Come, cheer'ly, Thekla! be my own brave girl! See, there's thy loving mother. Thou art in Thy father's arms.

THEKLA (standing up).

Where is he? Is he gone?

DUCHESS.

Who gone, my daughter?

THEKLA.

He—the man who utter'd That word of misery.

DUCHESS.

O! think not of it, My Thekla!

WALLENSTEIN.

Give her sorrow leave to talk! Let her complain—mingle your tears with hers, For she hath suffer'd a deep anguish; but She'll rise superior to it, for my Thekla Hath all her father's unsubdued heart.

THEKLA.

I am not ill. See, I have power to stand. Why does my mother weep? Have I alarm'd her? It is gone by—I recollect myself—

[She casts her eyes round the room, as seeking some one.]

Where is he? Please you, do not hide him from me. You see I have strength enough: now I will hear him.

DUCHESS.

No; never shall this messenger of evil Enter again into thy presence, Thekla!

THEKLA.

My father—

WALLENSTEIN.

Dearest daughter!

THEKLA.

I'm not weak— Shortly I shall be quite myself again. You'll grant me one request?

WALLENSTEIN.

Name it, my daughter.

THEKLA.

Permit the stranger to be called to me, And grant me leave that by myself I may Hear his report and question him.

DUCHESS.

No, never!

COUNTESS.

'Tis not advisable—assent not to it.

WALLENST.

Hush! Wherefore wouldst thou speak with him, my daughter?

THEKLA.

Knowing the whole, I shall be more collected; I will not be deceived. My mother wishes Only to spare me. I will not be spared— The worst is said already: I can hear Nothing of deeper anguish!

COUNTESS and DUCHESS.

Do it not.

THEKLA.

The horror overpower'd me by surprise. My heart betray'd me in the stranger's presence: He was a witness of my weakness, yea, I sank into his arms; and that has shamed me. I must replace myself in his esteem, And I must speak with him, perforce, that he, The stranger, may not think ungently of me.

WALLENST.

I see she is in the right, and am inclined To grant her this request of hers. Go, call him.

[LADY NEUBRUNN goes to call him.]

DUCHESS.

But I, thy mother, will be present—

THEKLA.

'Twere More pleasing to me, if alone I saw him; Trust me, I shall behave myself the more Collectedly.

WALLENSTEIN.

Permit her own will. Leave her alone with him: for there are sorrows Where of necessity the soul must be Its own support. A strong heart will rely On its own strength alone. In her own bosom, Not in her mother's arms, must she collect The strength to rise superior to this blow. It is mine own brave girl. I'll have her treated Not as a woman, but the heroine. [Going.]

COUNTESS (detaining him).

Where art thou going? I heard Terzky say That 'tis thy purpose to depart from hence Tomorrow early, but to leave us here.

WALLENST.

Yes, ye stay here, placed under the protection Of gallant men.

COUNTESS.

O take us with you, brother. Leave us not in this gloomy solitude To brood o'er anxious thoughts. The mists of doubt Magnify evils to a shape of horror.

WALLENST.

Who speaks of evil? I entreat you, sister, Use words of better omen.

COUNTESS.

Then take us with you. O leave us not behind you in a place That forces us to such sad omens. Heavy And sick within me is my heart— These walls breathe on me, like a church-yard vault. I cannot tell you, brother, how this place Doth go against my nature. Take us with you. Come, sister, join you your entreaty! Niece, Yours too. We all entreat you, take us with you!

WALLENST.

The place's evil omens will I change, Making it that which shields and shelters for me My best beloved.

LADY NEUBRUNN (returning).

The Swedish officer.

WALLENST.

Leave her alone with him.

DUCHESS (to THEKLA, who starts and shivers).

There—pale as death! Child, 'tis impossible That thou shouldst speak with him. Follow thy mother.

THEKLA.

The Lady Neubrunn then may stay with me.

[Exeunt DUCHESS and COUNTESS.]

SCENE X

THEKLA, the SWEDISH CAPTAIN, LADY NEUBRUNN

CAPTAIN (respectfully approaching her).

Princess—I must entreat your gentle pardon— My inconsiderate rash speech. How could I—

THEKLA (with dignity).

You have beheld me in my agony. A most distressful accident occasion'd You from a stranger to become at once My confidant.

CAPTAIN.

I fear you hate my presence, For my tongue spake a melancholy word.

THEKLA.

The fault is mine. Myself did wrest it from you. The horror which came o'er me interrupted Your tale at its commencement. May it please you, Continue it to the end.

CAPTAIN.

Princess, 'twill Renew your anguish.

THEKLA.

I am firm— I will be firm. Well—how began the engagement?

CAPTAIN.

We lay, expecting no attack, at Neustadt, Intrench'd but insecurely in our camp, When toward evening rose a cloud of dust From the wood thitherward; our vanguard fled Into the camp, and sounded the alarm. Scarce had we mounted ere the Pappenheimers, Their horses at full speed, broke through the lines, And leapt the trenches; but their heedless courage Had borne them onward far before the others— The infantry were still at distance, only The Pappenheimers follow'd daringly Their daring leader—

[THEKLA betrays agitation in her gestures. The officer pauses till she makes a sign to him to proceed.]

CAPTAIN.

Both in van and flanks With our whole cavalry we now received them; Back to the trenches drove them, where the foot Stretch'd out a solid ridge of pikes to meet them. They neither could advance, nor yet retreat; And as they stood on every side wedged in, The Rhinegrave to their leader call'd aloud, Inviting a surrender; but their leader, Young Piccolomini—

[THEKLA, as giddy, grasps a chair.] Known by his plume, And his long hair, gave signal for the trenches; Himself leapt first: the regiment all plunged after. His charger, by a halbert gored, rear'd up, Flung him with violence off, and over him The horses, now no longer to be curbed— [THEKLA, who has accompanied the last speech with all the marks of increasing agony, trembles through her whole frame, and is falling. The LADY NEUBRUNN runs to her, and receives her in her arms.]

NEUBR.

My dearest lady—

CAPTAIN.

I retire.

THEKLA.

'Tis over. Proceed to the conclusion.

CAPTAIN. Wild despair Inspired the troops with frenzy when they saw Their leader perish; every thought of rescue Was spurned; they fought like wounded tigers; their Frantic resistance roused our soldiery; A murderous fight took place, nor was the contest Finish'd before their last man fell.

THEKLA (faltering).

And where— Where is—You have not told me all.

CAPTAIN (after a pause).

This morning We buried him. Twelve youths of noblest birth Did bear him to interment; the whole army Follow'd the bier. A laurel deck'd his coffin; The sword of the deceased was placed upon it, In mark of honor, by the Rhinegrave's self. Nor tears were wanting; for there are among us Many, who had themselves experienced The greatness of his mind and gentle manners; All were affected at his fate. The Rhinegrave Would willingly have saved him; but himself Made vain the attempt—'tis said he wish'd to die.

NEUBRUNN (to THEKLA, who has hidden her countenance).

Look up, my dearest lady—

THEKLA.

Where is his grave?

CAPTAIN.

At Neustadt, lady; in a cloister church Are his remains deposited, until We can receive directions from his father.

THEKLA.

What is the cloister's name?

CAPTAIN.

Saint Catherine's.

THEKLA.

And how far is it thither?

CAPTAIN.

Near twelve leagues.

THEKLA.

And which the way?

CAPTAIN.

You go by Tirschenreut And Falkenberg through our advanced posts.

THEKLA.

Who Is their commander?

CAPTAIN.

Colonel Seckendorf. [THEKLA steps to the table, and takes a ring from a casket.]

THEKLA.

You have beheld me in my agony, And shown a feeling heart. Please you, accept [Giving him the ring.] A small memorial of this hour. Now go!

CAPTAIN (confusedly).

Princess—

[THEKLA silently makes signs to him to go, and turns from him. The CAPTAIN lingers, and is about to speak. LADY NEUBRUNN repeats the signal, and he retires.]

SCENE XI

THEKLA, LADY NEUBRUNN

THEKLA (falls on LADY NEUBRUNN's neck).

Now, gentle Neubrunn, show me the affection Which thou hast ever promised—prove thyself My own true friend and faithful fellow-pilgrim. This night we must away!

NEUBRUNN.

Away! and whither?

THEKLA.

Whither! There is but one place in the world. Thither, where he lies buried! To his coffin!

NEUBR.

What would you do there?

THEKLA.

What do there? That wouldst thou not have ask'd, hadst thou e'er loved. There, there is all that still remains of him! That single spot is the whole earth to me.

NEUBR.

That place of death—

THEKLA.

Is now the only place Where life yet dwells for me: detain me not! Come and make preparations; let us think Of means to fly from hence.

NEUBRUNN.

Your father's rage—

THEKLA.

That time is past— And now I fear no human being's rage.

NEUBR.

The sentence of the world! The tongue of calumny!

THEKLA.

Whom am I seeking? Him who is no more? Am I then hastening to the arms—O God! I haste but to the grave of the beloved.

NEUBR.

And we alone, two helpless feeble women?

THEKLA.

We will take weapons: my arm shall protect thee.

NEUBR.

In the dark night-time?

THEKLA.

Darkness will conceal us.

NEUBR.

This rough tempestuous night—

THEKLA.

Had he a soft bed Under the hoofs of his war-horses?

NEUBRUNN.

Heaven! And then the many posts of the enemy.

THEKLA.

They are human beings. Misery travels free Through the whole earth.

NEUBRUNN.

The journey's weary length—

THEKLA.

The pilgrim, traveling to a distant shrine Of hope and healing, doth not count the leagues.

NEUBR.

How can we pass the gates?

THEKLA.

Gold opens them. Go, do but go.

NEUBRUNN.

Should we be recognized—

THEKLA.

In a despairing woman, a poor fugitive, Will no one seek the daughter of Duke Friedland.

NEUBR.

And where procure we horses for our flight?

THEKLA.

My equerry procures them. Go and fetch him.

NEUBR.

Dares he, without the knowledge of his lord?

THEKLA.

He will. Go, only go. Delay no longer.

NEUBR.

Dear lady! and your mother?

THEKLA.

Oh! my mother!

NEUBR.

So much as she has suffer'd too already; Your tender mother—Ah! how ill prepared For this last anguish!

THEKLA.

Woe is me! my mother!

[Pauses.]

Go instantly.

NEUBRUNN.

But think what you are doing!

THEKLA.

What can be thought, already has been thought.

NEUBR.

And being there, what purpose you to do?

THEKLA.

There a Divinity will prompt my soul.

NEUBR.

Your heart, dear lady, is disquieted! And this is not the way that leads to quiet.

THEKLA.

To a deep quiet, such as he has found. It draws me on, I know not what to name it, Resistless does it draw me to his grave. There will my heart be eased, my tears will flow. O hasten, make no further questioning! There is no rest for me till I have left These walls—they fall in on me—a dim power Drives me from hence—Oh mercy! What a feeling! What pale and hollow forms are those! They fill, They crowd the place! I have no longer room here! Mercy! Still more! More still! The hideous swarm, They press on me; they chase me from these walls— Those hollow, bodiless forms of living men!

NEUBR.

You frighten me so, lady, that no longer I dare stay here myself. I go and call Rosenberg instantly. [Exit LADY NEUBRUNN.]

SCENE XII

THEKLA.

His spirit 'tis that calls me: 'tis the troop Of his true followers, who offer'd up Themselves to avenge his death: and they accuse me Of an ignoble loitering—they would not Forsake their leader even in his death—they died for him, And shall I live?— For me too was that laurel-garland twined That decks his bier. Life is an empty casket. I throw it from me. O! my only hope To die beneath the hoofs of trampling steeds— That is the lot of heroes upon earth!

[Exit THEKLA.[33]]

[The Curtain drops.]

SCENE XIII

THEKLA, LADY NEUBRUNN, and ROSENBERG

NEUBR.

He is here lady, and he will procure them.

THEKLA.

Wilt thou provide us horses, Rosenberg?

ROSENB.

I will, my lady.

THEKLA.

And go with us as well?

ROSENB.

To the world's end, my lady.

THEKLA.

But consider, Thou never canst return unto the Duke.

ROSENB.

I will remain with thee.

THEKLA.

I will reward thee, And will commend thee to another master, Canst thou unseen conduct us from the castle?

ROSENB.

I can.

THEKLA.

When can I go?

ROSENBERG.

This very hour. But wither would you, Lady?

THEKLA.

To—Tell him, Neubrunn.

NEUBR.

To Neustadt.

ROSENBERG.

So;—I leave you to get ready.

[Exit.]

NEUBR.

O see, your mother comes.

THEKLA.

Indeed! O Heav'n!

SCENE XIV

THEKLA, LADY NEUBRUNN, the DUCHESS

DUCHESS.

He's gone! I find thee more composed, my child.

THEKLA.

I am so, mother; let me only now Retire to rest, and Neubrunn here be with me. I want repose.

DUCHESS.

My Thekla, thou shalt have it. I leave thee now consoled, since I can calm Thy father's heart.

THEKLA.

Good night, beloved mother! (Falling on her neck and embracing her with deep emotion).

DUCHESS.

Thou scarcely art composed e'en now, my daughter. Thou tremblest strongly, and I feel thy heart Beat audibly on mine.

THEKLA. Sleep will appease Its beating: now good night, good night, dear mother.

(As she withdraws from her mother's arms the curtain falls).

ACT V

SCENE I

Butler's Chamber.

BUTLER and MAJOR GERALDIN

BUTLER.

Find me twelve strong dragoons, arm them with pikes, For there must be no firing— Conceal them somewhere near the banquet-room, And soon as the dessert is served up, rush all in And cry—"Who is loyal to the Emperor!" I will overturn the table—while you attack Illo and Terzky and dispatch them both. The castle-palace is well barr'd and guarded, That no intelligence of this proceeding May make its way to the Duke. Go instantly; Have you yet sent for Captain Devereux And the Macdonald?—

GERALDIN.

They'll be here anon.

[Exit GERALDIN.]

BUTLER.

Here's no room for delay. The citizens Declare for him, a dizzy drunken spirit Possesses the whole town. They see in the Duke A Prince of peace, a founder of new ages And golden times. Arms too have been given out By the town-council, and a hundred citizens Have volunteered themselves to stand on guard. Dispatch! then, be the word; for enemies Threaten us from without and from within.

SCENE II

BUTLER, CAPTAIN DEVEREUX, and MACDONALD

MACDON.

Here we are, General.

DEVEREUX.

What's to be the watchword?

BUTLER.

Long live the Emperor!

BOTH (recoiling).

How?

BUTLER.

Live the House of Austria.

DEVEREUX.

Have we not sworn fidelity to Friedland?

MACDON.

Have we not march'd to this place to protect him?

BUTLER.

Protect a traitor, and his country's enemy?

DEVEREUX.

Why, yes! in his name you administer'd Our oath.

MACDONALD.

And follow'd him yourself to Egra.

BUTLER.

I did it the more surely to destroy him.

DEVEREUX.

So then!

MACDONALD.

An alter'd case!

BUTLER (to DEVEREUX).

Thou wretched man, So easily leavest thou thy oath and colors?

DEVEREUX.

The devil!—I but follow'd your example, If you could prove a villain, why not we?

MACDON.

We've nought to do with thinking—that's your business. You are our General, and give out the orders; We follow you, though the track lead to hell.

BUTLER (appeased).

Good then! we know each other.

MACDONALD.

I should hope so.

DEVEREUX.

Soldiers of fortune are we—who bids most, He has us.

MACDONALD.

'Tis e'en so!

BUTLER.

Well, for the present Ye must remain honest and faithful soldiers.

DEVEREUX.

We wish no other.

BUTLER.

Ay, and make your fortunes.

MACRON.

That is still better. Listen!

BOTH.

We attend.

BUTLER.

It is the Emperor's will and ordinance To seize the person of the Prince-Duke Friedland, Alive or dead.

DEVEREUX.

It runs so in the letter.

MACRON.

Alive or dead-these were the very words.

BUTLER.

And he shall be rewarded from the State In land and gold, who proffers aid thereto.

DEVEREUX.

Ay! that sounds well. The words sound always well That travel hither from the Court. Yes! yes! We know already what Court-words import. A golden chain perhaps in sign of favor, Or an old charger, or a parchment patent, And such like—The Prince-Duke pays better.

MACDONALD.

Yes The Duke's a splendid paymaster.

BUTLER.

All over With that, my friends! His lucky stars are set.

MACDON.

And is that certain?

BUTLER.

You have my word for it.

DEVEREUX.

His lucky fortunes all past by?

BUTLER.

Forever He is as poor as we.

MACDONALD.

As poor as we?

DEVEREUX.

Macdonald, we'll desert him.

BUTLER.

We'll desert him? Full twenty thousand have done that already; We must do more, my countrymen! In short— We—we must kill him.

BOTH (starting back).

Kill him!

BUTLER.

Yes, must kill him; And for that purpose have I chosen you.

BOTH.

Us!

BUTLER.

You, Captain Devereux, and thee, Macdonald.

DEVEREUX (after a pause).

Choose you some other.

BUTLER.

What! art dastardly? Thou, with full thirty lives to answer for— Thou conscientious of a sudden?

DEVEREUX.

Nay To assassinate our Lord and General—

MACDON.

To whom we've sworn a soldier's oath

BUTLER.

The oath Is null, for Friedland is a traitor.

DEVEREUX.

No, no! it is too bad!

MACDONALD.

Yes, by my soul! It is too bad. One has a conscience too—

DEVEREUX.

If it were not our Chieftain, who so long Has issued the commands, and claim'd our duty—

BUTLER.

Is that the objection?

DEVEREUX.

Were it my own father, And the Emperor's service should demand it of me, It might be done perhaps—But we are soldiers, And to assassinate our Chief Commander— That is a sin, a foul abomination, From which no monk or confessor absolves us.

BUTLER.

I am your Pope, and give you absolution. Determine quickly!

DEVEREUX.

'Twill not do.

MACDONALD.

'Twont do!

BUTLER.

Well, off then! and—send Pestalutz to me.

DEVEREUX (hesitates).

The Pestalutz—

MACDONALD.

What may you want with him?

BUTLER.

If you reject it, we can find enough—

DEVEREUX.

Nay, if he must fall, we may earn the bounty As well as any other. What think you, Brother Macdonald?

MACDONALD.

Why, if he must fall, And will fall, and it can't be otherwise, One would not give place to this Pestalutz.

DEVEREUX (after some reflection).

When do you purpose he should fall?

BUTLER.

This night. Tomorrow will the Swedes be at our gates.

DEVEREUX.

You take upon you all the consequences

BUTLER.

I take the whole upon me.

DEVEREUX.

And it is The Emperor's will, his express absolute will? For we have instances, that folks may like The murder, and yet hang the murderer.

BUTLER.

The manifesto says—"alive or dead." Alive—'tis not possible—you see it is not.

DEVEREUX.

Well, dead then! dead! But how can we come at him? The town is filled with Terzky's soldiery.

MACDON.

Ay! and then Terzky still remains, and Illo—

BUTLER.

With these you shall begin—you understand me?

DEVEREUX.

How! And must they too perish?

BUTLER.

They the first.

MACDON.

Hear, Devereux! A bloody evening this.

DEVEREUX.

Have you a man for that? Commission me—

BUTLER.

'Tis given in trust to Major Geraldin; This is a carnival night, and there's a feast Given at the castle—there we shall surprise them, And hew them down. The Pestalutz and Lesley Have that commission. Soon as that is finish'd—

DEVEREUX.

Hear, General! It will be all one to you— Hark ye, let me exchange with Geraldin.

BUTLER.

'Twill be the lesser danger with the Duke.

DEVEREUX.

Danger! The Devil! What do you think me, General? 'Tis the Duke's eye, and not his sword, I fear.

BUTLER.

What can his eye do to thee?

DEVEREUX.

Death and hell! Thou know'st that I'm no milksop, General! But 'tis not eight days since the Duke did send me Twenty gold pieces for this good warm coat Which I have on! and then for him to see me Standing before him with the pike, his murderer, That eye of his looking upon this coat— Why—why—the devil fetch me! I'm no milksop!

BUTLER.

The Duke presented thee this good warm coat, And thou, a needy wight, hast pangs of conscience To run him through the body in return? A coat that is far better and far warmer Did the Emperor give to him, the Prince's mantle. How doth he thank the Emperor? With revolt, And treason.

DEVEREUX.

That is true. The devil take Such thinkers! I'll dispatch him.

BUTLER.

And would'st quiet Thy conscience, thou hast nought to do but simply Pull off the coat; so canst thou do the deed With light heart and good spirits.

DEVEREUX.

You are right, That did not strike me. I'll pull off the coat— So there's an end of it.

MACDONALD.

Yes, but there's another Point to be thought of.

BUTLER.

And what's that, Macdonald?

MACDON.

What avails sword or dagger against him? He is not to be wounded—he is—

BUTLER (starting up).

What?

MACDON.

Safe against shot, and stab, and flesh! Hard frozen, Secured and warranted by the black art! His body is impenetrable, I tell you.

DEVEREUX.

In Ingolstadt there was just such another: His whole skin was the same as steel; at last We were obliged to beat him down with gun-stocks.

MACDON.

Hear what I'll do.

DEVEREUX.

Well.

MACDONALD.

In the cloister here There's a Dominican, my countryman. I'll make him dip my sword and pike for me In holy water, and say over them One of his strongest blessings. That's probatum! Nothing can stand 'gainst that.

BUTLER.

So do, Macdonald! But now go and select from out the regiment Twenty or thirty able-bodied fellows, And let them take the oaths to the Emperor. Then when it strikes eleven, when the first rounds Are pass'd, conduct them silently as may be To the house—I will myself be not far off.

DEVEREUX.

But how do we get through Hartschier and Gordon, That stand on guard there in the inner chamber?

BUTLER.

I have made myself acquainted with the place, I lead you through a back door that's defended By one man only. Me my rank and office Give access to the Duke at every hour. I'll go before you—with one poniard-stroke Cut Hartschier's windpipe, and make way for you.

DEVEREUX.

And when we are there, by what means shall we gain The Duke's bed-chamber, without his alarming The servants of the Court? For he has here A numerous company of followers.

BUTLER.

The attendants fill the right wing: he hates bustle, And lodges in the left wing quite alone.

DEVEREUX.

Were it well over—hey, Macdonald? I Feel queerly on the occasion, devil knows!

MACDON.

And I too. 'Tis too great a personage. People will hold us for a brace of villains.

BUTLER.

In plenty, honor, splendor—you may safely Laugh at the people's babble.

DEVEREUX.

If the business Squares with one's honor—if that be quite certain—

BUTLER.

Set your hearts quite at ease. Ye save for Ferdinand His crown and empire. The reward can be No small one.

DEVEREUX.

And 'tis his purpose to dethrone the Emperor?

BUTLER.

Yes!—Yes!—to rob him of his crown and life.

DEVEREUX.

And he must fall by the executioner's hands, Should we deliver him up to the Emperor Alive?

BUTLER.

It were his certain destiny.

DEVEREUX.

Well! Well! Come then, Macdonald, he shall not Lie long in pain.

[Exeunt BUTLER through one door, MACDONALD and DEVEREUX through the other.]

SCENE III

A Saloon, terminated by a Gallery which extends far into the background.

WALLENSTEIN Sitting at a table. The SWEDISH CAPTAIN standing before him.

WALLENST.

Commend me to your lord. I sympathize In his good fortune; and if you have seen me Deficient in the expressions; of that joy, Which such a victory might well demand, Attribute it to no lack of good will, For henceforth are our fortunes one. Farewell, And for your trouble take my thanks. Tomorrow The citadel shall be surrendered to you On your arrival.

[The SWEDISH CAPTAIN retires. WALLENSTEIN sits lost in thought, his eyes fixed vacantly, and his head sustained by his hand. The COUNTESS TERZKY enters, stands before him for awhile, unobserved by him; at length he starts, sees her and recollects himself.]

WALLENST.

Comest thou from her? Is she restored? How is she?

COUNTESS.

My sister tells me, she was more collected After her conversation with the Swede. She has now retired to rest.

WALLENSTEIN.

The pang will soften; She will shed tears.

COUNTESS.

I find thee alter'd too, My brother! After such a victory I had expected to have found in thee A cheerful spirit. O remain thou firm! Sustain, uphold us! For our light thou art, Our sun.

WALLENSTEIN.

Be quiet. I ail nothing. Where's Thy husband?

COUNTESS.

At a banquet—he and Illo.

WALLENSTEIN (rises and strides across the saloon).

The night's far spent. Betake thee to thy chamber.

COUNTESS.

Bid me not go, O let me stay with thee!

WALLENSTEIN (moves to the window).

There is a busy motion in the Heaven, The wind doth chase the flag upon the tower, Fast sweep the clouds, the sickle[34] of the moon, Struggling, darts snatches of uncertain light; No form of star is visible! That one White stain of light, that single glimmering yonder, Is from Cassiopeia, and therein Is Jupiter.

(A pause).

But now The blackness of the troubled element hides him! [He sinks into profound melancholy, and looks vacantly into the distance.]

COUNTESS (looks on him mournfully, then grasps his hand).

What art thou brooding on?

WALLENSTEIN.

Methinks, If I but saw him, 'twould be well with me. He is the star of my nativity, And often marvelously hath his aspect Shot strength into my heart.

COUNTESS.

Thou'lt see him again.

WALLENSTEIN (remains for a while, with, absent mind, then assumes a livelier manner, and turning suddenly to the COUNTESS).

See him again? O never, never again!

COUNTESS.

How?

WALLENSTEIN.

He is gone—is dust.

COUNTESS.

Whom meanest thou, then?

WALLENST.

He, the more fortunate! yea, he hath finish'd! For him there is no longer any future, His life is bright—bright without spot it was, And cannot cease to be. No ominous hour Knocks at his door with tidings of mishap; Far off is he, above desire and fear; No more submitted to the change and chance Of the unsteady planets. O 'tis well With him! but who knows what the coming hour Veil'd in thick darkness brings for us?

COUNTESS.

Thou speakest Of Piccolomini. What was his death? The courier had just left thee as I came.

[WALLENSTEIN by a motion of his hand makes signs to her to be silent.]

Turn not thine eyes upon the backward view, Let us look forward into sunny days, Welcome with joyous heart the victory, Forget what it has cost thee. Not today, For the first time, thy friend was to thee dead; To thee he died, when first he parted from thee.

WALLENST.

This anguish will be wearied down,[35] I know; What pang is permanent with man? From the highest, As from the vilest thing of every day, He learns to wean himself: for the strong hours Conquer him. Yet I feel what I have lost In him. The bloom is vanish'd from my life; For O! he stood beside me, like my youth, Transform'd for me the real to a dream, Clothing the palpable and the familiar With golden exhalations of the dawn. Whatever fortunes wait my future toils, The beautiful is vanish'd—and returns not.

COUNTESS.

O be not treacherous to thy own power. Thy heart is rich enough to vivify Itself. Thou lovest and prizest virtues in him, The which thyself didst plant, thyself unfold.

WALLENSTEIN (stepping to the door).

Who interrupts us now at this late hour? It is the Governor. He brings the keys Of the Citadel. 'Tis midnight. Leave me, sister!

COUNTESS.

O 'tis so hard to me this night to leave thee— A boding fear possesses me!

WALLENSTEIN.

Fear! Wherefore?

COUNTESS.

Shouldst thou depart this night, and we at waking Never more find thee!

WALLENSTEIN.

Fancies!

COUNTESS.

O my soul Has long been weigh'd down by these dark fore-bodings, And if I combat and repel them waking, They will crush down upon my heart in dreams. I saw thee yesternight with thy first wife Sit at a banquet, gorgeously attired.

WALLENST.

This was a dream of favorable omen, That marriage being the founder of my fortunes.

COUNTESS.

Today I dreamt that I was seeking thee In thy own chamber. As I enter'd, lo! It was no more a chamber: the Chartreuse At Gitschin 'twas, which thou thyself hast founded, And where it is thy will that thou should'st be Interr'd.

WALLENSTEIN.

Thy soul is busy with these thoughts.

COUNTESS.

What! dost thou not believe that oft in dreams A voice of warning speaks prophetic to us?

WALTENST.

There is no doubt that there exist such voices; Yet I would not call them Voices of warning that announce to us Only the inevitable. As the sun, Ere it is risen, sometimes paints its image In the atmosphere, so often do the spirits Of great events stride on before the events, And in today already walks tomorrow. That which we read of the fourth Henry's death Did ever vex and haunt me like a tale Of my own future destiny. The king Felt in his breast the phantom of the knife, Long ere Ravaillac arm'd himself therewith. His quiet mind forsook him: the phantasma Started him in his Louvre, chased him forth Into the open air: like funeral knells Sounded that coronation festival; And still with boding sense he heard the tread Of those feet that even then were seeking him Throughout the streets of Paris.

COUNTESS.

And to thee The voice within thy soul bodes nothing?

WALLENSTEIN.

Nothing. Be wholly tranquil.

COUNTESS.

And another time I hasten'd after thee, and thou ran'st from me Through a long suite, through many a spacious hall. There seem'd no end of it: doors creak'd and clapp'd; I follow'd panting, but could not o'ertake thee; When on a sudden did I feel myself Grasp'd from behind—the hand was cold that grasped me— 'Twas thou, and thou didst kiss me, and there seem'd A crimson covering to envelop us.

WALLENST. That is the crimson tapestry of my chamber.

COUNTESS (gazing on him). If it should come to that—if I should see thee, Who standest now before me in the fulness Of life—

[She falls on his breast and weeps.]

WALLENST.

The Emperor's proclamation weighs upon thee— Alphabets wound not—and he finds no hands.

COUNTESS.

If he should find them, my resolve is taken— I bear about me my support and refuge.

[Exit COUNTESS.]

SCENE IV

WALLENSTEIN, GORDON

WALLENST.

All quiet in the town?

GORDON.

The town is quiet.

WALLENST.

I hear a boisterous music! and the Castle Is lighted up. Who are the revellers?

GORDON.

There is a banquet given at the Castle To the Count Terzky and Field Marshal Illo.

WALLENST.

In honor of the victory—This tribe Can show their joy in nothing else but feasting.

[Rings. The GROOM OF THE CHAMBER enters.]

Unrobe me. I will lay me down to sleep.

[WALLENSTEIN takes the keys from GORDON.]

So we are guarded from all enemies, And shut in with sure friends; For all must cheat me, or a face like this

[Fixing his eye on GORDON.]

Was ne'er a hypocrite's mask.

[The GROOM OF THE CHAMBER takes off his mantle, collar, and scarf.]

WALLENSTEIN.

Take care—what is that?

GROOM OF THE CHAMBER.

The golden chain is snapped in two.

WALLENST.

Well, it has lasted long enough. Here—give it.

[He takes and looks at the chain.]

'Twas the first present of the Emperor. He hung it round me in the war of Friule, He being then Archduke; and I have worn it Till now from habit— From superstition, if you will. Belike, It was to be a talisman to me; And while I wore it on my neck in faith, It was to chain to me all my life long The volatile fortune, whose first pledge it was— Well, be it so! Henceforward a new fortune Must spring up for me; for the potency Of this charm is dissolved.

[GROOM OF THE CHAMBER retires with the vestments. WALLENSTEIN rises, takes a stride across the room, and stands at last before GORDON in a posture of meditation.]

How the old time returns upon me! I Behold myself once more at Burgau, where We two were Pages of the Court together. We oftentimes disputed: thy intention Was ever good; but thou wert wont to play The Moralist and Preacher, and wouldst rail at me— That I strove after things too high for me, Giving my faith to bold unlawful dreams, And still extol to me the golden mean— Thy wisdom hath been proved a thriftless friend To thy own self. See, it has made thee early A superannuated man, and (but That my munificent stars will intervene) Would let thee in some miserable corner Go out like an untended lamp.

GORDON.

My Prince! With light heart the poor fisher moors his boat, And watches from the shore the lofty ship Stranded amid the storm.

WALLENSTEIN.

Art thou already In harbor then, old man? Well! I am not. The unconquer'd spirit drives me o'er life's billows; My planks still firm, my canvas swelling proudly. Hope is my goddess still, and Youth my inmate; And while we stand thus front to front almost I might presume to say that the swift years Have passed by powerless o'er my unblanched hair.

[He moves with long strides across the Saloon, and remains on the opposite side over against GORDON.]

Who now persists in calling Fortune false? To me she has proved faithful; with fond love Took me from out the common ranks of men, And like a mother goddess, with strong arm Carried me swiftly up the steps of life. Nothing is common in my destiny, Nor in the furrows of my hand. Who dares Interpret then my life for me as 'twere One of the undistinguishable many? True, in this present moment I appear Fallen low indeed; but I shall rise again. The high flood will soon follow on this ebb; The fountain of my fortune, which now stops Repress'd and bound by some malicious star, Will soon in joy play forth from all its pipes.

GORDON.

And yet remember I the good old proverb, "Let the night come before we praise the day." I would be slow from long-continued fortune To gather hope: for Hope is the companion Given to the unfortunate by pitying Heaven. Fear hovers round the head of prosperous men; For still unsteady are the scales of fate.

WALLENSTEIN (smiling).

I hear the very Gordon that of old Was wont to preach, now once more preaching; I know well that all sublunary things Are still the vassals of vicissitude. The unpropitious gods demand their tribute; This long ago the ancient Pagans knew: And therefore of their own accord they offer'd To themselves injuries, so to atone The jealousy of their divinities: And human sacrifices bled to Typhon.

[After a pause, serious, and in a more subdued manner.]

I too have sacrificed to him—For me There fell the dearest friend, and through my fault He fell! No joy from favorable fortune Can overweight the anguish of this stroke. The envy of my destiny is glutted Life pays for life. On his pure head the lightning Was drawn off which would else have shatter'd me.

SCENE V

To these enter SENI

WALLENST.

Is not that Seni! and beside himself, If one may trust his looks? What brings thee hither At this late hour, Baptista?

SENI.

Terror, Duke! On thy account.

WALLENSTEIN.

What now?

SENI.

Flee ere the day break! Trust not thy person to the Swedes!

WALLENSTEIN.

What now Is in thy thoughts?

SENI (with louder voice).

Trust not thy person to the Swedes.

WALLENSTEIN.

What is it, then?

SENI (still more urgently).

O wait not the arrival of these Swedes! An evil near at hand is threatening thee From false friends. All the signs stand full of horror! Near, near at hand the net-work of perdition— Yea, even now 'tis being cast around thee!

WALLENST.

Baptista, thou art dreaming!—Fear befools thee.

SENI.

Believe not that an empty fear deludes me. Come, read it in the planetary aspects; Read it thyself that ruin threatens thee From false friends.

WALLENSTEIN.

From the falseness of my friends Has risen the whole of my unprosperous fortunes. The warning should have come before! At present I need no revelation from the stars To know that.

SENI.

Come and see! trust thine own eyes! A fearful sign stands in the house of life— An enemy; a fiend lurks close behind The radiance of thy planet.—O be warn'd! Deliver not up thyself to these heathens, To wage a war against our holy church.

WALLENSTEIN (laughing gently).

The oracle rails that way! Yes, yes! Now I recollect. This junction with the Swedes Did never please thee—lay thyself to sleep, Baptista! Signs like these I do not fear.

GORDON (who during the whole of this dialogue has shown marks of extreme agitation, and now turns to WALLENSTEIN).

My Duke and General! May I dare presume?

WALLENST.

Speak freely.



GORDON.

What if 'twere no mere creation Of fear, if God's high providence vouchsafed To interpose its aid for your deliverance, And made that mouth its organ?

WALLENSTEIN.

Ye're both feverish! How can mishap come to me from the Swedes! They sought this junction with me—'tis their interest.

GORDON (with difficulty suppressing his emotion).

But what if the arrival of these Swedes— What if this were the very thing that wing'd The ruin that is flying to your temples?

[Flings himself at his feet.]

There is yet time, my Prince.

SENI.

O hear him! hear him!

GORDON (rises).

The Rhinegrave's still far off. Give but the orders, This citadel shall close its gates upon him. If then he will besiege us, let him try it. But this I say; he'll find his own destruction With his whole force before these ramparts, sooner Than weary down the valor of our spirit. He shall experience what a band of heroes, Inspirited by an heroic leader, Is able to perform. And if indeed It be thy serious wish to make amend For that which thou hast done amiss—this, this Will touch and reconcile the Emperor, Who gladly turns his heart to thoughts of mercy And Friedland, who returns repentant to him, Will stand yet higher in his Emperor's favor Than e'er he stood when he had never fallen.

WALLENSTEIN (contemplates him with surprise, remains awhile, betraying strong emotion).

Gordon—your zeal and fervor lead you far. Well, well—an old friend has a privilege. Blood, Gordon, has been flowing. Never, never Can the Emperor pardon me; and if he could, Yet I—I never could let myself be pardon'd. Had I foreknown what now has taken place, That he, my dearest friend, would fall for me My first death-offering; and had the heart Spoken to me, as now it has done—Gordon, It may be, I might have bethought myself; It may be too, I might not. Might or might not Is now an idle question. All too seriously Has it begun to end in nothing, Gordon! Let it then have its course.

[Stepping to the window.]

All dark and silent-at the castle too All is now hush'd—Light me, Chamberlain!

[The GROOM OF THE CHAMBER, who had entered during the last dialogue, and had been standing at a distance and listening to it with visible expressions of the deepest interest, advances in extreme agitation, and throws himself at the DUKE'S feet.]

And thou too! But I know why thou dost wish My reconcilement with the Emperor. Poor man! he hath a small estate in Carinthia, And fears it will be forfeited because He's in my service. Am I then so poor That I no longer can indemnify My servants? Well! to no one I employ Means of compulsion. If 'tis thy belief That fortune has fled from me, go! forsake me. This night for the last time mayst thou unrobe me, And then go over to thy Emperor. Gordon, good night! I think to make a long Sleep of it: for the struggle and the turmoil Of this last day or two was great. May't please you! Take care that they awake me not too early.

[Exit WALLENSTEIN, the GROOM OF THE CHAMBER lighting him.SENI follows, GORDON remains on the darkened stage, following the DUKE with his eye, till he disappears at the farther end of the gallery: then by his gestures the old man expresses the depth of his anguish and stands leaning against a pillar.]

SCENE VI

GORDON, BUTLER (at first behind the scenes)

BUTLER (not yet come into view of the stage).

Here stand in silence till I give the signal.

GORDON (starts up).

'Tis he! he has already brought the murderers.

BUTLER.

The lights are out. All lies in profound sleep.

GORDON. What shall I do? Shall I attempt to save him? Shall I call up the house? alarm the guards?

BUTLER (appears, but scarcely on the stage).

A light gleams hither from the corridor. It leads directly to the Duke's bed-chamber.

GORDON.

But then I break my oath to the Emperor; If he escape and strengthen the enemy, Do I not hereby call down on my head All the dread consequences?

BUTLER (stepping forward).

Hark! Who speaks there?

GORDON.

'Tis better, I resign it to the hands Of Providence. For what am I, that I Should take upon myself so great a deed? I have not murdered him, if he be murder'd; But all his rescue were my act and deed; Mine—and whatever be the consequences, I must sustain them.

BUTLER (advances).

I should know that voice.

GORDON.

Butler!

BUTLER.

'Tis Gordon. What do you want here? Was it so late then, when the Duke dismiss'd you?

GORDON.

Your hand bound up and in a scarf?

BUTLER.

'Tis wounded. That Illo fought as he were frantic, till At last we threw him on the ground.

GORDON (shuddering). Both dead?

BUTLER.

Is he in bed?

GORDON.

Ah, Butler!

BUTLER.

Is he? speak.

GORDON.

He shall not perish! Not through you! The Heaven Refuses your arm. See—'tis wounded!—

BUTLER.

There is no need of my arm.

GORDON.

The most guilty Have perish'd, and enough is given to justice.

[The GROOM OF THE CHAMBER advances from the Gallery with his finger on his mouth commanding silence.]

GORDON.

He sleeps! O murder not the holy sleep!

BUTLER.

No! he shall die awake.

[Is going.]

GORDON.

His heart still cleaves To earthly things: he's not prepared to step Into the presence of his God!

BUTLER (going).

God's merciful!

GORDON (holds him).

Grant him but this night's respite.

BUTLER (hurrying off)

The next moment May ruin all.

GORDON (holds him still).

One hour!—

BUTLER. Unhold me! What Can that short respite profit him?



GORDON.

O—Time Works miracles. In one hour many thousands Of grains of sand run out; and quick as they, Thought follows thought within the human soul. Only one hour! Your heart may change its purpose, His heart may change its purpose—some new tidings May come; some fortunate event, decisive, May fall from Heaven and rescue him. O what May not one hour achieve!

BUTLER.

You but remind me, How precious every minute is!

[He stamps on the floor.]

SCENE VII

To these enter MACDONALD and DEVEREUX, with the HALBERDIERS

GORDON (throwing himself between him and them).

No, monster! First over my dead body thou shalt tread. I will not live to see the accursed deed!

BUTLER (forcing him out of the way).

Weak-hearted dotard!

[Trumpets are heard in the distance.]

DEVEREUX and MACDONALD.

Hark! the Swedish trumpets! The Swedes before the ramparts! Let us hasten!

GORDON (rushes out).

O, God of mercy!

BUTLER (calling after him).

Governor, to your post!

GROOM OF THE CHAMBER (hurries in).

Who dares make larum here? Hush! The Duke sleeps.

DEVEREUX (with loud harsh voice).

Friend, it is time now to make larum.

GROOM OF THE CHAMBER.

Help! Murder!

BUTLER.

Down with him!

GROOM OF THE CHAMBER (run through the body by DEVEREUX, falls at the entrance of the Gallery).

Jesus Maria!

BUTLER.

Burst the doors open.

[They rush over the body into the Gallery—two doors are heard to crash one after the other.—Voices, deadened by the distance—clash of arms—then all at once a profound silence.]

SCENE VIII

COUNTESS TERZKY (with a light).

Her bed-chamber is empty; she herself Is nowhere to be found! The Neubrunn too, Who watch'd by her, is missing. If she should Be flown—but whither flown? We must call up Every soul in the house. How will the Duke Bear up against these worst bad tidings? O If that my husband now were but return'd Home from the banquet!—Hark! I wonder whether The Duke is still awake! I thought I heard Voices and tread of feet here! I will go And listen at the door. Hark! what is that? 'Tis hastening up the steps!

SCENE IX

COUNTESS, GORDON

GORDON (rushes in out of breath).

'Tis a mistake! 'Tis not the Swedes—Ye must proceed no further Butler!—O God! where is he?

GORDON (observing the COUNTESS).

Countess! Say—

COUNTESS.

You are come then from the castle? Where's my husband?

GORDON (in an agony of affright).

Your husband!—Ask not!—To the Duke—

COUNTESS.

Not till You have discover'd to me—

GORDON.

On this moment Does the world hang. For God's sake! to the Duke. While we are speaking—

[Calling loudly.]

Butler! Butler! God!

COUNTESS.

Why, he is at the castle with my husband.

[BUTLER comes from the Gallery.]

GORDON.

'Twas a mistake—'Tis not the Swedes—it is The Imperialists' Lieutenant-General Has sent me hither—will be here himself Instantly.—You must not proceed.

BUTLER.

He comes Too late.

[GORDON dashes himself against the wall.]

GORDON.

O God of mercy!

COUNTESS.

What too late? Who will be here himself? Octavio In Egra? Treason! Treason!—Where's the Duke?

[She rushes to the Gallery.]

SCENE X

Servants run across the Stage, full of terror. The whole Scene must be spoken entirely without pauses.

SENI (from the Gallery).

A bloody, frightful deed!

COUNTESS.

What is it, Seni?

PAGE (from the Gallery).

O piteous sight!

[Other servants hasten in with torches.]

COUNTESS.

What is it? For God's sake!

SENI.

And do you ask? Within, the Duke lies murder'd—and your husband Assassinated at the Castle.

[The COUNTESS stands motionless.]

FEMALE SERVANT (rushing across the stage).

Help! help! the Duchess!

BURGOMASTER (enters).

What mean these confused Loud cries that wake the sleepers of this house?

GORDON.

Your house is cursed to all eternity. In your house doth the Duke lie murder'd!

BURGOMASTER (rushing out).

Heaven forbid!

1ST SERV.

Fly! fly! they murder us all!

SECOND SERVANT (carrying silver plate).

That way! the lower Passages are block'd up.

VOICE (from behind the Scene).

Make room for the Lieutenant-General!

[At these words the COUNTESS starts from her stupor, collects herself, and retires suddenly.]

VOICE (from behind the Scene).

Keep back the people! Guard the door!

SCENE XI

To these enter OCTAVIO PICCOLOMINI with all his train. At the same time DEVEREUX and MACDONALD enter from out the Corridor with the Halberdiers.—WALLENSTEIN'S dead body is carried over the back part of the stage, wrapped in a piece of crimson tapestry.

OCTAVIO (entering abruptly).

It must not be! It is not possible! Butler! Gordon! I'll not believe it. Say no!

[GORDON, without answering, points with his hand to the body of WALLENSTEIN as it is carried over the back of the stage. OCTAVIO looks that way, and stands overpowered with horror.]

DEVEREUX (to BUTLER).

Here is the golden fleece—the Duke's Sword—

MACRON.

Is it your order—

BUTLER (pointing to OCTAVIO).

Here stands he who now Hath the sole power to issue orders.

[DEVEREUx and MACDONALD retire with marks of obeisance. One drops away after the other, till only BUTLER, OCTAVIO, and GORDON remain on the stage.]

OCTAVIO (turning to BUTLER).

Was that my purpose, Butler, when we parted? O God of Justice! To thee I lift my hand! I am not guilty Of this foul deed.

BUTLER.

Your hand is pure. You have Avail'd yourself of mine.

OCTAVIO.

Merciless man! Thus to abuse the orders of thy Lord— And stain thy Emperor's holy name with murder, With bloody, most accursed assassination!

BUTLER (calmly).

I've but fulfilled the Emperor's own sentence.

OCTAVIO.

O curse of Kings, Infusing a dread life into their words, And linking to the sudden transient thought The unchanging irrevocable deed. Was there necessity for such an eager Dispatch? Couldst thou not grant the merciful A time for mercy? Time is man's good Angel. To leave no interval between the sentence, And the fulfilment of it, doth beseem God only, the immutable!

BUTLER.

For what Rail you against me? What is my offense? The Empire from a fearful enemy Have I deliver'd, and expect reward; The single difference betwixt you and me Is this: you placed the arrow in the bow: I pull'd the string. You sow'd blood, and yet stand Astonish'd that blood is come up. I always Knew what I did, and therefore no result Hath power to frighten or surprise my spirit. Have you aught else to order; for this instant I make my best speed to Vienna; place My bleeding sword before my Emperor's throne, And hope to gain the applause which undelaying And punctual obedience may demand From a just judge.

[Exit BUTLER.]

SCENE XII

To these enter the COUNTESS TERZKY, pale and disordered. Her utterance is slow and feeble, and unimpassioned.

OCTAVIO (meeting her).

O, Countess Terzky! These are the results Of luckless unblest deeds.

COUNTESS.

They are the fruits Of your contrivances. The Duke is dead, My husband too is dead, the Duchess struggles In the pangs of death, my niece has disappear'd, This house of splendor, and of princely glory, Doth now stand desolated: the affrighted servants Rush forth through all its doors. I am the last Therein; I shut it up, and here deliver The keys.

OCTAVIO (with a deep anguish).

O Countess! my house, too, is desolate.

COUNTESS.

Who next is to be murder'd? Who is next To be maltreated? Lo! the Duke is dead, The Emperor's vengeance may be pacified! Spare the old servants; let not their fidelity Be imputed to the faithful as a crime— The evil destiny surprised my brother Too suddenly: he could not think on them.

OCTAVIO.

Speak not of vengeance! Speak not of maltreatment! The Emperor is appeased; the heavy fault Hath heavily been expiated—nothing Descended from the father to the daughter, Except his glory and his services. The Empress honors your adversity, Takes part in your afflictions, opens to you Her motherly arms! Therefore, no farther fears; Yield yourself up in hope and confidence To the Imperial Grace!

COUNTESS. (with her eye raised to heaven).

To the grace and mercy of a greater Master Do I yield up myself. Where shall the body Of the Duke have its place of final rest? In the Chartreuse, which he himself did found At Gitschin, rests the Countess Wallenstein; And by her side, to whom he was indebted For his first fortunes, gratefully he wish'd He might sometime repose in death! O let him Be buried there. And likewise, for my husband's Remains, I ask the like grace. The Emperor Is now the proprietor of all our castles. This sure may well be granted us—one sepulchre Beside the sepulchres of our forefathers!

OCTAVIO.

Countess, you tremble, you turn pale!

COUNTESS (re-assembles all her powers, and speaks with energy and dignity).

You think More worthily of me than to believe I would survive the downfall of my house. We did not hold ourselves too mean to grasp After a monarch's crown—the crown did fate Deny, but not the feeling and the spirit That to the crown belong! We deem a Courageous death more worthy of our free station Than a dishonor'd life.—I have taken poison.

OCTAVIO.

Help! Help! Support her!

COUNTESS.

Nay, it is too late, In a few moments is my fate accomplish'd.

[Exit COUNTESS.]

GORDON.

O house of death and horrors!

[An OFFICER enters, and brings a letter with the great seal. GORDON steps forward and meets him.]

What is this? It is the Imperial Seal.

[He reads the address, and delivers the letter to OCTAVIO with a look of reproach, and with an emphasis on the word.]

To the Prince Piccolomini.

[OCTAVIO, with his whole frame expressive of sudden anguish, raises his eyes to heaven.]

[The Curtain drops.]

* * * * *

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 22: Thomas: The Life and Works of Schiller, p. 330.]

[Footnote 23: Permission The Macmillan Co., New York, and G. Bell & Sons, London.]

[Footnote 24: A great stone near Luetzen, since called the Swede's Stone, the body of their great king having been found at the foot of it, after the battle in which he lost his life.]

[Footnote 25: Could I have hazarded such a Germanism as the use of the word after-world, for posterity—"Es spreche Welt und Nachwelt meinen Namen" might have been rendered with more literal fidelity:—Let world and after-world speak out my name, etc.]

[Footnote 26: I have not ventured to affront the fastidious delicacy of our age with a literal translation of this line,

werth Die Eingeweide schaudernd aufzureger.]

[Footnote 27: Anspessade, in German Gefreiter, a soldier inferior to a corporal, but above the sentinels. The German name implies that he is exempt from mounting guard.]

[Footnote 28: I have here ventured to omit a considerable number of lines. I fear that I should not have done amiss, had I taken this liberty more frequently. It is, however, incumbent on me to give the original, with a literal translation.

Weh denen, die auf Dich vertraun, an Dich Die sichre Huette illres Glueckes lehnen, Gelockt von deiner geistlichen Gestalt. Schnell unverhofft, bei naechtlich stiller Weile Gaehrts in dem tueckschen Feuerschlunde, ladet Sich aus mit tobender Gewalt, und weg Treibt ueber alle Pflanzungen der Menschen Der Wilde Strom in grausender Zerstoerung.

WALLENSTEIN.

Du schilderst deines Vaters Herz. Wie Du's Beschreibst, so ist's in seinem Eingeweide, In dieser schwarzen Heuchlers Brust gestaltet. O, mich hat Hoellenkunst getaeuscht! Mir sandte Der Abgrund den verflecktesten der Geister, Den Luegenkundigsten herauf, and stellt' ihn Als Freund an meiner Seite. Wer vermag Der Hoelle Macht zu widerstehn! Ich zog Den Basilisken auf an meinem Busen, Mit meinem Herzblut naehrt ich ihn, er sog Sich schwelgend voll an meiner Liebe Bruesten, Ich hatte nimmer Arges gegen ihn, Weit offen liess ich des Gedankens Thore, Und warf die Schluessel weiser Vorsicht weg, Am Sternenhimmel, etc.

LITERAL TRANSLATION

Alas! for those who place their confidence on thee, against thee lean the secure hut of their happiness, allured by thy hospitable form. Suddenly, unexpectedly, in a moment still as night, there is a fermentation in the treacherous gulf of fire; it discharges itself with raging force, and away over all the plantations of men drives the wild stream in frightful devastation.—WALLENSTEIN. Thou art portraying thy father's heart; as thou describest, even so is it shaped in his entrails, in this black hypocrite's breast. O, the art of hell has deceived me! The Abyss sent up to me the most spotted of the spirits, the most skilful in lies, and placed him as a friend by my side. Who may withstand the power of hell? I took the basilisk to my bosom, with my heart's blood I nourished him; he sucked himself glutfull at the breasts of my love. I never harbored evil toward him; wide open did I leave the door of my thoughts; I threw away the key of wise foresight. In the starry heaven, etc.—We find a difficulty in believing this to have been written by Schiller.]

[Footnote 29: This is a poor and inadequate translation of the affectionate simplicity of the original—

Sie alle waren Fremdlinge; Du warst Das Kind des Hauses.

Indeed the whole speech is in the best style of Massinger. O si sic omnia!]

[Footnote 30: It appears that the account of his conversion being caused by such a fall, and other stories of his juvenile character, are not well authenticated.]

[Footnote 31: We doubt the propriety of putting so blasphemous a statement in the mouth of any character.—T.]

[Footnote 32: This soliloquy, which, according to the former arrangement; constituted the whole of Scene IX., and concluded the Fourth Act, is omitted in all the printed German editions. It seems probable that it existed in the original manuscript from which Mr. Coleridge translated.—Ed.]

[Footnote 33: The soliloquy of Thekla consists in the original of six-and-twenty lines, twenty of which are in rhymes of irregular recurrence. I thought it prudent to abridge it. Indeed the whole scene between Thekla and Lady Neubrunn might, perhaps have been omitted without injury to the play.—C.]

[Footnote 34: These four lines are expressed in the original with exquisite felicity—

Am Himmel ist geschaeftige Bewegung. Des Thurmes Fahne jagt der Wind, schnell geht Der Wolken Zug, die Mondessichel wankt, Und durch die Nacht zuckt ungewisse Helle.

The word "moon-sickle," reminds me of a passage in Harris, as quoted by Johnson, under the word "falcated." "The enlightened part of the moon appears in the form of a sickle or reaping-hook, which is while she is moving from the conjunction to the opposition, or from the new moon to the full: but from full to a new again, the enlightened part appears gibbous, and the dark falcated."

The words "wanken" and "schweben" are not easily translated. The English words, by which we attempt to render them, are either vulgar or pedantic, or not of sufficiently general application. So "der Wolken Zug"—literally, The Draft, the Procession of clouds; freely—The Masses of the Clouds sweep onward in swift stream.]

[Footnote 35: A very inadequate translation of the original—

Verschmerzen werd' ich diesen Schlag, das weiss ich, Denn was verschmerzte nicht der Mensch!

LITERALLY.

I shall grieve down this blow, of that I'm conscious: What does not man grieve down?]

* * * * *



INTRODUCTION TO WILLIAM TELL

BY WILLIAM H. CARRUTH, PH.D.

Professor of Comparative Literature, Leland Stanford University

William Tell is the last complete drama written by Schiller, finished February 18, 1804, in the author's forty-fifth year and something over a year before his death. After this he completed only a pageant, The Homage of the Arts, although he was occupied with many plans for other plays, including Demetrius, founded on the career of the Russian pretender of this name, of which he left the first act. William Tell is the last of Schiller's five great dramas, a series beginning with Wallenstein, written within nine years, constituting, along with his ballads and many other poems, the work of what is called his "third period." This period was preceded by Schiller's chief prose works and the historical and philosophical studies preparatory thereto, together with considerable reading of Greek and English classics, notably Homer and Shakespeare. The influence of his historical and critical studies and of this reading is evident in the dramas: Wallenstein, Maria Stuart, The Maid of Orleans, The Bride of Messina, William Tell. But of these, William Tell stands apart in several ways.

For all of them Schiller made careful preliminary studies, but for none in such detail as for Tell. He had not only a remote historical material to deal with, but also a land and customs which he had never seen and which nevertheless he wished to present with great fidelity. His chief source was the Swiss chronicler Tschudi, of the sixteenth century, from whom he took not only the main features of his action, but many touches of scenery and much actual phraseology. In addition he studied the Swiss historian Johannes von Mueller, maps and natural histories of Switzerland, and received also some oral notes from Goethe, to whom, in fact, he owed the original suggestion of dramatizing the story of William Tell.

Unlike the other dramas of Schiller's last period, William Tell has no plot in the technical dramatic sense. There is no snare of circumstances laid which forces a hero, after vain attempts to elude or unloose it, to tear his way out at the cost of more or less innocent lives. We see the representatives of three small, freedom-loving democracies pushed beyond endurance by the outrages of tyranny, pledging mutual support in resisting these encroachments upon their liberties, and carrying out a successful resistance, aided by the wholly fortuitous assassination of the tyrannical emperor. We see, as a single instance of these oppressions, the arrogant caprice of the bailiff Gessler in demanding homage to the Austrian hat, his jealousy of the freeman Tell expressed in imposing as a penalty for neglected obeisance the shooting of an apple from his little son's head, the successful meeting of this test, and in turn Tell's vengeance through the exercise of this same prowess in shooting Gessler as he rides home through the Hohle Gasse. Mingled with these elements we see the patriotic support of the common people by a native noblewoman, Bertha von Brunneck, and her successful effort to win to this cause, through his love for her, the young Baron von Rudenz, whose uncle Attinghausen, always loyal to his people, hears in dying the news of his nephew's conversion, while with his last breath he prophesies the triumph of liberty. These three threads are woven into a single pattern through the element of the common cause. This is the unity of the action, which many critics have found wanting in the play. Moreover these three plans of action cooeperate, if not by deliberate foresight, yet by coincidence of time and purpose, and in some measure by common personages.

The theme of William Tell had been used as early as the sixteenth century in one of the early popular pageants with which the modern German drama begins. These pageants occupied the whole of several days in presentation and employed, including all supernumeraries, as high as three hundred people. Schiller knew the old Tell Play and imbibed something of its spirit. He uses masses of populace in William Tell as in no other of his plays except the Camp of the Wallenstein trilogy. It may be that the influence of the old popular play together with the nature of his material led him to dispense here with the unity of action, the plot, and the expression of tragic guilt, which may be found in all his other later plays.

Along with keen appreciation, such as A.W. Schlegel's comment: "Imbued with the poetry of history, with a treatment true to nature and genuine, and, considering the poet's unfamiliarity with the country, astonishingly correct in local color," William Tell met from the first much adverse criticism. This applied first of all to the looseness of connection already cited between the various elements of the action, and further, to the supposed superfluousness of the Parricide episode in the Fifth Act, to the alleged unnaturalness of Tell's long speeches and to the ignoble nature of his assault upon Gessler from ambush. The last was given the poet in the legend of Tell, which in general he took over with pious reverence as authentic history. The Parricide episode was introduced, partly because it was actually there in history and helped to complete the victory of the peasants' cause, partly in order to give a better color to Tell's own act, as being less prompted by selfish considerations. The criticism of Tell's speeches, whether his pithy, epigrammatic sentences in Act I, Scenes 1 and 3, and elsewhere, or his long monologue in Act IV, Scene 3, applies to the whole constitution of the conventional stage with just as much validity against Shakespeare's Julius Caesar and Hamlet as against William Tell. True, it is not plausible that Tell recited 100 lines of beautiful poetry while lying in wait for Gessler; neither is it likely that Prince Hamlet talked to himself in pentameters.

In general this play is more objective than Schiller's other plays, and this was a quality which he admired in Goethe's work and strove for in his own. Despite the technical criticisms, we find that the play is filled with beautiful descriptions and noble sentiments nobly expressed. On the stage most of the scenes are exceedingly fascinating and effective. These beauties are quite sufficient to hide the lack of unity, and the total effect with the majority of the people is a high esthetic and ethical gratification. The play has remained one of the most popular pieces on the German stage and has had an incalculable effect in the cultivation of national feeling.

* * * * *



WILLIAM TELL

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

HERMANN GESSLER, Governor of Schwytz and Uri.

WERNER, Baron of Attinghausen, free noble of Switzerland.

ULRICH VON RUDENZ, his Nephew.

WERNER STAUFFACHER, } CONRAD HUNN, } HANS AUF DER MAUER, } JORG IM HOFE, } People of Schwytz. ULRICH DER SCHMIDT, } JOST VON WEILER, } ITEL REDING, }

WALTER FUeRST, WILLIAM TELL, } ROeSSELMANN, the Priest,} PETERMANN, Sacristan, } of Uri. KUONI, Herdsman, } WERNI, Huntsman, } RUODI, Fisherman, }

ARNOLD OF MELCHTHAL, CONRAD BAUMGARTEN, } MEYER VON SARNEN, } STRUTH VON WINKELRIED, } of Unterwald. KLAUS VON DER FLUE, } BURKHART AM BUHEL, } ARNOLD VON SEWA, }

PFEIFFER OF LUCERNE.

KUNZ OF GERSAU.

JENNI, Fisherman's son.

SEPPI, Herdsman's son.

GERTRUDE, Stauffacher's wife.

HEDWIG, wife of Tell, daughter of Fuerst.

BERTHA OF BRUNECK, a rich heiress.

ARMGART, } MECHTHILD, } ELSBETH, } Peasant women. HILDEGARD, }

WALTER, } Tell's Sons. WILLIAM, }

FRIESSHARDT, } Soldiers. LEUTHOLD, }

RUDOLPH DER HARRAS, Gessler's master of the horse.

JOHANNES PARRICIDA, Duke of Suabia.

STUSSI, Overseer.

THE MAYOR OF URI.

A COURIER.

MASTER STONEMASON, COMPANION AND WORKMEN.

TASKMASTER.

A CRIER.

MONKS OF THE ORDER OF CHARITY.

HORSEMEN OF GESSLER AND LANDENDERG.

MANY PEASANTS; MEN AND WOMEN FROM THE WALDSTETTEN.

WILLIAM TELL (1804)[36]

TRANSLATED BY SIR THEODORE MARTIN, K.C.B, LL.D.



ACT I

SCENE I

A high rocky shore of the lake of Lucerne opposite Schwytz. The lake makes a bend into the land; a hut stands at a short distance from the shore; the fisher boy is rowing about in his boat. Beyond the lake are seen the green meadows, the hamlets and farms of Schwytz, lying in the clear sunshine. On the left are observed the peaks of the Hacken, surrounded with clouds; to the right, and in the remote distance, appear the Glaciers. The Ranz des Vaches, and the tinkling of cattle bells, continue for some time after the rising of the curtain.

FISHER BOY (sings in his boat) Melody of the Ranz des Vaches

The smile-dimpled lake woo'd to bathe in its deep, A boy on its green shore had laid him to sleep; Then heard he a melody Floating along, Sweet as the notes Of an angel's song. And as thrilling with pleasure he wakes from his rest, The waters are rippling over his breast; And a voice from the deep cries, "With me thou must go, I charm the young shepherd, I lure him below."

HERDSMAN (on the mountains) Air—Variation of the Ranz des Vaches

Farewell, ye green meadows, Farewell, sunny shore, The herdsman must leave you, The summer is o'er. We go to the hills, but you'll see us again, When the cuckoo calls, and the merry birds sing, When the flowers bloom afresh in glade and in glen, And the brooks sparkle bright in the sunshine of Spring. Farewell, ye green meadows, Farewell, sunny shore, The herdsman must leave you, The summer is o'er.

CHAMOIS HUNTER (appearing on the top of a cliff) Second Variation of the Ranz des Vaches

On the heights peals the thunder, and trembles the bridge, The huntsman bounds on by the dizzying ridge. Undaunted he hies him O'er ice-covered wild, Where leaf never budded, Nor Spring ever smiled; And beneath him an ocean of mist, where his eye No longer the dwellings of man can espy; Through the parting clouds only The earth can be seen; Far down 'neath the vapor The meadows of green.

[A change comes over the landscape. A rumbling, cracking noise is heard among the mountains. Shadows of clouds sweep across the scene.]

[RUODI, the fisherman, comes out of his cottage. WERNI, the huntsman, descends from the rocks. KUONI, the shepherd, enters, with a milkpail on his shoulders, followed by SEPPI, his assistant.]

RUODI.

Come, Jenni, bustle, get the boat on shore. The grizzly Vale-King[37] comes, the Glaciers moan, The Mytenstein[38] is drawing on his hood, And from the Stormcleft chilly blows the wind; The storm will burst, before we know what's what.

KUONI.

'Twill rain ere long; my sheep browse eagerly, And Watcher there is scraping up the earth.

WERNI.

The fish are leaping, and the water-hen Keeps diving up and down. A storm is brewing.

KUONI. (to his boy).

Look, Seppi, if the beasts be all in sight.

SEPPI.

There goes brown Liesel, I can hear her bells.

KUONI.

Then all are safe; she ever ranges farthest.

RUODI.

You've a fine chime of bells there, master herdsman.

WERNI.

And likely cattle, too. Are they your own?

KUONI.

I'm not so rich. They are the noble lord's Of Attinghaus, and told off to my care.

RUODI.

How gracefully yon heifer bears her ribbon!

KUONI.

Ay, well she knows she's leader of the herd, And, take it from her, she'd refuse to feed.

RUODI.

You're joking now. A beast devoid of reason—

WERNI.

Easily said. But beasts have reason, too— And that we know, we chamois-hunters, well. They never turn to feed—sagacious creatures! Till they have placed a sentinel ahead, Who pricks his ears whenever we approach, And gives alarm with clear and piercing pipe.

RUODI. (to the shepherd).

Are you for home?

KUONI.

The Alp is grazed quite bare.

WERNI.

A safe return, my friend!

KUONI.

The same to you! Men come not always back from tracks like yours.

RUODI.

But who comes here, running at topmost speed?

WERNI.

I know the man; 'tis Baumgart of Alzellen.

KONRAD BAUMGARTEN (rushing in breathless).

For God's sake, ferryman, your boat!

RUODI.

How now? Why all this haste?

BAUM.

Cast off! My life's at stake! Set me across!

KUONI.

Why, what's the matter, friend?

WERNI.

Who are pursuing you? First tell us that.

BAUM. (to the fisherman).

Quick, quick, man, quick! they're close upon my heels! It is the Viceroy's men are after me; If they should overtake me, I am lost.

RUODI.

Why are the troopers in pursuit of you?

BAUM.

First make me safe and then I'll tell you all.

WERNI.

There's blood upon your garments—how is, this?

BAUM.

The Imperial Seneschal, who dwelt at Rossberg—

KUONI.

How! What! The Wolfshot?[39] Is it he pursues you?

BAUM.

He'll ne'er hurt man again; I've settled him.

ALL (starting back).

Now, God forgive you, what is this you've done!

BAUM.

What every free man in my place had done. Mine own good household right I have enforced 'Gainst him that would have wrong'd my wife—my honor.

KUONI.

How! Wronged you in your honor, did he so?

BAUM.

That he did not fulfil his foul desire, Is due to God and to my trusty axe.

WERNI.

And you have cleft his skull then, with your axe?

KUONI.

O, tell us all! You've time enough, and more, While he is getting out the boat there from the beach.

BAUM.

When I was in the forest felling timber, My wife came running out in mortal fear. "The Seneschal," she said, "was in my house, Had order'd her to get a bath prepared, And thereupon had ta'en unseemly freedoms, From which she rid herself, and flew to me." Arm'd as I was, I sought him, and my axe Has given his bath a bloody benison.

WERNI.

And you did well; no man can blame the deed.

KUONi.

The tyrant! Now he has his just reward! We men of Unterwald have owed it long.

BAUM.

The deed got wind, and now they're in pursuit. Heavens! whilst we speak, the time is flying fast.

[It begins to thunder.]

KUONI.

Quick, ferryman, and set the good man over.

RUODI.

Impossible! a storm is close at hand, Wait till it pass! You must.

BAUM.

Almighty heavens! I cannot wait; the least delay is death.

KUONI (to the fisherman).

Push out—God with you! We should help our neighbors; The like misfortune may betide us all.

[Thunder and the roaring of the wind.]

RUODI.

The south wind's up![40] See how the lake is rising! I cannot steer against both wind and wave.

BAUM. (clasping him by the knees).

God so help you as now you pity me!

WERNI.

His life's at stake. Have pity on him, man!

KUONI.

He is a father: has a wife and children.

[Repeated peals of thunder.]

RUODI.

What! and have I not, then, a life to lose, A wife and child at home as well as he? See how the breakers foam, and toss, and whirl, And the lake eddies up from all its depths! Right gladly would I save the worthy man, But 'tis impossible, as you must see.

BAUM. (still kneeling).

Then must I fall into the tyrant's hands, And with the shore of safety close in sight! Yonder it lies! My eyes can see it clear, My very voice can echo to its shores. There is the boat to carry me across, Yet must I lie here helpless and forlorn.

KUONI.

Look! who comes here?

RUODI.

'Tis Tell, ay, Tell, of Buerglen.[41]

[Enter TELL with a crossbow.]

TELL.

What man is he that here implores for aid?

KUONI.

He is from Alzellen, and to guard his honor From touch of foulest shame, has slain the Wolf-shot, The Imperial Seneschal, who dwelt at Rossberg. The Viceroy's troopers are upon his heels; He begs the ferryman to take him over, But frightened at the storm he says he won't.

RUODI.

Well, there is Tell can steer as well as I, He'll be my judge, if it be possible.

[Violent peals of thunder—the lake becomes more tempestuous.]

Am I to plunge into the jaws of hell? I should be mad to dare the desperate act.

TELL.

The brave man thinks upon himself the last. Put trust in God, and help him in his need!

RUODI.

Safe in the port, 'tis easy to advise. There is the boat, and there the lake! Try you!

TELL.

The lake may pity, but the Viceroy never. Come, risk it, man!

SHEPHERD and HUNTSMAN.

O save him! save him! save him!

RUODI.

Though 'twere my brother, or my darling child, I would not go. 'Tis Simon and Jude's day; The lake is up, and calling for its victim.

TELL.

Nought's to be done with idle talking here. Each moment's precious; the man must be help'd; Say, boatman, will you venture?

RUODI.

No; not I.

TELL.

In God's name, then, give me the boat! I will, With my poor strength, see what is to be done!

KUONI.

Ha, gallant Tell!

WERNI.

That's like a huntsman true.

BAUM.

You are my angel, my preserver, Tell.

TELL.

I may preserve you from the Viceroy's power, But from the tempest's rage another must. Yet better 'tis you fall into God's hands, Than into those of men.

[To the herdsman.]

Herdsman, do thou Console my wife if I should come to grief. I could not choose but do as I have done.

[He leaps into the boat.]

KUONI (to the fisherman).

A pretty man to keep a ferry, truly! What Tell could risk, you dared not venture on.

RUODI.

Far better men would never cope with Tell. There's no two such as he 'mong all our hills.

WERNI (who has ascended a rock).

Now he is off. God help thee, gallant sailor! Look how the little boat reels on the waves!

KUONI. (on the shore).

There! they have swept clean over it. And now 'Tis out of sight. Yet stay, there 'tis again! Stoutly he stems the breakers, noble fellow!

SEPPI.

Here come the troopers hard as they can ride!

KUONI.

Heavens! so they do! Why, that was help, indeed.

[Enter a troop of horsemen.]

1ST H.

Give up the murderer! You have him here!

2D H.

This way he came! 'Tis useless to conceal him!

RUODI and KUONI.

Whom do you mean?

1ST H. (discovering the boat).

The devil! What do I see?

WERNI (from above).

Is't he in yonder boat ye seek? Ride on, If you lay to, you may o'ertake him yet.

2D H.

Curse on you, he's escaped!

1ST H. (to the shepherd and fisherman).

You help'd him off, And you shall pay for it! Fall on their herds! Down with the cottage! burn it! beat it down!

[They rush off.]

SEPPI (hurrying after them).

Oh my poor lambs!

KUONI (following him).

Unhappy me, my herds!

WERNI.

The tyrants!

RUODI (wringing his hands). Righteous Heaven! Oh, when will come Deliverance to this doom-devoted land?

[Exeunt severally.]

SCENE II

A lime tree in front of STAUFFACHER's house at Steinen, in Schwytz, upon the public road, near a bridge.

WERNER STAUFFACHER, and PFEIFFER, of Lucerne, enter into conversation.

PFEIFF.

Ay, ay, friend Stauffacher, as I have said, Swear not to Austria, if you can help it. Hold by the Empire stoutly as of yore, And God preserve you in your ancient freedom!

[Presses his hand warmly and is going.]

STAUFF.

Wait till my mistress comes. Now do! You are My guest in Schwytz—I in Lucerne am yours.

PFEIFF.

Thanks! thanks! But I must reach Gersau today. Whatever grievances your rulers' pride And grasping avarice may yet inflict, Bear them in patience—soon a change may come. Another Emperor may mount the throne. But Austria's once, and you are hers forever.

[Exit.]

[STAUFFACHER sits down sorrowfully upon a bench under the lime tree. Gertrude, his wife, enters, and finds him in this posture. She places herself near him, and looks at him for some time in silence.]

GERT.

So sad, my love! I scarcely know thee now. For many a day in silence I have mark'd A moody sorrow furrowing thy brow. Some silent grief is weighing on thy heart. Trust it to me. I am thy faithful wife, And I demand my half of all thy cares.

[STAUFFACHER gives her his hand and is silent.]

Tell me what can oppress thy spirits thus? Thy toil is blest—the world goes well with thee— Our barns are full—our cattle, many a score; Our handsome team of well-fed horses, too, Brought from the mountain pastures safely home, To winter in their comfortable stalls. There stands thy house—no nobleman's more fair! 'Tis newly built with timber of the best, All grooved and fitted with the nicest skill; Its many glistening windows tell of comfort! 'Tis quarter'd o'er with scutcheons of all hues, And proverbs sage, which passing travelers Linger to read and ponder o'er their meaning.

STAUFF.

The house is strongly built, and handsomely, But, ah! the ground on which we built it quakes.

GERT.

Tell me, dear Werner, what you mean by that?

STAUFF.

No later gone than yesterday, I sat Beneath this linden, thinking with delight, How fairly all was finished, when from Kuessnacht The Viceroy and his men came riding by. Before this house he halted in surprise: At once I rose, and, as beseemed his rank, Advanced respectfully to greet the lord To whom the Emperor delegates his power, As judge supreme within our Canton here. "Who is the owner of this house?" he asked, With mischief in his thoughts, for well he knew. With prompt decision, thus I answered him: "The Emperor, your grace—my lord and yours, And held by me in fief." On this he answered, "I am the Emperor's vice-regent here, And will not that each peasant churl should build At his own pleasure, bearing him as freely As though he were the master in the land. I shall make bold to put a stop to this!" So saying, he, with menaces, rode off, And left me musing with a heavy heart On the fell purpose that his words betray'd.

GERT.

My own dear lord and husband! Wilt thou take A word of honest counsel from thy wife? I boast to be the noble Iberg's child, A man of wide experience. Many a time, As we sat spinning in the winter nights, My sisters and myself, the people's chiefs Were wont to gather round our father's hearth, To read the old imperial charters, and To hold sage converse on the country's weal. Then heedfully I listened, marking well What now the wise man thought, the good man wished, And garner'd up their wisdom in my heart. Hear then, and mark me well; for thou wilt see, I long have known the grief that weighs thee down. The Viceroy hates thee, fain would injure thee, For thou past cross'd his wish to bend the Swiss In homage to this upstart house of princes, And kept them staunch, like their good sires of old, In true allegiance to the Empire. Say, Is't not so, Werner? Tell me, am I wrong?

STAUFF.

'Tis even so. For this doth Gessler hate me.

GERT.

He burns with envy, too, to see thee living Happy and free on thine ancestral soil, For he is landless. From the Emperor's self Thou hold'st in fief the lands thy fathers left thee. There's not a prince i' the Empire that can show A better title to his heritage; For thou hast over thee no lord but one, And he the mightiest of all Christian kings. Gessler, we know, is but a younger son, His only wealth the knightly cloak he wears; He therefore views an honest man's good fortune With a malignant and a jealous eye. Long has he sworn to compass thy destruction. As yet thou art uninjured. Wilt thou wait Till he may safely give his malice vent? A wise man would anticipate the blow.

STAUFF.

What's to be done?



GERT.

Now hear what I advise. Thou knowest well, how here with us in Schwytz All worthy men are groaning underneath This Gessler's grasping, grinding tyranny. Doubt not the men of Unterwald as well, And Uri, too, are chafing like ourselves, At this oppressive and heart-wearying yoke. For there, across the lake, the Landenberg Wields the same iron rule as Gessler here— No fishing-boat comes over to our side, But brings the tidings of some new encroachment, Some fresh outrage, more grievous than the last. Then it were well that some of you—true men— Men sound at heart, should secretly devise, How best to shake this hateful thraldom off. Full sure I am that God would not desert you, But lend His favor to the righteous cause. Hast thou no friend in Uri, one to whom Thou frankly may'st unbosom all thy thoughts?

STAUFF.

I know full many a gallant fellow there, And nobles, too—great men, of high repute, In whom I can repose unbounded trust.

[Rising.]

Wife! What a storm of wild and perilous thoughts Hast thou stirr'd up within my tranquil breast! The darkest musings of my bosom thou Hast dragg'd to light, and placed them full before me; And what I scarce dared harbor e'en in thought, Thou speakest plainly out with fearless tongue. But has thou weigh'd well what thou urgest thus? Discord will come, and the fierce clang of arms, To scare this valley's long unbroken peace, If we, a feeble shepherd race, shall dare Him to the fight that lords it o'er the world. Ev'n now they only wait some fair pretext For setting loose their savage warrior hordes, To scourge and ravage this devoted land, To lord it o'er us with the victor's rights, And, 'neath the show of lawful chastisement, Despoil us of our chartered liberties.

GERT.

You, too, are men; can wield a battle axe As well as they. God ne'er deserts the brave.

STAUFF.

Oh wife! a horrid, ruthless fiend is war, That smites at once the shepherd and his flock.

GERT.

Whate'er great Heaven inflicts, we must endure; But wrong is what no noble heart will bear.

STAUFF.

This house—thy pride—war, unrelenting war Will burn it down.

GERT.

And did I think this heart Enslaved and fettered to the things of earth, With my own hand I'd hurl the kindling torch.

STAUFF.

Thou hast faith in human kindness, wife; but war Spares not the tender infant in its cradle.

GERT.

There is a Friend to innocence in heaven. Send your gaze forward, Werner—not behind.

STAUFF.

We men may die like men, with sword in hand; But oh, what fate, my Gertrude, may be thine?

GERT.

None are so weak, but one last choice is left. A spring from yonder bridge and I am free!

STAUFF. (embracing her).

Well may he fight for hearth and home, that clasps A heart so rare as thine against his own! What are the host of Emperors to him? Gertrude, farewell! I will to Uri straight. There lives my worthy comrade, Walter Fuerst; His thoughts and mine upon these times are one. There, too, resides the noble Banneret Of Attinghaus. High though of blood he be, He loves the people, honors their old customs. With both of these I will take counsel how To rid us bravely of our country's foe. Farewell! and while I am away, bear thou A watchful eye in management at home. The pilgrim journeying to the house of God, And holy friar, collecting for his cloister, To these give liberally from purse and garner. Stauffacher's house would not be hid. Right out Upon the public way it stands, and offers To all that pass a hospitable roof.

[While they are retiring, TELL enters with BAUMGARTEN.]

TELL.

Now, then, you have no further need of me. Enter yon house. 'Tis Werner Stauffacher's, A man that is a father to distress. See, there he is, himself! Come, follow me.

[They retire up. Scene changes.]

SCENE III

A common near Altdorf. On an eminence in the background a Castle in progress of erection, and so far advanced that the outline of the whole may be distinguished. The back part is finished: men are working at the front. Scaffolding, on which the workmen are going up and down. A slater is seen upon the highest part of the roof. All is bustle and activity.

TASKMASTER, MASON, WORKMAN and LABORERS

TASK. (with a stick, urging on the workmen).

Up, up! You've rested long enough. To work! The stones here! Now the mortar, and the lime! And let his lordship see the work advanced, When next he comes. These fellows crawl like snails!

[To two laborers, with loads.]

What! call ye that a load? Go, double it. Is this the way ye earn your wages, laggards?

1ST. W.

'Tis very hard that we must bear the stones, To make a keep and dungeon for ourselves!

TASK.

What's that you mutter? 'Tis a worthless race, For nothing fit but just to milk their cows, And saunter idly up and down the hills.