ISAAC. Try what you can! And if not with us, then You are against us, and will break your neck In vain attempt to clear the wide abyss.

(The sound of flutes.)

But hark! With cymbals and with horns they come, As Esther with King Ahasuerus came, Who raised the Jews to fame and high estate.

GARCERAN. Must I, then, see in this my King's debauch A picture of myself from early days, And be ashamed for both of us at once?

[A boat upon which are the KING, RACHEL and suite, appears on the river.]

KING. Lay to! Here is the place—the arbor here.

RACHEL. The skiff is rocking—hold me, lest I fall.

[The KING has jumped to the shore.]

RACHEL. And must I walk to shore upon this board So thin and weak?

KING. Here, take my hand, I pray!

RACHEL. No, no, I'm dizzy.

GARCERAN (to himself).

Dizzy are you? Humph!

KING (who has conducted her to the shore).

It is accomplished now—this mighty task!

RACHEL. No, never will I enter more a ship.

(Taking the KING's arm.)

Permit me, noble Sire, I am so weak! Pray feel my heart, how fev'rishly it beats!

KING. To fear, is woman's right; but you abuse it.

RACHEL. You now, hard-hearted, take away your aid! And, oh, these garden walks, how hard they are! With stones, and not with sand, they're roughly strewn For men to walk on, not for women's feet.

KING. Put down a carpet, ye, that we have peace.

RACHEL. I feel it well—I merely burden you! Oh, were my sister only here with me, For I am sick and tired unto death! Naught but these pillows here?

(Throwing the pillows in the arbor violently about.)

No, no, no, no!

KING (laughing).

I see your weakness happily abates.

(Catching sight of GARCERAN.)

Ah, Garceran! Behold, she's but a child!

GARCERAN. A spoiled child, surely!

KING. Yes, they all are that. It suits her well!

GARCERAN. According to one's tastes!

KING. See, Garceran! I feel how wrong I am; And yet I know there needeth but a nod, A simple word, to make it all dissolve—This dream—into the nothing that it is. And so I suffer it because I've need, In this confusion which myself have caused. How is the army?

GARCERAN. As you long have known, The enemy is arming.

KING. So shall we. A few days more, and I shall put away This toying from me, and forevermore; Then time and counsel shall be found again.

GARCERAN. Mayhap the counsel, but the time slips by!

KING. With deeds we shall regain the ground that's lost.

RACHEL. I hear them speaking; and I know of what—Of And not be lonesome in this concourse loud. I see you come not. No, they hold you back.

[Weeping.]

Not any comfort give they me, nor joy. They hold me here, apart, in slavery. Would I were home again in father's house, Where every one is at my beck and call, Instead of here,—the outcast of contempt.

KING. Go thou to her!

GARCERAN. What? Shall I?

KING. Go, I say!

RACHEL. Sit down by me, but nearer, nearer—so! Once more I say, I love you, Garceran. You are, indeed, a knight without a flaw, Not merely knight in name, as they it learn— Those iron, proud Castilians—from their foes, The Moors.—But these Castilians imitate In manner borrowed, therefore rough and crude, What those, with delicate and clever art, Are wont to practise as a native gift. Give me your hand. Just see, how soft it is! And yet you wield a sword as well as they. But you're at home in boudoirs, too, and know The pleasing manners of a gentler life. From Dona Clara cometh not this ring? She's far too pale for rosy-cheeked love, Were not the color which her face doth lack Replaced by e'er renewing blush of shame. But many other rings I see you have— How many sweethearts have you? Come, confess!

GARCERAN. Suppose I ask the question now of you?

RACHEL. I've never loved. But I could love, if e'er In any breast that madness I should find Which could enthrall me, were my own heart touched. Till then I follow custom's empty show, Traditional in love's idolatry, As in the fanes of stranger-creeds one kneels.

KING (who meanwhile has been pacing up and down, now stands in the foreground at the left and speaks in an aside to a servant).

Bring me my arms, and full accoutrements, And wait for me beside the garden-house. I will to camp where they have need of me.

[Exit servant.]

RACHEL. I beg you, see your King! He thinks he loves; Yet when I speak to you and press your hand, He worries not. With good economy, He fills his garish day with business, And posts his ledger, satisfied, at ev'n. Out on you! You are all alike—you, too. O were my sister here! She's wise—than I Far cleverer! Yet, too, when in her breast The spark of will and resolution falls, She flashes out in flames, like unto mine. Were she a man, she'd be a hero. Ye Before her courage and her gaze should flinch. Now let me sleep until she comes, for I Myself am but the dreaming of a night.

[She lays her head on her arm and her arm on her pillows.]

GARCERAN (steps to the KING who stands watching the reclining RACHEL).

Most noble Sire—

KING (still gazing). Well?

GARCERAN. May I now go back Once more unto the army and the camp?

KING (as above).

The army left the camp? Pray tell me why.

GARCERAN. You hear me not—myself, I wish to go.

KING. And there you'll talk, with innuendo, prate—

GARCERAN. Of what?

KING. Of me, of that which here took place.

GARCERAN. For that I'd need to understand it more.

KING. I see! Believest thou in sorcery?

GARCERAN. Since recently I almost do, my lord!

KING. And why is it but recently, I pray?

GARCERAN. Respect, I thought the wonted mate of love; But love together with contempt, my lord—

KING. "Contempt" were far too hard a word; perhaps An "unregard"—yet, nathless—marvelous!

GARCERAN. In sooth, the marvel is a little old, For it began that day in Paradise When God from Adam's rib created Eve.

KING. And yet he closed the breast when it was done, And placed the will to guard the entering in. Thou may'st to camp, but not alone:—with me.

RACHEL (sitting up).

The sun is creeping into my retreat. Who props for me the curtain on yon side?

(Looking off stage at the right.)

There go two men, both bearing heavy arms; The lance would serve my purpose very well.

(Calling off stage.)

Come here! This way! What, are ye deaf? Come quick!

[The servant, returning with the lance and helmet, accompanied by a second servant bearing the King's shield and cuirass, enters.]

RACHEL. Give me your lance, good man, and stick the point Here in the ground, and then the roof will be Held up in that direction. Thus it throws A broader shadow. Quickly, now! That's right! You other fellow, like a snail, you bear Your house upon your back, unless, perhaps, A house for some one else. Show me the shield! A mirror 'tis, in sooth! 'Tis crude, of course, As all is, here, but in a pinch 'twill do.

(They hold the shield before her.)

One brings one's hair in order, pushes back Whatever may have ventured all too far, And praises God who made one passing fair. This mirror's curve distorts me! Heaven help! What puffy cheeks are these? No, no, my friend, What roundness nature gives us, satisfies.— And now the helmet—useless in a fight, For it conceals what oft'nest wins—the eyes; But quite adapted to the strife of love. Put me the helm upon my head.—You hurt!— And if one's love rebels and shows his pride, Down with the visor!

(Letting it down.)

He in darkness stands! But should he dare, mayhap, to go from us, And send for arms, to leave us here alone, Then up the visor goes.

(She does it.)

Let there be light! The sun, victorious, drives away the fog.

KING (going to her).

Thou silly, playing, wisely-foolish child!

RACHEL. Back, back! Give me the shield, give me the lance! I am attacked, but can defend myself.

KING. Lay down thy arms! No ill approacheth thee!

(Taking both of her hands.)

Enter ESTHER from the left rear.

RACHEL. Ah thou, my little sister! Welcome, here! Away with all this mummery, but quick! Don't take my head off, too! How clumsy, ye!

(Running to her.)

Once more be welcome, O thou sister mine! How I have long'd to have thee here with me! And hast thou brought my bracelets and my jewels, My ointments and my perfumes, with thee now, As from Toledo's shops I ordered them?

ESTHER. I bring them and more weighty things besides— Unwelcome news, a bitter ornament. Most mighty Sire and Prince! The Queen has from Toledo's walls withdrawn, and now remains In yonder castle where ill-fortune first Decreed that you and we should meet.

(To GARCERAN.)

With her, Your noble father, Don Manrique Lara, Who summons all the kingdom's high grandees From everywhere, in open letters, to Discuss the common good, as if the land Were masterless and you had died, O King.

KING. I think you dream!

ESTHER. I am awake, indeed, And must keep watch to save my sister's life. They threaten her. She'll be the sacrifice!

RACHEL. O woe is me! Did I not long ago Adjure you to return unto the court And bring to naught the plotting of my foes!— But you remain'd. Behold here are your arms, The helm, the shield, and there the mighty spear I'll gather them—but Oh, I cannot do 't.

KING (to ESTHER).

Now tend the little girl. With every breath She ten times contradicts what she has said. I will to court; but there I need no arms; With open breast, my hand without a sword, I in my subjects' midst will boldly step And ask: "Who is there here that dares rebel?" They soon shall know their King is still alive And that the sun dies not when evening comes, But that the morning brings its rays anew. Thou follow'st, Garceran!

GARCERAN. I'm ready.

ESTHER. What Becomes of us?

RACHEL. O stay, I beg you, stay!

KING. The castle's safe, the keeper faithful, too; And he will guard you with his very life. For though I feel that I have sinned full sore, Let no one suffer who has trusted me And who with me has shared my guilt and sin. Come, Garceran! Or, rather, take the lead; For if the estates were in assembly still, Not called by me, nor rightfully convened, I then must punish—much against my will. Command them to disperse—and quickly, too! Thy father tell: Although protector he And regent for me in my boyhood days, I now know how to guard my right myself— Against him, too, against no matter whom. Come on! And ye, farewell!

RACHEL (approaching). O mighty Prince!

KING. No more! I need my strength and steadfast will, No parting words shall cripple my resolve. Ye'll hear from me when I have done my work; But how, and what the future brings, is still Enwrapt in night and gloom. But come what may, I give my princely word ye shall be safe. Come, Garceran! With God! He be with you!

[Exeunt KING and GARCERAN at the left.]

RACHEL. He loves me not—O, I have known it long!

ESTHER. O sister, useless is too tardy knowledge, When injury has made us sadly wise. I warned thee, but thou wouldst not ever heed.

RACHEL. He was so hot and ardent at the first!

ESTHER. And now makes up in coolness for his haste.

RACHEL. But I who trusted, what shall be my fate? Come, let us flee!

ESTHER. The streets are occupied; Against us all the land is in revolt.

RACHEL. And so I then must die and am so young? And I should like to live! Not live, indeed— But die, unwarned, an unexpected death! 'Tis but the moment of our death that shocks!

(At ESTHER's neck.)

Unhappy am I, sister, hopeless, lost!

(After a pause, with a voice broken by sobs.)

And is the necklace set with amethysts, Thou broughtst?

ESTHER. It is. And pearls it has as bright And many, too, as are thy tears.

RACHEL. I would Not look at it at all—at least not now. But only if our prison lasts too long, I'll try divert eternal wretchedness, And shall adorn myself unto my death. But see, who nears? Ha, ha, ha, ha, it is, In sooth, our father, armed cap-a-pie!

[ISAAC, a helmet on his head, under his long coat a cuirass, enters from the left.]

ISAAC. 'Tis I, the father of a wayward brood, Who ere my time are shortening my days. In harness, yes! When murder stalks abroad, Will one's bare body save one from the steel? A blow by chance, and then the skull is split! This harness hides, what's more, my notes of 'change, And in my pockets carry I my gold; I'll bury that and curse and soul will save From poverty and death. And if ye mock, I'll curse you with a patriarchal curse— With Isaac's curse! O ye, with voices like The voice of Jacob, but with Esau's hands, Invert the law of primogeniture! Myself, my care! What care I more for you! Hark!

RACHEL. What noise?

ESTHER. The drawbridge has been raised— And now our refuge is a prison too.—

RACHEL. A token that the King has left these walls. So hastes he forth.—Will he return again? I fear me no—I fear the very worst!

(Sinking on ESTHER's breast.)

And yet I loved him truly, loved him well!



ACT IV

A large room with a throne in the foreground to the right. Next to the throne, and running in a straight row to the left, several chairs upon which eight or ten Castilian grandees are sitting. Close to the throne, MANRIQUE DE LARA, who has arisen.

MANRIQUE. In sadness we are now assembled here, But few of us, whom close proximity Allowed to gather in so short a time. There will be more to join us presently. Stern, universal need, delaying not, Commands us count ourselves as competent. Before all others, in our earnest group, Is missing he to whom belongs the right To call this parliament and here preside; We then are half illegal at the start. And so, my noble lords, I took the care To ask her royal majesty, the Queen, Although our business much concerns herself, Here to convene with us and take her place, That we may know we are not masterless, Nor feel 'tis usurpation brought us here. The subject of our council at this time I hope—I fear—is known to all too well. The King, our mighty sov'reign—not alone In rank, estate, and dignity he's high, But, too, in natural gifts, that when we gaze Behind us in the past's wide-open book, We scarce again can find his equal there— Except that strength, the lever of all good, When wandered from her wonted path of good, Wills e'er to do her will with equal strength— The King, I say, withdraws himself from court, Lured by a woman's too lascivious charm, A thing in no wise seeming us to judge— The Queen!

The QUEEN, accompanied by DONA CLARA and several ladies, enters from the right, and seats herself on the throne, after she has indicated to the grandees who have arisen that they are to resume their seats.

MANRIQUE. Have I permission, Majesty?

QUEEN. Proceed.

MANRIQUE. What I just said, I shall repeat "A thing in no wise seeming us to judge." But at the bound'ries arms him now the Moor, And threats with war the hard-oppressed land; So now the right and duty of the King Is straight to ward this danger from us all, With forces he has called and raised himself. But see, the King is missing! He will come, I know, if only angry that we called Of our own power and will this parliament. But if the cause remains that keeps him hence, Unto his former bonds he will return, And, first as last, we be an orphan land. Your pardon?

[The QUEEN signs him to continue.]

First of all, the girl must go. Full many propositions are at hand. Some are there here who wish to buy her off, And others wish to send her from the land, A prisoner in some far distant clime. The King has money, too, and though she's far, You know that power can find whate'er it seeks. A third proposal—

[The QUEEN, at these words, has arisen.]

Pardon, noble Queen! You are too mild for this our business drear! Your very kindness, lacking vigorous will From which to draw renewal of its strength, Has most of all, perhaps, estranged our King. I blame you not, I say but what is true. I pray you, then, to waive your own desire, But if it please you otherwise, then speak! What flow'ry fate, what flatt'ring punishment, Is suited to the sin this drab has done?

QUEEN (softly). Death.

MANRIQUE. In truth?

QUEEN (more firmly).

Yes, death.

MANRIQUE. Ye hear, my lords! This was the third proposal, which, although A man, I did not earlier dare to speak.

QUEEN. Is marriage not the very holiest, Since it makes right what else forbidden is, And that, which horrible to all the chaste, Exalts to duty, pleasing unto God? Other commandments of our God most high Give added strength to our regard for right, But what so strong that it ennobles sin Must be the strongest of commandments all. Against that law this woman now has sinned. But if my husband's wrong continueth, Then I myself, in all my married years, A sinner was and not a wife, our son Is but a misborn bastard-spawn, a shame Unto himself, and sore disgrace to us. If ye in me see guilt, then kill me, pray! I will not live if I be flecked with sin. Then may he from the princesses about A spouse him choose, since only his caprice, And not what is allowed, can govern him. But if she is the vilest of this earth, Then purify your King and all his land. I am ashamed to speak like this to men, It scarce becomes me, but I needs must speak.

MANRIQUE. But will the King endure this? If so, how?

QUEEN. He will, indeed, because he ought and must. Then on the murd'rers he can take revenge, And first of all strike me and this, my breast.

[She sits down.]

MANRIQUE. There is no hope of any other way. The noblest in the battle meet their doom— To die a bitter, yea, a cruel death— Tortured with thirst, and under horses' hoofs, A doubler, sharper, bitt'rer meed of pain Than ever, sinner on the gallows-tree, And sickness daily takes our best away; For God is prodigal with human life; Should we be timid, then, where his command, His holy law, which he himself has giv'n, Demands, as here, that he who sins shall die? Together then, we will request the King To move from out his path this stumbling-block Which keeps him from his own, his own from him. If he refuse, blood's law be on the land, Until the law and prince be one again, And we may serve them both by serving one.

A servant comes.

SERVANT. Don Garceran!

MANRIQUE. And does the traitor dare? Tell him—

SERVANT. The message is his Majesty's.

MANRIQUE. That's diff'rent. An' he were my deadly foe, He has my ear, when speaks he for the King.

Enter GARCERAN.

MANRIQUE. At once your message give us; then, farewell.

GARCERAN. O Queen, sublime, and thou my father, too, And ye besides, the best of all the land! I feel today, as ne'er before I felt, That to be trusted is the highest good, And that frivolity, though free of guilt, Destroys and paralyzes more than sin Itself. One error is condoned at last, Frivolity is ever prone to err. And so, today, though conscious of no fault, I stand before you sullied, and atone For youthful heedlessness that passed for wrong.

MANRIQUE. Of that, another time! Your message now!

GARCERAN. The King through me dissolves this parliament.

MANRIQUE. And since he sent frivolity itself He surely gave some token from his hand, Some written word as pledge and surety?

GARCERAN. Hot-foot he followeth.

MANRIQUE. That is enough! So in the royal name I now dissolve This parliament. Ye are dismissed. But list Ye to my wish and my advice: Return Ye not at once unto your homes, but wait Ye rather, round about, till it appears Whether the King will take the task we leave, Or we must still perform it in his name.

(To GARCERAN.)

However, you, in princely service skilled, If spying be your office 'mongst us here, I beg you tell your King what I advised, And that th' estates in truth have been dissolved, But yet are ready to unite for deeds.

GARCERAN. Then once again, before you all, I say No tort have I in this mad escapade. As it was chance that brought me from the camp, So chanced it that the King selected me To guard this maiden from the people's rage; And what with warning, reason, argument, A man may do to ward off ill, although 'Twas fruitless, I admit,—that have I tried. I should deserve your scorn were this not so. And Dona Clara, doubly destined mine, By parents both and by my wish as well, You need not hang your noble head, for though Unworthy of you—never worthy,—I Not less am worthy now than e'er before. I stand before you here and swear: 'Tis so.

MANRIQUE. If this is so, and thou art still a man, Be a Castilian now and join with us To serve thy country's cause as we it serve. Thou art acquainted in the castle there; The captain opes the gates if thou demand. Perhaps we soon shall need to enter thus, If deaf the King, our noble lord.

GARCERAN. No word Against the King, my master!

MANRIQUE. Thine the choice! But follow for the nonce these other lords, The outcome may be better than we think.

[Servant entering from the left.]

SERVANT. His Majesty, the King!

MANRIQUE (to the estates, pointing to the middle door).

This way—withdraw!

(To the servants.)

And ye, arrange these chairs along the wall. Naught shall remind him that we gathered here

QUEEN (who has stepped down from the throne).

My knees are trembling, yet there's none to aid.

MANRIQUE. Virtue abode with strength in days of yore, But latterly, estranged, they separate. Strength stayed with youth—where she was wont to be— And virtue fled to gray and ancient heads. Here, take my arm! Though tottering the step, And strength be lacking,—virtue still abides.

[He leads the QUEEN off at the right. The estates, with GARCERAN, have gone out through the centre door. The KING comes from the left, behind him his page.]

KING. The sorrel, say you, limps? The pace was fast, But I no further need shall have of him. So to Toledo, pray you, have him led, Where rest will soon restore him. I, myself, Will at my spouse's side, in her own coach Return from here, in sight of all the folk, That what they see they may believe, and know That discord and dissension are removed.

[The page goes.]

I am alone. Does no one come to meet? Naught but bare walls and silent furniture! It is but recently that they have met. And oh, these empty chairs much louder speak Than those who sat upon them e'er have done! What use to chew the bitter cud of thought? I must begin to remedy the ill. Here goes the way to where my wife doth dwell.— I'll enter on this most unwelcome path.

[He approaches the side door at the right.]

What, barred the door? Hallo, in there! The King It is, who's master in this house! For me There is no lock, no door to shut me out.

[A waiting-woman enters through the door.]

KING. Ye bar yourselves?

WAITING WOMAN. The Queen, your Majesty—

(As the KING is about to enter rapidly.)

The inner door she, too, herself, has locked.

KING. I will not force my way. Announce to her That I am back, and this my summons is— Say, rather, my request—as now I say.

[Exit waiting-woman.]

KING (standing opposite the throne).

Thou lofty seat, o'ertopping others all, Grant that we may no lower be than thou, And even unexalted by these steps We yet may hold just measure of the good.

Enter the QUEEN.

KING (going toward her with outstretched hands).

I greet thee, Leonore!

QUEEN. Be welcome, thou!

KING. And not thy hand?

QUEEN. I'm glad to see thee here.

KING. And not thy hand?

QUEEN (bursting into tears).

O help me, gracious God!

KING. This hand is not pest-stricken, Leonore, Go I to battle, as I ought and must, It will be smeared and drenched with hostile blood; Pure water will remove the noisome slime, And for thy "welcome" I shall bring it pure. Like water for the gross and earthly stain There is a cleanser for our sullied souls. Thou art, as Christian, strong enough in faith To know repentance hath a such-like might. We others, wont to live a life of deeds, Are not inclined to modest means like this, Which takes the guilt away, but not the harm— Yes, half but is the fear of some new sin. If wishing better things, if glad resolve Are any hostage-bond for now and then, Take it—as I do give it—true and whole!

QUEEN (holding out both hands).

O God, how gladly!

KING. No, not both thy hands! The right alone, though farther from the heart, Is giv'n as pledge of contract and of bond, Perhaps to indicate that not alone Emotion, which is rooted in our hearts, But reason, too, the person's whole intent, Must give endurance to the plighted word. Emotion's tide is swift of change as time; That which is pondered, has abiding strength.

QUEEN (offering him her right hand).

That too! Myself entire!

KING. Trembleth thy hand!

(Dropping her hand.)

O noble wife, I would not treat thee ill. Believe not that, because I speak less mild, I know less well how great has been my fault, Nor honor less the kindness of thy heart.

QUEEN. 'Tis easy to forgive; to comprehend Is much more difficult. How it could be, I understand it not!

KING. My wife and queen, We lived as children till but recently. As such our hands were joined in marriage vows, And then as guileless children lived we on. But children grow, with the increase of years, And ev'ry stage of our development By some discomfort doth proclaim itself. Often it is a sickness, warning us That we are diff'rent—other, though the same, And other things are fitting in the same. So is it with our inmost soul as well— It stretches out, a wider orbit gains, Described about the selfsame centre still. Such sickness have we, then, but now passed through; And saying we, I mean that thou as well Art not a stranger to such inner growth. Let's not, unheeding, pass the warning by! In future let us live as kings should live— For kings we are. Nor let us shut ourselves From out this world, and all that's good and great; And like the bees which, at each close of day, Return unto their hives with lading sweet, So much the richer by their daily gain, We'll find within the circle of our home, Through hours of deprivation, added sweets.

QUEEN. If thou desirest, yes; for me, I miss them not.

KING. But thou wilt miss them then in retrospect, When thou hast that whereby one judges worth. But let us now forget what's past and gone! I like it not, when starting on a course, By any hindrance thus to bar the way With rubbish from an earlier estate. I do absolve myself from all my sins. Thou hast no need—thou, in thy purity!

QUEEN. Not so! Not so! My husband, if thou knew'st What black and mischief-bringing thoughts have found Their way into my sad and trembling heart!

KING. Perhaps of vengeance? Why, so much the better! Thou feel'st the human duty to forgive, And know'st that e'en the best of us may err. We will not punish, nor avenge ourselves; For she, believe me, she is guiltless quite, As common grossness or vain weakness is, Which merely struggles not, but limply yields. I only bear the guilt, myself alone.

QUEEN. Let me believe what keeps and comforts me The Moorish folk, and all that like them are, Do practise secret and nefarious arts, With pictures, signs and sayings, evil draughts, Which turn a mortal's heart within his breast, And make his will obedient to their own.

KING. Magic devices round about us are, But we are the magicians, we ourselves. That which is far removed, a thought brings near; What we have scorned, another time seems fair; And in this world so full of miracles, We are the greatest miracle ourselves!

QUEEN. She has thy picture!

KING. And she shall return 't, In full view I shall nail it to the wall, And for my children's children write beneath: A King, who, not so evil in himself, Hath once forgot his office and his duty. Thank God that he did find himself again.

QUEEN. But thou, thyself, dost wear about thy neck—

KING. Oh yes! Her picture? So you knew that, too?

[He takes the picture with the chain from his neck, and lays it on the table in the foreground to the right.]

So then I lay it down, and may it lie— A bolt not harmful, now the thunder's past. The girl herself—let her be ta'en away! She then may have a man from out her race—

[Walking fitfully back and forth from the rear to the front of the stage, and stopping short now and then.]

But no, not that!—The women of this race Are passable, good even, but the men With dirty hands and narrow greed of gain— This girl shall not be touched by such a one. Indeed, she has to better ones belonged. But then, what's that to me?—If thus or thus, If near or far—they may look after that!

QUEEN. Wilt thou, then, Don Alfonso, stay thus strong?

KING (standing still).

Forsooth, thou ne'er hast known or seen this girl! Take all the faults that on this broad earth dwell, Folly and vanity, and weakness, too, Cunning and boldness, coquetry and greed— Put them together and thou hast this woman; And if, enigma thou, not magic art, Shouldst call her power to charm me, I'll agree, And were ashamed, were't not but natural, too!

QUEEN (walks up and down).

Believe me, husband, 'twas not natural!

KING (standing still).

Magic there is, in truth. Its name is custom, Which first not potent, later holds us fast; So that which at the outset shocked, appalled, Sloughs off the first impression of disgust, And grows, a thing continued, to a need— Is this not of our very bodies true? This chain I wore—which now here idly lies, Ta'en off forever—breast and neck alike, To this impression have become so used—

(Shaking himself.)

The empty spaces make me shake with cold. I'll choose myself another chain forthwith; The body jests not when it warning sends. And now enough of this! But that you could Avenge yourselves in blood on this poor fool— That was not well!

(Stepping to the table.)

For do but see these eyes— Yes, see the eyes, the body, neck, and form! God made them verily with master hand; 'Twas she herself the image did distort. Let us revere in her, then, God's own work, And not destroy what he so wisely built.

QUEEN. Oh, touch it not!

KING. This nonsense now again! And if I really take it in my hand,

(He has taken the picture in his hand)

Am I another, then? I wind the chain In jest, to mock you, thus about my neck,

(Doing it.)

The face that 'frights you in my bosom hide— Am I the less Alfonso, who doth see That he has err'd, and who the fault condemns? Then of your nonsense let this be enough!

[He draws away from the table.]

QUEEN. Only—

KING (wildly looking at her).

What is 't?

QUEEN. O God in heav'n!

KING. Be frighted not, good wife! Be sensible! Repeat not evermore the selfsame thing! It doth remind me of the difference.

(Pointing to the table, then to his breast.)

This girl there—no, of course now she is here— If she was foolish, foolish she would be, Nor claimed that she was pious, chaste, and wise. And this is ever virtuous women's way— They reckon always with their virtue thus; If you are sad, with virtue comfort they, If joyous is your mood, virtue again, To take your cheerfulness at last away, And show you as your sole salvation, sin. Virtue's a name for virtues manifold, And diff'rent, as occasion doth demand— It is no empty image without fault, And therefore, too, without all excellence. I will just doff the chain now from my neck, For it reminds me— And, then, Leonore, That with the vassals thou didst join thyself— That was not well, was neither wise nor just. If thou art angry with me, thou art right; But these men, my dependents, subjects all— What want they, then? Am I a child, a boy, Who not yet knows the compass of his place? They share with me the kingdom's care and toil, And equal care is duty, too, for me. But I the man Alfonso, not the King, Within my house, my person, and my life— Must I accounting render to these men? Not so! And gave I ear but to my wrath, I quickly would return from whence I came, To show that they with neither blame nor praise Shall dare to sit in judgment over me.

[Stepping forward and stamping on the floor.]

And finally this dotard, Don Manrique, If he was once my guardian, is he still?

[DON MANRIQUE appears at the centre door. The QUEEN points to the KING, and wrings her hand. MANRIQUE withdraws with a reassuring gesture.]

KING. Presumes he to his sov'reign to prescribe The rustic precepts of senility? Would he with secret, rash, and desp'rate deed—

(Walking back and forth diagonally across the stage)

I will investigate this case as judge; And if there be a trace here of offense, Of insolent intent or wrongful act, The nearer that the guilty stand to me, The more shall boldness pay the penalty. Not thou, Leonore, no, thou art excused!

[During the last speech, the QUEEN has quietly withdrawn through the door at the right.]

Whither, then, went she? Leave they me alone? Am I a fool within mine own abode?

[He approaches the door at the right.]

I'll go to her—What, is it bolted, barred?

[Bursting open the door with a kick.]

I'll take by storm, then, my domestic bliss.

[He goes in.]

[DON MANRIQUE and GARCERAN appear at the centre door. The latter takes a step across the threshold.]

MANRIQUE. Wilt thou with, us?

GARCERAN. My father!

MANRIQUE. Wilt thou not? The rest are gone—wilt follow them?

GARCERAN. I will.

[They withdraw, the door closes. Pause. The KING returns. In the attitude of one listening intently.]

KING. Listen again!—'Tis nothing, quiet all!— Empty, forlorn, the chambers of the Queen. But, on returning, in the turret room, I heard the noise of carriages and steeds, In rushing gallop, hurrying away. Am I alone? Ramiro! Garceran!

[The page, comes from the door at the right.]

KING. Report! What goes on here?

PAGE. Illustrious Sire, The castle is deserted; you and I Are at this hour its sole inhabitants.

KING. The Queen?

PAGE. The castle in her carriage left.

KING. Back to Toledo then?

PAGE. I know not, Sire. The lords, howe'er—

KING. What lords?

PAGE. Sire, the estates, Who all upon their horses swung themselves; They did not to Toledo take their way— Rather the way which you yourself did come.

KING. What! To Retiro? Ah, now fall the scales From these my seeing and yet blinded eyes! Murder this is. They go to slay her there! My horse! My horse!

PAGE. Your horse, illustrious Sire, Was lame, and, as you know, at your command—

KING. Well, then, another—Garceran's, or yours!

PAGE. They've taken every horse from here away, Perhaps with them, perhaps but driv'n afar; As empty as the castle are the stalls.

KING. They think they will outstrip me. But away! Get me a horse, were't only some old nag; Revenge shall lend him wings, that he may fly. And if 'tis done? Then, God above, then grant That as a man, not as a tyrant, I May punish both the guilty and the guilt. Get me a horse! Else art thou in their league, And payest with thy head, as all shall—

(Standing at the door, with a gesture of violence.)

All!

[He hastens away.]



ACT V

A large room in the castle at Retiro, with one door in the centre and one at each side. Everywhere signs of destruction. In the foreground, at the left, an overturned toilet table with scattered utensils. In the background, at the left, another overturned table; above it a picture half torn from its frame. In the centre of the room, a chair. It is dark. From without, behind the middle wall, the sound of voices, footsteps, and the clatter of weapons, finally, from without—"It is enough! The signal sounds! To horse!" Sounds of voices and footsteps die out. Pause. Then Isaac comes from the door at the right, dragging along a carpet, which is pulled over his head, and which he later drops.

ISAAC. Are they then gone?—I hear no sound.

(Stepping back.)

But yes— No, no, 'tis naught! When they, a robber band, Searched all the castle through, I hid myself, And on the ground all doubled up I lay. This cover here was roof and shield alike. But whither now? Long since I hid full well Here in the garden what I saved and gained; I'll fetch it later when this noise is past.— Where is the door? How shall I save my soul?

ESTHER enters from the door at the left.

ISAAC. Who's there? Woe's me!

ESTHER. Is't thou?

ISAAC. Is't thou, then, Rachel?

ESTHER. What mean'st thou? Rachel? Only Esther, I!

ISAAC. Only, thou say'st? Thou art my only child— Only, because the best.

ESTHER. Nay, rather say, The best because the only. Aged man, Dost thou, then, nothing know of this attack, Nor upon whom they meant to vent their wrath?

ISAAC. I do not know, nor do I wish to know, For has not Rachel flown, to safety gone? Oh, she is clever, she!—God of my fathers! Why dost thou try me—me, a poor old man, And speak to me from out my children's mouths? But I believe it not! 'Tis false! No, no!

[He sinks down beside the chair in the centre, leaning his head against it.]

ESTHER. So then be strong through coward fearsomeness. Yet call I others what I was myself. For when their coming roused me from my sleep, And I went hurrying to my sister's aid, Into the last, remote, and inmost room, One of them seizes me with powerful hand, And hurls me to the ground. And coward, I, I fall a-swooning, when I should have stood And offered up my life to save my sister, Or, at the very least, have died with her! When I awoke, the deed was done, and vain My wild attempt to bring her back to life. Then could I weep, then could I tear my hair; That is, indeed, true cowardice, a woman's.

ISAAC. They tell me this and that. But 'tis not true!

ESTHER. Lend me thy chair to sit upon, old man!

[She pulls the chair forward.]

My limbs grow weak and tremble under me. Here will I sit and here will I keep watch.

[She sits down.]

Mayhap that one will think it worth his while To burn the stubble, now the harvest's o'er, And will return and kill what still is left.

ISAAC (from the floor).

Not me! Not me!—Some one is coming. Hark! No, many come!—Save me—I flee to thee!

[He runs to her chair, and cowers on the floor.]

ESTHER. I like a mother will protect thee now, The second childhood of the gray old man. And, if death comes, then childless shalt thou die— I following Rachel in advance of thee!

The KING appears at the centre door, with his page, who carries a torch.

KING. Shall I go farther, or content myself With what I know, though still it is unseen? This castle all a-wreck, laid bare and waste, Shrieking from ev'ry corner cries to me It is too late, the horror has been done! And thou the blame must bear, cursed dallier, If not, forsooth, a party to the deed! But no, thou weepst, and tears no lies can tell. Behold, I also weep, I weep for rage, From hot and unslaked passion for revenge! Come, here's a ring to set your torch within. Go to the town, assemble all the folk, And bid them straight unto this castle come With arms, as chance may put within their reach; And I, when morning comes, with written word, Will bring the people here, at my command— Children of toil and hard endeavor, they, As an avenger at their head I'll go, And break down all the strongholds of the great, Who, half as servants, half again as lords, Serve but themselves and overrule their master. Ruler and ruled, thus shall it be, and I, Avenging, will wipe out that hybrid throng, So proud of blood, or flowing in their veins, Or dripping on their swords from others' wounds. Thy light here leave and go! I'll stay alone And hatch the progeny of my revenge.

[The servant puts his torch into the ring beside the door and withdraws.]

KING (taking a step forward).

What moves there? Can it be there still is life? Give answer!

ISAAC. Gracious Lord ill-doer, O, O, spare us, good assassin!

KING. You, old man? Remind me not that Rachel was your child; It would deface her image in my soul. And thou—art thou not Esther?

ESTHER. Sire, I am.

KING. And is it done?

ESTHER. It is.

KING. I knew it well, Since I the castle entered. So, no plaints! For know, the cup is full; an added drop Would overflow, make weak the poisonous draught. While she still lived I was resolved to leave her, Now dead, she ne'er shall leave my side again; And this her picture, here upon my breast, Will 'grave its image there, strike root within— For was not mine the hand that murdered her? Had she not come to me, she still would play, A happy child, a joy to look upon. Perhaps—but no, not that! No, no, I say! No other man should ever touch her hand, No other lips approach her rosy mouth, No shameless arm—she to the King belonged, Though now unseen, she still would be my own. To royal might belongs such might of charms!

ISAAC. Speaks he of Rachel?

ESTHER. Of thy daughter, yes. Though grief increase the value of the loss, Yet must I say: Too high you rate her worth.

KING. Think'st thou? I tell thee, naught but shadows we— I, thou, and others of the common crowd; For if thou'rt good, why then, thou'rt learned it so; If I am honest, I but saw naught else; Those others, if they murder,—as they do— Well, so their fathers did, came time and need! The world is but one great reechoing, And all its harvest is but seed from seed. But she was truth itself, ev'n though deformed, And all she did proceeded from herself, A-sudden, unexpected, and unlearned. Since her I saw I felt myself alive, And to the dreary sameness of my life 'Twas only she gave character and form. They tell that in Arab desert wastes The wand'rer, long tormented in the sands, Long tortured with the sun's relentless glare, Some time may find a blooming island's green, Surrounded by the surge of arid waves; There flowers bloom, there trees bestow their shade, The breath of herbs mounts soothing in the breeze And forms a second heav'n, arched 'neath the first. Forsooth the serpent coils among the brush; A famished beast, tormented by like thirst, Perchance comes, too, to slake it at this spring; Yet, tired and worn, the wand'rer doth rejoice, Sucks in with greedy lips the cooling draught, And sinks down in the rank luxuriant growth. Luxuriant growth! In faith! I'll see her now— See once again that proud and beauteous form, That mouth which drew in breath and breathed out life, And which, now silenced ever, evermore, Accuses me of guarding her so ill.

ESTHER. Go not, O Sire! Now that the deed is done, Let it be done. The mourning be for us! Estrange thyself not from thy people, Sire.

KING. Think'st thou? The King I am—thou know'st full well. She suffered outrage, but myself no less. Justice, and punishment of ev'ry wrong I swore upon my coronation day, And I will keep my oath until the death. To do this, I must make me strong and hard, For to my anger they will sure oppose All that the human breast holds high and dear— Mem'ries from out my boyhood's early days, My manhood's first sweet taste of woman's love, Friendship and gratitude and mercy, too; My whole life, roughly bundled into one, Will stand, as 'twere against me, fully armed, And challenge me to combat with myself. I, therefore, from myself must first take leave. Her image, as I see it here and there, On every wall, in this and every corner Shows her to me but in her early bloom, With all her weaknesses, with all her charm. I'll see her now, mistreated, wounded, torn; Will lose myself in horror at the sight, Compare each bloody mark upon her form With this, her image, here upon my breast. And learn to deal with monsters, like to like.

(As ESTHER has risen.)

Speak not a word to me! I will! This torch Shall, like myself, inflamed, illume the way; Gleaming, because destructive and destroyed. She is in yonder last and inmost room, Where I so oft—

ESTHER. She was, and there remains.

KING (has seized the torch).

Methinks 'tis blood I see upon my way. It is the way to blood. O fearful night!

[He goes out at the side door to the left.]

ISAAC. We're in the dark.

ESTHER. Yes, dark is round about, And round about the horror's horrid night. But daylight comes apace. So let me try If I can thither bear my weary limbs.

[She goes to the window, and draws the curtain.]

The day already dawns, its pallid gleam Shudders to see the terrors wrought this night— The difference 'twixt yesterday and now.

(Pointing to the scattered jewels on the floor.)

There, there it lies, our fortune's scattered ruin— The tawdry baubles, for the sake of which We, we—not he who takes the blame—but we A sister sacrificed, thy foolish child! Yea, all that comes is right. Whoe'er complains, Accuses his own folly and himself.

ISAAC (who has seated himself on the chair).

Here will I sit. Now that the King is here I fear them not, nor all that yet may come.

The centre door opens. Enter MANRIQUE, and GARCERAN, behind them the QUEEN, leading her child by the hand, and other nobles.

MANRIQUE. Come, enter here, arrange yourselves the while. We have offended 'gainst his Majesty, Seeking the good, but not within the law. We will not try now to evade the law.

ESTHER (on the other side, raising the overturned table with a quick movement).

Order thyself, disorder! Lest they think That we are terrified, or cowards prove.

QUEEN. Here are those others, here.

MANRIQUE. Nay, let them be! What mayhap threatens us, struck them ere now. I beg you, stand you here, in rank and file.

QUEEN. Let me come first, I am the guiltiest!

MANRIQUE. Not so. O Queen. Thou spak'st the word, 'tis true, But when it came to action thou didst quake, Oppose the deed, and mercy urge instead, Although in vain; for need became our law. Nor would I wish the King's first burst of rage To strike the mighty heads we most revere As being next to him, the Kingdom's hope. I did the deed, not with this hand, forsooth— With counsel, and with pity, deep and dread! The first place, then, is mine. And thou, my son— Hast thou the heart to answer like a man For that which at the least thou hinder'dst not, So that thy earnest wish to make amends And thy return have tangled thee in guilt?

GARCERAN. Behold me ready! To your side I come! And may the King's first fury fall on me!

ESTHER (calling across).

You there, although all murderers alike, Deserving every punishment and death— Enough of mischief is already done, Nor would I wish the horrors yet increased! Within, beside my sister, is the King; Enraged before he went, the sight of her Will but inflame his passionate ire anew. I pity, too, that woman and her child, Half innocent, half guilty—only half. So go while yet there's time, and do not meet Th' avenger still too hot to act as judge.

MANRIQUE. Woman, we're Christians!

ESTHER. You have shown you are. Commend me to the Jewess, O my God!

MANRIQUE. Prepared as Christians, too, to expiate In meek submission all of our misdeeds. Lay off your swords. Here now is first my own! To be in armor augurs of defense. Our very number makes submission less. Divide we up the guilt each bears entire.

[All have laid their swords on the floor before MANRIQUE.]

So let us wait. Or rather, let one go To urge upon the King most speedily, The country's need demands, this way or that, That he compose himself; and though it were Repenting a rash deed against ourselves! Go thou, my son!

GARCERAN (turning around after having taken several steps).

Behold, the King himself!

[The KING rushes out of the apartment at the side. After taking a few steps, he turns about and stares fixedly at the door.]

QUEEN. O God in Heaven!

MANRIQUE. Queen, I pray be calm!

[The KING goes toward the front. He stops, with arms folded, before old ISAAC, who lies back as if asleep, in the armchair. Then he goes forward.]

ESTHER (to her father).

Behold thy foes are trembling! Art thou glad? Not I. For Rachel wakes not from the dead.

[The KING, in the front, gazes at his hands, and rubs them, as though washing them, one over the other. Then the same motion over his body. At last he feels his throat, moving his hands around it. In this last position, with his hands at his throat, he remains motionless, staring fixedly before him.]

MANRIQUE. Most noble Prince and King. Most gracious Sire!

KING (starting violently).

Ye here? 'Tis good ye come! I sought for you— And all of you. Ye spare me further search.

[He steps before them, measuring them with angry glances.]

MANRIQUE (pointing to the weapons lying on the floor).

We have disarmed ourselves, laid down our swords.

KING. I see the swords. Come ye to slay me, then? I pray, complete your work. Here is my breast!

[He opens his robe.]

QUEEN. He has't no more!

KING. How mean you, lady fair?

QUEEN. Gone is the evil picture from his neck.

KING. I'll fetch it, then.

[He takes a few steps toward the door at the side, and then stands still.]

QUEEN. O God, this madness still!

MANRIQUE. We know full well, how much we, Sire, have erred— Most greatly, that we did not leave to thee And thine own honor thy return to self! But, Sire, the time more pressing was than we. The country trembled, and at all frontiers The foemen challenged us to ward our land.

KING. And foemen must be punished—is't not so? Ye warn me rightly; I am in their midst. Ho, Garceran!

GARCERAN. Thou meanest me, O Sire?

KING. Yea, I mean thee! Though me thou hast betrayed, Thou wert my friend. Come to me then, I say, And tell me what thou think'st of her within! Her—whom thou help'dst to slay—of that anon. What thoughtst thou of her while she still did live?

GARCERAN. O Sire, I thought her fair.

KING. What more was she?

GARCERAN. But wanton, too, and light, with evil wiles.

KING. And that thou hidst from me while still was time?

GARCERAN. I said it, Sire!

KING. And I believed it not? How came that? Pray, say on!

GARCERAN. My Sire—the Queen, She thinks 'twas magic.

KING. Superstition, bah! Which fools itself with idle make-believe.

GARCERAN. In part, again, it was but natural.

KING. That only which is right is natural. And was I not a king, both just and mild— The people's idol and the nobles', too? Not empty-minded, no, and, sure, not blind! I say, she was not fair!

GARCERAN. How meanest, Sire?

KING. An evil line on cheek and chin and mouth. A lurking something in that fiery glance Envenom'd and disfigured all her charm. But erst I've gazed upon it and compared. When there I entered in to fire my rage, Half fearsome of the mounting of my ire, It happened otherwise than I had thought. Instead of wanton pictures from the past, Before my eyes came people, wife, and child. With that her face seemed to distort itself, The arms to rise, to grasp me, and to hold. I cast her likeness from me in the tomb And now am here, and shudder, as thou seest.

But go thou now! For, hast thou not betrayed me? Almost I rue that I must punish you. Go thither to thy father and those others— Make no distinction, ye are guilty, all.

MANRIQUE (with a strong voice).

And thou?

KING (after a pause).

The man is right; I'm guilty, too. But what is my poor land, and what the world, If none are pure, if malefactors all! Nay, here's my son. Step thou within our midst! Thou shalt be guardian spirit of this land; Perhaps a higher judge may then forgive. Come, Dona Clara, lead him by the hand! Benignant fortune hath vouchsafed to thee In native freedom to pursue thy course Until this hour; thou, then, dost well deserve To guide the steps of innocence to us. But hold! Here is the mother. What she did, She did it for her child. She is forgiv'n!

[As the QUEEN steps forward and bends her knee.]

Madonna, wouldst thou punish me? Wouldst show The attitude most seeming me toward thee? Castilians all, behold! Here is your King, And here is she, the regent in his stead! I am a mere lieutenant for my son. For as the pilgrims, wearing, all, the cross For penance journey to Jerusalem, So will I, conscious of my grievous stain, Lead you against these foes of other faith Who at the bound'ry line, from Africa, My people threaten and my peaceful land. If I return, and victor, with God's grace, Then shall ye say if I am worthy still To guard the law offended by myself. This punishment be yours as well as mine, For all of you shall follow me, and first, Into the thickest squadrons of the foe. And he who falls does penance for us all. Thus do I punish you and me! My son Here place upon a shield, like to a throne, For he today is King of this our land. So banded, then, let's go before the folk.

[A shield has been brought.]

You women, each do give the child a hand. Slipp'ry his first throne, and the second too! Thou, Garceran, do thou stay at my side, For equal wantonness we must atone— So let us fight as though our strength were one. And hast thou purged thyself of guilt, as I, Perhaps that quiet, chaste, and modest maid Will hold thee not unworthy of her hand! Thou shalt improve him, Dona Clara, but Let not thy virtue win his mere respect, But lend it charm, as well. That shields from much.

[Trumpets in the distance.]

Hear yet They call us. Those whom I did bid To help against you, they are ready all To help against the common enemy, The dreaded Moor who threats our boundaries, And whom I will send back with shame and wounds Into the and desert he calls home, So that our native land be free from ill, Well-guarded from within and from without. On, on! Away! God grant, to victory!

[The procession has already formed. First, some vassals, then the shield with the child, whom the women hold by both hands, then the rest of the men. Lastly, the KING, leaning in a trustful manner on GARCERAN.]

ESTHER (turning to her father).

Seest thou, they are already glad and gay; Already plan for future marriages! They are the great ones, for th' atonement feast They've slain as sacrifice a little one, And give each other now their bloody hands.

[Stepping to the centre.]

But this I say to thee, thou haughty King, Go, go, in all thy grand forgetfulness! Thou deem'st thou'rt free now from my sister's power, Because the prick of its impression's dulled, And thou didst from thee cast what once enticed. But in the battle, when thy wavering ranks Are shaken by thy en'mies' greater might, And but a pure, and strong, and guiltless heart Is equal to the danger and its threat; When thou dost gaze upon deaf heav'n above, Then will the victim, sacrificed to thee, Appear before thy quailing, trembling soul— Not in luxuriant fairness that enticed, But changed, distorted, as she pleased thee not— Then, pentinent, perchance, thou'lt beat thy breast, And think upon the Jewess of Toledo!

(Seizing her father by the shoulder.)

Come, father, come! A task awaits us there.

[Pointing to the side door.]

ISAAC (as though waking from sleep). But first I'll seek my gold!

ESTHER. Think'st still of that In sight of all this misery and woe! Then I unsay the curse which I have spoke, Then thou art guilty, too, and I—and she! We stand like them within the sinners' row; Pardon we, then, that God may pardon us!

[With arms outstretched toward the side door.]

CURTAIN



THE POOR MUSICIAN (1848) BY FRANZ GRILLPARZER

TRANSLATED BY ALFRED REMY, A.M.

Professor of Modern Languages, Brooklyn Commercial High School

In Vienna the Sunday after the full moon in the month of July of every year is, together with the following day, a real festival of the people, if ever a festival deserved the name. The people themselves attend and arrange it; and if representatives of the upper classes appear on this occasion, they may do so only in their capacity as members of the populace. There is no possibility of class discrimination; at least there was none some years ago.

On this day the Brigittenau,[62] which with the Augarten, the Leopoldstadt and the Prater, forms one uninterrupted popular pleasure-ground, celebrates its kermis. The working people reckon their good times from one St. Bridget's kermis to the next. Anticipated with eager expectation, the Saturnalian festival at last arrives. Then there is great excitement in the good-natured, quiet town. A surging crowd fills the streets. There is the clatter of footsteps and the buzz of conversation, above which rises now and then some loud exclamation. All class distinctions have disappeared; civilian and soldier share in the commotion. At the gates of the city the crowd increases. Gained, lost, and regained, the exit is forced at last. But the bridge across the Danube presents new difficulties. Victorious here also, two streams finally roll along: the old river Danube and the swollen tide of people crossing each other, one below, the other above, the former following its old bed, the latter, freed from the narrow confines of the bridge, resembling a wide, turbulent lake, overflowing and inundating everything. A stranger might consider the symptoms alarming. But it is a riot of joy, a revelry of pleasure.

Even in the space between the city and the bridge wicker-carriages are lined up for the real celebrants of this festival, the children of servitude and toil. Although overloaded, these carriages race at a gallop through the mass of humanity, which in the nick of time opens a passage for them and immediately closes in again behind them. No one is alarmed, no one is injured, for in Vienna a silent agreement exists between vehicles and people, the former promising not to run anybody over, even when going at full speed; the latter resolving not to be run over, even though neglecting all precaution.

Every second the distance between the carriages diminishes. Occasionally more fashionable equipages mingle in the oft-interrupted procession. The carriages no longer dash along. Finally, about five or six hours before dark, the individual horses and carriages condense into a compact line, which, arresting itself and arrested by new vehicles from every side street, obviously belies the truth of the old proverb: "It is better to ride in a poor carriage than to go on foot." Stared at, pitied, mocked, the richly dressed ladies sit in their carriages, which are apparently standing still. Unaccustomed to constant stopping, the black Holstein steed rears, as if intending to jump straight up over the wicker-carriage blocking its way, a thing the screaming women and children in the plebeian vehicle evidently seem to fear. The cabby, so accustomed to rapid driving and now balked for the first time, angrily counts up the loss he suffers in being obliged to spend three hours traversing a distance which under ordinary conditions he could cover in five minutes. Quarreling and shouting are heard, insults pass back and forth between the drivers, and now and then blows with the whip are exchanged.

Finally, since in this world all standing still, however persistent, is after all merely an imperceptible advancing, a ray of hope appears even in this status quo. The first trees of the Augarten and the Brigittenau come into view. The country! The country! All troubles are forgotten. Those who have come in vehicles alight and mingle with the pedestrians; strains of distant dance-music are wafted across the intervening space and are answered by the joyous shouts of the new arrivals. And thus it goes on and on, until at last the broad haven of pleasure opens up and grove and meadow, music and dancing, drinking and eating, magic lantern shows and tight-rope dancing, illumination and fireworks, combine to produce a pays de cocagne, an El Dorado, a veritable paradise, which fortunately or unfortunately—take it as you will—lasts only this day and the next, to vanish like the dream of a summer night, remaining only as a memory, or, possibly, as a hope.

I never miss this festival if I can help it. To me, as a passionate lover of mankind, especially of the common people, and more especially so when, united into a mass, the individuals forget for a time their own private ends and consider themselves part of a whole, in which there is, after all, the spirit of divinity, nay, God Himself—to me every popular festival is a real soul-festival, a pilgrimage, an act of devotion. Even in my capacity as dramatic poet, I always find the spontaneous outburst of an overcrowded theatre ten times more interesting, even more instructive, than the sophisticated judgment of some literary matador, who is crippled in body and soul and swollen up, spider-like, with the blood of authors whom he has sucked dry. As from a huge open volume of Plutarch, which has escaped from the covers of the printed page, I read the biographies of these obscure beings in their merry or secretly troubled faces, in their elastic or weary step, in the attitude shown by members of the same family toward one another, in detached, half involuntary remarks. And, indeed, one can not understand famous men unless one has sympathized with the obscure! From the quarrels of drunken pushcart-men to the discords of the sons of the gods there runs an invisible, yet unbroken, thread, just as the young servant-girl, who, half against her will, follows her insistent lover away from the crowd of dancers, may be an embryo Juliet, Dido, or Medea.

Two years ago, as usual, I had mingled as a pedestrian with the pleasure-seeking visitors of the kermis. The chief difficulties of the trip had been overcome, and I found myself at the end of the Augarten with the longed-for Brigittenau lying directly before me. Only one more difficulty remained to be overcome. A narrow causeway running between impenetrable hedges forms the only connection between the two pleasure resorts, the joint boundary of which is indicated by a wooden trellised gate in the centre. On ordinary days and for ordinary pedestrians this connecting passage affords more than ample space. But on kermis-day its width, even if quadrupled, would still be too narrow for the endless crowd which, in surging forward impetuously, is jostled by those bound in the opposite direction and manages to get along only by reason of the general good nature displayed by the merry-makers.

I was drifting with the current and found myself in the centre of the causeway upon classical ground, although I was constantly obliged to stand still, turn aside, and wait. Thus I had abundant time for observing what was going on at the sides of the road. In order that the pleasure-seeking multitude might not lack a foretaste of the happiness in store for them, several musicians had taken up their positions on the left-hand slope of the raised causeway. Probably fearing the intense competition, these musicians intended to garner at the propylaea the first fruits of the liberality which had here not yet spent itself. There were a girl harpist with repulsive, staring eyes; an old invalid with a wooden leg, who, on a dreadful, evidently home-made instrument, half dulcimer, half barrel-organ, was endeavoring by means of analogy to arouse the pity of the public for his painful injury; a lame, deformed boy, forming with his violin one single, indistinguishable mass, was playing endless waltzes with all the hectic violence of his misshapen breast; and finally an old man, easily seventy years of age, in a threadbare but clean woolen overcoat, who wore a smiling, self-satisfied expression. This old man attracted my entire attention. He stood there bareheaded and baldheaded, his hat as a collection-box before him on the ground, after the manner of these people. He was belaboring an old, much-cracked violin, beating time not only by raising and lowering his foot, but also by a corresponding movement of his entire bent body. But all his efforts to bring uniformity into his performance were fruitless, for what he was playing seemed to be an incoherent succession of tones without time or melody. Yet he was completely absorbed in his work; his lips quivered, and his eyes were fixed upon the sheet of music before him, for he actually had notes! While all the other musicians, whose playing pleased the crowd infinitely better, were relying on their memories, the old man had placed before him in the midst of the surging crowd a small, easily portable music-stand, with dirty, tattered notes, which probably contained in perfect order what he was playing so incoherently. It was precisely the novelty of this equipment that had attracted my attention to him, just as it excited the merriment of the passing throng, who jeered him and left the hat of the old man empty, while the rest of the orchestra pocketed whole copper mines. In order to observe this odd character at my leisure, I had stepped, at some distance from him, upon the slope at the side of the causeway. For a while he continued playing. Finally he stopped, and, as if recovering himself after a long spell of absent-mindedness, he gazed at the firmament, which already began to show traces of approaching evening. Then he looked down into his hat, found it empty, put it on with undisturbed cheerfulness, and placed his bow between the strings. "Sunt certi denique fines" (there is a limit to everything), he said, took his music-stand, and, as though homeward bound, fought his way with difficulty through the crowd streaming in the opposite direction toward the festival.

The whole personality of the old man was specially calculated to whet my anthropological appetite to the utmost—his poorly clad, yet noble figure, his unfailing cheerfulness, so much artistic zeal combined with such awkwardness, the fact that he returned home just at the time when for others of his ilk the real harvest was only beginning, and, finally, the few Latin words, spoken, however, with the most correct accent and with absolute fluency. The man had evidently received a good education and had acquired some knowledge, and here he was—a street-musician! I was burning with curiosity to learn his history.

But a compact wall of humanity already separated us. Small as he was, and getting in everybody's way with the music-stand in his hand, he was shoved from one to another and had passed through the exit-gate while I was still struggling in the centre of the causeway against the opposing crowd. Thus I lost track of him; and when at last I had reached the quiet, open space, there was no musician to be seen far or near.

This fruitless adventure had spoiled all my enjoyment of the popular festival. I wandered through the Augarten in all directions, and finally decided to go home. As I neared the little gate that leads out of the Augarten into Tabor Street, I suddenly heard the familiar sound of the old violin. I accelerated my steps, and, behold! there stood the object of my curiosity, playing with all his might, surrounded by several boys who impatiently demanded a waltz from him. "Play a waltz," they cried; "a waltz, don't you hear?" The old man kept on fiddling, apparently paying no attention to them, until his small audience, reviling and mocking him, left him and gathered around an organ-grinder who had taken up his position near by.

"They don't want to dance," said the old man sadly, and gathered up his musical outfit. I had stepped up quite close to him. "The children do not know any dance but the waltz," I said.

"I was playing a waltz," he replied, indicating with his bow the notes of the piece he had just been playing. "You have to play things like that for the crowd. But the children have no ear for music," he said, shaking his head mournfully.

"At least permit me to atone for their ingratitude," I said, taking a silver coin out of my pocket and offering it to him.

"Please, don't," cried the old man, at the same time warding me off anxiously with both hands—"into the hat, into the hat." I dropped the coin into his hat, which was lying in front of him. The old man immediately took it out and put it into his pocket, quite satisfied. "That's what I call going home for once with a rich harvest," he said chuckling.

"You just remind me of a circumstance," I said, "which excited my curiosity before. It seems your earnings today have not been particularly satisfactory, and yet you retire at the very moment when the real harvest is beginning. The festival, as you no doubt know, lasts the whole night, and you might easily earn more in this one night than in an entire week ordinarily. How am I to account for this?"

"How are you to account for this?" replied the old man. "Pardon me, I do not know who you are, but you must be a generous man and a lover of music." With these words he took the silver coin out of his pocket once more and pressed it between his hands, which he raised to his heart.

"I shall therefore tell you the reasons, although I have often been ridiculed for them. In the first place, I have never been a night-reveler, and I do not consider it right to incite others to such a disgusting procedure by means of playing and singing. Secondly, a man ought to establish for himself a certain order in all things, otherwise he'll run wild and there's no stopping him. Thirdly, and finally, sir, I play for the noisy throng all day long and scarcely earn a bare living. But the evening belongs to me and to my poor art. In the evening I stay at home, and"—at these words he lowered his voice, a blush overspread his countenance and his eyes sought the ground—"then I play to myself as fancy dictates, without notes. I believe the text-books on music call it improvising."

We had both grown silent, he from confusion, because he had betrayed the innermost secret of his heart, I from astonishment at hearing a man speak of the highest spheres of art who was not capable of rendering even the simplest waltz in intelligible fashion. Meanwhile he was preparing to depart. "Where do you live?" I inquired. "I should like to attend your solitary practising some day."

"Oh," he replied, almost imploringly, "you must know that prayers should be said in private!"

"Then I'll visit you in the daytime," I said.

"In the daytime," he replied, "I earn my living among the people."

"Well, then, some morning early."

"It almost looks," the old man said smiling, "as though you, my dear sir, were the recipient, and I, if I may be permitted to say so, the benefactor; you are so kind, and I reject your advances so ungraciously. Your distinguished visit will always confer honor on my dwelling. Only I should like to ask you to be so very kind as to notify me beforehand of the day of your coming, in order that you may not be unduly delayed nor I be compelled to interrupt unceremoniously some business in which I may be engaged at the time. For my mornings are also devoted to a definite purpose. At any rate, I consider it my duty to my patrons and benefactors to offer something not entirely unworthy in return for their gifts. I have no desire to be a beggar, sir; I am very well aware of the fact that the other street musicians are satisfied to reel off a few street ditties, German waltzes, even melodies of indecent songs, all of which they have memorized. These they repeat incessantly, so that the public pays them either in order to get rid of them, or because their playing revives the memory of former joys of dancing or of other disorderly amusements. For this reason such musicians play from memory, and sometimes, in fact quite frequently, strike the wrong note. But far be it from me to deceive. Partly, therefore, because my memory is not of the best, partly because it might be difficult for any one to retain in his memory, note for note, complicated compositions of esteemed composers, I have made a clear copy for myself in these note-books." With these words he showed me the pages of his music-book. To my amazement I saw in a careful, but awkward and stiff handwriting, extremely difficult compositions by famous old masters, quite black with passage-work and double-stopping. And these selections the old man played with his clumsy fingers! "In playing these pieces," he continued, "I show my veneration for these esteemed, long since departed masters and composers, satisfy my own artistic instincts, and live in the pleasant hope that, in return for the alms so generously bestowed upon me, I may succeed in improving the taste and hearts of an audience distracted and misled on many sides. But since music of this character—to return to my subject"—and at these words a self-satisfied smile lighted up his features—"since music of this kind requires practice, my morning hours are devoted exclusively to this exercise. The first three hours of the day for practice, the middle of the day for earning my living, the evening for myself and God; that is not an unfair division," he said, and at the same time something moist glistened in his eyes; but he was smiling.

"Very well, then," I said, "I shall surprise you some morning. Where do you live?" He mentioned Gardener's Lane.

"What number?

"Number 34, one flight up."

"Well, well," I cried, "on the fashionable floor."

"The house," he said, "consists in reality only of a ground floor. But upstairs, next to the garret, there is a small room which I occupy in company with two journeymen."

"A single room for three people?"

"It is divided into two parts," he answered, "and I have my own bed."

"It is getting late," I said, "and you must be anxious to get home. Auf Wiedersehen!"

At the same time I put my hand in my pocket with the intention of doubling the trifling amount I had given him before. But he had already taken up his music-stand with one hand and his violin with the other, and cried hurriedly, "I humbly ask you to refrain. I have already received ample remuneration for my playing, and I am not aware of having earned any other reward." Saying this he made me a rather awkward bow with an approach to elegant ease, and departed as quickly as his old legs could carry him.

As I said before, I had lost for this day all desire of participating further in the festival. Consequently I turned homeward, taking the road leading to the Leopoldstadt. Tired out from the dust and heat, I entered one of the many beer-gardens, which, while overcrowded on ordinary days, had today given up all their customers to the Brigittenau. The stillness of the place, in contradistinction to the noisy crowd, did me good. I gave myself up to my thoughts, in which the old musician had a considerable share. Night had come before I thought at last of going home. I laid the amount of my bill upon the table and walked toward the city.

The old man had said that he lived in Gardener's Lane. "Is Gardener's Lane near-by?" I asked a smell boy who was running across the road. "Over there, sir," he replied, pointing to a side street that ran from the mass of houses of the suburb out into the open fields. I followed the direction indicated. The street consisted of some scattered houses, which, separated by large vegetable gardens, plainly indicated the occupation of the inhabitants and the origin of the name Gardener's Lane. I was wondering in which of these miserable huts my odd friend might live. I had completely forgotten the number; moreover it was impossible to make out any signs in the darkness. At that moment a man carrying a heavy load of vegetables passed me. "The old fellow is scraping his fiddle again," he grumbled, "and disturbing decent people in their night's rest." At the same time, as I went on, the soft, sustained tone of a violin struck my ear. It seemed to come from the open attic window of a hovel a short distance away, which, being low and without an upper story like the rest of the houses, attracted attention on account of this attic window in the gabled roof. I stood still. A soft distinct note increased to loudness, diminished, died out, only to rise again immediately to penetrating shrillness. It was always the same tone repeated as if the player dwelt upon it with pleasure. At last an interval followed; it was the chord of the fourth. While the player had before reveled in the sound of the single note, now his voluptuous enjoyment of this harmonic relation was very much more susceptible. His fingers moved by fits and starts, as did his bow. Through the intervening intervals he passed most unevenly, emphasizing and repeating the third. Then he added the fifth, now with a trembling sound like silent weeping, sustained, vanishing; now constantly repeated with dizzy speed; always the same intervals, the same tones. And that was what the old man called improvising. It was improvising after all, but from the viewpoint of the player, not from that of the listener.

I do not know how long this may have lasted and how frightful the performance had become, when suddenly the door of the house was opened, and a man, clad only in a shirt and partly buttoned trousers stepped from the threshold into the middle of the street and called up to the attic window—"Are you going to keep on all night again?" The tone of his voice was impatient, but not harsh or insulting. The violin became silent even before the speaker had finished. The man went back into the house, the attic window was closed, and soon perfect and uninterrupted silence reigned. I started for home, experiencing some difficulty in finding my way through the unknown lanes, and, as I walked along, I also improvised mentally, without, however, disturbing any one.

The morning hours have always been of peculiar value to me. It is as though I felt the need of occupying myself with something ennobling, something worth while, in the first hours of the day, thus consecrating the remainder of it, as it were. It is, therefore, only with difficulty that I can make up my mind to leave my room early in the morning, and if ever I force myself to do so without sufficient cause, nothing remains to me for the rest of the day but the choice between idle distraction and morbid introspection. Thus it happened that I put off for several days my visit to the old man, which I had agreed to pay in the morning. At last I could not master my impatience any longer, and went. I had no difficulty in finding Gardener's Lane, nor the house. This time also I heard the tones of the violin, but owing to the closed window they were muffled and scarcely recognizable. I entered the house. A gardener's wife, half speechless with amazement, showed me the steps leading up to the attic. I stood before a low, badly fitting door, knocked, received no answer, finally raised the latch and entered. I found myself in a quite large, but otherwise extremely wretched chamber, the wall of which on all sides followed the outlines of the pointed roof. Close by the door was a dirty bed in loathsome disorder, surrounded by all signs of neglect; opposite me, close beside the narrow window, was a second bed, shabby but clean and most carefully made and covered. Before the window stood a small table with music-paper and writing material, on the windowsill a few flower-pots. The middle of the room from wall to wall was designated along the floor by a heavy chalk line, and it is almost impossible to imagine a more violent contrast between dirt and cleanliness than existed on the two sides of the line, the equator of this little world. The old man had placed his music-stand close to the boundary line and was standing before it practising, completely and carefully dressed. I have already said so much that is jarring about the discords of my favorite—and I almost fear he is mine alone—that I shall spare the reader a description of this infernal concert. As the practice consisted chiefly of passage-work, there was no possibility of recognizing the pieces he was playing, but this might not have been an easy matter even under ordinary circumstances. After listening a while, I finally discovered the thread leading out of this labyrinth—the method in his madness, as it were. The old man enjoyed the music while he was playing. His conception, however, distinguished between only two kinds of effect, euphony and cacophony. Of these the former delighted, even enraptured him, while he avoided the latter, even when harmonically justified, as much as possible. Instead of accenting a composition in accordance with sense and rhythm, he exaggerated and prolonged the notes and intervals that were pleasing to his ear; he did not even hesitate to repeat them arbitrarily, when an expression of ecstasy frequently passed over his face. Since he disposed of the dissonances as rapidly as possible and played the passages that were too difficult for him in a tempo that was too slow compared with the rest of the piece, his conscientiousness not permitting him to omit even a single note, one may easily form an idea of the resulting confusion. After some time, even I couldn't endure it any longer. In order to recall him to the world of reality, I purposely dropped my hat, after I had vainly tried several other means of attracting his attention. The old man started, his knees shook, and he was scarcely able to hold the violin he had lowered to the ground. I stepped up to him. "Oh, it is you, sir," he said, as if coming to himself; "I had not counted on the fulfilment of your kind promise." He forced me to sit down, straightened things up, laid down his violin, looked around the room a few times in embarrassment, then suddenly took up a plate from a table that was standing near the door and went out. I heard him speak with the gardener's wife outside. Soon he came back again rather abashed, concealing the plate behind his back and returning it to its place stealthily. Evidently he had asked for some fruit to offer me, but had not been able to obtain it.

"You live quite comfortably here," I said, in order to put an end to his embarrassment. "Untidiness is not permitted to dwell here. It will retreat through the door, even though at the present moment it hasn't quite passed the threshold."

"My abode reaches only to that line," said the old man, pointing to the chalk-line in the middle of the room. "Beyond it the two journeymen live."

"And do these respect your boundary?"

"They don't, but I do," said he. "Only the door is common property."

"And are you not disturbed by your neighbors?"

"Hardly. They come home late at night, and even if they startle me a little when I'm in bed, the pleasure of going to sleep again is all the greater. But in the morning I awaken them, when I put my room in order. Then they scold a little and go." I had been observing him in the mean time. His clothes were scrupulously clean, his figure was good enough for his years, only his legs were a little too short. His hands and feet were remarkably delicate. "You are looking at me," he said, "and thinking, too."

"I confess that I have some curiosity concerning your past," I replied.

"My past?" he repeated. "I have no past. Today is like yesterday, and tomorrow like today. But the day after tomorrow and beyond—who can know about that? But God will look after me; He knows best."

"Your present mode of life is probably monotonous enough," I continued, "but your past! How did it happen—"

"That I became a street-musician?" he asked, filling in the pause that I had voluntarily made. I now told him how he had attracted my attention the moment I caught sight of him; what an impression he had made upon me by the Latin words he had uttered. "Latin!" he echoed. "Latin! I did learn it once upon a time, or rather, I was to have learned it and might have done so. Loqueris latine?"—he turned to me; "but I couldn't continue; it is too long ago. So that is what you call my past? How it all came about? Well then, all sorts of things have happened, nothing special, but all sorts of things. I should like to hear the story myself again. I wonder whether I haven't forgotten it all. It is still early in the morning," he continued, putting his hand into his vest-pocket, in which, however, there was no watch. I drew out mine; it was barely nine o'clock. "We have time, and I almost feel like talking." Meanwhile he had grown visibly more at ease. His figure became more erect. Without further ceremony he took my hat out of my hand and laid it upon the bed. Then he seated himself, crossed one leg over the other, and assumed the attitude of one who is going to tell a story in comfort.