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