No More Learning

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




ACT II.

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

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

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

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

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

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

HERMANN. At your service, gracious sir!

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

HERMANN. I have proofs of this.

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

HERMANN. I am all attention.

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

HERMANN. The devil take me if I forget it!

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

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

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

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

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

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

FRANCIS. My brother has filched her away from you.

HERMANN. He shall rue it.

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

HERMANN. For which I will kick him into hell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HERMANN. Tell me, what am I to do?

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

HERMANN. Will he believe me?

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

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

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

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

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




SCENE II. --Old Moor's Bedchamber.

OLD MOOR asleep in an arm-chair; AMELIA.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

AMELIA. Charles!

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

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

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

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

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

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

ANDROMACHE.

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


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

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


HECTOR.

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


Enter DANIEL.

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

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

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

OLD M. Amelia, Amelia! spare me!

AMELIA (continues to play and sing. )


ANDROMACHE.

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


HECTOR.

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


(Enter FRANCIS, HERMANN in disguise, DANIEL. )

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

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

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

OLD M. How know you that?

HERMANN. I knew your son

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

OLD M. What know you about my son?

HERMANN.