and silver, and jewels! Be they condemned to carouse at the tables of the voluptuous! To pamper their limbs on the downy couch of luxury! Charles! Charles! Thus am I worthy of thee!
[Exit.]
ACT II.
SCENE I.-FRANCIS VON MOOR in his chamber-in meditation.
FRANCIS. It lasts too long-and the doctor even says is recovering-an old man's life is a very eternity! The course would be free and plain before me, but for this troublesome, tough lump of flesh, which, like the infernal demon-hound in ghost stories, bars the way to my treasures.
Must, then, my projects bend to the iron yoke of a mechanical system? Is my soaring spirit to be chained down to the snail's pace of matter? To blow out a wick which is already flickering upon its last drop of oil-'tis nothing more. And yet I would rather not do it myself, on account of what the world would say. I should not wish him to be killed, but merely disposed of. I should like to do what your clever physician does, only the reverse way-not stop Nature's course by running a bar across her path, but only help her to speed a little faster. Are we not able to prolong the conditions of life? Why, then, should we not also be able to shorten them? Philosophers and physiologists teach us how close is the sympathy between the emotions of the mind and the movements of the bodily machine. Convulsive sensations are always accompanied by a disturbance of the mechanical vibrations- passions injure the vital powers-an overburdened spirit bursts its shell. Well, then-what if one knew how to smooth this unbeaten path, for the easier entrance of death into the citadel of life?-to work the body's destruction through the mind-ha! an original device!-who can accomplish this?-a device without a parallel! Think upon it, Moor! That were an art worthy of thee for its inventor. Has not poisoning been raised almost to the rank of a regular science, and Nature compelled, by the force of experiments, to define her limits, so that one may now calculate the heart's throbbings for years in advance, and say to the beating pulse, 'So far, and no farther'? Why should not one try one's skill in this line?*
*[A woman in Paris, by means of a regularly performed series of
experiments, carried the art of poisoning to such perfection that
she could predict almost to a certainty the day of death, however
remote. Fie upon our physicians, who should blush to be outdone by
a woman in their own province. Beckmann, in his article on secret
poisoning, has given a particular account of this woman, the
Marchioness de Brinvilliers.-See 'History of Inventions,' Standard
Library Edition, vol. i, pp. 47-63.]
And how, then, must I, too, go to work to dissever that sweet and peaceful union of soul and body? What species of sensations should I seek to produce? Which would most fiercely assail the condition of life? Anger?-that ravenous wolf is too quickly satiated. Care? that worm gnaws far too slowly. Grief?-that viper creeps too lazily for me. Fear?-hope destroys its power. What! and are these the only executioners of man? is the armory of death so soon exhausted? (In deep thought.) How now! what! ho! I have it! (Starting up.) Terror! What is proof against terror? What powers have religion and reason under that giant's icy grasp! And yet-if he should withstand even this assault? If he should! Oh, then, come Anguish to my aid! and thou, gnawing Repentance!-furies of hell, burrowing snakes who regorge your food, and feed upon your own excrements; ye that are forever destroying, and forever reproducing your poison! And thou, howling Remorse, that desolatest thine own habitation, and feedest upon thy mother. And come ye, too, gentle Graces, to my aid; even you, sweet smiling Memory, goddess of the past-and thou, with thy overflowing horn of plenty, blooming Futurity; show him in your mirror the joys of Paradise, while with fleeting foot you elude his eager grasp. Thus will I work my battery of death, stroke after stroke, upon his fragile body, until the troop of furies close upon him with Despair! Triumph! triumph!-the plan is complete-difficult and masterly beyond compare-sure-safe; for then (with a sneer) the dissecting knife can find no trace of wound or of corrosive poison.
(Resolutely.) Be it so! (Enter HERMANN.) Ha! /Deus ex machina/! Hermann!
HERMANN. At your service, gracious sir!
FRANCIS (shakes him by the hand). You will not find it that of an ungrateful master.
HERMANN. I have proofs of this.
FRANCIS. And you shall have more soon-very soon, Hermann!-I have something to say to thee, Hermann.
HERMANN. I am all attention.
FRANCIS. I know thee-thou art a resolute fellow-a man of mettle.-To call thee smooth- tongued! My father has greatly belied thee, Hermann.
HERMANN. The devil take me if I forget it!
FRANCIS. Spoken like a man! Vengeance becomes a manly heart! Thou art to my mind, Hermann. Take this purse, Hermann. It should be heavier were I master here.
HERMANN. That is my unceasing wish, most gracious sir. I thank you.
FRANCIS. Really, Hermann! dost thou wish that I were master? But my father has the marrow of a lion in his bones, and I am but a younger son.
HERMANN. I wish you were the eldest son, and that your father were as marrowless as a girl sinking in a consumption.
FRANCIS. Ha! how that elder son would recompense thee! How he would raise thee from this grovelling condition, so ill suited to thy spirit and noble birth, to be a light of the age!-Then shouldst thou be covered with gold from head to foot, and dash through the streets four in hand-verily thou shouldst!-But I am losing sight of what I meant to say.-Have you already forgotten the Lady Amelia, Hermann?
HERMANN. A curse upon it! Why do you remind me of her?
FRANCIS. My brother has filched her away from you.
HERMANN. He shall rue it.
FRANCIS. She gave you the sack. And, if I remember right, he kicked you down stairs.
HERMANN. For which I will kick him into hell.
FRANCIS. He used to say, it was whispered abroad, that your father could never look upon you without smiting his breast and sighing, 'God be merciful to me, a sinner!'
HERMANN (wildly). Thunder and lightning! No more of this!
FRANCIS. He advised you to sell your patent of nobility by auction, and to get your stockings mended with the proceeds.
HERMANN. By all the devils in hell, I'll scratch out his eyes with my own nails!
FRANCIS. What? you are growing angry? What signifies your anger? What harm can you do him? What can a mouse like you do to such a lion? Your rage only makes his triumph the sweeter. You can do nothing more than gnash your teeth, and vent your rage upon a dry crust.
HERMANN (stamping). I will grind him to powder!
FRANCIS (slapping his shoulder). Fie, Hermann! You are a gentleman. You must not put up with the affront. You must not give up the lady, no, not for all the world, Hermann! By my soul, I would move heaven and earth were I in your place.
HERMANN. I will not rest till I have him, and him, too, under ground.
FRANCIS. Not so violent, Hermann! Come nearer-you shall have Amelia.
HERMANN. That I must; despite the devil himself, I will have her.
FRANCIS. You shall have her, I tell you; and that from my hand. Come closer, I say.-You don't know, perhaps, that Charles is as good as disinherited.
HERMANN (going closer to him). Incredible! The first I have heard of it.
FRANCIS. Be patient, and listen! Another time you shall hear more.- Yes, I tell you, as good as banished these eleven months. But the old man already begins to lament the hasty step, which, however, I flatter myself (with a smile) is not entirely his own. Amelia, too, is incessantly pursuing him with her tears and reproaches. Presently he will be having him searched for in every quarter of the world; and if he finds him-then it's all over with you, Hermann. You may perhaps have the honor of most obsequiously holding the coach-door while he
