded moment gave way.

We have, it is true, got rid of our rival, but the harm he has done will
not so soon be remedied. The finances of the prince are exhausted; all
that he had saved by the wise economy of years is spent; and he must
hasten from Venice if he would escape plunging into debt, which till now
he has most scrupulously avoided. It is decisively settled that we
leave as soon as fresh remittances arrive.

I should not have minded all this splendor if the prince had but reaped
the least real satisfaction from it. But he was never less happy than
at present. He feels that he is not what he formerly was; he seeks to
regain his self-respect; he is dissatisfied with himself, and launches
into fresh dissipation in order to drown the recollection of the last.
One new acquaintance follows another, and each involves him more deeply.
I know not where this will end. We must away--there is no other chance
of safety--we must away from Venice.

But, my dear friend, I have not yet received a single line from you.
How am I to interpret this long and obstinate silence?




LETTER IV.

BARON VON F------ TO COUNT VON O------.
June 12.

I thank you, my dear friend, for the token of your remembrance which
young B---hl brought me. But what is it you say about letters I ought
to have received? I have received no letter from you; not a single one.
What a circuitous route must they have taken. In future, dear O------,
when you honor me with an epistle despatch it via Trent, under cover to
the prince, my master.

We have at length been compelled, my dear friend, to resort to a measure
which till now we had so happily avoided. Our remittances have failed
to arrive--failed, for the first time, in this pressing emergency, and
we have been obliged to have recourse to a usurer, as the prince is
willing to pay handsomely to keep the affair secret. The worst of this
disagreeable occurrence is, that it retards our departure. On this
affair the prince and I have had an explanation. The whole transaction
had been arranged by Biondello, and the son of Israel was there before I
had any suspicion of the fact. It grieved me to the heart to see the
prince reduced to such an extremity, and revived all my recollections of
the past, and fears for the future; and I suppose I may have looked
rather sorrowful and gloomy when the usurer left the room. The prince,
whom the foregoing scene had left in not the happiest frame of mind, was
pacing angrily up and down the room; the rouleaus of gold were still
lying on the table; I stood at the window, counting the panes of glass
in the procurator's house opposite. There was a long pause. At length
the prince broke silence. "F------!" he began, "I cannot bear to see
dismal faces about me."

I remained silent.

"Why do you not answer me? Do I not perceive that your heart is almost
bursting to vent some of its vexation? I insist on your speaking,
otherwise you will begin to fancy that you are keeping some terribly
momentous secret."

"If I am gloomy, gracious sir," replied I, "it is only because I do not
see you cheerful."

"I know," continued he, "that you have been dissatisfied with me for
some time past--that you disapprove of every step I take--that--what
does Count O------ say in his letters?"

"Count O------ has not written to me."

"Not written? Why do you deny it? You keep up a confidential
correspondence together, you and the count; I am quite aware of that.
Come, you may confess it, for I have no wish to pry into your secrets."

"Count O------," replied I, "has not yet answered any of the three
letters which I have written to him."

"I have done wrong," continued he; "don't you think so?" (taking up one
of the rouleaus) "I should not have done this?"

"I see that it was necessary."

"I ought not to have reduced myself to such a necessity?"

I did not answer.

"Oh, of course! I ought never to have indulged my wishes, but have
grown gray in the same dull manner in which I was brought up! Because I
once venture a step beyond the drear monotony of my past life, and look
around me to see whether there be not some new source of enjoyment in
store for me--because I--"

"If it was but a trial, gracious sir, I have no more to say; for the
experience you have gained would not be dearly bought at three times the
price it has cost. It grieves me, I confess, to think that the opinion
of the world should be concerned in determining the question--how are
you to choose your own happiness."

"It is well for you that you can afford to despise the world's opinion,"
replied he, "I am its creature, I must be its slave. What are we
princes but opinion? With us it is everything. Public opinion is our
nurse and preceptor in infancy, our oracle and idol in riper years, our
staff in old age. Take from us what we derive from the opinion of the
world, and the poorest of the humblest class is in a better position
than we, for his fate has taught him a lesson of philosophy which
enables him to bear it. But a prince who laughs at the world's opinion
destroys himself, like the priest who denies the existence of a God."

"And yet, gracious prince--"

"I see what you would say; I can break through the circle which my birth
has drawn around me. But can I also eradicate from my memory all the
false impressions which education and early habit have implanted, and
which a hundred thousand fools have been continually laboring to impress
more and more firmly? Everybody naturally wishes to be what he is in
perfection; in short, the whole aim of a prince's existence is to appear
happy. If we cannot be happy after your fashion, is that any reason why
we should discard all other means of happiness, and not be happy at all?
If we cannot drink of joy pure from the fountain-head, can there be any
reason why we should not beguile ourselves with artificial pleasure--
nay, even be content to accept a sorry substitute from the very hand
that robs us of the higher boon?"

"You were wont to look for this compensation in your own heart."

"But if I no longer find it there? Oh, how came we to fall on this
subject? Why did you revive these recollections in me? I had recourse
to this tumult of the senses in order to stifle an inward voice which
embitters my whole life; in order to lull to rest this inquisitive
reason, which, like a sharp sickle, moves to and fro in my brain, at
each new research lopping off another branch of my happiness."

"My dearest prince"--He had risen, and was pacing up and down the room
in unusual agitation.

   [I have endeavored, dearest O------, to relate to you this
   remarkable conversation exactly as it occurred; but this I found
   impossible, although I sat down to write it the evening of the day
   it took place. In order to assist my memory I was obliged to
   transpose the observation of the prince, and thus this compound of
   a conversation and a philosophical lecture, which is in some
   respects better and in others worse than the source from which I
   took it, arose; but I assure you that I have rather omitted some of
   the prince's words than ascribed to him any of my own; all that is
   mine is the arrangement, and a few observations, whose ownership
   you will easily recognize by their stupidity.--Note of the Baron
   von F------]

"When everything gives way before me and behind me; when the past lies
in the distance in dreary monotony, like a city of the dead; when the
future offers me naught; when I see my whole being enclosed within the
narrow circle of the present, who can blame me if I clasp this niggardly
present of time in my arms with fiery eagerness, as though it were a
friend whom I was embracing for the last time? Oh, I have learnt to
value the present moment. The present moment is our mother; let us love
it as such."

"Gracious sir, you were wont to believe in a more lasting good."

"Do but make the enchantment last and fervently will I embrace it. But
what pleasure can it give to me to render beings happy who to-morrow
will have passed away like myself? Is not everything passing away
around me? Each one bustles and pushes his neighbor aside hastily to
catch a few drops from the fountain of life, and then departs thirsting.
At this very moment, while I am rejoicing in lily strength, some being
is waiting to start into life at my dissolution. Show me one being who
will endure, and I will become a virtuous man."

"But what, then, has become of those benevolent sentiments which used to
be the joy and the rule of your life? To sow seeds for the future, to
assist in carrying out the designs of a high and eternal Providence"--

"Future! Eternal Providence! If you take away from man all that he
derives from his own heart, all that he associates with the idea of a
godhead, and all that belongs to the law of nature, what, then, do you
leave him?

"What has already happened to me, and what may still follow, I look upon
as two black, impenetrable curtains hanging over the two extremities of
human life, and which no mortal has ever yet drawn aside. Many hundred
generations have stood before the second of these curtains, casting the
light of their torches upon its folds, speculating and guessing as to
what it may conceal. Many have beheld themselves, in the magnified
image of their passions, reflected upon the curtain which hides futurity
from their gaze, and have turned away shuddering from their own shadows.
Poets, philosophers, and statesmen have painted their fancies on the
curtain in brighter or more sombre colors, according as their own
prospects were bright or gloomy. Many a juggler has also taken
advantage of the universal curiosity, and by well-managed deceptions
led astray the excited imagination. A deep silence reigns behind this
curtain; no one who passes beyond it answers any questions; all the
reply is an empty echo, like the sound yielded by a vault.

"Sooner or later all must go behind this curtain, and they approach it
with fear and trembling, in doubt who may be waiting there behind to
receive them; _quid sit id, quod tanturn morituri vident_. There have
been infidels who asserted that this curtain only deluded mankind, and
that we saw nothing behind it, because there was nothing there to see;
but, to convince them, they were quickly sent behind it themselves."

"It was indeed a rash conclusion," said I, "if they had no better ground
for it than that they saw nothing themselves."

"You see, my dear friend, I am modest enough not to wish to look behind
this curtain, and the wisest course will doubtless be to abstain from
all curiosity. But while I draw this impassable circle around me, and
confine myself within the bounds of present existence, this small point
of time, which I was in danger of neglecting in useless researches,
becomes the more important to me. What you call the chief end and aim
of my existence concerns me no longer. I cannot escape my destiny; I
cannot promote its consummation; but I know, and firmly believe, that I
am here to accomplish some end, and that I do accomplish it. But the
means which nature has chosen to fulfil my destiny are so much the more
sacred to me; to me it is everything; my morality, my happiness. All
the rest I shall never learn. I am like a messenger who carries a
sealed letter to its place of destination. What the letter contains is
indifferent to him; his business is only to earn his fee for carrying
it."

"Alas!" said I, "how poor a thing you would leave me!"

"But in what a labyrinth have we lost ourselves!" exclaimed the prince,
looking with a smile at the table on which the rouleaus lay. "After all
perhaps not far from the mark," continued he; "you will now no doubt
understand my reasons for this new mode of life. I could not so
suddenly tear myself away from my fancied wealth, could not so readily
separate the props of my morality and happiness from the pleasing dream
with which everything within me was so closely bound up. I longed for
the frivolity which seems to render the existence of most of those about
me endurable to themselves. Everything which precluded reflection was
welcome to me. Shall I confess it to you? I wished to lower myself, in
order to destroy this source of my griefs, by deadening the power of
reflection."

Here we were interrupted by a visit. In my next I shall have to
communicate to you a piece of news, which, from the tenor of a
conversation like the one of to-day, you would scarcely have
anticipated.




LETTER V.

BARON VON F------ TO COUNT VON O------.

As the time of our departure from Venice is now approaching with rapid
steps, this week was to be devoted to seeing everything worthy of notice
in pictures and public edifices; a task which, when one intends making a
long stay in a place, is always delayed till the last moment.

The "Marriage at Cana," by Paul Veronese, which is to be seen in a
Benedictine convent in the Island of St. George, was in particular
mentioned to us in high terms. Do not expect me to give you a
description of this extraordinary work of art, which, on the whole,
made a very surprising, but not equally pleasing, impression on me.
We should have required as many hours as we had minutes to study a
composition of one hundred and twenty figures, upon a ground thirty feet
broad. What human eye is capable of grasping so complicated a whole, or
at once to enjoy all the beauty which the artist has everywhere
lavished, upon it! It is, however, to be lamented, that a work of so
much merit, which if exhibited in some public place, would command the
admiration of every one, should be destined merely to ornament the
refectory of a few monks. The church of the monastery is no less worthy
of admiration, being one of the finest in the whole city. Towards
evening we went in a gondola to the Guidecca, in order to spend the
pleasant hours of evening in its charming garden. Our party, which was
not very numerous, soon dispersed in various directions; and Civitella,
who had been waiting all day for an opportunity of speaking to me
privately, took me aside into an arbor.

"You are a friend to the prince," he began, "from whom he is accustomed
to keep no secrets, as I know from very good authority. As I entered
his hotel to-day I met a man coming out whose occupation is well known
to me, and when I entered the room the prince's brow was clouded."
I wished to interrupt him,--"You cannot deny it," continued he; "I knew
the man, I looked at him well. And is it possible that the prince
should have a friend in Venice--a friend who owes his life to him, and
yet be reduced on an emergency to make use of such creatures?"

"Tell me frankly, Baron! Is the prince in difficulties? It is in vain
you strive to conceal it from me. What! you refuse to tell me! I can
easily learn from one who would sell any secret for gold."

"My good Marquis!"

"Pardon me! I must appear intrusive in order not to be ungrateful.
To the prince I am indebted for life, and what is still more, for a
reasonable use of it. Shall I stand idly by and see him take steps
which, besides being inconvenient to him, are beneath his dignity?
Shall I feel it in my power to assist him, and hesitate for a moment to
step forward?"

"The prince," replied I, "is not in difficulties. Some remittances
which we expected via Trent have not yet arrived, most likely either by
accident, or because not feeling certain whether he had not already left
Venice, they waited for a communication from him. This has now been
done, and until their arrival"

Civitella shook his head. "Do not mistake my motive," said he; "in this
there can be no question as to diminishing the extent of my obligations
towards the prince, which all my uncle's wealth would be insufficient to
cancel. My object is simply to spare him a few unpleasant moments. My
uncle possesses a large fortune which I can command as freely as though
it were my own. A fortunate circumstance occurs, which enables me to
avail myself of the only means by which I can possibly be of the
slightest use to your master. I know," continued he, "how much delicacy
the prince possesses, but the feeling is mutual, and it would be noble
on his part to afford me this slight gratification, were it only to make
me appear to feel less heavily the load of obligation under which I
labor."

He continued to urge his request, until I had pledged my word to assist
him to the utmost of my ability. I knew the prince's character, and had
but small hopes of success. The marquis promised to agree to any
conditions the prince might impose, but added, that it would deeply
wound him to be regarded in the light of a stranger.

In the heat of our conversation we had strayed far away from the rest of
the company, and were returning, when Z-------- came to meet us.

"I am in search of the prince," he cried; "is he not with you?"

"We were just going to him," was our reply. "We thought to find him
with the rest of the party."

"The company is all together, but he is nowhere to be found. I cannot
imagine how we lost sight of him."

It now occurred to Civitella that he might have gone to look at the
adjoining church, which had a short time before attracted his attention.
We immediately went to look for him there. As we approached, we found
Biondello waiting in the porch. On coming nearer, we saw the prince
emerge hastily from a side door; his countenance was flushed, and he
looked anxiously round for Biondello, whom he called. He seemed to be
giving him very particular instructions for the execution of some
commission, while his eyes continued constantly fixed on the church
door, which had remained open. Biondello hastened into the church. The
prince, without perceiving us, passed through the crowd, and went back
to his party, which he reached before us.

We resolved to sup in an open pavilion of the garden, where the marquis
had, without our knowledge, arranged a little concert, which was quite
first-rate. There was a young singer in particular, whose delicious
voice and charming figure excited general admiration. Nothing, however,
seemed to make an impression on the prince; he spoke little, and gave
confused answers to our questions; his eyes were anxiously fixed in the
direction whence he expected Biondello; and he seemed much agitated.
Civitella asked him what he thought of the church; he was unable to give
any description of it. Some beautiful pictures, which rendered the
church remarkable, were spoken of; the prince had not noticed them. We
perceived that our questions annoyed him, and therefore discontinued
them. Hour after hour rolled on and still Biondello returned not. The
prince could no longer conceal his impatience; he rose from the table,
and paced alone, with rapid strides, up and down a retired walk. Nobody
could imagine what had happened to him. I did not venture to ask him
the reason of so remarkable a change in his demeanor; I have for some
time past resigned my former place in his confidence. It was,
therefore, with the utmost impatience that I awaited the return of
Biondello to explain this riddle to me.

It was past ten o'clock when he made his appearance. The tidings he
brought did not make the prince more communicative. He returned in an
ill-humor to the company, the gondola was ordered, and we returned.
home.

During the remainder of that evening I could find no opportunity of
speaking to Biondello, and was, therefore, obliged to retire to my
pillow with my curiosity unsatisfied. The prince had dismissed us
early, but a thousand reflections flitted across my brain, and kept me
awake. For a long time I could hear him pacing up and down his room; at
length sleep overcame me. Late at midnight I was awakened by a voice,
and I felt a hand passed across my face; I opened my eyes, and saw the
prince standing at my bedside, with a lamp in his hand. He told me he
was unable to sleep, and begged me to keep him company through the
night. I was going to dress myself, but he told me to stay where I was,
and seated himself at my bedside.

"Something has happened to me to-day," he began, "the impression of
which will never be effaced from my soul. I left you, as you know, to
see the church, respecting which Civitella had raised my curiosity, and
which had already attracted my attention. As neither you nor he were at
hand, I walked the short distance alone, and ordered Biondello to wait
for me at the door. The church was quite empty; a dim and solemn light
surrounded me as I entered from the blazing sultry day without. I stood
alone in the spacious building, throughout which there reigned the
stillness of the grave. I placed myself in the centre of the church,
and gave myself up to the feelings which the sight was calculated to
produce; by degrees the grand proportions of this majestic building
expanded to my gaze, and I stood wrapt in deep and pleasing
contemplation. Above me the evening bell was tolling; its tones died
softly away in the aisles, and found an echo in my heart. Some
altar-pieces at a distance attracted my attention. I approached to look
at them; unconsciously I had wandered through one side of the church, and
was now standing at the opposite end. Here a few steps, raised round a
pillar, led into a little chapel, containing several small altars, with
statues of saints in the niches above them. On entering the chapel on the
right I heard a whispering, as though some one near was speaking in a low
voice. I turned towards the spot whence the sound proceeded, and saw
before me a female form. No! I cannot describe to you the beauty of this
form. My first feeling was one of awe, which, however, soon gave place to
ravishing surprise."

"But this figure, your highness? Are you certain that it was something
living, something real, and not perhaps a picture, or an illusion of
your fancy?"

"Hear me further. It was a lady. Surely, till that moment, I have
never seen her sex in its full perfection! All around was sombre; the
setting sun shone through a single window into the chapel, and its rays
rested upon her figure. With inexpressible grace, half kneeling, half
lying, she was stretched before an altar; one of the most striking, most
lovely, and picturesque objects in all nature. Her dress was of black
moreen, fitting tightly to her slender waist and beautifully-formed
arms, the skirts spreading around her like a Spanish robe; her long
light-colored hair was divided into two broad plaits, which, apparently
from their own weight, had escaped from under her veil, and flowed in
charming disorder down her back. One of her hands grasped the crucifix,
and her head rested gracefully upon the other. But, where shall I find
words to describe to you the angelic beauty of her countenance, in which
the charms of a seraph seemed displayed. The setting sun shone full
upon her face, and its golden beams seemed to surround it as with a
glory. Can you recall to your mind the Madonna of our Florentine
painter? She was here personified, even to those few deviations from
the studied costume which so powerfully, so irresistibly attracted me in
the picture."

With regard to the Madonna, of whom the prince spoke, the case is this:
Shortly after your departure he made the acquaintance of a Florentine
painter, who had been summoned to Venice to paint an altar-piece for
some church, the name of which I do not recollect. He had brought with
him three paintings, which had been intended for the gallery in the
Cornari palace. They consisted of a Madonna, a Heloise, and a Venus,
very lightly apparelled. All three were of great beauty; and, although
the subjects were quite different, they were so intrinsically equal that
it seemed almost impossible to determine which to prefer. The prince
alone did not hesitate for a moment. As soon as the pictures were
placed before him the Madonna absorbed his whole attention; in the two
others he admired the painter's genius; but in this he forgot the artist
and his art, his whole soul being absorbed in the contemplation of the
work. He was quite moved, and could scarcely tear himself away from it.
We could easily see by the artist's countenance that in his heart he
coincided with the prince's judgment; he obstinately refused to separate
the pictures, and demanded fifteen hundred zechins for the three. The
prince offered him half that sum for the Madonna alone, but in vain.
The artist insisted on his first demand, and who knows what might have
been the result if a ready purchaser had not stepped forward.

Two hours afterwards all three pictures were sold, and we never saw them
again. It was this Madonna which now recurred to the prince's mind.

"I stood," continued he, "gazing at her in silent admiration. She did
not observe me; my arrival did not disturb her, so completely was she
absorbed in her devotion. She prayed to her Deity, and I prayed to her
--yes, I adored her! All the pictures of saints, all the altars and the
burning tapers around me had failed to remind me of what now for the
first time burst upon me, that I was in a sacred place. Shall I confess
it to you? In that moment I believed firmly in Him whose image was
clasped in her beautiful hand. I read in her eyes that he answered her
prayers. Thanks be to her charming devotion, it had revealed him to me.
I wandered with her through all the paradise of prayer.

"She rose, and I recollected myself. I stepped aside confused; but the
noise I made in moving discovered me. I thought that the unexpected
presence of a man might alarm, that my boldness would offend her; but
neither of these feelings were expressed in the look with which she
regarded me. Peace, benign peace, was portrayed in her countenance, and
a cheerful smile played upon her lips. She was descending from her
heaven; and I was the first happy mortal who met her benevolent look.
Her mind was still wrapt in her concluding prayer; she had not yet come
in contact with earth.

"I now heard something stir in the opposite corner of the chapel. It
was an elderly lady, who rose from a cushion close behind me. Till now
I had not observed her. She had been distant only a few steps from me.
and must have seen my every motion. This confused me. I cast my eyes
to the earth, and both the ladies passed by me."

On this last point I thought myself able to console the prince.

"Strange," continued he, after a long silence, "that there should be
something which one has never known--never missed; and that yet on a
sudden one should seem to live and breathe for that alone. Can one
single moment so completely metamorphose a human being? It would now be
as impossible for me to indulge in the wishes or enjoy the pleasures of
yesterday as it would be to return to the toys of my childhood, and all
this since I have seen this object which lives and rules in the inmost
recesses of my soul. It seems to say that I can love nothing else, and
that nothing else in this world can produce an impression on me."

"But consider, gracious prince," said I, "the excitable mood you were in
when this apparition surprised you, and how all the circumstances
conspired to inflame your imagination. Quitting the dazzling light of
day and the busy throng of men, you were suddenly surrounded by twilight
and repose. You confess that you had quite given yourself up to those
solemn emotions which the majesty of the place was calculated to awaken;
the contemplation of fine works of art had rendered you more susceptible
to the impressions of beauty in any form. You supposed yourself alone--
when you saw a maiden who, I will readily allow, may have been very
beautiful, and whose charms were heightened by a favorable illumination
of the setting sun, a graceful attitude, and an expression of fervent
devotion--what is more natural than that your vivid fancy should look
upon such a form as something supernaturally perfect?"

"Can the imagination give what it never received?" replied he. "In the
whole range of my fancy there is nothing which I can compare with that
image. It is impressed on my mind distinctly and vividly as in the
moment when I beheld it. I can think of nothing but that picture; but
you might offer me whole worlds for it in vain."

"My gracious prince, this is love."

"Must the sensation which makes me happy necessarily have a name?
Love! Do not degrade my feeling by giving it a name which is so often
misapplied by the weak-minded. Who ever felt before what I do now?
Such a being never before existed; how then can the name be admitted
before the emotion which it is meant to express? Mine is a novel and
peculiar feeling, connected only with this being, and capable of being
applied to her alone. Love! From love I am secure!"

"You sent away Biondello, no doubt, to follow in the steps of these
strangers, and to make inquiries concerning them. What news did he
bring you?"

"Biondello discovered nothing; or, at least, as good as nothing. An
aged, respectably dressed man, who looked more like a citizen than a
servant, came to conduct them to their gondola. A number of poor people
placed themselves in a row, and quitted her, apparently well satisfied.
Biondello said he saw one of her hands, which was ornamented with
several precious stones. She spoke a few words, which Biondello could
not comprehend, to her companion; he says it was Greek. As she had some
distance to walk to the canal, the people began to throng together,
attracted by the strangeness of her appearance. Nobody knew her--but
beauty seems born to rule. All made way for her in a respectful manner.
She let fall a black veil, that covered half of her person, over her
face, and hastened into the gondola. Along the whole Giudecca Biondello
managed to keep the boat in view, but the crowd prevented his following
it further."

"But surely he took notice of the gondolier so as to be able to
recognize him again."

"He has undertaken to find out the gondolier, but he is not one of those
with whom he associates. The mendicants, whom he questioned, could give
him no further information than that the signora had come to the church
for the last few Saturdays, and had each time divided a gold-piece among
them. It was a Dutch ducat, which Biondello changed for them, and
brought to me."

"It appears, then, that she is a Greek--most likely of rank; at any
rate, rich and charitable. That is as much as we dare venture to
conclude at present, gracious sir; perhaps too much. But a Greek lady
in a Catholic church?"

"Why not? She may have changed her religion. But there is certainly
some mystery in the affair. Why should she go only once a week? Why
always on Saturday, on which day, as Biondello tells me, the church is
generally deserted. Next Saturday, at the latest, must decide this
question. Till then, dearest friend, you must help me to while away the
hours. But it is in vain. They will go their lingering pace, though my
soul is burning with expectation!"

"And when this day at length arrives--what, then, gracious prince? What
do you purpose doing?"

"What do I purpose doing? I shall see her. I will discover where she
lives and who she is. But to what does all this tend? I hear you ask.
What I saw made me happy; I therefore now know wherein my happiness
consists!

"And our departure from Venice, which is fixed for next Monday?"

"How could I know that Venice still contained such a treasure for me?
You ask me questions of my past life. I tell you that from this day
forward I will begin a new existence."

"I thought that now was the opportunity to keep my word to the marquis.
I explained to the prince that a protracted stay in Venice was
altogether incompatible with the exhausted state of his finances, and
that, if he extended his sojourn here beyond the appointed time, he
could not reckon on receiving funds from his court. On this occasion,
I learned what had hitherto been a secret to me, namely, that the prince
had, without the knowledge of his other brothers, received from his
sister, the reigning ----- of --------, considerable loans, which she
would gladly double if his court left him in the lurch. This sister,
who, as you know, is a pious enthusiast, thinks that the large savings
which she makes at a very economical court cannot be deposited in better
hands than in those of a brother whose wise benevolence she well knows,
and whose character she warmly honors. I have, indeed, known for some
time that a very close intercourse has been kept up between the two,
and that many letters have been exchanged; but, as the prince's own
resources have hitherto always been sufficient to cover his expenditure,
I had never guessed at this hidden channel. It is clear, therefore,
that the prince must have had some expenses which have been and still
are unknown to me; but if I can judge of them by his general character,
they will certainly not be of such a description as to tend to his
disgrace. And yet I thought I understood him thoroughly. After this
disclosure, I of course did not hesitate to make known to him the
marquis' offer, which, to my no small surprise, he immediately accepted.
He gave me the authority to transact the business with the marquis in
whatever way I thought most advisable, and then immediately to settle
the account with the usurer. To his sister he proposed to write without
delay.

It was morning when we separated. However disagreeable this affair is
to me for more than one reason, the worst of it is that it seems to
threaten a longer residence in Venice. From the prince's passion I
rather augur good than evil. It is, perhaps, the most powerful method
of withdrawing him from his metaphysical dreams to the concerns and
feelings of real life. It will have its crisis, and, like an illness
produced by artificial means, will eradicate the natural disorder.

Farewell, my dear friend. I have written down these incidents
immediately upon their occurrence. The post starts immediately; you
will receive this letter on the same day as my last.




LETTER VI.

BARON F------ TO COUNT O-------.
June 20.

This Civitella is certainly one of the most obliging personages in the
world. The prince had scarcely left me the other day before I received
a note from the marquis enforcing his former offers with renewed
earnestness. I instantly forwarded, in the prince's name, a bond for
six thousand zechins; in less than half an hour it was returned, with
double the sum required, in notes and gold. The prince at length
assented to this increase, but insisted that the bond, which was drawn
only for six weeks, should be accepted.

The whole of the present week has been consumed in inquiries after the
mysterious Greek. Biondello set all his engines to work, but until now
in vain. He certainly discovered the gondolier; but from him he could
learn nothing, save that the ladies had disembarked on the island of
Murano, where they entered two sedan chairs which were waiting for them.
He supposed them to be English because they spoke a foreign language,
and had paid him in gold. He did not even know their guide, but
believed him to be a glass manufacturer from Murano. We were now, at
least, certain that we must not look for her in the Giudecca, and that
in all probability she lived in the island of Murano; but, unluckily,
the description the prince gave of her was not such as to make her
recognizable by a third party. The passionate interest with which he
had regarded her had hindered him from observing her minutely; for all
the minor details, which other people would not have failed to notice,
had escaped his observation; from his description one would have sooner
expected to find her prototype in the works of Ariosto or Tasso than on
a Venetian island. Besides, our inquiries had to be conducted with the
utmost caution, in order not to become prejudicial to the lady, or to
excite undue attention. As Biondello was the only man besides the
prince who had seen her, even through her veil, and could therefore
recognize her, he strove to be as much as possible in all the places
where she was likely to appear; the life of the poor man, during the
whole week, was a continual race through all the streets of Venice. In
the Greek church, particularly, every inquiry was made, but always with
the same ill-success; and the prince, whose impatience increased with
every successive failure, was at last obliged to wait till Saturday,
with what patience he might. His restlessness was excessive. Nothing
interested him, nothing could fix his attention. He was in constant
feverish excitement; he fled from society, but the evil increased in
solitude. He had never been so much besieged by visitors as in this
week. His approaching departure had been announced, and everybody
crowded to see him. It was necessary to occupy the attention of the
people in order to lull their suspicions, and to amuse the prince with
the view of diverting his mind from its all-engrossing object. In this
emergency Civitella hit upon play; and, for the purpose of driving away
most of the visitors, proposed that the stakes should be high. He hoped
by awakening in the prince a transient liking for play, from which it
would afterwards be easy to wean him, to destroy the romantic bent of
his passion. "The cards," said Civitella, "have saved me from many a
folly which I had intended to commit, and repaired many which I had
already perpetrated. At the faro table I have often recovered my
tranquillity of mind, of which a pair of bright eyes had robbed me, and
women never had more power over me than when I had not money enough to
play."

I will not enter into a discussion as to how far Civitella was right;
but the remedy we had hit upon soon began to be worse than the disease
it was intended to cure. The prince, who could only make the game at
all interesting to himself by staking extremely high, soon overstepped
all bounds. He was quite out of his element. Everything he did seemed
to be done in a passion; all his actions betrayed the uneasiness of his
mind. You know his general indifference to money; he seemed now to have
become totally insensible to its value. Gold flowed through his hands
like water. As he played without the slightest caution he lost almost
invariably. He lost immense sums, for he staked like a desperate
gamester. Dearest O------- , with an aching heart I write it, in four
days he had lost above twelve thousand zechins.

Do not reproach me. I blame myself sufficiently. But how could I
prevent it? Could I do more than warn him? I did all that was in my
power, and cannot find myself guilty. Civitella, too, lost not a
little; I won about six hundred zechins. The unprecedented ill-luck of
the prince excited general attention, and therefore he would not leave
off playing. Civitella, who is always ready to oblige him, immediately
advanced him the required sum. The deficit is made up; but the prince
owes the marquis twenty-four thousand zechins. Oh, how I long for the
savings of his pious sister. Are all sovereigns so, my dear friend?
The prince behaves as though he had done the marquis a great honor, and
he, at any rate, plays his part well.

Civitella sought to quiet me by saying that this recklessness, this
extraordinary ill-luck, would be most effectual in bringing the prince
to his senses. The money, he said, was of no consequence. He himself
would not feel the loss in the least, and would be happy to serve the
prince, at any moment, with three times the amount. The cardinal also
assured me that his nephew's intentions were honest, and that he should
be ready to assist him in carrying them out.

The most unfortunate thing was that these tremendous sacrifices did not
even effect their object. One would have thought that the prince would
at least feel some interest in his play. But such was not the case.
His thoughts were wandering far away, and the passion which we wished to
stifle by his ill-luck in play seemed, on the contrary, only to gather
strength. When, for instance, a decisive stroke was about to be played,
and every one's eyes were fixed, full of expectation, on the board, his
were searching for Biondello, in order to catch the news he might have
brought him, from the expression of his countenance. Biondello brought
no tidings, and his master's losses continued.

The gains, however, fell into very needy hands. A few "your
excellencies," whom scandal reports to be in the habit of carrying home
their frugal dinner from the market in their senatorial caps, entered
our house as beggars, and left it with well-lined purses. Civitella
pointed them out to me. "Look," said he, "how many poor devils make
their fortunes by one great man taking a whim into his head. This is
what I like to see. It is princely and royal. A great man must, even
by his failings, make some one happy, like a river which by its
overflowing fertilizes the neighboring fields."

Civitella has a noble and generous way of thinking, but the prince owes
him twenty-four thousand zechins.

At length the long-wished-for Saturday arrived, and my master insisted
upon going, directly after dinner, to the church. He stationed himself
in the chapel where he had first seen the unknown, but in such a way as
not to be immediately observed. Biondello had orders to keep watch at
the church door, and to enter into conversation with the attendant of
the ladies. I had taken upon myself to enter, like a chance passenger,
into the same gondola with them on their return, in order to follow
their track if the other schemes should fail. At the spot where the
gondolier said he had landed them the last time two sedans were
stationed; the chamberlain, Z------, was ordered to follow in a separate
gondola, in order to trace the retreat of the unknown, if all else
should fail. The prince wished to give himself wholly up to the
pleasure of seeing her, and, if possible, try to make her acquaintance
in the church. Civitella was to keep out of the way altogether, as his
reputation among the women of Venice was so bad that his presence could
not have failed to excite the suspicions of the lady. You see, dear
count, it was not through any want of precaution on our part that the
fair unknown escaped us.

Never, perhaps, was there offered up in any church such ardent prayers
for success, and never were hopes so cruelly disappointed. The prince
waited till after sunset, starting in expectation at every sound which
approached the chapel, and at every creaking of the church door. Seven
full hours passed, and no Greek lady. I need not describe his state of
mind. You know what hope deferred is, hope which one has nourished
unceasingly for seven days and nights.




LETTER VII.

BARON VON F------ TO COUNT VON O-------
July.

The mysterious unknown of the prince reminded Marquis Civitella of a
romantic incident which happened to himself a short time since, and, to
divert the prince, he offered to relate it. I will give it you in his
own words; but the lively spirit which he infuses into all he tells will
be lost in my narration.

(Here follows the subjoined fragment, which appeared in the eighth part
of the Thalia, and was originally intended for the second volume of the
Ghost-Seer. It found a place here after Schiller had given up the idea
of completing the Ghost-Seer.)

"In the spring of last year," began Civitella, "I had the misfortune to
embroil myself with the Spanish ambassador, a gentleman who, in his
seventieth year, had been guilty of the folly of wishing to marry a
Roman girl of eighteen. His vengeance pursued me, and my friends
advised me to secure my safety by a timely flight, and to keep out of
the way until the hand of nature, or an adjustment of differences, had
secured me from the wrath of this formidable enemy. As I felt it too
severe a punishment to quit Venice altogether, I took up my abode in a
distant quarter of the town, where I lived in a lonely house, under a
feigned name, keeping myself concealed by day, and devoting the night to
the society of my friends and of pleasure.

"My windows looked upon a garden, the west side of which was bounded by
the walls of a convent, while towards the east it jutted out into the
Laguna in the form of a little peninsula. The garden was charmingly
situated, but little frequented. It was my custom every morning, after
my friends had left me, to spend a few moments at the window before
retiring to rest, to see the sun rise over the Adriatic, and then to bid
him goodnight. If you, my dear prince, have not yet enjoyed this
pleasure, I recommend exactly this station, the only eligible one
perhaps in all Venice to enjoy so splendid a prospect in perfection.
A purple twilight hangs over the deep, and a golden mist on the Laguna
announces the sun's approach. The heavens and the sea are wrapped in
expectant silence. In two seconds the orb of day appears, casting a
flood of fiery light on the waves. It is an enchanting sight.

"One morning, when I was, according to custom, enjoying the beauty of
this prospect, I suddenly discovered that I was not the only spectator
of the scene. I fancied I heard voices in the garden, and turning to
the quarter whence the sound proceeded, I perceived a gondola steering
for the land. In a few moments I saw figures walking at a slow pace up
the avenue. They were a man and a woman, accompanied by a little negro.
The female was clothed in white, and had a brilliant on her finger. It
was not light enough to perceive more.

"My curiosity was raised. Doubtless a rendezvous of a pair of lovers--
but in such a place, and at so unusual an hour! It was scarcely three
o'clock, and everything was still veiled in dusky twilight. The
incident seemed to me novel and proper for a romance, and I waited to
see the end.

"I soon lost sight of them among the foliage of the garden, and some
time elapsed before they again emerged to view. Meanwhile a delightful
song was heard. It proceeded from the gondolier, who was in this manner
shortening the time, and was answered by a comrade a short way off.
They sang stanzas from Tasso; time and place were in unison, and the
melody sounded sweetly, in the profound silence around.

"Day in the meantime had dawned, and objects were discerned more
plainly. I sought my people, whom I found walking hand-in-hand up a
broad walk, often standing still, but always with their backs turned
towards me, and proceeding further from my residence. Their noble, easy
carriage convinced me at once that they were people of rank, and the
splendid figure of the lady made me augur as much of her beauty. They
appeared to converse but little; the lady, however, more than her
companion. In the spectacle of the rising sun, which now burst out in
all its splendor, they seemed to take not the slightest interest.

"While I was employed in adjusting my glass, in order to bring them into
view as closely as possible, they suddenly disappeared down a side path,
and some time elapsed before I regained sight of them. The sun had now
fully risen; they were approaching straight towards me, with their eyes
fixed upon where I stood. What a heavenly form did I behold! Was it
illusion, or the magic effect of the beautiful light? I thought I
beheld a supernatural being, for my eyes quailed before the angelic
brightness of her look. So much loveliness combined with so much
dignity!--so much mind, and so much blooming youth! It is in vain I
attempt to describe it. I had never seen true beauty till that moment.

"In the heat of conversation they lingered near me, and I had full
opportunity to contemplate her. Scarcely, however, had I cast my eyes
upon her companion, but even her beauty was not powerful enough to fix
my attention. He appeared to be a man still in the prime of life,
rather slight, and of a tall, noble figure. Never have I beheld so much
mind, so much noble expression, in a human countenance. Though
perfectly secured from observation, I was unable to meet the lightning
glance that shot from beneath his dark eyebrows. There was a moving
expression of sorrow about his eyes, but an expression of benevolence
about the mouth which relieved the settled gravity spread over his whole
countenance. A certain cast of features, not quite European, together
with his dress, which appeared to have been chosen with inimitable good
taste from the most varied costumes, gave him a peculiar air, which not
a little heightened the impression produced by his appearance. A degree
of wildness in his looks warranted the supposition that he was an
enthusiast, but his deportment and carriage showed that his character
had been formed by mixing in society."

Z--------, who you know must always give utterance to what he thinks,
could contain himself no longer. "Our Armenian!" cried he. "Our very
Armenian, and nobody else."

"What Armenian, if one may ask?" inquired Civitella.

"Has no one told you of the farce?" replied the prince. "But no
interruption! I begin to feel interested in your hero. Pray continue
your narrative."

"There was something inexplicable in his whole demeanor," continued
Civitella. "His eyes were fixed upon his companion with an expression
of anxiety and passion, but the moment they met hers he looked down
abashed. 'Is the man beside himself!' thought I. I could stand for
ages and gaze at nothing else but her.

"The foliage again concealed them from my sight. Long, long did I look
for their reappearance, but in vain. At length I caught sight of them
from another window.

"They were standing before the basin of a fountain at some distance
apart, and both wrapped in deep silence. They had, probably, remained
some time in the same position. Her clear and intelligent eyes were
resting inquiringly on his, and seemed as if they would imbibe every
thought from him as it revealed itself in his countenance. He, as if he
wanted courage to look directly into her face, furtively sought its
reflection in the watery mirror before him, or gazed steadfastly at the
dolphin which bore the water to the basin. Who knows how long this
silent scene might have continued could the lady have endured it? With
the most bewitching grace the lovely girl advanced towards him, and
passing her arm round his neck, raised his hand to her lips. Calmly and
unmoved the strange being suffered her caresses, but did not return
them.

"This scene moved me strangely. It was the man that chiefly excited my
sympathy and interest. Some violent emotion seemed to struggle in his
breast; it was as if some irresistible force drew him towards her, while
an unseen arm held him back. Silent, but agonizing, was the struggle,
and beautiful the temptation. 'No,' I thought, 'he attempts too much;
he will, he must yield.'

"At his silent intimation the young negro disappeared. I now expected
some touching scene--a prayer on bended knees, and a reconciliation
sealed with glowing kisses. But no! nothing of the kind occurred. The
incomprehensible being took from his pocketbook a sealed packet, and
placed it in the hands of the lady. Sadness overcast her face as she
she looked at it, and a tear bedewed her eye.

"After a short silence they separated. At this moment an elderly lady
advanced from one of the sidewalks, who had remained at a distance, and
whom I now first discovered. She and the fair girl slowly advanced
along the path, and, while they were earnestly engaged in conversation,
the stranger took the opportunity of remaining behind. With his eyes
turned towards her, he stood irresolute, at one instant making a rapid
step forward, and in the next retreating. In another moment he had
disappeared in the copse.

"The women at length look round, seem uneasy at not finding him, and
pause as if to await his coming. He comes not. Anxious glances are
cast around, and steps are redoubled. My eyes aid in searching through
the garden; he comes not, he is nowhere to be seen.

"Suddenly I see a plash in the canal, and see a gondola moving from the
shore. It is he, and I scarcely can refrain from calling to him. Now
the whole thing is clear--it was a parting.

"She appears to have a presentiment of what has happened. With a speed
that her companion cannot use she hastens to the shore. Too late!
Quick as the arrow in its flight the gondola bounds forward, and soon
nothing is visible but a white handkerchief fluttering in the air from
afar. Soon after this I saw the fair incognita and her companion cross
the water.

"When I awoke from a short sleep I could not help smiling at my
delusion. My fancy had incorporated these events in my dreams until
truth itself seemed a dream. A maiden, fair as an houri, wandering
beneath my windows at break of day with her lover--and a lover who did
not know how to make a better use of such an hour. Surely these
supplied materials for the composition of a picture which might well
occupy the fancy of a dreamer! But the dream had been too lovely for me
not to desire its renewal again and again; nay, even the garden had
become more charming in my sight since my imagination had peopled it
with such attractive forms. Several cheerless days that succeeded this
eventful morning drove me from the window, but the first fine evening
involuntarily drew me back to my post of observation. Judge of my
surprise when after a short search I caught sight of the white dress of
my incognita! Yes, it was she herself. I had not dreamed!

"Her former companion was with her, and led by the hand a little boy;
but the fair girl herself walked apart, and seemed absorbed in thought.
All spots were visited that had been rendered memorable by the presence
of her friend. She paused for a long time before the basin, and her
fixed gaze seemed to seek on its crystal mirror the reflection of one
beloved form.

"Although her noble beauty had attracted me when I first saw her the
impression produced was even stronger on this occasion, although perhaps
at the same time more conducive to gentler emotions. I had now ample
opportunity of considering this divine form; the surprise of the first
impression gradually gave place to softer feelings. The glory that
seemed to invest her had departed, and I saw before me the loveliest of
women, and felt my senses inflamed. In a moment the resolution was
formed that she must be mine.

"While I was deliberating whether I should descend and approach her, or
whether before I ventured on such a step it would not be better to
obtain information regarding her, a door opened in the convent wall,
through which there advanced a Carmelite monk. The sound of his
approach roused the lady, and I saw her advance with hurried steps
towards him. He drew from his bosom a paper, which she eagerly grasped,
while a vivid color instantaneously suffused her countenance.

"At this moment I was called from the window by the arrival of my usual
evening visitor. I carefully avoided approaching the spot again as I
had no desire to share my conquest with another. For a whole hour I was
obliged to endure this painful constraint before I could succeed in
freeing myself from my importunate guest, and when I hastened to the
window all had disappeared.

"The garden was empty when I entered it; no vessel of any kind was
visible in the canal; no trace of people on any side; I neither knew
whence she had come nor whither she bad gone. While I was looking round
me in all directions I observed something white upon the ground. On
drawing near I found it was a piece of paper folded in the shape of a
note. What could it be but the letter which the Carmelite had brought?
'Happy discovery!' I exclaimed; 'this will reveal the whole secret, and
make me master of her fate.'

"The letter was sealed with a sphinx, had no superscription, and was
written in cyphers; this, however, did not discourage me, for I have
some knowledge of this mode of writing. I copied it hastily, as there
was every reason to expect that she would soon miss it and return in
search of it. If she should not find it she would regard its loss as an
evidence that the garden was resorted to by different persons, and such
a discovery might easily deter her from visiting it again. And what
worse fortune could attend my hopes.

"That which I had conjectured actually took place, and I had scarcely
ended my copy when she reappeared with her former companion, anxiously
intent on the search. I attached the note to a tile which I had
detached from the roof, and dropped it at a spot which she would pass.
Her gracefully expressed joy at finding it rewarded me for my
generosity. She examined it in every part with keen, searching glances,
as if she were seeking to detect the unhallowed hands that might have
touched it; but the contented look with which she hid it in her bosom
showed that she was free from all suspicion. She went, and the parting
glance she threw on the garden seemed expressive of gratitude to the
guardian deities of the spot, who had so faithfully watched over the
secret of her heart.

"I now hastened to decipher the letter. After trying several languages,
I at length succeeded by the use of English. Its contents were so
remarkable that my memory still retains a perfect recollection of them."

I am interrupted, and must give you the conclusion on a future occasion.




LETTER VIII.

BARON F------ TO COUNT O-------
August.

In truth, my dearest friend, you do the good Biondello injustice. The
suspicion you entertain against him is unfounded, and while I allow you
full liberty to condemn all Italians generally, I must maintain that
this one at least is an honest man.

You think it singular that a person of such brilliant endowments and
such exemplary conduct should debase himself to enter the service of
another if he were not actuated by secret motives; and these, you
further conclude, must necessarily be of a suspicious character. But
where is the novelty of a man of talent and of merit endeavoring to win
favor with a prince who has the power of establishing his fortune? Is
there anything derogatory in serving the prince? and has not Biondello
clearly shown that his devotion is purely personal by confessing that he
earnestly desired to make a certain request of the prince? The whole
mystery will, therefore, no doubt be revealed when he acquaints him of
his wishes. He may certainly be actuated by secret motives, but why may
these not be innocent in their nature?

You think it strange that this Biondello should have kept all his great
talents concealed, and in no way have attracted attention during the
early months of our acquaintance with him, when you were still with us.
This I grant; but what opportunity had he then of distinguishing
himself? The prince had not yet called his powers into requisition, and
chance, therefore, could alone aid us in discovering his talents.

He very recently gave a proof of his devotion and honesty of purpose
which must at once annihilate all your doubts. The prince was watched;
measures were being taken to gain information regarding his mode of
life, associates, and general habits. I know not with whom this
inquisitiveness originated. Let me beg your attention, however, to what
I am about to relate:--

There is a house in St. George's which Biondello is in the habit of
frequenting. He probably finds some peculiar attractions there, but of
this I know nothing. It happened a few days ago that he there met
assembled together a party of civil and military officers in the service
of the government, old acquaintances and jovial comrades of his own.
Surprise and pleasure were expressed on all sides at this meeting.
Their former good-fellowship was re-established; and after each in turn
had related his own history up to the present time, Biondello was called
upon to give an account of his life; this he did in a few words. He was
congratulated on his new position; his companions had heard accounts of
the splendid footing on which the Prince of -------'s establishment was
maintained; of his liberality, especially to persons who showed
discretion in keeping secrets; the prince's connection with the Cardinal
A------i was well known, he was said to be addicted to play, etc.
Biondello's surprise at this is observed, and jokes are passed upon the
mystery which he tries to keep up, although it is well known that he is
the emissary of the Prince of ------. The two lawyers of the party make
him sit down between them; their glasses are repeatedly emptied, he is
urged to drink, but excuses himself on the grounds of inability to bear
wine; at last, however, he yields to their wishes, in order that he may
the better pretend intoxication.

"Yes!" cried one of the lawyers, "Biondello understands his business,
but he has not yet learned all the tricks of the trade; he is but a
novice."

"What have I still to learn?" ask Biondello.

"You understand the art of keeping a secret," remarked the other; "but
you have still to learn that of parting with it to advantage."

"Am I likely to find a purchaser for any that I may have to dispose of?"
asked Biondello.

On this the other guests withdrew from the apartment, and left him alone
with his two neighbors, who continued the conversation in the same
strain. The substance of the whole was, however, briefly as follows:
Biondello was to procure them certain information regarding the
intercourse of the prince with the cardinal and his nephew, acquaint
them with the source from whence the prince derived his money, and to
intercept all letters written to Count O------. Biondello put them off
to a future occasion, but he was unsuccessful in his attempts to draw
from them the name of the person by whom they were employed. From the
splendid nature of the proposals made to him it was evident, however,
that they emanated from some influential and extremely wealthy party.

Last night he related the whole occurrence to the prince, whose first
impulse was without further ceremony to secure the maneuverers at once,
but to this Biondello strongly objected. He urged that he would be
obliged to set them at liberty again, and that, in this case, he should
endanger not only his credit among this class of men, but even his life.
All these men were connected together, and bound by one common interest,
each one making the cause of the others his own; in fact, he would
rather make enemies of the senate of Venice than be regarded by these
men as a traitor--and, besides, he could no longer be useful to the
prince if he lost the confidence of this class of people.

We have pondered and conjectured much as to the source of all this. Who
is there in Venice that can care to know what money my master receives
or pays out, what passess between Cardinal A-----i and himself, and what
I write to you? Can it be some scheme of the Prince of ---d-----, or is
the Armenian again on the alert?




LETTER IX.

BARON F------ TO COUNT O-------.
August.

The prince is revelling in love and bliss. He has recovered his fair
Greek. I must relate to you how this happened.

A traveller, who had crossed from Chiozza, gave the prince so animated
an account of the beauty of this place, which is charmingly situated on
the shores of the gulf, that he became very anxious to see it.
Yesterday was fixed upon for the excursion; and, in order to avoid all
restraint and display, no one was to accompany him but Z------- and
myself, together with Biondello, as my master wished to remain unknown.
We found a vessel ready to start, and engaged our passage at once. The
company was very mixed but not numerous, and the passage was made
without the occurrence of any circumstance worthy of notice.

Chiozza is built, like Venice, on a foundation of wooden piles, and is
said to contain about forty thousand inhabitants. There are but few of
the higher classes resident there, but one meets sailors and fishermen
at every step. Whoever appears in a peruke, or a cloak, is regarded as
an aristocrat--a rich man; the cap and overcoat are here the insignia of
the poor. The situation is certainly very lovely, but it will not bear
a comparison with Venice.

We did not remain long, for the captain, who had more passengers for the
return voyage, was obliged to be in Venice at an early hour, and there
was nothing at Chiozza to make the prince desirous of remaining. All
the passengers were on board when we reached the vessel. As we had
found it so difficult to place ourselves on a social footing with the
company on the outward passage, we determined on this occasion to secure
a cabin to ourselves. The prince inquired who the new-comers were, and
was informed that they were a Dominican and some ladies, who were
returning to Venice. My master evincing no curiosity to see them, we
immediately betook ourselves to our cabin.

The Greek was the subject of our conversation throughout the whole
passage, as she had been during our former transit. The prince dwelt
with ardor on her appearance in the church; and whilst numerous plans
were in turn devised and rejected, hours passed like a moment of time,
and we were already in sight of Venice. Some of the passengers now
disembarked, the Dominican amongst the number. The captain went to the
ladies, who, as we now first learned, had been separated from us by only
a thin wooden partition, and asked them where they wished to land. The
island of Murano was named in reply to his inquiry, and the house
indicated . "The island of Murano!" exclaimed the prince, who seemed
suddenly struck by a startling presentiment. Before I could reply to
his exclamation, Biondello rushed into the cabin. "Do you know," asked
he eagerly, "who is on board with us?" The prince started to his feet,
as Biondello continued, "She is here! she herself! I have just spoken
to her companion!"

The prince hurried out. He felt as if he could not breathe in our
narrow cabin, and I believe at that moment as if the whole world would
have been too narrow for him. A thousand conflicting feelings struggled
for the mastery in his heart; his knees trembled, and his countenance
was alternately flushed and pallid. I sympathized and participated in
his emotion, but I cannot by words convey to your mind any idea of the
state in which he was.

When we stopped at Murano, the prince sprang on shore. She advanced
from her cabin. I read in the face of the prince that it was indeed
the Greek. One glance was sufficient to dispel all doubt on that point.
A more lovely creature I have never seen. Even the prince's glowing
descriptions fell far short of the reality. A radiant blush suffused
her face when she saw my master. She must have heard all we said, and
could not fail to know that she herself had been the subject of our
conversation. She exchanged a significant glance with her companion,
which seemed to say, "That is he;" and then cast her eyes to the ground
with diffident confusion. On placing her foot on the narrow plank,
which had been thrown from the vessel to the shore, she seemed anxiously
to hesitate, less, as it seemed to me, from the fear of falling than
from her inability to cross the board without assistance, which was
proffered her by the outstretched arm of the prince. Necessity overcame
her reluctance, and, accepting the aid of his hand, she stepped on
shore. Excessive mental agitation had rendered the prince uncourteous,
and he wholly forgot to offer his services to the other lady--but what
was there that he would not have forgotten at this moment? My attention
in atoning for the remissness of the prince prevented my hearing the
commencement of a conversation which had begun between him and the young
Greek, while I had been helping the other lady on shore.

He was still holding her hand in his, probably from absence of mind, and
without being conscious of the fact.

"This is not the first time, Signora, that--that"--he stopped short,
unable to finish the sentence.

"I think I remember" she faltered.

"We met in the church of ---------," said he, quickly.

"Yes, it was in the church of ---------," she rejoined.

"And could I have supposed that this day would have brought me--"

Here she gently withdrew her hand from his--he was evidently
embarrassed; but Biondello, who had in the meantime been speaking to the
servant, now came to his aid.

"Si-nor," said he, "the ladies had ordered sedans to be in readiness for
them; they have not yet come, for we are here before the expected time.
But there is a garden close by in which you may remain until the crowd
has dispersed."

The proposal was accepted; you may conceive with what alacrity on the
part of the prince! We remained in the garden till late in the evening;
and, fortunately, Z-------- and myself so effectually succeeded in
occupying the attention of the elder lady that the prince was enabled,
undisturbed, to carry on his conversation with the fair Greek. You will
easily believe that he made good use of his time, when I tell you that
he obtained permission to visit her. At the very moment that I am now
writing he is with her; on his return I shall be able to give you
further particulars regarding her.

When we got home yesterday we found that the long-expected remittances
had arrived from our court; but at the same time the prince received a
letter which excited his indignation to the highest pitch. He has been
recalled, and that in a tone and manner to which he is wholly
unaccustomed. He immediately wrote a reply in a similar spirit, and
intends remaining. The remittances are only just sufficient to pay the
interest on the capital which he owes. We are looking with impatience
for a reply from his sister.




LETTER X.

BARON F------ TO COUNT O-------
September.

The prince has fallen out with his court, and all resources have
consequently been cut off from home.

The term of six weeks, at the end of which my master was to pay the
marquis, has already elapsed several days; but still no remittances
have been forwarded, either from his cousin, of whom he had earnestly
requested an additional allowance in advance, or from his sister. You
may readily suppose that Civitella has not reminded him of his debt; the
prince's memory is, however, all the more faithful. Yesterday morning
at length brought an answer from the seat of government.

We had shortly before concluded a new arrangement with the master of our
hotel, and the prince had publicly announced his intention to remain
here sometime longer. Without uttering a word my master put the letter
into my hand. His eyes sparkled, and I could read the contents in his
face.

Can you believe it, dear O; all my master's proceedings here are known
at and have been most calumniously misrepresented by an abominable
tissue of lies? "Information has been received," says the letter,
amongst other things, "to the effect that the prince has for some time
past belied his former character, and adopted a node of conduct totally
at variance with his former exemplary manner of acting and thinking."
"It is known," the writer says, "that he has addicted himself with the
greatest excess to women and play; that he is overwhelmed with debts;
puts his confidence in visionaries and charlatans, who pretend to have
power over spirits; maintains suspicious relations with Roman Catholic
prelates, and keeps up a degree of state which exceeds both his rank and
his means. Nay, it is even said, that he is about to bring this highly
offensive conduct to a climax by apostacy to the Church of Rome! and in
order to clear himself from this last charge he is required to return
immediately. A banker at Venice, to whom he must make known the true
amount of his debts, has received instructions to satisfy his creditors
immediately after his departure; for, under existing circumstances, it
does not appear expedient to remit the money directly into his hands."

What accusations, and what a mode of preferring them. I read the letter
again and again, in the hope of discovering some expression that
admitted of a milder construction, but in vain; it was wholly
incomprehensible.

Z------- now reminded me of the secret inquiries which had been made
some time before of Biondello. The true nature of the inquiries and
circumstances all coincided. He had falsely ascribed them to the
Armenian; but now the source from whence the came was very evident.
Apostacy! But who can have any interest in calumniating my master so
scandalously? I should fear it was some machination of the Prince of
---d-----, who is determined on driving him from Venice.

In the meantime the prince remained absorbed in thought, with his eyes
fixed on the ground. His continued silence alarmed me. I threw myself
at his feet. "For God's sake, your highness," I cried, "moderate your
feelings--you will--nay, you shall have satisfaction. Leave the whole
affair to me. Let me be your emissary. It is beneath your dignity to
reply to such accusations; but you will not, I know, refuse me the
privilege of doing so for you. The name of your calumniator must be
given up, and -------'s eyes must be opened."

At this moment we were interrupted by the entrance of Civitella, who
inquired with surprise into the cause of our agitation. Z------- and
I did not answer; but the prince, who had long ceased to make any
distinction between him and us, and who, besides, was too much excited
to listen to the dictates of prudence, desired me to communicate the
contents of the letter to him. On my hesitating to obey him, he
snatched the letter from my hand and gave it to the marquis.

"I am in your debt, marquis," said he, as Civitella gave him back the
letter, after perusing it, with evident astonishment, "but do not let
that circumstance occasion you any uneasiness; grant me but a respite of
twenty days, and you shall be fully satisfied."

"Do I deserve this at your hands, gracious prince?" exclaimed
Civitella, with extreme emotion.

"You have refrained from pressing me, and I gratefully appreciate your
delicacy. In twenty days, as I before said, you shall be fully
satisfied."

"But how is this?" asked Civitella, with agitation and surprise. "What
means all this? I cannot comprehend it."

We explained to him all that we knew, and his indignation was unbounded.
The prince, he asserted, must insist upon full satisfaction; the insult
was unparalleled.

In the meanwhile he implored him to make unlimited use of his fortune
and his credit.

When the marquis left us the prince still continued silent. He paced
the apartment with quick and determined steps, as if some strange and
unusual emotion were agitating his frame. At length he paused,
muttering between his teeth, "Congratulate yourself; he died at ten
o'clock."

We looked at him in terror.

"Congratulate yourself," he repeated. "Did he not say that I should
congratulate myself? What could he have meant?"

"What has reminded you of those words?" I asked; "and what have they to
do with the present business?"

"I did not then understand what the man meant, but now I do. Oh, it is
intolerable to be subject to a master."

"Gracious prince!"

"Who can make us feel our dependence. Ha! it must be sweet, indeed."

He again paused. His looks alarmed me, for I had never before seen him
thus agitated.

"Whether a man be poorest of the poor," he continued, "or the next heir
to the throne, it is all one and the same thing. There is but one
difference between men--to obey or to command."

He again glanced over the letter.

"You know the man," he continued, "who has dared to write these words to
me. Would you salute him in the street if fate had not made him your
master? By Heaven, there is something great in a crown."

He went on in this strain, giving expression to many things which I dare
not trust to paper. On this occasion the prince confided a circumstance
to me which alike surprised and terrified me, and which may be followed
by the most alarming consequences. We have hitherto been entirely
deceived regarding the family relations of the court of --------.

He answered the letter on the spot, notwithstanding my earnest entreaty
that he should postpone doing so; and the strain in which he wrote
leaves no ground to hope for a favorable settlement of those
differences.

You are no doubt impatient, dear O------, to hear something definite
with respect to the Greek; but in truth I have very little to tell you.
From the prince I can learn nothing, as he has been admitted into her
confidence, and is, I believe, bound to secrecy. The fact has, however,
transpired that she is not a Greek, as we supposed, but a German of the
highest descent. From a certain report that has reached me, it would
appear that her mother is of the most exalted rank, and that she is the
fruit of an unfortunate amour which was once talked of all over Europe.
A course of secret persecution to which she had been exposed, in
consequence of her origin, compelled her to seek protection in Venice,
and to adopt that concealment which had rendered it impossible for the
prince to discover her retreat. The respect with which the prince
speaks of her, and a certain deferential deportment which he maintains
towards her, appear to corroborate the truth of this report.

He is devoted to her with a fearful intensity of passion which increases
day by day. In the earliest stage of their acquaintance but few
interviews were granted; but after the first week the separations were
of shorter duration, and now there is scarce a day on which the prince
is not with her. Whole evenings pass without our even seeing him, and
when he is not with her she appears to form the sole object of his
thoughts. His whole being seems metamorphosed. He goes about as if
wrapped in a dream, and nothing that formerly interested him has now
power to arrest his attention even for a moment.

How will this end, my dear friend? I tremble for the future. The
rupture with his court has placed my master in a state of humiliating
dependence on one sole person--the Marquis Civitella. This man is now
master of our secrets--of our whole fate. Will he always conduct
himself as nobly as he does now? Are his good intentions to be relied
upon; and is it expedient to confide so much weight and power to one
person--even were he the best of men? The prince's sister has again
been written to--the result of this fresh appeal you shall learn in my
next letter.




COUNT O------- IN CONTINUATION.

This letter never reached me. Three months passed without my receiving
any tidings from Venice,--an interruption to our correspondence which
the sequel but too clearly explained. All my friend's letters to me had
been kept back and suppressed. My emotion may be conceived when, in the
December of the same year, the following letter reached me by mere
accident (as it afterwards appeared), owing to the sudden illness of
Biondello, into whose hands it had been committed.

"You do not write; you do not answer me. Come, I entreat you, come on
the wings of friendship! Our hopes are fled! Read the enclosed,--all
our hopes are at an end!

"The wounds of the marquis are reported mortal. The cardinal vows
vengeance, and his bravos are in pursuit of the prince. My master--oh!
my unhappy master! Has it come to this! Wretched, horrible fate! We
are compelled to hide ourselves, like malefactors, from assassins and
creditors.

"I am writing to you from the convent of --------, where the prince has
found an asylum. At this moment he is resting on his hard couch by my
side, and is sleeping--but, alas! it is only the sleep of deadly
exhaustion, that will but give him new strength for new trials. During
the ten days that she was ill no sleep closed his eyes. I was present
when the body was opened. Traces of poison were detected. To-day she
is to be buried.

"Alas! dearest O------, my heart is rent. I have lived through scenes
that can never be effaced from my memory. I stood beside her deathbed.
She departed like a saint, and her last strength was spent in trying
with persuasive eloquence to lead her lover into the path that she was
treading in her way to heaven. Our firmness was completely gone--the
prince alone maintained his fortitude, and although he suffered a triple
agony of death with her, he yet retained strength of mind sufficient to
refuse the last prayer of the pious enthusiast."

This letter contained the following enclosure:

TO THE PRINCE OF --------, FROM HIS SISTER.

"The one sole redeeming church which has made so glorious a conquest of
the Prince of -------- will surely not refuse to supply him with means
to pursue the mode of life to which she owes this conquest. I have
tears and prayers for one that has gone astray, but nothing further to
bestow on one so worthless! HENRIETTE."


I instantly threw myself into a carriage--travelled night and day, and
in the third week I was in Venice. My speed availed nothing. I had
come to bring comfort and help to an unhappy one, but I found a happy
one who needed not my weak aid. F------- was ill when I arrived, and
unable to see me, but the following note was brought to me from him.

"Return, dearest O-----, to whence you came. The prince no longer needs
you or me. His debts have been paid; the cardinal is reconciled to him,
and the marquis has recovered. Do you remember the Armenian who
perplexed us so much last year? In his arms you will find the prince,
who five days since attended mass for the first time."

Notwithstanding all this I earnestly sought an interview with the
prince, but was refused. By the bedside of my friend I learnt the
particulars of this strange story.






              THE SPORT OF DESTINY

ALOYSIUS VON G------ was the son of a citizen of distinction, in the
service of -------, and the germs of his fertile genius had been early
developed by a liberal education. While yet very young, but already
well grounded in the principles of knowledge, he entered the military
service of his sovereign, to whom he soon made himself known as a young
man of great merit and still greater promise. G------ was now in the
full glow of youth, so also was the prince. G------ was ardent and
enterprising; the prince, of a similar disposition, loved such
characters. Endued with brilliant wit and a rich fund of information,
G------ possessed the art of ingratiating himself with all around him;
he enlivened every circle in which he moved by his felicitous humor, and
infused life and spirit into every subject that came before him. The
prince had discernment enough to appreciate in another those virtues
which he himself possessed in an eminent degree. Everything which
G------ undertook, even to his very sports, had an air of grandeur; no
difficulties could daunt him, no failures vanquish his perseverance.
The value of these qualities was increased by an attractive person, the
perfect image of blooming health and herculean strength, and heightened
by the eloquent expression natural to an active mind; to these was added
a certain native and unaffected dignity, chastened and subdued by a
noble modesty. If the prince was charmed with the intellectual
attractions of his young companion, his fascinating exterior
irresistibly captivated his senses. Similarity of age, of tastes, and
of character soon produced an intimacy between them, which possessed all
the strength of friendship and all the warmth and fervor of the most
passionate love. G------ rose with rapidity from one promotion to
another; but whatever the extent of favors conferred they still seemed
in the estimation of the prince to fall short of his deserts. His
fortune advanced with gigantic strides, for the author of his greatness
was his devoted admirer and his warmest friend. Not yet twenty-two
years of age, he already saw himself placed on an eminence hitherto
attained only by the most fortunate at the close of their career. But
his active spirit was incapable of reposing long in the lap of indolent
vanity, or of contenting itself with the glittering pomp of an elevated
office, to perform the behests of which he was conscious of possessing
both the requisite courage and the abilities. Whilst the prince was
engaged in rounds of pleasure, his young favorite buried himself among
archives and books, and devoted himself with laborious assiduity to
affairs of state, in which he at length became so expert that every
matter of importance passed through his hands. From the companion of
his pleasures he soon became first councillor and minister, and finally
the ruler of his sovereign. In a short time there was no road to the
prince's favor but through him. He disposed of all offices and
dignities; all rewards were received from his hands.

G------ had attained this vast influence at too early an age, and had
risen by too rapid strides to enjoy his power with moderation. The
eminence on which he beheld himself made his ambition dizzy, and no
sooner was the final object of his wishes attained than his modesty
forsook him. The respectful deference shown him by the first nobles of
the land, by all who, in birth, fortune, and reputation, so far
surpassed him, and which was even paid to him, youth as he was, by the
oldest senators, intoxicated his pride, while his unlimited power served
to develop a certain harshness which had been latent in his character,
and which, throughout all the vicissitudes of his fortune, remained.
There was no service, however considerable or toilsome, which his
friends might not safely ask at his hands; but his enemies might well
tremble! for, in proportion as he was extravagant in rewards, so was he
implacable in revenge. He made less use of his influence to enrich
himself than to render happy a number of beings who should pay homage
to him as the author of their prosperity; but caprice alone, and not
justice, dictated the choice of his subjects. By a haughty, imperious
demeanor he alienated the hearts even of those whom he had most
benefited; while at the same time he converted his rivals and secret
enviers into deadly enemies.

Amongst those who watched all his movements with jealousy and envy, and
who were silently preparing instruments for his destruction, was Joseph
Martinengo, a Piedmontese count belonging to the prince's suite, whom
G------ himself had formerly promoted, as an inoffensive creature,
devoted to his interests, for the purpose of supplying his own place in
attending upon the pleasures of the prince--an office which he began to
find irksome, and which he willingly exchanged for more useful
employment. Viewing this man merely as the work of his own hands, whom
he might at any period consign to his former insignificance, he felt
assured of the fidelity of his creature from motives of fear no less
than of gratitude. He fell thus into the error committed by Richelieu,
when he made over to Louis XII., as a sort of plaything, the young Le
Grand. Without Richelieu's sagacity, however, to repair his error, he
had to deal with a far more wily enemy than fell to the lot of the
French minister. Instead of boasting of his good fortune, or allowing
his benefactor to feel that he could now dispense with his patronage,
Martinengo was, on the contrary, the more cautious to maintain a show of
dependence, and with studied humility affected to attach himself more
and more closely to the author of his prosperity. Meanwhile, he did not
omit to avail himself, to its fullest extent, of the opportunities
afforded him by his office, of being continually about the prince's
person, to make himself daily more useful, and eventually indispensable
to him. In a short time he had fathomed the prince's sentiments
thoroughly, had discovered all the avenues to his confidence, and
imperceptibly stolen himself into his favor. All those arts which a
noble pride, and a natural elevation of character, had taught the
minister to disdain, were brought into play by the Italian, who scrupled
not to avail himself of the most despicable means for attaining his
object. Well aware that man never stands so much in need of a guide and
assistant as in the paths of vice, and that nothing gives a stronger
title to bold familiarity than a participation in secret indiscretions,
he took measures for exciting passions in the prince which had hitherto
lain dormant, and then obtruded himself upon him as a confidant and an
accomplice. He plunged him especially into those excesses which least
of all endure witnesses, and imperceptibly accustomed the prince to make
him the depository of secrets to which no third person was admitted.
Upon the degradation of the prince's character he now began to found his
infamous schemes of aggrandizement, and, as he had made secrecy a means
of success, he had obtained entire possession of his master's heart
before G------ even allowed himself to suspect that he shared it with
another.

It may appear singular that so important a change should escape the
minister's notice; but G------ was too well assured of his own worth
ever to think of a man like Martinengo in the light of a competitor;
while the latter was far too wily, and too much on his guard, to commit
the least error which might tend to rouse his enemy from his fatal
security. That which has caused thousands of his predecessors to
stumble on the slippery path of royal favor was also the cause of
G------'s fall, immoderate self-confidence. The secret intimacy between
his creature, Martinengo, and his royal master gave him no uneasiness;
he readily resigned a privilege which he despised and which had never
been the object of his ambition. It was only because it smoothed his
way to power that he had ever valued the prince's friendship, and he
inconsiderately threw down the ladder by which he had risen as soon as
he had attained the wished-for eminence.

Martinengo was not the man to rest satisfied with so subordinate a part.
At each step which he advanced in the prince's favor his hopes rose
higher, and his ambition began to grasp at a more substantial
gratification. The deceitful humility which he had hitherto found it
necessary to maintain towards his benefactor became daily more irksome
to him, in proportion as the growth of his reputation awakened his
pride. On the other hand, the minister's deportment toward him by no
means improved with his marked progress in the prince's favor, but was
often too visibly directed to rebuke his growing pride by reminding him
of his humble origin. This forced and unnatural position having become
quite insupportable, he at length formed the determination of putting an
end to it by the destruction of his rival. Under an impenetrable veil
of dissimulation he brought his plan to maturity. He dared not venture
as yet to come into open conflict with his rival; for, although the
first glow of the minister's favor was at an end, it had commenced too
early, and struck root too deeply in the bosom of the prince, to be torn
from it abruptly. The slightest circumstance might restore it to all
its former vigor; and therefore Martinengo well understood that the blow
which he was about to strike must be a mortal one. Whatever ground
G------ might have lost in the prince's affections he had gained in his
respect. The more the prince withdrew himself from the affairs of
state, the less could he dispense with the services of a man, who with
the most conscientious devotion and fidelity had consulted his master's
interests, even at the expense of the country,--and G------ was now as
indispensable to him as a minister as he had formerly been dear to him
as a friend.

By what means the Italian accomplished his purpose has remained a secret
between those on whom the blow fell and those who directed it. It was
reported that he laid before the prince the original draughts of a
secret and very suspicious correspondence which G------ is said to have
carried on with a neighboring court; but opinions differ as to whether
the letters were authentic or spurious. Whatever degree of truth there
may have been in the accusation it is but too certain that it fearfully
accomplished the end in view. In the eyes of the prince G-----
appeared the most ungrateful and vilest of traitors, whose treasonable
practices were so thoroughly proved as to warrant the severest measures
without further investigation. The whole affair was arranged with the
most profound secrecy between Martinengo and his master, so that G------
had not the most distant presentiment of the impending storm. He
continued wrapped in this fatal security until the dreadful moment in
which he was destined, from being the object of universal homage and
envy, to become that of the deepest commiseration.

When the decisive day arrived, G------ appeared, according to custom,
upon the parade. He had risen in a few years from the rank of ensign to
that of colonel; and even this was only a modest name for that of prime
minister, which he virtually filled, and which placed him above the
foremost of the land. The parade was the place where his pride was
greeted with universal homage, and where he enjoyed for one short hour
the dignity for which he endured a whole day of toil and privation.
Those of the highest rank approached him with reverential deference,
and those who were not assured of his favor with fear and trembling.
Even the prince, whenever he visited the parade, saw himself neglected
by the side of his vizier, inasmuch as it was far more dangerous to
incur the displeasure of the latter than profitable to gain the
friendship of the former. This very place, where he was wont to be
adored as a god, had been selected for the dreadful theatre of his
humiliation.

With a careless step he entered the well-known circle of courtiers,
who, as unsuspicious as himself of what was to follow, paid their usual
homage, awaiting his commands. After a short interval appeared
Martinengo, accompanied by two adjutants, no longer the supple,
cringing, smiling courtier, but overbearing and insolent, like a lackey
suddenly raised to the rank of a gentleman. With insolence and
effrontery he strutted up to the prime minister, and, confronting him
with his head covered, demanded his sword in the prince's name. This
was handed to him with a look of silent consternation; Martinengo,
resting the naked point on the ground, snapped it in two with his foot,
and threw the fragments at G-----'s feet. At this signal the two
adjutants seized him; one tore the Order of the Cross from his breast;
the other pulled off his epaulettes, the facings of his uniform, and
even the badge and plume of feathers from his hat. During the whole of
the appalling operation, which was conducted with incredible speed, not
a sound nor a respiration was heard from more than five hundred persons
who were present; but all, with blanched faces and palpitating hearts,
stood in deathlike silence around the victim, who in his strange
disarray--a rare spectacle of the melancholy and the ridiculous--
underwent a moment of agony which could only be equalled by feelings
engendered on the scaffold. Thousands there are who in his situation
would have been stretched senseless on the ground by the first shock;
but his firm nerves and unflinching spirit sustained him through this
bitter trial, and enabled him to drain the cup of bitterness to its
dregs.

When this procedure was ended he was conducted through rows of thronging
spectators to the extremity of the parade, where a covered carriage was
in waiting. He was motioned to ascend, an escort of hussars being
ready-mounted to attend to him. Meanwhile the report of this event had
spread through the whole city; every window was flung open, every street
lined with throngs of curious spectators, who pursued the carriage,
shouting his name, amid cries of scorn and malicious exultation, or of
commiseration more bitter to bear than either. At length he cleared the
town, but here a no less fearful trial awaited him. The carriage turned
out of the high road into a narrow, unfrequented path--a path which led
to the gibbet, and alongside which, by command of the prince, he was
borne at a slow pace. After he had suffered all the torture of
anticipated execution the carriage turned off into the public road.
Exposed to the sultry summer-heat, without refreshment or human
consolation, he passed seven dreadful hours in journeying to the place
of destination--a prison fortress. It was nightfall before he arrived;
when, bereft of all consciousness, more dead than alive, his giant
strength having at length yielded to twelve hours' fast and consuming
thirst, he was dragged from the carriage; and, on regaining his senses,
found himself in a horrible subterraneous vault. The first object that
presented itself to his gaze was a horrible dungeon-wall, feebly
illuminated by a few rays of the moon, which forced their way through
narrow crevices to a depth of nineteen fathoms. At his side he found a
coarse loaf, a jug of water, and a bundle of straw for his couch. He
endured this situation until noon the ensuing day, when an iron wicket
in the centre of the tower was opened, and two hands were seen lowering
a basket, containing food like that he had found the preceding night.
For the first time since the terrible change in his fortunes did pain
and suspense extort from him a question or two. Why was he brought
hither? What offence had he committed? But he received no answer; the
hands disappeared; and the sash was closed. Here, without beholding the
face, or hearing the voice of a fellow-creature; without the least clue
to his terrible destiny; fearful doubts and misgivings overhanging alike
the past and the future; cheered by no rays of the sun, and soothed by
no refreshing breeze; remote alike from human aid and human compassion;
--here, in this frightful abode of misery, he numbered four hundred and
ninety long and mournful days, which he counted by the wretched loaves
that, day after day, with dreary monotony, were let down into his
dungeon. But a discovery which he one day made early in his confinement
filled up the measure of his affliction. He recognized the place. It
was the same which he himself, in a fit of unworthy vengeance against a
deserving officer, who had the misfortune to displease him, had ordered
to be constructed only a few months before. With inventive cruelty he
had even suggested the means by which the horrors of captivity might be
aggravated; and it was but recently that he had made a journey hither in
order personally to inspect the place and hasten its completion. What
added the last bitter sting to his punishment was that the same officer
for whom he had prepared the dungeon, an aged and meritorious colonel,
had just succeeded the late commandant of the fortress, recently
deceased, and, from having been the victim of his vengeance, had become
the master of his fate. He was thus deprived of the last melancholy
solace, the right of compassionating himself, and of accusing destiny,
hardly as it might use him, of injustice. To the acuteness of his other
suffering was now added a bitter self-contempt, contempt, and the pain
which to a sensitive mind is the severest--dependence upon the
generosity of a foe to whom he had shown none.

But that upright man was too noble-minded to take a mean revenge.
It pained him deeply to enforce the severities which his instructions
enjoined; but as an old soldier, accustomed to fulfil his orders to
the letter with blind fidelity, he could do no more than pity,
compassionate. The unhappy man found a more active assistant in the
chaplain of the garrison, who, touched by the sufferings of the
prisoner, which had just reached his ears, and then only through vague
and confused reports, instantly took a firm resolution to do something
to alleviate them. This excellent man, whose name I unwillingly
suppress, believed he could in no way better fulfil his holy vocation
than by bestowing his spiritual support and consolation upon a wretched
being deprived of all other hopes of mercy.

As he could not obtain permission from the commandant himself to visit
him he repaired in person to the capital, in order to urge his suit
personally with the prince. He fell at his feet, and implored mercy for
the unhappy man, who, shut out from the consolations of Christianity, a
privilege from which even the greatest crime ought not to debar him, was
pining in solitude, and perhaps on the brink of despair. With all the
intrepidity and dignity which the conscious discharge of duty inspires,
he entreated, nay demanded, free access to the prisoner, whom he claimed
as a penitent for whose soul he was responsible to heaven. The good
cause in which he spoke made him eloquent, and time had already somewhat
softened the prince's anger. He granted him permission to visit the
prisoner, and administer to his spiritual wants.

After a lapse of sixteen months, the first human face which the unhappy
G------ beheld was that of his new benefactor. The only friend he had
in the world he owed to his misfortunes, all his prosperity had gained
him none. The good pastor's visit was like the appearance of an angel--
it would be impossible to describe his feelings, but from that day forth
his tears flowed more kindly, for he had found one human being who
sympathized with and compassionated him.

The pastor was filled with horror on entering the frightful vault. His
eyes sought a human form, but beheld, creeping towards him from a corner
opposite, which resembled rather the lair of a wild beast than the abode
of anything human, a monster, the sight of which made his blood run
cold. A ghastly deathlike skeleton, all the hue of life perished from a
face on which grief and despair had traced deep furrows--his beard and
nails, from long neglect, grown to a frightful length-his clothes rotten
and hanging about him in tatters; and the air he breathed, for want of
ventilation and cleansing, foul, fetid, and infectious. In this state
be found the favorite of fortune;--his iron frame had stood proof
against it all! Seized with horror at the sight, the pastor hurried
back to the governor, in order to solicit a second indulgence for the
poor wretch, without which the first would prove of no avail.

As the governor again excused himself by pleading the imperative nature
of his instructions, the pastor nobly resolved on a second journey to
the capital, again to supplicate the prince's mercy. There he protested
solemnly that, without violating the sacred character of the sacrament,
he could not administer it to the prisoner until some resemblance of the
human form was restored to him. This prayer was also granted; and from
that day forward the unfortunate man might be said to begin a new
existence.

Several long years were spent by him in the fortress, but in a much more
supportable condition, after the short summer of the new favorite's
reign had passed, and others succeeded in his place, who either
possessed more humanity or no motive for revenge. At length, after ten
years of captivity, the hour of his delivery arrived, but without any
judicial investigation or formal acquittal. He was presented with his
freedom as a boon of mercy, and was, at the same time, ordered to quit
his native country forever.

Here the oral traditions which I have been able to collect respecting
his history begin to fail; and I find myself compelled to pass in
silence over a period of about twenty years. During the interval
G------ entered anew upon his military career, in a foreign service,
which eventually brought him to a pitch of greatness quite equal to that
from which he had, in his native country, been so awfully precipitated.
At length time, that friend of the unfortunate, who works a slow but
inevitable retribution, took into his hands the winding up of this
affair. The prince's days of passion were over; humanity gradually
resumed its sway over him as his hair whitened with age. At the brink
of the grave he felt a yearning towards the friend of his early youth.
In order to repay, as far as possible, the gray-headed old man, for the
injuries which had been heaped upon the youth, the prince, with friendly
expressions, invited the exile to revisit his native land, towards which
for some time past G------'s heart had secretly yearned. The meeting
was extremely trying, though apparently warm and cordial, as if they had
only separated a few days before. The prince looked earnestly at his
favorite, as if trying to recall features so well known to him, and yet
so strange; he appeared as if numbering the deep furrows which he had
himself so cruelly traced there. He looked searchingly in the old man's
face for the beloved features of the youth, but found not what he
sought. The welcome and the look of mutual confidence were evidently
forced on both sides; shame on one side and dread on the other had
forever separated their hearts. A sight which brought back to the
prince's soul the full sense of his guilty precipitancy could not be
gratifying to him, while G------ felt that he could no longer love the
author of his misfortunes. Comforted, nevertheless, and in
tranquillity, he looked back upon the past as the remembrance of a
fearful dream.

In a short time G------ was reinstated in all his former dignities, and
the prince smothered his feelings of secret repugnance by showering upon
him the most splendid favors as some indemnification for the past. But
could he also restore to him the heart which he had forever untuned for
the enjoyment of life? Could he restore his years of hope? or make
even a shadow of reparation to the stricken old man for what he had
stolen from him in the days of his youth?

For nineteen years G------- continued to enjoy this clear, unruffled
evening of his days. Neither misfortune nor age had been able to quench
in him the fire of passion, nor wholly to obscure the genial humor of
his character. In his seventieth year he was still in pursuit of the
shadow of a happiness which he had actually possessed in his twentieth.
He at length died governor of the fortress where state prisoners are
confined. One would naturally have expected that towards these he would
have exercised a humanity, the value of which he had been so thoroughly
taught to appreciate in his own person; but he treated them with
harshness and caprice; and a paroxysm of rage, in which he broke out
against one of his prisoners, laid him in his coffin, in his eightieth
year.






              THE ROBBERS.


            By Frederich Schiller




SCHILLER'S PREFACE.

AS PREFIXED TO THE FIRST EDITION OF THE ROBBERS

PUBLISHED IN 1781.

Now first translated into English.

This play is to be regarded merely as a dramatic narrative in which, for
the purpose of tracing out the innermost workings of the soul, advantage
has been taken of the dramatic method, without otherwise conforming to
the stringent rules of theatrical composition, or seeking the dubious
advantage of stage adaptation. It must be admitted as somewhat
inconsistent that three very remarkable people, whose acts are dependent
on perhaps a thousand contingencies, should be completely developed
within three hours, considering that it would scarcely be possible, in
the ordinary course of events, that three such remarkable people should,
even in twenty-four hours, fully reveal their characters to the most
penetrating inquirer. A greater amount of incident is here crowded
together than it was possible for me to confine within the narrow limits
prescribed by Aristotle and Batteux.

It is, however, not so much the bulk of my play as its contents which
banish it from the stage. Its scheme and economy require that several
characters should appear who would offend the finer feelings of virtue
and shock the delicacy of our manners. Every delineator of human
character is placed in the same dilemma if he proposes to give a
faithful picture of the world as it really is, and not an ideal
phantasy, a mere creation of his own. It is the course of mortal things
that the good should be shadowed by the bad, and virtue shine the
brightest when contrasted with vice. Whoever proposes to discourage
vice and to vindicate religion, morality, and social order against their
enemies, must unveil crime in all its deformity, and place it before the
eyes of men in its colossal magnitude; he must diligently explore its
dark mazes, and make himself familiar with sentiments at the wickedness
of which his soul revolts.

Vice is here exposed in its innermost workings. In Francis it resolves
all the confused terrors of conscience into wild abstractions, destroys
virtuous sentiments by dissecting them, and holds up the earnest voice
of religion to mockery and scorn. He who has gone so far (a distinction
by no means enviable) as to quicken his understanding at the expense of
his soul--to him the holiest things are no longer holy; to him God and
man are alike indifferent, and both worlds are as nothing. Of such a
monster I have endeavored to sketch a striking and lifelike portrait,
to hold up to abhorrence all the machinery of his scheme of vice, and to
test its strength by contrasting it with truth. How far my narrative is
successful in accomplishing these objects the reader is left to judge.
My conviction is that I have painted nature to the life.

Next to this man (Francis) stands another who would perhaps puzzle not
a few of my readers. A mind for which the greatest crimes have only
charms through the glory which attaches to them, the energy which their
perpetration requires, and the dangers which attend them. A remarkable
and important personage, abundantly endowed with the power of becoming
either a Brutus or a Catiline, according as that power is directed. An
unhappy conjunction of circumstances determines him to choose the latter
for, his example, and it is only after a fearful straying that he is
recalled to emulate the former. Erroneous notions of activity and
power, an exuberance of strength which bursts through all the barriers
of law, must of necessity conflict with the rules of social life. To
these enthusiast dreams of greatness and efficiency it needed but a
sarcastic bitterness against the unpoetic spirit of the age to complete
the strange Don Quixote whom, in the Robber Moor, we at once detest and
love, admire and pity. It is, I hope, unnecessary to remark that I no
more hold up this picture as a warning exclusively to robbers than the
greatest Spanish satire was levelled exclusively at knight-errants.

It is nowadays so much the fashion to be witty at the expense of
religion that a man will hardly pass for a genius if he does not allow
his impious satire to run a tilt at its most sacred truths. The noble
simplicity of holy writ must needs be abused and turned into ridicule at
the daily assemblies of the so-called wits; for what is there so holy
and serious that will not raise a laugh if a false sense be attached to
it? Let me hope that I shall have rendered no inconsiderable service
to the cause of true religion and morality in holding up these wanton
misbelievers to the detestation of society, under the form of the most
despicable robbers.

But still more. I have made these said immoral characters to stand out
favorably in particular points, and even in some measure to compensate
by qualities of the head for what they are deficient in those of the
heart. Herein I have done no more than literally copy nature. Every
man, even the most depraved, bears in some degree the impress of the
Almighty's image, and perhaps the greatest villain is not farther
removed from the most upright man than the petty offender; for the moral
forces keep even pace with the powers of the mind, and the greater the
capacity bestowed on man, the greater and more enormous becomes his
misapplication of it; the more responsible is he for his errors.

The "Adramelech" of Klopstock (in his Messiah) awakens in us a feeling
in which admiration is blended with detestation. We follow Milton's
Satan with shuddering wonder through the pathless realms of chaos. The
Medea of the old dramatists is, in spite of all her crimes, a great and
wondrous woman, and Shakespeare's Richard III. is sure to excite the
admiration of the reader, much as he would hate the reality. If it is
to be my task to portray men as they are, I must at the same time
include their good qualities, of which even the most vicious are never
totally destitute. If I would warn mankind against the tiger, I must
not omit to describe his glossy, beautifully-marked skin, lest, owing to
this omission, the ferocious animal should not be recognized till too
late. Besides this, a man who is so utterly depraved as to be without a
single redeeming point is no meet subject for art, and would disgust
rather than excite the interest of the reader; who would turn over with
impatience the pages which concern him. A noble soul can no more endure
a succession of moral discords than the musical ear the grating of
knives upon glass.

And for this reason I should have been ill-advised in attempting to
bring my drama on the stage. A certain strength of mind is required
both on the part of the poet and the reader; in the former that he may
not disguise vice, in the latter that he may not suffer brilliant
qualities to beguile him into admiration of what is essentially
detestable. Whether the author has fulfilled his duty he leaves others
to judge, that his readers will perform theirs he by no means feels
assured. The vulgar--among whom I would not be understood to mean
merely the rabble--the vulgar I say (between ourselves) extend their
influence far around, and unfortunately--set the fashion. Too
shortsighted to reach my full meaning, too narrow-minded to comprehend
the largeness of my views, too disingenuous to admit my moral aim--they
will, I fear, almost frustrate my good intentions, and pretend to
discover in my work an apology for the very vice which it has been my
object to condemn, and will perhaps make the poor poet, to whom anything
rather than justice is usually accorded, responsible for his simplicity.

Thus we have a _Da capo_ of the old story of Democritus and the
Abderitans, and our worthy Hippocrates would needs exhaust whole
plantations of hellebore, were it proposed to remedy this mischief by a
healing decoction.

   [This alludes to the fable amusingly recorded by Wieland in his
   Geschichte der Abderiten. The Abderitans, who were a byword among
   the ancients for their extreme simplicity, are said to have sent
   express for Hipocrates to cure their great townsman Democritus,
   whom they believed to be out of his senses, because his sayings
   were beyond their comprehension. Hippocrates, on conversing with
   Democritus, having at once discovered that the cause lay with
   themselves, assembled the senate and principal inhabitants in the
   market-place with the promise of instructing them in the cure of
   Democritus. He then banteringly advised them to import six
   shiploads of hellebore of the very best quality, and on its arrival
   to distribute it among the citizens, at least seven pounds per
   head, but to the senators double that quantity, as they were bound
   to have an extra supply of sense. By the time these worthies
   discovered that they had been laughed at, Hippocrates was out of
   their reach. The story in Wieland is infinitely more amusing than
   this short quotation from memory enables me to show.  H. G. B.]

Let as many friends of truth as you will, instruct their fellow-citizens
in the pulpit and on the stage, the vulgar will never cease to be
vulgar, though the sun and moon may change their course, and "heaven and
earth wax old as a garment." Perhaps, in order to please tender-hearted
people, I might have been less true to nature; but if a certain beetle,
of whom we have all heard, could extract filth even from pearls, if we
have examples that fire has destroyed and water deluged, shall therefore
pearls, fire, and water be condemned. In consequence of the remarkable
catastrophe which ends my play, I may justly claim for it a place among
books of morality, for crime meets at last with the punishment it
deserves; the lost one enters again within the pale of the law, and
virtue is triumphant. Whoever will but be courteous enough towards me
to read my work through with a desire to understand it, from him I may
expect--not that he will admire the poet, but that he will esteem the
honest man.
                     SCHILLER.
EASTER FAIR, 1781.




ADVERTISEMENT TO THE ROBBERS.

AS COMMUNICATED BY SCHILLER TO DALBERG IN 1781, AND SUPPOSED TO HAVE
BEEN USED AS A PROLOGUE.

--This has never before been printed with any of the editions.--

The picture of a great, misguided soul, endowed with every gift of
excellence; yet lost in spite of all its gifts! Unbridled passions and
bad companionship corrupt his heart, urge him on from crime to crime,
until at last he stands at the head of a band of murderers, heaps horror
upon horror, and plunges from precipice to precipice into the lowest
depths of despair. Great and majestic in misfortune, by misfortune
reclaimed, and led back to the paths of virtue. Such a man shall you
pity and hate, abhor yet love, in the Robber Moor. You will likewise
see a juggling, fiendish knave unmasked and blown to atoms in his own
mines; a fond, weak, and over-indulgent father; the sorrows of too
enthusiastic love, and the tortures of ungoverned passion. Here, too,
you will witness, not without a shudder, the interior economy of vice;
and from the stage be taught how all the tinsel of fortune fails to
smother the inward worm; and how terror, anguish, remorse, and despair
tread close on the footsteps of guilt. Let the spectator weep to-day at
our exhibition, and tremble, and learn to bend his passions to the laws
of religion and reason; let the youth behold with alarm the consequences
of unbridled excess; nor let the man depart without imbibing the lesson
that the invisible band of Providence makes even villains the
instruments of its designs and judgments, and can marvellously unravel
the most intricate perplexities of fate.




PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.

The eight hundred copies of the first edition of my ROBBERS were
exhausted before all the admirers of the piece were supplied. A second
was therefore undertaken, which has been improved by greater care in
printing, and by the omission of those equivocal sentences which were
offensive to the more fastidious part of the public. Such an
alteration, however, in the construction of the play as should satisfy
all the wishes of my friends and critics has not been my object.

In this second edition the several songs have been arranged for the
pianoforte, which will enhance its value to the musical part of the
public. I am indebted for this to an able composer,* who has performed
his task in so masterly a manner that the hearer is not unlikely to
forget the poet in the melody of the musician.

                        DR. SCHILLER.

STUTTGART, Jan. 5, 1782.

* Alluding to his friend Zumsteeg.--ED.




                THE ROBBERS.

                A TRAGEDY.

     "Quae medicamenta non sanant, ferrum sanat; quae ferrum non
     sanat, ignis sanat."--HIPPOCRATES.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

MAXIMILIAN, COUNT VON MOOR.

CHARLES,|
FRANCIS,| his Sons.
AMELIA VON EDELREICH, his Niece.
SPIEGELBERG,|
SCHWEITZER, |
GRIMM,   |
RAZMANN,  | Libertines, afterwards Banditti
SCHUFTERLE, |
ROLLER,   |
KOSINSKY,  |
SCHWARTZ,  |
HERMANN, the natural son of a Nobleman.
DANIEL, an old Servant of Count von Moor.
PASTOR MOSER.
FATHER DOMINIC, a Monk.
BAND OF ROBBERS, SERVANTS, ETC.


The scene is laid in Germany. Period of action about two years.




               THE ROBBERS

                 ACT I.


             SCENE I.--Franconia.

        Apartment in the Castle of COUNT MOOR.

              FRANCIS, OLD MOOR.


FRANCIS. But are you really well, father? You look so pale.

OLD MOOR. Quite well, my son--what have you to tell me?

FRANCIS. The post is arrived--a letter from our correspondent at
Leipsic.

OLD M. (eagerly). Any tidings of my son Charles?

FRANCIS. Hem! Hem!--Why, yes. But I fear--I know not--whether I dare
--your health.--Are you really quite well, father?

OLD M. As a fish in water.* Does he write of my son? What means this
anxiety about my health? You have asked me that question twice.

   [*This is equivalent to our English saying "As sound as a roach."]

FRANCIS. If you are unwell--or are the least apprehensive of being so--
permit me to defer--I will speak to you at a fitter season.--(Half
aside.) These are no tidings for a feeble frame.

OLD M. Gracious Heavens? what am I doomed to hear?

FRANCIS. First let me retire and shed a tear of compassion for my lost
brother. Would that my lips might be forever sealed--for he is your
son! Would that I could throw an eternal veil over his shame--for he is
my brother! But to obey you is my first, though painful, duty--forgive
me, therefore.

OLD M. Oh, Charles! Charles! Didst thou but know what thorns thou
plantest in thy father's bosom! That one gladdening report of thee would
add ten years to my life! yes, bring back my youth! whilst now, alas,
each fresh intelligence but hurries me a step nearer to the grave!

FRANCIS. Is it so, old man, then farewell! for even this very day we
might all have to tear our hair over your coffin.*

   [* This idiom is very common in Germany, and is used to express
   affliction.]

OLD M. Stay! There remains but one short step more--let him have his
will! (He sits down.) The sins of the father shall be visited unto the
third and fourth generation--let him fulfil the decree.

FRANCIS (takes the letter out of his pocket). You know our
correspondent! See! I would give a finger of my right hand might I
pronounce him a liar--a base and slanderous liar! Compose yourself!
Forgive me if I do not let you read the letter yourself. You cannot,
must not, yet know all.

OLD M. All, all, my son. You will but spare me crutches.*

   [* _Du ersparst mir die Krucke_; meaning that the contents of the
   letter can but shorten his declining years, and so spare him the
   necessity of crutches.]

FRANCIS (reads). "Leipsic, May 1. Were I not bound by an inviolable
promise to conceal nothing from you, not even the smallest particular,
that I am able to collect, respecting your brother's career, never, my
dearest friend, should my guiltless pen become an instrument of torture
to you. I can gather from a hundred of your letters how tidings such as
these must pierce your fraternal heart. It seems to me as though I saw
thee, for the sake of this worthless, this detestable"--(OLD M. covers
his face). Oh! my father, I am only reading you the mildest passages--
"this detestable man, shedding a thousand tears." Alas! mine flowed--ay,
gushed in torrents over these pitying cheeks. "I already picture to
myself your aged pious father, pale as death." Good Heavens! and so you
are, before you have heard anything.

OLD M. Go on! Go on!

FRANCIS. "Pale as death, sinking down on his chair, and cursing the day
when his ear was first greeted with the lisping cry of 'Father!' I have
not yet been able to discover all, and of the little I do know I dare
tell you only a part. Your brother now seems to have filled up the
measure of his infamy. I, at least, can imagine nothing beyond what he
has already accomplished; but possibly his genius may soar above my
conceptions. After having contracted debts to the amount of forty
thousand ducats,"--a good round sum for pocket-money, father" and having
dishonored the daughter of a rich banker, whose affianced lover, a
gallant youth of rank, he mortally wounded in a duel, he yesterday, in
the dead of night, took the desperate resolution of absconding from the
arm of justice, with seven companions whom he had corrupted to his own
vicious courses." Father? for heaven's sake, father! How do you feel?

OLD M. Enough. No more, my son, no more!

FRANCIS. I will spare your feelings. "The injured cry aloud for
satisfaction. Warrants have been issued for his apprehension--a price
is set on his head--the name of Moor"--No, these unhappy lips shall not
be guilty of a father's murder (he tears the letter). Believe it not,
my father, believe not a syllable.

OLD M. (weeps bitterly). My name--my unsullied name!

FRANCIS (throws himself on his neck). Infamous! most infamous Charles!
Oh, had I not my forebodings, when, even as a boy, he would scamper
after the girls, and ramble about over hill and common with ragamuffin
boys and all the vilest rabble; when he shunned the very sight of a
church as a malefactor shuns a gaol, and would throw the pence he had
wrung from your bounty into the hat of the first beggar he met, whilst
we at home were edifying ourselves with devout prayers and pious
homilies? Had I not my misgivings when he gave himself up to reading
the adventures of Julius Caesar, Alexander the Great, and other
benighted heathens, in preference to the history of the penitent Tobias?
A hundred times over have I warned you--for my brotherly affection was
ever kept in subjection to filial duty--that this forward youth would
one day bring sorrow and disgrace on us all. Oh that he bore not the
name of Moor! that my heart beat less warmly for him! This sinful
affection, which I can not overcome, will one day rise up against me
before the judgment-seat of heaven.

OLD M. Oh! my prospects! my golden dreams!

FRANCIS. Ay, well I knew it. Exactly what I always feared. That fiery
spirit, you used to say, which is kindling in the boy, and renders him
so susceptible to impressions of the beautiful and grand--the
ingenuousness which reveals his whole soul in his eyes--the tenderness
of feeling which melts him into weeping sympathy at every tale of
sorrow--the manly courage which impels him to the summit of giant oaks,
and urges him over fosse and palisade and foaming torrents--that
youthful thirst of honor--that unconquerable resolution--all those
resplendent virtues which in the father's darling gave such promise--
would ripen into the warm and sincere friend--the excellent citizen--the
hero--the great, the very great man! Now, mark the result, father; the
fiery spirit has developed itself--expanded--and behold its precious
fruits. Observe this ingenuousness--how nicely it has changed into
effrontery;--this tenderness of soul--how it displays itself in
dalliance with coquettes, in susceptibility to the blandishments of a
courtesan! See this fiery genius, how in six short years it hath burnt
out the oil of life, and reduced his body to a living skeleton; so that
passing scoffers point at him with a sneer and exclaim--"_C'est l'amour
qui a fait cela_." Behold this bold, enterprising spirit--how it
conceives and executes plans, compared to which the deeds of a Cartouche
or a Howard sink into insignificance. And presently, when these
precious germs of excellence shall ripen into full maturity, what may
not be expected from the full development of such a boyhood? Perhaps,
father, you may yet live to see him at the head of some gallant band,
which assembles in the silent sanctuary of the forest, and kindly
relieves the weary traveller of his superfluous burden. Perhaps you may
yet have the opportunity, before you go to your own tomb, of making a
pilgrimage to the monument which he may erect for himself, somewhere
between earth and heaven! Perhaps,--oh, father--father, look out for
some other name, or the very peddlers and street boys who have seen the
effigy of your worthy son exhibited in the market-place at Leipsic will
point at you with the finger of scorn!

OLD M. And thou, too, my Francis, thou too? Oh, my children, how
unerringly your shafts are levelled at my heart.

FRANCIS. You see that I too have a spirit; but my spirit bears the
sting of a scorpion. And then it was "the dry commonplace, the cold,
the wooden Francis," and all the pretty little epithets which the
contrast between us suggested to your fatherly affection, when he was
sitting on your knee, or playfully patting your cheeks? "He would die,
forsooth, within the boundaries of his own domain, moulder away, and
soon be forgotten;" while the fame of this universal genius would spread
from pole to pole! Ah! the cold, dull, wooden Francis thanks thee,
heaven, with uplifted hands, that he bears no resemblance to his
brother.

OLD M. Forgive me, my child! Reproach not thy unhappy father, whose
fondest hopes have proved visionary. The merciful God who, through
Charles, has sent these tears, will, through thee, my Francis, wipe them
from my eyes!

FRANCIS. Yes, father, we will wipe them from your eyes. Your Francis
will devote--his life to prolong yours. (Taking his hand with affected
tenderness.) Your life is the oracle which I will especially consult on
every undertaking--the mirror in which I will contemplate everything.
No duty so sacred but I am ready to violate it for the preservation of
your precious days. You believe me?

OLD M. Great are the duties which devolve on thee, my son--Heaven bless
thee for what thou has been, and wilt be to me.

FRANCIS. Now tell me frankly, father. Should you not be a happy man,
were you not obliged to call this son your own?

OLD M. In mercy, spare me! When the nurse first placed him in my arms,
I held him up to Heaven and exclaimed, "Am I not truly blest?"

FRANCIS. So you said then. Now, have you found it so? You may envy
the meanest peasant on your estate in this, that he is not the father of
such a son. So long as you call him yours you are wretched. Your
misery will grow with his years--it will lay you in your grave.

OLD M. Oh! he has already reduced me to the decrepitude of fourscore.

FRANCIS. Well, then--suppose you were to disown this son.

OLD M. (startled). Francis! Francis! what hast thou said!

FRANCIS. Is not your love for him the source of all your grief? Root
out this love, and he concerns you no longer. But for this weak and
reprehensible affection he would be dead to you;--as though he had never
been born. It is not flesh and blood, it is the heart that makes us
sons and fathers! Love him no more, and this monster ceases to be your
son, though he were cut out of your flesh. He has till now been the
apple of your eye; but if thine eye offend you, says Scripture, pluck it
out. It is better to enter heaven with one eye than hell with two! "It
is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not
that thy whole body should be cast into hell." These are the words of
the Bible!

OLD M. Wouldst thou have me curse my son?

FRANCIS. By no means, father. God forbid! But whom do you call your
son? Him to whom you have given life, and who in return does his utmost
to shorten yours.

OLD M. Oh, it is all too true! it is a judgment upon me. The Lord has
chosen him as his instrument.

FRANCIS. See how filially your bosom child behaves. He destroys you by
your own excess of paternal sympathy; murders you by means of the very
love you bear him--has coiled round a father's heart to crush it. When
you are laid beneath the turf he becomes lord of your possessions, and
master of his own will. That barrier removed, and the torrent of his
profligacy will rush on without control. Imagine yourself in his place.
How often he must wish his father under ground--and how often, too, his
brother--who so unmercifully impede the free course of his excesses.
But call you this a requital of love? Is this filial gratitude for a
father's tenderness? to sacrifice ten years of your life to the lewd
pleasures of an hour? in one voluptuous moment to stake the honor of an
ancestry which has stood unspotted through seven centuries? Do you call
this a son? Answer? Do you call this your son?

OLD M. An undutiful son! Alas! but still my child! my child!

FRANCIS. A most amiable and precious child-whose constant study is to
get rid of his father. Oh, that you could learn to see clearly! that
the film might be removed from your eyes! But your indulgence must
confirm him in his vices! your assistance tend to justify them.
Doubtless you will avert the curse of Heaven from his head, but on your
own, father--on yours--will it fall with twofold vengeance.

OLD M. Just! most just! Mine, mine be all the guilt!

FRANCIS. How many thousands who have drained the voluptuous bowl of
pleasure to the dregs have been reclaimed by suffering! And is not the
bodily pain which follows every excess a manifest declaration of the
divine will! And shall man dare to thwart this by an impious exercise
of affection? Shall a father ruin forever the pledge committed to his
charge? Consider, father, if you abandon him for a time to the pressure
of want will not he be obliged to turn from his wickedness and repent?
Otherwise, untaught even in the great school of adversity, he must
remain a confirmed reprobate? And then--woe to the father who by a
culpable tenderness bath frustrated the ordinances of a higher wisdom!
Well, father?

OLD M. I will write to him that I withdraw my protection.

FRANCIS. That would be wise and prudent.

OLD M. That he must never come into my sight again

FRANCIS. 'Twill have a most salutary effect.

OLD M. (tenderly). Until he reforms.

FRANCIS. Right, quite right. But suppose that he comes disguised in
the hypocrite's mask, implores your compassion with tears, and wheedles
from you a pardon, then quits you again on the morrow, and jests at your
weakness in the arms of his harlot. No, my father! He will return of
his own accord, when his conscience awakens him to repentance.

OLD M. I will write to him, on the spot, to that effect.

FRANCIS. Stop, father, one word more. Your just indignation might
prompt reproaches too severe, words which might break his heart--and
then--do you not think that your deigning to write with your own hand
might be construed into an act of forgiveness? It would be better, I
think, that you should commit the task to me?

OLD M. Do it, my son. Ah! it would, indeed, have broken my heart!
Write to him that--

FRANCIS (quickly). That's agreed, then?

OLD M. Say that he has caused me a thousand bitter tears--a thousand
sleepless nights--but, oh! do not drive my son to despair!

FRANCIS. Had you not better retire to rest, father? This affects you
too strongly.

OLD M. Write to him that a father's heart--But I charge you, drive him
not to despair. [Exit in sadness.]

FRANCIS (looking after him with a chuckle). Make thyself easy, old
dotard! thou wilt never more press thy darling to thy bosom--there is a
gulf between thee and him impassable as heaven is from hell. He was
torn from thy arms before even thou couldst have dreamed it possible to
decree the separation. Why, what a sorry bungler should I be had I not
skill enough to pluck a son from a father's heart; ay, though he were
riveted there with hooks of steel! I have drawn around thee a magic
circle of curses which he cannot overleap. Good speed to thee, Master
Francis. Papa's darling is disposed of--the course is clear. I must
carefully pick up all the scraps of paper, for how easily might my
handwriting be recognized. (He gathers the fragments of the letter.)
And grief will soon make an end of the old gentleman. And as for her--
I must tear this Charles from her heart, though half her life come with
him.

No small cause have I for being dissatisfied with Dame Nature, and, by
my honor, I will have amends! Why did I not crawl the first from my
mother's womb? why not the only one? why has she heaped on me this
burden of deformity? on me especially? Just as if she had spawned me
from her refuse.* Why to me in particular this snub of the Laplander?
these negro lips? these Hottentot eyes? On my word, the lady seems to
have collected from all the race of mankind whatever was loathsome into
a heap, and kneaded the mass into my particular person. Death and
destruction! who empowered her to deny to me what she accorded to him?
Could a man pay his court to her before he was born? or offend her
before he existed? Why went she to work in such a partial spirit?

No! no! I do her injustice--she bestowed inventive faculty, and set us
naked and helpless on the shore of this great ocean, the world--let
those swim who can--the heavy** may sink. To me she gave naught else,
and how to make the best use of my endowment is my present business.
Men's natural rights are equal; claim is met by claim, effort by effort,
and force by force--right is with the strongest--the limits of our power
constitute our laws.

It is true there are certain organized conventions, which men have
devised to keep up what is called the social compact. Honor! truly a
very convenient coin, which those who know how to pass it may lay out
with great advantage.*** Conscience! oh yes, a useful scarecrow to
frighten sparrows away from cherry-trees; it is something like a fairly
written bill of exchange with which your bankrupt merchant staves off
the evil day.

   * See Richard III., Act I, Sc. 1, line 17.

   **Heavy is used in a double meaning; the German word is plump,
   which Means lumpish clumsy awkward.

   ***So Falstaff, Hen. IV., Pt. I., Act V., Sc. 1, "Honor is a mere
   scutcheon."

Well! these are all most admirable institutions for keeping fools in
awe, and holding the mob underfoot, that the cunning may live the more
at their ease. Rare institutions, doubtless. They are something like
the fences my boors plant so closely to keep out the hares--yes
I' faith, not a hare can trespass on the enclosure, but my lord claps
spurs to his hunter, and away he gallops over the teeming harvest!

Poor hare! thou playest but a sorry part in this world's drama, but your
worshipful lords must needs have hares!

   *[This may help to illustrate a passage in Shakespeare which
   puzzles the commentators--"Cupid is a good hare-finder."--Much ADO,
   Act I., Sc. 1.
   The hare, in Germany, is considered an emblem of abject submission
   and cowardice. The word may also be rendered "Simpleton,"
   "Sawney," or any other of the numerous epithets which imply a soft
   condition.]

Then courage, and onward, Francis. The man who fears nothing is as
powerful as he who is feared by everybody. It is now the mode to wear
buckles on your smallclothes, that you may loosen or tighten them at
pleasure. I will be measured for a conscience after the newest fashion,
one that will stretch handsomely as occasion may require. Am I to
blame? It is the tailor's affair? I have heard a great deal of twaddle
about the so-called ties of blood--enough to make a sober man beside
himself. He is your brother, they say; which interpreted, means that he
was manufactured in the same mould, and for that reason he must needs be
sacred in your eyes! To what absurd conclusions must this notion of a
sympathy of souls, derived from the propinquity of bodies, inevitably
tend? A common source of being is to produce community of sentiment;
identity of matter, identity of impulse! Then again,--he is thy father!
He gave thee life, thou art his flesh and blood--and therefore he must
be sacred to thee! Again a most inconsequential deduction! I should
like to know why he begot me;** certainly not out of love for me--for I
must first have existed!

   **[The reader of Sterne will remember a very similar passage in the
   first chapter of Tristram Shandy.]

Could he know me before I had being, or did he think of me during my
begetting? or did he wish for me at the moment? Did he know what I
should be? If so I would not advise him to acknowledge it or I should
pay him off for his feat. Am I to be thankful to him that I am a man?
As little as I should have had a right to blame him if he had made me a
woman. Can I acknowledge an affection which is not based on any
personal regard? Could personal regard be present before the existence
of its object? In what, then, consists the sacredness of paternity?
Is it in the act itself out of which existence arose? as though this
were aught else than an animal process to appease animal desires. Or
does it lie, perhaps, in the result of this act, which is nothing more
after all than one of iron necessity, and which men would gladly
dispense with, were it not at the cost of flesh and blood? Do I then
owe him thanks for his affection? Why, what is it but a piece of
vanity, the besetting sin of the artist who admires his own works,
however hideous they may be? Look you, this is the whole juggle,
wrapped up in a mystic veil to work on our fears. And shall I, too, be
fooled like an infant? Up then! and to thy work manfully. I will root
up from my path whatever obstructs my progress towards becoming the
master. Master I must be, that I may extort by force what I cannot win
by affection.*


   *[This soliloquy in some parts resembles that of Richard, Duke of
   Gloster, in Shakespeare's Henry VI., Act V. Sc. 6.]

[Exit.]




       SCENE II.--A Tavern on the Frontier of Saxony.


 CHARLES VON MOOR intent on a book; SPIEGELBERG drinking at the table.



CHARLES VON M. (lays the book aside). I am disgusted with this age of
puny scribblers when I read of great men in my Plutarch.

SPIEGEL. (places a glass before him, and drinks). Josephus is the book
you should read.

CHARLES VON M. The glowing spark of Prometheus is burnt out, and now
they substitute for it the flash of lycopodium,* a stage-fire which will
not so much as light a pipe. The present generation may be compared to
rats crawling about the club of Hercules.**


   *[Lycopodium (in German Barlappen-mehl), vulgarly known as the
   Devil's Puff-ball or Witchmeal, is used on the stage, as well in
   England as on the continent, to produce flashes of fire. It is
   made of the pollen of common club moss, or wolf's claw (Lycopodium
   clavatum), the capsules of which contain a highly inflammable
   powder. Translators have uniformly failed in rendering this
   passage.]

   **[This simile brings to mind Shakespeare's:
                     "We petty men
         Walk under his huge legs, and peep about."
                JULIUS CAESAR, Act I., Sc. 2.]

A French abbe lays it down that Alexander was a poltroon; a phthisicky
professor, holding at every word a bottle of sal volatile to his nose,
lectures on strength. Fellows who faint at the veriest trifle criticise
the tactics of Hannibal; whimpering boys store themselves with phrases
out of the slaughter at Canna; and blubber over the victories of Scipio,
because they are obliged to construe them.

SPIEGEL. Spouted in true Alexandrian style.

CHARLES VON M. A brilliant reward for your sweat in the battle-field
truly to have your existence perpetuated in gymnasiums, and your
immortality laboriously dragged about in a schoolboy's satchel. A
precious recompense for your lavished blood to be wrapped round
gingerbread by some Nuremberg chandler, or, if you have great luck, to
be screwed upon stilts by a French playwright, and be made to move on
wires! Ha, ha, ha!

SPIEGEL. (drinks). Read Josephus, I tell you.

CHARLES VON M. Fie! fie upon this weak, effeminate age, fit for nothing
but to ponder over the deeds of former times, and torture the heroes of
antiquity with commentaries, or mangle them in tragedies. The vigor of
its loins is dried up, and the propagation of the human species has
become dependent on potations of malt liquor.

SPIEGEL. Tea, brother! tea!

CHARLES VON M. They curb honest nature with absurd conventionalities;
have scarcely the heart to charge a glass, because they are tasked to
drink a health in it; fawn upon the lackey that he may put in a word for
them with His Grace, and bully the unfortunate wight from whom they have
nothing to fear. They worship any one for a dinner, and are just as
ready to poison him should he chance to outbid them for a feather-bed
at an auction. They damn the Sadducee who fails to come regularly to
church, although their own devotion consists in reckoning up their
usurious gains at the very altar. They cast themselves on their knees
that they may have an opportunity of displaying their mantles, and
hardly take their eyes off the parson from their anxiety to see how his
wig is frizzled. They swoon at the sight of a bleeding goose, yet clap
their hands with joy when they see their rival driven bankrupt from the
Exchange. Warmly as I pressed their hands,--"Only one more day." In
vain! To prison with the dog! Entreaties! Vows! Tears! (stamping
the ground). Hell and the devil!

SPIEGEL. And all for a few thousand paltry ducats!

CHARLES VON M. No, I hate to think of it. Am I to squeeze my body into
stays, and straight-lace my will in the trammels of law. What might
have risen to an eagle's flight has been reduced to a snail's pace by
law. Never yet has law formed a great man; 'tis liberty that breeds
giants and heroes. Oh! that the spirit of Herman* still glowed in his
ashes!

   *[Herman is the German for Armin or Arminius, the celebrated
   deliverer of Germany from the Roman yoke. See Menzel's History,
   vol. i., p. 85, etc.]

Set me at the head of an army of fellows like myself, and out of Germany
shall spring a republic compared to which Rome and Sparta will be but as
nunneries. (Rises and flings his sword upon the table.)

SPIEGEL. (jumping up). Bravo! Bravissimo! you are coming to the right
key now. I have something for your ear, Moor, which has long been on my
mind, and you are the very man for it--drink, brother, drink! What if
we turned Jews and brought the kingdom of Jerusalem again on the tapis?
But tell me is it not a clever scheme? We send forth a manifesto to the
four quarters of the world, and summon to Palestine all that do not eat
Swineflesh. Then I prove by incontestable documents that Herod the
Tetrarch was my direct ancestor, and so forth. There will be a victory,
my fine fellow, when they return and are restored to their lands, and
are able to rebuild Jerusalem. Then make a clean sweep of the Turks out
of Asia while the iron is hot, hew cedars in Lebanon, build ships, and
then the whole nation shall chaffer with old clothes and old lace
throughout the world. Meanwhile--

CHARLES VON M. (smiles and takes him by the hand). Comrade! There must
be an end now of our fooleries.

SPIEGEL. (with surprise). Fie! you are not going to play the prodigal
son!--a fellow like you who with his sword has scratched more
hieroglyhics on other men's faces than three quill-drivers could
inscribe in their daybooks in a leap-year! Shall I tell you the story
of the great dog funeral? Ha! I must just bring back your own picture
to your mind; that will kindle fire in your veins, if nothing else has
power to inspire you. Do you remember how the heads of the college
caused your dog's leg to be shot off, and you, by way of revenge,
proclaimed a fast through the whole town? They fumed and fretted at
your edict. But you, without losing time, ordered all the meat to be
bought up in Leipsic, so that in the course of eight hours there was not
a bone left to pick all over the place, and even fish began to rise in
price. The magistrates and the town council vowed vengeance. But we
students turned out lustily, seventeen hundred of us, with you at our
head, and butchers and tailors and haberdashers at our backs, besides
publicans, barbers, and rabble of all sorts, swearing that the town
should be sacked if a single hair of a student's head was injured. And
so the affair went off like the shooting at Hornberg,* and they were
obliged to be off with their tails between their legs.

   *[The "shooting at Hornberg" is a proverbial expression in Germany
   for any expedition from which, through lack of courage, the parties
   retire without firing a shot.]

You sent for doctors--a whole posse of them--and offered three ducats to
any one who would write a prescription for your dog. We were afraid the
gentlemen would stand too much upon honor and refuse, and had already
made up our minds to use force. But this was quite unnecessary; the
doctors got to fisticuffs for the three ducats, and their competition
brought down the price to three groats; in the course of an hour a dozen
prescriptions were written, of which, of course, the poor beast very
soon died.

CHARLES VON M. The vile rascals.

SPIEGEL. The funeral procession was arranged with all due pomp; odes
for the dog were indited by the gross; and at night we all turned out,
near a thousand of us, a lantern in one hand and our rapier in the
other, and so proceeded through the town, the bells chiming and ringing,
till the dog was entombed. Then came a, feed which lasted till broad
daylight, when you sent your acknowledgments to the college dons for
their kind sympathy, and ordered the meat to be sold at half-price.
_Mort de ma vie_, if we had not as great a respect for you as a garrison
for the conqueror of a fortress.

CHARLES VON M. And are you not ashamed to boast of these things? Have
you not shame enough in you to blush even at the recollection of such
pranks?

SPIEGEL. Come, come! You are no longer the same Moor. Do you remember
how, a thousand times, bottle in hand, you made game of the miserly old
governor, bidding him by all means rake and scrape together as much as
he could, for that you would swill it all down your throat? Don't you
remember, eh?--don't you remember?' O you good-for-nothing, miserable
braggart! that was speaking like a man, and a gentleman, but--

CHARLES VON M. A curse on you for reminding me of it! A curse on myself
for what I said! But it was done in the fumes of wine, and my heart
knew not what my tongue uttered.

SPIEGEL. (shakes his head). No, no! that cannot be! Impossible,
brother! You are not in earnest! Tell me! most sweet brother, is it
not poverty which has brought you to this mood? Come! let me tell you a
little story of my youthful days. There was a ditch close to my house,
eight feet wide at the least, which we boys were trying to leap over for
a wager. But it was no go. Splash! there you lay sprawling, amidst
hisses and roars of laughter, and a relentless shower of snowballs. By
the side of my house a hunter's dog was lying chained, a savage beast,
which would catch the girls by their petticoats with the quickness of
lightning if they incautiously passed too near him. Now it was my
greatest delight to tease this brute in every possible way; and it was
enough to make one burst with laughing to see the beast fix his eyes on
me with such fierceness that he seemed ready to tear me to pieces if he
could but get at me. Well, what happened? Once, when I was amusing
myself in this manner, I hit him such a bang in the ribs with a stone
that in his fury he broke loose and ran right upon me. I tore away like
lightning, but--devil take it!--that confounded ditch lay right in my
way. What was to be done? The dog was close at my heels and quite
furious; there was no time to deliberate. I took a spring and cleared
the ditch. To that leap I was indebted for life and limb; the beast
would have torn me to atoms.

CHARLES VON M. And to what does all this tend?

SPIEGEL. To this--that you may be taught that strength grows with the
occasion. For which reason I never despair even when things are the
worst. Courage grows with danger. Powers of resistance increase by
pressure. It is evident by the obstacles she strews in my path that
fate must have designed me for a great man.

CHARLES VON M. (angrily). I am not aware of anything for which we still
require courage, and have not already shown it.

SPIEGEL. Indeed! And so you mean to let your gifts go to waste? To
bury your talent? Do you think your paltry achievements at Leipsic
amount to the _ne plus ultra_ of genius? Let us but once get to the
great world--Paris and London! where you get your ears boxed if you
salute a man as honest. It is a real jubilee to practise one's
handicraft there on a grand scale. How you will stare! How you will
open your eyes! to see signatures forged; dice loaded; locks picked,
and strong boxes gutted; all that you shall learn of Spiegelberg! The
rascal deserves to be hanged on the first gallows that would rather
starve than manipulate with his fingers.

CHARLES VON M. (in a fit of absence). How now? I should not wonder if
your proficiency went further still.

SPIEGEL. I begin to think you mistrust me. Only wait till I have grown
warm at it; you shall see wonders; your little brain shall whirl clean
round in your pericranium when my teeming wit is delivered. (He rises
excited.) How it clears up within me! Great thoughts are dawning in on
my soul! Gigantic plans are fermenting in my creative brain. Cursed
lethargy (striking his forehead), which has hitherto enchained my
faculties, cramped and fettered my prospects! I awake; I feel what I
am--and what I am to be!

CHARLES VON M. You are a fool! The wine is swaggering in your brain.

SPIEGEL. (more excited). Spiegelberg, they will say, art thou a
magician, Spiegelberg? 'Tis a pity, the king will say, that thou wert
not made a general, Spiegelberg, thou wouldst have thrust the Austrians
through a buttonhole. Yes, I hear the doctors lamenting, 'tis a crying
shame that he was not bred to medicine, he would have discovered the
_elixir vitae_. Ay, and that he did not take to financiering, the
Sullys will deplore in their cabinets,--he would have turned flints into
louis-d'ors by his magic. And Spiegelberg will be the word from east to
west; then down into the dirt with you, ye cowards, ye reptiles, while
Spiegelberg soars with outspread wings to the temple of everlasting
fame.

CHARLES VON M. A pleasant journey to you! I leave you to climb to the
summit of glory on the pillars of infamy. In the shade of my ancestral
groves, in the arms of my Amelia, a nobler joy awaits me. I have
already, last week, written to my father to implore his forgiveness, and
have not concealed the least circumstance from him; and where there is
sincerity there is compassion and help. Let us take leave of each
other, Moritz. After this day we shall meet no more. The post has
arrived. My father's forgiveness must already be within the walls of
this town.


     Enter SCHWEITZER, GRIMM, ROLLER, SCHUFTERLE, and RAZMAN.


ROLLER. Are you aware that they are on our track!

GRIMM. That we are not for a moment safe from being taken?

CHARLES VON M. I don't wonder at it. It must be as it will! Have none
of you seen Schwarz? Did he say anything about having a letter for me?

ROLLER. He has been long in search of you on some such errand, I
suspect.

CHARLES VON M. Where is he? where, where? (is about to rush of in
haste).

ROLLER. Stay! we have appointed him to come here. You tremble?

CHARLES VON M. I do not tremble. Why should I tremble? Comrades, this
letter--rejoice with me! I am the happiest man under the sun; why
should I tremble?


               Enter SCHWARZ.


CHARLES VON M. (rushes towards him). Brother, brother! the letter, the
letter!

SCHW. (gives him a letter, which he opens hastily). What's the matter?
You have grown as pale as a whitewashed wall!

CHARLES VON M. My brother's hand!

SCHW. What the deuce is Spiegelberg about there?

GRIMM. The fellow's mad. He jumps about as if he had St. Vitus' dance.

SCHUF. His wits are gone a wool gathering! He's making verses, I'll be
sworn!

RAZ. Spiegelberg! Ho! Spiegelberg! The brute does not hear.

GRIMM. (shakes him). Hallo! fellow! are you dreaming? or--

SPIEGEL. (who has all this time been making gestures in a corner of the
room, as if working out some great project, jumps up wildly). Your
money or your life! (He catches SCHWEITZER by the throat, who very
coolly flings him against the wall; Moor drops the letter and rushes
out. A general sensation.)

ROLLER. (calling after him). Moor! where are you going? What's the
matter?

GRIMM. What ails him? What has he been doing? He is as pale as death.

SCHW. He must have got strange news. Just let us see!

ROLLER. (picks up the letter from the ground, and reads). "Unfortunate
brother!"--a pleasant beginning--"I have only briefly to inform you that
you have nothing more to hope for. You may go, your father directs me
to tell you, wherever your own vicious propensities lead. Nor are you
to entertain, he says, any hope of ever gaining pardon by weeping at his
feet, unless you are prepared to fare upon bread and water in the lowest
dungeon of his castle until your hair shall outgrow eagles' feathers,
and your nails the talons of a vulture. These are his very words. He
commands me to close the letter. Farewell forever! I pity you.

                         "FRANCIS VON MOOR"


SCHW. A most amiable and loving brother, in good truth! And the
scoundrel's name is Francis.

SPIEGEL. (slinking forward). Bread and water! Is that it? A
temperate diet! But I have made a better provision for you. Did I not
say that I should have to think for you all at last?

SCHWEIT. What does the blockhead say! The jackass is going to think
for us all!

SPIEGEL. Cowards, cripples, lame dogs are ye all if you have not
courage enough to venture upon something great.

ROLLER. Well, of course, so we should be, you are right; but will your
proposed scheme get us out of this devil of a scrape? eh?

SPIEGEL. (with a proud laugh). Poor thing! Get us out of this scrape?
Ha, ha, ha! Get us out of the scrape!--and is that all your thimbleful
of brain can reach? And with that you trot your mare back to the
stable? Spiegelberg would have been a miserable bungler indeed if that
were the extent of his aim. Heroes, I tell you, barons, princes, gods,
it will make of you.

RAZ. That's pretty well for one bout, truly! But no doubt it is some
neck-breaking piece of business; it will cost a head or so at the least.

SPIEGEL. It wants nothing but courage; as to the headwork, I take that
entirely upon myself. Courage, I say, Schweitzer! Courage, Roller!
Grimm! Razman! Schufterle! Courage!

SCHW. Courage! If that is all, I have courage enough to walk through
hell barefoot.

SCHUFT. And I courage enough to fight the very devil himself under the
open gallows for the rescue of any poor sinner.

SPIEGEL. That's just what it should be! If ye have courage, let any
one of you step forward and say he has still something to lose, and not
everything to gain?

SCHW. Verily, I should have a good deal to lose, if I were to lose all
that I have yet to win!

PAZ. Yes, by Jove! and I much to win, if I could win all that I have
not got to lose.

SCHUFT. Were I to lose what I carry on my back on trust I should at any
rate have nothing to lose on the morrow.

SPIEGEL. Very well then! (He takes his place in the middle of them,
and says in solemn adjuration)--if but a drop of the heroic blood of the
ancient Germans still flow in your veins--come! We will fix our abode
in the Bohemian forests, draw together a band of robbers, and--What are
you gaping at? Has your slender stock of courage oozed out already?

ROLLER. You are not the first rogue by many that has defied the
gallows;--and yet what other choice have we?

SPIEGEL. Choice? You have no choice. Do you want to lie rotting in
the debtor's jail and beat hemp till you are bailed by the last trumpet?
Would you toil with pick-axe and spade for a morsel of dry bread? or
earn a pitiful alms by singing doleful ditties under people's windows?
Or will you be sworn at the drumhead--and then comes the question,
whether anybody would trust your hang-dog visages--and so under the
splenetic humor of some despotic sergeant serve your time of purgatory
in advance? Would you like to run the gauntlet to the beat of the drum?
or be doomed to drag after you, like a galley-slave, the whole iron
store of Vulcan? Behold your choice. You have before you the complete
catalogue of all that you may choose from!

ROLLER. Spiegelberg is not altogether wrong! I, too, have been
concocting plans, but they come much to the same thing. How would it
be, thought I, were we to club our wits together, and dish up a
pocketbook, or an almanac, or something of that sort, and write reviews
at a penny a line, as is now the fashion?

SCHUFT. The devil's in you! you are pretty nearly hitting on my own
schemes. I have been thinking to myself how would it answer were I to
turn Methodist, and hold weekly prayer-meetings?

GRIMM. Capital! and, if that fails, turn atheist! We might fall foul of
the four Gospels, get our book burned by the hangman, and then it would
sell at a prodigious rate.

RAZ. Or we might take the field to cure a fashionable ailment. I know
a quack doctor who has built himself a house with nothing but mercury,
as the motto over his door implies.

SCHWEIT. (rises and holds out his hand to Spiegelberg). Spiegelberg,
thou art a great man! or else a blind hog has by chance found an acorn.

SCHW. Excellent schemes! Honorable professions! How great minds
sympathize! All that seems wanting to complete the list is that we
should turn pimps and bawds.

SPIEGEL. Pooh! Pooh! Nonsense. And what is to prevent our combining
most of these occupations in one person? My plan will exalt you the
most, and it holds out glory and immortality into the bargain.
Remember, too, ye sorry varlets, and it is a matter worthy of
consideration: one's fame hereafter--the sweet thought of immortality--

ROLLER. And that at the very head of the muster-roll of honorable
names! You are a master of eloquence, Spiegelberg, when the question is
how to convert an honest man into a scoundrel. But does any one know
what has become of Moor?

SPIEGEL. Honest, say you? Do you think you'll be less honest then than
you are now? What do you call honest? To relieve rich misers of half
of those cares which only scare golden sleep from their eyelids; to
force hoarded coin into circulation; to restore the equalization of
property; in one word, to bring back the golden age; to relieve
Providence of many a burdensome pensioner, and so save it the trouble of
sending war, pestilence, famine, and above all, doctors--that is what I
call honesty, d'ye see; that's what I call being a worthy instrument in
the hand of Providence,--and then, at every meal you eat, to have the
sweet reflection: this is what thy own ingenuity, thy lion boldness, thy
night watchings, have procured for thee--to command the respect both of
great and small!

ROLLER. And at last to mount towards heaven in the living body, and in
spite of wind and storm, in spite of the greedy maw of old father Time,
to be hovering beneath the sun and moon and all the stars of the
firmament, where even the unreasoning birds of heaven, attracted by
noble instinct, chant their seraphic music, and angels with tails hold
their most holy councils? Don't you see? And, while monarchs and
potentates become a prey to moths and worms, to have the honor of
receiving visits from the royal bird of Jove. Moritz, Moritz, Moritz!
beware of the three-legged beast.*

   *[The gallows, which in Germany is formed of three posts.]

SPIEGEL. And does that fright thee, craven-heart? Has not many a
universal genius, who might have reformed the world, rotted upon the
gallows? And does not the renown of such a man live for hundreds and
thousands of years, whereas many a king and elector would be passed over
in history, were not historians obliged to give him a niche to complete
the line of succession, or that the mention of him did not swell the
volume a few octavo pages, for which he counts upon hard cash from the
publisher. And when the wayfarer sees you swinging to and fro in the
breeze he will mutter to himself, "That fellow's brains had no water in
them, I'll warrant me," and then groan over the hardship of the times.

SCHWEIT. (slaps him on the shoulder). Well said, Spiegelberg! Well
said! Why the devil do we stand here hesitating?

SCHW. And suppose it is called disgrace--what then? Cannot one, in
case of need, always carry a small powder about one, which quietly
smooths the weary traveller's passage across the Styx, where no
cock-crowing will disturb his rest? No, brother Moritz! Your scheme is
good; so at least says my creed.

SCHUFT. Zounds! and mine too! Spiegelberg, I am your recruit.

RAZ. Like a second Orpheus, Spiegelberg, you have charmed to sleep that
howling beast, conscience! Take me as I stand, I am yours entirely!

GRIMMM. _Si omnes consentiunt ego non dissentio_;* mind, without a
comma. There is an auction going on in my head--methodists--quack
doctors--reviewers--rogues;--the highest bidder has me. Here is my
hand, Moritz!

   *[The joke is explained by placing a comma after non.]

ROLLER. And you too, Schweitzer? (he gives his right hand to
SPIEGELBERG). Thus I consign my soul to the devil.

SPIEGEL. And your name to the stars! What does it signify where the
soul goes to? If crowds of _avantcouriers_ give notice of our descent
that the devils may put on their holiday gear, wipe the accumulated soot
of a thousand years from their eyelashes, and myriads of horned heads
pop up from the smoking mouth of their sulphurous chimneys to welcome
our arrival! 'Up, comrades! (leaping up). Up! What in the world is
equal to this ecstacy of delight? Come along, comrades!

ROLLER. Gently, gently! Where are you going? Every beast must have a
head, boys!

SPIEGEL. (With bitterness). What is that incubus preaching about? Was
not the head already there before a single limb began to move? Follow
me, comrades!

ROLLER. Gently, I say! even liberty must have its master. Rome and
Sparta perished for want of a chief.

SPIEGEL. (in a wheedling manner). Yes,--stay--Roller is right. And he
must have an enlightened head. Do you understand? A keen, politic
head. Yes! when I think what you were only an hour ago, and what you
are now, and that it is all owing to one happy thought. Yes, of course,
you must have a chief, and you'll own that he who struck out this idea
may claim to have an enlightened and politic head?

ROLLER. If one could hope, if one could dream, but I fear he will not
consent.

SPIEGEL. Why not? Speak out boldly, friend! Difficult as it may be to
steer a laboring vessel against wind and tide, oppressive as may be the
weight of a crown, speak your thought without hesitation, Roller!
Perhaps he may be prevailed upon after all!

ROLLER. And if he does not the whole vessel will be crazy enough.
Without Moor we are a "body without a soul."

SPIEGEL. (turning angrily from him). Dolt! blockhead!


   (Enter CHARLES VON MOOR in violent agitation, stalking backwards
   and forwards, and speaking to himself.)


CHARLES VON M. Man--man! false, perfidious crocodile-brood! Your eyes
are all tears, but your hearts steel! Kisses on your lips, but daggers
couched in your bosoms! Even lions and tigers nourish their young.
Ravens feast their brood on carrion, and he--he Malice I have learned to
bear; and I can smile when my fellest enemy drinks to me in my own
heart's blood; but when kindred turn traitors, when a father's love
becomes a fury's hate; oh, then, let manly resignation give place to
raging fire! the gentle lamb become a tiger! and every nerve strain
itself to vengeance and destruction!

ROLLER. Hark ye, Moor! What think ye of it? A robber's life is
pleasanter, after all, than to lie rotting on bread and water in the
lowest dungeon of the castle?

CHARLES VON M. Why was not this spirit implanted in a tiger which gluts
its raging jaws with human flesh? Is this a father's tenderness? Is
this love for love? Would I were a bear to rouse all the bears of the
north against this murderous race! Repentance, and no pardon! Oh, that
I could poison the ocean that men might drink death from every spring!
Contrition, implicit reliance, and no pardon!

ROLLER. But listen, Moor,--listen to what I am telling you!

CHARLES VON M. 'Tis incredible! 'tis a dream--a delusion! Such earnest
entreaty, such a vivid picture of misery and tearful penitence--a savage
beast would have been melted to compassion! stones would have wept, and
yet he--it would be thought a malicious libel upon human nature were I
to proclaim it--and yet, yet--oh, that I could sound the trumpet of
rebellion through all creation, and lead air, and earth, and sea into
battle array against this generation of hyenas!

GRIMM. Hear me, only hear me! You are deaf with raving.

CHARLES VON M. Avaunt, avaunt! Is not thy name man? Art thou not born
of woman? Out of my sight, thou thing with human visage! I loved him
so unutterably!--never son so loved a father; I would have sacrificed a
thousand lives for him (foaming and stamping the ground). Ha! where is
he that will put a sword into my hand that I may strike this generation
of vipers to the quick! Who will teach me how to reach their heart's
core, to crush, to annihilate the whole race? Such a man shall be my
friend, my angel, my god--him will I worship!

ROLLER. Such friends behold in us; be but advised!

SCHW. Come with us into the Bohemian forests! We will form a band of
robbers there, and you (MOOR stares at him).

SCHWEIT. You shall be our captain! you must be our captain!

SPIEGEL. (throws himself into a chair in a rage). Slaves and cowards!

CHARLES VON M. Who inspired thee with that thought? Hark, fellow!
(grasping ROLLER tightly) that human soul of thine did not produce it;
who suggested it to thee? Yes, by the thousand arms of death! that's
what we will, and what we must do! the thought's divine. He who
conceived it deserves to be canonized. Robbers and murderers! As my
soul lives, I am your captain!

ALL (with tumultuous shouts). Hurrah! long live our captain!

SPIEGEL. (starting up, aside). Till I give him his _coup de grace_!

CHARLES VON M. See, it falls like a film from my eyes! What a fool was
I to think of returning to be caged? My soul's athirst for deeds, my
spirit pants for freedom. Murderers, robbers! with these words I
trample the law underfoot--mankind threw off humanity when I appealed to
it. Away, then, with human sympathies and mercy! I no longer have a
father, no longer affections; blood and death shall teach me to forget
that anything was ever dear to me! Come! come! Oh, I will recreate
myself with some most fearful vengeance;--'tis resolved, I am your
captain! and success to him who Shall spread fire and slaughter the
widest and most savagely--I pledge myself He shall be right royally
rewarded. Stand around me, all of you, and swear to me fealty and
obedience unto death! Swear by this trusty right hand.

ALL (place their hands in his). We swear to thee fealty and obedience
unto death!

CHARLES VON M. And, by this same trusty right Hand, I here swear to you
to remain your captain, true and faithful unto death! This arm shall
make an instant corpse of him who doubts, or fears, or retreats. And
may the same befall me from your hands if I betray my oath! Are you
content?


   [SPIEGELBERG runs up and down in a furious rage.]


ALL (throwing up their hats). We are content!

CHARLES VON M. Well, then, let us be gone! Fear neither death nor
danger, for an unalterable destiny rules over us. Every man has his
doom, be it to die on the soft pillow of down, or in the field of blood,
or on the scaffold, or the wheel! One or the other of these must be our
lot! [Exeunt.]

SPIEGEL. (looking after them after a pause). Your catalogue has a hole
in it. You have omitted poison.

[Exit.]




       SCENE III.--MOOR'S Castle.--AMELIA'S Chamber.

               FRANCIS, AMELIA.

FRANCIS. Your face is averted from me, Amelia? Am I less worthy than
he who is accursed of his father?

AMELIA. Away! Oh! what a loving, compassionate father, who abandons
his son a prey to wolves and monsters! In his own comfortable home he
pampers himself with delicious wines and stretches his palsied limbs on
down, while his noble son is starving. Shame upon you, inhuman
wretches! Shame upon you, ye souls of dragons, ye blots on humanity!--
his only son!

FRANCIS. I thought he had two.

AMELIA. Yes, he deserves to have such sons as you are. On his deathbed
he will in vain stretch out his withered hands for his Charles, and
recoil with a shudder when he feels the ice-cold hand of his Francis.
Oh, it is sweet, deliciously sweet, to be cursed by such a father! Tell
me, Francis, dear brotherly soul--tell me what must one do to be cursed
by him?

FRANCIS. You are raving, dearest; you are to be pitied.

AMELIA. Oh! indeed. Do you pity your brother? No, monster, you hate
him! I hope you hate me too.

FRANCIS. I love you as dearly as I love myself, Amelia!

AMELIA. If you love me you will not refuse me one little request.

FRANCIS. None, none! if you ask no more than my life.

AMELIA. Oh, if that is the case! then one request, which you will so
easily, so readily grant. (Loftily.) Hate me! I should perforce blush
crimson if, whilst thinking of Charles, it should for a moment enter my
mind that you do not hate me. You promise me this? Now go, and leave
me; I so love to be alone!

FRANCIS. Lovely enthusiast! how greatly I admire your gentle,
affectionate heart. Here, here, Charles reigned sole monarch, like a
god within his temple; he stood before thee waking, he filled your
imaination dreaming; the whole creation seemed to thee to centre in
Charles, and to reflect him alone; it gave thee no other echo but of
him.

AMELIA (with emotion). Yes, verily, I own it. Despite of you all,
barbarians as you are, I will own it before all the world. I love him!

FRANCIS. Inhuman, cruel! So to requite a love like this! To forget
her--

AMELIA (starting). What! forget me?

FRANCIS. Did you not place a ring on his finger?--a diamond ring, the
pledge of your love? To be sure how is it possible for youth to resist
the fascinations of a wanton? Who can blame him for it, since he had
nothing else left to give away? and of course she repaid him with
interest by her caresses and embraces.

AMELIA (with indignation). My ring to a wanton?

FRANCIS. Fie, fie! it is disgraceful. 'Twould not be much, however, if
that were all. A ring, be it ever so costly, is, after all, a thing
which one may always buy of a Jew. Perhaps the fashion of it did not
please him, perhaps he exchanged it for one more beautiful.

AMELIA (with violence). But my ring, I say, my ring?

FRANCIS. Even yours, Amelia. Ha! such a brilliant, and on my finger;
and from Amelia! Death itself should not have plucked it hence. It is
not the costliness of the diamond, not the cunning of the pattern--it is
love which constitutes its value. Is it not so, Amelia? Dearest child,
you are weeping. Woe be to him who causes such precious drops to flow
from those heavenly eyes; ah, and if you knew all, if you could but see
him yourself, see him under that form?

AMELIA. Monster! what do you mean? What form do you speak of?

FRANCIS. Hush, hush, gentle soul, press me no further (as if
soliloquizing, yet aloud). If it had only some veil, that horrid vice,
under which it might shroud itself from the eye of the world! But there
it is, glaring horribly through the sallow, leaden eye; proclaiming
itself in the sunken, deathlike look; ghastly protruding bones; the
faltering, hollow voice; preaching audibly from the shattered, shaking
skeleton; piercing to the most vital marrow of the bones, and sapping
the manly strength of youth--faugh! the idea sickens me. Nose, eyes,
ears shrink from it. You saw that miserable wretch, Amelia, in our
hospital, who was heavily breathing out his spirit; modesty seemed to
cast down her abashed eye as she passed him; you cried woe upon him.
Recall that hideous image to your mind, and your Charles stands before
you. His kisses are pestilence, his lips poison.

AMELIA (strikes him). Shameless liar!

FRANCIS. Does such a Charles inspire you with horror? Does the mere
picture fill you with disgust? Go, then! gaze upon him yourself, your
handsome, your angelic, your divine Charles! Go, drink his balmy
breath, and revel in the ambrosial fumes which ascend from his throat!
The very exhalations of his body will plunge you into that dark and
deathlike dizziness which follows the smell of a bursting carcase, or
the sight of a corpse-strewn battle-field. (AMELIA turns away her
face.) What sensations of love! What rapture in those embraces! But is
it not unjust to condemn a man because of his diseased exterior? Even
in the most wretched lump of deformity a soul great and worthy of love
may beam forth brightly like a pearl on a dunghill. ( With a malignant
smile.) Even from lips of corruption love may----. To be sure if vice
should undermine the very foundations of character, if with chastity
virtue too should take her flight as the fragrance departs from the
faded rose--if with the body the soul too should be tainted and
corrupted.

AMELIA (rising joyfully). Ha! Charles! now I recognize thee again!
Thou art whole, whole! It was all a lie! Dost thou not know,
miscreant, that it would be impossible for Charles to be the being you
describe? (FRANCIS remains standing for some time, lost in thought,
then suddenly turns round to go away.) Whither are you going in such
haste? Are you flying from your own infamy?

FRANCIS (hiding his face). Let me go, let me go! to give free vent to
my tears! tyrannical father, thus to abandon the best of your sons to
misery and disgrace on every side! Let me go, Amelia! I will throw
myself at his feet, on my knees I will conjure him to transfer to me the
curse that he has pronounced, to disinherit me, to hate me, my blood, my
life, my all----.

AMELIA (falls on his neck). Brother of my Charles! Dearest, most
excellent Francis!

FRANCIS. Oh, Amelia! how I love you for this unshaken constancy to my
brother. Forgive me for venturing to subject your love to so severe a
trial! How nobly you have realized my wishes! By those tears, those
sighs, that divine indignation--and for me too, for me--our souls did so
truly harmonize.

AMELIA. Oh, no! that they never did!

FRANCIS. Alas! they harmonized so truly that I always thought we must
be twins. And were it not for that unfortunate difference in person, to
be twin-like, which, it must be admitted, would be to the disadvantage
of Charles, we should again and again be mistaken for each other. Thou
art, I often said to myself, thou art the very Charles, his echo, his
counterpart.

AMELIA (shakes her head). No, no! by that chaste light of heaven! not
an atom of him, not the least spark of his soul.

FRANCIS. So entirely the same in our dispositions; the rose was his
favorite flower, and what flower do I esteem above the rose? He loved
music beyond expression; and ye are witnesses, ye stars! how often you
have listened to me playing on the harpsichord in the dead silence of
night, when all around lay buried in darkness and slumber; and how is it
possible for you, Amelia, still to doubt? if our love meets in one
perfection, and if it is the self-same love, how can its fruits
degenerate? (AMELIA looks at him with astonishment.) It was a calm,
serene evening, the last before his departure for Leipzic, when he took
me with him to the bower where you so often sat together in dreams of
love,--we were long speechless; at last he seized my hand, and said, in
a low voice, and with tears in his eyes, "I am leaving Amelia; I know
not, but I have a sad presentiment that it is forever; forsake her not,
brother; be her friend, her Charles--if Charles--should never--never
return." (He throws himself down before her, and kisses her hand with
fervor.) Never, never, never will he return; and I stand pledged by a
sacred oath to fulfil his behest!

AMELIA (starting back). Traitor! Now thou art unmasked! In that very
bower he conjured me, if he died, to admit no other love. Dost thou see
how impious, how execrable----. Quit my sight!

FRANCIS. You know me not, Amelia; you do not know me in the least!

AMELIA. Oh, yes, I know you; from henceforth I know you; and you
pretend to be like him? You mean to say that he wept for me in your
presence? Yours? He would sooner have inscribed my name on the
pillory? Begone--this instant!

FRANCIS. You insult me.

AMELIA. Go--I say. You have robbed me of a precious hour; may it be
deducted from your life.

FRANCIS. You hate me then!

AMELIA. I despise you--away!

FRANCIS (stamping with fury). Only wait! you shall learn to tremble
before me!--To sacrifice me for a beggar!
                      [Exit in anger.]

AMELIA. Go, thou base villain! Now, Charles, am I again thine own.
Beggar, did he say! then is the world turned upside down, beggars are
kings, and kings are beggars! I would not change the rags he wears for
the imperial purple. The look with which he begs must, indeed, be a
noble, a royal look, a look that withers into naught the glory, the
pomp, the triumphs of the rich and great! Into the dust with thee,
glittering baubles! (She tears her pearls from her neck.) Let the rich
and the proud be condemned to bear the burden of gold, and silver, and
jewels! Be they condemned to carouse at the tables of the voluptuous!
To pamper their limbs on the downy couch of luxury! Charles! Charles!
Thus am I worthy of thee!
                      [Exit.]




                 ACT II.

    SCENE I.--FRANCIS VON MOOR in his chamber--in meditation.

FRANCIS. It lasts too long-and the doctor even says is recovering--an
old man's life is a very eternity! The course would be free and plain
before me, but for this troublesome, tough lump of flesh, which, like
the infernal demon-hound in ghost stories, bars the way to my treasures.

Must, then, my projects bend to the iron yoke of a mechanical system?
Is my soaring spirit to be chained down to the snail's pace of matter?
To blow out a wick which is already flickering upon its last drop of
oil--'tis nothing more. And yet I would rather not do it myself, on
account of what the world would say. I should not wish him to be
killed, but merely disposed of. I should like to do what your clever
physician does, only the reverse way--not stop Nature's course by
running a bar across her path, but only help her to speed a little
faster. Are we not able to prolong the conditions of life? Why,
then, should we not also be able to shorten them? Philosophers and
physiologists teach us how close is the sympathy between the emotions of
the mind and the movements of the bodily machine. Convulsive sensations
are always accompanied by a disturbance of the mechanical vibrations--
passions injure the vital powers--an overburdened spirit bursts its
shell. Well, then--what if one knew how to smooth this unbeaten path,
for the easier entrance of death into the citadel of life?--to work the
body's destruction through the mind--ha! an original device!--who can
accomplish this?--a device without a parallel! Think upon it, Moor!
That were an art worthy of thee for its inventor. Has not poisoning
been raised almost to the rank of a regular science, and Nature
compelled, by the force of experiments, to define her limits, so that
one may now calculate the heart's throbbings for years in advance, and
say to the beating pulse, "So far, and no farther"? Why should not one
try one's skill in this line?*

   *[A woman in Paris, by means of a regularly performed series of
   experiments, carried the art of poisoning to such perfection that
   she could predict almost to a certainty the day of death, however
   remote. Fie upon our physicians, who should blush to be outdone by
   a woman in their own province. Beckmann, in his article on secret
   poisoning, has given a particular account of this woman, the
   Marchioness de Brinvilliers.--See "History of Inventions," Standard
   Library Edition, vol. i, pp. 47-63.]

And how, then, must I, too, go to work to dissever that sweet and
peaceful union of soul and body? What species of sensations should I
seek to produce? Which would most fiercely assail the condition of
life? Anger?--that ravenous wolf is too quickly satiated. Care? that
worm gnaws far too slowly. Grief?--that viper creeps too lazily for me.
Fear?--hope destroys its power. What! and are these the only
executioners of man? is the armory of death so soon exhausted? (In deep
thought.) How now! what! ho! I have it! (Starting up.) Terror! What
is proof against terror? What powers have religion and reason under
that giant's icy grasp! And yet--if he should withstand even this
assault? If he should! Oh, then, come Anguish to my aid! and thou,
gnawing Repentance!--furies of hell, burrowing snakes who regorge your
food, and feed upon your own excrements; ye that are forever destroying,
and forever reproducing your poison! And thou, howling Remorse, that
desolatest thine own habitation, and feedest upon thy mother. And come
ye, too, gentle Graces, to my aid; even you, sweet smiling Memory,
goddess of the past--and thou, with thy overflowing horn of plenty,
blooming Futurity; show him in your mirror the joys of Paradise, while
with fleeting foot you elude his eager grasp. Thus will I work my
battery of death, stroke after stroke, upon his fragile body, until the
troop of furies close upon him with Despair! Triumph! triumph!--the
plan is complete--difficult and masterly beyond compare--sure--safe; for
then (with a sneer) the dissecting knife can find no trace of wound or
of corrosive poison.

(Resolutely.) Be it so! (Enter HERMANN.) Ha! _Deus ex machina_!
Hermann!

HERMANN. At your service, gracious sir!

FRANCIS (shakes him by the hand). You will not find it that of an
ungrateful master.

HERMANN. I have proofs of this.

FRANCIS. And you shall have more soon--very soon, Hermann!--I have
something to say to thee, Hermann.

HERMANN. I am all attention.

FRANCIS. I know thee--thou art a resolute fellow--a man of mettle.--To
call thee smooth-tongued! My father has greatly belied thee, Hermann.

HERMANN. The devil take me if I forget it!

FRANCIS. Spoken like a man! Vengeance becomes a manly heart! Thou art
to my mind, Hermann. Take this purse, Hermann. It should be heavier
were I master here.

HERMANN. That is my unceasing wish, most gracious sir. I thank you.

FRANCIS. Really, Hermann! dost thou wish that I were master? But my
father has the marrow of a lion in his bones, and I am but a younger
son.

HERMANN. I wish you were the eldest son, and that your father were as
marrowless as a girl sinking in a consumption.

FRANCIS. Ha! how that elder son would recompense thee! How he would
raise thee from this grovelling condition, so ill suited to thy spirit
and noble birth, to be a light of the age!--Then shouldst thou be
covered with gold from head to foot, and dash through the streets four
in hand--verily thou shouldst!--But I am losing sight of what I meant to
say.--Have you already forgotten the Lady Amelia, Hermann?

HERMANN. A curse upon it! Why do you remind me of her?

FRANCIS. My brother has filched her away from you.

HERMANN. He shall rue it.

FRANCIS. She gave you the sack. And, if I remember right, he kicked
you down stairs.

HERMANN. For which I will kick him into hell.

FRANCIS. He used to say, it was whispered abroad, that your father
could never look upon you without smiting his breast and sighing,
"God be merciful to me, a sinner!"

HERMANN (wildly). Thunder and lightning! No more of this!

FRANCIS. He advised you to sell your patent of nobility by auction, and
to get your stockings mended with the proceeds.

HERMANN. By all the devils in hell, I'll scratch out his eyes with my
own nails!

FRANCIS. What? you are growing angry? What signifies your anger? What
harm can you do him? What can a mouse like you do to such a lion? Your
rage only makes his triumph the sweeter. You can do nothing more than
gnash your teeth, and vent your rage upon a dry crust.

HERMANN (stamping). I will grind him to powder!

FRANCIS (slapping his shoulder). Fie, Hermann! You are a gentleman.
You must not put up with the affront. You must not give up the lady,
no, not for all the world, Hermann! By my soul, I would move heaven and
earth were I in your place.

HERMANN. I will not rest till I have him, and him, too, under ground.

FRANCIS. Not so violent, Hermann! Come nearer--you shall have Amelia.

HERMANN. That I must; despite the devil himself, I will have her.

FRANCIS. You shall have her, I tell you; and that from my hand. Come
closer, I say.--You don't know, perhaps, that Charles is as good as
disinherited.

HERMANN (going closer to him). Incredible! The first I have heard of
it.

FRANCIS. Be patient, and listen! Another time you shall hear more.--
Yes, I tell you, as good as banished these eleven months. But the old
man already begins to lament the hasty step, which, however, I flatter
myself (with a smile) is not entirely his own. Amelia, too, is
incessantly pursuing him with her tears and reproaches. Presently he
will be having him searched for in every quarter of the world; and if he
finds him--then it's all over with you, Hermann. You may perhaps have
the honor of most obsequiously holding the coach-door while he alights
with the lady to get married.

HERMANN. I'll strangle him at the altar first.

FRANCIS. His father will soon give up his estates to him, and live in
retirement in his castle. Then the proud roysterer will have the reins
in his own hands, and laugh his enemies to scorn;--and I, who wished to
make a great man of you--a man of consequence--I myself, Hermann, shall
have to make my humble obeisance at his threshold.

HERMANN (with fire). No, as sure as my name is Hermann, that shall
never be! If but the smallest spark of wit glimmer in this brain of
mine, that shall never be!

FRANCIS. Will you be able to prevent it? You, too, my good Hermann,
will be made to feel his lash. He will spit in your face when he meets
you in the streets; and woe be to you should you venture to shrug your
shoulders or to make a wry mouth. Look, my friend! this is all that
your lovesuit, your prospects, and your mighty plans amount to.

HERMANN. Tell me, what am I to do?

FRANCIS. Well, then, listen, Hermann! You see how I enter into your
feelings, like a true friend. Go--disguise yourself, so that no one may
recognize you; obtain audience of the old man; pretend to come straight
from Bohemia, to have been at the battle of Prague along with my
brother--to have seen him breathe his last on the field of battle!

HERMANN. Will he believe me?

FRANCIS. Ho! ho! let that be my care! Take this packet. There you
will find your commission set forth at large; and documents, to boot,
which shall convince the most incredulous. Only make haste to get away
unobserved. Slip through the back gate into the yard, and then scale
the garden wall.--The denouement of this tragicomedy you may leave to
me!

HERMANN. That, I suppose, will be, "Long live our new baron, Francis
von Moor!"

FRANCIS (patting his cheeks). How cunning you are! By this means, you
see, we attain all our aims at once and quickly. Amelia relinquishes
all hope of him,--the old man reproaches himself for the death of his
son, and--he sickens--a tottering edifice needs no earthquake to bring
it down--he will not survive the intelligence--then am I his only son,
--Amelia loses every support, and becomes the plaything of my will, and
you may easily guess--in short, all will go as we wish--but you must not
flinch from your word.

HERMANN. What do you say? (Exultingly.) Sooner shall the ball turn
back in its course, and bury itself in the entrails of the marksman.
Depend upon me! Only let me to the work. Adieu!

FRANCIS (calling after him). The harvest is thine, dear Hermann!
(Alone.) When the ox has drawn the corn into the barn, he must put up
with hay. A dairy maid for thee, and no Amelia!




          SCENE II.--Old Moor's Bedchamber.

         OLD MOOR asleep in an arm-chair; AMELIA.


AMELIA (approaching him on tip-toe). Softly! Softly! He slumbers.
(She places herself before him.) How beautiful! how venerable!--
venerable as the picture of a saint. No, I cannot be angry with thee,
thou head with the silver locks; I cannot be angry with thee! Slumber
on gently, wake up cheerfully--I alone will be the sufferer.

OLD M. (dreaming). My son! my son! my son!

AMELIA (seizes his hand). Hark!--hark! his son is in his dreams.

OLD M. Are you there? Are you really there! Alas! how miserable you
seem! Fix not on me that mournful look! I am wretched enough.

AMELIA (awakens him abruptly). Look up, dear old man! 'Twas but a
dream. Collect yourself!

OLD M. (half awake). Was he not there? Did I not press his hands?
Cruel Francis! wilt thou tear him even from my dreams?

AMELIA (aside). Ha! mark that, Amelia!

OLD M. (rousing himself). Where is he? Where? Where am I? You here,
Amelia?

AMELIA. How do you find yourself? You have had a refreshing slumber.

OLD M. I was dreaming about my son. Why did I not dream on? Perhaps I
might have obtained forgiveness from his lips.

AMELIA. Angels bear no resentment--he forgives you. (Seizes his hand
sorrowfully.) Father of my Charles! I, too, forgive you.

OLD M. No, no, my child! That death-like paleness of thy cheek is the
father's condemnation. Poor girl! I have robbed thee of the happiness
of thy youth. Oh, do not curse me!

AMELIA (affectionately kissing his hand). I curse you?

OLD M. Dost thou know this portrait, my daughter?

AMELIA. Charles!

OLD M. Such was he in his sixteenth year. But now, alas! how changed.
Oh, it is raging within me. That gentleness is now indignation; that
smile despair. It was his birthday, was it not, Amelia--in the
jessamine bower--when you drew this picture of him? Oh, my daughter!
How happy was I in your loves.

AMELIA (with her eye still riveted upon the picture). No, no, it is not
he! By Heaven, that is not Charles! Here (pointing to her head and her
heart), here he is perfect; and how different. The feeble pencil avails
not to express that heavenly spirit which reigned in his fiery eye.
Away with it! This is a poor image, an ordinary man! I was a mere
dauber.

OLD M. That kind, that cheering look! Had that been at my bedside,
I should have lived in the midst of death. Never, never should I have
died!

AMELIA. No, you would never, never have died. It would have been but a
leap, as we leap from one thought to another and a better. That look
would have lighted you across the tomb--that look would have lifted you
beyond the stars!

OLD M. It is hard! it is sad! I am dying, and my son Charles is not
here--I am borne to my tomb, and he weeps not over my grave. How sweet
it is to be lulled into the sleep of death by a son's prayer--that is
the true requiem.

AMELIA (with enthusiasm). Yes, sweet it is, heavenly sweet, to be
lulled into the sleep of death by the song of the beloved. Perhaps our
dreams continue in the grave--a long, eternal, never-ending dream of
Charles--till the trumpet of resurrection sounds--(rising in ecstasy)
--and thenceforth and forever in his arms! (A pause; she goes to the
piano and plays.)

                ANDROMACHE.

        Oh, Hector, wilt thou go for evermore,
        When fierce Achilles, on the blood-stained shore,
         Heaps countless victims o'er Patroclus' grave?
        When then thy hapless orphan boy will rear,
        Teach him to praise the gods and hurl the spear,
         When thou art swallow'd up in Xanthus' wave?


OLD M. A beautiful song, my daughter. You must play that to me before
I die.

AMELIA. It is the parting of Hector and Andromache. Charles and I used
often to sing it together to the guitar. (She continues.)


                 HECTOR.

        Beloved wife! stern duty calls to arms--
        Go, fetch my lance! and cease those vain alarms!
         On me is cast the destiny of Troy!
        Astyanax, my child, the Gods will shield,
        Should Hector fall upon the battle-field;
         And in Elysium we shall meet with joy!


Enter DANIEL.

DANIEL. There is a man without, who craves to be admitted to your
presence, and says he brings tidings of importance.

OLD M. To me there is but one thing in this world of importance; thou
knowest it, Amelia. Perhaps it is some unfortunate creature who seeks
assistance? He shall not go hence in sorrow.

AMELIA.--If it is a beggar, let him come up quickly.

OLD M. Amelia, Amelia! spare me!

AMELIA (continues to play and sing.)


                ANDROMACHE.

        Thy martial tread no more will grace my hall--
        Thine arms shall hang sad relics on the wall--
        And Priam's race of godlike heroes fade!
        Oh, thou wilt go where Phoebus sheds no light--
        Where black Cocytus wails in endless night
         Thy love will die in Lethe's gloomy shade.


                 HECTOR.

        Though I in Lethe's darksome wave should sink,
        And cease on other mortal ties to think,
         Yet thy true love shall never be forgot!
        Hark! on the walls I hear the battle roar--
        Gird on my armor--and, oh, weep no more.
        Thy Hector's love in Lethe dieth not!


       (Enter FRANCIS, HERMANN in disguise, DANIEL.)

FRANCIS. Here is the man. He says that he brings terrible news. Can
you bear the recital!

OLD M. I know but one thing terrible to hear. Come hither, friend, and
spare me not! Hand him a cup of wine!

HERMANN (in a feigned voice). Most gracious Sir? Let not a poor man be
visited with your displeasure, if against his will he lacerates your
heart. I am a stranger in these parts, but I know you well; you are the
father of Charles von Moor.

OLD M. How know you that?

HERMANN. I knew your son

AMELIA (starting up). He lives then? He lives! You know him? Where
is he? Where? (About to rush out.)

OLD M. What know you about my son?

HERMANN. He was a student at the university of Leipzic. From thence he
travelled about, I know not how far. He wandered all over Germany, and,
as he told me himself, barefoot and bareheaded, begging his bread from
door to door. After five months, the fatal war between Prussia and
Austria broke out afresh, and as he had no hopes left in this world, the
fame of Frederick's victorious banner drew him to Bohemia. Permit me,
said he to the great Schwerin, to die on the bed of heroes, for I have
no longer a father!--

OLD M. O! Amelia! Look not on me!

HERMANN. They gave him a pair of colors. With the Prussians he flew on
the wings of victory. We chanced to lie together, in the same tent. He
talked much of his old father, and of happy days that were past--and of
disappointed hopes--it brought the tears into our eyes.

OLD M. (buries his face in his pillow).--No more! Oh, no more!

HERMANN. A week after, the fierce battle of Prague was fought--I can
assure you your son behaved like a brave soldier. He performed
prodigies that day in sight of the whole army. Five regiments were
successively cut down by his side, and still he kept his ground. Fiery
shells fell right and left, and still your son kept his ground. A ball
shattered his right hand: he seized the colors with his left, and still
he kept his ground!

AMELIA (in transport). Hector, Hector! do you hear? He kept his
ground!

HERMANN. On the evening of the battle I found him on the same spot. He
had sunk down, amidst a shower of hissing balls: with his left hand he
was staunching the blood that flowed from a fearful wound; his right he
had buried in the earth. "Comrade!" cried he when he saw me, "there has
been a report through the ranks that the general fell an hour ago--"
"He is fallen," I replied, "and thou?" "Well, then," he cried,
withdrawing his left hand from the wound, "let every brave soldier
follow his general!" Soon after he breathed out his noble soul, to join
his heroic leader.

FRANCIS (feigning to rush wildly on HERMANN). May death seal thy
accursed lips! Art thou come here to give the death-blow to our father?
Father! Amelia! father!

HERMANN. It was the last wish of my expiring comrade. "Take this
sword," faltered he, with his dying breath, "deliver it to my aged
father; his son's blood is upon it--he is avenged--let him rejoice.
Tell him that his curse drove me into battle and into death; that I fell
in despair." His last sigh was "Amelia."

AMELIA (like one aroused from lethargy). His last sigh--Amelia!

OLD M. (screaming horribly, and tearing his hair). My curse drove him
into death! He fell in despair!

FRANCIS (pacing up and down the room). Oh! what have you done, father?
My Charles! my brother!

HERMANN. Here is the sword; and here, too, is a picture which he drew
from his breast at the same time. It is the very image of this young
lady. "This for my brother Francis," he said; I know not what he meant
by it.

FRANCIS (feigning astonishment). For me? Amelia's picture? For me--
Charles--Amelia? For me?

AMELIA (rushing violently upon HERMANN). Thou venal, bribed impostor!
(Lays hold of him.)

HERMANN. I am no impostor, noble lady. See yourself if it is not your
picture. It may be that you yourself gave it to him.

FRANCIS. By heaven, Amelia! your picture! It is, indeed.

AMELIA (returns him the picture) My picture, mine! Oh! heavens and
earth!

OLD M. (screaming and tearing his face.) Woe, woe! my curse drove him
into death! He fell in despair!

FRANCIS. And he thought of me in the last and parting hour--of me.
Angelic soul! When the black banner of death already waved over him he
thought of me!

OLD M. (stammering like an idiot.) My curse drove him into death. In
despair my son perished.

HERMANN. This is more than I can bear! Farewell, old gentleman!
(Aside to FRANCIS.) How could you have the heart to do this?
                         [Exit in haste.]

AMELIA (rises and rushes after him). Stay! stay! What were nis last
words?

HERMANN (calling back). His last sigh was "Amelia."
                         [Exit.]

AMELIA. His last sigh was Amelia! No, thou art no impostor. It is too
true--true--he is dead--dead! (staggering to and fro till she sinks
down)--dead--Charles is dead!

FRANCIS. What do I see? What is this line on the sword?--written with
blood--Amelia!

AMELIA. By him?

FRANCIS. Do I see clearly, or am I dreaming? Behold, in characters of
blood, "Francis, forsake not my Amelia." And on the other side,
"Amelia, all-powerful death has released thee from thy oath." Now do
you see--do you see? With hand stiffening in death he wrote it, with
his warm life's blood he wrote it--wrote it on the solemn brink of
eternity. His spirit lingered in his flight to unite Francis and
Amelia.

AMELIA. Gracious heaven! it is his own hand. He never loved me.
                         [Rushes off]

FRANCIS (stamping the ground). Confusion! her stubborn heart foils all
my cunning!

OLD MOOR. Woe, woe! forsake me not, my daughter! Francis, Francis!
give me back my son!

FRANCIS. Who was it that cursed him? Who was it that drove his son
into battle, and death, and despair? Oh, he was an angel, a jewel of
heaven! A curse on his destroyers! A curse, a curse upon yourself!

OLD MOOR (strikes his breast and forehead with his clenched fist). He
was an angel, a jewel of heaven! A curse, a curse, perdition, a curse
on myself! I am the father who slew his noble son! He loved me even to
death! To expiate my vengeance he rushed into battle and into death!
Monster, monster that I am! (He rages against himself.)

FRANCIS. He is gone. What avail these tardy lamentations? (with a
satanic sneer.) It is easier to murder than to restore to life. You
will never bring him back from his grave.

OLD Moon. Never, never, never bring him back from the grave! Gone!
lost for ever! And you it was that beguiled my heart to curse him.--
you--you--Give me back my son!

FRANCIS. Rouse not my fury, lest I forsake you even in the hour of
death!

OLD MOOR. Monster! inhuman monster! Restore my son to me. (Starts
from the chair and attempts to catch FRANCIS by the throat, who flings
him back.)