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Egmont by Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe

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Clara. And in thy heart?

Egmont. I like her. True, we have each our own views; but that is nothing
to the purpose. She is an excellent woman, knows with whom she has to
deal, and would be penetrating enough were she not quite so suspicious. I
give her plenty of employment, because she is always suspecting some
secret motive in my conduct when, in fact, I have none.

Clara. Really none?

Egmont. Well, with one little exception, perhaps. All wine deposits lees in
the cask in the course of time. Orange furnishes her still better
entertainment, and is a perpetual riddle. He has got the credit of
harbouring some secret design; and she studies his brow to discover his
thoughts, and his steps, to learn in what direction they are bent.

Clara. Does she dissemble?

Egmont. She is Regent--and do you ask?

Clara. Pardon me; I meant to say, is she false?

Egmont. Neither more nor less than everyone who has his own objects to

Clara. I should never feel at home in the world. But she has a masculine
spirit, and is another sort of woman from us housewives and sempstresses.
She is great, steadfast, resolute.

Egmont. Yes, when matters are not too much involved. For once,
however, she is a little disconcerted.

Clara. How so?

Egmont. She has a moustache, too, on her upper lip, and occasionally an
attack of the gout. A regular Amazon.

Clara. A majestic woman! I should dread to appear before her.

Egmont. Yet thou art not wont to be timid! It would not be fear, only
maidenly bashfulness.

(Clara casts down her eyes, takes his hand, and
leans upon him.)

Egmont. I understand thee, dearest! Thou mayst raise thine eyes. (He
kisses her eyes.)

Clara. Let me be silent! Let me embrace thee! Let me look into thine eyes,
and find there everything--hope and comfort, joy and sorrow! (She
embraces and gazes on him.) Tell me! Oh, tell me! It seems so strange--art
thou indeed Egmont! Count Egmont! The great Egmont, who makes so
much noise in the world, who figures in the newspapers, who is the
support and stay of the provinces?

Egmont. No, Clara, I am not he.

Clara. How?

Egmont. Seest thou, Clara? Let me sit down! (He seats himself, she kneels
on a footstool before him, rests her arms on his knees and looks up in his
face.) That Egmont is a morose, cold, unbending Egmont, obliged to be
upon his guard, to assume now this appearance and now that; harassed,
misapprehended and perplexed, when the crowd esteem him light-hearted
and gay; beloved by a people who do not know their own minds; honoured
and extolled by the intractable multitude; surrounded by friends in whom
he dares not confide; observed by men who are on the watch to supplant
him; toiling and striving, often without an object, generally without a
reward. O let me conceal how it fares with him, let me not speak of his
feelings! But this Egmont, Clara, is calm, unreserved, happy, beloved and
known by the best of hearts, which is also thoroughly known to him, and
which he presses to his own with unbounded confidence and love. (He
embraces her.) This is thy Egmont.

Clara. So let me die! The world has no joy after this!


SCENE I.--A Street

Jetter, Carpenter

Jetter. Hist! neighbour,--a word!

Carpenter. Go your way and be quiet.

Jetter. Only one word. Is there nothing new?

Carpenter. Nothing, except that we are anew forbidden to speak.

Jetter. How?

Carpenter. Step here, close to this house. Take heed! Immediately on his
arrival, the Duke of Alva published a decree, by which two or three, found
conversing together in the streets, are without trial, declared guilty of high

Jetter. Alas!

Carpenter. To speak of state affairs is prohibited on pain of perpetual

Jetter. Alas for our liberty!

Carpenter. And no one, on pain of death, shall censure the measures of

Jetter. Alas, for our heads!

Carpenter. And fathers, Mothers, children, kindred, friends, and servants,
are invited, by the promise of large rewards, to disclose what passes in the
privacy of our homes, before an expressly appointed tribunal.

Jetter. Let us go home.

Carpenter. And the obedient are promised that they shall suffer no injury,
either in person or estate.

Jetter. How gracious!---I felt ill at ease the moment the duke entered the
town. Since then, it has seemed to me, as though the heavens were covered
with black crape, which hangs so low, that one must stoop down to avoid
knocking one's head against it.

Carpenter. And how do you like his soldiers? They are a different sort of
crabs from those we have been used to.

Jetter. Faugh! It gives one the cramp at one's heart to see such a troop
march down the street. As straight as tapers, with fixed look, only one
step, however many there may be; and when they stand sentinel, and you
pass one of them, it seems as though he would look you through and
through; and he looks so stiff and morose, that you fancy you see a task-
master at every corner. They offend my sight. Our militia were merry
fellows; they took liberties, stood their legs astride, their hats over their
ears, they lived and let live; these fellows are like machines with a devil
inside them.

Carpenter. Were such an one to cry, "Halt!" and level his musket, think
you one would stand?

Jetter. I should fall dead upon the spot.

Carpenter. Let us go home!

Jetter No good can come of it. Farewell.

[Enter Soest.

Soest. Friends! Neighbours! Carpenter. Hush! Let us go.

Soest. Have you heard?

Jetter. Only too much!

Soest. The Regent is gone.

Jetter. Then Heaven help us.

Carpenter. She was some stay to us.

Soest. Her departure was sudden and secret. She could not agree with the
duke; she has sent word to the nobles that she intends to return. No one
believes it, however.

Carpenter. God pardon the nobles for letting this new yoke be laid upon
our necks. They might have prevented it. Our privileges are gone.

Jetter. For Heaven's sake not a word about privileges. I already scent an
execution; the sun will not come forth; the fogs are rank.

Soest. Orange, too, is gone.

Carpenter. Then are we quite deserted!

Soest, Count Egmont is still here.

Jetter. God be thanked! Strengthen him, all ye saints, to do his utmost; he
is the only one who can help us.

[Enter Vansen.

Vansen. Have I at length found a few brave citizens who have not crept
out of sight?

Jetter. Do us the favour to pass on.

Vansen. You are not civil.

Jetter. This is no time for compliments. Does your back itch again? are
your wounds already healed?

Vansen. Ask a soldier about his wounds? Had I cared for blows, nothing
good would have come of me.

Jetter. Matters may grow more serious.

Vansen. You feel from the gathering storm a pitiful weakness in your
limbs, it seems.

Carpenter. Your limbs will soon be in motion elsewhere, if you do not
keep quiet.

Vansen. Poor mice! The master of the house procures a new cat, and ye
are straight in despair! The difference is very trifling; we shall get on as
we did before, only be quiet.

Carpenter. You are an insolent knave.

Vansen. Gossip! Let the duke alone. The old cat looks as though he had
swallowed devils, instead of mice, and could not now digest them. Let him
alone, I say; he must eat, drink, and sleep, like other men. I am not afraid
if we only watch our opportunity, At first he makes quick work Of it; by-
and-by, however, he too will find that it is pleasanter to live in the larder,
among flitches of bacon, and to rest by night, than to entrap a few solitary
mice in the granary. Go to! I know the stadtholders.

Carpenter. What such a fellow can say with impunity! Had I said such a
thing, I should not hold myself safe a moment.

Vansen. Do not make yourselves uneasy! God in heaven does not trouble
himself about you, poor worms, much less the Regent.

Jetter. Slanderer!

Vansen. I know some for whom it would be better if, instead of their own
high spirits, they had a little tailor's blood in their veins.

Carpenter. What mean you by that?

Vansen. Hum! I mean the count.

Jetter. Egmont! What has he to fear?

Vansen. I'm a poor devil, and could live a whole year round on what he
loses in a single night; yet he would do well to give me his revenue for a
twelvemonth, to have my head upon his shoulders for one quarter of an

Jetter. You think yourself very clever; yet there is more sense in the hairs
of Egmont's head, than in your brains.

Vansen. Perhaps so! Not more shrewdness, however. These gentry are the
most apt to deceive themselves. He should be more chary of his

Jetter. How his tongue wags! Such a gentleman!

Vansen. Just because he is not a tailor.

Jetter. You audacious scoundrel!

Vansen. I only wish he had your courage in his limbs for an hour to make
him uneasy, and plague and torment him, till he were compelled to leave
the town.

Jetter. What nonsense you talk; why he's as safe as a star in heaven.

Vansen. Have you ever seen one snuff itself out? Off it went!

Carpenter. Who would dare to meddle with him?

Vansen. Will you interfere to prevent it? Will you stir up an insurrection if
he is arrested?

Jetter. Ah!

Vansen. Will you risk your ribs for his sake?

Soest. Eh!

Vansen (mimicking them). Eh! Oh! Ah! Run through the alphabet in your
wonderment. So it is, and so it will remain. Heaven help him!

Jetter. Confound your impudence. Can such a noble, upright man have
anything to fear?

Vansen. In this world the rogue has everywhere the advantage. At the bar,
he makes a fool of the judge; on the bench, he takes pleasure in convicting
the accused. I have had to copy out a protocol, where the commissary was
handsomely rewarded by the court, both with praise and money, because
through his cross-examination, an honest devil, against whom they had a
grudge, was made out to be a rogue.

Carpenter. Why, that again is a downright lie. What can they want to get
out of a man if he is innocent?

Vansen. Oh, you blockhead! When nothing can be worked out of a man by
cross-examination, they work it into him. Honesty is rash and withal
somewhat presumptuous; at first they question quietly enough, and the
prisoner, proud of his innocence, as they call it, comes out with much that
a sensible man would keep back! then, from these answers the inquisitor
proceeds to put new questions, and is on the watch for the slightest
contradiction; there he fastens his line; and, let the poor devil lose his self-
possession, say too much here, or too little there, or, Heaven knows from
what whim or other, let him withhold some trifling circumstance, or at any
moment give way to fear--then we're on the right track, and, I assure you,
no beggar-woman seeks for rags among the rubbish with more care than
such a fabricator of rogues, from trifling, crooked, disjointed, misplaced,
misprinted, and concealed facts and information, acknowledged or denied,
endeavours at length to patch up a scarecrow, by means of which he may
at least hang his victim in effigy; and the poor devil may thank Heaven if
he is in a condition to see himself hanged.

Jetter. He has a ready tongue of his own.

Carpenter. This may serve well enough with flies. Wasps laugh at your
cunning web.

Vansen. According to the kind of spider. The tall duke, now, has just the
look of your garden spider; not the large-bellied kind, they are less
dangerous; but your long-footed, meagre-bodied gentleman, that does not
fatten on his diet, and whose threads are slender indeed, but not the less

Jetter. Egmont is knight of the Golden Fleece, who dare lay hands on him?
He can be tried only by his peers, by the assembled knights of his order.
Your own foul tongue and evil conscience betray you into this nonsense.

Vansen. Think you that I wish him ill? I would you were in the right. He is
an excellent gentleman. He once let off, with a sound drubbing, some
good friends of mine, who would else have been hanged. Now take
yourselves off! begone, I advise you! Yonder I see the patrol again
commencing their round. They do not look as if they would be willing to
fraternize with us over a glass. We must wait, and bide our time. I have a
couple of nieces and a gossip of a tapster; if after enjoying themselves in
their company, they are not tamed, they are regular wolves.

Scene II.--The Palace of Eulenberg, Residence of the Duke of Alva

Silva and Gomez (meeting)

Silva. Have you executed the duke's commands?

Gomez. Punctually. All the day-patrols have received orders to assemble
at the appointed time, at the various points that I have indicated.
Meanwhile, they march as usual through the town to maintain order. Each
is ignorant respecting the movements of the rest, and imagines the
command to have reference to himself alone; thus in a moment the cordon
can be formed, and all the avenues to the palace occupied. Know you the
reason of this command?

Silva. I am accustomed blindly to obey; and to whom can one more easily
render obedience than to the duke, since the event always proves the
wisdom of his commands?

Gomez. Well! Well! I am not surprised that you are become as reserved
and monosyllabic as the duke, since you are obliged to be always about his
person; to me, however, who am accustomed to the lighter service of Italy,
it seems strange enough. In loyalty and obedience, I am the same old
soldier as ever; but I am wont to indulge in gossip and discussion; here,
you are all silent, and seem as though you knew not how to enjoy
yourselves. The duke, methinks, is like a brazen tower without gates, the
garrison of which must be furnished with wings. Not long ago I heard him
say at the table of a gay, jovial fellow that he was like a bad spirit-shop,
with a brandy sign displayed; to allure idlers, vagabonds, and thieves.

Silva. And has he not brought us hither in silence?

Gomez. Nothing can be said against that. Of a truth, we, who witnessed
the address with which he led the troops hither out of Italy, have seen
something. How he advanced warily through friends and foes; through the
French, both royalists and heretics; through the Swiss and their
confederates; maintained the strictest discipline, and accomplished with
ease, and without the slightest hindrance, a march that was esteemed so
perilous!--We have seen and learned something.

Silva. Here too! Is not everything as still and quiet as though there had
been no disturbance?

Gomez. Why, as for that, it was tolerably quiet when we arrived.

Silva. The provinces have become much more tranquil; if there is any
movement now, it is only among those who wish to escape; and to them,
methinks, the duke will speedily close every outlet.

Gomez. This service cannot fail to win for him the favour of the king.

Silva. And nothing is more expedient for us than to retain his. Should the
king come hither, the duke doubtless and all whom he recommends will
not go without their reward.

Gomez. Do you really believe then that the king will come?

Silva. So many preparations are being made, that the report appears highly

Gomez. I am not convinced, however.

Silva. Keep your thoughts to yourself then. For if it should not be the
king's intention to come, it is at least, certain that he wishes the rumour to
be believed.

[Enter Ferdinand.

Ferdinand. Is my father not yet abroad?

Silva. We are waiting to receive his commands.

Ferdinand. The princes will soon be here.

Gomez. Are they expected to-day?

Ferdinand. Orange and Egmont.

Gomez (aside to Silva). A light breaks in upon me.

Silva. Well, then, say nothing about it.

Enter the Duke of Alva (as he advances the rest draw back)

Alva. Gomez.

Gomez (steps forward). My lord.

Alva. You have distributed the guards and given them their instructions?

Gomez. Most accurately. The day-patrols--

Alva. Enough. Attend in the gallery. Silva will announce to you the
moment when you are to draw them together, and to occupy the avenues
leading to the palace. The rest you know.

Gomez. I do, my lord.

[Exit. Alva. Silva.

Silva. Here my lord.

Alva. I shall require you to manifest to-day all the qualities which I have
hitherto prized in you: courage, resolve, unswerving execution.

Silva. I thank you for affording me an opportunity of showing that your
old servant is unchanged.

Alva. The moment the princes enter my cabinet, hasten to arrest Egmont's
private Secretary. You have made all needful preparations for securing the
others who are specified?

Silva. Rely upon us. Their doom, like a well-calculated eclipse, will
overtake them with terrible certainty.

Alva. Have you had them all narrowly watched?

Silva. All. Egmont especially. He is the only one whose demeanour, since
your arrival, remains unchanged. The live-long day he is now on one horse
and now on another; he invites guests as usual, is merry and entertaining at
table, plays at dice, shoots, and at night steals to his mistress. The others,
on the contrary, have made a manifest pause in their mode of life; they
remain at home, and, from the outward aspect of their houses, you would
imagine that there was a sick man within.

Alva. To work then, ere they recover in spite of us.

Silva. I shall bring them without fail. In obedience to your commands we
load them with officious honours; they are alarmed; cautiously, yet
anxiously, they tender us their thanks, feel that flight would be the most
prudent course, yet none venture to adopt it; they hesitate, are unable to
work together, while the bond which unites them prevents their acting
boldly as individuals. They are anxious to withdraw themselves from
suspicion, and thus only render themselves more obnoxious to it. I already
contemplate with joy the successful realization of your scheme.

Alva. I rejoice only over what is accomplished, and not lightly over that;
for there ever remains ground for serious and anxious thought. Fortune is
capricious; the common, the worthless, she oft-times ennobles, while she
dishonours with a contemptible issue the most maturely considered
schemes. Await the arrival of the princes, then order Gomez to occupy the
streets, and hasten yourself to arrest Egmont's secretary, and the others
who are specified. This done, return, and announce to my son that he may
bring me the tidings in the council.

Silva. I trust this evening I shall dare to appear in your presence. (Alva
approaches his son who has hitherto been standing in the gallery.) I dare
not whisper it even to myself; but my mind misgives me. The event will, I
fear, be different from what he anticipates. I see before me spirits, who,
still and thoughtful, weigh in ebon scales the doom of princes and of many
thousands. Slowly the beam moves up and down; deeply the judges appear
to ponder; at length one scale sinks, the other rises, breathed on by the
caprice of destiny, and all is decided.


Alva (advancing with his son). How did you find the town?

Ferdinand. All is again quiet. I rode as for pastime, from street to street.
Your well-distributed patrols hold Fear so tightly yoked, that she does not
venture even to whisper. The town resembles a plain when the lightning's
glare announces the impending storm: no bird, no beast is to be seen, that
is not stealing to a place of shelter.

Alva. Has nothing further occurred?

Ferdinand. Egmont, with a few companions, rode into the market-place;
we exchanged greetings; he was mounted on an unbroken charger, which
excited my admiration, "Let us hasten to break in our steeds," he
exclaimed; "we shall need them ere long!" He said that he should see me
again to-day; he is coming here, at your desire, to deliberate with you.

Alva. He will see you again.

Ferdinand. Among all the knights whom I know here, he pleases me the
best. I think we shall be friends.

Alva. You are always rash and inconsiderate. I recognize in you the levity
of your Mother, which threw her unconditionally into my arms.
Appearances have already allured you precipitately into many dangerous

Ferdinand. You will find me ever submissive.

Alva. I pardon this inconsiderate kindness, this heedless gaiety, in
consideration of your youthful blood. Only forget not on what mission I
am sent, and what part in it I would assign to you.

Ferdinand. Admonish me, and spare me not, when you deem it needful.

Alva (after a pause). My son!

Ferdinand. My father!

Alva. The princes will be here anon; Orange and Egmont. It is not mistrust
that has withheld me till now from disclosing to you what is about to take
place. They will not depart hence.

Ferdinand. What do you purpose?

Alva. It has been resolved to arrest them.--You are astonished! Learn what
you have to do; the reasons you shall know when all is accomplished.
Time fails now to unfold them. With you alone I wish to deliberate on the
weightiest, the most secret matters; a powerful bond holds us linked
together; you are dear and precious to me; on you I would bestow
everything. Not the habit of obedience alone would I impress upon you; I
desire also to implant within your mind the power to realize, to command,
to execute; to you I would bequeath a vast inheritance, to the king a most
useful servant; I would endow you with the noblest of my possessions,
that you may not be ashamed to appear among your brethren.

Ferdinand. How deeply am I indebted to you for this love, which you
manifest for me alone, while a whole kingdom trembles before you!

Alva. Now hear what is to be done. As soon as the princes have entered,
every avenue to the palace will be guarded. This duty is confided to
Gomez. Silva will hasten to arrest Egmont's secretary, together with those
whom we hold most in suspicion. You, meanwhile, will take the command
of the guards stationed at the gates and in the courts. Before all, take care
to occupy the adjoining apartment with the trustiest soldiers. Wait in the
gallery till Silva returns, then bring me any unimportant paper, as a signal
that his commission is executed. Remain in the ante-chamber till Orange
retires, follow him; I will detain Egmont here as though I had some further
communication to make to him. At the end of the gallery demand Orange's
sword, summon the guards, secure promptly the most dangerous man; I
meanwhile will seize Egmont here.

Ferdinand. I obey, my father--for the first time with a heavy and an
anxious heart.

Alva. I pardon you; this is the first great day of your life.

[Enter Silva.

Silva. A courier from Antwerp. Here is Orange's letter. He does not come.

Alva. Says the messenger so?

Silva. No, my own heart tells me.

Alva. In thee speaks my evil genius. (After reading the letter, he makes a
sign to the two, and they retire to the gallery. Alva remains alone in front
of the stage.) He comes not! Till the last moment he delays declaring
himself. He ventures not to come! So then, the cautious man, contrary to
all expectations, is for once cautious enough to lay aside his wonted
caution. The hour moves on! Let the finger travel but a short space over
the dial, and a great work is done or lost--irrevocably lost; for the
opportunity can never be retrieved, nor can our intention remain
concealed. Long had I maturely weighed everything, foreseen even this
contingency, and firmly resolved in my own mind what, in that case, was
to be done; and now, when I am called upon to act, I can with difficulty
guard my mind from being again distracted by conflicting doubts. Is it
expedient to seize the others if he escape me? Shall I delay, and suffer
Egmont to elude my grasp, together with his friends, and so many others
who now, and perhaps for to-day only, are in my hands? How! Does
destiny control even thee--the uncontrollable? How long matured! How
well prepared! How great, how admirable the plan! How nearly had hope
attained the goal! And now, at the decisive moment, thou art placed
between two evils; as in a lottery, thou dost grasp in the dark future; what
thou hast drawn remains still unrolled, to thee unknown whether it is a
prize or a blank! (He becomes attentive, like one who hears a noise, and
steps to the window.) 'Tis he! Egmont! Did thy steed bear thee hither so
lightly, and started not at the scent of blood, at the spirit with the naked
sword who received thee at the gate? Dismount! Lo, now thou hast one
foot in the grave! And now both! Ay, caress him, and for the last time
stroke his neck for the gallant service he has rendered thee. And for me no
choice is left. The delusion, in which Egmont ventures here to-day, cannot
a second time deliver him into my hands! Hark! (Ferdinand and Silva
enter hastily.) Obey my orders! I swerve not from my purpose.! shall
detain Egmont here as best I may, till you bring me tidings from Silva.
Then remain at hand. Thee, too, fate has robbed of the proud honour of
arresting with thine own hand the king's greatest enemy. (To Silva.) Be
prompt! (To Ferdinand.) Advance to meet him.

(Alva remains some moments alone, pacing the chamber in silence.)

[Enter Egmont.

Egmont. I come to learn the king's commands; to hear what service he
demands from our loyalty, which remains eternally devoted to him.

Alva. He desires, before all, to hear your counsel.

Egmont. Upon what subject? Does Orange come also? I thought to find
him here.

Alva. I regret that he fails us at this important crisis. The king desires your
counsel, your opinion as to the best means of tranquillizing these states.
He trusts indeed that you will zealously co-operate with him in quelling
these disturbances, and in securing to these provinces the benefit of
complete and permanent order.

Egmont. You, my lord, should know better than I, that tranquillity is
already sufficiently restored, and was still more so, till the appearance of
fresh troops again agitated the public mind, and filled it anew with anxiety
and alarm.

Alva. You seem to intimate that it would have been more advisable if the
king had not placed me in a position to interrogate you.

Egmont. Pardon me! It is not for me to determine whether the king acted
advisedly in sending the army hither, whether the might of his royal
presence alone would not have operated more powerfully. The army is
here, the king is not. But we should be most ungrateful were we to forget
what we owe to the Regent. Let it be acknowledged! By her prudence and
valour, by her judicious use of authority and force, of persuasion and
finesse, she pacified the insurgents, and, to the astonishment of the world,
succeeded, in the course of a few months, in bringing a rebellious people
back to their duty.

Alva. I deny it not. The insurrection is quelled; and the people appear to be
already forced back within the bounds of obedience. But does it not
depend upon their caprice alone to overstep these bounds? Who shall
prevent them from again breaking loose? Where is the power capable of
restraining them? Who will be answerable to us for their future loyalty and
submission? Their own goodwill is the sole pledge we have.

Egmont. And is not the good-will of a people the surest, the noblest
pledge? By heaven! when can a monarch hold himself more secure, ay,
both against foreign and domestic foes, than when all can stand for one,
and one for all?

Alva. You would not have us believe, however, that such is the case here
at present?

Egmont. Let the king proclaim a general pardon; he will thus tranquillize
the public mind; and it will be seen how speedily loyalty and affection will
return, when confidence is restored.

Alva. How! And suffer those who have insulted the majesty of the king,
who have violated the sanctuaries of our religion, to go abroad
unchallenged! living witnesses that enormous crimes may be perpetrated
with impunity!

Egmont. And ought not a crime of frenzy, of intoxication, to be excused,
rather than horribly chastised? Especially when there is the sure hope, nay,
more, where there is positive certainty that the evil will never again recur?
Would not sovereigns thus be more secure? Are not those monarchs most
extolled by the world and by posterity, who can pardon, pity, despise an
offence against their dignity? Are they not on that account likened to God
himself, who is far too exalted to be assailed by every idle blasphemy?

Alva. And therefore, should the king contend for the honour of God and of
religion, we for the authority of the king. What the supreme power
disdains to avert, it is our duty to avenge. Were I to counsel, no guilty
person should live to rejoice in his impunity.

Egmont. Think you that you will be able to reach them all? Do we not
daily hear that fear is driving them to and fro, and forcing them out of the
land? The more wealthy will escape to other countries with their property,
their children, and their friends; while the poor will carry their industrious
hands to our neighbours.

Alva. They will, if they cannot be prevented. It is on this account that the
king desires counsel and aid from every prince, zealous co-operation from
every stadtholder; not merely a description of the present posture of
affairs, or conjectures as to what might take place were events suffered to
hold on their course without interruption. To contemplate a mighty evil, to
flatter oneself with hope, to trust to time, to strike a blow, like the clown in
a play, so as to make a noise and appear to do something, when in fact one
would fain do nothing; is not such conduct calculated to awaken a
suspicion that those who act thus contemplate with satisfaction a rebellion,
which they would not indeed excite, but which they are by no means
unwilling to encourage?

Egmont (about to break forth, restrains himself, and after a brief pause,
speaks with composure). Not every design is obvious, and many a man's
design is misconstrued. It is widely rumoured, however, that the object
which the king has in view is not so much to govern the provinces
according to uniform and dearly defined laws, to maintain the majesty of
religion, and to give his people universal peace, as unconditionally to
subjugate them, to rob them of their ancient rights, to appropriate their
possessions, to curtail the fair privileges of the nobles, for whose sake
alone they are ready to serve him with life and limb. Religion, it is said, is
merely a splendid device, behind which every dangerous design may be
contrived with the greater ease; the prostrate crowds adore the sacred
symbols pictured there, while behind lurks the fowler ready to ensnare

Alva. This must I hear from you?

Egmont. I speak not my own sentiments! I but repeat what is loudly
rumoured, and uttered now here and now there by great and by humble, by
wise men and fools. The Netherlanders fear a double yoke, and who will
be surety to them for their liberty?

Alva. Liberty! A fair word when rightly understood. What liberty would
they have? What is the freedom of the most free? To do right! And in that
the monarch will not hinder them. No! No! They imagine themselves
enslaved, when they have not the power to injure themselves and others.
Would it not be better to abdicate at once, rather than rule such a people?
When the country is threatened by foreign invaders, the burghers,
occupied only with their immediate interests, bestow no thought upon the
advancing foe, and when the king requires their aid, they quarrel among
themselves, and thus, as it were, conspire with the enemy. Far better is it
to circumscribe their power, to control and guide them for their good, as
children are controlled and guided. Trust me, a people grows neither old
nor wise, a people remains always in its infancy.

Egmont. How rarely does a king attain wisdom! And is it not fit that the
many should confide their interests to the many rather than to the one?
And not even to the one, but to the few servants of the one, men who have
grown old under the eyes of their master. To grow wise, it seems, is the
exclusive privilege of these favoured individuals.

Alva. Perhaps for the very reason that they are not left to themselves.

Egmont. And therefore they would fain leave no one else to his own
guidance. Let them do what they like, however; I have replied to your
questions, and I repeat, the measures you propose will never succeed!
They cannot succeed! I know my countrymen. They are men worthy to
tread God's earth; each complete in himself, a little king, steadfast, active,
capable, loyal, attached to ancient customs. It may be difficult to win their
confidence, but it is easy to retain it. Firm and unbending! They may be
crushed, but not subdued.

Alva (who during this speech has looked round several times). Would you
venture to repeat what you have uttered, in the king's presence?

Egmont. It were the worse, if in his presence I were restrained by fear!
The better for him and for his people, if he inspired me with confidence, if
he encouraged me to give yet freer utterance to my thoughts.

Alva. What is profitable, I can listen to as well as he.

Egmont. I would say to him--'Tis easy for the shepherd to drive before
him a flock of sheep; the ox draws the plough without opposition; but if
you would ride the noble steed, you must study his thoughts, you must
require nothing unreasonable, nor unreasonably, from him. The burgher
desires to retain his ancient constitution; to be governed by his own
countrymen; and why? Because he knows in that case how he shall be
ruled, because he can rely upon their disinterestedness, upon their
sympathy with his fate.

Alva. And ought not the Regent to be empowered to alter these ancient
usages? Should not this constitute his fairest privilege? What is permanent
in this world? And shall the constitution of a state alone remain
unchanged? Must not every relation alter in the course of time, and on that
very account, an ancient constitution become the source of a thousand
evils, because not adapted to the present condition of the people? These
ancient rights afford, doubtless, convenient loopholes, through which the
crafty and the powerful may creep, and wherein they may lie concealed, to
the injury of the people and of the entire community; and it is on this
account, I fear, that they are held in such high esteem.

Egmont. And these arbitrary changes, these unlimited encroachments of
the supreme power, are they not indications that one will permit himself to
do what is forbidden to thousands? The monarch would alone be free, that
he may have it in his power to gratify his every wish, to realize his every
thought. And though we should confide in him as a good and virtuous
sovereign, will he be answerable to us for his successor? That none who
come after him shall rule without consideration, without forbearance! And
who would deliver us from absolute caprice, should he send hither his
servants, his minions, who, without knowledge of the country and its
requirements, should govern according to their own good pleasure, meet
with no opposition, and know themselves exempt from all responsibility?

Alva (who has meanwhile again looked round). There is nothing more
natural than that a king should choose to retain the power in his own
hands, and that he should select as the instruments of his authority, those
who best understand him, who desire to understand him, and who will
unconditionally execute his will.

Egmont. And just as natural is it, that the burgher should prefer being
governed by one born and reared in the same land, whose notions of right
and wrong are in harmony with his own, and whom he can regard as his

Alva. And yet the noble, methinks, has shared rather unequally with these
brethren of his.

Egmont. That took place centuries ago, and is now submitted to without
envy. But should new men, whose presence is not needed in the country,
be sent, to enrich themselves a second time, at the cost of the nation;
should the people see themselves exposed to their bold, unscrupulous
rapacity, it would excite a ferment that would not soon be quelled.

Alva. You utter words to which I ought not to listen;--I, too, am a

Egmont. That they are spoken in your presence is a sufficient proof that
they have no reference to you.

Alva. Be that as it may, I would rather not hear them from you. The king
sent me here in the hope that I should obtain the support of the nobles. The
king wills, and will have his will obeyed. After profound deliberation, the
king at length discerns what course will best promote the welfare of the
people; matters cannot be permitted to go on as heretofore; it is the king's
intention to limit their power for their own good; if necessary, to force
upon them their salvation: to sacrifice the more dangerous burghers in
order that the rest may find repose, and enjoy in peace the blessing of a
wise government, This is his resolve; this I am commissioned to announce
to the nobles; and in his name I require from them advice, not as to the
course to be pursued--on that he is resolved--but as to the best means of
carrying his purpose into effect.

Egmont. Your words, alas, justify the fears of the people, the universal
fear! The king has then resolved as no sovereign ought to resolve. In order
to govern his subjects more easily, he would crush, subvert, nay, ruthlessly
destroy, their strength, their spirit, and their self-respect! He would violate
the inmost core of their individuality, doubtless with the view of
promoting their happiness. He would annihilate them, that they may
assume a new, a different form. Oh! if his purpose be good, he is fatally
misguided! It is not the king whom we resist;--we but place ourselves in
the way of the monarch, who, unhappily, is about to take the first rash step
in a wrong direction.

Alva. Such being your sentiments, it were a vain attempt for us to
endeavour to agree. You must indeed think poorly of the king, and
contemptibly of his counsellors, if you imagine that everything has not
already been thought of and maturely weighed. I have no commission a
second time to balance conflicting arguments. From the people I demand
submission;--and from you, their leaders and princes, I demand counsel
and support, as pledges of this unconditional duty.

Egmont. Demand our heads, and your object Is attained; to a noble soul it
must be indifferent whether he stoop his neck to such a yoke, or lay it
upon the block. I have spoken much to little purpose. I have agitated the
air, but accomplished nothing.

[Enter Ferdinand.

Ferdinand. Pardon my intrusion. Here is a letter, the bearer of which
urgently demands an answer.

Alva. Allow me to peruse its contents. (Steps aside.)

Ferdinand (to Egmont). 'Tis a noble steed that your people have brought,
to carry you away.

Egmont. I have seen worse. I have had him some time; I think of parting
with him. If he pleases you we shall probably soon agree as to the price.

Ferdinand. We will think about it.

(Alva motions to his son, who retires to the back-ground.)

Egmont. Farewell! Allow me to retire; for, by heaven, I know not what
more I can say.

Alva. Fortunately for you, chance prevents you from making a fuller
disclosure of your sentiments. You incautiously lay bare the recesses of
your heart, and your own lips furnish evidence against you, more fatal
than could be produced by your bitterest adversary.

Ferdinand. This reproach disturbs me not. I know my own heart; I know
with what honest zeal I am devoted to the king; I know that my allegiance
is more true than that of many who, in his service, seek only to serve
themselves. I regret that our discussion should terminate so
unsatisfactorily, and trust that in spite of our opposing views, the service
of the king, our master, and the welfare of our country, may speedily unite
us; another conference, the presence of the princes who to-day are absent,
may, perchance, in a more propitious moment, accomplish what at present
appears impossible. In this hope I take my leave.

Alva (who at the same time makes a sign to Ferdinand). Hold, Egmont!--
Your sword!-
(The centre door opens and discloses the gallery, which is occupied with
guards, who remain motionless.)

Egmont (after a pause of astonishment). This was the intention? For this
thou hast summoned me? (Grasping his sword as if to defend himself.)
Am I then weaponless?

Alva. The king commands. Thou art my prisoner. (At the same time
guards enter from both sides.)

Egmont (after a pause). The king?--Orange! Orange! (after a pause,
resigning his sword). Take it! It has been employed far oftener in
defending the cause of my king than in protecting this breast.

(He retires by the centre door, followed by the guard and Alva's son. Alva
remains standing while the curtain falls.)


Scene I.--A Street. Twilight

Clara, Brackenburg, Burghers

Brackenburg. Dearest, for Heaven's sake, what wouldst thou do?

Clara. Come with me, Brackenburg! Thou canst not know the people, we
are certain to rescue him; for what can equal their love for him? Each
feels, I could swear it, the burning desire to deliver him, to avert danger
from a life so precious, and to restore freedom to the most free. Come! A
voice only is wanting to call them together. In their souls the memory is
still fresh of all they owe him, and well they know that his mighty arm
alone shields them from destruction. For his sake, for their own sake, they
must peril everything. And what do we peril? At most, our lives, which if
he perish, are not worth preserving.

Brackenburg. Unhappy girl! Thou seest not the power that holds us
fettered as with bands of iron.

Clara. To me it does not appear invincible. Let us not lose time in idle
words. Here comes some of our old, honest, valiant burghers! Hark ye,
friends! Neighbours! Hark! --Say, how fares it with Egmont?

Carpenter. What does the girl want? Tell her to hold her peace.

Clara. Step nearer, that we may speak low, till we are united and more
strong. Not a moment is to be lost! Audacious tyranny, that dared to fetter
him, already lifts the dagger against his life. Oh, my friends! With the
advancing twilight my anxiety grows more intense. I dread this night.
Come! Let us disperse; let us hasten from quarter to quarter, and call out
the burghers. Let every one grasp his ancient weapons. In the market-place
we meet again, and every one will be carried onward by our gathering
stream. The enemy will see themselves surrounded, overwhelmed, and be
compelled to yield. How can a handful of slaves resist us? And he will
return among us, he will see himself rescued, and can for once thank us,
us, who are already so deeply in his debt. He will behold, perchance, ay
doubtless, he will again behold the morn's red dawn in the free heavens.

Carpenter. What ails thee, maiden?

Clara. Can ye misunderstand me? I speak of the Count! I speak of

Jetter. Speak not the name! 'tis deadly.

Clara. Not speak his name? How? Not Egmont's name? Is it not on every
tongue? Where stands it not inscribed? Often have I read it emblazoned
with all its letters among these stars. Not utter it? What mean ye? Friends!
good, kind neighbours, ye are dreaming; collect yourselves. Gaze not upon
me with those fixed and anxious looks! Cast not such timid glances on
every side! I but give utterance to the wish of all. Is not my voice the voice
of your own hearts? Who, in this fearful night, ere he seeks his restless
couch, but on bended knee will, in earnest prayer, seek to wrest his life as
a cherished boon from heaven? Ask each other! Let each ask his own
heart! And who but exclaims with me,--"Egmont's liberty, or death!"

Jetter. God help us! This is a sad business.

Clara. Stay! Stay! Shrink not away at the sound of his name, to meet
whom ye were wont to press forward so joyously!--When rumour
announced his approach, when the cry arose, "Egmont comes! He comes
from Ghent!"--then happy indeed were those citizens who dwelt in the
streets through which he was to pass. And when the neighing of his steed
was heard, did not every one throw aside his work, while a ray of hope
and joy, like a sunbeam from his countenance, stole over the toil-worn
faces that peered from every window. Then, as ye stood in the doorways,
ye would lift up your children in your arms, and pointing to him, exclaim:
"See, that is Egmont, he who towers above the rest! 'Tis from bird that ye
must look for better times than those your poor fathers have known." Let
not your children inquire at some future day, "Where is he? Where are the
better times ye promised us?"--Thus we waste the time in idle words! do
nothing,--betray him.

Soest. Shame on thee, Brackenburg! Let her not run on thus! Prevent the

Brackenburg. Dear Clara! Let us go! What will your Mother say?

Clara. Thinkest thou I am a child, or frantic? What avails perchance?--
With no vain hope canst thou hide from me this dreadful certainty . . . Ye
shall hear me and ye will: for I see it, ye are overwhelmed, ye cannot
hearken to the voice of your own hearts. Through the present peril cast but
one glance into the past,--the recent past. Send your thoughts forward into
the future. Could ye live, would ye live, were he to perish? With him
expires the last breath of freedom. What was he not to you? For whose
sake did he expose himself to the direst perils? His blood flowed, his
wounds were healed for you alone. The mighty spirit, that upheld you all,
a dungeon now confines, while the horrors of secret murder are hovering
around. Perhaps he thinks of you--perhaps he hopes in you,--he who has
been accustomed only to grant favours to others and to fulfil their prayers.

Carpenter. Come, gossip.

Clara. I have neither the arms, nor the vigour of a man; but I have that
which ye all lack--courage and contempt of danger. O that my breath
could kindle your souls! That, pressing you to this bosom, I could arouse
and animate you! Come! I will march in your midst!--As a waving banner,
though weaponless, leads on a gallant army of warriors, so shall my spirit
hover, like a flame, over your ranks, while love and courage shall unite the
dispersed and wavering multitude into a terrible host.

Jetter. Take her away; I pity her, poor thing!

[Exeunt Burgers.

Brackenburg. Clara! Seest thou not where we are?

Clara. Where? Under the dome of heaven, which has so often seemed to
arch itself more gloriously as the noble Egmont passed beneath it. From
these windows I have seen them look forth, four or five heads one above
the other; at these doors the cowards have stood, bowing and scraping, if
he but chanced to look down upon them! Oh, how dear they were to me,
when they honoured him. Had he been a tyrant they might have turned
with indifference from his fall l But they loved him! O ye hands, so
prompt to wave caps in his honour, can ye not grasp a sword?
Brackenburg, and we? --do we chide them? These arms that have so often
embraced him, what do they for him now? Stratagem has accomplished so
much in the world. Thou knowest the ancient castle, every passage, every
secret way.--Nothing is impossible,--suggest some plan--

Brackenburg. That we might go home!

Clara. Well.

Brackenburg. There at the corner I see Alva's guard; let the voice of
reason penetrate to thy heart! Dost thou deem me a coward? Dost thou
doubt that for thy sake I would peril my life? Here we are both mad, I as
well as thou. Dost thou not perceive that thy scheme is impracticable? Oh,
be calm! Thou art beside thyself.

Clara. Beside myself! Horrible. You, Brackenburg, are beside yourself.
When you hailed the hero with loud acclaim, called him your friend, your
hope, your refuge, shouted vivats as he passed;--then I stood in my corner,
half opened the window, concealed myself while I listened, and my heart
beat higher than yours who greeted him so loudly. Now it again beats
higher! In the hour of peril you conceal yourselves, deny him, and feel not,
that if he perish, you are lost.

Brackenburg. Come home.

Clara. Home?

Brackenburg. Recollect thyself! Look around thee! These are the streets in
which thou weft wont to appear only on the Sabbath-day, when thou didst
walk modestly to church; where, over-decorous perhaps, thou wert
displeased if I but joined thee with a kindly greeting. And now thou dost
stand, speak, and act before the eyes of the whole world. Recollect thyself,
love! How can this avail us?

Clara. Home! Yes, I remember. Come, Brackenburg, let us go home!
Knowest thou where my home lies?


Scene II.--A Prison

Lighted by a lamp, a couch in the background

Egmont (alone). Old friend! Ever faithful sleep, dost thou too forsake me,
like my other friends? How wert thou wont of yore to descend unsought
upon my free brow, cooling my temples as with a myrtle wreath of love!
Amidst the din of battle, on the waves of life, I rested in thine arms,
breathing lightly as a growing boy. When tempests whistled through the
leaves and boughs, when the summits of the lofty trees swung creaking in
the blast, the inmost core of my heart remained unmoved. What agitates
thee now? What shakes thy firm and steadfast mind? I feel it, 'tis the sound
of the murderous axe, gnawing at thy root. Yet I stand erect, but an inward
shudder runs through my frame. Yes, it prevails, this treacherous power; it
undermines the firm, the lofty stem, and ere the bark withers, thy verdant
crown falls crashing to the earth.

Yet wherefore now, thou who hast so often chased the weightiest cares
like bubbles from thy brow, wherefore canst thou not dissipate this dire
foreboding which incessantly haunts thee in a thousand different shapes?
Since when hast thou trembled at the approach of death, amid whose
varying forms, thou weft wont calmly to dwell, as with the other shapes of
this familiar earth. But 'tis not he, the sudden foe, to encounter whom the
sound bosom emulously pants;---'tis the dungeon, emblem of the grave,
revolting alike to the hero and the coward. How intolerable I used to feel
it, in the stately hall, girt round by gloomy walls, when, seated on my
cushioned chair, in the solemn assembly of the princes, questions, which
scarcely required deliberation, were overlaid with endless discussions,
while the rafters of the ceiling seemed to stifle and oppress me. Then I
would hurry forth as soon as possible, fling myself upon my horse with
deep-drawn breath, and away to the wide champaign, man's natural
element, where, exhaling from the earth, nature's richest treasures are
poured forth around us, while, from the wide heavens, the stars shed down
their blessings through the still air; where, like earth-born giants, we
spring aloft, invigorated by our Mother's touch; where our entire humanity
and our human desires throb in every vein; where the desire to press
forward, to vanquish, to snatch, to use his clenched fist, to possess, to
conquer, glows through the soul of the young hunter; where the warrior,
with rapid stride, assumes his inborn right to dominion over the world;
and, with terrible liberty, sweeps like a desolating hailstorm over the field
and grove, knowing no boundaries traced by the hand of man.

Thou art but a shadow, a dream of the happiness I so long possessed;
where has treacherous fate conducted thee? Did she deny thee to meet the
rapid stroke of never-shunned death, in the open face of day, only to
prepare for thee a foretaste of the grave, in the midst of this loathsome
corruption? How revolting its rank odour exhales from these damp stones!
Life stagnates, and my foot shrinks from the couch as from the grave.
Oh care, care! Thou who dost begin prematurely the work of murder,--
forbear;--Since when has Egmont been alone, so utterly alone in the
world? 'Tis doubt renders thee insensible, not happiness. The justice of the
king, in which through life thou hast confided, the friendship of the
Regent, which, thou mayst confess it, was akin to love,--have these
suddenly vanished, like a meteor of the night, and left thee alone upon thy
gloomy path? Will not Orange, at the head of thy friends, contrive some
daring scheme? Will not the people assemble, and with gathering might,
attempt the rescue of their faithful friend?

Ye walls, which thus gird me round, separate me not from the well-
intentioned zeal of so many kindly souls. And may the courage with which
my glance was wont to inspire them, now return again from their hearts to
mine. Yes! they assemble in thousands! they come! they stand beside me!
their pious wish rises urgently to heaven, and implores a miracle; and if no
angel stoops for my deliverance, I see them grasp eagerly their lance and
sword. The gates are forced, the bolts are riven, the walls fall beneath their
conquering hands, and Egmont advances joyously, to hail the freedom of
the rising morn. How many well-known faces receive me with loud
acclaim! O Clara! wert thou a man, I should see thee here the very first,
and thank thee for that which it is galling to owe even to a king--liberty.

Scene III.--Clara's House

Clara (enters from her chamber with a lamp and a glass of water; she
places the glass upon the table and steps to the window).

Brackenburg, is it you? What noise was that? No one yet? No one! I will
set the lamp in the window, that he may see that I am still awake, that I
still watch for him. He promised me tidings. Tidings? horrible certainty!--
Egmont condemned!--what tribunal has the right to summon him?--And
they dare to condemn him!--Does the king condemn him, or the duke?
And the Regent withdraws herself! Orange hesitates, and all his friends! --
Is this the world, of whose fickleness and treachery I have heard so much,
and as yet experienced nothing? Is this the world?--Who could be so base
as to hear malice against one so dear? Could villainy itself be audacious
enough to overwhelm with sudden destruction the object of a nation's
homage? Yet so it is--it is-O Egmont, I held thee safe before God and
man, safe as in my arms! What was I to thee. Thou hast called me thine,
my whole being was devoted to thee. What am I now? In vain I stretch out
my hand to the toils that environ thee. Thou helpless and I free!--Here is
the key that unlocks my chamber door. My going out and my coming in,
depend upon my own caprice; yet, alas; to aid thee I am powerless!--Oh,
bind me that I may not despair; hurl me into the deepest dungeon, that I
may dash my head against the damp walls, groan for freedom, and dream
how I would rescue him if fetters did not hold me bound.--Now I am free,
and in freedom lies the anguish of impotence.--Conscious of my own
existence, yet unable to stir a limb in his behalf, alas! even this
insignificant portion of thy being, thy Clara, is, like thee, a captive, and,
separated from thee, consumes her expiring energies in the agonies of
death.--I hear a stealthy step,--a cough--Brackenburg,--'tis he!--Kind,
unhappy man, thy destiny remains ever the same; thy love opens to thee
the door at night, alas! to what a doleful meeting.

(Enter Brackenburg.) Thou com'st so pale, so terrified! Brackenburg!
What is it?

Brackenburg. I have sought thee through perils and circuitous paths. The
principal streets are occupied with troops;--through lanes and by-ways
have I stolen to thee!

Clara. Tell me, how is it?

Brackenburg (seating himself). O Clara, let me weep. I loved him not. He
was the rich man who lured to better a pasture the poor man's solitary
lamb. I have never cursed him, God has created me with a true and tender
heart. My life was consumed in anguish, and each day I hoped would end
my misery.

Clara. Let that be forgotten, Brackenburg! Forget thyself. Speak to me of
him! Is it true? Is he condemned?

Brackenburg. He is! I know it.

Clara. And still lives?

Brackenburg. Yes, he still lives.

Clara. How canst thou be sure of that? Tyranny murders the hero in the
night! His blood flows concealed from every eye. The people stunned and
bewildered, lie buried in sleep, dream of deliverance, dream of the
fulfilment of their impotent wishes, while, indignant at our supineness, his
spirit abandons the world. He is no more! Deceive me not; deceive not

Brackenburg. No,--he lives! and the Spaniards, alas, are preparing for the
people, on whom they are about to trample, a terrible spectacle, in order to
crush for ever, by a violent blow, each heart that yet pants for freedom.

Clara. Proceed! Calmly pronounce my death-warrant also! Near and more
near I approach that blessed land, and already from those realms of peace,
I feel the breath of consolation say on.

Brackenburg. From casual words, dropped here and there by the guards, I
learned that secretly in the market-place they were preparing some terrible
spectacle. Through by-ways and familiar lanes I stole to my cousin's
house, and from a back window, looked out upon the market-place.
Torches waved to and fro, in the hands of a wide circle of Spanish
soldiers. I sharpened my unaccustomed sight, and out of the darkness there
arose before me a scaffold, black, spacious, and lofty! The sight filled me
with horror. Several persons were employed in covering with black cloth
such portions of the wood-work as yet remained white and visible. The
steps were covered last, also with black;--I saw it all. They seemed
preparing for the celebration of some horrible sacrifice. A white crucifix,
that shone like silver through the night, was raised on one side. As I gazed
the terrible conviction strengthened in my mind. Scattered torches still
gleamed here and there; gradually they flickered and went out. Suddenly
the hideous birth of night returned into its Mother's womb.

Clara. Hush, Brackenburg! Be still! Let this veil rest upon my soul. The
spectres are vanished; and thou, gentle night, lend thy mantle to the
inwardly fermenting earth, she will no longer endure the loathsome
burden, shuddering, she rends open her yawning chasms, and with a crash
swallows the murderous scaffold. And that God, whom in their rage they
have insulted, sends down His angel from on high; at the hallowed touch
of the messenger bolts and bars fly back; he pours around our friend a
mild radiance, and leads him gently through the night to liberty. My path
leads also through the darkness to meet him.

Brackenburg (detaining her). My child, whither wouldst thou go? What
wouldst thou do?

Clara. Softly, my friend, lest some one should awake! Lest we should
awake ourselves! Know'st thou this phial, Brackenburg? I took it from
thee once in jest, when thou, as was thy wont, didst threaten, in thy
impatience, to end thy days.--And now my friend--

Brackenburg. In the name of all the saints!

Clara. Thou canst not hinder me. Death is my portion! Grudge me not the
quiet and easy death which thou hadst prepared for thyself. Give me thine
hand!--At the moment when I unclose that dismal portal through which
there is no return, I may tell thee, with this pressure of the hand, how
sincerely I have loved, how deeply I have pitied thee. My brother died
young; I chose thee to fill his place; thy heart rebelled, thou didst torment
thyself and me, demanding with ever increasing fervour that which fate
had not destined for thee. Forgive me and farewell! Let me call thee
brother! 'Tis a name that embraces many names. Receive, with a true
heart, the last fair token of the departing spirit --take this kiss.
Death unites all, Brackenburg--us too it will unite!

Brackenburg. Let me then die with thee! Share it! oh, share it! There is
enough to extinguish two lives.

Clara. Hold! Thou must live, thou canst live.--Support my Mother, who,
without thee, would be a prey to want. Be to her what I can no longer be,
live together, and weep for me. Weep for our fatherland, and for him who
could alone have upheld it. The present generation must still endure this
bitter woe; vengeance itself could not obliterate it. Poor souls, live on,
through this gap in time, which is time no longer. To-day the world
suddenly stands still, its course is arrested, and my pulse will beat but for a
few minutes longer. Farewell.

Brackenburg. Oh, live with us, as we live only for thy sake! In taking thine
own life, thou wilt take ours also; still live and suffer. We will stand by
thee, nothing shall sever us from thy side, and love, with ever-watchful
solicitude, shall prepare for thee the sweetest consolation in its loving
arms. Be ours! Ours! I dare not say, mine.

Clara. Hush, Brackenburg! Thou feelest not what chord thou touchest.
Where hope appears to thee, I see only despair.

Brackenburg. Share hope with the living! Pause on the brink of the
precipice, cast one glance into the gulf below, and then look back on us.

Clara. I have conquered; call me not back to the struggle.

Brackenburg. Thou art stunned; enveloped in night, thou seekest the abyss.
Every light is not yet extinguished, yet many days!--

Clara. Alas! Alas! Cruelly thou dost rend the veil from before mine eyes.
Yes, the day will dawn! Despite its misty shroud it needs must dawn.
Timidly the burgher razes from his window, night leaves behind an ebon
speck; he looks, and the scaffold looms fearfully in the morning light.
With re-awakened anguish the desecrated image of the Saviour lifts to the
Father its imploring eyes. The sun veils his beams, he will not mark the
hero's death-hour. Slowly the fingers go their round--one hour strikes after
another--hold! Now is the time. The thought of the morning scares me into
the grave.

(She goes to the window as if to look out, and drinks secretly.)

Brackenburg. Clara! Clara!

Clara (goes to the table, and drinks water). Here is the remainder. I invite
thee not to follow me. Do as thou wilt; farewell. Extinguish this lamp
silently and without delay; I am going to rest. Steal quietly away, close the
door after thee. Be still! Wake not my Mother! Go, save thyself, if thou
wouldst not be taken for my murderer. [Exit.

Brackenburg. She leaves me for the last time as she has ever done. What
human soul could conceive how cruelly she lacerates the heart that loves
her? She leaves me to myself, leaves me to choose between life and death,
and both are alike hateful to me. To die alone! Weep, ye tender souls! Fate
has no sadder doom than mine. She shares with me the death-potion, yet
sends me from her side! She draws me after her, yet thrusts me back into
life! Oh, Egmont, how enviable a lot falls to thee! She goes before thee!
The crown of victory from her hand is thine, she brings all heaven to meet
thee!--And shall I follow? Again to stand aloof? To carry this
inextinguishable jealousy even to yon distant realms? Earth is no longer a
tarrying place for me, and hell and heaven offer equal torture. Now
welcome to the wretched the dread hand of annihilation!

[Exit. (The scene remains some time unchanged. Music sounds,
indicating Clara's death; the lamp, which Brackenburg had forgotten to
extinguish, flares up once or twice, and then suddenly expires. The scene
changes to .

Scene IV.--A Prison

Egmont is discovered sleeping on a couch. A rustling of keys is heard; the
door opens; servants enter with torches; Ferdinand and Silva follow,
accompanied by soldiers. Egmont starts from his sleep.

Egmont. Who are ye that thus rudely banish slumber from my eyes? What
mean these vague and insolent glances? Why this fearful procession? With
what dream of horror come ye to delude my half awakened soul?

Silva. The duke sends us to announce your sentence.

Egmont. Do ye also bring the headsman who is to execute it?

Silva. Listen, and you will know the doom that awaits you.

Egmont. It is in keeping with the rest of your infamous proceedings.
Hatched in night and in night achieved, so would this audacious act of
injustice shroud itself from observation!--Step boldly forth, thou who dost
bear the sword concealed beneath thy mantle; here is my head, the freest
ever severed by tyranny from the trunk.

Silva. You err! The righteous judges who have condemned you will not
conceal their sentence from the light of day.

Egmont. Then does their audacity exceed all imagination and belief. Silva
(takes the sentence from an attendant, unfolds it, and reads). "In the King's
name, and invested by his Majesty with authority to judge all his subjects
of whatever rank, not excepting the knights of the Golden Fleece, we

Egmont. Can the king transfer that authority?

Silva. "We declare, after a strict and legal investigation, thee, Henry,
Count Egmont, Prince of Gaure, guilty of high treason, and pronounce thy
sentence:--That at early dawn thou be led from this prison to the market-
place, and that there, in sight of the people, and as a warning to all traitors,
thou with the sword be brought from life to death. Given at Brussels."
(Date and year so indistinctly read as to be imperfectly heard by the
audience.) "Ferdinand, Duke of Alva, President of the Tribunal of
Twelve." Thou knowest now thy doom. Brief time remains for thee to
prepare for the impending stroke, to arrange thy affairs, and to take leave
of thy friends.

[Exit Silva with followers. Ferdinand remains with two torch-bearers. The
stage is dimly lighted.

Egmont (stands for a time as if buried in thought, and allows Silva to retire
without looking round. He imagines himself alone, and, on raising his
eyes, beholds Alva's son).

Thou tarriest here? Wouldst thou by thy presence augment my
amazement, my horror? Wouldst thou carry to thy father the welcome
tidings that in unmanly fashion I despair? Go. Tell him that he deceives
neither the world nor me. At first it will be whispered cautiously behind
his back, then spoken more and more loudly, and when at some future day
the ambitious man descends from his proud eminence, a thousand voices
will proclaim--that 'twas not the welfare of the state, not the honour of the
king, not the tranquillity of the provinces, that brought him hither. For his
own selfish ends he, the warrior, has counselled war, that in war the value
of his services might be enhanced. He has excited this monstrous
insurrection that his presence might be deemed necessary in order to quell
it. And I fall a victim to his mean hatred, his contemptible envy. Yes, I
know it, dying and mortally wounded I may utter it; long has the proud
man envied me, long has he meditated and planned my ruin.

Even then, when still young, we played at dice together, and the heaps of
gold, one after the other, passed rapidly from his side to mine; he would
look on with affected composure, while inwardly consumed with rage,
more at my success than at his own loss. Well do I remember the fiery
glance, the treacherous pallor that overspread his features when, at a
public festival, we shot for a wager before assembled thousands. He
challenged me, and both nations stood by; Spaniards and Netherlanders
wagered on either side; I was the victor; his ball missed, mine hit the
mark, and the air was rent by acclamations from my friends. His shot now
hits me. Tell him that I know this, that I know him, that the world despises
every trophy that a paltry spirit erects for itself by base and surreptitious
arts. And thou !

If it be possible for a son to swerve from the manners of his father,
practise shame betimes, while thou art compelled to feel shame for him
whom thou wouldst fain revere with thy whole heart.

Ferdinand. I listen without interrupting thee! Thy reproaches fall like
blows upon a helmet. I feel the shock, but I am armed. They strike, they
wound me not; I am sensible only to the anguish that lacerates my heart.
Alas! Alas! Have I lived to witness such a scene? Am I sent hither to
behold a spectacle like this?

Egmont. Dost thou break out into lamentations? What moves, what
agitates thee thus? Is it a late remorse at having lent thyself to this
infamous conspiracy? Thou art so young, thy exterior is so prepossessing?
Thy demeanour towards me was so friendly, so unreserved! So long as I
beheld thee, I was reconciled with thy father; and crafty, ay, more crafty
than he, thou hast lured me into the toils. Thou art the wretch! The
monster! Who so confides in him, does so at his own peril; but who could
apprehend danger in trusting thee? Go! Go! rob me not of the few
moments that are left me! Go, that I may collect my thoughts, the world
forget, and first of all thyself!

Ferdinand. What can I say? I stand and gaze on thee, yet see thee not; I am
scarcely conscious of my own existence. Shall I seek to excuse myself?
Shall I assure thee that it was not till the last moment that I was made
aware of my father's intentions? That I acted as a constrained, a passive
instrument of his will? What signifies now the opinion thou mayst
entertain of me? Thou art lost; and I, miserable wretch, stand here only to
assure thee of it, only to lament thy doom.

Egmont. What strange voice, what unexpected consolation comes thus to
cheer my passage to the grave? Thou, the son of my first, of almost my
only enemy, thou dost pity me, thou art not associated with my murderers?
Speak! In what light must I regard thee?

Ferdinand. Cruel father! Yes, I recognize thy nature in this command.
Thou didst know my heart, my disposition, which thou hast so often
censured as the inheritance of a tender-hearted Mother. To mould me into
thine own likeness thou hast sent me hither. Thou dost compel me to
behold this man on the verge of the yawning grave, in the grasp of an
arbitrary doom, that I may experience the profoundest anguish; that thus,
rendered callous to every fate, I may henceforth meet every event with a
heart unmoved.

Egmont. I am amazed! Be calm! Act, speak like a man.

Ferdinand. Oh, that I were a woman! That they might say--what moves,
what agitates thee? Tell me of a greater, a more monstrous crime, make
me the spectator of a more direful deed; I will thank thee, I will say: this
was nothing.

Egmont. Thou dost forget thyself. Consider where thou art!

Ferdinand. Let this passion rage, let me give vent to my anguish! I will not
seem composed when my whole inner being is convulsed. Thee must I
behold here? Thee? It is horrible! Thou understandest me not! How
shouldst thou understand me? Egmont! Egmont!

(Falling on his neck.)

Egmont. Explain this mystery.

Ferdinand. It is no mystery.

Egmont. How can the fate of a mere stranger thus deeply move thee?

Ferdinand. Not a stranger! Thou art no stranger to me. Thy name it was
that, even from my boyhood, shone before me like a star in heaven! How
often have I made inquiries concerning thee, and listened to the story of
thy deeds! The youth is the hope of the boy, the man of the youth. Thus
didst thou walk before me, ever before me; I saw thee without envy, and
followed after, step by step; at length I hoped to see thee--I saw thee, and
my heart flew to thy embrace. I had destined thee for myself, and when I
beheld thee, I made choice of thee anew. I hoped now to know thee, to live
with thee, to be thy friend,--thy--'tis over now and I see thee here!

Egmont. My friend, if it can be any comfort to thee, be assured that the
very moment we met my heart was drawn towards thee. Now listen! Let
us exchange a few quiet words. Tell me: is it the stern, the settled purpose
of thy father to take my life?

Ferdinand. It is.

Egmont. This sentence is not a mere empty scarecrow, designed to terrify
me, to punish me through fear and intimidation, to humiliate me, that he
may then raise me again by the royal favour?

Ferdinand. Alas, no! At first I flattered myself with this delusive hope; and
even then my heart was filled with grief and anguish to behold thee thus.
Thy doom is real! Is certain! No, I cannot command myself. Who will
counsel, who will aid me, to meet the inevitable?

Egmont. Hearken then to me! If thy heart is impelled so powerfully in my
favour, if thou dost abhor the tyranny that holds me fettered, then deliver
me! The moments are precious. Thou art the son of the all-powerful, and
thou hast power thyself. Let us fly! I know the roads; the means of
effecting our escape cannot be unknown to thee. These walls, a few short
miles, alone separate me from my friends. Loose these fetters, conduct me
to them; be ours. The king, on some future day, will doubtless thank my
deliverer. Now he is taken by surprise, or perchance he is ignorant of the
whole proceeding. Thy father ventures on this daring step, and majesty,
though horror-struck at the deed, must needs sanction the irrevocable.
Thou dost deliberate? Oh, contrive for me the way to freedom! Speak;
nourish hope in a living soul.

Ferdinand. Cease! Oh, cease! Every word deepens my despair. There is
here no outlet, no counsel, no escape.--'Tis this thought that tortures me,
that seizes my heart, and rends it as with talons. I have myself spread the
net; I know its firm, inextricable knots; I know that every avenue is barred
alike to courage and to stratagem. I feel that I too, like thyself, like all the
rest, am fettered. Think'st thou that I should give way to lamentation if any
means of safety remained untried? I have thrown myself at his feet,
remonstrated, implored. He has sent me hither, in order to blast in this
fatal moment, every remnant of joy and happiness that yet survived within
my heart.

Egmont. And is there no deliverance?

Ferdinand. None!

Egmont (stamping his foot). No deliverance!-Sweet life! Sweet, pleasant
habitude of existence and of activity! from thee must I part! So calmly
part! Not in the tumult
of battle, amid the din of arms, the excitement of the fray, dost thou send
me a hasty farewell; thine is no hurried leave; thou dost not abridge the
moment of separation. Once more let me clasp thy hand, gaze once more
into thine eyes, feel with keen emotion, thy beauty and thy worth, then
resolutely tear myself away, and say;--depart!

Ferdinand. Must I stand by, and look passively on; unable to save thee, or
to give thee aid! What voice avails for lamentation! What heart but must
break under the
pressure of such anguish?

Egmont. Be calm!

Ferdinand. Thou canst be calm, thou canst renounce, led on by necessity,
thou canst advance to the direful struggle, with the courage of a hero.
What can I do? What ought I to do? Thou dost conquer thyself and us;
thou art the victor; I survive both myself and thee. I have lost my light at
the banquet, my banner on the field. The future lies before me, dark,
desolate, perplexed.

Egmont. Young friend, whom by a strange fatality, at the same moment, I
both win and lose, who dost feel for me, who dost suffer for me the
agonies of death,--look on me; --thou wilt not lose me. If my life was a
mirror in which thou didst love to contemplate thyself, so be also my
death. Men are not together only when in each other's presence;--the
distant, the departed, also live for us. I shall live for thee, and for myself I
have lived long enough. I have enjoyed each day; each day, I have
performed, with prompt activity, the duties enjoined by my conscience.
Now my life ends, as it might have ended, long, long, ago, on the sands of
Gravelines. I shall cease to live; but I have lived. My friend, follow in my
steps, lead a cheerful and a joyous life, and dread not the approach of

Ferdinand. Thou shouldst have saved thyself for us, thou couldst have
saved thyself. Thou art the cause of thine own destruction. Often have I
listened when able men discoursed concerning thee; foes and friends, they
would dispute long as to thy worth; but on one point they were agreed,
none ventured to deny, every one confessed, that thou wert treading a
dangerous path. How often have I longed to warn thee! Hadst thou then no

Egmont. I was warned.

Ferdinand. And when I found all these allegations, point for point, in the
indictment, together with thy answers, containing much that might serve to
palliate thy conduct, but no evidence weighty enough fully to exculpate

Egmont. No more of this. Man imagines that he directs his life, that he
governs his actions, when in fact his existence is irresistibly controlled by
his destiny. Let us not dwell upon this subject; these reflections I can
dismiss with ease--not so my apprehensions for these provinces; yet they
too will be cared for. Could my blood flow for many, bring peace to my
people, how freely should it flow! Alas! This may not be. Yet it ill
becomes a man idly to speculate, when the power to act is no longer his. If
thou canst restrain or guide the fatal power of thy father; do so. Alas, who
can? --Farewell!

Ferdinand. I cannot leave thee.

Egmont. Let me urgently recommend my followers to thy care! I have
worthy men in my service; let them not be dispersed, let them not become
destitute! How fares it with Richard, my secretary?

Ferdinand. He is gone before thee. They have beheaded him, as thy
accomplice in high treason.

Egmont. Poor soul!--Yet one word, and then farewell, I can no more.
However powerfully the spirit may be stirred, nature at length irresistibly
asserts her rights; and like a child, who, enveloped in a serpent's folds,
enjoys refreshing slumber, so the weary one lays himself down to rest
before the gates of death, and sleeps soundly, as though a toilsome journey
yet lay before him.--One word more,--I know a maiden; thou wilt not
despise her because she was mine. Since I can recommend her to thy care,
I shall die in peace. Thy soul is noble; in such a man, a woman is sure to
find a protector. Lives my old Adolphus? Is he free?

Ferdinand. The active old man, who always attended thee on horseback?

Egmont. The same.

Ferdinand. He lives, he is free.

Egmont. He knows her dwelling; let him guide thy steps thither, and
reward him to his dying day, for having shown thee the way to this jewel.-

Ferdinand. I cannot leave thee.

Egmont (urging him towards the door). Farewell!

Ferdinand. Oh, let me linger yet a moment!

Egmont. No leave-taking, my friend.

(He accompanies Ferdinand to the door, and then tears himself away;
Ferdinand, overwhelmed with grief, hastily retires.)

Egmont (alone)

Egmont. Cruel man! Thou didst not think to render me this service
through thy son. He has been the means of relieving my mind from the
pressure of care and sorrow, from fear and every anxious feeling. Gently,
yet urgently, nature claims her final tribute. 'Tis past!--'Tis resolved! And
the reflections which, in the suspense of last night, kept me wakeful on my
couch, now with resistless certainty lull my senses to repose.

(He seats himself upon the couch; music)

Sweet sleep! Like the purest happiness, thou comest most willingly,
uninvited, unsought. Thou dost loosen the knots of earnest thoughts, dost
mingle all images of joy and of sorrow, unimpeded the circle of inner
harmony flows on, and wrapped in fond delusion, we sink into oblivion,
and cease to be.

(He sleeps; music accompanies his slumber. Behind his couch the wall
appears to open and discovers a brilliant apparition. Freedom, in a celestial
garb, surrounded by a glory, reposes on a cloud. Her features are those of
Clara and she inclines towards the sleeping hero. Her countenance
betokens compassion, she seems to lament his fate. Quickly she recovers
herself and with an encouraging gesture exhibits the symbols of freedom,
the bundle of arrows, with the staff and cap. She encourages him to be of
good cheer, and while she signifies to him that his death will secure the
freedom of the provinces, she hails him as a conqueror, and extends to him
a laurel crown. As the wreath approaches his head, Egmont moves like
one asleep, and reclines with his face towards her. She holds the wreath
suspended over his head,--martial music is heard in the distance, at the
first sound the vision disappears. The music grows louder and louder.
Egmont awakes. The prison is dimly illuminated by the dawn.--His first
impulse is to lift his hand to his head, he stands up, and gazes round, his
hand still upraised.)

The crown is vanished! Beautiful vision, the light of day has frighted thee!
Yes, their revealed themselves to my sight uniting in one radiant form the
two sweetest joys of my heart. Divine Liberty borrowed the mien of my
beloved one; the lovely maiden arrayed herself in the celestial garb of my
friend. In a solemn moment they appeared united, with aspect more
earnest than tender. With bloodstained feet the vision approached, the
waving folds of her robe also were tinged with blood. It was my blood,
and the blood of many brave hearts. No! It shall not be shed in vain!
Forward! Brave people! The goddess of liberty leads you on! And as the
sea breaks through and destroys the barriers that would oppose its fury, so
do ye overwhelm the bulwark of tyranny, and with your impetuous flood
sweep it away from the land which it usurps. (Drums.)

Hark! Hark! How often has this sound summoned my joyous steps to the
field of battle and of victory! How bravely did I tread, with my gallant
comrades, the dangerous path of fame! And now, from this dungeon I
shall go forth, to meet a glorious death; I die for freedom, for whose cause
I have lived and fought, and for whom I now offer myself up at sorrowing

(The background is occupied by Spanish soldiers with halberts.)

Yes, lead them on! Close your ranks, ye terrify me not. I am accustomed
to stand amid the serried ranks of war, and environed by the threatening
forms of death, to feel, with double zest, the energy of life. (Drums.)

The foe closes round on every side! Swords are flashing; courage, friends!
Behind are your parents, your wives, your children! (Pointing to the

And these are impelled by the word of their leader, not by their own free
will. Protect your homes! And to save those who are most dear to you, be
ready to follow my example, and to fall with joy.

(Drums. As he advances through the guards towards the door in the
background, the curtain falls. The music joins in, and the scene closes with
a symphony of victory.

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