MEDEA. My babes! My babes!

GORA. Forth must we flee ere night shall fall, And already the twilight draweth down. Up! Rouse thee, and gird thee for flight! Swiftly they come to slay!

MEDEA. Alas, my children!

GORA. Nay, up! I say, unhappy one, Nor kill me with thy cries of woe! Hadst thou but heeded when I warned, Still should we be at home In Colchis, safe; thy kinsmen yet Were living; all were well with us. Rise up! What use are tears? Come, rise!

[MEDEA drags herself half up and kneels on the steps.]

MEDEA. 'Twas so I knelt, 'twas so I lay And stretched my hands for pity out To mine own children; begged and wept And prayed for one, for only one Of my dear children! Death itself Were not so bitter, as to leave One of them here!—But to have none—! And neither came! They turned away With terror on their baby lips, And fled for comfort to the breast Of her—my bitterest enemy!

[She springs up suddenly.]

But he,—he laughed to see, and she Did laugh as well!

GORA. O, woe is me! O, woe and heavy sorrow!

MEDEA. O gods, is this your vengeance, then, Your retribution? All for love I followed him, as wife should e'er Follow her lord. My father died, But was it I that slew him? No! My brother fell. Was't, then, my hand That dealt the stroke? I've wept for them With heavy mourning, poured hot tears To serve as sad libation for Their resting-place so far away! Ye gods! These woes so measureless That I have suffered at your hands— Call ye these justice,—retribution?

GORA. Thou didst leave thine own— Thine own desert thee now!

MEDEA. Then will I visit punishment On them, as Heaven on me! There shall no deed of wickedness In all the wide world scathless go! Leave vengeance to my hand, O gods above!

GORA. Nay, think how thou mayst save thyself; All else forget!

MEDEA. What fear is this That makes thy heart so craven-soft? First thou wert grim and savage, spak'st Fierce threats of vengeance, now art full Of fears and trembling!

GORA. Let me be! That moment when I saw thy babes Flee their own mother's yearning arms, Flee from the arms of her that bare And reared them, then I knew at last 'Twas the gods' hand had struck thee down! Then brake my heart, my courage sank! These babes, whom it was all my joy To tend and rear, had been the last Of all the royal Colchian line, On whom I still could lavish all My love for my far fatherland. Long since, my love for thee was dead; But in these babes I seemed to see Again my homeland, thy dear sire, Thy murdered brother, all the line Of princely Colchians,—ay, thyself, As once thou wert,—and art no more! So, all my thought was how to shield And rear these babes; I guarded them E'en as the apple of mine eye, And now—

MEDEA. They have repaid thy love As thanklessness doth e'er repay!

GORA. Chide not the babes! They're innocent!

MEDEA. How, innocent? And flee their mother Innocent? They are Jason's babes, Like him in form, in heart, and in My bitter hate! If I could hold them here, Their life or death depending on my hand, E'en on this hand I reach out, so, and one Swift stroke sufficed to slay them, bring to naught All that they were, or are, or e'er can be,— Look! they should be no more!

GORA. O, woe to thee, Cruel mother, who canst hate those little babes Thyself didst bear!

MEDEA. What hopes have they, what hopes? If here they tarry with their sire, That sire so base and infamous, What shall their lot be then? The children of this latest bed Will scorn them, do despite to them And to their mother, that wild thing From distant Colchis' strand! Their lot will be to serve as slaves; Or else their anger, gnawing deep And ever deeper at their hearts, Will make them bitter, hard, Until they grow to hate themselves. For, if misfortune often is begot By crime, more often far are wicked deeds The offspring of misfortune!—What have they To live for, then? I would my sire Had slain me long, long years agone When I was small, and had not yet Drunk deep of woe, as now I do— Thought heavy thoughts, as now!

GORA. Thou tremblest! What dost think to do?

MEDEA. That I must forth, is sure; what else May chance ere that, I cannot see. My heart leaps up, when I recall The foul injustice I have borne, And glows with fierce revenge! No deed So dread or awful but I would Put hand to it!— He loves these babes, Forsooth, because he sees in them His own self mirrored back again, Himself—his idol!—Nay, he ne'er Shall have them, shall not!—Nor will I! I hate them!

GORA. Come within! Nay, why Wouldst tarry here?

MEDEA. All empty is that house, And all deserted! Desolation broods Upon those silent walls, and all is dead Within, save bitter memories and grief!

GORA. Look! They are coming who would drive us hence. Come thou within!

MEDEA. Thou saidst the Argonauts Found each and every one a grave unblest, The wages of their treachery and sin?

GORA. Ay, sooth, and such a grave shall Jason find!

MEDEA. He shall, I promise thee, he shall, indeed! Hylas was swallowed in a watery grave; The gloomy King of Shades holds Theseus bound; And how was that Greek woman called—the one That on her own blood bloody vengeance took? How was she called, then? Speak!

GORA. I do not know What thou dost mean.

MEDEA. Althea was her name!

GORA. She who did slay her son

MEDEA. The very same! How came it, then? Tell me the tale once more.

GORA. Unwitting, in the chase, he had struck down Her brother.

MEDEA. Him alone? He did not slay Her father, too? Nor fled his mother's arms, Nor thrust her from him, spurned her scornfully? And yet she struck him dead—that mighty man, Grim Meleager, her own son! And she— She was a Greek! Althea was her name. Well, when her son lay dead—?

GORA. Nay, there the tale Doth end.

MEDEA. Doth end! Thou'rt right, for death ends all!

GORA. Why stand we here and talk?

MEDEA. Dost think that I Lack courage for the venture? Hark! I swear By the high gods, if he had giv'n me both My babes—But no! If I could take them hence To journey with me, at his own behest,

If I could love them still, as deep as now I hate them, if in all this lone, wide world One single thing were left me that was not Poisoned, or brought in ruin on my head— Perchance I might go forth e'en now in peace And leave my vengeance in the hands of Heaven. But no! It may not be! They name me cruel And wanton, but I was not ever so; Though I can feel how one may learn to be. For dread and awful thoughts do shape themselves Within my soul; I shudder—yet rejoice Thereat! When all is finished—Gora, hither!

GORA. What wouldst thou?

MEDEA. Come to me!

GORA. And why?

MEDEA. Come hither! See! There they lay, the babes—ay, and the bride, Bleeding, and dead! And he, the bridegroom, stood And looked and tore his hair! A fearful sight And ghastly!

GORA. Heaven forfend! What mean these words?

MEDEA. Ha, ha! Thou'rt struck with terror then, at last? Nay, 'tis but empty words that I did speak. My old, fierce will yet lives, but all my strength Is vanished. Oh, were I Medea still—! But no, I am no more! O Jason, why, Why hast thou used me so? I sheltered thee, Saved thee, and gave thee all my heart to keep; All that was mine, I flung away for thee! Why wilt thou cast me off, why spurn my love, Why drive the kindly spirits from my heart And set fierce thoughts of vengeance in their place? I dream of vengeance, when I have no more The power to wreak revenge! The charms I had From my own mother, that grim Colchian queen, From Hecate, that bound dark gods to me To do my bidding, I have buried them, Ay, and for love of thee!—have sunk them deep In the dim bosom of our mother Earth; The ebon wand, the veil of bloody hue, Gone!—and I stand here helpless, to my foes No more a thing of terror, but of scorn!

GORA. Then speak not of them if they'll serve thee not!

MEDEA. I know well where they lie; For yonder on the plashy ocean-strand I coffined them and sank them deep in earth. 'Tis but to toss away a little mold, And they are mine! But in my inmost soul I shudder when I think on such a venture, And on that blood-stained Fleece. Methinks the ghosts Of father, brother, brood upon their grave And will not let them go. Dost thou recall How on the pavement lay my old, gray sire Weeping for his dead son, and cursing loud His daughter? But lord Jason swung the Fleece High o'er his head, with fierce, triumphant shouts! 'Twas then I swore revenge upon this traitor Who first did slay my best-beloved, now Would slay me, too! Had I my bloody charms And secret magic here, I'd keep that vow! But no, I dare not fetch them, for I fear Lest, shining through the Fleece's golden blaze, Mine eyes should see my father's ghostly face Stare forth at me—and oh! I should go mad!

GORA. What wilt thou do, then?

MEDEA (wearily).

Even let them come And slay me, if they will! I can no more! Not one step will I stir from where I stand; My dearest wish is death! And when he sees Me lying dead, mayhap he'll follow me, Deep-smitten with remorse!

GORA. The King draws nigh; Look to thyself!

MEDEA. Nay, all my strength is gone, What can I do? If he would trample me Beneath his feet—well, let him have his will!

The KING enters.

KING. Night falls apace, thine hours of grace are fled!

MEDEA. I know it.

KING. Art thou ready to go forth?

MEDEA. Thou tauntest me! If I were not prepared, Must I the less go forth?

KING. My heart is glad To find thee minded so. 'Twill make thee think Less bitterly upon thy sorry fate, And for thy children it doth spell great good: For now they may remember who she was That bare them.

MEDEA. May remember? If they will, Thou meanest!

KING. That they shall, must be my care. I'll rear them to be mighty heroes both; And then—who knows?—on some far-distant day Their hero-deeds may bring them to the shores. Of Colchis, where they'll find thee once again, Older in years, grown soft and gentle now, And with fond love will press thee to their hearts.

MEDEA. Alas!

KING. What say'st thou?

MEDEA. Naught! I did but think On happy days long vanished, and forgot All that hath happened since.—Was this the cause That brought thee here, or hast thou aught to say Besides?

KING. Nay, I forgot one other word, But I will speak it now. Thy husband brought Much treasure when he fled to Corinth here From far Iolcos, when his uncle died.

MEDEA. There in the house it lies, still guarded safe; Go in and take it!

KING. And that trinket fair Of dazzling gold, the Fleece—the gleaming prize The Argo brought—is that within, as well? Why turnest thou away, and wouldst depart? Give answer! Is it there?

MEDEA. No!

KING. Where, then? Where?

MEDEA. I know not.

KING. Yet thyself didst bear it forth From Pelias' chamber—so the Herald said.

MEDEA. Nay, if he said so, it must needs be true!

KING. Where is it?

MEDEA. Nay, I know not.

KING. Never think To cheat us thus!

MEDEA. If thou wouldst give it me, I would requite thee even with my life; For, if I had it here, thou shouldst not stand Before me, shouting threats!

KING. Didst thou not seize And bear it with thee from Iolcos?

MEDEA. Yea!

KING. And now—?

MEDEA. I have it not.

KING. Who hath it, then?

MEDEA. The earth doth hold it.

KING. Ha! I understand! So it was there, in sooth?

[He turns to his attendants.]

Go, fetch me here That which I bade you. What I mean, ye know!

[The attendants go out.]

Ha! Didst thou think to cheat us with thy words Of double meaning? Earth doth hold it! Now I understand thee! Nay, look not away! Look here at me, and harken!—Yonder there Upon the seashore, where last night ye lay, I gave command to raise a sacred fane To Pelias' shades; and, as my henchmen toiled, They found—thou palest!—freshly buried there An ebon casket, marked with curious signs.

[The attendants bring in the chest.]

Look! Is it thine?

MEDEA (rushing eagerly to the chest). Yea, mine!

KING. And is the Fleece Therein?

MEDEA. It is.

KING. Then give it me!

MEDEA. I will!

KING. Almost I do regret I pitied thee, Since thou hast sought to cozen us!

MEDEA. Fear not! For thou shalt have thy due! Once more I am Medea! Thanks to thee, kind gods!

KING. Unlock Thy casket, quick, and give the Fleece to me!

MEDEA. Not yet!

KING. But when?

MEDEA. Right soon, ay, all too soon!

KING. Send it to where Creusa waits.

MEDEA. To her? This Fleece to thy fair daughter? Ay, I will!

KING. Holdeth this casket aught besides the Fleece?

MEDEA. Yea, many things!

KING. Thine own?

MEDEA. Mine own. From these A gift I'd send her.

KING. Nay, I would demand Naught else of thee. Keep that which is thine own.

MEDEA. Surely thou wilt permit me one small gift! Thy daughter was so mild to me, so good, And she will be a mother to my babes. I fain would win her love! Thou dost desire Naught but the Fleece; perchance some trinkets rare Would please her eyes.

KING. Do even as thou wilt; Only, bethink thee of thy needs. Thou knowest Already how she loves thee. But an hour Agone she begged to send thy babes to thee That thou might'st see them once again, and take A last farewell before thou settest forth Upon thy weary way. I said her nay, For I had seen thy fury. Now thou art Quiet again, and so shalt have that grace.

MEDEA. Oh, thanks to thee, thou good and pious King!

KING. Wait here. I'll send the children to thee straight.

[He departs.]

MEDEA. He's gone—and to his doom! Fool! Didst thou not Tremble and shudder when thou took'st away Her last possession from the woman thou Hadst robbed already? Yet, I thank thee for it, Ay, thank thee! Thou hast given me back myself! —Unlock the casket!

GORA (fumbling at it).

That I cannot do.

MEDEA. Nay, I forgot how I did lock it up! The key is kept by friends I know full well.

[She turns toward the chest.]

Up from below! Down from o'erhead! Open, thou secretest Tomb of the dead!

The lid springs open, and I am no more A weak and powerless woman! There they lie, My staff, my veil of crimson! Mine! Ah, mine!

[She takes them out of the casket.]

I take thee in my hands, thou mighty staff Of mine own mother, and through heart and limbs Unfailing strength streams forth from thee to me! And thee, beloved wimple, on my brow I bind once more!

[She veils herself.]

How warm, how soft thou art, How dost thou pour new life through all my frame! Now come, come all my foes in close-set ranks, Banded against me, banded for your doom!

GORA. Look! Yonder flares a light!

MEDEA. Nay, let it flare! 'Twill soon be quenched in blood!— Here are the presents I would send to her; And thou shalt be the bearer of my gifts!

GORA. I?

MEDEA. Thou! Go quickly to the chamber where Creusa sits, speak soft and honied words, Bring her Medea's greetings, and her gifts!

[She takes the gifts out of the chest one by one.]

This golden box, first, that doth treasure up Most precious ointments. Ah, the bride will shine Like blazing stars, if she will ope its lid! But bear it heedfully, and shake it not!

GORA. Woe's me!

[She has grasped the ointment-box firmly in her left hand; as she steadies it with her right hand, she slightly jars the cover open, and a blinding flame leaps forth.]

MEDEA. I warned thee not to shake it, fool! Back to thy house again, Serpent with forked tongue! Wait till the knell hath rung; Thou shalt not wait in vain! Now clasp it tightly, carry it with heed!

GORA. I fear some dreadful thing will come of this!

MEDEA. So! Thou wouldst warn me? 'Tis a wise old crone!

GORA. And I must bear it?

MEDEA. Yea! Obey, thou slave! How darest thou presume to answer me? Be silent! Nay, thou shalt, thou must! And next Here on this salver, high-embossed with gold, I set this jeweled chalice, rich and fair To see, and o'er it lay the best of all, The thing her heart most craves—the Golden Fleece!— Go hence and do thine errand. Nay, but first Spread o'er these gifts this mantle—fair it is And richly broidered, made to grace a queen— To cover all from sight and keep them hid.— Now, go, and do what I commanded thee, And take these gifts, that foe doth send to foe!

[A slave-woman enters with the children.]

SLAVE. My lord the king hath sent these children hither; And when an hour is gone I take them back.

MEDEA. Sooth, they come early to the marriage feast! Now to thy mistress lead my servant here; She takes a message from me, bears rich gifts.

(She turns to GORA.)

And thou, remember what I told thee late! Nay, not a word! It is my will!

(To the slave-woman.)

Away! And bring her to thy mistress.

[GORA and the slave-woman depart together.]

Well begun, But not yet ended! Easy is my path, Now I see clearly what I have to do!

[The children, hand in hand, make as if to follow the slave-woman.]

Where go ye?

BOY. In the house!

MEDEA. What seek ye there?

BOY. Our father told us we should stay with her.

MEDEA. Thy mother bids you tarry. Wait, I say!— When I bethink me how they are my blood, My very flesh, the babes I bore so long In my own womb, and nourished at my breast, When I bethink me 'tis my very self That turns against me, in my inmost soul Fierce anger stabs me knife-like, bloody thoughts Rise fast within me!—

(To the children.)

What hath mother done, To make you flee her sight and run away To hide in strangers' bosoms?

BOY. Thou dost seek To steal us both away, and shut us up Within thy boat again, where we were both So sick and dizzy. We would rather stay Here, would we not, my brother?

YOUNGER BOY. Yea!

MEDEA. Thou, too, Absyrtus? But 'tis better, better so! Come hither!

BOY. I'm afraid!

MEDEA. Come here, I say!

BOY. Nay, thou wilt hurt me!

MEDEA. Hurt thee? Thou hast done Naught to deserve it!

Boy. Once thou flung'st me down Upon the pavement, hard, because I looked So like my father. But he loves me for it! I'd rather stay with him, and with that good And gentle lady!

MEDEA. Thou shalt go to her, E'en to that gentle lady!—How his mien Is like to his, the traitor's! How his words Are syllabled like Jason's!—Patience! Wait!

YOUNGER BOY. I'm sleepy!

BOY. Let's lie down and go to sleep. It's late.

MEDEA. Ye'll have your fill of sleep ere long! Go, lay you down upon those steps to rest, While I take counsel with myself.—Ah, see How watchfully he guides the younger one, Takes off his little mantle, wraps it warm And close about his shoulders, now lies down Beside him, clasping hands!—He never was A naughty child!—O children, children mine!

BOY (starting up).

Dost want us?

MEDEA. Nay, lie down, and go to sleep! What would I give, if I could sleep as sound!

[The boy lies down again, and both go to sleep. MEDEA seats herself on a bench opposite the children. It grows darker and darker.]

MEDEA. The night is falling, stars are climbing high, Shedding their kindly beams on all below— The same that shone there yestere'en, as though All things today were as they were before. And yet 'twixt now and yesterday there yawns A gulf, as wide as that which sunders joy Made perfect and grim death! How change-less e'er Is Nature—and man's life and happiness How fitful, fleeting! When I tell the tale Of my unhappy life, it is as though I listened, while another told it me, And now would stop him: "Nay, that cannot be, My friend! This woman here, that harbors dark And murderous thoughts—how can she be the same That once, long years agone, on Colchis' strand Trod, free and happy, 'neath these very stars, As pure, as mild, as free from any sin As new-born child upon its mother's breast?" Where goes she, then? She seeks the peasant's hut To comfort the poor serf, whose little crops Were trampled by her father's huntsmen late, And brings him gold to ease his bitter heart. Why trips she down the forest-path? She hastes To meet her brother who is waiting there In some green copse. Together then they wend Homeward their way along the well-known path, Like twin-stars shining through the forest-gloom. Another draweth nigh; his brow is crowned With coronet of gold; he is the King, Their royal father, and he lays his hand In blessing on their heads, and names them both His joy, his dearest treasure.—Welcome, then, Most dear and friendly faces! Are ye come To comfort me in this my loneliness? Draw nearer, nearer yet! I fain would look Into your eyes! Dear brother, dost thou smile So friendly on me? Ah, how fair thou art, My heart's best treasure! But my father's face Is sober, earnest; yet he loves me still, Yea, loveth his good daughter!

[She springs up suddenly.]

Good? Ha, good? 'Tis a false lie! For know, thou old, gray man, She will betray thee, hath betrayed thee, thee, Ay, and herself! But thou didst curse her sore "Know thou shalt be thrust forth Like a beast of the wilderness," thou saidst; "Friendless and homeless, with no place To lay thy head! And he, for whom Thou hast betrayed me, he will be First to take vengeance on thee, first To leave thee, thrust thee forth, and first To slay thee!" See, thy words were true! For here I stand, thrust forth indeed, By all men like a monster shunned, Deserted by the wretch for whom I gave thee up, and with no place To lay me down; alas! not dead; Black thoughts of murder in my heart!— Dost thou rejoice at thy revenge? Com'st closer?—Children! O my babes!

[She rushes across to where the children lie sleeping, and shakes them violently.]

My children, did ye hear? Awake!

BOY (waking).

What wouldst thou?

MEDEA (pressing them fiercely to her).

Clasp your arms about me close!

BOY. I slept so soundly.

MEDEA. Slept? How could ye sleep? Thought ye, because your mother watched you here, That ye were safe? Ye ne'er were in the hands Of any foe more dangerous! Sleep? With me, Your mother, near? How could ye?—Go within, And there ye shall find rest, indeed!

[The children sleepily mount the steps and disappear down the colonnade into the palace.]

They're gone, And all is well again!—Yet, now they're gone, How am I bettered? Must I aught the less Flee forth, today, and leave them in the hands Of these my bitter foes? Is Jason less A traitor? Will the bride make aught the less Of feasting on her bridal day, forsooth? Tomorrow, when the sun shall rise, Then shall I be alone, The world a desert waste for me, My babes, my husband—gone! A wand'rer I, with weary feet All torn and bleeding sore, And bound for exile!—Whither, then I know no more! My foes stay here and make a joyous feast, And laugh to think me gone; My babes cling tightly to a stranger's breast, Estranged from me forever, far away From where I needs must come! And wilt thou suffer that? Is it not even now too late, Too late to grant forgiveness? Hath not Creusa even now the robes, Ay, and the chalice, that fierce-flaming cup? Hark! Nay, not yet!—But soon enough Will come the shriek of agony Ringing through all the palace halls! Then they will come and slay me, Nor spare the babes! Hark! What a cry was that! Ha! Tongues of flame Leap curling from the palace! It is done! No more may I retreat, repent! Let come what must! Set forward!

[GORA bursts out of the palace in a frenzy.]

GORA. Oh, horror, horror!

MEDEA (hurrying to her).

So the deed is done!

GORA. Woe, woe! Creusa dead, the palace red With mounting flames!

MEDEA. So, art thou gone at last, Thou snow-white, spotless bride? Or seek'st thou still To charm my children from me? Wouldst thou? Wouldst thou? Wouldst take them whither thou art gone? Nay, to the gods I give them now, And not to thee, nay, not to thee!

GORA. What hast thou done?—Look, look, they come!

MEDEA. They come? Too late! Too late!

[She vanishes down the colonnade.]

GORA. Alas that I, so old and gray, should aid, Unknowing, such dark deeds! I counseled her To take revenge: but such revenge—oh, gods! Where are the babes? 'Twas here I left them late. Where art thou, O Medea? And thy babes— Ah, where are they?

[She, too, disappears down the colonnade. Through the windows of the palace in the background the rapidly mounting flames now burst forth.]

JASON'S VOICE.

Creusa! O Creusa!

KING'S VOICE (from within).

O my daughter!

[GORA bursts out of the palace and falls upon her knees in the middle of the stage, covering her face with her hands.]

GORA. What have I seen?—Oh, horror!

[MEDEA appears at the entrance to the colonnade; in her left hand she brandishes a dagger; she raises her right hand to command silence.]

[The curtain falls.]



ACT V

_The outer court of_ CREON'S _palace, as in the preceding act; the royal apartments in the background lie in blackened ruins whence smoke is still curling up; the court-yard is filled with various palace attendants busied in various ways. The dawn is just breaking.

The_ KING _appears, dragging_ GORA _out of the palace; a train of_ CREUSA'S _slave-women follows him._

KING. Away with thee! It was thy wicked hand That to my daughter brought those bloody gifts Which were her doom! My daughter! Oh, Creusa! My child, my child!

[He turns to the slave-women.]

'Twas she?

GORA. Yea, it was I! I knew not that my hands bore doom of death Within thy dwelling.

KING. Knew'st not. Never think To 'scape my wrath on this wise!

GORA. Dost thou think I shudder at thy wrath? Mine eyes have seen— Woe's me!—the children weltering in their blood, Slain by the hand of her that bore them, ay, Medea's very hand! And after that, All other horrors are to me but jest!

KING. Creusa! Oh, my child, my pure, true child! Say, did thy hand not shake, thou grisly dame, When to her side thou broughtest death?

GORA. I shed no tears for her! She had her due! Why would she seek to snatch away the last Possession of my most unhappy mistress? I weep for these my babes, whom I did love So tenderly, and whom I saw but now Butchered—and by their mother! Ah, I would Ye all were in your graves, and by your side That traitor that doth call himself Lord Jason! I would I were in Colchis with Medea And these poor babes in safety! Would I ne'er Had seen your faces, or your city here, Whereon this grievous fate so justly falls!

KING. These insults thou wilt soon enough put by, When thou shalt feel my heavy hand of doom! But is it certain that my child is dead? So many cry her dead, though I can find None that did see her fall! Is there no way To 'scape the fire? And can the flames wax strong So quickly? See how slow they lick and curl Along the fallen rafters of my house! Do ye not see? And yet ye say she's dead? An hour ago she stood before mine eyes A blooming flower, instinct with happy life— And now she's dead! Nay, I cannot believe, And will not! 'Gainst my will I turn mine eyes Now here, now there, and cannot but believe That now, or now, or now at least, she must Appear in all her stainless purity And beauty, glide in safety to me here Through those black, smoldering ruins!—Who was by? Who saw her perish?—Thou?—Quick, speak!—Nay, then, Roll not thine eyes in horror! Tell thy tale, E'en though it kill me! Is she dead, indeed?

A SLAVE-WOMAN.

Dead!

KING. And thou saw'st it?

SLAVE-WOMAN.

With my very eyes! Saw how the flames leaped forth from out that box Of gold, and caught her flesh—

KING. Hold! Hold! Enough! This woman saw it! Creusa is no more! Creusa! Oh, my daughter, my dear child! Once, many years agone, she burnt her hand Against the altar; she was but a child, And cried aloud with pain. I rushed to her And caught her in my arms, and to my lips. I put her poor scorched fingers, blowing hard To ease the burning pain. The little maid E'en through her bitter tears smiled up at me And, softly sobbing, whispered in my ear, "It is not much! I do not mind the pain!" Gods! That she should be burned to death? Oh, gods!

[He turns fiercely upon GORA.]

And as for thee,—if I should plunge my sword Ten, twenty times, up to the hilt, clean through Thy body, would that bring my daughter back? Or, could I find that hideous witch-wife—Stay! Where went she, that hath robbed me of my child? I'll shake an answer straight from out thy mouth, Ay, though thy soul come with it, if thou'lt not Declare to me this instant where she's gone!

GORA. I know not—and I care no whit to know! Let her go forth alone to her sure doom. Why dost thou tarry? Slay me! For I have No wish to live!

KING. We'll speak of that anon; But first I'll have thy answer!

JASON (behind the scenes).

Where's Medea? Bring her before my face! Medea!

[He enters suddenly with drawn sword.]

Nay, They told me she was caught! Where is she, then?

(To GORA.)

Ha! Thou here? Where's thy mistress?

GORA. Fled away!

JASON. Hath she the children?

GORA. Nay!

JASON. Then they are—

GORA. Dead! Yea, dead! thou smooth-tongued traitor, dead, I say! She sought to put them where thine eyes could never Take joy in them again; but, knowing well No spot on earth so sacred was but thou To find them wouldst break in, she hid them, safe Forever, in the grave! Ay, stand aghast, And stare upon the pavement! Thou canst never Recall thy babes to life! They're gone for aye! And, for their sake, I'm glad! No, I am not, For their sake—but because thou dost despair, That, smooth-tongued traitor, glads my heart indeed! Was it not thou that drove her to this crime, And thou, false King, with thine hypocrisy? She was a noble creature-but ye drew Your nets of shameful treachery too close About her, till, in wild despair, cut off From all escape else, she o'erleaped your snares, And made thy crown, the kingly ornament Of royal heads, to be the awful tool Of her unnatural crime! Ay, wring your hands, But wring them for your own most grievous fate!

(Turning to the KING.)

Why sought thy child another woman's bed?

(Turning to JASON.)

Why must thou steal her, bring her here to Greece, If thou didst never love her? If thou didst Right truly love her, why, then, thrust her forth? Though others cry her murderess, yea, though I Myself must name her so, yet none the less Ye have but met your just deserts!—For me, I have no wish to live another day! Two of my babes are dead, the third I needs Must hate forever! Take me, lead me hence And slay me, if ye will! Fair hopes I have At last, of justice in that other world, Now I have seen Heaven's vengeance on you hurled!

[She is led away by some of the KING's attendants.]

(Pause.)

KING. Nay, if I wronged her,—by the gods in Heaven I swear I meant it not!—Now haste we all To search these smoking ruins for what trace Remains of my poor girl, that we may lay Her broken, bruised frame to rest at last In Earth's kind bosom!

[He turns to JASON.]

But, for thee—straightway Thou must go forth, where'er thy feet may choose To carry thee! Pollution such as thine Spells woe for all about thee, as I've proved. Oh, had I never seen, never rescued thee, Ne'er acted friendship's part and welcomed thee Within my palace! And, for thanks, thou took'st My daughter from me! Go, lest thou shouldst take As well the only comfort left me now— To weep her memory!

JASON. Wouldst thou thrust me forth?

KING. I banish thee my sight.

JASON. What shall I do?

KING. Some god will answer that!

JASON. Who, then, will guide My wandering steps, who lend a helping hand? For, see! my head is bleeding, wounded sore By falling firebrands! How? All silent, then? And none will guide me, none companion me, None follow me, whom once so many joyed To follow? Spirits of my babes, lead ye The way, and guide your father to the grave That waits him!

[He goes slowly away.]

KING (to his attendants).

Quick, to work! And after that, Mourning that hath no end!

[He goes away in the other direction.]

The curtain falls for a moment, and, when it rises again, discloses a wild and lonely region surrounded by forest and by lofty crags, at the foot of which lies a mean hut. A rustic enters.

RUSTIC. How fair the morning dawns! Oh, kindly gods, After the storm and fury of the night, Your sun doth rise more glorious than before!

[He goes into the hut.]

(JASON comes stumbling out of the forest and leaning heavily on his sword.)

JASON. Nay, I can go no farther! How my head Doth burn and throb, the blood how boil within! My tongue cleaves to the roof of my parched mouth! Is none within there? Must I die of thirst, And all alone?—Ha! Yon's the very hut That gave me shelter when I came this way Before, a rich man still, a happy father, My bosom filled with newly-wakened hopes!

[He knocks at the door.]

'Tis but a drink I crave, and then a place To lay me down and die!

[The peasant comes out of the house.]

RUSTIC. Who knocks?—Poor man, Who art thou? Ah, poor soul, he's faint to death!

JASON. Oh, water, water! Give me but to drink! See, Jason is my name, famed far and wide, The hero of the wondrous Golden Fleece! A prince—a king—and of the Argonauts The mighty leader, Jason!

RUSTIC. Art thou, then, In very sooth Lord Jason? Get thee gone And quickly! Thou shalt not so much as set A foot upon my threshold, to pollute My humble dwelling! Thou didst bring but now Death to the daughter of my lord the King! Then seek not shelter at the meanest door Of any of his subjects!

[He goes into the hut again and shuts the door behind him.]

JASON. He is gone, And leaves me here to lie upon the earth, Bowed in the dust, for any that may pass To trample on!—O Death, on thee I call! Have pity on me! Take me to my babes!

[He sinks down upon the ground.]

MEDEA makes her way among some tumbled rocks, and stands suddenly before him, the Golden Fleece flung over her shoulders like a mantle.

MEDEA. Jason!

JASON (half raising himself).

Who calls me?—Ha! What spectral form Is this before me? Is it thou, Medea? Ha! Dost thou dare to show thyself again Before mine eyes? My sword! My sword!

[He tries to rise, but falls weakly back.]

Woe's me! My limbs refuse their service! Here I lie, A broken wreck!

MEDEA. Nay, cease thy mad attempts Thou canst not harm me, for I am reserved To be the victim of another's hand, And not of thine!

JASON. My babes!—Where has thou them?

MEDEA. Nay, they are mine!

JASON. Where hast thou them, I say?

MEDEA. They're gone where they are happier far than thou Or I shall ever be!

JASON. Dead! Dead! My babes!

MEDEA. Thou deemest death the worst of mortal woes? I know a far more wretched one—to be Alone, unloved! Hadst thou not prized mere life Far, far above its worth, we were not now In such a pass. But we must bear our weight Of sorrow, for thy deeds! Yet these our babes Are spared that grief, at least!

JASON. And thou canst stand So patient, quiet, there, and speak such words?

MEDEA. Quiet, thou sayst, and patient? Were my heart Not closed to thee e'en now, as e'er it was, Then couldst thou see the bitter, smarting pain Which, ever swelling like an angry sea, Tosses, now here, now there, the laboring wreck That is my grief, and, veiling it from sight In awful desolation, sweeps it forth O'er boundless ocean-wastes! I sorrow not Because the babes are dead; my only grief Is that they ever lived, that thou and I Must still live on!

JASON. Alas!

MEDEA. Bear thou the lot That fortune sends thee; for, to say the truth, Thou richly hast deserved it!—Even as thou Before me liest on the naked earth, So lay I once in Colchis at thy feet And craved protection—but thou wouldst not hear! Nay, rather didst thou stretch thine eager hands In blind unreason forth, to lay them swift Upon the golden prize, although I cried, "'Tis Death that thou dost grasp at!"—Take it, then, That prize that thou so stubbornly didst seek, Even Death! I leave thee now, forevermore. 'Tis the last time-for all eternity The very last—that I shall speak with thee, My husband! Fare thee well! Ay, after all The joys that blessed our happy, happy youth, 'Mid all the bitter woes that hem us in On every side, in face of all the grief That threatens for the future, still I say, "Farewell, my husband!" Now there dawns for thee A life of heavy sorrows; but, let come What may, abide it firmly, show thyself Stronger in suffering than in doing deeds Men named heroic! If thy bitter woe Shall make thee yearn for death, then think on me, And it shall comfort thee to know how mine Is bitterer far, because I set my hand To deeds, to which thou only gav'st assent. I go my way, and take my heavy weight Of sorrow with me through the wide, wide world. A dagger-stroke were blest release indeed; But no! it may not be! It were not meet Medea perish at Medea's hands. My earlier life, before I stooped to sin, Doth make me worthy of a better judge Than I could be—I go to Delphi's shrine, And there, before the altar of the god, The very spot whence Phrixus long ago Did steal the prize, I'll hang it up again, Restore to that dark god what is his own— The Golden Fleece—the only thing the flames Have left unharmed, the only thing that 'scaped Safe from the bloody, fiery death that slew That fair Corinthian princess.—To the priests I'll go, and I'll submit me to their will, Ay, though they take my life to expiate My grievous sins, or though they send me forth To wander still through some far desert-waste, My very life, prolonged, a heavier weight Of sorrow than I ever yet have known!

[She holds up the gleaming Fleece before his eyes.]

Know'st thou the golden prize which thou didst strive So eagerly to win, which seemed to thee The shining crown of all thy famous deeds? What is the happiness the world can give?— A shadow! What the fame it can bestow?— An empty dream! Poor man! Thy dreams were all Of shadows! And the dreams are ended now, But not the long, black Night!—Farewell to thee, My husband, for I go! That was a day Of heavy sorrows when we first did meet; Today, 'mid heavier sorrows, we must part! Farewell!

JASON. Deserted! All alone! My babes!

MEDEA. Endure!

JASON. Lost! Lost!

MEDEA. Be patient!

JASON. Let me die!

MEDEA. I go, and nevermore thine eyes shall see My face again!

[As she departs, winding her way among the tumbled rocks, the curtain falls.]

* * * * *



THE JEWESS OF TOLEDO

AN HISTORICAL TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS

By FRANZ GRILLPARZER

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

ALFONSO VIII., the Noble, King of Castile.

ELEANOR OF ENGLAND, Daughter of Henry II., his Wife.

THE PRINCE, their Son.

MANRIQUE, Count of Lara, Governor of Castile.

DON GARCERAN, his Son.

DONA CLARA, _Lady in Waiting to the Queen.

The Queen's Waiting Maid._

ISAAC, the Jew.

ESTHER, } } his Daughters. RACHEL, }

REINERO, _the King's Page.

Nobles, Court Ladies, Petitioners, Servants, and Other People.

Place, Toledo and Vicinity.

Time, about 1195 A.D._

THE JEWESS OF TOLEDO (1873)

TRANSLATED BY GEORGE HENRY DANTON AND ANNINA PERIAM DANTON



ACT I

In the Royal Garden at Toledo.

Enter ISAAC, RACHEL, and ESTHER.

ISAAC. Back, go back, and leave the garden! Know ye not it is forbidden? When the King here takes his pleasure Dares no Jew—ah, God will damn them! Dares no Jew to tread the earth here!

RACHEL (singing).

La-la-la-la.

ISAAC. Don't you hear me?

RACHEL. Yes, I hear thee.

ISAAC. Hear, and linger

RACHEL. Hear, yet linger!

ISAAC. Oh, Oh, Oh! Why doth God try me? To the poor I've given my portion, I have prayed and I have fasted, Unclean things I've never tasted Nay! And yet God tries me thus.

RACHEL (to ESTHER).

Ow! Why dost thou pull my arm so? I will stay, I am not going. I just wish to see the King and All the court and all their doings, All their gold and all their jewels. He is young, they say, and handsome, White and red, I want to see him.

ISAAC. And suppose the servants catch thee

RACHEL. Then I'll beg until they free me!

ISAAC. Yes, just like thy mother, eh? She, too, looked at handsome Christians, Sighed, too, for Egyptian flesh-pots; Had I not so closely watched her I should deem-well, God forgive me!— That thy madness came that way, Heritage of mean, base Christians; Ah! I praise my first wife, noble!

(To ESTHER.)

Praise thy mother, good like thee, Though not wealthy. Of the second Did the riches aught avail me? Nay, she spent them as she pleasured, Now for feasts and now for banquets, Now for finery and jewels. Look! This is indeed her daughter! Has she not bedeckt herself, Shines she not in fine apparel Like a Babel in her pride?

RACHEL (singing).

Am I not lovely, Am I not rich? See their vexation, And I don't care-la, la, la, la.

ISAAC. There she goes with handsome shoes on; Wears them out—what does it matter? Every step costs me a farthing! Richest jewels are her earrings, If a thief comes, he will take them, If they're lost, who'll find them ever?

RACHEL (taking off an earring).

Lo! I take them off and hold them, How they shine and how they shimmer! Yet how little I regard them, Haply, I to thee present them

(to ESTHER.)

Or I throw them in the bushes.

[She makes a motion as if throwing it away.]

ISAAC (running in the direction of the throw).

Woe, ah woe! Where did they go to? Woe, ah woe! How find them ever?

ESTHER. These fine jewels? What can ail thee?

RACHEL. Dost believe me, then, so foolish As to throw away possessions? See, I have it in my hand here, Hang it in my ear again and On my cheek it rests in contrast.

ISAAC. Woe! Lost!

RACHEL. Father come, I prithee! See! the jewel is recovered. I was jesting.

ISAAC. Then may God— Thus to tease me! And now, come!

RACHEL. Anything but this I'll grant thee. I must see his Royal Highness, And he me, too, yes, yes, me, too. If he comes and if he asks them, "Who is she, that lovely Jewess?" "Say, how hight you?"—"Rachel, sire! Isaac's Rachel!" I shall answer. Then he'll pinch my cheek so softly. Beauteous Rachel then they'll call me. What if envy bursts to hear it, Shall I worry if it vexes?

ESTHER. Father!

ISAAC. What

ESTHER. The court approaches.

ISAAC. Lord of life, what's going to happen? 'Tis the tribe of Rehoboam. Wilt thou go?

RACHEL. Oh, father, listen!

ISAAC. Well then stay! But come thou, Esther, Leave the fool here to her folly. Let the unclean-handed see her, Let him touch her, let him kill her, She herself hath idly willed it. Esther, come!

RACHEL. Oh, father, tarry!

ISAAC. Hasten, hasten; come, then, Esther!

[Exit with ESTHER.]

RACHEL. Not alone will I remain here! Listen! Stay! Alas, they leave me. Not alone will I remain here. Ah! they come—Oh, sister, father!

[She hastens after them.]

Enter the KING, the QUEEN, MANTRIQUE DE LARA and suite.

KING (entering).

Allow the folk to stay! It harms me not; For he who calleth me a King denotes As highest among many me, and so The people is a part of my own self.

(Turning to the QUEEN.)

And thou, no meager portion of myself, Art welcome here in this my ancient home, Art welcome in Toledo's faithful walls. Gaze all about thee, let thy heart beat high, For, know! thou standest at my spirit's fount. There is no square, no house, no stone, no tree, That is not witness of my childhood lot. An orphan child, I fled my uncle's wrath, Bereft of mother first, then fatherless, Through hostile land—it was my own—I fled. The brave Castilians me from place to place, Like shelterers of villainy did lead, And hid me from my uncle of Leon, Since death did threaten host as well as guest. But everywhere they tracked me up and down. Then Estevan Illan, a don who long Hath slept beneath the greensward of the grave, And this man here, Manrique Lara, led me To this, the stronghold of the enemy, And hid me in the tower of St. Roman, Which there you see high o'er Toledo's roofs. There lay I still, but they began to strew The seed of rumor in the civic ear, And on Ascension Day, when all the folk Was gathered at the gate of yonder fane, They led me to the tower-balcony And showed me to the people, calling down, "Here in your midst, among you, is your King, The heir of ancient princes; of their rights And of your rights the willing guardian." I was a child and wept then, as they said. But still I hear it—ever that wild cry, A single word from thousand bearded throats, A thousand swords as in a single hand, The people's hand. But God the vict'ry gave, The Leonese did flee; and on and on, A standard rather than a warrior, I with my army compassed all the land, And won my vict'ries with my baby smile. These taught and nurtured me with loving care, And mother's milk flowed from their wounds for me. And so, while other princes call themselves The fathers of their people, I am son, For what I am, I owe their loyalty.

MANRIQUE. If all that now thou art, most noble Sire, Should really, as thou sayest, spring from thence, Then gladly we accept the thanks, rejoice If these our teachings and our nurture, thus Are mirrored in thy fame and in thy deeds, Then we and thou are equally in debt.

(To the QUEEN.)

Pray gaze on him with these thy gracious eyes; Howe'er so many kings have ruled in Spain, Not one compares with him in nobleness. Old age, in truth, is all too wont to blame, And I am old and cavil much and oft; And when confuted in the council-hall I secret wrath have ofttimes nursed—not long, Forsooth—that royal word should weigh so much; And sought some evil witness 'gainst my King, And gladly had I harmed his good repute. But always I returned in deepest shame— The envy mine, and his the spotlessness.

KING. A teacher, Lara, and a flatt'rer, too? But we will not dispute you this and that; If I'm not evil, better, then, for you, Although the man, I fear me, void of wrong, Were also void of excellence as well; For as the tree with sun-despising roots, Sucks up its murky nurture from the earth, So draws the trunk called wisdom, which indeed Belongs to heaven itself in towering branch, Its strength and being from the murky soil Of our mortality-allied to sin. Was ever a just man who ne'er was hard? And who is mild, is oft not strong enough. The brave become too venturesome in war. What we call virtue is but conquered sin, And where no struggle was, there is no power. But as for me, no time was given to err, A child—the helm upon my puny head, A youth—with lance, high on my steed I sat, My eye turned ever to some threat'ning foe, Unmindful of the joys and sweets of life, And far and strange lay all that charms and lures. That there are women, first I learned to know When in the church my wife was given me, She, truly faultless if a human is, And whom, I frankly say, I'd warmer love If sometimes need to pardon were, not praise.

(To the QUEEN.)

Nay, nay, fear not, I said it but in jest! The outcome we must all await-nor paint The devil on the wall, lest he appear. But now, what little respite we may have, Let us not waste in idle argument. The feuds within our land are stilled, although They say the Moor will soon renew the fight, And hopes from Africa his kinsman's aid, Ben Jussuf and his army, bred in strife. And war renewed will bring distress anew. Till then we'll open this our breast to peace, And take deep breath of unaccustomed joy. Is there no news?—But did I then forget? You do not look about you, Leonore, To see what we have done to please you here.

QUEEN. What ought I see?

KING. Alas, O Almirante! We have not hit upon it, though we tried. For days, for weeks, we dig and dig and dig, And hope that we could so transform this spot, This orange-bearing, shaded garden grove, To have it seem like such as England loves, The austere country of my austere wife. And she but smiles and smiling says me nay! Thus are they all, Britannia's children, all; If any custom is not quite their own, They stare, and smile, and will have none of it. Th' intention, Leonore, was good, at least, So give these worthy men a word of thanks; God knows how long they may have toiled for us.

QUEEN. I thank you, noble sirs.

KING. To something else! The day has started wrong. I hoped to show You houses, meadows, in the English taste, Through which we tried to make this garden please; We missed our aim. Dissemble not, O love! 'Tis so, and let us think of it no more. To duty we devote what time remains, Ere Spanish wine spice high our Spanish fare. What, from the boundary still no messenger? Toledo did we choose, with wise intent, To be at hand for tidings of the foe. And still there are none?

MANRIQUE. Sire—

KING. What is it, pray?

MANRIQUE. A messenger—

KING. Has come? What then?

MANRIQUE (pointing to the Queen).

Not now.

KING. My wife is used to council and to war, The Queen in everything shares with the King.

MANRIQUE. The messenger himself, perhaps, more than The message—

KING. Well, who is't?

MANRIQUE. It is my son.

KING. Ah, Garceran! Pray let him come.

(To the QUEEN.)

Stay thou! The youth, indeed, most grossly erred, when he Disguised, slipped in the kemenate to spy Upon the darling of his heart—Do not, O Dona Clara, bow your head in shame, The man is brave, although both young and rash, My comrade from my early boyhood days; And now implacability were worse Than frivolous condoning of the fault. And penance, too, methinks, he's done enough For months an exile on our kingdom's bounds.

[At a nod from the QUEEN, one of the ladies of her suite withdraws.]

And yet she goes: O Modesty More chaste than chastity itself!

Enter GARCERAN.

My friend, What of the border? Are they all out there So shy with maiden-modesty as you? Then poorly guarded is our realm indeed!

GARCERAN. A doughty soldier, Sire, ne'er fears a foe, But noble women's righteous wrath is hard.

KING. 'Tis true of righteous wrath! And do not think That I with custom and propriety Am less severe and serious than my wife, Yet anger has its limits, like all else. And so, once more, my Garceran, what cheer? Gives you the foe concern in spite of peace?

GARCERAN. With bloody wounds, O Sire, as if in play, On this side of the boundary and that We fought, yet ever peace resembled war So to a hair, that perfidy alone Made all the difference. But now the foe A short time holdeth peace.

KING. 'Tis bad!

GARCERAN. We think So too, and that he plans a mightier blow. And rumor hath it that his ships convey From Africa to Cadiz men and food, Where secretly a mighty army forms, Which Jussuf, ruler of Morocco, soon Will join with forces gathered over seas; And then the threat'ning blow will fall on us.

KING. Well, if they strike, we must return the blow. A king leads them, and so a king leads you. If there's a God, such as we know there is, And justice be the utt'rance of his tongue, I hope to win, God with us, and the right I I grieve but for the peasants' bitter need, Myself, as highest, should the heaviest bear. Let all the people to the churches come And pray unto the God of victory. Let all the sacred relics be exposed, And let each pray, who goeth to the fight.

GARCERAN. Without thy proclamation, this is done, The bells sound far through all the borderland, And in the temples gathereth the folk; Only, alas, its zeal, erring as oft, Expends itself on those of other faith, Whom trade and gain have scattered through the land. Mistreated have they here and there a Jew.

KING. And ye, ye suffer this? Now, by the Lord, I will protect each one who trusts in me. Their faith is their affair, their conduct mine.

GARCERAN. 'Tis said they're spies and hirelings of the Moors.

KING. Be sure, no one betrays more than he knows, And since I always have despised their gold, I never yet have asked for their advice. Not Christian and not Jew knows what shall be, But I alone. Hence, by your heads, I urge—

[A woman's voice without.]

Woe, woe!

KING. What is't?

GARCERAN. An old man, Sire, is there, A Jew, methinks, pursued by garden churls, Two maidens with him, one of them, behold, Is fleeing hither.

KING. Good! Protection's here, And thunder strike who harms one hair of hers.

(Calling behind the scenes.)

Hither, here I say!

RACHEL comes in flight

RACHEL. They're killing me! My father, too! Oh! is there none to help?

[She sees the QUEEN and kneels before her.]

Sublime one, shelter me from these. Stretch out Thy hand and hold it over me, thy maid, Not Jewess I to serve thee then, but slave.

[She tries to take the hand of the QUEEN who turns away.]

RACHEL (rising).

Here, too, no safety? Terror everywhere? Where shall I flee to? Here there stands a man Whose moonbeam glances flood the soul with peace, And everything about him proves him King. Thou canst protect me, Sire, and oh, thou wilt! I will not die, I will not, no, no, no!

[She throws herself on the ground before the KING and seizes his right foot, bending her head to the ground.]

KING (to several who approach).

Let be! Her senses have ta'en flight through fear, And as she shudders, makes me tremble, too.

RACHEL (sits up).

And everything I have,

(taking off her bracelet)

this bracelet here, This necklace and this costly piece of cloth,

(taking a shawl-like cloth from her neck)

It cost my father well-nigh forty pounds, Real Indian stuff, I'll give that too—if you Will leave me but my life: I will not die!

[She sinks back to her former position.]

ISAAC and ESTHER are led in.

KING. What crime has he committed?

MANRIQUE. Sire, thou know'st, The entrance to the royal gardens is Denied this people when the court is here.

KING. And I permit it, if it is forbidden.

ESTHER. He is no spy, O Sire, a merchant he, In Hebrew are the letters that he bears, Not in the Moorish tongue, not Arabic.

KING. 'Tis well, I doubt it not.

(Pointing to RACHEL.) And she?

ESTHER. My sister!

KING. Take her and carry her away.

RACHEL (as ESTHER approaches her).

No, no! They're seizing me, they're leading me away To kill me!

(Pointing to her discarded finery.)

See, my ransom. Here will I Remain a while and take a little sleep.

(Laying her cheek against the KING's knee.)

Here safety is; and here 'tis good to rest.

QUEEN. Will you not go?

KING. You see that I am caught.

QUEEN. If you are caught, I still am free, I go!

[Exit with her women.]

KING. And now that, too! That which they would prevent They bring to pass with their false chastity.

(Sternly to RACHEL.)

Arise, I tell thee—Give her back her shawl, And let her go.

RACHEL. O, Sire, a little while.

My limbs are lamed,—I cannot, cannot walk.

[She props her elbow on her knee and rests her head in her hand.]

KING (stepping back).

And is she ever thus, so timorous?

ESTHER. Nay, for, a while ago, presumptuous, In spite of us, she wished to see thee, Sire.

KING. Me? She has paid it dear.

ESTHER. At home, as well, She plays her pranks, and jokes with man or dog, And makes us laugh, however grave we be.

KING. I would, indeed, she were a Christian, then, And here at court, where things are dull enough; A little fun might stand us in good stead. Ho, Garceran!

GARCERAN. Illustrious Sire and King!

ESTHER (busy with RACHEL).

Stand up! Stand up!

RACHEL (rising and taking off ESTHER's necklace, which she adds to the other jewels).

And give, too, what thou hast, It is my ransom.

ESTHER. Well, so be it then.

KING. What think you of all this?

GARCERAN. What I think, Sire?

KING. Dissemble not! You are a connoisseur, Myself have never looked at women much But she seems beautiful.

GARCERAN. She is, O Sire!

KING. Be strong then, for you shall accomp'ny her.

RACHEL (who stands in the middle of the stage with trembling knees and bent head, pushing up her sleeve).

Put on my bracelet. Oh you hurt me so. The necklace, too-indeed, that still hangs here. The kerchief keep, I feel so hot and choked.

KING. Convey her home!

GARCERAN. But, Sire, I fear—

KING. Well, what?

GARCERAN. The people are aroused.

KING. Ay, you are right. Although a royal word protection is, 'Tis better that we give no cause to wrong.

ESTHER (fixing RACHEL's dress at the neck).

Thy dress is all disturbed and all awry.

KING. Take her at first to one of those kiosks There scattered through the garden, and at eve—

GARCERAN. I hear, my liege!

KING. What was I saying? Oh! Are you not ready yet?

ESTHER. We are, my lord.

KING. At evening when the people all have gone, Then lead her home and that will make an end.

GARCERAN. Come, lovely heathen!

KING. Heathen? Stuff and nonsense!

ESTHER (to RACHEL, who prepares to go).

And thankst thou not the King for so much grace?

RACHEL (still exhausted, turning to the KING).

My thanks, O Sire, for all thy mighty care! O were I not a poor and wretched thing—

(with a motion of her hand across her neck)

That this my neck, made short by hangman's hand, That this my breast, a shield against thy foe— But that thou wishest not!

KING. A charming shield! Now go, and God be with you.—Garceran,

(more softly)

I do not wish that she, whom I protect Should be insulted by improper jests, Or any way disturbed—

RACHEL (with her hand on her brow).

I cannot walk.

KING (as Garceran is about to offer his arm).

And why your arm? The woman can assist. And do thou, gaffer, watch thy daughter well, The world is ill! Do thou protect thy hoard.

[Exeunt RACHEL and her kin, led by GARCERAN.]

KING (watching them). She totters still in walking. All her soul A sea of fear in e'er-renewing waves.

(Putting down his foot)

She held my foot so tightly in her grasp, It almost pains me. Strange it is, a man When cowardly, with justice is despised— A woman shows her strength when she is weak. Ah, Almirante, what say you to this? MANRIQUE. I think, the punishment you gave my son, Is, noble Sire, both subtle and severe. KING. The punishment? MANRIQUE. To guard this common trash. KING. Methinks the punishment is not so hard. Myself have never toyed with women much,

(Pointing to his suite.)

But these, perchance, think otherwise than you. But now, avaunt all pictures so confused! And dine we, for my body needs new strength, And with the first glad draught this festal day, Let each one think—of what he wants to think. No ceremony! Forward! Hasten! On!

[As the court arranges itself on both sides and the KING goes through the centre, the curtain falls.]



ACT II

A drop scene showing part of the garden. At the right, a garden-house with a balcony and a door, to which several steps lead up.

GARCERAN enters through the door.

GARCERAN. And so before I'm caught, I'll save myself! The girl is beautiful, and is a fool; But love is folly; wherefore such a fool Is more to fear than e'er the slyest was. Besides, 'tis necessary that I bring, While still there's time, my good repute again To honor,—and my love for Dona Clara, Most silent she of all that never talk; The wise man counts escape a victory.

A page of the KING enters.

PAGE. Sir Garceran—

GARCERAN. Ah, Robert, what's a-foot?

PAGE. The King, my lord, commanded me to see If still you were with her entrusted you—

GARCERAN. If I am here? Why, he commanded—friend! You were to see were I, perhaps, upstairs? Just tell him that the girl is in the house, And I outside. That answer will suffice.

PAGE. The King himself!

GARCERAN. Your majesty!

[The KING comes wrapped in a cloak. Exit PAGE.]

KING. Well, friend! Still here?

GARCERAN. Why, did you not yourself command That only with the evening's first approach—

KING. Yes, yes, but now on second thought it seems Far better that you travel while 'tis day— They say thou'rt brave.

GARCERAN. So you believe, O Sire—

KING. Methinks thou honorest the royal word Which would unharmed know what it protects. But custom is the master of mankind; Our wills will often only what they must. And so, depart. But tell me, what doth she?

GARCERAN. At first, there was a weeping without end, But time brings comfort, as the saying is; And so 'twas here. Soon cheerfulness, yea jest, Had banished all her former abject fear; Then there was pleasure in the shining toys, And wonder at the satin tapestries. We measured every curtained stuff by yards, Till now we've settled down and feel at home.

KING. And does she seem desirous to return?

GARCERAN. It sometimes seems she does, and then does not. A shallow mind ne'er worries for the morrow.

KING. Of course thou didst not hesitate to throw To her the bait of words, as is thy wont? How did she take it, pray?

GARCERAN. Not badly, Sire.

KING. Thou liest! But in truth thou'rt lucky, boy! And hover'st like a bird in cheerful skies, And swoopest down wherever berries lure, And canst adjust thyself at the first glance. I am a King; my very word brings fear. Yet I, were I the first time in my life To stand in woman's presence, fear should know! How dost begin? Pray, teach me what to do; I am a novice in such arts as these, And nothing better than a grown-up child. Dost sigh?

GARCERAN. Oh, Sire, how sadly out of date!

KING. Well then, dost gaze? Does then Squire Gander gawk Till Lady Goose-quill gawks again? Is't so? And next, I ween, thou takest up thy lute, And turning towards the balcony, as here, Thou singst a croaking song, to which the moon, A yellow pander, sparkles through the trees; The flowers sweet intoxicate the sense, Till now the proper opportunity Arrives—the father, brother—spouse, perhaps— Has left the house on similar errand bent. And now the handmaid calls you gently: "Pst!" You enter in, and then a soft, warm hand Takes hold of yours and leads you through the halls, Which, endless as the gloomy grave, spur on The heightened wish, until, at last, the musk, The softened lights that come through curtains' folds, Do tell you that your charming goal is reached. The door is ope'd, and bright, in candle gleam, On velvet dark, with limbs all loosed in love, Her snow-white arm enwrapped in ropes of pearls, Your darling leans with gently drooping head, The golden locks—no, no, I say they're black— Her raven locks—and so on to the end! Thou seest, Garceran, I learn right well, And Christian, Mooress, Jewess, 'tis the same.

GARCERAN. We frontier warriors prize, for lack of choice, Fair Moorish women, but the Jewess, Sire,—

KING. Pretend thou not to pick and choose thy fare! I wager, if the maiden there above Had given thee but a glance, thou'dst be aflame. I love it not, this folk, and yet I know That what disfigures it, is our own work; We lame them, and are angry when they limp, And yet, withal, this wandering shepherd race Has something great about it, Garceran. We are today's, we others; but their line Runs from Creation's cradle, where our God, In human form, still walked in Paradise, And cherubim were guests of patriarchs, And God alone was judge, and was the law. Within this fairy world there is the truth Of Cain and Abel, of Rebecca's craft, Of Rachel, who by Jacob's service wooed— How hight this maiden?

GARCERAN. Sire, I know not. KING. Oh! Of great King Ahasuerus, who his hand Stretched out o'er Esther; she, though Jewess, was His wife, and, like a god, preserved her race. Christian and Moslem both their lineage trace Back to this folk, as oldest and as first; Thus they have doubts of us, not we of them. And though, like Esau, it has sold its right, We ten times daily crucify our God By grievous sins and by our vile misdeeds— The Jews have crucified him only once! Now let us go! Or, rather, stay thou here; Conduct her hence, and mark well where she lives. Perhaps some time, when worn by weary cares, I'll visit her, and there enjoy her thanks.

(About to go, he hears a noise in the house and stops.)

What is't?

GARCERAN. Confusion in the house; it seems Almost as if they bring thy praise to naught; Among themselves they quarrel—

KING (going to the house).

What about?

ISAAC comes from the garden-house.

ISAAC (speaking back into the house).

Stay then, and risk your heads, if so ye will, You've nearly lost them once. I'll save myself.

KING. Ask what he means.

GARCERAN. My good man, tell, how now?

ISAAC (to GARCERAN).

Ah, Sir, it is then you, our guardian! My little Rachel speaks of you so oft; She likes you.

KING. To the point. What babbling this—

ISAAC. Who is this lord?

GARCERAN. It makes no difference. Speak! What is the cause of all that noise above?

ISAAC (speaking up to the window).

Look out, you're going to catch it—now look out!

(To GARCERAN.)

Yourself have seen my little Rachel-girl, And how she wept and groaned and beat her breasts, As if half crazed. Of course you have, my life!— She hardly knew the danger had been passed When back again her old high spirits came; She laughed, and danced, and sang; half mad again She shoved awry the sacred furniture By dead men watched, and raves—as now you hear. Hangs from her girdle not a chatelaine? Her keys she tries in every closet lock, And opens all the doors along the wall. There hang within all sorts of things to wear, And angels, devils, beggars vie with kings In gay attire—

KING (aside to GARCERAN). Our carnival costumes.

ISAAC. She chose, herself, a plumed crown from these,— It was not gold, but only gilded tin— One tells it by the weight, worth twenty pence; About her shoulders throws a trained robe And says she is the queen—

(Speaking back.)

Oh yes, thou fool! Then in the ante-chamber next, there hangs A picture of the King, whom God preserve! She takes it from the wall, bears it about, Calling it husband with endearing words, And holds it to her breast.

[KING goes hastily toward the garden house.]

GARCERAN. Oh, mighty Sire!

ISAAC (stepping back).

Alas!

KING (standing on the steps, quietly).

That game is worth a nearer look. What's more, 'twill soon be time for you to go; You should not miss the favorable hour. But you, old man, must come. For not alone, Nor unobserved would I approach your children.

[Goes into the house.]

ISAAC. Was that the King? Oh, woe!

GARCERAN. Proceed within.

ISAAC. If he should draw his sword, we all are doomed!

GARCERAN. Go in. And as for being afraid, 'tis not For you nor for your daughter that I fear.

[He pushes the hesitating ISAAC into the garden house and follows him.]

* * * * *

Room in the pavilion. In the background to the left a door; in the foreground to the right, another door. RACHEL, with a plumed crown on her head and gold embroidered mantle about her shoulders, is trying to drag an armchair from the neighboring room, on the right. ESTHER has come in through the principal entrance.

RACHEL. The armchair should stand here, here in the middle.

ESTHER. For Heaven's sake, O Rachel, pray look out; Your madness else will bring us all to grief.

RACHEL. The King has given this vacant house to us; As long as we inhabit it, it's ours.

[They have dragged the chair to the centre.]

RACHEL (looking at herself). Now don't you think my train becomes me well? And when I nod, these feathers also nod. I need just one thing more—I'll get it—wait!

[Goes back through the side door.]

ESTHER. Oh, were we only far from here, at home! My father, too, comes not, whom she drove off.

RACHEL (comes back with an unframed picture).

The royal image taken from its frame I'll bear it with me.

ESTHER. Art thou mad again? How often I have warned thee!

RACHEL. Did I heed?

ESTHER. By Heaven, no!

RACHEL. Nor will I heed you now. The picture pleases me. Just see how fine! I'll hang it in my room, close by my bed. At morn and eventide I'll gaze at it, And think such thoughts as one may think when one Has shaken off the burden of one's clothes And feels quite free from every onerous weight. But lest they think that I have stolen it— I who am rich—what need have I to steal?— My portrait which you wear about your neck We'll hang up where the other used to be. Thus he may look at mine, as I at his, And think of me, if he perchance forgot. The footstool bring me hither; I am Queen, And I shall fasten to the chair this King. They say that witches who compel to love Stick needles, thus, in images of wax, And every prick goes to a human heart To hinder or to quicken life that's real.

[She fastens the picture by the four corners to the back of the chair.]

Oh, would that blood could flow with every prick, That I could drink it with my thirsty lips, And take my pleasure in the ill I'd done! It hangs there, no less beautiful than dumb. But I will speak to it as were I Queen, With crown and mantle which become me well.

[She has seated herself on the footstool before the picture.]

Oh, hypocrite, pretending piety, Full well I know your each and every wile! The Jewess struck your fancy—don't deny! And, by my mighty word, she's beautiful, And only with myself to be compared.

[The KING, followed by GARCERAN and ISAAC, has entered and placed himself behind the chair, and leans upon the back of the chair, watching her.]

(RACHEL, continues)

But I, your Queen, I will not suffer it, For know that I am jealous as a cat. Your silence only makes your guilt seem more. Confess! You liked her? Answer, Yes!

KING. Well, Yes!

[RACHEL, starts, looks at the picture, then up, recognizes the KING, and remains transfixed on the footstool.]

KING (stepping forward).

Art frightened? Thou hast willed it, and I say 't. Compose thyself, thou art in friendly hands!

[He stretches his hand toward her, she leaps from the stool and flees to the door at the right where she stands panting and with bowed head.]

KING. Is she so shy?

ESTHER. Not always, gracious Sire! Not shy, but timid.

KING. Do I seem so grim?

(Approaching her. RACHEL, shakes her head violently.)

Well then, my dearest child, I pray be calm! Yes, I repeat it, thou hast pleased me well; When from this Holy War I home return To which my honor and my duty call, Then in Toledo I may ask for thee— Where dwell you in this city?

ISAAC (quickly).

Jew Street, Sire— Ben Mathes' house.

ESTHER. If not, before you come, We're driven out.

KING. My word! That shall not be. And I can keep a promise to protect. So if at home you are as talkative And cheerful as I hear you erstwhile were— Not shy, as now, I'll pass the time away, And draw a breath far from the fogs of court. But now depart; the time has long since come. Go with them, Garceran; but, ere you go, My picture now return to where it was.

RACHEL (rushing to the chair).

The picture's mine!

KING. What ails thee, child? It must Go back into the frame where it belongs.

RACHEL (to GARCERAN).

The picture touch not, nor the pins therein, Or I shall fix it with a deeper thrust

(Making a motion toward the picture with a pin.)

Behold, right in the heart!

KING. By Heaven, stop! Thou almost frightenedst me. Who art thou, girl? Art mistress of the black and criminal arts, That I should feel in my own breast the thrust Thou aimedst at the picture?

ESTHER. Noble Sire, She's but a spoiled child, and a wanton girl, And has no knowledge of forbidden arts!

KING. One ought not boldly play with things like these. It drove my blood up to my very eyes, And still I see the world all in a haze.

(To GARCERAN.)

Is she not beautiful?

GARCERAN. She is, my lord.

KING. See how the waves of light glow o'er her form!

[RACHEL has meanwhile taken of the picture and rolled it up.]

KING. Thou absolutely wilt not give it up?

RACHEL (to ESTHER).

I'll take it.

KING. Well, then, in the name of God! He will prevent that any ill befall. But only go! Take, Garceran, The road that down behind the garden leads. The folk's aroused; it loves, because it's weak, To test that weakness on some weaker one.

GARCERAN (at the window).

Behold, O Sire, where comes th' entire court,— The Queen herself leads on her retinue.

KING. Comes here? Accursed! Is here no other door? Let not the prying crew find here false cause To prattle!

GARCERAN (pointing to the side door).

Sire, this chamber

KING. Think you, then, Before my servants I should hide myself? And yet I fear the pain 'twould give the Queen; She might believe—what I myself believe, And so I save my troubled majesty. See to it that she very soon depart.

[Exit into the side room.]

ESTHER. I told you so! It is misfortune's road.

Enter the QUEEN accompanied by MANRIQUE DE LARA and several others.

QUEEN. They told me that the King was in this place.

GARCERAN. He was, but went away.

QUEEN. The Jewess here.

MANRIQUE. Arrayed like madness freed from every bond, With all the tinsel-state of puppet-play! Lay off the crown, for it befits thee not, Even in jest; the mantle also doff!

[ESTHER has taken both off.]

What has she in her hand?

RACHEL. It is my own.

MANRIQUE. But first we'll see!

ESTHER. Nay, we are not so poor That we should stretch our hands for others' goods!

MANRIQUE (going toward the side door).

And, too, in yonder chamber let us look, If nothing missing, or perhaps if greed With impudence itself as here, has joined.

GARCERAN (barring the way).

Here, father, call I halt!

MANRIQUE. Know'st thou me not?

GARCERAN. Yes, and myself as well. But there be duties Which even a father's rights do not outweigh.

MANRIQUE. Look in my eye! He cannot bear to do it! Two sons I lose on this unhappy day.

(To the QUEEN.)

Will you not go?

QUEEN. I would, but cannot. Yes, I surely can, by Heaven, for I must.

(To GARCERAN.)

Although your office an unknightly one, I thank you that you do it faithfully; 'Twere death to see—but I can go and suffer— If you should meet your master ere the eve, Say, to Toledo I returned—alone.

[The QUEEN and her suite go out.]

GARCERAN. Woe worth the chance that chose this day of all, To bring me home—from war to worse than war!

RACHEL (to ESTHER, who is busied with her).

And had my life been forfeit, I'd have stayed.

ESTHER (to GARCERAN).

I pray you now to bring us quickly home.

GARCERAN. First, let me ask the King his royal will.

(Knocking at the side door.)

Sire! What? No sign of life within? Perchance An accident? Whate'er it be—I'll ope!

[The KING steps out and remains standing in the foreground as the others withdraw to the back of the stage.]

KING. So honor and repute in this our world Are not an even path on which the pace, Simple and forward, shows the tendency, The goal, our worth. They're like a juggler's rope, On which a misstep plunges from the heights, And every stumbling makes a butt for jest. Must I, but yesterday all virtues' model, Today shun every slave's inquiring glance? Begone then, eager wish to please the mob, Henceforth determine we ourselves our path!

(Turning to the others.)

What, you still here?

GARCERAN. We wait your high command.

KING. If you had only always waited it, And had remained upon the boundary! Examples are contagious, Garceran.

GARCERAN. A righteous prince will punish every fault, His own as well as others'; but, immune, He's prone to vent his wrath on others' heads.

KING. Not such a one am I, my friend. Be calm! We are as ever much inclined to thee; And now, take these away, forever, too. What's whim in others, is, in princes, sin.

(As he sees RACHEL approaching.)

Let be! But first this picture lay aside, And put it in the place from whence you took 't. It is my will! Delay not!

RACHEL (to ESTHER). Come thou, too.

(As both approach the side door).

Hast thou, as is thy wont, my picture on?

ESTHER. What wilt

RACHEL. My will—and should the worst betide—

[They go to the side door.]

KING. Then to the border, straight I'll follow thee; And there we'll wash in Moorish blood away The equal shame that we have shared this day, That we may bear once more the gaze of men.

[The girls return.]

RACHEL. I did it.

KING. Now away, without farewell!

ESTHER. Our thanks to thee, O Sire!

RACHEL. Not mine, I say.

KING. So be it; thankless go!

RACHEL. I'll save it up.

KING. That is, for never!

RACHEL. I know better.

(To ESTHER.) Come.

[They go, accompanied by GARCERAN, ISAAC bowing deeply.]

KING. And high time was it that she went; in sooth, The boredom of a royal court at times Makes recreation a necessity. Although this girl has beauty and has charm Yet seems she overbold and violent, And one does well to watch what one begins. Alonzo!

[Enter a servant.]

SERVANT. Mighty Sire?

KING. The horses fetch.

SERVANT. Toledo, Sire?

KING. Nay, to Alarcos, friend. We're for the border, for the war, and so Make ready only what we need the most. For in Toledo four eyes threaten me; Two full of tears, the other two, of fire. She would not leave my picture here behind, And bade defiance unto death itself. And yet there needed but my stern command To make her put it back where it belonged. She tried her actress arts on me, that's all; But did she put it in the frame again? Since I am leaving here for many moons Let all be undisturbed as 'twas before; Of this affair let every trace be gone.

[He goes into the ante-chamber. A pause as one of the servants takes up from the chair the clothes which RACHEL had worn, but holds the crown in his hand. The KING comes back holding RACHEL'S picture.]

KING. My picture gone—and this one in its place! It is her own, and burns within my hand—

(Throwing the picture on the floor.)

Avaunt! Avaunt! Can boldness go so far? This may not be, for while I think of her With just repugnance, this her painted image Stirs up the burning passion in my breast. Then, too, within her hands my picture rests! They talk of magic, unallowed arts, Which this folk practises with such-like things And something as of magic o'er me comes—

(To the servant.)

Here, pick this up and spur thee on until Thou overtake them.

SERVANT. Whom, my liege?

KING. Whom? Whom? The girls of course, I mean, and Garceran; Return this picture to the girls and ask—

SERVANT. What, Sire?

KING. Shall my own servants then become The sharers in the knowledge of my shame? I'll force th' exchange myself, if it must be! Take up the picture—I will touch it not!

[The servant has picked up the picture.]

KING. How clumsy! Hide it in your breast; but nay, If there, it would be warmed by other's glow! Give 't here, myself will take it; follow me—We'll overtake them yet! But I surmise, Since now suspicion's rife, there may some harm, Some accident befall them unawares. My royal escort were the safest guide. Thou, follow me!

[He has looked at the picture, then has put it in his bosom.]

Stands there not, at the side, The Castle Retiro, where, all concealed, My forebear, Sancho, with a Moorish maid—!

SERVANT. Your Majesty, 'tis true!

KING. We'll imitate Our forebears in their bravery, their worth, Not when they stumble in their weaker hours. The task is, first of all to conquer self—And then against the foreign conqueror! Retiro hight the castle?—Let me see! Oh yes, away! And be discreet! But then—Thou knowest nothing! All the better. Come!

[Exit with servant.]



ACT III

Garden in the royal villa. In the background flows the Tagus. A roomy arbor toward the front at the right. At the left, several suppliants in a row, with petitions in their hands. ISAAC stands near them.

ISAAC. You were already told to linger not. My daughter soon will come to take the air. And he is with her—he; I say not who. So tremble and depart, and your requests Take to the King's advisers in Toledo.

[He takes the petition from one of them.]

Let's see! 'Twon't do.

PETITIONER. You hold it upside down.

ISAAC. Because the whole request is topsy-turvy turvy—And you are, too. Disturb no more—depart.

2D PETIT. Sir Isaac, in Toledo me you knew.

ISAAC. I know you not. In these last days my eyes Have suddenly grown very, very weak.

2D PETIT. But I know you! Here is the purse of gold You lost, which I herewith restore to you.

ISAAC. The purse I lost? I recognize it! Yea, 'Twas greenish silk—with ten piasters in't!

2D PETIT. Nay, twenty.

ISAAC. Twenty? Well, my eye is good; My mem'ry fails me, though, from time to time! This sheet, no doubt, explains the circumstance—Just where you found the purse, perhaps, and how. There is no further need that this report Should go on file. And yet, just let me have't! We will convey it to the proper place, That every one may know your honesty!

[The petitioners present their petitions; he takes one in each hand and throws them to the ground.]

No matter what it be, your answer's there.

(To a third.)

I see you have a ring upon your hand. The stone is good, let's see!

[The suppliant hands over the ring.]

That flaw, of course, Destroys its perfect water! Take it back.

[He puts the ring on his own finger.]

3D PETIT. You've put it on your own hand!

ISAAC. What, on mine? Why so I have! I thought I'd given it back. It is so tight I cannot get it off.

3D PETIT. Keep it, but, pray, take my petition too.

ISAAC (busy with the ring).

I'll take them both in memory of you. The King shall weigh the ring—I mean, of course, Your words—although the flaw is evident—The flaw that's in the stone—you understand. Begone now, all of you! Have I no club? Must I be bothered with this Christian pack?

[GARCERAN has meanwhile entered.]

GARCERAN. Good luck! I see you sitting in the reeds, But find you're pitching high the pipes you cut.

ISAAC. The royal privacy's entrusted me; The King's not here, he does not wish to be. And who disturbs him—even you, my lord, I must bid you begone! Those his commands.

GARCERAN. You sought a while ago to find a club; And when you find it, bring it me. I think Your back could use it better than your hand.

ISAAC. How you flare up! That is the way with Christians? They're so direct of speech—but patient waiting, And foresight, humble cleverness, they lack. The King is pleased much to converse with me.

GARCERAN. When he is bored and flees his inner self, E'en such a bore as you were less a bore.

ISAAC. He speaks to me of State and of finance.

GARCERAN. Are you, perhaps, the father of the new Decree that makes a threepence worth but two?

ISAAC. Money, my friend, 's the root of everything. The enemy is threat'ning—buy you arms! The soldier, sure, is sold, and that for cash. You eat and drink your money; what you eat Is bought, and buying's money—nothing else. The time will come when every human soul Will be a sight-draft and a short one, too; I'm councilor to the King, and if yourself Would keep in harmony with Isaac's luck—

GARCERAN. In harmony with you? It is my curse That chance and the accursed seeming so Have mixed me in this wretched piece of folly, Which to the utmost strains my loyalty.

ISAAC. My little Rachel daily mounts in grace!

GARCERAN. Would that the King, like many another one, In jest and play had worn youth's wildness off! But he, from childhood, knowing only men, Brought up by men and tended but by men, Nourished with wisdom's fruits before his time, Taking his marriage as a thing of course, The King now meets, the first time in his life, A woman, female, nothing but her sex, And she avenges on this prodigy The folly of too staid, ascetic youth. A noble woman's half, yes all, a man— It is their faults that make them woman-kind. And that resistance, which the oft deceived Gains through experience, the King has not; A light disport he takes for bitter earn'st. But this shall not endure, I warrant thee! The foe is at the borders, and the King Shall hie him where long since he ought to be; Myself shall lead him hence. And so an end.