Egmont: Act III

Act III

Scene I.--Palace of the Regent

Margaret of Parma

Regent. I might have expected it. Ha! when we live immersed in anxiety
and toil, we imagine that we achieve the utmost that is possible; while he,
who, from a distance, looks on and commands, believes that he requires
only the possible. O ye kings! I had not thought it could have galled me
thus. It is so sweet to reign!--and to abdicate? I know not how my father
could do so; but I will also.

Machiavel appears in the back-ground

Regent. Approach, Machiavel. I am thinking over this letter from my
brother.

Machiavel. May I know what it contains?

Regent. As much tender consideration for me as anxiety for his states. He
extols the firmness, the industry, the fidelity, with which I have hitherto
watched over the interests of his Majesty in these provinces. He condoles
with me that the unbridled people occasion me so much trouble. He is so
thoroughly convinced of the depth of my views, so extraordinarily
satisfied with the prudence of my conduct, that I must almost say the letter
is too politely written for a king--certainly for a brother.

Machiavel. It is not the first time that he has testified to you his just
satisfaction.

Regent. But the first time that it is a mere rhetorical figure.

Machiavel. I do not understand you.

Regent. You soon will.--For after this preamble he is of opinion that
without soldiers, without a small army indeed,---I shall always cut a sorry
figure here! We did wrong, he says, to withdraw our troops from the provinces
at the remonstrance of the inhabitants; a garrison, he thinks, which shall
press upon the neck of the burgher, will prevent him, by its weight, from
making any lofty spring.

Machiavel. It would irritate the public mind to the last degree.

Regent. The king thinks, however, do you hear?--he thinks that a clever
general, one who never listens to reason, will be able to deal promptly
with all parties;--people and nobles, citizens and peasants; he therefore
sends, with a powerful army, the Duke of Alva.

Machiavel. Alva?

Regent. You are surprised.

Machiavel. You say, he sends, he asks doubtless whether he should send.

Regent. The king asks not, he sends.

Machiavel. You will then have an experienced warrior in your service.

Regent. In my service? Speak out, Machiavel.

Machiavel. I would not anticipate you.

Regent. And I would I could dissimulate. It wounds me --wounds me to
the quick. I had rather my brother would speak his mind than attach his
signature to formal epistles drawn up by a Secretary of state.

Machiavel. Can they not comprehend?--

Regent. I know them both within and without. They would fain make a
clean sweep; and since they cannot set about it themselves, they give their
confidence to any one who comes with a besom in his hand. Oh, it seems
to me as if I saw the king and his council worked upon this tapestry.

Machiavel. So distinctly!

Regent. No feature is wanting. There are good men among them. The
honest Roderigo, so experienced and so moderate, who does not aim too
high, yet lets nothing sink too low; the upright Alonzo, the diligent
Freneda, the steadfast Las Vargas, and others who join them when the
good party are in power. But there sits the hollow-eyed Toledan, with
brazen front and deep fire-glance, muttering between his teeth about
womanish softness, ill-timed concession, and that women can ride trained
steeds, well enough, but are themselves bad masters of the horse, and the
like pleasantries, which, in former times, I have been compelled to hear
from political gentlemen.

Machiavel. You have chosen good colours for your picture.

Regent. Confess, Machiavel, among the tints from which I might select,
there is no hue so livid, so jaundice-like, as Alva's complexion, and the
colour he is wont to paint with. He regards every one as a blasphemer or
traitor, for under this head they can all be racked, impaled, quartered, and
burnt at pleasure. The good I have accomplished here appears as nothing
seen from a distance, just because it is good. Then he dwells on every
outbreak that is past, recalls every disturbance that is quieted, and brings
before the king such a picture of mutiny, sedition, and audacity, that we
appear to him to be actually devouring one another, when with us the
transient explosion of a rude people has long been forgotten. Thus he
conceives a cordial hatred for the poor people; he views them with horror,
as beasts and monsters; looks around for fire and sword, and imagines that
by such means human beings are subdued.

Machiavel. You appear to me too vehement; you take the matter too
seriously. Do you not remain Regent?

Regent. I am aware of that. He will bring his instructions. I am old enough
in state affairs to understand how people can be supplanted, without being
actually deprived of office. First, he will produce a commission, couched
in terms somewhat obscure and equivocal; he will stretch his authority, for
the power is in his hands; if I complain, he will hint at secret instructions;
if I desire to see them, he will answer evasively; if I insist, he will produce
a paper of totally different import; and if this fail to satisfy me, he will go
on precisely as if I had never interfered. Meanwhile he will have
accomplished what I dread, and have frustrated my most cherished
schemes.

Machiavel. I wish I could contradict you.

Regent. His harshness and cruelty will again arouse the turbulent spirit,
which, with unspeakable patience, I have succeeded in quelling; I shall see
my work destroyed before my eyes, and have besides to bear the blame of his
wrongdoing.

Machiavel. Await it, your Highness.

Regent. I have sufficient self-command to remain quiet. Let him come; I
will make way for him with the best grace ere he pushes me aside.

Machiavel. So important a step thus suddenly? Regent. 'Tis harder than
you imagine. He who is accustomed to rule, to hold daily in his hand the
destiny of thousands, descends from the throne as into the grave. Better
thus, however, than linger a spectre among the living, and with hollow
aspect endeavour to maintain a place which another has inherited, and
already possesses and enjoys.

SCENE II.--Clara's dwelling

Clara and her Mother

Mother. Such a love as Brackenburg's I have never seen; I thought it was
to be found only in romance books.

Clara (walking up and down the room, humming a song).
With love's thrilling rapture
What joy can compare!

Mother. He suspects thy attachment to Egmont; and yet, if thou wouldst
but treat him a little kindly, I do believe he would marry thee still,
if thou wouldst have him.

Clara (sings).
Blissful
And tearful,
With thought-teeming brain;
Hoping
And fearing
In passionate pain;
Now shouting in triumph,
Now sunk in despair;--
With love's thrilling rapture
What joy can compare!

Mother. Have done with such baby-nonsense!

Clara. Nay, do not abuse it; 'tis a song of marvellous virtue. Many a time
have I lulled a grown child to sleep with it.

Mother. Ay! Thou canst think of nothing but thy love. If it only did not put
everything else out of thy head. Thou shouldst have more regard for
Brackenburg, I tell thee. He may make thee happy yet some day.

Clara. He?

Mother. Oh, yes! A time will come! You children live only in the present,
and give no ear to our experience. Youth and happy love, all has an end;
and there comes a time when one thanks God if one has any corner to
creep into.

Clara (shudders, and after a pause stands up). Mother, let that time come--
like death. To think of it beforehand is horrible! And if it come! If we
must--then--we will bear ourselves as we may. Live without thee, Egmont!
(Weeping.) No! It is impossible.

[Enter Egmont (enveloped in a horseman's cloak, his hat drawn over his
face).

Egmont. Clara!

Clara (utters a cry and starts back). Egmont! (She hastens towards him.)
Egmont! (She embraces and leans upon him.) O thou good, kind, sweet
Egmont! Art thou come? Art thou here indeed!

Egmont. Good evening, Mother?

Mother. God save you, noble sir! My daughter has well-nigh pined to
death, because you have stayed away so long; she talks and sings about
you the live-long day.

Egmont. You will give me some supper?

Mother. You do us too much honour. If we only had anything--

Clara. Certainly! Be quiet, Mother; I have provided everything; there is
something prepared. Do not betray me, Mother.

Mother. There's little enough.

Clara. Never mind! And then I think when he is with me I am never
hungry; so he cannot, I should think, have any great appetite when I am
with him.

Egmont. Do you think so? (Clara stamps with her foot and turns pettishly
away.) What ails you?

Clara. How cold you are to-day! You have not yet offered me a kiss. Why
do you keep your arms enveloped in your mantle, like a new-born babe? It
becomes neither a soldier nor a lover to keep his arms muffled up.

Egmont. Sometimes, dearest, sometimes. When the soldier stands in
ambush and would delude the foe, he collects his thoughts, gathers his
mantle around him, and matures his plan and a lover--

Mother. Will you not take a seat, and make yourself comfortable? I must
to the kitchen, Clara thinks of nothing when you are here. You must put up
with what we have.

Egmont. Your good-will is the best seasoning.

[Exit Mother.

Clara. And what then is my love?

Egmont. Just what thou wilt.

Clara. Liken it to anything, if you have the heart.

Egmont. But first. (He flings aside his mantle, and appears arrayed in a
magnificent dress.)

Clara. Oh heavens!

Egmont. Now my arms are free! (Embraces her.)

Clara. Don't! You will spoil your dress. (She steps back.) How
magnificent! I dare not touch you.

Egmont. Art thou satisfied? I promised to come once arrayed in Spanish
fashion.

Clara. I had ceased to remind you of it; I thought you did not like it--ah,
and the Golden Fleece!

Egmont. Thou seest it now.

Clara. And did the emperor really hang it round thy neck!

Egmont. He did, my child! And this chain and Order invest the wearer
with the noblest privileges. On earth I acknowledge no judge over my
actions, except the grand master of the Order, with the assembled chapter
of knights.

Clara. Oh, thou mightest let the whole world sit in judgment over thee.
The velvet is too splendid! and the braiding! and the embroidery! One
knows not where to begin.

Egmont. There, look thy fill.

Clara. And the Golden Fleece! You told me its history, and said it is the
symbol of everything great and precious, of everything that can be merited
and won by diligence and toil. It is very precious--I may liken it to thy
love;--even so I wear it next my heart;--and then--

Egmont. What wilt thou say?

Clara. And then again it is not like.

Egmont. How so?

Clara. I have not won it by diligence and toil, I have not deserved it.

Egmont. It is otherwise in love. Thou dost deserve it because thou hast not
sought it--and, for the most part, those only obtain love who seek it not.

Clara. Is it from thine own experience that thou hast learned this? Didst
thou make that proud remark in reference to thyself? Thou, whom all the
people love?

Egmont. Would that I had done something for them! That I could do
anything for them! It is their own good pleasure to love me.

Clara. Thou hast doubtless been with the Regent to-day?

Egmont. I have.

Clara. Art thou upon good terms with her?

Egmont So it would appear. We are kind and serviceable to each other.

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
attain.

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!

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