The characteristic differences between the national drama of the
Germans and that of the Italians, as well as in the genius of the two
writers, are strikingly shown by a comparison of the works of Alfieri
and Schiller. Nor need we refer to the whole range of their respective
productions; the two great poets have more than once, by their choice
of the same subject for dramatic effort, afforded us opportunity to
draw a parallel between them. The distinction is exactly the reverse
of what the characters of the nations would lead us to expect; the
cold and classic simplicity of the ancient school pertaining to the
more ardent and volatile Italian, while the energy of expression and
warmth of action peculiar to the romantic system belong to the
representative of a colder and more meditative race. We shall not now
employ ourselves in endeavoring to discover the causes of the general
barrenness of the drama among a people of a temperament so
imaginative, and whose history has been so rich in the materials of
fiction. It is our object to show the vast difference which actually
exists between the tragic compositions of Italy and those of the
German school; as well as to give some idea of the peculiarities of
the two authors who form the subject of this article. For this
purpose, we select a play of each, founded upon the same historical
event, and portraying in part the same characters; and purpose to
offer a close analysis of both.
The “_Filippo_” of Alfieri treats of the same events with the “_Don
Carlos_” of Schiller. It was the first published production of the
noble poet, and is marked by much of the harshness of diction and
severe simplicity, amounting almost to baldness, which distinguished
his earlier plays. The author avoids, with scrupulous care, any thing
approaching to local coloring; excluding all inferior personages from
the stage, and admitting no forms or observances that might remind us
of our vicinity to the person of the Spanish monarch. The chief care
of Alfieri is ever bestowed upon the character of his protagonist; and
it is to that point we must direct our attention.
It is well known that Philip II supplanted his unfortunate son Don
Carlos, and married the princess to whom the youth had been betrothed
with the consent of both crowns. Our poet depicts the disastrous
attachment of the devoted pair. The piece opens with a passionate
soliloquy of Isabella, in which she reproaches herself bitterly for
the unconquered love she bears to the son of her husband. Her mind
revolts at the idea of such an affection, which she fears her
indiscretion may one day betray to its object. She distrusts her every
word and look. In the midst of this, the prince enters, evidently
unhappy, and earnestly asks her reason for avoiding his presence. He
perceives that the whole court is hostile to him; miserable and
oppressed, he cannot wonder that he reads envy and hatred in every
countenance about him, since he is conscious that he does not possess
the favor of his father and sovereign. From the queen, however, “born
under a milder sky,” whose nature is all gentleness, he expected pity.
Isabella is moved to the expression of sorrow for his misfortunes; his
joy in her sympathy is extreme, and in return he offers condolence
with her for her “hard lot,” which she repels with some confusion;
immediately after, hinting at the relation in which she stands to him,
she offers to intercede with the king in his behalf. Carlos declines
this offer, telling her she is the innocent cause of all his
sufferings, and reminds her of their former affection and engagement;
bitterly alluding to his father's hatred, and the greatest wrong he
has inflicted, in depriving him of his bride. Isabella reproves his
resentment against the king, whom she imagines deceived by false
counsellors, and refuses to listen to his passionate complaints; the
prince pleads with her to remain, and at length bids her renounce and
accuse him. Now comes the discovery. When Carlos calls himself guilty,
the queen says,
“Art thou alone the guilty?”
This thoughtless exclamation betrays to the prince the state of her
heart; and shocked at her own indiscretion Isabella implores him to
leave her. He pleads that flight would not protect him from the
vengeance of Philip, who regards him with detestation, though ignorant
of his only fault. The queen departs, forbidding him to follow her,
and Perez enters. This person, a warm friend to the prince, attempts
to console his evident wretchedness, which he attributes to his
father's displeasure, by assuring him that the king has been wrought
upon by false rumors and the machinations of his enemies. His offers
of service and devoted attachment affect Carlos, who nevertheless will
not reveal the secret cause of his grief. He yields, however, to the
entreaties of Perez, to accept him as his friend, and permit him to
share his destiny; congratulating himself even in the midst of
wretchedness that he is less worthy of compassion than Philip on his
throne.
The next act introduces upon the scene the tyrant and arch-hypocrite,
attended by his minister Gomez. Their conversation illustrates
strikingly the haughty reserve of the king, who will not admit even
his private counsellor to his most secret thoughts, or treat him as an
equal.
_Philip_. Gomez, what thing above all else in the world
Dost thou esteem?
_Gomez_. Thy favor.
_Philip_. Hopest thou to keep it? By what means?
_Gomez_. By the self-same means
That first obtained it, sire; obedience,
And silence.
_Philip_. Thou to-day must practise both.
Gomez is commanded to watch the countenance and actions of the queen
in the interview about to take place. The crafty minister is
accustomed to observe, interpret, and silently execute his master's
will. Isabella enters, summoned by her lord, who expresses his wish
for her {703} advice in a matter pertaining to private relations as
well as to the concerns of state. He then speaks of his son, artfully
adapting his words to alarm and reassure her alternately.
_Philip_. Carlos, my son—thou lov'st
Or hatest him.
_Isabella_. My lord——
_Philip_. I understand.
If to thy inclinations—not the voice
Of virtue—thou didst listen, thou wouldst feel
Thyself his——step-dame.
_Isabella_. Nay, not so; the prince——
_Philip_. Is dear then to thee; virtue in thy heart
So strongly dwells, that thou, the wife of Philip,
The son of Philip lov'st with love—maternal.
_Isabella_. Yours are the pattern of my thoughts; you love him;
At least I do believe it; in like manner
I also—love him.
The king expresses his wish to make her the judge of his son, who he
says has been guilty of a heinous offence. With cruel art he remarks
the agitation of the queen at this disclosure, which he pretends to
impute to indignation at a crime of which she is yet ignorant. He
brings an accusation against the prince of having leagued with rebels
to overthrow the power of his sovereign; silences the doubts Isabella
ventures to suggest, respecting the truth of the charge, and appeals
to her for his sentence. The queen seizes upon some artful expressions
of parental tenderness that fall from Philip, and implores him to
listen to the voice of nature; pleads eloquently the cause of Carlos,
and beseeches her husband to dismiss suspicion, and win back the
affections of his son by clemency and gentleness. Gomez is despatched
for the accused; the queen requests leave to retire, but is commanded
to remain. Carlos, on his entrance, demands to know of what fault he
has been guilty; the king speaks in an ambiguous manner, asserting his
acquaintance with the private thoughts of the prince, whom he
afterwards reproves for his communication with a leader of the rebels,
yet the monarch ostentatiously pardons him, telling him he owes his
impunity to the intercession of the queen, to whose counsel and
guidance he recommends him. They are dismissed; and the brief dialogue
between the king and his minister shows the result of their
investigations. The silent understanding and concert between them has
something in it more fearful than the most elaborate denunciation.
_Philip_. Heard you?
_Gomez_. I heard.
_Philip_. Saw you?
_Gomez_. I saw.
_Philip_. Distraction!
Suspicion then——
_Gomez_. Is certainty.
_Philip_. And yet
Philip is unrevenged?
_Gomez_. Think——
_Philip_. I have thought;
Follow you me.
_Act II, Scene 5_.
In the third act Carlos acquaints Isabella with her imprudence, in
speaking in his favor to the tyrant, and the probable consequences of
addressing thus one whose mercy is but the pledge of evil. She cannot
however believe the king an unnatural father, but promises never to
repeat so perilous an effort. After her departure, Gomez enters and
announces the king. To his hypocritical offers of service, Carlos
deigns no reply, but leaves him without uttering a word. Philip, with
his nobles and ministers, then appears upon the stage; and having
ordered the doors to be closed, in a set speech, accuses his son of
treason and an attempt upon his life; produces the blade which he
states to have fallen at his feet when the baffled assassin fled from
him; and having played off a feigned reluctance to hear the
condemnation of the criminal, leaves the sentence to their decision.
Gomez, with affected sympathy for the sufferings of the father,
confirms the accusation of treason by producing intercepted letters
alleged to have been written by the prince, that prove a treacherous
correspondence with the French; while Leonardo completes the catalogue
of crimes by charging him with heresy, and hurling against him the
denunciations of the church. They are proceeding to adjudge him to
death, encouraged by Philip, who tells them they stand in the
presence, not of the father, but the king, when Perez craves
permission to speak, and boldly vindicates the innocence of his
friend. The king, in displeasure, breaks up the assembly; his anger at
the boldness of Perez is only equalled by his wonder that such a
spirit could exist in his court.
“Alma si fatta
Nasce ov'io regno? e dov'io regno, ha vita?”
Carlos is afterwards surprised alone at night, by a body of soldiers,
led by his father. To the displeasure of Philip at finding him armed
at such an hour, he answers by submitting himself to the royal will.
The scene that ensues between father and son is terrible, and
powerfully depicts the native cruelty of the tyrant. He accuses the
youth of secret and atrocious designs—of attempted parricide.
_Carlos_. Of parricide! What hear I? Parricide?
Thyself canst not believe it. And what proof,
What inference, what suspicion?
_Philip_. Inference, proof
And certainty, I from thy paleness draw.
_Carlos_. Father! Oh, force me not, by fierce excess,
That fearful bound to pass, which 'twixt the subject
And sovereign—'twixt the father and the son,
Heaven, nature, and the laws have placed!
_Philip_. With foot
Most sacrilegious thou hast passed already,
Long since, that bound. What do I say? Unknown
It ever was to thee. Lay by the words
Of haughty virtue and severe; but ill
Such words become thee. Speak now as thou art;
Thy meditated treasons, and the many
Already ripe, unveil. What dost thou fear?
That I should be less great than thou art impious?
If truth thou speak'st and nought dost hide, then hope!
If aught thou dare conceal, then tremble!
_Carlos_. Truth
Severe thou forcest from me now. Myself
Too well I know, to fear; and thee, oh Philip!
Too well I know, to hope. The luckless gift,
My life, take back; 'tis thine; but mine my honor,
Which thou hadst never power to take nor give.
Guilty I should be, if to such confession
Base fear could lead me.
Here my latest breath {704}
Thou may'st behold me draw; long, cruel death,
And infamous prepare for me; no death
Degrades me. Thou alone, sire—thou alone
Wilt not weep tears of pity for my fate.
_Philip_. Rash youth! thus to thy sovereign lord dost offer
Excuse for all thy crimes?
_Carlos_. Excuse? Thou hat'st me,
That is mine only fault; thy thirst for blood
Mine only crime. Thy right alone, O king,
Is kingdom absolute.
_Philip_. Ho—guards—arrest him!
_Carlos_. Such is a tyrant's sole reply. These arms,
Lo! to the chain I give—lo! to the steel
I bare my breast. Wherefore delay? Dost now
Begin to soften? Day by day thy reign
Is written in black characters of blood.
_Philip_. Bear him hence—from my sight. In the next tower,
Unto the deepest dungeon. Wo to you
If any of you show compassion to him.
_Carlos_. Nay—fear not that. Thy ministers in cruelty
Do equal thee.
_Philip_. Drag him by force away;
Forth from my presence.
_Act IV, Scene 2_.
At the close of this appalling scene, Isabella enters in time to see
the prince dragged away by the guards. The king pretends, as before,
to attribute her emotion to fears for his own safety, and ironically
tells her to be comforted by the assurance that all danger to the
royal person is past; promising her that the traitor shall be visited
with summary punishment. The villain who would shed the blood of a
father, he suggests would not hesitate to take the life of a
step-mother. After this cruel hypocrisy, he leaves her to despair, and
she is joined by Gomez, who comes with offers of sympathy and
assistance. He brings the sentence of Carlos from the council, who
have adjudged him to death for an alleged attempt upon his father's
life; and the sentence only wants the king's signature. Gomez artfully
works upon her feelings; assures her that the prince's only fault is
his right to the crown, which Philip would bestow upon one of her
children. It is this, he says, that has caused the king's unnatural
hostility to his son. The crafty minister affects the warmest pity for
the unfortunate victim, and indignation for the cruelty of the
monarch. The queen, deceived by these representations, implores his
aid for the prince. Gomez answers that he will be too proud to accept
safety at his hands, or save himself by flight; and Isabella offers to
remove his scruples by a personal interview in the prison. The
minister covers the joy he feels at this proposal by an appeal to the
justice of heaven to protect the innocent.
The fifth act opens with a soliloquy of Carlos in the dungeon. He
wishes to die, but shrinks from the disgrace of an ignominious
execution, and dreads above all that the king should discover his
ill-fated attachment to the queen. The iron door opens, and Isabella
appears; she beseeches him to save himself from impending death.
Carlos, with a presentiment of despair, asks how she obtained access
to his prison. He believes her to have come with the knowledge of
Philip, and as a messenger of his vengeance.
_Isabella_. Doth Philip know it? Heaven!
Wo—if he did!
_Carlos_. What say'st thou? Philip here
Knows all. Who dares to break his stern command?
_Isabella_. Gomez.
_Carlos_. What do I hear? What fatal name,
Fearful, detestable!
_Isabella_. He is no foe
Of yours—as you may think——
_Carlos_. If I could ever
Believe he was my friend more shame would kindle
My cheek than e'er did wrath.
_Isabella_. Yet he alone
Feels pity now for you. 'Twas he revealed
The king's atrocious plot to me.
_Carlos_. Incautious!
Alas, too credulous, what hast thou done?
Why give to such compassion faith? If truth
He uttered—he—most impious minister
Of the most impious king—'twas with the truth
To cheat thee!
_Act V, Scene 2_.
Both are now in the tyrant's power; as a last resort, the prince
beseeches Isabella to begone from his dangerous presence.
_Carlos_. Away—if life be dear——
_Isabella_. To me—life dear?
_Carlos_. My honor then—thy fame! * * Go—hide thy tears;
Smother thy sighs in thine own breast; with eye
Unmoistened, with intrepid front, must thou
The tidings of my death receive.
It is too late; Philip enters, and scornfully upbraids them with their
mutual love, which they have vainly thought to conceal from his
discernment. He has long known it, but has suffered them to remain in
their delusion, that his revenge might more readily overtake them, and
now comes to rejoice in their last sufferings. The monster asserts
what is evident throughout, that his jealousy is not the object of
love, but of pride.
“Thou hast offended
In me thy sovereign king—and not thy lover;
The sacred name of Philip's wife hast stained.”
The unhappy pair vindicate their innocence, and excuse the attachment
which was honorable and proper before their forced separation. The
haughty tone that Isabella assumes contrasts strongly with her
previous submission, and shows that she has lost all hope. Gomez then
appears with a dagger and a cup of poison, which the king offers to
the choice of the lovers. Carlos chooses the dagger, yet reeking with
the blood of Perez, and stabs himself; but counsels the queen, who he
knows has said too much to hope for safety, to drink the poison, as a
less painful death. Isabella prepares to follow; but Philip,
perceiving that she rejoices in the prospect of death, bestows life
upon her as a punishment; she will not accept the cruel gift, but
snatching his dagger from his girdle, plunges it into her side, and
dies asserting her innocence.
The last words of the monster who witnesses the horrid scene intimate
something like remorse.
“Lo, full and fearful vengeance I obtain;
Yet am I happy? Gomez, be concealed
The dire event from all. By silence thou
Shalt save my fame, thy life.”
Before making any remarks upon this powerful play, we shall proceed to
analyze the corresponding production of Schiller, in order to present
the two pieces in as {705} close proximity as possible. In _Don
Carlos_, we are transported at once into the Spanish court, and the
tragedy has all the aids and appliances which a graphic delineation of
the manners of the age and country can give. We have no “voices in the
desert;” all around reminds us that we are among the ministers and
courtiers of a despotic monarch; there are the pomp and circumstance
of sovereign state; the jealousies, the repinings, the fears and the
plots of selfish and intriguing courtiers; the designs and labors of
patriotic enthusiasm and of less disinterested feelings, and the
contrast of innocence and unsuspicious credulity with artful malice.
The piece opens with an interview between the prince and the king's
confessor Domingo, which takes place in the royal garden at Aranjuez.
The priest artfully endeavors to learn the cause of the evident
melancholy cherished by Don Carlos. For this purpose, he alludes to
the queen, and the sorrow which the depression of her son-in-law has
occasioned her. The prince, with artifice of which he seems afterwards
ashamed, replies by accusing her of having cost him the affection of
his father; but Domingo cannot believe in his dislike.
“You mock me, prince. All Spain
Adores her queen. Can you with eye of hate
Behold what all esteem? * *
The loveliest woman in the world, a queen—
And once your bride. Impossible, my prince!
It cannot be! No—no. Where all men love
Can Carlos never hate; you cannot thus
Strangely gainsay yourself. Be sure the queen
Knows not how much she hath her son displeased;
'Twould be a grief to her.”
He goes on to assure the heir of her interest for him; and relates an
incident that occurred at a tournament, in which her fears for his
safety were involuntarily betrayed. Carlos haughtily replies:
“I much admire
The king's gay confidant, so aptly versed
In tales of curious wit.”
and adds in a more serious tone,
“Ever I've heard it said, the spy on looks,
And he who treasures tales, hath done more ill
In this wide world, than in the murderer's hand
The dagger or the poisoned cup. Your trouble,
Good sir, you might have spared; if thanks you wait,
Hence to the king.”
After the intimation of his suspicion that the confessor is placed as
a spy upon him by the king, he is relieved of the presence of Domingo,
and the Marquis of Posa enters. This personage, who plays a
conspicuous part in the drama, and is in fact the hero of the piece,
is a political enthusiast, whose whole soul is devoted to the
attainment of a favorite object, to which all his efforts and
intrigues have an ultimate tendency. The skill with which he lays his
plans, and the metaphysical subtlety with which they are carried on,
even to the delusion of the vigilant Philip, are developed in the
course of the tragedy; but it is proper to give this insight into his
character at first, to avoid the imputation of inconsistency and
folly, which would otherwise rest for a time upon his actions in the
mind of the reader. The delight of Carlos at again embracing his
friend just returned from a tour through Europe, is so excessive that
the marquis himself reproves his boyish weakness, which the prince
excuses by expressing his utter misery. In this and the other extracts
we are obliged to use our own translation, having never met with an
English version of the play. Carlos answers to the generous
suggestions of his friend.
Thou speak'st of time long past; I also once
Dreamed of a prince of Spain, in whose proud cheek
The fiery blood would mount, if one did speak
Of Liberty!—yet he is long since buried.
Whom thou seest here—he is no more the Carlos
Who in Alkala took his leave of thee,
Who with the sweet and glorious vision burned.
Creator of a new and golden age
For Spain to be; Oh, the design was simple,
Yet godlike still! Past is that dream!
_Marquis de Posa_. A dream!
Prince—Was it but a dream?
_Carlos_. Nay—let me weep;
Weep on thy breast hot tears—mine only friend!
I have none—none—in the wide full earth none;
Far as my father's regal sceptre reaches,
Far as the seaward breeze our flag sends forth,
There is no place—not one—where I may pour
My bitter tears, but this. O Roderick,
By all that thou and I may hope in heaven
Of future rest—drive me not hence!
_Act I, Scene 2_.
With pathetic earnestness the desolate prince reminds the marquis of
the days of their boyhood and their affection; relates an instance of
his own devotion to him, when he bore the punishment of some juvenile
offence committed by Posa, and resented by the king. The marquis
sympathizes but coldly with these emotions; his mind is occupied with
thoughts too high and momentous to find pleasure in the recollections
of childhood. He would pay the debt of kindness, however, in manlier
coin. The prince, in explanation of his previous agitation, and his
long cherished grief, confesses his love for the queen his
step-mother, and his eager wish for an interview with her without the
presence of malicious spectators. His friend, after exacting from him
a promise to undertake nothing without his knowledge and sanction,
engages to help him to a private audience. It is no part of the design
of Posa to discourage this unfortunate attachment, so long as he
fancies it can be made subservient to the accomplishment of his
schemes.
The next scene introduces us into the retirement of the queen.
Elizabeth of Valois, the wife of Philip, is surrounded by her ladies,
who converse upon their anticipated return to Madrid, and the sports
and festivals that wait to welcome the royal pair. These are savage as
the temper of the age; and the delight in anticipation displayed by
some of the noble dames calls for the mild reprehension of the gentle
queen. A better subject for discussion is offered in the approaching
marriage of the princess of Eboli, one of the ladies, to a nobleman of
Spain. The queen, with playful grace, inquires his merits of the
destined bride, but is surprised when the latter, in a passion of
tears, throws herself at her feet, and beseeches that she may be saved
from such a sacrifice. Elizabeth promises her liberty, then dismisses
the subject with an abruptness that shows unpleasing remembrances are
awakened in her mind, and asks for her daughter the Infanta Clara, a
child of three years old. The Duchess of Olivarez, who holds {706}
supremacy over the other ladies, suggests that it is not yet the hour
to admit the child to her mother's presence; and immediately after, a
page announces the Marquis of Posa, as having arrived from the
Netherlands, and waiting to present a letter to her majesty. The lady
of Olivarez objects to his admission at such a time and place, as a
violation of court etiquette, but is overruled by the queen, who
commands the entrance of the marquis, and permits her scrupulous
governess to retire. The noble knight is most graciously received; and
in the course of conversation takes occasion to relate a story bearing
much resemblance to the queen's own history—of a lady betrothed to a
prince who was afterwards supplanted by his uncle. Both Elizabeth and
the princess of Eboli are much interested in the narration; the former
then sends Eboli to fetch her daughter; the marquis seizes the
occasion to request leave to introduce his friend into the presence.
Carlos enters, and kneeling, kisses the hand of his mother-in-law: the
marquis and ladies retire out of sight. The scene that ensues is
admirable; the passionate sorrow and devotion of the prince, and the
dignity and inexorable virtue of the youthful queen, are beautifully
pictured. We cannot perceive that she cherishes a single emotion
towards Carlos, at variance with her duty to her royal husband. She
appeals to his manhood and heroic spirit to conquer his ill-fated
passion; “Elizabeth,” she says, “was your first love; let your second
be Spain.” He promises silence if not forgetfulness, and the Marquis
of Posa suddenly rushes in, announces the king, and leads his friend
hastily away. Philip enters with several of his nobles, and asks why
he finds his wife alone. The marchioness of Mondekar, who comes up at
this juncture, and attempts to divert the displeasure of the
sovereign, is dismissed by him from the court, and banished from
Madrid for ten years. The queen, indignant at the suspicions cast upon
herself, and the treatment of her domestic, evades a reply to the
king's questions, and bids the marchioness a weeping adieu, giving her
her girdle as a token of favor and remembrance. Philip utters a half
apology for his harshness, by expressing his anxiety to be without the
shadow of a rival in his wife's affections.
I am called
The richest man in Christendom; the sun
Goes never down on my domain; yet all
Another once possessed, and after me
Full many a monarch shall possess. One thing
Is all mine own. What the king has, belongs
To fortune—but Elizabeth to Philip.
He afterwards incidentally inquires of the courtiers after his son,
and enjoins it upon them to watch his movements. The Duke of Alba
willingly undertakes the task, boasting himself to be to the throne of
Spain what the cherub was to the gate of Paradise. After this
high-flown simile, Count Lerma ventures to speak in favor of the
prince, but is silenced by Philip, who then departs, accompanied by
the queen and his train. Carlos and Posa return; the former declares
his resolution to ask of his father the government of Flanders, which
he hopes to obtain by his solicitations, and thereby escape from the
temptations continually presented during his residence in the court.
He means to make a last appeal to parental feeling in the bosom of the
king, and hopes to regain the confidence and affection so long lost.
Posa expresses the most enthusiastic approbation of his purpose, and
they pledge inviolable friendship. The prince has a just appreciation
of the noble and disinterested character of his friend, and values his
esteem beyond aught in the world.
In the second act Carlos seeks the king, and implores a private
audience. The Duke of Alba is in presence, and is excessively
reluctant to depart; nor is it without displeasure that Philip, at the
repeated solicitations of his son, sends him away. The prince, alone
with his father, lays open his heart; implores forgiveness for his
offences, and expresses in the most ardent language, his dutiful
affection and desire for a perfect reconciliation. Upon the
machinations of designing courtiers, he charges the fault of the
breach that has so long existed between them; pleads that he will do
for good will the service his corrupted ministers do for their own
interests; that a purer fount of love than gold can purchase, swells
in the heart of Philip's son. The king is not unmoved by this generous
abandonment, but coldly answers that those he traduces are his proved
servants. With increasing earnestness Carlos appeals to the parental
feelings of his father; and the following picture of happiness
succeeds the startled admission of Philip that he is alone upon a
throne.
You have been so, my lord. Hate me no more,
And I will love you with a duteous love
And ardent; but oh, hate me not; How lovely,
How sweet it is, in a fair soul, to feel
Ourselves as holy things enshrined; to know
Our happiness another cheek doth kindle,
Our trouble doth another bosom swell,
Our sorrow fill with tears another's eyes.
How sweet and glorious is it, hand in hand,
With a beloved and duteous son, once more
To tread the rose-strewed path of early youth!
To dream again life's dream of pleasure o'er!
How sweet and blessed in your children's virtue,
Immortal, ever present to endure,
The benefactor of a century!
How fair to plant, what a beloved offspring
One day shall reap; to sow what shall make glad
Their future fields; to anticipate the joy,
The gratitude which they shall feel! My father,
Your priest is wisely silent of this Eden
On Earth!
Carlos then offers his petition that he may have the command of the
army appointed to quell the insurrection in Brabant. He hopes much
from the attachment of the Netherlands to him, and reasonably
anticipates that his appearance in person, his dignity as crown
prince, and the course of mildness and forbearance he proposes to
pursue, may bring them back to their allegiance. The king intimates
gloomily his suspicion that treacherous designs against his life are
concealed under the philanthropic zeal of his son; Carlos is
horror-struck and deeply wounded at the insinuation, but withdraws not
his prayer, pressing it more earnestly again and again, in spite of
the rising displeasure of the monarch. Philip haughtily and decisively
rejects his suit, having bestowed the command upon Alba, and commands
the mortified prince to remain in Spain; Carlos leaves the audience
chamber, and the Duke of Alba entering receives the royal orders to
prepare for his immediate departure to Brussels, to take his leave of
the queen {707} and the prince. The cautious courtier observes the
emotion yet visible on the countenance of his master, and asks if it
is caused by the subject of his conference with his son. Philip merely
tells him the subject of their conversation was Duke Alba; and thus
alarming his fears bids him seek a reconciliation with the prince,
hinting darkly his doubts of the honesty and candor of the noble duke,
who, troubled at this intimation, departs disconcerted.
The next scene takes place in an ante-chamber to the queen's
apartment. Carlos is in conference with a page belonging to the queen,
who has privately brought him a letter and a key. In a tumult of
contending feelings, the prince breaks the seal, and at the same
moment duke Alba crosses to the inner chamber. The letter is in a
female hand, and appoints a meeting in a cabinet attached to her
majesty's apartments, safe from intrusion, where the writer promises
that “the reward of love” shall be bestowed. Carlos is ignorant of the
queen's hand writing, but does not for a moment imagine the letter to
be from any other than herself. In this supposition he is confirmed by
the page, whom he knows to belong to Elizabeth, and who replies to his
eager questions that the letter was given him by “her own hand.” The
possessor of the hand is not named by either—and hence arises the
mistake. The surprise and agitation of the prince are extreme; yet in
the bitterness of a spirit wounded by unkindness, he does not hesitate
to accept the bliss he fancies offered to him. Before he can escape
from the ante-chamber, Alba enters and requests a conference. A long
interview follows, which at length, in spite of the studied calmness
of the duke, terminates in a dispute; both draw their swords, but are
interrupted by the queen, who rushes from her chamber. The effect of
her appearance is instantaneous; Carlos at a word of remonstrance from
her, drops his sword, and embracing Alba asks his forgiveness. The
queen, accompanied by the duke, returns into her closet.
We are next introduced into a cabinet, where the Princess of Eboli,
fancifully dressed, is playing on the lute. She is enamored of the
prince, and is anxiously awaiting the return of the messenger, by whom
she despatched her letter. The page of the preceding scene appears—she
starts up and hastily questions him; he relates the words and the
emotion of the prince on the reception of the billet, and informs her
that he may be momentarily expected. The boy is dismissed, and Carlos
enters the cabinet by means of the key conveyed to him by the page.
His surprise at finding himself alone with the princess of Eboli, his
embarrassment, and efforts to explain his apparently unexpected
appearance, are almost amusing. The graceful and animated conversation
of the lady does much to remove the first awkwardness of his mistake,
and he becomes insensibly interested, though quite unable to account
for the apparent pleasure with which his fancied intrusion is
received. The princess informs him of the king's design to bestow her
hand upon Don Ruy Gomez, Count of Silva, and of her aversion to the
match; and wishes to be guided by his counsel, which she asks as from
a dear friend. Her sentiments on love excite the admiration of the
prince, who nevertheless seems marvellously ignorant of the drift of
all her intimations.
_Princess of Eboli_. Love is alone the price of love. It is
The invaluable diamond, which I give
Freely away—or else, forever hid,
Must bury—like the noble-hearted merchant
Who all unmoved by the Rialto's gold,
Or king's displeasure, to the mighty sea
Gave back his pearl, too proud to part with it
Below its price!
Again she fancifully styles the passion, or rather the charms which
awaken it, “the sister hues of one divine beam—the leaves upon one
lovely flower.” The prince is enchanted with her wit and beauty, and
the crisis approaches.
_Princess of Eboli_. Long since had I departed from this court,
And from the world departed; buried me
Within the cloister's walls, but that one tie
Still held me back—one tie, that to the world
Binds me with force resistless. Ah! perchance
A phantom! yet so dear to me! I love;
And I am——not beloved.
_Carlos_. You are—you are!
Truly as God doth dwell in Heaven. I swear it—
You are—unspeakably.
_Princess of Eboli_. And dost thou swear it!
That was indeed mine angel's voice! Yes—yes!
If thou dost swear it—Carlos—then indeed
Do I believe——I am!
This avowal on the lady's part is understood; but the prince—though he
opens his arms to receive her when in the transport of affection she
throws herself into them—has no idea of returning in coin the love so
unexpectedly offered to him. A sudden thought has struck him; it is no
less than to make the enamored princess a confidant of his attachment
to his mother-in-law. He does not dream of the existence of such a
thing as feminine jealousy; but is proceeding, in accordance with his
mad design, to acquaint her with his love for another, when she
suddenly interrupts his communication by her exclamations of horror
and surprise. The truth flashes upon her mind; and in an agony of
shame she demands her key and letters. She had a few moments before
shown him a letter to her from the king, which he retains in his
possession. Carlos refuses to give up the letters, and leaves her to
mortification and regret. Reasoning upon what she has seen and heard,
she conjectures that the queen is her fortunate rival; nor can she
imagine the love of the prince unreturned by its object, however
elevated and passionless her royal mistress has hitherto appeared.
In the mean time, Duke Alba and Domingo are in conference. Alba
relates his meeting and dispute with Carlos, the sudden change in his
conduct at a glance from the queen, and his altered demeanor towards
him. The cautious priest replies that he has long suspected the
attachment hinted at, but uttered no suspicions so long as proof was
wanting. Another incident is mentioned by the Duke; he had observed
the countenance of the prince when he left his father,—it was sad and
overcast, but in the queen's ante-room, mantled with an expression of
triumphant joy. He had even expressed satisfaction at the appointment
of Alba to the command of the army to the Netherlands. The Duke
himself is disposed to consider this appointment more of a banishment
than a mark of favor. The two artful courtiers arrange a plot for the
ruin of the prince, who {708} is hateful to both on account of his
independent spirit, and dreaded by reason of his right to the crown.
Both agree that the suspicions of the king must be awakened; but to
the fulfilment of their plans there wants one ally, the Princess of
Eboli, who is beloved by the king. At this moment she appears; Alba
retires, and she directs the priest, who had been the bearer of the
king's letter to her, to signify to Philip her readiness to receive
him. Her insinuations against the honor of the queen, and vows that
she will expose her to the wrath of her husband, are answered with joy
by Domingo, who calls the Duke to confirm their league. It is agreed
that the princess shall first accuse the queen; as her majesty's
companion and confidant her testimony will be accepted. Domingo
suggests ingenious means of proof, and Alba mentions the page he had
seen in close conversation with Carlos; but Eboli, alarmed, diverts
their suspicion by hastily assuring them that no weight is to be
attached to such evidence.
Scene fourteenth exhibits Carlos in a remote monastery with a Prior,
with whom he awaits the arrival of the Marquis of Posa. The Prior
retires, and the prince relates to his friend the ill success of his
petition, and his further alienation from the king. He tells him also
of the mysterious summons, and his interview with the lady of Eboli;
shows the king's love-letter to her, and exulting, asserts that such a
document is sufficient to free the queen from her matrimonial
obligations. Posa warns him against the arts of the princess, and
unfolds her character; reasons against the blind passion which still
rages in the bosom of the prince, arouses his sense of shame, rebukes
him for his madness, and overwhelms him with the consciousness of
guilt. He obtains possession of the letter, and having listened to the
expressions of remorse and warm trust in him, which fall from the lips
of his repentant friend, rewards him by permitting him to seek an
audience with Elizabeth. The zealous politician perceives that the
only way to lead the prince to the fulfilment of his far-reaching
designs, is to take advantage of the queen's influence over him.
The third act opens in the king's sleeping chamber. Philip is alone; a
table, with a burning lamp, is near him, on which he leans in deep
thought, gazing upon a letter and a medallion lying before him. These
have been taken recently from a casket belonging to the queen, and
sent as proof of her guilt to the jealous sovereign, whose first words
show that the poison is working. He calls Count Lerma from the
adjoining chamber, and addresses him; but the unsuspicious old man
cannot comprehend the mysterious hints of the agitated monarch.
_Count Lerma_. My greatest—my best king——
_Philip_. King—only king!
And ever king! No better answer this
Than the dull solemn cavern's empty echo!
Upon this rock I strike, and will have water—
Water, to quench my burning fever's thirst—
He gives me glowing gold!
Lerma is dismissed and Duke Alba summoned; the letter is shown to him,
and he says he recognizes the prince's hand writing; encouraged to
speak freely, he mentions the fact of the presence of Carlos with the
queen in the garden at Aranjuez. After this information the king
suddenly changes his manner; haughtily dismisses the duke, and calls
his confessor. Domingo's evidence is in substance the same with that
of his fellow conspirator, but his doubts are more cautiously and
artfully expressed. Having heard him through, Philip recalls Alba, and
charges both with a plot for the destruction of his son: alluding to
Alba's hostility, he remarks—
How gladly would the innocent man now arm
His petty spite with my wrath's giant arm!
I am the bow, ye think in your wild fancies,
That may be bent for service at your will!
Yet have I mine own pleasure, &c.
After reflection, the king declares his intention to command a public
trial of the queen, and reminding them that her doom will be death if
found guilty—asks if they, as her accusers, will embrace the
alternative, and submit to the same sentence, if she is proved
innocent. Duke Alba consents to support his charge on these terms, and
is ordered to wait further commands in the audience chamber.
In the hall of audience are assembled the prince and grandees of
Spain, waiting the arrival of the sovereign. Medina Sidonia, the
admiral, has just returned from an unsuccessful expedition.
_Medina Sidonia_. I lost him a brave fleet
Such as ne'er yet did crown the seas. What is
A head like this, against full seventy,
Seventy sunken gallies! But, my prince,
Five sons I lost—hopeful as you—that breaks
My heart——
The unfortunate commander has sealed his own doom in the opinion of
those around him; for none are ignorant that there is a cloud on the
royal brow. The admiral would rather face English cannon than the
displeasure of his master, but is comforted by Carlos, who exhorts him
to hope the best from the king's grace and his own innocence. When he
kneels to relate his misfortunes to Philip, he is graciously pardoned
for the faults of storms and rocks, and welcomed to Madrid. The king
then inquires the reason of the absence of the Marquis of Posa, who
has failed to pay his duty at the feet of his sovereign since his
return from his journey. The Count Lerma, Duke Alba and the Duke of
Feria in turn praise the Marquis, and relate the noble deeds he has
accomplished.
_Philip_. I am amazed. And what must be the man
Hath done all this, yet among three, thus questioned,
Hath not a single foe? Be sure, this man
Must have a character most singular,
Or none at all; if but to wonder at,
I must speak with him.
(_to Duke Alba_) After mass is heard,
Conduct him to my cabinet.
The boldness and dignity displayed by the Marquis in the subsequent
interview with the king, develop his character, and unfold the project
to which he had devoted his life. Bent on the accomplishment of his
object, the deliverance of the Netherlands from oppression, he
hesitates not to condemn Philip's policy in the government of his
distant provinces. The king seems not displeased at his boldness, and
from grave remonstrance the enthusiast soon passes to the most
impassioned pleading. With earnest eloquence he paints the spirit of
independence that is abroad, and warns the monarch not to oppose his
will to this growing power.
_Marquis_. You hope to end, as you have now begun! {709}
Hope to retard the change o'er Christendom
Already ripe—the universal spring,
The world to bring again to pristine childhood.
You will, alone throughout all Europe, throw
Yourself against the wheel of a world's fate,
Which unimpeded in full course doth roll.
Again,
You, who would fain plant for eternity,
Sow death! A work thus forced can ne'er endure
Beyond its maker's breath!
Although the king listens without anger to such declamation, he soon
after coldly dismisses the subject, and expressing a wish to engage
the disinterested Posa in his service, sounds him upon the subject of
Carlos and the queen. The Marquis is silent at Philip's first allusion
to his domestic troubles.
_King_. I understand you.
Yet if among all fathers I must be
The most unhappy—as a husband, may I not
Call myself blest?
_Marquis of Posa_. If the possession of
A hopeful son, a wife most virtuous,
Can give a mortal right to be thus deemed,
You are most blest in both.
_King_. No—I am not!
And that I am not—have I never felt
So deeply as even now!
_Marquis of Posa_. The prince is noble
And good. I never found him otherwise.
_King_. But I have. What he hath despoiled me of,
No sceptre can restore—a noble queen——
_Marquis of Posa_. Who dares to say so, Sire?
_King_. Who? Calumny!
The world! Myself! Here lie the proofs that both
Condemn, incontrovertibly—and others
Are close at hand, which make me fear the worst.
Yet, Marquis, it is sad if I believe
Only one side! Who is't accuses her?
If _she_ could e'er be thought to stoop so low,
So deeply to imbrue her soul in crime,
How readily may I believe, in sooth,
An Eboli can slander!—And the priest,
Doth he not hate my son—and her? Duke Alba—
Know I not that he meditates revenge?
My wife is worth them all.
* * * * *
To fall into such crime, as they do charge
Upon the queen, costs much. So easily,
As they would fain persuade me, is not broken
The holy tie of honor. Men I know,
Marquis—and such a man I long have lacked.
You are noble and free-hearted—know mankind—
And therefore have I chosen you.
_Marquis of Posa_. Me—Sire?
_King_. You stand before your lord—and yet have nought—
Nought for yourself to beg. That's new to me.
You shall be just; emotion from your glance
Can ne'er conceal itself. Watch well my son:
Search the queen's heart. I will permission give
you
To speak with her in private. Leave me now.
_Act III, Scene 10_.
Posa takes advantage of this permission speedily to demand an audience
of the queen. Act fourth opens in her apartment, where she welcomes to
her presence the princess of Eboli, who has been for some days
indisposed. Agitated from the consciousness of guilt, the unhappy girl
implores leave to retire, and passes out as the Marquis enters,
bearing as he alleges a message from the king. At his special request,
the ladies withdraw; and not noticing the extreme surprise of
Elizabeth at seeing him employed as a royal messenger, he proceeds to
the real object of his visit—warns her of danger, and gives her a
letter from Carlos, imploring an interview. Posa warmly seconds this
request, and overcomes the queen's scruples by assuring her that the
measure is necessary, not only to the private happiness of the prince,
but to the weal of the state. The liberty of Flanders is sacrificed;
and Alba's appointment as leader of the royal army has struck a death
blow to the hopes of the people. But one way remains to prevent the
destruction impending over those provinces, and their loss by the
Spanish crown; it must be undertaken by the prince—who must be
persuaded to the enterprise by her.
_Marquis of Posa_. He must
Be disobedient to the royal will,
Must privately betake himself to Brussels;
With open arms the Flemings there await him.
The Netherlands will to his standard throng,
A good thing is made strong by the alliance
Of a king's son. He makes the Spanish throne
Tremble before his arms. That which the king
Refused in Madrid, he constrained will grant
In Brussels.
After some hesitation, the queen consents to what she imagines a
measure of necessity, and writes a few lines to Carlos, recommending
him to follow the advice of the Marquis. Their interview is ended by
the appearance of the Duchess of Olivarez.
Meanwhile Count Lerma, with good intent, but injudicious zeal, warns
Carlos against the Marquis of Posa; acquaints him with his long
audience and close confidence with the king; and mentions that he
heard from the door his own name and Elizabeth's uttered. The prince
thanks him for his caution, which excites in his bosom no distrust of
his friend, as is proved by their subsequent interview. Posa gives him
the queen's note, then asks for it, as it is more safe in his custody.
With evident reluctance, Carlos confides the precious paper to his
hands, than as if ashamed of his suspicion, throws himself trembling
with agitation upon his neck.
The next scene is in the royal cabinet, when Philip is alone with the
Infanta, his daughter. The medallion and letter are before him; he has
thrown the former in a transport of jealousy upon the floor. The queen
enters and throws herself at his feet, strongly agitated, demanding
justice against the felon who has robbed her casket. The offender, she
suggests, must be of rank, for a pearl and diamond of immense value
were left untouched, and only a letter and medallion taken away. To
the king's stern questions she answers without hesitation, that both
were gifts from the prince, sent before her marriage with the king.
Her openness and unevasive answers convey to the mind of the reader
the most perfect conviction of her entire innocence; the slightest
wavering or shadow of fear would have marred all. The child finds the
medallion on the floor and brings it to her mother; who then in a
strain of beautiful remonstrance rebukes the king for his unjust
suspicions {710} and unfair trial of her. Philip acknowledges that the
casket was opened at his command, and haughtily asks if she has never
deceived him, reminding her of the scene in the garden at Aranjuez.
The queen candidly confesses her disingenuous evasion of his inquiries
at that time; but excuses herself by charging her lord with
unwarrantable harshness of manner, before her domestics. She would not
be judged then as a culprit before the assembled courtiers, and
therefore suffered him to suppose she had been alone. She censures
also his cruel injustice towards his son, and avows the warmest esteem
for the prince, who had once been her affianced husband. As a near
relative, and one who has borne a name yet nearer, tenderness is due
to him. As might be expected the king reproves this unusual boldness;
becoming more violent he pushes the child away; the queen, offended at
his invectives, takes her daughter by the hand, and with dignified
composure walks to the door of the cabinet. She can proceed no
further, but overcome by her feelings falls in a swoon on the
threshold; the alarm is given; she is carried to her apartment by her
women, but not till the news of so ominous an incident is spread
through the court. Philip dismisses his courtiers, but welcomes
eagerly the Marquis of Posa, who demands a private audience, and gives
the king a pocket-book, which he says he took from the prince's
chamber. Among the papers it contains, is the letter from the princess
of Eboli to Carlos; at sight of this paper a light flashes upon the
mind of the king, who perceives her motive for traducing her mistress.
The Marquis receives permission to control the movements of the
prince, and a full warrant for his arrest and imprisonment, should he
at any time deem such a measure necessary.
In the gallery Carlos meets again the boding Count Lerma. The old man
describes his pocket-book, of blue velvet wrought with gold, and tells
him he saw it in the king's hand, while Posa stood beside him, and
received the royal thanks for “the discovery.” The prince cannot
disbelieve a story so well attested, but fears not for himself; his
whole soul is bent to secure the safety of the queen, which he
conceives endangered by the unfortunate note sent to him by Posa, that
was in the pocket-book when he gave it to the Marquis. It is a
beautiful trait in the character of this youth, that under no
circumstances does it enter his head to doubt the nobleness of his
friend. Even in the face of this damning evidence, his only
exclamation is, “I have lost him!” He knows the Marquis to be actuated
by motives higher than those affecting the private safety or happiness
of any man in the realm; and if he imagines that he is to be offered
up for the good of a nation, he thinks not of charging with treachery
or cruelty the man who, he is convinced, is impelled by necessity to
the course he pursues.
Duke Alba and Domingo, burning with envy and jealousy towards Posa,
repair to the queen, and warn her against him. She receives their
protestations of loyal devotion with haughty coldness.
_Queen_. Most worthy sir, and you, my noble Duke,
You do surprise me, truly. Such devotion
From the Duke Alba—from Domingo—sooth,
I ne'er expected. And I know full well
How I must value it. You speak of plots
Which threaten me—may I inquire——
_Alba_. We pray you
Look well unto the lord of Posa, he,
Private commission from his Majesty
Who holds.
_Queen_. I hear with pleasure, sirs, unmixed,
The king hath chosen so well. I long have heard
The Marquis, as a noble knight, reported—
As a great man. Never was royal favor—
The highest grace—more righteously bestowed.
_Domingo_. More righteously bestowed? Nay—we know better.
We are next introduced to the apartment of the princess of Eboli. The
repentant lady is surprised by Carlos, who in despair of assistance
from any other source, comes to beseech her, by her past tenderness
for him, to help him to an audience with his mother. In her extreme
surprise and confusion, she scarcely comprehends his request; they are
interrupted by the Marquis of Posa, followed by two officers of the
guard. Displaying the royal warrant, he arrests Carlos, and hurries
him away before he has time to utter another word; then endeavors to
learn from the lady how much he has already communicated. He holds a
dagger to her breast, threatening to murder her if she will not
disclose the secret; then struck by a sudden thought, releases her.
Eboli rushes to the queen's presence and falls at the feet of her
mistress, to announce the prince's arrest by the Marquis.
_Queen_. Now, God be praised, it was by Posa's hand
He was made prisoner.
_Princess of Eboli_. And say you that
So calmly, queen? So coldly? Righteous Heaven!
You think not—Oh! you know not——
_Queen_. Wherefore he's
A prisoner? For some error, I suppose,
Which to the headlong character of youth
Was natural.
_Princess of Eboli_. Oh no—no! I know better!
O queen! An infamous, a devilish deed!
For him there is no safety more! He dies!
_Queen_. He dies?
_Princess of Eboli_. And I—I am his murderess!
_Queen_. He dies? Insane—consider you.
_Princess of Eboli_. And wherefore,
Wherefore dies he? Oh, could I but have known
That it would come to this!
_Queen_. (_taking her hand_.) Princess, your senses
Have quite forsaken you. Collect your spirits,
Compose yourself—that without looks of horror
That so affright me, you may tell me all.
What know you? What has happened?
_Princess of Eboli_. Oh, not thus,
Not with such heavenly condescension—not
So graciously—my mistress! Flames of hell
Rage in this conscious breast. I am not worthy
To raise my look profane up to that summit
Of purity and glory. Crush, oh, crush
The wretch who at your feet lies bowed by
shame,
Repentance—self-abhorrence!
_Queen_. Unhappy girl,
What have you to confess?
_Princess of Eboli_. Angel of light!
Pure being! Yet you know not—you suspect not
The demon whom you smile upon so sweetly. {711}
Now learn to know him. I—I was the felon
Who robbed your casket.
_Queen_. You?
_Princess of Eboli_. And who delivered
That letter to the king.
_Queen_. You?
_Princess of Eboli_. And who dared
Accuse you.
_Queen_. You—you could——
_Princess of Eboli_. Revenge—love—madness—
I hated you—I loved the prince.
_Queen_. You loved him?
_Princess of Eboli_. I told him of my passion—and I found
No answering love.
_Queen_. (_after a pause_) Oh now—is all unriddled!
Stand up: you loved him—I forgive you all—
All is forgotten now; arise! (_takes her by the
arm_.)
_Princess of Eboli_. No—no!
A horrible confession yet remains.
Not yet, great queen!
After the disclosure which ensues, the queen, in silence, retires to
her closet. She can forgive duplicity and malice towards herself, but
her nature revolts from such infamy as is revealed to her. The Duchess
of Olivarez enters from the closet, and demands from the prostrate
princess her cross and key; she delivers them up, listens a few
moments in vain for the queen's return, then despairing, rushes out.
In the presence of Elizabeth, the Marquis of Posa speaks in a tone of
the greatest despondency, announcing the loss of the game in which he
had staked his life. Yet he quiets her apprehensions on the prince's
account; the cause demanded one victim, and he has devoted himself.
With melancholy presentiment of his own approaching fate, he commits
his friend to the queen, whom he beseeches to regard him with
unalterable affection, that he may yet fulfil the high destiny
reserved for him and be a benefactor to his people.
In the mean time the king's ante-room is crowded by the nobles of
Spain, and the royal ministers, waiting to see the monarch, who has
forbid all access to his person. Don Raimond von Taxis brings an
intercepted letter to the Prince of Orange, that he must deliver to
Philip without delay. He enters the royal cabinet; Alba and Domingo
remain without in suspense, trembling for their own fate; the other
courtiers busy themselves in conjectures respecting the strange
conduct of the king—the imprisonment of his son, and the ominous
aspect of affairs. Count Lerma comes into the ante-chamber, apparently
shocked, and summons Alba to the presence. The princess of Eboli
hastily enters from without and is rushing to the king, but is held
back by Domingo; at length Alba returns and announces their complete
triumph.
The explanation of these events is reserved for the last act, which
discovers Carlos in a dungeon, into which the Marquis enters. Though
the unfortunate youth can no longer doubt the perfidy of his friend,
he does not dream of reproaching him for an act he is convinced sprang
from necessity, but only regrets that the queen should have been
involved in his destruction. Convinced that both are victims
deliberately sacrificed, his surprise is extreme when Posa gives him
again the queen's letter that he had committed to his safe keeping,
and had imagined in the hands of Philip. An eclaircissement ensues; in
the midst of which Duke Alba enters to announce his freedom, and
apologize on the part of the king for the mistake that led to his
imprisonment. The prince refuses to take back his sword, or leave the
dungeon till his father comes in person to restore him to liberty.
Alba departs with this message to the king, and the Marquis, exulting
in the success of his scheme, explains fully all his past conduct. He
has seemed to be the prince's enemy only that he may serve him better.
When deceived by Count Lerma's officious representations, Carlos had
thrown himself at the feet of the princess of Eboli, and Posa had
arrived too late to prevent a confession, which in the hands of that
envious woman might ruin all, the Marquis had suddenly resolved upon a
bold manœuvre. This was no less than to divert the king's suspicions
to himself, and thereby secure time for the prince's escape to
Brabant. For this purpose he wrote the letter to the Prince of Orange,
stating that he (the Marquis) was in love with the queen; that he
sought to fix the sovereign's suspicion upon his son, who was not only
innocent of the offence, but had endeavored, through the princess of
Eboli, to warn his mother-in-law against the arts of Posa. This
letter, as the writer intended, was intercepted by Taxis, and carried
to the king; and, in consequence, the prince was restored to favor.
The Marquis implores the prince to escape into Flanders, where his
duty lies; Carlos refuses to leave him; at the same instant a shot is
heard through the prison door, and the gallant Posa falls and expires.
The king and nobles enter; Philip offers to embrace his son, who
repels him indignantly, and discloses the fact that Posa was his
friend.
Here your approach is death—I'll not embrace you.
(_to nobles_) Why stand ye thus embarrassed round? What deed
Of horror have I done? Have I assailed
The Lord's anointed? Fear ye nought. I lay
No hand on him. Behold ye not the brand
Upon his brow? Him God hath marked!
None of the reproaches of Carlos are so bitter to his father, as his
taunting allusions to the fraud practised upon the king by the
deceased.
Your favor you bestowed
On him—he died for me. Your confidence,
Your friendship you did urge—nay, force upon him;
Your sceptre was the play-thing of his hands;
He cast it forth, and died for me! And was
It possible? Could you give credit—you—
To such a dull deceit? How slightly he
Must have esteemed you, that he ever dreamed
With this poor mockery to overreach you!
* * * * *
He was no man for you! He knew it
Himself right well—as he, with all your crowns,
Rejected you. This holy heart was crushed
Beneath your iron hand. You could do nought
But murder him! * *
Even you he could have made
Most fortunate! His heart was rich enough
In its o'erflow to have contented you.
A fragment of his spirit would have made you
A God! * *
O you, who stand assembled here {712}
With wonder and with terror mute, condemn not
The youth who dared reproachful words to utter
Against his father and his king. Lo, here!
For me he died! Have you yet tears? Flows blood,
Not molten brass, within your veins? Look here—
Condemn me not!
(_To the King_.) And you, perhaps, await
The close of this unnatural history.
Here is my sword: you are my king again.
Think you I tremble at your sovereign vengeance?
Slay me, as you have slain the best and noblest.
My life is forfeited. I know it well.
What now is life to me? All I renounce
That in this world awaits me. Seek henceforth
'Mong strangers for your son. Here lies my kingdom!
A tumult is heard without, and an officer of the guard enters in
haste.
_Officer_. Rebellion!
Where is the king?—All Madrid is in arms!
In countless crowds the raging populace
Surround the palace. They exclaim—the prince
Is in arrest, his life in mortal peril.
The people will behold him living, safe,
Or Madrid will be soon in flames!
_Nobles_ Save—save
The king!
_Alba_. Fly, sire—there's danger—hasten hence;
We know not yet who arms the populace.
_King_. (_waking from a stupor_.)
Stands my throne firm? Am I yet sovereign here?
I am no longer king——These cowards weep,
Made tender by a boy. They only wait
The signal, from my side to fall away.
I am betrayed by rebels.
_Alba_. Sire—my king!
What dreadful fantasy——
_King_. Lo! yonder—haste,
Prostrate yourselves! Before a promising
And youthful king kneel down! I now am nothing
But an old powerless man!
_Alba_. Is't come to this?
Spaniards!
_King_. Go—clothe him in the royal robes!
Lead him o'er my crushed corpse!
The attendants bear off his majesty, and Carlos, left alone, is joined
by Merkado, physician to the Queen, who brings her request for an
interview, that she may communicate to him his deceased friend's last
charge. The prince is to be in the vault at midnight, in the habit of
a monk, that he may be taken for the ghost of the dead emperor by the
superstitious guards.
The Dukes of Feria and Alba meet in the king's ante-chamber waiting
for an audience. Alba has a new discovery to make; a monk has been
arrested, who had found private access to the prince's apartment. In
the fear of death, he produced a paper, consigned to his care by the
Marquis of Posa, and addressed to Carlos, appointing his proposed
interview with the Queen at midnight, his subsequent departure from
Madrid for the Netherlands, and his rebellion, at the head of those
provinces, against the Spanish yoke. Philip enters, but evidently in
no condition to hear the communication of his ministers. His
passionate grief for the death of Posa, and his lamentations,
strikingly display the pride which is the ruling passion of his
nature.
_King_. Give the dead back to me; I must possess him
Again.
_Domingo_. (_to Alba_.) Speak you to him.
_King_. He thought so poorly
Of me, and died i' the error. I must have him
Again; he must think otherwise of me!
_Alba_. Sire——
_King_. Who speaks here? have you forgotten whom
You stand before? Why kneel you not—bold man?
I am your king, and I will have submission.
Must all neglect, because there's one has dared
Despise me?
_Alba_. O, no more of him, my lord!
Another foe, important as he was,
Is in your kingdom's heart!
_Feria_. Prince Carlos——
_King_. He had a friend, who has met death for him;
For him—with me he had a kingdom shared!
How looked he down on me! So haughtily
None look down from a throne.
* * * * *
The dead is here no more. Who dares to say
That I am happy? In the grave dwells one
Who did withhold esteem from me! What worth
Are all the living to me? One high spirit,
One freeborn man, lived in this century;
One—he despised me—and died!
_Alba_. So we
Have lived in vain! Let us, too, Spaniards, go
Down to the grave! Even in death, this man
Of the king's heart doth rob us!
The reflections of Philip show that he also discerned the lofty
character of the deceased:
To whom brought he
This offering?—to the boy my son? No—never!
I'll ne'er believe it. For a boy dies not
A Posa. Friendship's sordid flame fills not
A Posa's heart. It stretched itself to embrace
Humanity. * * *
Not Philip he disdained for Carlos—but
The old man to the youth, his hopeful scholar.
The father's setting sun could not enlighten
His new day's work. The task he but deferred
For the son's rising light!
_Act V, Scene 9_.
An officer enters with the intelligence of the ghost seen in the
vault. The king having at length been made to comprehend the new
danger, sends for the Grand Inquisitor, and orders the entrances to
the vault to be stopped. The ensuing interview of Philip with the aged
dignitary, and the humility with which the haughty sovereign receives
the rebuke of the church, shows the superstition often attendant upon
cruelty. The king informs him of his designs respecting his son, and
asks,
Canst thou a new belief establish,
That shall excuse us a son's bloody death?
_Grand Inquisitor_. To appease eternal righteousness, expired
The Son of God upon the cross.
_King_. Thou wilt
Throughout all Europe this opinion spread?
_Gr. Inq._ Far as the Cross is honored.
_King_. I do violence {713}
To nature; her all-powerful voice wilt thou
To silence also bring?
_Gr. Inq._ Before Belief
Avails no voice of nature.
_King_. I resign
My office as his judge into thy hands.
May I do this?
_Gr. Inq._ Give him to me.
The cold and brief manner in which this arrangement is concluded is
appalling. The plot hastens to its catastrophe. In a remote apartment
the queen's last meeting with the doomed prince takes place. Our last
extract shall be a part of the final scene.
_Carlos_. (_sinking on one knee before her_.) Elizabeth!
_Queen_. And thus we meet again!
_Carlos_. And thus we meet again!
_Queen_. Arise; we will not,
Carlos, grow weak. Not with unworthy tears
Must the great dead be honored. Tears may flow
For smaller ills! He offered up himself
For you! * * * O, Carlos,
I spoke for you. On my security
He left this place in joy. Will you my words
Make false?
_Carlos_. A monument I'll build to him—
No king had e'er the like. Above his dust
Shall bloom a paradise.
_Queen_. So have I wished!
That was the mighty meaning of his death!
He chose me his last will to execute;
I claim the debt of you. I hold you bound
To the fulfilment of this oath!
Carlos has awakened from his former madness; devoted only to the
accomplishment of his friend's dying request, he disclaims the
entertainment of any other feelings for the queen than an affection
founded on the circumstance that she was the confidant and friend of
the Marquis. At this juncture the King, Grand Inquisitor, and Nobles
appear in the back-ground, unperceived by the Prince or Elizabeth.
_Carlos_. Now I depart from Spain,
And see my father in this life no more;
I cannot love him—nature in my breast
Is now extinct—be you again his wife;
His son is lost to him. Return to duty.
I go to rescue my oppressed people
From tyrant hands. Madrid sees me as king,
Or never more. Now for our last farewell!
* * * Did you hear nought?
_Queen_. No, nothing—save the clock
That sounds our separation.
_Carlos_. Then good night,
Mother; from Ghent you will receive the letter
Which shall the secret of this interview
Make public. I depart—henceforth with Philip
To walk an open path. Henceforth between us
There's nothing secret. You shall never need
To shun the world's eyes.
This is my last deceit. (_Attempts to put on his
mask—the king steps between them_.)
_King_. It is your last! (_Queen falls senseless_.)
_Carlos_. (_catches her in his arms_.) Is she dead?
Oh, heaven and earth!
_King_. Cardinal! I have done
My part—do yours!
We have occupied so much space in the details of this long and
intricate play, that we are compelled to curtail our remarks, and as
much as possible. Schiller has undoubtedly rendered his tragedy the
more interesting, from the glowing picture he presents of the manners
of the times. In the character of the Queen we think he has succeeded
better than Alfieri; in that of Philip, not so well. Schiller's Philip
is a tyrant; but the tyrant in Alfieri is painted in colors infinitely
stronger. Perhaps we are shown too uniformly the darker side of the
picture, but it is in all respects a powerful one. It was a bold and
fine thought in the Italian poet, to represent the monarch of Spain as
keeping himself aloof from all confidence or support from others, and
shrouding his designs ever in the inscrutable veil of hypocrisy. Even
in the presence of Gomez, his tried counsellor and servant, Filippo
maintains the same guarded and haughty reserve. His commands are brief
and laconic to a studied degree, and his follower in cruelty rather
divines his meaning, from his long habits of sharing in the schemes of
his master, than gathers the full import of the words uttered, from
the king's language. On no occasion does the king express openly what
we might suppose his feelings; it is only by his actions, and by
penetrating through his habitual deceit, that we are able to judge of
his plans. In the council scene, his hypocrisy deceives all his
courtiers; and in the catastrophe, the half-spoken expression of
rising remorse is checked on the instant, while he imposes silence,
under the penalty of death, on his accomplice in crime. This character
is one which it well suited the austere genius of Alfieri to depict;
one touch of relenting, or of a communicative spirit towards his
servant, and the whole had been marred. He walks with unfaltering step
towards the goal of his intent, wrapped in cold and impenetrable
reserve. Far different is the King that Schiller has painted. He is
comparatively open-hearted; and exhibits a confidence and candor
towards the Marquis of Posa, a being whose nature could never accord
with his, that seems to us quite misplaced in the character of a
tyrant like Philip. His jealousy is also that of pride, and pride is
his master passion; but the author has not done well to make him
indulge in such lengthened soliloquies. The Queen is a beautiful
creation; ingenuousness, dignity, and tenderness are finely displayed
in her lovely character. In aristocratic and feminine reserve, she is
much superior to Isabella in Alfieri, whose passion and devotedness
are more undisguised than is becoming to her sex and station. We do
not admire the readiness with which she discloses her still lingering
preference for Carlos; and her hesitation and embarrassment in
presence of the King, are unfavorably contrasted with the boldness,
founded on the consciousness of innocence, in Schiller's Elizabeth.
Alfieri has but sketched his other personages; Gomez is a reflection
of his master, and Perez appears but once to any purpose. The minor
persons in the German drama are, on the other hand, highly
interesting. The princess of Eboli is natural; her jealous attachment
to the prince urging her into a conspiracy which ends in his
destruction, her subsequent remorse and confession of guilt, and vain
efforts to save him, are all natural and dramatic. The character of
the Marquis of Posa might itself form the subject of an essay. A
citizen of the world, and devoted to the {714} accomplishment of his
Utopian schemes of government, his friendship is secondary to this
pervading and ruling desire. Hence his manner to Carlos on their first
interview after his return to Spain. He has early accustomed himself
to look upon his friend as the crown prince, and to anticipate the
high destiny he is to fulfil. This idea gives constraint to his
demeanor; and while Carlos opens his arms to welcome the friend of his
bosom, the political dreamer and enthusiast kneels at his feet. It
would have been the part of a true friend to discourage the
unfortunate attachment between the prince and his mother-in-law, but
it occurs to the Marquis that Flanders would have nothing to hope from
Carlos, while he languished with hopeless love. Liberated from the
thraldom of absorbing misery, he might be moulded to any thing his
friend could desire; and with this view Posa himself undertakes to
further his wishes. There is much that is noble in the character of
the prince; with a tender and benevolent heart, enthusiasm for all
that is great and good and beautiful, with delicacy and firmness of
nature, and generosity amounting to a fault, his imprudence and want
of foresight occasion all his misfortunes. The elements of future
greatness are in his nature, but his fiery impatience of temperament
prevent his obeying the dictates of an elevated judgment.
We have little to say upon the conduct of the plot and the style of
these two plays. The last scenes in Schiller's tragedy are too long,
and the catastrophe not striking; “Filippo” in this respect contrasts
favorably with it; the closing scene, as in most of Alfieri's pieces,
is brief, rapid and animated. We cannot admire the stratagem of the
ghost's appearance in the German play. The style of two productions so
different in character, the one adhering rigidly to the prescribed
rules of the classic school, and the other admitting all the exuberant
graces and dramatic effect belonging to another and more modern
system, can hardly be compared. The diction of Alfieri is severe and
harsh, and his extreme brevity might pass for affectation. That of the
German dramatist is far more pleasing and poetical. The work of the
latter is in almost every respect most to our taste, though Alfieri
has decidedly the advantage in his delineation of Philip.