AMELIA (returns him the
picture)
My picture, mine!
Friedrich Schiller
Where am I?
You here,
Amelia?
AMELIA. How do you find yourself? You have had a refreshing slumber.
OLD M. I was dreaming about my son. Why did I not dream on? Perhaps I
might have obtained forgiveness from his lips.
AMELIA. Angels bear no resentment--he forgives you. (Seizes his hand
sorrowfully. ) Father of my Charles! I, too, forgive you.
OLD M. No, no, my child! That death-like paleness of thy cheek is the
father's condemnation. Poor girl! I have robbed thee of the happiness
of thy youth. Oh, do not curse me!
AMELIA (affectionately kissing his hand). I curse you?
OLD M. Dost thou know this portrait, my daughter?
AMELIA. Charles!
OLD M. Such was he in his sixteenth year. But now, alas! how changed.
Oh, it is raging within me. That gentleness is now indignation; that
smile despair. It was his birthday, was it not, Amelia--in the
jessamine bower--when you drew this picture of him? Oh, my daughter!
How happy was I in your loves.
AMELIA (with her eye still riveted upon the picture). No, no, it is not
he! By Heaven, that is not Charles! Here (pointing to her head and her
heart), here he is perfect; and how different. The feeble pencil avails
not to express that heavenly spirit which reigned in his fiery eye.
Away with it! This is a poor image, an ordinary man! I was a mere
dauber.
OLD M. That kind, that cheering look! Had that been at my bedside,
I should have lived in the midst of death. Never, never should I have
died!
AMELIA. No, you would never, never have died. It would have been but a
leap, as we leap from one thought to another and a better. That look
would have lighted you across the tomb--that look would have lifted you
beyond the stars!
OLD M. It is hard! it is sad! I am dying, and my son Charles is not
here--I am borne to my tomb, and he weeps not over my grave. How sweet
it is to be lulled into the sleep of death by a son's prayer--that is
the true requiem.
AMELIA (with enthusiasm). Yes, sweet it is, heavenly sweet, to be
lulled into the sleep of death by the song of the beloved. Perhaps our
dreams continue in the grave--a long, eternal, never-ending dream of
Charles--till the trumpet of resurrection sounds--(rising in ecstasy)
--and thenceforth and forever in his arms! (A pause; she goes to the
piano and plays. )
ANDROMACHE.
Oh, Hector, wilt thou go for evermore,
When fierce Achilles, on the blood-stained shore,
Heaps countless victims o'er Patroclus' grave?
When then thy hapless orphan boy will rear,
Teach him to praise the gods and hurl the spear,
When thou art swallow'd up in Xanthus' wave?
OLD M. A beautiful song, my daughter. You must play that to me before
I die.
AMELIA. It is the parting of Hector and Andromache. Charles and I used
often to sing it together to the guitar. (She continues. )
HECTOR.
Beloved wife! stern duty calls to arms--
Go, fetch my lance! and cease those vain alarms!
On me is cast the destiny of Troy!
Astyanax, my child, the Gods will shield,
Should Hector fall upon the battle-field;
And in Elysium we shall meet with joy!
Enter DANIEL.
DANIEL. There is a man without, who craves to be admitted to your
presence, and says he brings tidings of importance.
OLD M. To me there is but one thing in this world of importance; thou
knowest it, Amelia. Perhaps it is some unfortunate creature who seeks
assistance? He shall not go hence in sorrow.
AMELIA. --If it is a beggar, let him come up quickly.
OLD M. Amelia, Amelia! spare me!
AMELIA (continues to play and sing. )
ANDROMACHE.
Thy martial tread no more will grace my hall--
Thine arms shall hang sad relics on the wall--
And Priam's race of godlike heroes fade!
Oh, thou wilt go where Phoebus sheds no light--
Where black Cocytus wails in endless night
Thy love will die in Lethe's gloomy shade.
HECTOR.
Though I in Lethe's darksome wave should sink,
And cease on other mortal ties to think,
Yet thy true love shall never be forgot!
Hark! on the walls I hear the battle roar--
Gird on my armor--and, oh, weep no more.
Thy Hector's love in Lethe dieth not!
(Enter FRANCIS, HERMANN in disguise, DANIEL. )
FRANCIS. Here is the man. He says that he brings terrible news. Can
you bear the recital!
OLD M. I know but one thing terrible to hear. Come hither, friend, and
spare me not! Hand him a cup of wine!
HERMANN (in a feigned voice). Most gracious Sir? Let not a poor man be
visited with your displeasure, if against his will he lacerates your
heart. I am a stranger in these parts, but I know you well; you are the
father of Charles von Moor.
OLD M. How know you that?
HERMANN. I knew your son
AMELIA (starting up). He lives then? He lives! You know him? Where
is he? Where? (About to rush out. )
OLD M. What know you about my son?
HERMANN. He was a student at the university of Leipzic. From thence he
travelled about, I know not how far. He wandered all over Germany, and,
as he told me himself, barefoot and bareheaded, begging his bread from
door to door. After five months, the fatal war between Prussia and
Austria broke out afresh, and as he had no hopes left in this world, the
fame of Frederick's victorious banner drew him to Bohemia. Permit me,
said he to the great Schwerin, to die on the bed of heroes, for I have
no longer a father! --
OLD M. O! Amelia! Look not on me!
HERMANN. They gave him a pair of colors. With the Prussians he flew on
the wings of victory. We chanced to lie together, in the same tent. He
talked much of his old father, and of happy days that were past--and of
disappointed hopes--it brought the tears into our eyes.
OLD M. (buries his face in his pillow). --No more! Oh, no more!
HERMANN. A week after, the fierce battle of Prague was fought--I can
assure you your son behaved like a brave soldier. He performed
prodigies that day in sight of the whole army. Five regiments were
successively cut down by his side, and still he kept his ground. Fiery
shells fell right and left, and still your son kept his ground. A ball
shattered his right hand: he seized the colors with his left, and still
he kept his ground!
AMELIA (in transport). Hector, Hector! do you hear? He kept his
ground!
HERMANN. On the evening of the battle I found him on the same spot. He
had sunk down, amidst a shower of hissing balls: with his left hand he
was staunching the blood that flowed from a fearful wound; his right he
had buried in the earth. "Comrade! " cried he when he saw me, "there has
been a report through the ranks that the general fell an hour ago--"
"He is fallen," I replied, "and thou? " "Well, then," he cried,
withdrawing his left hand from the wound, "let every brave soldier
follow his general! " Soon after he breathed out his noble soul, to join
his heroic leader.
FRANCIS (feigning to rush wildly on HERMANN). May death seal thy
accursed lips! Art thou come here to give the death-blow to our father?
Father! Amelia! father!
HERMANN. It was the last wish of my expiring comrade. "Take this
sword," faltered he, with his dying breath, "deliver it to my aged
father; his son's blood is upon it--he is avenged--let him rejoice.
Tell him that his curse drove me into battle and into death; that I fell
in despair. " His last sigh was "Amelia. "
AMELIA (like one aroused from lethargy). His last sigh--Amelia!
OLD M. (screaming horribly, and tearing his hair). My curse drove him
into death! He fell in despair!
FRANCIS (pacing up and down the room). Oh! what have you done, father?
My Charles! my brother!
HERMANN. Here is the sword; and here, too, is a picture which he drew
from his breast at the same time. It is the very image of this young
lady. "This for my brother Francis," he said; I know not what he meant
by it.
FRANCIS (feigning astonishment). For me? Amelia's picture? For me--
Charles--Amelia? For me?
AMELIA (rushing violently upon HERMANN). Thou venal, bribed impostor!
(Lays hold of him. )
HERMANN. I am no impostor, noble lady. See yourself if it is not your
picture. It may be that you yourself gave it to him.
FRANCIS. By heaven, Amelia! your picture! It is, indeed.
AMELIA (returns him the picture) My picture, mine! Oh! heavens and
earth!
OLD M. (screaming and tearing his face. ) Woe, woe! my curse drove him
into death! He fell in despair!
FRANCIS. And he thought of me in the last and parting hour--of me.
Angelic soul! When the black banner of death already waved over him he
thought of me!
OLD M. (stammering like an idiot. ) My curse drove him into death. In
despair my son perished.
HERMANN. This is more than I can bear! Farewell, old gentleman!
(Aside to FRANCIS. ) How could you have the heart to do this?
[Exit in haste. ]
AMELIA (rises and rushes after him). Stay! stay! What were nis last
words?
HERMANN (calling back). His last sigh was "Amelia. "
[Exit. ]
AMELIA. His last sigh was Amelia! No, thou art no impostor. It is too
true--true--he is dead--dead! (staggering to and fro till she sinks
down)--dead--Charles is dead!
FRANCIS. What do I see? What is this line on the sword? --written with
blood--Amelia!
AMELIA. By him?
FRANCIS. Do I see clearly, or am I dreaming? Behold, in characters of
blood, "Francis, forsake not my Amelia. " And on the other side,
"Amelia, all-powerful death has released thee from thy oath. " Now do
you see--do you see? With hand stiffening in death he wrote it, with
his warm life's blood he wrote it--wrote it on the solemn brink of
eternity. His spirit lingered in his flight to unite Francis and
Amelia.
AMELIA. Gracious heaven! it is his own hand. He never loved me.
[Rushes off]
FRANCIS (stamping the ground). Confusion! her stubborn heart foils all
my cunning!
OLD MOOR. Woe, woe! forsake me not, my daughter! Francis, Francis!
give me back my son!
FRANCIS. Who was it that cursed him? Who was it that drove his son
into battle, and death, and despair? Oh, he was an angel, a jewel of
heaven! A curse on his destroyers! A curse, a curse upon yourself!
OLD MOOR (strikes his breast and forehead with his clenched fist). He
was an angel, a jewel of heaven! A curse, a curse, perdition, a curse
on myself! I am the father who slew his noble son! He loved me even to
death! To expiate my vengeance he rushed into battle and into death!
Monster, monster that I am! (He rages against himself. )
FRANCIS. He is gone. What avail these tardy lamentations? (with a
satanic sneer. ) It is easier to murder than to restore to life. You
will never bring him back from his grave.
OLD Moon. Never, never, never bring him back from the grave! Gone!
lost for ever! And you it was that beguiled my heart to curse him. --
you--you--Give me back my son!
FRANCIS. Rouse not my fury, lest I forsake you even in the hour of
death!
OLD MOOR. Monster! inhuman monster! Restore my son to me. (Starts
from the chair and attempts to catch FRANCIS by the throat, who flings
him back. )
FRANCIS. Feeble old dotard I would you dare? Die! despair!
[Exit. ]
OLD MOOR. May the thunder of a thousand curses light upon thee! thou
hast robbed me of my son. (Throwing himself about in his chair full of
despair). Alas! alas! to despair and yet not die. They fly, they
forsake me in death; my guardian angels fly from me; all the saints
withdraw from the hoary murderer. Oh, misery! will no one support this
head, no one release this struggling soul? No son, no daughter, no
friend, not one human being--will no one? Alone--forsaken. Woe, woe!
To despair, yet not to die!
Enter AMELIA, her eyes red with weeping.
OLD MOOR. Amelia I messenger of heaven! Art thou come to release my
soul?
AMELIA (in a gentle tone). You have lost a noble son.
OLD MOOR. Murdered him, you mean. With the weight of this impeachment
I shall present myself before the judgment-seat of God.
AMELIA. Not so, old man! Our heavenly Father has taken him to himself.
We should have been too happy in this world. Above, above, beyond the
stars, we shall meet again.
OLD MOOR. Meet again! Meet again! Oh! it will pierce my soul like a
Sword--should I, a saint, meet him among the saints. In the midst of
heaven the horrors of hell will strike through me! The remembrance of
that deed will crush me in the presence of the Eternal: I have murdered
my son!
AMELIA. Oh, his smiles will chase away the bitter remembrance from your
soul! Cheer up, dear father! I am quite cheerful. Has he not already
sung the name of Amelia to listening angels on seraphic harps, and has
not heaven's choir sweetly echoed it? Was not his last sigh, Amelia?
And will not Amelia be his first accent of joy?
OLD MOOR. Heavenly consolation flows from your lips! He will smile
upon me, you say? He will forgive me? You must stay with my, beloved
of my Charles, when I die.
AMELIA. To die is to fly to his arms. Oh, how happy and enviable is
your lot! Would that my bones were decayed! --that my hairs were gray!
Woe upon the vigor of youth! Welcome, decrepid age, nearer to heaven
and my Charles!
Enter FRANCIS.
OLD MOOR. Come near, my son! Forgive me if I spoke too harshly to you
just now! I forgive you all. I wish to yield up my spirit in peace.
FRANCIS. Have you done weeping for your son? For aught that I see you
had but one.
OLD MOOR. Jacob had twelve sons, but for his Joseph he wept tears of
blood.
FRANCIS. Hum!
OLD MOOR. Bring the Bible, my daughter, and read to me the story of
Jacob and Joseph! It always appeared to me so touching, even before I
myself became a Jacob.
AMELIA. What part shall I read to you? (Takes the Bible and turns over
the leaves. )
OLD MOOR. Read to me the grief of the bereaved father, when he found
his Joseph no more among his children;--when he sought him in vain
amidst his eleven sons;--and his lamentation when he heard that he was
taken from him forever.
AMELIA (reads). "And they took Joseph's coat, and killed a kid of the
goats, and dipped the coat in the blood; and they sent the coat of many
colors, and they brought it to their father, and said, 'This have we
found: know now whether it be thy son's coat or no. ' (Exit FRANCIS
suddenly. ) And he knew it and said, 'It is my son's coat; an evil beast
hath devoured him; Joseph is without doubt rent in pieces'"
OLD MOOR (falls back upon the pillow). An evil beast hath devoured
Joseph!
AMELIA (continues reading). "And Jacob rent his clothes, and put
sackcloth upon his loins, and mourned for his son many days. And all
his sons and all his daughters rose up to comfort him, but he refused to
be comforted, and he said, 'For I will go down into the grave'"
OLD MOOR. Leave off! leave off. I feel very ill.
AMELIA (running towards him, lets fall the book). Heaven help us! What
is this?
OLD MOOR. It is death--darkness--is waving--before my eyes--I pray
thee--send for the minister--that he may--give me--the Holy Communion.
Where is--my son Francis?
AMELIA. He is fled. God have mercy upon us!
OLD MOOR. Fled--fled from his father's deathbed? And is that all--all
--of two children full of promise--thou hast given--thou hast--taken
away--thy name be--
AMELIA (with a sudden cry). Dead! both dead!
[Exit in despair. ]
Enter FRANCIS, dancing with joy.
FRANCIS. Dead, they cry, dead!
Amelia?
AMELIA. How do you find yourself? You have had a refreshing slumber.
OLD M. I was dreaming about my son. Why did I not dream on? Perhaps I
might have obtained forgiveness from his lips.
AMELIA. Angels bear no resentment--he forgives you. (Seizes his hand
sorrowfully. ) Father of my Charles! I, too, forgive you.
OLD M. No, no, my child! That death-like paleness of thy cheek is the
father's condemnation. Poor girl! I have robbed thee of the happiness
of thy youth. Oh, do not curse me!
AMELIA (affectionately kissing his hand). I curse you?
OLD M. Dost thou know this portrait, my daughter?
AMELIA. Charles!
OLD M. Such was he in his sixteenth year. But now, alas! how changed.
Oh, it is raging within me. That gentleness is now indignation; that
smile despair. It was his birthday, was it not, Amelia--in the
jessamine bower--when you drew this picture of him? Oh, my daughter!
How happy was I in your loves.
AMELIA (with her eye still riveted upon the picture). No, no, it is not
he! By Heaven, that is not Charles! Here (pointing to her head and her
heart), here he is perfect; and how different. The feeble pencil avails
not to express that heavenly spirit which reigned in his fiery eye.
Away with it! This is a poor image, an ordinary man! I was a mere
dauber.
OLD M. That kind, that cheering look! Had that been at my bedside,
I should have lived in the midst of death. Never, never should I have
died!
AMELIA. No, you would never, never have died. It would have been but a
leap, as we leap from one thought to another and a better. That look
would have lighted you across the tomb--that look would have lifted you
beyond the stars!
OLD M. It is hard! it is sad! I am dying, and my son Charles is not
here--I am borne to my tomb, and he weeps not over my grave. How sweet
it is to be lulled into the sleep of death by a son's prayer--that is
the true requiem.
AMELIA (with enthusiasm). Yes, sweet it is, heavenly sweet, to be
lulled into the sleep of death by the song of the beloved. Perhaps our
dreams continue in the grave--a long, eternal, never-ending dream of
Charles--till the trumpet of resurrection sounds--(rising in ecstasy)
--and thenceforth and forever in his arms! (A pause; she goes to the
piano and plays. )
ANDROMACHE.
Oh, Hector, wilt thou go for evermore,
When fierce Achilles, on the blood-stained shore,
Heaps countless victims o'er Patroclus' grave?
When then thy hapless orphan boy will rear,
Teach him to praise the gods and hurl the spear,
When thou art swallow'd up in Xanthus' wave?
OLD M. A beautiful song, my daughter. You must play that to me before
I die.
AMELIA. It is the parting of Hector and Andromache. Charles and I used
often to sing it together to the guitar. (She continues. )
HECTOR.
Beloved wife! stern duty calls to arms--
Go, fetch my lance! and cease those vain alarms!
On me is cast the destiny of Troy!
Astyanax, my child, the Gods will shield,
Should Hector fall upon the battle-field;
And in Elysium we shall meet with joy!
Enter DANIEL.
DANIEL. There is a man without, who craves to be admitted to your
presence, and says he brings tidings of importance.
OLD M. To me there is but one thing in this world of importance; thou
knowest it, Amelia. Perhaps it is some unfortunate creature who seeks
assistance? He shall not go hence in sorrow.
AMELIA. --If it is a beggar, let him come up quickly.
OLD M. Amelia, Amelia! spare me!
AMELIA (continues to play and sing. )
ANDROMACHE.
Thy martial tread no more will grace my hall--
Thine arms shall hang sad relics on the wall--
And Priam's race of godlike heroes fade!
Oh, thou wilt go where Phoebus sheds no light--
Where black Cocytus wails in endless night
Thy love will die in Lethe's gloomy shade.
HECTOR.
Though I in Lethe's darksome wave should sink,
And cease on other mortal ties to think,
Yet thy true love shall never be forgot!
Hark! on the walls I hear the battle roar--
Gird on my armor--and, oh, weep no more.
Thy Hector's love in Lethe dieth not!
(Enter FRANCIS, HERMANN in disguise, DANIEL. )
FRANCIS. Here is the man. He says that he brings terrible news. Can
you bear the recital!
OLD M. I know but one thing terrible to hear. Come hither, friend, and
spare me not! Hand him a cup of wine!
HERMANN (in a feigned voice). Most gracious Sir? Let not a poor man be
visited with your displeasure, if against his will he lacerates your
heart. I am a stranger in these parts, but I know you well; you are the
father of Charles von Moor.
OLD M. How know you that?
HERMANN. I knew your son
AMELIA (starting up). He lives then? He lives! You know him? Where
is he? Where? (About to rush out. )
OLD M. What know you about my son?
HERMANN. He was a student at the university of Leipzic. From thence he
travelled about, I know not how far. He wandered all over Germany, and,
as he told me himself, barefoot and bareheaded, begging his bread from
door to door. After five months, the fatal war between Prussia and
Austria broke out afresh, and as he had no hopes left in this world, the
fame of Frederick's victorious banner drew him to Bohemia. Permit me,
said he to the great Schwerin, to die on the bed of heroes, for I have
no longer a father! --
OLD M. O! Amelia! Look not on me!
HERMANN. They gave him a pair of colors. With the Prussians he flew on
the wings of victory. We chanced to lie together, in the same tent. He
talked much of his old father, and of happy days that were past--and of
disappointed hopes--it brought the tears into our eyes.
OLD M. (buries his face in his pillow). --No more! Oh, no more!
HERMANN. A week after, the fierce battle of Prague was fought--I can
assure you your son behaved like a brave soldier. He performed
prodigies that day in sight of the whole army. Five regiments were
successively cut down by his side, and still he kept his ground. Fiery
shells fell right and left, and still your son kept his ground. A ball
shattered his right hand: he seized the colors with his left, and still
he kept his ground!
AMELIA (in transport). Hector, Hector! do you hear? He kept his
ground!
HERMANN. On the evening of the battle I found him on the same spot. He
had sunk down, amidst a shower of hissing balls: with his left hand he
was staunching the blood that flowed from a fearful wound; his right he
had buried in the earth. "Comrade! " cried he when he saw me, "there has
been a report through the ranks that the general fell an hour ago--"
"He is fallen," I replied, "and thou? " "Well, then," he cried,
withdrawing his left hand from the wound, "let every brave soldier
follow his general! " Soon after he breathed out his noble soul, to join
his heroic leader.
FRANCIS (feigning to rush wildly on HERMANN). May death seal thy
accursed lips! Art thou come here to give the death-blow to our father?
Father! Amelia! father!
HERMANN. It was the last wish of my expiring comrade. "Take this
sword," faltered he, with his dying breath, "deliver it to my aged
father; his son's blood is upon it--he is avenged--let him rejoice.
Tell him that his curse drove me into battle and into death; that I fell
in despair. " His last sigh was "Amelia. "
AMELIA (like one aroused from lethargy). His last sigh--Amelia!
OLD M. (screaming horribly, and tearing his hair). My curse drove him
into death! He fell in despair!
FRANCIS (pacing up and down the room). Oh! what have you done, father?
My Charles! my brother!
HERMANN. Here is the sword; and here, too, is a picture which he drew
from his breast at the same time. It is the very image of this young
lady. "This for my brother Francis," he said; I know not what he meant
by it.
FRANCIS (feigning astonishment). For me? Amelia's picture? For me--
Charles--Amelia? For me?
AMELIA (rushing violently upon HERMANN). Thou venal, bribed impostor!
(Lays hold of him. )
HERMANN. I am no impostor, noble lady. See yourself if it is not your
picture. It may be that you yourself gave it to him.
FRANCIS. By heaven, Amelia! your picture! It is, indeed.
AMELIA (returns him the picture) My picture, mine! Oh! heavens and
earth!
OLD M. (screaming and tearing his face. ) Woe, woe! my curse drove him
into death! He fell in despair!
FRANCIS. And he thought of me in the last and parting hour--of me.
Angelic soul! When the black banner of death already waved over him he
thought of me!
OLD M. (stammering like an idiot. ) My curse drove him into death. In
despair my son perished.
HERMANN. This is more than I can bear! Farewell, old gentleman!
(Aside to FRANCIS. ) How could you have the heart to do this?
[Exit in haste. ]
AMELIA (rises and rushes after him). Stay! stay! What were nis last
words?
HERMANN (calling back). His last sigh was "Amelia. "
[Exit. ]
AMELIA. His last sigh was Amelia! No, thou art no impostor. It is too
true--true--he is dead--dead! (staggering to and fro till she sinks
down)--dead--Charles is dead!
FRANCIS. What do I see? What is this line on the sword? --written with
blood--Amelia!
AMELIA. By him?
FRANCIS. Do I see clearly, or am I dreaming? Behold, in characters of
blood, "Francis, forsake not my Amelia. " And on the other side,
"Amelia, all-powerful death has released thee from thy oath. " Now do
you see--do you see? With hand stiffening in death he wrote it, with
his warm life's blood he wrote it--wrote it on the solemn brink of
eternity. His spirit lingered in his flight to unite Francis and
Amelia.
AMELIA. Gracious heaven! it is his own hand. He never loved me.
[Rushes off]
FRANCIS (stamping the ground). Confusion! her stubborn heart foils all
my cunning!
OLD MOOR. Woe, woe! forsake me not, my daughter! Francis, Francis!
give me back my son!
FRANCIS. Who was it that cursed him? Who was it that drove his son
into battle, and death, and despair? Oh, he was an angel, a jewel of
heaven! A curse on his destroyers! A curse, a curse upon yourself!
OLD MOOR (strikes his breast and forehead with his clenched fist). He
was an angel, a jewel of heaven! A curse, a curse, perdition, a curse
on myself! I am the father who slew his noble son! He loved me even to
death! To expiate my vengeance he rushed into battle and into death!
Monster, monster that I am! (He rages against himself. )
FRANCIS. He is gone. What avail these tardy lamentations? (with a
satanic sneer. ) It is easier to murder than to restore to life. You
will never bring him back from his grave.
OLD Moon. Never, never, never bring him back from the grave! Gone!
lost for ever! And you it was that beguiled my heart to curse him. --
you--you--Give me back my son!
FRANCIS. Rouse not my fury, lest I forsake you even in the hour of
death!
OLD MOOR. Monster! inhuman monster! Restore my son to me. (Starts
from the chair and attempts to catch FRANCIS by the throat, who flings
him back. )
FRANCIS. Feeble old dotard I would you dare? Die! despair!
[Exit. ]
OLD MOOR. May the thunder of a thousand curses light upon thee! thou
hast robbed me of my son. (Throwing himself about in his chair full of
despair). Alas! alas! to despair and yet not die. They fly, they
forsake me in death; my guardian angels fly from me; all the saints
withdraw from the hoary murderer. Oh, misery! will no one support this
head, no one release this struggling soul? No son, no daughter, no
friend, not one human being--will no one? Alone--forsaken. Woe, woe!
To despair, yet not to die!
Enter AMELIA, her eyes red with weeping.
OLD MOOR. Amelia I messenger of heaven! Art thou come to release my
soul?
AMELIA (in a gentle tone). You have lost a noble son.
OLD MOOR. Murdered him, you mean. With the weight of this impeachment
I shall present myself before the judgment-seat of God.
AMELIA. Not so, old man! Our heavenly Father has taken him to himself.
We should have been too happy in this world. Above, above, beyond the
stars, we shall meet again.
OLD MOOR. Meet again! Meet again! Oh! it will pierce my soul like a
Sword--should I, a saint, meet him among the saints. In the midst of
heaven the horrors of hell will strike through me! The remembrance of
that deed will crush me in the presence of the Eternal: I have murdered
my son!
AMELIA. Oh, his smiles will chase away the bitter remembrance from your
soul! Cheer up, dear father! I am quite cheerful. Has he not already
sung the name of Amelia to listening angels on seraphic harps, and has
not heaven's choir sweetly echoed it? Was not his last sigh, Amelia?
And will not Amelia be his first accent of joy?
OLD MOOR. Heavenly consolation flows from your lips! He will smile
upon me, you say? He will forgive me? You must stay with my, beloved
of my Charles, when I die.
AMELIA. To die is to fly to his arms. Oh, how happy and enviable is
your lot! Would that my bones were decayed! --that my hairs were gray!
Woe upon the vigor of youth! Welcome, decrepid age, nearer to heaven
and my Charles!
Enter FRANCIS.
OLD MOOR. Come near, my son! Forgive me if I spoke too harshly to you
just now! I forgive you all. I wish to yield up my spirit in peace.
FRANCIS. Have you done weeping for your son? For aught that I see you
had but one.
OLD MOOR. Jacob had twelve sons, but for his Joseph he wept tears of
blood.
FRANCIS. Hum!
OLD MOOR. Bring the Bible, my daughter, and read to me the story of
Jacob and Joseph! It always appeared to me so touching, even before I
myself became a Jacob.
AMELIA. What part shall I read to you? (Takes the Bible and turns over
the leaves. )
OLD MOOR. Read to me the grief of the bereaved father, when he found
his Joseph no more among his children;--when he sought him in vain
amidst his eleven sons;--and his lamentation when he heard that he was
taken from him forever.
AMELIA (reads). "And they took Joseph's coat, and killed a kid of the
goats, and dipped the coat in the blood; and they sent the coat of many
colors, and they brought it to their father, and said, 'This have we
found: know now whether it be thy son's coat or no. ' (Exit FRANCIS
suddenly. ) And he knew it and said, 'It is my son's coat; an evil beast
hath devoured him; Joseph is without doubt rent in pieces'"
OLD MOOR (falls back upon the pillow). An evil beast hath devoured
Joseph!
AMELIA (continues reading). "And Jacob rent his clothes, and put
sackcloth upon his loins, and mourned for his son many days. And all
his sons and all his daughters rose up to comfort him, but he refused to
be comforted, and he said, 'For I will go down into the grave'"
OLD MOOR. Leave off! leave off. I feel very ill.
AMELIA (running towards him, lets fall the book). Heaven help us! What
is this?
OLD MOOR. It is death--darkness--is waving--before my eyes--I pray
thee--send for the minister--that he may--give me--the Holy Communion.
Where is--my son Francis?
AMELIA. He is fled. God have mercy upon us!
OLD MOOR. Fled--fled from his father's deathbed? And is that all--all
--of two children full of promise--thou hast given--thou hast--taken
away--thy name be--
AMELIA (with a sudden cry). Dead! both dead!
[Exit in despair. ]
Enter FRANCIS, dancing with joy.
FRANCIS. Dead, they cry, dead!
