First performed at the Theatre de Ambigu-Comique, Paris, March 5, 1861 ;
Good morning, dear Madame Bemarr! Is my friend, the doctor, already out ?
Yes, before daybreak, to visit some poor patient— some one attacked, perhaps, with the last epidemic, which has not yet entirely left us! and you will see that in continually restoring health and strength to others, my poor Paul will at last lose his own.
Oh, no—have you not observed that the most contagious maladies respect the physicians who combat them ?
But I now remember that my son had also to receive some money this morning—and heaven knows we need it—so you must stay, Monsieur Karl, and breakfast with us. Excuse me a few moments, and pray do not leave, for I am certain that Paul will soon return.
Ah ! how happy are the sons who have such mothers!
Karl! Good day, good day !
Why, how sadly you look and speak, my friend; but luckily, I, unskilled as I am, have a remedy for that. Myself and my fellow students have resolved on a little holiday for this evening, and you shall accompany us.
I?
Yes, you! we have chosen for our gala the Black Bull Tavern, upon the Iser. There we will eat, drink and smoke, with other diversions to be hereafter thought upon. Between our two repasts, we will have a pull upon the water—and over our wine we will save Germany. What say you to all that?
Still, as ever, devoted to your pleasures.
Yes—though often I find them rather fatiguing; but what would you that I should do ? It is true that I am of a great and noble family. The Counts of Stromberg have ever held in Bavaria, a most exalted rank. Heaven having taken from me my mother, I could have wished to dwell always with my father and my sister, I loved them so entirely; but I could not endure my father's despotism.
Yes, I know—and it is he, perhaps, who, by too vigorously insisting on your prudence and wisdom, has driven you into folly.
Oh! there was a matter still more grave, which affected my sister Marguerite, and which, by-and-bye, perhaps, I may relate to you—in a word, I would have none of his assistance; became a student, but shall never be a physician—I lack the talent. But, opportunities for pleasure, they do not fail me, and I profit by them—something one must do, you know.
Study, then. When the science which I follow shall have given to you a few of the secrets which it reserves for the industrious, then will you wish to learn them all, and they are many.
I would gladly know—yes, and we will talk the subject over again—yes, to-morrow—for this evening you must be one of us.
No, Karl.
And why not ?
Because, as you must know, Karl, I am poor—the poorest of the very poor. I thought that, this morning, I should have received some money, a mere trifle, and I return home without a coin. My mother, she—she is far from strong—needs nourishing food and wine—and—Oh ! Karl—would you that I should leave her here, supperless, while I go forth to revel with you in your mad joys ?
Let her go with us, and we will make of her the queen of our fete !
You are mad. No; go and divert yourself, good Karl, and leave me in the old house bequeathed to me by my father; it is neither rich nor smiling, but it is a shelter, dear to the mother and her son, and, 'midst all their poverty, still sweet are the hours which they together pass within it.
Ah! Paul, how good you are, and how well you merit to be loved!
Indeed!
At present, however, she certainly shows no symptoms of the kind, for it is she who now speaks to me of Paul Bernarr, the excellent, the great physician!
What a boy you are!
Hark ! surely there is some one at the door.
I will see.
What is it ?
Yes ; because its owner, too poor to purchase bread, is also too poor to pay the taxes.
Ah, my poor friend!
Yes, pity me, since I am powerless to preserve to my mother this asylum for her old age.
And you have so laboured—are so learned, so skilful!
Why, then, am I not wealthy, to prove what you assert? Ah! why?
Between this and to-morrow those arrears of taxes must be paid. I have no money at present,
but have a rich idea,which shall bring me some.
No, no, Karl; it is for me to act, and I will leave no effort unattemped.
How, you are going out ?
We shall not be long, dear Madame Bernarr !
Whither go they so hurriedly ! He seemed agitated, too ! I will recall—or, follow him!
Away! What do you here ? You, who by your wicked contrivances, and for your own aggrandizement, caused our only remaining relatives to disinherit my poor son.
Notice !
Yes, certainly—your son not having paid his taxes, this house will be sold to-morrow.
I am surprised, for I expected to see—Ah!
Your son owes for taxes a hundred florins; I bring him that amount.
You are right—he who brings money to one who has none, is certainly a generous man.
Say as you will—all that you look upon as your own, is rightfully the property of my son.
You are quite right, Catherine, since your son is my sole heir—but I have no wish to force
my money upon you, if you have a mind this house should be sold —
Yes, sir, I––
Have the goodness to inform Doctor Bernarr that the Baron de Lambech would speak to him.
The Baron!
Doctor Rouspach!
He would not have needed my name to recognise me.
I will hasten!
If you please—for those have never time to lose who like myself have but one aim in view—to succour suffering humanity.
A singular meeting, gentlemen—three such men as we are—noble,
Celebrated, if you like—in the house of a poor devil, whom ordinarily we salute not in passing.
Oh, excuse me—-he's a brother physician.
My relative.
A relative who interests you, Peckmann, but very little, for he is not rich— a brother whom you should detest, learned Rouspach, for it is said, and I believe it, that he has great talent.
Those men who nobly have devoted themselves to the relief of suffering humanity, turn deaf ears to sneers and satire.
Pardon me, but, we are pressed for time—we will not then talk of your ears—too long a subject.
Eh—what's that?
And how is your noble patient, doctor—the Count de Stromberg?
Very well; however, you must not be astonished to hear, to-morrow, that he is seriously
ill.
The Count in danger—always?
Alas! yes.
You must cure him, then.
But how?
Cease to attend him.
Ah!—really!—indeed!
You are interested, then, in the Count's health ?
Well, yes, a little.
Say, a great deal, Herr Peckmann—and I will tell you, doctor, why he is so; and increase your importance by showing you what great interests you hold in your hands. I had a father, doctor, who died—although never a patient of yours. He lived joyously ; and his most emulative companions were the Count de Stromberg and Herr Peckmann—for this sombre Count was formerly very gay, and this good Peckmann here, once handsome—can you imagine it ? Ah—how we alter! Well, doctor, those three––
But, Baron, really there is no occasion to-––
Pardon me—great occasion, if it will amuse me. Well then, doctor, these three imagined and
executed a contract, by which the first who died left to be divided between the two others a
very considerable sum—but, by the terms of said contract, he of the two others who next
should die was bound to leave his share to the survivor. What happens now? Why, that Herr
Peckmann would rather he should be the survivor, and not the Count de Stromberg? Is
not such a desire on the part of a friend almost incredible ?
Would you think it natural that I should myself wish to go the first ?
Certainly not! and, therefore, to my thinking, you should be delighted that the Count's physician is the celebrated Doctor Rouspach.
Really, my dear patient, any one to hear your continual epigrams––
Would accuse me of ingratitude?
Would believe that I had saved your life.
Well, take comfort, for that is a thing which no one will ever believe. But, luckily for you—and for me—it is not a question of saving my life!—the question is to know why we, all three of us, are here ?
Ah!
Umph!
At any rate, one thing is clear—we are not here for any good.
Oh, Baron!
Virtuous man ! you look as if you could not agree with me. For myself, I confess, I am come to purchase the Doctor Bernarr; and it is to put him into evil service since I wish to take him into mine.
My dear Baron, I really do not understand you—it pleases you to say that you are wicked, and-----
Do not you say that I am good ! Do not seek to make me pass for an idiot; I have called myself wicked because I am so—and wish that all should know it.
He wishes that all should know it!
Because, my good fellows, I have discovered one truth ! In our world—and doubtless also in
others—it is evil which triumphs; if you doubt it, look around you—look at yourselves. I
placed myself on the side of evil, feeling certain that with the arms it furnishes I should
always conquer: I have always conquered, no one yet has ever stricken me.
What a braggadocia!
Once, yielding to a puerile temptation, I passed over to the side of good—ah! what a school! I failed in everything—was despised, plundered, pursued, tracked, crushed: then, with what delight I returned once more to evil!
But is it not very fatiguing ?
In what ? I make myself feared, and we are strong when we are dreaded—that for the power of
evil. Men say: if he is wicked, it is that he has need of no one; if he has need of no one,
he must be rich; and fortune comes quickly to the man thought wealthy—that is the
advantage in being evil.
You astonish me!
Oh ! no, I do not—women say, "What a wicked man—he frightens me :" but, with the natural and inevitable anxiety of the sex, to do what they should not, curiosity attracts them to me as the moth flutters around the candle !—and that is the pleasure of being evil!
Nothing—not even a last hope !—misery !
Doctor, I have not perhaps the honour to be personally known to you.
Oh yes, sir,—I saw you one evening at a ball,
Your great uncle !
Herr Peckmann,—
Baron Everard de Lambech.
You, Baron : to every rank—every honour.
Yes, just what I was thinking—as what I have to say is very simple, I shall be very brief.
To commence then, I am rich, sir; amongst other rights which that virtue gives me, I use and
I abuse the following:—I am irritable, violent, and quarrelsome; and, to conceal nothing from
you, it is my passion to destroy. From all this results : that within I beat my people
pleasantly and frequently—occasionally breaking an arm, a leg, or a back; without, I have
quarrels and duels—the horse which bears me, or the carriage in which I recline, overthrow
and crush not a few pedestrians, and my sword and pistol compromise a tolerable number of
existences.
No, sir, no !
For my own part, I scarcely believe in medical science, or rather I have no need of it; it
suffices that I know myself very cool, stern, and implacable, to be certain that I shall live
to a ripe old age ;—but all men have not my advantages—I wish then to attach a physician to
my house—
Nothing, sir—oh, I have not one word to say !
That you should charge yourself, at my will and pleasure, with—how shall I express it ?-
with the reparation of the people whom, within or without, I shall have drilled, broken, or
splintered. If you accept, I shall, in the first instance, do myself the pleasure to pay your
debts,—
How, Baron! you change your physician—you abandon me!
Can you complain—you who have abandoned so many !
Let him not reply till he has heard me—are you listening, young man ?
Oh! yes; I am listening—pray proceed.
At this moment, sir, I am establishing a Gigantic Emporium of Medicine, of colossal
magnitude.
Pardon me, sir,—but what have I to do with––
I am about to tell you. As it would be quite impossible that I should myself attend to so gigantic a concern, I wish to place at its head a man at once learned and laborious—and I have thought-––
You have thought ?
Yes, faith! I have thought of you.
Ah! thank you—thank you, Herr Rouspach.
He does not take the thing badly!
The sleep of innocence !
For a digestive purpose.
And washed !
Well, yes—we will wash you; and, by the end of the year, you will be able to lay aside something—and that, my lad, will suit you much better than constantly running after a patient—and a florin ! The patient, I believe, you sometimes get, but you never catch the florin—ah, apropos of patients! I had almost forgotten––
What, sir?
An essential point, my lad—an absolute condition: it is that you shall never discuss with me the composition of the prescriptions that I shall order you to prepare; and, above all, that you shall formally engage never more to practise on your own account. Never! those are my only conditions.
Now, what do you say?
Say—ha! ha! ha! that my whole life will not suffice me to acquit myself towards you; but,
I am growing old, boy, and that annoys me. Doctor Rouspach is my physician, but he knows not how to save me from a single fit of indigestion, and that makes me melancholy. I wish, then, that you should live with me, to watch tenderly over me, day and night, conscientiously, devotedly. You shall be also my secretary. If, on the days that I am in tolerable health, I should wish for a few verses to accompany a bouquet to some charming creature, you must compose them ; but, the great business of your life must be my health, my appetite, and my longevity. You must live by your uncle, and only for your uncle. He, he, he!
And, pardon me, uncle, my mother. Good Monsieur Rouspach, he has thought of her.
Your mother! your mother!
She, too, is growing old—she, too, needs my care.
That does not concern me! Your mother! You will leave this house to your mother! I shall
take care, for that purpose, to prevent its being sold; but, the care you would bestow upon
your mother would be stolen from me, and I could not allow myself to be neglected for a
single moment. Now, listen: it will be your greatest interest to take good care of me, and to
make me live a long time—a very long time—for, the older I die, the more money I will leave
you—do you understand ? Either you are skilful, or you are not. If you are, you could make me
live till I am a hundred years old. I would second your efforts, and if you succeeded, would
leave you everything---you understand? everything!
Nothing!
Go—all of you!
Observe, sir, you have not replied to us.
I answer you now : begone—all of you!
But, young man––
I am in my own house, gentlemen, and would not abuse the rights it gives me; besides, I—I am calm, but, I—I have work to do, and beg that you will leave me. Go, then, go!
You are very hard on these gentlemen.
To what I have already proposed, I add a sum of three thousand florins.
I, five thousand!
I, ten thousand!
And I, twenty thousand!
Enough, gentlemen, enough !
If you had wished to purchase only my aims, my time, my obscure talent, I would have closed with you at your first offers. I know what all these are worth, but you would purchase also my conscience; that, gentlemen, you shall not have. Bid one against the other, higher and higher, increase your offers till they have reached millions, and, with all your wealth, gentlemen, you will find that you are still too poor to purchase the conscience of an honest man. Go, I say, go!
Young man, look at me well; I am of those that never pardon. Good day !
Doctor Bernarr, you will die in a ditch !
Paul, you are a bad son, and a good-for-nothing nephew !
A bad son! It may be that I am! I have, perhaps, sacrificed my mother to my pride.
Ah, I understand! Those men have proposed something shameful to you, and you have refused—'twas well done. Let me kiss you, my son—I am proud of you.
Oh, mother !
Paul!
Ah! I understand it.
Dear boy, it is for want of food-–
No, mother—I assure you, no!
And I assure you, yes—the day is far on, and you have forgotten to breakfast; so give me but one florin, that will suffice for to-day, and–
What torture! How confess to her?
Oh! heaven—Paul! you have no money.
No, mother—this time I have utterly failed—we have no longer a single resource—all is ended !
My poor boy ! My poor boy !
Do not weep, mother—do not weep !
Karl!
You have been to your father's ?
Yes; but he was not at home, nor my sister either; so then I paid a visit to a few of my acquaintance, and he— but you shall know all about it another time—so come, first for our grand banquet, and then for the Black Bull. You cannot refuse now, Paul; you, Madame Bernarr, will not object. Of course we shall come home early.
Yes, yes ; go, my son—go ; you need diversion.
There, sir, you will be beautiful here, and everything you order will seem to you
delicious—
What! how many days has it been waiting for me ?
Not half an hour caught. And with it?
Wild pigeon—roasted.
And after–-
Oh, then—I shall see.
And what wine will have the honour of being swallowed by you ?
I shall drink Rousillon and—Constantia.
You choose those wines—then I am certain you must think me very pretty.
Why so?
Now, sir! and if you will allow me–
Hold your tongue.
No—if I stay I must talk; so I had better go away.
Hoa, there ! Agraff, Agraff!
Who calls?
Let me have something—and quickly.
Cannot, sir; your credit died yesterday, and was buried this morning.
Nonsense! I have not yet had my bill.
Can't say, sir; all I know is that master thinks you already owe him––
Enough!
Yes, quite enough; in fact, rather too much.
My compliments to your master, and he is an old scoundrel!
To refuse me unlimited credit—did you ever know such impertinence—to me, a cousin,—only about a hundred times removed,—of the Count de Stromberg?
The worthless scamp of whom I have so often heard the Count speak! I shall go and sup elsewhere.
What is the matter, sir—do I drive you away?
Excuse me, sir-—a sudden indisposition!
And yet you look remarkably well!
However, if you are really ill, of course you are not able to eat your supper—
He is eating my supper!
It doesn't matter to me who is eating it, you must pay!
That you should have chosen pike—you knew how fond I was of it, eh, and expected me?
Expected you! If I had–
You would have added something to the supper. Thank you. It is not too late now, you know.
Impudent fellow!
By-the-bye, are you married?
Married! No, no, sir.
Then more shame for you—you ought to be. At your time of life it is not prudent to live alone. Sorry you are poorly and can't eat.
Eh?
Of course you will—and I know a woman that will suit you admirably—a pleasant creature, but very plain—but what do you care about beauty at your time of life.
Yes, as this fellow says, I do need a wife to comfort me and tuck me up, and that I may disinherit my nephew—that would be glorious! An excellent idea, and worth the pike that it has cost me.
I have had a delicious supper, sir, and will return your invite
Eh?
Ah! I only wish I knew the man for whose profit he signed that ridiculous promise! His name, I believe, is Peckmann, and if I meet him, I'll murder him. Your good health, sir.
Thank you, thank you.
Oh ! don't apologize. I shall feel delighted, I assure you; particularly as I don't happen to have any money with which to pay the boatman, for–
Would you then leave without settling the reckoning? I am ashamed of you!
Nonsense ; I will pay in the house.
Well then, you may as well pay my bill at the same time.
But–
Is it, then, only beggars who pray?
Still these prejudices against the Baron—and you know how they afflict me.
Forgive me, dear father; but never can I love him—it terrifies me.
Marguerite, I—I have told you often my honour is engaged to him. I have promised you shall be his wife.
But—why, father—why have you promised----
Ah, Marguerite!
Well, well, I will be silent, for your heart, dear father, will, I know, speak for me.
Oh, how she tortures me!
Well, Doctor, have you found in that book any remedy for your complaint ?
Once more, Baron, I tell you there is nothing the matter with me.
Are you quite sure ? for, as a physician, you often make very terrible mistakes.
Baron!
Are you not very imprudent to trust your health to your own care? Be advised by me, and consult a skilful physician—for instance, Doctor Bernarr.
Once more, I tell you I am in perfect health.
Put that book away, you will not understand it—it is a medical work.
Baron!
It is of no use—I must be revenged on somebody, for the coldness and even disdain of the beautiful Marguerite. Tell me, does it appear to you that my affianced bride is greatly in love with me ?
Well, since I must speak the truth-–
One moment! It is not at all necessary you should speak the truth, unless that is likely to prove agreeable to me.
Between ourselves, my dear Rouspach, if you say a word more I shall pass my sword through your delicate body.
What ?
Upon principle—for the affianced bride of Baron de Lambech must be beyond even suspicion!
Oh, after all, Baron, whether you marry or not, what matters it to me ?
Exactly; and if you should be your own physician and die, what matters it to me ?
Do you know, Baron, that you are a great bore!
You are always ready with great words.
And you never with great remedies.
That man is insupportable!
Father, I have just seen Karl yonder—and coming this way !
Enter then the house—I will presently rejoin you.
Mademoiselle Marguerite, will you deign to grant your arm to one who has been unable to obtain from you a smile?
Do not be long, father, and endeavour not to return to us alone.
Well, doctor, are you coming ?
How my heart throbs at the idea that I am about once more to behold my son!
Now to order liberally;
Yes, Karl, your father, who knowing you were here, has come purposely to meet you.
My good and noble father! What joy you bring me!
I am here to confess, Karl, that I have been, perhaps, too severe with you, and to ask you to return to your home, promising that henceforth I will not attempt to abridge your liberty—return then, to protect your sister, to solace the declining years of your aged father.
You do but ask of me that which my heart desires—but, pardon me, dear father, the Baron de Lambech––
Is this a condition you are about to propose ?
Oh, no, no—an entreaty—a prayer! Promise me that the Baron de Lambech shall never be the husband of my sister Marguerite.
I cannot promise that.
Oh, I implore you, reflect, promise!
Karl, I—I cannot!
Then cannot I return to behold the immolation of my sister.
Enough—farewell!
Nay, let me drink, let me drink! After having compelled me to begin, you would not now
surely suffer me to die of thirst ?
The matter ?
Good !—come on then !
In good truth, I no longer recognise you!
Nor do I recognise myself, and I am very glad of it!
What a swallow you have, Paul!
Yes, thank you, I have—and I have an idea that I shall not be the first under the table
At those times, Gorden is quarrelsome, Karl is mad, Mat a philosopher, Randal a brute, and I––
You, I will wager, are all these at one and the same time.
Paul, Paul! dear friend, pray drink no more.
And wherefore? If it be true that every joy is found within the glass, why should you not
suffer me to drink ? Hope is born of intoxication; let me then drink, for I have no longer a
hope ! Ah! I am not yet drunk—for then we forget, and I still but too well remember! I
remember that not far from me now there is a poor old woman who soon will be without a
shelter—who to-day has dined, but who perhaps tomorrow-----
My friend!
But we come here to be merry!
And what then, when you have arrived at complete intoxication?
Why then, I shall have forgotten earth, and shall be in the seventh heaven, idiot!
Possibly—but do not call me idiot! Since I have renounced the study of medicine, I carry a sword by my side, and–
Though you carried a powder magazine by your side, I would not suffer you to speak thus to Paul Bernarr.
Karl is right!
No, gentlemen, it is Gorden who is right. Yes, Gorden ; well said, my son—-the sword in your hand, and not the pen. Sword in hand, and we win an epaulette, or perish gloriously! A conqueror with the sword gives laws to all the world! But what gain we by the pen?—our best years wasted in laborious study, and in waiting for the triumph that never comes—grey hairs, while yet a youth, your only reward —an early and obscure grave your only recompense. Yes, yes, Gorden; you are right—the weapon that slays ranks higher than the science which saves—and so to-morrow, Gorden, I am with you—to-morrow, sword in hand, we will together shout through all the streets of Munich— Holloa, there, all of you who would that I should cure you, come that I may kill you—ha ! ha! ha ! kill you—kill you!
Bravo! bravo !
Ha! ha! ha! At last, then, I am drunk—quite drunk—for I no longer think—no longer
Poor fellow! and this is the enjoyment we anticipated for him!
A short nap, and he will recover. Meanwhile, we will have a turn upon the water.
Aye, come along!
I shall remain with Paul.
He does not want you to help him sleep; for see, he is sound already—he will awake in time to sup jollily with us ; so, come!
Aye, come along, come along!
If I could speak to Karl––
What is that ?
In mercy, leave me, leave me !
Oh, heaven ; How beautiful!
Ah! my handkerchief!
Am I then mad ? And yet—surely, and but now, I beheld here–
Paul Bernarr!
I am here—
Speak! Who are you? I know you not.
We have often met, Paul Bernarr; but this is the first time it has been given to you to behold me.
I understand you not—and, once more, who are you?
I am the Angel of Death!
Ha ! ha! ha!
I have told you truly. I am the Angel of Death!
Then, if I were to believe you, my hour would be come ?
No : I regret it, perhaps, but I have no more the right to destroy an existence than I have
the right not to destroy it.
What, then, would you with me ?
Paul Bernarr—I know well that those whom you save you cannot make immortal, and that, finally, they all belong to me; but—your science damages the order indicated—when on my arrival I encounter you, I am compelled to return later; and, when one has renewed so many generations, one grows fatigued—you understand ?
Yes, yes; I––
Because I am the Apostle of Life—for there is nothing so grand and noble as life— and you, you are Death, and I detest, abhor you !
Abhor! Look at me—I am not so frightful as I am depicted, and assuredly, I am not evil; it is only cowards who believe that I am bad; those who are great and good, they never fear me. That you well know, Paul, for you beheld your father die.
You saw me not—he died; in his sufferings he called me, and I came; soon he smiled upon me in his last sleep.
Yes, yes.
If I am misunderstood on this side of the grave, on the other I am blessed. Ah! you are courageous, to refuse that which I ask of you— I, who, in exchange, could give you all that you desire—and first, glory.
I will not.
Glory and fortune.
I will not, I say—I will not.
Fortune and love.
Yes; for that young girl whom you beheld in the delirium of your fever, exists, if you were rich and powerful might yet be yours, for she would love you—loves you even now.
You have still your mother.
To-morrow, perhaps, she may be compelled to bow humiliated before a stern refusal— and then, in her turn, she will invoke me, and I shall come. And that time, I shall call myself Hunger.
Your mother will be my hostage!
It must be so. I leave you now. Paul Bernarr, remember our compact !
My brother comes not. Our father ill, it may be dying, and Karl returns not to his home. Oh, heaven! should my father die, and not embrace his son––
He shall not die, dear sister!
Ah, if I had before known—but, fortunately, it is yet time to save him !
How mean you?
Marguerite, it is, I am certain, to that quack doctor, Rouspach, we owe that our father's malady has now grown serious; but, as it happens that my dearest friend is the most skilful physician in Munich-–
Paul Benarr? Oh, yes, it needs but to behold him–
Marguerite, are you certain you do not love Paul Benarr?
Karl !
But we will talk of that another time—for I must now hasten in search of Paul. I shall not have much difficulty to find him I believe—and so courage, dear sister.
And the right not to be so.
Oh, I entreat you—renounce this marriage—let us be friends, fast friends. See, I have confidence in you—there is my hand!
That is all I ask.
Ah, I see you will grant my request—and, already at the thought, my eyes fill with tears of gratitude !
Ha!
The Baron!
Count, it is my wish you should declare to the notary, who will presently be here, that
whatever may occur—
Oh, you are the evil genius of our house—a wretch!
Pursue your atrocious work—embitter my last moments—dishonour my agony—but, I—I will not—I
will not––
You are not very flattering to your future son-in-law.
All hope is then lost to me !
Mademoiselle, I pray you to forgive me my happiness,
Oh, Marguerite ! My poor Marguerite!
You suffer, dear father ?
Yes, I do indeed suffer.
Father! Oh! come, Paul— come quickly!
I should have died yesterday!
My cousin, the dear Count, ill, dying, and I not informed of it. I, his cousin—only a hundred times removed. And if I do not take care he will be surrounded with a greedy set of distant relations, who will defraud me of my just inheritance.
You surprise me—really about to marry ?
Eh! I should know that man.
You really marry—yourself?
No, no—not marry myself; but I have discovered a charming young girl, without a friend or shelter—she has not a single resource, and–
That is understood, since she marries you.
What's that ?
And you come, you say, to announce this great news to the Count. You have chosen your time badly, my friend; for it is not here a question of a contract, but of a will.
Ah! the Count ?––
You will this evening perhaps gain two hundred and twenty-five thousand florins, good Herr Peckmann.
Eh, what! That is Peckmann !
Oh ! my Black-Bull friend !
You are the two hundred and twenty-five thousand florins man, are you ? and you would dare to rob me of my lawful share, and—but we shall see, there is justice in Munich!
Perhaps—there is certainly much law.
Yes, and we will go to law—and we will prove that when my cousin signed that ridiculous contract, he was not in his right mind—that he was a perfect madman !
You may perhaps succeed in sending him to an asylum.
You are right, Baron, we may—at all events we will try—it is a duty we owe to all expectant heirs, and as a warning for all who have money to leave.
Come, come, you and Herr Peckmann are equally rogues—both waiting for the dead man's shoes. Why not understand each other ?
Baron, you insult me !
Well—and what of that ?
Oh! nothing—never mind.
Karl returns not—oh, heavens!
Cousin, I salute you. How is my cousin?
Ill—very ill.
If you only knew the state of my feelings!
He is perfectly delicious—the greedy rascal!
It is like a fatality. We expected another physician—
Eh?
Who might perhaps have saved my father, but he comes not.
Another physician ?
Yes ; Monsieur Paul Bernarr.
Mind what you do, cousin. By calling in a physician not chosen by your father, you incur a great responsibility.
Decidedly!
Very imprudent, cousin!
Decidedly!
Take my advice, and trust your father entirely to Doctor Rouspach.
Decidedly!
They come!
Devil take Paul Bernarr !
What business has he here ?
Do not despair—I believe he comes too late.
Good!
How?
No, no—I mean dreadful!
Awful!
Marguerite—at last, behold our friend !
Paul, I go to inform the Count that you are here.
Paul, our father expects you—come !
I dare not—I dare not!
No, no—I dare not—I dare not!
Hush—hush!
What can this mean ?
He terrifies me !
He will live ! I will save him! Go—go!
So am I—Paul is so dreadfully skilful!
Not yet, sir.
Saved!
Father!
Dead!
A fete this evening at the Count de Stromberg's mansion ?
Yes, a masked fete, at Karl's desire, that all the Count's friends may testify their joy at his unlooked-for recovery.
And rare news for you both—we, at our friend Karl's request, are all invited by the Count.
This fete falls aptly in Carnival time. Know you what character our friend Karl will assume?
He has not said.
Nor Paul Bernarr ?
Paul—formerly so melancholy, and who now should be so happy, since, by his uncle Peckmann's death, he becomes at once rich, glorious and envied.
A friend, doubtless, who wishes our company thither.
It is really Rouspach !
And pills.
Is it true, Doctor, you are about to retire from your profession ?
Yes, I need repose—besides, lately I have felt very dull—fact is, I have been afflicted
with the Baron de Lambech.
Indeed, Doctor!
Yes; he has shewn me that a derangement of the moral sensations may, in a very short time, occasion very great disorder in the physical organization.
Really!
Yes, the mechanical and wonderful action of the liver disturbs the diaphragm—then follows a complete prostration of the pericardium—and then, and then––
No more for heaven's sake!
What a pity that, possessing such genius, you should cease to practice.
It is, you are right, and I regret it for the sake of suffering humanity—but
No, doctor, I believe we never met before, but many people have spoken to me about you.
Doctor Rouspach ! They told me he was here !
I, sir, till this morning, was Doctor Rouspach—now the glorious Apollo !
You are an impostor! You told me the Count could not live.
I did—and he has disgraced me—disgraced me in my
Go you to the fete, Herr Fritz ?
Yes, invited by the Count. I go, because it is my duty—and because I hope to persuade him to advance me a portion of the inheritance, of which he has just defrauded me.
Well, you must not reproach Doctor Rouspach, he would have killed him if he could!
My study is the relief of suffering humanity. But come, gentlemen, it is time for the fete—and it is necessary I should continue in motion, for these habiliments are rather cool!
Strike the lyre then, glorious Apollo.
You will not forget, dear father, the promise you have made me ?
No, for I have reason to thank and bless Doctor Bernarr, who has for a brief while longer preserved me to my children, and I will, as I have said, make with the Baron de Lambech a supreme effort to regain my given word.
And you believe––
I believe I shall prevail with him.
What happiness!
But how ?
The Baron, I have been well informed, has lost immense sums at play—perhaps his entire fortune.
I think I understand you.
And I, also.
Hope, Marguerite, for I would pause at no sacrifice to assure your happiness, as to-morrow I shall prove to you.
Will not then the Baron be present at this fete ?
I believe not, and that is why, my child, that you behold me now far happier than I have been for very many days.
Captain Satan !
He!
Oh !
Count, I salute you! How strangely you look upon me!
I understand—unfortunate at play. The Baron has now need of my daughter's wedding portion.
Well, he shall have it!
Mademoiselle—
And yet you are an excellent representative of Captain Satan.
Am I not?
You are quite infernal, Baron.
Ah—behold Apollo !
Yes, here I am, glorious Apollo! You recognised the character, then ?
Oh, yes!
Ah!
I was told you would assume it. The lyre, too—it will have a sinecure with you.
Oh, no—I will sing your praises.
Bravo, doctor ! you had better go now.
Eh—why so ?
Because you are not likely, this evening, again to say so smart a thing.
We shall see.
Yes—that I am right.
Certainly; have I not right—a cousin of the Count—only a hundred times removed?
You have returned once more then, prodigal cousin, with your usual prodigious appetite for the Count's fatted calf.
Baron, such an observation––
Well?
Is, of course, perfectly allowable at a masked ball.
But you are not disguised—you still appear the worthless rascal we all know you
for.
Baron ! your remarks are offensive, and I—I—
Ah! let him then despatch his patient quickly, and return to us.
Ay—now come—behold the opportunity for the something good you promised us.
His
wonderful lamp was Science.
Come, Apollo, can you say nothing? Well, then, sing something —anything, whether in praise of vice or virtue, hatred or––
Love—ah! that is better.
I am perfectly aware of that, Doctor; I know you well.
Delighted!—but where may I have had the pleasure to meet you ?
At the houses of almost all your patients, Doctor; we always entered them together.
Nor I—nor I—nor I!
Hark !–the waltz invites you—let me be no bar to your pleasures—go !
Oh, yes!—once again,
You would find that book very wearisome, I fear.
Oh, no; besides, when it fatigues me I can close it.
We will turn to that page of its history which you represent—charming Love! Yours is a
beauty which fascinates and renders dizzy, like to the depth we gaze into when standing
You do not yet please me.
And shall I never?
Yes—some day.
Soon?
I know not that myself.
You must love me—for how shall I live without you?
I must—I will—I tell you, adorable Love! I cannot live without you!
Karl—is it for him she comes ?
No, madame.
Paul, you are sad !
Yes, Marguerite, my heart is crushed with grief; for I must go—must fly far, far from you, Marguerite !
Yes, and he bade me hope; and so, to you do I say now—hope!
Oh, can it be!
I now also the right to
ask you—wherefore ?
I would have carried with me my secret to the tomb ; but I have deserved the punishment, and will reveal it to you.
What say you, father ?
Leave me, Marguerite; it is enough that I should blush before these!
Oh, father !
Yes, I must—I must!
The most intimate associates of my youthful and reckless days were Peckmann and the present
Baron de Lambech. One fatal evening, at a masked ball given by Peckmann, was a man who styled
himself Captain Satan—
Courage, Count.
Both were madly intoxicated—a quarrel arose between them over their cards; they struggled and fought like savages; and suddenly the Baron fell to the ground crushed—annihilated—bereft of all power—even consciousness ! But nothing could appease the rage of Captain Satan, and in a paroxysm of drunken fury—his enemy unarmed and helpless at his feet—with one blow of his sword, he—he basely slew him !
And that man—that Satan—was?
Oh, mercy!—was your father I
Horror!
Ah ! yes-—I remember!
Rise, father!
Yes; and listen to me:
Can it be possible ?
What is't I hear ?
The wound you gave would not have proved mortal, and besides, in your intoxicated fury, you did but strike—a corse!
That is impossible!
It is the truth! which you, having fled precipitately, could not learn. The Baron de
Lambech's body having been transported to his house, his son summoned a physician to prove
the cause of death. That physician was Doctor Magnus Bernarr, my father. Ascertaining that
the sword thrust had been insufficient to kill, he extended his examination, and discovered a
disease of the heart, which had arrived at its
It was then proved that the death, which was inevitable for the Baron, had preceded the sword thrust ?
Yes.
Yet am I, for that, less guilty ?
And that son, he who is now the Baron de Lambech, knew that 'twas so ?
He was the first to know it.
And for twenty years he has caused me to live with that terrible thought ever haunting me—I am a murderer! Ah! you know not yet all that passed on that fatal night! I was at my home, my confession signed, the weapon by my side—resolute to die! Suddenly the son of the Baron de Lambech appeared before me; I cast myself at his feet; gave into his hands the letter in which I accused myself of the murder, and implored his pardon; entreated him to slay me, and avenge his father! He seemed to pity my despair! "By such repentance," he exclaimed, "I am sufficiently avenged. There was no witness to the unhappy act, and the world shall believe the Baron was a victim to some malady. For myself, I pardon you."
It was with the intent to pardon, that he sought you.
Long after, like the spectre of my past life, one day appeared before me this son, who had so nobly pardoned me—this now Baron de Lambech—and he dared to ask of me my daughter's hand—and I—I yielded to his threats—to the dreadful terror inspired by that letter !
But, henceforth, you may brave—defy him; and should he dare accuse you, I will repeat that which my father told me.
And could you hope to be believed against that letter, signed by the Count himself? The Baron would say you had invented that story because you love my sister—would be credited, and infamy would overwhelm us all.
Oh!
Yes, he is inflexible— when, but now, believing he was ruined, I offered him my whole fortune—he demanded I should fulfil my promise, and give him Marguerite for wife—and then, to terrify me, waved before my eyes that fatal letter.
Ah! he has it now about him !
He granted me one hour—and would then, he said, come here to know what day I had fixed on for the marriage.
He is coming here!
To say to your sister that I resign all hope-––
Well! would you rather give my sister to life-long misery ?
May heaven be with you both! Oh, punishment now indeed has reached me!
It is I who will encounter the Baron. You, Karl, are necessary to two existences.
It is you, Paul, who are most needed for the happiness of my sister.
Well, let the Baron de Lambech choose between us.
Hush ! he is here !
Your pardon, gentlemen!
For what, sir ?
Ah, true ! I have not to ask your pardon for anything. I wish only to see the hour.
What hour, sir ?
That at which your father is to fix the day for my marriage with your sister.
Useless then to look, sir; it is not yet that hour–-
It will never sound !
For you, Doctor!
Because I have positively determined to wed your sister, and must not combat, therefore, with—my brother.
I, your brother—you insult me!
But with me, sir, you have not the same reasons.
No , but I have others. In the first place, all my time is occupied—next, you are called Bernarr, and I am named Baron de Lambech—next, and besides, why should I fight with you? Because you love my wife? Well, I also love her, though doubtless, with a passion less ethereal than your own.
Baron!
And you believe that to-day her heart is yours. Well, it will be mine to-morrow. Do you imagine that only doctors can be loved ?
Would it be indiscreet to ask you why ?
Because I have to avenge my family, desolated, outraged, and oppressed by you.
It does not shout so loudly as you do, my friends, or I could not help but hear it.
Baron de Lambech, you are nothing better than a wretched boaster!
Baron de Lambech, you are a false knave !
He sends his young cubs to worry me !
Quite possible—if you tell me so quietly; but if you shout it forth to all the world, I shall then say it is you who lie.
At last he's roused!
A sword, a sword!
No !
I will, I say, I will! Ah, struck! Ah, only his blood can wash away the pollution of that blow!
Not here, not here !
Forbear, forbear !
Glorious Apollo—the warmth of your imagination should suffice to keep your body in a glow.
How can you jest at such a time and in such weather? Ugh, ugh—I shall shake every tooth out of my head presently!
My dear Doctor, the original Apollo never roved the woods and groves when snow was falling.
What a cruel observation! You know you would not allow me time to return to my proper habiliments.
Ask a man to laugh when he is frozen to death—ugh --ugh!
Have you, then, never, through all your life, done aught that was not quite correct?
One of the wood-cutters.
Doubled up with the cold, poor woman—I can sympathize with her—ugh, ugh !
What are you doing there, old woman ?—are you petrified ?
Why, of course she is, poor creature—ugh, ugh !
How cool, how calm he is! Oh! if he should kill my son !
Oh, what agony! Is this the hour of my chastisement ?
Umph!—one—two—three doctors ! Like vultures they have sniffed their prey ! Decidedly, this will be mortal!
And this chastisement—is it through Karl I shall be stricken ? Death !—she was in the
ball-room ; was it Karl she menaced ?
My son !
Karl, you are wounded !
It is nothing !
It is now my turn.
At last!
Ah, I am slain!
Now—that letter.
You shall not have it—you shall not. Ah!
See, father, see!
'Tis all over with him!
Karl—your wound is bleeding—you are faint—let us leave this spot—come.
Ha, ha, ha, ha!
Have you a carriage?
Yes—his—I will go for it.
He is beyond all help in this world!
I also call myself "Justice."
What is the use of leaving me alone with the Baron—what can I do ? I am half dead myself.
Ugh, ugh!
Doctor, I cannot find the Baron's carriage anywhere.
Confound it!
Well—where am I then ?
And it is really true!
Perfectly true.
That the marriage of our friend Paul Bernarr with the lovely Marguerite de Stromberg will take place this very evening.
Precisely.
In the cathedral of Munich ?
No—in the chapel of the Count's Chateau—and at midnight.
What an extraordinary hour for a wedding!
The hour and the place were chosen by Marguerite herself, and insisted on by Paul's mother; and nothing remained but to obey their wishes.
At last, then, happiness has arrived to Paul.
And how must he welcome it —he who has travelled through so many years of his life without it ?
And how rejoice to bid farewell to the sorrow which, until now, has been his too constant companion!
And then, his poor old mother––
Ah! my friends — should a cloud now darken his horizon, it would come from that quarter.
How so?
Because she has for some time past been very weak and ill; but would not for her sake suffer her son to postpone the day when he will no longer have a wish to form ! besides, just now her health is much improved—she is so well cared for.
By Doctor Bernarr himself?
By Karl de Stromberg, become exceedingly skilful; Catherine Bernarr is now an inhabitant of the Count's mansion; and Karl watches over her as though she were his own mother.
Ah ! you, I suppose, are on your way to the Count's —well, I have astounding news for you.
The ceremony is postponed ?
No—something far more strange—I am not invited!
I presume there are reasons ?
No; nothing save ridiculous prejudices—one, that I was the Baron's second—so that he is responsible for—and only that he is dead I would kill him!
Well for you he is not alive to hear you say so!
Never was man so injured—that the Count should slight me thus, after having already so cruelly deceived me !
Deceived you?
Yes, certainly; did he not heartlessly recover and live after having given every assurance that he was about at last to satisfy the just expectations of his expectant heirs?
I know you, Master Fritz—you are not so bad as you would appear, and speak thus only because your purse is empty.
Then do your duty as a man and a brother and replenish it.
The Count will do that.
He!
Yes; he has, I know, resolved to make you an allowance, so long as you by your behaviour shall not disgrace the family.
I will be a very pattern of virtue— will give to the poor regularly all my spare cash.
There will not, I fear, be much rejoicing over your bounty.
Fritz with cash to spare !
Heyday! a joke—what is it ?
Ah! Doctor, the patient you have just left, dead, then, like all the rest?
Yes, yes—
And humanity should be very much obliged to you.
The Baron then, as a legacy, has left his sarcastic observations to you—faith, it was the only legacy he had to leave!
Come, friends, it is time we were on our way to the Count's mansion.
Precisely. Come, Doctor.
Adieu, Herr Fritz.
And you too are invited to the wedding abominable !
I understand you are not invited. Ah! I rather fancy it is my own fault that I am not the bridegroom on the present occasion.
You?
Yes, I—I know I had only to propose, for the lovely Marguerite used to look at me––
Of course she did — stare at you, with eyes wide open––
Ah !
As she would have looked at any other unnatural monstrosity!
You are spiteful—but I know my own merits.
And miser-like have always hidden them—for no one else has ever known that you possessed such articles.
Why is it that when I appear every man thinks it his duty to say something cutting ?
Because there is no other way to punish you for the victims you have sacrificed!
I am off to the wedding––
And I am off to obtain a supper on credit, on the strength of the Count's promised allowance.
It is my duty to be present at this marriage, for I have always been ready to aid in the relief of suffering humanity.
Dear Marguerite—oh, how beautiful you are !
Room—room for another pair of youthful lovers!
Karl—my dear Karl! you will compromise my reputation in the end.
Ah, another marriage in perspective!
Yes; some day we will speak of it.
Some day!—that is the language of youth. I, dear Paul, am already very old, and the day is not very distant when it will be necessary to say "farewell" on earth! But, dear son, I shall have lived to behold your happiness assured, and so shall die content. Marguerite, you will love him for us both?
Oh, my mother! banish those gloomy thoughts; you will yet, I trust, live many years to witness, and rejoice at, the felicity of your children.
Silence ! or you will drive me into a fury.
Paul!––
Oh, Marguerite! so great is my happiness, it almost terrifies me-–
Come, my children, the priest awaits you.
Your blessing, dear mother !
My child!
Marguerite!
Paul, what does this mean?
Marguerite! Marguerite!
It is nothing—nothing. I do not suffer now.
Nobody need feel alarmed, for I answer for her.
Already, in my infancy, I have experienced something similar—too great emotion, joy ! it is so now—let us to the chapel—I am well again !
Come then.
Ah!
All powerful heaven!
Leave me with her alone—oh, I will save her!
But, Paul––
Go—go, I say.
Paul—Paul ! if I were about to die ?—but no, no, not now—I must not die now, when life has
become so beautiful!
You hear ?—it is midnight! the hour of our marriage
Marguerite!
Paul, you are there, near me; but, are we alone ? Yet no—for, there–– Ah! Paul—am I deceived—or, do I behold—Death?
You—you also see her! Oh! no, no!
Speak to me, Paul; I suffer less when I hear your voice—and I do suffer—an agony sufficient to kill—you will console my father; but, ah! dear Paul, who will console thee?
But you shall not die—no, no, you shall not!
Whither go you ?
Ah!—the compact—her hostage—it is my mother!
Mother, how pale you are!
It is nothing—think only of her—it is on her now that depends your happiness.
Paul, for your mother's sake you will live. I—I too dearly loved you. Paul, farewell, I–
Ah!
Paul! Oh, heaven, your reason wanders!
Take me! I must choose ? Oh, unheard-of torture! Oh, madness ! Well, my mother gave me life,
and now to her I render more than life!—yes, let my mother live—and
Count, what is't you do?
That of which you have no thought to do—I pray !
Paul, there is a power more potent than our science!
I am very old, but the strength to pray is left us to the last.
They still hope—but, I—I look on her, and
Your science has often had the glory to conquer death. Heaven now has yielded to your faith —your love—and gives to you your mother and your bride.
Paul!
Our compact is broken,
It is life ! It is life !
Come, my children.