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Act VScene IV
Scene IV
A Prison
Egmont is discovered sleeping on a couch. A rustling of keys is heard;
the door opens; servants enter with torches; Ferdinand and Silva follow,
accompanied by soldiers. Egmont starts from his sleep.
Egmont. Who are ye that thus rudely banish slumber from my eyes? What
mean these vague and insolent glances? Why this fearful procession? With what
dream of horror come ye to delude my half awakened soul?
Silva. The duke sends us to announce your sentence.
Egmont. Do ye also bring the headsman who is to execute it?
Silva. Listen, and you will know the doom that awaits you.
Egmont. It is in keeping with the rest of your infamous proceedings.
Hatched in night and in night achieved, so would this audacious act of
injustice shroud itself from observation! - Step boldly forth, thou who dost
bear the sword concealed beneath thy mantle; here is my head, the freest ever
severed by tyranny from the trunk.
Silva. You err! The righteous judges who have condemned you will not
conceal their sentence from the light of day.
Egmont. Then does their audacity exceed all imagination and belief.
Silva (takes the sentence from an attendant, unfolds it, and reads). "In
the King`s name, and invested by his Majesty with authority to judge all his
subjects of whatever rank, not excepting the knights of the Golden Fleece, we
declare -"
Egmont. Can the king transfer that authority?
Silva. "We declare, after a strict and legal investigation, thee, Henry,
Count Egmont, Prince of Gaure, guilty of high treason, and pronounce thy
sentence: - That at early dawn thou be led from this prison to the market -
place, and that there, in sight of the people, and as a warning to all
traitors, thou with the sword be brought from life to death. Given at
Brussels." (Date and year so indistinctly read as to be imperfectly heard by
the audience.) "Ferdinand, Duke of Alva, President of the Tribunal of Twelve."
Thou knowest now thy doom. Brief time remains for thee to prepare for the
impending stroke, to arrange thy affairs, and to take leave of thy friends.
[Exit Silva with followers. Ferdinand remains with two torch-bearers.
The stage is dimly lighted.
Egmont (stands for a time as if buried in thought, and allows Silva to
retire without looking round. He imagines himself alone, and, on raising his
eyes, beholds Alva`s son). Thou tarriest here? Wouldst thou by thy presence
augment my amazement, my horror? Wouldst thou carry to thy father the welcome
tidings that in unmanly fashion I despair? Go. Tell him that he deceives
neither the world nor me. At first it will be whispered cautiously behind his
back, then spoken more and more loudly, and when at some future day the
ambitious man descends from his proud eminence, a thousand voices will
proclaim - that `twas not the welfare of the state, not the honour of the
king, not the tranquillity of the provinces, that brought him hither. For his
own selfish ends he, the warrior, has counselled war, that in war the value of
his services might be enhanced. He has excited this monstrous insurrection
that his presence might be deemed necessary in order to quell it. And I fall a
victim to his mean hatred, his contemptible envy. Yes, I know it, dying and
mortally wounded I may utter it; long has the proud man envied me, long has he
meditated and planned my ruin.
Even then, when still young, we played at dice together, and the heaps of
gold, one after the other, passed rapidly from his side to mine; he would look
on with affected composure, while inwardly consumed with rage, more at my
success than at his own loss. Well do I remember the fiery glance, the
treacherous pallor that overspread his features when, at a public festival, we
shot for a wager before assembled thousands. He challenged me, and both
nations stood by; Spaniards and Netherlanders wagered on either side; I was
the victor; his ball missed, mine hit the mark, and the air was rent by
acclamations from my friends. His shot now hits me. Tell him that I know this,
that I know him, that the world despises every trophy that a paltry spirit
erects for itself by base and surreptitious arts. And thou! If it be possible
for a son to swerve from the manners of his father, practise shame betimes,
while thou art compelled to feel shame for him whom thou wouldst fain revere
with thy whole heart.
Ferdinand. I listen without interrupting thee! Thy reproaches fall like
blows upon a helmet. I feel the shock, but I am armed. They strike, they wound
me not; I am sensible only to the anguish that lacerates my heart. Alas! Alas!
Have I lived to witness such a scene? Am I sent hither to behold a spectacle
like this?
Egmont. Dost thou break out into lamentations? What moves, what agitates
thee thus? Is it a late remorse at having lent thyself to this infamous
conspiracy? Thou art so young, thy exterior is so prepossessing? Thy demeanour
towards me was so friendly, so unreserved! So long as I beheld thee, I was
reconciled with thy father; and crafty, ay, more crafty than he, thou hast
lured me into the toils. Thou art the wretch! The monster! Whoso confides in
him, does so at his own peril; but who could apprehend danger in trusting
thee? Go! Go! rob me not of the few moments that are left me! Go, that I may
collect my thoughts, the world forget, and first of all thyself!
Ferdinand. What can I say? I stand and gaze on thee, yet see thee not; I
am scarce conscious of my own existence. Shall I seek to excuse myself? Shall
I assure thee that it was not till the last moment that I was made aware of my
father`s intentions? That I acted as a constrained, a passive instrument of
his will? What signifies now the opinion thou mayst entertain of me? Thou art
lost; and I, miserable wretch, stand here only to assure thee of it, only to
lament thy doom.
Egmont. What strange voice, what unexpected consolation comes thus to
cheer my passage to the grave? Thou, the son of my first, of almost my only
enemy, thou dost pity me, thou art not associated with my murderers? Speak! In
what light must I regard thee?
Ferdinand. Cruel father! Yes, I recognize thy nature in this command.
Thou didst know my heart, my disposition, which thou hast so often censured as
the inheritance of a tender-hearted mother. To mould me into thine own
likeness thou hast sent me hither. Thou dost compel me to behold this man on
the verge of the yawning grave, in the grasp of an arbitrary doom, that I may
experience the profoundest anguish; that thus, rendered callous to every fate,
I may henceforth meet every event with a heart unmoved.
Egmont. I am amazed! Be calm! Act, speak like a man.
Ferdinand. Oh, that I were a woman! That they might say - what moves,
what agitates thee? Tell me of a greater, a more monstrous crime, make me the
spectator of a more direful deed; I will thank thee, I will say: this was
nothing.
Egmont. Thou dost forget thyself. Consider where thou art!
Ferdinand. Let this passion rage, let me give vent to my anguish! I will
not seem composed when my whole inner being is convulsed. Thee must I behold
here? Thee? It is horrible! Thou understandest me not! How shouldst thou
understand me? Egmont! Egmont!
(Falling on his neck.)
Egmont. Explain this mystery.
Ferdinand. It is no mystery.
Egmont. How can the fate of a mere stranger thus deeply move thee?
Ferdinand. Not a stranger! Thou art no stranger to me. Thy name it was
that, even from my boyhood, shone before me like a star in heaven! How often
have I made inquiries concerning thee, and listened to the story of thy deeds!
The youth is the hope of the boy, the man of the youth. Thus didst thou walk
before me, ever before me; I saw thee without envy, and followed after, step
by step; at length I hoped to see thee - I saw thee, and my heart flew to thy
embrace. I had destined thee for myself, and when I beheld thee, I made choice
of thee anew. I hoped now to know thee, to live with thee, to be thy friend, -
thy - `tis over now and I see thee here!
Egmont. My friend, if it can be any comfort to thee, be assured that the
very moment we met my heart was drawn towards thee. Now listen! Let us
exchange a few quiet words. Tell me: is it the stern, the settled purpose of
thy father to take my life?
Ferdinand. It is.
Egmont. This sentence is not a mere empty scarecrow, designed to terrify
me, to punish me through fear and intimidation, to humiliate me, that he may
then raise me again by the royal favour?
Ferdinand. Alas, no! At first I flattered myself with this delusive hope;
and even then my heart was filled with grief and anguish to behold thee thus.
Thy doom is real! Is certain! No, I cannot command myself. Who will counsel,
who will aid me, to meet the inevitable?
Egmont. Hearken then to me! If thy heart is impelled so powerfully in my
favour, if thou dost abhor the tyranny that holds me fettered, then deliver
me! The moments are precious. Thou art the son of the all-powerful, and thou
hast power thyself. Let us fly! I know the roads; the means of effecting our
escape cannot be unknown to thee. These walls, a few short miles, alone
separate me from my friends. Loose these fetters, conduct me to them; be ours.
The king, on some future day, will doubtless thank my deliverer. Now he is
taken by surprise, or perchance he is ignorant of the whole proceeding. Thy
father ventures on this daring step, and majesty, though horror-struck at
the deed, must needs sanction the irrevocable. Thou dost deliberate? Oh,
contrive for me the way to freedom! Speak; nourish hope in a living soul.
Ferdinand. Cease! Oh, cease! Every word deepens my despair. There is here
no outlet, no counsel, no escape. - `Tis this thought that tortures me, that
seizes my heart, and rends it as with talons. I have myself spread the net; I
know its firm, inextricable knots; I know that every avenue is barred alike to
courage and to strategem. I feel that I too, like thyself, like all the rest,
am fettered. Think`st thou that I should give way to lamentation if any means
of safety remained untried? I have thrown myself at his feet, remonstrated,
implored. He has sent me hither, in order to blast in this fatal moment, every
remnant of joy and happiness that yet survived within my heart.
Egmont. And is there no deliverance?
Ferdinand. None!
Egmont (stamping his foot). No deliverance! - Sweet life! Sweet, pleasant
habitude of existence and of activity! from thee must I part! So calmly part!
Not in the tumult of battle, amid the din of arms, the excitement of the fray,
dost thou send me a hasty farewell; thine is no hurried leave; thou dost not
abridge the moment of separation. Once more let me clasp thy hand, gaze once
more into thine eyes, feel with keen emotion, thy beauty and thy worth, then
resolutely tear myself away, and say; - depart!
Ferdinand. Must I stand by, and look passively on; unable to save thee,
or to give thee aid! What voice avails for lamentation! What heart but must
break under the pressure of such anguish?
Egmont. Be calm!
Ferdinand. Thou canst be calm, thou canst renounce, led on by necessity,
thou canst advance to the direful struggle, with the courage of a hero. What
can I do? What ought I to do? Thou dost conquer thyself and us; thou art the
victor; I survive both myself and thee. I have lost my light at the banquet,
my banner on the field. The future lies before me, dark, desolate, perplexed.
Egmont. Young friend, whom by a strange fatality, at the same moment, I
both win and lose, who dost feel for me, who dost suffer for me the agonies of
death, - look on me; - thou wilt not lose me. If my life was a mirror in which
thou didst love to contemplate thyself, so be also my death. Men are not
together only when in each other`s presence; - the distant, the departed, also
live for us. I shall live for thee, and for myself I have lived long enough. I
have enjoyed each day; each day, I have performed, with prompt activity, the
duties enjoined by my conscience. Now my life ends, as it might have ended,
long, long, ago, on the sands of Gravelines. I shall cease to live; but I have
lived. My friend, follow in my steps, lead a cheerful and a joyous life, and
dread not the approach of death.
Ferdinand. Thou shouldst have saved thyself for us, thou couldst have
saved thyself. Thou art the cause of thine own destruction. Often have I
listened when able men discoursed concerning thee; foes and friends, they
would dispute long as to thy worth; but on one point they were agreed, none
ventured to deny, every one confessed, that thou wert treading a dangerous
path. How often have I longed to warn thee! Hadst thou then no friends?
Egmont. I was warned.
Ferdinand. And when I found all these allegations, point for point, in
the indictment, together with thy answers, containing much that might serve to
palliate thy conduct, but no evidence weighty enough fully to exculpate thee -
Egmont. No more of this. Man imagines that he directs his life, that he
governs his actions, when in fact his existence is irresistibly controlled by
his destiny. Let us not dwell upon this subject; these reflections I can
dismiss with ease - not so my apprehensions for these provinces; yet they too
will be cared for. Could my blood flow for many, bring peace to my people, how
freely should it flow! Alas! This may not be. Yet it ill becomes a man idly to
speculate, when the power to act is no longer his. If thou canst restrain or
guide the fatal power of thy father; do so. Alas, who can? - Farewell!
Ferdinand. I cannot leave thee.
Egmont. Let me urgently recommend my followers to thy care! I have worthy
men in my service; let them not be dispersed, let them not become destitute!
How fares it with Richard, my secretary?
Ferdinand. He is gone before thee. They have beheaded him, as thy
accomplice in high treason.
Egmont. Poor soul! - Yet one word, and then farewell, I can no more.
However powerfully the spirit may be stirred, nature at length irresistibly
asserts her rights; and like a child, who, enveloped in a serpent`s folds,
enjoys refreshing slumber, so the weary one lays himself down to rest before
the gates of death, and sleeps soundly, as though a toilsome journey yet lay
before him. - One word more, - I know a maiden; thou wilt not despise her
because she was mine. Since I can recommend her to thy care, I shall die in
peace. Thy soul is noble; in such a man, a woman is sure to find a protector.
Lives my old Adolphus? Is he free?
Ferdinand. The active old man, who always attended thee on horseback?
Egmont. The same.
Ferdinand. He lives, he is free.
Egmont. He knows her dwelling; let him guide thy steps thither, and
reward him to his dying day, for having shown thee the way to this jewel. -
Farewell!
Ferdinand. I cannot leave thee.
Egmont (urging him towards the door). Farewell!
Ferdinand. Oh, let me linger yet a moment.
Egmont. No leave-taking, my friend.
(He accompanies Ferdinand to the door, and then tears himself away;
Ferdinand, overwhelmed with grief, hastily retires.)
Egmont (alone)
Egmont. Cruel man! Thou didst not think to render me this service through
thy son. He has been the means of relieving my mind from the pressure of care
and sorrow, from fear and every anxious feeling. Gently, yet urgently, nature
claims her final tribute. `Tis past! - `Tis resolved! And the reflections
which, in the suspense of last night, kept me wakeful on my couch, now with
resistless certainty lull my senses to repose.
(He seats himself upon the couch; music)
Sweet sleep! Like the purest happiness, thou comest most willingly,
uninvited, unsought. Thou dost loosen the knots of earnest thoughts, dost
mingle all images of joy and of sorrow, unimpeded the circle of inner harmony
flows on, and wrapped in fond delusion, we sink into oblivion, and cease to
be.
(He sleeps; music accompanies his slumber. Behind his couch the wall
appears to open and discovers a brilliant apparition. Freedom, in a celestial
garb, surrounded by a glory, reposes on a cloud. Her features are those of
Clara and she inclines towards the sleeping hero. Her countenance betokens
compassion, she seems to lament his fate. Quickly she recovers herself and
with an encouraging gesture exhibits the symbols of freedom, the bundle of
arrows, with the staff and cap. She encourages him to be of good cheer, and
while she, signifies to him that his death will secure the freedom of the
provinces, she hails him as a conqueror, and extends to him a laurel crown. As
the wreath approaches his head, Egmont moves like one asleep, and reclines
with his face towards her. She holds the wreath suspended over his head; -
martial music is heard in the distance, at the first sound the vision
disappears. The music grows louder and louder. Egmont awakes. The prison is
dimly illuminated by the dawn, - His first impulse is to lift his hand to his
head, he stands up, and gazes round, his hand still upraised.)
The crown is vanished! Beautiful vision, the light of day has frighted
thee! Yes, they revealed themselves to my sight uniting in one radiant from
the two sweetest joys of my heart. Divine Liberty borrowed the mien of my
beloved one; the lovely maiden arrayed herself in the celestial garb of my
friend. In a solemn moment they appeared united, with aspect more earnest than
tender. With blood-stained feet the vision approached, the waving folds of
her robe also were tinged with blood. It was my blood, and the blood of many
brave hearts. No! It shall not be shed in vain! Forward! Brave people! The
goddess of liberty leads you on! And as the sea breaks through and destroys
the barriers that would oppose its fury, so do ye overwhelm the bulwark of
tyranny, and with your impetuous flood sweep it away from the land which it
usurps.
(Drums.)
Hark! Hark! How often has this sound summoned my joyous steps to the
field of battle and of victory! How bravely did I tread, with my gallant
comrades, the dangerous path of fame! And now, from this dungeon I shall go
forth, to meet a glorious death; I die for freedom, for whose cause I have
lived and fought, and for whom I now offer myself up a sorrowing sacrifice.
(The background is occupied by Spanish soldiers with halberts.)
Yes, lead them on! Close your ranks, ye terrify me not. I am accustomed
to stand amid the serried ranks of war, and environed by the threatening forms
of death, to feel, with double zest, the energy of life.
(Drums.)
The foe closes round on every side! Swords are flashing; courage,
friends! Behind are your parents, your wives, your children!
(Pointing to the guard.)
And these are impelled by the word of their leader, not by their own free
will. Protect your homes! And to save those who are most dear to you, be ready
to follow my example, and to fall with joy.
(Drums. As he advances through the guards towards the door in the
background, the curtain falls. The music joins in, and the scene closes with a
symphony of victory.
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