Standard Selections Part 66

ACT III, SCENE I

CHARACTERS: Hans Matthis, keeper of "the Merry Andrew"; Dr. Frantz, the magnetizer; the Judge.

SCENE: Alsatia, in a hamlet at the foot of the mountains; Christmas, 1868; a room in an inn. Matthis, a prosperous burgomaster, recalls with friends the murder of a Polish Jew, fifteen years before. He wonders that the murderer has never been apprehended. The sound of sleigh bells is heard and the apparition of the Jew appears. Matthis is prostrated by the incident and consults a mesmerist, Dr. Frantz, who a.s.sures him that he has power to compel a criminal to divulge his secret thought. Matthis isolates himself and sleeps alone to avoid eavesdropping. On the night of his daughter's wedding he makes payment of her dowry, and as the money is laid on the table a sleigh bell falls from among the gold coins. He seeks his own room, falls asleep and dreams that he is before the court and that Dr. Frantz is mesmerizing him.

_Enter_ MATTHIS

MAT. Happy fellow! happy fellows all of them! A man may play against fate if he only prepares his cards--I hold none but good ones in my hand. Ha, ha! They have their skins full of my best wine, and go home happy as kings. Ha, ha! there'll be some funny flounderings in the snow before they reach home. It's singular what magic is melted into wine--one draught, and all the clouds are sunshine. It's dark! it's very dark--and, though the wind has fallen, the fine snow sweeps down the road like a train of phantoms. All is well! You may shake hands with yourself, Hans Matthis! you have triumphed over both the world and Heaven! I am so sleepy! If I rest here a--a moment? Ah! One is always drowsy in cold weather. No one can hear me if I speak--in a dream--no one--the Jew!--dreams, nonsense! [_Sleeps_.]

_Enter_ DR. FRANTZ _and the_ JUDGE

DR. F. My lord, it is the will of this tribunal which leads me here, not mine.

JUDGE. Can you place that man in the mesmeric sleep?

DR. F. I can. But he is strong-willed, and the task may be hard.

MAT. No, no! I have no fear. [_Shudders; aside_.] Matthis, if you fall asleep you will be lost!

DR. F. [_to_ MATTHIS]. I will that you should sleep! [_Makes magnetic pa.s.ses while looking at_ MATTHIS.]

MAT. No, no!

DR. F. It is my will. He sleeps. What must I ask?

JUDGE. What he did on Christmas Eve, fifteen years ago.

DR. F. I command you to be on the night of December the four-and-twentieth, year 1853.

MAT. [_softly_]. Yes.

DR. F. What is the hour?

MAT. It is half-past eleven o'clock.

DR. F. Speak! It is my will!

MAT. The customers have left the inn. Catherine and little Annette have gone to bed. Kaspar comes in and says--the fire in the lime-kiln is drawing well. I answer: "Very good. Go to bed. I'll go have a look at it." He goes up stairs. I am alone with the Polish Jew, who is warming himself at the stove. All are asleep in the village. All I heard was the sleigh-bell jingling on the Polander's horse in the shed. There was two feet of snow on the ground. I thought of my want of money. If I did not have three thousand francs by the end of the month, the inn would be taken from me. I thought--no one is on the road--'tis night, and the Polander will be all alone in the snow. He is well-built, and strong.

[_As if he saw the man before him._] I warrant he will hold out stoutly if any one touches him. Ah! he looks at me with his little gray eyes. I must do my work! Yes. I shall risk it! I go out. It is black as ink, except for the falling snow. There would be no footsteps in the road. I search his sledge--he might have had pistols! but there are none. I will do it! Hark! no--not a sound, save a child crying--a goat bleating--and the tramp overhead of the Polander in his chamber. I went in. He comes down, and puts six francs on the table. I give him change. He looks a long look at me, and asks how far to Mootzig? Four short leagues, say I--and wish him a merry journey! He answers: "G.o.d bless you!" [_Pause._]

Ho, ho! the belt! the money-belt! He goes--he has gone! [MATTHIS _stooping, goes a few steps as if following a trail._] The axe--where is the axe? Ah! here--behind the door! How cold it is! Still falls the snow, and far above, I see the shooting stars. Haste, Matthis, for the prize--the money-belt! I follow--out of the village--to the open--how cold it is! [_Shivers._] Yonder looms up the big bridge--there ripples the rivulet out of sight under the snow. How the dogs bayed, on Daniel's farm! and the blacksmith's forge glowed red on the hill-side like a setting sun. Matthis, slay not the man! You are mad! You will be rich, and your wife and child will want for nothing! The Polander had no business to flaunt his money-belt in your face, when you owe money! The bridge! I am already at the bridge! And no one! how still it is! how cold! though I am warm--Hark! one o'clock by the village church! and the moon is rising! Oh! the Jew has pa.s.sed, and I am right glad of it! No!

what do I hear? the bell! the sleigh-bell. I shall be rich, I shall be rich, rich, rich! [_The bell tinkles._] Down! I have you, dog of a Jew!

He has his score settled! Not a finger stirs. All is over! Ah! Away rushes the horse with the sledge! but silently--the bell has been shaken off! Hark, hark--a step! No! only the wind and a fall of snow. Quick, quick, the money-belt! 'tis full! it bursts with my eager clutch! ah!

the coins have fallen! here, here and there! And now for home! no, no--the body--it must not tell its story! [_Rolls up the mantle and puts it on his shoulder._] Hush! the kiln, the lime-kiln. It is heavy! Into the fire. Jew! fire and flames for the Jew! Oh! what eyes! with what eyes does he regard me! Be a man, Matthis, look! look boldly! not even his bones are left! Now, away with the belt--pocket the gold--that's right! No one will ever know. The proofs are gone forever!

DR. F. What more shall he be asked?

JUDGE. No more. Wake him and let him see himself. [MATTHIS _sits in the chair as at first_.]

DR. F. Awake! I will it.

MAT. Where am I? Ah, yes--what have I done? Wretch! I have confessed it all! I am a lost man!

JUDGE. You stand self-condemned! Inasmuch as Hans Matthis, on the morning of the 25th of December, 1853, between the hours of midnight and one o'clock, committed the crime of murder and highway robbery upon the person of Baruch Koweski, with malice prepense, we condemn him to be hanged by the neck till death shall ensue. And may Heaven have mercy on his soul! Usher, let the executioner appear and take charge of the condemned. [_Curtain._

THE LADY OF LYONS

ROBERT BULWER LYTTON

ACT II, SCENE I

CHARACTERS: Pauline Deschappelles, the beautiful daughter and heiress of an aspiring merchant of Lyons, France; Claude Melnotte, the gardener's son, madly in love with Pauline.

Pauline aspires to an alliance with some prince or n.o.bleman.

Melnotte in the hope of winning her uses his small inheritance in educating himself and becomes an accomplished scholar, a skillful musician, a poet, and an artist. He pours forth his worship in a poem, but his suit is rejected and he is subjected to violent insult. Stung to remorse he enters into a plot to personate a prince, woo her in that guise, and take her as a bride to his mother's cottage on their wedding night. And, in the faint hope of winning her as a prince and keeping her love as an unt.i.tled man after he has revealed his ident.i.ty, Melnotte enters into a binding compact.

Scene: The garden of M. Deschappelles' house at Lyons.

_Enter_ MELNOTTE _as the Prince of Como, leading_ PAULINE

MEL. You can be proud of your connection with one who owes his position to merit--not birth.

PAULINE. Why, yes; but still--

MEL. Still what, Pauline?

PAULINE. There is something glorious in the heritage of command. A man who has ancestors is like a representative of the past.

MEL. True; but, like other representatives, nine times out of ten he is a silent member. Ah, Pauline! not to the past, but to the future, looks true n.o.bility, and finds its blazon in posterity.

PAULINE. You say this to please me, who have no ancestors; but you, prince, must be proud of so ill.u.s.trious a race!

MEL. No, no! I would not, were I fifty times a prince, be a pensioner on the dead! I honor birth and ancestry when they are regarded as the incentives to exertion, not the t.i.tle-deeds to sloth! I honor the laurels that overshadow the graves of our fathers--it is our fathers I emulate, when I desire that beneath the evergreen I myself have planted my own ashes may repose! Dearest! couldst thou but see with my eyes!

PAULINE. I cannot forego pride when I look on thee, and think that thou lovest me. Sweet Prince, tell me again of thy palace by the lake of Como; it is so pleasant to hear of thy splendors since thou didst swear to me that they would be desolate without Pauline; and when thou describest them, it is with a mocking lip and a n.o.ble scorn, as if custom had made thee disdain greatness.

MEL. Nay, dearest, nay, if thou wouldst have me paint The home to which, could love fulfill its prayers, This hand would lead thee, listen! A deep vale Shut out by Alpine hills from the rude world; Near a clear lake, margin'd by fruits of gold And whispering myrtles; gla.s.sing softest skies, As cloudless, save with rare and roseate shadows, As I would have thy fate!

PAULINE. My own dear love!

MEL. A palace lifting to eternal summer Its marble walls, from out a glossy bower Of coolest foliage, musical with birds, Whose songs should syllable thy name! At noon We'd sit beneath the arching vines, and wonder Why Earth could be unhappy, while the Heavens Still left us youth and love! We'd have no friends That were not lovers; no ambition, save To excel them all in love; we'd read no books That were not tales of love--that we might smile To think how poorly eloquence of words Translates the poetry of hearts like ours!

And when night came, amidst the breathless Heavens We'd guess what star should be our home when love Becomes immortal; while the perfumed light Stole through the mist of alabaster lamps, And every air was heavy with the sighs Of orange groves and music from sweet lutes, And murmurs of low fountains that gush forth I' the midst of roses!--Dost thou like the picture?