Иоганн Вольфганг фон Гёте
Egmont
Mother. That is not as it should be.
Clara. I liked him once, and in my soul I like him still I could have married him; yet I believe I was never really in love with him.
Mother. Thou wouldst always have been happy with him.
Clara. I should have been provided for, and have led a quiet life.
Mother. And through thy fault it has all been trifled away.
Clara, I am in a strange position. When I think how it has come to pass, I know it, indeed, and I know it not. But I have only to look upon Egmont, and I understand it all; ay, and stranger things would seem natural then. Oh, what a man he is! All the provinces worship him. And in his arms, should I not be the happiest creature in the world?
Mother. And how will it be in the future?
Clara. I only ask, does he love me? – does he love me? – as if there were any doubt about it.
Mother. One has nothing but anxiety of heart with one's children. Always care and sorrow, whatever may be the end of it! It cannot come to good! Thou hast made thyself wretched! Thou hast made thy Mother wretched too.
Clara (quietly). Yet thou didst allow it in the beginning.
Mother. Alas! I was too indulgent; I am always too indulgent.
Clara. When Egmont rode by, and I ran to the window, did you chide me then? Did you not come to the window yourself? When he looked up, smiled, nodded, and greeted me, was it displeasing to you? Did you not feel yourself honoured in your daughter?
Mother. Go on with your reproaches.
Clara (with emotion). Then, when he passed more frequently, and we felt sure that it was on my account that he came this way, did you not remark it yourself with secret joy? Did you call me away when I stood behind the window-pane and awaited him?
Mother. Could I imagine that it would go so far?
Clara (with faltering voice, and repressed tears). And then, one evening, when, enveloped in his mantle, he surprised us as we sat at our lamp, who busied herself in receiving him, while I remained, lost in astonishment, as if fastened to my chair?
Mother. Could I imagine that the prudent Clara would so soon be carried away by this unhappy love? I must now endure that my daughter —
Clara (bursting into tears). Mother! How can you? You take pleasure in tormenting me!
Mother (weeping). Ay, weep away! Make me yet more wretched by thy grief. Is it not misery enough that my only daughter is a castaway?
Clara (rising, and speaking coldly). A castaway! The beloved of Egmont a castaway! – What princess would not envy the poor Clara a place in his heart? Oh, Mother, – my own Mother, you were not wont to speak thus! Dear Mother, be kind! – Let the people think, let the neighbours whisper what they like – this chamber, this lowly house is a paradise, since Egmont's love dwelt here.
Mother. One cannot help liking him, that is true. He is always so kind, frank, and open-hearted.
Clara. There is not a drop of false blood in his veins. And then, Mother, he is indeed the great Egmont; yet, when he comes to me, how tender he is, how kind! How he tries to conceal from me his rank, his bravery! How anxious he is about me! so entirely the man, the friend, the lover.
Mother. DO you expect him to-day?
Clara. Have you not seen how often I go to the window? Have you not noticed how I listen to every noise at the door? – Though I know that he will not come before night, yet, from the time when I rise in the morning, I keep expecting him every moment. Were I but a boy, to follow him always, to the court and everywhere! Could I but carry his colours in the field – !
Mother. You were always such a lively, restless creature; even as a little child, now wild, now thoughtful. Will you not dress yourself a little better?
Clara. Perhaps, Mother, if I want something to do. – Yesterday, some of his people went by, singing songs in honour. At least his name was in the songs! The rest I could not understand. My heart leaped up into my throat, – I would fain have called them back if I had not felt ashamed.
Mother. Take care! Thy impetuous nature will ruin all. Thou wilt betray thyself before the people; as, not long ago, at thy cousin's, when thou roundest out the woodcut with the description, and didst exclaim, with a cry: "Count Egmont!" – I grew as red as fire.
Clara. Could I help crying out? It was the battle of Gravelines, and I found in the picture the letter C. and then looked for it in the description below. There it stood, "Count Egmont, with his horse shot under him." I shuddered, and afterwards I could not help laughing at the woodcut figure of Egmont, as tall as the neighbouring tower of Gravelines, and the English ships at the side. – When I remember how I used to conceive of a battle, and what an idea I had, as a girl, of Count Egmont; when I listened to descriptions of him, and of all the other earls and princes; – and think how it is with me now!
[Enter Brackenburg.
Clara. Well, what is going on?
Brackenburg. Nothing certain is known. It is rumoured that an insurrection has lately broken out in Flanders; the Regent is afraid of its spreading here. The castle is strongly garrisoned, the burghers are crowding to the gates, and the streets are thronged with people. I will hasten at once to my old father. (As if about to go.)
Clara. Shall we see you to-morrow? I must change my dress a little. I am expecting my cousin, and I look too untidy. Come, Mother, help me a moment. Take the book, Brackenburg, and bring me such another story.
Mother. Farewell.
Brackenburg (extending his hand). Your hand.
Clara (refusing hers). When you come next.
[Exeunt Mother and DAUGHTER.
Brackenburg (alone). I had resolved to go away again at once; and yet, when she takes me at my word, and lets me leave her, I feel as if I could go mad, – Wretched man! Does the fate of thy fatherland, does the growing disturbance fail to move thee? – Are countryman and Spaniard the same to thee? and carest thou not who rules, and who is in the right? I wad a different sort of fellow as a schoolboy! – Then, when an exercise in oratory was given; "Brutus' Speech for Liberty," for instance, Fritz was ever the first, and the rector would say: "If it were only spoken more deliberately, the words not all huddled together." – Then my blood boiled, and longed for action. – Now I drag along, bound by the eyes of a maiden. I cannot leave her! yet she, alas, cannot love me! – ah – no – she – she cannot have entirely rejected me – not entirely – yet half love is no love! – I will endure it no longer! – Can it be true what a friend lately whispered in my ear, that she secretly admits a man into the house by night, when she always sends me away modestly before evening? No, it cannot be true! It is a lie! A base, slanderous lie! Clara is as innocent as I am wretched. – She has rejected me, has thrust me from her heart – and shall I live on thus? I cannot, I will not endure it. Already my native land is convulsed by internal strife, and do I perish abjectly amid the tumult? I will not endure it! When the trumpet sounds, when a shot falls, it thrills through my bone and marrow! But, alas, it does not rouse me! It does not summon me to join the onslaught, to rescue, to dare. – Wretched, degrading position! Better end it at once! Not long ago, I threw myself into the water; I sank – but nature in her agony was too strong for me; I felt that I could swim, and saved myself against my will. Could I but forget the time when she loved me, seemed to love me! – Why has this happiness penetrated my very bone and marrow? Why have these hopes, while disclosing to me a distant paradise, consumed all the enjoyment of life? – And that first, that only kiss! – Here (laying his hand upon the table), here we were alone, – she had always been kind and friendly towards me, – then she seemed to soften, – she looked at me, – my brain reeled, – I felt her lips on mine, – and – and now? – Die, wretch! Why dost thou hesitate? (He draws a phial from his pocket.) Thou healing poison, it shall not have been in vain that I stole thee from my brother's medicine chest! From this anxious fear, this dizziness, this death-agony, thou shalt deliver me at once.
ACT II
SCENE I. – Square in Brussels
Jetter and a Master Carpenter (meeting)
Carpenter. Did I not tell you beforehand? Eight days ago, at the guild, I said there would be serious disturbances?
Jetter. Is it, then, true that they have plundered the churches in Flanders?
Carpenter. They have utterly destroyed both churches and chapels. They have left nothing standing but the four bare walls. The lowest rabble! And this it is that damages our good cause. We ought rather to have laid our claims before the Regent, formally and decidedly, and then have stood by them. If we speak now, if we assemble now, it will be said that we are joining the insurgents.
Jetter. Ay, so every one thinks at first. Why should you thrust your nose into the mess? The neck is closely connected with it.
Carpenter. I am always uneasy when tumults arise among the mob – among people who have nothing to lose. They use as a pretext that to which we also must appeal, and plunge the country in misery.
[Enter Soest.
Soest. Good day, sirs! What news? Is it true that the image-breakers are coming straight in this direction?
Carpenter. Here they shall touch nothing, at any rate.
Soest. A soldier came into my shop just now to buy tobacco; I questioned him about the matter. The Regent, though so brave and prudent a lady, has for once lost her presence of mind. Things must be bad indeed when she thus takes refuge behind her guards. The castle is strongly garrisoned. It is even rumoured that she means to fly from the town.
Carpenter. Forth she shall not go! Her presence protects us, and we will ensure her safety better than her mustachioed gentry. If she only maintains our rights and privileges, we will stand faithfully by her.
[Enter a Soapboiler.
Soapboiler. An ugly business this! a bad business! Troubles are beginning; all things are going wrong! Mind you keep quiet, or they'll take you also for rioters.
Soest. Here come the seven wise men of Greece.
Soapboiler. I know there are many who in secret hold with the Calvinists, abuse the bishops, and care not for the king. But a loyal subject, a sincere Catholic – !
(By degrees others join the speakers, and listen.)
[Enter Vansen.
Vansen. God save you, sirs! What news?
Carpenter. Have nothing to do with him, he's a dangerous fellow.
Jetter. Is he not secretary to Dr. Wiets?
Carpenter. He has already had several masters. First he was a clerk, and as one patron after another turned him off, on account of his roguish tricks, he now dabbles in the business of notary and advocate, and is a brandy-drinker to boot. (More people gather round and stand in groups.)
Vansen. So here you are, putting your heads together. Well, it is worth talking about.
Soest. I think so too.
Vansen. Now if only one of you had heart and another head enough for the work, we might break the Spanish fetters at once.
Soest. Sirs! you must not talk thus. We have taken our oath to the king.
Vansen. And the king to us. Mark that!
Jetter. There's sense in that? Tell us your opinion.
Others. Hearken to him; he's a clever fellow. He's sharp enough. I had an old master once, who possessed a collection of parchments, among which were charters of ancient constitutions, contracts, and privileges. He set great store, too, by the rarest books. One of these contained our whole constitution; how, at first, we Netherlanders had princes of our own, who governed according to hereditary laws, rights, and usages; how our ancestors paid due honour to their sovereign so long as he governed them equitably; and how they were immediately on their guard the moment he was for overstepping his bounds. The states were down upon him at once; for every province, however small, had its own chamber and representatives.
Carpenter. Hold your tongue! We knew that long ago! Every honest citizen learns as much about the constitution as he needs.
Jetter. Let him speak; one may always learn something.
Soest. He is quite right.
Several Citizens. Go on! Go on! One does not hear this every day.
Vansen. You citizens, forsooth! You live only in the present; and as you tamely follow the trade inherited from your fathers, so you let the government do with you just as it pleases. You make no inquiry into the origin, the history, or the rights of a Regent; and in consequence of this negligence, the Spaniard has drawn the net over your ears.
Soest. Who cares for that, if one has only daily bread?
Jetter. The devil! Why did not some one come forward and tell us this in time?
Vansen. I tell it you now. The King of Spain, whose good fortune it is to bear sway over these provinces, has no right to govern them otherwise than the petty princes who formerly possessed them separately. Do you understand that?
Jetter. Explain it to us.
Vansen. Why, it is as clear as the sun. Must you not be governed according to your provincial laws? How comes that?
A Citizen. Certainly!
Vansen. Has not the burgher of Brussels a different law from the burgher of Antwerp? The burgher of Antwerp from the burgher of Ghent? How comes that?
Another Citizen. By heavens!
Vansen. But if you let matters run on thus, they will soon tell you a different story. Fie on you! Philip, through a woman, now ventures to do what neither Charles the Bold, Frederick the Warrior, nor Charles the Fifth could accomplish.
Soest. Yes, yes! The old princes tried it also.
Vansen. Ay! But our ancestors kept a sharp look-out. If they thought themselves aggrieved by their sovereign, they would perhaps get his son and heir into their hands, detain him as a hostage, and surrender him only on the most favourable conditions. Our fathers were men! They knew their own interests! They knew how to lay hold on what they wanted, and to get it established! They were men of the right sort! and hence it is that our privileges are so dearly defined, our liberties so well secured.
Soest. What are you saying about our liberties?
All. Our liberties! our privileges! Tell us about our privileges.
Vansen. All the provinces have their peculiar advantages, but we of Brabant are the most splendidly provided for. I have read it all.
Soest. Say on.
Jetter. Let us hear.
A Citizen. Pray do.
Vansen. First, it stands written: – The Duke of Brabant shall be to us a good and faithful sovereign.
Soest. Good! Stands it so?
Jetter. Faithful? Is that true?
Vansen. As I tell you. He is bound to us as we are to him. Secondly: In the exercise of his authority he shall neither exert arbitrary power, nor exhibit caprice, himself, nor shall he, either directly or indirectly, sanction them in others.
Jetter. Bravo! Bravo! Not exert arbitrary power.
Soest. Nor exhibit caprice.
Another. And not sanction them in others! That is the main point. Not sanction them, either directly or indirectly.
Vansen. In express words.
Jetter. Get us the book.
A Citizen. Yes, we must see it.
Others. The book! The book!
Another. We will to the Regent with the book.
Another. Sir doctor, you shall be spokesman.
Soapboiler. Oh, the dolts!
Others. Something more out of the book!
Soapboiler. I'll knock his teeth down his throat if he says another word.
People. We'll see who dares to lay hands upon him. Tell us about our privileges! Have we any more privileges?
Vansen. Many, very good and very wholesome ones too. Thus it stands: The sovereign shall neither benefit the clergy, nor increase their number, without the consent of the nobles and of the states. Mark that! Nor shall he alter the constitution of the country.
Soest. Stands it so?
Vansen. I'll show it you, as it was written down two or three centuries ago.
A Citizen. And we tolerate the new bishops? The nobles must protect us, we will make a row else!
Others. And we suffer ourselves to be intimidated by the Inquisition?
Vansen. It is your own fault.
People. We have Egmont! We have Orange! They will protect our interests.
Vansen. Your brothers in Flanders are beginning the good work.
Soapboiler. Dog! (Strikes him.)
(Others oppose the Soapboiler, and exclaim,) Are you also a Spaniard?
Another. What! This honourable man?
Another. This learned man?
(They attack the Soapboiler.)
Carpenter. For heaven's sake, peace!
(Others mingle in the fray.)
Carpenter. Citizens, what means this?
(Boys whistle, throw stones, set on dogs; citizens stand and gape, people come running up, others walk quietly to and fro, others play all sorts of pranks, shout and huzza.)
Others. Freedom and privilege! Privilege and freedom!
[Enter Egmont, with followers.
Egmont. Peace! Peace! good people. What is the matter? Peace, I say! Separate them.
Carpenter. My good lord, you come like an angel from heaven. Hush! See you nothing? Count Egmont! Honour to Count Egmont!
Egmont. Here, too! What are you about? Burgher against burgher! Does not even the neighbourhood of our royal mistress oppose a barrier to this frenzy? Disperse yourselves, and go about your business. 'Tis a bad sign when you thus keep holiday on working days. How did the disturbance begin?
(The tumult gradually subsides, and the people gather around Egmont.)
Carpenter. They are fighting about their privileges.
Egmont. Which they will forfeit through their own folly, – and who are you? You seem honest people.
Carpenter. 'Tis our wish to be so.
Egmont. Your calling?
Carpenter. A Carpenter, and master of the guild.
Egmont. And you?
Soest. A shopkeeper.
Egmont. And you?
Jetter. A tailor.
Egmont. I remember, you were employed upon the liveries of my people. Your name is Jetter.
Jetter. To think of your grace remembering it!
Egmont. I do not easily forget any one whom I have seen or conversed with. Do what you can, good people, to keep the peace; you stand in bad repute enough already. Provoke not the king still farther. The power, after all, is in his hands. An honest burgher, who maintains himself industriously, has everywhere as much freedom as he wants.
Carpenter. That now is just our misfortune! With all due deference, your grace, 'tis the idle portion of the community, your drunkards and vagabonds, who quarrel for want of something to do, and clamour about privilege because they are hungry; they impose upon the curious and the credulous, and, in order to obtain a pot of beer, excite disturbances that will bring misery upon thousands. That is just what they want. We keep our houses and chests too well guarded; they would fain drive us away from them with fire-brands.
Egmont. You shall have all needful assistance; measures have been taken to stem the evil by force. Make a firm stand against the new doctrines, and do not imagine that privileges are secured by sedition, Remain at home; suffer no crowds to assemble in the streets. Sensible people can accomplish much.
(In the meantime the crowd has for the most part dispersed.)
Carpenter. Thanks, your excellency – thanks for your good opinion! We will do what in us lies. (Exit Egmont.) A gracious lord! A true Netherlander! Nothing of the Spaniard about him.
Jetter. If we had only him for a Regent? 'Tis a pleasure to follow him.
Soest. The king won't hear of that. He takes care to appoint his own people to the place.
Jetter. Did you notice his dress? It was of the newest fashion – after the Spanish cut.
Carpenter. A handsome gentleman.
Jetter. His head now were a dainty morsel for a heads-man.
Soest. Are you mad? What are you thinking about?
Jetter. It is stupid enough that such an idea should come into one's head! But so it is. Whenever I see a fine long neck, I cannot help thinking how well it would suit the block. These cursed executions! One cannot get them out of one's head. When the lads are swimming, and I chance to see a naked back, I think forthwith of the dozens I have seen beaten with rods. If I meet a portly gentleman, I fancy I already see him roasting at the stake. At night, in my dreams, I am tortured in every limb; one cannot have a single hour's enjoyment; all merriment and fun have long been forgotten. These terrible images seem burnt in upon my brain.
SCENE II. – Egmont's residence
His Secretary (at a desk with papers. He rises impatiently)
Secretary. Still he comes not! And I have been waiting already full two hours, pen in hand, the paper before me; and just to-day I was anxious to be out so early. The floor burns under my feet. I can with difficulty restrain my impatience. "Be punctual to the hour: " Such was his parting injunction; now he comes not. There is so much business to get through, I shall not have finished before midnight. He overlooks one's faults, it is true; methinks it would be better though, were he more strict, so he dismissed one at the appointed time. One could then arrange one's plans. It is now full two hours since he left the Regent; who knows whom he may have chanced to meet by the way?
[Enter Egmont.
Egmont. Well, how do matters look?
Secretary. I am ready, and three couriers are waiting.
Egmont. I have detained you too long; you look somewhat out of humour.
Secretary. In obedience to your command I have already been in attendance for some time. Here are the papers!
Egmont. Donna Elvira will be angry with me, when she learns that I have detained you.
Secretary. You are pleased to jest.
Egmont. No, no. Be not ashamed. I admire your taste. She is pretty, and I have no objection that you should have a friend at the castle. What say the letters?
Secretary. Much, my lord, but withal little that is satisfactory.
Egmont. 'Tis well that we have pleasures at home, we have the less occasion to seek them from abroad. Is there much that requires attention?
Secretary. Enough, my lord; three couriers are in attendance.
Egmont. Proceed! The most important.
Secretary. All is important.
Egmont. One after the other; only be prompt.
Secretary. Captain Breda sends an account of the occurrences that have further taken place in Ghent and the surrounding districts. The tumult is for the most part allayed.
Egmont. He doubtless reports individual acts of folly and temerity?
Secretary. He does, my lord.
Egmont. Spare me the recital.
Secretary. Six of the mob who tore down the image of the Virgin at Verviers have been arrested. He inquires whether they are to be hanged like the others.
Egmont. I am weary of hanging; let them be flogged and discharged.
Secretary. There are two women among them; are they to be flogged also?
Egmont. He may admonish them and let them go.
Secretary. Brink, of Breda's company, wants to marry; the captain hopes you will not allow it. There are so many women among the troops, he writes, that when on the march, they resemble a gang of gypsies rather than regular soldiers.
Egmont. We must overlook it in his case. He is a fine young fellow, and moreover entreated me so earnestly before I came away. This must be the last time, however; though it grieves me to refuse the poor fellows their best pastime; they have enough without that to torment them.
Secretary. Two of your people, Seter and Hart, have ill-treated a damsel, the daughter of an inn-keeper. They got her alone and she could not escape from them.
Egmont. If she be an honest maiden and they used violence, let them be flogged three days in succession; and if they have any property, let him retain as much of it as will portion the girl.
Secretary. One of the foreign preachers has been discovered passing secretly through Comines. He swore that he was on the point of leaving for France. According to orders, he ought to be beheaded.
Egmont. Let him be conducted quietly to the frontier, and there admonished that, the next time, he will not escape so easily.
Secretary. A letter from your steward. He writes that money comes in slowly, he can with difficulty send you the required sum within the week; the late disturbances have thrown everything into the greatest confusion.
Egmont. Money must be had! It is for him to look to the means.
Secretary. He says he will do his utmost, and at length proposes to sue and imprison Raymond, who has been so long in your debt.
Egmont. But he has promised to pay!
Secretary. The last time he fixed a fortnight himself.
Egmont. Well, grant him another fortnight; after that he may proceed against him.
Secretary. You do well. His non-payment of the money proceeds not from inability, but from want of inclination. He will trifle no longer when he sees that you are in earnest. The steward further proposes to withhold, for half a month, the pensions which you allow to the old soldiers, widows, and others. In the meantime some expedient may be devised; they must make their arrangements accordingly.
Egmont. But what arrangements can be made here? These poor people want the money more than I do. He must not think of it.
Secretary. How then, my lord, is he to raise the required sum?
Egmont. It is his business to think of that. He was told so in a former letter.
Secretary. And therefore he makes these proposals.
Egmont. They will never do; – he must think of something else. Let him suggest expedients that are admissible, and, before all, let him procure the money.
Secretary. I have again before me the letter from Count Oliva. Pardon my recalling it to your remembrance. Before all others, the aged count deserves a detailed reply. You proposed writing to him with your own hand. Doubtless, he loves you as a father.
Egmont. I cannot command the time; – and of all detestable things, writing is to me the most detestable. You imitate my hand so admirably, do you write in my name. I am expecting Orange. I cannot do it; – I wish, however, that something soothing should be written, to allay his fears.
Secretary. Just give me a notion of what you wish to communicate; I will at once draw up the answer, and lay it before you. It shall be so written that it might pass for your hand in a court of justice.
Egmont. Give me the letter. (After glancing over it.) Dear, excellent, old man! Wert thou then so cautious in thy youth? Didst thou never mount a breach? Didst thou remain in the rear of battle at the suggestion of prudence? – What affectionate solicitude! He has indeed my safety and happiness at heart, but considers not, that he who lives but to save his life, is already dead. – Charge him not to be anxious on my account; I act as circumstances require, and shall be upon my guard. Let him use his influence at court in my favour, and be assured of my warmest thanks.
Secretary. Is that all? He expects still more.
Egmont. What can I say? If you choose to write more fully, do so. The matter turns upon a single point; he would have me live as I cannot live. That I am joyous, live fast, take matters easily, is my good fortune; nor would I exchange it for the safety of a sepulchre. My blood rebels against the Spanish mode of life, nor have I the least inclination to regulate my movements by the new and cautious measures of the court. Do I live only to think of life? Am I to forego the enjoyment of the present moment in order to secure the next? And must that in its turn be consumed in anxieties and idle fears?
Secretary. I entreat you, my lord, be not so harsh towards the venerable man. You are wont to be friendly towards every one. Say a kindly word to allay the anxiety of your noble friend. See how considerate he is, with what delicacy he warns you.
Egmont. Yet he harps continually on the same string. He knows of old how I detest these admonitions. They serve only to perplex and are of no avail. What if I were a somnambulist, and trod the giddy summit of a lofty house, – were it the part of friendship to call me by my name, to warn me of my danger, to waken, to kill me? Let each choose his own path, and provide for his own safety.
Secretary. It may become you to be without a fear, but those who know and love you —
Egmont (looking over the letter). Then he recalls the old story of our sayings and doings, one evening, in the wantonness of conviviality and wine; and what conclusions and inferences were thence drawn and circulated throughout the whole kingdom! Well, we had a cap and bells embroidered on the sleeves of our servants' liveries, and afterwards exchanged this senseless device for a bundle of arrows; – a still more dangerous symbol for those who are bent upon discovering a meaning where nothing is meant, These and similar follies were conceived and brought forth in a moment of merriment. It was at our suggestion that a noble troop, with beggars' wallets, and a self-chosen nickname, with mock humility recalled the King's duty to his remembrance. It was at our suggestion too – well, what does it signify? Is a carnival jest to be construed into high treason? Are we to be grudged the scanty, variegated rags, wherewith a youthful spirit and heated imagination would adorn the poor nakedness of life? Take life too seriously, and what is it worth? If the morning wake us to no new joys, if in the evening we have no pleasures to hope for, is it worth the trouble of dressing and undressing? Does the sun shine on me to-day, that I may reflect on what happened yesterday? That I may endeavour to foresee and control, what can neither be foreseen nor controlled, – the destiny of the morrow? Spare me these reflections, we will leave them to scholars and courtiers. Let them ponder and contrive, creep hither and thither, and surreptitiously achieve their ends. – If you can make use of these suggestions, without swelling your letter into a volume, it is well. Everything appears of exaggerated importance to the good old man. 'Tis thus the friend, who has long held our hand, grasps it more warmly ere he quits his hold.
Secretary. Pardon me, the pedestrian grows dizzy when he beholds the charioteer drive past with whirling speed.
Egmont. Child! Child! Forbear! As if goaded by invisible spirits, the sun-steeds of time bear onward the light car of our destiny; and nothing remains for us but, with calm self-possession, firmly to grasp the reins, and now right, now left, to steer the wheels here from the precipice and there from the rock. Whither he is hasting, who knows? Does any one consider whence he came?
