Vol 26: The Classics

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Vol 26: The Classics

CONTINENTAL DRAMA 

CALDERON • CORNEILLE • RACINE 

MOLIERE • LESSING 

SCHILLER 

WITH INTRODUCTION'S AND NOTES 
VOLUME 26 




P F COLLIER & SOX 
NEW YORK 



Copyright 1910 
By P. F. Collier & Son 

Copyright 1908 
By G. P. Putnam's Sons 



Designed, Frinted, ana Bound at 
3Efje Collier Press, J^cto gork 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

Life is a Dream . . ■ . Pedro Calderox de la Barca 5 
translated by edward fitzgerald 

Polyeucte Pierre Corneille 71 

translated by t. constable 

Phaedra Jean Baptiste Racine 125 

translated by r. b. boswell 

Tartuffe .... Moliere (Jean Baptiste Poquelin) 189 
translated by curtis hidden page 

Minna von Barnhelm . . Gotthold Ephraim Lessing 287 
translated by e. bell 

William Tell, Johann Christoph Friedrich von Schiller 369 
translated by sir theodore martin 



VOL. XXVI — I HC 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE 

The present volume aims to represent, as far as the limits of 
space allow, the chief dramatists of Spain, France, and Germany. 
To the plays included here should be added the "Faust" and 
"Egmont" of Goethe, printed in another volume of this series. 
These eight works, along with the specimens of the Elizabethan 
and Modern English Drama given in the Harvard Classics, in- 
dicate the high-water mark of dramatic production in modern 
times, and afford a basis for comparison with the masterpieces 
of the drama of antiquity as represented in the volume of "Nine 
Greek Dramas." 

Pedro Calderon de la Barca was born in Madrid, January 17, 
1600, of good family. He was educated at the Jesuit College in 
Madrid and at the University of Salamanca ; and a dotibtful 
tradition says that he began to write plays at the age of thirteen. 
His literary activity was interrupted for ten years, 1625-1635, by 
military service in Italy and the Low Countries, and again for a 
year or more in Catalonia. In 1637 he became a Knight of the 
Order of Santiago, and in 1651 he entered the priesthood, rising 
to the dignity of Superior of the Brotherhood of San Pedro in 
Madrid. He held various offices in the court of Philip IV, who 
rewarded his services with pensions, and had his plays produced 
with great splendor. He died May 5, 1681. 

At the time when Calderon began to compose for the stage, the 
Spanish drama was at its height. Lope de Vega, the most prolific 
and, with Calderon, the greatest, of Spanish dramatists, was still 
alive; and by his applause gave encouragement to the beginner 
whose fame was to rival his own. The national type of drama 
which Lope had established was maintained in its essential char- 
acteristics by Calderon, and he produced abundant specimens 
of all its varieties. Of regular plays he has left a hundred and 
twenty; of "Autos Sacramentales," the peculiar Spanish allegori- 
cal development of the medieval mystery, we have seventy-three ; 
besides a considerable number of farces. 

The dominant motives in Calderon's dramas are characteristi- 
cally national: fervid loyalty to Church and King, and a sense of 
honor heightened almost to the point of the fantastic. Though 

3 



4 INTRODUCTION 

his plays are laid in a great variety of scenes and ages, the senti- 
ment and the characters remain essentially Spanish; and this 
intensely local quality has probably lessened the vogue of Cal- 
deron in other countries. In the construction and conduct of his 
plots he showed great skill, yet the ingenuity expended in the 
management of the story did not restrain the fiery emotion and 
opulent imagination which mark his finest speeches and give 
them a lyric quality which some critics regard as his greatest 
distinction. 

Of all Calderon's works, "Life is a Dream" may be regarded 
as the most universal in its theme. It seeks to teach a lesson that 
may be learned from the philosophers and religious thinkers of 
many ages — that the world of our senses is a mere shadow, and 
that the only reality is to be found in the invisible and eternal. 
The story whicli forms its basis is Oriental in origin, and in the 
form of the legend of "Barlaam and Josaphat" was familiar in 
all the literatures of the Middle Ages. Combined with this in 
the plot is the tale of Abou Hassan from the "Arabian Nights," 
the main situations in which are turned to farcical purposes in 
the Induction to the Shakespearean "Taming of the Shrew." But 
with Calderon the theme is lifted altogether out of the atmos- 
phere of comedy, and is worked up with poetic sentiment and a 
touch of mysticism into a symbolic drama of profound and uni- 
versal philosophical significance. 



LIFE IS A DREAM 



DRAMATIS PERSONS 

Basilio . . King of Poland. 

Segismund . . his Son. 

Astolfo . . his Nephew. 

Estrella . . his Niece. 

Clotaldo . . a General in Basilio's Service. 

Rosaura . . a Muscovite Lady. 
Fife . her Attendant. 

Chamberlain, Lords-in-Waiting, Officers, Soldiers, 
etc., in Basilio's Service. 



The Scene of the Urst and third Acts lies on the Polish 
frontier: of the second Act, in Warsaw. 



ACT I 

Scene I. — A pass of rocks, over which a storm is rolling away, ant 
the sun setting: in the foreground, half-way down, a fortress. 

Enter first from the topmost rock Rosaura, as from 
horseback, in man's attire; and, after her, Fife 1 

Rosaura 

THERE, four-footed Fury, blast- 
engender'd brute, without the wit 
Of brute, or mouth to match the bit 
Of man — art satisfied at last? 
Who, when thunder roll'd aloof, 

1 As this version of Calderon's drama is not for acting, a higher and 
wider mountain-scene than practicable may be imagined for Rosaura's 
descent in the first Act and the soldiers' ascent in the last. The bad watch 
kept by the sentinels who guarded their state-prisoner, together with much 
else (not all!) that defies sober sense in this wild drama, I must leave 
Calderon to answer for; whose audience were not critical of detail and 
probability, so long as a good story, with strong, rapid, and picturesque 
action and situation, was set before them. 

5 



CALDERON 

Tow'rd the spheres of fire your ears 
Pricking, and the granite kicking 
Into lightning with your hoof, 
Among the tempest-shatterd crags 
Shattering your luckless rider 
Back into the tempest pass'd? 
There then lie to starve and die, 
Or find another Phaeton 
Mad-mettled as yourself; for I, 
Wearied, worried, and for-done, 
Alone will down the mountain try, 
That knits his brows against the sun. 

Fife (as to his mule). There, thou mis-begotten 
thing, 
Long-ear'd lightning, tail'd tornado, 
Griffin-hoof-in hurricano, — 
(I might swear till I were almost 
Hoarse with roaring Asonante) 
Who forsooth because our betters 
Would begin to kick and fling — 
You forthwith your noble mind 
Must prove, and kick me off behind, 
Tow'rd the very centre whither 
Gravity was most inclined. 
There where you have made your bed 
In it lie; for, wet or dry, 
Let what will for me betide you, 
Burning, blowing, freezing, hailing; 
Famine waste you : devil ride you : 
Tempest baste you black and blue: — 

(To Rosaura.) There! I think in downright 
railing 
I can hold my own with you. 

Ros. Ah, my good Fife, whose merry loyal pipe, 
Come weal, come woe, is never out of tune — 
What, you in the same plight too ? 

Fife. Ay ; 

And madam — sir — hereby desire, 
When you your own adventures sing 
Another time in lofty rhyme, 



LIFE IS A DREAM 

You don't forget the trusty squire 
Who went with you Don-quixoting. 

Ros. Well, my good fellow — to leave Pegasus 
Who scarce can serve us than our horses worse — 
They say no one should rob another of 
The single satisfaction he has left 
Of singing his own sorrows; one so great, 
So says some great philosopher, that trouble 
Were worth encount'ring only for the sake 
Of weeping over — what perhaps you know 
Some poet calls the ' luxury of woe.' 

Fife. Had I the poet or philosopher 
In the place of her that kick'd me off to ride, 
I'd test his theory upon his hide. 
But no bones broken, madam — sir, I mean ? — 

Ros. A scratch here that a handkerchief will heal — 
And you? — 

Fife. A scratch in quiddity, or kind : 

But not in ' quo ' — my wounds are all behind. 
But, as you say, to stop this strain, 
Which, somehow, once one's in the vein, 
Comes clattering after — there again! — 
What are we twain — deuce take't ! — we two, 
I mean, to do — drench'd through and through — 
Oh, I shall choke of rhymes, which I believe 
Are all that we shall have to live on here. 

Ros. What, is our victual gone too ? — 

Fife. Ay, that brute 

Has carried all we had away with her, 
Clothing, and cate, and all. 

Ros. And now the sun, 

Our only friend and guide, about to sink 
Under the stage of earth. 

Fife. And enter Night, 

With Capa y Espada — and — pray heaven ! — 
With but her lanthorn also. 

Ros. Ah, I doubt 

To-night, if any, with a dark one — or 
Almost burnt out after a month's consumption. 
Well ! well or ill, on horseback or afoot, 



CALDERON 

This is the gate that lets me into Poland; 
And, sorry welcome as she gives a guest 
Who writes his own arrival on her rocks 
In his own blood — 
Yet better on her stony threshold die, 
Than live on unrevenged in Muscovy. 

Fife. Oh, what a soul some women have — I mean 
Some men — 

Ros. Oh, Fife, Fife, as you love me, Fife, 

Make yourself perfect in that little part, 
Or all will go to ruin ! 

Fife. Oh, I will, 

Please God we find some one to try it on. 
But, truly, would not any one believe 
Some fairy had exchanged us as we lay 
Two tiny foster-children in one cradle? 

Ros. Well, be that as it may, Fife, it reminds me 
Of what perhaps I should have thought before, 
But better late than never — You know I love you, 
As you, I know, love me, and loyally 
Have follow'd me thus far in my wild venture. 
Well ! now then — having seen me safe thus far — 
Safe if not wholly sound — over the rocks 
Into the country where my business lies — 
Why should not you return the way we came, 
The storm all clear'd away, and, leaving me 
(Who now shall want you, though not thank you, less, 
Now that our horses gone) this side the ridge, 
Find your way back to dear old home again; 
While I — Come, come ! — 
What, weeping my poor fellow ? — 

Fife. Leave you here 

Alone — my Lady — Lord ! I mean my Lord — 
In a strange country — among savages — 
Oh, now I know — you would be rid of me 
For fear my stumbling speech — 

Ros. Oh, no, no, no ! — 

I want you with me for a thousand sakes 
To which that is as nothing — I myself 
More apt to let the secret out myself 



LIFE IS A DREAM 

Without your help at all — Come, come, cheer up! 
And if you sing again, ' Come weal, come woe,' 
Let it be that; for we will never part 
Until you give the signal. 

Fife. 'Tis a bargain. 

Ros. Now to begin, then. ' Follow, follow me, 
• You fairy elves that be.' 

Fife. Ay, and go on — 

Something of ' following darkness like a dream,' 
For that we're after. 

Ros. No, after the sun ; 

Trying to catch hold of his glittering skirts 
That hang upon the mountain as he goes. 

Fife. Ah, he's himself past catching — as you spoke 
He heard what you were saying, and — just so — 
Like some scared water-bird. 
As we say in my country, dove below. 

Ros. Well, we must follow him as best we may. 
Poland is no great country, and, as rich 
In men and means, will but few acres spare 
To lie beneath her barrier mountains bare. 
We cannot, I believe, be very far 
From mankind or their dwellings. 

Fife. Send it so ! 

And well provided for man, woman, and beast. 
No, not for beast. Ah, but my heart begins 
To yearn for her — 

Ros. Keep close, and keep your feet 

From serving you as hers did. 

Fife. As for beasts, 

If in default of other entertainment, 
We should provide them with ourselves to eat — 
Bears, lions, wolves — 

Ros. Oh, never fear. 

Fife. Or else, 

Default of other beasts, beastlier men, 
Cannibals, Anthropophagi, bare Poles 
Who never knew a tailor but by taste. 

Ros. Look, look ! Unless my fancy misconceive 
With twilight — down among the rocks there, Fife— e 



10 CALDERON 

Some human dwelling, surely — 
Or think you but a rock torn from the rocks 
In some convulsion like to-day's, and perch'd 
Quaintly among them in mock-masonry? 

Fife. Most likely that, I doubt. 

Ros. No, no — for look! 

A square of darkness opening in it — 

Fife. Oh, 

I don't half like such openings ! — 

Ros. Like the loom 

Of night from which she spins her outer gloom — 

Fife. Lord, Madam, pray forbear this tragic vein 
In such a time and place — 

Ros. And now again 

Within that square of darkness, look! a light 
That feels its way with hesitating pulse, 
As we do, through the darkness that it drives 
To blacken into deeper night beyond. 

Fife. In which could we follow that light's example, 
As might some English Bardolph with his nose, 
We might defy the sunset — Hark, a chain! 

Ros. And now a lamp, a lamp ! And now the hand 
That carries it. 

Fife. Oh, Lord! that dreadful chain! 

Ros. And now the bearer of the lamp; indeed 
As strange as any in Arabian tale, 
So giant-like, and terrible, and grand, 
Spite of the skin he's wrapt in. 

Fife. Why, 'tis his own: 

Oh, 'tis some wild man of the woods; I've heard 
They build and carry torches — 

Ros. Never Ape 

Bore such a brow before the heavens as that — 
Chain'd as you say too ! — 

Fife. Oh, that dreadful chain! 

Ros. And now he sets the lamp down by his side, 
And with one hand clench'd in his tangled hair 
And with a sigh as if his heart would break — 

[During this Segismund has entered from the 

fortress, with a torch. 



LIFE IS A DREAM 11 

Segismuxd. Once more the storm has roar'd itself 
away, 
Splitting the crags of God as it retires; 
But sparing still what it should only blast, 
This guilty piece of human handiwork, 
And all that are within it. Oh, how oft, 
How oft, within or here abroad, have I 
Waited, and in the whisper of my heart 
Pray'd for the slanting hand of heaven to strike 
The blow myself I dared not, out of fear 
Of that Hereafter, worse, they say, than here, 
Plunged headlong in, but, till dismissal waited, 
To wipe at last all sorrow from men's eyes, 
And make this heavy dispensation clear. 
Thus have I borne till now, and still endure, 
Crouching in sullen impotence day by day, 
Till some such out-burst of the elements 
Like this rouses the sleeping fire within; 
And standing thus upon the threshold of 
Another night about to close the door 
Upon one wretched day to open it 
On one yet wretcheder because one more ; — 
Once more, you savage heavens, I ask of you — 
I, looking up to those relentless eyes 
That, now the greater lamp is gone below, 
Begin to muster in the listening skies; 
In all the shining circuits you have gone 
About this theatre of human woe, 
What greater sorrow have you gazed upon 
Than down this narrow chink you witness still; 
And which, did you yourselves not fore-devise, 
You registered for others to fulfil ! 

Fife. This is some Laureate at a birthday ode; 
No wonder we went rhyming. 

Ros. Hush ! And now 

See, starting to his feet, he strides about 
Far as his tether'd steps — 

Seg. And if the chain 

You help'd to rivet round me did contract 
Since guiltless infancy from guilt in act; 



12 CALDERON 

Of what in aspiration or in thought 

Guilty, but in resentment of the wrong 

That wreaks revenge on wrong I never wrought 

By excommunication from the free 

Inheritance that all created life, 

Beside myself, is born to — from the wings 

That range your own immeasurable blue, 

Down to the poor, mute, scale-imprison'd things, 

That yet are free to wander, glide, and pass 

About that under-sapphire, whereinto 

Yourselves transfusing you yourselves englass ! 

Ros. What mystery is this ? 

Fife. Why, the man's mad: 

That's all the mystery. That's why he's chain'd — 
And why — 

Seg. Nor Nature's guiltless life alone — 

But that which lives on blood and rapine ; nay, 
Charter'd with larger liberty to slay 
Their guiltless kind, the tyrants of the air 
Soar zenith-upward with their screaming prey, 
Making pure. heaven drop blood upon the stage 
Of under earth, where lion, wolf, and bear, 
And they that on their treacherous velvet wear 
Figure and constellation like your own, 3 
With their still living slaughter bound away 
Over the barriers of the mountain cage, 
Against which one, blood-guiltless, and endued 
With aspiration and with aptitude 
Transcending other creatures, day by day 
Beats himself mad with unavailing rage ! 

Fife. Why, that must be the meaning of my 
mule's 
Rebellion — 

Ros. Hush ! 

Seg. But then if murder be 

The law by which not only conscience-blind 
Creatures, but man too prospers with his kind ; 

a 'Some report that they' — (panthers) — ' have one marke on the shoul- 
ders resembling the moone, growing and decreasing as she doth, sometimes 
showing a full compasse, and otherwhiles hollowed and pointed with tips 
like the homes.' — Philemon Holland's Pliny, b. viii. c. 17. 



LIFE IS A DREAM 13 

Who leaving all his guilty fellows free, 

Under your fatal auspice and divine 

Compulsion, leagued in some mysterious ban 

Against one innocent and helpless man, 

Abuse their liberty to murder mine : 

And sworn to silence, like their masters mute 

In heaven, and like them twirling through the mask 

Of darkness, answering to all I ask, 

Point up to them whose work they execute ! 

Ros. Ev'n as I thought, some poor unhappy wretch, 
By man wrong'd, wretched, unrevenged, as I ! 
Nay, so much worse than I, as by those chains 
Clipt of the means of self-revenge on those 
Who lay on him what they deserve. And I, 
Who taunted Heaven a little while ago 
With pouring all its wrath upon my head — 
Alas ! like him who caught the cast-off husk 
Of what another bragg'd of feeding on, 
Here's one that from the refuse of my sorrows 
Could gather all the banquet he desires ! 
Poor soul, poor soul ! 

Fife. Speak lower — he will hear you. 

Ros. And if he should, what then? Why, if he 
would, 
He could not harm me — Nay, and if he could, 
Methinks I'd venture something of a life 
I care so little for — 

Seg. Who's that ? Clotaldo ? Who are you, I say, 
That, venturing in these forbidden rocks, 
Have lighted on my miserable life, 
And your own death? 

Ros. You would not hurt me, surely ? 

Seg. Not I ; but those that, iron as the chain 
In which they slay me with a lingering death, 
Will slay you with a sudden — Who are you? 

Ros. A stranger from across the mountain there, 
Who, having lost his way in this strange land 
And coming night, drew hither to what seem'd 
A human dwelling hidden in these rocks, 
And where the voice of human sorrow soon 



14 CALDERON 

Told him it was so. 

Seg. Ay ? But nearer — nearer — 

That by this smoky supplement of day 
But for a moment I may see who speaks 
So pitifully sweet. 

Fife. Take care ! take care ! 

Ros. Alas, poor man, that I, myself so helpless, 
Could better help you than by barren pity, 
And my poor presence — 

Seg. Oh, might that be all ! 

But that — a few poor moments — and, alas ! 
The very bliss of having, and the dread 
Of losing, under such a penalty 
As every moment's having runs more near, 
Stifles the very utterance and resource 
They cry for quickest; till from sheer despair 
Of holding thee, methinks myself would tear 
To pieces — 

Fife. There, his word's enough for it. 

Seg. Oh, think, if you who move about at will, 
And live in sweet communion with your kind, 
After an hour lost in these lonely rocks 
Hunger and thirst after some human voice 
To drink, and human face to feed upon ; 
What must one do where all is mute, or harsh, 
And ev'n the naked face of cruelty 
Were better than the mask it works beneath? — 
Across the mountain then ! Across the mountain ! 
What if the next world which they tell one of 
Be only next across the mountain then, 
Though I must never see it till I die, 
And you one of its angels? 

Ros. Alas; alas! 

No angel ! And the face you think so fair, 
Tis but the dismal frame-work of these rocks 
That makes it seem so ; and the world I come f rom- 
Alas, alas, too many faces there 
Are but fair vizors to black hearts below, 
Or only serve to bring the wearer woe ! 
But to yourself — If haply the redress 



LIFE IS A DREAM 15 

That I am here upon may help to yours. 

I heard you tax the heavens with ordering, 

And men for executing, what, alas ! 

I now behold. But why, and who they are 

Who do, and you who suffer — 

Seg. (pointing upwards). Ask of them, 
Whom, as to-night, I have so often ask'd, 
And ask'd in vain. 

Ros. But surely, surelv — 

Seg. Hark ! 

The trumpet of the watch to shut us in. 
Oh, should they find you! — Quick! Behind the rocks! 
To-morrow — if to-morrow — 

Ros. (Hinging her sword toward him). Take my 
sword ! 

Rosaura and Fife hide in the rocks; 
Enter Clotaldo 
Clotaldo. These stormy days you like to see the 
last of 
Are but ill opiates, Segismund, I think, 
For night to follow : and to-night you seem 
More than your wont disorder'd. What ! A sword ? 
Within there ! 

Enter Soldiers with black vizors and torches 
Fife. Here's a pleasant masquerade ! 

Clo. Whosever watch this was 
Will have to pay head-reckoning. Meanwhile, 
This weapon had a wearer. Bring him here, 
Alive or dead. 

Seg. Clotaldo ! good Clotaldo ! — 

Clo. (to Soldiers zi'ho enclose Segismund ; others 

searching the rocks). You know your duty. 
Soldiers (bringing in Rosaura and Fife). Here are 
two of them, 
Whoever more to follow — 

Clo. Who are you, 

That in defiance of known proclamation 
Are found, at night-fall too, about this place? 



16 CALDERON 

Fife. Oh, my Lord, she — I mean he — 

Ros. Silence, Fife, 

And let me speak for both. — Two foreign men, 
To whom your country and its proclamations 
Are equally unknown; and had we known, 
Ourselves not masters of our lawless beasts 
That, terrified by the storm among your rocks, 
Flung us upon them to our cost. 

Fife. My mule — 

Clo. Foreigners? Of what country? 

Ros. Muscovy. 

Clo. And whither bound? 

Ros. Hither — if this be Poland; 

But with no ill design on her, and therefore 
Taking it ill that we should thus be stopt 
Upon her threshold so uncivilly. 

Clo. Whither in Poland? 

Ros. To the capital. 

Clo. And on what errand? 

Ros. Set me on the road, 

And you shall be the nearer to my answer. 

Clo. (aside). So resolute and ready to reply, 
And yet so young — and — (Aloud.) Well, — 
Your business was not surely with the man 
We found you with? 

Ros. He was the first we saw, — 

And strangers and benighted, as we were, 
As you too would have done in a like case, 
Accosted him at once. 

Clo. Ay, but this sword? 

Ros. I flung it toward him. 

Clo. Welf, and why ? 

Ros. And why? 

But to revenge himself on those who thus 
Injuriously misuse him. 

Clo. So — so — so ! 

'Tis well such resolution wants a beard — 
And, I suppose, is never to attain one. 
Well, I must take you both, you and your sword, 
Prisoners. 



LIFE IS A DREAM 17 

Fife, (offering a cudgel) . Pray take mine, and wel- 
come, sir; 
I'm sure I gave it to that mule of mine 
To mighty little purpose. 

Ros. Mine you have; 

And may it win us some more kindliness 
Than we have met with yet. 

Clo. (examining the sword). More mystery! 
How came you by this weapon? 

Ros. From my father. 

Clo. And do you know whence he ? 

Ros. Oh, very well: 

From one of this same Polish realm of yours, 
Who promised a return, should come the chance, 
Of courtesies that he received himself 
In Muscovy, and left this pledge of it — 
Not likely yet, it seems, to be redeem'd. 

Clo. (aside). Oh, wondrous chance — or wondrous 
Providence ! 
The sword that I myself in Muscovy, 
When these white hairs were black, for keepsake left 
Of obligation for a like return 
To him who saved me wounded as I lay 
Fighting against his country; took me home; 
Tended me like a brother till recover'd, 
Perchance to fight against him once again — 
And now my sword put back into my hand 
By his — if not his son — still, as so seeming, 
By me, as first devoir of gratitude, 
To seem believing, till the wearer's self 
See fit to drop the ill-dissembling mask. 
(Aloud.) Well, a strange turn of fortune has arrested 
The sharp and sudden penalty that else 
Had visited your rashness or mischance: 
In part, your tender youth too — pardon me, 
And touch not where your sword is not to answer — 
Commends you to my care ; not your life only, 
Else by this misadventure forfeited ; 
But ev'n your errand, which, by happy chance, 
Chimes with the very business I am on, 



18 CALDERON 

And calls me to the very point you aim at. 

Ros. The capital? 

Clo. Ay, the capital; and ev'n 

That capital of capitals, the Court : 
Where you may plead, and, I may promise, win 
Pardon for this, you say unwilling, trespass, 
And prosecute what else you have at heart, 
With me to help you forward all I can; 
Provided all in loyalty to those 
To whom by natural allegiance 
I first am bound to. 

Ros. As you make, I take 

Your offer: with like promise on my side 
Of loyalty to you and those you serve, 
Under like reservation for regards 
Nearer and dearer still. 

Clo. Enough, enough; 

Your hand; a bargain on both sides. Meanwhile, 
Here shall you rest to-night. The break of day 
Shall see us both together on the way. 

Ros. Thus then what I for misadventure blamed, 
Directly draws me where my wishes aim'd. [Exeunt. 



Scene II. — The Palace at Warsaw 

Enter on one side Astolfo, Duke of Muscovy, with 
his train: and, on the other, the Princess Es- 
trella, with hers. 

Astolfo. My royal cousin, if so near in blood, 
Till this auspicious meeting scarcely known, 
Till all that beauty promised in the bud 
Is" now to its consummate blossom blown, 
Well met at last; and may — 

Estrella. Enough, my Lord, 

Of compliment devised for you by some 
Court tailor, and, believe me, still too short 
To cover the designful heart below. 

Ast. Nay, but indeed, fair cousin — 

Est. Ay, let Deed 



LIFE IS A DREAM 19 

Measure your words, indeed your flowers of speech 
111 with your iron equipage atone ; 
Irony indeed, and wordy compliment. 

Ast. Indeed, indeed, you wrong me, royal cousin, 
And fair as royal, misinterpreting 
What, even for the end you think I aim at, 
If false to you, were fatal to myself. 

Est. Why, what else means the glittering steel, 
my Lord, 
That bristles in the rear of these fine words? 
What can it mean, but, failing to cajole, 
To fight or force me from my just pretension? 

Ast. Nay, might I not ask ev'n the same of you, 
The nodding helmets of whose men-at-arms 
Out-crest the plumage of your lady court? 

Est. But to defend what yours would force from 
me. 

Ast. Might not I, lady, say the same of mine? 
But not to come to battle, ev'n of words, 
With a fair lady, and my kinswoman ; 
And as averse to stand before your face, 
Defenceless, and condemn'd in your disgrace, 
Till the good king be here to clear it all — 
Will you vouchsafe to hear me? 

Est. As you will. 

Ast. You know that, when about to leave this 
world, 
Our royal grandsire, King Alfonso, left 
Three children; one a son, Basilio, 
Who wears — long may he wear ! the crown of 

Poland ; 
And daughters twain : of whom the elder was 
Your mother, Clorilena, now some while 
Exalted to a more than mortal throne ; 
And Recisunda, mine, the younger sister, 
Who, married to the Prince of Muscovy, 
Gave me the light which may she live to see 
Herself for many, many years to come. 
Meanwhile, good King Basilio, as you know, 
Deep in abstruser studies than this world, 



20 CALDERON 

And busier with the stars than lady's eyes, 

Has never by a second marriage yet 

Replaced, as Poland ask'd of him, the heir 

An early marriage brought and took away; 

His young queen dying with the son she bore him ; 

And in such alienation grown so old 

As leaves no other hope of heir to Poland 

Than his two sisters' children; you, fair cousin, 

And me ; for whom the Commons of the realm 

Divide themselves into two several factions ; 

Whether for you, the elder sister's child ; 

Or me, born of the younger, but, they say, 

My natural prerogative of man 

Outweighing your priority of birth. 

Which discord growing loud and dangerous, 

Our uncle, King Basilio, doubly sage 

In prophesying and providing for 

The future, as to deal with it when come, 

Bids us here meet to-day in solemn council 

Our several pretensions to compose. 

And, but the martial out-burst that proclaims 

His coming, makes all further parley vain, 

Unless my bosom, by which only wise 

I prophesy, now wrongly prophesies, 

By such a happy compact as I dare 

But glance at till the Royal Sage declare. 



Trumpets, etc. Enter King Basilio with his Council 
All. The King ! God save the King ! 
Estrella ) ,„ ,. . Oh, Royal Sir! — 

Astolfo J ^ 9'' God save your Majesty! — 

King. Rise, both of you, 

Rise to my arms, Astolfo and Estrella ; 
As my two sisters' children always mine, 
Now more than ever, since myself and Poland 
Solely to you for our succession look'd. 
And now give ear, you and your several factions, 
And you, the Peers and Princes of this realm, 
While I reveal the purport of this meeting 



LIFE IS A DREAM 21 

In words whose necessary length I trust 
No unsuccessful issue shall excuse. 
You and the world who have surnamed me " Sage " 
Know that I owe that title, if my due, 
To my long meditation on the book 
Which ever lying open overhead — 
The book of heaven, I mean — so few have read; 
Whose golden letters on whose sapphire leaf, 
Distinguishing the page of day and night, 
And all the revolution of the year; 
So with the turning volume where they lie 
Still changing their prophetic syllables, 
They register the destinies of men : 
Until with eyes that, dim with years indeed, 
Are quicker to pursue the stars than rule them, 
I get the start of Time, and from his hand 
The wand of tardy revelation draw. 
Oh, had the self-same heaven upon his page 
Inscribed my death ere I should read my life 
And, by fore-casting of my own mischance, 
Play not the victim but the suicide 
In my own tragedy ! — But you shall hear. 
You know how once, as kings must for their people, 
And only once, as wise men for themselves, 
I woo'd and wedded : know too that my Queen 
In childing died ; but not, as you believe, 
With her, the son she died in giving life to. 
For, as the hour of birth was on the stroke, 
Her brain conceiving with her womb, she dream'd 
A serpent tore her entrail. And too surely 
(For evil omen seldom speaks in vain) 
The man-child breaking from that living tomb 
That makes our birth the antitype of death, 
Man-grateful, for the life she gave him paid 
By killing her : and with such circumstance 
As suited such unnatural tragedy; 
He coming into light, if light it were 
That darken'd at his very horoscope, 
When heaven's two champions — sun and moon I 
mean — 



22 CALDERON 

Suffused in blood upon each other fell 

In such a raging duel of eclipse 

As hath not terrified the universe 

Since that which wept in blood the death of Christ : 

When the dead walk'd, the waters turn'd to blood, 

Earth and her cities totter'd, and the world 

Seem'd shaken to its last paralysis. 

In such a paroxysm of dissolution 

That son of mine was born ; by that first act 

Heading the monstrous catalogue of crime, 

I found fore-written in his horoscope; 

As great a monster in man's history 

As was in nature his nativity ; 

So savage, bloody, terrible, and impious, 

Who, should he live, would tear his country's entrails, 

As by his birth his mother's ; with which crime 

Beginning, he should clench the dreadful tale 

By trampling on his father's silver head. 

All which fore-reading, and his act of birth 

Fate's warrant that I read his life aright; 

To save his country from his mother's fate, 

I gave abroad that he had died with her 

His being slew ; with midnight secrecy 

I had him carried to a lonely tower 

Hewn from the mountain-barriers of the realm, 

And under strict anathema of death 

Guarded from men's inquisitive approach, 

Save from the trusty few one needs must trust; 

Who while his fasten'd body they provide 

With salutary garb and nourishment, 

Instruct his soul in what no soul may miss 

Of holy faith, and in such other lore 

As may solace his life-imprisonment, 

And tame perhaps the Savage prophesied 

Toward such a trial as I aim at now, 

And now demand your special hearing to. 

What in this fearful business I have done, 

Judge whether lightly or maliciously, — 

I, with my own and only flesh and blood, 

And proper lineal inheritor ! 



LIFE IS A DREAM 23 

I swear, had his foretold atrocities 

Touch'd me alone, I had not saved myself 

At such a cost to him ; but as a king, — 

A Christian king, — I say, advisedly, 

Who would devote his people to a tyrant 

Worse than Caligula fore-chronicled? 

But even this not without grave mis-giving, 

Lest by some chance mis-reading of the stars, 

Or mis-direction of what rightly read, 

I wrong my son of his prerogative, 

And Poland of her rightful sovereign. 

For, sure and certain prophets as the stars, 

Although they err not, he who reads them may; 

Or rightly reading — seeing there is One 

Who governs them, as, under Him, they us, 

We are not sure if the rough diagram 

They draw in heaven and we interpret here, 

Be sure of operation, if the Will 

Supreme, that sometimes for some special end 

The course of providential nature breaks 

By miracle, may not of these same stars 

Cancel his own first draft, or overrule 

What else fore-written all else overrules. 

As, for example, should the Will Almighty 

Permit the Free-will of particular man 

To break the meshes of else strangling fate — 

Which Free-will, fearful of foretold abuse, 

I have myself from my own son fore-closed 

From ever possible self-extrication; 

A terrible responsibility, 

Not to the conscience to be reconciled 

Unless opposing almost certain evil 

Against so slight contingency of good. 

Well — thus perplex'd, I have resolved at last 

To bring the thing to trial: whereunto 

Here have I summon'd you, my Peers, and you 

Whom I more dearly look to, failing him, 

As witnesses to that which I propose; 

And thus propose the doing it. Clotaldo, 

Who guards my son with old fidelity, 



24 CALDERON 

Shall bring him hither from his tower by night 

Lockt in a sleep so fast as by my art 

I rivet to within a link of death, 

But yet from death so far, that next day's dawn 

Shall wake him up upon the royal bed, 

Complete in consciousness and faculty, 

When with all princely pomp and retinue 

My loyal Peers with due obeisance 

Shall hail him Segismund, the Prince of Poland. 

Then if with any show of human kindness 

He fling discredit, not upon the stars, 

But upon me, their misinterpreter, 

With all apology mistaken age 

Can make to youth it never meant to harm, 

To my son's forehead will I shift the crown 

I long have wish'd upon a younger brow; 

And in religious humiliation, 

For what of worn-out age remains to me, 

Entreat my pardon both of Heaven and him 

For tempting destinies beyond my reach. 

But if, as I misdoubt, at his first step 

The hoof of the predicted savage shows; 

Before predicted mischief can be done, 

The self-same sleep that loosed him from the chain 

Shall re-consign him, not to loose again. 

Then shall I, having lost that heir direct, 

Look solely to my sisters' children twain 

Each of a claim so equal as divides 

The voice of Poland to their several sides, 

But, as I trust, to be entwined ere long 

Into one single wreath so fair and strong 

As shall at once all difference atone, 

And cease the realm's division with their own. 

Cousins and Princes, Peers and Councillors, 

Such is the purport of this invitation, 

And such is my design. Whose furtherance 

If not as Sovereign, if not as Seer, 

Yet one whom these white locks, if nothing else, 

To patient acquiescence consecrate, 

I now demand and even supplicate. 



LIFE IS A DREAM 25 

Ast. Such news, and from such lips, may well 
suspend 
The tongue to loyal answer most attuned ; 
But if to me as spokesman of my faction 
Your Highness looks for answer ; I reply 
For one and all — Let Segismund, whom now 
We first hear tell of as your living heir, 
Appear, and but in your sufficient eye 
Approve himself worthy to be your son, 
Then we will hail him Poland's rightful heir. 
What says my cousin? 

Est. Ay, with all my heart. 

But if my youth and sex upbraid me not 
That I should dare ask of so wise a king — 

King. Ask, ask, fair cousin ! Nothing, I am sure, 
Not well consider'd; nay, if 'twere, yet nothing 
But pardonable from such lips as those. 

Est. Then, with your pardon, Sir — if Segismund, 
My cousin, whom I shall rejoice to hail 
As Prince of Poland too, as you propose, 
Be to a trial coming upon which 
More, as I think, than life itself depends, 
Why, Sir, with sleep-disorder'd senses brought 
To this uncertain contest with his stars? 

King. Well ask'd indeed ! As wisely be it 
answer'd ! — 
Because it is uncertain, see you not? 
For as I think I can discern between 
The sudden flaws of a sleep-startled man, 
And of the savage thing we have to dread; 
If but bewilder'd, dazzled, and uncouth, 
As might the sanest and the civilest 
In circumstance so strange — nay, more than that, 
If moved to any out-break short of blood, 
All shall be well with him; and how much more, 
If 'mid the magic turmoil of the change. 
He shall so calm a resolution show 
As scarce to reel beneath so great a blow ! 
But if with savage passion uncontroll'd 
He lay about him like the brute foretold, 



26 CALDERON 

And must as suddenly be caged again; 
Then what redoubled anguish and despair, 
From that brief flash of blissful liberty 
Remitted — and for ever — to his chain ! 
Which so much less, if on the stage of glory 
Enter'd and exited through such a door 
Of sleep as makes a dream of all between. 

Est. Oh kindly answer, Sir, to question that 
To charitable courtesy less wise 
Might call for pardon rather ! I shall now 
Gladly, what, uninstructed, loyally 
I should have waited. 

Ast. Your Highness doubts not me, 

Nor how my heart follows my cousin's lips, 
Whatever way the doubtful balance fall, 
Still loyal to your bidding. 

Omnes. So say all. 

King. I hoped, and did expect, of all no less — 
And sure no sovereign ever needed more 
From all who owe him love or loyalty. 
For what a strait of time I stand upon, 
When to this issue not alone I bring 
My son your Prince, but e'en myself your King: 
And, whichsoever way for him it turn, 
Of less than little honour to myself. 
For if this coming trial justify 
My thus withholding from my son his right, 
Is not the judge himself justified in 
The father's shame? And if the judge proved 

wrong, 
My son withholding from his right thus long, 
Shame and remorse to judge and father both: 
Unless remorse and shame together drown'd 
In having what I flung for worthless found. 
But come — already weary with your travel, 
And ill refresh'd by this strange history, 
Until the hours that draw the sun from heaven 
Unite us at the customary board, 
Each to his several chamber: you to rest; 
I to contrive with old Clotaldo best 



LIFE IS A DREAM 27 

The method of a stranger thing than old 

Time has as yet among his records told. [Exeunt. 



ACT II 
Scene I. — A Throne-room in the Palace. Music vAthin 

Enter King and Clotaldo, meeting a Lord in waiting 

King. You, for a moment beckon'd from your office, 
Tell me thus far how goes it. In due time 
The potion left him? 

Lord. At the very hour 

To which your Highness temper'd it. Yet not 
So wholly but some lingering mist still hung 
About his dawning senses — which to clear, 
We fill'd and handed him a morning drink 
With sleep's specific antidote suffused; 
And while with princely raiment we invested 
What nature surely modell'd for a Prince — 
All but the sword — as you directed — 

King. Ay — 

Lord. If not too loudly, yet emphatically 
Still with the title of a Prince address'd him. 

King. How bore he that? 

Lord. With all the rest, my liege, 

I will not say so like one in a dream 
As one himself misdoubting that he dream'd. 

King. So far so well, Clotaldo, either way, 
And best of all if tow'rd the worse I dread. 
But yet no violence? — 

Lord. At most, impatience; 

Wearied perhaps with importunities 
We yet were bound to offer. 

King. Oh, Clotaldo! 

Though thus far well, yet would myself had drunk 
The potion he revives from ! such suspense 
Crowds all the pulses of life's residue 
Into the present moment; and, I think, 



28 CALDERON 

Whichever way the trembling scale may turn, 
Will leave the crown of Poland for some one 
To wait no longer than the setting sun ! 

Clo. Courage, my liege ! The curtain is undrawn, 
And each must play his part out manfully, 
Leaving the rest to heaven. 

King. Whose written words 

If I should misinterpret or transgress ! 
But as you say — 

(To the Lord, who exit.) You, back to him at once; 
Clotaldo, you, when he is somewhat used 
To the new world of which they call him Prince, 
Where place and face, and all, is strange to him, 
With your known features and familiar garb 
Shall then, as chorus to the scene, accost him, 
And by such earnest of that old and too 
Familiar world, assure him of the new. 
Last in the strange procession, I myself 
Will by one full and last development 
Complete the plot for that catastrophe 
That he must put to all ; God grant it be 
The crown of Poland on his brows! — Hark! hark! — 
Was that his voice within? — Now louder — Oh, 
Clotaldo, what ! so soon begun to roar ! — 
Again ! above the music — But betide 
What may, until the moment, we must hide. 

[Exeunt King and Clotaldo. 

Segismund (within). Forbear! I stifle with your 
perfume ! cease 
Your crazy salutations ! peace, I say — 
Begone, or let me go, ere I go mad 
With all this babble, mummery, and glare, 
For I am growing dangerous — Air ! room ! air ! — 

[He rushes in. Music ceases. 
Oh but to save the reeling brain from wreck 
With its bewilder'd senses ! — 

[He covers his eyes for a while. 
What ! E'en now 
That Babel left behind me, but my eyes 
Pursued by the same glamour, that — unless 



LIFE IS A DREAM 29 

Alike bewitch'd too — the confederate sense 

Vouches for palpable : bright-shining floors 

That ring hard answer back to the stamp'd heel, 

And shoot up airy columns marble-cold, 

That, as they climb, break into golden leaf 

And capital, till they embrace aloft 

In clustering flower and fruitage over walls 

Hung with such purple curtain as the West 

Fringes with such a gold ; or over-laid 

With sanguine-glowing semblances of men, 

Each in his all but living action busied, 

Or from the wall they look from, with fix'd eyes 

Pursuing me; and one most strange of all 

That, as I pass'd the crystal on the wall, 

Look'd from it — left it — and as I return, 

Returns, and looks me face to face again — 

Unless some false reflection of my brain, 

The outward semblance of myself — Myself? 

How know that tawdry shadow for myself, 

But that it moves as I move; lifts his hand 

With mine; each motion echoing so close 

The immediate suggestion of the will 

In which myself I recognize — Myself ! — 

What, this fantastic Segismund the same 

Who last night, as for all his nights before, 

Lay down to sleep in wolf-skin on the ground 

In a black turret which the wolf howl'd round, 

And woke again upon a golden bed, 

Round which as clouds about a rising sun, 

In scarce less glittering caparison, 

Gather'd gay shapes that, underneath a breeze 

Of music, handed him upon their knees 

The wine of heaven in a cup of gold, 

And still in soft melodious under-song 

Hailing me Prince of Poland ! — ' Segismund,' 

They said, ' Our Prince ! The Prince of Poland ! ' and 

Again, ' Oh, welcome, welcome, to his own, 

1 Our own Prince Segismund — ' 

Oh, but a blast- 
One blast of the rough mountain air ! one look 



30 CALDERON 

At the grim features — [He goes to the window. 

What they disvizor'd also ! shatter'd chaos 

Cast into stately shape and masonry, 

Between whose channel'd and perspective sides 

Compact with rooted towers, and flourishing 

To heaven with gilded pinnacle and spire, 

Flows the live current ever to and fro 

With open aspect and free step ! — Clotaldo ! 

Clotaldo ! — calling as one scarce dares call 

For him who suddenly might break the spell 

One fears to walk without him — Why, that I, 

With unencumber'd step as any there, 

Go stumbling through my glory — feeling for 

That iron leading-string — ay, for myself — 

For that fast-anchor'd self of yesterday, 

Of yesterday, and all my life before, 

Ere drifted clean from self-identity 

Upon the fluctuation of to-day's 

Mad whirling circumstance! — And, fool, why not? 

If reason, sense, and self-identity 

Obliterated from a worn-out brain, 

Art thou not maddest striving to be sane, 

And catching at that Self of yesterday 

That, like a leper's rags, best flung away ! 

Or if not mad, then dreaming — dreaming? — well — 

Dreaming then — Or, if self to self be true, 

Not mock'd by that, but as poor souls have been 

By those who wrong'd them, to give wrong new relish? 

Or have those stars indeed they told me of 

As masters of my wretched life of old, 

Into some happier constellation roll'd, 

And brought my better fortune out on earth 

Clear as themselves in heaven ! — Prince Segismund 

They call'd me — and at will I shook them off — 

Will they return again at my command 

Again to call me so ? — Within there ! You ! 

Segismund calls — Prince Segismund — 



LIFE IS A DREAM 31 

{He has seated himself on the throne. 
Enter Chamberlain, with lords in waiting.) 

Chamb. I rejoice 

That unadvised of any but the voice 
Of royal instinct in the blood, your Highness 
Has ta'en the chair that you were born to fill. 

Seg. The chair? 

Chamb. The royal throne of Poland, Sir, 

Which may your Royal Highness keep as long 
As he that now rules from it shall have ruled 
When heaven has call'd him to itself. 

Seg. When he ? — 

Chamb. Your royal father, King Basilio, Sir. 

Seg. My royal father — King Basilio. 
You see I answer but as Echo does, 
Not knowing what she listens or repeats. 
This is my throne — this is my palace — Oh, 
But this out of the window? — 

Chamb. Warsaw, Sir, 

Your capital — 

Seg. And all the moving people? 

Chamb. Your subjects and your vassals like our- 
selves. 

Seg. Ay, ay — my subjects — in my capital — 
Warsaw — and I am Prince of it — You see 
It needs much iteration to strike sense 
Into the human echo. 

Chamb. Left awhile 

In the quick brain, the word will quickly to 
Full meaning blow. 

Seg. You think so? 

Chamb. And meanwhile 

Lest our obsequiousness, which means no worse 
Than customary honour to the Prince 
We most rejoice to welcome, trouble you, 
Should we retire again? or stand apart? 
Or would your Highness have the music play 
Again, which meditation, as they say, 
So often loves to float upon? 



32 CALDERON 

Seg. The music ? 

No — yes — perhaps the trumpet — (Aside) Yet if that 
Brought back the troop ! 

A Lord. The trumpet ! There again 

How trumpet-like spoke out the blood of Poland ! 

Chamb. Before the morning is far up, your High- 
ness 
Will have the trumpet marshalling your soldiers 
Under the Palace windows. 

Seg. Ah, my soldiers — 

My soldiers — not black-vizor'd ? — 

Chamb. Sir? 

Seg. No matter. 

But — one thing — for a moment — m your ear — 
Do you know one Clotaldo ? 

Chamb. Oh, my Lord, 

He and myself together, I may say, 
Although in different vocations, 
Have silver'd in your royal father's service; 
And, as I trust, with both of us a few 
White hairs to fall in yours. 

Seg. Well said, well said! 

Basilio, my father — well — Clotaldo — 
Is he my kinsman too? 

Chamb. Oh, my good Lord, 

A General simply in your Highness' service, 
Than whom your Highness has no trustier. 

Seg. Ay, so you said before, I think. And you 
With that white wand of yours — 
Why, now I think on't, I have read of such 
A silver-hair'd magician with a wand, 
Who in a moment, with a wave of it, 
Turn'd rags to jewels, clowns to emperors, 
By some benigner magic than the stars 
Spirited poor good people out of hand 
From all their woes ; in some enchanted sleep 
Carried them off on cloud or dragon-back 
Over the mountains, over the wide Deep, 
And set them down to wake in Fairyland. 

Chamb. Oh, my good Lord, you laugh at me — and I 

VOL. XXVI — I HC 



LIFE IS A DREAM 33 

Right glad to make you laugh at such a price : 
You know me no enchanter: if I were, 
I and my wand as much as your Highness', 
As now your chamberlain — 

Seg. My chamberlain? — 

And these that follow you? — 

Chamb. On you, my Lord, 

Your Highness' lords in waiting. 

Seg. Lords in waiting. 

Well, I have now learn'd to repeat, I think. 
If only but by rote — This is my palace. 
And this my throne — which unadvised — And that 
Out of the window there my Capital ; 
And all the people moving up and down 
My subjects and my vassals like yourselves, 
My chamberlain — and lords in waiting — and 
Clotaldo — and Clotaldo ? — 
You are an aged, and seem a reverend man — 
You do not — though his fellow-officer — 
You do not mean to mock me ? 

Chamb. Oh, my Lord ! 

Seg. Well then — If no magician, as you say, 
Yet setting me a riddle, that my brain, 
With all its senses whirling, cannot solve. 
Yourself or one of these with you must answer — 
How I — that only last night fell asleep 
Not knowing that the very soil of earth 
I lay down — chain'd — to sleep upon was Poland — 
Awake to find myself the Lord of it, 
With Lords, and Generals, and Chamberlains, 
And ev'n my very Gaoler, for my vassals ! 

Enter suddenly Clotaldo 

Clotaldo. Stand all aside 
That I may put into his hand the clue 
To lead him out of this amazement. Sir, 
Vouchsafe your Highness from my bended knee 
Receive my homage first. 

Seg. Clotaldo! What, 

At last — his old self — undisguised where all 

VOL. XXVI — 2 HC 



34 CALDERON 

Is masquerade — to end it ! — You kneeling too ! 
What ! have the stars you told me long ago 
Laid that old work upon you, added this, 
That, having chain'd your prisoner so long, 
You loose his body now to slay his wits, 
Dragging him — how I know not — whither scarce 
I understand — dressing him up in all 
This frippery, with your dumb familiars 
Disvizor'd, and their lips unlock'd to lie, 
Calling him Prince and King, and, madman-like, 
Setting a crown of straw upon his head ? 

Clo. Would but your Highness, as indeed I now 
Must call you — and upon his bended knee 
Never bent Subject more devotedly — 
However all about you, and perhaps 
You to yourself incomprehensiblest, 
But rest in the assurance of your own 
Sane waking senses, by these witnesses 
Attested, till the story of it all, 
Of which I bring a chapter, be reveal'd, 
Assured of all you see and hear as neither 
Madness nor mockery — 

Seg. What then? 

Clo. All it seems: 

This palace with its royal garniture ; 
This capital of which it is the eye, 
With all its temples, marts, and arsenals; 
This realm of which this city is the head, 
With all its cities, villages, and tilth, 
Its armies, fleets, and commerce ; all your own ; 
And all the living souls that make them up, 
From those who now, and those who shall, salute you, 
Down to the poorest peasant of the realm, 
Your subjects — Who, though now their mighty voice 
Sleeps in the general body unapprized, 
Wait but a word from those about you now 
To hail you Prince of Poland, Segismund. 

Seg. AH this is so? 

Clo. As sure as anything 

Is, or can be. 



LIFE IS A DREAM 35 

Seg. You swear it on the faith 

You taught me — elsewhere? — 

Clo. (kissing the hilt of his sword). Swear it upon 
this 
Symbol, and champion of the holy faith 
I wear it to defend. 

Seg. (to himself). My eyes have not deceived me, 
nor my ears, 
With this transfiguration, nor the strain 
Of royal welcome that arose and blew, 
Breathed from no lying lips, along with it. 
For here Clotaldo comes, his own old self, 
Who, if not Lie and phantom with the rest — 
(Aloud) Well, then, all this is thus. 
For have not these fine people told me so, 
And you, Clotaldo, sworn it ? And the Why 
And Wherefore are to follow by and bye ! 
And yet — and yet — why wait for that which you 
Who take your oath on it can answer — and 
Indeed it presses hard upon my brain — 
What I was asking of these gentlemen 
When you came in upon us ; how it is 
That I — the Segismund you know so long — 
No longer than the sun that rose to-day 
Rose — and from what you know — 
Rose to be Prince of Poland? 

Clo. So to be 

Acknowledged and entreated, Sir. 

Seg. So be 

Acknowledged and entreated — 
Well — But if now by all, by some at least 
So known — if not entreated — heretofore — 
Though not by you — For, now I think again, 
Of what should be your attestation worth, 
You that of all my questionable subjects 
Who knowing what, yet left me where I was, 
You least of all, Clotaldo, till the dawn 
Of this first day that told it to myself? 

Clo. Oh, let your Highness draw the line across 
Fore-written sorrow, and in this new dawn 



36 CALDERON 

Bury that long sad night. 

Seg. Not ev'n the Dead, 

Call'd to the resurrection of the blest, 
Shall so directly drop all memory 
Of woes and wrongs foregone! 

Clo. But not resent — 

Purged by the trial of that sorrow past 
For full fruition of their present bliss. 

Seg. But leaving with the Judge what, till this earth 
Be cancell'd in the burning heavens, He leaves 
His earthly delegates to execute, 
Of retribution in reward to them 
And woe to those who wrong'd them — Not as you, 
Not you, Clotaldo, knowing not — And yet 
Ev'n to the guiltiest wretch in all the realm, 
Of any treason guilty short of that, 
Stern usage — but assuredly not knowing, 
Not knowing 'twas your sovereign lord, Clotaldo, 
You used so sternly. 

Clo. Ay, sir; with the same 

Devotion and fidelity that now 
Does homage to him for my sovereign. 

Seg. Fidelity that held his Prince in chains ! 

Clo. Fidelity more fast than had it loosed him — 

Seg. Ev'n from the very dawn of consciousness 
Down at the bottom of the barren rocks, 
Where scarce a ray of sunshine found him out, 
In which the poorest beggar of my realm 
At least to human-full proportion grows — 
Me ! Me — whose station was the kingdom's top 
To flourish in, reaching my head to heaven, 
And with my branches overshadowing 
The meaner growth below ! 

Clo. Still with the same 

Fidelity — 

Seg. To me ! — 

Clo. Ay, sir, to you, 

Through that divine allegiance upon which 
All Order and Authority is based ; 
Which to revolt against — 



LIFE IS A DREAM 37 

Seg. Were to revolt 

Against the stars, belike ! 

Clo. And him who reads them ; 

And by that right, and by the sovereignty 
He wears as you shall wear it after him; 
Ay, one to whom yourself — 
Yourself, ev'n more than any subject here, 
Are bound by yet another and more strong 
Allegiance — King Basilio — your Father — 

Seg. Basilio — King — my father ! — 

Clo. Oh, my Lord, 

Let me beseech you on my bended knee, 
For your own sake — for Poland's — and for his, 
Who, looking up for counsel to the skies, 
Did what he did under authority 
To which the kings of earth themselves are subject, 
And whose behest not only he that suffers, 
But he that executes, not comprehends, 
But only He that orders it — 

Seg. The King — 

My father ! — Either I am mad already, 
Or that way driving fast — or I should know 
That fathers do not use their children so, 
Or men were loosed from all allegiance 
To fathers, kings, and heaven that order'd all. 
But, mad or not, my hour is come, and I 
Will have my reckoning — Either you lie, 
Under the skirt of sinless majesty 
Shrouding your treason ; or if that indeed, 
Guilty itself, take refuge in the stars 
That cannot hear the charge, or disavow — 
You, whether doer or deviser, who 
Come first to hand, shall pay the penalty 
By the same hand you owe it to — 
(Seising Clotaldo's sword and about to strike him.) 

Enter Rosaura suddenly 
Rosaura. Fie, my Lord — forbear, 
What ! a young hand raised against silver hair ! — 

(She retreats through the crowd.) 



38 CALDERON 

Seg. Stay ! stay ! What come and vanish'd as 
before — 
I scarce remember how — but — 

Voices within. Room for Astolfo, Duke of Muscovy ! 

Enter Astolfo 

Astolfo. Welcome, thrice welcome, the auspicious 
day, 
When from the mountain where he darkling lay, 
The Polish sun into the firmament 
Sprung all the brighter for his late ascent, 
And in meridian glory — 

Seg. Where is he? 

Why must I ask this twice ? — 

A Lord. The Page, my Lord? 

I wonder at his boldness — 

Seg. But I tell you 

He came with Angel written in his face 
As now it is, when all was black as hell 
About, and none of you who now — he came, 
And Angel-like flung me a shining sword 
To cut my way through darkness ; and again 
Angel-like wrests it from me in behalf 
Of one — whom I will spare for sparing him: 
But he must come and plead with that same voice 
That pray'd for me — in vain. 

Chamb. He is gone for, 

And shall attend your pleasure, sir. Meanwhile, 
Will not your Highness, as in courtesy, 
Return your royal cousin's greeting? 

Seg. Whose? 

Chamb. Astolfo, Duke of Muscovy, my Lord, 
Saluted, and with gallant compliment 
Welcomed you to your royal title. 

Seg. (to Astolfo). Oh — 

You knew of this then ? 

Ast. Knew of what, my Lord? 

Seg. That I was Prince of Poland all the while, 
And you my subject? 

Ast. Pardon me, my Lord, 



LIFE IS A DREAM 39 

But some few hours ago myself I learn'd 
Your dignity ; but, knowing it, no more 
Than when I knew it not, your subject. 

Seg. What then? 

Ast. Your Highness' chamberlain ev'n now has told 
you; 
Astolfo, Duke of Muscovy, 
Your father's sister's son ; your cousin, sir : 
And who as such, and in his own right Prince, 
Expects from you the courtesy he shows. 

Chamb. His Highness is as yet unused to Court, 
And to the ceremonious interchange 
Of compliment, especially to those 
Who draw their blood from the same royal fountain. 

Seg. Where is the lad? I weary of all this — 
Prince, cousins, chamberlains, and compliments — 
Where are my soldiers? Blow the trumpet, and 
With one sharp blast scatter these butterflies 
And bring the men of iron to my side, 
With whom a king feels like a king indeed ! 

Voices within. Within there ! room for the Princess 
Estrella ! 

Enter Estrella with Ladies 

Estrella. Welcome, my Lord, right welcome to the 
throne 
That much too long has waited for your coming: 
And, in the general voice of Poland, hear 
A kinswoman and cousin's no less sincere. 

Seg. Ay, this is welcome-worth indeed, 
And cousin cousin-worth ! Oh, I have thus 
Over the threshold of the mountain seen, 
Leading a bevy of fair stars, the moon 
Enter the court of heaven — My kinswoman ! 
My cousin ! But my subject? — 

Est. If you please 

To count your cousin for your subject, sir, 
You shall not find her a disloyal. 

Seg. Oh, 

But there are twin stars in that heavenly face, 



40 CALDERON 

That now I know for having over-ruled 
Those evil ones that darken'd all my past 
And brought me forth from that captivity 
To be the slave of her who set me free. 

Est. Indeed, my Lord, these eyes have no such power 
Over the past or present : but perhaps 
They brighten at your welcome to supply 
The little that a lady's speech commends ; 
And in the hope that, let whichever be 
The other's subject, we may both be friends. 

Seg. Your hand to that — But why does this warm hand 
Shoot a cold shudder through me? 

Est. In revenge 

For likening me to that cold moon, perhaps. 

Seg. Oh, but the lip whose music tells me so 
Breathes of a warmer planet, and that lip 
Shall remedy the treason of the hand ! 

(He catches to embrace her.) 

Est. Release me, sir ! 

Chamb. And pardon me, my Lord. 

This lady is a Princess absolute, 
As Prince he is who just saluted you, 
And claims her by affiance. 

Seg. Hence, old fool, 

For ever thrusting that white stick of yours 
Between me and my pleasure ! 

Ast. This cause is mine. 

Forbear, sir — 

Seg. What, sir mouth-piece, you agam? 

Ast. My Lord, I waive your insult to myself 
In recognition of the dignity 
You yet are new to, and that greater still 
You look in time to wear. But for this lady — 
Whom, if my cousin now, I hope to claim 
Henceforth by yet a nearer, dearer name — 

Seg. And what care I? She is my cousin too: 
And if you be a Prince — well, am not I 
Lord of the very soil you stand upon? 
By that, and by that right beside of blood 
That like a fiery fountain hitherto 



LIFE IS A DREAM 41 

Pent in the rock leaps toward her at her touch, 

Mine, before all the cousins in Muscovy ! 

You call me Prince of Poland, and yourselves 

My subjects — traitors therefore to this hour, 

Who let me perish all my youth away 

Chain'd there among the mountains; till, forsooth, 

Terrified at your treachery foregone, 

You spirit me up here, I know not how, 

Popinjay-like invest me like yourselves, 

Choke me with scent and music that I loathe, 

And, worse than all the music and the scent, 

With false, long-winded, fulsome compliment, 

That ' Oh, you are my subjects ! ' and in word 

Reiterating still obedience, 

Thwart me in deed at every step I take : 

When just about to wreak a just revenge 

Upon that old arch-traitor of you all, 

Filch from my vengeance him I hate ; and him 

I loved — the first and only face — till this — 

I cared to look on in your ugly court — 

And now when palpably I grasp at last 

What hitherto but shadow'd in my dreams — 

Affiances and interferences, 

The first who dares to meddle with me more — 

Princes and chamberlains and counsellors, 

Touch her who dares ! — 

Ast. That dare I — 

Seg. (seizing him by the throat). You dare! 

Chamb. My Lord ! — 

A Lord. His strength's a lion's — 

Voices within. The King! The King! — 

Enter King 

A Lord. And on a sudden how he stands at gaze 
As might a wolf just fasten'd on his prey, 
Glaring at a suddenly encounter'd lion. 

King. And I that hither flew with open arms 
To fold them round my son, must now return 
To press them to an empty heart again ! 

[He sits on the throne. 



42 CALDERON 

Seg. That is the King? — My father? — 

(After a long pause.) I have heard 

That sometimes some blind instinct has been known 
To draw to mutual recognition those 
Of the same blood, beyond all memory 
Divided, or ev'n never met before. 
I know not how this is — perhaps in brutes 
That live by kindlier instincts — but I know 
That looking now upon that head whose crown 
Pronounces him a sovereign king, I feel 
No setting of the current in my blood 
Tow'rd him as sire. How is't with you, old man, 
Tow'rd him they call your son? — 

King. Alas ! Alas ! 

Seg. Your sorrow, then? 

King. Beholding what I do. 

Seg. Ay, but how know this sorrow that has grown 
And moulded to this present shape of man, 
As of your own creation ? 

King. Ev'n from birth. 

Seg. But from that hour to this, near, as I think, 
Some twenty such renewals of the year 
As trace themselves upon the barren rocks, 
I never saw you, nor you me — unless, 
Unless, indeed, through one of those dark masks 
Through which a son might fail to recognize 
The best of fathers. 

King. Be that as you will: 

But, now we see each other face to face, 
Know me as you I know; which did I not, 
By whatsoever signs, assuredly 
You were not here to prove it at my risk. 

Seg. You are my father. 
And is it true then, as Clotaldo swears, 
'Twas you that from the dawning birth of one 
Yourself brought into being, — you, I say, 
Who stole his very birthright; not alone 
That secondary and peculiar right 
Of sovereignty, but even that prime 
Inheritance that all men share alike, 



LIFE IS A DREAM 43 

And chain'd him — chain'd him ! — like a wild beast's 

whelp. 
Among as savage mountains, to this hour? 
Answer if this be thus. 

King. Oh, Segismund, 

In all that I have done that seems to you, 
And, without further hearing, fairly seems, 
Unnatural and cruel — 'twas not I, 
But One who writes His order in the sky 
I dared not misinterpret nor neglect, 
Who knows with what reluctance — 

Seg. Oh, those stars, 

Those stars, that too far up from human blame 
To clear themselves, or careless of the charge, 
Still bear upon their shining shoulders all 
The guilt men shift upon them ! 

King. Nay, but think: 

Not only on the common score of kind, 
But that peculiar count of sovereignty — 
If not behind the beast in brain as heart, 
How should I thus deal with my innocent child, 
Doubly desired, and doubly dear when come, 
As that sweet second-self that all desire, 
And princes more than all, to root themselves 
By that succession in their people's hearts, 
Unless at that superior Will, to which 
Not kings alone, but sovereign nature bows? 

Seg. And what had those same stars to tell of me 
That should compel a father and a king 
So much against that double instinct? 

King. That, 

Which I have brought you hither, at my peril, 
Against their written warning, to disprove, 
By justice, mercy, human kindliness. 

Seg. And therefore made yourself their instrument 
To make your son the savage and the brute 
They only prophesied? — Are you not afear'd, 
Lest, irrespective as such creatures are 
Of such relationship, the brute you made 
Revenge the man you marr'd — like sire, like son. 



44 CALDERON 

To do by you as you by me have done? 

King. You never had a savage heart from me ; 
I may appeal to Poland. 

Seg. Then from whom? 

If pure in fountain, poison'd by yourself 
When scarce begun to flow. — To make a man 
Not, as I see, degraded from the mould 
I came from, nor compared to those about, 
And then to throw your own flesh to the dogs !— 
Why not at once, I say, if terrified 
At the prophetic omens of my birth, 
Have drown'd or stifled me, as they do whelps 
Too costly or too dangerous to keep ? 

King. That, living, you might learn to live, and rule 
Yourself and Poland. 

Seg. By the means you took 

To spoil for either ? 

King. Nay, but, Segismund ! 

You know not — cannot know — happily wanting 
The sad experience on which knowledge grows, 
How the too early consciousness of power 
Spoils the best blood; l.or whether for your long- 
Constrain'd disheritance (which, but for me, 
Remember, and for my relenting love 
Bursting the bond of fate, had been eternal) 
You have not now a full indemnity ; 
Wearing the blossom of your youth unspent 
In the voluptuous sunshine of a court, 
That often, by too early blossoming, 
Too soon deflowers the rose of royalty. 

Seg. Ay, but what some precocious warmth may spill, 
May not an early frost as surely kill? 

King. But, Segismund, my son, whose quick dis- 
course 
Proves I have not extinguish'd and destroy'd 
The Man you charge me with extinguishing, 
However it condemn me for the fault 
Of keeping a good light so long eclipsed, 
Reflect ! This is the moment upon which 
Those stars, whose eyes, although we see them not, 



LIFE IS A DREAM 45 

By day as well as night are on us still, 
Hang watching up in the meridian heaven 
Which way the balance turns; and if to you — 
As by your dealing God decide it may, 
To my confusion ! — let me answer it 
Unto yourself alone, who shall at once 
Approve yourself to be your father's judge, 
And sovereign of Poland in his stead, 
By justice, mercy, self-sobriety, 
And all the reasonable attributes 
Without which, impotent to rule himself, 
Others one cannot, and one must not rule ; 
But which if you but show the blossom of — 
All that is past we shall but look upon 
As the first out-fling of a generous nature 
Rioting in first liberty ; and if 
This blossom do but promise such a flower 
As promises in turn its kindly fruit: 
Forthwith upon your brows the royal crown, 
That now weighs heavy on my aged brows, 
I will devolve; and while I pass away 
Into some cloister, with my Maker there 
To make my peace in penitence and prayer, 
Happily settle the disorder'd realm 
That now cries loudly for a lineal heir. 

Seg. And so — 
When the crown falters on your shaking head, 
And slips the sceptre from your palsied hand, 
And Poland for her rightful heir cries out ; 
When not only your stol'n monopoly 
Fails you of earthly power, but 'cross the grave 
The judgment-trumpet of another world 
Calls you to count for your abuse of this; 
Then, oh then, terrified by the double danger, 
You drag me from my den — 
Boast not of giving up at last the power 
You can no longer hold, and never rightly 
Held, but in fee for him you robb'd it from; 
And be assured your Savage, once let loose, 
Will not be caged again so quickly ; not 



46 CALDERON 

By threat or adulation to be tamed, 

Till he have had his quarrel out with those 

Who made him what he is. 

King. Beware! Beware! 

Subdue the kindled Tiger in your eye, 
Nor dream that it was sheer necessity 
Made me thus far relax the bond of fate, 
And, with far more of terror than of hope 
Threaten myself, my people, and the State. 
Know that, if old, I yet have vigour left 
To wield the sword as well as wear the crown ; 
And if my more immediate issue fail, 
Not wanting scions of collateral blood, 
Whose wholesome growth shall more than compensate 
For all the loss of a distorted stem. 

Seg. That will I straightway bring to trial — Oh, 
After a revelation such as this, 
The Last Day shall have little left to show 
Of righted wrong and villainy requited! 
Nay, Judgment now beginning upon earth, 
Myself, methinks, in sight of all my wrongs, 
Appointed heaven's avenging minister, 
Accuser, judge, and executioner, 
Sword in hand, cite the guilty — First, as worst, 
The usurper of his son's inheritance; 
Him and his old accomplice, time and crime 
Inveterate, and unable to repay 
The golden years of life they stole away. 
What, does he yet maintain his state, and keep 
The throne he should be judged from? Down with him, 
That I may trample on the false white head 
So long has worn my crown! Where are my soldiers? 
Of all my subjects and my vassals here 
Not one to do my bidding? Hark! A trumpet! 
The trumpet — 

( He pauses as the trumpet sounds as in Act. I., 
and masked Soldiers gradually fill in behind 
the Throne.) 

King (rising before his throne). Ay, indeed, the 
trumpet blows 



LIFE IS A DREAM 47 

A memorable note, to summon those 
Who, if forthwith you fall not at the feet 
Of him whose head you threaten with the dust, 
Forthwith shall draw the curtain of the Past 
About you ; and this momentary gleam 
Of glory that you think to hold life-fast, 
So coming, so shall vanish, as a dream. 

Seg. He prophesies ; the old man prophesies ; 
And, at his trumpet's summons, from the tower 
The leash-bound shadows loosen'd after me 
My rising glory reach and over-lour — 
But, reach not I my height, he shall not hold, 
But with me back to his own darkness ! 

(He dashes toward the throne and is enclosed 
by the soldiers.) 

Traitors ! 
Hold off ! Unhand me ! — Am not I your king ? 
And you would strangle him ! — 
But I am breaking with an inward Fire 
Shall scorch you off, and wrap me on the wings 
Of conflagration from a kindled pyre 
Of lying prophecies and prophet-kings 
Above the extinguish'd stars — Reach me the sword 
He flung me — Fill me such a bowl of wine 
As that you woke the day with — 

King. And shall close, — 

But of the vintage that Clotaldo knows. [Exeunt. 



ACT III 
Scene I. — The Tower, etc., as in Act I. Scene I. 

Segismund, as at first, and Clotaldo 
Clotaldo. Princes and princesses, and counsellors 
Fluster'd to right and left — my life made at — 
But that was nothing — 
Even the white-hair'd, venerable King 
Seized on — Indeed, you made wild work of it; 
And so discover'd in your outward action, 
Flinging your arms about you in your sleep, 



48 CALDERON 

Grinding your teeth — and, as I now remember, 
Woke mouthing out judgment and execution, 
On those about you. 

Seg. Ay, I did indeed. 

Clo. Ev'n now your eyes stare wild ; your hair stands 
up— 
Your pulses throb and flutter, reeling still 
Under the storm of such a dream — 

Seg. A dream! 

That seem'd as swearable reality 
As what I wake in now. 

Clo. Ay — wondrous how 

Imagination in a sleeping brain 
Out of the uncontingent senses draws 
Sensations strong as from the real touch ; 
That we not only laugh aloud, and drench 
With tears our pillow; but in the agony 
Of some imaginary conflict, fight 
And struggle — ev'n as you did; some, 'tis thought, 
Under the dreamt-of stroke of death have died. 

Seg. And what so very strange too — In that world 
Where place as well as people all was strange, 
Ev'n I almost as strange unto myself, 
You only, you, Clotaldo — you, as much 
And palpably yourself as now you are, 
Came in this very garb you ever wore, 
By such a token of the past, you said, 
To assure me of that seeming present. 

Clo. Ay ? 

Seg. Ay ; and even told me of the very stars 
You tell me here of — how in spite of them, 
I was enlarged to all that glory. 

Clo. Ay, 

By the false spirits' nice contrivance thus 
A little truth oft leavens all the false, 
The better to delude us. 

Seg. For you know 

'Tis nothing but a dream ? 

Clo. Nay, you yourself 

Know best how lately you awoke from that 



LIFE IS A DREAM 49 

You know you went to sleep on ? — 

Why, have you never dreamt the like before? 

Seg. Never, to such reality. 

Clo. Such dreams 

Are oftentimes the sleeping exhalations 
Of that ambition that lies smouldering 
Under the ashes of the lowest fortune ; 
By which, when reason slumbers, or has lost 
The reins of sensible comparison, 
We fly at something higher than we are — 
Scarce ever dive to lower — to be kings, 
Or conquerors, crown'd with laurel or with gold, 
Nay, mounting heaven itself on eagle wings. 
Which, by the way, now that I think of it, 
May furnish us the key to this high flight — 
That royal Eagle we were watching, and 
Talking of as you went to sleep last night. 

Seg. Last night? Last night? 

Clo. Ay, do you not remember 

Envying his immunity of flight, 
As, rising from his throne of rock, he sail'd 
Above the mountains far into the West, 
That burn'd about him, while with poising wings 
He darkled in it as a burning brand 
Is seen to smoulder in the fire it feeds ? 

Seg. Last night — last night — Oh, what a day was that 
Between that last night and this sad To-day! 

Clo. And yet, perhaps, 
Only some few dark moments, into which 
Imagination, once lit up within 
And unconditional of time and space, 
Can pour infinities. 

Seg. And I remember 

How the old man they call'd the King, who wore 
The crown of gold about his silver hair, 
And a mysterious girdle round his waist, 
Just when my rage was roaring at its height, 
And after which it all was dark again, 
Bid me beware lest all should be a dream. 

Clo. Ay — there another specialty of dreams, 



SO CALDERON 

That once the dreamer 'gins to dream he dreams, 
His foot is on the very verge of waking. 

Seg. Would it had been upon the verge of death 
That knows no waking — 
Lifting me up to glory, to fall back, 
Stunn'd, crippled — wretcheder than ev'n before. 

Clo. Yet not so glorious, Segismund, if you 
Your visionary honour wore so ill 
As to work murder and revenge on those 
Who meant you well. 

Seg. Who meant me ! — me ! their Prince 

Chain'd like a felon — 

Clo. Stay, stay — Not so fast, 

You dream'd the Prince, remember. 

Seg. Then in dream 

Revenged it only. 

Clo. True. But as they say 

Dreams are rough copies of the waking soul 
Yet uncorrected of the higher Will, 
So that men sometimes in their dreams confess 
An unsuspected, or forgotten, self; 
One must beware to check — ay, if one may, 
Stifle ere born, such passion in ourselves 
As makes, we see, such havoc with our sleep, 
And ill reacts upon the waking day. 
And, by the bye, for one test, Segismund, 
Between such swearable realities — 
Since Dreaming, Madness, Passion, are akin 
In missing each that salutary rein 
Of reason, and the guiding will of man : 
One test, I think, of waking sanity 
Shall be that conscious power of self-control, 
To curb all passion, but much most of all 
That evil and vindictive, that ill squares 
With human, and with holy canon less, 
Which bids us pardon ev'n our enemies, 
And much more those who, out of no ill will, 
Mistakenly have taken up the rod 
Which heaven, they think, has put into their hands. 

Seg. I think I soon shall have to try again — 



LIFE IS A DREAM SI 

Sleep has not yet done with me. 

Clo. Such a sleep. 

Take my advice — 'tis early yet — the sun 
Scarce up above the mountain; go within, 
And if the night deceived you, try anew 
With morning; morning dreams they say come true. 

Seg. Oh, rather pray for me a sleep so fast 
As shall obliterate dream and waking too. 

[Exit into the tower. 

Clo. So sleep ; sleep fast : and sleep away those two 
Night-potions, and the waking dream between 
Which dream thou must believe; and, if to see 
Again, poor Segismund ! that dream must be. — 
And yet, and yet, in these our ghostly lives, 
Half night, half day, half sleeping, half awake, 
How if our waking life, like that of sleep, 
Be all a dream in that eternal life 
To which we wake not till we sleep in death? 
How if, I say, the senses we now trust 
For date of sensible comparison, — 
Ay, ev'n the Reason's self that dates with them, 
Should be in essence or intensity 
Hereafter so transcended, and awake 
To a perceptive subtlety so keen 
As to confess themselves befool'd before, 
In all that now they will avouch for most? 
One man — like this — but only so much longer 
As life is longer than a summer's day, 
Believed himself a king upon his throne, 
And play'd at hazard with his fellows' lives, 
Who cheaply dream'd away their lives to him. 
The sailor dream'd of tossing on the flood : 
The soldier of his laurels grown in blood: 
The lover of the beauty that he knew 
Must yet dissolve to dusty residue : 
The merchant and the miser of his bags 
Of finger'd gold; the beggar of his rags: 
And all this stage of earth on which we seem 
Such busy actors, and the parts we play'd, 
Substantial as the shadow of a shade, 



52 CALDERON 

And Dreaming but a dream within a dream ! 

Fife. Was it not said, sir, 
By some philosopher as yet unborn, 
That any chimney-sweep who for twelve hours 
Dreams himself king is happy as the king 
Who dreams himself twelve hours a chimney-sweep? 

Clo. A theme indeed for wiser heads than yours 
To moralize upon — How came you here? — 

Fife. Not of my own will, I assure you, sir. 
No matter for myself : but I would know 
About my mistress — I mean, master — 

Clo. Oh, 

Now I remember — Well, your master-mistress 
Is well, and deftly on its errand speeds, 
As you shall — if you can but hold your tongue. 
Can you ? 

Fife. I'd rather be at home again. 

Clo. Where you shall be the quicker if while here 
You can keep silence. 

Fife. I may whistle, then? 

Which by the virtue of my name I do, 
And also as a reasonable test 
Of waking sanity — 

Clo. Well, whistle then ; 

And for another reason you forgot, 
That while you whistle, you can chatter not. 
Only remember — if you quit this pass — 

Fife. (His rhymes are out, or he had call'd it spot) — 

Clo. A bullet brings you to. 
I must forthwith to court to tell the King 
The issue of this lamentable day, 

That buries all his hope in night. (To Fife.) Farewell. 
Remember. 

Fife. But a moment — but a word ! 

When shall I see my mis — mas — 

Clo. Be content: 

All in good time ; and then, and not before, 
Never to miss your master any more. [Exit. 

Fife. Such talk of dreaming — dreaming — I begin 
To doubt if I be dreaming I am Fife, 



LIFE IS A DREAM 53 

Who with a lad who call*d herself a boy 

Because — I doubt there's some confusion here — 

He wore no petticoat, came on a time 

Riding from Muscovy on half a horse, 

Who must have dreamt she was a horse entire, 

To cant me off upon my hinder face 

Under this tower, wall-eyed and musket-tongued, 

With sentinels a-pacing up and down, 

Crying All's well when all is far from well, 

All the day long, and all the night, until 

I dream — if what is dreaming be not waking — 

Of bells a-tolling and processions rolling 

With candles, crosses, banners, San-benitos, 

Of which I wear the flamy-finingest, 

Through streets and places throng'd with fiery faces 

To some back platform — 

Oh, I shall take a fire into my hand 

With thinking of my own dear Muscovy — 

Only just over that Sierra there, 

By which we tumbled headlong into — No-land. 

Now, if without a bullet after me, 

I could but get a peep of my old home — 

Perhaps of my own mule to take me there — 

All's still — perhaps the gentlemen within 

Are dreaming it is night behind their masks — 

God send 'em a good nightmare ! — Now then — Hark ! 

Voices — and up the rocks — and armed men 

Climbing like cats — Puss in the corner then. [He hides. 

Enter Soldiers cautiously up the rocks 

Captain. This is the frontier pass, at any rate, 
Where Poland ends and Muscovy begins. 

Soldier. We must be close upon the tower, I know, 
That half way up the mountain lies ensconced. 

Capt. How know you that ? 

Sol. He told me so — the Page 

Who put us on the scent. 

Sol. 2. And, as I think, 

Will soon be here to run it down with us. 

Capt. Meantime, our horses on these ugly rocks 



54 CALDERON 

Useless, and worse than useless with their clatter — 
Leave them behind, with one or two in charge, 
And softly, softly, softly. 

Soldiers 

— There it is ! 

— There what? — 

— The tower — the fortress — 

— That the tower !- 

— That mouse-trap ! We could pitch it down 
the rocks 

With our own hands. 

— The rocks it hangs among 
Dwarf its proportions and conceal its strength; 
Larger and stronger than you think. 

— No matter; 
No place for Poland's Prince to be shut up in. 

_ At it at once ! 

Capt. No — no — I tell you wait — 

Till those within give signal. For as yet 
We know not who side with us, and the fort 
Is strong in man and musket. 

Sol. Shame to wait 

For odds with such a cause at stake. 

Capt. Because 

Of such a cause at stake we wait for odds — 
For if not won at once, for ever lost: 
For any long resistance on their part 
Would bring Basilio's force to succour them 
Ere we had rescued him we come to rescue. 
So softly, softly, softly, still — 

A Soldier (discovering Fife). Hilloa ! 

Soldiers 

— Hilloa ! Here's some one skulking — 

— Seize and gag him ! 

— Stab him at once, say I : the only way 
To make all sure. 

— Hold, every man of you ! 

And down upon your knees ! — Why, 'tis the Prince ! 



LIFE IS A DREAM 55 

— The Prince!— 

— Oh, I should know him anywhere, 
And anyhow disguised. 

— But the Prince is chain'd. 

— And of a loftier presence — 

— 'Tis he, I tell you ; 
Only bewilder'd as he was before. 

God save your Royal Highness ! On our knees 
■ Beseech you answer us ! 

Fife. Just as you please. 

Well — 'tis this country's custom, I suppose, 
To take a poor man every now and then 
And set him on the throne; just for the fun 
Of tumbling him again into the dirt. 
And now my turn is come. 'Tis very pretty. 

Sol. His wits have been distemper'd with their drugs. 
But do you ask him, Captain. 

Capt. On my knees, 

And in the name of all who kneel with me, 
1 do beseech your Highness answer to 
Your royal title. 

Fife. Still, just as you please. 

In my own poor opinion of myself — 
But that may all be dreaming, which it seems 
Is very much the fashion in this country — 
No Polish prince at all, but a poor lad 
From Muscovy; where only help me back, 
I promise never to contest the crown 
Of Poland with whatever gentleman 
You fancy to set up. 

Soldiers 
— i From Muscovy? 

— A spy then — 

— OfAstolfo's— 

— Spy! a spy! 

— Hang him at once ! 

Fife. No, pray don't dream of that! 

Sol. How dared you then set yourself up for our 
Prince Segismund? 



56 CALDERON 

Fife. / set up ! — / like that — 

When 'twas yourselves be-siegesmunded me. 

Capt. No matter — Look! — The signal from the 
tower. 
Prince Segismund ! 

Sol. (from the tower). Prince Segismund! 

Capt. All's well. 

Clotaldo safe secured? — 

Sol. (from the tower). No — by ill luck, 
Instead of coming in, as we had look'd for, 
He sprang on horse at once, and off at gallop. 

Capt. To Court, no doubt — a blunder that — And 
yet 
Perchance a blunder that may work as well 
As better forethought. Having no suspicion 
So will he carry none where his not going 
Were of itself suspicious. But of those 
Within, who side with us? 

Sol. Oh, one and all 

To the last man, persuaded or compell'd. 

Capt. Enough : whatever be to be retrieved 
No moment to be lost. For though Clotaldo 
Have no revolt to tell of in the tower, 
The capital will soon awake to ours, 
And the King's force come blazing after us. 
Where is the Prince? 

Sol. Within ; so fast asleep 

We woke him not ev'n striking off the chain 
We had so cursedly holp bind him with, 
Not knowing what we did; but too ashamed 
Not to undo ourselves what we had done. 

Capt. No matter, nor by whosesoever hands, 
Provided done. Come ; we will bring him forth 
Out of that stony darkness here abroad, 
Where air and sunshine sooner shall disperse 
The sleepy fume which they have drugg'd him with. 

(They enter the tower, and thence bring out 
Segismund asleep on a pallet, and set him 
in the middle of the stage.) 

Capt. Still, still so dead asleep, the very noise 



LIFE IS A DREAM 57 

And motion that we make in carrying him 
Stirs not a leaf in all the living tree. 

Soldiers 
If living — But if by some inward blow 
For ever and irrevocably felFd 
By what strikes deeper to the root than sleep? 

— He's dead ! He's dead ! They've kill'd him — 

— No — he breathes — 
And the heart beats — and now he breathes again 
Deeply, as one about to shake away 

__ The load of sleep. 

Capt. Come, let us all kneel round, 

And with a blast of warlike instruments, 
And acclamation of all loyal hearts, 
Rouse and restore him to his royal right, 
From which no royal wrong shall drive him more. 

{They all kneel round his bed: trumpets, 
drums, etc.) 

Soldiers 

— Segismund ! Segismund ! Prince Segismund ! 

— King Segismund ! Down with Basilio ! 

— Down with Astolfo ! Segismund our King ! etc. 

— He stares upon us wildly. He cannot speak. 

— I said so — driv'n him mad. 

— Speak to him, Captain. 
Captain. Oh Royal Segismund, our Prince and 

King, 
Look on us — listen to us — answer us, 
Your faithful soldiery and subjects, now 
About you kneeling, but on fire to rise 
And cleave a passage through your enemies, 
Until we seat you on your lawful throne. 
For though your father, King Basilio, 
Now King of Poland, jealous of the stars 
That prophesy his setting with your rise, 
Here holds you ignominiously eclipsed, 
And would Astolfo, Duke of Muscovy, 
Mount to the throne of Poland after him; 



58 CALDERON 

So will not we, your loyal soldiery 
And subjects; neither those of us now first 
Apprised of your existence and your right: 
Nor those that hitherto deluded by 
Allegiance false, their vizors now fling down, 
And craving pardon on their knees with us 
For that unconscious disloyalty, 
Offer with us the service of their blood; 
Not only we and they ; but at our heels 
The heart, if not the bulk, of Poland follows 
To join their voices and their arms with ours, 
In vindicating with our lives our own 
Prince Segismund to Poland and her throne. 



{ 



Soldiers 

— Segismund, Segismund, Prince Segismund ! 

— Our own King Segismund, etc. {They all rise.) 
Seg. Again? So soon? — What, not yet done with me? 

The sun is little higher up, I think, 
Than when I last lay down, 
To bury in the depth of your own sea 
You that infest its shallows. 

Capt. Sir ! 

Seg. And now, 

Not in a palace, not in the fine clothes 
We all were in ; but here, in the old place, 
And in our old accoutrement — 
Only your vizors off, and lips unlock'd 
To mock me with that idle title — 

Capt. Nay, 

Indeed no idle title, but your own, 
Then, now, and now for ever. For, behold, 
Ev'n as I speak, the mountain passes fill 
And bristle with the advancing soldiery 
That glitters in your rising glory, sir ; 
And, at our signal, echo to our cry, 
' Segismund, King of Poland ! ' etc. 

{Shouts, trumpets, etc.) 

Seg. Oh, how cheap 

The muster of a countless host of shadows, 



LIFE IS A DREAM 59 

As impotent to do with as to keep ! 

All this they said before — to softer music. 

Capt. Soft music, sir, to what indeed were shadows, 
That, following the sunshine of a Court, 
Shall back be brought with it — if shadows still, 
Yet to substantial reckoning. 

Seg. They shall? 

The white-hair'd and white-wanded chamberlain, 
So busy with his wand too — the old King 
That I was somewhat hard on — he had been 
Hard upon me — and the fine feather'd Prince 
Who crow'd so loud — my cousin, — and another, 
Another cousin, we will not bear hard on — 
And— But Clotaldo ? 

Capt. Fled, my Lord, but close 

Pursued; and then — 

Seg. Then, as he fled before, 

And after he had sworn it on his knees, 
Came back to take me — where I am ! — No more, 
No more of this ! Away with you ! Begone ! 
Whether but visions of ambitious night 
That morning ought to scatter, or grown out 
Of night's proportions you invade the day 
To scare me from my little wits yet left, 
Begone ! I know I must be near awake, 
Knowing I dream; or, if not at my voice, 
Then vanish at the clapping of my hands, 
Or take this foolish fellow for your sport : 
Dressing me up in visionary glories, 
Which the first air of waking consciousness 
Scatters as fast as from the almander s — 
That, waking one fine morning in full flower, 
One rougher insurrection of the breeze 
Of all her sudden honour disadorns 
To the last blossom, and she stands again 
The winter-naked scare-crow that she was ! 

Capt. I know not what to do, nor what to say, 
With all this dreaming ; I begin to doubt 
They have driv'n him mad indeed, and he and we 

Almander, or almandre, Chaucer's word for almond-tree, Rom. Rose, 1363. 



60 CALDERON 

Are lost together. 

A Soldier (to Captain). Stay, stay; I remember — 
Hark in your ear a moment. (Whispers.) 

Capt. So — so — so ? — 

Oh, now indeed I do not wonder, sir, 
Your senses dazzle under practices 
Which treason, shrinking from its own device, 
Would now persuade you only was a dream ; 
But waking was as absolute as this 
You wake in now, as some who saw you then, 
Prince as you were and are, can testify: 
Not only saw, but under false allegiance 
Laid hands upon — 

Soldier i. I, to my shame ! 

Soldier 2. And I ! 

Capt. Who, to wipe out that shame, have been the 
first 
To stir and lead us — Hark! (Shouts, trumpets, etc.) 

A Soldier. Our forces, sir, 

Challenging King Basilio's, now in sight, 
And bearing down upon us. 

Capt. Sir, you hear; 

A little hesitation and delay, 
And all is lost — your own right, and the lives 
Of those who now maintain it at that cost; 
With you all saved and won ; without, all lost. 
That former recognition of your right 
Grant but a dream, if you will have it so; 
Great things forecast themselves by shadows great: 
Or will you have it, this like that dream too, 
People, and place, and time itself, all dream — 
Yet, being in't, and as the shadows come 
Quicker and thicker than you can escape, 
Adopt your visionary soldiery, 
Who, having struck a solid chain away, 
Now put an airy sword into your hand, 
And harnessing you piece-meal till you stand 
Amidst us all complete in glittering, 
If unsubstantial, steel — 

Rosaura (without). The Prince! The Prince! 



LIFE IS A DREAM 61 

Capt. Who calls for him? 

Sol. The Page who spurr'd us hither, 

And now, dismounted from a foaming horse — 

Enter Rosaura 

Rosura. Where is — but where I need no further ask 
Where the majestic presence, all in arms, 
Mutely proclaims and vindicates himself. 

Fife. My darling Lady-lord — 

Ros. My own good Fife, 

Keep to my side — and silence ! — Oh, my Lord, 
For the third time behold me here where first 
You saw me, by a happy misadventure 
Losing my own way here to find it out 
For you to follow with these loyal men, 
Adding the moment of my little cause 
To yours ; which, so much mightier as it is, 
By a strange chance runs hand in hand with mine ; 
The self-same foe who now pretends your right, 
Withholding mine — that, of itself alone, 
I know the royal blood that runs in you 
Would vindicate, regardless of your own: 
The right of injured innocence; and, more, 
Spite of this epicene attire, a woman's; 
And of a noble stock I will not name 
Till I, who brought it, have retrieved the shame. 
Whom Duke Astolfo, Prince of Muscovy, 
With all the solemn vows of wedlock won, 
And would have wedded, as I do believe, 
Had not the cry of Poland for a Prince 
Call'd him from Muscovy to join the prize 
Of Poland with the fair Estrella's eyes. 
I, following him hither, as you saw, 
Was cast upon these rocks ; arrested by 
Clotaldo: who, for an old debt of love 
He owes my family, with all his might 
Served, and had served me further, till my cause 
Clash'd with his duty to his sovereign, 
Which, as became a loyal subject, sir, 
(And never sovereign had a loyaller,) 



62 CALDERON 

Was still his first. He carried me to Court, 
Where, for the second time, I cross'd your path; 
Where, as I watch'd my opportunity, 
Suddenly broke this public passion out; 
Which, drowning private into public wrong, 
Yet swiftlier sweeps it to revenge along. 

Seg. Oh God, if this be dreaming, charge it not 
To burst the channel of enclosing sleep 
And drown the waking reason ! Not to dream 
Only what dreamt shall once or twice again 
Return to buzz about the sleeping brain 
Till shaken off for ever — 
But reassailing one so quick, so thick — 
The very figure and the circumstance 
Of sense-confess'd reality foregone 
In so-call'd dream so palpably repeated, 
The copy so like the original, 

We know not which is which ; and dream so-call'd 
Itself inweaving so inextricably 
Into the tissue of acknowledged truth; 
The very figures that empeople it 
Returning to assert themselves no phantoms 
In something so much like meridian day, 
And in the very place that not my worst 
And veriest disenchanter shall deny 
For the too well-remember'd theatre 
Of my long tragedy — Strike up the drums ! 
If this be Truth, and all of us awake, 
Indeed a famous quarrel is at stake : 
If but a Vision I will see it out, 
And, drive the Dream, I can but join the rout. 

Capt. And in good time, sir, for a palpable 
Touchstone of truth and rightful vengeance too, 
Here is Clotaldo taken. 

Soldiers. In with him ! 

In with the traitor ! (Clotaldo brought in.) 

Seg. Ay, Clotaldo, indeed — 

Himself — in his old habit — his old self — 
What ! back again, Clotaldo, for a while 
To swear me this for truth, and afterwards 



LIFE IS A DREAM 63 

All for a dreaming lie ? 

Clo. Awake or dreaming, 

Down with that sword, and down these traitors theirs, 
Drawn in rebellion "gainst their Sovereign. 

Seg. (about to strike). Traitor! Traitor yourself ! — 

But soft — soft — soft! — 
You told me, not so very long ago, 
Awake or dreaming — I forget — my brain 
Is not so clear about it — but I know 
One test you gave me to discern between, 
Which mad and dreaming people cannot master ; 
Or if the dreamer could, so best secure 
A comfortable waking — Was't not so ? — 
(ToRosaura). Needs not your intercession now, you see, 
As in the dream before — 
Clotaldo, rough old nurse and tutor too 
That only traitor wert, to me if true — 
Give him his sword ; set him on a fresh horse ; 
Conduct him safely through my rebel force; 
And so God speed him to his sovereign's side ! 
Give me your hand; and whether all awake 
Or all a-dreaming, ride, Clotaldo, ride — 
Dream-swift — for fear we dreams should overtake. 

(A Battle may be supposed to take place; after which) 



Scene II. — A wooded pass near the Held of battle: drums, trumpets, 
firing, etc. Cries of 'God save Basilio ! Segismund,' etc. 

Enter Fife, running 
Fife. God save them both, and save them all ! say 
I!— 
Oh — what hot work ! — Whichever way one turns 
The whistling bullet at one's ears — I've drifted 
Far from my mad young — master — whom I saw 
Tossing upon the very crest of battle, 
Beside the Prince — God save her first of all ! 
With all my heart I say and pray — and so 
Commend her to His keeping — bang ! — bang ! — bang ! — 



64 CALDERON 

And for myself — scarce worth His thinking of — 
I'll see what I can do to save myself 
Behind this rock, until the storm blows over. 

(Skirmishes, shouts, firing, etc. After some time enter 
King Basilio, Astolfo, and Clotaldo.) 

King. The day is lost ! 

Ast. Do not despair — the rebels — 

King. Alas ! the vanquish'd only are the rebels. 

Clotaldo. Ev'n if this battle lost us, 'tis but one 
Gain'd on their side, if you not lost in it ; 
Another moment and too late: at once 
Take horse, and to the capital, my liege, 
Where in some safe and holy sanctuary 
Save Poland in your person. 

Ast. Be persuaded : 

You know your son : have tasted of his temper ; 
At his first onset threatening unprovoked 
The crime predicted for his last and worst. 
How whetted now with such a taste of blood, 
And thus far conquest ! 

King. Ay, and how he fought ! 

Oh how he fought, Astolfo ; ranks of men 
Falling as swathes of grass before the mower ; 
I could but pause to gaze at him, although, 
Like the pale horseman of the Apocalypse, 
Each moment brought him nearer — Yet I say, 
I could but pause and gaze on him, and pray 
Poland had such a warrior for her king. 

Ast. The cry of triumph on the other side 
Gains ground upon us here — there's but a moment 
For you, my liege, to do, for me to speak, 
Who back must to the field, and what man may 
Do, to retrieve the fortune of the day. (Firing.) 

Fife (falling forward, shot). Oh, Lord, have mercy 
on me. 

King. What a shriek — 
Oh, some poor creature wounded in a cause 
Perhaps not worth the loss of one poor life ! — 
So young too — and no soldier — 



LIFE IS A DREAM 65 

Fife. A poor lad, 

Who choosing play at hide and seek with death, 
Just hid where death just came to look for him; 
For there's no place, I think, can keep him out, 
Once he's his eye upon you. All grows dark — 
You glitter finely too — Well — we are dreaming — 
But when the bullet's off — Heaven save the mark ! 
So tell my mister — mastress — (Dies.) 

King. Oh God ! How this poor creature's ignorance 
Confounds our so-call'd wisdom ! Even now 
When death has stopt his lips, the wound through which 
His soul went out, still with its bloody tongue 
Preaching how vain our struggle against fate ! 

(Voices within). After them! After them! This 
way ! This way ! 
The day is ours — Down with Basilio, etc. 

Ast. Fly, sir — 

King. And slave-like flying not out-ride 

The fate which better like a King abide ! 

Enter Segismund, Rosaura, Soldiers, etc. 

Seg. Where is the King? 

King (prostrating himself). Behold him, — by this late 
Anticipation of resistless fate, 
Thus underneath your feet his golden crown, 
And the white head that wears it, laying down, 
His fond resistance hope to expiate. 

Seg. Princes and warriors of Poland — you 
That stare on this unnatural sight aghast, 
Listen to one who, Heaven-inspired to do 
What in its secret wisdom Heaven forecast, 
By that same Heaven instructed prophet-wise 
To justify the present in the past. 
What in the sapphire volume of the skies 
Is writ by God's own finger misleads none, 
But him whose vain and misinstructed eyes, 
They mock with misinterpretation, 
Or who, mistaking what he rightly read, 
111 commentary makes, or misapplies 
Thinking to shirk or thwart it. Which has done 

vol. xxvi — 3 hc 



66 CALDERON 

The wisdom of this venerable head; 

Who, well provided with the secret key 

To that gold alphabet, himself made me, 

Himself, I say, the savage he fore-read 

Fate somehow should be charged with ; nipp'd the growth 

Of better nature in constraint and sloth, 

That only bring to bear the seed of wrong 

And turn'd the stream to fury whose out-burst 

Had kept his lawful channel uncoerced, 

And fertilized the land he flow'd along. 

Then like to some unskilful duellist, 

Who having over-reached himself pushing too hard 

His foe, or but a moment off his guard — 

What odds, when Fate is one's antagonist ! — 

Nay, more, this royal father, self-dismay'd 

At having Fate against himself array'd, 

Upon himself the very sword he knew 

Should wound him, down upon his bosom drew, 

That might well handled, well have wrought ; or, kept 

Undrawn, have harmless in the scabbard slept. 

But Fate shall not by human force be broke, 

Nor foil'd by human feint ; the Secret learn'd 

Against the scholar by that master turn'd 

Who to himself reserves the master-stroke. 

Witness whereof this venerable Age, 

Thrice crown'd as Sire, and Sovereign, and Sage, 

Down to the very dust dishonour'd by 

The very means he tempted to defy 

The irresistible. And shall not I, 

Till now the mere dumb instrument that wrought 

The battle Fate has with my father fought, 

Now the mere mouth-piece of its victory — 

Oh, shall not I, the champion's sword laid down, 

Be yet more shamed to wear the teacher's gown, 

And, blushing at the part I had to play, 

Down where that honour'd head I was to lay 

By this more just submission of my own, 

The treason Fate has forced on me atone ? 

King. Oh, Segismund, in whom I see indeed, 
Out of the ashes of my self-extinction 



LIFE IS A DREAM 67 

A better self revive ; if not beneath 
Your feet, beneath your better wisdom bow'd, 
The Sovereignty of Poland I resign, 
With this its golden symbol ; which if thus 
Saved with its silver head inviolate, 
Shall nevermore be subject to decline; 
But when the head that it alights on now 
Falls honour'd by the very foe that must, 
As all things mortal, lay it in the dust, 
Shall star-like shift to his successor's brow. 

Shouts, trumpets, etc. God save King Segismund ! 

Seg. For what remains — 

As for my own, so for my people's peace, 
Astolfo's and Estrella's plighted hands 
I disunite, and taking hers to mine, 
His to one yet more dearly his resign. 

Shouts, etc. God save Estrella, Queen of Poland! 

Seg. {to Clotaldo). You 

That with unflinching duty to your King, 
Till countermanded by the mightier Power, 
Have held your Prince a captive in the tower, 
Henceforth as strictly guard him on the throne 
No less my people's keeper than my own. 4 

You stare upon me all, amazed to hear 
The word of civil justice from such lips 
As never yet seem'd tuned to such discourse. 
But listen — In that same enchanted tower, 
Not long ago I learn'd it from a dream 
Expounded by this ancient prophet here ; 
And which he told me, should it come again, 

*In Calderon's drama, the Soldier who liberates Segismund meets with 
even worse recompense than in the version below. I suppose some such 
saving clause against prosperous treason was necessary in the days of 
Philip IV., if not later. 

Capt. And what for him, my liege, who made you free 
To honour him who held you prisoner? 

Seg. By such self-proclamation self-betray'd 
Less to your Prince's service or your King's 
Loyal, than to the recompence it brings; 
The tower he leaves I make you keeper of 
For life — and, mark you, not to leave alive; 
For treason may, but not the traitor, thrive. 



68 CALDERON 

How I should bear myself beneath it ; not 
As then with angry passion all on fire, 
Arguing and making a distemper'd soul ; 
But ev'n with justice, mercy, self-control, 
As if the dream I walk'd in were no dream, 
And conscience one day to account for it. 
A dream it was in which I thought myself, 
And you that hail'd me now then hail'd me King, 
In a brave palace that was all my own, 
Within, and all without it, mine; until, 
Drunk with excess of majesty and pride, 
Methought I tower'd so high and swell'd so wide, 
That of myself I burst the glittering bubble, 
That my ambition had about me blown, 
And all again was darkness. Such a dream 
As this in which I may be walking now; 
Dispensing solemn justice to you shadows, 
Who make believe to listen ; but anon, 
With all your glittering arms and equipage, 
King, princes, captains, warriors, plume and steel, 
Ay, ev'n with all your airy theatre, 
May flit into the air you seem to rend 
With acclamation, leaving me to wake 
In the dark tower ; or dreaming that I wake 
From this that waking is ; or this and that 
Both waking or both dreaming; such a doubt 
Confounds and clouds our mortal life about. 
And, whether wake or dreaming, this I know, 
How dream-wise human glories come and go ; 
Whose momentary tenure not to break, 
Walking as one who knows he soon may wake, 
So fairly carry the full cup, so well 
Disorder'd insolence and passion quell, 
That there be nothing after to upbraid 
Dreamer or doer in the part he play'd, 
Whether To-morrow's dawn shall break the spell, 
Or the Last Trumpet of the eternal Day, 
When Dreaming with the Night shall pass away 

[Exeunt. 



POLYEUCTE 

BY 
PIERRE CORNEILLE 

TRANSLATED BY 
THOMAS CONSTABLE 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE 

Pierre Corneille was born in Rouen in 1606, the son of an 
official; was educated by the Jesuits, and practised unsuccessfully 
as a lawyer. His dramatic career began with the comedy of 
"M elite," but it was by his "Medce" that he first proved his 
tragic genius. "The Cid" appeared in 1636, and a series of 
masterpieces followed — "Horace," "China," "Polyeucte," "Le 
Menteur." After a failure in "Pertharite" he retired from the 
stage, deeply hurt by the disapproval of his audience. Six years 
later he resumed play-writing with "CEdipe" and continued till 
1674, producing in all some thirty plays. Though he earned a 
great reputation, he was poorly paid; and a proud and sensitive 
nature laid him open to considerable suffering. He died in 1684. 

The works of Corneille represent most fully the ideal of 
French so-called "classical" tragedy. The laws to which this 
type of tragedy sought to conform were not so much truth to 
nature as the principles which the critics had derived from a 
somewhat inadequate interpretation of Aristotle and of the prac- 
tise of the Greek tragedians. These principles concentrated the 
interest of the play upon a single central situation, in order to 
emphasise which, subordinate characters and complicating under- 
plots were avoided as much as possible. There was little or no 
action upon the stage, and the events of the plot were narrated 
by messengers, or by the main characters in conversation with 
confidantes. Further, the "dramatic unities" of time and place, 
as well as of action, were held to be binding. 

One result of these rules was to give an extraordinary impor- 
tance to the speeches ; and it is in the eloquence of these, in the 
grandeur and dignity of the versification, and in the lofty moral 
elevation of the characters that Corneille excels. All of these 
qualities are admirably exemplified in "Polyeucte" ; and in the 
conduct of the leading personages one may perceive the most 
persistent trait of this dramatist's treatment of heroic character 
— the conquest of the passions by the reason and the will. 
"Among the masterpieces of Corneille," says Paul de Saint- 
Victor, '"Polyeucte' is assuredly the greatest; and nothing in 
all his dramas equals the extraordinary beauty of the character 
of 'Pauline'" 

70 



POLYEUCTE 



CHARACTERS 

Felix, Governor of Armenia. 

Polyeucte, an Armenian noble, son-in-law to Felix. 

Severus, a Roman Knight, favourite of the Emperor Deems. 

Nearchus, an Armenian noble, friend to Polyeucte. 

Pauline, daughter to Felix, wife to Polyeucte. 

Stratonice, companion to Pauline. 

Albin, friend to Felix. 

Fabian, servant to Severus. 

Cleon, friend to Felix. 

Three Guards. 

The Scene is at Melitena, capital of Armenia. 
The action takes place in the Palace of Felix. 

ACT I 
Polyeucte. Nearchus 
Nearchus 

SHALL woman's dream of terror hurl the dart? 
Oh, feeble weapon 'gainst so great a heart ! 
Must courage proved a thousand times in arms 
Bow to a peril forged by vain alarms ? 

Poly. I know that dreams are born to fade away, 
And melt in air before the light of day; 
I know that misty vapours of the night 
Dissolve and fly before the morning bright. 
The dream is naught — but the dear dreamer — all ! 
She has my soul, Nearchus, fast in thrall ; 
Who holds the marriage torch — august, divine, 
Bids me to her sweet voice my will resign. 
She fears my death — tho' baseless this her fright, 
Pauline is wrung with fear — by day — by night; 
My road to duty hampered by her fears, 
71 



72 CORNEILLE 

How can I go when all undried her tears? 
Her terror I disown — and all alarms, 
Yet pity holds me in her loving arms : 
No bolts or bars imprison, — yet her sighs 
My fetters are — my conquerors, her eyes ! 
Say, kind Nearchus, is the cause you press 
Such as to make me deaf to her distress? 
The bonds I slacken I would not unloose — 
Nothing I yield — yet grant a timely truce. 

Near. How grant you know not what ? Are you assured 
Of constancy ? — as one who has endured ? 
God claims your soul for Him ! — Now ! Now ! To-day ! 
The fruit to-morrow yields — oh, who shall say ? 
Our God is just, but do His grace and power 
Descend on recreants with equal shower? 
On darkened souls His flame of light He turns, 
Yet flame neglected soon but faintly burns, 
And dying embers fade to ashes cold 
If we the heart His spirit wooes withhold. 
Great Heaven retains the fire no longer sought, 
While ashes turn to dust, and dust to naught. 
His holy baptism He bids thee seek, — 
Neglect the call, and the desire grows weak. 
Ah ! whilst from woman's breast thou heedst the sighs, 
The flame first flickers, then, untended — dies ! 

Poly. You know me ill, — 'tis mine, that holy fire, 
Fed, not extinguished, by unslaked desire ; 
Her tears — I view them with a lover's eye ; 
And yet your Christ is mine — a Christian I ! 
The healing, cleansing flood o'er me shall flow, 
I would efface the stain from birth I owe ; 
I would be pure — my sealed eyes would see ! 
The birthright Adam lost restored to me — 
This, this, the unfading crown ! For this I yearn, 
For that exhaustless fount I thirst, I burn. 
Then, since my heart is true, Nearchus, say — 
Shall I not grant to pity this delay ? 

Neak. So doth the ghostly foe our souls abuse, 
And all beyond his force he gains by ruse ; 
He hates the purpose fast he cannot foil, — 



POLYEUCTE 73 

Then he retreats — retreats but to recoil ! 

In endless barricade obstruction piles, — 

To-day 'tis tears impede, to-morrow — smiles ! 

And this poor dream — his coinage of the night — 

Gives place to other lures, all falsely bright : 

All tricks he knows and uses — threats and prayers — 

Attacks in parley — as the Parthian dares. 

In chain unheeded weakest link must fail, 

So fortress yet unwon he'll mount and scale. 

O break his bonds ! Let feeble woman weep ! 

The heart that God has touched 'tis God must keep ! 

Who looks behind to dally with his choice 

When Heaven demands — obeys another" voice ! 

Poly. Who loves thy Christ — say, must he love no other? 

Near. He may — he must ! 'Tis Christ says, ' Love thy 
brother,' 
Yet on the altar of the Heavenly King 
No rival place, no alien incense fling ! 
Through Him — by Him — for Him — all goodness know ! 
'Tis from the source alone each stream must flow. 
To please Him, wife, and wealth, and rank, and state 
Must be forsaken — strait the heavenly gate. 
Poor silly sheep ! afar you err and stray 
From Him who is The Life, The Truth, The Way ! 
My grief chokes utterance ! I see your fate, 
As round the fold the hungry wolves of hate 
Closer and fiercer rage : from sword and flame 
One shelter for His flock — one only Name ! 
The Cross alone our victor over fears, 
Not this thy strength, — thy plea — a woman's tears ! 

Poly. I know thy heart ! It is mine own — the tear 
My pity drops hath ne'er a taint of fear ! 
Who dreads not torture, yet — to give relief 
To her he loves, perforce must ease her grief ! 
If Heaven should claim my life, my death, my all, — 
Then Heaven will give the strength to heed the call. 
The shepherd guides me surely to the fold, 
There, safe with Him, 'tis He will make me bold ! 

Near. Be bold ! O come ! 

Poly. Yes, let thy faith be mine ! 



74 CORNEILLE 

There — at his feet — do I my life resign 

If but Pauline — my love — would give consent! 

Else heaven were hell, and home but banishment ! 

Near. Come ! — to return. Thrice welcome to her 
sight, 
To see thee safe will double her delight: 
As the pierced cloud unveils a brighter sun, — 
So is her joy enhanced — thy glory won! 
O come, they wait ! 

Poly. Appease her fear ! Ah, this 

Alone will give her rest — her lover bliss. 
She comes ! 

Near. Then fly ! 

Poly. I cannot ! 

Near. To deny 

Would yield thine enemy the victory ! 
He loves to kill, and knows his deadliest dart 
Finds friend within the fort — thy traitor heart ! 



Enter Pauline and Stratonice 

Poly. I needs must go, Pauline ! My love, good-bye ! 
I go but to return — for thine am I ! 

Paul. Oh, why this haste to leave a loving wife? 
Doth honour call? — or fear'st thou for thy life? 

Poly. For more, a thousandfold ! 

Paul. Great Gods above ! 

Poly. Thou hast my heart ! Let this content thy love ! 

Paul. You love and yet you leave me. What am I ? 
Not mine to solve the dreary mystery ! 

Poly. I love thee more than self — than life — than fame — 
But 

Paul. There is something that thou dar'st not name. 
Oh, on my knees I supplicate, I pray, 
Remove my darkness ! — turn my night to day ! 

Poly. Oh, dreams are naught ! 

Paul. Yet, when they tell of thee, 

I needs must listen, for I love ! Ah me ! 

Poly. Take courage, dear one, 'tis but for an hour, 
Thy love must draw me back, for love hath power 



POLYEUCTE 75 

O'er all in earth and heaven. My soul's delight, 
I can no more ! My only safety — flight ! 

{Exeunt Polyeucte and Nearchus. 

Paul. Yes, go, despise my prayer — my agony ; 
Go, ruthless — meet thy fate — forewarned by me; 
Chase thy pursuer, herald thine own doom ; 
Go, kiss the murderer's hand, and hail the tomb ! 
Ah, Stratonice ! for our boasted power 
As sovereigns o'er man's heart ! Poor regents of an hour ! 
Faint, helpless, moonbeam-light was all I gave, 
The sun breaks forth — his queen becomes his slave ! 
Wooed ? Yes ; as other queens I held my court — 
Won — but to lose my crown, and be the sport 
Of proud, absorbing and imperious man ! 

Strat. Ah, man does what he wills — we, what we can; 
He loves thee, lady ! 

Paul. Love should mate with trust ; 

He leaves me ! 

Strat. Lady, 'tis because he must ! 

He loves thee with a love will never die, 
Then, if he leave thee, reason not the why: 
Give him thy trust ! Oh, thou shalt have reward, 
For thee he hides the secret ! Let him guard 
Thy life beloved — in fullest liberty. 
The wife who wholly trusts alone is free ! 
One heart for thee and him — one purpose sure, 
Yet this heart beats to dare — and to endure. 
The wife's true heart must o'er the peril sigh 
Which meets his heart moved but to purpose high; 
Thy pain his pain, but not his terror thine : 
He is Armenian, thou of Roman line. 
We, of Armenia, mock thy dreams to scorn, 
For they are born of night, as truth of morn ; 
While Romans hold that dreams are heaven-sent, 
And spring from Jove for man's admonishment. 

Paul. Though this thy faith — if thou my dream shouldst 
hear — 
My grief must needs be thine, thy fear my fear, 
And, that the horror thou may'st fully prove, 
Know that I — his dear wife — did once another love ! 



76 CORNEILLE 

Nay, start not, shrink not, 'tis no tale of shame, 

For though in other years the heavenly flame 

Descended, kindled, scorched — it left me pure — 

With courage to resign — with strength to endure. 

He touched my heart, but never stained the soul 

That gained this hardest conquest — self-control. 

At Rome — where I was born — a soldier's eye 

Marked this poor face, from which must Polyeucte fly; 

Severus was his name : — Ah ! memory 

May spare love linked with death a tear, a sigh ! 

Strat. Say, is it he who, at the risk of life, 
Saved Decius from his foes and endless strife? 
Who, dying, dealt to Persia stroke of death, 
And shouted ' Victory ! ' with his latest breath ? 
His whitening bones, amid the nameless brave, 
Lie still unfound, unknown, without a grave ; 
Unburied lies his dust amid the slain, 
While Decius rears an empty urn in vain ! 

Paul. Alas ! 'tis he ; all Rome attests his worth, — 
Hide not his memory, kindly Mother Earth ! 
'Tis but his memory that I adore — 
The past is past — and I can say no more. 
All gifts save one had he — yes, Fortune held her hand, 
And I, as Fortune's slave, obeyed my sire's command. 

Strat. Ah ! I must wish that love the day had won ! 

Paul. Which duty lost — then had I been undone; 
Though duty gave, yet duty healed, my pain ; 
Yet say not that my love was weak or vain ! 
Our tears fell fast, yet ne'er bore our distress 
The fatal fruit of strife and bitterness. 
Then, then, I left my hero, hope and Rome, 
And, far from him, I found another home ; 
While he, in his despair, sought sure relief 
In death, the only end to life's long grief ! 
You know the rest : — you know that Polyeucte's eye 
Was caught, — his fancy pleased ; his wife am I. 
Once more by counsel of my father led, 
To Armenia's greatest noble am I wed; 
Ambition, prudence, policy his guide. 
Yet only duty made Pauline his bride; 



POLYEUCTE 77 

Love might have bound me to Severus' heart, 
Had duty not enforced a sterner part. 
Yes, let these fears attest, all trembling for his life, 
That I am his for aye — his faithful, loving wife. 

Strat. Thy new love true and tender as the old:— 
But this thy dream ? No more thy tale withhold ! 

Paul. Last night I saw Severus: but his eye 
With anger blazed ; his port was proud and high, 
No suppliant he — no feeble, formless shade, 
With dim, averted eye ; no sword had made 
My hero lifeless ghost. Nor wound, nor scar 
Marked death his only conqueror in war. 
Nor spoil of death, nor memory's child was he, 
His mien triumphant, full of majesty ! 
So might victorious Caesar near his home 
To claim the key to every heart in Rome ! 
He spoke : in nameless awe I heard his voice, — 
' Give love, that is my due, to him — thy choice, — 
But know, oh faithless one, ere day expires, 
All vain these tears for him thy heart desires ! ' 
Anon a Christian band (an impious horde), 
With shameful cross in hand, attest his word; 
They vouch Severus' truth — and, to complete 
My doom, hurl Polyeucte beneath his feet ! 
I cried, ' O father, timely succour bear ! ' 
He heard, he came, my grief was now despair ! 
He drew his dagger — plunged it in the breast 
Of him, my husband, late his honoured guest ! 
Relief came but from agony supreme — 
I shrieked — I writhed — I woke — it was a dream ! 
And yet my dream is true ! 

Strat. 'Tis true your dream is sad, 

But now you are awake, 'tis but a dream you had ! 
For horror's prey in darkness of the night 
Is but our reason's sport in morning light. 
How can you dread a shade ? How a fond father fear, 
Who as a son regards the man you hold so dear ? 
To phantom of the night no credence yield ; 
For him and you he chose thy strength and shield. 

Paul. You say his words : at all my fears he smiles, 



78 CORNEILLE 

But I must dread these Christians and their wiles ! 
I dread their vengeance, wreaked upon my lord, 
For Christian blood my father has outpoured ! 

Strat. Their sect is impious, mad, absurd and vain, 
Their rites repulsive, as their cult profane. 
Deride their altar, their weak frenzy ban, 
Yet do they war with gods and not with man ! 
Relentless wills our law that they must die : 
Their joy — endurance; death — their ecstasy; 
Judged — by decree, the foes of human race, 
Meekly their heads they bow — to court disgrace 1 

Paul. My father comes — oh, peace ! 

Enter Felix and Albin 

Felix. Nay, peace is flown ! 
Thy dream begets dull fears, till now unknown ; 
In part this dream is true, and for the rest 

Paul. By what new fear, say, is thy heart opprest? 

Felix. Severus lives ! 

Paul. Ah ! this no cause for fear ! 

Felix. At Decius' court, he, held in honour dear, 
Risked life to save his Emperor from his foes, 
'Tis to his saviour Decius honour shows ! 

Paul. Thus fickle Fortune bows her head to fate, 
And pays the honour due, though all too late ! 

Felix. He comes ! Is near 

Paul. The gods 

Felix. Do all things well. 

Paul. My dream fulfilled ! But how ? O father, tell ! 

Felix. Let Albin speak, who saw him face to face 
With tribe of courtiers ; all to him give place ; 
Unscathed in battle, all extol his fame, 
Unstained, undimmed, his glory, life and name ! 

Albin. You know the issue of that glorious fight: 
The crowning glory his — who, in despite 
Of danger sore to life and liberty, 
Became a slave to set his Emperor free: 
Rome gave her honours to Severus' shade, 
Whilst he, her ransomer, in a dungeon stayed. 
His death they mourned above ten thousand slain, 



POLYEUCTE 79 

While Persia held him — yes, their tears were vain, 
But not in vain his noble sacrifice! 
The king released him : Rome grudged not the price ; 
No Persian bribe could tempt him from his home. 
When Decius cried — 'Fight once again for Rome!' 
Again he fights — he leads — all others hope resign; 
But from despair's deep breast he plucks a star benign, 
This — hope's fair fruit, contentment, plenty, ease, 
Brings joy from grief, to crown a lasting peace. 
The Emperor holds him as his dearest friend, 
And doth Severus to Armenia send — 
To offer up to Mars, and mighty Jove, 
'Mid feast and sacrifice, his thanks and love. 

Felix. Ah, Fortune, turn thy wheel, else I misfortune 
meet ! 

Albin. This news I learn'd from one of great Severus' suite: 
Thence, swiftly here, the tale to tell I sped. 

Felix. He who once vainly wooed, hopes now to wed. 
The sacrifice, the offering, all are feigned, 
All but the suit, which lightly I disdained. 

Paul. Yes, this may be, for ah ! he loved me well ! 

Felix. What room for hope? Such wrath is child of hell. 
Before his righteous ire I shrink, I cower; 
Revenge I dread — and vengeance linked with power 
Unnerves me quite. 

Paul. Fear not, his soul is great. 

Felix. Thy comfort, oh my daughter, comes too late. 
The thought to crush me down, to turn my heart to stone, 
This, that I prized not worth for worth's dear sake alone ! 
Too well, Pauline, thou hast thy sire obeyed; 
Thy heart was fond, but duty love betrayed. 
How surely thy revolt had safety won ! 
'Tis thine obedience leaves us all undone. 
In thee, in thee alone, one hope remains, 
Love held him fast, relax not thou love's chains. 
O Love, my sometime foe, forgive, be mine ally, 
And let the dart that slew now bring the remedy ! 

Paul. Forbid it, Heaven ! One good yet mine, — my will, 
The dart that wounded has the power to kill. 
One lesson woman learns — her feebleness; 



80 CORNEILLE 

Shame is the only grief without redress. 
The traitor heart shall still a prisoner be ; 
For freedom were disgrace to thee and me! 
/ will not see him ! 

Felix. But one word! Be kind! 

Paul. I will not, for I love ! — and love is blind. 
Before his kingly eye my soul to unveil 
Were shame and failure : and I will not fail : 
/ will not see him ! 

Felix. One word more — ' Obey ! ' 

Wouldst thou thy father and his weal betray? 

Paul. I yield ! Come woe ! — come shame ! — come every ill ! 
My father thou ! — and I thy daughter still ! 

Felix. I know thee pure. 

Paul. And pure I will remain, 

But, crushed and bruised, the flower no guilt shall stain. 
I fear the combat that I may not fly, — 
Hard-won the fight, and dear the victory. 
Here, love, my curse ! Here, dearest friend, my foe ! 
Yet will I arm me! Father, I would go 
To steel my heart — all weapons to embrace ! 

Felix. I too will go, the conqueror's march to grace ! 
Restore thy strength, ere yet it be too late, 
And know that in thy hands thou hold'st our fate ! 

Paul. Go, broken heart, to probe thy wound ; cut deep and 
do not spare ! 
Herself — the crowning sacrifice — the victim shall prepare ! 



ACT II 

Severus. Fabian 
Sev. Let Felix bow to Jove and incense pour, — 
I seek a dearer shrine, for I adore 
Nor Jove, nor Mars, nor Fortune — but Pauline. 
This fruit now ripening late my hand would glean: 
You know, my friend, the god who wings my way, — 
You know the only goddess I obey : 
What reck the gods on high our sacrifice and prayer? 
An earthly worship mine, sole refuge from despair ! 



POLYEUCTE 81 



Fabian. Ah ! You may see her- 



Sev. Blessed be thy tongue! 

O magic word, that turns my grief to song ! 
Yet, if she now forget each fair, fond vow? 
She loved me once, — but does she love me now? 
On that sweet face shall I but trouble see — 
Who hope for love undimmed, for ecstasy? 
Great Decius gives her hand, but if her heart 
Be mine no more — than let vain hope depart ! 
This mandate binds her father only; she 
Shall give no captive hand — her heart is free: 
No promise wrung, no king's command be mine to claim, 
Her love the boon I crave : all else an empty name ! 

Fabian. Yes, — you may — see her — sec her — this you 
may — 

Sev. Thy speech is halting — odious thy delay ! 
She loves no more? I grope! O give me light! 

Fabian. O see her not, for painful were the sight ! 
In Rome each matron's kind ! In Rome all maids are fair ! 
Let lips meet other lips — seek for caresses there ! 
No stately Claudia will refuse — no Julia proud disdain ; 
A hero captures every heart, from Antioch to Spain ! 

Sev. To wed a queen — an empress — were only loss and 
shame ; 
One heart for me — Pauline's ! One boast — that dearest 

name ! 
Her love was virgin gold ! O ne'er shall baser metal ring 
From mine, who live her name to bless ! her peerless praise 

to sing ! 
O, words are naught, till that I see her face, — 
Then doubly naught till I my love embrace. 
In every war my hope was placed in death, 
Her name upon my lips at every breath : 
My rank, my fame, now hers and hers alone, 
What is not hers, hers only — I disown ! 

Fabian. Once more, oh see her not, 'twere for thy peace ! 

Sev. Thy meaning, knave, or let this babble cease ! 
Say, was she cold ? My love ! My only life ! 

Fabian. No — but — my lord 

Sev. Say on ! 



82 CORNEILLE 

Fabian. Another's wife! 

Sev. (Reels.) Help! — No, I will not blench — ah, say you 
lie! 
If this be true! — ye gods — can I be I? 

Fabian. No, thou art changed. Where is thy courage 
fled? 

Sev. I know not, Fabian. Lost ! Gone ! Vanished ! Dead ! 
I thought my strength was oak — 'tis but a reed! 
Pauline is wed, then am I lost indeed! 
Hope hid beyond the cloud, yet still fond hope was there: 
But now all hope is dead, lives only black despair ! 
Pauline another's wife? 

Fabian. Yes, Polyeucte is her lord. 

He came, he saw, he conquered thine adored. 

Sev. Her choice is not unworthy — his a name 
Illustrious, from a line of kings he came — 
Cold comfort for a wound no cure can heal ! 
My cause is lost, — foredoomed without appeal! 
Malignant Jove, to drag me back to-day ! 
Relentless Fate, to quench hope's dawning ray ! 
Take back your gifts ! One boon alone I crave, 
That only boon to none denied — the grave. 
Yet would I see her, breathe one last good-bye, 
Would hear once more that voice before I die ! 
My latest breath would still my homage pay, — 
That memory mine, when lost to realms of day. 

Fabian. Yet think, my lord 

Sev. Oh, I have thought of all; 

What worser ill can dull despair befall? 
She will not see me? 

Fabian. Yes, my lord, but 

Sev. Cease ! 

Fabian. 'Twill but enhance the grief I would appease 

Sev. For hopeless ill, good friend, I seek no cure. 
Who welcomes death can life's short pain endure ! 

Fabian. O lost indeed, if round her fatal light you 
hover ! — 
The lover, losing all, speaks hardly like a lover ! 
While passion still is lord — the passion-swept is slave — 
From this last bitterness would I Severus save ! 



POLYEUCTE 83 

Sev. That word, my friend, unsay ; tho' grief this bosom 
tear, 
The hand that wounds I kiss — love vanquishes despair; 
Fate only, not Pauline, the foe that I accuse, 
No plighted faith she breaks who did this hand refuse. 
Duty — her father — Fate — these willed, she but obeyed; 
Not hers the woe, the strife that envious Ate made ! 
Untimely, Fortune's shower must drown me, not revive; 
Too lavish and too late her fatal gifts arrive. 
The golden apple falls, the gold is turned to dross : 
When Fate at Fortune mocks, all gain is only loss ! 

Fabian. Yes, I will go to tell her thou hast drained 
To the last drop the cup that Fate ordained. 
She knows thee hero, but she feared that pain 
Might prove thee also man — by passion slain. 
She feared Despair, who gains the victory 
O'er other men, might e'en thy master be ! 

Sev. Peace ! Peace ! She comes ! 

Fabian. To thine own self be true ! 

Sev. Nay! True to her ! Shall I her life undo? 
She loves the Armenian ! 

Enter Pauline 
Paul. Yes, that debt I pay, 

Hard-wrung, acquitted, — his my love alway ! 
Who has my hand, he holds — shall hold — my heart ! 
Truth is my guide, — let sophistry depart! 
Had Fate been kind, then had Pauline been thine, 
Heart, faith and duty, linked with bliss divine. 
In vain had fickle Fortune barred the way, 
Want had been wealth with thee, my guide, my stay, 
And poverty had fallen from the wings 
Of soaring love, who mocks the wealth of kings ! 
Not mine to choose, for he — my father's choice — 
Must needs be mine; yes, when I heard his voice, 
Duty must echo be : if thou couldst cast 
Before my feet an emperor's crown, — a past 
By worth and glory lit — beloved, adored — 
Yet at my father's word, ' Not this thy lord ; 
Take one despised — nay, loathed — to share thy bed,' — 



84 CORNEILLE 

Him, and not thee, beloved, would I wed. 
Duty, obedience, must have been the part 
Of me, who own their sway, e'en with a broken heart! 

Sev. O happy thou ! O easy remedy ! 
One poor faint sigh cures love's infirmity ! 
Thy heart thy tool, o'er every passion queen, 
Beyond all change and chance thou sit'st serene ! 
In easy flow can pass thy love new-born 
From cold indifference to colder scorn; 
Such resolution is the equal mate 
Of god or monster, love, aversion, hate. 
This fine-spun adamant Ithuriel's spear 
Could never pierce : for other stuff is here ! 

[Points to himself. 
No faint 'Alas !' no swift-repented sigh 
Can heal the cureless wound from which I die. 
Sure, reason finds that love his easy prey 
With Lethe aye at hand to point the way ; 
With ordered fires like thine, I too could smother 
A heart in leash, find solace in another. 
Too fair, too dear — from whom the Fates me sever! 
Thou hast no heart to give — thou lov'dst me never ! 

Paul. Too plain, Severus, I my torture show, — 
Tho' flame leap up no more, the embers glow ; 
Far other speech and voice, and mien were mine, 
Could I forget that once thou call'dst me thine ! 
Tho' reason rules, yes, gains the mastery — 
No queen benignant, but a tyrant she ! 
Oh, if I conquer — if the strife I gain, 
Yet memory for aye is linked with pain ! 
I feel the charm that binds me still to thee; 
If duty great, yet great thy worth to me: 
I see thee still the same, who waked the fire 
Which waked in me ineffable desire. 
Begirt by crown of everlasting fame 
Thou art more glorious — yet art still the same. 
I know thy valour's worth, — well hast thou justified 
That bounding hope of mine, though fruitage was denied, 
Yet this same fate which did our union ban 
Hath made me, fated — wed another man. 



POLYEUCTE 85 

Let Duty still be queen ! Yea, let her break 
The heart she pierces, yet can never shake. 
The virtue, once thy pride in days gone by — 
Doth that same worth now merit blasphemy? 
Bewail her bitter fruit — but praised be 
The rights that triumph over thee and me ! 

Sev. Forgive, Pauline, forgive; ah! grief hath made me blind 
To all but grief's excess, and fortune most unkind. 
Forgive that I mistook — nay, treated as a crime — 
Thy constancy of soul, unequalled and sublime : 
In pity for my life forlorn, my peace denied, 
Ah ! show thyself less fair, — one least perfection hide ! 
Let some alloy be seen, some saving weakness left, 
Take pity on a heart of thee and Heaven bereft ! 
One faintest flaw reveal, to give my soul relief ! 
Else, how to bear the love that only mates with grief? 

Paul. Alas ! the rents in armour donned and proved 
Too well my fight proclaim; yes, I have loved; 
The traitor sigh, the tear unbid, attest 
The combat fierce — the warrior sore distrest. 
Say, who can stanch these wounds, that armour mend? 
Thou who hast pierced, thou, thou alone defend ! 
Ah, if thou honourest my victory — 
Depart, that thou may'st still defender be ! 
So dry the tears that, to my shame, still flow — 
So quench the fire would work my overthrow ! 
Yes, go, my only friend, with me combine 
To end my torture, for thy pain is mine ! 

Sev. This last poor drop of comfort may not be? 

Paul. The cup is poisoned both for me and thee ! 

Sev. The flower is gone — I cherish but the root ! 

Paul. Untimely blossom bears a fated fruit ! 

Sev. My grief be mine ! Let memory remain ! 

Paul. That grief might hope beget, so leave a stain ! 

Sev. Not mine to stain what Heaven hath made so pure ! 
For me one offering left : 'tis this : Endure ! 
Thy glory shall be mine, my load I bear, 
So, spotless, thou thy peerless crown shalt wear ! 
Farewell, my love, farewell ; I go to prove my faith, 
To bless, to save thy life, so will I mate with death ! 



86 CORNEILLE 

If prostrate from the blow, there yet remains of life 
Enough to summon death, and end the piteous strife ! 

Paul. My grief, too deep for voice, shall silent be, 
There, in my chamber, will I pray for thee! 
When thou art gone, great Heaven shall hear my cry; 
Grief's fruit for thee be hope — death — immortality ! 

Sev. Now with my loss alone let Fate contented be ! 
May Heaven shower bliss and peace on Polyeucte and thee! 

Paul. Stern Fate obeyed, end, Death, his agony, 
And Jove receive my hero — to the sky ! 

Sev. Thou wast my heaven ! 

Paul. My father I obeyed — 

Sev. O victim pure, obedient, undismayed ! 
Pauline — too fair — too dear — I can no more ! 

Paul. So must I say — depart — where I adore ! 

[Exit Severus. 

Strat. Yes, it is hard — most sad — behold my tears ! 
But now, at least, there is no cause for fears : 
Thy dream is but a dream — is naught, is vain; 
Severus pardons. Gone that cause for pain! 

Paul. Oh, if from pity start thy easy tear, 
Add not that other woe — forgotten fear ! 
Ah ! let me breathe, some respite give from trouble, 
Those fears, half-dead, thou dost revive, redouble ! 

Strat. What dost thou dread? 

Paul. Heaven — hell — earth — empty air! 

All, all is food for dread to my despair, 
As thou unveil'st, begirt in lurid light, 
The pallid ghost that slew me in the night! 

Strat. Severus he by name, yet noble in his heart ! 

Paul. Ah, Polyeucte bathed in blood ! Depart ! depart ' 

Strat. For Polyeucte's welfare did Severus pray ! 

Paul. Yes, yes, his heart is great; be that my stay! 
Yet, tho' his truth, his faith, well-proved be, 
Most baleful is his presence here to me; 
Yea, tho' he would all ill for me undo — 
Yet he hath power, he loves — he came to woo. 

Enter Polyeucte and Nearchus 
Poly. The source of tears is dry, oh, weep no more, 



POLYEUCTE 87 

Thy grief lay down, thy fearful heart restore ! 
Let night's dark dream with superstition die, 
The dream is past, for here in life am I ! 

Paul. The day is young, and oh, the day is long, — ■ 
And half the dream is true, and Fate is strong; 
Severus have I seen, who thought him dead ! 

Poly. I know it ! Let no tear for this be shed ! 
Secure with thee am I ! Tho' great the knight, 
Thy father will command to do me right ; 
The general is a man of honour, — he 
Would ne'er that honour dim by treachery ! 
He comes in amity, our friend, our guest; 
To greet his worth and valour now my quest. 

Paul. Radiant he came, who left me hopeless, sad, 
But he will come no more, — this grace I had. 

Poly. What? Thinkest thou that I can jealous be? 

Paul. An outrage this on him, on thee, on me ! 
He came in peace, who all my peace hath marred. 
Who would run safely, every step must guard; 
The wife who danger courts but courts her fall — 
My husband, aid me ! — I would tell thee all ! 
His worth, his charm, do my weak hearth enflame — 
A traitor here ! And he is aye the same ! 
If I should gaze, and long — 'gainst virtue, honour, sense, 
The citadel I yield, and mine my own defence ! 
I know my virtue sure, and fair my fame, 
But struggle is defeat, — and combat shame ! 

Poly. Oh, true thy shield, thy victory is won, 
He only who has lost thee is undone ; 
His noble grief the cost of all my bliss, 
Ah, Cleopatra's pearl was naught to this ! 
The more my faults I see, the more thy truth I learn, 
The more do I admire 

Enter Cleon 

Cleon. My lord, the altars burn 

With holy fire. The victim they prepare ; 
On thee alone they wait, our rites to share. 

Poly. Go, we do follow thee! 

Paul. I cannot go; 



88 CORNEILLE 

Severus flies my sight ; to him I owe 
My absence — not, alas ! to him alone ! 
Go thou, and oh, remember he is great; 
In his sole hands Severus holds thy fate ! 

Poly. A foe so great, so noble, is a friend, 
Oh, not from him the lance that Heaven will send ! 

[Exeunt Pauline, Stratonice and Cleon. 
Near. Where go'st thou? 
Poly. To the temple is the call. 

Near. What! Wouldst thou mingle in their heathen 
brawl ? 
Thou art a Christian, and canst thou forget? 

Poly. Canst thou, who fore mine eyes the cross didst set? 

Near. Not mine their gods ! 

Poly. He calls me ! I must go ! 

Near. I fly their altars ! 

Poly. I would overthrow ! 

Not mine to fly a worship I disown, 
By me Jehovah, King of kings, be known ! 
Not mine to tremble as I kiss the rod ! 
I conquer by the Cross, I fight for God ! 
Thou wouldst abstain ! For me another course — 
From Heaven the call, and Heaven will give the force ! 
What ! Yield to evil ! His Cross on my brow ! 
His freemen we ! O fight, Nearchus, now ! 
For us our Lord was scourged, pierced, tortured, slain ! 
For us He bled ! Say, has He died in vain ? 

Near. Let timely moderation temper zeal ! 

Poly. His — His alone am I ! His woe my weal ! 

Near. In love with death? 

Poly. For Him I love I die! 

He died for me ! So death is victory ! 

Near. Thy flesh is weak ! 

Poly. Yet He will make me bold! 

Near. And if thou waver? 

Poly. He will me uphold ! 

Near. To tempt the Lord thy God were an offence. 

Poly. He is my shield — hence ! cursed tempter, hence J 

Near. In time of need the faith must be confessed. 

Poly. The offering grudged is sacrifice unblessed. 



POLYEUCTE 89 

Near. Seek thou the death thine own self-will prepares ! 

Poly. A crown I seek, which every martyr shares ! 

Near. A life of duty well that crown can win. 

Poly. The purest life on earth is stained with sin. 
Why yield to time and chance what death assures? 
Death but the gate of life that aye endures. 
If I be His — let me be His alone ! 
The faith that soars shall full fruition own; 
Who trusts, yet fears and doubts, his faith is dead ! 

Near. Not death the Christian's prayer, but daily bread. 
Live to protect the flock, so sore oppressed. 

Poly. Example be their friend, most sure, most blessed ! 

Near. Thou woo'st thy death ! 

Poly. Is this poor life so dear? 

Near. Ah, I must own my heart is slave to fear. 
The rack ! The cross ! I might my Lord disown ! 

Poly. From Him our help, our strength, from Him alone ! 
Who fears denial does at heart deny; 
Who doubts the power of faith makes faith a lie! 

Near. Who leans upon a reed shall find distress. 

Poly. His staff will guide, support my feebleness. 
Thou wert my staff, to show the Truth, the Way, 
Must I now urge thee to the realms of day? 
Thou fearest death? 

Near. The Christ once feared to die! 

Poly. Yet drained the bitter cup of agony ! 
The way that thou hast shown — that way He trod; 
His way be ours to lead man's soul to God — 
For heathen shrine — to rear His altar fair, — 
The deathless hope alone can kill despair ! 
Thou said'st: 'If Him thou wilt for pattern take, 
Then leave wife, wealth, home, all for His dear sake ! * 
Alas ! that love of thine, now weak and poor, 
Glows yet within my breast — and shall endure; 
Ah, must the dawn of this my perfect day 
Find thy full light beclouded, dimmed, astray? 

Near. Baptismal waters yet bedew thy brow; 
The grace that once was mine, that grace hast thou , 
No worldly thought has checked the flow, no guilty act has 
stained ; 



90 CORNEILLE 

Thy wings are strong, while mine are weak; thy love is 

fresh, unfeigned, — 
To these, thy heights, I cannot soar, held down by sense and 

sin, 
How can I storm the citadel ? — the traitor lurks within ! 
Forsake me not, my God ! Thy spirit pour ! 
Oh, make me true to Him whom I adore ! 
With Thee I rise, — the flesh, the world, defy, 
Thou, who hast died for me, for Thee I die ! 
Yes, I will go ! With heaven-born zeal I burn, 
I will be free, — all Satan's lures I spurn; 
Death, torture, outrage, these will I embrace, 
To nerve my heart and arm, Heaven grant me grace ! 

Poly. On eagle wings of faith and hope ascend ! 
I hail my master — recognise my friend; 
The old faith wanes, — we light her funeral pyre, 
Her ashes fall before our holy fire ; 

Come, trample under foot the gods that men have wrought; 
The rotten, helpless staff is broke, is gone — is naught. 
Their darkness felt they own, but let them see the light ! 
Their gods of stone, of clay, but vampires of the night ! 
Their dust shall turn to dust, — shall moulder with the sod, 
Ours for His name to fight : — the issue is with God. 

Near. The cause is just, is true — O coward heart, be still ! 
I lived to doubt His word — I die to do His Will ! 



ACT III 

Paul. Cares — clouded and confused — oppress, obscure 
In changeful forms, my eye, my heart, my mind : 
My soul finds room for every guest save one; 
Fair hope has flown, — no star can pierce my night: 
Each tyrant rages 'gainst opposing foe 
In deadly fight — yet brings to light no friend : 
In travail sore hope comes not to the birth — 
Fear hydra-headed terror still begets ; — 
All fancies grim I see, and straight embrace, 
At hope I clutch, who still eludes my grasp ; 
Her rainbow hues adored are but a frame 



POLYEUCTE 91 

That serve by contrast to make fear more dark, 

Severus haunts me — oh, I know his love, 

Yet hopeless love must mate with jealousy, — 

While Polyeucte, who has won what he has lost, 

Can meet no rival with an equal eye. 

The fruit of rivalry is ever hate 

And envy; both must still engender strife: 

One sees that rival hand has grasped his prize, 

The other yearns for prize himself has missed. 

Weak reason naught, when headlong passion reigns, 

For valour seeks a sword, and love — revenge. 

One fears to see the prize he gained impaired, 

The other would that wrested prize regain ; 

While patience, duty, conscience, vail their heads 

'Fore obstinate defence and fierce attack. 

Such steeds no charioteer controls — for they 

Mistake both curb and reign for maddening whip 

Ah ! what a base, unworthy fear is mine ! 

How ill I read these fair, these noble souls, 

Whose virtue must all common snares o'erleap ! 

Their gold unstained by dross or mean alloy ! 

As generous foes so will they — must they meet ! 

Yet are they rivals — this the thought that kills ! 

Not even here — at home — is Polyeucte safe, 

The eagle wings of Rome reach over all. 

Oh, if my father bow to Roman might, 

If he repent the choice that he hath made, — 

At this one thought hope's flame leaps up to die ! 

Or — if new-born — dies ere she see the light. 

Hope but deceived, — my fear alone I trust, 

Heaven grant such confidence be false — be vain ! 

Enter Stratonice 
Nay, let me know the worst ! What, girl ! — no word? 
The rites are o'er? What hast thou seen — what heard? 
They met in amity ? — In peace they part ? 

Strat. Alas ! Alas ! 

Paul. Nay, soothe my aching heart ! 

I would have comfort, — but this face of woe — 
A quarrel? 



92 CORNEILLE 

Strat. Polyeucte — Nearchus — go — 
The Christians 

Paul. What of them? 

Strat. Ah, how to speak 

Paul. They on my father would their vengeance wreak? 

Strat. Oh, fear whate'er thou wilt — that fear too small ! 

Paul. The Christians rise? 

Strat. Oh, would that this were all ! 
Thy dream, Pauline, is true ; Polyeucte is 

Paul. Dead? 

Strat. Ah, no, he lives — yet every hope is fled ; 
That courage once so high, that noble name 
Sunk in the mire of everlasting shame ! 
He lives, — who once was lovely in thy sight — 
As monster foul — his every breath a blight ; 
The foe of Heaven, of Jove, of all our race, 
His kisses poison, and his love — disgrace ! 
Wretch, coward, miscreant, steeped in infamy, 

worse than every name ! — a Christian he ! 

Paul. Nay, that one word's enough ! There needed not 

abuse. 
Strat. My words fit well their guilt ; — with evil make no 

truce. 
Paul. If he be Nazarene — he must an outcast be ! 
But insult to my lord is insult unto me ! 

Strat. Think only that he hails the Cross, the badge of 

shame. 
Paul. My plighted faith, my troth, my duty still the same ! 
Strat. When twined about thy breast, the hideous serpent 
slay! 
Who mocks the Gods on high will his own wife betray ! 

Paul. If he be false, yet I will still be true, 
The ties that bind me I will ne'er undo : 
Let fate — Severus — passion — all combine 
Against him ! — I am his, and he is mine. 
Yes, mine to guide, lead, win, forgive, and save ! 

1 seek his honour tho' he court the grave. 

Let Polyeucte be Christ's slave ! — For woe, for weal, 

He is my lord ; the bond I owe I seal ; 

I fear my father, — all his vengeance, dread. 



POLYEUCTE 93 

Strat. Fierce burns his rage o'er that devoted head; — 
Yet embers of old love still faintly glow, 
And through his wrath some weak compassion show ; 
'Gainst Polyeucte biting words alone he speaks — 
But on Nearchus fullest vengeance wreaks ! 
Paul. Nearchus lured him on? 
Strat. The tempter he ; 

Such friendship leads to death, or infamy. 
Oh, cursed friend, who, in dear love's despite. 
Has torn him from thine arms — his neophyte ! 
He dragged him to the front ; — baptized, annealed — 
He fights for Christ ! — The secret is revealed. 

Paul. Which I would know — and straightway had thy 

blame ! 
Strat. Ah ! I foresaw not this — their deed of shame ! 
Paul. Ere dull despair o'ermaster all my fears, 
Oh, let me gauge the worth of woman's tears ! 
For, if the daughter lose, the wife may gain, — 
Or Felix may relent, if Polyeucte mock my pain; 
If both are adamant unto my prayer, 
Then — then alone — take counsel from despair ! 
How passed the temple sacrifice? Hide naught, my friend, 

tell all ! 
Strat. The horror and the sacrilege must I, perforce, 

recall ? 
To say the words, to think the thoughts, seems blasphemy 

and shame ; 
Yet will I tell their infamy, — their deed without a name. 
To silence hushed, the people knelt, and turned them to the 

East; 
Then impious Polyeucte and his friend mock sacrifice and 

priest. 
They every holy name invoked jeer with unbridled tongue, 
To laughter vile the incense rose — 'tis thus our hymn was 

sung; 
Both loud and deep the murmurs rang, and Felix' face grew 

pale, 
Then Polyeucte mad defiance hurls, while all the people quail. 
' Vain are your gods of wood and stone ! ' his voice was stern 

and high — 



94 CORNEILLE 

' Vain every rite, prayer, sacrifice,' so ran his blasphemy. 

' Your Jupiter is parricide, adulterer, demon, knave, 

' He cannot listen to your cry, not his to bless or save. 

' One God — Jehovah — rules alone, supreme o'er earth and 

heaven, 
'And ye are His — yes, only His — to Him your prayers be 

given ! 
' He is our source, our life, our end, — no other god adore, 
' To Him alone all prayer is due, then serve Him evermore ! 
' Who kneels before a meaner shrine, by devils' power enticed, 
' Denies his Maker and his King, denies the Saviour Christ. 
' He is our source, our guide, our end, our prophet, priest 

and king; 
' 'Twas He that nerved Severus' arm, — His praise let Decius 

sing. 
' Jehovah rules the battle-field ye call the field of Mars, 
' He only grants a glorious peace, 'tis He guides all our wars. 
' He casts the mighty from his seat, He doth the proud 

abase, — 
' They only peace and blessing know who love and seek His 

face. 
' His sword alone is strong to strike, His shield our only 

guard. 
' He will His bleeding saints avenge, He is their sure reward. 
' In vain to Jove and feeble Mars your full libations pour — 
' Oh, kneel before the might yc spurn, the God ye mock — 

adore ! ' 
Then Polyeucte the shrine o'erthrows, the holy vessels 

breaks, 
Nor wrath of Jove, nor Felix' ire, his fatal purpose shakes. 
Foredoomed by Fate, the Furies' prey — they rush, they rend, 

they tear, 
The vessels all to fragments fly — all prone the offerings 

fair; 
And on the front of awful Jove they set their impious feet, 
And order fair to chaos turn, and thus their work complete. 
Our hallowed mysteries disturbed, our temple dear profaned, 
Mad flight and tumult dire let loose, proclaim a God 

disdained. 
Thus pallid fear broods over all, presaging wrath to come, 



POLYEUCTE 95 

While Felix — but I mark his step ! — 'tis he shall speak the 
doom. 
Paul. How threatening, how dark his mien ! How light- 
ning-fraught his eye ! 

Where wrath and grief, revenge and pain, do strive for 
mastery ! 

Enter Felix 

Felix. O insolence undreamed! — Before my very eyes! — 
Before the people's gaze ! It is too much ! — he dies ! 

Paul. O father! — on my knees! (kneels). Unsay that 
word! 

Felix. Nearchus' doom I speak, — not his, thy lord. 
Though all unworthy he to be my son, 
Yet still he bears the name that he hath won ; 
Nor crime of his nor wrath of mine shall ever move 
Thy father's heart to hate the man thou crown' st with love ! 

Paul. Ne'er vainly have I sued for pity from my sire ! 

Felix. And yet meet food were he for righteous ire ! 
To recount an act so fell my feeble words too weak, 
But thou hast heard the tale my lips refuse to speak 
From her, thy maiden; she hath told thee all. 

Paul. Nearchus goaded — planned — and he shall fall ! 

Felix. So taught by torture of his vilest friend, 
Shall Polyeucte mark of guilt the certain end, 
When of the frenzied race he sees the goal, 
The dread of torture shall subdue his soul ! 
Who mocked the thought of death, when death he views, 
Will choose an easier mate — and rightly choose. 
That shadowy guest, that doth his soul entice, 
Once master, glues all ardour into ice, 
And that proud heart, which never meekness knew, 
When face to face with Death — will learn to sue ! 

Paul. What! Thinkest thou his soul can ever blench? 

Felix. Death's mighty flood must every furnace quench ! 

Paul. It might ! It may ! — I know such things can be ! 
A Polyeucte changed — debased — forsworn I see ! 
O, changeful Fortune ! changeless Polyeucte move, 
And grant a boon denied by father's love ! 

Felix. My love too plain — myself too weakly kind, 



96 CORNEILLE 

Let him repent and he shall pardon find; 

Nearchus' sin is his, — and yet the grace 

He shall not win, thy Polyeucte may embrace ! 

My duty — to a father's love betrayed — 

Hath of thy sire a fond accomplice made; 

A healing balm I bring for all thy fears, 

I look for thanks, and lo — thou giv'st me tears ! 

Paul. I give no thanks — no cause for thanks I find ; 
I know the Christian temper — know their mind, 
They can blaspheme, but ah, they cannot lie ! 
They know not how to yield — but they can die ! 

Felix. As bird in hand, he holds his pardon still. 

Paul. The bird escapes, when 'tis the owner's will. 

Felix. He death escapes — if so he do elect. 

Paul. He death embraces — as doth all his sect. 
Is 't thus a father pleads for his own son ? 

Felix. Who wills his death is by himself undone. 

Paul. He cannot see ! 

Felix. Because he chooses night. 

Who loves the darkness hateth still the light. 

Paul. O, by the Gods — 

Felix. Nay, daughter, save thy breath; 

Spurned — outraged — 'tis the Gods demand his death. 

Paul. They hear our prayers— 

Felix. Nay, then let Polyeucte pray! 

Paul. Since Decius gives thee power, — that word unsay ! 

Felix. He gives me power, Pauline, to do his will 
Against his foes — 'gainst all who work him ill. 

Paul. Is Polyeucte his foe? 

Felix. All Christians rebels are. 

Paul. Thy son shall plead more loud than policy or war. 
For mine is thine ; O father, save thine own — 

Felix. The son who is a traitor I disown ! 
For treason is a crime without redress, 
'Gainst which all else sinks into nothingness. 

Paul. Too great thy rigour! 

Felix. Yet more great his guilt. 

Paul. Too true my dream! Must his dear blood be spilt? 
With Polyeucte, I too — thy child — shall fall ! 

Felix. The Gods — the Emperor — rule over all. 



POLYEUCTE 97 

Paul. O hear our dying supplication — hear ! 

Felix. Not Jove alone, but Decius I fear: — 
But why anticipate a doom so sad? 
Shall this — his blindness — make thy Polyeucte mad? 
Fresh Christian zeal remains not always new, 
The sight of death compels a saner view. 

Paul. O, if thou lov'st him still, all hope forsake! 
In one day can he two conversions make ? 
Not this the Christians' mould : they never change ; 
His heart is fixed — past power of man to estrange. 
This is no poison quaffed all unawares, 
What martyrs do and dare — that Polyeucte dares ; 
He saw the lure by which he was enticed, 
He thinks the universe well lost for Christ. 
I know the breed ; I know their courage high, 
They love the cross, — so, for the cross, they die. 
We see two stakes of wood, the felon's shame, 
They see a halo round one matchless Name. 
To powers of earth, and hell, and torture blind, 
In death, for Him they love, they rapture find. 
They joy in agony, — our gain their loss, 
To die for Christ they count the world but dross: 
Our rack their crown, our pain their highest pleasure, 
And in the world's contempt they find their treasure. 
Their cherished heritage is — martyrdom ! 

Felix. Let then this heir into his kingdom come ! 
No more ! 

Paul. O father! 

Enter Albin 

Felix. Albin, is it done? 

Albin. It is, — Nearchus' frantic race is run ! 

Felix. And with what eye saw Polyeucte the sight? 

Albin. With envious eye, — as one who sees a light 
That lures him, moth-like, to devouring flame. 
His heart is fixed, his mind is still the same. 

Paul. 'Tis as I said — oh, father, yet once more — 
If thou hast ever loved me, — I implore ! 
Let filial duty and obedience plead 
For his dear life ! To my last prayer give heed ! 

vol. xxvi — 4 hc 



98 CORNEILLE 

Felix. Too much thou lovest an unworthy lord ! 

Paul. Thou gavest him my hand, 'twas at thy word 
1 gave both love and duty ; what I give 
1 take not back ; oh, Polyeucte must live ! 
For his dear sake I quenched another flame 
Most pure. Is he my lord alone in name? 
O, by my blind and swift obedience paid 
To thy command — be thy hard words unsaid ! 
I gave thee all a daughter had to give, 
Grant, father, this one prayer — Let Polyeucte live ! 
By thy stern power, which now I only fear, 
Make thou that power benignant, honoured, dear ! 
Thou gav'st that gift unsought, — that gift restore ! 
I claim it at the giver's hand once more ! 

Felix. Importunate ! Although my heart is soft, 
It is not wax, — and these entreaties oft 
Repeated waste thy breath, and vex mine ear, 
For man is deaf to what he will not hear. 
/ am the master! This let all men know, 
And if thou force that note thou'lt find 'tis so. 
Prepare to see thy cursed Christian fool, 
Do thou caress when I have scourged the mule, — 
Go ! vex no more a loving father's ear, 
From Polyeucte's self win what thou hold'st so dear. 

Paul. In pity! 

Felix. Leave me, leave me here alone ! 

Say more — my goaded heart will turn to stone ; 

Vex me no more — I will not be denied ! 

Go, save thy madman from his suicide ! [Exit Pauline. 

How met Nearchus death? 

Albin. The fiend abhorred 

He hailed, — embraced: 'For Christ! ' his latest word; 
No sigh, no tear, — he passed without amaze 
Adown the narrow vale with upward gaze. 

Felix. And he — his friend? 

Albin. Is, as I said, unmoved 

He looks on death but as a friend beloved, 
He clasped the scaffold as a guide most sure, 
And, in his prison, he can still endure. 

Felix. Oh, wretched that I am ! 



POLYEUCTE 99 

Albin. All pity thee. 

Felix. With reason greater than they know. Ah, me ! 
Thought surges upon thought, and has its will, 
Care, gnawing upon care, my soul must kill ; 
Love — hate — fear — pain : I am of each the prey, 
I grope for light, but never find the day ! — 
Oh, what I suffer thou canst not conceive, 
Each passion rages, but can ne'er relieve ; 
For I have noble thoughts that die still-born, 
And I have thoughts so base my soul I scorm 
I love the foolish wretch who is my son, 
I hate the folly which hath all undone ; 
I mourn his death, — yet, if I Polyeucte save, 
I see of all my hopes the cruel grave ! 
'Gainst Gods and Emperor too sore the strife, 
For my renown I fear, — fear for my life. 
I must myself undo to save my son, 
For, should I spare him, then am I undone! 

Albin. Decius a father is, and must excuse 
A father's love — oh, he will not refuse ! 

Felix. His edict is most clear : — ' All Christians are my 
foes.' 
The higher be their rank the more the evil grows. 
If birth and state be high, their crime shows more noto- 
rious, 
If he who shield be great, his fall the more inglorious; 
And if I give Nearchus to the flame 
Yet stoop to shield my own — thrice damned my name ! 

Albin. If by thy fiat he cannot escape the grave, 
Implore of Decius' grace the life thou canst not save, 

Felix. So would Severus work my ruin quite — 
I fear his power, his wrath, — for might is right — 
If crime with punishment I do not mate. 
How high soe'er, worth what it may, I fear his hate, 
For he is man, and feels as man, and I 
Once spurned his suit with base indignity. 
Yes, he at Decius' ear would work my woe, 
He loves Pauline, thus Polyeucte is his foe: 
All weapons possible to love and war, 
And those who let them rust bat laggards are. 



100 CORNEILLE 

I fear — and fear doth give our vision scope — • 

E'en now he cherisheth a tender hope; 

He sees his rival prostrate in the dust, 

So, as a man he hopes — because he must. 

Can dark despair to love and hope give place 

To save the guilty from deserved disgrace? 

And were his worth so matchless, so divine, 

As to forbear all ill to me and mine — 

Still I must own the base, the coward hope, 

'Gainst which my strength is all too weak to cope, 

That hope whose phcenix ashes yet enthrall 

The wretch who rises but once more to fall ; 

Ambition is my master, iron Fate, 

I feel, obey, adore thee, while I hate ! 

Polyeucte was once my guard, my pride, my shield. 

Yet can I, by Severus, weapons wield, 

Should he my daughter wed, more tried, more true : 

What wills Severus — that will Decius do. 

Upheld by him, e'en Fortune I defy — 

And yet I shrink ! — for them, thrice base were I ! 

Albin. Perish the word ! It ne'er was made for thee, 
But wilt thou deal just meed to treachery? 

Felix. I go to Polyeucte's cell, — though my poor breath 
Should there be spent in vain to avert his death ; 
Then, then my fated child her strength shall try. 

Albin. What wilt thou do if both he still defy? 

Felix. O, press me not in agony so great ! 
To thee alone I turn — resistless Fate ! 



ACT IV 

Polyeucte. Cleon. Three Other Guards 

Poly. What is thy will? 

Cleon. Pauline would see my lord. 

Poly. Ah, how my heart quails at that single word ! 
Thee, Felix, I o'ercame within my cell, 
Laughed at thy threats if death and torture fell; 
Yet hast thou still one arm to rouse my fears, 
The rest I scorn, but dread thy daughter's tears ! 



POLYEUCTE 101 

One only talisman remains ; great God, 'tis mine, 
Sufficient for my every need His strength divine ! 

thou, dear saint, thy scars all healed, white-robed, in glory 

crowned, 
Plead that I too may victory win, thou who hast victory 

found ! 
Xearchus, who hast clasped in Heaven that dear, that pierced 

hand, 
Plead that thy friend, who wrestles here, may safely by thee 

stand ! 
Ye Guards, one last kind service I would ask, 
Well may ye grant it, 'tis an easy task : 

1 do not seek deliverance from these thralls, 

[Looks at his chains. 
I do not care to scale my prison walls, 
But, since three warriors armed can surely guard 
One fettered man in safest watch and ward, — 
Go one, and beg of great Severus' grace 
That he would deign to meet me face to face ; 
To him would I a secret now impart, 
Which much concerns his joy and peace of heart. 

Cleon. On willing foot, my lord, do I obey. 

Poly. Severus must this kindly service pay ; 
Ah, lose no time, time now has fleetest wings. 

Cleon. Full soon to thee thy prayer Severus brings. 

[Exit Cleon. Guardsmen retire to background. 

Poly. The fount is pure, yet bitter waters flow, 
Sin taints — men poison what was made all fair. 
They will not choose immortal streams : they go 
To seek for pleasure — but find only care : 
Their pleasure wed to strife — ah, death the gate of life, — 
Christ's servants, none but they His crown shall wear ! 
So pain 
Is gain: 
Count not the cost ! 
The world well lost, 
His Heaven to share ! 

O Pleasure, think not that I sigh for thee, 

Thy charms, that once enslaved, no more delight; 



102 CORNEILLE 

In Christ's dear name I bid the tempter flee, 
His foes are mine, — unlovely in my sight. 
The mighty from their seat He hurls beneath His feet. 
His fan is in His hand, His vengeful sword is bright. 
Their crown 
Cast down. 
All hopes most dear 
They cherish here 
Shall end in night. 

O Decius ! Tiger ! Pitiless ! Athirst 

With quenchless rage, for blood of Christ's redeemed— 

Armenia shall arise, by thee accursed, 

On her at last has Light of Asia beamed, 

And our Deliverer from the holy east 

Shall dash the cup from thy Belshazzar feast ! 

Secure, 

And pure, 
Christ's saints shall reign, 
And, purged by pain, 

For aye endure ! 

Let Felix sacrifice me to thine ire, 
Yea, let my rival captivate the soul 
Of her who now with Decius doth conspire 
To chain immortal hope to earthly goal; 
Let earth-bound men pursue the world's desire, 
Sense charms not him who doth to Heaven aspire 1 
Hail pain ! 
Disdain 

All Earthly love, 

To seek above 

A holier fire ! 

Oh, Love that passeth knowledge be my stay, 
And fire my heart to beat alone for thee ! 
Sun of my soul? — oh, flash one purest ray 
In that last hour supreme — to comfort me, 
So life's brief night shall merge in endless day! 



POLYEUCTE 103 

Come, Death ! 

Last breath 
Shall praise thy name, 
The same, the same, 
For aye ! For aye ! 

heavenly fire, most pure, embracing all, 
Come, shield me from Pauline, else must I fall! 

1 see her, but no more as once I saw — 
I am encased in armour without flaw : 

To eyes that gaze alone on heavenly light, 
Naught else is pure, or dear, or fair, or bright ! 

Enter Pauline 
With what intent, Pauline, hast thou come here? 
Have I a friend to aid, or foe to fear ? 
Is it Christ's soldier that thou com'st to greet? 
Or wouldst thou sink my triumph in defeat ? 
If thou wouldst bid me spurn the debt I owe, 
Not Decius, but Pauline, my deadliest foe ! 

Paul. All, save thyself, to thee, my love, are friends : 
Love but thyself, love me, — thy torment ends. 
Alone thou seal'st thy doom, alone wouldst shed 
That blood by all Armenia honoured. 
Yes, thou art saved, if thou for mercy plead; 
Demand thy death, and thou are lost indeed. 
Think of the worth of this self-hated life, 
And think in pity of Pauline, — thy wife ! 
Think of the people that their prince adores, 
Think of the honours Felix on thee pours ! 
Oh, I am nothing, nothing unto thee, 
But, husband, think how dear thou art to me ! 
Think how the path of glory on thee opes, 
Thou dearest lodestar of a nation's hopes ! 
Shall blood of kings be but the headsman's sport? 
Is life a toy wherewith thy death to court? 

Poly. I think of more than this ; I know what thou wouldst 
say. 
Our life is ours to use, and we that debt must pay. 
What life is this men love? An idle, empty dream, 



104 CORNEILLE 

Where nothing can endure, — where all things only seem. 
Death ends their every joy which fickle Fortune leaves, 
They gain a royal throne to learn how pomp deceives ; 
They gather wealth that men may envy their estate, 
They clear a path by blood, so envy turns to hate. 
Such vast ambition mine as Caesar never knew, — 
Death bounds it not, for death is but its servant true. 
Peace that the world ne'er gave, and cannot take away, — 
That peace, Pauline, is mine, mine wholly, mine for aye ! 
Nor time, nor fate, nor chance, nor cruel war, 
Can touch this peace, or this my kingdom mar. 
Is this poor life — the creature of a day — 
For endless peace too great a price to pay ? 

Paul. ' Out on these Christian dreams ! ' my reason cries; 
Whene'er they speak of truth, they utter lies. 
Thou say'st: ' To win such prize my life is naught ! ' 
But is thy life thine own ? How was it bought? 
Our life an heirloom to our country due; 
What gave thee birth, demands thy service too ? 
Pay, then thy debt to her who has the right ! 

Poly. Ah, for my country I would gladly fight ! 
I know the glory of a hero's name, 
I feel the thrill, — I recognise the claim. 
My life I owe to whom I owe my sword — 
But most to Him who gave it — to the Lord ! 
Oh, if to die for fatherland be sweet, 
To die for Him — my God — what word is meet ? 

Paul. Which God? 

Poly. Hush ! hush ! Pauline ; the God who hears 
And answers prayers— gives hopes, assuages fears. 
Thy gods are deaf and senseless, maimed and weak, 
Tongues, mouths they have, and yet they cannot speak. 
The Christians' God alone is mine, — is thine, 
Jehovah only rules — supreme — divine ! 

Paul. Adore Him in thy heart, but say no word ! 

Poly. What ! Can I call Jove and Jehovah — Lord ? 

Paul. One moment feign. Ah, let Severus go ! 
Let but my father all his kindness show ! 

Poly. Another Father mine ! His love most dear 
Removes me from a world begirt with fear. 



POLYEUCTE 105 

For life's stern race too weak, too frail am I, 
So, by kind death, He gives me Victory. 
Pure from the holy font — (His mercies never fail!) 
He brings His barque to port, when it hath scarce set sail. 
Couldst thou but understand how poor this earth, 
Couldst thou but grasp how great this second birth ! 
And yet, why speak of treasure rare concealed 
From one to whom light is yet unrevealed? 

Paul. O cruel ! I can strangle pain no more ! 
Is this the fruit of all thy heavenly lore? 
They say thy Christ His enemies did bless, 
Thou addest insult to my deep distress. 
How is my soul so dark — which was so fair ? — 
Thou call'dst me ' lovely ' — ' dear ' — ' beyond compare ! ' — 
Of my bereavement have I said no word, 
I stilled my grief that I might soothe my lord ! 
They say that love has wings, and all they say is true, 
For all thy love has flown ; yet can I ne'er undo 
The vows I made, the troth I plighted binds me still ! 
Thou fain wouldst quit thy wife, and thou shalt have thy will. 
Oh, but to leave my side with rapture, ecstasy, 
No jealous Christ can will: why grudge me one poor sigh? 
This joy, this transport fierce, endeavour to conceal. 
I do not share thy creed, but I, at least, can feel ! 
Why gloat o'er heavenly gain, crowns, palms, I know not 

what — 
Where Polyeucte is blest, but where Pauline is not? 
Soul, body, spirit, I am thy true wife, to own 
That I am but a bar to happiness unknown ! 

Poly. Alas ! 

Paul. O ! that ' Alas ! ' — so faint, so tame ! 

Yet, if repentant from thy heart it came, 
'Twould waken hope, still brief, and banish fears : 
I wait the birth of thy reluctant tears. 

Poly. These tears I shed ! O, might the Spirit pour 
Through them the light, the light that I adore — 
Then were my only grief all swept away, 
For thou wouldst join me in the realms of day ! 
Else Heaven itself would have its bitterness, 
Should I look down to witness thy distress ! 



106 CORNEILLE 

God, who lov'st the dust oh which Thy breath 
Hath stamped Thine image true — save her from death ! 
The only death that kills, and let my love 

From Heaven woo her to the realms above ! 
Lord, hear my call ! My inmost heart now see, 
Who lives a Christian life must Christian be ! 
Her nature god-like, stamped from print divine ; 
She must be sealed Thine own, yes, only Thine ! 
Say, must she burn, condemned to depths of hell? — 
Thy Will be done — Who doest all things well ! 

Paul. O wretch, what words are these? Thou dost 
desire 

Poly. To snatch thee from a never-ending fire. 

Paul. Or else? 

Poly. O God, I trust to Thy control, 

Who when we think not, canst illume the soul ! 
The when — the how — is His — here am I dumb, — 

1 wait — I wait ! — That blessed hour will come ! 
Paul. Oh, leave illusions ! Love me ! 

Poly. Thee I love 

Far more than self, but less than God above ! 

Paul. For love's dear sake, ah, listen to my prayer ! 

Poly. For love's dear sake — await the answer there! 

Paul. To leave me here is naught ! Thou wouldst seduce 
my soul ! 

Poly. Heaven is scarce Heaven for me, if thou reach not 
the goal. 

Paul. O fancy- fooled ! 

Poly. Nay, led by heavenly light ! 

Paul. Thy faith is blindness ! 

Poly. Faith is more than sight ! 

Paul. Ah, death, strange rival to a wife's pure love ! 

Poly. This world our rival with the joys above ! 

Paul. Go, monster ! woo thy death ! Thou lov'dst me 
never ! 

Poly. Go, seek the world ! and yet I love thee ever ! 

Paul. Yes, I will go — if absence bring relief — 
Enter Severus, Fabian and Guards 
Who comes to invade, ah, not to cure my grief ? 
Severus ! Who could guess that thou wouldst show 



POLYEUCTE 107 

Revenge unworthy o'er a prostrate foe ? 

Poly. Unworthy thee the thought, Pauline, for I 
Severus called, and he hath heard my cry. 
My importunity he will excuse, 
My prayer I know that he will not refuse. 
Severus — this — the treasure that was mine — 
To thy most tender care I now resign : 
To thee, as noblest man that I have known ; — 
Since earthly ties and joys I must disown. 
The gift is worthy thee, — I know thy worth 
Is great, but she no equal hath on earth. 
My life, the bar, — my death the link shall be, — 
Oh, grudge me not my dear brief ecstasy ! 
Oh, ease the heart that once was hers, — and guide 
Her doubting footsteps to the Crucified ! 
This my last benison ! All else is poor ! 
Await the promised light ! Believe ! Endure ! 
But words are vain ! 

[Polyeucte signs to Guards to conduct him back to 
prison. Exeunt Polyeucte and Guards.] 

Sev. Most vain ! No word have I 

Such blindness must amaze ! must stupefy ! 
Nay, this is frenzy ! I cannot conceive 
A mind so strange ! Mine ears cannot believe 
That one who loved thee — yet, who would not love 
A face that must the great immortals move? — 
Blessed by thy heart ! — Thy sweetest lips to taste ! — 
Then leave, refuse, spurn — yield with clamorous haste, 
To yield a girl so dear — so pure — so fair ! 
And of that gift to make thy rival heir — 
This beggars madness ! Or the Christian bliss 
Beyond man's soul to grasp ! To spurn thy kiss ! — 
We treasure barter for a just exchange, 
But to buy pain for thee ! Pauline, 'tis strange ! 
Not thus, ye Gods ! Severus had been blind 
To perfect bliss — had Fortune been more kind — 
The only heaven for me is in thine eyes, 
These are my kings, these my divinities ! 
To me — for thee — were death with torture dear; 
But to renounce thee ! 



108 CORNEILLE 

Paul. Nay, I must not hear ! 

Thy words bring back the dear, the bygone days, 
When I, a maid, might listen to thy praise : 
Severus, thou must know my inmost heart ; 
I hear the knell bids Polyeucte depart. 
He dies, — the victim of thine Emperor's laws, 
And thou, though innocent, art yet the cause. 
Oh, if thy soul, to thy desires a slave, 
See hope emerging from my husband's grave — 
Then will I wed with pain — despair embrace, — 
But wed Severus? Never! 'Twere disgrace! 
To light fresh torch from that pale, flickering fire — 
Oh, bliss too monstrous ! Thrice abhorred desire ! 
Back, hope ! Back, happiness ! The mate for me 
When Polyeucte leaves my side — is Constancy ! 
Were this my will, were this, ye Gods, my fate — 
To shame would memory turn, as love must yield to hate ! 
But generous art thou — most generous be ! 
His pardon will my father grant to thee. 
He fears thee: more, if Polyeucte's life he take, 
For thee he slays him — yes, 'tis for thy sake. 
Christ died for man — let pagan virtue dim 
His fame : plead for thy foe ! so rival him ! 
No easy boon I ask, there needs a soul most rare; 
But when the fight is fierce — then is the victory fair. 
To help a man to be what thou wouldst be 
Is triumph that belongs alone to thee ! 
Let this suffice thee: she, whom thou hast loved, 
She, who by thy great love was not unmoved, 
Of thee, and of no other dares to crave 
That thou, Severus, shouldst my husband save ! 
Farewell ! of this thy labour gauge the scope : 
If thou art less than I yet dare to hope, 
Then tell me not ! all else Pauline can bear ! 

[Exit Pauline 

Sev. Where am I, Fabian? Has the crack of doom 
Turned heaven to hell? made life a living tomb? 
Nearer and dearer ever — but to go ! 
The prize within my grasp must I o'erthrow? 
This — Fortune's brimming cup, with poison filled. 



POLYEUCTE 109 

She bids me drain ; — so new-born hope is killed. 

Before I proffer aught, I am refused; 

Thus sad, amazed, ashamed, in doubt, abused, 

I see the ghost I laid, to life revive, 

The more seductive still the more I strive. 

Ah ! must a woman, sunk in deep despair, 

Teach me that shame is base, and honour fair? 

And while I madly shriek, ' O love, be kind ! ' 

Pauline, death-stricken, keeps an equal mind ! 

generous, but stern ! Must these dear eyes, 
Because I love them, o'er love tyrannise? 
'Tis not enough to lose thee, I must give 
My aid — to make my faithless rival live ! 
'Tis not enough : his death I would not plan, 
But I must save him ! bless where I would ban ! 

Fabian. Ah, let the whole crew light one funeral pyre; 
Yes, let the daughter perish with her sire ! 
This curs'd Armenian is one hornet's nest — 
Crush all, then sail for Rome, ah ! this were best ! 
She loves thee not. What canst thou hope to gain ? 

Sev. A glory that shall triumph over pain ; 
'Tis hers, and, by the Gods, it shall be mine ! 
Nor God nor fiend can sully such a shrine ! 

Fabian. Speak low, for Jove has bolts, and Hell has ears ! 
The dangers of this course arouse my fears. 
What ? Decius implore a Nazarene to save ! 
'Tis death that hath thy heart ; thou woo'st a grave. 
His rage against the sect thou knowest well, 
His power unbridled — his revenge is fell. 
To plead for Christians is a task too great, 
For man or God: thou rushest on thy fate. 

Sev. Yes, such advice, I know, is much approved, 
Yet not thus can Severus' soul be moved. 
To Fate unequal — equal to myself — 
In duty's path I go. For power and pelf 

1 never swerve where honour leads the way; 
Come weal, come woe, her call I must obey. 
Let fate depress an all unequal scale, 

Let Clotho hold her distaff— I'll not fail ! 
Yet one more word — this to thy private ear — 



110 CORNEILLE 

The fables that thou dost of Christians hear 

Are fables only, coined, I know not why, 

Distorted are they seen in Decius' eye. 

They practise the black art, — so all men say. 

I sought to learn the laws that they obey, 

And to discover what the secret guilt 

The which to expiate their blood is spilt. 

Yet priests of Cybele dark rites pursue 

At Rome — untrammelled — this is nothing new: 

To thousand gods men build, unchecked, their fanes, 

The Christians' God alone our state disdains. 

Each foul Egyptian beast his temple rears, 

Caligula a god to Roman ears — 

Tiberius is enshrined — a Nero deified — 

To Christ — to Christ alone — a temple is denied! 

Such metamorphoses confuse the mind 

As gods in cats, and saints in fiends we find; 

As Ruler absolute Jehovah stands, 

Alone o'er heaven and earth and hell commands, 

While pagan gods each 'gainst the other strive, 

And ne'er one queen is found o'er all the hive, 

Now — (strike me dead, Jove's tarrying thunderbolt!) 

So many masters must provoke revolt. 

And ah ! where Christians live — there life is pure, 

Vice dies untended, virtues all endure. 

We give these men to rack, and cord, and flame, 

While they forgive us — in their Pardoner's name. 

They no sedition raise, they ne'er rebel, 

Rome makes them soldiers, and they serve her well. 

They rage in battle, faithful ward they keep, 

They fight like lions, but they die like sheep. 

They serve the State : Rome's servant must defend 

Those who to might of Rome such succour lend. 

Pauline, I will obey, whate'er befall ; 

The man who loseth honour loseth all. 



POLYEUCTE 111 

ACT V 

Felix. Albin. Cleon 
Felix. Caught in Severus' net thy Felix see! 
He hates and holds me — oh, the misery ! 

Albin. I see a generous man, who cries, ' Forgive, 
Let Pauline smile once more — let Polyeucte live ! ' 

Felix. His soul thou canst not read — tho' noble heart he 
feigns. 
The father he abhors, — the daughter he disdains ! 
What Polyeucte won he sought : his suit denied, 
Severus sues no more, — I know his pride. 
His words, his prayers, his threats for Polyeucte plead, 
His tongue says, ' Listen, or be lost indeed ! ' 
Unskilled the fowler who his snare reveals : 
If at the bait I snatch — my doom is sealed: 
Too plain, too coarse, this web for any fly — 
Shall I this spider hail in my fatuity ? 
His wrath is wrath arranged, his generous fire is nursed, 
That I, at Decius' hand, may meet the doom accurst, 
If I should pardon grant — that grace my crime would be, 
For he the spoil would reap of my credulity. 
No simpleton am I, each promise to believe, 
Words — oaths — are but the tools wherewith all men deceive; 
Too oft escaped am I to be so lightly caught ; 
I know that words are wind. I know that wind is naught. 
The trapper shall be trapped, — the biter shall be bit, 
Unravelled is the web that he, poor fool, hath knit ! 

Albin. Jove ! What a plague to thee is this mistrust ! 

Felix. Nay, those at court must fence; their weapons 
never rust; 
If once thou yield the clue to thread the maze, 
The sequence is most plain — the man betrayed betrays ; 
Severus, and his gifts, alike I fear ! 
If Polyeucte still to reason close his ear, 
Severus' love is hate — his peace is strife — 
First law of nature this, ' Preserve thy life ! ' 

Albin. Ah, let Pauline at least thy grace obtain ! 

Felix. If Decius grace withhold, my pardon vain ! 



112 CORNEILLE 

And — far from saving this rebellious son — 
Behold us all alike entrapped, undone ! 

Albin. Severus' promise 

Felix. He can never keep ! 

For Decius' rage and hatred never sleep : 
If for that sect abhorred Severus plead, 
He trebles loss — so are we lost indeed ! 
One only way is ours, — that way I try : 
(To Guards) Bring Polyeucte and if he still defy, 
Self-doomed, insensate, this my proffered grace, 
He shall the death he wooes forthwith embrace ! 

Albin. Ah, this is stern ! 

Felix. Tis stern, 'tis just — as fate; 

When justice drags a halting foot, too late, 
She is not justice — for the vengeful mob 
(Whose hearts for Polyeucte ne'er cease to throb), 
Usurps her place, and, spurning curb and rein, 
The felon crowns, and all our work is vain. 
My sceptre trembles, and all insecure 
Totters my crown, — a prey for every boor. 
Then, swift, Severus hears the welcome news, 
The jaundiced mind of Decius to abuse. 
Shall I, the rabble's lord, obey the rabble's will ? 

Albin. Who ill in all around foresees, — but doubles ill. 
Each prop thou hast is but a sword to pierce ; 
If Polyeucte hold their heart, the people fierce 
Will gather fiercer courage from despair. 

Felix. Death settles all ; they'll find no helper there, 
And if — without a bead — the body should rebel, 
Convulsive throes I mock, and nerveless fury quell. 
Whate'er ensues the Emperor must approve, 
I shall have done my part, and win his love. 
Here comes the man 

Enter Polyeucte and Soldiers 
I still must try to save ; 
If he repent — 'tis well ! If not — the grave ! 
(To Polyeucte) Is life still hateful? Doth death still allure? 
Is earth still naught? Do heavenly joys endure? 
Doth Christ still counsel thee to hate thy wife; — 



POLYEUCTE 113 

To sheathe thy sword, — to cast away thy life? 

Poly. I never hated life, or wooed a grave, 
To life I am a servant — not a slave. 
Here service free I give upon this earth below, — 
For higher service changed when to His Home I go. 
Eternal life is this : to tread the path He trod; 
To Him your body yield ! Then trust your soul to God ! 

Felix. Yes, trust to an abyss of depth unknown ! 

Poly. No, trust to Holy Cross ! That Cross my own ! 

Felix. The steep ascent, my son, I too would climb, 
Yes, I would Christian be, — but — give me time, — 
By Jove ! I'll tread thy path ! This my desire, 
Else at thy hand the judge may me require ! 

Poly. Nay, laugh not, Felix ! He thy Judge will be, 
No refuge there for impious blasphemy ! 
Nor kings nor clowns can 'scape His righteous ire, 
His slaughtered Saints of thee will He require ! 

Felix. I'll slay no more ; — by Hercules I swear ! 
So I a Christian crown perchance may wear ; 
I will protect the flock ! 

Poly. Nay, rather be 

A goad, a scourge, for their felicity ! 
Let suffering purify each Christian soul, 
Cross, rack, and flame but lead them to their goal ; 
What here they lose — in Heaven an hundredfold they find. 
Be cruel, — persecute ! — and so alone be kind ! 
My words thou canst not read; thine eyes are blinded here, 
Wait the unveiling There! Then understand and fear! 

Felix. Nay, nay, in truth I would a Christian be ! 

Poly. In thy hard heart alone a bar I see. 

Felix (whispering). This Roman knight 

Poly (aloud). Severus, thou wouldst say. 

Felix. Once let him sail, I will no more delay, 
For this I anger feign ; — let him depart ! 

Poly. 'Tis thus thou wouldst reveal a Christian heart? 
To idols dumb — to Pagans blind, thy sugared poison bear, 
Christ's servants quaff another cup, sure refuge from despair. 

Felix. What is this deadly draught that thou wouldst 
drain ? 
I'll drink thy wine. — Till then, from death refrain ! 



114 CORNEILLE 

Poly. To swine no more my holy pearls I cast, 
Faith, — faith — not reason, shall see light at last; 
Soon — when I see my God — yes, face to face, 
I will implore that Felix may find grace. 

Felix. O dearest son, thy loss were death to me ! 

Poly. This loss can be repaired — the remedy 
Find in Severus ; he will take my place ; 
By Decius honoured he will not disgrace 
Thy house : my death will an advantage win 
For thee, for her, for me. — The work begin ! 

Felix. Such my reward ! Yes, insult is the child 
Of injury. The grace I grant, reviled, 
Shall turn to swift revenge. The gods defied 
May do their will and speed the suicide ! 

Poly. I thought the gods were dead, but they revive 
With human passion ; Felix, do not strive 
Against thy nature ; lay aside thy ruth ; 
Who loves a lie can never follow truth. 

Felix. I humoured madness, but the mood is o'er, 
I am myself again ; I did implore, — 
'Twas vain ; the dark abyss that yawns for thee 
May hold thee now, tomb to thy constancy. 
The hope I cherished — fondled — now is flown 
Severus will be king, and I o'erthrown ; — 
Shall I the gods by incense pacify? 
Or by thy death ? for thou, at last, must die ! 

Poly. Incense might but incense; I cannot tell: 

Enter Pauline 
Pauline ! 

Paul. That word broke from thee like a knell; 
Who seeks my doom to-day? Thou — or my sire? 
Who fires the brand? Who lights the funeral pyre? 
My father should, by nature, be my friend, 
And lover's heart to love an ear should lend. 
Who here is mine ally, and who my foe? 
Who has a heart to feel ? — this would I know. 

Felix. Nay, to thy lord appeal. 

[Pauline turns to Polyeucte. 

Poly. Severus wed ! 



POLYEUCTE 115 

Paul. Ah, this is outrage ! Rather strike me dead ! 

Poly. Oh, dearer than myself to me thy weal ! 
My love would never wound, it seeks to heal. 
I see thee wrestle with thy deep distress 
Alone — unless Severus bring redress ; 
His merit, that once gained thy maiden heart, 
Hath still that worth when I from thee must part, — 
Once loved — and loving still — his honour grows. 

Paul. Thy wife's true heart another treatment owes: 

base reproach ! For this I crushed for thee 
My former love : that I disdained might be ? 
This my reward for dearest victory won, — 

1 did that love undo — to be myself undone ! 
Resolve, faith, abnegation, all were vain, 
For thy return is outrage heaped on pain. 

Oh, sunk in tomb of shame, most vile, most mean, 
Come back to life — to honour — to Pauline ! 

[Holds out her arms. 
To learn from her that loyalty and faith 
Religion are : — and all beside but death ! 
Once more Alcestis wrestles with the tomb, 
Arise, arise from thy enthralling doom ! 
And if my invocation feeble be, 

Regard the tears — the sighs, — shed — breathed for thee ! 
Love is too weak a word — I thee adore ! 

Poly. Once have I said — yet now I say once more — 
' Live with Severus, or — with Polyeucte die ! ' 
Thy tears are mine, and thy pure constancy 
I share: But — I am soldier of the Cross ! 
Take up thine own, and count all gain but loss ! 
Pauline — no more! (To Felix.) Thy slumbering wrath 

rewake ! 
Thy fates and furies wait ! Their vengeance slake ! 

Paul. His life is saved ! These fetters all undo ! — 
For justice never yet a madman slew; 
And he is mad, — but, father, thou art sane, 
And thou, his father, must his friend remain . 
A father cannot less than father be, 
Oh, be to him what thou hast been to me ! 
But cast upon thy child a kinder eye, — 



116 CORNEILLE 

Slay him ? — Then know that / am doomed to die ! 

But even if justly done to death were he, 

The sentence wrong that, with him, slayeth me. 

For double death would double wrong present, 

And slay the guilty with the innocent. 

'Twas thou didst link us closely hand in hand, 

' To live in bliss together ' thy command. 

Oh, shall the will that both our lives did bless 

Doom both these lives to death — to nothingness? 

When lips are sealed to lips, and heart to heart, 

'Tis tyranny, not law, such love to part. 

Oh, not a tyrant, but a father be, 

Forgive, — give back — restore my love to me ! 

Felix. Dear child, thy father is thy father still, 
Nothing hath parted us, and nothing will. 
My heart is tender, and it beats for thee : 
Against this madman let us joined be. 
O wretched man, hast thou no eyes to see, no heart to feel? 
Thy guilt, thy crime, I would efface, thy pardon I would seal, 
For thee my daughter cannot die — say, must she die with 

thee? 
A victim to the only sin which ne'er can pardoned be. 
O sight most strange ! Here at thy knees as suppliant I sue ! 

[Felix kneels. 
The evil that thyself hast wrought — that ill thyself undo ! 

Poly. Arise, old man, from knees unused to bend, 
Or to another ear petition send ! 
This artifice befits nor me nor thee, 
To beg of one twice threatened ! — Mockery! 
First, by thy hand Nearchus felt the flame, 
Then love, forsooth, thy plea — (profaned name!) 
The path of Christian neophyte hast thou trod, 
And, in God's name, hast mocked Almighty God ! 
Earth, heaven, and hell in turn have been thy tool, 
And him thou hast traduced thou wouldst befool ! 
Go, — bully — flatterer — liar ! — Every part 
Thou playest, while delay doth break my heart ! 
Enough of dallying ! While thou dost dissolve 
Thy feeble soul in doubt, hear my resolve : 
The God who made me — Him will I adore ; 



POLYEUCTE 117 

He holds my plighted faith, — and evermore 

He works salvation for his ransomed race — 

Who gave His Son to death that we might life embrace ; 

And this — Christ's sacrifice — continued day by day. 

The Christ reveals and pleads — The Life — The Truth — The 

Way ! 
No more His mysteries to self-stopped ears 
Willi disclose — (he heedeth not nor hears) [Pointing to Felix. 
Pray then to these thy gods of wood and stone, — 
To gods who every deed of crime enthrone. 
Who boast their malice, and their foul incest, 
Vaunt theft and murder — all that we detest. 
This, their example, — Pagan — follow thou ! 
To Pluto bend, to Aphrodite bow ! 
For this I broke their altars, rased their shrine, — 
Yea, for those crimes that thou dost call divine ! 
And what I did, that would I do once more 
Before Severus — Decius, — nay, before 
The eyes of all men ; — so would I proclaim 
One God alone adored, — one Holiest Name ! 

Felix. At last my bounties yield to wrath most stern, 
most just. 
Die ! or the gods adore ! 

Poly. A Christian I ! 

Felix. Thou must 

Adore the gods I say ! Adore, or die ! 

Poly. I am a Christian. 

Felix. This is thy reply? 

Ye Guards, do my behest — prepare the knife ! 

Paul. Where goes he? 

Felix. To his death ! 

Poly. Ah, no to life ! 

(To Pauline.) Remember me! Farewell, Pauline, farewell! 

Paul. Nay, I will follow thee — to heaven or hell ! 

Felix. Begone ! For all our ills this one redress ! 

[Exeunt Pauline, Polyeucte and Guards. 

Enter Albin 
O task ungrateful to my gentle mind ! 
Well did he say, ' Be cruel to be kind ! ' 



118 CORNEILLE 

The people I defy, ah, let them rage ! 
Severus may in war of words engage. 
Yes, I have saved myself — I mean the State, 
To wilful man there comes relentless fate; 
My conscience pure of all reproach, — for I 
Have lied and stormed to shake his constancy. 
To give his hot young blood due time to cool 
I played the coward — nay, I played the fool ! 
Why did he thus assail the gods and me 
With insult, and with horrid blasphemy? 
But interest helped me, and resentment too. 
Else had I found my duty hard to do ! 

Albin. Soon mayst thou this thy dear-bought victory rue, 
For thou hast done what thou canst ne'er undo ! 
Unworthy deed for Roman knight ! ah, me ! {Aside. 

I would that I could add, ' unworthy thee ! ' 

Felix. Manlius and Brutus both a son have slain, 
And neither did thereby his glory stain ; 
The part that is diseased — that part we bleed, 
So is the State from knaves and caitiffs freed. 

Albin. Revenge and pressing peril thee unman, 
Else — couldst thou bless a deed all men must ban ? 
When she, thy widowed daughter, comes — the air 
Of heaven will echo to her deep despair ! 

Felix. Thou dost remind me she with Polyeucte went — 
I know not with what mind, with what intent : 
But her despair awakes my fond alarm, 
Go, Albin, go, and guard my child from harm ! 
She might the execution of the law 
Impede : I would not that his death she saw. 
Try to console her — Go ! what dost thou fear ? 

Enter Pauline 
Albin. I need not go, for ah — Pauline is here ! 
Paul. Tyrant, why leave thy butchery half done? 

Come, slay thy daughter, thou hast slain thy son ! 

For, hear ! — His villainy — or worth — is mine ! 

Why stay thy hand while I my neck incline? 

Thy sword in me shall find a kindred food, 

I too am new baptized, baptized in blood ! 



POLYEUCTE 119 

These drops that fell from off the murderous knife, 

Have made the martyr's widow a true wife. 

I see ! — I feel ! — I know ! My darkest night 

Is o'er — to break in purest heavenly light. 

I too, at last, am Christ's: that word says all, 

Those hands were pierced for me — I hear His call: 

Death — lovely death — thy beckoning hand I hail ! 

Oh, help my passage, or thy schemes may fail ! 

Dread Decius ! Fear Severus ! Fear thy fall ! 

Oh, speed me to my lord — my love — my all ! 

My husband calls me to his happier land — 

See ! — there Nearchus at his side doth stand ! 

Lead me to these — the gods by thee confest, 

Some shrines spared Polyeucte, I will break the rest ! 

There, there the gods thou fearest I will brave, 

Oh, bare thy knife ! — no other gift I crave. 

Thou hast my master been : another Lord 

Claims my obedience now ; yes, raise thy sword ! 

Revolt is holy when for Christ we fight, — 

My day has dawned, the day that knows no night ! 

Once more I cry — ' Christ only has my heart ! ' 

Thy bliss and mine secure ! Let me depart ! 

Keep thou thy kingdom ! Safe its treasure hold ! 

My kingdom there — with Christ — within the fold ! 

Enter Severus 
Sev. Unnatural sire, whose craft leads to the grave, 
The slaves of fear themselves alone enslave. 
Yes, Polyeucte is slain, and slain by thee, — 
A sacrifice to greed and treachery. 
I offered rescue from the opening tomb, 
Base doubts enthralled thee, thou didst seal his doom; 
I prayed, I threatened, thou wouldst not believe, 
Deceiver thou, so must all men deceive. 
Thou thoughtst me coward, liar — thou shalt see 
All oaths Severus swears fulfilled shall be. 
Poor moth ! I might have saved thee — nay, I planned to save, 
Thy perfidy the torch that marks thee for the grave. 
Drench earth in blood, — for Jove pour forth malignant zeal, 
The strokes that thou hast dealt redoubled shalt thou feel ! 



120 CORNEILLE 

I go : the storm shall break o'er this devoted land, 
From Jove the bolt? — maybe — but I direct his hand. 

Felix. Why lags that hand? A willing victim I, 
I choose to suffer for my perfidy; 
My doubts, my fears unworthy, all I own, 
I have offended — let my death atone. 
Take thou my honours, their poor lustre thine, 
I kneel before another, nobler shrine. 
The Power that moved me, groping through the night 
Of wrong and darkness, wafts me to The Light ! 
I slew thee, Polyeucte, but thy pardoning hand 
Shall guide thy murderer to the better land ! 
He prays for me, and by his sacrifice, 
New-born upon his ashes I arise. 
(To Pauline.) Raised by his death from out the grave of 

sin, 
Thou tread'st the path thy father shall begin ; 
By me his martyr-crown, as all my bliss 
By him. His Christ is mine, and I am his ; 
O, blessed Christian vengeance ! All my loss 
Is turned to gain by the redeeming Cross ! 
Now, Pauline, am I thine, a Christian I, 
That Death gives life by which alike we die ! 
(To Severus.) Then slay us both! Behold a willing prey! 

Paul. (To Felix.) Yes, mine for ever now! Hail, glori- 
ous day, 
That sees earth's loss transformed to endless gain ! 

Felix. The gain, the glory, Christ's ! By Him we reign. 

Sev. Now am I dumb, some miracle is here ; 
Their courage and their faith must I revere; 
We slay them ; yet, like Cadmus' seed, new-born 
They sprout afresh, and laugh our scythe to scorn. 
We give them cord and flame, they torture hail; 
Friends fail them, but themselves they never fail. 
We mow them down, fresh nurslings to unbare, 
What moves the seed lies hid, but it is there. 
They bless the world, though by the world accurst, 
Their shield am I — let Decius do his worst. 
I yet may own their power, though now my will 
That each to his own gods be faithful still, 



POLYEUCTE 121 

Let each still search for truth, and truth adore. 

(To Felix.) A Christian thou? Then fear my wrath no 

more, 
Thy sect I cherish ; this their awful cult 
Severus will protect, but ne'er insult. 
Keep thou thy power from Roman sword secure, 
So long as loyalty with faith endure ; 
I swear it : ay, the Emperor shall learn 
The guiltless from the traitor to discern ; 
His persecution baseless as his fear. 

Felix. Severus — thou who hast the hearing ear, — 
Freeman of Rome — God's Spirit grant thee grace 
To be Christ's Freeman, and behold His face : 
To these — Christ's martyrs — earth's last rites be given. 
Earth, guard their ashes as a trust for Heaven ! 
Earth hides their dust. When envious time is o'er. 
That dust shall wake to life for evermore 1 



PH^DRA 

BY 
JEAN BAPTISTE RACINE 

TRANSLATED BY 
ROBERT BRUCE BOSWELL 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE 

Jean Baptiste Racine, the younger contemporary of Corneille, 
and his rival for supremacy in French classical tragedy, was 
born at Ferte-Milon, December 21, 1639. He was educated at 
the College of Beauvais, at the great Jansenist school at Port 
Royal, and at the College d'Harcourt. He attracted notice by an 
ode written for the marriage of Louis XIV in 1660, and made his 
first really great dramatic success with his "Andromaque." His 
tragic masterpieces include "Britannicus," "Berenice" "Bajazet," 
"Mithridate," "Iphigenie," and "Phedre," all written between 1669 
and 1677. Then for some years he gave up dramatic composition, 
disgusted by the intrigues of enemies who sought to injure his 
career by exalting above him an unworthy rival. In 1689 he 
resumed his work under the persuasion of Mine, de Maintenon, 
and produced "Esther" and "Athalie," the latter ranking among 
his finest productions, although it did not receive public recogni- 
tion until some time after his death in 1699. Besides his trag- 
edies, Racine wrote one comedy, "Les Plaideurs," four hymns of 
great beauty, and a history of Port Royal. 

The external conventions of classical tragedy which had been 
established by Corneille, Racine did not attempt to modify. His 
study of the Greek tragedians and his own taste led him to sub- 
mit willingly to the rigor and simplicity of form which were the 
fundamental marks of the classical ideal. It was in his treatment 
of character that he differed most from his predecessor; for 
whereas, as we have seen, Corneille represented his leading 
figures as heroically subduing passion by force of will, Racine 
represents his as driven by almost uncontrollable passion. Thus 
his creations appeal to the modern reader as more warmly 
human; their speech, if less exalted, is simpler and more natural; 
and he succeeds more brilliantly with his portraits of women 
than with those of men. 

All these characteristics are exemplified in "Phedre," the 
tragedy of Racine which has made an appeal to the widest audi- 
ence. To the legend as treated by Euripides, Racine added the 
love of Hippolytus for Aricia, and thus supplied a motive for 
Phcpdra's jealousy, and at the same time he made the nurse in- 
stead of Phcedra the calumniator of his son to Theseus. 

124 



PH^DRA 



CHARACTERS 

Theseus, Son of 2Egeus and King of Athens. 

PhjEDra, Wife of Theseus and Daughter of Minos and Pasiphae. 

Hippolytus, Son of Theseus and Antiope, Queen of the Amazons. 

Aricia, Princess of the Blood Royal of Athens. 

CEnone, Nurse of Phadra. 

Theramenes, Tutor of Hippolytus. 

Ismene, Bosom Friend of Aricia. 

Panope, Waiting-woman of Phaedra. 

Guards 

The scene is laid at Trcezen, a town of the Peloponnesus. 



ACT I 

Scene I 
Hippolytus, Theramenes 
Hippolytus 

MY mind is settled, dear Theramenes, 
And I can stay no more in lovely Troezen. 
In doubt that racks my soul with mortal anguish, 
I grow ashamed of such long idleness. 
Six months and more my father has been gone, 
And what may have befallen one so dear 
I know not, nor what corner of the earth 
Hides him. 

Theramenes 
And where, prince, will you look for him? 
Already, to content your just alarm, 
Have I not cross'd the seas on either side 
Of Corinth, ask'd if aught were known of Theseus 

125 



126 RACINE 

Where Acheron is lost among the Shades, 

Visited Elis, doubled Toenarus, 

And sail'd into the sea that saw the fall 

Of Icarus? Inspired with what new hope, 

Under what favour'd skies think you to trace 

His footsteps? Who knows if the King, your father, 

Wishes the secret of his absence known? 

Perchance, while we are trembling for his life, 

The hero calmly plots some fresh intrigue, 

And only waits till the deluded fair — 

Hippolytus 
Cease, dear Theramenes, respect the name 
Of Theseus. Youthful errors have been left 
Behind, and no unworthy obstacle 
Detains him. Phaedra long has fix'd a heart 
Inconstant once, nor need she fear a rival. 
In seeking him I shall but do my duty, 
And leave a place I dare no longer see. 

Theramenes 
Indeed ! When, prince, did you begin to dread 
These peaceful haunts, so dear to happy childhood, 
Where I have seen you oft prefer to stay, 
Rather than meet the tumult and the pomp 
Of Athens and the court? What danger shun you, 
Or shall I say what grief? 

Hippolytus 

That happy time 
Is gone, and all is changed, since to these shores 
The gods sent Phaedra. 

Theramenes 

I perceive the cause 
Of your distress. It is the queen whose sight 
Offends you. With a step dame's spite she schemed 
Your exile soon as she set eyes on you. 
But if her hatred is not wholly vanish'd, 



PHjEDRA 127 

It has at least taken a milder aspect. 

Besides, what danger can a dying woman, 

One too who longs for death, bring on your head? 

Can Phsedra, sick'ning of a dire disease 

Of which she will not speak, weary of life 

And of herself, form any plots against you? 

Hippolytus 
It is not her vain enmity I fear 
Another foe alarms Hippolytus. 
I fly, it must be own'd, from young Aricia, 
The sole survivor of an impious race. 

Theramenes 
What ! You become her persecutor too ! 
The gentle sister of the cruel sons 
Of Pallas shared not in their perfidy; 
Why should you hate such charming innocence? 

Hippolytus 
I should not need to fly, if it were hatred. 

Theramenes 
May I then learn the meaning of your flight? 
Is this the proud Hippolytus I see, 
Than whom there breathed no fiercer foe to love 
And to that yoke which Theseus has so oft 
Endured? And can it be that Venus, scorn'd 
So long, will justify your sire at last? 
Has she, then, setting you with other mortals, 
Forced e'en Hippolytus to offer incense 
Before her? Can you love? 

Hippolytus 

Friend, ask me not. 
You, who have known my heart from infancy 
And all its feelings of disdainful pride, 
Spare me the shame of disavowing all 
That I profess'd. Born of an Amazon, 



128 RACINE 

The wildness that you wonder at I suck'd 

With mother's milk. When come to riper age, 

Reason approved what Nature had implanted. 

Sincerely bound to me by zealous service, 

You told me then the story of my sire, 

And know how oft, attentive to your voice, 

I kindled when I heard his noble acts, 

As you described him bringing consolation 

To mortals for the absence of Alcides, 

The highways clear'd of monsters and of robbers, 

Procrustes, Cercyon, Sciro, Sinnis slain, 

The Epidaurian giant's bones dispersed, 

Crete reeking with the blood of Minotaur. 

But when you told me of less glorious deeds, 

Troth plighted here and there and everywhere, 

Young Helen stolen from her home at Sparta, 

And Periboea's tears in Salamis, 

With many another trusting heart deceived 

Whose very names have 'scaped his memory, 

Forsaken Ariadne to the rocks 

Complaining, last this Phaedra, bound to him 

By better ties, — you know with what regret 

I heard and urged you to cut short the tale, 

Happy had I been able to erase 

From my remembrance that unworthy part 

Of such a splendid record. I, in turn, 

Am I too made the slave of love, and brought 

To stoop so low? The more contemptible 

That no renown is mine such as exalts 

The name of Theseus, that no monsters quell'd 

Have given me a right to share his weakness. 

And if my pride of heart must needs be humbled, 

Aricia should have been the last to tame it. 

Was I beside myself to have forgotten 

Eternal barriers of separation 

Between us? By my father's stern command 

Her brethren's blood must ne'er be reinforced 

By sons of hers ; he dreads a single shoot 

From stock so guilty, and would fain with her 

Bury their name, that, even to the tomb 



PH^DRA 129 

Content to be his ward, for her no torch 
Of Hymen may be lit. Shall I espouse 
Her rights against my sire, rashly provoke 
His wrath, and launch upon a mad career — 

Theramenes 
The gods, dear prince, if once your hour is come, 
Care little for the reasons that should guide us. 
Wishing to shut your eyes, Theseus unseals them; 
His hatred, stirring a rebellious flame 
Within you, lends his enemy new charms. 
And, after all, why should a guiltless passion 
Alarm you? Dare you not essay its sweetness, 
But follow rather a fastidious scruple? 
Fear you to stray where Hercules has wander'd? 
What heart so stout that Venus has not vanquished? 
Where would you be yourself, so long her foe, 
Had your own mother, constant in her scorn 
Of love, ne'er glowed with tenderness for Theseus? 
What boots it to affect a pride you feel not? 
Confess it, all is changed; for some time past 
You have been seldom seen with wild delight 
Urging the rapid car along the strand, 
Or, skilful in the art that Neptune taught, 
Making th' unbroken steed obey the bit; 
Less often have the woods return'd our shouts; 
A secret burden on your spirits cast 
Has dimm'd your eye. How can I doubt you love? 
Vainly would you conceal the fatal wound. 
Has not the fair Aricia touch'd your heart? 

Hippolytus 
Theramenes, I go to find my father. 



Theramenes 



1HERAMENES 

Will you not see the queen before you start, 
My prince? 



vol. xxvi — s hc 



130 RACINE 

HlPPOLYTUS 

That is my purpose: you can tell her. 
Yes, I will see her ; duty bids me do it. 
But what new ill vexes her dear GEnone? 



Scene II 
HlPPOLYTUS, CEnone, Theramenes 

CEnone 
Alas, my lord, what grief was e'er like mine? 
The queen has almost touch'd the gates of death. 
Vainly close watch I keep by day and night, 
E'en in my arms a secret malady 
Slays her, and all her senses are disorder'd. 
Weary yet restless from her couch she rises, 
Pants for the outer air, but bids me see 
That no one on her misery intrudes. 
She comes. 

HlPPOLYTUS 

Enough. She shall not be disturb'd, 
Nor be confronted with a face she hates. 



Scene III 
Ph^dra, CEnone 

Ph^dra 
We have gone far enough. Stay, dear CEnone; 
Strength fails me, and I needs must rest awhile. 
My eyes are dazzled with this glaring light 
So long unseen, my trembling knees refuse 
Support. Ah me ! 

CEnone 

Would Heaven that our tears 
Might bring relief ! 

Phaedra 

Ah, how these cumbrous gaud 
These veils oppress me ! What officious hand 



PH.EDRA 131 

Has tied these knots, and gather'd o'er ray brow 
These clustering coils? How all conspires to add 
To my distress ! 

CEnone 
What is one moment wish'd, 
The next, is irksome. Did you not just now, 
Sick of inaction, bid us deck you out, 
And, with your former energy recall'd, 
Desire to go abroad, and see the light 
Of day once more? You see it, and would fain 
Be hidden from the sunshine that you sought. 

Ph^dra 
Thou glorious author of a hapless race, 
Whose daughter 'twas my mother's boast to be, 
Who well may'st blush to see me in such plight, 
For the last time I come to look on thee, 

Sun! 

CEnone 
What ! Still are you in love with death ? 
Shall I ne'er see you, reconciled to life, 
Forego these cruel accents of despair? 

Phaedra 
Would I were seated in the forest's shade ! 
When may I follow with delighted eye, 
Thro' glorious dust flying in full career, 
A chariot — 

CEnone 
Madam? 

Ph.edra 

Have I lost my senses? 
What said I? and where am I? Whither stray 
Vain wishes ? Ah ! The gods have made me mad. 

1 blush, CEnone, and confusion covers 

My face, for I have let you see too clearly 
The shame of grief that, in my own despite, 
O'erflow these eyes of mine. 



132 RACINE 

CEnone 

If you must blush, 
Blush at a silence that inflames your woes. 
Resisting all my care, deaf to my voice, 
Will you have no compassion on yourself, 
But let your life be ended in mid course? 
What evil spell has drain'd its fountain dry? 
Thrice have the shades of night obscured the heav'ns 
Since sleep has enter'd thro' your eyes, and thrice 
The dawn has chased the darkness thence, since food 
Pass'd your wan lips, and you are faint and languid. 
To what dread purpose is your heart inclined? 
How dare you make attempts upon your life, 
And so offend the gods who gave it you, 
Prove false to Theseus and your marriage vows, 
Ay, and betray your most unhappy children, 
Bending their necks yourself beneath the yoke? 
That day, be sure, which robs them of their mother, 
Will give high hopes back to the stranger's son, 
To that proud enemy of you and yours, 
To whom an Amazon gave birth, I mean 
Hippolytus — 

Phaedra 

Ye gods ! 

CEnone 

Ah, this reproach 
Moves you! 

Phaedra 

Unhappy woman, to what name 
Gave your mouth utterance? 

CEnone 

Your wrath is just. 
'Tis well that that ill-omen'd name can rouse 
Such rage. Then live. Let love and duty urge 
Their claims. Live, suffer not this son of Scythia, 
Crushing your children 'neath his odious sway, 
To rule the noble offspring of the gods, 
The purest blood of Greece. Make no delay; 



PH^DRA 133 

Each moment threatens death; quickly restore 
Your shatter'd strength, while yet the torch of life 
Holds out, and can be fann'd into a flame. 

Phaedra 
Too long have I endured its guilt and shame! 

OEnone 
Why? What remorse gnaws at your heart? What crime 
Can have disturb'd you thus? Your hands are not 
Polluted with the blood of innocence? 

Phaedra 
Thanks be to Heav'n, my hands are free from stain. 
Would that my soul were innocent as they ! 

CEnone 
What awful project have you then conceived, 
Whereat your conscience should be still alarm'd? 

Phaedra 
Have I not said enough? Spare me the rest. 
I die to save myself a full confession. 

CEnone 
Die then, and keep a silence so inhuman ; 
But seek some other hand to close your eyes. 
Tho' but a spark of life remains within you, 
My soul shall go before you to the Shades. 
A thousand roads are always open thither; 
Pain'd at your want of confidence, I'll choose 
The shortest. Cruel one, when has my faith 
Deceived you ! Think how in my arms you lay 
New born. For you, my country and my children 
I have forsaken. Do you thus repay 
My faithful service? 



134 RACINE 

Phaedra 

What do you expect 
From words so bitter? Were I to break silence, 
Horror would freeze your blood. 

CEnone 

What can you say 
To horrify me more than to behold 
You die before my eyes? 

Ph^dra 

When you shall know 
My crime, my death will follow none the less, 
But with the added stain of guilt. 

CEnone 

Dear Madam, 
By all the tears that I have shed for you, 
By these weak knees I clasp, relieve my mind 
From torturing doubt. 

Phaedra 
It is your wish. Then rise. 



I hear you. Speak. 



CEnone 

Ph^dra 
Heav'ns! How shall I begin? 



CEnone 
Dismiss vain fears, you wound me with distrust. 

Ph^dra 

O fatal animosity of Venus! 

Into what wild distractions did she cast 

My mother ! 

CEnone 
Be they blotted from remembrance, 
And for all time to come buried in silence. 



PH^DRA 135 

Peledra 
My sister Ariadne, by what love 
Were you betray'd to death, on lonely shores 
Forsaken ! 

(Ex one 
Madam, what deep-seated pain 
Prompts these reproaches against all your kin? 

Phaedra 
It is the will of Venus, and I perish, 
Last, most unhappy of a family 
Where all were wretched. 

(En one 

Do you love ? 

Ph.edra 



I feel 



All its mad fever. 



(En one 

Ah ! For whom ? 



Ph.edra 

Hear now 
The crowning horror. Yes, I love — my lips 
Tremble to say his name. 

(En one 

Whom? 

Phaedra 

Know you him, 
Son of the Amazon, whom I've oppress'd 
So long? 

(Enone 
Hippolytus ? Great gods ! 

Ph.edra 

Tis you 
Have named him. 



136 RACINE 

CEnone 
All my blood within my veins 
Seems frozen. despair ! O cursed race ! 
Ill-omen'd journey ! Land of misery ! 
Why did we ever reach thy dangerous shores? 

Phaedra 
My wound is not so recent. Scarcely had I 
Been bound to Theseus by the marriage yoke, 
And happiness and peace seem'd well secured, 
When Athens show'd me my proud enemy. 
I look'd, alternately turn'd pale and blush'd 
To see him, and my soul grew all distraught ; 
A mist obscured my vision, and my voice 
Falter'd, my blood ran cold, then burn'd like fire; 
Venus I felt in all my fever'd frame, 
Whose fury had so many of my race 
Pursued. With fervent vows I sought to shun 
Her torments, built and deck'd for her a shrine, 
And there, 'mid countless victims did I seek 
The reason I had lost ; but all for naught, 
No remedy could cure the wounds of love ! 
In vain I offer'd incense on her altars ; 
When I invoked her name my heart adored 
Hippolytus, before me constantly ; 
And when I made her altars smoke with victims, 
'Twas for a god whose name I dared not utter. 
I fled his presence everywhere, but found him — 

crowning horror ! — in his father's features. 
Against myself, at last, I raised revolt, 

And stirr'd my courage up to persecute 
The enemy I loved. To banish him 

1 wore a step-dame's harsh and jealous carriage, 
With ceaseless cries I clamour'd for his exile, 
Till I had torn him from his father's arms. 

I breathed once more, CEnone ; in his absence 
My days flow'd on less troubled than before, 
And innocent. Submissive to my husband, 
I hid my grief, and of our fatal marriage 



PHAEDRA 137 

Cherish'd the fruits. Vain caution ! Cruel Fate ! 
Brought hither by my spouse himself, I saw 
Again the enemy whom I had banish'd, 
And the old wound too quickly bled afresh. 
No longer is it love hid in my heart, 
But Venus in her might seizing her prey. 
I have conceived just terror for my crime ; 
I hate my life, and hold my love in horror. 
Dying I wish'd to keep my fame unsullied, 
And bury in the grave a guilty passion ; 
But I have been unable to withstand 
Tears and entreaties, I have told you all; 
Content, if only, as my end draws near, 
You do not vex me with unjust reproaches, 
Nor with vain efforts seek to snatch from death 
The last faint lingering sparks of vital breath. 



Scene IV 
Phaedra, CEnone, Panope 

Panope 
Fain would I hide from you tidings so sad, 
But 'tis my duty, Madam, to reveal them. 
The hand of death has seized your peerless husband, 
And you are last to hear of this disaster. 

CEnone 
What say you, Panope ? 

Panope 

The queen, deceived 
By a vain trust in Heav'n, begs safe return 
For Theseus, while Hippolytus his son 
Learns of his death from vessels that are now 
In port. 

Ph^dra 
Ye gods ! 



138 RACINE 

Panope 
Divided counsels sway 
The choice of Athens ; some would have the prince, 
Your child, for master; others, disregarding 
The laws, dare to support the stranger's son. 
'Tis even said that a presumptuous faction 
Would crown Aricia and the house of Pallas. 
I deem'd it right to warn you of this danger. 
Hippolytus already is prepared 
To start, and should he show himself at Athens, 
'Tis to be fear'd the fickle crowd will all 
Follow his lead. 

CEnone 
Enough. The queen, who hears you, 
By no means will neglect this timely warning. 



Scene V 
Phaedra, CEnone 

CEnone 
Dear lady, I had almost ceased to urge 
The wish that you should live, thinking to follow 
My mistress to the tomb, from which my voice 
Had fail'd to turn you; but this new misfortune 
Alters the aspect of affairs, and prompts 
Fresh measures. Madam, Theseus is no more, 
You must supply his place. He leaves a son, 
A slave, if you should die, but, if you live, 
A King. On whom has he to lean but you ? 
No hand but yours will dry his tears. Then live 
For him, or else the tears of innocence 
Will move the gods, his ancestors, to wrath 
Against his mother. Live, your guilt is gone, 
No blame attaches to your passion now. 
The King's decease has freed you from the bonds 
That made the crime and horror of your love. 
Hippolytus no longer need be dreaded, 



PH^DRA 139 

Him you may see henceforth without reproach. 
It may be, that, convinced of your aversion, 
He means to head the rebels. Undeceive him, 
Soften his callous heart, and bend his pride. 
King of this fertile land, in Trcezen here 
His portion lies ; but as he knows, the laws 
Give to your son the ramparts that Minerva 
Built and protects. A common enemy 
Threatens you both, unite them to oppose 
Aricia. 

Phaedra 
To your counsel I consent. 
Yes, I will live, if life can be restored, 
If my affection for a son has pow'r 
To rouse my sinking heart at such a dangerous hour. 



ACT II 

Scene I 
Aricia, Ismene 

Aricia 
Hippolytus request to see me here ! 
Hippolytus desire to bid farewell ! 
Is't true, Ismene? Are you not deceived? 

Ismene 
This is the first result of Theseus' death. 
Prepare yourself to see from every side 
Hearts turn towards you that were kept away 
By Theseus. Mistress of her lot at last, 
Aricia soon shall find all Greece fall low, 
To do her homage. 

Aricia 

'Tis not then, Ismene, 
An idle tale? Am I no more a slave? 
Have I no enemies? 



140 RACINE 

ISMENE 

The gods oppose 
Your peace no longer, and the soul of Theseus 
Is with your brothers. 

Aricia 
Does the voice of fame 
Tell how he died? 

ISMENE 

Rumours incredible 
Are spread. Some say that, seizing a new bride, 
The faithless husband by the waves was swallow'd. 
Others affirm, and this report prevails, 
That with Pirithoiis to the world below 
He went, and saw the shores of dark Cocytus, 
Showing himself alive to the pale ghosts; 
But that he could not leave those gloomy realms, 
Which whoso enters there abides for ever. 

Aricia 
Shall I believe that ere his destined hour 
A mortal may descend into the gulf 
Of Hades? What attraction could o'ercome 
Its terrors? 

ISMENE 

He is dead, and you alone 
Doubt it. The men of Athens mourn his loss. 
Troezen already hails Hippolytus 
As King. And Phaedra, fearing for her son, 
Asks counsel of the friends who share her trouble, 
Here in this palace. 

Aricia 

Will Hippolytus, 
Think you, prove kinder than his sire, make light 
My chains, and pity my misfortunes? 

Ismene 

Yes, 

I think so, Madam. 



PtLEDRA 141 

Aricia 

Ah, you know him not 
Or you would never deem so hard a heart 
Can pity feel, or me alone except 
From the contempt in which he holds our sex. 
Has he not long avoided every spot 
Where we resort? 

Ismene 
I know what tales are told 
Of proud Hippolytus, but I have seen 
Him near you, and have watch'd with curious eye 
How one esteem'd so cold would bear himself. 
Little did his behaviour correspond 
With what I look'd for; in his face confusion 
Appear'd at your first glance, he could not turn 
His languid eyes away, but gazed on you. 
Love is a word that may offend his pride, 
But what the tongue disowns, looks can betray. 

Aricia 
How eagerly my heart hears what you say, 
Tho' it may be delusion, dear Ismene ! 
Did it seem possible to you, who know me, 
That I, sad sport of a relentless Fate, 
Fed upon bitter tears by night and day, 
Could ever taste the maddening draught of love? 
The last frail offspring of a royal race, 
Children of Earth, I only have survived 
War's fury. Cut off in the flow'r of youth, 
Mown by the sword, six brothers have I lost, 
The hope of an illustrious house, whose blood 
Earth drank with sorrow, near akin to his 
Whom she herself produced. Since then, you know 
How thro' all Greece no heart has been allow'd 
To sigh for me, lest by a sister's flame 
The brothers' ashes be perchance rekindled. 
You know, besides, with what disdain I view'd 
My conqueror's suspicions and precautions, 



142 RACINE 

And how, opposed as I have ever been 

To love, I often thank'd the King's injustice 

Which happily confirm'd my inclination. 

But then I never had beheld his son. 

Not that, attracted merely by the eye, 

I love him for his beauty and his grace, 

Endowments which he owes to Nature's bounty, 

Charms which he seems to know not or to scorn. 

I love and prize in him riches more rare, 

The virtues of his sire, without his faults. 

I love, as I must own, that generous pride 

Which ne'er has stoop'd beneath the amorous yoke. 

Phaedra reaps little glory from a lover 

So lavish of his sighs ; I am too proud 

To share devotion with a thousand others, 

Or enter where the door is always open. 

But to make one who ne'er has stoop'd before 

Bend his proud neck, to pierce a heart of stone, 

To bind a captive whom his chains astonish, 

Who vainly 'gainst a pleasing yoke rebels, — 

That piques my ardour, and I long for that. 

'Twas easier to disarm the god of strength 

Than this Hippolytus, for Hercules 

Yielded so often to the eyes of beauty, 

As to make triumph cheap. But, dear Ismene, 

I take too little heed of opposition 

Beyond my pow'r to quell, and you may hear me, 

Humbled by sore defeat, upbraid the pride 

I now admire. What ! Can he love ? and I 

Have had the happiness to bend — 

Ismene 

He comes 

Yourself shall hear him. 



PH^DRA 143 

Scene II 
Hippolytus, Aricia, Ismene 

HlPPOLYTUS 

Lady, ere I go 

My duty bids me tell you of your change 

Of fortune. My worst fears are realized; 

My sire is dead. Yes, his protracted absence 

Was caused as I foreboded. Death alone, 

Ending his toils, could keep him from the world 

Conceal'd so long. The gods at last have doom'd 

Alcides' friend, companion, and successor. 

I think your hatred, tender to his virtues, 

Can hear such terms of praise without resentment, 

Knowing them due. One hope have I that soothes 

My sorrow : I can free you from restraint. 

Lo, I revoke the laws whose rigour moved 

My pity; you are at your own disposal, 

Both heart and hand; here, in my heritage, 

In Trcezen, where my grandsire Pittheus reign'd 

Of yore and I am now acknowledged King, 

I leave you free, free as myself, — and more. 

Aricia 
Your kindness is too great, 'tis overwhelming. 
Such generosity, that pays disgrace 
With honour, lends more force than you can think 
To those harsh laws from which you would release me. 

HlPPOLYTUS 

Athens, uncertain how to fill the throne 
Of Theseus, speaks of you, anon of me, 
And then of Phaedra's son. 



Aricia 

Of me, my lord? 



144 RACINE 

HlPPOLYTUS 

I know myself excluded by strict law: 

Greece turns to my reproach a foreign mother. 

But if my brother were my only rival, 

My rights prevail o'er his clearly enough 

To make me careless of the law's caprice. 

My forwardness is check'd by juster claims: 

To you I yield my place, or, rather, own 

That it is yours by right, and yours the sceptre, 

As handed down from Earth's great son, Erechtheus, 

Adoption placed it in the hands of yEgeus : 

Athens, by him protected and increased, 

Welcomed a king so generous as my sire, 

And left your hapless brothers in oblivion. 

Now she invites you back within her walls ; 

Protracted strife has cost her groans enough, 

Her fields are glutted with your kinsmen's blood 

Fatt'ning the furrows out of which it sprung 

At first. I rule this Trcezen; while the son 

Of Phaedra has in Crete a rich domain. 

Athens is yours. I will do all I can 

To join for you the votes divided now 

Between us. 

Aricia 
Stunn'd at all I hear, my lord, 
I fear, I almost fear a dream deceives me. 
Am I indeed awake? Can I believe 
Such generosity? What god has put it 
Into your heart? Well is the fame deserved 
That you enjoy! That fame falls short of truth! 
Would you for me prove traitor to yourself? 
Was it not boon enough never to hate me, 
So long to have abstain'd from harbouring 
The enmity — 

HlPPOLYTUS 

To hate you ? I, to hate you ? 
However darkly my fierce pride was painted, 
Do you suppose a monster gave me birth? 
What savage temper, what envenom'd hatred 



PH.EDRA 145 

Would not be mollified at sight of you? 
Could I resist the soul-bewitching charm — 



Aricia 
Why, what is this, Sir? 

Hippolytus 

I have said too much 
Not to say more. Prudence in vain resists 
The violence of passion. I have broken 
Silence at last, and I must tell you now 
The secret that my heart can hold no longer. 
You see before you an unhappy instance 
Of hasty pride, a prince who claims compassion 
I, who, so long the enemy of Love, 
Mock'd at his fetters and despised his captives, 
Who, pitying poor mortals that were shipwreck'd, 
In seeming safety view'd the storms from land, 
Now find myself to the same fate exposed, 
Toss'd to and fro upon a sea of troubles ! 
My boldness has been vanquish'd in a moment, 
And humbled is the pride wherein I boasted. 
For nearly six months past, ashamed, despairing, 
Bearing where'er I go the shaft that rends 
My heart, I struggle vainly to be free 
From you and from myself; I shun you, present; 
Absent, I find you near ; I see your form 
In the dark forest depths; the shades of night, 
Nor less broad daylight, bring back to my view 
The charms that I avoid; all things conspire 
To make Hippolytus your slave. For fruit 
Of all my bootless sighs, I fail to find 
My former self. My bow and javelins 
Please me no more, my chariot is forgotten, 
With all the Sea God's lessons; and the woods 
Echo my groans instead of joyous shouts 
Urging my fiery steeds. 



RACINE 

Hearing this tale 
Of passion so uncouth, you blush perchance 
At your own handiwork. With what wild words 
I offer you my heart, strange captive held 
By silken jess ! But dearer in your eyes 
Should be the offering, that this language comes 
Strange to my lips ; reject not vows express'd 
So ill, which but for you had ne'er been form'd. 



Scene III 
Hippolytus Aricia, Theramenes, Ismene 

Theramenes 
Prince, the Queen comes. I herald her approach. 



'Tis you she seeks. 

Hippolytus 
Me? 

Theramenes 

What her thought may be 
I know not. But I speak on her behalf. 
She would converse with you ere you go hence. 

Hippolytus 
What shall I say to her? Can she expect — 

Aricia 
You cannot, noble Prince, refuse to hear her, 
Howe'er convinced she is your enemy, 
Some shade of pity to her tears is due. 

Hippolytus 
Shall we part thus ? and will you let me go, 
Not knowing if my boldness has offended 
The goddess I adore? Whether this heart, 
Left in your hands — 



PH^DRA 147 

Aricia 
Go, Prince, pursue the schemes 
Your generous soul dictates, make Athens own 
My sceptre. All the gifts you offer me 
Will I accept, but this high throne of empire 
Is not the one most precious in my sight. 



Scene IV 
Hippolytus, Theramenes 

HlPPOLYTUS 

Friend, is all ready? 

But the Queen approaches. 
Go, see the vessel in fit trim to sail. 
Haste, bid the crew aboard, and hoist the signal : 
Then soon return, and so deliver me 
From interview most irksome 



Scene V 
Phaedra, Hippolytus, CEnone 

Phaedra (to CEnone) 

There I see him ! 
My blood forgets to flow, my tongue to speak 
What I am come to say. 

CEnone 

Think of your son, 
How all his hopes depend on you. 

Ph^dra 

I hear 
You leave us, and in haste. I come to add 
My tears to your distress, and for a son 
Plead my alarm. No more has he a father, 
And at no distant day my son must witness 



148 RACINE 

My death. Already do a thousand foes 
Threaten his youth. You only can defend him 
But in my secret heart remorse awakes, 
And fear lest I have shut your ears against 
His cries. I tremble lest your righteous anger 
Visit on him ere long the hatred earn'd 
By me, his mother. 



Madam, is mine. 



Hippolytus 

No such base resentment, 



Ph^dra 

I could not blame you, Prince, 
If you should hate me. I have injured you: 
So much you know, but could not read my heart. 
T' incur your enmity has been mine aim. 
The self-same borders could not hold us both; 
In public and in private I declared 
Myself your foe, and found no peace till seas 
Parted us from each other. I forbade 
Your very name to be pronounced before me. 
And, yet if punishment should be proportion'd 
To the offence, if only hatred draws 
Your hatred, never woman merited 
More pity, less deserved your enmity 

Hippolytus 
A mother jealous of her children's rights 
Seldom forgives the offspring of a wife 
Who reign'd before her. Harassing suspicions 
Are common sequels of a second marriage. 
Of me would any other have been jealous 
No less than you, perhaps more violent. 

Phaedra 
Ah, Prince, how Heav'n has from the general law 
Made me exempt, be that same Heav'n my witness! 
Far different is the trouble that devours me! 



PH.EDRA 149 

HlPPOLYTUS 

This is no time for self-reproaches, Madam. 
It may be that your husband still beholds 
The light, and Heav'n may grant him safe return, 
In answer to our prayers. His guardian god 
Is Neptune, ne'er by him invoked in vain. 

Phaedra 
He who has seen the mansions of the dead 
Returns not thence. Since to those gloomy shores 
Theseus is gone, 'tis vain to hope that Heav'n 
May send him back. Prince, there is no release 
From Acheron's greedy maw. And yet, methinks, 
He lives, and breathes in you. I see him still 
Before me, and to him I seem to speak; 
My heart — 

Oh ! I am mad ; do what I will, 
I cannot hide my passion. 

HlPPOLYTUS 

Yes, I see 
The strange effects of love. Theseus, tho' dead, 
Seems present to your eyes, for in your soul 
There burns a constant flame. 

Ph.edra 

Ah, yes, for Theseus 
I languish and I long, not as the Shades 
Have seen him, of a thousand different forms 
The fickle lover, and of Pluto's bride 
The would-be ravisher, but faithful, proud 
E'en to a slight disdain, with youthful charms 
Attracting every heart, as gods are painted, 
Or like yourself. He had your mien, your eyes, 
Spoke and could blush like you, when to the isle 
Of Crete, my childhood's home, he cross'd the waves, 
Worthy to win the love of Minos' daughters. 
What were you doing then ? Why did he gather 
The flow'r of Greece, and leave Hippolytus? 



150 RACINE 

Oh, why were you too young to have embark'd 
On board the ship that brought thy sire to Crete? 
At your hands would the monster then have perish'd, 
Despite the windings of his vast retreat. 
To guide your doubtful steps within the maze 
My sister would have arm'd you with the clue. 
But no, therein would Phaedra have forestall'd her, 
Love would have first inspired me with the thought; 
And I it would have been whose timely aid 
Had taught you all the labyrinth's crooked ways. 
What anxious care a life so dear had cost me ! 
No thread had satisfied your lover's fears : 
I would myself have wish'd to lead the way, 
And share the peril you were bound to face ; 
Phaedra with you would have explored the maze, 
With you emerged in safety, or have perish'd. 

Hippolytus 
Gods ! What is this I hear ? Have you forgotten 
That Theseus is my father and your husband ? 

Phaedra 
Why should you fancy I have lost remembrance 
Thereof, and am regardless of mine honour? 

Hippolytus 
Forgive me, Madam. With a blush I own 
That I misconstrued words of innocence. 
For very shame I cannot bear your sight 
Longer. I go — 

Phaedra 
Ah ! cruel Prince, too well 
You understood me. I have said enough 
To save you from mistake. I love. But think not 
That at the moment when I love you most 
I do not feel my guilt ; no weak compliance 
Has fed the poison that infects my brain. 
The ill-starr'd object of celestial vengeance, 
I am not so detestable to you 



PH^DRA 151 

As to myself. The gods will bear me witness, 

Who have within my veins kindled this fire, 

The gods, who take a barbarous delight 

In leading a poor mortal's heart astray. 

Do you yourself recall to mind the past : 

'Twas not enough for me to fly, I chased you 

Out of the country, wishing to appear 

Inhuman, odious ; to resist you better, 

I sought to make you hate me. All in vain ! 

Hating me more I loved you none the less : 

New charms were lent to you by your misfortunes. 

I have been drown'd in tears, and scorch'd by fire ; 

Your own eyes might convince you of the truth, 

If for one moment you could look at me. 

What is't I say? Think you this vile confession 

That I have made is what I meant to utter ? 

Not daring to betray a son for whom 

I trembled, 'twas to beg you not to hate him 

I came. Weak purpose of a heart too full 

Of love for you to speak of aught besides ! 

Take your revenge, punish my odious passion; 

Prove yourself worthy of your valiant sire, 

And rid the world of an offensive monster ! 

Does Theseus' widow dare to love his son? 

The frightful monster ! Let her not escape you ! 

Here is my heart. This is the place to strike. 

Already prompt to expiate its guilt, 

I feel it leap impatiently to meet 

Your arm. Strike home. Or, if it would disgrace you 

To steep your hand in such polluted blood, 

If that were punishment too mild to slake 

Your hatred, lend me then your sword, if not 

Your arm. Quick, give't. 

CEnone 

What, Madam, will you do? 
Just gods ! But someone comes. Go, fly from shame, 
You cannot 'scape if seen by any thus. 



152 RACINE 

Scene VI 
Hippolytus, Theramenes 

Theramenes 
Is that the form of Phaedra that I see 
Hurried away? What mean these signs of sorrow? 
Where is your sword? Why are you pale, confused? 

Hippolytus 
Friend, let us fly. I am, indeed, confounded 
With horror and astonishment extreme. 
Phaedra — but no; gods, let this dreadful secret 
Remain for ever buried in oblivion. 

Theramenes 
The ship is ready if you wish to sail. 
But Athens has already giv'n her vote; 
Their leaders have consulted all her tribes; 
Your brother is elected, Phaedra wins. 

Hippolytus 
Phaedra? 

Theramenes 
A herald, charged with a commission 
From Athens, has arrived to place the reins 
Of power in her hands. Her son is King. 

Hippolytus 
Ye gods, who know her, do ye thus reward 
Her virtue? 

Theramenes 
A faint rumour meanwhile whispers 
That Theseus is not dead, but in Epirus 
Has shown himself. But, after all my search, 
I know too well — 

Hippolytus 
Let nothing be neglected. 
This rumour must be traced back to its source. 



PH.EDRA 153 

If it be found unworthy of belief, 

Let us set sail, and cost whatever it may, 

To hands deserving trust the sceptre's sway. 



ACT III 

Scene I 
Phaedra, CEnone 

Phaedra 
Ah ! Let them take elsewhere the worthless honours 
They bring me. Why so urgent I should see them ? 
What nattering balm can soothe my wounded heart? 
Far rather hide me : I have said too much. 
My madness has burst forth like streams in flood, 
And I have utter'd what should ne'er have reach'd 
His ear. Gods ! How he heard me ! How reluctant 
To catch my meaning, dull and cold as marble, 
And eager only for a quick retreat ! 
How oft his blushes made my shame the deeper ! 
Why did you turn me from the death I sought? 
Ah ! When his sword was pointed to my bosom, 
Did he grow pale, or try to snatch it from me? 
That I had touch'd it was enough for him 
To render it for ever horrible, 
Leaving defilement on the hand that holds it. 

CEnone 
Thus brooding on your bitter disappointment, 
You only fan a fire that must be stifled. 
Would it not be more worthy of the blood 
Of Minos to find peace in nobler cares, 
And, in defiance of a wretch who flies 
From what he hates, reign, mount the proff er'd throne ? 

Ph^dra 
I reign ! Shall I the rod of empire sway, 
When reason reigns no longer o'er myself? 



154 RACINE 

When I have lost control of all my senses? 

When 'neath a shameful yoke I scarce can breathe? 

When I am dying? 

CEnone 
Fly. 

Phaedra 

I cannot leave him. 

CEnone 
Dare you not fly from him you dared to banish ? 

Ph^dra 
The time for that is past. He knows my frenzy. 
I have o'erstepp'd the bounds of modesty, 
And blazon'd forth my shame before his eyes. 
Hope stole into my heart against my will. 
Did you not rally my declining pow'rs? 
Was it not you yourself recall'd my soul 
When fluttering on my lips, and with your counsel, 
Lent me fresh life, and told me I might love him? 

CEnone 
Blame me or blame me not for your misfortunes, 
Of what was I incapable, to save you? 
But if your indignation e'er was roused 
By insult, can you pardon his contempt ? 
How cruelly his eyes, severely fix'd, 
Survey'd you almost prostrate at his feet ! 
How hateful then appear'd his savage pride ! 
Why did not Phaedra see him then as I 
Beheld him? 

Ph^dra 
This proud mood that you resent 
May yield to time. The rudeness of the forests 
Where he was bred, inured to rigorous laws, 
Clings to him still ; love is a word he ne'er 
Had heard before. It may be his surprise 



PHAEDRA 155 

Stunn'd him, and too much vehemence was shown 
In all I said. 

CEnone 
Remember that his mother 
Was a barbarian. 

Phaedra 

Scythian tho' she was, 
She learnt to love. 

CEnone 



He has for all the sex 



Hatred intense. 



Phaedra 
Then in his heart no rival 
Shall ever reign. Your counsel comes too late 
CEnone, serve my madness, not my reason. 
His heart is inaccessible to love : 
Let us attack him where he has more feeling. 
The charms of sovereignty appear'd to touch him; 
He could not hide that he was drawn to Athens ; 
His vessels' prows were thither turn'd already, 
All sail was set to scud before the breeze. 
Go you on my behalf, to his ambition 
Appeal, and let the prospect of the crown 
Dazzle his eyes. The sacred diadem 
Shall deck his brow, no higher honour mine 
Than there to bind it. His shall be the pow'r 
I cannot keep ; and he shall teach my son 
How to rule men. It may be he will deign 
To be to him a father. Son and mother 
He shall control. Try ev'ry means to move him; 
Your words will find more favour than can mine. 
Urge him with groans and tears; show Phaedra dying. 
Nor blush to use the voice of supplication. 
In you is my last hope; I'll sanction all 
You say; and on the issue hangs my fate. 



156 RACINE 



Scene II 
Phaedra (alone) 
Venus implacable, who seest me shamed 
And sore confounded, have I not enough 
Been humbled? How can cruelty be stretch'd 
Farther? Thy shafts have all gone home, and thou 
Hast triumph'd. Would'st thou win a new renown? 
Attack an enemy more contumacious: 
Hippolytus neglects thee, braves thy wrath, 
Nor ever at thine altars bow'd the knee. 
Thy name offends his proud, disdainful ears. 
Our interests are alike : avenge thyself, 
Force him to love — 

But what is this? CEnone 
Return'd already? He detests me then, 
And will not hear you. 



Scene III 
Ph^dra, CEnone 

CEnone 

Madam, you must stifle 
A fruitless love. Recall your former virtue : 
The king who was thought dead will soon appear 
Before your eyes, Theseus has just arrived, 
Theseus is here. The people flock to see him 
With eager haste. I went by your command 
To find the prince, when with a thousand shouts 
The air was rent — 



Phaedra 
My husband is alive, 
That is enough, CEnone. I have own'd 
A passion that dishonours him. He lives: 
I ask to know no more. 



PHyEDRA 157 

CEnone 
What? 

Phaedra 

I foretold it, 
But you refused to hear. Your tears prevail'd 
Over my just remorse. Dying this morn, 
I had deserved compassion; your advice 
I took, and die dishonour'd. 

CEnone 

Die? 

Phaedra 

Just Heav'ns! 
What have I done to-day? My husband comes, 
With him his son: and I shall see the witness 
Of my adulterous flame watch with what face 
I greet his father, while my heart is big 
With sighs he scorn'd, and tears that could not move 

him 
Moisten mine eyes. Think you that his respect 
For Theseus will induce him to conceal 
My madness, nor disgrace his sire and king? 
Will he be able to keep back the horror 
He has for me? His silence would be vain. 
I know my treason, and I lack the boldness 
Of those abandon'd women who can taste 
Tranquillity in crime, and show a forehead 
All unabash'd. I recognize my madness, 
Recall it all. These vaulted roofs, methinks, 
These walls can speak, and, ready to accuse me, 
Wait but my husband's presence to reveal 
My perfidy. Death only can remove 
This weight of horror. Is it such misfortune 
To cease to live? Death causes no alarm 
To misery. I only fear the name 
That I shall leave behind me. For my sons 
How sad a heritage ! The blood of Jove 



158 RACINE 

Might justly swell the pride that boasts descent 
From Heav'n, but heavy weighs a mother's guilt 
Upon her offspring. Yes, I dread the scorn 
That will be cast on them, with too much truth, 
For my disgrace. I tremble when I think 
That, crush'd beneath that curse, they'll never dare 
To raise their eyes. 

CEnone 

Doubt not I pity both; 
Never was fear more just than yours. Why then 
Expose them to this ignominy ? Why 
Will you accuse yourself? You thus destroy 
The only hope that's left; it will be said 
That Phaedra, conscious of her perfidy, 
Fled from her husband's sight. Hippolytus 
Will be rejoiced that, dying, you should lend 
His charge support. What can I answer him? 
He'll find it easy to confute my tale, 
And I shall hear him with an air of triumph 
To every open ear repeat your shame. 
Sooner than that may fire from heav'n consume me ! 
Deceive me not. Say, do you love him still? 
How look you now on this contemptuous prince? 

Ph^dra 
As on a monster frightful to mine eyes. 

CEnone 
Why yield him then an easy victory? 
You fear him ? Venture to accuse him first, 
As guilty of the charge which he may bring 
This day against you. Who can say 'tis false? 
All tells against him: in your hands his sword 
Happily left behind, your present trouble, 
Your past distress, your warnings to his father, 
His exile which your earnest pray'rs obtain'd. 

Ph^dra 
What ! Would you have me slander innocence ? 



PH^DRA 159 

CEnone 
My zeal has need of naught from you but silence. 
Like you I tremble, and am loath to do it; 
More willingly I'd face a thousand deaths, 
But since without this bitter remedy 
I lose you, and to me your life outweighs 
All else, I'll speak. Theseus, howe'er enraged, 
Will do no worse than banish him again. 
A father, when he punishes, remains 
A father, and his ire is satisfied 
With a light sentence. But if guiltless blood 
Should flow, is not your honour of more moment? 
A treasure far too precious to be risk'd? 
You must submit, whatever it dictates; 
For, when our reputation is at stake, 
All must be sacrificed, conscience itself. 
But someone comes. 'Tis Theseus. 

Ph^dra 

And I see 

Hippolytus, my ruin plainly written 

In his stern eyes. Do what you will; I trust 

My fate to you. I cannot help myself. 



Scene IV 

Theseus, Hippolytus, Phaedra, CEnone, 
Theramenes 

Theseus 
Fortune no longer fights against my wishes, 
Madam, and to your arms restores — 

Phaedra 

Stay, Theseus ! 
Do not profane endearments that were once 
So sweet, but which I am unworthy now 
To taste. You have been wrong'd. Fortune has 
proved 



160 RACINE 

Spiteful, nor in your absence spared your wife. 
I am unfit to meet your fond caress. 
How I may bear my shame my only care 
Henceforth. 



Scene V 
Theseus, Hippolytus, Theramenes 

Theseus 
Strange welcome for your father, this ! 
What does it mean, my son? 

Hippolytus 

Phaedra alone 
Can solve this mystery. But if my wish 
Can move you, let me never see her more ; 
Suffer Hippolytus to disappear 
For ever from the home that holds your wife. 

Theseus 
You, my son! Leave me? 

Hippolytus 

'Twas not I who sought her: 
'Twas you who led her footsteps to these shores. 
At your departure you thought meet, my lord, 
To trust Aricia and the Queen to this 
Troezenian land, and I myself was charged 
With their protection. But what cares henceforth 
Xeed keep me here? My youth of idleness 
Has shown its skill enough o'er paltry foes 
That range the woods. May I not quit a life 
Of such inglorious ease, and dip my spear 
In nobler blood? Ere you had reach'd my age 
More than one tyrant, monster more than one 
Had felt the weight of your stout arm. Already, 
Successful in attacking insolence, 
You had removed all dangers that infested 



PH^DRA 161 

Our coasts to east and west. The traveller fear'd 

Outrage no longer. Hearing of your deeds, 

Already Hercules relied on you, 

And rested from his toils. While I, unknown 

Son of so brave a sire, am far behind 

Even my mother's footsteps. Let my courage 

Have scope to act, and if some monster yet 

Has 'scaped you, let me lay the glorious spoils 

Down at your feet; or let the memory 

Of death faced nobly keep my name alive, 

And prove to all the world I was your son. 



Theseus 
Why, what is this? What terror has possess'd 
My family to make them fly before me? 
If I return to find myself so fear'd, 
So little welcome, why did Heav'n release me 
From prison? My sole friend, misled by passion, 
Was bent on robbing of his wife the tyrant 
Who ruled Epirus. With regret I lent 
The lover aid, but Fate had made us blind, 
Myself as well as him. The tyrant seized me 
Defenceless and unarm'd. Pirithous 
I saw with tears cast forth to be devour'd 
By savage beasts that lapp'd the blood of men. 
Myself in gloomy caverns he inclosed, 
Deep in the bowels of the earth, and nigh 
To Pluto's realms. Six months I lay ere Heav'n 
Had pity, and I 'scaped the watchful eyes 
That guarded me. Then did I purge the world 
Of a foul foe, and he himself has fed 
His monsters. But, when with expectant joy 
To all that is most precious I draw near 
Of what the gods have left me, when my soul 
Looks for full satisfaction in a sight 
So dear, my only welcome is a shudder, 
Embrace rejected, and a hasty flight. 
Inspiring, as I clearly do, such terror, 
Would I were still a prisoner in Epirus ! 

vol. xxvi — 6 HC 



162 RACINE 

Phaedra complains that I have sufrer'd outrage. 
Who has betray'd me? Speak. Why was I not 
Avenged? Has Greece, to whom mine arm so oft 
Brought useful aid, shelter'd the criminal? 
You make no answer. Is my son, mine own 
Dear son, confederate with mine enemies? 
I'll enter. This suspense is overwhelming. 
I'll learn at once the culprit and the crime, 
And Phaedra must explain her troubled state. 



Scene VI 
Hippolytus, Theramenes 

HlPPOLYTUS 

What do these words portend, which seem'd to freeze 

My very blood? Will Phaedra, in her frenzy 

Accuse herself, and seal her own destruction? 

What will the King say? Gods! What fatal poison 

Has love spread over all his house ! Myself, 

Full of a fire his hatred disapproves, 

How changed he finds me from the son he knew ! 

With dark forebodings in my mind alarm'd, 

But innocence has surely naught to fear. 

Come, let us go, and in some other place 

Consider how I best may move my sire 

To tenderness, and tell him of a flame 

Vex'd but not vanquish'd by a father's blame. 



ACT IV 

Scene I 
Theseus, CEnone 

Theseus 
Ah! What is this I hear? Presumptuous traitor! 
And would he have disgraced his father's honour? 
With what relentless footsteps Fate pursues me ! 



PHAEDRA 163 

Whither I go I know not, nor where know 

I am. O kind affection ill repaid ! 

Audacious scheme ! Abominable thought ! 

To reach the object of his foul desire 

The wretch disdain'd not to use violence. 

I know this sword that served him in his fury, 

The sword I gave him for a nobler use. 

Could not the sacred ties of blood restrain him? 

And Phaedra, — was she loath to have him punish'd? 

She held her tongue. Was that to spare the culprit? 

CEnone 
Nay, but to spare a most unhappy father. 
O'erwhelm'd with shame that her eyes should have 

kindled 
So infamous a flame and prompted him 
To crime so heinous, Phaedra would have died. 
I saw her raise her arm, and ran to save her. 
To me alone you owe it that she lives ; 
And, in my pity both for her and you, 
Have I against my will interpreted 
Her tears. 

Theseus 
The traitor ! He might well turn pale. 
'Twas fear that made him tremble when he saw me. 
I was astonish'd that he show'd no pleasure ; 
His frigid greeting chill'd my tenderness. 
But was this guilty passion that devours him 
Declared already ere I banish'd him 
From Athens? 

CEnone 
Sire, remember how the Queen 
Urged you. Illicit love caused all her hatred. 

Theseus 
And then this fire broke out again at Trcezen? 

CEnone 
Sire, I have told you all. Too long the Queen 



164 RACINE 

Has been allow'd to bear her grief alone 
Let me now leave vou and attend to her. 



Scene II 
Theseus, Hippolytus 

Theseus 
Ah ! There he is. Great gods ! That noble mien 
Might well deceive an eye less fond than mine! 
Why should the sacred stamp of virtue gleam 
Upon the forehead of an impious wretch? 
Ought not the blackness of a traitor's heart 
To show itself by sure and certain signs? 

Hippolytus 
My father, may I ask what fatal cloud 
Has troubled your majestic countenance? 
Dare you not trust this secret to your son? 

Theseus 
Traitor, how dare you show yourself before me? 
Monster, whom Heaven's bolts have spared too long ! 
Survivor of that robber crew whereof 
I cleansed the earth. After your brutal lust 
Scorn'd even to respect my marriage bed, 
You venture — you, my hated foe — to come 
Into my presence, here, where all is full 
Of your foul infamy, instead of seeking 
Some unknown land that never heard my name. 
Fly, traitor, fly ! Stay not to tempt the wrath 
That I can scarce restrain, nor brave my hatred. 
Disgrace enough have I incurr'd for ever 
In being father of so vile a son, 
Without your death staining indelibly 
The glorious record of my noble deeds. 
Fly, and unless you wish quick punishment 
To add you to the criminals cut off 



PHiEDRA 165 

By me, take heed this sun that lights us now 

Ne'er see you more set foot upon this soil. 

I tell you once again, — fly, haste, return not, 

Rid all my realms of your atrocious presence. 

To thee, to thee, great Neptune, I appeal ; 

If erst I clear d thy shores of foul assassins, 

Recall thy promise to reward those efforts, 

Crown'd with success, by granting my first pray'r. 

Confined for long in close captivity, 

I have not yet call'd on thy pow'rful aid, 

Sparing to use the valued privilege 

Till at mine utmost need. The time is come, 

I ask thee now. Avenge a wretched father ! 

I leave this traitor to thy wrath; in blood 

Quench his outrageous fires, and by thy fury 

Theseus will estimate thy favour tow'rds him. 

Hippolytus 
Phaedra accuses me of lawless passion ! 
This crowning horror all my soul confounds; 
Such unexpected blows, falling at once, 
O'erwhelm me, choke my utterance, strike me dumb. 

Theseus 
Traitor, you reckon'd that in timid silence 
Phaedra would bury your brutality. 
You should not have abandon'd in your flight 
The sword that in her hands helps to condemn 

you; 
Or rather, to complete your perfidy, 
You should have robb'd her both of speech and life. 

Hippolytus 
Justly indignant at a lie so black 
I might be pardon'd if I told the truth; 
But it concerns your honour to conceal it. 
Approve the reverence that shuts my mouth; 
And, without wishing to increase your woes, 
Examine closely what my life has been. 



166 RACINE 

Great crimes are never single, they are link'd 

To former faults. He who has once transgress'd 

May violate at last all that men hold 

Most sacred; vice, like virtue, has degrees 

Of progress; innocence was never seen 

To sink at once into the lowest depths 

Of guilt. No virtuous man can in a day 

Turn traitor, murderer, and incestuous wretch. 

The nursling of a chaste, heroic mother, 

I have not proved unworthy of my birth. 

Pittheus, whose wisdom is by all esteem'd, 

Deign'd to instruct me when I left her hands. 

It is no wish of mine to vaunt my merits, 

But, if I may lay claim to any virtue, 

I think beyond all else I have display'd 

Abhorrence of those sins with which I'm charged. 

For this Hippolytus is known in Greece, 

So continent that he is deem'd austere. 

All know my abstinence inflexible : 

The daylight is not purer than my heart. 

How then could I, burning with fire profane — 



Theseus 
Yes, dastard, 'tis that very pride condemns you. 
I see the odious reason of your coldness : 
Phaedra alone bewitch'd your shameless eyes; 
Your soul, to others' charms indifferent, 
Disdain'd the blameless fires of lawful love. 



Hippolytus 
No, father, I have hidden it too long, 
This heart has not disdain'd a sacred flame. 
Here at your feet I own my real offence: 
I love, and love in truth where you forbid me ; 
Bound to Aricia by my heart's devotion, 
The child of Pallas has subdued your son. 
A rebel to your laws, her I adore, 
And breathe forth ardent sighs for her alone. 



PHAEDRA 167 

Theseus 
You love her ? Heav'ns ! 

But no, I see the trick. 
You feign a crime to justify yourself. 

Hippolytus 
Sir, I have shunn'd her for six months, and still 
Love her. To you yourself I came to tell it, 
Trembling the while. Can nothing clear your mind 
Of your mistake? What oath can reassure you? 
By heav'n and earth and all the pow'rs of nature — 

Theseus 
The wicked never shrink from perjury. 
Cease, cease, and spare me irksome protestations, 
If your false virtue has no other aid. 

Hippolytus 
Tho' it to you seem false and insincere, 
Phaedra has secret cause to know it true. 

Theseus 
Ah ! how your shamelessness excites my wrath ! 

Hippolytus 
What is my term and place of banishment? 

Theseus 
Were you beyond the Pillars of Alcides, 
Your perjured presence were too near me yet. 

Hippolytus 
What friends will pity me, when you forsake 
And think me guilty of a crime so vile? 

Theseus 

Go, look you out for friends who hold in honour 
Adultery and clap their hands at incest, 



168 RACINE 

Low, lawless traitors, steep'd in infamy, 
The fit protectors of a knave like you. . 

Hippolytus 
Are incest and adultery the words 
You cast at me? I hold my tongue. Yet think 
What mother Phaedra had; too well you know 
Her blood, not mine, is tainted with those horrors. 

Theseus 
What ! Does your rage before my eyes lose all 
Restraint ? For the last time, — out of my sight ! 
Hence, traitor ! Wait not till a father's wrath 
Force thee away 'mid general execration. 



Scene III 

Theseus (alone) 
Wretch ! Thou must meet inevitable ruin. 
Neptune has sworn by Styx — to gods themselves 
A dreadful oath, — and he will execute 
His promise. Thou canst not escape his vengeance. 
I loved thee; and, in spite of thine offence, 
My heart is troubled by anticipation 
For thee. But thou hast earn'd thy doom too well. 
Had father ever greater cause for rage? 
Just gods', who see the grief that overwhelms me, 
Why was I cursed with such a wicked son? 



Scene IV 
Phaedra, Theseus 

Ph^dra 
My lord, I come to you, fill'd with just dread. 
Your voice raised high in anger reach'd mine ears, 
And much I fear that deeds have follow'd threats. 
Oh, if there yet is time, spare your own offspring, 



PH.EDRA 169 

Respect your race and blood, I do beseech you. 
Let me not hear that blood cry from the ground; 
Save me the horror and perpetual pain 
Of having caused his father's hand to shed it. 



Theseus 
No, Madam, from that stain my hand is free. 
But, for all that, the wretch has not escaped me. 
The hand of an Immortal now is charged 
With his destruction. 'Tis a debt that Neptune 
Owes me, and you shall be avenged. 

Phaedra 

A debt 
Owed you? Pray'rs made in anger — 

Theseus 

Never fear 
That they will fail. Rather join yours to mine. 
In all their blackness paint for me his crimes, 
And fan my tardy passion to white heat. 
But yet you know not all his infamy; 
His rage against you overflows in slanders; 
Your mouth, he says, is full of all deceit, 
He says Aricia has his heart and soul, 
That her alone he loves. 



Phaedra 

Aricia ? 



Theseus 

Ay, 
He said it to my face ! an idle pretext ! 
A trick that gulls me not ! Let us hope Neptune 
Will do him speedy justice. To his altars 
I go, to urge performance of his oaths. 



170 RACINE 



Scene V 



Phaedra (alone) 
Ah, he is gone! What tidings struck mine ears? 
What fire, half smother'd, in my heart revives? 
What fatal stroke falls like a thunderbolt? 
Stung by remorse that would not let me rest, 
I tore myself out of CEnone's arms, 
And flew to help Hippolytus with all 
My soul and strength. Who knows if that repentance 
Might not have moved me to accuse myself? 
And, if my voice had not been choked with shame, 
Perhaps I had confess'd the frightful truth. 
Hippolytus can feel, but not for me ! 
Aricia has his heart, his plighted troth. 
Ye gods, when, deaf to all my sighs and tears, 
He arm'd his eye with scorn, his brow with threats, 
I deem'd his heart, impregnable to love, 
Was fortified 'gainst all my sex alike. 
And yet another has prevail'd to tame 
His pride, another has secured his favour. 
Perhaps he has a heart easily melted; 
I am the only one he cannot bear ! 
And shall I charge myself with his defence? 



Scene VI 
Ph^dra, CEnone 

Ph^dra 
Know you, dear Nurse, what I have learn'd just now? 

CEnone 
No ; but I come in truth with trembling limbs. 
I dreaded with what purpose you went forth, 
The fear of fatal madness made me pale. 

Ph^dra 
Who would have thought it, Nurse ? I had a rival. 



PH^DRA 171 

CEnone 
A rival ? 

Phaedra 
Yes, he loves. I cannot doubt it. 
This wild untamable Hippolytus, 
Who scorn'd to be admired, whom lovers' sighs 
Wearied, this tiger, whom I fear'd to rouse, 
Fawns on a hand that has subdued his pride: 
Aricia has found entrance to his heart. 

CEnone 
Aricia ? 

Ph^dra 

Ah ! anguish as yet untried ! 
For what new tortures am I still reserved? 
All I have undergone, transports of passion, 
Longings and fears, the horrors of remorse, 
The shame of being spurn'd with contumely, 
Were feeble foretastes of my present torments. 
They love each other ! By what secret charm 
Have they deceived me ? Where, and when, and how 
Met they? You knew it all. Why was I cozen'd? 
You never told me of those stolen hours 
Of amorous converse. Have they oft been seen 
Talking together? Did they seek the shades 
Of thickest woods? Alas! full freedom had they 
To see each other. Heav'n approved their sighs; 
They loved without the consciousness of guilt ; 
And every morning's sun for them shone clear, 
While I, an outcast from the face of Nature, 
Shunn'd the bright day, and sought to hide myself. 
Death was the only god whose aid I dared 
To ask : I waited for the grave's release. 
Water'd with tears, nourish'd with gall, my woe 
Was all too closely watch'd ; I did not dare 
To weep without restraint. In mortal dread 
Tasting this dangerous solace, I disguised 
My terror 'neath a tranquil countenance, 
And oft had I to check my tears, and smile. 



172 RACINE 

CEnone 
What fruit will they enjoy of their vain love? 
They will not see each other more. 

Phaedra 

That love 
Will last for ever. Even while I speak, 
Ah, fatal thought, they laugh to scorn the madness 
Of my distracted heart. In spite of exile 
That soon must part them, with a thousand oaths 
They seal yet closer union. Can I suffer 
A happiness, CEnone, which insults me? 
I crave your pity. She must be destroy'd. 
My husband's wrath against a hateful stock 
Shall be revived, nor must the punishment 
Be light: the sister's guilt passes the brothers'. 
I will entreat him in my jealous rage. 
What am I saying? Have I lost my senses? 
Is Phaedra jealous, and will she implore 
Theseus for help? My husband lives, and yet 
I burn. For whom ? Whose heart is this I claim 
As mine? At every word I say, my hair 
Stands up with horror. Guilt henceforth has pass'd 
All bounds. Hypocrisy and incest breathe 
At once thro' all. My murderous hands are ready 
To spill the blood of guileless innocence. 
Do I yet live, wretch that I am, and dare 
To face this holy Sun from whom I spring? 
My father's sire was king of all the gods; 
My ancestors fill all the universe. 
Where can I hide? In the dark realms of Pluto? 
But there my father holds the fatal urn; 
His hand awards th' irrevocable doom : 
Minos is judge of all the ghosts in hell. 
Ah ! how his awful shade will start and shudder 
When he shall see his daughter brought before him, 
Forced to confess sins of such varied dye, 
Crimes it may be unknown to hell itself! 
What wilt thou say, my father, at a sight 



PH^DRA 173 

So dire? I think I see thee drop the urn, 
And, seeking some unheard-of punishment, 
Thyself become my executioner. 
Spare me ! A cruel goddess has destroy 'd 
Thy race ; and in my madness recognize 
Her wrath. Alas ! My aching heart has reap'd 
No fruit of pleasure from the frightful crime 
The shame of which pursues me to the grave, 
And ends in torment life-long misery. 

CEnone 

Ah, Madam, pray dismiss a groundless dread: 

Look less severely on a venial error. 

You love. We cannot conquer destiny. 

You were drawn on as by a fatal charm. 

Is that a marvel without precedent 

Among us? Has love triumph'd over you, 

And o'er none else? Weakness is natural 

To man. A mortal, to a mortal's lot 

Submit. You chafe against a yoke that others 

Have long since borne. The dwellers in Olympus, 

The gods themselves, who terrify with threats 

The sins of men, have burn'd with lawless fires. 

Phaedra 
What words are these I hear? What counsel this 
You dare to give me ? Will you to the end 
Pour poison in mine ears ? You have destroy'd me. 
You brought me back when I should else have quitted 
The light of day, made me forget my duty 
And see Hippolytus, till then avoided. 
What hast thou done? Why did your wicked mouth 
With blackest lies slander his blameless life? 
Perhaps you've slain him, and the impious pray'r 
Of an unfeeling father has been answer'd. 
No, not another word ! Go, hateful monster ; 
Away, and leave me to my piteous fate. 
May Heav'n with justice pay you your deserts! 
And may your punishment for ever be 



174 RACINE 

A terror to all those who would, like you, 

Nourish with artful wiles the weaknesses 

Of princes, push them to the brink of ruin 

To which their heart inclines, and smooth the path 

Of guilt. Such flatterers doth the wrath of Heav'n 

Bestow on kings as its most fatal gift. 

CEnone {alone) 
O gods! to serve her what have I not done? 
This is the due reward that I have won. 



ACT V 

Scene I 
HlPPOLYTUS, ARICIA 

Aricia 
Can you keep silent in this mortal peril? 
Your father loves you. Will you leave him thus 
Deceived ? If in your cruel heart you scorn 
My tears, content to see me nevermore, 
Go, part from poor Aricia ; but at least, 
Going, secure the safety of your life. 
Defend your honour from a shameful stain, 
And force your father to recall his pray'rs. 
There yet is time. Why out of mere caprice 
Leave the field free to Phaedra's calumnies ? 
Let Theseus know the truth. 

HlPPOLYTUS 

Could I say more, 
Without exposing him to dire disgrace? 
How should I venture, by revealing all, 
To make a father's brow grow red with shame? 
The odious mystery to you alone 
Is known. My heart has been outpour'd to none 
Save you and Heav'n. I could not hide from you 
(Judge if I love you), all I fain would hide 



PH^DRA 175 

E'en from myself. But think under what seal 
I spoke. Forget my words, if that may be ; 
And never let so pure a mouth disclose 
This dreadful secret. Let us trust to Heav'n 
My vindication, for the gods are just; 
For their own honour will they clear the guiltless ; 
Sooner or later punish'd for her crime, 
Phaedra will not escape the shame she merits. 
I ask no other favour than your silence; 
In all besides I give my wrath free scope. 
Make your escape from this captivity, 
Be bold to bear me company in flight; 
Linger not here on this accursed soil, 
Where virtue breathes a pestilential air. 
To cover your departure take advantage 
Of this confusion, caused by my disgrace. 
The means of flight are ready, be assured ; 
You have as yet no other guards than mine. 
Pow'rful defenders will maintain our quarrel ; 
Argos spreads open arms, and Sparta calls us. 
Let us appeal for justice to our friends, 
Nor suffer Phaedra, in a common ruin 
Joining us both, to hunt us from the throne, 
And aggrandise her son by robbing us. 
Embrace this happy opportunity: 
What fear restrains? You seem to hesitate. 
Your interest alone prompts me to urge 
Boldness. When I am all on fire, how comes it 
That you are ice ? Fear you to follow then 
A banish'd man ? 

Aricia 

Ah, dear to me would be 
Such exile ! With what joy, my fate to yours 
United, could I live, by all the world 
Forgotten ! But not yet has that sweet tie 
Bound us together. How then can I steal 
Away with you ? I know the strictest honour 
Forbids me not out of your father's hands 
To free myself ; this is no parent's home, 



176 RACINE 

And flight is lawful when one flies from tyrants. 
But you, Sir, love me ; and my virtue shrinks — 

Hippolytus 
No, no, your reputation is to me 
As dear as to yourself. A nobler purpose 
Brings me to you. Fly from your foes, and follow 
A husband. Heav'n, that sends us these misfortunes, 
Sets free from human instruments the pledge 
Between us. Torches do not always light 
The face of Hymen. 

At the gates of Troezen, 
'Mid ancient tombs where princes of my race 
Lie buried, stands a temple ne'er approach'd 
By perjurers, where mortals dare not make 
False oaths, for instant punishment befalls 
The guilty. Falsehood knows no stronger check 
Than what is present there — the fear of death 
That cannot be avoided. Thither then 
We'll go, if you consent, and swear to love 
For ever, take the guardian god to witness 
Our solemn vows, and his paternal care 
Entreat. I will invoke the name of all 
The holiest Pow'rs ; chaste Dian. and the Queen 
Of Heav'n, yea all the gods who know my heart 
Will guarantee my sacred promises. 

Aricia 
The King draws near. Depart, — make no delay. 
To mask my flight, I linger yet one moment. 
Go you ; and leave with me some trusty guide, 
To lead my timid footsteps to your side. 



Scene II 
Theseus, Aricia, Ismene 

Theseus 
Ye gods, throw light upon my troubled mind, 
Show me the truth which I am seeking here. 



PH^DRA 177 

Aricia (aside to Ismene) 
Get ready, dear Ismene, for our flight. 

Scene III 
Theseus, Aricia 

Theseus 
Your colour comes and goes, you seem confused, 
Madam ! What business had my son with you ? 

Aricia 
Sire, he was bidding me farewell for ever. 

Theseus 
Your eyes, it seems, can tame that stubborn pride; 
And the first sighs he breathes are paid to you. 

Aricia 
I can't deny the truth ; he has not, Sire, 
Inherited your hatred and injustice; 
He did not treat me like a criminal. 

Theseus 
That is to say, he swore eternal love. 
Do not rely on that inconstant heart ; 
To others has he sworn as much before. 

Aricia 
He, Sire? 

Theseus 
You ought to check his roving taste 
How could you bear a partnership so vile ? 

Aricia 
And how can you endure that vilest slanders 
Should make a life so pure as black as pitch? 
Have you so little knowledge of his heart ? 
Do you so ill distinguish between guilt 



178 RACINE 

And innocence? What mist before your eyes 

Blinds them to virtue so conspicuous ? 

Ah ! 'tis too much to let false tongues defame him. 

Repent; call back your murderous wishes, Sire; 

Fear, fear lest Heav'n in its severity 

Hate you enough to hear and grant your pray'rs. 

Oft in their wrath the gods accept our victims, 

And oftentimes chastise us with their gifts. 

Theseus 
No, vainly would you cover up his guilt. 
Your love is blind to his depravity. 
But I have witness irreproachable: 
Tears have I seen, true tears, that may be trusted. 

Aricia 

Take heed, my lord. Your hands invincible 
Have rid the world of monsters numberless; 
But all are not destroy'd, one you have left 
Alive — Your son forbids me to say more. 
Knowing with what respect he still regards you, 
I should too much distress him if I dared 
Complete my sentence. I will imitate 
His reverence, and, to keep silence, leave you. 



Scene IV 

Theseus (alone) 
What is there in her mind? What meaning lurks 
In speech begun but to be broken short? 
Would both deceive me with a vain pretence? 
Have they conspired to put me to the torture? 
And yet, despite my stern severity, 
What plaintive voice cries deep within my heart? 
A secret pity troubles and alarms me. 
CEnone shall be questioned once again, 
I must have clearer light upon this crime. 
Guards, bid CEnone come, and come alone. 



PHAEDRA 179 

Scene V 
Theseus, Panope 

Panope 
I know not what the Queen intends to do, 
But from her agitation dread the worst. 
Fatal despair is painted on her features ; 
Death's pallor is already in her face. 
CEnone, shamed and driven from her sight, 
Has cast herself into the ocean depths. 
None knows what prompted her to deed so rash ; 
And now the waves hide her from us for ever. 

Theseus 
What say you? 

Panope 
Her sad fate seems to have added 
Fresh trouble to the Queen's tempestuous soul. 
Sometimes, to soothe her secret pain, she clasps 
Her children close, and bathes them with her tears ; 
Then suddenly, the mother's love forgotten, 
She thrusts them from her with a look of horror. 
She wanders to and fro with doubtful steps ; 
Her vacant eye no longer knows us. Thrice 
She wrote, and thrice did she, changing her mind, 
Destroy the letter ere 'twas well begun. 
Vouchsafe to see her, Sire : vouchsafe to help her. 

Theseus 
Heav'ns Is CEnone dead, and Phaedra bent 
On dying too ? Oh, call me back my son ! 
Let him defend himself, and I am ready 
To hear him. Be not hasty to bestow 
Thy fatal bounty, Neptune ; let my pray'rs 
Rather remain ever unheard. Too soon 
I lifted cruel hands, believing lips 
That may have lied ! Ah ! What despair may follow ! 



180 RACINE 

Scene VI 
Theseus, Theramenes 

Theseus 
Theramenes, is't thou? Where is ray son? 
I gave him to thy charge from tenderest childhood. 
But whence these tears that overflow thine eyes? 
How is it with my son ? 

Theramenes 

Concern too late ! 
Affection vain ! Hippolytus is dead. 



Theseus 



Gods! 



Theramenes 
I have seen the flow'r of all mankind 
Cut off, and I am bold to say that none 
Deserved it less. 

Theseus 

What! My son dead! When ] 
Was stretching out my arms to him, has Heav'n 
Hasten'd his end? What was this sudden stroke? 

Theramenes 
Scarce had we pass'd out of the gates of Trcezen, 
He silent in his chariot, and his guards, 
Downcast and silent too, around him ranged; 
To the Mycenian road he turn'd his steeds, 
Then, lost in thought, allow'd the reins to lie 
Loose on their backs. His noble chargers, erst 
So full of ardour to obey his voice, 
With head depress'd and melancholy eye 
Seem'd now to mark his sadness and to share it. 
A frightful cry, that issues from the deep, 
With sudden discord rends the troubled air; 
And from the bosom of the earth a groan 
Is heard in answer to that voice of terror. 
Our blood is frozen at our very hearts ; 



PH.EDRA 181 

With bristling manes the list'ning steeds stand still. 

Meanwhile upon the watery plain there rises 

A mountain billow with a mighty crest 

Of foam, that shoreward rolls, and, as it breaks 

Before our eyes vomits a furious monster. 

With formidable horns its brow is arm'd, 

And all its body clothed with yellow scales, 

In front a savage bull, behind a dragon 

Turning and twisting in impatient rage. 

Its long continued bellowings make the shore 

Tremble ; the sky seems horror-struck to see it ; 

The earth with terror quakes ; its poisonous breath 

Infects the air. The wave that brought it ebbs 

In fear. All fly, forgetful of the courage 

That cannot aid. and in a neighbouring temple 

Take refuge — all save bold Hippolytus. 

A hero's worthy son, he stays his steeds. 

Seizes his darts, and, rushing forward, hurls 

A missile with sure aim that wounds the monster 

Deep in the flank. With rage and pain it springs 

E'en to the horses' feet, and, roaring, falls, 

Writhes in the dust, and shows a fiery throat 

That covers them with flames, and blood, and smoke. 

Fear lends them wings ; deaf to his voice for once, 

And heedless of the curb, they onward fly. 

Their master wastes his strength in efforts vain; 

With foam and blood each courser's bit is red. 

Some say a god, amid this wild disorder, 

Was seen with goads pricking their dusty flanks. 

O'er jagged rocks they rush urged on by terror; 

Crash ! goes the axle-tree. Th' intrepid youth 

Sees his car broken up, flying to pieces ; 

He falls himself entangled in the reins. 

Pardon my grief. That cruel spectacle 

Will be for me a source of endless tears. 

I saw thy hapless son, I saw him, Sire, 

Dragg'd by the horses that his hands had fed, 

Pow'rless to check their fierce career, his voice 

But adding to their fright, his body soon 

One mass of wounds. Our cries of anguish fill 



182 RACINE 

The plain. At last they slacken their swift pace, 
Then stop, not far from those old tombs that mark 
Where lie the ashes of his royal sires. 
Panting I thither run, and after me 
His guard, along the track stain'd with fresh blood 
That reddens all the rocks ; caught in the briers 
Locks of his hair hang dripping, gory spoils ! 
I come, I call him. Stretching forth his hand, 
He opes his dying eyes, soon closed again. 
" The gods have robb'd me of a guiltless life," 
I hear him say : " Take care of sad Aricia 
When I am dead. Dear friend, if e'er my father 
Mourn, undeceived, his son's unhappy fate 
Falsely accused ; to give my spirit peace, 
Tell him to treat his captive tenderly, 
And to restore — " With that the hero's breath 
Fails, and a mangled corpse lies in my arms, 
A piteous object, trophy of the wrath 
Of Heav'n — so changed, his father would not know 
him. 

Theseus 
Alas, my son ! Dear hope for ever lost ! 
The ruthless gods have served me but too well. 
For what a life of anguish and remorse 
Am I reserved ! 

Theramenes 

Aricia at that instant, 
Flying from you, comes timidly, to take him 
For husband, there, in presence of the gods. 
Thus drawing nigh, she sees the grass all red 
And reeking, sees (sad sight for lover's eye !) 
Hippolytus stretch'd there, pale and disfigured. 
But, for a time doubtful of her misfortune, 
Unrecognized the hero she adores, 
She looks, and asks — " Where is Hippolytus ? " 
Only too sure at last that he lies there 
Before her, with sad eyes that silently 
Reproach the gods, she shudders, groans, and falls 
Swooning and all but lifeless, at his feet. 



PH.EDRA 183 

Ismene, all in tears, kneels down beside her, 
And calls her back to life — life that is naught 
But sense of pain. And I, to whom this light 
Is darkness now, come to discharge the duty 
The hero has imposed on me, to tell thee 
His last request — a melancholy task. 
But hither comes his mortal enemy. 



Scene VII 
Theseus, Phaedra, Theramenes, Panope, Guards 

Theseus 
Madam, you've triumph'd, and my son is kill'd ! 
Ah, but what room have I for fear ! How justly 
Suspicion racks me that in blaming him 
I err'd ! But he is dead ; accept your victim ; 
Rightly or wrongly slain, let your heart leap 
For joy. My eyes shall be for ever blind: 
Since you accuse him, I'll believe him guilty. 
His death affords me cause enough for tears, 
Without a foolish search for further light 
Which, pow'rless to restore him to my grief, 
Might only serve to make me more unhappy. 
Far from this shore and far from you I'll fly, 
For here the image of my mangled son 
Would haunt my memory and drive me mad. 
From the whole world I fain would banish me, 
For all the world seems to rise up in judgment 
Against me ; and my very glory weights 
My punishment ; for, were my name less known 
'Twere easier to hide me. All the favours 
The gods have granted me I mourn and hate, 
Nor will I importune them with vain pray'rs 
Henceforth for ever. Give me what they may, 
What they have taken will all else outweigh. 

Phaedra 
Theseus, I cannot hear you and keep silence : 



184 RACINE 

I must repair the wrong that he has suffer'd— ■ 
Your son was innocent. 



Theseus 

Unhappy father! 
And it was on your word that I condemn'd him! 
Think you such cruelty can be excused — 

Phaedra 
Moments to me are precious ; hear me, Theseus. 
'Twas I who cast an eye of lawless passion 
On chaste and dutiful Hippolytus. 
Heav'n in my bosom kindled baleful fire, 
And vile CEnone's cunning did the rest. 
She fear'd Hippolytus, knowing my madness, 
Would make that passion known which he regarded 
With horror ; so advantage of my weakness 
She took, and hasten'd to accuse him first. 
For that she has been punish'd, tho' too mildly ; 
Seeking to shun my wrath she cast herself 
Beneath the waves. The sword ere now had cut 
My thread of life, but slander'd innocence 
Made its cry heard, and I resolved to die 
In a more lingering way, confessing first 
My penitence to you. A poison, brought 
To Athens by Medea, runs thro' my veins. 
Already in my heart the venom works, 
Infusing there a strange and fatal chill; 
Already as thro' thickening mists I see 
The spouse to whom my presence is an outrage ; 
Death, from mine eyes veiling the light of heav'n, 
Restores its purity that they defiled. 

Panope 
She dies my iord ! 

Theseus 

Would that the memory 
Of her disgraceful deed could perish with her! 



PH^DRA 18S 

Ah, disabused too late ! Come, let us go, 
And with the blood of mine unhappy son 
Mingle our tears, clasping his dear remains, 
In deep repentance for a pray'r detested. 
Let him be honour'd as he well deserves ; 
And, to appease his sore offended ghost, 
Be her near kinsmen's guilt whate'er it may, 
Aricia shall be held my daughter from to-day. 



TARTUFFE 

OR 

THE HYPOCRITE 

BY 

JEAN BAPTISTE POQUELIN MOLIERE 

TRANSLATED BY 

CURTIS HIDDEN PAGE 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE 

Jean Baptiste Poquelin, better known by his stage name of 
Moliere, stands without a rival at the head of French comedy. 
Bom at Paris in January, 1622, where his father held a position 
in the royal household, he was educated at the Jesuit College de 
Clermont, and for some time studied law, which he soon 
abandoned for the stage. His life was spent in Paris and in the 
provinces, acting, directing performances, managing theaters, and 
writing plays. He had his share of applause from the king and 
from the public ; but the satire in his comedies made him many 
enemies, and he was the object of the most venomous attacks 
and the most impossible slanders. Nor did he find much solace 
at home ; for he married unfortunately, and the unhappiness that 
followed increased the bitterness that public hostility had brought 
into his life. On February 17, 1673, while acting in "La Malade 
Imaginable," the last of his masterpieces, he was seized with 
illness and died a few hours later. 

The first of the greater works of Moliere was "Les Precieuses 
Ridicules," produced in 1659. In this brilliant piece Moliere lifted 
French comedy to a new level and gave it a new purpose — the 
satirising of contemporary manners and affectations by frank 
portrayal and criticism. In the great play's that followed, "The 
School for Husbands" and "The School for Wives," "The Mis- 
anthrope" and "The Hypocrite" (Tartuffe), "The Miser" and 
"The Hypochondriac," "The Learned Ladies," "The Doctor in 
Spite of Himself," "The Citizen Turned Gentleman," and many 
others, he exposed mercilessly one after another the vices and 
foibles of the day. 

His characteristic qualities are nowhere better exhibited than 
in "Tartuffe." Compared with such characterisation as Shake- 
speare's, Moliere's method of portraying life may seem to be 
lacking in complexity: but it is precisely the simplicity with 
which creations like Tartuffe embody the weakness or vice they 
represent that has given them their place as universally recog- 
nized types of human nature. 



188 



TARTUFFE 

A COMEDY 



CHARACTERS ACTORS 

Madame Pernelle, mother of Orgon Louis Bejart 

Orgon, husband of Elmire Moltere 

Elmire, wife of Orgon Mlle. Moliere 

Damis, son of Orgon Hubert 

Mariane, daughter of Orgon, in love with Valere ...Mlle. Debrie 

Valere, in love with Mariane La Grange 

Cleante, brother-in-law of Orgon La Thorilliere 

Tartuffe, a hypocrite Du Croisy 

Dorine, Mariane 's maid Madeleine Bejart 

M. Loyal, a bailiff Debrie 

A Police Officer 

Flipotte, Madame Pemelle's servant 

The scene is at Paris 



ACT I 

Scene I 

Madame Pernelle and Flipotte, her servant; Elmire, 
Mariane, Cleante, Damis, Dorine 

Madame Pernelle 
Come, come, Flipotte, and let me get away. 

Elmire 
You hurry so, I hardly can attend you. 

Madame Pernelle 

Then don't, my daughter-in-law. Stay where you are. 
I can dispense with your polite attentions. 

Copyright. 1908. by G. P. Putnam's Sons 



190 MOLIERE 

Elmire 
We're only paying what is due you, mother. 
Why must you go away in such a hurry? 

Madame Pernelle 
Because I can't endure your carryings-on, 
And no one takes the slightest pains to please me. 
I leave your house, I tell you, quite disgusted; 
You do the opposite of my instructions; 
You've no respect for anything; each one 
Must have his say; it's perfect pandemonium. 

Dorine 
If . . 

Madame Pernelle 
You're a servant wench, my girl, and much 
Too full of gab, and too impertinent 
And free with your advice on all occasions. 

Damis 
But . . . 

Madame Pernelle 
You're a fool, my boy — f, o, o, 1 
Just spells your name. Let grandma tell you that 
I've said a hundred times to my poor son, 
Your father, that you'd never come to good 
Or give him anything but plague and torment. 

Mariane 
I think . . . 

Madame Pernelle 
O dearie me, his little sister ! 
You're all demureness, butter wouldn't melt 
In your mouth, one would think to look at you. 
Still waters, though, they say . . . you know the 

proverb ; 
And I don't like your doings on the sly. 



TAETUFFE 191 

Elmire 



But, mother . . . 



Madame Pernelle 
Daughter, by your leave, your conduct 
In everything is altogether wrong; 
You ought to set a good example for 'em ; 
Their dear departed mother did much better. 
You are extravagant; and it offends me, 
To see you always decked out like a princess. 
A woman who would please her husband's eyes 
Alone, wants no such wealth of fineries. 

Cleante 
But, madam, after all . . . 

Madame Pernelle 

Sir, as for you, 
The lady's brother, I esteem you highly, 
Love and respect you. But, sir, all the same, 
If I were in my son's, her husband's, place, 
I'd urgently entreat you not to come 
Within our doors. You preach a way of living 
That decent people cannot tolerate. 
I'm rather frank with you; but that's my way — 
I don't mince matters, when I mean a thing. 

Damis 
Mr. Tartuffe, your friend, is mighty lucky . . « 

Madame Pernelle 
He is a holy man, and must be heeded; 
I can't endure, with any show of patience, 
To hear a scatterbrains like you attack him. 

Damis 
What ! Shall I let a bigot criticaster 
Come and usurp a tyrant's power here? 



192 MOLIERE 

And shall we never dare amuse ourselves 
Till this fine gentleman deigns to consent? 

Dorixe 
If we must hark to him, and heed his maxims, 
There's not a thing we do but what's a crime; 
He censures everything, this zealous carper. 

Madame Perxelle 
And all he censures is well censured, too. 
He wants to guide you on the way to heaven ; 
My son should train you all to love him well. 

Damis 

No, madam, look you, nothing — not my father 
Nor anything — can make me tolerate him. 
I should belie my feelings not to say so. 
His actions rouse my wrath at every turn; 
And I foresee that there must come of it 
An open rupture with this sneaking scoundrel. 

Dorine 
Besides, 'tis downright scandalous to see 
This unknown upstart master of the house — 
This vagabond, who hadn't, when he came. 
Shoes to his feet, or clothing worth six farthings, 
And who so far forgets his place, as now 
To censure everything, and rule the roast! 

Madame Perxelle 
Eh ! Mercy sakes alive ! Things would go better 
If all were governed by his pious orders. 

Dorine 
He passes for a saint in your opinion. 
In fact, he's nothing but a hypocrite. 

Madame Perxelle 
Just listen to her tongue ! 



TARTUFFE 193 

DORINE 

I wouldn't trust him, 
Nor yet his Lawrence, without bonds and surety. 

Madame Pernelle 

I don't know what the servant's character 
May be; but I can guarantee the master 
A holy man. You hate him and reject him 
Because he tells home truths to all of you. 
'Tis sin alone that moves his heart to anger, 
And heaven's interest is his only motive. 

Dorine 
Of course. But why, especially of late, 
Can he let nobody come near the house? 
Is heaven offended at a civil call 
That he should make so great a fuss about it? 
I'll tell you, if you like, just what I think; 

(Pointing to Ebnire) 
Upon my word, he's jealous of our mistress. 

Madame Pernelle 

You hold your tongue, and think what you are saying. 

He's not alone in censuring these visits ; 

The turmoil that attends your sort of people, 

Their carriages forever at the door, 

And all their noisy footmen, flocked together, 

Annoy the neighbourhood, and raise a scandal. 

I'd gladly think there's nothing really wrong; 

But it makes talk ; and that's not as it should be. 

Cleante 
Eh ! madam, can you hope to keep folk's tongues 
From wagging? It would be a grievous thing 
If, for the fear of idle talk about us, 
We had to sacrifice our friends. No, no ; 
Even if we could bring ourselves to do it, 

vol. xxvi — 7 HC 



194 MOLIERE 

Think you that everyone would then be silenced.' 

Against backbiting there is no defence 

So let us try to live in innocence, 

To silly tattle pay no heed at all, 

And leave the gossips free to vent their gall. 

Dorine 
Our neighbour Daphne, and her little husband, 
Must be the ones who slander us, I'm thinking. 
Those whose own conduct 's most ridiculous, 
Are always quickest to speak ill of others; 
They never fail to seize at once upon 
The slightest hint of any love affair, 
And spread the news of it with glee, and give it 
The character they'd have the world believe in. 
By others' actions, painted in their colours, 
They hope to justify their own; they think, 
In the false hope of some resemblance, either 
To make their own intrigues seem innocent, 
Or else to make their neighbours share the blame 
Which they are loaded with by everybody. 

Madame Pernelle 
These arguments are nothing to the purpose. 
Orante, we all know, lives a perfect life ; 
Her thoughts are all of heaven ; and I have heard 
That she condemns the company you keep. 

Dorine 
O admirable pattern ! Virtuous dame ! 
She lives the model of austerity ; 
But age has brought this piety upon her, 
And she's a prude, now she can't help herself. 
As long as she could capture men's attentions 
She made the most of her advantages; 
But, now she sees her beauty vanishing, 
She wants to leave the world, that's leaving her, 
And in the specious veil of haughty virtue 
She'd hide the weakness of her worn-out charms. 



TARTUFFE 195 

That is the way with all your old coquettes ; 
They find it hard to see their lovers leave 'em; 
And thus abandoned, their forlorn estate 
Can find no occupation but a prude's. 
These pious dames, in their austerity, 
Must carp at everything, and pardon nothing. 
They loudly blame their neighbours' way of living, 
Not for religion's sake, but out of envy, 
Because they can't endure to see another 
Enjoy the pleasures age has weaned them from. 

Madame Pernelle, to Elmire 
There ! That 's the kind of rigmarole to please you, 
Daughter-in-law. One never has a chance 
To get a word in edgewise, at your house, 
Because this lady holds the floor all day; 
But none the less, I mean to have my say, too. 
I tell you that my son did nothing wiser 
In all his life, than take this godly man 
Into his household; heaven sent him here, 
In your great need, to make you all repent ; 
For your salvation, you must hearken to him; 
He censures nothing but deserves his censure. 
These visits, these assemblies, and these balls, 
Are all inventions of the evil spirit. 
You never hear a word of godliness 
At them — but idle cackle, nonsense, flimflam. 
Our neighbour often comes in for a share, 
The talk flies fast, and scandal fills the air ; 
It makes a sober person's head go round, 
At these assemblies, just to hear the sound 
Of so much gab, with not a word to say; 
And as a learned man remarked one day 
Most aptly, 'tis the Tower of Babylon, 
Where all, beyond all limit, babble on. 
And just to tell you how this point came in . . . 

(To Cleante) 
So! Now the gentleman must snicker, must he? 



196 MOLIERE 

Go find fools like yourself to make you laugh 
And don't . . . 

(To Elmire) 

Daughter, good-bye ; not one word more. 
As for this house, I leave the half unsaid ; 
But I shan't soon set foot in it again. 

(Cuffing Flipotte) 
Come, you ! What makes you dream and stand agape, 
Hussy ! I'll warm your ears in proper shape ! 
March, trollop, march ! 



Scene II 
Cleante, Dorine 

Cleante 

I won't escort her down, 
For fear she might fall foul of me again; 
The good old lady . . . 

Dorine 

Bless us ! What a pity 
She shouldn't hear the way you speak of her ! 
She'd surely tell you you're too " good " by half, 
And that she's not so "old" as all that, neither! 

Cleante 
How she got angry with us all for nothing ! 
And how she seems possessed with her Tartuffe ! 

Dorine 
Her case is nothing, though, beside her son's ! 
To see him, you would say he's ten times worse ! 
His conduct in our late unpleasantness 1 
Had won him much esteem, and proved his courage 
In service of his king; but now he's like 

1 Referring to the rebellion called La Fronde, during the minority of 
Louis XIV. 



TARTUFFE 197 

A man besotted, since he's been so taken 
With this Tartuffe. He calls him brother, loves him 
A hundred times as much as mother, son, 
Daughter, and wife. He tells him all his secrets 
And lets him guide his acts, and rule his conscience. 
He fondles and embraces him; a sweetheart 
Could not, I think, be loved more tenderly ; 
At table he must have the seat of honour, 
While with delight our master sees him eat 
As much as six men could; we must give up 
The choicest tidbits to him; if he belches, 

{'tis a servant speaking)'' 
Master exclaims : " God bless you ! " — Oh, he dotes 
Upon him ; he's his universe, his hero ; 
He's lost in constant admiration, quotes him 
On all occasions, takes his trifling acts 
For wonders, and his words for oracles. 
The fellow knows his dupe, and makes the most on't, 
He fools him with a hundred masks of virtue, 
Gets money from him all the time by canting, 
And takes upon himself to carp at us. 
Even his silly coxcomb of a lackey 
Makes it his business to instruct us too ; 
He comes with rolling eyes to preach at us, 
And throws away our ribbons, rouge, and patches. 
The wretch, the other day, tore up a kerchief 
That he had found, pressed in the Golden Legend, 
Calling it a horrid crime for us to mingle 
The devil's finery with holy things. 



Scene III 
Elmire, Mariane, Damis, Cleante, Dorine 

Elmire, to Cleante 
You're very lucky to have missed the speech 
She gave us at the door. I see my husband 

2 Moliere's note, inserted in the text of all the old editions. It is a 
curious illustration of the desire for uniformity and dignity of style in 
dramatic verse of the seventeenth century, that Moliere feels called on to 
apologize for a touch of realism like this. Indeed, these lines were even 
omitted when the play was given. 



198 MOLIERE 

Is home again. He hasn't seen me yet, 
So I'll go up and wait till he comes in. 

Cleante 
And I, to save time, will await him here; 
I'll merely say good-morning, and be gone. 



Scene IV 
Cleante, Damis, Dorine 

Damis 
I wish you'd say a word to him about 
My sister's marriage; I suspect Tartuffe 
Opposes it, and puts my father up 
To all these wretched shifts. You know, besides, 
How nearly I'm concerned in it myself; 
If love unites my sister and Valere, 
I love his sister too; and if this marriage 
Were to . . . 

Dorine 
He's coming. 



Scene V 
Orgon, Cleante, Dorine 

Orgon 

Ah ! Good morning, brother. 

Cleante 
I was just going, but am glad to greet you. 
Things are not far advanced yet, in the country? 

Orgon 
Dorine . . . 

(To Cleante) 
Just wait a bit, please, brother-in-law. 



TARTUFFE 199 

Let me allay my first anxiety 

By asking news about the family. 

{To Dorine) 
Has everything gone well these last two days? 
What's happening ? And how is everybody ? 

Dorine 
Madam had fever, and a splitting headache 
Day before yesterday, all day and evening. 

Orgon 
And how about Tartuffe? 

Dorine 

Tartuffe? He's well; 
He's mighty well ; stout, fat, fair, rosy-lipped. 

Orgon 
Poor man ! 

Dorine 
At evening she had nausea 
And could't touch a single thing for supper, 
Her headache still was so severe. 

Orgon 

And how 
About Tartuffe? 

Dorine 
He supped alone, before her, 
And unctuously ate up two partridges, 
As well as half a leg o' mutton, deviled. 

Orgon 
Poor man ! 

Dorine 
All night she couldn't get a wink 



200 MOLIERE 

Of sleep, the fever racked her so ; and we 
Had to sit up with her till daylight. 

Orgon 

How 
About Tartuffe? 

DORINE 

Gently inclined to slumber, 
He left the table, went into his room, 
Got himself straight into a good warm bed, 
And slept quite undisturbed until next morning. 

Orgon 
Poor man ! 

Dorine 
At last she let us all persuade her, 
And got up courage to be bled ; and then 
She was relieved at once. 

Orgon 

And how about 
Tartuffe? 

DORINE 

He plucked up courage properly, 
Bravely entrenched his soul against all evils, 
And, to replace the blood that she had lost, 
He drank at breakfast four huge draughts of wine. 

Orgon 
Poor man ! 

Dorine 
So now they both are doing well ; 
And I '11 go straightway and inform my mistress 
How pleased you are at her recovery. 



TARTUFFE 201 

Scene VI 
Orgon, Cleante 

Cleante 
Brother, she ridicules you to your face; 
And I, though I don't want to make you angry, 
Must tell you candidly that she's quite right. 
Was such infatuation ever heard of? 
And can a man to-day have charms to make you 
Forget all else, relieve his poverty, 
Give him a home, and then . . . ? 

Orgon 

Stop there, good brother, 
You do not know the man you're speaking of. 

Cleante 
Since you will have it so, I do not know him ; 
But after all, to tell what sort of man 
He is . . . 

Orgon 
Dear brother, you 'd be charmed to know him ; 
Your raptures over him would have no end. 
He is a man . . . who ... ah ! ... in fact ... a 

man 
Whoever does his will, knows perfect peace, 
And counts the whole world else, as so much dung. 
His converse has transformed me quite ; he weans 
My heart from every friendship, teaches me 
To have no love for anything on earth ; 
And I could see my brother, children, mother, 
And wife, all die, and never care — a snap. 

Cleante 
Your feelings are humane, I must say, brother ! 

Orgon 

Ah ! If you 'd seen him, as I saw him first, 
You would have loved him just as much as I. 



202 MOLIERE 

He came to church each day, with contrite mien, 
Kneeled, on both knees, right opposite my place, 
And drew the eyes of all the congregation, 
To watch the fervour of his prayers to heaven ; 
With deep-drawn sighs and great ejaculations, 
He humbly kissed the earth at every moment ; 
And when I left the church, he ran before me 
To give me holy water at the door. 
I learned his poverty, and who he was, 
By questioning his servant, who is like him, 
And gave him gifts ; but in his modesty 
He always wanted to return a part 
" It is too much," he'd say, " too much by half; 
I am not worthy of your pity." Then, 
When I refused to take it back, he'd go, 
Before my eyes, and give it to the poor. 
At length heaven bade me take him to my home, 
And since that day, all seems to prosper here. 
He censures everything, and for my sake 
He even takes great interest in my wife; 
He lets me know who ogles her, and seems 
Six times as jealous as I am myself. 
You'd not believe how far his zeal can go: 
He calls himself a sinner just for trifles; 
The merest nothing is enough to shock him; 
So much so, that the other day I heard him 
Accuse himself for having, while at prayer, 
In too much anger caught and killed a flea. 

Cleante 

Zounds, brother, you are mad, I think ! Or else 
You 're making sport of me, with such a speech. 
What are you driving at with all this nonsense . . . ? 

Orgon 
Brother, your language smacks of atheism; 
And I suspect your soul's a little tainted 
Therewith. I've preached to you a score of times 
That you '11 draw down some judgment on your head. 



TARTUFFE 203 

Cleante 
That is the usual strain of all your kind; 
They must have every one as blind as they. 
They call you atheist if you have good eyes ; 
And if you don't adore their vain grimaces, 
You've neither faith nor care for sacred things. 
No, no; such talk can't frighten me; I know 
What I am saying ; heaven sees my heart. 
We're not the dupes of all your canting mummers; 
There are false heroes — and false devotees; 
And as true heroes never are the ones 
Who make much noise about their deeds of honour, 
Just so true devotees, whom we should follow, 
Are not the ones who make so much vain show. 
What ! Will you find no difference between 
Hypocrisy and genuine devoutness ? 
And will you treat them both alike, and pay 
The self-same honour both to masks and faces 
Set artifice beside sincerity, 
Confuse the semblance with reality, 
Esteem a phantom like a living person, 
And counterfeit as good as honest coin? 
Men, for the most part, are strange creatures, truly ! 
You never find them keep the golden mean; 
The limits of good sense, too narrow for them, 
Must always be passed by, in each direction ; 
They often spoil the noblest things, because 
They go too far, and push them to extremes. 
I merely say this by the way, good brother. 

Orgon 
You are the sole expounder of the doctrine ; 
Wisdom shall die with you, no doubt, good brother, 
You are the only wise, the sole enlightened, 
The oracle, the Cato, of our age. 
All men, compared to you, are downright fools. 

Cleante 
I'm not the sole expounder of the doctrine, 



204 MOLIERE 

And wisdom shall not die with me, good brother. 

But this I know, though it be all my knowledge, 

That there's a difference 'twixt false and true. 

And as I find no kind of hero more 

To be admired than men of true religion, 

Nothing more noble or more beautiful 

Than is the holy zeal of true devoutness; 

Just so I think there's naught more odious 

Than whited sepulchres of outward unction, 

Those bare-faced charlatans, those hireling zealots, 

Whose sacrilegious, treacherous pretence 

Deceives at will, and with impunity 

Makes mockery of all that men hold sacred; 

Men who, enslaved to selfish interests, 

Make trade and merchandise of godliness, 

And try to purchase influence and office 

With false eye-rollings and affected raptures; 

Those men, I say, who with uncommon zeal 

Seek their own fortunes on the road to heaven; 

Who, skilled in prayer, have always much to ask, 

And live at court to preach retirement; 

Who reconcile religion with their vices, 

Are quick to anger, vengeful, faithless, tricky, 

And, to destroy a man, will have the boldness 

To call their private grudge the cause of heaven ; 

All the more dangerous, since in their anger 

They use against us weapons men revere, 

And since they make the world applaud their passion, 

And seek to stab us with a sacred sword. 

There are too many of this canting kind. 

Still, the sincere are easy to distinguish; 

And many splendid patterns may be found, 

In our own time, before our very eyes 

Look at Ariston, Periandre, Oronte, 

Alcidamas, Clitandre, and Polydore; 

No one denies their claim to true religion; 

Yet they're no braggadocios of virtue, 

They do not make insufferable display, 

And their religion's human, tractable ; 

They are not always judging all our actions, 



TARTUFFE 205 

They'd think such judgment savoured of presumption; 

And, leaving pride of words to other men, 

'Tis by their deeds alone they censure ours. 

Evil appearances find little credit 

With them ; they even incline to think the b 

Of others. No caballers, no intriguers, 

They mind the business of their own right livin 

They don't attack a sinner tooth and nail, 

For sin's the only object of their hatred; 

Nor are they over-zealous to attempt 

Far more in heaven's behalf than heaven would have 

'em. 
That is my kind of man, that is true living, 
That is the pattern we should set ourselves. 
Your fellow was not fashioned on this model; 
You're quite sincere in boasting of his zeal ; 
But you're deceived, I think, by false pretences. 

Orgon 
My dear good brother-in-law, have you quite done? 

Cleante 
Yes. 

Orgon 

I'm your humble servant. 

(Starts to go.) 

Cleante 

Just a word. 
We'll drop that other subject. But you know 
Valere has had the promise of your daughter. 

Orgon 
Yes. 

Cleante 
You had named the happy day. 

Orgon 

'Tis true. 



206 MOLIERE 



Cleante 
Then why put off the celebration of it? 

Orgon 
I can't say. 

Cleante 
Can you have some other plan 
In mind? 

Orgon 
Perhaps. 

Cleante 
You mean to break your word? 

Orgon 
I don't say that. 

Cleante 

I hope no obstacle 
Can keep you from performing what you've promised. 

Orgon 

Well, that depends. 

Cleante 
Why must you beat about? 
Valere has sent me here to settle matters. 

Orgon 
Heaven be praised! 

Cleante 

What answer shall I take him? 

Orgon 
Why, anything you please. 

Cleante 

But we must know 
Your plans. What are they? 



TARTUFFE 207 

Orgon 

I shall do the will 
Of Heaven. 

Cleante 
Come, be serious. You've given 
Your promise to Valere. Now will you keep it? 

Orgon 
Good-bye. 

Cleante, alone 
His love, methinks, has much to fear; 
I must go let him know what's happening here. 



ACT II 

Scene I 
Orgon, Mariane 

Orgon 



Now, Mariane. 



Mariane 
Yes, father? 

Orgon 



A secret. 



Come ; I'll tell you 



Mariane 
Yes . . . What are you looking for? 



Orgon, looking into a small closet-room 
To see there's no one there to spy upon us; 
That little closet's mighty fit to hide in. 
There ! We're all right now. Mariane, in you 
I've always found a daughter dutiful 
And gentle. So I've always loved you dearly. 



208 MOLIERE 

Mariane 
I'm grateful for your fatherly affection. 

Orgon 
Well spoken, daughter. Now, prove you deserve it 
By doing as I wish in all respects. 

Mariane 
To do so is the height of my ambition. 

Orgon 
Excellent well. What say you of — Tartuffe? 

Mariane 
Who? I? 

Orgon 
Yes, you. Look to it how you answer. 

Mariane 
Why ! I'll say of him — anything you please. 



Scene II 

Orgon, Mariane ; Dorine, coming in quietly and stand- 
ing behind Orgon, so that he does not see her 

Orgon 
Well spoken. A good girl. Say then, my daughter, 
That all his person shines with noble merit, 
That he has won your heart, and you would like 
To have him, by my choice, become your husband. 
Eh? 

Mariane 
Eh? 

Orgon 
What say you? 



TARTUFFE 209 

Mariane 

Please, what did you say ? 

Orgon 
What? 

Mariane 
Surely I mistook you, sir? 

Orgon 

How now? 

Mariane 
Who is it, father, you would have me say 
Has won my heart, and I would like to have 
Become my husband, by your choice? 

Orgon 

Tartuffe. 
Mariane 
But, father, I protest it isn't true ! 
Why should you make me tell this dreadful lie ? 

Orgon 
Because I mean to have it be the truth. 
Let this suffice for you : I've settled it. 

Mariane 
What, father, you would . . . ? 

Orgon 

Yes, child, I'm resolved 
To graft Tartuffe into my family. 
So he must be your husband. That I've settled. 
And since your duty . . . 

(Seeing Dorine) 

What are you doing there? 
Your curiosity is keen, my girl, 
To make you come eavesdropping on us so. 



210 MOLIERE 



DORINE 

Upon my word, I don't know how the rumour 
Got started — if 'twas guess-work or mere chance- 
But I had heard already of this match, 
And treated it as utter stuff and nonsense. 

Orgon 
What ! Is the thing incredible ? 

Dorine 

So much so 
I don't believe it even from yourself, sir. 

Orgon 
I know a way to make you credit it. 

Dorine 
No, no, you're telling us a fairy tale! 

Orgon 
I'm telling you just what will happen shortly. 

Dorine 
Stuff! 

Orgon 
Daughter, what I say is in good earnest. 

Dorine 

There, there, don't take your father seriously; 
He's fooling. 

Orgon 

But I tell you . . . 

Dorine 

No. No use. 
They won't believe you. 



TARTUFFE 211 

Orgon 

If I let my anger . . . 

Dorine 
Well, then, we do believe you ; and the worse 
For you it is. What ! Can a grown-up man 
With that expanse of beard across his face 
Be mad enough to want . . . ? 

Orgon 

You hark to me : 
You've taken on yourself here in this house 
A sort of free familiarity 
That I don't like I tell you frankly, girl. 

Dorine 
There, there, let's not get angry, sir, I beg you. 
But are you making game of everybody? 
Your daughter's not cut out for bigot's meat ; 
And he has more important things to think of. 
Besides, what can you gain by such a match? 
How can a man of wealth, like you, go choose 
A wretched vagabond for son-in-law ? 

Orgon 

You hold your tongue. And know, the less he has, 

The better cause have we to honour him. 

His poverty is honest poverty ; 

It should exalt him more than worldly grandeur, 

For he has let himself be robbed of all, 

Through careless disregard of temporal things 

And fixed attachment to the things eternal. 

My help may set him on his feet again, 

Win back his property — a fair estate 

He has at home, so I'm informed — and prove him 

For what he is, a true-born gentleman. 



212 MOLIERE 

DORINE 

Yes, so he says himself. Such vanity 

But ill accords with pious living, sir. 

The man v, r ho cares for holiness alone 

Should not so loudly boast his name and birth; 

The humble ways of genuine devoutness 

Brook not so much display of earthly pride. 

Why should he be so vain? . . . But I offend you: 

Let 's leave his rank then — take the man himself : 

Can you without compunction give a man 

Like him possession of a girl like her? 

Think what a scandal's sure to come of it ! 

Virtue is at the mercy of the fates, 

When a girl's married to a man she hates; 

The best intent to live an honest woman 

Depends upon the husband's being human, 

And men whose brows are pointed at afar 

May thank themselves their wives are what they are. 

For to be true is more than woman can, 

With husbands built upon a certain plan ; 

And he who weds his child against her will 

Owes heaven account for it, if she do ill. 

Think then what perils wait on your design. 

Orgon to Mariane 
So ! I must learn what's what from her, you see ! 

Dorine 
You might do worse than follow my advice. 

Orgon 
Daughter, we can't waste time upon this nonsense ; 
I know what's good for you, and I'm your father. 
True, I had promised you to young Valere ; 
But, first, they tell me he's inclined to gamble, 
And then, I fear his faith is not quite sound. 
I haven't noticed that he's regular 
At church. 



TARTUFFE 213 

DORINE 

You'd have him run there just when you do. 
Like those who go on purpose to be seen ? 

Orgon 
I don't ask your opinion on the matter. 
In short, the other is in Heaven's best graces, 
And that is riches quite beyond compare. 
This match will bring you every joy you long for; 
'Twill be all steeped in sweetness and delight. 
You'll live together, in your faithful loves, 
Like two sweet children, like two turtle-doves ; 
You'll never fail to quarrel, scold, or tease, 
And you may do with him whate'er you please. 

Dorine 
With him ? Do naught but give him horns, I'll warrant. 

Orgon 
Out on thee, wench ! 

Dorine 

I tell you he's cut out for't; 
However great your daughter's virtue, sir, 
His destiny is sure to prove the stronger. 

Orgon 

Have done with interrupting. Hold your tongue. 
Don't poke your nose in other people's business. 

Dorine (She keeps interrupting him, just as he turns 

and starts to speak to his daughter). 
If. I make bold, sir, 'tis for your own good. 

Orgon 
You 're too officious ; pray you, hold your tongue. 

Dorine 
'Tis love of you . . . 



214 MOLIERE 

Orgon 

I want none of your love. 

Dorine 
Then I will love you in your own despite. 

Orgon 
You will, eh? 

Dorine 
Yes, your honour's dear to me; 
I can't endure to see you made the butt 
Of all men's ridicule. 

Orgon 

Won't you be still ? 

Dorine 
'Twould be a sin to let you make this match. 

Orgon 
Won't you be still, I say, you impudent viper! 

Dorine 
What ! you are pious, and you lose your temper ? 

Orgon 
I'm all wrought up, with your confounded nonsense; 
Now, once for all, I tell you hold your tongue. 

Dorine 
Then mum's the word ; I'll take it out in thinking. 

Orgon 
Think all you please ; but not a syllable 
To me about it, or . . . you understand! 

(Turning to his daughter.) 
As a wise father, I've considered all 
With due deliberation. 



TARTUFFE 21$! 

DORINE 

I'll go mad 
If I can't speak. 

(She stops the instant he turns his head.) 

Orgon 
Though he's no lady's man, 
Tartuffe is well enough . . . 

Dorine 

A pretty phiz ! 

Orgon 
So that, although you may not care at all 
For his best qualities . . . 

Dorine 

A handsome dowry ! 

(Orgon turns and stands in front of her, with 
arms folded, eyeing her.) 
Were I in her place, any man should rue it 
Who married me by force, that's mighty certain; 
I'd let him know, and that within a week, 
A woman's vengeance isn't far to seek. 

Orgon, to Dorine 
So — nothing that I say has any weight? 

Dorine 
Eh? What's wrong now? I didn't speak to you. 

Orgon 
What were you doing? 

Dorine 

Talking to myself. 



216 MOLIERE 

Orgon 
Oh! Very well. (Aside.) Her monstrous impudence 
Must be chastised with one good slap in the face. 

(He stands ready to strike her, and, each time he 
speaks to his daughter, he glances towatd her; but 
she stands still and says not a word.) 5 

Orgon 
Daughter, you must approve of my design. . . . 
Think of this husband ... I have chosen for you . . . 

(To Dorine) 
Why don't you talk to yourself? 



Dorine 
Orgon 



Nothing to say. 



One little word more. 



Dorine 
Oh, no, thanks. Not now. 

Orgon 
Sure, I'd have caught you. 

Dorine 

Faith, I'm no such fool. 

* As given at the Comedie frangaise, the action is as follows: While 
Orgon says, " You must approve of ray design," Dorine is making signs 
to Mariane to resist his orders; Orgon turns around suddenly; but Dorine 
quickly changes her gesture and with the hand which she had lifted calmly 
arranges her hair and her cap. Orgon goes on, " Think of the hus- 
band . . ." and stops before the middle of his sentence to turn and catch 
the beginning of Dorine's gesture; but he is too quick this time, and 
Dorine stands looking at his furious countenance with a sweet and gentle 
expression. He turns and goes on, and the obstinate Dorine again lifts 
her hand behind his shoulder to urge Mariane to resistance: this time he 
catches her; but just as he swings his shoulder to give her the promised 
blow, she stops him by changing the intent of her gesture, and carefully 
picking from the top of his sleeve a bit of fluff which she holds carefully 
between her fingers, then blows into the air, and watches intently as it 
floats away. Orgon is paralysed by her innocence of expression, and com- 
pelled to hide his rage. — Regnier, he Tartuffe des Comediens. 



TARTUFFE 217 

Orgon 
So, daughter, now obedience is the word; 
You must accept my choice with reverence. 

Dorine, running away 
You'd never catch me marrying such a creature. 

Orgon, swinging his hand at her and missing her 
Daughter, you've such a pestilent hussy there 
I can't live with her longer, without sin. 
I can't discuss things in the state I'm in. 
My mind's so flustered by her insolent talk, 
To calm myself, I must go take a walk. 



Scene III 
Mariane, Dorine 

Dorine 
Say, have you lost the tongue from out your head? 
And must I speak your role from A to Zed ? 
You let them broach a project that's absurd, 
And don't oppose it with a single word! 

Mariane 
What can I do? My father is the master 

Dorine 
Do? Everything, to ward oft" such disaster. 

Mariane 
But what ? 

Dorine 
Tell him one doesn't love by proxy; 
Tell him you'll marry for yourself, not him; 
Since you're the one for whom the thing is done, 
You are the one, not he, the man must please; 



218 MOLIERE 

If his Tartuffe has charmed him so, why let him 
Just marry him himself — no one will hinder. 

Mariane 
A father's rights are such, it seems to me, 
That I could never dare to say a word. 

Dorine 
Come, talk it out. Valere has asked your hand : 
Now do you love him, pray, or do you not? 

Mariane 
Dorine ! How can you wrong my love so much, 
And ask me such a question ? Have I not 
A hundred times laid bare my heart to you? 
Do you not know how ardently I love him? 

Dorine 
How do I know if heart and words agree, 
And if in honest truth you really love him? 

Mariane 
Dorine, you wrong me greatly if you doubt it; 
I've shown my inmost feelings, all too plainly. 

Dorine 
So then, you love him? 

Mariane 

Yes, devotedly. 

Dorine 
And he returns your love, apparently? 

Mariane 
I think so. 

Dorine 
And you both alike are eager 
To be well married to each other? 



TARTUFFE 219 

Marians 

Surely. 
Dorine 
Then what's your plan about this other match? 

Mariane 
To kill myself, if it is forced upon me. 

Dorine 
Good! That's a remedy I hadn't thought of. 
Just die, and everything will be all right. 
This medicine is marvellous, indeed ! 
It drives me mad to hear folk talk such nonsense. 

Mariane 
Oh dear, Dorine, you get in such a temper ! 
You have no sympathy for people's troubles. 

Dorine 
I have no sympathy when folk talk nonsense, 
And flatten out as you do, at a pinch. 

Mariane 
But what can you expect? — if one is timid? — 

Dorine 
But what is love worth, if it has no courage? 

Mariane 
Am I not constant in my love for him? 
Is't not his place to win me from my father? 

Dorine 
But if your father is a crazy fool, 
And quite bewitched with his Tartuffe? And breaks 
His bounden word? Is that your lover's fault? 



220 MOLIERE 

Mariane 
But shall I publicly refuse and scorn 
This match, and make it plain that I'm in love? 
Shall I cast off for him, whate'er he be, 
Womanly modesty and filial duty? 
You ask me to display my love in public . . . ? 

Dorine 
No, no, I ask you nothing. You shall be 
Mister Tartuffe's; why, now I think of it, 
I should be wrong to turn you from this marriage. 
What cause can I have to oppose your wishes? 
So fine a match ! An excellent good match ! 
Mister Tartuffe ! Oh ho ! No mean proposal ! 
Mister Tartuffe, sure, take it all in all, 
Is not a man to sneeze at — oh, by no means ! 
'Tis no small luck to be his happy spouse. 
The whole world joins to sing his praise already; 
He's noble — in his parish ; handsome too ; 
Red ears and high complexion — oh, my lud ! 
You'll be too happy, sure, with him for husband. 

Mariane 
Oh dear! . . . 

DORINE 

What joy and pride will fill your heart 
To be the bride of such a handsome fellow ! 

Mariane 
Oh, stop, I beg you; try to find some way 
To help break off the match. I quite give in, 
I'm ready to do anything you say. 

DORINE 

No, no, a daughter must obey her father, 
Though he should want to make her wed a monkey. 
Besides, your fate is fine. What could be better ! 
You'll take the stage-coach to his little village, 



TARTUFFE 221 

And find it full of uncles and of cousins, 
Whose conversation will delight you. Then 
You'll be presented in their best society. 
You'll even go to call, by way of welcome, 
On Mrs. Bailiff, Mrs. Tax-Collector, 
Who '11 patronise you with a folding-stool. 
There, once a year, at carnival, you '11 have — 
Perhaps — a ball ; with orchestra — two bag-pipes ; 
And sometimes a trained ape, and Punch and Judy; 
Though if your husband . . . 

Mariane 

Oh, you '11 kill me. Please 
Contrive to help me out with your advice. 

Dorine 
I thank you kindly. 

Mariane 
Oh ! Dorine, I beg you . . . 

Dorine 
To serve you right, this marriage must go through. 



Dear girl ! 

No. 



Mariane 
Dorine 

Mariane 
If I say I love Valere 



Dorine 
No, no. Tartuffe's your man, and you shall taste him. 

Mariane 
You know I've always trusted you; now help me . . . 

Dorine 
No, you shall be, my faith ! Tartuffified. 



222 MOLIERE 

Mariane 
Well, then, since you've no pity for my fate 
Let me take counsel only of despair ; 
It will advise and help and give me courage ; 
There's one sure cure, I know, for all my troubles. 

(She starts to go.) 

Dorine 
There, there ! Come back. I can't be angry long. 
I must take pity on you, after all. 

Mariane 
Oh, don't you see, Dorine, if I must bear 
This martyrdom, I certainly shall die. 

Dorine 
Now don't you fret. We'll surely find some way 
To hinder this . . . But here's Valere, your lover. 



Scene IV 
Valere, Mariane, Dorine 

Valere 
Madam, a piece of news — quite new to rae — 
Has just come out, and very fine it is. 

Mariane 
What piece of news? 

Valere 
Your marriage with Tartuffe. 

Mariane 
'Tis true my father has this plan in mind. 



TARTUFFE 223 

Valere 
Your father, madam . . . 

Mariane 

Yes, he's changed his plans, 
And did but now propose it to me. 

Valere 

What! 
Seriously ? 

Mariane 
Yes, he was serious, 
And openly insisted on the match. 

Valere 
And what's your resolution in the matter, 
Madam ? 

Mariane 
I don't know. 

Valere 

That's a pretty answer. 

Mariane 
No. 

Valere 
No? 

Mariane 

What do you advise? 

Valere 
I ? My advice is, marry him, by all means. 

Mariane 
That's your advice? 



You don't know? 



224 MOLIERE 



Valere 
Yes. 



Mariane 

Do you mean it? 

Valere 

Surely. 
A splendid choice, and worthy your acceptance. 

Mariane 
Oh, very well, sir ! I shall take your counsel. 

Valere 
You'll find no trouble taking it, I warrant. 

Mariane 
No more than you did giving it, be sure. 

Valere 
I gave it, truly, to oblige you, madam. 

Mariane 
And I shall take it to oblige you, sir. 

Dorine, withdrawing to the back of the stage 
Let's see what this affair will come to. 

Valere So> 

That is your love? And it was all deceit 
When you . . . 

Mariane 

I beg you, say no more of that. 
You told me, squarely, sir, I should accept 
The husband that is offered me; and I 
Will tell you squarely that I mean to do so, 
Since you have given me this good advice. 



TARTUFFE 225 

Valere 
Don't shield yourself with talk of my advice. 
You had your mind made up, that's evident ; 
And now you're snatching at a trifling pretext 
To justify the breaking of your word. 

Mariane 
Exactly so. 

Valere 
Of course it is ; your heart 
Has never known true love for me. 

Mariane 

Alas! 
You're free to think so, if you please. 

Valere 

Yes, yes, 
I'm free to think so ; and my outraged love 
May yet forestall you in your perfidy. 
And offer elsewhere both my heart and hand. 

Mariane 
No doubt of it ; the love your high deserts 
May win . . . 

Valere 
Good Lord, have done with my deserts ! 
I know I have but few, and you have proved it. 
But I may find more kindness in another ; 
I know of someone, who'll not be ashamed 
To take your leavings, and make up my loss. 

Mariane 
The loss is not so great ; you'll easily 
Console yourself completely for this change. 

Valere 
I'll try my best; that you may well believe. 
When we're forgotten by a woman's heart, 

vol. xxvi — 8 hc 



226 MOLIERE 

Our pride is challenged; we, too, must forget; 
Or if we cannot, must at least pretend to. 
No other way can man such baseness prove, 
As be a lover scorned, and still in love. 

Mariane 
In faith, a high and noble sentiment. 

Valere 
Yes ; and it's one that all men must approve. 
What ! Would you have me keep my love alive, 
And see you fly into another's arms 
Before my very eyes ; and never offer 
To someone else the heart that you had scorned? 

Mariane 
Oh, no, indeed! For my part, I could wish 
That it were done already. 

Valere 

What! You wish it? 

Mariane 
Yes. 

Valere 

This is insult heaped on injury; 
I'll go at once and do as you desire. 

(He takes a step or two as if to go away.) 

Mariane 
Oh, very well then. 

Valere, turning back 

But remember this. 
'Twas you that drove me to this desperate pass. 

Mariane 
Of course. 



TARTUFFE 227 

Valere, turning back again 

And in the plan that I have formed 
I only follow your example. 

Mariane 

Yes. 

Valere, at the door 
Enough; you shall be punctually obeyed. 

Mariane 
So much the better. 

Valere (coming back again) 
This is once for all. 

Mariane 
So be it, then. 

Valere (He goes toward the door, but just as he 
reaches it, turns around) 
Eh? 

Mariane 
What? 

Valere 

You didn't call me? 

Mariane 
I? You are dreaming. 

Valere 

Very well, I'm gone. 
Madam, farewell. 

(He walks slowly away.) 

Mariane 
Farewell, sir. 



228 MOLIERE 

DORINE 

I must say 
You've lost your senses and both gone clean daft! 
I've let you fight it out to the end o' the chapter 
To see how far the thing could go. Oho, there, 
Mister Valere ! 

(She goes and seises him by the arm, to stop him. 
He makes a great show of resistance.) 

Valere 
What do you want, Dorine? 



DORINE 



Come here. 



Valere 
No, no, I'm quite beside myself. 
Don't hinder me from doing as she wishes. 

Dorine 
Stop! 

Valere 

No. You see, I'm fixed, resolved, determined, 

Dorine 
So! 

Mariane, aside 
Since my presence pains him, makes him go, 
I'd better go myself, and leave him free. 

Dorine, leaving Valere, and running after Mariane 

Now t'other! Where are you going? 

Mariane 

Let me be. 
Dorine 
Come back. 

Mariane 

No, no, it isn't any use. 



TARTUFFE 220 

Valere, aside 
'Tis clear the sight of me is torture to her; 
No doubt, t'were better I should free her from it. 

Dorine, leaving Mariane, and running after Valere 
Same thing again ! Deuce take you both, I say. 
Now stop your fooling ; come here, you ; and you 
(She pulls first one, then the other, toward 
the middle of the stage.) 

Valere to Dorine 
What's your idea? 

Mariane to Dorine 

What can you mean to do? 

Dorine 
Set you to rights, and pull you out o' the scrape. 

(To Valere) 
Are you quite mad, to quarrel with her now? 

Valere 
Didn't you hear the things she said to me ? 

Dorine to Mariane 
Are you quite mad, to get in such a passion? 

Mariane 
Didn't you see the way he treated me? 

Dorine 
Fools, both of you. 

(To Valere) 

She thinks of nothing else 
But to keep faith with you, I vouch for it 



230 MOLIERE 

(To Mariane) 
And he loves none but you, and longs for nothing 
But just to marry you, I stake my life on't. 

Mariane to Valere 
Why did you give me such advice then, pray? 

Valere to Mariane 
Why ask for my advice on such a matter? 

Dorine 
You both are daft, I tell you. Here, your hands. 

(To Valere) 
Come, yours. 

Valere, giving Dorine his hand 
What for? 

Dorine, to Mariane 

Now, yours. 

Mariane, giving Dorine her hand 

But what's the use? 

Dorine 
Oh, quick now, come along. There, both of you — 
You love each other better than you think. 

(Valere and Mariane hold each other's hands some 
time without looking at each other.) 

Valere, at last turning toward Mariane 
Come, don't be so ungracious now about it; 
Look at a man as if you didn't hate him. 

(Mariane looks sidezuays toward Valere, with just 
a bit of a smile.) 

Dorine 
My faith and troth, what fools these lovers be ! 



TARTUFFE 231 

Valere to Mariane 
But come now, have I not a just complaint? 
And truly, are you not a wicked creature 
To take delight in saying what would pain me? 

Mariane 
And are you not yourself the most ungrateful . » . ? 

Dorine 
Leave this discussion till another time ; 
Now, think how you'll stave off this plaguy marriage. 

Mariane 
Then tell us how to go about it. 



Dorine 
We'll try all sorts of ways. 



Well, 



{To Mariane) 

Your father's daft; 
{To Valere) 
This plan is nonsense. 

{To Mariane) 

You had better humour 
His notions by a semblance of consent, 
So that in case of danger, you can still 
Find means to block the marriage by delay. 
If you gain time, the rest is easy, trust me. 
One day you'll fool them with a sudden illness, 
Causing delay ; another day, ill omens : 
You've met a funeral, or broke a mirror, 
Or dreamed of muddy water. Best of all, 
They cannot marry you to anyone 
Without your saying yes. But now, methinks, 
They mustn't find you chattering together. 



232 MOLIERE 

(To Valere) 
You, go at once and set your friends at work 
To make him keep his word to you ; while we 
Will bring the brother's influence to bear. 
And get the step-mother on our side, too. 
Good-bye. 

Valere to Mariane 
Whatever efforts we may make, 
My greatest hope, be sure, must rest on you. 

Mariane to Valere 
I cannot answer for my father's whims ; 
But no one save Valere shall ever have me. 

Valere 
You thrill me through with joy! Whatever comes . . . 

Dorine 
Oho ! These lovers ! Never done with prattling ! 
Now go. 

Valere, starting to go, and coming back again 
One last word . . . 

Dorine 

What a gabble and pother ! 
Be off ! By this door, you. And you, by t'other. 
(She pushes them off, by the shoulders, in opposite 
directions.) 



TARTUFFE 233 

ACT III 

Scene I 
Damis, Dorine 

Damis 
May lightning strike me dead this very instant, 
May I be everywhere proclaimed a scoundrel, 
If any reverence or power shall stop me, 
And if I don't do straightway something desperate ! 

Dorine 
I beg you, moderate this towering passion; 
Your father did but merely mention it. 
Not all things that are talked of turn to facts; 
The road is long, sometimes, from plans to acts. 

Damis 
No, I must end this paltry fellow's plots, 
And he shall hear from me a truth or two. 

Dorine 
So ho ! Go slow now. Just you leave the fellow — 
Your father too — in your step-mother's hands. 
She has some influence with this Tartuffe, 
He makes a point of heeding all she says, 
And I suspect that he is fond of her. 
Would God 'twere true! — 'Twould be the height of 

humour 
Now, she has sent for him, in your behalf, 
To sound him on this marriage, to find out 
What his ideas are, and to show him plainly 
What troubles he may cause, if he persists 
In giving countenance to this design. 
His man says, he's at prayers, I mustn't see him, 
But likewise says, he'll presently be down. 
So off with you, and let me wait for him. 



234 MOLIERE 

Damis 
I may be present at this interview. 

Dorine 
No, no ! They must be left alone. 

Damis 

I won't 
So much as speak to him. 

Dorine 

Go on ! We know you 
And your high tantrums. Just the way to spoil things ! 
Be off. 

Damis 
No, I must see — I'll keep my temper. 

Dorine 
Out on you, what a plague ! He's coming. Hide ! 
{Damis goes and hides in the closet at the back 
of the stage.) 



Scene II 
Tartuffe, Dorine 

Tartuffe, speaking to his valet, off the stage, as soon 

as he sees Dorine is there 
Lawrence, put up my hair-cloth shirt and scourge, 
And pray that Heaven may shed its light upon you. 
If any come to see me, say I'm gone 
To share my alms among the prisoners. 

Dorine, aside 
What affectation and what showing off! 

Tartuffe 
What do you want with me? 



TARTUFFE 235 

DORINE 

To tell you . 

Tartuffe, taking a handkerchief from his pocket 

Ah! 
Before you speak, pray take this handkerchief. 

Dorine 
What? 

Tartuffe 
Cover up that bosom, which I can't 
Endure to look on. Things like that offend 
Our souls, and fill our minds with sinful thoughts. 

Dorine 
Are you so tender to temptation, then, 
And has the flesh such power upon your senses? 
I don't know how you get in such a heat; 
For my part, I am not so prone to lust, 
And I could see you stripped from head to foot, 
And all your hide not tempt me in the least. 

Tartuffe 
Show in your speech some little modesty, 
Or I must instantly take leave of you. 

Dorine 
No, no, I'll leave you to yourself ; I've only 
One thing to say: Madam will soon be down, 
And begs the favour of a word with you. 

Tartuffe 
Ah! Willingly. 

Dorine, aside 

How gentle all at once ! 
My faith, I still believe I've hit upon it. 

Tartuffe 
Will she come soon ? 



236 MOLIERE 

DORINE 

I think I hear her now. 
Yes, here she is herself; I'll leave you with her. 



Scene III 
Elmire, Tartuffe 

Tartuffe 
May Heaven's overflowing kindness ever 
Give you good health of body and of soul, 
And bless your days according to the wishes 
And prayers of its most humble votary! 

Elmire 
I'm very grateful for your pious wishes. 
But let's sit down, so we may talk at ease. 

Tartuffe, after sitting down 
And how are you recovered from your illness? 

Elmire, sitting down also 
Quite well; the fever soon let go its hold. 

Tartuffe 
My prayers, I fear, have not sufficient merit 
To have drawn down this favour from on high; 
But each entreaty that I made to Heaven 
Had for its object your recovery. 

Elmire 
You're too solicitous on my behalf. 

Tartuffe 
We could not cherish your dear health too much ; 
I would have given mine, to help restore it. 



TARTUFFE 237 

Elm ire 
That's pushing Christian charity too far ; 
I owe you many thanks for so much kindness. 

Tartuffe 
I do far less for you than you deserve. 

Elm ire 
There is a matter that I wished to speak of 
In private ; I am glad there 's no one here 
To listen. 

Tartuffe 
Madam, I am overjoyed. 
'Tis sweet to find myself alone with you. 
This is an opportunity I've asked 
Of Heaven, many a time; till now, in vain. 

Elm ire 
All that I wish, is just a word from you, 
Quite frank and open, hiding nothing from me. 

(Damis, without their seeing him, opens the closet 
door half way.) 

Tartuffe 
I too could wish, as Heaven's especial favour, 
To lay my soul quite open to your eyes, 
And swear to you, the trouble that I made 
About those visits which your charms attract, 
Does not result from any hatred toward you, 
But rather from a passionate devotion, 
And purest motives . . . 

Elmire 

That is how I take it, 
I think 'tis my salvation that concerns you. 



238 MOLIERE 

Tartuffe, pressing her finger tips 
Madam, 'tis so ; and such is my devotion . . . 

Elm ire 
Ouch ! but you squeeze too hard. 

Tartuffe 

Excess of zeal. 
In no way could I ever mean to hurt you, 
And I'd as soon . . . 

(He puts his hand on her knee.) 

Elm ire 
What's your hand doing there? 

Tartuffe 
Feeling your gown; the stuff is very soft. 

Elmire 
Let be, I beg you; I am very ticklish. 

{She moves her chair away, and Tartuffe brings 
his nearer.) 

Tartuffe, handling the lace yoke of Elmire's dress 
Dear me, how wonderful in workmanship 
This lace is ! They do marvels, nowadays ; 
Things of all kinds were never better made. 

Elmire 
Yes, very true. But let us come to business. 
They say my husband means to break his word. 
And marry Mariane to you. Is't so? 

Tartuffe 
He did hint some such thing; but truly, madam, 
That's not the happiness I'm yearning after; 
I see elsewhere the sweet compelling charms 
Of such a joy as fills my every wish. 



TARTUFFE 239 

Elmire 
You mean you cannot love terrestrial things. 

Tartuffe 
The heart within my bosom is not stone. 

Elmire 
I well believe your sighs all tend to Heaven, 
And nothing here below can stay your thoughts. 

Tartuffe 
Love for the beauty of eternal things 
Cannot destroy our love for earthly beauty; 
Our mortal senses well may be entranced 
By perfect works that Heaven has fashioned here. 
Its charms reflected shine in such as you, 
And in yourself, its rarest miracles; 
It has displayed such marvels in your face, 
That eyes are dazed, and hearts are rapt away; 
I could not look on you, the perfect creature, 
Without admiring Nature's great Creator, 
And feeling all my heart inflamed with love 
For you, His fairest image of Himself. 
At first I trembled lest this secret love 
Might be the Evil Spirit's artful snare ; 
I even schooled my heart to flee your beauty, 
Thinking it was a bar to my salvation. 
But soon, enlightened, O all lovely one, 
I saw how this my passion may be blameless, 
How I may make it fit with modesty, 
And thus completely yield my heart to it. 
'Tis, I must own, a great presumption in me 
To dare make you the offer of my heart; 
My love hopes all things from your perfect goodness, 
And nothing from my own poor weak endeavour. 
You are my hope, my stay, my peace of heart; 
On you depends my torment or my bliss; 
And by your doom of judgment, I shall be 
Blest, if you will ; or damned, by your decree. 



240 MOLIERE 



Elmire 
Your declaration's turned most gallantly; 
But truly, it is just a bit surprising. 
You should have better armed your heart, methinks, 
And taken thought somewhat on such a matter. 
A pious man like you, known everywhere . . . 

Tartuffe 
Though pious, I am none the less a man; 
And when a man beholds your heavenly charms, 
The heart surrenders, and can think no more. 
I know such words seem strange, coming from me; 
But, madam, I'm no angel, after all; 
If you condemn my frankly made avowal 
You only have your charming self to blame. 
Soon as I saw your more than human beauty, 
You were thenceforth the sovereign of my soul; 
Sweetness ineffable was in your eyes, 
That took by storm my still resisting heart, 
And conquered everything, fasts, prayers, and tears, 
And turned my worship wholly to yourself. 
My looks, my sighs, have spoke a thousand times; 
Now, to express it all, my voice must speak. 
If but you will look down with gracious favour 
Upon the sorrows of your worthless slave, 
If in your goodness you will give me comfort 
And condescend unto my nothingness, 
I'll ever pay you, O sweet miracle, 
An unexampled worship and devotion. 
Then too, with me your honour runs no risk; 
With me you need not fear a public scandal. 
These court gallants, that women are so fond of, 
Are boastful of their acts, and vain in speech ; 
They always brag in public of their progress; 
Soon as a favour's granted they'll divulge it; 
Their tattling tongues, if you but trust to them, 
Will foul the altar where their hearts have wor- 
shipped. 
But men like me are so discreet in love, 



TARTUFFE 241 

That you may trust their lasting secrecy. 

The care we take to guard our own good name 

May fully guarantee the one we love; 

So you may find, with hearts like ours sincere, 

Love without scandal, pleasure without fear. 

Elmire 
I've heard you through — your speech is clear, at least. 
But don't you fear that I may take a fancy 
To tell my husband of your gallant passion, 
And that a prompt report of this affair 
May somewhat change the friendship which he bears 
you? 

Tartuffe 
I know that you're too good and generous, 
That you will pardon my temerity, 
Excuse, upon the score of human frailty, 
The violence of passion that offends you, 
And not forget, when you consult your mirror, 
That I'm not blind, and man is made of flesh. 

Elmire 
Some women might do otherwise, perhaps, 
But I am willing to employ discretion, 
And not repeat the matter to my husband ; 
But in return, I'll ask one thing of you: 
That you urge forward, frankly and sincerely, 
The marriage of Valere to Mariane; 
That you give up the unjust influence 
By which you hope to win another's rights; 
And . . . 

Scene IV 
Elmire, Damis, Tartuffe 

Damis, coming out of the closet-room where he had 
been hiding 
No, I say! This thing must be made public. 
I was just there, and overheard it all; 



MOLIERE 

And Heaven's goodness must have brought me there 
On purpose to confound this scoundrel's pride 
And grant me means to take a signal vengeance 
On his hypocrisy and arrogance, 
And undeceive my father, showing up 
The rascal caught at making love to you. 

El MI RE 

No, no; it is enough if he reforms, 
Endeavouring to deserve the favour shown him. 
And since I've promised, do not you belie me. 
'Tis not my way to make a public scandal ; 
An honest wife will scorn to heed such follies, 
And never fret her husband's ears with them. 

Damis 

You've reasons of your own for acting thus; 
And I have mine for doing otherwise. 
To spare him now would be a mockery; 
His bigot's pride has triumphed all too long 
Over my righteous anger, and has caused 
Far too much trouble in our family. 
The rascal all too long has ruled my father, 
And crossed my sister's love, and mine as well. 
The traitor now must be unmasked before him: 
And Providence has given me means to do it. 
To Heaven I owe the opportunity, 
And if I did not use it now I have it, 
I should deserve to lose it once for all. 



Elmire 



Damis 



Damis 

No, by your leave ; I'll not be counselled. 
I'm overjoyed. You needn't try to tell me 
I must give up the pleasure of revenge. 
I'll make an end of this affair at once; 
And, to content me, here's my father now. 



TARTUFFE 243 

Scene V 
Orgon, Elmire, Damis, Tartuffe 

Damis 

Father, we've news to welcome your arrival, 
That's altogether novel, and surprising. 
You are well paid for your caressing care, 
And this fine gentleman rewards your love 
Most handsomely, with zeal that seeks no less 
Than your dishonour, as has now been proven. 
I've just surprised him making to your wife 
The shameful offer of a guilty love. 
She, somewhat over gentle and discreet, 
Insisted that the thing should be concealed; 
But I will not condone such shamelessness, 
Nor so far wrong you as to keep it secret. 

Elmire 
Yes, I believe a wife should never trouble 
Her husband's peace of mind with such vain gossip; 
A woman's honour does not hang on telling; 
It is enough if she defend herself ; 
Or so I think ; Damis, you'd not have spoken, 
If you would but have heeded my advice. 

Scene VI 
Orgon, Damis, Tartuffe 

Orgon 
Just Heaven ! Can what I hear be credited ? 

Tartuffe 
Yes, brother, I am wicked, I am guilty, 
A miserable sinner, steeped in evil, 
The greatest criminal that ever lived. 
Each moment of my life is stained with soilures; 
And all is but a mass of crime and filth ; 
Heaven, for my punishment, I see it plainly, 



244 MOLIERE 

Would mortify me now. Whatever wrong 
They find to charge me with, I'll not deny it 
But guard against the pride of self-defence. 
Believe their stories, arm your wrath against me, 
And drive me like a villain from your house; 
I cannot have so great a share of shame 
But what I have deserved a greater still. 

Orgon, to his son 
You miscreant, can you dare, with such a falsehood, 
To try to stain the whiteness of his virtue? 

Damis 

What ! The feigned meekness of this hypocrite 
Makes you discredit . . . 

Orgon 

Silence, cursed plague! 

Tartuffe 
Ah ! Let him speak ; you chide him wrongfully ; 
You'd do far better to believe his tales. 
Why favour me so much in such a matter? 
How can you know of what I'm capable? 
And should you trust my outward semblance, brother, 
Or judge therefrom that I'm the better man? 
No, no; you let appearances deceive you; 
I'm anything but what I'm thought to be, 
Alas ! and though all men believe me godly, 
The simple truth is, I'm a worthless creature. 

(To Damis) 
Yes, my dear son, say on, and call me traitor, 
Abandoned scoundrel, thief, and murderer; 
Heap on me names yet more detestable, 
And I shall not gainsay you ; I've deserved them ; 
I'll bear this ignominy on my knees, 
To expiate in shame the crimes I've done. 



TARTUFFE 245 

Orgon, to Tartuffe 
Ah, brother, 'tis too much ! 

(To his son) 

You'll not relent, 
You blackguard? 

Damis 
What ! His talk can so deceive you . . . 

Orgon 
Silence, you scoundrel ! 

(To Tartuffe) 

Brother, rise, I beg you. 

(To his son) 
Infamous villain ! 

Damis 
Can he . . . 



Orgon 
Damis 



Silence ! 

What 



Orgon 
Another word, I'll break your every bone. 

Tartuffe 
Brother, in God's name, don't be angry with him! 
I'd rather bear myself the bitterest torture 
Than have him get a scratch on my account. 

Orgon, to his son 
Ungrateful monster ! 

Tartuffe 

Stop. Upon my knees 
I beg you pardon him . . . 



So . . . 

Be still. 



246 MOLIERE 

Orgon, throwing himself on his knees too, and em- 
bracing Tartuffe 

Alas ! How can you ? 

{To his son) 
Villain ! Behold his goodness ! 

Damis 
Orgon 

Damis 
What! I . . . 

Orgon 
Be still, I say. I know your motives 
For this attack. You hate him, all of you; 
Wife, children, servants, all let loose upon him, 
You have recourse to every shameful trick 
To drive this godly man out of my house; 
The more you strive to rid yourselves of him, 
The more I'll strive to make him stay with me; 
I'll have him straightway married to my daughter, 
Just to confound the pride of all of you. 

Damis 
What ! Will you force her to accept his hand ? 

Orgon 
Yes, and this very evening, to enrage you, 
Young rascal ! Ah ! I'll brave you all, and show you 
That I'm the master, and must be obeyed. 
Now, down upon your knees this instant, rogue, 
And take back what you said, and ask his pardon. 

Damis 
Who? I? Ask pardon of that cheating scoun- 
drel . . . ? 



TARTUFFE 247 

Orgon 

Do you resist, you beggar, and insult him? 
A cudgel, here ! a cudgel ! 

(To Tartuffe) 

Don't restrain me. 

(To his son) 
Off with you ! Leave my house this instant, sirrah, 
And never dare set foot in it again. 

Damis 
Yes, I will leave your house, but . . . 



Orgon 



Leave it quickly. 



You reprobate, I disinherit you, 

And give you, too, my curse into the bargain. 



Scene VII 
Orgon, Tartuffe 

Orgon 
What! So insult a saintly man of God! 

Tartuffe 
Heaven, forgive him all the pain he gives me! 4 

(To Orgon) 
Could you but know with what distress I see 
Them try to vilify me to my brother ! 

* Some modern editions have adopted the reading, preserved by tradition 
as that of the earliest stage version: 

Heaven, forgive him even as I forgive him! 
Voltaire gives still another reading: 

Heaven, forgive me even as I forgive him! 
Whichever was the original version, it appears in none of the early- 
editions, and Moliere probably felt forced to change it on account of its 
too close resemblance to the Biblical phrase. 



248 MOLIERE 

Orgon 
Ah! 

Tartuffe 
The mere thought of such ingratitude 
Makes my soul suffer torture, bitterly . . . 
My horror at it . . . Ah ! my heart's so full 
I cannot speak ... I think I'll die of it. 

Orgon, in tears, running to the door through 
which he drove azuay his son 

Scoundrel ! I wish I'd never let you go, 
But slain you on the spot with my own hand. 

(To Tartuffe) 
Brother, compose yourself, and don't be angry. 

Tartuffe 
Nay, brother, let us end these painful quarrels. 
I see what troublous times I bring upon you, 
And think 'tis needful that I leave this house. 

Orgon 
What! You can't mean it? 

Tartuffe 

Yes, they hate me here, 
And try, I find, to make you doubt my faith. 

Orgon 
What of it? Do you find I listen to them ? 

Tartuffe 
No doubt they won't stop there. These same reports 
You now reject, may some day win a hearing. 

Orgon 
No, brother, never. 



TARTUPFE 249 

Tartuffe 

Ah ! ray friend, a woman 
May easily mislead her husband's mind. 

Orgon 
No, no. 

Tartuffe 
So let me quickly go away 
And thus remove all cause for such attacks. 

Orgon 
No, you shall stay; my life depends upon it. 

Tartuffe 
Then I must mortify myself. And yet, 
If you should wish . . . 

Orgon 

No, never! 

Tartuffe 

Very well, then ; 
No more of that. But I shall rule my conduct 
To fit the case. Honour is delicate, 
And friendship binds me to forestall suspicion, 
Prevent all scandal, and avoid your wife. 

Orgon 
No, you shall haunt her, just to spite them all. 
'Tis my delight to set them in a rage; 
You shall be seen together at all hours 
And what is more, the better to defy them, 
I'll have no other heir but you ; and straightway 
I'll go and make a deed of gift to you, 
Drawn in due form, of all my property. 
A good true friend, my son-in-law to be, 
Is more to me than son, and wife, and kindred. 
You will accept my offer, will you not? 



250 MOLIERE 

Tartuffe 
Heaven's will be done in everything ! 

Orgon 

Poor man ! 
We '11 go make haste to draw tne deed aright, 
And then let envy burst itself with spite ! 



ACT IV 

Scene I 
Cleante, Tartuffe 

Cleante 
Yes, it's become the talk of all the town, 
And make a stir that's scarcely to your credit; 
And I have met you, sir, most opportunely, 
To tell you in a word my frank opinion. 
Not to sift out this scandal to the bottom, 
Suppose the worst for us — suppose Damis 
Acted the traitor, and accused you falsely ; 
Should not a Christian pardon this offence, 
And stifle in his heart all wish for vengeance ? 
Should you permit that, for your petty quarrel, 
A son be driven from his father's house? 
I tell you yet again, and tell you frankly, 
Everyone, high or low, is scandalised ; 
If you'll take my advice, you'll make it up, 
And not push matters to extremities. 
Make sacrifice to God of your resentment; 
Restore the son to favour with his father. 

Tartuffe 
Alas ! So far as I'm concerned, how gladly 
Would I do so ! I bear him no ill will ; 
I pardon all, lay nothing to his charge, 
And wish with all my heart that I might serve him ; 



TARTUFFE 251 

But Heaven's interests cannot allow it ; 

If he returns, then I must leave the house. 

After his conduct, quite unparalleled, 

All intercourse between us would bring scandal ; 

God knows what everyone's first thought would be ! 

They would attribute it to merest scheming 

On my part — say that conscious of my guilt 

I feigned a Christian love for my accuser, 

But feared him in my heart, and hoped to win him 

And underhandedly secure his silence. 

Cleante 
You try to put us off with specious phrases ; 
But all your arguments are too far-fetched. 
Why take upon yourself the cause of Heaven? 
Does Heaven need our help to punish sinners? 
Leave to itself the care of its own vengeance, 
And keep in mind the pardon it commands us ; 
Besides, think somewhat less of men's opinions, 
When you are following the will of Heaven. 
Shall petty fear of what the world may think 
Prevent the doing of a noble deed? 
No ! — let us always do as Heaven commands, 
And not perplex our brains with further questions. 

Tartuffe 
Already I have told you I forgive him; 
And that is doing, sir, as Heaven commands. 
But after this day's scandal and affront 
Heaven does not order me to live with him. 

Cleante 
And does it order you to lend your ear 
To what mere whim suggested to his father, 
And to accept the gift of his estates, 
On which, in justice, you can make no claim? 

Tartuffe 
No one who knows me, sir, can have the thought 
That I am acting from a selfish motive. 



252 MOLIERE 

The goods of this world have no charms for me ; 
I am not dazzled by their treacherous glamour ; 
And if I bring myself to take the gift 
Which he insists on giving me, I do so, 
To tell the truth, only because I fear 
This whole estate may fall into bad hands, 
And those to whom it comes may use it ill 
And not employ it, as is my design, 
For Heaven's glory and my neighbours' good. 

Cleante 
Eh, sir, give up these conscientious scruples 
That well may cause a rightful heir's complaints. 
Don't take so much upon yourself, but let him 
Possess what's his, at his own risk and peril; 
Consider, it were better he misused it, 
Than you should be accused of robbing him. 
I am astounded that unblushingly 
You could allow such offers to be made ! 
Tell me — has true religion any maxim 
That teaches us to rob the lawful heir? 
If Heaven has made it quite impossible 
Damis and you should live together here, 
Were it not better you should quietly 
And honourably withdraw, than let the son 
Be driven out for your sake, dead against 
All reason ? 'Twould be giving, sir, believe me, 
Such an example of your probity . . . 

Tartuffe 
Sir, it is half-past three; certain devotions 
Recall me to my closet ; you '11 forgive me 
For leaving you so soon. 

Cleante, alone 

Ah! 



TARTUFFE 253 

Scene II 
Elmire, Mariane, Cleante, Dorine 

Dorine to Cleante 

Sir, we beg you 
To help us all you can in her behalf; 
She's suffering almost more than heart can bear ; 
This match her father means to make to-night 
Drives her each moment to despair. He's coming. 
Let us unite our efforts now, we beg you, 
And try by strength or skill to change his purpose. 

Scene III 
Orgon, Elmire, Mariane, Cleante, Dorine 

Orgon 
So ho ! I'm glad to find you all together. 

{To Mariane) 
Here is the contract that shall make you happy, 
My dear. You know already what it means. 

Mariane, on her knees before Orgon 
Father, I beg you, in the name of Heaven 
That knows my grief, and by whate'er can move you, 
Relax a little your paternal rights, 
And free my love from this obedience ! 
Oh, do not make me, by your harsh command, 
Complain to Heaven you ever were my father ; 
Do not make wretched this poor life you gave me. 
If, crossing that fond hope which I had formed, 
You'll not permit me to belong to one 
Whom I have dared to love, at least, I beg you 
Upon my knees, oh, save me from the torment 
Of being possessed by one whom I abhor ! 
And do not drive me to some desperate act 
By exercising all your rights upon me. 



254 MOLIERE 

Orgon, a little touched 
Come, come, my heart, be firm ! no human weakness ! 

Mariane 
I am not jealous of your love for him; 
Display it freely ; give him your estate, 
And if that's not enough, add all of mine; 
I willingly agree, and give it up, 
If only you'll not give him me, your daughter; 
Oh, rather let a convent's rigid rule 
Wear out the wretched days that Heaven allots me. 

Orgon 
These girls are ninnies ! — always turning nuns 
When fathers thwart their silly love-affairs. 
Get on your feet ! The more you hate to have him, 
The more 'twill help you earn your soul's salvation. 
So, mortify your senses by this marriage, 
And don't vex me about it any more. 

Dorine 
But what . . . ? 

Orgon 
You hold your tongue, before your betters. 
Don't dare to say a single word, I tell you. 

Cleante 
If you will let me answer, and advise . . . 

Orgon 
Brother, I value your advice most highly; 
? Tis well thought out; no better can be had; 
But you'll allow me — not to follow it. 

Elm ire, to her husband 
I can't find words to cope with such a case; 
Your blindness makes me quite astounded at you. 



TARTUFFE 255 

You are bewitched with him, to disbelieve 
The things we tell you happened here to-day. 

Orgon 
I am your humble servant, and can see 
Things, when they're plain as noses on folks' faces, 
I know you're partial to my rascal son, 
And didn't dare to disavow the trick 
He tried to play on this poor man ; besides, 
You were too calm, to be believed ; if that 
Had happened, you'd have been far more disturbed. 

Elmire 
And must our honour always rush to arms 
At the mere mention of illicit love? 
Or can we answer no attack upon it 
Except with blazing eyes and lips of scorn? 
For my part, I just laugh away such nonsense; 
I've no desire to make a loud to-do. 
Our virtue should, I think, be gentle-natured ; 
Nor can I quite approve those savage prudes 
Whose honour arms itself with teeth and claws 
To tear men's eyes out at the slightest word. 
Heaven preserve me from that kind of honour ! 
I like my virtue not to be a vixen, 
And I believe a quiet cold rebuff 
No less effective to repulse a lover. 

Orgon 
I know . . . and you can't throw me off the scent. 

Elmire 
Once more, I am astounded at your weakness; 
I wonder what your unbelief would answer, 
If I should let you see we've told the truth? 

Orgon 
See it? 



256 MOLIERE 

Elmire 
Yes. 

Orgon 
Nonsense. 

Elmire 

Come ! If I should find 
A way to make you see it clear as day ? 

Orgon 
All rubbish. 

Elmire 
What a man ! But answer me. 
I'm not proposing now that you believe us, 
But let's suppose that here, from proper hiding, 
You should be made to see and hear all plainly ; 
What would you say then, to your man of virtue? 

Orgon 
Why, then, I'd say . . . say nothing. It can't be. 

Elmire 
Your error has endured too long already, 
And quite too long you've branded me a liar. 
I must at once, for my own satisfaction, 
Make you a witness of the things we've told you. 

Orgon 
Amen ! I take you at your word. We'll see 
What tricks you have, and how you'll keep your 
promise. 

Elmire, to Dorine 
Send him to me. 

Dorine, to Elmire 

The man's a crafty codger; 
Perhaps you'll find it difficult to catch him. 



TARTUFFE 257 

ELMIRE, to DORINE 

Oh no ! A lover's never hard to cheat, 
And self-conceit leads straight to self-deceit. 
Bid him come down to me. 

(To Cleante and Mariane) 

And you, withdraw. 

Scene IV 
Elmire, Orgon 

Elmire 
Bring up this table, and get under it. 

Orgon 
What? 

Elmire 
One essential is to hide you well. 

Orgon 
Why under there? 

Elmire 

Oh, dear ! Do as I say ; 
I know what I'm about, as you shall see. 
Get under, now, I tell you; and once there 
Be careful no one either sees or hears you. 

Orgon 
I'm going a long way to humour you, 
I must say; but I'll see you through your scheme. 

Elmire 
And then you'll have, I think, no more to say. 

(To her husband, who is now under the table.) 
But mind, I'm going to meddle with strange matters; 
Prepare yourself to be in no wise shocked. 

vol. xxvi — 9 hc 



258 MOLIERE 

Whatever I may say must pass, because 
'Tis only to convince you, as I promised. 
By wheedling speeches, since I'm forced to do it, 
I'll make this hypocrite put off his mask, 
Flatter the longings of his shameless passion, 
And give free play to all his impudence. 
But, since 'tis for your sake, to prove to you 
His guilt, that I shall feign to share his love, 
I can leave off as soon as you're convinced, 
And things shall go no farther than you choose. 
So, when you think they've gone quite far enough, 
It is for you to stop his mad pursuit, 
To spare your wife, and not expose me farther 
Than you shall need, yourself, to undeceive you. 
It is your own affair, and you must end it 
When . . . Here he comes. Keep still, don't show 
yourself. 



Scene V 
Tartuffe, Elmire; Orgon, under the table 

Tartuffe 
They told me that you wished to see me here. 

Elmire 
Yes. I have secrets for your ear alone. 
But shut the door first, and look everywhere 
For fear of spies. 

(Tartuffe goes and closes the door, and comes back.) 

We surely can't afford 
Another scene like that we had just now; 
Was ever anyone so caught before ! 
Damis did frighten me most terribly 
On your account ; you saw I did my best 
To baffle his design, and calm his anger. 
But I was so confused, I never thought 
To contradict his story; still, thank Heaven, 
Things turned out all the better, as it happened, 



TARTUFFE 259 

And now we're on an even safer footing. 
The high esteem you're held in, laid the storm; 
My husband can have no suspicion of you, 
And even insists, to spite the scandal-mongers, 
That we shall be together constantly ; 
So that is how, without the risk of blame, 
I can be here locked up with you alone, 
And can reveal to you my heart, perhaps 
Only too ready to allow your passion, 

Tartuffe 

Your words are somewhat hard to understand, 
Madam; just now you used a different style. 

Elm ire 
If that refusal has offended you, 
How little do you know a woman's heart! 
How ill you guess what it would have you know, 
When it presents so feeble a defence ! 
Always, at first, our modesty resists 
The tender feelings you inspire us with. 
Whatever cause we find to justify 
The love that masters us, we still must feel 
Some little shame in owning it ; and strive 
To make as though we would not, when we would. 
But from the very way we go about it 
We let a lover know our heart surrenders, 
The while our lips, for honour's sake, oppose 
Our heart's desire, and in refusing promise. 
I'm telling you my secret all too freely 
And with too little heed to modesty. 
But — now that I've made bold to speak — pray tell me, 
Should I have tried to keep Damis from speaking, 
Should I have heard the offer of your heart 
So quietly, and suffered all your pleading, 
And taken it just as I did — remember — 
If such a declaration had not pleased me ? 
And, when I tried my utmost to persuade you 
Not to accept the marriage that was talked of, 



260 MOLIERE 

What should my earnestness have hinted to you 
If not the interest that you've inspired, 
And my chagrin, should such a match compel me 
To share a heart I want all to myself? 

Tartu ffe 
'Tis, past a doubt, the height of happiness, 
To hear such words from lips we dote upon ; 
Their honeyed sweetness pours through all my senses 
Long draughts of suavity ineffable. 
My heart employs its utmost zeal to please you, 
And counts your love its one beatitude ; 
And yet that heart must beg that you allow it 
To doubt a little its felicity. 
I well might think these words an honest trick 
To make me break off this approaching marriage; 
And if I may express myself quite plainly, 
I cannot trust these too enchanting words 
Until the granting of some little favour 
I sigh for, shall assure me of their truth 
And build within my soul, on firm foundations, 
A lasting faith in your sweet charity. 

Elmire, coughing to draw her husband's attention 
What ! Must you go so fast ? — and all at once 
Exhaust the whole love of a woman's heart? 
She does herself the violence to make 
This dear confession of her love, and you 
Are not yet satisfied, and will not be 
Without the granting of her utmost favours? 

Tartuffe 
The less a blessing is deserved, the less 
We dare to hope for it ; and words alone 
Can ill assuage our love's desires. A fate 
Too full of happiness, seems doubtful stilL; 
We must enjoy it ere we can believe it. 
And I, who know how little I deserve 
Your goodness, doubt the fortunes of my daring; 



TARTUFFE 261 

So I shall trust to nothing, madam, till 

You have convinced my love by something real. 

Elmire 

Ah ! How your love enacts the tyrant's role, 
And throws my mind into a strange confusion ! 
With what fierce sway it rules a conquered heart, 
And violently will have its wishes granted ! 
What ! Is there no escape from your pursuit? 
No respite even? — not a breathing space? 
Nay, is it decent to be so exacting, 
And so abuse by urgency the weakness 
You may discover in a woman's heart? 

Tartuffe 
But if my worship wins your gracious favour, 
Then why refuse me some sure proof thereof? 

Elmire 
But how can I consent to what you wish, 
Without offending Heaven you talk so much of? 

Tartuffe 
If Heaven is all that stands now in my way, 
I'll easily remove that little hindrance ; 
Your heart need not hold back for such a trifle. 

Elmire 
But they affright us so with Heaven's commands ! 

Tartuffe 
I can dispel these foolish fears, dear madam ; 
I know the art of pacifying scruples. 
Heaven forbids, 'tis true, some satisfactions; 
But we find means to make things right with Heaven. 

('Tis a scoundrel speaking.) 5 
There is a science, madam, that instructs us 
How to enlarge the limits of our conscience 

6 Moliere's note, in the original edition. 



262 MOLIERE 

According to our various occasions, 
And rectify the evil of the deed 
According to our purity of motive. 
I'll duly teach you all these secrets, madam ; 
You only need to let yourself be guided. 
Content my wishes, have no fear at all ; 
I answer for't, and take the sin upon me. 

(Elm ire coughs still louder.) 
Your cough is very bad. 

Elm ire 

Yes, I'm in torture. 

Tartuffe 
Would you accept this bit of licorice? 

Elmire 
The case is obstinate, I find ; and all 
The licorice in the world will do no good. 

Tartuffe 
'Tis very trying. 

Elmire 
More than words can say. 

Tartuffe 
In any case, your scruple's easily 
Removed. With me you're sure of secrecy, 
And there's no harm unless a thing is known. 
The public scandal is what brings offence, 
And secret sinning is not sin at all. 

Elmire, after coughing again 
So then, I see I must resolve to yield; 
I must consent to grant you everything, 
And cannot hope to give full satisfaction 
Or win full confidence, at lesser cost. 
No doubt 'tis very hard to come to this ; 



TARTUFFE 263 

'Tis quite against my will I go so far ; 

But since I must be forced to it, since nothing 

That can be said suffices for belief, 

Since more convincing proof is still demanded, 

I must make up my mind to humour people. 

If my consent give reason for offence, 

So much the worse for him who forced me to it; 

The fault can surely not be counted mine. 

Tartuffe 
It need not, madam ; and the thing itself . . . 

Elmire 
Open the door, I pray you, and just see 
Whether my husband's not there, in the hall. 

Tartuffe 
Why take such care for him? Between ourselves, 
He is a man to lead round by the nose. 
He's capable of glorying in our meetings; 
I've fooled him so, he'd see all, and deny it. 

Elmire 
No matter ; go, I beg you, look about, 
And carefully examine every' corner. 



Scene VI 
Orgon, Elmire 

Orgon, crawling out from under the table 
That is, I own, a man . . . abominable ! 
I can't get over it ; the whole thing floors me. 

Elmire 
What? You come out so soon? You cannot mean it! 
Get back under the table ; 'tis not time yet ; 
Wait till the end, to see, and make quite certain, 
And don't believe a thing on mere conjecture. 



MOLIERE 

Orgon 

Nothing more wicked e'er came out of Hell. 

Elmire 
Dear me ! Don't go and credit things too lightly. 
No, let yourself be thoroughly convinced ; 
Don't yield too soon, for fear you'll be mistaken. 

{As Tartuffe enters, she makes her husband 
stand behind her.) 



Scene VII 
Tartuffe, Elmire, Orgon 

Tartuffe, not seeing Orgon 
All things conspire toward my satisfaction, 
Madam, I've searched the whole apartment through. 
There's no one here ; and now my ravished soul . . 

Orgon, stopping him 
Softly! You are too eager in your amours; 
You needn't be so passionate. Ah ha ! 
My holy man ! You want to put it on me ! 
How is your soul abandoned to temptation ! 
Marry my daughter, eh? — and want my wife, too? 
I doubted long enough if this was earnest, 
Expecting all the time the tone would change ; 
But now the proof's been carried far enough; 
I'm satisfied, and ask no more, for my part. 

Elmire to Tartuffe 
'Twas quite against my character to play 
This part ; but I was forced to treat you so. 

Tartuffe 
What? You believe . . . ? 



TARTUFFE 265 

Orgon 

Come, now, no protestations. 
Get out from here, and make no fuss about it. 

Tartuffe 
But my intent . . . 

Orgon 

That talk is out of season. 
You leave my house this instant. 

Tartuffe 

You're the one 
To leave it, you who play the master here ! 
This house belongs to me, I'll have you know, 
And show you plainly it's no use to turn 
To these low tricks, to pick a quarrel with me, 
And that you can't insult me at your pleasure, 
For I have wherewith to confound your lies, 
Avenge offended Heaven, and compel 
Those to repent who talk to me of leaving. 

Scene VIII 
Elm ire, Orgon 

Elmire 
What sort of speech is this? What can it mean? 

Orgon 
My faith, I'm dazed. This is no laughing matter. 

Elmire 
What? 

Orgon 
From his words I see my great mistake; 
The deed of gift is one thing troubles me. 

Elmire 
The deed of gift . . . 



MOLIERE 

Orgon 

Yes, that is past recall. 
But I've another thing to make me anxious. 

Elm i re 
What's that? 

Orgon 
You shall know all. Let's see at once 
Whether a certain box is still upstairs. 

ACT V 

Scene I 
Orgon, Cleante 

Cleante 
Whither away so fast? 

Orgon 

How should I know? 

Cleante 
Methinks we should begin by taking counsel 
To see what can be done to meet the case. 

Orgon 
I'm all worked up about that wretched box. 
More than all else it drives me to despair. 

Cleante 
That box must hide some mighty mystery? 

Orgon 
Argas, my friend who is in trouble, brought it 
Himself, most secretly, and left it with me. 
He chose me, in his exile, for this trust ; 
And on these documents, from what he said, 
I judge his life and property depend. 



TARTUFFE 267 

Cleante 
How could you trust them to another's hands? 

Orgon 
By reason of a conscientious scruple. 
I went straight to my traitor, to confide 
In him; his sophistry made me believe 
That I must give the box to him to keep, 
So that, in case of search, I might deny 
My having it at all, and still, by favour 
Of this evasion, keep my conscience clear 
Even in taking oath against the truth. 

Cleante 
Your case is bad, so far as I can see; 
This deed of gift, this trusting of the secret 
To him, were both — to state my frank opinion — 
Steps that you took too lightly ; he can lead you 
To any length, with these for hostages; 
And since he holds you at such disadvantage, 
You'd be still more imprudent, to provoke him ; 
So you must go some gentler way about. 

Orgon 
What ! Can a soul so base, a heart so false, 
Hide neath the semblance of such touching fervour? 
I took him in, a vagabond, a beggar ! . . . 
'Tis too much ! No more pious folk for me ! 
I shall abhor them utterly forever, 
And henceforth treat them worse than any devil. 

Cleante 
So ! There you go again, quite off the handle ! 
In nothing do you keep an even temper. 
You never know what reason is, but always 
Jump first to one extreme, and then the other. 
You see your error, and you recognise 
That you've been cozened by a feigned zeal ; 



268 MOLIERE 

But to make up for't, in the name of reason, 
Why should you plunge into a worse mistake, 
And find no difference in character 
Between a worthless scamp, and all good people? 
What ! Just because a rascal boldly duped you 
With pompous show of false austerity, 
Must you needs have it everybody's like him, 
And no one 's truly pious nowadays ? 
Leave such conclusions to mere infidels ; 
Distinguish virtue from its counterfeit, 
Don't give esteem too quickly, at a venture, 
But try to keep, in this, the golden mean. 
If you can help it, don't uphold imposture ; 
But do not rail at true devoutness, either; 
And if you must fall into one extreme, 
Then rather err again the other way. 



Scene II 
Damis, Orgon, Cleante 

Damis 
What ! father, can the scoundrel threaten you, 
Forget the many benefits received, 
And in his base abominable pride 
Make of your very favours arms against you? 

Orgon 
Too true, my son. It tortures me to think on't. 

Damis 
Let me alone, I'll chop his ears off for him. 
We must deal roundly with his insolence ; 
'Tis I must free you from him at a blow ; 
'Tis I, to set things right, must strike him down. 

Cleante 
Spoke like a true young man. Now just calm down. 
And moderate your towering tantrums, will you? 



TARTUFFE 269 



We live in such an age, with such a king, 
That violence can not advance our cause. 



Scene III 

Madame Pernelle, Orgon, Elmire, Cleante, 
Mariane, Damis, Dorine 

Madame Pernelle 
What's this? I hear of fearful mysteries! 

Orgon 
Strange things indeed, for my own eyes to witness ; 
You see how I'm requited for my kindness, 
I zealously receive a wretched beggar, 
I lodge him, entertain him like my brother, 
Load him with benefactions every day, 
Give him my daughter, give him all my fortune: 
And he meanwhile, the villain, rascal, wretch, 
Tries with black treason to suborn my wife, 
And not content with such a foul design, 
He dares to menace me with my own favours, 
And would make use of those advantages 
Which my too foolish kindness armed him with, 
To ruin me, to take my fortune from me, 
And leave me in the state I saved him from. 

Dorine 
Poor man ! 

Madame Pernelle 
My son, I cannot possibly 
Believe he could intend so black a deed. 

Orgon 
What? 

Madame Pernelle 
Worthy men are still the sport of envy. 



270 MOLIERE 

Orgon 
Mother, what do you mean' by such a speech? 

Madame Pernelle 
There are strange goings-on about your house, 
And everybody knows your people hate him. 

Orgon 
What's that to do with what I tell you now? 

Madame Pernelle 
I always said, my son, when you were little : 
That virtue here below is hated ever; 
The envious may die, but envy never. 

Orgon 
What's that fine speech to do with present facts ? 

Madame Pernelle 
Be sure, they've forged a hundred silly lies . . . 

Orgon 
I've told you once, I saw it all myself. 

Madame Pernelle 
For slanderers abound in calumnies . . . 

Orgon 
Mother, you'd make me damn my soul. I tell you 
I saw with my own eyes his shamelessness. 

Madame Pernelle 
Their tongues for spitting venom never lack, 
There's nothing here below they'll not attack. 

Orgon 
Your speech has not a single grain of sense. 
I saw it, harkee, saw it, with these eyes 



TARTUPFE 271 

I saw— d'ye know what saw means ? — must I say it 
A hundred times, and din it in your ears? 

Madame Pernelle 
My dear, appearances are oft deceiving, 
And seeing shouldn't always be believing. 

Orgon 
I'll go mad. 

Madame Pernelle 
False suspicions may delude, 
And good to evil oft is misconstrued. 

Orgon 
Must I construe as Christian charity 
The wish to kiss my wife ! 

Madame Pernelle 

You must, at least, 
Have just foundation for accusing people, 
And wait until you see a thing for sure. 

Orgon 

The devil! How could I see any surer? 

Should I have waited till, before my eyes, 

He . . . No, you'll make me say things quite improper. 

Madame Pernelle 
In short, 'tis known too pure a zeal inflames him ; 
And so, I cannot possibly conceive 
That he should try to do what's charged against him. 

Orgon 

If you were not my mother, I should say 

Such things ! . . . I know not what, I'm so enraged ! 



272 MOLIERE 

DoRINE, to ORGON 

Fortune has paid you fair, to be so doubted; 
You flouted our report, now yours is flouted. 

Cleante 
We're wasting time here in the merest trifling, 
Which we should rather use in taking measures 
To guard ourselves against the scoundrel's threats. 

Damis 
You think his impudence could go so far? 

Elmire 
For one, I can't believe it possible ; 
Why, his ingratitude would be too patent. 

Cleante 
Don't trust to that ; he'll find abundant warrant 
To give good colour to his acts against you ; 
And for less cause than this, a strong cabal 
Can make one's life a labyrinth of troubles. 
I tell you once again : armed as he is 
You never should have pushed him quite so far. 

Orgon 

True; yet what could I do? The rascal's pride 
Made me lose all control of my resentment. 

Cleante 
I wish with all my heart that some pretence 
Of peace could be patched up between you two. 

Elmire 
If I had known what weapons he was armed with, 
I never should have raised such an alarm, 
And my ... 



TARTUFFE 273 

Orgon to Dorine, seeing Mr. Loyal come in 

Who's coming now? Go quick, find out 
I'm in a fine state to receive a visit! 



Scene IV 

Orgon, Madame Pernelle, Elmire, Mariane, 
Cleante, Damis, Dorine, Mr. Loyal 

Mr. Loyal to Dorine, at the back of the stage 
Good day, good sister. Pray you, let me see 
The master of the house. 

Dorine 

He's occupied; 
I think he can see nobody at present. 

Mr. Loyal 

I'm not by way of being unwelcome here. 

My coming can, I think, nowise displease him ; 

My errand will be found to his advantage 

Dorine 
Your name, then? 

Mr. Loyal 

Tell him simply that his friend 
Mr. Tartuffe has sent me, for his goods . . . 

Dorine to Orgon 
It is a man who comes, with civil manners, 
Sent by Tartuffe, he says, upon an errand 
That you'll be pleased with. 

Cleante to Orgon 

Surely you must see him, 
And find out who he is, and what he wants. 



274 MOLIERE 

Orgon to Cleante 
Perhaps he's come to make it up between us: 
How shall I treat him? 

Cleante 

You must not get angry; 
And if he talks of reconciliation 
Accept it. 

Mr. Loyal to Orgon 
Sir, good-day. And Heaven send 
Harm to your enemies, favour to you. 

Orgon, aside to Cleante 
This mild beginning suits with my conjectures 
And promises some compromise already. 

Mr. Loyal 
All of your house has long been dear to me; 
I had the honour, sir, to serve your father. 

Orcon 
Sir, I am much ashamed, and ask your pardon 
For not recalling now your face or name. 

Mr. Loyal 
My name is Loyal. I'm from Normandy. 
My office is court-bailiff, in despite 
Of envy; and for forty years, thank Heaven, 
It's been my fortune to perform that office 
With honour. So I've come, sir, by your leave 
To render service of a certain writ . . . 

Orgon 
What, you are here to . . . 



TARTUFFE 275 

Mr. Loyal 

Pray, sir, don't be angry. 
'Tis nothing, sir, but just a little summons: — 
Order to vacate, you and yours, this house, 
Move out your furniture, make room for others, 
And that without delay or putting off, 
As needs must be . . . 

Orgon 

I? Leave this house? 

Mr. Loyal 

Yes, please, sir 
The house is now, as you well know, of course, 
Mr. Tartuffe's. And he, beyond dispute, 
Of all your goods is henceforth lord and master 
By virtue of a contract here attached, 
Drawn in due form, and unassailable. 

Damis to Mr. Loyal 
Your insolence is monstrous, and astounding ! 

Mr. Loyal to Damis 
I have no business, sir, that touches you; 

(Pointing to Orgon) 
This is the gentleman. He's fair and courteous, 
And knows too well a gentleman's behaviour 
To wish in any wise to question justice. 



Orgon 



But 



Mr. Loyal 
Sir, I know you would not for a million 
Wish to rebel; like a good citizen 
You'll let me put in force the court's decree. 



276 MOLIERE 



Da mis 
Your long black gown may well, before you know it. 
Mister Court-bailiff, get a thorough beating. 

. Mr. Loyal to Orgon 
Sir, make your son be silent or withdraw. 
I should be loath to have to set things down, 
And see your names inscribed in my report. 

Dorine, aside 
This Mr. Loyal's looks are most disloyal. 

Mr. Loyal 
I have much feeling for respectable 
And honest folk like you, sir, and consented 
To serve these papers, only to oblige you, 
And thus prevent the choice of any other 
Who, less possessed of zeal for you than I am 
Might order matters in less gentle fashion. 

Orgon 

And how could one do worse than order people 
Out of their house? 

Mr. Loyal 

Why, we allow you time ; 
And even will suspend until to-morrow 
The execution of the order, sir. 
I'll merely, without scandal, quietly, 
Come here and spend the night, with half a score 
Of officers; and just for form's sake, please, 
You'll bring your keys to me, before retiring. 
I will take care not to disturb your rest, 
And see there's no unseemly conduct here. 
But by to-morrow, and at early morning, 
You must make haste to move your least belongings ; 
My men will help you — I have chosen strong ones 
To serve you, sir, in clearing out the house. 
No one could act more generously, I fancy, 



TARTUFFE 277 

And, since I'm treating you with great indulgence, 

I beg you'll do as well by me, and see 

I'm not disturbed in my discharge of duty. 

Orgon 
I'd give this very minute, and not grudge it, 
The hundred best gold louis I have left, 
If I could just indulge myself, and land 
My fist, for one good square one, on his snout. 

Cleante, aside to Orgon 
Careful ! — don't make things worse. 

Damis 

Such insolence ! 
I hardly can restrain myself. My hands 
Are itching to be at him. 

Dorine 

By my faith, 
With such a fine broad back, good Mr. Loyal, 
A little beating would become you well. 

Mr. Loyal 
My girl, such infamous words are actionable. 
And warrants can be issued against women. 

Cleante to Mr. Loyal 
Enough of this discussion, sir; have done. 
Give us the paper, and then leave us, pray. 

Mr. Loyal 
Then au revoir. Heaven keep you from disaster! 

Orgon 
May Heaven confound you both, you and your master ! 



278 MOLIERE 



Scene V 



Orgon, Madame Pernelle, Elmire, Cleante, 
Mariane, Damis, Dorine 

Orgon 
Well, mother, am I right or am I not? 
This writ may help you now to judge the matter. 
Or don't you see his treason even yet? 

Madame Pernelle 
I'm all amazed, befuddled, and beflustered ! 

Dorine to Orgon 
You are quite wrong, you have no right to blame him ; 
This action only proves his good intentions. 
Love for his neighbour makes his virtue perfect; 
And knowing money is a root of evil, 
In Christian charity, he'd take away 
Whatever things may hinder your salvation. 

Orgon 
Be still. You always need to have that told you. 

Cleante to Orgon 
Come, let us see what course you are to follow. 

Elmire 
Go and expose his bold ingratitude. 
Such action must invalidate the contract; 
His perfidy must now appear too black 
To bring him the success that he expects. 



TARTUFFE 279 



Scene VI 



Valere, Orgon, Madame Pernelle, Elmire, Cleante, 
Mariane, Damis, Dorine 

Valere 
'Tis with regret, sir, that I bring bad news; 
But urgent danger forces me to do so. 
A close and intimate friend of mine, who knows 
The interest I take in what concerns you, 
Has gone so far, for my sake, as to break 
The secrecy that's due to state affairs, 
And sent me word but now, that leaves you only 
The one expedient of sudden flight. 
The villain who so long imposed upon you, 
Found means, an hour ago, to see the prince, 
And to accuse you (among other things) 
By putting in his hands the private strong-box 
Of a state-criminal, whose guilty secret, 
You, failing in your duty as a subject, 
(He says) have kept. I know no more of it 
Save that a warrant's drawn against you, sir, 
And for the greater surety, that same rascal 
Comes with the officer who must arrest you. 

Cleante 
His rights are armed ; and this is how the scoundrel 
Seeks to secure the property he claims. 

Orgon 
Man is a wicked animal, I'll own it ! 

Valere 
The least delay may still be fatal, sir. 
I have my carriage, and a thousand louis, 
Provided for your journey, at the door. 
Let's lose no time ; the bolt is swift to strike, 
And such as only flight can save you from. 



280 MOLIERE 



I'll be your guide to seek a place of safety, 
And stay with you until you reach it, sir. 

Orgon 

How much I owe to your obliging care ! 
Another time must serve to thank you fitly; 
And I pray Heaven to grant me so much favour 
That I may some day recompense your service. 
Good-bye; see to it, all of you . . . 

Cleante 

Come hurry; 
We'll see to everything that's needful, brother. 



Scene VII 

Tartuffe, An Officer, Madame Pernelle, Orgon, 
Elmire, Cleante, Mariane, Valere, Damis, Dorine 

Tartuffe, stopping Orgon 

Softly, sir, softly; do not run so fast; 
You haven't far to go to find your lodging; 
By order of the prince, we here arrest you. 

Orgon 

Traitor! You saved this worst stroke for the last; 
This crowns your perfidies, and ruins me. 

Tartuffe 

I shall not be embittered by your insults, 

For Heaven has taught me to endure all things. 

Cleante 
Your moderation, I must own, is great. 

Damis 

How shamelessly the wretch makes bold with Heaven ! 



TARTUFFE 281 

Tartuffe 
Your ravings cannot move me; all my thought 
Is but to do my duty. 

Mariane 

You must claim 
Great glory from this honourable act. 

Tartuffe 
The act cannot be aught but honourable, 
Coming from that high power which sends me here. 

Orgon 
Ungrateful wretch, do you forget 'twas I 
That rescued you from utter misery ? 

Tartuffe 
I've not forgot some help you may have given ; 
But my first duty now is toward my prince. 
The higher power of that most sacred claim 
Must stifle in my heart all gratitude; 
And to such puissant ties I'd sacrifice 
My friend, my wife, my kindred, and myself. 

Elmire 
The hypocrite ! 

Dorine 
How well he knows the trick 
Of cloaking him with what we most revere ! 

Cleante 
But if the motive that you make parade of 
Is perfect as you say, why should it wait 
To show itself, until the day he caught you 
Soliciting his wife? How happens it 
You have not thought to go inform against him 
Until his honour forces him to drive you 
Out of his house? And though I need not mention 



282 MOLIERE 

That he'd just given you his whole estate, 
Still, if you meant to treat him now as guilty, 
How could you then consent to take his gift? 

Tartuffe, to the Officer 
Pray, sir, deliver me from all this clamour ; 
Be good enough to carry out your order. 

The Officer 
Yes, I've too long delayed its execution ; 
'Tis very fitting you should urge me to it ; 
So therefore, you must follow me at once 
To prison, where you'll find your lodging ready. 

Tartuffe 
Who? I, sir? 

The Officer 

You. 

Tartuffe 

But why to prison ? 

The Officer 

You 
Are not the one to whom I owe account. 
You, sir (to Orgon), recover from your hot alarm. 
Our prince is not a friend to double dealing, 
His eyes can read men's inmost hearts, and all 
The art of hypocrites cannot deceive him. 
His sharp discernment sees things clear and true; 
His mind cannot too easily be swayed, 
For reason always holds the balance even. 
He honours and exalts true piety, 
But knows the false, and views it with disgust. 
This fellow was by no means apt to fool him, 
Far subtler snares have failed against his wisdom, 
And his quick insight pierced immediately 
The hidden baseness of this tortuous heart. 
Accusing you, the knave betrayed himself, 
And by true recompense of Heaven's justice 



TARTUFFE 283 

He stood revealed before our monarch's eyes 

A scoundrel known before by other names, 

Whose horrid crimes, detailed at length, might fill 

A long-drawn history of many volumes. 

Our monarch — to resolve you in a word — 

Detesting his ingratitude and baseness, 

Added this horror to his other crimes, 

And sent me hither under his direction 

To see his insolence out-top itself, 

And force him then to give you satisfaction. 

Your papers, which the traitor says are his, 

I am to take from him, and give you back; 

The deed of gift transferring your estate 

Our monarch's sovereign will makes null and void ; 

And for the secret personal offence 

Your friend involved you in, he pardons you : 

Thus he rewards your recent zeal, displayed 

In helping to maintain his rights, and shows 

How well his heart, when it is least expected, 

Knows how to recompense a noble deed, 

And will not let true merit miss its due, 

Remembering always rather good than evil. 

Dorine 
Now Heaven be praised ! 

Madame Pernelle 

At last I breathe again. 

Elmire 
A happy outcome ! 

Mariane 

Who'd have dared to hope it? 

Orgon, to Tartuffe, who is being led by the officer 
There, traitor! Now you're . . . 



284 MOLIERE 



Scene VIII 



Madame Pernelle, Orgon, Elmire, Mariane, 
Cleante, Valere, Damis, Dorine 

Cleante 

Brother, hold ! — and don't 
Descend to such indignities, I beg you. 
Leave the poor wretch to his unhappy fate, 
And let remorse oppress him, but not you. 
Hope rather that his heart may now return 
To virtue, hate his vice, reform his ways, 
And win the pardon of our glorious prince ; 
While you must straightway go, and on your knees 
Repay with thanks his noble generous kindness. 

Orgon 
Well said ! We'll go, and at his feet kneel down, 
With joy to thank him for his goodness shown; 
And this first duty done, with honours due, 
We'll then attend upon another, too. 
With wedded happiness reward Valere, 
And crown a lover noble and sincere. 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 

OR 

THE SOLDIER'S FORTUNE 

BY 

GOTTHOLD EPHRAIM LESSING 
TRANSLATED BY 

ERNEST BELL 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE 

Gotthold Ephraim Lessing was born at Kamens, Germany, 
January 22, 1729, the son of a Lutheran minister. He was edu- 
cated at Meissen and Leipzic, and began writing for the stage 
before he was twenty. In 1748 he went to Berlin, where he met 
Voltaire and for a time was powerfully influenced by him. The 
most important product of this period was his tragedy of "Miss 
Sara Samson," a modern version of the story of Medea, which 
began the vogue of the sentimental middle-class play in Germany. 
After a second sojourn in Leipzic (1755-1758), during which he 
wrote criticism, lyrics, and fables, Lessing returned to Berlin 
and began to publish his "Literary Letters," making himself by 
the vigor and candor of his criticism a real force in contempo- 
rary literature. From Berlin he went to Breslau, where he made 
the first sketches of two of his greatest works, "Laocoon" and 
"Minna von Bamhelm," both of which were issued after his 
return to the Prussian capital. Failing in his effort to be ap- 
pointed Director of the Royal Library by Frederick the Great, 
Lessing went to Hamburg in 1767 as critic of a new national 
theatre, and in connection with this enterprise he issued twice a 
week the "Hamburgische Dramaturgie," the two volumes of 
which are a rich mine of dramatic criticism and theory. 

His next residence was at Wolfenbuttel, where he had charge 
of the ducal library from 1770 till his death in 1781. Here he 
wrote his tragedy of "Emilia Galotti," founded on the story of 
Virginia, and engaged for a time in violent religious controver- 
sies, one important outcome of which was his "Education of the 
Human Race," to be found in another volume of the Harvard 
Classics. On being ordered by the Brunswick authorities to give 
up controversial writing, he found expression for his views in 
his play "Nathan the Wise," his last great production. 

The importance of Lessing's masterpiece in comedy, "Minna 
von Bamhelm," it is difficult to exaggerate. It was the beginning 
of German national drama; and by the patriotic interest of its 
historical background, by its sympathetic treatment of the German 
soldier and the German woman, and by its happy blending of the 
amusing and the pathetic, it won a place in the national heart from 
which no succeeding comedy has been able to dislodge it. 

286 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 



DRAMATIS PERSONS 

Major von Tellheim, a discharged officer. 

Minna von Barnhelm. 

Count von Bruchsal, her uncle. 

Franziska, her lady's maid. 

Just, servant to the Major. 

Paul Werner, an old Sergeant of the Major's. 

The Landlord of an Inn. 

A Lady. 

An Orderly. 

Riccaut de la Marliniere. 

The scene alternates between the Parlour of an Inn, 
and a Room adjoining it. 

ACT I 

Scene I. — Just 
Just (sitting in a corner, and talking while asleep) 

ROGUE of a landlord! You treat us so? On, com- 
rade ! hit hard ! (He strikes with his fist, and wakes 
1 through the exertion). Ha! there he is again! I 
cannot shut an eye without fighting with him. I wish he 
got but half the blows. Why, it is morning! I must just 
look for my poor master at once; if I can help it, he shall 
not set foot in the cursed house again. I wonder where 
he has passed the night? 

Scene II. — Landlord, Just 

Land. Good-morning, Herr Just; good-morning! What, 
up so early! Or shall I say — up so late? 
Just. Say which you please. 

287 



288 LESSING 

Land. I say only — good-morning ! and that deserves, I 
suppose, that Herr Just should answer " Many thanks." 

Just. Many thanks. 

Land. One is peevish, if one can't have one's proper rest. 
What will you bet the Major has not returned home, and 
you have been keeping watch for him? 

Just. How the man can guess everything ! 

Land. I surmise, I surmise. 

Just, (turns round to go). Your servant! 

Land, (stops him). Not so, Herr Just! 

Just. Very well, then, not your servant ! 

Land. What, Herr Just, I do hope you are not still angry 
about yesterday's affair ! Who would keep his anger over 
night ? 

Just. I ; and over a good many nights. 

Land. Is that like a Christian? 

Just. As much so as to turn an honourable man who 
cannot pay to a day, out of doors, into the street. 

Land. Fie ! who would be so wicked ? 

Just. A Christian innkeeper. — My master ! such a man ! 
such an officer ! 

Land. I thrust him from the house into the streets? 
I have far too much respect for an officer to do that, and 
far too much pity for a discharged one ! I was obliged to 
have another room prepared for him. Think no more about 
it, Herr Just. (Calls) — Hullo! I will make it good in 
another way. (A lad comes.) Bring a glass; Herr Just 
will have a drop ; something good. 

Just. Do not trouble yourself, Mr. Landlord. May the 
drop turn to poison, which . . . But I will not swear; 
I have not yet breakfasted. 

Land, (to the lad, who brings a bottle of spirits and a 
glass). Give it here; go! Now, Herr Just; something quite 
excellent; strong, delicious, and wholesome. (Fills, and 
holds it out to him.) That can set an over-taxed stomach 
to rights again ! 

Just. I hardly ought ! — And yet why should I let my 
health suffer on account of his incivility? (Takes it, and 
drinks.) 

Land. May it do you good, Herr Just! 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 289 

Just, (giving the glass back). Not bad! But, Land- 
lord, you are nevertheless an ill-mannered brute ! 

Land. Not so, not so ! . . . Come, another glass ; one 
cannot stand upon one leg. 

Just, (after drinking). I must say so much — it is good, 
very good! Made at home, Landlord? 

Land. At home, indeed ! True Dantzig, real double dis- 
tilled ! 

Just. Look ye, Landlord; if I could play the hypocrite, 
I would do so for such stuff as that; but I cannot, so it 
must out. — You are an ill-mannered brute all the same. 

Land. Nobody in my life ever told me that before . . . 
But another glass, Herr Just ; three is the lucky number ! 

Just. With all my heart! — (Drinks.) Good stuff indeed, 
capital ! But truth is good also, and indeed, Landlord, you 
are an ill-mannered brute all the same! 

Land. If I was, do you think I should let you say so? 

Just. Oh ! yes ; a brute seldom has spirit. 

Land. One more, Herr Just: a four-stranded rope is 
the strongest. 

Just. No, enough is as good as a feast ! And what good 
will it do you, Landlord? I shall stick to my text till the 
last drop in the bottle. Shame, Landlord, to have such good 
Dantzig, and such bad manners ! To turn out of his room, 
in his absence — a man like my master, who has lodged at 
your house above a year ; from whom you have had already so 
many shining thalers; who never owed a heller in his life — 
because he let payment run for a couple of months, and 
because he does not spend quite so much as he used. 

Land. But suppose I really wanted the room and saw 
beforehand that the Major would willingly have given it 
up if we could only have waited some time for his return ! 
Should I let strange gentlefolk like them drive away again 
from my door? Should I wilfully send such a prize into 
the clutches of another innkeeper? Besides, I don't believe 
they could have got a lodging elsewhere. The inns are 
all now quite full. Could such a young, beautiful, amiable 
lady remain in the street? Your master is much too gallant 
for that. And what does he lose by the change? Have 
not I given him another room? 

vol. xxvi — 10 HC 



290 LESSING 

Just. By the pigeon-house at the back, with a view 
between a neighbour's chimneys. 

Land. The view was uncommonly fine, before the con- 
founded neighbour obstructed it. The room is otherwise 
very nice, and is papered — 

Just. Has been! 

Land. No, one side is so still. And the little room adjoin- 
ing, what is the matter with that? It has a chimney which, 
perhaps, smokes somewhat in the winter — 

Just. But does very nicely in the summer. I believe, 
Landlord, you are mocking us into the bargain ! 

Land. Come, come ; Herr Just, Herr Just — 

Just. Don't make Herr Just's head hot — 

Land. I make his head hot? It is the Dantzig does that. 

Just. An officer, like my master ! Or do you think that 
a discharged officer is not an officer, who may break your 
neck for you? Why were you all, you Landlords, so civil 
during the war ? Why was every officer an honourable man 
then and every soldier a worthy, brave fellow? Does this 
bit of a peace make you so bumptious ? 

Land. What makes you fly out so, Herr Just! 

Just. I will fly out. 

Scene III. — Major von Tellheim, Landlord, Just 

Maj. T. (entering). Just! 

Just, (supposing the Landlord is still speaking). Just? 
Are we so intimate? 

Maj. T. Just ! 

Just. I thought I was " Herr Just " with you. 

Land, (seeing the Major). Hist ! hist ! Herr Just, Herr 
Just, look round ; your master — 

Maj. T. Just, I think you are quarreling! What did 
I tell you? 

Land. Quarrel, your honour ? God forbid ! Would your 
most humble servant dare to quarrel with one who has the 
honour of being in your service? 

Just. If I could but give him a good whack on that 
cringing cat's back of his! 

Land. It is true Herr Just speaks up for his master, and 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 291 

rather warmly; but in that he is right. I esteem him so 
much the more : I like him for it. 

Just. I should like to knock his teeth out for him ! 

Land. It is only a pity that he puts himself in a passion 
for nothing. For I feel quite sure that your honour is not 
displeased with me in this matter, since — necessity — made 
it necessary — 

Mat. T. More than enough, sir ! I am in your debt ; 
you turn out my room in my absence. You must be paid, 
I must seek a lodging elsewhere. Very natural. 

Land. Elsewhere? You are going to quit, honoured sir? 
Oh, unfortunate stricken man that I am. No, never! 
Sooner shall the lady give up the apartments again. The 
Major cannot and will not let her have his room. It is 
his ; she must go ; I cannot help it. I will go, honoured 
sir — 

Mat. T. My friend, do not make two foolish strokes 
instead of one. The lady must retain possession of the 
room — 

Land. And your honour could suppose that from distrust, 
from fear of not being paid, I . . . As if I did not know 
that your honour could pay me as soon as you pleased. The 
sealed purse . . . five hundred thalers in louis d'ors marked 
on it — which your honour had in your writing-desk ... is 
in good keeping. 

Ma j. T. I trust so ; as the rest of my property. Just shall 
take them into his keeping, when he has paid your bill — 

Land. Really, I was quite alarmed when I found the purse. 
I always considered your honour a methodical and prudent 
man, who never got quite out of money . . . but still, had 
I supposed there was ready money in the desk — 

Maj. T. You would have treated me rather more civilly. 
I understand you. Go, sir; leave me. I wish to speak with 
my servant. 

Land. But, honoured sir — 

Maj. T. Come, Just ; he does not wish to permit me to give 
my orders to you in his house. 

Land. I am going, honoured sir ! My whole house is at 
your service. (Exit.) 



292 LESSING 

Scene IV.— Major von Tellheim, Just 

Just, (stamping with his foot and spitting after the Land- 
lord) . Ugh ! 

Maj. T. What is the matter ? 

Just. I am choking with rage. 

Maj. T. That is as bad as from plethora. 

Just. And for you, sir, I hardly know you any longer. 
May I die before your eyes, if you do not encourage this 
malicious, unfeeling wretch. In spite of gallows, axe, and 
torture I could . . . yes, I could have throttled him with 
these hands, and torn him to pieces with these teeth ! 

Maj. T. You wild beast ! 

Just. Better a wild beast than such a man ! 

Maj. T. But what is it that you want? 

Just. I want you to perceive how much he insults you. 

Maj. T. And then— 

Just. To take your revenge . . . No, the fellow is beneath 
your notice ! 

Maj. T. But to commission you to avenge me ? That was 
my intention from the first. He should not have seen me 
again, but have received the amount of his bill from your 
hands. I know that you can throw down a handful of money 
with a tolerably contemptuous mien. 

Just. Oh ! a pretty sort of revenge ! 

Maj. T. Which, however, we must defer. I have not one 
heller of ready money, and I know not where to raise any. 

Just. No money ! What is that purse then with five hun- 
dred dollars' worth of louis d'ors, which the Landlord found 
in your desk? 

Maj. T. That is money given into my charge. 

Just. Not the hundred pistoles which your old sergeant 
brought you four or five weeks back? 

Maj. T. The same. Paul Werner's; right. 

Just. And you have not used them yet ? Yet, sir, you may 
do what you please with them. I will answer for it that — 

Maj. T. Indeed! 

Just. Werner heard from me, how they had treated your 
claims upon the War Office. He heard — 

Maj. T. That I should certainly be a beggar soon, if I 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 293 

was not one already. I am much obliged to you, Just. And 
the news induced Werner to offer to share his little all with 
me. I am very glad that I guessed this. Listen, Just; let 
me have your account, directly too ; we must part. 

Just. How ! what ! 

Mat. T. Not a word. There is someone coming. 

Scene V. — Lady in mourning, Major von Tellheim, Just 

Lady. I ask your pardon, sir. 

Mat. T. Whom do you seek, Madam? 

Lady. The worthy gentleman with whom I have the 
honour of speaking. You do not know me again. I am the 
widow of your late captain. 

Mat. T. Good heavens, Madam, how you are changed ! 

Lady. I have just risen from a sick bed, to which grief 
on the loss of my husband brought me. I am troubling you 
at a very early hour, Major von Tellheim, but I am going 
into the country, where a kind, but also unfortunate friend, 
has for the present offered me an asylum. 

Mat. T. (to Just). Leave us. 

Scene VI. — Lady, Major s'on Tellheim 

Maj. T. Speak freely, Madam ! You must not be ashamed 
of your bad fortune before me. Can I serve you in any way? 

Lady. Major — 

Maj. T. I pity you, Madam ! How can I serve you ? You 
know your husband was my friend ; my friend, I say, and I 
have always been sparing of this title. 

Lady. Who knows better than I do how worthy you were 
of his friendship — how worthy he was of yours? You would 
have been in his last thoughts, your name would have been 
the last sound on his dying lips, had not natural affection, 
stronger than friendship, demanded this sad prerogative for 
his unfortunate son. and his unhappy wife. 

Maj. T. Cease, Madam ! I could willingly weep with you ; 
but I have no tears to-day. Spare me ! You come to me at 
a time when I might easily be misled to murmur against 
Providence. Oh ! honest Marloff ? Quick, Madam, what 



294 LESSING 

have you to request? If it is in my power to assist you, if 
it is in my power — 

Lady. I cannot depart without fulfilling his last wishes. 
He recollected, shortly before his death, that he was dying 
a debtor to you, and he conjured me to discharge his debt 
with the first ready money I should have. I have sold his 
carriage, and come to redeem his note. 

Maj. T. What, Madam! Is that your object in coming? 

Lady. It is. Permit me to count out the money to you. 

Maj. T. No, Madam. Marloff a debtor to me ! that can 
hardly be. Let us look, however. (Takes out a pocketbook, 
and searches.) I find nothing of the kind. 

Lady. You have doubtless mislaid his note; besides, it is 
nothing to the purpose. Permit me — 

Maj. T. No, Madam; I am careful not to mislay such 
documents. If I have not got it, it is a proof that I never 
had it, or that it has been honoured and already returned 
by me. 

Lady. Major ! 

Maj. T. Without doubt, Madam; Marloff does not owe 
me anything — nor can I remember that he ever did owe me 
anything. This is so, Madam. He has much rather left me 
in his debt. I have never been able to do anything to repay 
a man who shared with me good and ill luck, honour and 
danger, for six years. I shall not forget that he has left a 
son. He shall be my son, as soon as I can be a father to 
him. The embarrassment in which I am at present — 

Lady. Generous man ! But do not think so meanly of me. 
Take the money, Major, and then at least I shall be at ease. 

Maj. T. What more do you require to tranquillize you, 
than my assurance that the money does not belong to me? 
Or do you wish that I should rob the young orphan of my 
friend ? Rob, Madam ; for that it would be in the true mean- 
ing of the word. The money belongs to him; invest it for 
him. 

Lady. I understand you ; pardon me if I do not yet rightly 
know how to accept a kindness. Where have you learnt 
that a mother will do more for her child than for the preser- 
vation of her own life? I am going — 

Maj. T. Go, Madam, and may you have a prosperous 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 295 

journey ! I do not ask you to let me hear from you. Your 
news might come to me when it might be of little use to 
me. There is yet one thing, Madam ; I had nearly forgotten 
that which is of most consequence. Marloff also had claims 
upon the chest of our old regiment. His claims are as good 
as mine. If my demands are paid, his must be paid also. I 
will be answerable for them. 

Lady. Oh ! Sir . . . but what can I say ? Thus to purpose 
future good deeds is, in the eyes of heaven, to have performed 
them already. May you receive its reward, as well as my 
tears. (Exit.) 

Scene VII. — Major von Tellheim 

Maj. T. Poor, good woman ! I must not forget to destroy 
the bill. (Takes some papers from his pocketbook and 
destroys them.) Who would guarantee that my own wants 
might not some day tempt me to make use of it? 

Scene VIII. — Just, Major von Tellheim 

Maj. T. Is that you, Just? 

Just, (wiping his eyes). Yes. 

Maj. T. You have been crying? 

Just. I have been writing out my account in the kitchen, 
and the place is full of smoke. Here it is, sir. 

Maj. T. Give it to me. 

Just. Be merciful with me, sir. I know well that they 
have not been so with you ; still — 

Maj. T. What do you want? 

Just. I should sooner have expected my death, than my 
discharge. 

Maj. T. I cannot keep you any longer: I must learn to 
manage without servants. (Opens the' paper, and reads). 
"What my master, the Major, owes me: — Three months 
and a half wages, six thalers per month, is 21 thalers. Dur- 
ing the first part of this month, laid out in sundries — 1 thaler 
7 groschen 9 pfennigs. Total, 22 thalers 7gr. 9pf." Right; 
and it is just that I also pay your wages, for the whole of 
the current month. 



296 LESSING 

Just. Turn over, sir. 

Mat. T. Oh! more? (Reads.) "What I owe my master, 
the Major: — Paid for me to the army-surgeon twenty-five 
thalers. Attendance and nurse during my cure, paid for me, 
thirty-nine thalers. Advanced, at my request, to my father 
— who was burnt out of his house and robbed — without 
reckoning the two horses of which he made him a present, 
fifty thalers. Total 114 thalers. Deduct the above 22 thalers. 
7gr. 9pf. ; I remain in debt to my master, the Major, 91 
thalers, i6gr. 3pf." You are mad, my good fellow! 

Just. I willingly grant that I owe you much more; but it 
would be wasting ink to write it down. I cannot pay you 
that: and if you take my livery from me too, which, by the 
way, I have not yet earned, — I would rather you had let me 
die in the workhouse. 

Mat. T. For what do you take me? You owe me nothing; 
and I will recommend you to one of my friends, with whom 
you will fare better than with me. 

Just. I do not owe you anything, and yet you turn me 
away ! 

Mat. T. Because I do not wish to owe you anything. 

Just. On that account? Only on that account? As cer- 
tain as I am in your debt, as certain as you can never be in 
mine, so certainly shall you not turn me away now. Do what 
you will, Major, I remain in your service ; I must remain. 

Mat. T. With your obstinacy, your insolence, your savage 
boisterous temper towards all who you think have no business 
to speak to you, your malicious pranks, your love of re- 
venge, — 

Just. Make me as bad as you will. I shall not think worse 
of myself than of my dog. Last winter I was walking one 
evening at dusk along the river, when I heard something 
whine. I stooped down, and reached in the direction whence 
the sound came, and when I thought I was saving a child, 
I pulled a dog out of the water. That is well, thought I. The 
dog followed me; but I am not fond of dogs, so I drove him 
away — in vain. I whipped him away — in vain. I shut him 
out of my room at night ; he lay down before the door. If 
he came too near me, I kicked him ; he yelped, looked up at 
me, and wagged his tail. I have never yet given him a bit 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 297 

of bread with my own hand; and yet I am the only person 
whom he will obey, or who dare touch him. He jumps about 
me, and shows off his tricks to me, without my asking for 
them. He is an ugly dog, but he is a good animal. If he 
carries it on much longer, I shall at last give over hating 
him. 

Maj. T. (aside). As I do him. No, there is no one per- 
fectly inhuman. Just, we will not part. 

Just. Certainly not ! And you wanted to manage without 
servants ! You forget your wounds, and that you only have 
the use of one arm. Why, you are not able to dress alone. 
I am indispensable to you; and I am — without boasting, 
Major, — I am a servant who, if the worst comes to the worst, 
can beg and steal for his master. 

Maj. T. Just, we will part. 

Just. All right, Sir! 

Scene IX. — Servant, Major von Tellheim, Just 

Ser. I say, comrade ! 

Just. What is the matter? 

Ser. Can you direct me to the officer who lodged yesterday 
in that room? (pointing to the one out of which he is 
coming). 

Just. That I could easily do. What have you got for him ? 

Ser. What we always have, when we have nothing — com- 
pliments. My mistress hears that he has been turned out 
on her account. My mistress knows good manners, and I am 
therefore to beg his pardon. 

Just. Well then, beg his pardon; there he stands. 

Ser. What is he? What is his name? 

Maj. T. I have already heard your message, my friend. It 
is unnecessary politeness on the part of your mistress, which 
I beg to acknowledge duly. Present my compliments to her. 
What is the name of your mistress? 

Ser. Her name ! We call her my lady. 

Maj. T. The name of her family ? 

Ser. I have not heard that yet, and it is not my business 
to ask. I manage so that I generally get a new master every 
six weeks. Hang all their names ! 



298 LESSING 

Just. Bravo, comrade ! 

Ser. I was engaged by my present mistress a few days 
ago, in Dresden. I believe she has come here to look for her 
lover. 

Mat. T. Enough, friend. I wished to know the name of 
your mistress, not her secrets. Go ! 

Ser. Comrade, he would not do for my master. 

Scene X. — Major von Tellheim, Just 

Ma j. T. Just ! see that we get out of this house directly ! 
The politeness of this strange lady affects me more than the 
churlishness of the host. Here, take this ring — the only 
thing of value which I have left — of which I never thought 
of making such a use. Pawn it ! get eighty louis d'ors for 
it : our host's bill can scarcely amount to thirty. Pay him, 
and remove my things. . . . Ah, where? Where you will. 
The cheaper the inn, the better. You will find me in the 
neighbouring coffee-house. I am going; you will see to it 
all properly? 

Just. Have no fear, Major ! 

Mat. T. (comes back). Above all things, do not let my 
pistols be forgotten, which hang beside the bed. 

Just. I will forget nothing. 

Ma j. T. (comes back again). Another thing: bring your 
dog with you too. Do you hear, Just? 

Scene XI. — Just 

Just. The dog will not stay behind, he will take care of 
that. Hem ! My master still had this valuable ring and car- 
ried it in his pocket instead of on his finger ! My good land- 
lord, we are not yet so poor as we look. To him himself, I 
will pawn you, you beautiful little ring ! I know he will be 
annoyed that you will not all be consumed in his house. 
Ah!— 

Scene XII. — Paul Werner, Just 

Just. Hullo, Werner ! good-day to you, Werner. Welcome 
to the town. 
Wer. The accursed village ! I can't manage to get at home 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 299 

in it again. Merry, my boys, merry ; I have got some more 
money! Where is the Major? 

Just. He must have met you; he just went down stairs. 

Wer. I came up the back stairs. How is he? I should 
have been with you last week, but — 

Just. Well, what prevented you? 

Wer. Just, did you ever hear of Prince Heraclius? 

Just. Heraclius? Not that I know of. 

Wer. Don't you know the great hero of the East? 

Just. I know the wise men of the East well enough, who 
go about with the stars on New Year's Eve. 1 

Wer. Brother, I believe you read the newspapers as little 
as the Bible. You do not know Prince Heraclius. Not 
know the brave man who seized Persia, and will break into 
the Ottoman Porte in a few days? Thank God, there is 
still war somewhere in the world ! I have long enough 
hoped it would break out here again. But there they sit 
and take care of their skins. No, a soldier I was, and a 
soldier I must be again! In short (looking round carefully, 
to see if anyone is listening), between ourselves, Just, I am 
going to Persia, to have a few campaigns against the Turks, 
under his Royal Highness Prince Heraclius. 

Just. You? 

Wer. I myself. Our ancestors fought bravely against the 
Turks; and so ought we too, if we would be honest men 
and good Christians. I allow that a campaign against the 
Turks cannot be half so pleasant as one against the French ; 
but then it must be so much the more beneficial in this 
world and the next. The swords of the Turks are all set 
with diamonds. 

Just. I would not walk a mile to have my head split with 
one of their sabres. You will not be so mad as to leave 
your comfortable little farm ! 

Wer. Oh ! I take that with me. Do you see ? The prop- 
erty is sold. 

Just. Sold? 

Wer. Hist ! Here are a hundred ducats, which I re- 
ceived yesterday towards the payment: I am bringing them 
for the Major. 

1 This refers to an old German custom. 



300 LESSING 

Just. What is he to do with them? 

Wer. What is he to do with them? Spend them; play 
them, or drink them away, or whatever he pleases. He 
must have money, and it is bad enough that they have made 
his own so troublesome to him. But I know what I would 
do, were I in his place. I would say — " The deuce take you 
all here ; I will go with Paul Werner to Persia ! " Hang it ! 
Prince Heraclius must have heard of Major von Tellheim, 
if he has not heard of Paul Werner, his late sergeant. Our 
affair at Katzenhauser — 

Just. Shall I give you an account of that? 

Wer. You give me ! I know well that a fine battle array 
is beyond your comprehension. I am not going to throw my 
pearls before swine. Here, take the hundred ducats; give 
them to the Major: tell him, he may keep these for me too. 
I am going to the market now. I have sent in a couple of 
loads of rye; what I get for them he can also have. 

Just. Werner, you mean it well ; but we don't want your 
money. Keep your ducats; and your hundred pistoles you 
can also have back safe, as soon as you please. 

Wer. What, has the Major money still? 

Just. No. 

Wer. Has he borrowed any? 

Just. No. 

Wer. On what does he live, then? 

Just. We have everything put down in the bill ; and when 
they won't put anything more down, and turn us out of the 
house, we pledge anything we may happen to have, and go 
somewhere else. I say, Paul, we must play this landlord 
here a trick. 

Wer. If he has annoyed the Major, I am ready. 

Just. What if we watch for him in the evening, when he 
comes from his club, and give him a good thrashing? 

Wer. In the dark ! Watch for him ! Two to one ! No, 
that won't do. 

Just. Or if we burn his house over his head? 

Wer. Fire and burn ! Why, Just, one hears that you 
have been baggage-boy and not soldier. Shame ! 

Just. Or if we ruin his daughter? But she is cursedly 
ugly. 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 301 

Wer. She has probably been ruined long ago. At any 
rate you don't want any help there. But what is the 
matter with you? What has happened? 

Just. Just come with me, and you shall hear something 
to make you stare. 

Wer. The devil must be loose here, then? 

Just. Just so; come along. 

Wer. So much the better ! To Persia, then ; to Persia. 

ACT II 

Scene I. — Minnas Room. Minna, Franziska 

Min. (in morning dress, looking at her watch). Fran- 
ziska, we have risen very early. The time will hang heavy 
on our hands. 

Fran. Who can sleep in these abominable large towns? 
The carriages, the watchmen, the drums, the cats, the 
soldiers, never cease to rattle, to call, to roll, to mew, and 
to swear; just as if the last thing the night is intended 
for was for sleep. Have a cup of tea, my lady ! 

Min. I don't care for tea. 

Fran. I will have some chocolate made. 

Min. For yourself, if you like. 

Fran. For myself ! I would as soon talk to myself as 
drink by myself. Then the time will indeed hang heavy. 
For very weariness we shall have to make our toilets, 
and try on the dress in which we intend to make the 
first attack! 

Min. Why do you talk of attacks, when I have only 
come to require that the capitulation be ratified? 

Fran. But the officer whom we have dislodged, and to 
whom we have apologized, cannot be the best bred man in 
the world, or he might at least have begged the honour of 
being allowed to wait upon you. 

Min. All officers are not Tellheims. To tell you the 
truth, I only sent him the message in order to have an 
opportunity of inquiring from him about Tellheim. Fran- 
ziska, my heart tells me my journey will be a successful 
one and that I shall find him. 



302 LESSING 

Fran. The heart, my lady ! One must not trust to that 
too much. The heart echoes to us the words of our tongues. 
If the tongue was as much inclined to speak the thoughts 
of the heart, the fashion of keeping mouths under lock 
and key would have come in long ago. 

Min. Ha ! ha ! mouths under lock and key. That fashion 
would just suit me. 

Fran. Rather not show the most beautiful set of teeth, 
than let the heart be seen through them every moment. 

Min. What, are you so reserved? 

Fran. No, my lady; but I would willingly be more so. 
People seldom talk of the virtue they possess, and all the 
more often of that which they do not possess. 

Min. Franziska, you made a very just remark there. 

Fran. Made! Does one make it, if it occurs to one? 

Min. And do you know why I consider it so good? It 
applies to my Tellheim. 

Fran. What would not, in your opinion, apply to him? 

Min. Friend and foe say he is the bravest man in the 
world. But who ever heard him talk of bravery? He 
has the most upright mind; but uprightness and noble- 
ness of mind are words never on his tongue. 

Fran. Of what virtues does he talk then? 

Min. He talks of none, for he is wanting in none. 

Fran. That is just what I wished to hear. 

Min. Wait, Franziska; I am wrong. He often talks 
of economy. Between ourselves, I believe he is extrava- 
gant. 

Fran. One thing more, my lady. I have often heard 
him mention truth and constancy toward you. What, if 
he be inconstant? 

Min. Miserable girl! But do you mean that seriously? 

Fran. How long' is it since he wrote to you? 

Min. Alas ! he has only written to me once since the 
peace. 

Fran. What — A sigh on account of the peace? Sur- 
prising? Peace ought only to make good the ill which 
war causes; but it seems to disturb the good which the 
latter, its opposite, may have occasioned. Peace should 
not be so capricious ! . . . How long have we had peace ? 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 303 

The time seems wonderfully long, when there is so little 
news. It is no vse the post going regularly again; no- 
body writes, for nobody has anything to write about. 

Min. " Peace has been made," he wrote to me, " and I 
am approaching the fulfilment of my wishes." But since 
he only wrote that to me once, only once — 

Fran. And since he compels us to run after this fulfil- 
ment of his wishes ourselves. . . If we can but find him, 
he shall pay for this ! Suppose, in the meantime, he may 
have accomplished his wishes, and we should learn here 
that— 

Min. (anxiously). That he is dead? 

Fran. To you, my lady; and married to another. 

Min. You teaze, you! Wait, Franziska, I will pay you 
out for this ! But talk to me, or I shall fall asleep. His 
regiment was disbanded after the peace. Who knows into 
what a confusion of bills and papers he may thereby have 
been brought? Who knows into what other regiment, or 
to what distant station, he may have been sent? Who 
knows what circumstances — There's a knock at the door. 

Fran. Come in ! 

Scene II. — Landlord, Minna, Franziska 

Land, (putting his head in at the door) . Am I permitted, 
your ladyship? 

Fran. Our landlord ? — Come in ! 

Land. (A pen behind his ear, a sheet of paper and an ink- 
stand in his hand). I am come, your ladyship, to wish you 
a most humble good-morning; (to Franziska) and the same 
to you, my pretty maid. 

Fran. A polite man ! 

Min. We are obliged to you. 

Fran. And wish you also a good-morning. 

Land. May I venture to ask how your ladyship has 
passed the first night under my poor roof? 

Fran. The roof is not so bad, sir; but the beds might 
have been better. 

Land. What do I hear! Not slept well! Perhaps the 
over-fatigue of the journey — 



304 LESSING 

Min. Perhaps. / 

Land. Certainly, certainly, for otherwise. . . . Yet 
should there be anything not perfectly comfortable, my 
lady, I hope you will not fail to command me. 

Fran. Very well, Mr. Landlord, very well ! We are 
not bashful ; and least of all should one be bashful at an 
inn. We shall not fail to say what we may wish. 

Land. I next come to . . . (taking the pen from be- 
hind his ear). 

Fran. Well? 

Land. Without doubt, my lady, you are already acquainted 
with the wise regulations of our police. 

Min. Not in the least, sir. 

Land. We landlords are instructed not to take in any 
stranger, of whatever rank or sex he may be, for four- 
and-twenty hours, without delivering, in writing, his name, 
place of abode, occupation, object of his journey, probable 
stay, and so on, to the proper authorities. 

Min. Very well. 

Land. Will your ladyship then be so good . . . (go- 
ing to the table, and making ready to write). 

Min. Willingly. My name is — 

Land. One minute! (He writes.) "Date, 22nd August, 
A. d., &c. ; arrived at the King of Spain hotel." Now your 
name, my lady. 

Min. Fraulein von Barnhelm. 

Land, (writes). " Von Barnhelm." Coming from. . . . 
where, your ladyship? 

Min. From my estate in Saxony. 

Land, (writes). "Estate in Saxony." Saxony! Indeed, 
indeed! In Saxony, your ladyship? Saxony? 

Fran. Well, why not? I hope it is no sin in this country 
to come from Saxony ! 

Land. A sin? Heaven forbid! That would be quite 
a new sin ! From Saxony then ? Yes, yes, from Saxony, 
a delightful country, Saxony! But if I am right, your 
ladyship, Saxony is not small, and has several — how shall 
I call them? — districts, provinces. Our police are very 
particular, your ladyship. 

Min. I understand. From my estate in Thuringia, then. 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 305 

Land. From Thuringia ! Yes, that is better, your lady- 
ship; that is more exact. (Writes and reads.) " Fraulein 
von Barnhelm, coming from her estate in Thuringia, to- 
gether with her lady in waiting and two men servants." 

Fran. Lady in waiting! That means me, I suppose! 

Land. Yes, my pretty maid. 

Fran. Well, Mr. Landlord, instead of " lady in wait- 
ing," write " maid in waiting." You say, the police are 
very exact; it might cause a misunderstanding, which might 
give me trouble some day when my banns are read out. 
For I really am still unmarried, and my name is Franziska, 
with the family name of Willig: Franziska Willig. I 
also come from Thuringia. My father was a miller, on 
one of my lady's estates. It is called Little Rammsdorf. 
My brother has the mill now. I was taken very early to 
the manor, and educated with my lady. We are of the 
same age — one-and-twenty next Candlemas. I learnt every- 
thing my lady learnt. I should like the police to have 
a full account of me. 

Land. Quite right, my pretty maid; I will bear that in 
mind, in case of future inquiries. But now, your ladyship, 
your business here? 

Min. My business here? 

Land. Have you any business with His Majesty the 
King? 

Min. Oh ! no. 

Land. Or at our courts of justice? 

Min. No. 

Land. Or — 

Min. No, no. I have come here solely on account of my 
own private affairs. 

Land. Quite right, your ladyship; but what are those 
private affairs? 

Min. They are . . . Franziska, I think we are under- 
going an examination. 

Fran. Mr. Landlord, the police surely do not ask to know 
a young lady's secrets ! 

Land. Certainly, my pretty maid; the police wish to 
know everything, and especially secrets. 

Fran. What is to be done, my lady? . . . Well, listen, 



306 LESSING 

Mr. Landlord — but take care that it does not go beyond our- 
selves and the police. 

Min. What is the simpleton going to tell him? 

Fran. We come to carry off an officer from the king. 

Land. How? What? My dear girl! 

Fran. Or to let ourselves be carried off by the officer. 
It is all one. 

Min. Franziska, are you mad? The saucy girl is laugh- 
ing at you. 

Land. I hope not ! With your humble servant indeed 
she may jest as much as she pleases; but with the police — 

Min. I tell you what; I do not understand how to act in 
this matter. Suppose you postpone the whole affair till my 
uncle's arrival. I told you yesterday why he did not come 
with me. He had an accident with his carriage ten miles 
from here, and did not wish that I should remain a night 
longer on the road, so I had to come on. I am sure he 
will not be more than four-and-twenty hours after us. 

Land. Very well, madam, we will wait for him. 

Min. He will be able to answer your questions better. 
He will know to whom, and to what extent, he must give 
an account of himself — what he must relate respecting his 
affairs, and what he may withhold. 

Land. So much the better ! Indeed one cannot expect 
a young girl (looking at Franziska in a marked manner) 
to treat a serious matter with serious people in a serious 
manner. 

Min. And his rooms are in readiness, I hope? 

Land. Quite, your ladyship, quite; except the one — 

Fran. Out of which, I suppose, you will have to turn 
some other honourable gentleman ! 

Land. The waiting maids of Saxony, your ladyship, 
seem to be very compassionate. 

Min. In truth, sir, that was not well done. You ought 
rather to have refused us. 

Land. Why so, your ladyship, why so? 

Min. I understand that the officer who was driven out 
on our account — 

Land. Is only a discharged officer, your ladyship. 

Min. Well, what then? 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 307 

Land. Who is almost done for. 

Min. So much the worse ! He is said to be a very deserv- 
ing man. 

Land. But I tell you he is discharged. 

Min. The king cannot be acquainted with every deserv- 
ing man. 

Land. Oh ! doubtless he knows them ; he knows them all. 

Min. But he cannot reward them all. 

Land. They would have been rewarded if they had lived 
so as to deserve it. But they lived during the war as if it 
would last for ever; as if the words "yours" and "mine" 
were done away with altogether. Now all the hotels and 
inns are full of them, and a landlord has to be on his guard 
with them. I have come off pretty well with this one. If 
he had no more money, he had at any rate money's worth ; 
and I might indeed have let him remain quiet two or three 
months longer. However, it is better as it is. By-the-by, 
your ladyship, you understand about jewels, I suppose? 

Min. Not particularly. 

Land. Of course your ladyship must. I must show you 
a ring, a valuable ring. I see you have a very beautiful 
one on your finger; and the more I look at it, the more 
I am astonished at the resemblance it bears to mine. There ! 
just look, just look! (taking the ring from its case, and 
handing it to her.) What brilliancy ! The diamond in the 
middle alone .weighs more than five carats. 

Min. (looking at it). Good heavens! What do I see? 
This ring — 

Land. Is honestly worth fifteen hundred thalers. 

Min. Franziska ! look ! 

Land. I did not hesitate for a moment to advance eighty 
pistoles on it. 

Min. Do not you recognize it, Franziska? 

Fran. The same ! Where did you get that ring, Mr. 
Landlord ? 

Land. Come, my girl! you surely have no claim to it? 

Fran. We have no claim to this ring! My mistress's 
monogram must be on it, on the inner side of the setting. 
Look at it, my lady. 

Min. It is! it is! How did you get this ring? 



308 LESSING 

Land. I! In the most honourable way in the world. You 
do not wish to bring me into disgrace and trouble, your 
ladyship ! How do I know where the ring properly be- 
longs? During the war many a thing often changed masters, 
both with and without the knowledge of its owner. War 
was war. Other rings will have crossed the borders of 
Saxony. Give it me again, your ladyship ; give it me again ! 

Fran. When you have said from whom you got it. 

Land. From a man whom I cannot think capable of such 
things; in other respects a good man. 

MiN» From the best man under the sun, if you have it 
from its owner. Bring him here directly ! It is himself, 
or at any rate he must know him. 

Land. Who? who, your ladyship? 

Fran. Are you deaf? Our Major! 

Land. Major ! Right ! he is a Major, who had this room 
before you, and from whom I received it. 

Min. Major von Tellheim ! 

Land. Yes, Tellheim. Do you know him? 

Min. Do I know him ! He is here ! Tellheim here ! He 
had this room ! He ! he pledged this ring with you ! What 
has brought him into this embarrassment? Where is he? 
Does he owe you anything? Franziska, my desk here! 
Open it! (Franziska puts it on the table and opens it.) 
What does he owe you? To whom else does he owe any- 
thing? Bring me all his creditors! Here is gold: here are 
notes. It is all his ! 

Land. What is this? 

Min. Where is he? Where is he? 

Land. An hour ago he was here. 

Min. Detested man ! how could you act so rudely, so 
hardly, so cruelly towards him ? 

Land. Your ladyship must pardon — 

Min. Quick ! Bring him to me. 

Land. His servant is perhaps still here. Does your lady- 
ship wish that he should look for him? 

Min. Do I wish it? Begone, run. For this service 
alone I will forget how badly you have behaved to him. 

Fran. Now then, quick, Mr. Landlord ! Be off ! fly ! fly ! 
(Pushes him out.) 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 309 

Scene III. — Minna, Franziska 

Min. Now I have found him again, Franziska! Do you 
hear ? Now I have found him again ! I scarcely know 
where I am for joy ! Rejoice with me, Franziska. But 
why should you? And yet you shall; you must rejoice with 
me. Come, I will make you a present, that you may be able 
to rejoice with me. Say, Franziska, what shall I give you? 
Which of my things would please you? What would you 
like? Take what you will; only rejoice with me. I see you 
will take nothing. Stop! (Thrusts her hand into the desk.) 
There, Franziska (gives her money), buy yourself what you 
like. Ask for more, if it be not sufficient; but rejoice with 
me you must. It is so melancholy to be happy alone. There, 
take it, then. 

Fran. It is stealing it from you, my lady. You are 
intoxicated, quite intoxicated with joy. 

Min. Girl, my intoxication is of a quarrelsome kind. 
Take it, or (forcing money into her hand) . . . and if you 
thank me . . . Stay, it is well that I think of it. (Takes 
more money from the desk.) Put that aside, Franziska, for 
the first poor wounded soldier who accosts us. 

Scene IV. — Landlord, Minna, and Franziska 

Min. Well, is he coming? 

Land. The cross, unmannered fellow ! 

Min. Who? 

Land. His servant. He refuses to go for him. 

Fran. Bring the rascal here, then. I know all the Major's 
servants. Which one of them was it? 

Min. Bring him here directly. When he sees us he will 
go fast enough. (Exit Landlord.) 

Scene V. — Minna, Franziska 

Min. I cannot bear this delay. But, Franziska, how 
cold you are still ! Why will you not share my joy with me I 
Fran. I would from my heart, if only — 
Min. If only what? 



310 LESSING 

Fran. We have found him again. But how have we 
found him? From all we hear, it must go badly with him. 
He must be unfortunate. That distresses me. 

Min. Distresses you ! Let me embrace you for that, 
my dear playmate ! I shall never forget this of you. I am 
only in love, you are good. 

Scene VI. — Landlord, Just, and the above 

Land. With great difficulty I have brought him. 

Fran. A strange face ! I do not know him. 

Min. Friend, do you live with Major von TellheinT? 

Just. Yes. 

Min. Where is your master? 

Just. Not here. 

Min. But you could find him? 

Just. Yes. 

Min. Will you fetch him quickly? 

Just. No. 

Min. You will be doing me a favour. 

Just. Indeed ! 

Min. And your master a service. 

Just. Perhaps not. 

Min. Why do you suppose that? 

Just. You are the strange lady who sent your compli- 
ments to him this morning, I think? 

Min. Yes. 

Just. Then I am right. 

Min. Does your master know my name? 

Just. No; but he takes over-civil ladies as little as over- 
uncivil landlords. 

Land. That is meant for me, I suppose? 

Just. Yes. 

Land. Well, do not let the lady suffer for it then; but 
bring him here directly. 

Min. (to Franziska). Franziska, give him something — 

Fran, (trying to put some money into Just's hand). We 
do not require your services for nothing. 

Just. Nor I your money without services. 

Fran. One in return for the other. 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 311 

Just. I cannot. My master has ordered me to pack up. 
That I am now about, and I beg you not to hinder me 
further. When I have finished, I will take care to tell him 
that he may come here. He is close by, at the coffee- 
house; and if he finds nothing better to do there, I suppose 
he will come. (Going.) 

Fran. Wait a moment! My lady is the Major's . . . 
sister. 

Min. Yes, yes, his sister. 

Just. I know better ; the Major has not a sister. He 
has sent me twice in six months to his family in Courland. 
It is true there are different sorts of sisters — 

Fran. Insolent! 

Just. One must be so to get the people to let one alone. 
(Exit.) 

Fran. That is a rascal. 

Land. So I said. But let him go ! I know now where his 
master is. I will fetch him instantly myself. I only beg 
your ladyship, most humbly, that you will make an excuse 
for me to the Major, that I have been so unfortunate as to 
offend a man of his merit against my will. 

Min. Pray go quickly. I will set all that right again. 
(Exit the Landlord.) Franziska, run after him, and tell 
him not to mention my name! (Exit Franziska.) 

Scene VII. — Minna, and afterwards Franziska 

Min. I have found him again! — Am I alone? — I will not 
be alone to no purpose. — (Clasping her hands.) Yet I am 
not alone ! (Looking upwards.) One single grateful 
thought towards heaven, is the most perfect prayer ! I have 
found him! I have found him! (With outstretched arms.) 
I am joyful and happy ! What can please the Creator more 
than a joyful creature! (Franziska returns.) Have you 
returned, Franziska ? You pity him ! I do not pity him. 
Misfortune too is useful. Perhaps heaven deprived him of 
everything — to give him all again, through me ! 

Fran. He may be here at any moment. — You are still in 
your morning dress, my lady. Ought you not to dress your- 
self quickly? 



312 LESSING 

Min. Not at all. He will now see me more frequently so, 
than dressed out. 

Fran. Oh ! you know, my lady, how you look best. 

Min. {after a pause). Truly, girl, you have hit it again. 

Fran. I think women who are beautiful, are most so when 
unadorned. 

Min. Must we then be beautiful? Perhaps it was neces- 
sary that we should think ourselves so. Enough for me, if 
only I am beautiful in his eyes. Franziska, if all women 
feel as I now feel, we are — strange things. Tender-hearted, 
yet proud ; virtuous, yet vain ; passionate, yet innocent. I 
dare say you do not understand me. I do not rightly under- 
stand myself. Joy turns my head. 

Fran. Compose yourself, my lady, I hear footsteps. 

Min. Compose myself! What! receive him composedly? 

Scene VIII. — Major von Tellheim, Landlord, and the above 

Ma j. T. {walks in, and the moment he sees Minna rushes 
towards her). Ah ! my Minna ! 

Min. {springing towards him). Ah! my Tellheim! 

Ma j. T. {starts suddenly, and draws back). I beg your 
pardon, Fraulein von Barnhelm ; but to meet you here — 

Min. Cannot surely be so unexpected ! {Approaching him, 
whilst he draws back still more.) Am I to pardon you 
because I am still your Minna? Heaven pardon you, that I 
am still Fraulein von Barnhelm ! 

Maj. T. Fraulein . . . {Looks fixedly at the Landlord, 
and shrugs his shoulders.) 

Min. {sees the Landlord, and makes a sign to Fran- 
ziska). Sir — 

Maj. T. If we are not both mistaken — 

Fran. Why, Landlord, whom have you brought us here? 
Come, quick ! let us go and look for the right man. 

Land. Is he not the right one? Surely! 

Fran. Surely not ! Come, quick ! I have not yet wished 
your daughter good morning. 

Land. Oh! you are very good {still does not stir). 

Fran, {takes hold of him). Come, and we will make the 
bill of fare. Let us see what we shall have. 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 313 

Land. You shall have first of all — 

Fran. Stop, I say, stop! If my mistress knows now what 
she is to have for dinner, it will be all over with her appetite. 
Come, we must talk that over in private. (Drags him off.) 

Scene IX. — Minna, Major von Tellheim 

Min. Well, are we still both mistaken? 

Maj. T. Would to heaven it were so !— But there is only 
one Minna, and you are that one. 

Min. What ceremony ! The world might hear what we 
have to say to one another. 

Maj. T. You here ? What do you want here, Madam ? 

Min. Nothing now (going to him with open arms). I 
have found all that I wanted. 

Maj. T. (drawing back). You seek a prosperous man, and 
one worthy of your love ; and you find — a wretched one. 

Min. Then do you love me no longer? Do you love 
another ? 

Maj. T. Ah ! he never loved you, who could love another 
afterwards. 

Min. You draw but one dagger from my breast; for if I 
have lost your heart, what matters whether indifference or 
more powerful charms than mine have robbed me of it? You 
love me no longer; neither do you love another? Wretched 
man indeed, if you love nothing ! 

Maj. T. Right; the wretched must love nothing. He 
merits his misfortunes, if he cannot achieve this victory 
over himself — if he can allow the woman he loves to take 
part in his misfortune . . . Oh ! how difficult is this victory ! 
. . . Since reason and necessity have commanded me to for- 
get Minna von Barnhelm, what pains have I taken ! I was 
just beginning to hope that my trouble would not for ever 
be in vain — and you appear. 

Min. Do I understand you right? Stop, sir; let us see 
what we mean before we make further mistakes. Will you 
answer me one question ? 

Maj. T. Any one. 

Min. But will you answer me without shift or subterfuge? 
With nothing but a plain " Yes," or " No? " 



314 LESSING 

Ma j. T. I will— if I can. 

Min. You can. Well, notwithstanding the pains which 
you have taken to forget me, do you love me still, Tellheim? 

Maj. T. Madam, that question — 

Min. You have promised to answer Yes, or No. 

Maj. T. And added, If I can. 

Min. You can. You must know what passes in your heart. 
Do you love me still, Tellheim ? Yes, or No ? 

Maj. T. If my heart— 

Min. Yes, or No? 

Maj. T. Well, Yes ! 

Min. Yes? 

Maj. T. Yes, yes ! Yet— 

Min. Patience ! You love me still ; that is enough for me. 
Into what a mood have we fallen ! an unpleasant, melan- 
choly, infectious mood! I assume my own again. Now, my 
dear unfortunate, you love me still, and have your Minna 
still, and are unhappy? Hear what a conceited, foolish thing 
your Minna was — is. She allowed — allows herself, to 
imagine that she makes your whole happiness. Declare all 
your misery at once. She would like to try how far she can 
outweigh it. — Well? 

Maj. T. Madam, I am not accustomed to complain. 

Min. Very well. I know nothing in a soldier, after boast- 
ing, that pleases me less than complaining. But there is a 
certain cold, careless way of speaking of bravery and mis- 
fortune — 

Maj. T. Which at the bottom is still boasting and 
complaining. 

Min. You disputant ! You should not have called your- 
self unhappy at all then. You should have told the whole, or 
kept quiet. Reason and necessity commanded you to forget 
me ? I am a great stickler for reason ; I have a great respect 
for necessity. But let me hear how reasonable this reason, 
and how necessary this necessity may be. 

Maj. T. Listen then, Madam. You call me Tellheim; the 
name is correct. But suppose I am not that Tellheim whom 
you knew at home; the prosperous man, full of just pre- 
tensions, with a thirst for glory; the master of all his facul- 
ties, both of body and mind; before whom the lists of honour 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 315 

and prosperity stood open ; who, if he was not then worthy of 
your heart and your hand, dared to hope that he might daily 
become more nearly so. This Tellheim I am now, as little 
as I am my own father. They both have been. Now I am 
Tellheim the discharged, the suspected, the cripple, the beg- 
gar. To the former, Madam, you promised your hand ; do 
you wish to keep your word? 

Min. That sounds very tragic . . . Yet, Major Tellheim, 
until I find the former one again — I am quite foolish about 
the Tellheims — the latter will have to help me in my dilemma. 
Your hand, dear beggar ! (taking his hand). 

Maj. T. (holding his hat before his face with the other 
hand, and turning away from her). This is too much! . . . 
What am I? . . . Let me go, Madam. Your kindness tor- 
tures me ! Let me go. 

Min. What is the matter? Where would you go? 

Maj. T. From you ! 

Min. From me (drawing his hand to her heart) ? 
Dreamer ! 

Maj. T. Despair will lay me dead at your feet. 

Min. From me? 

Maj. T. From you. Never, never to see you again. 
Or at least determined, fully determined, never to be 
guilty of a mean action; never to cause you to commit 
an imprudent one. Let me go, Minna! 

(Tears himself away, and Exit.) 

Min. (calling after him). Let you go, Minna? Minna, let 
you go ? Tellheim ! Tellheim ! 



ACT III 

Scene I. — The Parlour. Just (with a letter in his hand ) 

Just. Must I come again into this cursed house ! A note 
from my master to her ladyship that would be his sister. I 
hope nothing will come of this, or else there will be no end 
to letter carrying. I should like to be rid of it; but yet I 
don't wish to go into the room. The women ask so many 
questions, and I hate answering — Ah ! the door opens. Just 
what I wanted, the waiting puss ! 



316 LESSING 

Scene II. — Franziska and Just 

Fran, (calling through the door by which she has just 
entered). Fear not; I will watch. See! (observing Just) 
I have met with something immediately. But nothing is to 
he done with that brute. 

Just. Your servant. 

Fran. I should not like such a servant. 

Just. Well, well, pardon the expression ! There is a note 
from my master to your mistress — her ladyship — his sister, 
wasn't it? — sister. 

Fran. Give it me! (Snatches it from his hand.) 

Just. You will be so good, my master begs, as to deliver it. 
Afterwards you will be so good, my master begs, as not to 
think I ask for anything ! 

Fran. Well? 

Just. My master understands how to manage the affair. 
He knows that the way to the young lady is through her 
maid, methinks. The maid will therefore be so good, my 
master begs, as to let him know whether he may not have the 
pleasure of speaking with the maid for a quarter of an hour. 

Fran. With me? 

Just. Pardon me, if I do not give you your right title. 
Yes, with you. Only for one quarter of an hour; but alone, 
quite alone, in private tete-a-tete. He has something very 
particular to say to you. 

Fran. Very well ! I have also much to say to him. He 
may come; I shall be at his service. 

Just. But when can he come ? When is it most convenient 
for you, young woman ? In the evening ? 

Fran. What do you mean? Your master can come when 
he pleases ; and now be off. 

Just. Most willingly ! (Going.) 

Fran. I say ! one word more ! Where are the rest of the 
Major's servants? 

Just. The rest ? Here, there, and everywhere. 

Fran. Where is William? 

Just. The valet ? He has let him go for a trip. 

Fran. Oh! and Philip, where is he? 

Just. The huntsman ? Master has found him a good place. 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 317 

Fran. Because he does not hunt now, of course. But 
Martin ? 

Just. The coachman? He is off on a ride. 

Fran. And Fritz ? 

Just. The footman? He is promoted. 

Fran. Where were you then, when the Major was quar- 
tered in Thuringia with us that winter? You were not with 
him, I suppose ! 

Just. Oh ! yes, I was groom ; but I was in the hospital. 

Fran. Groom ! and now you are — 

Just. All in all; valet and huntsman, footman and groom. 

Fran. Well, I never ! To turn away so many good, excel- 
lent servants, and to keep the very worst of all ! I should 
like to know what your master finds in you ! 

Just. Perhaps he finds that I am an honest fellow. 

Fran. Oh ! one is precious little if one is nothing more 
than honest. William was another sort of a man ! So your 
master has let him go for a trip ! 

Just. Yes, he . . . let him — because he could not prevent 
him. 

Fran. How so? 

Just. Oh! William will do well on his travels. He took 
master's wardrobe with him. 

Fran. What ! he did not run away with it ? 

Just. I cannot say that exactly; but when we left Niirn- 
berg, he did not follow us with it. 

Fran. Oh ! the rascal ! 

Just. He was the right sort ! he could curl hair and shave 
■ — and chatter — and flirt — couldn't he? 

Fran. At any rate, I would not have turned away the 
huntsman, had I been in the Major's place. If he did not 
want him any longer as huntsman, he was still a useful 
fellow. Where has he found him a place? 

Just. With the Commandant of Spandau. 

Fran. The fortress! There cannot be much hunting 
within the walls either. 

Just. Oh ! Philip does not hunt there. 

Fran. What does he do, then? 

Just. He rides — on the treadmill. 

Fran. The treadmill ! 



318 LESSING 

Just. But only for three years. He made a bit of a plot 
amongst master's company, to get six men through the 
outposts. 

Fran. I am astonished ; the knave ! 

Just. Ah ! he was a useful fellow ; a huntsman who knew 
all the foot-paths and by-ways for fifty miles round, through 
forests and bogs. And he could shoot ! 

Fran. It is lucky the Major has still got the honest 
coachman. 

Just. Has he got him still? 

Fran. I thought you said Martin was off on a Tide : of 
course he will come back ! 

Just. Do you think so? 

Fran. Well, where has he ridden to? 

Just. It is now going on for ten weeks since he rode mas- 
ter's last and only horse — to water. 

Fran. And has not he come back yet ? Oh ! the rascal ! 

Just. The water may have washed the honest coachman 
away. Oh ! he was a famous coachman ! He had driven 
ten years in Vienna. My master will never get such another 
again. When the horses were in full gallop, he only had to 
say " Wo ! " and there they stood, like a wall. Moreover, he 
was a finished horse-doctor ! 

Fran. I begin now to be anxious about the footman's 
promotion. 

Just. No, no ; there is no occasion for that. He has become 
a drummer in a garrison regiment. 

Fran. I thought as much ! 

Just. Fritz chummed up with a scamp, never came home 
at night, made debts everywhere in master's name, and a 
thousand rascally tricks. In short, the Major saw that 
he was determined to rise in the world (pantotnimically 
imitating the act of hanging), so he put him in the right 
road. 

Fran. Oh ! the stupid ! 

Just. Yet a perfect footman, there is no doubt of that. In 
running, my master could not catch him on his best horse if 
he gave him fifty paces; but on the other hand, Fritz could 
give the gallows a thousand paces, and, I bet my life, he 
would overhaul it. They were all great friends of yours, eh, 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 319 

young woman ? . . . William and Philip, Martin and Fritz ! 
Now, Just wishes you good-day. (Exit.) 

Scene III. — Franziska, and afterwards the Landlord 

Fran, (looking after him seriously). I deserve the hit! 
Thank you, Just. I undervalued honesty. I will not forget 
the lesson. Ah! our unfortunate Major! (Turns round to 
enter her mistress's room, when the Landlord comes.) 

Land. Wait a bit, my pretty maid. 

Fran. I have not time now, Mr. Landlord. 

Land. Only half a moment ! No further tidings of the 
Major? That surely could not possibly be his leave-taking! 

Fran. What could not ? 

Land. Has not your ladyship told you? When I left you, 
my pretty maid, below in the kitchen, I returned accidentally 
into this room — 

Fran. Accidentally — with a view to listen a little. 

Land. What, girl! how can you suspect me of that? 
There is nothing so bad in a landlord as curiosity. I had not 
been here long, when suddenly her ladyship's door burst 
open: the Major dashed out; the lady after him; both in 
such a state of excitement; with looks — in attitudes — that 
must be seen to be understood. She seized hold of him; 
he tore himself away; she seized him again — " Tellheim." 
" Let me go, Madam." " Where ? " Thus he drew her as 
far as the staircase. I was really afraid he would drag her 
down ; but he got away. The lady remained on the top step ; 
looked after him; called after him; wrung her hands. Sud- 
denly she turned round ; ran to the window ; from the window 
to the staircase again; from the staircase into the room, 
backwards and forwards. There I stood; she passed me 
three times without seeing me. At length it seemed as if she 
saw me ; but heaven defend us ! I believe the lady took me for 
you. " Franziska," she cried, with her eyes fixed upon me, 
" am I happy now ? " Then she looked straight up to the ceil- 
ing, and said again — " Am I happy now ? " Then she wiped 
the tears from her eyes, and smiled, and asked me again — 
" Franziska, am I happy now ? " I really felt, I know not 
how. Then she ran to the door of her room, and turned 



320 LESSING 

round again towards me, saying — " Come, Franziska, whom 
do you pity now?" and with that she went in. 

Fran. Oh ! Mr. Landlord, you dreamt that. 

Land. Dreamt! No, my pretty maid; one does not dream 
so minutely. Yes, what would not I give — I am not curious : 
but what would not I give — to have the key to it ! 

Fran. The key? Of our door? Mr. Landlord, that is 
inside ; we took it in at night ; we are timid. 

Land. Not that sort of key; I mean, my dear girl, the key 
— the explanation, as it were ; the precise connexion of all 
that I have seen. 

Fran. Indeed ! Well, good-bye, Mr. Landlord. Shall we 
have dinner soon? 

Land. My dear girl, not to forget what I came to say — 

Fran. Well ? In as few words as possible. 

Land. Her ladyship has my ring still. I call it mine — 

Fran. You shall not lose it. 

Land. I have no fear on that account: I merely put you 
in mind. Do you see, I do not wish to have it again at all. 
I can guess pretty well how she knew the ring, and why it 
was so like her own. It is best in her hands. I do not want 
it any more ; and I can put them down — the hundred pistoles 
which I advanced for it, to the lady's bill. Will not that do, 
my pretty maid? 

Scene IV. — Paul Werner, Landlord, Franziska 

Wer. There he is ! 

Fran. A hundred pistoles? I thought it was only eighty. 

Land. True, only ninety, only ninety. I will do so, my 
pretty maid, I will do so. 

Fran. All that will come right, Mr. Landlord. 

Wer. (coming from behind, and tapping Franziska on the 
shoulder). Little woman — Little woman. 

Fran, (frightened). Oh! dear! 

Wer. Don't be alarmed ! I see you are pretty, and a 
stranger, too. And strangers who are pretty must be warned. 
Little woman ! little woman ! I advise you to beware of that 
fellow! (pointing to the Landlord). 

Land. Ah ! What an unexpected pleasure ! Herr Wer- 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 321 

ner ! Welcome, welcome ! Yes, you are just the same jovial, 
joking, honest Werner ! So you are to beware of me, my 
pretty maid. Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

Wer. Keep out of his way everywhere ! 

Land. My way ? Am I such a dangerous man ? Ha ! ha ! 
ha ! Hear him, my pretty maid ! A good joke, isn't it? 

Wer. People like him always call it a joke, if one tells them 
the truth. 

Land. The truth. Ha ! ha ! ha ! Better and better, my 
pretty maid, isn't it? He knows how to joke! I dangerous? 
I ? Twenty years ago there might have been something in it. 
Yes, yes, my pretty maid, then I was a dangerous man : many 
a one knew it ; but now — 

Wer. Oh ! the old fool ! 

Land. There it is ! When we get old, danger is at an 
end ! It will be so with you too, Herr Werner ! 

Wer. You utter old fool ! Little woman, you will give 
me credit for enough common sense not to speak of danger 
from him. That one devil has left him, but seven others 
have entered into him. 

Land. Oh ! hear him ! How cleverly he can turn things 
about. Joke upon joke, and always something new ! Ah ! 
he is an excellent man, Paul Werner is. (To Franziska, as 
if whispering.') A well-to-do man, and a bachelor still. He 
has a nice little freehold three miles from here. He made 
prize-money in the war, and was a sergeant to the Major. 
Yes, he is a real friend of the Major's; he is a friend who 
would give his life for him. 

Wer. Yes; and that is a friend of the Major's — that is a 
friend . . . whose life the Major ought to take (pointing to 
the Landlord). 

Land. How ! What ! No, Herr Werner, that is not a 
good joke. I no friend to the Major ! I don't understand 
that joke. 

Wer. Just has told me pretty things. 

Land. Just ! Ah ! I thought Just was speaking through 
you. Just is a nasty, ill-natured man. But here on the spot 
stands a pretty maid — she can speak, she can say if I am no 
friend of the Major's — if I have not done him good service. 
And why should not I be his friend? Is not he a deserving 
vol. xxvi — II hc 



322 LESSING 

man ? It is true, he has had the misfortune to be discharged ; 
but what of that? The king cannot be acquainted with all 
deserving officers ; and if he knew them, he could not reward 
them all. 

Wer. Heaven put those words into your mouth. But 
Just . . . certainly there is nothing remarkable about Just, 
but still Just is no liar; and if that what he has told me be 
true — 

Land. I don't want to hear anything about Just. As I 
said, this pretty maid here can speak. (Whispering to her.) 
You know, my dear ; the ring ! Tell Herr Werner about it. 
Then he will learn better what I am. And that it may not 
appear as if she only said what I wish, I will not even be 
present. I will go ; but you shall tell me after, Herr Werner, 
you shall tell me, whether Just is not a foul slanderer. 
(Exit.) 

Scene V. — Werner, Franziska 

Wer. Little woman, do you know my Major? 

Fran. Major von Tellheim? Yes, indeed, I do know that 
good man. 

Wer. Is he not a good man? Do you like him? 

Fran. From the bottom of my heart. 

Wer. Indeed ! I tell you what, little woman, you are 
twice as pretty now as you were before. But what are the 
services, which the landlord says he has rendered our 
Major? 

Fran. That is what I don't know ; unless he wished to 
take credit to himself for the good result which fortunately 
has arisen from his knavish conduct. 

Wer. Then what Just told me is true? (Towards the 
side where the Landlord went off.) A lucky thing for 
you that you are gone ! He did really turn him out 
of his room? — To treat such a man so, because the donkey 
fancied that he had no more money ! The Major no 
money ! 

Fran. What! has the Major any money? 

Wer. By the load. He doesn't know how much he has. 
He doesn't know who is in his debt. I am his debtor, and 
have brought him some old arrears. Look, little woman, 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 323 

in this purse (drawing it out of one pocket) are a hundred 
louis d'ors; and in this packet (drawing it out of another 
pocket) a hundred ducats. All his money! 

Fran. Really ! Why then does the Major pawn his 
things? He pledged a ring, you know — 

Wer. Pledged ! Don't you believe it. Perhaps he wanted 
to get rid of the rubbish. 

Fran. It is no rubbish; it is a very valuable ring; which, 
moreover, I suspect, he received from a loving hand. 

Wer. That will be the reason. From a loving hand ! 
Yes, yes; such a thing often puts one in mind of what one 
does not wish to remember, and therefore one gets rid of it. 

Fran. What ! 

Wer. Odd things happen to the soldier in winter quar- 
ters. He has nothing to do then, so he amuses himself, 
and to pass the time he makes acquaintances, which he only 
intends for the winter, but which the good soul with whom 
he makes them, looks upon for life. Then, presto ! a ring is 
suddenly conjured on to his finger; he hardly knows him- 
self how it gets there; and very often he would willingly 
give the finger with it, if he could only get free from it 
again. 

Fran. Oh ! and do you think this has happened to the 
Major? 

Wer. Undoubtedly. Especially in Saxony. If he had 
had ten fingers on each hand, he might have had all twenty 
full of rings. 

Fran, (aside). That sounds important, and deserves to 
be inquired into. Mr. Freeholder, or Mr. Sergeant— 1 

Wer. Little woman, if it makes no difference to you, I 
like " Mr. Sergeant " best. 

Fran. Well, Mr. Sergeant, I have a note from the Major 
to my mistress. I will just carry it in, and be here again 
in a moment. Will you be so good as to wait? I should 
like very much to have a little talk with you. 

Wer. Are you fond of talking, little woman? Well, with 
all my heart. Go quickly. I am fond of talking too: I 
will wait. 

Fran. Yes, please wait. (Exit.) 



324 LESSING 

Scene VI. — Paul Werner 

Wer. That is not at all a bad little woman. But I ought 
not to have promised her that I would wait, for it would 
be most to the purpose, I suppose, to find the Major. He 
will not have my money, but rather pawns his property. 
That is just his way. A little trick occurs to me. When I 
was in the town, a fortnight back, I paid a visit to Captain 
Marloff's widow. The poor woman was ill, and was lament- 
ing that her husband had died in debt to the Major for 
four hundred thalers, which she did not know how to pay. 
I went to see her again to-day ; I intended to tell her that I 
could lend her five hundred thalers, when I had received the 
money for my property; for I must put some of it by, if I 
do not go to Persia. But she was gone; and no doubt she 
has not been able to pay the Major. Yes, I'll do that; and 
the sooner the better. The little woman must not take it 
ill of me ; I cannot wait. 

(Is going in thought, and almost runs against the 
Major, zvho meets him.) 

Scene VII. — Major von Tellheim, Paul Werner 

Maj. T. Why so thoughtful, Werner? 

Wer. Oh ! that is you. I was just going to pay you a 
visit in your new quarters, Major. 

Maj. T. To fill my ears with curses against the Land- 
lord of my old one. Do not remind me of it. 

Wer. I should have done that by the way: yes. But 
more particularly, I wish to thank you for having been 
so good as to take care of my hundred louis d'ors. Just has 
given them to me again. I should have been very glad if 
you would have kept them longer for me. But you have 
got into new quarters, which neither you nor I know much 
about. Who knows what sort of place it is? They might 
be stolen, and you would have to make them good to me ; 
there would be no help for it. So I cannot ask you to 
take them again. 

Maj. T. (smiling). When did you begin to be so careful, 
Werner ? 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 325 

Wer. One learns to be so. One cannot now be careful 
enough of one's money. I have also a commission for you. 
Major, from Frau Marloff; I have just come from her. 
Her husband died four hundred thalers in your debt; she 
sends you a hundred ducats here, in part payment. She 
will forward you the rest next week. I believe I am the 
cause that she has not sent you the whole sum. For she 
also owed me about eighty thalers, and she thought I was 
come to dun her for them — which, perhaps, was the fact 
— so she gave them me out of the roll which she had put 
aside for you. You can spare your hundred thalers for a 
week longer, better than I can spare my few groschens. 
There, take it! {Hands him the ducats.) 

Maj. T. Werner ! 

Wer. Well ! Why do you stare at me so ? Take it, 
Major ! 

Maj. T. Werner ! 

Wer. What is the matter with you? What annoys you? 

Maj. T. (angrily striking his forehead, and stamping 
with his foot.) That . . . the four hundred thalers are not 
all there. 

Wer. Come ! Major, did not you understand me ? 

Maj. T. It is just because I did understand you ! Alas, 
that the best men should to-day distress me most ! 

Wer. What do you say? 

Maj. T. This only applies partly to you. Go. Werner ! 
(Pushing back Werner's hand with the money in it.) 

Wer. As soon as I have got rid of this. 

Maj. T. Werner, suppose I tell you that Frau Marloff 
was here herself early this morning — 

Wer. Indeed? 

Maj. T. That she owes me nothing now — 

Wer. Really? 

Maj. T. That she has paid me every penny — What will 
you say then ? 

Wer. (thinks for a minute). I shall say that I have told 
a lie, and that lying is a low thing, because one may be 
caught at it. 

Maj. T. And you will be ashamed of yourself? 

Wer. And what of him who compels me to lie? Should 



326 LESSING 

not he be ashamed too? Look ye, Major; if I was to say 
that your conduct has not vexed me, I should tell another 
lie, and I won't lie any more. 

Maj. T. Do not be annoyed, Werner. I know your heart, 
and your affection for me. But I do not require your 
money. 

Wer. Not require it ! Rather sell, rather pawn, and get 
talked about ! 

Maj. T. Oh ! people may know that I have nothing more. 
One must not wish to appear richer than one is. 

Wer. But why poorer? A man has something as long 
as his friend has. 

Maj. T. It is not proper that I should be your 
debtor. 

Wer. Not proper ! On that summer day which the sun 
and the enemy made hot for us, when your groom, who had 
your canteen, was not to be found, and you came to me and 
said — "Werner, have you nothing to drink?" and I gave 
you my flask, you took it and drank, did you not? Was 
that proper? Upon my life, a mouthful of dirty water at 
that time was often worth more than such filth (taking the 
purse also out of his pocket, and holding out both to him). 
Take them, dear Major ! Fancy it is water. God has made 
this, too, for all. 

Maj. T. You torment me : don't you hear, I will not be 
your debtor. 

Wer. At first, it was not proper ; now, you will not. Ah ! 
that is a different thing. (Rather angrily.) You will not 
be my debtor? But suppose you are already, Major? Or, 
are you not a debtor to the man who once warded off the 
blow that was meant to split your head; and, at another 
time, knocked off the arm which was just going to pull and 
send a ball through your breast? How can you become a 
greater debtor to that man? Or, is my neck of less conse- 
quence than my money? If that is a noble way of thinking, 
by my soul it is a very silly one too. 

Maj. T. To whom do you say that, Werner? We are 
alone, and therefore I may speak; if a third person heard 
us, it might sound like boasting. I acknowledge with pleas- 
ure, that I have to thank you for twice saving my life. Do 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 327 

you not think, friend, that if an opportunity occurred I 
would have done as much for you, eh? 

Wer. If an opportunity occurred! Who doubts it, 
Major? Have I not seen you risk your life a hundred times 
for the lowest soldier, when he was in danger ? 

Maj. T. Well ! 

Wer. But— 

Maj. T. Why cannot you understand me? I say, it is 
not proper that I should be your debtor; I will not be 
your debtor. That is, not in the circumstances in which 
I now am. 

Wer. Oh ! so you would wait till better times. You will 
borrow money from me another time, when you do not want 
any: when you have some yourself, and I perhaps none. 

Maj. T. A man ought not to borrow, when he has not the 
means of repaying. 

Wer. A man like yourself cannot always be in want. 

Maj. T. You know the world . . . Least of all should 
a man borrow from one who wants his money himself. 

Wer. Oh ! yes ; I am such a one ! Pray, what do I want 
it for? When they want a sergeant, they give him enough 
to live on. 

Maj. T. You want it, to become something more than 
a sergeant — to be able to get forward in that path in which 
even the most deserving, without money, may remain 
behind. 

Wer. To become something more than a sergeant ! I do 
not think of that. I am a good sergeant; I might easily 
make a bad captain, and certainly a worse general. 

Maj. T. Do not force me to think ill of you, Werner! 
I was very sorry to hear what Just has told me. You have 
sold your farm, and wish to rove about again. Do not let 
me suppose that you do not love the profession of arms 
so much as the wild dissolute way of living which is unfor- 
tunately connected with it. A man should be a soldier for 
his own country, or from love of the cause for which he 
fights. To serve without any purpose — to-day here, to-mor- 
row there — is only travelling about like a butcher's appren- 
tice, nothing more. 

Wer. Well, then, Major, I will do as you say. You know 



328 LESSING 

better what is right. I will remain with you. But, dear 
Major, do take my money in the meantime. Sooner or later 
your affairs must be settled. You will get money in plenty 
then ; and then you shall repay me with interest. I only do 
it for the sake of the interest. 

Maj. T. Do not talk of it. 

Wer. Upon my life, I only do it for the sake of the 
interest. Many a time I have thought to myself — " Werner, 
what will become of you in your old age? when you are 
crippled? when you will have nothing in the world? when 
you will be obliged to go and beg ! " And then I thought 
again — " No, you will not be obliged to beg : you will go to 
Major Tellheim; he will share his last penny with you; he 
will feed you till you die ; and with him you can die like 
an honest fellow." 

Maj. T. (taking Werner's hand). And, comrade, you 
do not think so still? 

Wer. No, I do not think so any longer. He who will 
not take anything from me, when he is in want, and I have 
to give, will not give me anything when he has to give, and 
I am in want. So be it. (Is going.) 

Maj. T. Man, do not drive me mad ! Where are you 
going? (Detains him.) If I assure you now, upon my 
honour, that I still have money — If I assure you, upon my 
honour, that I will tell you when I have no more — that you 
shall be the first and only person from whom I will borrow 
anything— will that content you? 

Wer. I suppose it must. Give me your hand on it. Major. 

Maj. T. There, Paul ! And now enough of that. I came 
here to speak with a certain young woman. 



Scene VIII. — Franziska (corning out of Minna's room), Major 
von Tellheim, Paul Werner 

Fran, (entering). Are you there still, Mr. Sergeant? 
(Seeing Tellheim.) And you there too, Major? I will be 
at your service instantly. (Goes back quickly into the 
room.) 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 329 

Scene IX. — Major von Tellheim, Paul Werner 

Ma j. T. That was she ! But it seems you know her, 
Werner. 

Wer. Yes, I know her. 

Ma j. Yet, if I remember rightly, when I was in Thur- 
ingia you were not with me. 

Wer. No ; I was seeing after the uniforms in Leipsic. 

Ma j. T. Where did you make her acquaintance, then? 

Wer. Our acquaintance is very young. Not a day old. 
But young friendship is warm. 

Maj. T. Have you seen her mistress, too? 

Wer. Is her mistress a young lady? She told me you 
are acquainted with her mistress. 

Maj. T. Did not you hear? she comes from Thuringia. 

Wer. Is the lady young? 

Maj. T. Yes. 

Wer. Pretty? 

Maj. T. Very pretty. 

Wer. Rich? 

Maj. T. Very rich. 

Wer. Is the mistress as fond of you as the maid is? 
That would be capital ! 

Maj. T. What do you mean? 

Scene X. — Franziska (with a letter in her hand), Major von 
Tellheim, Paul Werner 

Fran. Major — 

Maj. T. Franziska, I have not yet been able to give you 
a " Welcome " here. 

Fran. In thought, I am sure that you have done it. I 
know you are friendly to me ; so am I to you. But it is 
not at all kind to vex those who are friendly to you so 
much. 

Wer. (aside). Ah! now I see it. It is so! 

Maj. T. My destiny, Franziska ! Did you give her the 
letter? 

Fran. Yes; and here I bring you . . . (holding out a 
letter). 



330 LESSING 

Maj. T. An answer ! 

Fran. No, your own letter again. 

Maj. T. What! She will not read it! 

Fran. She would have liked, but — we can't read writing 
well. 

Maj. T. You are joking! 

Fran. And we think that writing was not invented for 
those who can converse with their lips whenever they 
please. 

Maj. T. What an excuse ! She must read it. It con- 
tains my justification — all the grounds and reasons — 

Fran. My mistress wishes to hear them all from you 
yourself, not to read them. 

Maj. T. Hear them from me myself ! That every look, 
every word of hers, may embarrass me; that I may feel in 
every glance the greatness of my loss. 

Fran. Without any pity! Take it. (Giving him his 
letter.) She expects you at three o'clock. She wishes to 
drive out and see the town ; you must accompany her. 

Maj. T. Accompany her ! 

Fran. And what will you give me to let you drive out 
by yourselves ? I shall remain at home. 

Maj. T. By ourselves ! 

Fran. In a nice close carriage. 

Maj. T. Impossible ! 

Fran. Yes, yes, in the carriage, Major. You will have 
to submit quietly ; you cannot escape there ! And that is 
the reason. In short, you will come, Major, and punctually 
at three. . . . Well, you wanted to speak to me too alone. 
What have you to say to me ? Oh ! we are not alone. 
(Looking at Werner.) 

Maj. T. Yes, Franziska ; as good as alone. But as your 
mistress has not read my letter, I have nothing now to say 
to you. 

Fran. As good as alone ! Then you have no secrets from 
the Sergeant? 

Maj. T. No, none. 

Fran. And yet I think you should have some from him. 

Maj. T. Why so? 

Wer. How so, little woman? 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 331 

Fran. Particularly secrets of a certain kind. . . . All 
twenty, Mr. Sergeant ! (Holding up both her hands, with 
open fingers.) 

Wer. Hist ! hist ! girl. 

Maj. T. What is the meaning of that? 

Fran. Presto ! conjured on to his finger, Mr. Sergeant 
(as if she was putting a ring on her fingers). 

Maj. T. What are you talking about? 

W t er. Little woman, little woman, don't you understand a 
joke? 

Maj. T. Werner, you have not forgotten, I hope, what 
I have often told you; that one should not jest beyond a 
certain point with a young woman ! 

Wer. Upon my life I may have forgotten it ! Little 
woman, I beg — 

Fran. Well, if it was a joke, I will forgive you this once. 

Maj. T. Well, if I must come, Franziska, just see that 
your mistress reads my letter beforehand? That will spare 
me the pain of thinking again — of talking again, of things 
which I would willingly forget. There, give it to her ! 
(He turns the letter in giving it to her, and sees that it has 
been opened.) But do I see aright? Why it has been 
opened. 

Fran. That may be. (Looks at it.) True, it is open. 
W T ho can have opened it? But really we have not read it, 
Major; really not. And we do not wish to read it, because 
the writer is coming himself. Come; and I tell you what, 
Major! don't come as you are now — in boots, and with 
such a head. You are excusable, you do not expect us. 
Come in shoes, and have your hair fresh dressed. You look 
too soldierlike, too Prussian for me as you are. 

Maj. T. Thank you, Franziska. 

Fran. You look as if you had been bivouacking last 
night. 

Maj. T. You may have guessed right. 

Fran. We are going to dress, directly too, and then have 
dinner. We would willingly ask you to dinner, but your 
presence might hinder our eating; and observe, we are not 
so much in love that we have lost our appetites. 

Maj. T. I will go. Prepare her somewhat, Franziska, 



332 LESSING 

beforehand, that I may not become contemptible in her eyes, 
and in my own. Come, Werner, you shall dine with me. 

Wer. At the table d'hote here in the house? I could not 
eat a bit there. 

Maj. T. With me, in my room. 

Wer. I will follow you directly. One word first with the 
little woman. 

Maj. T. I have no objection to that. (Exit.) 

Scene XI. — Paul Werner, Franziska 

Fran. Well, Mr. Sergeant ! 

Wer. Little woman, if I come again, shall I too come 
smartened up a bit? 

Fran. Come as you please : my eyes will find no fault 
with you. But my ears will have to be so much the more 
on their guard. Twenty fingers, all full of rings. Ah ! 
ah ! Mr. Sergeant ! 

Wer. No, little woman; that is just what I wished to 
say to you. I only rattled on a little. There is nothing in 
it. One ring is quite enough for a man. Hundreds and 
hundreds of times I have heard the Major say — " He must 
be a rascally soldier, who can mislead a young girl." So 
think I too, little woman. You may trust to that ! I must 
be quick and follow him. A good appetite to you. (Exit.) 

Fran. The same to you ! I really believe, I like that 
man! (Going in, she meets Minna coming out.) 

Scene XII. — Minna, Franziska 

Min. Has the Major gone already, Franziska? I believe 
I should have been sufficiently composed again now to have 
detained him here. 

Fran. And I will make you still more composed. 

Min. So much the better ! His letter ! oh ! his letter ! 
Each line spoke the honourable noble man. Each refusal 
to accept my hand declared his love for me. I suppose 
he noticed that we had read his letter. I don't mind that, 
if he does but come. But are you sure he will come? 
There only seems to me to be a little too much pride in his 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 333 

conduct. For not to be willing to be indebted for his good 
fortune, even to the woman he loves, is pride, unpardonable 
pride ! If he shows me too much of this, Franziska — 

Fran. You will discard him ! 

Min. See there ! Do you begin to pity him again already ! 
No, silly girl, a man is never discarded for a single fault. 
No; but I have thought of a trick — to pay him off a little 
for this pride, with pride of the same kind. 

Fran. Indeed, you must be very composed, my lady, if 
you are thinking of tricks again. 

Min. I am so; come. You will have a part to play in 
my plot. (Exeunt.) 

ACT IV 

Scene I. — Minna's Room. Minna (dressed handsomely and richly, 
but in good taste), Franziska 

(They have just risen from, a table, which a servant is 
clearing.) 

Fran. You cannot possibly have eaten enough, my lady. 

Min. Don't you think so, Franziska? Perhaps I had 
no appetite when I sat down. 

Fran. We had agreed not to mention him during dinner. 
We should have resolved likewise, not to think of him. 

Min. Indeed, I have thought of nothing but him. 

Fran. So I perceived. I began to speak of a hundred 
different things, and you made wrong answers to each. 
(Another servant brings coffee.) Here comes a beverage 
more suited to fancies — sweet, melancholy coffee. 

Min. Fancies ! I have none. I am only thinking of the 
lesson I will give him. Did you understand my plan, 
Franziska ? 

Fran. Oh ! yes ; but it would be better if he spared us 
the putting it in execution. 

Min. You will see that I know him thoroughly. He who 
refuses me now with all my wealth, will contend for me 
against the whole world, as soon as he hears that I am 
unfortunate and friendless. 

Fran, (seriously). That must tickle the most refined 
self-love. 



334 LESSING 

Min. You moralist ! First you convict me of vanity — 
now of self-love. Let me do as I please, Franziska. You, 
too, shall do as you please with your Sergeant. 

Fran. With my Sergeant? 

Min. Yes. If you deny it altogether, then it is true. I 
have not seen him yet; but from all you have said respect- 
ing him, I foretell your husband for you. 

Scene II. — Riccaut de la Marliniere, Minna, 
Franziska 

Ric. (before he enters). Est-il permis, Monsieur le 
Major? 

Fran. Who is that? Any one for us? (going to the 
door). 

Ric. Parbleu ! I am wrong. M ais non — I am not wrong. 
C'est la chambre — 

Fran. Without doubt, my lady, this gentleman expects 
to find Major von Tellheim here still. 

Ric. Oui, dat is it! Le Major de Tellheim; juste, ma 
belle enfant, c'est lui que je cherche. Ou est-il? 

Fran. He does not lodge here any longer. 

Ric. Comment? Dere is four-and-twenty hour ago he 
did lodge here, and not lodge here any more ? Where lodge 
he den? 

Min. (going up to him). Sir — 

Ric. Ah ! Madame, Mademoiselle, pardon, lady. 

Min. Sir, your mistake is quite excusable, and your aston- 
ishment very natural. Major von Tellheim has had the 
kindness to give up his apartments to me, as a stranger, 
who was not able to get them elsewhere. 

Ric. Ah ! voila de ses politesses ! C'est un tres-galant 
homme que ce Major! 

Min. Where has he gone now? — truly I am ashamed 
that I do not know. 

Ric. Madame not know? C'est dommage; j'en suis 
fache. 

Min. I certainly ought to have inquired. Of course his 
friends will seek him here. 

Ric. I am vary great his friend, Madame. 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 335 

Min. Franziska, do you not know? 

Fran. No, my lady. 

Ric. It is vary necessaire dat I speak him. I come and 
bring him a nouvelle, of which he will be vary much at ease. 

Mix. I regret it so much the more. But I hope to see 
him perhaps shortly. If it is a matter of indifference from 
whom he hears this good news, I would offer, sir — 

Ric. I comprehend. Mademoiselle parle franqais? Mais 
sans doute; telle que je la vois ! La demande etait bien 
impolie ; vous me pardonnerez, Mademoiselle. 

Min. Sir — 

Ric. No ! You not speak French, Madame ? 

Min. Sir, in France I would endeavour to do so ; but why 
here ? I perceive that you understand me, sir ; and I, sir, 
shall doubtless understand you ; speak as you please. 

Ric. Good, good ! I can also explain me in your langue. 
Sachez done, Mademoiselle, you must know, Madame, dat 
I come from de table of de ministre, ministre de, ministre 
de . . . What is le ministre out dere, in de long street, on 
de broad place? 

Min. I am a perfect stranger here. 

Ric. Si, le ministre of de war departement. Dere I have 
eat my dinner; I ordinary dine dere, and de conversation 
did fall on Major Tellheim; et le ministre m'a dit en con- 
fidence, car Son Excellence est de mes amis, et il n'y a 
point de mysteres entre nous; Son Excellence, I say, has 
trust to me, dat l'affaire from our Major is on de point to 
end, and to end good. He has made a rapport to de king, 
and de king has resolved et tout a fait en faveur du Major. 
" Monsieur," m'a dit Son Excellence, " vous comprenez bien, 
que tout depend de la maniere, dont on fait envisager les 
choses au roi, et vous me connaissez. Cela fait un tres-joli 
garcon que ce Tellheim, et ne sais-je pas que vous l'aimez? 
Les amis de mes amis sont aussi les miens. II coute un peu 
cher au Roi ce Tellheim, mais est-ce que Ton sert les rois 
pour rien ? II f aut s'entr'aider en ce monde ; et quand il s'agit 
de pertes, que ce soit le Roi qui en fasse, et non pas un 
honnete homme de nous autres. Voila le principe, dont je 
ne me depars jamais." But what say Madame to it? N'est 
pas, dat is a fine fellow ! Ah ! que Son Excellence a le coeur 



336 LESSING 

bien place ! He assure me au reste, if de Major has not 
recu already une lettre de la main — a royal letter, dat to-day 
infailliblement must he receive one. 

Min. Certainly, sir, this news will be most welcome to 
Major von Tellheim. I should like to be able to name the 
friend to him, who takes such an interest in his welfare. 

Ric. Madame, you wish my name ? Vous voyez en moi 
— you see, lady, in me, le Chevalier Riccaut de la Marliniere, 
Seigneur de Pret-au-val, de la branche de Prens d'or. You 
remain astonished to hear me from so great, great a family, 
qui est veritablement du sang royal. II faut le dire; je suis 
sans doute le cadet le plus aventureux que la maison n'a 
jamais eu. I serve from my eleven year. Une affaire 
d'honneur make me flee. Den I serve de holy Papa of Rome, 
den de Republic St. Marino, den de Poles, den de States 
General, till enfin I am brought here. Ah ! Mademoiselle, 
que je voudrais n'a voir jamais vu ce pays-ci. Had one Ief1 
me in de service of de States General, should I be now ai 
least colonel. But here always to remain capitaine, and now 
also a discharged capitaine. 

Min. That is ill luck. 

Ric. Oui, Mademoiselle, me voila reforme, et par la mis 
sur le pave ! 

Min. I am very sorry for you. 

Ric. Vous etes bien bonne, Mademoiselle. . . . No, merit 
have no reward here. Reformer a man, like me ! A man 
who also have ruin himself in dis service ! I have lost in 
it so much as twenty thousand livres. What have I now? 
Tranchons le mot; je n'ai pas le sou, et me voila exactement 
vis-a-vis de rien. 

Min. I am exceedingly sorry. 

Ric. Vous etes bien bonne, Mademoiselle. But as one 
say — misfortune never come alone ! qu'un malheur ne vient 
jamais seul : so it arrive with me. What ressource rests for 
an honnete homme of my extraction, but play? Now, I al- 
ways played with luck, so long I not need her. Now I very 
much need her, je joue avec un guignon, Mademoiselle, qui 
surpasse toute croyance. For fifteen days, not one is passed, 
dat I always am broke. Yesterday, I was broke dree times. 
Je sais bien, qu'il y avait quelque chose de plus que le jeu. 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 337 

Car parmi mes pontes se trouvaient certaines dames. I will 
not speak more. One must be very galant to les dames. 
Dey have invite me again to-day, to give me revanche ; mais 
— vous m'entendez, Mademoiselle, — one must first have to 
live, before one can have to play. 

Min. I hope, sir — 

Ric. Vous etes bien bonne, Mademoiselle. 

Min. (Takes Franziska aside.) Franziska, I really feel 
for the man. Would he take it ill, if I offer him some- 
thing ? 

Fran. He does not look to me like a man who would. 

Min. Very well ! Sir, I perceive that — you play, that you 
keep the bank; doubtless in places where something is 
to be won. I must also confess that I . . . am very fond 
of play. 

Ric. Tant mieux, Mademoiselle, tant mieux ! Tous les 
gens d'esprit aiment le jeu a la fureur. 

Min. That I am very fond of winning; that I like to 
trust my money to a man, who — knows how to play. Are 
you inclined, sir, to let me join you? To let me have a 
share in your bank? 

Ric. Comment, Mademoiselle, vous voulez etre de moitie 
avec moi? De tout mon coeur. 

Min. At first, only with a trifle. (Opens her desk and 
takes out some money.) 

Ric. Ah ! Mademoiselle, que vous etes charmante ! 

Min. Here is what I won a short time back; only ten 
pistoles. I am ashamed, so little — 

Ric. Donnez toujours, Mademoiselle, donnez. (Takes it.) 

Min. Without doubt, your bank, sir, is very considerable.. 

Ric. Oh ! yes, vary considerable. Ten pistoles ! You 
shall have, Madame, an interest in my bank for one third, 
pour le tiers. Yes, one third part it shall be — something 
more. With a beautiful lady one must not be too exac. 
I rejoice myself, to make by that a liaison with Madame, 
et de ce moment je recommence a bien augurer de ma 
fortune. 

Min. But I cannot be present, sir, when you play. 

Ric. For why it necessaire dat you be present? We other 
players are honourable people between us. 



338 LESSING 

Min. If we are fortunate, sir, you will of course bring 
me my share. If we are unfortunate — 

Ric. I come to bring recruits, n'est pas, Madame? 

Min. In time recruits might fail. Manage our money 
well, sir. 

Ric. What does Madame think me? A simpleton, a 
stupid devil? 

Min. I beg your pardon. 

Ric. Je suis des bons, Mademoiselle. Savez vous ce que 
cela veut dire? I am of the quite practised — 

Min. But still, sir, — 

Ric. Je sais monter un coup — 

Min. (amazed). Could you? 

Ric. Je file la carte avec une adresse. 

Min. Never ! 

Ric. Je fais sauter la coupe avec une dexterite. 

Min. You surely would not, sir !— 

Ric. What not, Madame; what not? Donnez moi un 
pigeonneau a plumer, et — 

Min. Play false! Cheat! 

Ric. Comment, Mademoiselle? Vous appelez cela 
cheat? Corriger la fortune, l'enchainer sous ses doigts, 
etre sur de son fait, dat you call cheat? Cheat! Oh! 
what a poor tongue is your tongue ! what an awkward 
tongue ! 

Min. No, sir, if you think so — 

Ric. Laissez-moi faire, Mademoiselle, and be tranquille ! 
What matter to you how I play ! Enough ! to-morrow, 
Madame,- you see me again or with hundred pistol, or you 
see no more. Votre tres-humble, Mademoiselle, votre tres- 
humble. (Exit quickly.) 

Min. (looking after him with astonishment and displeas- 
ure). I hope the latter, sir. 

Scene III. — Minna and Franziska 

Fran, (angrily). What can I say? Oh! how grand! 
how grand ! 

Min. Laugh at me; I deserve it. (After reflecting, more 
calmly.) No, do not laugh; I do not deserve it. 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 339 

Fran. Excellent ! You have done a charming act — set 
a knave upon his legs again. 

Min. It was intended for an unfortunate man. 

Fran. And what is the best part of it, the fellow con- 
siders you like himself. Oh ! I must follow him, and take 
the money from him. {Going.) 

Min. Franziska, do not let the coffee get quite cold; 
pour it out. 

Fran. He must return it to you; you have thought better 
of it; you will not play in partnership with him. Ten pis- 
toles ! You heard, my lady, that he was a beggar ! (Minna 
pours out the coffee herself.) Who would give such a sum 
to a beggar? And to endeavour, into the bargain, to save 
him the humiliation of having begged for it ! The charitable 
woman who, out of generosity, mistakes the beggar, is in 
return mistaken by the beggar. It serves you right, my 
lady, if he considers your gift as — I know not what. 
(Minna hands a cup of coffee to Franziska.) Do you 
wish to make my blood boil still more? I do not want any. 
(Minna puts it down again.) " Parbleu, Madame, merit 
have no reward here" (imitating the Frenchman). I think 
not, when such rogues are allowed to walk about unhanged. 

Min. (coldly and slowly., while sipping her coffee). Girl, 
you understand good men very well; but when will you 
learn to bear with the bad? And yet they are also men; 
and frequently not so bad as they seem. One should look 
for their good side. I fancy this Frenchman is nothing 
worse than vain. Through mere vanity he gives himself 
out as a false player; he does not wish to appear under an 
obligation to one; he wishes to save himself the thanks. 
Perhaps he may now go, pay his small debts, live quietly 
and frugally on the rest as far as it will go, and think no 
more of play. If that be so, Franziska, let him come for 
recruits whenever he pleases. (Gives he'r cup to Fran- 
ziska.) There, put it down! But, tell me, should not Tell- 
heim be here by this time? 

Fran. No, my lady, I can neither find out the bad side 
in a good man, nor the good side in a bad man. 

Min. Surely he will come ! 

Fran. He ought to remain away ! You remark in him 



340 LESSING 

— in him, the best of men — a little pride; and therefore you 
intend to tease him so cruelly ! 

Min. Are you at it again? Be silent! I will have it 
so. Woe to you if you spoil this fun of mine ... if you 
do not say and do all, as we have agreed. I will leave 
you with him alone ; and then — but here he comes. 



Scene IV. — Paul Werner {comes in, carrying himself very 
erect as if on duty), Minna, Franziska 

Fran. No, it is only his dear Sergeant. 

Min. Dear Sergeant! Whom does the "dear" refer to? 

Fran. Pray, my lady, do not make the man embarrassed. 
Your servant, Mr. Sergeant; what news do you bring us? 

Wer. {goes up to Minna, without noticing Franziska). 
Major von Tellheim begs to present, through me, Sergeant 
Werner, his most respectful compliments to Fraiilein von 
Barnhelm, and to inform her that he will be here directly. 

Min. Where is he then? 

Wer. Your ladyship will pardon him ; we left our quarters 
before it began to strike three ; but the paymaster met us 
on the way; and because conversation with those gentle- 
men has no end, the Major made me a sign to report the 
case to your ladyship. 

Min. Very well, Mr. Sergeant. I only hope the pay- 
master may have good news for him. 

Wer. Such gentlemen seldom have good news for of- 
ficers. — Has your ladyship any orders? (Going.) 

Fran. Why, where are you going again, Mr. Sergeant? 
Had not we something to say to each other? 

Wer. (In a whisper to Franziska, and seriously). Not 
here, little woman ; it is against respect, against discipline. 
. . . Your ladyship — 

Min. Thank you for your trouble. I am glad to have 
made your acquaintance. Franziska has spoken in high 
praise of you to me. (Werner makes a stiff bow, and goes.) 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 34] 

Scene V. — Minna, Franziska 

Min. So that is your Sergeant, Franziska? 

Fran, (aside). I have not time to reproach her for 
that jeering your. (Aloud.) Yes, my lady, that is mv 
Sergeant. You think him, no doubt, somewhat stiff and 
wooden. He also appeared so to me just now; but I ob- 
served, he thought he must march past you as if on parade. 
And when soldiers are on parade, they certainly look 
more like wooden dolls than men. You should see and 
hear him when he is himself. 

Min. So I should indeed ! 

Fran. He must still be in the next room; may I go and 
talk with him a little? 

Min. I refuse you this pleasure unwillingly: but you must 
remain here, Franziska. You must be present at our con- 
versation. Another thing occurs to me. (Takes her ring 
from her finger.) There, take my ring; keep it for me, 
and give me the Major's in the place of it. 

Fran. Why so ? 

Min. (whilst Franziska is fetching the ring). I scarcely 
know, myself; but I fancy I see, beforehand, how I may 
make use of it. Some one is knocking. Give it to me, 
quickly. (Puts the ring on.) It is he. 

Scene VI. — Major von Tellheim (in the same coat, but otherwise 
as Franziska advised), Minna, Franziska 

Maj. T. Madam, you will excuse the delay. 

Min. Oh! Major, we will not treat each other in quite 
such a military fashion. You are here now ; and to await 
a pleasure, is itself a pleasure. Well (looking at him and 
smiling) dear Tellheim, have we not been like children? 

Maj. T. Yes, Madam ; like children, who resist when 
they ought to obey quietly. 

Min. We will drive out, dear Major, to see a little of 
the town, and afterwards to meet my uncle. 

Maj. T. What! 

Min. You see, we have not yet had an opportunity of 
mentioning the most important matters even. He is coming 



342 LESSING 

here to-day. It was accident that brought me here with- 
out him, a day sooner. 

Ma j. T. Count von Bruchsal! Has he returned? 

Min. The troubles of the war drove him into Italy: 
peace has brought him back again. Do not be uneasy, 
Tellheim; if we formerly feared on his part the greatest 
obstacle to our union — 

Maj. T. To our union ! 

Min. He is now your friend. He has heard too much 
good of you from too many people, not to become so. He 
longs to become personally acquainted with the man whom 
his heiress has chosen. He comes as uncle, as guardian, as 
father, to give me to you. 

Maj. T. Ah ! dear lady, why did you not read my letter ? 
Why would you not read it? 

Min. Your letter ! Oh ! yes, I remember you sent me 
one. What did you do with that letter, Franziska? Did 
we, or did we not read it? What was it you wrote to me, 
dear Tellheim? 

Maj. T. Nothing but what honour commands me. 

Min. That is, not to desert an honourable woman who 
loves you. Certainly that is what honour commands. In- 
deed, I ought to have read your letter. But what I have 
not read, I shall hear, shall not I? 

Maj. T. Yes, you shall hear it. 

Min. No, I need not even hear it. It speaks for itself. 
As if you could be guilty of such an unworthy act, as not 
to take me ! Do you know that I should be pointed at for 
the rest of my life? My countrywomen would talk about 
me, and say, " That is she, that is the Fraulein von Barn- 
helm, who fancied that because she was rich she could 
marry the noble Tellheim ; as if such men were to be caught 
with money." That is what they would say, for they 
are all envious of me. That I am rich, they cannot deny; 
but they do not wish to acknowledge that I am also a 
tolerably good girl, who would prove herself worthy of 
her husband. Is that not so, Tellheim ? 

Maj. T. Yes, yes, Madam, that is like your country- 
women. They will envy you exceedingly a discharged 
officer, with sullied honour, a cripple, and a beggar. 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 343 

Min. And are you all that? If I mistake not, you told 
me something of the kind this forenoon. Therein is good 
and evil mixed. Let us examine each charge more closely. 
You are discharged? So you say. I thought your regiment 
was only drafted into another. How did it happen that a 
man of your merit was not retained? 

Maj. T. It has happened, as it must happen. The great 
ones are convinced that a soldier does very little through 
regard for them, not much more from a sense of duty, but 
everything for his own advantage. What then can they 
think they owe him? Peace has made a great many, like 
myself, superfluous to them ; and at last we shall all be 
superfluous. 

Min. You talk as a man must talk, to whom in return 
the great are quite superfluous. And never were they more 
so than now. I return my best thanks to the great ones 
that they have given up their claims to a man whom I 
would very unwillingly have shared with them. I am your 
sovereign, Tellheim ; you want no other master. To find 
you discharged, is a piece of good fortune I dared scarcely 
dream of! But you are not only discharged; you are more. 
And what are you more? A cripple, you say ! Well ! {look- 
ing at him from head to foot), the cripple is tolerably whole 
and upright — appears still to be pretty well, and strong. 
Dear Tellheim, if you expect to go begging on the strength 
of your limbs, I prophesy that you will be relieved at very 
few doors ; except at the door of a good-natured girl 
like myself. 

Maj. T. I only hear the joking girl now, dear 
Minna. 

Min. And I only hear the "dear Minna" in your chiding. 
I will not joke any longer; for I recollect that after all you 
are something of a cripple. You are wounded by a shot 
in the right arm ; but, all things considered, I do not find 
much fault with that. I am so much the more secure from 
your blows. 

Maj. T. Madam! 

Min. You would say, " You are so much the less secure 
from mine." Well, well, dear Tellheim, I hope you will 
not drive me to that. 



344 LESSTNG 

Maj. T. You laugh, Madam. I only lament that I can- 
not laugh with you. 

Min. Why not? What have you to say against laughing? 
Cannot one be very serious even whilst laughing? Dear 
Major, laughter keeps us more rational than vexation. 
The proof is before us. Your laughing friend judges of 
your circumstances more correctly than you do yourself. 
Because you are discharged, you say your honour is sullied; 
because you are wounded in the arm, you call yourself 
a cripple. Is that right? Is that no exaggeration? And 
is it my doing that all exaggerations are so open to ridi- 
cule? I dare say, if I examine your beggary that it will 
also be as little able to stand the test. You may have lost 
your equipage once, twice, or thrice ; your deposits in the 
hands of this or that banker may have disappeared to- 
gether with those of other people ; you may have no hope 
of seeing this or that money again which you may have 
advanced in the service; but are you a beggar on that 
account? If nothing else remained to you but what my 
uncle is bringing for you — 

Maj. T. Your uncle, Madam, will bring nothing for me. 

Min. Nothing but the two thousand pistoles which you so 
generously advanced to our government. 

Maj. T. If you had but read my letter, Madam ! 

Min. Well, I did read it. But what I read in it, on 
this point, is a perfect riddle. It is impossible that any 
one should wish to turn a noble action into a crime. But 
explain to me, dear Major. 

Maj. T. You remember, Madam, that I had orders to 
collect the contribution for the war most strictly in cash 
in all the districts in your neighbourhood. I wished to forego 
this severity, and advanced the money that was deficient 
myself. 

Min. I remember it well. I loved you for that deed 
before I had seen you. 

Maj. T. The government gave me their bill, and I 
wished, at the signing of the peace, to have the sum en- 
tered amongst the debts to be repaid by them. The bill 
was acknowledged as good, but my ownership of the same 
was disputed. People looked incredulous, when I declared 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 345 

that I had myself advanced the amount in cash. It was 
considered as bribery, as a douceur from the government, 
because I at once agreed to take the smallest sum with 
which I could have been satisfied in a case of the greatest 
exigency. Thus the bill went from my possession, and 
if it be paid, will certainly not be paid to me. Hence, 
Madam, I consider my honour to be suspected! not on ac- 
count of my discharge, which, if I had not received, I 
should have applied for. You look serious, Madam ! Why 
do you not laugh ? Ha ! ha ! ha ! I am laughing. 

Min. Oh ! stifle that laugh,Tellheim, I implore you ! It 
is the terrible laugh of misanthropy. No, you are not the 
man to repent of a good deed, because it may have had 
a bad result for yourself. Nor can these consequences pos- 
sibly be of long duration. The truth must come to light. 
The testimony of my uncle, of our government — 

Maj. T. Of your uncle! Of your government! Ha! 
ha ! ha ! 

Min. That laugh will kill me, Tellheim. If you be- 
lieve in virtue and Providence, Tellheim, do not laugh so ! 
I never heard a curse more terrible than that laugh ! But, 
viewing the matter in the worst light, if they are determined 
to mistake your character here, with us you will not be 
misunderstood. No, we cannot, we will not, misunderstand 
you, Tellheim. And if our government has the least senti- 
ment of honour, I know what it must do. But I am foolish ; 
what would that matter? Imagine, Tellheim, that you have 
lost the two thousand pistoles on some gay evening. The 
king was an unfortunate card for you: the queen (pointing 
to herself) will be so much the more favourable. Provi- 
dence, believe me, always indemnifies a man of honour — 
often even beforehand. The action which was to cost 
you two thousand pistoles, gained you me. Without that 
action, I never should have been desirous of making your 
acquaintance. You know I went uninvited to the first party 
where I thought I should meet you. I went entirely on 
your account. I went with a fixed determination to love 
you — I loved you already ! with the fixed determination 
to make you mine, if I should find you as dark and ugly 
as the Moor of Venice. So dark and ugly you are not; 



346 LESSING 

nor will you be so jealous. But, Tellheim, Tellheim, you 
are yet very like him ! Oh ! the unmanageable, stubborn 
man, who always keeps his eye fixed upon the phantom of 
honour, and becomes hardened against every other senti- 
ment ! Your eyes this way ! Upon me, me, Tellheim ! 
{He remains thoughtful and immovable, with his eyes fixed 
on one spot.) Of what are you thinking? Do you not hear 
me? 

Ma j. T. {absent). Oh, yes; but tell me, how came the 
Moor into the service of Venice? Had the Moor no 
country of his own? Why did he hire his arm and his 
blood to a foreign land? 

Min. {alarmed). Of what are you thinking, Tellheim? 
It is time to break off. Come! {taking him by the hand). 
Franziska, let the carriage be brought round. 

Ma j. T. {disengaging his hand, and -following Fran- 
ziska). No, Franziska; I cannot have the honour of ac- 
companying your mistress. Madam, let me still retain my 
senses unimpaired for to-day, and give me leave to go. You 
are on the right way to deprive me of them. I resist it as 
much as I can. But hear, whilst I am still myself, what I 
have firmly determined, and from which nothing in the 
world shall turn me. If I have not better luck in the game 
of life; if a complete change in my fortune does not take 
place; if — 

Min. I must interrupt you, Major. We ought to have 
told him that at first, Franziska. — You remind me of noth- 
ing. — Our conversation would have taken quite a different 
turn, Tellheim, if I had commenced with the good news 
which the Chevalier de la Marliniere brought just now. 

Maj. T. The Chevalier de la Marliniere ! Who is he ? 

Fran. He may be a very honest man, Major von Tell- 
heim, except that — 

Min. Silence, Franziska ! Also a discharged officer from 
the Dutch service, who — 

Maj. T. Ah ! Lieutenant Riccaut ! 

Min. He assured us he was a friend of yours. 

Maj. T. I assure you that I am not his. 

Min. And that some minister or other had told him, 
in confidence, that your business was likely to have the 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 347 

very best termination. A letter from the king must now 
be on its way to you. 

Maj. T. HoW came Riccaut and a minister in com- 
pany? Something certainly must have happened concern- 
ing my affair; for just now the paymaster of the forces 
told me that the king had set aside all the evidence offered 
against me, and that I might take back my promise, which 
I had given in writing, not to depart from here until ac- 
quitted. But that will be all. They wish to give me an 
opportunity of getting away. But they are wrong, I shall 
not go. Sooner shall the utmost distress waste me away 
before the eyes of my calumniators, than — 

Min. Obstinate man! 

Maj. T. I require no favourj I want justice. My 
honour — 

Min. The honour of such a man — 

Maj. T. {warmly). No, Madam, you may be able to 
judge of any other subject, but not of this. Honour is 
not the voice of conscience, not the evidence of a few 
honourable men — 

Min. No, no, I know it well. Honour is . . . honour. 

Maj. T. In short, Madam .... You did not let me 
finish. — I was going to say, if they keep from me so shame- 
fully what is my own; if my honour be not perfectly righted 
— I cannot, Madam, ever be yours, for I am not worthy, 
in the eyes of the world, of being yours. Minna von Barn- 
helm deserves an irreproachable husband. It is a worth- 
less love which does not scruple to expose its object to 
scorn. He is a worthless man, who is not ashamed to 
owe a woman all his good fortune; whose blind tender- 
ness — 

Min. And is that really your feeling, Major? {turning 
her back suddenly). Franziska ! 

Maj. T. Do not be angry. 

Min. {aside to Franziska). Now is the time! What 
do you advise me, Franziska ? 

Fran. I advise nothing. But certainly he goes rather 
too far. 

Maj. T. {approaching to interrupt them). You are 
angry, Madam. 



348 LESSING 

Min. (ironically). I? Not in the least, 

Maj. T. If I loved you less — 

Min. (still in the same tone). Oh! certainly, it would 
be a misfortune for me. And hear, Major, I also will not 
be the cause of your unhappiness. One should love with 
perfect disinterestedness. It is as well that I have not 
been more open ! Perhaps your pity might have granted to 
me what your love refuses. (Drawing the ring slowly from 
her finger.) 

Maj. T. What does this mean, Madam? 

Min. No, neither of us must make the other either 
more or less happy. True love demands it. I believe you, 
Major; and you have too much honour to mistake love. 

Maj. T. Are you jesting, Madam? 

Min. Here ! take back the ring with which you plighted 
your troth to me. (Gives him the ring.) Let it be so! 
We will suppose we have never met. 

Maj. T. What do I hear? 

Min. Does it surprise you? Take it, sir. You surely 
have not been pretending only ! 

Maj. T. (takes the ring from her). Heavens! can Min- 
na speak thus? 

Min. In one case you cannot be mine ; in no case can 
I be yours. Your misfortune is probable; mine is certain. 
Farewell ! (Is going.) 

Maj. T. Where are you going, dearest Minna? 

Min. Sir, you insult me now by that term of endearment. 

Maj. T. What is the matter, Madam? Where are you 
going? 

Min. Leave me. I go to hide my tears from you, de- 
ceiver! (Exit.) 

Scene VII. — Major von Tellheim, Franziska 

Maj. T. Her tears? And I am to leave her. (Is about 
to follow her.) 

Fran, (holding him back). Surely not, Major. You 
would not follow her into her own room ! 

Maj. T. Her misfortune? Did she not speak of mis- 
fortune? 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 349 

Fran. Yes, truly; the misfortune of losing you, after — 

Maj. T. After? After what? There is more in this. 
What is it, Franziska? Tell me! Speak! 

Fran. After, I mean, she has made such sacrifices on your 
account. 

Maj. T. Sacrifices for me ! 

Fran. Well, listen. It is a good thing for you, Major, 
that you are freed from your engagement with her in this 
manner. — Why should I not tell you? It cannot remain a 
secret long. We have fled from home. Count von Bruchsal 
has disinherited my mistress, because she would not accept 
a husband of his choice. On that every one deserted and 
slighted her. What could we do? We determined to seek 
him, whom — 

Maj. T. Enough ! Come, and let me throw myself at 
her feet. 

Fran. What are you thinking about ! Rather go, and 
thank your good fortune. 

Maj. T. Pitiful creature! For what do you take me? 
Yet no, my dear Franziska, the advice did not come from 
your heart. Forgive my anger ! 

Fran. Do not detain me any longer. I must see what 
she is about. How easily something might happen to her. 
Go now, and come again, if you like. (Follozcs Minna.) 

Scene VIII. — Major von- Tellheim 

Maj. T. But, Franziska ! Oh ! I will wait your return 
here. — No, that is more torturing! — If she is in earnest, she 
will not refuse to forgive me. — Xow I want your aid, honest 
Werner! — No, Minna, I am no deceiver! (Rushes off.) 

ACT V 

Scene I. — Major von Tellheim (from one side), Werner 
{from the other) 

Maj. T. Ah ! Werner ! I have been looking for you 
everywhere. Where have you been ? 

Wer. And I have been looking for you, Major; that is 
always the way. — I bring you good news. 



350 LESSING 

Maj. T. I do not want your news now; I want your 
money. Quick, Werner, give me all you have; and then 
raise as much more as you can. 

Wer. Major! Now, upon my life, that is just what I 
said — " He will borrow money from me, when he has got 
it himself to lend." 

Maj. T. You surely are not seeking excuses ! 

Wer. That I may have nothing to upbraid you with, 
take it with your right hand, and give it me again with 
your left. 

Maj. T. Do not detain me, Werner. It is my intention 
to repay you ; but when and how, God knows ! 

Wer. Then you do not know yet that the treasury has re- 
ceived an order to pay you your money? I just heard it at — 

Maj. T. What are you talking about? What nonsense 
have you let them palm off on you? Do you not see 
that if it were true I should be the first person to know 
it ? In short, Werner, money ! money ! 

Wer. Very well, with pleasure. Here is some ! A hun- 
dred louis d'ors there, and a hundred ducats there. (Gives 
him both.) 

Maj. T. Werner, go and give Just the hundred louis 
d'ors. Let him redeem the ring again, on which he raised 
the money this morning. But whence will you get some 
more, Werner? I want a good deal more. 

Wer. Leave that to me. The man who bought my farm 
lives in the town. The date for payment is a fortnight 
hence, certainly; but the money is ready, and by a re- 
duction of one half per cent — 

Maj. T. Very well, my dear Werner ! You see that I 
have had recourse to you alone — I must also confide all to 
you. The young lady you have seen is in distress — 

Wer. That is bad ! 

Maj. T. But to-morrow she shall be my wife. 

Wer. That is good ! 

Maj. T. And the day after, I leave this place with her. 
I can go ; I will go. I would sooner throw over every- 
thing here ! Who knows where some good luck may be 
in store for me? If you will, Werner, come with us. We 
will serve again. 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 351 

Wer. Really? But where there is war, Major! 

Maj. T. To be sure. Go, Werner, we will speak of this 
again. 

Wer. Oh! my dear Major? The day after to-morrow! 
Why not to-morrow? I will get everything ready. In 
Persia, Major, there is a famous war; what do you say? 

Maj. T. We will think of it. Only go, Werner! 

Wer. Hurrah ! Long live Prince Heraclius ! (Exit.) 



Scene II. — Major von Tellheim 

Maj. T. How do I feel ! . . . My whole soul has 
acquired a new impulse. My own unhappiness bowed me 
to the ground; made me fretful, short-sighted, shy, careless: 
her unhappiness raises me. I see clearly again, and feel 
myself ready and capable of undertaking anything for her 
sake. Why do I tarry? (Is going towards Minna's room, 
when Franziska comes out of it.) 



Scene III. — Franziska, Major von Tellheim 

Fran. Is it you? I thought I heard your voice. What 
do you want, Major? 

Maj. T. What do I want? What is she doing? Come! 

Fran. She is just going out for a drive. 

Maj. T. And alone? Without me? Where to? 

Fran. Have you forgotten, Major? 

Maj. T. How silly you are, Franziska ! I irritated her, 
and she was angry. I will beg her pardon, and she will 
forgive me. 

Fran. What ! After you have taken the ring back, 
Major ! 

Maj. T. Ah ! I did that in my confusion. I had for- 
gotten about the ring. Where did I put it? (Searches for 
it.) Here it is. 

Fran. Is that it ? (Aside, as he puts it again in his pocket.) 
If he would only look at it closer ! 

Maj. T. She pressed it upon me so bitterly. But I 
have forgotten that. A full heart cannot weigh words. 



352 LESSING 

She will not for one moment refuse to take it again. And 
have I not hers? 

Fran. She is now waiting for it in return. Where is it, 
Major? Show it to me, do! 

Maj. T. (embarrassed). I have . . . forgotten to put 
it on. Just — Just will bring it directly. 

Fran. They are something alike, I suppose ; let me look 
at that one. I am very fond of such things. 

Maj. T. Another time, Franziska. Come now. 

Fran, (aside). He is determined not to be drawn out 
of his mistake. 

Maj. T. What do you say? Mistake! 

Fran. It is a mistake, I say, if you think my mistress is 
still a good match. Her own fortune is far from consider- 
able ; by a few calculations in their own favour her guard- 
ians may reduce it to nothing. She expected everything 
from her uncle; but this cruel uncle — 

Maj. T. Let him go ! Am I not man enough to make it 
all good to her again ! 

Fran. Do you hear? She is ringing; I must go in again. 

Maj. T. I will accompany you. 

Fran. For heaven's sake, no ! She forbade me expressly 
to speak with you. Come in at any rate a little time after 
me. (Goes in.) 

Scene IV. — Major von Tellheim 

Maj. T. (calling after her). Announce me! Speak for 
me, Franziska! I shall follow you directly. What shall I 
say to her? Yet where the heart can speak, no preparation 
is necessary. There is one thing only which may need a 
studied turn . . . this reserve, this scrupulousness of throw- 
ing herself, unfortunate as she is, into my arms ; this 
anxiety to make a false show of still possessing that happi- 
ness which she has lost through me. How she is to excul- 
pate herself to herself — for by me it is already forgiven — 
for this distrust in my honour, in her own worth . . . Ah ! 
here she comes. 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 353 

Scene V. — Minna, Franziska, Major von Teclheim 

Mix. (speaking as she comes out, as if not aware of the 
Major's presence). The carriage is at the door, Franziska, 
is it not ? My fan ! 

Maj. T. (advancing to her). Where are you going, 
Madam ? 

Min. (with forced coldness). I am going out, Major. I 
guess why you have given yourself the trouble of coming 
back : to return me my ring. — Very well, Major von Tell- 
heim, have the goodness to give it to Franziska. — Franziska, 
take the ring from Major von Tellheim ! — I have no time 
to lose. (Is going.) 

Maj. T. (stepping before her). Madam! Ah! what 
have I heard? I was unworthy of such love. 

Min. So, Franziska, you have — 

Fran. Told him all. 

Maj. T. Do not be angry with me, Madam. I am no 
deceiver. You have, on my account, lost much in the eyes 
of the world, but not in mine. In my eyes you have gained 
beyond measure by this loss. It was too sudden. You 
feared it might make an unfavourable impression on me ; 
at first you wished to hide it from me. I do not complain 
of this mistrust. It arose from the desire to retain my 
affection. That desire is my pride. You found me in dis- 
tress; and you did not wish to add distress to distress. 
You could not divine how far your distress would raise 
me above any thoughts of my own. 

Min. That is all very well. Major, but it is now over. 
I have released you from your engagement ; you have, by 
taking back the ring — 

Maj. T. Consented to nothing ! On the contrary, I now 
consider myself bound more firmly than ever. You are 
mine, Minna, mine for ever. (Takes off the ring.) Here, 
take it for the second time — the pledge of my fidelity. 

Min. I take that ring again! That ring? 

Maj. T. Yes, dearest Minna, yes. 

Min. What are you asking me? that ring? 

Maj. T. You received it for the first time from my hand, 
when our positions were similar and the circumstances pro- 

VOL. XXVI — 12 HC 



354 LESSING 

pitious. They are no longer propitious, but are again simi- 
lar. Equality is always the strongest tie of love. Permit 
me, dearest Minna ! (Seizes her hand to put on the ring.) 

Min. What! by force, Major! No, there is no power in 
the world which shall compel me to take back that ring ! 
Do you think that I am in want of a ring ? Oh ! you may 
see (pointing to her ring) that I have another here which 
is in no way inferior to yours. 

Fran, (aside). Well, if he does not see it now! 

Maj. T. (letting fall her hand). What is this? I see 
Fraulein von Barnhelm, but I do not hear her. — You are 
pretending. — Pardon me, that I use your own words. 

Min. (in her natural tone). Did those words offend you, 
Major? 

Maj. T. They grieved me much. 

Min. (affected). They were not meant to do that, Tell- 
heim. Forgive me, Tellheim. 

Maj. T. Ah ! that friendly tone tells me you are yourself 
again, Minna: that you still love me. 

Fran, (exclaims). The joke would soon have gone a 
little too far. 

Min. (in a commanding tone). Franziska, you will not 
interfere in our affairs, I beg. 

Fran, (aside, in a surprised tone). Not enough yet! 

Min. Yes, sir, it would only be womanish vanity in me 
to pretend to be cold and scornful. No ! Never ! You de- 
serve to find me as sincere as yourself. I do love you still, 
Tellheim, I love you still; but notwithstanding — 

Maj. T. No more, dearest Minna, no more ! (Seizes her 
hand again, to put on the ring.) 

Min. (drazving back her hand). Notwithstanding, so 
much the more am I determined that that shall never be, 
— never! — Of what are you thinking, Major? — I thought 
your own distress was sufficient. You must remain here; 
you must obtain by obstinacy — no better phrase occurs to 
me at the moment — the most perfect satisfaction, obtain it 
by obstinacy. . . . And that even though the utmost dis- 
tress should waste you away before the eyes of your ca- 
lumniators — 

Maj. T. So I thought, so I said, when I knew not what 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 355 

I thought or said. Chagrin and stifling rage had enveloped 
my whole soul ; love itself, in the full blaze of happiness, 
could not illumine it. But it has sent its daughter, Pity, 
more familiar with gloomy misfortune, and she has dis- 
pelled the cloud, and opened again all the avenues of my 
soul to sensations of tenderness. The impulse of self-preser- 
vation awakes, when I have something more precious than 
myself to support, and to support through my own exer- 
tions. Do not let the word " pity " offend you. From the 
innocent cause of our distress we may hear the term without 
humiliation. I am this cause ; through me, Minna, have you 
lost friends and relations, fortune and country. Through me, 
in me, must you find them all again, or I shall have the de- 
struction of the most lovely of her sex upon my soul. Let 
me not think of a future in which I must detest myself. — 
No, nothing shall detain me here longer. From this mo- 
ment I will oppose nothing but contempt to the injustice 
which I suffer. Is this country the world? Does the sun 
rise here alone? Where can I not go? In what service 
shall I be refused? And should I be obliged to seek it in 
the most distant clime, only follow me with confidence, dear- 
est Minna — we shall want for nothing. I have a friend who 
will assist me with pleasure. 

Scene VI. — An Orderly, Major von Tellheim, Minna, 
Franziska 

Fran, {seeing the Orderly). Hist, Major! 

Maj. T. (to the Orderly). Who do you want? 

Ord. I am looking for Major von Tellheim. Ah ! you 
are the Major, I see. I have to give you this letter from 
His Majesty the King (taking one out of his bag). 

Maj. T. To me? 

Ord. According to the direction. 

Min. Franziska, do you hear? The Chevalier spoke the 
truth after all. 

Ord. (whilst Tellheim takes the letter). I beg your 
pardon, Major; you should properly have had it yesterday, 
but I could not find you out. I learnt your address this 
morning only from Lieutenant Riccaut, on parade. 



356 LESSING 

Fran. Do you hear, my lady? — That is the Chevalier's 
minister. " What is the name of de ministre out dere, on 
de broad place? " 

Maj. T. I am extremely obliged to you for your trouble. 

Ord. It is my duty, Major. (Exit.) 

Scene VII. — Major von Tellheim, Minna, Franziska 

Maj. T. Ah ! Minna, what is this ? What does this 
contain ? 

Min. I am not entitled to extend my curiosity so far. 

Maj. T. What! You would still separate my fate from 
yours? — But why do I hesitate to open it? It cannot make 
me more unhappy than I am : no, dearest Minna, it cannot 
make us more unhappy — but perhaps more happy ! Permit 
me. (While he opens and reads the letter, the Landlord 
comes stealthily on the" stage.) 

Scene VIII. — Landlord, the rest as before 

Land, (to Franziska). Hist! my pretty maid! A word! 

Fran, (to the Landlord). Mr. Landlord, we do not yet 
know ourselves what is in the letter. 

Land. Who wants to know about the letter ! I come 
about the ring. The lady must give it to me again, directly. 
Just is there, and wants to redeem it. 

Min. (who in the meantime has approached the Land- 
lord). Tell Just that it is already redeemed; and tell him 
by whom — by me. 

Land. But — 

Min. I take it upon myself. Go! (Exit Landlord.) 

Scene IX. — Major von Tellheim, Minna, Franziska 

Fran. And now, my lady, make it up with the poor 
Major. 

Min. Oh ! kind intercessor ! As if the difficulties must 
not soon explain themselves. 

Maj. T. (after reading the letter, with much emotion.) 
Ah ! nor has he herein belied himself ! Oh ! Minna, what 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 357 

justice ! what clemency ! This is more than I expected ; 
more than I deserve ! — My fortune, my honour, all is re- 
established! — Do I dream? {Looking at the letter, as if to 
convince himself.) No, no delusion born of my own 
desires ! Read it yourself, Minna ; read it yourself ! 

Min. I would not presume, Major. 

Ma j. T. Presume! The letter is to me; to your Tell- 
heim, Minna. It contains — what your uncle cannot take 
from you. You must read it ! Do read it. 

Min. If it affords you pleasure, Major. (Takes the letter 
and reads.) 

" My dear Major von Tellheim, 

" I hereby inform you, that the business which 
caused me some anxiety on account of your honour, has 
been cleared up in your favour. My brother had a more 
detailed knowledge of it, and his testimony has more than 
proved your innocence. The Treasury has received orders 
to deliver again to you the bill in question, and to reim- 
burse the sum advanced. I have also ordered that all claims 
which the Paymaster's Office brings forward against your 
accounts be nullified. Please to inform me whether your 
health will allow of your taking active service again. I 
can ill spare a man of your courage and sentiments. I am 
your gracious King," &c. 

Maj. T. Now, what do you say to that, Minna? 

Min. (folding up and returning the letter). I? Nothing. 

Maj. T. Nothing? 

Min. Stay — yes. That your king, who is a great man, 
can also be a good man. — But what is that to me ! He is 
not my king. 

Maj. T. And do you say nothing more? Nothing about 
ourselves? 

Min. You are going to serve again. From Major, you 
will become Lieutenant-Colonel, perhaps Colonel. I con- 
gratulate you with all my heart. 

Maj. T. And you do not know me better? No, since 
fortune restores me sufficient to satisfy the wishes of a 
reasonable man, it shall depend upon my Minna alone, 
whether for the future I shall belong to any one else but 
her. To her service alone my whole life shall be devoted ! 



358 LESSING 

The service of the great is dangerous, and does not repay 
the trouble, the restraint, the humiliation which it costs. 
Minna is not amongst those vain people who love nothing 
in their husbands beyond their titles and positions. She 
will love me for myself; and for her sake I will forget the 
whole world. I became a soldier from party feeling — I do 
not myself know on what political principles — and from 
the whim that it is good for every honourable man to try 
the profession of arms for a time, to make himself familiar 
with danger, and to learn coolness and determination. 
Extreme necessity alone could have compelled me to make 
this trial a fixed mode of life, this temporary occupation a 
profession. But now that nothing compels me, my whole 
and sole ambition is to be a peaceful and a contented man. 
This with you, dearest Minna, I shall infallibly become; 
this in your society I shall unchangeably remain. Let the 
holy bond unite us to-morrow; and then we will look round 
us, and in the whole wide habitable world seek out the most 
peaceful, the brightest, most smiling nook which wants but 
a happy couple to be a Paradise. There we will dwell; 
there shall each day. . . . What is the matter, Minna? 
(Minna turns away uneasily, and endeavours to hide her 
emotion.) 

Min. {regaining her composure'). It is cruel of you, 
Tellheim, to paint such happiness to me, when I am forced 
to renounce it. My loss — 

Maj. T. Your loss! Why name your loss? All that 
Minna could lose is not Minna. You are still the sweetest, 
dearest, loveliest, best creature under the sun ; . all good- 
ness and generosity, innocence and bliss ! Now and then 
a little petulant; at times somewhat wilful — so much the 
better ! So much the better ! Minna would otherwise be 
an angel, whom I should honour with trepidation, but not 
dare to love. {Takes her hand to kiss it.) 

Min. {drawing atuay her hand). Not so, sir. Why this 
sudden change? Is this flattering impetuous lover, the cold 
Tellheim ! — Could his returning good fortune alone create 
this ardour in him? He will permit me during his pas- 
sionate excitement to retain the power of reflection for us 
both. When he could himself reflect, I heard him say — "it 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 359 

is a worthless love which does not scruple to expose its 
object to scorn." — True; and I aspire to as pure and noble 
a love as he himself. Now, when honour calls him, when a 
great monarch solicits his services, shall I consent that he 
shall give himself up to love-sick dreams with me? that 
the illustrious warrior shall degenerate into a toying swain? 
No, Major, follow the call of your higher destiny. 

Ma j. T. Well ! if the busy world has greater charms 
for you, Minna, let us remain in the busy world ! How 
mean, how poor is this busy world ; you now only know its 
gilded surface. Yet certainly, Minna, you will. . . . But 
let it be so ! until then ! Your charms shall not want 
admirers, nor will my happiness lack enviers. 

Min. No, Tellheim, I do not mean that ! I send you 
back into the busy world, on the road of honour, without 
wishing to accompany you. Tellheim will there require an 
irreproachable wife ! A fugitive Saxon girl who has thrown 
herself upon him — 

Ma j. T. (starting up, and looking -fiercely about him). 
Who dare say that ! Ah ! Minna, I feel afraid of myself, 
when I imagine that any one but yourself could have 
spoken so. My anger against him would know no bounds. 

Min. Exactly ! That is just what I fear. You would 
not endure one word of calumny against me, and yet you 
would have to put up with the very bitterest every day. 
In short, Tellheim, hear what I have firmly determined, and 
from which nothing in the world shall turn me — 

Maj. T. Before you proceed, I implore you, Minna, re- 
flect for one moment, that you are about to pronounce a 
sentence of life or death upon me ! 

Min. Without a moment's reflection! ... As certainly 
as I have given you back the ring with which you formerly 
pledged your troth to me, as certainly as you have taken 
back that same ring, so certainly shall the unfortunate 
Minna never be the wife of the fortunate Tellheim ! 

Maj. T. And herewith you pronounce my sentence. 

Min. Equality is the only sure bond of love. The happy 
Minna only wished to live for the happy Tellheim. Even 
Minna in misfortune would have allowed herself to be per- 
suaded either to increase or to assuage the misfortune of 



360 LESSING 

her friend through herself. ... He must have seen, before 
the arrival of that letter, which has again destroyed all 
equality between us, that in appearance only I refused. 

Maj. T. Is that true? I thank you, Minna, that you 
have not yet pronounced the sentence. You will only marry 
Tellheim when unfortunate? You may have him. (Coolly.) 
I perceive now that it would be indecorous in me to accept 
this tardy justice; that it will be better if I do not seek 
again that of which I have been deprived by such shameful 
suspicion. Yes ; I will suppose that I have not received the 
letter. Behold my only answer to it! (About to tear it up.) 

Min. (stopping him). What are you going to do, Tell- 
heim? 

Maj. T. Obtain your hand. 

Min. Stop ! 

Maj. T. Madam, it is torn without fail if you do not 
quickly recall your words. — Then we will see what else 
you may have to object to in me. 

Min. What! In such a tone? Shall I, must I, thus 
become contemptible in my own eyes? Never! She is a 
worthless creature, who is not ashamed to owe her whole 
happiness to the blind tenderness of a man ! 

Maj. T. False! utterly false! 

Min. Can you venture to find fault with your own words 
when coming from my lips ? 

Maj. T. Sophistry ! Does the weaker sex dishonour itself 
by every action which does not become the stronger ? Or can 
a man do everything which is proper in a woman ? Which is 
appointed by nature to be the support of the other? 

Min. Be not alarmed, Tellheim ! . . . I shall not be quite 
unprotected, if I must decline the honour of your protection. 
I shall still have as much as is absolutely necessary. I have 
announced my arrival to our ambassador. I am to see him 
to-day. I hope he will assist me. Time is flying. Permit 
me, Major — 

Maj. T. I will accompany you, Madam. 

Min. No, Major; leave me. 

Maj. T. Sooner shall your shadow desert you ! Come 
Madam, where you will, to whom you will everywhere, to 
friends and strangers, will I repeat in your presence — repeat 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 361 

a hundred times each da}- — what a bond binds you to me, 
and with what cruel caprice you wish to break it — 

Scene X. — Just, the rest as before 

Just, (impetuously). Major! Major! 

Mat. T. Well! 

Just. Here quick ! quick ! 

Mat. T. Why? Come to me. Speak, what is the matter? 

Just. What do you think? (Whispers to him.) 

Min. (aside to Franziska). Do you notice anything, 
Franziska? 

Fran. Oh ! you merciless creature ! I have stood here on 
thorns? 

Mat. T. (to Just). What do you say? . . . That is not 
possible! . . . You? (Looking fiercely at Minna.) Speak 
it out ; tell it to her face. Listen, Madam. 

Just. The Landlord says, that Fraulein von Barnhelm has 
taken the ring which I pledged to him ; she recognised it as 
her own, and would not return it. 

Ma j. T. Is that true, Madam ? No, that cannot be true ! 

Min. (smiling). And why not, Tellheim? Why can it not 
be true? 

Ma j. T. (vehemently) . Then it is true! . . . What terrible 
light suddenly breaks in upon me ! . . . Now I know you — 
false, faithless one ! 

Min. (alarmed). Who, who is faithless? 

Ma j. T. You, whom I will never more name ! 

Min. Tellheim! 

Mat. T. Forget my name . . . You came here with the 
intention of breaking with me ... It is evident ! . . . Oh, 
that chance should thus delight to assist the faithless ! It 
brought your ring into your possession. Your craftiness 
contrived to get my own back into mine ! 

Min. Tellheim, what visions are you conjuring up! Be 
calm, and listen to me. 

Fran, (aside). Now she will catch it! 



362 LESSING 

Scene XI. — Werner (with a purse full of gold), the rest as before 

Wer. Here I am already, Major ! 

Ma j. T. (without looking at him). Who wants you? 

Wer. I have brought more money ! A thousand pistoles ! 

Maj. T. I do not want them ! 

Wer. And to-morrow, Major, you can have as many more. 

Maj. T. Keep your money ! 

Wer. It is your money, Major ... I do not think you 
see whom you are speaking to ! 

Maj. T. Take it away ! I say. 

Wer. What is the matter with you? — I am Werner. 

Maj. T. All goodness is dissimulation ; all kindness deceit 

Wer. Is that meant for me? 

Maj. T. As you please ! 

Wer. Why I have only obeyed your commands. 

Maj. T. Obey once more, and be off ! 

Wer. Major (vexed). I am a man — 

Maj. T. So much the better ! 

Wer. Who can also be angry. 

Maj. T. Anger is the best thing we possess. 

Wer. I beg you, Major. 

Maj. T. How often must I tell you ? I do not want yout 
money ! 

Wer. (in a rage). Then take it, who will! (Throws the 
purse on the ground, and goes to the side). 

Min. (to Franziska). Ah! Franziska, I ought to have 
followed your advice. I have carried the jest too far. — Still, 
when he hears me . . . (going to him). 

Fran, (ivithont answering Minna,, goes up to Werner). 
Mr. Sergeant — 

Wer. (pettishly). Go along! 

Fran. Ah ! what men these are. 

Min. Tellheim ! Tellheim ! (Tellheim, biting his fingers 
with rage, turns away his face, without listening.) No, this 
is too bad . . . Only listen ! . . . You are mistaken ! . . . 
A mere misunderstanding. Tellheim, will you not hear your 
Minna? Can you have such a suspicion? ... I break my 
engagement with you? I came here for that purpose? . . » 
Tellheim ! 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 363 

Scene XII. — Two Servants (running into the room from 
different sides), the rest as before 

First Ser. Your ladyship, his excellency the Count! 

Second Ser. He is coming, your ladyship ! 

Fran, (running to the window). It is! it is he! 

Min. Is it? Now, Tellheim, quick! 

Mat. T. (suddenly recovering himself). Who, who comes? 
Your uncle, Madam ! this cruel uncle ! . . . Let him come ; 
just let him come ! . . . Fear not ! . . . He shall not hurt you 
even by a look. He shall have to deal with me . . . You 
do not indeed deserve it of me. 

Min. Quick, Tellheim ! one embrace and forget all. 

Mat. T. Ah ! did I but know that you could regret — 

Min. No, I can never regret having obtained a sight of 
your whole heart ! . . . Ah ! what a man you are ! . . . Em- 
brace your Minna, your happy Minna : and in nothing more 
happy than in the possession of you. (Embracing.) And 
now to meet him ! 

Mat. T. To meet whom? 

Min. The best of your unknown friends. 

Mat. T. What! 

Min. The Count, my uncle, my father, your father . . . 
My flight, his displeasure, my loss of property — do you not 
see that all is a fiction, credulous knight? 

Mat. T. Fiction ! But the ring ? the ring ? 

Min. Where is the ring that I gave back to you ? 

Mat. T. You will take it again ? Ah ! now I am happy 
. . . Here, Minna (taking it from his pocket). 

Min. Look at it first ! Oh ! how blind are those who will 
not see ! . . . What ring is that ? the one you gave me ? or 
the one I gave to you? Is it not the one which I did not 
like to leave in the landlord's possession? 

Mat. T. Heavens ! what do I see ! What do I hear ! 

Min. Shall I take it again now? Shall I? Give it to 
me! give it! (Takes it from him, and then puts it on his 
finger herself.) There, now all is right! 

Ma j. T. Where am I? (Kissing her hand.) Oh! mali- 
cious angel, to torture me so ! 

Min. As a proof, my dear husband, that you shall never 



364 LESSING 

play me a trick without my playing you one in return. . . . 
Do you suppose that you did not torture me also ? 

Maj. T. Oh you actresses ! But I ought to have known 
you. 

Fran. Not I, indeed; I am spoilt for acting. I trembled 
and shook, and was obliged to hold my lips together with 
my hand. 

Min. Nor was mine an easy part. — But come now — 

Maj. T. I have not recovered myself yet. How happy, 
yet how anxious, I feel. It is like awaking suddenly from 
a frightful dream. 

Min. We are losing time ... I hear him coming now. 

Scene XIII. — Count von Bruchsal (accompanied by several 
servants and the Landlord). The rest as before 

Count, (entering). She arrived in safety, I hope? 

Min. (running to meet him). Ah! my father! 

Count. Here I am, dear Minna (embracing her). But 
what, girl (seeing Tellheim), only four-and-twenty hours 
here, and friends — company already ! 

Min. Guess who it is? 

Count. Not your Tellheim, surely ! 

Min. Who else! — Come, Tellheim (introducing him). 

Count. Sir, we have never met; but at the first glance I 
fancied I recognised you. I wished it might be Major von 
Tellheim. — Your hand, sir; you have my highest esteem; 
I ask for your friendship. My niece, my daughter loves 
you. 

Min. You know that, my father ! — And was my love blind? 

Count. No, Minna, your love was not blind; but your 
lover — is dumb. 

Maj. T. (throwing himself in the Count's arms). Let me 
recover myself, my father ! 

Count. Right, my son. I see your heart can speak, though 
your lips cannot. I do not usually care for those who wear 
this uniform. But you are an honourable man, Tellheim; 
and one must love an honourable man, in whatever garb he 
may be. 

Min. Ah! did you but know all! 



MINNA VON BARNHELM 365 

Count. Why should I not hear all ? — Which are my apart- 
ments, landlord? 

Land. Will your Excellency have the goodness to walk 
this way? 

Count. Come, Minna ! Pray come, Major ! (Exit with 
the Landlord and servants.) 

Min. Come, Tellheim ! 

Mat. T. I will follow you in an instant, Minna. One 
word first with this man (turning to Werner). 

Min. And a good word, methinks, it should be. Should 
it not, Franziska? (Exit.) 

Scene XIV. — Major von Tellheim, Werner, Just, 
Franziska 

Maj. T. (pointing to the purse which Werner had thrown 
down). Here, Just, pick up the purse, and carry it home. 
Go! (Just takes it up and goes.) 

Wer. (still standing, out of humour, in a comer, and ab- 
sent till he hears the last words). Well, what now? 

Maj. T. (in a friendly tone while going up to him). Wer- 
ner, when can I have the other two thousand pistoles ? 

Wer. (in a good humour again instantly). To-morrow, 
Major, to-morrow. 

Maj. T. I do not need to become your debtor ; but I will 
be your banker. All you good-natured people ought to have 
guardians. You are in a manner spendthrifts. — I irritated 
you just now, Werner. 

Wer. Upon my life you did ! But I ought not to have been 
such a dolt. Now I see it all clearly. I deserve a hundred 
lashes. You may give them to me, if you will, Major. Only 
no more ill will, dear Major ! 

Maj. T. Ill will ! (shaking him by the hand) . Read in my 
eyes all that I cannot say to you — Ah ! let me see the man 
with a better wife and a more trusty friend than I shall have. 
— Eh ! Franziska ? (Exit.) 



366 MINNA VON BARNHELM 

Scene XV. — Werner, Franziska 

Fran, (aside). Yes, indeed, he is more than good! — Such 
a man will never fall in my way again. — It must come out. 
(Approaching Werner bashfully.) Mr. Sergeant! 

Wer. (wiping his eyes). Well! 

Fran. Mr. Sergeant — 

Wer. What do you want, little woman? 

Fran. Look at me, Mr. Sergeant. 

Wer. I can't yet; there is something, I don't know what, 
in my eyes. 

Fran. Now do look at me ! 

Wer. I am afraid I have looked at you too much already, 
little woman ! — There, now I can see you. What then ? 

Fran. Mr. Sergeant — don't you want a Mrs. Sergeant ? 

Wer. Do you really mean it, little woman ? 

Fran. Really I do. 

Wer. And would you go with me to Persia even? 

Fran. Wherever you please. 

Wer. You will ! Hullo, Major, no boasting ! At any rate 
I have got as good a wife, and as trusty a friend, as you. — 
Give me your hand, my little woman ! It's a match ! — In ten 
years' time you shall be a general's wife, or a widow ! 



WILHELM TELL 

BY 
JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH VON SCHILLER 

TRANSLATED BY 

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



INTRODUCTORY NOTE 

Johann Christoph Friedrich von Schiller was bom at Mar- 
bach, Wiirtemberg, Germany, November 10, 1759. His father 
had served both as surgeon and soldier in the War of the Aus- 
trian Succession, and at the tune of the poet's birth held an 
appointment under the Duke of Wiirtemberg. Friedrich's edu- 
cation was begun with a view to holy orders, but this idea was 
given up when he was placed in a military academy established 
by the Duke. He tried the study of law and then of medicine, but 
his tastes were literary; and, while holding a position as regi- 
mental surgeon, he wrote his revolutionary drama, "The Robbers," 
which brought down on him the displeasure of his ducal master. 
Finding the interference with his personal liberty intolerable, he 
finally fled from the Duchy, and in various retreats went on with 
his dramatic work. Later he turned to philosophy and history 
and through his book on "The Revolt of the Netherlands" he was 
appointed professor extraordinarius at Jena, in 1789. His "His- 
tory of the Thirty Years' War'" appeared in 1790-93, and in 1794 
began his intimate relation with Goethe, beside whom he lived in 
Weimar from 1799 till his death in 1803. His lyrical poems were 
produced throughout his career, but his last period was most pro- 
lific both in these and in dramatic composition, and includes such 
great works as his "Wallenstein," "Marie Stuart," "The Maid of 
Orleans," "The Bride of Messina," and "William Tell" (1804). 
His life was a continual struggle against ill-health and unfavor- 
able circumstances ; but he maintained to the end the spirit of 
independence and love of liberty which are the characteristic 
mark of his writings. 

This enthusiasm for freedom is well illustrated in "William 
Tell," the most widely popular of his plays. Based upon a world- 
wide legend which became localised in Switzerland in the fif- 
teenth century and was incorporated into the history of the 
struggle of the Forest Cantons for deliverance from Austrian 
domination, it unites with the theme of liberty that of the beauty 
of life in primitive natural conditions, and both in its likenesses 
and differences illustrates Schiller's attitude toward the prin- 
ciples of the French Revolution. 

368 



WILHELM TELL 



DRAMATIS PERSONS 



Hermann Gessler, Governor of 

Schwytz and Uri. 
Werner, Baron of Attinghausen, 

free noble of Switzerland. 
Ulrich von Rudenz, 

his Nephew. 
Werner Stauffacher, 
Conrad Hunn, 
Hans auf der Mauer, 
jorg im hofe, 
Ulrich der Schmidt, 
Jost von Weiler, 
Itel Reding, 
Walter Ftjrst, 
Wilhelm Tell, 
Rosselmann, the Priest, 
Petermann, Sacristan, 
Kuoni, Herdsman, 
Werni, Huntsman, 
Ruodi, Fisherman, 
Arnold of Melchthal, 
Conrad Baumgarten, 
Meyer von Sarnen, 
Struth von Winkelried, 
Klaus von der Flue, 
Burkhart am Buhel', 
Arnold von Sewa, 
Pfeiffer of Lucerne. 
Kunz of Gersau. 
Jenni, Fisherman's son. 



People 

of 

Schwytz 



>of Uri 



:i 



> Unter- 
wald. 



J 



Seppi, Herdsman's son. 
Gertrude, Stauffacher's wife. 
Hedwig, wife of Tell, daughter 

of Filrst. 
Bertha of Bruneck, 

a rich heiress. 

} 

y Tell's sons. 



Armgart, 

Mechthild, 

Elsbeth, 

Hildegard, 

Walter, 

Wilhelm, 

Friesshardt 

Leuthold, 



-Peasant women. 



[Soldiers. 






Rudolph der Harras, Gessler's 

master of the horse. 
Johannes Parricida, Duke of 

Suabia. 
Stussi, Overseer. 
The Mayor of Uri. 
A Courier. 
Master Stonemason, Companions, 

and Workmen. 
Taskmaster. 
A Crier. 

Monks of the Order of Charity. 
Horsemen of Gessler and Land- 

enberg. 
Many Peasants ; Men and Women 

from the Waldstetten. 



ACT I 

Scene I. — A high rocky shore of the lake of Lucerne opposite 

Schwytz. The lake makes a bend into the land; a hut stands 

at a short distance from the shore; the Usher boy is rowing 

. about in his boat. Beyond the lake are seen the green meadows, 

the hamlets and farms of Schwytz, lying in the clear sunshine. 

369 



370 SCHILLER 

On the left are observed the peaks of the Hacken, surrounded 
with clouds; to the right, and in the remote distance, appear 
the Glaciers. The Ram des Vaches, and the tinkling of cattle 
bells, continue for some time after the rising of the curtain 

Fisher boy (sings in his boat) 
Melody of the Ranz des Vaches 
The smile-dimpled lake woo'd to bathe in its deep, 
A boy on its green shore had laid him to sleep ; 
Then heard he a melody 

Floating along, 
Sweet as the notes 
Of an angel's song. 
And as thrilling with pleasure he wakes from his rest, 
The waters are rippling over his breast; 

And a voice from the deep cries, 

" With me thou must go, 
I charm the young shepherd, 
I lure him below." 

Herdsman (on the mountains) 
Air. — Variation of the Ranz des Vaches 
Farewell, ye green meadows, 

Farewell, sunny shore, 
The herdsman must leave you, 
The summer is o'er. 
We go to the hills, but you'll see us again, 

When the cuckoo calls, and the merry birds sing, 
When the flowers bloom afresh in glade and in glen, 

And the brooks sparkle bright in the sunshine of Spring. 
Farewell, ye green meadows, 

Farewell, sunny shore, 
The herdsman must leave you, 
The summer is o'er. 

Chamois Hunter (appearing on the top of a cliff) 
Second Variation of the Ranz des Vaches 
On the heights peals the thunder, and trembles the bridge, 
The huntsman bounds on by the dizzying ridge. 



WILHELM TELL 371 

Undaunted he hies him 

O'er ice-covered wild, 
Where leaf never budded, 

Nor Spring ever smiled; 
And beneath him an ocean of mist, where his eye 
No longer the dwellings of man can espy; 

Through the parting clouds only 

The earth can be seen, 
Far down 'neath the vapour 

The meadows of green. 

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

[Ruodi, the fisherman, comes out of his cottage. 
Werni, the huntsman, descends from the rocks. 
Kuoni, the shepherd, enters, with a milkpail on 
his shoulders, followed by Seppi, his assistant. 

Ruodi. Come, Jenni, bustle, get the boat on shore. 
The grizzly Vale-King 1 comes, the Glaciers moan, 
The Mytenstein 2 is drawing on his hood, 
And from the Stormcleft chilly blows the wind; 
The storm will burst before we know what's what. 

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

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

Kuoni (to his boy). 
Look, Seppi, if the beasts be all in sight. 

Seppi. There goes brown Liesel, I can hear her bells. 

Kuoni. Then all are safe; she ever ranges farthest. 

Ruodi. You've a fine chime of bells there, master herds- 
man. 

Werni. And likely cattle, too. Are they your own? 

Kuoni. I'm not so rich. They are the noble lord's 

1 The German is, Thalvogt, Ruler of the Valley — the name given 
figuratively to a dense grey mist which the south wind sweeps into the 
valleys from the mountain tops. It is well known as the precursor of 
stormy weather. 

2 A steep rock, standing on the north of Riitli, and nearly opposite 
to Brumen. 



372 SCHILLER 

Of Attinghaus, and told off to my care. 

Ruodi. How gracefully yon heifer bears her ribbon! 

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

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

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

Ruodi (to the shepherd). Are you for home? 

Kuoni. The Alp is grazed quite bare. 

Werni., A safe return, my friend ! 

Kuoni. The same to you ! 

Men come not always back from tracks like yours. 

Ruodi. But who comes here, running at topmost speed? 

Werni. I know the man; 'tis Baumgart of Alzellen. 

Konrad Baumgarten (rushing in breathless) . For God's 
sake, ferryman, your boat ! 

Ruodi. How now? 

Why all this haste ? 

Baum. Cast off! My life's at stake! 

Set me across ! 

Kuoni. Why, what's the matter, friend? 

Werni. Who are pursuing you? First tell us that. 

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

Ruodi. Why are the troopers in pursuit of you? 

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

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

Baum. The imperial Seneschal, who dwelt at Rossberg — 

Kuoni. How! What! The Wolf shot? 1 Is it he pursues 
you? 

1 In German, Wolfenschiessen— a young man of noble family, and a native 
of Unterwalden, who attached himself to the House of Austria, and was 
appointed Burvogt, or Seneschal, of the Castle of Rossberg. He was killed 
by Baumgarten in the manner, and for the cause, mentioned in the text. 



WILHELM TELL 373 

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

All (starting back). Now, God forgive you, what is this 
you've done ! 

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

Kuoni. How? Wronged you in your honour, did he so? 

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

Werni. And you have cleft his skull then with your axe? 

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

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

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

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

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

[It begins to thunder. 

Kuoni. Quick, ferryman, and set the good man over. 

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

Baum. Almighty heavens ! 

I cannot wait ; the least delay is death. 

Kuoni. (to the fisherman). Push out — God with you! 
We should help our neighbours ; 
The like misfortune may betide us all. 

[Thunder and the roaring of the wind. 

Ruodi. The South-wind's up ! 4 See how the lake is rising ! 

4 Literally, The Fohn is loose! "When," says Muller, in his History of 
Switzerland, " the wind called the Fohn is high, the navigation of the lake 
becomes extremely dangerous. Such is its vehemence, that the laws of the 
country require that the fires shall be extinguished in the houses while it 
lasts, and the night watches are doubled. The inhabitants lay heavy stones 
upon the roofs of their houses, to prevent their being blown away." 



374 SCHILLER 

I cannot steer against both wind and wave. 

Baum. (clasping him by the knees). God so help you as 
now you pity me ! 

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

Kuoni. He is a father : has a wife and children. 

[Repeated peals of thunder. 

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

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

Kuoni. Look! who comes here? 

Ruodi. 'Tis Tell, ay, Tell, of Biirglen.* 

[Enter Tell with a crossbar. 

Tell. What man is he that here implores for aid? 

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

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

[Violent peals of thunder — the lake becomes more 
tempestuous. 
Am I to plunge into the jaws of hell? 
I should be mad to dare the desperate act. 

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

Ruodi. Safe in the port, 'tis easy to advise. 

B Biirglen, the birthplace and residence of Tell. A chapel, erected In 
1522, remains on the spot formerly occupied by his house. 



WILHELM TELL 375 

There is the boat, and there the lake ! Try you ! 

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

Shepherd and Huntsman. O save him ! save him ! save 
him! 

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

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

Ruodi. No; not I. 

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

Kuoni. Ha, gallant Tell ! 

Werni. That's like a huntsman true. 

Baum. You are my angel, my preserver, Tell. 

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

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

[He leaps into the boat. 

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

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

Werni (who has ascended a rock). Now he is off. God 
help thee, gallant sailor ! 
Look how the little boat reels on the waves ! 
There ! they have swept clean over it. And now 

Kuoni (on the shore). 
'Tis out of sight. Yet stay, there 'tis again ! 
Stoutly he stems the breakers, noble fellow ! 

Seppi. Here come the troopers hard as they can ride! 

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

[Enter a troop of horsemen. 



376 SCHILLER 

ist H. Give up the murderer ! You have him here ! 
2nd H. This way he came ! 'Tis useless to conceal 

him ! 
Ruodi and Kuoni. Whom do you mean? 
ist. H. {discovering the boat). The devil! What do 

I see? 
Werni. {from above). Isn't he in yonder boat ye seek? 
Ride on, 
If you lay to, you may o'ertake him yet. 
2nd H. Curse on you, he's escaped ! 

ist H. {to the shepherd and fisherman) . You help'd him 
off, 
And you shall pay for it ! Fall on their herds ! 
Down with the cottage ! burn it ! beat it down ! 

[They rush off. 
Seppi {hurrying after them). Oh, my poor lambs! 
Kuoni {following him). Unhappy me, my herds! 

Werni. The tyrants ! 

Ruodi. {wringing his hands). Righteous Heaven! Oh, 
when will come 
Deliverance to this doom-devoted land? [Exeunt severally. 

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

Werner Stauffacher and Pfeiffer, of Lucerne, enter 

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

[Presses his hand warmly, and is going. 
Stauff. Wait till my mistress comes. Now do ! You 
are 
My guest in Schwytz — I in Lucerne am yours. 

Pfeiff. Thanks! thanks! But I must reach Gersau 
to-day. 
Whatever grievances your rulers' pride 
And grasping avarice may yet inflict, 
Bear them in patience — soon a change may come. 



WILHELM TELL 377 

Another emperor may mount the throne. 

But Austria's once, and you are hers for ever. [Exit. 

[Stauffacher sits dozvn sorrowfully upon a bench 
under the lime tree. Gertrude, his wife, enters, 
and finds him in this posture. She places herself 
near him, and looks at him for some time in 
silence. 
Gert. So sad, my love ! I scarcely know thee now. 

For many a day in silence I have mark'd 

A moody sorrow furrowing thy brow. 

Some silent grief is weighing on thy heart. 

Trust it to me. I am thy faithful wife, 

And I demand my half of all thy cares. 

[Stauffacher gives her his hand and is sileyit. 

Tell me what can oppress thy spirits thus ? 

Thy toil is blest — the world goes well with thee — 

Our barns are full — our cattle, many a score ; 

Our handsome team of well-fed horses, too, 

Brought from the mountain pastures safely home, 

To winter in their comfortable stalls. 

There stands thy house — no nobleman's more fair ! 

Tis newly built with timber of the best, 

All grooved and fitted with the nicest skill ; 

Its many glistening windows tell of comfort ! 

'Tis quarter'd o'er with scutcheons of all hues, 

And proverbs sage, which passing travellers 

Linger to read, and ponder o'er their meaning. 

Stauff. The house is strongly built, and handsomely, 

But, ah ! the ground on which we built it quakes. 
Gert. Tell me, dear Werner, what you mean by that ? 
Stauff. No later gone than yesterday, I sat 

Beneath this linden, thinking with delight, 

How fairly all was finished, when from Kiissnacht 

The Viceroy and his men came riding by. 

Before this house he halted in surprise : 

At once I rose, and, as beseemed his rank, 

Advanced respectfully to greet the lord, 

To whom the Emperor delegates his power, 

As judge supreme within our Canton here. 

" Who is the owner of this house ? " he asked, 



378 SCHILLER 

With mischief in his thoughts, for well he knew. 
With prompt decision, thus I answered him : 
" The Emperor, your grace — my lord and yours, 
And held by me in fief." On this he answered, 
" I am the Emperor's viceregent here, 
And will not that each peasant churl should build 
At his own pleasure, bearing him as freely 
As though he were the master in the land. 
I shall make bold to put a stop to this ! " 
So saying, he, with menaces, rode off, 
And left me musing with a heavy heart 
On the fell purpose that his words betray'd. 

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

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

Gert. He burns with envy, too, to see thee living 
Happy and free on thine ancestral soil, 
For he is landless. From the Emperor's self 
Thou hold'st in fief the lands thy fathers left thee. 
There's not a prince i' the Empire that can show 
A better title to his heritage; 
For thou hast over thee no lord but one, 



WILHELM TELL 379 

And he the mightiest of all Christian kings. 

Gessler, we know, is but a younger son, 

His only wealth the knightly cloak he wears; 

He therefore views an honest man's good fortune 

With a malignant and a jealous eye. 

Long has he sworn to compass thy destruction. 

As yet thou art uninjured. Wilt thou wait, 

Till he may safely give his malice vent? 

A wise man would anticipate the blow. 

Stauff. What's to be done? 

Gert. Now hear what I advise. 

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

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

Wife ! What a storm of wild and perilous thoughts 
Hast thou stirr'd up within my tranquil breast! 
The darkest musings of my bosom thou 
Hast dragg'd to light, and placed them full before me ; 
And what I scarce dared harbour e'en in thought, 
Thou speakest plainly out with fearless tongue. 
But hast thou weigh'd well what thou urgest thus ? 
Discord will come, and the fierce clang of arms, 



380 SCHILLER 

To scare this valley's long unbroken peace, 
If we, a feeble shepherd race, shall dare 
Him to the fight, that lords it o'er the world. 
Ev'n now they only wait some fair pretext 
For setting loose their savage warrior hordes, 
To scourge and ravage this devoted land, 
To lord it o'er us with the victor's rights, 
And, 'neath the show of lawful chastisement, 
Despoil us of our chartered liberties. 

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

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

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

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

Gert. And did I think this heart 

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

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

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

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

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

Stauff. (embracing her). Well may he fight for hearth 
and home, that clasps 
A heart so rare as thine against his own ! 
What are the host of Emperors to him? 
Gertrude, farewell ! I will to Uri straight. 
There lives my worthy comrade, Walter Fiirst; 
His thoughts and mine upon these times are one. 
There, too, resides the noble Banneret 
Of Attinghaus. High though of blood he be, 
He loves the people, honours their old customs. 
With both of these I will take counsel, how 



WILHELM TELL 381 

To rid us bravely of our country's foe. 
Farewell ! and while I am away, bear thou 
A watchful eye in management at home. 
The pilgrim journeying to the house of God, 
And holy friar, collecting for his cloister, 
To these give liberally from purse and garner. 
Stauffacher's house would not be hid. Right out 
Upon the public way it stands, and offers 
To all that pass a hospitable roof. 

[While they are retiring, Tell enters with Baumgarten. 
Tell. Now, then, you have no further need of me. 
Enter yon house. 'Tis Werner Stauffacher's, 
A man that is a father to distress. 
See, there he is, himself ! Come, follow me. 

[They retire up. Scene changes. 



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

Taskmaster, Mason, Workmen and Labourers 

Task, (n'ith a stick, urging on the workmen). Up, up! 
You've rested long enough. To work ! 
The stones here ! Xow the mortar, and the lime ! 
And let his lordship see the work advanced, 
When next he comes. These fellows crawl like snails ! 

[To two labourers, with loads 
What ! call ye that a load ? Go, double it. 
Is this the way ye earn your wages, laggards? 

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

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

Old Man (sinks down exhausted). I can no more. 

Task, (shaking him). Up, up, old man, to work! 



382 SCHILLER 

ist W. Have you no bowels of compassion, thus 
To press so hard upon a poor old man, 
That scarce can drag his feeble limbs along? 

Master Mason and Workmen. Shame, shame upon you — 
shame ! It cries to heaven. 

Task. Mind your own business. I but do my duty. 

ist W. Pray, master, what's to be the name of this 
Same castle, when 'tis built? 

Task. The Keep of Uri; 

For by it we shall keep you in subjection. 

Work. The Keep of Uri? 

Task. Well, why laugh at that? 

2nd W. Keep Uri, will you, with this paltry place ! 

ist W. How many molehills such as that must first 
Be piled up each on each, ere you make 
A mountain equal to the least in Uri? 

[Taskmaster retires up the stage. 

Mas. M. I'll drown the mallet in the deepest lake, 
That served my hand on this accursed pile. 

[Enter Tell and Stauffacher. 

Stauff. O, that I had not lived to see this sight ! 

Tell. Here 'tis not good to be. Let us proceed. 

Stauff. Am I in Uri, — Uri, freedom's home ? 

Mas. M. O, sir, if you could only see the vaults 
Beneath these towers. The man that tenants them 
Will ne'er hear cock crow more. 

Stauff. O God ! O God ! 

Mason. Look at these ramparts and these buttresses, 
That seem as they were built to last for ever. 

Tell. What hands have built, my friend, hands can 
destroy. [Pointing to the mountains. 

That home of freedom God hath built for us. 

[A drum is heard. People enter bearing a cap upon 
a pole, followed by a crier. Women and children 
thronging tumultuously after them. 

ist W. What means the drum ? Give heed ! 

Mason. Why, here's a mumming ! 

And look, the cap — what can they mean by that? 

Crier. In the Emperor's name, give ear ! 



WILHELM TELL 383 

Work. Hush ! silence ! hush ! 

Crier. Ye men of Uri, ye do see this cap ! 
It will be set upon a lofty pole 
In Altdorf, in the market place : and this 
Is the Lord Governor's good will and pleasure ; 
The cap shall have like honour as himself, 
All do it reverence with bended knee, 
And head uncovered; thus the king will know 
Who are his true and loyal subjects here; 
His life and goods are forfeit to the crown 
That shall refuse obedience to the order. 

[The people burst out into laughter. The drum beats 
and the procession passes on. 

ist W. A strange device to fall upon indeed: 
Do reverence to a cap ! A pretty farce ! 
Heard ever mortal anything like this ? 

Mas. M. Down to a cap on bended knee, forsooth ! 
Rare jesting this with men of sober sense ! 

ist W. Nay, an it were the imperial crown ! A cap ! 
Merely the cap of Austria ! I've seen it 
Hanging above the throne in Gessler's hall. 

Mason. The cap of Austria ? Mark that ! A snare 
To get us into Austria's power, by Heaven ! 

Work. No freeborn man will stoop to such disgrace. 

Mas. M. Come — to our comrades, and advise with them ! 

[They retire up. 

Tell {to Stauffacher). You see how matters stand. 
Farewell, my friend; 

Stauff. Whither away? Oh, leave us not so soon. 

Tell. They look for me at home. So fare ye well. 

Stauff. My heart's so full, and has so much to tell you. 

Tell. Words will not make a heart that's heavy light. 

Stauff. Yet words may possibly conduct to deeds. 

Tell. Endure in silence ! We can do no more. 

Stauff. But shall we bear what is not to be borne? 

Tell. Impetuous rulers have the shortest reigns. 
When the fierce Southwind rises from its chasms, 
Men cover up their fires, the ships in haste 
Make for the harbour, and the mighty spirit 
Sweeps o'er the earth, and leaves no trace behind. 



384 SCHILLER 

Let every man live quietly at home; 
Peace to the peaceful rarely is denied. 

Stauff. And is it thus you view our grievances? 

Tell. The serpent stings not till it is provoked. 
Let them alone ; they'll weary of themselves, 
When they shall see we are not to be roused. 

Stauff. Much might be done — did we stand fast to- 
gether. 

Tell. When the ship founders, he will best escape, 
Who seeks no other's safety but his own. 

Stauff. And you desert the common cause so coldly ? 

Tell. A man can safely count but on himself ! 

Stauff. Nay, even the weak grow strong by union. 

Tell. But the strong man is strongest when alone. 

Stauff. So, then, your country cannot count on you, 
If in despair she rise against her foes. 

Tell. Tell rescues the lost sheep from yawning gulphs: 
Is he a man, then, to desert his friends? 
Yet, whatsoe'er you do, spare me from council ! 
I was not born to ponder and select; 
But when your course of action is resolved. 
Then call on Tell : you shall not find him fail. 

{Exeunt severally. A sudden tumult is heard around 
the scaffolding. 

Mason (running in). What's wrong? 

First Workman (running forward). The slater's fallen 
from the roof. 

Bertha (rushing in). Heavens! Is he dashed to pieces? 
Save him, help ! 
If help be possible, save him ! Here is gold. 

[Throws her trinkets among the people. 

Mason. Hence with your gold, — your universal charm, 
And remedy for ill ! When you have torn 
Fathers from children, husbands from their wives, 
And scattered woe and wail throughout the land, 
You think with gold to compensate for all. 
Hence ! Till we saw you, we were happy men ; 
With you came misery and dark despair. 

Bertha (to the Taskmaster, who has returned). 
Lives he? [Taskmaster shakes his head. 



WILHELM TELL 385 

Ill-omened towers, with curses built, 
And doomed with curses to be tenanted ! [Exit. 



Scene IV. — The House of Walter Furst. Walter Furst and 
Arnold von Melchthal enter simultaneously at different sides. 

Melch. Good Walter Furst. 

Furst. If we should be surprised ! 

Stay where you are. We are beset with spies. 

Melch. Have you no news for me from Unterwald? 
What of my father? Tis not to be borne, 
Thus to be pent up like a felon here ! 
What have I done so heinous that I must 
Skulk here in hiding, like a murderer? 
I only laid my staff across the fists 
Of the pert varlet, when before my eyes, 
By order of the governor, he tried 
To drive away my handsome team of oxen. 

Furst. You are too rash by far. He did no more 
Than what the governor had ordered him. 
You had transgress'd, and therefore should have paid 
The penalty, however hard, in silence. 

Melch. Was I to brook the fellow's saucy gibe, 
" That if the peasant must have bread to eat, 
Why, let him go and draw the plough himself ! " 
It cut me to the very soul to see 
My oxen, noble creatures, when the knave 
Unyoked them from the plough. As though they felt 
The wrong, they lowed and butted with their horns. 
On this I could contain myself no longer, 
And, overcome by passion, struck him down. 

Furst. O, we old men can scarce command ourselves ! 
And can we wonder youth breaks out of bounds? 

Melch. I'm only sorry for my father's sake ! 
To be away from him, that needs so much 
My fostering care ! The governor detests him, 
Because, whene'er occasion served, he has 
Stood stoutly up for right and liberty. 
Therefore they'll bear him hard — the poor old man ! 
And there is none to shield him from their gripe. 

vol. xxvi — 13 HC 



386 SCHILLER 

Come what come may, I must go home again. 

Furst. Compose yourself, and wait in patience till 
We get some tidings o'er from Unterwald. 
Away ! away ! I hear a knock ! Perhaps 
A message from the Viceroy ! Get thee in ! 
You are not safe from Landenberger's 6 arm 
In Uri, for these tyrants pull together. 

Melch. They teach us Switzers what we ought to do. 

Furst. Away ! I'll call you when the coast is clear. 

[Melchthal retires. 
Unhappy youth ! I dare not tell him all 
The evil that my boding heart predicts ! 
Who's there? The door ne'er opens, but I look 
For tidings of mishap. Suspicion lurks 
With darkling treachery in every nook. 
Even to our inmost rooms they force their way, 
These myrmidons of power; and soon we'll need 
To fasten bolts and bars upon our doors. 

[He opens the door, and steps back in surprise as 
Werner Stauffacher enters. 
What do I see ? You, Werner ? Now, by Heaven ! 
A valued guest, indeed. No man e'er set 
His foot across this threshold, more esteem'd, 
Welcome ! thrice welcome, Werner, to my roof ! 
What brings you here? What seek you here in Uri? 

Stauff. (shakes Furst by the hand). The olden times 
and olden Switzerland. 

Furst. You bring them with you. See how glad I am, 
My heart leaps at the very sight of you. 
Sit down — sit down, and tell me how you left 
Your charming wife, fair Gertrude? Iberg's child, 
And clever as her father. Not a man, 
That wends from Germany, by Meinrad's Cell, 7 
To Italy, but praises far and wide 
Your house's hospitality. But say, 
Have you come here direct from Fliielen, 

6 Berenger von Landenberg, a man of noble family in Thurgau, and 
Governor of Unterwald, infamous for his cruelties to the Swiss^ and par- 
ticularly to the venerable Henry of the Halden. He was slain at the 
battle of Morgarten, in 13 15. 

7 A cell built in the 9th century, by Meinrad, Count of Hohenzollern, the 
founder of the Convent of Einsiedeln, subsequently alluded to in the text. 



WILHELM TELL 387 

And have you noticed nothing on your way, 
Before you halted at my door? 

Stauff. (sits down). I saw 

A work in progress, as I came along, 
I little thought to see — that likes me ill. 

Furst. O friend ! you've lighted on my thought at 
once. 

Stauff. Such things in Uri ne'er were known 
before. 
Never was prison here in man's remembrance, 
Nor ever any stronghold but the grave. 

Furst. You name it well. It is the grave of freedom. 

'Stauff. Friend, Walter Furst, I will be plain with you. 
No idle curiosity it is 

That brings me here, but heavy cares. I left 
Thraldom at home, and thraldom meets me here. 
Our wrongs, e'en now, are more than we can bear 
And who shall tell us where they are to end? 
From eldest time the Switzer has been free, 
Accustom'd only to the mildest rule. 
Such things as now we suffer ne'er were known, 
Since herdsman first drove cattle to the hills. 

Furst. Yes, our oppressions are unparallel'd ! 
Why, even our own good lord of Attinghaus, 
Who lived in olden times, himself declares 
They are no longer to be tamely borne. 

Stauff. In Unterwalden yonder 'tis the same; 
And bloody has the retribution been. 
The imperial Seneschal, the Wolfshot, who 
At Rossberg dwelt, long'd for forbidden fruit — 
Baumgarten's wife, that lives at Alzellen, 
He tried to make a victim to his lust, 
On which the husband slew him with his axe. 

Furst. O, Heaven is just in all its judgments still J 
Baumgarten, say you? A most worthy man. 
Has he escaped, and is he safely hid? 

Stauff. Your son-in-law conveyed him o'er the 
lake, 
And he lies hidden in my house at Steinen. 
He brought the tidings with him of a thing 



388 SCHILLER 

That has been done at Sarnen, worse than all, 
A thing to make the very heart run blood! 

Furst. (attentively) . Say on. What is it? 

Stauff. There dwells in Melchthal, then, 

Just as you enter by the road from Kerns, 
An upright man, named Henry of the Halden, 
A man of weight and influence in the Diet. 

Furst. Who knows him not? But what of him? 
Proceed. 

Stauff. The Landenberg, to punish some offence 
Committed by the old man's son, it seems, 
Had given command to take the youth's best pair 
Of oxen from his plough; on which the lad 
Struck down the messenger and took to flight. 

Furst. But the old father — tell me, what of him? 

Stauff. The Landenberg sent for him, and required 
He should produce his son upon the spot; 
And when the old man protested, and with truth, 
That he knew nothing of the fugitive, 
The tyrant call'd his torturers. 

Furst. (springs up and tries to lead him to the other side). 

Hush, no more ! 

Stauff. (with increasing warmth). " And though thy 
son," he cried, "has 'scaped me now, 
I have thee fast, and thou shalt feel my vengeance." 
With that they flung the old man to the ground, 
And plunged the pointed steel into his eyes. 

Furst. Merciful Heaven ! 

Melch. (rushing out). Into his eyes, his eyes? 

Stauff. (addresses himself in astonishment to Walter 
Furst). Who is this youth? 

Melch. (grasping him convulsively). Into his eyes? 
Speak, speak ! 

Furst. Oh, miserable hour ! 

Stauff. Who is it, tell me? 

[Stauffacher makes a sign to him. 
It is his son ! All-righteous Heaven ! 

Melch. And I 

Must be from thence! What! into both his eyes? 

Furst. Be calm, be calm ; and bear it like a man ! 



WILHELM TELL 389 

Melch. And all for me — for my mad wilful folly ! 
Blind, did you say? Quite blind — and both his eyes? 

Stauff. Ev'n so. The fountain of his sight is quench'd, 
He ne'er will see the blessed sunshine more. 

Furst. Oh, spare his anguish ! 

Melch. Never, never more ! 

[Presses his hands upon his eyes and is silent for 
some moments: then turning from one to the 
othe'r speaks in a subdued tone, broken by sobs. 
O the eye's light, of all the gifts of Heaven, 
The dearest, best ! From light all beings live — 
Each fair created thing — the very plants 
Turn with a joyful transport to the light, 
And he — he must drag on through all his days 
In endless darkness ! Never more for him 
The sunny meads shall glow, the flow'rets bloom ; 
Nor shall he more behold the roseate tints 
Of the iced mountain top ! To die is nothing. 
But to have life, and not have sight, — oh. that 
Is misery indeed ! Why do you look 
So piteously at me? I have two eyes, 
Yet to my poor blind father can give neither ! 
No, not one gleam of that great sea of light, 
That with its dazzling splendour floods my gaze. 

Stauff. Ah, I must swell the measure of your grief, 
Instead of soothing it. The worst, alas ! 
Remains to tell. They've stripp'd him of his all ; 
Nought have they left him, save his staff, on which, 
Blind, and in rags, he moves from door to door. 

Melch. Nought but his staff to the old eyeless 
man ! 
Stripp'd of his all — even of the light of day, 
The common blessing of the meanest wretch? 
Tell me no more of patience, of concealment ! 
Oh, what a base and coward thing am I, 
That on mine own security I thought, 
And took no care of thine ! Thy precious head 
Left as a pledge within the tyrant's grasp ! 
Hence, craven-hearted prudence, hence ! And all 
My thoughts be vengeance, and the despot's blood! 



390 SCHILLER 

I'll seek him straight — no power shall stay me now — 

And at his hands demand my father's eyes. 

I'll beard him 'mid a thousand myrmidons ! 

What's life to me, if in his heart's best blood 

I cool the fever of this mighty anguish ? [He is going. 

Furst. Stay, this is madness, Melchthal ! What avails 
Your single arm against his power? He sits 
At Sarnen high within his lordly keep, 
And, safe within its battlemented walls, 
May laugh to scorn your unavailing rage. 

Melch. And though he sat within the icy domes 
Of yon far Schreckhorn — ay, or higher, where, 
Veil'd since eternity, the Jungfrau soars, 
Still to the tyrant would I make my way ; 
With twenty comrades minded like myself, 
I'd lay his fastness level with the earth ! 
And if none follow me, and if you all, 
In terror for your homesteads and your herds, 
Bow in submission to the tyrant's yoke, 
Round me I'll call the herdsmen on the hills, 
And there beneath heaven's free and boundless roof, 
Where men still feel as men, and hearts are true, 
Proclaim aloud this foul enormity ! 

Stauff. (to Furst). 
The measure's full — and are we then to wait 
Till some extremity — 

Melch. Peace! What extremity 

Remains for us to dread? What, when our eyes 
No longer in their sockets are secure? 
Heavens ! Are we helpless ? Wherefore did we learn 
To bend the cross-bow, — wield the battle-axe? 
What living creature but in its despair, 
Finds for itself a weapon of defence? 
The baited stag will turn, and with the show 
Of his dread antlers hold the hounds at bay; 
The chamois drags the huntsman down th' abyss, 
The very ox, the partner of man's toil, 
The sharer of his roof, that meekly bends 
The strength of his huge neck beneath the yoke, 
Springs up, if he's provoked, whets his strong horn, 



WILHELM TELL 391 

And tosses his tormentor to the clouds. 

Furst. If the three Cantons thought as we three do, 
Something might, then, be done, with good effect. 

Stauff. When Uri calls, when Unterwald replies, 
Schwytz will be mindful of her ancient league. 8 

Melch. I've many friends in Unterwald, and none 
That would not gladly venture life and limb, 
If fairly back'd and aided by the rest. 
Oh ! sage and reverend fathers of this land, 
Here do I stand before your riper years, 
An unskill'd youth, who in the Diet must 
Into respectful silence hush his voice. 
Yet do not, for that I am young, and want 
Experience, slight my counsel and my words. 
'Tis not the wantonness of youthful blood 
That fires my spirit; but a pang so deep 

8 The League, or Bond, of the Three Cantons was of very ancient origin. 
They met and renewed it from time to time, especially when their liberties 
were threatened with danger. A remarkable instance of this occurred in 
the end of the 13th century, when Albert, of Austria, became Emperor, 
and when, possibly, for the first time, the Bond was reduced to writing. 
As it is important to the understanding of many passages of the play, a 
translation is subjoined of the oldest known document relating to it. The 
original, which is in Latin and German, is dated in August, 1291, and is 
under the seals of the whole of the men of Schwytz, the commonalty of the 
vale of Uri and the whole of the men of the upper and lower vales of Stanz. 

THE BOND 

Be it known to every one, that the men of the Dale of Uri, the Com- 
munity of Schwytz, as also the men of the mountains of Unterwald, in 
consideration of the evil times, have full confidently bound themselves, 
and sworn to help each other with all their power and might, property and 
people, against all who shall do violence to them, or any of them. That 
is our Ancient Bond. 

_ Whoever hath a Seignior, let him obey according to the conditions of 
his service. 

We are agreed to receive into these dales no Judge, who is not a coun- 
tryman and indweller, or who hath bought his place. 

Every controversy amongst the sworn confederates shall be determined 
by some of the sagest of their number, and if any one shall challenge their 
judgment, then shall he be constrained to obey it by the rest. 

Whoever intentionally or deceitfully kills another, shall be executed, 
and whoever shelters him shall be banished. 

Whoever burns the property of another shall no longer be regarded as a 
countryman,^ and whoever shelters him shall make good the damage done. 

Whoever injures another, or robs him, and hath property in our country, 
shall make satisfaction out of the same. 

No one shall distrain a debtor without a judge, nor any one who is not 
his debtor, or the surety for such debtor. 

Every one in these dales shall submit to the judge, or we, the sworn 
confederates, all will take satisfaction for all the injury occasioned by his 
contumacy. And if in any internal division the one party will not accept 
justice, all the rest shall help the other party. These decrees shall, God 
willing, endure eternally for our general advantage. 



392 SCHILLER 

That e'en the flinty rocks must pity me. 

You, too, are fathers, heads of families, 

And you must wish to have a virtuous son, 

To reverence your grey hairs, and shield your eyes 

With pious and affectionate regard. 

Do not, I pray, because in limb and fortune 

You still are unassailed, and still your eyes 

Revolve undimm'd and sparkling in their spheres; 

Oh, do not, therefore, disregard our wrongs ! 

Above you, also, hangs the tyrant's sword. 

You, too, have striven to alienate the land 

From Austria. This was all my father's crime: 

You share his guilt, and may his punishment. 

Stauff. (to Furst). 
Do thou resolve ! I am prepared to follow. 

Furst. First let us learn what steps the noble lords 
Von Sillinen and Attinghaus propose. 
Their names would rally thousands to the cause. 

Melch. Is there a name within the Forest Mountains 
That carries more respect than yours — and yours? 
On names like these the people build their trust 
In time of need — such names are household words. 
Rich was your heritage of manly worth, 
And richly have you added to its stores. 
What need of nobles? Let us do the work 
Ourselves. Yes, though we have to stand alone, 
We shall be able to maintain our rights. 

Stauff. The nobles' wrongs are not so great as 
ours. 
The torrent, that lays waste the lower grounds, 
Hath not ascended to the uplands yet. 
But let them see the country once in arms, 
They'll not refuse to lend a helping hand. 

Furst. Were there an umpire 'twixt ourselves and 
Austria, 
Justice and law might then decide our quarrel. 
But our oppressor is our emperor too, 
And judge supreme. 'Tis God must help us, then, 
And our own arm ! Be yours the task to rouse 
The men of Schwytz ; I'll rally friends in Uri. 



WILHELM TELL 393 

But whom are we to send to Unterwald? 

Melch. Thither send me. Whom should it more con- 
cern! 

Furst. No, Melchthal, no; you are my guest, and I 
Must answer for your safety. 

Melch. Let me go. 

I know each forest track and mountain path; 
Friends too, I'll find, be sure, on every hand, 
To give me willing shelter from the foe. 

Stauff. Nay, let him go; no traitors harbour there: 
For tyranny is so abhorred in Unterwald, 
No tools can there be found to work her will. 
In the low valleys, too, the Alzeller 
Will gain confederates, and rouse the country. 

Melch. But how shall we communicate, and not 
Awaken the suspicion of the tyrants? 

Stauff. Might we not meet at Brunnen or at Treib, 
Where merchant vessels with their cargoes come? 

Furst. We must not go so openly to work. 
Hear my opinion. On the lake's left bank, 
As we sail hence to Brunnen, right against 
The Mytenstein, deep-hidden in the wood 
A meadow lies, by shepherds called the Rootli, 
Because the wood has been uprooted there. 
'Tis where our Canton bound'ries verge on yours ; — 

[To Melchthal. 
Your boat will carry you across from Schwytz. 

[To Stauffacher. 
Thither by lonely bypaths let us wend 
At midnight, and deliberate o'er our plans. 
Let each bring with him there ten trusty men, 
All one at heart with us ; and then we may 
Consult together for the general weal, 
And, with God's guidance, fix what next to do. 

Stauff. So let it be. And now your true right hand ! 
Yours, too, young man ! and as we now three men 
Among ourselves thus knit our hands together 
In all sincerity and truth, e'en so 
Shall we three Cantons, too, together stand 
In victory and defeat, in life and death. 



394 SCHILLER 

Furst and Melch. In life and death. 

[They hold their hands clasped together for some 
moments in silence. 

Melch. Alas, my old blind father ! 

The day of freedom, that thou canst not see, 
But thou shalt hear it, when from Alp to Alp 
The beacon fires throw up their flaming signs, 
And the proud castles of the tyrants fall, 
Into thy cottage shall the Switzer burst, 
Bear the glad tidings to thine ear, and o'er 
Thy darken'd way shall Freedom's radiance pour. 



ACT II 

Scene I. — The Mansion of the Baron of Attinghausen. A Gothic 
Hall, decorated with escutcheons and helmets. The Baron, a 
grey-headed man, eighty-five years old, tall and of a command- 
ing mien, clad in a furred pelisse, and leaning on a staff tipped 
with chamois horn. Kuoni and six hinds standing round him 
with rakes and scythes. Ulrich of Rudenz enters in the 
costume of a Knight. 

Rud. Uncle, I'm here ! Your will ? 

Atting. First let me share, 

After the ancient custom of our house, 
The morning cup, with these my faithful servants ! 

[He drinks from a cup, which is then passed round. 
Time was, I stood myself in field and wood, 
With mine own eyes directing all their toil, 
Even as my banner led them in the fight, 
Now I am only fit to play the steward : 
And, if the genial sun come not to me, 
I can no longer seek it on the hills. 
Thus slowly, in an ever narrowing sphere, 
I move on to the narrowest and the last, 
Where all life's pulses cease. I now am but 
The shadow of my former self, and that 
Is fading fast — 'twill soon be but a name. 

Kuoni {offering Rudenz the cup). A pledge, young 
master ! 

[Rudenz hesitates to take the cup. 



WILHELM TELL 395 

Nay, Sir, drink it off ! 
One cup, one heart ! You know our proverb, Sir ? 

Atting. Go, children, and at eve, when work is done, 
We'll meet and talk the country's business over. 

[Exeunt servants. 
Belted and plumed, and all thy bravery on ! 
Thou art for Altdorf — for the castle, boy ? 

Rud. Yes, uncle. Longer may I not delay — 

Atting. {sitting down). Why in such haste? Say, are 
thy youthful hours 
Doled in such niggard measure, that thou must 
Be chary of them to thy aged uncle? 

Rud. I see my presence is not needed here, 
I am but as a stranger in this house. 

Atting. {gazes fixedly at him for a considerable time). 
Ay, pity 'tis thou art ! Alas, that home 
To thee has grown so strange ! Oh, Uly ! Uly ! 
I scarce do know thee now, thus deck'd in silks, 
The peacock's feather 9 flaunting in thy cap, 
And purple mantle round thy shoulders flung; 
Thou look'st upon the peasant with disdain; 
And tak'st his honest greeting with a blush. 

Rud. All honour due to him I gladly pay, 
But must deny the right he would usurp. 

Atting. The sore displeasure of its monarch rests 
Upon our land, and every true man's heart, 
Is full of sadness for the grievous wrongs 
We suffer from our tyrants. Thou alone 
Art all unmoved amid the general grief. 
Abandoning thy friends, thou tak'st thy stand 
Beside thy country's foes, and, as in scorn 
Of our distress, pursuest giddy joys, 
Courting the smiles of princes all the while 
Thy country bleeds beneath their cruel scourge. 

Rud. The land is sore oppress'd, I know it, uncle. 
But why? Who plunged it into this distress? 
A word, one little easy word, might buy 

9 The Austrian knights were in the habit of wearing a plume_ of peacock's 
feathers in their helmets. After the overthrow of the Austrian dominion 
in Switzerland, it was made highly penal to wear the peacock's feather at 
any public assembly there. 



396 SCHILLER 

Instant deliverance from all our ills, 

And win the good will of the Emperor. 

Woe unto those who seal the people's eyes. 

And make them adverse to their country's good — 

The men, who, for their own vile selfish ends, 

Are seeking to prevent the Forest States 

From swearing fealty to Austria's House, 

As all the countries round about have done. 

It fits their humour well, to take their seats 

Amid the nobles on the Herrenbank ; 10 

They'll have the Kaiser for their lord, forsooth, — 

That is to say, they'll have no lord at all. 

Atting. Must I hear this, and from thy lips, rash boy! 

Rud. You urged me to this answer. Hear me out. 
What, uncle, is the character you've stoop'd 
To fill contentedly through life? Have you 
No higher pride, than in these lonely wilds 
To be the Landamman or Banneret, 11 
The pettty chieftain of a shepherd race? 
How ! Were it not a far more glorious choice, 
To bend in homage to our royal lord, 
And swell the princely splendours of his court, 
Than sit at home, the peer of your own vassals, 
And share the judgment-seat with vulgar clowns? 

Atting. Ah, Uly, Uly; all too well I see, 
The tempter's voice has caught thy willing ear, 
And pour'd its subtle poison in thy heart. 

Rud. Yes, I conceal it not. It doth offend 
My inmost soul, to hear the stranger's gibes, 
That taunt us with the name of " Peasant Nobles ! " 
Think you the heart that's stirring here can brook, 
While all the young nobility around 
Are reaping honour under Habsburg's banner, 
That I should loiter, in inglorious ease, 
Here on the heritage my fathers left, 
And, in the dull routine of vulgar toil, 
Lose all life's glorious spring? In other lands 

10 The bench reserved for the nobility. 

11 The Landamman was an officer chosen by the Swiss Gemeinde, or 
Diet, to preside over them. The Banneret was an officer entrusted with 
the keeping of the State Banner, and such others as were taken in battle. 



WILHELM TELL 397 

Great deeds are done. A world of fair renown 
Beyond these mountains stirs in martial pomp. 
My helm and shield are rusting in the hall; 
The martial trumpet's spirit-stirring blast, 
The herald's call, inviting to the lists, 
Rouse not the echoes of these vales, where nought 
Save cowherd's horn and cattle bell is heard, 
In one unvarying dull monotony. 

Atting. Deluded boy, seduced by empty show ! 
Despise the land that gave thee birth ! Ashamed 
Of the good ancient customs of thy sires ! 
The day will come, when thou, with burning tears, 
Wilt long for home, and for thy native hills, 
And that dear melody of tuneful herds, 
Which now, in proud disgust, thou dost despise ! 
A day when wistful pangs shall shake thy heart, 
Hearing their music in a foreign land. 
Oh ! potent is the spell that binds to home ! 
No, no, the cold, false world is not for thee. 
At the proud court, with thy true heart, thou wilt 
For ever feel a stranger among strangers. 
The world asks virtues of far other stamp 
Than thou hast learned within these simple vales. 
But go — go thither, — barter thy free soul, 
Take land in fief, be minion to a prince, 
Where thou might'st be lord paramount, and prince 
Of all thine own unburden'd heritage ! 
O, Uly, Uly, stay among thy people ! 
Go not to Altdorf. Oh, abandon not 
The sacred cause of thy wrong'd native land ! 
I am the last of all my race. My name 
Ends with me. Yonder hang my helm and shield; 
They will be buried with me in the grave. 12 
And must I think, when yielding up my breath, 
That thou but wait'st the closing of mine eyes, 
To stoop thy knee to this new feudal court, 
And take in vassalage from Austria's hands 
The noble lands, which I from God received, 

13 According to the custom, by which, when the last male descendant of 
a noble family died, his sword, helmet, and shield, were buried with him. 



398 SCHILLER 

Free and unfetter'd as the mountain air ! 

Rud. Tis vain for us to strive against the king. 
The world pertains to him ; — shall we alone, 
In mad presumptuous obstinacy, strive 
To break that mighty chain of lands, which he 
Hath drawn around us with his giant grasp? 
His are the markets, his the courts, — his, too, 
The highways ; nay, the very carrier's horse, 
That traffics on the Gotthardt, pays him toll. 
By his dominions, as within a net, 
We are enclosed, and girded round about. 
— And will the Empire shield us? Say, can it 
Protect itself 'gainst Austria's growing power ? 
To God, and not to emperors must we look ! 
What store can on their promises be placed, 
When they, to meet their own necessities, 
Can pawn, and even alienate the towns 
That flee for shelter 'neath the Eagle's wings ? 13 
No, uncle ! It is wise and wholesome prudence, 
In times like these, when faction's all abroad, 
To vow attachment to some mighty chief. 
The imperial crown's transferred from line to line. 1 * 
It has no memory for faithful service: 
But to secure the favour of these great 
Hereditary masters, were to sow 
Seed for a future harvest. 

Atting. Art so wise? 

Wilt thou see clearer than thy noble sires, 
Who battled for fair freedom's priceless gem, 
With life, and fortune, and heroic arm? 
Sail down the lake to Lucern, there inquire, 
How Austria's thraldom weighs the Cantons down. 
Soon she will come to count our sheep, our cattle, 
To portion out the Alps, e'en to their peaks, 
And in our own free woods to hinder us 
From striking down the eagle or the stag ; 

13 This frequently occurred. But in the event of an imperial city being 
mortgaged for the purpose of raising money, it lost its freedom, and was 
considered as put out of the realm. 

14 An allusion to the circumstance of the Imperial Crown not being 
hereditary, but conferred by election on one of the Counts of the Empire. 



WILHELM TELL 399 

To set her tolls on every bridge and gate, 
Impoverish us, to swell her lust of sway, 
And drain our dearest blood to feed her wars. 
TSTo, if our blood must flow, let it be shed 
In our own cause ! We purchase liberty 
More cheaply far than bondage. 

Rudenz. What can we, 

A shepherd race, against great Albert's hosts ? 

Atting. Learn, foolish boy, to know this shepherd race ! 
I know them, I have led them on in fight, — 
I saw them in the battle at Favenz. 
What ! Austria try, forsooth, to force on us 
A yoke we are determined not to bear ! 
Oh, learn to feel from what a stock thou'rt sprung; 
Cast not, for tinsel trash and idle show, 
The precious jewel of thy worth away, 
To be the chieftain of a free born race, 
Bound to thee only by their unbought love, 
Ready to stand — to fight — to die with thee, 
Be that thy pride, be that thy noblest boast ! 
Knit to thy heart the ties of kindred — home — 
Cling to the land, the dear land of thy sires, 
Grapple to that with thy whole heart and soul ! 
Thy power is roc ted deep and strongly here, 
But in yon stranger world thou'lt stand alone, 
A trembling reed beat down by every blast. 
Oh come ! 'tis long since we have seen thee, Uly ! 
Tarry but this one day. Only to-day ! 
Go not to Altdorf. Wil thou? Not to-day! 
For this one day, bestow thee on thy friends. 

[Takes his hand. 

Rud. I gave my word. Unhand me ! I am bound. 

Atting. (drops his hand and says sternly) 
Bound, didst thou say? Oh yes, unhappy boy, 
Thou art indeed. But not by word or oath. 
'Tis by the silken mesh of love thou'rt bound. 

[Rudenz turns away. 
Ah, hide thee, as thou wilt. 'Tis she, I know, 
Bertha of Bruneck, draws thee to the court ; 
'Tis she that chains thee to the Emperor's service. 



400 SCHILLER 

Thou think'st to win the noble knightly maid 

By thy apostacy. Be not deceived. 

She is held out before the? as a lure; 

But never meant for innocence like thine. 
Rud. No more, I've heard enough. So fare you well. [Exit, 
Atting. Stay, Uly ! Stay ! Rash boy, he's gone ! I can 

Nor hold him back, nor save him from destruction. 

And so the Wolf shot has deserted us; — 

Others will follow his example soon. 

This foreign witchery, sweeping o'er our hills, 

Tears with its potent spell our youth away. 

luckless hour, when men and manners strange 
Into these calm and happy valleys came, 

To warp our primitive and guileless ways. 
The new is pressing on with might. The old, 
The good, the simple, all fleet fast away. 
New times come on. A race is springing up, 
That think not as their fathers thought before ! 
What do I hear? All, all are in the grave 
With whom erewhile I moved, and held converse; 
My age has long been laid beneath the sod; 
Happy the man, who may not live to see 
What shall be done by those that follow me! 

Scene II. — A meadow surrounded by high rocks and wooded ground. 
On the rocks are tracks, with rails and ladders, by which the 
peasants are afterwards seen descending. In the back-ground 
the lake is observed, and over it a moon rainbow in the early 
part of the scene. The prospect is closed by lofty mountains, 
with glaciers rising behind them. The stage is dark, but the 
lake and glaciers glisten in the moonlight. 

Melchthal, Baumgarten, Winkelried, Meyer von Sar- 

NEN, BURKHART AM BUHEL, ARNOLD VON SeWA, KLAUS 

von der Flue, and four other peasants, all armed. 
Melchthal (behind the scenes). 
The mountain pass is open. Follow me ! 

1 see the rock, and little cross upon it : 

This is the spot; here is the Rootli. [Thev enter with torches 
Win. Hark ! 

Sewa. The coast is clear. 



WILHELM TELL 403 

Meyer. None of our comrades come? 

We are the first, we Unterwaldeners. 
Melch. How far is't i' the night? 
Baum. The beacon watch 

Upon the Selisberg has just called two. 

[A bell is heard at a distance. 
Meyer. Hush! Hark! 

Buhel. The forest chapel's matin bell 

Chimes clearly o'er the lake from Switzerland. 

Von F. The air is clear, and bears the sound so far. 
Melch. Go, you and you, and light some broken boughs, 
Let's bid them welcome with a cheerful blaze. 

[Two peasants exeunt. 
Sewa. The moon shines fair to-night. Beneath its beams 
The lake reposes, bright as burnish'd steel. 
Buhel. They'll have an easy passage. 
Wink, (pointing to the lake). Ha! look there! 

Do you see nothing? 

Meyer. Ay, indeed, I do! 

A rainbow in the middle of the night. 

Melch. Formed by the bright reflection of the moon ! 
Von F. A sign most strange and wonderful, indeed ! 
Many there be, who ne'er have seen the like. 
Sewa. 'Tis doubled, see, a paler one above ! 
Baum. A boat is gliding yonder right beneath it. 
Melch. That must be Werner Stauffacher ! I knew 
The worthy patriot would not tarry long. 

[Goes with Baumgarten towards the shore. 
Meyer. The Uri men are like to be the last. 
Buhel. They're forced to take a winding circuit through 
The mountains ; for the Viceroy's spies are out. 

[In the meanwhile the two peasants have kindled a 
fire in the centre of the stage. 
Melch. (on the shore). Who's there? The word? 
Stauff. (from below). Friends of the country. 

[All retire up the stage, towards the party landing 
from the boat. Enter Stauffacher, Itel Reding, 
Hans auf der Mauer, Jorg im Hofe, Conrad 
Hunn, Ulrich der Schmidt, Jost von Weiler, 
and three other peasants, armed. 



402 SCHILLER 

All. Welcome ! 

[While the rest remain behind exchanging greetings, 
Melchthal comes forward with Stauffacher. 

Melch. Oh worthy Stauffacher, I've look'd but now 
On him, who could not look on me again, 
I've laid my hands upon his rayless eyes, 
And on their vacant orbits sworn a vow 
Of vengeance, only to be cool'd in blood. 

Stauff. Speak not of vengeance. We are here, to meet 
The threatened evil, not to avenge the past. 
Now tell me what you've done, and what secured, 
To aid the common cause in Unterwald. 
How stand the peasantry disposed, and how 
Yourself escaped the wiles of treachery? 

Melch. Through the Surenen's fearful mountain chain, 
Where dreary ice-fields stretch on every side, 
And sound is none, save the hoarse vulture's cry, 
I reach'd the Alpine pasture, where the herds 
From Uri and from Engelberg resort, 
And turn their cattle forth to graze in common. 
Still as I went along, I slaked my thirst 
With the coarse oozings of the glacier heights 
That thro' the crevices come foaming down, 
And turned to rest me in the herdsmen's cots, 15 
Where I was host and guest, until I gain'd 
The cheerful homes and social haunts of men. 
Already through these distant vales had spread 
The rumour of this last atrocity; 
And wheresoe'er I went, at every door, 
Kind words saluted me and gentle looks. 
I found these simple spirits all in arms 
Against our rulers' tyrannous encroachments. 
For as their Alps through each succeeding year 
Yield the same roots, — their streams flow ever on 
In the same channels, — nay, the clouds and winds 
The selfsame course unalterably pursue, 
So have old customs there, from sire to son, 

15 These are the cots, or shealings, erected by the herdsmen for shel- 
ter, while pasturing their herds on the mountains during the summer. 
These are left deserted in winter, during which period Melchthal's jour- 
ney was taken. 



WILHELM TELL 403 

Been handed down, unchanging and unchanged; 

Nor will they brook to swerve or turn aside 

From the fixed even tenor of their life. 

With grasp of their hard hands they welcomed me,— 

Took from the walls their rusty falchions down, — 

And from their eyes the soul of valour flash'd 

With joyful lustre, as I spoke those names, 

Sacred to every peasant in the mountains, 

Your own and Walter Fiirst's. Whate'er your voice 

Should dictate as the right, they swore to do ; 

And you they swore to follow e'en to death. 

— So sped I on from house to house, secure 

In the guest's sacred privilege ; — and when 

I reached at last the valley of my home, 

Where dwell my kinsmen, scatter'd far and near — 

And when I found my father, stript and blind, 

Upon the stranger's straw, fed by the alms 

Of charity — 

Stauff. Great Heaven ! 

Melch. Yet wept I not! 

No — not in weak and unavailing tears 
Spent I the force of my fierce burning anguish ; 
Deep in my bosom, like some precious treasure, 
I lock'd it fast, and thought on deeds alone. 
Through every winding of the hills I crept, — 
No valley so remote but I explored it; 
Nay, at the very glacier's ice-clad base, 
I sought and found the homes of living men; 
And still, where'er my wandering footsteps turn'd, 
The selfsame hatred of these tyrants met me. 
For even there, at vegetation's verge, 
Where the numb'd earth is barren of all fruits, 
Their grasping hands had been for plunder thrust. 
Into the hearts of all this honest race, 
The story of my wrongs struck deep, and now 
They, to a man, are ours ; both heart and hand. 

Stauff. Great things, indeed, you've wrought in little 
time. 

Melch. I did still more than this. The fortresses, 
Rossberg and Sarnen, are the country's dread; 



404 SCHILLER 

For from behind their adamantine walls 
The foe, like eagle from his eyrie swoops, 
And, safe himself, spreads havoc o'er the land. 
With my own eyes I wish'd to weigh its strength, 
So went to Sarnen, and explored the castle. 

Stauff. How ! Venture even into the tiger's den ? 

Melch. Disguised in pilgrim's weeds I entered it; 
I saw the Viceroy feasting at his board — 
Judge if I'm master of myself or no ! 
I saw the tyrant, and I slew him not ! 

Stauff. Fortune, indeed, upon your boldness smiled. 

[Meanwhile the others have arrived and join Melch- 
thal and Stauffacher. 
Yet tell me now, I pray, who are the friends, 
The worthy men, who came along with you? 
Make me acquainted with them, that we may 
Speak frankly, man to man, and heart to heart. 

Meyer. In the three Cantons, who, sir, knows not you? 
Meyer of Sarnen is my name ; and this 
Is Struth of Winkelried, my sister's son. 

Stauff. No unknown name. A Winkelried it was, 
Who slew the dragon in the fen at Weiler, 
And lost his life in the encounter, too. 

Wink. That, Master Stauffacher, was my grandfather. 

Melch. {pointing to two peasants). 
These two are men who till the cloister lands 
Of Engelberg, and live behind the forest. 
You'll not think ill of them, because they're serfs, 
And sit not free upon the soil, like us. 
They love the land, and bear a good repute. 

Stauff. (to them). Give me your hands. He has good 
cause for thanks, 
That to no man his body's service owes. 
But worth is worth, no matter where 'tis found. 

Hunn. That is Herr Reding, sir, our old Landamman, 

Meyer. I know him well. I am at law with him 
About a piece of ancient heritage. 
Herr Reding, we are enemies in court, 
Here we are one. [Shakes his hand. 

Stauff. That's well and bravely said. 



WILHELM TELL 405 

Wink. Listen ! They come. The horn of Uri ! Hark ! 
[On the right and left armed men are seen descending 
the rocks with torches. 

Mauer. Look, is not that the holy man of God? 
A worthy priest ! The terrors of the night, 
And the way's pains and perils scare not him, 
A faithful shepherd caring for his flock. 

Baum. The Sacrist follows him, and Walter Furst. 
But where is Tell? I do not see him there. 

[Walter Furst, Rosselmann the Pastor, Petermann 
the Sacrist, Kuoni the Shepherd, Werni the 
Huntsman, Ruodi the Fisherman, and five other 
countrymen, thirty-three in all, advance and take 
their places round the fire. 

Furst. Thus must we, on the soil our fathers left us, 
Creep forth by stealth to meet like murderers, 
And in the night, that should her mantle lend 
Only to crime and black conspiracy, 
Assert our own good rights, which yet are clear 
As is the radiance of the noonday sun. 

Melch. So be it. What is hatch'd in gloom of night 
Shall free and boldly meet the morning light. 

Rossel. Confederates ! Listen to the words which God 
Inspires my heart withal. Here we are met, 
To represent the general weal. In us 
Are all the people of the land convened. 
Then let us hold the Diet, as of old, 
And as we're wont in peaceful times to do. 
The time's necessity be our excuse, 
If there be aught informal in this meeting. 
Still, wheresoe'er men strike for justice, there 
Is God, and now beneath His heav'n we stand. 

Stauff. 'Tis well advised. — Let us, then, hold the Diet, 
According to our ancient usages. — 
Though it be night, there's sunshine in our cause. 

Melch. Few though our numbers be, the hearts are 
here 
Of the whole people; here the best are met. 

Hunn. The ancient books may not be near at hand, 
Yet are they graven in our inmost hearts. 



406 SCHILLER 

Rossel. 'Tis well. And now, then, let a ring be formed, 
And plant the swords of power within the ground. 18 

Mauer. Let the Landamman step into his place, 
And by his side his secretaries stand. 

Sacrist. There are three Cantons here. Which hath the 
right 
To give the head to the united Council ? 
Schwytz may contest that dignity with Uri, 
We Unterwald'ners enter not the field. 

Melch. We stand aside. We are but suppliants here, 
Invoking aid from our more potent friends. 

Stauff. Let Uri have the sword. Her banner takes, 
In battle, the precedence of our own. 

Furst Schwytz, then, must share the honour of the sword; 
For she's the honoured ancestor of all. 

Rossel. Let me arrange this generous controversy. 
Uri shall lead in battle — Schwytz in Council. 

Furst {gives Stauffacher his hand). 
Then take your place. 

Stauff. Not I. Some older man. 

Hofe. Ulrich, the Smith, is the most aged here. 

Mauer. A worthy man, but not a freeman ; no ! 
— No bondman can be judge in Switzerland. 

Stauff. Is not Herr Reding here, our old Landamman? 
Where can we find a worthier man than he? 

Furst. Let him be Amman and the Diet's chief ! 
You that agree with me, hold up your hands ! 

[All hold up their right hands. 

Reding {stepping into the centre). I cannot lay my hands 
upon the books ; 
But by yon everlasting stars I swear, 
Never to swerve from justice and the right. 

[The two swords are placed before him, and a circle 
formed; Schwytz in the centre, Uri on his right, 
Unterwald on his left. 

Reding {resting on his battle sword). Why, at the hour 
when spirits walk the earth, 
Meet the three Cantons of the mountains here, 

18 It was the custom at the Meetings of the Landes Gemeinde, or Diet, 
to set swords upright in the ground as emblems of authority. 



WILHELM TELL 407 

Upon the lake's inhospitable shore? 

What may the purport be of this new league 

We here contract beneath the starry heaven ? 

Stauff. (entering the circle). 
'Tis no new league that here we now contract, 
But one our fathers framed, in ancient times, 
We purpose to renew ! For know, confederates, 
Though mountain ridge and lake divide our bounds, 
And each Canton by its own laws is ruled, 
Yet are we but one race, born of one blood, 
And all are children of one common home. 

Wink. Is then the burden of our legends true, 
That we came hither from a distant land? 
Oh, tell us what you know, that our new league 
May reap fresh vigour from the leagues of old. 

Stauff. Hear, then, what aged herdsmen tell. There dwelt 
A mighty people in the land that lies 
Back to the north. The scourge of famine came; 
And in this strait 'twas publicly resolved. 
That each tenth man, on whom the lot might fall, 
Should leave the country. They obey'd — and forth, 
With loud lamentings, men and women went, 
A mighty host ; and to the south moved on. 
Cutting their way through Germany by the sword, 
Until they gained these pine-clad hills of ours ; 
Nor stopp'd they ever on their forward course, 
Till at the shaggy dell they halted, where 
The Miita flows through its luxuriant meads. 
No trace of human creature met their eye, 
Save one poor hut upon the desert shore, 
Where dwelt a lonely man, and kept the ferry. 
A tempest raged — the lake rose mountains high 
And barr'd their further progress. Thereupon 
They view'd the country — found it rich in wood, 
Discover'd goodly springs, and felt as they 
Were in their own dear native land once more. 
Then they resolved to settle on the spot; 
Erected there the ancient town of Schwytz; 
And many a day of toil had they to clear 
The tangled brake and forest's spreading roots. 



408 SCHILLER 

Meanwhile their numbers grew, the soil became 

Unequal to sustain them, and they cross'd 

To the black mountain, far as Weissland, where, 

Conceal'd behind eternal walls of ice, 

Another people speak another tongue. 

They built the village Stanz, beside the Kernwald ; 

The village Altdorf, in the vale of Reuss; 

Yet, ever mindful of their parent stem, 

The men of Schwytz, from all the stranger race, 

That since that time have settled in the land, 

Each other recognize. Their hearts still know, 

And beat fraternally to kindred blood. 

[Extends his hand right and left. 

Mauer. Ay, we are all one heart, one blood, one race ! 

All (joining hands). We are one people, and will act as 
one. 

Stauff. The nations round us bear a foreign yoke; 
For they have to the conqueror succumbed. 
Nay, e'en within our frontiers may be found 
Some, that owe villein service to a lord, 
A race of bonded serfs from sire to son. 
But we, the genuine race of ancient Swiss, 
Have kept our freedom from the first till now. 
Never to princes have we bow'd the knee ; 
Freely we sought protection of the Empire. 

Rossel. Freely we sought it — freely it was given. 
'Tis so set down in Emperor Frederick's charter. 

Stauff. For the most free have still some feudal lord 
There must be still a chief, a judge supreme, 
To whom appeal may lie, in case of strife. 
And therefore was it, that our sires allow'd, 
For what they had recover'd from the waste 
This honour to the Emperor, the lord 
Of all the German and Italian soil; 
And, like the other free men of his realm, 
Engaged to aid him with their swords in war; 
The free man's duty this alone should be, 
To guard the Empire that keeps guard for him. 

Melch. He's but a slave that would acknowledge 
more. 



WILHELM TELL 409 

Stauff. They followed, when the Heribann 17 went forth, 
The imperial standard, and they fought its battles ! 
To Italy they march'd in arms, to place 
The Caesars' crown upon the Emperor's head. 
But still at home they ruled themselves in peace, 
By their own laws and ancient usages. 
The Emperor's only right was to adjudge 
The penalty of death ; he therefore named 
Some mighty noble as his delegate, 
That had no stake or interest in the land, 
Who was call'd in, when doom was to be pass'd, 
And, in the face of day, pronounced decree, 
Clear and distinctly, fearing no man's hate. 
What traces here, that we are bondsmen ? Speak, 
If there be any can gainsay my words ! 

Hofe. No ! You have spoken but the simple truth ; 
We never stooped beneath a tyrant's yoke. 

Stauff. Even to the Emperor we did not submit, 
When he gave judgment 'gainst us for the church; 
For when the Abbey of Einsiedlen claimed 
The Alp our fathers and ourselves had grazed. 
And showed an ancient charter, which bestowed 
The land on them as being ownerless — 
For our existence there had been concealed — 
What was our answer? This. "The grant is void. 
No Emperor can bestow what is our own : 
And if the Empire shall deny our rights, 
We can, within our mountains, right ourselves ! " 
Thus spake our fathers ! And shall we endure 
The shame and infamy of this new yoke, 
And from the vassal brook what never king 
Dared, in his plenitude of power, attempt? 
This soil we have created for ourselves, 
By the hard labour of our hands; we've changed 
The giant forest, that was erst the haunt 
Of savage bears, into a home for man ; 
Extirpated the dragon's brood, that wont 
To rise, distent with venom, from the swamps ; 

17 The Heribann was a muster of warriors similar to the arriere ban 
of France. 



410 SCHILLER 

Rent the thick misty canopy that hung 
Its blighting vapours on the dreary waste ; 
Blasted the solid rock; across the chasm 
Thrown the firm bridge for the wayfaring man. 
By the possession of a thousand years 
The soil is ours. And shall an alien lord, 
Himself a vassal, dare to venture here, 
Insult us by our own hearth fires, — attempt 
To forge the chains of bondage for our hands, 
And do us shame on our own proper soil ? 
Is there no help against such wrong as this? 

{Great sensation among the people. 
Yes ! there's a limit to the despot's power ! 
When the oppress'd for justice looks in vain, 
When his sore burden may no more be borne, 
With fearless heart he makes appeal to Heaven, 
And thence brings down his everlasting rights, 
Which there abide, inalienably his, 
And indestructible as are the stars. 
Nature's primaeval state returns again, 
Where man stands hostile to his fellow man ; 
And if all other means shall fail his need, 
One last resource remains — his own good sword. 
Our dearest treasures call to us for aid, 
Against the oppressor's violence; we stand 
For country, home, for wives, for children here ! 

All (clashing their swords). Here stand we for our 
homes, our wives, and children. 

Rossel. (stepping into the circle). Bethink ye well, 
before ye draw the sword. 
Some peaceful compromise may yet be made ; 
Speak but one word, and at your feet you'll see 
The men who now oppress you. Take the terms 
That have been often tendered you ; renounce 
The Empire, and to Austria swear allegiance ! 

Mauer. What says the priest? To Austria allegiance? 

Buhel. Hearken not to him ! 

Winkelried. 'Tis a traitor's counsel, 

His country's foe ! 

Reding. Peace, peace, confederates ! 



WILHELM TELL 411 

Sew a. Homage to Austria, after wrongs like these! 

Flue. Shall Austria extort from us by force 
What we denied to kindness and entreaty? 

Meyer. Then should we all be slaves, deservedly. 

Matjer. Yes ! Let him forfeit all a Switzer's rights, 
Who talks of yielding thus to Austria's yoke ! 
I stand on this, Landamman. Let this be 
The foremost of our laws ! 

Melch. Even so ! Whoe'er 

Shall talk of bearing Austria's yoke, let him 
Of all his rights and honours be despoiled, 
No man thenceforth receive him at his hearth ! 

All (raising their right hands.) Agreed! Be this 
the law ! 

Reding. (After a pause). The law it is. 

Rossel. Now you are free — this law hath made you free. 
Never shall Austria obtain by force 
What she has fail'd to gain by friendly suit. 

Weil. On with the order of the day ! Proceed ! 

Reding. Confederates ! Have all gentler means been 
tried ? 
Perchance the Emp'ror knows not of our wrongs, 
It may net be his will we suffer thus : 
Were it not well to make one last attempt, 
And lay our grievances before the throne, 
Ere we unsheath the sword? Force is at best 
A fearful thing e'en in a righteous cause ; 
God only helps, when man can help no more. 

STAUFF. (tO KONRAD HUNN). 

Here you can give us information. Speak ! 

Hunn. I was at Rheinfeld, at the Emperor's Court, 
Deputed by the Cantons to complain 
Of the oppressions of these governors, 
And of our liberties the charter claim, 
Which each new king till now has ratified. 
I found the envoys there of many a town, 
From Suabia and the valley of the Rhine, 
Who all received their parchments as they wish'd, 
And straight went home again with merry heart. 
But me, your envoy, they to the council sent, 



412 SCHILLER 

Where I with empty cheer was soon dismiss'd. 

" The Emperor at present was engaged; 

Some other time he would attend to us ! " 

I turn'd away, and passing through the hall, 

With heavy heart, in a recess I saw 

The Grand Duke John 18 in tears, and by his side 

The noble lords of Wart and Tegerfeld, 

Who beckon'd me, and said, " Redress yourselves. 

Expect not justice from the Emperor. 

Does he not plunder his own brother's child, 

And keep from him his just inheritance?" 

The Duke claims his maternal property, 

Urging he's now of age, and 'tis full time, 

That he should rule his people and estates ; 

What is the answer made to him ? The king 

Places a chaplet on his head ; " Behold 

The fitting ornament," he cries, " of youth ! " 

Mauer. You hear. Expect not from the Emperor 
Or right or justice ! Then redress yourselves ! 

Reding. No other course is left us. Now, advise 
What plan most likely to ensure success. 

Furst. To shake a thraldom off that we abhor, 
To keep our ancient rights inviolate, 
As we received them from our fathers, — this, 
Not lawless innovation, is our aim, 
Let Caesar still retain what is his due ; 
And he that is a vassal, let him pay 
The service he is sworn to faithfully. 

Meyer. I hold my land of Austria in fief. 

Furst. Continue, then, to pay your feudal dues. 

Weil. I'm tenant of the lords of Rappersweil. 

Furst. Continue, then, to pay them rent and tithe. 

Rossel. Of Zurich's Abbess humble vassal I. 

Furst. Give to the cloister, what the cloister claims. 

Stauff. The Empire only is my feudal lord. 

Furst. What needs must be, we'll do, but nothing more. 
We'll drive these tyrants and their minions hence, 
And raze their towering strongholds to the ground, 

18 The Duke of Suabia, who soon afterwards assassinated his uncle, for 
withholding his patrimony from him. 



WILHELM TELL 413 

Yet shed, if possible, no drop of blood, 

Let the Emperor see., that we were driven to cast 

The sacred duties of respect away; 

And when he finds we keep within our bounds, 

His wrath, belike, may yield to policy; 

For truly is that nation to be fear'd, 

That, arms in hand, is temperate in its wrath. 

Reding. But prithee tell us how may this be done? 
The enemy is arm'd as well as we, 
And, rest assured, he will not yield in peace. 

Stauff. He will, whene'er he sees us up in arms; 
We shall surprise him, ere he is prepared. 

Meyer. Easily said, but not so easily done. 
Two strongholds dominate the country — they 
Protect the foe, and should the king invade us, 
Our task would then be dangerous indeed. 
Rossberg and Sarnen both must be secured, 
Before a sword is drawn in either Canton. 

Stauff. Should we delay, the foe would soon be warned; 
We are too numerous for secrecy. 

Meyer. There is no traitor in the Forest States. 

Rossel. But even zeal may heedlessly betray. 

Furst. Delay it longer, and the keep at Altdorf 
Will be complete, — the governor secure. 

Meyer. You think but of yourselves. 

Sacris. You are unjust! 

Meyer. Unjust! said you? Dares Uri taunt us so? 

Reding. Peace, on your oath ! 

Sacris. If Schwytz be leagued with Uri, 

Why, then, indeed, we must perforce be dumb. 

Reding. And let me tell you, in the Diet's name, 
Your hasty spirit much disturbs the peace. 
Stand we not all for the same common cause? 

Wink. What, if till Christmas we delay? 'Tis then 
The custom for the serfs to throng the castle, 
Bringing the governor their annual gifts. 
Thus may some ten or twelve selected men 
Assemble unobserved, within its walls. 
Bearing about their persons pikes of steel, 
Which may be quickly mounted upon staves, 



414 SCHILLER 

For arms are not admitted to the fort. 

The rest can fill the neighb'ring wood, prepared 

To sally forth upon a trumpet's blast, 

Soon as their comrades have secured the gate ; 

And thus the castle will with ease be ours. 

Melch. The Rossberg I will undertake to scale. 
I have a sweetheart in the garrison, 
Whom with some tender words I could persuade 
To lower me at night a hempen ladder. 
Once up, my friends will not be long behind. 

Reding. Are all resolved in favour of delay? 

[The majority raise their hands. 

Stauff. (counting them). Twenty to twelve is the ma- 
jority. 

Furst. If on the appointed day the castles fall, 
From mountain on to mountain we shall speed 
The fiery signal : in the capital 
Of every Canton quickly rouse the Landsturm. 19 
Then, when these tyrants see our martial front, 
Believe me, they will never make so bold 
As risk the conflict, but will gladly take 
Safe conduct forth beyond our boundaries. 

Stauff. Not so with Gessler. He will make a stand. 
Surrounded with his dread array of horse, 
Blood will be shed before he quits the field, 
And even expell'd he'd still be terrible. 
'Tis hard, nay, dangerous, to spare his life. 

Baum. Place me where'er a life is to be lost; 
I owe my life to Tell, and cheerfully 
Will pledge it for my country. I have clear'd 
My honour, and my heart is now at rest. 

Reding. Counsel will come with circumstance. Be 
patient ! 
Something must still be to the moment left. 
Yet, while by night we hold our Diet here, 
The morning, see, has on the mountain tops 
Kindled her glowing beacon. Let us part, 
Ere the broad sun surprise us. 

Furst. Do not fear. 

19 A sort of national militia. 



WILHELM TELL 415 

The night wanes slowly from these vales of ours. 

[All have involuntarily taken off their caps, and con- 
template the breaking of day, absorbed in silence. 
Rossel. By this fair light which greeteth us, before 
Those other nations, that, beneath us far, 
In noisome cities pent, draw painful breath, 
Swear we the oath of our confederacy ! 
A band of brothers true we swear to be, 
Never to part in danger or in death ! 

[They repeat his words with three fingers raised. 
We swear we will be free as were our sires, 
And sooner die than live in slavery ! [All repeat as before. 
We swear, to put our trust in God Most High, 
And not to quail before the might of man ! 

[All repeat as before, and embrace each other. 
Stauff. Now every man pursue his several way 
Back to his friends, his kindred, and his home. 
Let the herd winter up his flock, and gain 
In secret friends for this great league of ours ! 
What for a time must be endured, endure, 
And let the reckoning of the tyrants grow, 
Till the great day arrive when they shall pay 
The general and particular debt at once. 
Let every man control his own just rage, 
And nurse his vengeance for the public wrongs : 
For he whom selfish interests now engage 
Defrauds the general weal of what to it belongs. 

[As they are going off in profound silence, in three 
different directions, the orchestra plays a solemn 
air. The empty scene remains open for some time, 
showing the rays of the sun rising over the Glaciers. 



416 SCHILLER 



ACT III 

Scene I. — Court before Teli/s house. Tell with an axe. Hedwig 
engaged in her domestic duties. Walter and Wilhelm in the 
back-ground, playing with a little cross-bow. 

(Walter sings) 
With his cross-bow, and his quiver, 

The huntsman speeds his way, 
Over mountain, dale and river, 

At the dawning of the day. 
As the eagle, on wild pinion, 
Is the king in realms of air, 
So the hunter claims dominion 

Over crag and forest lair. 
Far as ever bow can carry, 

Thro' the trackless airy space, 
All he sees he makes his quarry, 
Soaring bird and beast of chase. 
Wil. {runs forward). My string has snapt ! Oh, father, 

mend it, do ! 
Tell. Not I ; a true-born archer helps himself. 

[Boys retire. 
Hedw. The boys begin to use the bow betimes. 
Tell. 'Tis early practice only makes the master. 
Hedw. Ah ! Would to heaven they never learnt the art ! 
Tell. But they shall learn it, wife, in all its points. 
Whoe'er would carve an independent way 
Through life, must learn to ward or plant a blow. 

Hedw. Alas, alas ! and they will never rest 
Contentedly at home. 

Tell. Xo more can I ! 

I was not framed by nature for a shepherd. 
My restless spirit ever yearns for change; 
I only feel the flush and joy of life, 
If I can start fresh quarry every day. 

Hedw. Heedless the while of all your wife's alarms, 
As she sits watching through long hours at home. 
For my soul sinks with terror at the tales 
The servants tell about the risks you run, 



WILHELM TELL 417 

Whene'er we part, my trembling heart forebodes, 

That you will ne'er come back to me again. 

I see you on the frozen mountain steeps, 

Missing, perchance, your leap from crag to crag. 

I see the chamois, with a wild rebound, 

Drag you down with him o'er the precipice. 

I see the avalanche close o'er your head, — 

The treacherous ice give way, and you sink down 

Intombed alive within its hideous gulf. 

Ah ! in a hundred varying forms does death 

Pursue the Alpine huntsman on his course. 

That way of life can surely ne'er be blessed, 

Where life and limb are perill'd every hour. 

Tell. The man that bears a quick and steady eye, 
And trusts in God, and his own lusty thews, 
Passes, with scarce a scar, through every danger. 
The mountain cannot awe the mountain child. 

[Having finished his work he lays aside his tools. 
And now, methinks, the door will hold awhile, — 
Axe in the house oft saves the carpenter. [Takes his cup. 

Hedw. Whither away? 

Tell. To Altdorf. to your father. 

Hedw. You have some dangerous enterprise in view? 
Confess ! 

Tell. Why think you so? 

Hedw. Some scheme's on foot 

Against the governors. There was a Diet 
Held on the Rootli — that I know — and you 
Are one of the confederacy, I'm sure. 

Tell. I was not there. Yet will I not hold back, 
Whene'er my country calls me to her aid. 

Hedw. Wherever danger is, will you be placed. 
On you, as ever, will the burden fall. 

Tell. Each man shall have the post that fits his powers. 

Hedw. You took — ay, 'mid the thickest of the storm — 
The man of Unterwald across the lake. 
'Tis marvel you escaped. Had you no thought 
Of wife and children, then? 

Tell. Dear wife. I had ; 

And therefore saved the father for his children. 

VOL. XXVI — 14 HC 



418 SCHILLER 

Hedw. To brave the lake in all its wrath ! 'Twas not 
To put your trust in God ! 'Twas tempting Him. 

Tell. Little will he that's over cautious do. 

Hedw. Yes, you've a kind and helping hand for all ; 
But be in straits, and who will lend you aid? 

Tell. God grant I ne'er may stand in need of it ! 

[Takes up his cross-bow and arrows. 

Hedw. Why take your cross-bow with you? leave it here. 

Tell. I want my right hand, when I want my bow. 

[The boys return. 

Walt. Where, father, are you going? 

Tell. To grand-dad, boy — 

To Altdorf. Will you go? 

Walt. Ay, that I will ! 

Hedw. The Viceroy's there just now. Go not to Altdorf ! 

Tell. He leaves to-day. 

Hedw. Then let him first be gone, 

Cross not his path. — You know he bears us grudge. 

Tell. His ill-will cannot greatly injure me. 
I do what's right, and care for no man's hate. 

Hedw. 'Tis those who do what's right, whom most he 
hates. 

Tell. Because he cannot reach them. Me, I ween, 
His knightship will be glad to leave in peace. 

Hedw. Ay ! — Are you sure of that? 

Tell. Not long ago, 

As I was hunting through the wild ravines 
Of Shechenthal, untrod by mortal foot, — 
There, as I took my solitary way 
Along a shelving ledge of rocks, where 'twas 
Impossible to step on either side ; 
For high above rose, like a giant wall, 
The precipice's side, and far below 
The Shechen thunder'd o'er its rifted bed; — 

[The boys press towards him, looking upon him with 
excited curiosity. 
There, face to face, I met the Viceroy. He 
Alone with me — and I myself alone — 
Mere man to man, and near us the abyss, 
And when his lordship had perused my face, 



WILHELM TELL 419 

And knew the man he had severely fined 
On some most trivial ground, not long before, 
And saw me, with my sturdy bow in hand, 
Come striding towards him, his cheek grew pale, 
His knees refused their office, and I thought 
He would have sunk against the mountain side. 
Then, touch'd with pity for him, I advanced, 
Respectfully, and said, " Tis I, my lord." 
But ne'er a sound could he compel his lips 
To frame in answer. Only with his hand 
He beckoned me in silence to proceed. 
So I pass'd on, and sent his train to seek him. 

Hedw. He trembled, then, before you? Woe the while 
You saw his weakness ; that he'll ne'er forgive. 

Tell. I shun him, therefore, and he'll not seek me. 

Hedw. But stay away to-day. Go hunt instead ! 

Tell. What do you fear? 

Hedw. I am uneasy. Stay ! 

Tell. Why thus distress yourself without a cause? 

Hedw. Because there is no cause. Tell, Tell ! stay here ! 

Tell. Dear wife, I gave my promise I would go. 

Hedw. Must you, — then go. But leave the boys with me. 

Walt. No, mother dear, I go with father, I. 

Hedw. How, Walter! will you leave your mother then? 

Walt. I'll bring you pretty things from grandpapa. 

[Exit with his father. 

Wilh. Mother, I'll stay with you! 

Hedw. (embracing him). Yes, yes! thou art 

My own dear child. Thou'rt all that's left to me. 

[She goes to the gate of the court and looks anxiously 
after Tell and her son for a considerable time. 

Scene II. — A retired part of the Forest. — Brooks dashing in spray 
over the rocks. 

Enter Bertha in a hunting dress. Immediately afterwards 
Rudenz 

Berth. He follows me. Now, then, to speak my mind! 

Rud. (entering hastily). 
At length, dear lady, we have met alone 



420 SCHILLER 

In this wild dell, with rocks on every side, 
No jealous eye can watch our interview. 
Now let my heart throw off this weary silence. 

Berth. But are you sure they will not follow us? 

Rud. See, yonder goes the chase ! Now, then, or never ! 
I must avail me of this precious chance, — 
Must hear my doom decided by thy lips, 
Though it should part me from thy side for ever. 
Oh, do not arm that gentle face of thine 
With looks so stern and harsh ! Who — who am I, 
That dare aspire so high, as unto thee ? 
Fame hath not stamp'd me yet ; nor may I take 
My place amid the courtly throng of knights, 
That, crown'd with glory's lustre, woo thy smiles. 
Nothing have I to offer, but a heart 
That overflows with truth and love for thee. 

Berth, (sternly and with severity). And dare you speak 
to me of love — of truth? 
You, that are faithless to your nearest ties ! 
You, that are Austria's slave — bartered and sold 
To her — an alien, and your country's tyrant ! 

Rud. How ! This reproach from thee ! Whom do I seek, 
On Austria's side, my own beloved, but thee? 

Berth. Think you to find me in the traitor's ranks? 
Now, as I live, I'd rather give my hand 
To Gessler's self, all despot though he be, 
Than to the Switzer who forgets his birth, 
And stoops to be a tyrant's servile tool. 

Rud. Oh heaven, what words are these? 

Berth. Say ! what can lie 

Nearer the good man's heart than friends and kindred ? 
What dearer duty to a noble soul, 
Than to protect weak suffering innocence, 
And vindicate the rights of the oppress'd? 
My very soul bleeds for your countrymen. 
I suffer with them, for I needs must love them; 
They are so gentle, yet so full of power ; 
They draw my whole heart to them. Every day 
I look upon them with increased esteem. 
But you, whom nature and your knightly vow, 



WILHELM TELL 421 

Have given them as their natural protector, 
Yet who desert them and abet their foes 
In forging shackles for your native land, 
You — you incense and wound me to the core. 
It tries me to the utmost not to hate you. 

Rud. Is not my country's welfare all my wish? 
What seek I for her, but to purchase peace 
'Neath Austria's potent sceptre? 

Berth. Bondage, rather ! 

You would drive freedom from the last stronghold 
That yet remains for her upon the earth. 
The people know their own true int'rests better : 
Their simple natures are not warp'd by show. 
But round your head a tangling net is wound. 

Rud. Bertha, you hate me — you despise me ! 

Berth. Nay ! 

And if I did, 'twere better for my peace. 
But to see him despised and despicable, — 
The man whom one might love — 

Rud. Oh, Bertha! You 

Show me the pinnacle of heavenly bliss, 
Then, in a moment, hurl me to despair ! 

Berth. No, no ! the noble is not all extinct 
Within you. It but slumbers, — I will rouse it. 
It must have cost you many a fiery struggle 
To crush the virtues of your race within you. 
But, Heaven be praised, 'tis mightier than yourself, 
And you are noble in your own despite ! 

Rud. You trust me, then? Oh, Bertha, with thy love 
What might I not become ! 

Berth. Be only that 

For which your own high nature destin'd you. 
Fill the position you were born to fill ; — 
Stand by your people and your native land — 
And battle for your sacred rights ! 

Rud. Alas ! 

How can I win you — how can you be mine, 
If I take arms against the Emperor? 
Will not your potent kinsmen interpose, 
To dictate the disposal of your hand? 



422 SCHILLER 

Berth. All my estates lie in the Forest Cantons; 
And I am free, when Switzerland is free. 

Rud. Oh ! what a prospect, Bertha, hast thou shown me ! 

Berth. Hope not to win my hand by Austria's grace; 
Fain would they lay their grasp on my estates, 
To swell the vast domains which now they hold. 
The selfsame lust of conquest, that would rob 
You of your liberty, endangers mine. 
Oh, friend, I'm mark'd for sacrifice; — to be 
The guerdon of some parasite, perchance ! 
They'll drag me hence to the Imperial court, 
That hateful haunt of falsehood and intrigue, 
And marriage bonds I loathe await me there. 
Love, love alone — your love can rescue me. 

Rud. And thou couldst be content, love, to live here; 
In my own native land to be my own ? 
Oh, Bertha, all the yearnings of my soul 
For this great world and its tumultuous strife, 
What were they, but a yearning after thee ? 
In glory's path I sought for thee alone, 
And all my thirst of fame was only love. 
But if in this calm vale thou canst abide 
With me, and bid earth's pomps and pride adieu, 
Then is the goal of my ambition won ; 
And the rough tide of the tempestuous world 
May dash and rave around these firm-set hills ! 
No wandering wishes more have I to send 
Forth to the busy scene that stirs beyond. 
Then may these rocks, that girdle us, extend 
Their giant walls impenetrably round, 
And this sequestered happy vale alone 
Look up to heaven, and be my paradise ! 

Berth. Now art thou all my fancy dream'd of thee. 
My trust has not been given to thee in vain. 

Rud. Away, ye idle phantoms of my folly ; 
In mine own home I'll find my happiness. 
Here, where the gladsome boy to manhood grew, 
Where ev'ry brook, and tree, and mountain peak, 
Teems with remembrances of happy hours, 
In mine own native land thou wilt be mine. 



WILHELM TELL 423 

Ah, I have ever loved it well, I feel 

How poor without it were all earthly joys. 

Berth. Where should we look for happiness on earth, 
If not in this dear land of innocence? 
Here, where old truth hath its familiar home. 
Where fraud and guile are strangers, envy ne'er 
Shall dim the sparkling fountain of our bliss, 
And ever bright the hours shall o'er us glide. 
There do I see thee, in true manly worth, 
The foremost of the free and of thy peers, 
Revered with homage pure and unconstrain'd, 
Wielding a power that kings might envy thee. 

Rud. And thee I see, thy sex's crowning gem, 
With thy sweet woman's grace and wakeful love, 
Building a heaven for me within my home, 
And, as the spring-time scatters forth her flowers, 
Adorning with thy charms my path of life, 
And spreading joy and sunshine all around. 

Berth. And this it was, dear friend, that caused my grief, 
To see thee blast this life's supremest bliss 
With thine own hand. Ah ! what had been my fate, 
Had I been forced to follow some proud lord, 
Some ruthless despot, to his gloomy keep ! 
Here are no keeps, here are no bastion'd walls 
To part me from a people I can bless. 

Rud. Yet, how to free myself; to loose the coils 
Which I have madly twined around my head? 

Berth. Tear them asunder with a man's resolve. 
Whate'er ensue, firm by thy people stand ! 
It is thy post by birth. 

[Hunting horns are heard in the distance, 
But hark ! The chase ! 
Farewell, — 'tis needful we should part — away ! 
Fight for thy land; thou fightest for thy love. 
One foe fills all our souls with dread ; the blow 
That makes one free, emancipates us all. 

\Exeunt severally. 



424 SCHILLER 

Scene III. — A meadow near Altdorf. Trees in the fore-ground. At 
the back of the stage a cap upon a pole. The prospect is 
bounded by the Bannberg, which is surmoumed by a snow- 
■ capped mountain 

Friesshardt and Leuthold on guard 

Friess. We keep our watch in vain. Zounds ! not a soul 
Will pass, and do obeisance to the cap. 
But yesterday the place swarm'd like a fair ; 
Now the old green looks like a desert, quite, 
Since yonder scarecrow hung upon the pole. 

Leuth. Only the vilest rabble show themselves, 
And wave their tattered caps in mockery at us. 
All honest citizens would sooner make 
A weary circuit over half the town, 
Than bend their backs before our master's cap. 

Friess. They were obliged to pass this way at noon, 
As they were coming from the Council House. 
I counted then upon a famous catch, 
For no one thought of bowing to the cap, 
But Rosselmann, the priest, was even with me: 
Coming just then from some sick man, he takes 
His stand before the pole, — lifts up the Host — 
The Sacrist, too, must tinkle with his bell, — 
When down they dropp'd on knee — myself and all — 
In reverence to the Host, but not the cap. 

Leuth. Hark ye, companion, I've a shrewd suspicion, 
Our post's no better than the pillory. 
It is a burning shame, a trooper should 
Stand sentinel before an empty cap, 
And every honest fellow must despise us. 
To do obeisance to a cap, too ! Faith, 
I never heard an order so absurd ! 

Friess. Why not, an't please you, to an empty cap ? 
You've duck'd, I'm sure, to many an empty sconce. 

[Hildegard, Mechthild, and Elsbeth enter with 
their children, and station themselves around the 
pole. 

Leuth. And you are a time-serving sneak, that takes 
Delight in bringing honest folks to harm. 



WILHELM TELL 425 

For my part, he that likes may pass the cap : — 
I'll shut my eyes and take no note of him. 

Mech. There hangs the Viceroy ! Your obeisance, 
children ! 

Els. I would to God he'd go, and leave his cap ! 
The country would be none the worse for it. 

Friess. (driving them away). Out of the way! Con- 
founded pack of gossips ! 
Who sent for you ? Go, send your husbands here, 
If they have courage to defy the order. 

[Tell enters with his cross-bow, leading his 
son Walter by the hand. They pass the hat 
without noticing it, and advance to the front 
of the stage. 

Walt, (pointing to the Bannberg). Father, is't true, that 
on the mountain there 
The trees, if wounded with a hatchet, bleed? 

Tell. Who says so, boy? 

Walt. The master herdsman, father! 

He tells us there's a charm upon the trees, 
And if a man shall injure them, the hand 
That struck the blow will grow from out the grave. 

Tell. There is a charm about them — that's the truth. 
Dost see those glaciers yonder — those white horns — 
That seem to melt away into the sky? 

Walt. They are the peaks that thunder so at night, 
And send the avalanches down upon us. 

Tell. They are; and Altdorf long ago had been 
Submerged beneath these avalanches' weight, 
Did not the forest there above the town 
Stand like a bulwark to arrest their fall. 

Walt, (after musing a little). And are there countries 
with no mountains, father? 

Tell. Yes, if we travel downwards from our heights, 
And keep descending where the rivers go, 
We reach a wide and level country, where 
Our mountain torrents brawl and foam no more, 
And fair large rivers glide serenely on. 
All quarters of the heaven may there be scann'd 
Without impediment. The corn grows there 



426 SCHILLER 

In broad and lovely fields, and all the land 
Is like a garden fair to look upon. 

Walt. But, father, tell me, wherefore haste we not 
Away to this delightful land, instead 
Of toiling here, and struggling as we do? 

Tell. The land is fair and bountiful as Heaven; 
But they who till it never may enjoy 
The fruits of what they sow. 

Walt. Live they not free, 

As you do, on the land their fathers left them? 

Tell. The fields are all the bishop's or the king's. 

Walt. But they may freely hunt among the woods? 

Tell. The game is all the monarch's — bird and beast. 

Walt. But they, at least, may surely fish the streams? 

Tell. Stream, lake, and sea, all to the king belong. 

Walt. Who is this king, of whom they're so afraid? 

Tell. He is the man who fosters and protects them. 

Walt. Have they not courage to protect themselves? 

Tell. The neighbour there dare not his neighbour trust. 

Walt. I should want breathing room in such a land. 
I'd rather dwell beneath the avalanches. 

Tell. 'Tis better, child, to have these glacier peaks 
Behind one's back, than evil-minded men ! 

[They are about to pass on. 

Walt. See, father, see the cap on yonder pole! 

Tell. What is the cap to us? Come, let's begone. 

[As he is going, Friesshardt, presenting his pike, 
stops him. 

Friess. Stand, I command you, in the Emperor's name ! 

Tell, (seizing the pike). What would ye? Wherefore 
do ye stop me thus? 

Friess. You've broke the mandate, and with us must go. 

Leuth. You have not done obeisance to the cap. 

Tell. Friend, let me go. 

Friess. Away, away to prison ! 

Walt. Father to prison. Help ! [Calling to the side scene. 

This way, you men ! 
Good people, help ! They're dragging him to prison ! 

[Rosselmann the priest and the Sacristan, -with 
three other men, enter. 



WILHELM TELL 427 

Sacris. What's here amiss? 

Rossel. Why do you seize this man? 

Friess. He is an enemy of the King — a traitor. 

Tell (seising him with violence). A traitor, I! 

Rossel. Friend, thou art wrong. Tis Tell, 

An honest man, and worthy citizen. 

Walt, (descries Furst and runs up to him). Grand- 
father, help, they want to seize my father ! 

Friess. Away to prison ! 

Furst (running in). Stay, I offer bail. 

For God's sake, Tell, what is the matter here? 

[Melchthal and Stauffacher enter. 

Leuth. He has contemn'd the Viceroy's sovereign 
power, 
Refusing flatly to acknowledge it. 

Stauff. Has Tell done this? 

Melch. Villain, you know 'tis false ! 

Leuth. He has not made obeisance to the cap. 

Furst. And shall for this to prison? Come, my friend, 
Take my security, and let him go. 

Friess. Keep your security for yourself — you'll need it. 
We only do our duty. Hence with him. 

Melch. (to the country people). This is too bad — shall we 
stand by and see 
Him dragged away before our very eyes? 

Sacris. We are the strongest. Friends, endure it 
not, 
Our countrymen will back us to a man. 

Friess. Who dares resist the governor's commands? 

Other Three Peasants (running in). We'll help you. 
What's the matter ? Down with them ! 

[Hildegard, Mechthild and Elsbeth return. 

Tell. Go, go, good people, I can help myself. 
Think you, had I a mind to use my strength, 
These pikes of theirs should daunt me? 

Melch. (to Friesshardt) . Only try — 

Try from our midst to force him, if you dare. 

Furst and Stauff. Peace, peace, friends ! 

Friess. (loudly). Riot! Insurrection, ho! 

[Hunting-horns without. 



428 SCHILLER 

Women. The Governor! 

Friess. (raising his voice). Rebellion! Mutiny! 
Stauff. Roar till you burst, knave ! 
Rossel. and Melch. Will you hold your tongue? 
Friess. (calling still louder). Help, help, I say, the serv- 
ants of the law ! 
Furst. The Viceroy here ! Then we shall smart for this ! 
[Enter Gessler on horseback, with a falcon on his 
■wrist: Rudolph der Harras, Bertha, and Rudenz, 
and a numerous train of armed attendants, who 
form a circle of lances round the whole stage. 
Har. Room for the Viceroy ! 

Gessl. Drive the clowns apart. 

Why throng the people thus? Who calls for help? 

[General silence. 
Who was it? I will know. [Friesshardt steps forward. 

And who art thou? 
And why hast thou this man in custody? 

[Friesshardt steps forward. 
Friess. Dread sir, I am a soldier of your guard, 
And station'd sentinel beside the cap ; 
This man I apprehended in the act 
Of passing it without obeisance due, 
So as you ordered, I arrested him, 
Whereon to rescue him the people tried. 

Gessl. (after a pause). And do you, Tell, so lightly hold 
your king, 
And me, who act as his viceregent here, 
That you refuse obeisance to the cap, 
I hung aloft to test your loyalty? 
I read in this a disaffected spirit. 

Tell. Pardon me, good my lord ! The action sprung 
From inadvertence, — not from disrespect. 
Were I discreet, I were not Wilhelm Tell. 
Forgive me now — I'll not offend again. 

Gessl. (after a pause). I hear, Tell, you're a master with 
the bow, — 
From every rival bear the palm away. 

Walt. That's very truth, sir ! At a hundred yards 
He'll shoot an apple for you off the tree. 



WILHELM TELL 429 

Gessl. Is that boy thine, Tell? 

Tell. Yes, my gracious lord. 

Gessl. Hast any more of them? 

Tell. Two boys, my lord. 

Gessl. And, of the two, which dost thou love the 
most? 

Tell. Sir, both the boys are dear to me alike. 

Gessl. Then, Tell, since at a hundred yards thou canst 
Bring down the apple from the tree, thou shalt 
Approve thy skill before me. Take thy bow — 
Thou hast it there at hand — make ready, then, 
To shoot an apple from the stripling's head! 
But take this counsel, — look well to thine aim, 
See, that thou hit'st the apple at the first, 
For, shouldst thou miss, thy head shall pay the forfeit. 

[All give signs of horror. 

Tell. What monstrous thing, my lord, is this you ask ? 
What ! from the head of mine own child ! — No, no ! 
It cannot be, kind sir, you meant not that — 
God, in His grace, forbid ! You could not ask 
A father seriously to do that thing ! 

Gessl. Thou art to shoot an apple from his head! 
I do desire — command it so. 

Tell. What, I ! 

Level my cross-bow at the darling head 
Of mine own child? No — rather let me die! 

Gessl. Or thou must shoot, or with thee dies the boy. 

Tell. Shall I become the murderer of my child ! 
You have no children, sir — you do not know 
The tender throbbings of a father's heart. 

Gessl. How now, Tell, on a sudden so discreet? 
I had been told thou wert a visionary, — 
A wanderer from the paths of common men. 
Thou lov'st the marvellous. So have I now 
Cull'd out for thee a task of special daring. 
Another man might pause and hesitate; — 
Thou dashest at it, heart and soul, at once. 

Berth. Oh, do not jest, my lord, with these poor souls! 
See, how they tremble, and how pale they look, 
So little used are they to hear thee jest. 



430 SCHILLER 

Gessl. Who tells thee that I jest? 

[Grasping a branch above his head. 
Here is the apple. 
Room there, I say ! And let him take his distance — 
Just eighty paces, — as the custom is, — 
Not an inch more or less ! It was his boast, 
That at a hundred he could hit his man. 
Now, archer, to your task, and look you miss not ! 

Har. Heavens ! this grows serious— down, boy, on your 
knees, 
And beg the governor to spare your life. 

Furst (aside to Melchthal, who can scarcely restrain his 
indignation). Command yourself, — be calm, I beg of 
you ! 

Bertha (to the governor). Let this suffice you, sir! It is 
inhuman 
To trifle with a father's anguish thus. 
Although this wretched man had forfeited 
Both life and limb for such a slight offence. 
Already has he suffer'd tenfold death. 
Send him away uninjured to his home; 
He'll know thee well in future ; and this hour 
He and his children's children will remember. 

Gessl. Open a way there — quick ! Why this delay ? 
Thy life is forfeited; I might dispatch thee, 
And see, I graciously repose thy fate 
Upon the skill of thine own practised hand. 
No cause has he to say his doom is harsh, 
Who's made the master of his destiny. 
Thou boastest thine unerring aim. 'Tis well ! 
Now is the fitting time to show thy skill ; 
The mark is worthy and the prize is great. 
To hit the bull's eye in the target ; — that 
Can many another do as well as thou ; 
But he, methinks, is master of his craft, 
Who can at all times on his skill rely, 
Nor lets his heart disturb or eye or hand. 

Furst. My lord, we bow to your authority; 
But oh, let justice yield to mercy here. 
Take half my property, nay, take it all, 



WILHELM TELL 431 

But spare a father this unnatural doom ! 

Walt. Grandfather, do not kneel to that bad man! 
Say, where am I to stand? I do not fear; 
My father strikes the bird upon the wing, 
And will not miss now when 'twould harm his boy ! 

Stauff. Does the child's innocence not touch your heart? 

Rossel. Bethink you, sir, there is a God in heaven, 
To whom you must account for all your deeds. 

Gessl. (pointing to the boy). Bind him to yonder lime 
tree ! 

Walter. What ! Bind me ? 
No, I will not be bound ! I will be still, 
Still as a lamb — nor even draw my breath! 
But if you bind me, I can not be still. 
Then I shall writhe and struggle with my bonds. 

Har. But let your eyes at least be bandaged, boy! 

Walt. And why my eyes ? No ! Do you think I fear 
An arrow from my father's hand ? Not I ! 
I'll wait it firmly, nor so much as wink! 
Quick, father, show them what my bow can do. 
He doubts thy skill — he thinks to ruin us. 
Shoot then and hit, though but to spite the tyrant ! 

[He goes to the lime tree, and an apple is placed on 
his head. 

Melch. (to the country people). What! Is this outrage to 
be perpetrated 
Before our very eyes? Where is our oath? 

Stauff. Resist we cannot ! Weapons we have none. 
And see the wood of lances round us ! See ! 

Melch. Oh ! would to heaven that we had struck at once ! 
God pardon those who counsell'd the delay ! 

Gessl. (to Tell). Now to your task! Men bear not 
arms for naught. 
To carry deadly tools is dangerous, 
And on the archer oft his shaft recoils. 
This right, these haughty peasant churls assume, 
Trenches upon their master's privileges: 
None should be armed, but those who bear command. 
It pleases you to carry bow and bolt ; — 
Well, — be it so. I will prescribe the mark. 



432 SCHILLER 

Tell (bends the bow, and fixes the arrow). A lane 

there ! Room ! 
Stauff. What, Tell? You would — no, no! 

You shake — your hand's unsteady — your knees tremble. 

Tell (letting the bow sink down). There's something 
swims before mine eyes ! 
Women. Great Heaven ! 

Tell. Release me from this shot ! Here is my heart ! 

[Tears open his breast. 
Summon your troopers — let them strike me down ! 

Gessl. 'Tis not thy life I want — I want the shot 
Thy talent's universal ! Nothing daunts thee ! 
The rudder thou canst handle like the bow ! 
No storms affright thee, when a life's at stake. 
Nov;, Saviour, help thyself, — thou savest all ! 

[Tell stands fearfully agitated by contending emo- 
tions, his hands moving convulsively, and his eyes 
turning alternately to the governor and Heaven. 
Suddenly he takes a second arrow from his quiver, 
and sticks it in his belt. The governor notes all 
he does. 
Walter (beneath the lime tree). Shoot, father, shoot! 
fear not ! 
Tell. It must be ! 

[Collects himself and levels the bow. 
Rud. (who all the while has been standing in a state of 
violent excitement, and has with difficulty restrained 
himself, advances). My lord, you will not urge this 
matter further; 
You will not. It was surely but a test. 
You've gained your object. Rigour push'd too far 
Is sure to miss its aim, however good, 
As snaps the bow that's all too straitly bent. 
Gessl. Peace, till your counsel's ask'd for ! 
Rud. I will speak! 

Ay, and I dare! I reverence my king; 
But acts like these must make his name abhorr'd. 
He sanctions not this cruelty. I dare 
Avouch the fact. And you outstep your powers 
In handling thus my harmless countrymen. 



WILHELM TELL 433 

Gessl. Ha ! thou grow'st bold, methinks ! 

Rud. I have been dumb 

To all the oppressions I was doomed to see. 
I've closed mine eyes to shut them from my view, 
Bade my rebellious, swelling heart be still, 
And pent its struggles down within my breast. 
But to be silent longer, were to be 
A traitor to my king and country both. 

Berth, (casting herself between him and the governor). 
Oh Heavens ! you but exasperate his rage ! 

Rud. My people I forsook — renounced my kindred — 
Broke all the ties of nature, that I might 
Attach myself to you. I madly thought 
That I should best advance the general weal 
By adding sinews to the Emperor's power. 
The scales have fallen from mine eyes — I see 
The fearful precipice on which I stand. 
You've led my youthful judgment far astray, — 
Deceived my honest heart. With best intent, 
I had well-nigh achiev'd my country's ruin. 

Gessl. Audacious boy, this language to thy lord? 

Rud. The Emperor is my lord, not you! I'm free. 
As you by birth, and I can cope with you 
In every virtue that beseems a knight. 
And if you stood not here in that King's name, 
Which I respect e'en where 'tis most abused, 
I'd throw my gauntlet down, and you should give 
An answer to my gage in knightly sort. 
Ay, beckon to your troopers ! Here I stand ; 
But not like these [Pointing to the people. 

— unarmed. I have a sword, 
And he that stirs one step — 

Stauff. (exclaims). The apple's down! 

[While the attention of the crowd has been directed 
to the spot where Bertha had cast herself be- 
tween Rudenz and Gessler, Tell has shot. 

Rossel. The boy's alive! 

Many Voices. The apple has been struck ! 

[Walter Furst staggers and is about to fall. Ber- 
tha supports him. 



434 SCHILLER 

Gessl. (astonished). How? Has he shot? The madman! 
Berth. Worthy father ! 

Pray you, compose yourself. The boy's alive. 
Walter (runs in with the apple). Here is the apple, 
father ! Well I knew 
You would not harm your boy 

[Tell stands with his body bent forwards, as if still 
following the arrow. His bow drops from his 
hand. When he sees the boy advancing, he 
hastens to meet him with open arms, and, embrac- 
ing him passionately, sinks down with him quite 
exhausted. All crowd round them deeply affected. 
Berth. Oh, ye kind Heavens ! 

Furst (to father and son). My children, my dear children ! 
Stauff. God be praised! 

Leuth. Almighty powers ! That was a shot indeed ! 
It will be talked of to the end of time. 

Har. This feat of Tell, the archer, will be told 
Long as these mountains stand upon their base. 

[Hands the apple to Gessler. 
Gessl. By Heaven ! the apple's cleft right through the core. 
It was a master shot, I must allow. 

Rossel. The shot was good. But woe to him who drove 
The man to tempt his God by such a feat ! 

Stauff. Cheer up, Tell, rise ! You've nobly freed yourself, 
And now may go in quiet to your home. 

Rossel. Come, to the mother let us bear her son ! 

[They are about to lead him off. 
Gessl. A word, Tell. 
Tell. Sir, your pleasure? 

Gessler. Thou didst place 

A second arrow in thy belt — nay, nay ! 
I saw it well. Thy purpose with it ? Speak ! 
Tell (confused). It is a custom with all archers, sir. 
Gessl. No, Tell, I cannot let that answer pass. 
There was some other motive, well I know. 
Frankly and cheerfully confess the truth; — 
Whate'er it be, I promise thee thy life. 
Wherefore the second arrow? 

Tell. Well, my lord, 



WILHELM TELL 435 

Since you have promised not to take my life, 
I will, without reserve, declare the truth. 

[He draws the arrow from his belt, and fixes his eyes 
sternly upon the governor. 
If that my hand had struck my darling child, 
This second arrow I had aimed at you, 
And, be assured, I should not then have miss'd. 

Gessl. Well, Tell, I promised thou shouldst have thy life ; 
I gave my knightly word, and I will keep it. 
Yet, as I know the malice of thy thoughts, 
I'll have thee carried hence, and safely penn'd, 
Where neither sun nor moon shall reach thine eyes. 
Thus from thy arrows I shall be secure. 
Seize on him, guards, and bind him ! [They bind him. 

Stauff. How, my lord — 

How can you treat in such a way a man 
On whom God's hand has plainly been reveal'd? 

Gessl. Well, let us see if it will save him twice ! 
Remove him to my ship ; I'll follow straight, 
At Kussnacht I will see him safely lodged. 

Rossel. You dare not do't. Nor durst the Emperor's self 
So violate our dearest chartered rights. 

Gessl. Where are they? Has the Emp'ror confirm'd 
them? 
He never has. And only by obedience 
May you that favour hope to win from him. 
You are all rebels 'gainst the Emp'ror's power, — 
And bear a desperate and rebellious spirit. 
I know you all — I see you through and through. 
Him do I single from amongst you now, 
But in his guilt you all participate. 
If you are wise, be silent and obey ! 

[Exit, followed by Bertha, Rudenz, Harras, and 
attendants. Friesshardt and Leuthold remain. 

Furst (in violent anguish). All's over now! He is re- 
solved to bring 
Destruction on myself and all my house. 

Stauff. (to Tell). Oh, why did you provoke the tyrant's 
rage? 

Tell. Let him be calm who feels the pangs I felt. 



436 SCHILLER 

Stauff. Alas ! alas ! Our every hope is gone. 
With you we all are fettered and enchain'd. 

Country People (surrounding Tell). Our last remaining 
comfort goes with you! 
Leuth. (approaching him). I'm sorry for you, Tell, but 

must obey. 
Tell. Farewell ! 
Walter Tell (clinging to him in great agony). Oh, father, 

father, father dear ! 
Tell (pointing to Heaven). Thy father is on high — ap- 
peal to Him ! 
Stauff. Have you no message, Tell, to send your wife? 
Tell, (clasping the boy passionately to his breast). The 
boy's uninjured; God will succour me! 

{Tears himself suddenly away, and follows the soldiers 
of the guard. 



ACT IV 

Scene I. — Eastern shore of the Lake of Lucerne; rugged and sin- 
gularly shaped rocks close the prospect to the west. The lake 
is agitated, violent roaring and rushing of wind, with thunder 
and lightning at intervals. 

Kunz of Gersau, Fisherman and Boy 

Kunz. I saw it with these eyes ! Believe me, friend, 
It happen'd all precisely as I've said. 

Fisher. How ! Tell a prisoner, and to Kiissnacht borne ? 
The best man in the land, the bravest arm, 
Had we for liberty to strike a blow ! 

Kunz. The Viceroy takes him up the lake in person: 
They were about to go on board, as I 
Started from Fliielen; but the gathering storm, 
That drove me here to land so suddenly, 
May well have hindered them from setting out. 

Fisher. Our Tell in chains, and in the Viceroy's power! 
O, trust me, Gessler will entomb him, where 
He never more shall see the light of day; 
For Tell once free, the tyrant well might dread 
The just revenge of one so deeply wrong'd. 



WILHELM TELL 437 

Kunz. The old Landamman, too— von Attinghaus — 
They say, is lying at the point of death. 

Fisher. Then the last anchor of our hopes gives way ! 
He was the only man that dared to raise 
His voice in favour of the people's rights. 

Kunz. The storm grows worse and worse. So, fare ye 
well! 
I'll go and seek out quarters in the village. 
There's not a chance of getting off to-day. [Exit. 

Fisher. Tell dragg'd to prison, and the Baron dead ! 
Now, tyranny, exalt thy brazen front, — 
Throw every shame aside ! Truth's voice is dumb ! 
The eye that watch'd for us, in darkness closed, 
The arm that should have stuck thee down, in chains ! 

Boy. 'Tis hailing hard — come, let us to the hut ! 
This is no weather to be out in, father ! 

Fisher. Rage on, ye winds ! Ye lightnings, flash your fires ! 
Burst, ye swollen clouds ! Ye cataracts of Heaven 
Descend, and drown the country ! In the germ 
Destroy the generations yet unborn ! 
Ye savage elements, be lords of all ! 
Return, ye bears : ye ancient wolves, return 
To this wide howling waste ! The land is yours. 
Who would live here, when liberty is gone ! 

Boy. Hark ! How the wind whistles, and the whirlpool 
roars, 
I never saw a storm so fierce as this ! 

Fisher. To level at the head of his own child ! 
Never had father such command before. 
And shall not nature, rising in wild wrath, 
Revolt against the deed? I should not marvel, 
Though to the lake these rocks should bow their heads, 
Though yonder pinnacles, yon towers of ice, 
That, since creation's dawn, have known no thaw, 
Should, from their lofty summits, melt away, — 
Though yonder mountains, yon primeval cliffs, 
Should topple down, and a new deluge whelm 
Beneath its waves all living men's abodes ! 

[Bells heard. 

Boy. Hark, they are ringing on the mountain, yonder ! 



438 SCHILLER 

They surely see some vessel in distress. 

And toll the bell that we may pray for it. [Ascends a rock. 

Fisher. Woe to the bark that now pursues its course, 
Rock'd in the cradle of these storm-tost waves ! 
Nor helm nor steersman here can aught avail; 
The storm is master. Man is like a ball, 
Toss'd 'twixt the winds and billows. Far or near, 
No haven offers him its friendly shelter ! 
Without one ledge to grasp, the sheer smooth rocks 
Look down inhospitably on his despair, 
And only tender him their flinty breasts. 

Boy (calling from above). Father, a ship: from Fluelen 
bearing down. 

Fisher. Heaven pity the poor wretches ! When the storm 
Is once entangled in this strait of ours, 
It rages like some savage beast of prey, 
Struggling against its cage's iron bars ! 
Howling, it seeks an outlet — all in vain ; 
For the rocks hedge it round on every side, 
Walling the narrow gorge as high as Heaven. 

[He ascends a cliff 

Boy. It is the Governor of Uri's ship ; 
By its red poop I know it, and the flag. 

Fisher. Judgments of Heaven ! Yes, it is he himself, 
It is the Governor ! Yonder he sails, 
And with him bears the burden of his crimes. 
The avenger's arm has not been slow to strike ! 
Now over him he knows a mightier lord. 
These waves yield no obedience to his voice. 
These rocks bow not their heads before his cap. 
Boy, do not pray ; stay not the Judge's arm ! 

Boy. I pray not for the Governor, I pray 
For Tell, who's with him there on board the ship. 

Fisher. Alas, ye blind, unreasoning elements ! 
Must ye, in punishing one guilty head, 
Destroy the vessel and the pilot too? 

Boy. See, see, they've clear'd the Buggisgrat ;™ but 
now 
The blast, rebounding from the Devil's Minster, 20 

20 Rocks on the shore of the Lake of Lucerne. 



WILHELM TELL 439 

Has driven them back on the Great Axenberg. 20 
I cannot see them now. 

Fisher. The Hakmesser 20 

Is there, that's founder'd many a gallant ship. 
If they should fail to double that with skill, 
Their bark will go to pieces on the rocks, 
That hide their jagged peaks below the lake. 
The best of pilots, boy, they have on board. 
If man could save them, Tell is just the man, 
But he is manacled both hand and foot. 

[.Enter Wilh elm Tell, with his cross-bow. He enters 
precipitately, looks wildly round, and testifies the 
most violent agitation. When he reaches the 
centre of the stage, he throws himself upon his 
knees, and stretches out his hands, first towards 
the earth, then towards Heaven. 
Boy (observing him). See, father! A man on's knees, 

who can it be? 
Fisher. He clutches at the earth with both his hands, 
And looks as though he were beside himself. 

Boy (advancing). What do I see? Come father, come and 

look ! 
Fisher, (approaches) . Who is it? God in Heaven! What! 

Wilhelm Tell ! 
How came you hither ? Speak, Tell ! 
Boy. Were you not 

In yonder ship, a prisoner, and in chains ? 
Fisher. Were they not carrying you to Kiissnacht, 

Tell? 
Tell (rising). I am released. 

Fisher, and Boy. Released, oh miracle ! 

Boy. Whence came you here? 

Tell. From yonder vessel ! 

Fisher. What? 

Boy. Where is the Viceroy? 

Tell. Drifting on the waves. 

Fisher. Is't possible ? But you ! How are you here ? 
How 'scaped you from your fetters and the storm ? 
Tell. By God's most gracious providence. Attend. 
Fisher, and Boy. Say on, say on ! 



440 SCHILLER 

Tell. You know what passed at Altdorf. 

Fisher. I do — say on ! 

Tell. How I was seized and bound, 

And order 'd by the governor to Kiissnacht. 

Fisher. And how at Fliielen he embarked with you. 
All this we know. Say, how have you escaped? 

Tell. I lay on deck, fast bound with cords, disarm'd, 
In utter hopelessness. I did not think 
Again to see the gladsome light of day, 
Nor the dear faces of my wife and boys, 
And eyed disconsolate the waste of waters. — 

Fisher. Oh, wretched man ! 

Tell. Then we put forth ; the Viceroy, 

Rudolph der Harras, and their suite. My bow 
And quiver lay astern beside the helm ; 
And just as we had reached the corner, near 
The little Axen/ 11 Heaven ordain'd it so, 
That from the Gotthardt's gorge, a hurricane 
Swept down upon us with such headlong force, 
That every oarsman's heart within him sank, 
And all on board look'd for a watery grave. 
Then heard I one of the attendant train, 
Turning to Gessler, in this wise accost him: 
" You see our danger, and your own, my lord, 
And that we hover on the verge of death. 
The boatmen there- are powerless from fear, 
Nor are they confident what course to take; — 
Now, here is Tell, a stout and fearless man, 
And knows to steer with more than common skill, 
How if we should avail ourselves of him 
In this emergency?" The Viceroy then 
Address'd me thus : " If thou wilt undertake 
To bring us through this tempest safely, Tell, 
I might consent to free thee from thy bonds." 
I answer'd, " Yes, my lord ; so help me God, 
I'll see what can be done." On this they loosed 
The cords that bound me, and I took my place 
Beside the helm, and steered as best I could, 
Yet ever eyed my shooting gear askance, 

21 A rock on the shore of the Lake of Lucerne. 



WILHELM TELL 441 

And kept a watchful eye upon the shore, 
To find some point where I might leap to land; 
And when I had descried a shelving crag, 
That jutted, smooth atop, into the lake — 

Fisher. I know it. At the foot of the Great Axen ; 
So steep it looks, I never could have dreamt 
That from a boat a man could leap to it. 

Tell. I bade the men to row with all their force 
Until we came before the shelving ledge. 
For there, I said, the danger will be past ! 
Stoutly they pull'd, and soon we near'd the point; 
One prayer to God for His assisting grace, 
And, straining every muscle, I brought round 
The vessel's stern close to the rocky wall ; 
Then snatching up my weapons, with a bound 
I swung myself upon the flattened shelf, 
And with my feet thrust off, with all my might. 
The puny bark into the watery hell. 
There left it drift about, as Heaven ordains ! 
Thus am I here, deliver'd from the might 
Of the dread storm, and man's more dreadful still. 

Fisher. Tell, Tell, the Lord has manifestly wrought 
A miracle in thy behalf ! I scarce 
Can credit my own eyes. But tell me, now, 
Whither you purpose to betake yourself ? 
For you will be in peril, should perchance 
The Viceroy 'scape this tempest with his life. 

Tell. I heard him say, as I lay bound on board, 
At Brunnen he proposed to disembark, 
And, crossing Schwytz, convey me to his castle. 

Fisher. Means he to go by land? 

Tell. So he intends. 

Fisher. Oh, then conceal yourself without delay ! 
Not twice will Heaven release you from his grasp. 

Tell. Which is the nearest way to Arth and Kussnacht? 

Fisher. The public road leads by the way of Steinen, 
But there's a nearer road, and more retired, 
That goes by Lowerz, which my boy can show you. 

Tell (gives him his hand). May Heaven reward your 
kindness ! Fare ye well. [As he is going, he comes back. 



442 SCHILLER 

Did not you also take the oath at Rootli ? 
I heard your name, methinks. 

Fisher. Yes, I was there, 

And took the oath of the confederacy. 

Tell. Then do me this one favour; speed to Biirglen — 
My wife is anxious at my absence — tell her 
That I am free, and in secure concealment. 

Fisher. But whither shall I tell her you have fled? 

Tell. You'll find her father with her, and some more, 
Who took the oath with you upon the Rootli ; 
Bid them be resolute, and strong of heart, — 
For Tell is free and master of his arm; 
They shall hear further news of me ere long. 

Fisher. What have you, then, in view? Come, tell me 
frankly ! 

Tell. When once 'tis done, 'twill be in every mouth. [Exit. 

Fisher. Show him the way, boy. Heaven be his support ! 
Whate'er he has resolved, he'll execute. [Exit. 

Scene II. — Baronial mansion of Attinghausen. The Baron upon a 
couch dying. Walter Furst, Stauffacher, Melchthal, and 
Baumgarten attending round him. Walter Tell kneeling 
before the dying man 

Furst. All now is over with him. He is gone. 
Stauff. He lies not like one dead. The feather, see, 
Moves on his lips ! His sleep is very calm, 
And on his features plays a placid smile. 

[Baumgarten goes to the door and speaks with some 
one. 
Furst. Who's there? 

Baum. {returning). Tell's wife, your daughter, she insists 
That she must speak with you, and see her boy. 

[Walter Tell rises. 
Furst. I who need comfort — can I comfort her? 
Does every sorrow centre on my head? 

Hedw. {forcing her way in). Where is my child? un- 
hand me ! I must see him. 
Stauff. Be calm ! Reflect, you're in the house of death ! 
Hedw. {falling upon her boy's neck). My Walter! Oh, 
he yet is mine ! 



WILHELM TELL 443 

Walt. Dear mother ! 

Hedw. And is it surely so ? Art thou unhurt ? 

[Gazing at him with anxious tenderness. 
And is it possible he aim'd at thee? 
How could he do it? Oh, he has no heart — 
And he could wing an arrow at his child ! 

Furst. His soul was rack'd with anguish when he did it. 
No choice was left him, but to shoot or die ! 

Hedw. Oh, if he had a father's heart, he would 
Have sooner perish'd by a thousand deaths ! 

Stauff. You should be grateful for God's gracious care, 
That ordered things so well. 

Hedw. Can I forget 

What might have been the issue? God of Heaven, 
Were I to live for centuries, I still 
Should see my boy tied up, — his father's mark, — 
And still the shaft would quiver in my heart. 

Melch. You know not how the Viceroy taunted him ! 

Hedw. Oh, ruthless heart of man ! Offend his pride, 
And reason in his breast forsakes her seat ; 
In his blind wrath he'll stake upon a cast 
A child's existence, and a mother's heart ! 

Baum. Is then your husband's fate not hard enough, 
That you embitter it by such reproaches? 
Have you not feeling for his sufferings? 

Hedw. (turning to him and gazing full upon him). 
Hast thou tears only for thy friend's distress? 
Say, where were you when he — my noble Tell — 
Was bound in chains? Where was your friendship then? 
The shameful wrong was done before your eyes; 
Patient you stood, and let your friend be dragg'd, 
Ay, from your very hands. Did ever Tell 
Act thus to you? Did he stand whining by, 
When on your heels the Viceroy's horsemen press'd, 
And full before you roared the storm-toss'd lake? 
Oh not with idle tears his pity show'd; 
Into the boat he sprang, forgot his home, 
His wife, his children, and delivered thee ! 

Furst. It had been madness to attempt his rescue, 
Unarm'd and few in numbers as we were? 



444 SCHILLER 

Hedw. (casting herself upon his bosom). 
Oh, father, and thou, too, hast lost my Tell ! 
The country — all have lost him ! All lament 
His loss ; and, oh, how he must pine for us ! 
Heaven keep his soul from sinking to despair ! 
No friend's consoling voice can penetrate 
His dreary dungeon walls. Should he fall sick ! 
Ah ! In the vapours of the murky vault 
He must fall sick. Even as the Alpine rose 
Grows pale and withers in the swampy air, 
There is no life for him, but in the sun, 
And in the breath of Heaven's fresh-blowing airs. 
Imprison'd ! Liberty to him is breath ; 
He cannot live in the rank dungeon air ! 

Stauff. Pray you be calm ! And hand in hand we'll all 
Combine to burst his prison doors. 

Hedw. He gone. 

What have you power to do? While Tell was free, 
There still, indeed, was hope — weak innocence 
Had still a friend, and the oppress'd a stay. 
Tell saved you all ! You cannot all combined 
Release him from his cruel prison bonds. 

[The Baron wakes. 

Baum. Hush, hush ! He starts ! 

Atting. (sitting up). Where is he? 

Stauff. Who ? 

Atting. He leaves me, — 

In my last moments he abandons me. 

Stauff. He means his nephew. Have they sent for him? 

Furst. He has been summoned. Cheerly, sir ! Take com- 
fort ! 
He has found his heart at last, and is our own. 

Atting. Say, has he spoken for his native land? 

Stauff. Ay, like a hero ! 

Atting. Wherefore comes he not, 

That he may take my blessing ere I die ? 
I feel my life fast ebbing to a close. 

Stauff. Nay, talk not thus, dear sir ! This last short sleeg 
Has much refresh'd you, and your eye is bright. 

Atting. Life is but pain, and that has left me now; 



WILHELM TELL 445 

My sufferings, like my hopes, have pass'd away. 

[Observing the boy. 
What boy is that? 

Furst. Bless him. Oh, good my lord ! 

He is my grandson, and is fatherless. 

[Hedwig kneels with the boy before the dying man. 

Atting. And fatherless — I leave you all, ay, all ! 
Oh wretched fate, that these old eyes should see 
My country's ruin, as they close in death ! 
Must I attain the utmost verge of life, 
To feel my hopes go with me to the grave ? 

Stauff. (to Furst). Shall he depart 'mid grief and gloom 
like this? 
Shall not his parting moments be illumed 
By hope's inspiring beams? My noble lord, 
Raise up your drooping spirit ! We are not 
Forsaken quite — past all deliverance. 

Atting. Who shall deliver you ? 

Furst. Ourselves. For know, 

The Cantons three are to each other pledged, 
To hunt the tyrants from the land. The league 
Has been concluded, and a sacred oath 
Confirms our union. Ere another year 
Begins its circling course — the blow shall fall. 
In a free land your ashes shall repose. 

Atting. The league concluded ! Is it really so ? 

Melch. On one day shall the Cantons rise together. 
All is prepared to strike — and to this hour 
The secret closely kept, though hundreds share it; 
The ground is hollow 'neath the tyrants' feet; 
Their days of rule are number'd, and ere long 
No trace will of their hateful sway be left. 

Atting. Ay, but their castles, how to master them? 

Melch. On the same day they, too, are doom'd to fall. 

Atting. And are the nobles parties to this league? 

Stauff. We trust to their assistance, should we 
need it; 
As yet the peasantry alone have sworn. 

Atting. (raising himself up in great astonishment). And 
have the peasantry dared such a deed 



446 SCHILLER 

On their own charge, without the nobles' aid — 
Relied so much on their own proper strength? 
Nay then, indeed, they want our help no more ; 
We may go down to death cheer'd by the thought, 
That after us the majesty of man 
Will live, and be maintain'd by other hands. 

[He lays his hand upon the head of the child who 
is kneeling before him. 
From this boy's head, whereon the apple lay, 
Your new and better liberty shall spring; 
The old is crumbling down — the times are changing — 
And from the ruins blooms a fairer life. 

Stauff. (to Furst). See, see, what splendour streams 
around his eye ! 
This is not Nature's last expiring flame, 
It is the beam of renovated life. 

Atting. From their old towers the nobles are descending, 
And swearing in the towns the civic oath. 
In Uechtland and Thurgau the work's begun; 
The noble Berne lifts her commanding head, 
And Freyburg is a stronghold of the free; 
The stirring Zurich calls her guilds to arms; — 
And now, behold ! — the ancient might of kings 
Is shiver'd 'gainst her everlasting walls. 

[He speaks what follows with a prophetic tone; his 
utterance rising into enthusiasm. 
I see the princes and their haughty peers, 
Clad all in steel, come striding on to crush 
A harmless shepherd race with mailed hand. 
Desp'rate the conflict; 'tis for life or death; 
And many a pass will tell to after years 
Of glorious victories sealed in foeman's blood. 22 
The peasant throws himself with naked breast, 
A willing victim on their serried spears; 

22 An allusion to the gallant self-devotion of Arnold Struthan of Winkel- 
ried, at the battle of Sempach [9th July, 1386], who broke the Austrian 
phalanx by rushing on their lances, grasping as many of them as he could 
reach, and concentrating them upon his breast. The confederates rushed 
forward through the gap thus opened by the sacrifice of their comrade, 
broke and cut down their enemy's ranks, and soon became the masters 
of the field. " Dear and faithful confederates, I will open you a passage. 
Protect my wife and children," were the words of Winkelried, as he 
rushed to death. 



WILHELM TELL 447 

They yield — the flower of chivalry's cut down, 
And Freedom waves her conquering banner high. 

[Grasps the hands of Walter Furst and Stauf- 

FACHER. 

Hold fast together, then, — for ever fast! 
Let freedom's haunts be one in heart and mind ! 
Set watches on your mountain tops, that league 
May answer league, when comes the hour to strike. 
Be one — be one — be one — 

[He falls back upon the cushion. His lifeless hands 
continue to grasp those of Furst and Stauf- 
facher, who regard him for some moments in 
silence, and then retire, overcome with sorrow. 
Meanwhile the servants have quietly pressed into 
the chamber, testifying different degrees of grief. 
Some kneel down beside him and weep on his 
body: while this scene is passing, the castle bell 
tolls. 
Rud. (entering hurriedly). Lives he? Oh say, can he 

still hear my voice? 
Furst. (averting his face). You are our seignior and 
protector now; 
Henceforth this castle bears another name. 
Rud. (gazing at the body with deep emotion). Oh, God! 
Is my repentance, then, too late? 
Could he not live some few brief moments more, 
To see the change that has come o'er my heart? 
Oh, I was deaf to his true counselling voice, 
While yet he walked on earth. Now he is gone, — 
Gone, and for ever, — leaving me the debt — 
The heavy debt I owe him — undischarged ! 
Oh, tell me ! did he part in anger with me ? 

Stauff. When dying, he was told what you had done, 
And bless'd the valour that inspired your words ! 
Rud. (kneeling down beside the dead body). Yes, sacred 
relics of a man beloved! 
Thou lifeless corpse ! Here, on thy death-cold hand 
Do I abjure all foreign ties for ever ! 
And to my country's cause devote myself. 
I am a Switzer, and will act as one, 



448 SCHILLER 

With my whole heart and soul. [Rises, 

Mourn for our friend, 
Our common parent, yet be not dismay'd ! 
'Tis not alone his lands that I inherit, — 
His heart — his spirit, have devolved on me ; 
And my young arm shall execute the task, 
Which in his hoary age he could not pay. 
Give me your hands, ye venerable sires ! 
Thine, Melchthal, too ! Nay, do not hesitate, 
Nor from me turn distrustfully away. 
Accept my plighted vow — my knightly oath ! 

Furst. Give him your hands, my friends ! A heart like 
his, 
That sees and owns its error, claims our trust. 

Melch. You ever held the peasantry in scorn, 
What surety have we, that you mean us fair? 

Rud. Oh, think not of the error of my youth ! 

Stauff. (to Melch.). Be one! They were our father's 
latest words. 
See they be not forgotten ! 

Melch. Take my hand, — 

A peasant's hand, — and with it, noble sir, 
The gage and the assurance of a man ! 
Without us, sir, what would the nobles be ? 
Our order is more ancient, too, than yours ! 

Rud. I honour it — will shield it with my sword ! 

Melch. The arm, my lord, that tames the stubborn earth, 
And makes its bosom blossom with increase, 
Can also shield its owner's breast at need. 

Rud. Then you shall shield my breast, and I will yours, 
Thus each be strengthen'd by the other's strength. 
Yet wherefore talk ye, while our native land 
Is still to alien tyranny a prey? 
First let us sweep the foemen from the soil, 
Then reconcile our difference in peace ! 

[After a moment's pause. 
How! You are silent! Not a word for me? 
And have I yet no title to your trust? — 
Then must I force my way, despite your will, 
Into the League you secretly have form'd. 



WILHELM TELL 449 

You've held a Diet on the Rootli, — I 
Know this, — know all that was transacted there; 
And though not trusted with your secret, I 
Have kept it closely like a sacred pledge. 
Trust me — I never was my country's foe, 
Nor would I ever have against you stood ! 
Yet you did wrong — to put your rising off. 
Time presses ! We must strike, and swiftly too ! 
Already Tell is lost through your delay. 

Stauff. We swore that we should wait till Christmastide. 

Rud. I was not there, — I did not take the oath. 
If you delay, I will not ! 

Melch. What ! You would — 

Rud. I count me now among the country's chiefs, 
And my first duty is to guard your rights. 

Furst. Your nearest and holiest duty is 
Within the earth to lay these dear remains. 

Rud. When we have set the country free, we'll place 
Our fresh victorious wreaths upon his bier. 
Oh, my dear friends, 'tis not your cause alone ! — 
I with the tyrants have a cause to fight, 
That more concerns myself. My Bertha's gone, 
Has disappear'd, — been carried off by stealth, — 
Stolen from amongst us by their ruffian hands ! 

Stauff. So fell an outrage has the tyrant dared 
Against a lady free and nobly born ! 

Rud. Alas ! my friends, I promised help to you, 
And I must first implore it for myself ! 
She that I love, is stolen — is forced away, 
And who knows where she's by the tyrant hid, 
Or with what outrages his ruffian crew 
May force her into nuptials she detests? 
Forsake me not ! — Oh, help me to her rescue ! 
She loves you ! Well, oh well, has she deserved, 
That all should rush to arms in her behalf ! 

Stauff. What course do you propose? 

Rud. Alas ! I know not. 

In the dark mystery that shrouds her fate, — 
In the dread agony of this suspense, — 
Where I can grasp at nought of certainty,—* 

vol. xxvi — is HC 



450 SCHILLER 

One single ray of comfort beams upon me. 
From out the ruins of the tyrant's power 
Alone can she be rescued from the grave. 
Their strongholds must be levell'd, every one, 
Ere we can penetrate her dungeon walls. 

Melch. Come, lead us on! We follow! Why defer 
Until to-morrow, what to-day may do? 
Tell's arm was free when we at Rootli swore. 
This foul enormity was yet undone. 
And change of circumstance brings change of vow; 
Who such a coward as to waver still ? 

Rud. (to Walter Furst). Meanwhile to arms, and wait 
in readiness 
The fiery signal on the mountain tops ! 
For swifter than a boat can scour the lake 
Shall you have tidings of our victory ; 
And when you see the welcome flames ascend 
Then, like the lightning, swoop upon the foe, 
And lay the despots and their creatures low ! 

Scene III. — The pass near Kiissnacht, sloping down from behind, 
with rocks on either side. The travellers are visible upon the 
heights, before they appear on the stage. Rocks all round the 
stage. Upon one of the foremost a projecting cliff overgrown 
with brushwood 

Tell, (enters with his cross-bow). Through this ravine 
he needs must come. There is 
No other way to Kiissnacht. Here I'll do it! 
The ground is everything I could desire. 
Yon elder bush will hide me from his view, 
And from that point my shaft is sure to hit. 
The straitness of the gorge forbids pursuit. 
Now, Gessler, balance thine account with Heaven! 
Thou must away from earth, — thy sand is run. 

Quiet and harmless was the life I led, 
My bow was bent on forest game alone ; 
No thoughts of murder rested on my soul. 
But thou hast scared me from my dream of peace; 
The milk of human kindness thou hast turn'd 



WILHELM TELL 451 

To rankling poison in my breast ; and made 
Appalling deeds familiar to my soul. 
He who could make his own child's head his mark, 
Can speed his arrow to his foeman's heart. 

My boys, poor innocents, my loyal wife, 
Must be protected, tyrant, from thy rage ! 
When last I drew my bow — with trembling hand — 
And thou, with fiendishly remorseless glee 
Forced me to level at my own boy's head, 
When I, imploring pity, writhed before thee, 
Then in the anguish of my soul, I vow'd 
A fearful oath, which met God's ear alone, 
That when my bow next wing'd an arrow's flight, 
Its aim should be thy heart. The vow I made, 
Amid the hellish torments of that moment. 
I hold a sacred debt, and I will pay it. 

Thou art my lord, my Emperor's delegate; 
Yet would the Emperor not have stretch'd his power, 
So far as thou hast done. He sent thee here 
To deal forth law — stern law — for he is wroth; 
But not to wanton with unbridled will 
In every cruelty, with fiend-like joy: — 
There lives a God to punish and avenge. 

Come forth, thou bringer once of bitter pangs, 
My precious jewel now, — my chief est treasure — 
A mark I'll set thee, which the cry of grief 
Could never penetrate, — but thou shalt pierce it, — 
And thou, my trusty bowstring, that so oft 
For sport has served me faithfully and well, 
Desert me not in this dread hour of need, — 
Only be true this once, my own good cord, 
That hast so often wing'd the biting shaft: — 
For shouldst thou fly successless from my hand, 
I have no second to send after thee. 

[Travellers pass over the stage. 

I'll sit me down upon this bench of stone, 
Hewn for the way-worn traveller's brief repose — 



452 SCHILLER 

For here there is no home. Men hurry past 

Each other, with quick step and careless look, 

Nor stay to question of their grief. Here goes 

The merchant, all anxiety, — the pilgrim, 

With scanty furnished scrip, — the pious monk, 

The scowling robber, and the jovial player, 

The carrier with his heavy-laden horse, 

That comes to us from the far haunts of men; 

For every road conducts to the world's end. 

They all push onwards — every man intent 

On his own several business — mine is murder. [Sits down. 

Time was, my dearest children, when with joy 
You hail'd your father's safe return to home 
From his long mountain toils ; for, when he came 
He ever brought with him some little gift, — 
A lovely Alpine flower — a curious bird — 
Or elf-bolt such as on the hills are found. 
But now he goes in quest of other game, 
Sits in this gorge, with murder in his thoughts, 
And for his enemy's life-blood lies in wait. 
But still it is of you alone he thinks, 
Dear children. 'Tis to guard your innocence, 
To shield you from the tyrant's fell revenge, 
He bends his bow to do a deed of blood ! [Rises. 

Well — I am watching for a noble prey — 
Does not the huntsman, with unflinching heart, 
Roam for whole days, when winter frosts are keen, 
Leap at the risk of death from rock to rock, — 
And climb the jagged, slippery steeps, to which 
His limbs are glued by his own streaming blood — 
And all to hunt a wretched chamois down ? 
A far more precious prize is now my aim — 
The heart of that dire foe, who seeks my life. 

[Sprightly music heard in the distance, which comes 
gradually nearer. 

From my first years of boyhood I have used 
The bow — been practised in the archer's feats; 



WILHELM TELL 453 

The bull's eye many a time my shafts have hit, 
And many a goodly prize have I brought home 
From competitions. But this day I'll make 
My master-shot, and win what's best to win 
In the whole circuit of our mountain range. 

{A bridal party passes over the stage,, and goes up 
the pass. Tell gazes at it, leaning on his bow. 
He is joined by Stussi the Ranger. 

Stussi. There goes the cloister bailiff's bridal train 
Of Morlischachen. A rich fellow he ! 
And has some half score pastures on the Alps. 
He goes to fetch his bride from Imisee. 
At Kiissnacht there will be high feast to-night — 
Come with us — ev'ry honest man is asked. 

Tell. A gloomy guest fits not a wedding feast. 

Stussi. If you've a trouble, dash it from your heart ! 
Take what Heaven sends ! The times are heavy now, 
And we must snatch at pleasure as it flies. 
Here 'tis a bridal, there a burial. 

Tell. And oft the one close on the other treads. 

Stussi. So runs the world we live in. Everywhere 
Mischance befalls and misery enough. 
In Glarus there has been a landslip, and 
A whole side of the Glarnisch has fallen in. 

Tell. How ! Do the very hills begin to quake ? 
There is stability for nought on earth. 

Stussi. Of strange things, too, we hear from other parts. 
I spoke with one but now, from Baden come, 
Who said a knight was on his way to court, 
And, as he rode along, a swarm of wasps 
Surrounded him, and settling on his horse, 
So fiercely stung the beast, that it fell dead, 
And he proceeded to the court on foot. 

Tell. The weak are also furnish'd with a sting. 

Armgart (enters with several children, and places herself 
at the entrance of the pass). 

Stussi. 'Tis thought to bode disaster to the land, — 
Some horrid deeds against the course of nature. 

Tell. Why, every day brings forth such fearful deeds; 
There needs no prodigy to herald them. 



454 SCHILLER 

Stussi. Ay, happy he, who tills his field in peace, 
And sits at home untroubled with his kin. 

Tell. The very meekest cannot be at peace 
If his ill neighbour will not let him rest. 

[Tell looks frequently with restless expectation 
towards the top of the' pass. 

Stussi. So fare you well! You're waiting some one 
here? 

Tell. I am. 

Stussi. God speed you safely to your home ! 

You are from Uri, are you not? His grace 
The governor's expected thence to-day. 

Traveller (entering) . Look not to see the governor to-day. 
The streams are flooded by the heavy rains, 
And all the bridges have been swept away. [Tell rises. 

Arm. (coming forward). Gessler not coming? 

Stussi. Want you aught with him? 

Arm. Alas, I do ! 

Stussi. Why, then, thus place yourself 

Where you obstruct his passage down the pass? 

Arm. Here he cannot escape me. He must hear me. 

Friess. (coming hastily down the pass and calls upon 
the stage). Make way, make way! My lord, the 
governor, 
Is close behind me, riding down the pass. [Exit Tell. 

Arm. (excitedly). The Viceroy comes ! 

[She goes towards the pass with her children, Gessler 
and Rudolph der Harra: appear on horse-back at 
the upper end of the pass. 

Stussi (to Friess.). How got ye through the stream, 
When all the bridges have been carried down? 
Friess. We've fought, friend, with the tempest on the 
lake; 
An Alpine torrent's nothing after that. 

Stussi. How ! Were you out, then, in that dreadful 

storm ? 
Friess. We were ! I'll not forget it while I live. 
Stussi. Stay, speak — 



WILHELM TELL 455 

Friess. I can't — must to the castle haste, 

And tell them, that the governor's at hand. [Exit. 

Stussi. If honest men, now, had been in the ship. 
It had gone down with every soul on board: — 
Some folks are proof 'gainst fire and water both. 

[Looking round. 
Where has the huntsman gone with whom I spoke? [Exit. 

Enter Gessler and Rudolph der Harras on horseback. 

Gessl. Say what you will; I am the Emperor's liege, 
And how to please him my first thought must be. 
He did not send me here to fawn and cringe, 
And coax these boors into good humour. No ! 
Obedience he must have. The struggle's this : 
Is king or peasant to be sovereign here? 

Arm. Now is the moment ! Now for my petition ! 

Gessl. 'Twas not in sport that I set up the cap 
In Altdorf — or to try the people's hearts — 
All this I knew before. I set it up 
That they might learn to bend those stubborn necks 
They carry far too proudly — and I placed 
What well I knew their pride could never brook 
Full in the road, which they perforce must pass, 
That, when their eye fell on it, they might call 
That lord to mind whom they too much forget. 

Har. But surely, sir, the people have some rights — 

Gessl. This is no time to settle what they are. 
Great projects are at work, and hatching now. 
The Imperial house seeks to extend its power. 
Those vast designs of conquest which the sire 
Has gloriously begun, the son will end. 
This petty nation is a stumbling-block — 
One way or other, it must be put down. 

[They are about to pass on. Armgart throws herself 
down before Gessler. 

Arm. Mercy, lord governor ! Oh, pardon, pardon ! 
Gessl. Why do you cross me on the public road? 
Stand back, I say. 
Arm. My husband lies in prison; 



456 SCHILLER 

My wretched orphans cry for bread. Have pity, 
Pity, my lord, upon our sore distress ! 

Har. Who are you? and your husband, what is he? 

Arm. A poor wild hay-man of the Rigiberg, 
Kind sir, who on the brow of the abyss, 
Mows the unowner'd grass from craggy shelves, 
To which the very cattle dare not climb. 

Har. (to Gessl.). 
By Heaven ! a sad and pitiable life ! 
I pray you set the wretched fellow free. 
How great soever may be his offence, 
His horrid trade is punishment enough. 

[To Armgart. 
You shall have justice. To the castle bring 
Your suit. This is no place to deal with it. 

Arm. No, no, I will not stir from where I stand, 
Until your grace gives me my husband back. 
Six months already has he been shut up, 
And waits the sentence of a judge in vain. 

Gessl. How ! would you force me, woman ? Hence ! 
Begone ! 

Arm. Justice, my lord ! Ay, justice ! Thou art judge : 
Vice-regent of the Emperor — of Heaven. 
Then do thy duty, — as thou hopest for justice 
From Him who rules above, show it to us ! 

Gessl. Hence ! Drive this insolent rabble from my 
sight ! 

Arm. (seising his horse's reins). 
No, no, by Heaven, I've nothing more to lose — 
Thou stir'st not, Viceroy, from this spot, until 
Thou dost me fullest justice. Knit thy brows, 
And roll thine eyes — I fear not. Our distress 
Is so extreme, so boundless, that we care 
No longer for thine anger. 

Gessl. Woman, hence! 

Give way, or else my horse shall ride you down. 

Arm. Well, let it! — there — 

[Throivs her children and herself upon the ground 
before him. 

Here on the ground I lie, 



WILHELM TELL 457 

I and my children. Let the wretched orphans 
Be trodden by thy horse into the dust ! 
It will not be the worst that thou hast done. 
Har. Are you mad, woman? 

Arm. {continuing with vehemence). Many a day thou 
hast 
Trampled the Emperor's lands beneath thy feet. 
Oh, I am but a woman ! Were I man, 
I'd find some better thing to do, than here 
Lie grovelling in the dust. 

[The music of the bridal party is again he'ard from 
the top of the pass, but more softly. 
Gessl. Where are my knaves? 

Drag her away, lest I forget myself, 
And do some deed I may repent me of. 

Har. My lord, the servants cannot force their way; 
The pass is block'd up by a. bridal train. 

Gessl. Too mild a ruler am I to this people, 
Their tongues are all too bold — nor have they yet 
Been tamed to due submission, as they shall be. 
I must take order for the remedy ; 
I will subdue this stubborn mood of theirs, 
This braggart spirit of freedom I will crush, 
I will proclaim a new law through the land; 
I will— 

[An arrow pierces him, — he puts his hand on his 
heart and is about to sink — with a feeble voice. 
Oh God, have mercy on my soul ! 
Har. My lord! my lord! Oh God! What's this? 

Whence came it? 
Arm. (starts up). Dead, dead! He reels, he falls ! 'Tis 

in his heart ! 
Har. (springs from his horse). Horror of horrors! 
Heavenly powers ! Sir knight, 
Address yourself for mercy to your God! 
You are a dying man. 

Gessl. That shot was Tell's. 

[He slides from his horse into the arms of Rudolph 
der Harras, who lays him down upon the bench. 
Tell appears above upon the rocks. 



458 SCHILLER 

Tell. Thou know'st the marksman — I, and I alone. 
Now are our homesteads free, and innocence 
From thee is safe : thou'lt be our curse no more. 

[Tell disappears. People rush in. 
Stussi. What is the matter ? Tell me what has happen'd ? 
Arm. The Viceroy's shot, — pierced by a cross-bow bolt ! 
People (running in). Who has been shot? 

[While the foremost of the marriage party are 
coming on the stage, the hindmost are still upon 
the heights. The music continues. 
Har. He's bleeding fast to death. 

Away, for help — pursue the murderer ! 
Unhappy man, is this to be your end? 
You would not listen to my warning words. 

Stussi. By Heaven, his cheek is pale ! Life's ebbing fast. 
Many Voices. Who did the deed ? 

Har. What! Are the people mad, 

That they make music to a murder ? Silence ! 

[Music breaks off suddenly. People continue to -flock in. 
Speak, if you can, my lord. Have you no charge 
To trust me with? 

[Gessler makes signs with his hand, which he repeats 
with vehemence, when he finds they are not 
understood. 

Where shall I take you to? 
To Kiissnacht? What you say I can't make out. 
Oh, do not grow impatient ! Leave all thought 
Of earthly things and make your peace with Heaven. 

[The whole marriage party gather round the dying 
man. 
Stussi. See there ! how pale he grows ! Death's gather- 
ing now 
About his heart; — his eyes grow dim and glazed. 
Arm. (holds up a child). Look, children, how a tyrant 

dies! 
Har. Mad hag! 
Have you no touch of feeling, that your eyes 
Gloat on a sight so horrible as this? 
Help me — take hold. What, will not one assist 
To pull the torturing arrow from his breast? 



WILHELM TELL 459 

Women. What ! touch the man whom God's own hand has 

struck ! 
Har. All curses light on you ! [Draws his sword. 

Stussi (seizes his arm). Gently, sir knight! 

Your power is at end. 'Twere best forbear. 
Our country's foe has fallen. We will brook 
No further violence. We are free men. 
All. The country's free. 

Har. And is it come to this ? 

Fear and obedience at an end so soon? 

[To the soldiers of the guard who- are thronging in. 
You see, my friends, the bloody piece of work 
Has here been done. 'Tis now too late for help, 
And to pursue the murderer were vain. 
We've other things to think of. On to Kussnacht, 
And let us save that fortress for the king! 
For in a moment such as this, all ties 
Of order, fealty and faith, are rent. 
And we can trust to no man's loyalty. 

[As he is going out with the soldiers, six Fratres 
Misericordle appear. 
Arm. Here comes the brotherhood of mercy. Room ! 
Stussi. The victim's slain, and now the ravens stoop. 
Brothers of Mercy {form a semicircle round the body, 
and sing in solemn tones). 
Death hurries on with hasty stride, 

No respite man from him may gain, 
He cuts him down, when life's full tide 

Is throbbing strong in every vein. 
Prepared or not the call to hear, 
He must before his Judge appear. 
[While they are repeating the two last lines, the cur- 
tain falls. 



460 SCHILLER 

ACT V 

Scene I. — A common near Altdorf, In the back-ground to the right 
the Keep of Uri, with the scaffold still standing, as in the 
Third Scene of the first Act. To the left, the view opens upon 
numerous mountains, on all of which signal fires are burning. 
Day is breaking, and distant bells are heard ringing in several 
directions. 

Ruodi, Kuoni, Werni, Master Mason, and many other 
country people, also women and children. 

Ruodi. See there ! The beacons on the mountain heights ! 

Mason. Hark how the bells above the forest toll ! 

Ruodi. The enemy's routed. 

Mason. And the forts are storm'd. 

Ruodi. And we of Uri, do we still endure 
Upon our native soil the tyrant's keep ? 
Are we the last to strike for liberty? 

Mason. Shall the yoke stand, that was to curb our necks? 
Up ! Tear it to the ground ! 

All. Down, down with it ! 

Ruodi. Where is the Stier of Uri? 

Uri. Here. What would ye? 

Ruodi. Up to your tower, and wind us such a blast, 
As shall resound afar, from peak to peak ; 
Rousing the echoes of each glen and hill, 
To rally swiftly all the mountain men ! 

[Exit Stier of Uri — Enter Walter Furst. 

Furst. Stay, stay, my friends ! As yet we have not learn'd 
What has been done in Unterwald and Schwytz. 
Let's wait till we receive intelligence ! 

Ruodi. Wait, wait for what? The accursed tyrant's dead 
And on us freedom's glorious day has dawn'd ! 

Mason. How ! Are these flaming signals not enough, 
That blaze on every mountain top around? 

Ruodi. Come all, fall to — come, men and women, all ! 
Destroy the scaffold ! Burst the arches ! Down, 
Down with the walls, let not a stone remain ! 

Mason. Come, comrades, come ! We built it, and we know 
How best to hurl it down. 

All. Come ! Down with it ! 

[They fall upon the building on every side. 



WILHELM TELL 461 

Furst. The floodgate's burst. They're not to be restrained. 
[Enter Melchthal and Baumgarten. 

Melch. What ! Stands the fortress still, when Sarnen lies 
In ashes, and the Rossberg's in our hands? 

Furst. You, Melchthal, here? D'ye bring us liberty? 
Are all the cantons from our tyrants freed ? 

Melch. We've swept them from the soil. Rejoice, my 
friend, 
Now, at this very moment, while we speak, 
There's not one tyrant left in Switzerland ! 

Furst. How did you get the forts into your power? 

Melch. Rudenz it was who by a bold assault 
With manly valour mastered Sarnen's keep. 
The Rossberg I had storm'd the night before. 
But hear, what chanced. Scarce had we driven the foe 
Forth from the keep, and given it to the flames, 
That now rose crackling upwards to the skies, 
When from the blaze rush'd Diethelm, Gessler's page, 
Exclaiming, " Lady Bertha will be burnt ! " 

Furst. Good heavens ! 

[The beams of the scaffold are heard falling. 

Melch. 'Twas she herself. Here had she been 

By Gessler's orders secretly immured. 
Up sprang Rudenz in frenzy. For even now 
The beams and massive posts were crashing down, 
And through the stifling smoke the piteous shrieks 
Of the unhappy lady. 

Furst. Is she saved? 

Melch. 'Twas not a time to hesitate or pause ! 
Had he been but our baron, and no more, 
We should have been most chary of our lives; 
But he was our confederate, and Bertha 
Honour'd the people. So, without a thought, 
We risk'd the worst, and rush'd into the flames. 

Furst. But is she saved? 

Melch. She is. Rudenz and I 

Bore her between us from the blazing pile. 
With crashing timbers toppling all around. 
And when she had revived, the danger past, 
And raised her eyes to look upon the sun, 



462 SCHILLER 

The baron fell upon my breast; and then 
A silent vow between us two was sworn, 
A vow that, welded in yon furnace heat, 
Will last through ev'ry shock of time and fate. 
Furst. Where is the Landenberg? 
Melch. Across the Brunig. 

'Twas not my fault he bore his sight away; 
He who had robb'd my father of his eyes ! 
He fled — I followed — overtook him soon, 
And dragg'd him to my father's feet. The sword 
Already quiver'd o'er the caitiff's head, 
When from the pity of the blind old man, 
He wrung the life which, craven-like, he begged. 
He swore Urphede/ 3 never to return: 
He'll keep his oath, for he has felt our arm. 

Furst. Oh, well for you, you have not stain'd with blood 
Our spotless victory ! 

Children (running across the stage with fragments of 

wood). We're free! we're free! 
FOrst. Oh! what a joyous scene! These children will 
Remember it when all their heads are grey. 

[Girls bring in the cap upon a pole. The whole stage 
is filled with people. 
Ruodi. Here is the cap, to which we were to bow! 
Baum. What shall we do with it? Do you decide! 
Furst. Heavens ! 'Twas beneath this cap my grandson 

stood ! 
Several Voices. Destroy the emblem of the tyrant's 
power ! 
Let it be burnt ! 

Furst. No. Rather be preserved; 

'Twas once the instrument of despots — now 
'Twill of our freedom be a lasting sign. 

[Peasants, men, women, and children, some standing, 
others sitting upon the beams of the shattered 
scaffold, all picturesquely grouped, in a large 
semicircle. 

48 The Urfhede was an oath of peculiar force. When a man, who was 
at feud with another, invaded his lands and was worsted, he often made 
terms with his enemy by swearing the Urphede, by which he bound him- 
self to depart, and never to return with a hostile intention. 



WILHELM TELL 463 

Melch. Thus now, my friends, with light and merry- 
hearts, 
We stand upon the wreck of tyranny; 
And gloriously the work has been fulfilled, 
Which we at Rootli pledged ourselves to do. 

Furst. No, not fulfilled. The work is but begun: 
Courage and concord firm, we need them both; 
For, be assured, the king will make all speed, 
To avenge his Viceroy's death, and reinstate, 
By force of arms, the tyrant we've expelled. 

Melch. Why let him come, with all his armaments ! 
The foe's expelled, that press'd us from within, 
The foe without we are prepared to meet? 

Ruodi. The passes to our Cantons are but few; 
These with our bodies we will' block, we will ! 

Baum. Knit are we by a league will ne'er be rent, 
And all his armies shall not make us quail. 

[Enter Rosselmann and Stauffacher. 

Rossel. (speaking as he enters). These are the awful 
judgments of the Lord! 

Peas. What is the matter? 

Rossel. In what times we live! 

Furst. Say on, what is't ? Ha, Werner, is it you ? 
What tidings? 

Peas. What's the matter? 

Rossel. Hear and wonder ! 

Stauff. We are released from one great cause of dread. 

Rossel. The Emperor is murdered. 

Furst. Gracious Heaven ! 

[Peasants rise up and throng round Stauffacher. 

All. Murder'd ! — the Emp'ror ? What ! The Emp'ror ! 
Hear ! 

Melch. Impossible! How came you by the news? 

Stauff. 'Tis true ! Near Bruck, by the assassin's 
hand, 
King Albert fell. A most trustworthy man, 
John Miiller, from Schaffhausen, brought the news. 

Furst. Who dared commit so horrible a deed? 

Stauff. The doer makes the deed more dreadful 
still ; 



464 SCHILLER 

It was his nephew, his own brother's son, 
Duke John of Austria, who struck the blow. 

Melch. What drove him to so dire a parricide? 

Stauff. The Emp'ror kept his patrimony back, 
Despite his urgent importunities ; 
'Twas said, he meant to keep it for himself, 
And with a mitre to appease the duke. 
However this may be, the duke gave ear 
To the ill counsel of his friends in arms; 
And with the noble lords, Von Eschenbach, 
Von Tegerfeld, Von Wart and Palm, resolved, 
Since his demands for justice were despised, 
With his own hands to take revenge at least. 

Furst. But say — the dreadful deed, how was it done? 

Stauff. The king was riding down from Stein to Baden. 
Upon his way to join the court at Rheinfeld, — 
With him a train of high-born gentlemen, 
And the young Princes John and Leopold ; 
And when they'd reach'd the ferry of the Reuss, 
The assassins forced their way into the boat, 
To separate the Emperor from his suite. 
His highness landed, and was riding on 
Across a fresh plough'd field — where once, they say, 
A mighty city stood in Pagan times — 
With Habsburg's ancient turrets full in sight, 
That was the cradle of his princely race. 
When Duke John plunged a dagger in his throat, 
Palm ran him thro' the body with his lance, 
And Eschenbach, to end him, clove his skull ; 
So down he sank, all weltering in his blood, 
On his own soil, by his own kinsmen slain. 
Those on the opposite bank beheld the deed, 
But, parted by the stream, could only raise 
An unavailing cry of loud lament. 
A poor old woman, sitting by the way, 
Raised him, and on her breast he bled to death. 

Melch. Thus has he dug his own untimely grave, 
Who sought insatiably to grasp it all. 

Stauff. The country round is fill'd with dire alarm, 
The passes are blockaded everywhere, 



WILHELM TELL 465 

And sentinels on ev'ry frontier set; 

E'en ancient Zurich barricades her gates, 

That have stood open for these thirty years, 

Dreading the murd'rers and th' avengers more. 

For cruel Agnes comes, the Hungarian queen, 

By all her sex's tenderness untouch'd, 

Arm'd with the thunders of the ban, to wreak 

Dire vengeance for her parent's royal blood, 

On the whole race of those that murder'd him, — 

Their servants, children, children's children, — yea, 

Upon the stones that built their castle walls. 

Deep has she sworn a vow to immolate 

Whole generations on her father's tomb, 

And bathe in blood as in the dew of May. 

Melch. Is't known which way the murderers have 
fled? 

Stauff. No sooner had they done the deed, than they 
Took flight, each following a different route, 
And parted ne'er to see each other more. 
Duke John must still be wand'ring in the mountains. 

Furst. And thus their crime has borne no fruit for 
them. 
Revenge bears never fruit. Itself, it is 
The dreadful food it feeds on; its delight 
Is murder — its satiety despair. 

Stauff. The assassins reap no profit by their crime; 
But we shall pluck with unpolluted hands 
The teeming fruits of their most bloody deed. 
For we are ransomed from our heaviest fear; 
The direst foe of liberty has fallen, 
And, 'tis reported, that the crown will pass 
From Habsburg's house into another line; 
The empire is determined to assert 
Its old prerogative of choice, I hear. 

Furst (and several others). Is any named? 

Stauff. The Count of Luxembourg's 

Already chosen by the general voice. 

Furst. 'Tis well we stood so staunchly by the Empire ! 
Now we may hope for justice, and with cause. 

Stauff. The Emperor will need some valiant friends. 



466 SCHILLER 

He will 'gainst Austria's vengeance be our shield. 

[The peasantry embrace. Enter Sacristan with 
Imperial messenger. 

Sacris. Here are the worthy chiefs of Switzerland ! 

Rossel. (and several others). Sacrist, what news? 

Sacris. A courier brings this letter. 

All (to Walter Furst). Open and read it. 

Furst (reading). "To the worthy men 

Of Uri, Schwytz, and Unterwald, the Queen 
Elizabeth sends grace and all good wishes." 

Many voices. What wants the queen with us? Her reign 
is done. 

Furst (reads). "In the great grief and doleful widow- 
hood, 
In which the bloody exit of her lord 
Has plunged the queen, still in her mind she bears 
The ancient faith and love of Switzerland." 

Melch. She ne'er did that in her prosperity. 

Rossel. Hush, let us hear! 

Furst (reads). "And she is well assured, 

Her people will in due abhorrence hold 
The perpetrators of this damned deed. 
On the three Cantons, therefore, she relies, 
That they in nowise lend the murderers aid; 
But rather, that they loyally assist, 
To give them up to the avenger's hand, 
Remembering the love and grace which they 
Of old received from Rudolph's royal house." 

[Symptoms of dissatisfaction among the peasantry. 

Many voices. The love and grace ! 

Stauff. Grace from the father we, indeed, received, 
But what have we to boast of from the son? 
Did he confirm the charter of our freedom, 
As all preceding emperors had done ? 
Did he judge righteous judgment, or afford 
Shelter, or stay, to innocence oppress'd? 
Nay, did he e'en give audience to the men 
We sent to lay our grievances before him? 
Not one of all these things did the king do, 
And had we not ourselves achieved our rights 



WILHELM TELL 467 

By our own stalwart hands, the wrongs we bore 
Had never touch'd him. Gratitude to him ! 
Within these vales he sowed no seeds of that; 
He stood upon an eminence — he might 
Have been a very father to his people, 
But all his aim and pleasure was to raise 
Himself and his own house: and now may those 
Whom he has aggrandized, lament for him. 

Furst. We will not triumph in his fall, nor now 
Recall to mind the wrongs that we endured. 
Far be't from us ! Yet, that we should avenge 
The sovereign's death, who never did us good, 
And hunt down those who ne'er molested us, 
Becomes us not, nor is our duty. Love 
Must be a tribute free, and unconstrain'd; 
From all enforced duties death absolves, 
And unto him we owe no further debt. 

Melch. And if the queen laments within her bower, 
Accusing Heaven in sorrow's wild despair; 
Here see a people, from its anguish freed, 
To that same Heav'n send up its thankful praise. 
Who would reap tears, must sow the seeds of love. 

[Exit the Imperial courier. 

Stauff. (to the people). But where is Tell? Shall he, 
our freedom's founder, 
Alone be absent from our festival ? 
He did the most — endured the worst of all. 
Come — to his dwelling let us all repair, 
And bid the Saviour of our country hail ! [Exeunt omnes. 



Scene II. — Interior of Tell's cottage. A fire burning on the 
hearth. The open door shows the scene outside 

Hedwig, Walter, and Wilhelm 
Hedw. My own dear boys ! your father comes to-day ; 

He lives, is free, and we, and all are free; 

The country owes its liberty to him ! 

Walt. And I, too, mother, bore my part in it ! 

I must be named with him. My father's shaft 



468 SCHILLER 

Ran my life close, but yet I never flinch'd. 

Hedw. (embracing him). Yes, yes, thou art restored to me 
again ! 
Twice have I seen thee given to my sad eyes, 
Twice suffered all a mother's pangs for thee ! 
But this is past— I have you both, boys, both ! 
And your dear father will be back to-day. 

[A monk appears at the door. 

Wilh. See, mother, yonder stands a holy friar; 
He comes for alms, no doubt. 

Hedw. Go lead him in. 

That we may give him cheer, and make him feel 
That he has come into the house of joy. 

[Exit, and returns immediately with a cup. 

Wilh. (to the monk). Come in, good man. Mother will 
give you food ! 

Walt. Come in and rest, then go refresh'd away! 

Monk (glancing round in terror, with unquiet looks). 
Where am I? In what country? Tell me. 

Walt. How ! 

Are you bewildered, that you know not where ? 
You are at Biirglen, in the land of Uri, 
Just at the entrance of the Shechenthal. 

Monk (to Hedwig). Are you alone? Your husband, is he 
here? 

Hedw. I am expecting him. But what ails you, man? 
There's something in your looks, that omens ill ! 
Whoe'er you be, you are in want — take that. 

[Offers him the cup. 

Monk. Howe'er my sinking heart may yearn for food, 
Nought will I taste till you have promised first — 

Hedw. Touch not my garments, come not near me, monk ! 
You must stand farther back, if I'm to hear you. 

Monk. Oh, by this hearth's bright, hospitable blaze, 
By your dear children's heads, which I embrace — 

[Grasps the boys. 

Hedw. Stand back, I say ! What is your purpose, man ? 
Back from my boys ! You are no monk, — no, no, 
Beneath the robe you wear peace should abide, 
But peace abides not in such looks as yours. 



WILHELM TELL 469 

Monk. I am the wretchedest of living men. 

Hedw. The heart is never deaf to wretchedness; 
But your look freezes up my inmost soul. 

Walt, (springs up). Mother, here's father! 

Hedw. Oh, my God! 

[Is about to follow, trembles and stops. 

Wilh. (running after his brother). My father! 

Walt, (without). Here, here once more! 

Wilh. (without). My father, my dear father! 

Tell (without). Yes, here once more! Where is your 
mother, boys? [They enter. 

Walt. There at the door she stands, and can no further, 
She trembles so with terror and with joy. 

Tell. Oh Hedwig, Hedwig, mother of my children ! 
God has been kind and helpful in our woes. 
No tyrant's hand shall e'er divide us more. 

Hedw. (falling on his neck). Oh, Tell, what anguish have 
I borne for thee ! [Monk becomes attentive. 

Tell. Forget it, now, and live for joy alone! 
I'm here again with you ! This is my cot ! 
I stand again upon mine own hearth stone ! 

Wilh. But, father, where's your cross-bow? Not with 
you? 

Tell. Thou shalt not ever see it more, my boy. 
Within a holy shrine it has been placed, 
And in the chase shall ne'er be used again. 

Hedw. Oh, Tell ! Tell ! [Steps back, dropping his hand. 

Tell. What alarms thee, dearest wife? 

Hedw. How — how dost thou return to me? This hand — 
Dare I take hold of it? This hand — Oh, God! 

Tell (with firmness and animation). Has shielded you and 
set my country free ; 
Freely I raise it in the face of Heaven. 

[Monk gives a sudden start — he looks at him. 
Who is this friar here? 

Hedw. Ah, I forgot him; 

Speak thou with him; I shudder at his presence. 

Monk (stepping nearer). Are you the Tell who slew the 
governor ? 

Tell. Yes, I am he. I hide the fact from no man. 



470 SCHILLER 

Monk. And you are Tell ! Ah ! it is God's own hand, 
That hath conducted me beneath your roof. 

Tell (examining him closely). 
You are no monk. Who are you? 

Monk. You have slain 

The governor, who did you wrong. I, too, 
Have slain a foe, who robb'd me of my rights. 
He was no less your enemy than mine. 
I've rid the land of him. 

Tell (drawing back). You are — oh, horror! 
In — children, children — in, without a word, 
Go, my dear wife ! Go ! Go ! Unhappy man, 
You should be — 

Hedw. Heav'ns, who is it? 

Tell. Do not ask. 

Away ! away ! the children must not hear it. 
Out of the house — away ! You must not rest 
'Neath the same roof with this unhappy man ! 

Hedw. Alas! What is it? Come. [Exit with the children. 

Tell (to the Monk). You are the Duke 

Of Austria — I know it. You have slain 
The Emperor, your uncle, and liege lord. 

John. He robb'd me of my patrimony. 

Tell. How ! 

Slain him — your king, your uncle ! And the earth 
Still bears you ! And the sun still shines on you ! 

John. Tell, hear me, ere you — 

Tell. Reeking, with the blood 

Of him that was your Emperor, your kinsman, 
Dare you set foot within my spotless house, 
Dare to an honest man to show your face, 
And claim the rights of hospitality? 

John. I hoped to find compassion at your hands. 
You took, like me, revenge upon your foe ! 

Tell. Unhappy man ! Dare you confound the crime 
Of blood-imbrued ambition with the act 
Forced on a father in mere self-defence ? 
Had you to shield your children's darling heads, 
To guard your fireside's sanctuary — ward off 
The last, the direst doom from all you loved? 



WILHELM TELL 471 

To Heaven I raise my unpolluted hands, 
To curse your act and you ! I have avenged 
That holy nature which you have profaned. 
I have no part with you. You murdered, I 
Have shielded all that was most dear to me. 

John. You cast me off to comfortless despair ! 

Tell. I shrink with horror while I talk with you. 
Hence, on the dread career you have begun ! 
Cease to pollute the home of innocence ! 

[John turns to depart. 

John. I cannot and I will not live this life ! 

Tell. And yet my soul bleeds for you. Gracious Heaven, 
So young, of such a noble line, the grandson 
Of Rudolph, once my lord and emperor, 
An outcast — murderer — standing at my door, 
The poor man's door — a suppliant, in despair ! 

[Covers his face. 

John. If you have power to weep, oh let my fate 
Move your compassion — it is horrible. 
I am — say, rather was — a prince. I might 
Have been most happy, had I only curb'd 
The impatience of my passionate desires: 
But envy gnaw'd my heart — I saw the youth 
Of mine own cousin Leopold endow'd 
With honour, and enrich'd with broad domains, 
The while myself, of equal age with him, 
In abject slavish nonage was kept back. 

Tell. Unhappy man, your uncle knew you well, 
When from you land and subjects he withheld! 
You, by your mad and desperate act have set 
A fearful seal upon his wise resolve. 
Where are the bloody partners of your crime? 

John. Where'er the avenging furies may have borne them; 
I have not seen them since the luckless deed. 

Tell. Know you the Empire's ban is out, — that you 
Are interdicted to your friends, and given 
An outlaw'd victim to your enemies ! 

John. Therefore I shun all public thoroughfares, 
And venture not to knock at any door — 
I turn my footsteps to the wilds, and through 



472 SCHILLER 

The mountains roam, a terror to myself. 
From mine own self I shrink with horror back, 
If in a brook I see my ill-starr'd form. 
If you have pity or a human heart — 

[Falls down before hint. 

Tell. Stand up, stand up ! I say. 

John. Not till you give 

Your hand in promise of assistance to me. 

Tell. Can I assist you? Can a sinful man? 
Yet get ye up — how black soe'er your crime — 
You are a man. I, too, am one. From Tell 
Shall no one part uncomforted. I will 
Do all that lies within my power. 

John (springs up and grasps him ardently by the hand). 
Oh, Tell, 
You save me from the terrors of despair. 

Tell. Let go my hand ! You must away. You can not 
Remain here undiscover'd, and, discover'd, 
You cannot count on succour. Which way, then, 
Would you be going? Where do you hope to find 
A place of rest? 

John. Alas ! I know not where. 

Tell. Hear, then, what Heaven unto my heart suggests. 
You must to Italy, — to Saint Peter's City — 
There cast yourself at the Pope's feet, — confess 
Your guilt to him, and ease your laden soul ! 

John. Will he not to the avengers yield me up? 

Tell. Whate'er he does, accept it as from God. 

John. But how am I to reach that unknown land? 
I have no knowledge of the way, and dare not 
Attach myself to other travellers. 

Tell. I will describe the road, so mark me well ! 
You must ascend, keeping along the Reuss, 
Which from the mountains dashes wildly down. 

John (in alarm). What! See the Reuss? The witness of 
my deed ! 

Tell. The road you take lies through the river's gorge, 
And many a cross proclaims where travellers 
Have been by avalanches done to death. 

John. I have no fear for nature's terrors, so 
I can appease the torments of my soul. 



WILHELM TELL 473 

Tell. At every cross, kneel down and expiate 
Your crime with burning penitential tears — 
And if you 'scape the perils of the pass, 
And are not whelm'd beneath the drifted snows, 
That from the frozen peaks come sweeping down, 
You'll reach the bridge that's drench'd with drizzling spray. 
Then if it give not way beneath your guilt, 
When you have left it safely in your rear, 
Before you frowns the gloomy Gate of Rocks, 
Where never sun did shine. Proceed through this, 
And you will reach a bright and gladsome vale. 
Yet must you hurry on with hasty steps, 
You must not linger in the haunts of peace. 

John. O Rudolph, Rudolph, royal grandsire! thus 
Thy grandson first sets foot within thy realms ! 

Tell. Ascending still, you gain the Gotthardt's heights, 
Where are the tarns, the everlasting tarns, 
That from the streams of Heaven itself are fed, 
There to the German soil you bid farewell ; 
And thence, with swift descent, another stream 
Leads you to Italy, your promised land. 

[Ranz des Vaches sounded on Alp-horns is heard 
without. 
But I hear voices ! Hence ! 

Hedw. (hurrying in). Where art thou, Tell? 

My father comes, and in exulting bands 
All the confederates approach. 

Duke John (covering himself). Woe's me ! 
I dare not tarry 'mong these happy men ! 

Tell. Go, dearest wife, and give this man to eat. 
Spare not your bounty ; for his road is long. 
And one where shelter will be hard to find. 
Quick — they approach ! 

Hedw. Who is he? 

Tell. Do not ask! 

And when he quits you, turn your eyes away, 
So that you do not see which way he goes. 

[Duke John advances hastily towards Tell, but he 
beckons him aside and exit. When both have 
left the stage, the scene changes, and discloses in 



474 WILHELM TELL 

Scene III. — The whole valley before Tell's house, the heights which 
enclose it occupied by peasa?its, grouped into tableaux. Some 
are seen crossing a lofty bridge, which crosses the Shechen. 
Walter Furst with the two boys. Werner a?id Stauffacher 
come forward. Others throng after them. When Tell appears, 
all receive hifti with loud cheers. 

All. Long live brave Tell, our shield, our Saviour ! 

[While those in front are crowding round Tell, and 
embracing him, Rudenz and Bertha appear. 
The former salutes the peasantry, the latter em- 
braces Hedwig. The music from the mountains 
continues to play. When it has stopped, Bertha 
steps into the centre of the crowd. 
Berth. Peasants ! Confederates ! Into your league 
Receive me, who was happily the first 
That found deliverance in the land of freedom. 
To your brave hands I now entrust my rights. 
Will you protect me as your citizen? 

Peas. Ay, that we will, with life and goods ! 
Berth. 'Tis well ! 

And now to him {turning to Rudenz). I frankly give my 

hand, 
A free Swiss maiden to a free Swiss man! 

Rud. And from this moment all my serfs are free ! 

[Music and the curtain falls. 



THE PUBLISHERS OF THE HAR- 
VARD CLASSICS • DR. ELIOT'S 
FIVE-FOOT SHELF OF BOOKS ARE 
PLEASED TO ANNOUNCE THE 
PUBLICATION OF 

THE JUNIOR CLASSICS 

A LIBRARY FOR BOYS AND GIRLS 



The Junior Classics constitute a set 
of books whose contents will delight 
children and at the same time 
satisfy the legitimate ethical require- 
ments of those who have the children's 
best interests at heart." 

CHARLES W. ELIOT 



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