The Robbers: A Play

by Friedrich Schiller

Translated by an AI Model

Published 1805

Act One.

Scene One.

Franconia.

Hall in the Moorish Castle.

Franz. Old Moor.

Franz. But are you well, Father? You look so pale.

Old Moor. Quite well, my son — what did you have to tell me?

Franz. The post has arrived — a letter from our correspondent in Leipzig —

Old Moor. (Eagerly.) News of my son Karl?

Franz. Hm! hm! — That's right. But I fear — I don't know — if I — your health? — Are you really quite well, Father?

Old Moor. Like a fish in water! He writes about my son? — Why this concern? You've asked me twice.

Franz. If you are ill — or even have the slightest inkling of becoming so, then let me — I will speak to you at a more opportune time, (half to himself.) This news is not for a fragile body.

Old Moor. God! God! What am I to hear?

Franz. Let me first step aside and shed a tear of pity for my lost brother — I should be silent forever — for he is your son: I should conceal his shame forever — for he is my brother. — But to obey you is my first sad duty — therefore forgive me.

Old Moor. Oh Karl! Karl! If only you knew how your conduct torments a father's heart! How a single piece of good news from you would add ten years to my life — would make me a youth again — while now every piece of news, alas! — brings me a step closer to the grave!

Franz. If that is the case, old man, then farewell — we would all be tearing our hair out over your coffin today.

Old Moor. Stay! — It's only a small short step — let him have his way, (as he sits down.) The sins of his fathers will be visited upon the third and fourth generation — let him complete it.

Franz (takes the letter from his pocket.) You know our correspondent! Look! I'd give the finger of my right hand if I could say he's a liar, a black, poisonous liar — — Compose yourselves! You'll forgive me if I don't let you read the letter yourself — You don't need to hear everything yet.

Old Moor. Everything, everything — my son, you spare me the crutch.

Franz (reads.) "Leipzig, May 1st. — Were I not bound by an unbreakable promise to conceal nothing, however small, that I might learn of your brother's fate, dearest friend, my innocent pen would never have become a tyrant to you. From a hundred of your letters, I can gather how news of this kind must pierce your brotherly heart; it is as if I already see you weeping a thousand tears over the worthless, the abominable one" — — (Old Moor hides his face.) See, Father! I'm only reading you the mildest part — "the abominable one, weeping a thousand tears," oh they flowed — streamed down this compassionate cheek — "it is as if I already see your old, pious father deathly pale" — Jesus Maria! You are, before you even know the slightest thing?

Old Moor. Go on! Go on!

Francis. “He will reel back into his chair, pale as death, and curse the day he first stammered the word Father. They couldn’t tell me everything, and of the little I know, you will only learn a fraction. Your brother seems to have filled the measure of his shame; I, at least, know nothing beyond what he has actually achieved, unless his genius surpasses mine in this. Yesterday at midnight, he made the grand decision, after forty thousand ducats in debt—a pretty sum for pocket money, Father—after first deflowering the daughter of a rich banker here, and mortally wounding her lover, a brave young man of rank, in a duel, to escape the arm of justice with seven others whom he had drawn into his dissolute life”—Father! For God’s sake, Father! How are you feeling?

Old Moor. It is enough. Stop, my son!

Francis. I spare you— “warrants have been issued for him, the injured parties cry loudly for satisfaction, a price has been put on his head—the name of Moor”—No! My poor lips shall never murder a father! (tears up the letter.) Don’t believe it, Father! Don’t believe a syllable of it!

Old Moor (weeps bitterly.) My name! My honest name!

Francis (throws his arms around him.) Shameful, thrice shameful Karl! Didn’t I foresee it, when he was still a boy, loitering after girls, romping with street urchins and wretched riffraff in fields and mountains, fleeing the sight of the church like a criminal flees a prison, and throwing the pennies he wrung from you into the hat of the first beggar he saw, while we at home edified ourselves with pious prayers and holy sermon books? Didn’t I foresee it, when he preferred reading the adventures of Julius Caesar and Alexander the Great and other utterly heathen figures to the story of the penitent Tobias? A hundred times I foretold it to you, for my love for him was always within the bounds of filial duty—the boy will yet plunge us all into misery and shame! Oh, that he did not bear the name of Moor! That my heart did not beat so warmly for him! The godless love that I cannot extinguish will yet accuse me before God’s judgment seat.

Old Moor. Oh—my prospects! My golden dreams!

Francis. I know that well. That’s precisely what I just said. The fiery spirit that blazes in the boy, you always said, which makes him so sensitive to every charm of greatness and beauty; this openness that mirrors his soul in his eyes, this tenderness of feeling that melts him into weeping sympathy at every suffering, this manly courage that drives him to the tops of hundred-year-old oaks, and chases him over ditches and palisades and raging rivers, this childish ambition, this unconquerable stubbornness, and all these beautiful, brilliant virtues that germinated in the father’s darling, will one day make him a warm friend to a friend, an excellent citizen, a hero, a great, great man—do you see it now, Father!—the fiery spirit has developed, expanded, it has borne splendid fruits. See this openness, how nicely it has twisted into impudence, see this tenderness, how sweetly it coos for coquettes, how sensitive for the charms of a Phryne! See this fiery genius, how it has so purely burned away the oil of its life in six years, that he walks about alive, and then people come and are so impertinent and say: c'est l'amour qui a fait ça! Ah! Just look at this bold, enterprising mind, how it forges and executes plans before which the heroic deeds of a Cartouche and Howard fade!—And when these magnificent germs fully mature—what perfection can be expected from such a tender age?—Perhaps, Father, you will yet live to see the joy of beholding him at the front of an army that resides in the sacred stillness of the forests, and lightens the weary traveler’s journey by half the burden—perhaps, before you go to your grave, you can make a pilgrimage to his monument, which he has erected between heaven and earth—perhaps, oh Father, Father, Father—look for another name, otherwise shopkeepers and street urchins will point fingers at you, who have seen your dear son’s portrait in the Leipzig marketplace.

Old Moor. And you too, my Franz, you too? Oh, my children! How they aim at my heart!

Franz. You see, I can be witty too, but my wit is a scorpion's sting. — And then the dull, everyday man, the cold, wooden Franz, and whatever other titles the contrast between him and me might have inspired in you, when he sat on your lap or pinched your cheeks — he will one day die between his boundary stones, and rot, and be forgotten, while the fame of this universal mind flies from pole to pole — Ha! With folded hands, he thanks you, O Heaven! the cold, dry, wooden Franz — that he is not like him!

Old Moor. Forgive me, my child; do not be angry with a father who finds himself deceived in his plans. The God who sends me tears through Karl will wipe them from my eyes through you, my Franz.

Franz. Yes, Father, he shall wipe them from your eyes. Your Franz will stake his life to prolong yours. Your life is the oracle I consult above all else concerning what I intend to do, the mirror through which I view everything — no duty is so sacred to me that I am not ready to break it if your precious life is at stake. — You believe me, don't you?

Old Moor. You still have great duties before you, my son — God bless you for what you have been and will be to me!

Franz. Now tell me — if you didn't have to call this son yours, wouldn't you be a happy man?

Old Moor. Hush, oh hush! When the midwife brought him to me, I lifted him to heaven and cried: Am I not a happy man?

Franz. You said that. Now have you found it? You envy the lowliest of your peasants that he is not a father to this one — You have sorrow as long as you have this son. This sorrow will grow with Karl. This sorrow will undermine your life.

Old Moor. Oh! he has made me an eighty-year-old man.

Franz. Well then — what if you were rid of this son?

Old Moor (starting up.) Franz! Franz! What are you saying?

Franz. Is it not this love for him that causes you all this grief? Without this love, he is not there for you. Without this culpable, this damnable love, he is dead to you — he was never born to you. Not flesh and blood, but the heart makes us fathers and sons. If you no longer love him, then this degenerate is no longer your son, even if he were cut from your own flesh. He has been the apple of your eye until now, but now, if your eye offends you, says the Scripture, pluck it out. It is better to enter heaven with one eye than with two eyes into hell. It is better to enter heaven childless than for both, father and son, to go to hell. So speaks the Deity!

Old Moor. You want me to curse my son?

Franz. No, no! — You should not curse your son. What do you call your son? — the one to whom you gave life, even if he makes every conceivable effort to shorten yours?

Old Moor. Oh, that is all too true! That is a judgment upon me. The Lord has commanded it of him!

Franz. You see how childishly your darling acts towards you. Through your paternal affection, he strangles you, murders you through your love, has bribed your father's heart itself to finish you off. Once you are gone, he will be master of your possessions, king of his impulses. The dam is gone, and the flood of his desires can now rage more freely. Put yourself in his place for a moment! How often must he wish his father under the earth — how often his brother — who so mercilessly stand in the way of his excesses. But is that love for love? Is that filial gratitude for paternal kindness? When he sacrifices ten years of your life for the wanton thrill of a moment? When he risks the glory of his ancestors, which has remained unsullied for seven centuries, in one voluptuous minute? Do you call that your son? Answer! Do you call that a son?

Old Moor. An undutiful child! Ah, but still my child! My child, nonetheless!

Franz. A most charming, delightful child, whose eternal pursuit is to have no father—Oh, if only you could grasp it! If only the scales would fall from your eyes! But your indulgence must confirm him in his dissoluteness; your support must legitimize his actions. You will, of course, draw the curse from his head onto yourselves, Father, onto you will fall the curse of damnation.

Old Moor. Just! Very just!—Mine, all the fault is mine!

Franz. How many thousands, who have drunk deep from the cup of pleasure, have been reformed by suffering! And is not the physical pain that accompanies every excess a sign of divine will? Should man thwart it with his cruel tenderness? Should a father eternally ruin the trust placed in him? —Consider, Father, if you abandon him to his misery for a time, will he not either be forced to turn back and reform? Or will he remain a scoundrel even in the great school of misery, and then—woe to the father who destroys the counsels of a higher wisdom through over-indulgence!—Well, Father?

Old Moor. I will write to him that I withdraw my hand from him.

Franz. That would be wise and right.

Old Moor. That he never again come before my eyes.

Franz. That will have a salutary effect.

Old Moor (tenderly.) Until he changes!

Franz. Quite right, quite right—But what if he comes with the mask of a hypocrite, weeps for your pity, flatters his way to your forgiveness, and tomorrow goes and mocks your weakness in the arms of his harlots?—No, Father! He will return voluntarily when his conscience has absolved him.

Old Moor. Then I will write to him at once.

Franz. Hold! One more word, Father! Your indignation, I fear, might put too harsh words into your pen, which would break his heart—and then—don't you think he would take it as a sign of forgiveness if you still deem him worthy of a letter in your own hand? Therefore, it would be better if you left the writing to me.

Old Moor. Do that, my son.—Ah! It would have broken my heart! Write to him—

Franz (quickly.) So, that's settled?

Old Moor. Write to him that I shed a thousand bloody tears, endured a thousand sleepless nights—But do not drive my son to despair.

Franz. Won't you go to bed, Father? It has taken a toll on you.

Old Moor. Write to him that a father's heart—I tell you, do not drive my son to despair.

(Exits sadly.)

Franz (watching him with a laugh.) Console yourself, old man, you will never press him to this breast again; the path to it is barred for him, like heaven to hell—He was torn from your arms before you knew you could even wish it—I would have to be a miserable bungler if I hadn't managed to separate a son from his father's heart, even if he were clamped there with iron bands—I have drawn a magic circle of curses around you, which he shall not overstep—Good luck, Franz! The darling is gone—The path is clear. I must collect these papers completely; how easily could someone recognize my handwriting? (He reads the torn pieces of letters together.)—And grief will soon carry the old man away, too—and I must tear this Karl from her heart, even if half her life should cling to it.

I have great right to be indignant with Nature, and by my honor! I will assert it. — Why did I not crawl out of my mother's womb first? Why not the only one? Why did she have to burden me with this ugliness? Me of all people? As if she had left a remnant at my birth? Why me with the Lapplander's nose? Me with this Moorish mouth? These Hottentot eyes? Truly, I believe she threw all the hideousness of all human kinds into a heap and baked me out of it. Murder and death! Who gave her the authority to bestow this upon one and withhold it from me? Could anyone have flattered her for it before he came into being? Or offended her before he himself became? Why did she act so partially?

No! No! I do her wrong. She did give us the spirit of invention, setting us naked and wretched on the shore of this great ocean, World — Swim, whoever can swim, and whoever is clumsy, sinks! She gave me nothing; what I want to make of myself, that is now my business. Everyone has an equal right to the greatest and the least, claim is annihilated by claim, impulse by impulse, and strength by strength. Right resides with the conqueror, and the limits of our strength are our laws.

Indeed, there are certain common pacts that have been concluded to drive the pulses of the world's circle. Honorable name! — Truly a rich currency, with which one can masterfully haggle, if one knows how to spend it well. Conscience, — oh yes, of course! a capable scarecrow to scare sparrows from cherry trees! — also a well-written bill of exchange, with which even the bankrupt can still get by in a pinch.

In fact, very commendable arrangements to keep fools in respect and the rabble underfoot, so that the clever ones have it all the more comfortably. Without reservation, quite droll arrangements! They strike me like the hedges my peasants cunningly put around their fields, so that no hare jumps over, indeed, by no means a hare! — But the gracious lord spurs his black horse and gallops softly over the erstwhile harvest.

Poor hare! It is indeed a miserable role, having to be the hare in this world — But the gracious lord needs hares!

So, let's get on with it! He who fears nothing is no less powerful than he whom all fear. It is now the fashion to wear buckles on one's trousers, with which one can tighten and loosen them at will. We want to have a conscience tailored to the latest fashion, to unbuckle it nicely as we gain. What can we do about it? Go to the tailor! I have heard much talk of a so-called blood-love that could make an ordinary householder's head hot — That is your brother! — that is interpreted as: He was shot from the same oven as you were shot from — so let him be sacred to you! — Just note this convoluted consequence, this comical conclusion from the proximity of bodies to the harmony of spirits; from the same home to the same feeling; from the same food to the same inclination. But further — he is your father! He gave you life, you are his flesh, his blood — so let him be sacred to you. Again, a cunning consequence! I would like to ask, why did he make me? Surely not out of love for me, who was yet to become an I? Did he know me before he made me? Or did he think of me when he made me? Or did he wish for me when he made me? Did he know what I would become? I wouldn't advise him to, otherwise I might punish him for having made me anyway? Can I thank him for becoming a man? As little as I could sue him if he had made a woman out of me. Can I recognize a love that is not based on respect for my Self? Could respect for my Self exist, which was only to arise from that which must be its prerequisite? Where then does the sacredness lie? Perhaps in the act itself, through which I came into being? — As if this were anything more than a bestial process for satisfying bestial desires? Or does it perhaps lie in the result of this act, which is nothing but an iron necessity, which one would gladly wish away, if it didn't have to happen at the expense of flesh and blood. Should I perhaps give him kind words because he loves me? That is a vanity of his, the original sin of all artists who flirt with their work, however ugly it may be. — So you see, that is the whole witchcraft that you veil in a sacred mist to abuse our timidity. Should I too allow myself to be led by it like a boy?

Fresh, then! Courageously to work! — I will eradicate everything around me that restricts me from being master. Master I must be, that I may extort by force what I lack in amiability. (aside)

Scene Two.

Inn on the Borders of Saxony.

Karl von Moor (absorbed in a book.) Spiegelberg (drinking at the table.)

Karl v. Moor (lays the book aside.) This ink-splattered century disgusts me when I read of great men in my Plutarch.

Spiegelberg (sets a glass before him, and drinks.) You must read Josephus.

Moor. The fiery spark of Prometheus has burned out; in its place, they now take the flame from tinder — stage fire that can't even light a pipe of tobacco. And there they crawl, like rats on Hercules' club, racking their brains to figure out what he carried in his scrotum. A French abbé lectures that Alexander was a coward, a consumptive professor holds a vial of smelling salts to his nose with every word, and delivers a lecture on strength. Fellows who faint after siring a child quibble over Hannibal's tactics — wet-behind-the-ears boys fish phrases from the Battle of Cannae, and whine about Scipio's victories because they have to expound on them.

Spiegelberg. That's quite the Alexandrian whine.

Moor. A fine reward for your sweat on the battlefield, that you now live in gymnasiums, and your immortality is laboriously dragged along in a book strap. A costly replacement for your squandered blood, wrapped around gingerbread by a Nuremberg merchant — or, if you're lucky, screwed onto stilts by a French tragedian and pulled by wires. Hahaha!

Spiegelberg (drinks.) Read Josephus, I beg you.

Moor. Pshaw! Pshaw on this flaccid, castrated century, good for nothing but regurgitating the deeds of antiquity and tormenting and mangling the heroes of old with commentaries and tragedies. The strength of its loins has withered, and now beer yeast must help propagate mankind.

Spiegelberg. Tea, brother, tea!

Moor. They barricade healthy nature with insipid conventions, lack the heart to empty a glass because they must drink to health — they fawn over the bootblack to represent them before Her Grace, and abuse the poor wretch they don't fear. They deify themselves for a dinner, and would poison each other for an under-bed that is outbid during an auction. — They condemn the Sadducee who doesn't come to church diligently enough, and calculate their usury at the altar — they fall to their knees so they can spread out their slovenliness — they don't take their eyes off the pastor to see how his wig is styled. — They faint when they see a goose bled, and clap their hands when their rival goes bankrupt from the stock market — — As warmly as I pressed their hand — "just one more day" — In vain! — Into the hole with the dog! — Pleas! Oaths! Tears (stamping his foot.) Hell and the devil!

Spiegelberg. And for a few thousand lousy ducats like that —

Moor. No, I don't want to think about it. I am to press my body into a corset and bind my will in laws. The law has corrupted into a snail's pace what would have been an eagle's flight. The law has never created a great man, but freedom breeds colossi and extremities. They barricade themselves in a tyrant's belly, court the whim of his stomach, and let themselves be squeezed by his flatulence. — Ah! If Hermann's spirit still glowed in the ashes! — Place me before an army of men like myself, and Germany shall become a republic against which Rome and Sparta would be nunneries. (He throws his sword on the table and stands up.)

Spiegelberg (leaping up.) Bravo! Bravissimo! You've put me in just the right mood for the chapter. I'll tell you something in your ear, Moor, that's been on my mind for a long time, and you're the man for it—drink, brother, drink—how would it be if we became Jews and brought the kingdom back to life?

Moor (laughing heartily.) Ah! Now I get it—now I get it—you want to make foreskins unfashionable because the barber already has yours?

Spiegelberg. Damn you, you scoundrel! I am, indeed, miraculously circumcised already. But tell me, isn't that a clever and courageous plan? We'll issue a manifesto to the four corners of the world, summoning all who don't eat pork to Palestine. There, I'll prove with solid documents that Herod, the tetrarch, was my great-great-grandfather, and so on. That'll be a victory, man, when they get back on dry land and can rebuild Jerusalem. Now, fresh with the Turks from Asia, while the iron's hot, and cedars cut from Lebanon, and ships built, and the whole people haggling over old trimmings and buckles. Meanwhile—

Moor (taking him by the hand with a smile.) Comrade! These foolish pranks are over now.

Spiegelberg (startled.) Fie, you're not going to play the prodigal son, are you? A fellow like you, who's carved more faces with his sword than three clerks write in the order book in a leap year! Shall I tell you about the great dog's carcass? Ha! I just need to call your own image back before you; that will put fire in your veins if nothing else excites you. Do you remember how the gentlemen of the Collegium had your bulldog's leg shot off, and you, in revenge, had a fast proclaimed throughout the whole city? They grumbled about your decree. But you, not idle, had all the meat bought up in all of L..., so that in eight hours there wasn't a bone left to gnaw in the whole area, and fish began to rise in price. Magistrate and citizens plotted revenge. We lads, seventeen hundred strong, and you at the head, and butchers and tailors and grocers behind, and innkeepers and barbers and all the guilds, swearing to storm the city if a hair on the lads' heads was harmed. It turned out like the shooting at Hornberg, and they had to retreat with long faces. You had a whole council of doctors come, and offered three ducats to anyone who would write a prescription for the dog. We worried the gentlemen would have too much honor and say no, and had already agreed to force them. But that was unnecessary; the gentlemen fought over the three ducats, and it came down to three batzen in the end; in one hour, twelve prescriptions were written, so that the animal died soon after.

Moor. Shameful fellows!

Spiegelberg. The funeral pomp was arranged in all splendor, there were countless poems about the dog, and we marched out at night, about a thousand strong, a lantern in one hand, our rapiers in the other, and so on through the city with chimes and clatter, until the dog was buried. Then there was a feast that lasted until bright morning, when you thanked the gentlemen for their heartfelt sympathy and had the meat sold for half price. Mort de ma vie, we respected you then like a garrison in a conquered fortress—

Moor. And you're not ashamed to boast about it? You don't even have enough shame to be ashamed of these pranks?

Spiegelberg. Go, go. You're not Moor anymore. Do you remember how a thousand times, bottle in hand, you used to provoke the old fogeys and say: Let him scrape and scratch away, you'd drink yourself to death for it. — Do you remember? Eh? Do you remember? Oh, you wretched, pathetic braggart! That was spoken like a man, and like a nobleman, but—

Moor. Damn you for reminding me! Damn me for saying it! But it was only in the fumes of wine, and my heart didn't hear what my tongue boasted.

Spiegelberg (shaking his head.) No! no! no! that can't be. Impossible, brother, you can't be serious. Tell me, little brother, isn't it necessity that makes you so? Come, let me tell you a little story from my boyhood. Next to my house, there was a ditch, which was at least eight feet wide, where we boys tried to jump across in a competition. But it was in vain. Plop! you lay there, and there was a hiss and laughter over you, and you were pelted with snowballs all over. Next to my house, a hunter's dog was on a chain, such a vicious beast, that would grab girls by their skirts like lightning if they weren't careful and walked too close. That was my soul's delight, to tease the dog wherever I could, and I'd almost die laughing when the brute would glare at me so venomously, and would have loved to run at me if it only could have. — What happens? Another time, I do the same thing again, and throw a stone so hard at its ribs that it breaks its chain in fury and rushes at me, and I, like all hell, tear off and away — A thousand curses! Just then, that accursed ditch is in between. What to do? The dog is hard on my heels and furious, so I quickly resolve — take a run-up — and I'm on the other side. I had that jump to thank for my life and limb; the beast would have torn me to shreds.

Moor. But what's the point of that now?

Spiegelberg. To that — that you should see how strength grows in necessity. That's why I'm not afraid when it comes to the crunch. Courage grows with danger; strength rises in distress. Fate must want to make a great man of me, because it crosses my path so strangely.

Moor (annoyed.) I don't know why we should still have courage, and not have had it already.

Spiegelberg. Oh? — So you want to let your talents wither within you? Bury your pound? Do you think your stinking antics in Leipzig define the limits of human wit? Let's first get out into the big world. Paris and London! — where you get slapped if you greet someone with the name of an honest man. There it's also a jubilee for the soul when you practice the trade on a grand scale. — You'll gape! You'll open your eyes! Wait, and how to forge handwriting, rig dice, pick locks, and empty the guts out of trunks — you'll learn that from Spiegelberg! The scoundrel who wants to starve with straight fingers should be strung up on the nearest gallows.

Moor (distracted.) What? You've even gone further than that?

Spiegelberg. I do believe you're distrusting me. Wait, let me warm up; you'll see wonders, your little brain will spin in your skull when my circling wit comes to fruition. — (stands up, heatedly.) How it clears up within me! Great thoughts dawn in my soul! Gigantic plans ferment in my creative skull. Accursed sloth! (hitting his forehead.) which until now has chained my powers, blocked and stretched my prospects; I awaken, feel who I am — who I must become!

Moor. You're a fool. The wine is blustering from your brain.

Spiegelberg (more heatedly.) Spiegelberg, they'll say, can you conjure, Spiegelberg? It's a shame you didn't become a general, Spiegelberg, the king will say, you would have chased the Austrians through a buttonhole. Yes, I hear the doctors lamenting, it's irresponsible that the man didn't study medicine, he would have invented a new goiter powder. Ah! and that he didn't take up cameralistics as a profession, the Sullys will sigh in their cabinets, he would have conjured Louis d'or from stones. And Spiegelberg will be the name in East and West, and into the mud with you, you cowards, you toads, while Spiegelberg flies with outstretched wings to the temple of renown.

Moor. Good luck on your journey! May you rise on pillars of infamy to the pinnacle of fame. In the shade of my ancestral groves, in the arms of my Amalia, a noble pleasure beckons me. Just last week, I wrote to my father for forgiveness, concealing not the slightest detail, and where there is sincerity, there is also compassion and help. Let us say goodbye, Moritz. We see each other today and never again. The post has arrived. My father's forgiveness is already within these city walls.

Schweizer. Grimm. Roller. Schufterle. Razmann (enter.)

Roller. Do you know they're looking for us?

Grimm. That we're not safe for a moment from being arrested?

Moor. I'm not surprised. Let it go as it may! Did you not see Schwarz? Does he not tell you of a letter he has for me?

Roller. He's been looking for you for a long time; I suspected as much.

Moor. Where is he, where, where? (wants to leave quickly.)

Roller. Stay! We've sent for him here. You're trembling? —

Moor. I'm not trembling. Why should I tremble? Comrades! This letter — rejoice with me! I am the happiest man under the sun, why should I tremble?

Schwarz (enters.)

Moor (flies to him.) Brother, brother, the letter! The letter!

Schwarz (gives him the letter, which he hastily tears open.) What's wrong with you? You're as pale as a ghost!

Moor. My brother's hand!

Schwarz. What's Spiegelberg up to?

Grimm. The fellow's insane. He's gesturing like he has St. Vitus' Dance.

Schufterle. His mind is spinning. I think he's making verses.

Razmann. Spiegelberg! Hey Spiegelberg! — The brute doesn't hear.

Grimm (shakes him.) Fellow! Are you dreaming, or what? —

Spiegelberg (who has been working himself into a frenzy with the pantomimes of a schemer in the corner of the room, jumps up wildly.) La Bourse ou la vie! (and grabs Schweizer by the throat, who calmly throws him against the wall — Moor drops the letter and rushes out. All start.)

Roller (after him.) Moor! Where to, Moor? What are you doing?

Grimm. What's wrong with him, what's wrong with him? He's as pale as a corpse.

Schweizer. Those must be some fine tidings! Let's see!

Roller (picks up the letter from the ground, and reads.)

“Unhappy brother!” The beginning sounds cheerful. “I must briefly inform you that your hope is thwarted — you shall go, your father bids me tell you, whither your shameful deeds lead you. Also, he says, you are to entertain no hope of ever begging for mercy at his feet, unless you are prepared to be treated with water and bread in the lowest vault of his towers until your hair grows like eagle's feathers and your nails like bird's claws. Those are his own words. He commands me to close the letter. Farewell forever! I pity you —

Franz von Moor.”

Schweizer. A sugary sweet little brother! Indeed! — Is that scoundrel named Franz?

Spiegelberg. (creeping up softly.) Talk of water and bread? A fine life! I've made other arrangements for you! Didn't I say I'd have to think for all of you in the end?

Schweizer. What's the blockhead saying? The ass wants to do all our thinking for us?

Spiegelberg. You're all hares, cripples, lame dogs, if you haven't the heart to dare something great!

Roller. Well, we would be, you're right—but will what you dare also pull us out of this cursed situation? Will it?

Spiegelberg (with a proud laugh.) Poor fool! Pull us out of this situation? Hahaha!—Pull us out of this situation? Is that all your thimble-full of brains can refine? And with that, your mare trots to the stable? Spiegelberg would be a scoundrel if he only started with that. It will make you heroes, I tell you, barons, princes, gods!

Razmann. That's a lot in one go, truly! But it will probably be a neck-breaking job; it will at least cost us our heads.

Spiegelberg. It only takes courage, for as for wit, I'll take that entirely upon myself. Courage, I say, Schweizer! Courage, Roller, Grimm, Razmann, Schufterle! Courage!

Schweizer. Courage? If that's all it is—I have enough courage to walk barefoot through the middle of hell.

Schufterle. Courage enough to wrestle the very devil himself under the gallows for a poor sinner.

Spiegelberg. Now that's what I like! If you have courage, let one step forward and say: He still has something to lose, and not everything to gain!

Schwarz. Truly, there would be much to lose, if I were to lose what I still have to gain!

Razmann. Yes, to the devil! And much to gain, if I were to gain what I cannot lose.

Schufterle. If I had to lose what I'm wearing on credit, then I'd have nothing left to lose tomorrow anyway.

Spiegelberg. So then! (He stands in their midst with an incantatory tone.) If there's still a drop of German hero's blood in your veins—come! We'll settle in the Bohemian forests, gather a band of robbers there, and—What are you staring at me for?—has your bit of courage already evaporated?

Roller. You're probably not the first scoundrel to have looked past the high gallows—and yet—What other choice do we have left?

Spiegelberg. Choice? What? You have no choice! Do you want to rot in debtor's prison, shriveling up until the trumpet sounds for the Last Judgment? Do you want to toil with a shovel and hoe for a bite of dry bread? Do you want to extort a meager alms from people's windows with a ballad singer's song? Or do you want to swear on the calfskin—and then the question is whether your faces are trusted—and there, under the splenetic mood of an imperious corporal, earn purgatory in advance? Or march to the beat of the drum with a lively tune, or drag Vulcan's entire iron store through the galley slave's paradise? See, that's what you have to choose, there it is, all that you can choose!

Roller. Spiegelberg isn't entirely wrong. I've also made my plans, but they all come down to one thing. How about, I thought, if you were to sit down and scribble together a pocketbook or an almanac, or something similar, and review it for a mere penny, as is truly the fashion?

Schufterle. Confound it! You're close to my projects. I thought to myself, what if you became a Pietist and held your devotional hours weekly?

Grimm. Hit it! And if that doesn't work, an atheist! We could beat the four Evangelists in the mouth, have our book burned by the executioner, and it would sell like hotcakes.

Razmann. Or should we march against the French? I know a doctor who built a house of pure mercury, as the epigram on his door reads.

Schweizer. (Stands up and shakes Spiegelberg's hand.) Moritz, you are a great man! Or a blind pig has found an acorn.

Schwarz. Excellent plans! Honorable trades! How great minds sympathize! Now all that's missing is for us to become women and procuresses, or even sell our virginity on the market.

Spiegelberg. Nonsense, nonsense! And what prevents you from being most of that in one person? My plan will always propel you the highest, and there you'll have fame and immortality! Look, you poor wretches! One must think that far ahead! Even of posthumous fame, that sweet feeling of imperishability—

Roller. And at the top of the list of honest folk! You're a master orator, Spiegelberg, when it comes to turning an honest man into a scoundrel—But tell me, where is Moor?

Spiegelberg. Honest, you say? Do you think you'll be less honest afterwards than you are now? What do you call honest? Relieving rich misers of a third of their worries, which only scare away their golden sleep, putting stagnant money into circulation, restoring the balance of goods, in a word, bringing back the golden age, helping dear God with many troublesome dependents, saving him war, pestilence, hard times, and doctors—you see, that's what I call being honest, that's what I call being a worthy instrument in the hand of Providence—and so with every roast one eats, to have the flattering thought: this you earned with your cunning, your lion's courage, your night watches—to be respected by great and small—

Roller. And finally, to ascend to heaven alive, and despite storm and wind, despite the voracious maw of old Mother Time, to hover beneath sun and moon and all the fixed stars, where even the irrational birds of the sky, lured by noble desire, perform their heavenly concert, and angels with tails hold their most holy synod? Right? —and while monarchs and potentates are consumed by moths and worms, to have the honor of receiving visits from Jupiter's royal bird? —Moritz, Moritz, Moritz! Beware! Beware of the three-legged beast!

Spiegelberg. And that frightens you, faintheart? Many a universal genius who could have reformed the world has rotted on the knackers' yard, and don't people speak of such a one for centuries, millennia, while many a king and elector would be skipped over in history if his historian didn't fear the gap in the ladder of succession, and his book didn't gain a few octavo pages for which the publisher pays him cash—And when the wanderer sees you flying hither and thither in the wind—he must not have had water in his brain either, he grumbles into his beard, and sighs over these wretched times.

Schweizer. (Claps him on the shoulder.) Masterful, Spiegelberg! Masterful! What the devil are you standing there for, hesitating?

Schwarz. And let it be called prostitution—What follows? Can't one always carry a little powder, that quietly takes one over the Acheron, where no cock crows about it! No, brother Moritz! Your proposal is good. That's my catechism too.

Schufterle. Blast! And mine no less. Spiegelberg, you've recruited me!

Razmann. You have, like another Orpheus, sung the howling beast, my conscience, to sleep. Take me as I am.

Grimm. Si omnes consentiunt ego non dissentio. Mark that, no comma. It's a crescendo in my head; Pietists—quacks—reviewers and scoundrels. Whoever bids the most, owns me. Take this hand, Moritz.

Roller. And you too, Swiss? (gives Spiegelberg his right hand.) Then I pledge my soul to the devil.

Spiegelberg. And your name to the stars! What does it matter where the soul goes? When hordes of advance couriers announce our descent, so that the Satans dress up for a feast day, dust the thousand-year soot from their eyelashes, and myriads of horned heads sprout from the smoking mouths of their sulfur chimneys to witness our entry? Comrades! (leaping up) Onward! Comrades! What in the world outweighs this intoxication of delight? Come, comrades!

Roller. Gently, gently! Where to? Even the beast must have its head, children.

Spiegelberg. (Venomously.) What is the laggard preaching? Didn't the head stand firm before a single limb stirred? Follow, comrades!

Roller. I said, take it easy. Even freedom must have its master. Rome and Sparta fell without a leader.

Spiegelberg. (Smoothly.) Yes—hold on—Roller is right. And that must be an enlightened head. Do you understand? A keen political mind it must be. Yes! When I think of what you were an hour ago, what you are now—through one fortunate thought—Yes, certainly, certainly, you must have a chef—And he who spun this thought, tell me, must he not be an enlightened political mind?

Roller. If one could hope—could dream—But I fear he won't do it.

Spiegelberg. Why not? Say it boldly, friend!—As difficult as it is to steer the struggling ship against the winds, as heavily as the burden of crowns weighs—Say it undaunted, Roller—Perhaps he will do it after all.

Roller. And the whole thing is lost if he doesn't do it. Without Moor, we are a body without a soul.

Spiegelberg. (Turning away from him in displeasure.) Blockhead!

Moor. (enters in wild agitation, pacing violently up and down the room, to himself.)

Moor. Humans—humans! False, hypocritical crocodile brood! Their eyes are water! Their hearts are brass! Kisses on their lips! Swords in their breasts! Lions and leopards feed their young, ravens feast their little ones on carrion, and He, He—I have learned to endure malice, can even smile when my enraged enemy drinks my very lifeblood—but when blood-love turns traitor, when father-love becomes a fury; oh then, let manly composure catch fire, gentle lamb, turn into a tiger, and every fiber stretch itself to rage and destruction!

Roller. Listen, Moor! What do you think of this? A life of a robber is still better than bread and water in the lowest dungeon of the towers?

Moor. Why was this spirit not driven into a tiger, to sink its furious fangs into human flesh? Is that fatherly loyalty? Is that love for love? I wish I were a bear, to incite the bears of the North against this murderous race—Remorse, and no mercy!—Oh, I wish I could poison the ocean, so they would drink death from all springs! Trust, unconquerable confidence, and no pity!

Roller. Just listen, Moor, to what I'm telling you!

Moor. It's unbelievable, it's a dream, a delusion—Such a touching plea, such a vivid description of misery and melting remorse—the wild beast would have melted with pity! Stones would have shed tears, and yet—one would consider it a malicious lampoon on humankind if I were to speak it—and yet, yet—oh, that I could blow the horn of rebellion throughout all nature, to lead air, earth, and sea into battle against the hyena-brood!

Grimm. Listen, listen! You can't hear for raging.

Moor. Away, away from me! Is your name not Man? Was not woman your mother? — Out of my sight, you with your human face! — I loved him so unspeakably! No son ever loved like that, I would have given a thousand lives for him — (stamping on the ground, foaming.) Ha! — If someone would give me a sword now, to inflict a burning wound on this viper's brood! If someone would tell me: where I could reach, crush, annihilate the heart of their life — He would be my friend, my angel, my God — I will worship him!

Roller. We want to be those very friends, just let us guide you!

Schwarz. Come with us into the Bohemian forests! We'll gather a band of robbers, and you — (Moor stares at him.)

Schweizer. You shall be our captain! You must be our captain!

Spiegelberg (throwing himself wildly into an armchair.) Slaves and cowards!

Moor. Who put that word in your mouth? Listen, fellow! (gripping Roller harshly) You didn't get that from your human soul! Who put that word in your mouth? Yes, by thousand-armed death! That's what we want, that's what we must do! The idea deserves deification — Robbers and Murderers! — As surely as my soul lives, I am your captain!

All (with a noisy shout.) Long live the captain!

Spiegelberg (leaping up, to himself.) Until I help him along!

Moor. See, it falls from my eyes like a cataract! What a fool I was to want to return to the cage! — My spirit thirsts for deeds, my breath for freedom — Murderers, robbers! — with that word, the law was rolled under my feet — Men have hidden humanity from me when I appealed to humanity, away then from me sympathy and human mercy! — I have no father now, I have no love now, and blood and death shall teach me to forget that anything was ever dear to me! — Come, come! — Oh, I will make a terrible diversion for myself — it stands, I am your captain! And good fortune to the master among you who burns most wildly, murders most horribly, for I tell you, he shall be royally rewarded — step forward, each of you, and swear to me loyalty and obedience unto death! — Swear it to me by this manly right hand.

All (giving him their hands.) We swear to you loyalty and obedience unto death!

Moor. Now, by this manly right hand! I swear to you here, to remain your faithful and steadfast captain unto death! This arm shall make a corpse of anyone who ever falters or doubts, or retreats! May the same befall me from each of you if I break my oath! Are you satisfied? (Spiegelberg paces furiously.)

All (with hats thrown up.) We are satisfied.

Moor. Now then, let us go! Fear not death and danger, for an unyielding fate rules over us! Everyone's day finally arrives, be it on a soft down pillow, or in the rough turmoil of battle, or on the open gallows and wheel! One of these is our destiny!

(They exit.)

Spiegelberg (watching them go, after a pause.) Your list has a hole in it. You left out the poison. (Exit)

Scene Three.

The Moorish Castle, Amalia's Room.

Franz. Amalia.

Franz. You look away, Amalia? Do I deserve less than the man the father has cursed?

Amalia. Away! — Ha, of the loving, merciful father who abandons his son to wolves and monsters! At home, he feasts on sweet, delicious wine and tends to his decaying limbs on eiderdown cushions, while his great, glorious son starves — shame on you, you brutes! Shame on you, you dragon-souls, you disgrace to humanity! — His only son!

Franz. I thought he had two of them.

Amalia. Yes, he deserves to have sons like you. On his deathbed, he will in vain stretch out his withered hands for his Karl, and recoil shuddering when he grasps the ice-cold hand of his Franz — oh, it is sweet, it is deliciously sweet to be cursed by your father! Tell me, Franz, loving, brotherly soul! What must one do to be cursed by him?

Franz. You are raving, my dear, you are to be pitied.

Amalia. Oh, I beg you — do you pity your brother? — No, brute, you hate him! You hate me too, don't you?

Franz. I love you as myself, Amalia.

Amalia. If you love me, can you refuse me a single request?

Franz. None, none! If it is not more than my life.

Amalia. Oh, if that is so! A request you will fulfill so easily, so gladly (proudly.) — Hate me! I would blush crimson with shame if I thought of Karl and suddenly realized you didn't hate me. You promise me, don't you? — Now go, and leave me, I love to be alone!

Franz. Dearest dreamer! How I admire your gentle, loving heart, (tapping her on the chest.) Here, here Karl reigned like a god in his temple, Karl stood before you in waking, Karl ruled in your dreams, all of creation seemed to dissolve into him alone, to reflect him alone, to resonate towards you alone.

Amalia. (moved.) Yes, truly, I confess it. In defiance of you barbarians, I will confess it before the whole world — I love him!

Franz. Inhuman, cruel! To reward such love like this! To forget her —

Amalia. (starting up.) What, forget me?

Franz. Had you not placed a ring on his finger? A diamond ring as a pledge of your fidelity! — Of course, how can a young man resist the charms of a harlot? Who would blame him, when he had nothing else left to give away, — and did she not pay him back with usury for it with her caresses, her embraces?

Amalia (agitated.) My ring to a harlot?

Franz. Fie, fie! That is shameful. But if only that were all! — A ring, however precious, can ultimately be had again from any Jew — perhaps he didn't like the workmanship, perhaps he traded it for a more beautiful one.

Amalia. (vehemently.) But my ring — I say my ring?

Franz. No other, Amalia — ha! Such a jewel, and on my finger — and from Amalia! — Death itself would not have torn it from here — wouldn't it, Amalia? Not the value of the diamond, not the artistry of the engraving — love gives it its worth — Dearest child, you are weeping? Woe to him who presses these precious drops from such heavenly eyes — ah, and if you only knew everything, saw him yourself, saw him in that guise? —

Amalia. Monstrous! How, in what form?

Franz. Hush, hush, good soul, don't question me! (as if to himself, but aloud.) If only vice had a veil, that ugly vice, to steal away from the eye of the world! But there it stares frightfully through the yellow, leaden eye-socket; — there it betrays itself in the deathly pale, sunken face, and twists the bones hideously forth — there it stammers in the half-mutilated voice — there it preaches terribly loud from the trembling, tottering skeleton — there it delves into the innermost marrow of the bones, and breaks the manly strength of youth — there, there it splatters the putrid, corrosive foam from brow and cheeks and mouth and the entire surface of the body into a hideous leprosy, and nests abominably in the pits of bestial shame — ugh, ugh! I'm disgusted. Noses, eyes, ears shake — you saw that wretch, Amalia, who breathed his last in our infirmary, shame seemed to blink its shy eye closed before him — you cried woe over him. Call that image back into your soul once more, and Karl stands before you! — His kisses are plague, his lips poison yours!

Amalia (strikes him.) Shameless slanderer!

Franz. Do you dread this Karl? Are you already disgusted by the faint painting? Go, stare at him yourself, your beautiful, angelic, divine Karl! Go, inhale his balsamic breath, and let yourself be buried by the ambrosial scents that steam from his throat! The mere breath of his mouth will breathe into you that black, death-like dizziness that accompanies the smell of a bursting carcass and the sight of a battlefield full of corpses.

Amalia (turns her face away.)

Franz. What an upsurge of love! What rapture in the embrace — but is it not unjust to condemn a person for their sickly exterior? Even in the most wretched Aesopian cripple, a great, lovable soul can shine like a ruby from the mud, (smiling maliciously.) Even from blighted lips, love can indeed —

Of course, if vice also shakes the foundations of character, if with chastity virtue also flies away, as scent evaporates from a withered rose — if with the body the spirit also corrupts into a cripple —

Amalia (jumping up joyfully.) Ha! Karl! Now I recognize you again! You are still whole! Whole! Everything was a lie! — Don't you know, villain, that Karl cannot possibly become that? (Franz stands thoughtfully for a while, then suddenly turns to leave.) Whither so hastily, do you flee from your own shame?

Franz (with veiled face.) Let me, let me! — let my tears flow — tyrannical father! to abandon the best of your sons to misery — to the surrounding shame — let me, Amalia! I will fall at his feet, on my knees I will implore him, to take the pronounced curse upon me, upon me — to disinherit me — me — my blood — my life — everything —

Amalia (falls around his neck.) Brother of my Karl, best, dearest Franz!

Franz. O Amalia! how I love you for this unwavering loyalty to my brother — Forgive me for daring to put your love to this harsh test! — How beautifully you have justified my wishes! — With these tears, these sighs, this heavenly indignation — for me too, for me — our souls were so in tune.

Amalia. O no, they never were!

Franz. Ah, they were so harmoniously in tune, I always thought we must be twins! and were it not for the unfortunate external difference, in which, alas, Karl must certainly lose, we would be mistaken for each other ten times over. You are, I often said to myself, yes, you are the whole Karl, his echo, his image!

Amalia (shaking her head.) No, no, by that chaste light of heaven! No vein of him, no spark of his feeling—

Franz. So perfectly alike in our inclinations—the rose was his favorite flower—what flower did I prefer to the rose? He loved music unspeakably, and you are my witnesses, you stars! You have so often surprised me at the piano in the dead stillness of night, when all around me lay buried in shadow and slumber—and how can you still doubt, Amalia, when our love met in perfection, and if love is the same, how could its children degenerate?

Amalia (looking at him in wonder.)

Franz. It was a quiet, serene evening, the last before he left for Leipzig, when he took me with him into that arbor where you so often sat together in dreams of love—we remained silent for a long time—at last he took my hand and spoke softly with tears: I am leaving Amalia, I don't know—I have a premonition it means forever—don't abandon her, brother!—be her friend—her Karl—if Karl—never—returns—(He throws himself before her and kisses her hand vehemently.) Never, never, never will he return, and I swore it to him with a sacred oath!

Amalia (springing back.) Traitor, how I catch you! In this very arbor, he implored me to love no other—should he die—do you see how godless, how abominable you are—get out of my sight.

Franz. You don't know me, Amalia, you don't know me at all!

Amalia. Oh, I know you, from now on I know you—and you wanted to be like him? He was supposed to have wept for me before you? Before you? He would sooner have written my name on the pillory! Get out this instant!

Franz. You insult me!

Amalia. Go, I say. You have stolen a precious hour from me; may it be deducted from your life.

Franz. You hate me.

Amalia. I despise you, go!

Franz (stamping his feet.) Wait! You shall tremble before me! Sacrifice me for a beggar? (Exits angrily.)

Amalia. Go, you scoundrel—now I am with Karl again—beggar, he says? So the world has turned upside down, beggars are kings, and kings are beggars!—I wouldn't exchange the rags he wears for the purple of the anointed—the look with which he begs, that must be a grand, a royal look—a look that annihilates the glory, the pomp, the triumphs of the great and wealthy! Down into the dust with you, you glittering adornments! (She tears the pearls from her neck.) Be damned, you great and rich, for wearing gold and silver and jewels! Be damned for feasting at lavish meals! Damned for pampering your limbs on soft cushions of pleasure! Karl! Karl! Thus I am worthy of you—(Exits.)

Act Two.

Scene One.

Franz von Moor.

(reflecting in his room.)

It's taking too long for me—the doctor says he's recovering—an old man's life is an eternity!—And now there would be a clear, level path, save for this annoying, stubborn lump of flesh that, like the subterranean magic dog in ghost stories, blocks the way to my treasures.

But must my designs bend to the iron yoke of mechanism? Shall my high-soaring spirit be chained to the snail's pace of matter? A light extinguished, which was already flickering with only the last drops of oil—that's all it is—And yet I wouldn't want to have done it myself, for people's sake. I wouldn't want to have killed him, but to have let him die. I want to do it like the clever doctor (only in reverse).—Not blocking nature's path with a cross-stroke, but rather aiding it in its own course. And we truly are able to prolong the conditions of life, why should we not also be able to shorten them?

Philosophers and physicians teach me how aptly the moods of the mind harmonize with the movements of the machine. Gouty sensations are always accompanied by a dissonance of mechanical vibrations — passions abuse the vital force — the overloaded mind presses its casing to the ground — How then? — Who could understand how to smooth this untrodden path for death into the castle of life? — to corrupt the body from the spirit — ha! an original work! — who could bring that about? — A work without equal! — Think, Moor! — that would be an art worthy of having you as its inventor. Indeed, poisoning has almost been elevated to the rank of a regular science, and nature has been forced by experiments to reveal its limits, so that one can now calculate the heart's beats years in advance, and say to the pulse, thus far and no further![1] — Who would not try his wings here too?

And how shall I now proceed to disturb this sweet, peaceful harmony of the soul with its body? What kind of sensations shall I have to choose? Which will most fiercely oppose the bloom of life? Anger — this ravenous wolf sates itself too quickly — Worry? — this worm gnaws too slowly for me — Grief? — this viper slithers too sluggishly for me — Fear? — hope prevents it from taking hold — what? Are these all the executioners of man? — Is death's arsenal so soon exhausted? — (pondering deeply.) How? — Well? — What? No! — Ha! (starting up.) Terror! — What can terror not do? — What can reason, religion, do against this giant's icy embrace? — And yet? — If he were to withstand even this storm? — If he? — Oh, then come to my aid, Misery, and you, Remorse, hellish Eumenide, gnawing serpent, who regurgitates her prey and devours her own filth; eternal destroyers and eternal creators of your poison, and you howling Self-reproach, who devastates your own house and wounds your own mother — And you, too, come to my aid, benevolent Graces yourselves, gently smiling Past, and you with the overflowing cornucopia, blooming Future, hold before him in your mirrors the joys of heaven, when your fleeing foot slips from his greedy arms — So I will attack this fragile life, blow upon blow, storm upon storm, until the troop of Furies is finally closed by — Despair! Triumph! Triumph! — The plan is complete — Difficult and artful like no other — reliable — sure — for (mockingly) the dissector's knife finds no traces of wound or corrosive poison.

(Resolutely.) Well then, (Herrmann enters.) Ha! Deus ex machina! Herrmann!

Herrmann. At your service, gracious Junker!

Franz (gives him his hand.) Which you render to no ingrate.

Herrmann. I have had proof of that.

Franz. You shall have more soon — soon, Herrmann! — I have something to tell you, Herrmann.

Herrmann. I listen with a thousand ears.

Franz. I know you, you are a determined fellow — a soldier's heart — hair on your tongue! — My father has greatly wronged you, Herrmann!

Herrmann. The devil take me if I forget it!

Franz. That is the tone of a man! Vengeance becomes a manly breast. I like you, Herrmann. Take this purse, Herrmann. It should be heavier when I am master.

Herrmann. That is my eternal wish, gracious Junker, I thank you.

Franz. Really, Herrmann? Do you really wish I were lord? — But my father has the marrow of a lion, and I am the younger son.

Herrmann. I wish you were the elder son, and your father had the marrow of a consumptive maiden.

Franz. Ha! How the elder son would reward you then! How he would raise you from this ignoble dust, which so ill befits your spirit and nobility, into the light! — Then you should, exactly as you are, be covered in gold, and rattle through the streets with four horses, truly you should! — But I forget what I wanted to tell you — have you already forgotten the Fräulein von Edelreich, Herrmann?

Herrmann. By Jove! Why do you remind me of that?

Franz. My brother snatched her away from you.

Herrmann. He shall pay for that!

Franz. She gave you the brush-off. I even think he threw you down the stairs.

Herrmann. I'll kick him to hell for that.

Franz. He said: people whisper to each other that you were made between the beef and horseradish, and your father could never look at you without beating his chest and sighing: God have mercy on me, a sinner!

Herrmann (wild.) Lightning, thunder, and hail, be quiet!

Franz. He advised you to sell your patent of nobility in a raffle and have your stockings mended with the proceeds.

Herrmann. All devils! I'll scratch his eyes out with my nails.

Franz. What? You're getting angry? Why can you be angry at him? What evil can you do to him? What can such a rat do against a lion? Your anger only sweetens his triumph. You can do nothing but clench your teeth and vent your rage on dry bread.

Herrmann (stamps his foot.) I will grind him to dust.

Franz (clapping him on the shoulder.) Fie, Herrmann! You are a gentleman. You must not let the insult sit. You must not let the Fräulein go, no, you must not do that for all the world, Herrmann! By thunder and lightning! I would try my utmost if I were in your place.

Herrmann. I will not rest until I have him and him under the ground.

Franz. Not so impetuous, Herrmann! Come closer — you shall have Amalia!

Herrmann. I must, despite the devil! I must!

Franz. You shall have her, I tell you, and from my hand. Come closer, I say — perhaps you don't know that Karl is as good as disinherited?

Herrmann (coming closer.) Incomprehensible, the first word I hear.

Franz. Be calm, and listen further! You shall hear more of it another time — yes, I tell you, as good as banished for eleven months. But the old man already regrets the hasty step, which, (laughing.) I hope, he did not take himself. Also, the Edelreich presses him hard daily with her reproaches and complaints. Sooner or later he will have him searched for in all four corners of the world, and good night, Herrmann! if he finds him. You can most humbly hold the carriage for him when he drives with her to the church for the wedding.

Herrmann. I'll strangle him on the crucifix!

Franz. The father will soon hand over the rule to him and live in peace in his castles. Now the proud hothead holds the reins, now he laughs at his haters and enviers — and I, who wanted to make you an important great man, I myself, Herrmann, will be bowed low before his doorstep —

Herrmann (heatedly.) No, as sure as my name is Herrmann, you shall not! If there's a spark of sense left in this brain! You shall not!

Franz. Will you stop him? Even you, my dear Herrmann, will feel his whip; he'll spit in your face if he meets you in the street, and woe betide you then if you shrug your shoulders or twist your mouth — behold, that's how it stands with your courtship of the Lady, with your prospects, with your plans.

Herrmann. Tell me! What should I do?

Franz. Listen then, Herrmann! So you see how I take your fate to heart as an honest friend — go — change your clothes — make yourself completely unrecognizable, have yourself announced to the old man, pretend you've come straight from Bohemia, that you were at the battle near Prague with my brother — that you saw him give up the ghost on the battlefield —

Herrmann. Will they believe me?

Franz. Hoho! Leave that to me! Take this package. Here you'll find your commission in detail. And documents to make even doubt believe — now just get going, and unseen! Jump through the back door into the yard, from there over the garden wall — leave the catastrophe of this tragicomedy to me!

Herrmann. And that will be: Long live the new master, Francis von Moor!

Franz (patting his cheeks.) How cunning you are? — For you see, in this way we achieve all our goals at once and quickly. Amalia gives up hope for him. The old man attributes his son's death to himself, and — he's ailing — a tottering building doesn't need an earthquake to collapse — he won't survive the news — then I am his only son — Amalia has lost her support, and is a plaything of my will, as you can easily imagine — in short, everything goes according to plan — but you must not go back on your word.

Herrmann. What are you saying? (exulting.) Sooner shall the bullet return in its flight and rage in the bowels of its shooter — count on me! Just let me do it — Adieu!

Franz (calling after him.) The harvest is yours, dear Herrmann! — When the ox has pulled the grain cart into the barn, he must content himself with hay. A stable-maid for you, and no Amalia! (Exits.)

Scene Two.

Old Moor's Bedroom.

Old Moor sleeping in an armchair. Amalia.

Amalia (creeping softly closer.) Quiet, quiet! He slumbers. (She stands before the sleeper.) How beautiful, how venerable! — Venerable, as they paint the saints — no, I cannot be angry with you! White-haired head, I cannot be angry with you! Slumber softly, wake up joyfully, I alone will go and suffer.

Old Moor (dreaming.) My son! My son! My son!

Amalia (taking his hand.) Hark, hark! His son is in his dreams.

Old Moor. Are you there? Are you really? Ah! Why do you look so wretched? Don't look at me with that sorrowful gaze! I am wretched enough.

Amalia (waking him quickly.) Look up, dear old man! You were only dreaming. Compose yourself!

Old Moor (half-awake.) He wasn't there? Didn't I press his hands? Nasty Franz! Will you snatch him even from my dreams?

Amalia. Do you notice it, Amalia?

Old Moor (rousing himself.) Where is he? Where? Where am I? You there, Amalia?

Amalia. How are you? You slept a refreshing slumber.

Old Moor. I dreamt of my son. Why didn't I keep dreaming? Perhaps I would have received forgiveness from his lips.

Amalia. Angels bear no grudges—he forgives you. (Takes his hand with melancholy.) Father of my Karl! I forgive you.

Old Moor. No, my daughter! This deathly pallor on your face condemns your father. Poor girl! I robbed you of the joys of your youth—oh, do not curse me!

Amalia (kisses his hand tenderly.) You?

Old Moor. Do you know this picture, my daughter?

Amalia. Karl's!—

Old Moor. That's how he looked when he was sixteen. Now he's different—Oh, it rages within me—this gentleness is resentment, this smile is despair—Isn't that right, Amalia? It was on his birthday in the jasmine arbor when you painted him?—Oh, my daughter! Your love made me so happy.

Amalia (her eyes still fixed on the picture.) No, no! It's not him. By God! That is not Karl—Here, here (pointing to her heart and forehead.) So completely, so different. The dull colors cannot reflect the heavenly spirit that reigned in his fiery eyes. Away with it! This is so human! I was a bungler.

Old Moor. This gracious, warming gaze—had it stood before my bed, it would have lived in the midst of death! Never, never would I have died!

Amalia. Never, never would you have died? It would have been a leap, like one jumps from one thought to another, more beautiful one—that gaze would have lit your way beyond the grave. That gaze would have carried you beyond the stars!

Old Moor. It is hard, it is sad! I die, and my son Karl is not here—I will be carried to my grave, and he will not weep at my grave—how sweet it is to be lulled into the sleep of death by a son's prayer—that is a lullaby.

Amalia (rapturously.) Yes, sweet, heavenly sweet it is, to be lulled into the sleep of death by the song of the beloved—perhaps one still dreams in the grave—a long, eternal, endless dream, of Karl, until the bell of resurrection rings—(Jumping up, enraptured.) and from now on in his arms forever, (Pause. She goes to the piano and plays.)

Old Moor. A beautiful song, my daughter. You must play that for me before I die.

Amalia. It is the farewell of Andromache and Hector—Karl and I often sang it together to the lute. (Continues playing.)

Daniel.

Daniel. A man is waiting outside for you. He begs to be admitted, saying he has important news for you.

Old Moor. Only one thing in the world is important to me, you know that, Amalia—is it an unfortunate person who needs my help? He shall not leave here with sighs.

Amalia. If it's a beggar, he should come up quickly. (Daniel exits.)

Old Moor. Amalia, Amalia! Spare me!

Amalia (continues playing.)

Franz. Hermann (disguised.) Daniel.

Franz. Here is the man. Terrible news, he says, awaits you. Can you hear it?

Old Moor. I know but one. Come here, my friend, and spare me not! Give him a cup of wine.

Herrmann (with a changed voice.) Gracious sir! Do not let a poor man suffer if he unwillingly pierces your heart. I am a stranger in this land, but I know you very well; you are the father of Karl von Moor.

Old Moor. How do you know that?

Herrmann. I knew your son—

Amalia (starting up.) He lives? Lives? You know him? Where is he, where, where? (tries to run off.)

Old Moor. You know of my son?

Herrmann. He studied in Leipzig. From there he wandered, I don't know how far. He roamed all over Germany, and, as he told me, with uncovered head, barefoot, begging his bread at doors. Five months later, the wretched war between Prussia and Austria broke out again, and since he had nothing left to hope for in the world, the call of Frederick's victorious drum drew him to Bohemia. 'Allow me,' he said to the great Schwerin, 'to die the death of heroes, I have no father left!'—

Old Moor. Don't look at me, Amalia!

Herrmann. They gave him a flag. He flew with the Prussian victory. We came to lie together under a tent. He spoke much of his old father and of better, bygone days—and of thwarted hopes—tears stood in our eyes.

Old Moor (covers his head with the pillow.) Silence, oh silence!

Herrmann. Eight days later was the fierce battle near Prague—I can tell you, your son fought like a brave warrior. He performed wonders before the eyes of the army. Five regiments had to rotate beside him, he stood. Cannonballs fell right and left, your son stood. A bullet shattered his right hand, your son took the flag in his left, and stood—

Amalia (in ecstasy.) Hector, Hector! Do you hear? He stood—

Herrmann. I found him at the evening of the battle, fallen amidst whistling bullets, holding the gushing blood with his left hand, his right buried in the earth. 'Brother!' he cried to me, 'a murmur ran through the ranks: the General fell an hour ago'—'He has fallen,' I said, 'and you?'—'Well, whoever is a brave soldier,' he cried, letting go of his left hand, 'let him follow his General, as I do!' Soon after, he breathed his great soul to the hero.

Franz (rushing wildly at Herrmann.) May death seal your cursed tongue! Have you come here to give our father the death blow?—Father! Amalia! Father!

Herrmann. It was the last will of my dying comrade. 'Take this sword,' he gasped, 'you will deliver it to my old father, his son's blood clings to it, he is avenged, he may feast. Tell him his curse hunted me into battle and death, I fell in despair! His last sigh was Amalia.'

Amalia (startled from a death-like slumber.) His last sigh, Amalia!

Old Moor (screaming horribly, tearing at his hair.) My curse hunted him to his death! Fallen in despair!

Franz (wandering around the room.) Oh! What have you done, Father? My Karl, my brother!

Herrmann. Here is the sword, and here is also a portrait that he pulled from his breast at the same time! It resembles this young lady exactly. 'This is for my brother Franz,' he said,—I don't know what he meant by that.

Franz (astonished.) Me? Amalia's portrait? To me, Karl, Amalia? To me?

Amalia (rushing at Herrmann violently.) Liar, bribed wretch, deceiver! (grabs him roughly.)

Herrmann. I am not, gracious lady. See for yourself if it isn't your own picture — you may well have given it to him yourself.

Franz. By God! Amalia, it's yours! It truly is yours!

Amalia (giving him back the picture.) Mine, mine! Oh heaven and earth!

D. a. Moor (crying out, tearing at his face.) Woe, woe! My curse hunted him to his death! Fallen in despair!

Franz. And he thought of me in that last, heavy hour of parting, of me! Angelic soul — when the black banner of death already rustled over him — of me! —

D. a. Moor (stammering.) My curse hunted him, to his death, my son fallen in despair! —

Herrmann. I cannot bear this misery. Farewell, old sir! (softly to Franz.) Why did you do that, young master? (exits quickly.)

Amalia (jumping up, following him.) Stay, stay! What were his last words?

Herrmann (calling back.) His last sigh was Amalia. (exits.)

Amalia. His last sigh was Amalia! — No, you are no deceiver! So it is true — true — he is dead! — dead! — (staggering back and forth until she collapses.) Dead — Karl is dead —

Franz. What do I see? What is written on the sword? Written in blood — Amalia!

Amalia. From him?

Franz. Do I see correctly, or am I dreaming? Look there, in bloody script:

Franz, do not abandon my Amalia! Look, look! And on the other side: Amalia! Almighty death broke your vow. — Do you see now, do you see now? He wrote it with a stiffening hand, wrote it with the warm blood of his heart, wrote it on eternity's solemn edge! His fleeting spirit lingered to unite Franz and Amalia once more.

Amalia. Holy God! It is his hand. — He never loved me! (exits quickly.)

Franz (stamping on the ground.) Despairing! All my art fails against this stubbornness.

D. a. Moor. Woe, woe! Do not abandon me, my daughter! — Franz, Franz! Give me back my son!

Franz. Who was it who cursed him? Who was it who drove his son into conflict and death and despair? — Oh! He was an angel! A jewel of heaven. A curse upon his executioners! A curse, a curse upon yourselves! —

D. a. Moor (striking his chest and forehead with a clenched fist.) He was an angel, was a jewel of heaven! Curse, curse, damnation, curse upon myself! I am the father who slew his great son. He loved me unto death! To avenge me, he rushed into conflict and death! Monster, monster! (rages against himself.)

Franz. He is gone, what good are late laments? (laughing scornfully.) It is easier to murder than to bring back to life. You will never bring him back from his grave.

D. a. Moor. Never, never, never bring him back from the grave! Gone, lost forever! — And you talked the curse out of my heart, you — you — My son back to me!

Franz. Don't provoke my wrath. I abandon you in death! —

Old Moor. Monster! Monster! Bring me back my son! (Leaps from his chair, tries to grab Franz by the throat, who shoves him back.)

Franz. Powerless bones! You dare — die! Despair! (Exits.)

Old Moor.

A thousand curses thunder after you! You stole my son from my arms (thrown back and forth in the chair in despair.) Woe, woe! Despair, but not die! — They flee, abandon me in death — my good angels flee from me, all the saints turn away from the grey-haired murderer — Woe! Woe! Will no one hold my head, will no one release my struggling soul? No sons! No daughters! No friends! — Only people — will no one, alone — abandoned — Woe! Woe! — Despair, but not die!

Amalia (with tear-stained eyes.)

Old Moor. Amalia! Messenger of heaven! Do you come to release my soul?

Amalia (in a softer tone.) You have lost a glorious son.

Old Moor. Murdered, you mean. Burdened with this testimony, I will stand before God's judgment seat.

Amalia. Not so, sorrowful old man! The heavenly Father draws him to Himself. We would have been too happy in this world. — Up there, up there above the suns — We will see him again.

Old Moor. See him again, see him again! Oh, a sword will pierce my soul — If I find him a saint among saints — in the midst of heaven, shivers of hell will shudder through me! The memory will crush me in the contemplation of the Infinite: I murdered my son!

Amalia. Oh, he will smile away the painful memory from your soul, do be cheerful, dear father! I am completely so. Has he not already sung the name Amalia to the heavenly listeners on the seraphic harp, and the heavenly listeners softly whispered it back? His last sigh was Amalia! Will not his first jubilee be Amalia?

Old Moor. Heavenly comfort flows from your lips! He will smile at me, you say? Forgive? You must stay with me, beloved of my Karl, when I die.

Amalia. To die is to fly into his arms. Fortunate you! You are to be envied. Why are these bones not brittle? Why are these hairs not grey? Woe to the strengths of youth! Welcome, you marrowless old age! Closer to heaven and my Karl.

Franz (enters.)

Old Moor. Come here, my son! Forgive me if I was too harsh with you earlier! I forgive you everything. I would so gladly give up the ghost in peace.

Franz. Have you wept enough for your son? As far as I can see, you only have one.

Old Moor. Jacob had twelve sons, but for his Joseph he wept bloody tears.

Franz. Hum!

Old Moor. Go, take the Bible, my daughter, and read me the story of Jacob and Joseph! It has always moved me so, and back then I was not yet Jacob.

Amalia. Which one shall I read to you? (Takes the Bible and leafs through it.)

Old Moor. Read me the lament of the forsaken one, when he no longer found him among his children — and waited for him in vain among his eleven — and his song of lament, when he learned; his Joseph was taken from him forever —

Amalia. (Reads.) “Then they took Joseph’s coat, and killed a goat, and dipped the coat in the blood, and sent the coat of many colours, and brought it to their father, and said: We have found this, see now whether it be thy son’s coat or no? (Franz suddenly exits.) And he knew it, and said: It is my son’s coat; an evil beast hath devoured him; Joseph is without doubt rent in pieces,”—

Old Moor (falls back on the pillow.) A wild beast has torn Joseph to pieces!

Amalia (reads on.) “And Jacob tore his clothes, and put sackcloth upon his loins, and mourned for his son many days, and all his sons and all his daughters rose up to comfort him; but he refused to be comforted; and he said, For I will go down into the grave unto my son mourning—”

Old Moor. Stop, stop! I feel very ill.

Amalia (springing to him, drops the book.) Heaven help us! What is it?

Old Moor. It is death! — Blackness — swims — before my — eyes — I beg you — call the pastor — that he may — give me the sacrament — Where is — my son Franz?

Amalia. He has fled! God have mercy on us!

Old Moor. Fled — fled from a dying man’s bed? — — And all — all — from two children full of hope — you have given them — have taken them — — your name be — —

Amalia (with a sudden cry.) Death! All death! (exits in despair.)

Franz (dances in triumphantly.)

Death, they cry, death! Now I am master. The whole castle wails, death! — But what if he is only sleeping? — Of course, ah, of course! That is indeed a sleep from which there is never, ever, a good morning — Sleep and death are but twins. Let us exchange names! Waking, welcome sleep! We shall call you Death! (He closes his eyes.) Who will now come and dare to call me to account? Or tell me to my face: you are a villain! Away then with this burdensome mask of gentleness and virtue! Now you shall see the naked Franz, and be horrified! My father sugared his demands, transformed his domain into a family circle, sat smiling kindly at the gate, and greeted them as brothers and children. — My eyebrows shall hang over you like storm clouds, my imperious name shall hover like a threatening comet over these mountains, my brow shall be your weather-glass! He stroked and caressed the neck that stubbornly struck back at him. Stroking and caressing is not my business. I will dig the jagged spurs into your flesh, and try the sharp whip. — In my domain, it shall come to pass that potatoes and thin beer become a feast-day treat, and woe to him who appears before me with full, fiery cheeks! The pallor of poverty and slavish fear are my livery: in this uniform I will clothe you!

(He exits.)

Scene Three.

The Bohemian Forests.

Spiegelberg, Razmann, a band of robbers.

Razmann. Are you here? Is it really you? Then let me press you into a pulp, dear brother Moriz! Welcome to the Bohemian Forests! You’ve grown big and strong. Star-Cross Battalion! You’re bringing recruits, a whole drove of them, you excellent recruiter!

Spiegelberg. Right, brother? Right? And the whole gang with me! — You wouldn't believe it, God's visible blessing is with me. I was a poor, hungry wretch, had nothing but this staff when I crossed the Jordan, and now there are seventy-eight of us, mostly ruined shopkeepers, rejected masters and clerks from the Swabian provinces. That's a corps of lads for you, brother, delicious fellows, I tell you, where each one steals the buttons off the other's trousers, and is safe with a loaded musket next to him — and they're well-off, and have a reputation forty miles wide that's beyond comprehension. There isn't a newspaper where you won't have come across an article about that clever fellow Spiegelberg; I keep them just for that reason — they've depicted me from head to toe, you'd think you were seeing me — they even remembered my coat buttons. But we lead them around by the nose terribly. I went to the print shop recently, pretended I'd seen the notorious Spiegelberg, and dictated to a hack writer sitting there the spitting image of a local worm doctor, and the thing gets published, the fellow is arrested, forcibly interrogated, and in his fear and stupidity he confesses, confound it! he confesses, he is Spiegelberg — Thunder and lightning! I was just about to report myself to the magistrate, that the scoundrel should so botch my name — as I say, three months later he hangs. I had to take a hefty pinch of snuff afterwards, as I strolled past the gallows and saw the pseudo-Spiegelberg parading there in his glory — and meanwhile, while Spiegelberg hangs, Spiegelberg quietly slips out of the noose, and behind their backs gives the super-clever justice donkey's ears, it's pitiful.

Razmann (laughs.) You're still the same old you.

Spiegelberg. That I am, as you see, in body and soul. Fool! I must tell you a joke I played recently in St. Cecilia's convent. I came across the convent on my travels towards dusk, and since I hadn't fired a single shot that day, you know, I hate diem perdidi to death, so the night had to be glorified by a prank, even if it cost the devil an ear! We kept quiet until late at night. It became dead silent. The lights went out. We figured the nuns might be in their beds now. So I took my comrade Grimm with me, told the others to wait outside the gate until they heard my whistle — secured the convent watchman, took his keys, crept in where the maids slept, made off with their clothes, and out with the bundle through the gate. We went on from cell to cell, taking the clothes from one sister after another, and finally from the abbess too. — Now I whistle, and my lads outside start to storm and make a racket as if it were the Last Judgment, and in with a beastly clamor into the sisters' cells! — hahaha! — you should have seen the chase, how the poor creatures fumbled for their skirts in the darkness, and carried on miserably, how they were in a hell of a state, and we meanwhile pressed on like all hell broke loose, and how they wrapped themselves in bedsheets out of fright and consternation, or crawled under the stove like cats, others in the fear of their hearts so soiled the room that you could have learned to swim in it, and the pathetic wailing and lamentation, and finally even the old hag the abbess, dressed like Eve before the Fall — you know, brother, that on this wide earth no creature is as repugnant to me as a spider and an old woman, and now imagine the dark brown, wrinkled, shaggy old hag dancing around before me, imploring me by her maidenly modesty — all devils! I had already raised my elbow to shove the few remaining noble parts entirely into her rectum — in short, resolved! either out with the silver plate, with the convent treasure and all the shiny thalers, or — my lads understood me already — I tell you, I dragged more than a thousand thalers worth out of that convent, and the fun on top of it, and my lads left them a souvenir they'll be dragging around for nine months.

Razmann. (stamping his foot.) May thunder strike me dead if I don't get out of here!

Spiegelberg. See? Tell me again if this isn't the life for a scoundrel! And you stay fresh and strong, and your body's still in one piece, and it swells by the hour like a prelate's belly—I don't know, I must have something magnetic about me, that attracts all the riff-raff on God's earth like steel and iron.

Razmann. Fine magnet you! But by the hangman, I'd like to know what kind of witchcraft you use—

Spiegelberg. Witchcraft? No witchcraft needed—you need a head! A certain practical judgment, which you certainly don't get by eating barley—because, you see, I always say: you can shape an honest man out of any willow stump, but for a rogue, you need grit—it also takes a unique national genius, a certain, if I may say so, rogue-climate, and for that, I advise you, travel to Graubünden—that's the Athens of modern scoundrels.

Razmann. Brother! I've heard all of Italy praised.

Spiegelberg. Yes, yes! One must not deny anyone their due, Italy also produces its men, and if Germany continues as it's already on its way, and thoroughly votes out the Bible, as it has the most brilliant prospects, then in time something good might even come out of Germany—but in general, I must tell you, climate doesn't make much difference, genius thrives everywhere, and as for the rest, brother—a crabapple, you know, will never become a pineapple even in the Garden of Eden—but to tell you more—where was I?

Razmann. At the stratagems!

Spiegelberg. Ah, right, at the stratagems. So your first step, when you arrive in a city, is to gather information from the beggar-masters, city patrols, and prison wardens about who visits them most diligently, who pays their respects, and those are the clients you seek out—furthermore, you nestle into coffee houses, brothels, taverns, you spy, you probe, to find out who complains most about the hard times, the five percent, the rampant plague of police reforms, who curses the government most, or rails against physiognomy and the like. Brother! That's the sweet spot! Honesty wobbles like a loose tooth, you just need to apply the pelican—or better and more simply: you go and throw a full purse onto the open street, hide somewhere, and take good note of who picks it up—a while later you chase after them, search, shout, and just ask in passing, 'Did you happen to find a purse, sir?' If he says yes? — well, the devil saw it; but if he denies it? 'Begging your pardon, sir—I don't recall—I'm sorry,' (leaping up.) Brother! Triumph, brother! Put out your lantern, clever Diogenes!—you've found your man.

Razmann. You're an accomplished practitioner.

Spiegelberg. My God! As if I had ever doubted it—Now that you have your man in the net, you must also approach it cunningly to lift him out!—See, my son? This is how I did it:—As soon as I had the scent, I clung to my candidate like a burr, drank brotherhood with him, and Nota bene! You must treat him to drinks! Of course, a good deal goes into that, but you don't mind it——you go further, you introduce him to gambling companies and loose women, entangle him in brawls and mischievous pranks, until he goes bankrupt in sap and strength and money and conscience and good name, for incidentally, I must tell you, you achieve nothing if you don't corrupt body and soul—Believe me, brother! I've abstracted this from my extensive practice at least fifty times: once the honest man is chased from the nest, the devil is master—The step is then so easy—oh so easy, as the leap from a whore to a prayer-sister.—Hark! What was that bang?

Razmann. It thundered, just get on with it!

Spiegelberg. A shorter, better way is this: you plunder your husband's house and home until he hasn't a shirt left on his back, then he'll come to you himself—don't teach me the tricks, brother—just ask that copper-face over there—By Jove! I've caught him beautifully—I offered him forty ducats, which he'd get if he'd press his master's key in wax for me—just imagine! The dumb beast does it, brings me, devil take me! the keys, and now wants the money—Monsieur, I said, does he know that I'm now taking these keys straight to the police lieutenant, and renting him lodgings at the gallows? —A thousand curses! You should have seen the fellow's eyes pop out, and start wriggling like a wet poodle—»For heaven's sake, have some understanding, sir! I will—will—« What will he? Will he immediately tie up his pigtail and go to the devil with me? —»Oh, gladly, with pleasure«—hahaha! Good gormandizer, you catch mice with bacon—laugh at him, Razmann! hahaha!

Razmann. Yes, yes, I must confess. I will engrave this lesson in golden letters on my mind. The devil must know his people, that he made you his broker.

Spiegelberg. Right, brother? And I think if I give him ten, he'll let me go free—every publisher gives his collector the tenth copy for free, why should the devil be so Jewish in his dealings? —Razmann! I smell gunpowder—

Razmann. Zounds! I've smelled it for a long time too. —Watch out, something must have been set nearby! —Yes, yes! As I tell you, Moritz—you'll be welcome to the captain with your recruits—he's already lured some brave fellows too.

Spiegelberg. But mine! Mine—Pah—

Razmann. Well, yes! They may have pretty little fingers—but I tell you, our captain's reputation has also tempted honest fellows.

Spiegelberg. I hope not.

Razmann. No joke! And they're not ashamed to serve under him. He doesn't murder for plunder like us—he seemed to care no more for money as soon as he had enough, and even his third share of the spoils, which is rightfully his, he gives away to orphans, or uses it to educate poor boys of promise. But if he's to bleed a country squire who skins his peasants like cattle, or bring a scoundrel with golden laces to justice, who counterfeits laws and bribes the eye of justice, or any other gentleman of that ilk—Man! There he is in his element, and he rages like the devil, as if every fiber in him were a fury.

Spiegelberg. Hum! hum!

Razmann. Recently, we learned at the inn that a rich count from Regensburg would be passing through, who had won a lawsuit worth a million through the tricks of his lawyer. He was just sitting at the table, playing cards—»How many of us are there?« he asked me, standing up hastily. I saw him clench his lower lip between his teeth, which he only does when he's most furious—»No more than five!« I said—»It's enough!« he said, threw the money on the table for the landlady, leaving the wine he had ordered untouched—we set off. The whole time he didn't say a word, walked aside and alone, only asking us from time to time if we had noticed anything yet, and ordering us to put our ears to the ground. Finally, the count came riding along, the carriage heavily laden, the lawyer sitting inside with him, a rider in front, two servants riding alongside—you should have seen the man, how he, with two pistols in hand, sprang ahead of us towards the carriage! And the voice with which he cried: »Halt!«—the coachman, who wouldn't stop, had to dance down from the box, the count shot out of the carriage into the wind, the riders fled—»Your money, scoundrel!« he roared—he lay like a bull under the axe—»And are you the villain who makes justice a venal whore?« The lawyer trembled so much his teeth chattered—the dagger stuck in his belly like a stake in the vineyard—»I have done my part!« he cried, and turned proudly away from us, »The plundering is your business.« And with that, he vanished into the forest—

Spiegelberg. Hum, hum! Brother, what I told you just now, keep it between us, he doesn't need to know. Understand?

Razmann. Right, right! I understand.

Spiegelberg. You know him! He has his quirks. You understand me.

Razmann. I understand, I understand.

Schwarz (running at full speed.)

Razmann. Who's there? What's going on? Passengers in the forest?

Schwarz. Quick, quick! Where are the others? — Damnation! You stand there, chatting! Don't you know — don't you know at all? — and Roller —

Razmann. What then, what then?

Schwarz. Roller has been hanged, four others with him —

Razmann. Roller? Heavens above! Since when — how do you know?

Schwarz. He's been imprisoned for over three weeks, and we hear nothing, three court days have been held for him, and we hear nothing, he was examined under torture, where the Captain was? — The brave fellow confessed nothing, yesterday his trial was held, this morning he was sent to the devil express.

Razmann. Damned! Does the Captain know?

Schwarz. He only found out yesterday. He's foaming like a wild boar. You know, he always thought most highly of Roller, and now the torture first — Rope and ladder have already been brought to the tower, it was no use, he himself had already sneaked to him in a Capuchin's cowl, and wanted to exchange places with him, Roller stubbornly refused, now he has sworn an oath that made our blood run cold, he wants to light a death-torch for him, such as no king has ever seen, which will burn their backs black and blue. I fear for the city. He's had a grudge against it for a long time, because it's so shamefully bigoted, and you know, when he says: I'll do it! it's as good as if one of us had done it.

Razmann. That's true! I know the Captain. If he had given the devil his word to go to hell, he would never pray, even if half a Lord's Prayer could save him! — But oh! poor Roller! — poor Roller! —

Spiegelberg. Memento mori! But that doesn't stir me. (Trills a little song.)

Razmann (leaping up.) Hark! A shot. (Shooting and clamor.)

Spiegelberg. Another one!

Razmann. Another! The Captain!

(Sung off-stage.)

Da Capo.

Schweizer. Roller. (Off-stage.) Holla ho! Holla ho!

Razmann. Roller! Roller! May ten devils take me!

Schweizer. Roller. (Off-stage.) Razmann! Schwarz! Spiegelberg! Razmann!

Razmann. Roller! Schweizer! Lightning, thunder, hail, and storm! (Flies towards them.)

Robber Moor (on horseback.)

Schweizer. Roller. Grimm. Schufterle.

Band of Robbers (covered in mud and dust, enter.)

Robber Moor (leaping from his horse.) Freedom! Freedom! — — you're safe, Roller! — Take my black horse, Schweizer, and wash him with wine. (Throws himself to the ground.) That was worth it!

Razmann (to Roller.) By Pluto's fiery forge! Have you risen from the wheel?

Schwarz. Are you his ghost? Or am I a fool? Or is it really you?

Roller (out of breath.) It's me. In the flesh. Whole. Where do you think I've come from?

Schwarz. Ask the witch! The staff was already broken over you.

Roller. It certainly was, and more. I've come straight from the gallows. Let me just catch my breath first. Schweizer will tell you. Give me a glass of brandy! — You're back too, Moritz? I thought I'd see you elsewhere — give me a glass of brandy! My bones are falling apart — oh, my captain! Where is my captain?

Schwarz. Soon, soon! — but tell us, chatter away! How did you escape? How do we have you back? My head is spinning. From the gallows, you say?

Roller (gulps down a bottle of brandy.) Ah, that tastes good, that burns! — Straight from the gallows! I say. You stand there, gaping, and can't even dream of it — I was only three steps from the cursed ladder, on which I was to ascend into Abraham's bosom — so close, so close — had already been sold, hide and hair, for anatomy! You could have had my life for a pinch of snuff, I thank the Captain for air, freedom, and life.

Schweizer. It was a prank worth hearing. The day before, we got wind through our spies that Roller was well and truly salted, and if heaven didn't intervene in time, he would, tomorrow — that is, today — go the way of all flesh. — Up! says the Captain, what doesn't a friend weigh? — We'll save him, or if we don't, we'll at least light him a funeral pyre such as no king has ever had, one that will burn their backsides black and blue. The whole band was called up. We sent an express to him, who delivered it in a note he threw into his soup.

Roller. I despaired of the outcome.

Schweizer. We waited until the passages were clear. The whole town flocked to the spectacle, horsemen and pedestrians mixed with carriages, the noise and the gallows-psalm echoed far. Now, says the Captain, set it alight, set it alight! The fellows flew like arrows, setting the town on fire at thirty-three corners at once, throwing fiery fuses near the powder tower, into churches and barns — Morbleu, not a quarter of an hour had passed, the north-east wind, which also had its tooth on the town, served us splendidly, and helped drive the flame up to the highest gables. Meanwhile, we rushed down street after street, like furies — Fire! Fire! through the whole town — howling — shouting — rumbling — the fire bells began to boom, the powder tower exploded into the air, as if the earth had split in two, and the sky had burst, and hell had sunk ten thousand fathoms deeper.

Roller. And then my escort looked back — there lay the city like Gomorrah and Sodom, the entire horizon was fire, brimstone, and smoke, forty mountains roared the infernal jest into the surrounding area, a panicked terror threw everyone to the ground — now I seized the moment, and quick as the wind! — I was untied, it was so close — as my companions looked back, petrified like Lot's wife, I bolted! the groups scattered! away! Sixty paces away I threw off my clothes, plunged into the river, swam underwater until I thought I was out of their sight. My captain was already ready with horses and clothes — that's how I escaped. Moor! Moor! may you soon get into a pickle too, so I can repay you in kind!

Razmann. A bestial wish, for which you should be hanged — but it was a stratagem to burst with laughter.

Roller. It was help in dire need, you can't appreciate it. You should have — the noose around your neck — marched to your grave alive like me, and the sacramental preparations and executioner's ceremonies, and with every step the timid foot faltered forward, closer and frightfully closer the cursed machine where I was to be lodged, rising in the glow of the terrible morning sun, and the lurking executioner's henchmen, and the dreadful music — it still whispers in my ears — and the croaking of hungry ravens, who hung brazenly on my half-rotten predecessor, and all that, all that — and on top of that, the foretaste of the bliss that awaited me! — Brother, brother! and suddenly the signal for freedom — There was a bang, as if a hoop had sprung from the barrel of heaven — listen, scoundrels! I tell you, if you jump from a glowing oven into ice water, you can't feel the drop as strongly as I did when I was on the other bank.

Spiegelberg (laughs.) Poor wretch! now it's all over. (drinks to him.) To a happy rebirth!

Roller (throws his glass away.) No, by all the treasures of Mammon! I wouldn't want to experience that a second time. Dying is something more than Harlequin's leap, and the fear of death is worse than dying.

Spiegelberg. And the leaping powder tower — do you notice it now, Razmann? — that's why the air stank so much of sulfur, for miles around, as if Moloch's entire wardrobe were being aired out under the firmament — it was a masterstroke, Captain! I envy you for it.

Schweizer. The city enjoys seeing my comrade put down like a hunted pig, what the hell! should we make a fuss about letting the city go up in flames for our comrade's sake? And besides, our fellows had a field day plundering the old emperor. — Tell me! What did you capture?

One of the Gang. During the confusion, I snuck into St. Stephen's Church and cut off the borders from the altar cloth, the good Lord there, I said, is a rich man, and can make gold threads from a piece of rope.

Schweizer. You did well — what's all that junk doing in a church anyway? They offer it to the Creator, who laughs at the trinkets, and his creatures are allowed to starve. — And you, Spangeler — where did you cast your net?

A second. Bügel and I plundered a shop and are bringing back enough stuff for fifty of us.

A Third. I swiped two gold pocket watches, and a dozen silver spoons to go with them.

Schweizer. Good, good. And we've given them something they'll be putting out for fourteen days. If they want to stop the fire, they'll have to ruin the city with water — Don't you know, Schufterle, how many casualties there were?

Schufterle. Eighty-three, they say. The tower alone crushed sixty of them to dust.

Robber Moor (very seriously.) Roller, you are dearly paid.

Schufterle. Pah! Pah! But what does that mean? — Yes, if they had been men — but they were swaddled infants, gilding their diapers, shriveled old mothers shooing away flies, dried-up old hearth-sitters who couldn't find a door anymore — patients whining for the doctor who had followed the chase in his dignified trot — Those with light feet had flown off to the comedy, and only the dregs of the city remained, to guard the houses.

Moor. Oh, the poor creatures! Sick, you say, old people and children? —

Schufterle. Yes, to hell! And women in childbed too, and heavily pregnant women who feared aborting under the bright gallows, young women who worried about contaminating themselves with the executioner's pieces, and branding the gallows onto their unborn child's back — Poor poets who had no shoes to wear because they had pawned their only pair, and all the other riff-raff, it's not worth talking about. As I happened to pass by a shack, I heard a commotion inside; I looked in, and when I saw it by the light, what was it? It was a child, still fresh and healthy, lying on the floor under the table, and the table was just about to catch fire — 'Poor little thing!' I said, 'you'll freeze here,' and I threw it into the flames —

Moor. Really, Schufterle? — And may that flame burn in your breast until eternity turns gray! — Begone, monster! Never let me see you among my band again! Are you grumbling? — Are you hesitating? — Who hesitates when I command? — Away with him, I say, — there are more among you who are ripe for my wrath. I know you, Spiegelberg. But I will soon step among you and hold a terrible muster. (They exit trembling.)

Moor (alone, pacing violently.)

Hear them not, Avenger in Heaven! — What can I do about it? What can you do about it, when your pestilence, your famine, your floods devour the righteous with the wicked? Who can command the flame not to rage through the blessed crops, when it is meant to destroy the hornets' nest? — Oh, fie on child-murder! on woman-murder — on sick-murder! How this deed bows me down! It has poisoned my finest works — there stands the boy, blushing and scorned before the eye of Heaven, who presumed to play with Jupiter's club, and struck down pygmies when he should have crushed Titans — go, go! you are not the man to wield the sword of vengeance of the higher tribunal, you succumbed at the first grasp — here I renounce the audacious plan, go, to creep into some chasm of the earth where day recoils from my shame. (He tries to flee.)

Robbers (hastily.)

Look out, Captain! It's haunted! Whole swarms of Bohemian cavalry are scouting through the woods — the hellish Blue Stocking must have betrayed us to them —

New Robbers.

Captain, Captain! They've tracked us down — several thousand of them are drawing a cordon around the central forest.

New Robbers.

Woe, woe, woe! We are caught, broken on the wheel, we are quartered! Many thousands of hussars, dragoons, and rangers are galloping around the hill, and have occupied the air-holes.

(Moor exits.)

Schweizer. Grimm. Roller. Schwarz. Schufterle. Spiegelberg. Razmann. Band of Robbers.

Schweizer. Have we shaken them from their beds? Rejoice, Roller! I've long wished to fight with such commissary-bread knights — where is the Captain? Is the whole band together? We have enough powder, don't we?

Razmann. Powder enough to sink a fleet. But we are only eighty in all, so it’s barely one against twenty of them.

Schweizer. All the better! And let it be fifty against my big nail — They’ve waited so long until we set their straw on fire under their arses — Brothers, brothers! There’s no need to fear. They stake their lives for ten pence, don’t we fight for life and liberty? — We’ll come down on them like a flood, and rain fire on their heads like lightning — Where the devil is the captain, then?

Spiegelberg. He abandons us in this distress. Can we not escape anymore?

Schweizer. Escape?

Spiegelberg. Oh! Why didn't I stay in Jerusalem.

Schweizer. I wish you’d choked in a cesspool, you filth-soul! You’re all mouth with naked nuns, but when you see two fists — Coward, show yourself now, or you’ll be sewn into a pigskin and hunted by dogs.

Razmann. The captain, the captain!

Moor (slowly to himself.)

Moor. I’ve had them completely surrounded; now they must fight like desperadoes. (Aloud.) Children! Now’s the time! We are lost, or we must fight like wounded boars.

Schweizer. Ha! I’ll rip their bellies with my claws so their guts spill out a foot long! — Lead us, Captain! We’ll follow you into the jaws of death.

Moor. Load all weapons! There’s no shortage of powder, is there?

Schweizer (jumps up.) Enough powder to blast the earth to the moon!

Razmann. Everyone has five pairs of loaded pistols, and three more muskets besides.

Moor. Good, good! And now some must climb the trees, or hide in the thicket, and fire on them from ambush —

Schweizer. That’s where you belong, Spiegelberg!

Moor. The rest of us, like furies, will fall on their flanks.

Schweizer. I’m in on that, I am!

Moor. At the same time, everyone must blow their whistles, rush around in the forest to make our numbers seem more terrifying: also all dogs must be unleashed and set on their ranks, so they scatter, disperse, and run into your line of fire. We three, Roller, Schweizer and I, will fight in the thick of it.

Schweizer. Masterful, excellent! — We’ll thunder down on them so they won’t know where the blows are coming from. I’ve shot a cherry off a mouth before; just let them come. (Schufterle tugs Schweizer, who takes the captain aside and speaks softly with him.)

Moor. Silence!

Schweizer. I beg you —

Moor. Away! He owes it to his shame; it has saved him. He shall not die when I and my Schweizer die, and my Roller. Let him take off his clothes, then I’ll say he was a traveler and I robbed him — Be calm, Schweizer! I swear it, he’ll be hanged yet.

Father (enters.)

Pater (to himself, startled.) Is this the dragon’s nest? — With your permission, gentlemen! I am a servant of the Church, and outside stand seventeen hundred who are guarding every hair on my temples.

Schweizer. Bravo! Bravo! That was well said to keep your stomach warm.

Moor. Silence, comrade! — Tell me briefly, Father, what do you have to do here?

Father. I am sent by the High Authority, which holds the power of life and death—you thieves—you arsonists—you scoundrels—you venomous viper brood, slithering in darkness, striking in secret—the leprosy of humanity—spawn of hell—a delectable feast for ravens and vermin—a colony for gallows and wheel—

Schweizer. Dog! Stop your cursing, or—(He presses his rifle butt to the Father's face.)

Moor. Fie, Schweizer! You're ruining his flow—he's memorized his sermon so well—do go on, sir!—"for gallows and wheel?"

Father. And you, fine captain! Duke of cutpurses! King of rogues! Grand Mogul of all scoundrels under the sun!—Quite like that first abominable ringleader, who ignited a thousand legions of innocent angels into rebellious fire, dragging them down with him into the deep pit of damnation—the wailing of abandoned mothers howls at your heels, you drink blood like water, human lives weigh less than a bubble on your murderous dagger.—

Moor. Very true, very true! Go on!

Father. What? Very true, very true? Is that an answer?

Moor. What, sir? Were you not prepared for that? Go on, just go on! What else were you going to say?

Father (in a fervor.) Horrible man! Get away from me! Does not the blood of the murdered Imperial Count cling to your cursed fingers? Have you not broken into the Lord's sanctuary with thieving hands, and with a villainous grasp stolen the consecrated vessels of the supper? How? Have you not thrown firebrands into our God-fearing city? And toppled the powder tower over the heads of good Christians? (With clasped hands.) Horrible, horrible crimes, stinking to high heaven, arming the Last Judgment to break forth with fury! Ripe for retribution, ready for the final trumpet!

Moor. Masterfully done so far! But to the point! What does the most honorable magistrate wish to make known to me through you?

Father. What you are never worthy to receive—Look around you, arsonist! As far as your eye can see, you are surrounded by our riders—there is no room left for escape—as surely as cherries grow on these oaks, and these firs bear peaches, so surely will you turn your backs on these oaks and these firs unscathed.

Moor. Do you hear that, Schweizer?—But go on!

Father. Hear then how kindly, how long-suffering the court deals with you, scoundrel. If you now crawl to the cross and beg for grace and clemency, behold, then severity itself will become mercy, justice a loving mother—she will close her eyes to half your crimes, and let it—just think!—and let it end with the wheel.

Schweizer. Did you hear that, Captain? Shall I go and strangle this trained sheepdog until the red juice spurts from every pore?—

Roller. Captain!—Storm! Thunder and hell!—Captain,—how he clenches his lower lip between his teeth! Shall I set this fellow upside down under the firmament like a skittle?

Schweizer. Me! Me! Let me kneel, fall before you! Let me have the pleasure of crushing him to a pulp!

(Father screams.)

Moor. Away from him! Let no one dare touch him! — (To the priest, drawing his sword!) Look, Father! Here stand seventy-nine men, of whom I am captain, and not one knows how to fly at a wink and command, or dance to cannon-music, and outside stand seventeen hundred men, their hair grayed under muskets — but listen now! This is Moor speaking, captain of the arsonists: It is true, I have slain the Imperial Count, set fire to and plundered the Dominican church, thrown firebrands into your bigoted city, and brought down the powder tower upon the heads of good Christians — but that is not all. I have done more. (He extends his right hand.) Notice the four precious rings I wear on each finger — go, and report point by point to the lords of the court over life and death what you will see and hear — this ruby I pulled from the finger of a minister whom I struck down at the feet of his prince during a hunt. He had flattered his way from the dust of the common people to a prime favorite; the fall of his neighbor was his Highness's footstool — tears of orphans lifted him up. This diamond I took from a financial councilor who sold honors and offices to the highest bidders and cast the grieving patriot from his door. — This agate I wear in honor of a priest of your ilk, whom I strangled with my own hand when he had openly wept in the pulpit that the Inquisition was falling into such disrepair — I could tell you more stories about my rings, if I didn't already regret the few words I have wasted on you —

Pater. O Pharaoh! Pharaoh!

Moor. Do you hear it? Did you notice the sigh? Does he not stand there as if he would pray fire from heaven down upon the company of Korah, judges with a shrug, condemns with a Christian Ah! — Can man then be so blind? He, who has the hundred eyes of Argus to spy out flaws in his brother, can he be so utterly blind to himself? — They thunder meekness and tolerance from their clouds, and offer human sacrifices to the God of Love like to a fiery Moloch — preach love of neighbor, and curse the eighty-year-old blind from their doors: — rage against avarice and have depopulated Peru for golden clasps and harnessed the heathen like beasts of burden before their chariots — They rack their brains as to how it could have been possible for nature to create an Iscariot, and not the worst among them would betray the triune God for ten pieces of silver. — Oh, you Pharisees, you counterfeiters of truth, you apes of the divine! You do not shrink from kneeling before crosses and altars, you lacerate your backs with straps, and torment your flesh with fasting; you imagine with these pitiful deceptions to pull the wool over the eyes of him whom you fools call the Omniscient, no differently than one mocks the great most bitterly when one flatters them that they hate flatterers; you boast of honesty and exemplary conduct, and the God who sees through your heart would rage against the Creator if he were not the very one who created the monster of the Nile. — Get him out of my sight.

Pater. That a villain can still be so proud!

Moor. Not enough — Now I will speak proudly. Go, and tell the honorable court that casts lots over life and death — I am no thief who conspires with sleep and midnight, and acts grand and imperious on the ladder — what I have done, I shall undoubtedly read one day in heaven's ledger of sins, but with its miserable corruptors I will not waste another word. Tell them, my trade is retribution — revenge is my business. (He turns his back to him.)

Father. So you don't want mercy and grace? — Fine, I'm done with you. (Turns to the band.) Then hear what justice, through me, makes known to you! — If you immediately deliver this condemned malefactor bound, behold, the punishment for your atrocities shall be remitted to the last memory — the holy Church will receive you, lost sheep, with renewed love into her maternal bosom, and the path to an honorable office shall be open to each of you. (with a triumphant smile.) Well, well? How does that taste, Your Majesty? — So, quickly! Bind him, and be free!

Moor. Do you hear it too? Do you hear? Why do you hesitate? Why do you stand there perplexed? She offers you freedom, and you are already her prisoners. — She grants you life, and that is no boast, for you are truly judged. — She promises you honors and offices, and what else can your lot be, even if you were victorious, but shame and curses and persecution? — She announces reconciliation from heaven, and you are truly damned. There is not a single hair on any of you that will not go to hell. Are you still considering? Are you still wavering? Is it so hard to choose between heaven and hell? Help them, Father!

Father (to himself.) Is the fellow mad? — Are you perhaps worried that this is a trap to catch you alive? — Read for yourselves, here is the general pardon signed. (He hands a paper to Schweizer.) Can you still doubt?

Moor. Look, look! What more could you ask for? — Signed with her own hand — it is mercy beyond all bounds — or perhaps you fear they will break their word, because you once heard that one doesn't keep promises to traitors? — Oh, be without fear! Even politics could force them to keep their word, even if they had given it to Satan. Who would ever believe them in the future? How could they ever make a second use of it? — I would swear they mean it sincerely. They know it is I who have incited and embittered you; they consider you innocent. They interpret your crimes as youthful errors, as impetuosity. They want me alone, I alone deserve to atone. Is that not so, Father?

Father. What devil is speaking through him? — Yes, certainly, certainly it is so — the fellow is making my head spin.

Moor. What, still no answer? Do you perhaps think you can still break through with weapons? Look around you, look around you! You surely won't think that, that would be childish confidence now. — Or do you perhaps flatter yourselves that you will fall as heroes, because you saw that I rejoiced in the fray? — Oh, don't believe that! You are not Moor. — You are wretched thieves! Miserable tools of my greater plans, like the despicable rope in the executioner's hand! — Thieves cannot fall as heroes fall. Life is gain for thieves, then something terrible follows — thieves have the right to tremble before death. — Hear how their horns sound! See how menacingly their sabers gleam! What? Still undecided? Are you mad? Are you insane? — It is unforgivable! I do not thank you for my life, I am ashamed of your sacrifice!

Father (extremely astonished.) I'm going mad, I'm running away! Has anyone ever heard of such a thing?

Moor. Or do you perhaps fear that I will stab myself, and by suicide annul the contract, which only applies to the living? No, children! That is an unnecessary fear. Here I throw away my dagger, and my pistols, and this little bottle of poison, which should still serve me well — I am so wretched that I have even lost mastery over my own life — What, still undecided? Or do you perhaps believe I will resist if you try to bind me? See! Here I bind my right hand to this oak branch, I am completely defenseless, a child could knock me over — Who is the first to abandon his captain in need?

Roller (moving wildly.) And if hell surrounded us nine-fold! (swings his sword.) Let no man who isn't a dog save the captain!

Schweizer (Tears up the pardon and throws the pieces in the priest's face.) Pardon in our bullets! Away, scoundrel! Tell the Senate that sent you that you won't find a single traitor among Moor's band — Save, save the captain!

All (shouting.) Save, save, save the captain!

Moor (breaking free, joyfully.) Now we are free — comrades! I feel an army in my fist — Death or freedom! At least they shall not take any of us alive!

(The attack is sounded. Noise and commotion. They exit with drawn swords.)

Act Three.

Scene One.

Amalia (in the garden, playing the lute.)

Franz enters.

Franz. Here again, stubborn dreamer? You stole away from the joyful meal and spoiled the guests' pleasure.

Amalia. A pity for such innocent pleasures! The death knell must still murmur in your ears, which echoed your father to his grave —

Franz. Will you mourn forever? Let the dead sleep, and make the living happy! I come —

Amalia. And when will you leave again?

Franz. Oh dear! No such gloomy, proud face! You grieve me, Amalia. I come to tell you —

Amalia. I suppose I must listen, Franz von Moor has become a gracious lord, after all.

Franz. Yes, quite, that's what I wanted to sound you out about — Maximilian has gone to sleep in the ancestral vault. I am lord. But I want to be completely so, Amalia. — You know what you were to our house, you were treated like Moor's daughter, his love for you even outlived death, you will surely never forget that? —

Amalia. Never, never. Who could so carelessly drink that away at a joyful meal!

Franz. You must reward my father's love in his sons, and Karl is dead — are you astonished? Are you dizzy? Yes, truly, the thought is so flatteringly sublime that it even stuns a woman's pride. Franz tramples the hopes of the noblest ladies, Franz comes and offers a poor orphan, helpless without him, his heart, his hand, and with it all his gold and all his castles and forests. — Franz, the envied, the feared, voluntarily declares himself Amalia's slave —

Amalia. Why doesn't lightning strike the impious tongue that utters such a wicked word! You murdered my beloved, and Amalia is to call you husband! You —

Franz. Not so impetuous, most gracious princess! — Of course, Franz does not grovel before you like a cooing Celadon — of course, he has not learned, like the languishing shepherd of Arcadia, to wail his love laments to the echo of caves and rocks — Franz speaks, and if one does not answer, he will — command.

Amalia. You worm, command? Command me? — And what if the command is returned with scornful laughter?

Franz. You won't do that. I still know means that can so nicely humble the pride of an imaginative stubborn head — the convent and the walls!

Amalia. Bravo! Splendid! And in the convent and behind walls, forever spared your basilisk gaze, and plenty of leisure to think of Karl, to cling to him. Welcome with your convent! On, on with your walls!

Francis. Haha! Is that so? — Listen! Now you've taught me how to torment you — this eternal obsession with Charles, my sight shall whip it from your head like a fire-haired fury, the specter of Francis shall lurk behind the image of your beloved, like the enchanted dog guarding buried gold chests — I'll drag you to the chapel by your hair, sword in hand, force the marriage vow from your soul, storm your virgin bed, and conquer your proud modesty with even greater pride.

Amelia (slaps him.) Take that as a dowry first!

Francis (enraged.) Ha! How that shall be avenged tenfold, and tenfold again! — Not my wife — you shall not have that honor. — You shall be my mistress, so that honest peasant women point fingers at you when you dare to walk down the street. Gnaw your teeth — spit fire and murder from your eyes — the fury of a woman delights me, it only makes you more beautiful, more desirable. Come — this struggle will adorn my triumph and spice the pleasure of forced embraces — Come with me to my chamber — I burn with longing — you shall come with me this instant. (tries to drag her away)

Amelia (throws her arms around his neck.) Forgive me, Francis! (as he tries to embrace her, she snatches his sword from his side and steps back hastily.) Do you see, villain, what I can do to you now? — I am a woman, but a furious woman — dare to touch my body with an unchaste grip — this steel shall pierce your lustful breast, and the spirit of my uncle will guide my hand. Flee at once! (She chases him away.)

Amelia.

Ah! How well I feel — Now I can breathe freely — I felt strong as a sparking horse, fierce as a tigress pursuing the roaring robber of her young — To a convent, he says — Thanks for this happy discovery! — Now betrayed love has found its sanctuary — the convent — the cross of the Redeemer is the sanctuary of betrayed love. (She makes to leave.)

Herman (enters timidly.)

Herman. Miss Amelia! Miss Amelia!

Amelia. Unhappy man! Why do you disturb me?

Herman. This hundredweight must be lifted from my soul before it crushes me to hell (throws himself before her.) Forgiveness! Forgiveness! I have greatly offended you, Miss Amelia.

Amelia. Stand up! Go! I want to know nothing. (Tries to leave.)

Herman. (holding her back.) No! Stay! By God! By eternal God! You shall know everything!

Amelia. Not another sound — I forgive you — Go home in peace.

(Tries to hurry away.)

Herman. Just hear one single word — it will restore all your peace.

Amelia (returns and looks at him in wonder.) How, friend? — who in heaven and on earth can restore my peace?

Herman. A single word from my lips can — hear me.

Amelia (taking his hand with pity.) Good man — Can a word from your lips tear open the bolts of eternity?

Herman (stands up.) Charles still lives!

Amalia (shrieking.) Unhappy man!

Herrmann. No otherwise — Now one more word — your uncle —

Amalia (rushing towards him.) You lie —

Herrmann. Your uncle —

Amalia. Karl still lives!

Herrmann. And your uncle —

Amalia. Karl still lives?

Herrmann. Your uncle too — Don't betray me, (rushes out.)

Amalia (stands for a long time as if petrified. Then she starts up wildly, rushes after him.) Karl still lives!

Scene Two.

Area by the Danube.

The Robbers.

(encamped on a hill under trees, the horses grazing down the slope.)

Moor. Here I must remain (throws himself on the ground.) My limbs feel like they've been beaten off. My tongue dry as a potsherd (Schweizer imperceptibly slips away.) I would ask you to fetch me a handful of water from this stream, but you are all weary unto death.

Schwarz. And all the wine is gone from our flasks.

Moor. Look how beautifully the grain stands! — The trees almost break under their bounty. — The vine full of hope.

Grimm. It will be a fruitful year.

Moor. You think so? — And so one sweat in the world would be paid for. One? — — But a hailstorm can fall overnight and destroy everything.

Schwarz. That's quite possible. Everything can be ruined just hours before harvest.

Moor. That's what I say. Everything will be ruined. Why should man succeed in what he gets from the ant, if he fails in what makes him equal to the gods? — or is this the mark of his destiny?

Schwarz. I don't know it.

Moor. You spoke well, and acted even better if you never desired to know it! — Brother — I have seen men, their bee-like worries, and their giant projects — their god-like plans and their mouse-like affairs, the wonderfully strange race for happiness; — this one entrusted to the swiftness of his horse — another to the nose of his donkey — a third to his own legs; this colorful lottery of life, in which so many stake their innocence, and — their heaven, to catch a prize, and — zeros are the outcome — in the end there was no prize in it. It is a spectacle, brother, that brings tears to your eyes, even as it tickles your diaphragm with laughter.

Schwarz. How gloriously the sun sets there!

Moor (absorbed in the sight.) So dies a hero! — Adorable!

Grimm. You seem deeply moved.

Moor. When I was a boy — it was my favorite thought to live like them, to die like them — (with suppressed pain.) It was a boy's thought!

Grimm. I should hope so.

Moor (pulls his hat over his face.) There was a time — Leave me alone, comrades.

Schwarz. Moor! Moor! What the devil? — how he changes color!

Grimm. All devils! what's wrong with him? is he sick?

Moor. There was a time when I couldn't sleep if I had forgotten my night prayer —

Grimm. Are you mad? Will you let your boyhood years dictate to you?

Moor (lays his head on Grimm's chest.) Brother! Brother!

Grimm. What? Don't be a child—I beg you—

Moor. If only I were—if only I were again!

Grimm. Fie! Fie!

Schwarz. Cheer up. Look at this picturesque landscape—the lovely evening.

Moor. Yes, friends, this world is so beautiful.

Schwarz. Well said, indeed.

Moor. This earth, so glorious.

Grimm. Right—right—that's what I like to hear.

Moor (sinking back.) And I so ugly in this beautiful world—and I a monster on this glorious earth.

Grimm. Oh dear! Oh dear!

Moor. My innocence! My innocence!—See! Everyone has gone out to bask in the peaceful rays of spring—why do I alone suck hell from the joys of heaven?—that everyone is so happy, everything so kindred through the spirit of peace!—the whole world one family and one father above—My father not—I alone the outcast, I alone singled out from the ranks of the pure—never for me the sweet name of child—never for me the longing gaze of a loved one—never, never the embrace of a bosom friend (recoiling wildly.) Besieged by murderers—hissed at by vipers—chained to vice with iron bands—reeling into the grave of perdition on vice's swaying reed—in the midst of the flowers of the happy world, a howling Abaddon!

Schwarz (to the others.) Incomprehensible! I've never seen him like this.

Moor (with melancholy.) If only I could return to my mother's womb! If only I could be born a beggar!—No! I would not wish for more, O Heaven—if only I could become like one of these day laborers!—Oh, I would toil until the blood rolled from my temples—to buy myself the pleasure of a single midday nap—the bliss of a single tear.

Grimm (to the others.) Just be patient, the paroxysm is already subsiding.

Moor. There was a time when they flowed so readily for me—oh, you days of peace! You castle of my father—you green, romantic valleys! Oh, all you Elysian scenes of my childhood!—Will you never return—never with a precious whisper cool my burning breast?—Grieve with me, Nature—They will never return, never with a precious whisper cool my burning breast.—Gone! Gone! Irretrievably!

Schweizer (with water in his hat.)

Schweizer. Drink up, Captain—there's plenty of water here, and fresh as ice.

Schwarz. You're bleeding—what have you done?

Schweizer. Fool, a prank that almost cost me two legs and a neck. As I was rolling along the sand dune by the river, slip, the junk slid out from under me, and I tumbled ten Rhenish feet down—there I lay, and as I was just getting my five senses back in order, I found the clearest water in the gravel. Enough for the dance this time, I thought, the Captain will surely like it.

Moor (returns his hat to him, and wipes his face.) Otherwise, one wouldn't see the scars that the Bohemian riders have etched on your forehead—your water was good, Schweizer—those scars suit you well.

Schweizer. Pah! There's still room enough for thirty more.

Moor. Yes, children—it was a hot afternoon—and only one man lost—my Roller died a beautiful death. They would place a marble on his bones, if he hadn't died for me. Make do with this (he wipes his eyes.) How many of the enemy remained on the field?

Schweizer. One hundred and sixty hussars—ninety-three dragoons, some forty rangers—three hundred in all.

Moor. Three hundred for one!—Each of you has a claim on this head! (He uncovers his head.) Here I raise my dagger! As truly as my soul lives! I will never abandon you.

Schweizer. Don't swear! You don't know if you might yet find happiness and regret it.

Moor. By the bones of my Roller! I will never abandon you.

Kosinsky (enters.)

Kosinsky (to himself.) They say I'll find him in this district—hey, holla! What are those faces? —Could it be—as if it were them—it is, it is!—I'll speak to them.

Schwarz. Look out! Who's coming?

Kosinsky. Gentlemen! Forgive me! I don't know if I'm going right or wrong?

Moor. And who must we be for you to be going right?

Kosinsky. Men!

Schweizer. Have we shown that, Captain?

Kosinsky. I seek men who look death in the face, and let danger play around them like a tame snake, who value freedom more highly than honor and life, whose mere name, welcome to the poor and oppressed, makes the bravest cowardly and tyrants pale.

Schweizer (to the Captain.) I like this fellow. —Listen, good friend! You have found your people.

Kosinsky. I think so, and hope soon to find my brothers. —So you can then direct me to my rightful man, for I seek your captain, the great Count von Moor.

Schweizer (shakes his hand warmly.) Dear boy! We're on a first-name basis.

Moor (approaching.) Do you know the captain?

Kosinsky. You are he—in that countenance—who could look at you and seek another? (stares at him for a long time.) I always wished to see the man with the annihilating gaze, as he sat on the ruins of Carthage—now I wish it no longer.

Schweizer. What a rascal!

Moor. And what brings you to me?

Kosinsky. Oh, Captain! My more than cruel fate—I have been shipwrecked on the turbulent sea of this world, I have had to watch the hopes of my life sink to the bottom, and nothing remained but the tormenting memory of their loss, which would drive me mad if I did not seek to stifle it through other activity.

Moor. Another accuser against the deity!—Go on.

Kosinsky. I became a soldier. Misfortune pursued me there too—I made a voyage to East India, my ship was wrecked on cliffs—nothing but failed plans! I finally hear far and wide tales of your deeds, arson, as they called them, and have traveled thirty miles here, with the firm resolve to serve under you, if you will accept my services—I beg you, worthy Captain, do not refuse me!

Schweizer (with a leap.) Huzzah! Huzzah! So our Roller is repaid a thousandfold! A whole fellow murderer for our band!

Moor. What is your name?

Kosinsky. Kosinsky.

Moor. What? Kosinsky! Do you know that you are a frivolous boy, and flit through the great step of your life like an thoughtless girl—Here you will not throw balls or roll skittles, as you imagine.

Kosinsky. I know what you're going to say—I'm twenty-four years old, but I've seen swords flash and heard bullets whiz past me.

Moor. So young, sir? — And did you learn to fence only to strike down poor travelers for a thaler, or stab women in the back? Go, go! you've run away from your nurse because she threatened you with a switch.

Schweizer. What the devil, Captain! What are you thinking? Do you want to send this Hercules away? Doesn't he look like he'd chase Marshal Saxe across the Ganges with a stirring spoon?

Moor. Because your trifles fail, you come and want to become a rogue, an assassin? — Murder, boy, do you even understand the word? You may have slept soundly when you cut off poppy heads, but to carry a murder on your soul. —

Kosinsky. Every murder you bid me commit, I will answer for.

Moor. What? Are you so clever? Do you presume to catch a man with flattery? How do you know that I don't have bad dreams, or won't turn pale on my deathbed? How much have you already done where you thought of accountability?

Kosinsky. Truly! Very little as yet, but this journey to you, noble Count!

Moor. Did your tutor put the story of Robin into your hands? — Such careless scoundrels should be chained to the galley — the one that inflamed your childish imagination and infected you with the mad urge to be a great man? Do you itch for fame and honor? Do you want to buy immortality with arson? Mark this, ambitious youth! No laurel grows for arsonists! No triumph is set for bandit victories — but curses, danger, death, shame — do you see the gallows there on the hill?

Spiegelberg (pacing impatiently.) Oh, how stupid! How abominable, how unforgivably stupid! That's not the way! I did it differently.

Kosinsky. What should he fear, who does not fear death?

Moor. Bravo! Incomparable! You've held your own bravely in the schools, you've learned your Seneca by heart masterfully. — But, dear friend, with such maxims you will not talk over suffering nature, with them you will never blunt the arrows of pain. — Think carefully, my son! (He takes his hand.) Consider, I advise you as a father — first learn the depth of the abyss before you leap into it! If you still know how to snatch a single joy in the world — moments might come when you — awaken — and then — it might be too late. Here you step, as it were, out of the circle of humanity — either you must be a higher man, or you are a devil — Once more, my son! if a spark of hope still glimmers for you anywhere else, then abandon this terrible pact, which only despair enters, if a higher wisdom has not founded it — One can be deceived — believe me, one can mistake for strength of spirit what is ultimately despair — Believe me, me! and hasten away.

Kosinsky. No! I will not flee now. If my pleas do not move you, then hear the story of my misfortune. — You yourself will then force the dagger into my hands, you will — encamp yourselves here on the ground, and listen to me attentively!

Moor. I will hear it.

Kosinsky. Know then, I am a Bohemian nobleman, and through the early death of my father, I became master of a considerable estate. The region was paradisiacal — for it contained an angel — a maiden adorned with all the charms of blooming youth, and chaste as the light of heaven. But to whom do I tell this? It echoes past your ears — you have never loved, have never been loved —

Schweizer. Softly, softly! Our captain is turning scarlet.

Moor. Stop! I'll hear it another time—tomorrow, next, or—when I've seen blood.

Kosinsky. Blood, blood—just listen! Blood, I tell you, will fill your whole soul. She was of common birth, a German—but her sight melted away the prejudices of nobility. With the shyest modesty, she took the wedding ring from my hand, and the day after tomorrow I was to lead my Amalia to the altar.

Moor (stands up quickly.)

Kosinsky. In the midst of the rapture of impending bliss, amidst preparations for the wedding—I am summoned to court by an express. I presented myself. They showed me letters I supposedly wrote, full of treasonous content. I blushed at the malice—they took my sword, threw me in prison, all my senses were gone.

Schweizer. And meanwhile—go on! I already smell a rat.

Kosinsky. I lay there for a month, not knowing what was happening to me. I feared for my Amalia, who would suffer a thousand deaths every minute because of my fate. Finally, the court's first minister appeared, congratulated me on the discovery of my innocence, with honeyed words, read me the letter of freedom, and returned my sword. Now, in triumph, to fly to my castle, into the arms of my Amalia—she had vanished. She had been taken away at midnight, no one knew where? and had not been seen since. Phew! it shot through me like lightning, I flew to the city, inquired at court—all eyes were fixed on me, no one would give an answer—finally I discovered her through a hidden grating in the palace—she threw me a small note.

Schweizer. Didn't I tell you?

Kosinsky. Hell, death and the devil! There it was! She had been given the choice whether she would rather see me die or become the Prince's mistress. In the struggle between honor and love, she chose the latter, and (laughing) I was saved.

Schweizer. What did you do then?

Kosinsky. I stood there, as if struck by a thousand thunders!—Blood! was my first thought, Blood! my last. Foaming at the mouth, I ran home, chose a three-edged sword, and with it, in all haste, to the minister's house, for only he—he alone had been the hellish pimp. I must have been noticed from the street, for as I went up, all the rooms were locked. I searched, I asked: He had gone to the Prince, was the answer. I went straight there, they knew nothing of him. I went back, broke down the doors, found him, was just about to—but then five or six servants sprang from ambush and wrested my sword from me.

Schweizer (stamping his foot.) And he got nothing, and you came away empty-handed?

Kosinsky. I was seized, accused, tortured, ignominiously—mark my words!—by special grace ignominiously driven from the borders, my possessions fell as a gift to the minister, my Amalia remains in the tiger's clutches, sighing and grieving her life away, while my revenge must fast and bend under the yoke of despotism.

Schweizer (standing up, sharpening his sword.) That's grist for our mill, Captain! There's something to ignite here!

Moor (who has been pacing back and forth in violent agitation, jumps up quickly, to the robbers.) I must see her—up! gather yourselves—you stay, Kosinsky—pack up quickly!

The Robbers. Whither? What?

Moor. Whither? Who asks whither? (Vehemently to Schweizer.) Traitor, you would hold me back? But by the hope of heaven! —

Schweizer. I, a traitor? — Go to hell, I follow you!

Moor (embracing him.) Brother dear! You follow me — she weeps, she weeps, she wastes her life in sorrow. Up! Quickly! All! To Franconia! In eight days we must be there.

(They exit.)

Act Four.

Scene One.

Rural area around the Moorish Castle.

Robber Moor. Kosinsky,

in the distance.

Moor. Go ahead and announce me. You still remember everything you need to say, don't you?

Kosinsky. You are Count von Brand, from Mecklenburg, I your groom — don't worry, I'll play my part, farewell! (Exits.)

Moor. Greetings to you, native soil! (He kisses the earth.) Native sky! Native sun! — and fields and hills and rivers and forests! All, all of you, my heartfelt greetings! — How wonderfully the air blows from my home mountains! How balmy joy streams from you, towards the poor fugitive! — Elysium! Poetic world! Stop, Moor! Your foot treads in a sacred temple.

(He approaches.) Look, even the swallows' nests in the castle courtyard — even the garden gate! — and this corner by the fence, where you so often spied on and teased the bird-catcher — and down there the meadow valley, where you, the hero Alexander, led your Macedonians into battle at Arbela, and next to it the grassy hill from which you overthrew the Persian satrap — and your victorious banner fluttered high! (He smiles.) The golden May years of boyhood live again in the soul of the wretched man — then you were so happy, so complete, so cloudlessly cheerful — and now — now the ruins of your plans lie here! Here you were once to walk, a great, stately, praised man — here to live your boyhood again in Amalia's blooming children — here! here the idol of your people — but the evil foe sulked at this! (He starts.) Why have I come here? That it might befall me like the prisoner whom the clanking iron ring jolts from dreams of freedom — no, I return to my misery! — The prisoner had forgotten the light, but the dream of freedom flashed over him like lightning into the night, which it leaves darker — Farewell, you valleys of my homeland! Once you saw the boy Karl, and the boy Karl was a happy boy — now you saw the man, and he was in despair. (He quickly turns to the farthest end of the area, where he suddenly stops and looks back at the castle with melancholy.) Not see her, not a single glance? — And only a wall between me and Amalia — No! I must see her — I must see him — it shall crush me! (He turns back.) Father! Father! Your son approaches — away with you, black smoking blood! Away, hollow, harsh, twitching death-gaze! Grant me this hour free — Amalia! Father! Your Karl approaches! (He walks quickly towards the castle.) — Torment me when the day awakens, do not cease from me when night comes — torment me in terrible dreams! Only do not poison this single pleasure for me! (He stands at the gate.) What is happening to me? What is this, Moor? Be a man! — — Deathly shivers — — Dreadful premonition — —

(He goes inside.)

Scene Two.

Gallery in the castle.

Robber Moor. Amalia (enter.)

Amalia. And would you dare to recognize his portrait among these paintings?

Moor. Oh, most certainly. His image was always vivid within me. (Walking around the paintings.) This is not him.

Amalia. Guessed it! — He was the progenitor of the noble house, and received his title from Barbarossa, whom he served against the pirates.

Moor (still by the paintings.) This isn't him either — nor that one — nor that one over there — he is not among them.

Amalia. What, look more closely! I thought you knew him —

Moor. I know my father no better! He lacks the gentle curve around the mouth that made him recognizable among thousands — it is not him.

Amalia. I am astonished. What? Not seen for eighteen years, and still —

Moor (quickly, with a flush.) This is him! (He stands as if struck by lightning.)

Amalia. An excellent man!

Moor (lost in his gaze.) Father, father! Forgive me! — Yes, an excellent man! — (He wipes his eyes.) A divine man!

Amalia. You seem to take a great interest in him.

Moor. Oh, an excellent man — and he should be gone.

Amalia. Gone! As our best joys pass away — (gently taking his hand.) Dear Count, no happiness ripens under the moon.

Moor. Very true, very true — and have you already made this sad experience? You cannot be twenty-three years old.

Amalia. And I have. Everything lives, only to sadly die again. We only become interested, we only gain, so that we may lose again with pain.

Moor. You have already lost something?

Amalia. Nothing. Everything. Nothing — shall we go on, Count?

Moor. So quickly? Whose is that picture on the right there? It seems to me to be an unhappy physiognomy.

Amalia. This picture on the left is the Count's son, the true master — come, come!

Moor. But this picture on the right?

Amalia. You don't want to go into the garden?

Moor. But this picture on the right? — You are crying, Amalia?

Amalia (exits quickly.)

Moor.

She loves me, she loves me! — her whole being began to rebel, treacherous tears rolled down her cheeks. She loves me! — Wretch, you deserved this for her! Do I not stand here like a condemned man before the fatal block? Is this the sofa where I swam in bliss in her arms? Are these the paternal halls? (Moved by the sight of his father.) You, you — flames of fire from your eyes — Curse, curse, damnation! — where am I? Night before my eyes — terrors of God — I, I killed him! (He runs off.)

Franz von Moor deep in thought.

Away with this image! Away, cowardly wretch! Why do you falter and before whom? Is it not, for the few hours the Count has walked within these walls, as if a spy from hell always crept after my heels — I should know him! There is something so grand and often seen in his wild, sun-burnt face that makes me tremble — Amalia is not indifferent to him either! Does she not cast such greedy, longing glances at the fellow, with which she is otherwise so stingy towards the whole world? — Did I not see how she let a couple of stealthy tears fall into the wine, which he so hastily gulped down behind my back, as if he wanted to swallow the glass with it. Yes, I saw that, through the mirror I saw it with these very eyes. Holla Franz! Beware! Behind this lurks some monster pregnant with ruin!

(He stands before Karl's portrait, examining it.) His long, crane-like neck—his black, fiery eyes, hm! hm!—his dark, overhanging, bushy eyebrows. (Suddenly starting.) —Malicious hell! Do you put this premonition in my mind? It is Karl! Yes, now all his features come to life again—It's him! Despite his disguise!—It's him—despite his disguise!—It's him—Death and damnation! (He paces back and forth with heavy steps.) Have I wasted my nights for this—removed mountains and leveled abysses for this—have I rebelled against all instincts of humanity for this, only for this restless vagabond to stumble through my most intricate schemes at last—Softly! Just softly! There is only child's play left—I'm already up to my ears in mortal sins anyway, so it would be foolish to swim back when the shore is already so far behind—There's no turning back now—Grace itself would be reduced to beggary, and infinite mercy would go bankrupt if it wanted to answer for all my debts—So, forward like a man—(He rings a bell.)—Let him gather to the spirit of his father and come, I mock the dead.—Daniel, hey Daniel!—What's the bet, they've already incited him against me too! He looks so mysterious.

Daniel (enters.)

Daniel. What are your commands, my master?

Franz. Nothing. Away, fill this goblet of wine, but quickly! (Daniel exits.) Wait, old man! I'll catch you, I'll fix my gaze on you, so intently that your stricken conscience will blanch through your disguise! He must die!—He is a bungler who only half-finishes his work and then leaves, idly gaping at what will become of it.

Daniel (with wine.)

Franz. Place it here! Look me steadily in the eye! How your knees are knocking! How you're trembling! Confess, old man! What have you done?

Daniel. Nothing, gracious sir, as God lives, and my poor soul.

Franz. Drink this wine!—What? You hesitate?—Out with it, quickly! What have you thrown into the wine?

Daniel. God help me! What? I, into the wine?

Franz. You've thrown poison into the wine! Aren't you pale as snow? Confess, confess! Who gave it to you? Isn't it true! The Count, the Count gave it to you?

Daniel. The Count? Jesus Maria! The Count gave me nothing.

Franz. (Grabbing him roughly.) I'll strangle you until you turn blue, you hoary liar! Nothing? And why were you all huddled together? He and you and Amalia? And what were you always whispering about? Out with it! What secrets, what secrets has he confided in you?

Daniel. Only all-knowing God knows. He has confided no secrets in me.

Franz. Will you deny it? What intrigues have you hatched to get rid of me? Isn't it true? To throttle me in my sleep? To cut my throat while shaving? To poison me in my wine or chocolate? Out with it, out with it!—or to give me eternal sleep in my soup? Out with it! I know everything.

Daniel. So help me God, when I am in need, as I tell you now nothing but the pure, unadulterated truth!

Franz. This time I will forgive you. But tell me, he certainly slipped money into your purse, didn't he? He squeezed your hand harder than is customary? Something like how one usually squeezes the hands of old acquaintances?

Daniel. Never, my lord.

Franz. He told you, for example, that he already knew you? — that you almost ought to know him? That one day the scales would fall from your eyes — that — what? He never told you anything about that?

Daniel. Not the slightest.

Franz. That certain circumstances prevented him — that one often has to wear masks to get at one's enemies — that he wanted to take revenge, to take the most terrible revenge.

Daniel. Not a word of any of this.

Franz. What? Nothing at all? Think carefully. — That he knew the old master very well — particularly well — that he loved him — loved him immensely — loved him like a son —

Daniel. I do recall hearing something like that from him.

Franz. (pale) Did he, did he really? What, let me hear! He said he was my brother?

Daniel. (startled) What, my lord? — No, he didn't say that. But as the young lady was showing him around the gallery, I was just dusting the frames of the paintings, he suddenly stopped dead by the portrait of the late master, as if struck by lightning. The gracious young lady pointed to it and said: 'A most excellent man!' 'Yes, a most excellent man,' he replied, wiping his eyes.

Franz. Listen, Daniel! You know I have always been a kind master to you, I have given you food and clothes, and spared your weak old age in all tasks —

Daniel. May the dear Lord God reward you for it! And I have always served you honestly.

Franz. That's what I was about to say. You have never contradicted me in your life, for you know very well that you owe me obedience in everything I command you.

Daniel. In everything with all my heart, as long as it does not go against God and my conscience.

Franz. Nonsense, nonsense! Aren't you ashamed? An old man, and believing in Christmas fairy tales! Go on, Daniel! That was a foolish thought. I am the master. God and conscience will punish me, if there is a God and a conscience.

Daniel (claps his hands together.) Merciful heaven!

Franz. By your obedience! Do you understand that word? By your obedience, I command you, tomorrow the Count must no longer walk among the living.

Daniel. Help, holy God! Why?

Franz. By your blind obedience! — and I will hold you to it.

Daniel. Me? Help, blessed Mother of God! Me? What evil have I, an old man, done?

Franz. There's no time for long reflection here, your fate is in my hand. Do you want to waste away your life in the deepest of my towers, where hunger will force you to gnaw your own bones, and burning thirst to drink your own water again? — Or would you rather eat your bread in peace, and have rest in your old age?

Daniel. What, master? Peace and rest in old age? And a murderer?

Franz. Answer my question!

Daniel. My grey hairs, my grey hairs!

Franz. Yes or No!

Daniel. No! — God have mercy on me!

Franz. (About to leave.) Good, you'll need it. (Daniel stops him and falls before him.)

Daniel. Mercy, master! Mercy!

Franz. Yes or no!

Daniel. Gracious sir! I am seventy-one years old today! And I have honored my father and mother, and to my knowledge, never cheated anyone out of a penny's worth in my life, and I have held to my faith, faithfully and honestly, and I have served in your house for forty-four years, and now I await a peaceful, blessed end, oh Lord, Lord! (Embraces his knees violently) And you want to rob me of my last comfort in dying, so that the worm of conscience will deny me my last prayer, so that I shall go to sleep an abomination before God and men. No, no, my dearest, best, dearest gracious sir, you don't want that, you can't want that from a seventy-one-year-old man.

Franz. Yes or no! What's all this babble for?

Daniel. I will serve you even more diligently from now on. I will work my withered sinews in your service like a day laborer, I will get up earlier, I will lie down later—oh, and I will include you in my evening and morning prayers, and God will not cast away the prayer of an old man.

Franz. Obedience is better than sacrifice. Have you ever heard of the executioner adorning himself when he was to carry out a sentence?

Daniel. Oh, yes, indeed! But to strangle an innocent—a—

Franz. Am I accountable to you? May the axe ask the executioner why here and not there? — But see how patient I am — I offer you a reward for what you pledged to me.

Daniel. But I hoped to be allowed to remain a Christian when I pledged myself to you.

Franz. No contradiction! Look, I'll give you a whole day more to think it over! Consider it again. Fortune and misfortune—do you hear, do you understand? The greatest fortune and the utmost misfortune! I will work wonders in tormenting.

Daniel (After some thought.) I will do it, tomorrow I will do it. (Exits.)

Franz.

The temptation is strong, and he was certainly not born to be a martyr for his faith—Well, then, Count! By all appearances, they will have their executioner's feast tomorrow evening! It all depends on how one thinks about it, and he is a fool who thinks against his own advantage. The father, who perhaps drank one more bottle of wine, gets the urge—and out of it comes a human being, and the human being was certainly the last thing thought of in the whole Herculean task. Now I too get the urge—and a human being perishes from it, and certainly there is more understanding and intention here than there was at his creation—Does not the existence of most people depend mostly on the heat of a July noon, or on the alluring sight of a bedsheet, or on the horizontal position of a sleeping kitchen grace, or on an extinguished light? — If the birth of man is the work of a bestial impulse, of an accident, who should, because of the negation of his birth, allow himself to think of something significant? Cursed be the folly of our nurses and caregivers who corrupt our imagination with dreadful fairy tales and press gruesome images of judgment into our soft brain marrow, so that involuntary shudders still shake the limbs of a man into frosty fear, hinder our boldest resolve, chain our awakening reason in superstitious darkness—Murder! How a whole hell of furies flutters around the word—nature forgot to make one more man—the umbilical cord was not tied—the father got loose bowels on his wedding night—and the whole shadow play has vanished. It was something and will be nothing—Does it not mean the same as: it was nothing and will be nothing, and not another word will be exchanged about nothing—man arises from mud, and wades for a while in mud, and makes mud, and ferments back into mud, until he finally sticks filthily to the soles of his great-grandson's shoes. That is the end of the song—the muddy circle of human destiny, and thus—bon voyage, brother! The splenetic, gouty moralist of a conscience may chase wrinkled women from brothels and torture old usurers on their deathbeds—with me he will never get an audience. (He exits.)

Scene Three.

Another room in the castle.

Rogue Moor. (from one side.) Daniel (from the other.)

Moor. (hastily.) Where is the lady?

Daniel. My gracious lord! Allow a poor man to ask you for something.

Moor. It is granted to you, what do you want?

Daniel. Not much, and everything, so little and yet so much — let me kiss your hand!

Moor. That you shall not, good old man! (embraces him.) whom I would call father.

Daniel. Your hand, your hand! I beg you.

Moor. You shall not.

Daniel. I must! (He seizes it, examines it quickly and falls before him.) Dear, best Karl!

Moor. (startled, composes himself, feigning ignorance.) Friend, what are you saying? I don't understand you.

Daniel. Yes, deny it, pretend! Fine, fine! You are still my best, most precious young master — Dear God! That I, an old man, should still have the joy — what a stupid fool I am, that I didn't immediately — oh, my heavenly father! So you've returned, and the old master is in his grave, and here you are again — what a blind ass I was (hitting his forehead) that I didn't recognize you at first glance — oh, my! Who would have dreamed it! — what I prayed for with tears, — Jesus Christ! There he stands, in the flesh, back in the old room!

Moor. What kind of talk is that? Have you jumped up with a raging fever, or are you trying out a comedy role on me?

Daniel. Oh, for shame, for shame! It's not nice to make fun of an old servant like that — That scar! Hey, do you remember? — Good heavens! What a fright you gave me then — I always loved you so much, and what heartache you could have caused me then — you sat on my lap, — do you remember? — There in the round room — right, little bird? You've certainly forgotten that — and the cuckoo you liked so much? — just think! the cuckoo is broken, smashed to smithereens — old Susel broke it when she was sweeping the room — yes, of course, and there you sat on my lap, and cried 'hotto!' and I ran off to get you the 'hotto-horse' — Jesus God! Why did I, an old ass, have to run off? — and how hot it ran down my back — when I heard the screaming outside in the ear, I sprang in, and there the bright blood ran, and lay on the floor, and you had — holy Mother of God! Was it not as if a bucket of ice-cold water splashed over my neck — but that's what happens when you don't keep all eyes on the children. Good God, if it had gone into your eye — And it was your right hand too. My whole life, I said, no child shall ever again get a knife or scissors or anything sharp like that, I said, into their hands, I said, — luckily master and mistress were away — yes, yes, that shall be a warning to me my whole life, I said — Jemini, jemini! I could have lost my job, I could have, God forgive you, godless child — but thank God! it healed happily, except for the ugly scar.

Moor. I don't understand a word of anything you're saying.

Daniel. Yes, right, right? Those were the days? How many gingerbreads, or biscuits, or macarons I slipped you, I always liked you best, and do you remember what you told me down in the stable, when I put you on the old master's sweating fox, and let you chase around in the big meadow? Daniel! you said, just let me become a great man, Daniel, then you shall be my steward, and ride with me in the carriage, — yes, I said, and laughed, if God grants life and health, and you won't be ashamed of an old man, I said, then I will ask you to clear out the little house down in the village, which has been empty for a good while, and there I would lay in twenty buckets of wine, and manage in my old age. — Yes, just laugh, just laugh! Right, young master, you've completely forgotten that? — you don't want to know the old man, you act so strange, so distinguished — oh, you are still my golden young master — of course, a little wild — don't take it amiss! — As young flesh usually is — in the end everything can still turn out well.

Moor (embracing him.) Yes! Daniel, I can no longer hide it! I am your Karl, your lost Karl! How is my Amalia?

Daniel (begins to weep.) That I, an old sinner, should still have this joy—and the Lord wept in vain!—Away, away, white skull! Brittle bones, descend into the grave with joy! My lord and master lives, my eyes have seen him!

Moor. And he will keep his promise—take this, honest grey-head, for the sweat-fox in the stable (forces a heavy purse upon him) I have not forgotten the old man.

Daniel. What, what are you doing? Too much! You've made a mistake.

Moor. No mistake, Daniel! (Daniel is about to fall.) Stand up, tell me, how is my Amalia?

Daniel. God's reward! God's reward! Oh, Master Jerem!—Your Amalia, oh, she won't survive it, she'll die of joy!

Moor (vehemently.) She did not forget me?

Daniel. Forget? What nonsense are you talking? Forget you?—you should have been there, you should have seen how she behaved when the news came that you were dead, which the gracious master had spread—

Moor. What are you saying? My brother—

Daniel. Yes, your brother, the gracious master, your brother—I'll tell you more about it another time, when there's time for it—and how neatly she rebuffed him when he proposed to her every single day, wanting to make her his lady. Oh, I must go, must go, tell her, bring her the news (tries to leave.)

Moor. Stop, stop! She must not know, no one must know, not even my brother—

Daniel. Your brother? No, by no means, he must not know! Not him at all!—If he doesn't already know more than he should—Oh, I tell you, there are nasty people, nasty brothers, nasty masters—but I wouldn't be a nasty servant for all my master's gold—the gracious master believed you dead.

Moor. Hmm! What are you muttering there?

Daniel (softer.) And if one rises unbidden, of course—your brother was the late master's sole heir—

Moor. Old man!—What are you mumbling between your teeth, as if some monstrous secret hovered on your tongue, unwilling to come out, yet needing to? Speak more clearly!

Daniel. But I would rather gnaw my old bones from hunger, rather drink my own water from thirst, than earn abundant luxury through murder. (Exits quickly.)

Moor (starting up from a terrible pause.)

Betrayed, betrayed! It flashes across my soul like lightning!—Villainous tricks! Heaven and hell! Not you, Father! Villainous tricks! Murderer, robber through villainous tricks! Slandered by him! My letters falsified, suppressed—his heart full of love—oh, I monster of a fool—his father's heart full of love—oh, villainy, villainy! It would have cost me a genuflection, it would have cost me a tear—oh, I dull, dull, dull fool! (running against the wall.) I could have been happy—oh, villainy, villainy! The happiness of my life villainously, villainously cheated away. (He paces furiously.) Murderer, robber through villainous tricks!—He didn't even bear a grudge. Not a thought of a curse in his heart—oh, villain! Incomprehensible, creeping, abominable villain!

Kosinsky (enters.)

Kosinsky. Well, Captain, where are you? What is it? You mean to stay here longer, I perceive?

Moor. Up! Saddle the horses! We must be over the border before sunset!

Kosinsky. You jest.

Moor (commandingly.) Quickly, quickly! Don't delay, leave everything! And let no eye discover you.

(Kosinsky exits.)

Moor.

I flee from these walls. The slightest delay could drive me to madness, and he is my father's son—brother, brother! You have made me the most wretched on earth; I never wronged you; it was not brotherly. Reap the fruits of your misdeed in peace; my presence shall no longer embitter your enjoyment—but truly, it was not brotherly. Darkness extinguish them forever, and let death not stir them up!

Kosinsky.

Kosinsky. The horses are saddled; you can mount whenever you wish.

Moor. Presser, Presser! Why such haste? Shall I not see them again?

Kosinsky. I'll unsaddle them again if you wish; you told me to hurry head over heels.

Moor. One more time! One more farewell! I must drain this poisonous draught of bliss to the dregs, and then—hold, Kosinsky! Ten more minutes—behind the castle courtyard—and we'll gallop off!

Scene Four.

In the Garden.

Amalia.

You weep, Amalia? — and he spoke it with a voice! with a voice—it was as if nature rejuvenated itself—the enjoyed springs of love dawned with that voice! The nightingale sang as it did then—the flowers breathed as they did then—and I lay, intoxicated with bliss, in his arms—Ah, false, faithless heart! How you try to excuse your perjury! No, no, away from my soul, you sinful image—I have not broken my oath, you only one! Away from my soul, you treacherous, godless wishes! In the heart where Karl reigns, no son of earth may nest—But why, my soul, always, so unwillingly, after this stranger? Does he not cling so closely to the image of my only one? Is he not the eternal companion of my only one? You weep, Amalia? — Ah, I will flee him! — flee! — My eye shall never see this stranger!

Robber Moor (opens the garden gate.)

Amalia (starts.) Hark! hark! Did the door not rustle? (She perceives Karl and springs up.) He? — Whither? — What? — I am rooted here, unable to flee—Do not forsake me, God in heaven! — No, you shall not tear my Karl from me! My soul has no room for two deities, and I am a mortal maiden! (She takes out Karl's picture.) You, my Karl, be my genius against this stranger, this disturber of love! You, to gaze upon you, steadfastly,—and away with all unholy glances at this (she sits silently—her gaze fixed on the picture.)

Moor. You there, gracious lady? — and sorrowful? And a tear on this painting? — (Amalia gives him no answer.) — And who is the fortunate one for whom an angel's eye is silvered? May I also behold this glorified one— (he attempts to look at the painting.)

Amalia. No, yes, no!

Moor (drawing back.) Ha! — and does he deserve this deification? Does he deserve it? —

Amalia. If you had known him!

Moor. I would have envied him.

Amalia. Worshipped, you mean.

Moor. Ha!

Amalia. Oh, you would have loved him so — there was so much, so much in his face — in his eyes — in the tone of his voice, that is so like you — that I love so much —

Moor (looks at the ground.)

Amalia. Here, where you stand, he stood a thousand times — and beside him, she who forgot heaven and earth beside him — here his eye roamed through the splendid landscape around him — it seemed to sense his grand, rewarding gaze, and to beautify itself under the pleasure of its master's image — here he held the listeners of the air captive with heavenly music — here by this bush he plucked roses, and he plucked the roses for me — here, here he lay on my neck, his mouth burned on mine, and the flowers gladly died under the lovers' footsteps —

Moor. He is no more?

Amalia. He sails on stormy seas — Amalia's love sails with him — he wanders through untrodden sandy deserts — Amalia's love makes the burning sand green beneath him, and the wild bushes bloom — the midday sun scorches his bare head, northern snow shrinks his soles, stormy hail rains around his temples, and Amalia's love cradles him in storms — oceans and mountains and horizons between the lovers — but their souls transport themselves from their dusty prison and meet in the paradise of love — You seem sad, Count?

Moor. Words of love also quicken my own love.

Amalia. (pale.) What? You love another? — Woe is me, what have I said?

Moor. She believed me dead, and remained faithful to the one she thought dead — she heard again that I live, and sacrificed the crown of a saint for me. She knows I wander in deserts and roam in misery, and her love flies after me through deserts and misery. Her name is also Amalia, like yours, gracious lady.

Amalia. How I envy your Amalia!

Moor. Oh, she is an unhappy girl, her love is for one who is lost, and will — eternally never be rewarded.

Amalia. No, she will be rewarded in heaven. Do they not say there is a better world, where the sorrowful rejoice, and lovers recognize each other again?

Moor. Yes, a world where the veils fall away, and love finds itself again terribly — Eternity is its name — my Amalia is an unhappy girl.

Amalia. Unhappy, and you love?

Moor. Unhappy because she loves me! What if I were a murderer? What, my lady? If your beloved could count a murder for every kiss? Woe to my Amalia! She is an unhappy girl.

Amalia (leaping up joyfully.) Ha! How happy a girl I am! My only one is a reflection of divinity, and divinity is grace and mercy! He could not bear to see a fly suffer — His soul is as far from a bloody thought as midday is from midnight.

Moor (turns away quickly, into a bush, stares fixedly into the distance.)

Amalia (sings and plays the lute.)

Moor (takes the lute silently and plays.)

(He throws away the lute and flees.)

Fifth Scene.

Nearby forest. Night.

An old ruined castle in the middle.

The band of robbers encamped on the ground.

The robbers sing.

Schweizer. It's getting dark, and the captain isn't here yet!

Razmann. And he promised to be back with us by eight o'clock.

Schweizer. If any harm has come to him—Comrades! We'll set fire to everything and murder the infant.

Spiegelberg (takes Razmann aside.) A word, Razmann.

Schwarz (to Grimm.) Shouldn't we send out scouts?

Grimm. Leave him be! He'll make such a catch that we'll be put to shame.

Schweizer. By the hangman, you'll burn yourself! He didn't leave us like someone planning mischief. Have you forgotten what he said when he led us over the heath? — “Whoever steals even a turnip from the field, if I find out, will lose his head, as true as my name is Moor.” — We are not allowed to steal.

Razmann (softly to Spiegelberg.) Where is this going—speak plainly.

Spiegelberg. Shh! Shh! — I don't know what notions of freedom you or I have, that we pull a cart like oxen, and then declaim so much about independence — I don't like it.

Schweizer (to Grimm.) What's this windbag up to with his spinning wheel?

Razmann (softly to Spiegelberg.) You're talking about the captain? —

Spiegelberg. Shh, I said! Shh! — He has his ears running around among us — Captain, you say? Who made him captain over us, or hasn't he usurped this title, which is rightfully mine? — What? Do we risk our lives for this — endure all the spleen of fate, only to count ourselves lucky to be the serfs of a slave? — Serfs, when we could be princes? — By God! Razmann — I've never liked that.

Schweizer (to the others.) Yes — you're the true hero for smashing frogs with stones — The very sound of his nose, when he blew it, could drive you through a needle's eye —

Spiegelberg (to Razmann.) Yes — And for years I've been planning: things must change. Razmann — if you are what I always took you for — Razmann! — He's missing — half given up for lost — Razmann, I think his dark hour is striking — what? You don't even turn red when the bell of freedom rings for you? Don't you even have the courage to understand a bold hint?

Razmann. Ha, Satan! What are you entangling my soul in?

Spiegelberg. Got you? — Good! Then follow. I've noted where he crept off to — Come! Two pistols rarely fail, and then — we'll be the first to strangle the infant. (He tries to drag him away.)

Schweizer (furiously draws his knife.) Ha, beast! You just reminded me of the Bohemian forests! — Weren't you the coward who started squawking when they cried: The enemy is coming? I swore by my soul then — begone, assassin (He stabs him to death.)

Robbers (In commotion.) Murder! Murder! — — Schweizer — Spiegelberg — Pull them apart —

Schweizer (throws the knife over him.) There! — And so may you perish — Quiet, comrades — Don't let this trifle interrupt you — The beast was always poisonous to the captain, and has no scar on its whole hide — Once more, be content — ha! about the scoundrel — he wants to bring men to ruin from behind? Men from behind! — Did we sweat so profusely that we should slink out of the world like curs? You beast! Did we make our beds under fire and smoke only to die like rats in the end?

Grimm. But what the devil—comrade—what was going on between you two? The Captain will be furious.

Schweizer. Leave that to me—And you wretch (to Razmann), you were his accomplice, you!—Get out of my sight—the scoundrel also did it, but now he's hanging in Switzerland, just as my Captain prophesied—(A shot is fired.)

Schwarz (leaping up.) Hark! A pistol shot! (Another shot is fired.) Another! Holla! The Captain!

Grimm. Patience! He must shoot a third time. (Another shot is heard.)

Schwarz. It's him!—It's—Save yourself, Schweizer—let's answer him.

(They shoot.)

Moor. Kosinsky (enter.)

Schweizer (meeting them.) Welcome, my Captain—I've been a bit presumptuous since you left. (He leads him to the corpse.) Be you the judge between me and this man—he tried to murder you from behind.

Robbers (with dismay.) What? The Captain?

Moor. (Lost in thought, he bursts out violently.) O incomprehensible finger of vengeful Nemesis!—Was it not he who trilled the siren song to me?—Consecrate this knife to the dark avenger!—You didn't do this, Schweizer.

Schweizer. By God! I truly did it, and by the devil, it's not the worst thing I've done in my life. (exits indignantly.)

Moor (Thoughtfully.) I understand—Ruler in heaven—I understand—the leaves are falling from the trees—and my autumn has come—Get this out of my sight. (Spiegelberg's corpse is carried away.)

Grimm. Give us orders, Captain—what shall we do next?

Moor. Soon—soon all will be fulfilled—Give me my lute—I have lost myself since I was there—My lute, I say—I must lull myself back into my strength—leave me.

Robbers. It is midnight, Captain.

Moor. Yet it was only tears in the playhouse—I must hear the Roman song, that my sleeping genius may awaken again—My lute, here—Midnight, you say?

Schwarz. Soon over. Sleep lies heavy on us like lead. No eye closed for three days.

Moor. Does balsamic sleep also descend upon the eyes of scoundrels? Why does it flee me? I have never been a coward, or a bad fellow—Go to sleep—Tomorrow we will continue our journey.

Robbers. Good night, Captain (They lie down on the ground and fall asleep.)

Deep silence.

Moor. (Takes the lute and plays.)

(He puts down the lute, walks up and down in deep thought.)

Who would vouch for me?——It is all so dark—confused labyrinths—no exit—no guiding star—if it were over with this last breath—Over like a stale puppet show—But for what purpose this hot hunger for happiness? For what purpose the ideal of an unreached perfection? The postponement of unfinished plans?—if the pitiful pressure of this pitiful thing (holding the pistols to his face) makes the wise equal to the fool—the coward to the brave—the noble to the scoundrel?—There is such divine harmony in soulless nature, why should there be this discord in the rational? —No! No! There is something more, for I have not yet been happy.

Do you think I will tremble? Ghosts of my strangled victims! I will not tremble. (Trembling violently.) — Your anxious death-whimpers — your black-throttled faces — your terribly gaping wounds are but links in an unbreakable chain of fate, and ultimately depend on my leisure, on the whims of my nurses and tutors, on my father's temperament, on my mother's blood. — (shaken with horror) Why did my Perillus make an ox of me, that humanity roasts in my glowing belly?

(He aims the pistols.) Time and Eternity — chained together by a single moment! — Cruel key, that locks the prison of life behind me, and before me unbars the dwelling of eternal night — tell me — oh tell me — whither — whither will you lead me? — Strange, never-sailed land! — See, humanity falters under this image, the resilience of the finite wanes, and fantasy, the mischievous ape of the senses, conjures strange shadows for our credulity — No! No! A man must not stumble — Be as you will, nameless beyond — only let this self of mine remain true — Be as you will, if only I take myself with me — External things are but the veneer of a man — I am my heaven and my hell.

If you left me alone with some incinerated world you have banished from your eyes, where solitary night and eternal desert are my prospects? — I would then people the silent waste with my fantasies, and would have eternity at leisure to dissect the tangled image of general misery. — Or will you lead me through ever new births and ever new scenes of misery, from stage to stage — to annihilation? Can I not tear the threads of life woven for me beyond, as easily as this? — You can reduce me to nothing — This freedom you cannot take from me. (He loads the pistol. Suddenly he pauses.) And shall I die for fear of a tormented life? — Shall I grant misery victory over me? — No! I will endure it. (He throws the pistol away.) Let torment exhaust itself on my pride! I will see it through. (It grows darker and darker.)

Herrmann. (Coming through the forest.)

Hark! Hark! The owl hoots grimly — it strikes twelve over in the village — well, well — the wicked deed sleeps — no eavesdropper in this wilderness. (Goes to the castle and knocks.) Come out, man of sorrow, tower dweller! — Your meal is prepared.

Moor. (Stepping back softly.) What can that mean?

A Voice. (from the castle.) Who knocks there? Eh? Is that you, Herrmann, my raven?

Herrmann. It's me, Herrmann, your raven. Climb up to the grate and eat. (Owls screech.) Your bedfellows trill horribly, old man — does it taste good?

The Voice. I was very hungry. Thank you, raven-sender, for bread in the wilderness! — And how is my dear child, Herrmann?

Herrmann. Quiet — Hark — A sound as of snoring! Don't you hear something?

Voice. What? Do you hear something?

Herrmann. The sighing wind through the cracks of the tower — A serenade that makes one's teeth chatter and nails turn blue — Hark, once more — I always feel as if I hear snoring. — You have company, old man — Hoo! hoo! hoo!

Voice. Do you see anything?

Herrmann. Farewell—farewell—this place is dreadful—Descend into the pit—above, your helper, your avenger—cursed son!—(Tries to flee.)

Moor. (Stepping forward in horror.) Stand!

Herrmann. (Screaming.) Oh, woe is me!

Moor. Stand, I say!

Herrmann. Woe! Woe! Woe! Now all is betrayed!

Moor. Stand! Speak! Who are you? What are you doing here? Speak!

Herrmann. Mercy, oh mercy, stern sir!—Just one word, hear it, before you kill me.

Moor. (Drawing his sword.) What will I hear?

Herrmann. You strictly forbade me by my life—I couldn't help it—wasn't allowed to—a God in heaven—your own father there—I pitied him—Strike me down.

Moor. There's a secret here—Out with it! Speak! I want to know everything.

The Voice. (From the castle.) Woe! Woe! Is that you, Herrmann, speaking? With whom are you speaking, Herrmann?

Moor. Someone else below—What's going on here? (Runs towards the tower.) Is it a prisoner whom people have cast off?—I will break his chains.—Voice! Once more! Where is the door?

Herrmann. Oh, have mercy, sir—don't go further, sir—pass by for mercy's sake! (Blocks his way.)

Moor. Quadruple-locked! Get out of the way—It must come out—Now for the first time, come to my aid, Thievery! (He takes crowbars and opens the barred gate. From the depths, an Old Man, emaciated like a skeleton, ascends.)

The Old Man. Mercy on a wretch! Mercy!

Moor. (Recoils in terror.) That is my father's voice!

Old Moor. Thank you, oh God! The hour of deliverance has arrived.

Moor. Spirit of old Moor! What has troubled you in your grave? Have you dragged a sin into that world that bars your entry to the gates of Paradise? I will have masses read to send the wandering spirit to its home. Have you buried the gold of widows and orphans underground, which drives you howling at this midnight hour? I will tear the subterranean treasure from the claws of the magic dragon, even if he spits a thousand red flames at me and gnashes his sharp teeth against my sword, or do you come to unfold the riddles of eternity to my questions? Speak, speak! I am not a man of pale fear.

Old Moor. I am no ghost. Touch me, I live, oh, a wretched, miserable life!

Moor. What? You were not buried?

Old Moor. I was buried—that is: a dead dog lies in my ancestors' tomb; and I—for three full moons I have languished in this dark subterranean vault, unlit by any ray, untouched by any warm breeze, unvisited by any friend, where wild ravens croak and midnight owls howl.—

Moor. Heaven and Earth! Who did this?

Old Moor. Do not curse him!—My son Franz did this.

Moor. Franz? Franz?—Oh eternal chaos!

Old Moor. If you are a human being, and have a human heart, deliverer whom I do not know, oh, then hear the lament of a father, which his sons have prepared for him—for three moons I have whimpered to deaf rock walls, but a hollow echo only mocked my complaints. Therefore, if you are a human being, and have a human heart—

Moor. This appeal could rouse the wild beasts from their lairs!

Old Moor. I was just lying on my sickbed, barely beginning to gather strength after a severe illness, when a man was brought to me, claiming my firstborn had died in battle, and he brought with him a sword stained with his blood, and his last farewell, and that my curse had driven him to fight, to death, and to despair.

Moor. (Turning away from him vehemently.) It's clear!

Old Moor. Listen further! I fainted at the news. They must have thought me dead, for when I came to, I was already in the coffin, wrapped in a shroud like a corpse. I scratched at the lid of the coffin. It was opened. It was pitch dark, and my son Franz stood before me. — "What?" he cried with a terrifying voice, "Do you intend to live forever?" — and immediately the coffin lid slammed shut again. The thunder of these words had robbed me of my senses; when I awoke again, I felt the coffin being lifted and carried away in a cart for half an hour. Finally, it was opened — I stood at the entrance of this vault, my son before me, and the man who had brought me Karl's bloody sword — ten times I embraced his knees, and begged and pleaded, and embraced them and implored — but his father's plea did not reach his heart — "Down with the wretch!" it thundered from his mouth, "He has lived long enough," — and down I was pushed without mercy, and my son Franz closed the door behind me.

Moor. It's not possible, not possible! You must have been mistaken.

Old Moor. I may have been mistaken. Listen further, but do not be angry! So I lay there for twenty hours, and no one thought of my distress. No human footstep has ever trodden this wilderness, for the common legend is that the ghosts of my ancestors drag rattling chains through these ruins, and whisper their death-song at midnight. Finally, I heard the door open again; this man brought me bread and water, and revealed to me how I had been condemned to death by starvation, and how he risked his life if it were discovered that he fed me. So I was meagerly sustained all this time, but the incessant cold — the foul air of my confinement — the boundless sorrow — my strength waned, my body wasted away, a thousand times I begged God with tears for death, but the measure of my punishment must not yet be full — or some joy must still await me, that I am so miraculously preserved. But I suffer justly — My Karl! My Karl! — and he had no gray hairs yet.

Moor. Enough. Up! you blocks, you lumps of ice! You sluggish, senseless sleepers! Up! Will no one awaken? (He fires a pistol over the sleeping robbers.)

The Robbers. (startled awake) Hey, holla! holla! What's going on?

Moor. Has this story not shaken you from your slumber? Even eternal sleep would have awakened! Look here, look here! The laws of the world have become a game of dice, the bond of nature is broken, the ancient discord is unleashed, the son has slain his father.

The Robbers. What is the captain saying?

Moor. No, not slain! That word is an understatement! — the son has tortured, impaled, racked, flayed his father a thousand times! The words are too human for me — that which makes sin blush, that which makes the cannibal shudder, that which no devil has conceived for aeons. — The son has his own father — oh, look here, look here! He has collapsed in a faint — into this vault the son has put his father — cold, nakedness — hunger — thirst — oh, just look, just look! — it is my own father, I will confess it!

The Robbers (springing up and surrounding the Old Man.) Your father? Your father?

Schweizer (stepping respectfully closer, falling to his knees before him.) Captain’s father! I kiss your feet! You command my dagger.

Moor. Vengeance, vengeance, vengeance for you! Savagely wronged, desecrated old man! Thus, from this moment on, I eternally sever the fraternal bond. (He tears his clothes from top to bottom.) Thus do I curse every drop of fraternal blood in the face of the open heavens! Hear me, moon and stars! Hear me, midnight sky! You who looked down upon the outrage! Hear me, thrice terrible God, who reigns above the moon, and avenges and condemns above the stars, and blazes with fire over the night! Here I kneel—here I raise my three fingers into the horrors of the night—here I swear, and may nature cast me out from her bounds like a vicious beast if I violate this oath, I swear not to greet the light of day again until the blood of the father-murderer, spilled before this stone, steams towards the sun. (He stands up.)

The Robbers. That’s a Belial’s trick! Let anyone say we’re rascals! No, by all dragons! We’ve never done anything so elaborate!

Moor. Yes! And by all the terrible sighs of those who ever died by your daggers, of those whom my flame consumed, and my falling tower crushed, no thought of murder or robbery shall find place in your breast until all your clothes are stained scarlet with the villain’s blood—you never dreamed, did you, that you are the arm of higher majesties? The tangled knot of our destiny is unravelled! Today, today an invisible power has ennobled our trade! Worship Him who has spoken this sublime lot to you, who has led you here, who has deemed you worthy to be the terrible angels of His dark judgment! Uncover your heads! Kneel in the dust, and rise up hallowed! (They kneel.)

Schweizer. Command, Captain! What shall we do?

Moor. Stand up, Schweizer! And touch these sacred locks! (He leads him to his father and places a lock of hair in his hand.) You remember how you once split the head of that Bohemian rider when he was just drawing his saber over me, and I had sunk to my knees, breathless and exhausted from the effort? At that time, I promised you a reward fit for a king; I have never been able to pay that debt until now. —

Schweizer. You swore that to me, it's true, but let me call you my debtor forever!

Moor. No, now I will pay. Schweizer, no mortal has ever been honored as you are! — Avenge my father! (Schweizer stands up.)

Schweizer. Great Captain! Today you have made me proud for the first time! — Command, where, how, when shall I strike him?

Moor. The minutes are consecrated, you must go swiftly — choose the worthiest from the band, and lead them straight to the nobleman’s castle! Drag him from his bed if he sleeps, or lies in the arms of lust; tear him from his feast if he is drunk; snatch him from the crucifix if he kneels before it in prayer! But I tell you, I impress it upon you sternly, do not deliver him to me dead! I will tear his flesh to pieces and give it as food to hungry vultures, if anyone so much as scratches his skin or harms a single hair! I must have him whole, and if you bring him whole and alive, you shall have a million as a reward; I will steal it from a king at the peril of my life, and you shall go free as the open air — if you have understood me, then hurry away!

Schweizer. Enough, Captain—here's my hand on it: either you'll see two of us return, or none at all. Schweizer's avenging angel is coming! (Exits with a squad.)

Moor. The rest of you, scatter in the forest—I'll stay.

Act Five.

Scene One.

View from many rooms.

Dark night.

Daniel (enters with a lantern and a travel bundle.)

Farewell, dear ancestral home—I've enjoyed so much good and love within you, while the blessed master still lived—Tears upon your bones, you long-decayed one! that is what he demands of an old servant—it was the shelter of orphans, and the haven of the abandoned, and this son has made it a den of murderers—Farewell, good ground! how often has old Daniel swept you clean—Farewell, dear oven, old Daniel takes a heavy leave of you—everything had become so familiar to you—it will hurt you, old Eliezer—But may God in His mercy preserve me from the deceit and cunning of the wicked one—Empty I came here—empty I depart again—but my soul is saved. (As he is about to leave, enters)

Franz (rushing in in a dressing gown.)

Daniel. God help me! My master! (Extinguishes the lantern.)

Franz. Betrayed! Betrayed! Spirits spewed from graves—the realm of the dead shaken from eternal sleep roars against me, Murderer! Murderer!—who stirs there?

Daniel (anxiously.) Help, Holy Mother of God! is it you, stern master, who cries so frightfully through the vaults that all sleepers awaken?

Franz. Sleepers? Who told you to sleep? Go, light a lamp. (Daniel exits, another servant enters.) No one shall sleep at this hour. Do you hear? Everyone must be awake—in arms—all weapons loaded—Did you see them float along the arcade there?

Servant. Whom, gracious sir?

Franz. Whom, you fool, whom? So coldly, so blankly do you ask, whom? It seized me like a dizzy spell! Whom, you ass! Whom? Ghosts and devils! How late is it in the night?

Servant. Just now the night watchman called two.

Franz. What? Will this night last until the Day of Judgment? Did you hear no commotion nearby? No cry of victory? No sound of galloping horses? Where is Karl—the Count, I mean?

Servant. I do not know, my lord!

Franz. You don't know? Are you also among the gang? I'll stomp your heart out of your ribs! with your damned: I don't know! Go, fetch the pastor!

Servant. Gracious sir!

Franz. Do you grumble? Do you hesitate? (First servant hurries off.) What? Even beggars conspired against me? Heaven, Hell! everything conspired against me?

Daniel (enters with the light.) My master—

Franz. No! I am not trembling! It was merely a dream. The dead do not yet rise—who says I am trembling and pale? I feel so light, so well.

Daniel. You are deathly pale, your voice is anxious and stammers.

Franz. I have a fever. Just tell the pastor when he comes that I have a fever. I will be bled tomorrow, tell the pastor.

Daniel. Do you command me to drop life-balsam on sugar for you?

Franz. Drop it on sugar for me! The pastor won't be here immediately. My voice is anxious and stammers, give me life-balsam on sugar!

Daniel. First give me the keys, I want to fetch something from the cabinet downstairs —

Franz. No, no, no! Stay! Or I'll go with you. You see, I can't be alone! How easily could I, you see — faint — if I'm alone. Just leave it, leave it! It will pass, you stay.

Daniel. Oh, you are seriously ill.

Franz. Yes, certainly, certainly! That's all it is. — And illness disturbs the brain, and breeds wild and wondrous dreams. — Dreams mean nothing — right, Daniel? Dreams come from the stomach, and dreams mean nothing — I just had a funny dream. (he sinks down unconscious)

Daniel. Jesus Christ! What is this? Georg! Conrad! Bastian! Martin! Just give some sign of life! (Shakes him.) Mary, Magdalene, and Joseph! Just come to your senses! They'll say I killed him, God have mercy on me!

Franz (confused.) Away — away! Why do you shake me so, hideous skeleton? — The dead do not rise yet —

Daniel. Oh, eternal goodness! He has lost his mind.

Franz. (raises himself weakly) Where am I? — You, Daniel? What did I say? Don't mind it! I told a lie, whatever it was — come! Help me up! — It's just a spell of dizziness — because I — because I — haven't slept enough.

Daniel. If only Johann were here! I'll call for help, I'll call for doctors.

Franz. Stay! Sit beside me on this sofa! — There — you are a clever man, a good man. Let me tell you!

Daniel. Not now, another time! I'll put you to bed, rest is better for you.

Franz. No, I beg you, let me tell you, and laugh heartily at me! — See, I dreamed I had held a royal feast, and my heart was merry, and I lay intoxicated on the lawn of the castle garden, and suddenly — it was at noon — suddenly, but I tell you, laugh heartily at me! —

Daniel. Suddenly?

Franz. Suddenly a tremendous thunder struck my slumbering ear, I staggered up trembling, and behold, it was as if I saw the whole horizon ablaze with fiery flames, and mountains and cities and forests melted like wax in an oven, and a howling whirlwind swept away sea, sky, and earth — then it resounded as from brazen trumpets: Earth give up your dead, give up your dead, Sea, and the naked field began to circle, and cast up skulls and ribs and jawbones and legs, which drew together into human bodies, and streamed forth immeasurable, a living storm. Then I looked upwards, and behold, I stood at the foot of the thundering Sinai, and above me a swarm and beneath me, and on the summit of the mountain on three smoking chairs three men, from whose gaze all creation fled —

Daniel. That is the very image of the Last Judgment.

Franz. Isn't it? That's mad stuff, isn't it? Then one stepped forth, looking like a starry night, who held in his hand an iron signet ring, which he held between sunrise and sunset and spoke: Eternal, holy, just, incorruptible! There is only One truth, there is only One virtue! Woe, woe, woe to the doubting worm! — Then a second stepped forth, who held in his hand a flashing mirror, which he held between sunrise and sunset, and spoke: This mirror is truth; hypocrisy and masks do not endure — then I and all the people were terrified, for we saw serpent and tiger and leopard faces reflected from the terrifying mirror. — Then a third stepped forth, who held in his hand a brazen scale, which he held between sunrise and sunset, and spoke: Come forth, you children of Adam — I weigh thoughts in the pan of my wrath! And deeds with the weight of my fury! —

Daniel. God have mercy on me!

Franz. All stood pale as snow, anxious expectation throbbed in every breast. Then it was as if I heard my name first called from the storms of the mountain, and my innermost marrow froze within me, and my teeth chattered loudly. Quickly the scales began to ring, the rock to thunder, and the hours passed, one after another into the left-hanging pan, and one after another a deadly sin was cast in—

Daniel. Oh, God forgive you!

Franz. He did not!—the pan grew into a mountain, but the other, full of the blood of atonement, still held it high in the air—at last an old man came, heavily bowed by grief, his arm gnawed by raging hunger, all eyes turned shyly from the man, I knew the man, he cut a lock from his silver hair, threw it into the pan of sins, and behold, it sank, sank suddenly to the abyss, and the pan of atonement fluttered high up!—Then I heard a voice echoing from the smoke of the rock: Mercy, mercy to every sinner of earth and the abyss! You alone are cast out!—(Deep pause.) Now, why don't you laugh?

Daniel. How can I laugh when my skin shudders? Dreams come from God.

Franz. Fie, fie! Don't say that! Call me a fool, an insane, absurd fool! Do that, dear Daniel, I beg you, mock me thoroughly!

Daniel. Dreams come from God. I will pray for you.

Franz. You lie, I tell you—go this instant, run, jump, see where the pastor is, tell him to hurry, hurry, but I tell you, you lie.

Daniel (as he exits.) God be gracious to you!

Franz.

Mob-wisdom, mob-fear!—It's not yet decided whether the past is truly past, or if an eye finds it beyond the stars—hum, hum! Who whispered that to me? Does someone up there beyond the stars avenge? — No, no! Yes, yes! A terrible hiss around me: Someone up there beyond the stars judges! To meet the avenger beyond the stars this very night! No! I say. — Wretched hiding place, behind which your cowardice seeks to hide—desolate, lonely, deaf it is up there beyond the stars—But what if it were something more? No, no, it is not! I command, it is not! But what if it were? Woe to you, if it had been counted! If it were counted to you this very night! — Why do shivers run through my bones? — To die! Why does that word grip me so? To give an account to the avenger up there beyond the stars—and if he is just, orphans and widows, the oppressed, the tormented cry out to him, and if he is just? — why did they suffer, why did you triumph over them?

Pastor Moser (enters.)

Moser. You sent for me, gracious Sir! I am astonished. The first time in my life! Do you intend to mock religion, or are you beginning to tremble before it?

Franz. Mock or tremble, depending on how you answer me. — Listen, Moser, I will show you that you are a fool, or want to take the world for a fool, and you shall answer me. Do you hear? On your life you shall answer me.

Moser. You summon a Higher One before your judgment seat. The Higher One will answer you in due time.

Franz. Now I want to know, now, this very instant, so that I do not commit the shameful folly of calling upon the idol of the mob in the throes of necessity. I have often toasted it with scornful laughter over Burgundy: There is no God! — Now I speak to you in earnest, I tell you: there is none! You shall refute me with all the weapons in your power, but I will blow them away with the breath of my mouth.

Moser. If only you could just as easily blow away the thunder that will fall with the weight of ten thousand hundredweights on your proud soul! This omniscient God, whom you, a fool and villain, would destroy from the midst of His creation, needs no justification from the mouth of dust. He is as great in your tyrannies as in any smile of triumphant virtue.

Franz. Exceedingly good, priest! Now I like you.

Moser. I stand here on the business of a greater Lord, and speak with one who is a worm like me, whom I do not wish to please. Of course, I would have to work miracles to wring a confession from your stubborn wickedness — but if your conviction is so firm, why did you send for me? Tell me, why did you send for me in the middle of the night?

Franz. Because I am bored and find no pleasure in the chessboard. I want to amuse myself by wrangling with priests. You won't unman my courage with empty threats. I know well that he who has been short-changed here hopes for eternity: but he will be sorely deceived. I have always read that our being is nothing but a surge of blood, and with the last drop of blood, spirit and thought also vanish. It shares all the weaknesses of the body; will it not also cease with its destruction? Will it not evaporate with its decay? Let a drop of water go astray in your brain, and your life makes a sudden pause, which borders on non-existence, and its continuation is death. Sensation is the vibration of a few strings, and the broken piano no longer sounds. If I have my seven locks filed down, if I smash this Venus, then it was symmetry and beauty. See there! That is your immortal soul!

Moser. That is the philosophy of your despair. But your own heart, beating anxiously against your ribs with these proofs, proves you a liar. These cobwebs of systems are torn apart by the single word: you must die! — I challenge you, let this be the test: if you still stand firm in death, if your principles do not abandon you even then, then you shall have won; if the slightest shiver comes over you in death, woe to you then! You have deceived yourselves.

Franz (confused.) If a shiver comes over me in death?

Moser. I have seen many such wretches who defied the truth with giant's pride up to this point, but in death itself, the delusion flutters away. I will stand by your bed when you die — I would so very much like to see a tyrant pass away — I will stand there and stare fixedly into your eyes when the doctor grasps your cold, wet hand, and can barely find the lost, fading pulse, and looks up, and with that dreadful shrug of the shoulders says to you: human help is in vain! Beware then, oh, beware, that you look then like Richard and Nero!

Franz. No, no!

Moser. Even this 'no' will then become a howling 'yes' — an inner tribunal that you can never bribe with skeptical ponderings will now awaken and hold judgment over you. But it will be an awakening like that of one buried alive in the belly of the churchyard, it will be an indignation like that of a suicide who has already struck the fatal blow and regrets it, it will be a lightning flash that suddenly engulfs the midnight of your life, it will be one glance, and if you still stand firm then, you shall have won!

Franz. (walking restlessly up and down the room) Priestly prattle, priestly prattle!

Moser. Now, for the first time, the swords of eternity will cut through your soul, and now, for the first time, it's too late. — The thought of God awakens a terrible neighbor, whose name is Judge. Look, Moor, you hold the lives of thousands at your fingertip, and of these thousands, you have made nine hundred and ninety-nine miserable. You lack only the Roman Empire to be a Nero, and only Peru to be a Pizarro. Now, do you truly believe that God will permit a single man to rage like a brute in His world and turn everything upside down? Do you really believe that these nine hundred and ninety-nine were created only for destruction, only to be puppets in your satanic game? Oh, do not believe that! He will one day demand from you every minute you stole from them, every joy you poisoned for them, every perfection you denied them, and if you can answer for that, Moor, then you shall have won.

Franz. No more, not another word! Do you want me to be at the beck and call of your dark whims?

Moser. See, the destiny of men stands in a fearfully beautiful balance. The scale of this life, sinking here, will rise high in the next; rising here, it will fall to the ground there. But what was temporal suffering here will be eternal triumph there; what was finite triumph here will be eternal, infinite despair there.

Franz. (advancing fiercely upon him) May thunder strike you dumb, you lying spirit! I'll tear that cursed tongue from your mouth!

Moser. Do you feel the weight of truth so soon? I haven't even spoken of proofs yet. Let me just get to the proofs—

Franz. Silence! Go to hell with your proofs! The soul will be annihilated, I tell you, and you shall not answer me on that!

Moser. That is why the spirits of the abyss whine, but He in heaven shakes His head. Do you think to escape the arm of the avenger in the desolate realm of nothingness? If you ascend to heaven, He is there! If you make your bed in hell, He is there again! And if you say to the night: cover me! and to the darkness: hide me! then the darkness must shine around you, and midnight dawn for the damned—but your immortal spirit rebels against the word, and triumphs over blind thought.

Franz. But I do not want to be immortal—let whoever wishes be so, I will not hinder it. I will force Him to annihilate me, I will provoke Him to wrath, so that in His wrath He annihilates me. Tell me, what is the greatest sin, and what enrages Him most fiercely?

Moser. I know only two. But they are not committed by men, nor do men even suspect them.

Franz. Those two!—

Moser (very significantly.) One is called parricide, the other fratricide—What makes you so pale all of a sudden?

Franz. What, old man? Are you in league with heaven or with hell? Who told you that?

Moser. Woe to him who has both on his heart! It would be better for him if he had never been born! But be calm, you no longer have a father or a brother!

Franz. Ha!—What, you know of none greater? Think again—death, heaven, eternity, damnation hover upon the sound of your mouth—not a single one greater?

Moser. Not a single one greater.

Franz (falls into a chair.) Annihilation! Annihilation!

Moser. Rejoice, rejoice! Count yourselves lucky!—With all your horrors, you are still a saint compared to a parricide. The curse that strikes you is a song of love compared to the one that awaits him—the retribution—

Franz (jumping up.) Go to a thousand graves, you owl! Who told you to come here? Go, I say, or I'll run you through!

Moser. Can that priestly prattle put such a philosopher in a rage? Just blow it away with the breath of your mouth! (exits.)

Franz (thrashing about in his armchair with terrible movements, a deep pause.)

A Servant (hurriedly.)

Servant. Amalia has escaped, the Count has suddenly disappeared.

Daniel (enters anxiously.)

Daniel. My Lord, a troop of fiery horsemen is charging down the path, shouting 'Murder, murder!' — the whole village is in alarm.

Franz. Go, have all the bells rung together, everyone into the church — everyone on their knees — pray for me — all prisoners shall be free and released, I will return everything double and triple to the poor, I will — go on then — call the confessor, so he may bless away my sins — Are you not gone yet? (The commotion grows louder.)

Daniel. God forgive me my grievous sin! How am I to reconcile this? You always cast out dear prayer from all houses, you threw so many sermon books and Bibles at my head when you caught me praying —

Franz. No more of that — Death! Do you see? Death! — It's too late (Swiss voices are heard raging.) Pray then! Pray!

Daniel. I always told you — you despise dear prayer so — but mark my words, mark my words! When need strikes, when the water rises to your soul, you will give all the treasures of the world for one Christian sigh — Do you see it? You insulted me! Now you have it! Do you see it?

Franz (embraces him impetuously.) Forgive me, dear, golden, precious Daniel, forgive me — I will clothe you from head to foot — so pray then — I will make you a bridegroom — I will — so pray then — I implore you — on my knees I implore you — In the Devil's name! so pray then (Tumult in the streets, shouting — clattering —)

Swiss (in the street.) Storm! Kill! Break in! I see light! He must be there.

Franz (on his knees.) Hear me pray, God in Heaven! — It's the first time — and it shall certainly never happen again — Hear me, God in Heaven!

Daniel. My goodness! What are you doing? That's godless praying.

Uproar of the people.

People. Thieves! Murderers! Who is making such a dreadful noise at this midnight hour!

Swiss (still in the street.) Drive them back, comrade — it's the devil, and he wants to fetch your master — Where is Schwarz with his men? — Post yourself around the castle, Grimm — Storm the ramparts!

Grimm. Get firebrands — we go up or he comes down — I'll throw fire into his halls.

Franz (praying.) I was no common murderer, my Lord God — I never bothered with trifles, my Lord God —

Daniel. God have mercy on us! Even his prayers become sins. (Stones and firebrands fly. The windows shatter. The castle burns.)

Franz. I cannot pray — here, here! (Striking his chest and forehead.) All so desolate — so withered (stands up.) No, I will not pray either — Heaven shall not have this victory, Hell shall not mock me with this —

Daniel. Jesus, Mary! Help – save – the whole castle is in flames!

Franz. Here, take this dagger. Quickly. Stab me in the back with it, so these rascals don't come and mock me. (The fire rages.)

Daniel. Heaven forbid! Heaven forbid! I wouldn't send anyone to heaven too soon, much less too soon. (He escapes.)

Franz (staring wildly after him, after a pause.)

To hell, you meant to say – Really! I sense something – (insane.) Are those their shrill trills? Do I hear you hiss, you vipers of the abyss? – They're pushing up – Besieging the door – why do I falter so before this piercing point? – the door cracks – collapses – inescapable – Ha! Then have mercy on me! (He tears off his golden hat cord and strangles himself.)

Schweizer (with his men.)

Schweizer. Murderous scoundrel, where are you? – Did you see how they fled? – does he have so few friends? – Where has the beast crept off to?

Grimm (bumps into the corpse.) Stop! What's lying here in the way? Light up here –

Schwarz. He played the prevenire. Sheathe your swords, here he lies dead like a cat.

Schweizer. Dead! What? Dead? Dead without me – A lie, I say – Watch how quickly he springs to his feet! (He shakes him.) Hey you! There's a father to murder.

Grimm. Don't bother. He's stone dead.

Schweizer (steps away from him.) Yes! He's not happy – He's stone dead – Go back, and tell my captain: He's stone dead – he won't see me again. (He shoots himself in the forehead.)

Second Scene.

The setting as in the last scene of the previous act.

Old Moor (sitting on a stone.) Robber Moor (opposite.) Robbers (back and forth in the forest.)

R. Moor. He's not coming! (He strikes a stone with his dagger, making sparks.)

D. a. Moor. Forgiveness be his punishment – my revenge, doubled love.

R. Moor. No, by my fierce soul! That shall not be. I will not have it. He shall drag the great infamy with him into eternity! – Why did I kill him then?

D. a. Moor (bursting into tears.) Oh, my child!

R. Moor. What? – You weep for him – at this tower?

D. a. Moor. Mercy! Oh, mercy! (Wringing his hands violently.) Now – now my child is being judged!

R. Moor (startled.) Which one?

D. a. Moor. Ha! What kind of question is that?

R. Moor. Nothing! Nothing!

D. a. Moor. Have you come to mock my sorrow?

R. Moor. Treacherous conscience! – Pay no heed to my words!

D. a. Moor. Yes, I tormented a son, and a son had to torment me in return, that is God's finger. – Oh my Karl! My Karl! If you hover around me, in the garb of peace! Forgive me! Oh forgive me!

R. Moor (quickly.) He forgives you. (Startled.) If he is worthy of being called your son – He must forgive you.

Old Moor. Ha! He was too glorious for me—But I will meet him with my tears, my sleepless nights, my tormenting dreams, I will embrace his knees—cry out—cry out loud: I have sinned against heaven and before you. I am not worthy to be called your father.

R. Moor (deeply moved.) You loved him, your other son?

Old Moor. You know it, oh Heaven. Why did I let myself be deceived by the machinations of an evil son? I walked among the fathers of men as a praised father. My children bloomed beautifully around me, full of hope. But—oh, that ill-fated hour!—the evil spirit entered the heart of my second, I trusted the serpent—and lost both my children. (Covers his face.)

Moor (moves far away from him.) Lost forever!

Old Moor. Oh, I feel deeply what Amalia told me, the spirit of vengeance spoke from her mouth. In vain will you stretch out your dying hands for a son, in vain will you imagine embracing the warm hand of your Karl, who will never again stand by your bed—

R. Moor (offers him his hand, face averted.)

Old Moor. If only you were my Karl’s hand!—But he lies far away in his narrow house, already sleeps the iron sleep, never hears the voice of my sorrow—woe is me! To die in the arms of a stranger—No son anymore—no son anymore to close my eyes—

R. Moor (in the most violent agitation.) It must be now—now—leave me (to the robbers.) And yet—can I give him back his son? —I cannot give him back his son anymore—No! I will not do it.

Old Moor. What, friend? What did you murmur there?

R. Moor. Your son—yes, old man—(stammering.) your son—is—lost forever.

Old Moor. Forever?

R. Moor (looking towards heaven in the most terrible anguish.) Oh, just this once—Let not my soul grow faint—just this once sustain me!

Old Moor. Forever, you say?

R. Moor. Ask no further. Forever, I said.

Old Moor. Stranger! Stranger! Why did you draw me from the tower?

R. Moor. And how?—If I now snatched his blessing—snatched it like a thief, and stole away with the divine prize? —A father’s blessing, they say, is never lost.

Old Moor. My Franz lost too?—

R. Moor (falls before him.) I broke the bars of your tower—Give me your blessing.

Old Moor (with pain.) That you had to destroy the son, savior of the father!—See, the Deity does not tire in mercy, and we miserable worms go to sleep with our resentment (lays his hand on the robber’s head.) Be as happy as you are merciful.

R. Moor (rising with tenderness.) Oh—where is my manhood? My sinews grow slack, the dagger falls from my hands.

Old Moor. How precious it is when brethren dwell together in unity, like the dew that falls from Hermon upon the mountains of Zion—Learn to earn this delight, young man, and the angels of heaven will bask in your glory. Let your wisdom be the wisdom of gray hairs, but your heart—your heart be the heart of innocent childhood.

R. Moor. Oh, a foretaste of this rapture! Kiss me, divine old man!

Old Moor (kisses him.) Imagine it's a father's kiss, and I'll imagine I'm kissing my son — you can weep too?

R. Moor. I thought it was a father's kiss! — Woe is me, if they brought him now!

(Schweizer's companions enter in a silent funeral procession, with bowed heads and veiled faces.)

R. Moor. Heaven! (steps back shyly, trying to hide. They pass him. He looks away from them. Deep pause. They stop.)

Grimm (in a hushed tone.) My captain! (R. Moor does not answer and steps further back.)

Schwarz. Dear captain! (Robber Moor retreats further.)

Grimm. We are innocent, my captain!

R. Moor (without looking at them.) Who are you?

Grimm. You don't look at us? Your loyal men.

R. Moor. Woe to you, if you were loyal to me!

Grimm. The last farewell from your servant Schweizer — he never returns, your servant Schweizer.

R. Moor (jumping up.) So you didn't find him?

Schwarz. Found him dead.

R. Moor (leaping up joyfully.) Thanks be to you, orchestrator of all things — Embrace me, my children — Mercy be the watchword from now on — Now that's over too — Everything's over.

New Robbers. Amalia.

Robber. Hooray, hooray! A catch, a superb catch!

Amalia (with flowing hair.) The dead, they cry, have risen at his voice — my uncle alive — in this forest — where is he? Karl! Uncle! — Ha! (Rushes towards the old man.)

Old Moor. Amalia! My daughter! Amalia! (Holds her tightly in his arms.)

R. Moor (springing back.) Who brings this image before my eyes?

Amalia (breaks free from the old man, springs towards the robber, and embraces him ecstatically.) I have him, oh ye stars! I have him! —

Moor (tearing himself away, to the robbers.) Break up, you! The arch-enemy has betrayed me!

Amalia. My bridegroom, my bridegroom, you are raving! Ha! With ecstasy! Why am I so numb, so cold in the midst of this whirlwind of joy?

Old Moor (rousing himself.) Bridegroom? Daughter! Daughter! A bridegroom?

Amalia. His forever! Forever, forever, forever mine! — Oh, ye powers of heaven! Relieve me of this deadly rapture, lest I perish under the burden!

R. Moor. Tear her from my neck! Kill her! Kill him! Me! You! Everything! Let the whole world perish! (He tries to leave.)

Amalia. Whither? What? Beloved eternity! Joyful infinity, and you flee?

R. Moor. Away, away! — Most wretched of brides! — See for yourself, ask for yourself, hear! — Most wretched of fathers! Let me run away forever and ever!

Amalia. Hold me! For God's sake, hold me! — My eyes are going dark — He flees!

R. Moor. Too late! In vain! Your curse, father, — ask me no more! — I am, I have — your curse — your imagined curse! — Who lured me here? (Advancing on the robbers with a drawn sword.) Which of you lured me here, you creatures of the abyss? Then perish, Amalia! — Die, father! Die by my hand a third time! — These, your saviors, are robbers and murderers! Your Karl is their captain! (The old Moor gives up his ghost.)

Amalia (stands mute and rigid like a statue. The whole band in dreadful silence.)

R. Moor (running against an oak.) The souls of those I strangled in the ecstasy of love — of those I crushed in sacred sleep, of those — hahaha! Do you hear the powder tower explode over the circling chairs? Do you see the flames licking at the cradles of infants? That is a bridal torch, that is wedding music — oh, he does not forget, he knows how to bind — therefore from me the joy of love! therefore love for my torment! That is retribution!

Amalia. It is true! Ruler in heaven! It is true! — What have I done, I innocent lamb? I have loved this man!

R. Moor. This is more than a man can endure. I have heard death whistle at me from more than a thousand barrels, and have not flinched a foot, shall I now first learn to tremble like a woman? tremble before a woman? — No, a woman does not shake my manhood — Blood, blood! It is only a woman's impulse — I must drink blood, it will pass. (He tries to flee.)

Amalia (falls into his arms.) Murderer! Devil! I cannot let you go, angel.

Moor (hurls her from him.) Away, false serpent, you wish to mock a madman, but I defy tyrannical fate — what, you weep! Oh, you mischievous, malicious stars! She pretends to weep, as if a soul were weeping for me. (Amalia throws her arms around his neck.) Ha, what is this? She does not spit at me, does not push me away — Amalia! Have you forgotten? Do you know whom you embrace, Amalia?

Amalia. My only one, inseparable!

Moor (blossoming in ecstatic joy.) She forgives me, she loves me! I am pure as the ether of heaven, she loves me. — Weeping thanks to you, merciful one in heaven! (He falls to his knees and weeps violently.) The peace of my soul has returned, the torment has raged itself out, hell is no more — See, oh see, the children of light weep on the necks of weeping devils — (standing up to the robbers.) So weep too! weep, weep, you are so happy — Oh Amalia! Amalia! Amalia! (He hangs on her lips, they remain in a silent embrace.)

A Robber (stepping forward grimly.) Stop, traitor! — Let go of that arm at once — or I will tell you a word that will make your ears ring and your teeth chatter with terror! (Stretches his sword between them.)

An old Robber. Think of the Bohemian forests! Do you hear, do you falter? — you must think of the Bohemian forests! Faithless one, where are your vows? Are wounds forgotten so soon? When we risked fortune, honor, and life for you? When we stood by you like Moors, caught like shields the blows meant for your life — did you not then raise your hand in an iron oath, swearing never to abandon us, as we have not abandoned you? — Dishonorable! Treacherous! And you would desert us when a harlot weeps?

A third Robber. Fie on perjury! The spirit of the sacrificed Roller, whom you forced from the realm of the dead as a witness, will blush at your cowardice, and rise armed from his grave to chastise you.

The Robbers (all at once, tearing open their clothes.) Look here, look! Do you know these scars? You are ours! With our heart's blood we have bought you as our serf, you are ours, even if the Archangel Michael were to come to blows with Moloch! — March with us, sacrifice for sacrifice! Amalia for the band!

R. Moor (lets her hand go.) It's over! — I wanted to turn back and go to my father, but He in heaven said it should not be. (Coldly.) Foolish dolt that I am, why did I even want it? Can a great sinner still turn back? A great sinner can never turn back, I should have known that long ago — Be calm, I beg you, be calm! It is only right — I did not want it when he sought me, now that I seek him, he does not want it, what is fairer? — Don't roll your eyes so — he doesn't need me. Does he not have creatures in abundance? He can easily spare one, and that one is now me. — Come, comrades!

Amalia (pulls him back.) Stop, stop! One blow! A death blow! Forsaken again! Draw your sword, and have mercy!

R. Moor. Mercy has fled to the bears — I will not kill you!

Amalia (clasping his knees.) Oh, for God's sake, for the sake of all mercies! I no longer want love, I know well that our stars up there flee hostilely from each other — death is my only plea. — Forsaken, forsaken! Take it all in its horrifying fullness, forsaken! I cannot endure it. You see, no woman can endure this. Death is my only plea! Look, my hand trembles! I don't have the heart to strike. I'm afraid of the flashing blade — it's so easy for you, so easy, you're a master of murder, draw your sword, and I'll be happy!

R. Moor. Do you want to be happy alone? Away, I kill no woman!

Amalia. Ha, strangler! You can only kill the happy, you pass by those sated with life! (Crawls to the robbers.) Then have mercy on me, you students of the executioner! — There is such a bloodthirsty pity in your eyes, which is comfort to the wretched — your master is a vain, cowardly braggart.

R. Moor. Woman, what are you saying? (The robbers turn away.)

Amalia. No friend? Not even among these a friend? (She stands up.) Well then, teach me how Dido died! (She tries to leave, a robber aims.)

R. Moor. Stop! Dare it — Moor's beloved shall die only by Moor! (He murders her.)

The Robbers. Captain, Captain! What are you doing, have you gone mad?

Moor (gazing at the corpse with a fixed stare.) She is struck! This twitching still, and then it will be over — Now, look! Do you have anything more to demand? You offered me a life, a life that was no longer yours, a life full of abomination and shame — I have slaughtered an angel for you. What, look closely! Are you satisfied now?

Grimm. You have paid your debt with usury. You have done what no man would do for his honor. Let's move on now!

Moor. You say that? Is it not true, the life of a saint for the life of rascals, it is an unequal exchange? — Oh, I tell you, if each of you went to the scaffold, and had one piece of flesh after another torn off with glowing tongs, so that the torment lasted eleven summer days, it would not outweigh these tears. (With bitter laughter.) The scars, the Bohemian forests! Yes, yes! This certainly had to be paid for.

Schwarz. Be calm, Captain! Come with us, the sight is not for you. Lead us on!

R. Moor. Stop — one more word before we go on — Mark this, you malicious henchmen of my barbaric whim — From now on, I cease to be your captain — With shame and horror I lay down this bloody staff, under which you deemed yourselves entitled to commit sacrilege, and to defile this heavenly light with deeds of darkness — Go to the right and to the left — We shall never again make common cause.

Robber. Ha, coward! Where are your high-flying plans? Were they soap bubbles, bursting at a woman's breath?

R. Moor. Oh, what a fool I was, who imagined I could beautify the world through horror, and uphold laws through lawlessness! I called it vengeance and justice — I presumed, oh Providence, to sharpen the blunted edges of your sword and to rectify your partialities — but — oh, vain childishness — here I stand on the brink of a dreadful life, and now experience with gnashing of teeth and wailing that two men like me would ruin the entire fabric of the moral world. Mercy — mercy on the boy who sought to preempt Thee — Thine alone is vengeance. Thou hast no need of human hand. Of course, it is no longer in my power to undo the past — what is corrupted remains corrupted — what I have cast down will never rise again — But something still remains to me, with which I can reconcile the offended laws and heal the mistreated order. It requires a sacrifice — A sacrifice that will reveal its inviolable majesty before all humanity — that sacrifice is myself. I myself must die for it.

Robber. Take his sword from him — He wants to kill himself.

R. Moor. Fools! Condemned to eternal blindness! Do you really believe a mortal sin will be the equivalent of mortal sins, do you think the harmony of the world will gain by this unholy discord? (Throws his weapons contemptuously at their feet.) He shall have me alive. I go to deliver myself into the hands of justice.

Robber. Put him in chains! He has gone mad.

R. Moor. Not that I doubt they will find me soon enough, if the powers above so wish. But they might surprise me in my sleep, or overtake me in flight, or embrace me with force and sword, and then even that sole merit would have escaped me, that I died for them willingly. Why should I, like a thief, conceal a life any longer, which has long been taken from me in the council of the heavenly watchers?

Robber. Let him go! It's his megalomania. He wants to stake his life on vain admiration.

R. Moor. One might admire me for it. (After some reflection.) I remember speaking to a poor wretch as I came over, who works for daily wages and has eleven living children — A thousand louis d'or have been offered for whoever delivers the great robber alive — that man can be helped. (He exits.)

Footnotes

The following have been published by Johann Georg Cotta's Bookstore in Tübingen:

Allgemeine Zeitung 1805. 4. The year's volume 8 Rthlr. 20 gr. 16 fl.

The eighth volume of this daily newspaper, so important for contemporary history, has, with the changed editorial staff, maintained the same value of completeness, impartiality, and purposeful presentation of the latest events. As a compendium of all that can interest present and future generations, this institution deserves the support granted to it by the increasing number of its subscribers, which was so extensive that the first months required a new edition.

A few complete copies from 1798 onwards are available at the publishing house for 6 Carolins.

Almanach des Dames pour l'an 1805, avec gravures. relié. 16. 1 Rthlr. 16 gr. 3 fl.

The content and engravings of this almanac, which has been appearing in Paris for 4 years now, are so well chosen that it provides lasting, not merely fleeting, satisfaction, and deserves a place in every lady's library.

From the

Amman-Bohnenberger Map of Swabia
the following are available at the above-mentioned bookstore:

No. 17, 32, and 44, or the region of Ellwangen, Sigmaringen, and Mörsburg
have been published, to be followed in a few weeks by three new sheets,

No. 18, 43, and 44, or the region of Neuburg, Kempten, and Kaufbeuren
.

Existing subscribers can collect their copies from us upon customary prepayment.

Those who still wish to enjoy the advantages of subscription must contact us directly before the end of this year and subscribe with 9 Imperial Ducats for the entire map consisting of 45 sheets.

Individual sheets can only be sold for 2 fl. due to wear and tear on the copper plates.

Archive, legal, by Gönner, Gmelin and Tafinger, 5th Vol. in 4 issues. gr. 8. 3 Rthlr. 5 fl. 24 kr.

The value of this archive, encompassing the entire legal literature, is guaranteed by its renowned editors and the undivided approval with which the strict impartiality and thorough assessment of the works presented therein are received by the public.

Archives littéraires de l'Europe ou Mélanges de Littérature, d'Histoire et de Philosophie, par MM. Suard, Segur l'ainé, Pastoret etc. Suivis d'une gazette littéraire universelle, gr. 8. 1805. 12 cahiers. 7 Rthlr. 4 gr. 12 fl. 24 kr.

The second year of a monthly journal, edited in Paris, which is recognized as the best of its kind and purpose by the most distinguished critical publications in France and Germany, and which, through the continued efforts of its current collaborators and the inclusion of several renowned German scholars, will increasingly perfect itself and deserve a place as a general collection point for European literature in every public library and reading institution.

Crome D. Europe's Products with a new Products Map of Europe. First Section, containing Portugal, Spain, France, Helvetia, and Wallis, with 4 large tables. Fourth, completely revised edition. gr. 8.

This new edition of a work long recognized as outstanding was delayed by various circumstances: it has, however, gained all the more in completeness, and will, like the map itself, fill an important gap in our literature.

Elementary Book, German, 4. 12 gr. 54 kr.

A not insignificant contribution by a veteran to the perfection of our German language and writing style.

Flatt (D. J. F.) Magazine for Christian Dogmatics and Morals, their History and Application in the Presentation of Religion, continued by D. Süßkind. 128 St. gr. 8. 20 gr. 1 fl. 30 kr.

This collection of interesting treatises, important to every theologian, has maintained its consistent, recognized value under the changed editorship.

Goethe (by) Winkelmann and his Century, in Letters and Essays. gr. 8. 2 Rthlr. 8 gr. 4 fl.

Winkelmann's letters to Berendis are among the most important legacies an individual can leave, and their publication is a significant enrichment to literature. The appended: “Outline of an Art History of the Eighteenth Century, and Sketches for a Description of Winkelmann” elevate this work to one of the most outstanding of this year's literary harvest.

Grotesques, Satires, and Naiveties
for the year 1806.

With 11 outlines after Raphael, Michael Angelo,
Teniers and other old masters.

Edited by J. D. Falk, 16. paperback. 2 Rthlr. 3 fl. 36 kr.

In these Grotesques, Satires, and Naiveties, which are to be regarded as a continuation of the Pocketbook for Friends of Jest and Satires, albeit on an expanded plan, the author intends to create a small Magazine for the Grotesque-Comical and the finer naive genres bordering on it. Descriptions of amusing folk festivals, market farces, small original pieces in Swabian and other folk dialects, sacred and secular comedies, Christmas Eve services, Easter celebrations, court galas, anecdotes of court jesters and pranksters of all kinds, carnival festivities, masks, Schönbart plays, explanations of amusing old engravings and woodcuts: All of this will gradually alternate in this magazine. The mere listing of the contents of the first volume will show lovers of humorous reading what to expect here. 1) Stanzas to Poetry by Stoll. 2) Our Lord and the Blacksmith of Apolda. A prank by the Editor. With 5 outlines. 3) The Blacksmith of Apolda before the Gates of Heaven, an afterpiece to the Blacksmith of Apolda by the same. 4) Still-existing satirical court of morals in Altona by Mr. Pastor Kleinschmidt. 5) The Shepherds at the Manger. A Christmas play. Upper Austrian. By the same. 6) The Moon and his Mother. A prank. By the same. 7) Whit Monday in Heilbronn, by an anonymous author from Swabia. 8) Some new poems by Grübel in Nuremberg dialect, along with a preface by the Editor. 9) Peter Abroad, by Grübel. 10) Peter as a Servant. 11) Peter at the Bird Market. 12) Peter as a Swineherd. 13) Peter in Catechism Class. 14) The Interrupted Divorce by Grübel. 15) The Pastor and the Innkeeper's Servant, by Grübel. 16) Fête Flamande, or Teniers' Merry Cuckoldry. With an outline after a painting by the same in Dresden. 17) The Count and the Little Tyrolean Girl. A Bregenz Idyll. After an Upper Austrian original. By the Editor. With an outline after Flaxman. 18) Colombina as a Housewife, or the Two Orange Thieves. With an outline after an antique. 19) Consilium Medicum, or the Doctors of Our Time. P. E. Hartert. 20) The Doctor and the Reviewers. An example of the misfortune a review can often cause. 21) The Easiest. 22) The Hardest. 23) Humanity, or the Prince and the Poet, a true anecdote. 24) From Barbarity, or Declaration of His Serene Highness the Dey of Algiers, to all German Authors and Poets. 25) Proposal according to Doctor Gall, to introduce ear-boxing into our literature. 26) Adam and Eve, or Paradise Regained. A field sermon, delivered by the field chaplain Kummer, published by J. D. Falk.

The rarer products of truly humorous content are in Germany, the more we can hope for a favorable reception from the public for this one.

Hoyer, J. G. General Dictionary of Artillery, which contains the explanation of all various technical terms, concepts, and doctrines of gunnery in theoretical and practical respects, along with the history of its most important inventions, 2nd Volume F to I gr. 8. 2 Rthlr. or 3 fl. 36 kr.

With this second volume, half of a work would now be delivered, encompassing everything related to gunnery with the utmost brevity and clarity.

Life, Wonderful Journeys, and Wanderings of Johannes von der Ostsee, edited by J. D. Falk. 1 Rthlr. 4 gr. or 2 fl.

The first volume of Johannes von der Ostsee contains a small, completely self-contained novel. Whoever has seen the beautiful regions of the Baltic Sea, and observed closely the bustling life that shipping and trade bring forth among the people there: whoever has once visited and grown fond of the peaceful coastal folk from Reval down to Danzig, in the midst of their towns; to them, the truth of this cheerful painting will immediately be clear, just as the portrayal of characters, in their entire national-naive good-nature, is perfectly suited to provide pleasure and entertainment to anyone, even the most distant. Above all, the hero's own youthful fate, his suffering and his love with Jeanette, as well as his earlier life in a workshop, and his education, achieved not without much effort, are likely to awaken the sympathy of all sensitive readers, and justify the interest that the story manages to maintain, from beginning to end, in an ever-increasing degree.

Phaedra, tragedy by Racine, translated by Schiller. With facing French text, 16. bound. 2 fl. 24 kr. or 1 Rthlr. 8 gr.

It would be superfluous to say anything in recommendation of one of the late Schiller's last works: the applause it received during its performance cannot fail it in reading, and the inclusion of the French original will further enhance the enjoyment through comparison.

Poetic Attempts by Pfeffel, 8th Part, with the author's portrait. 8.

With this 8th part, the public now receives all the lovely gifts that we owe to the joyful muse of this beloved poet until the end of last year. The accurately rendered portrait of the author will be a welcome addition.

Those who contact us directly can still enjoy the benefits of the subscription price.

Ladies' Pocketbook for 1806.
by
Huber, Lafontaine, Pfeffel, and others.

With engravings and woodcuts by Gubitz.
Price 2 fl. 24 kr. or 1 Rthlr. 8 gr.

Contents.

Explanation of the Engravings. — In Memory of Schiller by Goethe. — The Dervish and the Khan by Pfeffel. — The Foundling by the same. — The Two Flies by the same. — Lot's Wife by the same. — The Cat and the Rat by the same. — Imperial City Virtue, a story by Huber. — Life by Schreiber. — Joy, Peace, and Hope by the same. — The Flower by the same. — The Testament by Pfeffel. — Zeus and the Goose by the same. — The Camel and the Dromedary by the same. — The Exorcism by the same. — The Condor and the Eagle by the same. — The Two Robbers by the same. — Riddles by Schiller. — To a Friend in an Album by the same. — To Laidon by Haug. — To Beatrix by the same. — To Lilla by the same. — Gascon Declaration of Love by the same. — Hint by the same. — Malchen to her Husband's Silhouette by the same. — Household Teachings by Hesiod from Voss. — Worldly Life by Theone. — The Brothers, a tale by Lafontaine. — The Poodle and the Seal by Pfeffel. — The Creators by the same. — The Wet Nurse, by the same. — The Mother, by the same. — The Brothers, a Chinese legend by the same. — Recovery from Tibull by Voss. — The Doubter by Theone. — Lessons for Women by the same. — The Female Sex by Herder. — The Shepherd and the Shepherdess by Schreiber. — Praise of Music by the same.

The content provided sufficiently proves that this year's edition of such a beloved almanac is on par with its predecessors, and the external copperplate embellishments can claim equal acclaim; a special distinction is the woodcut work by Prof. Gubitz. Due to various circumstances, sufficient impressions have not yet reached us, so only a few regions have received copies so far; however, we hope to be able to dispatch them everywhere within a few weeks. Those who wish to place orders directly with us will receive a copy for 2 fl., and for every 6 copies, the 7th is free.

Schiller's Plays, Volume 1.

The immortal author did not live to see the publication of this first part of his plays, but since, with his usual foresight, he had determined the overall arrangement as well as the improvements to individual pieces at the very beginning of printing, the publication can be carried out entirely according to his specifications.

This complete collection of all his theatrical works will therefore consist of five parts, available in all bookstores in the four editions mentioned above.

The entire work will be delivered by Easter 1806, and anyone who places an order directly with the publishing house between now and the end of April 1806 will enjoy the following advantages:

Instead of the usual price, only three-quarters of it needs to be paid in advance, so that all 5 parts will be

discounted.

Furthermore, those who subscribe to 6 copies will receive the 7th one free.