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• Götz Von Berlichingen With the Iron Hand. a Drama.
• Dramatis PersonÆ
• Act I.
• Scene I.—: An Inn At Schwarzenberg In Franconia.
• Scene II.—: A Cottage In a Thick Forest.
• Scene III.—: An Apartment In Jaxthausen, the Castle of Goetz Von Berlichingen.
• Scene IV.—: The Bishop of Bamberg’s Palace.
• Scene V.—: Jaxthausen.
• Act II.
• Scene I.—: Bamberg. a Hall.
• Scene II.—: Jaxthausen. a Hall In Goetz’s Castle.
• Scene III.—: The Bishop’s Palace At Bamberg.
• Scene IV.—: The Spessart.
• Scene V.—: The Bishop’s Palace. His Cabinet.
• Scene VI.—: Adelaide’s Apartment.
• Scene VII.—: An Ante-room.
• Scene VIII.—: The Spessart.
• Scene IX.—: Hall In the Bishop’s Palace At Bamberg.
• Scene X—: an Inn.
• Act III.
• Scene I.—: A Garden At Augsburg.
• Scene II.—: Jaxthausen.
• Scene III.—: The Camp of the Party Sent to Execute the Imperial Mandate.
• Scene IV.—: Jaxthausen.
• Scene V.—: Bamberg. Adelaide’s Chamber.
• Scene VI.—: Jaxthausen.
• Scene VII.—: A Wood On the Borders of a Morass.
• Scene VIII.—: Camp of the Imperialists.
• Scene IX.—: Jaxthausen.
• Scene X.—: The Imperial Camp.
• Scene XI.—: Mountains and a Wood.
• Scene XII.—: A Heath—on One Side an Eminence, With a Ruined Tower, On the Other the Forest.
• Scene XIII.—: The Camp.
• Scene XIV.—: Jaxthausen.
• Scene XV.—: Camp.
• Scene XVI.—: Jaxthausen.
• Scene XVII.—: The Kitchen.
• Scene XVIII.—: A Hall.
• Scene XIX.—: The Court of the Castle.
• Scene XX.: The Armory.
• Act IV.
• Scene I.—: An Inn In the City of Heilbronn
• Scene II.—: The Council-house At Heilbronn.
• Scene III.—: A Large Hall In the Council-house, Beset By Sickingen’s Troops.
• Scene IV.—: The Castle of Adelaide. Augsburg.
• Scene V.—: Jaxthausen.
• Act V.
• Scene I.—: A Village Plundered By the Insurgent Peasantry. Shrieks and Tumult.
• Scene II.—: Open Country. In the Distance Two Villages and an Abbey Are Burning.
• Scene III.—: A Hill and Prospect of the Country. In the Flat Scene a Mill. a Body of Horsemen.
• Scene IV.—: Jaxthausen.
• Scene V.—: A Village.
• Scene VI.—: The Front of a Gypsy-hut In a Wild Forest.—night.—a Fire Before the Hut, At Which Are Seated the Mother of the Gypsies and a Girl.
• Scene VII.—: Inside the Hut.
• Scene VIII.—: Adelaide’s Bedchamber.
• Scene IX.—: Street Before the Prison At Heilbronn.
• Scene X.—: An Apartment In Weislingen’s Castle.
• Scene XI.—: A Narrow Vault Dimly Illuminated. the Judges of the Secret Tribunal Discovered Seated, All Muffled In Black Cloaks.
• Scene XII.—: The Court of an Inn.
• Scene XIII.—: The Prison At Heilbronn.
• Scene the Last. —: the Prison Garden.
• Iphigenia In Tauris a Drama
• Dramatis PersonÆ.
• Act I.
• Scene I.—: A Grove Before the Temple of Diana.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Scene IV.
• Act II.
• Scene I.
• Scene II.
• Act III.
• Scene I.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Act IV.
• Scene I.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Scene IV.
• Scene V.
• Act V.
• Scene I.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Scene IV.
• Scene V.
• Scene VI.
• Torquato Tasso
• Dramatis PersonÆ.
• Act I.
• Scene I.: A Garden Adorned With Busts of the Epic Poets. to the Right a Bust of Virgil: to the Left, One of Ariosto.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Scene IV.
• Act II.
• Scene I.—: A Room.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Scene IV.
• Scene V.
• Act III.
• Scene I.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Scene IV.
• Scene V.
• Act IV.
• Scene I.—: A Chamber.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Scene IV.
• Scene V.
• Act V.
• Scene I.—: A Garden.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Scene IV.
• Scene V.
• Clavigo
• Dramatis PersonÆ.
• Act I.
• Scene I.—: Clavigo’s Dwelling.
• Scene II.—: Guilbert’s Dwelling.
• Act II.
• Scene I.—: Clavigo’s House.
• Act III.
• Scene I.—: Guilbert’s Abode.
• Act IV.
• Scene I.—: Clavigo’s Abode. Carlos, Alone.
• Scene II.—: Guilbert’s Abode.
• Act V.
• Scene I.—: The Street Before the House of Guilbert. Night.
• Scene II.
• Scene III.
• Scene IV.
• Scene V.
• Scene VI.
• Stella. a Tragedy.
• Dramatis PersonÆ.
• Act I.
• Act II.
• Act III.
• Act IV.
• Act V.
• The Brother and Sister
• Dramatis PersonÆ.
• A Tale.
• The Good Women.
• Reynard the Fox.
• Chapter I.: The Accusation.
• Chapter II.: The First Summons.
• Chapter III.: The Second Summons.
• Chapter IV.: The Trial.
• Chapter V.: The Pardon.
• Chapter VI.: The Relapse.
• Chapter VII.: The Outlawry.
• Chapter VIII.: The Journey.
• Chapter IX.: The Advocacy.
• Chapter X.: The Second Pardon.
• Chapter XI.: The Defiance.
• Chapter XII.: The Battle.

Clavigo

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Clavigo.

Carlos,his friend.

Beaumarchais.

Marie Beaumarchais.

Sophie Guilbert (néeBeaumarchais).

Guilbert,her husband.

Buenco.

St. George.

The scene is at Madrid.

ACT I.

SCENE I.—

Clavigo’sDwelling.

EnterClavigoandCarlos.

Clavigo.

(Rising up from the writingtable.) The journal will do a good work, it must charm all women. Tell me, Carlos, do you not think that my weekly periodical is now one of the first in Europe?

Carlos.

We Spaniards, at least, have no modern author who unites such great strength of thought, so much florid imagination, with so brilliant and easy a style.

Clavigo.

Please don’t. I must still be among the people the creator of the good style; people are ready to take all sorts of impressions; I have a reputation among my fellow-citizens, their confidence; and, between ourselves, my acquirements extend daily; my experience widens, and my style becomes ever truer and stronger.

Carlos.

Good, Clavigo! Yet, if you will not take it ill, your paper pleased me far better when you yet wrote it at Marie’s feet, when the lovely cheerful creature had still an influence over you. I know not how, the whole had a more youthful blooming appearance.

Clavigo.

Those were good times, Carlos, which are now gone. I gladly avow to thee, I wrote then with opener heart; and, it is true, she had a large share in the approbation which the public accorded me at the very beginning. But at length, Carlos, one becomes very soon weary of women; and were you not the first to applaud my resolution when I determined to forsake her?

Carlos.

You would have become rusty. Women are far too monotonous. Only, it seems to me, it were again time that you cast about for a new plan, for it is all up when one is so entirely aground.

Clavigo.

My plan is the court; there there is no leisure nor holiday. For a stranger, who, without standing, without name, without fortune, came here, have I not already advanced far enough? Here in a court! amid the throng of men, where it is not easy to attract attention? I do so rejoice, when I look on the road which I have left behind me. Loved by the first in the kingdom! Honored for my attainments, my rank! Recorder of the king! Carlos, all that spurs me on; I were nothing if I remained what I am! Forward! forward! There it costs toil and art! One needs all his wits; and the women! the women! one loses far too much time with them.

Carlos.

Simpleton, that is your fault. I can never live without women, and they are not in my way at all. Moreover, I do not say so very many fine things to them, I do not amuse myself entire months with sentiment and such like; for I do not at all like to have to do with prudish girls. One has soon said his say with them: afterwards, should one pay them attention for a while, scarcely are they a little bit inflamed with one, than straightway—the deuce—you are pestered with thoughts of marriage and promises of marriage, which I fear as the plague. You are pensive, Clavigo?

Clavigo.

I cannot get rid of the recollection that I jilted, deceived Marie, call it as you will.

Carlos.

Wonderful! It seems to me, however, that one lives only once in this world, has only once this power, these prospects, and he who does not make the most of them, and rise as high as possible, is a fool. And to marry! to marry just at the time when life is for the first time about to soar aloft on wide-spread pinions! to bury one’s self in domestic repose, to shut one’s self up when one has not traversed the half of his journey—has not yet achieved the half of his conquests! To love her was natural; to promise her marriage was folly, and if you had kept your word it would have been downright madness.

Clavigo.

Hold! I do not understand men. I loved her truly, she drew me to her, she held me, and as I sat at her feet I vowed to her—I vowed to myself—that it should ever be so, that I would be hers as soon as I had an office, a position—and now, Carlos!

Carlos.

It will be quite time enough when you are a made man, when you have reached the desired goal, if then—to crown and confirm all your happiness—you seek to ally yourself by a prudent marriage with a family of wealth and consequence.

Clavigo.

She has vanished! quite out of my heart vanished, and if her unhappiness does not sometimes remind me—strange that one is so changeable!

Carlos.

If one were constant I would wonder. Look, pray, does not everything in the world change? Why should our passions endure? Be tranquil; she is not the first jilted girl, nor the first that has consoled herself. If I were to advise you, there is the young widow over the way—

Clavigo.

You know I do not set much store on such proposals. A love affair which does not come of its own accord has no charm for me.

Carlos.

So dainty people!

Clavigo.

Be it so, and forget not that our chief work at present is to render ourselves necessary to the new minister. That Whal resigns the government of India is troublesome enough for us. In truth, otherwise it does not disquiet me; his influence abides—Grimaldi and he are friends, and we know how to talk and manœuvre.

Carlos.

And think and do what we will.

Clavigo.

That is the grand point in the world. (Rings for the servant.) Take this sheet to the printing-office.

Carlos.

Are you to be seen in the evening?

Clavigo.

I do not think so. However, you can inquire.

Carlos.

This evening I should like to undertake something which gladdened my heart; all this afternoon I must write again, there is no end of it.

Clavigo.

Have patience. If we did not toil for so many persons, we would not get the ascendency over so many.

[Exit.

SCENE II.—

Guilbert’sDwelling.

Sophie Guilbert, MarieandDon Buenco.

Buenco.

You have had a bad night?

Sophie.

I told her so yesterday evening. She was so foolishly merry and prattled till eleven, then she was overheated, could not sleep, and now again she has no breath and weeps the whole morning.

Marie.

Strange that our brother comes not! It is two days past the time.

Sophie.

Only have patience, he will not fail us.

Marie.

(Rising up.) How anxious am I to see this brother, my avenger and my saviour. I scarcely remember him.

Sophie.

Indeed! Oh, I can well picture him to myself; he was a fiery, open, brave boy of thirteen years, when our father sent us here.

Marie.

A noble great soul. You have read the letter which he wrote when he learned my unhappiness; each letter of it is enshrined in my heart. “If you are guilty,” writes he, “expect no forgiveness; over and above your misery the contempt of a brother will fall heavily upon you, and the curse of a father. If you are innocent, oh, then, all vengeance, all, all glowing vengeance on the traitor!”—I tremble! He will come. I tremble, not for myself, I stand before God in my innocence! You must, my friends—I know not what I want! O Clavigo!

Sophie.

You will not listen! You will kill yourself.

Marie.

I will be still. Yes, I will not weep. It seems to me, however, I could have no more tears. And why tears? I am only sorry that I make my life bitter to you. For when all is said and done, what have I to complain of? I have had much joy as long as our old friend still lived. Clavigo’s love has caused me much joy, perhaps more than mine for him. And now, what is it after all? of what importance am I? What matters it if a girl’s heart is broken? What matters it whether she pines away and torments her poor young heart?

Buenco.

For God’s sake, mademoiselle!

Marie.

Whether it is all one to him—that he loves me no more? Ah! why am I not more amiable? But he should pity, at least pity me!—that the hapless girl, to whom he had made himself so needful, now without him should pine and weep her life away—Pity! I wish not to be pitied by this man.

Sophie.

If I could teach you to despise him—the worthless, detestable man!

Marie.

No, sister, worthless he is not; and must I then despise him whom I hate? Hate! Indeed, sometimes I can hate him—sometimes, when the Spanish spirit possesses me. Lately, oh! lately, when we met him, his look wrought full, warm love in me! And as I again came home, and his manner recurred to me, and the calm, cold glance that he cast over me, while beside the brilliant Donna; then I became a Spaniard in my heart, and seized my dagger and poison, and disguised myself. Are you amazed, Buenco? All in thought only, of course!

Sophie.

Foolish girl!

Marie.

My imagination led me after him. I saw him as he lavished all the tenderness, all the gentleness at the feet of his new love—the charms with which he poisoned me—I aimed at the heart of the traitor! Ah! Buenco!—all at once the good-hearted French girl was again there, who knows of no love-sickness, and no daggers for revenge. We are badly off! Vaudevilles to entertain our lovers, fans to punish them, and, if they are faithless?—Say, sister, what do they do in France when lovers are faithless?

Sophie.

They curse them.

Marie.

And—

Sophie.

And let them go their ways.

Marie.

Go!—and why shall I not let Clavigo go? If that is the French fashion, why shall it not be so in Spain? Why shall a Frenchwoman not be a Frenchwoman in Spain? We will let him go and take to ourselves another; it appears to me they do so with us too.

Buenco.

He has broken a sacred promise, and no light love-affair, no friendly attachment. Mademoiselle, you are pained, hurt even to the depths of your heart. Oh! never was my position of an unknown, peaceful citizen of Madrid so burdensome, so painful as at this moment, in which I feel myself so feeble, so powerless to obtain justice for you against the treacherous courtier!

Marie.

When he was still Clavigo, not yet recorder of the king; when he was the stranger, the guest, the new-comer in our house, how amiable was he, how good! How all his ambition, all his desire to rise, seemed to be a child of his love! For me, he struggled for name, rank, fortune; he has all now, and I!—

Guilbertcomes.

Guilbert.

(Privately to his wife.) Our brother is coming!

Marie.

My brother! (She trembles; they conduct her to a seat.) Where? where? Bring him to me! Take me to him!

Beaumarchaiscomes.

Beaumarchais.

My sister! (Quitting the eldest to rush towards the youngest.) My sister! My friends! Oh, my sister!

Marie.

Is it you indeed? God be thanked it is you!

Beaumarchais.

Let me come to myself.

Marie.

My heart!—my poor heart!

Sophie.

Be calm! Dear brother, I hoped to see you more tranquil.

Beaumarchais.

More tranquil! Are you, then, tranquil? Do I not behold in the wasted figure of this dear one, in your tearful eyes, your sorrowful paleness, in the dead silence of your friends, that you are as wretched as I have imagined you to be during all the long way? and more wretched; for I see you, I hold you in my arms; your presence redoubles my sufferings. Oh, my sister!

Sophie.

And our father?

Beaumarchais.

He blesses you and me, if I save you.

Buenco.

Sir, permit one unknown who, at the first look, recognizes in you a noble, brave man, to bear witness to the deep interest which all this matter inspires in me. Sir, you undertake this long journey to save, to avenge your sister! Welcome! be welcome as a guardian angel, though, at the same time, you put us all to the blush!

Beaumarchais.

I hoped, sir, to find in Spain such hearts as yours; that encouraged me to take this step. Nowhere, nowhere in the world are feeling, congenial souls wanting, if only one steps forward whose circumstances leave him full freedom to carry his courage through. And oh, my friends, I feel full of hope! Everywhere there are men of honor among the powerful and great, and the ear of majesty is rarely deaf; only our voice is almost always too weak to reach to their height.

Sophie.

Come, sister! come, rest a moment. She is quite beside herself.

[They lead her away.

Marie.

My brother!

Beaumarchais.

God willing, if you are innocent, then all, all vengeance on the traitor! (ExeuntMarieandSophie.) My brother!—my friends!—I see it in your looks that you are so. Let me come to myself, and then!—a pure, impartial recital of the whole story. This must determine my actions. The feeling of a good cause shall confirm my courage; and, believe me, if we are right, we shall get justice.

ACT II.

SCENE I.—

Clavigo’sHouse.

Clavigo.

Who may these Frenchmen be, who have got themselves announced in my house? Frenchmen! In former days this nation was welcome to me! And why not now? It is singular that a man who sets so much at naught is yet bound with feeble thread to a single point. It is too much! And did I owe more to Marie than to myself? and is it a duty to make myself unhappy because a girl loves me?

AServant.

Servant.

The foreign gentlemen, sir.

Clavigo.

Bid them enter. Pray, did you tell their servant that I expect them to breakfast?

Servant.

As you ordered.

Clavigo.

I shall be back presently.

[Exit.

Beaumarchais, St. George.

TheServantplaces chairs for them and withdraws.

Beaumarchais.

I feel myself so much at ease; so content, my friend, to be at length here, to hold him; he shall not escape me. Be calm: at least show him a calm exterior. My sister! my sister! who could believe that you are as innocent as unhappy? It shall come to light; you shall be terribly avenged! And Thou, good God! preserve to me the tranquillity of soul which Thou accordest to me at this moment, that, amid this frightful grief, I may act as prudently as possible and with all moderation.

St. George.

Yes; this wisdom—all, my friend, which you have ever shown of prudence—I claim here. Promise me, once more, dear friend, that you will reflect where you are. In a strange kingdom, where all your protectors, all your money cannot secure you from the secret machinations of worthless foes.

Beaumarchais.

Be tranquil: play your part well; he shall not know with which of us he has to do. I will torture him! Oh! I am just in a fine humor to roast this fellow over a slow fire!

Clavigoreturns.

Clavigo.

Gentlemen, it gives me joy to see in my house men of a nation that I have always esteemed.

Beaumarchais.

Sir, I wish that we, too, may be worthy of the honor which you are good enough to confer on our fellow countrymen.

St. George.

The pleasure of making your acquaintance has surmounted the fear of being troublesome to you.

Clavigo.

Persons, whom the first look recommends, should not push modesty so far.

Beaumarchais.

In truth it cannot be a novelty to you to be sought out by strangers; for, by the excellence of your writings, you have made yourself as much known in foreign lands as the important offices which his majesty has intrusted to you distinguish you in your fatherland.

Clavigo.

The king looks with much favor on my humble services, and the public with much indulgence on the trifling essays of my pen; I have wished that I could contribute in some measure to the improvement of taste, to the propagation of the sciences in my country; for they only unite us with other nations, they only make friends of the most distant spirits, and maintain the sweetest union among those even, who, alas! are too often disunited through political interests.

Beaumarchais.

It is captivating to hear a man so speak who has equal influence in the state and in letters. I must also avow you have taken the word out of my mouth and brought me straight to the purpose, on account of which you see me here. A society of learned worthy men has commissioned me, in every place through which I travel and find opportunity, to establish a correspondence between them and the best minds in the kingdom. As no Spaniard writes better than the author of the journal called the Thinker—a man with whom I have the honor to speak (Clavigomakes a polite bow), and who is an especial ornament of learned men, since he has known how to unite with his literary talents so great a capacity for political affairs, he cannot fail to climb the highest steps, of which his character and acquirements render him worthy. I believe I can perform no more acceptable service to my friends than to put them in connection with a man of such merit.

Clavigo.

No proposal in the world could be more agreeable to me, gentlemen; I thereby see fulfilled the sweetest hopes, with which my heart was often occupied without any prospect of their happy accomplishment. Not that I believe I shall be able, through my correspondence, to satisfy the wishes of your learned friends; my vanity does not go so far. But as I have the happiness to be in accordance with the best minds in Spain, as nothing can remain unknown to me which is achieved in our vast kingdom by isolated, often obscure, individuals for the arts and sciences, so I have looked upon myself, till now, as a kind of colporteur, who possesses the feeble merit of rendering the inventions of others generally useful; but now I become, through your intervention, a merchant, happy enough through the exportation of native products to extend the renown of his fatherland and thereby to enrich it with foreign treasures. So then, allow me, sir, to treat as not a stranger a man who, with such frankness, brings such agreeable news; allow me to ask what business—what project made you undertake this long journey? It is not that I would, through this officiousness, gratify vain curiosity; no, believe rather that it is with the purest intention of exerting in your behalf all the resources, all the influence which I may perchance possess; for I tell you beforehand, you have come to a place where countless difficulties encounter a stranger in the prosecution of his business, especially at the court.

Beaumarchais.

I accept so obliging an offer with warmest thanks. I have no secrets with you, sir, and this friend at my statement will not be in the way; he is sufficiently acquainted with what I have to say. (ClavigoregardsSt. Georgewith attention.) A French merchant, with a large family and a limited fortune, had many business friends in Spain. One of the richest came fifteen years ago to Paris, and made him this proposal: “Give me two of your daughters, and I shall take them with me to Madrid and provide for them. I am an aged bachelor without relatives; they will form the happiness of my declining years, and after my decease I shall leave them one of the most considerable establishments in Spain. The eldest and one of the younger sisters were confided to his care. The father undertook to supply the house with all kinds of French merchandise which could be required, and so all went well, till the friend died without the least mention of the Frenchwomen in his will, who then saw themselves in the embarrassing position of superintending alone a new business. The eldest had meanwhile married, and notwithstanding their moderate fortune, they secured through their good conduct and varied accomplishments a multitude of friends, who were eager to extend their credit and business. (Clavigobecomes more and more attentive.) About the same time, a young man, a native of the Canary Islands, had got himself introduced into the family. (Clavigo’scountenance loses all cheerfulness, and his seriousness changes by-and-by into embarrassment, more and more visible.) Despite his humble standing and fortune, they receive him kindly. The Frenchwomen, who remarked in him a great love of the French language, favored him with every means of making rapid progress in its study. Extremely anxious to make himself known, he forms the design of giving to the city of Madrid the pleasure, hitherto unknown to Spain, of reading a weekly periodical in the style of the English Spectator. His lady friends fail not to aid him in every way; they do not doubt that such an undertaking would meet with great success; in short, animated by the hope of soon becoming a man of some consequence, he ventures to make an offer of marriage to the younger. Hopes are held out to him. “Try to make your fortune,” says the elder, “and if an appointment, the favor of the court, or any other means of subsistence shall have given you a right to think of my sister, if she still prefers you to other suitors, I cannot refuse you my consent.” (Clavigo,covered with confusion, moves uneasily on his seat.) The younger declines several advantageous offers; her fondness for the man increases, and helps her to bear the anxiety of an uncertain expectation; she interests herself for his happiness as for her own, and encourages him to issue the first number of his periodical, which appears under an imposing title. (Clavigois terribly embarrassed.Beaumarchais,icy cold.) The journal is a great success; the king even, delighted with this charming production, gave the author public tokens of his favor. He was promised the first honorable office that might be vacant. From that moment he removed all rivals from his beloved, while quite openly striving hard to win her good graces. The marriage was delayed only in expectation of the promised situation. At last, after six years’ patient waiting, unbroken friendship, aid and love on the part of the girl; after six years’ devotion, gratitude, attentions, solemn assurances on the part of the man, the office is forthcoming—and he vanishes. (Clavigoutters a deep sigh, which he tries to stifle, and is quite overcome.) The matter had made so great a noise in the world, that the issue could not be regarded with indifference. A house had been rented for two families. The whole town was talking of it. The hearts of all friends were wrung and sought revenge. Application was made to powerful protectors; but the worthless fellow, already initiated in the cabals of the court, knew how to render fruitless all their efforts, and went so far in his insolence as to dare to threaten the unhappy ladies; to dare to say in the very face of those friends, who had gone to find him, that the Frenchwomen should take care; he defied them to injure him, and if they made bold to undertake aught against him, it would be easy for him to ruin them in a foreign land, where they would be without protection and help. At this intelligence the poor girl fell into convulsions, which threatened death. In the depth of her grief the elder wrote to France about the public outrage which had been done to them. The news most powerfully moves her brother; he demands leave of absence to obtain counsel and aid in so complicated an affair, he flies from Paris to Madrid, and the brother—it is I! who have left all—fatherland, duties, family, standing, pleasures, in order to avenge, in Spain, an innocent, unhappy sister. I come, armed with the best cause and firm determination, to unmask a traitor, to mark with bloody strokes his soul on his face, and the traitor—art thou!

Clavigo.

Hear me, sir—I am—I have—I doubt not—

Beaumarchais.

Interrupt me not. You have nothing to say to me and much to hear from me. Now, to make a beginning, have the goodness, in presence of this gentleman, who has come from France expressly with me, to declare: whether my sister has deserved this public outrage from you through any treachery, levity, weakness, rudeness, or any other blemish.

Clavigo.

No, sir. Your sister, Donna Maria, is a lady overflowing with wit, amiability and goodness.

Beaumarchais.

Has she ever during your acquaintance given you any occasion to complain of her, or to esteem her less?

Clavigo.

Never! never!

Beaumarchais.

(Rising up.) And why, monster, had you the barbarity to torture the girl to death? Only because her heart preferred you to ten others, all more honorable and richer than you?

Clavigo.

Ah, sir! If you knew how I have been instigated; how I, through manifold advisers and circumstances—

Beaumarchais.

Enough! (ToSt. George.) You have heard the vindication of my sister; go and publish it. What I have further to say to the gentleman, needs no witnesses. (Clavigorises.St. Georgeretires.) Remain! remain! (Both sit down again.) Having now got so far, I shall make a proposal to you, which I hope you will accept. It is equally agreeable to you and me that you do not wed Marie, and you are deeply sensible that I have not come to play the part of a theatrical brother, who will unravel the drama, and present a husband to his sister. You have cast a slur upon an honorable lady in cold blood, because you supposed that in a foreign land she was without prop and avenger. Thus acts a base, worthless fellow. And so, first of all, testify with your own hand, spontaneously, with open doors, in presence of your servants, that you are an abominable man, who have deceived, betrayed my sister without the least cause; and with this declaration I set out for Aranjuez, where our ambassador resides; I show it, I get it printed, and after to-morrow the court and the town are flooded with it. I have powerful friends here, I have time and money, and of all shall I avail myself, to pursue you in the most furious manner possible, till the resentment of my sister is appeased and satisfied, and she herself says, “Stop.”

Clavigo.

I will not make such a declaration.

Beaumarchais.

I believe that, for in your place neither perhaps would I do it. But here is the reverse of the medal. If you do not write it, I remain from this moment beside you, I quit you no more, I follow you everywhere, till you, disgusted with such society, have sought to get rid of me behind Buenretiro. If I am more fortunate than you, without seeing the ambassador, without speaking here with any one, I take my dying sister in my arms, place ner in my carriage, and return to France with her. Should fate favor you, I am played out, and so you may have a laugh at our expense. Meanwhile, the breakfast.

[Beaumarchaisrings the bell. An attendant brings the chocolate.Beaumarchaistakes a cup, and walks in the adjoining gallery, examining the pictures.

Clavigo.

Air! air! I have been surprised and seized like a boy. Where are you then, Clavigo? How will you end this? How can you end it? Frightful position, into which your folly, your treachery has plunged you! (He seizes his sword on the table.) Ha! short and good! (Lays it down.) And is there no way, no means, but death—or murder?—horrible murder! To deprive the hapless lady of her last solace, her only stay, her brother! To see gushing out the blood of a noble, brave man! And to draw upon yourself the double, insupportable curse of a ruined family! Oh, this was not the prospect when this amiable creature, even from your first meeting, attracted you with so many winsome ways! And when you abandoned her, did you not see the frightful consequences of your crime? What blessedness awaited you in her arms! in the friendship of such a brother! Marie! Marie! Oh, that you could forgive! that at your feet I could atone for all by my tears!—And why not?—My heart overflows; my soul mounts up in hope! Sir!

Beaumarchais.

What is your determination?

Clavigo.

Hear me! My deceit towards your sister is unpardonable. Vanity has misled me. I feared by this marriage to ruin all my plans, all my projects for a world-wide celebrity. Could I have known that she had such a brother, she would have been in my eyes no unimportant stranger; I would have expected from our union very considerable advantages. You inspire me, sir, with the highest esteem, and in making me so keenly sensible of my errors, you impart to me a desire, a power, to make all good again. I throw myself at your feet! Help! help, if it is possible, to efface my guilt and put an end to unhappiness. Give your sister to me again, sir, give me to her! How happy were I to receive from your hand a wife and the forgiveness of all my faults!

Beaumarchais.

It is too late! My sister loves you no more, and I detest you. Write the desired declaration, that is all that I exact from you, and leave me to provide for a choice revenge.

Clavigo.

Your obstinacy is neither right nor prudent. I grant you that it does not depend on me, whether I will make good again so irremediable an evil. Whether I can make it good? That rests with the heart of your excellent sister whether she may again look upon a wretch who does not deserve to see the light of day. Only it is your duty to ascertain that and to conduct yourself accordingly, if your demeanor is not to resemble the inconsiderate passion of a young man. If Donna Maria is immovable! Oh, I know her heart! Oh, her good, her heavenly soul hovers before me quite vividly! If she is inexorable, then it is time, sir.

Beaumarchais.

I insist on the vindication.

Clavigo.

(Approaching the table.) And if I seize the sword?

Beaumarchais.

(Advancing.) Good, sir! Excellent, sir!

Clavigo.

(Holding him back.) One word more! You have the better case; let me have prudence for you. Consider what you are doing. Whether you or I fall, we are irrecoverably lost. Should I not die of pain, of remorse, if your blood should stain my sword, if I, to complete her wretchedness, bereft her of her brother; and on the other hand—the murderer of Clavigo would not recross the Pyrenees.

Beaumarchais.

The vindication, sir, the vindication!

Clavigo.

Well! be it so. I will do all to convince you of the upright feeling with which your presence inspires me. I will write the vindication, I will write it at your dictation. Only promise me not to make use of it till I am able to convince Donna Maria of the change and repentance of my heart, till I have spoken to her elder sister; till she has put in a good word for me with my beloved one. Not before, sir.

Beaumarchais.

I am going to Aranjuez.

Clavigo.

Well then, till your return, let the vindication remain in your portfolio; if I have not been forgiven, then let your vengeance have full swing. This proposal is just, fair and prudent; and if you do not agree to it, let us then play the game of life and death. And whichever of us two become the victim of his own rashness, you and your poor sister will suffer in any case.

Beaumarchais.

It becomes you to pity those whom you have made wretched.

Clavigo.

(Sitting down.) Are you satisfied?

Beaumarchais.

Well, then, I yield the point. But not a moment longer. I come from Aranjuez, I ask, I hear! And if they have not forgiven you, which is what I hope and desire, I am off directly with the paper to the printing-office.

Clavigo.

(Takes paper.) How do you demand it?

Beaumarchais.

Sir! in presence of your attendants.

Clavigo.

Why?

Beaumarchais.

Command only that they are present in the adjoining gallery. It shall not be said that I have constrained you.

Clavigo.

What scruples!

Beaumarchais.

I am in Spain and have to deal with you.

Clavigo.

Now then! (Rings. A servant.) Call my attendants together, and betake yourselves to the gallery there. (The servant retires. The rest come and occupy the gallery.) You allow me to write the vindication?

Beaumarchais.

No, sir! Write it, I beg you—write it, as I dictate it to you. (Clavigowrites.) “I, the undersigned, Joseph Clavigo, recorder of the king”—

Clavigo.

“Of the king.”

Beaumarchais.

“Acknowledge that after I was received into the family of Madame Guilbert as a friend”—

Clavigo.

“As a friend.”

Beaumarchais.

“I made her sister, Mademoiselle de Beaumarchais, a promise of marriage, repeated many times, which I have unscrupulously broken.” Have you written it?—

Clavigo.

My dear sir!

Beaumarchais.

Have you another expression for it?

Clavigo.

I should think—

Beaumarchais.

“Unscrupulously broken.” What you have done you need not hesitate to write.—“I have abandoned her, without any fault or weakness on her part having suggested a pretext or an excuse for this perfidy.”

Clavigo.

Come!

Beaumarchais.

“On the contrary, the demeanor of the lady has been always pure, blameless, and worthy of all honor.”

Clavigo.

“Worthy of all honor.”

Beaumarchais.

“I confess that, through my deceit, the levity of my conversations, the construction of which they were susceptible, I have publicly humiliated this virtuous lady; and on this account I entreat her forgiveness, although I do not regard myself as worthy of receiving it.” (Clavigostops.) Write! write! “And this testimony of my own free will, and unforced, I have given, with this especial promise, that if this satisfaction should not please the injured lady, I am ready to afford it in every other way required. Madrid.”

Clavigo.

(Rises, beckons to the servants to withdraw, and hands him the paper.) I have to do with an injured, but a noble man. You will keep your word, and put off your vengeance. Only on this consideration, in this hope, I have granted you the shameful document, to which nothing else would have reduced me. But before I venture to appear before Donna Maria, I have resolved to engage some one to put in a word for me, to speak in my behalf—and you are the man.

Beaumarchais.

Do not reckon on that.

Clavigo.

At least make her aware of the bitter heartfelt repentance which you have seen in me. That is all—all that I beg of you; do not deny me this; I should have to choose another less powerful intercessor, and even you owe her anyhow a faithful account. Do tell her how you have found me!

Beaumarchais.

Well! this I can do, this I shall do. Good-by, then.

Clavigo.

Farewell! (He wishes to take his hand;Beaumarchaisdraws it back.)

Clavigo.

(Alone.) So unexpectedly from one position into the other. It is an infatuation, a dream!—I should not have given this vindication.—It came so quickly, so suddenly, like a thunder-storm!

Carlosenters.

Carlos.

What visit is this you have had? The whole house is astir. What is the matter?

Clavigo.

Marie’s brother.

Carlos.

I suspected it. This old dog of a servant, who was formerly with Guilbert, and who at present acts the spy for me, knew yesterday that he was expected, and found me only this moment. He was here then?

Clavigo.

An excellent young man.

Carlos.

Of whom we shall soon be rid. Already I have spread nets on his way!—What, then, was the matter? A challenge? An apology? Was he very hot, the fellow?

Clavigo.

He demanded a declaration, that his sister gave me no occasion for the change in my feelings towards her.

Carlos.

And have you granted it?

Clavigo.

I thought it was best.

Carlos.

Well, very well! Was that all?

Clavigo.

He insisted on a duel or the vindication.

Carlos.

The last was the most judicious. Who will risk his life for a boy so romantic? And did he exact the paper with violence?

Clavigo.

He dictated it to me, and I had to call the servants into the gallery.

Carlos.

I understand! ah! now I have you, little master! That will prove his ruin. Call me a scrivener, if I have not in two days the varlet in prison and off for India by the next transport.

Clavigo.

No, Carlos. The matter stands otherwise than as you think.

Carlos.

How?

Clavigo.

I hope through his intervention, through my earnest endeavors, to obtain forgiveness from the unhappy lady.

Carlos.

Clavigo!

Clavigo.

I hope to efface all the past, to heal the breach, and so in my own eyes and in the eyes of the world again to become an honorable man.

Carlos.

The devil! Have you become childish? One can still detect the bookworm in you.—To let yourself be so befooled! Do you not see that that is a stupidly laid plan to entrap you?

Clavigo.

No, Carlos, he does not wish marriage; they are even opposed to it; she will not listen to aught from me.

Carlos.

That is the very point. No, my good friend, take it not ill; I may, perhaps, in plays have seen a country squire thus cheated.

Clavigo.

You pain me. I beg you will reserve your humor for my wedding. I have resolved to marry Marie of my own accord, from the impulse of my heart. All my hope, all my felicity, rests on the thought of procuring her forgiveness. And then away, Pride! Heaven still lies, as before, in the breast of this loved one. All the fame which I acquire, all the greatness to which I rise will fill me with double joy, for it is shared by the lady who makes me twice a man. Farewell! I must hence. I must at least speak with Guilbert.

Carlos.

Wait only till after dinner.

Clavigo.

Not a moment.

[Exit.

Carlos.

(Looking after him after a moment’s silence.) There is some one going to burn his fingers again!

ACT III.

SCENE I.—

Guilbert’sabode.

Sophie Guilbert, Marie, Beaumarchais.

Marie.

You have seen him? All my limbs tremble! You have seen him? I had almost fainted when I heard he was come; and you have seen him? No, I can—I will—no—I can never see him again.

Sophie.

I was beside myself when he stepped in. For ah! did I not love him as you, with the fullest, purest, most sisterly love? Has not his estrangement grieved, tortured me? And now, the returning, the repentant one, at my feet! Sister, there is something so charming in his look, in the tone of his voice. He—

Marie.

Never, never more!

Sophie.

He is the same as ever; has still that good, soft, feeling heart; still even that impetuosity of passion. There is still even the desire to be loved, and the excruciatingly painful torture when love is denied him. All! all! and of thee he speaks, Marie! as in those happy days of the most ardent passion. It is as if your good genius had even brought about this interval of infidelity and separation, to break the uniformity and tediousness of a prolonged attachment, and impart to the feeling a fresh vivacity.

Marie.

Do you speak a word for him?

Sophie.

No, sister. Nor have I promised to do so. Only, dearest, I see things as they are. You and your brother see them in a light far too romantic. You have this experience in common with many a very good girl, that your lover became faithless and forsook you. And that he comes again penitent, will amend his fault, revive all old hopes—that is a happiness which another would not lightly reject.

Marie.

My heart would break!

Sophie.

I believe you. The first moment must make a sensible impression on you—and then, my dear, I beseech you, regard not this anxiety, this embarrassment, which seems to overpower all your senses, as a result of hatred and ill-will. Your heart speaks more for him than you suppose, and even on that account you do not trust yourself to see him, because you so anxiously desire his return.

Marie.

Spare me, dearest!

Sophie.

You should be happy. Did I feel that you despised him, that he was indifferent to you, I would not say another word, he should see my face no more. Yet, as it is, my love, you will thank me that I have helped you to overcome this painful irresolution, which is a token of the deepest love.

Guilbert, Buenco.

Sophie.

Come, Buenco! Guilbert, come! Help me to give this darling courage, resolution, now while we may.

Buenco.

Would that I dared say—Receive him again.

Sophie.

Buenco!

Buenco.

The thought makes my blood boil—that he should still possess this angel, whom he has so shamefully injured, whom he has dragged to the grave. He—possess her? Why? How does he repair all that he has violated? He returns; once more it pleases him to return and say: “Now I may; now I will,” just as if this excellent soul were suspected wares, which one after all tosses to the buyer, when he has already tormented you to the marrow by the meanest offers, and haggling like a Jew. No, my voice he will never obtain, not even if the heart of Marie herself should speak for him. To return; and why, then, now?—now?—Must he wait till a valiant brother come, whose vengeance he must fear, and, like a schoolboy, come and crave pardon? Ha! he is as cowardly as he is worthless.

Guilbert.

You speak like a Spaniard, and as if you did not know Spaniards. This moment we are in greater danger than you are aware of.

Marie.

Good Guilbert!

Guilbert.

I honor our brother’s bold soul. In silence I have observed his heroic conduct. That all may turn out well, I wish that Marie could resolve to give Clavigo her hand; for—(smiling)—her heart he has still.

Marie.

You are cruel.

Sophie.

Listen to him, I beseech you, listen to him!

Guilbert.

Your brother has wrung from him a declaration, which will vindicate you in the eyes of the world, and ruin us.

Buenco.

How?

Marie.

O God!

Guilbert.

He gave it in the hope of touching your heart. If you remain unmoved, then he must with might and main destroy the paper. This he can do; this he will do. Your brother will print and publish it immediately after his return from Aranjuez. I fear, if you persist, he will not return.

Sophie.

My dear Guilbert!

Marie.

It is killing me!

Guilbert.

Clavigo cannot let the paper be published. If you reject his offer and he is a man of honor, he goes to meet your brother, and one of them falls; and whether your brother perish or triumph he is lost. A stranger in Spain! The murderer of this beloved courtier! My sister, it is all very well to think and feel nobly, but to ruin yourself and yours—

Marie.

Advise me, Sophie; help me!

Guilbert.

And Buenco, contradict me, if you can.

Buenco.

He dares not; he fears for his life; otherwise he would not have written at all; he would not have offered Marie his hand.

Guilbert.

So much the worse. He will get a hundred to lend him their arm; a hundred to take away our brother’s life on the way. Ha! Buenco, are you then so young? Should not a courtier have assassins in his pay?

Buenco.

The king is great and good.

Guilbert.

Go then, traverse the walls which surround him, the guards, the ceremonial, and all that his courtiers have put between his people and him; press through and save us. Who comes?

Clavigoappears.

Clavigo.

I must! I must!

[Marieutters a shriek, and falls intoSophie’sarms.

Sophie.

Cruel man, in what a position you place us!

[GuilbertandBuencodraw near to her.

Clavigo.

Yes, it is she! it is she! and I am Clavigo! Listen to me, gentle Marie, if you will not look on me. At the time that Guilbert received me as a friend into his house, when I was a poor unknown youth, and when in my heart I felt for you an overpowering passion, was that any merit in me? or was it not rather an inner harmony of characters, a secret union of soul, so that you too could not remain unmoved by me, and I could flatter myself with the sole possession of this heart? And now—am I not even the same? Are you not even the same? Why should I not venture to hope? Why not entreat? Would you not once more take to your bosom a friend, a lover, whom you had long believed lost, if after a perilous, hapless voyage he returned unexpectedly and laid his preserved life at your feet? And have I not also tossed upon a raging sea? Are not our passions, with which we live in perpetual strife, more terrible and indomitable than those waves which drive the unfortunate far from his fatherland? Marie! Marie! How can you hate me when I have never ceased to love you? Amid all infatuation, and in the lap of all the enchanting seductions of vanity and pride, I have ever remembered those happy days of liberty which I spent at your feet in sweet retirement, as we saw lie before us a succession of blooming prospects.—And now, why would you not realize with me all that we hoped? Will you now not enjoy the happiness of life because a gloomy interval has deferred our hopes? No, my love, believe that the best friends in the world are not quite pure; the highest joy is also interrupted through our passions, through fate. Shall we complain that it has happened to us, as to all others, and shall we chastise ourselves in casting away this opportunity of repairing the past, of consoling a ruined family, of rewarding the heroic deed of a noble brother, and of establishing our own happiness forever? My friends! from whom I deserve nothing; my friends, who must be so, because they are the friends of virtue, to which I return, unite your entreaties with mine. Marie! (He falls on his knees.) Marie! Do you recognize my voice no more? Do you no more feel the pulse of my heart? Is it so? Marie! Marie!

Marie.

O Clavigo!

Clavigo.

(Leaps up and kisses her hand with transport.) She forgives me! She loves me! (He embracesGuilbertandBuenco.) She loves me still! O Marie, my heart told me so! I might have thrown myself at your feet, silently uttered with tears my anguish, my penitence; without words you would have understood me, without words I would have received my forgiveness. No, this intimate union of our souls is not destroyed; no, still they understand each other as in the olden time, in which no sound, no sign was needful to impart our deepest emotions. Marie! Marie! Marie!

Beaumarchaisadvances.

Beaumarchais.

Ha!

Clavigo.

(Rushing towards him.) My brother!

Beaumarchais.

Do you forgive him?

Marie.

No more, no more! my senses abandon me.

[They lead her away.

Beaumarchais.

Has she forgiven him?

Buenco.

It seems so.

Beaumarchais.

You do not deserve your happiness.

Clavigo.

Believe that I feel it.

Sophie.

(Returns.) She forgives him. A stream of tears broke from her eyes. He should withdraw, said she sobbing, till I recover! I forgive him.—“Ah, my sister!” she exclaimed, and fell upon my neck, “whence knows he that I love him so?”

Clavigo.

(Kissing her hand.) I am the happiest man under the sun. My brother!

Beaumarchais.

(Embraces him.) With all my heart then. Although I must tell you: even yet I cannot be your friend, even yet I cannot love you. So now you are one of us, and let all be forgotten. The paper you gave me—here it is.

[He takes it from his portfolio, tears it, and gives it to him.

Clavigo.

I am yours, ever yours.

Sophie.

I beseech you to retire, that she may not hear your voice, that she may rest.

Clavigo.

(Embracing them in turn.) Farewell! Farewell! A thousand kisses to the angel.

[Exit.

Beaumarchais.

After all, it may be for the best, although I should have preferred it otherwise. (Smiling.) A girl is a good-natured creature, I must say—and, my friends, I should tell you, too, it was truly the thought, the wish of our ambassador, that Marie should forgive him, and that a happy marriage might end this sad story.

Guilbert.

I too am taking heart again.

Buenco.

He is your brother-in-law, and so, good-by! You shall see me in your house no more.

Beaumarchais.

Sir!

Guilbert.

Buenco!

Buenco.

I hate him now and always shall to the day of judgment. And take care with what kind of a man you have to do.

[Exit.

Guilbert.

He is a melancholy bird of ill omen. But yet in time he will be persuaded, when he sees that all goes well.

Beaumarchais.

Yet it was hasty to return him the paper.

Guilbert.

No more! no more! no visionary cares.

[Exit.

ACT IV.

SCENE I.—

Clavigo’sabode.Carlos,alone.

Carlos.

It is praiseworthy to place under guardianship a man, who, by his dissipation or other follies, shows that his reason is deranged. If the magistrate does that, who otherwise does not much concern himself about us, why should not we do it for a friend? Clavigo, you are in a bad position; but there is still hope. And, provided that you retain a little of your former docility, there is time yet to keep you from a folly which, with your lively and sensitive character, will cause the misery of your life, and lead you to an untimely grave. He comes.

Clavigo.

(Thoughtful.) Good-day, Carlos.

Carlos.

A very sad, dull—. Good-day! Is that the mood in which you come from your bride?

Clavigo.

She is an angel! They are excellent people!

Carlos.

You will not so hasten with the wedding that we cannot get an embroidered dress for the occasion?

Clavigo.

Jest or earnest, at our wedding no embroidered dresses will make a parade.

Carlos.

I believe it indeed.

Clavigo.

Pleasure in each other’s society, friendly harmony shall constitute the splendor of this festival.

Carlos.

You will have a quiet little wedding.

Clavigo.

As those who feel that their happiness rests entirely with themselves.

Carlos.

In those circumstances it is very proper.

Clavigo.

Circumstances! What do you mean by “those circumstances”?

Carlos.

As the matter now stands and remains.

Clavigo.

Listen, Carlos, I cannot bear a tone of reserve between friends. I know you are not in favor of this marriage; notwithstanding, if you have aught to say against it, you may say it. Come, out with it. How then does the matter stand? how goes it?

Carlos.

More unexpected, strange things happen to one in life, and it were not well if all went quite smoothly. One would have nothing to wonder at, nothing to whisper in the ear, nothing to pull to pieces in society.

Clavigo.

It will make some stir.

Carlos.

Clavigo’s wedding! that is clear of course. How many a girl in Madrid waits patiently for thee, hopes for thee, and if you now play them this trick?

Clavigo.

That cannot be helped now.

Carlos.

’Tis strange, I have known few men who make so great and general an impression on women as you. In all ranks there are good girls who occupy their time with plans and projects to become yours. One relies on her beauty, another on her riches, another on her rank, another on her wit, and another on her connections. What compliments have been paid to me on your account! For, indeed, neither my flat nose, nor crisp hair, nor my known contempt for women can bring me such good luck.

Clavigo.

You mock.

Carlos.

As if I have not already had in my hands declarations, offers, written with their own white fond little fingers, as badly spelled as an original love-letter of a girl can only be! How many pretty duennas have come under my thumb on this account!

Clavigo.

And you did not say a word of all this?

Carlos.

I did not wish to trouble you with mere trifles, and I could not have advised you to take any such matter seriously. O Clavigo, my heart has watched over your fate as over my own! I have no other friend but you; all men are not to be tolerated, and you even begin to be unbearable.

Clavigo.

I entreat you, be calm.

Carlos.

Burn the house of a man who has taken ten years to build it, and then send him a confessor to recommend Christian patience! A man ought to look out for no one but himself; people do not deserve—

Clavigo.

Are your misanthropic visions returning?

Carlos.

If I harp anew on that string, who is to blame but you? I said to myself: What would avail him at present the most advantageous marriage? him, who for an ordinary man has doubtless advanced far enough? But with his genius, with his gifts, it is not probable, it is not possible, that he can remain stationary. I concerted my plans. There are so few men at once so enterprising and so supple, so highly gifted and so diligent. He is well qualified in all departments. As recorder, he can rapidly acquire the most important knowledge; he will make himself necessary; and should a change take place, he becomes minister.

Clavigo.

I avow it. Often, too, were these my dreams.

Carlos.

Dreams! As surely as I should succeed in reaching the top of a tower, if I set off with the firm determination not to yield till I had carried my point, so surely would you have overcome all obstacles; and afterwards the rest would have given me no disquietude. You have no fortune from your family, so much the better! You would have become more zealous to acquire, more attentive to preserve. Besides, he who sits at the receipt of custom without enriching himself is a great fool; and I do not see why the country does not owe taxes to the minister as well as to the king. The latter gives his name, and the former the power. When I had arranged all that, I then sought out a fit match for you. I saw many a proud family which would have shut their eyes to your origin, many of the richest who would have gladly supported you in the maintenance of your rank, to share the dignity of the second king—and now—

Clavigo.

You are unjust, you lower my actual condition too much; and do you fancy then that I cannot rise higher, and make still further advances?

Carlos.

My dear friend, if you lop off the heart of a young plant, in vain will it afterwards and incessantly put forth countless shoots; it will form, perhaps, a large bush, but it is all over with the kingly attempt of its first growth. And think not that at the court this marriage is regarded with indifference. Have you forgotten what sort of men disapproved your attachment, your union with Marie? Have you forgotten who inspired you with the wise thought of abandoning her? Must I count them all on my fingers?

Clavigo.

This thought has already distressed me; yes, few will approve this step.

Carlos.

Nobody; and will not your powerful friends be indignant that you, without asking their leave, without consulting them, should have so hastily sacrificed yourself like a thoughtless child, who throws away his money in the market on worm-eaten nuts?

Clavigo.

That is impolite, Carlos, and exaggerated.

Carlos.

Not at all. Let one commit an egregious error through passion, I allow it. To marry a chambermaid because she is as beautiful as an angel! Well, the man is blamed, and yet people envy him.

Clavigo.

People, always the people!

Carlos.

You know I do not inquire very curiously after the success of others; but it is ever true that he who does nothing for others does nothing for himself; and if men do not wonder at or envy you, you too are not happy.

Clavigo.

The world judges by appearances. Oh! he who possesses Marie’s heart is to be envied.

Carlos.

Things appear what they are; but, frankly, I have always thought that there were hidden qualities that render your happiness enviable; for what one sees with his eyes and can comprehend with his understanding—

Clavigo.

You wish to make me desperate.

Carlos.

“How has that happened?” they will ask in the town. “How has that happened?” they will ask in the court. “But, good God! how has that happened? She is poor, without position. If Clavigo had not had an intrigue with her one would not have known that she was in the world; she is said to be well bred, agreeable, witty!” But who takes to himself a wife for that? That passes away in the first years of marriage. “Ah!” says some one, “she must be beautiful, charmingly, ravishingly beautiful.” “That explains the matter,” says another.

Clavigo.

(Troubled, lets a deep sigh escape.) Alas!

Carlos.

“Beautiful? Oh,” says one lady, “very good! I have not seen her for six years.” “She may well be altered,” says another. “One must, however, see her; he will soon take her out,” says a third. People ask, look, are eager, wait, and are impatient; they recall the ever-proud Clavigo, who never let himself be seen in public without leading out in triumph a stately, splendid, haughty Spanish lady, whose full breast, blooming cheeks, impassioned eyes—all, all seemed to ask the world encircling her: “Am I not worthy of my companion?” and who in her pride lets flaunt so widely in the breeze the train of her silken robe, to render her appearance more imposing and remarkable.—And now appears the gentleman—and surprise renders the people dumb—he comes accompanied by his tripping little Frenchwoman, whose hollow eyes, whose whole appearance announces consumption, in spite of the red and white with which she has daubed her death-pale countenance. Yes, brother! I become frantic, I run away, when people stop me now and ask, and question, and say they cannot understand—

Clavigo.

(Seizing his hand.) My friend, my brother, I am in a frightful position. I tell you, I avow I was horror-struck, when I saw Marie again. How changed she is!—how pale and exhausted! Oh! it is my fault, my treacheries!—

Carlos.

Follies! visions! She was in consumption when the romance of your love was still unfolding. I told you a thousand times, and— But you lovers have your eyes, nay, all your senses closed. Clavigo, it is a shame. All, yes, all to forget thus! A sick wife, who will plague all your posterity, so that all your children and grandchildren will in a few years be politely extinguished, like the sorry lamp of a beggar.—A man who could have been the founder of a family, which perhaps in future—Ah! I am becoming a fool, my reason fails me.

Clavigo.

Carlos, what shall I say to thee? When I saw her again, in the first transport, my heart went out towards her; and alas! when that was gone, compassion—a deep, heartfelt pity was breathed into me: but love—Lo! in the warm fulness of joy, I seemed to feel on my neck the cold hand of death. I strove to be cheerful; to play the part of a happy man again, in presence of those who surrounded me: it was all gone, all so stiff, so painfully anxious! Had they not somewhat lost their self-possession, they would have remarked it.

Carlos.

Hell! death and devil! and you are going to marry her! (Clavigoremains absorbed, without giving any answer.) It is all over with thee; lost forever. Farewell, brother, and let me forget all; let me, all the rest of my solitary life, furiously curse your fatal blindness. Ah! to sacrifice all, to render one’s self despicable in the eyes of the world, and not even then satisfy thereby a passion, a desire! To contract a malady voluntarily which, while undermining your inmost strength, will make you hideous in the eyes of men!

Clavigo.

Carlos! Carlos!

Carlos.

Would that you had never been elevated, at least you would never have fallen! With what eyes will they look on all this! “There is the brother,” they will say; “he must be a lad of spirit; he has put to the last shift Clavigo, who dared not draw the sword.” “Ah!” our flaunting courtesans will say, “one saw all along that he was not a gentleman.” “Ah, ah!” exclaims another, while drawing his hat over his eyes, “the Frenchman should have come to me!” And he claps himself on the paunch—a fellow, who perhaps were not worthy of being your groom!

Clavigo.

(Expresses the most acute distress, and falls into the arms ofCarlosamid a torrent of tears.) Save me! My friend! my best friend, save me! Save me from a double perjury! from an unutterable disgrace, from myself. I am done for!

Carlos.

Poor, hapless one! I hoped that these youthful furies, these stormy tears, this absorbing melancholy would have been gone; I hoped to behold you, as a man, agitated no more, no more plunged in that overwhelming sorrow, which in other days you so often uttered on my breast with tears. Be a man, Clavigo; quit yourself like a man!

Clavigo.

Let me weep! (Throws himself into a chair.)

Carlos.

Alas for you that you have entered on a career which you will not pursue to the end! With vour heart, with your sentiments, which would make a tranquil citizen happy, you must unite this unhappy hankering after greatness! And what is greatness, Clavigo? To raise one’s self above others in rank and consequence? Believe it not. If your heart is not greater than that of others; if you are not able to place yourself calmly above the circumstances which would embarrass an ordinary man, then with all your ribbons, all your stars, even with the crown itself, you are but an ordinary man. Take heart, compose your mind! (Clavigorises, looks onCarlos,and holds out his hand, whichCarloseagerly seizes.) Come, come, my friend! make up your mind. Look, I will put everything aside, and will say to you: Here lie two proposals on equal scales; either you marry Marie and find your happiness in a quiet citizen-like life, in tranquil homely joys; or you bend your steps along the path of honor to a near goal.—I will put all aside, and say: The beam of the balance is in equilibrium; your decision will settle which of the two scales will carry the day! Good! But decide! There is nothing in the world so pitiable as an undecided man, who wavers between two feelings, hoping to reconcile them, and does not understand that nothing can unite them except the doubt, the disquietude, which rack him. Go, and give Marie your hand, act as an honorable man, who, to keep his word, sacrifices the happiness of his life, who regards it as a duty to repair the wrong he has committed; but who, too, has never extended the sphere of his passions and activity further than to be in a position to repair the wrong he has committed; and thus enjoy the happiness of a tranquil retirement, the approval of a peaceful conscience, and all the blessedness belonging to those who are able to create their own happiness and provide the joy of their families. Decide, and then shall I say—You are every inch a man.

Clavigo.

Carlos! Oh, for a spark of your strength—of your courage!

Carlos.

It slumbers in thee, and I will blow till it gives vent to flames. Behold on the one side the fortune and the greatness which await you. I shall not set off this future with the variegated hues of poetry; represent it to yourself with such vivacity as it clearly appeared before your mind, till the hot-headed Frenchman made you lose your wits. But there too, Clavigo, be a man thoroughly, and take your way straight, without looking to the right or left. May your soul expand, and this great idea become deeply rooted there, that extraordinary men are extraordinary precisely because their duties differ from the duties of ordinary men; that he, whose task it is to watch over, to govern, to preserve a great whole, needs not reproach himself with having overlooked trifling circumstances, with having sacrificed small matters to the good of the whole. Thus acts the Creator in nature, and the king in the state; why should not we do the same, in order to resemble them?

Clavigo.

Carlos, I am a little man.

Carlos.

We are not little when circumstances trouble us, only when they overpower us. Yet another breath, and you are yourself again. Cast away the remnant of a pitiable passion, which in these days as little becomes you as the little gray jacket and modest mien with which you arrived at Madrid. What the poor girl has done for you, you have long ago returned; and that your first friendly reception was from her hands.—Oh! another, for the pleasure of your acquaintance, would have done as much and more, without putting forth such pretensions. And would you take it into your head to give your schoolmaster the half of your fortune because he taught you the alphabet thirty years ago? What say you, Clavigo!

Clavigo.

That is all very well. On the whole you may be right, it may be so; only how are we to get out of the embarrassment in which we stick fast? Advise me there, help me there, and then lecture.

Carlos.

Good! Do you wish it so?

Clavigo.

Give me the power and I shall exert it. I am not able to think; think for me.

Carlos.

Thus then. First you will go and meet this person, and then you will demand, sword in hand, the vindication which you inconsiderately and involuntarily gave.

Clavigo.

I have it already; he tore it and returned it to me.

Carlos.

Excellent! excellent! That step taken already—and you have let me speak so long?—Your course is so much the shorter! Write him quite coolly: “You find it inconvenient to marry his sister; the reason he can learn if he will repair to-night to a certain place, attended by a friend, and armed with any weapons he likes.” And then follows the signature.—Come, Clavigo, write that; I shall be your second—and the devil is in it if—(Clavigoapproaches the table.) Listen! A word! If I think aright of it, it is an extravagant proposal. Who are we to risk our lives with a mad adventurer? Besides, the man’s conduct, his standing, do not deserve that we regard him as an equal. Listen then! Now if I made a criminal charge against him, that he arrived secretly at Madrid, got himself announced under a pseudonym with an accomplice, at first gained your confidence with friendly words, and thereafter fell upon you all of a sudden, forcibly obtained a declaration, and afterwards went off to spread it abroad—that will prove his ruin: he shall learn what that means—to invade the tranquillity of a Spaniard under his own roof.

Clavigo.

You are right.

Carlos.

But till the law-suit has begun, in which interval the gentleman might play all sorts of tricks, if now we could meanwhile play a dead-sure game, and seize him tight by the head.

Clavigo.

I understand, and know you are the man to carry it out.

Carlos.

Ah! well! if I, who have been at it for five-and-twenty years, and have witnessed tears of anguish trickling down the cheeks of the foremost men, if I cannot unravel such child’s play! So then, give me full power; you need do nothing, write nothing. He, who orders the imprisonment of the brother, pantomimically intimates that he will have nothing to do with the sister.

Clavigo.

No, Carlos! Let it go as it may, I cannot, I will not suffer that. Beaumarchais is a worthy man, and he shall not languish in an ignominious prison on account of his righteous cause. Another plan, Carlos, another!

Carlos.

Bah! bah! Stuff and nonsense! We will not devour him. He will be well lodged and well cared for, and thereafter he cannot hold out long: for, observe, when he perceives that it is in earnest, all his theatrical rage will cease; he will come to terms, return smartly to France, and be only too thankful, if we secure a yearly pension for his sister—perhaps the only thing he cared a straw about.

Clavigo.

So be it then! Only let him be kindly dealt with.

Carlos.

Leave that to me.—One precaution more! We cannot know but that it may be blabbed out—that the thing may get wind, and then he gets over you, and all is lost. Therefore, leave your house, so that your very servant does not know where you have gone. Take with you only absolute necessaries. I shall despatch you a fellow who will conduct you and bring you to a place where the holy Hermandad herself will not find you. I have always in readiness a few of these mouseholes. Adieu!

Clavigo.

Good-by!

Carlos.

Cheer up! cheerily! When it is all over, brother, we will enjoy ourselves.

[Exit.

SCENE II.—

Guilbert’sabode.

Sophie Guilbert, Marie Beaumarchaisat work.

Marie.

With such violence did Buenco depart?

Sophie.

It was natural. He loves you, and how could he endure the sight of the man whom he must doubly hate?

Marie.

He is the best, most upright citizen whom I have ever known. (Showing her work to her sister.) It seems to me I must do it thus. I shall take in that and turn the end up. That will do nicely.

Sophie.

Very well. And I am going to put a straw-colored ribbon on my bonnet; it becomes me best. Do you smile?

Marie.

I am laughing at myself. We girls are wonderful people, I must say: hardly are our spirits but a little raised than straightway we are busy with finery and ribbons.

Sophie.

You cannot find fault with yourself at all; from the moment Clavigo forsook you, nothing could give you the least pleasure. (Mariestarts up and looks towards the door.) What is the matter?

Marie.

(Anxious.) I thought some one was coming! My poor heart! Oh, it will destroy me yet! Feel how it beats with groundless terrors!

Sophie.

You look pale. Be calm, I beseech you, my love!

Marie.

(Pointing to her breast.) I feel here an oppression—a sudden pain. It will kill me.

Sophie.

Be careful.

Marie.

I am a foolish, hapless girl. Pain and joy with all their force have undermined my poor life. I tell you, ’tis but half a joy that I have him again. Little shall I enjoy the happiness that awaits me in his arms; perhaps not at all.

Sophie.

My sister, my only love! You are wearing yourself out with these visions.

Marie.

Why shall I deceive myself?

Sophie.

You are young and happy, and can hope for all.

Marie.

Hope! Oh, the only sweet balm of life! How often it charms my soul! Happy youthful dreams hover before me and accompany the beloved form of the peerless one, who now is mine again. O Sophie, he is so winsome! Whilst I saw him not, he has—I know not how I shall express it;—all the qualities, which in former days lay hid in him through his diffidence, have unfolded themselves. He has become a man, and must with this pure feeling of his, with which he advances, that is so entirely devoid of pride and vanity—he must captivate all hearts.—And he shall be mine? No, my sister, I was not worthy of him—and now I am much less so!

Sophie.

Take him, however, and be happy. I hear your brother!

Beaumarchaisenters.

Beaumarchais.

Where is Guilbert?

Sophie.

He has been gone some time; he cannot be much longer.

Marie.

What is the matter, brother? (Springing up and falling on his neck.) Dear brother, what is the matter?

Beaumarchais.

Nothing! nothing at all, my Marie!

Marie.

If I am thy Marie, do tell me what is on thy mind!

Sophie.

Let him be. Men often look vexed without having aught particular on their mind.

Marie.

No, no. I see thy face only a little while; but already I read all thy thoughts, all the feelings of thy pure and sincere soul are stamped on thy brow. There is somewhat which makes thee anxious. Speak, what is it?

Beaumarchais.

It is nothing, my love. I hope that at bottom it is nothing. Clavigo—

Marie.

How?

Beaumarchais.

I was at Clavigo’s house. He is not at home.

Sophie.

And does that perplex you?

Beaumarchais.

His hall-servant says he has gone he knows not where; no one knows how long. If he should be hiding himself! If he be really gone! Whither? for what reason?

Marie.

We will wait.

Beaumarchais.

Thy tongue lies. Ah! the paleness of thy cheeks, the trembling of thy limbs, all speak and testify that thou canst not wait. Dear sister! (Clasps her in his arms.) On this beating, painfully trembling heart I vow.—hear me, O God, who art righteous! hear me, all His saints!—thou shalt be avenged, if he—my senses abandon me at the thought—if he fail, if he make himself guilty of a frightful, double perjury; if he mock at our misery— No, it is, it is not possible, not possible—thou shalt be avenged.

Sophie.

All too soon, too precipitate. Be careful of her health. I beseech you, my brother. (Mariesits down.) What ails thee? You are fainting.

Marie.

No, no. You are so anxious.

Sophie.

(Gives her water.) Take this glass.

Marie.

No, no! what avails that? Well, for my own sake, give it me.

Beaumarchais.

Where is Guilbert? Where is Buenco? Send after them, I entreat you. (Sophieexit.) How dost thou feel, Marie?

Marie.

Well, quite well! Think’st thou then, brother—

Beaumarchais.

What, my love?

Marie.

Ah!

Beaumarchais.

Is your breathing painful?

Marie.

The disordered beating of my heart oppresses me.

Beaumarchais.

Have you then no remedy? Do you use no anodyne?

Marie.

I know of only one remedy, and for that I have prayed to God many a time and oft.

Beaumarchais.

Thou shalt have it, and I hope from my hand.

Marie.

That will do well.

Sophieenters.

Sophie.

A courier has just brought this letter; he comes from Aranjuez.

Beaumarchais.

That is the seal and the hand of our ambassador.

Sophie.

I bade him dismount and take some refreshment; he would not, because he had yet more despatches.

Marie.

Will you, my love, send the servant for the physician?

Sophie.

Are you ill? Holy God! what ails thee?

Marie.

You will make me so anxious that at last I shall scarcely dare ask for a glass of water. Sophie! Brother!—What is in the letter? See, how he trembles! how all courage leaves him!

Sophie.

Brother, my brother! (Beaumarchaisthrows himself speechless into a chair and lets the letter fall.) My brother! (Lifts up the letter and reads it.)

Marie.

Let me see it! I must—(tries to rise.) Alas! I feel it. It is the last. O sister, spare not for mercy’s sake the last quick death-stroke!—He betrays us!

Beaumarchais.

(Springing up.) He betrays us! (Beating on his brow and breast.) Here! here! All is as dumb, as dead before my soul, as if a thunder-clap had disordered my senses. Marie! Marie! thou art betrayed!—and I stand here! Whither?—What?—I see nothing, nothing! no way, no safety! (Throws himself into a seat.)

Guilbertenters.

Sophie.

Guilbert! Counsel! Help! We are lost!

Guilbert.

My wife!

Sophie.

Read! read! The ambassador makes known to our brother: that Clavigo has made a criminal complaint against him, under the pretext that he introduced himself into his house under a false name; and that taking him by surprise in bed and presenting a pistol, he compelled him to sign a disgraceful vindication; and if he do not quickly withdraw from the kingdom, they will get him thrown into prison, from which the ambassador himself perhaps will not be able to deliver him.

Beaumarchais.

(Springing up.) Indeed, they shall do so! they shall do so! shall get me imprisoned; but from his corpse, from the place where I shall have glutted my vengeance with his blood. Ah! the stern, frightful thirst after his blood fills my whole soul. Thanks to Thee, God in heaven, that Thou vouchsafest to man, amid burning, insupportable wrongs, a solace, a refreshment! What a thirst for vengeance I feel in my breast! how the glorious feeling, the lust for his blood, raises me out of my utter dejection, out of my sluggish indecision; raises me above myself! Vengeance! How I rejoice in it! how all within me strives after him, to seize him, to destroy him!

Sophie.

Thou art terrible, brother!

Beaumarchais.

So much the better.—Ah! No sword, no weapon! with these hands will I strangle him, that the triumph may be mine! all my own the feeling: I have destroyed him!

Marie.

My heart! my heart!

Beaumarchais.

I have not been able to save thee, so thou shalt be avenged. I pant after his footsteps, my teeth lust after his flesh, my gums after his blood. Have I become a frantic wild beast! There burns in every vein, there glows in every nerve, the desire after him, after him!—I could hate him forever, who should make away with him by poison, who should rid me of him by assassination. Oh, help me, Guilbert, to seek him out. Where is Buenco? Help me to find him!

Guilbert.

Save yourself! save yourself! you have lost your reason.

Marie.

Flee, my brother!

Sophie.

Take him away; he will cause his sister’s death.

Buencoappears.

Buenco.

Up, sir! away! I saw it before. I gave heed to all. And now they are in hot pursuit; you are lost if you do not leave the town this moment.

Beaumarchais.

Never more! Where is Clavigo?

Buenco.

I do not know.

Beaumarchais.

Thou knowest. I entreat you on my knees, tell me.

Sophie.

For God’s sake, Buenco!

Marie.

Ah! air! air! (Falls back.) Clavigo!—

Buenco.

Help, she is dying!

Sophie.

Forsake us not, God in heaven! Hence! my brother, away!

Beaumarchais.

(Falls down before Marie, who despite every aid does not recover.) To forsake thee! to forsake thee!

Sophie.

Stay, then, and ruin us all, as you have killed Marie. You are gone, then, O my sister, through the heedlessness of your own brother!

Beaumarchais.

Stop, sister!

Sophie.

(Mocking.) Saviour!—Avenger!—help yourself!

Beaumarchais.

Do I deserve this?

Sophie.

Give her to me again! And then go to the prison, to the stake; go, pour forth thy blood and give me her again.

Beaumarchais.

Sophie!

Sophie.

Ha! and she is gone, she is dead—save yourself for us! (Falling on his neck.) My brother, for us! for our father! Haste, haste! That was her fate! she has met it! And there is a God in heaven, to Him leave vengeance.

Buenco.

Hence! away! Come with me; I will hide you till we find means to get you out of the kingdom.

Beaumarchais.

(Falls onMarieand kisses her.) Sister dear! (They tear him away, he claspsSophie,she disengages herself. They removeMarie,andBuencoandBeaumarchaisretire.)

Guilbert,aPhysician.

Sophie.

(Returning from the room to which they had takenMarie.) Too late! She is gone! she is dead!

Guilbert.

Come in, sir! See for yourself! It is not possible!

[Exit.

ACT V.

SCENE I.—

The street before the house ofGuilbert.Night.

[The house is open, and before the door stand three men clad in black mantles, holding torches.Clavigoenters, wrapped in a cloak, his sword under his arm; aServantgoes before him with a torch.

Clavigo.

I told you to avoid this street.

Servant.

We must have gone a great way round, sir, and you are in such haste. It is not far hence where Don Carlos is lodged.

Clavigo.

Torches there!

Servant.

A funeral. Come on, sir.

Clavigo.

Marie’s abode! A funeral! A death-agony shudders through all my limbs! Go, ask whom they are going to bury.

Servant.

(To the men.) Whom are you going to bury?

The Men.

Marie de Beaumarchais.

[Clavigosits down on a stone and covers himself with a cloak.

Servant.

(Comes back.) They are going to bury Marie de Beaumarchais.

Clavigo.

(Springing up.) Must thou repeat it? Repeat that word of thunder which strikes all the marrow out of my bones?

Servant.

Peace, sir! Come on, sir. Consider the danger by which you are surrounded.

Clavigo.

To hell with thee, reptile! I remain.

Servant.

O Carlos! Oh, that I could find thee!—Carlos!—he has lost his reason.

[Exit.

SCENE II.

Clavigo.The Mutes in the distance.

Clavigo.

Dead! Marie dead! Torches! her dismal attendants! it is a trick of enchantment, a night vision, which terrifies me; which holds up to me a mirror, in which I may see foreboded the end of all my treacheries. But there is still time. Still!—I tremble—my heart melts with horror! No! no! thou shalt not die—I come, I come! Vanish, ye spirits of the night, who with your horrible terrors set yourselves in my way. (He goes up to them.) Vanish—they remain! Ha! they look round after me! Woe! woe is me! They are men like myself. It is true! true! Canst thou comprehend it? She is dead! It seizes me amid all the horrors of midnight—the feeling—she is dead. There she lies, the flower at your feet! and thou—Oh, have mercy on me, God in heaven—I have not killed her! Hide yourselves, ye stars! look not down!—ye who have so often beheld the villain with feelings of the most heartfelt happiness leave this threshold; through this very street float along in golden dreams with music and song, and enrapture his maiden listening at the secret casement and lingering in transport. And now I fill the house with wailing and sorrow—and this scene of my bliss with the funeral song—Marie! Marie! take me with thee! take me with thee! (Mournful music breathes forth a few sounds from within.) They are setting out on the way to the grave. Stop! stop! Shut not the coffin. Let me see her once more. (He runs up to the house.) Ha! into whose presence am I rushing? Whom to face in his terrible sorrow? Her friends! her brother! whose breast is panting with raving grief! (The music recommences.) She calls me! she calls me! I come! What anguish is this which overwhelms me? What shuddering withholds me?

[The music begins for the third time and continues. The torches move before the door; three others come out to them, who range themselves in order to inclose the funeral procession, which now comes out of the house. Six bearers carry the bier, upon which lies the coffin, covered.

SCENE III.

GuilbertandBuenco(in deep mourning).

Clavigo.

(Coming forward.) Stay!

Guilbert.

What voice is that?

Clavigo.

Stay!

[The bearers stop.

Buenco.

Who dares to interrupt the solemn funeral?

Clavigo.

Set it down.

Guilbert.

Ha!

Buenco.

Wretch! Are thy deeds of shame not yet ended? Is thy victim not safe from thee in the coffin?

Clavigo.

No more! Make me not frantic. The wretched are dangerous; I must see her.

[He tears off the pall and the lid of the coffin.Marieis seen lying within it, clad in white, her hands clasped before her;Clavigosteps back and covers his face.

Buenco.

Wilt thou awake her to murder her again?

Clavigo.

Poor mocker! Marie!

[He falls down before the coffin.

SCENE IV.

EnterBeaumarchais.The preceding.

Beaumarchais.

Buenco has left me. They say she is not dead. I must see, spite of hell, I must see her. Ha! torches! a funeral!

[He runs hastily up to it, gazes on the coffin, and falls down speechless. They raise him up; he is as if deprived of sense;Guilbertholds him.

Clavigo.

(Who is standing on the other side of the coffin.) Marie! Marie!

Beaumarchais.

(Springing up.) That is his voice. Who calls Marie? At the sound of that voice what burning rage starts into my veins!

Clavigo.

It is I. (Beaumarchaisstaring wildly around and grasping his sword.Guilbertholds him.) I fear not thy blazing eyes, nor the point of thy sword. Oh! look here, here, on these closed eyes—these clasped hands!

Beaumarchais.

Dost thou show me that sight?

[He tears himself loose, runs uponClavigo.who instantly draws; they fight;Beaumarchaispierces him through the breast.

Clavigo.

(Falling.) I thank thee, brother; thou marriest us.

[He falls upon the coffin.

Beaumarchais.

(Tearing him away.) Hence from this saint, thou fiend!

Clavigo.

Alas!

[The bearers raise up his body and support him.

Beaumarchais.

His blood! Look up, Marie, look upon thy bridal ornaments, and then close thine eyes forever. See how I have consecrated thy place of rest with the blood of thy murderer! Charming! Glorious!

SCENE V.

EnterSophie.The preceding.

Sophie.

My brother? Oh, my God, what is the matter?

Beaumarchais.

Draw nearer, my love, and see! I hoped to have strewn her bridal bed with roses; see the roses with which I adorn her on her way to heaven!

Sophie.

We are lost!

Clavigo.

Save yourself, rash one! save yourself, ere the dawn of day. May God, who sent you for an avenger, conduct you! Sophie, forgive me. Brothers, friends, forgive me.

Beaumarchais.

How the sight of his gushing blood extinguishes all the glowing vengeance within me! how with his departing life vanishes all my rage! (Going up to him.) Die! I forgive thee.

Clavigo.

Your hand! and yours, Sophie! and yours!

[Buencohesitates.

Sophie.

Give it him, Buenco.

Clavigo.

I thank you; you are as good as ever; I thank you. And thou, O spirit of my beloved, if thou still hoverest around this place, look down, see these heavenly favors, bestow thy blessing, and do thou too forgive me. I come! I come! Save yourself, my brother. Tell me, did she forgive me? How did she die?

Sophie.

Her last word was thy unhappy name. She departed without taking leave of us.

Clavigo.

I will follow her and bear your farewells to her.

SCENE VI.

Carlos,aServant.The preceding.

Carlos.

Clavigo! murderers!

Clavigo.

Hear me, Carlos! Thou seest here the victim of thy prudence; and now, I conjure thee, for the sake of that blood, in which my life irrevocably flows away, save my brother.

Carlos.

Oh, my friend! (To the servant.) You standing there? Fly for a surgeon.

[Exit servant.

Clavigo.

It is in vain; save, save my unhappy brother! thy hand thereon. They have forgiven me, and so forgive I thee. Accompany him to the frontiers, and—oh!

Carlos.

(Stamping with his feet.) Clavigo! Clavigo!

Clavigo.

(Drawing nearer to the coffin, upon which they lay him down.) Marie! Thy hand!

[He unfolds her hands and grasps the right hand.

Sophie.

(ToBeaumarchais.) Hence, unhappy one, away!

Clavigo.

I have her hand, her cold, dead hand. Thou art mine. Yet this last bridal kiss! Alas!

Sophie.

He is dying! Save thyself, brother!

[Beaumarchaisfalls onSophie’sneck. She returns the embrace and makes a sign for him to withdraw.