Egmont: Act I

Act I

ACT I

Scene I.--Soldiers and Citizens (with cross-bows)

Jetter (steps forward, and bends his cross-bow).
Soest, Buyck, Ruysum

Soest. Come, shoot away, and have done with it! You won't beat me!
Three black rings, you never made such a shot in all your life. And so I'm
master for this year.

Jetter. Master and king to boot; who envies you? You'll have to pay
double reckoning; 'tis only fair you should pay for your dexterity.

Buyck. Jetter, I'll buy your shot, share the prize, and treat the company. I
have already been here so long, and am a debtor for so many civilities. If I
miss, then it shall be as if you had shot.

Soest. I ought to have a voice, for in fact I am the loser. No matter! Come,
Buyck, shoot away.

Buyck (shoots). Now, corporal, look out!--One! Two! Three! Four!

Soest. Four rings! So be it!

All. Hurrah! Long live the King! Hurrah! Hurrah!

Buyck. Thanks, sirs, master even were too much! Thanks for the honour.

Jetter. You have no one to thank but yourself. Ruysum. Let me tell you-

Soest. How now, grey-beard?

Ruysum. Let me tell you!--He shoots like his master, he shoots like
Egmont.

Buyck. Compared with him I am only a bungler. He aims with the rifle as
no one else does. Not only when he's lucky or in the vein; no! he levels,
and the bull's-eye is pierced. I have learned from him. He were indeed a
blockhead, who could serve under him and learn nothing!--But, sirs, let us
not forget! A king maintains his followers; and so, wine here, at the king's
charge!

Jetter. We have agreed among ourselves that each--

Buyck. I am a foreigner, and a king, and care not a jot for your laws and
customs.

Jetter. Why, you are worse than the Spaniard, who has not yet ventured to
meddle with them.

Ruysum. What does he say?

Soest (loud to Ruysum). He wants to treat us; he will not hear of our
clubbing together, the king paying only a double share.

Ruysum. Let him! under protest, however! 'Tis his master's fashion, too, to
be munificent, and to let the money flow in a good cause. (Wine is
brought.)

All. Here's to his Majesty! Hurrah!

Jetter (to Buyck). That means your Majesty, of course, Buyck. My hearty
thanks, if it be so.

Soest. Assuredly! A Netherlander does not find it easy to drink the health
of his Spanish majesty from his heart.

Ruysum. Who?

Soest (aloud). Philip the Second, King of Spain.

Ruysum. Our most gracious king and master! Long life
to him.

Soest. Did you not like his father, Charles the Fifth, better?

Ruysum. God bless him! He was a king indeed! His hand reached over the
whole earth, and he was all in all. Yet, when he met you, he'd greet you
just as one neighbour
greets another,--and if you were frightened, he knew so well how to put
you at your ease--ay, you understand me--he walked out, rode out, just as
it came into his head, with very few followers. We all wept when he
resigned the government here to his son. You understand me--he is
another sort of man, he's more majestic.

Jetter. When he was here, he never appeared in public, except in pomp and
royal state. He speaks little, they say.

Soest. He is no king for us Netherlanders. Our princes must be joyous and
free like ourselves, must live and let live. We will neither be despised nor
oppressed, good-natured fools though we be.

Jetter. The king, methinks, were a gracious sovereign enough, if he had
only better counsellors.

Soest. No, no! He has no affection for us Netherlanders; he has no heart
for the people; he loves us not; how then can we love him? Why is
everybody so fond of Count Egmont? Why are we all so devoted to him?
Why, because one can read in his face that he loves us; because
joyousness, open-heartedness, and good-nature, speak in his eyes; because
he possesses nothing that he does not share with him who needs it, ay, and
with him who needs it not. Long live Count Egmont! Buyck, it is for you
to give the first toast; give us your master's health.

Buyck. With all my heart; here's to Count Egmont! Hurrah!

Ruysum Conqueror of St. Quintin.

Buyck. The hero of Gravelines.

All. Hurrah!

Ruysum. St. Quintin was my last battle. I was hardly able to crawl along,
and could with difficulty carry my heavy rifle. I managed,
notwithstanding, to singe the skin of the French once more, and, as a
parting gift, received a grazing shot in my right leg.

Buyck. Gravelines! Ha, my friends, we had sharp work of it there! The
victory was all our own. Did not those French dogs carry fire and
desolation into the very heart of Flanders? We gave it them, however! The
old hard-listed veterans held out bravely for a while, but we pushed on,
fired away, and laid about us, till they made wry faces, and their lines gave
way. Then Egmont's horse was shot under him; and for a long time we
fought pell-mell, man to man, horse to horse, troop to troop, on the broad,
flat, sea-sand. Suddenly, as if from heaven, down came the cannon shot
from the mouth of the river, bang, bang, right into the midst of the French.
These were English, who, under Admiral Malin, happened to be sailing
past from Dunkirk. They did not help us much, 'tis true; they could only
approach with their smallest vessels, and that not near enough; --besides,
their shot fell sometimes among our troops. It did some good, however! It
broke the French lines, and raised our courage. Away it went. Helter-
skelter! topsy-turvy! all struck dead, or forced into the water; the fellows
were drowned the moment they tasted the water, while we Hollanders
dashed in after them. Being amphibious, we were as much in our element
as frogs, and hacked away at the enemy, and shot them down as if they
had been ducks. The few who struggled through, were struck dead in their
flight by the peasant women, armed with hoes and pitchforks. His Gallic
majesty was compelled at once to hold out his paw and make peace. And
that peace you owe to us, to the great Egmont.

All. Hurrah, for the great Egmont! Hurrah! Hurrah!

Jetter. Had they but appointed him Regent, instead of Margaret of Parma!

Soest. Not so! Truth is truth! I'll not hear Margaret abused. Now it is my
turn. Long live our gracious lady!

All. Long life to her!

Soest. Truly, there are excellent women in that family. Long live the
Regent!

Jetter. Prudent is she, and moderate in all she does; if she would only not
hold so fast and stiffly with the priests. It is partly her fault, too, that we
have the fourteen new mitres in the land. Of what use are they, I should
like to know? Why, that foreigners may be shoved into the good benefices,
where formerly abbots were chosen out of the chapters! And we're to
believe it's for the sake of religion. We know better. Three bishops were
enough for us; things went on decently and reputably. Now each must
busy himself as if he were needed; and this gives rise every moment to
dissensions and ill-will. And the more you agitate the matter, so much the
worse it grows. (They drink.)

Soest. But it was the will of the king; she cannot alter it, one way or
another.

Jetter. Then we may not even sing the new psalms; but ribald songs, as
many as we please. And why? There is heresy in them, they say, and
heaven knows what. I have sung some of them, however; they are new, to
be sure, but I see no harm in them.

Buyck. Ask their leave, forsooth! In our province, we sing just what we
please. That's because Count Egmont is our stadtholder, who does not
trouble himself about such matters. In Ghent, Ypres, and throughout the
whole of Flanders, anybody sings them that chooses. (Aloud to Ruysum.)
There is nothing more harmless than a spiritual song--Is there, father?

Ruysum. What, indeed! It is a godly work, and truly edifying.

Jetter. They say, however, that they are not of the right sort, not of their
sort, and, since it is dangerous, we had better leave them alone. The
officers of the Inquisition are always lurking and spying about; many an
honest fellow has already fallen into their clutches. They had not gone so
far as to meddle with conscience! If they will not allow me to do what I
like, they might at least let me think and sing as I please.

Soest. The Inquisition won't do here. We are not made like the Spaniards,
to let our consciences be tyrannized over. The nobles must look to it, and
clip its wings betimes.

Jetter. It is a great bore. Whenever it comes into their worships' heads to
break into my house, and I am sitting there at my work, humming a French
psalm, thinking nothing about it, neither good nor bad--singing it just
because it is in my throat;--forthwith I'm a heretic, and am clapped into
prison. Or if I am passing through the country, and stand near a crowd
listening to a new preacher, one of those who have come from Germany;
instantly I'm called a rebel, and am in danger of losing my head! Have you
ever heard one of these preachers?

Soest. Brave fellows! Not long ago, I heard one of them preach in a field,
before thousands and thousands of people. A different sort of dish he gave
us from that of our humdrum preachers, who, from the pulpit, choke their
hearers with scraps of Latin. He spoke from his heart; told us how we had
till now been led by the nose, how we had been kept in darkness, and how
we might procure more light;--ay, and he proved it all out of the Bible.

Jetter. There may be something in it. I always said as much, and have
often pondered over the matter. It has long been running in my head.

Buyck. All the people run after them.

Soest. No wonder, since they hear both what is good and what is new.

Jetter. And what is it all about? Surely they might let every one preach
after his own fashion.

Buyck. Come, sirs! While you are talking, you; forget the wine and the
Prince of Orange.

Jetter. We must not forget him. He's a very wall of defence. In thinking of
him, one fancies, that if one could only hide behind him, the devil himself
could not get at one.
Here's to William of Orange! Hurrah!

All. Hurrah! Hurrah!

Soest. Now, grey-heard, let's have your toast.

Ruysum. Here's to old soldiers! To all soldiers! War for ever!

Buyck. Bravo, old fellow. Here's to all soldiers. War for ever!

Jetter. War! War! Do ye know what ye are shouting about? That it should
slip glibly from your tongue is natural enough; but what wretched work it
is for us, I have not words to tell you. To be stunned the whole year round
by the beating of the drum; to hear of nothing except how one troop
marched here, and another there; how they came over this height, and
halted near that mill; how many were left dead on this field, and how
many on that; how they press forward, and how one wins, and another
loses, without being able to comprehend what they are fighting about; how
a town is taken, how the citizens are put to the sword, and how it fares
with the poor women and innocent children. This is a grief and a trouble,
and then one thinks every moment, "Here they come! It will be our turn
next."

Soest. Therefore every citizen must be practised in the use of arms.

Jetter. Fine talking, indeed, for him who has a wife and children. And yet I
would rather hear of soldiers than see them.

Buyck. I might take offence at that.

Jetter. It was not intended for you, countryman. When we got rid of the
Spanish garrison, we breathed freely again.

Soest. Faith! They pressed on you heavily enough.

Jetter. Mind your own business.

Soest. They came to sharp quarters with you.

Jetter. Hold your tongue.

Soest. They drove him out of kitchen, cellar, chamber--and bed. (They
laugh.)

Jetter. You are a blockhead.

Buyck. Peace, sirs! Must the soldier cry peace? Since you will not hear
anything about us, let us have a toast of your own--a citizen's toast.

Jetter. We're all ready for that! Safety and peace!

Soest. Order and freedom!

Buyck. Bravo! That will content us all.

(They ring their glasses together, and joyously repeat the words, but in
such a manner that each utters a different sound, and it becomes a kind of
chant. The old man listens, and at length joins in.)

All. Safety and peace! Order and freedom!

Scene II.---Palace of the Regent

Margaret of Parma (in a hunting dress).
Courtiers, Pages, Servants

Regent. Put off the hunt, I shall not ride to-day. Bid Machiavel attend me.

[Exeunt all but the Regent.

The thought of these terrible events leaves me no repose! Nothing can
amuse, nothing divert my mind. These images, these cares are always
before me. The king will now say that these are the natural fruits of my
kindness, of my clemency; yet my conscience assures me that I have
adopted the wisest, the most prudent course. Ought I sooner to have
kindled, and spread abroad these flames with the breath of wrath? My
hope was to keep them in, to let them smoulder in their own ashes. Yes,
my inward conviction, and my knowledge of the circumstances, justify my
conduct in my own eyes; but in what light will it appear to my brother!
For, can it be denied that the insolence of these foreign teachers waxes
daily more audacious? They have desecrated our sanctuaries, unsettled the
dull minds of the people, and conjured up amongst them a spirit of
delusion. Impure spirits have mingled among the insurgents, horrible
deeds have been perpetrated, which to think of makes one shudder, and of
these a circumstantial account must be transmitted instantly to court.
Prompt and minute must be my communication, lest rumour outrun my
messenger, and the king suspect that some particulars have been purposely
withheld. I can see no means, severe or mild, by which to stem the evil.
Oh, what are we great ones on the waves of humanity? We think to control
them, and are ourselves driven to and fro, hither and thither.

[Enter Machiavel.

Regent. Are the despatches to the king prepared?

Machiavel. In an hour they will be ready for your signature.

Regent. Have you made the report sufficiently circumstantial?

Machiavel. Full and circumstantial, as the king loves to have it. I relate
how the rage of the iconoclasts first broke out at St. Omer. How a furious
multitude, with staves, hatchets, hammers, ladders, and cords,
accompanied by a few armed men, first assailed the chapels, churches, and
convents, drove out the worshippers, forced the barred gates, threw
everything into confusion, tore down the altars, destroyed the statues of
the saints, defaced the pictures, and dashed to atoms, and trampled under
foot, whatever came in their way that was consecrated and holy. How the
crowd increased as it advanced, and how the inhabitants of Ypres opened
their gates at its approach. How, with incredible rapidity, they demolished
the cathedral, and burned the library of the bishop. How a vast multitude,
possessed by the like frenzy, dispersed themselves through Menin,
Comines, Verviers, Lille, nowhere encountered opposition; and how,
through almost the whole of Flanders, in a single moment, the monstrous
conspiracy declared itself, and was accomplished.

Regent. Alas! Your recital rends my heart anew; and the fear that the evil
will wax greater and greater, adds to my grief. Tell me your thoughts,
Machiavel!

Machiavel. Pardon me, your Highness, my thoughts will appear to you but
as idle fancies; and though you always seem well satisfied with my
services, you have seldom felt inclined to follow my advice. How often
have you said in jest: "You see too far, Machiavel! You should be an
historian; he who acts, must provide for the exigence of the hour." And yet
have I not predicted this terrible history? Have I not foreseen it all?

Regent. I too foresee many things, without being able to avert them.

Machiavel. In one word, then:---you will not be able to suppress the new
faith. Let it be recognized, separate its votaries from the true believers,
give them churches of their own, include them within the pale of social
order, subject them to the restraints of law,--do this, and you will at once
tranquillize the insurgents. All other measures will prove abortive, and you
will depopulate the country.

Regent. Have you forgotten with what aversion the mere suggestion of
toleration was rejected by my brother? Know you not, how in every letter
he urgently recommends to me the maintenance of the true faith? That he
will not hear of tranquility and order being restored at the expense of
religion? Even in the provinces, does he not maintain spies, unknown to
us, in order to ascertain who inclines to the new doctrines? Has he not, to
our astonishment, named to us this or that individual residing in our very
neighbourhood, who, without its being known, was obnoxious to the
charge of heresy? Does he not enjoin harshness and severity? and am I to
be lenient? Am I to recommend for his adoption measures of indulgence
and toleration? Should I not thus lose all credit with him, and at once
forfeit his confidence?

Machiavel. I know it. The king commands and puts you in full possession
of his intentions. You are to restore tranquillity and peace by measures
which cannot fail still more to embitter men's minds, and which must
inevitably kindle the flames of war from one extremity of the country to
the other. Consider well what you are doing. The principal merchants are
infected--nobles, citizens, soldiers. What avails persisting in our opinion,
when everything is changing around us? Oh, that some good genius would
suggest to Philip that it better becomes a monarch to govern burghers of
two different creeds, than to excite them to mutual destruction.

Regent. Never let me hear such words again. Full well I know that the
policy of statesmen rarely maintains truth and fidelity; that it excludes
from the heart candour, charity, toleration. In secular affairs, this is, alas!
only too true; but shall we trifle with God as we do with each other? Shall
we be indifferent to our established faith, for the sake of which so many
have sacrificed their lives? Shall we abandon it to these far-fetched,
uncertain, and self-contradicting heresies?

Machiavel. Think not the worse of me for what I have uttered.

Regent. I know you and your fidelity. I know too that a man may be both
honest and sagacious, and yet miss the best and nearest way to the
salvation of his soul. There are others, Machiavel, men whom I esteem,
yet whom I needs must blame.

Machiavel. To whom do you refer?

Regent. I must confess that Egmont caused me to-day deep and heart-felt
annoyance.

Machiavel. How so?

Regent. By his accustomed demeanour, his usual indifference and levity. I
received the fatal tidings as I was leaving church, attended by him and
several others. I did not restrain my anguish, I broke forth into
lamentations, loud and deep, and turning to him, exclaimed, "See what is
going on in your province! Do you suffer it, Count, you, in whom the king
confided so implicitly?"

Machiavel. And what was his reply?

Regent. As if it were a mere trifle, an affair of no moment, he answered:
"Were the Netherlanders but satisfied as to their constitution! The rest
would soon follow."

Machiavel. There was, perhaps, more truth than discretion or piety in his
words. How can we hope to acquire and to maintain the confidence of the
Netherlander, when he sees that we are more interested in appropriating
his possessions, than in promoting his welfare, temporal or spiritual? Does
the number of souls saved by the new bishops exceed that of the fat
benefices they have swallowed? And are they not for the most part
foreigners? As yet, the office of stadtholder has been held by
Netherlanders; but do not the Spaniards betray their great and irresistible
desire to possess themselves of these places? Will not people prefer being
governed by their own countrymen, and according to their ancient
customs, rather than by foreigners, who, from their first entrance into the
land, endeavour to enrich themselves at the general expense, who measure
everything by a foreign standard, and who exercise their authority without
cordiality or sympathy?

Regent. You take part with our opponents?

Machiavel. Assuredly not in my heart. Would that with my understanding
I could be wholly on our side!

Regent. If such your disposition, it were better I should resign the regency
to them; for both Egmont and Orange entertained great hopes of
occupying this position. Then they were adversaries, now they are leagued
against me, and have become friends--inseparable friends.

Machiavel. A dangerous pair.

Regent. To speak candidly, I fear Orange.--I fear for Egmont.--Orange
meditates some dangerous scheme, his thoughts are far-reaching, he is
reserved, appears to accede to everything, never contradicts, and while
maintaining the show of reverence, with clear foresight accomplishes his
own designs.

Machiavel. Egmont, on the contrary, advances with a bold step, as if the
world were all his own.

Regent. He bears his head as proudly as if the hand of majesty were not
suspended over him.

Machiavel. The eyes of all the people are fixed upon him, and he is the
idol of their hearts.

Regent. He has never assumed the least disguise, and carries himself as if
no one had a right to call him to account. He still bears the name of
Egmont. Count Egmont is the title by which he loves to hear himself
addressed, as though he would fain be reminded that his ancestors were
masters of Guelderland. Why does he not assume his proper title,--Prince
of Gaure? What object has he in view? Would he again revive
extinguished claims?

Machiavel. I hold him for a faithful servant of the king.

Regent. Were he so inclined, what important service could he not render to
the government? Whereas, now, without benefiting himself, he has caused
us unspeakable vexation. His banquets and entertainment have done more
to unite the nobles and to knit them together than the most dangerous
secret associations. With his toasts, his guests have drunk in a permanent
intoxication, a giddy frenzy, that never subsides. How often have his
facetious jests stirred up the minds of the populace? and what an
excitement was produced among the mob by the new liveries, and the
extravagant devices of his followers!

Machiavel. I am convinced he had no design.

Regent. Be that as it may, it is bad enough. As I said before, he injures us
without benefiting himself. He treats as a jest matters of serious import;
and, not to appear negligent and remiss, we are forced to treat seriously
what he intended as a jest. Thus one urges on the other; and what we are
endeavouring to avert is actually brought to pass. He is more dangerous
than the acknowledged head of a conspiracy; and I am much mistaken if it
is not all remembered against him at court. I cannot deny that scarcely a
day passes in which he does not wound me--deeply wound me.

Machiavel. He appears to me to act on all occasions, according to the
dictates of his conscience. Regent. His conscience has a convenient
mirror. His demeanour is often offensive. He carries himself as if he felt
he were the master here, and were withheld by courtesy alone from
making us feel his supremacy; as if he would not exactly drive us out of
the country; there'll be no need for that.

Machiavel. I entreat you, put not too harsh a construction upon his frank
and joyous temper, which treats lightly matters of serious moment. You
but injure yourself and him.

Regent. I interpret nothing. I speak only of inevitable consequences, and I
know him. His patent of nobility and the Golden Fleece upon his breast
strengthen his confidence, his audacity. Both can protect him against any
sudden outbreak of royal displeasure. Consider the matter closely, and he
is alone responsible for the whole mischief that has broken out in
Flanders. From the first, he connived at the proceedings of the foreign
teachers, avoided stringent measures, and perhaps rejoiced in secret that
they gave us so much to do. Let me alone; on this occasion, I will give
utterance to that which weighs upon my heart; I will not shoot my arrow in
vain. I know where he is vulnerable. For he is vulnerable.

Machiavel. Have you summoned the council? Will Orange attend?

Regent. I have sent for him to Antwerp. I will lay upon their shoulders the
burden of responsibility; they shall either strenuously co-operate with me
in quelling the evil, or at once declare themselves rebels. Let the letters be
completed without delay, and bring them for my signature. Then hasten to
despatch the trusty Vasca to Madrid, he is faithful and indefatigable; let
him use all diligence, that he may not be anticipated by common report,
that my brother, may receive the intelligence first through him. I will
myself speak with him ere he departs.

Machiavel. Your orders shall be promptly and punctually obeyed.

Scene III.--Citizen's House

Clara, her Mother, Brackenburg

Clara. Will you not hold the yarn for me, Brackenburg?

Brackenburg. I entreat you, excuse me, Clara.

Clara. What ails you? Why refuse me this trifling service?

Brackenburg. When I hold the yarn, I stand as it were spell-bound before
you, and cannot escape your eyes.

Clara. Nonsense! Come and hold!

Mother (knitting in her arm-chair). Give us a song! Brackenburg sings so
good a second. You used to be merry once, and I had always something to
laugh at.

Brackenburg. Once!

Clara. Well, let us sing.

Brackenburg. As you please.

Clara. Merrily, then, and sing away! 'Tis a soldier's song, my favourite.

(She winds yarn, and sings with Brackenburg.)

The drum is resounding,
And shrill the fife plays;
My love, for the battle,
His brave troop arrays;
He lifts his lance high,
And the people he sways.
My blood it is boiling!
My heart throbs pit-pat!
Oh, had I a jacket,
With hose and with hat!
How boldly I'd follow,
And march through the gate;
Through all the wide province
I'd follow him straight.
The foe yield, we capture
Or shoot them! Ah, me!
What heart-thrilling rapture
A soldier to be!

(During the song, Brackenburg has frequently looked at Clara; at length
his voice falters, his eyes fill with tears, he lets the skein fall, and goes to
the window. Clara finishes the song alone, her Mother motions to her, half
displeased, she rises, advances a few steps towards him, turns back, as if
irresolute, and again sits down.)

Mother. What is going on in the street, Brackenburg? I hear soldiers
marching.

Brackenburg. It is the Regent's body-guard.

Clara. At this hour? What can it mean? (She rises and joins Brackenburg
at the window.) That is not the daily guard; it is more numerous! almost
all the troops! Oh, Brackenburg, go! Learn what it means. It must be
something unusual. Go, good Brackenburg, do me this favour.

Brackenburg. I am going! I will return immediately. (He offers his hand to
Clara, and she gives him hers.)

[Exit Brackenburg.

Mother. Thou sendest him away so soon!

Clara. I am curious; and, besides--do not be angry, Mother--his presence
pains me. I never know how I ought to behave towards him. I have done
him a wrong, and it goes to my very heart to see how deeply he feels it.
Well, it can't be helped now!

Mother. He is such a true-hearted fellow!

Clara. I cannot help it, I must treat him kindly. Often without a thought, I
return the gentle, loving pressure of his hand. I reproach myself that I am
deceiving him, that I am nourishing in his heart a vain hope. I am in a sad
plight! God knows, I do not willingly deceive him. I do not wish him to
hope, yet I cannot let him despair!

Mother. That is not as it should be.

Clara. I liked him once, and in my soul I like him still I could have
married him; yet I believe I was never really in love with him.

Mother. Thou wouldst always have been happy with him.

Clara. I should have been provided for, and have led a quiet life.

Mother. And through thy fault it has all been trifled away.

Clara, I am in a strange position. When I think how it has come to pass, I
know it, indeed, and I know it not. But I have only to look upon Egmont,
and I understand it all; ay, and stranger things would seem natural then.
Oh, what a man he is! All the provinces worship him. And in his arms,
should I not be the happiest creature in the world?

Mother. And how will it be in the future?

Clara. I only ask, does he love me?--does he love me?--as if there were
any doubt about it.

Mother. One has nothing but anxiety of heart with one's children. Always
care and sorrow, whatever may be the end of it! It cannot come to good!
Thou hast made thyself wretched! Thou hast made thy Mother wretched
too.

Clara (quietly). Yet thou didst allow it in the beginning.

Mother. Alas! I was too indulgent; I am always too indulgent.

Clara. When Egmont rode by, and I ran to the window, did you chide me
then? Did you not come to the window yourself? When he looked up,
smiled, nodded, and greeted me, was it displeasing to you? Did you not
feel yourself honoured in your daughter?

Mother. Go on with your reproaches.

Clara (with emotion). Then, when he passed more frequently, and we felt
sure that it was on my account that he came this way, did you not remark
it yourself with secret joy? Did you call me away when I stood behind the
window-pane and awaited him?

Mother. Could I imagine that it would go so far?

Clara (with faltering voice, and repressed tears). And then, one evening,
when, enveloped in his mantle, he surprised us as we sat at our lamp, who
busied herself in receiving him, while I remained, lost in astonishment, as
if fastened to my chair?

Mother. Could I imagine that the prudent Clara would so soon be carried
away by this unhappy love? I must now endure that my daughter--

Clara (bursting into tears). Mother! How can you? You take pleasure in
tormenting me!

Mother (weeping). Ay, weep away! Make me yet more wretched by thy
grief. Is it not misery enough that my only daughter is a castaway?

Clara (rising, and speaking coldly). A castaway! The beloved of Egmont a
castaway!--What princess would not envy the poor Clara a place in his
heart? Oh, Mother,--my own Mother, you were not wont to speak thus!
Dear Mother, be kind!--Let the people think, let the neighbours whisper
what they like--this chamber, this lowly house is a paradise, since
Egmont's love dwelt here.

Mother. One cannot help liking him, that is true. He is always so kind,
frank, and open-hearted.

Clara. There is not a drop of false blood in his veins. And then, Mother, he
is indeed the great Egmont; yet, when he comes to me, how tender he is,
how kind! How he tries to conceal from me his rank, his bravery! How
anxious he is about me! so entirely the man, the friend, the lover.

Mother. DO you expect him to-day?

Clara. Have you not seen how often I go to the window? Have you not
noticed how I listen to every noise at the door?--Though I know that he
will not come before night, yet, from the time when I rise in the morning, I
keep expecting him every moment. Were I but a boy, to follow him
always, to the court and everywhere! Could I but carry his colours in the
field!--

Mother. You were always such a lively, restless creature; even as a little
child, now wild, now thoughtful. Will you not dress yourself a little
better?

Clara. Perhaps, Mother, if I want something to do.--Yesterday, some of his
people went by, singing songs in honour. At least his name was in the
songs! The rest I could not understand. My heart leaped up into my
throat,--I would fain have called them back if I had not felt ashamed.

Mother. Take care! Thy impetuous nature will ruin all. Thou wilt betray
thyself before the people; as, not long ago, at thy cousin's, when thou
roundest out the woodcut with the description, and didst exclaim, with a
cry: "Count Egmont!"--I grew as red as fire.

Clara. Could I help crying out? It was the battle of Gravelines, and I found
in the picture the letter C. and then looked for it in the description below.
There it stood, "Count Egmont, with his horse shot under him." I
shuddered, and afterwards I could not help laughing at the woodcut figure
of Egmont, as tall as the neighbouring tower of Gravelines, and the
English ships at the side.--When I remember how I used to conceive of a
battle, and what an idea I had, as a girl, of Count Egmont; when I listened
to descriptions of him, and of all the other earls and princes; --and think
how it is with me now!

[Enter Brackenburg.

Clara. Well, what is going on?

Brackenburg. Nothing certain is known. It is rumoured that an insurrection
has lately broken out in Flanders; the Regent is afraid of its spreading
here. The castle is strongly garrisoned, the burghers are crowding to the
gates, and the streets are thronged with people. I will hasten at once to my
old father. (As if about to go.)

Clara. Shall we see you to-morrow? I must change my dress a little. I am
expecting my cousin, and I look too untidy. Come, Mother, help me a
moment. Take the book,
Brackenburg, and bring me such another story.

Mother. Farewell.

Brackenburg (extending his hand). Your hand.

Clara (refusing hers). When you come next.

[Exeunt Mother and DAUGHTER.

Brackenburg (alone). I had resolved to go away again at once; and yet,
when she takes me at my word, and lets me leave her, I feel as if I could
go mad,--Wretched man! Does the fate of thy fatherland, does the growing
disturbance fail to move thee?--Are countryman and Spaniard the same to
thee? and carest thou not who rules, and who is in the right? I wad a
different sort of fellow as a schoolboy! --Then, when an exercise in
oratory was given; "Brutus' Speech for Liberty," for instance, Fritz was
ever the first, and the rector would say: "If it were only spoken more
deliberately, the words not all huddled together."--Then my blood boiled,
and longed for action.--Now I drag along, bound by the eyes of a maiden.
I cannot leave her! yet she, alas, cannot love me!--ah--no---she--she
cannot have entirely rejected me--not entirely--yet half love is no love!--I
will endure it no longer!--Can it be true what a friend lately whispered in
my ear, that she secretly admits a man into the house by night, when she
always sends me away modestly before evening? No, it cannot be true! It
is a lie! A base, slanderous lie! Clara is as innocent as I am wretched.--She
has rejected me, has thrust me from her heart--and shall I live on thus? I
cannot, I will not endure it. Already my native land is convulsed by
internal strife, and do I perish abjectly amid the tumult? I will not endure

it! When the trumpet sounds, when a shot falls, it thrills through my bone
and marrow! But, alas, it does not rouse me! It does not summon me to
join the onslaught, to rescue, to dare.--Wretched, degrading position!
Better end it at once! Not long ago, I threw myself into the water; I sank --
but nature in her agony was too strong for me; I felt that I could swim, and
saved myself against my will. Could I but forget the time when she loved
me, seemed to love me!--Why has this happiness penetrated my very bone
and marrow? Why have these hopes, while disclosing to me a distant
paradise, consumed all the enjoyment of life?--And that first, that only
kiss!--Here (laying his hand upon the table), here we were alone,--she had
always been kind and friendly towards me,--then she seemed to soften,--
she looked at me,--my brain reeled,--I felt her lips on mine,--and --and
now?--Die, wretch! Why dost thou hesitate? (He draws a phial from his
pocket.) Thou healing poison, it shall not have been in vain that I stole
thee from my brother's medicine chest! From this anxious fear, this
dizziness, this death-agony, thou shalt deliver me at once.

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