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Full text of "The chief European dramatists : twenty-one plays from the drama of Greece, Rome, Spain, France, Italy, Germany, Denmark, and Norway, from 500 B.C. to 1879 A.D., selected and ed., with notes, biographies, and bibliographies"

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THE  CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


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THE  CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


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THE  CHIEF  EUROPEAN 
DRAMATISTS 

TWENTY-ONE  PLAYS  FROM  THE  DRAMA  OF 

GREECE,  ROME,  SPAIN,  FRANCE,  ITALY 

GERMANY,  DENMARK,  AND  NORWAY 

From  500  B.C.  to  1879  A.D. 


SELECTED  AND  EDITEQ 

WITH  NOTES,  BIOGRAPHIES,  AND 

BIBLIOGRAPHIES 

BY 

BRANDER  MATTHEWS 


HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

BOSTON  -  NEW  YORK  ■  CHICAGO  ■  DALLAS  ■  SAN  FRANCISCO 
ditiieUbnsflu  ¥nMi  CambrOgc 


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BEPLACING 

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H.  C.  CHATFIELD-TAYLOR 

ACCOMPUSHiD  IHTERPRETEIL  OF  TWO 

CRltF  EUKOPEAH   DKAMATUT* 

OOLDOHl  AND  MOUtKB 


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CONTENTS 


bmaovcrtOH  

AoAUKXOH jSwtyltu 

Tranilattd  bv  S.  D.  A.  Monhead 
(&>iroB  ima  Sura      ....  ...     Soj^udtt 

TnndaUd  by  Sir  Hichant  Claoe-koiue  JdA 
Mbdu         BwipidM 

TrorulaUd  by  OiOert  liMrraji 
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Trmdated  by  J.  HooMtom  Frwn 
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Thb  Star  or  Sbvilli Lop»  d»  Vtga 

TrmOated  by  PhUip  M.  Haydtn 
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Trarulal^  by  Denit  Flortnix  Uae-Carthy 


Tax  CiD 


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TranilaM  by  Bebert  Bruea  BotwtU 
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Thb  BoN'Ix-Law  op  M.  Ponmm 

TTmOated  by  Barrett  H.  Clark 
Thb  Ovtsb  Edqi  or  Socmr     .... 

Trandated  by  BarrtU  H.  Clark 
Tbb  HivranB  or  thb  Inn    . 

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CortmO* 283 

MoUirt 26S 

JiBeiM 801 

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MncifA  TON  Basnhblu Liuing  .     . 

Oovn  TOM  BiBLTCBiNaiiN Goelkt    ,      • 

Tmulattd  hy  .Sir  WalUr  Soott 
William  Tmll iSdUKir  .      . 

TronJat»d  by  Sir  Theodore  Martin 
Rajutob  Montantb Holberg  . 

Trondaled  by  Otar  Jamee  CanpMI  and  Prtderie  Sdiendc 
A  Doll's  Housb Hemik  Ihmn 

TnmdaUd  by  WiOiani  Ardutr 
ApRMsn 

I.  Noras  oh  thb  Aothobb 

II.  NoTBB  ON  TUB  Plats 

lU.  A  RmuHKO  Idsr  in  Edbofban  DEUUimt       ..... 


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INTRODUCTION 

It  «  ia  nsponM  to  &  wider  and  mon  intelligent  interest  in  dmnktic  litcfature,  mac! 
m  tbe  dnm»  «  an  ut,  ti»t  tlie  idkywrighta  of  ereiy  ouxlero  Ungiuge  now  publish  their 
|itoy» tKon4tiyiaQrdCT  that  tbeae  miff  ba  read  both  by  tho»e  who bftve  already  witnn wad 
tba  pafonatJte*  and  by  tiww  d^rivad  of  this  pleaBura  by  remotoneaa  fiom  the  [day- 
bouM.  Fraoadius  and  accompanying  tim  interest  in  the  drama  of  the  immediate  preaaot 
there  ia  alao  a  otHtrtantly  ina«a>ing  attention  to  the  drama  of  the  past,  and  more  eapa- 
ciilly  to  tin  dramatic  literature  of  tiie  Fingliah  lansuage-  Profeoeor  Neileon  haa  made  a 
wlortion  of  the  moat  important  tnotdies  and  oomediw  of  the  dramatists  who  were 
Shakaspean's  oootcnqiofaries  under  Queeo  EUaabetb  and  hia  succesaon  under  King 
Jama;  and  Pnifewor  BoJcei  is  preparing  a  aareeponding  collection  choeen  from  out 
the  WDihe  of  the  Beatoration  dramatiste.  In  Professor  Dickinson's  volume,  the  Clwf 
Cawtifwwry  Dramatitti,  there  is  ample  repreoentation  of  the  foremost  British  and 
IkmKican  playmaken  at  the  beginning  of  ihB  twentieth  century* 

Hitherto,  ho««rer,  iw  adequate  att^npt  bae  been  made  to  select,  out  of  the  drama  of  the 
lemotat  psst  and  out  of  the  drama  of  other  tongues  than  Engliah,  a  group  of  [^jb,  tre^ 
and  eonic,  which  might  illustrate  and  illuminate  the  development  of  dramatic  literature 
fnm  tba  Occek  of  the  fifth  oentuiy  bj:.  to  the  Scandinavian  of  the  end  of  the  nineteenth 
cautuiyxD.  Iliia  is  the  difficult  task  which  hAs  been  undertaken  by  the  editor  of  this  TiA- 
tBn&  It  has  been  hia  duty  to  Mcertain  who,  among  the  scores  and  the  hundreds  of  [riay- 
wnghts  that  have  floudshed  in  the  different  countriee  of  Europe  during  the  past  twenty- 
four  aantauiea,  wen  entitled  to  be  reoogniud  as  acknowledged  masters  of  the  art  of 
the  drama  or  aa  indiapulahle  representatives  of  their  race  and  of  their  era.  This  sdection 
his  proved  to  be  a  matter  of  uneipeeted  delicacy;  and  the  editor  cannot  hope  that  the 
scholars,  into  whoae  hwrHs  this  volume  in  ay  oome,  will  all  of  tiwm  ^ree  with  his  choioe  or 
acMpt  the  prinoiples  upon  which  it  has  been  guided. 

Yat,  wh«i  ffrety  allawaace  has  been  made,  it  ought  to  be  admitted  that  any  selectimi 
like  this  muat  inevitably  be  afiect«d  by  the  personal  aquation  of  the  editor,  fnm  «4iich  he 
esangt  fiaa  himself,  however  much  he  may  struggle.  And  this  editor  confesaee  frankly 
that  if  be  oould  have  had  his  own  way,  disregarding  tiie  necessary  limitatiim  of  a  sin^ 
wdume^  be  would  have  been  glad  to  include  the  most  amusing  medtteval  Pierre  Paihdin 
of  an  unknown  Frenchman  aad  a  correqnudiiig  German  farce  by  Hans  Sachs.  He  would 
have  heritated  long  before  deciding  upon  the  eKcIusioQ  of  Seneea,  of  Grillparier  and 
nsftag;  of  Al&ed  da  Musset  and  the  elder  Dumas.  It  was  te  him  a  pereonal  grief  Uiat 
Ui  esmoisnce  ompcfled  him  to  leave  out  Kotsebue  and  Scribe,  playwrights  rather  Uian 
''TnratiBts,  maiisr  tscbaiciana  irfio  made  the  path  straight  iar  arti^  of  a  richer  endow- 
aaot  and  of  a  man  significant  measage. 

Evan  after  the  list  of  dramatiata  bad  been  drawn  up,  there  renutned  the  almost  equally 
difficult  du^  <tf  deddiag  upon  the  single  play  which  should  best  represent  the  totsl 
iiihiiiMiiiaiil  of  aadi  of  them.  There  is  no  doubt  that  .fsohylus  is  satisfaotonly  rapro- 
•ntid  by  .^0B"M<>MN  and  S^hocles  by  (£dt)mi  <As  £hv;  but  is  Jtf sdra  necanatily  the  betl 


s  INTRODUCTION 

l^v  ^  Mkot  trom  Euripides  or  Phormio  from  TcRDoaT  Whst  ahould  be  tbe  choioe  fram 
Goetba,  from  SchilW,  aad  from  Holberg?  For  Bwmmarehwi  ought  the  fioriwr  of  &ntb 
to  be  taken  or  the  Marriage  of  Pigarat  And  from  Cftlderon  ought  Lift  U  •  Dream  to  be 
picked  out  or  the  Devotion  to  lite  Crout  All  th&t  the  editor  can  urge  in  juetificatiixi  of 
the  sdeotion  tiiat  he  finall;  made  ia  that  he  has  been  piided  by  a  variety  of  reasons  —  by 
the  availability  of  a  Batisfactory  translation,  in  eonw  cases;  and  in  others  by  Ute  supoior 
fitness  of  the  cluMen  play  for  tbe  general  reader. 

A  collection  of  masterpieces  of  the  drama  eittending  over  a  soot^  of  oenturies  serves  to 
jnake  pUin  something  which  ouf^t  never  to  be  ovo^ooked.  TIm  prinoiides  of  dnunatio 
art  (un  unchanging  through  the  agee,  tlie  same  to-day  in  Paris  or  in  Nov  York  that  tbqr 
were  in  Athens  twenty-four  hundred  years  ago.  Th^  an  to  be  deduoed  from  tbe  tngs- 
dies  of  Sophodee  ss  cleariy  ss  from  Um  trsgediGe  of  Shakeapean,  from  the  comedies  <d 
MoUdre  as  obviously  as  from  iha  oomedies  of  Lessii^  and  Goldmi  and  Augier;  and  thsy 
are  all  the  result  of  tbe  fact  that  a  dramatist  always  composes  his  [days  with  tbe  desn 
and  the  intent  that  they  shall  )x  performed  by  actors  in  a  Uiester  and  before  an  audi- 
enoB.  He  takes  thought  of  the  performers  of  hie  own  time  and  city;  and  Bapbodn  and 
Moli^.  while  they  were  creating  oharactcrs  for  tbe  apprecnation  of  posterity,  were  also 
pieparing  parts  for  contemporary  performers  in  whom  they  had  confidence.  He  adjiists 
the  stories  he  tdls  on  the  stage  to  the  physical  coikditions  of  tbs  only  [da^iouse  with 
which  he  is  famQiar.  And  he  feels  constrained  always  to  chooss  tbe  kind  of  story  wiiek 
win  arouse  and  retain  the  intereete  of  his  conteinpcmuies  in  his  own  country,  giving  no 
thought  to  the  possible  lildngs  of  any  other  audience  either  abroad  or  in  tlte  future. 

A  dramatist  ia  .a  playwright  who  is  also  a  poet — in  the  largest  meaning  of  the  wt*d; 
and  he  is  a  playwright  before  he  is  a  poet.  As  a  (daywright  he  faaa  an  intuitive  pcnxf>- 
tion  of  tbe  undeniable  fact  that  spectators  massed  in  a  theater  are  always  likely  to  be 
moat  keenly  interested  in  an  action  which  deals  with  the  deeds  of  strong-willed  men; 
and  therefore  he  is  prone  to  provide  plot«  caused  by  tbe  clash  of  contending  desins- 
As  a  playwright  he  is  aware  that  tbe  niassed  spectators  insist  on  seeing  for  themselves 
tbe  culminating  moments  of  the  essential  strug^e,  and  therefore  these  necessary  epi- 
sodes are  always  shown  in  action  and  never  tamely  related.  As  a  playwright  he  knows 
that  an  audience  will  not  be  moved  unless  it  understands  fully  what  is  happening  befoe 
its  eyes;  and  therefore  he  takee  infinite  pains  with  tbe  problem  of  expoeition,  making 
clear  so  much  of  the  past  as  may  be  essential  for  the  understanding  of  the  preaent.  As 
a  idaywright  he  ia  conscious  that  the  pla^oers  need  to  have  their  attention  kept  ali*e 
as  tbe  story  is  unrolled  before  them;  and  therefore  be  articulates  bis  idot  adroitly  that 
suspense  thickens  and  that  tbe  stress  of  tbe  ocmtest  is  steadily  intensified.  And  as  a 
pl^fwri^t,  finally,  he  new  f<^eta  that  tbe  audience  bas  eyes  as  well  as  ears;  and  there- 
fore be  provides  the  utmost  spectsole  possible  in  bis  own  theater  so  far  as  tiiis  is  in  ai^ 
cord  with  the  quality  of  his  work. 

To  the  many  friends  who  have  aided  him  with  encouragement  and  helped  him  with 
counsel  —  eq)eciaOy  to  bis  ccdieague  Professor  Edward  Ddavan  Perry  —  the  edito 
desires  to  express  his  abiding  gratitude.  And  he  takes  pleasure  in  recording  htm  his  ob- 
ligation to  Um  kindly  oourte^  of  the  translators  and  of  the  ownen  of  oopj'right  who  ban 
made  possible  the  inclusion  of  translations  espedally  desirable:  to  the  Preaident  and 
fellowB  of  Barvard  Univeruty  for  permission  to  use  the  late  Professor  Morria  H.  Morgsn'i 
rendering  of  Phormio  of  Termce;  to  the  American-Scaodinarian  Foundation  for  pH^ 
misKon  to  use  tlte  version  of  Aumua  ifonlontM  ivepared  by  Professor  Oscar  JaoM 


INTRODUCTION  ^ 

Ckinpbell  and  Mr.  Frederic  Sohenok;  to  the  Wisconain  Dramatic  Society  for  permimon 
to  uM  MiM  Merle  Vitnoa'a  trandation  of  Goldoni's  Mialnas  qf  Die  Inn:  to  the  Oxford 
Univetwty  Vnm,  Americas  Branch,  and  Professor  Gilbert  Murray  for  penviniim  to 
htdude  his  meWcal  rsndKiiig  cA  Uie  Medea  of  Euripides;  to  the  Cambridge  Univenritjr 
"Pttm  tar  penniaaion  to  reprint  Jebb'a  prose  vconon  of  (Edifm*;  to  G.  F.  Putnam's  Bods 
and  Pr^eoaor  Curtis  Hidden  Page  for  permission  to  include  his  vene  traiulation  of 
Tartufft;  to  Charles  Scn'bner'a  Sons  and  Mr.  William  Archer  for  pennianon  to  use  the 
latest  Tersioii  of  his  rendering  of  A  DaU'a  Htnue;  to  the  Macmillaii  Company  for  pov 
■manon  to  use  Morshead's  Agtanenmon;  to  Georee  Betl  A  Sons  for  permission  to  use  ths 
ttanriatioas  from  Hugo,  Lessing,  and  Radne;  to  J.  M.  Dent  &  Co.  for  penniaaion  to 
jsdnds  the  trandation  of  the  Barber  ^  SesilU;  and  to  D.  Apfdettm  ft  Co.  for  permiHiiNl 
to  reprint  the  translation  of  the  Cid. 


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AGAMEMNON 

By  .eSCHYLUS 
miHilaUd  intt  Englith  vtrti  ty  M.  D.  A.  MORSHEAD 


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CHARACTERS 

A  Watcbicam.    . 
Chohdb. 
clttiimnx6tul 
A  HaRAU>. 

AOAMEMMON. 
CABftANSBA. 


ft  Ou  Pallet  of  Atrmi*  at  Myetiue.   In  front  of  OitPa 
tlatvM  of  IA«  ffodi,  and  ottor*  pr(pE>rad  for  moerifittt 


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AGAMEMNON 


A  WATcmuK.  I  pnv  th»  gods  to  quit 

me  of  my  toils, 
To  done  the  wktoh  I  ke^,  thia  livelong 

ye"; 
Fbr  M  a  watoh-dog  lying,  not  at  rest, 
FroK>ed  on  one  arm,  upon  tiie  palace-nxrf 
Of  Atraus'  race,  too  long,  toe  well  1  know 
TbestsRy  ocHuilaTe  of  the  midnight  sky, 
Too  wdl,  the  aplrodwe  of  the  firmament , 
The  lorda  of  light,  whose  kin^  a^wot 

■hotn  — 
What  time  tiuij  eet  or  climb  the  aky  in 

The  year'a  diviaionii,  bringing  fratt  or  fire. 

And  DOW,  as  ever,  am  I  set  to  mark 
When  diall  stream  up  the  ^ow  of  aignal- 

The  bale-fire  bright,  and  tdl  its  Trojan 


IteiuixHimine  unrestful  ooucb  I  lie, 
Bathed  with  the  dews  of  night,  unvisited 
By  dnama  —  ah  mel  —  for  in  tbe  place  of 

Stands  Pear  as  my  familiar,  and  repels 
The  Mit  repose  that  would  mine  eyelids  seal. 

And  if  at  irtiilee,  for  the  lost  balm  of  sleep, 
I  medioane  my  aoul  with  melody 
Of  trill  or  SMig  —  anon  to  tears  I  turn, 
Wding  the  woe  that  broods  upon  this 

Not  Dow  by  honor  guided  as  of  old. 

But  now  at  last  fair  fall  the  welcome  hour 
lliatwto  me  free,  wh«ie'er  the  thick  night 

^ow 
With  beaoon-fire  of  hope  dderred  no  more. 
Allhaill 

(A  btaeon-Ught  it  (mh  nddming 
As  dMonl  sifcv.] 


Fire  of  the  night,  that  bringe  my  spirit  di^. 
Shedding  on  AigCM  light,  and  d&ttce,  and 

song. 
Greetings  to  fortune,  baill 

Let  my  loud  summons  ring  within  the  eaia 
Of  Agamemnon's  queen,  that  she  anon 
Start  from  her  oouch  and  with  a  shrill 

A  joyous  welcMoe  to  the  beacon-blaie, 
For  Ilion'a  fall;  such  fiery  message  gleams 
From  yon  high  flame;  and  I,  before  the  nst, 
Will  foot  the  lightsome  measure  of  our  joy; 
Fori  can  M,y,  My  matim'*  diet  feli  fair — 
Beholdl  tht  triple  aie»,  Uu  btcky  fame! 
Now  be  my  lot  to  olasp,  in  loyal  love, 
l^e  hand  of  him  restored,  who  rules  our 

Home  —  but  I  aoy  no  more:    uprai  my 

tongue 
Treads  hard  the  ox  o'  the  adage. 

Had  it  voice, 
The  home  itself  might  soothlieet  tell  its 

tale; 
I,  of  set  will,  speak  words  the  wise  may 

To  others,  nought  remember  nor  discern. 
[Ettt.    The  chorut  of  old  men  t^ 
Myema  enter,  each  leaning  on  a 
^aS.    During  their  eong  Cut' 
TKMNVSIRA  appear  t  in  the  bocfc- 
gmund,  kindling  the  altare.] 
Chorts.  Ten  livelong  years  have  rolled 
away, 
Since  the  twin  lords  of  soeptered  sway, 
By  Zeus  endowed  with  pride  of  place, 
Tba  dou^ty  chiefs  of  Atreus'  raoe. 
Went  forth  of  yore, 
To  plead  with  Priam,  face  to  face. 
Before  the  judgment-seat  of  Warl 

A  thousand  ships  from  Argive  land 
Put  forth  to  bear  the  martial  band. 
That  with  a  spirit  stem  and  strong 
Went  out  to  right  the  kingdom's  wrong  — 


■  CHIEF. -EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Peiled,  aa  th^  weoi,  tlie'bAttre-song, 

Wild  as  ttw  vultures'  cry ; 

When  o'er  the  eyrie,  soaring  high, 

In  wild  bereavAd  agony, 

Around,  annmd,  in  airy  rings. 

They  wheel  with  oarage  of  their  wifig^ 

But  not  the  eyas-brood  behold. 

That  called  them  to  the  nest  erf  old; 

But  let  Apollo  from  the  sky, 

Or  Pan,  or  Zeus,  but  hear  tiie  cry, 

The  exUe  cry,  the  wail  forlorn. 

Of  birds  from  whom  their  home  is  lorn  — 

On  thoK  irtko  wrought  the  rapioa  fdl, 

Heaven  sends  the  vengeful  fiends  of  heU. 

Even  BO  doth  Zeus,  the  jealous  lord 
And  guardian  of  the  hearth  and  board. 
Speed  Atreus'  sons,  in  vengeful  ire, 
'Gainst  Paris — sends  them  forth  on  fire, 
Her  to  buy  back,  in  war  and  blood. 
Whom  one  did  wed  but  many  woo'dl 
And  many,  many,  by  hia  wiB, 
The  last  embraoe  of  foes  shall  feel. 
And  many  a  knee  in  dust  be  bowed, 
And  si^ntered  speaii  on  shields  ring  loud, 
Of  Trojan  and  <^  Qreek,  before 
That  iron  bridal-feast  be  o'erl 
But  as  he  willed 't  is  ordered  all. 
And  woes,  by  Heaven  ordained,  must  fall — 
Unaoothed  by  tears  or  spilth  of  wine 
Poured  forth  too  late,  the  wrath  divine 
Glares  vengeanoe  on 


And  we  in  gray  diahonnred  eld, 

Feeble  of  frame,  imfit  were  held 

To  join  the  warrior  array 

That  then  went  forth  unto  the  fray : 

And  here  at  home  we  tarry,  fain 

Out  feeble  footat«p«  to  sustain, 

Eaoh  on  his  staff  —  so  strength  doth  waae, 

And  turns  to  childishness  again. 

For  while  the  etf  of  youth  ia  green, 

And,  yet  unripened,  leaps  within. 

The  young  are  weakly  as  the  old. 

And  each  alike  unmeet  to  hold 

The  vantage  post  of  war  I 

And  ahl  when  flower  and  fruit  are  o'er. 

And  on  life's  tree  the  leaves  are  sere. 

Age  wendeth  propped  its  joum^  drear. 

As  forceless  as  a  child,  as  light 

And  fleeting  as  a  dream  of  night 

Lost  in  the  garish  dayl 


But  thou,  0  child  of  Tyndaiena, 

Queen  Clytemneatra,  speaki  and  a»y 

What  messenger  of  joy  to-d^r 

Hatb  won  thine  earT  what  wdomne  news. 

That  thua  in  sacrificial  wise 

£*«■  to  the  city's  bouodafiea 

Thou  biddest  altar-fires  ariieT 

Eaoh  god  who  dotliaur  city  eiard. 

And  keeps  o'er  Argoa  ootdi  and  witd 

From  heaven  above,  f  nwi  with  bsknr  — 

The  mighty  lords  who  rule  the  skiaa. 

The  market's  leww  dntiM, 

To  each  and  all  the  dt«s|^, 

Piled  for  tba  sacrifieet 

And  here  and  ther^  aoMi,  star, 

Btrewns  skyward  many  »  beaeon-atar, 

Conjur'd  and  chacm'd  uid  kindlad  well 

By  pure  oil's  soft  and  guileleas  apeU, 

Hid  now  do  mtan 

Within  the  palace'  secret  stom. 

0  queen,  we  pray  thee,  whatsoe'er. 
Known  unto  tbee,  wen  well  reveidad, 
That  thou  wift  trust  it  to  our  ear. 
And  bid  our  anxious  heart  be  healadt 
That  waoeth  dow  unto  despair  — 
Now,  waxing  to  a  presage  fair. 
Dawns,  from  Uh  altar.  Hop*  —  to  tear* 
From  our  rant  hsAita  the  vultvre  Clare. 

ListI  for  the  power  is  mine,  to  chant  on  hi^ 
The  cbxtn'   emprisf^   the  stm^th    that 

omonagavel 
List!  on  my  swil  breatliaa  y«t  Ahanao^, 
From  realms  of  agelon  powers,  aad  atrong 

How  brother  kings,  twin  lords  of  one  oom- 

Led  forth  the  youth  of  BeUaa  k  their 

flower, 
Uiaed  on  their  w^r,  with  vei^ul  Qwar 

and  brand. 
By  warricr-birda,  that  watehad  Uie|MvtiBK 

Go/orei  to  Trov,  the  aaglas  seaowd  to«y — 
And  the  sea-kings  obeyed  the  sl^lunga' 

When  on  the  right  they  soared  across  the  Ay, 
And  ooe  was  blaek,  one  bore  a  white  tail 
barred. 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


AGAMEMNON 


High  •'«  tht  palftM  mn  they  Mtn  to  Bcwr, 
Tben  lit  in  ai^t  of  all,  and  rent  and  tare, 
Far  fiDB  tba  BeUa  that  ahe  Bkould  Tange 

Domofe, 
Big  with  her  unbcna  brood,  a  mother-hara. 

And  one  beheld,  the  i(ddi«r-fffophet  touo, 
And  the  two  ohiela,  unlike  of  aoul  aokl  win, 
la  thetwy-eolorad  aaglea  atrai^t  he  knew. 
And  itfiake  the  omnt  forth,  tot  good  and  ill. 

CAh,  woe  and  ^nlSl^rdasi  but  be  the  iaaue 
Url) 

Oo  forth,  he  oried,  and  Priam'g  loam  aAoU 

fa&. 
Ytt  long  til*  IMM  thall  be;  andjUidemtd  herd, 
T*e  pMpb'a  VMtUh,  tiial  rosm  ln^on  Ote 

uoU,- 
SkaU  force  ktw  dowa,  tehcn  Fate  AaU  fk» 


Bvt  O  beware!  leal  wmlA  in  hem)en  <Mde, 
To  dint  Ae  trowing  bal^forge  ante  more, 
And  mar  tiu  vttgktif  curb  of  Trojan  pride, 
Hu  iM  (^  vengeance,  toeidedaeformirt 

For  twytn  Artemit  beortjealoue  Aote 
Againtt  the  royal  htwM,  tite  ea^o-pair. 
Who  read  the  unborn  brood,  iinatiatt  — 
Yea,  leatkei  Ihtir  banft*^  on  tke  qutmrirtg 


The  lender  new-tmrnetiibKif  Hone  beU, 

7W  (*wk  to  rawfe  —  and  locU  Ae  tucMig 

dktU 
QfeMTfibeaetOuUroamtbvwoodandviM- 

SoloOie  Lord  of  Heaven  the  praveth  etUl, 
"Naii,1fUma»tbe,bet}ieotnentntel 
YetdothemtionedeagUepretageill; 
TheendbeiMll.btdtroteedwiihenlUio!" 

Heater  Apottot  be  her  viraih  eontroU'd, 
Nor  weave  tite  long  delay  qf  tkwtrtin^  gale*, 
To  uxn- (HKi<n«(  (ke  iJaniwn*  and  uilUoM 
From  the  free 


SheeraM*,abullo»mam)eiidttfe 
Shod  forth,  a  omtt  wnAatfowa  J  uaijia  — 
'Tiaixt  wtddtd  tovia,  arUfietr  <4  tbrtfe. 
And  hate  that  knowi  nolfeor,  mdftil  device. 

Al  home  there  tarriet  like  a  hirkinf  make, 
Biding  ilt  time,  a  wraih  mtroeoneHod, 
A  wUvvxUcher,  paeeionale  lo  elake. 
In  blood,  reeenimtM for  amurderodekOd. 


Such  was  the  mighty  warning,  pealed  of 

Amid  good  tidings,  such  the  word  of  fear. 
What  time  the  fateful  eaglea  horerad  o'er 

TtialringBj  ■.ml  flnlnltrtaJiMji  ftn««wn»iu4jwn- 

(In  stoains  ISie  hia,  onoe  more. 

Sing  woe  and  well-a-dayt  but  be  the  iaaue 

fair!) 

Zeua  —  if  to  The  Unknown 

That  name  of  many  namea  Boem  good  — 

Zeua,  upon  Thee  I  call. 

Thro'  the  mind'a  erory  nttd 

I  pawed,  but  vain  are  all. 

Save  that  which  namea  thee  Zens,  the 

Higheat  One, 
Were  it  bat  mine  to  oaat  away  the  load, 
The  wearjr  load,  that  wei^is  my  qiirH 

He  that  was  Lord  of  old, 

In  fuU-bknra  pride  of  |riaee  and  valor  bold, 

Hath  fallen  and  is  gone,  even  as  aa  old  tale 

toldl 
And  be  that  next  held  sway. 
By  stronger  grasp  o'erthrown 
Hath  paae'd  away! 
And  whoBo  now  shall  bid  the  triumpb-chant 

arise 
To  Zeus,  and  Zeus  alone. 
He  Shan  be  foond  tbetrvly  wwe. 
"r  is  Zeus  alone  who  ahows  the  perfect  wi^ 
Of  knowledBe:  He  hath  ruled. 
Men   shall   learn   wisdom,   by   alDiotion 


In  visions  (^  thani^it,  hka  dropping  rain 
Descend  the  many  memories  of  pain 
Before  the  spirit's  of^:  thiou^  tenia  ai 

dole  ' 

Cornea  wisdom  o'er  the  mnrflSng  aoul  — 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


A  boon,  I  wot,  of  «11  rUvinity, 
Tbhb  holds  its  sacred  throne  in  strength, 
above  the  sky  I 

And  then  the  elder  chief,  at  whone  ootn- 


The  fleet  at  Greece 

Cast  on  the  aeer  no  word  of  hate, 

But  veered  before  the  sudden  breath  of 

Fate  — 

Ah,  weaiy  while!  for,  ere  they  put  forth 

sail. 
Did  every  store,  each  minJ^'dveesel,  fail, 
While  all  the  AcIubbii  host 
At  Aulis  anchored  lay, 
Looidag  aoroBs  to  Chalcia  and  the  coast 
Whwe  refluent  waters  welter,  rook,  and 

And  rife  witfi  ill  delay 

From  northern  Strymon  blew  the  tiiwart- 

ing  blast  — 
Mother  of  famine  fell, 
That  holds  mm  wand'ring  still 
Far  from  the  haven  where  they  fain  would 

bel  — 
And  pitiless  did  waste 
Each  ship  and  (»ble,  rotting  on  the  sea. 
And,  doubling  with  delay  each  weary  hour. 
Withered  with  hope  deferred  th'  AduBans' 

warlike  flower. 

But  when,  for  bitter  storm,  a  deadlier  re- 

Uef, 
And  heavier  with  ill  to  either  chief, 
Pleading  the   ire   of   Artemis,  the  seer 

avowed, 
The  two  Atrids  smote  thw  sceptos  on  the 

And,  striving  hard,  could  not  their  tears 

restrain! 
And  then  the  elder  monardi  spake  aloud  — 
lii  lot  vxrt  nine,  to  ditobeyl 
And  iU,  to  amtte  my  child,  my  AouseAoId'i 

lave  and  pride  I 
To  tiain  with  mrgin  blood  a  father't  handt, 

and  flay 
My  daughter,  by  the  altar'*  tidtl 
'TtvixtTPoecrndtPoe  TdteeU  — 
/  dare  not  life  a  reereantfiy. 
And  leaoe  the  league  of  Aipt,  and  fail  each 


InteaUy; 


Far  rightftdly  they  erotw,  wi&  eager  Jury 

The  virgin't  blood,  ahad  forth  to  IvU  the  ad- 

iwse  mnd  — 
Ood  und  thg  deti  he  weUI 

Thus  on  his  neck  he  took 

Fate's  hard  compelling  yoke; 

Thm,  in  the  oountar-gale  of  will  abhorr'd, 


To  reckleesnen  hig  shifting  spirit  veered  — 
Alas!  that  Freuy,  first  of  ills  and  wont. 
With  evil  craft  men's  souls  to  sin  hath  ever 
stirred! 

And  BO  he  steeled  his  heart  —  ah,  w«U-»- 

Aiding  a  war  for  one  false  woman's  sake. 
Bis  child  to  slay. 
And  with  her  apilt  blood  make 
An  offering,  to  speed  the  ships  upooth^ 
way  I 


The  girl-vniee  plead. 

Pity  mo,  Paiher!  nor  her  prayers, 

Nor  tender,  virgin  years. 

Bo,  when  the  chant  of  sacrifice  was  Axsat, 
Her  father  bade  the  youthful  {nieetty  ta«in 
Raise  her,  like  some  poor  kid,  above  the 

altar-stone. 
From  whoe  amid  her  robes  she  1^ 
Sunk  sll  in  swoon  away  — 
Bade  them,  sb  with  the  bit  that  mutdy 

tames  the  steed. 
Her  fair  lips'  speech  refrain. 
Lest  she  should  speak  a  curse  on  Atreus' 

home  and  seed, 

So,  bailing  on  the  earth  her  robe  of  saffrtHi 

dye, 
With  one  Isst  piteous  dart  from  her  b«- 

geechiog  eye 
Those  that  should  smite  she  smote  — 
Fair,  silent,  as  a  pictur'd  form,  but  fain 
To  plead,  la  aU  forgot  t 
How  oft  thote  hatU  of  old. 
Wherein  mj/  aire  kighfMH  did  hold, 
Rang  to  tiie  vwvtnal  *eft  Mratn, 


Google 


AGAMEMNON 


Wlun  /,  a  (totnlMt  cMU, 

Sangjrom  pure  Hpi  and  vnd»fiUd, 

Saag  of  my  tire,  <md  aU 

HiahiMmdlife,aridkoiBonliimihoiMfaU 

Haatm,'*  highett  gift  and  gainl 

And  than  —  but  I  beheld  not,  iu>r«an  tell, 

Whftt  further  fate  befeU : 

But  thia  ia  sure,  tlut  Calohu'  boding 

Cea  ne'er  be  void  or  vain. 

Hill  mge  from  Juatioe'  hand  do  auffeien 

The  future  to  diacem; 

And  jret — farewdl,  O  aeoret  of  To-morrowl 

Fore-knowledge  ia  fore-aorrow. 

Clenr  with  the  clear  beams  ol  the  monow'a 

Hw  future  preeMth  on. 

Now,  let  the  house's  tale,  how  dark  ■oe'er, 

Rnd  ]«t  an  iaaue  f  airt  — 

Bo  j>nj»  the  loyal,  aolitary  band 

'Riat  guaida  tiie  Apian  land. 

[They  turn  to  CLiniontfTBA,  uAo 
booM  lie  allan  and  eomtt  for- 

0  queen,  I  ooi»e  in  reveienee  ot  thy  away — 
For,  irtub  the  rukr's  kin(^  teat  is  vrnd, 
The  loyal  heart  before  his  constat  bends. 
Now  —  be  it  sure  and  certain  newa  of  good. 
Or  the  fair  tidings  ot  a  flatt'ring  hope. 
That  bida  thee  qnread  the  light  fnunahrine 

toahiine, 
I,  fain  to  hear,  yet  gnidge  not  if  Utou  hide. 
CLTnHKioTBA.    As  saitJi  the  adage, 
Fnm  lh»  wmb  (^  Night 
Spring  forth,  mlh  promUe  fair,  (At  yotmg 

tkOdldtla. 
Aye — fairer  even  than  all  hope  my  news — 
^  Grecian  hands  ia  Priam's  city  ta'ent 
CsoRua.  What  say'at  thou?  doubtful 

heart  makea  tieach'roua  ear. 
CLTnaismnoA.  Hear  then  again,  and 

plainly  —  Troy  ia  ourgi 
CaoKDB.  Tluills  thro' my  heart  such  joy 

aa  wakens  tears. 
CLTTmimnsA.  Aye,  thro'  those  tears 

thine  eye  looka  loyalty. 
Chobdb.  But  hast  thou  proof,  to  make 

CLT^DcntBTRA.  Go  to;  1  hare  —  un- 
Imb  the  god  has  lied.    . 


Cbobos.  Hath  aome  night-TisioD  woo 

theetobelirfT 
CLTTBimBTXA.  Out  on  all  presage  of  a 

slumb'roua  soul  I 
Chobub.  But   wert   thou   cheered    by 

Rumor's  wingless  woid  T 
CLmnfNBsniA.  Peace — thoudostdiide 

roe  ae  a  credulous  girl. 
Chorus.  Say  them,  how  long  ago  the  city 

fellT 
CLTTiMNBaTBA'.  Even  in  this  night  that 

now  brings  forth  the  dawn. 
Chorus.  Yet  who  so  swift  could  speed 

the  menage  htm? 
Ci.TTmfNaBTRA.  From   Ida's   top   He- 
phiestus,  lord  of  fire, 
Sent  forth  his  sign;  and  on,  and  ever  oh, 
Beaoon  to  beacon  sped  the  oouiiar-flame. 
From  Ida  to  the  crag,  that  Hmnee  loves. 
Of  Letnnoe;  thence  unto  the  steep  sublime 
Of  Atbos,  throne  of  Zens,  the  broad  blase 

flared. 
Thence,  raised  aloft  to  shoot  across  the  sea. 
The  moving  light,  rejoioiitg  in  its  strength. 
Sped  from  the  pyre  of  pine,  and  urged  its 

way, 
In  gi^doi  ^ory,  like  some  strange  new  sun, 
Onwaid,  and  reached  Maciatus'  watching 

httghte. 
Then,  with  no  dull  delay  nor  heedless 

deep, 
The  watcher  sped  the  tidings  on  in  turn. 
Until  the  guard  upon  Mesnnpius'  peak 
Saw  the  far  flame  ^eam  on  Euripus'  tide, 
And  from  the  high-piled  he^  of  with««d 

Lit  the  new  ngn  and  bade  the  menage  on. 
Then  the  strong  light,  far-flown  uid  yet 

undimmedj 
Shot  thro'  the  sky  above  Aeopus'  plain. 
Bright  tm  the  moon,  and  on  (^thBion'a 

crsg 
Aroueed  another  watch  of  flying  fire. 
And  there  the  sentinels  no  whit  disowned. 
But  sent  redoubled  on,  the  best  d  flame  — 
Swift  shot  the  light,  above  Gorgopis'  bay. 
To  ^Igiplanctus'  mount,  and  bade  the  peak 
Fail  not  the  onward  ordinance  irf  fire. 
And  like  a  long  beard  streaming  in  the 

wind, 
FullTfed  with  fuel,  toand  and  rose  the 

blase. 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Ami  cawd  fiiciiiB,  ^earned  above  die 

BaDmth  wfaiah  riuimMn  the  8v(»k  bay, 
And  thenoe  le^t  light  unto  Aradtne'fl  pe^, 
The  raoTOtain  wktch  tfaftt  loiAs  upon  our 

OImbm  to  th'  AtritW  roof  —  is  IiMi«e 

fair, 
A  bii^  psBleritr  oT  Ida's  Ire. 
80  qwd  trom  stage  to  stage,  fulflUed  in 

t«ni, 
flame  aft«'  flmic,  along  tbe  eouiae  ot- 

dMoed, 
And  lot  the  last  to  qwed  opm  Ha  way 
Si^ts  tiie  end  fin^  and  glow"  Ki>to  ^e 

goal. 
And  Troy  u  tft'eo,  oad  by  tUa  sigti  my  lord 
Telia  me  the  tale,  and  ye  have  learned  my 

worL 
Cbokib.  To  haatvHi,  O  quean,  wffl  I  np- 

taise  new  Bomg: 
But,  wouldst  thou  apeak  once  toon,  I  fun 

wotddbear 
From  first  to  last  tbe  BMTvel  of  tbe  taJe. 
CLTTSHmmu.  Think  yoa  —  thie  t«ry 

mora  —  the  Greeks  in  Troy, 
And  loud  tbneia  tbe  voioe  of  uttw  wajlt 
Wttiim  one  esp  pour  Timgir  and  oil. 
And  lookt  unbloit,  unreoonciled,  ttny  war. 
80  in  the  trnfold  iaaue  ot  the  strife 
Mingle  the  victor'a  shout,  the  eiqitivea' 

For  all  tiie  eooqaered  iriiom  tbe  wronl  has 

ding   weeping  —  some   unto    a  bnitfaer 

Some  dkildlike  to  a  Mning  f  atkei'a  f(ff» , 
And  wail  the  loved  and  lest,  the  wbSe  tiRR- 

neck 
Bows  down  already  'aaath  the  o^Xive'a 

And  lol  the  -rictora,  now  the  fight  is  done, 
Qoaded  by  nsUeea  hunger,  far  and  wide 
Range  all  diaontoed  thro'  tbe  town,  to 

■oatoh 
Such  victoal  and  audi  reet  as  Amux  may 

give 
ffitbin  ttie  o^itin  balk  that  oaoe  wete 

Troy- 
Joyful  to  rid  them  of  the  frost  and  dew, 
Wbernn  they  oouobed  upoa  tbe  plain  of 

old  — 


Joyful  to  sle^  Uk  gndovs  night    ■> 

Unsummoned  of  the  wxtebmg  sentind. 
Yet  let  tbem  reverence  w^  the  city's  goda. 
The  lords  ot  Troy,  1^'  f^len,  and  her 

Ruiiiesj 
Bo  shall  the  apoilera  not  in  turn  be  spotod . 
Yea,  let  no  eravmg  for  forbidden  gain 
Bid  conquerors  yield  before  tin  darta  of 

greed. 
For  we  need  yet,  before  the  raee  be  won. 
Homewards,    unharmed,    to    round    th» 

ooune  once  more. 
For  should  the  host  wax  wanton  ere  it 

Tlien,  tbo'  tbe  sadden  blow  of  fate  be 
spared, 

Yet  in  the  sight  of  gads  shaS  rise  once  ntore 

Tbe  great  wrong  of  the  riain,  to  dum  re- 
venge. 

Now,  bearing  from  thia  woman's  mouA  of 

The  tale  and  ehe  Its  wanuBg,  pray  with  nte. 

Lack  amy  the  teaie,  wiA  no  wteertatn  poite 

For  my  fair  hopet  are  changed  to  fairer  joj/t. 

Chorus.  A  gracious  word  thy  wotnau'a 

Kps  have  tt^d, 
Worthy  a  wise  man's  utterance,  O    my 

queen; 
Now  with  etMr  trust  in  thy  convincing  tale 
I  set  me  to  salute  the  gods  with  song, 
Who  bring  us  bins  to  counterpoise  our 

pain.  [Exit  CLmmmBTBA.) 

Zeua,  I^^  of  heaveni  and  weleotne  ni|^ 
Ot  victory,  that  hast  our  rai|^ 
With  bU  the  gloriea  erownedt 
On  towers  of  lUon,  bee  no  more, 
Hast  flung  tbe  mighty  medi  of  war, 
And  closdy  girt  tbem  round, 
Till  neither  warrior  may  'acape, 
Nm-  stripling  lightly  overleap 
The  trammeb  as  they  doee,  and  dose, 
TiSi  with  tte  grip  of  doom  our  foes 
In  slavery's  008  are  bouadi 

Zeus,  Lord  of  hospitality, 

In  gratefid  awe  I  bend  to  U>ee  — 

T  is  thou  hast  atruofc  tbe  blow  I 

At  Alexander,  kmg  ago. 

We  marked  thee  bend  thy  vMigefid  bow, 

Bat  long  aad  warily  withhold 

The  eager  abaft,  i^ieb,  unoaatrofled 


AGAMEMNON 


And  loaaed  too  nxn  or  Uimotiad  too  high. 
Had  waadarad  bk>odl(M  thnmi^  tbo  aky. 

Zew,  tiw  high  God]  —  iriwta'cc  bs  dim  in 

doubt, 
Ttui  oaa  our  tboucht  tiaok  out  — 
The  bbw  that  fella  the  aaner  w  of  God, 
AndMbewilk,  the  rod 
Of  vengeance  KaitBtbaonL  Om  Mud  of  (dd, 
1**0  pod*  Jut  twlfoAoU 
J  rtekaniitff  wiA  kim  wfujtefttt  trpjm** 
Th*  graea  qf  hoUnMt — 
An  impioiu  vord!  lot  whaosoe'er  the  aire 
Bnttthad  lorth  nb^iona  foe  ~ 
What  time  his  houaehold  orertowed  the 

Of  bliaa  tad  health  asd  tnaoura  — 

Hia  chilcban's  ohildren  road  the  lOffcowtBg 

At  last,  in  toan  ^ui  pun. 

On  nw  let  weal  that  ban^  no  woe  be  sent, 

And  therewitbat,  eontontl 

Who  qwRH  (he  dirine  of  Right,  nor  wealth 

nor  power 
ibaUhetahimalcnMr, 
To  guard  hioi  froBi  tite  gidf :  titere  Uw  hie 

lot, 
When  all  thinga  are  forgot. 
Lust  dnvaa  bim  on  —  luet,  daepccate  and 

wild, 
Fate's  BiD-oontrinng  child  — 
And  cure  ie  none;  beyond  oooeeelmant  clear, 
Kindlos  ^n'a  baleful  glare- 
Aa  aa  iD  coin  beneatk  the  wearing  tau<^ 
Betrays  by  stain  and  smutch 
ItamelaJfidBe — euijiia  the  sinful  wight. 
Before,  on  pinions  light, 
Fwr  Pleaaure  flita,  and  huea  him  (diildlike 

en. 
While  hoiae  and  kin  tnAke  moaa 
Beneath  thra  grinding  bnrden  ot  his  cnnw; 
Till,  in  the  md  of  time. 
Cast  down  of  heaven,  he  poun  forth  fruit- 

lenpf^rer 
To  powen  tltat  tnS  not  hear. 


And  ahe,  nato  bar  ooualir  asd  her  kin 
Leaving  Uie  elaah  of  shields  and  ipeara  and 

uming  ships, 
And  bearing  unto  Ttoy  d 

doww. 
And  ovetbold  in  sin, 
Went  OovOf  thn'  tlM  g 

Oft  from  the  peopbeta'  lipa 

Moaned  out  the  warning  and  the  wail  — 

Woe  for  the  hmncs  tba  houMl  and  for  the 

dueftaino,  wool 
Woe  for  the  bri^^Md,  wans 
Yet  from  tbe  loWy  limfaa,  the  taapreM  of 

the  form 
Of  her  who  loved  her  lordt  awhile  agol 
And  woet  tor  him  who  Btends 
Shamed,  ailent,  uaieproachful,  atretcfaiug 

banda 
That  find  her  not,  and  aees,  yet  will  not 

see. 
That  she  is  far  awayl 
And  his  sad  fancy,  yeaming  o'er  the  aea, 
KiaU  summon  and  recall 
Her  wraith,  once  more  to  queu  it  id  his 

haB. 
And  sad  with  many  memtmeq. 
The  fait  eoM  beauty  of  caob  leul^tnred 

(aee  — 
And  all  to  hatefulneae  is  turned  tiieir  grace. 
Seen  blankly  by  foriccn  and  hungering 

eyee! 
And  when  the  night  ia  deep, 
Come  viMM,  aweet  and  aad,  and  beating 

,    pain 
Of  hopings  viun  — 
Vmd,  void  aad  vain,  for  aoaroe  the  deeping 

sight 
Has  seen  its  cdd  delif^t, 
When  thro'  the  grasps  of  love  that  bid  it 

stay 
It  vanishes  away 
On  silent  wings  that  roam  adown  the  wigra 


Sudt  are  tite  sigbta,  the  at 

About  our  hearth  —  and  wmae,  wbneof  I 

may  Bot  tdl. 
But,  bU  the  wide  town  o'er, 
Eaeh  hooM  that  sent  ita  maater  far  »way 
FrauHdlaa'  Am*. 


.CiOo<-i\c 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Peda  the  keen  thiill  of  heart,  the  pug  of 

loes,  to-d«7. 
For,  touth  t«  u.y, 

The  touch  of  bitter  de&th  is  nuuiif  old! 
Familiar  wm  each  face,  and  dear  as  life. 
That  went  unto  the  war, 
But  thitiiw,  whence  a  warrior  went  of  old, 
Doth  nought  return  — 
Only  a  spear  and  sword,  and  aahee  in  an 

For  Area,  lord  of  strife, 
Who  doth  the  swaying  aoalee  of  battle  hold, 
War's  money-changer,  giving  dust  for  gold, 
Sends  back,  to  hearts  that  held  them  dear. 
Scant  aab  <A  wairiots,  wept  with  many  a 

Umx, 
Id^t  to  the  hand,  but  heavy  to  tlte  soul; 
Yea,  fills  the  light  urn  futt 
WitJi  what  survived  the  Same  — 
Death's  dusty  measure  of  a  hero's  framel 

Alaal  one  cries,  and  j/el  aUu  agamt 

Our  chief  ii  gone,  Iheherooftheapear, 

And  halh  notl^thit  -p^l 

Ah,  woeJ  anotjier  moans  —  my  ajwuM  m 

tiain, 
ThtihaAqftumor.roiMintht^andbhod, 
Slain  far  a  uxman't  tin,  a/oIm  wife'*  iKamtf 
Such  muttered  words  of  bitter  mood 
Riae  against  those  who  went  forth  to  re- 
Yea,  jealous  wrath  creeps  on  against   th' 

Atfides'  name. 

And  others,  far  beneatji  the  Ilian  wall, 
Sleep  their  last  deep  —  the  goodly  chiefs 

and  tall. 
Couched  in  the  foeman's  land,  irtieereon 

they  gave 
Their  breath,  and  lords  of  Troy,  each  in  his 

Trojan  grave. 

Tlierefare  for  each  and  all  the  city's  breast 

la  heavy  with  a  wrath  supprest, 

As  deep  and  deadly  as  a  curse  more  loud 

Flung  by  the  common  crowd: 

And,  brooding  deeply,  doth  my  soul  await 

Tidings  of  coming  fate. 

Buried  as  yet  in  darkness'  womb. 

For  not  forgetful  is  tlw  high  gods'  doom 

Against  tj>e  sons  of  oamage:  all  too  long 

Seems  the  unjust  to  proiper  and  be  strong, 


Till  the  dark  Furies  come, 
And  smite  with  stwn  revcnal  all  hit  borne, 
Down  into  dim  obstruction  —  he  is  gone. 
And  help  and  hope,  among  the  kwt,  ia  none  i 

O'er  him  who  vauntetb  an  exceeding  fame, 

Impends  a  woe  condign; 

The  vengeful  bolt  upon  hie  eyes  doth  flanoe. 

Sped  from  the  hand  divine. 

This  blias  be  mine,  ungrudged  of  God,  to 

feel  — 
To  tread  no  city  to  the  dust, 
Nor  see  my  own  life  thrust 
Down  to  a  slave's  eetate  beneath  another's 

heelt 

Behold,  throughout  the  dty  wide 

H&ve  the  swift  feet  of  Rumor  hied, 

Roused  by  the  joyful  flame: 

But  is  the  news  they  acattw,  sooth  ? 

Or  haply  do  they  ^v»  for  truth 

Some  cheat  which  heav«a  doth  ftameT 

A  child  were  he  and  all  unwise, 

Wholethiaheartwitti  joy  be  stirred. 

To  see  Uie  beaoon-firee  arise. 

And  then,  beneath  some  thwarting  wt/rd, 

Sicken  anon  with  hope  deferred. 

The  edge  of  woman's  insight  still 

Good  news  from  true  divideth  ill; 

Light  rumors  leap  within  the  bound 

That  fences  female  credence  round. 

But,  lightly  bom,  as  lightly  dies 

The  tale  that  springs  of  her  surmise. 

Boon  shall  we  know  whereof  the  bale-firea 

tell. 
Hie   beacons,   kindled  with   trananutt«d 

Whether,  as  well  1  deem,  their  tale  is  true. 
Or  whether  like  some  dream  delusive  caste 
Tlie  welcome  blase  but  to  befool  our  soul. 
For  lot  I  see  a  herald  from  the  shore 
Draw  hither,   shadowed  with  the  olive- 

And  thirsty  dust,  twin-brother  of  the  clay, 
Speaks  plain  of  travel  far  and  truUiful 

No  dumb  surmise,  nor  tongue  of  flame  in 

smoke, 
Fitfully  kindled  from  the  roovmtain  pyre; 
But  plainlier  shall  his  voice  say,  AU  it  toell, 
Or  —  but  away,  foreboding  advarae,  now. 


AGAMEMNON 


And  on  fail  [HtHniae  f  mir  fulfiUmeat  comel 
And  whoBo  for  the  atat«  pnyB  otherwiw, 
Hi«— If  nap  homeat  of  hia  ill  d«sinl 

[Bnitr  Herau>.] 

Hmsau).  O  land  of  A^oa,  fatiierUnd  of 

To  Umo  ftt  but,  beiMftth  the  tenth  yenr'a 

Ht  feet  return;  the  bark  of  my  enqiriae, 
Vbo'  oae  by  ana  hope's   anchon   broke 

Held  by  the  Uat,  and  now  ridea  aafely  here. 
Long,  long  niy  aoul  despaired  to  win,  in 

death, 
Its  tooged-for  leet  within  our  ArgiTB  land: 
And  now  all  bail,  O  earth,  and  hail  to  thee, 
New-riaen  aim  I  and  hail  our  country's  God, 
Bi^-mling  Zeiu,  and  tbou,  the  Pythian 

lord, 
Wboaa  arrowa  amote  ua  onoe  —  amite  thoU 

no  morel 
W«a  not  thy  wrath  wreaked  full  upon  our 


And  hail,  all  goda  who  rule  the  atreet  and 

mart 
And  Hnrnea  hail  1  my  patron  and  my  pride, 
Henld  ot  heaven,  and  lord  of  heralds  hent 
And  Heroes,  ye  who  aped  us  on  our  way  — 
To  one  and  all  I  cry,  Btetive  again 
With  fToet  «uM  ArgiM*  a*  the  tpear  haa 


Ah,  home  ot  royalty,  betovdd  h^ls. 

And  aolfmn  ahrisea,  and  gods  that  front 

tiiemoml 
Bmign  oa  ervt,  with  aun-fluahed  aqieot 

greet 
The  king  returning  after  many  days. 
For  as  from  night  flaah  out  the  beams  of 

day. 
So  oat  of  datkneea  dawns  a  light,  along, 
On  you,  on  Argos  —  Agamemnon  txHues. 
TImb  bail  and  greet  him  welll  such  meed 

befiU 
ffim  whom  rii^t  bond  hewed  down  the 

towns  of  Troy 
Vitib  the  great  axe  of  Zeus  who  righteth 


And  amote  ♦■H«  plain,  amote  down  to  noth* 

Eaoh  altar,  every  shrine;  sad  for  and  wide 
Dies  from  the  whole  land's  face  its  off- 

qningfait. 
Such  mighty  yoke  of  fate  he  set  on  Troy  — 
Our  lord  end  monsrch,  Atreus'  ddsr  son. 
And  Domce  at  last  with  blissful  honor  home; 
Highest  of  all  who  walk  on  earth  to-day  — 
Not  Paris  nor  the  dty's  self  that  paid 
Sin's  jnioe  with  him,  can  boast,  Whate'er 

hefaJl. 
Th*  pitrdon  im  ha»e  won  outweigha  it  all. 
But  at  Fate's  judgmentHwat  the  robber 

Condemned  of  rapine,  and  his  pny  is  torn 
Forth  from  his  hands,  and  by  his  deed  ii 

reaped 
A  bloody  harvest  of  his  home  and  land 
Gone  down  to  death,  and  for  his  guilt  and 

lust 
His  father's  race  pays  double  in  ttke  dust. 
Chobus.  Hail,   herald  of   the  Greeks, 

new-oome  from  war. 
HxBAiJ>.  AU  hoill  not  death  itadf  can 

flight  me  now. 
Cbobdb.  Waa  thine  heart  wrung  with 

longing  for  thy  land? 
H»nni.n   So  that   this  joy  doth  brim 

mine  eyes  with  tears. 
Choxus.  (hi  you,  too,  then,  this  sweet 

distrees  did  faU  — 
HxBAU).  How  say'at  thou?  make  um 

master  of  thy  word. 
Chobttb.  You  longed  for  ua  nbo  pined 

for  you  sgain. 
Bmkau>.  Craved  the  land  us  who  cravet 

it,  love  far  love? 
Chobus.  Yea,  till  my  brooding  heart 

moaned  out  with  pain. 
Hhrau).  Whence    thy    despair,    that 

mare  the  army's  joy? 
Chobus.  ScU  eurt  ^  lORmg  t«  misnce, 

saiUi  the  saw. 
Hbbald.  Thy  kinga  afar,  oouldat  thou 

fear  otiier  men? 
Chobus.  Death  had  been  sweet,  as  the  u 

didst  say  but  now. 
Hbbuj).  "T  is  true;  Fate  smiles  at  laat. 
Throu^KHit  our  toil, 
These  many  yean,  some  ohonoei  ivusd 


fair. 


oqIc 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


And  MMM,  I  wot,  wen  dMokeiad  with  a 

But  wb),  OB  Mlh,  hath  wm  Um  Ujm  of 

bawren. 
Thro'   time's   whole  tenor  an  ii^roken 

wailT 
I  oould  a  tsle  unfbU  ti  *wHng  om, 
III  net,  eoant  Innflingi  on  a  ahtoe  rock- 
All  paina,  all  sorram,  for  our  dotMy  dovm. 
And  wane  and  haWulior  our  woea  on  land; 
For  wherewe  couched,  clcMe  by  the  foeman's 

wall, 
"Hm  nrer-plaiii  waa  smr  daidt  with  dewB, 
Dropped  from  the  aky,  exuded  from  the 

earth, 
A  erne  that  dune  unto  anr  Bodden  gaib , 
And  hair  aa  horrent  ae  a  wild  bMaf  ■  fell. 
Why  taH  Ite  woe*  of  winter,  whtK  the  binfa 
Laf  afewk  and  itiS,  bo  atam  waa  Ida's 

Or  ■uomer's  eoordi,  what  time  tfas  atirfan 

Sank  to  ita  Bleep  beneatb  fee  aocmday  win  T 
Why  tnottrn  oU  woea  T  thair  pain  haa  passed 

away; 
And  iMiaiiil  aw^,  from  tlwae  who  iell,  all 

can, 
Pbwrwnuore,  to  aae  and  live  again. 
Why  sum  the  eoimt  of  death,  awl  render 


For  life  by  i 

Farewdl,  along  fanwell  to  aQ  our  1 

To  UB,  the  remnant  of  die  boat  of  Greece, 


Hiua  boaat  we  rightfully  to  yonder  ana, 
like  him  far-fleeted  over  tea  and  laad. 
ThaAT^mKottprmmM  to  amqttar  Trail, 
AndinAtt»mfintfHte9od*efOnaee 
HmiguptfiMitpaita,aikminQnf/nl»Time. 
Let  thoee  who  learn  thia  legend  Uan  aright 
Tba  city  and  ite  darftaina,  and  repi^ 
The  meed  of  gratitude  to  Zeua  who  willed 
And  «n<i|^  the  dead.  80  alanda  tfaa  tale 

fulfflled. 
CBOfiDB.  Thy  woidao'eibear  my  doubt: 

fornewa of  good, 
1%e  ov  tf  acB  hath  ever  youth  enow : 
But  those  widiin  and  Clytennertn'a  aelf 
Wodd  fain  bear  all;  glad  U»ra  tbor  anis 


CLTmfmsnu.  Laat  nigkt,  wfaan  fint 
the  fiery  courier  came. 
In  sign  that  Troy  is  ta'ea  and  rand  to 

earth, 
So  wild  a  cry  of  joy  my  lips  gave  out, 
llkat  I  was  diiddea  — &«A  Ae  taieoa 

Jir«i«  Are  mia  Av  smZ  (Ae  Mcit  <^  rrav  r 
A  very  tMnum  thau,  wImm  keori  fotpc  UpM 
At  vrnndering  rumoral  —  and  with  words 

likatiMBB 
Hey  diowod  me  how  I  atnyed,  mitlvd  of 

hope. 
Yet<a«a«halirineIsettlteaaeiifloB, 
And,  in  (bastnuu  they  held  for  femkdne. 
Went  heraUi  thro' the  eity,  to  and  fro, 
Widi  Toiee  of  loud  pKM^aim,  aomauneng 

joy; 

And  is  each  fane  th^  tit  and  quenched 

with  wine 
"n^  spioy  perf unea  fading  in  the  Sam*. 
All  is  fulfilled:  I  span  your  longer  tale  ■ — 
The  kii«  himself  aaoo  diaU  teU  me  all. 

Remains  to  think  what  honor  beat  nrtay 

greet 
My  lord,  the  majesty  of  Argoe,  bone. 
What  dior  baama  fairer  on  a  wmnan's  e^ea 
Than  thia,  wfaeteon  dw  flinp  the  portal 

widie. 
To  hail  her  lord,  heaT<a'«ludded,  home 

from  war? 
TioB  to  my  husband,  that  he  tarry  not, 
But  turn  the  ctty'e  longing  into  joyi 
Yea,  let  him  oome,  and  ooBoing  may  he  Sad 
A  wife  no  other  than  be  lefthu',  true 
And  faithful  ae  a  watch-dog  to  his  home, 
BSa  (oemen'a  foe,  in  all  her  duties  leal. 
Trusty  to  keep  for  ten  long  yeanuamamd 
The  store  whereon  be  set  Ui  masUr-Md. 
Beated4eep-dyad,bdoreyelooktoaae 
ni  joy,  ill  fame,  from  other  wight,  in  mel 
Haaud).  'T  is  fairiy  said:  thus  apeaks  a 

noble  dame. 
Nor  speaks  amiaa,  when  truth  infoims  tim 

boast.  iBxU  CLrmof^tTRA.] 

CnoKCB.  Bo   haa  Ae  spoken  —  be   it 

youTB  toleam 
By  dear  interpreters  her  specaoue  word. 
Turn  to  me,  h«rald,  — tdlmeif  aaon 


AGAMEMNON 


»S 


Hw  SMond  wwB-kyved  lord  of  Argw  oonwBT 
Hath  ManBJWM  M&ly  iped  vitb  you  T 
HsKALD.  AIu  —  brisf  boon   unto   mjr 
Meadaitwcn, 
To  flAttW  tium,  f<n-  troth,  with  f skebooda 
fikl 
Chorus.  Speak  joy,  if  tmtk  ba  joy,  but 
truth,  at  wont  — 
Too  pkiiily,  truth  aod  joy  are  here  di- 
Tareed. 
Hmiuu).  The  hero  and  hii  bai^  were 
raiiiaway 
Far  from  the  Greciaii  Beet  ?  t  i«  mith  I  wy . 
(^oxm.  Whether   in   all   maa'a   sight 
from  Dion  borne. 
Or  from  tbe  fleet  by  streaa  of  weatberlora  ? 
Hmlub.  Full  on  the  mark  thy  diaft  of 
qieechdoth  li^t. 
And  one  short  word  hath  tok)  long  woee 
angbt. 
CHOBim.  Butny,  what  now  of  him  each 
SMBTMksaithT 
What  their  forebodings,  of  his  life  or  death  T 
BlvaLD.  Aak  me  no  mom:  the  tnith  is 
known  to  none, 
Bmra    tbe    earth-foatering,    aU-fiurreying 
Sun, 
Chobub.  Say,  by  what  doom  the  fleet 
of  Oreeee  was  driven? 
How  nee,  how  sank  the  atorm,  the  wrath 
of  Hewear 
HaBAiA.  Nay,  ill  it  were  to  mar  witt 
aonow's  tale 
The  day  (rf  bUaeful  news.  Tbego^demand 
Thankegiviog  sundered  from  eolicitude. 
If  one  as  herald  came  with  rueful  faee 
To  Bar,  Tkt  eurw  ha»  fatten,  and  the  hott 
Omm  down  le  dtaih;  and  on«  videierand  tet 

Thm  eiti/'t  kmrt,  and  out  efmany  homn 
MaMvarenttandtxmtteraUtoihath, 
Beneath  the  double  teourge,  that  Anm  tone*. 
The  bloodj/ pair,  Ihefire  and  tvordqf  doom — 
If  suoh  aore  iNvdm  weighed  upon  my 

toBfi^ie, 
'T  were  fit  to  speak  suoh  worda  aa  gladden 

finch. 
But  —  coming  as  he  comes  who  bringeth 

Of  aafe  return  f  kmu  toil,  and  iasnea  fiair, 
To  men  rejoicing  in  a  weal  leatotsd — 
Dan  I  to  daah  good  worda  wiOt  il,  Mtd  aagr 


Sow  the  gadB*  uiger  Knot*  tiie  Qiaeks  in 

For  fire  and  aaa,  diat  erst  hrid  bitter  fend, 
Now  swore  oomipiracy  and  pledged  their 

faith. 
Wasting  the  Argives  worn  with  toil  and 

Nii^t  and  great  horror  of  the  dsing  wave 
Came  o'er  ns,  mid  the  bbnto  tlist  bfow 

from  Thiace 
Cladted  ship  w^  ship,  and  aome  with 

plunging  prow 
Tbao'  aeudding  drifta  of  spn^  and  iwring 

Monn 
Vanished,  aa  stnori  by  some  iH  itsfhari 

And  when  at  length  the  sun  rose  bright,  we 

Th'   fgmn   sea-deM  flechad  with  flvwen 

of  death, 
Corpaee  ol  Grecian  men  and  ihaiitamd 

hulk. 
For  us,  indeed,  sane  god,  was  wall  I  deem. 
No  human  power,  laid  httid  opm  our  hdm, 
Snatched  asorprayed  oa  from  the  powcn 

of  air, 
And  brought  our  bark  thro'  aU,  unharmed 


Nor  grind  our  ked  upon  a  rooky  diore. 

So 'scaped  we  death  that  lutkR  beneath  tha 

aca, 
But,  undn  di^s  white  light,  noBtraatful  all 
Of  ForiRnte'a  maHa,  we  aat  and  Iwootted 

Shepherds  forlorn  of  Qioughta  that  wan- 
dered wild, 
O'er  this  new  woe;  for  amittoi  was  our 

host. 
And  lost  as  aahce  leattend  fretn  the  i^re. 
Of  whfHu  if  a^  dmw  hie  tifa-braath  jet. 
Be  well  asBwod,  he  deem*  of «  as  dMd, 
As  we  of  him  no  athtt  fat*  forebode. 
ButHesrv«nsaTaaUI  If  Uenelaui Uve, 
He  will  not  tarry,  but  will  eonl)' come : 
Therefore  if  anywbsv  (ba  Ugh  ■va'a  (■? 
Descriee  him  upon  earth,  preenred  by 

Zeus, 
Who  wifli  not  )>ot  to  w^  Ua  f>s»  awiy. 


H 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Hop«  atill  then  is  that  homeward  he  may 

we&d. 
Enou^  —  thou  hut  the  buth  unto  the 

eml.  [Exit  Hskau).! 

Chorus.  Bay,  from  whom  lipe  the  pnt- 

age  feU7 
Who  read  the  future  all  too  well, 
i\iid  uuned  her,  in  her  tmtal  hour, 
Helen,  the  bride  with  war  for  down' 7 
*T  waa  one  of  the  Invisible, 
Quiding  hia  tongue  with  innacient  pow«r. 
On  fleet,  and  host,  and  citadel, 
War,  apnmg  from  her,  and  death  did  lour, 
When  from  the  bride-bed'a  fine-*pun  veil 
She  to  the  Zephyr  apread  her  aail. 
Strong  blew  the  breeae  —  the  aurge  cloaed 

o'er 
The  cloven  track  of  Keel  And  oar. 
But  while  ahe  fled,  there  drove  along. 
Fast  in  her  wake,  a  mighty  throng  — 
Athirat  for  bk>pd,  athirat  for  war, 
Forward  in  fell  pursuit  they  sprung, 
llien  le^>t  on  Simoia'  bank  ashore. 
The  leafy  ooppicea  among  — 
No  rsngera,  they,  of  wood  and  field, 
But  huntamen  of  the  aword  and  shield. 

Heaven's  jealousy,  that  worka  ita  will, 

Sped  thua  on  Troy  its  destined  ill. 

Well  named,  at  onoe,  the  Bride  and  Bane; 

And  loud  rang  out  the  bridal  strain; 

But  they  to  whom  that  Bong  befell 

Did  turn  anon  to  tears  again; 

ZeuB  tarries,  but  avenges  atdll 

The   husband's   wrong,   the  household'a 

He,  the  hearth'a  lord,  brooks  not  to  see 
Its  outraged  ho^tality. 

Even  now,  and  in  far  oth«  tone, 
Troy  cbanta  hra  dii^  of  mighty  moan. 
Wot  upon  Pari*,  woe  and  katel 
if  ho  wooed  Am  counlrv't  doom  for  matt  — 
This  ia  the  burden  of  the  groan. 
Wherewith  ahe  wails  disconsolate 
liie  blood,  so  many  of  her  own 
Have  poured  in  vain,  to  fend  her  fate; 
Troy  t  thou  haat  fed  and  freod  to  roam 
A  lion-cub  within  thy  bomel 

A  Buokliog  oieature,  newly  Wen 
FiotQiBotiHr's  tMt,  still  fully  fain 


Of  nursing  oare;  and  oft  oareMed, 
Within  the  anna,  upon  the  bieaat, 
Bveo  as  an  infant,  has  it  lain ; 
Or  f  awns  and  lieke,  by  hungM  piVMed, 
The  hand  that  will  aaauage  its  pain; 
In  life's  young  dawn,  a  weD^ved  guest, 
A  fondling  for  the  cbiMrwi'a  {day, 
A  joy  unto  the  old  and  gray. 

But  waxing  time  and  growth  betn^ 
The  blood-thint  of  the  licm^raoe. 
And,  for  the  house's  fostering  eut, 
Unbidden  all,  it  revda  tiktn, 
And  bloody  recompense  repays  — 
Rent  flesh  of  kine,  its  talons  tare: 
A  mighty  beast,  that  alays,  and  dayi, 
And  noars  with  blood  the  household  faiT) 
A  God-sent  peel  invincible, 
A  minister  of  fat«  and  hell. 

Even  BO  to  Dion'a  city  oame  by  etealtli 
A  apirit  as  of  windleaaseaa  and  aides, 
A  gentle  phantom-fonn  of  joy  and  weahb, 
With  krve's  acrft  arrows  apeeding  frcmitk 

eyee  — 
Love's  rose,  whose  thorn  doth  pieroe  Out 

soul  in  subtle  wise. 

Ah,  wdl-B-dayl  the  bitt«r  bridal-bed, 
Wboi  the  fair  mischief  lay  by  Paris'  sidel 
What  curse  oti  palace  and  on  people  aped 
With  her,  the  Fury  aent  on  Priam's  pride, 
By  angered  Zeusl  what  tears  ot  many  a 
widowed  bride! 

Long,  long  ago  to  mortals  this  was  told, 
How  aw  est  aeourity  and  bliatful  atate 
Have  curses  for  their  children  —  so  men 

hold  — 
And  for  the  man  of  ail-too  prosperous  fate 
Springs  from  a  bitter  seed  some  woe  il^ 


Akme,  slone,  I  deem  far  otherwise; 

Not  bliai  nor  vealth  it  is,  but  impioui 

dead. 
From  which  that  after-growth  of  ill  dotb 

risel 
Woe  aprinp  from  wrong,  the  plant  ia  likt 

theaeed  — 
While  Ri^t,  in  Honor's  house,  doth  its 

own  likeneaa  breed. 


.Ck^ti^^lc 


AGAMEMNON 


«s 


Bonw  put  impiety,  aome  gti^  old  oiime, 
Brasdi  tbe  young  onne,  that  mtntona  in 

Birty  or  Ute,  wbra  hopi  th'  ftppoiated 

And  out  ot  light  bringH  power  at  dirkneaa 
■tin, 

'     ',■  foe,  unseen,  invinoiblfl; 


&  pride  amuned,  Uutt  broodi  upon  the  ntoe 
And  home  in  whidi  dark  Ati  holds  her 

Sin'i  ohild  and  Woe'a,  that  weais  tie  par- 

enta'  faoe; 
While  Ri^t  in  amoky  oriba  ahinea  dear  aa 

And  dedci  with  weal  bia  life,  who  walJca 
the  righteous  wsy. 

From  gDded  haUa,  that  hande  polluted 

Iaia^ 
Ri^t  tuiM  away  with  {»oud  averted  tyta, 
And  of  ihe  wealth,  men  stamp  amiae  with 

P«»ao,. 
Heedleaa,  to  poorer,  hoUer  t«mp)aa  biea. 
And  to  Fate'a  goal  guides  all,  in  ite  ap- 
pointed'wise. 

Hail  to  thee,  chief  of  Atreua' raoe, 
Beturning  proud  from  Troy  subduedl 
How  shall  I  greetthy  oonquering  faoe? 
How  nor  a  fula(»ne  praiae  obtrude, 
for  atiat  themeed  of  gratitude? 
?or  mntal  men  who  fall  to  ill 
Take  little  heed  of  opea  truth, 
But  seek  unto  ita  swnblanee  still: 
^le  ihow  of  weejMng  and  of  rutii 
Tothe  fortom  wfll  all  taea  pay. 
But,  of  the  grief  tb«r  eyee  display, 
Nou^t  to  the  heart  doth  pieroe  ita  way. 
And,  with  the  }oyoua,  thqr  beguile 
Ttair  lipa  unto  a  (eipiid  soiile, 
And  foroe  a  joy,  unfdt  the  while; 
But  he  who  aa  a  ahepberd  wise 
Doth  know  bia  flock,  can  ne'er  m 
Truth  in  the  fabduwd  of  hia  ^ee. 
Who  YtSt  beneath  a  kindly  guise 
A  lukewarm  lore  in  deed. 
And  thou,  our  leadw  —  when  of  yore 
Thou  badeat  Greece  go  f  ortii  to  war 
fat  Heho's  sake  —  I  dare  avow 
TW  then  I  held  thee  not  as  now^ 


That  to  my  vision  thou  didst  aeem 

Dyed  in  the  hues  of  dieeiteem. 

I  held  thee  for  apHotill, 

And  reckless,  of  tliy  jxopa  will, 

Endowing  otbva  doomed  to  die 

With  rain  and  foroed  audaoity  I 

Now  f  rmn  my  heart,  ungrudginily, 

To  thoee  that  wrought,  this  word  be  said— 

WM  faU  the  tabor  vkimaptd  — 

Let  time  and  aearch,  O  king,  declare 

What  men  within  thy  city'i  bound 

Were  loyal  to  the  kingdom's  can, 

And  who  wwe  faithlees  found. 

[Bnisr  AoAMSMNON  in  a  dutriot,  sooom- 

panied   by    CueANnRA.     Ht   tpeakt 

without  dttemdinff.] 
AaAUHHON.  Firat,  aa  is  meet,  a  king'a 
All-hail  be  said 
To  Argoe,  and  the  gods  tibat  guard  tin 

land  — 
Gods  who  with  me  arailed  to  QMed  us  hom^ 
With  me  availed  to  wring  from  Priam's 

The  due  of  justice.  In  the  court  (rf  hearm 
The  goda  in  oonolave  sat  and  judged  the 

cauae. 
Not  bmn  a  pleader'a  tongue,  and  at  the 

dose, 
Unanimous  into  the  um  of  doom 
Thia  sentence  gave,  On  Ilion  and  lur  man. 
Death:  and  where  hope  drew  nigh  to  par- 
No  hand  there  waa  to  caat  a  rota  therein. 
And  still  the  amcdce  <rf  faUen  Dion 
Rises  in  ei^t  of  all  men,  and  the  flame 
Of  Ati's  heeaton^  ia  tiring  yet. 
And  where  the  towers  in  duaty  aahea  aink, 
Riae  the  rich  fumea  of  pomp  and  wealth 

oonsumed. 
For  thia  must  all  men  pay  unto  the  goda 
"nie  meed  of  mindful  hearta  and  gnttitude: 
For  by  our  haada  the  meehea  of  rerenge 
Closed  on  the  pr^,  and  for  one  woman's 

aake 
Troy  trodden  by  the  Argive  monster  liea  — 
The  foal,  the  shidded  band  that  leapt  the 

wall. 
What  time  with  autumn  sank  the  Fldadea. 
Yea,  o'a  the  fencing  wall  a  lion  qmng 
RavMiing,  and  hvped  bis  flll  of  bkxid  of 


CtOoi^Ic 


CHIEF   £URCH>EAN  DKAMATISTS 


Such  prdodt  apt^ta  to  tba  gods  in  bill, 
To  you  I  turn,  and  to  tbe  hiddw  Unng 
Whereof  ye  apalu  but  m>w:  aad  in  that 

thou^tt 
I  am  B8  you,  and  wiuH  ye  aay,  aqr  I. 
For  few  are  tlbey  who  hara  auoh  mbon 

Braoe, 
Aa  to  look  up  with  loTB,  Bod  e&T7  not, 
WhoD  Htaoda  aDotbor  on  the  height  cf  weul. 
Deep  in  hia  baait,  whom  jeidMuy  hath 

Her  poiaoa  hirkinK  doth  aihanoe  hia  load; 
Fat  now  beneath  hiapraiMr  wmb  be  obafea, 
And  sighs  withal  to  see  another's  weal. 

I   apeak  not   idly,  but  from  kno^riedge 

sure — 
Thara  be  who  Twrnt  an  titter  loyalty, 
That  is  but  BB  the  ghost  <rf  McB^l^  dead, 
A  ahftdow  in  tt  gla«i,  (rf  f^dth  gone  t^. 
One  only  —  he  who  went  reluetant  forth 
AoRMB  tbe  asBs  with  Rw — Odjaams  —  he 
Waa  loyal  unto  me  with  streacth  and  will, 
A  trusty  traoe-horae  bound  unto  my  ear. 
1%us  —  be  he  yet  beiuatk  the  light  <rf  day. 
Or  dettd ;  H  wall  I  (ear  —  I  apeak  hii  praiBBL 

IdWtly,  wfaate'or  be  due  to  men  or  gods, 
With  joint  debat«,  in  pubUc  counoil  h^. 
We  will  daoide,  and  wanly  eontriva 
That  all  which  now  b  well  m^  so  abide: 
For  that  wfaieh  h^dy  needs  the  healer's 


Now ,  to  my  p^aoe  and  the  shrinea  of  home, 
I  will  pass  in,  and  met  yon  first  and  fair. 
Ye  gods,  who  bade  me  Axth,  Htd  home 

And  kog  may  TichRy  tarry  in  my  tsaint 

]finttr  Ci,YnatitamiaA,fdUoaed  bj/  matd«m 

bearing  jwrple  robu.l 

Clttuinbstxa.  Old    men    of    Argos, 

liegea  of  our  realm. 
Shame  sbaU  not  bid  me  duink  kat  ye 

should  see 
Tbe  tore  I  bear  my  lord.   Bueh  blnshing 

f^ar 
IXes  at  tbe  last  fnica  hearts  of  human  kind . 
From  mine  own  aoul  and  from  no  alien  lips, 


I  know  and  wS  reveal  tbe  life  I  bon^ 
Behmtant,  thioagh  Um  lingsring  Uvsiang 

yea". 
Hie  wfade  my  lord  beleaguered  Bioa's  tcU 

Fitat,  that  a  wife  sat  simdeted  front  bw 

lord. 
In  widowed  Bohtmla,  waa  nttea  woe  — 
And  woe,   to  hear   how  Rumor's  many 


Ail  boded  evil  —  woe,  whniha^ooanM 
And  he  who  followed  spake  of  iU  on  ill, 
Eeauag  Lott,  lost,  oU  last/  thro'  hall  and 

Had  tUe  my  husband  mat  qp  many  wounfc 
As  by  a  thousand  channels  Rumor  told, 
No  nstwoA  e'er  was  fall  of  holes  ae  he. 
Had  he  been  slain,  ae  oft  as  tsdinga  oame 
That  he  was  dead,  he  well  might  boast  hia, 

now 
A  second  Gtryon  of  triple  frame, 
With  triple  robe  of  eartii  above  him  laid  — 
For  that  below,  no  matter  —  triply  dead. 
Dead  by  (me  death  for  every  form  he  btm. 
And  thus  disttau^t  by  news  of  wrath  and 

wee, 
Oft  for  sdf  Hslaughter  had  I  slnng  the  noose, 
But  others  wroiched  it  from  my  ned 

Hence  b^M  it  that  Onstcs,  thine  and  mine. 
The  pledge  and  symbol  of  oar  wedded 

troth. 
Standi  not  beside  us  now,  as  he  dwuld 

stand. 
Nor  marvel  tbou  at  this :  he  dwelk  with  one 
Who  guarda  him  loyally;  't  is  Phocis'  king, 
Stro[£ius,  who  warned  me  srst,  BtUank 

Am,  gussa, 

ThvbrdmdaOjfjevfCffdt/atTTOif, 

WhiUhen»pep^ilae4tme>irbtdtnayerf 

"DoumvnAthteounea,ilotml"betUmkam 

loo, 
'TitlhtviortdftwartoMtakanUrhttt 
OnfaOtnpOKtr. 

For  thy  chiU's  absenoe,  thai, 
Such  mine  exonse,  no  wily  afterHuni^t. 
For  me,  long  sinoe  the  goehing  fbont  of 

tears 
Is  wept  away;  no  drop  is  left  to  shed. 
Dhn  ars  tba  eyes  that  ersr  wntdwd  t9 

dawn. 


.CtOo^^Ic 


AGAMEMNON 


Weepmg,  tfae  hale-fira,  piled  for  tfajF  n- 

turn, 
Nii^t alter ni^unldaiUed.  Klslqtt, 
E«eh  Bouod  —  the  tinjr  humming  of  »  gjttA 
Roused  BH  ocain,  tfia,  bom  fitful  diMDM 
Wberan  I  f  alt  thee  sa^ten,  sMT  thM  daki, 
Thiioe  {<a  each  momaai  ol  mioft  hour  at 


AH  this  I  bore,  sad  Boir,  nlewed  faomira^ 
I  haO  mjr  lord  aa  watch-dog  of  a  fold, 
Aaaanngstar^ioiM^  a  rtonn-toaiBd  ritip, 
A«  ctdumn  stout  that)  hokbtko  roof  aMt, 
As  onljr  child  unto  aaimberMvai, 
Ab  land  bdwld,  past  hope,  b^  crews  foriora, 
As  simshiie  fair  whan  toapest'a  wrath  ia 

part, 
Ae  gushing  Bpring  to  thirety  wajfaier. 
So  sweet  it  ia  to  'aeai>e  the  press  of  paia. 
With  such  salute  1  bid  my  husband  hailL 
Nor  Heaven  be  wiotfa  therewith]  for  long 

and  hard 
1  bcwe  that  iie  of  old. 

Sweet  Iwd,  stop  forth, 
St^  fron  thjr  oar,  I  pray  —  nay,  not  on 

oarth 
Plant  the  proud  foot,  O  king,  that  trod 

downTrt^l 
Women!  why  tarry  ye,  whose  tadc  it  ia 
To  sfuuad  your  mooveh's  paiUi  wiUi  tap- 

««try? 
Swift,  swift,  wiUi  pu^le  strew  his  passage 

fair. 
That  justice  lead  him  to  a  home,  at  last, 
He  searoely  looked  to  see. 

Foe  what  remaiBfl, 
Zeal  onsabdiied  by  sleep  shall  nerve  my 

To  work  ae  right  and  aa  the  gada  ooDuaaBd. 
AoumiNOtr.  Dau^ter  of  Leda,  watcher 
o'er  Biy  home, 
rhy  greeting  well  befits  mine  abacnee  long. 
For  late  and  hardly  has  it  reached  its  end. 
Know,  that  the  praise  which  honor  bids  us 

Mast  oome  from  others'  lips,  not  from  our 

own: 
See  too  that  not  in  fashion  feminine 
Thou  make  a  warrior's  pathway  ddkata; 
Not  unto  me,  as  to  some  Eastern  kvd, 
"  tky^f  to  ai»th,  make  homags 


Strew  mrt  this  pnrple  Ibat  riwll  mdw  each 

step 
An  arrogance;  such  pomp  beseems  tiie  gods. 
Hot  me.  A  moitel  man  to  set  hii  foot 
On  tikeae  hob  dyes  T  I  hold  sudi  prida  in 

fear, 
And  bid  thee  honor  me  as  man,  not  god. 
Fear  not  —  sudt  EootelotiM  *nd  all  gauds 

spart, 
Loud  from  the  trump  of  Fame  my  name  is 

Uown 
Beat  gtft  of  Heaven  it  is,  in  Tory's  hoar. 
To  think  thHecn  with   Mberaees:   and 

thou  — 
Bethink  thse  of  the  adage,  CoU  noMs  Mail 
rOI  peose^  death  Aove  erowMd  a  Ufa  <rf 


T  is  said:  I  fain  would  fare  n 

fear. 
CLTmmaemu.  Nay,  but  unsay  it  — 

thwart  not  thou  my  will! 
AasmHNOir.  Know,  I  have  said,  and 

will  not  mar  n^  word. 
CLToaBoaxBJL.  Was  it  fear  made  this 

nMehneas  to  Ute  sods  7 
AiuKXHHON.  If  cause  be  cauas,    'tis 

mine  for  this  reacdve. 
CLTnaaaBHTBA.    WImI,  think'st   thou, 

in  thy  place  had  Priam  done? 
AoumiHON.     Be  surely  wotdd  have 

walked  on  broidered  rabea. 
Ci.Tm«iii»Tiu.  Then  fear  not  tiiou  the 

voice  of  human  blame. 
AauoKKoiT.  Yet  mi^ity  is  the  murmur 

of  acrowd. 

'BA.  Shrink  not  from  envy. 


AoAMBUNOX.  War  is  not  w 


GLTTHHNiBrBA.  Yet  hsppy  victors  well 

may  yield  therein. 
AouuuufOM.  Dost  nave  for  tiiomph  in 

this  peUy  strife? 
CLTTHKHsanu.     Yield;  of  thy  grace 

permit  me  to  prevsill 
AaAiniEKON.     Then,  if  thou  wilt,  let 
some  one  stoop  to  loose 
Swiftly  these  sandsb,  slaves  beneath  my 

foot; 
And  stepping  thus  upon  the  sea's  rich  dye, 
I  pray.  Lit  tunt  MMRf  the  podi  took  down 
WithjtaUmt  «tiw  on  mm  —  reluetant  all, 


i8 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


To  tntofit  tbus  Mid  mv  a  thing  of  prioa, 
Wasting  the  wealth  of  gaimenta  ailver- 

worth. 
Enough  heretrf:  and,  for  the  stranger  maid, 
Iieadh^  within,  but  gently:  God  on  high 
LookB  gracioUBly  on  him  whom  triumph's 

hour 
Has  made  not  pitiless.  None  willingly 
Wear  the  slave's  yoke  —  and  she,  the  prise 

andflow«r 
Of  all  we  won,  oomea  hither  in  my  train, 
Qif  t  of  the  army  to  its  chief  and  lord. 
—  Now,  since  in  this  my  will  bowi  down 

to  thine, 
I  will  pass  in  on  purples  to  my  home. 
Clttkmn»tka.  a  Sea  there  is  —  and 

who  shall  stay  its  springsT 
And  deep  within  its  breast,  a  mighty  st<n«. 
Precious  as  silver,  <rf  the  purple  dye, 
Whereby  the  dipped  robe  doth  its  tint  re- 

P.iiniigli  of  such,  O  king,  within  thy  halls 
Thereliea,Ast(we  that  cannot  fail;  but  I — 
I  would  have  tJadljrTOwed  unto  the  gods 
Cost  of  a  thousand  gann«its  tiodden  thus 
(Had  once  the  oracle  auch  gift  required ) , 
Cootriving  ranaam  for  thy  life  i»«aerved. 
For  while  tiie  stock  is  firm  the  foliage 

Spreading  a  shade,  what  time  the  dog-star 

glows; 
And  thou,  returning  to  thine  heartli  and 

Art' as  a  genial  warmth  in  winter  houis. 
Or  as  a  ooolnees,  when  the  lord  of  heaven 
Mellows  the  juice  within  the  bitter  grape. 
Such  boons  and  more  doth  bring  into  a 

The  present  footstep  of  it«  proper  lord. 
Zeus,  Zeus,  Fulfillment's  lord!  my  vows 

fulfill, 
And  whatsoe'er  it  be,  work  forth  thy  will  I 
[Sxettnt  ail  hut   CASgANDKA   artd 
tlis  Chobob.) 
Chobch.  WhcMfnre    forever    on    the 
wings  of  fear 
Hovers  a  vision  drear 
Before  my  boding  heartT  a  strain, 
Unbiddeo  and  unwelcome,  thrills  mine  ear, 
Oracular  of  pain. 

Not  as  of  old  upon  my  bosom's  throne 
KtaConfidsnoa;  to  spurn'  ,\iii; 


Such  fears,  like  dreams  n 

disoera. 
Old,  old  and  gray  long  sin 


ehM  i 


Which  saw  the  linkM  cables  moor 

The  fleet,  when  erst  it  came  to  lUoo'i 

sandy  shore; 
And  now  mine  eyes  and  not  another's  see 
Their  safe  return. 
Vet  ntme  the  leas  in  me 
The  inner  spirit  sings  a  boding  song, 
Self-prompted,  sings  the  Furies'  strain  — 
And  seeks,  and  seeks  in  vun. 
To  hope  and  to  be  strongi 


Ahl  tosomeendof  Fate.unB 

Are  theee  wild  throbbings  of  my  heart  and 

breast  — 
Yea,  of  some  doom  they  tell  — 
Each  pulse,  a  knell. 
Uef,  lief  I  were,  that  aU 
To  unfulfillment's  hidden  re^m  might  fall. 

Too  far,  too  far  our  mortal  spirits  strive, 
Grasping  at  utter  weal,  unsatisfied  — 
Till  the  fell  curse,  that  dweUeth  hard  be- 

Thruat  down  the  sundering  wdl.  Too  fair 

they  blow. 
The  gales  that  waft  our  bark  on  Ftfftuns'i 

tide! 
Swiftjy  we  sail,  the  sooner  all  to  drive 
Upon  the  hidden  rock,  t&e  reef  of  woe. 

Tlien  if  the  hand  of  caution  warily 

Sling  forth  into  the  sea 

Part  of  the  freight,  lest  all  should  sink  be 

low. 
From  the  deep  death  it  aavea  the  baik: 

Doom-laden  thoi^h  it  be,  once  more  mif 

rise 
His  household,  who  is  timely  wise. 

How  oft  the  famine-stricken  field 

Is  eaved  by  God's  la^e  gift,  the  new  yetr*! 

yieldl 
But  blood  of  man  once  spilled. 
Once  at  his  feet  shed  forth,  and  daitoaing 


AGAMEMNOK 


B  bad  he  apued  the  leeoh  Asdephia, 

ddOed 
To  bring  mftn  from  the  dead:  the  hand  di- 

viae 
Did  mite  himadf  with  death  —  a  warning 

and  a  sign. 

Ah  mel  if  Fate,  ordained  of  old, 

field  not  Qm  wiS  d  goda  oonatrained,  om- 

trolled, 
Hdirfesi  to  OS-ward,  and  apart  — 
Swifts  than  qieeoh  my  heart 
Had  poured  ita  presage  out! 
Now,  fretting,  obafiog  b  the  dnrti  of 

doubt, 
T  IB  hopeless  to  unfold 
Tnith,   from  fear's   tan^^ed  skein;   and, 

yeanling  to  proclaim 
Its  thoui^t,  my  soul  is  prophecy  and  dame. 

[Saunter  CLT^nmsTBA.J 
CLmumnrRA.  Get  thee  within  thou 
too,  Cassandra,  gol 
For  Zeus  to  tbee  in  gracious  mercy  grants 
To  share  UwQifinldings  of  the  tuatral  bowl, 
Bedde  Hie  altar  of  his  guardianship. 
Slave  among  many  slaves.  What,  haughty 

gmt 

Step  from  the  oar;  Alometta's  son,  't  is  said, 
Waa  sold  perfbree  and  bore  the  yotce  of  old. 
Aye,  hard  it  is,  but,  if  such  fate  befall, 
'T  ia  a  fair  ohaaee  to  serve  within  a  home 
Of  anctent  wealth  and  powei.  An  upstart 

lord, 
To  whom  wealUi's  harvest  came  beyond 

his  hope. 
Is  as  a  lion  to  his  slaves,  in  ^ 
Exweding  fierce,  immoderate  in  sw^r. 
Pass  in:  thou  hearest  what  our  ways  will  be. 
Clonus.  Clear  unto  thee,  O  maid,  is  her 

oonuuandi 
But  tbou  —  witW  the  toils  of  Fate  tliau 


CLTraMmsTRA.  I    wot  —  unless    like 
swallows  she  doth  use 
SoBe  strange  barbarian  tongue  from  ovot- 


Ujr  inrdi  must  speak  par 


Chobus.  Obey:  there  is  no  genUer  way 

than  tfaisi 
Step  from  the  ear's  high  seat  and  follow 

her. 
CLTTBumBBTEA.  Truce  to  this  bootlcai 

waiting  here  without  I 
I  will  not  stay:  beside  the  central  shrime 
The  victims  stand,  prepared  for  knife  and 

fire  — 
Offwingi  from  hearts  beyond  all  hope  mads 

glad. 
Thou  —  if  thou  reckest  au^t  of  my  oom- 

'T  were  wril  done  soon:  but  if  thy  sense  be 

shut 
From  these  my  words,  let  thy  barbarian 

hand 
F^ilfiU  by  gesture  the  default  <rf  speech. 
Chobcb.  No  native  is  she,  thus  to  read 
thy  words 
Unaided:  like  some  wild  thing  of  the  wood, 
Nmr-tra^qwd,  beholdl   she  shrinks  and 
gUies  on  thee. 
CLTTBumRiU.  "T  is  madness  and  the 
rule  of  mind  distraught. 
Since  she  beheld  her  city  sink  in  fire. 
And  hithei  comes,  nor  brooks  the  bit,  untfl 
In  foam  and  blood  her  wrath  be  champed 

aw^, 
Seeye  t«her;unqueenly  'tis  for  me. 
Unheeded  thus  to  csst  away  my  words. 

[Bxil  CLTTuinn'RA.) 
Chobub.  Butwithmepitysitsinanger's 
plaoe. 
Poor  maiden,  come  tbou  from  the  eta;  no 

way 
There  is  but  this  —  take  up  thy  servitude. 
Casbamdxa.  Woe,    woe,    alasl     Earth, 
Mother  Earth!  and  thou 
Apollo,  Apollo! 
Chobub.  Peaoet  shriek  not  to  the  bright 
prophetic  god, 
Who  will  not  brook  the  suppliance  of  woe. 
Cabbandb^.  Woe,    woe,    alasl    EarUi, 
Mother  Earth!  and  thou 
ApoUo,  ApoUot 
Chobus.  Hark,  with  wild  curse  she  calls 
anew  on  him, 
Who  stands  far  ofi  and  loathes  the  voice  of 

Cabbandba-  ApoUo,  Apidlol     - 
God  of  all  ways,  butoidy  Death's  to  me^ .- 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Oooe  and  sfua,  O  Ummi,  Doatrvyar  naoied, 
Tliou  host  deetioyed  nie,  tbou,  1117  love  of 
nidi 
Cbobitb.  Stw  pom  iwesagefHl  erf  her 
iroMtooonik 
Slave  tiio'  flbe  be,  inattiiet  witii  propbecf. 

Camambsa.  Apollo,  Apcdlot 
Quid  of  aU  wa3^^  but  only  Death's  to  nte, 
O  thou  Apollo,  thou  Dwtroyec  nanedl 
Wh*k  WW  bHt  led  me,  to  iriwt  evil  botM  r 
CHOBua.  Know'st  tbou  it  Dot  f    The 
iM»na  of  Atraw' nco : 
Take  these  m;  worda  foi  looth  and  aA  no 

Cass&ndea.  Home    cursed    ot    Oodi 
Bear  witnaiB  unto  me. 
Ye  viaioned  woee  witiiiii  — 
The  Uood-otained  handa  of  ttkotn  that 

anito  thaff  tan*— 
Hie  atraogling  nooee,  and,  qiatterad  o'er 
With  faniun  blood,  the  roeUng  floorl 
Chokiw.  HowUicoaalauth-liaaadqueab- 
ing  on  the  track, 

o  blood  and  desUi  die 


CASBAmBA.  Aht  ean  the  {^uatly  gnid- 

aace  fail, 
Wbenby  my  prophet-aonl  ia  onwarda  led  ? 
Look!  for  their  fleah  the  apeoter^liildren 

wail, 
Their  aodden  limba  on  wbidi  their  father 

fed! 
OaouiB.  Long  aiaee  w«  knew  o(  ttky 

prophetic  fame,  — 
But  for  thoae  deeda  we  aeek  no  prophet'a 

tongue. 
CAaaAMDRA.  GodI  't  is  another  orime  — 
Wone  than  the  storied  woe  of  olden  time, 
Curelen,  aUKtrred,  th&t  one  is  plotting 

here  — 
k  ihw^n'E  deat^,  for  Uioae  that  sbouM  b« 

Alaal  and  far  aw^,  in  foeign  land. 
He  that  Aonld  hi^  doth  standi 
Chobus.  I  knew  th'  old  talaa,  the  dty 
ringa  withal  — 
But  notr  thy  apeeoh  is  daric,  bayond  my 


CAsaAMDRA.  O  wretch,  O 
Thou  for  thy  wedded  lord 
The  cleanaing  whtb  haat  pound  — 
A  tmatdMKMia  weleoawl 


felll 


How  tha  sequel  toDf 
Too  aoon  't  will  come,  too  aoon,  for  now, 

eren  now. 
She  amitee  him,  blow  on  blow  I 
Caoacs.  Riddlaa  beyond  my  red*  —  I 

Thro'  the  dim  filroa  that  screen  the  proph- 
ecy. 
CAauMSBA.  Oodl  a  new  aigbt!  a  oat,  • 
snare  of  heU, 
Set  by  her  hand — benetfasnaremoMbBI 
A  wedded  wife,  aiM  slays  her  lord. 
Helped  by  another  haadl 

Ye  powets,  wboee  bate 
Of  Atreus'  home  no  blood  can  satiate. 
Raise  the  wild  cry  above  tite  aaorifioe  wh- 
homdt 
Chosob.  Why  biddest  tbou  aonie  fiend, 
I  know  not  whom, 
9uiek  o'er  the  house  T  Thine  is  no  cheeriufi 

word. 
Baofc  to  my  heart  in  froaen  feu  I  faal 
My  wanning  life-blood  run  — 
The  blood  that  rcHuid  the  wounding  steel 
Bbba  alow,  as  sinks  life's  parting  sun  — 
Swift,  swkt  and  sure,  erane  woe  eame* 
preeaingonl 
CASBAironA.  Aw^,   away  —  keep  htm 

The  monarch  of  the  herd,  the  pasture's 

isido. 
Far  from  his  m^e  I  In  tieaoh'roua  wrath. 
Muffling  his  swarthy  horns,  with  aeeret 

scathe 
She  goree  hie  feneeleea  aidel 
Horkl  in  the  brimming  bath, 
The  heavy  plash  —  the  dying  cry  — 
Hark  —  in  the  laver  —  hark,  be  falls  by 

treachery! 
Chokds,  I  read  amin  dark  saying*  auch 

as  thine, 
Yet  something  wama  me  that  they  tdl  of  iB. 
O  dark  prophetic  speech, 
ni  tidii^  doat  thou  teach 
Bvo',  to  uMHtala  hers  bdowt 
Evor  some  tale  of  awe  and  woe 
Thro'  all  thy  windings  maiufold 
Do  we  umiddle  and  unfoUl 
Cabbandra.  Ah,  well-a-d^I  the  oup  af 

agony, 

~    hMtt,  foHM  with  a  < 

for  me> 


:.L|,i,zedi!,GoOQlc 


AGAMEMNON 


Ah,  lord,  ah,  leader,  Uiou  hast  led  me 

hen  — 
Was 't  but  to  die  with  thee  whoee  doom  is 
near? 
Chobub.  Diatnuight  thou  art,  divinely 

And  waileet  for  thyself  a  tuneless  lay, 
As  piteous  as  the  ceasdess  tale 
WlMrewitfa  the  brown  mdodioua  bird 
Doth  ever  Itysl  Itys!  wail, 
Deep-bowered  in  sorrow,  all  its  Uttle  life- 
time's day! 
Cassandra.  Ah,  for  thy  fate,  O  Bhrill- 
voic«  nightingale  I 
Some  solace  for  thy  woes  did  Heaven 

aScwd, 
Clothed  tlwe  with  soft  brown  i^umee,  and 

life  apart  from  wail  — 
But  for  my  death  is  edged  the    double- 
bitiog  Hword  t 
Chorob.  What  pangs  are  tiieee,  what 
fniitleae  pain, 
Sent  on  thee  from  on  highf 
Thou  chanteet  terror's  frantic  strain, 
Yet  in  shrill  measured  melody. 
How  thus  unerring  canst  thou  sweep  along 
The  prophet's  path  of  boding  song? 
Cassandra.  Woe,  Paris,  woe  on  theel 
thy  bridal  joy 
Was  death  and  fire  upon  Uiy  race  and 

Troyl 
And  woe  for  thee,  Scamander's  flood  I 
Beside  thy  banks,  0  river  fair, 
I  grew  in  tender  nursing  core 
From  childhood  unto  maidenhood  t 
Now  not  by  thine,  but  by  Cocytus'  stream 
And  Acheron's  banks  shall  ring  my  boding 

CHoans.  Too  plain  is  all,  too  plain  1 
A  diild  might  read  aright  thy  fateful  strain. 
Deep  in  my  heart  their  piercing  fang 
Tnror  and  sorrow  set,  the  while  I  heard 
That  piteous,  low,  tender  word, 
Yet  to  mine  ear  and  heart  a  crushii^ 

pang. 
Cassandra.  Woe  for  my  city,  woe  for 

Hion'a  f  aU  I 
Father,  how  oft  with  sanguine  stain 
Streamed  on  thine  altar-stone  the  blood  of 

cattle,  slain 
Hiat  Heaven  might  guard  our  wall  I 
But  an  was  shed  in  vain. 


Low  lie  the  shattered  towers  whereas  they 
feU, 

And  I  —  ah  burai^  heart!  —  shall  soon 
lie  low  as  well. 
Chorus.  Of  sorrow  is  thy  song,  of  sor- 
row still  1 

Alas,  what  power  of  ill 

Sits  heavy  on  thy  heart  and  bids  thee  toll 

In  tears  of  perfect  mono  thy  deadly  taleT 

Some  woe  —  I  know  not  what  —  must 
close  thy  piteous  wail. 
Cassandra.  List!  for  no  more  the  pres- 
age of  my  soul, 

Bride-like,  shall  peer  from  its  secluding 

But  as  the  morning  wind  blows  clear  thb 

More  bright  shall  blow  the  wind  of  proph- 
ecy. 
And  as  against  the  low  bright  line  of  dawn 
Heaves  high  and  higher  yet  the  rolling 

So  in  the  clearing  skiee  of  prescience 
Dawns  on  my  soul  a  further,  deadlier  woe, 
And  I  will  speak,  but  in  dark  speech  no 

Bear  witness,  ye,  and  follow  at  my  side  — 
I  scent  the  trail  of  blood,  shed  long  ago. 
Within  this  house  a  choir  ^idingly 
Chants  in  harsh  unison  the  chant  of  ill; 
Yea,  and  they  drink,  for  more  enharctened 

joy. 

Man's  blood  for  wine,  and  revel  in  the 

halls, 
Departing  never,  Furiee  of  the  home. 
They  sit  within,  they  chant  the  primal 

Each  spitting  hatred  on  that  crime  of  old, 
The  brother's  couch,  the  love  incestuous 
That  brought  forth  hatred  to  the  ravisher. 
Say,  is  my  speech  or  wild  and  erring  now. 
Or  doth  its  arrow  cleave  the  mark,  indeed? 
They  called  me  once.  The  propheUsa  of  list, 
Tht  wandering  hag,  the  pett  of  every  door  — 
Attest  ye  now,  She  trunng  in  very  tooth 
The  house's  cuTte,  the  aloriad  infamj/. 
Chorus.  Yet  how  should  oath  —  how 
loyally  soe'er 
I  swear  it  —  aught  aviul  thee?    In  good 

My  wonder  meets    thy  claim:    I    stand 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


'  That  tbou,  R  nnuden  bom  beyond  the  sou, 
Doet  aa  a  native  know  and  tell  aright 
Tales  of  a  oity  of  an  alien  tongue. 

CABeAtntRA.  That    is    my    power  —  a 

bocHi  Apollo  gave. 
Chobus.  God  though  he  were,  yearning 

for  mortal  maid  7 
Cabbandba.  Aye!  what  seemed  shame 

of  old  ia  shaniB  oo  more. 
Chobtib.  Such  finer  aenae  suits  not  with 

slavery. 
CABBAifDRA.  He  strovB  to  win  me,  pant- 
ing for  my  love. 
Chorus.  Came  ye  by  compact  unto 

bridal  joys  T 
Cassamdra.  Nay  —  for  I  piloted  troth, 

then  foiled  the  god. 
Chorus.  Wert   thou   already   dowered 

with  prescience  7 
Casbandea.  Yea  —  prophetess  to  Troy 

of  aU  her  doom. 
Chords.  How  left  thee,  then,  Apollo'a 

wraUi  unscathed? 
Casuhdra.  I,    false  to   him,   seemed 

prophet  falee  to  aU. 
Cbobob.  Not  BO  — to  us  at  least  thy 

words  seem  sooth. 
Cassandra.  Woe  for  me,  woel    Again 
the  agony  — 
Dread  pain  that  aees  the  future  all  too  well 
With  ghastly  preludes  whirls  and  racks  my 

aoul. 
Behold  ye  —  yonder  on  the  palace  roof 
The  specter-diildren  sitting  —  look,  such 

things 
As  dreams  are  made  on,  pbantotne  as  of 

babea, 
Horrible  ehadowa,  that  a  kinsman's  band 
Hath  marked  with  murder,  and  their  anna 

are  full  — 
A  rueful  burden  ^  see,  they  hold  them  up, 
The  entrails  upon  which  their  father  fedl 

For  this,  for  this,  I  say  there  plots  revenge 
A  coward  lion,  couching  in  the  lair  — 
Guarding  the  gate  against  my  master's 

foot  — 
My  maat«r^-mine  —  I  bear  the  alave'a 

yoke  now. 
And  he,  the  lord  of  ahips,  who  trod  down 

Troy, 
Knows  not  Uie  fawning  treachery  of  tongue 


Of  Uits  thing  false  and  dog-like  —  how 

her  speech 
Gloiea  and  sleeks  her  purpose,  till  she  win 
By  ill  fate's  favor  the  deeirM  chance. 
Moving  like  AU  to  a  secret  end. 

0  aweleaa  aoull  the  woman  slays  her  lord  — 
Woman  T  what  loathsome  monstor  of  the 

Werefit  oomparison?  The  double  anake  — 
Or  Scylla,  where  she  dwells,  the  seaman's 

Girt  round  about  with  rocksT  aome  hag  of 
heU, 

Raving  a  tniceleBs  curse  upon  her  kin? 

Hark  —  even  now  ahe  criee  eiultingly 

The  vengeful  cry  that  tella  of  battle 
turned  — 

How  fain,  forsooth,  to  greet  her  chief  re- 
atoredl 

Nay,  then,  believe  me  not:  what  akilla  be- 
lief 

Or  disbelief  7    Fate  worka  ita  will  — and 

Wilt  see  and  s^.in  ruth.  Her  tale  uxu  Irvt. 
Cborub.  Ah — 'tis  Thyeatea'  feast  on 
kindred  fleah  — 

1  gueaa  her  meaning  and  with  horror  thrill. 
Hearing  no  shadow'd  hint  of  th'  o'er-true 

tale, 


Cassandra.   'Tis  Agamemnon's  doom 

tbou  shalt  behold. 
Choritb.  Peace,  hapleaa  woman,  to  thj 

boding  words! 
Cassandra.  Far  from  my  speech  etands 

he  who  aaina  and  aavea. 
Chobcb.  Aye  —  were    auch    doom    at 

hand  —  which  God  forbid! 
Gasbandra.  Thou  prayest  idly  —  tJbeae 

move  awift  to  slay. 
Chorus.  What  man  preparea  a  deed  of 

such  deapite? 
Cabbandba.  Fool!  thus  to  read  amisa 

mine  oracles. 
Gborus.  Deviser  and  device  are  dark  to 

me. 
Cassandra.  DarkI  all  too  well  I  speak 

the  Grecian  tongue. 
Chorus.  Aye  —  but    in    thine,    as    in 

Apollo'a  strains, 


AGAMEMNON 


»3 


Fftmfliar   is   the  tongue,  but  dark   the 
thought. 
Cabbansba.  Ah,  ah,  the  firel  it  waxes. 

Woe,  woe  tot  me,  Apollo  of  the  dawn  I 

Lo,  how  the  woman-thing,  the  Uoneea 
Couched  witJi  the  wolf  —  her  noble  mate 

afar  — 
Will  alajr  me,  dave  forlorn  I  Yea,  like  some 

fflie  druge  the  cup  of  wrath,  that  slays  her 

With  double  death  —  his  reoompense  for 

Aye,  't  is  for  me,  the  prey  he  bare  from 

Troy, 
That  she  hath  sworn  his  death,  and  edged 

thest«el! 
Ye  wandf,  ye  wreaths  that  ding  around 

my  neck. 
Ye  showed  me  prophetess  yet  scorned  ot 

all  — 
I  stamp  you  into  death,  or  e'er  I  die  — 
Down,  to  deetructioni 

Thus  I  stand  revenged  — 
Go,  crown  some  otiier  with  a  prophet's  woe. 
Look!  it  is  he,  it  ie  Apollo's  self 
Rending  from  me  the  prophet-robe  he  gave. 
Godt  while  I  wore  it  yet,  thou  saw'at  me 

mocl^ 
There  at  my  home  by  each   malicious 

mouth  — 
To  all  and  each,  an  undivided  scorn. 
The  name  alike  and  fate  of  witch  and 

Woe,  poverty,  and  famine  —  all  I  bore; 
And  at  this  last  the  god  hath  brought  me 

Into  death's  toils,  and  what  his  love  had 

His  bate  unmakes  me  now:  and  I  shall 

stand 
Not  now  before  the  altar  of  my  home. 
But  me  a  slaughter-house  and  block  of 

blood 
Shall  see  hewn  down,  a  reeking  sacrifice. 
Yet  shall  the  gods  have  heed  of  me  who  die. 
For  by  tb«r  will  shall  .one  requite  my 

Re,  to  avenge  his  father's  blood  outpoured, 
Shall  smite  and  slay  with  matricidal  hand. 


Aye,  he  shall  come — tho'  far  away  he  roam, 
A  banished  wanderer  in  a  stranger's  tand  — 
To  crown  his  kindred's  edifice  of  ill, 
Called  home  to  vengeance  by  his  father's 

fall: 
Thus  have  the  high  gods  sworn,  and  shall 

fulfiU. 
And  now  why  mourn  I,  tarrying  on  earth. 
Since  first  mine  Dion  has  found  its  fate 
And  I  beheld,  and  thoee  who  won  the  wall 
Pass  to  such  issue  hj  the  gods  ordain  T 
I  too  will  pass  and  like  them  dare  to  die! 

[rurru  and  looka  upon  Oie  palace  door.] 
Portal  of  Hades,  thus  I  bid  thee  hail ! 
Grant  me  one  boon  —  a  swift  and  mortal 

stroke. 
That  all  unwrung  by  pain,  with  ebbing 

blood 
Shed  forth  in  quiet  death,  I  close  mine  eyes. 
Chorus.  Maid    of    mysterious    woes, 

mysterious  lore,    ' 
Long  was  thy  prophecy:  but  if  aright 
Thou  readest  all  thy  fate,  how,  thus  un- 

Doat  thou  approach  the  altar  of  thy  doom, 
As  fronts  the  knife  some  victim,  heaven- 
controlled? 

Oassanska.  Friends,  there  is  no  avoid- 
ance in  delay. 

Chobus.  Yet  who  delays  the  longest, 
his  the  gain. 

CAssANDnA.  The  day  is  come  —  flight 
were  smtdl  gain  to  me! 

Chobus.  O  brave  uiduranoe  of  a  soul 
resolved  I 

Cassandra.  That  were  ill  praise,  for 
those  of  happier  doom. 

Cbosus.  An  fame  is  happy,  even  famous 
death. 

Cassandra.  Ah  sire,  ah,  brethren,  fam- 
ous once  were  ye  I 
[Skt  movea  to  enter  the  houte,  Men 
tforla  back.] 

Cnonns.  What  fear  is  this  that  scares 
thee  from  the  house? 

Cassandra.  Paht 

Chorus.  What  is  this  cry?  some  daik 
despair  of  soul  T 

Cassandra.  Pah!  the  house  fumee  with 
stench  and  spilth  of  blood. 

Chorus.  HowT  't  is  thesm^  of  house- 
hold o&eriags. 


!»4 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


CAWAMnaA.  'T  is  rank  u  ohamel'fiaent 

from  open  graves. 
Chorus.  Thou  canst    not    mean    thia 

Been  tad  Syrian  uard? 
CAsaANDRA.  Nay,  let  me  pasB  within  to 
cry  aloud 
The  mooarch's  fate  aod  mine  —  enough  of 

life. 
Ah,  friends  I 

Bear  to  me  witness,  since  I  fall  in  death, 
That  not  as  birds  that  ahun  the  bush  and 

scream 
I  moan  in  idle  terror.  This  attest 
When  for  my  death's  revenge  another  dies, 
A  woman  for  a  woman,  and  a  man 
Falls,  for  a  man  ill-wedded  to  his  cune. 
Grant  me  this  boon  —  the  last  bdore  I  die. 
Chobub.  Brave  to  the  laatl  I  mourn  thy 

doom  foreseen. 
Casbandka.  Once  more  one  utterance, 
but  not  of  wail, 
Though  for  my  death  —  and  then  I  speak 


Sun!  thou  whose  beam  I  shall  mit  see  again. 
To  thee  I  cry,  Let  those  whom  vengeanoe 

To  slay  their  kindred's  slayers,  quit  witbal 
The  datth  ofme,theslave,  the  f enoelees  prey . 

Ah,  state  of  mortal  man!  in  time  of  weal, 

A  line,  a  shadowl  and  if  ill  fate  fall. 

One  wet  sponge-sweep  wipes  all  our  trace 

And  this  I  deem  leea  piteous,  of  the  twain. 
[Exit  into  the  ■palace.] 
Cbokcs.  Too  true  it  isl  our  mortal  state 
With  bUsB  is  never  satiate, 
And  none,  before  the  palace  high 
And  stately  of  proeperity. 
Cries  to  us  with  a  voice  of  fear, 
Atoayl  'titillto  enter  here  I 

Lol  this  our  lord  hath  trodden  down. 
By  grace  of  Heaven,  old  Priam's  town. 
And  praised  as  god  he  stands  once  more 
On  Argoe'  shore  t 

Yet  now  —  if  blood  shed  long  ago 
Cries  out  that  other  blood  shall  flow  — 
His  life-blood,  his,  to  pay  again 
The  stem  requital  of  the  slain  — 
Peace  to  that  braggart's  vaunting  vain. 


Who,  having  heard  the  chieftain's  tale. 
Yet  bouta  of  bliss  untouched  by  balel 

(A  loud  eryfrom  vitAut.! 
VoicB  OF  Aqaubmnon.  O  I  am  sped  — 

a  de^,  a  mortal  blow. 
Chobub.  Listen,  listenlwhoisscreaming 

as  in  mortal  agaonyf 
Void  OF  AaAKsuMON.    O!  01'  again, 

another,  another  blow  I 
Chorus.    The  bloody  act  is  over  —  I 
have  heard  the  monarch's  cry  — 
Let  us  swiftly  take  some  counael,  lest  we 
too  be  doomed  to  die. 
Onx  or  TBS  Chords.  'T  is  best,  I  judge, 
aloud  for  aid  to  call, 
"Hoi  loyal  ArgivesI  to  the  palace,  all[" 
Another.  Better,  I  deem,  ourselves  to 
bear  the  aid, 
And  drag  the  deed  to  light,  while  drips  the 
blade. 
Another.  Such  will  is  mine,  and  what 
thou  eay'st  I  say: 
Swiftly  to  act!  the  time  brooks  no  del^^. 
Another.  Aye,  for  't  is  plain,  thia  pro- 
lude  of  their  song 
Foretells  its  close  in  tyramiy  and  wrong. 
Amotheb.  Behold,  we  tarry  —  but  thy 
name.  Delay, 
They  spurn,  and  press  with  Bleeptees  hand 
to  slay. 
Amn^EB.    I  know  not  what   't  were 
well  to  counsel  now  — 
Who  willa  to  act,  't  is  his  to  counsel  how. 
Another.  Thy  doubt  is  mine',  for  when 
a  man  is  slain, 
I  have  no  words  to  bring  his  life  agun. 
Another.  What?  e'en  for  life's  sake, 
bow  us  to  obey 
These  house-defilers  and  theur  tyrant  sway  ? 
AtromBR.  Unmanly  doomi  't  were  bet- 
ter tar  to  die  ^ 
Death  is  a  gentler  lord  than  tyranny. 
Another.  Think  well  —  must  cry   or 
sign  of  woe  or  pain 
Yin  our  conclusion  that  the  chief  is  slain  T 
Another.  Such  talk  befits  us  when  the 

Conjecture  dwells  afar  from  certainty. 
Lbadbb  07  thb  CRORna.  I  read  one 

will  from  many  a  diverse  word. 
To  know  aright,  how  stands  it  with  oui 

lordl 


.CtOo^^Ic 


AGAMEMNON 


[The  scene  opent,  diidoaing  Clt- 
TmcNsanu,  wAo  comet  forward. 
The  body  qf  Aoaiuunoti  liev, 
mvffied  in  a  long  robe,  within  a 
tOver-tided  toner;  the  corpse  of 
CABSAiniKA  ia  laid  betide  him.] 
CiiTTinimBrBA.  Ho,  ye  who  beard  me 
speak  BO  long  and  oft 

The  gloiing  word  that  led  me  to  my  will  — 

Hear  how  I  shrink  not  to  unsay  it  all! 

How  else  should  one  who  willeth  to  requite 

Evil  tor  evil  to  an  enemy 

Disguised  as  friend,  weave  the  mesh 
straitly  round  him, 

Not  to  be  overleaped,  a  net  of  doom? 

This  is  the  sum  and  issue  of  old  strife. 

Of  me  deep-pondered  and  at  length  ful- 
fiUed. 

All  is  avowed,  and  as  I  smote  I  stand. 

With  foot  set  firm  upon  a  finished  thing! 

I  turn  not  to  denial:  thus  I  wrought 

So  that  he  could  nor  flee  nor  ward  hia  doom. 

Even  as  the  trammel  hems  the  scaly  shoal, 

I  trapped  him  with  inextricable  toils. 

The  ill  abundance  of  a  baffling  robe; 

That  smote  him,  oaoe,  agtun  —  and  at  each 

He  cried  aloud,  then  as  in  death  relaxed 
Elacfa  limb  and  sank  to  earth;  and  as  he  lay, 
Once  more  I  smote  him,  with  the  last  third 

Sacred  to  Hades,  savior  of  the  dead. 
And  thus  be  fell,  and  as  be  passed  away. 
Spirit  with  body  chafed;  each  dying  breath 
Flung  from  bis  breast  swift  bubbling  jets  of 

gore, 
And  the  dark  sprinkling  of  the  rain  of 

blood 
Pdl  upon  me;  and  I  was  fain  to  feel 
That  dew  —  not  sweet«r  is  the  rain  of 

To  oondand,  when  the  green  sheath  teems 
with  grain. 


Elders  of  Argos  — 


e  the  thing  stends 


I  bid  you  to  rejoice,  if  such  your  will: 
Rejoice  or  not,  I  vaunt  and  praise  the  deed. 
And  well  I  ween,  if  seemly  it  could  be, 
T  were  not  ill  done  to  pour  libations  here, 
Justly  —  aye,  more  than  justly  —  on  his 


Who  filled  bis  borne  with  curses  as  with 


And  thus  returned  to  drain  the  cup  be  filled. 
Chobqb.  I    marvel    at    thy    tongue's 


To  vaunt  thus  loudly  o'er  a  hudaand  slain. 
CLTTmHaaTBA.  Ye  bold  me  aa  a  wo- 
man, weak  of  will, 

And  strive  to  sway  me:  but  my  heart  is 
stout. 

Nor  fears  to  apeak  itfl  uttermost  to  you. 

Albeit  ye  know  its  menage.  Pruse  or 
blame, 

Even  as  ye  list,  —  I  reck  not  of  your  mytda. 

Lol  at  my  feet  liee  Agamenmon  slain. 

My  husband  once  —  and  him  tbie  hand  of 

A  right  contriver!  fashioned  for  bis  death. 
Behold  the  deed! 

Chobcb.  Woman,  what  deadly  birtii. 
What  venomed  essence  of  the  earth 
Or  dark  distilment  of  the  wave, 
To  thee  such  passion  gave. 
Nerving  thine  hand 

To  set  upon  thy  brow  this  burning  crown. 
The  curaee  of  thy  land? 
Our  kir^j  bj/  thee  cut  off,  hewn  down  ! 
Oo  forth  —  they  cry  —  accurakdandforlom, 
To  hale  and  eoom  I 

Ci.TTBMNi»rRA.  O  ye  just  men,  who 
speak  my  sentence  now. 
The  city's  hate,  the  ban  of  all  my  realm! 
Ye  had  no  voice  of  old  to  launch  aucb  doom 
On  him,  my  husband,  when  be  held  as  light 
My  daughter's  life  as  that  of  sheep  or  goat, 
One  victim  from  the  thronging  fleecy  fold! 
Yea,  slew  in  sacrifice  his  child  and  mine. 
The  well-loved  issue  of  my  travail -pangs. 
To  lull  and  lay  the  gales  that  blew  from 

Thrace. 
That  deed  of  his,  I  say,  that  stain  and 

Had  rightly  been  atoned  by  banishment; 
But  ye,  who  then  were  dumb,  are  stem  to 

judge 
This  deed  tA  mine  that  doth  affront  your 

Storm  out  your  threats,  yet  knowing  this 

for  sooth. 
That  1  am  ready,  if  your  hand  prevail 
As  mine  now  dot^,  to  bow  b^ieath  your 

■way: 


ElilizedbvGoOQlc 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


If  God  ay  axy,  it  ahall  be  jrovin  to  leant 
By  chAstisemeat  a  late  humility. 

Chokub.  Bold  is  thy  craft,  and  proud 
Thy  confidence,  thy  vaunting  loud; 
Thy  wnil,  that  chose  a  muid'reea'  fate. 
Is  all  with  blood  elate  — 
Maddened  to  know 
The  blood  not  yet  avenged,  the  d&mnid 

Crimaon  upon  thy  brow. 

But  Fate  prepares  for  thee  thy  lot  — 

Smitten  as  thou  didst  smite,  without  a 

To  meet  thine  endl 
CLTTmonnTBA.  Hear  then  the  sanction 

of  the  oath  I  swear  — 
By  the  great  vengeance  for  my  murdered 

child, 
By  \tt,  by  the  Fury  unto  whom 
iW  man  lies  sacrificed  by  hand  of  mine, 
I  do  not  look  to  tread  the  hall  of  Fear, 
While  in  this  hearth  and  home  of  mine 

there  burns 
The  light  of  love  —  £giethus  —  as  of  old 
Loyal,  a  stalwart  shield  of  confidence  — 
As  true  to  me  as  this  slain  man  was  false. 
Wronging  his  wife  with  paramours  at  Troy, 
Fresh  from  the  kiss  of  each  Chryaeia  there! 
Behold  him  dead  —  behold  his   captive 

priie, 
Seerees  and  harlot  —  comfort  of  his  bed, 
True  prophetess,  true  paramour  —  I  wot 
The  aea-bencb  was  not  closer  to  the  fleeh, 
Full  oft,  of  every  rower,  than  was  ^e. 
See,  ill  they  did,  and  iU  requites  them  now. 
His  death  ye  know:  she  aa  a  dying  awan 
Sang  her  last  dirge,  and  hee,  as  erst  she 

Close  to  his  side,  and  to  my  couch  has  left 
K  sweet  new  taste  of  joys  that  know  no 

tear. 
Chords.  Ah,  woe  and  well-ar^layl    I 

would  that  Fate  — 
Kot  bearing  agony  too  great, 
Nor  stretching  me  too  long  on  couch  of 

pain  — 
Would  bid  mine  eyelids  keep 
The  momingleas  and  unawakening  sleepi 
For  life  is  weary,  now  my  lord  is  slain, 
The  gracious  among  kings  1 
paid  fate  of  old  he  bore  and  mai^  grievous 


And  for  a  woman's  sake,  on  Ilian  land  — 
Now  is  his  life  hewn  down,  afid  by  • 
woman's  hand. 

O  Helen,  O  infatuate  soul, 

Who  bad'st  the  tides  of  battle  roll, 

O'erwhelming  thousands,  life  on  life, 

'Neath  Ilion's  waUl 

And  now  lies  dead  the  lord  of  all. 

The  bloBsom  of  thy  storied  sin 

Bears  blood's  inexpiable  stain, 

O  thou  that  erst,  these  halls  within, 

Wert  unto  all  a  raUk  at  strife, 

A  husband's  bane  I 

ChTnanftaiBA.  Peace!  pray  not  thoa 
for  death  as  though 
Thine  heart  was  whdmed  beneath  this  woe, 
Nor  turn  thy  wraUi  aside  to  ban 
The  name  of  Helen,  nor  recall 
How  she,  one  bane  of  many  a  man, 
Sent  down  to  death  the  Danoon  lords, 
To  sleep  at  Troy  the  sleep  of  sworda,   , 
And  wrought  the  woe  that  shattered  all. 

Chosus.  Fiend  of  the  rocel  that  swoop- 
eetfell 
Upon  Uie  double  stock  of  Tantalus, 
Lording  it  o'er  me  by  a  woman's  will, 
Stem,  manful,  and  imperious  — 
A  bitter  sway  to  mel 
Thy  very  form  I  see. 
Like  some  grim  raven,  perched  upon  th« 

Exulting  o'er  the  crime,  aloud,  in  tuneleae 
etrainl 

CLTTBumsTRA.  Right  was  that  word 
—  thou  nameflt  well 
The  brooding  race-fiend,  triply  felll 
From  him  it  is  that  murder's  thirst, 
Blood-li^iping,  inwardly  is  nursed  — 
Ere  time  the  ancient  sear  con  sain, 
New  blood  comee  welling  forth  again. 

Chorus.  Grim  is  his  wrath  and  heavy  on 

That  fiend  of  whom  thy  voice  has  cried, 
Alaa,  an  omened  cry  of  woe  unsatisfied. 
An  all-devouring  doom  I 

Ah,  woe,  oh,  Zeusl  from  Zeus  all  things 

befall  — 
Zeus  the  high  cause  and  finisher  of  alll  — 
Lord  of  our  mortal  state,  by  him  are  willed 
AU  thinp,  by  him  fulfilladl 


GooqIc 


AGAMEMNON 


Yet  ah,  m^r  Idng,  tny  Idng  no  morel 
What  words  to  Bay,  what,  tean  to  pour 
Can  tell  niy  love  for  thee? 
The  q)ider-w«ib  of  treachery 
She  wove  and  wound,  thy  life  around, 
And  lot  I  see  thee  tie, 
And  thro'  a  coward,  impious  wound 
Pant  forth  thy  life  and  diet 
A  death  of  aluune  —  ah,  woe  on  woel 
\  treach'rouB  hand,  a  cleaving  blowl 
Ci.TmiifBSTRA.  My  guilt  thou  harpest, 


I  bid  thee  reckon  me  no  more 
Aa  Agamemnon's  spouse. 
The  old  Avenger,  stem  of  mood 
For  Atieua  and  his  feast  of  blood. 
Hath  struck  the  lord  of  Atreus'  house, 
And  in  the  semblance  of  his  wife 
The  king  hath  slain.  — 
Yea,  for  the  murdered  children's  life, 
A  chieftain's  in  requital  ta'en. 
Cbobub.  Thou  guiltless  of  this  murder, 

thou! 
Who  dares  Rich  tho\^ht  avow? 
Yet  it  may  be,  wroth  for  the  parent's  deed, 
Tbe  fiend  hath  holpen  thee  to  slay  the  son. 
Dark  Area,  god  of  death,  is  pressing  on 
Thro'  streams  of  blood  by  kindred  shed, 
E^ucting  the  acoompt  for  children  dead, 
Var  ck>tted  blood,  for  flcob  on  which  their 

aire  did  feed. 

Vet,  ah,  my  king,  my  king  no  morel 
What  words  to  say,  what  tears  to  pour 
Can  tell  my  love  for  tbee? 
The  spider-web  of  treachery 
She  wove  and  wound,  thy  life  around. 
And  lol  I  see  thee  lie, 
And  thro'  a  coward,  impious  wound 
Pant  forth  thy  life  and  die! 
A  death  of  shame  —  ah,  woe  on  woel 
A  treach'rous  hand,  a  cleaving  blowl 
CLTTBMNxaTBA.  I  deMQ  uot  that  the 
death  he  died 
Had  overmuch  of  shame: 
For  this  was  he  who  did  provide 
Foul  wrong  unto  his  house  and  name: 
His  daughter,  bloeaom  of  my  womb, 
He  gave  unto  a  deadly  doom, 
Iphigaiia,  child  of  tearsi 
And  as  he  wrought,  even  so  he  fares. 
Neo-  be  hia  vaunt  too  loud  in  hall; 


For  by  the  sword  his  sin  he  wrou^t, 
And  by  the  aword  himself  is  brou^t 
Among  tbe  dead  to  dwell. 

Chobub.  Ah,  whither  ehall  I  fly?. 
For  all  in  ruin  sinks  the  kingly  hall; 
Nor  swift  device  nor  shift  of  thought  have  I, 
To  'scape  ita  fall. 

A  little  while  the  gentler  rain-dropH  fail; 
I  stand  distraught  —  a  ghastly  interval, 
Till  on  the  roof-tree  rings  the  bursting  hail 
Of  blood  and  doom.  Even  now  Fate  whets 

the  steel 
On  whetstones  new  and  deadlier  than  of  (ddt 
'The  ateel  that  smites,  in  Justice'  hold. 
Another  death  to  deal. 
O  Eartht  that  I  had  lain  at  rest 
And  lapped  forever  in  thy  breast, 
Ere  I  had  seen  my  chieftain  fall 
Within  the  laver's  silver  wall. 
Low-lying  on  dishonored  bier  I 
And  who  shall  give  him  sepulcher. 
And  who  the  wail  of  sorrow  pour? 
Woman,  't  is  thine  no  morel 
A  gracdess  gift  unto  his  ahade 
Such  tribute,  by  his  murd'rees  paidi 
Strive  not  thus  wrongly  to  atone 
The  impious  deed  thy  hand  hath  done. 
Ah  who  above  the  god-like  chief 
Shall  weep  the  tears  of  loyal  grief? 
Who  speak  above  his  lowly  grave 
The  last  sad  praises  of  the  brave  ? 

Clttxumibtra.  Peace!  for  such  taak  il 
none  of  thine. 
By  me  he  fell,  by  me  he  died. 
And  now  his  burial  rites  be  mine) 
Yet  from  theee  halls  no  mourners'  train 
Shall  celebrate  his  obsequiee; 
Only  by  Acheron's  rolling  tide 
His  child  shall  spring  unto  his  side, 
And  in  a  daughter's  loving  wise 
Sh^l  clasp  and  kiss  him  once  again! 

Chobtts.  Lol   ain  by  ran  and  sorrow 
dogg'd  by  sorrow  — 
And  who  the  end  can  know? 
The  slayer  of  to-day  shall  die  to-morrow  — 
The  wage  of  wrong  is  woe. 
While  Time  shall  be,  while  Zeus  in  heaven 

Hia  law  is  fixed  and  stem; 
On  him  that  wrought  shall  v 

outpoured  — 
The  tides  of  doom  return 


Google 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


The  ohildreD  of  the  cune  abide  within 

These  halls  of  high  estate  — 

And  none  can  wrench  from  off  the  home  of 

The  r-linging  grasp  of  Fftte. 
CLtTBUNiarBA.  Now  walks  thy  word 
aright,  to  tell 
This  ancient  truth  of  oracle; 
But  I  with  vows  of  sootb  will  pray 
To  him,  the  power  that  holdeUk  sway 
O'er  all  the  race  of  Pleiatheiiee  — 
Tho'  dark  the  deed  and  deep  the  fptHl, 
With  UlU  Uul  biood,  my  handi  hove  aptll, 
/  pray  thee  lii  thine  anger  eeate  I 
I  pray  thee  -poet  from  u«  otuoy 
To  umte  rtsw  race  in  other  land*. 
There,  if  lAcu  wiii,  to  wrong  and  ilay 
The  Utiee  of  mm,  by  kindred  hande. 

For  me  't  ia  all  sufficient  meed, 
Tho'  little  we^th  or  power  were  won, 
So  I  can  say,  'T  u  jta^  and  done. 
The  bloody  hut  and  murderoue, 
The  inborn  fretaj/  qf  our  house. 
It  ended,  by  my  deed  I 

[Enier  JEaiffrBVe.] 
MaienBva.  Dawn  of  the  day  of  rightful 

vengeance,  hail  I 
I  dare  at  length  aver  that  gods  above 
Have  care  of  men  and  heed  of  earthly 

wrongs. 
I,  I  who  stand  and  thus  exult  to  see 
This  man  lie  wound  in  robes  the  Furies  wove, 
SOain  in  requital  of  his  father's  craft. 
Take  ye  the  trutit,  that  Atmio,  this  man's 

The  lord  and  monarch  of  this  land  of  old, 
Hdd  with  my  sire  Thyestes  deep  dispute. 
Brother  with  brother,  for  the  prise  of  swayi 
And  drave  him  from  his  heme  to  banishmott. 
Thereafter,  the  lorn  exile  homeward  stole 
And  clung  a  suppliant  to  the  hearth  divine, 
And  for  himself  won  this  immunity  — 
Not  with  his  own  blood  to  defile  the  land 
That  gave  him  birth.  But  Atreus,  godless 

sire 
Of  him  who  here  Uee  dead,  this  welcome 

planned  — 
With  seal  that  was  not  love  he  feigned  to 

hold 
In  loyal  joy  a  day  of  festal  cheer, 


And  bade  my  father  to  his  board,  and  Mt 
Before  him  fleah  that  was  bis  children  once. 
First,  sitting  at  the  upper  board  alone. 
He  hid  the  fingers  and  the  feet,  but  gave 
The  reet  —  and  readily  Thyestes  took 
What  to  his  ignorance  iko  semblance  wore 
Of  human  flesh,  and  ate :  behold  what  cutbb 
That  eating  brought  upon  our  race  and 

For  when  he  knew  what  all  unhallowed 

He  thuB  had  wrought,  with  horror's  bitter 

Back-starting,  spewing  forth  the  fragments 

foul, 
OnPelope'  house  a  deadly  curse  be  spake — 
A»  darkly  at  I  *pum  Ihi*  damrAd  food. 
So  periak  oU  the  race  of  Pleitthenes  I 
Thus  by  that  curse  fell  he  whom  here  ye 

And  I — irtio  elaeT — this  murdw  move 

and  planned; 
For  me,  an  infant  yet  in  swaddling  bands. 
Of  the  three  children  youngest,  Atreus  sent 
To  banishment  by  my  sad  father's  side: 
But  Justice  brought  me  home  once  more, 

grown  now 
To  manhood's  years;  and  stranger  tho'  I 

My  right  bond  reached  unto  the  chieftain's 

life, 
Plotting  and  planning  all  that  malice  bade. 
And  death  iteelt  were  honor  now  to  me. 
Beholding  him  in  Justice'  ambush  ta'en. 
Chobub.  £gisthus,  for  this  insolence  ol 

That  vaunts  itself  in  evil,  take  my  soom. 
Of  thine  own  will,  thou  sayeet,  thou  hast 

slain 
The  chieftain,  by  thine  own  unaided  plot 
Devised  the  piteous  death :  I  rede  thee  well. 
Think  not  thy  head  shall  'scape,  when  ri^i 

prevails, 
The  people's  ban,  the  stonea  of  death  and 

foiaTHCB.  This  word  from  thee,  this 
word  from  one  who  rowa 
Low  at  the  oare  beneath,  what  time  we  rul^ 
Weof  the  upper  tier?  Thou 'It  know  anon, 
"T  ia  bitter  to  be  taught  again  in  age. 
By  one  so  young,  submission  at  the  word 
But  iron  of  the  chain  and  hungn's  ttaioes 


AGAMEMNON 


39 


Can  tmnuter  unto  an  o'enwolo  pride 
HarvelouB  well,  aye,  even  in  the  old. 
Hart  eyea,  and  seeat  not  thisT   Peace  — 

lack  not  thus 
Againat  the  pricks,  unto  thy  proper  pain! 
CaoBua.  Thau  womanieh  man,  waiting 

till  war  did  cease, 
Home-watcher  and  defiler  of.  the  couch. 
And  arch-deviaer  of  the  chieftain's  doom! 
£oiBTHUs.  Bold  worda  again!  but  they 

ahall  end  in  tears. 
The  very   converse,   thine,   of  Orpheus' 

tongue: 
He  roused  and  led  in  ecstasy  of  joy 
All  thinga  that  heard  his  voice  melodious; 
But  thou  aa  with  the  futile  cry  of  curs 
Witt  draw   men  wrathfully  upon  thee. 

Peace! 
Or  strong  oubjeotion  soon  shall  tame  thy 

tongue. 
Choiiits.  Aye,  thou  art  one  to  hold  an 

Argive  down  — 
Thou,  skilled  to  plan  the  murder  of  the 

But  not  with  thine  own  hand  to  smite  the 
blow! 

MawTBua.  That    fraudfut    force    was 
woman's  very  part, 
Not  mine,  whom  deep  suspicion  from  of  old 
Would  have  debarred.   Now  by  his  treas- 
ure's aid 
My  purpose  holda  to  rule  the  citisens. 
But  whoeo  will  not  bear  my  guiding  hand. 
Him  for  his  corn-fed  mettle  I  will  drive 
Not  as  a  traoe-horae,  light-c^arisoned. 
But  to  the  shafts  w'rtit  heaviest  harness 

Famine,  tho  grim  mate  of  the  dungeon  dark, 
Shall  look  on  him  and  shall  behold  him  tame. 
Chorcb.  Thou  load  soul,  was  Aen  thy 
strength  too  eli^t 
To  deal  in  murder,  while  a  woman's  hand. 
Staining  and  shaming  Argoe  and  its  gods. 
Availed  to  slay  him  ?  Ho,  if  anywhere 
The  light  of  life  smit«  on  Orestes'  eyes, 
Let  him,  returning  by  some  guardian  fate, 
Hew  down  with  force  her  paramour  and  her! 
£aigTHua.  How  thy  word  and  act  shdl 
iasue,  thou  shalt  shortly  understand. 
GHDBna.  Up  to  action,  O  my  comrades! 
f(»  the  fight  is  honl  at  hand. 


Swift,  your  right  hands  to  the  sword  hilt! 

bare  the  weapon  as  for  strife  — 
Moimsva.  Lo!  I  too  am  standing  ready, 

hand  00  hilt  for  death  or  life. 
CaoBUB.  'T  was  thy  word  and  we  accept 

it:  onward  to  ^e  chance  of  war! 
Clttbun>stba.  Nay,  enough,  enough, 

my  champion!  we  will  smite  and 

slay  no  more. 
Already  have  we  reaped  enough  the  har- 
vest-field of  guilt: 
Enough  of  wrong  and  murder,  let  no  other 

blood  be  spilt. 
Peace,  old  men  I  and  pass  away  unto  the 

homes  by  Fate  decreed. 
Lest  ill  valor  meet  our  vengeance  —  't  was 

a  ueceesary  deed. 
But  enough  of  toils  and  troubles  —  be  the 

Ere  thy  tabn,  0  Avenger,  deal  another 

deadly  blow. 
'T  is  a  woman's  word  of  warning,  and  let 
who  wiU  list  thereto. 
Mamraui.  But  that  these  should  loose 
and  lavish  reckless  blossoms  of  the 
tongue, 
And  in  basard  of  their  fortune  cast  upon 

me  words  of  wrong, 
And  forget  the  law  of  subjects,  and  revile 
their  ruler's  word  — 
Chobub.  RulerTbut 'tis  not  for  Argivea, 

thus  to  own  a  daatard  lord  I 
MaiBTBva.  I  will  follow  to  chastise  thee 

in  my  coming  days  of  sway. 
Chorus.  Not  if  Fortune  guide  Oreetee 

safely  on  his  homeward  way. 
.^aiBTHDB.  Ah,  well  I  know  how  exiles 

feed  on  hopes  of  their  return. 
Cborub.  Fare  and  batten  on  pollution 

of  the  right,  while  't  is  thy  turn. 
MaiirrBva.  Thou   shalt    pay,    be   well 
assured,  heavy  quittance  for  thy 

Cbobus.  Crow  and  strut,  with  her  to 
watch  thee,  like  a  cock,  his  mate 

Clttiimitbbtha.  Heed    not    thou    too 

highly  of  them  —  let  the  cur-pack 

growl  and  yell: 

I  and  thou  will  rule  the  palace  and  itiQ 

order  all  things  well.  (£x«unl.] 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


CEDIPUS   THE   KING 

By   SOPHOCLES 
TVwubatJiMttEm^ukfrutiySIS  RICHARD  CLAVESHQVSB  JEBB 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


CHARACTERS 

CEdifub,  Kinn  <^  Thtbea 
Priest  or  Zeds 
Creon,  brother  of  locasta 
Teirebias,  Ok  blind  prophet 

loCASTA. 

FiBar  Mgbsenqbb,  a  akepkerd  from  Corinth 
A  Shepherd,  formerly  in  tlte  service  of  Ia^ius 
Second  MKaeBNCBR,  from  the  house 
Chorttb  or  Tbeban  Elders 

A  train  of  supplia^s  (old  men,  youths,  and 
children).  The  children  Antioonb  and  Ib- 
USNB,  daughters   of  (Edipqs  and  Iocasta 

Scaini:  Before  the  Royal  Palaca  at  Thebt 


ciilizedbvGoOQic 


CEDIPUS   THE   KING 


(&>iPDB.  My  (Mdi«n,  lat««t-bom  to 
Cadmua  who  was  of  old,  why  are  ye  aet 
brfoie  me  thus  with  wreathed  brandtes  of 
wpidianto,  while  the  city  leeks  with  in- 
wnw,  ringa  with  prayers  for  health  and 
cries  of  woe?  I  deemed  it  unmeet,  my  chil' 
dren,  to  heu  theae  things  at  the  mouth  of 
otiietB,  and  have  come  hither  myself,  I, 
CEdipus  renowoed  of  all. 

Tdl  me,  then,  thou  vener^e  man  — 
Booe  it  ia  thy  natural  part  to  speak  for 
theae  —  in  what  mood  are  ye  placed  here, 
with  what  dread  or  what  deeireT  Be  sure 
that  I  would  gladly  give  aU  aid;  hard  of 
beart  were  I,  did  I  not  pity  such  aupidiantfl 
as  these. 

Pkeest  or  Zara.  Nay,  (Edipus,  ruler  of 
my  land,  thou  seeat  of  what  yean  we  are 
who  beoirt  thy  altars,  —  some,  nestlings 
.  jtiQ  too  tender  for  far  flights,  —  some, 
bowed  with  age,  priests,  as  I  of  Zeus,  — 
and  these,  the  chosen  youth;  while  the  rest 
of  the  folk  ait  with  wreathed  branches  in 
the  muket-placee,  and  before  the  two 
Bhrines  of  Pallas,  and  where  Ismenus  gives 

For  tiie  oity,  as  thou  thyself  seest,  is  now 
too  sorely  vexed,  and  can  no  more  lift  her 
bead  from  beneath  the  angry  waves  of 
death;  a  blight  is  on  her  in  the  fruitful  blos- 
■  nms  of  the  land,  in  the  herds  among  the 
pastures,  in  the  buren  pangs  of  women; 
and  witiuJ  the  flaming  god,  the  malign 
^ague,  hath  swooped  on  us,  and  ravages 
dte  town;  by  whom  the  house  of  Cadmus  is 
made  wast«,  but  dark  Hades  rich  in  groans 
and  tews. 

It  is  not  as  deeming  thee  ranked  with 
gods  that  I  and  these  children  are  suppli- 
ants at  thy  hearth,  but  as  deeming  thee 
first  <rf  men,  both  in  life's  common  chances, 
and  when  mortals  have  to  do  with  more 
than  man:  seeing  that  thou  earnest  to  the 
town  of  Cisdmus,  and  didst  quit  us  of  the 
tftrfjifct^fft  rnndered  toUiehardsongBteeas; 


and  this,  though  thou  kneweet  notJiing 
from  us  that  could  avul  thee,  nor  hadst 
been  schooled;  no,  by  a  god's  aid,  't  is  said 
and  believed,  didst  Uiou  uplift  our  life. 

And  now,  (Edipus,  king  glorious  in  aU 
eyes,  we  beseech  Uiee,  all,  we  suppliants,  to 
find  for  us  some  succor,  whether  by  the 
whisper  of  a  god  thou  knjowest  it,  or  haply 
as  in  the  power  of  man;  for  I  see  that,  whoi 
men  have  been. proved  in  deeds  past,  th« 
issues  of  their  counsels,  too,  most  often 
have  effect. 

On,  best  of  mortals,  again  uplift  our 
State!  On,  guard  thy  fame,  —  since  now 
this  land  calls  thee  savior  for  thy  formn 
seal;  and  never  be  it  our  memory  of  thy 
reign  that  we  were  first  restored  and  after- 
ward cast  down:  nay,  lift  up  this  State  in 
such  wise  that  it  fall  no  morel 

With  good  omen  didst  thou  give  us  that 
past  happiness;  now  also  show  thyself  the 
same.  For  if  thou  art  to  rule  this  land,  evoi 
as  iJiou  art  now  its  lord,  't  is  better  to  be 
lord  of  men  than  of  a  waste:  unce  neither 
walled  town  nor  ship  ia  anything,  if  it  ia. 
void  and  no  men  dwell  with  thee  therein. 

(EniPUB.  Ob  my  piteous  children,  known, 
well  known  to  me  are  the  desires  wherewith 
ye  have  come:  w^  wot  I  that  ye  suffer  all; 
yet,  sufferers  as  ye  are,  there  is  not  one  of 
you  wboee  suffering  is  as  mine.  Your 
pain  comes  on  each  one  of  you  for  himsdf 
alone,  and  for  no  other;  but  my  soul  mourns 
at  once  for  the  city,  and  for  myself,  and  for 

So  that  ye  rouse  me  not,  truly,  as  one 
sunk  in  sleep:  no,  be  sure  that  I  have  wept 
full  many  tears,  gone  many  ways  in  wan- 
derings of  thought.  And  the  sole  remedy 
which,  weU  pondering,  I  could  find,  this  I 
have  put  into  act.  I  have  sent  the  son  of 
Menceceua,  Creon,  mine  own  wife's  brother, 
to  the  PyUiian  house  of  Phcebus,  to  learn 
by  what  deed  or  word  I  might  ddiver  this 
town.  And  already,  when  the  hvaeofdaytia 


34 


CHIEF  t:uropean  dramatists 


raclmned,  it  trouUes  m«  what  he  doth;  for 
he  tarries gtrangeljr,  beyond  thefittioft  apace. 
But  when  he  cornea,  then  aball  I  be  no  true 
man  if  I  do  not  all  that  the  god  shows. 

Priebt.  Nay,  in  sesflon  hast  thou 
■poken;  at  this  moment  these  sign  to  me 
Uiat  Creon  draws  near. 

(Edipdb.  O  king  Apt^o,  may  he  come  to 
UB  in  the  brightness  of  saving  fortune,  even 
as  hia  face  is  bright! 

Prisst.  Nay,  to  all  seeming,  he  brings 
comfort;  else  would  he  not  be  coming 
crowned  thus  tJiickly  with  berry-laden  bay. 

(EniPiiB.  We  shall  know  soon:  he  is  at 
range  to  hear.  —  Prinoe,  my  fc-inaman,  son 
of  MtticeceuB,  what  news  baat  thou  brought 
us  from  the  godT 

[EnUr  Cbbon.] 

Cbbon.  Oood  news:  I  tell  tbee  that  even 
troubles  hard  to  bear,  —  if  haply  Uiey  find 
the  right  iamie,  —  will  end  in  perfect  peace. 

dbiPUB.  But  what  is  the  oradeT  So  far, 
thy  words  make  me  ndther  bold  nor  yet 

Cbxon.  If  thou  wouldest  hear  while 
these  are  ni^,  I  am  ready  to  speak;  or  dse 
to  go  within. 

(Editdb.  Speak  before  all:  the  sorrow 
which  I  bear  is  for  these  more  than  for  mine 
own  life. 

Ckbon.  With  thy  leave,  I  will  tell  what 
I  heard  from  the  god.  Phcebus  our  lord 
bids  us  plainly  to  drive  out  a  defiling  thing, 
which  (he  auth]  haUi  been  harbored  in  this 
land,  and  not  to  harbor  it,  so  that  it  cannot 
be  healed. 

(EniFus.  By  what  rite  shall  we  cleanse 
usT  What  is  the  maoner  of  the  misfortune? 

Cbbon.  By  baaiehing  a  man,  or  by 
Uood^ied  in  quittance  of  Uoodahed,  since 
it  is  that  blood  whidii  brin^  the  tempest  on 
our  city. 

(EniPUB.  And  who  is  the  man  whose  fate 
he  thus  reveals? 

Cbboit.  I^Iub,  king,  was  lord  of  our  land 
before  thou  wast  pilot  of  this  State. 

Cfbipus.  I  know  it  well  —  by  hearsay, 
for  I  saw  him  never. 

CimoN.  He  was  slain;  and  the  god  ikow 
bids  UB  plainly  to  wreak  vengeance  on  his 
murderers  —  vboaosrrtr  they  be. 


(Edipub.  And  where  are  tiiey  upon  the 
earth?  Where  shall  the  dim  track  of  this 
old  crime  be  found? 

Ckxon.  In  this  land,  —  said  the  god. 
What  is  sou^t  tot  can  be  caught;  only 
that  which  is  not  watched  escapes. 

Qktipce.  And  was  it  in  the  house,  or  in 
the  fidd,  or  on  strange  soil  that  Lalua  met 
this  bloody  end? 

Cbbon.  T  was  on  a  visit  to  DdjAi,  u 
he  said,  that  he  had  left  our  land;  and  he 
came  home  no  more,  af  t«r  he  had  once  set 
forth. 

(Edipub.  And  was  there  none  to  tell? 
Was  there  no  comrade  of  his  journey  who 
saw  the  deed,  from  whom  tidings  mi^it 
have  been  gained,  and  used? 

Crbon.  All  perished,  save  one  who  fled 
in  fear,  and  could  tell  for  certain  but  oaa 
thing  of  all  that  he  saw. 

(XbiPTTs.  And  what  was  that?  One  thing 
might  show  the  clue  to  many,  could  we  get    - 
but  a  small  bepnning  for  hope. 

Creon.  He  said  that  robbers  met  and 
fell  on  them,  not  in  one  man's  might,  but 
witii  full  many  hands. 

(Edipcb.  How,  then,  unless  there  was 
aome  trafficking  in  bribes  from  here,  should 
the  robber  have  dared  thus  far? 

Cbbok.  Such  things  were  surmised;  but, 
Lalua  once  slain,  amid  our  troubles  no 
avenger  arose. 

(EoiPOB.  But,  when  royalty  had  falloi 
thus,  what  trouble  in  your  path  caa  have 
hindered  a  full  search? 

Ckeok.  The  riddling  Sphinx  had  made 
US  let  dark  things  go,  and  was  inviting  ua 
to  Uiink  of  what  lay  at  our  doors. 

\EtU  Cbxom.]- 

dbipuB.  Nay,  I  will  start  afresh,  and 
once  more  make  dark  things  plain.  Rigfat 
worthily  hath  Phcebus,  and  worthily  hast 
thou,  bestowed  this  care  on  the  cause  oS 
the  dead;  and  so,  as  is  meet,  ye  shall  find 
me  too  leagued  with  you  in  seekingvengs- 
anoe  for  this  Iwid,  and  for  the  god  be- 
sides. On  behalf  of  no  far-off  friend,  no, 
but  in  mine  own  cause,  shall  I  dispel  tliis 
taint.  For  whoever  was  the  slayer  of  Ijdus 
might  wish  to  take  vei^eance  on  me  also 
with  a  hand  ss  fierce.  Tberefoie,  in  dtang 
ri^t  to  Lalua,  I  awe  mjidf . 


.CtOo^^Ic 


CEDIPUS  THE  KING 


35 


CotM,  haste  je,  1117  childTen,  rise  from 
the  altar-stq»,  and  lift  the«e  nipidiftnt 
bou^;  ftad  let  some  other  summon  hither 
the  folk  of  Cadmus,  warned  that  I  mean  to 
lean  nou^t  untried;  for  our  health  (with 
the  god's  hdp)  shall  be  made  cotain  —  or 
our  ruin. 

Faiasr.  i/lj  children,  let  ua  riae;  we 
came  at  first  to  seek  what  this  man  prom- 
iaea  ot  himself.  And  may  Phoebus,  who 
sent  these  oracles,  oome  to  us  thvewith, 
OUT  savior  and  delivcrei'  from  the  pest. 

Chobds.  O  sweetly  speaking  message  of 
Zeus,  in  what  spirit  hast  thou  come  from 
golden  Pytho  unto  ^orious  lliebea?  I  am 
w  the  rack,  terror  shakes  my  soul,  O  thou 
Delian  healer  to  whom  wild  criee  riee,  in 
holy  fear  of  thee,  what  thing  thou  wilt  work 
for  me,  perchance  unknown  before,  per- 
chance renewed  with  the  revolving  years: 
tell  me,  tfaou  immortal  Voice,  txvn  of 
QfddmHope! 

First,  call  I  on  thee,  daughter  ol  Zeus, 
divine  Athena,  and  on  thy  sister,  guardian 
of  our  land,  Art«mis,  who  site  on  her  throne 
of  fame,  above  the  circle  of  our  Agora,  and 
onI%(^us  thefar-daiter:  O  shine  forth  on 
me,  my  ttireefold  hdp  against  deathi  If 
ever  aforetime,  in  arrest  of  ruin  hurrying 
on  ti»  city,  ye  drove  a  fiery  pest  beyond 
our  bcwdwa,  come  now  alsol 

Woe  is  me,  countless  are  the  sorrows  that 
I  bear;  a  {dague  is  on  all  our  host,  and 
lliought  can  find  no  we^xm  for  defense. 
The  fruits  of  the  glorious  earth  grow  not; 
by  no  birth  of  children  da  women  surmount 
the  pangs  in  which  they  shriek;  and  life  on 
life  mayeet  thou  see  aped,  like  bird  on 
nimble  wing,  aye,  swifter  than  resistless 
fire,  to  the  shore  <k  the  western  god. 

By  such  deaths,  past  numbering,  the  city 
parisbee:  unpitied,  her  children  lie  on  the 
ground,  qireading  pestilence,  with  none  to 
mourn:  and  meanwhile  young  wives,  and 
gray-haired  mothers  with  them,  uplift  a 
wail  at  the  steps  of  the  altars,  some  here, 
some  there,  entreating  for  their  weary  woes. 
The  prayer  to  the  Healer  rings  clear,  and, 
Ueot  therewith,  the  voice  of  lamentation: 
f«  these  things,  golden  daught«r  of  Zeus, 
nod  us  the  bright  face  of  comfort. 

And  grant  that  the  fierce  god  of  death. 


who  now  with  no  brasen  shields,  yet  amid 
criea  as  of  battie,  wraps  me  in  the  flame  el 
his  onset,  may  turn  his  back  in  speedy 
flight  from  our  land,  home  by  a  fair  wind 
to  the  great  deep  of  Amphitriti,  or  to  those 
waters  in  which  none  find  haven,  even  to 
the  Thracian  wave;  for  if  ni^t  leave  aught 
undone,  day  follows  to  accomplish  this.  O 
thou  who  wieldest  the  powers  of  the  fire- 
fraught  lightning,  O  Zeus  our  father,  slay 
him  beneath  thy  thunderfooltl 

Lycean  King,  fain  were  I  that  thy  shafts 
also,  from  thy  bent  bow's  string  of  woven 
gdd,  should  go  abroad  in  their  might,  our 
champions  in  the  face  of  the  foe;  yea,  and 
the  flashing  firee  of  Artemis  wherewith  she 
glances  through  the  Lycian  hills.  And  I 
call  him  whose  locks  are  bound  with  gold, 
who  is  named  with  the  name  of  this  land, 
ruddy  Bacchus  to  whom  Bacchante  cry, 
the  comrade  of  the  Menads,  to  draw  near 
with  the  blsae  of  his  blithe  torch,  our  ally 
against  the  god  unhonored  among  gods. 

(EoiFtrs.  Thou  prayest:  and  m  answer 
to  thy  prayer,  —  if  thou  wilt  give  a  loyal 
wdcome  to  my  words  and  minister  to  thine 
own  disease,  —  thou  mayest  hope  to  find 
succor  and  relief  from  woes.  These  words 
will  I  speak  publicly,  as  one  who  has  been 
a  stranger  to  this  report,  a  stranger  to  the 
deed;  for  I  should  not  be  far  on  the  track, 
if  I  were  tracing  it  alone,  without  a  due. 
But  as  it  is,  —  since  it  was  only  after  the 
time  of  the  deed  that  I  was  numbered  a 
Theban  among  Thdians,  —  to  you,  the 
Cadmeans  all,  I  do  thus  proclaim. 

Whosoever  of  you  knows  by  whom  Lalus 
Bon  of  Lsbdacus  was  slain,  I  bid  him  to 
declare  all  to  me.  And  if  he  is  afrud,  I 
tell  him  to  remove  the  danger  of  the  charge 
from  his  path  by  denouncing  himself;  for 
he  shall  suffer  nothing  else  unlovely,  but 
only  leave  the  land,  unhurt.  Or  if  any  one 
knows  an  alien,  from  another  land,  as  the 
assassin,  let  him  not  keep  silence;  for  I  will 
pay  his  guerdon,  and  my  thanks  shall  rest 
with  him  besides. 

But  it  ye  keep  silence  —  if  any  one, 
through  fear,  shall  seek  to  screen  friend  or 
self  from  my  behest  —  hear  ye  what  I  thrai 
shall  do.  I  charge  you  that  no  one  of  this 
land,  whereof  I  hcjd  the  smpiie  and  the 


.CjOC^'.^Ic 


36 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


ttiFone,  give  shelter  or  speak  wcod  unto  that 
murdeier,  whoooerer  be  be,  —  make  him 
partner  of  his  pn^er  or  tAcrifice  or  serve 
him  with  the  luatrol  rite;  but  that  all  baa 
him  their  homes,  knowing  that  Una  is  our 
defiling  thing,  as  the  oracle  of  the  Pythian 
god  hath  newly  shown  me.  I  then  am  on 
thiswisetheally  of  tbegodandof  the  slain. 
And  I  pray  stdemoly  that  the  slay^,  whoso 
.  he  be,  whether  his  hidden  guilt  is  lonely  or 
hath  partners,  evilly,  as  he  is  evO,  may  wear 
out  bis  unblest  life.  And  for  myself  I  pray 
that  if,  with  my  privity,  he  should  become 
an  inmate  of  my  house,  I  may  suffer  the 
same  things  which  even  now  I  called  down 
upon  others.  And  on  you  I  lay  it  to  make 
an  these  words  good,  for  my  sake,  and  for 
the  sake  of  the  god,  and  for  our  land's  thus 
blasted  with  barrenness  by  angry  heaven. 

For  even  if  the  matter  had  not  been 
niged  on  us  by  a  god,  it  was  not  meet  that 
ye  should  leave  the  guilt  thus  unpurged, 
when  one  so  noble,  and  he  your  king,  had 
perished;  rather  were  ye  bound  to  search  it 
out.  And  now,  since  't  ia  I  who  hold  the 
powers  which  once  he  held,  who  poseees  his 
bed  and  the  wife  who  bare  seed  to  him; 
and  since,  bad  his  hope  of  issue  not  been 
frustrate,  children  born  of  one  mother 
would  have  made  ties  betwixt  him  and  me 
—  but,  as  it  was,  fate  swooped  upon  his 
head;  by  reason  of  tbeae  things  will  I  up- 
hold this  cause,  even  as  the  cause  of  mine 
own  sire,  and  will  leave  nought  untried  in 
seeking  to  find  him  whoee  hand  shed  that 
blood,  for  the  honor  of  the  son  of  Labdacus 
and  of  Polydorus  and  elder  Godmua  and 
'Agenor  who  was  of  old. 

And  for  those  who  obey  me  not,  I  pray 
that  the  gods  Bend  them  neith«  harvest 
of  the  earth  nor  fruit  of  the  womb,  but  that 
tiiey  be  wasted  by  their  lot  that  now  is,  or 
by  one  yet  more  dire.  But  for  all  you,  the 
loyal  folk  of  Cadmus  to  whom  these  things 
seem  good,  may  Justice,  our  ally,  and  all 
the  gods  be  with  you  graciously  forever. 

Chords.  As  thou  hast  put  me  on  my 
oath,  on  my  oath,  O  long,  I  will  speak.  I 
am  not  the  slayer,  nor  can  I  point  to  him 
who  slew.  As  for  the  question,  it  was  for 
FhcebuB,  who  sent  it,  to  tell  us  this  thing  — 
irtio  can  have  wrought  the  deed. 


(Edipus.  Justly  said;  but  no  man  on  the 
earth  can  force  the  gods  to  what  they  wSl 
not. 

Chobcs.  I  would  fun  say  what  seems  to 
me  next  beet  after  this. 

CGdipds.  If  there  is  yet  a  third  oourse, 
spare  not  to  show  it. 

Chords.  I  know  that  our  lord  Teiresias 
is  the  seer  most  like  to  our  lord  Phoebus, 
from  whom,  0  king,  a  searcher  of  these 
things  might  learn  them  most  clearly. 

CEoiFtJs.  Not  even  this  have  I  left  out 
of  my  caree.  On  the  hint  of  Creon,  I  have 
twice  sent  a  man  to  bring  him;  and  this 
long  while  I  marvel  why  he  is  not  hesv. 

Chorus.  Indeed  (his  skill  apart)  the 
rumors  are  but  faint  and  old. 

(Editds.  What  rumors  are  they?  I  lode 
to  every  story. 

Chorus.  Certain  wayfams  were  said  to 
have  killed  him. 

(Edipub.  I,  too,  have  heard  it,  but  noiM 
sees  him  who  saw  it. 

Chorus.  Nay,  if  he  knows  what  fear  is, 
he  will  not  stay  when  he  hears  thy  cuimi, 
so  dire  as  they  are. 

■CEnipuB.  When  a  man  shrinks  not  from 
a  deed,  neither  is  he  scared  by  a  word. 

Chorus.  But  there  is  one  to  convict 
him.  For  here  they  bring  at  last  the  god- 
like prophet,  in  whom  alone  of  men  doth 
live  the  truth. 

[Enter  Teirebiab,  ltd  by  a  boy.] 

(BniPUB.  Teireaias,  whoee  soul  grasps  aD 
things,  the  lore  that  may  be  told  and  the 
unspeakable,  the  secrets  of  heaven  and  the 
low  things  of  earth,  —  thou  feelest,  thou^ 
thou  canst  not  see,  what  a  plague  dotli 
haunt  our  State,  —  from  which,  great 
prophet,  we  find  in  thee  our  protector  and 
only  savior.  Now,  Fhcebus  —  if  indeed 
thou  knowest  it  not  from  the  mGsseugas — 
sent  answer  to  our  question  that  the  only 
riddance  from  this  peet  which  could  eome 
was  if  we  should  learn  aright  the  slayers 
of  Lalus,  and  slay  them,  or  send  them  into 
exile  from  our  land.  Do  thou,  then,  grudge 
neither  voice  of  birds  nor  any  other  way  of 
seer-lore  that  thou  hast,  but  rescue  thysdf 
and  the  State,  rescue  me,  reocue  all  that 
is  defiled  by  the  dead.  For  we  are  in  th> 


CEDIPUS  THE  KING 


37 


hand;  And  man's  noblaat  tjmfc  u  to  help 
othen  by  hu  beet  means  and  powers, 

TnRBOiAa.  Alas,  how  dreadful  to  have 
madomwheieitprofitanotLbewiael  Aye, 
I  knew  this  well,  but  let  it  slip  out  of  mind; 
dse  would  I  never  have  come  here. 

(&iipua.  What  now?  How  sod  thou  hast 
eomeini 

TwuBiAB.  Let  me  go  home;  most  easily 
wilt  thou  bear  thine  own  burden  to  the 
end,  and  I  mine,  if  thou  wilt  consent. 

(Editdb.  Thy  words  are  strange,  nor 
kindly  to  this  State  which  nurtured  thee, 
when  thou  withttoldeet  this  rc^>onse. 

TnacsiAB.  Nay,  I  aee  that  Uiou,  on  thy 
part,  openeot  not  thy  lips  in  season:  there- 
fwe  I  speak  not,  that  neither  m^  I  have 
thymiabq). 

<Ek>ipue.  For  the  bve  td  the  gods,  turn 
not  away,  if  thou  host  knowledge:  all  we 
supplionle  implore  thee  on  our  knees. 

TWBKSiAS.  Aye,  for  ye  are  all  without 
knowledge;  but  never  will  I  reveal  my 
griefs  —  that  I  say  not  tiiine. 

Okiipue.  How  sayest  thou?  Thou  know- 
est  the  secret,  and  wilt  not  tdl  it,  but  ut 
minded  to  betray  us  and  to  detrtroy  the 
State? 

Tkbhsas.  I  will  pain  nnther  myself 
nor  thee.  Why  vainly  ask  theee  thuies? 
Thou  wilt  not  leam  them  from  me. 

<EbiPT7B.  What,  basest  of  the  base,  — 
tor  thou  wouldeat  anger  a  very  stone,  — 
wilt  thou  never  speak  out?  Can  nothing 
touch  thee?  Wilt  thou  never  make  an  end? 

TxiSBBiAa.  Thou  blameat  my  temper, 
but  secet  not  that  to  which  thou  thjrself  art 
wedded:  no,  thou  findeet  fault  with  me. 

(Eoifna.  And  who  would  not  be  angry 
to  hear  the  words  with  which  thou  now  dost 
gli^t  this  city? 

TKBX&ua.  The  future  will  come  of  it- 
s^,  though  I  shroud  it  in  silraice. 

CBdipits.  Then,  seeing  that  it  must  come, 
thou  on  thy  part  ahouldst  tell  me  thereof. 

TaiassiAs.  I.will  speak  no  further;  rage, 
then,  if  thou  wilt,  with  the  fiercest  wrath 
thy  heart  doth  know. 

(&>ipua.  Aye,  verily,  I  will  not  spare  — 
B  wroth  I  am  —  to  speak  all  my  thought. 
Know  that  thou  aeemest  to  me  e'en  to  have 
hdped  in  plotting  the  deed,  and  to  have 


done  it,  short  of  sl^nng  with  thy  haoda. 
Hadst  thou  eyesight,  I  would  have  said 
tiiat  Ute  doing,  also,  of  this  thing  was  thine 

TinKSiAB.  In  sooth?  —  I  charge  thee 
I  that  thou  ^ide  by  the  decree  of  thine  own 
mouth,  and  from  this  day  speak  neiUier  to 
these  nor  to  me:  tkou  art  the  accursed  de- 
filer  of  this  land. 

CEdifub.  So  braaen  with  thy  blustering 
taunt?  And  wherein  dost  thou  trust  to 
eecape  thy  due? 

TsiBCBua.  I  have  escaped:  in  my  truHi 
is  my  strength. 

(Eoaoa.  Who  taught  thee  this?  It  waa 
not,  at  least,  thine  art. 

TninnsiAB.  Thou:  for  thou  didst  spur 
me  into  speech  against  my  will. 

(Bniprs.  What  speech?  Speak  again 
that  I  may  leam  it  better. 

TxiKBBiAS.  Didst  thou  not  take  my 
sense  before?  Or  art  thou  tempting  me  in 
talk? 

CEdipub.  No,  I  took  it  not  so  that  I  can 
call  it  known:  —  speak  again. 

TsiBxeus.  I  say  that  thou  ut  the  slayer 
of  the  man  whose  slayer  thou  seekeet. 

CEniPtrB.  Now  thou  shalt  rue  that  thou 
hast  twice  said  words  so  dire. 

Teisebub.  Wouldst  thou  have  me  sa; 
more,  that  thou  mayeet  be  more  wroth? 

(Edipub.  What  thou  wilt;  it  will  be  said 
in  viun. 

TBmnsiAB.  I  say  that  thou  hast  been 
living  in  ungueesed  shame  with  thy  nearest 
kin,  and  seest  not  to  what  woe  thou  hast 

CEditdb.  Dost  thou  indeed  think  that 
thou  sholt  always  speak  thus  without 
smvtingT 

TxiRBSUB.  Yee,  if  there  is  any  strengUt 

CEniPDS.  Nay,  there  is,  —  for  all  save 
thee;  for  thee  that  strength  is  not,  since 
thou  art  maimed  in  ear,  and  in  wit,  and  in 

TsntnsiAB.  Aye,  and  thou  art  a  poor 
wretch  to  utter  taunts  which  every  man 
here  will  soon  hurl  at  thee. 

(Enipos.  Night,  endless  night  bath  thee 
in  her  keeping,  so  that  thou  oanat  never 
hurt  me,  or  any  man  who  aem  the  aun. 


38 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Tbirkbias.  No,  thy  doom  is  not  to  fall 
by  me;  Apollo  is  enough,  whose  cue  it  is  to 
work  that  out. 

(Edipds.  Are  theee  Creon'a  devioei,  or 
thine? 

TiiiRE^us.  Nay,  Creon  ia  no  {dague  to 
thee;  thou  art  thine  own. 

CEdipitb.  O  wealth,  and  empire,  and  skill 
surpaffiing  skill  in  life's  keen  rivalriee,  how 
great  is  the  envy  that  oleavea  to  you,  if  for 
the  sake,  yea,  of  this  power  whidi  the  city 
hath  put  into  my  hands,  a  gift  unsought, 
Creon  the  trusty,  Creon  mine  old  friend, 
hath  crept  on  me  by  stealth,  yearning  to 
thrust  me  out  of  it,  and  hath  suborned  such 
a  scheming  ju^er  as  this,  a  tricky  quack, 
who  hath  eyee  only  for  his  gains,  but  in  his 
art  is  blindl 

Come,  now,  tell  me,  where  hast  thou 
proved  thyself  a  seer?  Why,  when  the 
Watcher  was  here  who  wove  dark  song, 
didst  thou  say  nothing  that  could  free  this 
folk?  Yet  the  riddle,  at  least,  was  not  for 
the  first  comer  to  read;  there  was  need  of  a 
seer's  skill;  and  none  such  thou  wast  found 
to  have,  either  by  help  of  birds,  or  as  known 
from  any  god:  no,  I  came,  I,  (Edipus  the 
ignorant,  and  made  her  mute,  when  I  had 
seised  the  answer  by  my  wit,  untaught  of 
birds.  And  it  is  I  whom  thou  art  trying  tc 
oust,  thinking  to  stand  dose  to  Creon'e 
throne.  Methinks  thou  and  the  plotter  of 
these  things  will  me  your  seal  to  purge  the 
land.  Nay,  didst  thou  not  seem  to  be  an 
old  man,  thou  shouldst  have  learned  to  thy 
coat  how  bold  thou  art. 

Chobus.  To  our  thinking,  both  this 
man's  words  and  thine,  CEldipua,  have  been 
said  in  anger.  Not  for  such  words  is  our 
need,  but  to  seek  how  we  shall  beat  dis- 
charge the  mandates  of  the  god. 

Teibesub.  King  though  thou  art,  the 
right  of  reply,  at  least,  must  be  deemed  the 
same  for  both;  of  that  I  too  am  lord.  Not 
to  thee  do  I  live  servant,  but  to  Loxias; 
.  and  BO  I  shall  not  stand  enrolled  under 
Creon  for  my  patron.  And  I  tell  thee- 
since  thou  hast  taunted  me  even  with 
blindness  — that  thou  hast  sight,  yet  s 
not  in  what  misery  thou  art,  nor  where 
thou  dwellest,  nor  with  whom.  Doet  thou 
know  of  what  atook  thou  artf  And  thou 


hast  been  an  unwitting  foe  to  thine  own 
kin,  in  the  shades,  and  on  the  earth  above; 
and  the  double  lash  of  thy  mother's  and 
thy  father's  curse  shall  one  day  drive  thee 
from  this  land  in  dreadful  haste,  with  dark- 
nees  then  on  the  eyee  that  now  see  true. 

And  what  place  shall  not  be  haibor  to 
thy  shriek,  what  of  all  Citlueron  shall  not 
ring  with  it  soon,  when  thou  hast  learnt  the 
meaning  of  the  nuptials  in  which,  within 
that  house,  thou  didst  find  a  fatal  haven, 
after  a  voyage  so  fair7  And  a  throng  of 
other  ills  thou  gueasest  not,  which  shall 
make  thee  level  with  thy  true  adf  and  witb 
thine  own  brood. 

Therefore  heap  thy  scorns  on  Creon  and 
on  my  message :  for  no  one  among  men  shall 
ever  be  crushed  more  miserably  than  Uiou. 

(EniPUB.  Are  these  taunts  to  be  indeed 
borne  from  Atmf — Hence,  ruin  take  theel 
Hence,  this  instant!  Backl  —  awayl  — 
avaunt  thee  from  theee  doorat 

Teirbsiab.  I  had  never  come,  not  I, 
hadet  thou  not  colled  me. 

(Edifdb.  I  knew  not  that  thou  wast 
about  to  speak  folly,  or  it  bad  been  long 
ere  I  had  sent  for  thee  to  my  house. 

TEraxsuB.  Such  am  I,  —  as  thou  think- 
est,  a  fod;  but  for  the  parents  who  begat 
thee,  sane. 

(EbipTTB.  What  paiuitaT  Bt^  .  .  .  and 
who  of  men  is  my  aire? 

TxiBxeiAB.  Ttus  Axy  shall  show  thy 
birth  and  shall  bring  thy  ruin. 

(Edipus.  What  riddles,  what  dark  words 
thou  always  speakesti 

Teikbsias.  Nay,  art  not  thou  iDOBt 
skilled  to  unravel  dark  speech? 

(Edipus.  Make  t^t  my  reproach  in 
which  thou  shalt  find  me  great. 

TmiiEsiAs.  Yet  't  was  just  that  fcKtune 
that  undid  thee. 

(Xk>ipus.  Nay,  if  I  delivered  this  town,  J 

TxiHcsiAB.  Then  I  will  go:  so  do  thoa, 
boy,  take  me  hence. 

CEbiFOB.  Aye,  let  him  take  thee:  while 
here,  thou  art  a  hindrance,  thou,  a  tioubSa: 
when  thou  hast  vanished,  thou  wilt  not  vex 
me  more. 

TxiREsiAB.  I  will  go  when  I  have  done 
mine  errand,  fearless  <rf  tl^  frown:  for  tbou 


.CtOoi^Ic 


CEDIPUS  THE  KING 


ctnit  oeva  destroy  me.  And  I  tell  thee  — 
the  man  of  whom  tbou  hast  this  long  while 
been  in  queat,  uttering  threato,  and  pro- 
nJiimiTig  a  aewch  into  the  murder  of  Lalua 
—  that  man  is  here,  —  in  seeming,  an  alien 
njoumer,  but  anon  he  ihall  be  found  a 
native  Theban,  and  aball  not  be  f^ad  of  hia 
fortune.  A  blind  man,  he  who  now  hath 
li^t,  a  beggar,  who  now  is  rich,  he  shall 
meke  hia  way  to  a  strange  land,  feeling  the 
ground  before  him  with  his  staff.  And  he 
jhall  be  found  at  onoe  brother  and  father 
of  the  children  with  whom  he  conaorte;  bob 
and  hudiand  of  the  woman  who  bore  him; 
faeir  to  his  father's  bed,  shedder  of  his 
father's  blood. 

So  go  tbou  in  and  think  on  that;  and  if 

thou  find  that  I  hare  been  at  fault,  say 

thenceforth  that  I  have  no  wit  in  prophecy. 

[T»RBBua  it  Ud  out  t^  th«  boy. 

(EktiPDS  enterg  tAe  potoce.] 

CHOHua.  Who  is  he  of  whom  the  divine 

Toiee  from  the  Delphian  rock  hath  spoken, 

as  having  wrought  with  red  hands  horrors 

that  no  tongue  can  t^7 

It  is  time  that  he  ply  in  flight  a  foot 
stronger  than  the  feet  of  storm-swift 
steeds:  for  the  son  of  Zeua  is  springing  on 
him,  all  armed  with  fiery  lightnings,  and 
with  him  come  the  dread,  unerring  Fates. 
Yea,  newlj  given  frmn  snowy  Parnassus, 
the  meaaage  hath  flashed  forth  to  make  all 
Man^  for  the  unknown  man.  Into  the 
wild  wood's  covert,  among  cavee  and  rocks 
he  is  roaming,  fierce  as  a  bull,  wretched  and 
forlorn  on  his  joyleea  path,  still  seeking  to 
pat  itom  him  the  doom  spoken  at  Earth's 
oentral  shrine:  but  that  doom  ever  lives, 
ever  flits  around  him. 

Dreadly,  in  sooth,  dreadly  doth  the  wise 
augur  move  me,  who  ^qnvve  not,  nor  am 
able  to  deny.  How  to  speak,  I  know  not; 
I  am  fluttered  with  fordmdinga;  neither  in 
the  present  have  I  clear  vision,  nor  of  the 
future.  Never  in  past  days,  nor  in  these, 
have  I  heard  how  the  house  of  Labdacus 
or  the  son  of  Folybus  had,  either  against 
other,  any  grief  that  I  could  bring  as  proof 
in  mrtaillng  the  public  fame  of  (Edipus,  and 
seeking  to  avenge  the  line  of  Labdacus  for 
the  undiscovered  murder. 
Nay,  ZauB  indeed  and  Apollo  are  keuk  of 


tbou^t,  andlmow  the  things  of  earth;  but 
that  mortal  seer  wins  knowledge  above 
mine,  of  this  there  can  be  no  sure  teat; 
though  man  may  surpass  man  in  lore.  Vet, 
until  I  see  the  word  made  good,  never  will  I 
atsent  when  men  blame  (Edipus.  Before 
all  eyes,  the  winged  maiden  came  against 
him  of  old,  and  he  was  seen  to  be  wise;  he 
bore  the  test,  in  welcome  service  to  our 
State;  never,  therefore,  by  the  verdict  <£ 
my  heart  shall  he  be  adjudged  guiKy  of 
crime. 

{EnUr  CiUEOH.] 

Cbeon.  Fellow  citiiena,  having  learned 
that  (EdipuH  the  king  lays  dire  charges 
against  me,  I  am  here,  indignant.  If,  in  the 
present  troubles,  he  thinks  that  he  haa  suf- 
fered from  me,  by  word  or  deed,  au^t  that 
tends  to  harm,  in  truth  I  crave  not  my  full 
tom  of  yeara,  when  I  must  bear  such  blame 
as  this.  The  wrong  of  this  rumor  touches 
me  not  in  one  point  alone,  but  has  the 
largest  scope,  if  I  am  to  be  called  a  traitor 
in  the  city,  a  traitor,  too,  by  thee  and  by 
my  frieni^. 

Chobob.  Nay,  but  thia  taunt  came  under 
stress,  perchance,  of  angN',  rather  than 
from  the  purpoee  of  the  heart. 

Crsdn.  And  the  saying  waa  uttered, 
that  my  counsels  won  the  seer  to  utter  his 
falsehoods? 

CHOHns.  Such  things  were  said  —  I 
know  not  with  what  meaning. 

Cbbon.  And  was  thia  charge  laid  against 
me  with  steady  eyes  and  steady  mind? 

Chobcs.  I  know  not;  I  see  not  what  ray 
masters  do:  but  here  ccmee  our  lord  forth 
from  the  house. 

[Enier  (Edipob.] 

(Edipus.  Sirrah,  how  cameot  thou  here? 
East  thou  a  front  so  bold  that  thou  haat 
come  to  my  house,  who  art  the  proved 
assassin  of  its  master,  —  the  palpable  rob- 
ber of  my  crown?  (3ome,  teU  me,  in  the 
name  of  the  gods,  was  it  cowardice  or  folly 
that  thou  sawest  in  me,  that  thou  didst  i 

plot  to  do  this  thing?  Didat  thou  think 
that  I  would  not  note  this  deed  of  thine  | 

creeputg  on  me  by  stealth,  or,  awue,  would 
not  wa^  it  off?  Mow  ii  not  thine  attempt 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


focJish,  —  to  seek,  without  ftAcrwers  or 
frundB,  a  throne,  —  a  priie  which  f (Jlowen 
and  wealth  muBt  win? 

Cbeok.  Mftric  me  now,  —  in  uiflwer  to 
thy  words,  hear  a  fair  rv^Ay,  aiid  then  judge 
for  thyself  on  knowledge- 

(EniPUB.  Thou  art  apt  in  speech,  but  I 
have  a  poor  wit  for  thy  lewona,  since  I 
have  found  thee  mj  malignant  foe. 

Ckbon.  Now  first  hear  how  I  will  ez- 
[4ain  tJiis  very  thing  — 

CEoiPUB.  Explain  me  not  one  thing  — 
that  thou  art  not  false. 

Cezon.  If  thou  deemest  that  stubborn- 
ness without  sense  is  a  good  gift,  thou  art 

(Edifcb.  If  thou  deonest  that  tbou  canst 
wrong  a  kinsman  and  escape  the  penalty, 
thou  art  not  sane. 

Crbon.  Justly  said,  I  grant  thee:  but 
tdl  me  what  is  the  wrong  Uiat  thou  s^est 
thou  hast  suffered  from  me. 

(Edipub.  Didst  thou  advise,  or  didst 
Qxm  not,  that  I  should  send  for  that 
reverend  BeerT 

Crzok.  And  now  I  am  Btiit  of  the  same 

GkiiTUB.  How  long   is    it,  thai,   since 
Chxon.  Since  Lalus  . .  .T  I  takenotthy 

(&>iFnB.  —  was  swept  from  men's  sight 
by  a  deadly  violencef 

Cbxom.  The  count  of  years  would  run 
far  into  the  past. 

(Edipub.  Wbb  this  seer,  then,  of  the 
craft  in  those  dajre? 

Chson.  Yea,  skilled  ss  now,  and  in  equal 

(Edipus.  Made  he,  then,  any  mention  of 
me  at  that  time? 

Crkon.  Never,  certainly,  when  I  was 
within  hearing. 

(Edipub.  But  hdd  ye  not  a  search  touch- 
ing ihe  murder? 

Cbhon.  Due  search  we  hdd,  of  course  — 
and  learned  nothing. 

(EniPOB.  And  bow  was  it  that  this  sage 
did  not  tell  hia  story  tAmf 

Crxon.  I  know  not;  where  I  lack  light, 
t  is  my  wont  to  be  Bitent. 

(Edipub.  Thus    much,    at    least,    thou 


knowcst,  and  oouldst  dedara  widi  li^ 

Cbion.  What  is  that?  If  I  know  it,  I 
will  not  deny. 

(Bdipdb.  That,  if  he  had  not  conferred 
with  t^ee,  he  would  never  have  named  my 
slaying  of  lalus. 

Chbom  .  If  BO  he  speaks,  thou  best  know- 
eet;  but  I  claim  to  learn  from  thee  aa  mudk 
as  thou  hast  now  from  me. 

(£k>iFCB.  Learn  thy  fill:  I  shall  never  be 
found  guilty  of  the  blood. 

Cbxon.  Say,  then  —  thou  bast  married 
my  mster? 

(Edipdb.  The   question   allows   not   cd 

Cbbon.  And  thou  rulest  the  land  as  she 
doth,  with  like  sway? 

(Empus.  She  obtains  from  me  all  her 
desire. 

Ckbok.  And  rank  not  I  as  a  third  pew 
of  you  twain? 

(Edipub.  Aye, 'tie  just  therein  that  thou 
art  seen  a  false  friend. 

Caxos.  Not  BO,  if  thou  wouldst  reason 
with  tiiine  own  hWt  as  I  with  mine.  And 
first  weigh  this,  —  whether  thou  thinkeet 
that  any  one  would  choose  to  rule  amid  ter- 
rois  ratbff  than  in  unruffled  peace, — 
granting  that  he  is  to  have  the  same  pow- 
ers. Now  I,  for  one,  have  no_yeaming  in 
my  nature  to  be  a  king  rather  thao  to  do 
Idni^y  deeds,  no,  nor  hath  any  man  irtx> 
knows  how  to  keep  a  sober  mind.  For  now 
I  win  all  boons  from  thee  without  fear;  but, 
were  I  ruler  myself,  I  should  be  doing  mui^ 


How,  then,  could  royalty  be  a 
me  to  have  than  painlesB  rule  and  influ- 
ence? Not  yet  am  I  bo  misguided  as  to 
desire  other  honors  then  those  which  profit. 
Now,  all  wish  me  joy;  now,  every  man  has 
a  grcieting  for  me;  now,  those  who  have  a 
suit  to  thee  crave  speech  with  me,  since 
therein  is  all  their  hope  of  success.  Thea 
why  should  I  resign  these  things,  and  take 
tiioee?  No  mind  will  become  false,  while  it 
is  wise.  Nay,  I  am  no  lover  of  such  policy, 
and,  if  another  put  it  into  deed,  n^er  could 
I  hear  to  act  with  him. 

And,  in  proof  of  this,  first,  go  to  Pytho, 
and  ask  if  I  brought  thee  true  word  <^  ihm 


CEDIPUS  THE  KING 


onde;  then  next,  if  tboa  find  tiuA  I  hftve 
planned  wight  in  concert  with  the  sooth- 
nytr,  t&ke  &nd  day  me,  by  the  sentence 
not  of  one  mouth,  but  of  twain  —  by  mine 
own,  no  leee  than  thine.  But  make  me  not 
piil^  in  a  comer,  on  unproved  ■urmise. 
It  ia  not  right  to  adjudge  bad  men  good  at 
nuidDm,orgDodmenbad.  I  count  it.  a  like 
thing  for  a  man  to  cast  oS  a  true  friend  aa 
to  cast  away  the  life  in  hie  own  boeom, 
wfaioh  moat  ite  lovee.  Nay,  thou  wilt  learn 
tiieae  things  with  sureneaa  in  time,  for  time 
alone  shows  a  just  man;  but  thou  oouldjrt 
disoem  a  knave  even  in  one  day! 

Chords.  WeU  hath  he  spoken,  O  king, 
tat  one  who  giveth  heed  not  to  fall:  the 
quick  in  oouuael  aie  not  sure. 

Qbipus.  When  the  stealthy  plotter  is 
moving  on  me  in  quiek  sort,  I,  too,  must 
be  quick  with  my  tmuntei^ot.  If  I  await 
him  in  repoae,  his  ends  will  have  been 
gained,  and  mine  miseed. 

Ckbon.  Whatwouldst  thou,  thenT  Cast 
me  out  of  the  landT 

(Ek>iPue.  Not  so:  I  deeure  thy  death  — 
not  thy  banishment  —  that  thou  mayefit 
show  forth  what  manner  of  thing  ia  envy. 

CBaoN.  Thou  speakest  ae  resolved  not 
to  yield  or  to  believe? 

Cbkon.  No,  for  I  find  tiiee  not  aane. 

Obtpua.  Sane,  at  least,  in  mine  own 
interest. 

Chxon.  Nay,  thou  shouldst  be  bo  in 


IB.  Nay,  thou  art  false. 

Cbbon.  But  if  thou  understandest 
nought? 

(Ek>iPOB.  Yet  must  I  rule. 

Ckxon.  Not  if  thou  rule  iD. 

(Edipub.  Hear  him,  O  Thebegl 

Crbon.  Thebee  is  for  me  also  —  not  for 
thee  alone. 

Chosus.  Ceaee,  princes;  and  in  good 
time  for  you  I  see  looaeta  ooming  yonder 
Irom  the  bouw,  with  irtutse  hdp  ye  should 
eompoee  your  iveaeut  feud. 

[Enttr  locASTA.] 

locASFA.  Misguided  men,  why  have  ye 

raised  such  foolish  strife  of  tongues?  Are 

ye  not  ashamed,  while  the  land  is  thus  rick, 

to  stir  up  troubles  of  your  own?  Come,  go 


Umu  into  the  house,  —  and  thou,  Creon, 
to  tixy  home,  —  and  forbear  to  m^  much 
of  a  petty  grief . 

Cbbon.  Kinswoman,  CEdipus  thy  tonl 
daims  to  do  dread  things  unto  me,  evm 
one  or  other  of  two  ills,  — to  thnut  me 
from  the  land  of  my  fathers,  or  to  day  me 

(EniFDS.  Yea;  for  I  have  caught  him, 
lady,  working  evil,  by  ill  arts,  against  my 
person. 

Crbok.  Now  may  I  see  no  good,  but 
perish  accursed,  if  I  have  done  aught  to 
thee  of  that  wherewiUi  thou  chargeet  met 

locABTA.  Oh,  for  the  gods'  love,  believe 
it,  (Edipus  —  first,  for  the  awful  sake  of 
tiiia  oath  unto  thje  gods,  —  then  for  my 
sake  and  for  theirs  who  stand  before  thee? 

Chobub.  Consent,  rafleot,  hearken,  O 
my  king,  I  pray  theel 

(Enn-DB.  What  grace,  then,  wouldest 
thou  have  me  grant  thee? 

Cbobds.  Respect  him  who  aforetime 
was  not  focdish,  and  who  now  is  strong  in 
his  oath. 

(EbtPUB.  Now  dost  thou  know  what  tbou 
craveat? 

Chobcb.  Yea. 

(Enipua.    Declare,    then,    what    thoa 


Cbobdb.  That  thou  shouldest  never  use 
KD  unproved  rumor  to  cast  a  dishonoring 
charge  on  the  friend  who  has  bound  him- 
self  with  a  curse. 

(EniFUB.  Then  be  very  sure  that,  wh«i 
thou  seekest  this,  tat  me  thou  art  eeeking 
desteuotion,  or  exQe  from  this  land. 

Chokus.  No,  by  him  who  stands  in  the 
front  of  all  the  heavenly  host;  no,  by  the 
Sun  I  Unblest,  unfriended,  may  I  die  by 
the  uttcnuoet  doom,  if  I  have  that  thoughtl 
But  my  unh^jpy  soul  is  worn  by  the  with- 
ering of  the  land,  and  again  by  the  thou^t 
thtit  our  old  sorrows  should  be  crowned  by 
sorrows  springing  from  you  twain. 

(Edipttb.  Then  let  him  go,  though  I  sm 
sordy  doomed  to  death,  or  to  be  thrust 
dishonored  from  the  land.  Thy  lips,  not 
his,  move  my  compassion  by  their  [dainti 
but  he,  where'er  he  be,  shall  be  hated. 

Crkok.  Sullen  in  yieldmg  art  thou  seen, 
even  as  vehement  in  the  excesses  <d  thy 


43 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


wraUi;  but  such  nafaina  are  jusUy  sorest 
tot  tbemsdves  to  bear. 

(Edifub.  Then  witt  thou  not  leave  me  in 
peace,  and  get  thee  gone? 

Crsom.  I  will  go  my  wi^;  I  have  found 
thee  UDdisceming,  but  in  the  sight  of  these 
I  am  just.  [ExU.] 

Chortib.  Lady,  why  dost  thou  .delay  to 
taJEe  yon  man  into  the  houseT 

loGASTA.  I  will  do  so,  when  I  have  learned 
irtiat  hath  chanced. 

Chorub.  Blind  suspicion,  bred  of  talV, 
arose;  and,  on  the  other  part,  injustice 
wounds. 

locASTA.  It  was  on  both  sidesT 

Chorus.  Aye. 

loCAOTA.  And  niiat  was  the  storyT 

Chobctb.  Enough,  methinks,  enough  — 
when  our  land  is  already  vexed  —  that  the 
matter  should  reet  where  it  ceased. 

(Ediphb.  Seest  thou  to  what  thou  host 
come,  for  all  thy  honest  purpose,  in  seeking 
to  alack  and  blunt  my  seal? 

Chorits.  King,  I  have  said  it  not  once 
alone  —  be  sure  that  I  should  have  been 
shown  a  ma^nan,  bankrupt  in  sane  coun- 
sel, if  I  put  thee  away  —  thee,  who  g&vest 
a  true  course  to  my  beloved  country  when 
distraught  by  troubles  —  thee,  who  now 
also  art  like  to  prove  our  prospering  guide. 

lociBii,  In  the  name  of  the  gods,  tell 
me  also,  O  king,  on  what  account  thou  bast 
conceived  this  steadfast  wrath. 

(E!dipus.  That  will  I;  for  I  honor  thee, 
lady,  above  yonder  men:  ^  the  cause  is 
Creon,  and  the  plots  that  he  hath  laid 
against  me. 

locABTA.  Speak  on  —  if  tbou  canst  tell 
clearly  bow  the  feud  began. 

(Edipub.  He  says  that,  I  stand  guilty  of 
the  blood  of  lalua. 

locAan'A.  As  on  his  own  knowledge?  Or 
on  hearsay  from  another? 

(E!dipiib.  Nay,  he  hath  made  a  rascal 
eecr  his  mouthpiece;  as  for  himself,  he 
keeps  his  lips  wholly  pure. 

locASTA,  Then  absolve  thyself  of  the 
things  whereof  thou  speakest;  hearken  to 
me,  and  leant  for  thy  comfort  that  nought 
of  mortal  birth  is  a  sharer  in  the  science 
of  the  seer.    I  wiU  give  thee  pithy  proof  of 


An  oracle  came  to  I^ua  <moe  —  I  wffl 
not  say  from  Phcsbus  himself,  but  from  hii 
ministers  —  that  the  doom  should  overtake 
him  to  die  by  the  hand  of  his  child,  who 
should  spring  from  him  and  me. 

Now  LaIus,  —  as,  at  least,  the  nuaot 
eaith,  —  was  munWed  one  day  by  fordgn 
robbers  at  a  place  where  three  highways 
meet.  And  the  child's  birth  was  not  three 
days  past,  whwi  Lalus  pinned  its  ankles 
together,  and  had  it  thrown,  by  others' 
hands,  on  a  trackless  mountain. 

So,  in  ibai  case,  Apollo  brou^t  it  not 
to  pass  that  the  babe  should  become  the 
slayer  of  his  sire,  or  that  Lalus  should  die 
—  the  dread  thing  which  he  feared  —  by 
his  child's  hand.  Thus  did  the  messages  at 
seer-craft  map  out  the  future.  R^ard 
them,  thou,  not  at  all.  Whatsoever  iieed- 
ful  things  tbe  god  seeks,  he  tiitnaalf  wiU 
easily  bring  to  light. 

(Edipub.  WhatreetlecBneeeof  soul,  lady, 
what  tumult  of  tbe  mind  hath  just  come 
upon  me  since  I  heard  thee  speaki 

locAOTA.  What  smdety  hath  startled 
thee,  that  thou  sayest  this? 

CEniFCB.  Methought  I  heard  this  from 
thee,  —  that  Lalus  was  slain  where  thre« 
highways  meet. 

locABTA.  Yea,  that  was  the  story;  not 
hath  it  ceased  yet. 

(Edipub.  And  where  is  the  place  when 
this  befell? 

locAsrA.  The  land  is  called  ^ods;  and 
branching  roads  lead  to  the  same  spot  from 
Delphi  and  from  Daulia. 

(Edipub.  And  iriiat  is  tbe  time  that  hatii 
passed  since  these  thin^  were? 

locASTA.  The  news  was  published  to  tbe 
town  shortly  brfore  thou  wast  first  seen  in 
power  over  this  land. 

^Edipub.  O  Zeus,  what  hast  thou  decreed 
to  do  unto  me? 

locABTA.  And  wherefore,  (Edipus,  doth 
this  thing  weigh  upon  thy  soul? 

(Enipua.  Ask  me  not  yet;  but  say  what 
was  tbe  stature  of  Lalus,  and  bow  ripe  his 
manhood. 

locASTA.  He  was  tall,  —  the  silver  just 
lightly  strewn  among  his  hair;  and  fais  fono 
was  not  greatly  unlike  to  thine. 

(EmFOs.  Unhappy  that  I  ami  Mathinks 


CEDIPUS  THE  KING 


43 


I  luTe  been  lajring  myeelf  even  now  under 
ft  dnad  curee,  and  knew  it  not. 

locABTA.  How  B&yeet  thou?  I  tremble 
when  I  look  (Ht  thee,  my  king. 

(Enipue.  Dread  nuBgivings  have  I  that 
the  BMT  can  see.  But  thou  wilt  show  better 
if  thou  wilt  tell  me  one  thing  more. 

locAOTA.  Indeed  —  though  I  tremble  — 
I  will  answer  all  thou  aakeet,  when  I  hear  it. 

QlDiFUB.  Went  he  in  small  force,  or  with 
many  umed  foUowera,  like  a  chieftain? 

locABTA.  Five  they  were  in  bQ,  —  a  her- 
ald one  of  them;  and  there  was  one  carriage, 
iriiich  bore  Lalua. 

(EniFUB.  Alas!  'T  ia  now  dear  indeed. 
—  Who  was  be  who  gave  you  these  tidings, 
ladyT 

locASrrA.  A  servant  —  the  sole  survivor 
who  came  borne. 

(EniPUB.  Is  he  haply  st  hand  in  the  house 

locAOTA.  No,  truly;  so  soon  as  he  cs 
thence,  and  found  thee  reigning  in 
itead  of  Lalus,  be  supplicated  me,  with 
hand  lud  on  mine,  that  I  would  send  him  to 
the  fields,  to  the  pastures  of  the  flocks,  that 
he  might  be  far  from  the  sight  of  this  town. 
And  I  sent  him;  he  was  worthy,  for  a  ^ve, 
to  win  e'en  a  larger  boon  than  that. 

<EniPTT8.  Would,  then,  that  he  could 
return  t«  us  without  delay  I 

I0CA8TA.  It  is  ^aey:  but  wherefore  doat 
tiiou  enjoin  this? 

(Enipus.  I  fear,  lady,  tiiat  mine  own  lips 
have  been  unguarded;  and  therefore  am  I 
fain  to  behold  him. 

locASTA.  N^,  he  shaU  come.  But  I,  too, 
methinks,  have  a  claim  to  learn  what  lies 
heavy  on  thy  heart,  my  Idng. 

(Enipcs.  Yea,  and  it  shall  not  be  kept 
from  thee,  now  that  my  for(j>odiogs  have 
advanced  so  far.  Who,  indeed,  is  more  b 
me  than  thou,  to  whom  I  should  speak  ii 
passing  through  such  a  fortune  as  this? 

My  father  was  Polybus  of  Corinth,  - 
my  mother,  the  Dorian  Meropi;  and  I  was 
held  the  first  of  all  the  folk  in  that  town, 
until  a  chance  befell  me,  worthy,  indeed, 
of  wonder,  though  not  worthy  of  mine  own 
heat  concerning  it.  At  a  banquet,  a  man 
f  uD  of  wine  cast  it  at  me  in  his  cups  that  I 
was  not  the  tnw  son  of  my  sire.   And  I, 


vexed,  restrained  myself  for  that  day  as 
beat  I  might;  but  on  the  nest  I  went  to  my 
mother  and  father,  and  questioned  them; 
and  tbey  were  wroth  for  the  taunt  with 
hi'm  who  had  let  that  word  fly.  So  on  their 
part  I  had  comfort;  yet  was  this  thing  ever 
rankling  in  my  heart;  for  it  still  crept 
abroad  with  strong  rumor.  And,  unknown 
to  mother  or  father,  I  went  to  Delphi;  and 
Pbo^us  sent  me  forth  disappointed  of  that 
knowledge  for  which  I  came,  but  in  his 
response  set  forth  other  things,  full  of  sor- 
row and  terror  and  woe;  even  that  I  was 
fated  to  defilemy  mother's  bed;  and  tiiat 
I  should  show  unto  men  a  brood  whicb 
they  could  not  endure  to  behold;  and  that 
I  ^ould  be  the  slayer  of  the  sire  who 

And  I,  when  I  had  liatened  to  tfaiH,  turned 
to  flight  from  the  land  of  Corinth,  thence- 
forth wotting  of  its  region  by  the  stars 
alone,  to  some  spot  where  I  should  never 
see  fulfillment  of  the  infamies  foretold  in 
mine  evil  doom.  And  on  my  wt^  I  come 
to  the  regiona  in  which  thou  aayeet  that 
this  prince  periahed.  Now,  lady,  I  will  tell 
thee  the  truth.  When  in  my  journey  I  was 
near  to  those  three  roada,  there  met  me  a 
herald,  and  a  man  seated  in  a  carriage 
drawn  by  coltfl,  as  thou  hast  deecribe<^  and 
he  who  was  in  front,  and  the  old  man  him- 
self, were  for  thruatiug  me  rudely  from  the 
path.  Then,  in  anger,  I  struck  him  who 
pushed  me  aside  —  the  driver;  and  the  old 
man,  seeing  it,  watched  the  moment  when 
I  waa  passing,  and,  from  the  carriage, 
brought  hia  goad  with  two  t«eth  down  full 
upon  my  head.  Yet  waa  he  paid  with  in- 
terest; by  one  swift  blow  from  the  staff  in 
thia  hand  he  was  rolled  right  out  of  the  car- 
riage, on  his  back;  and  I  slew  every  man  of 

But  if  thia  stranger  had  any  tie  of  kin- 
ahip  with  Lalus,  who  is  now  more  wretched 
thwi  the  man  before  thee?  What  mortal 
could  prove  more  hated  of  heaven?  Whom 
no  stranger,  no  citizen,  is  allowed  to  receive 
in  his  house;  whom  it  is  unlawful  that  any 
one  acoofit;  whom  all  must  repel  from  their 
homes!  And  this  —  thid  cuibb  —  was  laid 
on  me  by  no  mouth  but  mine  ownt  And  I 
pdlute  th«  bed  of  the  sliun  man  with  the 


44 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


hands  by  which  he  poiahed.  Say,  am  I 
Tile?  Oh,  am  I  not  utt«rly  unclean?  — 
oeeiiig  tiuA  I  must  be  baninbed,  aad  in  hta- 
iehment  aee  not  mine  own  peoi^e,  nor  set 
foot  in  mine  own  land,  or  dse  be  joined  in 
wedlock  to  my  mother,  and  day  my  aire, 
even  Polybua,  who  begat  and  reared  me. 

Then  would  not  he  speak  aright  of 
(EdipuB,  who  jiidged  these  things  sent  by 
ataae  crud  power  above  man?  Forbid,  for- 
t»d,  ye  pure  and  awful  gods,  that  I  should 
see  tjiat  dayl  No,  may  I  be  swept  tnia 
among  men,  ere  I  behold  myself  visited 
with  the  braod  of  such  a  doom! 

Caonns.  To  ua,  indeed,  these  things,  O 
long,  are  fraught  with  fear;  yet  have  hope, 
un^  at  least  thou  hast  gained  full  knowl- 
edge from  him  who  saw  the  deed. 

(Edifvs.  Hope,  in  truth,  nets  with  me 
thus  far  alone;  I  can  await  the  man  sum- 
moned from  the  pastures. 

loCASiA.  And  when  he  has  appeared  — 
wiiat  wouldst  thou  have  of  him? 

(Edipttb.  I  will  tell  thee.  If  bis  story  be 
found  to  tally  with  thine,  I,  at  least,  shall 
stand  clear  of  disaster. 

locASTA.  And  what  of  special  note  didst 
thou  hear  from  me? 

(Edipub.  Thou  wast  saying  tiiat  he 
spokeotlAluB  as  slain  by  rotors.  If,  then, 
he  still  speaks,  as  before,  <rf  several,  I  was 
.not  the  slayer:  a  solitary  man  oould  not  be 
held  the  same  with  that  band.  But  if  he 
names  one  lonely  wayfarer,  then  bes^ond 
doubt  this  guilt  leans  to  me. 

loCAffTA.  Nay,  be  assured  that  thus,  at 
least,  the  tale  was  first  t<dd;  he  cannot  re- 
voke that,  for  the  city  heard  it,  not  I  alone. 
But  eveii  if  he  should  diverge  somewhat 
from  his  former  story,  never,  king,  can  he 
show  that  the  murder  of  Lalus,  at  least,  is 
truly  square  to  prophecy ;  of  whom  Lozias 
plainly  said  that  he  must  die  by  the  hand 
of  my  child.  Howbeit  that  poor  innocent 
never  slew  him,  but  perished  first  itself. 
So  henceforth,  for  what  touches  divination, 
I  would  not  took  to  my  right  hand  or  my 
left. 

(EniPUB.  TIkto  jodgeet  wdl.  But  never- 
thdees  send  some  one  to  (etch  the  peasant, 
and  neglect  not  this  matter. 

louHTA.  I  will  send  without  dday.  But 


1st  us  come  into  Uie  house:  nothing  will  I 
do  save  at  thy  good  pleasure. 

[Examt  CEdipub  and  Iocaota-I 

Cbokhb.  May  destiny  still  find  me  win- 
ning the  praise  of  reverent  purity  in  all 
words  and  deeds  sanotitHied  by  those  laws 
of  range  sublime,  called  into  life  through- 
out the  hi^  dear  heaven,  whose  father  is 
Olympus  alone;  their  parent  was  no  race 
of  mortal  men,  no,  nor  shall  oblivion  ever 
lay  them  to  deep;  the  god  is  mighty  in 
them,  and  he  grows  not  old. 

Insolenoe  breeds  the  tyrant;  Insolence, 
once  vainly  surfeited  on  wealth  that  is  not 
meet  nor  good  for  it,  when  it  hath  scsled 
the  topmost  ramparts,  is  hurled  to  a  dire 
doom,  wherein  no  service  of  the  feet  c«n 
serve.  But  I  pray  that  the  god  never  quell 
such  rivalry  aa  benefits  the  State;  the  god 
will  1  ever  hold  for  our  protector. 

But  if  any  man  walka  haughtily  in  deed 
or  word,  with  no  fear  of  Justice,  no  rever- 
ence for  the  images  of  gods,  may  an  evil 
doom  seise  him  for  his  iU-stBrred  pride,  if 
he  will  not  win  his  vantage  faiily,  nor  keep 
him  from  unholy  deeds,  but  must  lay  pro- 
faning hands  on  sanctities. 

Where  such  things  are,  what  mortal  shall 
boast  any  more  that  he  can  ward  the  arrows 
of  the  gods  from  his  life?  Nay,  if  such  deeds 
are  in  honor,  wherefore  shc^d  we  join  in 
the  saered  danoeT 

No  more  will  I  go  reverently  to  eartfa's 
central  and  inviolate  shrine,  no  more  to 
Abn's  temple  or  Olympia,  if  theee  oradee 
fit  not  the  iMue,  so  that  all  men  shall  ptAnt 
at  them  witji  the  finger.  Nay,  king,  —  if 
thou  art  rightly  called,  —  Zeus  all-ruling, 
may  it  not  eacs{)e  thee  and  thine  evco'- 
deathless  power  I 

The  old  prophecies  concerning  I^us  are 
fading;  already  men  are  setting  them  at 
nought,  and  nowhere  is  Apollo  glorified 
with  honois;  the  worship  of  the  gods  ib 
perishing. 

[EiUer  locAOTA.) 
locAOTA.  Priuceeoftheland,thethou^t 
has  come  to  me  to  vint  the  ahrinee  of  the 
gods,  with  this  wreathed  branch  in  my 
hands,  and  theee  gifts  of  incense.  For 
(Edipus  exdtea  his  soul  overmuch  wftli  all 


CtOo^^Ic 


CEDIPUS  THE  KING 


mftHTfr  of  fdtumB,  nor,  like  a  man  of  sense, 
judges  the  new  things  by  the  old,  but  is 
st  the  will  of  the  speaker,  if  he  spesk 
terrora. 

Since,  then,  by  counsel  I  can  do  no 
good,  to  thee,  l^eeaa  Apollo,  for  thou  art 
nearest,  I  have  oome,  a  suppliant  with 
these  symbole  of  prayer,  that  Uiou  mayest 
find  us  some  riddance  from  uncleanness. 
Fw  now  we  are  all  afraid,  seeing  him 
a&i^ted,  even  as  they  who  see  fear  in  the 
hdmsman  of  their  ship. 

[Enter  Meuerifer.] 

MBB8ENCIBB.  Might  I  learn  from  you, 
stiangen,  where  is  the  house  of  the  king 
(EdipusT  Or,  better  stUl,  t«U  me  where  he 
himsdf  is  —  if  ye  know. 

CBOKue.  This  is  his  dwelling,  and  he 
ttinudf,  stranger,  is  within;  and  this  lady 
is  the  mother  erf  his  children. 

MKBaHHOBR.  Then  may  she  be  ever 
h^>pj'  in  a  happy  home,  since  she  is  his 
heaven-bleet  queen. 

loCASTA.  Hfq>pinea8  to  thee  also,  atran- 
gerl  T  is  the  due  of  thy  fair  greeting.  But 
say  what  thou  hast  come  to  seek  or  to  tell. 

MassEiraBK.  Good  tidings,  lady,  for  thy 
bause  and  for  thy  husband. 

locASTA.  What  are  they?  And  from 
whom  hast  thou  oomeT 

litBBSZNQKR.  From  Corinth :  and  at  the 
message  which  I  will  speak  anon  thou  wilt 
rejoioe  —  doubtless;  yet  haply  grieve. 

locAOTA.  And  what  is  it?  How  hath  it 
thus  a  double  pot«iey? 

MzsHKNOEB.  The  people  will  make  him 
king  of  the  Isthmifui  liud,  as  't  was  said 
there. 

locABTA.  How  thmT  Is  the  aged  Poly- 
bus  no  more  in  power? 

Mbsbsnoxb.  No,  verily;  for  death  holds 
fiim  in  the  tomb. 

locxarA.  How  sayeet  thou?  Is  Polybus 
dead,  old  man? 

MBsaxNOiiR.  If  I  speak  not  the  truth,  t 
am  content  to  die. 

locAmrA.  O  handmaid,  away  with  all 
■peed,  and  tell  this  to  thy  master!  O  ye 
(Hades  of  the  gods,  where  stand  ye  nowl 
This  is  the  man  whom  (Edipus  long  feared 
■nd  shunaed,  lest  he  should  slay  him;  and 


now  this  man  hath  died  in  the  coune  of 
destiny,  not  by  his  hand. 

[Enier  (Edipub.J 

(Edipus.  locasta,  deanet  wife,  why  bast 
thou  summoned  me  forth  from  these  doors? 

loCABTA.  Hear  this  man,  and  judge,  as 
thou  listenest,  to  what  the  awfiU  oracles 
of  the  gods  have  come. 

(Enipua.  And  he  —  who  may  he  be,  and 
what  news  hath  be  for  me? 

locABTA.  He  ia  from  Corinth,  to  tell  that 
thy  fathw  Polybus  lives  no  longer,  but 
bath  perished. 

(EniPUB.  How,  stranger?  Let  me  havo 
it  from  thine  own  mouth. 

MussCNoiK.  If  I  must  first  make  theae 
tidings  plain,  know  indeed  tiiat  he  is  dead 
and  gone. 

(Edifdb.   By  treachery,  or  by  visit  of 


MxasiMOKs.  A  light  thing  in  the  scale 
brings  the  aged  to  their  rest. 

CEdipcs.  Ah,hedied,itseems,ofBickneee? 

MnaaiiNGXB.  Yea,  and  of  the  long  yean 
that  he  had  told. 

(Edifdb.  Alas,  alasl  Why,  indeed,  my 
wife,  ahould  one  look  to  the  hearth  of  the 
Pythian  seer,  or  to  the  birds  that  Hcream 
above  our  heads,  on  whose  showing  I  was 
doomed  to  slay  my  sire?  But  he  is  dead, 
and  hid  already  beneath  the  earth;  and 
here  am  I,  who  have  not  put  hand  to  spear. 
—  Unless,  perchanoe,  he  was  killed  by 
longing  for  me:  thus,  indeed,  I  should  be 
the  cause  of  his  death.  But  the  oracles  at 
they  stand,  at  least,  Polybus  hath  ewapl 
with  him  to  his  rest  in  Hades:  they  are 
worth  nought. 

locABTA.  Nay,  did  I  not  Sf>  f««tell  to 
thee  long  since? 

CBdipub.  Thou  didst:  but  I  was  mided 
by  my  fear. 

loCABTA.  Now  no  more  lay  aught  of 
those  thing)  to  heart, 

(EniFUB.  But  surely  I  must  needs  fear 
my  mother's  bed? 

locAOTA.  Nay,  what  should  mortal  fear, 
for  whom  the  decrees  of  Fortune  are  su- 
preme, and  who  hath  dear  foresight  of 
nothing?  'T  is  beet  to  live  at  ruidom,  as 
one  may.  But  fear  not  thou  touching  we^ 


46 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


ktck  with  Uiy  mother.  Many  men  ere  now 
Iwve  so  fared  in  dreams  also:  but  be  to 
whom  these  thinge  are  u  naught  bears  his 
life  most  easily. 

(Edipub.  All  tbe«e  bold  words  of  thine 
would  have  been  well,  were  not  my  mother 
living;  but  as  it  ie,  aince  she  lives,  I  must 
needs  fear  —  though  thou  sayeat  well. 

locASTA.  Howbeit  thy  fatiier's  death  is 
t  great  sign  to  cheer  us. 

(Edipub.  Great,  I  know;  but  my  tear  is 
of  her  who  lives. 

Mebbenoeb.  And  who  is  the  woman 
about  whom  yo  fear? 

(Edipub.  Meropi,  old  man,  the  consort 
of  Polybus. 

MGsaENtXB.  And  what  is  it  in  her  that 
moves  your  fear? 

(Edipub.  A  heaven-sent  oracle  of  dread 
import,  stranger. 

Mebbunoxs.  lawful,  or  unlawful,  for 
another  to  know? 

(Edipub.  Lawful,  surely,  Loxiae  once 
said  Uiat  I  was  doomed  to  espouse  mine 
own  mother,  and  to  shed  with  mine  own 
hands  my  father's  blood.  Wherefore  my 
borne  in  C)oniith  was  long  kept  by  me  afar; 
with  happy  event,  indeed,  —  yet  still  't  is 
Bweet  to  see  the  face  of  porente. 

Messenger.  Was  it  indeed  for  fear  of 
this  that  thou  wast  an  exile  from  that  dtyT 

(Edipub.  And  because  I  wished  not,  old 
man,  to  be  the  slayer  of  my  sire. 

MEsaxNOEB.  Then  why  have  I  not  freed 
thee,  king,  from  this  fear,  seeing  that  1 
came  with  friendly  purpose? 

(Edipus.  Indeed  thou  shouldst  have 
guerdon  due  from  me. 

Mesbxnoer.  Indeed  't  wbs  chiefly  for 
this  that  I  came  —  that,  on  thy  return 
home,  I  might  reap  some  good. 

(Edipub.  Nay,  I  will  never  go  near  my 
parents. 

Mebbknobr.  Ah  my  bod,  't  is  plain 
enough  that  thou  knoweet  not  what  thou 

(Edipub.  How,  old  man?  For  the  gods' 
love,  tell  me. 

MEBSiNaxR.  If  for  these  reasons  thou 
shrinkest  fr^m  going  home. 

(Edipus.  Aye,  I  dread  lest  Phoebus 
prove  himself  true  for  me. 


MxaexNOBB.  Thou  dreadeat  to  be  stained 
with  guilt  through  thy  parents? 

(Edipub.  Even  so,  old  man  —  this  it  is 
that  ever  affrights  me. 

MBSBKHaER.  Dost  thou  know,  tlien, 
that  thy  fears  are  wht^y  vain? 

(Edipub.  How  so,  if  I  was  born  of  those 
parents? 

Mbbbenokk.  Because  Polybus  was  notli- 
ing  to  thee  in  blood. 

(Edipub.  What  eayeet  thou?  Waa  Poly- 
bus not  my  sire? 

Mbssenoer.  No  more  than  he  who 
speaks  to  thee,  but  just  so  much. 

(Edipub.  And  how  can  my  sire  be  levd 
with  him  who  is  as  nought  to  me? 

MEfiSENOER.  Nay,  he  begat  thee  not, 
any  more  than  I. 

(EIdipub.  Nay,  wherefore,  then,  called 
be  me  his  son? 

Mesbbnoer.  Know  that  he  had  re- 
ceived thee  as  a  gift  from  my  hands  of  yore. 

(Edipub.  And  yet  he  loved  me  so  d^ly, 
who  came  from  another's  hand? 

Mebsenoeb.  Yea,  his  former  childlesa- 
ness  won  him  thereto. 

(Edipus.  And  thou — hadBt  thou  bought 
me  or  found  roe  by  chance,  when  thou 
gaveet  me  to  him? 

Messenoeb.  Found  thee  in  CSthmxHi's 
winding  glens. 

(Edipub.  And  wherefore  wast  thou  roam- 
ing in  those  regions? 

Messenoeb.  I  was  there  in  charge  of 
mounbiin  flocks. 

(Edipub.  What,  thou  wast  a  shepherd  — 
a  vagrant  hireling? 

Mebsenobr.  But  thy  preserver,  my  son, 
in  that  hour. 

(Edipub.  And  what  pain  was  mine  when 
thou  didst  take  me  in  thine  arms? 

Messenger.  The  ankles  of  thy  feet 
might  witness. 

(Edipub.  Ah  me,  why  dost  thou  speak 
of  that  old  trouble? 

Mebbbnoer.  I  freed  thee  when  thou 
hadst  thine  ankles  pinned  together. 

(Edipub.  Aye,  't  was  a  dread  brand  of 
shame  that  I  took  from  my  cradle. 

Messenoeb.  Such,  that  from  that  for- 
tune thou  wast  called  by  the  name  which 
■till  is  thine. 


:.L|,i,zedi!,GoOQlc 


(EDIPUS  THE  KING 


47 


(Edipub.  Oh,  for  the  godi'  love  —  was 
the  deed  my  mother's  or  father's?  Speokl 

Mkbbbnoeb.  I  know  not;  he  who  gave 
tbee  to  me  wots  better  of  that  than  I. 

{EDiPua.  Wliat,  thou  hadst  me  from 
anotherT  Thou  didfit  not  light  on  me  thy- 

MG8BXNaER.  No:  another Bhepherd  gave 
thee  up  to  me. 

(Ei>u>CB.  Who  was  he?  Art  thou  in  case 
to  tdl  clearly? 

MEssENaER.  I  think  he  was  called  one 
of  the  household  of  Lalus. 

(EniPUS.  The  king  who  ruled  this  coun- 
try long  ago? 

Mbsbenoer.  The  eame:  'twas  in  lus 
■ervice  that  the  man  was  a  herd. 

(EniFUB.  Is  he  still  alive,  that  I  might 
see  him? 

MesBENOBR.  Nay,  ye  folk  of  the  coun- 
try should  know  beet.  [Eat.] 

tEuiPDB.  Is  there  any  of  you  here  pres 
«nt  that  knows  the  herd  of  whom  he  speaks 
—  that  hath  seen  him  ^  the  pastures  or 
the  town?  Answer!  The  hour  hath  come 
that  these  things  should  be  finally  revealed. 

Chorus.  MethinJcs  he  speaks  of  no  other 
than  the  peasant  whom  thou  wast  already 
fain  to  see;  but  our  lady  locasta  might  best 
tdlthat. 

(Enipus.  Lady,  wott«st  thou  of  him 
whom  we  lately  summoned?  Is  it  of  him 
that  this  man  speaks? 

locASTA.  Why  ask  of  whom  he  apoke? 
Regard  it  not .  .  .  waste  not  a  thougjit  on 
what  he  said  .  .  .  't  were  idle. 

(Ediphs.  It  must  not  be  that,  with  such 
clues  in  my  grasp,  1  should  fail  to  bring  my 
birth  to  light. 

locABTA.  For  the  gods'  soke,  if  thou  hast 
any  care  for  thine  own  life,  forbear  this 
search!  My  anguish  is  enough. 

(Edipcb.  Be  of  good  courage;  though  I 
be  found  the  son  of  servile  mother,  —  aye, 
a  slave  by  three  descents,  —  thou  wilt  not 
be  proved  base-bom, 

locAATA.  Yet  hear  me,  I  implore  thee: 
do  not  thus. 

(EniPDS.  Imust  not  hear  of  not  discover- 
ing the  whole  truth. 

locABTA.  Yet  I  wish  thee  well  —  I  ooun- 
td  thee  for  the  best. 


CEdipub.  These  best  counsels,  theo,  vex   - 
my  patience. 

locABTA.  Bl-fated  one!  Mayst  thou 
never  come  to  know  who  thou  art! 

(Eoipus.  Go,  some  one,  fitch  me  the 
herdsman  hither,  —  and  leave  yon  woman 
to  glory  in  her  princely  stock. 

locASTA,  Alss,  alas,  miserable!  —  that 
word  alone  can  1  say  unto  thee,  and  no 
other  word  henceforth  forever. 

[She  nuhei  into  the  paJace.] 

Chorus.  Why  hath  the  lady  gone, 
(EdipuB,  in  a  transport  of  wild  grief?  I 
misdoubt,  a  storm  of  Borrow  will  break 
forth  from  this  silence. 

(Edipub.  Break  forth  what  will!  Be  my 
race  never  so  lowly,  I  must  crave  to  leam 
it.  Yon  woman,  perchance,  —  for  she  is 
proud  with  more  than  a  woman's  pride  — 
thinks  shame  of  my  base  source.  But  I, 
who  bold  myself  son  of  Fortune  that  givea 
good,  will  not  be  dishonored.  She  is-  the 
mother  from  whom  I  apring;  and  the 
months,  my  kinsmen,  have  marked  me 
sometimes  lowly,  sometimes  great.  Such 
being  my  lineage,  never  more  can  I  prove 
false  to  it,  or  spare  to  search  out  the  secret 
of  my  birth. 

Chorus.  If  I  am  a  seer  or  wise  of  heart, 
0  Cithieron,  thou  shalt  not  fail  —  by  yon 
heaven,  thou  sbalt  not!  —  to  know  at  to- 
morrow's full  moon  that  (Edipus  honors 
Uiee  as  native  to  him,  as  his  nurse,  and  his 
mother,  and  that  thou  art  celebrated  in  our 
dance  and  song,  because  thou  art  well- 
pleaaing  to  our  prince.  O  Phcebus  to  whom 
we  cry,  may  these  things  find  favor  in  thy 
Bight! 

Who  was  it,  my  son,  who  of  the  race 
whose  years  are  many  that  bore  thee  in 
wedlock  with  Pan,  the  mountain-roamii^ 
father?  Or  was  it  a  bride  6f  Loxias  that 
bore  thee?  For  dear  to  him  are  all  the  up- 
land pastures.  Or  perchance  't  was  Cyl- 
lene's  lord,  or  the  Bacchants'  god,  dweller 
on  the  hill-tops,  that  received  tbee,  a  new- 
bom  joy,  from  one  of  the  Nymphs  of  Heli- 
con, with  whom  he  most  doth  sport, 

(Edipus.  holders,  if  't  is  for  me  to  guess, 
who  have  never  met  with  him,  I  think  1 
see  the  herdsman  of  whom  we  have  long 
been  in  quest;  for  in  his  venerable  age  he 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


^ 

t&l)  ite  with  yon  Btranger'B  yean,  and  witluU 
I  know  thoae  who  bring  him,  metfainks, : 
servants  of  mine  own.  But  perchanoe  thou 
mayeat  liave  the  advantage  of  me  in  knowl- 
edge, if  thou  hast  seen  the  herdsman  be- 

Cbohus.  Aye,  I  know  him,  be  sure;  he 
was  in  the  service  of  Lalus  —  trusty  as  any 
man,  in  his  ahephord'e  place. 

[The  Herdtman  is  brought  in.] 

CEdipus.  I  ask  tiiee  first,  Corinthian 
stranger,  is  this  he  whom  thou  meanest? 

Mbssxhokb.  This  man  whom  thou  be- 
holdest. 

(Esipce.  Ho  thou,  old  man  —  I  would 
have  thee  took  this  way,  and  answer  all 
that  1  ask  thee.  —  Thou  wast  onoe  in  the 
service  of  Ijdus? 

HXBDBUAN.  I  was  —  a  slave  not  bought, 
but  reared  in  his  house. 

(Edipub.  Employed  in  what  labor,  or 
what  way  of  lifeT 

Hbbdbuan.  For  the  beet  part  of  my  life 
I  tended  flocks. 

CEi>ii>u8.  And  what  the  r^ons  thaX 
thou  didst  chi^y  haunt? 

HxsDSMAN.  Sometimes  it  was  Citharon, 
sometimes  the  neighboring  ground. 

(EIdifub.  Then  wott«st  thou  of  having 
noted  yon  man  in  these  parts  — 

Hbrdbuan.  Doing  what?  .  .  .Whatman 
dost  thou  mean?  .  .  . 

(Edipds.  This  man  here  —  or  of  having 
ever  met  him  bdore7 

Hbrdbiun.  Not  so  that  I  could  speak 
at  once  from  mranory. 

Mbsbenobb.  And  no  wonder,  mastu". 
But  I  will  bring  dear  reoollection  to  his 
ignorance.  I  am  sure  that  he  wdl  wots  of 
the  time  when  we  abode  in  the  region  of 
Cithceron,  —  he  with  two  flocks,  I,  his 
comrade,  with  one,  —  three  full  half-years, 
from  epring  to  Arcturus;  and  then  for  the 
winter  I  used  to  drive  my  flock  to  mine 
own  fold,  and  he  took  his  to  the  fold  of 
I^duB.  Did  aught  of  this  happen  ss  I  tell, 
or  did  it  not? 

Hekdbmam.  Thou  speakest  the  truth  — 
though  't  is  long  ago. 

McssiiKaiiR.  Come,  t«Il  me  now — wot- 
tcBt  thou  of  havit^  given  me  a  boy  in  those 
days,  to  be  reared  as  mine  own  foster-son? 


HxBDBHAN.  What  now?  Why  dost  thou 
ask  the  question? 

Hesbbmokr.  Yonder  man,  my  friend,  is 
he  who  then  was  young. 

HxnnaiuK.  Plague  seise  thee  —  be  si- 
lent onoe  for  all  I 

(Edipttb.  Hal  chide  him  not,  old  mam  — 
thy  words  need  chiding  more  than  his. 

Hebdbiun,  And  wherein,  most  noble 
master,  do  I  offend? 

(Edipvb.  In  not  tdling  of  the  boy  con- 
oeming  whom  he  asks. 

HaBDBMAK.  He  speaks  without  knowl- 
edge —  he  is  busy  to  no  purpose. 

(EniPUB.  Thou  wilt  ikot  speak  with  a 
good  grace,  but  thou  shalt  on  pain. 

HEm>BiuN.  Nay,  for  the  gods'  love, 
misuse  not  an  old  mani 

(Edifub,  Ho,  some  one  —  pinioa  him 
this  instantt 

Hkhdbmah.  Alas,  wherefore?  what  more 
wouldst  thou  learn? 

(EniPVB.  Didst  thou  give  this  man  the 
child  of  whom  he  oeke? 

Hxbdbman.  I  did,  —  and  would  I  had 
perished  that  dayl 

(Edii>ub.  Well,  thou  wilt  come  to  that, 
unless  thou  tell  the  honest  truth. 

HBm>BiiAN.  Nay,  much  more  am  I  loet, 
if  I  speak. 

(Edipus.  The  fellow  is  bent,  methinks, 
on  more  delays  .  .  . 

HEBnaiuN.  No,  nol  —  I  said  b^ore 
that  I  gave  it  to  hlin. 

(E!dipub.  Whence  hadst  tiiou  got  it?  In 
thine  own  house,  or  from  another? 

Hkhdbuak.  Mine  own  it  was  not  —  I 
had  received  it  from  a  man. 

(Edifub.  From  whom  of  the  cititeui 
here?  From  what  home? 

Herdbham.  Forbear,  for  the  gods'  love, 
master,  forbear  to  ask  morel 

(Edifus.  Thou  art  lost  if  I  have  to  ques- 
tion thee  again. 

BxBDsiuN.  It  was  a  child,  then,  of  the 
house  of  Lalus. 

(EntFDB.  A  slave  —  or  one  bom  of  his 
own  race? 

EEBDstfAN.  Ah  me  —  I  am  on  the 
dreaded  brink  of  speech. 

(Edipds.  And  I  of  hearing;  yet  must  I 


:.L|,i,zedi!,GoOQlc 


CEDIPUS  THE  KING 


Hebdsuah.  Thou  mutt  know,  then, 
Uuit  't  waa  said  to  be  his  own  child  —  but 
thy  ladjr  within  could  best  say  how  these 

(EoipTJS.  How?  She  gave  it  to  thee? 
Hkbdbkak.  Yea,  O  Idng. 
(EniFtra.  For  what  end? 
HzBDSMAM.  That  I  ^Muld  make  away 
with  it. 
(EniPUB.  Her  own  child,  the  wretch? 
HanDBMAN.  Aye,  from  fear  of  evil  proph- 

(Edii>us.  What  were  they? 

Hbbdsman.  The  tale  ran  that  he  must 
day  his  aire. 

(Edipub.  Why,  then,  didst  thou  give 
him  up  to  this  old  man? 

Hbrdbiun.  Through  pity,  master,  as 
deeming  that  he  would  bear  him  aw^  to 
another  land,  whence  he  himself  came; 
but  be  saved  him  for  the  direst  woe.  For 
if  thou  art  what  this  man  saith,  know  that 
thou  wast  bom  tc  misery. 

[Exit  HenUman.] 

CBniTca.  Oh,  ohi  All  brou^t  to  pass  — 
■n  truet  Thou  light,  may  I  now  look  my 
last  on  thee  —  I  who  have  been  found  ac- 
tuTsed  in  birth,  accursed  in  wedlock,  ac- 
curaed  in  the  shedding  of  bloodi 

[He  rutheM  into  the  jtalaa.] 

Cborttb.  Alas,  ye  generations  of  mea, 
how  mere  a  shadow  do  I  count  your  life! 
Where,  where  is  the  mortal  who  wins  more 
of  happiness  than  just  the  seeming,  and, 
after  the  semblance,  a  falling  away?  Thine 
is  a  fate  that  warns  me,  —  thine,  thine, 
unhi4>py  fEdipue  —  to  call  no  earthly 
creature  bleat. 

For  he,  O  Zeus,  sped  his  shaft  with  peer- 
lees  skill,  and  won  the  prise  of  an  alt- 
IKOsperous  fortune;  he  slew  the  maiden 
with  crooked  talons  who  sang  darkly;  he 
aniee  for  our  land  as  a  tower  against  death. 
And  from  that  time,  (Edipus,  thou  hast 
been  called  our  king,  and  hast  been  hon- 
ored supremely,  bearing  sway  in  great 
Thebee. 

But  now  whose  story  is  more  grievous  in 
men's  ears?  Who  is  a  more  wretched  cap- 
tive to  fierce  plagues  and  troubles,  with  all 
bis  life  reversed? 

Alas,  ranowned  (Edipus  I  The  same  boun- 


thereon  thy  nuptial  couch.  Oh,  how  can 
the  soil  wherein  tiiy  father  sowed,  un- 
h(4>py  one,  have  suffered  thee  in  silNice 
BO  long? 

Time  the  all-oeeing  hath  found  thee  out 
in  thy  deapit«:  he  judgeth  the  monstroua 
marriage  wherein  begetter  and  begotten 
have  long  been  one. 

Alas,  thou  child  of  Idlus,  would,  would 
that  I  bad  never  seen  theel  I  wail  as  one 
who  pours  a  dirge  from  his  hpe;  s6oth  to 
q)eak,  't  was  thou  that  gaveet  me  new  life, 
and  through  thee  darkness  hath  fallen  uptot 

[Enter  Second  Mtteenger  from  the  hovee.) 

Sbcond  Messenser.  Ye  who  are  ever 
most  honored  in  this  land,  what  deeds  shall 
ye  hear,  what  deeds  behold,  what  burden 
of  sorrow  shall  be  yours,  if,  true  to  your 
race,  ye  still  care  (or  Uie  house  tA  labda- 
cust  For  I  ween  that  not  later  nor  PhasiB 
could  wash  this  house  clean,  so  many  are 
the  ills  that  it  shrouds,  or  will  soon  bring  to 
light,  —  ills  wrought  not  unwittingly,  but 
of  purpose.  And  those  griefs  smart  most 
which  are  seen  to  be  of  our  own  choice. 

Chobub.  Indeed  those  which  we  knew 
before  fall  not  short  of  claiming  sore  lam- 
entation: besides  thran,  iritat  doat  thou 
announce? 

Second  Mxssenobb.  This  b  the  short- 
est tale  to  tell  and  to  hear:  our  royal  lady 
loeasta  is  dead. 

Chorob.  Alas,  hat^ess  onel  E^xim  what 

Second  Mesbenoir.  By  her  own  hand. 
The  worst  pain  in  what  hath  chanced  ia 
not  for  you,  for  yours  it  is  not  to  behold. 
Nevertheless,  so  far  as  mine  own  memory 
serves,  ye  shall  learn  that  unhappy  woman's 
fat«. 

When,  frantic,  she  had  passed  within 
the  vestibule,  she  rushed  straight  towards 
her  nuptial  couch,  clutching  her  hair  with 
the  fingers  of  botn  hands;  oikee  within  the 
chamber,  she  dashed  the  doors  tf^ether  at 
her  back;  then  called  on  the  name  of  Lalus, 
long  since  a  corpse,  mindful  of  that  son, 
begotten  long  ago,  bv  whom  the  sire  wm 


so 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


slain,  leaving  the  mother  to  breed  accursed 
offq>riiig  with  his  own. 

And  she  bewailed  the  wedlock  wherein, 
wretched,  flhe  had  borne  a  twofold  brood, 
husband  by  husband,  children  by  her  child. 
And  how  thereafter  she  peiiahed,  is  mote 
than  I  know.  For  with  a  shriek  (Edipus 
burst  in,  and  suffered  ua  not  to  watch  her 
woe  unto  the  end;  on  him,  aa  he  rushed 
around,  our  eyes  weee  set.  To  and  fro  he 
went,  asking  us  t«  give  bim  a  sword,  — 
firing  where  he  diould  find  the  wife  who 
was  DO  wife,  but  a  mother  whose  womb  had 
borne  alike  himself  and  hie  children.  And, 
in  bis  freniy,  a  power  above  man  was  his 
guide;  for  't  was  none  of  us  mortals  who 
were  nigh.  And  with  a  dread  shriek,  aa 
though  some  one  beckoned  him  on,  he 
Sprang  at  the  double  doors,  and  from  their 
sockets  forced  the  bending  bolts,  and 
rushed  into  the  room. 

There  behdd  we  the  woman  haTiging  by 
tbe  neck  in  a  twisted  nooee  of  swinging 
cords.  But  he,  when  be  saw  her,  with  B 
dread,  deep  cry  of  misery,  loosed  the  halter 
whereby  she  hung.  And  when  tbe  hapless 
woman  was  stretched  upon  tbe  ground, 
then  was  the  sequel  dread  to  see.  For  he 
tore  from  her  raiment  the  golden  brooches 
wherewith  she  was  decked,  and  lifted  them, 
and  smote  full  on  his  own  eyeballs,  utter- 
ing words  like  these:  "  No  more  shall  ye 
b^told  such  horron  as  I  was  suffering  and 
workingl  long  enough  have  ye  looked  on 
those  whom  ye  ouglit  never  to  have  seen, 
failed  in  knowledge  of  those  whom  I 
yearned  to  know  —  henceforth  ye  shall  be 
dark!" 

To  such  dire  refrain,  not  once  alone  but 
oft  struck  he  his  eyes  with  lifted  band;  and 
at  each  blow  the  ensanguined  eyeballs  be- 
dewed his  beard,  nor  sent  forth  sluggish 
drops  nf  gore,  but  all  at  once  a  dark  shower 
of  blood  came  down  like  hail. 

From  the  deeds  of  twain  such  ills  have 
broken  forth,  not  on  one  alone,  but  with 
mingled  woe  for  man  and  wife.  The  old 
happinees  of  their  ancestral  fortune  was 
aforetime  happiness  indeed;  but  to-day 
—  lamentation,  ruin,  death,  shame,  all 
earthly  ills  that  con  be  named  —  all,  all 
are  theiifi. 


Chorus.  And  bath  tbe  sufferer  now  ai^ 
respite  from  painT 

Second  MxasKNOEEt,  He  cries  for  some 
one  to  unbar  the  gates  and  show  to  all  tbe 
Cadmeane  his  father's  slayer,  his  mother's 

—  tbe  unholy  word  must  not  pass  my  lipK 

—  as  purposing  to  cast  himself  out  of  the 
land,  and  abide  no  more,  to  make  the  house 
occuTBBd  under  his  own  curse.  Howbeit  he 
lacks  strength,  and  one  to  guide  his  steps; 
for  the  anguish  is  more  than  man  may  bear. 
And  he  will  show  this  to  thee  also;  for  lo, 
tbe  bars  of  tbe  gatee  are  withdrawn,  and 
soon  thou  sbalt  behold  a  sight  which  even 
he  wbo  abhors  it  must  [nty. 

[Enter  (EntFDS.l 

CBORre.  O  dread  fate  for  men  to  see,  O 
moat  dreadful  of  all  that  have  met  mine 
eyes!  Unhappy  one,  what  madness  faatli 
come  on  thee?  Who  is  the  unearthly  foe 
that,  with  a  bound  of  more  than  mortal 
range,  hath  made  thine  ill-starred  life  his 
prey? 

Alas,  alas,  thou  hapless  onel  Nay,  1  can- 
not e'en  look  on  thee,  though  there  is  mwdi 
that  I  would  fain  ask,  fain  team,  much  that 
draws  my  wistful  gase,  —  with  such  ft 
shuddering  dost  thou  fill  met 

(Edipub.  Woe  is  mel  Alas,  alas,  wretched 
that  I  ami  Whither,  whith^  am  I  borne  in 
my  misery?  How  is  my  voice  swept  abroad 
on  the  wingi  of  tbe  air?  O  my  Fate,  how 
far  hast  thou  sprungl 

Chorus.  To  a  dread  place,  dire  in  men's 
eaie,  dire  in  their  sight. 

(EniPUB.  O  thou  horror  of  darkness  that 
enfoldest  me,  visitant  unspealuble,  resist- 
less, sped  by  a  wind  too  tairl 

Ay  mel  and  once  again,  ay  mel 

How  is  my  soul  pierced  by  the  etab  of 
these  goads,  and  withal  by  the  memory  of 
sorrowsl 

Chorus.  Yea,  amid  woes  so  many  a 
twofold  pain  may  well  be  thine  to  moum 
and  to  bear. 

CEoiPUB.  Ah,  friend,  thou  still  art  stead- 
fast in  thy  tendance  of  me,  —  thou  atiU 
hast  patience  to  care  for  the  blind  maul 
Ah  me  I  Thy  presence  is  not  hid  from  me  — 
no,  dark  though  I  am,  yet  know  I  &y  ymoe 
fullwQlL 


:.L|,i,zedi!,GoOQlc 


CEDIPUS  THE  KING 


5« 


CHaitDS.  Maa  of  dread  deed«,  how 
eouldst  thou  in  such  wiae  quench  thy 
vision?  What  more  thui  humui  power 
urged  thee7 

(&>iFVS.  Apollo,  friends,  Apollo  was  he 
tiiat  brought  these  my  woes  to  pass,  ttiese 
my  Bore,  sore  voee:  but  the  hand  that 
itnick  the  eyee  was  none  save  mine, 
wretched  that  I  ami  Why  was  I  to  see, 
«4ien  sight  could  show  me  nothing  sweet? 

Chorub.  These  things  were  even  as  thou 
nyest. 

(Edipos.  Say,  friends,  what  can  I  more 
bdwld,  what  can  I  love,  what  greeting  can 
touch  mine  ear  with  joy?  Haste,  lead  me 
from  the  land,  friends,  lead  me  hence,  the 
utterly  lost,  the  thrice  accursed,  yea,  the 
menial  most  abhorred  of  heaven! 

Cborus.  Wretched  alike  for  thy  fortune 
and  for  thy  sense  thereof,  would  that  I  had 
never  so  much  as  known  theel 

(Gnipua.  Perish  the  man,  whoe'er  he 
was,  that  freed  me  in  the  pastures  from  the 
cruel  shackle  on  my  feet,  and  saved  me 
from  death,  and  gave  me  back  to  life,  —  a 
thankless  deed!  HeuI  I  died  then,  to  my 
friends  and  to  mine  own  aoul  I  had  not 
been  so  sore  a  grief. 

Choros.  I  also  would  have  had  it  thus. 

OSniPUB.  So  had  I  not  come  to  shed  my 
father's  blood,  nor  been  called  among  men 
the  spouse  of  her  from  whom  I  sprang:  but 
now  am  I  forsaken  of  the  gods,  son  of  a 
-defiled  mother,  successor  to  his  bed  who 
gave  me  mine  own  wretched  being:  and  if 
there  be  yet  a  woe  surpassing  woee,  it  hath 
become  the  portion  of  CEklipus. 

Chorob.  I  know  not  how  I  can  say  that 
thou  hast  counseled  well:  for  thou  wert 
better  dead  than  living  and  blbd. 

(EniPTTS.  Show  me  not  at  large  that  these 
things  are  not  beat  done  thus:  give  me 
counsel  no  more.  For,  had  I  sight,  I  know 
not  vrith  what  eyes  I  could  e'en  have  looked 
on  my  father,  when  I  came  to  the  place  of 
the  dead,  aye,  or  on  my  miserable  mother, 
since  against  both  I  have  sinned  such  sins 
as  strangling  could  not  punish.  But  deem 
ye  that  the  sight  of  children,  bom  as  mine 
were  bom,  was  lovely  for  me  to  look  upon? 
No,  no,  not  lovely  to  mine  eyes  forever! 
No,  nor  was  this  town  with  its  towered 


walla,  nor  the  sacred  statues  of  the  gods, 
since  I,  thrice  wretched  that  I  am,  —  I, 
noblest  of  the  sons  of  Thebes,  —  have 
doomed  myself  to  know  these  no  more,  by 
mine  own  command  that  all  should  thrust 
away  the  impious  one,  —  even  him  wh<Mn 
gods  have  shown  to  be  unholy  —  and  of  the 
race  of  LalusI 

After  bearing  such  a  stain  upon  me,  was 
I  to  look  with  steady  eyes  on  this  folk?  No, 
verily:  no,  were  there  yet  a  way  to  choke 
the  fount  of  hearing,  I  had  not  spared  to 
make  a  fast  prison  of  this  wretched  frame, 
that  BO  I  should  have  known  nor  sight  nor 
sound:  for  't  is  sweet  that  our  thought 
should  dwell  beyond  the  sphere  of  griefs. 

Alas,  Citbieron,  why  hadst  thou  a  sbeltw 
for  me?  When  I  was  given  to  thee,  why 
didst  thou  not  slay  me  straightway,  that 
so  1  might  never  have  revealed  my  source 
to  men?  Ah,  Folybus,  —  ah,  Corinth,  and 
thou  that  wast  called  the  ancient  house  of 
my  fathers,  how  seeming-fair  was  I  your 
nurseling,  and  what  ills  were  festering 
beneath!  For  now  I  am  found  evil,  and  of 
evil  birth.  0  ye  three  roads,  and  thou 
secret  glen,  —  thou  coppice,  and  narrow 
way  where  three  paths  met  —  ye  who 
drank  from  my  hands  that  father's  blood 
which  was  mine  own,  —  remember  ye, 
perchance,  what  deeds  I  vrrought  for  you 
to  see,  —  and  then,  when  I  camo  hithw, 
what  fresh  deeds  I  went  on  to  do? 

O  marriage-ritesi  ye  gave  me  birth,  and 
when  ye  had  brought  me  forth,  again  ye 
bore  children  t«  your  child,  ye  created  ao 
incestuous  kinship  of  fathers,  brothers, 
sons,  —  brides,  wives,  mothers,  —  yea,  all 
the  foulest  shame  that  is  wrought  among 
meni  Nay,  but 't  is  unmeet  to  name  what 
'tis  unmeet  to  do:  —  haste  ye,  for  the 
gods'  love,  hide  me  somewhere  beyond  the 
land,  or  slay  me,  or  cast  me  into  the  sea, 
where  ye  shall  never  behold  me  more! 
Approach,  —  deign  to  lay  your  hands  on  a 
wretched  man;  —  hearken,  fear  not,  — 
my  [dague  can  rest  on  no  mortal  beside. 

Chobub.  Nay,  here  is  Creon,  in  meet 
season  for  thy  requests,  crave  they  act  or 
counsel;  for  he  alone  is  left  to  guard  the 
land  in  thy  stead. 

(Edutb.  Ah  me,   bow  indeed  ehall  I 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


wxoat  him?   What  daim  to  ca«deiice  con 
be  shown  on  my  part?  For  in  the  past  I 
have  been  found  wholly  falK  to  hun. 
[EnUr  Crcon.] 

Cbbon.  I  have  not  oome  in  mockery, 
(Bdipus.  nor  to  reproach  thee  with  any 
bygone  fault.  (To  Uu  aUendanlt.)  But  ye, 
if  ye  mpect  the  children  of  mtn  no  more, 
revere  at  teaat  the  all-nurtuiing  flame  of 
OUT  lord  the  Sun,  —  spare  to  show  thus 
nakedly  a  pollution  aueh  u  this,  —  one 
riiich  neither  earth  can  welcome,  nor  the 
holy  rain,  nor  the  light.  Nay,  take  him 
into  the  house  aa  quickly  as  ye  may;  for  it 
beet  accords  with  piety  that  kinsfolk  alone 
should  Me  and  hear  a  Idiunnan'e  woes. 

(Eh>iPDB.  For  the  gods' love — since  thou 
hast  done  a  gentle  violence  to  my  presage, 
who  hast  oome  in  a  spirit  so  noble  to  me, 
a  man  moat  vile  —  grant  me  a  boon: — tor 
thy  good  I  will  speak,  not  for  mine  own. 

Cbeon.  And  what  wish  art  thou  so  fain 
to  have  of  me? 

(£difU8.  Cast  me  out  of  this  land  with 
all  speed,  to  a  place  where  no  mortal  ahall 
be  found  to  greet  me  more. 

Ciixoir.  This  would  I  have  done,  be  thou 
mire,  but  that  I  craved  first  to  learn  all  my 
duty  from  the  god. 

(Enwfl.  Nay,  hia  behest  hath  been  set 
forth  in  full,  —  to  let  me  perish,  the  parri- 
cide, the  unhdy  one,  that  I  am. 

Creon'.  Such  was  the  purport;  yet,  see- 
ing to  what  a  pass  we  have  come,  't  is  bet- 
t«-  to  learn  clearly  what  should  be  done. 

(Edifub.  Will  ye,  then,  seek  a  response 
on  behalf  of  such  a  wretoh  as  I  am? 

CsKON.  Aye,  for  thou  thyself  wilt  now 
surely  put  faith  in  the  god. 

(Eoipus.  Yea;  and  on  thee  lay  I  this 
chai^,  to  thee  will  I  make  this  entreaty: 

—  give  to  her  who  is  within  such  burial  as 
thou  thyself  wouldeet;  for  thou  wilt  meetly 
render  the  last  rites  to  thine  own.  But  for 
me  —  never  let  this  city  of  my  sire  be  con- 
demned to  have  me  dwelling  therein,  while 
I  live:  no,  suffer  me  to  abide  on  the  hills, 
where  yonder  is  Cithieron,  famed  as  mine, 

—  which  my  mother  and  sire,  while  they 
lived,  set  for  my  appointed  tomb,  —  that 
BO  I  may  die  by  their  decree  who  sought  to 


slay  me.  Howbrit  of  thus  much  am  I  sore, 

—  that  neither  aickneas  nor  aught  doe  can 
destooy  me;  for  never  had  I  been  snatched 
from  death,  but  in  reserve  for  some  strange 
doom. 

Nay,  let  my  fate  go  whither  it  will:  but 
as  touching  my  children,  —  I  pray  thee, 
Creon,  take  no  care  on  thee  for  my  sons; 
they  are  men,  bo  that,  be  they  where  they 
may,  th^  can  never  lack  the  means  to  live. 
But  my  two  giris,  poor  hapless  oikes, — 
who  never  knew  my  table  spread  apart,  or 
lacked  their  father's  preaenoe,  but  ev«r  in 
all  things  shared  my  daily  bread,  —  I  pray 
thee,  care  for  fA«m;  and  —  if  thou  canst  — 
suffer  me  to  touch  them  with  my  hands, 
and  to  indulge  my  grief.  Grant  it,  prince, 
grant  it,  thou  noble  heart  I  Ah,  oould  I  but 
once  touch  them  with  my  hands,  I  should 
think  that  they  were  with  me,  even  as  iriien 
I  had  sight.  .  .  . 

[CbJeom'b  aOendanU  lead  in  tiu 
children  AtmaoHB  and  JeXEKK.] 

Ha?  0  ye  gods,  can  it  be  my  loved  ones 
that  I  hear  sobbing,  —  can  Creon  have 
taken  pity  on  me  and  sent  me  my  children 

—  my  dsriings?  Am  t  right? 

Crbon.  Yea:  't  is  of  my  contriving,  for 
I  knew  thy  joy  in  them  6t  old,  —  the  joy 
that  now  is  thine. 

(EniPUB.  Then  blessed  be  thou,  and,  for 
guerdon  of  this  errand,  may  heaven  prove 
to  thee  a  kinder  guardian  than  it  hath  to 
me!  My  children,  where  are  ye?  Come 
hith»,  —  hither  to  the  hands  of  him  whose 
mother  was  your  own,  the  bands  whose 
offices  have  wrought  that  your  sire's  onoe 
bright  eyes  should  be  such  orbs  aa  these, 

—  his,  who  seeing  nought,  knowing  nou^t, 
became  your  father  by  her  from  whom  he 
sprang!  For  you  also  do  I  weep  —  behold 
you  I  cannot  —  when  I  think  of  the  bitter 
life  in  days  to  come  which  men  will  make 
you  live.  To  what  company  of  the  dtisens 
will  ye  go,  to  what  festival,  from  which  ye 
shall  not  return  home  in  tears,  instead  of 
sharing  in  the  holiday?  But  when  ye  are 
now  come  to  yean  ripe  for  marriage,  who 
^lall  he  be,  who  shall  be  the  man,  my 
daughters,  that  will  hasard  taking  unto 
him  such  reproaches  as  must  be  baneful 
alike  to  my  offspring  and  to  yours?    Fat 


CEDIPUS  THE  KING 


wbai  miaery  is  waaling?  Your  edre  slew 
his  sire,  he  hsd  seed  of  her  who  bare  him, 
and  begat  you  at  the  sources  of  his  own 
btdngl  Such  are  the  taunts  that  will  be 
cast  at  jrou;  and  who  then  will  wed?  The 
man  lives  not,  no,  it  cannot  be,  my  chil- 
drsD,  but  ye  must  wither  in  barren  maiden- 
hood.      - 

Ah,  son  of  Menceceus,  hear  me  —  since 
thou  art  the  only  father  left  to  them,  for 
WB,  their  parents,  are  lost,  both  of  us,  — 
aQow  them  not  to  wander  poor  and  unwed, 
who  are  thy  kinswomen,  nor  abase  them 
to  the  level  of  my  woes.  Nay,  pity  them, 
when  thou  seeet  them  at  this  tender  age  so 
utterly  forlorn,  save  for  thee.  Signify  thy 
promise,  generous  man,  by  the  touch  of 
thy  handl  To  you,  my  children,  I  would 
have  ^en  much  counsd,  were  yourminds 
mature;  but  now  I  would  have  this  to  be 
your  prayer  —  that  ye  live  where  occasioiL 
mSen,  and  that  the  life  which  ip  your  por- 
tion may  be  happier  than  your  sire's. 

Cbiion.  Thy  grief  hath  had  large  scope 
mough:  nay,  pass  into  the  house. 

(Edipub.  I  must  obey,  though  't  is  in  no 
wise  sweet. 

Crboit.  Yea:  for  it  is  in  season  that  all 
thii^  are  good. 

^>IPCB.  Knoweet  thou,  then,  on  what 
cMiditiona  I  will  go? 


S3 

e  them;  so  shall 


Cbbon.  Thou  ahalt  n, 
I  know  them  when  I  hear. 

(ElniPCB.  See  that  thou  send  me  to  dwdl 
beyond  this  land. 

Cb£ON.  Thou  askeet  me  for  what  the 
god  must  give. 

(Enipus.  Nay,  to  the  gods  I  have  be- 
come most  hateful. 

Cbeon.   Then  ahalt  thou  have  thy  wisb 

(Edipus.  So  thou  oonseiiteetT 
CniiON.  'T  is  not  my  wont  to  speak  idly 
what  I  do  not  mean. 
CEdipus.  Then  't  is  time  to  lead  mo 

Cbeon.  Come,  then,  —  but  let  thy  chil- 
dren go. 

(Edifub.  Nay,  take  not  theoe  from  me! 

Creon,  Crave  not  to  be  master  in  all 
things:  for  the  mastery  which  thou  didst 
win  hath  not  followed  thee  through  life. 

Chorus.  Dwellers  in  our  native  Thebes, 
behold,  this  is  (Edipus, who  knew  the  famed 
riddle,  and  was  a  man  moat  mighty;  on 
whose  fortunes  what  citizen  did  not  gase 
with  envy?  Behold  into  what  a  stormy  sea 
of  dread  trouble  he  hath  comet 

Therefore,  while  our  eyes  wait  to  see  the 
destined  final  day,  we  must  call  no  one 
happy  who  is  of  mortal  race,  until  be  baUt 
oroseed  life's  bordo*,  free  from  pain. 


flitizedbvGoOQlc 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


MEDEA 

By  EURIPIDES 
ThuulateJ  inta  Engluk  vtrst  iy  GILBER  T  MURRA  Y 


ciilizedbvGoOQic 


cmizedbv  Google 


CHARACTERS 

Medea,  daughUr  of  Aietet,  King  <4  Cotcku 
Jason,  chuf  tff  the  Argonavie;  nephtm  of  PeHat, 

King  of  lokot  in  Thenaly 
Ckson,  rufer  of  CoritiUi 
iBoEVB,  King  of  Alhera 
N^QBSE  of  Medea 

Two  Children  of  Jaton  and  Medea 
Attendant  on  the  ekUdren 
A  Messenoze. 

Cbosus  of  Corinihian  Women,  witk  tAetr  Lkadbb 
Sotdiert  and  AttmdmUa 


Tk*  BetMiMtaidinCorintk.  TAepInvinit  >*t  odaduAm 
PyOloiomi  vKU  Arelum,  Olympiad  87,  j/tar  1  (b.c.  431), 
Bvphorion  tnu  firit,  Sophocta  iteond,  EuripulM  Ufrd,  wUh 
Mtdta,  PhaincUUt,  Diet]/;  and  AtHanetltrt,  a  Satyr'jilttg- 


ciilizedbvGoOQic 


bvGoOQic 


MEDEA 


(TAeSem«  rapKsenl*  OitfrorU  of  Medka'b 
/uaae  in  CorwUh.  A  road  to  the  right  Uads 
toward  the  TO]/al  eaatle,  one  on  the  Uft  to  Hie 
harbor.    The  Nvrse  it  discovered  aloTie.] 

NuBSB.  Would  God  no  Ai^  e'er  had 
winged  the  seas 
To  Colchia  through  the  blue  Symplegadea: 
No  shaft  of  riven  pine  in  Pelion's  glea 
Shaped  that  fint  oar-blade  in  the  hands  of 

Valiant,  who  won,  to  save  King  Pelias'  vow, 
The  fleeco  AU-goldenl  Never  then,  1  trow. 
Mine  own  princeea,  her  apirit  wounded  Bore 
With  love  of  Jason,  to  the  encaatled  shore 
Had  sailed  of  old  lolcos:  never  wrought 
The  daughters  of  King  Pdias,  knowing 

To  spill  their  father's  life:  nor  fled  in  fear. 
Hunted  im  that  fierce  sin,  to  Corinth  here 
Witli  Jason  and  her  babes.    This  folk  at 

Stood  friend  to  her,  and  she  in  word  and 
deed 

Served  alway  Jason.  Surely  this  doth  bind, 

Through  all  ill  days,  the  hurts  of  human- 
kind. 

When  man  and  woman  in  one  music  move. 
But  now,  the  worid  is  angry,  and  true 

Sick  aa  with  poison.  Jason  doth  forsake 
My  mistras  and  his  own  two-sans,  to  make 
His  couch  in  a  king's  chamber.   He  must 

Wed  with  this  Creon'a  child,  who  now  is 

And  chief  of  Corinth.  Wherefore  sore  be- 
trayed 

Hedes  ealleth  up  the  oath  they  made, 

They  two,  and  wakee  the  claspM  luuids 
again, 

The  troth  surpassing  speech,  and  cries 

On  God  in  heaven  to  mark  the  end,  and 
Jason  hath  paid  his  debt. 


All  fasting  now 
And  cold,  her  body  yielded  up  to  pain. 
Her  days  a  waste  of  weeping,  ehs  hath  lain, 
Since  first  she  knew  that  he  was  f^se.  Her 

eyes 
Are  lifted  not;  and  all  her  visage  lies 
In  the  dust.  If  friends  will  speak,  she  hears 

no  more 
Than  some  dead  rock  or  wave  that  beats 

the  shore: 
Only  the  white  throat  in  a  sudden  shame 
May  writhe,  and  all  alone  she  moans  the 

Of  father,  and  land,  and  home,  forsook  that 

day 
For  this  man's  sake,  who  casteth  her  away. 
Not  to  be  quite  shut  out  from  home  .  .  . 


Most  tremble,  lest  she  do  T  know  not  what. 
Her  heart  is  no  light  thing,  and  useth  not 
To  brook  much  wrong.  I  know  that  woman, 

aye. 
And  dread  herl  Will  she  creep  alone  to  die 
Bleeding  in  t^t  old  room,  where  still  is 

laid 
Lord  Jason's  bed?    She  hath  for  that  a 

blade 
Made  keen.   Or  (day  the  brid^room  and 

the  king, 
And  win  herself  God  knows  what  diie 

thing? 
'T  is  a  tell  spirit.  Few,  I  ween,  shall  stir 
Her  hate  unscathed,  or  lightly  humble  her. 
Hal  'T  is  the  children  from  their  gamea 

again. 
Rested  and  gay;  and  all  their  mother's  pain 
Forgotten!    Young  lives  ever  turn  from 

gloom  I 

[The  ChUdren  and  their  A 


GooqIc 


CHIEF    EUROPEAN    DRAMATISTS 


Atthndant.  Thou  ancient  treasure  of 
my  lady's  room, 
What  mak'st  thou  here  before  the  gates 

And  atway  tunung  on  thy  lips  some  moan 
Of  old  mischances?  Will  our  mistress  be 
Content,  this  long  time  to  be  left  by  thee? 
Nussx.  Gray  guard  of  Jason's  children, 
a  good  thrall 
Hath  his  own  grief,  if  any  hurt  befall 
His  masters.  Aye,  it  holds  one's  hearti  .  .  . 


I  have  strayed  out  so  deep  in  evil  dreams, 
I  longed  to  rest  me  here  alone,  and  cry 
Medea's  wrongs  to  this  still  Earth  and  SIq^. 

Attbniiant.  How7    Are  the  tears  yet 
running  in  her  eyea? 

NuBfiE.  'T  were  good  to  be  like  theet . . , 


Herst 


Scarce  wakened  yet,  not  half  its  perils 
wrought. 
Attiindant.  Mad  spiriti ...  if  a  man 
may  speak  his  thought 
Of  masters  mad.  —  And  nothing  in  her  ears 
Hath  sounded  yet  of  her  last  cause  for 
tearsi 
[He  moves  Umxtrdt  tht  hotae,  but 
the  Nwrte  cheeka  him.] 
Nunas.  What  cause,  old  man?  .  .  .  Nay, 

grudge  me  not  one  word. 
Attendant.  'T  is  nothing.    Best  forget 

what  thou  hast  heard. 
NuBSB.  Nay,  housemate,  by  thy  beardl 
Hold  it  not  hid 
F^omme.  .  .  ,  I  will  keep  silence  if  thou  bid. 
Attendant.  I  heard  an  old  man  talking, 
where  he  sate 
At  draughts  in  the  sun,  beside  the  fountain 

gate, 
And  never  thought  of  me,  Uiera  standing 

still 
Beside  him.   And  he  said,  'Twas  Creon's 

will. 
Bang  lord  of  all  this  land,  that  she  be 

sent, 
And  with  her  her  two  sons,  to  banishment. 
Mayt>e  't  is  all  false.  For  myself,  I  know 
No  further,  and  I  would  it  were  not  so. 
NuBSB.  Jason  will  never  bear  it  —  his 

Bani^ied,  —  however  hot  his  anger  runs 
Against  their  motherl 


Attbndamt.   Old  love  bumeth  low 
When  new  love  wakes,  men  say.  H«  is  not 

Husband  nor  father  here,  nor  any  kin. 
NuBSE.  But  this  is  mini    New  waves 
breaking  in 
To  wreck  us,  ere  we  are  righted  from  the  old  I 
Attendant.  Well,  hold  thy  peace.  Our 
mistress  will  be  told 
All  in  good  time.    Speak  thou  no  word 
hereof. 
Norse.  My  bsbeet    What  think  ye  of 
your  father's  love? 
God  curse  him  not,  he  is  my  master  still : 
But,  oh,  to  them  that  loved  him,  't  is  an  ill 
FVieod.  .  .  - 
ArrENDANT.  And  what  man  on  earth  ia 
different?  How? 
Hast  thou  lived  all  these  years,  and  lesmed 

but  now 
That  every  man  more  loveth  his  own  head 
Than  other  men's?  He  dreameth  of  the  bed 
Of  this  new  bride,  and  thinks  not  of  his 

NuBSE.  Go:runinto  the  bouse,  my  little 

All  will  end  happily! .  .  .  Keep  them  ^mrt: 
Let  not  tiieir  mother  meet  them  while  ho" 

heart 
Is  darkened.  Yest«r  night  I  saw  a  Same 
Stand  in  her  eye,  as  though  she  hated  them, 
And  would  I  know  not  what.  For  sure  ba 

wrath 
Will  never  turn  nor  slumber,  till  she  hatli . . . 
Go;  and  if  some  must  suffer,  may  it  be 
Not  we  who  love  her,  but  some  enemyl 
Voice  [wiAin],  O  shame  and   pain:  O 


NuBSB.  Ah,  children,  hark!  She  man 

again 
Her  frozen  heart,  her  sleeping  wrath. 
In,  quick!  And  never  cross  her  path. 
Nor  rouse  that  dark  eye  in  ita  pain; 


That  fell  aeo-spirit,  and  the  dire 
Spring  of  a  will  untaught,  unbowed. 
Quick,  now  I  —  Methinka  this 

Hath  in  its  heart  some  thunder-fire. 


6t 


Slow  gstboing,  that  must  flseh  ere  long. 
I  know  not  how,  for  ill  or  well, 
It  turns,  this  uncoDtroUsble 

TenqMotuous  spirit,  blind  with  wrong. 
Voice  [mlhin].    Have  I  not  Buffered? 
Dothitcfdl 

No  tears?  .  .  .  Ha,  ye  beside  the  wall 

Unfathered  children,  God  hate  you 

As  1  am  hated,  and  him,  too, 
lliat  gat  you,  and  this  house  and  allt 
NuHSK.  For  pity  I  What  have  they  to  do, 
Babes,  with  their  father's  nn?  Why  call 
Thy  cuiae  on  these?  ...  Ah,  children,  all 

'ntese  days  my  boeom  bleeds  for  you. 

Rude  are  the  wills  of  prinoea:  yea, 
Frerailiug  alway,  seldom  croeoed, 
On  fitful  winds  their  moods  are  t^waed; 

T  is  beet  meo  tread  the  equal  way. 


Ajfe,  not  with  ^ory  but  with  peace 
May  the  long  summers  find  me  cr 
For  gentlenees  —  her  very  sound 

Is  magic,  and  her  ussges 


All  wholesome:  but  the  fi^cely  great 
Hath  little  music  on  bis  road, 
And  falleth,  when  the  hand  of  God 
Shall  move,  most  deep  and  desolate. 

[During  tA«  laat  iDotxlt  Ote  Leader 
<if  the  Chorus  hat  entered.  Other 
women  foUcw  her.] 
Lkadeb.  I  heard  a  voice  and  a  moan, 
A  voice  of  the  eastern  seas: 
Hath  she  found  not  yet  her  ease? 
Speak,  O  agM  one. 
For  I  stood  afar  at  the  gate, 

And  there  came  from  within  a  cry, 
And  wailing  desolate. 

Ah,  no  more  joy  have  I, 
For  the  griefs  this  bouse  doth  see, 
And  the  love  it  hath  wrought  in  me. 
Ndbse.  There  is  no  house!   Tia  gone. 

The  lord 
Seeketh  a  prouder  bed:  and  she 
Wastes  in  her  chamber,  nor  one  word 
Will  hear  of  care  or  charity. 
V0IC3C  IvnOan].    O  ZeuB,  O  Earth,  0 

Light, 
Will  ttw  fire  not  st^  my  brain? 
What  profiteth  living?  Oh, 
Shall  I  not  lift  the  alow 


Yoke,  and  let  Life  go. 
As  a  beast  out  in  the  night, 
To  lie,  and  be  rid  of  pain? 
Chobdb  —  Some  Women.  (A.)  "  0  Zeus, 
O  Earth,  O  Light": 
The  cry  of  a  bride  foriom 
Heard  ye,  and  wailing  bom 
or  loet  ddight? 
(B.)  Why  weariest  thou  this  d^. 
Wild  heart,  for  the  bed  abborrid, 
Tbe  txAd  bed  in  the  clay? 
Death  cometh  though  no  man  pray, 
TTngftrlandpd,  unadorAd- 
Cfdl  him  not  thou. 
(C.)  If  another's  arms  be  now 
Where  thine  have  been. 
On  his  head  be  the  sin: 
Rend  not  thy  browl 

(D.)  All  that  thou  suffereet, 
God  seeth:  Oh,  not  so  sore 
Waste  nor  weep  for  the  breast 
That  was  thhie  of  yore, 
VoTCK  [tBilhin].  Virgin  of  Righteousneaii 
Virgin  of  hallowed  Troth, 
Ye  marked  me  when  with  an  oath 
I  bound  him;  mark  no  less 
That  oath's  end.  Give  me  to  see 
Him  and  his  bride,  who  sought 
My  grief  when  I  wronged  her  not. 
Broken  in  misery, 
And  all  her  house.  .  .  .  O  God, 
My  mother's  home,  and  the  dim 
Shore  that  I  left  for  him, 
And  the  voice  of  my  brother's  blood.  .  . . 
NnsBK.  Oh,  wild  words!    Did  ye  hear 

To  them  that  guard  man's  faith  forsworn, 
Themis  and  Zeus?  .  .  .  This  wratii  new- 

Shall  mtUie  mad  worldngg  ere  it  die. 
Chorus  — OtAsr     Women.   (A.)  Would 

she  but  come  to  seek 
Our  faces,  that  love  ber  well. 
And  take  to  her  heart  the  spdl 

Of  words  that  speak? 
(B.)  Alas  for  the  heavy  hate 
And  anger  that  bumeth  ever  I 
Would  it  but  now  abate. 
Ah  God,  I  love  her  yet. 
And  surely  my  love's  endeavtv 

Shall  fail  not  here. 
(0.)  Go:  from  that  chamber  drwr 


6a 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Forth  to  the  day 
Lead  her,  and  say.  Oh,  eay 
That  we  love  her  dear. 
(D.)  Go,  lest  her  band  be  hard 
Od  the  innoce&t:  Ah,  let  bel 
For  her  grief  movea  hitherwaid. 
Like  an  angiy  sea. 
NuRBK.  That  will  I:  though  what  words 


Know  ye  the  eye«  of  the  wild  kine, 

The  lion  flash  that  Kuards  their  brood? 

So  looks  i^e  now  if  any  thrall 

Speak  comfort,  or  draw  near  at  all 
My  mistrees  in  her  evil  mood. 

lTh£  Nvne  goes  irtto  tiie  hou^.] 

CaosuB  —  A  Woman.    Alas,  the  bold 
blithe  bards  of  old 

lliat  all  for  joy  their  music  made, 
For  feasts  and  dancing  muiifold, 

That  life  might  listen  and  be  glad. 

But  all  the  darkness  and  the  wrong, 
Quick    deaths    and    dim    heart-aching 
things. 

Would  no  man  ease  them  with  a  song 
Or  music  of  a  thousand  strings? 

Then  song  had  serveH  us  in  our  need. 

What  profit,  o'er  the  banquet's  swdl 
Ihat  lingering  cry  that  none  may  heed? 
The  feast  bath  fiUed  them:  aU  is  weUI 
Chorus  —  Olhert.  I  hesid  a  song,  but  it 
comes  no  more, 
Where  the  tears  ran  over; 
A  keen  cry  but  tired,  tired: 
A  w(»nan's  cry  for  her  heart's  desired, 
For  a  traitor's  kiss  and  a  lost  lover. 
But  a  prayer,  methinks,  yet  risetb  sore 
To  God,  to  Ftuth,  God's  ancient  daugh- 
ter— 
The  Faith  that  over  sundering  seas 
Drew  hw  to  Hellas,  and  the  breeie 
Of  midnight  shivered,  and  the  door 
Closed  of  the  salt  unsounded  water. 

[Dunn;  the  Uut  VMrds  Medea  hat 
eome  out  from  the  houte.] 
MaD]u.  Wotften  6t  Corinth,  I  am  come 
toihow 


My  face,  lest  ye  despise  me.  For  I  kiMw 
Some  beads  stand  high  and  fail  not,  even 

at  night 
Alone  —  far  less  like  this,  in  all  men's  si^t'- 
And  we,  who  study  not  our  wayfaring 
But  ted  and  cry  —  Oh  we  are  drifting 

And  evill  For  what  truth  is  in  men's  eyes, 
Which  search  do  heart,  but  in  a  fla^ 

despise 
A  strange  face,  shuddering  bade  from  one 

that  ne'er 
Hath  wronged  them?  . . .  Sure,  far-CMnen 

anywhere, 
I  know,  must  bow  them  and  be  gentle. 

Nay, 
A  Greek  himself  men  praise  not,  who  alway 
Should  seek  his  own  will  recking  not.  .  . . 

ButI  — 
This  thing  undreamed  of,  sudden  from  on 

hi^, 
Hath  sapped  my  soul:  I  da»le  where  I 

The  cup  of  all  life  shattered  in  my  band. 
Longing  to  die  —  O  friends!  He,  even  be. 
Whom  to  know  well  was  all  the  world  to 

The  man  I  loved,  hatii  proved  moat  evil.  — 

Oh, 
Of  all  things  upon  earth  that  bleed  and 

A  herb  most  bruised  is  woman.  We  must 

pay 
Our  store  of  gold,  hoarded  for  that  one  day. 
To  buy  us  some  man's  love;  aikd  lo,  they 

A  master  of  our  fleahl  Then  otMnee  the 
sting 

Of  the  whole  shame.  And  then  the  jeop- 
ardy, 

For  good  or  ill,  what  diaU  that  maatw  be; 

Reject  she  cannot:  and  if  he  but  stays 

His  suit,  't  is  shame  on  all  that  woman's 
days. 

So  thrown  amid  new  laws,  new  fAvsea,  why, 

'T  is  magic  she  must  have,  or  prophet?  — 

Home  never  taught  her  that  —  how  best  to 
guide 

Toward  peace  this  thing  that  sleepeth  at 
her  side. 

And  she  who,  laboring  Itmg,  shall  find  some 


ElilizedbvGoOQlc 


Whereby  ber  lord  may  b«ar  vith  her,  nor 

fr*y 
ffis  yoke  too  fiercdy,  bleaoed  ie  the  breath 
Hut  woman  drawel  EUae,  let  her  pray  for 

Her  lord,  if  be  be  wearied  of  the  face 
Withindoora,  gets  him  forth;  some  merrier 

place 
Vmi  cue  hifl  heart:  but  she  waits  on,  her 

ViaitHi  enchaioM  on  a  single  aoul. 

And  then,  forsooth,  't  is  they  that  face  the 

call 
Of  WOT,  while  we  ait  aheltered,  hid  from 

aU 
Peril!  —  False  mockingi    Sooner  would  I 

stimd 
Three  timea  to  face  their  battles,  shield  in 

Than  bear  one  child. 

But  peace!  There  cannot  be 
Ever  the  same  tale  told  of  thee  and  me. 
Thou  ha«t  this  city,  and  thy  father's  home, 
And  joy  of  friends,  and  hope  in  days  to 

But  I,  being  citdesa,  am  cast  aside 
By  him  that  wedded  me,  a  savage  bride 
Won  in  for  seae  and  left  —  no  mother  near, 
No  brother,  not  one  kinsman  anywhere 
For  harbor  in  this  storm.    Therefore  of 

thee 
I  aok  one  thing.  If  chance  yet  ope  to  me 
Some  path,  if  evm  now  my  hand  can  win 
Strength  to  requite  this  Jaaon  for  his  ain, 
Betray   me  notl  Oh,   in  all  things  but 

this, 
I  know  how  full  of  fears  a  woman  is. 
And  faint  at  need,  and  shrinking  from  the 

liC^ 
Of  battle:  but  once  spoil  her  of  her  right 
In  man's  love,  and  there  movee,  I  warn  thee 

well. 
No  bloodier  spirit  between  heaven  and  hdl. 
LiaDKK.  I  will  bfitray  thee  not.  It  is  but 

"niou  smite  him.  —  And  that  weeping  in 

the  dust 
And  stormy  tears,  bow  should  I  blame 

them?  .  .  .  Stay: 
T  is  Creon,  lord  of  Corinth,  mokes  hia  way 
Hither,  and  bears,  methinka,  some  word 

of  weight. 


[EiUer  Cbson,  Ihe  King,  mlh  armed  Attm- 

danUjTom  the  right. 

Cbeon.  Thou  woman  sullen-eyed  and 

hot  with  hate 

Against  tby  lord,  Medea,  I  here  command 

That  thou  and  thy  two  children  from  thU 


Go  forth  to  banishment.  Make  no  delay: 
Seeing  ourselves,  the  King,  are  come  ttdB 

day 
To  see  our  charge  fulfilled;  nor  shall  again 
Look  homeward  ere  we  have  led  thy  ohil> 

dren  twain 
And  thee  beyond  our  realm's  last  boundary. 

MxDBA.  Lost!  Lost! 
Mine  haters  at  the  helm  with  siul  flung  free 
Pursuing;  and  for  ua  no  beach  nor  shore 
In  the  endlees  waters!  .  .  .  Yet,   though 


I  still  will  aak  thee,  for  what  crime,  what 

Unlawful,  wilt  thou  cost  me  out,  O  King? 
Cbkon.    What    crime?    I    fear    the^ 

woman  —  little  need 
To  cloak  my  reasons  —  lest  thou  work 

some  deed 
Of  darkness  on  my  child.  And  in  that  fear 
Reasons  enough  have  part.  Thou  comest 

A  wise-woman  confessed,  and  full  of  lore 
In  unknown  ways  of  evil.  Thou  art  sore 
In  heart,  being  parted  from  thy  lover's 

And  more,  thou  hast  made  menace  ...  so 

the  alarms 
But  now  have  reached  mine  ear ...  on 

bride  and  groom. 
And  him  who  gave  the  bride,  to  work  thy 

Of  vengeance.  W  hich,  ere  yet  it  be  too  late, 
I  sweep  aside.  I  choose  to  earn  tbine  hate 
Of  set  will  now,  not  palter  with  the  mood 
Of  mercy,  and  hereafter  weep  in  blood. 
MiDBA.  'Tia  not  the  first  nor  second 
time,  O  King, 
That  fame  hath  hurt  me,  and  come  nigh  to 

My  ruin.  .  .  .  How  can  any  man,  whose 

eyes 
Are  wholeaome,  seek  to  rear  his  children 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Beyond  men's  wontT    Much  helploeeneeB 

inutfl 
Of  comnwn  life,  tad  in  their  townnnen's 

hearts 
Envy  deep-aet ...  so  much  their  leaniing 

Come  unto  fools  witii  knowledge  at  new 

They  deem  it  vanity,  not  knowledge.  Aye, 
And  men  that  erst  for  wisdom  were  held 

high. 
Feel  thee  a  thorn  to  fnt  them,  privily 
Held  higher  tiuai  they.    So  h^  it  been 

A  wise-woman  I  am;  and  for  that  sin 
To  divers  ill  namea  men  would  pen  me  in; 
K  seed  of  strife;  an  eastern  dreainer;  one 
Of  brand  not  thein;  one  hard  to  |^y 

Ah,  I  am  not  eo  wondrous  wiaet  And  now. 
To  thee,  I  am  terrible!  What  fearest  thou? 
What  dire  deedT  Do  I  tread  so  proud  a 

path  — 
Fear  me  not  thou  I  —  that  I  should  brave 

the  wrath 
Of  princee?  Thou :  what  bast  thou  ever  done 
To  wrong  me?  Granted  thine  own  child  to 

Whom  thy  soul  chose.  —  Ah,  Aim  out  of 

nor  heart 
I  hate;  but  thou,  meseems,  hast  done  thy 

part 
Not  ill.  And  for  thine  houses'  happiness 
I  ludd  no  grudge.    Go:  marry,  and  God 

blen 
Your  issues.  Only  suffer  me  to  leet 
Somewhere  witbin  this  had.  Though  sore 


I  will  be  still,  knowing  mine  own  defeat. 
Crxon.  Thy  words  be  gentle:  but  I  fear 

Lent  even  now  there  creep  some  wickedness 
Deep  hid  within  thee.  And  for  that  the  lees 
I  trust  thee  nowth&n  toe  thesewords  began. 
A  woman  quick  of  wrath,  aye,  or  a  man, 
Is  easier  watching  than  tbe  cold  and  still. 
Up,  straight,  and  find  thy  loadl   Mock 

not  my  will 
With  words.  This  doom  is  passed  beyond 

recaU; 
Nor  all  thy  oraf  te  shall  hdp  thee,  being 

withid 


My  manifest  foe,  to  linger  at  my  side. 

MxnBA  (tuddenly  Ovmmng  hert^  down 
and  dvminQ  to  Cbbon).  Oh,  by  thy  knees! 

By  that  new-wedded  bride  .  .  . 
Cbxok.  'T  is   waste   of   words.     Thou 

shslt  not  weaken  me. 
Mbdea.  Wilt  hunt  me?  Spurn  me  when 

I  kneel  to  thee? 
Cbeon.  'T  is  mine  own  house  that  kneds 

to  me,  not  thou. 
MnoEA.  Home,  my  lost  b«ne,  how  I 

desire  tiiee  now! 
Chbok.  And  I  mine,  and  my  child,  be- 
yond all  things. 
MzDBA.  O  Loves  of  man,  what  curse  is 

on  your  wings! 
Cbeon.  Blessing  or  ouiee,  'tis  as  Uieir 

chances  flow. 
Medxa.  Remember,  Zeus,  the  cause  ci 

all  this  woel 
Crbon.  Oh,  rid  me  of  my  pains!    Up, 

get  thee  gone! 
MiiDEA.  What  would  I  with  thy  pains? 

Cbxon.  Up:  or,  'fore  God,  my  soldiers 
here  shall  fling  .  .  . 

MsoBA.  Not  that!    Not  thati ...  I  do 
but  pray,  0  King  .  .  . 

Cbbon.  Thou  wilt  not?  I  must  face  the 
harsher  ta^? 

MzoEA.  I  accept  mine  exile.    'T  is  not 
that  I  ask. 

Cbbon.  Why  then  eo  wild?  Why  ding- 
ing to  mine  hand? 

MsnuA  [rtrinjr).   For  one  day  only  leave 
me  in  thy  land 
At  peace,  to  find  some  oounsd,  ere  the 

Of  exile  fall,  some  comfort  for  these  twain. 
Mine    innocents;    since   othras    take    no 

thought, 

It  seems,  to  save  the  babes  that  they  begot. 

Ahl  Thou  wilt  [»ty  them!  Thou  also  art 

A  father:  thou  hast  somewhere  still  a  heart 

That  feels.  ...  I  reck  not  of  myself:  't  is 

they 
That  break  me,  fallen  upon  eo  dire  a  day. 
Crbon.  Mine  is  no  tyrant's  mood.  Aye, 

many  a  time 
Ere  this  my  tenderness  hath  marred  tiia 

chime 
Of  wisest  oouDsels.  And  I  know  thit  now 


CtOoi^Ic 


I  do  mere  foUy.  But  m>  be  iti  Thou 
Shalt  have  this  grace  . .  .  But  this  I  wain 

thee  clear, 
If  once  the  morrow'B  sunlight  find  thee  here 
Within  my  borden,  thee  or  child  of  thine, 
ThoudiestI  .  .  .  Of  this  judgment  not  aline 
Shall  waver  nor  abate.  So  linger  on. 
If  tixiu  needs  must,  till  the  next  risen  sun; 
No  further.  ...  In  one  day  there  scarce 

llKMe  perils  wrought  whose  dread  yet 
hauutetiime. 

]BxU  Cbson  with  his  auiCe.l 
Cbokub.  O  woman,  woman  of  sorrow, 
Where  wilt  thou  turn  and  fleeT 
What  town  ^lall  be  thine  to-morrow, 

What  land  of  all  lands  that  be. 
What  door  of  a  strange  man's  home? 

Yea,  God  hath  hunted  thee, 
Medea,  forth  to  the  foam 
Of  a  trackless  sea. 
Medka.  Defeat  on   every   aide;   what 
dseT  —  But  oh. 
Not  here  the  end  ie:  think  it  notl  1  know 
For  bride  and  groom  one  battle  yet  un- 
tried, 
4nd  goodly  pains  for  him  that  gave  the 

DoBt  dream  I  would  have  groveled  to 
tliia  man, 
Save  that  I  won  mine  end,  and  shaped  my 

For  merry  deeda?    My  lips  had  never 

deigned 
Bpfakword  with  him:  my  flesh  been  never 

With  touching. . .  .  Fool,  oh,  trii^  fooll 

It  lay 
So  plain  for  him  to  kill  my  whole  essay 
By  exile  swift:  end,  lo,  be  sets  me  free 
Tliis  one  long  day:  wheiein  mine  haters 

three 
Shall  lie  here  dead,  the  father  and  the  bride 
Andhusband  —  mine,notherBl  Oh,Ihave 

tried 
So  many  thot^ts  of  murder  to  my  turn, 
I  know  not  irttich  best  likes  me.   Shall  I 

bum 
llwit  bouse  with  fire?    Or  stealing  past 

unseen 
To  Jason's  bed  —  I  have  a  blade  made 


For  that  —  stab,  breast  to  breast,  that 

wedded  pair? 
Good,  but  for  one  thing.  When  I  am  taken 

And  killed,  they  will  laugh  kjud  who  hate 

Nay, 
I  love  the  old  way  beet,  the  simple  wi^ 
Of  poison,  where  we  too  are  strong  as  men. 


What  friend  shall  rise,  with  land  inviolate 
And  trusty  doors,  to  shdter  from  their  hate 
This  flesh?  .  .  .  None  anywherel  ...  A 

little  more 
I  needs  must  wait:  and,  if  there  ope  some 

Of 'refuge,  some  strong  tower  to  shidd  me, 

good: 
In  craft  and  darkness  I  will  hunt  thia  blood- 
Elae,  if  mine  hour  be  ootae  and  no  hope 

nigh, 
Tlien  sword  in  band,  full-willed  and  sure  to 

die, 
I  yet  will  live  to  slay  them.  1  will  wend 
Man-like,  their  road  of  daring  to  the  end. 
So  help  me  She  who  of  all  Gods  hath 

The  best  to  me,  of  all  my  choem  queen 
And  helpmate,  Hecato,  who  dwells  apart. 
The  flame  of  flame,  in  my  fire's  inmost 

For  all  their  strength,  they  shall  not  stab 

my  soul 
Andlau^tbereafter!  Dark  and  full  of  dole 
Their  bridal  feast  shall  be,  most  dark  the 

day 
They  joined  their  bands,  and  hunted  me 

Awake  thee  now,  Medea!  Whatso  plot 
Thou  hast,  or  cunning,  strive  and  falter  not. 
On  to  the  peril-point  I    Now  cmnce  the 


Of  daring.  Shall  they  trample  thee  again? 
How?  And  with  Eedlas  laughing  o'er  thy 

fall 
While  this  thief's  daughter  weds,  and  weds 

Jason?  ...  A  true  king  was  thy  father,  yea, 
And  bom  of  the  ancient  Sunl .  ■  .  Tbou 
know'at  the  way; 


GooqIc 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


And  God  hath  nuuie  Ui6o  woehvIi  *-^TT>g** 

most  vain 
Fbr  help,  but  wondniUB  in  the  patiie  oT 

[Mkdxa  goei  into  lite  Aoute.) 
Chobus.  Back  strBams  the  wave  on  the 

ever-running  river: 
life,  life  ie  chAoged  and  the  laws  of  it 

Man  ehAll  be  the  slave,  tbe  affrighted,  the 
low-liver! 
Man  hath  foi^tten  God. 
And  woman,  yea,  woman,  shall  be  terrible 
in  story: 
The  tales  too,  mMeemeth,  shall  be  other 
than  of  yore. 
Ftor  a  fear  there  is  tliat  oometh  out  of 
Woman  and  a  glory, 
And  the  hard  bating  voioes  shall  encom- 
pass her  no  morel 

The  old  bards  shall  cease,  and  their  memory 
t^t  lingers 
Of  frail  brides  and  faithless,  shall  be 
shriveled  as  with  fire. 
Fbr  they  loved  us  not.  Dor  knew  us:  snd 
our  lips  were  dumb,  our  fingen 
Could  woke  not  the  secret  of  the  lyre, 
E3se,  else,  O  God  the  Singer,  1  had  sung 
amid  their  ragee 
A  long  tale  of  Man  and  his  deeds  for 
good  and  ill. 
But  the  old  World  Imoweth  — 'tis   the 
speech  of  all  his  ages  — 
Man's  wrong  and  ours:  be  knoweth  and 

is  still 
Cborob  —  Some   Women.    Forth  from 
thy  father's  home 
Thou  earnest,  O  heart  of  fire, 
Id  the  Dark  Blue  Rocks,  to  the  piwahjng 

-    To  the  seas  of  thy  desire: 

Till  the  Dark  Blue  Bar  was  croMed; 

And,  lo,  by  an  alien  river 
Standii^,  thy  kiver  lost, 
Void-armed  forever, 

Forth  yet  agiun,  O  lowest 

Of  landless  women,  a  ranger 

Of  desolate  ways,  thou  goest, 

From  the  walls  of  ttie 


Chobus  —  Others.  And  the  great  Okth 

wsjceth  weak; 
And  Ruth,  as  a  thing  outstriven, 
Is  fled,  fled,  from  the  shores  of  the  Qredc, 
Away  on  the  winds  of  heaven. 

Dark  is  the  house  afar, 

Where  an  old  king  called  thee  daughter; 
All  that  was  once  thy  star 
In  stormy  water, 

Dark:  and,  lo,  in  the  nearer 

House  that  was  tmont  to  love  thee, 
Another,  queenlier,  dearer, 
Is  thronM  above  thee. 

[Enler  Jason  from  Ae  rifht.] 
Jason.  Oft  have  I  seen,  in  otiier  days 
than  these, 
How  a  dark  tempo'  maketh  maladies 
No  friend  con  heal.    'T  was  easy  to  have 

Both  land  and  home.    It  needed  but  to 

Unstrivingly  the  jAeemim  of  our  lords. 
But  thou,  for  mere  delist  in  stonny  words, 
Wilt  lose  alll . .  .  Now  thy  speech  provokM 


Dark  threats  cast  out  against 
Of  Corinth,  count  as  veriest  gain  thy  patb 
Of  exile.  I  myself,  when  princely  wrath 
Was  hot  against  thee,  strove  with  all  good 

will 
To  appease  the  wrath,  and  wished  to  keep 

theestm 
Beside  me.  But  thy  mouth  would  new  stay 
From  vanity,  bla*)dieming  night  and  day 
Our  masters,  llierefore  Utou  shalt  fly  Ute 

land. 
Yet,  eves  so,  I  will  not  hold  my  hand 
From  succoring  mine  own  people.    Here 

To  hdp  thee,  woman,  pondering  heedfuUy 
lily  new  state.  For  I  would  not  have  thee 

flung 
ProvisionleeB  away  —  aye,  and  the  young 
Children  as  well;  nor  ladcing  aught  that 


Ofo 


wiU 


abringtbec  ManyaleMarfll 

Goc«lc 


67 


QangB  on  the  heela  ot  exile. .  .  .  Aye,  And 

Hkmi  bate  me,  di«am  not  that  my  heart 

Or  [asbion  aught  of  angry  will  to  thee. 
MxDEA.  Evil,  moBt  evS]  .  . .  since  thou 
grenUetme 
Hut  comfort,  the  worst  weapon  left  me 

To  Bmite  a  coward.  . .  .  'Hiou  comeat  to 

me,  thou, 
Mineenemyl  (XwnrngtotiteChomi.)  Oh, 

aay,  bow  call  ye  this, 
To  face,  and  emile,  the  comrade  whom  bia 

kiw 
Betrayed?  Scorn?  Insult?  Courage?  None 

of  tbeee: 
T  is  but  of  all  man's  inward  sickneesee 
Tlie  vilest,  that  he  knoweth  not  of  shame, 
Ntwpityl  Yet  I  praise  him  that  he  came . . . 
To  me  it  oholl  bring  comfort,  once  to  clear 
Hy  heart  on  thee,  and  thou  shalt  wince  to 


Let  thine  own  Greeks  be  witness,  every  one 
That  Bailed  on  Argo  —  saved  thee,  sent 

alone 
To  yoke  with  yokes  the  bulla  of  fiery  breath. 
And  son  that  Acre  of  the  Lords  of  Death; 
And  mine  own  ancient  Serpent,  who  did 

Tbe  Golden  Fleece,  the  eyee  that  knew  not 

And  irKifing  coils,  h™  also  did  1  smite 
Dead  for  t&y  sake,  and  lifted  up  the  light 
That  bade  thee  live.  Myself,  unoounsel^. 
Stole  forth  from  father  and  from  home,  and 

fled 
Where  dark  lolcoe  under  Pelion  lies. 
With  tbee  —  Ob,  sin^e-hearted  more  than 

wisel 
I  murdered  Pelias,  yea,  in  agony, 
By  hia  own  daughters'  hands,  for  sake  of 

thee; 
I  swept  their  house  like  War.  —  And  hast 

thou  then 
Accepted  all  —  O  evil  yet  againi  — 
And  cast  me  off  and  taken  thee  for  bride 
Another?  And  with  children  at  thy  sidel 
One  could  forgive  a  childleaB  man.  But  no: 


I  have  bcme  thee  children  .  . . 
Is  sworn  faith  so  low 

And  weak  a  thing?  t  understand  it  not. 

Are  t^e  old  gods  dead?  Are  the  old  laws 
fo^ot, 

And  new  laws  made?  Since  not  my  passion- 
ing, 

But  thine  own  heart,  doth  ciy  thee  for  a 

Forsworn. 

{She  eaichet  «t;Al  of  her  oun  hand 
tohich  the  hat  thrown  out  to  de- 
Poor,  poor  right  hand  of  mine,  whom  he 
Did  ding  to,  and  theee  kneee,  so  cravingly, 
Weareunclean,  thou  and  I;  we  have  caught 

the  stain 
Of  bad  men's  flesh  .  .  .  and  dreamed  our 
dreams  in  viun. 
Thou  oomest  to  bdriend  me?  Give  me. 

Thy  counsel.  T  is  not  that  I  dream  again 
For  good  from  thee:  but,  questioned,  thou 

wilt  show 
The  viler.  Say:  now  whither  shall  I  go? 
Back  to  my  father?  Him  I  did  betray. 
And  all  bis  land,  when  we  two  fled  away. 
To  those  poor  Peliad  maids?    For  them 

'twere  good 
To  take  me  in,  who  spilled  their  father's 

blood 

Aye,  ao  my  whole  life  stands!  There  were 

at  home 
Who  loved  me  well:  to  them  I  am  beccme 
A  curse.  And  the  first  friends  who  sheltered 

Whrau  most  I  should  have  spared,  to  pleas- 
ure thee 

I  have  turned  to  foes.  Oh,  therefore  hast 
thou  laid 

My  crown  upon  me,  blest  of  many  a  maid 

In  Hellas,     ow  I  have  won  what  idl  did 

Thee,  the  world-wondered  lover  and  the 

Who  this  day  looks  and  sees  me  banished, 

tltfown 
Away  with  theee  two  babes,  all,  all,  alone . . . 
Oh,  merry  mocking  when  the  lamps  are 

red: 


68- 


CHIEF    EUROPEAN    DRAMATISTS 


In  exile,  and  the  woman  who  gave  all 
To  save  him?  " 

O  great  Qod,  shall  gold  withal 
Bear  thy  dear  mark,  to  lift  the  baae  and 

And  o'er  man's  living  visage  runs  no  sign 
To  show  the  lie  within,  ere  all  too  late? 
LiADEB.  Dire  and  beyond  all  healing  is 

the  hate 
When  hearts  that  loved  are  turned  to 

enmity. 
Jason.  In  speech  at  least,  meeeemetb,  I 

must  be 
Not  evil;  but,  as  some  old  pilot  goes 
Furled  to  his  sail's  last  edge,  when  daoget 

blows 
Too  fieiy,  run  before  the  wind  and  swell, 
Woman,  of  thy  loud  atonns.  —  And  thus 

It«ll 
My  tale.  Since  thou  wilt  build  so  wondrous 

high 
Thy  deeds  ot  eervioe  in  my  jeopardy, 
To  all  my  crew  and  quest  I  know  but  one 
Savior,  of  gods  or  mortals  one  alone. 
The  Cyprian.    Oh,  thou  hast  both  brain 

and  wit, 
Yet  underneath  .  .  .  nay,  all  the  tde  of  it 
Were  gracdesB  teUing;  bow  sheer  love,  a  fire 
Of  poison-ahaftB,  compelled  thee  with  de- 

To  save  me.  But  enough.  I  will  not  score 
That  count  too  close.    'Twas  good  help; 

and  therefor 
I  give  thee  thanks,  howe'er  the  help  was 

wrought. 
Howbeit,  in  my  deliverance,  thou  hast  got 
Far  more  than  given.  A  good  Greek  land 

hath  been 
Thy  lasting  home,  not  barbary.  Thou  host 

Our  ordered  life,  and  justice,  and  the  long 
Still  grasp  of  law  not  changing  with  the 

Man's  pleasure.    Then,  all  Eellaa  for  and 

near 
Hath  learned  thy  wisdom,  and  in  every  ear 
Thy  fame  is.  Had  thy  days  run  by  unseen 
On  that  last  edge  of  the  world,  where  then 

had  been 
The  story  of  great  MedeaT  Thou  and  I .  .  . 
What  worth  to  us  were  treasures  heapM 

hi^' 


In  rich  kings'  rooms;  what  worth  a  voice  of 

gold 
More  sweet  than  ever  rang  from  Orpheus 

old, 
Unless  our  deeds  have  glivy? 

Speak  1  so, 
Touching  the  Quest  I  wrought,  thyself  did 

The  challenge  down.  Next  for  thy  caviling 
Of  wrath  at  mine  alliance  with  a  king, 
Here  thou  shaJt  see  I  both  was  wise,  and  free 
From  touch  of  passion,  and  a  friend  to  thee 
Most  potent,  and  my  children  .  .  .  Nay,  be 

still  1 
When  first  I  stood  in  Corinth,  clogged 

with  ill 
From  many  a  desperate  mischance,  what 

bliss 
Could  I  that  day  have  dreamed  of,  like  to 

this, 
To  wed  with  a  king's  daughter,  I  exiled 
And  beggared?     Not  —  what   makes   thy 

passion  wild  — 
From  loathing  of  thy  bed;  not  overfraught 
With  love  for  this  new  bride;  not  that  I 

To  upbuild  mine  house  with  offspring :  't  is 

enough. 
What  thou  hast  borne:  I  moke  no  word 

thereof: 
But,  first  and  greatest,  that  we  all  might 

dweU 
In  a  fair  house  and  want  not,  knowing  wdl 
That  poor  men  have  no  friends,  but  far 

and  near 
Shunning  and  silence.    Next,  I  sought  to 

Our  sons  in  nurture  worthy  of  my  race. 
And,  raising  brethren  to  them,  in  one  place 
Join  both  my  houses,  and  be  dl  from  now 
Prince-like  and  happy.    What  more  need 

hast  thou 
Of  children?  And  for  me,  it  serves  my  star 
To  link  in  strength  the  children  that  now 

With  those  that  shall  be. 

Have  I  counseled  ill? 
Not  thine  own  self  would  say  it,  couldst 

thou  still 
One  hour  thy  jealous  flesh.  —  'T  is  ever  sol 
Who  lo<^  loT  more  in  women?  When  the 


:.L|,i,zedi!,GoOQlc 


Of  love  nms  plain,  why,  all  the  world  is 

fiur: 
But,  once  there  fall  some  ill  chance  aay- 

To  baulk  that  thirst,  down  in  awift  hate 

are  trod 
Men's  dearest  aims  and  noblest.  Would  to 

God 
We  mortals  by  some  other  seed  could  raise 
Our  fruits,  and  no  blind  women  block  our 

Then  had  there  been  no  curse  to  wreck 


Ij^dkh.  Lord  Jason,  very  subtly  hast 
tbou  twined 
Thy  speech;  but  yet,  though  all  athwart 

thy  will 

I  speak,  this  ia  not  well  thou  dost,  but  ill. 

Betraying  her  who  loved  thee  and  was  true, 

MEDK&.  Surety  1  have  my  thoughts,  and 

not  a  few 

Have  hdd  me  strange.  To  me  it  seemeth, 

A  crafty  tongue  is  given  to  evil  men 

T  is  like  to  wreck,  not  help  them.   Their 

own  brain 
Tempts  them  with  lies  to  dare  and  dare 

again. 
Till  ...  no  man  bath  enough  of  aubtiety. 
As  thou  —  be  not  so  seemiog-fair  to  me 
Nor  deft  of  speech.    One  word  will  make 

theefaU. 
Wert  thou  not  false,  't  was  thine  to  tell  me 

all. 
And  charge  me  help  tby  marriage  path,  as  I 
Did  love  thee;  not  befool  me  with  a  lie. 
Jason.  An  ea^  task  had  that  been! 

Aye,  and  thou 
A  loving  aid,  who  canst  not,  even  now, 
StOl  that  loud  heart  that  surges  like  the 

tide! 
Mkdea.  That  moved  thee  not.    Thine 

old  barbariBn  bride, 
Hie  dog  out  of  the  east  who  loved  thee  sore. 
She  grew  gray-haired,  she  served  thy  pride 

Jabon.  Now  understand  for  once!  The 
giri  to  me 
Is  nothing,  in  this  w^  of  sovereignty 
f  bold.   I  do  but  seek  to  save,  even  yet, 
Tliee;  and  for  brethren  to  our  sons  b^et 
Yoang  kings,  to  prosper  all  our  lives  again. 


Medea.  God  shelter  me  from 
days  of  pain, 
And  wealth  that  maketh  wounds  about  iny 
heart. 
Jason.  Wilt  change  that  prayer,   and 
choose  a  wiser  part? 
Pray  not  to  hold  true  sense  for  pain,  nor 

Thyself  unhappy,  being  too  fortunate. 
MioiEA.  Aye,  mock  me;  thou  bast  where 
to  lay  thine  head, 
But  I  go  n^ed  to  mine  exile. 

Jason.  Tread 
Thine  own  path!    Thou  hast  made  it  all 
to  be. 
Mbdea.  How?  By  seducing  and  forsak- 
ing thee? 
Jabon.  By  those  vile  curses  on  the  royal 
halls 
Let  loose.  .  ,  . 
Medxa.  On  thy  house  also,  as  chance 
falls, 
I  am  a  living  curse. 

Jason.  Oh,  peace!  Enough 
Of  theee  vain  wars:  I  will  no  more  thereof. 
If  thou  wilt  take  from  all  that  I  possess 
Aid  for  these  babes  and  thine  own  belplees- 

Of  exile,  speak  thy  bidding.    Here  I  stand 
Full-willed  to  succor  thee  with  stintless 

And  send  my  signet  to  old  friends  that 

dweU 
On  forogn  shores,  who  will  entreat  thee 

well. 
Refuse,  and  thou  ehalt  do  a  deed  most 

vain. 
But  cast  thy  rage  away,  and  thou  shait 

gain 
Much,  and  lose  little  for  thine  anger's  sake. 
Mbdea.  I  will  not  seek  thy  friends.    I 

will  not  take 
Tby  givings.   Give  them  not.   Fruits  of  a 

Unholy  bring  no  blessing  after  them. 
Jasoh.  Now  God  in  heaven  be  witness, 

ail  my  heart 
Is  willing,  in  all  ways,  to  do  its  part 
For  thee  and  for  thy  babes.   But  nothing 

good 
Con  please  thee.    In  sheer  aavageneas  of 

mood 


7© 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Thou   drivest   from   thee   every   friend. 

Wherefore 

I  warrant  thee,  thy  puns  ehall  be  the  more. 

[He  9099  slowly  awt\i.\ 

MsDXA.  Go:  thou  &rt  weary  for  the  new 

delight 

Thou  wooest,  bo  limg  tarrying  out  of  si^t 

Of  ber  sweot  chamber.  Go,  fulfill  thy  pride, 

O  bridegroomi  For  it  may  be,  such  a  bride 

Shall  wait  thee,  —  yea,  God  heareth  me  in 

this  — 
As  thine  own  heart  shall  iioken  ere  it  Idaa. 
CaosuB.  Alas,  the  Love  that  falleth  like 

a  flood, 
Strong- winged  and  transitory: 
Why  praise  ye  him?  What  beareth  he  of  good 

To  mas,  or  gloryT 
Yet  Love  there  is  that  movea  in  gentieneoe, 
Heart-filling,  sweetMt  of  all  powers  that 

bless. 
Loose  not  on  me,  O  Holder  of  man's  heart, 

Thy  golden  quiver, 
Nor  steep  in  poison  of  deaiie  the  dart 
That  heals  not  ever. 

The  pent  hate  of  the  word  that  cavileth, 

The  strife  that  hath  no  fill. 
Where  once  was  fondness;  and  the  mad 
heart's  breath 

For  strange  love  panting  still: 
0  Cyprian,  cast  me  not  on  these;  but  sift. 
Keen-eyed,  of  love  the  good  and  evil  gift. 
Make  Innocence  my  friend,  God's  fairest 
star, 

Yea,  and  abate  not 
The  rare  sweet  beat  of  boBcnns  without  war. 

That  love,  and  hate  not. 

Chobuh  —  OUurt.  Home  of  my  heart, 
land  of  my  own, 

Cast  me  not,  nay,  for  pity, 
Out  on  my  ways,  helplees,  alone, 
Where  the  feet  fail  in  the  mire  and  stone, 

A  woman  without  a  city. 
Ah,  not  that!  Bett«r  the  end: 

The  green  grave  cover  me  rather, 
If  a  break  must  come  in  the  days  I  know, 
And  the  skies  be  changed  and  the  earth 

below; 
For  the  weariest  road  that  man  may  wend 

Is  forth  from  the  home  of  hia  father. 

Lo,  we  have  seen:  't  is  not  a  song 


Bung,  tua  learned  of  another. 
For  whom  hast  thou  in  thy  dil««t  wrong 
For  oomfortT  Never  a  city  etrtmg 

To  hide  thee,  never  a  bnrther. 
Ah,  but  the  man  —  curaid  be  he, 

CursM  beyond  recover. 
Who  openeth,  shattering,  seal  by  seal, 
A  friend's  clean  heart,  then  turns  his  bed, 
Deaf  unto  love:  never  in  me 
Friend  shall  he  know  nor  lover. 

[While  Mkoeau  aaitingiknimaul. 
Mated  upon  her  doorttep,  Oitrt 
patteifrom  the  l^t  atnudtrwUh 
foUowen.  A»  he  cabAa  tight  sf 
Medxa,  h»  slops.] 
MoKOB.  Have  joy,   Medea!    'T  is  the 
homdiest 
Wold  that  old  friends  can  greet  with,  and 
the  best. 
Mkdka  {JooKnir  up,  airprvedfi.  Oh,  joy 
on  tJiee,  too,  .£geus,  gentle  Ung 
Of  Athenel  —  But  whence  eom'st   thou 
journeying? 
^oEns.  F^om  Delphi  now  and  the  old 

encavemed  stmr.  .  .  . 
MinxA.  Where  Earth's  heart  eprala  in 

song?  What  mad'st  thou  there? 
£geub.  Prayed 'heaven  for  children  — 

the  same  search  alway. 
Minu.  CbildrenT  Ah  Godt  Art  child- 
less to  this  day? 
iBoKus.  So  God  hath  willed.   Chadless 

and  deaolate. 
MxDHA.  What  word  did  Fhc^us  speak, 

to  change  thy  fate? 
£qbub.  Riddles,  too  hard  for  mortal 

man  to  read. 
MsnxA.  Which  I  may  bear? 
MuKoa.  Assuredly:  they  need 
A  rarer  wit. 
MnnsA.  How  said  he? 
^oEus.  Not  to  qiill 


Life's 


Mbdsa.  Until? 
.^OEiiB.  Until 
I  tread  the  hearth-stone  of  my  sireti  of  yote^ 
Mbdka.  And  what  should  bring  thee 

here,  by  Creon's  shore? 
Mfmva.  Od»    Pittheus    know'st    thou, 

high  lord  of  Tn»en? 
Mmdka.  Aye,  Pdops'  eon,  a  man  most 

pureoi^n. 


i.,GooqIc 


£<aus.  Him   I   would  uk,   touching 

Apollo's  will. 
Mkdea.  Much  use  in  God's  ways  hath 

be,  and  much  aldll. 
Mamxja.  And,  long  yean  back  he  was 
my  battle-friend, 
The  trueet  e'er  man  had. 

Hbdxa.  Well,  may  God  send 
Good  hap  to  thee,  and  grant  all  thy  desire. 
M^vs.  But   thou  .  .  .?  Thy  frame  is 
wasted,  and  the  fiie 
Dead  in  thine  eyee. 

McDKA.  iBgeiis,  my  hutliand  is 
The  falaeet  man  in  the  worid. 
Maxxja.  What  word  is  thisT 
Say  deariy  what  thus  malcea  thy  visage 
dim7 
Mbdka.  He  is  false  to  me,  who  never 

injured  him. 
.Sqbqb.  What  hath  he  done?  Show  all, 

that  I  may  see. 
MiiDSA.  Ta'eo  him  a  wife;  a  wife,  mt 
over  me 
To  rule  his  house  I 

JEamuh.  He  hath  not  dared  to  do, 
Jason,  a  thing  so  BhametulT 

Medka.  Aye, 'tis  true: 
ilitd  those  he  loved  of  yore  have  no  place 

JEoEJiB.  Some  passion  aweepeth  him? 
Or  is  it  thou 
He  turns  from? 

Mbdka.  Passion,  pasnon  to  betray 
His  dearest! 

JBoKDa.  Shame  be  his,  so  fallen  away 
FVom  honor! 

MXDBA.    Passion  to  be  near  a  throne, 
A  king's  heirl 

MaxvB.    How,  who   gives    the   bride? 

Medba.  Creon,   who  o'er  all   Corintli 

standeth  chief. 
JEaxva.  Woman,  thou  hast  indeed  much 

cauae  for  grief. 
MxDEA.  'Tis  ruin. — And  they   have 

cast  me  out  as  well. 
^kiEns.  Who?   'T  is  a  new  wrong  this, 

and  terrible. 
Hedba.  Creon  the  king,   from  every 

land  and  shore.  ,  .  . 
^Gaxtrs.  And  Jason  suffera  him?    Oh, 

't  ia  too  sorel 


But,  £geuB,  by  thy  beard,  oh,  by  thy 
knew, 
I  pray  thee,  and  I  giv«  me  for  thine  own, 
Thy  suppliant,  pity  me!  Oh,  pity  one 
So  misOTable.  Thou  never  wilt  stand  there 
And  see  me  cast  out  friendless  to  despoil. 
Give  me  a  home  in  Athens  ...  by  the  fire 
Of  thine  own  hearth!  Oh,  so  may  thy  desire 
Of  children  be  fulfilled  of  God,  and  thou 
Dieh^py! . . .  Thou  oaost  know  not  jeren 

Thy  pri»  is  woni  I,  I  will  make  of  thee 
Aduldlessmannomore.  The  seed  shall  be, 
I  swear  it,  sown.  Such  magic  herbs  I  know. 
^OBDS.  Woman,  indeed  my  heart  goes 
forth  to  show 
This  help  to  thee,  first  for  religion's  sake. 
Then  for  thy  {mnmsed  hope,  to  heal  my 

Of  childlessness.  'T  is  this  hath  made  mine 

whole 
Life  as  a  shadow,  and  starved  out  my  soul. 
But  thus  it  stands  with  me.    Onoe  moks 

To  Attic  earth,  I,  as  in  law  I  may. 

Will  keep  thee  and  befriend.   But  in  tJus 

Und, 
Where  Creon  rules,  I  may  not  raise  my 

To  Bhelt«r  thee.  Move  of  thine  own  essay 
To  seek  my  house,  thero  thou  sbalt  alway 

stay. 
Inviolate,  never  to  be  seised  again. 
But  come  thyself  from  Crainth.   I  would 

Even  in  foreign  eyes  be  alway  just. 

MiDEA.  'Tis  well.    Give  me  an  oaUi 
wherein  to  trust 
And  all  tjiat  man  could  ask  thou  hast 
granted  me. 
MoKUB.  Dost  trust  me  not?   Or  wtutt 

thing  troubletfa  theeT 
Mbdxa.  I  trust  thee.  But  so  many,  far 
and  near, 
Do  hate  me  —  all  King  Felias'  house,  and 

Creon.  Onoe  bound  by  oaths  and  sanctities 
Thou  canst  not  yield  me  up  for  such  as 

To  drag  (nun  Athens.  But  a  q>oken  word, 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


No  more,  to  bind  thee,  wimb  do  God  hath 

,  baud.  .  .  . 
The  embftseies,  metbinka,  would  oome  and 

go: 
They  alt  are  frieodB  to  thee. ...  Ah  me,  I 

Thou  wilt  not  liat  to  mel  So  weak  am  I, 
And  they  f ull-fiUed  with  gold  and  majesty. 
MOEVS.  Metbinks  't  is  a  far  foreeight, 
thii  thine  oath. 
Still,  if  thou  BO  wilt  have  it,  nothing  loath 
Am  I  to  serve  tbee.  Mine  own  hand  is  so 
The  stronger,  if  I  have  this  {dea  to  ahow 
Thy  perBecutora:  and  for  thee  withal 
The  bond  more  Bure.  —  On  what  god  eball 
IcallT 
Mkdba.  Swear  by  the  Earth  thou  tread- 
eat,  by  the  Sun, 
Sireof  my  Bires,  andall  thegodaaaone.  .  .  . 
Mamva.  To  do  what  thing'  or  not  do7 

Make  all  plain. 
Media.  Never  thyoelf  to  cast  me  out 

Nor  let  another,  whatooe'er  his  plea, 
Take  me,  while  tbou  yet  livest  and  art  free. 
Masva.  Never:  bo  hear  me,  Earth,  and 
the  great  etar 
Of  daylight,  and  all  other  goda  that  arel 
Medea.  'Tia  wdl:  and  if  thou  falter 

from  thy  vow  .  .  .  ? 
MaxvB.  God's  judgment  on  the  godless 

break  my  browl 
Mbdea.  GoI  Go  thy  waya  rejoicing.  — 
All  is  bright 
And  clear  before  me.  Go:  and  ere  the  night 
Myself  will  follow,  when  the  deed  is  done 
I  purpose,  and  the  end  I  thirst  for  won. 

[MoEJis  and  hU  train  depcai.] 
Chorus.  Farewell:  and  Maia'a  guiding 

Son 
Back  lead  thee  t«i  thy  hearth  and  fire, 
£geua;  and  all  the  long  deaire 
That  wasteth  thee,  at  last  be  wtm: 
Our  eyes  have  seen  thee  aa  thou  art, 
A  gentle  and  a  righteous  heart. 
Mbdxa.  God,  and  God's  Justice,  and  ye 
blinding  Skies! 
At  last  the  victory  dawnethl   Yea,  mine 

eyea 
See,  and  my  foot  is  on  the  mouotain'a  brow. 
Mine  enemieel  Mine  enemiea,  oh,  now 
Atonement  Cometh  t  Hereat  my  wont  hour 


faat 

Mine  anchor,  and  eac^ie  them  at  the  last 
In  Athens'  wdKd  hill.  —  But  en  the  end 
'Tis  meet  I  show  thee  all  my  oounael, 

Take  it,  no  tale  to  make  men  laugh  withall 
Straightway  to  Jaaon  I  will  send  some 
thrall 
To  entreat  him  to  my  presence.  Comes  he 

Then  with  actft  reaaona  will  I  feed  hia  ear, 
How  hii  will  now  is  my  wiQ,  how  all  things 
Are  well,  touching  this  marriage-bed  of 

kings 
For  which  I  am  betrayed  —  all  wise  and 

Andpra6tablel  Vet  will  I  make  one  prayer. 
That  my  two  children  be  no  more  ^iled 
But  stay.  .  .  .  Oh,  not  that  I  would  leave  a 

child 
Here  upon  angry  ahorea  till  those  have 

laughed 
Who  hate  me:  't  is  that  I  will  slay  by  craft 
The  king's  daughter.  With  gifts  tbey  shall 

be  sent, 
Gif  ta  to  the  bride  to  spare  their  baniahment 
Fine  robinga  and  a  carcanet  of  gold. 
Which  raiment  let  her  once  but  take,  and 

fokl 
About  her,  a  foul  death  that  girl  (diall  die 
And  all  who  touch  her  in  her  agony. 
Such  poison  shaU  they  drink,  my  rohe  and 

wreath! 
Howbeit,  of  that  no  more.  I  goash  my 

teeth 
Thinking  on  what  a  path  my  feet  must 

Thereafter,     I    shall    lay   those   children 

dead  — 
Mine,  whom  no  hand  shall  Bt«al  from  me 

away! 
Then,  leaving  Jason  childless,  and  the  day 
Aa  night  above  him,  I  will  go  my  road 
To  exile,  flying,  flying  from  the  blood 
Of   these  my  beet-beloved,   and  having 

wrought 
All  horror,  so  but  one  thing  reach  me  not. 
The  laugh  of  them  that  hate  us. 

Let  it  oome! 
What  profits  life  to  meT  1  have  no  home. 


So  country  now,  nor  shield  from  any  wrong. 
Tliat  w«s  my  evil  hour,  wheb  down  the 

long 
Halls  of  my  father  out  I  stole,  my  will 
Chuned  by  a  Greek  man'i  voice,  who  still, 

oh,  stm. 
If  God  yet  live,  shall  all  requited  be. 
For  never  child  of  mine  shall  Jason  see 
Hereafter  living,  never  child  t>eget 
FYom  his  new  bride,  who  this  day,  dceolate 
Even  as  she  made  me  desolate,  shall  die 
Shrieking  amid  my  poisons.  .  .  .  Namee 

Among  your  folk?  One  light?  One  weak 

of  hand? 
An  eastern  dreamer?  —  Nay,  but  with  the 

Of  strange  suns  burnt,  my  hate,  by  God 

A  perilous  thing,  and  passing  sweet  my 

For  these  it  is  that  make  life  glorious. 
Lkaseb.  Since  thou  hast  bared  thy  fell 
intrait  to  us, 
I,  loving  thee,  and  helping  in  their  need 
Han's  laws,  adjure  thee,  dream  not  of  this 
deed! 
McDE*.  lliere  is  no  other  way.  —  I  par- 
don thee 
lliy  littleness,  who  art  not  wronged  like 

Leaoeb.  Thou  canst  not  IdU  the  fruit 

thy  body  borel 
Mbdba.  Y«s:  if  the  man  I  hate  be  pained 

the  more. 
Lmaseb.  And    thou    made    miserable, 

most  miserable? 
Mboea.  Oh,  let  it  comel   All  words  of 
good'or  ill 
Are  wasted  now. 

liSAe  elapt  her  hand*:   the  Nvrte 
cornea  out  from  the  houae.] 
Ho,  woman;  get  thee  gone 
And  lead  lord  Jason  hither.  .  .  .  There  is 


like  thee,  to  work  me  these  1 
But  speak  no  word  of  what  my  purpose  is. 
As  thou  art  faithful,  thou,  and  bold  to  try 
All  succors,  and  a  woman  even  as  II 

[The  Nitru  deparU-l 
Cbobvb.  The  bodb  of  £^«ohtheus,  the 


EA n 

Whom  high  gods  planted  of  yore 
In  an  old  land  of  btnven  upholden, 

A  proud  land  untrodden  of  war: 
They  are  hungered,  and,  lo,  their  desire 

With  wisdom  is  fed  as  with  meat: 
In  their  skies  is  a  shining  of  fire, 

A  joy  in  the  fall  of  their  feet: 
And  thither,  with  manifold  dowers. 

From  the  North,  from  the  hills,  from  tiia 

The  Muses  did  gather  their  powers. 
That  a  child  of  the  Nine  should  be  bom; 

And  Harmony,  sown  as  the  flowers, 
-Grew  gold  in  the  acres  of  com. 

And  Cephisus,  the  fair-flowing  river  — 

The  Cyprian  dipjung  her  hand 
Hath  drawn  of  his  dew,  and  the  shiver 

Of  her  touch  is  as  joy  in  the  land. 
For  her  breathing  in  fragrance  is  written. 

And  in  music  her  path  as  she  goes. 
And  the  cloud  of  her  hair,  it  is  litten 

With  stars  of  the  wind-woven  rose. 
So  fareth  Ae  ever  and  ever. 

And  forth  of  her  Ixiaom  is  blown. 
As  dews  un  the  winds  of  the  river, 

An  hunger  of  passions  unknown. 
Strong  Loves  of  all  godlike  endeavor, 

Whom   Wisdom   shall    throne  on   her 
throne. 

Chobttb  —  Some  Women.  But  Cephisus 
the  fair-flowing, 

Will  he  bear  thee  on  his  shore? 
Shall  the  land  that  succors  all,  succor 

Who  art  foul  among  thy  kind. 
With  the  tears  of  children  blind? 
DoBt  thou  see  the  red  gash  growing. 
Thine  own  burden  dost  thou  see? 

Every  side,  every  way, 
Lo,  we  kned  to  thee  and  pray: 
By  thy  knees,  by  thy  soul,  0  woman 

One  at  least  thou  canst  not  slay. 
Not  thy  childl 
Chorus  —  OCAerr  Hast  thou  ice  that 

thou  shalt  bind  it 
To  thy  breast,  and  make  thee  dead 
To  thy  children,  to  thine  own  spirit's 

When  the  hand  knows  what  it  dares. 
When  thine  eyes  look  into  theirs. 


CtOoi^Ic 


74 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Shalt  thou  keep  by  tears  unblmded 
Thy  dividing  of  the  slain? 

These  be  deeds  not  for  thee: 
These  be  thingH  that  cannot  bel 
Thy  babes  —  though  thine  hardi- 
hood be  M, 
When  they  cling  about  thy  knee, 
'TwmbeweU! 
[Enttr  Jasom.] 
StBtOf.  I  answer  to  thy  call.    Though 
fuUof  hate 
Thou  be,  I  yet  will  not  bo  far  abate 
My  kindness  for  thee,  nor  refuse  niine  ear. 
Bay  in  what  new  desire  thou  hiAt  called  me 

Medea.  Jason,    I   pray  thee,   for  my 

words  but  tiow 
Spoken,  forgave  me.   My  bad  moods.  . . . 

Oh,  thou 
At  least  wilt  strive  to  bear  with  tbemi 

There  be 
Many  old  deeds  of  love  'twixt  me  and  thee. 
Lo,  I  have  reasoned  with  myedf  apart 
And  chidden:  "Why  must  I  be  mad,  O 

heart 
Of  mine:  and  raging  against  one  whose 

Is  wisdom:  making  me  a  thing  abhorred 
To  them  that  rule  the  land,  and  to  mine  own 
Husband,  who  doth  but  that  which,  being 

done, 
^11  help  us  all  —  to  wed  a  queen,  and  get 
Young  kings  for  brethren  to  my  sons?  And 

I  rage  alone,  and  cannot  q[uit  my  rage  — 

What  aileUi  me?  —  when  Ood  sends  bar- 
borage 

So  simpleT  Have  I  not  my  childrenT  Know 

I  not  we  are  but  exHee,  and  must  go 

Beggared  and  friendless  else?"  Thought 
upon  thought 

Bo  ^HWed  me,  till  I  knew  mysdf  full- 
fraught 

With  bitteniGes  of  heart  and  blinded  eyes. 

So  now  —  I  give  thee  thanks:  and  hold 
thee  wise 

To  have  caught  this  anchor  for  our  aid. 
The  fool 

Was  I;  who  should  have  been  thy  friend, 
thy  tool; 

Gone  wooing  with  thee,  stood  at  thy  bedside  < 


Serving,    and    wdcomed    duteously    thi 

But,  as  we  are,  we  are  —  I  will  not  say 
Mere  evil  —  women!  Why  must  thou  to> 

Turn  strange,  and  make  thee  like  some  evil 

ChildiBh,  to  meet  my  ^Aildish  passioningT 
See,  I  surrender:  and  confess  tibat  then 
I  httd  bad  thoughts,  but  now  have  turned 

again 
And  found  my  wisv  mind. 

[She  claps  htr  hanibi 
Ho,  children  I  Run 
Quickly  I  Come  hither,  out  into  the  sun, 
{The  Children  come  from  the  houte, 
foOomed  by  tlieir  Attendant.] 
And  greet  your  father.  Wdoome  him  with 

And  throw  quite,  quite  away,  as  mother 

does, 
Your  anger  against  one  so  dear.  Our  peace 
Is  made,  and  all  the  old  bad  war  shall  cease 
Forever.  —  Go,  and  take  his  hand.  .  .  . 

[At  the  Children  go  to  Jason,  she 

tuddenly  bvrgls  into  tears.    The 

Children  qitudcly  return  la  her; 

ahe  reeovera  hernii,  emUing  amid 

her  tear*.] 

I  am  full  of  hidden  bbrrorsi . . .  Shall  it  be 
A  long  time  more,  my  children,  that  ye  live 
To  reach  to  me  those  dear,  dear  armsT  . . . 

Forgive  I 
I  am  so  ready  with  my  tears  to-d&y, 
And  full  of  diead.  ...  1  sought  to  smoott 

away 
The  bng  strife  with  your  father,  and,  lo, 

I  have  all  drowned  with  teais  this  little 
browl        [She  mpe»  the  ehUd'e  /ocej 
LxASER.  O'er  mine  eyes  too  there  steal- 
etb  a  pate  tear: 
Let  the  evil  rest,  O  Ood,  let  it  rest  herel 
Jason.  Woman,   indeed  I  pruss   th« 
now,  nor  say 
111  irf  thine  other  hour.  'T  is  nature's  wi^, 
A  woman  needs  must  stir  herself  to  wiathf 
When  work  of  marriage  by  so  strange  a 

Crosseth  her  lord.  Bat  thou,  thine  hewt 
doth  wend 


.  Google 


Tlw  h^qiJOT  roul.    Thou  hast  geen,  ere 

quite  the  end, 
What  choice  miut  needs  be  atronger:  which 

Shows  a  wise-minded  wonum.  .  .  .  And  for 

you, 
Children;  your  father  never  has  foreot 
Your  needs.  If  God  but  help  him,  he  hath 

wrought 
A  Btrong  deliverance  for  your  weakneae. 

Ya, 
I  think  you,  with  youi  brethren,  yet  one 

day 
Shall  be  the  mightieet  voioea  in  this  land. 
Do  you  grow  tall  and  strong.  Your  father's 

Guideth  all  else,  and  whateo  power  divine 
Bath  alway  helped  him.  . . .  Ah,  may  it  be 


How? 
Vt^nan,  thy  face  is  turned.  Thy  cheek  is 

With  pallor  of  strange  tears,    Dost  not 

Mcept 
Okdiy  and  of  good  will  my  benisonsT 
Medka.  'Tia    nothing.     Thinking    of 

tiieae  littie  onee.  .  .  . 
Jabon.  Take  heart,  then.    I  will  guard 

them  from  all  ill. 
Mn>EA.  I  do  take  heart.   Thy  word  I 
never  wiQ 
Hiatftut.  Alas,  a  woman's  boaom  bears 
But  woman's  courage,  a  thing  bom  for 
tears. 
Jason.  What  aila  theef  —  All  too  sore 

thou  weepeet  there. 
Hedxa.  I  was  their  mother!    When  I 
heard  thy  pnyer 
Of  long  life  for  them,  there  swept  over  me 
A  honor,  wondering  how  tbwe  thin^  shall 
be. 
But  for  the  matter  of  my  need  that  thou 
Bhould  speak  with  me,  part  I  have  sud, 

and  now 
Win  finish.  — -  Seeing  it  is  the  king's  behest 
To  cast  me  out  from  Corinth  . .  .  aye,  and 

best, 
hr  best,  for  roe  —  I  know  it  —  not  to 


Longer  to  trouble  thee  and  those  who  swa^ 
The  realm,  being  hdd  to  all  their  hquse  a 

foe.  .  .  . 
Behold,  I  spread  my  soils,  and  meekly  go 
To  exile.  But  our  children. . . .  Could  this 

land 
Be  still  their  home  awhile:  could  thine  own 

But   guide   their  boyhood.  . .  .  Seek   the 

king,  and  pray 
His  pity,  that  he  bid  thy  children  stayl 
jASOif.  He  is  hard  to  move.  Yet  surely 

't  were  well  done. 
Medea.  Bid  her  —  for  thy  sake,  for  a 

'    daught«r'a  boon.  .  .  . 
Jason.  Well  thought!  Her  I  can  fashion 

to  my  mind. 
MxDSA.  Surely,  ^e  is  a  woman  like  her 

kind 

Yet  1  will  aid  thee  in  Uiy  labor;  I 

Will  send  her  gifts,  the  fairest  gifts  that  lie 

In  the  hands  of  men,  thii^  of  the  days  oT 

old, 
Fine  robings  and  a  carcanet  of  g<dd. 
By  the  boys'  hands.  —  Go,  quit^,  some 

handmaiden. 
And  fetch  the  raiment. 

[A  handmaid  goei  inio  the  AtniM.] 
Ah,  her  cup  shall  then 
Be  filled  indeed!  what  mora  should  woman 

Being  wed  with  thee,  the  bravest  of  the 

And  girt  with  raiment  which  of  old  tte 

Of  all  my  house,  the  Sun,  gave,  steeped  Id 

fire. 
To  his  own  fiery  race? 

[The  handmaid  hat  relumed  bear- 
tn0  the  giflt-] 
Come,  children,  lift 
With  heed  theae  caskets.    Bear  them  as 

your  gift 
To  her,  toeing  bride  and  princess  and  oi 

Blessedl  —  I  think  ahe  will  not  hold  them 

light. 
Jason.  Fond  woman,  why  wilt  empty 

thus  thine  hand 
Of  treasure?    Doth  King  Creon's  caatic 

In  stint  of  raiment,  or  in  sUnt  of  ciddT 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Keep  theee,  and  malce  no  gift.  For  if  she  - 

hold 
Jaaon  of  any  worth  at  aU,  I  swear 
Ghattela  like  theee  will  not  weigh  more 

with  hv. 
Medea.  Ah,  chide  me  noti  'T  is  written, 

gifts  persuade 
The  gods  in  heaven;  and  gold  is  stronger 

made 
Thau  words  innumerable  to  bend  mi 

Fortune  ie  hen.    Ood  maketh  great  her 

days: 
Young  and  a  orownU  queen!  Andbaoish- 

For  those  two  babes. ...  I  would  not  gold 

But  life's  blood,  ere  that  come. 

My  children,  go 
Forth  into  those  rich  halls,  and,  bowing 

low. 
Beseech  yotu  father's  bride,  whom  I  obey, 
Ye  be  not,  of  her  mercy,  cast  away 
Esiled :  and  give  the  cadcct«  —  above  all 
Mark  thiet  —  to  ikone  but  her,  to  hold 

withal 
And  keep. . . .  Qo  quickl    And  let  your 

mother  know 
Soon  the  good  tiding  that  she  longs  for.  .  .  . 
Ool 

[She  goes  quickly  into  the  htnite. 
Jabon  and  Ike  Children  with 
lAetr  AUendarU  depart.] 
Cbobtis.  Now  I  have  no  hope  more  of 

the  children's  living; 
No  hope  more.  They  are  gone  forth  unto 
death.  , 
The  bride,  she  talceth  the  poison  of  their 
giving; 
She  taketh  the  bounden  gold  and  open- 
eth; 
And  the  crown,  the  crown,  she  lifteth  about 

her  brow, 
Where  the  light  brown  curls  are  clustering. 
No  hope  now  I 

O  sweet  and  cloudy  gleam  of  the  garments 

golden! 
The  robe,  it  hath  clasped  ber  breast  and 

the  crown  her  head. 
Then,  then,  she  decketb  the  bride,  as  a 

bride,  of  olden 


Story,  that  gaeth  pale  to  the  kiss  of  the 

For  the  ring  hath  rfoeed,  and  the  port^ 

of  death  is  there; 
And  she  fiieth  not,  but  perisheth  unaware. 
Chorcs  —  Some  Women.  O  bridegroom, 
bridegroom  of  the  kiss  so  cold, 
Art  thou  wed  with  prinoes,  art  thou  girt 
with  gold. 
Who  know'st  not,  suing 
For  thy  child's  undoing, 
And,  on  h^  Uiou  lovest,  for  a  doom  on. 

told? 
How  art  thou  fallen  from  thy  place  of  oldl 
Chokus  ^  CMAsrt.    O  Mother,  motJier, 
what  hast  lAou  to  reap, 
When  the  harvest  cometh,  between  wake 
and  sleep? 
For  a  heart  unslaken, 
For  a  troth  forsaken, 
Lo,  babee  that  call  thee  fVom  a  bloody  deep: 
And  thy  love  returns  not.  Get  thee  forth 
and  weep! 

[EjUer  the  AtUndant  toiih  the  tmo  Children; 

Medea  ermies  out  from  the  houie.] 

Attendant.  Mistress,     these    childrm 

from  their  baniahment 

Are  spared.   The  royal  bride  hath  mildly 

bent 
Her  hand  to  accept  thy  gifts,  and  all  is  now 
Peace  for  the  children.  —  Ha,  why  standest 

Confounded,  when  good  fortune  draweth 

MzDSA.  Ah,  God! 

Attendant.  This  chimes  not  with  the 

news  I  bear. 
Medxa.  O  God,  have  mercyl 
Attendant.  Is  some  word  of  wrath 
Here  hidden  that  I  knew  not  of?  And  hath 
My  hope  to  give  thee  joy  so  cheated  mef 
Medea.  Thou  givest  what  thou  givest: 

I  blame  not  thee. 
ATrENDAMT.  Thy  brows  are  all  o'ercast: 

thine  eyes  are  filled.  .  .  . 
Mbdba.  For  bitter  need,  cAd  man!  Tha 
gods  have  willed, 
And  mine  own  evil  mind,  that  this  should 

AiTSNDANT.  Take  heart!  Tlqr  aaoa  oop 
day  will  bring  thee  home. 


.CtOoqIc 


Hkdka.  HomeT  ...  I   have   others   to 

aecd  home.  Woe's  mel 
AiTKNDAin'.  Bepatient.  Manyamother 
before  thee 
Bath  parted  from  her  children.   We  poor 

Of  men  must  needs  endure  what  fortune 
brings. 
MKnBA.  I  will  endure.  —  Go  thou  with- 
in, and  lay 
AH  ready  that  my  aoaa  may  need  to-day. 
[The  AUindant  goet  into  the  Aou*e.1 
0  children,  children  mine:  and  you  have 

A  land  and  home,  where,  leaving  me  dis- 
crowned 
And  desolate,  forever  you  will  stay, 
Motherless  childrent  And  I  go  my  way 
To  other  lands,  an  exile,  ere  you  bring 
Your  fruits  home,  ere  I  see  you  prospering 
Or  know  your  brides,  or  deck  the  bridal  bed, 
All  flowers,  and  lift  your  torches  overhead. 
Oh,  cursM  be  mine  own  hard  heartl 
'TwasaU 
In  vain,  then,  that  I  reared  you  up,  so  tall 
And  fair;  in  vain  I  bore  you,  and  was  torn 
With  those  long  pitiless  pains,  when  you 

Ah,  wondrous  hopes  my  poor  heart  had  in 

you, 
Howyou  wouldteodmeinnuneage,  and  do 
The  shroud  about  me  with  your  own  dear 

When  I  lay  cold,  blessed  in  all  the  lands 
'Aat  knew  us.  And  that  gentle  thought  is 

deadl 
Vou  go,  and  I  live  on,  to  eat  the  bread 
Of  long  years,  to  myself  most  full  of  pain. 
And  never  your  dear  eyes,  never  again, 
Shsil  see  your    mother,  far  away  being 

thrown 
To  other  sh^Ks  of  life. .  , .  My  babes,  my 

Why  gaie  ye  oo? — What  is  it  that  ye  see  ? 
And  lau^  with  that  last  Iaught«r7  . .  . 

Woe  is  me, 
What  shall  I  do? 

Women,  my  strength  is  gone, 
Gooe  like  a  dream,  since  once  I  looked  upon 
Tlioae  shining  faces.  ...  I  can  do  it  not. 
Qood-bye  to  all  the  thoughts  that  burned 

so  hot 


Aforetimel  I  will  take  and  hide  them  its, 
Far,  fhun  men's  eyes.  Why  should  I  seek 

awar 
So  blind:  by  these  bahee'  wounds  to  sting 

again 
Their  father's  heart,  and  win  myself  a  pain 
Twice  deeper?  Never,  nevert  I  forget 
Henceforward  all  I  labored  for. 

And  yet, 
What  is  it  with  meT  Would  I  be  a  thing 
Mocked  at,  and  leave  mine  enemies  to  sting 
UnsmittenT  It  must  be.  O  coward  heart. 
Ever  to  harbor  such  soft  wordsl  —  Depart 
Out  of  my  sight,  ye  twain. 

[The  ChUdren  go  tnj 
And  they  whose  eyes 
Shall  hold  it  sin  to  share  my  sacrifice, 
On  their  heads  be  itl    My  hand  shall  , 

swerve  not  now. 

Ah,  Ah,  thou  Wrath  within  met  Do  nbt 

thou, 
Do  not.  .  .  .  Down,  down,  thou  tortured 

thing,  and  spare 
My  childreul  They  will  dwell  with  us,  tin, 

Far  off,  and  give  thee  peace. 

Too  late,  too  late! 
By  all  Hell's  living  agonies  of  hate. 
They  shall  not  take  my  httje  ones  idive 
To  make  their  mock  with!    Howsoe'er  I 

The  thing  is  doomed;  it  shall  not  escape  now 
From  being.  Aye,  the  crown  is  on  the  brow. 
And  the  robe  girt,  and  in  the  robe  that  high 
Queen  dying. 

I  know  all.  Yet .  .  .  seeing  that  I 
Must  go  so  long  a  journey,  and  these  twaia 
A  longer  yet  and  darker,  I  would  fain 
Speak  with  them,  ere  I  go. 

[A  handmaid  brinft  Uu  ChilAvn 

Come,  children;  stand 
A  little  from  me.  There.  Reach  out  your 

Your  right  hand  —  so  —  to  mother:  and 
good-bye  I 

[/She  haa  kept  Ihem  hUherto  at  arm't- 
letif/th:  but  01  the  Umrh  of  their 
hand*,  her  ruolulion  break* 
doim,  and  the  gaUten  them  pa» 
aianatdji  into  her  armti 


..CiOo<-i\c 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Oh,  Hurling  handl  Oh,  darling  mouth,  and 
And  royal  mien,  and  bright  brave  faces 

Mayyou  be  blesakl,  but  not  here!  What 

here 
Was  youre,  your  father  stole. ...  Ah  God, 

the  glow 
Of  cheek  on  cheek,  the  tender  touch;  aod 

oh, 
Sweet  scent  of  childhood.  . .  .  Go!  Got .  .  . 

Am  I  blind?  .  .  . 
Mine  eyes  can  see  not,  when  I  look  to 

find 
Their  places.  I  am  broken  by  the  wings 
Of  evil.  .  .  .  Yea,   I  know  to  what  bad 

things 
I  go,  but  louder  than  all  thought  doth  cry 
Anger,  which  maketh  man's  worst  misery. 
tSAe  foUaws  At  CkUdren  inlo  the 

Chobits.  My  thoughts  have  roamed  a 
cloudy  land. 
And  heard  a  fierier  music  fall 
Ulan  woman's  heart  should  stir  withal: 
And  yet  some  Muee  majestical, 
Unknown,  hath  hold  of  woman's  hand. 
Seeking  for  Wisdom  —  not  in  all; 
A  feeble  seed,  a  scattered  band, 
Thou  yet  shslt  find  in  lonely  places, 
Kot  dead  amongst  us,  nor  our  faces 
Turned  alway  from  the  Muaes'  call. 

And  thus  my  thought  would  qieak:  that 

she 
Who  ne'er  hath  borne  a  child  nor  known 
Is  nearer  to  felicity: 
Unlit  she  goeth  and  alone. 
With  little  understanding  what 
A  child's  touch  means  of  joy  or  woe, 
And  many  toils  she  beareth  not. 

But  they  within  whose  garden  fair 
lliat  gentle  jdant  hath  blown,  they  go 
Deep-written  all  their  days  with  care  — 
To  rear  the  children,  to  make  fast 
Their  hold,   to    win  them   wealth;   and 

Much  darkness,  if  the  seed  at  last 
Bear  fruit  in  good  or  evil  menl 
And  one  thing  at  the  end  of  all 
Abideth,  that  which  all  men  dread:  ■ 


The  wealth  is  won,  the  limbs  are  bred 
To  manhood,  and  the  heart  withal 
Honest:  and,  lo,  where  Fortune  smiled. 
Some  change,  and  irtiat  hath  fallen?  Ha^! 
'T  is  death  slow  winging  to  the  da^ 
And  in  his  arms  what  was  thy  t^ild. 

What  therefore  doth  it  bring  of  gain 
To  man,  whose  cup  stood  full  before. 
That  God  should  send  this  one  thing  mofe 
Of  hunger  and  of  dread,  a  door 
Set  wide  to  every  wind  of  pain? 

[MlDEA  eoirua  mil  aloMfroin  Oie 

M11DK&.  Friends,  this  long  hour  I  wait 
on  Fortune's  eyes, 
And  strain  my  senses  in  a  hot  surmise 
What  passeth  on  that  hill.  —  Ha!  even  now 
There  comes  ...  't  is  one  of  Jason's  men. 

His  wild-perturb&d  breath  doth  warrant 
The  tidings  of  some  strange  csJamity. 
[Enter  Metaen^.] 
Mbbszngkb.  O  dire  and  ghastly  deedl 
Get  thee  away, 
Medeal  Myl  Nor  let  behind  thee  sUy 
One  chariot's  wing,  one  keel  that  sweqis 

MxDEA.  And   what   hath  chanced,   to 
cause  such  flights  as  these? 

MB8BKNQKR.  The  maiden  prinoess  lietb 
—  and  her  sire. 
The  king  —  both  murdered  by  thy  poiaon- 

Mkdka.  Most  happy  tiding!  Which  thy 

Henceforth  among  my  friends  and  well- 
wishers. 
MBBSENOza.  What  say'st  thou?   Wom- 
an, is  thy  mind  within 

Clear,  and  not  raving?  Thou  art  found  in 

Most  bloody  wrought  against  the  king's 

highhesd, 
And  laugheet  at  the  tale,  and  hast  no  dreadT 
Medea.  I  have  words  also  that  oould 

answer  wdl 
Thy  word.  But  take  thine  ease,  good  friend, 

and  tell. 
How  died  they?  Hath  it  been  a  very  foul 


DMth,  pritheeT  Tlut  were  oomfort  to  my 

Mebbinger.  When  thy  two  children, 

hand  m  hand  entwmed, 
Cune  with  their  father,  aad  passed  on  to 

find 
The  Dew-made  bridal  rooms,  oh,  we  were 

Slad, 
We  thralls,  who  ever  loved  thee  well,  and 

had 
Grief  in  thy  grief.    And  straight  there 

passed  a  word 
nom  ear  to  ear,  that  thou  and  thy  false 

lord 
Had  poured  peace  oSeriug  upon  wrath 

iotegone. 
A  right  i^  welcome  gave  we  them,  and 

Kined  the  small  hands,  and  one  the  shining 

Mysdf,  for  very  joy,  I  followed  where 
The  women's  rooms  are.   There  our  mis- 

trfSB  .  . .  she 
Whom  now  we  name  so  . . .  thinldng  not  to 

Thy  little  pair,  with  glad  and  eager  brow 
Sate  waiting  Jason.    Then  she  saw,  and 

Shrouded  her  eyes,  and  backward  turned 
again,    . 

Sick  that  thy  children  should  ciane  near 
her.  Then 

Thy  husband  quick  wmt  forward,  to  en- 
treat 

The  young  maid'a  fitful  wrath.  "Thou  wilt 
not  meet 

Love's  coming  with   unldndncM?    Nay, 

Thy  suddenness,  and  turn  thy  face  again, 
HcJding  as  friends  all  that  to  me  are  dear, 
Thine  husband.    And  accept  these  robes 

they  bear 
As  gifta:  and  beg  thy  father  to  unmake 
His  doom  of  exile  on  them  —  for  my  sake." 
When  once  she  saw  the  raiment,  she  could 

stiU 
Her  joy  no  more,  but  gave  him  all  his  will. 
And  almost  ere  the  father  and  the  two 
cauldron  Wtte  gone  from  out  the  room,  she 

drew 
He  flowered  garments  forth,  and  sale  her 


To  her  arraying:  bound  the  golden  crown 
Through  h^  long  curls,  and  in  a  mirror 

fair 
Arranged  their  separate  clusters,  smiling 

there 
At  the  dead  self  that  faced  her.    Then 

aride 
She  pushed  her  seat,  and  paced  those  cham- 
bers wide 
Alone,  her  white  foot  poising  ddicately  — 
So  passing  joyful  in  those  gifts  was  shel  — ' 
And  many  a  time  would  pause,  straight- 
limbed,  and  whed 
Her  head  to  watch  the  long  fold  to  her  had 
Sweeping.     And    then    came    something 

strange.  Her  cheek 
Seemed  pale,  and  back  with  crooked  steps 

and  weak 
Groping  of  arms  she  walked,  and  scarcely 

Her  old  seat,  that  she  fell  not  to  the 

grouikd. 
Among  the  handmaids  was  a  woman  old 
And  gray,  who  deemed,  I  think,  that  Pan 

had  hold 
Upon  her,  or  some  spirit,  and  raised  a  keen 
Awakening  shout;  till  through  her  lipe  was 

seen 
A  whit«  foam  crawling,  and  her  eyeballs 

back 
Twisted,  and  all  her  face  daad  pale  for  lack 
Of  life:  and  while  that  old  dame  called,  the 

cry 
Turned  strangdy  to  its  ontoaita,  to  die 
Sobbing.  Oh,  swiftly  then  one  woman  flew 
To  seek  her  fatiier's  rooms,  one  for  the  new 
Bridegroom,  to  tell  the  tale.   And  all  the 

place 
Was  loud  with  hurrying  feet. 

So  long  a  spaoe 
As  a  swift  walker  on  a  measured  way 
Would  pace  a  furiong's  course  in,  there  she 

lay 
BpeechlMs,  with  veiled  lids.  Tlien  wide  her 

eyes 
She  oped,  and  wildly,  as  she  strove  to  rise. 
Shrieked:  for  two  dlvene  waves  upon  her 

rolled 
Of  stabbing  death.  The  carcanet  of  gold 
That  gripped  her  brow  was  molten  in  a 


dire 
And  wondrous  rive 


fin. 


.CtOo^^Ic 


So 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


And  those  fine  robea,  the  gift  thy  children 

gave  — 
God's  mercy  I  —  everywhere  did  lap  and 

The  ddicate  flesh;  till  up  she  ajwaiig,  and 

fled, 
A  fiery  pillar,  shaking  locks  and  head 
This  way  and  that,  seeking  to  caat  the 

Somewhere  away.   But  like  a  thing  nailed 

The  bumiag  gold  held  fast  the  anadein. 
And  through  her  locks,  the  more  she  scat- 
tered them. 
Came  fit«  the  fiercer,  till  to  earth  she  fell 
A  thing  —  save  to  her  sire  —  scarce  name- 
able, 
And  strove  no  more.  That  cheek  of  roysl 

Where  WM  it  —  or  the  place  where  eyea 

had  been? 
Only  from  crown  and  temples  came  faint 

blood 
Shot  through  with  fire.   The  very  flesh,  it 

Out  from  the  bones,  as  from  a  wounded 

The  gum  starts,  where  those  gnawing  poi- 

Bit  in  the  dark  —  a  ghastly  sight!   And 

The  dead  we  duist  not.   We  had  seen  too 

But  that  poor  father,  knowing  not,  had 

Swift  t«  his  daughter's  room,  and  there  the 

dead 
Lay  at  his  feet.    He  knelt,  and  groaning 

Folded  her  in  bis  arms,  and  kissed  her: 

"Oh, 
Unhappy  child,  what  thing  unnatural  hatfa 
So  hideously  undone  thee?   Or  what  wrath 
Of  gods,  to  make  this  old  gray  sepulcher 
Childless  of  thee?  Would  God  but  lay  me 

To  die  with  thee,  my  daught«r1"   So  he 

But  after,  when  he  stayed  from  tears,  and 

tried 
To  uplift  his  <Ad  bent  frame,  lo,  in  the  folds 
Of  those  fine  robce  it  held,  as  ivy  hdds 


A  ghastly  struggle  camel  Again,  again. 
Up  on  his  knee  be  writhed;  but  that  dead 

breast 
Clung  still  to  hie:  till,  wild,  like  one  poa- 

He  dragged  himself  half  free;  and,  lo,  the 

Flesh  ported;  and  he  laid  him  down  to 

No  more  with  death,  but  periah;  for  the 

Had  risen  above  his  aoul.   And  there  they 

sleep, 
At  last,  the  old  proud  Father  and  the  brid^ 
Even  as  his  tears  had  craved  it,  side  by 

For  thee  —  Oh,  no  word  morel  Thysdf 

will  know 
How  beet  to  baffle  yengeanoe.  .  .  .Long  ago 
1  looked  upon  man's  days,  and  found  a 

gray 
Shadow,  And  this  thing  mot«  I  surely  say, 
That  those  of  all  men  who  are  counted  wise. 
Strong  wits,  devisers  of  great  policies, 
Do  pay  the  bitterest  toll.  Since  life  begaa, 
HatJi  there  in  God's  eye  stood  one  happy 

Fair  days  roll  on,  and  bear  more  gifts  or  less 
Of  fortune,  but  to  no  man  happineaa. 

[Exit  JIf  nsen^er.) 

Chobob  —  Some  Women.    Wrath  upon 

wrath,  meeeems,  this  day  shall  fall 

From  Godon  Joaonl  He  hatJi  earned  it  aU- 

Chords  —  Other    Women.  O   miaerable 

maiden,  all  my  heart 

Is  torn  for  Uiee,  so  sudden  to  depart 

From  thy  king's  ehambeia  and  the  li^t 

To  daikneas,  all  for  sake  of  Jason's  lovel 
Medea.  Women,  my  mind  ia  clear.  I  go 
to  slay 
My  children  with  all  speed,  and  then,  away 
From  hence;  not  wait  yet  longn  till  they 

Beneath  another  and  an  angrier  hand 
To  die.  Yea,  howsoe'er  I  shidd  Utem,  die 
They  must.   And,  semng  that  they  must, 

'tis  I 
ShaU  slay  tlwm,  1  their  mother,  touched  of 


:.L|,i,zedi!,GoOQlc 


Bcaide.  Oh,  up,  and  get  thine  armor  on, 
My  hearti  Why  longer  t»ry  we  to  win 
Our  cit>wn  of  due  inevitable  sin? 
Take  up  thy  sword,  0  poor  right  hand  of 

Hiy  Bword :  then  onward  to  the  thin-drawn 

Where  life  turns  agony.  Let  tbete  be  naught 
Of  acrftnesB  now:  and  1(ecp  thee  from  that 

tJunii^t, 
"  Bean  of  thy  fleeh,"  "thine  own  beIov6d." 

Now, 
For  one  brief  day,  forget  thy  children :  thou 
Shalt  weep  horeafter.    Though  thou  sl^ 

tb^,  yet 
Sweet  were  th^.  ...  I  am  sore  unfortu- 
nate. [Sft<  goet  irtlo  tht  lufuae.] 
Cbobdb  —  Some  Women.  0  Earth,  our 
mother;  and  thou 
All-deer,  arrowy  crown 
Of  Sunlight,  manward  now 

Look  down,  oh,  look  downl 
Lo(A  upon  one  accurst, 
Ek  yet  in  blood  she  twine 
Bed  hands  —  blood  that  is  thine! 
O  Sun,  ^ve  her  firstl 
She  is  Uiy  daughter  still. 

Of  thine  own  golden  line; 
Sftve  herl  Or  shall  man  spill 
The  life  divine? 
Give  peaoe,  O  Fire  that  dieat  not!   Send 
thyepeU 
To  stay  her  yet,  to  lift  her  afar,  afar  ~ 
A  torture-chaogM  spirit,  a  voice  of  HeU 
Wrought  <rf  old  wrongs  and  warl 
Chmhis  —  Others.  AIbb  for  the  mother's 

Wasted!  Alas  the  dear 
life  that  was  born  in  vain! 

Woman,  what  mak'st  thou  here 
Thou  from  beyond  the  Gate 

Where  dim  Symplegsdes 

Clash  in  the  dark  blue  seas, 
The  shores  where  death  doth  wait? 
Why  haat  thou  taken  on  thee, 

To  make  us  desolate, 
This«nger  of  misery 
And  guilt  of  hate? 
For  fierce  are  the  mutings  back  of  blood 

once  shed 
Where  love  hath  been :  God's  wratli  upon 

them  that  kill. 


i£A  81 

And  an  anguished  earth,  and  the  wonder  of 
the  dead 
Haunting  as  music  atiU.  .  . . 

[A  cry  u  heard  tmihin.] 
A  Woman.  HnrkI  Did  ye  hear?  Heard 

ye  the  children's  cry? 
Amotbtr.  O  miserable  woman!   O  ab- 
horred I 
A  Cmui    lioilhin].   What  sbaU  I  doT 
What  is  it?  Keep  me  fast 
From  mother! 
Thb  Othkb  Chiu).  I    know   ootbiDg. 
Brothert  Oh, 
I  think  she  means  ta  kill  us. 

A  Woman.  Let  me  go! 
I  will  —  Hdpt  Hdpl  —  and  save  them  at 
the  last. 
A  CHtu>.  Yes,  in  God's  name!    Help 

quickly  ere  we  die! 
The  Other  Chiid.     She    has  almost 
caught  me  now.  She  has  a  sword. 
IManji  <^  the  -Mnnen  are  notn  beot- 
ing  at  the  barred  door  to  gel  in. 
Other  %  are  etartding  apori.) 
WouEN  lai  the  door].  T^u  stone,  thou 
thing  of  ironi  Wilt  verily 
Spill  with  tfiine  hand  that  life,  Uie  vintage 

stored 
Of  thine  own  agony? 
The  Other  Women.  A    mother   slew 

her  babea  in  days  of  yore. 
One,  only  one,  from  dawn  to  eventide, 
Ino,  god-roaddened,  whom  the  Queen 
of  Heaven 
Set  frensied,  flying  to  the  dark:  and 


Cast  her  for  8< 


V  totl 


Forth   from   those  rooms  of  murder 
imforgiven, 
Wild-footed  from  a  white  crag  of  the  shore, 
And  clasping  still  her  children  twain,  she 
died. 

O  Love  of  Woman,  charged  with  sorrowaore. 

What  hast  thou  wrought  upon  us?  What 

beside 

Resteth  to  tremble  for? 

[£nter  hurriedly  Jabon  and  Attendant*.] 

3teoM.  Ye  women  by  this  doorwi^  diw 


tering 


.Goog[c 


Si 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


^wak,  is  the  doer  of  the  ghastly  thing 
Yet  here,  or  fled?    What  hopeth  aha  of 

fli^t? 
Shall  the  deep  yawn  to  ehield  her?  Shall 

the  height 
Send  wings,  and  hide  her  in  the  vaulted 

Bky 
To  work  red  murder  on  her  lords,  and 

% 

Unrecompensed?  But  let  her  gol  My  care 
Ib  but  to  save  my  children,  not  for  htr. 
Let  them  she  wronged  requite  her  aa  they 

may; 
I  care  not.  Tis  my  sons  I  must  some 

way 
Save,  ere  the  kinamen  of  the  dead  can 

From  them  the  payment  of  their  mothn's 
sin. 
Lbasir.  Unhappy  man,   indeed   thou 
knowest  not 
What  datlc  plaoe  thou  art  come  tol  Else, 

Ood  wot, 
Jason,  no  word  like  thtse  could  fall  from 
thee. 
Jabon.  What  is  it?  —  Hal  The  woman 

would  kill  me? 
LxADEB.  Thy  sons  are  dead,  slnin  by 

their  mother's  hand. 
Jabon.  How?    Not  the  children,  ...  I 
scarce  understand.  . .  . 
O  God,  thou  hast  bn^en  me! 

Lbadeb.  Think  of  thoae  twain 
&8  things  onoe  fair,  that  ne  er  shall  bloom 
again. 
Jason.  Where  did  she  murder  them?  In 

that  old  room? 
l3AnBS.  Open,  and  thou  shalt  see  thy 

children's  doom. 
Jason.  Ho,  thralls!    Unloose  me  yonder 
barsi  Make  more 
Of  epeedl  Wrench  out  the  jointing  of  the 

And  show  my  two-edged  curse,  the  chil- 
dren dead; 
The  woman.  .  .  .  Oh,  this  sword  upon  her 

head 

{WkUe  the  AUendanU  are  stiU  btO- 
tering  at  Ott  door,  Medea  a-p- 
peari  on  the  roqf,  sUmding  on  a 
chariot  <4  viatQed  dragoni,  in 
uAtcA  ore  the  chUdren't  hodiet.] 


Medea.  What  make  ye  at  my  gate^ 
Why  battM  ye 
With  braeen  bars,  seeking  the  dead  and 

Who  slew  them?  Feaoel . . .  And  thou,  L 

Bu^t  of  mine 
Thou  noedest,  speak,  though  never  touch 

of  thine 
Shall  scathe  me  more.   Out  of  his  firma- 

My  fathers'  father,  the  high  Sun,  hath  sent 
This,  that  shall  save  me  from  mine  enemies' 

rage 
Jason.  Thou  living  hatel  Thou  wife  in 

every  age 
Abfaorr&l,  Uood-red  mother,  who  didst  kill 
My  Bonn,  and  make  me  as  the  dead:  and 

still 
Canst  take  the  sunshine  to  thine  eyes,  and 

The  green  earth,  reeking  from  thy  deed  of 

bell; 
1  curse  thee]   Now,  oh,  now  mjne  eyee  can 

see. 
That  then  were  blinded,  when  from  sav 

agwy 
Of  eastern  chambers,  from  a  cruel  land, 
To  Greece  and  home  I  gathered  in  mine 

Thee,  thou  iticamate  curse:  one  that  be- 
trayed 

Her  home,  her  father,  her  .  .  .  Oh,  God 
hath  laid 

Thy  sins  on  me!  —  I  knew,  I  knew,  there 
lay 

A  brother  murdered  on  thy  hearth  that  da] 

When  thy  first  footstep  fell  on  Argo*! 
huU.  .  .  . 

Argo,  my  own,  my  swift  and  beautiful! 
That  was  h^  first  beginning.   Then  a 
wife 

I  made  htr  in  n^  house.  She  bore  to  life 

Children;  and  now  for  love,  for  chambering 

And  men's  arms,  she  bath  murdered  themi 
A  thing 

Not  one  of  all  the  maids  of  Greece,  not 

Had  dreamed  of;  whom  I  spumed,  and  for 

mine  own 
Chose  thee,  a  bride  of  hate  to  me  and 

llgress,  not  woman,  beast  of  wilder  breatb 


Hum  So^U  Bhridcing  o'er  the  Tuscan  am. 
Gnoa^!   No  soom  of  mine  can  reach  to 

thee, 
Such  iron  ia  o'k"  thine  eyes.  Out  fpom  my 

Thou  erime-begetter,  blind  with  children's 

blood! 
And  let  me  weep  alone  the  hitter  tide 
That  sneepeth  Jason's  days,   no  gentle 

To  speak  witii  more,  no  child  to  look 

upon 
Whom  oDoe  I  reared  ...  all,  tdl  forever 

Mkdka.  An  easy  answer  had  I  to  this 

■well 
Of  qieech,  but  Zeus  our  father  knoweth 

well. 
An  I  for  thee  have  wrought,  and  thou  for 

So  let  it  rest.  This  thing  was  not  to  be, 
That  thou  ahouldat  live  a  merry  life,  my 

bed 
Forgotten  and  my  heart  unoomforted. 
Thou  nor  thy  princess:  nor  the  king  that 


Thy  marriage  drive  Medea  from  fais  land, 
And  suffer  not.  Call  me  what  thing  thou 

tdease, 
Tigrees  or  Stella  from  the  Tuscan  seas: 
My  etawB  have  gripped  thine  heart,  and  all 

things  shine. 
Jasok.  Thou  too  hast  grief.  Thy  pain  is 

fierce  as  mine. 
Medea.  I  love  the  pain,  so  thou  shnlt 

laugh  no  more. 
Jason.  Ob,  what  a  womb  of  sin  my  chil- 
dren borel 
Medea.  Sons,  did  ye  perish  fpr  your 

father's  shame? 
Jason.  How?  It  was  not  my  hand  that 

murdered  them. 
Medea.  'T  was  thy  false  wooings,  't  was 

thy  trampling  pride. 
Jabon.  Thau  hast  said  it!  For  thy  lust 

of  love  they  died. 
Medea.  And  love  to  women  a  sli^t 

thing  should  be? 
Jabok.  To  women  pure!  —  All  thy  vile 

lifetotheet 
Medea.  Tliink  of  thy  toiment.    They 

are  dead,  th^  aie  deadi 


lEA  8] 

Jabom.  No*,   quick,   great  God;    quick 

ouTBca  round  thy  head! 
Medea.  The  gods  know  who  began  Ihii 

woik  of  woe. 
Jason,  lliy  heart  and  all  its  loathlinen 

they  know. 
MxDBA.  Loathe  on.  .  .  .  But,   oh,   thy 

voice.  It  hurts  me  sore. 
Jabon.  Aye,  and  thine  me.    Wouldst 

hear  me  then  no  more? 
Medea.  How?  Show  me  but  the  Wi^. 

'T  is  this  I  craw. 
Jabon.  Give  me  the  dead  to  weep,  and 

make  their  grave. 
Mbdea.  Nevecl    Myself  will  lay  thou 
mastill 
Green  sepulcher,  where  Hera  by  the  Hill 
Hath  precinct  holy,  that  no  angry  men 
May  break  their  graves  and  cast  them  forth 

again 
To  evil.  So  I  lay  on  all  this  shore 
Of  Corinth  a  hi^  feast  forevermore 
And  rite,  to  purge  them  yearly  of  the 

stain 
Of  this  poor  blood.  And  I,  to  PaUas'  plain 
I  go,  to  dwell  beside  Pandion's  son, 
£geus.  —  For  thee,  b«>hDld,  death  draw- 

ethon, 
Evil  and  lonely,  like  thine  heart;  the  bande 
Of  thine  old  Argo,  rotting  where  she  stands. 
Shall  smite  thine  head  in  twain,  and  bitter 

be 
To  the  last  end  thy  memories  of  me. 

[She  ritei  on  the  chariot  and  it 
alowl]/  bom«  awaj/.] 
Jason,  May  They  that  hear  the  weeping 
child 
Blast  thee,  and  They  that  walk  in  blood! 
Medea.  Thy  broken  vows,  thy  friends 
beguiled 
Have  shut  for  thee  the  ears  of  God. 
Jabon.  Go,  thou  art  wet  with  children'E 

Medea.  Go  thou,  and  lay  thy  bride  to 

sleep. 
Jabon.  Childless,   I   go,  to   weep  and 

Medea.  Not  yetl  Age  cometh  and  loi% 

years. 
Jason.  My  sons,  mine  own! 
Medea.  Not  thme,  but  mina  .  ■  ■ 
itBtm.  . . .  Who  slew  theml 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Mkdea.  Ym:  to  torture  thee. 

Jason.  Once  let  me  Iobb  their  lips,  once 

Mine  arms  and  touch.  ,  .  .  Ah,  woelsmel 
Mkdea.  Wouldst  love  them   and  eo- 
treatT  But  now 

They  were  as  nothing. 
Jasom.  At  the  last, 

O  God,  to  touch  that  tender  browl 

Medea.  Thy  words  upon  Uie  wind  are 

Jabon.  Thou,  ZeuB,  wilt  hear  me.  All  is 

said 
For  naught.  E  am  but  spiuned  away 
And  trampled  by  this  tjgreaa,  red 
With  children's  blood.  Yet,  come  what 
may, 
So  far  as  thou  host  granted,  yea, 
So  far  aa  yet  my  strength  may  atand, 


I  weep  upon  theae  dead,  and  any 
Their  last  farewell,  and  raise  my  hand 

To  all  the  demons  of  the  air 
In  witness  of  thme  things;  how  she 
Who  slew  them,  will  not  suffer  me 
To  gather  up  my  babes,  nor  bear 
To  earth  their  bodies;  whom,  O  stone 
Of  women,  would  I  ne'er  had  known 
Nor  gotten,  to  be  slain  by  thee! 

[He  eatU  kimadj  upon  Oie  earOt] 
Cnonns.  Great  treasure  halb  hath  Zeui 

From  whence  to  man  strange  dooms  be 

Past  hope  or  fear. 
And  the  «nd  men  looked  for  cometh  cot, 
And  a  path  is  there  where  no  man  thou^t 

So  hath  it  fallen  here. 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


THE  FROGS 

By  ARISTOPHANES 
1  vmi  fyJOH/iT  HOOKHAM  FRBRB 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


CHARACTERS 

Bacchus 

Xanthias,  aervatU  of  Bo'xkui 

HERCrLES 

Charon 

ifiAcua 

euripideb 

jEschtlcs 

Ploto 

Dead  Man 

Proserpinh's  SerwaU  Maid 

Two  Women  Svtlera 

Muiea 

Clwrua  of  Votarua,  and  Frogt 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


THE  FROGS 


lEiUer  Bacchcs  and  XAHTHiAa.] 
Xantbub.  MsBter,  Hhall  I  begin  with 
the  usual  jokea 
Ilutt  the  audience  always  laugh  at? 

Bacchus.  If  you  please; 
Any  joke  you  please  except  "being  over- 
burthen' d." 
—  Don't  use  it  yet  —  We've  time  enough 

Xanthias.  Well,  Bomething  olae  that's 

comical  and  clever? 
Bacchus.  I  forbid  being  "overprees'd 

and  overburthen'd." 
Xanthias.  Well,  but  the  drollecrt  joke 

otaU— ? 
Baccbus.  Remember 
Here's  one  thing  I  protest  against  — 
Xanthias.  What's  that? 
Bacchus.  Why,  shifting  ofi  your  load  to 
the  other  shoulder, 
And  fidgeting  and  complaining  of  the  gripca. 
Xanthias.  What  then  do  you  mean  to 
say,  that  I  must  not  say 
That  I  'm  ready  U>  befoul  myself? 

Bacchus.  By  no  means  — 
Except  when  I  take  an  emetic. 

Xanthias.  What 'a  tho  use,  then, 
Of  my  being  burthen'd  here  with  all  these 

bundles. 
If  I'm  to  be  dqnived  of  the  common  jokes 
That  Phrynichus,  and  Lycis,  and  Ameipsiaa 
Allow  the  servants  always  in  their  comediss, 
Without  exception,  when  they  carry  bun- 
dles? 
Bacchus.  Pray,  leave  them  off  —  for 
those  ingenious  sallies 
Have  such  an  effect  upon  my  health  and 

That  I  fed  grown  (Ad  and  dull  when  I  get 

Xanthias.  It's  hard  for  me  to  suffer  in 
my  limbs. 
To  be  overtHuthen'd  and  ddjarr'd  from 


Bacchus.  Well,  this  is  monstrous,  quite, 
and  insupportable! 

I  servant!   When  your 


Is  going  afoot  and  has  provided  you 
With  a  beast  to  carry  ye. 
Xanthias.  WhatI  do  I  carry  nothini;? 
Bacchus.  You're  carried  yourself. 
Xanthias.  But  I  carry  bundles,  don't  IT 
Bacchus.  But  the  beast  bears  all  the 

burdens  that  you  carry. 
Xanthias.  Not  those  that  I  carry  my- 
self —  't  is  I  that  carry  'em, 
Bacchus.  You're  carried  yoursdf,  I  t«l] 

ye. 
Xanthias.  I  can't  explain  it, 
But  I  feel  it  in  my  shouldetB  plainly  enough. 
Bacchus.  Wdl,  if  the  beast  don't  help 
you,  take  and  try; 
Change  places  with  the  ass  and  cany  him 
Xantsias  {in  a  lone  oj  mtre  diaffutt]. 
Oh,  dear!  I  wish  1  had  gone  for  a  volunteer. 
And  left  you  to  yooradf.  I  wish  I  had. 
Bacchus.  Dismount,  you  rascal  I  Here, 
we're  at  the  bouse 
Where    Hercules    lives.  —  Hellol     ther* 
who's  within  there? 

[EnUr  Hercules,] 
Hebcuim.    Who's    there?     (He     hu 
bang'd  at  the  door,  whoever  he  is, 
With  the  kick  of  a  centaur.)   What's  the 
matter,  there? 
Bacchus  latide],  Hal  XanthiasI 
Xanthiab.  What? 
Bacchus  [aside].  Did  ye  mind  how  he 

was  frightcm'd? 
Xanthias.  I  suppose  he  was  afraid  you 

were  going  mad. 
Hbbcules    [aside].  By   Jovel     I    shall 
laugh  outright;  I'm  ready  to  burst. 
I  shall  laugh,  in  spite  of  myself,  upon  my  life. 
Bacchus.  Come  hither,  friend.  —  What 
ails  ye?  Step  this  way; 
I  want  to  speak  to  ye. 


.  Goo'^lc 


88 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Hercui-bb.  But  I  can't  help  laughing, 
To  see  the  lion'e  skin  with  a  saffron  robe, 
And  the  club  iiith  the  women's  sandale  — 

altogether  — 
What's  the  meaning  of  it  all?  Have  you 
been  abroad? 
Bacchus.  I've   been   abroad  — in   the 

Fleet  —  with  Gleisthenes. 
HattcoLEa.  You  fought — ? 
Bacchus.  Yes,  that  we  did  —  we  gain'd 
a  victory; 
And  we  sunk  the  enemies'  ships  —  thirteen 

HE1ICCI.BB.  "So  you  woke  at  last  aud 

found  it  was  a  dream?" 
Bacchus.  But  aboard  the  fleet,  as  I  pur- 
sued my  studies, 
I  read  the  tragedy  of  Andromeda; 
And  ^en  such  a  vehement  passion  struck 

my  heart, 
You  can't  imagine. 

Hkrculbs.   a  small  one,  I  suppose, 
My  little  fellow  —  a  moderate  little  ,pas- 

Bacchus.  It's  just  as  small  1.8  Molon  is 
—  that's  all  — 
Molon  the  wreetler,  I  mean  —  as  small  as 

HzHcuLES.  Weil,  what  was  it  like?  what 

kind  of  a  thing?  what  was  it? 
Bacchus.    No,  friend,  you   must  not 
laugh;  it's  past  a  joke; 
It's  quite  a  serious  fedjng  —  quite  dis- 
tressing; 
I  suffer  from  it  — 
HEncin,ES.   Well,  ejtplain.  What  was  it? 
Bacchus.  I  can't  declare  it  at  once;  but 
I  'Q  explain  it 
Theatrically  and  enigmatically: 
Were  you  ever  seised  with  a  sudden  pas- 
sionate longing 
For  a  mess  of  porridge? 

HERCULCe.  Often  enough,  if  that's  all. 
Bacchus.  Shall  I  state  the  matter  to 
you  plainly  at  once: 
Or  put  it  circumlocutorily? 
HjercuijBS.  Not  about  the  porridge.    I 

understand  your  instance. 
Bacchus.  Such  is  the  passion  that  poe- 

Por   poor   Euripides,   that's    dud   and 
gone; 


And  it's  all  in  vain  people  trying  to  per- 

From  going  sft«r  him. 
HHHcuiiBs.  What,  to  the  shades  belowT 
Bacchus.  Yes,  to  the  shades  below,  <» 
the  shades  beneath  'em. 
To  the  undermost  shades  of  all.  1  'm  quite 
determined. 
Hbrcitlbb.  But  what's  your  object? 
Bacchus.  Why  my  c^ject  is 
That  I  want  a  clever  poet  —  "for  the  good, 
The  gracious  and  the  good,  are  dead  and 

gone; 
The  worthleas  and  the  weak  are  left  alive." 
Hebcui<es.  Is  not  lopfaoa  a  good  one? 

—  He's  alive  sure? 
Bacchvs.  If  he's  a  good  one,  he's  our 
only  good  one; 
But  it 's  aqueetion ;  I 'm  in  doubt  about  him. 
Hkbcules.    There  'h     Sophocles;    he  's 
older  than  Euripides  — 
If  you  go  so  far  for  'em,  you'd  best  bring 

Bacchob.  No;  first  I  '11  toy  what  lophon 

Without  hia  father,  Sophodee,  to  assist  him. 

—  Besides,  Euripides  is  a  clever  rascal; 

A  sharp,  contriving  rogue  that  will  make  a 

shift 
To  desert  and  steal  away  with  me;  the  other 
Is  an  easy-minded  soul,  and  always  was. 
HBECuua.  Where  's  Agathon? 
Bacchus.  He's  gone  and  left  me  too, 
Regretted  by  his  friends;  a  worthy  poet  — 
Hercuuis.  Gone!   Where,  poor  soul? 
Bacchus.  To  the  banquets  of  the  blestt 
Hercules.  But  then  you 'veXeaocles — 
Bacchus.  YesI  a  pldgue  upon  himl 
Hercules.  Pythangelus  too  — 
Xanthtab.  But  nobody  thinks  of  me; 
Standing  all  this  while  with  the  bundles  on 
my  shoulder. 
HE«ctri.BB.  But    have    not    you   oth» 
young  ingenious  youths 
That  are  fit  to  out- talk  Euripides  ten  times 

ovm; 
To  the  amount  of  a  tboustuid,  at  least,  all 
writing  tragedy  —  ? 
Bacchus.  They're  good  for  nothing  — 
"  Warblere  of  the  Grove"  — 

—  "Little,   foolish,   fluttering  things"  — 

poor  puny  wretches. 


Google 


THE  FROGS 


That  dawdle  and  dangle  about  with  the 

tragic  muse; 
Incapable  of  any  serious  meaning  — 

—  There's  not  one  hearty  poet  amongst 

them  all 
That's  fit  to  risk  an  adventurous  valiant 

Hkbctileb.  How  —  "hearty?"  Whatdo 

you  mean  by  "valiant  phrases?  " 
B&ccBua.  I  mean  a  .  .  .  kind  ...  of  a 

.  .  .  doubtful,  bold  expression 
To  talk  about .  .  ."The  vieuiless  foot  of 

Time"  — 
And  .  .  .  "Jupita^a  Seertt  Chamber  in  the 

Skies"  — 
And    about  ...  a    person's    soul  .  .  .  not 

being  perjured 
When  .  .  .  the  tongue  .  .  .  forswears  itself 

...  in  spite  of  the  soul . 
Hbbcules.  Do  you  like  that  kind  of 

stuff? 
Bacchcs.  I'm  crazy  after  it. 
Hercvus.  Why,  sure,  it's  trash  and 

rubbish  —  Don't  you  think  bo? 
Bacchus.  "  Men's  fancies  ore  their  own 

—  Let  mime  alone"  — 
Hbbculeb.  But,  in  fact,  it  seems  to  me 

quite  bad  —  rank  nonsoise. 
Bacchus.  You  11  tell  me  next  what  I 

ought  to  like  for  supper. 
Xakthias.  But   nobody   thinks   of   me 

here,  with  the  bundles. 
Bacchus.  —  But  now  to  the  busineaa 

that  I  came  upon  — 
(With  the  apparel  that  you  see  —  the  some 

as  yours) 
To  obtain  a  direction  from  you  to  your 

(To  apply  to  them  —  in  case  of  anything — 
If  anything  should  occur)    the  acquaint- 
That  received  you  there  - —  (the  time  you 
went  before 

—  For  the  business  about  Cerberus)  —  if 

you'd  give  me 

Their  nam»  and  their  directtons,  and  com- 
municate 

Any  information  relative  to  the  coimtry, 

The  roods,  —  the  streets,  —  the  bridges, 
and  the  brothels, 

The  wharfs,  —  the  public  walks,  —  Uie 
public  houMS, 


Aitd  lodgings,  —  free  from  bugs  and  fleas, 

if  poeeible, 
If  you  know  any  such  — 
Xantbus.  But  nobody  thinks  of  me. 
Hebcuub.  What  a  notion  I  You  I   WiU 

you  risk  it?   Are  you  mad? 
Baochdb.  I  beseech  you  say  no  more  — 
no  more  of  that. 
But  inform  me  briefly  and  plainly  about 

my  journey; 
The  shortest  road  and  the  most  convenient 

UxRCULEB.  Well, — which  shall  I  tell 

ye  first,  now?  —  Let  me  see  now  — 
There's  a.  good  convenient  road  by  the 

Rope  and  Noose; 
T^e  Hanging  Road. 
Bacchus.  No;  that's  too  cloae  and  sti- 
fling. 
Hercules.  Then,  there's  on  easy,  fair, 

well-beaten  track. 
As  you  go  by  the  Pestle  and  Mortar  — 
Bacchus.  What,  the  Hemlock? 
Hercules.  To  be  sure  — 
Bacchus.  That's   much   too  cold  —  it 

will  never  do. 
They  tdl  me  it  strikes  a  chiU  to  the  legs 

and  feet. 
Herccles.  Should  you  like  a  speedy, 

rapid,  downhiU  road? 
Bacchus.  Indeed  I  should,  for  I'm  a 

sorry  traveler. 
Hercuub.  Go  to  the  Keromicus  then. 
Bacchus.  What  then? 
Hercules.  Get  up  to  the  very  top  o' 

the  tower. 
Bacchus.  What  then? 
Hercules.  Stand  there  and  watch  when 

the  Race  of  the  Torch  begins; 
And  mind  when  you  hear  the  people  cry 

"SlaH!  atari!" 
Then  start  at  once  with  'em. 
Bacchcs.  Me?.  Start?  Where  from? 
Hercules.  From  tlie  top  of  the  tower 

to  the  bottom. 
Bacchus.  No,  not  I. 
It's  enough  to  dash  my  brains  outi   I'D 

Su^  a  road  upon  any  account. 
Hercules.  Well,  which  way  then? 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Eaccbtib.  The  vay  you  went  yotuadf. 
Herculbb.  But  it's  a  long  one, 
For  first  you  cooie  to  a  moQatrouB  bottom- 
less lake. 
Bacchus.  And  what  must  I  do  to  pasaT 
Hebculbs.  You'U  find  a  boat  there; 
A  little  tiny  boat,  as  big  as  that, 
And  an  old  man  that  femes  you  over  in  it, 
KeceiTing  twopence  as  the  usual  fee. 
Bacchcb.  Ahl  that  same  twopence  gov- 
erns everything 
Whei«ver  it  goes.  —  1  wonder  how  it  man- 
To  find  its  way  there? 

HxBCULES.  Theseus  introduced  it. 
—  Next   you'll   meet   aerpentB,   snd   wild 

beasts,  and  monsters, 
horrific  to  behold! 

Bacchub,  Don't  try  to  fright  me; 
You'll  not  succeed,  I  promise  you.  —  I'm 
^termined. 
Hkbculbs.  Then  there's  an  abyw  of 
mire  and  floating  filth, 
In  which  the  damn'd  lie  wallowing  and 

overwhelm 'd; 
The  unjust,  the  crud,  and  the  inhospit' 

able; 
And  the  barbarous  bilking  Cullies  that 

withhold 
The  price  of  intercourse  with  fraud  and 

The  incestuous,  and  the  parricides,  and  the 
robbers; 

The    perjurers,    and    assassins,    and    the 
wretches 

That  willfully  and  |x«8umptuciusly  tran- 
scribe 

Extracts  and  trash  from  Morsimus's  plays. 
Bacchob.  And,  by  Jove!  Cinesias  with 
his  Pyrrhic  dancers 

Ought   to    be   there  —  they're  vane,   or 
quite  as  bad. 
HiBcuixB.  But  after  this  your  sense  will 
be  saluted 

With  a  gentle  breathing  sound  of  flutes 

And  a  beautiful  spreading  light  like  ours  on 

And  myrtle  glades  and  happy  quires  among. 
Of  women  and  men  wiUi  r^id  applause 
and  mir^, 
Bacchdb.  And  who  are  all  those  folk*? 


Hebcui^b.  The  initiated. 
Xanthlab.  I  won't  stand  here  like  t 
mule  in  a  procession 
Any    longer,    witli    these    packages    and 
bundles. 
HERCuiiES.  They'll  tell  you  everything 
you  want  to  know. 
For    they're   cetsblished  close   upon    ihe 

By  the  comer  of  Pluto's  bouae  —  bo  fare 

you  well; 
Farewell,  my  little  fdlow.  lExti.] 

Bacchus.  I  wish  you  better. 
[To  Xantbias.]  You,  siirah,  take  your 

bundles  up  again. 
Xanthiab,  What,   before   I  put  them 

down? 
Bacchus.  Yeel  now,  this  moment. 
Xantbias.  Nahl   don't  insist;   there's 
plenty  o!  people  going 
As  corpses  with  the  convenience  trf  a  car- 
riage; * 
They'd  take  it  for  a  trifle  gladly  enough. 
Bacchus.  But  if  we  meet  with  nobody? 
Xantbua.  Then  I'll  take  'em. 
Bacchus.  Come,    oome,    that's    fairly 
spoken,  and  in  good  time; 
For  there  they're  carrying  a  corpse  out  to 
be  buried. 

\A  fwi«ral,  wilh  a  eorpte  on  an 
open  bier,  croetet  Ihe  »lage.\ 
—  Hellol   you   there  —  you   Deadman  — 

can't  you  bear? 
Would  you  take  any  bundles  to  hell  with 
ye,  my  good  fellow? 
Dbaduan.  What  are  they7 
Bacchus.  These. 
Deaouan.  Then  I  must  have  two  drach- 

Bacchus.  I  can't  —  you  must  take  leas 

Deaoman.  Bearers,  move  on. 

Baccbub.  No,  stop!  we  shall  settle  be- 
tween us  —  you  're  so  hasty. 

DEAnuAN.  It's  no  use  arguing;  I  mnst 
have  two  drachmas. 

Bacchub.  Ninepcnoel 

Deaduan.  I'd  best  be  alive  again  at 
that  rate.  [Exit.] 

Baccbus.  Fine  airs  the  fellow  gives  him- 
self —  arascal! 
I'll  have  him  punish'd,  1  vow,  for  over- 
charging. 


THE   FROGS 


Xanthiab.  Beet  give  him  a  good  beat- 
ing: give  me  the  bundles, 
111  cany  'an. 
Baccthdb.  You're  a  good,  true-hearted 
fdlow; 
And  a  willing  aervant.  —  Let's  move  on  to 
the  fen;. 

[Enttr  Charon.] 
Charon.  HoyI    Bear  a  hand,  tha«  — 

Heave  ashore. 
Baccbob.  What's  thu7 
Xanthias.  The  lake  it  is  —  the  |4ace  he 
told  w  of. 
fly  Jove!  and  there's  the  boat — and  here's 
old  Charon. 
Bacchub.  Well,    Charon  I  —  Welcome, 

Charon!  —  Welcome  kindly  I 
Charon.  Who    wants    the    ferryman? 
Anybody  waiting 
To  remove  from  the  m»tow8  of  lifeT    A 

pasaage  anybody? 
To  Lethe'a  wharf?  —  to  Cerberus's  Reach? 
To  Tartarus?  —  to  TRoaruB?  —  to  Perdi- 
tion? 
Bacchus.  Yea,  I. 
CHARcm.  Get  in  then. 
Bacchub.  Tell  me,  where  are  you  go- 
ii«? 
To  Perdition  really  — ? 

Chabon.  Yes,  to  oblige  you,  I  will 
With  ail  my  heart  —  Step  in  there. 

Baccbub.  Have  a  carel 
Take  care,  good  Charonl  —  Charon,  have 

Come,  Xanthiae,  cornel 

Charon.  1  take  no  alaves  aboard 
Except  they've  volunteer'd  for  the  uaval 
victory. 
Xanthias.  I  could  not  —  I  was  Buffer- 
ing with  sore  eyes. 
Charon.  You  must  trudge  away  then, 
round  by  the  end  of  the  lake  there. 
Xanthiab.  And    whereabouts    shall    I 

wait? 
Chabon.  At  the  Stone  of  Repentance, 
By  the  Sh»i^  of  Despond  beyond  the 

Tribulations; 
You  understand  me? 

Xanthias.  Yea,  I  understand  you; 
A  lucky,  promiaing  direction,  truly. 
Chabon  (lo  BAcaHns).  Sit  dovni  at  the 


oar  —  Come  quick,  if  thero'a  more 

[To  Baochub  ofKrin.)  Hellol  what's  that 
you're  doing? 

Bacchus.  What  you  told  me. 
I'm  sitting  at  the  oar. 

Charon.  Sit  (Acre,  I  tell  you. 
You  Patgute;  that's  your  place. 

Bacchus.  Well,  so  I  do. 

Chabon.  Now  ply  your  hands  and  anna. 

Bacchus.  Well,  eo  I  do. 

Charon.  You'd  best  leave  oS  your  fool- 
ing. Take  to  the  oar, 
And  pull  away. 

Bacchus.  But  how  shall  I  oontrive? 
I've  never  served  on  board  —  I'm  only  a 


I'm  quite  unuBed  to  it  — 

Charon.  We  ean  manage  it. 
As  soon  aa  you  begin  you  shall  have  some 

That  will  teach  you  to  keep  time. 

Bacchus.  What  music's  that? 

Charon,  A  chorus  of  Frogs  —  uncom- 
mon musical  Frogs. 

Bacchus.  Well,  give  me  the  word  and 
the  time, 

Chason.  Wbooh  up,  up;  whoob  up, 
up. 

[Enter  Chona  of  Frogs.] 

Chosus.  Brekeke-kesh,  koasb,  koasb. 
Shall  the  Choral  Quiristers  of  the  Marsh 
Be  censured  and  rejected  as  hoarse  and 
hareh; 

And  their  Chromatic  esea^ 

Deprived  of  praise? 
No,  let  ua  raise  sfreeh 
Our  obstreperous  Brekdce-kesh; 
The  customary  oroak  and  cry 

Of  the  creatures 

At  the  theaters, 
In  their  yearly  revelry, 
Brekeke-kesh,  koash,  koash. 

Bacchus.  How  I  'm  maul'd. 
How  I'mgall'd; 

Worn  and  manned  to  a  mash  — 
Tb««theygo1   "Koaak,  koashl"  — 

Progs.  Brekeke-kesh,  koash,  koash. 

Bacchus.  Oh,  beahrew. 
All  your  crew; 
You  don't  conaider  how  I  anutrt. 


.CtOoi^Ic 


99                            CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 

FBooe.  Now  for  b.  oample  of  th«  ArtI 

Brebeke-kesb,  koaah,  koaeh. 

To  the  pod  to  seek  for  sheltw; 

Bacchus.  I  wish  you  hang'd,  with  aU 

Meager,  eager,  leaping,  lunging. 

my  heart. 

From  the  sedgy  wharfage  plungiof 

—  Have  you  nothing  eke  to  eay? 

To  the  tranquU  depth  below. 

"BrAek4-keA,  koath"  aU  dayl 

There  we  muster  ell  a-row; 

Fwwe.  We've  a  ri^t, 

Where,  secure  from  toil  and  trouUe, 

We've  a  right; 

With  a  tundul  bubble-bubble, 

And  we  croaJc  at  ye  for  qnte. 

Our  symphonious  accents  flow. 

We've  a  right, 

Brekek&-ke>ih,  koash,  koaah. 

We've  a  right; 

Bacchus.  I  forbid  you  to  proceed. 

Day  and  night, 

FROoe.  That  would  be  severe  indeed; 

Day  and  night; 

Arbitrary,  bold,  and  rash  — 

Night  and  day. 

Brekdce-kesh,  koaah,  koash. 

Still  to  creak  uid  oroalt  away. 

Bacchub.  I  command  you  to  desist  — 

Phcebus  and  every  Grace 

—  Oh,  my  back,  therel  oh,  my  wristi 

Admire  and  approve  of  the  croaking  race; 

What  a  twist! 

What  a  sprain! 

That  are  gaigled  and  warbled  in  their 

PROOS.  Once  again  — 

lyrical  throats. 

We  renew  the  tuneful  strain. 

In  reproof 

Brekeke-keeh,  koash,  koash. 

Of  your  scorn 

Bacchus.  I  disdain  —  (Hang  the  paint 

Mighty  Pan 

All  your  nonsense,  noise,  and  trash. 

Nods  his  horn; 

Oh,  mybUsterl   Oh,  my  sprain  I 

Beating  time 

Fhoob.  Btekeke-keeh,  koash,  koaab. 

To  the  thyme 

Friends  and  Frogs,  we  must  disjJ^ 

With  hia  hoof, 

All  our  powers  of  voice  to-di^; 

With  his  hoof. 

Suffer  not  this  stranger  here. 

Persisting  in  our  plaa, 

With  fsfltidioUH  foreign  ear. 

To  confound  us  and  abash. 

Brekeke-keeb,  koash,  koaah. 

Kooaah,  kooaah. 

BAccatia.  Wedl,  my  ^lirit  b  not  broke. 

Bacchus.  Ob,  the  Frogs,  consume  and 

U  it's  only  for  the  joke, 

rot 'em, 

I'll  outdo  you  with  a  croak. 

I've  a  blister  on  my  bottom. 

Here  it  goes  —  "  Koash,  koash." 

Hold  your  tongues,  you  tuneful  creatures. 

Fhoqb.  Now    for    a  glorious   croaking 

Froos.  Cease   with   your  profane  en- 

crash. 

treaties 

All  in  vain  forever  striving: 

Bacchus.  I '11  disperse  you  with  a  splash 

Silence  ia  sgainflt  our  natures. 

Fhoob.  Brekeke-keeh,  koash,  koaah. 

With  the  vernal  heat  reviving, 

BACCBua.  I'U  subdue 

Our  aquatic  crew  repair 

Fn}m  their  periodic  sleep, 

—  Have  amongst  you  there,  slap-daah. 

In  the  dark  and  chilly  deep, 

To  tine  cheerful  upper  air; 

We  defy  j-our  oar  and  you. 

Then  we  frolic  here  and  there 

Cbabok.  Hoidl    We're  ashore  jum- 

All  amidst  the  meadows  fair; 

shift  your  oar.   Get  out. 

Shady  plants  of  asphodel, 

~  Now  pay  for  your  fare. 

Are  the  lodges  where  we  dwell; 

Bacchus.  There  — there     it     ia  — the 

Chauntiug  in  the  leafy  bowers 

twopence. 

All  the  Uvelong  summer  hours, 

Bacchus.  Ho,  XanthiasI    Xwthias,  I 

Till  the  sudden  gusty  ehowen 

Bayl  Where's  Xanthias? 

CtOoi^Ic 


THE  FROGS 


93 


Xanthias.  A-hoyI 
Bacchus.  Come  here. 
Xantbiab.  I'm  ^ad  to  see  you,  maBter. 
BACcmiB.  What's  that  before  ue  there? 
Xaittbi/lS.  The  mue  and  darkaeee. 
Bacobus.  Do  you  see  the  villains  tmd 
the  perjurers 
That  he  told  us  of? 
Xanthias.  Yea,    plain    enough,    don't 

Bacchus.  Ah  I  now  I  see  tbem,  indeed, 
quit«  plain  —  and  now  too- 
Well,  what  shall  we  do  next? 

Xanthias.  We'd  best  move  forward; 
For  here's  the  place  that  Hercules  there 

infoim'd  ua 
Was  haunted  by  those  monsters 
Bacchus.  Oh,  confound  himi 
He  vapor'd  and  talk'd  at  random  to  deter 

fYom  venturing.  He  'a  amaringjy  eoncrited 
And  jealous  of  other  people,  is  Hnoules; 
He  reckon'd  I  should  rival  hun,  and,  in  fact 
(Since  I've  come  here  so  far),  I  should 

rather  like 
To  meet  with  an  adventure  in  some  shape. 
Xantbiab.  By  Jovel  and  I  think  I  hear 

a  kind  of  a  noise. 
Bacchus.  Where?  Where? 
Xanthus.  There,  just  behind  ua. 
BaccBub.  Go  behind,  then. 
Xamthiab.  Therel  — it'sbeforeusnow. 

—  There! 
Bacchttb.  Go  before,  then. 
Xaitibias.  Ahl  now  I  see  it  —  a  mon- 
strous beast  indeed! 
Bacchus.  What  kind? 
Xantbiab.  A  dreadful  kind  —  all  kinds 
at  once. 
It  changes  and  transforms  itself  about 
To  a  mule  and  an  ox,  —  and  now  to  a 

beautiful  creature; 
Awomanl 
Bacchus.  Where?   Where  is  she?  Let 

Xanthias.  But  now  she's  turned  to  a 

mastiff  all  of  a  sudden. 
Bacchus.  It's    the    Weird    hagi    the 

Vampire  1 
Xantbiab.  Like  mough. 
'  She's  all  of  a  blase  of  fire  about  the  mouth. 
Bacckcs.  Has  she  got  the  brasen  foot? 


Xanthias.  Yes,  tiiere  it  is  — 
By  Jove!  —  and  the  cloven  hoof  to  the 

other  leg, 
Distinct  enough  —  that's  she! 

Bacchus.  But  what  shall  I  do? 

Xavislab.  And  I,  too? 

Baccbus.  Save  me.  Priest,  protect  and    ' 

That  we  may  drink  and  be  jolly  together 
hereafter, 
Xahthiab.  We're  ruin'd,  Master  Her- 

BAccons.  Don't  call  me  so,  I  beg: 
Don't  mraition  my  name,  good  friend,  upon 
any  account. 
Xanthias.  Well,  Bacchus,  tbeni 
Bacchus.  That's  worse,  fen  tbousand 

Xanthias.  Come,  master,  move  along 

—  Come,  Dome  this  way. 
Baccbus.  What's  happened? 
Xantbiab.  Why  we're  prosperous  and 
victorious; 
The  storm  of  fear  and  dangOT  has  subsided. 
And  (as  the  actor  said  the  other  day) 
"Has  only  left  a  gentle  qiudm  behind." 
The  Vampire's  vanish'd. 
Bacchus.  Has  she?  Upon  your  oath? 
Xanthias.  By  Jovel  she  has. 
Bacchus.  No,  swear  again. 
Xantbiab.  By  Jovel 
Bacchus.  Is  she,  by  Jupiter? 
XiUra&lAS.  By  Jupiterl 
Baccbus,  Oh,  dear;  what  a  fri^t  I  was 
in  with  the  very  sight  of  her: 
It  tum'd  me  sick  and  pale  —  but  see,  tlie 

priest  here  I 
He  has  color'd  up  quite  with  the  same  alarm. 
—  What  has  brought  me  to  this  pass?  — 

It  must  be  Jupiter 
With  hia  "ChtmAer  in  the  Skut,"  and  the 
"Foot  ofTivte." 
Xantbiab.  Hello,  you! 
Bacchus.  What? 

Xanthias,  Why,  did  you  not  hear? 
Bacchus,  Why,  what? 
Xanthias,  The  sound  of  a  flute. 
Baccbus.  Indeedl  And  there's  a  smtO 
too; 
A  pretty  mystical  ceremonious  smell 
Of  torches.    We'll  watoh  here,  and  keqt 
quite  quiet. 


.CtOo^^Ic 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


[EjUer  Chorus  of  VoUtrit*.] 
Chorub.  lacchual  lacchuat  Hoi 
lacchiut  lacchus!  Hoi 
Xanthias.  There,    Master,  there  they 
Are,  the  initiftted; 
All  sportiiig  about  aa  he  told  us  ve  should 

find 'em. 
They're  singing  in  praise  of  Bacchus  like 

Baccbub.  Indeed,  and  so  thc^  are;  but 
we'll  keep  quiet 

Till  we  make  them  out  a  hltle  moredistinotly . 
Cborub,  Mighty  Bacchus  I  Hdy  Power! 

Hither  at  the  woated  hour 
Come  away, 
Come  Kway, 
With  the  wanton  bcdiday, 

Where  the  revd  uproar  leads 

To  the  mystic  holy  meads. 
Where  the  frolic  votaries  fly. 
With  a  tipsy  shout  and  cry; 
Flourishing  the  Thyrsus  hi^. 
Flinging  forth,  alert  and  airy, 
To  the  Bsered  old  vagary, 
l^e  tumultuous  dance  and  song, 
Sacred  from  the  vulgar  throng; 
Mystic  orgies,  that  are  known 
To  the  votaries  alone  — 
To  the  mystic  chorus  solely  —     - 
Secret  —  unreveal'd  —  and  holy. 
Xahtbias.  Oh  glorious  virgin,  daughter 
of  thegoddmsl 

What  a  scent  of  roasted  griskin  reach'd  my 

Baccbub,  Keep  quiet  —  and  watch  for 
a  chance  of  a  piece  of  the  hsslets. 

C^OBDB.  Raise  the  fiery  torches  highl 
BaochuB  is  approaching  nigh. 
Like  the  planet  of  the  morn, 
Breaking  with  the  hoary  dawn. 

On  the  dark  solomnity  — 
There  they  flash  upon  the  sight; 
All  the  plain  is  blajeing  bright, 
Flush'd  and  overflown  with  light: 
Age  has  cast  his  years  away, 
\nd  the  cares  of  many  a  day, 
^porting  to  the  lively  lay  — - 
Mighty  Bacchus!  march  and  lead 
(Torch  in  hand  toward  the  mead) 
Thy  devDt«d  humble  Chorus, 
"Jighty  Bacchus  —  move  before  us  I 


Keep  ulence  —  keep  peace  —  and  let  aU 

the  profane 
From  our  holy  solemnity  duly  refrain; 
Whose  souls  unenlightwied  by  taste,  are 

obscure; 
WhoM   poetical    notions    an    dark    and 

impure; 
Whose  theatrical  conscience 
Ib  sullied  by  nonsense; 
Who  never  were  train'd  by  the  mighty 

CratinuB 
In  mystical  orgies  poetic  and  vinous; 
Who  driigbt  in  buffooning  and  jests  out  (A 

season; 
Who  promote  the  designs  of  oppression  and 

breason; 
Who  foster  sedition,  and  strife,  and  debate ; 
All  traitors,  in  short,  t«  the  stage  and  the 

state; 
Who  surrender  a  fort,  or  in  private,  export 
To  places  and  harbors  of  hostile  resort. 
Clandestine  consignments  of  cables  and 

In  the  way  that  Thorycion  grew  to  be  rich 
From    a    BCoundrdly    dirty    collector   tl 

tribute; 
All  Buch  we  reject  and  severely  prohibit: 
All  statesmen  retrenching  the  fees  and  the 

salaries 
Of  theatrical  harda,  in  revenge  fw  the  rail- 
leries, 
And  jeatfl,   and  lampoons,   of  this  bcdy 

solemnity, 
Profanely  pursuing  their  personal  enmity. 
For  having  been  flouted,  and  scoff'd,  uid 


We  warn  them  twice. 

We  warn  and  admonish  —  we  warn  thet) 

To  oonform  to  the  law, 

To  fetire  and  withdraw; 

While  the  Chorus  again  with  the  formal  sal 

(Fixt  and  assign'd  to  the  festive  day) 

Move  to  the  measure  and  march  aw^. 

March!  morchl  lead  forth, 

Lead  forth  manfully, 

March  in  order  all; 

Btisding,  hustling,  justling, 
As  it  may  befall; 


.  Google 


THE   FROGS 


Flockuv,  Bhouting,  IftiighinK, 

And  there  within  the  shades. 

Mocking,  flouting,  quaffing. 

I  spy  some  lovely  maids; 

One  and  aU; 

With  whom  we  romp'd  and  revel'd. 

AU  have  had  a  bellv-fuU 

Dismantled  and  dishevel'd; 

Of  breakfaat  brave  and  plentiful; 

With  their  bosoms  open. 

Therefore 

With  whom  we  might  be  ooping. 

Evermore 

Xantbiab.  Well,  I  was  alwayi  hearty. 

With  yoMi  voices  and  your  bodies 

Disposed  to  mirth  and  ease, 

Serve  the  goddess, 

1  'm  ready  to  join  the  party. 

And  raise 

Bacchus.  And  I  will,  if  you  please. 

Songs  of  praiae; 

ITo  (A«  Chonu.]  Prithee,  my  good  fellown, 

She  shall  save  the  country  still, 

Would  you  please  to  tell  us 

And  save  it  against  the  traitor's  irill; 

Which  ia  Huto's  door. 

So  die  sayB. 

I'm  an  utter  stranger, 

Now  let  us  raise,  in  a  different  strain, 

Never  here  before. 

The  pnuae  of  the  goddess  the  giver  of  grain ; 

Chobus.    Friend,  you're  nut  of  danger. 

.  You  need  not  seek  it  far; 

With  other  behavior, 

There  it  stands  before  ye. 

Before  ye,  where  you  are. 

gmver. 

Bacchus.     Take     up     your     bundles. 

Xanthias. 

Condescend  to  mark  and  blees, 

XaiiTBias.  Hang  all  bundles; 

With  benevolent  regard, 

A  bundle  has  no  aid,  and  these  have  none. 

Both  the  Chorus  and  the  Bard; 

Chorus.  Now  we  go  to  dance  and  sing 

Grant  them  for  the  pceeent  day 

In  the  consecrated  shades; 

Many  things  to  sing  and  say. 

Round  the  secret  holy  ring. 

Follies  intermix'd  with  sense; 

With  the  matrons  and  the  maids. 

FoUy,  but  without  offense. 

Thither  1  must  haste  to  bring 

Grant  them  with  the  present  play 

The  mysterious  early  light; 

To  bear  the  priae  <rf  verae  away. 

Which  must  witness  every  rite 

Now   call   again,    and   with   a   diffenint 

Of  the  joyous  happy  night. 

Let  us  hasten  —  let  ua  fly — 

Where  the  lovely  meadows  he; 

The  florid,  active  Bacchus,  bright  and  gay, 

Where  the  living  waters  flow; 

To  journey  forth  and  join  us  on  the  way. 

V^-here  the  roses  bloom  and  blow. 

0  Bacchus,  attendl  the  customaiy  patron 

—  Heirs  of  Immortality, 

Of  every  hvely  lay; 

Go  forth  without  delay 

Easy,  sorrowlesB,  secure; 

Thy  wonted  annual  way, 

Since  our  earthly  course  is  run. 

To  meet  the  ceremonious  holy  matron: 

We  behold  a  brighter  sun. 

Her  grave  procession  gracing. 

Holy  lives  —  a  holy  vow  — 

Thine  airy  footat«pB  tracing 

Such  rewards  await  them  now. 

Bacchus.  Well,  how  must  I  knock  at 

the  door  now?  Can't  ye  tell  me7 

Behold  thy  faithful  quire 

How  do  the  native  inhabitants  knock  at 

In  pitiful  attire; 

dooreT 

All  overworn  and  ragged, 

Xantbias.  Pah;    don't    stand    fooling 

This  jerkin  old  and  jagged, 

there;  but  smite  it  smartly. 

Theee  buskins  torn  and  buret. 

With  the  very  spirit  and  air  of  Hercules. 

Thoi^  sufferers  in  the  fray. 

Bacchus.  Hellol 

May  serve  us  at  the  worst 

Macvs.  Who's  there? 

cmizedbvGoOQlc 


96 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Mactib.  Thou  brutal,  abominable,  de- 
testable, 

Vile,  villainoua,  infamous,  nefaiious  scoun- 
drdl 

—  How  durst  thou,  viUaui  as  thou  wert,  to 

Our  natdbdog,  Cerberus,  whom  I  kept  and 

tended 
Huiryiug  him  off,  half-strangled  in  your 

grasp? 

—  But  now,  be  sure  we  have  you  safe  and 

fast. 
Miscreant  and  villun !  —  Thee,  the  Stygian 

cliffs, 
With  stern  adaroantine  durance,  and  the 

Of  inaccesHible  Acheron,  red  with  gore. 
Environ  and  bdeaguer;  and  the  watch. 
And  swift  pursuit  of  the  hideous  hounds  of 

hell; 
\nd  the  horrible  Hydra,  with  her  hundred 

Whose  furious  ravening  fanga  shall  rend 

and  tear  thee; 
Wrenching  thy  vitids  forth,  with  the  heart 

and  midriff; 
While  inexpressible  Tarteaian  monatflrs. 
And  grim  Tithrasian  Gorgons  toss  and 

scatter 
With  clattering  claws,  thine  intertwined 

intestines. 
To  them,  with  instant  summons,  I  repair. 
Moving  in  hasty  march  with  st^M  of  speed. 
Xanthias.  Hello,    youl     What's    the 

matter  there  — ? 
Bacchus.  Oh  dear, 
I've  had  an  accident. 

Xanthias.  Fohl  pohl  jump  upl 
Cornel  you  ridiculous  simpleton!  don't  lie 


Xanthiab.  Was  there  ever  in  heaven  or 

earth  such  a  coward? 
Bacchus.  Me? 
A  coward  I  Did  not  I  show  my  { 


And  call  for  a  sponge  and  water  in 

moment? 
Would  a  coward  have  done  that? 
Xaktbiab.  What  else  would  he  do/ 


Bacchos.  He'd  have  lain  there  stinking 
like  a  nasty  coward; 
But  I  jump'd  up  at  once,  lilte  a  lusty 

wrestler, 
And  look'd   idxiut,   and  wiped   mysdf, 
withal. 
Xanthias.  Moat  manfully  done! 
'  Bacchus.  By  Jove,  and  I  think  it  was; 
But  tell  me,  wem't  you  frighten'd  with 

that  speech? 
—  Such  horrible  erpresBions! 

Xanthias.  No,  not  I; 
I  took  no  notice  — 

Bacchus,  Well,  I'U  teU  you  what. 
Since  you  're  such  a  valiant-spirited  kind  of 
fellow. 


Now  you're  in  tjiis  courageous  t«mper  of  ' 

mind; 
And  I'U  go  take  my  turn  and  carry  the 

bundles. 
Xanthias.  Well  —  give    us    hold  —  I 

must  humor  you,  forsooth; 
Make  haste,  and  now  behold  the  Xanthian 

Hercules, 
And  mind  if  I  don't  display  more  heart 

and  spirit. 
Bacchus.  Indeed,,  and    you   look    the 

character,  completely, 
Like  that  faemio  Mditensian  hangdog  — 
Come,  now  for  my  bundles.  I  must  mind 

my  bundles. 

[Enter  Pbosebpinx's  Servant  Maid  viho  tin- 

mediatdy  addreuei  Xanthiab.1 
Servant  Maid.    Dear  Hercules.  Well. 

you're  come  at  last.  Come  in. 
For  the  goddess,  as  soon  bb  she  heard  of  it, 

set  to  work 
Baking  peck  loaves  and  frying  stacks  of 

pancakes. 
And  [t^jtiring  messes  of  furmety;  there's  an 

Besides,  she  has  roasted  whole,  with  a 

relishing  stuffing. 
If  you'll  only  just  step  in  this  way. 

Xanthias.  I  thank  you, 
I'm  equally  obliged. 

Servant  Maid,  No,  no,  by  Jupiterl 
We  must  not  let  you  off,  indeed.  There% 
wildfoiri 


:.L|,i,zedi!,GoOQlc 


THE  FROGS 


W 


And  oweetmeate  for  the  desaert,  and  the 

beet  of  wine; 
Only  walk  in. 
Xastbiab.  I  thank  you.   You'll  excuse 

Sertant  Maiu.  No,  no,  we  can't  excuse 
you,  indeed  we  can't; 
There  are  dancing  and  Hinpng  girk  beeides, 
Xamtbus.  What!  dancers? 
SXEVANT  Maid.  Yes,    that    there   are; 
the  sweetest,  cbarmingeat  things 
TbtA  you  ever  saw  —  and  there's  the  cook 

this  moment 
la  dishing  up  the  dinner. 

Xanthias.  Go  before  then, 
And  tell  the  giils  —  thoae  singing  giris  you 

mentioned  — 
To  prepare  for  my  approach  in  person 
presently. 
[To  Baccbvo.]  You,  sirrahl  follow  be- 
hind me  with  the  bundles. 
Bacchus.  Hello,  youl  what,  do  you  take 
the  thing  in  earnest. 
Because,  for  a  joke,  I  drest  you  up  like 

Hercules? 
Come,    don't    stand    fooling,    Xanthias. 

You'll  provoke  me. 
There,  carry  the  bundles,  sirrah,  when  I 
bid  you. 
Xamthias.  Why,  sure?  Do  you  mean  to 
take  the  things  away 
That  you  gave  me  yoursdf  of  your  own 
accord  this  instant? 
Baccbus.  t  never  mean  a  thing;  I  do  it 
at  once. 
Let  go  of  the  lion's  skin  directly,  I  tell  you. 
Xahtbiab.  To  you,  just  Gods,  I  make 
my  last  appeal. 
Bear  witness  I 
Bacchcs.  Whatl   the  gods?  —  do  you 
think  they  mind  you? 
How  could  you  take  it  in  your  head,  I 

wonder; 
Such  a  foolish  fancy  for  a  fellow  like  you, 
\  mortal  and  a  slave,  to  pass  for  Hercules? 
Xanthias.  There.  Take  them. —  There 
—  you    may    have    them  —  but, 
jAeaeeGod, 
You  may  come  to  want  my  help  some  time 
or  other. 
CHORtra.  Dexterous  and  wily  wito, 
find  their  own  advantage  ever; 


For  the  wind  where'er  it  sits, 

Leaves  a  berth  secure  and  dever 
To  the  ready  navigator; 
That  foresees  and  knows  the  nature. 
Of  the  wind  and  weather's  drift; 
And  betimes  can  turn  and  shift 
To  the  sheltered  easy  side; 
'T  is  a  practice  proved  and  tried. 
Not  to  wear  a  formal  face; 
Fixt  in  attitude  and  place, 
Like  an  image  on  its  base; 
'T  is  the  custom  of  the  seas, 
Which,  as  all  the  world  agrees, 
Justifies  Theramenes. 

Bacchus.  How  ridiculous  and  strange; 

What  a  monstrous  proposition. 
That  I  should  condescend  to  ch^ige 

My  dress,  my  name,  and  my  condition, 
To  follow  Xanthias,  and  behave 
like  a  mortal  and  a  slave; 
To  be  set  to  wat^ih  the  door 
While  he  wallow'd  with  his  whore. 
Tumbling  on  a  purple  bed; 

While  I  waitMl  with  submission, 
To  receive  a  broken  head; 

Or  be  kick'd  upon  suspicion 
Of  impertinence  and  peeping 
At  the  joys  that  he  was  reaping. 
[Enter  two  Women,  Sutlers  or  Keepers  (4  on 
ea/inff-Aouse.] 

Fiiwr  Woman.  What,  Platanal  Goody 
Platanal  therel  that's  he, 
The  fellow  that  robs  and  cheats  poor 

victualers; 
That  came  to  our  house  and  eat  those  nine- 
teen loaves. 

SECONn  WouAN.  Ay,  sure  enough  thatV 
he,  the  very  man. 

Xanthias.  There's  mischief  in  the  nini 
for  somebody! 

PiBOT  Woman.  —  And  a  dosen  and  a 
half  of  cutlets  and  fried  chops. 
At  a  penny  halfpenny  apiece  — 

Xanthias.  There  are  pains  and  penalties 
Impending  — 

FiR9t  Woman.  —  And  all  the  gariic:  such 
a  quantity 
As  he  swallowed  — 

Bacchus.  Woman,  you're  beside  your 
self; 
You  talk  you  know  not  vrtiat  — 

.  GooqIc 


98 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Second  Woiun.  No,  nol  you  reckoned 

I  should  not  know  you  again  with  them 

there  busldna. 

FiBsr  Woiun.  —  Good  lack!  and  there 

waa  alt  t^t  fish  beeidee. 

Indeed  —  with  the  pickle,  and  all  —  and 

the  good  green  cheeae 
That  he  gorged  at  once,  with  the  rind,  and 

the  niah-ibBskete; 
And  then,  when  I  called  for  payment,  he 

looked  fierce, 
And  stared  at  me  in  the  face,  and  grinned, 
and  roared  — 
Xahtbiab.  JuBt  like  him  I    That's  the 

way  wherever  he  goee. 
FtBBT    Woman.  —  And    snatched    hia 

Bword  out,  and  behaved  like  mad. 
Xahthus.  Poor    soulsl    you    suffered 

aadlyl 
FiBST  Woman.  Ycb,  indeed; 
And  then  we  both  ran  off  witJi  the  fright 

and  terror, 
And  scrambled  into  the  loft  beneath  the 

roof; 
And  he  took  up  two  rugs  and  stole  them  oS. 
Xanthus.  Just  like  him  again  —  but 
Bomethiiig  must  be  done. 
Go  call  me  Cleon,  he's  my  advocate. 
Skcond    Woman.  And    Hyperbolue,    if 
you  meet  him  send  him  here. 
He's  mine;  and  we'll  demoli^  him,  I  war- 
rant. 
FiKsr  Woman.  How  I  diould  like  to 
strike  thoee  ugly  teeth  out 
With  s  good  big  stone,  you  ravenous  greedy 

villain  I 
You  gormandising  villain  I  that  I  should  — 
Yes,  that  i  should;  your  wicked  u^y  fangs 
That  have  eaten  up  my  substance,  and 
devoured  me. 
Bacchcb.  And  I  could  toss  you  into  the 
public  pit 
With  the  malefactors'  carcasses;  that  I 

could, 
With  pleasure  and  satisfaction;    that    I 

First  Woman.  And  I  should  like  to  rip 
that  gullet  out 
With  a  reaping  hook  that  swallowed  all  my 

And  liver  and  lights  —  but  I  '11  fetch  Cleon 


And  he  ahall  summon  him.  He  shall  settle 

And  have  it  out  of  him  this  very  day. 

[Exeunt  Pirtl  and  Second  Wtmian.] 
Bacchus.  I  love  poor  Xanthias  dearly, 
tliatldo; 
I  wish  I  might  be  hanged  else. 
Xamthiab.  Yes,  I  know  — 
I  know  your  meaning  —  No;  no  more  of 

that, 
I  won't  act  Hercules  — 

Bacchus.  Now  pray  don't  aay  m>, 
My  little  Xanthias. 

'XuriBtAa.  How  should  I  be  Hercules? 
A  mortal  and  a  dave,  a  fellow  like  mef  — 
Bacchus.  I  know  you're  angry,  and 
you've  a  right  to  be  angry; 
And  if  you  beat  me  for  it  I  'd  not  complaio; 
But  if  ever  I  strip  you  again,  frtxn  this  time 

forward, 
I  wish  I  may  be  utterly  confounded, 
With  my  wife,  my  children,  and  my  family, 
And  the  blear-eyed  Archedemua  into  the 
bargain. 
Xanthias.  I  agree  then,  on  that  oath, 

and  those  conditions. 
Chorus.  Now    that    you    revive    and 

flourish 
In  your  old  attire  agwn. 
You  must  rouse  ofmh  and  nourish 

Thoughts  of  an  heroic  Btrain; 
That  exalt  and  raise  the  figure. 
And  assume  a  fire  and  vigor; 
And  an  attitude  and  air 
Suited  to  the  garb  you  wear; 
With  a  brow  severely  bent. 
Lake  the  god  you  represent. 
But  beware. 

If  j^u  blunder,  or  betray 
Any  weakness  any  way; 
Weakness  of  the  heart  or  brain. 
We  shall  see  you  once  again 
Trudging  in  the  former  track. 
With  the  bundles  at  your  back. 
Xanthias.  Friends,    1   thank  you  for 
your  care; 
Your  advice  was  good  and  fair; 
Corresponding  in  its  tone 
With  reflections  of  my  own. 
—  Though  I  dearly  comprehoid 
All  the  upshot  and  the  end 

Jc 


THE  FROGS 


99 


(Tluit  if  any  good  oomea  of  it, 
Alky  [deaBure  any  profit  — 
He,  my  master,  will  recede 
From  the  temu  that  were  agreed), 
You  ahall  see  me,  notwithatanding, 
Stem,  intrepid,  and  commanding. 
Now's  the  time;  for  there's  a.  noiael 
Now  for  figure,  loak,  and  voice! 

lEnUr  Macvb.] 
JEmjub.  Arrest  me  there  that  fellow  that 
stole  the  dog. 
Tltoel  —  Pinion  him!  —  Quick! 

Bacchdb.  There 'i  somebody  in  a  scrape. 
Xanthus.  Keep  off,  and  be  hanged. 
£acub.  CHi,  bo!  do  you  mean  to  fight 
foritr 
Here!  Pardokas,  and  Skeblias,  and  the  net 

of  ye, 
Moke  up  to  the  rogue,  and  eetde  him. 
Come,  be  quick. 
Bac)Chijb.  Well,  is  not  this  quite  mon- 
strous and  outrageous. 
To  steal  the  dog,  and  then  to  make  an 

In  justification  of  it. 

Xamthias.  Quite  outrageous! 

£acub.  An  aggravated  case! 

Xanthiab.  Well,  now  —  by  Jupiter, 
M^  I  die;  but  I  never  saw  this  place 

Nor  ever  stole  the  amount  of  a  farthing 

from  you: 
Nor  a  hair  of  your  d<^e  tail  —  But  you 

shall  see  now, 
I'll  settle  all  this  business  nobly  and  fairly. 
—  This  slave  of  mine  -^  you  may  take  and 

torture  him; 
And  if  you  make  out  anything  against  me, 
You  may  take  and  put  me  to  death  for 

aught  I  care. 
Micva.  But    which    way    would    you 

please  to  have  him  tortured? 
Xanthtas.  In  your  own  way— with  . . . 

the  lash — with . . .  knots  and  screws, 
With  .  .  .  the    common    usual    customary 

tortune. 
With  the  rack  —  with  .  .  .  the  water-tor- 
ture —  anyway  — 
With  fire  and  vinegar  —  all  sorts  of  ways. 
There's  only  one  thing  I  should  warn  you 


that    you're    saying 
Bacchus 


I  must  not  have  him  treated  like  a  child, 
To  be  whipp'd  with  fennel,  or  with  lettuce 
leaves. 
£acus.  That's  fair  —  and  if  so  be  .  .  . 
he's  maim'd  or  crippled 
In  any  respect — the  valy  diall  be  paid  you. 
XAhTBiAS,  Oh  no!  —  by  no  means!  not 
to  me!  —  by  no  means! 
You  must  not  mention  it!  —  Take  him  to 
the  torture. 
Macvb.  It  had  better  be  here,  and  under 
your  own  eye. 
Come  you  —  put  down  your  bundles  and 

make  ready. 
And  mind  —  let  me  hear  do  lies! 

Baccbtis.  I'll  tell  you  what; 
I'd  advise  people  not  to  torture  me; 
I  give  you  notice  —  1  'm  a  deity. 
80  mind  now  —  you'll  have  nobody  to 

blame 

But  your  own  self  — 

.£acub.  What's 

there? 
Baccbus.  Why     that 

That  fellow  there's  a  slave. 
JIacps.,  Do  ye  hear? 
Xantbiab.  I  hear  him  — 
A  reason  the  more  to  give  him  a  good  beat- 

ins; 
If  he's  iounortal  he  need  never  mind  it. 
Baccbus,  Wl^  should  not  you  be  beat 
as  well  as  I  then. 
If  you're  immortal,  as  you  say  you  are? 
Xantbiab.  Agreed  —  and  him,  the  first 
that  you  see  flinching. 
Or  seeming  to  mind  it  at  all,  you  may  set 

him  down 
For  an  impostor  and  no  real  deity, 
^ACtrs.  Ah,  you'reawortby gentleman, 
I'll  be  bound  for't; 
You're  all  for  the  truth  and  the  proof. 
Come  —  Strip  there  both  o'  ye. 
Xanthiab.  But  bow  can  ye  put  us  to 
the  question  fairly. 
Upon  equal  terms? 

Macvb.  Oh,  easily  enough, 
Conveniently  enough  —  a  lash  apiece, 
Each  in  your  turn;  you  can  have  'em  one 

Xanthiab.  That's  right.   Now  mind  if 
ye  see  me  flinch  or  swerve. 


Ck^t^^lc 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


JEacub.  I've  struck. 

Xaktbias.  Not  you  I 

MACva.  Why  it  seems  as  if  I  bad  not. 
I'll  >init«  Uua  other  fellow. 

Bacchus.  When  will  you  do  it? 
Oh  dear!    Companions  of  my  youthful 

Xamtbias  [U>  Macvb].  Did  ye  hear?  he 

made  an  outcry. 
Macvb.  What  was  that? 
Baochus.  a     favorite     passage     from 

'    Archilochus. 
Xaktbias.  O  Jupiter]  that  on  the  Idean 

JEacub.  Well,  after  all  my  pains,  I'm 

quite  at  a  loss 
To  discover  which  is  the  true,  real  deity. 
By  the  Holy  Goddess  — I'm  completely 

puxiled; 
I  must  take  you  before  Proserpine  and 

Pluto, 
Being  gods  themselves  they're^ likeliest  to 

Bacchus.  Why,  that's  a  lucky  thought. 
I  only  widi 
It  had  happen'd  to  occur  before  you  beat 

Chorus.  Muse,  attend  our  solemn  sum- 

And  survey  the  asseiubled  commons, 

Congr^^ted  as  they  sit. 

An  enormous  mass  of  wit, 

—  Full  of  genius,  taat«,  and  fire, 

Jealous  pride,  and  critic  ire  — 

Cleophon  among  the  rest 

(Like  the  swallow  from  her  nest, 

A  familiar  foreign  bird). 

Chatters  loud  and  will  be  heard, 

(With  the  accent  and  the  grace 

Which  he  brought  with  him  from  Thraoe); 

But  we  fear  the  tuneful  strain 

Will  be  tum'd  to  grief  and  pain; 

He  must  sing  a  dirge  perforce 

When  his  trial  takes  its  course; 

We  shall  hear  him  moan  and  wail, 

Like  the  plaintive  nightingale. 

It  behoves  the  sacred  Chorus,  and  of  right 

to  them  belongs. 
To  suggest  the  best  advice  in  their  addresses 

and  their  songs, 
In  performance  of  our  office,  we  present 

with  all  humility 


A  proposal  for  removing  groundless  fears 

and  disability. 
First  that  all  that  ^mn  inveigled  into 

Phrynichus's  treason. 
Should  be  Buffer'd  and  received  by  rules  a 

evidence  and  reason 
To  clear  their  conduct  —  Secondly,  that 

none  of  our  Athenian  race. 
Should  live  suspected  and  subjected  to  loss 

of  franchise  and  disgrace, 
Feeling  it  a  grievous  scandal  when  a  sinf^e 

naval  fight 
Renders  foreigners  and  slaves  pari^kets  of 

the  city's  right: 

—  Not  that  we  condemn  the  measure;  we 

conceived  it  wisely  done. 
As  a  just  and  timely  measure,  and  the  first 
and  only  one; 

—  But  your  kinsmen  and  your  comrades, 

those  with  whom  you  fought  andbore 
Danger,  hardship,  and  fatigue,  or  with  their 

fathers  long  before, 
Strugfijiug  on  the  land  and  ocean,  laboring 

with  the  ^>ear  and  oar 

—  These  we  think,  as  they  profess  repent- 

ance for  tbeir  paq^  behavior,   . 
M^t,  by  your  exalted  wisdoms,  be  re- 
ceived to  grace  and  favor. 
Better  it  would  be,  believe  us,  casting  oB 

revenge  and  pride. 
To  receive  as  friends  and  kinsmen  all  that 

combat  on  our  side 
Into  full  and  equal  franchise:  on  the  otbw 

hand  we  fear. 
If  your   hearts    are   fill'd  with  fancies, 

haughty,  captious,  and  severe; 
While  the  diock  of  instant  danger  threatens 

shipwreck  to  the  state, 
Such  resolves  will  be  lamented  and  re- 
pented of  too  lat«. 
If  the  Muse  foresees  at  all 
What  in  future  wiU  befall 
Dirty  Oleigenes  the  small  — 
He,  the  sovereign  of  the  bath, 
Will  not  long  escape  from  scath; 
But  must  perish  by  and  by. 
With  his  potssh  and  his  lye; 
With  his  realm  and  dynasty. 
His  terraqueous  scouring  ball. 
And  his  washes,  one  and  all; 
Therefore  he  can  never  cease 
To  declaim  sgiuQst  a  peace. 

.CtOoqIc 


THE  FROGS 


Often  times  have  we  reflected  on  a  similar 

abuse, 
la  the  cboioe  of  men  for  office,  and  of  coins 

for  common  use; 
For  yma  old  and  standard  pieces,  valued, 

and  approved,-  and  tried. 
Hot  among  the  Grecian  nations,  and  in  all 

the  world  beside; 
Recognised  in  every  redm  for  trusty  stamp 

and  pure  assay, 
Are  rejected  and  atnndon'd  for  the  trasb 

of  jestwday; 
For  a  vile,  adulterate  issue,  drossy,  counter- 
feit, and  base. 
Which  the  traffic  of  the  city  passes  current 

in  their  pUoel 
And  the  men  that  stood  for  office,  noted  for 

acknowledged  worth, 
And  for  manly  deeds  of  honor,  and  for 

honorable  birth; 
Train'd  in  exercise  and  art,  in  sacred  dances 

snd  in  song. 
All  are  ousted  and  supplanted  by  a  base 

ignoble  throng; 
Paltry  stamp  and  vulgar  mettle  raise  them 

to  command  and  place, 
Bruen  counterfeit  pretenders,  scoundrels 

□f  a  scoundrel  race; 
Whom  the  state  in  former  ages  scarce  would 

have  allow' d  to  stand, 
At  the  aacrifice  of  outcasts,  as  the  scape- 
goats of  the  land. 

—  Hme  it  is  —  and  long  has  been,  re- 

nouudog  all  your  follies  past. 
To  r«cur  to  sterling  merit  and  intrinHie 

worth  at  last. 
~  If  we  rise,  we  rise  with  honor;  if  we  fall, 

it  must  be  sol 

—  But  titers  was  an  ancient  saying,  which 

we  all  have  heard  snd  know. 
That  the  wise,  in  dangerous  cases,  have 

esteem'd  it  safe  and  good 
To  receive  a  alight  chastisement  from  a 
wand  of  Tioble  wood, 
.£4cus.  ByJupiter;buthe'8  a  gentleman, 
That  master  of  youra. 

Xanthiab.  AgentlemanI  Tobesureheis; 
Why,  he  does  nothing  else  but  wench  and 

£acus.  Hie  never  striking  you  when  you 

Outfacing  hid)  and  oontradicting  himi  — 


Xahthiab.  It  mi^t  have  been  worse  for 
'      him  if  be  had. 

Mactsb.  Well,  that's  well  spoken,  like  a 
true-bred  slave. 
It's  just  the  sort  of  language  I  delight  in. 
Xantqiab.  You  love  excuses? 
Macvb.  Yes;  but  I  prefer 
Cursing  my  master  quietly  in  private. 
XANmiAB.  Mischief  you're  fond  off 
JE\cxia.  Very  fond  indeed. 
Xantbias.  What  think  ye  of  muttering 
as  you  leave  the  room 
After  s  beating? 
^Acue.  Why,  that's  pleasant  too, 
Xan'thiab.  By  Jove,  is  it!  But  listening 
at  the  door 
To  hear  their  secrets? 
£AcrB.  Oh,  there's  nothing  Uke  it. 
Xavihiab.  And  then  the  reporting  them 

in  the  neighborhood. 
iUcUB.  llist'B  beyond  everything. — 

That's  quite  ecstatic. 
Xanthias.  Well,  give  me  your  hand. 
And,  thete,  take  mine — andbussme. 
And  there  again  —  and  now  for  Jupiter's 

sake!  — 
(For  he's  the  patron  of  our  eufis  snd  beat- 

ings) 
Do  tell  me  what's  that  noise  of  people 

quarreling 
And  abusing  one  another  tbete  within? 
Macvb.  .^echylus  and  Euripides,  only! 
Xanthiab.  Heh?  —  ? — f 
Macvb.  Why,  there's  a  desperate  busi- 
ness has  broke  out 
Among  these  here  dead  people; —  quite  a 
tumult. 
Xanthiab.  As  how? 
iEActJB,  First,  there's  a  custom  we  have 
establish 'd 
In  favor  of  professors  of  the  arts. 
When  any  one,  the  first  in  his  own  line, 
Comes  down  amongst  us  here,  he  stands 

entitled 
To  privilege  and  precedence,  with  a  seat 
At  Pluto's  royal  board. 
Xanthiab.  I  understand  you. 
£Acrs.  So  he  maintains  it,  till  there 
comes  a  better 
Of  the  same  sort,  and  then  resigns  it  up. 
Xanthias.  But  why  should  Jlschylus 
be  disturb'd  at  this? 


■.CTOOt-^lc 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


£AcnB.  He  hdd  the  seat  for  tragedy,  as 
the  master 
In  that  profeeaion. 
XAjfTHua.  Well,  and  who's  Uiere  now? 
Macvb.  He  kept  it  UU  Euripidn  ap- 

But  he  collected  audienoes  about  him. 
And  flouriah'd,  and  exhibited,  and    ha- 
rangued 
Before  the  thieres,  and  hous^reakers,  and 

Cut-pursee,  cheats,  aud  vagabonds,  and 

villaias, 
lliat  make  the  mass  erf  population  here; 
And  they  —  being  quite  transported,  and 

delighted 
With  his  equivocations  and  evasions. 
His  subtletiee  and  niceties  and  quibbles  — 
In  abort  —  they  raised  an  uproar,  and  de- 
clared him 
Arcbpoet,  by  a  general  acclamation. 
And  he  with  this  grew  proud  and  confident. 
And  laid  a  claim  to  the  seat  where  fschy- 
lussat. 
Xanthus.  And  did  not  he  get  pelted  for 

his  pains? 
J&ACva.  Why,  no  —  The  mob  call'd  out, 
and  it  was  carried. 
To  have  a  public  trial  of  skill  between  them. 
Xanthias.  You  mean  the  mob  of  scoun- 
drels that  you  mention'd? 
^!acu8.  Scoundrels  indeed!   Ay,  scoun- 
drels without  number. 
Xanthias.  But   ^Ischylus  must    have 

had  good  friends  and  hearty? 
Macvb.  Yes;  but  good  men  are  scarce 

both  here  and  elsewhere. 
Xanthias.  Well,  what  has  Pluto  settled 

to  be  done? 
£agu6.  To  have  an  examination  and  a 
trial 
In  public. 
Xanthias.  But  bow  comes  it?  —  Soi^ko- 
cles?  — 
Why  does  he  not  put  forth  his  claim 
amongst  them? 
Macvb.  No,  nol  —  He's  not  the  kind  of 
man  —  not  hel 
I  tell  ye;  the  first  moment  that  he  came. 
He  went  up  to  jEschylua  and  aiduted  him 
And  kiss'd  his  cheek  and  took  his  hand 
quite  kindly: 


And  ^Isch^uB  edged  a  little  frraa  hia  seat 
To  give  him  room;  so  now  the  story  goes, 
(At  least  I  had  it  from  Cleitknudes) 
He  means  to  attend  there  as  a  stander-by, 
Proposing  to  talce  up  the  conqueror; 
If  £Bcbyliu  gets  the  better,  weJI  and  good, 
He  gives  up  his  pretensions  —  but  if  not, 
He'll  stand  a  trial,  he  says,  against  Eurip- 
ides. 
Xanthiab.  There'U  be  strange  doings. 
^Acus.  That  there  will  —  and  shortly 
—  Here  —  in  this  {Jace  —  strange  things, 

I  promise  you; 
A  kind  of  thing  that  no  man  oould  have 

thought  of; 
Why,  you'll  see  poetry  wei^'d  out  and 

measured. 
Xanthias,  What,  will  they  bring  their 

tragedies  to  the  steel-yards? 
Macjjs.  Yes,    will    they  —  with    their 

rules  and  compaflses 
They 'llmeasure,and«xainine,  and  compare. 
And  bring  their  plummets,  and  thtax  lines 

and  levels. 
To  take  the  bearings  —  for  Euripides 
Says  that  he'll  make  a  survey,  wMd  by 

Xanthiab.  iGaohylus  takes  the  thing  to 

heart,  I  doubt. 
^Iacus.  He  b«it  his  brows  and  pored 

upon  the  ground;  I  saw  him. 
Xanthias.  Well,  but  who  decides  the 

business? 
.^ACUB.  Why,  there  the  difficulty  lies  — ' 

for  judges, 
True  learned  judges,  are  grown  scarce,  and 

.^Bohylus 
Objected  to  the  Athenians  absolutely. 
Xanthias.  Considering  them  as  rogues 

and  villains  mostly. 
Macvs.  As  being  ignorant  and  onpty 

generally; 
And  in  their  judgment  of  the  stage  partio- 

In  fine,  they've  fix'd  upon  that  master  of 

Ab  having  had  some  practice  in  the  busi- 

But  we  must  wait  within  —  for  when  our 

maaterB 
Are  warm  and  eager,  stripes  and  blows 

ensue.  [ExU  MacvbJ 


iiizedbv  Google 


THE  FROGS 


Chortib.  The  full-moutli'd  mBster  of  the 
tragio  quire, 
We  shall  behold  him  foam  with  rage  and 

—  Confronting  in  the  liat 

Hu  eager,  ehrewd,  sharp-tooth'd  uitago- 

Hicd  will  hia  Tiaiul  orbs  be  wildly  whirl'd 
And  huge  invectives  will  be  hurl'd 

Superb  and  supercilioua, 

Atrocious,  atrabilious, 
With  furious  gesture  and  with  lipe  of  foam, 
And  lion  crest  unconacioua  of  the  comb; 
Erect  with  rage  —  his  brow's  impending 

gloom 
O'erahadowing  his  dark  eje»'  terrific  blue. 

lie  oppouemt,  dexterous  and  wary, 

Will  fend  and  parry: 
While  masHca  of  conglomerated  phraae, 

^lonnouB,  ponderous,  and  pedantic, 

With  indignation  frantic, 

Aitd  atrength  and  farce  ^gaotic, 
Are  de^lerately  sped 
At  his  devoted  head  — 
Then  in  different  style 
The  touchstone  and  the  file. 
And  BubtletiM  of  art 
In  turn  will  play  their  part; 
Analysis  and  nile. 
And  every  modem  tool; 
With  critic  scratch  and  scribble, 
And  nice  invidious  nibble; 
Contending  for  the  important  choice, 
A  vast  expenditure  of  human  voieel 

[BnUr  EcsiFiDBB,  and  ^Ibchtlub.) 
EiTBiFiDBB.  Don't  gfre  me  your  advice, 
I  claim  the  seat 
As  bring  a  better  and  auperior  artiat. 
Bacchus.  What,  ^Ischylus,   don't  you 

tpeak?  you  hear  his  language. 
EtntiPiDES.  He's  mustering  up  a  grand 
commanding  visage 
—  A  silent  attitude  —  the  common  trick 
lliat  he  begins  with  in  his  tragedies. 
Baccbus.  Come,  have  a  core,  my  friend 

—  You'll  toy  too  much. 
EuBipinsB.  I  Icnow  the  man  of  old  — 
I've  scrutinized 
And  shown  him  long  ago  for  what  he  is, 
A  rude  unbridled  tongue,  a  h&ughty  spirit; 
Proud,  arrogant,  and  insolently  pompous; 


Rough,  downish,  boistotnui,  and  overbear- 
ing. 
JEecaxwK.  Say'st  thou  me  so?    Thou 
baatard  of  the  earth, 
With  thy  patch'd  robes  and  rags  of  sentj- 

Raked  from  the  streets  and  stitch'd  and 

tack'd  fa^etherl 
Thou  mumping,  whining,  beggarly  hj'PO' 

critel 
But  you  shall  pay  for  it, 

Bacchus.  There  now,  ^schylua. 
You  grow  too  wann.  Restrain  your  indil 

JE^cwTLve.  Yee;    but    I'll    seiie    that 
sturdy  beggar  first. 
And  search  and  strip  him  bare  of  his  pre- 


B&CCHUB.  Quick!  Quick!   A  sacrifice  to 
the  winds  —  Make  ready; 

The  storm  of  rage  ia  gathering.    Bring  a 
victim. 
ilscHTLDB.  —  A   wretch   that  has  cor- 
rupted everything; 

Our  music  with  his  melodiee  from  Crete; 

Our  morals  with  incestuous  tragedies. 
Baccbub.  Dear,  worthy  ^Gschylua,  con- 
tain yourself. 

And  as  for  you,  Euripidee,  move  off 

This  inBtant,  if  you're  wise;  I  give  you 
warning. 

Or  else,  with  one  of  his  big  thumping 
phrases, 

You'U  get  your  brains  dash'd  out,  and  all 
your  notions 

And  sentiments  and  matt«r  mash'd  to 

—  And  thee,  most  noble  j£schyluB,  I  be- 

With  mild  demeanor  calm  and  affable 
To  hear  and  answer.  —  For  it  iU  beeeema 
Qlustrious  bards  to  scold  hke   market- 
women. 
But  you  roar  out  and  bellow  like  a  fur- 

EuBiMDBS.  I'm   up   to    it,  —  I'm   «- 

solved,  and  here  I  stand 
Ready  and  steady  —  take  what  course  you 

will; 
Let  him  be  first  to  apeak,  or  else  let  me. 
I  '11  match  my  plots  and  charscterB  against 


104 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


My  sentiments  Emd  laiiguage,  and  nhat 

Ayl  and  my  music  too,  my  Meleager, 
My  Mo]uB  and  my  Telephus  amd  all. 
Bacchcb.  Well,  ^lachyluB, — determine. 

What  aay  you? 
.^BCHTLus.  I  wish  the  place  of  trial  had 
been  elsewhere, 
I  stand  at  disadvantage  here. 
Bacchub.  As  how? 

MacBiixjB.  Because  my  poems  live  on 
earth  above, 
And  his  died  with  him,  and  descended  here, 
And  are  at  hand  as  ready  witnesses; 
But  you  decide  the  matter:  I  submit. 
Bacchtts.  Come  —  let  them  bring  me 
fire  and  frankincense. 
That  I  may  offer  vows  and  make  oblations 
For  an  ingenious  critical  condueion 
To  this  same  elegant  and  clever  trial  — 
And  you  too,  —  sing  me  a  hymn  there.  — 
To  the  Muses.  , 

Chobus.  To  the  Heavenly  Nine  we  pe- 

Ye,  that  on  earth  or  in  air  are  forever 

kindly  protecting  the  vsgaiiea  of 

learned  ambition, 
And  at  your  esse  from  ^wve  our  sense  and 

folly  directii^  (or  poetical  contests 

inspecting, 
Deign  to  behold  for  a  while  as  a  scene  of 

amusing  attention,  all  the  struggles 

of  style  and  invention), 
Aid,  and  assist,  and  attend,  and  afford  to 

the  furious  authors  your  refined  and 

enlighten 'd  suggestions; 
Grant   them   ability  —  force   and   agility, 

quick  recollections,  and  address  in 

their  answers  and  questions, 
Pithy  replies,  with  a  word  to  the  wise,  and 

pulling  and  hauling,  with  inordinate 

uproar  and  bawling, 
Driving  and  drawing,  like  carpentets  saw- 
ing, their  dramas  asunder: 
With  suspended  sense  and  wonder, 
All  are  waiting  and  attending 
On  the  conflict  now  depending! 
Bacchtts.  Come,  say  your  prayers,  you 

two  before  the  trial. 
^BCHYLpB,  O  Ceres,  nourisher  of  my 

sou],  maintain  me 
A  worthy  follower  of  thy  mysteries. 


Bacchus.  There,  you  there,  make  your 

offering. 
EuRiPiPRe.  Well,  I  will-, 
But  I  direct  myself  to  other  deities. 
Bacchus.  H^,  what?  Vour  own?  Some 

Euripides.  Most  assuredly  I 

Bacchus.  Well!  Pray  away,  then  —  to  , 

your  own  new  deities.  , 

EuRiPiDEB.  Thou  foodful  Air,  the  nurse 

of  all  my  notions; 
And  ye,  the  organic  powers  of  sense  and 

And  keen  refined  olfactory  discernment. 
Assist  my  preeent  search  for  faults  and 

Chobus.  Here  beside  you,  here  are  we. 
Eager  eH  to  hear  and  see 
This  abstruse  and  mighty  battle 
Of  profound  and  learned  prattle. 
—  But,  as  it  appears  to  me. 
Thus  the  course  of  it  will  be; 
He,  the  junior  and  appellant. 
Will  advance  as  the  assailant. 
Aiming  shrewd  satyric  darts 
At  his  rival's  noble  parts; 
And  with  sallies  sharp  and  keen 
Try  to  wound  him  in  the  sgdeen, 
While  the  veteran  rends  and  raises 
Rifted,  rough,  uprooted  phrases, 
Wielded  like  a  threshing  staff 
Scattering  the  dust  and  chaff. 
Bacchus.  Come,    now    begin,    dispute 
away,  but  first  I  give  you  notice 
That  every  phrase  in  your  discourse  must 

be  refined,  avoiding 

Vulgar  absurd  comparisons,  and  awkwanj 

silly  joking. 

Euripides.  At  the  first  outset,  T  forbeai 

to  state  my  own  pretensions; 

Hereafter  1  shall  mention  tliem,  when  his 

have  been  refuted; 
After  I  shall  have  fairiy  shown,  how  he 

befool'd  and  cheated 
The  rustic  audience  that  he  found,  which 

Phrynichus  bequeathed  him. 
He  planted  fintt  upon  the  stage  a  figure 

veil'd  and  muffled. 
An  Achilles  or  a  Niobe,  that  never  show'd 

their  faces ; 
But  kept  a  tragic  attitude,  without  a  word 


.CjOC^'.^Ic 


THE  FROGS 


>oS 


Bacchus.  No  more  they  did:  't  is  very 

EtmiPOES.  — In  the   meanwhile    the 
ChoniB 

Stnmg  on  ten  strophes  right-ui-end,  but 

they  remain'd  in  silence. 

Bacchus.  I    liked    that    silence    well 

enough,  as  well,  perhaps,  or  better 

Than  those  new  talking  characters  — 

EuBiPiDEB.  That's  from  your  want  of 

judgment, 

Jdieve  me. 

Bacchttb.  Why,  perhaps  it  is;  but  what 

was  his  intention? 
EuHiPiDBS.  Why,  mere  conceit  and  inso- 
lence; to  keep  the  people  waiting 
Till  Niobe  should  deign  to  speak,  to  drive 
his  drama  forward. 
Bacchus.  O  what  a  rascal.    Now  I  see 
the  tricks  he  used  to  play  me, 

—  What  makes  you   writhe  and  winch 

about?  — 
EuBtPTOES.  Because  he  feeb  my  cen- 
sures. 

—  Hien  having  dragg'd  and  drawl'd  along, 

half-way  to  the  conclusion, 
He  foisted  in  a  dosen  words  of  noisy  bois- 
terous accent, 
WitJi  lofty  plumes  and  shaggy  brows,  mere 

bugbears  of  the  language. 
That  no  man  ever  heard  before.  — 
£sch;lus.  Alas!  alasl 
Baccbtts.  Have  done  there! 
EcBiPioEB.  He    never    used    a   simple 

word. 
Bacchus.  Don't  grind   your   teeth   so 

strangely. 
EuBiPiDEs.  But    "Bulwarks   and   Sea- 
manders"    and    "Hippogrifs    and 
Gorgons." 
"On  bumish'd  shields  emboss'd  in  brass;" 

bloody  remorHeleaa  phrases 
Which  nobody  could  understand. 

Bacchus.  Well,  I  confees,  for  my  part, 
I  used  to  keep  awake  at  night,  with  guesses 

and  conjectures 
To  think  what  kind  of  foreign  bird  be 
meant  by  griffin-horses. 
iEscHTTjUS.  Afigureontheheadsof ships; 
you  goose,  you  must  have  seen  them. 
Bacchus.  Well,   from   the   likeness.    I 
declare,  I  took  it  for  Enuds. 


EuBiPiDES.  Sol  Figures  from  the  heads 

of  ships  ate  6t  for  tragic  diction. 
jEacHrLfs.  Well    then  —  thou    paltry 
wretch,  explain.    What  were  your 
own  devices? 
EoBiPiDBS.  Not    stories    about    flying- 
stags,  like  yours,  and  griffin-horses; 
Nor  terms  nor  images  derived  from  tap- 
estry Persian  hangings. 
When  I  received  the  Muse  from  you  I 

found  her  puff'd  and  pomper'd 
With   pompous   sentences  and  terma,   a 

cumbrous  huge  virago. 
My  fitst  attention  was  applied  to  make  her 

look  genteelly; 
And  bring  her  to  a  slighter  shape  by  dint 

of  lighter  diet: 
I  fed  her  with  plain  household  phmae,  and 

cool  familiar  salad, 
With  water-gruel  episode,  with  sentimental 

jelly. 
With  moral  mincemeat;  till  at  leni^th  I 

brought  her  into  comi>BBB,' 
Cephisophon,  who  was  my  cook,  contrived 

to  make  them  relish. 
I  kept  my  plots  distinct  and  dear,  and,  to. 

prevHit  confusion. 

My    leading    characters    rehearsed    their 

pedigrees  for  prologues. 

MiBcwnAja.  'Twaswell,atleaBt,tliatyou 

forbore  to  quote  your  own  extraction. 

EuMPiDES.  From  the  fitst  opening  of 

the  scene,  all  persons  were  in  action; 

The  master  spoke,  the  slave  replied,  the 

women,  young  and  old  ones, 
All  had  their  equal  share  of  talk  — 
i£scBTi.ce.  Come,  then,  stand  forth  and 
tell  us. 
What  forfeit  less  than  death  is  due  for  such 
an  innovation? 
EiifUPiDEB.  I  did  it  upon  principle,  from 

democratic  motives. 
Bacchus,  Take  care,  my  friend  —  upon 
that  ground  your  footing  is  but 
ticklish. 
Euripides.   I  taught  these  youths  to 

speechify. 

^CBtLus.  1  say  so  too.  —  Moreover 

I  say  that  —  for  the  public  good  —  you 

ought  to  have  been  hang'd  first. 

EmupiDES.  The    rules    and    forms    of 

rhetoric,  —  the  laws  of  composition. 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


To  prate  —  to  state  —  &Dd  in  debate  to 

meet  a  question  fairly; 
At  a  dead  lift  to  turn  and  shift  —  to  make 

a  nice  distinction. 
JBacBn.vB.  1  grant  it  all  —  I  make  it  all 

—  my  ground  of  accuaation. 
EuBiPiDBB.  The  whole  in  cases  aad  oon- 

cemB  occuniog  and  lecutring 
At  every  turn  and  every  day  domeetic  and 

familiar, 
So  that  the  audience,  one  and  all,  from 

parsonal  experience, 
Wrae  competent  to  judge  the  piece,  and 

form  a  fair  opinion 
Whether  my  scenes  and  sentiments  agreed 

with  truth  and  nature. 
I  never  took  them  by  surpriae  to  storm 

their  understandings. 
With  Memnons  and  Tydidee's  and  idle 

rattle-trappings 
Of  battle-steeds  and  clattering  shields  to 

scaie  them  from  their  senses; 
But  for  a  test  (perhaps  the  best)  our  pupils 

and  adherenta 
May  be  distinguish'd  instantly  by  person 

and  behavior; 
His  are  Phormiaius  the  rough,  Meganetes 

the  ^oom)'. 
Hobgoblin-headed,  trumpet-mouth'd,  grim 

visaged,  u^y-bearded; 
But  mine  are  Cleitophon  the  smooth,  — 

Theromenes  the  geotle. 
Bacchus.  Theramenee  —  a  clever  hand, 

a  universal  genius. 
I  never  found  him  at  a  loss  in  all  the  turns 

of  party 
To  change  his  watchword  at  a  word  or  at 

a  moment's  warning. 
EmupmBS.  Thus  it  was  that  I  began, 
With  a  nicer,  neater  plan; 
Teaching  men  to  look  about, 
Both  within  doors  and  without; 
To  direct  their  own  afTairs, 
And  their  house  and  household  wares; 
Marking  everything  amiss  — 
"Where  is  that?  and  —  What  is  this?" 
"This  is  broken  —  that  is  gone," 
'T  is  the  modem  style  and  tone. 
Bacchcb.  Yes,  by  Jove  —  and  at  their 

homes 
'  Nowadays  each  master  oomee. 
Of  a  sudden  bolting  in 


With  an  uproar  and  a  din; 
Rating  all  the  servants  round, 
"If  it's  lost,  it  must  be  found. 
Why  was  all  the  garlic  wasted? 
There,  that  honey  has  been  tasted: 
And  these  olives  pilfer'd  here. 
Where's  the  pot  we  bought  last  year? 
What's  become  of  all  the  fish? 
Which  of  you  has  broke  the  dish?" 
Thus  it  is,  but  heretofore, 
The  moment  that  they  craae'd  the  door. 
They  sat  them  down  to  dose  and  snore. 
Chobos.  "Noble  Achilles!  you  see  the 

The  shame  and  affront,  and  an  enemy 
nigh!" 
Oh  I  bethink  thee,  mighty  master, 

Think  betimes  of  your  reply; 
Yet  beware,  lest  anger  force 
Your  hasty  chariot  from  the  courae; 
Grievous  charges  have  been  heard, 
With  many  a  sharp  and  bitter  word. 
Notwithstanding,  mighty  chief, 
Let  Prudence  fold  her  cautious  leei 
In  your  anger's  swelling  sail; 
By  degrees  you  may  prevail. 
But  beware  of  your  behavior 
Till  the  wind  is  in  your  favor: 
Now  for  your  answer,  illustrious  architect, 

Founder  of  lofty  theatrical  lays! 
Patron  in  chief  of  our  tra^cal  trumperies! 

Open  the  floodgate  of  figure  and  phrase! 

iEscHTLus.  My  spirit  is  kindled  with 
anger  and  shajne, 
To  so  base  a  competitor  forced  fo  rejdy. 
But  I  needs  must  retort,  or  the  wretch  wiK 

report 
That  he  left  me  refuted  and  foil'd  in  debate; 
Tell  me  then.  What  are  the  principal  merita 
Entitling  a  poet  to  praise  and  renown? 

EuBiPiDES.  Thaimprovement  of  morals, 
the  progress  of  mind. 
When  a  poet,  by  skill  and  invention. 
Can  render  bis  audience  virtuous  and  wise. 

JEocBTUja.  But  if  you,  by  neglect  or 


Have  done  the  reveree,  and  from  brave 

honest  spirits 
Depraved,  and  have  left  them  degraded 

and  base, 
Tell  me,  what  punishment  ou^t  you  to 

suffer? 


GooqIc 


THE  FROGS 


107 


Baccbub.  Death,  to  be  suiel  —  Take 

£BCBrj.V6.  Obeerve   then,   and   mark, 
what  our  citizem  were, 
When  first  from  my  care  they  were  trusted 

Not  Booimdrel  inf  oniKire,  or  paltry  buffoons, 
Evading  the  servicw  due  to  the  state; 
But  with  hearta  all  on  fiie,  for  adventure 

DistinguiBbed  fot  hardineas,  stature,  and 

sbvngth, 
Bieathing  forth  nothing  but  lancee  and 

darts, 
Amis,  and  equipment,  and  battle  airay, 
Bucklere,  and  shields,  and  habergeons,  and 

hauberks, 
HelmetB,  and  plumee,  and  heroic  attire. 
Bacchus.  There  he  goee,  hanunering  on 

with  hie  hdmets. 
Hell  be  the  death  of  me  one  of  tLeae  days. 
,  EuBiPiDEB.  But  how  did  you  manage  to 

make  'em  so  manly, 
What  was  the  method,  the  means  that  you 

tookf 
Bacchus.  Speak,  £acfaylus,  speak,  and 

behave  yourself  better, 
And  don't  in  your  rage  stand  so  silent  and 

XiKBjt,VB.  A  drama,  brimful  with  hero- 

ieal  spirit. 
EoRmDis.  What  did  you  call  it? 
£ecHTi.us.    "The      Chiefii     against 
Thebea," 
That  inspired  each  epectator  with  martial 

ambition, 

Courage,  and  ardor,  and  i:n>wesB,  and  pride. 

Bacchus.  But  you  did  very  wrong  to 

encourage  the  Thebans. 

Indeed,  you  deeerve  to  be  punish'd,  you  do. 

For  tlie  Tbebans  are  grown  to  be  d^tal 

sotdieiB, 
You've  done  us  a  mischief  by  that  very 

.£bchti>U8.  The  fault  was  your  own,  if 
you  took  other  courses; 
The  lesson  I  taught  was  directed  to  you; 
Tlien  I  gave  you  the  i^orious  theme  of  ' '  the 


The  delist  of  the  city,  Uie  pride  tA  the 
stage. 
Bacchus.  I  rejoioed,  I  confess,  when  the 
tidings  were  carried 
To  old  King  Darius,  so  long  dead  and 

And  the  ohonu  in  concert  kept  wringing 

their  hands. 
Weeping  and  wailing,  and  crying,  Alasl 
jEscHn.us.  Such  is  the  duty,  the  task 

of  a  poet. 
Fulfilling  in  honor  his  office  and  bust. 
Look  to  traditional  history  —  look 
To  antiquity,  primitive,  early,  remoto; 
See  there,  what  a  bleesing  illustrious  poets 
Conferred  on  mankind,  in  the  centuries 

Orpheus  instructed  mankind  in  religion, 
Redaim'd  them  from  bloodshed  and  bar. 

baroue  rites; 
MuBieus  deliver'd  the  doctrine  of  medicine, 
And  warnings  prophetic  for  ages  to  come: 
Next  came  old  Heeiod,  teaching  us  hus- 
bandry, 
Ploughing,  and  sowing,  and  rural  affaire. 
Rural  economy,  rural  astronomy. 
Homely  morality,  labor,  and  thrift: 
Homer  himself,  our  adorable  Homer, 
What  was  his  title  to  praise  and  renown? 
What,  but  the  worth  of  the  leasona  he 

taught  us. 
Discipline,  arms,  and  equipment  of  war? 
Bacchus.  Yes,  but  Pantacles  was  never 

the  wiser; 
For  in  the  proccsaion  he  ought  to  have  led. 
When  his  helmet  was  tied,  he  kept  puziling, 

and  tried 
To  fasten  the  crest  on  the  crown  of  his  head. 
.£scHTi.UB.  But   other   brave   warriors 

and  noble  commanders 
Were  train'd  in  his  lessons  to  valor  and 

skill; 
Such  was  the  noble  beroical  Lamachus; 
Othras  besides  were  instructed  by  him; 
And  I,  from  his  fragmenta  ordaining  a 

banquet, 
Fumish'd    and    deck'd    with    majeetical 

phrase. 
Brought  forward  the  models  of  ancient 

achievement, 
Teucer,  Patroclus,  and  chiefs  of  antiquity; 
Raising  and  rousing  Athenian  hearts, 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


When  the  rignal  of  onset  was  blown  in  tbeir 

With  a  Bimilar  ardor  to  dare  and  to  do; 
But  I  never  altow'd  of  your  lewd  Stheno- 

Ot  filthy,  det«fitable  Fhsdrea  —  not  I  — 
Indeed,    I   ahould   doubt   if   my   drama 

throughout 
Exhibit  an  instaooe  of  woman  in  love. 

EuBiPiDXs.  No,  you  were  too  stem  for 
t  on  amoTOUB  turn, 

For  VenuB  and  Cupid  too  stem  and  too 

iGBCttTLTTB.  May  they  leave  me  at  net, 

and  with  peace  in  my  breaet, 

And  infeet  and  puraue  your  kindred  and  you, 

With  the  very  Bame  blow  that  deepatch'd 

you  below. 

Baccbits.  That  was  well  enough  said; 

with  the  life  that  he  led, 

He  himself  in  the  end  got  a  wound  from  a 

Euripides.  But  what,  after  all,  is  the 

horrible  mischief  ? 
My  poor  Sthenoboeas,  what  harm  have 

they  doneV 
MacRTLva.  The  example  is  followed,  the 

practice  has  gain'd, 
And  womm  of  family,  fortune,  and  worth, 
Bewilder'd  with  shame  in  a  paaaionatA 

fury, 
Have  poison'd  themeelves  for  BeDerophon's 

si^. 
EuRipmEs.  But  at  least  you '11  allow  that 

I  never  invented  it, 
Fhffidra'B  affair  was  a  matter  of  fact. 
•SacHTLTia.  A  fact,  with  a  vei^eancel 

but  horrible  facte 
Should  be  buried  in  silence,  not  bruited 

abroad, 
Nor  brought  forth  on  the  stage,  nor  em- 

blazon'd  in  poetry. 
Children  and  boy  a  have  a  teacher  assign' d 

The  bard  is  a  master  for  manhood  and 

Bound  to  instruct  them  in  virtue  and 

truth. 
Beholden  and  bound. 

Edriftobb.  But  is  virtue  a  sound? 
Can  any  mysterious  virtue  be  found 
In  bombastical,  huge,  hyperbolical  phrase? 


JEecvTiAX.    Tliou     dirty,     calamitoua 

wreteh,  recollect 
That  exalted  ideas  of  fancy  require 
To  be  clothed  in  a  suitable  vesture  trf 

phrase; 
And  that  heroes  and  gods  may  be  faiiiy 

supposed 
IDiscoursing  in  words  of  a  mightier  import. 
More  lofty  by  far  than  the  children  of  man; 
Ae  the  pomp  of  apparel  assign'd  to  their 

Frodu<«d  on  the  stage  and  presentfid  to 

view, 
Surpassee  in  dignity,  splendor,  and  luster 
Our  popular  garb  and  domestic  attire, 
A  practice  which  nature  and  reason  allow. 
But  which  you  disannull'd  and  rejected. 
EuRipross.  As  how7 
£scBTi<ua.  When   you    brought   forth 
your  kings,  in  a  villainous  fashion, 
In  patches  and  rags,  as  a  claim  for  com- 
passion. 
EuBiPiDEB,  And  this  is  a  grave  misde- 
meanor, forsooth  I 
^SCBTLUB.  It  has  taught  an  example  of 
sordid  untruth; 
For  the  rich  of  the  city,  that  ought  to  equip. 
And  to  serve  with,  a  ship,  are  appealing  to 

pity, 
Pretending  distms  —  with  an  overworn 

Baccbub.  By  Jove,  so  they  do;  with  a 
waistcoat  brand  new, 
Worn  closdy  within,  warm  and  new  for  the 


all. 

Buying  the  best  at  the  fishmonger's  stall. 
MeCBTLVA.  He  has  taught  every  soul  to 

Bophisticate  truth; 
And  debauch'd  all  the  bodicB  and  minds  of 

the  youth; 
Leaving  them  morbid,  and  pallid,  and  spare ; 
And  the  places  of  exercise  vacant  and 

bare:  — 
The  disorder  has  spread  to  the  fleet  and 

the  crew; 
The  service  is  ruin'd,  and  niin'd  by  yoa  — 
With  prate  and  deviate  in  a  mutinous  state; 
Whereas,  in  my  day, 't  was  a  different  w^; 
Nothing  they  said,  nor  knew  nothing  to  s^', 


THE  FROGS 


109 


Bat  to  call  for  thtai  porridge,  aod  cry, 
"  Pull  away." 
Baochdb.  Yes  —  yes,  they  linew  this. 

How  to  f  ...  in  the  teeth 

Of  the  rower  beneath; 

And  befoul  theii  own  comrades. 

And  pillage  ashore; 

But  now  they  forget  the  command  of  the 
oar:  — 

Prating  and  splashing, 

Dncusfling  and  daahing, 

They  aUer  here  and  there, 

With  their  eyee  in  the  air, 

HHber  and  thither. 

Nobody  knows  whither. 
^iBCHTLiTe.  Can  the  reiwobate  mark  in 
the  course  he  has  run, 

One  crime  unattempted,  a  miachief  un- 
done? 

With  his  horrible  passions,  of  sialerB  and 
brothers. 

And  sons-in-law,  tempted  by  villainous 
mothers, 

And  temples  dafiled  with  a  bastardly  birth, 

And  women,  divested  of  honor  or  worth, 

lliat  talk  about  life  "as  a  death  upon 

And    sophistical    frauds    iuid    rhetorical 

TiH  now  the  whole  state  is  infested  with 

tribes 
Of  Bcrivenera  and  scribblers,  and  rascally 

All  practice  of  masculine  vigor  and  pride. 
Our  wrestling  and  luiming,  are  all  laid  aside. 
And  we  see  that  the  city  can  hardly  pro- 

Fw  the  Feast  of  the  Founder,  a  raoer  of 

To  carry  the  torch  and  accomplish  a  comae. 

Bacchttb.  Well,  I  laugh'd  till  I  cried 
The  last  fesUval  tide. 
At  the  fellow  that  ran,  — 
T  wss  a  heavy  fat  man, 
And  he  panted  and  hobbled, 
And  stumbled  and. wabbled, 
And  the  pottery  people  about  the  gate. 
Seeing  him  hurried,  and  tired,  and  late. 
Stood  to  receive  him  in  open  rank. 
Helping  him  on  with  a  hearty  spank 
Over  the  shoulder  and  over  Uie  flank. 
The  flank,  .tiie  loin,  the  back,  the  shoulders, 


With  shouts  of  applause  from  all  beholders; 
White  he  ran  on  with  a  filthy  fright, 
Puffing  his  link  to  keep  it  alight. 

Chorob.  Ere  the  prize  is  lost  and  won 
Mighty  doings  will  be  done. 
Now  then  —  (though  to  judge  aright 
Is  difficult,  when  force  and  migjit 
Are  opposed  with  ready  slight. 
When  the  Champion  that  is  cast 
Tumbles  uppermost  at  last) 
— '  Since  you  meet  in  equal  match. 
Argue,  contradict  and  scratch. 
Scuffle,  and  abuse  and  bit«, 
Tear  and  fight. 

With  all  your  wits  and  all  your  might. 
—  Fear  not  for  a  want  of  sense 
Or  judgment  in  your  audienoe, 
That  detect  has  been  removed; 
They're  prodigiously  improved. 
Disciplined,  alert  and  smart, 
Drill'd  and  exercised  in  art: 
Each  has  got  a  little  book, 
In  the  which  they  read  and  look, 
Doing  all  their  best  endeavor 
To  be  critical  and  clever; 
Thus  their  own  ingenious  natures. 

Aided  and  improved  by  learning, 
Will  provide  you  with  spectators 

Shrewd,  attentive,  and  discerning. 

EoaiPiDBB.  Proceed  —  Continuel 
Baccbos.  Yes,  you  must  continue, 
fschylus,  I  command  you  to  continue. 
And  you,  keep  a  look-out  and  mark  his 
blunders. 
MecBTiMB.  "From  his  sepulchral  mound 
I  call  my  father 
"To  listen  and  hear"  — 

Euripides,  l^kere's  a  tautologyl 
"To  listen  and  hear"  — 
Bacchus.  Why,    don't    you    see,    you 
ruffian! 
It's  a  dead  man  he's  calling  to  —  Three 

We  call  to  'em,  but  they  can't  be  made  to 

iSscHTLns.  And  you:  your  prologues, 

of  what  kind  were  they? 
EusiFiDEB.  I'll  show  ye;  and  if  you'll 

point  out  a  tautology, 
Or  a  single  word  clapped  in  to  botch  a 


.CjOC^'.^Ic 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Ttiat'a  all  I  —  I  'U  give  you  leave  to  spit 


B^in  then  with  these  same   fine-spoken 
prologues. 
EDRIPIDE8.  "(EdipUB    waa    at    first    a 

happy  man."  .  ,  . 
MacBTLva.  Not    he,    by    Jovel  —  but 
bom  to  miaery; 
Predicted  and  predestined  by  an  oracle 
Before  hia  birth  to  murder  his  own  father! 

—  Could  be  have  been  "  at  fint  a  happy 

EuBiPiDES.  .  .  .  "  But  aft«rwanlB  became 

a  wretched  mortal." 
^BCBTLDS.  By  no  meanal  he  continued 

to  be  wretched, 

—  Bom  wretched,  and  exposed  as  soon  as 

Upon  a  potsherd  in  a  winter's  night; 
Brought  up  a  foundling  with  disabled  feet; 
Then  martied  —  a  young  man  to  an  aged 

That  proved  to  be  bis  motho'  —  where- 
upon 
He  tore  hia  eyas  out. 

Bacx;hub.    To  complete  his  happiness, 
He  ought  to  have  served  at  sea  with 
Eraainidee, 

Therel —that's  enough  —  now  oome  to 
music,  can't  ye? 
EuRipmfiB.  I  mean  it;  I  shall  now  pro- 
ceed to  ezpoee  him 
Aa  a  bad  composer,  awkward,  uninventive, 
Repeating  the  same  strain  perpetually.  — 
Chobds.  I  stand  in  wonder  and  perplext 
Ta  think  of  what  will  follow  next. 
Will  he  dare  to  criticize 
The  noble  bard,  that  did  devise 
Our  oldest,  boldest  harmonies. 
Whose  mighty  music  we  revere? 
Much  I  marvel,  much  I  fear.  — 

EuBiPOES.  Mighty   fine   music,   truly! 
I  '11  give  ye  a  sample; 
It 's  every  inch  cut  out  to  the  same  pattern. 
Bacchus.  I'll  mark  —  I've  piok'd  these 

pebbles  up  for  counters, 
EnRipmEB.  Noble   Achilles!    Forth   to 
therascuel 
Forth  to  the  rescue  with  ready  support  I 


Hasten  and  go, 

There  is  b»voc  and  woe, 

Hasty  defeat, 

And  a  bloody  retreat, 

Confusion  and  rout, 

And  the  terrible  shout 

Of! 


Tribulation  and  woe  I 
Baccbts.  Whob  hob  there!  we've  had 

woes  enough,  I  reckon; 
Therefore  I'll  go  to  wash  aw^  my  woe 
In  a  warm  bath. 

EcBiPioBB.  No,  do  pray  wait  an  instant, 
And  let  me  give  you  first  another  strain, 
Transferr'd  to  the  stage  from  music  to  IJie 

lyre. 
Baccbits.  Proceed  then  —  only  give  ua 

no  more  woes. 
EtnuFiDBS.  The  supremacy  scepter  and 

haughty  command 
Of  the  Grecian  land  —  with  a  fiatto-flatUi 

flatto-tbrat  — 
And  the  ravenous  sphinx,  with  her  horrible 

brood, 
Thirsting  for  blood  —  with  a  flatto-fiatto- 

flatto-thrst, 
And  armies  equipt  for  a  vengeful  assault. 
For  Paria's  fault  — with  a  fiatto-flatto- 

flatto-thrat. 
Bacchus.  What  herb  ia  that  aameflatto- 

thrat?  Some  simple, 
1  guess,  you  met  with  in  the  field  of 

Marathon; 

—  But  such  a  tune  as  tbisi  You  must  have 

From  fellows  hauUng  buckets  at  the  well. 
jGbchtlub.  Such  were  the  stnuna  I 
purified  and  brought 
To  just  perfection — taught  by  Phryniehus, 
Not  copying  him,  but  culling  other  flowers 
From  those  fair  meadoVa  which  the  Muses 

—  But  be  filches  and  begs,  adapts  and  bor- 

Snatches  of  tunes  from  minstrds  in  >h* 
street. 

Strumpets  and  vagabonda  —  the  lullabys 

Of  nurses  and  old  women  —  jigs  and  bal- 
lads— 

I 'U  give  ye  a  proof  —  Bring  me  a  lyre  brae, 
somebody. 

What  signifies  a  lyre?  the  caatapeta 


THE  FROGS 


WiQ  suit  liim  better  —  firing  the  castanets, 
With  Euripides's  Muse  to  snap  her  fingers 
Id  cadence  to  her  master's  compaeitions. 

B&ccHus.  This  Muse,  I  talce  it,  is  a 
Lesbian  Muae. 

Skbti-vb.  Gentle    halcyons,    ye   that 

Your  snowy  plume, 
^wrting  on  the  HUmmer  wave ; 

Ye  bx)  that  around  the  room. 
On  the  rafters  of  the  roof 
Strain  aloft  your  airy  woof; 
Ye  spidera,  spiders  ever  spinning, 
Never  ending,  still  beginning  — 
Where  the  dolphin  loves  to  follow. 
Watering  in  the  surge's  hollow, 
Dear  to  Neptune  and  Apollo; 
By  the  seamen  understood 
Oioinous  of  harm  or  good; 
hi  capricious,  eager  sallies, 
Chasmg,  racing  round  the  galleys. 
JEacoTLOB.  Well  now.  Do  you  see  this? 
Baccbob.  I  see  it  — 
£bchti.cb.  Such  is  your  music.   I  shall 
.    now  proceed 
To  ^ve  a  specimen  of  your  monodies  — 
0  dreary  shades  of  night  1 
What  phantoms  of  affright 
Have  scared  my  troubled  sense 
With  saucer  eyes  immense; 
And  huge  horrific  pawe 
With  bloody  claws! 
Ye  maidens  haste,  and  bring 
Prom  the  fur  spring 
Ahucket  of  freshwater;  whose  clear  stream 
May  purify  me  from  this  dreadful  dream: 
But  ohi  my  dream  is  out! 
Ye  maidens  search  about! 
0  mighty  powers  of  mercy,  can  it  be; 

That  Gtyke,  Glyke,  she 
(My  friend  and  civil  neighbor  heretofore). 
Has  lobb'd  my  henroost  of  its  feather'd 
store? 
With  the  dawn  I  was  beginning, 
Spinning,  spinning,  spinning,  spinning, 
Unconscious  of  the  meditat«d  crime; 
Meaning  to  sell  by  yam  at  market-time. 
Now  tears  alone  are  left  me, 
My  neighbor  hath  bereft  me, 
Of  an  —  of  all  —  of  al!  —  all  but  a  tear! 
Snoe  he,  my  faithful  trusty  chantideer 
la  flown  —  isflownl  —  la  gone  —  isgoitel 


—  But,  O  ye  nymphs  of  altered  Ida,  bring 
Torches  Md  bows,  with  arrows  on  the 

And  search  around 

All  the  suspected  ground: 
And  thou,  fair  huntress  of  the  sky; 
Deign  to  attend,  descending  from  on  high — 

—  While   Hecate,    with   her   tremendous 

Even  from  the  topmost  garret  to  the  porch 
Explores  the  premises  with  search  eact, 
To  find  the  thief  and  ascertain  the  fact  — 

Bacx;bcb,  Come,  no  more  songs! 

£scHTi,TTs.  I've  hod  enough  of  'em; 
For  my  part,  I  shall  bring  him  to  the 

balance. 
As  a  true  test  of  our  poetic  merit. 
To  prove  the  weight  of  our  respective 

Bacchus.  Well  then,  so  }x  it  —  if  it 
must  be  so. 
That  I  'm  to  stand  here  like  a  cheesemonger 
Retailing  poetry  with  a  pair  of  srales. 

Chorob.  Curious  eager  wits  pursue 
Strange  devices  quaint  and  new, 
Like  the  scene  you  witneaa  here, 
Unaccountable  and  queer; 
I  myself,  if  merely  told  it, 
If  I  did  not  here  behold  it. 
Should  have  deem'd  it  uttor  tolly, 
Crazineaa  and  nonsense  wholly. 

lEnUr  Pluto.) 
Bacchob.  Move  up;  stand  close  to  th» 

balance! 
EoBipiOBS.  Here  are  we  — 
Baccbus.  Take  hold  now,  and  each  of 
you  repeat  a  verse, 
And  don't  leave  go  before  I  call  to  yoiil 
EuRiPiDEB.  We're  ready. 
Bacchus.  Now,    then,    each   repeat  a 

EcuproBB.  "I  wish  that  Argo  with  ha 

JEecBYiAiB.  "O  Btreams  of  Spercfaius, 

and  ye  pastured  plains." 
Bacchob.  Let    go!  —  See    now — this 

scale  outweighs  that  other 
Very  considerably  — 
EmupiDRB.  How  did  it  happen? 
Bacchus.  He  slipp'd  a  river  in,  like  the 

wool-jobberB, 


.  Google 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


To  moiaten  his  meter  —  but  your  line  waa 

light, 
A  thing  wiUi  wings  —  ready  to  fly  away. 
EuRIpmss.  Ijet  liiTTi  try  once  again  then, 

and  take  hold. 
Bacchtb.  Take  hold  once  more. 
EnmpiDEB.  We're  ready. 
BACCH0B.  Now  repeat. 
Euripides.  "Speech  ie  the  temple  and 

altai  of  persuaaion." 
JEbcbtl-vb.  "Death  ia  a  God  that  loves 

no  Bacrifioe." 
Bacx^hus.  Let  go!  —  See  there  againi 

This  scale  sinlcs  down; 
No  wonder  that  it  ahould,  with  Death  put 

The  heaviest  of  all  calamities. 
EuRipiDBS.  But    I    put   in   persuasion 
finely  eicpreaa'd 
In  the  best  tennB. 

Bacchus,    Perhaps  so;  but  persuasion 
Is  soft  and  light  and  silly  —  Think  of  some- 
thing 
That's  heavy  and  huge,  to  outweigh  him, 
something  solid. 
Euripides.  Let's  see  —  Where  have  I 

got  it?  Something  solid? ' 
Bacchus.  "Achilleshas  thrown  twice  — 
Twice  a  deuce  ace!" 
Come  now,  one  trial  more;  ttiia  is  the  last. 
Euripides.  "He  graap'd  a  mighty  mace 

of  maasy  weight." 
JIscHTLua.     "Cars   upon   cars,    and 

corpses  heap'd  pell  mell," 
Baccbub.  He  has  nick'd  you  ag^n  — 
KuRiPiDBB.  Why  SO?  What  has  be  done? 
Baccbub.  He  has  heap'd  ye  up  cars  and 
corpses,  such  a  load 
As  twenty  Egyptian  laborers  could  not 
carry  — 
jEbchylus.  Come,  no  more  single  lines 
~  let  him  bring  all, 
His  wife,  his  children,  his  Cephisophon, 
His    books    and    everything,    himself    tt 

I'll  counterpoise  them  with  a  couple  of 

Bacchus.  Well,  they're  both  friends  of 
mine  —  I  shan't  decide 
To  get  myself  ill-will  from  either  party; 
One  of  them  seema  extraordinary  clever. 
And  the  other  suits  my  taste  puticularly. 


Plcto.  Won't  you  decide  then,  and  oon- 

clude  the  business? 
Bacchus.  Suppose  then  I  decide;  what 

then? 
Plcto.  Then  take  him 
Away  with  you,  whichever  you  prefer. 
As  a  present  for  your  pains  in  coming  down 

Baccbub,  Heaven    bless   ye  —  Well  — 
let 's  see  now  —  Can't  ye  advise  me? 
This  is  the  case  —  I'm  come  in  search  of 
a  poet  — 
Pluto.  With  what  deeign? 
Bacchus.  With  this  design;  to  see 
llie  City   again  restored  to  peace   and 

Eidiibitlng  tragedies  in  a  proper  style. 

—  Therefore    wliichever    gives    the    beat 

advice 
On  public  matters  I  shall  take  him  with  me. 

—  First  then  of  Alcibiades,  what  think  ye? 
The  City  is  in  hard  labor  with  the  queetion. 

Euripides.  What    are    her   sentiments 

towards  him? 
Bacchus.  What? 
"  She  loves  and  she  deteste  and  longs  to 

have  him." 
But  tell  me,  both  of  you,  your  own  opin- 

EuRipiDES.  I  hate  the  man,  that  in  his 
country's  service 
Is  slow,  but  ready  and  quick  to  work  b^ 

Unserviceable  except  to  serve  himself. 
Baccbub.  Well  said,  by  Jove!  —  Now 

you  —  Give  us  a  sentenoe. 
jEbcbtlcs.  'T  is  rash  and  idle  policy  to 
foster 
A  lion's  wlielp  within  the  city  waUa, 
But  when  he's  rear'd  and  grown  you  must 
indulge  him. 
Bacchus.  By  Jove  then  I  'm  quite  pu»- 
zled;  one  of  them 
Has  answer'd  clearly,  and  the  other  sen- 
sibly: 
But  give  us  both  of  ye  one  more  opinion; 

—  What  means  are  left  of  safety  (or  the 

state? 
Euripides.  To  tack  Cineeias  like  a  pair 

of  wings 
To  Cleocritus'  shoulders,  and  dispatch  them 
From  a  preiupice  to  sail  aoroas  the  itnin 


c^ 


THE  FROGS 


"3 


Bacchus.  It  seems  a  joke;  but  there's 
some  sense  in  it.  * 

'      EnBipiDBS Then  being  both  equipp'd 

with  little  cruets 
Thejr  might  coAperate  in  &  nav&l  action, 
Br  sprinkling  vinegar  in  the  enemies'  eyes. 
—  Bat  I  can  tell  you  and  wiH. 
Bacchcb.  Speak,  and  explain  then  — 
EcBipmBS.  If  we  mistrust  where  present 
trust  is  placed, 
I'ruttiiig   in    what    was    heretofore    mis- 
trusted^ 
BiccHua.  Howl  What?  I'm  at  a  lose — 
Speak  it  again 
Not  quite  so  learnedly  —  more  plainly  and 
simidy. 
EuBipiDBa  If  we  withdraw  the  confi- 
dence we  placed 
la  these  our  present  statesmen,  and  trans- 

fwit 
To  those  whom  we  mietruated  heretofore, 
This  seems  I  think  our  fairest  chance  for 

If  with  our  present  counselors  we  fail, 
Tlten  with  tbeir  opposifea  we  might  suc- 
ceed. 

Biccnns,  That's    capitally    said,    my 
Palamedenl 
My  politician!    Was  it  all  your  own? 
Vour  own  invention? 

EuBiptDEs.  AU  except  the  cruets; 
Tliat  was  a  notjon  of  Cephisophon's, 

Bacchus.  Now  you  —  what  say  you? 

^SCBTLUB.  Infonn  me  about  the  city  — 
Hlut  kind  of  persons  has  she  placed  in 

office? 
Does  she  promote  the  worthiest? 

Bacchus.  No,  not  she, 
She  can't  abide  'em. 

£bchtlds.  Rogues  then  she  prefers? 

Bacchttb.  Not  altogether,  she  makas  use 

Pnforce  as  it  were. 

lEKfnw&.  Then  who  can  hope  to  save 
A  state  BO  wayward  and  perverae,  that 

No  sort  of  habit  fitted  for  her  wear? 
Drugget  or  superfine,  nothing  will  suit  her! 
Bacchus.  Do  think  a  tittle  how  she  can 

be  saved. 
Akbtlus.  Not  here;  when  I   return 
tlteie,  I  shall  speak. 


Bacchus.  Mo,  do  pray  send  some  good 

advice  before  you. 
£bchtlu8.  When    they    regard    their 
lands  as  enemy's  ground, 
Their  enemy's  possessions  as  their  own. 
Their  aeamCD  and  the  fleet  their  only  safe- 
guard, 
Their  sole  resource  hardship  and  poverty, 
And  res<Jute  endurance  in  distress  — 
BACCEtUB.  That's  well,  —  but  juries  eat 
up  everything, 
And  we  shall  lose  our  supper  if  we  stay. 
Pluto.  Decide  then  — 
Bacchus.  You'll  decide  for  your  own 

1 11  make  a  choice  according  to  my  fancy. 

EuRiPHiBS.  Remember,  then,  your  oatji 

to  your  poor  friend; 

And,  as  you  swore  and  promised,  rescue  me. 

Bacchus.  "It    was    my    tongue    that 

swore"  —  I  fix  on  .Eechylus. 
EuBIFinES.  O  wretch  [  what  have  you 

done? 
Bacchus.  Me?   Done?  What  should  I? 
Voted  for  .Xschylus  to  be  sure  — ■  Why  not? 
Euripides.  And  art«r  such  a  villainous 
act,  you  dare 
To    view    me    face    to    face  —  Art    not 
ashamed? 
Bacchus.  Why  shame,  in  point  of  fact- 
is  nothing  real: 
Shame  is  the  apprehension  of  a  vision 
Reflected  from  the  surface  of  opinion  — 
—  The  opinion  of  the  public  —  they  must 
judge, 
EuMPiDse.  0  cruel!  — Will  you  aban- 
don me  to  death? 
Bacchus.  Why  perhaps  death  is  life,  and 
life  is  death, 
And  victuals  and  drink  an  illusion  of  the 

For  what  is  Death  but  an  eternal  sleep? 
And  does  not  Life  consist  in  sleeping  and 
eating? 
P1.UT0.  Now,  Bacchus,  you'll  come  here 

with  us  within. 
Bacchus.  What  for? 
Ploto,  To  be  received  and  entertain'd 
With  a  feast  before  you  go. 

Bacchus.  That's  well  imagined, 
With  all  my  heart  — I've  not  the  least 
objection. 


"4 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Chorus.  Happy  ia  the  maa  pooeeaiiiig 
The  superior  holy  blessing 
Of  » judgment  and  a  taate 
Accurate,  refined  and  chaste; 
As  it  plainly  doth  appear 
In  the  scene  pieeented  here; 
^Vhere  the  noble  worthy  Bard 
Itf  eeti  with  a  deserved  reward, 
SuSer'd  to  depart  in  peace 
Freely  with  a  full  release, 
To  reviait  once  again 
His  kindred  and  his  countrymen  — 


You  I 

That  to  sit  with  Socrates, 
In  a  dream  of  learned  ease; 
Quibbling,  oounter-quibbling,  prating. 
Argufying  and  debating 
With  the  metaphysic  sect. 
Daily  Binking  in  neglect,  < 

Growing  careless,  incorrect, 
While  the  practice  and  the  rules 
Of  the  true  poetic  Schools 
Are  renounced  or  alighted  wholly, 
la  a  madness  and  a  folly. 
Plttto.  Go  forth  with  food  wishes  and 

hearty  good-will, 
And  salute  the  good  people  on  Fallas's 

hill; 
Let  tiiem  hear  and  admire  father  .Xschylus 

still 
In  hie  office  of  old  which  again  he  must  fill : 

—  You  must  guide  and  direct  them, 
Instruct  and  correct  them. 

With  a  leeson  in  verse. 

For  you'll  find  them  much  wone; 

Greater  fools  than  before,  and  their  folly 

And  more  numerous  far  than  the  block- 
heads (rf  yore  — 

—  And  give  Cleophon  this, 
And  bid  him  not  miss. 
But  be  sure  to  attend 

To  the  summons  I  send: 
To  Nicomachus  too, 
And  the  test  of  the  crow 


That  devue  and  invent 

New  taxes  and  tribute. 
Are  summonses  sent. 

Which  you'll  mind  t«  distribute. 
Bid  them  come  to  their  graves, 
Ori  like  runaway  slaves. 
If  tbey  linger  and  fail. 
We  shall  drag  them  to  jail; 
Down  here  in  the  dark 
With  a  brand  and  a  mark. 

^IscBYLUS.  I  shall  do  as  you  aajr; 
But  the  while  I'm  away. 
Let  the  seat  that  1  held 
Be  by  Sophocles  fill'd, 
Aa  deservedly  reckon 'd 
My  pupil  and  second  ] 

In  learning  and  merit  | 

And  tragical  spirit  —  j 

And  take  special  care; 
Keep  that  reprobate  thwe 
Far  aloof  from  the  Cliaii; 
Let  him  never  sit  in  it 
An  hour  or  a  minute, 
By  chance  or  design 
To  profane  what  was  mine. 

ft.DTo.  Bring  forward  the  torcheel  — 

The  Chorus  shall  wait 

And  attend  on  the  Poet  in  triumph  andstatt 

With  ft  thundering  chant  of  majestical  tout 

To  wish  him  farewell,  with  a  tune  of  hie 

Chorus.  Now  may  the  powers  of  the 
earth  give  a  safe  and  speetj^  de- 
parture 

To  the  Baid  at  his  second  birth,  with  a 
prosperous  happy  revival; 

And  may  the  city,  fatigued  with  wan  and 
long  revolution. 

At  length  be  brought  to  return  to  just  and 
wise  resolutions; 

Long  in  peace  to  remain  —  Let  reetiesa 
Cleophon  hasten 

Far  from  amongst  us  here  —  since  ware 
are  his  only  diversion, 

Tbraoe  his  native  land  will  afford  him  wars 
in  abundance. 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


THE  CAPTIVES 

(CAPTIVI) 

I.V  PLAUTUS 

TntuUUd in  thttri^Mwuttribi  EDWARD  H    SUGDBN 


cmizedbv  Google 


CHARACTERS 

EsoABiLCS,  a  porcMtto 

Heoio,  an  old  gentleman 

Fhilocrateb,  an  EUan  Knighi, ) 

™  ,  „    .  ttheprUona 

Ttndakds,  ton  of  Hegio  J 

AiuBropHOKTBa,  a  prisoner 

Philopolehcb,  a  young  man,  ton  of  Hegio 

Stalaouus,  a  skwe 

Overseen  of  skates 

A  boy 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


THE  CAPTIVES 


[The  Scene  repreaente  Ae  htmae  0/  Hboio  in 
Mtalia.  Before  Ihe  henue  are  teen  standing  in 
Aaine  the  two  priaonera,  Philochatbs  and 

TTKDABnS.1 

Pboloqub.  You  &11  can  see  two  prisoD- 

eiB  standing  here, 
StADding  in  bonds;  they  stand,  they  do  not 

sit; 
Inthiayou'U  witness  that  Ispeoktlie  truth. 
Old  Hegio,  who  lives  here,  is  this  one's 

fatba; 
But  how  he's  come  to  be  his  father's  slave 
My  prologue  shtdl  inform  you,  if  you'U 

Hu)  old  man  had  two  sons;  the  one  of  whom 
Was  stolen  by  a  slave  when  four  years  old. 
He  ran  away  to  Elia  and  there  sold  him 
To  this  one's  father. 

—Do  you  see?  —That's  rightl 
Yon  fdlow  in  the  gallery  says  he  does  n't? 
let  him  come  nearer,  then!  What,  there's 

If  there's  no  room  to  sit,  there's  room  to 

walk! 
You'd  like  to  send  me  begging,  would  you, 

^y,  don't  suppose  I'll  crack  my  lungs  for 

You  gentremen  of  means  and  noble  rank 
Aeceive  the  reet;  I  hate  to  be  in  debt. 
That  run-o-way,  as  I've  already  said, 
When  in  his  Hight  he'd  stolen  from  his  home 
His  master's  son,  sold  him  to  this  man's 

Who,  having  bought  him,  gave  him  to  his 

To  be  his  valet;  for  the  two  lade  were 
Much  of  an  age.  Now  he's  his  father's  slave 
Id  his  own  home,  nor  does  his  father  know 

it; 
See  how  the  gods  play  ball  with  us  poor 

Kow  tiien,  I  've  told  you  how  he  lost  one  son. 
^w  .Stolians  and  the  Elians  being  at  war, 
Hii'olJt«r  son,  a  not  uncommon  thing 


In  war,  was  taken  prisoner;  and  a  doctor 
At  Elis,  called  Menarchus,  bought  him 

His  father  then  began  to  buy  up  Elians, 
To  see  if  he  could  find  one  to  eschange 
Against  his  son,  —  the  one  that  is  a  pria- 

The  other,  who 's  at  home,  he  doea  n't  know 
Now,  only  yesterday  he  heard  a  rumor 
How  that  an  Elian  knight  of  highest  rank 
And  noblest  family  was  taken  prisoner; 
He  spared  no  cash  if  he  might  save  his  son; 
And  so,  to  get  him  home  more  readily. 
He  bought  these  two  from  the  commisaion- 

ers. 
But  they  between  themselves  have  laid  a 

So  that  the  slave  may  get  his  lord  sent 

Thus  they've  exchanged  their  clothing  and 

Be'a  called  Fhilocrates,  he  Tyndiuus, 
And  either  plays  the  other's  part  to^y. 
The  slave  to-day   will  work   tha  dever 

And  get  his  master  set  at  Uberty. 

By  the  same  act  he'll  save  his  brother  too. 

And  get  him  brought  back  free  to  home  Mid 

Though  all  unwitting :  oft  we  do  more  good 
In  ignorance  than  by  our  beat-laid  plans. 
Well,  ignorantly,  in  their  own  deceit, 
They  've  so  arranged  and  worked  their  little 

That  be  shall  still  remain  his  father's  slave. 
For  now,  not  knowing  it,  he  serves  his 

father. 
What  things  of  naught  are  men,  when  ona 

reflects  on  'tl 
This  story's  ours  to  act,  and  yours  to  see. 
But  let  me  give  you  one  brief  word  of  wam- 

ing: 
It's  well  worth  while  to  listen  to  this  fiAj. 
It's  not  been  treated  in  «  haokneyed  fa«h- 


.CjOC^'.^Ic 


Its 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Nor  like  the  reet  of  pUyn;  here  you'll  not 

find 
VeraeB  that  Etre  too  nasty  to  be  quoted. 
Here  is  uo  perjured  pimp,  or  ettity  girl. 
Or  brac^ut  captain. — Pray,  don't  be  afraid 
Because  I  nud  a  war  was  going  on 
Between  the  £toUane  and  the  Elians; 
The  battles  won't  take  place  upon  the  ataf^. 
We 're  dreeaed  for  comedy ;  you  can't  expect 
That  we  should  act  a  tragedy  all  at  ooce. 
If  anybody  'a  itching  for  a  fi^ht, 
JuBt  let  him  start  a  quarrel;  if  he  gets 
An  opposite  that's  stronger,  i  dare  bet 
He'll  quickly  see  more  fighting  than  he 

And  never  long  to  see  a  fight  again. 
I'moS.  Farewell,  ye  most  judicious  judgM 
At  home,  most  valiant  fighters  in  the  fieldl 
[ExU  Prologv».\ 

[finter  Ergabilus /rom  the  town.] 
EBQAaiLTTB.  Grace  is  the  name  the  boys 

have  given  me. 
Because  I'm  always  found  before  the  meat! 
The  wits,  I  know,  say  it's  ridiculous; 
But  so  don't  I!  For  at  the  banquet-table 
Your  gamester  throws  the  dice  and  asks  for 

I^race. 
Then  is  j/nice  there  or  not?  Of  eourseaheisi 
But,  more  of  course,  we  paraaitee  are  thne, 
Though  no  one  ever  asks  or  summons  us! 
Like  mice  we  live  on  other  people's  food; 
In  holidays,  when  folks  go  out  of  town, 
Our  teeth  enjoy  a  holiday  m  well. 
Aa,  when  it's  warm,  the  snails  lie  in  their 

And,  failing  dew,  liveon  their  native  juices; 

So  parasites  lie  bid  in  misery 

All  through  the  holidays,  Uving  on  their 

Whilst  those  they  feed  on  jaunt  it  in  the 

counttj-. 
During  the  holidays,  we  parasites 
Are  greyhounds;  when  they're  oTcr,  we  are 


Bred  out  of "  Odious"  by  "Prince  of  Bores." 
Now  here,  unless  your  parasite  can  stand 
Hard  fisticuffs,  and  has  no  stroDg  objection 
To  have  the  crockery  broken  on  his  pate, 
He'd  bett«r  go  and  take  a  porter's  billet 
At  the  Trigeminal  gate;  which  lot,  J  fear, 
Is  not  at  ^  unlikely  to  be  mine. 


My  patron  has  been  captured  by  the  foe  — 
The  ^tolians  and  the  Elians  are  at  war, 
(This  is  jEtolia);  Philopolemus, 
The  son  of  Hegio  here,  whose  house  this  is, 
In  Elis  lies  a  prisoner;  so  this  house 
A  house  of  lamentation  is  to  me; 
As  of t  as  I  behold  it,  I  must  weep. 
Now  for  his  son's  sake,  he's  begun  a  trade, 
Dishonorable,  hateful  to  himself; 
He'sbuyingprisoners, if  perchance  he  m&y 
Find  any  to  exchange  against  his  son. 
O  how  1  pray  that  he  may  gain  his  wiahl 
Till  he's  recovered,  I  am  past  recovery. 
The  other  youths  are  selfish,  hopeleady. 
And  only  he  keeps  up  the  ancient  style. 
I've  never  flattered  him  without  reword; 
And  the  good  father  takes  after  his  son! 
Now  I'll  go  see  him.  Ha!  the  door  is  opea- 

ing, 
Whence  I  have  often  oome,  just  drunk  wiUi 

gorging. 
ISnltr  from  the  houxe  Heoio  and  on 

0<'er*eer.] 
Hboio.  Attend  to  me;  thoee  prisonera 

that  I  bought 
A  day  ago  from  the  Commissioners 
Out  c^  the  spoil,  put  lighter  fetters  on  them; 
Take  oR  these  heavier  ones  with  which 

they're  bound, 
And  let  them  walk  indoors  or  out  at  will; 
But  watch  them  with  the  utmost  careful- 

For  when  a  free  man 's  taken  prisoner. 
He's  just  like  a  wild  bird;  if  once  he  gets 
A  chance  of  running  off,  it's  quite  enough; 
You  need  n't  hope  to  catch  your  man  agaia. 
Overbbhr.  Why,  all  of  us  would  rather 
far  be  free 
Than  slaves. 

Hboio.  Why  not  take  steps,  then,  to  be 

free? 
OvERaiTER.  Shall  1  give  ieg-b<alt    I've 

naught  else  to  givel 
Hbgio:  I  fancy  that   in  that  cose  you 

would  ratchU! 
OvsBBEEit,  I '11  be  like  that  wild  bird  you 

spoke  about. 
Hxaio.  All  right;  then  I  will  dap  you  in 

Enough  of  this;  do  what  I  said,  and  go. 

[Exit  Onerseer  into  Oie  hovael 


THE  CAPTIVES 


119 


I'll  to  my  brother's,  to  mj  other  captivee, 
To  see  how  they've  behaved  thetnaelves 

last  night, 
And   then   I'U    come  back   home   again 
straightway. 

EaoAaiLiTB  londet.    It  grieves  me  that 

the  poor  old  man  should  ply 

This  gaoler's  trade  ta  save  his  hapless  son. 

But  if  perchance  the  son  can  be  brought 

back, 
The  fathermay  turn  hangman:  what  care  IT 

Hboio.  Who  speaks  theref 

Eboasilub.  One  who  Buffers  in  your  grief. 
I'm  growing  daily  thinner,  older,  weako'! 
See,  I'm  all  skin  and  bones,  as  lean  as  leant 
All  that  I  eat  at  home  does  me  no  good; 
Only  a  bite  at  a  friend'e  agrees  with  me. 

Heoio   Ergasilus!  hail  I 

EaaABiLOs.  Heav'nbleeayou,  H^iol 

Heoio.  Don't  weep! 

£RaAen.0a.  Not  weep  for  himT  What, 
not  bewail 
That  excellent  young  man? 

Hsoio.  I  always  knew 
You  and  my  son  to  be  the  beet  of  friends. 

EaOABiLnB.  Alaal  we  don't  appreciate 
OUT  blessings 
Till  we  have  loot  the  gifts  we  once  enjoyed. 
Now  that  your  son  is  in  the  foeman'a  hands, 
I  realize  how  much  he  was  to  me! 

HEflio.  Ah,  if  a  stranger  feels  his  loss  ao 

What  must  I  feelT  He  was  my  only  joy. 
Eroasilus.  a   stranger?   I  a  stranger? 
Hegio, 
Never  say  that  nor  cherish  such  a  thought! 
Your  only  joy  he  was,  but  oh!  to  me 
Far  dearer  than  a  thousand  only  joys. 
Heoio.  You're    right    to    msJce    your 
friend's  distress  your  own; 
But  come,  cheer  upl 

Eboasilub.  Alas!  it  pains  me  here, 
That  DOW  the  feaster's  army  is  discharged. 
Heoio.  And  can't  you   meantime  find 
another  general 
To  call  to  arms  this  army  that 's  discharged? 
EaoAStLDS.  No  fear!  since  Philopolemus 
was  taken. 
Who  filled  that  poet,  they  all  refuse  to  act. 
Hegio.  And  it's  no  wonder  they  refuse 
to  act. 
You  need  so  many  men  of  divets  races 


To  work  for  you;  first,  those  of  Bakerton; 
And  sBYwal  tribes  inhabit  Bakerton; 
Then  men  of  Breadport  and  of  Biscuitville, 
Of  Thrushborough  and  Ortolania, 
And  all  the  various  soldiers  of  the  sea. 
Eboasilub.  How  oft  the  noblest  talente 
lie  concealed! 

0  what  a  splendid  general  you  would  make. 
Though  now  you're  serving  as  a  private 

merely. 
Heoio.  Be  of  good  cheer;  in  a  few  dajv,  I 

1  shall  receive  my  dear  son  home  again. 
I've  got  a  youthful  Elian  prisoner, 
Whom  I  am  hoping  to  exchange  for  him. 
One  of  the  highest  rank  and  greatest  wealth. 

Eboasilub.  May  Heaven  grant  it  I 

Hiqio.  Where  've  you  been  invited 
To  dine  to-day? 

Eroasilus.  Why,  nowhere  that  I  know 
of. 
Why  do  you  ask? 

Heoio.  Because  it  is  my  birthday; 
And  so,  I  pray  you,  come  and  dine  with  me. 

Erqasilub.  Weil  said  indeed! 

Heoio.  That  is  if  you're  content 
With  frugal  fare. 

Eboasilub.  Wdl,  if  it's  not  too  frugal; 
I  get  enough  of  that,  you  know,  at  home. 

Heoio.  Well,  name  your  figure! 

Eroabilub.  Done!  unlees  I  get 
A  better  offer,  and  on  such  conditions 
As  better  suit  my  partners  and  myself. 
As  I  am  selling  you  my  whole  estate, 
It'soniyfair  that  I  should  make  my  terms. 

Heoio.  I  tear  that  this  estate  you 're  seU- 
ingme 
Has  got  a  bottomless  abyss  within'tl 
But  if  you  come,  come  early. 

Eroabilub.  Now,  if  you  like! 

Heoio.  Go  hunt  a  bare;  you've  onlj 
caught  a  weasel. 
The  path  my  guest  must  tread  is  full  of 
stones. 

E^OABILUS.  You    won't    dissuade    me, 
Hegio;  don't  think  it! 
I'U  get  my  teeth  well  shod  before  I  come. 

Hegio.  My  table's  really  coarse. 

£RaABii.us.  Do  you  eat  brambles? 

Heoio.  My  dinner's  from  the  soil. 

Erqabilub.  So  is  good  pork. 

Heoio.  Plenty  of  oabbagel 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


110 

Eboabilcb.  Pood  for  invalids] 
What  more? 
Hxaio.  Be  there  ia  time. 
Eroabilub.  I'll  not  forget. 

[ExU  Ergabilus  lo  ihe  marMr 
place.] 
Heoio.  Now  I'll  go  in  and  look  up  my 
accounta, 
To  Bee  what  I  have  lying  at  my  banker's; 
TbeD  to  my  brother's,  as  1  eaid  just  now. 

[Exit  Hbqio  into  the  fumte.] 
'Enter  Overteere,  Philocrates  and  Ttn- 
DABUB,  each  in  ike  othtr'i  doMei,  and 
other  tiwet.] 
OyvBBKKR.  Since  Heaven  has  willed  it 
should  be  ao, 
/hat  you  must  drink  this  cup  of  woe, 
Why,  bear  it  with  a  patient  mind, 
And  so  your  pain  you  '11  lighter  find. 
At  home,  I  dare  say,  you  were  free; 
Now  that  your  lot  ia  slavery. 
Just  take  it  as  a  thing  of  coutae. 
Instead  of  making  matters  worse; 
-  Behave  yourselves  and  don't  be  queasy 
About  your  lord's  commands;  't  is  easy. 
Prisonebs.  Oh,  oh  I 
OvBBaKBR.  No  need  for  howls  and  cries! 
I  see  your  sorrow  in  your  eyes. 
Be  brave  in  your  advereities. 
Ttndasus.  But  we're  ashamed  to  wear 

these  chains. 
OvEBflDER.  My  lord   would  siiSer  far 
worse  pains. 
Should  be  leave  you  to  range  at  large  out  of 

his  custody. 
Or  set  you  at  liberty  whom  he  bought  yes- 

TTNDARns.  Oh,  he  need  n't  fear  that 
he'll  loee  his  gains; 
Should  he  release  us,  we  know  what's  our 
duty,  sir. 
Overseer.  Yea,  you'll  run  off;  I  know 

thai.  You're  a  beauty,  sirl 
Ttndabcb.  Run  off  ?  run  off  where? 
OvEBSEER.  To  the  land  of  your  birth. 
TrNnABoa.  Nay,  truly,  it  never  would 
answer 
To  imitat«  runaway  slaves. 

OvERflEER.  Well,  by  Jttvet 
I'd  advise  you,  if  you  get  a  chance,  air. 
Ttkdarus.  One  thing  I  beg  of  you. 


What's  your  petition,  sir? 
Tynd&bits.  Give  us  a  chance  of  exchang- 
ing a  word, 
Where  th^'s  no  fear  that  we'll  be  over- 
heard. 
OvBBSEKB.  Grantedl   Go,   leave  them. 
We'll  take  our  position  there. 
See  that  your  talk  does  n't  last  too  Icmgl 
TTNDARoa.    Oh,  that's   my    intention. 

So,  now,  come  alongl 
Overseer.  Go,  leave  them  alone, 
Tyndabob.  We  ever  shall  own 
We'reinyour  debt  for  the  kindness  you've 

shown  to  us; 
You  have  the  power,  and  you've  proved 
yourself  bounteous. 
Philocrates.  Gome  away  farther,   aa 
far  as  we  can  from  them; 
We  must  contrive  to  conreal  our  fine  plan 

from  them, 
Never  disclose  any  trace  trf  our  trickery. 
Else  we  shall  find  all  our  dodgea  a  mockwy. 
Once  they  get  wind  of  it. 
There  11  be  an  end  d  it; 
For  if  you  are  my  master  brave. 
And  I  pretend  to  be  your  slave. 
Then  we  must  watch  with  greatest  care; 
Of  eavesdroppers  we  must  beware. 
With  caution  and  skill  keep  your  a^iBes  aU 

waking; 
There's  no  time  to  sleep;  it's  a  big  uuder- 

TiNDAKUB.  So  I'm  to  be  masterT 
Phii<ocratbb.  Yes,  that  is- the  notion. 
TrNnAftCB.  And  so  for  your  head   (I 
would  pray  you  remark  it). 
You  wtmt  roe  to  carry  my  own  head  to 
market  I 
Philocrates.  I  know. 
Tyndabub.  Well,   when   you've  gained 
your  wish,  remember  my  devotion. 
This  is  the  way  that  you'll  find  most  men 
treating  you; 

Until  they  have 
The  boon  they  crave. 
They're  kind  as  can  be;  but  success  makes 

the  knave  I 
When  they  have  got  it,  they  set  to  woik 

cheating  you. 
Now  I  have  told  you  the  treatment  you  owe 

tome. 
You  I  regard  as  a  father,  you  kooiv,  to  ma. 


THE  CAPTIVES 


Fhilocrates.  Nay,    let    lu    Bay,  — 
coDventions  Bball  hinder  us,  — 
Next  to  my  own,  you're  my  father,  dear 
TyiularuB. 
Ttndards.  That  will  do  I 
Philockateb.  Now  then,  I    warn  you 
always  to  remember  this; 
1  no  longer  am  your  master  but  your  slave; 

don't  be  remies. 
Since  kind  Heav'n  has  shown  us  plainly 

that  the  way  ounelves  to  save 
Is  for  me,  who  was  your  mast«r,  now  to 

turn  into  your  slave. 
Where  before  I  gave  you  orders,  now  1  beg 

of  you  in  prayer. 
By  the  (Ganges  in  our  fortune,  by  my 

father's  kindly  care. 
By  the  common  fetters  fastened  on  us  by 

the  enemy, 
Think  q!  who  you  were  and  are,  and  pay  n 

more  respect  to  me 
Than  I  used  to  pay  to  you,  when  you  were 
'slave  and  I  was  free. 
Ttndarub.  Well,  I  know  that  I  am  you 

and  you  are  me! 
PHiLOdUTsa.  Yea,  stick  to  that! 
,  Then  I  hope  that  by  your  ahrewdneas  we 
shall  gain  what  we  are  at. 

[Enter  Hbgio  from  hit  k/mae.] 
Heqio  [addrestiTig  some  one  in»ide\.    I'll 

be  back  again  directly  when  I've 

looked  into  the  cose: 
Where  are  thoee  whom  I  directed  at  the 

door  to  take  their  place? 
Philocbatbs.  0  by  Pcjlux!  you've  been 

careful  that  we  shouldn 't  be  to  seek ; 
Thus  by  bonds  and  guards  surrounded  we 

have  had  no  chance  to  aneak! 
HcfflO.  Howsoever  careful,  none  can  be 

as  careful  as  he  ought; 
When  he  thinks  he's  been  moat  careful,  oft 

your  careful  man  is  caught. 
IXm't  you  think  that  I've  just  cause  to  keep 

a  careful  watch  on  you, 
Wlien  I've  had  to  pay  so  la^e  a  sum  of 

money  for  the  two? 
Fhilocrates.  Truly  we've  no  right  to 

blame  you,   that  you  watch  and 

guard  us  thus; 
And  if  we  should  get  a  chance  and  runaway, 

you  can't  blame  im. 


HxQio.  Just  like  you,  my  son  is  held  in 
slavery  by  your  countrymen. 

Philocrates.  Was  he  token  prisoncrT 

Heoio.  Yea. 

Philocbateb.  Weweren'ttheonlycow- 
ards  then. 

Heqio.  Come  aside  here;  there  is  some- 
thing I  would  ask  of  you  alone; 
And  I  hope  you'U  not  deceive  me. 

Philocrates.  Everything   I  know  111 

If  in  aught  I'm  ignorant,  III  tell  you  so, 
upon  my  life. 
[Heoio  and  Philocbates  go  aside; 
Ttndabtts  ilandtTig  wkert  he  can 
hear  their  coruvraatifm.] 
TnntABUs  [aside].  Now  the  old  man's 
at  the  barber's;  see  my  master  whets 
his  knife! 


Win  he  shave  him  close  or  only  cut  his  hair? 

Wdl,  goodness  knows! 
But  if  he  has  any  sense,  he'll  crop  the  old 

man  properly  I 
Heoio.  Come  now,  tdl  me,  would  you 

rather  be  a  slave  or  get  set  freeT 
Philocrates.  What    I    want    is    that 

which  brings  me  most  of  good  and 

least  of  ill. 
Though  I  must  confess  my  slavery  was  n't 

very  terrible; 
Little  difference  was  made  between  me  and 

my  master's  son. 
TrNDAHUS     [aside].     Bravo !      I  'd   not 

give  a  cent  for  Thalee,  the  Mils' 

For,  compared  with  this  man's  cunning,  he 

is  but  a  trifiing  knave. 
Mark  bow  cleverly  he  talks,  as  if  he'd  al- 
ways been  a  slave! 
Heoio.  Tell  me  to  what  family  Philo- 
crates belongs? 
Philocbateb.  The  Goldings; 
That's  a  family  most  wealthy  both  in  hon- 
ors and  in  holdings. 
Hegio.  Is  your  master  there  respected? 
Fhilocrates.  Highly,  by  our  foremost 

Heoio.  If  his  influence  amongst  them  is 
as  great  as  you  n 
Are  hii  riches  fat? 


.  Google 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


PmLocRATsa.  I  Euees  an!   Pat  m  aneti 

one  might  say. 
Heqio.  Is  his  (stJier  living? 
Philochatbs.  Well,  he  uut,  sir,  when  we 
came  away; 
Whether  he  still  lives  or  not,  you'll  have  to 

go  to  hell  U>  Bee. 
Ttmdabus  [atidel.  Saved  agaiol  for  now 

he's  adding*  to  hia  lies  philoeophyl 
Hboio.  What'a  hia  name,  I  pray^ 
Pbii/>crates.  ThenaaurocTceeonicochry- 

Heoio.  I  auppose   a  sort  of  nickaaroe 

given  to  show  now  rich  he  is. 
Phuocbateb.  Nay,  by  PoUuxl   it  waa 
given  him  for  bis  avarice  and  greed. 
■Truth  to  tell  you,  Theodoromedea  ia  bis 
name  indeed. 
Hbqio.  What  iathia?  His  father's  grasp- 
ing? 
Philocrates.  Graaping?  Ay,  moat  cov- 
etous! 
Just  to  show  you,  when  he  sanrificea  to  his 

Genius, 
All  the  vessels  that  he  uses  are  of  Samian 

crockery. 
Lest  the  Genius  should  sl«al  them!  There's 
his  character,  you  see. 
Hkoio.  Come  with  me  then. 
Now  I'll  ask  the  other  what  I  want  to 

[To  Ttndarus.I   Now,  Fbilocretea,  your 

slave  has  act«d  aa  a  man  aluHild 

do, 
For  from  him  I've  learnt  your  birth;  the 

whole  he  has  confeaaed  to  me. 
If  you  will  admit  the  aame,  it  shall  to  your 

advantage  be; 
For  your  slave  hae  told  me  all. 

TTNDABne.  It  was  his  duty  so  to  do. 
All  ie  true  that  he's  confessed;  although  I 

must  admit  to  you, 
'T  was  my  wish  to  hide  from  you  my  birth, 

and  wealth,  and  family; 
But  now,  Hegio,  that  I've  lost  my  father- 
land and  liberty, 
Naturally  he  should  stand  in  awe  of  you 

much  more  than  me, 
Since  by  force  of  arms  our  fortunes  stand  on 

an  equality. 
I  remembK-  when  he  dunt  not  speak  a  word 

to  do  me  ill; 


He  may  strike  me  now;  ao  fortune  plays 

with  mortals  aa  she  will. 
I,  onoe  free,  am  made  a  slave  and  brought 

from  high  to  low  degree, 
And  instead  of  giving  orders  must  obey  aub- 

miaaivdy. 
But  if  I  should  have  a  master,  such  as  /  was 

when  at  home, 
I've  no  fear  that  his  conunands  will  prove 

unjust  or  burdensome. 
Begio,  wUl  you  bear  from  me  a  word  of 

warning? 
Heoio.  Yes,  say  oa 
Tyndaros.  Once  I  waa  as  tree  and  h^py 

as  your  own  beloved  son. 
But  the  force  of  hostile  arma  has  robbed 

him  of  his  freedom,  too; 
He's  a  slave  amorgat  our  people,  just  as  I 

am  here  with  you. 
Certainly  thN«  is  a  God  who  watches  ua 

where'er  we  be; 
He  will  tivat  your  son  exactly  aa  He  finds 

that  you  treat  me.  ' 

Virtue  sure  will  be  rewarded,  vice  will  e'er 

bring  sorrow  on  — - 
I've  a  father  misses    me,  as  much  as  you 

your  absent  son. 
Haoto.  Yes,Iknow.  Doyouadinit,then. 

what  your  slave  confessed  to  me? 
TvNDARCrs.  I  admit,  sir,  that  my  father 

is  a  man  of  property, 
AndthatI'mof  noble  birth.  Butlbeseech 

you,  Hegio, 
Do  not  let  my  ample  richee  cause  your  avar- 
ice tofirow. 
Lest  my  father  think  it  better,  though  I  am 

hia  only  son, 
That  I  should  continue  serving  you  and 

keep  your  livery  on, 
Rather  than  come  home  a  be^ar  to  my  in- 
finite disgrace. 
Heoio.  Thanks  to  Heav'n  and  my  fota- 

fathets,  I've  been  wealthy  all  my 

Nor  is  wealth,  in  my  opinion,  always  usdul 

to  obtain  — 
Many  a  man  I've  known  degraded  to  a 

beaat  by  too  much  gain; 
There  are  times  when  loss  is  better  far  than 

gain,  in  every  way. 
Goldl  I  hate  it!  Oh,  how  many  pec^e  has  it 

ledaatxayl 


THE   CAPTIVES 


133 


Mow,  attend  to  me,  and   I  my  purpose 
plainly  will  d^daie: 

Tliere  in  Elia,  with  your  people,  is  nqr  son  s 
prisoDer. 

If  you'll  bring  him  back  to  too,  you  shall 
not  pay'a  single  cent: 

111  rdeoae  you  &iid  your  slave  too;  other- 
wise I'll  not  relent. 
Ttmdarus.  That's  the  noblest,  kindest 
offerl  All  the  world  can't  find  your 

But  ia  he  in  slavery  to  a  priv&te  man  or  t 
the  State? 
Hboio.  To  MenarchuB,  a  physician. 
TxNDABua.  Ahl  my  clientl  all  is  plain; 
Everything  will  be  as  easy  aa  the  faUing  of 
the  rain. 
Hsoio.  Bring himhomeassoonasmay be. 
Tyndahub.  Certainly;  but,  H^io  — 
Hkqio.  What's  your  wish?  For  111  do 

aught  in  reason. 
Ttndabub.  Listen;  you  shall  know. 
I  don't  ask  that  I  should  be  sent  back  unU 

your  son  has  come. 
Name  the  price  you 'tl  take  for  yondw  slave, 

to  let  me  send  him  home. 
That  he  may  redeem  your  son. 
Heoiu.  Nay,  some  one  else  I  should  pre- 
fer, 
Whom  I'll  send  when  tnxix  m  made  to  go 

and  meet  your  father  there. 

He  can  take  your  father  any  message  that 

you  like  to  send. 

Ttndarus.  It'snousetosendastranger; 

all  your  toil  in  smoke  would  end. 

Send  my  slave,  he'll  do  the  business  just  as 

soon  as  he  gets  there; 
You  won't  hit  on  anybody  you  can  send 

who's  trustier, 
Or  more  faithful;  he's  a  man  who  does  his 

work  with  all  his  heart. 
Boldly  truft  your  son  to  him;  and  he  will 

truly  play  his  part. 
Don't  you  fearl  at  my  own  peril  I'll  make 

trial  of  his  truth; 
For  he  knows  my  kindness  to  him;  I  can 
safely  trust  the  youth. 
Hxaio.  Well,  I'll  send  him  at  your  risk, 

if  you  consent. 
TrNDAKP*  Oh,  I  agree. 
Hesio.  Let  him  start  as  soon  as  may  be. 
Ttmdabub.  That  will  suit  me  p^ectly. 


Hkqio.  Well,  -then,  if  he  does  n't  come 
back  here  you  'II  pay  me  fifty  pounda; 
Are  you  willing? 
TtNDABUB.  Certainly. 
Hboio.  Then  go  and  loose  him  from  his 

And  the  6ther  too. 
Ttndabub.  May  Heaven  ever  treat  you 
graciously! 
Since  you've  shown  me  so  much  kindneai, 

and  from  fettera  set  me  free. 

Ah,  my  neck's  more  comfortable,  now  I've 

cast  that  iron  ruffl 

Hsoio.  Gifts  when  given  to  good  people 

win  their  Krstitudel  Enough! 

Now,  if  you  are  going  to  send  him,  teach 

and  tell  him  what  to  say. 
When  he  gets  home  to  your  fatbei'.  Shall  I 
call  him? 
TrNDAROB.  Do  BO,  pray  I 

[Heoio  crawM  the  doge  to  Fhilo- 
CKATEB  and  addreatet  him.] 
Hzoio.  Heav'n  bless  this  project  to  my 
eon  and  me. 
And  you  as  welll  I,  your  new  lord,  desire 
That  you  should  give  your  true  and  faithful 

service 
To  your  old  master.  I  have  lent  you  to  him, 
And  set  a  price  of  fifty  pounds  upon  you. 
He  says  he  wants  to  send  you  to  his  father 
That  he  may  ransom  my  dear  son  and  make 
An  interchange  between  us  of  our  sons. 
PmiocKATEB.  Well,    I'm   prepared  to 
serve  either  one  or  t'  other; 
I  'm  like  a  wheel,  just  twist  me  as  you  pleasel 
I  '11  turn  this  way  or  that,  as  you  command. 
Hboio.  I'll  see  that  you  don't  lose  by 
your  compliance; 
Bince  you  are  acting  as  a  good  slave  should. 

Now,  here's  your  man. 

Ttndarub.  I  thank  you,  sir,    ' 
For  giving  me  this  opportunity 
Of  sending  h'tn  to  bring  my  father  word 
About  my  welfare  and  my  purposes; 
All  which  he'll  tell  my  father  as  I  bid  him. 
Now,  TyndaruB,  we've  come  to  an  agree- 
That  you  should  go  to  Elis  to  my  father; 
And  should  you  not  come  back,  I  've  under- 

To  pay  the  sum  of  fifty  pounds  for  you. 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


PsH-ocBATva.  Afaira^teementlforyouT 
father  looks 
For  me  or  (or  some  other  i 
To  coroe  from  henoe  to  him. 

TTNSABns.  Then,  piay  attend, 

And  I  will  tell  you  what  to  tell  my  father. 

Philocratbb.  I  have  always  tried  to 

aarve  you  hitherto,  Fhilocrates, 

Aa  you  wished  me,  to  the  utmost  of  my 

poor  abilities. 
That  I  '11  ever  seek  and  aim  at,  heart  and 
soul  and  strength  alway. 
Ttndarttb,  That  bright:  you  know  your 
duty.  Listen  now  to  what  I  say. 
first  of  all,  convey  a  greeting  to  my  parents 

dear  from  me, 
And  t«  other  relatives  and  frienda,  if  any 

you  should  see. 
Say  I'm  well,  and  held  in  bondage  by  this 

worthy  gentleman, 
Who  has  shown  and  ever  ahowa  me  all  the 
honor  that  he  can. 
Philocrates.  Oh,  you  need  n't  tdl  me 

that,  it's  rooted  in  my  memory. 
TTNDAAns.  If  1  did  n't  see  my  keeper,  I 
should  think  that  I  wae  free. 
Tell  my  father  of  the  bargain  I  have  made 

with  Hegio, 
For  the  ransom  Of  his  son. 
Philocbateb.  Don't  stay  to  tell  me  that. 

Ttndarus,  He  must  purchase  and  re- 
store him,  then  we  both  shall  be  set 

PHiiocRATBa,  Good  I 

Hboio.  Bid  him  be  quick,  for  your  sake 

and  for  mine  in  like  degree. 
Philocbatcs.  Youdon't long toseeyour 

Bon  more  ardently  than  he  does  his! 
Hboio.  Why,  each  loves  his  own. 
Philocbateb,  Wdl,  have  you  any  other 

meaaages? 
Ttndabub,  Yes;  don't  heeitate  to  say 

I'm  well  and  happy,  Tyndarus; 
That  no  shade  of  disagreement  ever  sep- 

That  you've  never  once  deceived  me  nor 
opposed  your  master's  will. 

And  have  stuck  to  me  like  wax  in  spite  of  all 
this  flood  of  ill. 

By  my  side  you  've  stood  and  hdped  me  in 
m.v  sore  adversities,  ' 


True  and  faithful  to  me  em.   When  my 

father  hears  of  this, 
TyndaruB,  and  knows  your  noble  conduct 

towards  himself  and  me, 
He  will  never  be  so  mean  as  to  refuse  to  set 

you  free; 
When  I'm  back  III  spare  no  effort  that  it 

may  be  bTOUj2;ht  about. 
To  your  toil,  and  skill,  and  courage,  and 

your  wisdom,  there's  no  doubt 
That  I  owe  my  chance  of  getting  to  my 

father's  home  again: 
For  't  was  you  confessed  my  birth  and 

riches  to  this  best  of  men; 
So  you  set  your  master  free  from  fett^s.by 

your  ready  wit. 
Philocbateb.  Yes,  I  did,  sir,  as  you  say; 

I'm  glad  that  you  remember  it. 
But  indeed,  you've  well  deserved  it  at  my 

hands,  Philocrates; 
For  if  I  should  try  to  utter  all  your  many 

kindnesses. 
Night  would  fall  before  I'd  finished;  you 

have  done  as  much  for  me 
As  if  you  had  been  my  slave. 

Hboio.  Oood   heavens,  what  nobility 
Shines  in  both  their  dispositions!    I  can 

scarce  refrain  from  tears 
When  I  see  their  true  affection,  and  the  way 

the  slave  reveres 
And  commends  his  master. 
Ttkdabus.  Truly  be  has  not  commended 

Even  a  hundredth  part  aa  much  as  he  him- 
self deserves  to  be. 
Heoio.  Well,asyou'vebehavedaonobly, 
now  you  have  a  splendid  chance 
Here   to   crown  your  services  by  doubly 
faithful  vigilanoe, 
Pbilocrateb.  As  I  wish  the  thing  ao- 
complished,  so  I  shall  do  all  I  know; 
To  assure  you  of  it,  I  call  Jove  to  witneas, 

That  I  never  will  betray  Philocrates,  I'U 
take  my  oath  I 
Hboio.  Honest  fellowl 
Philocrates.  I  will  treat  him  as  mysdf, 

upou  my  troth! 
Ttndabus.  From  these  loving  protesta- 
tions, mind  you  never  never  swerve. 
And  if  I  've  said  less  about  you  than  youi 
faithful  deeds  deserve. 


.CtOo^^Ic 


THE  CAPTIVES 


But  remember  you  are  going  with  a  price 

upon  your  head; 
And  that  both  my  life  and  honor  I  have 

staked  on  your  return; 
Wboi  you've  left  my  eight,  I  pray  you, 
doa't  forget  what  you  have  sworn, 
Or  when  you  have  left  me  here  in  slBvery 

instead  (^  you, 
Think  that  you  are  free,  and  so  n^lect  what 

you  are  pledged  to  do, 
And  forget  your  solemn  promise  to  redeem 

this  good  man's  son. 
Fifty  pounds,  remember,  is  the  jxice  that 

we've  agreed  upon.  . 
Faithful  to  youi  faithful  master,  do  not  let 

your  faith  be  bought; 
And  I'm  well  assured  my  father  will  do 

everything  he  ought. 
Keep  me  as  your  friend  forever,  and  this 

good  cjd  man  as  well. 
Take  my  hand  in  yours,  I  pray  you,  swear 

on  oath  unbreakable, 
That  you'll  always  be  as  faithful  as  I've 

ever  been  to  you. 
Mind,  you're  now  my  master,  aye  pro- 
tector, and  my  father  too! 
I  commit  to  you  my  hopes  and  happiness. 

Philocrati».  O  that'll  do! 
Are  you  satisfied  if  I  can  carry  this  commis- 
sion through? 
Ttndabuo.  Yes. 

PmuxiaATEa.  Then  I'll  return  insucb  a 
manner  as  shall  please  you  both. 
Ib  that  all,  sir? 

Bsoio.  Come  back  quickly. 
PHiLOCBATBe.  So  I  will,  upon  my  troth. 
Heoio.  Come  along  then  to  my  banker's; 
I'll  provide  you  for  the  way. 
Also  I  will  get  a  passport  from  the  prtetor. 
Ttmdarus.  Passport,  eh? 
Hcoio.  Yes,  to  get  him  through  the 
army  so  that  they  may  let  him  go. 
Step  ioaide. 

TTNDARCa.  A  pleasant  jouraeyl 
Philocbatxs.  Fare-you-welll 
Hboio.  By  Pollux,  though, 
What  a  blesKing  that  I.  bou^t  these  men 

from  the  Commissioners! 

So,  please  Heav'n,  I've  saved  my  son  from 

bondage  to  thoee  f  oreignws. 


Dear!   How  long  I  hesitated  whether  I 

should  buy  or  nott 
Please  to  take  him  in,  good  slaves,  and  do 

not  let  him  leave  the  spot, 
When  there  is  no  keeper  with  him;  I  shall 
soon  be  home  again. 

[Exeunt  Ttndarub  and  atove*  mto 
the  himie.\ 
Now  I  'It  run  down  to  my  brother's  and  in> 

speot  my  other  men. 
I'll  inquire  if  any  of  them  ia  acquainted 

with  this  youth. 
[To  Philockatcs.]  Come  along  and  111 
despatch  you.   That  must  be  done 
first,  in  sooth. 
[Exetml  Heoio  and  Pqilocratib    , 
to  tiie  market-plaet^ 

[BrUer  FiBOASiLua  relmninQ  }rom  tht 

nwrtei-piace.l 
Ebiusilub.  Wretched  he  who  seelra  his 
dinner,  and  with  trouble  gets  a  haul; 

Wretcheder  who  seeks  with  trouble,  and 
can't  find  a  meal  at  all; 

Wretcbedeet  who  dies  for  food,  and  can't 
get  any  anyway. 

If  I  could,  I  'd  like  to  scratch  the  eyes  out  erf 
this  cursed  day! 

For  it's  filled  all  men  with  meon&ees  to- 
wards me.  Oh,  I  never  saw 

Day  BO  hungry;  why,  it's  stuffed  with  fam- 
ine in  its  greedy  maw. 

Never  day  pursued  its  purpose  ia  so  vacu- 
ous a  way; 

For  my  gullet  and  my  stomach  have  to  keep 
a  holiday. 

Out  upon  the  parasite's  profession:  it's  all 
gone  to  pot! 

For  us  impecunious  wits  the  gilded  youth 
don't  care  a  jot. 

They  no  longer  wont  us  Spartans,  owners 
of  a  single  chair. 

Sons  of  Smacked-Foce,  whose  whole  stock- 
in-trade  is  words,  whose  board  is  bare. 

Those  that  they  invite  are  fellows  who  can 
ask  them  back  in  turn. 

Then  they  cater  for  themselves  and  us  poor 
parasites  they  spurn; 

You  wUl  see  them  shopping  in  the  market 
with  as  little  ahaioe 

As  when,  sitting  on  the  bench,  the  <nili«ifi 
sentence  they  proclaim. 


..CtOoi^Ic 


196 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


For  us  wite  they  don't  care  twopence;  keep 

entirely  to  their  Bot. 
When.  I  went  ]uat  now  to  market,  there  a 

group  of  them  I  met; 
"Hiull"  Bays  I;  "where  shall  we  go,"  saye 

I,  "to  lunch?"  They  all  were  mum, 
"Who  speaks  first?  Who  volunteers?"  says 

I.  And  atill  the  chape  were  dumb. 
Not  a  smile!  "Where  shall  we  dine  together? 

Answer."   Not  a  wordi 
l^en  I  flashed  a  jest  upon  them  from  my 

very  choicest  hoard. 
One  that  meant  a  month  of  dinners  in  the 

old  days,  I  declare. 
No  one  smiled;  and  then  I  saw  the  whole 

waa  a  got-up  aSair, 
Why,  they  would  n't  even  do  as  much  as 

any  angry  cur; 
If  they  a>uld  n't  smile,  they  might  at  least 

have  shown  their  teeth,  I  swearl 
Well,  1  left  the  rascals  when  I  saw  that  they 

were  making  game; 
Went  to  others;  and  to  others;  and  b>  others 

—  atiU  the  samel 
They  had  formed  a  ring  together,  just  like 

those  who  deal  in  oil 
I'  the  Velabrum.   So  I  left  them  when  I  saw 

they  mocked  my  toil. 
in  the  Forum  vainly  prowling  other  para- 
sites I  saw. 
I've  resolved  that  I  must  try  to  get  my 

rights  by  Roman  law. 
As  they  've  formed  a  plot  to  rob  us  of  our 

life  and  victuals  too, 
I  shall  summon  them  and  fine  them,  as  a 

magistrate  would  do. 
They  shall  give  me  ten  good  dinnets,  at  a 

time  wh^i  fiMd  is  deait 
So  111  do;  now  to  the  harbor;  there  1  may 

to  dinner  BtB&; 
If  that  fails  me,  I  '11  return  and  try  this  old 

man's  wretched  cheo'. 

[EtU  Eroabilus  lo  the  harbor] 


Heqio.  How  pleasant  it  ia  when  you've 
managed  affairs 
For  the  good  of  the  public,  as  yesterday  I 


And  congratulates  me  on  the  way  I  dedded. 
To  tell  the  plain  truth,  I  am  worried  with 

standing. 
And  weary  with  waiting; 
From  the  flood  of  their  words  I  eould  scarce 

get  a  landing, 
And  even  at  the  pnetor's  it  showed  no 
abating. 
I  aslced  for  a  passport;  and  when  it  had 

I  gave  it  to  l^darus;  he  set  off  home. 
When  he  had  departed,  for  home  off  I 

started; 
Then  went  to  my  brother's,  to  question  the 

others. 
Whether  any  among  them  Philoerates  knew. 
Then  one  of  them  cries,  "He's  my  friend, 
good  and  true." 
I  told  him  I'd  bought  him; 
He  begged  he  might  see  him;  and  so  I  have 
thought  him. 
I  bade  them  loose  him  from  his  chains. 
And  came  away.  (To  AiuaroPHOHTBS.) 
Pray  follow  me; 
Your  earnest  suit  success  obtains. 
Your  dear  old  friend  you  soon  shall  see. 
[SMtait     Heoio     and     Ammo- 
FHONTBB  into  the  hoiue;  Ttn- 
DAJtue  immtdiatdy  ruthea  ouL] 
Ttndamis.  Alasl  the  day  has  come  on 
which  I  wish   I  never    had    been 

My  hopes,  resources,  stratagems,  have  fled 

and  left  me  all  forlorn. 
On  this  sad  day  no  hope  remains  of  saving 

my  poor  life,  t  is  clear;, 
No  hdp  or  hope  renuuns  to  me  to  di4v« 

away  my  anxious  fear. 
No  cloak  I  anywhere  can  find  to  cover  up 

my  crafty  lies, 
No  doak,  I  say,  comes  in  my  way  to  hide 

my  tricks  and  rogueries. 
There  is  no  pardon  for  my  fibs,  and  no 

escape  for  my  misdeeds; 
My  cheek  can't  find  the  shelt«r,  nor  my 

craft  the  hiding-place  it  needs. 
All  that  I  hid  has  come  to  light;  my  plana 

lie  open  to  the  day; 
The  whole  thing's  out,  and  in  this  scrape  I 

fail  to  see  a  single  ray 
Of  hope  to  shun  the  doom  which  I  must 

suffer  for  my  master's  sake. 


THE  CAPTIVES 


187 


Tlia  Azistophontefl,  irtio'a  jiut  oome,  will 

Burely  bring  me  to  the  stake; 
He  knows  me,  and  he  ie  the  friend  and  Icins- 

man  of  Philocr&tee. 
SalvKtion  could  n't  save  me,  if  she  would; 

thwe  is  no  way  but  this, 
To  plan  some  new  and  smarter  trickeriea. 
Hangit,uAatr  What  shall  I  doT  I  am  just 

dp  a  lofty  tree, 
If  I  can't  contrive  some  new  and  qui(«  pre- 

poeterous  foolery. 


Hkqio.  .Where's  the  fellow  gone  whom 
we  saw  nuhing  headlong  from  the 

Ttwdards  [aside].  Now  the  day  of 
doom  has  come;  the  foe's  upon  thee, 
Tyndarus! 

O,  what  story  shall  I  tell  them?  What  doiy 
and  what  confeea? 

My  purpoBce  are  all  at  sea;  O,  ain't  I  in  a 
pretty  roees? 

O  would  that  Heaven  had  blasted  you  be- 
fore you  left  your  native  land, 

Vou    wretch,    Ariatophontee,    who    have 
ruined  all  that  I  had  planned. 

Hie  game  is  up  if  I  can't  light  on  eome 
atrocious  viUtunyl 
Heoio.  Ah,  there's  your  man;  go  speak 

TrKDAmrs  lotufe].  What  man  ia  wretoh- 

ederthan  17 
ABIBTOPBONTZ8.  How  is  thls  that  you 

avoid  my  eyee  and  shun  me,  Tyn- 

Why,  you  might  have  never  known  me, 

fellow,  that  you  treat  me  thus! 
I'm  a  slave  as  much  as  you,  although  in 

Elia  I  was  free, 
Whilat  you  from  your  earliest  boyhood  wne 

enthralled  in  slavery. 
Hkcho.  Well,by  Jorel  I'm  notsurprised 

that  he  should  shun  you,  when  he 

That  you  call  him  Tyndarus,  not,  aa  you 

should,  Philocratee. 
TYXDAMva.  Hegio,  this  man  in  Elia  was 

considered  raving  mad. 
Take  no  note  of  anything  he  tells  you  either 

good  or  bad. 


Why,  he  once  attacked  hia  father  and  hiB 

mother  with  a  spear; 
And  the  epilepsy  takes  him  in  a  form  that's 

Don't  go  near  him  I 
Heaio.  Keep  your  distance! 
Abibtophontes.  Rascal!  Did  I  rightly 

That  you  say  I'm  mad,  and  once  attacked 

my  father  with  a  spear? 
And  tbat  I  have  got  the  sickness  for  which 
men  are  wont  to  spit? 

Heoio.  Never  mind!  for  many  men  be- 
sides yourself  have  Buff^«d  it, 
And  the  spitting  was  a  means  of  healing  . 
them,  and  they  were  i^ad. 

AjusroFHONTiiB.  What,  do  you  believe 
the  wretch? 

Hxaio.  In  what  respect? 

AnisTOFHONTEB.  That  lorn  madt 

TrNDARUB.  Do  you  see  him  glaring  at 
you?  Better  leave  him  I  O  bewarel 
Hegio,  the  fit  is  on  him;  hell  be  raving 
Boont  Take  care! 

Heoio.  Well,  I  thought  he  was  a  mad- 
man when  he  called  you  Tyndarus. 

Tttjdaeus.  Why,  he  eometimes  does  n't 
know  his  own  name.   Oh,  he's  often 

Hbgio.  But  he  said  you  were  his  conuade. 

TrNnAHDS.  Ah,  no  doubt!  precisely  so! 

And  AlcnueoD,  and  Orestes,  and  Lycurgus, 

don't  you  know. 
Are  my  comrades  quite  as  much  as  he  is ! 

Abibtofhontbb.  Oh,  you  gallows  bird, 
Dare  you  slander  me?  What,  don't  I  know 
you? 
Hiaio.  Come,  don't  be  absurd. 
You  don't  know  him,  for  you  called  him 

Tyndarus:  that's  very  clear. 
You  don't  know  the  man  you  see;  you  name 
the  man  who  is  n't  here. 
Akibtofhomtes.  Nay,  he  says  he  ia  the 

man  he  is  n't,  not  the  man  he  is. 

TTNDAKCe.  0  yesl  Doubtlees  you  know 

bett«r  whether  I  'm  Philocratee 

Than  Philocratee  himself  does! 

AmsTOPHONTBS.  You'd  prove  truth  it- 

As  it  strikes  me.  But,  I  pray  you,  look  at  met 
TmDARUB.  Aa  you  desire! 
Abistophomteb.  Are  n't  you  Tyndarus? 


138 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Tthdabcs.  I'm  not. 

ARiffTOPHONms.  You  Bay  you  ore  Hkilo- 

CTstea? 
TrNDABUB.  Certainly. 
ARiSTOt^ONTEB.  Do  you  believe  himT 
Hnaio.  Yes,  &nd  shall  do,  if  I  pleoae. 
For  the  other,  who  you  say  he  is,  went 

home  from  here  to-di^ 
To  the  father  of  this  captive. 
Aiu?roPHONTBa.  Father?  He's  a  slave, 
TiNDAaoB.  And,  prayl 
Are  you  not  a  slave,  though  you  were  free 

once,  as  I  hope  to  be, 
mien  I  have  restored  good  Eegia'a  son  to 
home  and  liberty? 
Abittophonths.  What's  that,  gaol-bird? 
Do  you  tell  me  that  you  were  a  free- 
man bom? 
TTNDAaue.  No!  Philocrates,  not  Free- 
man, is  my  name. 
AsiBTOFHONTEB.  Pray,  mark  his  scorn! 
Hegio,  I  tell  you,  you're  being  mocked  and 

swindled  by  this  knave; 
Why,  he  never  had  a  slave  except  himself; 

for  he'»  a  slave. 
'    TrHDABtrs.  Ah,    because    you're    poor 
yourself,  and  have  no  means  of  live- 
lihood. 
You'd  wish  everybody  else  to  be  like  you. 

I  know  your  mood; 
All  poor  men  like  you  are  spit«ful,  envy 
those  who 're  better  oS. 
ARiBTOPHOErrss.  Hegio,    don't    believe 
this  fellow;  for  he's  doing  nau^t 
but  sooff; 
Sure  I  tun,  he'll  play  some  scurvy  trick  on 

you  before  he's  done; 

I  don't  like  this  tale  of  hia  about  the  ransom 

<rf  your  aon, 

TnfDARDS.  You  don't   like  it,  I  dare 

say;  but  I'll  acoomplish  it,  you  see! 

I'll  restoro  him  to  his  father;  he  in  turn  re- 

That's  why  I've  sent  Tyndarus  to  see  my 

Akibtofhontbs.  Come,  that's  lamel 
Yov  are  Tyndarus  yoursdf,  the  only  slave 

who  bears  that  namet 
TtNDABDS.  Why  reproach  me  with  my 

bondage?  I  was  captured  in  the  fray. 
Abibtoprontbs.  Oh,  I  can't  restnin  my 

fury  I 


TrNDARDB.  Don't  you  hear  him?  Rao 
away  I 
He'll  be  hurting  stones  at  us  just  now,  if 
you  don't  have  him  bound. 
Amstopbohtes.  Oh,  damnation! 
TTNnuins.  How  he  glarea  at  lul  I  hope 
your  ropes  are  sound. 
See,  bis  body's  covered  over  with  bright 

spots  of  monstrous  site! 
It  'a  the  black  bile  that  afflicts  him. 
Akistofhont&b.  PoUux!  if  this  old  man's 

You  will  find  black  pitch  affliiit  you,  when  it 

biases  round  your  breast. 
Tthdarub.  Ah,he'Bwanderingnow,po(w 

fellow!  by  foul  spirits  he's  posseesed! 
EvQio   [to  Ttndabus).    What  do  you 

think?  Would  it  be  best  to  have  him 

bound? 
Tyndabub.  Yes,  so  I  said. 
AsisTOPHONTES.  Oh,  perdition  take  itl 

Would  I  had  a  stone  to  smash  his 

head, 
This  whipped  cur,  who  s^^  I'm  mod!  By 

Jove,  sir,  I  will  m^ce  you  smart! 
TiMDARUS.  Hear   him  calling  out  for 

stones! 
ARisTOPHONTxa.  Pray,  might  we  have  a 

word  apart,  Hegio? 
Hsaio.  Yea,   but   keep  your  distonoe; 

there's  no  nee  d  to  come  so  cloee! 
TVNDARns.  If,  by  Pollux,  you  go  any 

nearer,  he'll  bite  off  your  noee. 
AsiBTOPHONTSS.  Hegio,  I  beg  and  pray 

you,  don't  believe  that  I  am  mad, 
Or  that  I  have  epilepsy  as  this  shamdeas 

fellow  said.      '' 
But  if  you're  ainid  of  me,  thCa  have  me 

bound;  I  won't  soy  no. 
If  you  'II  bind  that  rascal  too. 

Tyndabub.  O  no,  indeed,  good  Hi^o! 
Bind  the  man  who  wishes  it! 
ABtSTOFRONTBB.  Be  quiet,  you  I  The  case 

stands  thus; 
I  shall  prove  Fhiloorates  the  false  to  be  true 

Tyndarus. 
What  are  you  winking  for? 
Ttnsabub.  I  was  n't. 
AusiroPHONTxa,  He  winks  before  your 

very  face! 
Hiaio.  What,  if  I  approached  this  mad- 
man? 


ElilizedbvGoOQlc 


THE   CAPTIVES 


139 


Ttndarus.  It  would  be  a  wild-gooee 

Hell  keep  chattering,  till  you  can't  molce 

either  bead  or  tail  ofit. 
Had  they  disesed  him  for  the  part,  you'd 

say  't  woe  A]ax  in  hu  St. 
■  Hkoio.   Never   mind,    I   vUi   approach 

TrNDASOB  [cuide].  Thioga  are  looking 
vory  blue. 
I'm  between  the  knife  and  altar,  and  I  don't 
know  what  to  do. 
Hboio.  I  att«iid,  Aristophontes,   if  you 

've  anything  to  Bay. 
Ahistofhontbs.  You   shall    hear    that 
that  is   true   which   you've   been 
thinking  false  to^ay. 
Pint  I  wish  to  clear  myaelf  of  all  HU8|»cion 

that  I  rave. 
Or  that  I  am  subject  to  disease  —  except 

that  I'm  a  slave. 
Bo  may  He  who's  king  of  gods  and  man  re- 
store me  home  agun: 
He's  no  more  Pbilocratee  than  you  or  I. 

Hi<HO.  But  teU  me  then, 
Wfaoheis. 
ABieroPHONTEB.  The  same  that  I  have 
told  you  from  the  very  first. 
If  you  find  it  otherwise,  I  pny  that  I  may 

be  accursed, 
And  may  suffer  forfeit  of  fatherland  and 
freedom  sweet. 
Hxoio.  What  say  you  f 
Tyndabub.  That  I'm  your  slave,  and 


Wera  you  free? 
TrKnABira.  1  was. 
Abistophontbs.  He  wasn't.  He's  }ust 

lying  worse  and  worse. 
Ttndabub.   How  do  you  know7    Per- 
haps it  happened  that  you  were  my 
mother's  nurae, 
TiuX  you  dare  to  speak  ao  boldly  I 

Abiotopkontbb.  Why,  I  saw  you  when 

a  lad. 
TrNDARUB.  Well,  I  see  you  when  a  man 
to-day!  So  we  are  quiie,  by  gad! 
Did  I  meddle  with  your  business?  Just  let 
mine  alone  then,  please. 
Hmoio.  Was  his  father  called  Thensauro- 
crceaonicoohrysidesT 


AaiaTOFBOMTES.  No,  he  was  n't,  and  I 
never  heard  the  name  before  to-day. 
Theodoromedee  was  hia  master's  father. 

TiKnARUs  [atide].  Deuce  to  payl 
O  be  quiet,  or  go  straight  and  hang  yourself. 

my  beating  heart! 
You  are  dancing  there,  whilst  I  con  hardly 
stand  to  play  my  part. 
Heoio.  He  in  Etis  was  a  slave  then,  il 
you  are  not  telling  lies. 
And  is  not  Philoorates? 
AuBTOPHONTEB.  You'll    nevK  find    it 

otherwise. 
Heoio.  80    I've    been    chopped    into 
fragments  and  dissected,  goodness 

By  the  dodges  of  this  scoundrel,  who  has 

led  me  by  the  noae. 
Are  you  sure  there's  no  mistake  though? 
ABiaroFHONTXs.  Yes,  I  speak  of  what  I 

Hxoio.  Is  it  certain? 
ABiffrOFHOinxa.  Certain?  Nothing  could 
be  mora  entirely  m. 
Why,  Philooratea  has  been  my  friend  from 

when  be  was  a  boy; 
But  where  is  he  now? 
Heoio.  Ah,  that's  what  vexes  me,  but 
gives  him  joy. 
Tell  me  though,  what  sort  of  looking  man  is 
this  PhUocratM? 
Abistophonteb.  Thin  i' the  face,  a  sharp- 
ish nose,  a  fair  complexion,  coal- 
black  eyes, 
Reddish,  crisp,  and  curly  hair. 
Heoio.  Yea,  that's  the  fellow  to  a  T. 
TrNnABCB  [aaide].  Curse  upon  it,  every- 
thing has  gone  all  wrong  to-day  with 

Woe  unto  those  wretched  rods  that  on  my 
back  to-day  must  diet 
Heoio.  So  I  see  that  I've  been  cheated. 
TrNDABUs    [Q«ide].  Come    on,    fetters, 
don't  be  ahyl 
Run  to  me  and  clasp  mf  legs  and  I'll  take 
care  of  you,  no  fearl 
Heoio.  Well,  I  've  been  sufficiently  bam- 
boozled by  these  villains  here. 
T'  other  said  he  was  a  slave,  while  this  pre- 
tended to  be  free; 
So  I've  gone  and  lost  the  kernel,  and  the 
husk  is  left  to  me. 


I30 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Yes,  they've  corked  my  nose  moat  finely! 

Don't  I  nuke  a  fooliah  ahow7 
But  tiiis  fellow  here  shan't  mock  mel  CoU- 

pbu8,  Corax,  Cordalio, 
Come  out  here  and  bring  your  thongs. 
[Enter  Overuen^ 
OvKBSKBB.  To  bind  up  faggots?  Here's 

agol 
Baaio.  Come,     bind     yout     heaviest 

shacklee  on  this  wretch. 
Ttndasus.  Why,   what 'a  the  matter? 

what'a  my  crime? 
Hbgio.  Yout  crime! 
You've  Bowed  and  acattered  ill,  now  you 
shall  reap  it. 
TTNDABirs.  Had  n't.  you  better  aay  I 
harrowed  too?  ' 

For  farmers  always  harrow  firet,  then  sow. 
Heqio.  How  boldly  does  he  flout  me  to 

my  facel 
Ttmdarob.  a  hannkee,  guOtlesa  man, 
although  a  slave, 
Should  boldly  face  his  master,  of  alt  men. 
^aio.  Tie  up  his  hands  as  tightiy  as 

you  can. 
Ttndarcb.  You'd  better  cut  them  off; 
for  I  am  3roui8. 
But  what'a  the  matter?  Why  are  you  so 
angry? 
Heoio.  Because  my  plans,  as  far  as  in 
you  lay. 
By  your  thrice-villfunoue  and  lying  tricka 
You've  torn  asunder,  mangled  limb  from 

And  ruined  all  my  hopes  and  purpoeee. 
Philocrates  escaped  me  through  your  guile ; 
I  thought  he  was  the  slave,  and  you  the  free; 
Forso  you  said,  and  interchanged  your  namee 
Between  yourselves. 

Tyndarub,  Yea,  I  admit  idl  that. 
'T  is  just  as  you  have  said,  and  cunningly 
He'sgot  away  by  means  of  my  smart  work; 
But  I  beseech  you,  are  you  wroth  at  that? 

Heoio.  You'vebrought  the  worst  of  tor- 
ments on  yourself. 

Ttndabitb.  If  not  for  sin  I  perish,  I  don't 

But  though  I  perish,  and  he  breaks  his 

And  does  n't  come  back  here,  my  joy  is 

this: 


My  deed  will  be  remembered  when  I 'm  dead. 
How  I  redeemed  my  Iwd  from  slavery, 
And  rescued  him  and  saved  him  from  his 

foes, 
To  see  once  more  his  father  and  his  home; 
And  how  I  rather  chose  to  risk  my  life, 
Than  let  my  master  perish  in  bis  bonds.  • 
HiKiio.  "The  only  fame  you'll  get  will  be 

mheU. 
Ttndabdb.  Nf^,  he  who  dies  for  virtue 

does  n't  perish. 
Hboio.  When  I've  expended  at)  my  tor- 
ments on  you, 
And  given  you  up  to  death  for  your  deceits. 
People  may  call  it  death  or  perishing 
Just  as  they  lilce;  so  long  as  you  are  dead, 
I  don't  mmd  if  they  say  that  you're  alive. 
TvHnARue.  By  Polluxl  if  you  do  so, 

you'll  repent, 
When  he  cornea  back  as  I  am  eure  he  wilt. 
Abibtofhontes.  O  Heavens!  I  see  it 

now  I  and  undentand 
What  it  all  means.  My  friend  Philocratee 
Is  free  at  home,  and  in  his  native  land. 
I'm  glad  of  thait;  nothing  could  i^ease  me 

more. 
But  I  am  grieved  I  've  got  Mm  into  trouble. 
Who  stands  here  bound  because  of  what  I 

Hboio.  Didlfotbidyou  toapeakfalady 

tome? 
Ttndakus.  You  did,  sir. 
Hioio.  Then  how  durst  you  tell  me  lies? 
TiMDAKtis.  Because  to  toll  the  truth 
would  have  done  hurt 
To  him  I  saved;  he  profits  by  my  lie. 
Heoio.  But  you  shall  smart  for  itl 
Ttnpakub.  O  that's  all  light! 
I've  saved  my  master  and  am  glad  of  that. 
For  I've  been  his  companion  from  a  boy; 
His  father,  my  old  master,  gave  me  to  him. 
D*  you  now  Uiink  this  a  crime?^ 
Heoio.  A  very  vile  one, 
TiraDARus.  /say  it's  ri^t;  I  don't  agree 
with  you. 
Consider,  if  a  slave  had  done  as  much 
For  your  own  son,  how  grateful  you  would 

be! 
Would  n't  you  give  that  slave  his  liberty? 
Would  n't  that  slave  stand  highest  in  youi 

favor? 
Answer  I 


:.L|,i,zedi!,GoOQlc 


THE   CAPTIVES 


Hzoio.  Well,  y«a. 

Ttndabdb.  Then  whj'  be  vnih  with 

Hxaio.  Becftuse  jrou  were  more  faithful 
to  your  maater 
Hi&n  e'er  to  me. 

Tthdabub.  What  else  oDuld  you  expectt 
Do  you  HUppcae  that  in  one  night  and  day 
You  could  so  train  a  man  juat  taken  captive, 
A  fresh  newcomer,  as  to  serve  you  better 
Than  him  with  whom  he'd  lived  from  ear- 
liest childhood? 
Hkoio.  Then  let  him  pay  you  for  it. 
Take  him  off, 
And  fit  him  with  the  heaviest,  thickest 

Ilience  to  the  quarries  you  shall  go  right 

And  whilst  the  rest  aie  hewing  dght  stones 

Vou  shall  each  day  do  half  as  much  ag^-in^ 
Or  dse  be  nickiuuned  the  Six-hui>&«d- 

Abibtophontes.  By  goda  and  men,  I 
pray  you,  Hegio, 
Do  not  deetroy  him. 

Heoio.  Ill  take  care  of  him! 
foi  in  the  stocks  all  ni^t  he  shall  be  kept, 
And  quarry  stones  all  day  from  out  the 

ground. 
O,  I'll  prolong  his  t^irments  day  by  day. 

ARiOTOPHONTXe.  Is  this  your  purpose? 

Bxoio.  Death  is  not  so  aura. 
Go  take  him  to  Hippolytus  the  smith; 
Tell  him  to  rivet  heavy  fetters  on  him. 
Then  cause  him  to  be  led  out  of  the  city 
To  Cordalus,  my  freedman  at  the  quarries, 
And  tell  htm  that  I  wish  him  to  be  treated 
With  greater  harshness  than  the  worst  slave 

Ttndabttb.  Why  should  I  plead  with 
you  when  you're  reeolved? 
Ilie  peril  of  my  life  is  youia  as  well 
When  I  am  dead  I  have  no  ill  to  fear; 
And  if  I  live  to  an  extreme  old  age. 
My  time  of  suffering  will  be  but  short. 
Faiewelll  though  you  deserve  a  different 

Atistapboiitai,  as  you've  done  to  me, 
So  may  you  prosper;  for  it  is  through  you 
That  this  has  come  upon  me. 
BsQio.  Take  him  off. 


Tyndabub.  But  if  Philooratee  returns  to 
you, 
Give  me  a  chance  of  seeiDg  him,  I  pray. 
Hbqio.  Come,  take  bim  from  my  si^t  or 

I  'U  destroy  you  I 
Ttndabdb.  Nay,  this  is  sheer  assault 
and  battetyl 
[ExeiaU  Overaeert  and  TrNOABne 
to  the  quarriea.] 
Hbqio.  There,  he  has  gone  to  prison  as 
he  merits. 
I'll  give  my  other  prisoners  an  examine, 
That  none  of  them  may  dare  repeat  his 

Had  it  not  been  for  him,  who  laid  it  bare. 
The  rascals  would  have  led  me  in  a  string. 
Never  again  will  I  put  trust  in  man. 
Once  cheated  is  enough.  Alast  I  hoped 
That  I  had  saved  my  son  from  slavery. 
My  hope  has  periahed.'  One  of  my  sons  I 

kist, 
Stidea  by  a  slave  when  be  was  four  years 

old; 
Nor  have  I  ever  found  the  slave  or  him. 
nte  elder's  now  a  captive.    What's  my 

crime. 
That  I  beget  my  children  but  to  lose  UwmT 
Follow  me,  youl  I'U  take  you  where  you 

Since  no  one  pities  me,  111  pity  none. 
Abibtophontbs.  Under  good  auapioes  I 
left  my  chain; 
But  I  must  take  the  auspices  again. 

[ExewU  Ahistopbonteb  and  Sm- 
oio  to  Heoio'b  brotiitr't.] 
[Bnler  Ebqabilub  from  the  harbor.] 
EiiaABii.uB.  Jove   supreme,    thou  dost 
proMct  me  and  increase  my  scanty 

y  and  magnific  thou  bestow- 


est  n 


Botii  thanks  and  gain,  and  sport  and  jest, 

festivity  and  holidays, 
Proccesions  plenty,  lots  of  drink  and  heaps 

of  meat  and  endless  pruse. 
Ne'er  again  I'll  play  the  ^x^gfix,  eveiy- 

thing  I  want  I've  got; 
I'm  able  now  to  bleea  my  friends,  and  send 

my  enemies  to  pot. 
Witii  such  joylul  ioyfiilneas  this  joyful  ixj 

has  loaded  mel 


.CtOoi^Ic 


132 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


lliough  it  has  n't  been  bequeathed  me,  I  've 

come  into  property! 
80  DOW  I II  run  and  find  the  old  man  Hegio. 

O  what  a  store 
Of  good  I  bring  to  him,  as  much  as  ever  he 

could  ask,  and  more. 
I  am  reeolved  I'll  do  juat  what  the  nlavee  do 

i'U  throw  my  cloak  around  my  neck,  that 

he  may  hear  it  first  from  me. 

For  this  good  news  I  hope  to  get  my  boaid 

in  perpetuity. 

[SnUr  Heoio  Jrtmi  his  brother's.] 

Heqio.  How  ead  the  regrets  in  my  heart 

that  are  kindled, 
As  I  think  over  all  that  has  happened  to  me. 

0  isn't  it  Hhomeful  the  way  I've  been 

swindled, 
And  yet  could  n't  see! 
As  soon  as  it's  known,  how  they'll  laugh 

in  the  city  I 
When  I  come  to  the  market  they'll  show 

me  no  |Hty, 
But  I'tiii.ffing  gay, "  Wily  old  man  up  a  trael " 
But  is  this  ^Ir^siluB  coming?  Bless  met 
His  cloak  'a  o'er  his  shoulder.  Why,  what 

can  it  be? 
Eroabilub.  Come,  Ergasilus,  act,  and 

act  vigorously! 
Hereby  I  denounce  and  threaten  all  who 

shall  obstruct  my  way; 
Any  man  who  dares  to  do  so  will  have  seen 

his  life's  last  day. 

1  'will  stand  him  on  his  head. 

Hbqio.  'Fore  me  the  man  b^ins  to  sparl 

EsOABiLas.  I  shall  do  it.  Wherefore  let 

all  passers-by  stand  off  afar; 

Let  none  dare  to  stand  conversing  in  this 

street,  till  I've  passed  by; 
For  my  fist's  my  catapult,  my  arm  is  my 

artillery, 
And  my  shoulder  is  my  ram;  who  meets  my 

knee,  to  earth  he  goes. 
Folk  will  have  to  pick  their  teeth  up,  it 
with  me  they  come  to  blows. 
Hiaio.  What's  he  mean  by  all   this 
threatening?   I  confess  I'm  puisled 
quite. 
Eboasilub.  I'll   take  care  they   don't 
forget    this    day,    this    place,    my 
Dkickle  mi^t. 


He  who  stops  me  in  my  course,  will  find 
he's  stopped  his  life  as  well. 
Heoio.  What    he's    after    with    these 
threats  and  menaces,  I  cannot  tell. 
Eroabilub.  I  proclaim  it  first,  that  none 
may  suffer  inadvertently; 
Stay  at  home,  good  people  all,  and  then 
you  won't  get  hurt  by  me. 
Hesio.  Oh,  depend  on't,  it's  a  dinner 
that  has  stirred  his  valorous  bile. 
Woe  to  that  poor  wretch  whose  food  has 
given  him  this  lordly  style! 
EBGAeiLUS.  First,  for  those  pig-breeding 
millers,  with  their  fat  and  bran-fed 

Stinking  so  that  one  is  hardly  able  to  get 

past  the  bouse; 
If  in  any  public  place  I  cat«h  their  pigs 

outside  their  pen. 
With  my  fists  I'll  tuunmer  out  the  bran 

from  those  same  filthy  —  men) 
Hegio.  Here's  pot-valor  with  a  venge- 
ance! He's  as  full  as  man  co«i1d 

wishl 
Ebqabilus.  Then     tfaoee    fishmongers, 

who  ofTcc  to  the  public  stinking 

fish, 
Riding  to  the  market  on  a  jumping,  jolting^ 

joggling  cob. 
Whose  foul  smell  drives  to  the  Forum  every 

loafer  in  the  mob; 
With  their  fish  bsskets  I  '11  deal  them  oa 

their  face  a  few  smart  blows, 
Just  to  let  them  feel  the  nuisance  that  thef 

cause  the  pubUc  nose. 
Hsoio.  Liston    to    his    proclamations' 

What  a  royal  style  they  koept 
EsoARiLnB.  Then    the    butchers,    who 

arrange  to  steal  the  youngsters  from 

the  sheep, 
Undertake  to  kill  a  lamb,  but  send  you 

home  right  tough  old  mutton; 
Nickname  ancient  ram  as  yearling,  sw«et 

enough  for  any  glutton; 
If  in  any  public  street  or  square  that  ram 

comes  in  my  view, 
I  will  make  them  sorry  persons  —  ancient 

ram  and  butcher,  too! 
Hxaio.  Bravo!  he  makes  rules  as  if  he 

were  a  mayor  and  corporation. 
Surely  he 's  been  made  the  master  <^  the 

market  to  our  natioo. 


.  Google 


THE  CAPTIVES 


EBOAeiLUB.  I'm  no  more  a  paraaite,  but 

kinglier  than  a  king  of  kingB. 
Buch  a  stock  of  belly-timber  from  the  port 

my  message  brings. 
Let  me  haste  to  heap  on  H^io  this  good 

news  of  jollity, 
Cntainly  there  'e  no  man  living  who  'b  more 

fortunate  than  he. 
Hiaio.  What's  this  newe  of  gladness 

which  he  gladly  hastes  on  me  to 

Ebgabilub.  Ho!  where  are  you? 
Who  is  there?  Will  some  one  open  me  this 
door? 

Hboio.  Ahl  the  fellow's  come  to  dinner. 

EBOAarLTTB.  Open  me  the  door,  I  say; 
Or  111  smash  it  into  matchwood,  if  there's 
any  more  delay. 

Hxoio.  I'll  speak  to  him.   ErgasilusI 

EBOABiLirB.  Who    calls    my    name    so 
lustily? 

Hkqio.  ftay,  look  my  wayl 

EsOAfiiLUB.  You  bid  me  do  what  For- 
tune never  did  to  me! 
Who  is  it? 

Hkqio.  Why,   just  look   at  me.    It's 

EB0A8n.ua.  Ye  godsl  It's  he. 
Hum  best  of  men,  in  nick  of  time  we  have 
each  other  greeted. 

Heoio.  You've  got  a  dinner  at  the  port; 
that  makes  you  so  conceited. 

Eboabildb.  Qive  me  your  hand. 

Hxaio.  My  hand? 

EBOAaiLUB.  Your  hand,  I  say,  at  oncel 

Hkqio.  I  give  it.  Therel 

£ROABn.us.  Now  rejoice! 

Hkoio.  Rejoicel  but  why? 

£HOAsn.nB.  'T  is  my  command.  Begone 
duUcara! 

Hkqio.  Nay,  the  sorrows  of  my  house- 
hold hinder  me  from  feeling  joy. 

Eboasilub.  Ah,  but  I  will  wash  you 
clean  from  every  speck  that  can 

Venture  to  rejoicel 
Hkoio.  All  right,  though  I've  no  reason 

to  be  glad. 
Grqabilttb.  That's  the  way.   Now  or- 

Ekqio.  What? 

EKIUB1I.DB.  To  have  a  mi^ty  fin  made. 


Hkqio.  What,  a  mighty  fire? 
Eroabilub.  I    said    so;    have    it    big 

enough. 
Hboio.  What  next? 
Do  you  think  I  '11  bum  my  house  down  at 
your  asking? 
EsoABiLua.  Dont  be  vexed! 
Have  the  pots  and  pans  got  ready.  Is  it  to 

be  done  or  not? 
Put  the  ham  and  bacon  m  the  oven,  have 

it  pipiim  hot. 
Send  a  man  to  buy  the  fish  — 
Hkqio.  His  eyes  are  open,  but  he  dreamsl 
EBOAaiLus.  And  another  to  buy  pork, 

and  lamb,  and  chickens  — 
Hkoio.  Well,  it  seems 
You  could  dine  well,  if  you'd  money. 
Eroaeilcb.  —  Perch   and   lampiey,    if 
you  please, 
I^ckled  mackerel  and  sting-ray,  then  an 
eel  and  nioe  soft  cheese. 
Hkoio.  Naming's  easy,  but  for  eating 
you  won't  find  facilities 
At  my  house,  Ergaailus. 
EsOABiLDB.  Why,    do   you   Utink   I'm 
ordering  this 
For  myself? 
Hkqio.  Don't  bedeceived;  for  you'll  eat 
neither  much,  nor  little, 
If  you've  brought  no  appetite  for  just  your 
ordinary  victual. 
Eboasilcb.  Nay,  111  make  you  «ager 
for  a  feast  thou^  I  should  urge  you 

Hkoio.  Me? 

Ebqabilub.  Yes,  you. 

Hkqio.  Then  you  shall  be  my  lord. 

ERQAaii-irB.  A  Idnd  one  too,  I  woti 
Come,  am  I  to  make  you  happy? 

Hkoio.  Well,  I 'In  not  in  love  with  woe. 

EROABtiiUB.  Where's  your  hand? 

HKOiq.  There,  take  it. 

Ersabilus.  Heaven's  your  friend  I 

Hkoio.  But  I  don't  mark  it,  though. 

Ebqabildb.  You're  not  in  the  mantet, 
that's  why  you  don't  mark  il:  come 
now,  bid 
That  pure  veaaelB  be  got  ready  for  the 

offering,  and  a  kid, 
Pat  and  flourishing,  be  brought. 

Hkoio.  What  for? 

Eboabilub.  To  nuke  a  aaciifioe. 

,  .CtOoqIc 


134 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Heoio.  Why,  to  whom? 

Ekoasilcs.  To  me,   of  coursel  —  I'm 
Jupit«r  in  hum&n  guiae! 
Yea,  to  you  I  &m  Salvation,  Fortune,  Light, 

Delight,  and  Joy. 
It's  your  business  to  placate  my  deity 
with  tood,  dear  boy  I 

Heoio.  Hunger  seema  to  be  your  trou- 
ble. 

Ebq^bilob.  Well,     my    hunger    isn't 
yours. 

Heqio.  Aa  you  say;  ao  I  can  bear  it. 

Eboabilus.  Lifelong    habit    that    en- 

Heqio.  Jupiter  and  all  the  goda  con- 
found you! 
Ehqabilub.  Nothing  of  the  sortt 
Thanks  I  merit  for  rejiorfing  such  good 

tidinga  from  the  port. 
Now  1 11  get  H  meal  to  euit  me  I 

Hxaio.  Idiot,  go!  you've  come  too  late. 

Ebqasildb.  If  I'd  come  before  I  did, 

your  woida  would  come  with  greater 

weight. 

Now  receive  the  joyful  newa  I  bring  you. 

I  have  Been  your  sod 
Fhilopolemus  in  harbor  safe;  and  hell  be 

He  was  on  a  public  Veasel;  with  him  waa 

that  Elian  youth 
And  your  slave  Stalagmua,  he  who  ran 

away  —  it's  naught  but  truth  — 
He  who  stole  your  little  boy  when  four 
yeara  old  so  cruelly. 
Heoio.  Curae  you,  cease  your  mocking! 
Eroasilub.  So  may  holy  Fulneaa  smile 

Hegio,  and  make  me  ever  worthy  of  her 

sacred  name, 
Aa  I  saw  him.  * 

Hkoio.  Saw  my  son? 

Eroasil^s.  Your  eon,  my  patron;  they 
're  the  same. 

Hbgio.  And  the  priaoner  from  Elis? 

Eroasilus.  Oai,  parbleul 

HsGio.  And  that  vile  thief. 
Him  who  stole  my  younger  eon,  Stalag- 

Eroabilus.  Out,  moneieur,  par  Crieffl 
Heqio.  What,  just  now? 
Erqasilub.  Par  KiUieerankiel 
Heoio.  Has  he  come? 


Eboasilub.  Out,  par  Dundtel 

Heoio.  Are  you  sure? 

Eroasilub.  Par  AuehtermuekHet 

Heoio.  Certain? 

Eroasildb.  Out,  ^ar  RvrkeudbriQhi! 

Heqio.  Why  by  these  barbarian  cities 

do  you.  swear? 
EROAsn-u^s.  Because  they're  rude, 
Aa  you  said  your  dinner  waa. 
Heoio,  That's  just  like  your  ingrsti- 

Eboabilus.  Ah,  I  see  you  won't  believe 

me  though  it's  simple  truth  I  say. 
But  what  countiyman  waa  this  Stalagmua, 

when  be  went  away? 
Heoio.  A  Sicilian. 
Eroasilus.  Well,    but   he   belongs    to 

Colorado  now; 
For   he'a   married   to   a   eailar,   and   she 

squeezes  him,  I  vow! 
Heoio,  Toll  me,  is  your  story  true7 
Eroascttb.  It's  really  true  —  the  very 

truth. 
Heoio.  O  good  Heav'ns!  if  you're  not 

mocking,  I've  indeed  renewed  raj 

youth. 
Eroasilub.  What?    Will  you  continue 

doubtJng  when   I've  pledged  my 

sacred  troth? 
As  a  last  reaource  then,  Hegio,  if  you  cant 

believe  my  oath, 
Go  and  see. 
Heoio.  Of  course  I  will;  go  in,  prepare 

the  feast  at  once; 
Everything's  at  your  disposal;  you're  my 

steward  for  the  nonce. 
Ergabilub.  If  my  oracle's  a  false  one, 

with  a  cudgel  comb  my  hide! 
Heoio.  You  shall  have  your  board  for- 
ever, if  you've  truly  propheeied. 
Eroabilus.  Who  will  pay? 
Heoio.  My  son  and  1. 
Eboabilus.  You  promise  that? 
Heoio.  I  do  indeed. 
Eboasiltib.  Then  I  promise  you  your 

son  has  really  come  in  very  deed. 
Heoio.  Take  the  best  of  everything! 
ERQABiLnB,  May  no  delay  your  path 

{Exil  Heoio  to  the  hevbor.] 
Eboabilttb.  He  has  gone;  and  put  hie 
kitchen  aJ»olutoly  in  my  handitl 


THE  CAPTIVES 


135 


Heav'iisl  how  necks  and  trunks  will  be 
dissciverod  at  my  steTD  coznuiftDdBl 
YfhM  ft  ban  will  fall  on  bacon,  and  what 
harm  on  humble  ham  I 

0  what  labor  on  the  lard,  and  what  calam- 

ity on  lamb! 
Butebere  and  pork  dealers,  you  shall  find 

a  deal  to  do  to-dayl 
But  to  tell  of  all  who  deal  in  food  would 

cause  too  long  delay. 
Now,  in  virtue  of  my  office,  I'll  give  e 

tence  on  the  lard, 
Help  those   gammona,   hung  though 

condemned  —  a  fate  for  them  too 

'  [£zi(  EROAsn:.CB  into  the  houie.] 

[EnUr  a  boy  from  tA«  house  C(f  Hooio.) 

Boy.  May  Jupiter  and  all   the  gods, 

Ergasilus,  confound  you  quite, 

And  all  who  Hsk  you  out  to  dine,  and  every 

other  parasite. 
Deetfuction,  ruin,  dire  distresB,  have  come 
upon  our  family. 

1  feared  that,  like  a  hungry  wolf,  he'd 

make  a  fierce  attack  on  me. 
I  cast  an  anxious  look  at  him,  he  licked  his 

lips  and  glared  around; 
I  shook  with  dread,  by  Hercules!  he  gnashed 

his  teeth  with  fearsome  sound. 
When  he'd  got  in,  be  made  a  raid  upon  the 

meat-safe  and  the  meats; 
He  seised  a  knife  —  from  three  fat  sows  he 

cut  away  the  dainty  teats. 
Save  those  which  held  at  least  a  peck,  he 

shattered  every  pan  and  pot: 
Then  issued  orders  to  the  cook  to  get  the 

copper  boiling  hot. 
He  broke  the  cupboard  doore  and  searched 

the  secrets  of  the  storeroom's  hoard. 
So  kindly  watch  him  if  you  can,  good  slaves, 

whilst  I  go  seek  my  lord. 
I'll  tell  him  to  lay  in  fresh  stores,  if  he 

wants  any  for  himself, 
F(W  as  this  fellow's  carrying  on,  there'll 

soon  be  nothing  on  the  shelf. 

[Exit  boy  to  the  harbor.] 
[£nicr  firom  the  harbor  Hbqio,  Philopolx- 
ifos,  PmLOCBATEe,  and  STALAamus.] 


For  bringing  you  back  to  your  father  again; 
For  proving  my  staunch  and  succeasful 

defender, 
When,  robbed  of  my  son,  I  was  tortured 

with  pain; 
For  restoring  my  runaway  slave  to  my 

hands; 
For  Philocrates'  honor;  unsullied  it  stands. 
FaitoFOLBUUB.  Grieved  I  have  enoi^ 

already,  I  don't  want  to  grow  still 

thinner, 
And  you  've  told  me  all  your  sorrows  at  the 

harbor,  pending  dinner. 
Now  to  businese! 
PHtLocRATEs,  Tell  me,  H^o,  have  I 

kept  my  promises, 
And  restored  your  son  to  freedom? 

Heoio.  Yea,  you  have,  Philocrates. 
I  can  never,  never  thank  you  for  the  serV' 

icee  you've  done, 
As  you  merit  for  the  way  you  've  dealt  with 

me  and  with  my  son. 
PHiutPOiiZifus.  Yes,  you  can,  dear  fa- 
ther, and  the  gods  will  give  us  both 


Worthily  to  recompense  the  source  of  my 

deliverance. 
And  I'm  sure,  my  dearest  father,  it  will  be 
a  pleasing  task« 
Heoio.  Say  no  more.  I  have  no  tongue 

tiiat  can  deny  you  aught  you  ask. 
Philocrates.  Then  restore  to  me  the 
^ve  whom,  as  a  pledge,  I  left  be- 

He  has  always  served  me  better  than  him- 
self, with  heart  and  mind. 
To  reward  him  for  his  kindness  now  shall 
be  my  earnest  care. 
Hioaio.  For  your  goodness  he  diall  be 
restored  to  you;  't  is  only  fair. 
That  and  aught  beside  you  aiik  for,  you 

shall  have.  But  don't,  I  pray. 
Be  enraged  with  me  because  in  wrath  I  'vift 
punished  him  to-day. 
Philocrates.  Ah,  what  have  you  done? 
Heoio.  1  sent  him  to  the  quarries  bound 
with  chains, 
Wlwn  I  found  how  I'd  been  cheated. 
Philocrates.  Woe  is  me!  he  bears  these 

Dear  good  fellow,  far  my  sake,  because  h> 
gained  me  my  release. 


136 


CHIEF   EUROPFAN   DRAMATISTS 


Hboio.  And  on  that  account  you  Bhall 
Dot  pay  for  him  a  penny  pioce. 
I  wilt  Bet  him  free  for  notiiing. 

Philochateb.  Well,  by  Pollux!  Hegio, 
That  ig  kind.    But  send  and  fetch  hin 
quickly,  will  you? 
Hsaio.  Be  it  bo. 
[To  a  dove.]  Ho,  where  are  you?  Run  and 
quiddy    bid    young   Tyndarus 
turn. 

Now,  go  iu;  for  from  this  slave,  thiB  whip- 
ping-block, 1  fain  would  learn 
What  has  happened  to  my  younger  son, 

and  if  he's  living  still. 
Meanwhile  you  can  take  a  bath, 
PmLOPoi^inTs.  Come  in,  Philocrates. 
PHILOCRATBa.  I  will. 

{Exeunt  Philopoubhub  and  Pm- 

LocRATXS  into  Uie  houae.] 

Bxaio.  Now  stand  forth,  my  worthy  sir, 

my  slave  bo  handsome,  good,  and 

wise! 

^ruutOHCB.  What  can  you  expect  fr 

me,  when  such  a  man  as  you  t 

lies? 

For  I  never  w&B  nor  shall  be  fine  or  haud- 

eome,  good  or  true; 

If  you're  building  on  my  goodnesB,  it  will 

be  the  worse  for  you. 

Hboio.  Well,  it  is  n't  hard  for  you  to  see 

which  vay  your  interest  lies; 

If  you  tell  the  truth,  ^t  will  save  you  from 

the  harshest  penalties. 
Speak   out,   straight   and   true;   although 
you've  not  done  right  and  true,  I 
guess. 
Stalaouttb.  Ob,  you  need  n't  think  I 
blush  to  hear  you  gay  what  I  con- 

Heoio.  I  will  make  you  blush,  you  vil- 
lain; for  a  bath  of  blood  prepare! 

&rAL.AOUDS.  That   will   be  no   novelty! 
you  threaten  one  who's  oft  been 
there! 
But  no  more  of  that;  just  tell  me  what  you 

want  to  ask  of  me. 
Perhaps  you  '11  get  it. 

Heaio.  You're  too  fluent;  kindly  speak 
with  brevity. 

Stai^omub,  Ah  you  please. 

Hbqio.  Ah,  from  a  boy  he  was  a  supple, 
flattering  knave. 


But  to  businesBl  Pray  attend  to  me,  and 

tell  me  what  I  crave. 
If  you  speak  the  trulii,  you'll  find  your 
interest 't  will  best  subserve. 
Stalaomub.  Don't    tell     me!     D'  you 
think  that  I  don't  know  full  well 
what  I  deserve? 
Hboio.  But  you  may  escape  a  part  if 

not  the  whole  of  your  desert. 
SrAnAGicuB.  Oh,  it's  tittle  I'U  escapel 
and  much  will  ham»en  to  my  hurt: 
For  I  ran  away  and  stole  your  eon  from 
you,  and  him  I  sold. 
Hsoio.  Oh,  to  whom? 
STALAOUue.  To  Theodoromedea  of  the 
house  of  Gold 
For  ten  pounds. 
HBaio.  GoodHeav'nsI  Why,  that's  the 

father  of  Philoorates. 
STAnAOMCs.  Ym,  I  know  that  quite  aa 
well   as  you   do  —  better,   if  you 
|dease. 
Hkoio.  Jupiter  in  Heaven,  save  me,  and 
preserve  my  darling  son  I 
On  your  soul,   Philocrates,   come  out!    I 
want  you.  Make  haste,  run! 
[Enler  Philocratbb /rom  the  houae.] 
Philochateb.  H^po,  I  am  at  your  aerv- 

Hboio.  This  man  says  be  sold  my  son 
To  your  father  there  in  Elis  for  ten  pounds. 
PHnx)CSATKs.  When  was  this  done? 
9TALAOUUS.  Twenty  years  ago. 
Pbilocratbb.  O,  nonsense!  H^po,  he's 

telling  lies. 
Stalaomub.  Either  you  or  I  am  lying; 

for  when  you  were  little  boys, 
He  was  given  you  by  your  father  to  be 

trained  ^ong  with  you, 
Pbilocrates.  Well,  then,  tell  me  what 

hia  name  woe,  if  this  tale  of  youis  is 

Stalaqmub.  Piegnium  at  first;  in  after 

time  you  called  him  Tyndarus. 
Philockateb.  How  is  it  that  I  don't 

know  you? 
SrALAauua.  Men  are  oft  oblivious. 
And  forget  the  names  of  those  from  whom 

they've  nothing  to  expect. 
Pbilochatbs.  Then  this  child  you  sold 

my  father,  if  your  Btory  is  comet, 


THE  CAPTIVES 


«37 


WMbestowodonmeasTalet.  Wbowoahe? 
Stai^qhub.  My  msster'a  sol 
Hkoio.  Is  he  living,  fellow? 
STAL4BHU8.  Nay,  I  got  the  money;  then 

I  'd  done. 

HsCHo.  Whftt  Bfty  ytmt 

PBn.ocBATBa.  That  Tyndanu  is  your 

loHt  aoni  I  give  you  joy! 

So  at  least  this  fellow's  stataiiients  make 

me  think;  for  he's  the  boy 

Who  received  his  education  with  myself  all 

through  our  youth. 

Hkoio.  Well,  I'm  fortunate  and  wretched 

all  at  once,  if  you  speak  truth; 

Wretched  that  I  treated  him  so  cruelly, 

if  he's  my  son; 
Oh,  Bias!  I  did  both  more  and  lees  than 

what  I  should  have  done! 
How   I'm  vexed  that   I   chastised  him! 

Would  that  I  could  alter  iti 
See,  he  comes!  and  in  a  fashion  that  is  any- 
thing but  fit. 
{Enter  Ttndabus  from  Ihe  guarriet.] 
TtMDjutua.  Well,    I've    often    seen  in 
pictures  all   the  torments  of    the 


But  I'm  certain  that  you  could  n't  find  a 

hell  that's  stuffed  and  crammed 
With  such  tortures  as  those  quarries.  There 

they've  got  a  perfect  cure 
For  sH  weariness;  you  simply  drive  it  off  by 

working  more. 
When  1  got  ^ere,  just  as  wealthy  fathers 

oft  will  give  their  boys 
StarliDgs,  goslings,  quills  to  play  with  in 

the  place  of  other  toys. 
So  when  I  got  there,  a  crovi  wss  given  me  as 

plaything  pretty! 
Ab,  my  lord  is  at  the  dirar;  and  my  old  lord 

from  EUis  city 
Has  returaed! 

Hbgio.  O  hail,  my  long  lost  bodI 
Ttndakus.  What  means  this  talk  of 

"sons"? 
Oh,  I  see  why  you  pretend  to  be  my  father; 

yea,  for  once 
Yoa  have  acted  like  a  parent,  for  you've 

brought  me  to  the  Ii|^t. 
PmLOCRATEB.  Hah,  good  Tyndarusl 
TniDABiia.  All  haill  for  you  I'm  in  this 

prat^  plight. 


Pbilociutbb.  Ahl  but  now  you  shall  be 

free  and  wealthy;  for  you  must  be 

told, 
Hegio's  your  father.  That  slave  stole  you 

hence  when  four  years  old; 
And  then  sold  you  to  my  father  for  ten 

pounds,  who  gave  you  me, 
When  we  both  were  little  fellows,  that  my 

vslet  you  might  be. 
This  man  whom  we  brought  from  Elia  haa 

most  certain  i^oofs  supplied. 
TrNDAnns.  What,  am  I  his  son? 
Philocrateb.  You  are;  your  brother  too 

you'll  find  inside. 
Ttndabub.  Then  you  have  brought  back 

with  you  his  son  who  was  a  prisoner? 
Phiixktrates.  Yea,  and  he  ia  in  the  house. 
Ttnoabub.  You  've  done  right  well  and 

nobly,  sir. 
PHUXxntATES.  Now  you  have  a  father; 

here's  the  thief  who  stole  you  nheo 

TiNUABUS.  Now  that  I'm  grown  up, 
he'll  find  that  theft  will  bring  him 
little  joy. 

Philocrateb.  He  deserves  your  venge- 

Tyndarits.  Oh,  I'll  have  him  paid  for 
what  he's  done. 
Tell  me  though,  are  you  my  father  really? 
Heoio.  Yes,  I  am,  my  son. 
Ttkuarus.  Now    at    length    it    dawiw 
upon  me,  and  I  seem,  when  I  re- 
flect, 
Yee,  I  SEtem  to  call  to  mind  and  somewhat 

vaguely  recollect, 
Aa  if  looking  through  a  mist,  my  fatJier'a 
name  was  Hegio. 
Heoio.  I  am  he! 

Philocrateb.  Then  strike  the  fetters  off 
your  son  and  let  him  go! 
And  attach  them  to  thia  villain. 

Heoio.  Certaudy,  it  shall  be  so. 
Let  'a  go  in,  and  let  the  smith  be  summoned 

to  strike  off  your  chains, 
And  to  put  them  on  thia  fellow. 
Stu^outs.  R^t!     For    they're    my 

only  gains, 
EPII.O0DE.  Gentlemen,  this  play's  been 
written  on  the  liikea  of  modesty; 
Here  are  found  no  wiles  of  women,  no  gay 
lov«ra'  gallantly; 


138 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Here  are  no  affiliatioiu,  and  do  tricks  for 

getting  gold; 
No  young  lover  buys  his  miatreeB  whilat  his 

father  is  cajoled. 
tt'a  not  oft«n  nowadays  that  plajB  are 

mittAu  of  this  k^,  I 


In  which  good  folk  are  made  better.  Now 

then,  if  it  be  your  mind. 
And  we've  pleased  you  and  not  bored  you, 

kindly  undertake  uur  cause, 
And  to  modesty  award  the  prise  with 

beartJe«t  api^uae. 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


PHORMIO 

By  TERENCE 

Tranilattd  into  Ettglish  prose  ^MORRIS  H.  MORGAN 


ciilizedbvGoOQic 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


CHARACTERS 

Datob,  a  *Iave 

Gbta,  slave  of  Demipho 

Antifho,  a  young  man,  am  of  Demipho 

Fbxdria,  a  young  man,  ton  of  Chremat 

Demifho,  an  old  man 

Phokuio,  a  ponmte 

Heoio, 

Chatutos,      adnaen  of  DemijAo 

Ceito, 

DORIO,  a  daee-tTader 

Chrsues,  on  dd  man,  DemifiKo'i  broAer 

SoFHBONA,  on  old  nuTse 

Naubibtbata,  a  matron,  wife  of  Chremea 

A  Cantor 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


PHORMIO 


[Scknb:  a  street  in  Ather\s,  leading  on  the 

riiihlUiUtenuirktt'^place,onthekfllolkeport. 

Al  the  back,  Ute  kou»u  of  Chksubs  (l.), 

Dewpho  (c),  and  Dohio  (r.).] 

IBttter  Davos,  b.) 

Davos.  My  particular  friend  and  coun- 
trymltn,  Geta,  came  to  see  me  yesterday. 
I  had  been  owing  him  aome  amall  balance 
of  cash  on  account  a  good  while,  and  he 
asked  me  to  get  it  together.  I've  got  it 
tt^gether,  and  I  'm  bringing  it  to  him  now. 
rbe  fact  is,  I  'm  told  that  his  master's  son 
'tas  got  married;  it's  for  the  girl,  1  suppose, 
*,hat  he  'b  ecr^ing  this  testimonial  together. 
How  unfair  it  ia  that  poor  folks  should  al- 
icayB  be  adding  something  to  rich  people's 
pilesl  Now  here's  Geta;  —  tJie  poor  fel- 
low 's  been  saving  up  out  of  his  rations  a 
pint  at  a  time,  and  hardly  that,  cheating 
his  own  belly,  and  now  my  lady 'II  spoil 
hiin  of  it  all  without  ever  thinking  what  a 
lot  of  work  it  took  to  get  it.  Then  besides 
they'll  strike  him  for  another  testimonial 
when  she  has  a  b^y;  and  then  another  too 
.  when  the  baby  has  a  biri,hday,  and  another 
when  it  gets  initiated.  The  mother,  of 
course,  will  walk  off  with  it  all,  and  the 
child  will  be  only  an  excuse  for  the  gift. 
But  don't  I  ae^  Geta? 

[Enler  Gbta, /rom  Dbmipbo's.] 

Gbta  [foofeinfl  back].  If  e'er  a  red-head 
aoksforme  — 

Davob.  Herel^eb.  That'll  do. 

Geta.  Hal  Why,  Davos,  you  were  the 
very  man  I  wanted  to  meet. 

Davob  [handing  him  the  bag].  There  you 
arel  Take  it;  it's  good  money.  You'll  find 
the  total  cornea  to  what  I  owe  you. 

Geta.  Thank  you.  I'm  obliged  to  you 
for  not  forgetting  it. 

Davos.  Particularly  as  things  go  now- 


adays. Why,  it's  come  to  auch  a  pass  that 
you're  expected  to  feel  veiy  much  obliged 
when  a  man  pays  you  a  debt.  But  what 
makea  you  so  glum? 

Gbta.  Me7  Oh,  you  don't  know  what  f> 
fright  and  what  danger  we  are  in! 

Davos.  Why!  what's  the  matter? 

Geta.  You  shall  hear,  —  that  is,  pro- 
vided you  can  keep  mum. 

Davos.  Getout,  will  you,  you  simpleton. 
When  you've  seen  that  a  man's  to  be 
trusted  in  a  matter  of  money,  are  you  afraid 
to  trust  him  with  words?  Why,  what 
should  I  gun  by  deceiving  you  there? 

Geta.  Wen,  then,  listen. 

Davob.  I'm  at  your  service. 

Gbta.  Davos,  do  you  know  our  old 
gentleman's  elder  brother  Chremes? 

Davos.  Of  course  I  do. 

Gbta.  And  his  son  Pluedria? 

Davob.  As  well  as  I  know  you. 

Getta.  The  two  old  fellows  happened  to 
start  out  at  the  same  time,  —  Chremes  on 
a  trip  to  Leranos,  and  our  governor  to 
Cilicia  to  see  an  old  friend.  He  had  enticed 
the  old  man  over  by  letters,  promising  him 
all  but  mountains  of  gold, 

Davos.  Him,  with  already  so  much  and 
to  spare? 

Gbta.  Never  mind ;  it  is  bis  nature 
to. 

Davos.  Oh,  if  only  I  had  been  a  million- 

Geta.  Well,  when  the  two  old  gentlemen 
set  out,  they  left  me  here  with  their  sons 
as  a  sort  of  guardian. 

Davos.  0  Geta,  Geta!  No  soft  job  you 
had  there. 

Geta.  I've  found  that  out  —  by  experi- 
ence. I  see  now  that  my  guardian  angel 
was  out  of  sorts  with  me  when  I  was  left 
behind.  I  started  in  by  opposition;  but,  to 
moke  a  long  story  short,  I  found  that  being 
true  to  the  old  man  was  the  ruination  of 
my  back. 


ElilizedbvGoOQlc 


144 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Davos.  Just  wh&t  I  was  tbinloDg;  it's 
folly,  you  know,  kicking  against  the  pricks. 

Get  A.  So  I  began  to  do  everything  they 
wanted,   and   to  comply  with  all   their 

wiahes. 

Davos.  You  understand  bow  to  carry 
your  pigs  to  the  best  market. 

Ggta.  Out  fellow  did  n't  make  any 
trouble  at  firet;  but  Fluedria  there,  —  the 
first  thing  he  did  was  to  pick  up  a  pretty 
little  harp-lady,  and  he  fell  desperately  in 
love  with  her.  She  belonged  to  the  lowest 
sort  of  a  slave-trader,  wid  we  had  n't  a 
penny  to  give  him,  —  the  old  gentlemen 
had  looked  out  for  that.  ^  the  only  thing 
left  for  Phsdria  to  do  was  to  feast  his  eyes 
on  her,  tag  at  her  heels,  take  her  down  to 
the  singing  school,  and  see  her  home.  My 
young  master  and  I,  having  nothing  to  do, 
devoted  ourselves  to  Pluedria,  Now  there 
was  a  barber's  shop  just  across  the  street 
fiom  the  school  she  went  to,  and  there  we 
'  pretty  generally  used  to  wait  until  it  was 
time  for  her  to  go  home.  One  day,  as  we 
were  sitting  there,  a  young  fellow  came  up, 
all  in  a  flood  of  tears.  Surprise  on  our  part, 

—  we  asked  what  was  up.  "1  never  knew 
so  well  before,"  cried  he,  "what  a  wretched, 
crushing  burden  it  is  to  be  poor.  I've  just 
seen  near  here  a  poor  girl  bewailing  her 
dead  mother,  who  lay  buried  over  oppoeite. 
She  had  n't  with  her  a  well-wiaher  or  friend 
or  relative  helping  with  the  fiueral,  except 
one  lone  woman.  It  was  pitiable.  The  girl 
herself  wEifi  a  beauty."  In  short,  he  stirred 
us  all  up,  and  Antipho  cried  out,  "Shall  we 
go  and  see  her?"  and  somebody  e]ao,  "I 
move  we  do,  —  let's  go,  —  show  us  the 
way.  please."  We  start;  we're  there;  we 
take  a  look.  The  girl  waa  a  beauty,  and 
you  could  put  it  all  the  more  strongly  be- 
cause she  had  n't  any  artificial  fall^  to 
make  her  bo.  Hair  disheveled  —  feet  bare 

—  she  all  frowsy  —  weeping  —  meanly 
dressed;  in  fact,  if  she  hadn't  been  the 
very  essence  of  beauty,  all  this  would  have 
eclipaed  her  beauty.  The  youug  fellow  who 
was  in  love  with  the  harp-lady  only  said, 
"She's  very  pretty";  but  my  young 
master  — 

Davob.  I  know  without  being  told;  he 
fell  in  love  with  her. 


Gbta.  Rather!  See  how  it  turns  out. 
The  very  next  day  he  went  straight  to  the 
old  woman;  begged  that  he  might  have  her. 
But  she  refused,  and  said  he  was  n't  doing 
the  proper  thing;  "for  the  girl  was  an 
Athenian,  a  good  girl  of  good  stock.  If  he 
wanted  to  marry  her,  it  could  be  done  in 
the  regular  legal  way;  but  if  he  meant 
anything  else,  no."  My  master  didn't 
know  what  to  do;  on  the  one  hand  he 
longed  to  marry  the  girl,  on  the  other  he 
was  afraid  of  his  father,  who  was  gone 
abroad. 

Davos.  Would  n't  his  father  have  given 
him  leave  when  he  came  home? 
'  Geta.  What,  he!  give  leave  to  many  a 
girl  without  a  dowry  and  of  unknown 
family?  Never  in  the  world. 

Davos.  Well,  what  happened  in  the  end? 

Gbta.  What  happened?  There's  a  para- 
Bite  of  the  name  of  Phormio  —  a  cheeky 
fellow  ■ —  blast  himl 

Davob.  Why,  what'B  he  been  up  to? 

Gbta.  He  supplied  the  sdieme  which  I 
am  going  to  deeoribe.  "There's  a  law," 
says  he,  "that  orphan  girls  must  marry 
their  next  of  )un,  and  by  the  same  law  the 
kinsmen  are  obliged  to  marry  them.  Now, 
I'll  say  that  you're  her  kinsman,  and  I'll 
bring  a  suit  against  you.  1  '11  pretend  that 
I  was  a  friend  of  the  girl's  father.  We  shall 
come  into  court.  Who  her  father  was,  and 
who  ber  mother,  and  how  she  is  related  to 
you,  I'll  make  sJl  that  up.  It  will  be  good 
and  easy  for  me,  for  you  won't  disprove 
any  of  the  charges,  and  so  ot  course  I  shall 
win.  Your  father  will  come  home;  that 
means  a  lawsuit  against  me.  But  what  do 
I  care  for  that?  The  girl  will  be  oun  any- 
how. 

Davos.  A  jolly  piece  of  cheek! 

Geta.  Antipho  agreed— 'twas  done 
—  off  we  went  —  got  beaten  —  he  married 

Davos.  What  are  you  Idling  me? 

Gbta.  Just  what  you  hear, 

Davos.  Oh,  Geta,  what  will  become  of 
youT 

Geta.  By  the  powers  1  don't  know  that; 
but  one  thing  I  do  know,  which  is,  that 
"bravely  we'll  bear  the  burden  fortune 


Davos,  I  li]E«  that;  that's  taking  it  like 
■  little  man.  , 

Gbta.  I've  do  hope  in  anybody  but 
uyndf. 

Datob.  Good  agwnl 

Gbta.  I  suppoBe  I  must  go  to  somebody 
irtko  will  beg  me  off  in  this  ntyle:  "Do  let 
him  otF  just  this  once;  but  if  he  is  ever 
guilty  agun,  I  won't  aaj  a  word,"  —  all 
but  adding,  "Killhim,  for  all  me,  when  I've 
once  got  away." 

Davos.  What  about  the  harp-lady's 
cfa^>eron?  How's  he  getting  on? 

Gbta.  So,  BO.  Pretty  poorly. 

Davos.  Has  n't  much  to  give,  perhaps? 

GvTA.  Nothing  at  all  but  unadulterated 

Davos.  His  father  home  yet  of  notT 

Gkta.  Not  yet. 

Davos.  Well,  bow  long  before  you  ex- 
Dect  your  own  old  manT 

Jbta.  I  don't  know  for  sure,  but  I'm 
Md  that  a  letter  has  come  from  him  which 
has  been  taken  to  the  custom-house;  I'll 
pi  after  it. 

Davos.  Can't  do  anything  more  for  you, 
Gets,  can  I? 

Gbta.  Only  take  care  of  yourself.  [Exit 
Davos,  b-I  Hil  boyi  is  nobody  ever  com- 
ing? [Ertltr  a  date]  Take  this,  and  give  it 
to  DOTcium.  [Give*  kim  lite  bag,  and  exit  L.) 


ACT    11 

\Snier  Amtipho  and  Pbxdria  Jrom  Ihe 
htmae  of  Cbrkheb.] 

Antipho.  Ob,  Phtedria,  to  think  that  it 
has  come  to  this,  that  I  should  be  afraid  of 
my  own  father  whenever  I  think  of  his 
coming  home!  He  wishes  nothing  but  my 
good.  If  I  had  n't  been  so  thoughtless,  I 
■hould  be  waiting  for  his  coming  with  joy. 

Pbjbdhia.  Why,  what'e  the  matter? 

Antipho.  Matter,  you  accomplice  in  my 
bold  scheme?  Oh,  how  I  wish  it  had  never 
occurred  to  Phormio  to  urge  me  to  it,  and 
that  he  had  n't  driven  me,  when  I  was  in 
the  heat  of  my  passion,  to  take  this  Bt«p, 
which  was  the  b«^nning  of  all  my  troubles! 
I  should  n't  have  got  the  girl,  of  course, 
and  that  would  have  made  me  wretched  for 


MIO  I4S 

some  days;  but  etill,  I  should  n't  be  sufTc-r- 
ing  this  everlasting  anxiety  all  the  time,  — 

Phsoria.  Yes,  yes. 

ANTtPRO.  Constantly  expecting  that  he 
will  soon  be  here  to  break  up  this  marriage 
of  mine. 

Phaobia.  Other  men  are  wretched  be- 
cauBe  they  have  n't  got  the  object  of  their 
love,  but  you're  unhappy  because  you've 
got  too  muiih  of  it.  You're  embarrassed 
with  bliBs,  Antipho.  But  I  tell  you  that 
your  position  is  one  to  be  coveted  and  de- 
sired. Bless  me,  for  \ha  chance  to  be  bo 
long  with  her  I  love  I'm  ready  to  pay  down 
my  life.  Only  just  reckon  up  all  that  I'm 
suffering  from  privation  and  all  that  you  're 
enjoying  in  possession!  To  Bay  nothing  of 
your  having  got  a  well-bom  lady  without 
any  expense,  and  of  having  the  wife  of  your 
choice  publicly  acknowledged,  and  without 
anyscandall  Here  you  are  perfectly  happy 
except  for  one  thing,  —  a  temper  to  bear  it, 
all  with  equanimity.  If  you  had  to  deal 
with  a  slave-trader  like  that  one  of  mine, 
then  you'd  find  outi  But  that's  the  way 
almost  all  of  us  are  made;  we're  dissatisfiad 
with  our  own  lot. 

Antipho.  On  the  contrary,  Ptuedria,  it 
seems  to  me  that  you  are  the  lucky  man. 
You're  still  perfectly  free  to  make  up  your 
mind  to  your  liking,  —  to  keep  your  sweet- 
heart or  to  give  her  up.  But  I,  unluckily, 
have  got  into  Buch  a  fix  that  I  can  neith« 
keep  mine  nor  let  her  go  either.  But  what's 
here?  Is  n't  this  Geta  1  see  running  up  this 
way?  It's  the  very  man.  Oh.dearme,  I'm 
dreadfully  frightened  about  the  news  he 
may  be  bringing!  {They  retire  up.] 

{Enter  Gbta,  hastily  from  the  port.] 

Get  A.  You 're  done  for,  Geta,  unless  you 
find  some'way  out  and  mighty  quick!  Such 
troubles  threat«n  you  all  of  a  sudden  and 
you're  so  unprepared.  I  don't  see  how  to 
dodge  them  or  how  to  get  mysdf  out  of  this 
fix.  Our  reckless  doings  can't  possibly  be 
concealed  any  kinger. 

Amtipbo  (nMiis],  Why  in  the  world  is  the 
man  come  in  such  a  fright? 

Geta.  Besides,  I've  only  a  minute  to 
think  of  it;  master's  dose  by. 

Antipho  [aeide].  What's  this  trouble? 


14^ 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Geta.  Once  he's  hectrd  of  it,  how  shall  I 
head  oShJH  fury?  Talk?  'T  would  set  him 
aiire.  Silence?  Merely  egging  him  on.  Oear 
myedf?  Might  as  well  wash  a  brick.  Oh, 
dear  mel  I'm  frightened  on  my  own  ac- 
count, and  then  I'm  in  torture  when  I 
think  of  Antipbo.  He's  tte  man  I'm  Bony 
for,  I'm  afr^  for  his  sake  now,  and  it's 
he  that  keeps  me  here.  Why,  if  it  were  not 
for  him,  I  should  have  seen  to  myaelf  eas- 
ily enough,  and  got  even  with  the  old  man 
for  hia  anger.  I  should  iuat  have  iixit  some 
traps  together,  and  then  taken  to  my 
heels  straight  out  of  here. 

Antipho  [aHde].  Why,  what's  this  he's 
plotting  aliout  running  away  or  stealing? 

Gbta.  But  where  shall  I  find  Antipho? 
Which  way  shall  I  go  to  look  for  him? 

PosDRiA  [aaide].  He's  talking  about 
you. 

Antipbo  [aside].  I  dread  some  great 
misfortune  from  this  news. 

PoADRiA  [(md«|.  Oh,  dear! 

Geta.  I'll  go  on  home.  That's  where  he 
is  generally. 

PofiDRu  [aside].  Let'e  call  the  fellow 

Antipho.  Stop  where  you  are! 

Gbta.  Hal  pretty  peremptory,  don't 
care  who  you  arel 

Antifbo.  Geta! 

Geta.  It's  the  very  man  I  wanted  to 
find. 

Antipho.  Out  with  your  news,  for 
mercy's  sake;  and,  if  you  can,  dispatch  it 

Geta.  I  wilt. 

Antipho.  Speak  out. 

Gbta.  Just  now,  down  at  the  post  — 

Antipho.  My  — 

Geta.  You've  hit  it. 

Antipho.  I'm  a  dead  man! 

Phmdria,  Whewl 

Antipho.  What  shall  I  do? 

Pbxdilia.  What's  this  you  say? 

Geta.  That  I  saw  his  father,  your  uncle. 

Amtipho.  Now  how  am  I  to  find  a  way 
out  of  this  sudden  catastrophe,  dear,  dear 
me?  Why,  life  isn't  worth  living,  if  it's 
my  fate  to  be  torn  away  from  you, 
Phanium. 

Geta.  WeU,ifthat'Bso,Aulipho, there's 


all  the  more  need  of  being  wide  awake. 
Fortune  favors  the  brave.- 

Antipho.  I'm  all  abroad! 

Geta.  But  that's  just  where  you  must 
n't  be  now,  Antipho;  for  your  father  wiB 
think  you  guilty  if  he  sees  you  frightened. 

pHdOtiuA.  That  'b  true. 

Antipbo.  I  can't  change  my  nature. 

Geta.  Suppose  you  had  to  do  eomething 
still  harder,  what  then? 

Antipho.  As  I  can't  do  this,  I  could  do 

that  still  1(HB. 

Geta.  It'BnouBe,Ph«edria;it'sallaver. 
Why  waste  our  time  here  for  nothing?  I'm 
off. 

Phadbia.  And  I  too  [ffoinff]. 

Antipho.  For  mercy's  sakel  Suppose  I 
make  believe?  Will  this  do7 

{Strike*  an  alHtude.] 

Gbta.  Silly! 

Antipho.  But  just  look  at  my  face. 
There!  is  that  satisfactory? 

Geta.  No. 

Antipho,  How  about  this? 

Gbta.  ftetty  fair. 

Antipho.  And  this? 

Geta.  That  will  do.  Keep  that,  and  look 
out  that  you  answer  him  word  for  word,  tit 
for  tat,  BO  that  he  shan't  rout  you  with 
harsh  language  while  he's  in  a  passion. 

Antipho.  I  understand. 

Gbta.  Say  you  were  forced  into  it, 
against  j^ur  will. 

PaEDRiA.  By  the  law  —  by  the  court. 

Geta.  Do  you  catoh  on?  But  who'e 
that  old  man  I  see  down  the  street?  It'e 
the  governor  I 

Antipho.  I  can't  face  him. 

Gbta.  Herel  what  ateyoudoing?  Where 
are  you  going,  Antipho?  Wait,  say. 

Antipho.  I  know  myself  and  my  own 
fault.  I  leave  Phanium  and  my  own  life 
in  your  hands.  [Rung  off,  r.J 

Pesdkia.  What'sgoing  tobedonenow, 
Geta? 

Geta,  You'll  get  a  wigging  pretty  soon, 
and  I  shall  be  strung  up  and  whipped,  if 
I'm  not  mistaken.  But  we  ought  to  do 
ourselves,  Phfedria,  just  what  we  were 
advising  Antipho. 

Phsdbia.  Noneof  your  "oughts."  Juat 
give  me  your  orders  what  I'm  to  do. 


GVTA.  Do  you  remember  what  you  a^d 
long  agu  when  we  9tart«d  in  with  thie 
affair,  about  protecting  ounelves  from 
trouble,  —  that  the  other  aide's  oaae  was 
just,  easy,  aure  to  win,  the  beat  in  the 
woridT 

Ph^dbia.  Yes,  I  remember. 

Geta.  Wdl,  now'B  the  time  for  that 
very  pies,  or,  if  possible,  for  a  better  and 
one  more  cunning  etill. 

Pksdria.  I'll  do  my  best. 

OVTA.  You  go  up  to  him  first,  and  III 
stay  here  in  ambush  as  a  reserve  force,  in 
caae  you  fail. 

PaBDKiA.  Very  well.  IGbta  retires  up.] 

[Enter  Dehipho,  l.| 

Dbwpho.  What, what, what!  Antipho's 
got  married,  has  he,  without  my  consent? 
Aa  for  my  authority,  —  well,  never  mind 
authority,  —  but  only  think  of  his  having 
no  r^ard  even  for  my  displeasure!  Not  a 
bit  sahamed,  either.  Oh,  what  a  monstrous 
thing!  Oh,  Geta,  Geta,  you  rare  sdviaerl 

GsrA  ItwWe].  In  for  it  at  lastl 

Demipho.  Now  what  will  they  say  to 
me?  What  excuse  will  they  find?  1  wonder 
very  much. 

■  Geta  [atide].  Oh,  I  ahaJt  find  one;  you 
need  n't  worry  about  that. 

Deuipbo.  Is  thu  what  he'll  say:  "I  did 
•  it  against  my  will;  the  law  forced  me  to  it." 
Yes,  yes;  I  admit  it. 

Gbta.  You  old  dear! 

Demifbo.  But  with  his  eyes  open,  with- 
out a  word,  to  give  up  the  case  to  the  other 
aide!   Did  the  law  force  him  to  that? 

PosDRiA  [aeide].  Ah,  that's  a  hard  nuti 

Geta  [aside].  I'll  crack  it,  though;  let 
me  alone  for  that! 

Dbmipho.  It's  taken  me  so  unawares, — 
it's  BO  past  belief  that  I  can't  tell  what  to 
do.  I  'm  so  much  exaspo^ted  that  I  can't 
compose  my  mind  to  think  it  over.  Well, 
the  fact  is,  when  everything  is  most  sue- 
ceuful  with  you,  then's  the  time  to  reflect 
how  to  bear  the  brunt  of  trouble,  —  your 
son's  bad  conduct,  your  wife's  death,  your 
dat^hter'e  illness;  —  these  things  happen 
to  everybody,  they  can  happen  to  you,  so 
there  should  n't  be  anything  surprising  in 
thorn;  but  everything  that  surprises  you 


MIO  t4Y 

by  ending  well,  you  can  set  down  as  sc 
much  clear  gain. 

Gbta  [aMe].  Ha,  Phfedria!  It's  past 
belief  how  much  more  of  a  sage  I  am  than 
my  master.  I  have  reflected  on  all  tte' 
troubles  that  master's  return  will  bring 
upon  me,  —  grindii^  to  do  at  the  mill, 
floggings  to  get,  fetters  to  wear,  set  to 
work  on  the  farm.  Not  a  single  one  of  them 
will  take  me  by  surprise.  But  everything 
that  surprises  me  by  ending  well,  I  shi^l 
set  down  as  so  much  clear  gain.  But  why 
don't  you  step  up  to  him  and  address  him 
politely  to  begin  with? 

Dehifho.  There's  my  nephew  Pfaiedria, 
I  see,  coming  to  meet  me. 

PfLBDMA.  Row  do  you  do,  uncle? 

Demipho.  How  do  you  do?  But  where 'b 
Antipho'/ 

Ph*idria.  You've  got  back  safe,  — 

DxuiPHO.  Yee,  yes;  but  answer  my 
question. 

PoxDRiA.  He's  well  —  he's  here;  but 
has  everything  gone  to  your  liking? 

Demipho.   I  wish  it  had,  indeed. 

Ph«dria.  Why,  what's  the  matter? 

Demipho.  What  a  question,  PluedriaT 
This  is  a  fine  marriage  that  you've  cooked 
up  here  while  I  was  away! 

Posdria.  Holloa!  are  you  angiy  with 
him  Cor  that? 

Geta  [aside].  Fine  acting! 

Dehipho.  And  should  n't  I  be  angry 
with  him?  Why,  I  'm  just  aching  to  get  a 
sight  of  him,  so  that  he  may  find  out  once 
for  all  how  he's  turned  his  good-natured 
old  father  into  a  perfect  savage! 

Pa^DRiA.  But  he  has  n't  done  anything 
to  make  you  angry,  uncle. 

Demipho.  Now  just  look  at  that!  Birds 
of  a  feather!  They're  all  in  it!  When  you 
know  one,  you  know  all. 

PHjfinRiA.  It  is  n't  so. 

Demipho.  When  A'a  in  trouble,  B  turns 
up  to  make  excuses  for  him;  and  when 
it's  B,   then   up  comes  A.   They  go  part- 

Gbta  [amde].  The  old  man's  drawn  a 
fine  sketch  of  their  proceedings  without 
knowing  it. 

Dehipho.  If  it  wasn't  ao,  you  would  n't 
be  taking  bis  part,  Pliffidria. 


iaS 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Phadbia.  Wen,  uncle,  if  it  is  a  fact  that 
Antipho  has  done  a  wrong,  regardless  of 
his  interests  or  reputation,  I  have  nothing 
to  si^  against  his  suffering  as  he  has  de- 
served. But  if  somebody  took  advantage 
of  his  own  cunning  ta  lay  a  snare  for  our 
youthful  innocence  and  has  caught  us  in 
it,  is  it  OUT  fault  or  that  of  the  judges?  You 
know  what  a  habit  they  have  of  robbing 
the  rich  from  envy,  and  giving  to  the  poor 
from  pity. 
'  uBTA  \atide].  If  I  did  n't  know  the  case, 
I  should  believe  that  he  WM  telling  the 
truth. 

Deiopho.  Is  there  a  judge  alive  who 
can  possibly  know  your  rights  when  3>ou 
don't  answer  a  word  yourself,  like  that  son 
of  mine? 

PKOiDBU.  He  behaved  like  a  young 
man  of  good  breeding.  When  we  got  into 
court,  he  couldn't  speak  his  piece;  hia 
modesty  etruck  him  quit«  dumb  then  and 

GirTA  {atide].  Bravo,  youl  but  shall  I  not 
addieea  the  (Ad  man  at  once?  [Ooing  for- 
vsard.]  Good-day,  msster.  I 'm^ad you've 
got  home  safe. 

Demii>bo.  Ha,  ha!  fine  guardian,  good- 
day,  main  stay  of  my  house;  it  was  in  your 
charge  that  I  left  my  son  when  I  went 
away. 

Gbta.  I've  heard  you  blaming  ua  all  for 
ever  so  long'when  we  did  n't  deserve  it,  and 
I  least  of  anybody.  Why,  what  would  you 
have  had  me  do  in  the  matter?  The  laws 
don't  allow  a  man  who's  a  slave  to  plead, 
and  he  can't  give  evidence  either. 

Demipbo.  I  waive  all  that,  and  I  admit 
this,  too,  that  the  boy  Was  afraid  and  un- 
suspecting. I  grant  Uiat  you  are  a  slave. 
But  no  mattfir  how  near  a  relative  she  was, 
he  need  n't  have  married  her;  no,  no.  You 
should  have  given  her  a  dowry,  as  the  law 
directs,  and  let  ber  look  out  for  another 
husband.  On  what  account,  then,  did  he 
prefer  to  bring  home  a  pauper? 

GxTA.  It  was  n't  on  account,  —  it  was 
cash  down  that  was  wanted. 

DainpHO.  He  should  hav«  got  it  some- 
where or  other. 

Gkta.  Somewhere  or  other?  Nothing 
easier  to  say  I 


DuoPBO,  Onint«rest,  attiwworat,  if  on 
no  other  terms. 

Geta.  Bless  my  soul!  Pretty  fine  talkl 
As  if  anybody  would  have  trusted  him, 
with  you  olive  I 

Dbmipho.  No,  no;  it  shan't  be  so;  it 
can't  be.  Whati  let  her  stay  on  as  hia  wife 
a  «n^e  day?  This  is  no  case  for  kindneas. 
But  I  want  to  have  that  man  pointed  out 
to  me,  or  to  be  shown  where  he  hves. 

Geta.  You  mean  Phormio? 

Dkhifho.  The  woman's  next  friend. 

Gkta.  1 11  bring  him  here  at  once. 

Deuipho.  Where's  Antipho  now? 

Geta.  I'hit. 

Deufho.  Go  and  look  for  him,  Phs- 
dria,  and  bring  him  here. 

Pba3>bia.  Ill  make  a  bee  line. 

\Exa  to  Donio'B.1 

Geta  [aside].  YEs.toPamphila's.  [ExitB..] 

Deuipho.  As  for  me,  I'U  turn  in  home 
and  pay  my  respects  to  my  hous^iold  gods, 
and  then  go  on  'Change  and  call  Home 
friends  to  stand  by  me  in  this  aSair,  ao 
that  1  shan't  be  unprepared  in  case  (rf 
Phormio's  coming.  [Exit  U>  hU  hmut.\ 


ACT  III 
\Efder  Phoruio  atid  Gvta,  b.] 

Phoruio.  And  so  you  say  he's  gone  off  . 
in  a  fright  at  his  father's  return? 

Geta.  Exactly. 

Phorkio.  Phonium  left  all  by  henelf? 

Gbta.  Just  so. 

Phormio.  And  tlie  old  man  boiling. 

Geta.  Precisely. 

Phoruio.  Then,  Phormio,  the  whole 
responsibility  rests  on  you;  you  mixed  this 
meas,  and  now  you've  got  to  eat  it  nil 
yourself.   Brace  upl 

Geta.  For  mercy's  sake,  Phormiol 

Phormio.  Supposing  he  asks  — 

GsTA.  You 're  our  only  hope! 

Phormio.  See  here,  what  U  he  retorta — 

Geta.  You  drove  the  boy  to  it. 

Phormio.  There,  that'll  do,  I  fancy. 

Gbta.  Come  to  the  rescue! 

Phormio,  Trot  out  your  old  man,  for 
I've  got  my  plans  all  maraholed  in  my 
head. 


Gbu.  What  are  you  going  to  doT 
Phobmio.  What,     indeed,     except    let 
Phuuum  Bt&y  here,  dear  Aiittpho  of  this 
chaige,  and  turn  the  whole  current  of  the 
old  man's  wrath  on  to  myself? 

GvrA.  Oh,  you  brave,  kind  mani  but 
what  I'm  often  afraid  of,  Phormio,  is  that 
aU  this  oourage  may  land  you  in  the  stocks 

PBoaioo.  Oh,  no,  not  at  all;  I've  tried 
it; I knowwhere toaetmy feet.  Howmany 
Wllawa  do  you  think  I've  beat«n  to  deaUi 
Itefore  to-dayT  Yet  come,  did  you  ever 
bear  of  anybody  brii^ing  a  suit  against  me 
tot  assault  and  battery? 

GvTA.  How  does  it  come  about? 

Paoiutio.  It's  because  we  never  set 
baps  for  the  hawks  and  kites  tliat  really 
hurt  us;  it's  only  for  birds  that  don't  hurt 
that  traps  are  set.  Tlme'a  something  to  be 
made  out  of  them,  but  on  others  it's  only 
time  thrown  away.  Other  people  have  their 
dangers,  from  one  source  or  another,  — 
people  something  can  be  got  out  of;  but 
everj4x>dy  knows  that  I've  got  nothing  to 
loae.  But  perhaps  you'll  say  that  they'll 
ooavicA  me  and  take  me  home  to  hold  me 
Ifaere.  Oh,  do;  they  don't  want  to  keep  a 
rftvenous  fellow  Uke  me;  they  don't  want 
to  do  good  for  evil,  and  that 's  where  they 're 
wise,  I  think. 

Gbta.  Well,  he  can't  ever  thank  you  as 
much  as  you  deserve. 

Pbobuio.  Not  quit«  ao.  Nobody  ever 
can  thank  his  patron  as  much  as  he  de- 
servee.  Think  of  it!  You  come  scot  free  to 
his  dmner,  all  perfumed  and  shining  from 
the  bath,  with  a  heart  free  from  core,  when 
he 's  drowned  with  worry  and  eaten  up  with 
expenses.  While  everything's  done  to  your 
liking,  he's  snarling.  You  can  laugh,  drink 
your  wine  before  him,  take  the  higher  seat; 
and  then  a  puxzling  banquet's  spread. 

GrTA.  What's  that? 

Phobmio.  That's  when  you're  puszled 
what  to  help  yourself  to  first.  Now,  when 
70U  come  to  reckon  up  how  nice  all  this  is 
and  how  much  it  costs,  are  n't  you  obliged 
to  think  your  host  a  god  incarnate  right 
before  your  eyes? 

Geta.  Here's  the  old  man;  mind  what 
you're  about;  Qk  fint  onset  is  alw^s  the 


fiercest.  If  you  stand  tJiat,  you  may  after- 
wards make  play  as  you  like. 

[Enter  Demipho  and  hit  admien,  r.] 

Deiiifho.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  more 
insulting  piece  of  injustice  done  to  anybody 
than  this  to  me?  Stand  by  me,  I  beg  <rf 
you. 

Geta  [oMde].  He's  in  a  passion. 

PaOBino  [to  Geta  aside].  Mind  your 
cue  now;  I  'm  going  to  touch  him  up  pretty 
quick.  [Aloud,  to  Geta.]  Great  heavens! 
Does  Demipho  actually  deny  that  Pha- 
nium's  related  to  him?  Whati  Demipho 
says  this  girl's  no  relation? 

Geta.  He  says  not. 

pHORino.  And  that  he  doesn't  know 
who  her  father  was? 

Geta.  pe  says  not. 

DEBflPBO.  I  fancy  this  is  the  very  man  I 
was  talking  about.  Follow  me. 

Phohuio.  Because  the  poor  thing  is  left 
in  poverty,  her  father  is  disowned  and  she 
heraelf  is  abandoned.  Only  see  what  avarice 

Geta.  You  11  hear  what  you  won't  like 
if  you  insinuate  anything  wrong  about  my 
master, 

DxuiPBo.  Oh,  what  impudence!  Why, 
he's  come  to  take  the  initiative  by  accusing 
mel 

Phoruio.  I've  no  rnason  at  all  to  be 
angry  with  the  young  fellow  for  not  know- 
ing her  father;  of  course  he  was  a  man 
pretty  well  along,  poor,  working  for  his 
Uving,  generally  keeping  in  the  country, 
where  my  father  let  htm  have  a  farm  to 
cultivate.  The  old  fellow  used  often  to  t«U 
me  how  this  kinsman  of  his  neglect«d  him. 
But  what  a  fine  man  be  wasi  the  beet  /  ever 
saw  in  all  my  life. 

Gsta.  I  hope  you  11  evw  see  yoursell 
such  as  you  describe  him. 

Pborico.  You  be  hanged!  No;  if  I 
had  n't  esteemed  him  as  I  did,  I  should 
never  have  got  into  a  quarrel  with  your 
people,  all  on  account  of  this  girl  that  your 
master's  slighting  now  in  this  ungentle- 
manlike  way. 

Gbta.  Will  you  persist  in  slandering  my 
msster  behind  his  back,  you  dirty  dogT 

Fhoruio.  Serves  him  right. 


ISO 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Gbta.  Still  more  of  it,  you  jail-bird? 

DcuiFHO.  Geta  — 

Geta.  You  extortioner,  you  law-sharkt 

Dehifho.  Geta! 

Phobido  [aaide].  Amwer  him. 

GiiTA.  Whom  have  we  here?  Obi 

Dehifho.  Hold  your  tongue! 

Gbta.  Why,  he's  been  insulting  you  all 
dfty  long  behind  your  back,  — -  insults  that 
don't  fit  you  and  do  fit  him. 

DxMiPBO.  Avaattherel  HoldoniYoung 
man  [to  Pborwio],  to  be^  with,  I  wEut  to 
ask  you  this,  with  your  kiod  permission,  if 
you  will  be  good  enough  to  answer  n 
Explain  to  me  who  this  friend  of  yours  y 
you're  talking  about,  and  how  he  said  that 
I  was  related  to  him. 

Phormio.  There  you  are,  fishing;  a 
you  did  n't  know. 

Druifho.  Did  n't  know? 

Phobuio.  Yes. 

Dbuipho.  I  say  I  don't;  but  you,  who 
say  I  do,  just  jog  my  memory. 

PHOBma.  What,  man!  not  know  your 
own  cousin? 

Deuipho.  You're  killing  me.  Tell  me 
his  name. 

Phohhio.  His  name;  of  course. 

DBHiPno.  Why  don't  you  speak? 

Pbosmio  [atide].  By  the  powers,  I'm  a 
gonerl  I've  forgotten  the  name. 

Dewpbo.  What's  that  you  say? 

Phorhio  [agide  to  Geta|.  Geta,  just 
prompt  me  if  you  recollect  the  name  that 
was  given  at  the  time.  I^Eaud.l  No,Iwon't 
tell  you.  You're  here  to  pump  me,  as  if 
you  did  n't  know  it  yourself. 

Deufko.  What!  Pumping  you? 

Geta  [aside  to  Pkohmio].  Stilpo. 

Phoruio.  And  then  again,  what  do  I 
care?  It 's  Stilpo. 

Dewipho.  Whom  did  you  say? 

PHOBino.  Stilpo,  I  t«]l  you;  you  knew 

Deuipbo.  I  didn't  know  him  either, 
and  I  pever  had  a  relative  of  such  a  name. 

Peoruio.  So,  so?  Don't  you  feel  atiashed 
before  these  gentlemen?  Yet  if  he  had  left 
a  property  worth  ten  tslenta  — 

Deuipho.  Oh  confound  yout 

Phorhio.  You'd  be  the  very  firnt  with 
a  tip-top  memory  to  trace  your  anoeatry 


all  the  way  from  grandfather  and  great- 
grandfather. 

Deuipho.  Very  Ukely,  as  you  aay.  Wdl. 
when  I  came  forward  I  should  have  stated 
how  she  was  related  to  me.  Naw,  you  do 
the  same.  Come,  bow  is  she  related? 

Gbta.  Bravo,  master,  well  donel  and 
you,  sir,  look  out  for  yourself. 

Phoruio.  My  duty  was  to  explain  it  to 
the  court,  and  I  did  so  with  perfect  clear- 
neea.  If  it  was  n't  true,  why  did  n't  your 
son  disprove  it  on  the  spot? 

Deuipbo.  You  talk  to  me  about  my 
son?  Why,  I  can't  find  words  to  dea4vib* 
his  stupidity. 

Phoruio.  WeU,  then,  you  who  are  so 
wise,  go  to  the  magistrates  and  make  tbem 
tty  the  same  case  all  over  again  for  you. 
For  you  talk  as  though  you  were  sole  lord 
paramount  in  theee  parts  and  the  only  man 
alive  entitled  to  a  second  trial  of  the  same 
case. 

Deuipho,  Though  I  have  been  unjusUy 
treated,  still,  rather  than  go  to  law  or  have 
to  listen  to  you  —  here,  just  as  if  she  really 
were  related,  take  theee  five  ducats,  the 
dowry  that  the  law  directs,  and  carry  her 

Phorhio.  Hal  hal  ha!  you  sweety! 

Deuipbo.  What's  the  matter?  "There's 
nothing  wrong  in  my  demand,  is  there? 
Am  I  not  to  get  the  benefit  of  what  is  the 
law  of  the  land? 

Phorhio.  Does  the  law  direct  you,  I  'd 
like  to  know,  to  pay  her  and  send  her  of 
like  a  courtesan?  Or  was  it  to  prevmt  i 
freebom  lady  from  doing  anytiiing  to  dis- 
grace herself  through  poverty  that  the  law 
directs  to  give  her  to  her  nearest  Irimmmn 
to  live  with  him?  And  that's  just  what 
you're  preventing. 

Deuipbo.  Yes,  to  her  nearest  kinsman. 
But  how  do  we  come  in,  or  on  what 
grounds? 

Phoruio.  Oh,  dear!-  "don't  open  a  cast 
that's  dosed,"  as  the  saying  goes. 

Demifbo.  Don't  open  it?  On  the  oon- 
trary,  I'll  never  rest  until  I've  seen  it 
through. 

Phoruio.  Silly  of  you. 

Deuipho.  You  just  let  me  alone. 

Phoruio.  In  short,  Demipho,  I 've  notb- 


ing  to  do  with  you.  It  was  your  son  that 
lort  the  suit,  not  you;  tor  your  time  for 
manying  was  gone  long  ago. 

Dguipho.  You  can  take  him  aa  saying 
all  tiiat  1  say  now;  if  he  does  n't  I'll  shut 
him  and  hia  wife  out  of  my  houae. 

Geta  [aride].  He'e  in  a  passion. 

Phobmio.  You'd  better  do  the  eacne 
thing  with  yourself, 

DxioPHO.  So  you're  ready  to  take  a 
stand  against  me  in  everything,  are  you, 
you  ill-staTTed  wretch? 

PaoBwo  [aside  to  Geta].  He's  afraid  of 
UB,  though  he  tries  hard  to  conceal  it. 

GvTA  [aside  to  PhormioI.  Your  first 
moves  are  well  made. 

PsoRkao  [aloud\.  Why  not  put  up  with 
what  you  must  put  up  with?  That  will  be 
in  keeping  with  your  reputation,  and  we 
ahall  be  friends. 

DxmPHO.  Whatl  I  seek  your  friend- 
ship, or  wish  to  see  or  hear  of  you? 

Pbokuio.  If  you  make  it  up  with  her, 
youH  have  somebody  to  cheer  your  old 
age;  think  of  your  time  of  life. 

DiHIPBO.  Keep  her  to  cheer  yourself. 

Phobmio.  Do  moderate  your  angry  pas- 

DxuiFBO.  See  here  [enough  said.  If  you 
don't  hurry  and  take  th&t  woman  away, 
I  '11  throw  her  out  of  doors.  That 's  my  last 
word,  Phormio. 

PsoBMio.  And  if  you  lay  a  finger  on  her 
in  any  way  unbefitting  a  lady,  111  bring 
a  imaahing  suit  against  you.  That's  my 
last  word,  Demipho.  [AgitU  to  Geta.) 
Herel  if  you  need  me  for  anything,  you'll 
find  me  at  home. 

GxTA,   All  rightl      [Exit  Pbobmio,  b.] 

Dkwipho.  What  worry  and  trouble  my 
aon  doea  give  me  by  involving  himself  and 
me  in  this  marriage!  And  he  does  n't  come 
to  let  me  see  him  either,  so  that  at  least  I 
mi^t  know  what  he  has  to  aay  about  the 
matter,  or  what  he  thinks.  Off  with  youl 
see  whether  he  has  got  home  yet. 

Geta.  Yea.  [Exit  to  houte  of  Dbuifbo.] 

Deuifro  [to  hit  aduitera].  You  see  in 
what  a  state  things  are.  Now  what  am  I 
to  do?  Tell  me,  Hegio. 

HxQio.  I?  1  ntove  Cratinus  doee,  if  you 
plettse. 


■MIO  i5» 

DxtaPBO.  Well,  speak,  Cratinus. 

Cbatinifs.  Do  you  mean  me? 

Demipbo,  Yee  sir. 

Cratdhts.  I  should  like  to  have  you  act 
for  the  interests  of  your  house.  Now  this  is 
the  way  it  seems  to  me;  it's  all  right  and 
proper  that  what  your  son  has  done  in 
your  abeence  should  be  put  back  entirely 
as  it  was,  and  you  will  cairy  that  point. 
That's  what  I  say, 

Dbmipbo.  Now,  H^'o,  it's  your  turn 
to  speak. 

Heuio.  I  believe  that  he  has  spoken 
advisedly;  but  this  is  the  way  of  it;  many 
men  of  many  minds,  many  birds  of  many 
kinds;  each  man  has  his  own  point  of  view. 
Now  it  does  n't  seem  t«  me  that  what  tho 
Uw  has  done  can  be  undone;  and  it's  dis- 
creditable to  try  it. 

Deuipho.  Well,  Crito? 

CniTO.  I  vote  we  take  time  to  think  It 
over;  it's  important. 

Heoio.  We  can't  do  anything  more  for 
you,  can  we? 

DxuiPHO.  You  have  done  finely. 
[Exeunt  aduiaeri  r.]  I'm  much  more  be- 
wildered than  before. 

[Enler  Geta,  from  Deidpho's  Aoum.] 

Geta.  They  say  he  has  n't  oome  in. 

Deuipbo.  1  must  wait  for  my  brother. 
I'll  follow  the  advice  which  he  gives  me  in 
the  matter.  Ill  go  down  to  the  port  to  find 
out  when  he's  to  come  home.  [Exit  L.] 

Geta.  And  I'll  go  look  for  Antipho,  so 
that  he  nuQT  know  bow  things  are.  But, 
halloal   I  see  him  oomii^  in  the  nick  of 


[Enter  Antipbo,  b.J 
Antipho.  Well,  Antipho,  you  and  your 
panic  have  much  to  answer  for.  The  idea 
of  your  having  made  off  and  left  your  very 
life  in  other  people's  keeping!  Did  you 
suppose  that  others  would  attend  to  your 
buBioess  better  than  you  would  yourself? 
No,  no;  however  it  was  about  the  rest,  you 
certainly  ought  to  have  taken  care  of  that 
girl  of  yours  at  home,  to  prevent  her  from 
getting  into  trouble  from  her  trust  in  you. 
All  she  has  and  all  she  hopes  for,  poor  thing. 
hinge  on  you  alone  now. 


>S3 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Geta.  And  leaUy,  muter,  we  too  hare 
been  finding  fault  with  you  bdtind  yaai 
back  for  leaving  us. 

Antipro.  You're  the  very  man  I  ' 
lookini;  for. 

GvTA.  But  for  an  that  we  have  n't  Failed 
you  a  bit. 

Antipbo.  For  heaven's  sake,   tell 
how  my  fate  and    fortunea  atand.    My 
father  has  n't  got  wind  of  anything? 

Gbta.  Not  yet, 

AMTipao.  Any  prospect  Tot  the  future? 

Gbta.  I  don't  know. 

Antipho.  Oh,  dear  I 

GvTA.  But  Phedria  has  never  ceased  his 
cfiorts  for  you. 

An-upbo.  That's  nothing  new  in  him 

GvTA.  Then  Phormio,  too,  has  shown 
the  man  of  energy  in  this  as  in  everything 
dse. 

Antipho..  Why,  what  has  he  done? 

Gbta.  He's  bluffed  the  angry  old  man 
with  his  talk. 

Antipho.  Oh,  bravo,  Phormiot 

Geta.  And  I  did  what  I  could  -myself. 

Aktipbo.  My  dear  Geta,  I'm  much 
obliged  to  you  all. 

Geta.  The  opening  moves  were  made 
as  I  have  described;  all'a  quiet  up  to  the 
present  time,  and  your  father  ia  going  to 
wait  until  your  uncle  comes  home. 

Amtipho.  Why  for  him? 

GvTA.  He  said  he  wanted  to  act  in  this 
case  according  to  his  advice. 

Amtipho.  Oh,  Geta,  how  I  do  dread  to 
see  my  uncle  come  home  safe  and  sound! 
For  life  and  death,  I  find,  depend  on  his 
ain^e  voice. 

GcTA.  Here  comes  Phedria. 

Antipho.  Where,  pray? 

Gkta.  There,  coming  out  from  hk  pl«y- 
ground. 


Phadria.  Do  listen  (o  me,  Dorio,  for 
IHty's  sake! 

DoBio.  No,  I  won't. 

PsanBiA.  Just  a  minute. 

DoBio.  Why  won't  you  let  me  alone? 

Prsdsia.  But  listen  to  what  I  have  to 
say. 


DoKio.  No;  I'm  tired  of  hearing  tbs 
same  thing  a  thousand  times. 

Phjedbia.  But  now  I'm  going  to  aay 
something  which  you  will  like  to  hear. 

DoBio.  Speak  out  then.  I'm  liatening. 

PoSDBiA.  Can't  I  prevail  on  you  to 
w(«t  juat  theae  three  days?  Why,  where 
are  you  going  now? 

EkiBio.  I  wondered  whether  you  had 
anything  new  to  bring  forward. 

Antipho  [amde].  Oh,  dearl  I'm  afraid 
this  slave-trader  may  be  — 

Gkta  [atide]-  Hoist  with  his  own  petar? 
I'm  afr^  bo,  too. 

Pbmdbia.  You  don't  brieve  me  3ret,  eh? 

DoBio.  You're  a  mind  readerl 

PaxniuA.  But  if  I  give  you  my  word? 

DoBio.  Stuff! 

pRxnsiA.  You'll  have  reason  to  call 
your  kindness  a  fine  inveatmmt. 

Dotuo.  Words,  words. 

pBAnaiA.  Believe  me,  you'll  be  ^ad 
you  did  it.  It's  true,  by  heaveni 

DoBio.  Moonshine  I 

Fejedria.  Just  try  the  expvimeat;  it'a 
not  for  long. 

DoRio.  Always  singing  the  aame  <rfd 
song! 

Phadria.  I'll  can  you  my  kinsman, — 
father,  —  friend  — 

Dorio.  Nonsense! 

Phadria.  To  think  of  your  being  so 
hard  and  unbending  that  neither  pity  nor 
[payers  can  soften  you! 

Dorio.  And  to  think  of  your  being  so 
unreasonable  and  impudent,  Phndria,  m 
to  lead  me  on  with  gilded  promisee,  and  so 
get  my  slave  girl  for  nothingi 

Antipho  [atide].  What  a  pity! 

Phadria.  Oh,  dear  mel  he's  got  the 
better  of  me. 

Guta  [osuIb].  How  they  both  do  live  up 
to  their  own  characters. 

Phxdria.  Think  of  oil  this  trouble  hap- 
pening to  me  at  the  very  time  whes  An- 
tipho is  fun  of  another  worry  of  his  own. 

Antipho  [earning  fonear^  Why,  Pha- 
dria,  what  is  sll  thia? 

Phsdbia.  Oh,  Antipho,  you  luckiest  of 

Aktipho.  I? 

PasnuiA.  Yes;  for  the  giri  you  love  w 


inyoUTOwnkeeping,  and  you've  never  had 
oceuion  to  stnigi^e  with  such  a  difficulty 

Antifho,  In  my  own  keeping?  Not 
quite  bo;  I'm  "holding  a  wolf  by  tiieears," 
as  the.  old  Baying  is. 

DoBio.  That'siusthowlfeelabouthim. 

Ahtipho.  Hallo^l  Act  up  to  your  rAle  of 
dave-traderl  Has  he  been  doing  anything? 

Phodria.  He?  B«en  behAVing  like  a 
baibarian;  he's  sold  my  Pamphila. 

AjrnpHo.  What!  sold  h«'7 

GxTA.  You  don't  say  sol  sold  her? 

Peadbia.  Yes,  he's  sold  bw. 

DoBio.  What  an  outrage,  t4>  sell  a  girl 
bought  with  my  own  money! 

PHxntRiA.  And  I  can't  prevail  on  him 
to  wait  for  me  and  to  put  off  keeping  his 
I»omiae  to  the  man  for  only  three  days, 
whSt  I  am  getting  the  money  promised  me 
by  my  friemia.  If  I  don't  pi^  it  by  that 
tune,  you  need  n't  wait  for  me  an  hour 

DoBio.  Still  (tinning  it  into  me? 

Amtifho.  It's  no  long  time  he  asks- for. 
Come,  consent.  He'll  return  the  kindness 
with  a  hundred  per  cent  interest. 

DoRio.  Fine  talk! 

AmiPHO.  Will  you  let  Pamphila  be  cor- 
ned away  from  this  town,  and  can  you  bear 
to  see  such  a  pair  of  lovers  torn  asunder? 

DoBio.  Of  course  I  can't  any  more  than 
you. 

Gr'a.  Heavm  send  you  what  you  de- 

DoRio.  I  have  been  putting  up  for  some 
months  against  my  will  with  your  promis- 
ing and  not  performing  and  your  whimper- 
ing; but  now  I've  got  the  oppoaite  of  all 
this.  I  have  found  a  man  who  pays  and 
does  n't  cry  about  it.  Make  way  for  your 
betters. 

Amtipho.  But,  by  heaven,  if  I  remember 
rightly,  there  was  a  day  set  on  which  you 
were  to  pay  him? 

PoanBiA.  There  was. 

DoRio.  I  don't  deny  it,  do  I? 

Amtipbo.  Has  it  come  yet? 

DoRia.  No,  but  to-day  has  oome  in 
ahead  of  it. 

Antipbd.  Ai«  n't  you  ashamed  to  be 
such  a  fraud? 


■MIO  >S3 

DoBio.  Not  a  bit  (tf  it  ia  for  my  gain. 

Gbta.  Oh,  you  dunghill! 

Pbmdkia.  Look  here,  Dorio,  is  this  the 
right  way  to  behave? 

DoBio.  It'Bmyway;if  you  like  me,  take 
me  as  you  find  me. 

Amtipho.  And  you  cheat  him  like  this? 

DoBio.  On  the  contrary,  Antipho,  it's 
he  who  is  cheating  me:  for  he  knew  all 
along  that  I  was  the  sort  of  man  I  am;  but 
I  supposed  that  he  was  difFerent.  He'a 
taken  me  in,  but  to  him  I  am  exactly  what 
I  was  before.  But  never  mind;  this  is  what 
I'll  do,  A  soldier  man  has  ^Htjmised  to  pay 
me  the  money  to-morrow  morning;  now, 
Phsdria,  if  you  bring  it  to  me  before  he 
does,  I  'U  follow  my  r^ular  rule,  that  he  is 
the  better  man  who  is  first  to  come  down 
with  the  cash.  Good-bye.  [Exit,  a.] 

Pkaobia.  What  shall  I  do?  Where  am  1 
to  find  the  money  for  bim  in  such  a.  hurry, 
when  I've  less  than  nothing  myself,  poor 
fdlow?  It  was  promised  to  me,  if  I  could 
only  have  begged  these  three  days  out  of 

Antipho.  Shall  we  let  bim  be  made  so 
unhappy,  Geta,  after  he  has  just  helped 
me,  as  you  tell  me,  in  such  a  friendly  way? 
Why  not  try  to  return  his  IrinHnw  now 
when  it's  needed? 

Geta.  Iknowof  course  it's  only  the  fair 
thing  to  do. 

Antipro.  Come,  then,  you  are  the  only 
man  yibo  can  save  him. 

GvTA.  What  can  I  do? 

Antipbo.  Find  the  money. 

GsTA.  Iwaiitto;butwheref  Tellmethat. 

Antipho.  My  father's  here. 

GsTA.  I  know  he  is,  but  what  of  it? 

ANnPHo.  Oh,  a  word  to  the  wise  is  quite 
enou(^. 

Gdta.  That's  it,  hey? 

An^^pbo.  That's  it. 

GfiTA.  And  a  fine  suggestion,  too,  by 
cracky!  Get  out,  won't  you?  Isn't  it 
triumph  enough  if  I  get  off  from  your  mar- 
riage with  a  whole  skin  without  your  telling 
me,  when  I'm  in  the  stocks  ah^dy,  to  try 
to  get  hanged  for  his  sake? 

Antipho.  There's  truth  in  what  he  says. 

Phadbia.  What,  Geta,  am  I  a  mere 
stranger  to  all  of  you? 

GooqIc 


>54 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Gbta.  I  mippoee  not;  but  is  n't  it  enough 
that  the  old  nun  ia  ao  veiy  ancry  with  ua 
all  now,  without  our  prodding  him  still 
more,  so  eis  to  leave  us  no  chance  to  ciy  oS7 

Phaedria.  And  Bhall  another  man  cany 
her  off  to  foreign  parts  before  my  very 
eyes?  Ah  mel  Well,  then,  you  two,  talk 
to  me  and  look  your  fill  on  me  while  you 
may,  Antipho,  and  while  I'm  here. 

Antipho.  What  do  you  mean?  What 
are  you  going  to  do7   Out  with  it. 

Ph.bi>ria.  Wherever  in  the  world  she's 
carried,  I'm  resolved  to  follow,  or  to  die 
in  the  attempt. 

Oeta.  Heaven  bleaa  your  efforts;  go 
slow,  though. 

Ahtifbo.  Do  see  whether  you  can  help 
him  in  any  way. 

Gkta.  Any  way?   But  what  way? 

Antipho.  Try  to  think  of  something,  for 
mercy's  sake.  Doo't  let  him  do  anything, 
great  or  small,  Geta,  that  shall  make  na 
sorry  when  it's  too  late. 

Oeta.  1  am  trying.  [A  pauae.]  WeU, 
he's  all  right,  I  think;  but  really  I'm  afraid 
there'll  bu  trouble. 

Amtipho.  Never  fear;  we'Uahareitwith 
you,  good  or  bad. 

Geta.  Tetl  me;  how  much  money  do 
you  need? 

pB.eDRiA.  Only  thirty  ducats. 

Qbta.  Tliirty?  Whewl  She's  pretty 
dear,  Fhiedria. 

Pbadria.  No,  not  at  all;  she's  cheap. 

Gbta.  WeU,  well.  I'llaeethatit'sfound, 
and  give  it  to  you. 

Pkmdbia.  Oh,  you  are  a  trumpi 

GffTA.  Take  yourself  off. 

PaxDRiA.  I  need  it  at  once. 

Gbta.  You  ahall  have  it  at  once;  but  I 
need  Phormio  to  help  me  in  this  buuness. 

AtnrPHa  He's  all  ready;  lay  on  bim 
boldly  any  load  you  like;  he'll  carry  it  off. 
He's  a  (rioid  indeed  to  a  friend. 

Geta.  Let's  hurry  to  him  then. 

Antipho.  You  don't  need  any  help  from 
me,  do  you? 

Gbta.  No.  You  go  home  snd  comfort 
that  poor  girl,  for  I  know  she 's  in  there  now 
half  dead  with  fright.  What!  waiting? 

ANTipm).  There's  nothing  I  shaU  bo  ao 
^ad  to  do.  [Exit  U>  Dbuipbo's.I 


pKsniuA.  How  are  you  going  to  man- 
age this  affair? 

Gbta.  I'll  tell  youontheway;  only  take 
yourself  out  ctf  this.  [Eiteiint,  r.] 


[Bnler  Dbuip&o  and  Chbembs,  l.] 

Dbuipho.  Well,  Chremes,  did  you  bring 
your  dau^ter  with  you,  what  you  went  to 
Lemnos  for? 

CmtRHKa.  No. 

Deuipho.  Why  not? 

Chreueb.  Why,  when  her  mother  saw 
that  I  kept  staying  and  staying  on  in 
Athens,  and  the  girl  was  grown  up  and 
could  n't  be  nei^ted  any  longer,  she  set 
out,  they  told  me,  bag  and  ba^age,  to 
come  and  find  me. 

Deuipho.  Then  why,  I  want  to  know, 
did  you  stay  there  so  long  when  you  heard 
that? 

Chbeubb.    'Gad,  I  was  kept  there  by 

Dkuifho.  How  soT  What  illness? 

Chremes.  What  ilhieaa?  Old  age  is  ill- 
ness enough  in  itself.  But  the  skipper  who 
brought  them  told  me  that  they  reached 
here  safe  and  sound. 

Deuipho.  Have  you  heard  what  has 
happened  to  my  son  in  my  absence, 
Chremes? 

Chreueb.  That's  just  what  m^es  me 
so  undecided  in  my  plans.  For  if  I  offer  her 
in  marriage  to  any  outsider,  I  must  tell  tba 
whole  story  of  how  and  by  whom  I  came  to 
be  her  father.  As  for  you,  I  knew  that  you 
were  as  loyal  to  me  hb  I  am  to  myself.  But 
if  a  Btranger  seeks  alliance  with  me,  he  will 
hold  his  tongue  just  so  long  as  we  are  dose  , 
friends  witb  one  another;  but  if  he  breaka 
with  me,  then  he  will  know  more  than  be 
ought  to  know.  And  I  'm  afraid  my  wife 
may  get  an  inkling  of  all  this.  If  she  does, 
the  only  thing  left  for  me  to  do  ia  to  give 
myself  a  shake  and  leave  the  house;  for 
I'm  all  I've  got  in  the  world. 

Dekifho.  Iknow  that  ia  so;  that's  what 
makes  me  so  annoua,  and  I  shall  never 
weary  of  making  every  effort  to  perform 
my  promise  for  you. 


GooqIc 


[Enter  Gbta,  b.1 
□eta  [atide].  A  shrewder  fellow  than 
Pbonnio  1  never  saw  in  my  bom  days.  I 
WBnt  to  tell  him  thst  money  was  wanted 
and  how  it  was  to  be  got,  I  had  hardly 
told  him  half  the  story  when  he  understood 
it  all,  —  began  to  laugh,  oongratulated  me, 
asked  where  the  old  man  waa.  Then  he 
thanked  heaven  that  now  he  had  a  chance 
to  show  that  he  was  as  much  of  a  friend  to 
Fhsdiia  as  to  Antipho.  I  told  the  fellow 
to  wait  on  'Change,  and  said  that  I  would 
bring  the  old  man  there.  Halloa  I  here  he  is. 
Who's  that  on  the  other  side?  Oh  my  I 
Piuedria'a  father's  come  home.  Lubber 
that  I  am,  what  was  I  afraid  ofT  Wa£  it 
because  I've  got  two  to  trick  instead  of 
one?  It's  handier,  1  think,  to  have  two 
abinp  to  your  bow.  I'll  try  to  get  the 
money  from  the  man  I  meant  originally. 
If  he  gives  it,  all  right;  if  nothing  can  be 
done  with  him,  then  I'll  attack  this  new- 

[Ejiier  Antipho,  unobserved,  r.] 

Amtipho  [aside].  I'm  expecting  Geta 
back  every  minute.  Why,  there's  my  uncle 
standing  with  my  father.  Dear  mel  how 
I  do  fear  what  father  may  be  driven  to  by 
hia  comingi 

GrTA.  I'll  go  up.  Why  I  our  good  friend 
Chremeel   How  do  you  do? 

Chrbuxs.  How  do  you  do,  Geta? 

Gbta.  I'm  ddighted  to  see  you  back 
safe. 

Chrbubs.  Dare  say. 

Gbta.  How  goes  it?  Do  you  find  many 
Burprises  here,  as  usual  when  a  man  comee 

bOEQB? 

Chrbubb.  a  good  many. 

Geta.  To  be  sure.  Have  you  heard 
wbat's  happened  to  Antipho? 

Chbbuxs.  The  whole  story. 

Gbta  [to  Dbuipbo.]  You  told  him,  then? 
What  an  outrageous  thing,  Chremes,  to  be 
taken  in  in  this  way. 

Chrbhxb.  Just  what  I  was  telling  him, 

Gbta.  But  on  Uiinktng  it  all  over  care- 
fully, by  the  powers  I  bdieve  I've  found  a 
way  out  of  it. 

.  What.  Geta? 


^MiO  155 

-  Dbmipho.  What'e  your  way  out? 

Gbta.  When  I  left  you  I  happened  to 
meet  Fhormio. 

Chrkubb.  Who's  Fhormio? 

Dbuipbo.  The  man  who  was  her  — 

Chreubs.  I  see, 

Geta,  I  thought  I  had  better  God  out 
his  real  feeling,  so  J  buttonholed  the  fd- 
low.  "Phormio,"  says  I,  "why  not  try  to 
settle  these  matters  that  are  between  us 
with  good  feeling,  rather  than  with  bad? 
My  master  is  a  gentleman,  and  he  is  shy 
of  lawsuits.  But,  by  the  powers,  all  his 
friends  have  just  been  advising  hun  with 
one  voice  to  turn  the  girt  out  of  doors!" 

Antifho  [aside].  Now  what  can  he  be 
starting  on,  or  how  will  he  end  this  blessed 
day? 

Gbta.  "But,  you'll  aay,  won't  the  law 
punish  hitn  if  he  turns  her  out?  He's 
looked  into  that  already,  and  I  tell  you, 
you'll  haye  to  sweat  for  it,  if  you  b^^  on 
a  man  like  him.  He's  that  etoquentl  But 
come,  Buppoee  be  is  beaten;  at  the  worst 
it's  only  money  that's  at  stake,  and  not 
his  life."  When  I  saw  that  the  fellow  was 
shaken  by  this  talk,  "Here  we  are  by  our- 
selves," says  I;  "come  now,  say  what  you 
want  in  cash  for  yourself  to  release  my 
master  from  this  lawsuit,  ebe  to  make 
herself  scarce,  and  you  to  give  no  trouble." 

Amtifbo  [atide].  Can  he  be  in  his  sober 
Henses? 

Gbta.  "The  fact  is,  I  am  certain  that  if 
you  name  anything  Uiat's  at  all  fair  au'I 
reasonable,  tliere  won't  be  three  words 
between  you.    He's  such  a  kind-hearted 

Dbuipho.  Who  gave  you  ordras  to  say 
that? 

Chbehbb.  No,  na;he  couldn't  have  bet- 
ter brought  about  just  what  we  want. 

Antipho  [aeide].  I'madeadmant 

Dbuipbo.  Go  on  and  finish, 

Geta.  At  firet  the  fellow  waa  wild. 

Chremeh,  Tell  us  what  he  asked. 

Gbta.  Oh,  a  great  deal  too  much. 

Chhbmbb,  How  muob?  Speak. 

Geta.  If  you'd  ofler  a  great  talent — 

Deuipho,  a  great  big  D,  you  meant 
What!  has  the  fellow  no  shame? 

Geta.  Just  what  I  said  to  him,   "Look 


156 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


here,"  said  I;  "suppoae  he  vrae  mBrryii^ 
off  ut  only  d&ughter  of  hia  own;  he  has  n't 
gained  much  by  not  having  one  himwlf  if 
eomebody  else's  tume  up  for  him  to  por- 
tbQ."  Well,  to  be  brirf,  and  omitting  all 
his  aiUy  talk,  this  was  finally  his  last  word: 
"From  the  very  first,"  says  he,  "I  have 
wanted  to  marry  my  old  friend's  daughter 
mysdf,  as  was  proper;  for  I  saw  how  dis- 
agreeable it  would  be  for  her,  a  poor  girl, 
married  only  to  b«  a  rich  man's  slave.  But, 
to  tell  you  the  honest  truth,  I  needed  a 
wife  who  should  bring  me  a  little  something 
to  pay  off  what  I  owe;  yee,  and  even  after 
all  that's  passed,  if  Demipho  is  willing  to 
give  as  much  as  I  am  getting  with  the  giri 
to  whom  I  am  engaged,  there's  nobody  in 
the  world  whom  I  ahoidd  like  better  for  a 

Antif&o  [aad*].  I  can't  make  out 
whether  he's  acting  from  stupidity  or  mis- 
chief, frotn  design  or  off  his  guard. 

Dbupbo.  But  suppose  be  owes  body 
andaoulT 

Gbta.  "My  farm,"  said  he,  "is  mort- 
gaged for  ten  ducats." 

Deuipho.  WeII,weU;lethimmarryher. 
I'll  pay  it. 

Oeta.  "Then  my  house  (or  another 
ten." 

Deuipho.  Whewl  it's  too  much! 

CnuawEs.  Don't  make  a  row.  You  can 
get  those  ten  of  me. 

Gbta.  "Then  there's  a  lady's  maid  to 
be  bought  for  my  wife;  then  I  need  a  little 
mc»e  funutun,  and  Bome  cosh  to  spend  on 
the  wedding.  Putdown  ten  more  for  this," 

DxHiPBO.  Then  let  him  bring  hundreds 
and  hundreds  of  lawsuits  against  me.  I 
won't  give  him  a  penny.  WhatI  that  dirty 
fellow  to  get  the  laugh  on  nfe  again? 

CHRSifKB.  Pr^  be  quiet.  I'll  pay  it 
myself.  All  you've  got  to  do  ia  to-  make 
your  son  marry  the  girl  we  wish. 

Antipho  [airide].  Oh,  dear  mel  you've 
been  the  death  of  me,  Geta,  with  your 
tricks. 

CHBXins.  She  is  turned  out  for  my  sake, 
and  so  it's  fair  for  me  to  be  the  loser. 

Gkta.  "Let  me  know  as  soon  as  you 
<«n,"  saya  he,  "if  th^  are  going  to  give 


her  to  me,  so  that  I  may  get  rid  of  this  other 
girl,  and  not  be  kept  in  doubt;  for  her 
people  have  agreed  to  pay  me  the  dowry 
down  at  once." 

Chheiob.  Let  him  have  the  money  at 
once,  break  the  engagement  with  thrai, 
and  marry  h&. 

DxuiPBo.  Yee,  and  mc^  hod  hick  go 
with  her. 

Chrxmxs.  Fortunately,  I  have  juat 
brou^t  the  money  with  me  now,  the  renta 
from  my  wife's  estatca  in  Lenmoe.  I'll 
take  it  out  of  that,  and  tell  my  wife  that 
you  needed  it. 

[BxeuiU  Dehipbo  and  C^ronna  to 
Crbuocs's.] 

Antipho  [coming  farwanJl.  Getal 

GvrA.  Halloal 

AuTiPffo.  What  have  you  doneT 

QmVA.  Cleaned  the  old  gentlemen  out  (rf 
their  cash. 

Antipho.  Is  that  all? 

GiTA.  By  the  powers,  I  don't  know;  it 
was  all  I  was  told  to  do. 

Aktipho.  What,  you  roguel  I  aak  you 
one  thing,  and  you  answer  another? 

Gbta.  Why,  what  are  you  talking  about? 

Antipho.  What  am  I  talking  about? 
Here  I  am  actually  reduced  to  the  rope,  and 
it's  aU  your  doing?  May  all  the  gods  and 
goddeesee  up  above  and  down  below  make 
the  worat  sort  of  an  example  of  you  I  Well, 
weU;  if  you  want  to  succeed  in  a  thing, 
leave  it  to  this  fellow,  who  can  bring  you 
out  of  smooth  sailing  straight  on  to  a  rockl 
Why,  what  could  have  been  worse  than  to 
lay  your  finger  on  this  sore  and  to  mention 
my  wife?  Here's  my  father  mode  to  hope 
that  he  can  cast  her  off.  Come  now,  what 
follows?  Suppose  Phormio  gets  the  dowry 
and  has  to  marry  her,  what  then? 

Gkta.  But  he  won't  marry  ha-. 

Antipho,  Oh,  no!  But  when  they  ask 
the  money  back,  th«t  of  oduim  he'U  prefer 
to  go  to  jail  for  my  sake. 

Gbta.  There  ia  n't  any  story  in  the 
world,  Anti^o,  that  can't  be  spdled  in  the 
telling.  Now  you're  leaving  out  all  the 
good  side  and  tdling  only  the  bad.  Now, 
then,  bear  the  other  side.  Suppose  now  be 
geta  the  money '.  he  will  have  to  marry  her, 
as  you  say;  I  admit  that;  —  but  tjiey  U 


pro  him  a  little  time  Anyhow  to  get  ready 
for  the  wedding,  to  himI  out  the  iuvita- 
tiona,  and  to  offer  sacrifice.  Meanwhile 
Fhsdiia'e  friends  will  give  him  the  money 
which  they  have  promiBed,  and  Fhonnio 
will  pay  back  the  dowry  out  of  that. 

Antifho.  (te  what  ground?  What  can 
beeay? 

GvTA.  What  a  questioni  "Since  my  en 
Basement  I've  had  so  many  bad  omeng. 
A  Btrange  black  dog  trotted  straight  into 
my  front  hall;  a  snake  fell  down  from  the 
roof  through  the  rain  hole;  a  hen  has 
crowed;  the  clairvoyant  forbade  it,  the 
•oothaayer  won't  let  me,  Beeidee,  to  take 
up  anything  new  before  the  winter  seta  in," 
—  that  'a  the  strongest  reason  in  the  world. 
That's  the  way  it  will  be. 

Antipho.  I  only  hope  it  may. 

(^TA.  May?  It  shall.  Look  to  me  [or 
that.  Thne's  your  father  coming  out.  Qo 
tdl  Ruediia  that  we've  got  the  mon^. 

[ExU  Antifho,  b.) 


Demipbo.  Do  be  quiet,  I  s^.  I'll  take 
MiB  he  doesn't  play  me  any  triok.  I'll 
nev«r  let  the  money  go  from  me  heltor- 
•kelter  without  having  witnesses.  I  'U  have 
it  understood  to  whom  I  am  giving  it  and 
»rtiy  1  give  it. 

Geta  [atide].  How  cautious  he  is,  where 
be  has  n't  any  call  to  be. 

OipmiraH.  That's  just  what  you  ought 
to  do;  but  make  haste,  while  1^'s  still  in 
ttie  mood  for'it.  If  that  other  girl  is  more 
pressing,  perhaps  hell  leave  us  in  the  lurch. 

Geta  [atide].  You've  hit  the  very  point. 

Demipbo  [toGDT  a].  Take  me  to  him,  then. 

GsTA.  I'm  ready. 

Chrxuxs.  When  you  have  attended  to 
that,  go  over  to  my  wife's  to  get  her  to  call 
on  the  girl  before  she  goes  away.  Let  her 
tell  the  girl,  to  prevent  her  from  being 
angry,  that  we  are  marrying  her  to  Ffaor- 
mio,  and  that  he  is  a  better  match  for  her, 
because  she  knows  him  better;  and  that  we 
have  done  our  duty,  too,  and  given  her  as 
lai^  a  dowry  as  he  asked  for. 

I>EUtPBo.  What  the  plague  does  that 
matter  to  you^ 


MIO  157 

Chbbheb.  a  good  deal,  Demipbo.  It's 
not  enough  for  you  to  do  your  duty  if  the 
world  doesn't  aiqirove  of  what  you've 
done.  I  want  this  to  take  [dace  of  her  own 
free  will,  so  that  she  shan't  be  saying  that 
we  drove  her  out. 

Deuipho.  Well,  I  can  bring  all  that 
about  myself. 

Chbbubs.  But  a  woman 'a  the  beet  hand 
to  deal  (rith  a  woman. 

DsMiPHO.  I'll  ask  hei,  then. 

[Exeunt  Deupho  and  Ovta,  B.J 

Chbxhes.  I  wonder  now  where  I  can 
find  those  women? 


SoPHRONA.  What  shall  I  do?  Where  am 
I  to  find  a  friend  in  my  distress?  Whom 
shall  I  consult?  When  get  help?  I'm 
afraid  my  mistreee  may  come  to  gnef  from 
following  my  advice;  the  young  man's 
father  takes  all  this  ta  hard,  I  hear. 

Chshueb  [amde].  Why,  who's  this  old 
woman  that's  come  out  of  my  brother's 
house  so  excited? 

SoPBRoNA.  It  was  our  poverty  tfart 
drove  me  to  it,  though  I  knew  sueh  a  mar- 
riage was  a  shaky  thing,  to  provide  that  at 
least  she  might  be  sure  of  a  living  in  the 

Cbbdmbb  [aside].  Upon  my  word,  unless 
my  mind's  going  or  my  eyesight 's  bad, 
that's  my  own  dau|^ter's  nurse  that  I  see 
there. 

80PHBONA.  And  we  can't  track  out  — 

Cbrxmes  [aside].  What  shall  I  do7 

SoPHOOMA.  Her  father  — 

Cbbbues  [aside].  Shall  I  go  and  speak 
to  her,  or  stay  where  I  am  until  1  know 
better  what  she  is  saying? 

SoPHBOKA.  If  only  I  oould  find  him, 
there's  nothing  I  should  be  afraid  of. 

Chsemss.  It's  the  very  woman.  Ill 
•peak  to  her. 

SoPHAONA.  Who's  this  talking  here? 

Chrkuks.  Sophrona! 

SoPHSONA.  Calling  me  by  name,  too. 

Chbzmes.  Look  at  me. 

SoPHBONA.  Oh,  good  gradousl  can  this 
beStilpo? 

CHKEifEa.  No  I 


GooqIc 


'S8 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


SoraBONA.  What?  No? 

Chrbhbs.  Come  over  here  &  little,  away 
from  that  door,  Sophrona,  {Jeaae,  and  don't 
call  me  by  that  name  Euiy  iDore> 

SoFBKOKA.  Why  not?  for  mercy's  sake, 
are  n't  you  the  man  you  always  said  you 

Chbeues.  HushI 

SoFHBOHA.  What  IB  there  in  this  door 
that  you  're  afraid  of? 

CBBztaEs.  I've  got  a  sava^  wife  cagad 
up  in  there.  As  for  that  name,  it  waa  a 
wrong  one  which  I  took  in  those  days,  so 
that  you  should  n't  let  the  truth  leak  out 
without  meaning  to,  and  my  wife  find  it 
out  some  way<  or  other. 

SoPHRONA.  Law  me,  that's  just  why  we 
poor  women  have  never  been  able  to  find 


I.  But  teU  me,  what  have  you 
to  do  with  the  peo|de  whose  house  you  just 
came  out  from?  Where  are  the  ladies? 

SoPHROKA.  Ob,  dear  mel 

Chbxuks.  Hey?  What's  the  matter? 
Are  n't  they  alive? 

SoPHRONA.  Your  daughter  is;  but  ber 
mother,  poor  thing,  died  of  grief. 

Chrehxs.  Too  bad! 

SoPHBONA.  And  so  I,  being  only  a  lone 
lorn  old  woman,  whom  nobody  knew,  did 
my  beet  and  got  the  girl  married  to  the 
young  gentleman  who  lives  in  here. 

Chrbubs.  To  Antipho? 

SopBBONA.  Certainly;  the  very  man. 

CHRGifBe.  What!  has  he  got  two  wives? 

BoPHRONA.  For  yaty'B  sake,  no;  she's 
the  only  one  he  has. 

Chrsueb.  What  about  the  other  who  is 
called  his  relative? 

SoPHRONA.  Why,  it's  she,  of  course. 

Ckrbmes.  What's  that  you  say? 

SoFHRONA.  It  was  a  put-up  job,  —  the 
only  way  by  which  her  lover  might  get  her 
without  a  dowry. 

Cbreueb.  Heaven  help  uat  how  often 
things  do  turn  out  by  haphazard  which 
you'dscarcely  dare  to  wish  for!  Here  I've 
come  home  and  found  my  daughter  married 
to  the  very  man  I  wanted  and  just  as  I 
wanted  it!  The  very  thing  that  we  were 
both  trying  with  oil  our  might  to  bring 
about,  he  has  taken  the  greatest  trouble  to 


do  all  by  himself  ffiUiout  any  trouble  of 

SoPHROKA.  Well  now,  just  see  what's  to 
be  done  next.  The  young  man's  father  has 
arrived,  and  they  say  that  he  is  bitteriy 
opposed  to  it. 

Chrbmeb.  There's  no  danger  at  all. 
But,  by  heaven  and  earth,  don't  let  any- 
t>ody  find  out  that  she  is  my  daugbtw. 

SoPHBONA.  Nobody  shall  from  me. 

Chrembs.  Follow  me;  you  shall  hearts 
rest  inside.  [Exmail  to  DniiPHo's.] 


ACT  V 
[Enler  Dbupbo  and  Geta,  r.] 

DxuiPHO.  It's  all  our  own  fault  that 
peoi^e  find  it  pays  them  to  be  rogues;  it's 
because  we  are  too  amdous  to  be  i»lled 
kind  and  generous.  "Enough  is  as  good  as 
a  feast,"  says  the  proverb.  Wasn't  it 
enough  to  be  injured  by  him  that  we  must 
actually  go  and  throw  him  a  sop  in  the 
way  of  money,  to  give  him  aomething  to 
live  on  until  he  can  work  up  some  other 
outrage? 

Gkta.  Perfectly  true. 

Deuipho.  Nowadays  people  who  makb 
right  wrong  get  rewarded. 

Gbta.  True  enough. 

Deuipho.  Bo  it  proves  that  we've  made  . 
a  stupid  mess  of  it  with  himt 

GsTA.  Well,  if  only  we  get  out  of  it  by 
his  marrying  her  — 

Deidpho.  Why,  is  there  any  question 
about  that? 

Geta,  I  swear,  I  don't  know  but  that  he 
may  change  his  mind,  considering  the  kind 
of  fellow  he  is. 

Deuipho.  Bless  me!  What!  Changs 
his  mind? 

Geta.  I  don't  know  about  it.  I'm  only 
saying  "supposii^." 

Demipho.  That'swhatl'lldo,  irtiatmy 
brother  advised:  I'll  bring  his  wife  hero  to 
talk  with  that  girl.  Geta,  you  go  ahead 
and  tell  her  that  Nausistrata  is  coming. 

[Exit  to  CHREUEa'S.] 

Geta.  Phedria's  money  is  found  and 
^'s  quiet  with  the  lawsuit.  We've  looked 
out  that  the  bride  shan't  be  sent  off  for  titB 


tveoent.  Now,  what  next?  What's  to  be 
doneT  Stiddng  in  the  ume  rut  atill?  Rob- 
bing Peter  to  pay  Paul,  Geta?  You've  put 
off  the  evU  day  for  now,  but  there's  a  crop 
of  whippings  growing  if  you  don't  look  out 
ahead.  I'll  go  home  and  tell  Phanium  that 
■he  mustn't  be  afraid  of  Phormio  or  of 
Nautistrata's  talk.       [ExU  to  Dbhipho's.I 


DuapBO.  Come,tb«n,NauBistratB,with 
your  usual  good  nature  miake  her  feel  kindly 
towards  us,  so  that  she  may  do  of  her  own 
accord  what  must  be  done. 

NiOBWTKATA.  I  will. 

DnuPBO,  You '11  be  aiding  me  now  with 
youi  good  offioes,  just  as  you  helped  me  a 
while  ago  with  your  purse. 

Naubtbtrata.  You're  quite  welcome; 
and  upon  my  word,  it 's  my  husband's  fault 
that  I  can  do  lees  than  I  migbt  well  do. 

Demipho.  Why,  how  is  that? 

Nausibtrata.  Because  he  takes  wretched 
care  of  my  father's  honest  savings;  he  used 
reguhiriy  to  get  two  silver  talents  from 
tiiaae  estates.  How  much  better  one  man 
is  than  another! 

DiiUFHO.  Two  talents,  do  you  ssy7 

NAnsiBTOATA.  Yes,  two  talents,  and 
whcm  prices  were  much  lower  than  now. 

Dewipbo.  Whew  I 

NAnsiCTRATA.  Whatdoyouthinkofthat7 

DzioPHO.  Oh,  of  oourse  — 

Nacsistbata.  I  wish  I'd  been  bom  a 
man.  I'd  soon  show  you  — 

DxiupHO.  Oh  yes,  I  'm  sure. 

Nadbwtrata.  The  way  ■=- 

DimPHO.  Pray,  do  save  yourself  up  for 
her,  lest  she  may  wear  you  out;  she's 
young,  you  know. 

Hausutrata.  Ill  do  as  you  tell  me. 
But  there  'a  my  husband  coming  out  of  your 
bouse. 

[Enier  Chrxwks.] 

Chbbiou.  Hal  Demipho,  has  the  money 
been  paid  him  yet? 

Dkmitho.  I  saw  to  it  at  once. 

Chkbubs.  I  wish  it  had  n't  been. 
lAtid^.]  Oh,  deul  there's  my  wife.  I  bad 
ahnoit  said  too  much. 


MIO  159 

DnoFBO.  What  makes  you  wish  it 
had  n't,  Chremes? 

CHREUBe,  No  matter  now. 

Dbuipbo.  What  have  you  been  about? 
Have  you  told  her  why  we  are  bringing 
Nauaistrata? 

C&BBMBe.  I've  attended  to  it. 

Dkmipho.  Well,  what  does  she  say? 

CHRBun.  She's  not  to  be  taken  away. 

DsMtPBO.  Why  is  n't  she? 

Chrbues.    Because  they  're    heart   to 

Deuipho.  What's  that  to  us? 

Cbsxios.  a  good  deal.  Besides  I  have 
found  out  that  she  really  is  related  to  us. 

DxMiPBO.  What?  You're  raving. 

Cbbxmmo.  You'll  find  it's  so.  I'm  not 
speaking  at  random.   I  've  recollected. 

Dxuipso.  Are  you  in  your  right  mind? 

Nacsistrata.  Oh,  for  mercy's  sakel 
take  care  not  to  hurt  a  relative. 

Demipbo.  She  is  n't  one. 

CoKiatEa.  Don't  say  that.  Her  father 
went  by  anotho^  name;  that's  how  you 
made  a  mistake. 

Dhuifho.  Did  n't  she  know  who  her 
father  was? 

Chremss.  Oh,  yes. 

DsMiPRO.  What  made  her  call  him 
something  dse? 

Chrxucb.  Won't  you  ever  stop  insieting, 
and  take  in  what  I  mean? 

Demipho.  But  if  you  don't  tdl  me  any- 

CBBUtES  [ande  to   DxiUFHa].    You'll 

Nadbibtrata.  I  wondei  what  it  all  is. 

DsuiPBo.  By  heaven,  I'm  sure  I  don't 
know. 

Chrrhxs.  Do  you  want  to  know  the 
truth?  Then,  so  help  me  God,  there  is  n't 
a  man  in  the  world  nearer  of  kin  to  her 
than  you  and  I. 

DiuapHO.  Great  heavens!  Let's  go 
straight  to  her.  If  it's  so,  I  want  us  all  to 
know  it  alike  —  or  if  it  is  n't  so. 

CsRiMES.  Oh,  dear! 

Dbmipbo.  What's  the  matter? 

Chrrubs.  To  think  of  your  trusting  me 
•o  litUel 

Demipbo.  You  want  me  to  believe  it, 
ttienT  You  want  me  to  oonsider  it  settiedT 


i6o 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


VeiT  w«U,  have  it  ao.  But  then,  whkt'a  to 
be  done  with  the  other  pil,  our  friend'i 
daughter? 

Chrkioib.  Oh,  that's  oil  right. 

DxmPHO.  Shall  we  drop  bar,  then? 

Chbeubb.  Why  not? 

DxioFHO.  And  this  one  is  to  stay? 

Cbbkmss.  Yes. 

DsupHo.  Youcango,then,NauBiatrata. 

NATTBiBTaATA.  Good  gTacioua,  I  think  it 
IB  better  for  all  concerned  that  she  should 
itay,  than  to  have  it  as  you  first  intended; 
for  she  seemed  to  me  a  wy  lady-like  thing 
when  I  saw  bxr. 

[Exit  Nausibtbata  to  Chbeueb's.] 

Dewipho.  Now,  what  is  the  meaning  of 
this  buaiueea? 

CHaEHBs.  Has  she  shut  the  door  yet7 

Dbiupho.  Yes. 

CHEDima.  O  Lord!  heaven  does  smile 
on  us!  I've  found  my  daughter  mairied 
to  your  son! 

Deuipeo.  Bless  mel  how  oan  that  be? 

Chbbueb.  This  plaoe  is  n't  safe  eDot^ 
to  tell  the  story  in. 

DiiMiPHO.  Well,  come  indoors,  th«n. 

Chbemeb.  Look  here,  I  don't  want  our 
sons  to  get  an  inkling  of  this. 

[Exeunt  to  Dzmipho'b.1 

[Enter  Antipho,  r.1 

Antipho.  However  things  are  going 
with  me,  I'm  glad  that  my  cousin  has  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  what  he  wants.  What  a 
nice  thing  it  is  to  oonceive  sueh  desires  that 
you  can  satisfy  them  by  simple  means 
when  things  go  wrong!  No  sooner  has  he 
got  themoney  than  he's  freed  from  anxiety; 
but  here  I  am,  unable  to  get  out  of  thme 
tioublee  by  any  qieans  whatever,  but  what 
I'm  in  terror  if  it's  kept  quiet,  and  dis- 
graced if  it  oomCs  out.  I  should  n't  be  com- 
ing home  now  if  there  was  n't  some  hope 
of  my  having  her.  But  where  can  I  find 
GeU? 

[Enter  Pborwio,  r.1 

Fhosido.  I've  received  the  money  and 
handed  it  over  to  the  trader.  I've  taken 
away  the  girl  and  arranged  that  Fhsdria 
may  have  her  for  his  own;  she's  been  eman- 
cipated. Now  there's  only  one  thing  left 


over  for  me  to  see  to,  and  that  is  to  get 
time  from  the  old  gentlemen  to  make  a 
Bpree  of  it.  I  propose  to  take  some  days  off. 

Amtipbo.  Why,  there's  Phormio.  Sayl 

PnoRiao.  Say  what? 

Amtifbo.  What's  Phffidrta  going  to  do 
now?  How  does  he  propose  to  spend  his 
honeymoon? 

Fhobioo.  He'sgoing  to  takehistumat 
playing  your  part. 

Antxpho.  What  part  is  that? 

Phokuio.  To  run  away  from  his  father. 
And  he  requests  you  in  return  to  pbqr  hia 
and  plead  his  cause  for  him.  The  fact  is,  be 
is  going  to  my  house  for  a  little  apree.  I 
shall  tell  the  old  gcotiemen  that  I  am 
going  down  to  Sunium  to  the  fair,  to  bujr 
that  lady's  maid  that  Geta  talked  about; 
then  they  won't  think  I'm  squandering 
their  money  when  they  don't  see  me  hera. 
But  there's  a  noise  at  your  front  dow. 

Antipho,  See  who  is  coming  out. 

Phoruio.  It's  Geta. 

[Enter  Geta  from  Dbuipho's.) 

Geta.  Oh  Fortunel  oh  lAioky  Fortunet 
With  what  blessings  and  how  suddenly 
have  you  loaded  my  master  Antipho  wiUt 
your  tdndnees  to-day  I 

ANTiFBo[aMde}.  Why,  what  can  he  mean? 

Oeta.  And  unloaded  all  us  friends  of  bis 
of  fearl  But  here  I  am  dilly-dallying  in- 
stead of  loading  up  my  shoulder  with  my 
cloak  and  hunying  off  to  find  him,  so  thaX 
he  may  learn  all  that's  happened. 

Antipbo  [aside  to  Pboruio).  You  can't 
make  out  what  he  is  talking  about,  con  you? 

Phormio  ItMUJe).  Nor  you  either? 

Antipho  [aaide].  Not  a  bit. 

Pboruio  losidei-  No  more  can  I. 

Geta.  I'll  start  and  go  to  the  slav^ 
trader's;  they're  there  now. 

Aittipso.  Halloa,  Geta! 

Geta.  There  you  arel  Always  the  wayl 
Called  back  just  when  you  have  started 

running! 

Antipho.  Getal 

Geta.  Keeping  it  up,  begadi  Well,  you 
shan't  ever  beat  me  witji  your  insolence. 
Antipho.  Wait,  won't  you? 
Gbta.  Oh,  go  get  yourself  thrashedl 
Antipho.  'Huit'B  just  what  wiQ  h^ipon 


to  you  ia  a  minute  if  you  don't  atop,  you 

QvTA.  He  must  know  me  pretty  w«ll  — 
to  threat«ii  mo  with  » thrashing.  Why,isit 
Ute  man  I  am  after  or  not?  It  is  the  very 
man.  Up  to  him  on  the  spot. 

AMTirao.  What's  the  matter? 

Gbta.  Oh  you  meet  bleaseci  man  in  all 
the  woildl  I  tell  you,  Antipho,  there's  no 
deoyiDg  tliat  you're  the  only  man  whom 
hearen  loves. 

Amtifho.  I  should  like  to  be;  but  I 
should  like  to  have  you  tell  me  why  I'm 
to  tbink  so. 

GcTA.  Is  it  cQough  if  I  set  you  all  drip- 
l»ng  down  with  joy? 

Amtifho.  You'll  be  the  death  of  me. 

Phobmio.  Awt^  with  your  pranisee 
and  out  with  your  news! 

QSTA.  Whatl  you  here  too;  Phoimio? 

PnoHino.  Yee,  but  why  don't  you  go 
■baadr 

Gbta.  Well,  then,  listen.  After  we  had 
paid  you  the  money  on  'Change,  we  started 
stiaight  home;  then  master  sent  me  over 
to  see  your  wife. 

Amtipho.  What  for? 

GsTA.  I'll  leave  that  out;  it's  notlung 
to  do  with  the  esse,  Antipbo.  Just  as  I  was 
entering  my  lady's  chamber,  Mida,  her 
■lave  boy,  nut  up  to  me,  caught  me  by  the 
doak  b^tiod  and  pulled  me  back.  I  looked 
round  and  asked  Um  what  he  was  stopping 
me  for.  He  said  that  there  was  no  admis- 
sion to  his  mistress.  "Sophrona  has  just 
brou^t  in  the  old  man's  brother  Chrones 
and  he's  in  there  now  with  the  ladies," 
says  he.  When  I  heard  that,  I  went  up 
softly  on  tiptoe,  stood  still,  hdd  my  breath 
and  put  my  ear  against  the  door;  and  I 
began  to  listen,  trying  to  catch  their  talk 
io  fashion. 

Phobuio.  Bravo,  Getal 

GiTA.  Whereupon  I  heard  a  moat  beau* 
tiful  piece  of  business;  so  much  so  that  by 
fsneky,  I  neariy  shouted  for  joy. 

AmrpHo.  What  was  it? 

Gbta.  Wen,  what  do  you  think? 

Antipbo.  I  don't  know. 

Qeta.  But  it'B  most  marvelousi  Your 
uncle  has  proved  to  be  your  wife  Fhani- 


LMIO  i6i 

Antipho.  What's  that  you  ujl 

Gbta.  Ha  lived  with  her  mothn  at 
Tiwnnoa  unhtJmownst. 

PaOHMia.  You're  dreaming!  As  if  tU 
giri  would  n't  know  her  own  fatho"! 

Gxta.  Oh  well,  depend  upon  it,  Photmio, 
there's  some  reason  for  that;  but  do  you 
think  that  I,  outside  of  the  door,  oould 
understand  everything  that  went  on  be- 
tween them  inside? 

Antipho.  Yes,  and  I  have  had  an  ink- 
ting  of  QiiB  story,  too. 

Gbta.  Yes,  and  111  give  you  something 
to  make  you  believe  still  more.  After  a 
while  your  uncle  came  out  here,  and  soon 
after  that  he  went  in  again  with  your 
father.  They  both  said  that  you  ware 
allowed  to  keep  her.  Finally  I  was  sent  to 
look  you  up  and  bring  you  home. 

Antipbo.  Why  don't  you  drag  me  off 
then?  What  are  you  waiting  for? 

Gbta.  Ill  do  it  mighty  quick. 

Antipho.  Good-bye,  my  dear  Phonnio. 

pHOBiao.  Good-bye,  Antipbo.  God 
bleas  me,  this  is  a  gpqd  thing.  I  'm  glad 
of  it 

[Exeunt  Antipbo  and  Qbta  la 
Deuifbo'sJ 

Pborwo.  What  an  une^tected  pieoe  of 
good  luck  for  these  boysl  And  now  I  have 
a  fine  chance  to  take  the  old  gentlemen  at, 
and  to  rid  Phwiria  of  his  worry  about  the 
money,  so  that  he  shan't  have  to  beg  it  of 
any  of  his  fellows.  For  this  very  same 
money,  given  already,  shtdl  be  bis  outright 
in  spite  of  all  their  opposition.  The  facta 
have  shown  me  how  to  force  them  to  it. 
I  must  now  put  on  a  new  air  and  change 
my  exiBession.  I'll  withdraw  into  thia 
alley  close  by  and  show  myself  to  theoa 
from  these  when  tiiey  come  out.  I  shan't 
go  to  the  fair  as  I  pretended. 

[TTttAcfriiitM,  bJ 
[£nler  Dbiopho  and  CHBBiixa  from 
Dbiopbo's.) 

Dbiopho.  1  am  gtateful  ■■'"i  iJunkful 
to  tlie  gods,  brother,  and  they  deserve  it, 
amce  all  this  has  turned  out  so  wdl  for  ui 
to-day. 

Chbbiibb.  Isn't  she  a  thoron^  lady 
thou^  as  I  told  youT 


l63 


CHIEF    EUROPEAN    DRAMATISTS 


Dkhipho.  Throu^  &nd  through.  We 
must  now  find  Fhoimio  as  soon  aa  possible 
snd  get  OUT  thirtj  duoats  away  from  him 
before  he  ma]«e  ducks  and  dtakes  of  them. 

Phobido  [coming  fonoardi.  111  just  see 
whether  Demi^dio  is  at  home,  30  as  to  — 

DmopHO.  Afa,  we  were  just  eoing  to 
tee  you,  Phonnio. 

Fhobmio.  Oq  t^  same  old  errand,  per- 
haps? 

DxiOPBO.  Yes,  to  be  sure. 

pBOBUio.  I  auppoeed  so.  But  what 
made  you  think  it  neceeeary  to  comeT 

DBHn>HO.  Oh  pooh  I 

Phosmio.  Did  jrou  think  I  would  n't  do 
what  I  had  once  undertaken?  See  here, 
however  poor  I  may  be,  there's  one  thing 
I've  always  hetai  particular  about,  and 
that  is  to  keep  my  word.  And  so  I  come  to 
tell  you  this,  Demipho,  that  I  'm  all  ready. 
Give  me  my  wife  whenever  you  wish.  I 
have  put  off  sU  my  other  businees,  and 
IH>operiy  enough,  too,  when  I  saw  how  very 
bent  you  were  upon  it. 

DEiaPHO.  But  Quomes  here  has  per- 
suaded me  not  to  give  her  to  you.  "  Why, 
what  will  Mrs.  Orundy  say,"  says  he,  "if 
you  do  that?  Awhile  ago,  when  you  oould 
have  done  it  decently,  you  did  n't  release 
iter.  To  turn  her  out  now,  divoreed,  is 
outrage."  In  fact,  his  argumenta  were 
pretty  much  the  same  that  you  uiged 
against  me  yourself  awhile  ago  face 
face. 

Phobmio.  You  're  mninng  game  of  me 
in  a  pretty  high  and  mighty  way. 

DamFBO.  How  'a  that? 

Phorhio.  How  'a  that?  Why,  because  I 
thaia  't  be  able  to  marry  that  other  girl 
now.  For  how  could  I  have  the  face  to  go 
back  to  the  woman  after  slighting  her? 

Chbbubs.    (aiids   (o    Dhmifbo.)     "  B 
sides  I  see  that  Antipho  does  n't  wont  to 
let  her  leave  him  "  —  say  that. 

DuMiPHO.  Beeidee  I  see  that  my  1 
does  n't  at  all  want  to  let  the  woman 
leave  him.  So  come  over  to  the  bonk, 
please,  and  have  that  money  transTeiTed 
to  me  again,  Phormio. 

PHoamo.  Whatl  after  I  have  already 
paid  it  round  acaong  my  different  credi- 
toar 


Dehitho.  What's  to  be  done  theo? 

Pbormio.  it  you  will  give  me  the  lady 
as  you  promised,  I  will  marry  her;  but  if 
you  really  want  her  to  stay  with  you, 
Demipho,  why  the  dowry  must  stay  with 
me.  It  is  n't  fair  that  I  should  be  the  loaer 
through  the  means  of  you  two;  for  it  waa 
out  of  regard  for  you  titat  I  broke  off  with 
the  other  lady  wita  was  to  bring  me  just  aa 
large  a  dowry. 

Dewpho.  You  be  hanged  with  your 
high-toned  talk,  you  vagabondl  Do  you 
suppose  that  we  don't  know  you  and  your 
doings? 

Fborhio   You're  mulring  me  angiy. 

DxMtPHO;  So  you'd  marry  her,  would 
you.  if  wB  gave  her  to  you? 

I^oiucio.  Try  it  on. 

I>EiapHO.  Yes,  eo  that  my  mat  mi^t 
live  with  her  in  your  house;  that  was  your 

Phormio.  What  ate  you  talking  about, 
I«ay? 

DsuiPBO.  Come,  hand  over  my  money. 

pHtWMio.  Not  much;  you  hand  over 
my  wife. 

DunPHO.  Walk  Btrai^t  into  court  then. 

Fbobwo.  Look  here,  if  you  are  goinx  to 
keep  on  being  troubleeome  — 

Deidpho.  What  are  you  going  to  do 
about  it? 

Pbobmio.  I?  Poliaps  ygu  two  think 
that  I'm  the  protector  of  undowried 
women  only;  but  I'm  in  the  habit  of  pro- 
tecting dowried  ones  too. 

Chbxkbs.  What's  that  to  us? 
.    Phoruio.  Oh,  nothing.    But  I  knew  i> 
woman  round  here  whose  husband  mar- 

Chbbuks.  Ha! 

Dewpbo.  What's  the  matter? 

Phobmio.  Another  wife  at  Lenmos  — 

Chbsubs.  I'm  done  fori 

Phobido.  By  whom  he  had  a  daughter; 
is  briugiiig  her  up,  too,  on  the  sly. 

Chbeiob.  I'm  as  good  as  buried. 

Phobmio.  I'm  just  going  to  tell  her  all 
about  it. 

Chbhuxb.  For  heaven's  sake,  don't) 

Phobmio.  Oh,  you  were  the  man,  wn« 
you? 

DiuiPHo.  Whatgamebe'stnaldagofual 


Chrxmss.  We  let  you  off  scot  free. 

Pboruio.  Oh,  bosh] 

Chsbmeb.  Well,  what  would  you  have? 
We  let  you  off  with  the  auxiey  that  you've 
got. 

Pbobwo.  Oh,  yesi  Why  the  deuce  ore 
you  Tiak'ng  game  ol  me  nith  your  ailly, 
rhjliiiiih  shilly-ahallyiDg?  "I  won't,  I  will, 
and  I  will,  I  won't,"  —  one  after  the  other; 
"take  it  —  give  it  back" — aay  a  thing 
and  unsay  it;  make  a  bargain  one  minute 
and  break  it  off  the  next. 

Chrknks  [aside].  How  or  where  did  he 
«ver  come  to  find  this  out? 

E)eiiipho  [aiide].  I  don't  know;  but  I'm 
'SUie  I  did  n't  tell  anybody. 

CHBXHKa  [oMide.]  A  p^ect  miracle,  as 
I  hope  to  live! 

PnOBiaa  (oaufe].  I've  put  a  spoke  in  his 
wheel. 

DiuiPHO.  See  here,  is  this  laacal  going 
to  rob  us  of  all  this  money  and  laugh  in  our 
TOTy  facesT  By  heaven,  I'll  die  the  death 
finti  [Atide  to  Chbeuhb.]  Make  ready  to 
be  bold  and  have  your  wit«  about  you. 
You  see  your  little  peccadillo  has  got  out 
and  you  can't  hide  it  from  your  wife  any 
longer.  The  earnest  way  to  get  it  forgiven, 
Chremes,  is  for  us  to  tell  her  ourselves 
what  she  is  sure  to  hear  from  others.  And 
tb«k  we  shaU  be  able  to  revenge  ourselves 
at  our  ease  upon  this  dirty  fellow. 

Phorhio  [amde].  My  goodneasl   I'm  i 
a  fix  if  I  don't  look  out  for  myself.  Tbey 
are  «n»irinfl  at  me  with  the  air  of  prite- 
fighters. 

Cbbxmks  [atide].  But  I'm  afraid  we 
can't  make  her  forgive  me. 

DmiFHO  [tuide].  Courage,  ChremesI 
1 11  bring  you  back  into  her  good  graces, 
on  tiie  strength  of  this,  that  the  woman  by 
whom  you  had  this  child  is  out  of  the  way. 

PHoaiao.  That's  the  way  you  deal  with 
me,  is  it?  A  cunning  attack  enoughl  It's 
not  for  his  good  that  you  've  stirred  me  up, 
Z>emipbo,  by  heaven!  Ahal  when  you've 
been  carrying  on  abroad  after  your  own 
sweet  will  without  any  segard  for  yonder 
aoble  lady,  but  on  the  contrary,  insulting 
her  in  this  strange  fsshion,  would  you  come 
now  with  i^ayeiB  to  wash  away  your  sin? 
Why,  III  set  her  so  afin  agaiuat  you  with 


.MIO  163 

this  story  that  you  shan't  put  her  out 
though  you  actually  dissolve  away  in 
tears. 

DnoPHo.  Was  ever  a  man  so  impudent! 
Why  does  n't  the  government  transport 
the  knave  t«  some  desert  island? 

Chbxubb.  I'm  reduced  to  sudi  a  state 
that  I  don't  know  what  to  do  with  him. 

DxiuPHO.  I  do,  then.  Let's  go  to  law. 

Phorwo.  To  law?  To  htr,  if  you  don't 

Chbbkbb.  Follow  him  up;  hold  on  to 
him  while  I  call  the  slaved  out. 

DsiaPBO.  I  can't  all  by  myself;  run  and 
help  me. 

Phobido.  Here's  one  .suit  for  assault 
and  batt«ry  against  you  I 

OuMiFHO.  Go  to  law,  thent 

Pbormio.  And  another  for  you,  Chremes. 

Chrxhbb.  Hurry  bim  off  I 

PaoaMio.  That'e  it,  hey?  Why,  then,  I , 
must  use  my  voice  — Nausistrata!  Come 
out  here  I 

Chbhubb.  Stop  his  dirty  moutli;  just 
see  how  strong  he  is. 

PaoRMio.  I  say,  Nauaistratal 

Dkupho.  Hold  your  tongue,  won't  you? 

Pbobmio.  Hold  my  tongue? 

Dbuii^o.  If  he  does  n't  oome  along,  hit 
him  in  the  belly  with  your  fists. 

Phobuio.  Gouge  out  an  eye  if  you  like; 
but  I  shall  Boon  have  a  fine  revenge. 


[ErUtr  NAOSISTRAT4 /rom  Chbsios'b.] 

Nausibtkata.  Who's  calling  me?  Why, 
husband,  what's  this  disturbance  about, 
for  mercy's  sake? 

Phormio.  Halloal  what's  struck  you  so 
dumb  now? 

Nausistrata.  WhoistbisfellowT  Won't 
you  answer  me? 

Phobwo.  He  answer  you!  When  by 
heaven  he  does  n't  know  who  he  is  himself  1 

Chrxmeb.  Don't  believe  anything  the 
fellow  says. 

Phorhio.  Go  and  touch  him;  if  he's  not 
cold  all  over,  you  may  murder  me. 

Cbreubs.  It's  nothing  at  all. 

Nadsibtrata.  Well,  then,  what  is  he 
talking  about? 

Phoiuiio.  You  shall  bo(hi  find  out  —  just 
li>l«D. 


■64 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


I.  Are  you  gomg  to  believe  him? 

Naubibtbata.  For  mercy'B  sake,  what 
should  I  believe  irbea  he  has  n't  said  any- 
thingT 

Phobioo.  The  poor  metoh  ia  raving 
mad  with  fear. 

Nausibtbata.  Upon  my  word,  it's  oot 
for  nothing  that  you  are  so  frightened. 

Chbemsb.  I  frightened? 

PHOKiao.  All  right,  then.  Aa  you're 
afmid  of  nothing,  and  as  what  1  say  is 
nothing,  just  tell  her  younelf . 

DuopHO.  What!  tell  it  for  you,  you 
acoundielf 

PnoBino.  Oho  youl  you've  done  findy 
for  your  brother,  of  oourael 

Nacsistrata.  Won't  you  tell  me,  hus- 
batidf 

Chbkmbs.  But  — 

NACBieraATA.  But  what? 

Chbuibs.  There 'b  no  need  of  telling. 

Phobioo.  Not  for  you  of  oourae,  but 
she  ought  to  know.  In  Lemnos  — 

NAueiaTBATA.  Ah!  what's  that  yousay? 

Chbxhes.  Won't  you  hold  your  tougueT 

Phobhio.  Behind  your  back  — 

Chbzmiib.  Oh  dear  me! 

PnoBino.  He  married  another  wife. 

Nausutbata.  God  fotbid,  my  dear  nun! 

Phobuo.  It 'a  true. 

Nadsuttbata  Alas!  I'm  undone! 

Phobmio.  Andbyherfae'salreodyhadone 
daughter,  too,  without  your  dreaming  of  it. 

Chrbicbs.  What  shall  I  do? 

NAnaiBTBATA.  Oh.  heavens!  what  a 
wicked,  shameful  thing  1 

Phormio.  Do?  You're  done  fori 

Naubibtbata.  Woe  there  ever  anything 
more  infamous!  When  it  comes  to  their 
trives,  they're  old  enough,  forsooth  I 
Demipfao,  I  ap{>eal  to  you,  for  I  am  aick  of 
talking  to  thia  creature.  This  was  the  mean- 
ing, was  it,  of  all  those  oonstant  tripe  and 
Iwig  stays  at  Lemnoa?  This  wss  the  low 
prioes  that  reduced  oui  rents  there? 

DxMiPEO.  For  my  part,  Nausistrata,  I 
don't  say  that  he  doee  n't  deserve  to  be 
blamed  in  this  matter,  but  it  is  a  fault  that 
may  be  pardoned. 

Phobhio.  Mightaswell  talk  totbedead. 

DBiQFBO.  The  fact  ie,  it  was  not  that 
he  did  n't  care  for  you  or  that  be  disliked 


you.  His  affair  witb  this  woman  waa  about 
'  fifteen  years  ago,  once  wbea  he  had  drunk 
too  much,  pwH  that  was  how  thif  gj^  ^^iiyt 
to  be  bom;  he  never  went  near  the  woman 
afterwards;  she  is  dead  and  out  of  tlie  wi^; 
that  was  the  only  stumbling-block  l^t. 
And  so  I  beg  of  you  that  you  will  bear  tlus 
patiently,  as  you  act  in  other  things. 

Nausibtbata.  Patiently  —  why  should 
I?  I  certainly  do  want  to  have  an  end  of  it 
all,  I'm  so  wretched;  but  how  could  I 
expect  that?  Can  I  count  on  his  sinning  lees 
as  he  grows  older?  He  was  an  old  man  even 
then,  if  it's  old  age  that  makee  men  virtu- 
ous. Do  my  own  looks  or  my  years  make 
me  more  attractive  now  than  I  was  Umi, 
Demipho?  Come,  what  can  you  offer  to 
make  me  expect  or  trust  that  this  won't 
happen  sgain? 

Pbobuio.  All  who  desire  to  attend  the 
funeral  of  Chremee,oow'B  the  time!  That's 
the  way  I II  give  it  to  'emi  Now  come  <xi, 
whoever  wants  to  stir  up  Phormio!  I'll 
ruin  him  aa  completely  as  I  have  Cluemes. 

Demipho.  Dtm't  be  so  angry;  calm  your- 
self,  Nausistrata. 

Phobkio.  Yes,  yee,  let  him  back  into  your 
good  graces;  he  's  been  punished  enou^ 
to  satisfy  me.  And  she's  got  something  to 
din  into  bis  eats  just  as  long  as  be  lives. 

Naubistbata.  I  deaored  it,  then,  I  supi 
poee.  Why  ^ould  I,  at  this  lata  day, 
Demipho,  reheaise  what  a  wife  I've  beoi 
to  him? 

Dkupho.  I  know  it  all  aa  well  bb  jtou  do. 

Naubibtbata.  Do  you  think  I've  de- 
served this  troatment? 

Dkiupho.  Never  in  the  worid.  But 
what's  done  cannot  be  undone  by  re- 
proaches. Do  forgive  him.  He  bep  par- 
don, —  he  owns  up,  —  he  oCen  to  atone. 
What  more  can  you  want? 

Phobwo  [andet.  Beolly  aow,bcfon  ihe 
pardons  bim  I  must  look  out  for  mysBlf 
and  Phedria.  [AUnid.]  See  here,  NfuiaiB- 
trata,  just  listen  to  me  before  yon  annrar 
him  off-hand. 

NAUBi8TRATA.,What  is  it? 

Fhobmio.  I  got  thirty  ducats  out  of  hioi 
by  a  trick,  and  gave  them  to  your  son.  He 
bought  hiB  mistreoB  with  tbsm  from  bar 


.Goog[c 


CaRUiae.  H<QrI  what's  that  you  sayT 

MAtrBUTRATA.  Doyouthinlcit'sMvery 
bad  for  a  young  fellow  like  your  son  to  have 
one  mistraBB,  when  here  you  are  yourself 
with  two  wiveef  Have  you  no  senae  of 
ahame?  How  con  you  have  the  face  to 
scold  him  for  itT  Answer  me  that. 

DuupHo.  He  shall  do  everything  you 
wish. 

Nausistrata.  Well,  to  let  you  know  my 
decision,  I  neither  pardon  him  nor  promise 
anything  nor  make  any  answer  at  all,  be- 
fore aeeing  my  son.  I  leave  the  whole  thing 
to  hia  judgment.  1 11  do  whatever  he  tells 

Phobido.  You  are  a  wise  woman, 
Nausistrata. 

Naubistbata.  Does  that  satisfy  ymiT 

Dkiutho.  Certainly. 

Chruos  [aiide].  Upon  my  word,  I  get 
out  of  it  pretty  finely,  and  better  than  I 


Nausistrata  [Io  FBOBiao).    Please  t 
«  your  naiuB. 


PRORMia.  Fhormio,  a  friend  of  your 
bouse,  by  heaven,  and  particularly  of  your 
sonPht^ria. 

Naosibtrata.  Well,  Phormio,  after  this 
111  do  and  say  for  you  whatever  you  like 
as  wtH  OS  I  can,  upon  my  word  I  will. 

Phobuio.  That's  very  kind  of  you. 

Naubibtrata.  I'm  sure  you  have  de- 
served it. 

Pboruio.  Do  you  want  to  begjn  by  giv- 
ing me  a  pleasure  to-day,  Nausistrata,  and 
to  make  your  husband's  eyee  ache  at  the 
same  time? 

Naobibtrata.  Yes. 

PaoBMio.  Then  invite  me  to  dinner. 

Naubibtrata.  Certainly,  I  invite  you. 

Deufbo.  Let  us  go  in,  then. 

Naubibtrata.  Well,  but  where  is  Phe- 
dria,  who  ia  to  decide  between  us? 

Pbormio.  I'll  bring  him  here. 

Camtob.  Farewell,  and  give  us  your 
applause. 

[Bxtimt,  Phoruio,  r.,  the  othert  to 
Chbuw'b.) 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


THE  STAR  OF  SEVILLE 

(LA  ESTRELLA  DE  SEVILLA) 

By  LOPE  DE  VEGA 

ThimUltd  in  ^rut  iy  PHtUf  M.  HA  YDEN 


cmizedbv  Google 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


CHARACTERS 

Ema  Sakcho  thb  Bou> 

Don  Arias,  confidant  of  tke  King 

DoH  Pedro  db  Guzman,  1 

Farpan  db  RrvBRA,  ) 

Don  Gonulo  db  Ulloa,  the  Cid  of  Cordosa 

Fbbnah  Pbrbz  de  Medina,  Captotn 

Don  Sakcho  Ortie,  ) 

icounciton 
BUBTOB  Tabeaa,        ) 

Inioo  Osobio 

Don  Manow. 

PzDBO  DE  Caub,  Oovemor  of  the  Prison  of  Triana 

Claiundo,  OraciosQ,  aenrant  to  Don  Sancho 

Stslla,  the  Star  of  SeviUe 

Tbodoba,  eervant 

Matilde,  Blme 

AttendatOa,  Servantt,  Mttneiaat,  Peoph 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


cmizedbvGoOQlc   . 


THE  STAR  OF  SEVILLE 


1  I.  ^n 


tin  the  ptdaee.] 


[ffnfer  the  Kikq,  Don  Asiab,  Don  Pedro 

DB  Guzman,  and  Fabfan  dk  Rivera] 

Km o.  My  welcome  in  Seville  iuui  greatly 
plensed  me,  and  I  peroeive  I  em  indeed  the 
sovereigD  mosftrch  in  Caatjle;  my  reign 
(fttes  from  this  day,  matx  this  day  Seville 
icceives  me  and  doee  me  honor;  for  it  is 
clear  and  evident,  and  an  accepted  law, 
that  no  man  could  be  king  in  Caatille  who 
did  not  reign  in  Seville.  I  shall  not  be  con- 
tent if  I  do  not  reward  the  mmuficence  of 
my  reception,  and  the  splendor  of  my  en- 
trance. My  court  eh»ll  have  its  seat  within 
theee  walla,  and  marvel  not  that  the  Caa- 
tilian  court  should  make  its  seat  in  Seville, 
for  I  shall  reign  in  Castile,  while  I  reign  in 
Seville. 

Don  Pedbo.  We,  the  chief  alcaldea  of 
Uie  cit;,  kiss  your  feet  in  gratitude,  for  we 
receive  your  favors  in  her  name.  Jurors 
and  cotmcilmen  gladly  ofFer  you  their 
wealth  and  loyalty,  and  the  council  is  in 
bccord,  provided  only  that  the  chartered 
rigfats  of  this  your  dty  do  not  suffer. 

KiKO.  I  am  much  pleased  — 

DonPbdbo.  Grant  us  your  band  to  kise. 

Kino.  —  that  in  receiving  me  you  have 
bome  yourselves  like  the  men  you  are,  and 
I  believe  that  with  your  support  I  shall 
make  myself  long  of  Gibraltar,  which  sleeps 
in  fancied  security  upon  the  Columns, 
and  if  fortune  favors  me  I  shall  make  my- 
self remembered. 

Farfak.  With  loyalty  the  people  of 
Seville  will  serve  Your  Hi^mees  in  this 
lofty  enterprise,  olTering  their  livee  as  one. 

Abiab.  His  Majesty  feels  it  so,  and  is  well 
irieased  with  you  and  your  desire. 

Kino.  Men  of  Seville,  I  believe  you  and 
ao  declare.  Go  with  God. 

[£ztwnJ  the  aieaUet.] 


Abiab.  My  lord,  how  like  you  Seville? 

Kino.  Much;  for  to-day  I  am  truly 
king. 

Abias.  She  will  deserve  your  favor.  Sire, 
and  win  it  more  from  day  to  day. 

Kino.  Surely;  for  so  rich  and  fair  a  dty, 
as  I  live  longer  in  it,  will  be  admired  at 
leisure. 

Ariab.  The  beauty  and  the  grandeur  trf 
its  streeta  —  I  know  not  if  Augustus  saw 
the  like  in  Rome,  or  had  such  wealth. 

Kma.  And  her  ladies,  divinely  fair,  why 
do  you  not  mention  themT  How  can  you 
limit  or  describe  their  attributes  and  radi- 
ance? Tell  me,  why  are  you  not  aflame  in 
the  light  of  such  g^oriesT 

Abias.  Dofia  Leonor  de  Ribera  seemed 
heaven  itself,  for  in  her  countenance  shone 
the  light  of  ibe  springtime  sun. 

Kino.  She  is  too  pale.  A  sun  with  rays 
of  ice  is  little  worth,  for  it  chills  instead  ot 
warming.  I  want  a  burning  sun,  not  frees- 
ing. 

Arias.  The  one  who  threw  you  rodee  is 
Dofia  Mencia  Coronel. 

KiKO.  A  handsome  dame,  but  I  saw 
others  lovelier. 

Abias.  The  two  lively  damsels  at  the 
next  window  were  Dofia  Ana  and  Dofi» 
Beatris  M«sia,  sisters  through  whom  day 
gains  fresh  splendors. 

Kino.  Ana  is  but  a  vulgar  name  for  one, 
and  Beatris  for  the  other,  lonely  like  the 
phmnix,  because  imequaled. 

Arias.  Does  good  fortune  or  ill  attend 
even  upon  a  name? 

Kino.  In  love  — and  do  not  wonder  at 
it  —  names  unusual,  and  indicating  qual- 
ity and  breeding,  are  a,  magnet  to  a  man. 

Arias.  The  pale,  aubum-haired.  .  . . 

Kino.  Tell  me  not.her  name.  The  pale 
lady  with  aubmm  haii  will  be  mattile  and 
bronze,  and  your  descriptions  weary  me  as 
you  continue.  One  I  saw  there  full  of  grace, 
whom  you  have  Wt  unmentioned;  for  you 


i7« 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


hkve  noted  only  the  blonde,  and  not  the 
nven-hured.  Who  is  she  i^  on  lier  bnl- 
cony  drew  my  attention,  uul  to  whom  I 
doSed  my  hat?  Who  is  she  whose  two  eyes 
flash  Ug}itiung  like  Jove's  thunder-bolts, 
and  sent  their  deadly  rays  into  my  heart, 
unknowing  of  their  power?  One  who, 
though  dark,  outebooe  the  sun?  Tn  trases 
at  tiiffixt  she  ecltpeed  the  orb  of  day;  her 
beauty  obscured  its  rays. 

Ariab.  I  have  it.  Sire. 

Kmo.  Choose  the  loveliest  of  them  alt, 
for  that  is  she. 

Arias.  They  call  her  the  Star  of  Seville. 

KiMQ.  If  she  is  fairer  than  the  sun,  why 
slight  her  thus?  But  Seville  does  itot  esteem 
her,  seeing  her  daily.  Sun  she  shall  be 
called,  sinoe  she  is  a  sun  that  revives  and 
kindles. 

Abua.  Her  name  i*  Doll  a  Stella  Tabera, 
and  Seville,  in  homage,  calls  her  its  star. 

Knro.  And  it  might  call  her  its  sun. 

AaiAB.  Her  brother  hopes  to  marry  her 
in  Seville,  as  well  he  may. 

King.  Her  tn^ther's  name? 

Abias,  Buetos  Tabers,  and  he  is  coun- 
cilor in  Seville,  in  saying  which  I  bear  trib- 
ute to  his  quality. 

Koro.  And  is  he  married? 

Abias.  He  is  not  married,  for  in  the 
SevHlian  firmament  he  is  the  sun,  if  Stella 
is  his  nster,  and  Star  and  Sun  are  in  con- 
junction. 

KiHo.  My  guiding  star  brou^t  me  to 
Seville,  and  I  find  great  joy  in  it,  if  it  is  se 
Mlliant  as  I  hope.  All  wUl  go  well  with  me, 
under  such  a  star.  What  means,  Don 
Arias,  will  you  find,  for  me  to  see  her  and 
to  speak  with  her? 

Akiab.  You  shall  find  bee  a  friendly  star, 
in  spite  of  the  Sun.  Heap  honors  upon  her 
brother,  for  the  most  ri^  honor  yields  to 
honors.  Favor  him,  for  favors  can  ovor- 
come  and  conquer  the  impossible.  If  you 
pve  to  him,  and  he  receives,  he  binds  him- 
sdf ,  and  sees  himself  obliged  to  requite 
what  you  have  given;  for  he  graves  in 
bronie  who  accepts  favors. 

Kino.  Let  him  be  summoned,  and  take 
measur«e  likewise  that  the  following  night 
I  may  see  Stella  in  her  house.  O  vision  that 
infianiea  my  inmost  soul.         [Exit  Asm.] 


lEnter  Don  Gomxalo,  mi  mramtng.] 

GoHEALo.  I  Usi  your  highness'  feet. 

KiNa.  Rise,  Gonsalo.  On  this  day  of 
joy,  why  do  you  oome  so  sad? 

Gonsalo.  My  father  is  no  more. 

KiNa.  I  have  lost  a  valiant  captain. 

GoNEAUi.  And  the  frontier  remains 
without  defender. 

KnfO.  Yes,  a  heroic  commander  has  de- 
parted. Grieving  I  listen  to  you. 

GoHEAi/),  Sire,  the  frontier  of  Archidooa 
has  suffered  a  great  loss,  and  amce  there 
can  be  found  no  equal  to  his  valor,  and 
since  I  have  inherited  the  honored  name  of 
tlie  great  general,  I  implore  your  majesty 
not  to  pennit  another  to  receive  the  post 
now  vacant. 

Kino.  There  is  sufficient  proof  that  his 
vslor  hves  sgain  in  you.  lAmeot  youi 
father's  death,  and  while  you  aie  in  mourn- 
ing and  in  sorrow,  reet  in  my  court. 

GoNEALO.  Femao  Feres  de  Medina 
comes  with  the  same  request,  and  thinks 
his  services  may  claim  the  baton,  for  in  fact 
he  has  been  ten  years  captain,  and  with  his 
sword  has  stained  with  n^y  hue  the  peariy 
walls  of  Granada.  Hence  my  diligenee. 

Kino.  I  will  consider  it;  for  if  I  must 
make  this  decision,  I  wish  to  weigh  the 
matt^. 

[£nter  Fxunam  Pebbz  dx  Medina.] 

Fbknan.  I  fear,  O  king,  that  I  arrive  too 
late.  I  kiss  your  feet,  and  then  .  . . 

Knto.  You  may  present  your  homage, 
Feman  Peres,  with  a  tranquil  mind.  The 
office  is  still  in  my  hands,  and  such  a  poet 
will  not  be  given  without  consulting  first 
yourself  and  othws  of  high  credit  in  the 
kingdom  who  being  bulwarks  in  them- 
selves will  be  advisers  concerning  Arohi* 
dona.  Go,  and  rest. 

Gonsalo.  This  memorial  I  leave  with 
you,  my  lord. 

l^KNAN.  And  I  leave  mine,  which  is  the 
crystal  mirror  of  my  valor,  in  which  m; 
nature  can  be  seen,  pure,  accomplished, 

GoNCALO.  Mine  is  crystal  too,  and  shown 
the  cleameas  of  my  daim. 

{Extant  FsBNAM  md  GoHuio.) 


THE   STAR  OF  SEVILLE 


■73 


[Enler  Arias  and  Bcaroe.) 

Abias-  Heie,  my  lord,  is  Bustoe  Tabers. 

BimtM.  Perturbed  you  see  me  st  youi 
feet,  my  lord,  f or  ao  it  is  natural  for  the 
tsomU  to  be  eonfused  in  presence  of  bis 
king;  I  am  for  this  reason  and  by  the  com- 
mon lot  perturbed,  but  twice  pertuibed, 
because  this  UDdreamt-«rf  f  avc»  hatfa  further 
*(itsted  me. 

KiNQ.  Rise. 

Bnsios.  Nay,  this  is  my  jdaoe.  If  kings 
thould  be  adored  like  saints  upon  an  altar, 
my  {daoe  is  here. 

Kaia.  You  are  a  gallant  gentleman. 

BusTOB.  Of  that  I  have  shown  proof  in 
Spain.  But,  Sire,  I  crave  but  such  advanc«- 
ateat  as  is  due  me. 

Kino.  Then  cannot  I  advance  youT 

BuaroB.  The  laws  of  Gkxl  and  man  give 
power  to  kings,  but  forbid  the  vassal  to  be 
pnsumptuous;  tar  he,  my  lord,  must  keep 
his  wishes  within  bounds.  So  I,  seeing  this 
Isw  transgressed,  limit  my  ambition  to  my 
tairful  aspirations. 

Kroo.  What  man  ever  did  not  desire  to 
braome  greaterT 

Bnnoe.  If  I  were  greater,  I  should  be 
covered  rkow;  but  if  I  am  Tsbera,  Tabera 
must  stand  uncovered, 

KiNQ  lands  lo  AiuAs].  A  strange  phi- 
keophy  of  honor! 

AaiAB  la*ide  lo  Kiwa].  A  caprice  novel 
ud  unexampled. 

EiNO.  I  do  not  deeira,  Tabera,  upon  my 
life,  that  you  sUnd  covered  before  I  have 
advanced  you,  and  given  you  a  proof  of  my 
Rffection.  And  thus  it  is  my  will  that  you 
cease  to  be  Tabera,  and  become  Gteneral  of 
Archidona,  for  your  heroism  shall  be  the 
defense  of  that  frontier. 

Bqbtos.  But,  Sire,  in  what  war  have  I 
evw  served  youT 

EiNa.  !Even  in  the  occupations  of  peace, 
Bustos,  I  see  you  so  capable  of  defending 
my  lands,  that  I  give  you  prderenoe  over 
these,  whose  memorials  show  such  aervioes. 
Sen  in  my  [xeeence  read  and  decide:  the 
™'Ml''ln*'««  are  three  —  yourself  and  these 
two;  see  irtiat  ootnpetitorB  you  have. 

Bu«ro0  [rwaibii :  "  Most  noble  King,  Don 
Ocnsalo  de  Ulloa  sntraata  yotir  majesty  to 


grant  him  the  post  of  captain  general  of  the 
frontier  of  Archidona,  inasmuch  ae  my 
father  died  in  battle,  after  serving  you 
more  than  fourteen  years,  rendering  not- 
able services  to  God  in  behalf  of  your  crown. 
I  implore  justice,  etc."  If  Don  Gonsalo  has 
inherited  the  valor  of  his  father,  I  name 
him  for  the  place. 

Kino.  Rmd  the  other  memorial. 

Buaros  [readt]:  "Most  noble  king,  Fer- 
nsD  Feres  de  Medina  has  been  a  soldier 
twenty  yean  in  the  aervioe  of  your  father, 
and  desires  to  serve  you  with  his  arm  and 
sword,  on  Spanish  or  on  foreign  soil.  Ten 
years  he  has  been  captain  in  the  plaia  of 
Granada,  and  three  years  a  prisoner,  in 
close  confinement,  for  which  reasons,  and 
by  his  sword,  in  which  he  places  all  his 
claim,  he  by  this  memorial  asks  the  baton 
of  general  of  the  fields  of  Archidona." 

Km  a.  Recite  your  claims. 

Bcenoe.  I  have  no  service  to  relate  to 
second  a  request,  or  justify  a  favor.  I  could 
recall  the  noble  exploits  of  my  ancestors, 
the  banners  captured,  \he  castles  con- 
quered; but,  Sire,  they  had  their  reward, 
and  I  cannot  reap  the  glory  for  their  serv- 
ices. Justice,  to  deserve  the  name,  must 
be  well  ordered,  for  it  is  a  sacred  boon 
divine,  suspended  by  a  hair.  Justice  re- 
quires that  this  post  be  given  to  one  of 
these  two  men,  for  if  you  give  it  me,  you  do 
injustice.  Hera  in  Seville,  my  lord.  I  have 
no  claim  upon  you,  for  in  the  wars  I  was 
a  soldier,  in  peace,  a  oooneilor.  In  truth 
Feraan  Peres  de  Medina  merits  the  honor, 
for  his  age  is  woiiJiy  of  the  frontier  post; 
Don  Gonsalo  is  young,  and  a  nobleman  of 
Cordova;  him  you  can  make  a  captain. 

KiNa.  Then  it  shall  be  as  you  desire. 

BuSTOH.  I  desire  only  what  is  right  ^d 
in  accord  with  justice,  to  give  to  those  who 
serve  their  due  reward. 

KlHo.  Enou^.  You  put  me  to  ahame 
with  your  good  counsels. 

BuBTOB.  They  are  mirrora  of  truth,  and 
so  in  them  you  see  your  true  self. 

Kino.  You  are  a  noble  gentleman,  and  I 
desire  your  attendance  in  my  chamber  and 
in  my  palace,  for  I  wish  to  have  you  uear 
me.  Are  you  married? 

BuBTOs.  My  lord,  I  am  the  i^teetot  of 


174 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


ft  Biater,  and  wiU  not  Duury,  until  I  have 
givia  her  a  husband. 

Koto.  I  will  giv«  bet  a  better  one, 
BuBtoe.  Her  name? 

BusToa.  Dcdla  StaUa. 

Kino.  To  a  star,  if  die  be  fair,  I  know 
not  what  hurttand  to  give,  except  the  sun. 

BuBTOs.  I  wish  only  a  man,  Siie,  for 
Stella.  She  ia  not  a  heavenly  star. 

Kino.  I  will  unite  her  to  one  who  is 
worthy  of  her. 

BiTffTOB.  In  her  name  I  thank  you.  Sire. 

Kino.  1  will  give  her,  BustoB,  a  husband 
suited  to  her  rank.  Inform  your  sister  that 
her  marriage  ia  in  my  care,  and  that  I  shall 
dower  her. 

BuBTOs.  Now,  Sire,  I  pray  you  tell  me 
on  what  bumneas  you  have  called  me;  for 
your  summons  agitated  me. 

King.  You  are  right,  Tabera,  I  sum- 
moned you  for  an  affair  of  Seville,  and 
wished  to  talk  with  you  first  before  discuss- 
ing it.  But  peace  and  leisure  are  before  us 
and  we  will  treat  it  later.  From  to-day 
attend  me  in  my  chamber  and  my  palace. 

00  with  God. 

BnSTOB.  I  kiss  your  feet. 

Kwo.  I  embrace  you,  noble  councilor. 

BuBTOs  [aside].  Ekich  favor  passes  my 
understanding,  and  I  am  filled  with  mi>- 
giving.  To  love  me  and  to  honor  me  with- 
out knowing  me  seems  rather  to  attack  my 
hoikor  than  to  favor  me.  [Exil.] 

KiMO.  The  man  is  kerai  of  mind;  as  wise 
as  he  is  honorable. 

AsiAB.  I  have  no  patience  with  these 
men  of  honor.  How  many.  Sire,  have  been 
so,  until  occasion  meets  themi  Yee,  all  are 
occasionally  wise,  but  not  all,  my  lord,  on 
all  occasions.  To^y  the  breath  of  slander 
reaches  him  who  denounced  another  yes- 
terday; and  the  law  which  he  invoked 
is  invoked  anon  on  him.  If  he  puts  his 
honor  in  the  balance,  you  can  put  in  the 
other  your  favors  and  yom*  gifts,  your 
[Maisea  and  your  privity. 

KiKQ.  In  secret  I  intend  to  see  this 
woman  in  her  house.  For  she  is  a  sun,  and 
has  inflamed  me,  although  she  seems  a  star. 
Let  Spain  say  what  it  will,  a  blinded  king, 

1  foUow  the  Star  of  Seville. 

[ExaurU  the  Kraa  OTid  Aaua.] 


h  Tabeha's  hotue.) 


Sancho.  Angd  of  heaven,  when  wiU 
you  be  mine,  when  will  you  free  from  this 
restraint  the  passion  that  I  feel  for  youT 
Like  a  sun  you  rise,  diqiensing  radiance 
from  coral  lips  formed  for  love : — when  will 
you  turn  the  pale  dew  that  drops  &om  my 
eyes  to  pearls  that  may  deck  the  peaoefid 
joys  of  our  souls? 

9tkix&.  If  time  kept  pace  with  my  de- 
siree,  its  giant  stridee  should  outstrip  the 
sun ;  Seville  should  ceM)rat«  my  sweet  sub- 
mission, and  your  happy  love  should  cease 
to  envy  the  teikder  turtle  dove,  which, 
softly  oooing,  makes  its  neat  amid  a  thou- 
sand favoring  branches. 

SANceo.  Ah,  how  gratdully  my  heart 
receives  theaeaighingsl  My  soul  yesxns  fo7 
the  noblest  gifts  of  fame,  to  lay  them  at 
your  feet. 

SrSLLA,  I  aak  only  for  life,  to  join  it  to 

Sancho.  Oh,  sweet  Stella,  dothed  in 
love  and  light! 

SteliiA.  Aht  Can  life  endure  such  love? 

Samcho.  Oh  charms  divine,  lodestar  to 
my  daxiled  eyesi 

Clabimdo  {to  Mattldi].  Why  should 
not  we,  like  our  masters,  utter  a  few  sweet 
sighs,  soft  as  finest  cambricT 

Sancbo.  Be  quiet,  knave! 

Ci.ABiNi>o.  We're  dumb.  {I'd  Mathjie.I 
Ahl    Sleek  fillyl     Despair  of  my  esist- 

MATiLnE.    Oh,  low-bom  suitorl    Your 
poetics  smack  of  the  currycomb. 
CiuiBiNDO.  Oh,  my  love  I 
Matiuie.  Oh,  happy  mani 
Clahindo.  What  leper  ever  heaved  Budt 

Sancho.  What  does  your  brother  sayT 

Steu^.  That  when  the  papers  are  made 

out  and  signed,  the  marriage  may  proceed; 

and  that  there  shall  be  but  a  few  daya' 

delay,  while  he  makes  the  airangementa. 

Sakcbo.  He'll  bring  my  love  to  desper- 
ation; delay  is  torment  for  it.  Would  w« 
might  wed  to-day,  letrt  forttme  chaoga 
before  to-morrow! 

GooqIc 


THE  STAR  OF   SEVILLE 


'75 


Stklla.  If  delfty  continuee,  speak  to  my 
brotber. 

Sahcho.  Speak  I  will,  for  I  shall  die  if 
this  pereiste. 

Ci-ABunx).  Bustoe  Tabera  oomee. 

[ErUer  Bunoe.l 

Bu0Toe.  Sancho,  1117  friendl 

Stella.  Heaveusl  What  is  this? 

Sancbo.  Such  aadneesT  You? 

BcBTOs.  Eladneee  and  joy  are  cause  of 
my  dismay.  Stella,  leave  us  alone. 

Stklla.  Godhelpmel  Delay  ban  turned 
against  me.  [Exit.] 

BuBToe.  Sancho  Ortis  de  laa  Roelas,  .  . . 

Sakcro.  Do  you  no  longer  call  me 
bitttberT 

BuffTos.  A  steed  beyond  control  sweeps 
me  on  unspuired.  Know  that  the  king  sent 
for  me;  God  is  icy  witness  that  I  know  not 
wl^,  for  though  I  aaked  htm,  yet  he  told 
me  not.  Unasked,  be  was  about  to  make 
me  general  of  Archidooa,  and  indeed,  bad 
I  not  resisted,  would  have  given  me  the 
n>y(d  commission.  Finally  he  made  me  .  ,  . 

Sancho.  Proceed,  tor  all  ot  this  is  joy. 
Tell  me  your  sadness,  explain  your  grief. 

Bdstob.  He  attached  me  to  his  suite. 

Sancbo.  And  he  did  well. 

Bcbtos.  We  come  now  to  the  pain. 

Sancho  laiide],  I  foresee  sorrow  here 

BusTOB.  He  told  me  not  to  seek  a  matdi 
for  St^la;  that  should  be  bis  care;  and  be 
preferred  that  he  should  dower  her,  not  I, 
and  give  to  her  a  husband  of  his  choosing. 

Sancho.  You  said  that  you  were  sad 
and  joyful  too,  but  I  alone  am  sad;  for  you 
attahi  to  honors,  and  I  reap  only  pains. 
Leave  with  me  your  grief,  and  keep  your 
joy,  for  in  the  king's  suite,  and  with  a  bril- 
liant marriage  for  your  sister,  it  is  natm^ 
for  you  to  be  merry.  But  you  break  the 
law  of  friendship,  for  you  should  have  told 
the  king  your  sister  was  already  promised. 

BusToa.  It  was  all  so  Htrange,  snd  my 
bead  so  troubled,  that  I  did  not  find  the 
chance  to  say  it. 

Sancho.  Being  so,  shall  my  marriage 
not  take  jdace? 

Buvroe.  I  will  return  and  inform  the 
kinc  that  the  agreements  and  the  wiitinga 


are  all  made,  and  the  contract  will  then 
stand,  for  bis  authority  will  not  disregard 
your  just  claim. 

Sancho.  But  if  the  lung  should  turn  the 
law,  who  can  constrain  bim  if  guided  by 
self-interest  or  plessureT 

Bcbtos.  I  will  spe^  to  him,  and  you  as 
well;  for  then,  in  my  confusion,  I  did  not 
tell  bim  of  our  agreement. 

Sancho.  Would  that  my  griefs  might 
kill  met  I  said  indeed  that  fortune  stands 
not  a  moment  steadfast,  and  that  sorrow 
and  weeping  cast  their  shadow  on  our  joys- 
And  if  the  king  should  wish  to  do  us  wrong? 

Bunve.  Sancho  Ortii,  the  king's  t^ 
king.  Be  silent  and  have  patience.    [Exit,] 

Sancho.  In  such  a  [di^t,  who  can  have 
patience,  and  forbear?  Oh,  tyrant,  come 
to  thwart  my  happy  marriage,  applauded 
though  you  be  in  Seville,  may  your  people 
drive  you  from  your  kingdom  of  Castilel 
Well  do  you  deserve  the  name  of  Sancbo 
the  Bold  by  the  acta  I  learn  of  now,  if  you 
win  the  name  by  tyranny!  But  Qod  will 
break  your  [dans  - —  may  He  drive  you 
from  your  kingdom  of  Castilel  I'll  leave 
Seville,  and  go  to  Gibraltar,  to  seek  death 
in  the  battle-front. 

Clasindo.  Metbinks  we'll  find  it  nearer 
than  Gibraltar! 

Sancbo.  Loving  Stella  the  fair,  why  is 
my  love  bo  ill-starred?  But  my  star  is  im- 
favorable,  and  ber  influence  works  my 
unhappineesi 

Clabindo.  A  shooting  star,  mayhap. 

Sancbo.  May  you  be  bsinished  from 
your  kingdom  of  Castile!  [Ex«mt.] 


[Enter  the  Kino,  Don  Ariab,  and  Suite.] 

Kino.  Announce  that  I  am  here. 

Arias.  They  are  informed,  and  Don 
Bustos  Tabera  is  already  at  the  door  to 
greet  you.  Sire. 

[Enter  BuOTOB.) 

Buffros.  What  an  honor,  and  what  con- 
de»censi(»i!  Your  highness  in  my  house! 

KiNQ.  I  was  strolling  in  disguise  to  see 
tits  diy,  and  they  told  me  as  we  passtJ, 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


this  wu  your  bouae;  and  I  would  see  it,  [or 
Uiey  uy  it  IB  most  beautiful. 

BosTOB.  It  is  the  house  of  a  simple 
(■quire. 

King.  Let  ue  go  in. 
■  Bttbtob.  Sire,  't  is  fit  for  my  humble 
station,  but  not  for  you;  for  so  great  a  lord 
it  is  too  nDsll.  And  it  will  not  be  well  re- 
ceived in  Seville,  when  they  know  you  came 
to  visit  me. 

KiMQ.  I  come  not  for  your  house, 
Tabera,  but  for  you. 

BuBTOB.  My  lord,  you  do  me  great 
honor.  But  if  you  oome  for  me,  it  is  not 
meet  that  I  obey  you;  for  it  would  be  un- 
courtly,  that  the  king  should  come  to  the 
vasaal,  and  the  vassal  permit  it  and  con- 
sent to  it.  I  am  your  servant  and  your 
vassal,  and  it  is  fitting  that  I  come  to  you 
in  t^  palace,  if  you  wish  to  honor  me.  For 
favors  may  become  affronts,  when  open  to 
suspicion. 

KiNQ.  Suspicion?  OfwhatT 

BusToe.  It  will  be  said,  though  it  be 
false,  you  came  to  my  house  to  see  my  sis- 
tec;  end  her  good  name,  however  well 
established,  might  eome  in  question;  for 
honor  is  a  crystal  clear  —  a  breath  may 
tarnish  it. 

Kino.  Since  I  am  here,  I  wish  to  speak 
with  you  of  matters  of  importance.  Let  us 
go  in. 

BusToe.  It  shall  be  upon  the  way,  with 
your  permission.  My  house  is  not  in  order. 

Kino  [aiide  to  AriabI.  He  makes  great 
opposition. 

Arias  [aaiik  to  the  Kma],  Take  him 
away,  and  I  will  stay  behind  and  speak  to 
her  for  you. 

Kino.  Speak  low,  that  he  may  not  hear 
you.  The  fool  puts  all  his  honorin  his  ears. 

Akias.  The  weight  will  break  them. 

Kino  [to  Buaros].  So  be  it;  I  would  not 
see  your  house  against  youi  will. 

Bdstob.  Sire,  at  Stella's  marriage  you 
shall  see  it  suitaJily  adorned. 

Ahiab.  Bring  up  the  coach. 

KiKO.  Bustos,  you'll  ride  upon  the  step. 

BuOToa.  Ill  go  on  foot,  with  your  per- 


Abias.  The  carriage  waits. 

King.  Drive  to  the  palace. 

Bvnoa  latide]-  Great  favors  these!  Hie 
king  does  me  much  honor:  please  God  it 
be  for  good.  [Exeunt.   Mantl  AkiasJ 

[Enter  Sieu^a  and  Matildb.J 

Stxlui.  What  do  you  say,  Matilde? 

Matiujk.  It  was  the  king,  my  lady. 

Arias.  It  was  he,  and  it  is  not  the  fiist 
time  a  king  was  guided  by  a  star.  He  came 
to  your  house  to  do  homage  to  your  charms; 
for  if  he  is  king  of  Castile,  you  are  the 
queen  of  beauty.  The  King  Don  Sancho, 
whom  for  liis  unconquered  prowess,  the 
public,  and  the  Moore  who  tremble  at  his 
name,  have  called  The  Bold,  saw  at  a  bal~ 
oony  your  divine  beauty,  which  rivals  Au- 
rora in  her  palace,  when,  hailed  by  drowsy 
birds  mid  rosee  and  lilies,  and  weeping  at 
the  wakening,  she  scatteis  garlands  of 
pearls.  He  ordered  me  to  i^er  you  the 
riches  of  Castile,  though  riches  be  but 
little  for  such  charms.  Accept  bis  will,  for 
if  you  do  accept  it,  and  reward  it,  you  shall 
be  the  Sun  of  Sev^e,  where  you  have  been 
the  Star.  He  will  give  you  towns  and  cities, 
whereof  you  shall  be  Duchess,  and  he  will 
wed  you  to  a  Duke,  whereby  you  will  crown 
the  ^ary  of  your  ancestors,  and  bring  honor 
to  the  name  of  Tabns.  What  say  you? 

Stblla.  What  do  I  say?  See! 

[She  tvnui  her  back.} 

Arias.  Hold!  Wait! 

Stella.  To  such  ignoble  message,  my 
back  gives  a.  reply.  [Exit) 

Arias.  A  noble  pair!  I  marvel  at  them 
both.  The  austerity  of  Rome  survives  in 
them  in  Seville.  It  seems  impoenble  for 
the  king  to  outwit  and  conquer  them,  but 
strength  and  pereistence  level  mountains 
and  split  rocks.  I'll  speak  to  this  servant, 
for  gifts  are  gates  to  favor  with  the  Portias 
and  Lucrecias.  Are  you  the  servant  of  the 
house? 

Matilde.  Servant  I  am,  by  force. 

Arias.  By  force? 

Matitde.  I  am  a  slave. 

Arias.  A  slave  I 

Matilde.  Deprived  of  blessed  liberty, 
and  subject  both  to  prison  and  to  death. 

Arias.  Ill  have  the  Idng  nlsMS  you, 


.CtOoi^Ic 


THE  STAR  OP  SEVILLE 


aitd  give  you  with  your  freedom,  a  thousaad 
ducato  rent,  if  you  irill  do  his  will. 

Matildk.  For  liberty  and  gold,  there  is 
no  crime  that  I'll  not  undertake.  Wh&t  ia 
there  I  c&n  doT  I  '11  do  it  if  J  con. 

Abias.  You  '11  give  the  Idiig  admittance 
to  the  house  to-night. 

Matiij>e.  He  ahall  find  the  doora  all 
open,  if  you  but  keep  your  promise. 

AitiA8.  Before  he  enters,  I  will  give  you 
a  letter  from  the  king,  in  his  own  hand  and 
signed  by  him, 

MATiLnE.  Then  I'll  put  him  in  Stella's 
yery  bed  to-night. 

Arias.  What  time  does  Bustos  come? 

Matilde.  Each  night  he's  out  till  dawn. 
He  has  a  lady,  and  this  distraction  often 
costs  men  dear. 

Arias.  What  time  do  you  think  the  king 
should  oome? 

Matiuje.  Let  him  come  at  eleven,  for 
then  she  will  be  in  bed. 

Ablas.  Take  this  emerald  as  pledge  of 
the  favors  that  await  you.  [Extunt.] 

[ScKNE  IV.  A  room  in  the  palace.] 

Hinltr  lihoo  Osobio,  Bcbtob  Tabera,  and 
Don  Manuel,  with  golden  kei/».] 

Mamiikl.  I  congratulate  your  lordship 
on  the  key,  and  the  dignity  it  represents. 
May  you  win  the  honors  you  desire. 

Btjstos.  Would  I  mii^t  repay  his  maj- 
esty the  honor  that  he  does  me,  undeserved. 

Inioo.  'T  ia  not  be3^nd  your  merit. 
Be  as8uc«d,  the  king  makes  no  mistake. 

Btjstob.  The  key  he's  given  me  admits 
me  to  his  paradise;  although  thus  elevated 
I  fear  a  fall  to  earth;  for  he  has  granted  me 
abruptly  all  these  honors  and  I  foresee  that 
be  who  gives  thus  hastily  may  change  as 
suddenly. 

[Enter  Arias.] 

Arias.  You  may  r«tire,  gentlemen.  The 
Idng  intends  to  write. 

Manifel.  Let's  go  and  seek  amusement 
for  the  night.  [Exeunt.] 


her. 

Abias.  You  are  to  give  her  a  document. 

Kma.  Prepare  it.  Arias.  I  shall  not  heei- 
tate  to  sign,  for  my  love  impels  it. 

Abias.  In  faith,  the  little  slave  is  useful. 

Kma.  "T  is  the  sun  in  heaven  she  pro- 
cures for  me,  in  the  Star  of  Seville. 

[Exeunt  Kmo  and  Abus.] 


[Scene  I.  Sfreel  b^ore  Tabera'b  AouasJ 
[£nler  the  KiNO,  Don  Abus,  and  Matiij».) 

Matiuib.  Alone;  it  will  be  safer,  for  all 
are  now  at  rest. 

King.  And  Stella? 

Matiuik.  She  is  sleeping,  and  the  room 
is  dark. 

Kino.  Although  my  prontise  might  suf- 
fice, here,  woman,  is  the  paper,  with  your 
libuty  therein.  1  will  give  another  slave  to 
Bustoe. 

Abias.  Andthemoneyandall  is  included 
in  it. 

MATiLnE.  I  kiss  your  feet. 

Arias.  All  alike,  my  lord,  yield  to  their 
irLt«icet. 

Kino.  What  joy  divine  to  be  a  kingt 

Abias.  Who  can  resist  it? 

Kino.   To  be  more  secret.  III  go  up 

Abias.  You  risk  yourself  alone,  my  lord? 

King.  Now,  tell  me:  although  I  risk 
myself,  and  though  it  be  not  safe  —  is  not 
the  king  at  hand?  Begone. 

Arias.  Where  shall  I  wait? 

King.  Not  in  the  street;  some  nook 
where  1  can  find  you. 

Abias.  I'll  enter  in  Saint  Marie's. 

lExU.] 

King.  What  time  will  Bustos  come? 

Matiuie.  He  always  comes  when  the 
birds  salute  the  dawn.  And  till  he  comes, 
the  door  is  open. 

Kino.  My  love  impels  me  to  this  high 
adventure. 

Matilde.  Follow  me,  your  highness; 
the  passage  is  in  darkness.  [Exevnti 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


BcBTOB.  Here  is  my  houae. 

Iftioo.  Farewell. 

BnBTOB.  It  is  early  for  me. 

ManceI'.  You  need  not  go  fartber. 

BusTOB.  'T  ig  well. 

iRioo.  We  two  have  a  certain  visit  still 
to  make. 

Bosroa.  Did  Feliciana  fJease  your  fan- 
cy? 

Manuel.  To-morrow  at  the  palace,  my 
good  friend,  we  will  speak  of  her,  for  she  is 
a  figure  worthy  of  all  praise.         [ExettrU.] 

BuBTOB.  I  'm  eariy  home  to  bed.  The 
bouM  is  dark.  No  page  is  at  the  door.  Hol 
Lujan,  Oaorio,  Juan,  Andreal  They're  all 
asleep.  Justioe!  Ine«!  The  maids  are 
sleeping  too.  Matildel  The  slaro  also  has 
surrendered.  Sleep  ia  the  god  and  master 
of  her  senses.  [Exit  Btrvroe.) 

(ScBNX  II.  A  room  in  the  houae] 

[EnUr  Matiuw  and  Iht  King.] 

Matildb.    I  think  that  was  my  master 

calling.  I  am  lost. 

KiSQ.  Did  you  not  say  be  came  at  dawn? 

Matildb.  Woe  is  me  I 


BuBTOS.  Matilde! 

MA'nu>^.  O  God!  I  cannot  face  him. 
Kino  [atide  lo  MATiutii].  Have  no  fear. 
[£zi<  Mahldk.) 
BuBTOB.  Who's  there? 

Bcnoe.  A  man,  at  this  hour?  And  in 
my  house?  His  namel 

Kino.  Stand  back. 

BoBToa.  You  lack  in  courtesy,  and  if 
you  pass,  it  shall  be  by  the  point  of  this 
■word;  for  although  this  house  is  sacred, 
I'Q  profane  it. 

Kino.  Lower  your  sword. 

BusTOS.  What!  Lower  it,  when  my 
sister's  room  is  thus  profaned?  Tell  me 
your  name,  or  I  will  kill  you  here. 

King.  I  am  a  person  of  importance.  Let 


BnaioB.  This  house  is  mine,  and  I  omd- 
mand  in  it. 

Koto.  liSt  me  pass;  observe,  I  am  a  man 
of  rank,  and  though  I  have  come  to  your 
house,  my  intent  is  not  to  attack  your 
honor,  but  to  increase  it. 

BiTBTOe.  Is  honor  thus  increasedf 

Kma.  Your  honor  is  in  my  care. 

Busroe.  A  better  defender  is  this  sword 
And  if  you  seek  my  honor,  why  do  you 
oome  diaguiaedT  Do  you  eonceal  youraeU 
to  honor  nte?  Do  you  hide  yourself  to  do 
me  service?  Let  your  fear  convince  you 
how  true  it  is  that  no  one  who  gives  honor 
need  bring  shame  with  it.  Draw,  or  by 
Heaven,  I'll  kill  you! 

King.  Rash  provocation  1 

BusTOS.  I'll  kill  you  here  and  now,  or 
you'd  kill  me. 

King.  Ill  tdl  bim  who  I  am.  Hold!  I 
am  the  kii^. 

BuBTOB.  You  lie!  The  king,  seeking  my 
shame,  alone,  disguised,  and  unattended? 
It  cannot  be, .  and  you  insult  your  king, 
since  you  accuse  him  of  a  fault  that  is  the 
depth  of  baseness.  What?  The  king  out- 
rage bis  vassal?  This  angers  me  still  more. 
For  this  I'll  kill  you,  in  spite  of  all  resist 
ance.  Offending  me,  lay  not  such  chargea 
against  His  Majesty,  for  well  you  know  the 
laws  of  God  and  man  condemn  to  just 
obastisement  him  who  fancies  or  suspectw 
unworthy  conduct  in  his  king. 

King.  What  strange  penistencel  Man, 
I  say  I  am  the  Idng. 

BvsTOB.  Still  leas  do  I  believe  it,  for  the 
name  of  king  is  here,  but  not  the  deeds. 
The  king  is  he  who  seeks  my  honor,  and 
you  seek  my  dishonor. 

King  (luiiie).  He  is  both  fool  and  boor. 
What  shall  I  do? 

BtnrroB  [aside].  It  is  the  king,  disguiaed. 
There  is  no  doubt.  I'll  let  him  pass,  and 
later  learn  if  he  has  wronged  me.  My  soul 
is  roused  to  anger  and  to  fury,  for  honor  is 
a  thing  that  he  who  gives  may  also  tal» 
away.  —  Pass,  whoever  you  may  be,  and 
next  time  do  not  defame  the  king,  nor  c^ 
yourself  the  king,  wretch,  when  you  have 
to  blush  for  your  acts.  Know  that  the  king 
my  master,  the  dread  of  MiicA,  is  most 
Christian  and  most  holy,  and  you  insult 


THE  STAR  OF  SEVILLE 


179 


U)  name.  He  him  eatruated  to  me  the  key 
to  hk  house,  Emd  could  not  come  without 
ft  key  to  mine,  when  he  hu  given  me  hia. 
And  do  not  offend  the  law ;  remember  that 
he  ia  an  honorable  man.  This  I  say  to  you, 
and  I  fipare  you  because  you  feigned  to  bo 
the  king.  Marvel  not  to  eee  me  loyal, 
thou^  ofFended,  Cor  't  ii  a  vasaal's  obliga- 
tion to  reqiect  the  name.  Thus  will  he 
ham  to  be  ruler  of  the  honor  of  hifl  vasaals, 
and  cease  to  wrong  than  against  God's  law 

Kofo.  I  can  no  more;  I 'choke  with 
ihame  and  anger.  Fooll  You  let  me  go 
tiecauae  I  feigned  to  be  the  long?  Then  let 
me  tell  you  that  because  I  said  so,  I'U  go 
Mit  thus  from  here.  [He  tlratm.]  For  if  I 
■na  to  freedom  because  I  called  mys^  the 
king,  and  you  respect  the  name,  I'U  act  the 
king,  and  you'll  reepeet  his  deeds.  [They 
fifhL]  Die,  villuu,  for  here  the  name  of  king 
gives  power  to  me;  the  king  will  kill  you. 

Buaros.  My  honor  rulee  me  more  than 
any  Idng. 

[Enler  itrvanU  wilh  %U«.] 

Skbvant.  What's  this? 

KiMG.  I'llmakeeecapebeforel'mrecog' 
nixed.  I  leave  this  offended  ruffian,  but  I 
will  have  revenge.  [Exit.] 

Skbvant.  Your  enemy  has  fled. 

BdSTOB.  Follow  himi  Chaatise  him! . .  . 
No,  let  him  go,  we'll  give  the  enemy  a 
bridge  of  silver.  Give  a  light  to  Matilde, 
wad  do  you  withdraw. 

[The]/  give  htr  one  and  exeunt.] 

BnsToe  [aside].  She  has  betrayed  me,  for 
she  hangs  her  head  in  shame.  I  will  obtain 
the  b^ith  with  a  cunning  lie.  —  Close  the 
door.  I  am  ^MHit  to  kill  you.  The  king  has 
told  me  aU. 

Matilde.  If  he  has  not  kept  the  secret, 
how  can  I  in  my  unhappy  state  do  so,  my 
tontr  AU  the  king  has  told  you  is  the  truth. 

BcBToe  loeide].  Now  I  shall  learn  the 
damage  to  my  honor.  —  80  then  you  gave 
the  Iring  admittance? 

Mxnum.  He  promised  me  my  freedom, 
and  for  that  I  brought  him  to  this  place,  as 
you  have  seen. 

Bcaroe.  And  does  Stella  know  aught  of 
thisT 


Matiliw.  I  think  bM  wrath  would  have 
consumed  me,  had  she  heard  my  plot. 

BuffroB.  That  is  certain,  for  if  her  light 
were  dimmed,  she'd  be  no  star. 

Mathjib.  Her  radiance  suffers  neithet 
shadow  nor  eclipse,  and  her  light  is  clear 
and  bright  as  of  the  sun.  The  king  but 
reached  her  room,  and  entered,  giving  me 
this  paper,  and  3rou  behind  him. 

Bufrros.  Wbat7  The  king  gave  you  this 
paper? 

MATiuta.  With  a  thousand  ducats  rent, 
and  liberty. 

BuBTOs.  A  noble  gift,  at  the  expense  of 
myhonorl  WeU  doee  he'honor  and  advance 
mel  Come  with  me. 

Matilde.  Where  do  you  take  me? 

BuffTos.  You  are  going  where  the  king 
may  see  you,  for  thus  I  fulfill  the  law  and 
obligation  that  reata  upon  me. 

Matiu>ii.  Ah,  unhappy  slavel 

BiTSTOS.  Though  the  king  sought  to 
eclipse  her,  the  fame  shall  not  be  lost  in 
Spain  of  tite  Star  of  SeviUe. 

[Exeunt  BuBToa  and  Matiu>b.] 

[SdNK  in.  A  Oreet  leadirig  to  the  palace.] 
[Enter  the  Kins  and  Arias.] 

KiKO.  And  that  is  what  befell  me. 

Abias.  You  would  go  in  alone. 

Kino.  He  was  so  mad  and  bold  as  to 
iiisultme;forIknowherec(%iuEedme.  He 
drew  upon  me  with  equivocal  words  and 
though  I  contained  myself  a  time,  the 
natural  resentment  born  in  eveiy  man 
broke  down  the  dignity  my  rank  demands 
I  attacked  him,  but  they  came  with  lights 
who  would  have  told  the  truth  that  they 
imagined,  had  I  not  turned  my  bock  fearing 
to  be  recognised.  And  so  I  come;  you  see. 
Arias,  what  befell  me  with  Bustos  Tabera. 

A^las.  Let  him  pay  for  hia  offense  with 
death;  behead  him,  let  the  rising  sun  shine 
on  his  just  punishment,  for  in  the  bounda- 
ries of  Spain  there  is  no  law  but  your  desire. 

KiNQ.  To  ejiecutA  him  publicly.  Arias, 
is  error  great. 

Abias.  You  wiU  have  sufficient  pretext; 
for  he  ia  councilor  of  SeviUe,  and  the  wiaeflt 
and  most  prudoit,  Site,  still  commits  some 
crime,  a  piey  to  power  and  ambition. 


.CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Knia.  He  ia  oo  circumspect  and  prudent, 
that  be  has  no  guOt. 

Ahub.  Then  have  bim  killed  in  leerat, 
Sire. 

Kma.  That  ought  be  done,  but  to  whom 
can  I  entrust  the  secret? 

Aaue.  To  me. 

Kma.  I  do  not  wish  to  endanger  3rou. 

Akus.  Then  I  will  find  you  &  man, 
courageous  and  valiant  soldier,  and  dis- 
tinguiahed  nobleman  as  well,  bdore  whom 
the  Moor  has  trembled  in  the  strong  fort- 
ress of  Gibraltar,  where  he  haa  been  many 
timw  victoriouB  captain,  and  was  never 
conquered.  To-day  in  Seville  tbey  give 
him  first  rank  among  the  brave  and  gallant, 
for  he  is  the  glory  of  the  soldier's  trade. 

KiNQ.  What  is  bis  name? 

Ahia8.  Sancho  Ortii  de  las  Roelas,  called 
besides  the  Cid  of  Andalusia. 

Kino.  Summon  him  to  me  at  once,  for 
dawn  approaches. 

Arias.  Come  to  bed. 

KiNQ.  What  b«d  can  t«npt  him  who  is 
offended,  and  in  loveT  Call  the  man  at 
once. 

Abub.  What  form  is  that,  that  hangs 
upon  the  palace,  swinging  in  the  wind? 

Kino.  A  form,  you  sayT  What  can  it  be? 

Arias.  There  must  be  reason  for  it. 

KlKO.  See  what  it  is. 

Abiab.  The  little  slave,  with  ber  paper 
in  her  bands. 

Kino.  What  cruelty! 

Abias.  And  what  a  crimel 

KiMQ.  I  'U  kill  the  brother  and  the  sister, 
too,  if  Seville  shows  sedition. 

Arias.  Have  her  cut  down  at  once,  and 
secretly  give  her  a  decent  burial.  Such  bold 
effrontery!  Tabera  must  die. 

[ExeitTU  tJte  Kisa  and  Ahiab.) 

[SCXNE  IV.    A  room  in  Tabera'b  hoiue.] 

[Enter  Bobtos  and  9txli.a.) 

Stella.  What  do  I  hear? 

Bnaroe.  Close  the  door. 

Stelia.  Hardly  does  the  sleepy  sun, 

shod  with  sapphires,  leave  the  palace  of 

Aurora,  and  you  rouse  me  from  my  bed, 

alone,  trouUed,  and  affiictedT     You  are 

a|ptat«d  and  perturbed!    T«n  an,  hav« 


you  seen  some  fault,  in  which  I  am  cod- 

BuBToe.  You  can  tdl  me  if  there  has 
been  such. 

Stella.  17  What  do  you  say?  Are  yoa 
mad?  .  Tell  me,  have  you  lost  your  mind? 
I,  a  fault?  Nay,  you  have  committed  one 
in  saying  so,  for  only  to  question  is  a  crime 
i^ainst  ma.  Do  you  not  know  me?  Know 
you  not  who  I  am?  In  my  mouth  have  you 
ever  heard  Words  not  in  keeping  with  the 
honor  with  which  I  guard  my  tongue?  And 
if  you  have  seen  nothing  that  can  twtify 
against  me,  what  fault  can  I  have  done? 

Bimos.  1  do  not  speak  without  occasion. 

Stblla.  Without  occasion? 

Bttstos.  Alas!  Stellat ...  for  this  nigbt 
and  in  ttiis  house  .  .  . 

&rBU.A.  Speak,  for  if  1  should  be  guilty, 
I  offer  myself  at  once  for  puniehmeat. 
What  ha^qtened  in  this  house  this  ni^tT 

BuBTOB.  This  ni^t  w;aB  the  epicycle  of 
the  sun,  for  this  ni^t  my  Stella's  star 
declined. 

SmUiA.  No  astrotogica  in  dealing  with 
questions  of  honor!  Speak  i^inly,  and 
leave  the  sun  in  its  five  sones,  for  thou^ 
my  name  be  Stdla,  the  sun  does  not  oon- 
trol  me. 

Bmroa.  When  the  discordant  tones  of 
the  hdi  of  Cuevas  sounding  in  toe  sky 
marked  the .  middle  of  the  ni^t,  I  entered 
the  house,  and  fnund  in  it,  and  near  your 
very  room,  the  king  alone  and  in  disguise. 

SrvLLA.  What  say  you? 

Busroe.  I  speak  th«  truth.  Ask  yourself, 
Stdla,  why  the  king  could  have  come  to 
my  house  alone  at  such  an  hour,  if  he  came 
not  for  Stella.  Matilde  was  with  him:  I 
heard  her  step,  for  then  my  honor  waa  alert 
andkeen.  Idrew,and8aid;"Who'BthereT" 
"A  man,"  ha  answered.  I  advanced  upon 
him,  and  he  retreating,  said  he  was  the  long. 
And  although  I  recognised  him  at  once,  I 
pretended  not  to  know  him,  for  Heaven 
willed  to  give  me  torment.  He  attacked  me 
like  an  angry  and  offended  monarch,  for  a 
king  who  attacks  in  anger  fails  not  in  valor. 
Pages  came  with  lights,  and  then  he  turned 
his  back  lent  he  be  seen,  and  was  not  recog- 
niied  by  any.  I  questioned  the  idave,  and 
she,  without  need  of  torture,  oonfeased  the 


THE  STAR  OF  SEVILLE 


i8t 


truth.  The  kii^  gave  her  her  freedom, 
signed  in  s  p&per  that  he  wrote,  chief  nit- 
neee  in  the  case,  in  which  his  guilt  stood 
clear.  J  took  her  from  the'  bouseat  oi 
lest  her  infected  breath  sow  dishonor  within 
these  walls.  I  seiied  her  at  the  door,  and 
placing  her  upon  my  shoulders,  made  my 
way  to  the  palace,  and  for  her  crime  1 
hanged  her  from  the  railing;  for  I'd  have 
tbe  king  know  that  if  he  is  a  Tarquin,  I  will 
be  a  Brutus.  Now  you  know  aU,  Stella. 
Our  honor  is  in  danger,  I  am  foroed  to 
leave  you,  and  must  give  you  a  huaband. 
Bancho  Ortiz  it  shall  be,  for  in  his  care 
you  will  be  dehvered  from  the  designs  of  the 
king,  tmd  I  can  go  my  way  in  peace. 

Stklla.  Oh,  BustoB,  give  me  your  hand 
for  the  service  you  have  done  roe. 

BnsToa.  It  must  be  to-day,  and  till  I  see 
you  wed  to  him,  keep  silence,  tor  my  honor 
ia  at  stake. 

BrttUJL.  0  joy,  my  lovel  Thou  art  mine 
at  last,  uid  ahalt  not  escape  again.  And  yet, 
who  knows  the  end  from  the  beginning,  if 
between  the  cup  and  the  lip  the  sage  feared 
danger?  [Bxeuta  drSLLA  and  Buaros.] 

[SCKNB  V.   A  room  in  the  potoce.) 

[Enter  Ariab,  and  Oie  Kinq,  vnlA  two 
papers.] 

Arias.  Sanchos  Ortiz  de  las  Roeks  is 
waiting  in  the  antechamber. 

Kino.  All  of  love  is  trickery,  and  pity 
takes  hold  upon  me.  In  this  paper  I  have 
sealed  his  name  and  fate,  and  in  this  I  say 
that  I  command  his  death:  in  this  fashion 
the  killer  will  be  safeguarded.  Have  him 
come  in.  Then  draw  the  bolt  and  do  you 
remain  without. 

Amab.  Without? 

KiNQ.  Yes;  for  I  wish  him  to  see  that  I 
alone  am  in  the  secret.  Thus  my  desire 
oonceives  the  vengeance  more  asmWl. 

Abiab.    I'U  call  him.  [Exit.] 

Kino.  I  feav  this  is  no  glorious  or  lofty 
token  of  my  love. 

[BnUr  Sancho  OitTiz,] 

Samcbo.  I  kiss  your  feet. 

KiNQ.  Rise,  I  would  not  humble  you,  rise. 

Sancbo.  My  lord. 


KtNa  [atide].   A  noble  youth. 

Sancho.  My  lord,  it  is  not  strange  that 
I  should  be  confused,  being  no  courtier,  nor 
yet  orator. 

Kino.  Why,  tell  me:  What  see  you  in 
me? 

Sancho.  Majesty  and  valor;  and  in  fine 
I  see  in  you  God's  image,  since  the  king  is 
his  embodiment;  and  I  believe  in  you,  as 
I  do  in  Him.  I  submit  myself  here,  great 
Idng,  to  your  imperial  will. 

Kino.  What  is  your  state? 

Sancho.  Never  so  honored  as  I  am  to- 
day. 

Kino.  I  applaud  your  wisdom  and  your 
seal.  Now,  since  you  will  be  amdous,  and 
eager  to  learn  why  I  have  suromoned  you, 
I'll  tell  you,  and  will  see  if  I  have  in  you 
as  wsll  a  valiant  soldier.  My  interest  de- 
mands the  killing  of  a  man,  in  secret,  and 
this  task  I  mean  to  trust  to  yoti,  for  I  pre- 
fer you  to  all  others  in  the  city. 

Sancho.  Is  he  guilty? 

KiNQ.  He  is. 

Sancko.  Then,  why  a  secret  mutdw  fdr 
a  culi^it?  You  may,  in  justice,  pubUcljr 
eSect  bis  death,  without  killing  him  in  se- 
cret; for  thus  you  do  accuse  yourself,  accus- 
it^  him,  since  men  will  think  you  cause  his 
death  unjustly.  If  this  poor  man  has  but 
a  slight  offense,  my  lord,  I  ask  you  par- 
don him. 

ElNO.  Sancho  Ortii,  you  are  not  here  as 
advocate  for  him,  but  executioner.  And 
since  I  order  it,  hidhig  the  hand  that  strikes, 
it  must  be  that  it  interests  my  honor  to 
kill  him  thus.  Does  he  who  has  attacked 
my  person  merit  death? 

Sancho.  By  fire. 

Kino,  And  if  his  crime  was  that? 

Sancho.  My  lord,  I  would  demand  his 
death  at  once,  and  if 't  is  so,  then  I  will  give 
it,  though  he  were  my  brother,  and  hesi- 

KiNQ.  Give  me  your  hand  upon  it. 
Sancho.  And  with  it  my  soul  and  faith. 
Kino.  You  can  kill  him,  taking  hun  un- 

Sancho.  My  lord,  I  am  Roela  and  a 
soldier,  would  you  make  me  a  traitor?  I, 
kill  by  treachery  I  Face  to  face  I'll  kill  him, 
where  Seville  may  see,  in  street  or  market' 


i8a 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


[dace.  For  none  can  excuse  him  who  kills 
and  does  not  fight;  and  he  nho  dies  by 
treachery  fares  bett^  than  the  one  who  kills. 
Be  who  lives  thus  proulaims  his  perfidy  to 
all  he  meets. 

Kola.  Killhimasyoulike.  Youbearthis 
paper  signed  by  me,  ^  gusj'antee,  in  which 
it  states  that  1  have  pardoned  any  crime 
you  do.  Read.  [He  gUiee  him  a  paper.] 

Sancho.  It  reads  thus  [reaik] : 
"  "Sancho  OtUx,  At  onoe  tor  me  and  in 
my  name  give  death  to  him  this  papra 
indicates.  1  act  through  you,  and  il  you 
be  disturbed,  I  promise  you  herd^y  that  I 
shall  free  you.  "/  the  Kins." 

I  am  amaied  Your  Majesty  should  think 
someanlyof  me.  I,  a  promise!  a  paper!  My 
loyalty  trusts  more  in  you  than  it.  If  your 
words  have  efTect  to  move  the  hills,  and 
cany  out  whate'er  they  say,  give  me  your 
promise.  Sire,  and  then  I  need  no  paper. 
Destroy  it,  for  without  it  death  is  better 
sought  than  with  it,  since  to  some  degree 
the  paper  casts  discredit  on  your  word.  [He 
Itart  it.]  Without  a  paper,  Sire,  we  11 
pledge  ourselves,  and  promise,  I  to  avenge 
you,  you  to  protect  me.  If  so  it  be,  we  need 
no  documents  which  are  an  obstacle.  1  go 
at  once  to  e:n«ute  your  will,  and  only  ask 
you,  as  reward,  the  woman  whom  I  choose. 

Kino.  Be  she  a  duchess  of  Castile,  I  give 
her  to  you. 

Samcho,  May  you  r^ain  the  Moorish 
throne  1  May  your  glorious  possessions 
reach  the  sea,  and  even  to  the  pole  I 

Kmp.  Your  excellent  service,  Sancho, 
shall  be  reworded.  In  this  paper  is  the  name 
of  the  man  who  is  to  die.  [Owei  him  the 
paper.]  And  when  you  open  it,  be  not  dis- 
mayed. I  have  heard  it  said  in  Seville,  he 
is  btave, 

Sancho.  That  we  shall  see  hereafter. 

KtNO.  We  two  alone  this  secret  know.  I 
need  not  say,  be  prudent,  act,  and  keep 
your  counsel.  lExU.] 

[EiUeT  Clarindo.] 

Clarutoo.  I  have  sought  you,  my  lord, 
bearing  good  news.  I  ask  a  guerdon  for 
your  dearest  wish  fulfilled. 

-Sancho.  You  come  in  good  spirits. 


Clakindd.  Does  your  heart  not  divine 
the  guerdon?  IGiset  him  a  paper.] 

Sakcbo.  From  whom  is  this? 

Clakindo.  From  Stella,  who  was  fairer 
and  lovelier  than  the  .sun.  She  ordered  me 
to  give  you  this  paper  and  ask  a  guerdon. 

Sakcho.  For  what? 

CLABmno.  For  the  marriage,  which  v 
to  take  place  at  onoe. 

Sancho.  What  do  you  say?  This  joy 
will  kill  me.  Whatl  Stella  will  be  mine? 
The  glorious  radiance  of  Aurora  is  for  me? 
And  I  may  hope  that  the  sun's  golden  rays 
will  bathe  in  floods  of  light  our  former 
griefs?  [Read»:\ 

"My  huaband:  The  happy  day  so  long 
desired  has  arrived.  My  brother  seeks 
you,  to  crown  my  life,  and  to  reward  you. 
If  you  accord,  seek  him  at  once  and  lose 
00  time.  "  Your  SuUa." 

Oh,  fairest  moidt  What  height  may  I 
not  reach  with  such  a  star!  Advise  my 
steward  of  the  happy  bond  which  I  as- 
sume. Let  him  bring  forth  at  once  the  liv- 
eries reserved  for  this  event,  and  let  my  eer- 
Tonts  and  pages  put  on  their  hats  adorned 
with  finest  plumes.  And  if  you  claim  a 
guerdon,  take  this  hyacinth.  I  would  give 
even  the  sun,  if  it  were  mounted  in  a  ring. 

Clahindo.  May  you  outlive  the  very 
stones,  and  cling  like  ivy  to  your  bride! 
Nay,  since  T  love  you  so,  may  you  live 
longer  than  a  fool!  [Exit.] 

Sancho.  I  will  seek  Bustos,  for  I  am 
tormented  with  hope  and  eagemeas.  But 
with  this  marriage  and  my  joy,  I  had  for> 
got  the  king.  It  was  not  right.  The  paper 
is  unssaled;  I'll  see  who  is  it  must  be  killed. 
[Rtada:] 

"Sancho,  he  whom  you  must  Idll  is 
Bustoe  Tabera." 

Heaven  help  met  Is  this  his  will?  After 
joy,  disaster!  All  this  life  is  but  a  gome  of 
cE^ce,  the  cards  ill  shufQed  and  leading  to 
reverse  and  ruin,  for  it 's  all  in  gains  and 
losses,  like  a  game  of  cords.  I  won  at  first, 
but  now  my  luck  has  changed,  and  turned 
the  card  to  give  me  death.  Did  I  read 
aright?  But  I  should  not  have  read  it,  if 
the  paper  said  not  so.  I'll  look  again. 
[Btads.]  "Sancho,  he  whom  yon  must  kill 
is  BustoB  Tabera."   I  am  undone.  Whfti 


THE  STAR   OF   SEVILLE 


183 


■hall  I  do7  For  I  have  given  my  prmniM  to 
tbe  king,  and  I  shall  lose  his  Bister. .  .  . 
Soncho  Ortii,  it  must  not  be;  Buatoa  shjUl 
livel  —  But  it  ii  not  ri^t  that  my  deoire 
constraiD  my  honor.  Buatoa  sball  diel 
Buatoa  muat  diel  —  But  hold,  fierce  handl 
BustoB  muit  live,  shall  live!  —  But  I  can- 
not obey  my  honor,  it  I  jrield  to  love.  — 
But  who  can  reaist  the  force  of  love?  — 
T  is  better  that  I  die  or  go  avay,  bo  that  I 
Brave  the  king,  and  he  may  live.  —  But 
I  must  do  the  king's  will.  [Readt]  "  San- 
cho,  he  whom  you  must  kill  is  Bustos  Ta- 
bera."  —  Bat  if  the  king  kills  him  because 
of  Stella,  and  seeks  to  honor  her?  If  for 
Stella  he  kills  himi  Then  he  shall  not  die 
because  of  her.  I  will  offend  him  and  de- 
fend her.  —  But  I  am  a  gentleman,  and 
must  not  do  that  which  I  will,  but  what  I 
ought.  —  What  is  my  duty?  To  obey  the 
law  that  takes  precedence.  —  But  there  is 
no  law  that  forces  me  to  this  —  But  yes, 
there  is,  for  though  the  king  be  wrong,  he  is 
accountable  to  God.  My  mod  love  must 
give  way,  for  though  it  oost  me  cruel  grief, 
to  obey  the  king  is  right:  Bustos  must  die, 
shall  diel  None  may  rightly  say:  Bustos 
must  live,  shall  live!  Fotgive  me,  beloved 
Stella,  but  O  the  sacrifice,  to  renounce  you 
and  beoo'me  your  enemy.  What  shall  I  do? 
Can  I  do  otherwise? 

[EfOer  BusTOB  Tabera.) 

BuBTOs.  Brother,  T  am  blessed  by  fate 
in  finding  you 

Sancro  [atide].  And  I  am  cursed  by 
fate  in  meeting  you,  for  you  seek  me  to 
give  me  life,  but  I  seek  you  to  kill  you. 

Btnnos.  Brother,  the  hour  has  come  for 
your  desired  marriage. 

Samcho  laade].  The  hour  of  aH  my 
grief,  I'd  better  say.  O  Qodl  Was  ever 
man  in  such  despair?  That  I  should  have 
to  kill  the  man  I  most  have  loved  I  to  re- 
nounce his  sistert  to  lose  all  that  I  hold 

B^moa.  By  eontroct  you  are  thready 
wed  to  Stella. 

Sancho.  I  meant  to  marry  her,  but  now 
it  may  not  be,  although  you  grant  it. 

Bttbtos.  Do  you  know  me,  and  address 
RiQ  thus? 


Sanobo.  Because  I  know  you,  I  speak 
thus,  Tabera.  - 

Bustos.  If  you  know  me  to  be  Tabera, 
how  dare  you  use  such  words? 

Sancho.  i  speak  because  I  know  you. 

Bucrros.  You  btow  my  birth,  my  bkx>d, 
and  valor;  and  virtue,  which  is  honor,  for 
without  it  honor  never  was:  and  I  am  ag' 
grieved,  Sancho. 

Samcbo.  But  less  than  I. 

BiTBToe.  How  BO? 

Samcho.  To  have  to  speak  with  you. 

Bunos.  If  you  cast  reflection  on  my 
honor  or  my  faith,  you  basely  lie,  and  here 
I  do  maintain  it..  [He  drawi.] 

Sakcro.  What  have  you  to  maintain, 
villain?  [Atide.]  Forgive  me,  love;  the 
king's  excess  has  made  me  mod,  and  none 
may  resist  me  now.  IThev  fishti 

Bnnos.  You've  killed  me;  stay  your 

Sancbo.  Ahl  I  am  beside  myself  and 
wounded  yoa  unknowing.  But  now  I  beg 
you,  brother,  unoe  I  have  regained  my 
sense,  to  Idtl  me.  Sheathe  your  sword 
within  my  breast,  and  open  passage  for  my 
soul. 

Bustos.  Brother,  I  leave  my  Stella  in 
youT  care.  Farewell.  [He  Jim.] 

Sancho.  0  cruel  sword!  0  bloody,  sav- 
agemurderl  Sincethouhast  taken  half  my 
life,  complete  thy  work,  that  my  soul  ma; 
eq>iato  ttaa  other  wound. 
[Enier  two  aicaUei,  Pedro  and  Fabfan.] 

PuDKO.  What's  this?   Hold  your  hand. 

Sancho.  Why  stay  me  if  I've  killed  one 
dear  to  me? 

Fabpak.  0  what  confusion! 

Peobo.  What  is  this? 

Sancho.  I  have  killed  my  brother.  I  am 
a  Cain  in  Seville,  since  in  cruel  vengeance  I 
killed  an  innocent  Abel.  You  see  him;  kill 
me  here,  for  since  he  dies  through  me  I  seek 
to  die  ttuough  him. 

[Enter  Arias.] 

Arias.  What's  this? 

Sakcho.  a  cruel  violence,  for  such  is  the 
effect  in  man  of  promises  fulfilled,  and 
purest  loyalty.  Tell  the  king  my  master 
Uiat  Sevillians  keep  their  promises  by  acts. 


t84 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


u  you  see  here;  aod  for  them  they  offend 
the  atoiB,  and  Imow  no  brother. 

Pbdro.  Has  he  killed  Bustos  TaberaT 

Arias.  0  tihaX  a  rash  deedl 

Samchd.  Seiw  me,  take  me  priscner,  for 
it  is  right  that  be  who  kills  should  die.  See 
what  a  cruel  deed  love  made  me  under- 
take, for  it  haa  forced  me  to  kill  him,  and 
has  forced  me  to  die.  Now  through  him  I 
come  to  ask  the  death  he  owee  to  me. 

PxDRO.  Take  him  a  priaonet  to  Triana, 
for  the  city  is  in  confusion. 

Sancho.  O  Buatos.  Tabera,  my  friend! 

Pabfak.  The  man  has  lost  his  mind. 

Sancbo.  Gentlemen,  let  me  bear  away 
the.  cold  form,  bathed  in  its  noble  blood, 
for  so  I  shall  support  him,  and  will  give 
him  for  a  space  t^  life  that  I  have  taken. 

Pkdro.  He's  mad. 

Sancbo.  If  I  have  violated  friendship,  I 
have  kept  t^  law,  and  that,  air,  is  to  be 
king;  and  that,  sir,  is  not  to  be  king.  Un- 
derstand me,  or  understand  me  not,  for 
I  'il  be  silent.  I  killed  him,  there  is  no  deny- 
ing, but  I  will  not  answer  why;  let  another 
tell  the  reason,  for  I  confess  I  killed  him. 
[They  lake  him  and  exeunt.] 

(Scmflt  VI.  A  room  in  Tabera's  Aouw.] 
\Bnter  Sncu^  and  TsoDORA.] 

Stbli^.  I  know  not  if  I  dressed  me  well, 
for  I  did  drees  in  haste.  Give  me  the  mir- 
ror, Teodora. 

TxoDORA.  You  have  but  to  regard 
within  yourself,  my  lady,  for  there  is  no 
glass  that  tells  such  truths,  nor  shows  the 
image  of  such  beauty. 

Stclla.  My  face  is  flushed,  my  oolor 

Teodora.  Your  blood,  my  lady,  has 
mounted  to  your  cheek,  'twixt  fear  and 
modesty,  to  celebrate  your  joy. 

SfTEhhA.  It  seems  to  me  already  that  I 
see  my  husband  come,  his  face  all  wreathed 
in  smiles,  with  soft  caress  to  take  my  hand; 
—  I  seem  to  hear  him  utter  a  thousand 
tender  words,  and  that  my  soul  on  hear- 
ing leaps  into  my  eyes,  and  takes  possession 
of  them.  0  happy  dayl  O  my  guiding  start 

Teodora.  I  hear  a  knock.  [Dropt  imr- 
iw.]  The  envious  mirror  fell.  ■  [SA«  ptdc*  il 


up.)    The  glass  within  the  frame  of  one 
light  made  a  thousand. 

Stblla.  Did  it  breakT 

Teodora.  Yee,  my  lady. 

SteijLa.  'T  is  well,  for  I  await  the  mir- 
ror, Teodora,  in  which  my  eyes  will  see 
another  self,  and  since  I  shall  have  such  a 
mirror,  let  this  one  break,  for  I  would  not 
have  this  serve  as  mirror  when  he  comes. 
{Enter  Clabindo  in  gaia  drew\ 

Clabtndo.  This  dress  announces  Joy 
and  happiness,  for  my  plumes  already  pro- 
claim the  wedding.  I  gave  the  paper  to  my 
master,  and  he  gave  this  ring  for  guerdon. 

Steu-a.  Then  I  will  change  this  guerdon 
for  you.   Give  it  me,  and  take  this  diamond. 

CiuUUNDO.  The  stone  is  split  in  two;  it 
is  for  melancholy;  they  say  that  hyacinths 
have  this  comi^aint,  idthough  they  loee  it. 
It's  split  in  two. 

STEIX.A.  What  matter  that  't  is  broken! 
The  very  jeweb  feel  my  joy  and  happiness. 
O  happy  day!  O  my  gutding  atari 

Tbodora.  I  hear  people  in  the  court- 
yard. 

C1.AIUND0.  I  think  I  hear  t^  guests 
upon  the  stairs. 

9rBLi^.  Hjw  can  I  bear  my.  joy?  . .  . 
But  what  is  this? 

[Emer  ikt  turn  akaidw  unlA  Tabera's  hody\ 

Pedro.  Disaster  and  sorrow  are  the  lot 
of  man;  for  life  is  a.  sea  of  tears.  Don 
Bustos  Tabera  is  dead. 

Stella.  0  hostile  fate! 

Pedro.  One  consolation  still  remains  to 
you,  which  is  that  the  murderer,  Sancbo 
Ortii  de  las  Roelae,  is  a  prisoner,  and  that 
he  will  suffer  the  penalty  to-morrow  with- 
out fail. 

Stella.  Leave  me,  0  cruel  men,  for  in 
your  words  you  bear  the  torments  of  hell. 
My  brother  dead,  and  killed  by  Sancho 
Ortiz!  Can  one  pronounce  these  words,  or 
listen  to  them,  and  not  die?  I  must  be 
stone,  for  I  am  still  alive.  O  fat«ful  doyl 
O  my  guiding  start  But  if  you  have  hu- 
man pity,  kill  me. 

PxnRo.  Her  grief  dements  her,  and  w«n 
may. 

foELLA.     Unhappy   is    my   starl     M7 


THE  STAR  OF  SEVILLE 


•i85 


broUwr  is  dead,  and  Sanoho  Ortit  killed 
him,  aad  broke  time  hearts  in  one!  Leave 
me,  for  I'm  lost  indeed.        [Slarti  to  go.] 

PxDBo.  She's  deoperato. 

Fabtan.  Unhappy  maid! 

Pedko.  Follow  her. 

CiAHiNSO.  My  lady  . .  . 

SrBUiA.  Leave  me,  wretch,  henchman 
<rf  that  murderarl  Now,  since  all  is  ended, 
I 'II  end  my  life  as  wdl.  Unhappy  day! 
O  my  guiding  start  [Exeunt.] 


[ScBNE  I.  A  room  ii 


PSDRO.  He  confesBea  that  he  killed  him,-' 
but  be  will  not  confcBS  why. 

EiNa.  Does  he  oat  say  what  impelled 

Farfan.  He  only  answen  "I  do  not 
know." 

Abiab.  Qieat  mystery  I 

Kcta.  Does  he  say  whether  there  waa 
provocation? 

Pedro.  In  no  wiao,  my  lord. 

Arias.  What  obstinate  temerityl 

Fartan.  He  says  be  killed  him,  but  he 
knows  not  if  't  was  right.  He  only  con- 
fesses that  he  killed  him,  because  he  awore 
to  feill  him. 

Abias.  He  must  have  given  provocation. 

PiDHO.  He  says  not  so. 

EiNo.  Go  back  and  speak  to  him  for  me, 
and  say  that  I  demand  bis  plea.  Tell  him 
I  am  hia  friend,  but  I  will  be  his  enemy  in 
rigorous  punishment.  Let  him  declare  on 
what  provocation  he  killed  Bustoa  Tabera, 
and  give  in  summary  phrase  the  reason  for 
the  crime,  rather  than  meet  death  in  ob- 
stinacy. Let  him  aay  who  ordered  him,  or 
on  i^ose  account  he  killed  him,  or  what 
incitement  moved  him  to  this  act;  that  on 
this  condition  I  will  show  him  mercy,  else 
be  must  prepan  to  die. 

Pkdbo.  T  is  that  he  most  desires;  hia 
grief  has  made  him  mad:  after  a  deed  so 
odious,  so  barbarous  and  cruel,  he  is  bereft 


Knta.  Does  he  complain  of  any  man? 

Fabtak.  No,  Siie.  He  takes  comisel 
only  ef  his  giief. 

Kma.  Rare  and  noble  courage. 

Fabtan.  He  is  silent  on  the  crimes  of 
others,  and  blamee  himself  alone. 

KiNQ.  Never  in  the  world  were  two  such 
men;  as  I  perceive  their  valor,  it  astounds 
me  more  and  more.  Tell  him  from  me  to 
name  who  caused  the  death  or  urged  bim 
to  it;  and  warn  him  that  he  should  declare 
it,  though  't  were  the  king.  If  he  do  not 
confess  at  once,  to-morrow  on  the  scaffold 
he  shall  serve  as  warning  to  Seville. 

AsiAS.  I  go. 

[ExeiaU  alealdtt  and  AwAS.] 
[Enter  Dok  Manuel.) 

MANimii.  DoOa  Stella  begs  permianon 
to  kiss  your  hand. 

King.  Who  prevents  her? 

Manuel.  The  citisens,  my  lord. 

Kino.  She  measures  her  act  with  reason. 
Give  me  a  chaur,  and  let  her  enter  now. 

Manuel.  I'll  go  for  her.  [Sxit.] 

Kino.     She   will    come   radiant   with 
beauty,  like  the  star  that  appears  in  heaven 
after  a  storm. 
[BTiter  Don  Manuel,  Stella,  and  people.] 

Manuel.  She  is  here,  beautiful  as  the 
sun,  but  a  sun  whose  summer  radiance  has 
turned  oold  as  stone. 

SrELiiA.  Don  Sanoho,  most  Chhstian 
and  illustrious  monarch  of  Castile,  famous 
for  your  exploits,  celebrated  for  virtue:  an 
unhappy  star,  her  bright  rays  veiled  in 
mourning,  in  dark  clouds  gathered  by 
weeping,  oomee  to  implore  justice;  not, 
however,  that  you  administer  it,  but  that 
you  leave  my  vengeance  in  my  hands.  I 
would  not  dry  my  eyes,  for  drowned  in 
toan,  my  grief  commands  respect.  I  loved 
my  brother  Tabera,  whose  concerns  are 
now  of  heaven,  where  he  treads  the  starry 
streets  of  paradise.  As  a  brother  he  pro- 
tected me,  and  I  obeyed  him  as  a  father, 
and  respected  his  commands.  I  lived  in 
happiness  with  him,  and  sheltered  from  the 
sun,  though  its  beams  but  rarely  assailed 
my  window.  Seville  envied  oiu  mutual 
affection,  and  all  believed  we  were  twin 


186 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


stATO  reduced  to  one.  A  cruel  hunter  bends 
bis  bow  upon  my  brother,  and  ends  our 
happineflB.  I  have  loat  my  brother,  I  have 
lost  my  husband,  I  am  left  alone.  And  you 
do  not  haaten  to  your  royal  duty,  from 
which  none  haa  releaand  youl  Justice, 
Sire!  Give  me  the  murderer,  fulfill  the  law 
in  this;  let  me  pass  judgment  on  him. 

KiNQ.  Be  comforted,  and  dry  your  eyes, 
else  will  my  palace  bunt  in  flame,  for  stars 
are  tears  of  the  sun,  as  each  of  its  rays  is 
top&E.  Let  Aurora  gather  her  riches  in 
them,  if  the  new-bom  sun  gives  her  the 
time,  and  let  heaven  treasure  them,  for 
't  is  not  right  that  they  be  squandered 
here.  Take  this  ring,  it  irill  open  the  castle 
of  Triana  for  you.  Let  them  deliver  him 
to  you,  and  be  hi  him  the  cruel  tigress  of 
Hircanian  oiiffs;  —  although  the  storks  in 
flight  urge  us  to  pity  and  to  weak  compas- 
sion, for  it  is  true,  surprising  though  it  be, 
that  birds  and  beasts  confound  man's 
savagery. 

9rEUA.  In  this  case.  Sire,  severity  'a  a 
virtue,  tor  if  in  me  were  silver  and  gold, 
I'd  tear  them  from  my  head,  and  cover 
my  face  with  u|d>i>eflSi  though  't  were  by 
butnii^  coals.  If  one  Tabera  's  dead,  an- 
other lives,  and  if  Tsbera's  shame  is  in  my 
face,  my  hands  shall  tear  my  flesh  till  it 
strike  terror  to  the  hardest  heart. 

[Exeunt  aU  but  the  Einq.] 

KiNQ.  If  they  deliver  Sancfao  Ortis  to 
her,  I  believe  she'll  slay  him  with  her  own 
hands.  Can  God  permit  such  cruelty  to  be 
in  form  so  fair  and  wonderful!  Bee  what 
a  deed  mad  passion  doth  commit:  I  did 
incite  Sancho  Ortii,  and  now  I  give  him  up, 
for  love  treads  under  foot  the  royal  purple 
and  promulgatcfl  his  decrees  at  his  own 
\Sxit.] 


{Scene  II.  A  prison.] 
[Enter  Sancho,  Clahindo,  and 


SxNCBO.  Have  you  not  made  some  verses 
on  my  fate,  Clarindo? 

Clarinik).  Who  would  write  verses,  my 
lord,  when  poetry  is  so  ill  paid?  At  the 
festival  in  the  market-place,  many  asked 
verses  from  me,  and  later  seeiiig  me  in  the 


streets,  would  say  to  me,  as  if  I  were  a 
tailor,  or  repairer,  "la  not  the  compliment 
finished?"  and  urged  me  ta  more  haste 
than  for  a  mended  doublet.  And  had  I  not 
been  hungry,  I'd  have  excelled  Anaxagoraa 
in  silence,  and  would  have  made  a  jest  of 
Greek  and  Latin  genius. 

[Enter  the  alaalda  and  Arias.) 

Pedbo.  Enter. 

CiiARiNDO.  I  believe  these  men  have 
come,  my  lord,  to  inform  you  of  your  sen- 

Sancho  [to  fmindaiu].  Then  quickly 
b^in  a  song.  Now  is  death  welcome,  and 
I  wish  by  singing  to  give  evidence  of  my 
content.  Besides,  I'd  show  them  my  forti- 
tude, and  that  death  itself  has  no  power  to 

Ci^ABiNDO.    Admiraijle  courage!    What 
better  could  a  drunken  Teuton  do,  his  soul 
steeped  in  oldest  wineT 
Musicians  [sing]. 

Since  my  unhappy  fata 
Consists  in  living. 
So  long  as  death  delays, 
It  stays  my  dying. 
CiABiNDO.    An  excellent  enigma  that 
they  singt 
Sancbo.  a  timely  sentiment. 

MUSICIAKS. 

There'B  naught  in  life  like  death 
For  one  who  lives  a-dyinf . 

Pbdro.  Is  this  a  time  for  music,  sir? 

Sancho.  Why,  what  better  ent^lain- 
ment  in  their  misery  can  prisoners  have? 

Fartan.  Can  one  be  entertained  by 
music  when  death  threatens  him  hourly, 
and  when  he  momentarily  awaito  the  sen- 
tence of  his  harsh  judgment? 

Sancbo,  I  am  a  swan,  and  sing  before 
Idle. 

Fabtan.  The  time  baa  come. 

Sancho.  I  kiss  your  hands  and  feet,  for 
the  news  you  give  me.  O  blessed  day  of  my 
desire! 

pEnno.  Sanoho  Ortis  de  las  Roelas,  do 
you  confess  you  killed  Bustos  TaberaT 

Sancho.  Yes,  I  declare  it  here  aloud. 
Seek  barbarous  punistunente,  invent  new 
tortures,  that  shall  make  Spain  forget 
Phalaris  and  Mazentius. 


Google 


THE  STAR  OF   SEVILLE 


.8, 


Fastan.  Then  did  you  kill  him  un- 
provoked? 

Sancho.  I  killed  him;  that  I  do  confess. 
The  cause,  since  I  have  kept  it  secret,  if 
there  be  any  man  who  knows  it,  let  him  telJ ; 
for  I  know  not  why  he  died,  I  Only  know  I 
killed  him  without  knowing. 

FsDRO.  It  seems  a  treachery  to  kill  him 
without  cause. 

Sajicho.  He  certainty  gave  cause,  since 
he  is  dead. 

Pkdbo.  To  whom? 

Samcho.  To  him  who  brought  me  where 
I  am,  to  this  extremity. 

PlDKO.  Who  is  it? 

Sancho.  I  cannottell.beoauae  he  charged 
me  secrecy.  And  if  I  acted  like  a  king,  I 
will  keep  silence  like  one,  &nd  to  put  me  to 
death,  you  need  but  Imow  tbiLt  I  have 
kilted  him,  without  demanding  why. 

Arias.  SeSor  Sancho  Ortii,  I  come  to 
jnHi  in  the  kite's  name,  to  ask  that  you 
confess,  at  his  request,  who  caused  this 
mad  disorder.  If  you  did  it  for  friends,  for 
women,  or  for  reUtivee,  or  for  some  man 
in  ptmer,  some  grandee  of  tiiia  i^m,  and 
if  you  have  from  him  some  paper,  safe-- 
guard,  or  agreement,  written  or  signed  by 
his  hsind,  show  it  at  once,  and  thereby  do 
your  duty. 

Sancho.  If  I  do  so,  my  lord,  T  dhaJI  not 
do  my  duty.  Say  to  His  Majesty,  my  friend, 
that  I  fulfill  my  promise,  and  if  he  is  Don 
Sancho  the  Bold  I  bear  the  same  name. 
Tell  him  that  I  may  have  had  a  paper,  but 
be  insults  me  when  he  asks  for  papers,  hav- 
ing seen  them  torn.  I  killed  Bustoe  Tabera, 
and  though  I  might  free  myself  now,  I  will 
not,  because  I  know  I  break  a  promise.  I 
keep  my  promise  like  a  king,  and  T  have 
done  that  I  did  promise,  and  he  should  do 
the  same  who  also  promises.  Let  him  now 
act  whose  obligation  is  to  speak,  for  I  ful- 
filled my  obligation  in  action. 

Abiab.  If  you  can  justify  yourself  by  a 
word,  't  is  madness  to  refuse  it, 

Samcho.  I  am  who  I  am,  and  being  who 
I  am,  I  avenge  myself  by  my  silence,  and 
I  defy  one  who  keeps  silence.  And  who 
is  who  he  is,  let  him  act  as  who  he  is,  and 
so  we  shall  both  act  as  b^ts  us, 

AaiAB.  I'll  say  that  to  His  Majesty. 


FliDBO.  Sancho  Ortis,  you  have  done  a 
thing  most  ill  advised,  and  you  have  acted 

Faxfan.  You  have  offended  the  munici- 
pality of  Seville,  and  exposed  your  life  to  her 
severity,  your  neck  to  her  just  vengeance. 
[Exeioii  the  altaidet  and  Abias.) 

C1.AJUND0.  Is  it  possible  that  you  ac- 
cept such  insults? 

Sancho.  I  consent  that  men  should 
punish  me,  and  Heaven  confound  me:  and 
already,  Clarindo,  it  begins.  Do  you  not 
hear  a  confused  clamor?  The  air  's  afiame 
with  thunderbolts  and  lightning:  one  sweeps 
upon  me  like  a  serpent,  describing  swift 
curves  of  fire. 

CnABiNDO.  I  think  that  he  has  lost  his 
wits.  I  '11  follow  his  humor. 

Sakcbo.  How  I  bum  I 

Clarindo.  How  I  broil  1 

Sancho.  Did  the  bolt  strike  you  too? 

CLARiNno.  Do  you  not  see  me  in  aahee,? 

Sancho.  God  save  usi 

Clarindo.  Yes,  my  lord,  I  am  the  ashes 
of  a  fagot. 

Sancho.  We  are  now  in  the  other  world. 

Clarinso.  In  hell,  I  think, 

Sancho.    In  hell,  Clarindo?    Why  say 

CnARiNDO,  Because  I  see  in  yonder  cas- 
tle, my  lord,  a  thousand  lying  tailors, 

Sancho.  You  rightly  aay  wa  'ra  there; 
for  Pride  is  burning  upon  yon  tower  formed 
of  the  arrogant  and  haughty;  there  I  see 
Ambition  drinking  a  river  of  fire. 

CnABiNno.  And  farther  on  there  is  a 
legion  of  cabmen. 

Sancbo.  If  coaches  pass  through  here, 
they'll  wreck  the  place.  But  if  this  is  hell, 
why  do  we  see  no  lawyers? 

Clarindo.  They  won't  receive  them, 
lest  they  bring  lawsuits  here. 

Sancho.  If  there  are  no  lawsuits  here, 
hril's  not  so  bad. 

CnARiNDO,  Aha!  There  is  the  tyrant 
Honor,  bearing  a  crowd  of  fools,  who  suf- 
fer for  honor. 

Sancho.  I'll  join  them.  —  Honor,  an 
honorable  fool  comes  to  be  your  servant, 
for  not  violating  your  laws.  —  Friend,  you 
have  done  badly,  for  true  honor  consists 
to-day  in  having  none.    Dost  seek  me 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


yonder,  and  for  a  thousand  centuriea  I've 
been  dead!  Seek  wealth,  my  friend,  for 
wealth  is  honor.  What  did  you  do?  —I 
sought  to  keep  a  promise.  —  You  make  me 
laugh.  Do  you  keep  promisee?  You  seem 
a  sim[deton,  for  not  to  keep  a  promise  is  a 
noble  act  these  days.  —  1  promised  to  kill 
a  man,  and  raging  kilted  him,  though  he 
was  my  friend.  —  Bad  I 

Clabindo.  At  least  not  goodl 

Sancbo.  At  least  not  good.  Put  him  in 
y>rison,  and  condemn  him  for  a  fool.  — 
Honor,  I  lost  hie  sister,  and  now  I  suffer  in 
that  I  did  fi^t  him.  —  No  matter. 

CLARiNno.  God  help  mel  If  I  let  him 
continue  further,  he  will  be  mad  entirely. 
I  will  invent  a  trick.  [He  ghotdM.] 

Sancho.  Who  calls?  Who  calls? 

Clabindo.  It  is  the  dog  Cerberus  who 
calls,  the  porter  of  this  palace.  Do  you  not 
know  me? 

Sancho.  Methinks  I  do. 

Clariitoo.  And  who  are  you? 

Sancho.  A  man  of  honor, 

CLARinno.  What!    In  here!    Bq^ne. 

Sancho.  What  say  you? 

Clarindo.  Go  out  at  once;  this  place  is 
not  for  men  of  honor.  Seize  him,  and  take 
him  bound  to  the  other  world,  to  the  prison 
of  Seville,  on  the  wind,  but  bandage  his 
eyes,  that  he  may  fly  without  fear.  —  Now 
hia  eyes  are  covered.  —  Now  let  the  lame 
devil  on  his  shoulders  take  him  there  at  a 
leap,  —At  a  leap?  I  am  content.  — Go, 
and  take  aleo  his  companion  by  the  hand, 
[Oivti  him  a  whirl,  and  rtUanet  kim.]  — 
Now  you  are  in  the  world,  my  friend,  God 
be  with  you,  as  with  me. 

Sancho.  God,  said  he? 

Clabinuo,  Yes,  my  lord,  for  this  devil, 
before  he  was  one,  was  a  baptiied  Chris- 
tian, and  is  a  Gallego  of  Caldefrancos. 

Sancho,  It  seema  to  me  that  I  am  wak- 
ing from  a  trance.  God  help  me!  OStellal 
How  wretched  la  my  fate  without  youl 
But  since  I  caused  your  grief,  I  deserve  my 
punishment. 


Stblla.  Deliver  me  the  prisoner  at  once. 
Govehnob.    Here  is  the  prisoner,  my 


tady,  and  as  the  king  commands  me,  I  d» 
liver  him  to  your  hands.  Sefior  Sancha 
Ortii,  His  Majesty  commands  us  to  deliver 
you  to  this  lady. 

Stella.  Sir,  come  with  me. 

Sancho.  I  welcome  your  compassion, 
if  it  is  to  kill  me,  for  I  desire  death. 

Stella.  Give  me  your  hand  and  come. 

Clarinoo.  Does  it  not  seem  enchant- 
ment? 

Stella.  Let  no  one  follow  us,   [Exeunt.] 

CLARtNno.  'T  is  well.  In  faith,  we're 
travelii^  well,  from  hell  to  Seville,  and 
from  SeviUe  to  hell!  Please  God  this  Star 
reveal  herself  as  Venusl  [Exit.] 

(Scene  III    Outside  the  prUon.] 


Stella.  Now  I  have  placed  you  at 
liberty.  Go  with  God,  Sancho  OrUc,  and 
remember  that  I  have  been  merciful  and 
compassionate.  Go  with  God!  Go.  Youar« 
free,  Whydoyoulinger?  Whylookyouso? 
Why  hesitate?  He  who  delays  is  wasting 
'time.  Go,  for  a  horse  awaita  you  on  which 
you  can  escape;  the  servant  has  money  fol 
the  journey, 

Sancho.  Madame,  I  kiss  your  feet. 

Stella.  Go,  for  there  is  no  time  b)  lose 

Sancho.  With  heavy  heart  I  go.  May 
I  not  know  who  has  liberated  me,  that  1 
may  give  thanks  for  such  mercy? 

Stella,  A  woman;  I  wish  you  well,  for 
I  give  you  liberty,  having  it  in  my  discrS' 
tion.   Go  with  God. 

Sakcho.  I  will  not  pass  from  here,  ex- 
cept you  tell  me  who  you  are,  or  let  me  see 
your  face. 

Steu.a.  1  cannot  now. 

Sancho.  I  wish  to  repay  you  for  my  life, 
and  freedom:  I  must  know  to  whom  I  owe 
such  obligation,  acknowledging  this  debt. 

Stella.  I  am  a  woman  of  noble  birth,  . 
and  moreover,  the  one  who  lovee  you  best, 
and  whom  you  love  least.   Go  with  God. 

Sancho.  I  will  not  go  if  you  do  not  un- 

Stella.  That  you  may  go,  I  am  .  . . 
(t/nooMraJ 
Sancho.  Stella,  star  of  my  Boull 


.CjO.c^^^Ic 


THE  STAR  OF  SEVILLE 


>«9 


SiKiLA.  AitArIuti,thatguideflyou,  the 
omen  of  your  life.  Go,  for  thug  does  love 
o'ereome  the  force  of  etemness,  for  aa  I  love 
you,  so  &m  I  to  you  a  favoring  Star. 

Sancho.  You!  reeplendent  and  f&ir,  in 
praaeace  of  your  mortal  enemy!  You! 
Such  pity  for  mel  Treat  me  more  cruelly, 
for  here  pity  is  cruelty,  for  pity  is  punish- 
ment.  E&ve  me  put  to  death,  seek  not  so 
generously  to  do  me  harm  with  good,  when 
good  is  to  my  harm.  Give  liberty  to  one 
who  killed  your  brother!  It  is  not  right 
that  I  should  live,  since  he  met  death 
through  me.  And  it  is  right  that  one  who 
thus  lost  a  friend  should  lose  you  too.  In 
freedom  now  I  thus  deliver  myself  to  death, 
for  if  I  were  a  prisoner,  how  should  I  ask 
for  death? 

Stella.  My  love  is  finer  and  stronger, 
and  so  I  give  you  life. 

Sancho.  Then  I  will  go  to  death,  since 
't  is  your  will  to  free  me,  for  if  you  act  aa 
who  you  are,  I  have  to  act  my  part. 

BncLLA.  Why  do  you  dieT 

Sakcho.  To  avenge  you. 

Seblla.  For  what  7 

Sancho.  For  my  treachery. 

Stblla.  'T  is  cruelty. 

Sakcho.  'T  ta  justice. 

Btella.  There  is  no  plaintiff. 

Sancbo.  I(Ove  is  plaintiff. 

SrxLLA.  'T  IB  to  offend  me. 

SanchO'  'T  is  to  love  you. 

Stella.  How  do  you  prove  it? 

Sancho.  By  dying. 

Stella.  Nay,  you  insult  me. 

Sancho.  By  living. 

Stella.  Hear  me. 

Sancbo.  There  is  nothing  to  be  said. 

Stella.  Where  are  you  going? 

Sancho.  I  go  to  die,  since  by  my  life  I 
(rffend  you. 

Stella.  Go,  and  leave  me. 

Sancho.  It  is  not  well. 

SrSLiut.  Live,  and  take  your  freedom. 

Sancho.  It  is  not  right. 

Stella.  Why  do  you  die? 

Sancbo.  It  is  my  pleasure. 

Stella.  'T  is  cruelty. 

Sancho.  'T  is  honor,  too. 

Stella.  Who  accuses  you? 

Sahcho.  Your  ^^i^^|lip 


Stella.  I  have  none. 
Sancho.  I  sm-unmoved. 
Stella.  Are  you  in  your  senses? 
Sancho.  I  am  in  my  honor,  and  I  offend 

ydu  by  living. 

Stella.  Then,  madman,  go  and  die,  for 
I  will  also  die.     [Exeunt  on  opposite  mdw.) 

[Scene  IV.  A  room  in  the  palace] 
[Enter  the  Kma  and  Abias.] 

KiNQ.  And  so  he'll  not  confess  that  I 
commanded  him  to  kill? 

Arias.  I  ne'er  saw  bronn  more  firm. 
His  whole  intent  is  to  deny.  He  said  at 
last  that  he  has  fulfilled  his  obligation,  and 
that  it  is  right  that  he  to  whom  he  owed 
the  obligation  now  keep  his  word. 

Kino.  He  hopes  to  force  me  by  his 
silence. 

Abias.  Indeed  he  has  constrained  you. 

Kino.  He  has  fulfilled  his  promise,  and  I 
am  sore  perplexed  not  to  be  able  to  keep  the 
word  I  gave  him  in  a  moment  ol  anger. 

Arias.  You  cannot  evade  a  promise 
given,  for  if  9a  ordinary  man  must  keep  it, 
in  a  king's  mouth  It  becomes  law,  uid  all 
must  bow  before  the  low. 

Kino.  'T  is  true,  when  the  law  is  inter- 
preted by  natural  right. 

Abias.  It  is  an  obligation.  The  vassal 
does  not  question  the  Uw  of  the  king;  the 
vassal  can  only  execute  the  law,  blindly  and 
unquestioning;  and  it  is  for  the  king  to  take 
thought.  In  this  instance  you  did  give  it 
in  a  paper,  and  since  he  executed  it  without 
the  paper,  you  ore  bound  to  fulfill  to  him 
the  law  you  made  in  ordering  him  to  kill 
Bustos  Tat)era;  for  had  it  not  been  by  your 
command,  he  had  not  killed  him. 

Kino.  Then  must 'I  say  that  I  ordered 
his  death,  and  used  such  cruelty  to  one  who 
never  offended  me?  What  will  the  council 
of  Seville  say  of  me,  Arias,  when  it  sees  I 
was  the  cause?  And  what  will  be  said  in 
Caatille  when  Don  Alonso  there  already 
calls  me  tyrant,  and  the  Roman  pontiff 
attacks  me  with  bis  censure?  Perchance  he 
will  take  up  my  nephew's  claims,  and  his 
support  assures  them.  I  fail  in  my  desires 
likewise,  I  see,  if  I  let  Sancbo  die,  and  thaf 
i«  baseness.  WbatshaUIdo? 

.CuX 


190 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


AsiAB.  YourHighDeMmay  mthflatteiy 
win  the  slcaldee,  and  afdc  them  that  by 
exile  Sancho  Ortii  pay  far  hia  crime  and 
grievous  fault,  Buppreesing  greater  rigore; 
thus  do  you  intercede  for  him.  You  may 
make  him  general  on  some  frontier,  and  BO 
you  reward  him  with  a  laurel  crown. 

Kino.  You  aay  well;  but  if  DoOa Stella,  to 
whom  I  gave  my  ring,  has  already  wreaked 
vengeance  on  him,  what  shall  we  do  then? 

Anus.  All  shall  be  put  in  order.  I  will 
go  in  your  name  and  seiie  her  person  al- 
leging your  order,  and  will  bring  her  alone 
and  secretly  to  the  palace.  Here  you  may 
win  her  to  your  design;  and  to  persuade 
her,  you  may  many  her  to  some  grandee 
of  tiie  court,  for  her  virtue  and  her  rank  de- 
serve a  noble  husband. 

Kma.  How  I  repent  my  weakness, 
Ariasl  The  aage  well  says  that  he  alone  is 
wise  who  is  upon  occasion  prudent,  as  on 
ocoBsion  stem.  Go  now  and  take  Stella, 
since  by  her  capture  you  free  me  from  my 
perplexity.  And  to  placate  her  I  will  many 
her  to  a  Duk»  of  Castile,  and  could  I  give 
my  throne,  would  put  her  in  my  place,  for 
nicfa  a  brother  and  sister  merit  immortal 
glory, 

AsiAB.  The  people  of  this  city  dim  the 

glory  of  Rome.  [Snt  Arias.] 

[Enter  Ihe  Governor  of  the  prieon.] 

Governor.  I  kiss  Your  Highness'  feet. 

KiNQ.  Pedro  de  Caus,  what  occasion 
brings  you  to  my  feet? 

Governor.  Sire,  this  ring,  engraved 
with  your  arms,  is  it  not  Your  Majesty's? 

Kino.  Yes,  this  is  pardon  and  safeguard 
for  any  crime  you  may  have  done. 

Governor.  O  mighty  king,  there  came 
with  it  to  Triana  a  woman  closely  veiled, 
saying  that  Your  Highness  ordered  San- 
cho OrtJK  be  delivered  her.  I  referred  your 
mandate  to  the  guards,  together  with  tbe 
ring,  and  all  were  of  opinion  that  he  be 
delivered.  I  rdeased  him,  but  shortly 
Bancho  Ortii,  like  a  madman,  with  loud 
cries,  begs  that  the  castle  gate  be  opened. 
"I  will  not  do  the  king's  command,"  be 
said,  "and  wish  to  die,  for  it  is  right  that  he 
who  kills  shoulri  die."  I  refused  admit- 
tance, but  he  shouted  so  I  was  obliged  to 


open.  He  entered,  and  in  joy  he  waits  lot 
death. 

Kttra.  I  never  saw  such  noble  or  such 
Christian  folk  as  in  this  city.  Bronae, 
marble,  statues,  may  be  silent. 

Govirnob.  The  woman  says,  my  lord, 
she  gave  him  freedom,  and  he  would  not 
accept  it,  when  he  knew  she  was  the  sister 
of  BustoB  Tabera,  whom  he  put  to  death. 

Kino.  What  you  say  now  astounds  me 
all  the  more,  their  magnanimity  passes 
nature.  She  when  she  should  be  most  vin- 
dictive, forgiveB,  and  frees  him;  and  he  to 
reward  her  generous  soul,  returned  to  die. 
If  their  deeds  go  further,  they  will  be  im- 
mortatiied  in  records  of  eternity.  Do  you, 
Pedro  de  Caus,  bring  me  Don  Sancho  in 
my  carriage  to  the  palace,  with  stricteet 
secrecy,  avoiding  noise  or  guards. 

Governor,  I  go  to  do  your  bidding. 

IEtU.] 
[Enier  a  eervant.] 

Servant.  The  two  t^ef  alcaJdee  deeire 
to  see  Your  Majesty. 

Kino.  Tell  tiiem  to  enter,  with  their 
wands  of  office.  [Exit  aerBant.]  Now  if  I 
can  I'll  keep  my  word  to  Sandio  Ortii 
without  revealing  my  deed  of  cruelty. 

[Enter  the  rticaidet-l 

Pedro.  Sire,  the  guilt  is  proved;  the  caw 
requires  sentence. 

KiKQ.  Pronounce  it.  I  only  beg  you, 
aince  you  are  the  guardians  of  the  state,  to 
consider  justice,  and  clemency  oft  favon 
it.  Sancho  Ortii  is  counciltH'  of  Seville,  and 
if  he  who  is  dead  was  also  coundlar,  the  one 
claims  mercy,  if  the  other  calls  for  venge- 

Fabtan.  Sire,  we  are  alcaldes  of  Seville, 
and  her  confidence  and  honor  repose  on  us 
to-day.  These  staves  represent  your  im- 
perial authority,  and  if  they  fail  to  honor 
your  divine  right,  they  offend  your  per- 
son. Held  upright,  they  look  to  God,  and 
if  they  are  bent  or  lowered,  they  look  to 
man,  and  deflecting,  they  loae  their  heav- 
enly function. 

Kino.  I  ask  not  that  you  defieot  them, 
but  that  equity  be  done  in  justice. 

Pbdro.  Sire,  tbe  eouroe  <rf  our  Mitbority 


THE  STAR  OF  SEVILLE 


»9» 


is  Your  Majeoty.  On  your  aommaiu]  de- 
pend our  hopM.  Spare  his  life;  you  may 
pardon  him,  since  kbiga  are  accountable  to 
none.  God  creat«B  kings,  and  God  trans- 
fen  the  crown  of  Bovereignty  from  Saul  to 
E>avid. 

KiNQ.  Go  in,  and  weigh  the  sentence 
that  you  give  for  penalty,  and  let  Sancho 
Ortis  go  to  execution  as  the  laws  require. 
[Atide.]  You,  Pedro  de  Gunnan,  liat«Q  to 
a  word  apart. 

Pedbo.  What  is  Your  Highness'  will7 

Kino.  By  putting  Sancho  to  deatli,  my 
dear  Don  Pedro,  you  do  not  reetore  life  to 
the  dead.  May  we  not  avoid  the  extreme 
pen^ty,  and  exile  him  to  Gibraltar,  or 
Granada,  where  in  my  tervioe  he  may  find 
a  voluntary  death?  What  say  you? 

PwiBO.  That  I  am  Don  Pedro  de  Gu»- 
man,  and  I  am  at  your  feet.  Youn  is  my 
life,  and  my  poneesiona  and  my  aword. 

Kino.  Embrace  me,  Don  Pedro  de 
Gusman.  I  did  expect  no  less  from  a 
noble  heart.  Go  with  God;  send  Farfan 
de  Rivera  to  me.  \Atide.]  Flattery  levels 
mountains. 

Farfan,  You  see  me  at  your  feet. 

KtNO.  Farfan  de  Rivera,  it  grieved  me 
that  Sancho  Ortii  should  die,  but  now  it  is 
proposed  that  death  be  changed  to  exile, 
and  it  will  be  longer,  since  it  will  be  for  life, 
I  need  your  opinion  to  decide  a  matter  of 
so  great  importance. 

Farfan.  Your  Highness  may  command 
Farfan  de  Rivera  without  reserve,  for  my 
loyalty  has  no  reserve  in  serving  you. 

Kino.  In  truth  you  are  Rivera,  in  whom 
the  flowers  of  virtue  spring,  to  adorn  and 
attend  you.  Go  with  God.  [Extunt  ed- 
cvldei.]  Well  have  I  h^xired.  Now,  Sancho 
Ortit  csc&pM  death,  and  my  promise  is 
saved  without  becomingknown.  Iwillhave 
him  go  as  general  to  some  frontier,  whereby 
I  exile  and  reward  him. 

IROnltr  tdcaidei.] 

Pedro.  Now  the  aentence  is  signed,  and 
it  remains  only  to  submit  it  to  Your  Ma- 
jorty. 

Kino.  Such  noble  lords  as  you  will  have 
made  it,  I  doubt  not,  as  I  desired. 

Farfan.  Our  boast  is  loyalty. 


KiNQ  [read«  MsMnteactl:  "Our  finding 
and  decision  is  that  he  be  publicly  be- 
headed," Is  this  the  sentence  that  you 
bring  me  signed?  Thus,  traitors,  do  you 
keep  your  promise  to  your  king?  Zoundsl 

Farfan.  When  this  wand  is  laid  aside, 
the  lowest  of  your  subjects,  as  you  see,  will 
keep  his  promise  with  his  life  or  arms.  But 
with  it  in  hand,  let  none  commit  offense  in 
act  or  words,  for  human  empire,  for  earth 

Pedro.  Give  us  your  orders  as  subjecte, 
but  as  chief  alcaldes,  ask  not  unjust  tilings, 
tor  then  we  bear  our  wands;  as  vassale 
we're  without  them.  And  the  Council  of 
Seville  is  what  it  is. 

Kino.  Enough;  'tis  well,  for  all  of  you 
put  me  to  shame, 

[Enier  Arias  and  Stella.) 

Arias,  Stella  is  now  here. 

Kino,  Don  Arias,  what  shall  I  do?  What 
is  your  counsel  in  such  great  confusion? 
[Enter  lAe  Governor,  Sancho  Ortie,  and 
Clarindo.I 

Govrrnor.  Sancho  Ortis  is  before  you, 

Sancbo,  Great  king,  why  do  you  not 
end  my  sufferings  with  death,  my  misfor- 
tunes  with  your  condemnation?  I  killed 
BustoB  Tabera,  kill  me;  he  who  kills  must 
die.  Showmercy.Sire.byexecutingjustice. 

Kino.  Waitl  Who  ordered  you  to  kill 
him? 

Sancbo.  A  paper. 

KiNQ,  From  whom? 

Sancbo,  Couldthepaperspeak, 'twould 
t«ll;  that  is  clear  and  evident;  but  papers 
torn  give  but  confused  reply.  1  only  know 
I  killed  the  man  I  most  did  love,  because 
I  promised.  But  here  at  your  feet  St«lla 
awaits  my  death  in  atonement,  and  still  is 
her  vengeance  incomplete. 

Kino.  Stella,  I  have  determined  your 
marriage  with  a  noble  of  my  house,  young, 
gallant,  a  prince  of  Castile,  and  lord  of 
Salva.  And  in  return  for  this,  we  ask  his 
pardon,  which  may  not  justly  be  refused. 

Stella,  Bire,  if  I  am  married,  let  Sancho 
Ortix  go  free.   I  renounce  my  vei^eance. 

Sakcbo,  And  so  you  give  me  pardon, 
because  His  Highness  marriee  you? 


193 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


BrsLLA.  Yes,  for  that  I  pardon  you. 

Sancho.  And  are  you  thus  av^iged  for 
my  offenaeT 

StzujA.  And  satisfied. 

Sancho.  Then  that  your  hopes  may.  be 
fulfilled,  I  ooDsent  to  live,  although  I 
wished  to  die. 

Kino.  Go  with  God. 

Fabfak.  Look  what  you  do,  my  lord, 
for  this  i*  to  offend  Serille,  and  he  must  die. 

Kino  {to  AbiasI.  What  shall  I  do? 
Tlieee  people  anger  and  dismay  me. 

Arias.  Speak. 

Kino.  Men  of  Seville,  put  me  to  death, 
for  I  was  cause  of  this  murder.  I  ordered 
him  to  kill,  and  this  mfficefl  to  discharge  him. 

Sancbo.  My  honor  awaited  only  this 
avowal,  for  the  king  ordered  me  to  kill  him, 
and  I  had  not  committed  an  act  bo  cruel, 
had  the  king  not  ordered  it. 

KiKo.  J  declare  that  this  ia  true. 

Fastan.  Then  is  Seville  oontent,  for 
^ce  you  ordered  he  be  put  to  death,  no 
doubt  be  gave  you  cause. 

Kino.  The  nobility  of  Seville  leaves  me 
in  wonder. 

Bancho.  I  will  depart  to  exile,  when  Your 
Majesty  fulfills  another  promise  that  you 
gave  me. 

Kino.  I'll  keep  it. 

Sancho.  I  said  that  you  should  give  to 
me  for  wife  the  woman  I  should  ask. 

Kino.  So  it  was. 

Sancbo.  I  ask  for  Stella. 

Stklla.  Sancho  Ortii,  I  am  promised. 

Sakcho.  Promised? 

Stxlla.  Yes. 

Samcho.  Woe  is  me. 


KufQ.  Stella,  this  was  my  promise;  I  am 
king  and  must  fulfill  it.  What  do  you  say? 

Stella.  Your  will  be  done.  I  am  his. 

Bancho.  I  am  hers. 

Kino.  And  now,  what  lacks? 

Sancbo.  Harmony. 

Stella.  Which  we  shall  never  find  in  life 
together. 

Sancho.  I  s^  ttie  same,  and  tberefors 
I  release  you  from  your  word. 

Stella.  And  I  release  your  word;  for 
always  to  see  the  murderer  of  my  brother 
at  my  bed  and  board,  would  give  me  too 
much  pain. 

Sancho,  And  me  too  much,  to  be  for- 
ever with  the  sister  of  him  I  killed  unjustly, 
loving  him  like  my  soul. 

Steli^.  Then  we  are  free? 

Sancho.  Yes, 

Stxlla.  So  thw  farewell. 

Sancho.  Farewell. 

Kino.  Wait. 

Stella.  Sire,  I  oannot  take  for  husband 
a  man  who  lulled  my  brother,  though  I  love 
him  and  adore  him.  [Exit.] 

Sancbo.  And  I,  Sire,  because  I  love  her, 
it  is  not  just  that  I  should  marry  her. 

Kino.  What  nobilityl 

Arias.  What  constancy! 

Clariniw.  Madness  it  seems  to  me. 

Kino.  I  marvel  at  these  people. 

Pedro.  Such  are  the  people  of  Seville. 

Kino.  I  intend  to  give  her  a  husband, 
and  such  as  she  deserves. 

Clasindo,  And  now  Lope  consecrates 
to  you  this  tragedy,  giving  eternal  fame  to 
the  Star  of  Seville,  whose  marvdous  his- 
tory is  writ  on  taUeta  of  bronse. 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


LIFE    IS   A    DREAM 

(LA  VIDA  ES  SUESO) 

By  CALDERON 

J^amUUtd U  tlu erieimU  nuttrt  h  DENIS  FLOREtfCE  MAC-CAETff! 


ciilizedbvGoOQic 


CHARACTERS 

Basilius,  King  o/  Ps^and^ 
SiaiSHDND,  Ms  son 
AaiOLFo,  Thike  (4  Mrucotri/ 
Clotaldo,  a'nobUman 
EeniELLA,  a  prtfuett 
RosAinu,  a  Im^ 
CiARiN,  her  servant 
SdidUrs,  Ovarda,  Mwictana,  Attendants,  Ladies,  SenanlM 


n>  Seme  it  in  Uu  Courl  of  Poland,  in  a  JmtrMt  at 
aoHM  dManoe,  and  in  Out  Oftn  fitU. 


ciilizedbvGoOQic 


LIFE   IS   A   DREAM 


ACT   I 

[ScBNX  I.  Alonemdeaerasgyiruraniain, 

ai  the  otktr  a  lower,  the  lower  part  of  lokieh 

tervea  ai  the  prieon  qf  SigitmuTid.  The  door 
facing  lite  apeetaiort  i»  htdf  open.  The  action 

commeneet  ai  niiih(faU.\ 

[RosAQBA  in  man's  attire  appean  on  Uw 
neky  heights  and  detcendi  to  the  plain. 
She  itfoUtnaed  by  CuuuN.] 
RosAUBA.  Wild  hippoKiiiT  swift  Bpeediog, 

Thou  that  doBt  ran,  the  wbgAd  winds  ex- 
ceeding, 

Bolt  which  no  flash  iUumeB, 

Fish  without  scales,  bird  without  shifting 
plumes, 

And  brute  awhile  bereft 

Of  natural  instinct,  why  to  this  wild  cleft, 

This  labyrinth  of  oaked  rocks,  dost  sweep 

Unreined,  uncurbed,  to  plunge  thee  down 
the  st«ep? 

Stay  in  this  mountain  wold. 

And  let  the  beasta  their  Phaeton  behold. 

For  I,  without  a  guide, 

Save  what  the  laws  of  destiny  decide. 

Benighted,  desperate,  blind, 

Take  any  path  whatever  that  doth  wind 

Down  this  rough  mountain  to  its  base. 

Whose  wrinkled  brow  in  heaven  frowns  in 
the  sun's  bright  face. 

Ah,  Poland!  in  ill  mood 

Hast  diou  received  a  stranger,  since  in 
blood 

The  name  thou  writest  on  thy  sands 

Of  her  who  hardly  here  fares  hardly  at  thy 

My  fate  may  well  say  so:  — 

But  where  shall  one  poor  wretch  find  pity 

in  her  woe? 
C1.ABIN.  Say  two,  if  you  please; 
Don't  leave  me  out  when  making  plaints 

like  these. 
For  if  we  are  the  two 
Who  left  our  native  country  with  the  vien* 


Of  seeking  strange  adventures,  if  we  be 
The  two  who,  nuidly  and  in  misery. 
Have  got  so  far  as  this,  and  if  wo  still 
Are  the  same  two  who  tumbled  down  this 

hill, 
Does  it  not  plainly  to  a  wrong  amount. 
To  put  me  in  the  pain  and  not  in  the  ac- 
count? 
RoBAURA,  I  do  not  wish  to  impart, 
Clarin,  to  thee,  Uie  sorrows  of  my  heart; 
Mourning  for  thee  would  spoil  tl:e  consols' 

Of  making  for  thysdf  thy  lamentation; 
For  there  is  such  a  pleasure  in  comjdain- 

ing, 
That  a  philosopher  I  've  heard  maintaining 
One  ought  to  seek  a  sorrow  and  be  vain  of  it, 
In  order  to  be  privileged  to  complain  of  it. 

CtARiN.  That  same  philosopher 
Was  an  old  drunken  fool,  unless  I  err: 
Oh,  that  I  could  a  thousand  thumps  pro- 

sent  him. 
In  order  for  complaining  to  content  l)iml 
But  what,  my  lady,  say, 
Are  we  to  do,  on  foot,  alone,  our  way 
Lost  in  the  shades  of  night? 
For  see,  the  sun  descends  another  sphere  to 

light. 
RosAURA.  80  Strange  a  misadventure 

who  has  seen? 
But  if  my  sight  deceives  me  not,  between 
These  rugged  rocks,  half-lit  by  the  moon's 

ray 
And  the  declining  day. 
It  seems,  or  is  it  fancy?  that  I  see 
A  human  dwelling? 

Clabin.  So  it  seems  to  me, 
Unless  my  wish  the  longed-for  lodging 

mocks. 
RoBAURA.  A  rustic  litUe  palace  'mid  the 

Uplifts  its  lowly  roof. 

Scarce  seen  by  the  far  sun  that  shines  aloof 

Of  such  a  rude  device 

Is  the  whole  structun  of  this  edifice. 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


That  lying  at  the  feet 
Of  these  gigantic  crags  that  rise  to  greet 
The  sun'e  firat  beams  of  gold, 
It  seenu  a  rock  that  down  the  mountain 
rolled. 
Clabin.  Let  us  approach  more  near. 
For  long  enough  we've  looked  at  it  from 

Then  better  we  shall  see 

If  those  who  dwell  therein  will  generously 

A  welcome  give  us, 

HoSADBA.  See  an  open  door  . 
(Funereal  mouth  'twere  best  the  name  it 

From  which  as  from  a  womb 

The  night  is  bom,  engendered  in  its  gloom, 

[The  tound  of  chain*  is  heanl  vnihin.] 

Clabim.  Heavens!  what  is  this  I  hear? 

BoBAimA.  Half  ice,  half  fire,  I  stand 

transfixed  with  fear. 
Clarik.  a  sound  of  chains,  is  it  not? 
Some  galley-slave  his  sentence  here  hath 

got; 
My  fear  may  well  suggest  it  so  may  be. 
SioisuOND   [in  the  tower].    Alas!    Ah, 

wretched  me!  Ah,  wretched  mel 
RoSACRA.  Oh  what  a  mournful  wailt 
Again  my  pains,  again  my  fears  prevail. 
Clarin.  Again  with  fear  I  die. 
RoBAUKA,  Claris! 
CuiBiN.  My  lady  I 
RoBAORA.  Let  UH  turn  and  fly 
The  risks  of  this  enchanted  tower. 

Clarin.  For  one, 
I  scarce  have  strength  to  stand,  much  lues 
^  to  run. 

^^  RosAURA.  Is  not  that  dimmer  there 
f  afar  — 

That  dying  exhalation  —  that  pale  star  — 
A  tiny  taper,  which,  with  trembling  blase 
Flickering  'twixt  struggling  flames  and 

dying  rays. 
With  ineffectual  spark 
Makes  the  dark  dweUing  place  appear 

more  dark? 
Ves,  for  its  distant  light, 
Reflected  dimly,  brings  before  my  sight 
A  dungeon's  awful  gloom, 
9ay  rather  of  a  living  corse,  a  living  tomb; 
And  to  increase  my  terror  and  surprise, 
Dressed  in  the  skins  of  beasts  a  man  there 
liai: 


A  piteous  sight. 

Chained,  and  his  sole  Mmpanion  this  poor 
light. 

Since  then  we  cannot  fly, 

Let  us  attentive  to  his  words  draw  ni^ 

Whatever  they  may  be. 

[Tht  doors  of  the  tou>er  open  wide, 
and  BiOiSMUND  ia  diacovtred  tn 
ehaint  and  dad  in  tht  tkina  of 
beasts.     The  light  in  the  towtr 


SiQisiiuND.   AlasI    Ah,    wretched  m 
Ah,  wretched  me! 
Heaven,  here  lying  all  forlorn, 
I  desire  from  thee  to  know. 
Since  thou  thus  dost  treat  me  so. 
Why  have  I  provoked  thy  scorn 
By  the  crime  of  being  born?  — 
Though  for  being  bom  I  feel 
Heaven  with  me  must  harshly  deal. 
Since  man's  greatest  crime  on  earth 
Is  the  fatal  fact  of  birth  — 
Sin  supreme  without  appeal. 
This  slone  I  ponder  o'er, 
My  strange  mystery  to  pierce  through; 
Leaving  wholly  out  of  view 
Germs  my  hapless  birthday  bore. 
How  have  I  offended  more. 
That  the  more  you  punish  mef 
Must  not  other  creatures  be 
Bom?  If  bom,  what  privil^e 
Con  they  over  me  allege 
Of  which  I  should  not  be  free? 
Birds  are  bom,  the  bird  that  sin^. 
Richly  robed  by  Nature's  dower. 
Scarcely  floats  —  a  feathered  flower, 
Or  a  bunch  of  blooms  with  wiags  — 
When  to  heaven's  high  halls  it  springs, 
Cuts  the  blue  air  fast  and  free. 
And  no  longer  bound  will  be 
By  the  nest's  secure  control:  — 
And  with  so  much  more  of  soul, 
Must  I  have  lees  liberty? 
Beasts  are  bom,  the  beast  whose  skin 
Dappled  o'er  with  beauteous  spots. 
As  when  the  great  pencil  dots 
Heaven  with  stars,  doth  scarce  begin 
From  its  impulses  within  — 
Nature's  stem  necessity. 
To  be  schooled  in  cruelty,  — 
Monster,  waging  ruthless  war:  - 
And  with  instincts  bettar  br 


.CtOoqIc 


LIFE   IS  A   DREAM 


197 


Must  I  have  lees  liberty?  M 

Fiah  are  bom,  the  spawn  that  breeds 

Where  the  ooc y  aeaweeda  float, 

Scarce  perceivee  itself  a  boat, 

Scaled  and  plated  for  its  needs, 

When  from  wave  to  wave  it  speeds, 

Measuring  all  the  mighty  sea, 

Testing  its  profundity 

To  its  depths  so  dark  and  chill:  — 

And  with  so  much  freer  will, 

Must  I  have  leas  hberty? 

Streams  ate  bom,  a  ooiled-up  snake 

When  its  path  the  streamlet  finds, 

Scarca  a  silver  serpent  winds 

'Mong  the  flowers  it  must  forsake. 

But  a  song  of  ptaise  doth  wake, 

Mournful  though  its  music  be. 

To  the  plain  that  courteously 

Opea  a  path  through  which  it  flies:  — 

And  with  life  that  never  dies. 

Must  t  have  less  liberty? 

When  I  think  of  this  I  start, 

ftna-like  in  wild  unrest 

I  would  pluck  from  out  my  breast 

Bit  by  bit  my  burning  heart:  — 

For  what  law  can  so  depart 

From  all  right,  as  to  deny 

One  lone  Rtan  that  liberty  — 

That  sweet  gift  which  God  bestows 

On  the  crystal  stream  that  flows,    ' 

Birds  and  fish  that  float  or  fly? 

RosAUBA.  Pear  and  deepest  sympathy 
Do  I  feel  at  every  word. 

SiaisucND.  Who  my  sad  lament  has 
beard? 
What!  Qotaldo! 

Clarin  [ande  to  hU  mUtret»\.  Say  't  is 
he. 

RoBAOHA.  No,  't  is  but  a  wretch  (ah, 
me  I) 
Who  in  these  dark  caves  and  cold 
Hears  the  tale  your  tips  unfold. 

SiaiBUUND.  Then  you'll  die  for  listen- 
That  you  may  not  know  I  know 
That  you  know  the  tale  I  told.   [Seitet  her.] 
Yea,  you'll  die  for  loitering  near: 
In  these  strong  arms  gaunt  and  grim 
I  will  tear  you  limb  from  Umb. 

CXabin.  lamdeaf  and  could  n't  hear:  — 
No! 

RosATTRA.  If  human  heart  you  bear. 


'T  is  enough  that  I  prostrate  me. 
At  thy  feet,  to  liberate  me  I 
SiaisucND.  Strange  thy  voice  can  so 
unbend  me, 
Strange  thy  sight  can  so  suspend  me. 
And  respect  so  penetrate  me  I 
Who  art  thou?  For  though  I  see 
Little  from  this  lonely  room, 
This,  my  cradle  and  my  tomb. 
Being  all  the  world  to  me. 
And  if  birthday  it  could  be, 
Since  my  birthday  I  have  known 
But  this  desert  wild  and  lone. 
Where  throughout  my  life's  sad  oourse 
I  have  lived,  a  breathing  corse, 
I  have  moved,  a,  skeleton; 
And  though  I  address  or  see 
Never  but  one  man  ^lone. 
Who  my  sorrows  all  hath  known, 
And  through  whom  have  come  to  me 
Notions  of  earth,  sky,  and  sea; 
And  though  harrowing  thee  again. 
Since  thou 'It  call  me  in  this  den, 
Monster  fit  for  bestial  feasts, 
I'm  a  man  among  wild  beasts. 
And  a  wild  beast  amount  men. 
But  though  round  me  has  been  wrought 
All  this  woe,  from  beasts  I've  learned 
Polity,  the  same  discerned 
Heeding  what  the  birds  had  taught, 
And  have  measured  in  my  thought 
The  fair  orbits  of  the  spheres; 
You  alone,  'midst  doubts  and  fears, 
Wake  my  wonder  and  surprise  — 
Give  amasement  to  my  eyes. 
Admiration  to  my  ears. 
Every  time  your  face  I  see 
You  produce  a  new  amaie: 
After  the  most  steadfast  gase, 
I  again  would  gaier  be. 
1  believe  some  hydropsy 
Must  aSect  my  sight,  I  think 
Death  must  hover  on  the  brink 
Of  those  wells  of  light,  your  eyes, 
For  I  look  with  fresb  surprise. 
And  though  death  result,  I  drink. 
Let  me  see  and  die:  fo^ve  me; 
For  t  do  not  know,  in  faith. 
If  to  see  you  gives  me  death. 
What  to  see  you  not  would  give  me; 
Something  worse  than  death  would  grieve 


(98 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Anger,  rage,  oonoding  care, 
Death,  but  double  death  it  were, 
Death  with  tenfold  terrora  rife, 
Since  what  gives  the  wretehed  life, 
Gives  the  happy  death,  desp&irl 

RosAURA.  Thee  to  see  wakee  nicb  dis- 
may. 
Thee  to  heat  I  bo  admire, 
That  I  'm  powerleea  to  inquire. 
That  I  know  not  what  to  aay^ 
Only  this,  that  I  to-day, 
Guided  by  a  wiser  will, 
Have  here  come  to  cure  my  iU, 
Here  ootiaoled  my  grief  to  see, 
If  a  wretch  oonaoled  can  be 
Seeing  one  more  wretched  still. 
Of  a  sage,  who  roamed  dejected. 
Poor,  and  wretched,  it  is  eaid, 
That  one  day,  hia  wanta  being  fed 
By  the  herbs  which  be  collected, 
"la  there  one"  (he  thus  reflected) 
"Poorer  than  I  am  to-day?" 
Turning  round  him  to  survey, 
He  his  answer  got,  detecting 
A  still  poorer  aage  collecting 
Even  the  leaves  he  threw  away. 
Thus  complaining  to  exeees, 
Mourning  fate,  my  life  I  ledr 
And  when  thoughtlessly  I  said 
To  myself,  "Does  earth  pocoeso 
One  more  steeped  in  wretchedness?" 
I  in  thee  the  answer  find. 
Since  revolving  in  my  mind, 
I  perceive  that  all  my  pains 
To  become  thy  joyful  gains 
Thou  hast  gathered  and  entwined. 
And  if  haply  some  slight  solace 
By  theee  pains  may  be  imparted. 
Hear  attentively  the  story 
Of  my  life's  supreme  disasters. 
I  am 

Clotaldo  [wilhin].    Warden  of  this 

Who,  or  sleeping  or  faint-hearted. 
Give  an  entrance  to  two  persons 
Who  herein  have  bunt  a  passage  .  .  . 
RoBACRA.  New  confusion  now  I  suffer. 
'  is    Clotaldo,   who  here 


Are  not  yet  my  miseries  ended? 
Clot  AUK)  [wifAtni.  Hasten  hither,  quick! 
be  activel 


And  bdore  tiiey  can  defend  thun, 
Kill  them  on  the  spot,  or  oapturel 

[Voice*  within.]  Treasonl 

ChASm.  Wattihguards  of  this  toww, 
Who  politely  let  us  pass  here. 
Since  you  have  tbe  choice  of  killing 
Or  of  capturing,  choose  the  latter. 

[Bnttr  Clotaldo  and  Soldien;  A«  wiA 
a  piitcl,  and  oU  unth  their  Jaca  oov- 
erri.l 

Clotaldo  [aside  to  the  Soldiert].  Keep 
your  faces  all  well  covered. 
For  it  is  a  vital  matter 
That  we  should  be  known  by  no  one. 
While  I  question  these  two  strag^eta. 
Cluuun.  Are  there  masqueraders  heref 
Clotaldo.  Ye  who  in  your  ignorant 
rashness 
Have  passed  through    the   bounds  and 

Of  this  interdicted  valley, 
'Gainst  the  edict  of  the  King, 
Who  has  publicly  commanded 
None  should  dare  descry  the -wonder 
That  among  these  rooks  is  guarded, 
Yield  at  once  your  arms  and  lives. 
Or  this  pistol,  this  cold  aspic 
Formed  of  st«el,  the  penetrating 
Poison  of  two  balls  will  scatter. 
The  report  and  fire  of  which 
Will  the  air  astound  and  startle. 

SiQisiniND.  Ere  you  wound  tiiem,  en 
you  hurt  them, 
Will  my  life,  O  tyrant  master. 
Be  the  miserable  victim 
Of  these  wretched  chains  that  clasp  me; 
Since  in  them,  I  vow  to  God, 
I  will  tear  myself  to  fragments 
With  my  hands,  and  with  my  teeth. 
In  these  rocks  here,  in  these  caverns. 
Ere  I  yield  to  their  misfortunee. 
Or  lament  their  sad  disaster. 

Clotaldo.  If  you  know  that  your  mis- 
fortunes, 
Sigismund,  are  unexampled, 
Since  before  being  bom  you  died 
By  Heaven's  mystical  enactment; 
If  you  know  theee  fetters  are 
Of  your  furies  oft  so  rampant 
But  the  bridle  that  detains  them. 
But  the  circle  that  oontzaets  them. 


LIFE  IS  A  DREAM 


199 


[To  the  SMien.]  Why  theee  idle  boastflf 

.  The  door 
Of  this  mtnow  prisoB  faateti; 
Leave  him  there  secured. 

SiQiBHtTND.  Ah,  heavens. 
It  is  wise  of  you  to  snatch  me 
Thus  from  freedom  I  aiiice  my  rage- 
'Gainst  you  had  beoome  Titanic, 
Since  to  break  the  gla88  and  crystal 
Gold-gates  of  the  sun,  my  anKer 
On  the  firm-fixed  rocks'  foundations 
^ould  have  mountains  piled  of  matiile. 
CuiTAuw.  'T  is  that  you  should  not  00 
pile  them 
TbaX  perhaps  these  ills  have  happened. 

[Some  of  the,  ScidUn  lead  Siais- 
HDNO  into  Mt  prieon,  the  doon 
of  wkich  are  doted  upon  him.] 
RoBADRA.  Since  I  now  have  seen  how 

Can  offend  thee,  I  vera  hardened 
Sure  in  folly  not  here  humbly 
At  thy  feet  for  life  to  ask  thee; 
Then  to  me  extend  thy  pity, 
Since  it  were  a  special  harshiMea 
If  humility  and  pride. 
Both  alike  were  disregarded. 
rjChtxm.  If  Humility  aod  Pride 
n%)ae  two  figures  who  have  acted 
Tdany  and  many  a,  thousand  times 
In' the  avioe  eacramentalea, 
Do  not  move  you,  I,  who  am  neither 
Proud  nor  humble,  but  a  sandwich 
Partly  mixed  of  both,  entreat  you 
To  extend  to  us  your  pardo^J 

Ci.oTALno.  Hoi 

SoutucBS.  My  lord? 

Ci-OTALDO.  Disarm  the  two. 
And  their  eyes  securely  bandage. 
So  that  they  may  not  be  able 
To  see  whither  they  are  carried. 

RoBAURA.  This  is,  sir,  my  sword;  to  thee 
Only  would  I  wish  to  hand  it, 
Since  in  fine  of  all  the  others 
Thou  art  chief,  and  1  could  hardly 
Yield  it  unto  one  less  noble. 

C1.AIUN.  Mine    I'll   give    the   greatest 
rascal 
Of  yourtroop:  [loaSoldier]  so  take  it,  you. 

RosArKA.  And  if  I  must  die,  to  thank 
thee 
For  thy  pity,  I  would  leave  thee 


Iliis  as  pledge,  which  has  its  value 
From  the  owner  who  onoe  wore  it; 
That  thou  guard  it  well,  I  charge  thee. 
For  although  I  do  not  know 
What  strange  secret  it  may  carry. 
This  I  know,  that  some  great  myttery 
Lies  within  thia  golden  scabbard, 
Sinoe  relying  but  on  it 
I  to  Poland  here  have  traveled 
To  revenge  a  wrong. 

Clotauxi  laaide].  Just  heavens) 
What  is  thia?  Still  graver,  darker. 
Grow  my  doubts  and  my  oonfusion. 
My  anxieties  and  my  anguish.  — 
Speak,  who  gave  you  this? 

RoBAUKA.  A  woman. 

Clotaux).  And  her  name? 

R08AUSA.  To  that  my  answer 
Must  be  silence. 

OI1OTA1.DO.  But  from  what 
Do  you  now  infer,  or  fancy. 
That  this  sword  involves  a  seoet? 

RosACHA.  She  who  gave  it  said:  "De- 
part hence 
Into  Poland,  and  by  study, 
Stratagem,  and  skill  so  manage 
That  this  sword  may  be  inspected 
By  the  nobles  and  the  magnates 
Of  that  land,  for  you,  I  know. 
Will  by  one  of  them  be  guarded,"  — 
But  his  name,  lest  he  was  dead, 
Was  not  then  to  me  imparted. 

CuiTALtM  laeide].  BIws   me.    Heaven! 
what's  this  I  hear? 
For  so  strangely  has  this  happened. 
That  I  cannot  yet  det«rmine 
If 't  is  real  or  imagined. 
This  is  the  same  sword  that  I 
Left  with  beauteous  ViolantA, 
As  a  pledge  unto  its  wearer. 
Who  might  seek  me  out  thereafttt, 
As  a  son  that  I  would  love  him. 
And  protect  him  as  a  father. 
What  is  to  be  done  (ah,  me  I) 
In  confusion  so  entangled. 
If  he  who  for  safety  bore  it 
Bears  it  now  but  to  dispatch  him. 
Since  condemned  to  death  he  eometb 
To  my  feet?  How  strange  a  marvel  I 
What  a  lamentable  fortunel 
How  unstable!  how  unhappyl 
This  must  be  my  son  —  the  tokens 

;lc 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


All  declare  it,  superadded 
To  the  flutter  of  the  heart, 
That  to  aee  him  loudly  rappeth 
At  the  breast,  aod  not  being  able 
With  He  throbs  to  buret  ita  chamber, 
Doee  aa  one  in  prison,  who, 
Hearing  tumult  in  the  alley, 
Strives  to  look  from  out  the  window; 
Thus,  not  knowing  what  here  passes 
Save  the  noise,  the  heart  uprusheth 
To  the  eyes  the  cause  to  examine  — 
They  the  windows  of  the  heart, 
Out  through  which  in  tears  it  glances. 
What  is  to  be  done?  (O  HeavensI) 
What  is  to  be  done?  To  drag  him 
Now  before  the  King  were  death; 
But  to  hide  him  from  my  master. 
That  I  cannot  do,  acoording 
To  my  duty  as  a  vassal. 
Thus  my  loyalty  and  self-love 
Upon  either  side  attack  me; 
Each  would  win.  But  wherefore  doubt? 
Is  not  loyalty  a  grander, 
Nobler  thing  than  life,  than  honor? 
Then  let  loyalty  live,  no  matter 
That  he  die;  brides,  he  told  me, 
If  I  well  recall  his  language, 
That  he  came  to  revoige  a  wrong. 
But  a  wronged  man  is  a  laiar,  — 
No,  he  cannot  be  my  son, 
Not  the  son  of  noble  fathers. 
But  if  some  great  chance,  which  no  one 
Can  be  free  from,  should  have  happened, 
SintM  the  delicate  sense  of  honor 
Is  a  thing  so  fine,  so  fragile, 
"That  the  slightest  touch  may  break  it. 
Or  the  faintest  breath  may  tarnish. 
What  could  he  do  more,  do  more, 
He  whose  cheek  the  blue  blood  mantles. 
But  at  many  risks  to  have  come  here 
It  again  to  reestablish? 
Yes,  he  is  my  son,  my  blood, 
Since  he  shows  himself  so  manly. 
And  thus  then  betwixt  two  doubte 
A  mid  course  sJone  is  granted: 
'T  is  to  seek  the  King,  and  tell  him 
Who  he  is,  let  what  will  happen. 
A  desire  to  save  my  honor 
May  appease  my  royal  master; 
Should  he  spare  his  life,  I  then 
Will  assist  him  in  demanding 
His  revenge;  but  if  the  King 


Should,  persisting  in  hie  anger, 
Give  him  death,  then  he  will  die 
Without  knowing  I'm  his  father.  — 
Come,  then,  came  then  with  me,  strangers. 
[To  RosAURA  and  Clarih.1  Do  not  fear  in 

your  disasters 
That  you  will  not  have  companions 
In  misfortune;  for  so  balanced 
Are  the  gains  of  life  or  death. 
That  1  know  not  which  are  larger. 

[Exevnl.] 

[ScBNB  II.  A  HaU  in  the  Royal  Paiaee.] 

[Enler  al  ont  side  AsTOUTo  and  Soldiers, 

and  at  the  other  the  Infanta  Ebthslla 

and  her  Ladiet.    MUilary  music  and 

taltiUt  wUhm.] 

AsTOLFO.  Struck  ^t  once  with  admira- 

At  thy  starry  eyes  outshining, 

Mingle  many  a  salutation. 

Drums  and  trumpet-notes  combining, 

Founts  and  birds  in  alt«mation; 

Wondering  here  to  see  thee  pass. 

Music  in  grand  chorus  gathers 

All  her  notes  from  grove  and  grass; 

Here  are  trumpets  formed  of  feathers, 

There  are  birds  that  breathe  in  brass. 

All  salute  thee,  fair  Sefiora, 

Ordnance  as  their  Queen  proclaim  thee, 

Beauteous  birds  as  their  Aurora, 

As  their  Pallas  trumpets  name  thee, 

And  the  sweet  flowers  as  their  Flora; 

For  Aurora  sure  thou  art. 

Bright  as  day  that  conquers  night  — 

Thine  is  Flora's  peaceful  part. 

Thou  art  Pallaa  in  thy  might, 

And  as  Queen  thou  rul'st  my  heart. 

Esn^BGU^.  If  the  human  voice  obeying 
Should  with  human  action  pair. 
Then  you  have  said  ill  in  saying 
All  these  flattering  words  and  fair. 
Since  in  truth  they  are  gainsaying 
This  parade  of  victory, 
'Gainst  which  1  my  standard  rear, 
Since  they  say,  it  seems  to  me, 
Not  the  flatteries  that  I  hear, 
But  the  rigors  that  I  see. 
Thin  If,  too,  what  B.  base  invention 
From  a  wild  beast's  treachery  sprung,  — 
Fraudful  mother  of  d' 


LIFE  IS  A   DREAM 


Ib  to  flatter  with  the  tongue, 
And  to  kill  with  the  intention. 
AsTOLFo.  Ill  informed  you  must  have 

Fair  Eatrdla,  thus  to  throw 
Doubt  on  my  reapectful  mien: 
Let  your  ear  attentive  lean 
While  the  cause  I  ethve  show. 
King  EustorgiuB  the  Pair, 
Third  so  called,  died,  leaving  two 
DaughteiB,  and  Basiliiu  heir; 
Of  his  aiatora  I  and  you 
Are  the  children  —  I  forbear 
To  recall  a  single  scene 
Save  what's  needful.  Clorilene, 
Your  good  mother  and  my  aunt, 
Who  is  now  a  habitant 
Of  a  sphere  of  sunnier  sheen,    . 
Waa  the  elder,  of  whom  you 
Are  the  daughter;  Recisunda, 
Whom  God  guard  a  thousand  yeftiB, 
Her  fair  sister  (Rosamunda 
Were  she  called  if  names  were  true) 
Wed  in  Muscovy,  of  whom 
I  was  bom.  'T  is  needful  now 
The  commencement  to  resume. 
King  Basilius,  who  doth  bow 
'Neath  the  weight  of  years,  the  doom 
Age  imposes,  more  inclined 
To  the  studies  of  the  mind 
Than  to  women,  wifeless,  lone, 
Without  sons,  to  fill  his  throne 
I  and  you  our  way  would  find. 
You,  the  elder's  diild,  averred, 
That  the  crown  you  stood  mare  nigh: 
I,  maintaining  that  you  err^. 
Held,  though  bom  of  the  younger,  I, 
Being  a  man,  should  be  preferred. 
Thus  our  mutual  pretension 
To  our  uncle  we  related, 
Who  replied  that  he  would 
Here,  and  on  this  day  he  stated. 
What  might  settle  the  dissension. 
With  this  end,  from  Muscovy 
I  set  out,  and  with  that  view, 
I  to-day  fair  Poland  see. 
And  not  making  war  on  you, 
Wait  till  war  you  make  on  me. 
Would  to  love  —  that  God  so  wis 
That  the  crowd  may  be  a  sure 
Astrologue  to  read  the  skies. 
And  this  feotive  truce  secure 


Both  to  you  and  me  the  priie, 
Making  you  a  Queen,  but  Queen 
By  my  will,  our  uncle  leaving 
You  the  throne  we'll  share  between  — 
And  my  love  &  realm  receiving 
Dearer  than  a  King's  demesne. 

EmtxLLA.  Well,  I  must  be  generous  too, 
Por  a  gallantry  so  fine; 
This  imperial  realm  you  view, 
If  I  wish  it  to  be  mine 
'T  is  to  give  it  unto  you. 
Though  if  I  the  truth  confessed, 
I  must  fear  your  love  may  fail  — 
Flattering  words  are  words  at  beet. 
For  perhaps  a  truer  tale 
Tells  that  portrait  on  your  breast. 

AaroLFO.  On  that  point  complete  con- 
tent 
Will  I  give  your  mind,  not  here. 
For  each  sounding  instrument 

[Drums  are  heard.] 
Tells  us  that  the  King  is  near. 
With  his  Court  and  ^uiiament. 
[Enter  the  Kino  Basiuob,  wUh  kit  reiinut.] 

EsTRELLA.  Learned  Euclid . . . 

AsTOLFo.  Thales  wise  .  . . 

EsTRELLA.  The  vast  Zodiac  . . . 

AsTOLFA.  The  star  spaces  .  . . 

EsmsLLA.  Who  dost  soar  to  .  . . 

AsTOUO.  Who  dost  rise  . .  . 

Ebtrblla.  The  sun's  orbit .  . .  - 

AsTOLPo.  The  stars'  places  .  . . 

EsTBELLA.  To  describe  .  . . 

AsTOLFo.  To  map  the  skies  .  .  i 

EerHEi.iA.  Let  me  humbly  interlac- 
ing ..  . 

AsioLFO.  Let  me  lovingly  embrac- 
ing ..  . 

EsnuLi-A.  Be  the  tendril  of  thy  tree. 

AsTOLFO.  Bend  respectfully  my  knee. 

Basiucs.  Children,  that  dear  word  die-  ' 
placing 
Colder  names,  my  arms  here  bless; 
And  be  sure,  since  you  assented 
To  my  plan,  my  love's  excess 
Will  leave  neither  discontented. 
Or  give  either  more  or  less. 
And  though  I  from  being  old 
Slowly  may  the  facts  unfold. 
Hear  in  silence  my  narration, 
Keep  reserved  your  admiration. 


,(lc 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Till  the  wondrous  t&le  is  told. 

You  already  know  —  I  pray  you 

Be  attentive,  dearest  childi«Q, 

Great,  illuatrioiu  Court  of  Poluid, 

F&ithful  vaaaolB,  friends  and  kinnnen, 

You  already  know  —  my  atudiea 

Htive  throughout  the  vrhole  world  given  me 

The  high  title  of  "  the  learndd," 

Since  'gainst  time  and  time's  oblivion 

The  rich  peocilH  of  Ttmanthee, 

The  bright  marblee  of  Lyaippiu, 

Universally  proclaim  me 

Through  earth's  bounds  the  gt«at  Baailiua. 

You  already  know  the  sciences 

That  I  feel  my  mind  moat  given  to 

Are  the  subtle  mathematics, 

By  whose  means  my  clear  prevision 

Takes  from  rumor  its  dow  office, 

Takes  from  time  its  jurisdiction 

Of,  each  day,  new  facts  disclosing; 

Since  in  algebraic  symbols 

When  the  fate  of  future  ages 

On  my  tablets  I  see  written, 

I  anticipate  time  in  telling 

What  my  science  hath  predicted. 

All  those  circles  of  pure  snow, 

All  those  canopies  of  crystal, 

Which  the  sun  with  rays  illumines. 

Which  the  moon  cuts  in  its  circles. 

All  those  oi4»  of  twinkling  diamond. 

All  those  crystal  globes  that  glisten, 

All  that  azure  field  of  stars 

Where  the  zodiac  signs  are  pictured. 

Are  the  study  of  my  life, 

Are  the  boolm  where  heaven  has  written 

Upon  dtamond-dott«d  paper, 

Upon  leaves  by  sapphires  tinted. 

With  light  luminous  lines  of  gold. 

In  clear  characters  distinctly 

All  the  events  of  human  life. 

Whether  adverse  or  benignant. 

These  so  rapidly  I  read 

That  1  follow  with  the  quickness 

Of  my  thoughts  the  swiftest  movements 

Of  their  orbits  and  their  circles. 

Would  to  heaven,  that  ere  my  mind 

To  those  mystic  books  addicted 

Was  the  comment  of  their  maigins 

And  of  all  their  leaves  the  index. 

Would  to  heaven,  I  say,  my  life 

Had  been  offered  the  first  victim 

Of  its  anger,  that  my  death-stroke 


Had  in  this  way  have  been  given  me. 
Since  the  unhappy  find  even  merit 
Is  the  fatal  knife  that  kills  them. 
And  his  own  self-murderer 
Is  the  man  whom  knowledge  injureel  — 
I  may  say  so,  but  my  story 
So  will  say  with  more  distinctness. 
And  to  win  your  admiration 
Once  again  I  pray  you  listen.  — 
ICIorilene,  my  wife,  a  son 
I  Bore  me,  so  by  fate  afflicted 
That  on  his  unhappy  birthday 
All  Heaven's  prodigiee  assisted. 
Nay,  ere  yet  to  life's  sweet  light 
Gave  him  forth  her  womb,  that  living 
Sepulchre  (for  death  and  life 
Have  like  ending  and  beginning), 
Many  a  time  his  mother  saw 
In  her  dreams'  delirious  dimness 
From  her  side  a  monster  break, 
Paahioned  like  a  man,  but  sprinkled' 
With  her  blood,  who  gave  her  death, 
By  that  human  viper  bitten. 
Round  his  birthday  came  at  hist. 
All  its  auguries  fulfilling 
(For  the  presages  of  Svil 
Seldom  fail  or  even  linger) : 
Came  with  such  a  horoscope. 
That  the  sun  rushed  blood-red  tinted 
ilnto  a  terrific  combat 
[With  the  dark  moon  that  resisted; 
™rih  its  mighty  lists  outspread 
As  with  lessening  lights  diminished 
Stiove  the  twin-lamps  of  the  sky. 
'T  is  of  all  the  sun's  eclipses 
The  most  dreadful  that  it  sufTered   \ 
Sinoe  the  hour  its  bloody  visage 
Wept  the  awful  death  of  Christ. 
For  o'erwhelmed  in  glowing  cinders 
The  great  orb  appeared  to  suffer 
Nature's  final  paroxysm. 
Gloom  the  glowing  noontide  darkened, 
Earthquake  shook  the  mightiest  buildhigfl. 
Stones  the  angry  clouds  rained  down, 
And  with  blood  ran  red  the  rivers. 
In  this  freniy  of  the  sun, 
In  its  madness  and  delirium, 
^igismund  was  bom,  thus  early 
Giving  proofs  of  his  condition. 
Since  his  birth  his  mother  slew. 
Just  as  it  these  words  had  IdUed  her, 
"  I  am  a  man,  since  good  i^th  9wii 


LIFE  IS  A  DREAM 


I  icpay  here  Inm  the  tx^niiig,"  -  - 
I,  applying  to  my  studies. 
Saw  in  them  as  't  were  forewrittok 
This,  that  Sigismund  would  be 
The  most  cruel  o(  all  princ«e, 
Of  all  men  the  moat  audacious,       I 
Of  all  mooarche  the  moet  wicked;  | 
That  his  kingdom  through  hie'^Mjia 
Would  be  broken  and  partitioned, 
The  academy  of  the  vices. 
And  the  high  school  of  sedition; 
Aqd  that  he  himself,  borne  onward 
By  his  crimes'  wild  course  resistless. 
Would  even  place  his  feet  on  me; 
For  I  saw  myself  down-stricken, 
Lying  on  the  ground  before  him 
(To  say  this  what  shame  it  gives  me!) 
While  his  feet  on  my  white  hairs 
Ab  a  carpet  were  imprinted. 
Who  discredits  threatened  ill,    - 
^Sgecially  an  ill  pravisioned 
TBy  one's  study,  when  self-love 
Makes  it  his  peculiar  business?  — 
Thus  then  crediting  the  fates 
Which  far  off  my  science  witnessed, 
All  these  fatal  auguries 
Seen  though  dimly  in  the  distance, 
I  resolved  tii  chain  the  monster 
That  unhappily  life  was  given  to. 
To  find  out  it  yet  the  stais 
Owned  the  wise  man's  weird  dominion. 
It  was  publicly  proclaimed 
That  the  sad  ill-omened  infant 
Was  stillbom.  I  then  a  tower 
Caused  by  forethought  to  be  builded 
faid  the  rocks  of  these  wild  mountains 
Where  the  sunlight  scarce  can  gild  it. 
Its  glad  entrance  being  barred 
By  these  rude  shafts  obeliscal. 
All  the  laws  of  which  you  know. 
All  the  edicts  that  prohibit 
Any  one  on  pain  of  death 
That  secluded  part  to  visit 
Of  the  mountain,  were  occasi 
By  this  cause,  so  long  well  hidden, 
ffhere  still  lives  Prince  Sigismund, 
Miserable,  poor,  in  prison. 
Him  alone  Clotaldo  sees. 
Only  tends  to  and  speaks  with  him; 
He  the  sciences  has  taught  him, 
He  the  Catholic  religion 
Has  imparted  to  him,  being 


Of  his  miseries  the  sole  witness. 
Here  there  are  three  things:  the  first 
I  rate  highest,  since  my  wishes 
Are,  O  Poland,  thee  to  save 
From  the  oppreasion,  the  affliction 
Of  a  tyrant  King,  because 
Of  his  country  and  his  kingdom 
He  were  do  benignant  father 
Who  to  such  a  risk  could  give  it. 
Secondly,  tte  thought  occurs 
That  to  take  from  mine  own  issue 
The  plain  right  that  every  law 
Human  and  divine  bath  given  him 
Is  not  Christian  charity; 
For  by  no  law  am  I  bidden 
To  prevent  another  proving. 
Say,  a  tyrant,  or  a  villain. 
To  be  one  myself:  supposing 
E^ven  my  son  should  be  so  guilty. 
That  he  should  not  crimes  commit 
I  myself  should  first  commit  them,  i 
Then  the  third  and  last  point  is. 
That  perhaps  I  erred  in  giving         | 
Too  implicit  a  belief  I 

To  the  facts  foreseen  so  dimly;         I 
For  although  his  inclination  li 

Well  might  find  its  precipices,  M 

He  might  possibly  escape  them: 
For  the  fat«  the  moat  fastidious,       ' 
For  the  impulse  the  most  powerful, 
Even  the  planets  most  malicious 
Only  make  free  will  incline. 
But  can  force  not  human  wishes. 
And  thus  'twixt  these  different  causes 
Vacillating  and  unfix6d, 
I  a  remedy  have  thought  of 
Which  will  with  new  wonder  fill  you. 
I  to-morrow  morning  purpose. 
Without  letting  it  be  hinted 
That  he  is  my  son,  and  therefore 
Your  true  King,  at  once  to  fix  him 
As  King  Sigismund  (for  the  name 
Still  he  bears  that  first  was  given  him) 
'Neath  my  canopy,  on  my  throne. 
And  in  fine  in  my  position, 
There  to  govern  and  command  you. 
Where  in  dutiful  submisaon 
You  will  swear  to  him  allegiance. 
My  resources  thus  are  triple. 
As  the  causes  of  disquiet 
Were  which  I  revealed  this  instant. 
The  first  is;  that  he  being  prudent, 


304 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Careful,  cautious,  tuid  benignant. 
Falsifying  the  wild  actions 
That  of  him  had  been  predicted, 
You  '11  enjoy  your  natiiral  prince. 
He  who  haa  bo  long  been  living 
Holding  court  amid  these  mountains. 
With  the  wild  beasts  for  his  circle. 
Then  my  next  resource  is  this : 
If  he,  daring,  wild,  and  wicked. 
Proudly  runs  with  loosenod  rein 
O'er  the  broad  plain  of  the  vicious, 
I  will  have  fulfilled  the  duty 
Of  my  natural  love  and  pity ; 
Then  his  r^hteous  deposition 
Will  but  prove  my  royal  firmnees, 
Chastisement  and  not  revenge 
Leading  him  once  more  to  prison. 
My  third  couree  is  this:  the  Prince 
Being  what  my  words  have  pictured. 
From  the  love  I  owe  you,  vassals, 
I  will  give  you  other  princes 
Worthier  of  the  crown  and  scepter; 
Namely,  my  two  sisters'  children. 
Who  their  separ<>t«  pretensions 
Having  happily  commingled 
By  the  holy  bonds  of  marriage, 
WiU  then  fill  their  fit  position. 
/  This  is  what  a  king  eommands  you, 
/  This  is  what  a  father  bids  you. 
This  is  what  a  sage  entreats  you, 
This  is  what  an  old  man  wishes ; 
And  as  Seneca,  the  Spaniard, 
Says,  a  king  for  all  his  riches 
Is  but  slave  of  his  Repubhc, 
This  is  what  a  slave  petitions. 

AsTOLFO.  If  on  me  devolves  the  answer, 
As  being  in  this  weighty  business 
The  most  interested  party, 
I,  erf  all,  express  the  opinion:  — 
Let  Prince  Sigierouad  appear; 
He's  thy  son,  that's  all-sufficient. 

All.  Give  to  us  our  natural  prince. 
We  proclaim  him  king  this  instantl 

BAStuns.  Vassals,  from  my  heart  I 
thank  you 
For  this  deference  to  my  wishes:  — 
Go,  conduct  to  their  apartments 
These  two  columns  of  my  kingdom. 
On  to-morrow  you  shall  see  him. 

All.  Uve,  long  live  great  King  BaaiUusI 

[ExeiirU  all,  aeeompanying  Ebthblla 

and  Abtolto;  tiu  King  remaim.] 


[EnUr  CLOTALno,  Rosauba,  and  Clarim.] 

Clotalim),  May  I  speak  to  you,  SireT 

Basilius.  Clotaldo, 
You  are  always  welcome  with  me. 

ClotaijDO.  Although  coming  to  your  feet 
Shows  how  freely  I'm  admitted, 
Still,  Your  Majesty,  this  once, 
Fate  as  mournful  as  malicious 
Takes  from  privilege  its  due  right. 
And  from  custom  its  permission. 

Basilius.  What  has  happenedT 

Clotaldo.  a  misfortune, 
Sire,  which  has  my  heart  afflicted 
At  the  moment  when  all  joy 
Should  have  overflown  and  filled  it. 

Basilidb.  Pray  proceed. 

Clotaldo.  This  handsome  youth  hen. 
Inadvertently,  or  driven 
By  his  daring,  pierced  the  tower, 
And  the  Prince  discovered  in  it. 
Nay 

Basiuits.  Clotaldo,  be  not  troubled 
At  this  act,  which  if  committed 
At  another  time  had  grieved  me. 
But  the  secret  so  long  hidden 
Having  myself  told,  his  knowledge 
Of  the  fact  but  matters  little. 
See  me  presently,  for  I 
Much  must  speak  upon  this  business. 
And  for  me  you  much  must  do 
For  a  part  will  be  committed 
To  you  in  the  strangest  drama 
That  perhaps  the  world  e'er  witnessed. 
As  for  these,  that  you  may  know 
That  I  mean  not  your  remissness 
To  chastise,  I  grant  their  pardon.       [BzU.] 

Clotaijw,  Myriad  years  to  my  lord  be 
given! 
[Aiide.]  Heaven  has  sent  a  happier  fate; 
Since  I  need  not  now  admit  it, 
I  '11  not  say  he  is  my  son.  — 
Strangers  who  have  wandered  hitiier, 
You  are  free. 

RoaAOKA.  I  give  your  feet 
A  thousand  kiseee.  , 

Olarin.  I  say  misses. 
For  a  letter  more  or  lees 
'Twixt  two  friends  is  not  considered. 

RosAUiiA.  You  have  given  me  life,  my  lord, 
And  since  by  your  act  I'm  living, 
I  et«mally  wiU  own  me 
As  your  slave. 


.,  GooqIc 


LIFE  IS  A   DREAM 


Clotaldo.  The  life  I've  given 
la  not  really  your  true  life. 
For  a  muk  by  birth  uplifted 
If  he  Buffers  an  affront 
Actually  no  longer  liveth; 
And  supposiDK  you  have  come  here 
For  revenge  as  you  have  hinted, 
I  have  not  then  given  you  life. 
Since  you  have  not  brought  it  with  you. 
For  DO  life  disgraced  is  life.  — 
[imde.]   (This  I  say  to  arouse  hiaapirit.) 

Rosahba..  I  confess  I  have  it  not, 
Though  by  you  it  has  been  pven  me; 
But  revenge  being  wreaked,  my  honor 
I  will  leave  ao  pure  and  limpid, 
AU  ite  perils  overoome, 
That  my  life  may  then  with  fitness 
Seem  to  be  a  gift  of  yours. 

Clotaldo.  Take  this  burnished  sword 
which  hither 
You  brought  with  you;  for  I  know. 
To  revenge  you,  't  is  sufficient. 
In  your  enemy's  blood  bathed  red; 
For  a  aword  that  once  was  girded 
Round  me  (I  say  this  the  while 
That  to  me  it  was  committed). 
Win  know  how  to  right  you. 

RoBAURA.  Thus 
In  your  name  once  more  I  gird  it, 
And  on  it  my  vengeance  swear. 
Though  the  enemy  who  afflicts  me 
WeK  more  powerful. 

Clotaldo.  Is  he  bo? 

RoBAURA.  Yes;  so  pownful,  I  am  bio- 

Saying  who  he  is,  not  doubtmg 
Even  for  greater  things  your  wisdom 
And  calm  prudence,  but  through  fear 
Lest  against  me  your  priied  pity 
Might  be  turned. 

Clotaldo.  'T  will  rather  be, 
By  declaring  it  more  kindled; 
Otherwise  you  bar  the  passage 
'Gainst  your  foe  of  my  assistance.  '- 
[Atide,]  (Wouldthat Ibut Imewhisnamel) 

RoBADBA.  Not  to  think  I  set  so  little 
Value  on  such  confidence, 
Know  my  enemy  and  my  victim 
Is  no  lees  than  Prince  Astolfo, 
Duke  of  Muacovy, 

Clotaux)  [atide.]  Resistance 
Badly  can  my  grief  supply 


jS) 


Siooe  't  is  heavier  than  I  figured. 
Let  us  sift  the  matter  deeper.  — 
If  a  Muscovite  by  birth,  liien 
He  who  is  your  natural  lord 
Could  not  'gainst  you  have  committed 
Any  wrong;  reseek  your  country. 
And  abandon  the  wild  impulse 
That  has  driven  you  here. 

RosAURA.  I  know, 
Though  a  prince,  he  has  committed 
'Gainst  me  a  great  wrong. 

Clotaldo.  He  could  not, 
Even  although  your  face  was  stricken 
Byhisangryhand.  [Agide.]    (Oh,heavenal) 

RoBAURA.  Mine's  a  wrong  more  deep 
and  bitter. 

Clotaldo.  Tell  it,  then;  it  cannot  be 
Worse  than  what  my  fancy  pictures. 

Rosattka.  twill  tell  it;  tboughlknownot. 
With  the  respect  your  presence  gives  mc. 
With  the  affection  you  awaken, 
With  the  esteem  your  worth  elicits. 
How  with  bold  face  hero  to  tell  you 
That  this  outer  dress  is  aimply 
An  enigma,  since  it  is  not 
What  it  seems.  And  from  this  hint,  ttien. 
If  I'm  not  what  I  appear. 
And  Astolfo  with  tins  princeBs 
Comce  to  wed,  judge  how  by  him 
I  was  wronged:  I've  said  sufficient. 

[ExeuTit  Rosattka  mid  Clasih.) 

Clotaldo.  Listenlbearmelwaitloh,  stay! 
What  a  labyrinthine  thicket 
Is  all  this,  where  reaaon  gives 
Not  a  throad  whereby  to  issue7 
My  own  honor  here  is  wronged, 
Powerful  is  my  foe's  position, 
I  a  vassal,  she  a  woman; 
Heaven  reveal  some  way  in  pity,  < 
Though  1  doubt  it  has  the  power; 
When  in  such  confused  abyaaee, 
Heaven  is  all  one  fearful  presage. 
And  the  world  itself  a  riddle.  [Exti.] 

\   ACT   II 
[Scene  I.  A  HaU  in  Ou  Royal  PiUace.] 

[Enter  Basiliub  and  Clotaldo] 
Clotaldo.  Everything  has  been  effected 
As  you  ordered. 

Basiuhs.  How  all  happened 
Let  me  know,  my  good  Clotaldo. 


r 
j  200 


i 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Clotaldo.  It  was  done.  Sire,  in  this 
manner. 
With  the  tranquiliiing  draft. 
Which  was  made,  as  you  commanded, 
Of  confectione  duly  mixed 
With  some  herbs,  whose  juice  extracted 
Has  a  Htrange  tyrannic  power, 
Has  some  secret  force  imparted. 
Which  all  human  sense  and  speech 
Roba,  deiwivee,  and  count«ractetb, 
And  as  't  were  a  hving  corpse 
Leaves  the  man  whose  lips  have  quaffed 

So  asleep  that  all  his  senses, 

All  his  powers  are  overmastered. .  . . 

—  No  need  have  we  to  discuss 
That  this  fact  can  realiy  happen. 
Since,  my  lord,  experience  gives  us 
Many  a  clear  and  proved  example; 
Certain  't  is  that  Nature's  secrets 
May  by  medicine  be  extracted, 
And  that  not  an  animal, 

Not  a  stone,  or  herb  that's  i^anted, 

But  some  specif  quality 

Doth  possess:  for  U  the  malice 

Of  man's  heart,  a  thousand  poisons 

That  give  death,  hath  power  to  examine, 

Is  it  then  so  great  a  wonder 

That,  their  venom  being  abstracted, 

If,  as  death  by  some  is  given, 

Sleep  by  others  is  imparted? 

Putting,  then,  aside  the  doubt 

That 't  is  possible  this  should  happen, 

A  thing  proved  beyond  all  question 

Both  by  reason  and  examine  .  .  . 

—  With  the  sleeping  draft,  in  fine. 
Made  of  opium  superadded 

To  the  poppy  and  the  henbane, 

I  to  Sigismund's  apartment  — 

Cell,  in  fact  —  went  down,  and  with  him 

Spoke  awhile  upon  the  grammar 

(K  the  sciences,  those  first  studies 

Which  mute  Nature's  gentle  maeteis, 

Bilent  skies  and  hills,  had  taught  him; 

In  which  school  divine  and  ample, 

The  bird's  song,  the  wild  beast's  roar. 

Were  a  lesson  and  a  language. 

Then  to  raise  his  spirit  more 

To  the  high  design  you  planned  here, 

I  discoursed  on,  as  my  theme, 

I  The  swift  flight,  the  stare  undassled 

I  Of  a  pride-plumied  eaf^  bold. 


Which  with  back-averted  talons, 
Scorning  the  tame  fields  of  air, 
Seeks  the  sphere  of  fire,  and  passes 
Through  its  flame  a  flash  of  feathers, 
Of  a  comet's  hair  untangled. 
1 1  extolled  its  soaring  flight, 
I  Saying,  "Thou  at  last  art  master 
lot  thy  house,  thou'rt  king  of  birds, 
Jit  is  right  thou  should'st  surpass  them." 
He  who  needed  nothing  more 
Than  to  touch  upon  the  matter 
Of  high  royalty,  with  a  bearing 
As  became  him,  boldly  answered; 
For  in  truth  his  princely  blood 
Moves,  excites,  inflames  his  ardor 
To  attempt  great  thin^:  he  said, 
"In  the  restless  realm  of  atoms 
Given  to  birds,  that  even  one 
Should  swear  feaJty  as  a  vasaall 
I,  reflecting  upon  this, 
Am  consoled  by  my  d' 
For,  at  least,  if  I  obey, 
I  obey  through  force:  untrammeled, 
Free  to  act,  I  ne'er  will  own 
Any  man  on  earth  my  master."  — 
This,  his  usual  theme  of  grief. 
Having  roused  him  nigh  to  madneas, 
I  occasion  took  to  proffer 
The  drugged  draft:  he  drank,  but  hardly 
Had  the  liquor  from  the  vessel 
Psased  into  his  breast,  when  fastest 
Sleep  his  senses  seised,  a  sweat. 
Cold  as  ioe,  the  life-blood  hardened 
In  his  veins,  his  limbs  grew  stifii. 
So  that,  knew  I  not 't  was  acted, 
Death  was  there,  feigned  death,  his  life 
1  could  doubt  not  had  departed. 
Then  those,  to  whose  core  you  trust 
This  experiment,  in  a  carriage 
Brought  him  here,  where  all  things  fitting 
The  high  majesty  and  the  grandeur 
Of  his  person  are  provided. 
In  the  bed  of  your  state  chamber 
They  have  placed  him,  where  the  stupor 
Having  spent  its  force  and  vanished, 
'They,  as  't  were  yourself,  my  lord. 
Him  will  serve  as  you  commanded : 
And  if  my  obedient  service 
Seems  to  merit  some  slight  loqiees, 
I  would  ask  but  this  alone 
(My  presumption  you  will  pardon). 
That  you  tell  me,  with  what  object 


..CtOoi^Ic 


LIFE  IS  A  DREAM 


S07 


Have  you,  in  this  eecret  nuumer, 
To  TOUT  palace  brought  him  here? 

Babiuuh.  Good  Clotaldo,  what  you  ask  tne 
Ib  so  just,  to  you  alone 
I  would  give  full  Batififactian. 
SigiBmuud,  my  aon,  the  hard 
Influence  of  bia  hostile  pl&net 
(As  you  know)  doth  threat  a  thouaand 
Dreadful  tragedies  and  disasters; 
I  desire  to  test  if  Heaven 
(An  impossible  thing  to  happen) 
Could  have  lied  -^  if  having  given  us 
Proofs  unnumbered,  countless  samples 
Of  his  evil  disposition, 
He  ffii^t  prove  more  mild,  more  guarded 
At  the  least,  and  self-subdued 
By  his  i»itdence  and  true  valor 
Change  his  character;  for  't  is  man 
That  alone  controls  the  [danets. 
This  it  is  I  wish  to  t«st, 
Having  brought  him  to  this  palace, 
Where  he'll  learn  he  is  my  son, 
And  display  his  natural  talents. 
If  be  nobly  hath  subdued  him, 
He  will  reign;  but  if  bis  manners 
Show  him  tyrannous  and  cruel, 
Then  his  chains  once  more  shall  clasp  him. 
But  for  this  experiment, 
Now  you  [m>bably  will  ask  me 
Of  what  moment  was't  to  bring  him 
Thus  asleep  and  in  this  manner? 
And  I  wish  to  satisfy  you. 
Giving  all  your  doubts  an  answer. 
If  to-day  he  learns  that  he 
Is  my  son,  and  some  hours  after 
Finds  himself  once  more  restored 
To  his  misery  and  his  shackles, 
Certain  't  is  that  from  his  t«mper 
Blank  deapair  may  end  in  madiiCflB  — 
But  once  knowing  who  he  is, 
Cod  be  be  consoled  thereafter? 
Yes,  and  thus  I  wish  to  leave 
One  door  open,  one  free  passage, 
By  declaring  all  he  saw 
Was  a  dream.  With  tliis  advantage 
We  attain  two  ends.  The  first 
Is  to  put  beyond  all  cavil 
bis  condition,  for  on  waking 
He  will  show  his  thoughts,  his  fancies: 
To  console  him  is  the  second; 
Since,  although  obeyed  and  flattered. 
He  beholds  himself  awhile. 


And  then  back  in  prison  shackled 
Finds  him,  he  will  think  he  dreamed. 
And  he  rightly  so  may  fancy. 
For,  Clotaldo,  in  this  world 
All  who  live  but  dream  they  act  here. 

Clotaldo.  Reasons  fail  me  not  to  show 
That  the  experiment  may  not  answer; 
But  there  is  no  remedy  now, 
For  a  sign  from  the  apartment 
Tells  me  that  he  hath  awoken 
And  even  hitherward  advances. 

Babilics.  It  is  best  that  I  retire; 
But  do  you,  BO  loi^  his  master. 
Near  him  stand;  the  wild  confusions 
That  his  waking  sense  may  darken 
Dissipate  by  simple  truth. 

CliOTALDO.  Then  your  license  you  have 
'granted 
That  I  may  declare  it? 

Babiuus.  Yes; 
For  it  possibly  may  happen 
That  admonished  of  his  danger 
He  may  conquer  his  worst  passions.  [Exit.] 
[Enter  Clarin.] 

Clarin  [tuide].   Four  good  blows  aie  all 

To  come  here,  inflicted  smartly 
By  a  red-robed  halberdier. 
With  a  beard  to  match  his  jacket. 
At  that  price  I  see  the  show, 
For  no  window's  half  bo  handy 
As  that  which,  without  entreating 
Tickets  of  the  ticket-master, 
A  man  carries  with  himself; 
Since  for  all  the  feasts  and  galas 
Cool  effrontery  is  the  window 
Whence  at  ease  he  gases  at  them. 

Clotaldo  [laide].    This    is    Clarin, 
Heavens  I  of  her, 
Yes,  I  say,  of  her  the  valet, 
She,  who  dealing  iu  misfortunes, 
Has  my  pain  to  Poland  carried;  — 
Any  news,  friend  Clarin? 

Clakih,  NewB? 
Yea,  sir,  since  your  great  compassion 
la  disposed  Rosaura'e  outrage 
To  revenge,  she  has  changed  her  habit, 
And  resumed  her  proper  dress. 

Clotaluo.  'T  is  quite  right,  Icflt  pOBsibla 
scandal 
Might  arise. 


:.L|,i,zedi!,GoOQlc 


208 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Clarin.  More  news:  her  name 
Having  changed  and  iriaely  bartered 
For  your  niece's  name,  she  now 
So  in  honor  hat  advanced  her, 
That  among  Estrella's  ladies 
She  here  with  her  in  the  palace 

CixiTu-no.  'T  is  right  that  I  once  more 
Should  her  honor  reSstablish. 

CiARiN.     News;    that    anxiously    she 
wail«th 
For  that  very  thing  to  happen, 
When  you  may  have  time  tJ)  try  it. 

Clotaldo.    Most    discreetly   has    she 

Soon  the  time  will  come,  believe  me, 
Happily  to  end  this  matter. 
Clabin.  Neira,  too;  that  she's  welt  re- 
galed, 
Feasted  like  a  queen,  and  flattetBd 
On  the  strength  of  being  your  niece. 
And  the  last  news,  and  the  saddest. 
Is  that  I  who  here  came  with  her 
Am  with  hunger  almost  famished. 
None  remember  me,  or  thizJc 
I  am  Clarin,  clarion  rather, 
And  that  if  that  clarion  sounded, 
All  the  Court  would  know  what  passes. 
For  there  are  two  things,  to  wit, 
A  brass  clarion  and  a  lackey, 
That  are  bad  at  keeping  secrets; 
And  it  so  may  chance,  if  haply 
I  am  forced  to  break  my  silence, 
They  of  me  may  sing  this  passage: 
'^Never,  when  the  day  is  near, 
Does  clarion  sound  more  clear." 
Clotaldo.  Your  complaint  is  too  well- 
founded; 
I  will  get  you  satisfaction, 
Meanwhile  you  may  wait  on  me, 
Clarin.  See,  sir,  Sigismund  advances. 
[Mueic    and    song.     Sioibvvhd 
enters,  lost  in  aTnazement.   Serv- 
onb   minuter  to  him,   present- 
ing costly  robet.  Clotaldo  and 
Clarin,] 
SioiBinrND.  Help  me.  Heaven,  what's 
Uuelseel 
Help  me,  Heaven,  what's  this  I  view' 
Things  I  scarce  beUeve  are  true, 
But,  if  true,  which  fright  not  me. 
I  in  palaces  of  state? 


I  'neath  silks  and  cloth  of  gold? 
I,  around  me,  to  behold 

Rich-robed  servante  watch  and  wait? 

I  so  soft  a  bed  to  press 

While  sweet  sleep  my  senses  bowed? 

I  to  wake  in  such  a  crowd, 

Who  assist  me  even  to  dress? 

'T  were  deceit  to  say  I  dream, 

Wakii^  I  recall  my  lot, 

I  am  Sigismimd,  am  I  not? 

Heaven  make  plain  what  dark  doth  seemf 

Tell  me,  what  has  phantasy  — 

Wild,  misleading,  dream-adept  — 

So  effected  while  I  slept. 

That  I  still  the  phantoms  see? 

But  let  that  be  as  it  may, 

Why  perplex  myself  and  brood? 

Bett«r  tast«  the  present  good. 

Come  what  will  some  other  ^y. 

FiRfvr  Servant  [aside  Ui  the  Second 
Servant,  and  to  ClarinI.  What  a 
sadness  doth  oppress  himf 

Srcond  Servant.  Who  in  such-like  case 
would  be 
Less  surprised  and  sad  than  he? 

C1.ARIN.  1  for  one. 

8ecx>no  Skbvant  [foiAeFiMfJ.  You  had 
best  address  him. 

First  Servant  {Ui  SiaiBUUNn],  May 
they  sing  again? 

SioiBUUND.  No,  no; 
I  don't  care  to  hear  them  tiing. 

Second  Sehvant.  I  conceived  the  song 
might  bring 
To  your  thought  some  ease. 

SioiBHUND.  Not  so;  ^ 

Voices  that  but  charm  the  ear 
Cannot  soothe  my  sorrow's  pain; 
'T  is  the  soldier's  martial  strain 
That  alone  I  love  to  hear. 

Clotaldo.  May  Your  Highness,  mighty 

Deign  to  let  me  kiss  your  hand, 
I  would  first  of  all  tlus  land 
My  profound  respect  evince. 
SiaiBMUND  \agide].  'T  is  my  jaOerl  bow 

Change  hia  harshness  and  neglect 
To  this  language  of  respect? 
What  can  have  occurred  to  me? 
Clotaldo.  The  new  stat«  in  which  I  find 


LIFE  IS   A   DREAM 


Muit  create  a  vague  surprise, 

DoubtB  unnumbered  must  arise 

To  bewilder  and  to  blind  you; 

I  would  make  your  prospect  fair, 

Through  the  maee  a  path  would  show, 

Hius,  my  lord,  't  is  right  you  know 

That  you  are  the  prince  and  heir 

Of  this  Polish  realm:  if  late 

You  lay  hidden  and  concealed 

'T  was  that  we  were  forced  to  yield 

To  the  stem  decrees  of  fate, 

Which  strange  ills,  I  know  not  how. 

Threatened  on  this  land  to  bring 

Should  the  laurel  of  a  king 

Ever  crown  thy  princely  brow. 

Still  relying  on  the  power 

Of  your  will  the  stats  to  bind, 

For  a  man  of  resolute  mind 

Can  them  bind  how  dark  they  lower; 

To  this  palace  from  your  cell 

In  your  lifelong  turret  keep 

They  have  borne  you  while  dull  sleep 

Held  your  spirit  in  its  spell. 

Soon  to  see  you  and  embrace 

Gomes  the  King,  your  father,  here  — 

jHp  will  make  the  icst  all  clear. 

jC(  StaiBBiuND.  Why,  thou  traitor  vile  and 

IB*  base, 

What  need  I  to  know  the  rest, 
Since  it  is  enough  to  know 
Who  I  am  my  power  (o  show, 
And  the  pride  that  fills  my  breast? 
Why  this  treason  brought  to  light 
Hast  thou  to  thy  country  done. 
As  to  bide  from  the  King's  son, 
'Gainst  all  reason  and  all  right, 
This  bis  rank?  , 

Clotauki.  Oh,  destiny! 

Siaisinmn.  Thou  the  traitor's  part  hast 

'Gainst  the  law;  the  King  betrayed. 
And  done  cruel  wrong  to  me; 
'Hius  for  each  distinct  offense 
Have  the  law,  the  King,  and  I 
Thee  condemned  this  day  to  die 
By  my  hands. 

Seconh  Servant,  Prince  .  . . 

SiolsmrND.  No  pretence 
Shalt  undo  the  debt  I  owe  you. 
Catiff,  hencel  By  Heaven!  I  say, 
If  you  dare  to  stop  my  way 
From  the  window  I  wilt  ttirow  you. 


Second  Sehvant.  Hy,  Qotaldol 
Clotaldo.  Woe  to  thee, 
In  thy  pride  so  powerful  seeming. 
Without  knowing  thou  art  dreaming! 

[ExiL] 
Second  Servant.  Think  .  .  . 
SiaieuuND.  Away!  don't  trouble  me. 
Second  Sebvant.    He  could  not   tba 

King  deny. 
SiaiBHUND.  Bade  to  do  a  wrongful  thing 
He  should  have  refused  the  King; 
And,  besides,  his  i^nce  was  I. 
Second  Servant.  'T  was  not  his  oBaii 
totry 
If  the  act  was  wrong  or  right. 
SiGisuuND.   You're  indifTetent,  black  or 
white. 
Since  so  pertly  you  reply. 
CiAKiN.  What  the  I^ince  says  is  quite 

What  you  do  is  wrong,  I  say. 

Skcond  Servlnt.  Who  gave  you  thia 
Ucense,  pray? 

Clabin.  No  one  gave;  I  took  it. 

SiaiaucND.  Who 
Art  thou,  speak? 

C1.AIUN.  A  meddling  fellow, 
Prating,  prying,  fond  of  scrapes. 
General  of  all  jackanapes, 
And  most  merry  when  most  mellow. 

SiQiSHCND.  You  alone  in  this  new  aphne 
Have  amused  me. 

C1.ABIN.  Hat's  quite  true,  ur, 
For  I  am  the  great  amuser 
Of  all  Sigismunds  who  are  here. 

[Enter  Abtoi-TO.] 
Abtouo,  Thousand  times  be  blest  ths 

Prince,  that  gives  thee  to  our  sight, 
Sun  of  Poland,  whose  glad  light 
Makes  this  whole  horiion  gay. 
As  when  from  the  roey  fountains 
Of  the  dawn  the  stream-rays  run. 
Since  thou  issuest  like  the  sun 
From  the  bosom  of  the  mountains! 
And  though  late  do  not  defer 
With  thy  sovereign  light  to  shine; 
Round  thy  brow  the  laurel  twine  — 
Deathless  crown, 
SioisuoND.  God  guard  thee,  sir, 
Abtolvo.  In  not  knowing  me  I  o'erlook 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


'Gunet  thy  taunta,  thou  vain  and  bold. 
But  aJthough  the  truth  thou'st  heard, 
And  now  know'st  thy  name  and  race. 
And  dost  see  thee  in  this  place, 
Where  to  all  thou  &rt  preferred, 
Yet  be  wanted,  and  on  thee  take 
Ways  m(»«  mild  and  more  beseeming, 
For  perhaps  thou  art  but  dreaming, 
Whui  it  seema  that  thou 'rt  awake.  [Exit.] 

SioiBtnjND.    Ib    thie,  then,  a.  phantom 
scene? — 
Do  I  wake  in  seeming  show?  — 
No,  I  dream  not,  since  I  know 
What  1  am  and  what  I've  been. 
And  altiiough  tbou  should 'st  repent  thee, 
Remedy  is  now  too  late. 
Who  I  am  I  know,  and  fate, 
Howsoe'cr  thou  ebould'et  lament  thee, 
'Cannot  take  from  me  my  right 
Of  bebg  bom  this  kingdom's  heir. 
ff  I  saw  myself  erewhile 
Prisoned,  bound,  kept  out  of  sight, 
'T  was  that  never  on  my  mind 
Dawned  the  truth;  but  now  I  know 
Who  I  am  —  a  mingled  show  . 
Of  the  man  and  beast  combined. 

\Ent«r  RosAiTKA,  in  female  attire.] 

RosAURA  [aside].  To  wait  upon  Eatrella 
I  come  here, 
And  leet  I  meet  Astolfo  tremble  with  much 

Clotaldo'a  wishee  are 

The  Duke  should  know  me  not,  and  from 

Ree  me,  if  see  he  must. 

My  honor  is  at  stake,  he  says;  my  trust 

Is  in  Clotaldo's  truth. 

He  will  protect  my  honor  and  my  youth. 
Clakim  [to  SiaisiiuND].  Of  all  this  palace 
here  can  boast, 

All  that  you  yet  have  seen,  say  which  has 
pleased  you  moatT 
SioTSVUMi).  Nothing  surprised  me,  noth- 
ing scared, 

Becausb  for  everything  I  was  prepared; 

But  if  I  felt  for  au^t,  or  more  or  less 

Of  admiration,  't  was  the  lovelineea 

Of  woman;  I  have  read 

Bomewhere  in  books  on  which  my  spirit  fed, 

litat  which  caused  God  the  greatest  care  to 
plan. 


Because  in  him  a  little  world  he  tanpiai. 


her; 
She  who  in  beauty  from  her  birth 
Surpasses  man  as  heaven  nupasseth  earth; 
Nay,  more,  the  one  I  see. 

RoBAUBA  [aaide].  The  Prince  is  htre;  I 
must  this  instant  flee. 

SiaiaMUND.  Hear,  womani  stay; 
Nor  wed  the  western  with  the  orient  ray, 
Flying  with  rapid  tread; 
For  joined  the  orient  rose  and  western  red. 
The  light  and  the  cold  gloom, 
The  day  will  sink  untimely  to  its  tomb. 
But  who  is  this  I  see? 

RosATjRA  [oBvie].  I  doubt  and  yet  be- 
lieve that  it  is  he. 

Sic3i8MOND|(Mtdej.  This  beauty  Ihave  seen 
Some  other  time. 

RoBAURA  [aside).  This  proud,  majeetio 

This  form  I  once  saw  bound 
Within  a  narrow  cell. 
SioismiND  [ande].     My    life    I    hav* 

lAUmd.]  Woman,  the  sweetest  name 
That  man  can  breathe,  or  flattering  lan- 
guage frame. 
Who  art  thou?  for  before 
I  see  thee,  I  believe  and  I  adore; 
Faith  makes  my  love  sublime. 
Persuading  me  we've  met  some  other  time. 
Fair  woman,   speak;  my  wiD   must  be 

RoBATiiu.  In  bright  Estrelht'a  train  a 

haplees  maid.  — 
[Aeide.]  He  muFt  not  know  my  name. 
SioiSHUND.  The  sun,  say  rather,  of  that 

star  whose  flame. 
However  bright  its  blaze 
Is  but  the  pale  reflection  of  thy  rays. 
In  the  fair  land  of  flowers. 
The  realm  of  sweets  that  lies  in  odorous 

bowers, 
The  goddess  rose  I  have  seen 
By  right  divine  of  beauty  reign  as  queen. 
I  have  seen  where  br^htest  shine 
Gems,  the  aMembled  glories  of  the  mine, 
The  brilliant  throng  elect  the  diamond  kins 
For  the  superior  splendor  it  doth  flinc. 


LIFE   IS  A  DREAM 


213 


Amid  the  haUs  of  li^t, 

Where  the  unresting  atar-crowda  meet  tX 

1  have  seen  fair  Hesper  rise 

And  take  tlw  foremost  i^ace  of  all  the  tHatx. 

And  in  that  higher  lone 

Wbere  the  sun  calls  the  planets  round  his 

Uirone, 
I  have  seen,  wiUi  sovereign  sway, 
That  be  presides  the  oracle  of  the  day. 
How,  thm,  'mid  flowers  of  earth  or  stars  of 

'Mid  stones  or  suns,  if  that  which  is  most 

The  preference  gains,  canst  thou 
Before  a  lener  beauty  bend  and  bow, 
When  thine  own  chums  compose 
Something  more  bright  than  sun,  stone, 
star,  or  roeeT 

[Enter  Clotaux).] 
Ci>OTAiiOO  Ituide],  To  calm  Prince  Sigi»- 
mund  devolves  on  me. 
Because  't  was  I  who  reared  him:  —  What 
do  I  see? 
RosACRA.  Thy  favor,  sir,  I  prise; 
To  thee  the  silence  of  my  speech  repliee; 
For  when  the  reason's  dull,  the  mind  de- 
He  best  doth  speak  who  keeps  his  iilence 
best. 
Biaiamnm.  You  must  not  leave  me.  Stay: 
What!  would  you  rob  my  senses  of  the  ray 
Your  beauteous  presence  gave? 

RoeAusA.  That  license,  from  your  High- 

BioiSHnND.  TIk  vicdent  efforts  that  you 

Show  that  you  do  not  ask  the  leave  you  take. 
RosAURA.  I  hope  to  take  it,  if  it  is  not 

SiaiBUUNn.  You  rouse  my  courtesy  to 
rage,  by  Heaven!  — 
In  me  resistance,  as  it  were,  distils 
A  cruel  poison  that  my  patience  kills. 

RosATTBA.  Then  though  that  poison  may 
be  strong. 
The  source  of  tmy,  violence,  and  wrong, 
Potent  thy  patience  to  subdue, 
It  dare  not  the  respect  to  me  that's  due. 

SiaiBHirxD.  As  if  to  show  I  may, 
Vou  take  the  tenor  of  voui  charms  away- 


For  I  am  but  t«o  prone 

To  attempt  the  impossible;  I  to^y  have 

thrown 
Out  of  this  window  one  who  said,  like  you, 
I  dare  not  do  the  thing  I  said  I  would  do. 
Now  just  to  show  I  can, 
I  may  throw  out  your  honor,  as  the  man. 
Clotaldo  \aevh].  More  obstinate  doth 
he  grow; 
What  course  to  take,  0  Heavenal  I  do  not 

When  wild  desire,  nay,  crime. 
Perils  my  honor  for  the  second  time. 

RoBAURA.  Not  vainly,  as  1  see, 
This  hapless  land  was  warned  thy  tyranny 
In  fearful  scandals  would  eventuate. 
In  wrath  and  wrong,  in  treachery,  rage  and 

hate. 
But  who  in  truth  could  claim 
Au^t  from  a  man  who  is  but  a  man  in 

name. 
Audacious,  cruel,  cold. 
Inhuman,  proud,  tyrannical  and  bold, 
'Mong  beasts  a  wild  beast  bomT  — 
Siotsiiom).  It  was  to  save  me  from  suit 
words  of  scorn 
So  courteously  I  spoke, 
Thinking  to  bind  you  by  a  gentler  yoke; 
But  if  I  am  in  au^t  what  you  have  said, 
Then,  as  God  Uves,  I  will  be  all  you  dread. 
Ho,  there!  hete  leave  us.  See  to  it  at  your 

cost, 
The  door  be  locked;  let  no  one  in. 

[Exeunt  Clarin  aTid  the  attendant».) 
RoaADRA.  I'mlostl 
Consider  .  .  . 

SiQiBUtmn.  I'm  a  despot,  and  't  is  vain 
You  strive  to  move  me,  or  my  will  restrain. 
Clotaldo  [aaide].  Oh,  what  a  momenti 
what  an  agony  I 
I  will  g6  forth  and  stop  him  though  I  die. 
[He  adBaruxe.} 
My  lord,  consider,  stay  .  .  . 
SioiBMUND.  A  second  time  you  dare  to 
cross  my  way, 
Old  dotard:  do  you  hold 
My  rage  in  such  slight   awe  you  are  so 

bold? 
What  brought  you  hither?  Speakl 
Clotaum.  The  accents  of  this  Toioe, 
however  weak. 
To  tell  Tou  to  restnin 

GooqIc 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Your  passioius,  if  as  King  you  wish  to 

reign,  — 
Not  to  be  cruel,  though  you  .deem 
Youraelf  the  lord  of  all,  for  all  nmy  be  a 

SiotSOTTHD.  You  but  provoke  my  rage 
By  tbeee  old  Bawa,  the  unwelcome  light  of 

age. 
In  killing  you,  at  least  I'll  see 
If  't  is  a  dream  or  truth. 

[At  he  u  about  to  draw  hit  danger 
ClotauK)  detaim  ii,  tmd  liirotM 
hitrudf  on  kia  knea.] 
CiiOTAUw.  Sole  hope  for  me 
To  save  my  life  is  thus  to  humbly  kneel. 
SioisucND.  Take  your  audacious  hand 

from  oB  my  steel. 
Clotaloo.  Till  some  kind  aid  be  sent. 
Till  some  one  come  who  may  your  rage 

prevent, 
I  will  not  loose  my  hold. 
RoSAUBA.  Oh,  Heaven! 
SiomiiuND.  I  say, 
Loose  it,  old  dotard,  grim  and  gaunt  and 

gray, 
Orby  another  death  [Tkey  s(ru0^.| 

I'll  crush  you  in  my  arms  while  you  have 
breath. 
RosAUBA.  Quickl  quickl  they  slay 
Qotaldo,  helpl  oh,  help?  {Exit.] 

[AaroLTo  enUrt  at  this  moment,  and  Qua- 
TMDO  falls  al  hit  feet ;  he  glands  bo- 

baeen  Uiem.] 

AaroLFO.  This  strange  affray, 
What  can  it  mean,  magnanimous  Prince? 

would  you 
So  bright  e.  blade  imbrue 
In  blood  that  age  already  doth  congeal? 
Back  to  its  eheath  return  the  shining  steel. 

SlOiSMTTKD.  Yes,  when  it  is  batbed  red 
In  bis  base  blood. 

Abtolfo.  This  threatened  life  hath  fled 
For  sanctuary  to  my  feet; 
I  must  protect  it  in  that  poor  ntrost. 

SiaiBHUND.  Protect  your  own  life,  then, 
for  in  this  way. 
Striking  at  it,  I  will  the  grudge  repay 
I  owe  you  for  the  past. 

A8TOU«.  I  thus  defend 
Hy  life;  but  majesty  will  not  offend. 
(AsTOLTo  drawe  Mm  twerd  and  then  fight.] 


Babiudb.  Swords  Waahing  herel  — 

EeTREUA  [atute],  Astolfo  is  engaged:  — 
Oh,  pain  severe! 

Bastuub.  What    caused   this    quarrd? 
Speak,  say  why? 

Abtolto.  T  is  nothing  now,  my  lord, 
since  thou  art  by. 

BioisuuND.  Tie  mudi,  althou^  thou 
now  art  by,  my  lord. 
I  wished  to  kin  this  old  man  with  my  swonL 

Babiuob.  Did  you  not  then  ree^>ect 
These  snow-white  hairs? 

Clotaldo.  My  lord  will  leooUeot 
They  scarce  desNT^  it,  being  mine. 

SraisuuND.  Who  dares 
To  ask  of  me  do  I  respect  white  hairs? 
Your  own  some  day 
My  feet  may  tram^e  in  the  public  way. 
For  I  have  not  as  yet  revenged  my  wrong. 
Your  treatment  so  unjust  and  my  sad  state 
BO  long.  [Exit] 

Basiudb.  But  ere  that  dawn  doth  break. 
You  must  return  to  sleep,  where  when  you 

wake 
All  that  hatb  happened  here  will  seran  — 
As  is  the  glory  of  the  worid  ~~-  a  dtcam. 

[Exeunt  Oie  King,  Clotaldo,  attd 
AUendantt.] 

Abtolfo.  Ah,  how  raiely  fate  doth  lie 
When  it  some  misfortune  threatens! 
Dubious  when 't  is  good  that 's  promised, 
When  't  is  evil,  ah,  too  certain!  — 
What  a  good  astrologer 
Would  he  be,  whose  art  foretelleth 
Only  crud  things;  for,  doubtleoe. 
They  would  turn  out  true  forevwl 
This  in  Sigismund  and  me 
Is  exemplified,  Estrella, 
Since  between  our  separate  fortunee 
Such  a  diSerence  is  preeeoted. 
In  his  ease  had  been  foreseen 
Murders,  miseries,  and  excesses. 
And  in  all  they  turned  out  true. 
Since  all  happened  as  expected. 
But  in  mine,  here  seeing,  lady, 
Rays  BO  rare  and  so  resplendent 
That  the  sun  is  but  th^  shadow. 


CtOoqIc 


LIFB  IS  A  DREAM 


115 


And  even  herven  a  faint  reeembl&nce,      • 
Wben  fate  i^omued  me  good  fortune, 
Trophies,  praiaM,  and  all  blessingB, 
It  epoke  ill  and  it  spoke  well; 
For  it  was  of  both  opprenive, 
When  it  held  out  hopes  o(  favor, 
3ut  Hiwtaln  alone  effected. 
EOTU1U.A.  Oh,  I  doubt  not  these  fine 
speeches 
Are  quite  true,  although  intended 
Doubtless  for  that  other  lady, 
She  whose  portrait  was  suspended 
From  your  neck,  when  first,  Astolfo, 
At  this  Court  here  you  addressed  me. 
This  being  so,  't  is  she  alone 
Who  these  compAimeats  deserveth. 
Go  and  pay  them  to  heiself, 
For  like  bills  that  are  protested 
In  the  counting-house  of  love. 
Are  those  flatteries  and  finesses 
Which  to  other  longs  and  ladies 
Hare  been  previously  presented. 

[Enter  RosaueaJ 

RosAUBA  [dMde].  Well,  thank  Ood,  my 


Have  attained  their  lowest  level. 
Since  by  her  who  sees  this  sight 
Nothing  worse  can  be  expected. 
ABTOLro.  Then  that  portrait  from  my 

Shall  be  taken,  that  thy  perfect 
Beauty  there  may  reign  instead. 
For  where  bright  Eatrella  enters 
Shadow  cannot  be,  or  star 
Where  the  sun;  I  go  to  fetch  it.  — 
^Aaidt.]  Pardon,  beautiful  Rosaura, 
This  offense;  the  absent  nev«-, 
Man  or  woman,  as  this  shows, 
Faith  or  plighted  vows  remember.  [ExU.] 
[RoBAU'itA  eomei  fonoard.] 
RosAUKA  [atide].  Not  a  single  word  I 

Being  afraid  they  might  observe  me. 

EsTBBLLA.  Ob,  Astreat 

RoaauRA.  My  good  lady  I 

EsTBiiLi^.  Nothing  eould  have  pleased 
me  better 
Hian  your  timely  coming  here. 
I  have  something  confidential 
To  entnut  you  with. 


RoBAiTRA.  You  honor 
Far  too  macb  my  humble  service. 
EsTRKLLA.    Brief  ai    is  the  time,  As- 

I  have  known  you,  you  already 
Of  my  heart  possess  the  keys. 
'T  is  for  this  and  your  own  merits 
That  I  venture  to  entrust  you 
With  what  oft  I  have  attempted 
From  myself  to  hide, 

RoBATTKA.  Your  slave! 

Ebtkxlla.  Then  concisely  to  express  it- 
Know,  Astolfo,  my  first  cousin 
('T  is  enough  that  word  U>  mention. 
For  some  things  may  best  be  said 
When  not  spoken  but  suggested). 
Soon  expects  to  wed  with  me. 
If  my  fate  so  far  relenteUi, 
As  that  by  one  sin^e  bliss 
All  past  sorrows  may  be  lessened. 
I  was  troubled,  the  first  day 
That  we  met,  to  see  suspended 
From  his  nedc  a  lady's  portrait. 
On  the  point  I  urged  him  gently. 
He  so  court«ouB  and  polite 
Went  immediately  to  get  it, 
And  will  bring  it  here.  From  him 
I  shoidd  feel  quite  disconcerted 
To  receive  it.  You  here  stay, 
And  ntquest  1'''"  to  present  it 
Unto  you.   I  say  no  more. 
You  are  beautiful  and  clever. 
You  must  know  too  what  is  love.      IBxU.] 

R08AUKA.  Would  I  knew  it  not!  O  helf  . 

Now,  kind  Heaven!  for  who  could  !3e 

So  prudential,  so  collected. 

As  to  know  hon  ttest  to  act 

In  BO  painful  a.  dilemma? 

Is  there  in  the  world  a  being. 

Is  there  one  a  more  inclement 

Heaven   has   marked   with   more   misfol* 

Has  'mid  more  of  sorrow  centered?  — 
What,  bewildered,  shall  I  do, 
When  't  is  vain  to  be  expected 
That  my  reason  can  console  me, 
Or  ooDsoling  be  my  helper? 
lYom  my  earliest  mirfortune 
Everything  that  I  've  attempted 
Has  been  but  one  misery  more  — 
Each  the  other's  sad  sucoenor, 


3l6 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


All  inheritora  of  themselves. 

Thus,  the  Phoenix  they  resemble. 

One  ie  front  the  other  bom, 

New  life  apringa  where  old  life  endeth, 

And  the  Toung  are  warmly  cradled 

By  the  SEhes  of  the  elder. 

Once  a  wise  mail  called  them  cowanla, 

Seeing  that  misf  ortunea  never 

Have  been  seen  to  oome  alone. 

But  I  call  them  brave,  intrepid, 

Who  go  Btroight  unto  their  end, 

And  ne'er  turn  their  baclm  in  terror:  — 

By  the  nian  who  brings  them  with  him 

Everything  may  be  attempted, 

Since  he  need  on  no  oocasion 

Have  the  fear  of  being  deserted. 

I  may  say  so,  since  at  all  times, 

Whatsoever  life  presented, 

I,  without  them,  never  saw  me, 

Nor  will  they  grow  weary  ever. 

Till  they  aee  me  in  death's  arms, 

Wounded  by  fate's  final  weapon. 

Woe  is  mel  but  what  to-day 

Shall  I  do  in  this  emergenee?  — 

If  I  tell  my  name,  Clotaldo, 

Unto  whom  I  am  indebted 

For  my  very  life  and  honor. 

May  be  with  me  much  offended; 

Since  he  aaid  my  reparation 

Must  in  silence  be  expected. 

If  1  tell  not  to  Astolfo 

Who  I  am,  and  he  detects  me 

How  can  I  dissemble  then? 

For  although  a  feigned  resemblance 

Eyes  and  voice  and  (ongue  might  try. 

Ah,  the  truthful  heart  would  tremble, 

And  expose  the  lie.   But  wherefore 

Study  what  to  do?  'T  is  certain 

That  however  I  may  study, 

Think  beforehand  how  to  nerve  me, 

When  at  last  the  occasion  comes. 

Then  akine  what  grief  auggeateth 

I  wiU  do,  for  no  one  holda 

In  hia  power  the  heart's  distresses. 

And  thus  what  to  say  or  do 

As  my  soul  cannot  determine. 

Grief  must  only  reach  tonlay 

Ite  last  limit,  pain  be  ended, 

And  at  last  an  exit  make 

From  the  doubts  that  so  perplex  me 

How  to  a«t:  but  until  then 

Help  me.  Heaven,  oh,  deifcn  to  help  mel 


[EnUr  AaroLPo,  wilA  the  portnil.] 

AaroLro.    Here  then  is  the   portrait. 
Princess: 
But,  good  God! 

RosAimA.  Your  Highness  trembler; 
What  has  startled,  what  surprised  youf 

AsTOLFO.  Thee,  Rosaura,  to  see  present 

RoaAimA.   I  Roeaura?  Oh,  Your  High- 
la  deceived  by  aome  resemblance 
Doubtlen  to  some  other  lady;, 
I  'm  Aatrea,  one  who  merits 
Not  the  glory  of  producing 
An  emotion  ao  exceesive. 

AsroLro.    Ah,    Roeaura,    thou    mayvt 
fogn, 
But  the  soul  bears  no  deception. 
And  thou^  seeing  thee  as  Astres, 
As  Roeaura  it  muat  serve  thee. 

RoSAUBA.    I,  not  knowing  what  Yoni 
HighnwB 
Speaks  of,  am  of  course  prevented 
F^m  replying  aught  but  this, 
That  EstreUa  {the  bright  Hesper 
Of  this  sphere)  was  pleased  to  order 
That  I  here  should  wait  expectant 
For  that  portrait,  which  to  me 
She  desires  you  give  at  present: 
For  aome  reason  she  [Hefers 
It  through  me  should  be  [vesented  — 
So  EstreUa  —  say,  my  star  — 
Wishes  —  so  a  fate  relentless 
WiDa  —  in  thin^  that  bring  roe  loss  — . 
So  EstreUa  now  expecteth. 

AsTOLFO.   Though  auch  efforta  you  at 

StiD  how  badly  you  dissemble. 
My  Rosaura!  Tell  the  eyes 
In  their  music  to  keep  better 
Concert  with  the  voice,  because 
Any  instrument  whatever 
Would  be  out  of  tune  that  sought 
To  combine  and  blend  together 
The  true  feelings  of  the  heart 
With  the  false  words  speech  expresses 

RosATTBA.  I  wait  only,  as  I  said, 
For  the  portrait. 

AsTOLFo.  Since  you're  bent  then 
To  Ute  end  to  keep  this  tone, 
I  adopt  it,  and  dissMiible. 
Tell  the  Priucesa,  then,  Aatre», 


.Ck^ti^^lc 


UFE  IS   A   DREAM 


117 


That  I  so  est«em  her  mefloage, 
"nut  to  wad  to  her  a  copy 
Smoob  to  me  ao  slight  a  preae&t. 
How  ao  highly  it  is  v&lu«d 
By  myself,  I  think  it  better 
To  present  the  original, 
And  you  easily  may  present  it, 
Since,  in  point  of  fact,  you  bring  it 
With  you  in  your  own  sweet  person. 

RosADKA.  When  it  has  been  undertaken 
By  a  man,  bold,  brave,  determined. 
To  obtain  a  certain  object. 
Though  he  get  pertiaps  a  better, 
Still  not  bringing  back  the  first 
He  returns  deepised:  I  beg,  then. 
That  Your  Highness  give  the  portrait; 
I,  without  it,  dare  not  venture. 

Abtolfo.  How,  then,  if  I  do  not  give  it 
Will  you  get  it? 

RoBAnRA.  I  will  get  it 
Thus,  ungrateful.  [Sktattemplatoanatehil.] 

A0TOLPO.  'T  is  in  vain. 

RosAURA.    It  must  ne'er  be  seen,  no. 

In  another  woman's  hands. 
Abtolfo.  Thau  art  dreadful. 
RosAtiBA.  Thou  deceptive. 
Abtolvo.  Oh,  ttkouf^,  Rosaura  mine. 
RosAUHA.  Thinel  Thou  liest,  base  de- 
serter. [BolkUntiH^fortheportraiti 

[Bnier  Estrella,) 
EstBBLLA.  Princel  Astreal  What  is 

thisf 
AsTOLFO  [atide].   Heavensl  Eatrellal 
RosAtJHA  [and«].  Love  befriend  me; 
Give  me  wit  enough  my  portrait 
To    regain:  —  ITo  Estbxlla.]    If   thou 

wodd'st  learn  then 
What  the  matter  ie,  my  lady, 
I  wiU  tell  thee. 
Abtolpo  [ande  to  HoaAUiu].  Would 'st 

o'erwhelm  me? 
RoBAUBA.  You  commanded  me  to  wait 
here 
For  the  Prince,  and,  reprwenting 
You,  to  get  from  him  &  portrait. 
1  remained  alone,  eicpecting. 
And,  aa  often  by  one  thought 
Is  some  other  thought  suggeeted. 
Seeing  that  you  spoke  of  portraits, 
I,  reminded  thus,  remembered 


That  I  had  one  ^  myaelf 

In  my  sleeve;  I  wished  to  inspect  it. 

For  a  person  quite  alone 

Even  by  trifles  is  diverted. 

From  my  hand  I-Iet  it  fall 

On  the  ground;  the  Prince,  who  entered 

Witti  the  other  lady's  portrait. 

Raised  up  mine,  but  so  r^iellious 

Was  he  to  what  you  had  asked  him 

That,  instead  of  his  preaenting 

One,  he  wished  to  keep  the  other. 

Since  he  mine  will  not  svurcnder 

To  my  prayers  and  my  entreaties: 

Angry  at  this  ill-timed  jeeting 

I  endeavored  to  regain  it. 

That  which  in  his  hand  is  held  there 

Is  my  portrait,  if  you  see  it; 

You  can  judge  of  the  resemblance. 

Esmsu^.   Duke,  at  oace,  give  up  the 
portrait.  [She  lakei  it  from  hit  hand.] 

AflTOLFO.  Princess  ... 

EsTBXiAJk.  Well,  the  tints  were  blended 
By  no  cruel  hand,  methinks. 

RosAUHA.  Is  it  like  me? 

BsTBXLLA.  like!  'T  is  perfect. 

RoaAUBA.    Now  demand  from  him  the 
other. 

Ebtbella.    Take  your  own,  and  Wve 
our  preeence. 

RoBAUKA  [tuide] .  I  have  got  my  portrait 
back; 
Come  what  oiay  I  am  contented.      [Exit.] 

Ebtbxu^.  Give  me  now  the  other  por- 
trait; 
For  —  although  perhaps  I  never 
May  again  address  or  see  you  — 
I  deeire  not,  no,  to  let  it 
In  your  hfln<^  remain,  if  only 
For  my  folly  in  requesting 
You  to  give  it. 

Aotolto  latide].  How  escape 
From  this  singular  dilemma?  — 
Though  I  wish,  most  beauteous  Princeas, 
To  obey  thee  and  to  serve  thee. 
Still  I  cannot  give  the  portrait 
Thou  dost  ask  for,  since  .  . . 

EsmsuiA.  A  wretched 
And  false-hearted  lover  art  thou. 
Now  I  wish  it  not  preaented, 
So  to  give  thee  no  pretext 
For  reminding  me  that  ever 
I  had  asked  it  at  thy  hands.  [fixif  J 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


AsTOLFO.  Hearmelliatent waitlremem- 
berl  — 
God,  what  hast  thou  done,  BosaunT 
Why,  or  wher^ore,  on  what  errand, 
To  destroy  thyself  and  me 
Host  thou  Poland  rashly  entmedT     [EtU.] 


[SiQisuDND,  aialthe  commencemtnt,  dolhed 
in  skina,  chained,  and  lying  on  ike 
ground;  Clutaldo,  two  ServajUa,  and 
ClabinJ 

CijOTAldo.     Leave    him    here   on    the 
ground, 
'    Where  his  day,  —  ita  pride  beii^  o'er,  — 
Finds  its  end  too. 

A  Sbbvant.  As  before 
With  the  chain  hia  feet  ore  bound. 

CiiARiN.    Never  from  that  sleep  pro- 
Wake,  O  Sigismund,  or  riae, 
To  behold  with  wonderiog  eyes 
All  thy  ^oriouB  life  o'erthrown. 
Like  a  shadow  that  hath  Sown, 
UJo  a  bright  brief  flame  that  dies! 
fCuyiAij>o.  One  who  can  bo  wisely  make 
/  Such  reflections  on  this  case 
I  Should  have  ample  time  and  apace, 
I  Even  for  the  Solon's  sake, 
I  To  discuss  it;  [to  the  ServatU]  him  you'll 
I  take 

VTo  this  cell  here,  and  keep  bound. 
^^  IPointino  to  on  adjoinirxg  room] 

Clasih.  But  why  me? 
Ci<OTAU>o.  Because  't  is  found 
Safe,  when  clarions  secrets  know, 
Clarions  to  lock  up,  that  so 
They  may  not  have  power  to  sound. 

(Xarin.  Did  I,  since  you  treat  me  thus, 
Try  to  kill  my  father?  No. 
Did  I  from  the  window  throw 
That  unlucky  Icarus? 
Is  my  drink  somniferous? 
Do  I  dream?  Then  why  be  pent? 
Clotauk).  'T  is  a  clarion's  punishment. 
CL.ABIN.  Then  a  horn  of  low  degree, 
Yea,  a  cornet  I  will  be, 
A  safe,  silent  instrument. 

[They  take  him  away,  and  Clo- 
TAU>o  remouu  oloncj 


[Enter  Basiuub,  diefpattdi 

Babiudb.  Hark,  Clotaldol 

Clotaldo.   My  lord  here? 
Thus  disguised,  Your  Majesty? 

Babiudb.  Foolish  curiosity 
Leads  me  in  this  lowly  gear 
To  find  out,  ah,  mel  with  fear, 
How  the  Budden  change  be  bcn^. 

Clotaldo.  There  behold  him  as  before 
In  his  miserable  state. 

Basiuus.    Wretched  Prince!  unhappy 
fate! 
Birth  by  baneful  stars  watched  o'er!  — 
Go  and  wake  him  cautiously, 
Now  that  strength  and  force  Ue  chained 
By  the  opiat«  he  hath  drained. 

Clotaldo.    Muttering  something  rest- 
lessly, 
See  be  lies. 

Babilicb.  Let's  listen;  he 
May  some  few  clear  words  repeat. 

SlOIBUUNO.  [Speaking  in  hit  tUep.] 

Perfect  Prince  is  he  whose  heat 
Smites  the  tyrant  where  he  stands, 
Yes,  Clotaldo  dies  by  my  bands, 
Yes,  my  sire  shall  kiss  my  feet. 

Clotauh).    Death  he  threatens  in  his 
rage. 

Basiuus.  Outrage  vile  he  doth  intend. 

Clotaldo.  He  my  life  has  sworn  to  end. 

BAfiiLins.    He  ha>B  vowed  to  insult  my 
age. 

SioiauuND  [sUUdeeping].  Onthemighty 
world's  great  stage, 
'Mid  the  admiring  nations'  cheer, 
Valor  mine,  that  has  no  peer, 
Enter  thou:  the  elave  so  shunned 
Now  shall  reign  Prince  Sigiamund, 
And  bis  sire  his  wrath  shall  fear.  — 

[He  oiDOiM.l 
But,  ah  me!  Where  am  I?  OhI  — 

Babiliub.  Me  I  must  not  let  him  see. 
[To  Clotaldo.]  Listening  I  close  by  will  be, 
What  you  have  to  do  you  know. 

[He  reUreai 

SioiSHUNii.  Can  it  possibly  be  so? 
Is  the  truth  not  what  it  seemed? 
Am  I  chained  and  unredeemed? 
Art  not  thou  my  lifelong  tomb. 
Dark  old  tower?  Yes!  What  a  doom! 
Godl  what  wondrous  things  I've  dreamed! 


LIFE   IS   A   DREAM 


319 


Clotuiw.  Now  in  this  delusive  play 
Must  my  special  part  be  taken:  — 
Is  it  not  full  time  to  waken? 

Siaismnn).  Yes,  k>  waken  well  it  may. 

Clotauk).  Wilt  thou  sleep  the  livelong 
day?  — 
Since  we  gasing  from  below 
Saw  the  eagle  sailing  slow, 
Soaring  through  the  aiure  sphere, 
All  the  time  thou  waited  here, 
Didat  thou  never  waken? 

SiaiBMOND.  No, 
Not  even  now  am  I  awake. 
Since  such  thoughts  my  memory  Gil, 
That  it  seems  I'm  dreaming  still: 
Not  is  this  a  great  mistake; 
Since  if  dreams  could  phant^inia  make 
Things  of  actual  substance  seen, 
I  things  seen  may  phantoms  deem. 
Thus  a  double  harvest  Teaping, 
I  can  see  when  I  am  sleeping, 
And  when  waking  I  can  dream. 

ClotauX).  What  you  may  have  dreamed 
of,  Bay. 

SiaiBKUND.  If  I  thought  it  only  seemed, 
I  wonld  tdl  not  what  I  dreamed. 
But  what  I  behold,  I  may. 
I  awoke,  and  lol  I  lay 
(Cruel  and  delusive  thing!) 
In  a  bed  whoee  covering, 
Bright  with  blooms  from  rosy  boweiS, 
Seemed  a  tapestry  of  flowers 
Woven  by  the  hand  of  Spring. 
Then  a  crowd  of  nobles  came, 
Who  addressed  me  by  the  name 
Of  their  prince,  presenting  me 
Gems  and  robes,  on  bended  knee. 
Calm  soon  left  me,  and  my  frame 
Tlirilled  with  joy  to  bear  thee  tell 
Of  the  fate  that  me  befell, 
For  thou^  now  in  this  dark  den, 
I  was  Prince  of  Poland  then. 

Clotaldo.    Doubtless  you  repaid  me 
weU? 

Sioiau UND.  No,  not  well :  for,  colling  thee 
Traitor  vile,  in  furious  strife 
Twice  I  strove  to  take  tby  life. 

CliOTALDO.   But  why  all  this  rage  'gainst 

SiaiBUDNn.  I  was  master,  and  would  be 
Well  revenged  on  foe  and  friend. 
Love  one  woman  could  defend  .  .  . 


That,  at  least,  for  truth  I  deem. 
All  else  ended  like  a  dieam, 
That  alone  can  never  end. 

E[Tlu  King  wiihdraus.) 
OTALDO  [aaidei.    From  his  place  the 
King  hath  gone, 
bed  by  his  pathetic  words:  — 
[Aloud.]  Speaking  of  the  king  of  birds 
Soaring  to  ascend  his  throne. 
Thou  didst  fancy  one  thine  own; 
But  in  dreams,  however  bright, 
Thou  shouldst  still  have  kept  in  si^t 
How  for  years  I  tended  thee. 
For  't  were  well,  whoe'er  we  be, 

it.  [Eint.] 


Even  in  dreams 

SioisuDKo.  That  is  true: 

This  wild  rage,  this  fierce  condition 
Of  the  mind,  this  proud  ambition, 
Should  we  ever  dntam  again; 
And  we'll  do  so,  since  't  is  plain. 
In  this  world's  uncertain  gleam. 
That  to  live  is  but  to  dream: 
Man  dreams  what  he  is,  and  wakes 
Only  when  upon  him  breaks 
Death's  mysterious  morning  beam. 
The  king  dreams  he  is  a  king, 
And  in  this  delusive  way 
Lives  and  rules  with  sovereign  sway; 
All  the  cheers  that  round  bim  ring. 
Bom  of  ail,  on  air  take  wing. 
And  in  asbes  (mournful  fate!) 
Death  disaolvee  his  pride  and  state: 
Who  would  wish  a  crown  t«  take, 
Seeing  that  be  must  awake 
In  the  dream  beyond  death's  gate? 
And  the  rich  man  dreams  of  gold. 
Gilding  cores  it  scarce  conceals. 
And  the  poor  man  dreams  he  feels 
Want  and  misery  and  cold. 
Dreams  he  too  who  rank  would  hold, 
Dreams  who  bears  toil's  rough-ribbed 

Dreams  who  wrong  for  wrong  demands, 
And  in  fine,  tbrau^out  the  earth. 
All  men  dream,  whate'er  their  birth. 
And  yet  no  one  understands. 
'T  is  a  dream  that  I  in  sadness 
Here  am  bound,  the  scorn  of  fate; 
'T  wss  a  dream  that  onoe  a  state 
I  enjoyed  of  light  and  gladness. 
What  is  life?  'T  is  but  a  madnaaa. 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Vfh&t  is  life?  A  thing  that  seems, 
A  mirage  that  falsely  gleama, 
Phantom  joy,  delusive  leet, 
Since  is  life  a  dream  at  best, 
And  even  dreams  theroeelvee  are  dieama. 
[Eat.] 

ACT   III 
[ScBNis  I.   WUhin  the  Tower] 
Clabin.   In  a  strange  enchanted  tower, 
I,  for  what  I  know,  am  prisoned; 
How  would  ignorance  be  punished, 
If  for  knowledge  they  would  kill  me? 
What  a  thing  to  die  of  hunger. 
For  a  man  who  loves  good  hvingl 
I  compassionate  myself; 
All  will  say;  "I  well  believe  it"; 
And  it  well  may  be  b^eved, 
Because  silence  is  a  virtue 
looompatible  with  my  name 
Clarin,  which  of  course  forbids  it. 
In  this  place  my  sole  uompanions, 
It  may  safely  be  predicted, 
Are  the  spiders  and  Uie  mice: 
What  a  pleasant  nest  of  linnetel  — 
Owing  to  this  last  night's  dream. 
My  poor  head  I  feel  quite  diziy 
From  a  thousand  clarionets, 
Shawms,  and  seraphinee  and  cymbals, 
Crucifixes  and  processions, 
Flagellants  who  so  well  whipped  them, 
Tliat  as  up  and  down  they  went, 
Some  even  fainted  as  they  witnessed 
How  the  blood  ran  down  the  others. 
I,  if  I  the  truth  may  whisper, 
^mply  fainted  from  not  eating, 
For  I  see  me  in  this  prison 
All  day  wondering  how  this  Poland 
Such  a  Hungary  look  exhibits, 
All  night  reading  in  the  Faati 
By  some  half-starved  poet  written. 
In  the  calendar  of  saints. 
If  a  new  one  is  admitted, 
Then  St.  Secret  be  my  patron, 
For  I  fast  upon  his  vigil; 
Though  it  must  be  owned  I  suffer 
Justly  for  tbe  fault  committed, 
E^ce  a  servant  to  be  silent 
Is  a  sacrilege  moet  sinful. 

\A  Mmnd  of  drums  and  tnmnpeU, 


(Soldier*  and  Clabin.) 

FiHST   SoLDmR  ItoOAin].    He   is   beie 
within  this  tower. 
Dash  the  door  from  off  its  hinges; 
Ent«rall. 

Clabin.  Good  God! 't  is  certain 
That 't  is  me  they  seek  so  briskly. 
Since  they  say  that  I  am  here. 
What  can  they  require? 

FiBST  SoLniEB  [toifMt^.  Go  in  there. 
[StMral  StMUn  enter.] 

SccoND  Solhhbr.  Here  he  is. 

Clabin.  He's  not. 

All  the  Soldixbs.  Great  lordl 

Clabin  [otidA-  Are  the  fellows  mad  or 
tipoy? 

FiBffr   SoLoiBi^    Thou    art    our    own 
Prince,  and  we 
Will  not  have,  and  won't  admit  of, 
Any  but  our  natural  Prince; 
We  no  foreign  Prince  here  wish  for. 
Let  us  kneel  and  kiss  thy  feet. 

The  SoLniERS,  Live,  long  live  our  beat 
of  Princes! 

Clabin  [ostde].  'Gadl  the  affair  grows 
rather  serious. 
Is  it  usual  in  this  kingdom 
To  take  some  one  out  each  day. 
Make  him  Prince,  and  then  remit  him 
To  this  tower?  It  must  be  so. 
Since  each  day  that  sight  I  witness. 
I  must  therefore  play  my  part, 

SoutiBRS.  Thy  feet  give  ust 

Clabin.  I  can't  give  them. 
As  I  want  them  for  myself. 
For  a  piinoe  to  be  a  cripple 
Would  be  rather  a  defect. 

Sbcons   Boldixb.     We  have  all  con' 
veyed  our  wishes 
To  your  father;  we  have  told  him 
You  alone  shall  be  our  Prince  her^, 
Not  the  Duke. 

Clabin.  And  were  you  guilty 
'Gainst  my  sire,  of  disrespect? 

First  Soldibr.    'T  was  the  loyalty  of 
our  spirit. 

Clarin.  If 't  was  loyalty,  I  forgive  you. 

Second  Soldier.     Come,    regain    Uiy 
lost  dominion. 
Long  live  Siffsmundt 

.GooqIc 


LIFE  IS  A  DREAM 


AiiL.  live  the  PrittM. 

Clasin  [ondel.    Say    they  Bigisinuud? 
Good.  Admitted. 
Sigiamund  must  be  the  name 
Given  to  all  pretended  princee. 

[£nfer  SiQiHKUKD.] 

SiaisuuND.  Who  haa  named  here  Sigis- 
mund? 

Clarin  (ondel.  Ah,  I'm  but  an  addled 
prince,  then! 

FiBST  SoutixB.  Who  is  Sigismund? 

SionucND.  Who?  I. 

Bbcond    Soldier    [to   Ci,abin],     How, 
then,  didat  thou,  bold  sjid  fiilly, 
Due  to  make  thee  8i|^Bmund7 

CiiAiuN.     I  a   SigismundT    Thou    fib- 
beat; 
It  was  you  youieelTee  that  thus 
Sigismundiied  me  and  princed  me : 
All  the  aOImeM  and  the  boldiiess 
Have  been  by  yoiireelves  committed. 

FiBOT  SoLDizB.  Great  and  brave  Prince 
Si^smund 
(For  thy  bearing  doth  convince  ua 
Thou  art  he,  although  on  faith 
We  proclaim  thee  as  our  prince  here). 
King  Baailiufl,  thy  father, 
Fearful  of  the  Heavens  fulfilling 
A  iHediction,  which  declared 
He  would  we  hiniMlf  submitted 
At  thy  victor  feet,  attempts 
To  deprive  thee  of  thy  birthri^t. 
And  to  give  it  to  Astolfo, 
Muscovy's  duke.  For  this  his  misaives 
Summoned  all  his  court:  the  people 
Understanding,  by  some  instinct, 
That  they  had  a  natural  king. 
Did  not  wish  a  foreign  princeling 
To  rule  o'er  them.  And  't  ia  thus. 
That  the  fate  for  thee  {H^dicted 
Treating  with  a  uoble  scorn, 
They  have  eau^t  thee  where  imprisoned 
Thou  dost  live,  that  issuing  forth. 
By  their  powerful  anns  assisted, 
FVom  this  tnwer,  thy  croi^  and  scepter 
Thou  shouldst  thus  re^tain,  and  quit  them 
Of  a  stranger  and  a  tyrant. 
Forth!  then;  for  among  these  clifis  here. 
There  is  now  a  numerous  aimy. 
Formed  of  soldiers  and  banditti, 
That  invoke  tiiee:  freedom  waits  thee; 


To  the  thousand  voices  listen. 

[Voieet   within.]     Long,  long  Uve  Prince 

Sigismundl 
SiaiBMUNS.     Once   again,   O    Heavenl 

wouldst  wish  me 
Once  again  to  dream  of  greatness 
Which  may  vanish  in  an  instant? 
Once  again  to  see  the  glories. 
That  a  royal  throne  encircle. 
Die  in  darkness  and  in  gloom, 
Like  a  flame  the  winds  extinguish? 
Once  again  by  sod  experience 
To  be  taught  the  dangerous  limits 
Human  power  may  overleap, 
At  its  birth  and  while  it  liveth? 
No,  it  roust  not,  must  not  be;  — 
See  me  now  once  more  submitted 
To  my  fate:  and  since  I  know 
Life  is  but  a  dream,  a  vision, 
Henoe,  ye  phantoms,  that  smime 
To  my  darkened  sense  the  figure 
And  the  voice  of  life  —  although 
Neither  voice  nor  form  is  in  them. 
I  no  longer  now  desire 
A  feigned  majesty,  a  fictitious 
And  fantastic  pomp  —  Elusions 
Which  the  slif^test  breath  that  ripples 
The  calm  ether  can  destroy. 
Even  as  in  the  early  spring-time. 
When  the  flowering  almond  tree 
Unadvisedly  exhibits 
All  its  fleeting  blooro  of  Sowers, 
The  first  blast  their  freshness  withers. 
And  the  ornament  and  grace 
Of  its  rosy  locks  disfigures. 
Now  I  know  ye  —  know  ye  tdl, 
And  I  know  the  same  false  dimmer 
Cheats  the  eyes  of  all  who  sleep. 
Me  false  shows  no  more  bewilder; 
Disabused,  I  now  know  well 
Life  is  but  a  dream  —  a  vision. 
Sbcons  Soldier.    If  tbou  thinkeet  we 

deceive  thee, 
Turn  thine   eyes   to  those    proud  cliSs 

See  the  crowds  that  wait  there,  willing, 
Eager  to  obey  thee. 
SiQiBuuim.  Yet 
Just  as  clearly  and  distinctly, 
I  have  seen  another  time 
The  same  things  that  now  I  witneae. 
And  't  was  but  a  dream. 


.CtOo^^Ic 


taa 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Sbcokd  Soldies.  At  all  times 
Great  events,  my  lord,  bring  with  them 
Their  own  omena;  and  thy  dream 
But  the  actual  fact  prefigured. 

Siai8MTJin>.  Vou  sa^  well,  it  was  an 

But  supposing  the  bright  vision 
E!ven  were  true,  since  life  ia  short. 
Let  ua  dream,  my  bouI.  a  Jittle, 
^ce  again,  remembering,  now 
With  all  forethought  and  prevision 
That  we  must  once  more  awake 
At  tte  better  time  not  djstaat; 
That  being  known,  the  undeceiving. 
When  it  comes,  will  be  less  bitter; 
For  it  takee  the  sting  from  evil 
To  anticipate  its  visit. 
And  with  this  conviction,  too. 
Even  ita  certainty  admitting. 
That  all  power  being  only  lent 
Must  return  unto  the  Giver, 
Let  us  boldly  then  dare  all,  — 
For  the  loydty  you  exhibit. 
Thanks,  my  lieges.  See  in  me 
One  who  tHII  this  land  deliver 
From  a  stranger's  alien  yoke. 
Sound  to  arms;  you  soon  shall  witneaa 
What  my  valor  can  effect. 
'Gainst  my  father  I  have  lifted 
Hostile  arms,  to  see  if  Heaven 
Has  of  me  the  truth  predicted. 
At  my  feet  I  am  to  see  him  .  .  . 
[Aside.]  But  if  I,  from  dreams  delivered, 
Wake  ere  then,  and  nothing  happens, 
Silence  now  were  more  befitting. 

All.   LofLg  live  Sigismund,  our  king! 

[Enter  Clotaldo.) 

Clotaldo.   Ha!  what  tumult,  heaveosl 
has  risen? 

SioisuuND.  Well,  Clotaldo. 

Clotaum).  Sire  .  ,  ,  [AndeJ  On  me 
Will  his  wrath  now  fall. 

Clarin  [(Wide).  He'll  fling  him 
Headlong  down  the  steep,  I  'II  bet.      [Bxa\ 

Clotaldo.  At  your  royal  feet  sub- 
mitted 
I  know  how  to  die. 

SiaisuuM).   My  father, 
Rise,  I  pray,  from  that  position, 
3ince  to  you,  my  guide  and  poleatar, 
Vre  my  future  acte  committed; 


All  my  post  life  owes  you  much 
For  your  careful  supervision. 
Come,  embrace  me. 

Clotaldo.  What  do  you  sayT 

SiGiBUTWD.  That  I  dream,  and  that  my 
wtshee 
Are  to  do  what 's  right,  since  we 
Even  in  dreams  should  do  what's  fitting. 

Clotaldo.  Then,    my  Prince,  if  you 
adopt 
Acting  rightly  as  your  symbol, 
You  will  pardon  me  for  asldng. 
So  to  act,  that  you  permit  me. 
No  advice  and  no  assistance 
Can  I  give  against  my  king. 
Better  that  my  lord  should  kill  me 
At  his  feet  here. 

SiorsuuND.  Ob,  ungratefull 
Villain!  wretch!    [AsideJ    But,  Heavenal 

't  is  fitter 
I  restrain  myself,  not  knowing 
But  all  this  may  be  a  vision.  — 
The  fidelity  I  envy 
Must  be  honored  and  admitted. 
Go  and  serve  your  lord,  the  Idng. 
Where  the  battle  rages  thickest 
We  shall  meet.  —  To  arms,  my  friendsl 

Clotaldo.    Thanks,  most  generous  ai 
princea.  [ExU\ 

SiQiBMUND.    Fortune,  we  go  forth  to 
reign; 
Wake  me  not  if  this  is  vision, 
liot  me  sleep  not  if  't  is  true. 
But  which  ever  of  them  is  it, 
To  act  right  is  what  importa  me. 
"  ":  is  true,  because  it  is  so; 
If  't  is  not,  that  when  I  waken 
Friends  may  welcome  and  forgive  me. 

[Extutit  oU,  drums  htoHng^ 

[ScENB  II.  HaU  in  lU  Royal  Palaeei 

[Enter  Basiuus  and  AeroLro.l 
Babilius.  Who  can  expect,  Astolfo,  to 

restrain 
An  untamed  st«ed  that  wildly  turns  to 

flee? 

Who  con  the  current  of  a  stream  detain, 
That  swollen  with  pride  sweeps  down  to 

seek  the  sea7 
Who  can  prevent  from  tumbling  to  the 


:.L|,i,zedi!,GoOQlc 


LIFE  IS   A   DREAM 


»»3 


Some  mi^ty  peak  the  lightniiig'B  flash 

Mtsfree? 
Vet  each  were  eaaier  in  its  separate  way, 
Than  the  rude  mob's  inaenaate  tuge  to 

stay. 
Tha  several  bands  that  throng  each  green 

This  truth  produm  by  their  disparted 

cries; 
AiUAfo  here  the  echoing  notes  repeat, 
While  there  't  is  Syjitmamd  that  rends  the 

The  place  where  late  the  land  was  glad  to 

greet 
The  choice  we  made,  a  seoond  venture 

And  soon  will  be,  as  Horror  o'er  it  leans, 
The  fatal  theater  of  tragic  scenes. 

Abtolfo.  My  lord,  let  all  this  joy  sus- 
pended be. 
These  plaudits  cease,  and  to  another  day 
Defer  the  rapture  thou  hast  promised  me; 
For  if  this  Poland  (which  I  hope  to  sway) 
Resists  to-day  my  right  of  sovereignty, 
'T  is  that  by  merit  I  should  win  my  way. 
Give  me  a  steed;  to  stem  this  wild  revolt 
My  pride  shall  be  the  flash  tiiat  bears  the 
bolt.  I£xi(.] 

Babiuub.  Sli^t  help  there  is  for  what  ia 
fiited  by  fate, 
And  much  of  danger  to  foresee  the  blow; 
If  it  must  fall,  defense  is  then  too  late. 
And  he  who  most  forestalls  doth  most  fore- 
know. 
Hard  lawl   Stem  rulel    Dire  faot  to  con- 
template! 
That  be  who  thinks  to  fly  doth  nearer  go. 
Thus  by  the  very  means  that  I  employed, 
My  country  and  myself  I  have  destroyed. 
\ETUtT  EentELL&J 
Ebtrzlla.  If ,  mighty  lord,  thypresence, 
which  it  braves. 
The  tumult  of  the  crowd  cannot  defeat  - 
The  frensy  of  the  multitude  that  ravee 
In  hostile  bands  through  every  square  and 

Thou 'It  see  thy  kingdom  swim  in  crimson 

A  purple  sea  of  blood  shall  round  it  beat; 
For  even  already  in  its  dismal  doom 
All  is  disaster,  tragedy,  and  gloom. 


Such  is  thy  kingdom's  ruin,  so  severe 
The  hard  and  bloody  tr^  fate  hath  sent, 
Daied  is  the  eye,  and  terrified  the  ear; 
Dark  grows  the  sun,  and  every  wind  is 

Each  stone  a  mournful  obelisk  doth  rear. 

And  every  flower  erects  a  monument; 

A  grave  seems  every  house,  whence  life  is 

gone, — 
Each  soldier  is  a  living  skeleton. 
[Bnltr  CLOTALno.) 
CLOTALno.   Thanks  be  to  God,  I  i«acfa 

thy  feet  alive. 
Babiuefb.    What  news  of  Si|pamund, 

Qotaldo,  sayT 
Clotauk).    The  crowd,  whom  frensy 
and  blind  impulse  drive, 
Into  the  tower  resistless  burst  their  way. 
Released  the  Prince,  who  seeing  thus  revive 
The  honor  he  had  tasted  for  one  day. 
Looked  brave,  declaring,  in  a  haughty  tone. 
The  truth  at  last  that  Eeaven  must  now 
make  known. 
Babiuttb.   Give  me  a  horsel   In  person 
forth  I 'U  ride 
To  check  the  pride  of  this  ungrateful  eon. 
Where  Science  erred  let  now  the  svrord 

decide; 
By  my  own  valor  shall  my  throne  be  wont 
[6x0.1 
EsTHELLA.  Let  me  the  glory  of  the  fight 

A  twinkling  star  beside  that  royal  sun  — 
Bellona  matched  with  Mars:  for  I  would 

To  scale  even  heaven  to  rival  Pallas  there. 
[BxU,  and  th«j/  totmd  to  arm».] 

[ErUer  Rosaitka,  mho  ddtdna  Clotaldo.] 
RoBAtniA.  Though  the  trumpets  from  afaf 
Echo  in  thy  valorous  breast, 
Bear  me,  list  to  my  request. 
For  I  know  that  all  ia  war. 
Well  thou  knoweet  that  I  came 
Poor  to  Poland,  sad,  dejeeted; 
And  that  graciously  protected. 
Thou  thy  pity  let  me  claim. 
It  was  thy  command,  ah,  met 
I  should  Uve  here  thus  disguised, 
Striving,  as  thy  words  advised 
(Hiding  all  my  jealomy), 


I.,  Google 


334 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


To  ftvoid  Artolfo'a  eight; 
But  he  SBiW  me,  and  though  aeeing, 
With  Estiella,  he  —  fslae  being!  — 
ConTeree  holds  this  veiy  night 
In  a  garden  bower.  The  key 
I  have  taken,  and  will  show 
Where,  by  entering,  with  a  blow 
Thou  canat  end  my  misery. 
Thus,  then,  dariog,  bold,  and  strong, 
Thou  my  honor  wilt  restore; 
Strike,  and  hedtate  no  more, 
Let  his  death  revenge  my  wrong. 

Clotauio.  It  is  true,  my  inclination 
Since  thou  first  wert  seen  by  me, 
Was  to  strive  and  do  for  thee 
(Be  thy  tears  my  att«Htation) 
AH  my  life  could  do  to  serve  thee. 
What  I  first  was  forced  to  prees. 
Was  that  thou  Aould  'et  change  thy 

Lest  if  chancing  to  observe  tbee 

Masquerading  like  a  page. 

By  appearanoee  so  strong 

Led  aatray,  the  Duke  might  wrong 

By  a  thought  thy  aex  and  age. 

Meanwhile  various  projects  held  me 

In  suspense,  oft  pondering  o'er 

How  thy  honor  to  restore; 

Though  (thy  honor  so  compelled  me) 

I  Astolfo's  life  should  take  — 

Wild  design  that  soon  took  wing  — 

Yot,  as  he  was  not  my  king, 

It  no  t«rroT  could  awake. 

I  his  death  was  seeking,  when 

Sigiamund  with  vengeful  aim 

Sought  for  mine;  Aetolfo  came. 

And  despising  what  moat  men 

Wotild  a  desperate  peril  deem. 

Stood  in  my  defense;  his  bearing, 

Nigh  to  rashness  in  its  daring. 

Showed  a  valor  most  extreme. 

How  then,  think,  could  I,  whose  breath 

Is  his  gift,  in  murderous  strife. 

For  his  giving  me  my  life, 

Strive  in  turn  to  give  him  deathT 

And  thus,  grateful,  yet  aggrieved, 

By  two  opposite  feelings  driven. 

Seeing  it  to  thee  have  given. 

And  from  him  have  it  received. 

Doubting  this,  and  that  believing. 

Half  revenging,  half  forgiving. 

If  to  thee  I'm  drawn  by  giving, 


I  to  him  am  by  receiving; 
Thus  bewildered  and  beset, 
Vainly  seeks  my  love  a  way. 
Since  I  have  a  debt  to  pay, 
Where  I  must  exact  a  debt. 

RoBADBA.  It  is  settled,  I  believe, 
As  all  men  of  spirit  know, 
That 't  is  glorious  to  bestow. 
But  a  meanness  to  receive. 
Well,  admitting  this  to  be, 
Then  thy  thanks  should  not  be  lua, 
Even  supposing  that  he  is 
One  who  gave  thy  life  to  thee; 
As  the  gift  of  life  was  thine. 
And  from  him  the  taking  came, 
In  his  esse  the  act  was  shame. 
And  a  glorious  act  in  mine. 
Thus  by  him  thou  art  aggrieved. 
And  by  me  even  complimented, 
Since  to  me  thou  hast  preeentod 
What  from  him  thou  hast  received: 
Then  all  hesitation  leaving. 
Thou  to  guard  my  fame  shouldst  fly, 
Since  my  honor  is  as  high 
As  is  giving  to  receiving. 

Cldtaldo.  Thou0  it  seen 

In  a  noble  heart  to  give, 
Still  an  equal  fire  may  live 
In  the  heart  of  tbe  receiver. 
Heartlessness  is  something  hateful, 
I  would  boast  a  liberal  nanw; 
Thus  I  put  my  highest  claim 
In  the  fact  of  being  grateful. 
Then  to  me  that  title  leave,  — 
Gentle  birth  breeds  gentleness; 
For  the  honor  is  no  less 
To  bestow  than  to  receive. 
RoBAtiRA.  I  received  my  life  from 
thee, 
But  for  thee  I  now  were  dead; 
Still  it  was  thyself  that  said 
No  insulted  life  could  be 
Galled  a  life:  on  that  I  stand; 
Nought  have  I  received  from  thee. 
For  the  life  no  life  could  be 
That  was  given  me  by  thy  hand. 
But  if  thou  wouldst  first  be  just 
Ere  being  generous  in  this  way 
(As  I  heard  thyself  once  say). 
Thou  wilt  give  me  life  I  trust. 
Which  thou  hast  not  yet;  and  thus 

;lc 


tIFE  IS  A  DREAM 


aaS 


Giving  will  enhance  tbee  more, 
For  if  libend  before, 
'Hiou  wilt  then  be  generous. 
CuiTALDo.  Conquered  by  thy  ai^- 

Libei&l  I  fint  will  be. 
I,  Roeaura,  will  to  thee 
All  my  property  preeent; 
In  a  convent  live;  by  me 
Has  the  plan  been  weighed  some  time, 
For  escaping  from  ft  crime 
Thou  wilt  there  find  sanctuary; 
For  BO  many  ills  present  them 
Through  the  land  on  every  side, 
That  being  nobly  bom,  my  pride 
Is  to  stove  and  not  augment  them. 
By  the  choice  that  I  have  made, 
Loyal  to  the  hmd  I'll  be, 
I  am  liberal  with  thee, 
And  Astolfo's  debt  is  paid; 
Choose  then,  nay,  let  hotur,  rather, 
Choose  for  tlkee,  and  for  us  two. 
For,  by  Eeaveni  I  could  not  do 
More  for  thee  were  I  thy  father!  — 

RoSAURA.   Were  that  supposition  true, 
I  might  strive  and  bear  this  blow; 
But  not  being  my  father,  no. 

Clotauw.  What  then  dost  thou  mean 
todo7 

RosAUBA.  Kill  the  Dulce, 

Clotaluo.  a  gentle  dame, 
Who  no  father's  name  doth  know. 
Can  she  so  much  valor  show? 

Rosauba.  Yes. 

Ci>OTAux>.  What'drivM  thee  on? 

RoOADitA.  My  fame. 

Clotau>o.    Thinlc  that  in   the   Duke 
thou  'It  see  .  .  . 

RosAUKA.    Honor  all  my  wrath  doth 

Clotaldo.    Soon  thy  Icii^  —  Estrella's 

RoOAOHA.  No,  by  Heaven!  it  must  not 

be. 
Clotaldo.  It  is  madness. 
RoeAuaA.  Yes,  I  see  it. 
CLOTALno.  Conquer  it. 
RoSAURA.  I  can't  o'erthrow  it. 
Clotauk).  It  will  cost  thee  . . . 
RoBAUBA.  Yee,  I  know  it. 
CLOTALno.  Life  and  honor. 
RosAURA.  Well,  so  be  it. 


Clotaiao.  What  wouldst  haveT 
ROSAOKA.  My  death. 
Clotau>o.  Take  caret 
It  is  spite. 
RosAOBA.  'T  is  honor's  cure. 
Clotauk).  'T  is  wild  fire. 
RosAURA.  That  will  endure. 
Clotaldo.  It  is  frensy. 
RoBAVRA.  Rage,  despair. 
Clotaldo.   Can  there  then  be  nothing 

This  blind  rage  to  let  pass  by? 
RosAUSA.  No. 
Clotaldo.  And  who  will  help  thee? 

ROSAUHA.    I. 

Clotau>o.  Is  there  then  no  remedy? 

RoBAURA.  None. 

Clotaldo.     Tliink    of    other    means 

whereby  .  .  . 
RosATiRA.  Other  means  would  seal  my 

fate.  lExUi 

Clotaldo.    If  'tis  so,  then,  daughter, 

For  together  we  shall  die.  [ExiL] 

[Scmni  m.   The  Open  Plain.] 

[Enter  Sioibucnd,  dolked  in  skiiu:  Soldien 
marching.  Clarin.  Drums  are  heard.] 
SioiBMUND.  If  Rome  could  see  me  im 
this  day 

Amid  the  triumphs  of  Ha  early  sway, 

Oh,  with  what  strange  del^t 

It  would  have  seen  so  singular  a  sight, 

Its  mighty  armies  led 

By  one  who  was  a  savage  wild  beast  bred. 

Whose  courage  soars  so  high. 

That  even  an  easy  conquest  seems  tiie 
sky! 

But  let  ue  lower  our  flight. 

My  spirit;  't  is  not  thus  we  should  invite 

This  doubtful  dream  to  stay. 

Lest  when  I  wake  and  it  has  past  away, 

I  learn  to  my  sad  coet, 

A  moment  given,  't  was  in  a  moment  lost; 

Determined  not  to  abuse  it. 

The  lees  will  be  my  sorrow  should  I  lose  it. 
[A  trumpet  lowtde.] 
Clarin.  Upon  a  rapid  eteed, " 

(Excuse  my  painting  it;  I  can't  indeed 

Resist  the  inspiration), 

Whidi  leeiiu  a  moving  maM  of  all  oeation, 


936 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Ita  body  being  the  earth, 
The  file  the  soul  that  in  ita  heart  hath  birth. 
Its  foam  the  sea,  ita  panting  breath  the  air, 
Ghaoe  confused  at  which  I  stand  and  stare, 
Since  in  ita  aoul,  foam,  body,  breath,  to 

It  ie  a  monater  made  of  fire,  earth,  air,  and 

Its  color,  dapple  gray, 

Speckled  ita  akin,  and  flecked,  as  well  it 

By  the  impatient  spur  its  flank  that  dyee, 
For  lo!  it  doth  not  run,  the  meteor  flies; 
As  borne  upon  the  wind, 
A  beauteous  woman  seeks  thee. 

SiaieuuNs.  I'm  struck  blindl 

Clabin.   Good  God,  it  is  Rosaura,  oh, 
the  pain  I  [Retirta.] 

SiaiBMUND.  Heaven  has  restored  her  to 
my  eight  again. 
IBnter  Robatiba,  in  a  light  corselet,  vrith 
mord  and  dago^.] 

ROBAORA.  Ndtile-hearted  Sigismundl 
Thou  whose  hidden  light  heroic 
ISBuee  from  its  night  of  shadows 
To  the  great  deeds  of  its  morning; 
And  as  heaven's  sublimeet  planet 
From  the  white  arraa  of  Aurora 
Back  restores  their  beauteous  color 
To  the  wild  flowera  and  the  roeee, 
And  upon  the  aeaa  and  mountains. 
When  endiademed  glory. 
Scatters  light,  diffuses  splendor, 
Braids  their  foam,  their  hair  makes  golden; 
Thus  thou  dawnest  on  the  world 
Bright  auspicious  sun  of  Poland, 
Who  will  help  a  hapless  woman, 
She  who  at  thy  feet  doth  throw  her, 
Help  her,  since  she  is  unhappy, 
And  a  woman;  two  good  motives 
Quite  enough  to  move  a  man 
Who  of  valor  so  doth  boast  him, 
Though  even  one  would  be  sufficient, 
Though  even  one  would  be  all  potent. 
Thou  hast  seen  me  thrice  already, 
Thrice  thou  hast  not  truly  known  me, 
For  each  time  by  different  dresses 
Was  I  strangely  metamorphosed. 
First  I  seemed  to  thee  a  man. 
When  within  thy  sad  and  somber 
Cell  thou  sawMt  me,  when  thy  life 


Wiled  from  me  mine  own  misfortunes. 

As  a  woman  nert  thou  sawest  me, 

Where  the  splendors  of  thy  throne-rcom 

Vanished  like  a  fleeting  vision, 

Vain,  phantasmal  and  abortive. 

The  third  time  is  now,  when  being 

Something  monstrous  and  abnormal, 

In  a  woman's  drees  thou  see'st  me 

With  a  warrior's  arms  adornfid. 

And  to  pity  and  compassion 

That  thou  may'st  be  moved  more  stron^y, 

Ijsten  to  the  sad  succession 

Of  my  tragical  mirfortunes. 

In  the  Court  of  Muscovy 

I  WS8  bom  of  a  noble  mother, 

Who  indeed  must  have  been  fair   . 

Since  unhappineas  was  her  portion. 

Fond  and  too  persuading  eyes 

Fixed  on  her,  a  traitor  lover. 

Whom,  not  knowing,  I  don't  name, 

Though  mine  own  worth  hath  informed  me 

What  was  his:  for  being  his  image, 

I  sometimes  regret  that  fortune 

Made  me  not  a  pagan  born. 

That  I  might,  in  my  wild  folly, 

Think  he  must  have  been  some  god, 

Such  as  he  was,  who  in  golden 

Shower  wooed  Danae,  or  as  swan 

Leda  loved,  as  bull,  Europa. 

When  I  thought  to  lengthen  out, 

Citing  theee  perfidious  stories, 

My  discourse,  I  find  already 

That  I  have  succinctly  told  thee 

How  my  mother,  being  persuaded 

By  the  flatteries  of  love's  homage, 

Was  as  fair  as  any  fair, 

And  unfortunatA  as  all  are. 

That  ridiculous  excuse 

Of  a  plighted  husband's  pnmiiae 

So  misled  her,  that  even  yet 

The  remembrance  bringB  her  sorrow. 

For  that  traitor,  that  iEneas 

Flying  from  his  Troy,  forgot  there. 

Or  left  after  him  his  sword. 

By  this  sheath  its  blade  is  covered. 

But  it  shall  be  naked  drawn 

Ere  this  history  is  over. 

From  this  loosely  fastened  knot 

Which  binds  nothing,  which  ties  nothing, 

Call  it  marriage,  call  it  crime, 

Namee  its  nature  cannot  alter, 

1  was  bom,  a  perfect  imaie. 


...Google 


LIFE  IS   A  DREAM 


A  tnie  copy  of  my  mother, 
In  her  IoWline«H,  ab,  not 
In  her  miaeries  and  misfortmiea. 
Therefore  there  ie  little  need 
To  aay  how  the  haplees  daughter, 
Heireas  of  such  scant  good  luck, 
Had  her  own  peculiar  portion. 
All  that  I  will  say  to  ^ee 
Of  myself  is,  that  the  robber 
Of  the  trophies  of  my  fame. 
Of  the  Bweet  spoils  of  my  honor, 
Is  Astolfo  .  .  .  Ahl  to  name  him 
Stirs  and  louaee  up  the  choler 
Of  the  heart,  a  fitting  effort 
When  an  enemy's  name  is  spoken,  — 
Yes,  Aatolfo  was  that  traitor. 
Who,  forgetful  of  his  promise 
(For  when  love  has  passed  away, 
Even  its  memory  is  forgotten), 
Came  to  Poland,  hither  called. 
From  so  sweet  so  proud  a  conquest, 
To  be  married  to  Estrella, 
Of  my  setting  sun  the  torch-light. 
Who'll  believe  that  when  one  star 
Oft  unites  two  happy  lovers. 
Now  one  star,  Estrella,  comes 
Two  to  tear  from  one  another? 
I  offended,  I  deceived. 
Sad  remained,  remained  astonished. 
Mad,  half  dead,  remained  myself; 
That's  to  say,  in  so  much  torment. 
That  my  heart  was  like  a  Babel 
Of  confusion,  hell,  and  horror: 
I  resolving  to  be  mute 
(For  there  ane  some  pains  and  sorrows 
That  by  feelings  are  expressed, 
Better  than  when  words  are  spoken), 
I  by  aOence  spoke  my  pain. 
Till  one  day  being  with  my  mother 
Vialante,  sbe.^oh.  Heavens!) 
Bmst  their  prison;  like  a  torrent 
Forth  they  rushed  from  out  my  breast. 
Streaming  wildly  o'er  each  other. 
No  embarrassment  it  gave  me 
I  To  relate  them,  for  the  knowing 

I         That  the  person  we  confide  to 
A  like  weakness  must  acknowledge 
I         Gives  as  't  were  to  our  confusion 
I         A  sweet  soothing  and  a  solace, 

I        For  at  times  a  bad  example 
Has  its  use.  In  fine,  my  sorrows 
She  with  pity  heard,  relating 


Even  her  own  grief  to  console  me: 
When  he  has  himself  been  guilty 
With  what  ease  the  judge  condonethi 
Knowing  from  her  own  experience 
That 't  was  idle,  to  slow-moving 
Leisure,  to  swift-fleeting  time. 
To  intrust  one's  injured  honor. 
She  could  not  advise  me  better. 
As  the  cure  of  my  misfortunes. 
Than  to  follow  and  compel  him 
By  prodigious  acts  of  boldness 
To  repay  my  honor's  debt: 
And  that  such  attempt  might  cost  me 
Lees,  my  fortune  wished  that  I 
Should  a  man's  strange  dress  put  on  mi 
She  took  down  an  ancient  sword. 
Which  is  this  I  bear:  the  moment 
Now  draws  nigh  I  must  unsheath  it, 
Since  to  her  I  gave  that  promise, 
When  confiding  in  its  marks. 
Thus  she  said,  "Depart  to  Poland, 
And  BO  manage  that  this  steel 
Shall  be  seen  by  the  chief  nobles 
Of  that  land,  for  I  have  hope 
That  there  may  be  one  among  them 
Who  may  prove  to  thee  a  friend. 
An  adviser  and  consoler." 
Well,  in  Poland  I  arrived; 
It  is  useless  to  inform  thcie 
What  thou  knowest  already,  how 
A  wild  steed  resistless  bore  me 
To  thy  cavemed  tower,  wherein 
Thou  with  wonder  didst  behold  me. 
Let  us  pass,  too,  how  Clotaldo 
Passionately  my  cause  supported, 
How  he  asked  my  life  of  the  King, 
Who  to  him  that  boon  accorded; 
How  discovering  who  I  am 
He  persuaded  me  my  proper 
Dr^  to  assume,  and  on  Elstrella 
To  attend  as  maid  of  honor. 
So  to  thwart  Astolfo's  love 
And  prevent  the  marriage  contract. 
Let  us,  toe,  pass  by,  that  here 
Thou  didst  once  again  behold  me 
In  a  woman's  drees,  my  form 
Waking  thus  a  twofold  wonder, 
And  approach  the  time,  Clotaldo 
Being  convinced  it  was  important 
That  should  wed  and  reign  together 
Fair  Estrella  and  Astolfo, 
'Gainst  my  honor,  me  advised 


«i8 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


To  for^o  my  rightful  project. 
But,  0  vali&nt  Sigiamund, 
Seeing  that  the  moment  cometh 
For  thy  vengeaace,  Bince  Heaven  wifihee 
Thee  to-d»y  to  burat  the  portaU 
Of  thy  narrow  rustic  cell, 
Where  so  long  immured,  thy  body 
Waa  to  feeiing  a  wild  be^st, 
Was  to  BuEFeranoe  what  the  rock  is. 
And  that  'gainst  thy  sire  and  country 
Thou  hast  gallantly  revolted, 
And  ta'en  arms,  I  oome  to  oaaiat  thee, 
Intermingling  the  bright  ooraelet 
Of  Minerva  with  the  trappings 
Of  Diana,  thus  enrobing 
Silken  stuff  and  shining  steel 
In  a  rare  but  rich  adornment. 
On,  then,  on,  undaunted  champion  I 
To  us  both  it  is  important 
To  prevent  and  bring  to  nought 
This  en^tgement  and  betrothal; 
First  to  me,  that  be,  my  husband, 
Should  not  falsely  wed  another, 
Then  to  thee,  that  their  two  staffs 
Being  united,  their  jointed  foroee 
Should  with  overwhelming  power 
Leave  our  doubtful  victory  hopeless. 
Woman,  I  oome  here  to  urge  thee 
To  repair  my  injured  honor, 
And  as  man  I  come  to  rouse  thee 
Grown  and  scepter  to  recover. 
Woman  I  would  wake  thy  pity 
Since  here  at  thy  feet  1  throw  me. 
And  as  man,  my  sword  and  person 
In  thy  service  I  devote  thee. 
But  remember,  if  to-day 
As  a  woman  thou  should'at  court  me, 
I,  aa  man,  will  give  thee  death 
In  the  laudable  upholding, 
Of  my  honor,  since  1  am 
In  this  strife  of  love,  this  contest. 
Woman  my  complaints  to  tell  thee. 
And  a  man  to  guard  my  honor. 
SioiBunND  [aaid«].  Heavens  I  if  it  is  true 

Memory  then  suspend  thy  office, 
For  't  is  vain  to  hope  remembrance 
Could  retain  so  many  objects. 
Help  me,  QodI  or  teach  me  how 
All  these  numerous  doubts  to  conquer. 
Or  to  cease  to  think  of  anyl  — 
Whoe'er  tded  auob  painful  iMtiblems? 


If  't  was  but  a  dream,  my  grandeur. 

How  then  is  it,  at  this  moment. 

That  this  woman  can  refer  me 

To  some  facts  that  are  notoriousT 

Then  't  was  truth,  and  not  a  dream; 

But  if  it  was  truth  (another 

And  no  leas  confusion),  how 

Can  my  life  be  called  in  proper 

Speech  a  dream?    So  like  to  dreams 

Are  then  all  the  world's  chief  gloriee. 

That  the  true  are  oft  rejected 

As  the  false,  the  false  too  often 

Are  mistaken  for  the  true? 

Is  there  then  'twixt  one  and  the  other 

Such  slight  difference,  that  a  question 

May  arise  at  any  moment 

Which  is  true  or  which  is  fake? 

Are  the  original  and  the  oopy 

So  alike,  that  which  ia  which 

Oft  the  doubtful  mind  must  ponder? 

If  't  is  so,  and  if  must  vanish, 

As  the  shades  of  luf^t  at  morning, 

AH  of  majesty  and  power, 

All  of  grandeur  and  of  glory. 

Let  us  learn  at  least  to  turn 

To  our  profit  the  brief  moment 

That -is  given  ua,  since  our  joy 

Laateth  while  our  dream  lasts  only. 

In  my  power  Rosaura  stands. 

Thou,  my  heart,  her  charms  adoreth. 

Let  ua  seize  then  the  occasion; 

Let  love  trample  in  its  boldneea 

All  the  laws  on  which  relying 

She  here  at  my  feet  haa  thrown  ber. 

'T  ia  a  dream;  and  since  't  is  so, 

Let  us  dream  of  joys,  the  sorrows 

Will  come  soon  enough  hereafter. 

But  with  mine  own  words  just  spoken, 

Let  me  now  confute  myself  1    , 

If  it  is  a  dream  that  mocks  me, 

Who  for  human  vanitiee 

Would  for^o  celestial  glory? 

What  past  bliss  is  not  a  dream? 

Who  has  had  his  happy  fortunes 

Who  hath  said  not  to  himself 

As  his  memory  ran  o'er  them, 

"All  I  saw,  beyond  a  doubt 

Was  a  dream."  If  this  exposeth 

My  delusion,  if  I  know 

That  desire  is  but  the  glowing 

Of  a  flame  that  turns  to  ashes 

At  the  softest  wind  Uiat  Uoweth; 


UFE  IS  A  DREAM 


339 


Lef  ue  aeek  then  the  «t«nial, 
lite  true  fam«  that  ne'er  repoeeth, 
Wime  the  blias  is  not  a  dream, 
Nor  the  crown  a  fleeting  gloiy, 
Without  honor  is  Roeaura. 
But  it  is  a  prince's  province 
To  pvc  honor,  not  to  take  it: 
nien,  by  Heaveni  it  is  her  honor 
That  for  her  I  must  win  back. 
Era  this  kingdom  1  oan  conquer. 
Let  us  fly  then  this  temptation. 
'Tie  too  etrong:  [To  the  Soldurt.]  To 

amul  March  onwardi     , 
For  to-day  I  ipuat  give  battJe, 
Ek«  descending  ni|^t,  the  golden 
Sunbeams  of  expiring  day 
Buriea  in  tbe  dwk  green  ocean. 

RoflAUKA.  Doat  thou  thus,  my  lord, 
withdraw  theeT 
vrhatl  without  a  word  being  spoken? 
Does  my  pain  deserve  no  pity? 
Does  my  grief  so  UtUe  move  thee? 
Can  it  be,  my  lord,  thou  wilt  not 
Deign  to  hear,  to  look  upon  me? 
Dost  thou  even  avert  thy  face? 

SioiBMUND.  Ah,  Roeaura,  't  is  thy 

llutt  requites  this  harshness  now, 
If  my  pity  I  would  show  thee. 
Yee,  my  voice  doee  not  respond, 
T  is  my  honor  that  reepondeth; 
True  I  speak  not,  for  I  wish 
That  my  actions  should  epeak  for  me; 
Tbee  I  do  not  look  on,  no, 
For,  aUsI  it  is  of  moment. 
That  he  must  cot  see  thy  beauty 
Who  is  pledged  to  see  thy  honor. 

[ExU,  Jolioued  bit  the  Soldttrt.] 

RoflAtriiA.  What  enigmas,  O  ye  skies! 
After  many  a  si^  and  tear, 
Thus  in  doubt  to  leave  me  here 
With  equivocal  replies  I 

Claun.  Madam,  is  it  visiting  hour? 

ROSAQKA.  Wdcome,  Oarin,  where  have 
you  been? 

Clabin.  Only  four  stout  walls  between 
In  an  old  enchanted  tower; 
Death  was  on  the  cards  for  me. 
But  amid  tbe  sodden  strife 
Ere  the  last  trump  came,  my  life 
Won  tbe  triek  and  I  got  free. 
I  ne'er  hoped  to  souitd  again. 


RoflAUBA.  Why? 

CiiAsiH.  Because  alone  I  know 
Who  you  are:  and  this  being  so. 
Learn,  Clotaldo  is  .  . .  This  strain 
Puts  me  out.  12>runM  are  heard.] 

RoBAtnu.  What  can  it  be? 

Clasin.  From  the  citadel  at  hand, 
Leagured  round,  an  armed  band 
Aa  to  certain  victory 
Sallies  forth  with  flags  unfurled. 

ROBAOKA.     'Gainst   Prince  Sigismuodl 
and  I, 
Coward  that  I  am,  not  by 
To  surprise  and  awe  the  world, 
When  with  so  much  cruelty 
Each  on  eaoh  the  two  hosts  springl  [ExU.] 

Voamt  OF  SOME.  Live,  long  live  our  vic- 
tor KingI 

VoiCKfl  or  OTHiBB,  Live,  long  Uve  our 
libertyl 

CLAHCf.  Live,  long  live  the  two,  I  aayt 
Me  it  matters  not  a  pin. 
Which  doth  lose  or  which  doth  win, 
If  I  can  keep  out  of  the  wayl  —    v 
80  aside  here  I  will  go, 
Acting  like  a  prudent  hero, 
Even  aa  the  Emperar  Nero 
Took  things  coolly  long  ago. 
Or  if  care  I  cannot  shun, 
Let  it  'bout  mine  owuself  be; 
Yee,  here  hidden  I  con  see 
All  the  fighting  and  the  fun; 
What  a  cosy  place  I  spy 
Mid  the  rocks  there!  so  secure. 
Death  can't  find  me  out  I  'm  sure, 
Then  a  fig  for  death  I  sayt 

[Conceal  him»e(f,  drum*  beat  and 
the  toiatd  oi  armt  ia  heard.] 


Basilius.    Hapless  king!  disastrous 

Outraged  fatherl  guilty  soni 
Clotaldo.    See  thy  vanquished  forces 

In  a  panic  o'er  the  [dain! 
Abtolto.     And   the  rebel  conqueror''' 

Proud,  d^&nt. 

Babiuds.  'T  is  decreed 
Those  ore  loyal  who  succeec^ 


83° 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


RebdB  those  who  lose  the  daj. 
Let  U8  then,  Clotaldo,  flee, 
Since,  the  victory  he  hath  won, 
From  ft  proud  and  cruel  son. 

[Shott  are  fired  viUhin,  and  Ci.abin 
falU  vxnmded  from  ku  hiding- 

Clabin.  Heaven  protect  mel 

Abttolfo.  Who  can  be 
This  last  victim  of  the  Sght, 
Who  Btruek  down  in  the  retreat. 
Falls  here  bleeding  at  our  feetT 

Clabin.  I  am  an  unlucky  wight. 
Who  to  shun  Death's  fearful  face 
Found  the  thing  I  would  forget: 
Flying  from  him,  him  I've  met. 
For  there  is  no  secret  place 
Hid  from  death;  and  therefore  I 
This  conclusion  hold  as  clear. 
He  'scapes  best  who  goes  more  near. 
He  dies  first  who  first  doth  fly. 
Then  return,  return  and  be 
tn  the  bloody  conflict  lost; 
Where  the  battle  rages  most. 
There  is  more  security 
Than  in  hills  how  desolate. 
Since  no  safety  can  there  be 
'Gainst  the  force  of  destiny. 
And  the  inclemency  of  fate; 
Therefore  't  is  in  vain  thou  flyest 
From  the  death  thou  draw'st  more  ni^, 
Ob,  take  heed  for  thou  must  die 
^  it  is  God's  will  thou  dieati   [FaOtin&in.] 
lus.    Oh,  take  heed  for  thou  must 


If  it  is  God's  will  thou  dieati— 
With  what  eloquence,  O  Heaven!     ^ 
Does  this  body  that  here  Itetb,  >  '^ 

Through  the  red  mouth  of  a  wound  V 
To  profoundest  thoughts  entice  us  ^ 
From  our  ignorance  and  our  errorl  V*" 
The  red  current  as  it  gUdeth  s"  ■ 

la  a  bloody  tongue  that  teachee       < 
All  man's  diligence  is  idle,  ^"^ 

When  against  a  greater  power,      '^. 
And  a  higher  cause  it  striveth. 
Thus  with  me,  'gainst  strife  and  murder  \ 
When  I  thought  I  had  provided,  I 

t  but  brought  upoi>.  my  country  Jy 

All  the  ills  !  would  have  hinderod.  * 

Clotaldo.  Though,  my  lord,  fat«know- 

\     eth  well 

-A 


Every  path,  and  qidokly  findeth 
Whom  it  seeks;  yet  still  it  strikes  me 
'T  is  not  Christian-like  to  say 
'Gainst  its  rage  that  nought  suffices. 
That  is  wrong,  a  prudent  man 
Even  o'er  fate  victorious  rises; 
And  if  thou  art  not  preserved 
From  the  ills  that  have  surprised  tlwe, 
From  worse  ills  thyself  preserve. 

AaroLTO.  Sire,  Clotaldo  doth  address 
thee 
As  a  cautious,  |M-udeot  man. 
Whose  eqierience  time  hath  ripened. 
I  as  a  bold  youth  would  speak: 
Yonder,  having  lost  its  rider, 
I  behold  a  noble  steed 
Wandering  reinless  and  unbridled, 
Mount  and  fly  with  him  while  I 
Guard  the  open  path  behind  tliee. 

Basiliqb.  If  it  is  God's  wilt  I  die, 
Or  if  Death  tor  me  here  lieth 
As  in  ambush,  face  to  face 
I  will  meet  it  and  defy  it. 


A  SoLDiEK.    'Mid  the  thickets  of  ths 
mountain, 
'Neath  these  dark  boughs  so  united. 
The  King  hides. 

SiatSMUXD.  Pursue  him  then, 
Leave  no  single  shrub  unrifled. 
Nothing  must  eecape  your  search, 
Not  a  plant,  and  not  a  pine  tree, 

Clotaum).  Fly,  my  lordl 

Basiuus.  And  wherefore  fly? 

AsTOLFO.  Come! 

Basiuus.  Astolfo,  I'm  decided. 

OioTAum.  What  to  do? 

Basiudb.  To  try,  Clotaldo, 
One  sole  remedy  that  survivetb. 
[To  SiaisuuTTD.)  If  't  is  me  thou'rt  seek- 
ing, Prince, 
At  thy  feet  behold  me  lying.       [Kntttiag.\ 
Let  thy  carpet  be  these  baits 
Which  the  snows  of  age  have  whitoied. 
Tread  upon  my  neck,  and  trample 
On  my  crown;  in  base  defilement 
Treat  me  with  all  disrespect; 
Let  thy  deadliest  vengeance  strike  me 
Through  my  honor;  as  thy  slave 
Make  me  serve  thee,  and  in  spite  of 


LIFE   IS   A  DREAM 


asi 


AH  prec&utioDfl  let  fate  be, 

Let  Heaven  keep  the  word  it  piloted. 
SicnSMuNi).  Princee  of  the  Court  of  Po- 
Und, 

Who  such  numerous  aurprises         > 

H&ve  BatoaiBhed  Been,  attend, 

For  it  ia  your  prince  invites  ye. 

That  which  heaven  has  once  determined, 

Tlkat  which  God's  eternal  finger 

Has  upon  the  aiure  tablets 

Of  the  sky  sublimely  written, 

Those  transparent  ^eets  of  sag^hire 

Superscribed  with  golden  ciphers 

Ne'er  deceive,  and  never  lie; 

The  deceiver  and  the  liar 

Is  he  who  to  use  them  badly 

In  a  wrongful  sense  defines  them. 

Hius,  my  father,  who  is  iH«sent, 

To  protect  him  from  the  wildness 

Of  my  nature,  made  of  me 

A  fierce  brute,  a  human  wild  beast; 

80  that  ],  who  from  my  birth, 

From  the  noble  blood  that  tricklee 
I       Through  my  veins,  my  generous  natura, 

And  my  liberal  condition, 

Might  have  iMx>ved  a  dqcile  child, 

And  so  grew,  it  was  sufficient 

By  BO  strange  an  education. 

By  BO  wild  a  course  of  living. 

To  have  made  my  manners  wild;  — 

What  a  metliod  to  refine  themi 

If  to  any  man  't  was  said, 

"It  is  fated  that  some  wild  beaat 

Will  de«troy  you,"  would  it  be 

Wise  to  weJk  a  sleeping  tiger 

As  the  remedy  of  the  ill? 

If  't  were  said,  "  This  sword  here  hidden 
-    In  its  aheath,  which  thou  dost  wear. 

Is  ti>e  one  foredoomed  to  kill  thee," 

Vain  [vecautiou  it  would  be 

To  pKBNve  the  threatened  victim. 

Bare  to  point  it  at  his  breast. 

If  't  were  said,  "  These  waves  that  ripi^e 

Calmly  here  for  thee  will  build 
1      Foam-white  sepulcbers  of  silver," 
I      Wrong  it  were  to  trust  the  sea 
'      When  its  haughty  breast  is  lifted 
1      Into  mountain  heights  of  snow, 

ilnto  hills  of  culling  crystal. 
Well,  this  very  thing  has  happened 
Unto  him,  who  feared  a  wild  beast, 
And  awoke  turn  while  he  alept; 


Or  who  drew  a  sharp  sword  hidden 

Naked  forth,  or  dared  the  sea 

When  't  was  roused  by  raging  whirlwinds 

And  though  my  fierce  nature  (bear  me) 

Was  as  't  were  the  sleeping  tiger, 

A  sheathed  sword  my  innate  rage, 

And  my  wrath  a  quiet  ripi^. 

Fate  should  not  be  forced  by  means  ,-■ 

So  unjust  and  so  vindictive, 

For  they  but  excite  it  more; 

And  thus  he  who  would  be  victor 

O'er  his  fortune,  must  succeed 

By  wise  prudence  and  self-strictneea. 

Not  before  an  evil  cometh 

Can  it  rightly  be  resisted 

Even  by  him  who  hath  foreeeen  it. 

For  although  (the  fact's  admitted) 

By  an  humble  resignation 

It  is  possible  to  diminish 

Its  efFects,  it  first  must  happen. 

And  by  no  means  can  be  lundered. 

Let  it  serve  as  an  example        -     -  - 

This  strange  sight,  this  most  surprising 

Spectade,  this  fear,  this  horror, 

This  great  prodigy;  for  none  higher 

E'er  was  worked  than  this  we  see. 

After  years  of  vain  contriving, 

Prostrate  at  my  feet  a  father. 

And  a  mi^ty  Idng  submitted. 

This  the  sentence  of  high  Heaven 

Which  he  did  his  beat  to  hinder 

He  could  not  prevent.  Can  I,    - 

Who  in  valor  and  in  science. 

Who  in  years  am  so  inferior, 

It  avertr  [To  Oui  King]   My  lord,  tor^vt 

Rise,  sir,  let  me  clasp  tliy  hand; 

For  since  Heaven  has  now  apprised  thee 

That  thy  mode  of  counteracting 

Its  decree  was  wrong,  a  willing 

Sacrifice  to  thy  revenge 

Let  my  prostrate  neck  be  ^ven. 

Basiltdb.  Son,  this  noble  act  of  thine 
In  my  heart  of  hearts  leviveth 
All  my  love,  thou'rt  there  reborn. 
Thou  art  Prinoe;  the  bay  that  bindetb 
Beroes'  brows,  Uie  palm,  be  thine, 
Let  the  crown  thine  own  deeds  give  thee. 

All.  Long  live  Sigismund  out  King! 

SiaiBMimn.    Though  my  sword    must 
wait  a  little 
Ere  great  victories  it  oan  gain. 


33' 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


I  to-day  will  win  the  hi^iest. 
The  moet  glorious,  a'et  myaelf.  — 
Give,  AatoUo,  give  your  plig^tod 
Hand  here  to  Rosaura,  since 
It  ie  due  and  I  require  it. 

Abtolfo.    Iliough  't  is  true  I  owe  the 
debt, 
Still 't  is  needful  to  ooneider 
That  she  knows  not  who  she  is; 
It  were  infamous,  &  stigma 
On  my  name  to  wed  a  woman  . . . 

Clotaldo.  Stay,  Astolfo,  do  not  finish; 
For  Roeaura  is  as  noble 
As  yourself.  My  sword  will  right  her 
In  the  fidd  a^inst  the  world; 
She's  my  daughter,  that's  sufficient. 

AsTOLFFO.  What  do  you  say? 

Clotaioo.  Until  I  saw  her 
To  a  noble  spouse  united, 
.    I  her  birth  would  not  reveal. 
It  were  now  a  long  recital, 
But  the  sum  is,  she  'b  my  child. 

Abtolfo.  That  being  so,  the  word  I've 
[diphted 
I  will  keep. 

SiaiSHiTNn.  And  that  Estiella 
May  not  now  be  left  afflicted. 
Seeing  she  has  lost  a  prince 
Of  such  valor  and  distinction, 
I  propose  from  mine  own  hand 
As  a  husband  one  to  give  her, 
Who,  if  he  does  not  exceed 
Him  in  worth,  perhaps  may  rival 
Give  to  me  thy  hand. 

EsTRELLA.  1  gain 
By  an  honor  so  distinguished. 

SiQiBiinrNn.  To  Clotaldo,  who  so  truly 


Served  my  father,  I  can  give  lii'tti 
But  these  open  arms  wherein 
He  will  find  whate'er  he  wishes. 

A  Sou>iEB.  If  thou  honorest  those  who 
aerve  thee. 
Thus,  to  me  the  first  beginner 
Of  the  tumult  through  the  land. 
Who  from  out  the  tower,  thy  prison. 
Drew  thee  forth,  what  wilt  thou  give? 

SioisuuND.    Just  that  tower:  and  that 

Never  from  it  until  death, 
I  will  have  you  guarded  strictly; 
For  the  traitor  is  not  needed 
Once  the  treason  is  committed. 
Basiliub.  So  much  wisdom  makes  one 

wonder. 
Astolfo.   What  a-  change  in  his  condi- 
tion! 
RosAUKA.  How  diacreetl  how  calml  how 

prudenti 
SiaiBHUND.  Why  this  wonder,  these  sur- 

If  my  teacher  was  a  dream. 
And  amid  my  new  aspirings 
I  am  fearful  I  may  woke. 
And  once  more  a  prisoner  find  me 
In  my  cell?  But  should  I  not. 
Even  to  dream  it  is  sufficient: 
For  I  thus  have  come  to  know 
That  at  last  oil  human  blieees 
Pass  and  vanish  as  a  dream, 
And  the  time  that  may  be  given  me 
I  henceforth  would  turn  to  gain: 
Asking  for  our  faults  forgiveness. 
Since  to  generous,  noble  hearts 
It  is  natural  to  forgive  them. 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


THE  CID 

By  PIERRE  CORNEILLE 
rranilaUd  into  English  blank  vtru  by  FLORENCE  KENDRiCK  COOPER 


ciilizedbv  Google 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


THE  CID 


■    ACT  I 
[Bnlar  Candm  and  Elvike.) 
CHwtNx.   Tell  me,  Elrin,  ts  this  ft  true 
report? 
In  naught  doet  thou  disguise  vaj  father'B 

Elvire.    My  heart  thrillg  with  delist 
when  I  recall  them. 
Your  lov«  for  Roderick  vies  with  his  es- 
teem; 
Unlees  I  read  enam  his  imnoat  soul, 
He  viU  coDtmand  that  you  return  his  love. 
CmufeNK.  Repeat,  I  pray,  a  second  time 
the  cause 
Why  thou  dost  think  that  be  approves  my 

choice; 
What  hope  he  gives  me,  let  me  learn  anew; 
Such  welcome  news  I  could  forever  hear, 
Thou  canst  not  with  too  sure  a  promise 

pledge 
The  sunlight  of  his  sanction  to  our  love. 
What  utterance  gave  be  on  the  secret  plot 
lliat  Roderick  and  Sancho  made  with  theeT 
Hast  thou  not  made  too  clear  the  differ- 

Wbich  draw  me  to  my  chosen  Roderick's 
side? 
Blvibb.  No,  an  indiSerent  heart  I  pic- 
tured yours, 

That  kindles  not,  nor  blights,  the  hope  of 
either. 

And,  not  too  stern,  nor  yet  too  soft,  but 

your  father's  wish  in  dioosing  you  a  hus- 

ThiB  filial  spirit  charmed  him,  sa  his  lips 
And  every  feature  quick  assurance  gave. 
And  since  your  b«ul  demands  bis  very 

Repeated  o'er  and  o'er  —  why,  here  they 

ore: 
"  Wiaely  she  waits  my  choice;  tb^  both  an 

worthy, 
Of  Doble  blood,  of  ffuthful,  valiant  soul. 


Tbeir  youthful  faces  speak  the  unbroken 

line 
Of  shining  virtues  handed  proudly  down. 
In  Roderick's  glance  no  slightest  trace  I  see 
Of  aught  but  courage  high  and  stainleea 

Cradled  amid  war's  trophies  was  this  son, 
3d  many  warriors  has  his  house  produced. 
A  marvelous  tale  of  valor  and  emprise. 
His  father's  glorious  acts  have  long  been 

told; 
And  the  seamed  brow  that  tells  the  flight  of 

years 
Speaks  clearer  still  hie  mighty  deeds  inarms. 
"The  son  will  prove  fully  worthy  of  the  sire; 
'T  would  please  me  should  he  win  my 

daughter's  love." 
Than  to  the  council-chamber  did  he  baste. 
Whose  pressing  hour  an  interruption  made; 
But  from  his  hurried  words  I  think  't  is 

He  leans  not  atroi^y  to  the  suit  of  either. 
The  king  must  choose  a  tutor  for  his  son. 
And  this  high  service  to  your  father  gives; 
The  choice  is  certain,  and  his  valor  rare 
Admits  no  fear  of  question  or  dispute; 
His  unmatched  gifta  ne'er  meet  a  rival 

Whether  in  royal  court  or  honor's  field. 
And  since  your  Roderick  has  his  father's 

To  press  the  mamage.at  the  council's  close. 
Your  heart  may  well  assure  you  of  his  plea. 
And  in  a  tender  hope  will  rest  content. 
ChiuInii.    My  troubled  heart  in  hope 
finds  little  ease. 
But,  burdened  with  sad  doubt,  aslcs  cei^ 

Fate  in  a  moment  can  reverse  her  will; 
Even  this  happiness  may  mean  a  sorrow. 
Elvirs.  Nay,  happily  that  fear  shall  be 

dispelled. 
CnndiNB.    Away!  —  to  wait  the  issue, 
what  it  be. 

lExewU  CmutNE  and  Elvibe..; 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


[Bnter  the  Infanta,  Lkohoba,  md  Page.] 
Intanta.    Page,  quickly  tell  Chimine 

she  stays  too  long 
Before  her  prombed  comiogi  my  afTection 
ComplaiuH  that  ahe  neglects  the  heart  that 

love«  her.  [Exit  Page.] 

Leonoha.   Madam,  some  longing  burns 

within  your  soul, 
For  at  each  meeting  anxiously  you  seek 
The  daily  progress  of  her  lover's  suit. 
Inpamta.  Rave  I  not  reasonT  Her  young 

heart  ia  pierced 
By  darts  myself  did  level  at  her  breast. 
Her  lover  Roderick  was  my  bver  first, 
And  *t  is  to  me  she  owes  hig  paaaion  deep; 
Thue  having  forged  these  lovers'  lasting 

chains, 
I  yearn  to  see  the  end  of  all  their  pains. 
Iaonora.   Madam,  their  dear  delight  in 

mutual  love 
Finds,  as  1  read  your  heart,  no  echo  there. 
But  SOTTow  wei^  your    spirit  at  their 

bopefl. 
Can  your  great  soul  feel  grief  at  others'  joy? 
Why  should  your  love  for  them  react  in 

And  cause  you  sufiering  in  their  hour  of 

rapture? 
But,  pardon,  madam,  1  am  overbold. 
Intanta.  Concealment  deepens  sorrow, 

therefore  hear 
What  struggles  my  too-loving  heart  has 

borne; 
Listen  what  fierce  assault  my   courage 

The  tyrant  Love  spares  oeither  tii^  nor 

This  cavalier  whose  heart  I  'i 

Lbonora.  You  love  himi 
Inpamta.  Feel  my  bounding  pulset 

Mark  what  its  conqueror's  name  alone  can 
do; 

It  knows  its  master. 
Leonoha.  Madam,  pardon  me, 

1  would  not  fail  in  gentle  courtesy. 

And  rudely  censure  you  for  this  affection. 

But  for  a  royal  princess  so  to  stoop 

As  to  admit  a  simple  cavalier 

Within    her    heart  —  what    would    your 
father  say? 


e  given  away 


What  all  Castile?   Youra  is  the  bkwd  of 

Have  you  remembered  that? 

Intanta,   So  well,  alast 
That  I  would  ope  these  veins  era  I  would 

False  to  the  sacred  trust  of  rank  and  name. 
In  noble  souls,  't  is  true,  wortii,  worth  alone 
Should  kindle  love's  bright  fires;  and  did  1 

To  justify  my  passion,  many  a  one 
Aa  high-born  as  myself  could  give  me  cause. 
But  honor  heeds  not  Love's  excuses  fond, 
And  sense,  surprised,  makes  not  my  cour- 

The  daughter  of  a  Idng  must  mate  with 

kings; 
No  other  hand  than  kin^y  suea  for  mine. 
To  save  my  heart  from  well-nigh  fatal 

stroke, 
With  mine  own  hand  I  turned  the  steel 

away. 
I  drewthebond  that  binds  him  to  ChimJine, 
And  tuned  their  notes  to  love  to  still  my 

No  longer  wonder  that  my  harassed  soul, 
With  restless  haste,  will  urge  thur  nupti^ 

on. 
Love  lives  on  hope,  and  dies  whui  hope  is 

dead— 
A  flame  that  needs  perpetual  renewal. 
My  heart  has  suffered  much;  but  if  this  tie 
Be  ooDsummated  with  no  long  delay, 
My  hope  is  dead,my  wounded  spirit  healed. 
But  till  that  hour  I'm  rent  with  varying 

Pftngs; 
I  will  to  lose,  yet  suffer  in  my  loss; 
The  love  I  would  resign  I  still  would  kmp; 
And  thus  the  court  that  to  Chimdne  he  paya 
Excites  the  secret  pain  I  cannot  hide. 
Love  moves  my  aighe  for  one  whose  n^  I 

My  mind  divided  feels  a  double  pr  ig; 
My  will  U  strong;  my  heart  is  all  aflcune. 
I  dare  not  hope  from  their  united  lives 
More  than  a  mingled  sense  of  joy  and  pain. 
Honor  and  Love  war  on  this  fatal  Seld; 
Neither  can  wholly  conquer,  neither  yield. 
Leonora.    Madam,  I  blame  hot,  but  1 
pity  you, 
And  have  no  word  to  utter,  save  that  I 
Sigh  with  your  agbs  and  suffer  in  your  grief. 


But  mate  jnmr  royal  burt,  unstuned  and 

■trong, 
Cu  front  an  31  BO  tempting  and  m  sharp, 
And  bear  it  down,  your  noble  spirit  soon 
Will  know  again  its  aweet  wrenity. 
Time  ia  the  friend  of  Virtue;  with  its  aid 
Vou  will  forget;  and  Heaven,  whose  God  is 

jUHt, 

Will  not  forsake  jou  in  this  trying  hour. 
Impanta.  My  surest  hope  is  hope's  own 
swift  defeat. 

[Enter  Page.] 
Paqk.    Chimine  await«  Your  Hi^meas 

at  your  wish. 
Intanta  [to  Leonora],   Go,  entertain  her 

in  the  gallery. 
IiBONOKA.  Here,  brooding  o'er  your  sor- 
row, will  you  BtayT 
Infanta.  No,  I  but  wish  to  hide  my  grief 
from  her, 
And  to  aanune  a  joy  I  scarce  can  fecJ; 
I  follow  soon. 
Intamta  [alone].  Just  Heaven,  whence  I 
must  hope  alone  for  aid, 
Put  to  this  bitter  suffering  an  end; 
Grant  me  repose;  in  bonor's  path  be  guide; 
In  others'  bliss  my  own  I  fain  would  seek. 
Three  hearte  are  waiting  for  this  marriage 

Ob,  hasten  it,  or  strengthen  my  weak  soull 
The  tie  that  makes  these  happy  lovera  one 
Will  break  my  fetters  and  my  anguish  end. 
But  I  am  lingering;  I  will  seek  Cblmene; 
Her  gentle  presence  will  assuage  my  pain. 
lExU  Infanta.] 
[Sttier  the  Count  otmj  DiAoue.] 
Count.   At  last  you  win  the  prise;  the 
royal  hand 
Uplifte  you  to  a  plaoe  where  I  should  atand. 
You  are  to  trun  the  young  prince  of  Cas- 
tile. 
DiAaTTE.   His  justice  and  his  gratitude 
Uie  king 
Has  bleoded  in  this  honor  to  my  house. 
Count.    Kings,  howsoever  great  they 

And,  like  us  all,  they  ofttimes  strangely  err; 
All  courtiers  may,  in  this,  a  warning  see 
That  present  service  meebt  but  poor  re- 


CID  339 

Diioui.  No  longer  let  us  speak  upon  a 
theme 
So  chafing  to  your  spirit;  kindness  may 
Have  turned  the  balance  quite  as  much  as 

But  to  a  king  whose  power  is  absolute 
'T  is  due  to  take,  nor  question,  what  he 

wills. 
An  added  honor  I  would  ask  of  you  — 
The  union  of  our  houses  and  our  names. 
You  have  a  daughter,  1  an  only  son. 
Their  marriage  would  forever  nudce  us  one 
In  mon  than  friendship's  bonds;  this  favor 

gmnt. 
Count.  To  such  alliance  does  this  youth 

presume? 
Will  the  new  splendor  of  your  office  serve 
To  puS  his  mind  with  swelling  vanity? 
Use  your  new  dignity,  direct  the  prince. 
Instruct  him  how  a  province  should  be 

So  all  his  subjects  tremble  'neath  his  laws. 
And  love  and  terror  make  his  throne  secure ; 
To  civic  duties  add  a  soldier's  life  — 
To  laugh  at  hardship,  ply  the  trade  of  Mars 
Undaunted  and  uneqiialed;  pass  long  days 
And  nights  on  horseback;  to  sleep  fully 

To  force  a  stron^old,  and,  the  battle  won. 
To  owe  the  glory  to  himself  alone. 
Instruct  him  by  exEunple;  his  young  eyes 
Must  in  yourself  his  perfect  patt«ni  see. 

DilauK.  Your  envious  soul  speaks  in 
your  sneering  words; 
But,  for  example,  he  need  only  turn 
The  pages  of  my  life;  therein  ha'll  read. 
Through  a  long  story  of  heroic  acts. 
How  to  subdue  the  nations,  storm  a  fort. 
Command  an  army,  and  to  make  a  name 
Whose  wide  renown  shall  rest  on  mighty 
deeds. 

Count.    Living  examples  are  the  only 

Not  from  a  book  a  prince  his  lesson  learns. 
Your  boasted  years  a  single  day  of  mine 
Equals  not  only,  but  surpasses  oft. 
Valiant  you  have  been;  I  am  valiant  nowt 
On  my  strong  arm  this  kingdom  rests  se- 
cure; 
When  my  sword  flashes,  Aragon  retreats, 
Granada  trembles;  by  my  name  of  mi^t 
Castile  is  girdled  round  as  by  a  wall. 


a^ 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Without  me  you  would  ptm  'nesth  other 

l&WB, 

And  soon  you'd  have  your  enemiee  your 

kings. 
Each  day,  each  flying  hour,  exalte  my  fame, 
Addfl  victory  unto  victory,  praise  to  praiae. 
Under  the  {{uardiug  shadow  of  my  arm 
The  prince  should  prove  his  mettle  on  the 

field, 
Should  learn  by  eeeing  conquest  how  to 

conquer. 
In  hia  young  princeh04xl  he  should  early  win 
The  Joftiest  heights  of  courage;  he  should 

DitarB.    I  knowl  you  serve  the  king, 

your  master,  well; 
'Neath  my  command  I've  often  watched 

you  fight; 
And  mnce  the  stiffening  cunenta  of  old  agQ 
Have  chilled  my  powers,  your  jMowees 

nobly  shows  — 
Noniore;wfaat  I  have  been,  you  are  to-day. 
T  is  true,  however,  that  when  choice  is  due. 
Our  monarch  aeee  a  difference  'twixt  us  still. 
Count.  Nayl  ynu  have  stolen  what  was 

mine  by  right  1 
DifcoiTE.  To  win  an  honor  is  the  proof  of 

Count.  He  is  most  worthy  who  can  use 

DifeoHB.   To  be  refused  it  is  poor  proof 

of  worth. 
ConiJT.   You've  used  a  courtier's  wiles, 

and  won  by  trick! 
Diiaux.  My  fame  has  been  my  only  par- 

CoiTNT.  Admit  the  king  but  honors  your 

Dltaui;.    My  yean  the  king  but  meas- 
ures by  my  deeds. 
CotJNT.  If  deeds  are  years,  I  'm  elder  far 

than  youl 
DidGUB.    Who  not  obtained  this  honor 

not  deserved  it. 
CoDNT.  1  not  deserved  it?  IT 
DifeauE.   Yea,  youl 
Count.  Old  man, 
Thine  insolence  shall  have  its  due  reward. 
[Givet  him  a  bUne.] 
DifeGUB  \drairini/  hit  stBord],  Quick,  run 
me  throughl — the  first  of  all  my  race 
To  wear  a  flush  of  shame  upon  my  brow. 


CotJMT.  What  dost  thou  hope  thine  im- 
potence c&n  do? 
DdsouB.  O  God!  my  worn-out  strength 

at  need  forsakes  me. 
Count.    Thy  sword  is  mine,  but  thou 
wouldat  be  too  vain 
If  I  should  take  thia  trophy  of  thy  fall. 
Adieu  I    Go  read  the  prince,  in  spite  of 

For  hia  instruction,  thy  life's  history. 

This  chastisement  of  insolent  discourse 

Will  prove,  methinks,  no  slij^t  embellish- 
ment. [Exit  Count.] 
DitQCK.  R«ge  and  despair!  age,  my 
worst  enemy! 

Must  my  great  life  end  with  a  foul  disgrace? 

Shall  laurels  gained  with  slowly  whitening 
locks, 

In  years  of  warlike  toils,  fade  in  a  day? 

And  does  the  arm  all  Spain  has  wondered 
■  at, 

Whose  might  has  often  saved  the  king  hia 
throne, 

And  kept  the  rod  of  empire  in  his  grasp, 

Betray  me  now,  and  leave  me  unavenged? 

O  sad  remembrance  of  my  vanished  gloryl 

O  years  of  life  undone  in  one  short  hour! 

This  new-won  height  is  fatal  to  my  fortune, 

A  precipice  from  which  my  honor  falls. 

Must  the  Count's  triumph  add  the  final 
pang 

To  death  dishonorablOr  to  life  disgraced? 

The  office,  Count,  is  thine;  thine  the  high 
place 

Of  tutor  to  my  prince,  for  thine  own  hand. 

With  envious  insult,  the  king's  choice  rc- 

And  leaves  me  here  with  hope  and  honor 

gone. 
And  thou,  brave  instrument  of  my  extdoits, 
But  uselcBB  ornament  of  feeble  age, 
Once  terror  of  my  enemies,  but  now 
A  bauble,  not  a  man's  defense  at  need  — 
My  sword!  —  go,  quit  thy  now  dishonored 

Pass,  to  avenge  me,  into  worthier  handal 
[Enter  RoDERICK-I 

DitouE.  Hast  thou  a  brave  heart,  Rod- 
erick? 
Roderick.  Any  man 
Except  my  father  soon  would  prove  it  bo. 


34> 


DikanE.  O  pleasing  cholerl  wrath  that 
sooUhb  my  hurti 
My  own  blood  speaks  in  this  resentment 

And  in  thy  heat  my  youth  oomes  back  to 

My  son,  my  scion,  come,  repair  my  wrong; 
Avenge  me  instantly! 

Roderick.  For  what?  for  what? 

DdioiTB.  For  an  affront  bo  cruel,  so  un- 

'T  is  fatal  to  the  honor  of  our  house. 

A  bkiwl  across  my  cheekl  his  life  had  paid, 

Save  that  my  nerveless  arm  betrayed  my 

wfl). 
This  sword,  which  I  again  can  never  wield, 
I  pass  to  thee  for  vengeance  to  the  death. 
A^Dst  this  arrc^ance  thy  courage  set; 
Only  in  blood  such  stains  are  cleansed,  and 

Must  kin  or  die.  This  man,  mine  enemy, 
Whwn  thou  must  meet,  is  worthy  of  thy 

Begrimed  with  blood  and  dust,  I've  seen 

him  hold 
An  army  terror-etricken  at  his  will. 
And  break  a  hundred  squadrons  by  his 

And,  to  say  all,  more  than  a  leader  brave, 
More  than  a  warrior  great,  he  is  ^  he  is  — 

RoDBRtCK.  In  mercy  speak! 

DiliauB.  Thefatherof  Chim^nel 

RooRRicK.  Ghim6nel 

Dikauv.  Nay,  answer  not;  I  know  thy 

But  who  can  live  disgraced  deserves  not 

life. 
Is  the  offender  dear,  wome  the  offense. 
'Hiou  know'st  my  wrong;  its  quittance  lies 

with  thee; 
I  say  no  more;  avenge  thyself  and  mel 
Remember  who  thy  father  is  —  and  wast 
Weighed  down  with  Fate's  misfortunes 

heaped  on  me, 
I  go  to  mourn  them.   Do  thou  fly  to  v^ige- 

ancel  [ExU  DifeauE.] 

Roderick.  Myheart'eo'erwhelmedwith 

A  mortal  stroke  that  mocks  my  tender 

Makes  me  avenger  of  a  quarrel  just, 
And  wretched  victim  of  an  unjust  blow. 


Though  oruahed  in  spirit,  still  my  pride 

must  cope 
With  that  which  slays  my  hope. 
So  near  to  love's  fruition  to  be  told  — 

O  God,  the  strange,  atrange  paini  — 
My  father  has  received  an  insuit  bold, 

The  offender  is  the  father  of  Chimftne. 

'Mid  conflicts  wild  I  stand. 
I  lift  my  arm  to  strike  my  father's  foe, 
But  Love  with  mighty  impulse  urges  "  No!" 

Pride  fires  my  heart,  affection  stays  my 
hand; 
I  must  be  deaf  to  Passion's  c^ls,  or  face 
A  life  of  deep  disgrace. 
What«*er  I  do,  fierce  anguish  follows  me  — 

0  God,  the  strange,  strange  pain! 
Can  an  sJFTront  so  base  unpunished  be? 

But  can  I  fight  the  father  of  Chimtae? 

To  which  allegiance  give?  — 
To  tender  tyranny  or  noble  bond?  — 
A  tarnished  name  or  loss  of  pleasures  foud? 

Unworthy  or  unhappy  must  I  live. 
[To  hit  tword.]   Thou  dear,  stem  hope  of 

souls  high-bom  and  bold 
And  fired  with  love  untold. 
But  enemy  of  my  new  dreams  of  bliss, 

Sword,  cause  of  all  my  pain. 
Was 't  given  me  to  Use  for  this,  for  this?  — 

To  save  my  honor,  but  to  lose  Chimtoe? 

T  must  seek  death's  dread  boume. 
To  weigh  my  duty  and  my  love  is  vain. 
If  I  avenge  his  death,  her  hate  I  gain. 

If  I  no  vengeance  take,  I  win  her  scom; 
Unfaithful  must  I  prove   to  hope  roost 

Or  for  that  hope  unmeet. 
What  heals  my  honor's  wounds  augments 
mygri^, 
And  causes  keener  pain; 
Be  strong,  my  soull  Since  death's  my  sole 

1  '11  die,  nor  lose  the  love  of  my  Chimtee. 

What,  die  without  redress? 
Seek  death  —  so  fatal  to  my  future  fame? 
Endure  that  Spain  sh^  heap  on  me  the 
shame 

Of  one  who  failed  in  honor's  sorest  stress? 
All  for  a  love  whose  hope  my  freniied  heart 


34» 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Already  sees  depart? 

I'n  list  DO  longer  to  tbe  subtle  fdea 

Which  but  renews  my  pain; 
Come,  wm  of  mine,  my  ohoioe  turns  now 
to  thee, 
Since  naught,  alaal  can  give  me  back 
Chimtae. 

Yea,  love  my  will  mieled. 
My  father  —  life  and  name  to  him  I  owe  — 
Whether  of  grief  or  from  a  mortal  blow 

I  die,my  blood  all  pure  and  true  I'll  shed. 
Too  long  I  'vB  dallied  with  a  purpose  weak; 
Now  vengeance  swift  I  seek. 
The  flush  of  shame  mounts  hotly  to  my 

That  I  can  deem  it  pain 
To  save  my  father's  house.  Ihastee'ennow 
To  seek  ^- woe's  me!  —  the  father  of 
Chimiae.  [Exit  Rodbbick.] 


ACT   II 
lEiUer  Arias  and  the  Count.] 
CocNT.  I  grant  you  that  my  somewhat 
hasty  blood 
Took  fire  too  soon,  and  carried  me  too  far; 
But  —  what  ia  done,  is  done:  the  blow  was 
struck. 
Abiab.  To  the  king's  will  let  your  i»x)ud 
spirit  yield. 
This  moves  him  deeply,  and  his  anger 

roused 
Will  make  you  suffer  penalty  extreme. 
No  just  defense  can  you  before  him  plead; 
The  deed  was  gross,  the  aged  victim  great; 
1  rule  that  serves  'twixt  man 


Will  meet  the  high  demand  exacted  here. 
CoiJNT.  The  king  can  use  my  life  to  suit 

Abiab.    You  add  tbe  fault  of  anger  to 
your  deed. 
The  king  still  loves  you  well;  appease  bis 

You  know  his  wish;  you  will  not  disobey? 
Count.    To  disobey  —  a  little  —  were 

Should  it  preserve  the  fame  I  most  do  prise. 
But  were  it  such,  forsooth,  my  valiant 


More  than  suffices  for  o'erlooking  it. 
Arias.  For  deeds  howe'er  illustrious  and 
high, 
A  king  can  ne'er  beoome  a  subject's  d^tor. 
Better  than  any  other  you  should  know 
Who  serves  his  king  well  does  his  simple 

duty; 
This  haughty  confidence  will  cost  you  dear. 
Count.    I  will  believe  you  when  I  pay 

the  price. 
Abiab.    You  should  respect  your  mon- 
arch's sovereign  will. 
Count.  I  con  outlive  a  single  day's  dis- 
pleasure. 
Let  the  whole  state  be  armed  to  hurl  me 

If  I  be  made  to  suffer,  Spain  will  falll 
Arias.    What!  you,  foivooth,  defy  the 

power  supreme  t 
Count.   Why  should  I  fear  a  soepteied 
hand  whose  grasp 
Is  weaker  than  my  own?  He    knows  my 

use; 
My  head,  in  falling,  will  shake  oS   hir 

Abiab.   X^et  reason  rule  your  action;  be 

Count.  I  wish  no  further  counsel:  all  is 
said. 

Arias.  What  message  to  your  king  shall 
I  report  ? 

Count.  That  I  shall  ne'er  consent  to 
my  disgrace. 

Arias.  Remember  that  you  brave  a  ty- 
rant's power. 

ConNT,  The  die  is  cost  and  longer  speech 

Abias.    Adieu,    then,   since    I    cannot 
change  your  will. 
£'en  on  3'our  laureled  head  the  bolt  may 
etrikel 
Count.    I  wait  it  without  fear. 
Arias.   'T  will  cast  you  down. 
Count.    Then  old  Di^e  will  be  well 
satisfied.  {EiM  ARIA8.] 

Who  fears  not  death  need  surely  not  fear 

threats. 
My  proud  resolve  yields  not  to  weak  dis- 
grace; 
Though  I  be  stripped  of  fortune,  rank,  and 

Myself  alone  can  rob  me  of  my  honor. 


[Bnter  Rodbxick.] 
RoDCRicK.  Grant  me  &  word,  Count. 
CoDKT.  Speak. 

RoDiRicK.  Dost  know  Diigue? 
Count.  Yea. 

RODEBicK.    Listen,  then,  and    let    ua 
eoftly  apeak. 
Doat  alao  kotm  that  hia  now  feeble  arm 
Wa>  once  Spain's  chiefeat   honor,  valor, 
glory? 
CoDNT.  Perhapel 

RoDKBicx.    This  fire  enkindled  in   my 
eyea 
Blarka  the  same  blood  as  his;  dost  thou 
know  thatf 
Count.  What  matters  that  to  me? 
Roderick.  I  'II  teach  you.  Count, 
\t  some  four  paces  hence,  what  matters  it. 
Count.  Preeumptuoiu  youth! 
RoDEBicK.  Spe^  quietly,  I  pray. 
Uy  years  are  few,  but.  Count,  in  high-born 

ValM:  and  youth  full  oft  united  are. 
Count.  And  thou  wouldst  stand  'gainst 
met  thou  vain,  untried. 
Impudent  upstart?  Cease  thy  boyish  brag! 
Roderick.  The  tamper  of  my  at«el  will 
not  demand 
A  second  proof;  the  first  will  be  enough. 
Count.    Know'st  thou  to  whom  thou 

apeakeet? 
Roderick.  I  know  well! 
Another  than  I  am  would  hear  with  dread 
The  mention  of  thy  name:  thy  crowns  of 

Muat  mean  to  me,  'twould  seem,  the  stroke 

of  doom. 
But  bold  I  meet  thine  all-victorioue  arm; 
Where  courage  leads,  there  force  wilt  aye 

be  found. 
A  father's  honor  is  a  triple  shield; 
InvinciblB  thou  art  not,  though   unoon- 

quered. 
Count.    Thy  fearless  words  a  fearless 

heart  reveal. 
I  've  watched  thy  growing  powers  from  day 

lo  thee  the  future  glory  of  Castile 

I  hare  believed  to  see,  and  proud  of  heart, 

Was  laying  in  thine  own  my  daughter's 


cm  S43 

I  know  thy  love,  and  charmed  am  I  to  learn 
That  duty  is  a  dearer  mistress  still. 
Nor  soft  emotions  weaken  warlike  seal. 
Thy  manly  worth  responds  to  my  esteem; 
And  wiflhing  for  my  son  a  noble  knight, 
I  did  not  err  when  I  made  ohoioe  of  thee. 
But  pity  stirs  within  me  at  thy  words; 
Such  boldness  ill  befits  thy  youthful  form; 
Let  not  thy  maiden  efFort  be  thy  last; 
I  cannot  fif^t  a  combat  so  unequal; 
A  victory  won  withdut  a  peril  braved 
la  but  inglorious  triumph,  and  for  me 
Such  contest  is  not  fitting.    None  would 

Thou  couldst  withstand  an  instant,  and 

regret 
At  thy  young,  foolish  death  would  e'er  be 

Roderick.  ^  Thy  pity  more  insults  mo 
than  t£y  scorn; 
Thou  fear'st  my  arm,  but  dar'st  attack  my 
honor. 
Count.  Withdraw  from  herel 
Roderick.  Let  ua  to  deeds,  not  wordsl 
Count.  Art  tired  of  life? 
RODERICK.  Doat  thou,  then,  fear  to  die? 
Count.   Come  on  I   Thou'rt  right.    I'll 
help  thee  do  thy  dutyl 
'T  is  a  base  son  survivea  a  father's  fame! 
[Exeunt  Count  and  Rodewck.] 


Infanta.   Nay,  do  not  weepi  allay  thy 

grief,  Chiminel 
This  sorrow  should  disclose  thy  spirit's 

strength. 
Aft«r  this  transient  storm  a  calm  will  fall. 
And  happiness,  deferred  and  clouded  now, 
Will  brighter  seem  in  contrast.    Do  not 

weep  I 
CHiifliNx.    My  heart,  worn  out  with 

trouble,  has  no  hope. 
A  stonn  BO  sudden  and  so  terrible. 
To  my  poor  bark  brings  direful  threat  of 

Ere  I  set  sail  upon  my  smiling  sea, 
I  perish  in  the  harbor.  I  was  loved 
By  him  I  fondly  loved;  our  sires  approved; 
But  even  while  I  told  my  charming  story 
At  that  same  moment  was  the  quarrel  on. 
Whose  sad  recital  changed  my  tale  to  woe. 


Goc«lc 


"44 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


O  cuTBod  &mbitiont  wrath's  insuiityt 
Pride,  to  my  dearest  wishes  pitiless, 
Whose  tyraiin;  the  noblest  nature  rules! 
In  slBha  and  tears  a  heavy  price  I  pay. 
Intanta.  llky  feaiB  o'eroome  thee;  't  is 

a  hasty  word; 
The  quarrel  of  a  moment  dies  as  soon. 
The  king  already  seeks  to  nutke  a  peace; 
And  I,  as  well  thou  knowest,  to  dry  thy 

tears 
And  heal  thy  grief  would  try  the  impos- 

Cmiiikm.  No  reconciliation  can  avail. 
Such  wounds  are  mortal  and  defy  all  art 
Of  king  or  princess,  of  conunaad  or  plead- 
ing. 
And  though  an  outward  show  of  peaoe  be 

The  firee  of  hate,  oompreofed  wiUun  the 

heart. 
Bum  fiercer,  and  will  break  at  last  in 

Intahta.   When  Love  has  bound  Chi- 
m&ne  and  Roderick 
In  sacred  marriage,  hatred  will  depart; 
Their  fathers  will  forget,  and  happiness 
Will  silence  discord  in  sweet  harmony. 
Camfeim.   I  wish  for  such  on  end,  but 
dare  not  hope. 
'T  is  a  matched  oombat  between  two  i»oud 

Neither  will  yield;  I  know  them;  I  must 

The  post  I  mourn,  the  future  fri^tens  me. 
Intanta.    What  fearest  thouT  an  old 

man's  feebleness? 
CHiiitNii.  Brave  sires  make  braver  sons; 

Roderick  is  bold. 
Intamta.  He  is  too  young. 
ChihAhb.    Such  men  are  bom   high- 
hearted! 
Intanta.   Thou  shouldst  not  fear  his 
boldness  overmuch ; 
He  cannot  wound  thee,  whom  he  loves  so 

weU; 
A  word  from  thy  sweet  Upe  will  check  his 

CHDftNE.   How  shall  I  speak  itT  If  he 
do  not  yield, 
'T  is  but  an  added  burden  to  my  heart; 
And  if  he  do,  what  will  men  say  of  him  — 

His  father's  son,  to  see  his  father's  fall, 


Nor  lift  an  arm  of  vengeance?  In  this  strait 
I  stand  confused,  nor  know  what  I  would 

His  too  weak  love,  or  his  too  stem  refusal. 
Intanta.  In  thy  hi|^  soul,  Chimdne,  no 
thought  can  live 
Unworthy  of  thee;  love  but  more  ezaltA 
But  if,  until  this  trouble  be  o'erpast, 
I  itiake  a  prisoner  of  this  gallant  youUi, 
Picventing  thus  the  dread  results  you  feur. 
Would  it  offend  thy  proud  and  loving  heart? 
CsivftNE.   Ah!  ma/ium,  then  my  caree 
are  quieted. 

lEtOer  the  Page] 
Intanta.      Page,     summon     Roderick 

hithtf;  I  would  see  him. 
Paob.  He  and  the  Count  de  Gormas  — 
CHiutNB.  Heavot,  oh,  help  mel 
Infanta.  What?  SpeakI 
Paoe.  Together  they  have  left  the  pal- 

CsiMkNX.  Alone? 

Paon.  Yes,  and  Vbey  muttered  angrily. 

CHiKtNX.  They've  come  to  blowsl  All 

words  are  useless  now; 
Madam,  forgive  this  haste  —  my  heart 

will  break! 

lExewtt  CHiKkNB  and  Page.] 
Intanta.  Alas!  that  such  inquietude  is 

I  weep  her  griefs,  but  Roderick  still  en- 
thrals; 
My  peace  is  gone;  my  dying  flame  revives. 
The  fate  that  parts  Chimine  from  him  she 

Renews  alike  my  sorrow  and  my  hope. 
Their  separation,  cruel  though  it  be, 
Excites  a  secret  ecstasy  in  me. 

LiONORA.    Surely,  the  noble  virtue  of 
your  soul 
Yields  not  so  soon  to  passion's  baser  thrall. 

Intanta.    Nay,  do  not  name  it  thus, 
since  in  my  heart. 
Strong  and  triumphant,  it  controls  my  wOl 
Respect  my  love,  for  it  is  dear  to  me; 
My  nobler  pride  forbids  it  —  yet  I  hope. 
Bl-guarded  'gainst  a  madness  BobewUd'ring, 
My  heart  flies  to  a  love  Chimtee  has  lost. 

Leonoka.    And  thus  your  high  resolve 
all-powertees  fails? 
And  Reason  lays  hw  wonted  soeptar  down? 

Goc«lc 


INTANTA.  Ahl  Itoaaon  haa  a  baieh  sad 
rude  effect. 
When  such  sweet  poisoa  has  inflamed  Uie 

Hie  patient  loves  his  painful  malady, 
Nor  wilibgly  accepts  a  healing  draught. 
LsoNORA.    Be  not  b^uiled  by  Love's 
seductions  soft; 
That  Roderick  is  beneath  you,  all  well 

Intanta.  Too  well  mymU  must  know  it, 

but  my  heart 
Hears  subtle  words  which  Love,  the  flat- 

erer,  speaks. 
If  from  this  combat  Roderick  victor  comes, 
And  this  great  warrier  falls  beneath  hia  blow, 
What  other  plea  need  Love,  the  pleader, 

use? 
Who  oould  withstand  that  oonqueror'B  con- 
queror I 
My  fancy  sets  oo  bounds  to  his  exploits; 
Wbole  kinKdoms  soon  would  fall  beneath 

his  laws; 
i  see  him  on  Granada's  ancient  throne; 
The  subject  Moore  with  trembling  do  his 

will; 
Proud  Aragon  acknowledges  him  king. 
And  Portugal  receives  him,  while  the  seas 
Bear  bis  high  destiny  to  other  lands. 
In  Afric's  blood  his  laurels  shall  be  dyed, 
And  all  that  e'er  was  said  of  greatest  chief, 
I  hear  of  Roderick,  this  victory  won; 
Then  in  hia  love  my  highest  glory  lies. 
Lbonoba.  Nay,  madam,  't  is  your  fancy 

makes  you  dream 
Of   oonquoata  whoae   b^inning   may   not 

chance. 
Infanta.  The  count  has  done  the  deed 

—  Roderick  enraged  — 
Tbay  have  gone  forth  to  combat  —  needs 

there  more? 
Lkonoka.    E'en  should  they  fig^t  — 

since  you  will  have  it  so  — 
n'ill  Roderick  prove  the  knight  you  picture 

him? 
Infanta.   Nay,  I  am  weak;  my  foolish 

mind  runs  wild; 
Love  spreads  ita  snares  for  victims  such  as  I. 
Cotat  b>  my  chamber;  there  console  my 

grief. 
Nor  leave  me  till  this  troubled  hour  is  o'er. 
lEseunt  Infanta  and  Lsonooa.] 


[EtUer  Ae  Kino,  ARua,  and  Sancho.) 
KiHQ.  Pray,  is  this  haughty  count  bereft 
,ot  sense? 
Dares  be  believe  his  crime  can  be  o'er- 
looked? 
Arias.    To  him  I  have  conveyed  your 
strong  desire; 
Nothing  I  gained  from  long  and  eameet 
pleas. 
King.  Just  Heaven!  A  subject  have  I  in 
my  realm 
So  rash  that  he  will  disr^iard  my  wish? 
My  oldest,  foremost  courtier  he  affronts. 
Then  aims  his  boundless  insolence  at  mel 
The  law,  in  my  own  oourt,  he  would  decree*. 
Leader  and  warrior,  great  howe'er  he  be, 
I'll  school  his  haughty  soul  with  leeson 

hard. 
Were  he  the  god  of  battles,  valor's  self, 
Obedience  to  his  sovereign  he  shall  pay. 
Although  hie  act  tike  chastisement  deserved, 
It  was  my  will  to  show  him  leniency. 
Since  he  abuses  mercy,  from  this  hour 
He  is  a  prisoner,  all  resiatance  vain. 
Sancho.   Pray,  sire,  a  brief  delay  may 
calm  his  mind. 
Freeh  from  the  quarrel  he  was  first  ap- 
proached, 
Boiling  with  passion.  Sire,  a  soul  like  his, 
80  hasty  and  so  bold,  belies  itself 
In  its  first  impulse;  soon  he'll  know  his 

fault. 
But  cannot  yet  admit  he  was  the  offender. 
Kino.  Be  silent,  Sancho,  and  be  warned 
henceforth. 
He  who  defends  the  guilty  shares  the  gmlt. 
Sancho,   Yea,  aire,  I  will  obey,  but  gnmt 
me  grace 
To  say  one  further  word  in  his  defense. 
KsfO.  What  can  you  say  for  such  a  reck- 
less man? 
SaAcho,  Concessions  do  not  suit  a  lofty 

Accustomed  to  great  deeds;  it  can  eoacoive 
Of  no  submission  without  loss  of  honor. 
He  cannot  bend  his  pride  to  make  amends; 
Too  humble  is  the  part  you'd  have  him 

play; 

He  would  obey  you  were  he  lees  a  man. 
Command  his  arm,  DouriBbed  'mid  war'i 


>46 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


To  right  thia  wnmg  upon  the  field  of  honor. 
Th«  boldest  champion  who  his  stod  will 

He  will  accept  and  make  atonement  swift. 
KtNO.  You  fail  in  due  respect,  but  youUi 

And  in  your  ardor  I  your  fault  excuse. 
A  king,  whom  prudence  ever  should  inform, 
Is  guardian  of  his  subjects'  life  and  death. 
O'er  mine  I  watch  with  caie,  and  jealously, 
like  a  great  head,  I  guard  my  membov 

well. 
Your  reason,  then,  no  raaaon  is  for  me; 
You  speak,  a  soldier;  I  must  act,  a  king. 
Moreover,  let  the  count  think  what  he  will, 
Obedience  to  his  king  ennobles  him. 
'  He  hEis  affronted  me;  he  rudely  stained 
The  honor  of  my  son's  appointed  guide. 
To  strike  a  blow  at  him — 't  is  nothing  lew 
Than  to  attack  with  blows  the  power  su- 


Ten  hostile  ycssels,  with  their  colon  up; 

They've  dared  approach  cloar  b>  tiie  riv- 
er's mouth. 
Abiab.   The  Moora  have   learned,  per- 
force, to  know  you  well; 

Conquered  so  oft,  what  courage  can  they 
feel 

To  risk  themselves  against  their  conqueror? 
Kma.  They'll  never  see,  without  a  jeal- 
ous rage. 

My  ecept«r  rule  o'er  Andalusia. 

That  lovely  land,  by  them  too  long  pos- 

Alwayswitb  envious  eye  they  closdy  watch. 
That  was  t^  only  cause  why  Castile's 

throne 
In  old  Seville  I  placed,  now  years  ago; 
I  would  be  near,  and  ready  at  demand. 
To  overthrow  uprising  or  attack. 
Arias.   They  know,  at  coat  of  mAny  a 

mighty  chief. 
That  triumph,  sire,  your  presence  only 

Naught  can  you  have  to  fear. 

KiNQ.  Nor  to  neglect; 
For  confidence  is  duiger's  sure  ally. 
Well  do  you  know  with  what  an  eaay  sweep 
4  rising  tide  may  float  them  to  our  walls. 
T  is  but  a  rumor;  let  no  panic  rise, 


Nor  oauselees  fears  be  spread  by  fslsr 

Stir  not  the  city  in  the  hours  of  night; 
But  doubly  fortify  the  walls  and  haiboi*. 
Enough,  till  more  is  known. 
[Enter  Alonbo.] 
Ai.oinH>.  The  count  is  dead! 
Di^ue  has  tak«n  vengeance  by  his  toni 
Kino.   Sotm  as  the  affront  I  kamsd,  I 
feared  revei^. 
Would  that  I  might  have  t^urned  that  fatal 
wrathl 
Alonbo.    Chimfaie  aiqifoaohee,  bathed 
in  bitter  tears. 
And  at  your  feet  would  she  for  justice  plead. 
Kino.  Compassion  moves  my  soul  at  her 
mishaps; 
But  the  count's  deed,  methinks,  has  weQ 

deserved 
This  chastisement  of  his  audadty. 
And  yet,  however  just  m^  be  tus  doom, 
I  lose  with  pain  a  warrior  strong  and  true. 
After  long  servioe  rendered  to  our  Bt«te, 
His  blood  poured  out  for  us  a  thousand 


[Enter  Ditain  and  CsncfeNX.] 
CHDcfeNs.  Justice,  sire,  justice! 
Diftanx.  Ah,  sire,  let  me  speak! 
CendiNB.  Behold  me,  at  your  feet! 
DitouK.  t  clasp  your  knees! 
Cmutim.  'Tie  juatioe  I  demand! 
Difeoux.  Hear  my  defense  1 
CBitiiHK.    Punish  the  insolence  of  thii 

bold  youth! 
He  has  struck  down  your  kingdom's  chief 

support  I 
My  father  he  has  slain! 
DiiocB.  To  avenge  his  own! 
CHiuiiNE.  A  subject's  blood  demands  his 

monarch's  justice  I 
DdCoux.  A  vengeance  just  demands  no 

punishment. 
Euro.  Rise,  and  in  calmness  let  us  hear 

Chimdne,  my  deepest  sympathy  is  stirred; 
A  grief  not  leas  than  yours  affects  my  heart. 
iroDiioui.l  You  will  speak  after,  nor  dia- 
turfo  bw  plaint 


.CjOC^'.^Ic 


THE  CID 


247 


CbuInx.  Myfatber,  aire,  is  drad;  mine 

eyes  have  seen 

Great  drops  of  blood  roll  from  hia  noble  side; 

That  blood  that  oft  your  walls  has  fortified; 

That  blood  that  many  times  your  fights  has 

That  blood  which,  shed,  still  holds  an  angry 

heat 
To  be  outpoured  for  other  lives  th&n  youn. 
What  in  war's  deadliest  carnage  ne'er  was 

spiUed, 
The  hand  of  Roderick  sheds  upon  your  soil. 
BreatiilesB  and  pale,  I  reached  the  fatal 

I  found  him  lifelem,  sir«  —  forgive  my 

Id  Uiis  sad  tale  words  mock  my  trembling 

lips; 

My  sighs  will  utter  .what  I  cannot  speak. 

KtHO.    Take  courage,  child;  thy  long 

henceforth  shall  be 

Thy  father,  in  the  place  of  him  that's  lost. 

ChiuInii.  Such  honor,  sire,  I  ask  not  in 

I  said  I  found  bim  lifeless:  open  wound 
And  blood  outpoured,  aitd  mixed  with  hor- 
rid dust. 
Showed  me  my  duty,  drove  me  here  in 

haste; 
That  dreadful  gaping  mouth  speaks  with 

my  voice, 
And  must  be  heard  by  the  most  just  of 

kings. 
O  sire,  let  not  such  license  reign  unchecked 
Beneath  your  sovereign  sway,  before  your 

eyes; 
So  the  most  noble  may,  without  restraint. 
Suffer  the  blows  of  beardless  insolence, 
And  a  young  braggart  triumph  o'er  their 

glory, 
BattM  in  their  blood  and  mock  their  mem- 
ory. 
This  valiant  warrior,  slain,  if  unavenged, 
Will  surety  cool  the  ardor  of  your  kn^ts. 
O  sire,  grant  vengeance  for  my  father's 

death! 
Your  throne  demands  it  more  than  my  poor 

His  rank  was  high,  his  death  will  cost  you 

Pa?  death  with  death,  and  blood  with 
blood  avenge. 


A  Victim,  not  for  me,  but  for  your  crown, 
Your  person,  and  Your  Majesty,  I  b%  — 
A  victJm  that  will  show  to  all  the  state  . 
The  madness  of  a  deed  so  arrogant. 

Kind.  What  say'et,  DiSgue? 

Diiauii,   Worthy  of  envy  he 
Who,  losing  life's  best  gift,  can  part  with 

life  I 
For  age's  weakness  bringi  to  noble  souls 
A  mournful  fate  before  its  closing  scene. 
I,  whose  proud  'scutcheon  is  graved  o'er 

with  deeds, 
I,  whom  a  victor  laurels  oft  have  crowned. 
To-day,  because  too  loi^  with  life  I've 

Affronted,  prostrate  lie  and  powerless. 
What  neither  siege  nor  fight  nor  ambuscade, 
Nor  all  your  foea,  nor  all  my  envious  friends, 
Nor  Aragon  could  do,  nor  proud  Granada, 
The  count,  your  subject,  jealous  of  your 

choice. 
Bold  in  the  power  which  youth  has  over 

age. 
Has  done  within  your  court,  beneath  your 

Thus,  sire,  these  locks,  'neath  war's  rou^ 

harness  blanched. 
This  blood,  so  gladly  lav^ed  in  your  cause, 
This  am,  the  lifelong  terror  of  your  foes, 
To  a    dishonored  grave  would  have  de- 
scended, 
Had  not  my  son  proved  worthy  of  his  sire. 
An  honor  to  his  country  and  his  king. 
He  took  his  father's  sword,  he  slew  the 

count, 
He  gave  me  back  my  honor  cleansed  from 

If  to  show  courage  and  resentment  deep. 
If  to  avenge  a  blow,  claim  punishment. 
On  me  alone  should  fall  your  anger's  stroke. 
When  the  arm  erra,  the  head  must  bear 

the  blame. 
Whether  this  be  a  crime  of  which  we  speak. 
His  was  the  hand,  but  mine,  sire,  was  the 

wiU. 
Chimtoe  names  him  her  father's  murderer; 
The  deed  was  mine;  1  longed  to  take  his 

place. 
Spare  for  your  throne  the  arm  of  youth  and 

might. 
But  slay  the  chief  whom  Time  o'ermaaters 


S4S 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


If  an  old  soldier's  blood  will  expiate 
And  satisfy  Qiicitae,  't  is  hers  to  shed; 
Ftue  from  repining  at  such  atem  dooree, 
I'll  glory  in  an  honorable  death. 
KiHO.  Of  deep  and  serious  import  is  this 
deed, 
And  in  full  council  must  be  gravely  met. 
Lead  the  count's  daughter  home;  and  you, 

Shall  be  held  prisoner  by  your  word  of 

Let  Rodericic  be  brought ;  I  must  do  justice. 
CHmiNB.  'T  is  justice,  Bire,  a  murderer 

should  die. 
King.  Allay  your  grief,  my  child,  and 

t^e  repose. 
CHiukNB.   When  silence  tuges  thought, 

then  ai^uish  grows.  [Bxeunt  omnet.] 


ACT   III 
[Enter  RonBsicE  and  Elyirb.] 

Eltire.  Roderick,  what  haat  thou  done? 
why  cam'st  thou  here? 

RoDEBiCK.    I  follow  my  Bad  fate's  un- 
happy courae. 

Eltirb.  Whence  hast  thou  this  audacity. 

To  places  filled  with  mourning  by  thy  deed? 
Com 'at  here  to  brave  the  dead  count's  very 

shade? 
Hast  thou  not  killed  him7 

Roderick.  To  my  shame  he  lived; 
My  father's  houae  demanded  that  he  die. 
Elyire.    But  why  seek  shelter  'neath 

thy  victim's  root? 
Wbat  murderer  ever  sought  retreat  so 

strange? 
Roderick.  I  come  to  yield  myself  up  to 

my  judge. 
No  more  look  on  me  with  astonished  eye; 
I  seek  my  death  m  penance  for  a  death. 
My  love's  my  judge,  my  judge  Chimine 

Sharper  than  death  the  knowledge  of  her 

hate; 
lliat  I  deaerve,  and  I  have  come  to  ask 
The  sentence  of  her  lipe,  her  hand's  death 

blow. 
Elvtrk.  Nay,  rather  flee  her  sight,  her 

passion's  force. 


Remove  thy  presence  from  her  freeh  de- 
spair. 
Flee!  shun  the  promptings  of  her  anguish 

Which  will  but  rouse  to  fury  every  feeling. 
Roderick.   This  dearest  object  of  my 

heart's  desire 
Cannot  too  sorely  chide  me  in  her  wrath; 
That  is  a  punishment  I  well  deserve. 
In  seeking  for  a  death  from  hand  of  hers 
1  shun  a  hundred  others  worae  to  face. 
Elvire.     Chimine    is    at    the   palace, 

drowned  in  tears, 
And  will  return  escorted  from  the  king. 
Flee,  Roderick,  flee!  pray  add  not  to  my 

What  would  be  said  if  here  thou  shouldst 

be  seen! 
Wouldst  thou  that  slander,  adding  to  her 

woe, 
Charge  that  she  hide  her  father's  murderer? 
She'll  soon  return!  Hark!  hark!  she  comes, 

she's  here! 
Hide  thyself,  then,  for  her  sake;  Roderick, 

hidel  [Exit  Roderick.] 

[Enter  Sancho  and  CbiuIinb.] 
S&NCHo.  True,  madam,  blood  alone  pays 
debts  like  this; 
Your  wrath  is  righteous,  and  your  tean  are 

I  would  not  try  with  weak  and  foolish  words 
To  calm  your  anger  or  console  your  grief. 
But  if  to  serve  you  I  am  capable, 
My  Bword  is  at  your  service  to  command; 
My  love  is  youra  to  avenge  your  fathet  'e 

death; 
If  you  1  serve,  my  arm  will  outmatoh  ilia. 

Cbiu^ne.  O  wietehed  that  I  am! 

Sancho.  Accept  my  sword! 

CHIufeNE.   It  would  offend  the  king,  who 
pledges  justice. 

Sancho,   The  march  of  Justice  often  i> 
so  slow 
That  crime  escapes  the  tardy  loiterer. 
Her  oft  uncertain  course  costs  teara  and 

Suffer  a  knight  to  avenge  you  with  his 

The  way  is  sure,  the  punishment  is  swift. 
Chim^ne.  It  is  the  last  rcaort.  If  oomeit 
nuat* 


:.L|,i,zedi!,GoOQlc 


And  Btall  my  soitowb  mov«  your  Boul  to 

pity, 
Yon  shftll  be  free  to  Hvenge  my  iniury. 
Sancho.  To  that  one  h&ppinees  my  soul 

And  hoping  this,  I  leave  you,  well  content. 
[EtU  Sakcho,] 
ChdiAne.    At  last,  in  freedom  from  a. 
forced  restraint, 
I  can  pour  out  to  thee  my  poignant  woe, 
Can  give  an  utterance  to  my  mournful  aighs, 
And  let  my  soul  tell  all  its  many  griefB, 
My  father's  dead, Elvire;  the  maiden  tbrusl 
Of  Roderick's  sword  has  cut  his  lif^-thread 

Weep,  weep,  my  eyes,  dissolve  yourselves 

One  half  my  heart  the  other  half  entombs; 
And  for  this  mortal  stroke,  my  heart  that 

Must  vengeance  take  for  that  wbich  is  no 

Elvibb.  Rest,  madam,  rest. 
CniMfeNE.     Nay,    mock  me  not  with 
words! 
In  misery  like  mine  to  speak  of  restl 
Whence-ever  shall  my  agony  be  soothed 
Unlees  I  hate  the  hand  that  caused  my 

grief? 
What  respite  can  I  hope  from  torment  aye, 
When  love  and  bate  both  seek  the  criminal? 
EtiVDtB.  You  still  can  love  the  one  who 

killed  your  father? 
Cbui^ne.  Love  is  a  word  too  weak  for 
what  I  feel; 
1  do  adore  him,  spite  of  my  resentment; 
My  lover  and  my  enemy  are  one. 
StUI,  notwithstanding  all  my  hatred  fierce. 
Against  my  father  Roderick  contends; 
My  filial  love  resists  his  sweet  assault. 
And  struggles,  feeble  now,  and  now  trium- 

Itt  this  rude  war  of  anger  and  of  love. 
My  heart  is  rent,  but  stronger  grows  my 

soul; 
I   feel  Love'f  power,  but  duty's  deeper 

Forbid  that  I  should  change  or  hesitate; 
I  balance  not,  nor  swerve,  when  honor  leads. 
To  me  is  Roderick  dear;  J  weep  his  fate; 
My  heart  pleads  in  his  favor,  yet,  alasl 
J  am  my  father's  daughter;  be  is  dead. 


CID  949 

Elvibb.  Shall  you  pursue  it  further? 
CHiuiiMii.  Cruel  thought! 
And  cruel  path  which  I  am  forced  to  tread! 
I  seek  his  life,  yet  fear  my  end  to  gain; 
My  death  will  follow  his,  yet  be  must  die. 
Elvisb.  Nay,  madam,  quit  so  terrible  a 
task, 
Nor  on  yourself  impose  a  law  so  stem. 
CBiufeNX.      My     father     dead  —  nay, 
snatched  from  my  embrace! 
Shall  his  dear  blood  unheard  for  vengeance 

cry? 
Shall  my  weak  heart,  snared  by  seducing 

With  woman's  teals  alone  pay  honor's 

debt? 
Shall  guileful  love  betray  my  filial  duty. 
And  in  a  shameful  silence  still  its  voiceT 
ELvmk.    Believe  me,  madam,  there  ia 

For  cooler  counsels  toward  a  loving  heart, 
Against  a  lover  dear.  You  're  made  appeal 
Untfl  the  king  himself;  [H>ees  not  too  far 
Persistence  in  this  purpose  strange  and  sad. 
CHodiNE.  My  word  is  pledged  to  ven* 
geance;  it  must  fait. 
Love  would  beguile  us  with  sweet  subtle- 

To  noble  souls  excuses  shameful  seem. 
Elvtrz.    If  you  love  Roderick,  he  can 

not  offend  you. 
CniiffeNE.  'T  is  true! 
Eltihb.   Then,  after  all,  what  will  you 

do? 
CHiidiNx.  I  will  avenge  my  father,  end 

I'll  follow  him,  destroy  him,  then  111  — 


[Enter  Rohbrick.) 
Roderick.  Nay,  madam,  you  shall  find 
an  easier  way; 
My  life  is  in  your  hand;  your  honor's  sure. 
CHiirtNE.   Elvire,  where  are  we?   Who 
is  this  I  see? 
Is  Roderick  in  my  house?  — b^ore  my 
eyes? 
RoDBRicK.    I  oBer  you  my  life;  taste, 
when  you  will, 
The  sweetness  of  my  death  and  your  re- 

i.  Ob,  woet 


.  Google 


as* 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


RoDCHicK.  Pny,  hear  met 
CHiidiMx.  Nay,  I  die! 
RoDKSicx.  A  momentl 
ChuiIioi.  Go;  let  me  die! 
RoDKHiCK.  I  would  but  speak  a  word. 
You  shall  reply  with  sword-thruBt  at  my 

CasvksK.   What!  with  a  blade  stained 

with  my  father's  blood? 
Roderick.  Cbimtoel 
ChimAnb.    Remove  that  object  ftvm 
miiieeyesl 
Its  si^t  recalls  thy  crime  and  suea  tot 
death! 
Roderick,    Nay,  gaie  upon  it;  't  will 
excite  still  more 
Thy  hatred  and  thy  wrath ;  't  wiA  haste  my 
doom, 
CmutKii.    'T  is  tinged  with  my  own 

blood. 
RoDSBiCK.  Pluiige  it  in  minel 
Wash  in  my  Teins  what  it  has  brought 

from  thine. 
CamtNB,  Oh,  cruel  steel,  which  in  one 
awful  day 
A  father's  and  a  daughter's  life  can  take, 
I  cannot  Uve  and  eee  iti  Take  it  hence! 
Hum  did'st  me  hear,  and  yet  thou  strik'st 
me  dead! 
RoDKBiCK.    I  do  thy  will,  but  cherish 
still  the  wish 
Of  ending  by  thy  hand  my  wretched  life. 
Not  even  love  of  thee  works  in  my  soul 
Craven  repentance  for  a  righteous  deed. 
The  fatal  end  of  wrath  too  swift  and  hot 
Brought  shame  upon  my  father's  honored 

head. 
The  insult  ol  a  blow  what  heart  can  bear? 
The  affront  was  mine,  I  sought  its  author 

And  swift  avenged  the  honor  of  my  sire. 
Were  it  again  to  do,  agun  't  were  done! 
But  even  'gainst  the  inevitable  deed. 
My  love  long  struggled  for  sui^emacy. 
Judge  how  it  ruled  my  heart,  when  I  could 

pause, 
In  such  an  hour  of  rage,  and  hesitate 
Between  my  house,  my  father,  and  —  my 

Compelled  to  wound  thy  heart  or  stand 

dis^'aced. 
Myself  I  did  accuse  of  haste  undue, 


too  alive  to  feel  affront. 
Thy  beauty  might  have  turned  the  balance 

stiU, 
But  for  the  thought  that  pressed  itself  at 

last  — 
A  man  di^raeed  had  naught  to  offer  thee, 
And  vainly  would  thy  heart's  voice  plead 

If  nobleoeBB  were  suok  in  infamy. 
To  yield  to  love,  to  hearken  to  its  ciy, 
Proved  me  unworthy  of  thy  tendemeee. 
With  sighs  I  tell  thee  o'er  and  o'er  again. 
And  with  my  latest  breath  I  still  would  say, 
With  cruel  hand  I  've  hurt  thee,  but  naught 

Could  blot  my  shame  and  leave  me  worthy 

Now,  honor  and  my  father  satisfied, 
To  thee  I  oome,  to  pay  my  final  debt; 
To  offer  thee  my  life,  I  seek  thee  here. 
That  duty  done,  this  only  resta  to  do. 
Thou  need'st  not  tell  me  that  thy  father 

slain 
Arms  thee  against  me  —  see,  thy  victim 

here! 
Shrink  not  from  offering  up  the  blood  of 

Who  shed  thy  father's  nor  can  mourn  the 

deed. 
ChiuIne.  Ahl  Roderick,  strangely  does 
my  changeful  heart 
Defend  thee  who  hast  saved  thy  father's 

fame. 
If  my  distracted  mind  has  crud  seemed, 
'T  is  not  with  blame  for  thee,  but  in  despair. 
The  ardor  of  a  high,  unbroken  spirit 
That  cannot  brook  an  insult,  w^l  I  knoi<r. 
It  was  thy  duty  taught  thee,  but,  alas! 
In  doing  thine,  thou  t^acheat  me  mine  own. 
The  very  terror  of  thy  deed  compels; 
For,  as  thy  father's  name  thou  hast  re- 
Mine  also  calls  upon  his  child  for  vengeance 
But,  ohi  my  love  for  thee  drivee  me  to  mad- 

nesat 
My  father's  loss  by  other  hand  had  left 
The  solace  of  thy  preeence  and  thy  love^ 
A  oonaolation  sweet  in  misery. 
I  still  had  felt  in  grief  thy  sympathy. 
And  loved  the  hand  that  wiped  my  tean 

away. 
But  now,  in  losing  him  thee  too  I  lose; 


This  vietoiT  a'er  my  love  his  fame  demands, 
And  duty,  with  the  face  of  an  assaaein, 
Drina  me  to  mtk  tby  ruin  and  mine  own. 
For  in  my  heart  no  more  than  in  thine  own 
Must  courage   yield  to  luring  dreams  of 

love. 
My  Btrength  must  equal  thine.    In  thine 

offense 
Thou  haat  but  proved  thy  worth.  By  thine 

own  death 
Alone  oan  I  be  worthy  of  thy  love. 

RoDKBiCK.    Defer  no  longer  what  thy 


It  claims  my  bead;  I  offer  it  to  thee; 

M^ce  me  the  victim  of  thy  just  revenge. 

I  welcome  the  decree;  I  hail  the  stroke; 

Hw  tedious  course  of  Justice  to  await 

Betarda  thy  glory,  as  my  punishment. 

T  is  welcome  fate  to  die  by  thy  dear  hand. 
CanifeNi.  No,  not  thine  executioner  am 
I; 

T  is  not  for  me  to  take  thine  offered  life; 

'T  is  thine  to  make  defense  'gainst  my  at- 
tack. 

Some  other  hand  than  mine  must  woric  my 
will; 

Challenge  I  must,  but  punish  nevw,  neml 
Roderick.  However  love  constnuns 
thee  for  my  sake, 

Thy  spirit  must  be  equal  U>  mine  own, 

Thyatdf  haat  aaid;  then  wouldst  thou  bor- 

To  avenge  a  father's  death?   Nay,  my 

Ghim^ne, 
The  soul  of  vengeance  fails.  No  hand  but 

Could  slay  thy  father;  thine  must  punish 

CHmfeNii,   O  cruelty,  to  stand  upon  this 

Thou  didst  not  need  my  aid,  I  need  not 

thinel 
I  follow  thine  example,  and  my  spirit 
Will  never  share  with  thee  my  glory's  task. 
My  father's  fame  and  I  shall  nothing  owe 
To  love  of  thine,  or  to  thy  late  despair. 
RoDKBiCK.  'T  is  thou  that  standest  on  a 

point  of  honor. 
Shall  I  ne'er  win  this  mercy  at  thy  handf 
In  thy  dead  father's  name,  for  our  love's 

sake, 

e  or  in  pity,  slay  me  beret 


cm  351 

Thy  wretched  lover  keener  pun  will  know 
To  Uve  and  feel  thy  hat«  than  meet  thv 
blow. 

OHiidiNii.  Leave  me,  I  hate  thee  not. 

RonsRicK.  'T  is  my  desert. 

CBiukm.  I  cannot. 

RoDBBiCK.     When  my  deed  is    fully 


Dost  thou  not  fear  the  cruet,  stinging  word" 
Of  censure  and  of  malice?    Silence  them; 
Save  thine  own  fame  by  sending  me  to 
death, 
CBniksB,    My   fame    will     shine    the 
brighter  for  thy  life. 
The  voice  of  blackest  slander  will  lift  up 
My  honor  to  the  heavens,  and  mourn  my 

griefs, 
Knowing  1  love  thee  and  yet  seek  thy  life. 
Qo,  vex  no  longer  my  poor,  troubled  soul 
By  sight  of  what  I  love  and  what  I  lose. 
Hide  thy  departure  in  the  shade  of  night; 
For  calumny  may  touch  me,  art  thou  seen ; 
The  sole  occasion  for  a  slanderous  word 
Is,  that  I  suffer  thee  within  my  house. 
See  that  thou  guard  my  virtue,  and  with- 
draw. 
RonxBicK.  Oh,  let  me  diet 
CHiMfcNB.  Depart. 
RoDBRicx.  What  wilt  thou  do? 
CnnikNii.  The  fires  of  wrath  bum  with 
the  flames  of  love. 
My  father's  death  'demands  my  utmost 

seal: 
'T  is  duty  drives  me  with  its  cruel  goad. 
And  my  dear  wish  is  —  nothing  to  achieve. 
Roderick.  0  miracle  of  love! 
Chiu^kx.  O  weight  of  woel 
RoDBKicK.    We  pay  our  filial  debt  in 

suffering  1 
CHmfeNE.    Roderick,  who  would  have 

thought  — 
RoDEHicc.  Or  could  have  dreamed  — 
CmvfcNii.  That  joy  so  near  so  soon  our 

grasp  would  miss? 
RoDBRicK.    Or  storm  so  swift,  already 
dose  to  port. 
Should  shatter  the  dear  bark  of  all  our 
hope? 
CHmiNB.  Oh,  mortal  griefsl 
RoiasiCK,  Regreta  that  eount  for  naught! 


ojjlc 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


CbimInx.  Pray,  leave  me  now;  I  eaitnot 

longer  hear. 
RoDEKiCK.  Adieul  I  go  to  drag  a  dying 
lite, 
Till  it  is  ended  at  thine  own  command. 
CHndiNB.  If  my  dire  [at«  e'w  bring  that 
hour  to  me, 
Thy  breath  and  mine  together  will  depart. 
AdieuT  and  let  no  eye  have  sight  of  thee. 
[Exit  RooERicK.1 
Eltibe.     Madam,   whatever   ills   kind 

Heaven  may  e«id  — 
CHiwkNB.  Trouble  me  not;  (H^y,  leave 
me  with  my  grief. 
I  long  for  night's  dark  dlenoe,  and  for  teara. 
[ExeuTit  Elvire  and  ChiuIsne.] 

[EfUer  DitoQE.t 

DdiocE.    Never  a  perfect  happiness  is 

Our  best  achievements  have  their  bitter 

In  each  event,  whate'er  its  promise  be, 
Care  troubles  still  the  currents  of  our  peace. 
In  my  rejoicing  o'er  my  honor  saved. 
An  anxious  fear  now  seizes  on  my  soul. 
The  count  whose  hand  affronted  me  is  dead, 
But  now  I  seek  in  vain  my  avenger's  face. 
Hither  and  yon  I  strive,  with  labor  vain. 
To  roam  the  city,  broken  as  I  am; 
The  remnant  of  my  strength  which  age  has 

left 
Consumes  itself  in  fruitless  hours  of  search. 
Each  moment,  in  each  place.  I  hear  his 

I  see  his  form  — a  shadow  of  the  night. 
I   would   embrace   him  —  lo,  he  is   not 

therel  — 
Tit]  love,  deceived,  suspicious  grows  and 

No  marics  of  hasty  flight  do  I  discern. 
And  that  strong  troop  of  friends  who  served 

the  count 
Affr^t«  me  sjid  suggests  a  thousand  ills. 
If  Roderick  lives,  he  breathes  a  dungeon's 

Just  Heaven  I  do  I  deceive  myself  ^ain? 
Or  do  I  see  at  last  my  hope,  my  eon? 
'Tis  hel   1  doubt  no  more;  my  vows  are 

heard, 
My  fears  dispelled,  my  anxious  longing 


[ETiler  RonEBiCK.) 
DtkovB.  At  last,  my  Roderick,  Hcttven 

restores  thee  mineL 
RonxRicx.  Alasl 

DilOTJE.  Mar  not  my  new  delight  with 
sighs. 
Let  me  find  words  to  praise  thee  as  I  would; 
My  valor  sees  in  thee  no  cause  to  blush, 
But  marks  a  kindred  sixrit;  live  in  thee 
The  heroes  of  thy  race,  bold  and  renowned. 
Thine  ancestors  are  they,  my  son  thou  art., 
Thine  earliest  sword-thrust  equals  all  of 

Thine  untaught  youth,  inspired  by  ardor 

great. 
By  this  one  effort,  touches  my  renown. 
Prop  of  my  age,  and  crown  of  all  my  for- 

On  these  white  hairs  lay  thy  redeeming 

Come,  kiss  this  cheek  whtt«  stjll  thou  canst 

behold 
The  mark  of  thataSront  thou  hast  avenged. 
RonERicx.    The  honor  is  your  doe;  I 

could  no  less, 
Your  blood  in  mine,  your  care  my  school  ol 

arms. 
Most  ha[v>y  am  I  that  my  maiden  blow 
Did  not  di^race  the  author  of  my  life. 
But  in  your  satisfaction  do  not  shun 
To  grant  me,  also,  what  my  soul  demands 
Your  words  too  long  have  silenced  my  de- 


r  with  < 


'  painful 


Which  bursts  a 

thought. 

No  mean  regret  for  serving  thee  I  feel; 
But  canst  thou  render  back  the  price  it 

coetT 


And  with  the  stroke  I  cast  away  my  sJIl 
No  more,  no  more;  I  owed  you  life  itself; 
That  which  I  owed  I've  paid;  your  cause 

DiiBQUE.  Nay,  glory  in  the  fruit  of  vic- 
tory; 
I  gave  thee  life,  hfe's  joy  1  owe  to  thee. 
By  all  that  honor  means  to  men  like  me, 
Far  more  than  life  I  owe  thee  in  return. 
But  spurn  this  weakness  from  thy  waHike 


"53 


Love  ia  a  pleuure  sunimoBed  whta  thou 

wilt; 
Thy  soul's  ouB  rightful  maater  is  thine 

Roderick.  What 's  this  you  teach  me? 
DifcouB.     That   which    thou    shouldst 

RoDKBiCK.    My  outeaged  hooor  tunu 
upon  myadf. 

And  now  thou  dar'st  to  counsel  tfeachet? — 

Tieaaon  to  her  I  lovel  Baseneea  is  one, 

Whether  in  craven  knight  or  lover  false. 

Wrong  not  with  breath  of  doubt  my  faith- 
fulness! 

To  thee,  to  her,  I  would  be  wholly  true. 

Bonds  such  as  mine  conoot  be  broken  thus; 

A  promise  lives,  though  hope  be  dead  for 
aye. 

I  cannot  leave,  nor  can  I  win,  Chimtee; 

In  death  I  find  my  solace  and  my  pain. 
DifeocB.    This  is  no  time  for  thee  to 
prate  of  death. 

Thy  country  and  thy  prince  demand  thine 

Tbs  fleet,  whose  ooming  has  aroused  our 

Plots  to  surprise  and  pillage  all  our  towns. 
Hie  Moors  invade,  the  night's  advancing 

tide 
All  silently  may  float  them  to  our  walls. 
The  court  is  shaken,  and  the  people  tremble; 
Terror  and  tears  are  seen  on  everj-  side; 
'T  is  my  good  fortune,  in  this  hour  of  need, 
To  find  five  hundred  followers,  ready  armed 
To  avenge  my  quarrel,  knowing  my  affront. 
Their  zeal  thou  hast  prevented,'  now  their 

hands 
They  shall  dip  deep  in  blood  of  Moorish 

chiefs. 
Go,  lead  their  line;  assume  thy  rightful 

place. 
Thia  valiant  band  calls  thee  to  be  their 

head; 
E^xmt  the  assault  of  these  old  enemies; 
If  die  thou  wilt,  seek  there  a  noble  death 
In  service  of  thy  king  and  war's  emprise. 
Tiet  the  kiog  owe  his  safety  to  thy  toss. 
Nay,  but  retuni,  far  rather,  crowned  with 

bays, 
Tfiyfamenotnarrowed  to  avengeful  deed, 
But  broadened  to  a  kingdom's  strong  de- 


Win  silence  from  Chimdne,  grace  fnun  the 

kmg. 
And  if  thou  still  wouldst  gain  her  maiden 

Know  that  to  conquering  hero  it  will  yield. 
I  waste  thy  time  in  words.   Come,  follow 

Forth  to  the  fight,  and  let  thy  sovereign  see 
Wbat  in  the  count  he'a  lost  he's  gained  in 
thee. 

[Exeunt  thtauB  and  RodbsickJ 


[Enter  ChiuIne  and  ELvntE.] 
CmiikNE.  Is  this  no  false  report?  —  art 

sure,  Elvire? 
Elvibb.    Should  I  repeat  how  all  do 
sound  hie  praise. 
And  bear  to  heaven  the  fame  of  his  exploits, 
And  wonder  at  his  youth,  you'd  scarce  be- 

The  Moors  before  him  met  a  quick  disgrace; 
The  attack  woa  ewift,  but  swifter  sUlI  the 

flight. 
After  three  hours  of  combat  we  had  won 
Two  captive  Icings  and  victory  secure; 
Naught  could  reaiat  the  young  chief's  oiuet 

CHmftNK.     And    Roderick's   arm   this 

miracle  has  wrought? 
Elvire.   Of  his  great  prowess  are  two 

kings  the  priie, 
Conquered  and  captured  by  his  band  alone. 
CnrutNE.  How  knoweet  thou  the  truth 

of  this  strange  news? 
Elvire.  The  people  do  extol  him  t«  the 

Call  him  their  liberator  and  their  angel. 
The  author  and   the  guardian  of  their 

CHiufeifB.  The  king,  what  thinks  he  of 

these  mighty  deeds? 
Elvire.    Not  yet  has  Roderick  braved 
the  royal  eye; 
B  ut  the  two  captjve  kings,  in  fetten  bound, 
Still    wearing    crowns,  Didgue  with    )C^ 

presents, 
Entreating  of  the  king,  as  recompense. 
That  he  will  see  the  conqueror'  and  forgive. 
Chuc^ne.  Is  Roderiok  wounded? 


>54 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


ELTDti.  I've  heard  naught  of  it. 
You  loae  your  colorl  pray  take  heart  again. 
CHDifeNB.    I'll    take    again    my  weak 

heart's  failing  wrath! 
Must  I  forget  myKlf  in  thought  of  him  I 
Bhall  my  lipe  join  in  praises  of  hia  deedsl 
While  honor  'a  mute,  and  duty,  duU,  con- 

aenta? 
Be  still,  my  love,  and  let  my  anger  ewelll 
What   ore    two    conquered    IdngiT     My 

father's  slain  I 
This  mourning  gub,  which  speokB  of  my 

distress, 
le  the  first  token  of  his  woodrous  mi^tl 
Others  may  call  his  deeds  magnanimnua; 
Here,  every  abject  teatifiee  his  crime. 
May  all  this  somber  pomp  which  wraps  me 

This  sweeping  veil,  these  heavy  depths  of 

crape  — 
Add  force  to  my  reeeotinent,  fail  it  ever; 
Nor  let  my  love  my  honor  overcome. 
Should  fond,  alluring  passion  e'er  prevail. 
Recall  my  duty  to  my  wavering  mind, 
And  bid  me  fearlees  meet  this  hero  proud. 
Elvire.  Calm  yourself  now;  the  Infonta 
is  approaching. 
[Enter  the  Infanta  and  Lkonora.] 
Infanta.  I  come  not  vainly  to  console 
thy  grief; 
Rather  my  tears  to  mingle  with  thine  own. 
CHndtNis.  Ah,  madam,  thou  canst  share 
the  common  joy; 
T  is  thine  to  taste  this  Heaven-sent  happi- 

The  right  to  weep  is  mine,  and  mine  alone. 
He  peril  Roderick's  wisdom  could  avert, 
The  public  safety  by  his  valor  won, 
Pennit  to  me  alone,  t«-day,  a  tear. 
Tba    city    he    has   saved,  the    tdng  has 

His  valorous  arm  brings  woe  to  me  alone. 
Inpanta.    'T  is  true,  Chimiue,  he  has 

great  marvels  wrought. 
CbimAnii.    This  grievous  news  already 
reaches  me; 
On  every  side  I  hear  him  loud  proclaimed 
Noble  in  war,  unfortunate  in  love. 
Infanta.    Why  shouldst  thou  suffer  in 
this  generous  praise? 
But  now  this  youthful  Man  delighted  thee; 


He  dwelt  within  thy  heart,  he  owned  thy 

sway; 
To  tell  his  praises  is  to  sound  thine  own. 
CbimInb.  Others  may  boast  his  deedp; 

't  is  not  for  me; 
His  praises  are  but  torture  to  my  soul; 
My  anguish  deepens  with  his  rising  fame; 
My  loss  is  greater  as  he  greater  nows. 
Ah,  cruel  torture  of  a  heart  that  lovesl 
My  passion  bums  the  brightw  with  his 

worth. 
While  duty,  etoni  defender  of  my  oourse. 
Would  follow  him  to  deatb  in  love's  de> 

spite. 
Infanta.     But   yeaterday   Uiy   duty's 

proud  demands 
Won  from  the  court  an  admiration  high, 
So  worthy  of  thy  filial  love  it  seemed; 
Thy  victory  o'er  thy  passion  was  sublime; 
But  now  —  wilt  have  a  faithful  friend's 

CHndlNii.  Not  to  bear  you  would  show 

me  base  indeed. 
Infanta.  To-day  thy  duty  wears  a  dif- 
ferent face; 

The  chief  support  of  a  whole  nation's  life, 

A  people's  love  and  hope,  is  Roderick  now. 

On  hhn  the  Moors  with  hopeless  terroi 
gase, 

Securely  leans  on  him  our  loved  Castile. 

T\m  king  himself  can  never  now  deny 

Thy  father's  spirit  moving  in  the  yotith; 

Hmu  seek'st  tiie  public  ruin  in  his  death. 

Thy  country  was  thy  father's  country  fint. 

And  ne'er  canst  thou  to  hostile  huids  be- 
tray it. 

Wilt  thou  pursue  thy  vengeance  though  its 

Enwrap  the  kingdom  in  a  fatal  woeT 
I  plead  not  for  thy  lover;  let  thy  heart 
Cling  to  its  filial  ties;  send  him  away. 
And  think  no  more  of  wedlock,  but  for  us. 
Thy  country  and  thy  king,  presnve  hia 

life. 
CendiNE.  The  gift  of  mercy  is  not  mine 

to  grant; 
I  cannot  check  the  duty  driving  me; 
Though  in  my  heart  the  voice  of  love  may 

plead, 
Though  prince  and  people  praise  him  and 

Though  all  heroic  souls  encircle  him  — 


Mv  cypreM-bougha  hia  Uurals  Bhall  o'er- 
epnad. 
iNTANTA.  T  ia  noble  not  to  falter,  my 


Hfcugh  to  avenge  a  father  stabe  our  heart; 
But 't  ie  a  higher  noblenesa  to  place 
The  public  good  above  all  private  wrong. 
Bdieve  me,  to  exclude  him  from  thjr  aoul 
WHl  be  the  bitt«net  pang  thou  oanst  be- 


yield  to  the  act  thy  ( 


intry'a  weal  de- 


Nor  doubt  thy  king's  meet  wiUing  leni- 
ency. 
CBDifeNE.  Whether  he  hear,  I  still  must 

plead  for  justice. 
Infanta.  Conidder  well  what  course  you 
now  will  take. 
Adieu!  let  solitude  thy  counsel  aid. 
CHiidiNE.     My    father    dead!  — what 
choice  remains  for  me? 

{Kxeimi  omnmj 


KiNQ.  Bold  heir  of  an  illtistriouB  ances- 
try, 
Ever  the  hope  and  ^ory  of  CasUle, 
Son  of  a  race  of  valor  unexcelled, 
Wboee  beet  exploite  thine  own  already 

For  due  reward  my  power  is  all  too  ne^  — 
What  thou  hast  earned  thy  k'ng  can  never 

pay. 
Our  land  aet  free  from  barbarous  enemy. 
My  scepter  in  my  hand,  by  thine  secured. 
The  Moore  despatched  before  the  call  to 

Had  fully  warned  the  people  of  attack  — 
Deeds  such  as  these  a  king  must  ever  find 
Beyond  the  hope  of  suitable  reward. 
But  thy  two  royal  captives,  they,  in  sooth. 
In  my  own  presence  recogniie  thy  might. 
Their  Cn>  they  name  thee,  sovereign,  lord, 

and  head. 
I  well  might  envy  thee  this  title  proud. 
The  highest  in  their  land;  but,  no,  I  ctdl 
On  all  to  know  that  thou  the  Cm  shalt  be. 
The  Cm  henceforth  art  thou.  To  that  great 

May  every  foe  succumbi  —  Granada  yield. 
Ttdedo  tremble,  but  on  Imf^^g  it. 


To  all  my  s<J}ieote  ever  shall  it  show 
How  great  the  debt  to  thee  we  proudly  owe. 
RooKBicK.    Nay,  sire,  your  words  too 
highly  speak  my  praise. 
And  moke  me  flush  with  shame  before  a 

king 
Whose  generous  honor  is  so  imdeaerved. 
The  blood  within  these  veins,  the  air  I 

breathe  — 
All,  all,  to  this  great  empire  do  I  owe. 
Had  these  been  tost,  and  death  ^one  been 

A  subject's  duty  only  hod  I  done. 
Kino.  E'en  duty  done  is  not  the  whole 
of  service; 

Its  glory  is  b  courage  quick  and  high, 

Which,  reckoning  not  with  danger  or  do- 
feat, 

Pushes  its  way  to  triumph  and  renown. 

Suffer  thy  praiaee  from  a  grat^ul  sover- 
eign. 

And  now  relate  the  story  of  thy  deeds. 
HonuHiCK.    That  in  this  sudden  stress 

A  troop  of  followers  of  my  father's  house 
Urged  mb  to  be  their  leader,  well  you  know. 
My  troubled  soul  was  painfully  perplexed — 
I  daied  not  lead  the  band  without  thy 


Kino.    The  state  defended  is  thy  full 


And  thy  too  heated  v 
Chimtoe,  hereafter,  has  a  cause  forlorn; 
I  hear  her  but  to  comfort  her;  say  on. 
RonERicK.    I  take  the  lead,  and,  with 

defiant  front, 
The  Uttle  column  dowly  makee  advance; 
Five  hundred  at  the  starting,  but  ere  long 
Three  thousand  was  our  number,  strong 

and  bold. 
The  friichtened  gathered  courage  at  the 

si^t. 
A  certain  part  I  hurriedly  conceal 
In  veeeels  lying  at  the  river's  mouth; 
The  rest,  whose  numbers  every  hour  in- 
creased. 
Impatient  ifx  the-fn^,  with  nu  ranun. 


«S6 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS. 


Clo*e  to  tbe  ground  they  crouched,  aad, 

BtiU  aa  death, 
They  pasted  the  ni^t,   nor  slept,  nor 

'  scarcely  breathed. 
At  my  conunand,  pretended,  sire,  from  you, 
.  l^e  guard  itself  caaceaJs,  and  aids  my  plot. 
Just  as  tbe  flow  of  tide  comes  rolling  in, 
By  starhght  pale,  lol  thirty  Moorish  saila, 
Mounting  the  wave,  sweep  to  the  harbor's 

mouth. 
Hiey  enter;  all  seems  tranquil ;  not  a  guard. 
No  soldiers  on  the  quay,  none  on  the  walla' 
Our  ambush  is  complete,  tind  fearlessly. 
Not  doubtii^  their  attack  a  full  surprise, 
They    anchor,    and    debark;    suBpecting 

naui^t. 
They  rush  into  the  embraoes  of  their  foes. 
We  Spring  from  every  hiding-plaee,  and 

A  thousand  cries  of  battle  rise  to  heaven. 
Then  from  the  ships  poiu*  fortli  our  armed 

But  half  have  sprung  to  land  when,  tenor- 

struck, 
They  see  the  fight  is  lost  ere  't  is  begun. 
They  came  for  pill^e;  they  encounter  war. 
We  press  them  on  the  water,  on  the  land; 
Their  blood,  in  rivers,  flows  upon  our  soil, 
While  dire  disorder  hinders  all  resistance. 
But  soon  their  leaders  rally  them  with 

shouts, 
Thar  panic  is  dispelled,  their  moks  are 

forcned, 
Their  terrow  are  forgotten  in  their  fury. 
To  die  without  a  struggle  were  a  shame. 
And  bravely  with  their  sabers  they  oppose. 
On  sea,  on  land,  on  fleet,  within  the  port. 
All  was  a  field  of  cam^^,  death  its  lord. 
Their  blood  and  ouis  in  horrid  mixture 

ran. 
Brave  deeds  were  wrought  which  never 

will  be  known; 
The  darkness  was  a  veil,  'neath  which  each 

Foui^t  as  it  weie  alone;  nor  any  knew 
How  victory  inclined.   I  praaed  my  men, 
Placed  rcfinforcements  here,  changed  orders 

Nor  knew  till  dawn  which  side  was  oon- 

But  day  made  dear  our  gain  and  their 
defeat. 


Thdr  courage  fails  them,  with  the  fear  ol 

death; 
And  when  they  see  approach  a  fresh  com- 

They  seek  their  ships,  out  cables,  and  tMr 

Of  terror  and  of  anguish  fill  the  air. 
They  wait  not  to  discover  if  their  kings 
Arc  dead  or  wounded:  in  a  tumult  wild, 
On  the  ebb-tide  which  bore  them  in  at 

flood. 
They  take  their  desperate  flight  and  quit 

our  ehoree. 
The  kings  and  others,  left  without  retreat 
Or  hope  of  succor,  make  a  valiant  stand; 
They  sell  tbeir  Uvea  at  cost  of  life  in  turn,' 
And  fight  till  nearly  every  man  is  dead. 
I  urge  surrender,  but  they  listen  not, 
Till  the  last  follower  (alls,  when  yidd  they 

niea  the  two  longs  demand  to  see  the  ohitf ; 
I  tdl  them  who  I  am,  they  seek  my  grace; 
1  send  them  straightway  to  Your  Majesty. 
So  the  fi^t  ended,  lacking  combatants. 
'T  was  in  this  manner,  sire,  that  for  your 

[EiUer  Alokbo.] 
Alonbo.  Ghimbie  approaches,  site,  to 

sue  for  justice. 

King.  'T  is  sorry  itswsl  a  duty  most  un- 

•      timely! 

Go,  for  I  would  not  force  thee  on  her  sight; 

For  sign  of  gratitude,  I  send  thee  hence; 

But  first  receive  thy  monarch's  kind  em- 

bmce.  IBmbraeet  him.] 

[Exit  RoDKBicK.l 

DifeocB.  Chim^ne  would  save  him  from 

her  own  puisuit. 
KiMO.    'T  is  said  she  loves  him  stilli 
I'U  test  her  heart; 
Assume  a  mournful  air  — 

[Eni^  CBiMfeNE  and  Elpirx.) 
Kino.  Chimine,  your  wishes  with  suc- 
cess are  crowned; 
Our  foes  have  fallen  beneath  Roderick's 

Give  thanks  to  Heaven,  which  hath  avenged 

you  thus. 
(Astds  to  Di±QDii.I    Mark  how  her  coin 
at  my  words. 


DikGUX.   But  Bee,  she  bwoodb,  a  token, 
sire,  HKwt  mire, 
Of  perfect  love;  thia  grief  the  seovt  tells 
Which  rules  her  soul.   No  longer  can  you 

doubt 
Her  pHsaion'B  flame  still  bums  with  glow 
unquenched. 
CHmton.   Tell  me,  is  Roderick  dead? 
Kino.  Nay,  nay,  he  lives. 
And  atill  hie  love  uuchaiiKed  for  thee  re- 
Forget  tlie  anxious  grief  that  moumB  for 

CHmftNU.  O  sire,  one  swoons  fn^n  joy 
as  well  as  grief; 
The  soul  surprised  with  happiness  grows 

Too  sudden  gladnees  every  sense  o'er- 
whelms. 
EiNQ.    Thou  canst  not  so  deceive  my 
watchful  ^e; 
Thy  grief,  ChimSne,  too  manifest  appeared. 
CHiidim.    Add,  then,  this  deeper  pain 
to  my  distress; 
My  swoon  but  told  my  disappointment 

My  righteous  wrath  has  brought  me  down 

His  death  would  snatch  him  from  my  just 

revenge. 
!Rrom  wounds  received  in  battle  should  be 

die, 
What  place  remains  for  my  unyielding 

will! 
And  end  so  honorable  mocks  my  turn. 
I  wish  him  dead,  but  not  with  honor's 

Not  in  a  blase  of  glory  should  he  pass, 
But  on  a  scaffold,  shrouded  in  dispace. 
Grant  him  a  murderer's,  not  a  patriol's 


A  tarnished  'scutcheon,  should  his  breath 

His  victory  gives  me  pleasure  unalloyed  — 
The  state  gains  stablenees,  and  I,  I  Rain 
A  victim  worthier  still  my  father's  house. 
No  tong^  a  rash  youth,  whose  violence 
Coodenms  itself;  but  great,  chid  among 


A  warrior  crowned  with  laurels,  one  irtioae 

fall 
Would  vindicate  my  puipoee.  But,  alasl 
My  hopes  beyond  my  reason  bear  me  on- 
What  force  is  in  my  teats,  which  men 

despiseT 
The  freedom  of  your  empire  is  his  own; 
Under  your  power,  he  works  his  widced 

will. 
He  from  my  feebleness  has  naught  to  fear. 
O'er  me,  as  o'er  his  enemies,  be  triumphs. 
To  stifle  Justice  in  his  victwy 
Makes  a  new  trophy  for  this  conqueror. 
I  serve  his  pomp  when,  trampling  on  the 

law. 
He,  with  his  captives,  hears  me  speak  his 

praise, 
And  from  his  oar  of  triumph  bids  me  follow. 
Kmo.  My  child,  your  words  are  all  too 

violent; 
The  scales  of  justice  must  not  swerve  a    ' 

Thy  father  was  the  aggressor;  that  thou 

know'st. 
Justice  must  see  that  mercy  has  ■  claim. 
Nay,  be  not  swift  to  oppose  thy  monarch's 

Consult  thy  heart;  there  still  thy  Roderick 

Thy  love,  though  hidden,  is  a  mighty  thing. 

And  will  apiHvve  this  favor  from  thy  king. 

ChuiInx.    Favor  to  him  a    cause  of 

thanks  frommel 
llie  author  of  my  woes,  my  bitter  foel 
Is  anger  o'er  a  father  slain,  and  wrath 
For  the  assassin,  such  a  trifling  thing 
That  I,  forsooth,  must  grateful  be  to  him 
Who  thinks  to  aid  my  cause  by  mocking  it? 
Since  tears  call  forth  no  justice  from  my 

king. 
Redress  by  arms  I  now,  aire,  will  demand. 
By  uma  alone  my  happiness  was  wrecked. 
By  arms  alone  my  vengeance  should  be 

wrought. 
Of  all  you  cavalieis  I  ask  his  bead; 
To  him  who  brings  it,  I  will  give  my  hand. 
Confirm  the  combat,  sire,  by  your  decree; 
I  wed  the  man  who  conquers  Rodenck. 
King.  That  ancient  custom  I  would  not 

restore. 
The  state  was  oft  enfe^led  'neath  its  rule. 
Under  the  false  pretence  of  rioting  wrong. 


«58 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


The  nobleet  oft  would  fall,  the  base  es- 
cape. 

A  life  whose  import  deepeoa  to  aax  state 

Shall  not  be  left  to  Fate's  capricious  whim; 

From  that  ordeal  of  amu  is  Roderick  free. 

Whatever    crime    hia    hasty    wrath    has 
wrought 

The  flTing  Moms  have  borne  with  them 
afar. 
DikauE.   What,  sire,  for  him  alone  re- 
verse the  tawB 

^Tour  coiui,  so  oft  has  honored  by  obswr- 

What  will  your  people  think,  or  envy  say. 
If  'oeatb  your  arm,  a  coward,  be  retreat, 
Nor  make  redress  upon  the  field  of  honor. 
Where  men  of  spirit  seek  a  worthy  death? 
Such  favors  would  but  tarnish  his  renown. 
Nay,  let  him  drain  unto  the  sweetest  drops 
The  draught  of  triumph.   Bnvely  did  he 

The  bntfsjng  count;  he  will  be  brave  again. 

KiNOv   Since  you  demand  it,  let  it  be; 

but  know 

A  thousand  warriors  will  replace  the  slain 

By  Roderick  conquered;  for  the  offered 

Will  mikke  an  eager  foe  of  every  knight. 
To  oppoee  them  all  would  be  a  grievous 

Once  only  shall  he  enter  in  the  lists. 
Choose  whom  thou  wilt,  Chimftne,  but 

choose  with  care; 
No  more  reproaches  will  thy  sovereign  bear. 
DiiauE.  Let  none  be  overlooked  —  not 

those  who  moat 
Do  tremble  at  the  prowess  of  his  arm. 
The  deeds  of  valor  wrought  by  him  to-day 
Will  fright  the  boldest.    Who  would  dare 

confront 
A  warrior  so  audacious  and  so  keen? 

Sancho.  Declareanapenfieldllenterit. 
Rash  thoui^h  I  be,  I  dare  confront  this 

Madam,  this  favor  grant  to  my  devotion; 

Your  word's  fulfillment  shall  I  surely  claim. 

Kino.    Chimlne,   do  you  accept  this 

champion? 
CHiui:>n:.  It  is  a  promise,  aire. 
Kino.  To-morrow,  then. 
DifecvE.    Nay,  sire,  why  should  there 
longer  be  delay? 


Tbe  brave  are  ever  ready.    Now'i  Uw 

Kaia.  He  scajce  has  quit  his  batUe  witii 

the  Moors. 
Di^uB.  While  in  your  presence  he  took 

tn«athing  space. 
Kino.  Anhourortwooftospitelimpoee. 
And  lest  this  combat  seem  to  speak  my 

will  — 
lb  show  the  deep  reluctance  that  I  fieel 
In  suffering  this  bloody  pass  at  arms  — 
I  and  my  court  wiU  straight  withdraw  us 

(To  Arias.]    You  shall  be  judge  between 
theae  combatants; 

See  that  the  laws  of  honor  govern  them. 

The  combat  aided,  lead  to  me  the  victor. 

Whoe'er  he  be,  the  priw  is  still  tbe  same. 

With  mine  own  hand  Chimtne  I  would 
present. 

And  for  his  guerdon  she  her  faith  shall 
plight. 
CniiffeNX.   What,  aire,  impose  on  me  a 

law  so  stfimf 
Kino.  Thou  murmureat,  but  thy  change- 
ful, loving  heart, 

If  Roderick  wins,  will  gladly  take  his  part. 

Cease  to  complun  of  such  a  mild  decree; 

The  victor  shall  thy  husband  surely  be. 
[Exwni  omnet.] 


[Enter  RODERICK,  and  ChimAne.) 
CBiutNE.  What,  Roderick!  whence  this 
boldness  —  to  my  faoef 
Gol  —  this  will  cost  my  honor.  Leave  me, 
pray. 
RoDEUCK.   Madam,  to  death  I  go,  but 
ere  I  die. 
To  offer  you  a  last  fareweU  I  come. 
The  love  that  keeps  me  vassal  to  your  laws 
Even  in  death  demands  my  homage  still. 
CmuiNE.  And  wilt  thou  die? 
RoDBHicK.    I  nount  the  moment  bleat 
That  satisfies  your  hatrad  with  my  life. 
CHiMltf<E.  But  wilt  thou  die?  Sanoho  is 
not  the  one 
To  terrify  tbat  dauntless  soul  of  thine! 
What  rendera  thee  so  weak,  or  him  sa 


Sdon   the   combat,  Rodoick   talka  of 

.deatbl 
He  who  nor  feared   my  father  nor  the 

Ib  going  to  fight  one  Soncho,  and  dcapainl 
Does  oourage  thtu  deaert  thee,  valorous 

knight? 
RoDBHicK.  I  haato  to  puniahment,  and 

not  to  combat. 
Sinoe  you  desire  my  death,  what  wish 

hare  I 
To  keep  my  lifeT  My  eoungefailsmenot; 
But  my  indifferent  arm  wiU  not  preserve 
What  thou  dost  find  displeasing.    Not  a 

Could  I  have  struck  against  the  fiery  Moors 
For  wrong  of  mine  alone;  'twas  for  my 

king, 
His  people,  and  his  kingdom,  that  I  foi^t. 
To  poorly  guard  myself  were  treachery. 
Life  is  not  yet  so  hateful  to  my  heart 
That  basely  I  can  aacrifioe  ita  claims. 
The  question  now  ia  different.  I  alone 
Amin  the  balance.  You  demand  my  death; 
Your  sentence  I  accept,  although  tbe  hand 
You  let  inflict  it  should  have  been  your 

He  who  shall  wield  your  weapon  in  your 
stead 

Shall  meet  no  ■word~thrust  answering  to 
hisBteel. 

I  cannot  strike  the  man  that  fights  for  you ; 

1  joy  to  think  his  blow  ia  from  your  hand. 

Bince  't  is  your  honor  that  his  arms  main- 
tain, 

Unguarded  shall  I  offer  every  point. 

Seeing  in  his  your  band  which  days  me 

Cmiiiia.  Let  no  blind  folly  lead  thee  to 
forget 
That  glory  ends  with  life.  Iliough  my  just 

Impels  me  to  a  course  which  I  abhor. 
And  forces  me  to  follow  thee  to  death  — 
E'en  though  a  sense  of  honor  would  de- 

A  nerveleaa  arm,  an  undefended  blow  — 
Remember,  all  the  splendor  of  thy  deeds 
Will  change  to  shame  when  deatli  has  con- 

'    quered  thee. 
Who  will  believe  thou  didst  not  raise  thy 


Though  I  am  dear,  honor  is  dearer  still, 
EUse  I  bad  atill  my  father,  and  tbe  hope 
That  fatal  blow  has  cost  thee  would  m- 

Tbe  hope  of  calling  me  thine  own  Chim6ne. 

Thou  canst  not  hold  so  cheap  thy  high 
renown 

To  weakly,  unresisting  yield  it  up. 

What  stcange  inconstancy  can  vdor  showl 

Thou  sbouldst  have  more  or  else  thou 
shouJdst  have  lesel 

Is  it  to  grieve  me  only  thou  art  bold. 

And  courage  fails  when  courage  I  de- 
mand? 

Wilt  thou  my  father's  might  so  disallow 

That,  oonquering  him,  thou 'It  to  a  weaker 
yield? 

Go,  do  not  will  to  die,  o'eroome  my  will; 

If  life  no  longer  charms  thee,  honor  pleads. 
HoDKRicK,  The  count  is  dead,  the 
Moois  dd'eated  fly  — 

Still  other  claims  to  glory  need  I  prove? 

Henceforth,  my  fame  can  soom  all  self- 
defense. 

None  would  believe  this  heart  of  mine 
could  quail. 

What  can  I  not  accomplish?  Who  wiU 
doubt 

That,  honor  gone,  nau^t  dear  to  me  re- 
mains? 

No,  doubt  it  if  you  will,  this  fatal  fight 

Increases  not  nor  lessens  my  renown. 

None  e'er  will  dare  my  courege  to  im- 
pugn. 

Nor  deem  Uiat  I  did  meet  my  conqueror. 

"He  loved  Ghim^ne"  —  't  is  thus  the 
court  will  say  ^ 

''He  would  not  live  and  her  resentment 

To  the  stem  hand  of  Fate  that  followed 

Her  vengeful  hand  —  he  yielded  up  his 

breath. 
She  sought  hie  life;  to  bis  great  soul  it 

'T  would  be  ignoble  did  he  care  to  live. 
He  lost  his  love  to  save  his  father's  name; 
He  loses  life  for  his  dear  mistress'  sake. 
Whate'er  of  hope  his  heart  had  cherished 


S6o 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


But  brighter  will  ito  growing  splendor 

My  willing  death  this  honor  high  will  win, 
No  life  but  mine  for  thee  redreaa  could 

GetuiNB.    Since  life  and  honor  feebly 
plead  my  cause, 
Nor  stay  thee  from  a  death  unwished  by 


Save  me  from  auch  a  fate  aa  will  be  mine 
If  I,  the  prize,  am  won  by  him  I  hate. 
Need  I  say  more?  Go,  plan  a  sure  defense, 
Silence  my  wrath,  my  filial  duty  done. 
Then,  if  tHy  heart  atill  beate  for  thy 

Chim^e, 
Ae  conqueror,  thou  lovest  not  in  vain. 
Adieul  my  cheek  ia  hot  at  thia  arowal. 

[Exit  Caaticm.] 
Roderick,    What  foe   can  daunt   my 

valiant  spirit  nowT 
Come  on,  Navarre,  Morocoo,  and  Caatilel 
Come,   all  the  valor  of  our  kingdom's 

might! 
In  one  great  host  unite  to  hurl  me  downl 
My  arm  alone  will  equal  all  your  force, 
A^nst  a  hope  so  sweet,  the  flower  of 


lEnler  Infanta.] 
Ihtanta,    Thou  pride  of  birth,  which 
turns  my  love  to  crime. 
Thy  warning  shall  I  list,   or  thy  aweet 

My  heart,  whose  soft  constraint  compels 

Against  that  tyrant  sternT  In  worth  alone 
Thou,  Roderick,  art  mine  equal;  but  thy 

blood, 
Though  brave  and  pure,  flows  not  from 

Unhappy  lot,  which  rudely  separates 
My  duty  and  my  love.  Must  loyalty 
To  valor  rare  condemn  to  misery 
A  loving  soul?  What  anguish  must  I  bear 
If  ne'er  I  learn,  despite  my  high  resolve. 
Nor  lover  to  embrace,  nor  love  to  qudll 


"Twixt  love  and  pride  my  reason  bids  me 

chooae 
Though  birth's  high  destiny  demand  a 

throne, 
Tliou,  Roderick,  art  of  kings  the  conqueror. 
And  'neath  thy  sway  with  honor  shall  I 

dwell. 
The  glorious  name  of  Gid  that  now  is  thine 
PointiS  clearly  to  the  realm  where  thou 

ahalt  reign. 

Worthy  is  he,  but 't  is  ChimSne  he  lovn. 
Her  father's  death  so  slightly  breaks  tbdr 

That,   though  her  duty  slays  him,  sbs 

No  hope  to  my  long  grief  his  crime  eaa 

Alas  for  me  I  ordains  a  wretched  fate 
That  love  outlast  the  bittemeas  of  hate. 

[Bnter  LEONoaA,] 
Ii^ANTA,   Why  oom'st  thou,  Leonorar 
Lbonoha.  'T  ia  to  praise  thee, 
That  thou  at  last  hast  conquered  all  thy 

And  hast  repose. 
Ihtanta,    Repoae?    whence  shall  that 

To  a  heart  burdened  with  a  bopde»  woe7 
Leonora.   Love  livee  on  hope;  wiUtout 
it,  flurely  dies. 
No  more  can  Roderick's  image  oharm  your 

For  whether  in  this  combat  he  prevail. 
Or  whether  fall,  he  is  her  victim  still. 
Your  hope  is  dead,  your  wounded  heart  ia 
healed. 
IiTFANTA.     That    time  — how    distant 

BtiUt 
Lhonoka,  Why  mock  3'our8elf7 
Impanta.    Say,  rather,  why  forbid  ata 
still  to  hope? 
I  can  invent  a  thousand  happy  shifts 
This  combat's  hard  conditionB  to  evade. 
Love  tortures  me,  but  'tis  from  love  I 

learn 
To  use  a  lover's  skillful  artifice. 

Lhonoka.  The  flame  of  love,  enkindled 
in  theu  hearts. 
Survives  a  father  slain.   What,  then,  cui 
youT 


No  deadly  hate  isapirea  Chimine's  pui^ 

She  ctaima  &  combat,  but  she  straight  ac' 

The  oombatant  who  oSeis  firet  hla  sword. 
None  does  she  chooee  among  the  valiant 

kiugbts 
Wboee  bold  exploits  match  Roderick's  own 

renown. 
A  yoath  whose  steel  has  never  yet  been 

Suita  her  cause  well— young  Sancho  is 

her  choice. 
His  highest  merit  is  his  imakiUed  blade. 
Without  a  name,  do  fame  has  he  to  save; 
And  this  too  easy  choice  full  plainly  ahowB 
This  combat  is  but  duty's  weak  pretence. 
To  Roderick  she  givn  &  victim  sure, 
Wboee  harmkaa  death  her  honor  seems  to 

Intanta.   I  nsd  her  plan,  and  still  this 
reatlcfls  heart 
Rivals  Chim6ne,  and  lovee  this  conqueror. 
Unhappy  that  I  ami  what  shall  I  do7 
Leonora.  Recall  the  high  conditions  of 
your  birth. 
Shall  a  king's  daughter  love  her  father's 
Bi^ject? 
Intanta.     My   love   has    changed   ita 
object;  listen,  pray! 
It  is  no  longer  Roderick  I  love, 
A  aimplb  gentleman;  not  so,  not  sot 
I  love  the  author  of  moat  noble  deeds, 
"nie  valorous  Gid,  the  conqueror  of  two 

But  stiU  my  love  I  'H  oonquer;  not  in  fear, 
But  lest  their  sweet  devotkm  I  betray. 
If  tar  my  sake  a  crown  he  should  receive, 
I  would  not  take  again  the  gift  I  gave. 
Bince  to  no  doubtful  combat  he  is  gone, 
Another  happy  scheme  must  I  employ. 
Do  thou,  the  confidant  of  all  my  woea, 
H^  me  to  finish  what  I  have  begun. 

IBxmntt  Intanta  and  I^nora.) 
[Enter  CHmkNx,  and  Ei.vtȣ.l 
CHndNK.   Elvira,  I  suffer  —  pity,  pity 

I  c&n  but  hope,  yet  everything  I  fear. 
A  vow  esoapee  me  I  would  fain  withdraw; 
A  swift  repentance  follows  every  wish. 
Tm  rivals  for  my  sake  are  now  at  tBoa; 


CID  s6i 

Of  dear  sucoees  my  tears  the  prioe  will  pay. 
Though  Fate  may  seem  to  grant  my  grettt 

I  stQl  must  carry  in  my  heart  the  pain 
Of  father  unavenged  or  lover  dead. 

EliViiud.    Nay,  't  is  of  coneolation  you 
must  dream. 
Your  lover  or  your  vengeance  ia  assured. 
Whatever  issue  destiny  decrees. 
Your  honor  and  a  hu^iand  are  your  own. 

CRiiffeNB.    WiaAl  him  I  hate,  or  him 
I've  wished  fo  slayl 
llie  murderer  of  my  father,  or  of  Roderick? 
The  victory  of  either  gives  to  me 
A  husband  stained  with  blood  that  I  adore. 
From  this  moat  wretched  choice  my  soul 

revolts. 
Far  more  than  death  I  dread  this  quarrel'! 

Hence,  vengeance,  1o>-e,  disturbers  of  mj 

I  can  no  longer  pay  your  cruel  prioe. 
Almighty  author  of  my  direful  fate. 
Bring  thou  this  combat  to  no  certain  close- 
Let  there  be  neither  oonqueror  nor  con- 
quered. 
Elvikb.  Nay,  wish  not  a  result  so  prof- 
itless. 
If  still  you  cherish  Justice'  stem  demands. 
And  still  your  deep  resentment  you  would 

Unsatisfied,  because  your  lover  lives, 
This  combat  will  but  torture  you  anew. 
Far  rather  hope  his  valor  may  se^ire 
New  bays  foi  him,  and  silence  for  yew 

plaints; 
That  by  the  law  of  oombat,  still  revered. 
Your  sighs  be  stifled  and  your  heart  con- 
soled. 
CmiiiNii.    To  him,  though  craiqueior, 
think'at  thou  I  will  yieldT 
Too  strong  my  duty,  and  my  lose  too  dear. 
No  law  of  combat,  nor  the  long's  decree. 
Can  force  a  daughter's  oonsoienoe  to  be 

An  easy  victory  he  may  win  in  fight, 
Chimtee  will  prove  an  adversary  still. 
Elvirb.  'T  were  well  if  Heaven  prerant 
your  vengeance  just, 
To  punish  pride  so  strange  and  impioual 
WbatI  will  you  now  Uis  happiness  reject 
(X  sileooe  with  your  honor  raoondled? 


abx 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


What  meuu  such  duty?  Pmy,  vbaX  hope 

you  forT 
Your  lover  slain,  will't  give  your  fatiier 

back? 
Doea  one  such  aoirow  not  auffioe  for  you,  — 
Huat  you  heap  lou  on  loss,  and  grief  on 

grief? 
T  is  a  caprice  c^  t^nper  you  indulge, 
Which  of  your  promifled  lord  makee  you 

The  wntfa  of  Heaven  will  snatch  him  from 

your  anna, 
And  leave  you  as  young  Sanoho'e  rightful 

bride. 
CsnrtiNi!.  Elvire,  the  conflicts  which  my 

Boulenduree 
Pray  deepen  not  by  prophecy  malign. 
Would  Heaven  ordain  I  might  eecape  them 

both; 
If  not,  for  Roderick  all  my  vows  aeoend. 
Not  that  my  foolish   love    inclines    me 

thus, 

But  Sancho'a  prixe  I  cannot,  cannot  be  I 

That  fear  o'ennaaters  eve^  wish  beaidee. 

What  ia  't  I  Bee?  Undonel  ~  I  am  undone! 

[Enter  Sancbo,] 

Samcho.  'T  ia  mine  thie  sword  to  offer  at 

your  feet. 
CmdiNs.    What!   dripping  still   with 

Roderick's  life-blood  pure? 
Perfidious  wretch!  how  dar'st  thou  show 

thyself 
To  me,  of  my  dear  love  by  thee  bereft? 
Burat  forth,  my  love  1  no  longer  need'st  thou 

fear  I 
My  father's  death 


By  one  fell  blow  my  honor  is  oaauied, 
tiy  love  aet  free,  my  soul  plunged  in  de- 

Sancbo.  With  calmer  mind  — ^ 
CHiMiNii.   Thou  apeak'st  to  me  againi 
Aaaaaain  of  a  hero  I  adotel 
Away!  thou  waat  a  traitorl  Well  I  know 
That  valiant  knight  by  thee  waa  never 

[n  open  combat.   Nothing  hope  from  me. 
My  champion  thoul  —  my  death  Uioult 

surely  bet 
Sancho.    What  atrange  illusioni    Hear 

me,  I  entreat! 


GHiKton.   Think'st  thou  111  listen  to 
thy  bragging  tale  — 
With  patience  bear  thine  insolence  whidi 

His  fall,  my  crime,  and,  chiefeet  still,  thy 
valor? 


CsiMfeNE.  Ah,  sire,  no  more  need  I  dis- 
simulate 
What  vainly  I  have  struggled  to  conoeal 
I  loved;  't  waa  known  to  you;  but  for  my 

I  could  devote  to  death  ao  dear  a  head. 
Lave,  aire,  to  duty's  desperate  cause  I  gave 
Now  Roderick  is  dead,  my  heart  is  changed 
From  foe  relentleaa  to  afflicted  lover. 
To  him  who  gave  me  life  was  vengeance 

But  now  my  tears  can  fall  for  him  I  love. 

Young  Sancbo  in  defending  me  destroys, 

And  of  his  murderous  arm  I  am  the  priie. 

In  pity,  aire,  if  pity  move  a  king. 

Revoke  a  law  so  terrible  to  mel 

As  recompense  for  victory,  whose  end 

To  me  is  loss  of  all  on  euth  I  love, 

All  that  I  have  is  his;  myself,  I  pray, 

May  to  a  holy  cloister  now  retire, 

Where  death  shall  find  me  weeping  life 

DitoDB.  No  longer,  aire,  it  seems  to  her 

To  openly  avow  her  heart's  deaire. 
KiMQ.    Be  undeceived,  Chimjinc:  ihy 
Roderick  lives! 
The  champion  has,  though  vanquished, 
told  thee  false. 
Sancho.   'T  was  her  too  hasty  thoui^t 
deceived  herwlf. 
To  tell  the  issue  of  the  ^t  I  came  — 
How  the  brave  warrior  who  her  heart  en- 
chains, 
After  disarming  me,  thus  nobly"  spoke: 
"Fear  naught!    I'd  leave  the  combat  all 

Rather  than  pierce  a  heart  that  loves 

Chimtee. 
My  duty  summons  n^e  at  onoe  to  court. 
Do  thou  convey  to  her  the  final  chance. 
And  lay  thy  sword,  her  trophy,  at  her  feet." 
niis  had  I  done,  but  seeing  me  return. 


Beaiing  my  aword,  Hhe  deemed  me  con- 
queror. 
Tbeo  love  and  anger,  minted  middenly, 
BetrsTed  her  into  transports  unoontrolled, 
Nor  oould  I  gain  a  hearing  for  mjr  tale. 
Vanquiahed  in  combat,  still  I  am  content, 
And  gratefully  accept  my  own  defeftt; 
For  though  I  love  and  loee  my  love,  't  is 


ThiB  perfect  love  of  theira  to  ooi 
Knta.    My  child,  no   fliuh  of  shame 
should  mount  thy  cheelc. 
No  longer  seek  to  disavow  thy  flame. 
Thy  faithful  love  luunueured  pnuse  shall 

Hty  honor's  safe,  thy  Glial  duty  done. 
Thy  father  is  aveiiged;  to  do  thy  will 
Thy  Boderick'a  hfe  thou  host  in  peril  set. 
"T  was  Heaven  ordained  to  save  him  for 

thine  owDj 
Hwu  haat  not  shunned  thy  part;  take  thy 

Be  not  tebelljous  toward  my  wise  decree. 
Thy  lover  in  thy  loving  arms  enfold. 
|£n(«r  Roderick,  Infanta,  and  Lsonoka.I 
Infanta.    No  longer  weep,   Chimine. 

With  joy  receive 
This  noble  conqueror  from  thy  princess' 

hand. 
RomBicK.  I  crave  indulgence,  rire,  that 

love's  high  claim 
Impels  me,  in  thy  presence,  to  her  feet.  -^ 
To  ask  no  promised  prise,  Chimftne,  I 

But  once  again  my  life  to  otttx  thee. 
My  love  cannot  for  thee  obey  alone 
The  code  of  honor  or  a  sovereign's  will. 
If  still  your  father's  death  seem  unavenged, 
But  apeak  your  wish;  you  shall  be  satisfied. 
A  thounnd  rivals  I  will  yet  o'ercome, 
To  utmoat  bounds  of  earth  III  fight  my 

way. 
Alone  I'll  force  a  camp,  an  army  rout, 
The  fame  of  demigods  III  cast  in  shade; 
Whate'er  the  deeds  my  crime  to  expiate, 
All  things  will  I  attempt  and  all  atdueve. 
But  if  the  voice  of  honor  unappeased 
Still  clamors  for  the  guilty  slayer's  death, 
Ann  not  against  me  warrior  such  as  I. 
My  head  is  at  your  feet:  Btrilce  now  the 

blow! 


You  only  can  o'eroonte  the  iavindble; 
No  other  hand  than  yours  can  vengeance 

take. 
One  thing  I  pray:  let  death  end  punish- 

From  your  dear  memory  ne'er  banish  me. 

Your  honor  is  exalted  in  my  death; 

As  recompense  let  my  remembrance  live. 

Say  Bometimee,  t.hiniring  o{  my  |ove   for 
you, 

"He  died,  because  he  ne'er  could  be  un- 
true." 
CmuiNB.    Nay,  Roderick,  rise.  —  Ah, 
sire,  no  more  I  hide 

The  feelings  which  have  buret  their  long 
oontrol. 

His  virtues  high  compel  my  heart  to  love 

A  king  commands;  obedience  is  his  due; 

Yet,  though  my  fate  is  sealed  by  sentence 
stem. 

Can  you  with  eye  approving  give  consent? 

If  duty  drive  me  on  to  do  your  will, 

Can  justice  the  unnatural  act  confirm? 

For  Roderick's  service  to  his  monarch's 

Must  I,  the  guerdon,  though  reluct&nt, 

be? 
A  prey  forever  to  remorseful  shame 
That  in  paternal   blood   my  hands  I've 

stained. 
Krao.  Time  changes  all ;  a  deed  to-day 

unmeet. 
May  seem  hereafter  lawful  and  benign. 
Thou  has  been  won  by  Roderick;  thou  art 

hia. 
This  day  his  valor  rightly  gained  the  prise. 
But  since  so  freshly  from  the  fidd  becomes. 
And  still  thy  heart  unreoonciled  remains, 
I  well  might  seem  thy  fair  fame's  enemy, 
If  I  to  soon  reward  his  victory. 
My  law  decreed  no  hour  for  nuptial  vows. 
Nor  does  delay  show  chan|ie  in  royal  will. 
Let  a  round   year    bring   solace  to  thy 

And  dry  the  fountain  of  a  daughter's  tears. 
For  thee,  brave  knight,  wait  mighty  deeds 

of  arms; 
The  Moore  on  our  own  bordere  thou  hast 

Their    plots    confounded,    their    assaults 

repelled; 
Now  into  their  own  country  push  the  wort 


364 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Command  my  army,  plunder  all  their 
laiMl. 

Thy  name  of  Cid  their  terrors  will  in- 
flame; 

Themselvu  have  given  it  —  king  theyll 
chooae  thee  now. 

Fidelity  is  valor's  noblest  crown; 

Return  yet  worthier  of  this  lovely  maid. 

Let  thy  great  deeds  so  loudly  [dead  for 
thee, 

That  pride  and  love  wiU  join  to  make  her 


RoDBRicK.  To  win  Chimtee  and  serra 
my  glorious  long. 

My  arm  is  inm  and  my  heart  is  flame. 

Though  absence  from  her  eyes  I  must  en- 
dure, 

I  thank  you,  sire,  for  hope's  unfailing  bliss 
KiNO.  Thy  valor  and  my  woid  assure 
thy  hopes; 

Her  heart  already  ia  confessed  thine  own. 

The  filial  hon(»  that  resists  thee  now, 

To  time,  thy  long,  and  thy  high  deeda  will 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


TARTUFFfe 

Bt  MOLlfeRE 

Jhuu/aM  mio  En^Uk  veru  fy  CURTIS  HIDDEN  PAGE 


ciilizedbvGoOQic 


MTvucn,  igaC^  R  «.  vi  ivthah 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


CHARACTERS 

Madahb  Pzrnxlle,  nuAher  <4  Or^/om 

Oboon,  huAand  of  Elmirt 

EudBK,  xmfe  of  Orgoa 

Dauis,  son  of  Orgon 

Mawanx,  doughty  i^  Orgon,  in  hoe  with  Valin 

Vai^be,  in  love  vnth  Mariane 

CiiANTB,  brother-itt^aio  of  Orgon 

Tabtdffe,  a  hypocrite 

DOBINE,  Mariane's  maid 

M.  Loyal,  a  bailiff 

FupoTTB,  Madame  PemeO^t  tervant 

A  Police  Officer 

Th»  Stm*  it  at  Faria 


cmizedbv  Google  ^^ 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


TARTU FFE 


[En(«r  Maoahk  Pbrnelle  and  Flipottb, 
her  tenant;  Elube,  Mabiane,  ClA- 
ANTE,  Daios,  Dorihb.) 
Madame  Pebnellx.    Gome,  come,  Fli- 

potte,  and  let  me  get  away. 
Elmibx.    You  hiury  so,  I  hardly  can 

attend  you. 
Madaub   PXBNBLI.B.     Then  don't,  my 
daughter-in-law.    Stay  where  you 

1  ccm  diapetue  with  your  polite  attentions. 

GLunui.  We'reoJily  paying  what  IB  due 

you,  moth«'. 

Why  must  you  go  away  in  Buch  a  hurry? 

Madamb  PsRiaxLLB.    Because  I  can't 

endure  your  carry inga-on. 

And  no  one  takes  the  slightest  pains  to 

please  me. 
I  leave  your  house,  I  tell  you,  quite  di»- 

You  do  the  opposite  of  my  instructions; 
You've  no-respect  for  anything;  each  one 
Must  have  his  say;  it's  perfect  pandemo- 

DOBINB.    If  ,  .  . 

Madake  Pebnbllg.    You're  a  servant 
wench,  my  girl,  and  much 
Too  full  of  gab,  and  too  impertinent 
And  free  with  your  advice  on  all  occasions. 
Dauis.  But .  .  . 

Madamb  Pbbnellb.  You're  a  fool,  my 
boy  —  f,  0,  o,  1 
Just  ^>ellB  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  tor- 

Mariane.  I  think  .  .  . 
Madake  Pbbnellb.    0  dearie  me,  his 
little  sister] 
You're  all  demureuess,  butt«r  wouldn't 


In  your  mouth,  one  would  think  to  look  at 
you. 

Still  wateiB,  though,  they  say  .  .  .  you 
know  the  proverb; 

And  I  don't  like  your  doings  on  the  sly. 
Elmibx.   But,  mother  .  .  . 
Macaue  Pbbnellb.  Dau^ter,  by  your 
leave,  your  conduct 

In  everything  is  altogether  wrong; 

You  oU|^t  to  set  a  good  example  for  'em; 

Their  dear  departed  mother  did  much  bet- 
ter. 

You  are  extravagant;  and  it  offends  me, 

To  see  you  always  decked  out  like  a  prin- 

A  woman  who  would  please  her  husband's 

Alone,  wants  no  such  wealth  of  fineries. 

CuEantb.  But,  madam,  after  all  .  .  . 

Madame  Pebnbllb.  Sir,  as  for  you, 
The  lady's  brother,  1  esteem  you  highly, 
Love,  and  respect  you.    But,  sir,  all  the 

It  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 

That  decent  people  cannot  tolerate. 

I'm  rather  frnnk  witii  you;  but  that's  mj 

way  — 
I  don't  mince  matters,  when  I  mean  a 

Damis.    Mr.  TartufFe,  your  friend,  is 


*«.scatterbrains  like  you  attack  him. 
AjAMwJWhatl  Shall  I  let  a  bipit  critic- 

Come  ijid  luurp  a  tyrant's  power  here? 
And  shall  we  never  dare  amuse  ourselves 
Till  this  fine  {[entleman  deigns  to  consent? 
DoBiNB.   If  we  must  hark  to  him,  and 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN    DRAMATISTS 


Then'i  not  a  thing  we  do  but  what's  a 

He  oeSBUTM  mmnrtliinp^  t.>]M  wwJima  n»rpiw. 

"Tttsnna  nWtuJB.  And  all  he  censuies 
ia  well  oeiuuied,  too. 
I  wantfl  to  guide  you  on  the  way  to 


My  BOD  ahoUd  train  you  all  to  love  him 

-  ~H^r — - 

Daub.   No,  madam,  look  you,  Nothing 
—  not  my  fathw 

Nor  anything —  can  make  me  tolerate  him. 

I  should  belie  my  fedings  not  to  aay  ao. 

Hia  actions  rouse  my  wrath  at  ev^ry  turn; 

And  I  foresee  that  there  muat  come  of  it 

An  open  rupture  with  this  ■nnftlring  scoun- 
drel. 
DoBiNx.    Beaidee,  't  ia  downrif^t  scan- 
dalous to  see 

This    unknown    upBtart    mwitat    of    the 

This  vagabond,   who   had  n't,   when  he 

Ohoes  to  bis  feet,  or  clothing  worth  six  /ar- 

And  who  so  far  forgets  his  place,  as  now 
To  censure  everything,  and  rule  the  rooetl 
Madamb  Pkhnbllk.   Ehl   Mercy  sakee 
olivel  Things  would  go  better 
If  aJI  were  governed  by  his  pioua  orders. 
^^oanraiT^He  paesea  for  a  saint  in  your 

opmion. 
In  fact,  he's  nothing  but  a  hypocrite. 
ItXDxMrnRNKUJB.   Just  usiflir  to  her 

tonguel 
DoHuri.  I  would  n't  truat  him, 
Nor  yet  his  Lawrence,  without  bonda  and 
surety. 
Madamk  RjRwmjj.  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  tella  home  truths  to  all  of  you. 
T  ia  sin  alone  that  moves  his  heart  to 

anger, 
Afid  Heaven's  mtereet  ia  b'j  yly  mntiva 
DoKiNi.  Of  ooune.  But  why,  eepedi^y 
of  late. 
Can  he  let  nobody  come  near  the  houae? 
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; 
[Potmuv    lo   Euaxi.l     Upon  my  wtnd. 

he's  jealous  of  our  mistreas. 
Madau    PernbllK.    You  hold  your 

tongue,  anid  think  what  you  are 

saying. 
He's  not  alone  in  oeosuring  these  visita; 
The  turmoil    that  attends  your  sort  of 

Their  corriapee  foravar  at  the  door, 

And  all  their  noisy'  footmen,  flocked  to- 

Annoy  the  neighborhood,  and  raise  a  scan- 
dal. 
I'd  ^adly  think  there's  nothing  really 

But  it  makea  talk;  and  that's  not  aa  it 

ahould  be. 
ClAants,  Ehl  maHajw.  osn  you  hope  to 

keep  folk's  tongues 
From  waggingT    It  would  be  a  grievoua 

thing 
If,  for  the  fear  of  idle  talk  about  ua. 
We  had  to  aacrifice  our  friends,  No,  no; 
Even  if  we  could  bring  ourselves  to  do  it, 
Think  you  that  every  one  would  then  be 

silenced? 
Against  backbiting  there  is  no  defense. 
So  let  us  try  to  live  in  innooenoe. 
To  aJly  tattle  pay  no  heed  at  all. 
And  leave  Ute  gosaipa  free  to  vent  their  gall. 
DoniNn.  Our  neighbor  Daphne,  and  bar 

little  huaband. 
Must  be  the  ones  who  Blander  ua,  I  'm  think- 

Thooe  whoee  own  conduct's  most  ridieu. 

lous, 
Are  always  quickest  to  speak  ill  of  othtra; 
Tbey  never  fail  to  seiie  at  onoe  upon 
The  slightest  hint  of  any  love  affair. 
And  spread  the  ikewa  of  it  with  glee,  and 

The  charact«r  they'd  have  the  worid  be- 
lieve in. 
By  others'  actions,  painted  in  their  colors, 
liieyhope  to  justify  their  own;  they  think, 
In  the  false  hope  of  some  resemblance, 

To  make  their  own  intrigues  seem  innocent. 
Or  else  to  make  their  neighbore  shore  the 

Which  they  an  loaded  with  by  tmtjbodj. 

Goc«lc 


M«Tn»ia  PxoNiiLLii.   Theoe  argunwats 
ai«  nothing  to  the  purpoae. 
Orauta,  we  all  know,  lives  &  perfect  life; 
Ho-  thou^ta  are  all  of  heaven;  and  I  have 

beanl 
lliat  she  oondemni  the  company  you  keep. 
DoBiNx.    O  admiiafale  pattarnl    Virtu- 
She  liven  the  model  of  austerity; 
But  age  haa  brought  this  'piety  upon  her, 
And  she's  a  prude,  now  she  can't  help  her- 
self. 
ia  long  u  she  could  capture  mea's  atten- 

Bbe  made  the  most  of  her  advantsges; 
But,  now  she  eees  her  beauty  vanishing, 
She  wanta  to  leave  the  world,  that's  leaving 


her. 

And  in  the  specious  veil  of  haughty  virtue 
She'd  hide  tiie  weakness  of  her  worn-out 

charms. 
That  is  the  way  with  all  your  old  coquettes, 
Tbey  find  it  bard  to  see  their  lovers  leave 

'em; 
And  thus  abandoned,  their  forlorn  estate 
Can  find  no  oecupation  but  a  prude's. 
Theee  pious  dames,  in  their  austerity. 
Must  carp  at  everything,  and  pardon  noth- 

Tb^  loudly  blame  their  neighbors'  way  of 

Not  for  rdigion's  sake,  but  out  of  envy. 
Because  they  can't  endure  to  see  another 
Enjoy  the  pleasures  age  has  weaned  them 

from. 
Masau  PXRNSUJt  ((oEuoBsI.  Therel 

"Hiat's  the    kind  of  rigmarole   to 

(dease  you, 
Dau^ter-in-law.   One  never  has  a  ohanoe 
To  get  a  word  in  edgewise,  at  your  house. 
Because  this  lady  holds  the  floor  all  day; 
But  none  the  lees,  I  mean  to  have  my  say. 


Into  his  household;  Heaven  sent  him  here, 
bi  your-gresfneed,  to  make  you  all  re- 

Far  your  salvation,  you  must  hearken  to 

He  oensurea  nothing  but  deserves  his  oen- 


[JFFE  371  _ 

These  visita,  tbeae  aasembliee,  and  tbesi 

balls. 
Are  all  inventipns  of  the  evil  spirit. 
You  never  bear  a  word  of  godliness 
At  them  —  but  idle  eaokle,  i 


Our  neighbor  often  cornea  in  for  a  share, 
The  talk  flies  fast,  and  scandal  fiila  the  air; 
It  mak«e  a  sober  person's  head  go  round. 
At  these  aaaembltes,  just  to  hear  the  souiid 
Of  BO  much  gab,  with  not  a  word  to  say; 
And  as  a  learned  man  remarked  one  day 
Most  aptly,  't  is  the  Tower  of  Babylon, 
Where  all,  beyond  all  limit,  babble  on. 
And  just  to  tell  you  how  this  point  oame 

[7*0   CiifANTn].  Bol  Now   the    gentleman 

must  snicker,  must  he? 
Qo  find  fools  like  yourself  to  make  you 

And  don't  . .  . 

[T'oEuoRx.]  Dau^ter,  good-bye;  not  one 

As  for  this  houae,  I  leave  the  half  unsaid; 
But  I  shan't  soon  set  foot  in  it  again. 
[Cvffing  Flipottb.I    Come,   youl    What 
makes  you  dream  and  stand  agape, 
HuBsyl   I'll   warm   your   ears   in   proper 

March,  trollop,  march! 

[Exeunt  aU  but  CiJamtb,  DobiniJ 
Ci^Aim.  I  won't  escort  her  down, 
F<w  fear  she  might  fall  foul  of  me  agtun; 
The  good  old  lady  . .  . 

DoniKX.  Bless  us[  What  a  pity 
She  should  n't  hear  the  way  you  speak  of 

herl 
She'd  surely  tell  you  you're  too  "good" 

by  half. 
And  that  she's  not  so  "old"  as  all  tbat, 
neither! 
Ci^AKTX.   How  she  got  angry  wiU  us, 
all  for  nothing! 
And  how  she  seems  possessed  with  her 
Tartuffel 
DoRim.    Her  case  is  nothing,  thou^ 
beside  her  son's  I 
To  see  hini,  you  would  say  he's  ten  times 

His  conduct  in  our  late  v 
Had  won  him  much  esteei 
courage 


CtOOi^Ic 


371 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


In  service  of  his  kiii«;  but  now  he'a  like 
-&  man  btwotted,  aince  he's  been  so  token 
ll^th  this  T&rtufFe.   He  e&lls  him  brother, 
I  lores  him 

(a  hundred  times  as  much  as  mother,  son, 
/  Daughter,  and  wife.  He  tells  him  all  his 
I  secrets 

And  lets  him  guide  his  acts,  and  rule  his 
conscience. 

He  fondles  and  embraoes  him;  a  sweet- 

L    Could  not,  I  think,  be  loved  more  t«nderiy; 
1   At  table  be  must  have  the  seat  of  honor, 
I  While  with  delight  our  master  sees  him  eat 

As  much  as  six  men  could;  we  must  give 
\  up 

The~choiceat  tidbits  to  him;  if  he  belcbes. 

Master  exclaims:    "God  bless   you!"  — 
Oh,  he  dptee 

Upon  him;  he'a  hia  univwse,  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 

He  fools  him  with  a  hundred  masks  of 

Gets  money  from  him  all  the  time  by 

canting, 
And  takes  upon  himself  to  carp  at  us. 
Even  bis  silly  ooxoomb  of  a  lackey 
Makes  it  his  business  to  instruct  us  too; 
He  comes  with  rolling  eyes  to  preach  at 

And  throws  away  our  ribbons,  rouge,  and 

patches. 
Tttt  wret«h,  the  other  day,  tore  up  a  ker- 

That  he  had  found,  pressed  in  the  GoUen 

Calling  it  honid  crime  for  us  to  mingle 
The  devil's  finery  with  holy  things. 

|£nler  EufiRE,  Marianr,  Dahis.) 
Elmirb    [to    Oii.ANTi].    You  're    very 
lucky  to  have  missed  the  speech 
She  gave  us  at  the  door.  I  see  my  husband 
Is  home  again.  He  has  n't  seen  me  yet, 
80  I'll  go  up  and  wait  till  he  comes  in. 
OLiANTB.    And  I,  to  save  time,  will 
await  him  here; 


I  '11  merely  say  good-momiiig,  and  be  gone. 

{ExxwU  Eliork  and  Mabi&nb.) 

Daios.  I  wish  you'd  say  a  itard  to  him 

My  sister's  marriage;  I  suspect  Tartuffe 

Opposes  it,  and  puts  my  father  up 

To  all  these  wretehed  shifts.   You  know. 

How  nearly  I'm  concerned  in  it  myself; 
If  love  unites  my  sister  and  ValBre, 
I  love  his  sister  too;  and  if  this  marriage 
Were  to  .  .  . 
DORiNii.  He's  coming. 

[frit  Daiob.] 
[Enter  Orgon.] 
Oboon.   Ah!  Good-morning,  brother. 
Ci^ANTE.  I  was  just  going,  but  am  ^ad 


tog 


Things  are  not  far  advanced  yet,  in  the 
country? 
Oroon.  Dorine  .  .  . 
ITo  Ci^ANTfl.]    Just  wait  a  bit,  please, 

brother-in-law. 
Let  me  allay  my  first  anxiety 
By  askii^  news  about  the  family. 
[To  DouiTB.]  Has  everything  gone  well 

these  last  two  days? 
What's  happening?    And  how  is  every- 
body? 
DoRiNE.  Madam  had  fever,  and  a  split- 
ting headache 
Day  bdore  yesterday,  all  day  and  evening. 
OaooN.  And  how  about  Tartuffe? 
DoRiNS.  Tartuffe?  He's  well; 
He's  mighty  well;  stout,  fat,  fair,  rosy- 
lipped. 
Oboon.  Poor  man  I 
DoniNX.  At  evening  she  had  nausea 
And  could  n't  touch  a  single  thing  for 

Her  headache  still  was  so  severe. 

Oroon.  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. 

Oroon.  Poor  man! 

DoRiNX.    All  ni^t  she  could  n't  get  ft 

Of  sleep,  the  fever  racked  her  so;  and  wo 
Had  to  ait  up  with  her  till  daylight. 


Obook.  How 
About  Tartuffe? 

DoBiNB,  Gently  iDclined  to  Blumber, 
He  left  the  table,  went  into  his  loam, 
Got  himself  straight  into  a  ^ood  warm  bed, 
And  slept  quite  undisturbed  until  next 


Oscx>N.  Poor  man ! 

DoBiNE.  At  last  she  let  us  all  persuade 

And  got  HP  courage  to  be  bled;  and  then 
She  was  relieved  at  once. 

Oroon.  And  how  about 
Tartuffe? 

DoHDiE.    He  plucked  up  ooura^  pmp- 
erly, 
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. 
Obgon.  Poor  mant 
DoBiNB.    Bo  now  tbey  both  are  doing 

Aitd  I'll  go  strai^tway  and  inform  my 


How  plesaed  you  are  at  her  recovery. 

[Exit  DoBiNi.) 
CiJante.  Brother,  she  ridiculee  you  to 

your  face; 
And  1,  though  I  don't  want  to  make  you 

angry,  — -^ 

Mu«t  tell  you  candidly  that  she's  quita 

right.  I 

Was  such  infatuation  ever  heard  ofT  I 

And  can  a  man  to-day  have  charms 

make  you 
Foi^t  nil  else,  relieve  his  poverty. 
Give  him  a  home,  and  then  .  .  .  ? 

Oboon.  Stop  Uiere,  good  brother, 
You  do  not  know  the  man  you're  speaking 

of. 
Ciif  AKra.    Since  you  will  have  it  so,  I 

do  not  know  him; 
But  after  all,  to  tell  what  sort  of  man 
He  is  .  .  . 

Oboon.  Dearbrother,  you'd  be  charmed 

to  know  him; 
Your  raptures  over  him  would  have  no 

end. 
He  is  a  man  .  .  .  who  .  . .  ahl    ...  in  fact 


Whoever  does  his  will,  knows  perfect  peace, 
And  counts  the  whole  world  else,  as  so  much 

dung. 
His  converse  has  transformed  me  quite;  he 

My  heart  from  every  friend^p,  teaches 

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. 
Cl£antii.    Your  feelings  are  humane, 

I  must  say,  brother! 
Oboon.  Ahl  U  you'd  seen  him,  as  I  saw 

him  first. 
You  would  have  loved  him  just  as  much 

as  I. 
He  came  to  church  each  day,  with  con- 
Kneeled,  on  both  knees,  right  opposite  my 

pl«ce, 
And  drew  the  eyes  of  all  the  congregation, 
To  watch  the  fervor  of  his  prayers  to 

heaven; 
With  deep-drawn  sighs  and  great  ejacula- 

He  humbly  kissed  the  earth  at  every  mo- 

And  when  I  left  the  church,  he  ran  before 

To  give  me  holy  water  at  the  door. 
I  learned  his  poverty,  and  who  he  was, 
By  queetioning  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; 
1  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 

And  since  that  day,  all  seems  to  prosper 

He  cenBures  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  seal  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  bim 


274 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Accuse  himadf  for  having,  while  at  prnyor, 

la  too  much  tuiger  cau^^t  and  killed  a  flea. 

CiAurn.     Zounds,   brother,    you  are 

mad,  I  UiinKl  Or  else 
You're  malcing  sport  of  me,  with  mteb  a 

speech. 
What  are  you  driving  at  with  all  this  non- 

Okoon.  Brother,  your  language  moacks 

of  atheism; 
And  I  mupeot  your  soul 's  a  little  tunted 
Ttuvewith.  I've  preached  to  you  a  score 

of  times 
That  you'll  draw  down  some  judgment  on 

your  bead. 
ClAanix.  That  is  the  usual  strain  of  all 

yourldnd; 
They  must  have  every  one  as  blind  as 

they. 
Hey  call  you  atheist  if  you  have  good 

eyes; 
And  if  you  don't  adore  their  vain  grimaoes. 
You've  neither  faith  nor  care  for  sacred 

No,   no;    sueh    talk   can't    frighten   me; 

I  know 
What  I  am  saying;  Heaven  sece  my  heart. 
We're  not  the  dupes  of  all  your  canting 


There  are  false  heroes  —  and  false  de- 

And  as  true  heroes  never  are  the  ones 
Who  make  much  noise  about  their  deeds  of 

Just  so  true  devotees,  whom  we  should 

Are  not  the  ones  who  make  so  much  vain 

What!  Will  you  find  no  difference  between 

Hypocrigjr  and  genuine  devoutnees? 

And  will  you  treat  them  both  alike,  and 

pay 
The  selfsame  honor  both  to  masks  and 

faces, 
Set  artifice  beside  sincerity, 
Confuse  the  semblance  with  reality. 
Esteem  a  phantom  like  a  living  peraon. 
And  counterfeit  as  good  as  honest  coinf 
Men,  for  the  most  part,  are  strange  crea- 
tures, truly  I 
You  never  find  them  keep  the  golden 


The  limits  of  jpx>d  sense,  too  narrow  for 
Must  always  be  paesed  by,  in  each  direo- 
Hiey  often  spoil  the  noblest  things,  be- 

They  go  too  far,  and  pu^  them  to  ex- 
tremes. 

I  merely  say  this  by  the  way,  good  brother. 
Ohoon.  You  are  the  sole  expounder  of 
the  doctrine;  • 

Wisdom  Bball  die  with  yon,  do  doubt,  good 
brother. 

You  are  the  only  wise,  the  sole'  enlight 

The  oracle,  the  Cato.  of  our  age. 

An  men,  compared  to  you,  are  downright 

fools. 
GLfiANTE.  I'm  not  tiie  sole  expounder 

of  the  doctrine. 
And  wisdom  shall  ikot  die  with  me,  good 

brother. 
But  this  I  know,  tJunigh  it  be  all  my 


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  leal  of  true  devoutnesa. 
Just  BO  I  think  there's  naught  more  odious 
Than  whiled  sepulchera  of  outward  unc- 

Those  barefaced  charlatans,  those  hireling 

sealote, 
Whose  sacrilegious,  tieacherous  pretense 
I>e<«ive8  at  will,  and  with  impunity 
Makes   mockery   of  all   that   men  hold 

Men  who,  enslaved  to  selfiah  intereets, 
Moke  trade  and  merchandise  of  godliness. 
And  try  to  purchase  influence  and  office 
With  false  eye-rollings  and  affected  rap 

Thoee  men,  I  say,  who  with  uncommon 

seal 
Seek  their  own  fortunes  on  the  road  to 

heaven; 
Who,  skilled  in  prayer,  have  always  mooh 

And  live  at  court  to  preadi  retimnent; 
Who  recondle  religion  with  their  vioM, 


Are  quick  to  anger,  Tengtful,  futUess, 

tricky, 
And,  to  de8tit)7  a  nuo,  will  hav«  the  bold- 

To  call  their  private  gnidge  the  o&uae  of 

HeKven; 
AH  the  more  dangerous,  einoe  in  UKitr  anger 
The;  use  aKainst  ue  weapons  men  revere, 
AAd  since  they  make  the  woild  applaud 

their  paadon, 
And  seek  to  etab  ub  with  a  sacred  eword. 
There  are  too  many  of  thia  canting  kind. 
Still,  the  sincere  are  eaey  to  distinguish; 
And  many  splendid  patterns  may  be  found. 
In  our  own  time,  before  our  very  eyes. 
Look  at  Aiiston,  P&iandre,  Oronte, 
Alcidamas,  Clitandte,  and  Folydore; 
No  one  denies  thmr  claim  to  true  reliipoo; 
Yet  they're  do  braggadocios  of  virtue, 
They  do  not  make  insufferable  display, 
And  their  religion's  human,  tractable; 
They  are  not  always  judging  all  our  ac- 

lltey'd  think  such ' judgment  savored  of 

presumption; 
And,  leaving  pride  of  words  to  other  men, 
T  is  by  their  deeds  alone  they  oensure  ours. 
Bvi!  appearances  find  Uttle  credit 
With  Uiem;  they  even  incline  to  think  the 

best 
Of  others.  No  cabalers,  no  intriguers, 
Tliey  mind  the  businees  of  their  own  right 

They  don't  attack  a  nnner  tooth  and  nail, 
For  ain's  the  only  object  of  their  hatred; 
Nor  are  litey  overaealous  to  attempt 
Fat  more  in  Heaven's  behalf  than  Heaven 

would  have  'em. 
That  is  my  kind  of  man,  that  is  true  living, 
Tliat  is  the  pattern  we  should  set  ouraelvee. 
Tour  fellow  was  not  fashioned  on  this 

You're  quito  sincere  in  boasting  of  his 

seal; 
But  you're  deceived,  I  think,  by  false  pre- 
tenses. 
Oboon.    My  dear  good  brother-in-law, 

have  you  quito  doneT 
CLiANTK.  Yes. 
Okoon.  I'm  your  humble  servant. 

\SlarU  to  go.] 
ClAaktb.  Just  a  word. 


UFFE  »7s 

We'U  drop  that  other  subject.    But  you 

know 
Valdra    has    had    the    promise  of    your 

daughter. 
Oboon.  Yes. 
CLiANTX.    You  had  named  tiie  happy 

day. 
Oboon.  T  is  true, 
CUbANm.    Then  why  put  o&  the  oele- 

bration  of  itT 
Oboon.  I  can't  say. 
Ci^ANTB.    Can  you  have  some  other 

plan 
Li  mindT 
Oboon.  Feriiape. 
Cutum.    You  mean  to  break  yow 

wtod? 
OsooN.  I  don't  say  that. 
Ci^Camtx.  I  hope  no  obstacle 
Can  Iceep  you  from  performing  what  you  've 

promised. 
Oboon.  Well,  that  depends. 
Cl^ANTB.   Why  must  yeiu  beat  about? 
Val^re  has  sent  me  here  to  settle  matten. 
Oroon.  Heaven  be  praisedl 
ClAante.    What  answer  shall  I  take 

Oboon.  Why,  anything  you  please. 

OLiANTX.  But  we  must  know 
Your  plans.  What  are  theyT 

Oaootf.  1  shall  do  the  will 
Of  Heaven. 

CiJantii.    Come,  be  serious.    You've 


it7 

Oboon.    Good-bye.  [ETiti 

ClAantb  [alone).  His  love,  methintcs,  has 

much  to  fear; 
must  go  let  him  know  what's  happening 

here.  [BtU.] 


ACT   II 
[ErU^  Oboon  and  Mariamb.I 
Oboon.  Now,  Mariano. 
Mabiank.  Yes,  fatiierf 
Oboon.  Gome:  I'll  tell  jrou 
A  secret. 
Mabianb.  Yes  .  . .  What  are  you  look- 
ing forT 


176 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Okoon  [looMno  irUo  a  fmall  eiotel-room]. 
To  see  thera'a  no  one  there  to  spy 

That  little  cloeet  's  mighty  fit  to  hide  in. 
Therel   We're  all  riRht  now.   Muiane,  in 

I've  alwayi  found  a  dsu^ter  dutiful 
And  gentle.    So  I've  aXwayt  lov«d  you 

Masiakb.  I'mgratefntfoiyourfatheriy 


Oboon.    Well  spoken,  dau^ter.    Now, 

prove  you  deserve  it 
By  doing  aa  I  wish  in  all  reapectx. 

Mabiane.   To  do  so  is  the  height  of  my 

ambition. 
Oboon.  Excellent  well.   What  say  you 

of  —  Tartuffe? 
Mabiank,  Who?  I? 
Oboom.  Yee,  you.  Look  to  it  how  you 


Oboon.  Well  spoken,  A  good  girl.  Say 
then,  my  daughter, 
That  all  his  person  ehinee  with  noble  merit, 
That  he  has  won  your  heeut,  and  you 

would  like 
To  have  him,  by  my  choice,  become  your 

husband. 
Eh? 
Mabiane.  Eh7 
Oboon.  What  say  youT 
Mabiane.  Please,  what  did  you  say? 
Oboon.  What? 

Mabiane.  Surely  I  mistook  you,  sir? 
Oboon.  How  now? 

Mabiane,  Who  is  it,  father,  you  would 
have  me  say 
Has  won  my  heart,  and  I  would  like  to 

have 
Become  my  husband,  by  your  dioioe? 
Oroon.  TartuSe. 
Mabiane.  But,  father,  I  protest  it  is  n't 

Why  should  you  make  me  tell  this  dread- 
ful Ue? 
Oboom.  Because  I  mean  to  have  it  be  the 
truth. 


Let  this  suffice  (or  you:  I've  settled  it 
Mabiane.  What,  father,  you  would  .  . . 
Oboon.  Yee,  child,  I'm  resolved 
To  graft  Tartuffe  into  my  famfly. 
So  he  must  be  your  husband.   That  I've 

settled. 
And  since  your  duty  ,  .  . 
\/Seeinif  DoBora.j    What  are  you  doing 

thoe? 
Your  curiooity  is  keen,  my  prl. 
To  make  you  come  eavesdropping  on  ua 

so. 
DoBiNX.  Upon  my  word,  I  don't  know 

how  the  rumor 
Got  started  —  if  'twas  guMswork  or  mere 

But  I  had  beard  already  of  this  match. 
And  treated  it  as  utter  stuS  and  ponsense. 
Oboon.   WhatI   Is  the  thing  incredible? 
Dobine.  So  mudi  so 
I  don't  believe  it  even  from  youradf,  sir. 
Oboon.    I  know  a  way  to  make  you 

credit  it. 
DoaiNE.    No,  no,  you're  tdhng  us  a 

fairytale! 
Oboon.   I'm  telUng  you  just  what  will 

happen  shortly. 
DoRtNE.  Stufil 
Oboon.  Dai^bter,  what  1  say  is  in  good 

DoKim.  There,  there,  don't  take  your 
father  seriously; 
He's  fooling. 

Oboon.  But  I  tell  you  . . . 

DoBtNZ.  No.  No  use. 
Iliey  won't  believe  you. 

Oboon.  If  I  let  my  anger  .  ,  . 

Dobine.  Well,  then,  we  do  believe  you; 
and  the  worse 
For  you  it  is.  WbatI  Can  a  grown-up  man 
With  that  expanse  of  beanl  acrosa  his  face 
Be  mad  enough  to  want .  .  .  ? 

Oboon.  You  hark  to  me: 
You've  taken  on  youtself  here  in  this 

A  sort  of  free  familiarity 
That  I  don't  like,  I  tell  you  franldy,  girl. 
Dobine.    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 


TARTUFFE 


377 


And  he  has  more  important  things  to 

think  {rf. 
BeoidM,  what  can  you  gai:i  by  luch  a 

match? 
How  can  a  man  of  wealth,  like  you,  go 

A  wretched  VKabood  for  aon-in-law? 
Uboom.    ifou  tkold  your  tflugue.    And 
know,  the  tew  he  has, 
The  better  cause  have  we  to  honor  him. 
Hi>  poverty  is  honcflt  poverty; 
It  dtould  exalt  him  more  than  worldly 

For  he  has  let  himself  be  robbed  of  all, 
Throu^  careless  disrei^rd  of  temporal 

And  fixed  attachment  to  the  things  eternal. 
My  help  may  set  him  on  his  feet  again. 
Win  back  his  property  — -  a  fair  estate 
Be  haa  at  home,  so  1  'm  informed  —  and 

prove  him 
For  what  he  is,  a  true-born  gentleman. 
DoRiNii.  Yee,  so  he  says  himself.  Sudi 

But  ill  accords  with  pious  living,  or. 
The  man  who  cares  for  holiness  alone 
Should  not  so  loudly  boast  his  name  and 

birth; 
The  humble  waj^  of  genuine  devoutness 
Brook  not  so  much  display  of  earthly 

Why  should  he  be  so  vain?  ...  But  I 

offend  you; 
Let's  leave  his  rank,  then,  —  take  the  man 

Can  you  without  compunction  give  a  man 
Ijke  him  poseessian  of  a  girl  like  herl 
Think  what  a  scandal  'a  sure  to  come  of 

itl 
Virtue  is  at  the  mercy  of  the  fates. 
When  a  girl  'a  married  to  a  man  ahe  hates; 
The  beet  intent  to  live  an  honest  wo- 

D^Muds  upon  the  buabond'a  beii^  hu- 
man, 
And  men  whose  brows  are  pointed  at  afar 
May  thank  themselves  their   wives  ore 

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 
win 


Owes  Heaven  account  for  it,  if  she  do  ill. 
Tliink  then  what  perils  wait  on  your  de- 
sign. 
Oboon  [to  Maxunii].  Sol  I  must  learn 

what's  what  from  her,  you  see! 
DoEum.  You  might  do  wone  than  fd- 

low  my  advice. 
Oboon.   Daughter,  we  can't  waste  time 
upon  this  nonsense; 
I  know  what's  good  for  you,  and  I'm  your 

True,  I  had  promised  you  to  young  VaKre; 
But,  first,  they  tell  me  he's  inclined  to 

Andthen,  Ifeai  his  faith  is  not  quite  sound. 

i  have  n't  noticed  that  he's  regular 

At  church. 
DoRiNB.  You'd  have  him  run  there  just 
when  you  do, 

like  those  who  go  on  purpose  to  be  seen? 
Oboon.  I  don't  ask  your  opinion  on  the 
matt«r. 

In  short,  tjie  other  is  in  Heaven's  beet 
graces. 

And  that  is  riches  quite  beyond  compare. 

This  match  will  bring  you  every  joy  you 
long  for; 

'T  will  be  all  steeped  in  sweetness  and  de- 
light. 

You'll  live  together,  in  your  faithful  lovee, 

Ijke  two  sweet  children,  like  two  turtle- 

You'Il  never  fall   to  quarrel,   soold,  or 
And  you  may  do  with  him  whate'er  you 

DoRiNX.  With  himT  Do  naught  but 
give  him  horns,  I'll  warrant. 

Ohoon.  Out  on  the  wench! 

DoRiNX.  I  tell  you  he's  cut  out  for 't; 
However  great  your  daughter's  virtue,  air. 
His  deetiay  is  sure  to  prove  the  stronger; 

Oboon'.    Have  done  with  interrupting. 
Hold  your  tongue. 
Don't  poke  your  nose  in  other  people's 
business. 

Donnn:.  [She  keep*  irUemipHng  him, 
pat  at  he  (urns  oiuf  tiartt  U>  tpeakto 
his  daufhUr.]  If  I  make  bold,  Sir, 
't  ia  for  your  own  good. 

Croon.  You're  too  officious;  f»ay  yot^ 


«78 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


DoRno.  T  is  love  of  you  — 
Oroon.  I  wont  none  of  your  love. 
DoRiNB.   Then  I  wilt  love  you  in  your 

own  deepite. 
Ohook.  You  will,  eh? 
Ddrine.  Yes,  your  honor's  dear  tome; 
I  can't  endure  to  see  you  made  the  butt 
Of  &U  men's  ridicule. 
Ohoon.  Won't  you  be  still? 
Dosnn,    'T  would  be  a  sin  to  let  you 

m&ke  thii  match. 
Oboon.  Won't  you  be  still,  I  say,  you 

impudent  viper! 
DosiMx.  What!  you  are  pioui,  and  you 

lose  your  temper? 
Oboon.  I'm  all  wrought  up,  with  your 
confounded  nonaenie; 
Now,  once  for  all,  I  tell  you  hold  your 
tongue. 
DoBuni.    Then  mum's  the  wonl;  I'll 

take  it  out  in  thinking. 
Oboon.  Think  all  you  please;  but  not  a 
syllable 
To  me  about  it,  or  .  .  .  you  understandl 
[T'umino  (o  hit  daughter]  As  a  wise  father, 

I've  considered  all 
With  due  deliberation. 
DoKiNE.  I'll  go  mad 
If  I  can't  speak. 

[She  tlopK  the  itulant  he  (urns  hit 
head] 
Oboon.  Tliougb  he's  no  lady's  man, 
Tartuffe  is  well  enough  .  .  . 
DoRiNE.  A  pretty  phiz  1 
OsooK.  So  that,  althou^  you  may  not 
care  at  all 
For  his  b^et  qualities  .  .  . 
DoRiNX.  A  handsome  dowry! 

[Oroon  (urns  and  »land$  in  front 

of  her,  mik  arme  folded,  eyeing 

her] 

Were  I  in  her  place,  any  man  should  rue  it 

Who  married  me  by  force,  that 's  m^ty 

I'd  let  him  know,  and  that  within  a  week, 
A  woman's  vengeance  is  n't  far  to  seek.' 
Oboon  [to  DobinsI  .  So  —  nothing  that 

I  say  has  any  weight? 
DoRiNE,    Eh7    What's  wrong  now?    I 

did  n't  speak  to  you.. 
Oroon.  What  were  you  doing? 
DoRiNB.  Talking  to  myadf. 


Oboon.    Oh!  Vwy  well.    [Aiide]    Her 
monstrous  impudence 
Must  be  chastised  with  one  good  slap  in  the 

[He  glands  ready  to  ttrike  her,  and, 
each  time  he  ipeake  to  hit 
daughter,  he  fflaneei  toward  her; 
hut  the  »Umde  aHU  a.nd  tayt  not 

Oboon.  Daughter,  you  must  approve  of 
my  design.  . .  . 
Think  of  titis  husband  ...  I  have  diosen 

foryou  .  .  . 
[To  DordtbJ    Why  don't  you  talk  to 
youTB^lfT 
DoRiNB,  Nothing  to  say. 
Oroon.  One  little  word  more. 
DoRiNx.  Oh,  no,  thanks.  Not  now, 
Orgon.  Sure,  I  'd  have  cau^t  3rou. 
DoRn«E,  Faith,  I'm  no  such  fool. 
Oboon.  So,  daughter,  i 
the  word; 
You  must  accept  my  choice  with  n 

DoBINX  [running  mmij;].     You'd  never 
catch  me  marrying  such  a  creature. 
Oroon  {noinging  hit  hand  at  her  and 
mitnng  her].  Daughter,  you've  such 
a  pestilent  hussy  there 
I  can't  live  with  her  longer  without  sin. 
I  can't  discuss  thin^  in  the  state  I'm  in. 
My  mind's  so  flustered  by  her  insolent 

talk. 
To  calm  myself,  I  must  go  take  a  walk. 

[EzUJ 

DoBiNZ.  Say,  have  you  lost  the  tongup 

from  out  your  head? 

And  must  I  speak  your  rAle  from  A  to  Zed? 

You  let  them  broach  a  project  that's 

absurd. 
And  don't  oppose  it  with  a  sin^  wordi 
Marians.  What  can  I  do?  My  father  is 

the  master. 
DoBtNE.   Do?  Everything,  to  ward  off 

such  disaster. 
Mariane.  But  what? 
DoBiNB.  Tell  him  one  does  n't  love  by 
proxy; 
Tellhimyou'limarry  for  yourself,  not  him; 
Since  you  're  the  one  for  whotn  the  thing  is 

done, 
You  are  the  one,  not  he,  the  man  must 
please; 


ElilizedbvGoOQlc 


If  his  Tutuffe  hu  olukrm«d  him  «o,  why 

let  him 
Juat  marry  him  himself — noonewillhiader. 
Mahunz.    a  fatbo-'s  rights  are  such, 
it  seems  to  me. 
That  I  could  never  dare  to  say  a  word. 
DoBiNK.  Come,  talk  it  out.  Valire  has 
aaked  your  hand: 
Now  do  you  love  him,  pray,  or  do  you  not? 
Makiane.    Doriuel  How  can  you  wrong 
my  love  so  much, 
^d  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? 
DoBiNE.    How  do  I  know  it  heart  and 
words  agree, 
And  if  in  honest  truth  you  really  love  him? 
Marianb.  Dbrine,youwToiigmeKreatIy 
if  you  doubt  it; 
I've  shown  my  inmost  feelings,  all  too 
plainly. 
DoBiNs.  So  then,  you  love  him? 
Mariane.  Yes,  devotedly. 
DoRiNB.  And  he  returns  your  love,  e^>- 

parently? 
Masiane.  I  think  so. 
DoRiNE.   And  you  both  alike  are  eager 
To  be  well  married  to  each  other? 
Masianb.  9urely. 
DoBiNX.  Then  what's  your  plan  about 

this  other  match? 
Mariane.  To  kill  myself,  if  it  is  forced 

upon  me. 
DoftiNE.    Good!    That's  a  remedy  I 
had  n't  thought  of. 
Just  die.  and  everything  will  be  all  right. 
This  medicine  ia  marvelous,  indeed! 
It  drives  me  mad  to  hear  folk  talk  such 


Mariane.  Oh,  dear,  Dorme,  you  get  in 
&uch  a  temperl 
You  have  no  sympathy  for  people's  troubles. 
DoRiNE.  I  have  no  sympatiiy  when  folk 
talk  nonsense. 
And  flatten  out  as  you  do,  at  a  pinch. 
Mabiane.  But  what  can  you  expect?  — 

if  one  is  timid?  — 
DORINE.    But  what  is  love  worth,  if  it 

has  no  courage? 
Makiaks.    Am  I  not  constant  in  roy 
love  for  him? 
Ib 't  not  his  plaoe  to  win  me  from  my  father  7 


UFFE  179 

DoBim.  Butifyourfatherisaciuiy  foot. 
And  quite  bewitched  with  his  Tartuffe? 

And  btvaks 
His  bounden  word?    Is  that  your  lover's 
fault? 
MARtANi.    But  shall  I  publicly  refuse 

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  pub- 


[  you  nothing. 


lie 

DORINX.     No,    DO, 

You  shall  be 
Mister  Tartuffe'a;  why,  now  I  think  of  it, 
1  should  be  wrong  to  turn  you  from  this 

marriage. 
What  cause  can  I  have  to  oppose  your 

So  fine  a  match!  An  excellent  good  match! 
Mister  Tartuffe!   Oh  hoi    No  mean  pro- 
Mister  Tartuffe,  sure,  take  it  all  in  all, 
Is  not  a  man  to  sneeze  at  —  oh,  by  no 

means! 
'T  is  no  small  luck  to  be  his  happy  spouse. 
The  whole  worid  joins  to  sing  hit  praise 

already; 
He  's  noble — in  his  parish;  handsome  too; 
Red  ears,  and  high  complexion  —  oh,  my 

ludl 
You'll  be  too  happy,  sure,  with  him  for 

husband. 
Mabianb.  Oh,  dear! .  . . 
DoKiNE.    What  joy  and  pride  will  fill 

your  heart 
To  be  the  bride  of  such  a  handsome  fellow  I 
Mabiank.   Oh,  stop,  I  beg  you;  try  to 

find  some  way 
To  help    break  off  the  match.  I  quito 

I'm  ready  to  do  anything  you  say. 
DomNE.  No,  no,  a  daughter  must  obey 

her  father, 
Though  be  should  want  to  make  her  wed 

a  monkey. 
Besides,  your  fate  is  fine.  What  could  be 

betterl 
You'll  take  the  stage-coach  to  his  little 

village, 
And  find  it  full  of  oi 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Whose    conversfttion    will    delight    jou. 

Then 
You'll  be  presented  in  their  beat  society. 
You'll  even  go  to  call,  by  way  of  wdcome, 
On  Mta.  BsiliS,  Mra.  Tax-Colleotor, 
Who'll  patroniie  you  with  a  folding-atool. 
There,  onoe  a  year,  at  carnival,  you'll 

hare  — 
Perhaps  —  a  ball;  with  ordiMtn  —  two 

bag-pipee; 
Aikd  sometimee  a  trained  ape,  and  Punch 

and  Judy; 
Though  it  your  huaband  .  .  . 

Mabunb.    Oh,  youll  kill  me.    Pleaae 
Contrive  to  help  me  out  with  your  advice. 
DoBiNS.  I  thank  you  kindly. 
Mariane.  Ohl  Doiioe,  I  beg  you  .  . . 
DoRtNx.  To  serve  you  rif^t,  this  mar- 

riage  must  gp  through. 
Mabiane.  Dear  girlt 
DORHtB.   No. 

Marians.  If  I  say  I  love  Val^re  . .  . 
DoRimB.  No,  no.  Tartuffe  's  your  man, 

and  you  shall  tast«  him. 
Marians.     You    know    I've    always 

tiusted  you;  now  help  me  .  . . 
DomNB.    No,  you  shall  be,  my  faitht 

Tartuffified. 
Mariamx.   Well,  then,  since  you've  no 
pity  for  my  fate 
Let  roe  taie  coiwsel  only  of  despair; 
It  wiU  advise  and  help  and  give  me  oour- 

age; 
There's  one  sure  cure,  I  know,  for  all  my 
troubles.  [She  ^arlt  U>  go.] 

DoRiNK.    There,  there!    Come  back.    1 
can't  be  angry  long. 
I  must  take  pity  on  you,  after  all. 
Mariani!.  Oh,  don't  you  SBe,.Dorine,  if 
I  must  bear 
This  martyrdom,  1  certainly  shall  die. 
DoRiNE.    Now  don't  you  fret.    Well 
surely  Bnd  some  way 
To  binder  this  .  .  .  But  here's  Valire,  3^ur 
lover. 

\Enler  VaiAm!,] 
VaiAre.    Madam,  a  piece  of  news  — 
quite  new  to  me  — 
Has  just  come  out,  and  very  fine  it  is. 
Mahia»ic.  What  piece  of  news? 
VALtRB.   Your  marriage  with  TartuSe. 


Mabiamb.  T  is  toue  my  father  has  this 

plan  in  mind. 
VALftBB.  Your  fatJKr,  madam  .  .  . 
Mabianb.  Yea,  he's  changed  his  fdana, 
And  did  but  now  propose  it  Ut  me. 

ValIbx.  WhatI 
Seriously? 

Marianx.  Yes,  he  was  serious. 
And  openly  insisted  on  the  match. 
VaiArb.  And  what's  your  resolution  in 

the  matter, 
Madam? 
Marianb.  I  don't  know. 
VaiArb.  That's  a  pretty  answer. 
You  don't  know? 
Makians.  No. 
VaUpbb.  Not 

Marianb.  What  do  you  advise? 
VaiArb.  I?  My  advice  is,  marry  him,  by 

oU  means. 
Marianb.  That's  your  advice? 
VaiJirb.  Yea. 

Marianb.  Do  you  mean  it? 
VALkRB.  Surely. 
A  splendid  choice,  and  worthy  your  ac- 
ceptance. 
Marianb.    Oh,  very  well,  sir!    I  shaO 

take  your  counsel. 
VaiJire.   Youll  find  no  trouble  taking 

it,  I  warrant. 
Marianb.  No  more  than  you  did  giving 

it,  be  sura. 
VaiAre.  I  gave  it,  truly,  to  oblige  you, 

""wjifttn- 
Marianb.  And  I  shall  take  it  to  obUge 

you,  sir. 
DoRiNB  [vnthdravini/  to  the  baiii  of  Oib 

itag^.  Let's  see  what  this  affair  will 


That  is  your  love?  And  it  was  all  deceit 
When  you  .  .  . 

Marianb.    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. 

VAiiiRB.     Don't   shield   yourself   with 
talk  of  my  advice. 
You  had  your  mind  made  np,  that's  vn- 


:.L|,i,zedi!,GoOQlc 


And  now  you're  Biutching  at  a  trifling 

pretext 
To  jusUf y  the  brealciog  of  your  word. 

Marians.  Exactly  m. 

Vai±re.  Of  course  it  ia;  your  heart 
Hsa  never  known  true  love  for  me. 

Mabiamx.  Alas! 
You're  free  to  think  bo,  if  you  pleaae. 

ValIbi.  Yee.  yes, 
I'm  free  to  think  so;  and  my  outraged 

love 
May  yet  forestall  you  in  your  perfidy, 
And  offer  elsewhere  botii  my  heart  and 

Marianb.  No  doubt  of  it;  the  love  your 
hijth  deserts 
May  <riu  .  .  . 
VAiJiits.    Good  Lord,  have  done  with 
my  deserte! 
1  know  I  have  but  few,  and  you  have 

proved  it. 

But  I  may  find  more  kindness  In  another; 

1  know  of  some  one,  who  '11  not  be  aohamed 

To  take  your  leavings,  dad  make  up  my 

loss. 

Mabiank.  Thelossiflnotsogreat;you'l) 

Console    younelf    completely    for    this 

Val±sx.  I'll  try  my  best,  that  you  may 
well  believe. 
When  we  're  forgotten  by  a  woman's  heart, 
Our  pride  is  challenged;  we,  too,  must 

Or  if  we  cannot, 'must  at  least  pretend 

to. 
No  other  way  oan  man  such 


A«  be  a  lover  scorned,  and  still  in  love. 
Masiami.    In  faith,  a  hi^  and  noble 

sentiment. 
Vai^kk.  Yes;  and  it's  one  that  all  men 
must  approve. 
What!  Would  you  have  me  keep  my  love 

And  see  you  fly  into  another's  arms 
Before  my  very  eyes;  and  never  offer 
To  some  one  else  the  heart  that  you  had 

scorned? 
Masiamb.  Oh,  no,  indeed!  For  my  part, 

1  could  wish 
That  it  were  done  already. 


JFFE  381 

ValArb.  WbatI  You  wish  itT 
Marians.  Yes. 

VaiAri.   This  is  insult  heaped  on  io- 
jury; 
I'll  go  at  onoe  and  do  as  you  desire. 

[He  taket  a  ttep  or  two  aa  if  to  go 
auaj/.J 
Marians.  Oh,  very  well  then. 
ValAre  Ituming  back].    But  remembw 
this; 
'T  was  you  that  drove  me  to  this  duperatti 

Mabiank.  Of  course. 
Vai^sb  {btminff  back  again].  And  in  Hbo 
plan  that  I  have  formed 
I  only  follow  your  example. 
Mariakb.  Yes. 
ValIrb  [at  lli£  door].  Enough;  you  shaO 

be  punctually  obeyed. 
Marianh.  So  much  the  better. 
VALknx    [conan^   back  again].    This  is 

once  for  all. 
Marjamx.  80  be  it,  then. 
VaiArb  [going  bnvard  th»  door,  hut  juil 
at  ke  reaches  il,  turning  around.  Eh7 
Mabianb.  What? 
Vai±rx.  You  did  n't  eaU  me? 
Mariamb.  I?  You  are  dreaming. 
Vai±kk.   Very  well,  I'm  gone. 
Madam,  farewell. 

[He  tnitt«  tlouiy  010^.] 
Mariamb.  Farewell,  sir.    . 
DoRiNB.  I  must  Bay 
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  oould  go.   Oho, 

there, 
Mister  Valferel 

[She  goea  and  »eite»  kim  by  the 
arm,  to  itap  him.    He  maket  a 
grtat  show  of  renatanee.] 
Vai±rb.   What  do  you  want,  DorineT 
DOBINB.  Come  here. 
ValIre.   No,  no,  I'm  quite  beside  my- 
self. 
Don't  hinder  me  from  doing  as  she  wishes. 
DoRiNB.  Stop! 
ValIibb.    No.   You  see,  I'm  fixed,  re- 

solved,  determined. 
DORtNB.   Sot 

.GooqIc 


383 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Mabiakk  locidc).    Since   my  ptesenoe 
pains  him,  makes  him  go, 
I'd  better  go  myseU,  and  leave  him  free. 
DoBiNB  [leamng  VALkiu),  and  running 
Hfter    Mabianx).      Now    't  other! 
Where  are  you  going? 
Marianb.  Let  me  be. 
DoRiNE.  Come  back. 
Masianx.  No,  no,  it  isn't  any  uae. 
Vai±rs  [oiide].   'T  is  clear  the  eight  of 
me  is  torture  to  her; 
Mo  doubt,  't  were  better  I  ghould  free  her 
from  it. 
DoBiNE  [leamng  Marianx,  and  running 
after  VaiJirb|.    Same  thing  againl 
Deuce  take  you  both,  I  say. 
Now  atop  your  fooling;  come  here,  you; 
and  you. 
IShe  pidU  firtt  one,  Aen  the  olher, 
totoard  the  middle  of  the  ttage] 
VaiAb*  [to  DobineJ.  What's  your  idea? 
Mablank  [to  DoBiNii].    What  can  you 

mean  to  do? 
DoKiME.  Set  you  to  rights,  and  pull  you 
out  o'  the  ectape. 
[To  VaiAre.]     Are  you    quito  mad,   to 
quarrel  with  her  now? 
VALiRE.  Didn't  you  hear  the  things 

she  said  to  me? 
DoRiNE  [to  Marianb).  Are  you    quite 

mad,  to  get  in  euch  a  passion? 
Marianx.  Did  n't  you  see  the  way  he 

treated  me? 
DoitiNX.  Fools,  both  of  you. 
[To  Valise.]  She  thinks  of  nothing  else 
But  to  keep  faith  with  you,  I  vouch  for  it. 
[ToMasianx.]  And  he  lovee  none  but  you, 

and  longs  for  nothing 
But  just  to  marry  you,  I  stake  my  life 

Mariane  [to  Vaurb].    Why  did  you 

give  me  such  advice  then,  pray? 
ValArk  [to  Masianr],  Why  ask  for  my 

advice  on  such  a  mattorT 
DoRiNE.  You  both  are  daft,  I  tdl  you. 

Here,  your  hands. 
[To  VAi,tsB.l  Ck)me,  yours. 
ValIrb  [gwing  DoRum  hit  Aand].  What 

for? 
DoKiNE  [to  Mariami}.    Now,  yours. 
M&riank  [gitingDotasKhtrhmdl.  But 

what's  the  use? 


DoBim.    Oh,  quick  now,  come  along. 
There,  both  of  you  — 
You  love  each  other  better  than  you  think. 
[VaiJBse  and  Mariane  hold  each 
olher'g  handt  tome  time  wilhoul 
looking  at  each  other,] 
VaIiIire  lot  loat  turning  toward  Marianij. 
Come,  don't  be  so  ungracious  now 
about  it; 
Look  at  a  man  as  if  you  dkl  n't  bate  him. 
[Marians  looks  aidetnaya  toward 
VuMaXyWithjiutabilofatmite.] 
DoRiNB.  My  faith  and  troth,  what  fools 

these  lovers  be  I 

VaiArb  |(o  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 

Mariane.  And  ore  you  not  yourself  the 

most  ungrateful  ...  7 
DoRiNE.    Leav6  this  discussion  till  an- 
other time; 
Now,    think    how   you'll    stave    off    this 
ploguey  marriage. 
Mariane.  Then  tell  us  how  to  go  about 

it. 
DoRiNE.  Well, 
We'll  try  all  sorta  of  ways. 
[To  MariansJ  Your  father  's  daft; 
[To  VAiiiRB.]  This  plan  is  nonsense. 
[To  Mariane.J  You  had  better  humor 
His  notions  by  a  semblance  of  consent, 
So  that  in  case  of  dan^r,  you  can  ttill 
Find  means  to  block  the' marriage  by  delay. 
If  you  gain  time,  the  rest  is  easy,  trust  me. 
One  day  youll  fool  them  with  a  suddMi 

Causing  delay;  another  day,  ill  omens: 
You've  met  a  funeral,  orbrakea  minor. 
Or  dreamed  of  muddy  water.  Beet  of  all, 
They  cannot  marry  you  to  any  one 
Without  your  saying  yea.    But  now,  me- 

Th«y  mustn't  find  you  chattming  to- 
gether. 

[ToVjljAsx.]  You,  go  at  once  and  set  your 
friends  at  work 

To  make  him  keep  his  word  to  you ;  irtiile  we 

Will  bring  the  brother's  influence  to  bear. 

And  get  the  Bt«proother  on  our  aide,  too. 

Oood-bye. 


VAiifeBS  Ito  Makune].  Whatever  efforts 
we  m&y  make, 
My  greatMt  hope,  be  sure,  must  rest  on 

Mabians  [lo  VaiJirx).    I  cannot  an- 
swer for  my  father's  whims; 
But  no  one  save  Volbe  shall  ever  have  me. 
ValIrb.  You  thrill  me  through  with  joy! 

Whatever  comes  . .  . 
DoRiHS.    Ohol    These  lovers!   .Never 
done  with  prattlingi 
Now,  go. 
VaiAb>  [ttarting  lo  go,  and  coming  bade 

again].  One  last  word  .  . . 
DoBBm.  What  a  gabble  and  pother! 
Be  off  I   By  this  door,  you.   And  you,  by 
t  'other. 
[She  .  pa*lies    Ihem    off,    by    the 
ihtnMeri,    in    oppotiie    diree- 


ACT   III 
[Enter  Daiob  and  Dobink.] 
Damb.    May  lightning  strike  me  dead 
this  very  instant, 
May  I  be  everywhere  proclaimed  a  scoun- 
drel, 
If  any  reverence  or  power  shall  stop  roe, 
And  if  I  don't  do  straightway  something 
desperate! 
DoRiNZ.  I  beg  you,  moderate  this  tow- 
ering passion: 
Your  father  did  but  merely  mention  it. 
Not  ail  things  that  are  talked  of  turn  to 

facts; 
Hw  road  is  long,  sometimes,  from  plans  to 
acts. 
Daius.  No  J  must  end  this  patey  fel- 
low'splota. 
Aud  he  shall  bear  from  me  a  truth  or  two. 
DoBont.  So  ho!  Go  slow  now.  Just  you 
leave  the  fellow  — 
Your  father  too  —  in  your  stepmother's 

She  has  some  influenoe  with  this  Tartuffe, 
He  makes  a  point  of  heeding  all  she  says, 
And  I  suspect  that  he  is  fond  of  her. 
Would  God  't  were  truel  ~  'T  would  bo 

the  height  of  humor. 
Now,  she  has  sent  for  him,  in  your  behalf, 


JFFE  983 

To  sound  him  on  this  marriage,  to  find  out 
What  his  ideu  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  must  n't 

see  him, 
But  likewise  says,  hell  presently  l>e  down. 
So  off  with  you,  and  let  me  wait  for  bim. 

Damis.   I  may  be  present  at  this  inter- 
view. 

DoKiNB.    No,  no!    They  must  be  left 

Damis.  I  won't 
So  much  as  speak  to  him. 

Dobink.  GoonI  We  know  you 
And  your  high  tantrums.  Just  the  way  to 

spoil  things! 
Be  off. 
Daiob.  No,  I  must  see  —  I'll  keep  my 

temper. 
DoBnra.    Out  on  you,  what  a  plague! 
He's  coming.  Hide! 

[Dauis  goee  and  hides  in  the  dotet 
at  the  back  of  Ihe  Hage.] 
[Enter  TABTurFB.) 
TABmn  [spetUeiTig  lo  hie  valet,  <^  the 
ilagt,  aa  nxm  as  he  sees  Dommi  u 
lAsre].   lAwrence,  put  up  my  hair- 
cloth shirt  and  soourge. 
And  prny  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. 
DoBiNX  [aside].    What  affectation  and 

what  shovring  offt 
Tabtupfi:.  What  do  you  want  with  me? 
DoBiNE.  To  t«ll  you  .  .  . 
TABTCrra  [taking  a  haitdkerehief  from 
hiepoeliet].  Ah! 
Before  you  speak,  pray  take  this  hand- 
kerchief. 
DomNK.  What7 

TABtvm.  Cover  up  that  boaom,  whioh 
1  can't 
Endure  to  took  on.  Iliings  Uke  that  offend 
Our  souls,  and  fill  our  minds  with  sinful 
thoughts, 
DoBiNa.   Are  you  so  tender  to  tempta- 
tion, then. 
And  has  the  fiesh  audt  power  upon  your 


sS4 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


I  doi^'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  bend  to 
foot. 

And  all  your  hide  not  tempt  me  in  the  least. 
Taktuffb.    Show  in  your  speech  some 
little  modesty, 

Or  I  must  instantly  take  leave  of  you. 
DoBiNE.  No,  no,  I'll  leare  you  to  your- 
self; I've  only 

One  thing  to  say:  Madam  will  soon  be 

And  begs  tbe  favor  of  a  word  with  you. 

TARTumi.  Ahl  Willmgly. 

DoBim  [aside].  How  gentle  all  at  oncel 
My  faith,  I  still  believe  I  've  hit  upon  it. 

Tabthitx.  Will  she  some  soon? 

DoBiKX.  1  think  I  hear  her  now. 
Yes,  here  she  is  herself;  I'll  leave  you  with 
her.  [ExU.\ 

[£nl«r  EiiinuJ 

Tabtditb.    May  Heaven's  overflowing 


Give  you  good  health  of  body  and  of  soul, 

And  Ueee  your  days  according  to  the  wishee 

And  prayers  of  its  most  humble  votary! 

EuoBX.    I'm  very  p«teful  for  your 

pious  wishes. 

6ut  let's  sit  down,  so  we  may  talk  at  ease. 

TAfiTDFFE  lifter  nUing  down].  And  how 

are  you  recovered  from  your  ill- 

ELkiBB  l$iOiiig  down  alto].    Quite  well; 

the  fever  soon  let  go  its  hold. 
TABTom:.  My  prayers,  I  fear,  have  not 
sufficient  merit 
To  have  drawn  down  this  favor  from  on 

high; 
But  each  entreaty  that  I  made  to  Heaven 
Had  for  its  object  your  recovery. 
EuiORK.    You're  too  solicitous  on  my 

behalf. 
TABTurvz.   We  could  not  idKrish  your 
dear  health  too  much; 
I  would  have  ajven  mine,  to  help  restore  it. 

EUURB.    That's  W^ing  Ou-iy.jftp  nhnr. 

ity  too  far;  -~ 

I  owe  you  manychanks  for  so  much  Idnd- 

Tartuffb.    I  do  far  lees  for  you  than 
you  deserve. 


Eumti.  There  is  a  matter  that  I  wished 
to  speak  of 
In  private;  I  am  glad  there's  no  one  htn 
To  listen. 

Tam'uvfx.   Madam,  I  am  overjoyed. 
T  is  sweet  to  find  myself  alone  wiUi  you. 
This  is  an  oiq>ortunity  I've  asked 
Of  Heaven,  many  a  time;  till  now,  in  vain. 
y.i.uiBTB.  All  that  I  wish,  is  just  a  wiml 
,from  you, 
Quite  frank  and  open,  hiding  nothing  from 
me. 

[Daiob,  willtout  their  geetng  Mm, 

opeiu  the  do»et  door  halfway.) 

Tabtuffs.  I  too  could  wish,  as  Heaven's 

especial  favor. 

To  lay  my  soul  quite  open  to  your  eyca. 

And  swear  to  you,  the  ttouhlc  that  I  made 

About  those  visits  which  your  charms 

attract. 
Does  not  result  from  any  hatred  toward 

you. 
But  rather  from  a  paseionat«  devotion. 
And  purest  motives  .  .  , 

Elmibe.  That  is  how  I  take  it, 

I  think 't  is  my  salvation  that  concerns  you. 

Tabtcffb     \preuinff    htr    finger-tip^. 

Madam,  'tis  so;  and  such  is  my 

devotion  .  . . 

EuiiBX.    Ouchl  but  you  squeese  too 

hard. 
Tabtdftb.  Excess  of  seal. 
In  no  way  could  I  ever  mean  to  hurt  you, 
And  I'd  OS  soon  .  .  . 

[Ue  pull  hit  hand  on  her  fcneej 
EuiiBx.  What's  your  hand  doing  then? 
TARTCrra.  Feeling  your  gown ;  the  stuff 

is  very  soft, 
EiiHiRB.   Let  be,  I  beg  you;  I  am  very 
ticklish. 

[She  mauea  her  chair  away,  and 
Tartuffb  bringt  hit  nenrerj 
Tabtttffb    [handlvng   the   lact   yai«   <if 
Euiibb's   dreei\.     Dear  me,    how 
wonderful  in  workmanship 
This  lace  is!  They  do  marvels,  nowadi^; 
Things  of  all  kinds  were  never  better  made. 
Elmibx.  Yea.voytrue.  Butletusoomc 
to  business. 
They  say  my  husband  means  to  break  his 

word, 
And  marry  Mariane  to  you.  lit  nT 


TARTUFFE 


TAimmv.  He  did  hint  some  such  thing; 

but  truly,  nrndom, 
"HMt's  not  the  hAppinen  I'm  yeanung 

after; 
I    see    dsewhera    the    nroet    oompelliiig 

cbsnos 
Of  suoh  a  )oy  aa  filla  my  every  wiah. 
Elubk.    You  mean  you  cannot  love 

Wrreatrial  things. 
TABTCFra.  The  heart  within  my  boaom 

ia  not  atone. 
Eluhis.    I  well  believe  your  sigha  all 

tend  to  Heaven, 
And  nothing  here  bdow  can  stay  your 

thoughta. 
TABTcm.  Love  for  the  beauty  of  eter- 
nal things 
Cannot  destroy  our  love  for  earthly  beauty ; 
Our  mortal  senaM  well  may  be  entranced 
By  perfect  works  that  Heaven  haa  faah- 

ioned  here. 
Its  charma  reflected  shine  in  such  as  you, 
And  in  yourself,  ita  rarest  miraclee; 
It  haa  displayed  such  marvels  in  your  face, 
That  eyee  are  dawd,  and  hearts  are  rapt 

I  could  not  look  on  you,  the  p^eot  crea- 

Without  admiring  Nature's  gt«at  Ci^ator, 
And  feeling  all  my  heart  inflamed  with 

For  you,  His  fairest  image  of  Himself. 
At  first  I  trembled  lest  this  aecret  love 
Might  be  the  Evil  Spirit's  artful  snare; 
I  even  schooled  my  heart  to  See  your 

Thinking  it  was  a  bar  to  my  salvation. 
But  soon,  enlightened,  O  all  lovely  one, 
I  saw  how  this  my  passion  may  be  blame- 
less. 
How  I  may  make  it  fit  with  modesty, 
And  thus  completely  yield  my  heart  to  it. 
"T  is,  I  must  own,  a  great  presumption  in 

To  dare  make  you  the  offer  of  my  heart; 
My  love  hopes  all  things  from  your  perfect 

gootfaiem, 
And  nothing  from  my  own  poor  weak  en- 

Yoa  are  my  hope,  my  stay,  my  peace  of 

bsart; 
On  y<H>  depends  my  torment  or  my  bliss; 


^s 

And  by  your  doom  of  judgment,  I  shall  be 
Blest,  if  you  will;  or  damned,  by  your 

EuiiBX.  Your  declaration's  turned  most 

pUlantly; 
But  truly,  it  is  just  a  bit  surprising. 
You  should  have  better  armed  your  heart, 

methinks. 
And  taken  thought  somewhat  on  such  a 

matt«r. 
A   pious   man   like   you,  known  eveiy- 

Tabtutpe.  Though  pious,  I  am  none  the 

less  a  man; 
And  when  a  man  beholds  your  heavenly 

charms. 
The  heart  surrenders,  and  can  think  no 

I  know  such  words  seem  strange,  coming 

But,  madam,  I'm  no  angel,  after  all; 

If  you  condemn  my  frankly  made  avowal 

You  only  have  your  charming  self  to 

Soon  as  I  saw  vour  more  than  human 

YflU  tf°"i  thennnfortih  thn  anTer"'^"  "^f^^ 

Sweetness  meSsble  was  in  your  eyes, 
That  took  by  storm  my  still  resisthig  heart, 
And  oonqu^ed  everything,  fasts,  prayeia, 

and  tears. 
And  turned  my  worship  wholly  to  your- 
self. 
My  looks,  my  sighs,  have  spoke  a  thousand 

Now,  to  express  it  all,my  voice  must  speak. 
If  but  you  will  look  down  with  gracious 

Upon  the  sorrows  of  your  worthless  slave, 
If  in  your  goodness  you  wiU  give  me  com- 
fort 
And  oondescend  unto  my  nothingness, 
I'll  ever  pay  you,  O  sweet  miracle, 
An  uneitampled  worehip  and  devotion. 
Then  too,  with  me  your  honor  runs  no 

risk  ; 
With  me  you  need  not  fear  a  public  scandal. 
These  court  gallants,  that  women  are  so 

fond  of. 
Are  boastful  of  tbmr  acta,  and  vain  in 


GooqIc 


386  CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 

They  alwaya  br»g  in  public  of  their  prog-     And  gnat  me  meniu  to  tAke  a  ngnal  rengs- 


Soon  aa  a  favor  'a  granted,  they  'U  divulge 

it; 
llteir  tattling  tongues,  if  jrou  but  trust  to 

Will  foul  the  altar  irtiere  their  bearte  have 

worshiped. 
But  men  like  me  are  so  discreet  in  love, 
That  you  may  trust  their  lasting  secreoy. 
Th&  care  we  take  to  guard  otir  own  good 

May  fully  guuantee  tht  one  we  love; 

So  you  may  find,  with  hearta  like  oun 

ainoeie. 
Love  without  scandal,  pleasure  without 

Elmirb.     I've  heard   you   through  — 

your  speech  ie  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    fnendship 

which  he  bears  you? 

TAitTUFm.  I  know  that  you  're  too  good 


That  you  wiU  pardon  my  temerity. 
Excuse,  upon  the  score  of  human  frailty, 
The  violenoe  of  passion  that  offends  you, 
And  not  forget,  when  you  consult  your 

That  I'm  not  blind,  and  man  is  made  of 
flesh. 
EuoBB.  Some  women  mi^t  do  other- 
wise, perhaps, 
But  I  am  willing  to  employ  discretion. 
And  not  repeat  the  matter  to  my  husl»utd; 
But  in  return,  I'U  ask  one  thing  of  you: 
That  you  urge  forward,  frankly  and  sin- 

The  marriage  of  Valeie  to  Mariano; 

That  you  give  up  the  unjust  influence 

By  which  you  hope  to  win  another's  righte; 

And. . . 

Dami9  [coming  out  of  the  dout-room  whert 
he  had  been  hiding].  No,  Isayl  This 
thing  must  be  made  public. 

I  was  just  there,  and  overheard  it  all; 

And  Heaven's  goodness  must  have  brought 
me  there 

On  purpose  to  oonfound  this  scoundid'a 


On  his  hypocri^  and  arrogance, 
And  undeceivB  my  father,  showing  up 
The  rascal  caught  at  making  love  to  you. 
EuuRS.    No,  no;  it  is  enou^  if  he  re 
forms. 
Endeavoring  to  deserve  the  favor  ahowk 

And  since  I've  promised,  do  not  you  belit 

T  is  not  my  way  to  make  a  pubUc  scandal; 
An  honest  wife  will  scorn  to  heed  sut^ 

And  never  fret  her  husband's  ears  with 

Dakis.  You've  reasonsof  yourownfor 
acting  thus; 
And  I  have  mine  for  doing  otherwise. 
To  spare  him  now  would  be  a  mockery; 
His  bigot's  pride  had  triumphed  all  too  king 
Over  my  righteous  anger,  and  has  caused 
Far  too  much  trouble  in  our  family. 
The  rascal  all  too  long  has  ruled  my  father, 
And  eroBsed  my  sister's  love,  and  mine  as 

well. 
The  traitor  now  must  be  unmasked  before 

And  Providenoe  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  fw  aU. 

EuoBB.  Damis  . . 

Daios.   No,  by  your  leave;  111  not  be 
counaeled. 
I'moverjoyed.  You  need  n't  tiy  to  tell  me 
I  must  give  up  the  pleasure  of  revenge. 
I'll  make  an  end  of  this  affair  at  onoe; 
And,  to  content  me,  here's  my  father  now. 

[Enter  Oroon.] 
Damis.  Father,  we've  news  to  weloome 
your  BJtival, 
That's  altogether  novel,  and  surprising. 
You  are  well  paid  for  your  careAing  care, 
id  this  fine  gentleman  rewards  your  low 
~~^  handsomely,  with  leal  that  seeks  no 

less 

m  your  dishonor,  as  has  now  been  proven. 
e  just  surprised  him  m».iripg  to  yoo 
wif« 


:.L|,i,zedi!,GoOQlc 


Tbe  Bbameful  ofFer  of  a  guilty  tove. 
8be,  somewhat  over  gentle'  and  discreet, 
Insisted  that  the  thing  should  be  concealed; 
But  I  will  not  condone  such  shameleaeneaB, 
Nor  so  far  wrong  you  as  to  keep  it  secret. 
Elmibx.    Yea,  I  believe  a  wife  should 

never  trouble 
Her  husband's  peace  of  mind  with  such 

vain  gossip; 
A  wooukn's  honor  doea  not  hang  on  telling; 
It  is  enough  if  she  defend  herself; 
Or  so  I  think;  Damie,  you'd  not  have 

spoken, 
If  you  would  but  have  heeded  my  adrioe. 
[ExU.] 
Oboon.  Just  Heaven!  Can  what  1  hear 

be  credited? 
Tartutts.  Yea,  brother,  I  am  wicked, 

I  am  guilty, 
A  miserable  sinner,  steeped  in  evil. 
Hie  greatest  criminal  that  ever  lived. 
Each  moment  of  my  life  is  stained  with 

Boiluree; 
And  all  is  but  a  mass  of  crime  and  filth; 
Heaven,  for  my  punishment ,  I  see  it  plainly. 
Would  mortify  me  now.  Whatever  wrong 
Hey  find  to  charge  me    with,  I'll  not 

But  guard  against  the  pride  of  self-defense. 
Believe   their   stories,    ann    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. 
OttdoN  [to  hit  ton].  You  miscreant,  can 
you  dare,  with  such  a  falsehood. 
To  try  to  stain  the  whiteness  of  his  virtue? 
Dauis.  What  I  The  feigned  meekness  of 
this  hyt>ocrite 
Makes  you  discredit .  .  . 
Oroon.  Silence,  cursed  ploguel 
TARTum:.    Ah!    Let  him  speak;  you 
chide  him  wrongfully; 
You'd  do  far  better  to  believe  his  tales. 
Why  favor  me  so  much  in  such  a  matter? 
How  can  you  know  of  what  I'm  capable? 
I  And^bould  you  trust  my  outward  scm- 
^T<,^        "bTanifi,~Bfother) 

Or  judge~nierefrom  that  I'm  the  better 

man? 
No,  no;  you  let  appearances  deceive  you; 
I 'nl  4nyllUu£l>Ul  ivlutt  I'lu  UiwigLTtD-be, 


JFFE  387 

Alas!  and  though  all  men  believe  me  godly, 
The  simple  truth  is,  I'm  a  worthless  crea- 

[To  Dahis.]  Yu,  my  dear  son,  say  on,  and 

call  me  traitor. 
Abandoned  scoundrol,  thief,  and  murderer; 
Heap  on  me  names  yet  more  detestable, 
And  I  shall  not  gainsay  you;  I've  deaerved 

them; 
111  bear  this  ignominy  on  my  knees. 
To  expiate  in  shame  the  crimee  I've  done. 
Oboon  [la  Tartuffe].  Ah,  brother,  't  is 

too  much  I 
\Toku*cm.]  You'll  not  relent, 
You  blackguard? 
Daus.  What!   His  talk  can  so  deeeive 

Oroon.  Silence,  you  scoundrel! 
[To  TASTum:.)   Brother,  rise,  I  beg  you. 
[To  hit  son.]  Infamous  villainl 

DAins.  Can  he  . . . 

Oroon.  Silence! 

Damib.  What . . . 

Oroon.  Another  word,  I'll  break  your 
every  bone. 

Tartuftk.    Brother,    in  God's   name, 
don't  be  angry  with  himi 
.1  'd  rather  bear  mysdf  the  bitterest  torture 
Than  have  him  get  a  scratch  on  my  account. 

Oroon  [to  Au  son].  Ungrateful  monster! 

Tartuffd,  Stop.  Upon  my  knees 
I  beg  you  pardon  him  .  .  . 

Ob«mn  [throwing  himeelf  on  hit  kneea  too, 
and  embracinff  TARTurml.    Alaal 
How  can  you? 
[To  hit  son.]  Villainl  Behold  his  goodness! 

Dahib.  80  .  . . 

Oroon.  Be  still, 

Damis.  Whatl  I  .  . . 

Oroon.    Be  still,  I  say.    I  know  your 
motives 
For  this  attack.  You  hate  him,  all  of  you; 
Wife,  children,  servants,  all  let  loose  upon 

You  have  recourse  to  every  shameful  trick 
To  drive  this  godly  man  out  of  my  house; 
The  more  you  strive  to  rid  yourselveeof  him. 
The  more-1'11  strive  to  moke  him  stay  with 

I'll  have  him  stru^tway  married  te  my 

daughter, 
Just  to  ramfound  the  pride  of  all  of  you. 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


DAins.   WhatI   WiH  you  fwoe  h«r  to 

(tcoept  bie  handf 
Oboon.  Yes,  and  this  very  ereiuiiK,  to 
enrage  you, 
Young  rascal!  Ahl  I'll  brave  you  all,  and 

rfiowyou 
That  I'm  the  maflt«r,  and  muat  bo  obeyed. 
Now,  down  upon  your  knees  this  instant, 

rogue. 
And  take  back  what  you  said,  and  ask  bis 
pardon. 
Damib.  Who?   I?    Ask  pardon  of  that 

cheating  scoundrel  .  .  .  T 
Okoon.  Do  you  resist,  you  beggar,  and 
insult  him? 
A  cudgel,  herel  a  cudgel! 
{To  TAKTurra.]  Don't  restrain  me. 
[To  his  ion.]    OS  with  yout    Leave  my 

house  this  instant,  sirrah, 
And  never  dare  set  Coot  in  it  again. 
Damis.    Yes,  I  will  leave  your  house, 

but.  .  . 
Oroon.  Leave  it  quickly. 
You  reprobat«,  I  disinherit  you. 
And  give  you,  too,  my  curae  into  the  bar- 
gain. \ExU  Damis.] 
WhatI  So  insult  a  saintly  man  of  GodI 
Tartuffs.  Heaven  forgive  him  all  the 
pain  he  gives  mel 
[To  Oroon.]    Could  you  but  know  with 

what  distress  I  see 
Them  try  to  vilify  me  to  my  brothert 
Oroon.  Ahl 

TARTurrs.    The  mere  thought  of  such 
ingratitude 
Makee  my  soul  suffer  torture,  bitterly  .  .  . 
My  horror  at  it  .  .  .  Ahl  my  heart  '■  so  full 
I  cannot  apeak  ...  I  think  I'll  die  of  it. 
OaaoN    [in   teart,   runnmg   to   Iht   door 
Ihrvugh  which  he  drove  ouiav  kit  son]. 
Scoundrell  I  wish  I'd  never  let  you 
go, 
But  slain  you  on  the  spot  with  my  own 

hand. 
[To  Tartuffe.]    BrothM-,  compose  your- 
sdf,  and  don't  be  angry. 
Tartuffk.    Nay,  brother,  let  us  end 
these  painful  quarrels. 
I  oee  what  troublous  times  I  bring  upon 

you. 
And  ibink  't  is  needful  that  I  leave  this 


Oboon.  What!  You  can't  mean  it? 
TABT0FFS.  Yea,  they  hate  me  hen, 
And  tiy,  I  find,  to  make  you  doubt  my 
faith. 
Crook.  What  of  it?  Do  you  find  I  listen 

to  them? 
Tartoffz.    No  doubt  they  won't  stop 
there.  These  same  reports 
You  now  reject,  may  some  day  win  a  hear- 
ing. 
Oboon.  No,  brother,  never. 
Tartupfb.   Ahl  my  friend,  a  woman 
May  easily  mislead  her  husband's  mind. 
Oboon.  No,  no. 

TABTurFB.  So  let  me  quickly  go  away 
And  thus  remove  all  cause  for  sudt  at- 
tacks. 
Oboon.  No,  you  shall  stay;  my  life  de- 
pends upon  it. 
Tartuffd.    Then  I  must  mortify  my- 
self. And  yet. 
If  you  should  wi^  .  .  . 
Orqon.  No,  neverl 
TAnrnFFB.  Very  well  then; 
No  more  of  that.  But  I  shall  rule  my  oon- 

To  fit  the  esse.  Honor  is  delicate, 

And  friendship  binds  me  to  forestall  sus- 
picion. 

Prevent  all  scandal,  and  avoid  your  wife. 
Oboon.  No,  you  shall  haunt  her,  just  to 
spite  them  aU. 

'T  is  my  delight  to  set  them  in  a  rage; 

You  shall  be  seen  together  at  all  hours; 

And  what  is  more,   the  better  to  defy 

I  '11  have  no   other  heir  but  you;  and 
straightway 

III  go  and  make  a  deed  of  gift  to  you, 

Drawn  in  due  form,  of  all  my  property. 

A  good    true    friend,   my  Bon-in~law  to 
be. 

Is  more  to  me  than  son,  and  wife,  and  kin- 
dred. 

You  will  accept  my  offer,  will  you  not? 
Tartuffv.    Heaven's  will  be  done  in 

everything! 
Okoon.  Poor  man^ 

We'll  go  make  haste  to  draw  the  deed 
aright, 

And  then  let  envy  bunt  itadf  witii  epHel 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


ACT   IV 

[Bnier  CiJanti  and  TAKTum] 

CLiANTD.  Yes,  it's  become  the  talk  of 

all  the  town. 
And  nude  a  stir  that's  acaroely  to  your 

credit; 
And  I  have  met  you,  sir,  most  opportunely, 
Ta  tell  you  in  a  word  my  fiank  opinion. 
Hot  to  sift  out  this  scandal  to  the  bottdm. 
Suppose  the  worst  for  us  —  suppose  Damis 
Acted  the  tmitor,  and  acoused  you  falsely; 
Should  not  a  Christian  pardon  this  offense, 
And  stifle  in  his  heeirt  all  wish  for  veuge- 

anoeT 
Should  you  peimit  that,  foi  your  petty 

quarrel, 
A  son  be  driven  from  his  father's  house? 
I  ten  you  yet  again,  and  tell  you  frankly, 
Every  one,  high  or  low,  is  scandaUsed; 
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  favor  with  his  father. 
TABTurn:.    Aloat    So  for  as  I'm  con- 

oemed,  how  ^adly 
Would  I  do  sol  I  bear  him  no  iH-will; 
I  pardon  all,  lay  nothing  to  his  charge. 
And  wish  with  all  my  heart  that  I  might 

serve  him; 
But  Heaven's  interests  cannot  allow  it; 
If  he  returns,  then  I  must  leave  the  house. 
After  his  conduct,  quite  unparalleled, 
All  interoourae  between  us  would  bring 

God  knows  what  every  one's  first  thought 

would  bet 
They  would  attnbute  it  to  mereet  schem- 

tug 
On  my  part  —  say  that  conscious  of  my 

guilt 
I  feigned  a  ChriHtian  love  for  my  accuser. 
But  feared  him  in  my  heart,  and  hoped  to 

And  underhandedly  secure  his  silence. 
ClAantx.    You  try  to  put  us  off  with 

specious  phrases; 
But  all  your  argumenta  are  too  far-fetched. 
Why   take  upon  yourself    the  cause  of 

Heaven?  ^' 

Does  Heaven  need  our  help  to  punisb  sin- 

neis? 


JFFE  38$ 

Leave  to  itself  the  care  of  iU  own  venge- 

auoe, 
And  keep  in  nund  the  pardon  it  commands 

Besides,   think  somewhat  less  of  men'l 
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  ea  Heaven  com- 
mands. 

And  not  perplex  our  brains  with  further 
questions. 
TABTunrx.   Already  I  have  told  you  I 
forgive  him; 

And  that  is  doing,  air,  as  Heaven  com- 
mands. 

But  af  tu  this  day's  scandal  and  aSrtmt 

Heaven  doee  not  order  me  to  Uve  with  him. 
CLiANTB.  And  does  it  order  you  to  lend 

To  what  mere  whim  suggested  to  his  father. 

And  to  accept  the  tpf  t  of  his  estates. 

On  which,  in  justice,  you  can  make  do 

claim? 
TiSTvrvK.   No  one  who  knows  me,  sir, 

can  have  the  thought 
That  I  am  acting  from  a  selfish  motive. 
The  goods  of  this  world  have  no  charms  for 

I  am  not  dauled  by  their  treacherous 

glamor; 
And  if  I  bring  myself  to  take  the  gift 
Which  he  insiste  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  cornea  may  use  it  iU 
And  not  employ  it,  as  is  my  design. 
For  Heaven's  glory  and  my  neighbon* 
good. 
CiAastm.    Eh,  air,  give  up  these  con- 
scientious scruples 
That  well  may  cause  a  rightful  heir's  com- 

Don't  take  so  much  upon  youtsdf,  but  let 

1  risk  and 


B  what's  his,  at  his  c 

^  "Consider,  it  were  better  he  n 

Ilian  you  should  be  accused  of  n^ing  him. 
1  am  astounded  that  unblushingly 


990 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


You  could  allow  such  oSeta  to  be  madel 
Tell  me  —  hoa  true  religion  &uy  maxim 
That  t«aehee  lu  to  rob  the  lawful  heir? 
If  Heaven  has  made  it  quit«  impotHible 
Damis  and  you  ebould  live  together  here, 
Were  it  not  better  you  should  quietly 
And  honorably  withdraw,  than  let  the  son 
Be  driven  out  for  your  sake,  dead  against 
All  reason?    'T  would  be  giving,  sir,  be- 
lieve me 
Such  an  example  of  your  probity  .  .  . 

TABTniTB.    Sir,  it  is  half-past  three; 
certain  devotions 
Recall  me  to  my  doeet;  you'll  forgive  me 
For  leaving  you  so  soon.  [Exit.] 

Gi.iAKTX  [alon«].  Ahl 
[Enter  Euaaii,  Maiuanb,  and  Dobinb.) 

DoHiNii  [to  GiitAKTx].  Sir,  we  beg  you 
To  help  us  alt  you  can  in  her  behalf; 
She 's  suffering  almoet  more  than  hettrt  can 

This  match  her  father  means  to  moke  to- 
night 
Drives  her  eaoh  moment  to  despair.  He's 
coming. 
'  Let  us  unite  our  efforts  now,  we  b^  you, 
And  try  by  strength  or  skill  to  change  bis 
purpoae. 

[ETtUr  Oboon.] 
Oaaov.  So  ho!  I'm  glad  to  find  you  all 
together. 
'To  Mabiank.]   Here  is  the  contract  that 

shall  make  you  happy. 
My   dear.    You  know  already  what  it 
means. 
Marianb  [an  her  kneei  before  Oaobif]. 
Father,  I  beg  you,  in  the  name  of 

-fhat  knows  my  grief,  and  by  whate'er  caa 

move  you, 
Relax  a  little  your  paternal  rights, 
And  free  my  lore  from  this  obediencel 
Oh,  do  not  make  me,  by  your  harsh  00m- 

Complain  to  Heaven  you  ever  were  my 

father; 
Do  not  make  wretched  this  poor  life  you 

gave  me. 
If,  croesing  that  fond  hope  which  I  bad 

formed, 


You'll  not  permit  me  to  belong  to  one 
Whom  I  have  dared  to  love,  at  least,  I  beg 

Upon  my  knees,  oh,  save  me  from  the 

torment 
Of  being  possessed  by  one  whom  I  abhorl 
And  do  not  drive  me  to  some  desperate  act 
By  exercising  all  your  rights  upon  me. 
OaooM  la  liUie  touched.    Come,   come, 

my  heart,  be  firm!  no  human  waak' 

Marians.  I  am  not  jealous  of  your  love 
for  him; 
Di^lay  it  freely;  give  him  your  estate. 
And  if  that's  not  enough,  add  all  of  mine; 
I  wHUn^y  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 
allote  me. 
Oroom.  These  girls  are  ninnieat  —  al- 
ways turning  nuns 
When  fathers  thwart  their  silly  love-affairs. 
Get  on  your  feetl  The  more  you  hate  to 

The  more  't  will  help  you  earn  your  soul's 

salvation. 
So,  mortify  your  senses  by  this  marriage. 
And  don't  vex  me  about  it  any  more. 
DOBUIE.  But  what ,  .  .  ? 
OaooM.   You,  hold  your  tongue,  beioto 
your  betters. 
Don't  dare  to  say  a  single  word,  I  tell  you. 
CiJantii.    If  you  will  let  me  answer, 

and  advise  . .  . 
Oboon.    Brother,  I  value  your  advice 
most  hi^y; 
'T  is  well  thought  out;  no  better  can  be 

had; 
But  you'll  allow  me  —  not  to  follow  it. 
EuuHX  [to  her  hutbaniH.    I  can't  find 
words  to  cope  with  such  a  ease; 
Your  blindness  makes  me  quite  astounded 


Yoi}  pf;  ^nritrhpij  ^^^  hjm^to  disbelieve 
The   things  we  telT^nTTappened  here 
to^ay. 
Orooh.  I  am  your  humble  servant,  and 


I  know  you're  partial  to  my  raeca)  Bon, 
And  did  n't  d&re  to  disavow  the  trick 

He  tried  to  play  ""  *^'n  p^r  miyi  •  hamAwt, 

Vou  Were  too  calm,  to  be  believed;  if  that 
Had  happened,  you'd  have  been  far  mora 
■Curbed. 
EJuimii.    And  must  our  honor  alw&ya 

At  tbe  mere  mention  of  illicit  love? 
Or  can  we  answer  no  attack  upon  it 
Except  with  blaiinK  eyes  and  lips  of  aoomT 
For  my  part,  I  just  lau^  away  such  non- 

I've  no  desire  to  make  a  loud  to-do. 
Our  virtue  ahould,  I  think,  be  gentle-na- 

Nor  can  I  quite  approve  those  savage 

prudes 
Whose  honor  arms  itself  with  t«eth  and 

To  tear  men's  eyes  out  at  the  sli^teet 

word. 
Heaven  preserve  me  from  that  kind  of 

honorl 
I  like  my  virtue  not  to  be  a  vixen, 
And  I  believe  a  quiet  cold  rebuff 
No  Eees  effective  to  repulse  a  lover. 

Oboon.   I  know   .   .   .   and  you  can't 
throw  me  off  the  scent. 

E!ufiBii.  Once  more,  I  am  astounded  at 
your  weakness; 
I  wonder  what  your  unbelief  would  answer. 
If  I  should  let  you  see  we've  t«Id  the  truth? 
.    OBOON.  See  it? 

E!i.uiBB.  Yea. 

Oboon.  Nonsense. 

EuaBB.  Cornel  If  I  should  find 
A  way  to  make  you  see  it  clear  as  day? 

Croon.  All  rubbish. 

Euins.  Whatamant  But  answer  me. 
I  'm  not  propceing  now  that  you  believe 

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? 
Okoon.    Why,   then,    I'd  say  .  . .  say 

nothing.  It  can't  be. 
l-W.Miim   Your  error  has  endured  too  long 

already. 


And  quite  too  long  you've  branded  me  a 

Uar. 
I  must  at  once,  for  my  own  satisfaotion, 
Make  you  a  witness  of  the  things  we've  told 
you. 
Oboon.  Amen  I  I  take  you  at  your  word. 
We'U  see 
What  tricks  you  have,  and  how  you'll  keep 
your  promise. 
EuoBX  [to  Dobinb].  Send  him  to  me. 
DoRiNB    [to    EudBa].     The    man's   a 
crafty  codger; 
Perhaps  you'll  find  it  difficult  to  catch 

EufiBB  [U>  DosiNS].  Oh,  not  A  lover's 
never  hard  to  cheat. 
And  self-conceit  leads  straight  to  sdf- 

Bid  him  oome  down  to  me. 
[To  Ci^ANTB  and  Mabianb.]    And  you, 
withdraw. 
[Bxeiail  ClAantx  and  Mabumb.) 
EuoBK.    Bring  up  this  table,  and  get 

under  it. 
Oboon.  What? 
EuoRx.    One  ceeential  ia  to  hide  you 

well. 
Oboon.  Why  und^  there? 
Euobb.  Oh,  dearl  Do  as  I  say; 
I  know  what  I'm  t^ut,  as  you  shall  see. 
Get  under,  now,  I  tell  you;  and  once  there 
Be  careful  no  one  either  sees  or  hears  you. 
Oboon.  I'm  going  a  long  way  to  humor 

I  must  say;  but  I'll  see  you  through  your 

scheme. 
Elmibb.  And  then  you'll  have,  I  think, 

no  more  to  say, 
[To  her  AtM&and,  u>Ao  ig  now  undo-  tlie 

UMe.]     But  mind,    I'm   going   to 

meddle  with  strange  mattera; 
Prepare  yourself  to  be  in  no  wise  shocked. 
Whatever  I  may  say  must  pass,  because 
T  is  only  to  convince  you,  as  I  promised. 
By  wheedling  speeches,  since  I'm  forced 

to  do  it, 
T'U  in«tg  this  hypocrita  ont  fiF  *''"  "— ^j 
Fl8tt«r  tbe  longings  of  his  shameless  pas- 

And  give  free  play  to  all  his  impudence. 
But,  since  't  is  for  your  sake,  to  prove  to 


a^ 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Big  guilt,  that  I  ahall  feiga  to  ahAi«  hia 

love, 
I  out  leave  off  as  soon  as  you're  convinced, 
And  things  shall  go  no  further  th&n  yo\x 

ohooae. 
So,  when  you  think  they've  gone  quite  far 

enou^, 
It  is  for  you  to  stop  his  road  pursuit, 
To  spare  your  wifa,  and  not  enpoae  me 

further 
Than  you  shall  need,  yourself,  to  undeceive 

It  IB  your  own  affair,  and  you  must  end  it 

When  .    .   .  Here  he  comes.  Keep  still, 

don't  show  yourself. 

[Enter  Tabtuffb.) 

TARTcm.  They  told  me  that  you  wished 

to  see  me  here. 
Elhibb.   Yee.    I  have  secrete  for  your 
ear  alone. 
But  shut  the  door  fint,  and  look  every- 

For  fear  of  spies. 

tTABTUFTE   goet   and   dote*  lite 
door,  and  comes  back.] 

We  surely  can't  afford 

Another  scene  like  that  we  had  just  now; 

Was  ever  any  one  so  caught  before! 

Damia  did  frighten  me  most  teiribly 

On  your  account;  you  saw  I  did  my  beet 

To  baffle  his  deaign,  and  calm  his  anger. 

But  I  was  HO  confused,  I  never  thought 

To    contradict    his    story;    still,    thank 
Heaven, 

Things  turned  out  all  the  better,  as  it  hap- 
pened, 

And  now  we're  on  an  even  safer  footbg. 

The  high  esteem  you're  held  in,  laid  the 

My  husband  can  have  no  suapicios  of  you, 
And  even  inaiats,   to  apite  the  acandal- 

mongers, 
That  we  shall  be  together  constantly; 
So  that  ia  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  paaaion. 
TAinxiFm.    Your  words  are  somewhat 

hard  to  understand. 
Madam;  just  now  you  used  a  different 

style. 


Eliors.  If  that  refusal  has  offended  you, 
How  little  do  you  know  a  woman's  hearti 
How  ill  you  guess  what  it  would  have  you 

When  it  presents  so  feeble  a  defsnsel 
Always,  at  first,  our  modesty  resiats 
The  tender  feelinga  you  inspire  us  with. 
Whatever  cause  we  find  to  justify 
The  love  that  maaters  us,  we  still  must  feel 
Some  little  shame  in  owning  it;  and  strive 
To  make  as  though  we  would  not,  when  we 

But  from  the  very  way  we  go  about  jt, 
We  let  a  lover  know  our  heart  surrendera, 
The  while  our  lips,  for  honor's  sake,  oppose 
Our  heart's  desire,  and  in  refusing  prcHnise. 
I'm  tilling  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  auch  a  declaration  had  not  pleased  me. 
And,  when  I  tried  my  utmost  to  persuade 

you 
Not  to  acc^t  the  marriage  that  was  talked 

of. 
What  should  my  eameetneas  have  hinted 

to  you 
If  not  the  int«t«st  that  you've  inspired. 
And  my  chagrin,  should  such  a  match. 

compel  me 
To  share  a  heart  I  want  all  to  myselff 
Taktofth.     'Tia,    past  a  doubt,  Q» 

bei^t  of  happiness. 
To  hear  auch  words  from  lips  we  dote  upon; 
Their  honeyed  sweetness  poun  through  all 

my  senses 
Long  draughts  of  suavity  ineffable. 
My  heart  employs  its  utmost  zeal  to  please 

And  counts  jrour  love  its  one  beatitude; 
And  yet  that  heart  must  beg  that  you  al- 

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  expieM  mjself  quite  plainly, 
I  ouiDot  trust  these  too  emiiAntitig  words 
Until  the  granting  of  some  little  favor 
I  sigh  for,  shall  assure  me  of  their  truth 
And  build  within  my  soul,  on  firm  foui)d»- 

A  lasting  faith  in  your  sweet  charity. 
Eunsa  [a/aghing  Ut  draw  her  htuband't 
otlcnMon).    Whatl    Must  you  go  so 
fast?  —  and  all  at  onoe 
Exhaust  the  whole  love  of  a  woman's 

heartT 
She  doee  herself  the  violence  to  make 
This  dear  confession  of  her  love,  and  you 
Are  not  yet  satisfied,  and  will  not  be 
Without  the  grsnting  of  her  utmost  favors? 
TABTTJTFa.    The  less  a  blessing  is  de- 
served, 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  con  believe  it. 
And  I,  who  know  how  little  I  deserve 
Your  goodness,  doubt  the  fortunes  of  my 

daring; 
Hq  T  ithf "  trust  to  nothing. 
Yott  nave  convmccdTuHoi 


duirJuMHbui 


Eluirb.  Ahl  How  your  love  enacte  the 
tyrant's  r6Ie, 
And  throws  my  mind  into  a  strange  con- 
fusion I 
With  what  fierce  sway  it  rutes  a  conquered 

heart, 
And  violently  will  have  its  wishes  granted! 
WhatI  Is  there  no  escape  from  your  pur- 
suit? 
No  req)ite  even?  —  not  a  breathing  space? 
Nay,  is  it  decent  to  be  ao  exacting, 
And  so  abuse  by  urgency  the  weakness 
You  may  discover  in  a  woman's  heart? 
TAKTOFra.  But  if  my  worship  wins  your 
gracious  favor, 
Then   why  refuse   me  some  sure  proof 
thereof? 
EuoRB.  But  how  can  I  consent  to  what 
you  wish, 
Without  trending  Heaven  you  talk  so 
much  of? 
TABTomi.  If^Heaven  is  all  that  stands 
now  in  my  way,  '    ' 

t  that  little  hindraooe; 


Your  heart  need  not  bold  back  for  such  a 
trifle. 
EuuBS.   But  they  aSr^t  us  so  with 

Heaven's  commandsl 
Tabtuffm.    I  can  dispel  theoe  foolish 
fears,  dear  madam; 
I  know  the  art  of  pacifying  scruplee. 
Heaven  forbids,  't  is  true,  some  satisfao- 

But  we  find  means  to  make  things  right 

with  Heaven. 
There  is  a  science,  madam,  that  instnietH 


How  to  enlarge  the  limits  of  o' 

According  to  our  var' 

And  rectify  the  evil  of  the  deed 

According  to  our  purity  of  motive. 

I 'U  duly  teach  you  sJI  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. 

[EuDBB  eoughi  itSl  louder.) 
Your  cough  is  very  bod. 

EufiBi.  Yes,  I'm  in  torture. 

Tartutfii.    Would  you  accept  tiiis  bit 
of  licorice? 

Elmieb-   The  case  is  obstinate,  I  find; 

The  licorice  in  the  world  will  do  no  good. 
Tahtotfb.  'T  ia  very  trying. 
EuuBS.  More  than  words  can  say. 
Tartuffe,   In  any  case,  your  scruple's 

Removed.  Withmeyou'reaureofaecrocy, 
And  there's  no  harm  unless  a  thing  is 

The  public  scandal  is  what  brings  offense, 
AEU  BmiiuL  sJMUHg  is  BuL  BiuTtTair 
~Ei3illtL  [nfUi  vou^hiim  liffllinV  So  theo, 

I  see  I  must  resolve  to  yield; 
I  must  consent  to  grant  you  everything, 
And  cannot  hope  to  give  full  eatiafaction. 
Or  win  full  confidence,  at  lesser  cost. 
No  doubt 't  is  very  hard  to  oome  to  this; 
'T  is  quite  against  my  will  1  go  bo  for; 
But  since  I  must  be  farced  to  it,  since  noth- 
ing 
That  con  be  said  sufficee  for  belief, 
Since  more  convincing  proof  is  still  de- 
manded, 
I  must  make  up  my  mind  to  humor  peo^e> 
If  my  consent  give  reason  for  oS«iae, 


394 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


8p  much  the  wotbb  for  him  who  forced  me 

to  it; 
The  fault  can  euitly  not  be  counted  mine. 
TAMTorm.  It  need  not,  madam  ;utd  the 

thing  iteelf  .  .  , 
EuoBii.  Open  the  door,  I  pnj  you,  and 

Whetiier  my  husband's  not  there,  in  the 
hall. 
Tabtuitx.  Why  take  such  care  for  him? 
Between  ourselvM, 
He  is  a  man  to  lead  round  by  the  noae. 
He's  capable  of  glorying  in  our  meetings; 
'   I've  fooled  him  so,  he'd  see  all,  and  deny 
it. 
EuoBB.  No  tnattw ;  go,  I  beg  you,  look 

And  carefully  examine  every  oomer. 

{ExU  TAHrnrra.] 
Orqok    [crauJinjf   out  from    under   the 
UMe].    That  is,  I  own,  a  man  .  .  . 
abominable! 
I  Dan't  get  over  it;  the  whole  thing  6aors 
me. 
EuoHB.  What?  You  come  out  so  soon? 
You'oannot  mean  it  I 
Qo  back  under  the  table;  't  is  not  time 

yet; 
Wait  till  the  end,  to  see,  and  make  quite 

And  don't  believe  a  thing  on  mere  conjec- 
ture. 
Oroom.  Nothing  more  wicked  e'er  came 

out  of  hell. 
EmiKB.  Dear  me!  Don't  go  and  credit 
things  too  lightly. 
No,  let  yourself  be  thoroughly  convinced; 
E)on't  yield  too  soon,  for  fear  you'll  be 
mistaken. 
[At  Tabtdfpe  eniert,  the  makea 
her  huAand  eland  behind  her.] 
Tabtuffs  [nolseeirvOBOON].  All  things 
conspire  toward  my  satiafactioa, 
Madam.    I've  searched  the  whole  apaJi- 

ment  through. 
Tlm«'i  no  one  here;  and  now  my  ravished 

Oboon  [tUipping  him].  Softlyl  You  are 
too  eager  in  your  amours; 

You  need  n't  be  so  passionate.  Ah,  ha! 

My  holy  maul  You  want  to  put  it  on 
met 


How  is  your  mul  abandoned  to  t«mptationl 
Marry  my  daughter,  eh?  —  and  want  my 

wife,  too? 
I  doubted  long  enou^  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 

EuoRB   [to  TAXTUwwm].     'Twas  quite 

against  my  character  to  play 

l^iis  part;  but  I  was  forced  to  tre&t  you 

"TARTorra.  What?  You  believe  . .  .  ? 

Oboon.  Come,  now,  no  protMtatious. 
Get  out  from  here,  and  make  no  fuss  about 
it. 

Tabttitts.   But  my  intent .  .  . 

Oboon.  That  talk  is  out  of  season. 
You  leave  my  house  this  instant. 

TAintjmi.  You're  the  one 
To  leave  it,  you  who  play  the  maBt«r  berel 
This  house  belongs  to  me,  I'll  have  you 

And  show  you  plainly  it 's  no  uae  to  turn 
To  these  low  tricks,  to  pick  a  quarrel  with 

And  that  you  can't  inault  me  at  your 

pleasure. 
For  I  have  wherewith  to  confound  your 

lies. 
Avenge  (tended  Heaven,  and  compel 
Those  to  repent  who  talk  to  me  of  leaving. 
[Bxa  Tabtuffe.) 
EuoRii.  What  sort  of  speech  is  this? 

What  can  it  mean? 
Ohqoh.    My  faith,  I'm  dased.   This  ia 

no  lau^iing  matter. 
EuiiBa.  What? 

Oboon.  From  his  words  I  see  my  great 
mistake; 
The  deed  of  gift  is  one  thing  troublee  me. 
EuoBB.  The  deed  of  gift . .  . 
Oboon.  Yes,  that  is  past  recall. 
But  I've  another  thing  to  make  me  aax- 
iouB. 
EiiUBx.  What's  that? 
Oboon.  You  shall  know  i^l.   Let's  aob 
at  onoe 
Whether  a  certain  boi  is  still  upstairs 

[Exeunt.] 


lEnltr  Obqon  and  CLiANTX.] 
CiifAimi.  Whither  away  so  fut? 
OaaoN.  How  should  I  know7 
ClCants.  Mothiuks  we  should  begui  by 

♦ftlring  oouiuel 

To  see  wh&t  cau  be  done  to  meet  the  case. 

Obqon.    I'm  all  worked  up  about  that 

wretched  box. 

More  than  all  dae  it  drives  me  to  deepair. 

CLtANTB.    That  box  must  hide  some 

mi^ty  mystery? 
Oroom.     Argas,   my   friend   who   ia   in 
trouble,  brought  it 
Himself,  moat  secretly,  and  left  it  with  me. 
He  chose  me,  in  hia  exile,  for  this  trust; 
And  on  these  documents,  from  what  he 

1  judge  his  life  and  property  depend. 

Ci^ANTK.  How  could  you  trust  them  to 
another's  hands? 

Oboon.    By  reason  of  a  conscientious 
scruple. 
I  went  straight  to  my  traitor,  to  confide 
In  him;  hia  sophistiy  made  me  believe 
That  1  muat  give  the  box  to  him  to  keep, 
So  that,  in  case  of  search,  I  might  deny 
My  having  it  at  all,  and  still,  by  favor 
Of  this  evasion,  keep  my  conacience  clear 
Even  in  taking  oath  agamst  the  truth. 

CiiiAMTx.  Your  case  is  bad,  so  far  as  I 

This  deed  of  gift,  thia  truating  of  the 

To  him,  were  both  —  to  state  my  frank 

opinion  — 
Steps  that  you  took  too  lif^tly;  be  can 

lead  you 
To  any  length,  with  these  for  hostages; 
And  since  he  holda  you  at  such  diaadvan- 

tage, 
ToU-'d  be  still  more  imprudent,  to  provoke 

So  you  must  go  some  gentler  way  about. 
Obook.    Whatt  Can  a  soul  so  base,  a 

heart  so  false, 
Hide  'neath  the  semblance  of  such  touching 

fervor? 
I  took  him  in,  a  va^bond,  a  beggart . . . 
T  is  too  mudi!    No  more  pious  folk  for 

mel 


JFFE  395 

I  shall  abhor  them  utterly  torevtt, 

And  henceforth  tnat  them  worse  than  any 

devD. 
CiJairrB.  Sot  There  you  go  again,  quite 

off  the  handle! 
Id  nothing  do  you  keep  an  even  temper. 
You  never  know  what  reason  ia,  but  al' 

Jump  first  to  one  extreme,  and  thsn  the 

You  see  your  error,  and  you  reoogniie 
That  you've  been  cozened  by  a  feignfcd 

leal; 
But  to  make  up  for't,  in  the  name  of  rea- 

Why  should  you  plunge  into  a  worse  mis- 
take, 

And  find  no  difference  in  character 

Between  a  worthless  scamp,  and  all  good 
people? 

WbatI  Just  because  a  rascal  boldly  duped 

With  pompous  show  of  false  austerity, 
Muat  you  needa  have  it  everybody 's  like 

And  no  one  'a  truly  pious  nowadays? 
Leave  such  conclusions  to  mere  infidels; 
Siatinguish  virtue  from  ite  counterfeit. 
Don't  give  esteem  too  quickly,  at  a  ven- 

But  try  to  keep,  in  thia,  the  golden  mean. 
If  you  can  help  it,  don't  uphold  impov 

ture; 
But  do  not  rail  at  true  devoutness,  either; 
And  if  you  must  fall  into  one  extreme, 
Then  rather  err  again  the  other  way. 
[Enter  Daios.) 
Daus.  What!  father,  can  the  scoundrel 
threaten  you. 
Forget  the  many  b^efite  received, 
And  in  his  base  abominable  pride 
Make  of  your  very  favors  arms  against 

Oroon.   Too  true,  my  son.  It  tortures 

me  to  think  on't. 
Daiqb.  Let  me  alone,  I'U  chop  his  ears 
off  for  him. 
We  must  deal  roundly  with  hie  insolence; 
'T  is  I  must  free  you  from  him  at  a  blow; 
T  is  I,  to  set  thingB  right,  must  strike  him 
down. 


19^ 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


CLdANTB.  9poke  like  &  true  young  man. 
Now,  just  calm  down, 
And  moderate  your  towering  tantruma, 

will  you? 
We  live  in  such  an  age,  with  such  a  king, 
That  violence  cannot  advance  our  cause. 


Mad  AUK  PsBNELiB.    What's  thia?    I 

hear  of  fearful  myaterieal 
Oroon.  Strange  things,  indeed,  for  my 
own  eyee  to  witness; 
You  see  how  I'm  requited  for  my  kindness. 
I  cealousty  receive  a  wretched  beggar, 
I  lodge  him,  entertain  him  like  my  brothM*, 
Load  him  with  benefactions  every  day, 
Ciive  him  my  daughter,  give  him  all  my 
r\^_  fortune: 

I  And  he  meanwhile,  the  villain,   raaoal, 
/  wretch, 

/    Tries  with  black  treason  to  siU>om  my 
C  wife. 

And  Dot  oont«nt  with  such  a  foul  design, 
He  dares  to  menace  me  with  my  own 

favors, 
And  would  make  use  of  those  advantagee 
Which  my  too  foolish  kindnees  aimed  him 

with, 
To  ruin  me,  to  take  my  fortune  from  me, 
And  leave  me  in  the  state  I  saved  him  from. 
DoBiNii.  Poor  man  I 
Madame  Pernblui.   My  son,  I  cannot 
possibly 
Believe  he  could  intend  so  black  a  deed. 
Oroon.  WhatT 
Madawe  Pibnxlle.    Worthy  men  are 

still  the  sport  of  envy. 
Oroon.  Mother,  what  do  you  mean  by 

such  a  speech? 
Madaub  PerkeliiB.  There  are  strange 
goings-on  about  your  house, 
And  everybody  knows  your  people  hate 

Oroon.  What's  that  to  do  with  what  I 

tell  you  now? 
Maoaue  Pernxllz.  I  always  said,  my 
son,  when  you  were  little: 
That  virtue  here  below  is  hat«d  ever; 
The  envious  may  die,  but  envy  never. 
Oroon.    What's  that  fine  speech  to  do 
with  present  facts? 


Masakc  Psrnelub.    Be  sure,  tiuy've 

forged  a  hundred  silly  lies  . . . 
Okoon.  I've  told  you  once,  I  saw  it  all 

Madaue    Fernbijji.     For    slanderers 

abound  in  calumnies  .  .  . 
Oroon.   Mother,  you'd  make  me  damn 
my  soul.  I  tell  you 
I  saw  wiUi  my  own  eyes  his  shamelessness. 
Madaue  Pxrnxlle.  Their  tonguee  for 
spitting  venom  never  lock. 
There's  nothing  here  below  they'll  not 
attack. 
Oroon,    Your  speech  has  not  a  single 
grain  of  sense. 
I  saw  it,  harkee,  saw  it,  with  these  eyes 
I  saw  —  d'  ye  know  what  sow  means?  — 

must  I  say  it 
A  hundred  times,  and  din  it  in  yam  ears? 
Madaue  Pxbnelli.   My  dear,  appear- 
ances are  oft  deceiving, 
And  seeing  should  n't  always  be  believing. 
Oroon.  I  '11  go  mad. 
Madaue  Pernxllx.     False  suspioions 
may  delude, 
And  good  to  evil  oft  is  misconBtrued. 
Oroon.    Must  I  construe  as  Christian 
charity 
The  wish  to  kiss  my  wifel 

Madaub  Peknklle.  You  must,  at  least, 
Have  just  foundation  for  accusing  people, 
And  wait  until  you  see  a  thing  for  sure. 
Oroon.  The  devil!  How  could  I  see  any 

Should  I  have  wait«d  till,  before  my  eyes. 
He  .  .  .    No,  you'll  make  me  say  thinff 
quite  improper. 
Madaue    Pebneij.e.     In    short,    'tis 
known  too  pure  a  leal  inBames  him; 
And  BO,  I  cannot  possibly  conceive 
That  he  should  tt?  to  do  what's  charged 
against  him. 
Oroon.  If  you  were  not  my  mother,  I 
should  say 
Such  thingsl ...  I  know  not  what,  I'm  so 
enraged! 
DoRiNE  [to  Oroon].    Fortune  has  pakl 
you  fair,  to  be  so  doubted; 
You   flouted  our   report,   now   yours  is 
flouted. 
CiJantb.   We're  wasting  time  here  in 
the  merest  trifling, 


TARTUFFE 


397 


Which  we  should  nther  use  in  taking 


To  goard  ounelvea  i^unst  the  scovindrel'a 
threats. 
DuiiB.  You  think  his  impudence  oould 

go  BO  far? 
Elmibx.  For  one,  I  can't  believe  it  pos- 
sible; 
Why,  hia  ingratitude  would  be  too  patent, 
CiSAtm.  Don'ttrust  to  that;  he'Ufind 
abundant  warrant 
To  give  good  color  to  his  acta  against  you; 
And  for  kna  oauae  than  this,  a  strong  cabal 
Con  make  one's  life  4  labyrinth  of  troubles. 
I  tell  you  once  again:  armed  as  he  is 
You  never  should  have  pushed  him  quit«  so 
far. 
Oroon.  True;  yet  what  oould  I  do?  The 
rascal's  pride 
Made  me  lose  all  control  of  my  teeent- 

CiJastb.  I  wish  with  all  my  heart  that 
some  pretense 
Of  peace  could  be  patched  up  between  you 

Elkirb.  If  I  had  known  what  weapons 
he  was  armed  with, 
I  never  should  have  raised  such  an  alarm. 
And  my  .  .  . 
Obook  [to  DoRiNK,  teeinq  Mb.  Lotal 
arms  tttl.  Who's  coming  now?  Go 
quick,  find  out. 
I!in  in  a  fine  state  to  receive  a  visit! 
Mb.  Lotal  \to  DoBiHB,  cU  Ote  bad:  of  the 
tlage].  Good-day,  good  sister.  Pray 
you,  let  me  see 
The  master  of  the  house. 

DoBiNB.  He's  occupied; 
I  think  be  can  see  nobody  at  present. 
Mb.  Lotal.   I'm  not  by  way  of  being 
unwelcome  here. 
My  coming  can,  I  think,  nowise  displease 

My  errand  will  be  found  to  his  advantage. 
DoBiNX.  Your  name,  then? 
Mb.  Lotai^   Tell  him  simply  that  his 

Hr.  Tartufie  has  sent  me,  for  his  goods  .  . . 
DoRiNB  [to  Oroon].    It  is  a  man  who 
comes,  with  civil  manners, 
Sent  by  Tartu£Fe,  he  says,  upon  an  errand 
Tha,t  you'll  be  pleased  with. 


CiAamte  [to  OboonI.  Surely  you  must 

And  find  out  who  he  is,  and  what  he  wants. 

Oboon  I'o  CiJANTBt.  Perhaps  he 'soome 
to  make  it  up  between  us; 
How  shall  I  treat  him? 

Ci^AHTB.  You  must  not  get  angry; 
And  if  he  talks  of  reconciliation, 
Accept  it. 

Mr.  Lotal  [to  Orook].   Sir,  good-day. 
And  Heaven  send 
Harm  to  your  enemies,  favor  to  you, 

Oroon  [tuide  lo  Ci.£amtb].    This  mild 

beginning  suits  with  my  conjectures 

And  promisee  some  oompromiee  already. 

Mb.  Lotal.  All  of  your  house  has  long 
been  dear  to  me; 
I  had  the  honor,  sir,  to  serve  your  father. 

Orooit.  Sir,  I  am  much  ashamed,  and 
ask  youi  pardon 
For  not  renlling  now  your  face  or  name. 

Mb.  Lotal.  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  ta  perform  that  office 
With  honor.  80  I've  come,  sir,  by  your  leave. 
To  render  service  of  a  certain  writ .  .  . 

Oboon.  What,  you  are  here  to  .  .  , 

Mr.  Lotal.  Pray,  su,  don't  be  angiy. 
'T  is  nothing,  air,  but  just  a  littJe  sum- 
Order  to  vacate,  you  and  yours,  this  house. 
Move  out  your  furniture,  make  room  for 

And  that  without  delay  or  putting  off. 
As  needs  must  be  .  .  . 

Oroon.  I?  Leave  this  house? 

Mr.  Lotal.  Yes,  please,  sir. 
The  house  is  now,  as  you  wejl  know,  of 

Mr.  Tartuffe's.  And  he,  beyond  dispute, 
Of  all  your  goods  ia  henceforth  lord,  and 

master 
By  virtue  of  a  contract  here  attached. 
Drawn  in  due  form,  and  unassailable, 
Dahib  [to  Mb,  Lotal].  Your  insolence 

is  monstrous,  and  astounding  I 

Mr.  Lotal  [to  Damib].  I  have  no  busi- 

neea,  air,  that  touches  you; 

[Pointing  lo  Oroon.)  This  is  tlw  gentl»- 

maiL  He's  fair  and  courteous. 


198 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


And  knowB  too  veil  &  Rentleman's  behavior 
To  wish  in  any  wise  to  question  justice. 

Oeooh.  But .  . . 

Mb,  liOTAU  Sir,  I  know  you  would  not 
for  a  million 
Wiah  to  rebel;  like  a  good  citii«n 
You'll  let  me  put  in  force  the  court's  de- 

Dahis.  Your  long  black  gown  may  welt, 
before  you  know  it, 
Mister  Court-bailiff,  get  a  thorough  beat- 
ing. 
Mr.  Lotal  [to  Oroon].  Sir,  make  your 
son  be  silent  or  withdraw. 
I  should  be  loath  to  have  to  set  things  down, 
And  see  your  namee  inscribed  in  my  report. 
DoBiNB  loavte].  This  Mr.  Loyal's  looks 

are  moet  disloyal. 
Mr.  Lotal.    I  have  much  feeling  for 
respectable 
And  honest  folk  like  you,  air,  and  con- 
sented 
To  serve  tbeoe  papera,  only  to  oblige  you, 
And  thus  prevent  the  choice  of  any  oljier 
Who,  tees  possessed  of  teal  for  you  than 

lam, 
Mi^t  order  matters  in  less  gentle  fashion. 
Oeoom.  And  how  could  one  do  worse 
than  order  people 
Out  of  their  house? 

Mr.  Lotal.  Why,  we  allow  you  Ume; 
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 

Of  officers;  and  just  for  form's  sake,  please 
You  '11  bring  your  keys  to  me,  before  retir- 
ing. 
I  will  take  care  not  to  disturb  your  test, 
And  see  there's  no  unseemly  conduct  here. 
But  by  to-morrow,  and  at  early  morning, 
You  must  make  haste  to  move  your  least 

belonginp;  • 
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, 
And,  since  I'm  treating  you  with  great  in- 
dulgence, 
I  beg  you'll  do  as  well  by  me,  and  see 
I'm  not  disturtied  in  my  discharge  of  duty. 


Okijom.  I'd  give  this  very  minute,  and 
not  grudge  it, 
The  hundred  beet  gold  louis  I  have  left. 
If  I  could  just  indulge  myself,  and  land 
My  fist,  for  one  good  square  one,  on  his 

CiiANTX  lofitU  lo  ObookI.   Carefull  — 

don't  make  Uiings  wone. 
Daiob.  Such  insolenoel 
I  hardly  can  teslram  myself.  My  hands 
Are  itching  to  be  at  hhn. 
DoBiNX.  By  my  faith. 
With  such  a  fine  broad  back,  good  Mr. 

Loyal, 
A  little  bea^ig  would  become  you  well. 
Mb.  Lotal.    My  girl,  sudi  infamottt 
words  are  actionable, 
And  warrants  can  be  issued  against  women. 
Ci^ANTB  [la  Mr.  Lotal].    Enough  of 
this  discussion,  sir;  have  done. 
Give  ua  the  paper,  and  then  leave  us, 
pray. 
Mb.  Lotal.    Then  ou  reroir.    Heaven 
keep  you  from  disaster!  [Exit.] 

Oroon.     May   Heaven    confound   you 
both;  you  and  your  masterl 
—  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? 
MAOAioi  Pbbnxllb.    I'm  all  amaied, 

befuddled,  and  beflustered! 
DoRiNS    [to    Oboon).     You   are   quite 
wrong,  you  have  no  right  to  blame 

This  action  only  provee  his  good  inteu' 

Love  for  his  neighbor  makes  his  virtui 

perfect; 
And  knowing  money  is  a  root  of  evil. 
In  Christian  charity,  he'd  talra  away 
Whatever  things  may  hinder  your  salva- 

GaaoN.    Be  stiQ.    You  always  need  ia 

have  that  told  you. 
Ci^AVm  [lo  Ohoon].    Come,  let  us  see 

what  course  you  are  to  follow. 
Elmihe.    Go  and  expose  his  bold  in- 
gratitude. 
Such  action  must  invalidate  the  contract; 
His  perfidy  must  now  appear  too  black 
To  bring  him  the  success  that  he  expects. 


TARTUFFE 


»99 


[Enter  VALfera.) 
VaiAkb.   'T  is  with  regret,  sir,  that  I 
bring  b&d  nevm; 
But  urgent  danger  forces  me  to  do  bo. 
A  cloee  and  intimate  friend  o!  mine,  who 

The  interest  I  take  in  what  oonoorng  you, 
Hae  gone  bo  far,  for  my  sake,  aa  to  break 
The  secreoy  that's  due  to  state  aSaira, 
And  eent  me  word  but  now,  that  leaves  yon 

The  one  expedient  of  sudden  flight. 

The  villain  who  so  kmg  imposed  upon  you, 

Found  means,  an  hour  ago,  to  see  the 

And  to  accuse  you  (among  other  things) 
By  putting  m  bis  handa  the  private  strong- 
box 
Of  a  stat«  criminal,  whose  guilty  Kcret, 
You  failiDg  in  your  duty  aa  a  subject 
(He  aays)  have  kept.  I  know  no  more  of  it 
Save  that  a  warrant 's  drawn  against  you, 


Ci^AMTC.    His  rights  are  armed;  and 
this  is  how  the  scoundrel 
Seeks  to  secure  the  property  he  daims. 
Oboom.    Man  is  a  wid^  animal,  111 

□wnitl 
VaiAre.    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;  tbe  bolt  is  swift  to 

And  such  as  only  flight  can  savs  you  from. 
1 11  be  your  guide  to  seek  a  place  of  safety. 
And  stay  with  you  until  you  reaoh  it,  sir. 
Oboon.  How  much  I  owe  to  your  oblig- 
ing care! 
Anotbeo'  time  must  serve  to  thank  you  fitly ; 
And  I  pray  Heaven  to  grant  me  bo  much 

That  I  may  some  day  recompense  your 

Good-bye;  see  to  it,  all  of  you  .  . . 

ClJamtb.  Come,  hurry; 
Woll  see  to  everything  Uiat's  needful. 


[Enttr  TABTunrs  and  an  Offieer.] 
Taih'ufpb  [ttoppin^  Oroon].  Softly,  sir, 
softly;  do  not  run  so  fast; 
You  have  n't  far  to  go  to  find  your  lodg- 
ing; 
By  order  of  the  prince,  we  here  arrest  you. 
Oboon.   Traitorl  You  saved  this  worst 
stroke  for  the  last; 
This  crowns  your  perfidies,  and  ruins  me. 
Tartutfh.  I  shall  not  be  embittered  by 
your  insulte. 
For  Heaven  has  tau^t  me  to  endure  all 

ClIante.    Your  moderation,    I   must 

own,  is  great, 
Damis.    How  shameleedy  the  wretch 

makes  bold  with  Heaven  I 
TAUTurFB.   Your  ravings  cannot  mov« 
me;  all  my  thought 
Is  but  to  do  my  duty. 

Mabianx.  You  must  claim 
Great  glory  from  this  honorable  act. 
TASTumi.  The  act  cannot  be  aught  but 
honorable. 
Coming  from  that  hi^  power  which  sends 

Oroon.   Ungrat«ful  wretch,  do  you  for- 
get 't  was  I 
That  rescued  you  from  utter  misery? 
TABTurrB.    I've  not  forgot  some  help 
you  may  have  given; 
But  my  first  duty  now  is  toward  my  prince. 
The  hi|^er  power  of  that  moat  sacred 

Must  stifie  in  my  heart  all  gratitude; 
And  to  such  puissant  ties  I  'd  sacrifice 
My  friend,  my  wife,  my  kindred,  and  my- 
self. 

Eluire.  The  hypocrite  I 

DoBiNE.   How  well  he  knows  the  trick 
Of  cloaking  him  with  what  we  most  reverel 

CiiAantz.    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 

Until  his  honor  forces  him  to  drive  you 
Out  of  his  house?  And  though  I  need  not 


GooqIc 


300 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


That  he'e  just  given  you  hia  whole  eatate, 

Still,  if  you  meant  to  treat  him  now  as 
guilty, 

How  could  you  then  consent  to  take  his 
(Ptt? 
TAHTcrra  [to  the  Officer].    Pray,  sir,  de- 
liver me  from  all  this  clamor; 

Be  good  enough  to  cany  out  your  order. 
Thx  OrncBK.    Yes,  I've  too  long  de- 
layed ita  execution; 

'T  is  very  fitting  you  should  urge  me  to  it; 

So,  therefore,  you  must  follow  me  at  once 

To  prison,  where  you'll  find  your  kxiging 

Tabtdttii.  Who?  I,  sirT 
The  OmcER.  You. 
Tartufte.  But  why  to  prisonT 
Thb  Offickb.  You 
Are  not  the  one  to  whom  I  owe  account. 
You,  sir  [to  Oboon],  recover  from  your  hot 

alajm. 
Our  prince  is  not  a  friend  to  double-deal- 
ing, 
Hia  eyes  can  lead  men'e  inmost  hearts,  and 

all 

/The  art  of  hypocritee  cannot  deceive  him. 
I  His  sharp  discMiunent  sees  things  clear  and 

I  His  mind  cannot  too  easily  be  swayed, 
I  For  reason  always  holds  the  balance  even. 
I  He  honors  and  exalts  true  piety, 
I  But  knows  the  false,  and  views  it  with  dis- 
gust. 

I  This  fellow  was  by  no  means  apt  to  fool 

Far  subtler  snares  have  failed  against  his 
J —        wisdom, 

II  And  his  quick  insight  pieroed  immediately 
/  X^e  hidden  baseness  of  this  tortuous  heart. 

,  the  knave  betrayed  him- 

seii, 
AndbytruerectHnpenseof  Heaven's  justice 
He  stood  revealed  before  our  monarch's 

eyes 
A  scoundrel  known  before  by  other  names, 
Whose  horrid  crimes,  detaUed  at  length, 

might  fill 
A  long-drawn  history  of  many  volumes. 
Our  monarch  —  to  resolve  you  in  a  word — 
Detesting  his  ingratitude  and  basenees. 
Added  this  horror  to  his  other  orimas, 


And  sent  me  hither  under  his  direction 

To  see  his  insolence  out-top  itself. 

And  force  him  then  to  give  you  eatisfac- 

Your  papers,  which  the  traitor  says  are  his, 
I  am  to  take  from  him,  and  give  you  bask; 
The  deed  of  gift  transferring  your  estate 
Our  monarch's  sovereign  will  makes  null 

and  void; 
And  for  the  secret  penonal  offense 
Your  friend  involved  you  in,  he  pardons 

Thus  he  rewards  your  reoent  seal,  dis- 
played 
In  helping  to  maintain  his  rights,  and  shows 
How  well  his  heart,  when  it  is  least  ex- 
Knows  bow  to  recompense  a  noble  deed. 
And  will  not  let  true  merit  miss  its  due. 
Remembering  always  rather  good  than 


Obook  [to  TABTom,  who  it  being  ltd  og 
by  Ihe  Officer].  There,  traitorl  Now, 
■  you  're  .  . , 

\BxewU  Tabtuttb  and  Offieer.\ 
ClAantx.  Brother,  hold  !  —  and  don't 
Descend  to  such  indignitiee,  I  beg  you. 
Leave  the  poor  wretch  to  his  unhappy  fate. 
And  let  remorse  oppress  him,  but  not  you. 
Hope  rather  that  hu  heart  may  now  return 
To  virtue,  hate  his  vice,  reform  hia  ways. 
And  win  the  pardon  of  our  glorious  prince; 
While  you  must  straightway  go,  and  on 

your  knees 
Repay  with  thanks  his  noble  generous 


Oroon.  Well  said!  Well  go,  and  at  his 
feet  kneel  down, 
With  joy  to  thank  him  for  his  goodness 

And  this  first  duty  done,  with  honors  due. 
We'll  then  attend  upon  another,  too. 
With  wedded  happiness  reward  Valfere, 
And  crown  a  lover  noble  and  sincere. 

[Exmxia  omnm.) 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


PHyEDRA 

(PHEDRE) 

Bv  JEAN  RACiNE 

Ihmilaail  inU  EnglUh  Hank  veru  by  ROBERT  BRUCE  BOSWELL 


ciilizedbvGoOQic 


CHARACTERS 

Thubeus,  son  of  Sgeut  and  King  o}  Athens 

Pbmdrjl,  wife  of  Theaeut  and  daughter  of  Minos  and  Paaipkai 

HiPFOLYTne,  son  of  Theseus  and  AnHope,  Queen  of  the  Amazons 

Abicia,  Princess  of  the  Stood  Royal  of  Athena 

(EsosK,  nurse  <tf  Phadra 

THBRAifXNE8,  tvior  of  Hippolj/hu 

IsUBNE,  bosom  friend  of  Aricia 

Panope,  waiting-woman  of  Phadra 

Guards 

Tht  wenc  u  laid  at  Traun,  a  lovm  o!  Oi»  PtIopanntnM 


ciilizedbvGoOQic 


ACT  I 
{StOer  HiPPOLTTTB,  Thsramxnxs.) 
HiPPOLTTDB.   My  mind  is  settled,  dear 

Ther&meaes, 
And  I  can  stay  not  mora  in  lovely  Trcesen. 
tn  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  bo  dear 
I  know  not,  nor  what  comer  of  the  earth 
Hides  him. 
TaERAUENxa.    And  where,  prince,  will 

you  look  for  him? 
Already,  to  content  your  juat  alarm, 
Have  I  not  croas'd  the  seas  on  either  side 
Of  Corinth,  aak'd  if  aught  were  known  of 

Theseus 
Where  Acheron  is  lost  among  the  Shades, 
Visited  Elis,  doubled  Toeuarua, 
And  soil'd  into  the  sea  that  saw  the  fall 
Of  IcaruB?  Inspired  with  what  new  hope, 
Under  what  favor'd  sldea  think  you  to  trace 
Bisfootstepa?  Who  knows  if  the  king,  your 

father, 
Wishes  the  aecret  of  his  absence  knownT 
Perchance,  while  we  are  trembling  for  hia 

life. 
The  hero  calmly  plots  some  fresh  intrigue, 
And  only  waits  till  the  deluded  fair  — 
HiFFOLTTca.    Cease,  dear  Theramenee, 

respect  the  name 
Of  TheaeuB.  Youthful  errors  have  been  left 
Behind,  and  no  unworthy  obstacle 
Detains  him.  Phsedra  long  has  fii'd  a  heart 
Inconstant  once,  nor  need  she  fear  a  rival. 
In  neeking  him  I  shall  but  do  my  duty, 
And  leave  a  place  I  dare  no  longer  see. 
THiaAMENXs.    Indeed!    When,  prinoe, 

did  you  begin  to  dread 
'Hieae  peaceful  haunt^ao  dear  to  happy 

childhood. 
Where  I  have  seen  yjoi^t  prefer  to  stay. 


Rather  than  meet  the  tumult  and  the  pomp 
Of  Athens  and  the  court?   What  danger 

ehun  you. 
Or  shall  I  say  what  grief? 

HiFPOLTTDs.  That  happy  time 
Is  gone,  and  all  is  idianged,  since  to  theee 

shores 
The  gods  sent  Phcdra. 

THGaAUDNES.  I  psrceive  the  cause 
Of  your  distress.  It  is  the  queen  whose  sight 
Offends  you.  With  a  step-dame's  spite  she 

schemed 
¥our  exile  soon  as  she  set  eyee  on  you. 
But  if  her  hatred  is  not  wholly  vanisb'd,  , 
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  Phedra,  aick'ning  of  a  dire  disease 
Of  which  she  will  not  speak,  weary  of  life 
And  of  heiself,  form  any  plots  aga^tst  youT 

HiPPOi.n-usi  It  is  not  her  vain  eimiity  I 

Another  foe  alarms  Hippolytus. 

I  fly,  it  must  be  own'd,  from  young  Aricia, 

The  sole  survivor  of  an  impious  race. 

What  I  You  become  hn 

too! 

The  gentle  sister  of  the  sruel  sons 
Of  Pallas  shared  not  in  thur  perfidy; 
Why  should  you  hate  such  charming  inno- 

HippoLTTUB.  I  should  not  need  to  fly,  if 

it  were  hatred. 
TBXRAiiEirES.    May  I,  then,  leam  the 
meaning  of  your  flight? 
Is  this  the  proud  Hippolytus  I  see. 
Than  whom  there  breathed  no  fiercer  foe  to 

And  to  that  yoke  which  Theseus  has  so  <rft 
Endiwed?    And  can   it  be  that  Venus, 

So  long,  will  justify  yxAir  sire  at  last? 
Has  she,  then,  setting  you  with  other  moN 


CtOo^Ic 


304 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Forced  e'en  Hippolytus  to  offer  incense 
Before  her?  Can  you  love? 

HippoLTTDB.  Friend,  aek  me  not. 
You,  who  h&ve  known  my  heart  from  in- 
fancy 
And  all  ita  feelings  of  disdainful  pride, 
Spare  ate  the  shame  of  disavowing  all 
That  I  profMs'd.   Born  of  an  Amaion, 
Tlie  wildnees  that  you  wonder  at  I  suck'd 
With  mother's  milk.  When  come  to  riper 

age, 
Reason  approved  what  Nature  had  im- 
planted. 
Sincerely  bound  to  me  by  sedous  aervice. 
You  told  me  then  the  st^iry  of  my  sire, 
And  know  how  oft,  att«ntive  to  your  voice, 
I  kindled  when  I  heard  his  noble  acta, 
As  you  described  him  bringing  consolation 
To  mortals  for  the  absence  of  Alcidee, 
The  highways  clear'd  of  monsters  and  ot 

robbOTS, 
Procrustes,  Cercyon,  Sciro,  Sinnis  alain. 
The  Epidaurian  giant's  bones  dispersed, 
Crete  reeldng  with  the  blood  of  Minotaur. 
But  when  you   told   me  of   leaa    glorious 

Troth  plighted  here  and  there  and  every- 

Young  Helen  stoleo  from  her  home  at 

Sparta, 
And  Feriboea's  tear  e  in  Salamis, 
With  many  another  trusting  heart  deceived 
Whose  very  namea  have  'scaped  his  mem- 
ory, 


By  better  ties,  —  you  know  with  what 

I  heard  and  urged  you  to  cut  short  the  tale, 

Happy  had  I  been  able  to  erase 

From   my   remembrance   that  imworthy 

Of  such  a  splendid  record.   I,  io  turn, 
.   Am  I  too  made  the  slave  of  love,  and 
brought 
To  stoop  BO  low?  The  more  cant«mptible 
That  no  renown  is  mine  such  as  exalts 
The  Dame  of  Theseus,  that  no  monsters 

Have  pven  me  a  right  to  ahare  hia  weak- 


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  ub?   By  my  father's  stem  com- 

Her  brethren's  blood  roust  ne'er  be  rein- 
forced 
By  sons  of  hers;  he  dreads  a  single  shoot 
From  stock  so  guilty,  and  would  fain  with 

Bury  their  name,  that,  even  to  the  tomb 
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 — 
Teiebamenbb.  The  gods,  dear  prince,  if 

once  your  hour  is  come, 
Care  little  for  the   reaaoDS  that  should 

guldens. 
Wishing  to  shut  your  eyee,  Theseua  ""■"bW 

His  hatred,  stirring  a  r^>elliouB  flame 
Within  you,  lends  his  enemy  new  charms. 
And,  after  all,  why  should  a  guiltless  paft- 

Alarm  you?  Dare  you  not  easay  its  sweet- 

But  follow  rather  a  fastidious  scruple? 
Fear  you  to  stray  when  Hetcidea  has  wan- 

der'd?        - 
What  heart  so  stout  that  Venua  has  not 

vanquish'd? 
Where  would  you  be  yourself,  so  long  ber 

toe. 
Had  your  own  mother,  constant  in  heraooni 
Of  love,  ne'er  glowed  with  tenderneos  ior 

Theseus? 
What  boots  it  to  affect  a  pride  you  fed  not? 
Confess  it,  all  is  changed;  for  some  time 

You  have  been  seldom  seen  with  wild  de- 
light 
U^png  the  rapid  car  along  the  strand. 
Or,  skillful  in  the  art  that  Neptune  taught. 
Making  th'  unbroken  steed  obey  the  bit; 
Less  often  tiave  t^e  woods  retum'd  our 

shouts; 
A  secret  burden  on  your  spirits  cast 
Has  dimm'd  your  eye.   How  can  I  doubt 
you  love? 


305 


Viinljr  wmiM  you  conceal  the  fatal  wound. 

Hal  not  the  fair  Aricia  touch'd  your  heart? 

HippoLTTCB.    Theramenefl,  I  go  to  find 

my  father. 
TRKiuiawzs.    Will  you  not  oee  the 
queen  before  you  atait. 
My  prinoe? 
HiPPOLTTDB.  That  is  my  purpose:  you 
can  tdl  her. 
Yee,  I  wiH  oee  her;  duty  bids  me  do  it. 
But  what  new  ill  vexee  her  dear  (EnoneT 
[Enter  (Enonx.] 
CEnomx.  Alaa,  my  lord,  what  grief  wae 
e'er  Uke  mine? 
The  queen  has  almoet  touch'd  the  gates  of 

Vainly  cloae  watch  I  keep  by  day  and  night, 
E'en  is  my  arma  a  secret  malady 
SUye  her,  and  all  her  sensee  are  diaorder'd. 
Weary  yet  reetleas  from  her  couch  she  rises. 
Pants  for  the  outer  air,  but  bids  me  see 
That  no  oae  on  hot  misery  intrudes. 
She  comes. 

HiPFOi-rrOH.  Enough.  She  shall  not  be 
disturb 'd. 
Nor  be  confronted  with  a  face  she  hat«a. 
[Exeunt  Hippolttus  and  Teira- 

[Enier  Ph.edba.1 
PasDRA.    We  have  gone  far  enough. 
Stay,  dear  (Bnone; 
Strength  fails  me,  and  I  needs  must  rest 

My  eyes  are  dauled  with  this  ^ring  light 
So  long  unseen,  my  trembling  knees  refuse 
Support.   Ah  mel 

CEnomx.    Would  Heaven  that  our  teaia 
Might  bring  reliefl 

PH.BDtu.  Ah,  how  these  cumbrous  gauds. 
These  veils  oppress  me!    What  officiouB 

hand 
Has  tied  these  knots,  and  gather'd  o'er  my 

TheM  clustering  coila?  How  all  conspires 

toadd 
To  my  distress! 

<£nonx.  What  is  one  moment  wish'd, 
Thenext,  isirkBome.  Did  you  not  just  now, 
Siok  of  inaction,  bid  us  deck  you  out, 
And,  with  your  former  energy  recall'd, 


Desiro  to  go  abroad,  and  see  the  l^t 
Of  day  once  more?  You  see  it,  and  would 

Be  hidden  from  the  sunshine  that  you 
sought. 
Phadka.  Thou  glorious  author  of  a  hap- 

Whoee  daughter  't  was  my  mother's  boast 

to  be. 
Who  well  may 'at  blush  to  see  me  in  such 

plight. 
For  the  last  time  I  come  to  look  on  thee, 
OSunI 
(Enonx.  What  I  Still  are  you  in  love  with 

death? 
Shall  I  ne'er  see  you,  reconciled  to  life. 
Forego  theee  cruel  accents  of  despair? 
Phadra.    Would  I  were  seated  in  the 

forest's  shade  I 
When  may  I  follow  with  delighted  eye, 
Thro'  glorious  dust  flying  in  full  career, 
A  chariot  — 
(Emonx.  Madam? 
PoKDRA.  Have  I  lost  my  senses? 
What  said  IT  Had  where  am  IT   Whither 

stray 
VainwishosT  Aht  The  gods  have  made  me 

I  blush,  (Enone,  and  confusion  covers 
My  face,  for  I  have  let  you  see  too  dearly 
The  shame  and  grief  that,  in  my  own  de- 

O'erflow  these  eyes  of  mine. 

(Enonx.  If  you  must  blush, 
Bluah  at  a  silence  that  inflaihes  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? 
Thrioe  have  the  shades  of  night  obscured 

the  heav'ns 
Since  sleep  has  enter'd  thro'  your  eyes,  and 

The  dawn  has  chased  the  darkness  thence, 

since  food 
Pase'd  your  wan  lips,  and  you  are  faint  and 

languid. 
To  what  dread  purpose  ie  your  heart  in- 

clined? 
How  dare  you  make  attempts  upon  your 

life, 
And  BO  offend  the  gods  who  gave  it  you. 


3o6 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Prove  faloe  to  TbteeuB  and  your  marriage 

Ay,  and  betray  your  most  unhapp7  chil- 

Bending  their  necka  youreelf  beneath  the 

rhat  day,  be  Eure,  which  roba  them  of  their 

mother. 
Will  give  hi^  bopea  back  to  the  stranger's 

To  that  proud  enemy  of  you  and  yours, 
To  whom  an  Amaion  gave  birth,  I  mean 
Hippoly  tuB  — 

I^ADRA.  Ye  gods! 

(Enonx.  Ah,  thia  reproach 
Moves  youl 

Phsdra.    Unhappy  woman,   to  what 

Gave  your  mouth  utterance? 

(Enonb.  Your  wrath  is  just. 
T  is  well  that  that  ill-omen'd  name  can 

Such  rage.  Then  live.    Let  love  and  duty 

Their  claima.   Live,  suffer  not  this  eon  of 

Scythia, 
Cruahit^  your  children  'neath  his  odious 

To  rule  the  noble  offspring  of  the  gods, 
Titepnreet  blood  of  Greece.  Make  no  delay; 
Each   moment  threatens  death;   quickly 

Your   ahatter'd   stnngth,     while  yet   the 

torch  of  life 
Holds  out,  and  can  be  fann'd  into  a  flame. 
pB^niu.   Too  loi^  have  I  endured  its 

guilt  and  shame  1 
CEnone.  Why?  What  remorse  gnaws  at 
your  heart?  What  crime 
Can  have  diaturb'd  you  thus?  Your  hands 

Polluted  with  the  blood  of  innocence? 
Pb«dra.    Thanks   be   to   Heav'n,   my 
hands  are  free  from  stain. 
Would  that  my  soul  were  innocent  as  they! 
(Emokx.    What  awful  project  have  you 
then  conceived, 
Whereat  your  conscience  should  be  still 
alarm 'd7 
PaaDBA.     Have   I   not  said  enough? 
Spare  me  the  rest. 
I  die  to  save  myself  a  full  confession. 


(Enone.  Die  then,  and  keep  a  silence  so 
inhuman; 
lek  some  other  hand  to  close  your 


But 


Tho'  but  a  spark  of  life  i«mains  within  you, 
My  soul  shajl  go  before  you  to  the  Shades. 
A  thousand  roads  are  always  open  thither; 
Pain'd  at  your   want  of  confidence,   I'll 

The  shortest.    Cruel  one,  when  has  my 

faith 
Deoeivedyou?  Think  bow  in  my  arms  you 

lay 
New  born.   For  you,  my  country  and  my 


I  have  forsaken.  Do  you  thus  repay 
My  faithful  service? 

Phmdba.  What  do  you  expect 
From  words  so  bitter?    Were  I  to  break 

silence, 
Horror  would  freeze  your  blood. 

(Enonb.  What  can  you  say 
To  horrify  me  more  than  to  behold 
You  die  before  my  eyee? 

Ph^3>ba.  When  you  shall  know 
My  crime,  my  death  will  follow  none  ths 

But  with  the  added  stain  of  guilt. 

CEnokb.  Dear  madam. 
By  all  the  tears  that  I  have  shed  for  you, 
By  these  weak  knees  I  clasp,  relieve  my 

From  torturing  doubt. 

Pbadra.  It  is  your  wish.  Then  rise. 

(Enonk.  I  hear  you.  Speak. 

Pbasra.    Heav'na!   How  shall  I  begin? 

(Ekonb.  Dismiss  vain  fears,  you  wound 
me  with  distrust. 

Phadba.  O  fatal  animosity  of  Venus! 
Into  what  wild  diatractions  did  she  cast 
My  modierl 

^NONB.   Be  they  blotted  from  remem- 
brance, 
And  for  all  time  t«  come  buried  in  silence. 

Phsdra.    My  sister  Ariadne,  by  what 

Were  you  betray'd  to  death,  on  lonely 

Forsaken  1 

(E!nonx.  Madam,  what  deep-seat«d  pain 
Prompts  these  reproaches  against  all  your 
kin? 


pBMDRi.  It  is  tbe  will  of  Venus,  and  I 

I^flt,  most  vmbappy  of  a  funilj' 
When  all  wen  wretohed. 

(Enonk.  Do  you  loveT 

Phxdka.  I  feel 
All  its  nuul  fever. 

CEkonv.  Ah!  For  whom? 

Phxdha.  Hear  now 
The  crowiunK  horror.    Yes,  I  love  —  my 

Upe 
l^cmble  to  eay  his  name. 

(Ekoms.  Whom? 

Phxdra.  Know  you  him, 
Son  of  the  Amawn,  whom  I've  oppreaa'd 
So  long? 

(Ekonx.  HippolytuaT  Great  godel 

Phxdea.   'T  is  you 
Have  named  him. 

(Enonk.  All  my  blood  within  my  veins 
Seans  frown.  0  despair  I  Ocurs&lrwiel 
ni-omen'd  journey  I  L^nd  of  misery! 
Why  did  we  ever  reach  thy  dangerous 

Ptumw*.    My  wound  ia  not  so  recent. 

Scarcely  had  I 
Been  bound  to  Theseus  by  tbe  marriage 

yoke. 
And  happiness   and   peace   seem'd    well 

Mcured, 
When  Athens  bhoVd  me  my  proud  enemy. 
I    look'd,    alternately    tum'd    pale    and 

bhish'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  bum'd 

Venus  I  felt  in  all  my  fever'd  frame, 
Whose  fury  had  so  many  of  my  race 
I^umled.   With  fervent  vows  I  sought  to 

Her  torments,  built  and  deck'd  for  her  a 

And  there,  'mid  countless  victims  did  I 

seek 
Tbe  reason  I  had  lost;  but  all  for  naught, 
No  remedy  could  cure  the  wounds  of  love  I 
In  vain  I  oCer'd  incense  on  ber  altan; 
When  I  invoked  her  name  my  heart  adored 
Htppolytua,  before  me  constantly; 
And  when  I  made  her  altars  smoke  with 


'T  was  for  a  god  whose  name  I  dared  not 

utter. 
I  fled  his  presence  everywhere,  but  found 

0  crowning  horror!  — in  his  father's  tea. 

Against  myself,  at  last,  I  raised  revolt, 
Ajid  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  damor'd  for  his  exile. 
Till  I  had  torn  him  from  his  father's  arms. 
I  breathed  once  more,  (Enone;  in  his  ah- 

My  days  fiow'd  on  less  troubled  than  before. 
And  innocent.  Bubmissive  to  my  husband, 
I  hid  my  grief,  and  of  our  fatal  marriage 
Cherish'd  the  fruits.  Vain  caution!  Cruel 

Fate!  . 
Brought  hither  by  my  spouse  himself,  I  saw 
A^in  the  enemy  whom  I  had  banicji'd, 
And  the  old  wound  too  quickly  bled  afresh. 
No  kmger  is  it  love  hid  in  my  heart, 
But  Venus  in  her  might  seiting  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  paasian; 
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. 

[ErUer  Panope.) 

Panops.    Fain  would  I  hide  from  you 

tidings  so  sad. 

But 't  is  my  duty,  madam,  to  reveal  them. 

The  hand  of  death  has  seised  your  peerless 

husband, 
And  you  are  last  to  hear  of  this  disaster. 
(Enonx.  What  say  you,  Panope? 
Panopi.   The  queen,  deceived 
By  a  vain  trust  in  Heav  'n,  b^  safe  return 
For  Theseus,  while  Hippolytus  his  son 
Learns  of  his  death  from  vessels  that  are 

In  port. 


:.L|,i,zedi!,GoOQlc 


3o8 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Phxdra.  Ye  godat 
P&NOpa.  Divided  counsels  sway 
Tbe  choice  of  Atheiw;  some  would  luTe  the 

Your  child,  for  master;  othera,  disregftrding 
The  lawB,  dare  to  rapport  tiie  Btnnger'e 

'T  ie  even  said  that  a  presumptuous  faction 

Would  crown  Aricia    and  the  house  of 
PaUHs. 

I  deem 'd  it  right  U>  warn  you  of  this  danger. 

Hippolytufl  already  is  prepared 

To  start,  and  should  he  show  himaeir  at 
Athena, 

T  is  to  be  fear'd  the  fickle  crowd  will  all 

Follow  his  lead. 
(Enonb.  Enough,  The  queen,  who  heare 
you, 

By  no  means  will  neglect  this  timely  warn- 
ing. [Exit  Pakopx.] 

Dear  lady,  J  had  almost  ceased  to  urge 

The  wish  that  you  should  live,  tiiinldng  to 

My  mistreaH  to  the  tomb,  from  whidi  my 

Had  fail'd  to  turn  you;  but  this  new  mis- 
fortune 
Alters  the  aspect  of  affairs,  and  piompta 
Freeh  measures.    Madam,  Theaeua  is  no 

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  lew  but  youT 
No  hand  but  yours  will  dry  his  tears.  Then 

For  him,  or  else  the  tears  of  innocence 
Will  move  the  gode,  his  ancestors,  to  wrath 
Against  his  mother.  Live,  your  guilt  is  gone. 
No  Uame  attaches  to  your  passion  now. 
Tlie  king'ij  decease  has  freed  you  from  the 

That  made  the  crime  and  horror  of  your 

HippolytuB  no  longer  need  be  dreaded. 
Him  you  may  see  henceforth  without  re- 
It  may  be,  that,  convinced  of  your  aversion, 
He  means  to  head  the  rebels.  Undeceive 

Soften  hie  <mUoub  heart,  and  bend  his  pride. 
King  of  this  fertile  land,  in  Troeien  here 


His  portion  liee;  but  as  he  knows,  the  laws 
Give  to  your  son  the  ramparts  that  Min- 


Built  and  protects.  A  common  enemy 
Threatens  you  both,  unite  then  to  oppose 

PoamnA.  To  your  counsel  I  consmt. 
Yes,  I  will  live,  if  life  can  be  lestored, 
If  my  affection  for  a  son  has  powV' 
To  rouse  my  sinking  heart  at  such  a  dan- 
gerous hour.  iExeunt.] 


ACT  II 

iBrUer  Akicia  and  Ibuenx.] 

Abicia.    Bippolytus  request  to  see  me 

HippolytuB  desire  to  bid  fsrewelll 

Is't  true,  IsmeneT  Are  you  not  de(«ivedT 

leiiENi:.  This  ie  the  first  result  of  The- 
seus' death. 
Prepare  yourself  to  see  from  every  side 
Hearts  turn  toward  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.    'T  is  not  then,  Ismene, 
An  idle  tale?  Am  I  no  more  a  slave? 
Haw  I  no  enemies? 

leuBNS.  The  gpda  oppose 
Your  peace  no  longer,  and  the  soul  of 

TheeeuB 
Is  with  your  brothers. 

AxiciA.  Does  the  voice  of  fame 
Tell  how  he  died? 

laifSNB.  Rumora  incredible 
Are  spread.   Some  say  that,  seising  a  new 

bride, 
The  faithless  husband  by  the  waves  was 

swallow 'd. 
Othera  affirm,  and  this  report  prevails. 
That  with  Pirithofls  to  the  world  bdow 
He  went,  and  saw  the  shores  of  dafk  Coey- 

Showing  himself  alive  to  the  pale  ^losts; 
But  that  he  could  not  leave  those  ^oom^ 

realms. 
Which  whoso  enters  there  abides  forever. 
Abicia.  Shall  I  believe  that  en  hii  das- 

tined  hour 


.Goog[c 


Its  terron? 

Ibhenx.  He  IB  dead,  and  you  »loae 
Doubt  it.   The  men  of  Athena  moura  his 

Trcesen  already  h&ila  Hippolytua 

As  king.  And  Phiedra,  fearing  for  her  son. 

Aska  oouiwel  of  the  frienda  who  share  her 

trouble, 
Here  in  tha  palace. 

Abicia.  Will  Hippolytua, 
Hunk  you,  prove  kinder  than  his  sire,  make 

li^t 
My  chains,  and  pity  my  misfortuneeT 

IsHzm.  Yes, 
I  think  BO,  madam. 

Abicia.  Ah,  you  know  him  not 
Or  you  would  never  deem  so  bard  a  heart 
Can  pity  feel,  or  me  alone  except 
FVom  the  contempt  in  which  he  holds  our 

Hm  be  not  long  avoided  every  spot 
Where  we  resort? 

lauBtn.  I  know  what  talee  an  told 
Of  proud  Hippolytus,  but  I  have  seen 
Him  near  you,  and  have  watcb'd  with  curi- 
ous eye 
How  one  eeteem'd  ao  eold  would  bear  him- 

aelf. 
Little  did  his  behavior  correspond 
With  what  I  look'd  for;  in  his  face  confusion 
Appear'd  at  your  first  glance,  he  could  not 

His  languid  eyes  away,  but  gaied  on  you. 
Love  ia  a  word  that  may  offend  his  pride. 
But  what  the  tongue  disowns,  looks  can 

betray. 
Abicu.    How  eagerly  my  heart  hears 

what  you  say, 
Tho'  it  may  be  delusion,  dear  Ismenel 
Did  it  seem  pOHsible  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. 


UKA  309 

The  hope  of  an  iUustrioua  bouav,  whose 

blood 
Earth  drank  with  sorrow,  near  aldn  to  hia 
Whom  she  herself  produced.   Since  then, 

you  know 
How  thro'  all  Greece  no  heart  has  been 

allow'd 
To  aigh  for  me,  lest  by  a  aiater's  flame 
The  brothera'  aehea  be  perchance  rekindled. 
You  know,  besides,  with  what  disdain  I 

view'd 
My  conqueror's  mispiciona  and   precau- 

And  how,  oppoe'd  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  bis  son. 
Not  that,  attracted  merely  by  the  eye, 
I  love  him  for  his  beauty  and  hia  grace, 
EndowmentA  which  he  owes  to  Nature'a 

bounty, 
Charma  which  he  seems  to  know  not  or  to 

I  love  and  prize  in  him  richer  metre  rare, 
The  viri:ues  of  his  sire,  without  hia  faults. 
I  love,  B8  I  must  own,  that  generous  pride 
Which  ne'er  has  stoop'd  beneath  the  amor- 

Phsdra  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  ia  always  open. 
But  to  make  one  who  ne'er  haa  stoop'd  be- 

Bend  his  proud  neck,  to  pierce  a  heart  of 

To  bind  a  captive  whom  hia  chains  astonish. 
Who  vainly  'gainst  a  pleasing  yoke  rebels, — 
lliat  piques  my  ardor,  and  I  long  for  that. 
'T  was  eaaier  to  diaarm  the  god  of  strength 
Than  this  Hippolytus,  for  Hercules 
Yielded  so  often  to  the  eyes  of  beauty. 
As  to  make  triumph  cheap.    But,  dear 

lamene, 
I  take  too  little  heed  of  opposition 
Beyond  my  pow'r  to  quell,  and  you  may 

Humbled  by  sore  defeat,  upbraid  the  pride 
I  now  admire.  What!  Can  he  love?  and  1 
Have  had  the  happmess  to  bend  — 

IsuENB.  Heoomes. 
Yourself  ahall  bear  him. 


GooqIc 


310 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


[Bnter  HifpOlttos.) 

HippoLTTUS.  I^y,  ere  I  go 

My  duty  bids  me  tell  you  of  your  change 

Of  fortune.  My  worat  fears  are  reftliied; 

My  aire  is  dead.    Yea,  his  protracted  ab- 

Was  caused  as  I  foreboded.  Death  alone, 
Ending  his  toSs,  could  keep  him  from  the 

Conoeal'd  so  Idtig.  The  gods  at  last  have 

doom'd 
Aleidee'  friend,  companion,  and  aucoessor. 
I  think  your  hatred,  tender  to  hia  virtues, 
Can  hear  auch  terms  of  praise  without  re- 
sentment. 
Knowing  them  due.  One  hope  have  I  that 

soothes 
My  Borrow;  I  can  free  you  from  reetraint. 
Lo,  I  revoke  the  laws  whose  rigor  moved 
My  pity;  you  are  at  your  own  disposal. 
Both  heart  and  hand;  here,  in  my  heritage, 
In  Trceien,  where  my  grandaire  Pittheus 

Of  yore  and  I  am  now  aeknowledged  king, 
I  leave  you  free,  free  as  myself,  —  and 

Abicia.  Your  kindness  is  too  great,  't  is 
overwhelming. 
Such  generoaity,  that  pays  disgrace 
With  honor,  lende  more  force  than  you  can 

think 
To  those  harsh  laws  from  which  you  would 
release  me. 
HippoLYTiTs.   Athens,  uncertain  how  to 
fill  the  throne 
Of  ThesBus,  speaks  of  you,  anon  of  me. 
And  then  of  Phsdra'a  son.  / 

Aricia.  Of  me,  my  lord?  i 

HiPPOLTTus.  I  know  myself  excluded  by  I 
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  ia  check'd  by  jusW  claims ; 
To  you  I  yield  my  place,  or,  rather,  own 
That  it  is  yours  by  ri^t,  and  yours  the 


Adoption  placed  it  in  the  hands  of  .^/nw. 
Athens,  by  him  protected  and  increased, 
Welcomed  a  Idog  ao  generous  as  my  sire, 
And  left  your  hapless  brothers  in  oblivion. 
Now  she  invites  you  back  within  her  walla ; 
Protracted  strife  has  cost  her  groans  enough, 
Her  fields  are  glutted  with  your  kinemen'a 

blood 
Fatt'ning  the  fuirowg  out  of  whichitaprung 
At  first.  I  rule  this  Trceien;  while  the  son 
Of  nuadra  has  in  Crete  a  rich  domain. 
Athens  is  yours.  I  will  do  all  I  can 
To  join  for  you  the  votes  divided  now 


Asicu.  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  generoeityT  What  god  has  put  it 
Into  your  heart?  Well  is  the  fame  deserved 
lliat  you  enjoyi  That  fame  falls  short  of 

trutbt 
Would  you  for  me  prove  traitor  to  yourselft 
Was  it  not  boon  enough  never  to  ha(«  me, 
So  long  to  have  abstoin'd  from  hartforing 
The  enmity  — 

HiPPOLTTca.    To  hate  you?    I,  to  hate 
you? 
However    darkly    my    fierce    pride    was 

Do  you  suppose  a  monster  gave  me  birth? 
What    savage    temper,    what    envenom'd 

hatred 
Would  not  be  mollified  at  nght  of  you? 
Could  I  resiBt  the  soul-bewitching  charm  — 

Aricia.  Why,  what  is  this,  sir? 

HiPPOLTTOB.  I  have  said  too  much 
Not  to  say  more.  Prudence  in  vain  resists 
l^e  violence  of  passion.   I  have  broken 
Silence  at  last,  and  I  must  tell  you  now 
Thesecretthatmy  heart  can  bold  no  longer. 

You  see  before  you  an  unhappy  instance 
Of  hasty  pride,  a  prince  who  daims  com- 


Who,  pitying  poor  mortals  that  were  shi{^ 

In  seeming  safety  view'd  the  storms  from 

land. 
Now  find  myself  to  the  same  fate  exposed, 
Toas'd  to  and  fro  upon  a  sea  of  troublwt 


^ 


Hy  boldnesB  haa  been  vanquiaii'd  in  a 


And  humbled  is  the  pride  wherein  I  boaated. 
For   neariy  aiz  months   pait,   ashamed, 

deepairing, 
Bearii^  where'er  I  go  the  shaft  that  rendfl 
My  heart,  I  stoug^  vainly  to  be  free 
FVom  you  and  from  myMlf;  I  shun  you, 

present; 
Absent,  I  find  you  near;  I  see  your  form 
In  the  dark  foreat  depths;  the  shades  of 

night, 
Nor  less  bnmd  daylight,  bring  back  to  my 

view 
The  charms  t^t  I  avoid;  all  things  con- 
To  make  Hippolytus  your  slave.  For  fruit 
Of  all  my  bootless  si^ts,  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  leasoDs;  and  the 

Echo  my  groans  instead  of  joyous  shouts 
Urging  my  fiery  steeds. 

Hearing  this  tale 
Of  passion  so  uncouth,  you  blush  perchance 
At  your  own  handiwor^.  With  what  wild 

I  offer  you  my  heart,  strange  captive  held 
By  silked  jeest  But  dearer  in  your  eyes 
Should  be  the  offering,  that  this  language 

Strange  to  my  hps;  reject  not  vows  ex- 

press'd 
So  ill,  which  but  for  you  had  ne'er  been 


[Enter 

Thbraubneb.  Prince,  the  queen  comes. 
I  herald  her  approach. 
'T  is  you  she  seeta. 
HiPPOLTTua.  Me? 

Thzkuiznxs.  What  her  thou^t  may  be 
I  know  not.  But  I  speak  OD  her  behalf. 
She  would  converse  with  you  ere  you  go 

HippoLTTus.  What  ahsU  I  say  to  bwT 

Can  ahe  expect  — 
AsiciA.    You  cannot,  aoble  Prince,  re- 
fuse to  hear  her, 
Howe'er  convinced  she  is  your  enemy, 
Some  shade  of  pity  to  her  tears  is  due. 


HippOLTTcs.    Shall  we  part  thus?  and 
will  you  let  me  go. 
Not  knowing  if  my  boldness  has  offended 
The  goddeas  I  adoreT  Whether  this  heart 
Left  in  your  hands  — 

Ajucu.  Go,  Prince,  pursue  the  schemes 
Your  generous  soul  dictates,  niake  Athenf 

My  scepter.  All  the  gifts  you  offer  me 
Will  I  accept,  but  this  high  throne  of  em' 

pire 
Is  not  the  one  most  precious  in  my  light. 
[Exeuni  Aiucu  and  Ibmxhk.] 
HippoLTTUB.  Friend,  ia  all  readyT 
But  the  Queen  approaches. 
Go,  see  tiie  vessel  in  fit  trim  to  sail. 
Baste,  bid  the  crew  aboard,  and  hoist  the 

Then  soon  return,  and  so  deliver  me 
From  interview  moet  irksome. 

[SxU  TazRAHxmiB.] 

[Enter  Phadra  and  (Enone.1 
PH.BDRA  (10  (Enone).  There  I  see  himt-"" 
My  blood  forgets  to  flow,  my  tongue  to 

What  I  am  come  to  say. 

(Enons.  Think  of  your  son. 
How  all  his  hopes  depend  on  you. 

Pbmd&a.  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  haa  he  a  father, 
And  at  no  distant  day  my  son  must  witne«' 
My  death.  Already  do  a  thousand  foee 
Threaten  his  youth.  You  only  can  defeni 

But  in  my  secret  heart  remorse  awakes, 
And  fear  lest  I  have  shut  your  ears  against 
His  criee.  I  tremble  lest  your  righteous 

an^r 
Visit  on  him  ere  long  the  hatred  eam'd 
By  me,  his  mother. 

HippoLTTiTB.  No  auch  base  resentment, 
Madam,  is  mine. 

Phjedra.  I  could  not  blame  you,  Prince, 
If  you  should  hate  me.  I  have  injured  you: 
So  much  you  know,  but  could  not  read  my 

T*  incur  your  enmity  has  been  mine  aim: 
The  selfsame  borders  oould  not  hold  us 
botii; 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


In  public  luad  in  private  I  ded&red 
Myself  your  foe,  and  found  do  peace  till 

PkrtMl  us  from  each  other.  I  forbade 
Your  very  name  to  be  pronounced  befora 

And  yet  if  puoiduneot  should  be  prapor- 

To  the  offense,  if  only  hatred  draws 
Your  hatred,  never  woman  merited 
More  pity,  leas  deserved  your  emnity. 
HippoLTTUB.    A  mother  jealous  of  her 
children's  rights 
Seldom  forgivee  the  offspring  of  a  wife 
Who  leign'd  before  her.    Harassing  sus- 
picions 
An  common  sequels  of  a  second  marriage. 
Of  me  would  any  other  have  been  jeabus 
No  less  than  you,  perhaps  more  violent. 
Pksdoa.   Ah,  Prince,  how  Heav'n  has 
from  the  general  law 
Made  me  exempt,  be  that  same  Heav'n  my 

Far  different  is  the  trouble  that  devours  me '. 

HippoLTTDB.   This  is  no  time  for  self- 

reproaohes,  madam. 

It  may  be  that  your  husband  still  beholds 

The  light,  and  Heav'n  may  grant  him  safe 

In  answer  to  our  prayets.  His  guardian  god 

Is  Neptune,  ne'er  by  him  invoked  in  vain. 

PH.KnHA.  Hewhohasseen  themaDsiooB 

of  the  dead 
Returns  not  thence.  Since  to  those  gloomy 

shores 
Theseus  is  gone,  'tis  vain  to  hope  tliat 

May  send  him  back.    Prince,  there  is  no 

release 
F^m  Acheron's  greedy  maw.  And  yet,  me- 

He  lives,  and  breathes  in  you.   I  see  him 

BtiU 
Before  me,  and  to  him  I  seem  to  qieak; 
My  heart  — 

Ohi  I  am  mad;  do  what  I  will, 
I  cannot  hide  my  passion. 
HiPPOi-TTiTB.  Yefl,  I  Bee 
The  strange  effects  of  love.   Tlteseus,  tho' 

dead. 
Seems  present  to  your  eyes,  for  in  your  soul 
Hiere  burns  a  consent  flame. 


PaxDRA.  Ah,  yes,  for  1 
I  languish  and  I  long,  not  as  the  Shades 
Have  seen  him,   of  a  thousand  different 

The  fickle  ktver,  and  of  Pluto's  bride 
The  would-be  ravisher,  but  faithful,  proud 
E'en  to  a  slif^t  disdain,  with  youthful 

chirms 
Attracting  every  heart,  as  gods  are  painted. 
Or  like  yourself.  He  had  your  mien,  your 

ey«. 
Spoke  and  could  blush  like  you,  when  to  the 

isle 
Of  Crete,  my  childhood's  home,  he  crosi'd 

the  waves. 
Worthy  to  win  tiie  love  of  Minos' daughters. 
What  were  you  doing  then7  Why  did  he 

The  flow'r  of  Gieece,  and  leave  HippoIytusT 
Oh,  why  were  you  too  young  to  have  em- 

bark'd 
On  board  the  ship  that  brought  thy  sire  to 

Crete? 
At  your  hands  would  the  monster  then  have 

perish'd, 
Despite  the  windinp  of  his  vast  retreat. 
To  guide  your  doubtful  steps  within  the 

My  aist«r  would  have  arm'd  you  with  the 

But  no,  therein  would  Ptuedra  have  fore- 

stall'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 

What  anxious  care  a  life  so  dear  had  ooetmel 
No  tluead  had  satisfied  your  lover's  fearB: 
I  would  myself  have  wi^'d  to  lead  the  way. 
And  share  the  peril  you  were  bound  to  face; 
Ph»dra  with  you  would  ha^'e  explored  the 

With   you   emerged   in   safety,   or  have 
perish'd. 
HippoLTTCS.  Gods!  What  is  this  I  hear? 
Have  you  forgotten 
That  Theeeus  is  my  father  and  your  hus- 
band? 
pBJcnRA.   Why  should  you  taacy  I  havt 
lost  remMnbranoe 
Thereof,  and  am  regardless  of  mine  honorT 


HippOLTTUB.  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  — 

Phxdha.  Ahl  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 
Hss  fed  the  poison  that  infecte  my  brain. 
The  ill-Btarr'd  object  of  celestial  vengeance, 
I  un  not  BO  detestable  to  you 
As  to  myself.  The  gods  will  bear  me  wit- 

Wbo  have  within  my  veins  kindled  this  fire, 
Tlie  gods,  who  take  a  barbarous  delight 
In  leacUng  a  poor  mortal's  heart  astray. 
Do  you  yourself  recall  to  mind  the  past: 
'T  was  not  enough  for  me  to  fiy,  I  chased 

Out  of  tJie  country,  wishing  to  appear 
Inhuman,  odious;  to  resist  you  better, 
I  sought  to  make  you  hate  me.    All  in 

Hating  me  more  I  loved  you  none  the  lees: 
New  charms  were  lent  to  you  by  your  mis- 
fortunes. . 
I  have  been  drown'd  in  tears,  and  scorch'd 

Your  oWn  eyee  might  convince  you  of  the 

truth, 
If  for  one  moment  you  could  look  at  me. 
What  is 't  I  eay?  "Hunk  you  this  vile  con- 
That  I  have  made  is  what  I  meant  to  utterT 
Not  daring  to  betray  a  eon  for  whom 
I  trembled,  't  was  to  beg  you  not  to  hate 

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  monstorl  Let  her  not  escape 

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.   Strilce  home.    Or,  if  it  would 


To  steep  your  hand  in  such  polluted  blood. 
If  that  were  punishment  too  mild  to  slalce 
Your  hatred,  lend  me  then  your  sword,  if 

Your  arm.  Quick,  giv't. 

(Gnomi.  What,  madam,  will  you  doT 
Just  godst  But  some  one  comes.   Go,  fly 

from  shame. 
You  cannot  'scape  if  seen  by  any  thus. 

[Exeunt  Pbxdrk  and  (Esotti.] 

[Enter  Thxbauxnes.] 
Thebauenbb.     Is  '  that    the    form    of 
Phffidra  that  I  see 
Hurried  awayT  What  mean  these  signs  of 

sorrow? 
Where  is  your  sword?  Why  are  you  pale, 
confused? 
B1PPOLTTU8.    Friend,  let  us  fly.   I  am, 
indeed,  confounded 
With  horror  and  astonishment  extreme. 
Phndra  —  but  no;  gods,  let  this  dreadful 

Bemain  forever  buried  in  oblivion. 

Tkehaubnbb.  The  ship  is  ready  if  you 
wish  to  soil. 
But  Athens  has  already  giv'n  her  vot«; 
Their  leaders  have  consulted  all  her  tribee; 
Your  brother  is  elected,  Pluedra  wing 

HiFPOLTTUB.  Pluedra? 

THBRumtniB.  A  herald,  charged  with  a 

From  Athens,  has  arrived  to  place  the  reins 
Of  power  in  her  hands.  Her  son  is  Idi^. 
HippoLTTua.  Ye  gods,  who  know  her,  do 
ye  thus  reward 
Her  virtue? 
Tberauenss.  A  faint  rumor  meanwhile 
whispers 
That  Theseus  is  not  dead,  but  in  Epinis 
Has  shown  himself.    But,  after  all  my 

I  know  too  well  — 

'HippOLTTDB.   Let  nothing  be  neglected. 
This  rumor  must  be  traced  back  to  its 

If  it  be  found  unworthy  of  belief. 
Let  us  set  sail,  and  cost  whate'er  it  may, 
To  hands  deserving  trust  the  scepter's 
sway.  {fixeunt.] 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


ACT  III 

[Enter  Phadba  and  (Enons.) 
Fksdha.  Ahl  Let  them  take  elaewtkere 

the  worthless  honore 
l^iey  bring  me.    Why  so  urgent  I  should 

see  them? 
Whftt    fl&ttehng    batm    oan    soothe    mjr 

wounded  heortT 
Far  rather  hide  me:  I  have  said  too  much. 
My  madoesa  has  bunt  forth  like  streams 

And  I  have  utter'd  what  ahould  ne'er  have 

reach 'd 
His  ear.  Gods!  How  he  heard  mel  How 

reluctant 
To  catch  my  meaning,  dull  and  cold  aa 

marble, 
And  eager  only  for  a  quick  retreat! 
How  oft  his  blushes  made  my  shame  the 

deeper  I 
Why  did  you  turn  me  from  the  death  I 

.  sought? 
Ahl  When  his  sword  was  pointed  to  my 

boBom, 
Did  he  grow  pale,  or  try  to  snatch  it  from 

That  1  had  touch'd  it  was  mough  for  him 
To  render  it  forever  horrible, 
Leaving  defilement  on  the  haiid  that  holds 
it. 
(Enone.   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  Minofl  to  find  peace  in  nobler  cares, 
And,  in  defiance  of  a  wretch  who  flies 
From  what  he  hates,  reign,  mount  the 
proffer' d  throne? 
PHn>ItA.    I  reignt    Shall  I  the  rod  of 
empire  sway, 
When  reason  raigns  no  longer  o'er  myself? 
When  I  have  lost  control  of  all  my  senses? 
When  'neath  a  shameful  yoke  I  scarce  can 

breathe? 
When  I  am  dying? 
(Enonk.   Fly. 

Phxdba.  I  cannot  leave  him, 
(Emonb.  Dare  you  not  fly  from  him  you 

dared  to  banish? 
Phxdra.  The  time  for  that  is  past.  He 
knows  my  frensy. 


I  have  o'erstepp'd  the  bounds  of  modesty, 
And  blason'd  forth  my  shame  before  his 

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  fluttwing  on  ay  lips,  and  with  your 

counsel. 
Lent  me  freah  life,  and  told  me  I  might  love 

him? 
CEnonx,  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  feetl 
How  hateful  then  appear'd  his  savage  pridel 
Why  did  not  Pluedra  see  him  then  as  I 
Beheld  him? 

Pksdra.  This  proud  mood  that  yoa  re- 
May  yield  to  time.   The  rudeness  of  the 

fOKStS 

Where  he  wss  bred,  inured  to  rigorous  laws, 
Clings  to  him  still;  love  is  a  word  he  ne'er 
Had  heard  before.  It  may  be  his  surprise 
Stunn'd  him,  and  too  much  vehemence  was 

In  all  1  said. 
(Enons.  Remember  that  his  mother 

Was  a  barbarian. 
pHADRA.  Scythian  tho'  she  was. 

She  learned  to  love. 
(Enonb.  He  has  for  all  the  sex  * 

Hatred  intnnse. 
Phadba.  Then  in  bis  heart  no  rival 

Shall  ever  reign.  Your  counsel  oomea  too 
late. 

CBnone,  serve  my  madness,  not  my  reason. 

His  hesirt  is  inaccessible  to  love: 

Let  us  attack  him  where  he  has  more  feel- 
ing. 

The  charms  of  sovereignty  appear'd  to 
touch  him; 

He  could  not  hide  that  he  wss  drawn  to 
Athens; 

His  vessels'  prows  were  thither  turn'd  al- 
ready. 

All  sail  was  set  to  scud  before  the  breeie. 

Go  you  on  my  behalf,  to  his  ambition 

Appeal,  and  let  the  prospect  of  tba  crown 


Dftssle  his  eyes.  The  sacred  diadem 
Bhall  deck  hie  brow,  no  higher  honor  mioe 
Than  there  to  bind  it.    His  shall  be  the 

pow'r 
I  cftDDot  keep;  and  he  ehall  t«ach  my  son 
Row  to  rule  men.  It  may  be  he  will  deign 
To  be  to  hi"!  a  father.  Son  and  mother 
He  shall  control.  Try  ev'iy  means  to  move 

Your  words  will  find  more  favor  than  can 

Urge  him  with  groans  and  teare;  show 

Phfedra  dying, 

Nor  blush  to  use  the  voice  of  supplication. 

In  you  is  my  last  hope;  I'll  sanction  all 

Vou  aay;  and  on  the  issue  hanga  my  fat«. 

[Exit  (Enone.) 

PBXDtUi  (dlonel.  Venus  implacable,  who 

Bcegt  me  shamed 
And  sore  confounded,  have  I  not  enou^ 
Been    humbled?     How    can    cruelty    be 

stretcb'd 
Farther?  Thy  shafts  have  all  gone  home, 

and  thou 
Haat  triumph'd.  Would'st  thou  win  a  new 

renown? 
Attack  on  enemy  more  contumacious '. 
Hippolytua  neglects  thee,  braves  thy  wrath. 
Nor  ever  at  thine  altars  bow'd  the  knee. 
Thy  nanie  offends  his  proud,  disdainful  ears. 
Our  interests  are  alike:  avenge  thyself, 
Foroe  him  to  love  — 
But  what  is  this?  (Enone 
Retum'd  already?  He  detests  me  then, 
Abd  will  not  hear  you. 

{EtOit  (Enonb.) 
(Emonb.    Madam,  you  must  stifle 
A  fruitless  love.  Recall  your  former  virtue: 
The  king  who  was  thought  dead  will  soon 

Before  your  eyes,  Theseus  has  just  arrived, 
Theseus  is  here.   The  people  flock  to  see 

With  eager  haste.  I  went  by  your  command 
To  find  the  prince,  when  with  a  thousand 

The  air  was  rent  — 

PKxnaA.  My  husband  is  alive, 
That  is  enough,  (Enone.  I  have  own'd 
A  passion  that  disbonois  him.  He  lives: 
I  ask  to  know  no  more. 


OKA  315 

(Enonb.  What? 

Phadka.  I  foretold  it. 
But  you  refused  to  hear.  Your  tears  pie- 
Over  my  just  remorse.  Dying  this  mom, 
I  had  deserved  compasaion;  your  advioe 
I  took,  and  die  diahonor'd. 

(Enonx.    Die? 

FosDRA.    Just  Heav'nsI 
What  have  I  done  to-day?    My  hud>and 

With  him  his  son ;  and  I  shall  see  the  witnees 
Of  my  adulterous  flaiUe  watch  with  what 

I  greet  his  father,  while  my  heart  is  big 
With  si^is  he  scom'd,  and  tears  that/ could 

not  move  hini 
Moisten  mine  eyee.  Think  you  that  his  re- 

For  Theseus  will  induce  him  to  conceal 
My  madnen,  nor  disgrace  his  aire  and  kingT 
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  unabaah'd.  I  recognise  my  madness, 
Recall  it  all.    These  vaulted  roofs,  me- 

Theee  walls  can  speak,  and,  ready  to  accuse 

Wait  but  my  husband's  presence  to  reveal 
My  perfidy.  Death  only  can  remove 
Thisweightof  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  I  The  blood  of  Jove 
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 

For  my  dispace.   I  tremble  when  I  think 
That,  orush'd  beneath  that  curse,  they'll 

never  dare 
To  raise  their  eyes. 

(Enone.  Doubt  not  I  pity  both; 
Never  was  fear  more  just  tluui  yours.  Why, 

tJien, 


3i6 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Ezpoae  them  to  this  ignominy?   Why 
Will  you  accuse  younwlfT     You  thus  do- 

Tba  only  hope  that's  left;  it  will  be  said 
That  Phiedro,  conacious  of  her  perfidy, 
Fled  from  her  husband's  ai^t.  Hippolytus 
Wilt  be  rejoiced  that,  dying,  you  should 

Hia  charge  nipport.    What  can  I  answer 

himT 
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  Bhame. 
Sooner  than  that  may  fire  from  heav'n  con- 
Deceive  me  not.  Say,  do  you  lore  him  stillT 
IIow  look  you  now  on  this  coQt«niptuous 

princeT 
Phsdra.   As  on  a  monster  frightful  to 

<Eno»™.  Why  yield  him,  then,  an  easy 

You  fear  him.  Venture  to  accuse  him  first, 
As  guilty  of  tbe  charge  which  he  may  bring 
Tbia  day  gainst  you.   Who  can  say  't  is 

false? 
All  tells  agaiuEt  him'  in  your  handff  his 

sword 
Happily  l^t  behind,  your  present  trouble, 
Your  past  distrees,  your  warnings  to  his 

His  exile  which  your  earnest  pray'ra  ob- 

Pbadra.    What  I  Would  you  have  me 

slander  innocence? 
(Enonk.    My  leal  has  need  of  naught 
from  you  but  eilence. 

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  en- 
raged. 

Will  do  no  worse  than  banish  him  again. 

A  father,  when  he  punishes,  remains 

A  father,  and  bia  ire  is  aatisfied 

Withalightsentence.  But  if  guiltless  blood 

Should  flow,  is  not  your  honor  of  more 
moment? 

A  treasure  far  too  precious  to  be  risk'd? 

You  must  submit,  whatever  it  dictates; 

For,  whm  our  reputation  is  at  stake, 


All  must  be  sacrificed,  conscieuoe  iteelf . 
But  someone  comes.  'T  is  Theseus. 

Phaora.  And  I  see 
Hippolytus,  my  ruin  {Mainly  writt^k 
In  his  stem  eyes.  Do  what  you  will;  I  trust 
My  fate  to  you.  I  cannot  help  myself. 


Tbhseub.      Fortune    no    longer   fightfl 
against  my  wishes, 
Madam,  and  to  your  amu  restores  — 

Pbsoka.  Stay,  TheseusI 
Do  not  profane  endearments  that  were  once 
So  sweet,  but  which  I  am  unwmthy  now 
Totaat«.  You  have  been  wTongi'd.  Fortune 

has  proved 
Spit^ul,  nor  in  your  abeence  spared  your 

I  am  unfit  to  meet  your  fond  careas,  - 
How  I  may  bear  my  shame  my  only  care 
Henceforth. 

[Exeunt  Phasra  and  <ENom.| 

Tbssbub.  Strange  welcome  for    your 
father,  this  I 
What  does  it  mean,  my  son? 

HippoLTTUB.  Ptuedra  alone 
Can  solve  this  mystery.  But  if  my  wish 
Can  move  you,  let  me  never  see  her  mora; 
Suffer  Hippolytus  to  disappear 
Forever  from  the  home  Utat  holds  your 
wife. 

Thkbbub.  You,  my  sonl  Leave  me? 

HtPFOLTTDS.   'T  was  not  I  who  soug}it 

'T  was  you  who  led  her  footsteps  to  these 

At  your  departure  you  thought  meet,  my 

lord. 
To  trust  Aricia  and  the  queen  to  this 
TrcBzenian  land,  and  I  mysdf  was  charged 
With  their  protection.    But  what  cares 

henceforth 
Need  keep  me  here?  My  youtJi  of  idleness 
Has  shown  its  skill  enough  o'er  paltry  foes 
That  range  tlie  woods.    May  I  not  quit  a 

life 
Of  such  inglorious  ease,  and  dip  my  spear 
In  nobler  blood?  Ere  you  had  reaeh'd  my 


More  than  one  tyrant, 


HmI  felt  the  weight  of  yo)it  stout  ami. 

Already, 
SuoceBrful  ia  stt&Dkine  insolence, 
You  had  lemored  aU  dangers  that  iiifeet«d 
Our  ooasts  to  east  and  west.  The  traveler 

fear'd 
Outrage  no  longer.  Hearing  of  your  deeds. 
Already  Herculee  relied  on  you, 
And  rested  from  his  toils.    While  I,  un< 

Son  of  BO  brare  a  sire,  am  far  behind 
Even  my  mother's  footstops.  Let  my  cour- 
age 
Have  scope  to  act,  and  if  some  monster  yet 
Has  'soaped  you,  let  me  lay  die  glorious 

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  bod. 
THBSxne.    Wby,  what  is  this?    What 
terror  haa  posaem'd 
Hy  family  to  make  them  fly  before  me? 
If  I  return  to  find  myself  so  fear'd, 
So  little  welcome,  why  did  Heav'n  release 

Ikom  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  Fato  had  made  us  blind. 
Myself  as  wdl  as  him.   The  tyrant  seized 

Defenseless  and  unarm'd.  PirithoOs 

I  saw  with  tears  cast  forth  to  be  devour'd 

By  savage  beasts  that  lapp'd  the  blood  of 

Myself  in  gloomy  caverns  he  enclosed. 
Deep  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  and  ni^ 
To  Pluto's  realms.    Six  months  I  lay  eic 

Heav'n 
Had  pity,  and  I  'scaped  the  watchful  eyes 
niat  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  moat  precious  I  draw  near 
Of  what  the  gods  have  left  me,  when  my 

soul 
Looks  for  full  satisfaction  in  a  sight 
80  dear,  my  only  welcome  is  a  shudder, 
Eaibiaxx  tejectod,  and  a  hasty  flight. 


DRA  317 

Inq>iring,  as  I  oleariy  do,  such  terror, 
Would  I  were  still  a  prisoner  in  EpirusI 
Phodra  complains  that  I  have  suSer'd  out- 
rage. 
Who  has  betray'd  mef  Speak.  Why  was  I 

Avenged?  iHas.  Greece,  to  whom  mine  arm 

so  oft 
Brought  useful  aid,  abelter'd  the  criminalf 
You  make  no  answer.  Is  my  son,  mine  own 
Dear  son,  confederate  witik  mine  enemies? 
I 'Q  enter.  This  suspense  is  overwhelming. 
I  'II  leani  at  once  the  culprit  and  the  crime, 
And  Phffidra  must  explain  her  troubled 
state.  l&ea.] 

HiPPOLTTUB.  What  do  these  won^  por- 
tend, which  seem'd  to  freese 
My  very  blood?  Will  Plusdra,  in  her  freniy, 
Accuse  herself,  and  seal  her  own  deetruo- 

tion? 
What  will  the  king  say?  Gods!  What  fatal 

Has  love  spread  over  all  his  houael  Myself, 
Full  of  a  fire  his  hatred  disapproves, 
How  changed  he  finds  me  from  the  son  he 

With  dark  forebodings  is  my  mind  alarm'd. 
But  innocence  has  surely  naught  to  fear. 
Come,  let  us  go,  and  in  some  other  place 
Consider  how  I  beet  may  move  my  sire 
To  tenderness,  and  tell  him  of  a  flame 
Vex'd  but  not  vanquish'd  by  a  father's 
blame.  [Bxmmt.] 


ACT  IV 

[Enter  Thxbbus  attd  (Enons.) 
Thusbits.  Ahl  What  is  this    I  hear? 

Presumptuous  traitor! 
And  would  he  have  disgraced  his  father's 

honor? 
With  what  Telentleaa  footsteps  Fate  pur- 

HueBmel 
Whither  I  go  I  know  not,  nor  where  now 
I  am.  0  kind  affection  ill  repaid! 
Audacious  scheme!     Abominable  thoughtl 
To  reach  the  object  of  his  foul  desire 
Tlie  wretch  dist^in'd  not  to  use  violence. 
I  know  this  sword  that  served  him  in  his 

fury, 
Thesword  I  gave  him  for  a  nobler  use. 


3<8 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Could  not  the  sacred  ties  of  blood 

And  Phiedra  ~  was  she  loath  to  have  him 

punish 'd? 
She  held  her  tongue.  Waathat  to  spare  the 

culprit? 
(Enonx.   Nay,  but  to  spare  a  most  un- 

happir  father. 
O'erwhelm'd  with  shame  that  her  eyes 

should  have  kindled 
So  infamous  a  flame  and  promptdd  ^iTn 
To  oriine  so  heinous,  Fluedra  would  have 

died: 
I  saw  her  raise  hw  arm,  and  ran  to  save  her. 
To  me  alone  you  owe  it  that  she  liree; 
And,  in  my  pity  both  for  her  and  you. 
Have  I  against  my  will  interpreted 
Her  tears. 
Thbbbub.  The  traitorl   He  might  weS 

turn  pale. 
"T  was  fear  that  made  him  tremble  when  he 

saw  roe. 
I  wad  astonish'd  that  he  sbow'd  no  pleasure; 
His  frigid  greeting  chili'd  my  tenderness. 
But  was  this  guilty  passion  that  devours 

Peclared  already  ere  I  banish'd  him 
From  Athena? 

(Ekonb.   Sire,  remember  how  the  queen 

Urged  you.  Illicit  love  caused  all  her  hatred. 

Thebbus.  And  then  this  fire  broke  out 

again  at  Trceieu? 
(Enonx.  Sire,  I  have  told  you  all.  Too 
long  the  queen 
Has  been  allow'd  to  bear  her  grief  alone. 
Let  me  now  leave  you  and  attend  to  her. 
[ExU.] 

[ErUer  HippoLTrns-l 
THBSEDa.  Aht  Thereheis.  Oeatgodal 
That  noble  mien 
Mig^t  well  deoeive  an  eye  lees  fond  than 

Why  should  the  aacred  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? 
HiPi-OLrroB.  My  father,  may  I  aak  what 
fatal  cloud 
Has  troubled  your  majestic  countenance? 
Dare  you  not  tniat  this  secret  to  your  sont 


THXsmtB.  Traitor,  how  dare  you  sbov 

yourself  before  me? 
Monster^  whom  Heaven's  btAta  have  Qiand 

too  long  I 
Survivor  of  that  robber  crew  whweof 
I  cleansed  the  earth.  After  your  brutal  lust 
Scom'd  even  to  mpeot  my  marriage  bed, 
You  venture  —  you,  my  hated  toe  —  to 

Into  my  presenoe,  hen,  where  all  is  full 
Of  your  foul  infamy,  instead  of  seeking 
Boine  unknown  land  that  never  heard  my 

Fly,  traitor,  fly  I   Stay  not  to  tempt  tJw 

That  I  can  scarce  restrain,  nor  brave  my 

hatred. 
Disgrace  enough  have  I  incurr'd  forever  ■ 
In  being  father  of  so  vile  a  son. 
Without  your  death  staining  indeh'bly 
The  ^orious  record  of  my  noble  deeds. 
Fly,  and  unless  you  wish  quick  punishment 
To  add  you  to  the  criminals  cut  off 
By  me,  take  heed  this  sun  that  lights  us 


Ne'er 
I  tell  you 


youn 


re  set  foot  upon  this  soil, 
gain,  —  fly,  haste,  return 


Rid  all  my  realms  of  your  atrocious  pres- 

To  thee,  to  thee,  great  Neptune,  I  app«d; 
If  erst  I  clear'd  thy  shores  of  foul  aMn—inrij 
Recall  thy  promise  to  reward  those  efforts, 
Crown'd  with  success,  by  granting  my  fint 

pray'r. 
Confined  for  long  in  close  captivity, 
I  have  not  yet  call'd  on  thy  pow'riul  aid, 
Sparing  to  use  the  valued  privilege 
lill  g,t  mine  utmost  need.   Hie  time  is 

I  ask  thee  now.  Avenge  a  wretched  fatbtt-l 
I  leave  this  traitor  to  thy  wrath;  in  blood 
Qu«kch  his  outrageous  fires,  and  by  thy 

fury 
Theseus  will  estimate  thy  favor  tow'rds  him. 
HippoLTTUB.  Pluedra  accuses  me  of  law- 
less passioni 
This  crowning  horror  all  my  soul  con- 
founds; 
Such  unexpected  blows,  falling  at  once, 
O'erwhelm  me,  choke  my  utteranoe,  strike 


c. 


^!lc 


.  Traitor,  you  nokon'd  that  in 

Umid  silence 

ft  would  buiy  jraur  brutality. 
You  dnuld  not  have  abftndon'd  in  your 

fli^t 
The  sword  th»t  in  her  hands  helps  to  oon- 

demn  you 
Or  rather,  to  complete  your  perfidy, 
You  should  have  robb'd  her  both  of  speech 

and  life. 
HiFPOLTTtrs.  Justly  iadignaatatalieso 

black 
I  might  be  pardon'd  if  I  told  the  truth; 
But  it  concerns  your  honor  to  conceal  it. 
Approve   the   reverence   that   shuta   xay 

mouth; 
And,  without  wishir^  to  increase  your  woes, 
Examine  doeely  vbaA  my  life  has  been. 
Great  crimes  are  never  nngle,  they  are 

Unk'd 
To  former  faults.  He  who  has  once  trans- 

gress'd 
Hay  violate  at  last  all  that  men  hold 
Most  sacred;  vice,  like  virtue,  has  degrees 
Of  progress;  imtocence  was  never  seen 
To  sink  at  once  into  the  lowest  depths 
Of  guilt.  No  virtuous  man  can  in  a  day 
Turn    traitor,    murderer,    an    incestuous 

lite  nursling  of  a  d)ast«,  heroic  mother, 
I  have  not  proved  unworthy  of  my  birth. 
Fittheus,  whose  wisdom  is  by  all  esteem'd, 
Deign'd  to  instruct  me  when  I  left  her 

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 
AUKtrrence  of  those  sins  with  which  I'm 

chai^^. 
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. 
Bow,  then,  could  I,  burning  with  fire  pro- 

TaBSBua.  Yee,  dastard,  'tia  that  very 
pride  condemns  you. 
I  see  the  odious  reason  of  your  coldness: 
Phsdra  alone  bewitch'd  your  sbameleea 


DRA  319 

HippoLTTiiB.  No,  father,  I  have  hidden 
it  too  long. 
This  heart  has  not  disdain'd  a  sacred 

Here  at  your  feet  I  own  my  real  offense: 
I  love,  and  love  in  truth  where  you  forfoir' 

Bound  to  Aricia  by  my  heart's  devotion. 
The  child  of  Pallas  has  subdued  your  eon. 
A  rebel  to  your  laws,  her  I  adore. 
And  breathe  forth  ardent  sighs  for  her 

Thmebub.  You  love  her?  Heav'nel 
But  no,  I  see  the  trick. 
You  feign  a  crime  to  justify  yourself. 
HiPPOLTTDB.  Sir,  I  have  shuna'd  her  tor 
six  months,  and  still 
Love  her.  To  you  yourself  I  came  to  tell  it, 
Trembling  the  while.    Can  nothing  cleat 

your  mind 
Of  your  mistake?  What  oath  can  reassun 

By  beav'n  and  earth  and  all  the  pow'rs  of 
nature  — 
TBasBTTB.  The  wicked  never  shrink  from 
perjury. 
Cease,  cease,  and  spare  me  irksome  prote»- 

tations. 
If  your  false  virtue  has  no  other  aid. 
HiFFOLTTCs.  Tho'  it  to  you  seem  false 
and  insincere, 
Pluedra  has  secret  oauae  to  know  it  true. 
Thbseub.   Ah,  how  your  shameleasneee 

excites  my  wiathi 
HippoLTTOB.  What  is  my  term  and  place 


Thuskub.  Were  you  beyond  the  Fillen; 
of  Alcides. 
Your  perjured  presence  were  too  near  me 
yet. 
BiPFOLTTUS.  What  friends  will  pity  me, 
when  you  forsake 
And  think  me  guilty  of  a  crime  so  vile? 
TBificue.   Go,  look  you  out  for  friends 
who  hold  in  honor 
Adultery  and  clap  their  hands  at  incest, 
Low,  lawless  traitors,  steep'd  in  infamy. 
The  fit  protectors  of  a  knave  like  you. 
HtPPOLTTUB.    Ate  incest  and  adultery 
the  words 
You  oast  at  meT  I  hold  my  tongue.  Yet 


Google 


3*0 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


What  mother  Phndra  had;  too  well  you 

know 
Her  blood,  not  mine,  is  tainted  with  those 

horrors. 
Thkbeub.  Whatl  Does  your  rage  before 

my  eyee  toae  all 
Refltr&intT  For  the  laot  time  —  out  of  my 

Henoe,  traitorl    Wait  not  till  a  father's 

Force  thee  away  'mid  general  ezecmtion. 

[Exit  PlPPOLTTUS.] 

Thebxcb  [alotu].  WretchI  Thou    must 

meet  inevitable  ruin, 
Neptune    has  sworn  by  Styx  —  to  gode 

thanaelves 
A  dreadful  oath  —  and  be  will  execute 
His  pronuee.   Thou  canst  not  escape  hit 


I  loved  thee;  and,  in  spite  of  thine  offense. 
My  heart  ia  troubled  by  Buticipation 
Tfa  thee.  But  thou  hast  earu'd  thy  doom 

Had  father  ever  greater  cauee  for  rage? 
Just  gods,  who  see  the  grief  that  over- 
whelms me, 
Why  was  I  cursed  with  such  a  wicked  son? 
[Enter  Phjcdka.) 

PnflDRA.  My  lord,  I  come  to  you,  fill'd 
with  just  dread. 
Your  voice  raised  high  in  anger  reach'd 

And  much  I  fear  that  deeds  have  follow'd 

threate. 
Oh,  if  there  yet  is  time,  spare  your  own 

offBi»ing, 
Respect  your  race  and  blood,  I  do  beseech 

Let  me  not  hear  tliat  blood  cry  from  the 

pound; 
Save  me  the  horror  and  perpetual  pain 
Of  having  caused  hia  father's  hand  to  shed 


),  madam,  from  that  stain 
my  hand  is  free, 

But,  for  all  that,  the  wretch  has  not  es- 
caped me. 

"nie  hand  of  an  Immortal  now  is  charged 

With  his  destruction.  'T  is  a  debt  that 
Neptune 

Owes  me,  and  you  shall  be  avenged. 


A  debt 
Owed  you?  Pray'is  mode  in  anger  — 

Thmetts.  Never  fear 
That  they  will  fail.  Rather  join  yours  to 

In  all  their  blacknen  paint  for  me  hii 

And  fan  my  tardy  passion  to  white  heat. 
But  yet  you  know  not  all  his  infamy; 
His  rage  against  you  overflows  in  olait 

Your  mouth,  he  says,  is  full  of  all  deceit, 
He  says  Aricia  has  his  heart  and  soul, 
That  her  alone  he  loves. 
Phjcdea.  Aricia? 
TrouEua.  Aye, 
He  said  it  to  my  face:  an  idle  pretext! 
A  trick  that  gulls  me  noti    Let  us  hopn 

Neptune 
Will  do  him  epeiedy  justice.  To  his  altara 
I  go,  to  urge  puformanoe  of  his  oaths. 

\Ent.] 
Pbadra  [alone].  Ah,  he  is  gone]  What 
tidings  struck  mine  ears? 
What  fire,  half  smother'd,  in  my  heart  re- 

What  fatal  stroke  falls  like  a  thundcx* 

bolt? 
Stung  by  temorse  that  would  not  let  ms 

I  tore  myself  out  of  (Enooe's  arms. 

And  flew  to  help  Hippolytus  with  all 

My  soul  and  strengtii.  Who  knows  if  that 

repentance 
Might  not  have  moved  me  to  accuse  my- 

sein 
And,  if  my  voice  had  not  been  choked  with 

Perhaps  I  bad  confess'd  the  frightful  truth. 
Hippolytus  can  feel,  but  not  for  met 
Aricia  has  his  heart,  his  plighted  troth. 
Ye  gods,  when,  deaf  to  all  my  sighs  and 

He  arm'd  his  eye  with  soom,  his  brow  with 

I  deem'd  his  heart,  impreg^uUile  to  love, 
Was  fortified  'gainst  aU  my  sex  alike. 
And  yet  another  has  prevajl'd  to  tame 
His  pride,  another  has  secured  hie  favor 
Perhaps  he  has  a  heart  easily  meltadj 
I  am  the  only  one  he  cannot  bearl 
And  shall  I  oha^e  myself  with  his  dif  eonT 


[ErUer  CEso^i.] 
PH.BDRA.  Enowyou,  dearnuTM,  whatl 

h&ve  leun'd  juat  now? 
(Ehonb.  No;  but  I  come  in  truth  with 
trBtnbling  luuba. 
I  dreaded  with  what  purpoae  you  went 

forth. 
The  fear  of  fatal  madneaa  nude  me  pale. 
Fbjbdra.    Who  would  have  thought  it, 

nurse?  I  had  a  rival. 
<Enonk.  a  rival? 
Phsdra.  Yee,  be  loves.  I  caonot  doubt 


Wearied,  this  tiger,  whom  I  fe&r'd  to  rouae, 
FawuB  on  a  hand  that  has  subdued  his 

Aricia  has  found  entrance  to  hia  heart. 
(Enonk.  Aricia? 
Phsdka.  Aht  anguish  as  yet  untried! 

For  what  new  tortures  am  I  atill  reserved? 

All  I  have  undergone,  transporifi  of  passion. 

Longings  and  fears,  the  horrors  of  remorse. 

The  shame  of  bdng  spum'd  with  con- 
tumely, 

WpM'teeble  foretastes  of  my  present  tor- 
^^       roents. 

They  love  each  otherl    By  what  secret 
charm 

Have  they  deceived  me?  Wbet«,  and  «riien, 
and  how 

Met  they?  You  knew  it  all.   Why  was  I 


n'd?. 


Talking  together?  Did  they  seek  the  shades 
Of  thickest  woods?  Alas!  full  freedom  had 

they 
To  see  each  other,  Heav'n  approved  their 


They  loved  without  the 

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 

Dekth  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 

Was  all  too  closely  wateh'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  bad  I  to  check  my  tears,  and  smile. 

(Enone,   What  fruit  will  they  enjoy  of 
their  vain  love? 
They  will  not  see  each  other  more. 

Ph,sdiia.  That  love 
Will  last  forever,  Evea  while  T  speak. 
Ah,  fatal  thought,  they  laugh  to  sconi  the 

madness 
Of  my  distracted  heart.  In  spite  of  enle 
That  soon  inust  part  them,  with  a  thousand 

They  seal  yet  closer  union.  Can  I  suffer 
A  happiness,  (EInone,  which  insulte  me? 
I  crave  your  pity,  ^e  must  be  destrojr'd. 
My  husband's  wrath   against  a  hateful 

Shall  be  revived,  nor  must  the  punishment 
Be  light:  the  Bister'B  guilt  passes  the  broth- 
era'. 
I  will  entreat  him  in  my  jealous  rage. 
What  an^  I  saying?    Have  I  lost  my 
senses? 
Is  Pluedra  jealous,  and  will  she  implore 
Theseus  f  jr  help?  My  husband  lives,  and 

I  bum.  For  whom?  Whoee  heart  is  this  I 

As  mine?  At  every  word  I  say,  my  hair 
Stands  up  with  horror.    Guilt  henceforth 

haspass'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  univetse. 
Where  can  I  hide?    In  the  dark  realms  of 

Pluto? 
But  there  my  father  holds  the  fa£al  urn; 
Hia  hand  awards  th'  irrevocable  doom: 
Minos  is  judge  of  all  the  ghosts  in  heU. 
Ahl  bow  his  awful  shade  will  start  and 


GooqIc 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


When  be  eluJl  see  his  daughter  brought  be- 
fore him, 
Forced  to  confees  sins  of  such  raried  dye, 
Crimee  it  may  be  unknown  to  bell  itself  I 
What  wilt  thou  say,  my  father,  at  a  sight 
Bo  diie?  I  think  I  see  thee  drop  the  um, 
And,  seeking  some  unheard-of  puoishment, 
TlQraelf  iiecome  my  executioner. 
Spare  mel  A  cruel  goddess  has  deetroy'd 
liiy  race;  and  in  my  madnees  recogniM 
Her  wrath.    AlasI    My  aching  heart  has 

No  fruit  of  pleasure  from  the  frightful  crime 
The  shame  of  which  pursues  me  to  the 

And  ends  in  torment  life-long  misery. 
(Emokx.    Ah,  madam,  pray  dioniss  a 
groundless  dread: 
Look  tees  severely  on  a  venial  error. 
YdU  love.  We  cannot  conquer  deetinjr. 
You  were  drawn  on  as  by  a  fatal  charm. 
Is  that  a  marvel  without  precedent 
Among  ue?  Has  love  triumph'd  over  you, 
And  o'er  none  elseT  Weakness  is  natural 
To  man.  A  mortal,  to  a  mortal's  lot 
Submit.    You  chafe  against  a  yoke  that 

Have  long  since  borne.    The  dwellers  in 

Olympus, 
The  gads  tjiemselves,  who  terrify  with 

The  sins  of  men;  have  bum'd  with  lawless 

Pbmbba.  What  words  are  these  I  hearT 
What  counsel  this 

Von  dare  to  give  meT  Will  you  to  the  end 

Pour  poison  in  mine  eara?  You  have  de- 
etroy'd me. 

You  brought  me  back  when  I  should  else 
have  quitted 

The  light  of  day,  made  me  forget  my  duty 

And  see  Bippolytus,  till'thea  avuded. 

What  hast  thou  done?  Why  did  your 
wicked  mouth 

With  blackest  lies  slander  his  blameless 
lifeT 

Perhaps  you  've  slain  him,  and  the  impious 
pray'r 

Of  an  unfeeling  father  has  been  answer'd. 

No,  not  another  wordl  Go,  hateful  mon- 

Away,  and  leave  me  to  my  piteous  fate. 


May  HeaVn  vrith  justice  pay  you  your 

And  may  your  punishment  forever  be 
A  t«rror  to  all  those  who  would,  like  you, 
Nourish  with  artful  wiles  the  weakneases 
Of  princes,  push  them  to  the  brink  of  ruin 
To  which  their  heart  indinee,  and  smooth 

the  path 
Of  guilt.  Such  flatterers  doth  the  wrath  of 

Heav'n 
Bestow  on  Idngi  as  its  most  fatal  gift.  [ExU.] 
(Enonb  [dime).    O  gods!  to  serve  her 

what  have  I  not  done? 
This  is  the  due  reward  th  at  I  have  won. 
[J«t.l 

ACT  V 
[Xnfar  HippoLTTCs  and  Abicu.] 
Akicia.  Can  you  keep  silent  in  this  mor- 
tal peril? 
Your  father  lovee  you.  Will  you  leave  him 

Deceived?  If  in  your  cruel  neart  you  soom 
My  tears,  content  to  see  me  nevermore. 
Go,  part  from  poor  Aricia;  but  at  least, 
Going,  secure  the  safety  c^  your  life. 
Defend  your  honor  from  a  shameful  stun. 
And  force  your  father  to  recall  his  pray'ra. 
There  yet  is  time.  Why  out  of  mere  os^moa 
Leave  the  field  free  to  I^uedra's  oalunuuesT 
Let  Theseus  know  the  truth. 

HippOLTTUs.  Could  I  say  more, 
Without  exposing  him  to  dire  disgrwse? 
How  should  I  venture,  by  revealing  all, 
To  make  a  father's  brow  pow  i«d  wHb 

nhftfirw? 

Um  odious  mysteiy  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 
E'en  from  myself.  But  think  under  what 

seal 
I  spoke.  ^Forget  my  words,  ifthat  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  honw  will  thqr  dew  tbe 


r^Liii'izedii^GoOglc 


Sooner  or  Ut«r  puniah'd  for  her  cnme, 
Pluedn  will  not  eicape  the  ah&me  ahe 

I  aak  no  other  favor  than  your  aOence; 
In  all  besidee  I  give  my  wrath  free  scope. 
Mak«  your  escape  from  this  csptivity, 
Be  bold  to  bear  me  oompany  in  flight; 
Linger  not  here  on  this  acoursM  soil, 
Where  virtue  breathes  a  pestilential  air. 
To  cover  your  departme  take  advantage 
Of  this  ooufuaion,  caused  by  my  disgrace. 
The  meanB  of  fli^t  are  ready,  be  avuied; 
You  have  as  yet  no  ottier  guards  than  mine. 
Pow'rful  defendwa  win  maintain  our  quar- 

Argos  spreads  open  anns,  and  Sparta  calls 

Let  us  appeal  for  justice  to  our  friends, 
Nor  suffer  Ptuedra,  in  a  common  ruin 
Joining  us  both,  to  hunt  us  from  the  throne. 
And  oggrandiie  her  son  by  robbing  us. 
Embrace  this  happy  opportunity : 
Vbat  fear  restrains?  You  seem  to  bentate. 
Your  interest  alone  prompts  me  to  urge 
Boldiwo.  When  I  am  all  on  fire,  how 

comes  it 
lliat  you  are  ioeT  Fear  you  to  follow  then 
A  baniab'd  monT 

Abicu.  Ah,  dear  to  me  would  be 
Suehexilet  With  what  joy,  my  fate  to  yours 
United,  could  I  live,  by  all  tbe  world 
FotgottenI  But  not  yet  has  that  sweet  tie 
Bound  us  together.  How  then  can  I  steal 
Away  with  youT  I  know  the  strictest  honor 
Forbids  me  not  out  of  your  father's  hands 
To  free  myadf ;  this  ie  no  parent's  home, 
And  flight  is  lawful  when  one  flies  from 

But  you,  sir,  love   me;    and  my  virtue 
shrinks  — 
HippOLTTua.  No,  no,  your  reputation  is 

As  dear  as  to  yourself.  A  nobler  purpose 
Brings  me  to  you.  Fly  from  your  foes,  and 

A  husband.    Heav'n,  that  sends  us  these 

iniafortunee, 
Sete  free  from  hun 


Between  us.  Torches  do  not  always  light 
The  face  of  Hymen. 
At  tbe  gates  of  Troien, 


'Mid  anraent  tombs  wbne  princes  of  my 

Lie  buried,  stands  a  temple  ne'er  approach'd 
By  perjurers,  where  mortals  dare  not  moke 
False  oaths,  for  instant  punishment  befalls 
The  guilty.   Falsehood  knows  no  stronger 

Than  what  is  present  there  —  the  fear  of 

death 
That  cannot  be  avoided.  Thither  then 
Well  go,  if  you  consent,  and  swear  to  love 
Forever,  take  the  guardian  god  to  witness 
Our  solemn  vows,  and  his  paternal  oare 
Entreat.  I  will  invoke  the  name  of  all 
The  holiest  Pow'rs;  chaste  Dion,  and  the 

Of  Heav'n,  yea  all  tbe  gods  who  know  my 

Will  guarantee  my  sacred  pramisee. 
Abicu.  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 

To  lead  my  timid  footsteps  to  your  side. 
[Exit  ^ppOLTTnB.] 
[Enttr  Thxsbub  and  Ibkxhb.] 
Thbsxdb.  Ye  gods,  throw  light  upon  my 
troubled  mind. 
Show  me  the  truth  which  I  am  seeking  here. 
AniciA  [ande  (0  Ibuenb].  Oet  ready,  dear 
Ismene,  for  our  flight. 

[Exit  iBMBMIiJ 

Thesecb.   Your  color  comes  and  goes, 
you  seem  confused, 
Madam  I  What  buaineee  had  my  son  with 

Abicu.  Sire,  he  woe  bidding  me  farewell 

forever. 
Thbbbus.  Your  eyes,  it  seems,  can  tante 

that  stubborn  pride; 
And  the  firat  sighs  he  breathes  are  paid  to 

Aricu.  I  can't  deny  the  truth;  he  has 
not,  sire. 
Inherited  your  hatred  and  injustice; 
He  did  not  treat  me  like  a  criming. 
Thbsbos.  That  is  to  say,  he  swnre  etN- 
nal  love. 
Do  not  rely  on  that  inconstant  heart; 
To  others  has  he  sworn  as  much  btfore. 


3«4 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


AfiiciA.  He,  sireT 

THKeice.  You  ought  to  check  hie  roving 

taste 

How  could  you  bear  a  partnership  so  vileT 
AsiciA.  And  how  can  you  endure  that 
vilest  eUnders 

Should  moke  a  life  eo  pure  aa  black  aa  pitch? 

Have  you  so  little  knowledge  of  his  heart? 

Do  you  BO  ill  diBtinguieh  between  guilt 

And  innocence?  What  miat  before  your  eyes 

Blinds  them  to  virtue  bo  conspicuous? 

Ahl  't  is- too  much  to  let  false  tongues  de- 
fame him. 

Repent;  call  back  your  murderous  wishes, 

Fear,  fear  lest  Heav'n  in  its  severity 
Hate  you  enough  to  hear  and  grant  your 

pray'rB. 
Oft  in  their  wrath  the  gods  accept  our 

victims, 
And  oftentimee  cbastise  us  with  their  gifts. 
Thxbxqs.   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. 
Abicia.    Take  heed,  my  lord.    Your 

hands  invincible 
Have  rid  the  world  of  monsters  numberlees; 
But  all  are  not  deetroy'd,  one  you  have  left 
Alive  —  Your  son  foiiiids  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.  [Exit.] 

Tbxb&vb  [alone].    What  is  there  in  her 

mind?   What  meaning  lurks 
In  speech  be^n  but  to  be  broken  short? 
Would  both  deceive  me  with  a  vain  pre- 

Have  they  conspired    to  put  me  to  the 

torture? 
And  yet,  despite  my  stem  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  CBnone  come,  and  oome  alone. 


IfiTiter  Panope.] 
Panofb.  I  know  not  what  the  queen  in- 
tends to  do. 
But  from  her  agitation  dread  the  worst. 
Fat^  despair  is  painted  on  her  features; 
Death's  pallor  is  already  in  her  face. 
CEnone,  shamed  and  driven  from  her  aigh^ 
Has  cast  herself  into  the  ocean  depths. 
None  knows  what  prompted  her  to  deed  so 

And  now  the  waves  hide  her  from  us  for- 


Fresh  trouble  to  the  queen's  ■ 
Sometimes,  to  soothe  her  secret  pain,  sho 

Her  children  close,  and  bathes  them  with 
her  tears; 

Then  suddenly,  the  mother's  love  forgot- 
ten, 

8he  thrusts  them  from  her  with  a  look  of 

She  wanders  to  and  fro  with  doubtful  steps; 
Her  vacant  eye  no  longer  knows  us.  Thnce 
She  wrote,  and  thrice  did  she,  changing  hex 

well  b%un. 
ichsafe  to  kelp 
her.  lExU.\ 

THEBEua.  Heav'nsIIs(Enonedead,and 
Phfedra  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'n 
Bather  remain  ever  unheard.  Too  soon 
I  lifted  cruel  hands,  believing  lips 
That  may  have  liedl    Ahl    What  despair 
may  follow  I 

[Enter  Tberaubneb.) 
Thbbeub.  Theramenes,  is 't  thou?  Where 
is  my  son? 
I  gave  him  to  thy  charge  from  tendereet 

childhood. 
But  whence  these  tears  that  ovnflow  thine 

eyes? 
How  is  it  with  my  son? 


.  Google 


TmuAHENxs.  Concern  too  lata  I 
AAection  vain!  Hfppolytua  ii  dead. 
Thweub.  Goda! 
THBBAMiiwEe.  I  hare  seen  tbe  flow'r  of 


Cut  off,  and  I  am  bold  to  say  that  none 
Deeerred  it  less. 

Thkbhub.  WbatI  My  son  dead!  When  I 
Was  stretching  out  my  amu  to  him,  has 

Hasten'd  hia  end7  What  was  this  sudden 

stroke? 
Tberambneb.  Scarce  had  we  pass'd  out 

of  the  g»t«i  of  TnGsen, 
He  silent  in  his  chariot,  and  fall  guards. 
Downcast   and    silent   too,    around   him 

ranged; 
To  tbe  Myoenian  road  he  tum'd  his  steeds, 
TTien,  loet  in  thought,  allow'd  the  reins  to 

Ue 
Looee  on  their  backs.   His  noble  ohaigen, 

So  full  of  ardor  to  obey  hie  voice. 

With  head  depreea'd  and  melancholy  eye 

Seem'd  now  to  mark  his  Badness  and  to 

share  it. 
A  frightful  cry,  that  issuee  from  the  deep. 
With  sudden  discord  rends  the  troubled 

And  from  the  bosom  of  tJie  earth  a  groan 
Is  beard  in  answer  to  that  voice  of  terror. 
Our  bkmd  is  froKn  at  our  very  hearts; 
With  bristling  manes  tbe  list'ning  steeds 

standstill. 
Meanwhfle  upon  the  watery  plain  there 


n  billow  with  mighty  crest 
Of  foam,  that  shoreward  rolls,  and,  as  it 

Before  our  eyes  vomite  a  furious  manstca'. 
With  formidable  horns  its  brow  is  ann'd, 
And  all  its  body  clothed  with  yellow  scalee. 
In  front  a  savage  bull,  behind  a  dragon 
Turning  and  twisting  in  impatient  rage. 
Its  long  continued  bellowings  make  the 

Tmnble;  the  sky  seems  horror-struck  to 

The  earth  with  terror  quakes;  its  poisonous 

breath 
Infects  the  air.  The  wave  that  brought  it 

ebbs 


5RA  3*5 

In  fear.  All  By,  forgetful  of  the  courage 
That  cannot  aid,  and  in  a  neighboring 

temple 
Take  refuge  —  all  save  bold  Hippolytus. 
A  hero's  worthy  son,  he  stays  his  steeds, 
SeiMS  bis  darts,  and,  rushing  forward,  hurls 
A  nusafle  with  sure  aim  that  wounds  the 


Deep  in  the  flank.  With  rage  and  pain  it 

springB 
E'en  ta  the  horses'  feet,  and,  roarii^,  falls, 
Writhes  in  the  dust,  and  shows  a  fieiy 

throat 
That  covers  titem  with  flames,  and  blood, 

and  smoke. 
Fearlends  them  wings;  deaf  to  hk  voice  for 

once. 
And  heedless  of  the  curb,  they  onward  fly. 
Their  maeto'  wastes  his  strength  in  efforts 

With  foam  and  blood  each  courser's  bit  is 

red. 
Some  say  a  god,  amid  this  wild  disorder, 
Is  seen  with  goads  pricking  their  dusty 

O'er  jaggM  rocks  they  rush  urged  on  b; 

terror; 
Crash!  goes  the  a]de-tne.    Th'  intrepid 

Sees  his  car  broken  up,  flying  to  pieces; 
He  falls  himself  entuigled  in  the  teins. 
Pardon  my  grief.  That  cruel  spectacle 
Wilt  be  for  me  a  source  of  endless  tears. 
I  saw  thy  hapless  son,  I  saw  him,  sire, 
Dragg'd  by  the  liorses  that  his  hands  had 

fed, 
Fow'rless  to  check  their  fierce  career,  his 

voioe 
But  adding  to  their  fright,  bis  body  soon 
One  mass  of  wounds.  Our  cries  of  ftnguwh 

mi 

Theplaio.  At  last  tbey  slacken  their  swift 

pace, 
Then  stop,  not  far  from  thoee  old  tondM 

that  mark 
Where  lie  the  ashes  of  his  royal  sires. 
Panting  I  thither  run,  and  ^ter  me 
His  guard,  along  the  track  stain'd  with 

fresh  blood 
That  reddens  all  tbe  rocks;  caught  in  the 

briers 
Locks  of  bis  hsir  hang  driptHuc  gory  qmil*^ 

Goc«lc 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


I  oome,  I  call  him.    Stretdiiiig  forth  his 

haiul, 
He  opee  his  dying  eyra,  tooo  cloaed  again. 
"The  goda  hftve  robb'd  me  of  a  guiltkM 

lite," 
I  hear  him  say:  "Take  cue  of  wd  Arida 
When  I  am  dead.  Dear  friend,  if  e'er  my 

father 
Mourn,  undeceived,  his  aon'a  unhappy  fate 
Falsely  accused;  to  give  my  epirit  peaoe. 
Tell  him  to  treat  his  captive  tenderly. 
And  to  restore  — "   With  that  the  hero's 

breath 
FailB,  and  a  mangled  corpse  lies  in  my  arms, 
A  piteous  object,  trophy  of  the  wrath 
Of  HeaVn  —  bo  changed,  his  father  would 

not  know  him. 
TassiiTra.  Alas,  mynonl  Dear  hope  for- 
ever loBtl 
The  ruthless  gods  have  served  me  but  too 

well. 
For  what  a  life  of  angiiiiih  and  remorse 
Am  I  reserved! 

Tbbrahbmxs.  Aricia  at  that  instant. 
Flying  from  you,  oomee  timidly,  to  t&ke 

For  husband,  there,  in  pi«aence  of  the  gods. 
Hius  drawing  nigh,  she  sees  the  grass  all 

red 
And  reeking,  sees  (sad  sight  for  lover's 

eye!) 
Hippolytus  stretch'd  there,  pale  and  dis- 
figured. 
But,  for  a  time  doubtful  of  her  misfortune, 
(JnreoogniEed  the  hero  she  adores. 
She  looks,  and  asks  —  "  Where  is  Hippoly- 
tus?" 
Only  too  sure  at  last  that  he  lies  there 
Before  her,  with  sad  eyes  that  silently 
Reproach  the  gods,  she  shudders,  groMW, 

and  falls. 
Swooning  and  all  but  lifeless,  at  his  feet. 
Ismene,  all  in  tears,  kneels  down  beside  ber, 
And  calls  ber  bock  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  t«ll  thee 
His  last  request  —  a  melancholy  task. 
But  hither  oomea  his  mortal  raieiay. 


[Enttr  Fhxdiia,  Panopb,  and  Ouordi.] 
Theseus.    Hadam,  you've  triumph'd, 
and  my  son  is  kiU'dl 
Ah,  but  what  room  have  I  for  fear!  How 

justly 
Suspicion  rocks  me  that  in  blaming  him 
leir'dl  But  heisdead;acaept  your  victim; 
Kightly  or  wrongly  slain,  let  your  heart 

For  joy.  My  eyes  shall  be  forev«r  blind: 
Since  you  accuse  him,  I'll  believe  him 

guilty. 
His  deaUi  affords  me  cause  enou^  for  teats, 
Without  a  foolish  seanih  for  further  light 
Which,  pow'rlesB  to  restore  him  to  my  grief. 
Might  only  serve  to  make  roe  more  un- 
happy. 
For  from  this  shore  and  far  from  you  111 

fly, 

For  hwe  the  image  of  my  mangled  son 
Would  haunt  my  memory  and  drive  me 

mad. 
From  the  whole  world  I  fain  would  bani^ 

For  all  the  world  seems  to  rise  up  in  judg- 

Against  me;  and  my  very  glory  weights 
My  punishment;  for,  were  my  name  less 

known, 
T  ware  essiw  to  hide  me.  All  the  favois 
The  gods  have  granted  me  I  mourn  and 

hftto. 
Nor  will    I   importune  them  with  vain 

pray 'is 
Henceforth  forever.    Give  me  what  th^ 

What  they  have  taken  will  all  dse  out- 

Fhadra.    Theseus,  I  cannot  hear  you 
and  keep  silBnoe: 
I  moat  repair  tbe  wrong  that  he  has  sul- 

fer-d  — 
Your  son  was  innocent. 

THBBEns.  Unhappy  latberl 
And  it  was  on  your  word  that  I  condemu'd 

Think  you  such  cruelty  can  bo  excused  — 
PoMDSA..  Moments  to  me  are  precious; 
hear  me,  Theseus. 
'T  was  I  who  cast  an  eye  of  lawless  passioD 
On  diBsto  and  dutiful  Hq>polytus. 


HeaT'n  in  my  boBom  kindled  baJdul  fire, 
And  vile  (Enose'a  cunning  did  the  rest. 
She  fe&r'd  Hippolytus,  knowing  my  nmd- 

Would  nuike  that  pEtaaion  known  which  he 

i^aided 
With  horror;  so  advantage  of  my  weakness 
She  took,  and  haeten'd  to  aoouse  him  first. 
For  that  she  has  bem  punisb'd,  tho'  too 

mildly;  i 

Seeking  to  shun  my  wrath  she  oaat  henelf 
Beneath  the  waves.  The  sword  ere  now  had 

My  thread  of  life,  but  sl&nder'd  innocence 
Made  its  cry  heard,  and  I  resolved  to  die 
In  a  more  lingering  way,  confeesing  first 
My  penitence  to  you.  A  poison,  brought 
To  Athens  by  Medea,  rune  thro'  my  veins. 
Already  in  my  heart  the  venom  works, 
Tnf^MTng  there  a  Atruige  uid  fatal  chiU: 


DRA  3J7 

Already  as  thro'  tiiicIceniDg  mists  I  see 
The  epouae  to  whom  my  preaence  is  an  out- 

raee; 
Death,  from  mine  eyea  veiling  tin  U^t  ol 

heav'u, 
lUatoras  its  purity  that  they  defiled. 
Panopi.  She  diee,  my  lordl 
THBBBua.  Would  that  the  memory 
Of  bw  disgraoef  ul  deed  oould  pwisb  with 

herl 
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  detest«d. 
Let  him  be  honor'd  as  he  well  deaervea; 
And,  to  appease  his  sore  o&ended  ghost, 
Be  her  near  kinamen's  guilt  whate'er  it 

may, 
Arioia  shall  be  held  my  daughter  from  to- 
day. IBxmaa  omns*.] 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


THE    BARBER   OF  SEVILLE 
(LE  BARBIER  DE  SEVILLE) 

Bv  BEAUMARCHAIS 
TranttaUdty  ARTHUR  B.  MVRICK 


ciilizedbvGoOQic 


CHARACTERS 

Count  Auutiva,  a  grandee  of  Spain,  the  unibnoum  lover  qf  Botint 

Babthom),  a  phygidan,  guartUan  of  Bonne 

RoaiNB,  a  vounff  ^V  "f  nobk  birth,  and  the  ward  <^  fiorlAoJo 

FiOABO,  a  bmier  of  Senile 

Don  Bazile,  organic,  and  litigirig^naaUr  to  Rorine 

L&  Jbunesbb,  an  old  domestic  of  Bartholo 

L'EvBiiiiiA,  another  servant  of  Bartholo,  a  nmpleton  and  ttttggard 

A  Notary 

An  Aldade  and.a  Jtutice 

Poticem^n  and  Senanta  with  tordua 


i*  laid  in  StPiUt  in  M<  finl  wl,  jn  lk«  tirttt.  imd  tmdtr  tkt  wiMbnra 
M.'  IA<  remaindtr  of  tlit  pite»  itintht  houm  of  Doelor  Bartkolo. 


ciilizedbvGoOQic 


THE   BARBER  OF  SEVILLE 


ACT   I 

[The  gtane  repreienta  a  9tnet  in  SeoiSe: 
window*  tooking  vpon  the  tbtet  an  barred. 

The  Count  in  a  heemy  broien  doak 
broad-brimmed  hat.   He  lookt  at  Am  uolcA 
Of  he  toalkt  back  and  forth.] 

Count.  The  monuiig  ia  not  so  far  ad- 
vanced aa  I  thought;  the  hour  at  which  she 
usuaUy  shows  herself  behind  her  blinds  ia 
Btill  far  off.  No  matter;  I  would  far  rather 


stheo 


when  I  nui7  see  her.  If  mj  of  my  amiable 
friende  at  court  could  see  me  one  hundred 
leagues  from  Madrid,  lingering  beneath  the 
window  of  a  lady  to  whom  I  have  never 
vpoken,  they  would  oertainly  take  me  for 
a  Spaniard  of  Isabella's  time.  Why  not? 
Every  one  seeks  his  own  happiness.  Mine 
I  find  in  the  heart  of  Bosine.  WhatI  fol- 
low a  lady  to  Seville,  when  Madrid  and  the 
court  everywhere  offer  pleasures  so  easily 
attained!  That  itself  is  the  thing  I  shun. 
I  am  weary  to  death  of  oonquesta  which 
_^^elf-intereet,  convenience,  or  vanity  are 
^Kjielding  me  every  day.  Ahi't  is  ao  sweet  to 
S  bejoyed  for  one's  self  alone  I  And  if  I  could 
be  penBEtTy  sure  that  under  this  disguise 
. .  .  The  devil  take  this  unseasonable 
raacall 

[Enter  Fiqaro,  with  a  iptitar  dwig  acrom 
hie  hack  by  a  broad  ribbon,  paper  and 
pencil  in  hand.] 
PiOABO  [tinfiing  gayly]. 
Away  with  sorrow  conoumingl 
Without  the  fire  of  good  liquor  iDBpirins, 
Without  enlivenins  pleasure. 
All  men  would  live  in  a  Etupot, 
With  very  sood  proapeota  of  dying. 
Really,  that's  not  »o  bad,    so  far,  is 


With  very  good  proapeoti  of  dying. 
Oenerous  wine  and  idlenasB 
Shall  e'er  dispute  my  heart. 


Well,  not  they  do  not  diqiute;  they  letgn 
together  peaceably  enough.  .  . . 

Shall  ever  share  my  heart. 

Shall  I  say  M  partagtnaf    Well,  thank 

_  lodnees,  we  writers  (J  comic  operas  oeb 

hot  so  particular  about  style.    Nowadays, 

what  is  scarcely  worth  saying,  we  sing. 

{Singe.} 

Generous  wine  and  idleneM 

Shall  ever  shore  my  heart. 

I  should  like  to  finish  with  something 

fine,  brilliant,  sparkling,  which  would  really 

look  like  an  idea. 

[Kneele  and  uritM  at  he  einge.] 
Shall  ever  share  my  heart. 
If  one  enjoys  my  tenderneM.  -  .  . 
The  other  ia  my  joy. 
Pshawl  that's  flat.  It  is  not  that.  ...  I 
need  an  ontitheflia:  — 

If  one  be  my  miattMs, 
The  other  .  .  . 
There!  I  have  it.  .  .  . 

The  other  shall  be  my  slave. 
Well  done.  Master  Figaro. 

[Writea  and  tinge.] 
GeDeroua  wine  and  idleneas 
ShaU  ever  share  my  heart. 
11  one  be  my  mistreaa. 
The  other  shall  be  my  dave, 
The  other  shall  be  my  alave, 
The  other  shall  be  my  slave) 
There,  how  is  that?  When  we  have  the 
accompaniments,  we  shall  see  now,  gentle' 
men  of  the  cabal,  if  I  know  what  I  am 
talking  about.    [ff<  perceioef  (A*  Coomt.J 
1  have  seen  that  priest  somewhere. 

[He  riset.] 
Count  [aeide].  I  am  sure  I  know  this  fd- 

FiOAHO.  No,  he's  no  priest.  His  proud 
and  noble  bearing  . .  . 

CouHT.  That  grotesque  figure  . .  . 

FiQAHo.  I  was  right.  Count  Almaviva. 

Count.  I  think  this  rascal  must  b« 
Figaro. 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


FiOABO.  The  veiy  s&me,  mj'  lord. 
Count.    You  ki^ve!    If  you  uy  one 

FiQARO.  Yes,  I  reoogniie  you;  the  some 
familiar  kindnesa  with  which  you  hAve  al- 
wa3^  honored  me. 

Count.  I  did  not  reoogniie  you  at  all. 
You  were  bo  tall  and  etout  .  .  . 

FisABO.  What  would  you  have,  my 
Vtrd?  't  is  hard  times. 

Count.  Poor  fellowl  what  are  you  doing 
in  Seville?  Not  long  since  I  recommended 
you  to  a  poHitioD  in  the  government. 

FiOARO.  I  received  my  appointment,  my 
lord,  and  my  gratitude  .  .  . 

Count.  Call  me  Lindor.  Don't  you  Bee, 
by  my  dieguiBe,  that  I  wish  to  be  un- 
known? 

FioAHO.  I  will  leave  you. 

Count.  On  the  contrary.  I  await  the 
iBBue  of  a  certain  affair,  and  two  men  chat- 
ting together  are  teaa  niapect  than  one 
pacing  back  and  forth.  Let  us  appear  to  be 
chatting.   Now,  this  position. 

FiQAHO.  The  minister,  having  considered 
your  excellency's  recommendation,  forth- 
with appointed  me  apothecary's  boy. 

Count.  In  the  anny  hospitals? 

FiOABO.  No,  indeed;  in  the  Andalusian 
studs. 

Count  [Ufughini)].  Truly,  a  fine  beginningi 

FioARO.  The  position  was  not  a  bad  one; 
for,  having  the  dressing  and  the  drugs  in 
my  charge,  I  oft«n  sold  the  men  the  beat 
of  horse  medicines  .  .  . 

Count.  Which  killed  the  king's  loyal 
mibjects? 

FioABo.  Rat  hat  There  is  no  universal 
rranedy  which  has  not  failed  sometimea  to 
cure  Galicians,  Catalans,  or  Auvergaats. 

Count.  Why,  then,  did  you  reeign  it? 

FiOABO.  Re^gn  it!  Faith,  I  was  re- 
moved. Some  one  maligned  me  to  the 
powers.  "Envy  with  crooked  fingers,  with 
visage  pale  and  livid." 

Count.  For  pity's  sake,  my  friend!  Do 
you  also  make  verses?  I  saw  you  scratch- 
ing away  there  on  your  knee,  and  singing 
this  very  morning. 

PiQABO.  That  is  really  the  cause  of  my 
misfortune,  your  excellency.  When  they 
nported  to  the  mintater  that  I  was  mak- 


ing, if  I  may  so,  some  very  fair  garlands  of 
verses  to  Cloris,  that  I  was  sending  riddles 
to  the  journals,  that  madrigals  of  my  com- 
position were  the  fashion,  —  in  short,  when 
he  found  out  that  I  was  everywhere  in 
print,  —  he  took  the  matter  tiagically,  and 
had  me  dismissed  the  service,  on  the  pre- 
text that  a  love  of  letters  is  quite  inoonv 
patibte  with  the  spirit  of  businees. 

Count.  Powerfully  reasonedl  And  you 
failed  to  represent  to  him  .  . . 

FiQAEO.  I  thought  myself  only  too 
happy  to  be  forgotten;  for  I  am  persuaded 
that  a  grandee  does  us  good  enough  when 
he  does  us  no  harm. 

Count.  You  do  not  tell  the  whole  story. 
I  remember  that  in  my  service  you  were 
something  of  a  rascal. 

Figaro.  Good  HeavensI  my  lord,  you 
would  have  a  poor  fellow  absolutely  fault- 

Count.  lAty,  dissolute  .  .  . 

FiOABO.  In  comparison  with  the  virtun 
demanded  of  a  domestic,  does  3^ur  excel- 
lency know  of  many  masters  worthy  irf 
being  valete? 

Count  [Umghmg].  Not  so  bad.  And  you 
retired  to  this  city? 

FioAso.  No,  not  immediately. 

Count  [slopping  him].  One  moment .  . . 
I  thought  'twas  she.  .  .  .  Keep  on  talk- 
ing, I  can  hear  you  well  enough. 

FioARo.  On  my  return  to  Madrid,  I 
tried  my  literary  talents  again;  and  the 
theater  seemed  to  me  a  field  of  honor  .  .  . 
,  CotiKx.  Abl  God  help  you  tbwel 
'  'FiOABO  [tekile  he  replies,  the  Couira 
gazes  oUeTiiiiiely  in  the  direeticn  of  the  blind]. 
Truly  I  know  not  why  I  had  not  the  greats 
est  success;  for  I  had  filled  the  pit  with  the 
moet  excellent  workers,  with  hands  like 
paddles;  I  had  forbidden  glovea,  canes,  and 
everything  else  which  produces  only  dull 
applause,  and,  on  my  honor,  before  the 
piece  was  played,  the  oaI6  seemed  to  be 
perfectly  well-disposed  toward  us.  But  the 
efforts  of  the  cabal .  .  . 

Count.  Ahl  the  cabslt  The  last  refuge 
of  our  fallen  author. 

Figaro.  I  may  say  that  as  well  as  an- 
other; why  not?  T^ey  hissed  me,  but  if  I 
oould  ever  get  them  together  again  . . . 


THE  BARBER  OF  SEVILLE 


Count.  You  would  take  your  revenge  by 
boring  them  to  death. 

FlOARO.  Aht  how  I  lay  it  up  ugaiiwt 
ttteml  Zoundflt 

CkiuMT.  You  Bwearl  Do  you  know  that 
in  the  courts  you  have  only  twenty-tour 
houia  in  which  to  curse  your  judges? 

FioARO.  You  have  twenty-four  years  in 
the  theater;  life  is  only  too  abort  to  exhaust 
such  resentmetit. 

Count.  Your  merry  anger  delights  me. 
But  jrou  have  not  told  me  what  caused  you 
to  l^ve  Madrid. 

FiOABO.  My  good  angel,  your  exoel- 
lenoy,  since  I  am  happy  enough  to  find  my 
old  master.  Recognizing  that,  at  Madrid, 
the  republic  of  letters  is  the  republic  of 
wolves,  continually  at  each  others'  throats, 
and  that,  delivered  up  to  the  contempt  to 
which  this  ridiculous  obstinacy  leads  them, 
all  the  insects,  gnats,  mosquitoes  and  critics, 
all  the  envious,  journatisto,  booksellers, 
censors,  and,  in  fact,  everything  able  to 
oling  to  the  hide  of  the  unhappy  man  of 
letters,  succeeded  in  lacerating  and  suck- 
ing the  Uttle  substance  left  to  theu;  worn 
out  with  writing,  weaiy  of  myself,  dis- 
iiusted  with  others,  overwhelmed  with 
rflebts,  and  innocent  of  cash;  finaj^jy  mn. 
>qx]nCfid.that  the  tBTi[rihlH  revenue  from  my 
,.  razor  JBjjreferable  to  the  empty  honors  of 
'  ..Qie  pen,  I  left  Madrid,  uiy  b&ggage  alung 
upon  my  shoulder,  philosophically  wander- 
ing through  the  two  Castiles,  la  Mancha, 
Estremadura,  Sierra  Morena,  and  Anda- 
lusia; welcomed  in  one  town,  imprisoned 
in  the  next,  and  everywhere  superior  to 
events;  praised  by  some,  blamed  by  others, 
making  the  best  of  good  weather  and  en- 
during the  bad;  mocking  the  foolish  and 
braving  the  wicked;  laughing  in  my  misery 
and  shaving  all;  you  see  me  finally  estab- 
lished in  Seville  and  ready  to  serve  your 
excellency  in  anything  you  may  be  pleased 
to  order. 

Count.    Who,  then,  has  endowed  you 

with  so  gay  a  philosophy? 

^     FiOAso.    Ckintinual  misfortune.    {.  ^l-. 

y  ways  hastgp. to  laugh  at  everythinglorfeaE 

that Tm^ be  obliged  to  weep.   What  are 

you  staring  &t  ovw  there? 

Count.  Let  us  hide. 


FioAso.  Why? 

Count.  Come,  you  blockhead!  You  will 
be  my  destruction,     ^heu  conceal  Oiem- 

[The  Uirtd  in  Oie  firgt  ttory  opens,  and 
Babtholo  and  Robins  appear  at  the 
window.] 

RosiNE.  What  a  pleasure  it  is  to  breathe 
the  fresh  airl  Tlus  bhud  is  so  rarely 
opened  .  .  ■ 

Bartbolo.  What  is  that  paper? 

RoBiNK.  These  are  a  few  couplets  from 
TheUedf^^leOaulion,  which  my  ainging    ' 
master  gave  me  yesterday. 

Babtholo.  What  is  this  UsdetK  Prt- 
eaulionT 

Robins.  'T  is  a  new  comedy. 

Babtholo.  Some  new  play!  Some  new 
sort  of  folly  I 

RoBiNB.  I  know  nothing  about  it. 

Babtholo.  Well,  the  journals  and  the 
authorities  will  avenge  us.  Barbarous 
age..  .  ! 

RosiNB.  You  are  always  critidiing  our 
poor  century. 

Babtholo.  Pardon  the  liberty  that  I 
take  I  What  has  it  produced  that  we  should 
praise  it?  Follies  of  all  sorts;  Uberty  of 
thought,  gravitation,  electricity,  religious 
toleration,  inoculation,  quinine,  the  en- 
cydoptedia,  and  plays  .  .  . 

HoeiNE  [at  the  paper  drops  from  her 
hand  and  fi^  into  the  ttreet]-  Ohlmysongl 
My  song  dropped  from  my  hand  as  I  was 
listening  to  you.  .  .  .  Run,  run,  sir,  —  my 
song  —  it  will  be  lostl 

Babtholo.  Confound  itl  When  you 
had  it  why  did  you  not  hold  it? 

ILeavet  Ihe  bakonj/.] 

Koenm  \glaneee  about  the  room  and  tig- 
naU  to  the  Count  in  the  ttreet].  Shi  [The 
Count  appears.]  Fiak  it  up  quickly,  make 
your  escape.  [The  Count  seixes  the  paper 
and  T^ealt  to  hie  kiding-place.] 

Babtholo  [appears  in  the  street  and 
searchee  for  the  ttrnf).  Where  is  it?  I  can- 
not find  it. 

RosiNB.  Under  the  balcony,  at  the  foot 
of  the  wall. 

Babtholo.  You  have  sent  me  upon  a 
fine  emnd.  Has  any  one  passed  by? 


334 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


RosiNE.  I  have  seen  ao  one. 

Bartholo  [onde].  Andl,  whoh&Tebeen 

so  simple  u  bo  search  .  .  .  Bartholo,  my 

friend,  you  are  indeed  a  simpleton.   This 

should  tench  you  never  to  open  the  blinds. 

[He  reinUra  Uu  house.] 

RofiiNB  [in  Ote  balcony].  My  excuse  lies 
in  my  unhappineas;  alone,  ill,  sjtd  a  butt  for 
the  persecutions  of  an  odious  msn,  is  it  a 
crime  to  try  to  escape  the  bonds  of  slavery? 

Baktholo  [appearing  in  the  balconjf].  Go 

in,  young  lady ;  it  is  my  fault  that  you  have 

lost  your  song;  but  this  misfortune  will 

nevedr  overtake  you  °ji"'";  '  "■*"•'>■     ■- 

|^«/u«V  locks  the  blind.]. 

Count.    Now  toltr-thoy  -bsve  gone  in, 
let  UB  examine  this  song,  in  which  a  mystery 
v,^urely  lies  hidden.  Ah,  it  is  a  note! 
yj    FiOABO.  Bfi  asked  what  Tke_  UadeasPr^ 
eovtion  was! 

COlJNTTwadinff  exdteitty].  "Your  devo- 
tion exoitee  my  curiosity.  As  soon  as  my 
guardian  has  gone  out,  sing  carelmfily  to 
the  well-known  air  of  these  couplets,  a  few 
words  which  shall  tell  me  the  name,  the 
rank,  and  the  intentions  of  the  gentleman 
who  appears  so  deeperat«Iy  attached  to  t^ 
unfortunat«  Roeine." 

FiOABO  [tntiloftny  Robins's  voU>e].  My 
song,  I  have  lost  my  song;  run,  quickly. 
{Laughing.]  Eal  hal  Oh!  these  women! 
Would  you  t«ach  cunning  to  the  moat  un- 
sophisticated? Just  shut  her  up. 

Count.  My  dear  Rosinel 

FiOAKO.  My  lord,  I  am  at  no  mote 
trouble  for  the  motivee  for  your  mas- 
querade; you  are  mulrine  love  here  in  pro- 
spective. 

Count.  I  see  that  you  know  how  the 
land  lies;  but  if  you  chatter  .  . . 

FiQABo.  I,  chatt«r1  To  reassure  you  I 
shall  employ  none  of  the  high-sounding 
phrases  of  honor  and  devotion  which  ate 
continually  abused.  I  have  only  one  word 
to  say;  my  interest  will  answer  for  my 
loyalty;  wei^  everything  in  that  balance, 
and  .  .  . 

Count.  Very  well!  Know,  then,  that 
six  months  ago  I  met,  by  chance,  in  the 
Pnido,  a  young  lady  of  such  beauty . .  . 
Well,  you  have  just  seen  her.  I  have  sought 
ber  in  vain  throu|}i  all  Madrid.  Itwasonly 


a  few  days  ago  that  I  discovered  that  ba 
name  is  Rosine,  that  she  is  of  noble  blood, 
an  orphan,  and  married  to  an  old  physician 
of  that  city,  one  Bartholo. 

FiOABO.  A  fine  bird,  by  my  faith!  — 
and  a  hard  one  to  root  outl  But  who  told 
you  that  she  is  the  doctor's  wife? 

Count.  Everybody. 

FiQABO.  That  is  a  story  invented  by  him 
on  his  arrival  from  Madrid,  to  give  the  slqi 
to  the  gallants,  and  put  them  off  the  scent. 
She  is  still  only  his  ward,  but  soon  .  .  . 

Count  [poMtorwidy],  Neverl  Ah!  what 
newal  I  was  resolved  to  dare  everythii^ 
to  exprem  my  disappointment,  and  now  I 
findberfree!  There's notamomenttoloae; 
I  must  win  her  love,  and  anatoh  her  from 
the  unworthy  husband  to  whom  she  is 
destined.  Do  you  know  her  guardian? 

FiOASO.  As  well  as  my  mother. 

Count.  What  sort  of  man  is  he? 

Figaro  [tiivacioudj/].  He  is  a  fine  big, 
short,  young  old  man,  dapple  gray,  crafty, 
well-shaven,  bltui,  peeping  and  plying, 
grumbling  and  moaning,  all  at  onoe. 

CouirT  [impaHeniiy].  Ahl  I  have  sean 
him.  And  his  character? 

FlOARo.  Brutal,  avaricious,  and  ab- 
surdly jealous  of  his  ward,  who  hates  him 
with  a  deadly  hatred. 

Count.  So  his  power  to  please  is  .  .  . 

FiOABO.  Zero. 

Count.  So  much  the  better!  His 
honesty? 

FioABO.  He  is  quit«  honest  enough  to 
escape  hanging. 

Count.  So  much  the  better!  To  punish 
a  rascal  while  at  the  same  moment  I  find 
my  happiness  .  .  . 

FioARO.  Is  to  do  a  public  and  private 
good;  really,  a  masterpieoe  of  morality,  my 
lord! 

Count.  You  say  that  fear  of  the  gal- 
lants makes  him  keep  his  doors  closed  upon 
her? 

FiOABO.  Upon  every  one  if  he  could  atop 
up  the  cracks  in  it.  . .  . 

Count.  The  devil!  3o  much  the  woraal 
Do  you  happen  to  have  access  to  his  house? 

FiGABO.  Have  II  The  house  that  I  oo- 
cupy  belongs  to  the  doctor,  who  lodgee  me 
there  grati*. 


ElilizedbvGoOQlc 


THE  BARBER  OF  SEVILLE 


335 


COOKT.  Halhal 

FiGABO.  Yee.indeedl  And  I,  in  my  grati- 
tude, promiae  him  t«n  gold  pbtolee  a  year 
ilao  gratit. 

CovsT [impaiimUy].  YimareluBt«iuuitT 

FiQABO.  Much  more;  hia  b&ri>er,  hia 
Burgeon,  his  apotheoary;  there  is  not  a 
stroke  of  the  raior,  the  lancet,  or  tlie  syringe 
in  hia  house  which  does  not  proceed  from 
the  hand  of  your  humble  servant. 

Count  [enUrraeing  kim].  Ah,  f^garo,  my 
friend!  you  shall  be  my  savior  and  my 
guardiaa  angel. 

FioAso.  Theplaguet  How  soon  has  my 
usefulness  shortened  the  distance  between 
usl  Talk  to  me  of  men  with  a  passion! 

Count.  Fortu(utt«  Figarol  You  shall 
see  my  Roeinel  you  shall  see  her!  Can  you 
imagine  your  good  fortune? 

FioABO.  That's  the  usual  lover's  talkl 
I  do  not  adore  her.  I  wiah  that  you  oould 
take  my  place. 

CoDNT.  Ah,  if  we  oould  only  dodge  these 
vigilant  fellows! 

FiOABO.  That's  what  I  was  tttinldng  of. 

Count.  For  but  a  single  day. 

FioAKO.  By  setting  the  servants  to  look 
out  for  their  own  intereata,  we  shall  prevent 
tbem  from  interfering  with  the  intereata  of 
others. 

CoPMT.  DoubtlesB.  Well? 

FlQJkBO  [refiectinfi].  Ishallrackmybraina 
to  see  wheUier  materia  fn«d*ea  will  not 
furnish  some  innocent  means  .  .  . 

Count.  Scoundrel! 

FiQABO.  Am  I  going  to  hurt  themT  They 
all  need  my  ministrations.  It  is  only  a 
queetion  of  how  to  treat  them  all  at  once. 

Count.  But  this  doctor  may  grow  sus- 
pidousT 

FiOABO.  We  ah^  have  to  set  to  work  si 
quickly  that  he  will  have  no  time  to  aue 
pect.  I  have  an  idea.  The  regiment  of  the 
bmr-apparent  has  just  arrived  in  the  city. 

Count.  The  colonel  ia  one  of  my  friends. 

FioABo.  Good.  Qo  to  the  doctor's  in  a 
trooper's  uniform  with  your  billet;  he  will  be 
obliged  to  lodge  you;  and  I  will  look  after 
the  test. 

Count.  Excellent! 

Figaro.  It  would  be  still  better  if  you 
appeared  a  trifle  intoxicated  .  . . 


Count.  Why? 

Fiaaxo.  And  treat  him  a  bit  cavalierly, 
lor  you  have  an  eicellent  excuse  for  b^ng 
unreasonable. 

Count.  Again  I  ask  you  why? 

FiOABO.  So  that  he  will  take  no  offense, 
and  think  you  more  in  a  hurry  to  go  to  bed 
than  carry  on  intrigues  in  his  house. 

Count.  Beautifully  planned!  But  why 
do  you  not  figure  in  it? 

FioAKo.  I,  indeed!  We  shall  be  fortu- 
nate enough  if  he  does  not  recognise  you 
whom  be  has  never  seen.  And  how  should 
I  introduce  you  afterward? 

Count.  You  are  right, 

Figaro.  It  is  because  you  may  not  be 
able  to  act  this  difficult  part.  Cavalier 
.  .  .  the  worse  for  wine  .  . 

Count.  You  are  lau^ting  at  me.  [/mt- 
latmu  the  tpeeA  of  a  drunkard.]  Is  this  Urn 
bouse  of  Doctor  Bartholo,  my  friend? 

Figaro.  Truly,  not  bad,  only  a  little 
more  unsteady  in  the  le^.  [In  a  more 
drunken  ooiee.]  Is  this  the  house  of  Doctor 
Bartholo  .  . . 

Count.  Shame  upon  you  I  'Tis  a  low 
and  vulgar  drunkennees. 

Figaro.  A  good  one  and  a  pteasant  one. 

Count.  The  door  opens. 

FiOABO.  Our  man:  let  us  make  off  until 
he  ia  gone.  [They  hide.] 

BartboIiO  [coming  out,  speaking  to  eome 
one  in  the  hotue],  I  shall  return  instantly, 
let  no  one  enter  the  house.  How  foolish  I 
was  to  oome  down.  As  soon  aa  she  asked 
me,  I  should  have  suspected.  .  .  .  Why  is 
Basile  so  lato?  He  waa  to  arrange  every- 
thing for  my  secret  lAarriage  to-morrow: 
and  no  news!  Let  ua  go  and  find  out  what 
may  have  delayed  faim.  [Exit.] 

Count.  WhatdidlhearT  To-morrowhe 
marries  Roeine  secretly! 

FioARO.  My  lord,  the  difficulties  in  ib» 
way  of  BuccesB  only  add  to  the  necessity  of 
the  undertaking. 

Count.  What  sort  of  a  man  is  thii 
Batile  who  is  meddling  with  this  mar- 
riage? 

Figaro.  A  poor  devil  who  teaches  music 
to  the  doctor's  word,  infatuated  with  his 
art,  a  bit  of  a  rascal,  always  needy,  on  his 
knees  before  a  oown-pieoe,  who,  in  shu^ 


33« 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


vill  be  veiy  easy  to  mui&ge,  my  lord  .  . 
lObmeing  at  the  Utnd.]  There  she  lel  there 

CODUT.   Whof 

FiOARO.  Behind  the  blind,  —  there  she 
iai  there  she  i«!  Don't  look!  Don't  lookl 

CocKT.  Why? 

FiGABO.  Didahenot  write:  "Sing  care- 
lenly"  7  — that  ia  to  Bay,  aing  ...  as  if 
you  were  singing  .  .  .  only  for  the  sake  of 
singing.  OhI  there  she  is!  there  she  isl 

Count.  Since  I  have  begun  to  interest 
ber  without  being  known  to  her,  I  shall 
keep  the  name  of  Lindor  which  I  have  as- 
■umed;  my  triumph  will  have  a  greater 
chann.  [ff e  ut^oUa  lAe  pap«r  uAteA  Robimx 
has  (Aroun  out  of  the  window.]  But  how 
shall  I  aing  to  this  music.   I  cannot  niake 

Figaro.  Every  verse  that  occura  to  you, 
my  lord,  will  be  excellent :  in  love,  the  heart 
assiste  the  productions  of  the  mind  . . . 
And  take  my  guitar. 

Count.  What  shall  I  do  with  it?  I  play 
BO  badly! 

FioARO.  Can  a  man  like  you  be  ignorant 
of  anything?  With  the  back  of  the  hand: 
turn,  turn  turn.  ...  To  sing  without  a 
guitar  in  Sevillel  You  would  soon  be  re- 
cogniced;  faith,  you  would  soon  be  hunted 

[FiOABO  ttandt  doae  (a  tht  unll 
under  tht  haUony.] 
Count  [exnging,  waOnng  bad  and  forth, 
and  aceompanjfin{)  himtdf  on  the  guHar]. 
Thou  shalt  know  my  name,  nnoe  to  mmmaDd 

Is  thins; 
Unknown  to  thee,  I  dared  to  show  my  adora- 
tkm: 

noui^t  but  de>- 

)r'a  will  ia  mine. 
FioARO  [in  a  lotB  voiet].  Fine,  upon  my 
wordi  Courage,  my  lordl 

lindor  am  I,  of  common  birth  and  nation: 

A  limple  atudent's  life  !■  all  I  etaim; 

Alaal  why  bear  I  Dot  some  knisht'i  eialted 

To  offer  you  bis  brilliant  rank  and  stationT 

FiQAso.  Deuco  tako  itl  I,  who  pique 
mynlf  on  mr  veneo,  oould  do  no  b  >tt«r. 


Comrr. 
Here,  with  a  tender  voice  will  I 
My  hopeleaa   love  proclaim,  each   mominf 

My  pleuurea  ahall  be  bounded  by  thy  n^t; 
Each  morning  here  with  tender  notes  aud  long 
Will  I  my  hopeless  love  of  thee  proclaim  I 
To  Ke  thee  ■  .  .  thia  ahall  be  my  joy,  my 

And  roayeet  thou  pleaaure  Snd  to  list  my 

FiQARO.  Ohimywordtthislastonet . . . 
[Approaehes  hie  maaUr  and  Hatas 
Ilie  hem  of  hit  eloak.] 
ConwT.   Figaro  I 
FiQARo.  Your  excellency? 
Count.  Do  you  think  she  heard  me? 
RosiNi!  [leiAin  ainffiTtg:]  — 
AH  tella  me  now  of  Liudor'a  charms, 
Whtxn  I  must  love  with  cooatancy  .  . . 
[The]/  hear  the  vrindtne  doetd  funsily.\ 
FiGABO.    Now,  do  you  think  that  she 
heard  you? 

Count.    She  has  closed  her  window; 

some  one  has  apparently  entered  the  room. 

FioARO.  Aht  poor  little  thing!  how  she 

trembles  as  she  sings!  She  is  caught,  my 

lord. 

CotJNT.    She  avails  herself  of  the  very 
means  which  she  pointed  out  to  me:  ^ 
All  tdls  me  DOW  of  Lindor'a  charm. 
What  KTBceT  what  a  pret^  wit. 
,  .  FisABO.  What  eunning!  what  lovet 
'   JDoDNT.  That  ia  enou^!  I  am  Roeine'a 

FioARO.  You  foi^t,  my  lord,  that  she 
fiaoiiot  hear  ysu  now. 

Count.  Master  Figaro!  I  have  but  one 
word  to  Bay;  she  will  be  my  wife,  and  if  you 
further  my  plan  by  refusing  to  disclose  my 
name  to  her  .  .  .  you  und^atand  me,  you 

FioARo.  I  agree.  Come,  Figaro,  your 
fortune  is  made,  my  boy. 

Count.  Let  us  retire,  for  feat  of  exciting 
euspieion. 

FiQARO  [vioacxoady].  I  shall  enter  this 
house,  wh(n«  by  means  of  my  art,  with  a 
eiu|Je  stroke  of  my  wand,  I  ahall  put  vigi- 
lance to  sleep,  awake  love,  banish  jealous?, 
mislead  intrigue,  and  overcome  all  ob- 
stacles. You,  my  lord,  my  house,  a  aoldier'a 


THE  BARBER  OF  SEVILLE 


337 


uniform,   the  billet,  and  gold  in  your 
pockets. 

CoDNT.    Gold  for  whom? 

FiaABo{impatienii]/].  Gold,  for  HeAven's 
sake,  Kold[  it  ia  the  ainewa  of  intrigue! 

CoTTKT,  Calm  yourself,  Figaro,  1  Bfaall 
bring  plenty  of  it. 

PiOARO  igmng  off].  I  ehall  rejoin  you  in 
A  short  time. 

Count.  Fig&rot 

FiQARO.  What  IB  it? 

Count.  Your  guitar? 

FiQAKO.  I  have  forgotten  my  guitarl 
I  am  losing  my  wits!  [Exit.] 

Count,  And  your  houae,  stupidi 

Figaro  [rdumtnjrl-  Ahl  really,  I  am 
aatonishedl  My  ahop  ia  a  few  atepe  away; 
't  ie  painted  blue,  has  leaden  window 
frames,  three  cups  in  the  air,  an  eye  in  a 
hand,  with  a  motto,  ConnUo  manvque. 

lExU.] 

ACT   II 

[The  aparlmenis  of  Robine.  The  eate- 
meiU  ai  tiie  rear  of  the  ttage  it  doted  by  a 
barred  tkuUer.] 

[Enler  Robine  abrw,  a  eajuSe  in  her  htmd. 
She  takee  tome  paper  and  site  doom  lo 
Ihe  table  to  un-ife.) 

RoeiNE.  Marcelline  is  ill,  all  the  serv- 
ants are  busy,  and  no  one  sees  me  writing. 
I  know  not  whether  theee  walla  have  eyes 
and  ean,  or  whether  my  Argus  commands 
some  evfl  genius  who  is  always  warning  him 
at  precisely  the  wrong  moment;  but  I  can- 
not say  one  word,  take  one  step,  that  he 
does  not  immediately  guess  its  purpose. 
...  Ahl  Lindor!  [She  aeaU  the  letter.]  Well, 
I  must  seal  my  letter,  though  I  know  not 
when  or  how  I  may  deliver  it.  As  I  lool^ 
through  my  blind,  I  saw  him  talking  for  a 
long  time  to  the  barber  Figaro.  The  good 
fdlow  has  sometimes  shown  some  pity  for 
me;  if  I  could  only  speak  to  him  for  a 
moment  .  .  . 

[Enter  Fioabo.] 
SosiNK    [in  turpriee].     Ahl   Master  Fi- 
garo, how  glad  I  am  to  see  youl 
FiOABo.  Your  health,  modame? 


Rosms.  Not  too  good.  Master  Figaro,  ■ 
I  am  dying  of  ennut. 

FiQARO.  I  believe  you;  only  [oola  fatten 
upon  it. 

RosiNE.  With  whom  were  you  talking 
BO  earnestly  down  there?  I  did  not  hear; 
but  .  .  . 

FiQARO.  With  a  young  bachelor,  a  rela- 
tion of  mine,  a  young  man  of  fine  parts,  full 
of  wit,  sentiment,  and  talent,  and  gifted, 
with  a  most  attractive  counte- 


RoBiNi.  OhI  moat  excellent,  I  asBure 
3rou1  and  his  name?  .  .  . 

FiOARO.  Lindor.  He  hsa  nothing;  but 
had  he  not  left  Madrid  in  such  a  hurry,  he 
might  have  found  some  good  position  there. 

Rosins  [Ihoughiiettly].  He  will  find  one. 
Master  Figaro,  he  will  find  one.  Such  a 
man  as  he  whose  portrait  you  have  painted 
is  not  bom  to  remain  unknown. 

FioAoo  latide].  Very  well.  [Aloud.]  But 
he  has  one  great  fault  which  will  always 
stand  in  the  way  of  his  advancement. 

Ro&iNB.  A  fault,  Mast«r  Figaro  I  A 
faultl  you  are  quite  sure? 

FiOABO.  He  is  in  love. 

Robins.  He  lain  lovet  and  you  call  that 
a  fault? 

FioARo.  In  truth,  't  is  none  but  in  re- 
gard to  his  poor  fortune. 

Rosins.  Ahl  how  unjust  isFatel  Andhat 
he  told  you  whom  he  loves?  I  am  curious . . . 

FiQARO.  You  are  the  last,  madame,  to 
whom  I  should  like  to  entrust  such  b  secret 

RoaiNB  [beaeeckingly].  Why,  Master 
Figaro?  I  am  discreet;  the  young  man  is 
your  relation,  he  intereste  me  greatly  .  . . 
teU  me,  then. 

FiQARO  [uiiik  a  Ay  ^nee].  Imagine  the 
prettiest  little  darling,  sweet,  tender,  gen- 
tle-mannered, freah  aa  the  roee,  provoking 
one's  appetite,  with  a  dainty  foot,  a  ^uie 
agile  and  alender,  plump  arms,  a  fo^ 
mouth,  and  handal  chceksl  teethi  eyeel . . . 

RoBiNX.  Does  she  live  in  this  city? 

FiOARO.  In  this  quarter  of  it. 

RoBiNE.  On  this  street,  perhaps? 

FioARO.  Not  two  feet  away  from  me. 

RoeiNK.  Ah!  how  charming! .  . ,  f« 
your  relation.  And  this  peraon  is?  . . . 


338 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


*      FiQABO.  Have  I  not  named  her? 

RoBiNK  [exeUedly].  It  ia  the  only  thing 
that  you  hftve  fotgotteo,  Maatar  Figaro. 
Tell  me,  pleaie  t«ll  me  quickly;  if  any  one 
should  oome  in,  I  might  never  know  .  .  . 

FiOARo.  Do  you  really  wish  to  know,' 
madame?  Well!  this  person  is  .  .  .  your 
guardi&n'a  ward. 

RosiNK.  Ward? 

Figaro.    Doctor  Butholo'e:  yea,  ma- 

RoeiNX  [with  emotion].  Ah,  Mast«r  Fi- 
^uol ...  I  do  not  believe  it,  I  anure  you. 

FioAito.  And  that  ia  what  he  ie  himself 
dying  to  oonvince  you  of. 

RoBiNX.  You  make  me  toemble,  Master 

FioABO.  Shame,  tnmble,  indeedl  a  bad 
plan,  madame;  when  one  yields  to  the  fear 
of  suffering,  one  suffers  from  fear.  Besides, 
I  have  come  to  rid  you  of  all  your  watchers 
until  to-morrow. 

RofiiNB.  If  he  lovee  me,  he  must  prove 
it  to  me  by  ranaining  absolutely  quiet. 

FiQABO.  Indeed,  madamel  May  love 
and  repose  dwell  aide  by  side  in  the  same 
heart?  Poor  youth  is  so  unfortunate,  uowa- 
daya,  that  it  has  but  this  terrible  choice, 
love  without  repoee,   or  repose  without 

ROHiNX  [dropping  her  egttl.  Repose 
without  love  .  .  .  eeenw  .  .  . 

FiGABO.  Ahl  very  languid,  indeed.  It 
seems,  in  fact,  that  love  without  repose 
cute  a  much  better  figure;  and,  u  for  my- 
self, if  I  were  a  woman  .  .  . 

Rtwnra  (in  emharraaBmen^.  It  is  quite 
certain  that  a  young  lady  cannot  prevent 
a  good  roan  from  esteeming  her. 

FioABO.  So  my  relation  lovee  you  to 
distraction. 

ROHNE.  But  if  he  should  be  guilty  of 
any  imprudence,  Master  Figaro,  he  would 
ruin  us. 

'  FiOABO  [onde].  He  would  ruin  iw  .  .  . 
[Aloud.\  If  you  woulitforbtd  him  expressly 
in  a  little  note  ...  a  note  has  a  great  deal 
<rf  power. 

Rosins  [ffft>ea  him  the  letter  wkick  ihe  haa 
put  wtUen].  I  have  no  time  to  write  this 
over  again,  but  when  you  give  it  to  him, 
tell  him  .. .  wdl,  tell  faim  . . .  [Litteiu.] 


FiaABo.  No  ooe,  madame. 

RoBnm.  That  all  that  I  do  is  out  of  pure 
friendi^p. 

FioABo.  That  speaks  for  itodf.  Ood-a- 
mercy]  Love  sets  us  another  paoel 

Rosim;.  Only  out  of  pure  friendship. 
you  understand?  All  that  I  fear  is,  that, 
discouraged  by  difficultiee  .  . , 

FiOAito.  As  if  his  passion  were  only  a 
wiU-o'-tbe-wisp.  Remember,  madame,  that 
the  gust  which  blows  out  a  light  will  light  a 
braiier,  and  that,  often  enough,  we  are  the 
brasier.  Speaking  of  that  only,  be  breathes 
out  such  a  fiame,  that  he  has  made  me  al- 
most delirious  with  his  passion,  I  who  have 
nothing  to  do  with  the  whole  matterl 

RoBiMK.  Good  Heavenl  I  hear  my 
guardian.  If  he  should  find  you'bere  . . . 
Go  out  throu^  the  music-room,  and  go 
down  as  softly  as  jrou  can. 

FiOABO.  Be  easy  about  that.  [Aiide, 
holding  up  the  letter.]  This  is  worth  toon 
than  all  my  observationa.  [Exit.] 

RoBiNK  laloTte].  I  am  beside  mysdf  with 
anxiety  until  he  has  left  the  house  .  . . 
How  I  like  him,  that  good  Figarol  He  is  a 
very  honest  fellow,  a  good  relation!  Ah* 
There  is  my  tyrant,  I  must  take  up  my 

[She  bhwe  out  the  eaadle,  «ib 
dotDtt,  and  faket  up  some  em- 
broidery.] 

[Enter  Babtbolo.] 

Babtholo  [in  a  rage].  Ahl  curses  upoa 
that  villain,  that  piratical  rogue,  Fi^ro* 
Zounds!  I  cannot  leave  my  bouse  one  mo- 
ment, and  be  sure  when  I  return  . ,  . 

BaeiNB.  What  makes  you  so  angry,  sir? 

Babtholo.  That  damned  barber  who 
just  crippled  my  whole  household  in  a  jif^I 
He  has  given  Eveill^  a  sleeping  powder,  Ta 
'^euneese  something  to  make  him  sneese, 
he  has  bled  Marcelline  in  the  foot;  even 
down  to  my  mute;  he  has  put  a  poultice 
over  the  eyea  of  a  poor  blind  beasti  Be- 
cause he  owes  me  one  hundred  crowns,  he 
is  in  hasto  to  balance  his  account.  Ah!  let 
him  bring  them!  And  no  one  in  the  ante- 
roam!  one  might  enter  this  apartment  aa 
easily  as  the  parade^round. 

RosiNK.  And  who  but  yourself.  sirT 


THE   BARBER  OF  SEVILLE 


339 


Bartbou>.  I  would  nther  \i,v«  vinrea- 
BOnable  fears  than  expose  myself  without 
precautious.  There  are  bold  and  daring  fel- 
lows everywhere  .  .  .  Thia  very  morning, 
did  not  some  one  quickly  pick  up  your 
Boug  while  I  was  going  down  to  get  it? 
OhI  I .  .  . ' 

RoBnni.  That  is  giving  importance  to 
everything  just  for  the  pleasure  of  it!  The 
wind  may  have  carried  it  ofF,  or  the  first 
passer-by,  how  do  I  know? 

Babtholo.  The  wind,  the  first  passer- 
by! .  . .  There  is  no  wind,  madame,  there 
is  no  first  passer-by  in  the  world;  it  is  al- 
ways some  one  waiting  there  on  purpose  to 
pidc  up  all  the  papers  irtiich  any  woman 
aCFecte  to  drop  by  miatake. 

RoBiME.  Afiecta,  air? 

Babtbolo.  Yes,  madame,  affects. 

RoBiNE  ((uide].  OhI  &m  wicked  old  fel- 
low! 

Baktholo.  But  it  will  never  happen 
again,  because  I  am  going  bi  have  this 
blind  locked. 

Rosnm.  Do  better  than  that;  wall  up 
all  the  windows;  between  a  prison  and  a 
cell  there  is  very  little  choice. 

Babtholo.  As  for  those  which  look  out 
upon  the  street,  it  would  not  be  a  bad  idea, 
perhaps  ...  At  least,  that  tuirber  has  not 
been  here? 

RosiNii.  Is  he  also  an  object  of  your 
jealousy? 

Babtbolo.   Just  as  much  as  any  other. 

RoBiNu.  How  civflly  you-answer  met 

Babtbolo.  Ah!  IVust  in  everybody, 
and  you  will  soon  have  in  your  house  a  wife 
to  deceive  you,  good  friends  to  spirit  her 
off,  and  good  aervanta  to  help  them  do  it. 

RofiiNB.  What!  You  will  not  grant,  in- 
deed, that  one  has  principles  against  the 
seduction  of  Master  Figaro? 

Bartholo.  Who  the  devil  knows  any- 
Uiing  about  the  peculiarities  of  women? 
And  how  many  of  these  high  and  mighty 
virtues  have  I  seen  . .  . 

RoBUTE  [angrily].  But,  eir,  if  one  must 
only  be  a.  man  to  please  us,  why  is  it,  then, 
that  you  are  so  repulaive  t^i  me? 

Bastholo  Itn  anaxement].  Why?  .  .  . 
Why?  .  .  .  You  do  not  answer  my  question 
about  that  barber? 


RosiNK  [proDotef].  Yea,  then!  Yes,  that 
man  came  into  my  room,  I  saw  him,  I  spoke 
to  him,  I  will  not  conceal  from  you,  even, 
that  I  found  him  veiy  agreealile,  and  may 
youdieof  veitstion!  [ExO.] 

Bahtbou)  [iJone].  Ah!  the  Jews!  those 
dogs  of  servants!  Jeunesse!   Eveill^t  that 
dimmed  Eveilli! 
[Enier  EvEiLiii,  yawning,  and  hay  awaix,\ 

EvBiLii.    Aah,  aah,  ah,  ah  .  .  . 

Bartholo.  Where  were  you,  you  con- 
founded idiot,  when  that  barber  entered 
the  bouse? 

EvxiLiJ.  Sir,  I  was  ...  ah,  aah,  ah  .  .  . 

Babtbolo.  Hatching  out  some  trick, 
no  doubt?  And  you  did  not  see  him? 

EtxillA.  Certainly  I  saw  him,  because 
he  found  me  very  ill,  as  he  said ;  and  it  must 
have  been  very  true,  because  I  commenced 
to  have  pains  in  all  my  limbs,  just  bearing 
him  talk  .  .  .  ah,  ah,  aah  ... 

Baktholo  (mimtu  Aim).  Just  hearing 
him  talk  .  . .  Where  is  that  good-for-noth- 
ing Jeunesse?  To  drug  this  little  fellow 
without  my  preecriptioni  There  is.somt, 
rascality  in  it. 

[EiOa-  Jeitnxssb  lite  an  old  man,  Uaninfi 
upon  a  ctme;  he  «n«ezM  ttverol  timet.} 

'EvYiiuA  [stUl  yavming].   Jeuuesee! 

Bartholo.  You  will  sneeze  Sunday. 

Jbunkbsb.  That's  more  than  fifty  .  . 
fifty  times  ,  ,  .  in  a  minute.  [Sn«ezes.\  I  am 
exhausted. 

Babtbolo.  I  ask  you  twice  if  any  one 
entered  Rosine's  apartment,  and  you  tell 
me  only  that  that  barber  .  .  . 

EveillA  [gftU  yawning].  Is  Master  Fi- 
garo any  one?  aah,  ah  .  .  . 

Babtbolo.  I  would  wager  that  the  sly 
fellow  has  an  understanding  with  him. 

Eveill£  [ineeping  /ooIuUy].  I!  ...  I, 
have  an  understanding!  .  .  . 

Jetinessb  [tneeiing].  But  sir,  is  there 
any  justice  ...  is  there  any  justice? 

Babtbolo.  Juaticel  Justice  for  you, 
you  wretchesi  I  am  your  master,  who  is 
always  ri^t. 

Jbunxsbb  [«ne«nrvl>  But,  now,  when  a 
thing  is  true  .  . . 

BartboIiO.  When  aiding  is  true.  Ifldo 


340 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


not  wish  it  to  be  true,  I  claim  that  it  is  not 
true.  If  you  would  only  allow  all  these 
rascals  to  be  right,  you  would  soon  see 
what  would  become  of  authority. 

JsTTNBesE  [tneetins].  You  may  as  well 
give  me  my  dismissal.  It's  a  terrible  posi- 
tion and  a  devilish  row  all  the  time. 

EvEiLiJ  [teeeping],  A  poor  respectable 
fellow  is  treated  like  a  wretch. 

Babtbolo.  Out  with  you,  you  poor  re- 
spectable fellow!  [Mimics  them.]  T'chewl 
t'cbewl  One  gneeiee  and  the  other  yawns 
in  my  faoe. 

Jeunbssb.  Ah,  sir!  I  swear  that  without 
Miss  Rosine  there  would  be  no  way  of  get- 
ting on  in  the  house.  [Exit  tneenn{f.] 

Babtbolo.  In  what  a  plight  has  Figaro 
left  them  all  I  See  what's  the  matter;  the 
villain  wants  to  pay  me  my  hundred  crowns 
without  opening  his  purse, 

[ErUer  Don  Baiius.  Fisaro,  hidden  in  the 


Babtbolo.    Ah,  Don  Baiilsl  have  you 
com^  to  give  Rosine  her  music-leaaon? 
Baeilb.    That  is  the  least  part  of  my 

Bartholo.  I  went  to  see  you  without 
finding  you  at  home. 

Baziix.  Ihadgoneout  on  your  business. 
I  have  learned  some  sony  news. 

Barthoi.0.  For  yourseWT 

Bazilb.  No,  for  you.  Count  Almaviva 
is  in  this  city. 

Babthoix*.  Speak  lower.  The  one  who 
had  Boeine  sought  for  throughout  the 
whole  city  of  Madrid? 

Baiils.  He  is  lodging  in  a  house  on  the 
Plasa,  and  comes  out  every  day  in  disguise. 

Bartholo.  He  has  designs  upon  me, 
that's  cerUin.  WhatshallldoT 

Bazilx.  If  he  were  a  private  citizen,  we 
might  soon  get  him  out  of  the  way. 

Babtbolo.  Yes,  we  might  ambush  him 
in  the  evening,  with  sword  and  buckler  .  .  . 

Babile.  Bont-Deu»!  Compromise  our- 
selvesl  To  start  a  nasty  affair,  that  is  fine, 
and  meanwhile  slander  him  to  the  iitmoat 
ameidol 

Babtbolo.  That  is  a  aingiiliir  way  of 
getting  rid  of  a  man. 


Bazile.  Slander,  sirT  You  hardly  know 
what  you  despise.  I  have  seen  the  beet  of 
men  nearly  crushed  under  it.  Believe  me 
that  there  is  no  vulgar  wickedness,  no  hot- 
TOT,  no  absurd  story,  that  one  cannot  fasten 
upon  the  idle  residents  of  a  great  city  if  he 
go  about  it  in  the  right  way,  and  we  have 
some  pretty  skillful  fellows  herel  At  first, 
a  slight  rumor,  skimming  the  ground  like 
the  swallow  before  the  storm,  pumietimo, 
it  murmurs,  and  twists  and  leaves  behind 
it  its  poisonous  trail.  So-and-So  hears  it 
and  piano  piano  aUps  it  gracefully  into  your 
ear.  The  evil  is  done,  it  sprouts,  crawls, 
travels  on,  and  rii^orzondo  from  mouth  to 
mouth,  it  goes  on  at  the  deuce  of  a  pace; 
then,  suddenly,  I  know  not  how,  you  se^ 
slander  arising,  hissing,  swelling,  and  visi- 
bly growing,  tt  rushes  forward,  extends  its 
flight,  whirls,  envelops,  tears,  bursts,  and 
thunders,  and  becomes,  thank  Heaven,  a 
general  cry,  a  public  erttcendo,  a  universal 
chorus  of  hate  and  denunciation.  Who  the 
deuoe  could  withstand  it? 

Babtbolo.  What  old  wives'  tale  are  you 
telling  me?  And  what  connection  nuiy  this 
piaruMTeaeendo  have  with  my  situation? 

Bazilb.  Whatl  —  what  connection! 
What  one  does  everywhere  to  put  his 
enemy  out  of  the  way,  must  now  be  done  to 
prevent  yours  from  further  approach. 

Babtbolo.  Approach?  I  intend  to 
many  Rosine  before  she  knows  that  this 
count  even  ezigts. 

Bazhk.  In  that  case,  you  have  not  a 
moment  to  lose, 

Babtholo.  Why  don't  you  hasten, 
BasileT  I  entrusted  all  the  details  of  this 
affair  to  you, 

Bazilx.  Yes,  but  you  skimped  on  the 
expenses;  and  in  the  harmony  of  good  order, 
an  unequal  marriage,  a  wicked  judgment, 
and  evident  injustice  are  discords  that  we 
must  always  watch  for  and  prevent,  by  the 
perfect  accord  of  gold. 

Babtbolo  \ffinng  him  m<mey\.  Well,  we 
shall  have  to  give  in  to  you;  but  to  cmi- 

Bazile.  That's  what  I  call  talking.  It 
will  be  all  over  to-morrow;  it  is  for  you  to 
prevent  any  one  from  waroiag  your  ward 


THE   BARBER  OF  SEVILLE 


341 


Baktbolo.  Tniat  to  me.  Are  you  com- 
ing this  evening? 

Bazilb.  Do  not  count  upon  me.  Your 
mATTUge  alone  wiU  keep  me  busy  the  whole 
d>y;  do  not  count  upon  me. 

Babtholo  [aeeompanying  him  to  the 
dom].  Your  serrant. 

Baule.  No  ceremony,  doctor. 

BiXTBoia.  No,  indeed.  I  wi^  to  close 
the  street  door  after  you.  [ExeuiU.] 

FiOARO  [aioTie,  iMuinn  from  the  cabinet]. 
Oh!  a  good  precaution,  indeedl  Close  your 
street  door,  then,  and  I  shall  open  it  again 
for  the  count  as  I  go  out.  What  a  great 
rogue  is  that  Baxilel  Luckily  he  is  even 
more  foolish  than  rascally.  One  needs  sta- 
tion, family,  name,  rank,  and,  in  short,  the 
ngfiid  of  the  world,  to  make  &ny  sensation 
in  the  world  as  a  slanderer.  But  a  Basils! 
His  lies  would  never  pass  current. 
[Enier  Rosnn,  {n  hatte.] 

RoBUfz.  What!  You  are  still  thne. 
Master  Figaro? 

Figaro.  Luckily  for  you,  miss.  Your 
guardian  and  your  singjng-master,  thinking 
that  they  were  here  alone,  have  spoken  very 

RosiNB.  And  you  listened  to  tbem. 
Master  Figaro?  Do  you  know  that  that  is 
very  wrong? 

FiaABO.  To  listen?  That  is  the  very  best 
way  to  hear  weU,  Know,  then,  that  your 
guardian  is  preparing  to  wed  you  to-mor- 

Rosntz.  Ah  I  great  Heaven! 

FioARo.  Pear  aotbing;  we  diall  give  him 
so  much  to  do  that  he  wUl  have  no  time  to 
think  of  that. 

RosiNB.  He  is  returning;  go  out  by  the 
little  staircase.  You  terrify  me. 

[Exit  FiOABO.] 
[Enler  Babtholo.] 

Rosins.  You  were  here  with  some  one, 
sir? 

Babtholo.  Don  Bazile,  whom  I  have 
just  accompanied  to  the  door,  and  with 
good  reason.  You  would  have  prderred 
that  it  was  Master  Figaro? 

RosiNB.  I  assure  you,  it's  all  the  same 


Baktholo.  I  should  like  to  know  what 
that  barber  was  so  anxious  to  tell  you. 

RoBiNx.  Must  we  talk  seriously?  He 
gave  me  an  account  of  Marcelline's  condi- 
tion, and,  so  he  says,  she  is  none  too  well. 

Bartholo.  Give  you  an  account?  I  will 
wager  that  he  was  commissioned  to  hand 
you  some  letter. 

RoBiNE.  And  from  whom,  if  you  please? 

Basthou).  Oh,fromwhom!  f>omsome 
oae  whom  women  never  name.  How  should 
I  know?  Perhaps  the  answer  to  the  paper 
that  dropped  from  the  window. 

RoeiMX  [aside].  He  is  perfectly  right, 
to  be  sure.  [Alimd.]  It  would  serv^'-ja^ 
right  if  it  was.  ^ 

Bartholo  [examining  Robimii's  hand]. 
That  is  it.   You  have  been  writing. 

RoeiNE  [in  emboTTastment].  You  will  bo 
skillfut  indeed  to  malce  me  acknowledge  it. 

Bartholo  [taking  her  right  hanH.  IT 
Notatall!  But  your  Snger  is  stained  with 
ink.  .  .  .  What  do  you  make  of  that,  you 
sly  miss? 

RoBiNii.  What  a  cursed  man! 

Bajctholo  [itiH  luMing  her  hand].  A 
woman  always  thinks  that  she  is  safe  when 
she  is  alone. 

BoeiNB.  Ahl  No  doubt.  ...  A  fine 
proof! .  . .  Stop,  sir,  you  are  twisting  my 
arms.  I  burned  myself  with  the  candle,  and 
I  have  always  been  told  that  you  must  im< 
mediately  dip  it  in  ink;  that  is  what  I  did. 

Bartholo.  That  is  what  you  did?  Let 
us  see  if  the  second  witness  will  corroborate 
the  deposition  of  the  first.  I  am  certain  that 
there  were  six  sheets  in  this  package  of 
paper,  for  I  have  counted  them  every  morn- 
ing BH  well  se  to-day. 

RoHiNE  [aride].   Oh!  what  a  fool!  .  .  . 

Bartboix)  [counting].  Three,  four, 
five!  ... 

RosiNK.  The  sixth  .  .  . 

Bartholo.  I  see  very  dearly  that  there 
b  no  sixth. 

RosiNK  [dropping  her  eye*).  The  sixth? 
I  used  it  to  make  a  bag  for  some  bon-bcns 
which  I  sent  to  little  Mistreas  Figaro. 

Bartholo,  Little  Mistreas  Figaro?  And 
the  pen,  which  was  brand-new,  how  did 
that  beoome  black?  Was  it  in  writing  her 
addiees? 


:.L|,i,zedi!,GoOQlc 


34« 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


RoBiitE.  This  man  has  a  genius  for 
jealousy  I .  .  .  [Alottd.]  I  used  it  to  sketch 
a  faded  flower  on  the  jacket  which  I  am 
embroidering. 

Bartholo.  How  edifying  that  isl  In 
order  to  be  believed,  my  child,  you  should 
/  not  blushwhen  concealing  the  truth  so  fast; 
but  you  do  not  know  that  yet. 

RoaiNE.  Whati  Who  would  not  blush, 
sir,  to  see  such  damaging  deductions  drawn 
from  the  most  innocent  circumstanoes? 

Bartholo.  Certainly  I  am  wrong;  to 
bum  one's  finger,  dip  it  in  the  ink,  to  make 
bon-bon  bagB  for  Mistress  Figaro,  and  to 
sketch  an  embroidery  deeiga!  What  more 
innocenti  But  how  many  ties  told  to  con- 
ceal a  single  fact!  /  am  aiotte,  I  am  not  db- 
ttrved,  I  may  lie  as  1  pleaee:  but  the  end  of 
her  finger  is  still  black,  the  pen  is  soiled, 
and  the  paper  is  missingt  Of  course,  we 
could  not  think  of  everything.  Indeed,  my 
young  lady,  when  I  go  out  into  the  city,  a 
good  double  lock  shall  answer  for  you. 

CoDNT  [en&rinj;  in  a  eavalry  imiform, 
iagning  iTUoxioaium  and  tinging:] 

Let  'a  vake  her,  etc. 
Babtholo.  What  does  this  fellow  wish 
of  Its?    A  soldierl    Go  into  your  room, 
young  lady. 

COOTTT  [nnirtnpl. 

Let's  wake  her, 
[Adamcing  toviard  Robinb.]  Which  of  you 
two  ladies  is  named  Doctor  BalordoT  [Aside 
'o  RofiiNE.]  I  am  Lindor. 

Bartholo.  Bartholo  1 

RosmB.  He  speaks  of  Lindor. 

CoHNT.  Balordo,  Barque-ft-l'sau,  I  don't 
eare  which,  only  I  must  know  which  of  the 
two.  .  . .  [To  Rosinb;  showing  her  a  paper.] 
Take  this  letter. 

Bartholo.  WhichI  You  see  very  well 
that  it  is  I!  Which,  foreoothl  Retire  to 
your  room,  Rosine,  this  man  seems  to  be 
drunk! 

RoeiNB.  But  you  are  alone,  sir.  A 
woman  sometimes  inspires  a  little  respect. 

Bartholo.  OS  with  you;  I  am  not 
timid.  [Exit  Robtne.] 

Count.  OhI  I  recognised  you  immedi- 
ately by  your  description. 


Bartholo  [to  the  Codnt,  wAo  u  foldins 
up  the  letter].  What  are  you  hiding  in  your 
pffcketT 

Count.  I  am  hiding  this  in  my  pocket 
BO  that  you  will  not  know  what  it  is. 

Babtholo.  My  description!  Those  fel- 
lows are  forever  believing  that  they  art 
talJdDg  to  soldiers! 

Count.   Do  you  think  that  it  is  such  a 
hard  matter  to  describe  you? 
The  noddii^  head,  the  bald  and  polished 

The  wall-eyed,  blear,  and  savage-Bquinting 

frown, 
The  manners  like  a  fierce  Algonquin  chief. 
The  heavy  figure,  warped  beyond  beliri, 
The  crooked  shoulder  and  swarthy  skin. 
As  black  as  any  Moorish  child  of  sin. 
The  nose,  moreover,  like  a  baldaquin, 
The  bent  and  twisted  leg,  forever  flexed. 
The  hangman's  voice,  confused  with  words 

perplexed. 
And  all  hie  vicious  appetites  declare 
This  man 's  the  peaii  of  doctors,  rich  and 
rare! 

Bartholo.  What  do  you  mean?  Have 
you  come  here  to  insult  me?  Clear  out  this 
moment! 

Count.  Clear  out!  Ah,  pshaw  I  That's 
a  churlish  speech.  Can  you  read,  doctor 
. .  .  Barfoe-U'eau? 

Bartholo,  Another  silly  question. 

Count.  OhI  don't  let  that  worry  you; 
for  I,  who  am  at  least  aa  much  of  a  doctw 
as  yourself  .  .  . 

Bartholo.  What  is  that? 

Count.  Am  I  not  horse-doctor  to  the 
regiment?  That  is  why  they  have  lodged 
me  with  a  colleague. 

Bartholo.  He  dares  to  compare  a 
farrier!  .  .  . 

Count.  No,  doctor,  I  will  not  proclaim 
That  this  our  art  can  put  to  shame 
Old  Hippocrates  and  his  crew; 
Your  Imowledge,  comrade,  it  is  true, 
Hath  a  success  of  wider  sway,  i 

The  ill  it  may  not  bear  away, 
Yet  bear  off  patients  not  a  few. 
Do  I  not  speak  you  fairly? 

Bartholo.  It  becomes  you  well,  you 
ignorant  manipulator,  M  to  revile  the  &nrt, 
thegreateel,  and  the  most  uaeful  of  iba  arts) 


CtOoi^Ic 


THE   BARBER  OF   SEVILLE 


343 


Count.  Useful,  indeed,  (or  those  who 
pnctioe  it. 

Bahtholo.    An  art  honorii^  the 
which  shines  upon  its  succesaeBl 

Count.  And  whose  blunders  the  earth 
makes  hsste  to  cover. 

Baxtboix*.  I  see  very  well,  you  saucy 
fellow,  that  you  are  oidy  accustomed  to 
talk  to  horses. 

Count.  Talk  to  horses!  Ah,  doctor!  a 
poor  wit  fof  a  witty  doctor. ...  Is  it  not 
DotorioUB  that  the  farrier  always  cures  his 
patients  without  speaking  to  them,  though, 
on  the  contrary,  the  physician  talks  much 

BartholiO.    Without  curing  them,  you 

Count.  You  have  said  so. 

BabthoiiO.  Who  the  devil  sends  us  this 
cursed  drunkard? 

Count.  My  dear  fellow,  I  think  that  you 
are  firing  epigrams  at  me! 

Babtholo.  Well,  what  would  you  have? 
what  do  you  want? 

Count  \feignin{)  a  rage].  Well,  then! 
What  do  I  want?   Don't  you  eee7 

Rosins  [entering  in  hatU],  Master  sol- 
dier, do  not  get  aogry,  I  beg  youl  [To 
Babtholo.]  Speak  to  him  gently,  sir:  an 
unreasonable  man  .  .  . 

Coitnt.  You  are  right;  he  ii  unreason- 
able; but  toe  are  reasonable!  I,  polite,  you, 
pretty  .  .  .  that's  enough.  To  tell  the 
truth,  I  wish  to  ha^'e  dealings  with  no  one 
in  this  house  but  you. 

Robins.   What  can  I  do  to  serve  you. 

Count.  A  mere  trifle,  my  child.  If  there 
is  any  obscurity  in  my  words  ,  .  . 

ROBIME.  I  shall  understand  their  mean- 
ing. 

Count  [gkouring  her  the  letter].  Now,  con- 
fine yourself  to  the  letter,  to  tiie  letter.  It 
is  only  this  .  .  .  that  you  give  me  a  bed  to- 
night. 

Babtholo.  Nothing  but  that? 

Count.  No  more.  Read  the  note  which 
our  quartennaster  has  written  you. 

Babthclo.  LetuBsee.  [TheCoovrhidet 
the  letter  and  gwe«  Mm  another  paper.  Bar- 
TBOLO  reads.)  "  Doctor  Bartholo  will  re- 
eeive,  feed,  lodge,  and  bed  ..." 


Count  [kaning  ooer  hie  ahovlder].   Bed! 

Bartholo.  "  For  one  night  only,  one 
Lindor  called  the  Scholar,  trooper  in  the 
r^ment." 

RoBiNE.  It  is  he,  it  is  he! 

Babtholo  [quidUy  to  Rosine].  What  is 
that? 

Count.  Welt,  am  I  wrong  now.  Doctor 
Bartholo? 

Bastbolo.  One  might  say  that  this  man 
takes  e.  malicious  pleasure  in  belaboring  me 
in  every  possible  way.  To  the  devil  with 
your  Barbaro,  Barbe-&-reaul  and  tell  your 
impertinent  quartermaater  that  since  my 
journey  to  Madrid  I  am  exempt  from  lodg- 
ing soldiers. 

Count Ia*ide].  OHeavenI  Whatavexa- 
tiouB  misfortune! 

Babtholo.  Ha!  ha!  my  friend,  that  puti 
you  out  a  little?  Clear  out  this  very  uo- 

Count  [(wide).  I  nearly  betrayed  myself . 
[illowf.]  Be  off!  If  you  are  exempt  from 
men  of  war,  you  are  not  eicempt  from  polite- 
nessl  Decamp!  Show  me  your  exemption 
warrant;  although  I  cannot  read,  I  shall 

Babtholo,  What  has  that  to  do  witi 
it?  It  is  in  this  bureau  ... 

Count  [as  he  approaches  U  taya  w&hoiu 
monng].  Ah!  my  fair  Rosine! 

RoBiNE.  What,  Lindor,  is  it  you? 

Count.  At  all  events,  take  this  letter. 

Rosine.  Take  care,  he  has  his  eyes  upon 
us. 

Count.  Take  out  your  handkerchief, 
I  will  drop  the  letter.        [He  approachea' 

Babtholo.  Gently,  gently,  sir  solditf 
I  do  not  like  my  wife  looked  at  so  closelj 

Count,  Is  she  your  wife? 

Bartholo.  And  what  then? 

Count.  I  took  you  for  her  grandfather, 
paternal,  maternal,  eternal.  There  are  at 
least  three  generations  between  her  ant 
yourself. 

Bartholo  [reading  from  a  pardiment], 
"In  consideration  of  good  and  faithful 
testimony  proffered  us  .  .  ." 

CoutTT  [striking  the  parchments  from  hit 
hand  to  the  floor].  Do  I  need  this  string  of 
words? 

Babtholo.    You  know  very  well,  scj 


344 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


dier,  that  if  I  coll  my  people,  I  will  have 
you  treated  forthwith  as  you  deaerve. 

Count.  A  fight!  Ah,  willingly!  that  is 
my  trade  Ishowinn  a  pistol  in  kit  belt]  aod 
here  is  something  to  throw  powder  in  their 
eyM.  Perhaps  you  have  never  seen  a  bat- 
tle, madamef 

RosiNE.  Nor  do  I  wish  to  see  one. 

Count.  Nothing,  however,  is  as  gay  as 
a  battlet  Imagine  {pwihirm  the  doctor],  in 
the  first  place,  that  the  enemy  i^  on  one 
aide  of  the  ravine,  and  the  friende  on  the 
other.  {To  Rosine,  showing  her  (A«  Utter.] 
Now  take  out  your  handkerchief,  [Spit* 
on  Ihe  floor.]  That's  the  ravine,  you  un- 
derstand. 

[RoBiMi!  takes  out  her  handker- 
ehi^.  The  Count  dropi  his 
UUer  between  them.] 

Babtbolo  [stooping].   Hal  hal 

Count.  Thercl  ...  I  was  goiag  to  teach 
you  all  the  secrets  of  my  trade.  .  .  .  Truly, 
a  very  discreet  lady!  Has  she  not  juat 
dropped  a  note  from  her  pocket? 

Babtbolo.  Give  it  to  me. 

Count.  Softly,  papa!  No  meddling,  if 
you  please.  If  a  prescription  for  rhubarb 
had  fallen  out  of  yoursT  .  .  . 

RoBiNB  [reaching  }or  it].  Ah!  1  know 
what  it  ia,  master  soldier. 

[She  takes  the  letter  and  hides  it  in 
the  liUle  pocket  of  her  apron.] 

Bahtbolo,  Are  you  going  to  get  out? 

Count.  Well,  I  will  go.  Good-bye, 
doctor;  no  bitt^mesii.  A  little  compliment, 
my  dear  fellow:  pray  Death  to  forget  me 
for  a  few  more  campaigns:  life  haa  never 
been  so  dear  to  me. 

Bartholo.  Never  mind,  if  I  hod  so 
much  credit  with  Death  .  .  . 

Count.  With  Death  I  Are  you  not  a 
physician?  You  do  so  much  for  Death, 
that  he  can  refuse  you  nothing.        [Exit.] 

Bartholo  [walching  him  out].  He  is  gone 
at  last.  [Aside.]  Let  us  dissemble. 

RoeiNX.  Now  confess,  sir,  that  he  is  a 
verygayfellow, thisyoungsoldierl  Despite 
his  drunkenness,  I  can  see  that  he  does  not 
lack  wit,  nor  a  certain  amount  of  educa- 
tion. 

BARmoLO.  Fortunate,  my  love,  that  we 
have  been  able  to  get  rid  of  himi  But  ore 


you  not  a  little  anxious  to  read  me  the  paper 
that  he  handed  you? 

Robins.  What  paper? 

Bartholo.  The  one  that  he  pretended  to 
pick  up  t«  hand  to  you. 

RoBiNE.  Good!  that  is  a  letter  from  my 
cousin  the  officer,  which  had  dropped  from 
my  pocket. 

Bartholo.  I  had  an  idea  that  he  got  it 
out  of  his  own. 

RoeiNK.  I  recogniied  it  easily. 

Bartholo.  What  does  it  cost  to  look  at 
it. 

R06INE.   I  do  not  know  what  I  have  done 

Bartholo  [pointing  to  her  podoet].  You 
put  it  there. 

RosiNE.  Oh,  yes!  absent-mindedly. 

Bartbolo.  Ohlcertoinly.  Youwillprob- 
ably  oec  that  it  is  some  piece  of  focdiahnees. 

RosiNE  [aside].  There  is  no  way  of  re- 
fusing him  without  making  him  angry. 

Bartholo.  Give  it  to  me,  my  dear. 

ROBINE.  But  what  do  you  mean,  sir,  by 
tnasting?  Do  you  distrust  me? 

Bartholo.  But  why  are  you  so  unwill- 
ing to  show  it  to  me? 

RosiNE.  I  repeat,  sir,  that  this  paper  is 
no  other  than  a  letter  from  my  cousin, 
which  you  delivered  to  me  yesterday  un- 
sealed; and  in  regard  to  that,  I  wilt  t«ll  you 
frankly  that  your  liberties  displease  me 
enceedingly. 

Bartholo.  I  do  not  understand  you. 

KoaiNe,  Shall  I  examine  every  paper 
addressed  to  you?  Whydoyou  takeit  upon 
you  to  examine  everything  addressed  to 
me?  If itisjealouBy,itinBultHme;  if  itiathe 
abuse  of  a  power  usurped,  I  am  even  more 
disgusted. 

Bartholo.  What,  disgusted!  You  have 
never  before  spoken  to  me  in  this  fashion. 

RosiNE.  If  I  have  been  moderate  unt3 
to-day,  it  was  not  to  give  you  any  right  to 
offend  me  with  impunity. 

Bartholo.  What  o&ense  are  yoa  talk- 
ing about? 

RoBiN>.  It  is  unheard  of  to  pennit  any 
one  to  open  one's  letters. 

Bartholo.  Not  even  your  wife's? 

RoaiNE.  I  am  not  yet  your  wife.  But 
why  should  she  be  made  Uie  object  of  an 


THE  BARBER  OF  SEVILLE 


345 


indignity  th&t  you  would  not  oSer  to  every 

(ffiS? 

Babtholo.  You  are  trying  to  put  me 
off  the  Bcent,  and  divert  my  attention  from 
the  note,  which  is,  no  doubt,  a  missive  from 
some  lover  I  But  I  shall  see  it,  I  assure  you. 

Rosihd.  You  ahall  not  see  it.  If  you 
approach  me,  I  See  thia  house,  and  I  ^lall 
ask  refuge  of  the  first  comer. 

Babtholo.  Who  will  not  receive  you. 

RosiNX,  We  shall  see  about  that. 

BabthoijO.  We  are  not  in  France,  where 
&sy  always  give  way  to  women;  but  in 
order  tc  destroy  your  illusion,  I  aliall  lock 
the  door. 

RosiHE  [as  he  deparU  to  do  »o\.  Ah! 
Heaven!  What  shall  I  do?  Let  us  quickly 
exchange  it  for  my  cousin's  letter,  and  give 
him  a  chance  to  find  it. 

{She  mokea  the  exchangt,  puta  her 
cmistn'a  Imer  i»  her  peckei,  so 
that  il  protradei  a  trifle.] 

Bakthoui  [retuming].  Ahl  now  I  ex- 
pect to  see  it. 

RoBifOi.  By  what  right,  if  you  please? 

Babtholo.  By  the  right  most  univer- 
sally rec<%nised,  the  right  of  might. 

Rosins.  You  m^ay  kill  me  before  you 
get  it  from  me. 

Babtbolo  [giamping  vith  vexation], 
Madamel  madamet  .  .  . 

RoBiNii  IfaBing  into  an  arm-ehair  and 
leigmng  iUne»i\.  Oh!  what  an  outrage! . .  . 

Babtholo.  Give  me  that  letter,  or  you 
will  have  n«son  to  fear  my  anger. 

RoBiKB  [/oUtntr  badcv>ard\.  Unfortunate 

Babtholo.    What  is  the  matter  with 

RoatNX.  What  a  terrible  future. 
Babtholo.  Rosinel 
RoBiNE.   I  am  choking  with  anger. 
BartholiO.  She  is  ill. 
RoeiNE.  I  am  fainting. ...  I  am  dying. 
Babtholo  {Jeditig  her  puiae  and  »aj/ing 
tttide].  Heavens!  the  lett«rl  Iiet  ua  read  it 
before  she  knows  it. 

[He  nmCinuM  to  feel  her  pulee,  and 
KeUet  liie  letter,  vihich  he  triet  to 
read  bj/  lumlntr  atide  a  liltU.] 
RoBtNX   fiCiU  redining].    Ah!  unfortu- 
nate! . .  . 


Baittholo  Idropping  kit  arm  and  sayirtg 
a»ide].  How  mod  are  we  to  learn  what  we 
always  fear  to  know. 

RoBiNB.  Ah!  poor  Roeine! 

Babtholo.  The  use  of  perfumes  pro- 
duces spasmodic  affections. 

[He  reads  behind  the  armchair  ai 
he  feeU  her  putee.  Robine  ritee 
a  litde,  gout  at  him  fixedly,  nod», 
and  /oils  back  mihout  a  viord.] 

Babtholo  Inside].  O  Heaven!  it  is  her 
cousin's  letter.  Curaed  anxiety!  Now,  how 
ehall  I  appease  her?  At  least,  let  her  not 
know  that  I  have  read  it! 

[He  pretends  to  raite  her  up  and 
dipt  the  letter  irtto  her  pocket.] 

RosiNE  [eigha].   Ah!  .  .  . 

Bartholo.  Well!it  is  nothing,  my  child, 
a  slight  attack  of  the  vapors,  that  is  all;  for 
your  pulse  has  not  varied  one  btot. 

[He  turns  to  take  aflatk  from  the  table.] 

RoeiNE  [aside).  He  has  replaced  my 
letter!  very  well. 

Bartholo.  My  dear  Rosine,  a  little  of 
these  spirits. 

Rosine.  I  wish  nothing  from  you;  leave 
me  alone. 

Bartholo.  I  confess  Uiat  I  was  a  little 
too  rough  about  the  note. 

Rosine.  He  is  still  talking  of  t^  note! 
It  is  your  manner  of  agUng  for  things 
which  is  disgusting. 

Babtholo  [on  hu  kneee].  Your  pardon. 
I  soon  saw  that  I  was  quite  wrong;  you  see 
me  at  your  feet,  ready  to  make  reparation. 

RosiNK.  Yes,  pardon  indeed!  when  you 
believe  that  this  letter  does  not  come  from 
my  cousin. 

Babtholo.  Whether  it  comes  from  him 
or  any  one  else,  I  ask  for  no  explanation. 

Rosine  [preeentinf  him  the  UHir].  You 
see  that  by  decent  behavior  you  may  ob- 
tain anything  of  me.  Read  it. 

Bartholo.  This  open  manner  would  dis- 
sipate my  suspicions  if  I  were  unfortunate 
enough  to  have  any. 

RosiNK.  Read  it,  sir. 

Babtholo  [drawing  baek\.  God  forbid 
that  I  should  offer  you  such  an  insult! 

Rosine.  You  would  displease  me  by  re- 
fusing it. 

BABrtHOLO.    Reodve  u  ft  i 


ojjlc 


3^6 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Uiig  mark  of  my  perfect,  confidence.  1  tun 
Koing  to  see  poor  Marcelline,  whom  that 
Figaro  has,  for  some  odd  reason,  bled  in  the 
foot;  will  you  not  come  alao? 

RoBiNK.  I  will  go  up  in  a  moment. 

Bartbolo.  Since  we  have  made  peace, 
my  darling,  give  me  your  hand.  If  you 
could  only  love  me,  how  happy  you  mi^t 
be! 

R08INE  [dropping  her  eyta].  If  you  would 
only  please  me,  ah!  how  I  ^ould  love  you! 

Babtholo.  I  will  pteaae  you,  I  will 
please  you!  and  when  I  say  that  I  will 
please  yout .  .  .  [Bxii] 

RoBiNE  [vxitcking  him  go  oul].  Ah,  Lin- 
dorl  He  says  that  he  will  pteaae  me!  .  . . 
Let  us  read  this  letter  which  has  almoat 
caused  me  so  much  sorrow.  [She  reads 
and  eriet  out:]  Ahl ...  I  am  too  late,  he 
oaks  me  to'  Btart  an  open  quarrel  with  my 
guardian.  T  had  such  a  good  opportunity 
and  I  let  it  escape  me  I  When  I  received  the 
letter  I  felt  that  I  blushed  to  the  eyes.  Ah! 
my  guardian  ie  right,  I  am  far  from  having 
tiiat  acquaintance  with  the  world  which, 
he  oft«na  tell  me,  assures  the  manners'  of 
women  on  every  occasion!  But  an  unjust 
man  would  aucoeed  in  making  an  intriguer 
of  innocence  itself.  [Exit.] 


ACT   III- 

Barthoix)  [atone  and  in  despmr].  What 
caprices!  what  capricesl  She  seemed  quite 
satisfied  .  .  .  There!  I  wish  some  one  could 
tell  me  who  the  devi!  has  put  it  into  her 
head  not  to  wish  any  more  lessons  from  Don 
BaiQe!  She  knows  that  he  has  something 
to  do  with  my  marriage  ...  [A  knock  at  the 
door.]  Do  everything  in  the  world  to  please 
a  woman.  If  you  omit  one  single  pomt 
.  .  .  one  only  .  .  .  [AnoUter  knock.]  Let's 
see  who  it  is. 

[Enter  lite  Codnt  as  a  ttudent.] 

Count.  May  peace  and  Joy  forever 
dwell  bei:ein. 

Bartholo  [shortly].  Never  was  wish  in 
better  season. 

ConNT.  I  am  Alonio,  bachelor,  licen- 
tiate .  . . 


Babtholo.  I  have  no  need  of  a  tutor. 

Count.  The  pupil  of  Don  Baiile,  organ- 
ist to  the  grand  convent,  who  has  the 
honor  to  t«ach  music  to  madame,  your  .  .  . 

Bartholo.  Baiilel  organist!  who  has 
the  honor!  I  know  it!  Yes,  indeed! 

Count  [aside].  What  a  man!  lAknid.] 
A  sudden  illness  which  forces  him  to  keep 

Bartholo.  Keep  his  bed!  Baiile!  He 
has  done  well  to  send  me  word,  I  will  go  to 
see  him  this  moment. 

Count  [aside].  Oh!  the  devil!  [Aloud.] 
When  I  say  his  bed,  sir,  I ...  I ...  I  mean 
his  room. 

Bartholo.  Even  if  it  be  only  a  tri6uig 
illness  .  .  .  Gd  ahead,  I  will  follow  you. 

Count  [in  embarrattmeni].  Sir,  I  was 
charged  .  .  .   Nobody  can  hear  us7 

Bartholo  [aside].  He  is  some  rt^ue. 
[Alowl.]'  No,  master  mysterious!  Speak 
without  fear,  if  you  can. 

Count  [aside].  Confounded  old  man] 
[Aloud.]    Don  Baiile  charged  me  to  tell 

Bartholo.  Speak  louder,  I  am  deaf  in 

Count  [raising  his  voice],  Ahl  willingly 
.  .  .  that  Count  Almaviva,  who  was  lodg- 
ing in  the  Ptasa  .  .  . 

Bartholo  [in  f«rror].  Speak  lower,  speak 

CoiWT  [louder] .  .  .  has  moved  away  this 
morning.  As  it  was  through  me  that  he 
knew  Count  Almaviva  .  .  . 

Bartholo.  Not  so  loud,  I  beg  you. 

Count  [in  the  same  (one]  .  .  .  was  in  this 
city,  and  that  I  have  discovered  that  Misa 
Rosine  has  written  to  him  .  .  . 

Bartholo.  Has  written  to  him?  My 
dear  friend,  not  so  loud,  I  t>eg  you!  There, 
let  us  sit  down,  and  have  a  friendly 
chat.   You  have  discovered,  you  say,  that 

Count  [anxiously].  Assuredly.  Baiile, 
disturbed  on  your  account  about  this  oor- 
lespondence,  has  asked  me  to  show  you  the 
letter;  but  the  way  in  which  you  take 
tbinp  ... 

Bartholo.  Goodness!  I  take  them  welL 
But  can't  you  speak  in  a  lower  voice? 

Count.  You  are  deaf  in  one  ear,  you  aaj: 


THE  BARBER  OF   SEVILLE 


34J 


Babtholo.  Pardon,  Master  Aloiuo,  if 
you  found  me  Biupicious  and  harsh;  but  I 
am  BO  completely  lurrounded  by  intriguera 
and  plote;  .  .  .  and  then  your  appearance, 
your  age,  your  air  .  .  .  Your  pardon. 
Weill  you  have  the  letter. 

Count.  In  good  time!  If  you  take  it  this 
way,  air  .  .  .  But  I  am  afraid  lest  some  one 
oay  be  eavesdropping. 

Baktholo.  Who  do  you  think?  All  my 
servuite  are  laid  outi  Boaine,  in  a  rage, 
ahutrUpin  herroom!  The  dev!l  haa  entered 
my  house.  I  will  go  to  make  sure  .  .  . 

[He  open*  KoHiNs'a  door  ti^Uy.] 

CoDNT  [a»ide].  I  have  gat  into  trouble 
by  being  too  much  in  a  hurry  .  .  .  Shall  I 
keep  the  letter  for  the  preaent?  I  shall  have 
to  take  myself  off;  I  might  as  well  have 
stayed  away  .  .  .  Show  it  to  him  ...  If 
1  can  put  Roaine  upon  her  guard,  to  ahow 
it  ia  a  maater-atroke. 

Baktholo  [returning  upon  tiptoe].  She  is 
sitting  near  the  window  with  her  back 
turned  toward  the  door,  reading  over  a 
letter  from  her  cousin,  an  officer,  which  I 
had  unsealed  .  .  .  Let 's  aee  hers. 

CoDNT  {hands  him  Robikx's  Utter],  Here 
it  ia.  [Atide.]  It  ia  my  letter  which  ahe  ia 
reading. 

Bartholo  [reads].  ''Since  you  have  told 
me  your  name  and  rank"  .  . .  Ahl  the 
wretchi   It  ia,  indeed,  her  hand. 

Count  [in  terror].  It  ia  your  tuni  to 
Bpeak  lower. 

Bartholo.  What  an  obligation,  my 
dear  fellow  I 

Count.  When  everything  is  done,  if  you 
think  that  you  owe  anything  for  it,  you  will 
be  free  to  reward  me.  After  a  work  which 
Don  Bazile  ia  at  preaent  carrying  on  with  a 
lawyer  .  .  . 

Bartholo.  With  a  lawyer,  for  my  mar- 
riage? 

Count.  Would  I  have  stopped  without 
telling  you  that?  He  chained  me  to  tell  you 
that  all  would  be  ready  for  to-morrow. 
Then,  if  ahe  reslsta  .  .  . 

Bartholo.  She  will  resist. 

Count  [trie*  to  regain  Oe  tetter  from  Bar- 
Ihoio,  aho  keepe  H  in  hie  ptuseanon].  That 
ia  the  time  when  I  may  be  able  to  serve 
you;  we  will  show  her  her  letter,  and  if  it  is 


necessary  [more  myileriouel]/]  I  shall  go  M 
far  as  to  teU  her  that  I  had  it  from  a  woman 
ta  whom  the  Count  had  given  it.  You  see 
that  anxiety,  shame,  and  spite  may  drivt 
her  immediately  .  .  . 

Bartholo  [laughing],  Calumnyl  Now, 
indeed  do  I  see  that  you  really  come  froa 
Batilel  But  in  order  that  all  thia  may  not 
appear  to  be  a  plot,  would  it  not  be  well  for 
her  to  know  you  beforehand? 

Count  [repressea  a  atari  o/jok].  Thatw« 
Don  Baiile's  opinion.  But  how  ehall  we  do 
it?  It  ia  late  ...   In  the  little  time  which 


Bartholo.  I  will  tell  her  tliat  you  are 
coming  in  hia  place.  Will  you  not  pre  her 
a  lenon? 

Count.  There  is  nothing  that  I  would 
not  do  to  please  you.  But  bear  in  mind  that 
all  these  atoriee  of  alleged  masters  are  old 
dodges,  comedy  tricks.'  If  ahe  auspects  .  .  . 

Bartholo.  If  you  are  introduced  by  me, 
there  is  no  likelihood  of  it.  You  look  mora 
like  a  disguised  lover  than  an  obliging  friend. 

Count.  Heally!  Do  you  think  that  my 
appearance  will  add  to  the  deceit? 

Bartholo.  I  will  leave  the  solution  of 
that  to  some  one  cleverer  than  I.  She  is  in 
a  horrible  humor  this  evening.  But  if  she 
would  only  see  you  .  .  .  Her  harpaichord  ia 
in  this  cabinet.  Amuse  jMuraelf  while  you 
wait;  I  am  going  to  try  the  impoaaible  in 
bringing  her  to  you. 

Count.  Take  care  not  to  speak  of  the 
letter. 

Bartholo.  Before  the  decisive  moment?    ' 
That  would  destroy  all  its  effect.  You  need 
not  tell  me  things  twice.  [Exit.] 

Count [ofcmel.  Savedl  Phewl  How  hard 
this  deviliah  fellow  ia  to  handlel  Figaro 
knona  him  well.  I  could  see  myself  as  I 
lied ;  it  surely  made  me  look  flat  and  stupid, 
and  he  has  eyeal  My  word,  if  it  had  not 
been  for  the  sudden  inapiration  of  the  letter, 
I  must  confess,  I  would  have  gone  on  like 
a  fool.  O  Heaven!  they  are  disputing  in 
there.  If  ahe  should  refuse  to  come  I  Let's 
listen  .  .  .  She  refuaee  to  come  out  of  her 
room,  and  I  have  loat  all  the  advantage 
that  I  had  gained.  [He  litlene  again.]  Here 
she  is;  let  ua  not  appear  at  first. 

ifle  enteri  the  eabintt.) 


348 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


[EnUr  Robins  and  Babtholo.] 
RoBun:  [ariih  an  affeded  anffer].   All  that 
joix  may  eay,  dr,  is  uselem;  I  have  de- 
cided, J  wish  to  hear  nothing  more  about 

BAtrmoLo.  Listen,  my  child;  it  is 
Maat«r  Alonao,  the  pupil  and  friend  of 
Don  Buile,  choaen  by  hhn  to  be  one  of  our 
witnessee.  Music  will  calm  yon,  I  asBuie 
you. 

RoBiNV.  Oh  I  aa  for  that,  you  may  give 
up  that  notioi).  You  want  me  to  aiog  thia 
ereningl  Where  is  this  master  whom  you 
aie  afraid  to  send  away?  I  will  send  him 
about  his  business,  and  Bazile's  too.  [She 
tea  her  lover  cmd  uUeri  a  cry,]   Ah!  .  .  . 

Bartholo.  What  is  the  matter? 

RoaiNE  [datptTig  her  handt  upon  her 
brttut].  AhlBvl  .  .  .  Ah,  sirl  .  .  . 

Bartbolo.    She   is  ill    again,    Maater 

RoaiNi.  No,  I  am  not  ill ..  .  but,  as  I 
turned  .  .  .  Ahl 

CoDNT.  You  turned  your  ankle,  madame? 

RoeiNK.  Ah,  yeel  I  turned  my  ankle. 
It  gave  me  a  torrible  pain. 

Count.   I  perceived  that  it  did. 

RosiNX  [fKuinjT  at  Ihe  Codnt].  It  struck 
me  to  the  heart, 

Bartbolo.  A  chair,  a  chair.  Not  an 
armehair  herel  [Qoe*  to  eeeh  one.] 

Codnt.  Ah,  Bosinel 

RoaiNK.  What  an  impnidencel 

CktuNT.  I  have  a  thouiiand  things  to  tell 

Rosins.  He  will  not  leave  us. 

Count.  Figaro  will  come  to  our  assist- 

Babtholo  [brini/inff  an  eoaji  chair]. 
There,  darling,  sit  down.  It  is  quito  im- 
probable, master  bachelor,  that  she  will 
take  a  lesson  this  evening;  you  will  have  to 
wait  until  another  day.  Farewell. 

RosiNE  [to  th^  Count).  Mo,  wait;  my 
pain  is  a  little  eased.  [To  Babtbolo.]  I  see 
that  I  was  wtodk  wiUi  you,  sir;  1  will  fol- 
low your  eitample  by  repairing  immedi- 
ately .  .  . 

Babtbolo.  Ahl  what  good  little  dis- 
positions women  havel  But  after  endur- 
ing such  pain,  my  ohild,  I  will  not  allow 


you  to  make  the  least  eSort.    Faivwill, 
farewell,  master  bachelor. 

RoeiNE  [to  the  CountJ,  One  moment, 
rir,  if  you  plesael  [To  Babtholo]  I  will 
think,  sir,  that  you  do  not  like  to  oblige  me, 
if  you  prevent  me  from  showing  my  regret 
by  taking  the  leeson. 

Count  [atide  la  Bartbolo].  Do  not  op- 
pose her,  if  you  wish  to  take  my  advice. 

Babtholo.  That  is  enou^,  my  dear. 
I  am  BO  for  from  trying  to  displeaae  you, 
that  I  shall  remain  here  while  you  are  tak- 
ing your  lesson. 

RosiNE.  Oh,  no,  sir,  I  know  that  music 
has  no  attraction  for  you. 

Babtholo.  I  assure  you  that  I  shall  be 
enchanted  this  evening. 

Robins  [atide  to  the  Count].  He  puts  me 
to  the  torment. 

Count  [taking  up  a  eheet  of  muic].  Wil! 
you  sing  that,  madame? 

RosiNB  Yes,  it  is  a  very  pretty  piece 
from  The  V»deaa  Praxmlian. 

Bartbolo.  The  UteUuPreeauHonagunl 

Count.  It  ie  the  newest  thing  of  the  day. 
It  is  a  picture  of  Spring  in  a  very  livdy 
f^enre.  Does  madame  wish  to  try  it? 

RoeiNZ  [saxing  at  the  Count].  With 
great  pleasure;  a  picture  of  Spring  will  en- 
chant me;  it  is  the  youth  of  Natm«.  After 
the  winter,  it  seems  as  if  the  heart  reaches 
a  higher  degree  of  sensibility,  aa  a  slave 
who  has  long  been  confined  enjoys  to  the 
full  the  charm  of  liberty  which  luts  just  been 
offered  him. 

Babtholo  [to  the  Count  inaiow  unw]. 
Her  head  is  forever  full  of  these  romantic 
ideas. 

Count  [in  a  low  mice].  Do  you  see  the 
point  of  it? 

Babtholo.  Zounds  I 

[Seats  himself  in  the  chair  toUeft 
RosiNi  hoe  been  oeeupying.] 

Rosins  [tings]. 

When  o'er  the  plain 
Love  once  aeoin 

Doth  bring 
The  lovers'  cherished  Spring, 

Tlien  everythina 

With  new  life  thrillB; 

The  flowers  it  fills 
And  maketh  young  hewta  iiiif. 


THE  BARBER  OF   SEVILLE 


349 


Tbe  flocks  sra  Hcn 

Upon  the  greeD, 
Andall  the  hills 

With  the  young  Iambs'  cries  raMund. 
They  frisk  and  bound  ^ 

All  thinsB  be  Browiag, 

All  Uossoms  blowing. 
And  Erasing  sheep 
The  faithful  watchdogs  keep. 
But  lindor,  paasion-iaoved, 

Thinks  none  the  less 
But  of  the  joy  of  being  loved 

By  his  fair  shepherdeee. 

Far  trom  her  mother,  with  a  blitheaome  eoDg, 
Out  dieph^esB  doth  trip  along 

To  tryst  her  waitiiig  lorer. 

By  this  device  doth  Love  entioe 

And  snare  the  pretty  rover. 

Will  song  proteetion  give  hxaJ 

The  piping  reeds 

She  lisls  and  heeds. 

Birds'  sweet  Blaims. 

Her  swelling  chaims, 

Her  fifteen  years  — 

All  that  she  mes, 

All  that  she  hears 

mis  her  with  (ean 

And  vague  malease. 

From  his  retreat 
Lindor  discreet 
Doth  meet  perchance 
The  maid's  advance. 
The  youth  has  just  embraced  her. 

The  maid  though  pleased 
Doth  feign  a  sudden  anger 
In  order  to  be  teased. 
Rtfrain. 
Now  sighs 
And  sweet  alarms  and  many  a  fond  oaresi. 
Now  amcvous  vows  and  lively  tandemeeB, 

Bright  eyes 
Dear  dalliance  and  swift  repartee 
All  come  in  play,  and  now,  perdie, 
Bight  soon  our  gentle  ehepberdees 
Feels  her  just  rage  grow  less: 
And  if  some  jealous  swain 
Dare  trouble  such  sweet  pain. 
Our  lovers  in  accord, 
With  eveiT  aot  and  word 

Their  hlgheat  joys  conoeal. 
For  when  we  love  indeed 
Raatraint  can  naught  but  feed 
The  fires  of  love  we  feel. 

[Aa   A«  littena,    Babtholo  falU 
adeep.  The  Count,  dvring  the 


Ttftaia, 

hand,  which  he  oaotrt  wi&  ibissM. 
In  her  emotion  the  eong  diet 
aiBUy,  until  it  ceaaet  in  Ihe  mid- 
dle of  tiu  eadenee  at  the  laitword. 
The  orchettra  fotimot  the  move' 
menl  of  the  tinger,  ond  ie  ntent 
toitk  kef.    The  tJieenee  of  the 
totmde  which  had  put  Babtholo 
to  sleep  awakee  hvn.  The  Count 
rtsM,  RoeiNx  and  the  onheitra 
gaicidy  eontimie  ihe  air.\ 
Count.  Truly  it  is  s  charming  piece,  and 
madame  singH  it  with  a  d^ree  of  under- 
standing .  .  . 

ROBINB.  You  flatter  me,  air;  the  praise 
belongs  entirely  to  the  master. 

Babtholo  \j/awning\.  T  think  that  I 
must  have  slept  a  little  during  this  charm- 
ing piece.  I  have  my  little  weaknesses.  I 
go  and  come,  I  become  a  little  giddy,  and  as 
Don  as  I  sit  dowti,  my  poor  le^  .  .  . 

\He  rises  and  piiahes  away  1A«  choir.) 

Robins  [uAupers  to  ihe  Count].   Figaro 

does  not  come. 

Count.  Let  us  try  to  kill  time. 

Babtholo.  But,  master  bachelor,  I  have 

already  said  so  to  that  old  Baiile;  is  there 

<  way  of  making  her  study  something 

more  lively  than  all  these  grand  ariaa,  which 

go  up  and  down,  rolling  along  with  a  hi,  ho, 

I,  a,  a,  and  which  seem  to  me  like  so 

many  funerals?  Now,  some  of  those  litUe 

airs  that  they  used  to  sing  in  my  youth,  and 

which  all  lemembered  so  easily.  I  used  to 

know  some  of  them  .  .  .  For  example  .  .  . 

[During  the  pretiide  he  »eratthet  kit 

head  and  tinge,  mapping  kit 

fingers   and  dancing  with   kit 

knees  bent  in  Ike  manner  of  did 

Doat  thou,  my  Roeinette, 

Elect  to  get 

A  spouse,  the  prince  of  menT  .  .  . 
[To  ihe  Count,  latigking.]  There  is  a 
FanchoQett«  in  the  song,  but  T  substituted 
Rosinette  for  her,  to  make  it  more  pleasing 
to  her,  and  to  make  it  fit  the  circum- 
stances. Hal  bal  hal  hal  Pretty  good, 
'm'tit? 

Count  Roughing].  Hal  ha!  hal  yM^ 
capital 


:.L|,i,zedi!,GoOQlc 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


tenter  FiOARO,  uAo  remairti  at  the  hack.] 
Babtboia  [dngM]. 
Doat  thou,  my  Rodnette, 
Elect  to  get 

A  spouse,  the  prioce  of  menT 
No  ThyraU  I  —  yet  when 
The  shadows  fall,  at  eDding  of  the  day, 
I  BtiU  am  worth  my  fee. 
For  in  obscurity 
The  bravest  cats  are  merely  aomber  gray. 

[He  repeait  th«  refrain  dancing. 
FiOAKO,   behinA  him,  imiiaU* 
hit  itiosemenU.] 
No  Thyrris  I.  etc. 
[Pereewing  Figaro.]  Ahl  enter  master 
barber:  come  in,  you  are  cbarmingi 

Figaro  [taliiUt].  Sir,  it  is  true  that  my 
mother  used  to  teJl  me  so;  but  I  am  some- 
what deformed  since  that  time.  [Aaitie  lo 
tte  CotJNT.)  Bravo,  my  lord. 

[During    this    whole    scene,    the 
CooNT    makes    nianermie    at- 
lempU  to  gpeak  lo  Robinb,  tnU 
the  reiUets  artd  vigilanl  eye  of 
her  guardian  preventa  kim,  whvik 
produce*  a  sort  of  dumb  show  of 
ail  the  actors  not  taking  -part  in 
the  discussion  between  the  doctor 
and  Fig  ABO.] 
BarthoijO.    Have  you  come  again  to 
bked,  drug,  and  prostrate  my  whole  house- 
hold? 

Figaro.  Feast  days,  sir,  come  only  once 
a  year;  but,  without  counting  my  daily  at- 
tentions, you  may  have  seen,  sir,  that  when 
they  need  them,  my  zeal  does  not  wait 
upon  command  .  .  . 

Babtholo.  Your  zeal  does  not  wait  I 
niiat  have  you  to  say,  master  sealot,  to 
that  wretch  who  yawns  and  aleepa,  though 
wide  awake?  and  the  other,  who,  for  the  last 
three  hours,  has  been  snecEing  enough  to 
orack  his  cranium,  or  blow  out  hia  brainsl 
What  have  you  to  say  to  that? 
Figaro.  What  have  I  to  say  to  that? 
Babtholo.  Yea  I 

Figaro.  Well,  I  should  say  ...  I  should 
say  to  him  who  sneeies,  God  bless  you:  and 
Go  lo  bed,  to  him  who  yawns.  It  is  not  that, 
!lir,  which  will  increase  the  bill. 


Baktbolo.  Truly,  no:  but  it  is  bleed- 
ing and  medicines  which  would  increase  it 
if  I  would  stand  it.  Is  it  due  to  your  seal 
also  that  you  bandaged  my  mule's  eyee? 
And  will  your  liandage  return  its  sight? 

Figaro.  If  it  does  not  bring  back  the 
sight,  it  will  no  longer  prevent  it  from  see- 
ing. 

Bartbolo.  Wait  till  I  find  it  in  the  bill  I 
...  I  will  not  stand  such  extravagance! 

FiOARO.  Faith,  sir,  there  being  little  to 
choose  between  stupidity  and  folly,  in 
which  I  see  no  profit,  I  wish  at  least  to  find 
some  pleasure,  and  long  live  joy!  Who 
knows  if  the  world  will  last  three  weeks 
longer? 

Bartbolo.  You  would  do  much  better, 
master  reasoner,  to  pay  me  my  hundred 
crowns  and  tht  interest,  without  any  non- 
sense: I  warn  you. 

Figaro,  Ito  you  doubt  my  honesty, 
sir?  Your  hundred  crownsl  I  would  rather 
owe  them  to  you  all  my  life  than  deny  them 
to  you  for  a  single  moment. 

Bartbolo.  And  tell  me  how  Mistress 
Figaro  liked  the  bon-bons  that  you  took 
her. 

Figaro.  What  bon-bons?  What  do  you 

Bartbolo.  Yes,  those  bon-bons,  m  the 
bag  made  from  a  sheet  of  this  letter  paper 
,  .  .  this  morning. 

Figaro.  The  devil  fly  away  with  me 
if  .  .  . 

RosiNE  [iTilerrupting  him].  Did  you 
take  care  to  tell  her  that  they  were  from 
me.  Master  Figaro?  I  told  you  to  do  so. 

FioABO.  Ah,  yesl  this  morning's  bon- 
bons! How  stupid  I  am!  I  bad  quite  for- 
gotten that ...  Oh!  excellent,  madams, 
admirable] 

Badtholo.  Excellentl  admirable!  Ycfl, 
doubtless,  Master  Figaro,  you  are  retrac- 
ing your  steps!  That  is  a  fine  business,  sir^ 
that  you  ply.  .  .  . 

Figaro.  What  is  the  matter  with  it,  sir? 

Babtbolo.  Which  will  acquire  a  fine 
reputation  for  you,  sirrah. 

Figaro.  I  will  tiy  to  live  up  to  it,  mr. 

Babtbolo.  Say  that  you  will  live  ii 
down,  sirrah. 

FiOARO.  Ab  you  pleaae.  at. 


..  GooqIc 


THE  BARBER  OF  SEVILLE 


3SI 


Babtholo.  You  ride  a  bigh  hone,  sirrah. 
Enow  that  when  I  dispute  with  a  fool,  I 
never  yield  to  him. 

FiOAHO  [fuming  kit  back  upon  kirn].  We 
differ  in  that,  eir,  for  I  alwayti  yield  to  him. 

Bartbolo.  Hey!  What  does  he  mean 
by  that,  bachelor? 

FicuRO.  That  you  think  that  you  have 
to  do  with  some  village  barber,  who  only 
knows  how  to  handle  the  racor.  Learn,  sir, 
that  I  have  labored  with  my  pen  at  Mad- 
rid, and  that  were  it  not  Cor  the  envioue  .  .  . 

Babtholo.  Why  did  you  not  stay  there, 
without  coming  here  to  change  your  profes- 
sion 1 

FiaARO.  We  do  what  we  can;  put  your- 
self in  my  place. 

Babtbolo.  Put  myself  in  your  place!  Ah! 
■ounds!  I  would  say  a  fine  lot  of  stupidities! 

FiGABo.  Sir,  you  do  not  begin  badly;  I 
appeal  to  your  colleague,  who  is  dreaming 

Count  [turning  to  Aim].  I  ...  I  am  not 
his  colleague. 

FiGABo.  NoT  Seeing  you  here  in  con- 
sultation, I  thought  that  you  were  pursuing 
the  same  object. 

Babteolo  [angrily].  Well,  what  brings 
you  here?  Is  it  to  bring  madame  another 
letter  this  evening?  Speak;  must  I  retire? 

FiOABO.  How  harshly  you  treat  the 
poor  world!  Zounds,  sir,  I  come  to  shave 
you,  that 's  all.  Is  not  to-day  your  day? 

Bast&ouj.  You  may  return  later. 

Figaro.  Ah,  yea,  return!  The  whole 
garrison  takes  medicine  to-morrow  morn- 
ing. I  obtained  the  contract  through  some 
friends  of  mine.  Consider,  then,  how  much 
time  I  have  to  lose!  Will  you  go  into  your 
room,  sir? 

Baktbolo.  No,  I  will  not.  But .  . .  why 
can't  you  shave  me  here? 

RoBiire [eontemptuouBly],  Youarepolite! 
And  why  not  in  my  apartments? 

Bartholo.  You  are  angry?  Pardon,  my 
child;  you  may  finish  taking  your  lesson; 
it  is  in  order  not  to  lose  for  a  moment  the 
pleasure  of  hearing  you. 

FioABO  [lekiapert  to  the  Count].  We 
cannot  get  himout  of  here!  [Alottd.\  Come, 
EveiU4!  Jeunesse!  the  basin,  the  wat«r, 
everything  master  needs  I 


Baktboi.0.  That 's  right,  c^l  them! 
Fatigued,  harassed,  belabored  at  your 
hands,  did  they  not  need  to  go  to  bed? 

Fioaso.  Well!  I  will  go  and  look  for 
everything;  is  it  not  in  your  room?  [To  the 
Count  aside.]   I  am  going  to  coax  him  out. 

Bartbolo  [wtfailena  kit  bunck  of  ktye 
and  taya  rejtedtuelv.]  No,  no,  I  will  go  my- 
self. [Whispars  to  Ihe  Count  as  he  goe»  out:] 
Keep  your  eyes  on  them,  I  beg  you. 

[Exit.] 

P^garo.  OhI  what  a  great  opportunity 
we  have  missed!  He  was  going  to  give  me 
the  keys.  Was  not  the  key  of  the  blind 
among  them? 

RoaiNE.  It  was  the  newest  of  them  till. 

Bartbolo  [retumiTig].  [Atide.]  GoodI 
I  do  not  know  what  I  am  doing  in  having 
this  cursed  barber  here.  [ITo  Fiqaro.J  Here. 
[Give*  kitn  the  keys,]  In  my  dressing-room, 
under  the  bureau;  touch  nothing  else. 

FiOABO.  The  plague!  It  would  be  good 
enough  for  you,  suspicious  as  you  are! 
[Atide,  going  off .]  See  how  Heaven  protectc 
innocence  I  [Exit.  ] 

Babtholo  ItfAtspers  to  (he  Count],  He  is 
the  knave  who  took  the  letter  to  the  Count. 

Count  [in  a  low  voice].  He  looks  like  a 
rogue  to  me. 

Bartbolo.  He  will  not  catch  me  again. 

Count.  I  think  that  as  far  as  that  goes, 
the  worst  is  over. 

Bartbolo.  Everything  considered,  I 
thought  it  more  prudent  to  send  him  to  my 
room  than  leave  him  with  her. 

Count.  They  could  not  have  said  a 
word  without  my  being  a  third  party  to  it. 

RoBiNE.  It  is  very  polite,  gentlemen,  to 
whisper  continually!  And  my  lesson? 
[They  hear  a  noite  as  of  dishes  upset.] 

Bartbolo  [wUh  a  cry].  What  do  I  hear! 
That  cruel'  barber  must  have  dropped 
everything  downstairs,  and  the  finest 
pieces  in  my  dressing-case  I 

[He  runs  out.] 

Count.  Let  us  profit  by  the  moments 
which  Figaro's  intelligence  has  secured  us. 
Grant  me,  this  evening,  I  beg  you,  ma- 
dame, one  moment's  converse,  which  is 
absolutely  necessary  to  save  you  from  the 
slavery  to  which  you  are  destined. 

RouNB.  Ab,  Lindort 


.Ck^t^^lc 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Count.  I  can  climb  to  your  blind;  uid 
M  for  the  letter  which  I  received  from  you 
this  morning,  I  found  myself  forced  .  .  . 
[BtxUr  Babtbolo  and  Fioaho.] 

Babtbolo.  I  was  not  mistaken;  ev«y- 
thing  is  broken,  smashed. 

FiOABO.  It  must  be  a  great  calamity  to 
make  so  much  noisel  You  can't  see  at  all 
on  the  stairs.  [He  ahowt  the  key  U)  the 
Count.]  As  I  came  upstairs  I  stumbled 
upon  a  key  .  .  . 

Badtholo.  You  should  take  care  what 
you  are  doing.   Stumble  upon  a  key!   The 

FtQABO.  My  faith,  sir,  you  may  look  for 
a  cleverer. 

[Enter  Don  Bazile.] 

RosiNE  (aside  in  terror].  Don  Baiilet  .  .  . 

CoDNT  [oMe],  Good  Heaven! 

Figaro  laeide].  'T  is  the  devill 

Babtbolo  [advancittji  to  meet  him].  Ah! 
Baiile,  my  friend,  you  are  soon  cured. 
Your  accident  has  had  no  bad  conse- 
quences? Truly,  Master  Alonso  had 
frightened  me  considerably  about  you; 
ask  him;  I  was  going  out  to  see  you,  and  if 
he  had  not  restrained  roe  .  .  . 

Bazile    [in  aelonithmertt].     Master  Al- 

FioARO  [afampt  hie  foot].  WhatI  More 
bad  places?  Two  hours  for  one  poor  beard. 
Confound  such  a  customer! 

Bazile  [lookirtg  at  aU].  Wilt  you  be  kind 
enou|!h  to  tell  me,  sirs?  .  .  . 

Fioaro.  You  may  speak  to  him  when  I 
am  gone. 

Bazilk.  But  why  should  that  be  neces- 
sary, anyway? 

Count.  You  should  be  silent,  Bazile. 
Do  you  think  to  t«ach  him  something  which 
he  does  not  know?  I  told  him  that  you  had 
requested  me  to  come  to  give  a  music  les- 
son in  your  place, 

Baeii^  [in  grealer  ottimtAmeni].  The 
music  lessonl  . .  .  Alonzol  .  . . ' 

RoBiNB  \aaide  to  Bazilx).  Come!  Will 
rou  be  still? 

Bahle.  And  she,  toot 

Count  (tn  a  Una  voice  to  Bartsolo]. 
Whiqwt  to  him  that  we  have  all  agreed. 


Babtbolo  [aaide  to  Baiile).  Don't  give 
us  the  lie,  BaiQe,  by  saying  that  he  is  not 
your  pupil;  you  would  Spoil  everything. 

Bazile.  Hal  hal 

Babtbolo  [aloud].  Truly,  Bosile,  no  one 
haa  more  talent  than  your  scholar. 

Bazile  [in  attoniahment].  Than  mf 
scholar!  .  .  .  [Wkuperg.]  I  was  coming  to 
tell  you  that  the  Coimt  has  moved. 

Bartholo  [in  a  low  voice].  Silence,  I 
know  it. 

Bazile  [iotucnn^  hie  voiec\.    Who  told 

Bastholo  [wkiepers].   He,  of  couiael 

Count '(wAisptrsJ.  Certainly  I:  if  you 
would  only  listen. 

RoeiNX  [in  a  whisper  to  Bazile].  Is  it  so 
difficult  to  keep  still? 

FiOARO  [tA«  Kifne].  HumI  your  great  hip- 
pogriffl  He  is  deaf! 

Baiile  [ostde].  Who  the  devil  is  it  tliat 
they  are  fooling  here?  Evwy  one  seems  to 
be  in  the  secret. 

Babtbolo  [alovd\.  Well!  B&sile,  your 
lawyer? 

FioADO.  You  have  the  whole  evening 
to  talk  about  your  lawyer. 

Babtbolo  [to  BazilsI.  One  word  only; 
tell  me  if  you  are  really  satisfied  with  the 
lawyer? 

Bazilk  [tna/rtffMj.  With  t^e  lawyer? 

Count  [miling].  Did  n't  you  see  your 
lawyer? 

Bazile  [imvaHeviiy].  Mo,  I  did  not  see 
the  lawyer, 

Count  [aside  to  BAHrrBOLo).  You  don't 
want  him  to  explain  before  her,  do  you? 
Send  him  off. 

Bartholo  \in  a  whiiper  to  the  Count]. 
You  are  right.  {To  Bazili.)  But  what 
made  you  ill  so  suddenly? 

Bazile  [armrily].  I  don't  understand 
you.  * 

Count  [oaids,  pule  a  purte  into  hie  Aond]. 
Yes,  he  has  just  asked  ymi  what  you  ex- 
pect to  do  here  tn  your  present  state  of 
illness. 

Figaro.  He  is  as  pale  as  deatii. 

Bazile.  Aht  I  understand  .  .  . 

Count.  Go  to  bed,  my  dear  Bazile:  you 
are  not  well  and  you  give  us  a  terrible 
fright.  Gotobedl 


GooqIc 


THE  BARBER  OF   SEVILLE 


353 


FiOABo.  He  looks  very  much  upMt.  Qo 
tobedt.  .  . 

Bartholo.  Upon  my  wordl  You  could 
tell  &  league  away  that  he  has  the  fever. 
Go  tobedt 

Rosins.  Why  did  you  come  out?  They 
say  that  it  is  catching.  Gto  to  bedl 

Basilc  [eompUUly  luUmUhtd].  I,  go  to 
bedT 

All.  OhI  certainly. 

Baeha  [gaging  at  than  all].  In  fact,  1  do 
believe  that  I  would  not  do  ill  to  retin;  I 
feel  as  if  1  were  a  little  out  ol  sorts. 

Babthoi^.  To-morrow,  again,  if  you  Are 
better. 

CorNT.  Baiile,  I  shall  be  at  your  house 
very  early  to-morrow. 

FiQABO.  Bdieve  me,  keep  yourself  warm 
in  your  bed. 

RosiNE.    Good-evening,  Master  Bszile. 

Baiile  (ondej.  The  devil  fly  away  with 
me  if  I  understand  anything  about  it;  and 
if  it  were  not  for  this  purse  .  .  . 

AH.  Good-evening,  Baiile,  good-evening. 

Basiix  [exit].  Weill  Good-evening, 
then,  good-evening. 

[The]/  aeeompany  him  with  a  burtC 
of  laughttr.] 

Babhtholo  (mtA  on  unporfaTit  air].  That 
man  is  not  at  all  well. 

RoBiNB.  His  eyes  are  wild. 

Count.  He  has  probably  caught  a  chill. 

FiOABO.  You  saw  how  he  talked  to 
nimself?  How  easy  it  is  for  us  to  fall  ill! 
[To  Babtbolo.)  Now,  are  you  going  to 
decide  this  time? 

[He  puthe*  an  eoxy  chair  to  torn* 
Aittanee  from  Ihe  Count  and 
handt  Mm  the  linen.} 

Count.  Before  we  finish,  madama,  I 
must  tell  you  one  thing  which  is  very  ee- 
Matiftl  for  progress  in  the  art  which  I  have 
Uw  honor  to  teach  you. 

[He  approachei  Iter  and  tdiitperg 

Babtbou)  {to  FioABo).  Come,  nowt  It 
seems  as  if  it  were  on  purpose  that  you  ap- 
proach me,  and  stand  in  front  of  me  to 
prevent  me  from  seeing  .  .  . 

Count  [in  a  low  voice  to  Rosink).  We 
have  the  key  to  the  blind,  and  we  shall  be 


FioABo  [He*  the  napkin  around  Bab- 
tholo'b  neck].  Bee  what?  If  it  were  a 
dancing  lesson,  we  might  let  you  look  at  it; 
but  a  singing  lesson!  .  .  .  Dear  met 
Babtholc.  What's  that? 
FiQABo.  I  do  not  know  what  has  got 
into  my  eye. 

[He  hringe  hie  head  nearer.] 

Babtholo.  E)on't  rub  so  hard. 

FtoABO.    That's  the  left.    Would  you 

try  to  breathe  a  tittle  harder  for  me7 

[Barthou)  teitee  Figaro's  head, 

looke  over  ii,  puehee  him  away 

roughly,   and  Mleals   bdiind   Ihe 

lovere  to  listen  to  their  connerta. 

Count  [in  a  low  voice,  to  Robinx).  And 
as  for  your  letter,  I  soon  found  myself  so 
bard  put  to  it  for  an  excuse  to  stay  here  .  . . 

PiOARO  [ai  a  dxetanee  to  icom  lh»m\. 
Hem!  . .  .  Hem!  .  ,  . 

Count.  In  despair  also  at  seeing  my 
disguise  useless  .  .  . 

Babtbolo  [Aipping  between  lhem\.  Your 
disguise  useless! 

RoaiNK  [terr^ied\.  Obi .  .  . 

Bartbolo.  Very  well,  madame,  do  not 
trouble  yourself.  Whatt  under  my  very 
eyes,  in  my  presence,  you  dare  to  outrage 
me  in  that  faahionl 

Count.  What  is  the  matter  with  you, 
sir? 

Babtholo.  Perfidious  Alonaot 

Count.  Master  Bartholo,  if  you  often 
have  whims  like  that  of  which  chance  has 
made  me  a  witness,  I  no  longer  wonder  at 
the  disgust  which  the  young  lady  shows  at 
the  prospect  of  becoming  your  wife. 

RoBiNE.  His  wife!  It  Pass  my  days  in 
the  company  of  a  jealous  old  man,  who,  for 
its  one  joy,  ofTen  my  youth  an  abominable 
slavery! 

Babtbolo.  Ahl  what  do  I  hear? 

RoBiNR.  Yes,  I  tell  you  so  to  your  face: 
I  will  give  my  heart  and  my  hand  to  him 
who  is  able  to  rdease  me  from  this  horrible 
prison,  where  my  person  and  my  property 
are  detained  in  defiance  of  all  justice. 

{ExU  RoaiNE.] 

Babtholo.  I  am  choking  with  anger. 

Count.  In  short,  sir,  for  a  youof 
woman . .. 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


FiGABO.   Yea,  a  young  woman  and  old 
Bge,  that's  what  troublea  the  heads  of  old 


FiQABo.  I  am  going  to  retire;  he  is  mad. 

Count.  And  I  also;  upon  my  vord,  he 
is  mad. 

FiQARo.  He  is  mad;  he  is  mad.  .  . . 

\E:at  hoik.] 
IBabtholo,  (Uone,  }>urni««  (A«m.] 

Bastbolo.  [  am  madl  Infamous  brib- 
ers! Emissaries  of  the  devil,  whose  errands 
you  are  doing  here,  and  may  the  devil  fly 
away  with  you  allt ...  I  am  madl  ...  I 
saw  them  ss  dearly  aa  I  see  this  desk  .  .  . 
and  to  braieo  it  out  sol  .  .  .  Ah!  Basile  is 
the  only  one  who  can  explain  it  all.  Yes, 
let's  send  for  him.  Holloa,  somebodyl  .  .  . 
Ahl  I  forget  that  I  have  nobody  ...  A 
neighbor,  the  fitat  comer;  no  matter  who. 
It  is  enough  to  make  me  lose  my  mind!  .  .  . 
It  is  enough  to  make  me  lose  my  mind! 


The  alage  it  darkened. 

[Enter  Bartholo  and  Don  Bazilb,  a 
paper  lantern  in  his  hand.] 

Bartholo.  What,  Basite,  you  do  not 
know  him?  Is  it  possible  that  you  have 
just  told  me  the  truth? 

Baziu.  If  you  should  ask  me  one  hun- 
rtred  times,  I  should  always  give  you  the 
same  answer.  If  he  handed  over  to  you 
Rosine's  letter,  he  is  doubtless  one  of  the 
Count's  emissaries.  But  from  the  magnifi- 
cence of  the  present  which  he  made  me,  it 
might  very  well  be  the  Count  himself. 

Bartholo.  Not  very  likely.  But  d 
propoa  of  that  present  .  .  .  why  did  you 
tiike  it? 

Baeile.  Both  of  you  seemed  to  have  an 
agreement;  I  knew  nothing  about  it;  and 
in  all  these  cases  which  are  hard  to  decide, 
a  purse  of  gold  always  seems  to  me  an  un- 
answerable argument.  And  then,  aa  the 
proverb  says,  what  is  good  to  take  . . . 

Bartholo.  I  understand,  is  good  . . . 


Bazilb.  To  keep. 

Babtholo  [in  ti^priie].  Hal  hal 

BaziijE.  Yes,  I  have  arranged  sereral 
little  proverbs  like  that  with  variatioDS. 
But  let  us  come  to  the  point:  what  aro 
your  plans? 

Bartholo.  If  you  wore  in  my  place, 
Bazile,  would  you  not  make  the  most  de- 
termined   efforts    to    keep    her    in    your 

BAitLS,  No,  upon  my  word,  dootor.  In 
alt  sorts  of  property,  possession  amounts 
tolittle;  it  is  their  enjoyment  which  renden 
one  happy;  my  opinion  is  that  marrying 
a  woman  who  does  not  love  you  is  only  to 
expose  yourself .  .  . 

Bartholo.  You  would  fear  mischancesT 

Bazilk.  Ha,  ha,  sir!  ...  we  see  many  of 
them  this  year.  I  would  not  do  violence  to 
her  heart. 

Bartholo.  Your  servant,  Basile.  It  is 
much  better  for  her  to  weep  in  the  poBses- 
sion  of  myself,  than  for  me  to  die  of  grirf 
at  not  having  her. 

Baeilb.  Oh,  it  is  a  matter  of  life  and 
death?  Marry,  doctor,  marry. 

Bartholo.  I  shall  do  so,  and  this  veiy 
night. 

Bazilb.  Farewell,  then.  Remember, 
when  you  speak  to  your  word,  to  paint 
them  atl  blacker  than  bell. 

Bartholo.  You  are  right. 

Baziia.  Calumny,  doctor,  oalumnyl 
You  must  always  use  that. 

Bartholo.  Here  is  Rostne's  letter  which 
that  Alonio  handed  over  to  me,  and  be 
showed  me,  unwillingly,  the  use  which  I 
must  make  of  it  in  dealing  with  her. 

Bazilb.  Farewell;  we  shall  all  be  h^e 
at  four  o'clock. 

Bartholo.  Why  not  sooner? 

Bazilb.  Impossible;  the  notary  is  en- 
gaged. 

Bartholo.  For  a  marriage? 

Bazilb.  Yes,  at  the  barber  Figaro's;  hii 
niece  is  going  to  be  married. 

Bartholo.   His  niece?   He  has  none. 

Bazilb.    That  is  what  they  told  ths 

Bartholo.   That  rascal  is  in  the  i4ot: 
what  the  devil  I . .  . 
Baeii«.  Would  you  think?  . . . 


..CjOc^^^Ic 


THE  Barber  of  Seville 


355 


Babtholo.  My  word,  those  fellows  are 
so  ftlertt  Look  here,  my  friend,  I  am  un- 
easy. Go  to  the  notary's.  Tell  him  to  re- 
turn with  you  immediately. 

Basils.  It  rains,  the  we&ther  is  infernal; 
but  nothing  will  stop  me  in  your  service. 
What  are  you  doing? 

Babtholo.  I  will  lead  you.  Have  they 
not  put  that  Figaro  up  to  crippling  all  my 
sarvants!  I  am  alone  here. 

Baeilk.  I  have  my  lantern. 

Babtholo.  There,  Baiile,  there  is  my 
paaa-key:  I  will  wait,  I  will  watch  for  you; 
and,  come  who  will,  none  but  the  notary 
and  yourself  will  get  in  to-night. 

Baxuk.  With  these  precautious,  you 
are  sure  of  your  case.  [Exewtt.] 

JRoBiNE,  <Uone,  coming  aid  nf  her  room.) 

Rosim.  It  seemed  to  me  tliat  I  heard 
talking.  It  has  iuat  Btnick  midnight; 
Lindor  has  not  comet  This  bad  weather 
was  the  very  thing  to  help  him.  Sure  not 
to  meet  a  soul  .  .  .  Ah,  Lindorl  If  you  have 
deceived  me! .  .  .  What  noise  do  I  hear? .  .  . 
HeavenI  It  iamy  guardian.  Let  us  get  back. 
[Babtholo  returns.] 

Babtholo  [holding  up  the  light].  Ah, 
Roeinel  sincB  you  have  not  yet  retired  to 
your  apartments  .  .  . 

RoaiNB.  I  am  going  to  retire. 

Babtholo.  In  this  horrible  weather  you 
will  not  get  any  repose,  and  I  have  many 
iropOTtont  things  to  toll  you. 

Robins.  What  will  you  have,  sir?  Is  it 
not  enough  to  be  tormented  by  day? 

Babtholo.  Rosine,  listen  to  me. 

RosiNa.  To-morrow  I  will  liatan  to  you. 

Babtholo.   One  moment,  if  you  please  I 

Robinb  [and«!.  If  he  would  only  come! 

Babtbou)  [tliowiTig  her  the  letter].  Do 
you  reoogniie  this  letter? 

RoBiNB  [reeogniting  il].  Ah  I  Great 
HeavenI  .  .  . 

Babtholo.  My  intention,  Rosine,  is  not 
to  reproach  you;  at  your  age  one  may  err; 
but  I  am  your  best  friend:  listen  to  me. 

RosiKB.  I  am  overwhelmed. 

Babtholo.  That  lettA'  which  you  wrote 
to  Count  Almaviva.  .  . 

RoBiNE  [astounded].  To  Count  Alma- 
viva! .  ,  . 


Babtholo.  Now  see  what  a  terrible  fel- 
low this  Count  is:  as  soon  as  he  received 
it  he  made  a  trophy  of  it;  I  have  it  from  a 
woman  to  whom  he  gave  it. 

RosiNK.  Count  Almavival .  .  . 

Babtholo.  You  can  hardly  persuoda 
yourself  that  it  is  BO  horrible.  Inexperience, 
Roeine,  makes  your  sen  confiding  and  cred- 
ulous; but  loom  into  what  a  trap  they  were 
enticing  you.  That  woman  has  warned  me 
of  everything,  apparently  in  order  to  put 
out  of  the  way  a  rival  so  dangerous  as 
yourself.  I  shudder  at  the  thoughtl  The 
most  abominable  plot,  between  Almaviva, 
Figaro,  and  that  Alonso,  that  pretended 
scholar  of  Baiile's,  who  bears  another 
name  and  is  only  a  vile  agent  of  the  Count, 
was  going  to  drag  you  down  into  an  abyss 
from  which  nothing  could  have  drawn  you 

RoBINB  [overuihdmedl.  How  horrible  I 
.  .  .  What!  Lindor?  .  .  .  whatt  that  young 

Babtholo  [ande].  Ahl  it  is  Lmdor. 

RoBiNB.  It  is  for  Count  Almaviva  .  . . 
It  is  for  another  .  .  . 

Bartholo.  That  is  what  they  aaid  when 
they  gave  me  your  letter. 

Rosine  [aiigrily],  Ahl  what  on  indig- 
nity! He  will  be  punished  for  it.  Sir,  you 
desire  to  marry  me? 

Babtholo.  You  know  the  depth  of  my 

RoaiNB.  If  you  can  still  feel  so,  I  am 
yours. 

Babtholo.  Well,  the  notary  will  come 
this  very  evenmg. 

'  Rosins.  That  is  not  all;  O  Heaven!  am 
I  sufficiently  humiliated! .  .  .  Know  that 
in  a  little  while  the  traitor  will  dare  to  enter 
through  this  blind,  whose  key  they  have 
artfully  stolen  from  you. 

Bartholo  {glancing  at  hit  bunch  of  kegs]. 
Oh,  the  rascals!  .  .  .  My  child,  I  will  leave 
you  no  more. 

RoBiNE  [in  tenor].  Oh,  sir!  and  if  they 
should  be  armed? 

Babtholo.  You  are  right:  I  would  k)M 
my  revenge.  Go  up  to  Marcelline:  lock 
yourself  in  her  room  with  a  double  bolt.  I 
am  going  to  call  the  police,  and  wait  for  him 
near  the  house.  Arrestedasa  thief,  weshall 


356 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


have  the  pleasure  of  being  at  onoe  avenged 
and  delivered  from  himi  And  remember 
that  my  love  wilt  repay  yon  .  .  . 

Robins  (in  detpair].  Only  forget  my 
errora.  lAiide,]  Ah!  I  am  sufficiently  pun- 
ished for  itl 

Bartholo  IsoiTig  oul].  Let  us  go  to  set 
our  trap.  At  last  I  have  her.  [Exit.] 

RoBiNB.  His  love  will  repay  me.  .  .  . 
Wretch  that  1  ami  .  .  .  [Sfi«  takes  her  hand- 
ktrcki^  and  givea  way  to  her  tears.]  Wh&t 
shall  I  do?  ...  He  will  come.  I  wiU  re- 
main and  dissemble  with  him,  to  contem- 
plate him  for  a  moment  in  all  his  blackness. 
The  baseness  of  his  actions  wilt  be  my  pre- 
server. Ah  1 1  have  great  need  of  one.  What 
a  noble  figurel  what  a  gentle  airl  what  i 
tender  voice!  and  they  ore  only  the  vile 
agents  of  a  corrupter.  Ahl  unfortunate' 
unfortunate!  .  . .  HeavenI  some  one  is 
opening  the  blind!  IShe  runs  out.] 

[The  CGtnjT,  Fiqako  wrapped  in  a 
mantle,  appear  at  the  uriTuioic.] 

TlajiMo  [speakitig  from  the  outtide].  Some 
one  has  just  rushed  out;  shall  I  enter? 

Count  [outside].  A  manf 

FiOARo.  No. 

Count.  It  is  Rosine,  whom  your  hideous 
figure  has  probably  put  to  flight, 

TiOASO]leaping into Ihe room].  Myword, 

I  believe  you Here  we  are  at  last,  despite 

the  rain,  the  thunder,  and  the  lightning. 

Count  [larapped  in  a  long  mantle].  Give 
me  your  hand.  [Also  leaps  in.]  Victory! 

FiaAJto  [throwing  off  his  maTilie].  We  are 
quite  drenched.  Charming  weather  to  go 
on  love  quests.  My  lord,  how  do  you  like 
this  evening? 

Count.  Superb  for  a  lover. 

FioABo.  Yes,  but  for  the  confidant?  . .  . 
And  suppose  some  one  should  surprise  US 
here? 

Count.  Are  you  not  with  me?  I  have 
other  anxieties:  that  is,  to  persuade  her  to 
leave  her  guardian's  house  immediately. 

FiOAito.  You  have  in  your  interest  three 
passions  very  powerful  over  the  fair  sex: 
love,  hatred,  and  fear. 

Count  [ifoMng  into  Ihe  darkness].  How 
shall  1  tell  her  abruptly  that  the  notary  is 
waiting  at  your  house  to  unite  us?  She  will 


think  my  plan  a  very  bold  one.  Shewillcall 
me  audacious. 

Figaro.  If  she  calls  you  audacious,  you 
may  call  ha-  cruel.  Womeu'  are  munli 
pleased  to  be  called  cruel.  At  tiie  most,  if 
her  love  is  as  strong  as  you  hope,  you  may 
tell  her  who  you  are:  she  will  no  longer 
doubt  you. 


Count.  Here  she  is!  My  fairRosinet . . . 

RosiNB  [oery  calmly].  I  began,  sir,  to 
fear  that  you  were  not  coming. 

CxiuNT.  Charming  anxiety!  ...  I  should 
not  take  advantage  of  circumstances  to 
ask  you  to  share  the  lot  of  an  unfortunate 
man;  but  whatever  asylum  you  should 
choose,  I  swear  upon  my  honor  .  .  . 

RosiNK.  Sir,  if  the  gilt  of  my  hand  had 
not  had  to  follow  instantly  that  of  my 
heart,  you  would  not  be  here.  May  neces- 
sity justify  whatever  irregularity  there  is 
in  this  interview! 

Count.  You,  Rosine!  the  companion  of 
an  unfortunate  without  fortune,  witiiout 
birth!  . .  . 

RosiNX.  Birth,  fortunel  Let  us  put 
aside  such  attendaots  on  chance,  and  if  you 
will  assure  me  that  your  intentions  are 

Count  [at  her  feet].  Ah,  Rosine!  I  adore 

Rosine  [indignantly].  Stop,  you  wretobi 
You  dare  to  profane!  You  adore  me!  .  .  . 
Go]  You  are  no  longer  dangerous  to  me; 
I  was  waiting  for  this  word  only  to  detcet 
you.  But  before  I  abandon  you  to  the  re- 
morse which  awaits  you,  [iceeping]  leam 
that  I  did  love  you;  leam  that  it  made  me 
happy  to  think  of  sharing  your  poor  lot. 
Miserable  Lindar!  I  was  going  to  leave 
everything  to  follow  you,  but  the  cowardly 
abuse  which  you  have  made  of  my  kind- 
neea,  and  the  baseness  of  that  horrible 
Count  Almaviva,  to  whom  you  sold  me, 
have  brought  me  this  evidence  of  my 
weakness.  Do  you  recognice  this  letter? 

Count  [exeite^y]:  Which  your  guardian 
gave  you? 

RosiNx  \proMiUy].  Yes,  I  am  obliged  te 
him  [or  it. 


THE  BARBER  OF  SEVILLE 


Count.  Heaveal  how  glad  1  unl  R« 
bmA  it  [rom  me.  In  my  embarnaanieat, 
yteUrday,  I  made  use  of  it  to  draw  him 
out,  and  I  have  been  unable  to  find  a 
favorable  moment  to  tell  you  of  it.  Ah, 
Rosinel  it  is  true,  then,  that  you  love  me 
tnilyl 

FiOAno.  My  lord,  you  sought  a  woman 
who  should  love  you  for  yourself. 

RoBiKE,  My  lord!  what  ishe  sayingT 

CoDMT  [UirtnaiTig  aside  hU  heavj/  TTuaitle, 
appears  magnifieenily  elotked\.  O  most  be- 
loved of  women  I  I  must  no  longer  deceive 
jrou:  the  happy  man  whom  you  see  at  your 
feet  is  not  Lindor:  I  am  Count  Almaviva, 
who  loves  you  to  distraction  and  who  has 
sought  for  you  in  vain  for  the  last  six 
months. 

RoBCNK  [faUing  inU)  the  arms  of  the 
Coomt].  Ahl ... 

CotTNT  LfrtffUsnsci].   Figaro? 

FioAno.  Eton't  be  uneasy,  my  lord:  the 
sweet  emotion  of  joy  never  has  sorrowful 
oonsequencee.  There,  she  is  coming  to  her 
senses;  my  word!  how  beautful  she  isl 

RosiNE.  Ah,  Lindorl  .  .  .  Ah,  sir!  how 
guilty  I  ami  I  was  going  to  yield  to  my 
guardian  this  very  night. 

Count.  You,  RoeineT 

RosiNK.  Only  see  how  I  am  punished:  I 
would  have  passed  my  life  in  detesting  you. 
Ah,  Lindor!  is  ii  not  a  most  frightful  pun- 
ishment to  hate,  when  you  feel  impelled  to 
love? 

Figaro  [looJbin^  out  of  the  mndtno].  My 
lord,  our  escape  is  cut  off,  the  ladder  is 
taken  away! 

Count.  Taken  away  I 

RoBiNB  [in  anxUty].  Yes,  it  is  I  .  ,  .  itis 
the  doctor.  That  is  the  fruit  of  my  cre- 
dulity. He  deceived  me.  I  confessed  every- 
thing, betrayed  everything:  he  knows  that 
you  are  here,  and  will  come  with  the  po- 
lice. 

FioABO  Pookinff  oui  aoatn).  My  lord, 
they  are  opening  the  street  door. 

RosiKX  l/ut^ening  to  th«  amu  <^  (he 
Count  in  terror).  Ah,  Lindor! 

Count  \Jimdy\.  Rosine,  you  love  me! 
I  fear  no  one,  and  you  shall  be  my  wife.  I 
shall  have  the  pleasure  of  punishing  the 
odious  old  fellow  as  I  please. 


RosiNK.  No,  no,  pardon  him,  dear  Lin- 
dorl My  heart  is  so  full  that  vengeance 
can  find  no  place  there. 

{ErOtT  the  ffotary  and  Don  Bazili.] 

FiuABO.  My  lord,  it  is  our  notary. 

Count.  And  friend  Basils  with  himl 

Baeile.  Ahl  what  do  I  see? 

FiuARO.  Bywhat  chance,  my  friendT  . . . 

BaeiijE.  By  what  chance,  airs?  .  .  . 

Notabt.  Are  these  the  betrothed? 

Count.  Yes,  sir.  You  were  to  unite 
SeKora  Rotinfl  and  myself  to-night,  at  the 
house  of  the  barber  Figaro;  but  we  pre- 
fored  this  house  for  reasons  which  you  will 
know  later.  Have  you  our  oontraot? 

Notabt.  I  have  the  honor,  then,  to 
speak  to  His  Excdlency  Count  Almaviva? 

FioABO.  Precisely. 

Baeili  [atide].  If  that  is  the  reason  that 
be  gave  me  his  pass-key  .  .  . 

Notart.  I  have  two  marriage  contracts 
here,  roy  lord;  let  ua  not  confuse  them: 
here  is  yours,  and  hare  is  Bartholo's  with 
Sefiora .  .  .  Rosine  too?  These  ladies,  ap- 
parently, are  two  sisters  who  bear  the 
Botne  name? 

Count.  Let  us  sign  quickly.  Don  Basils 
will  be  willing  to  serve  as  the  second  wH- 
neas.  [They  etgn.] 

Baxiia.  But,  Your  Excellency  ...  I 
don't  understand  .  .  . 

Count.  Master  Baiile,  a  trifle  confuses 
you,  and  all  astonishes  you. 

Bazilb.     But,    my    lord  ...  if    the 

Count  [throwing  him  it  purse).  You  are 
acting  like  a  child!   Sign  quickly. 
Bazile  [aeUmithed],  Ha!  bal 
Figaro.  Whydoyoumakeadifficultyot 


BaeiliE  [weighing  the  purse).  There  is  no 
further  difficulty;  but  it  is  because,  when 
I  have  once  given  my  word,  I  need  reasons 
of  great  weight  .  .  .  [He  sign*.] 


Bartholo  [seei  the  Count  kieeint 
Robine'b  hand,  and  Fioabo  groteeqtuiy 
enAraeing  Don  Bazili;  he  cries  oui,  seitfnf 
IheNiOaTybvAeairool].  Rosine  with  Oiese 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


358  

rascaUl  Arrest  tbem  all.  I  have  one  of 
tbem  by  the  colUr. 

NoTABT.  I  am  your  notary. 

BAZI1.B.  He  is  your  notary.  Are  you 
fooling? 

Baktholo.  Ah,  Don  Baiilel  how  ia  it 
that  you  are  here? 

Bazile.  Rather,  why  were  you  not  here? 

JcancE  [pointing  emi  Figaro].  Ohe 
aoment;  I  know  thie  fellow.  What  are 
you  doing  in  thia  house  at  such  an  un- 
heard-of hour? 

PiGARO.  Unheard-of  hour?  You  see  very 
well  that  it  is  quite  as  near  morning  as 
evening.  Besides,  I  am  a  retainer  of  His 
Excellency  my  Lord  Count  Almaviva. 

Bartboi.0.  Almaviva  1 

JnancH.  They  are  not  robbers,  then? 

Bahtholo.  Let  us  drop  that.  Every- 
where else,  Count  Almaviva,  I  am  Your 
Excellency's  servant;  but  you  understand 
that  superiority  of  rank  is  useleA  here. 
If  you  please,  have  the  kindness  to  retire. 

Count.  Yea,  rank  must  be  useless  here; 
but  what  IS  more  powerful,  however,  is  the 
preference  to  you  which  the  young  lady 
has  just  shown  me,  by  voluntarily  giving 
herself  to  me. 

Babtbolo.  What  ie  he  saying,  Roaine? 

RoaiNS.  He  is  tolling  you  the  truth. 
What  causes  your  astonishment?  Was  I 
not  this  very  night  to  be  avenged  of  a  de- 
ceiver? I  am. 

Bazilz.  WhenI  told  you  that  it  was  the 
Count  himself,  doctor? 

Barisolo.  What  does  that  matter  to 
me?  This  is  a  ridiculous  marriagel  Where 
are  the  witnesses? 

NoTABT.  There  is  nothing  lacking.  I 
have  been  assisted  by  these  two  gentlemen, 

BABTH0U3.  What,  Baiilel...  You  signed? 

Baziix.  What  would  you  have?  This 
de'.  i1  of  a  fellow  always  has  his  pocketa  full 
of  ii    sistible  arguments. 

Bahtholo.  I  despise  your  a^uments.  I 
■hall  make  use  of  my  authority. 

CoDNT.  You  have  lost  it  by  abusing  it. 

Bartholo.   The  young  lady  is  a  minor. 

FiQARO.  She  has  just  come  of  age. 

Bartholo.  Who  is  speaking  to  you, 
you  rascal? 


Count,  The  young  lady  is  noble  and 
beautiful;  I  am  a  man  of  rink,  young  and 
rich;  she  ts  my  wife:  does  any  one  wish  to 
dispute  me  this  title  which  honors  ua  both. 

Basttholo.  You  shall  never  take  her 
from  my  hands. 

Count.  She  is  no  longer  in  your  power. 
I  will  put  her  under  the  protection  of  iht 
law;  and  this  gentleman,  whom  you  have 
sunmioned  yourself,  will  protect  her  fran 
any  violence  which  you  may  wiah  to  offer 
her.  True  magistrates  are  the  protectors 
of  all  the  oppreeeed. 

JnsncE.  Certainly.  And  this  uselcM 
rssistance  to  a  moat  honorable  marriage 
shows  weU  enough  how  frightened  he  is 
over  the  ill-adminiBtration  of  his  want's 
property,  of  which  he  will  have  to  rendo* 
an  account. 

Count.  Ahl  let  him  consent  to  all,  and  I 
shall  ask  nothing  further  of  him. 

FiQABO.  But  my  quittance  for  my  hun- 
dred crowns.  Let  us  not  lose  our  brads. 

Babtbolo  langrily].  They  were  all 
against  me  .  .  ,  I  have  thrust  my  head 
into  a  scrape. 

BAsnx.  What  scrape?  Remember, 
doctor,  that  although  you  cannot  have  the 
woman,  you  have  the  money  — yes,  you 
have  the  money. 

Babtbolo.  Oh!  leave  me  alone,  Basilel 
You  think  only  of  money.  Much  do  I  care 
for  money!  Of  course  I  shall  keep  it,  but 
do  you  think  that  is  the  reason  which  de- 
eidee  me?  [He  lign*.] 

FiDABO  [laughing].  Bat  hsl  hal  my  lord, 
they  are  of  the  same  family. 

NoTABT.  But,  gentlemen,  I  do  not  quite 
understand.  Are  there  not  two  young 
ladies  who  bear  the  some  name? 

FiQARO.  No,  air,  there  is  only  one. 

Bartbolo  [tn  dapair].  And  it  was  I 
who  brought  them  the  ladder  in  order  that 
the  marriB^e  should  be  more  oertaini  Ah) 
I  have  defeated  myself  for  lade  of  pre- 
cautions. 

FioARO.  LAck  of  good  sense.  But  to  tell 
you  the  truth,  doctor,  when  youth  and 
love  have  agreed  to  deceive  an  (Jd  man,  all 
that  he  does  to  preveot  it  may  weB  be 
called  Th*  f/*slest  Pncaution, 


.CiOo^}\c 


HERNANI 

By  VICTOR  HUGO 

TVantlaUd  iiU»  Bngluk  blank  vtrst  fy  MRS.  ^E  iVTON  CRQSLAND 


ciilizedbvGoOQic 


CHARACTERS 

-^  Hbrnani 

j  Don  Cablob 

J   Don  Rut  Goube  de  Silva 

^    Dona  Sol  de  Silva 

The  Kino  of  Boheiua 

The  Duke  of  Bavakia 

ThbDukb  of  Gotha 

The  Baron  of  Hobenboubq 

The  Duke  of  Ldtzblboubq 

Don  Sancho 

Don  Matias 
)    Don  RiCABoo 

Don  Garcia  Suarsz 

Don  Fea[(cisco 

Don  Juan  de  Haro 

Don  Pedro  Gobman  de  Laba 

Don  Gil  Tbllez  Girom 
■j  DoSa  Josefa  Duabtb 

Jaqubz 

A  MmaUaineer 

A  Lady 

First  Conapirabtr 

Second  Conspirator 

Third  Ctmspiralor 
r  the  Holy  League,  GennaTif  and  Spaniards,  MourUaineers, 
Nobles,  Soldiers,  Poqes,  /  ttemfonto,  etc. 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


UFnler  DoRa  Josxpa  Ddartb,  an  old  vm- 
man  dressed  in  black,  wiik  body  qf  her 
'3re»t  worked  in  jet  in  tKe  fatkion  of  Fmt- 
bdia  (Ac  Catholic.   She  draws  the  crim- 
»on  euriaim  of  the'  miiutow,  and  puis 
tome  armchaira  in  order,   A  knock  ai  a 
little  teeret  door  on  the  ri^iht.  She  liOene. 
A-teamd  AnocA:.] 
DoAa  Josefa.   Can  it  be  he  already? 
[Another  knock.]  'T  is,  indeed, 
At  th'  hidden  stairway.  [A  frntrtk  knock.]  I 
must  open  quiclc. 

[She  open«  the  concealed  door.] 


Good-evening  to  3^u,  sirl 

[She  uehers  him  in.   He  drops  hia 
doak  and  reneoU  a  rich  dreta  of 
silk  and  velvet  in  the  CattUian 
«(t/Ie  of  1SI9.  She  lookt  at  him 
clotdy,  mid  recoils  astonished.] 
What  now?  —  not  you, 
Si^or  Hemanit  Fire!  fire!  Help,  oh,  help! 
Don  Carlos  \seixi7tgherbylhearm].  But 
two  words  more,  duenna,andyoudiel 
[He  looks  at  her  intently.    She  it 
frightened  into  ailenee-i 
la  this  the  room  of  Dofia  Sol,  betrothed 
To  her  old  uncle,  Duke  de  Pastrana? 
A  very  worthy  lord  he  ia  —  senile, 
White-hair'dandjealous.  Tell  me,  is  it  true 
The  beauteous  Dofla  loves  a  smooth-faced 

All  whiskerless  aa  yet,  and  sees  him  here 
Bach  night,  in  8pit«  of  envious  cate?  Tell  me. 
Am  I  informed  aright? 

ISheitnlenl.  He  shakes  her  by  the 

Will  yon  not  speak? 
DotiA  JoBSPA.  You  did  forbid  me,  air,  to 
speak  two  worda. 


Don  Cablob.  One  will  suffice.  I  want  a 
yes,  or  no.  . 

Say,  is  tby  mistieas  DoAa  So]  de  BilvaT 
DoffA  JosEPA.  Yes,  why? 
Don  Cablob.  No  matter  why.  Just  at 
tUis  hour 
The  venerable  lover  is  away? 
DoRa  Josepa.  He  is. 
DonCaruw.  And  she  expects  the  young 

DoRa  Jobepa.  Yes. 

Don  Cablob.  Oh,  that  i  oould  diet 

Dora  Josepa.  Yea. 

Don  Cablob.  Say,  duenna. 
Is  this  the  place  wheie  they  will  surely  meet? 

DoRa  Josepa.  Yes. 

Don  Cablob.  Hide  me  somewhere  here. 

DoRaJobepa.  You? 

Don  Caxlob.  Yes,  me. 

DoRa  Josepa,  Why? 

Don  Cablos.  No  matter  why. 

DoBa  Jobefa.  I  hide  you  ben! 

Don  Cablob.  Ycb,  here. 

DoSa  Jobepa.  No,  neverl 

Don  Caklos  [drawing  from  his  girdle  a 
purse  aiid  a  dagger].  Madam,  conde- 
Hcend  to  ohooHe 
Between  a  purse  and  dagger. 

T>aSAloBY:T\[laking  the  purse].  Aieyou, 

The  devil?  ' 

Don  Cablos.  Yes,  duenna. 
DoRa  Josepa   [opening  a  narrow   cup- 
board in  the  viall].  Go  —  go  in. 
Don  Cari/js  [examining  the  eupboard]. 

Thisboxl 
DoRa  Josepa  [thuttirtg  vp  the  cupboard.) 

If  you  don't  like  it,  go  away. 
Don  Cablos  [reopenirtg  cupboard].  And 
yet!    [Again  examinijig  it.]    Is  this 
the  stable  where  you  keep 
The  broom-stick  that  you  ride  on? 

[He  crouches  down  in  Ae  cupboard 
with  diSieulty.] 
OhlOhlOh! 

DoRa  Jobbpa  [jovning  her  hands  and 
looking  othmsd].  A  man  here! 


36a 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Don  Carlos  [/rom  lA«  cupboard,  ttiU 
open].  And  was  it  a  woman,  then, 
Your  mistreaa  hefe  expected? 

DoRa  Jobepa.  Heavensl  I  hear 
The  step  of  DoQs  Soli  Sir,  shut  the  door! 
Quick  —  quick! 

[Sh4   pushei   the   oij^toard  doof, 
which  doses\ 
Don  CahijOS  \Jrom  Qiie  doted  eujAoard]. 
Remember,  if  yxiu  breathe  a  word 
Tou  die! 
DofiA  Jqsefa  [aion«I.  Who  is  this  man? 
If  I  cry  out, 
Onoioufi!  there's  nooe  to  hear.    All  are 

Within  the  palace  walls  —  madam  aod  I 
Excepted.  Pshawt  The  oUier'U  come.  He 

A  sword;  't  his  affair.  And  Heftv'n  keep 


DoftA  Sol.  Josefal 
DoftA  JosEFA.  Madam?  j 
DoSa  Sol.  I  some  miscluef  dread, 
Pot  't  is  full  time  Heniani  should  be  here. 
[Noiee*  of  sleps  oJ  the  tecrtl  door.] 
He'scomingupigo  —  quick!  at onoe, undo 
Eie  he  has  time  to  knock. 

[JosEFA  opens  the  little  door.] 

[Enter  Hernani  in  large  doak  and  targe  hat; 
undemtath,  costume  of  mountaineer  (ff 
Aragon — gray,  vrithacuirau  of  leather; 
a  sword,  a  dagger,  and  a  horn  al  hit 


at  last 
I  see  —  your  voice  it  is  I  hear.  Oh,  why 
Does  cruel  fate  keep  you  BO  far  from  me? 
I  have  such  need  of  you  to  help  my  heart 
Forget  ali  elsel 

DoRa  Sol  [touehinQ  his  dothet].    Oh! 
Heav'nal  Your  cloak  is  drench'dl 
The  rain  must  pour! 

Hernani.  1  know  not. 

DoflA  Sol.  And  the  c<dd  — 
You  must  be  coldl 


Hernani.  I  feel  it  not. 
Doha  Sol.  Takeoff 
Hie  cloak,  then,  pray. 

HsBNAHi.  Dofia,  beloved,  tell  me. 
When  night  brings  happy  sleep  to  you,  bo 

purs 
And  innocent  —  sleep  that  half  opes  your 

mouth, 
Closing  your  eyes  with  its  light  finger^ 

Does  not  some  angel  show  bow  dear  you 

JIo  an  unhappy  man,  by  all  the  world 
Abandoned  and  repulsed? 

DoftA  Sol.  Sir,  you  are  late; 
But  tdl  me,  are  you  cold? 

Hernani.  Not  near  to  you. 
Ah!  when  the  raging  fire  of  jealous  tove 
Bums  in  the  veins,  and  the  true  heart  ia 

By  its   own    tempest,    we   fed  not   the 

clouds 
O'erhead,  though  storm  and  lightning  they 
fling  forth! 
DoflA  Sol.  Come,  give  me  now  the  cloak, 

and  your  sword  too. 
Hernani  [his  hand  on  h,i»  sa</rd\.    No. 
'T  is  my  other  love,  faithful  and 

The  old  Duke,  Do&a  Sol,  —  your  promised 

spouse. 
Your  uncle,  —  is  he  absent  now? 

DoSi  Sol.  Oh,  yes; 
This  hour  to  us  belongs.  .. 

Hernani.  And  that  is  kH! 
Only  this  hour  I    And  then  comes  after- 

wardsl  — 
What  matter!  For  I  must  forget  or  die! 
Angell  One  hour  with  thee  —  with  whom 

I  would 
Spend  life,  andjafterwardB  eternity! ;    ''  .    . 
DoSa  Sol.  Hernani  I  '  ' 

Hernani.  It  is  happiness  to  know 
The  Duke  is  absent.  I  am  like  a  thief 
Who  forces  doors.    I  enter  —  see  you  — 

rob 
An  old  man  of  an  hour  of  your  street 

And  looks.   And  I  am  happy,  though,  no 

doubt 
fie  would  deny  me  e'en  one  hour,  aitiioUKh 
He  steals  my  very  life. 


Coo'^lc 


DoRa  Sol.  Be  calm.  [Gmng  Ote  doak  to 
tA«  duerma-]  Josefi-I 
TtuB  wet  cloak  take  ajid  dry  il. 

[Exit  JoaxpA.] 
\She  woto  htrtelf,  and  maket  a  sign 
for  Hehnani  b>  draw  near.] 
Now,  come  here. 

Hkrnani  [leitkout  appewing  to  hour  her]. 
The  Duke,  then,  is  not  in  the  maneion  dowT 
DoSa  Sol.   How  grand  you  lookl 
Ebrnani.  He  is  sway? 
DoRaSol.  Deal  one. 
Let  us  not  think  about  the  Duke. 

Hebnani.   Madam, 
But  let  us  think  of  him,  the  grave  old  man 
Who  loves  you  —  who  will  marry  youl  How 

He  took  a  kiss  from  you  the  other  day. 
Not  think  of  himl 

DofiA  Sol.  Is  't  that  which  grieves  you 
thua? 
A  kiss  upon  my  brow  —  an  uncle's  kiss  — 
Almost  a  father's. 

Hkbnani.   No,  not  bo;  it  was 
A   lover's,    husband's,   jealous   kiss.    To 

To  him  it  ia  that  you  will  soon  belong. 
Think'st  thou  not  of  iti     Oh,  the  foolish 

dotard. 
With  head  drooped  down  to  finish  out  hia 

days  I 
Wanting  a  wife,  he  takes  a  girl;  himself 
Meet  like  a  frocen  specter.  Sees  he  not, 
The  senseless  one  I  that  while  with  one  hand 


he 

Espouses  you,  the  other  mates  with  Death  I 
Yet  without  shudder  comes  he  'twixt  our 

heartel 
Seek  out  the  grave-digger,  old  man,  and 

give 

Who  is  it  that  makes  for  you 

This  marriage?  You  are  forced  to  it,  I  hope? 

DoRaSol.  They  say  the  King  desires  it. 

Hkrnani.  Kingl  This  king! 
My  father  on  the  scaffold  died  condemned 
By  his;  and,  though  one  may  have  aged 

since  then,  — 
For  e'en  the  shadow  of  that  king,  his  son. 
His  widow,  and  for  all  \a  him  allied, 
My  hBt«  continues  fresh.    Him  dead,  no 


rANI  363 

We  count  with;  but  while  still  a  child  I 

That  I  'd  avenge  my  father  on  his  ttm. 
I  sought  him  in  all  places  —  Charlee  the 

King 
Of  the  Castilee.  For  hate  is  rife  between 
Our  families.  The  fathers  wrestled  long 
And  without  pity,  and  without  remorse, 
For  thirty  years  1  Oh,  't  is  in  vain  that  they 
Are  dead;  their  hatred  lives.  For  them  no 

peace 
Has  come;  their  sons  keep  up  the  duel  still. 
Ahl  then  Ifind  't  is  thou  who  bast  made  up 
This  execrable  marriage !  Thee  I  sought  — 
T^n  oomest  in  my  wayl 
DoSa  Sol.  You  frighten  met 
Hermani.  Charged  with  the  mandate  of 

anathema, 
I  fri^t«n  e'en  myself;  but  listen  now: 
This  old,  old  man,  for  whom  they  destine 

you. 
This  Ruy  de  Silva,  Duke  de  Pastrana, 
Count  and  grandee,  rich  man  of  Aragon, 
--In  place  of  youUi  can  pve  thee,  ohi  young 

Such  store  of  gold  and  jewds  that  your 

brow 
Will  shine  'mong  royalty's  own  diadems; 
And  for  your  rank  and  wealth,  and  pride 

and  state. 
Queens  many  will  perhaps  envy  you.  See, 

Just  what  he  is.  And  now  consider  me. 
My  poverty  is  absolute,  I  say. 
Only  the  foreet,  where  I  ran  barefoot 
In  childhood,  did  I  know.   Although  per- 

I  too  can  claim  illustrious  blasonry. 
That's  dimm'd  just  now  by  rusting  stain 

of  blood. 
Perchance  I've  righte,  though  they  are 

shrouded  Mill, 
And  hid  'neath  ebon  folds  of  scaffold  cloth. 
Yet  which,  if  my  attempt  one  day  succeeds, 
May,  with  my  sword  from  out  their  sheath 

leap  forth. 
Meanwhile,  from  jealous  Heaven  I've  re- 

But  air,  and  l^t,  and  water  —  gifts  be- 
On  all.  Now,  wish  you  from  the  Duke,  or 


:.L|,i,zedi!,GoOQlc 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


To  be  driivered?  You  muat  cfaooM  'twixt 

us, 
Whether  you  mairy  him,  or  tdOtnr  mc. 
DoSa  Sol.  You,  I  wUl  follow! 
Hesnani.   'Mong  compouioDB  rude, 
Men  all  proscribed,  of  whom  the  headamui 

knows 
The  namcfl  already.    Men  whom  neither 

steel 
Noi  touch  of  pity  softene;  each  one  urg 
By  some  blood  feud  that's  permnal.  Wilt 

Then  oome?  They'd  call  theo  miBtresa  of 

my  band,  ' 
For  know  you  not  that  I  a  bandit  am? 
When  I  WB8  hunted  throughout  Spain, 

In  thiokeet  foreete,  and  on  mountaina  st«ep, 
'Mong  rocks  which  but  the  soaring  ea^ 

spied. 
Old  Catalonia  like  a  mother  proved. 
Among  her  hills  —  free,  poor,  and  stem  - 

And  now,  to-morrow  it  this  horn  should 

sound. 
Three  thousand  men  would  rally  at  the 

cM. 
You  shudder,  and  should  pause  to  ponder 

well. 
Think  what  'twill  prove  to  foUow 

through  woods 
And  over  mountain  paths,  with  comiadee 

like 
The  fiends  that  come  in  dreams!  To  live  in 

Suspicious  of  a  sound,  of  voices,  eyes: 
To  sleep   upon   the   earth,   drink  at   the 

stream. 
And  hear  at  night,  while  nourishing  per- 
chance 
Some  wakeful  babe,  the  whistling  musket 

balls. 
To  be  a  wanderer  with  me  proscribed, 
And  when  my  father  I  shall  follow  —  then. 
E'en  to  the  scaffold,  you  to  follow  me! 
DofiA  Sol.  Ill  follow  you, 
Hebnani.  The  Duke  is  wealthy,  great 
And  prosperous,  without  a  stain  upon 
His  ancient'name.  He  offers  you  his  hand, 
^d  can  give  all  things  —  treasuree,  digni- 

And  pleasure  — 


DoRa  Sol.    Well  set  out  to-mcavow. 

Oh! 
Hemani,  censure  not  th'  audacity 
Of  this  decision.  Are  you  angel  mine 
Or  demon?  Only  one  Ihing  do  I  know, 
lliat  I'm  your  slave.   Now,  listen:  where- 

soe'er 
You  go,  I  go  —  pause  you  or  move  I'm 

Why  act  I  thus?  Ahl  that  I  cannot  t«U; 
Only  I  want  to  see  you  evermore. 
When  sound  of  your  receding  footstep  diee 
I  feel  my  heart  stope  treating;  without  you 
Myself  seems  absent,  but  when  I  detect 
Again  the  step  I  lore,  my  soul  comes  back, 
I  breathe  —  I  live  once  more. 
HuHNANi    [embradng   her].     Oh!   angel 

DoRa  Sol.    At  midnight,  then,  to-mor- 
row, clap  your  hands 
Three  times  breath  my  window,  bringing 

Your  escort.    Go!    t  shall  be  strong  and 

Hbbhani.  Now  know  you  who  I  am? 
DoflA  Sol.  Only  my  lord. 
Enough  —  what  matters  else?  —  I  follow 
you. 
Herkani.  Not  so.  Since  you,  a  women 
weak,  decide 
To  come  witji  me,  't  is  jight  that  you  should 

What  name,  what  rank,  what  soul,  per- 
chance what  fat« 
There  hides  beneath  the  low  Hemani  here. 
Yes,  you  have  willed  to  link  yourself  for 

aye 
With  brigand  —  would  you  still  with  out- 
law mate? 
Don   Cablob    [opening   Ute    cupboard]. 
When  will  you  finish  aU  this  history? 
Think  you  't  is  pleasant  in  this  cupboard 
hole? 
(Hernani      reeoiU,      lutonUhed. 
DofiA  Sol  screams  and  taka 
refxtge  in  Bbrnani's  arm*,  UxA- 
ing  at  Don  Cablob  with  frigkl- 
enedgaxe.\ 
Hernani  [his  harui  on  l&shtic  0/ At*  snwd]. 

Who  is  this  man? 
Dora  Sol.  Oh,  Heavens,  belpl 
Hbhnami.  Be  still. 


.,  GooqIc 


My  Dofia  Soli  youll  wake  up  dangerouB 

eyes. 
Never  —  whatever  be  —  while  I  am  near, 
Seek  other  help  than  mine. 
[7*0  Don  Carlos.]  What  do  you  here? 

Don  Carlos.   I?  —  Well,  I  am  not  rid- 
ing through  the  wood, 
That  you  Bhnqhl  aak. 

Hbbhahi. iHe  who  affronts,  then  j'eers. 
May  cause  his  heir  to  laugS)^ 

Don  Cablob.  Each,  eir,  in  turn. 
Let  ua  speak  frankly.  You  the  lady  love. 
And  come  each  night  to  mirror  in  her  eyefl 
Your  own.    I  love  her,  too,  and  want  to 

Who  't  is  I  have  so  often  seen  come  in 
The  window  way,  while  I  stand  at  the  door. 

Hebnani.  Upon  my  word,  I'll  eend  you 
out  the  way 
Ient«r. 

DokCaiilos.  As  to  that  we'll  see.  My 

I  offer  unto  madam.  Shall  we,  then. 
Agree  to  share  itT     In  ber  beauteous  soul 
I've  seen  io  much  of  tenderness,  and  love, 
Ai(d  sentiment,  that  she,  I'm  very  sure, 
%as  quite  enough  for  ardent  lovers  twain. 
Therefore,   to-night,  wishing  to  end  sus- 

On  your  account,  I  forced  an  entrance, 

hid. 
And  —  to  confess  it  all  —  I  listened  too. 
But  I  beard  badly,  and  was  nearly  eboked; 
And  then  I  crumpled  my  French  veet  — 

By  Jovel  come  out  I  must! 

Hkbnani.  Lilcewiee  my  blade 
Is  not  at  ease,  and  hurries  to  leap  out. 
IJON  Oabujb  [bowing].  Sir,  as  you  please. 
Hkrnani  [drawing  his  tword].  Defend 
youreelfl 

[Don  Cablob  draws  hie  «wonf.| 
DofiA  Son.  Oh,  Heaven! 
Don  Carlos.  Be  calm,  sefiora. 
EiRNANi  (to  Don  Carlob).  Tell  me,  nr, 

your  name. 
Don  Cablob.  Tell  me  yours! 
Hbrnani.  It  is  a  fatal  secret, 
Kept  f<n:  mf  iHVkthing  in  another's  ear. 
Some  day  vfam  I  am  conqueror,  with  my 

knM 
Upon  Ub  biflMt,  and  dagger  in  his  heart. 


iANI  365 

Don  Cahlos.    Then  t«U  to  oyi-thia 

other's  name. 
HxBNANi.  To  tbee 
What  matters  it?  On  guard!  Fiafend  thy- 
self! 

[They   trogt   twcnis.     DoRa   3ol 

ft^trembljnf  into  a  chair.  They 

hear  knodis  at  Ihe  door.\ 

~~WofJA  Sol  {rimngAn  olortn].  Oh,  Heav- 

'"    enal  There 'i  some  one  knocking  at 

tiieid49r>)  ■'■ 

\The  ehampiona  paiue.] 
\BrUer  Josef  a,  at  the  little  door,  in  a  fright- 
ened ttate.] 
Hbrnani  [to  JobbpaI.  Who  knocks  in 

this  way? 
DoRa  Josbpa  I(o  DofTA  Sol].  Madam,  n 
surprise! 
An  unexpected  blow.  It  is  the  Duke 
Come  home. 
DoSa  Sol  [diasping  her  hamU].    The 

Duke.   Then  every  hope  is  lost! 
DoRa  Joszfa  [looking  round\.  Gracious! 
—  the  stoanger  out!  —  and  swords, 
and  fighting 
Here's  a  fine  business! 

[The  ttpo  conAatanU  gheatke  their 
BanrrdB.  Don  Cablos  dmtra  Am 
tioak  rmtnd  him,  and  pvUt  hi* 
hal  down  on  hit  Sorehead.  More 
knocking.] 
Hbbnani.   What  is  to  be  done? 

[More  knoeJnng.] 
A  VoicB  (irifAouf ).  Do&aSol,  opentome. 
IDoNA  JoBEFA  M  goirig  to  the  door, 
v^ten  Hebnani  tlopt  her.] 
Hbrnani.  Do  not  open. 
Dora  Jobkpa  \ptdling  otit  her  rotary]. 
Holy   St.   Jameel     Now   draw   us 
through  this  broil! 

[More  kjuieking.] 
Hebnani  {pointing  to  the  eupboanl].  Let's 

hide! 
Don  Carlos.  What  I  in  the  cupboard? 
Hbrnani.   Yea,  go  in; 
I  will  take  care  that  it'Bholl  hold  us  both. 
Don  Carlos.    Thanks.    No;  it  is  too 

good  a  joke. 
Hebnani  fpoinHng  to  aecret  door].  Let's 
fly 
Tlwtmy. 

DL|,l,zedl!,G00Qlc 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Hebhaw.  tire  and  ti'T>,  air,  we  will  be 

For  this, 

[To  DoRa  80L.I  Wt&t  if  I  fiimty  b&rr'd 
tlie  door? 
Don  Carlos  |fai  JoaltFA].  Open  the  d^r. 
Hernani.  What  is  it  .diat  he  aayeT  ^' 
Don  Carlos  {to  JoBRrnT^nkaJtMtatet  be- 
vrUdertd\.   Open  the  door,  I  say. 
[More  knodcing.  Jobefa  opena  the 
door,  trembling,] 
DoRa  Sol.  Oh,  I  shall  die  I 

[£nt«r  Don  Rut  Gouez  nE  Silva,  in  black; 

takite   hair  artd   beard.   Senantt   tciCh 

UghU.] 

Don  Ruy  Gouee.    My  niece  with  two 

men  at  thia  hour  of  nightl 

Come  all!    The  thing  ie  worth  exposing 

[To  DofiA  SOL.l  Now,  by  St.  John  of  Avila, 

That  we  three  with  you,  madam,  are  by  two 

Too  many. 

[To  the  two  yomg  men.]   My  young  bitb, 

what  do  you  here? 
When  we'd  the  Cid  and  Bernard—  giants 

both 
Of  Spain  and  of  the  world  —  they  traveled 

through 
Castile  protecting  women,  honoring 
Old  men.    For  them  steel  annoT  had  less 

weight 
I'hac  your  fine  velvets  have  for  you.  These 

Respected  whit«ned  beuds,  and  when  they 

Their  love  was  consecrated  by  the  Church. 
Never  did  such  men  coien  or  betray, 
For  reason  that  they  had  to  keep  imflawed 
The  honor  of  their  house.  Wished  they  to 

They  took  a  stainless  wife  in  open  day, 
Before  the  world,  with  sword,  or  axe,  or 

In  band.  But  as  f  or  villaius  such  as  you, 
Who  come  at  eve,  peeping  behind  them  oft. 
To  steal  away  the  honor  of  men's  wives 
In  ^sence  of  their  hud>ands,  I  deolare, 


The  Cid,  our  ancestor,  had  he  but  known 
Such  men,  he  would  have  plucked  away 

from  them 
Nobility  usurped,  have  made  them  tcneel. 
While  he  with  flat  of  sword  their  blaaon 

dashed. 
Beh(^    what   were   tJie  men   of  former 

Whom  I,  with  nvmiah,  now  compare  with 

these 
I  see  to-day!  What  do  you  here?  Is  it 
To  say,  a  white-haired  man's  but  fit  for 

youth 
To  point  at  when  he  passee  in  th(  street. 
And  jeer  at  there?  Shall  they  so  laugh  at 

Tried  scddier  of  ZamoraT  At  the  least 
Not  yours  will  be  that  laugh. 
■ — TtERNANi.  But,  Duke  — 
Don  Rttt  GouEE.  Be  still! 
What  I  You  have  Bword  and  lance,  falooos, 

the  chase, 
And  sonp  to  sing  'neath  balconies  at  night. 
Festivals,  pleasures,  feaUiers  in  your  hatA, 
Raiment  of  silk  —  balls,  youth,  and  joy  of 

life; 
But  wearied  01  them  all,  at  any  price 
You  want  a  toy,  and  take  an  old  man  for  it. 
Ah,  thou^  you've  broke  tiie  toy,  God 

wills  that  it 
In  bursting  should  be  flung  back  in  your 

Now  follow  me! 

Hebnani.  Most  noble  Duke  — 

Don  Rut  Gouee.  Follow  — 
Follow  me,  sirs.  Is  thia  alone  a  jest? 
What!  I'vea  treasure,  mine  to  guard  witli 

A  3^ung  girl's  character,  a  family's  fame. 
This  (prl  I  love  —  by  kinship  to  me  bound, 
Pledged  soon  to  change  her  ring  for  om 

I  know  her  spotless,  chaste,  and  pure.  Yet 

I    leave   my    home   one    hour,    I  —  Ruy 

Gomes 
De  Silva  —  find  a  thief  who  steals  from 

My  honor,  glides  unto  my  house.    Back, 

back,    . 
Make.clean  your  hands,  oh,  base  and  t>oul- 


Whom  praaence,  bnuhing  by,  must  serve 

to  taint 
Out  women's  fame!    But  no,  'tis  well. 

Have  I  oot  something  more? 

[Snatches  of!  Au  eaiiar.]  Take,  tread  it  now 

Beneath  tout  feet.    D^rade  my  Golden 

Fleece. 
[ThTmse  og  hia  hat.\  Pluck  at  my  hair,  in- 
sult me  every  way. 
And  then,  to-morrow  through  the  town 

m&ke  boast 
That  lowest  scoundrds  in  their  vilest  sport 
Have  never  shamed  a  nobler  brow,  norsoiled 
More  whitened  hair. 
DoRaSoi-,   My  lord  — 
Don  Rdy  Gouez  [U>  kU  urvanta],    A 
reecuel  grooma! 
Bring  me  my  dagger  of  Toledo,  axe, 
And  dirk. 

ypo  ihe  young  men.]  Now,  foUow  —  follow 
me  —  ye  two. 
DoM  Cablos  [ttepping  foraard  a  iittk]. 
Duke,  this  ia  not  the  pressing  thing 
just  now; 
First  we've  to  think  of  Maximilian  dead, 
The  Eraperor  of  Germany. 

[Opens  hit  cloak,  aTidsfunoahig  face, 
prevumsly  Htddoi  by  kit  hat.] 
Don  Rut  Gomez.  Jest  you! 
Heavens,  the  King! 
DoflA  Sol.  The  King! 
Hbrnani.   The  King  of  Spain! 
Don  Cabloh  [gnB>dy].  Yes,  Charles,  my 
noble  Duke,  are  thy  wita  gone? 
The  Emperor,  my  grandaire,  ia  no  moie. 
I  knew  it  not  until  thti  eve,  and  came 
At  once  t«  tell  it  you  and  counsel  ask, 
Incognito,  at  night,  knowing  you  well 
A  loyal  subject  that  I  mui^  nsgard. 
The  thing  is  very  simple  that  has  caused 
"nuB  hubbub. 

[Don  Rny  Gombx  tend*  away 
servants  by  a  siffn,  and  ap- 
proaches Don  Carlos.  DoSa 
Sol  loola  at  the  King  viith  fear 
and  surprise.  HESNAin  from  a 
comer  regards  Aim  vilh  flashing 


DoK  RuY  Gomi.   But  oh,  why  b 
the  door 
Was  not  more  qtdokly  openedf 


fANI  367 

Don  Carlos.   Keasoo  good. 
Remember  all  your  escort.  When  it  is 
A  weighty  secret  of  the  state  I  bear 
That  brings  me  to  your  palace,  it  is  not 
To  tell  it  to  thy  servants. 

Don  .Buy  Gomes.  Highness,  oh! 
Fni^ive  me,  i6me  appearances  — 

Don  Cablos.  Good  father. 
Thee  Governor  of  the  Caatle  of  Figuire 
I've  made.  But  whom  thy  governor  ehaU 
Imake7 

Don  Rot  Gomez.  Oh,  pardon  — 

DonOaklob.  'T  is  enough.  We '11  say  no 

Of  this.  The  Emperor  is  dead. 

Don  Rtnr  Gomez.  Your  Eighness's 
Grandfather  dead! 

Don  Cahlos.  Ayel   Duke,  you  see  me 

tn  deep  affliction. 
Don  Ritt  Gomez.    Who'll  succeed  to 

him7 
Don  Cablos.    A  Duke  of  Baxony  is 
named.  The  throne 
Francis  the  First  of  France  aspires  to 
mount. 
Don  Rnr  Gomez.  Where  do  the  Electors 

of  the  Empire  meet? 
Don  Cablos.    They  say  at  Aix-la-Oha- 
pelle,  or  at  Spire, 
Or  Frankfort. 
Don  Rut  Gomez.  But  our  King,  whom 
God  preserve! 
Has  he  not  thought  of  Empire? 
Don  Cablos.  Constantly. 
Don  RtJT  Gomez.  To  you  it  should  re- 

DoN  Cablos.  I  know  it,  Duke. 

Don  Rdt  Gomxz.    Your  father  was 
Archduke  of  Austria. 
I  hope  'twill  be  remembered  that  you  are 
Grandson  to  him,  who  but  just  now  has 

Th'  imperial  purple  for  a  winding-sheet. 
Don  Carlos.  I  am,  besides,  a  citizen  of 

Ghent. 
Don  Rut  Gomez.    In  my  own  youth 
your  grandfather  I  saw. 
Alas!  I  am  the  sole  survivor  now 
Of  all  that  generation  past.  All  deadi 
He  was  an  Emperor  magnificent 
And  mighty. 


368 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Don  Cablob.  Rome  ^  for  me. 

Don  Rut  Gouee.  Vai(iant,  firm. 
And  not  tyr&nnical,  thie  Ipead  ni^t  well 
Become  th'  old  Gennan  b«)dy. 

[He  hende  over  UU  King'*  handi 
and  kittes  them.]' 
Yet  BO  young.  ^  ~ 

I  pity  you,  indeed,  thus  plunged  in  sucfa 
A  sorrow. 

Don  Carlos.   Ab!  the  Pope  is  aiudous 

To  get  back  Sicily  —  the  isle  tiat's  mine; 
"T  is  ruled  that  Sicily  cannot  belong 
UntA  an  Emperor;  therefore  it  is 
That  he  deeirei  me  Emperor  to  be  made; 
And  then,  to  follow  that,  as  docile  son 
I  give  up  Naples  too.   Let  us  but  have 
The  Eagle,  and  we'll  see  if  I  allow 
Its  wingB  to  be  thus  clipp'dl 

Don  Rut  Goiisz.  What  joy  't  would  be 
For  this  great  vet«ran  of  the  throne  to  see 
Your  brow,  so  fit,  encircled  by  his  crownl 
Ah,  Highness,  we  t^ether  weep  for  him, 
The  Christian  Emperor,  so  good,  so  great! 
DomCaxu».  The  Holy  Father's  clever. 

He  will  say  — 
This  isle   unto   my   States  should  come; 

'tis  but 
A  tatter'd  rag  that  scarce  belongs  to  Spain. 
What  will  you  do  with  this  ill-sbapen  isle 
That's  sewn  upon  the  Empire  by  a  thread? 
Your  Empire  is  ill-made;  but  quick,  come 

here. 
The  scissors  bring,  and  let  us  out  awayl  — 
Thanks,  Holy  Father,  but  it  I  have  luck 
1  think  that  many  pieces  such  as  this 
Upon  the  Holy  Empire  will  be  sewn  I 
And  if  some  rags  from  me  are  ta'en,  I 

With  isles  and  duchies  to  rejrfaoe  them  all. 
Don  Ruy  Gomez.  Console  yourself,  for 
we  shall  see  again 
The  dead  more  holy  and  more  great.  There 
is 
^  An  Empire  of  the  Just. 

Don  Carlos.  Francis  the  First 
Is  all  ambition.  The  old  Emperor  dead, 
Quick  he'll  turn  wooing.  Has  he  not  fair 

Most  Christian?  'Tie  a  place  worth  hold- 
Once  to  King  Louis  did  my  grandsire  say  — 


If  I  were  God,  and  had  two  Mm,  I'd  makt 

Tfae  elds'  God,  tlie  seoosd.  King  of  FrsJice. 

[To  Don  Rut  Gombi.]    Think  you  that 

Francis  has  a  chance  to  win? 

Don  Rmr  Gomes.  He  is  a  victor. 

Don  Carlos.  There 'd  be  all  to  change  — 
The  golden  bull  doth  foreigners  exclude. 

Don  Ruy  Gouee.    In  a  like  n 
Highness,  you  would  be 
Account«d  King  of  Spain. 

Don  Caklos.  But  I  was  bom 
A  citiien  of  Ghent. 

Don  Rut  Gomee.  His  last  ci 
Exalted  Francis  mightily. 

Don  Carlos.  The  Eagle 
That  soon  perchance  upon  my  helm  will 

Knows  also  how  to  open  out  ita  wings. 
Don  Rut  Gohee.    And  knows  Your 

Highness  Latin? 
Don  Carlob.  Ah,  not 'much. 
Don  Rut  Goicez.    A  pity  that.    The 
German  nobles  like 
The  best  those  who  in  Latin  speak  to  them. 
Don  Cablos.    With  haughty  Spanish 
they  will  be  content. 
For  trust  King  Charles,  't  wiU  be  of  small 

account. 
When  masterful  the  voice,  what  tongue  it 

To  Flanders  I  must  go.  Your  King,  dear 

Duke, 
Mast  Emperor  return.  The  King  of  France 
Will  stir  all  means.  I  must  be  quick  to  win. 
I  shall  set  out  at  once. 

Don  Rut  Goiike.  Do  you,  then,  go. 
Oh,  Highness,  withoat  clearing  Aragon 
Of  those  fresh  bandits   who,   among  tbe 

hills. 
Their  daring  insolence  show  everywhere? 
Don  Caiu^ob.   To  the  Duke  D'Areos  I 

have  orders  given 
That  he   should   quite   exterminate  the 

Don  Ruy  Goifsz,  But  is  the  order  given 
to  its  chief 
To  let  the  thing  be  done? 

Don  Cari/Os.  Who  is  this  chief  — 
His  name? 
Don  Rut  Gomez.  I  know  not.  But  the 
people  say      ' 
That  he's  an  awkward  customer. 


Don  Cablos.  Pshaw!  I  know 
That  DOW  he  somewhere  in  GoUciB  hides; 
With  a  few  soldiers,  soon  we'll  capture  him. 
Don  kuT  GoifEz.  Then  it  was  false,  the 
rumor  which  dedared 
That  he  was  hereaboute? 

Don  Carlos.  Quite  false.   Thou  canst 
Accommodate  me  here  to-night? 
Don  Rut  Gohi^  {flowing  to  the  growid\. 
Thanks!  Thanks! 
Highness!    [Ht  coiX»  hie  eervanit.]    You  11 

do  all  honor  to  the  King, 
My  guest. 

[The  tervants  reinler  miA  %Ala. 

Th«  thike  arranges  ihtm  in  (uo 

Tmcg   to   the   door  at   the  back. 

Meanvihik     DofiA     8oL     ap- 

pToaehtB  Hbrnani  at^Uy.    The 

King  observe*  them.] 

DofiA  Sol  [to  Hernani].    To-morrow, 

midnight,  without  fail 

Beneath  my  window  clap  your  hands  three 

Hkrnani  Iv^y].   To-morrow  night. 
Don  Carlos  [Mide].  To-morrow! 
[Aloud  to  DoRa  Sol,  whom  he  approaehea 

vnth  politenesi.]  Let  me  now 
Escort  you  hence,  I  pray. 

[He  lead*  her  to  the  door.  She  goes 
out.] 
Hernani  [hit  hand  in  hie  breaet  on  dagger 

hiU].  My  dagger  true! 

Don  Carlos  [corning  boclc,  aside].  Our 

man  here  has  the  look  of  being 

trapped.  [He  takes  Hernani  aside.] 

I've  crossed  my  sword  with  yours;  that 

honor,  sir, 
I've  granted  you.  For  many  reasons  I 
Suspect  you  much,  but  to  betray  you  now 
Would    shame    the    King;    go    therefore 

freely.  E'en 
I  deign  to  aid  your  flight. 
Don    Rut   Gomgk    [coming  back,  and 
pmntin^  to  Hernani}.  This  lord  — 
who's  he? 
Don   Carlos.     One   of  my  followers, 
who'll  soon  depart. 

[They   go   out   thUJi   aetvanU   and 
lights,   the  Duke  preceding  teilh 
toaxlight  in  his  hand.] 
Hbrnaki.   One  of  thy  followers!  I  am, 
O  King! 


Well  said.  For  night  and  day  and  step  by 

step 
I  follow  thee,  with  eye  upon  thy  path 
And  dagger  in  my  hand.  My  race  in  me 
Pursues  thy  race  in  thee.   And  now,  behold  ' 
Thou  art  my  rivall  For  an  instant  I 
'Twixt  love  and  hate  was  balanced  in  the 

Not  large  enough  my  heart  for  her  and 

In  loving  her  oblivious  I  became 
Of  all  my  hat«  of  thee.   But  since  't  is  thou 
That  cornea  to  will  I  should  remember  it, 
I  recollect.   My  love  it  is  that  tilts 
Th'  uncertain  balance,  while  it  fells  entire 
Upon  the  side  of  hate.   Thy  followBrl 
'T  ia  thou  hast  said  it.   Never  courtier  yet 
Of  thy  accursed  court,  or  noble,  fain 
To  kiss  thy  shadow  —  not  a  seneschal 
-With  human  heart  abjured  in  serving  thee; 
No  dog  within  the  palace,  trained  the  King 
To  follow,  will  thy  steps  more  closely 

And  certainly  than  I.    What  they  would 

These  famed  grandees,  is  hollow  title,  or 
Some  toy  that  shines  —  some  golden  sheep 

About  the  neck.  Not  such  a  fool  am  1. 
What  I  would  have  is  not  some  favor  vain, 
But  'tis  thy  blood,  won  by  my  conquering 

Thy  soul  from  out  thy  body  forced  —  with 

all 
That  at  the  bottom  of  thy  heart  was 

reached 
After   deep    delving.     Go  —  you   are   in 

I  follow  thee.    My  watchful  vengeance 

With  roe,  and  whimpers  in  mine  ear.    Go 

Thou  wilt  I'm  there  to  listen  and  to  spy,  ■ 
And  noiselessly  my  step  will  press  on  thine. 
No  day,  should  'at  thou  but  turn  thy  head, 

O  King, 
But  thou  wilt  find  me,  motionless  and 

grave. 
At  festivals;  at  night,  should 'st  thou  look 

Still  wilt  thou  see  my  flaining  eyes  behind 
[ExU  by  the  huU  door 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Saragotto.  A  »juare  ht^ore  tkt  palaee  of 
fiiLVA,  On  the  Uft  the  high  vfoUt  of  the 
■  palaee,  with  a  uiindotD  and  a  balcony.  BeUno 
the  windoai  a  liUU  door.  To  the  rigkl,  ol  the 
back,  hoiuiet  of  Ihe  Btreet.  Night.  Here  and 
there  are  a  few  urindoioe  ttill  lit  up,  shining  in 
the  front  of  the  houeet. 

[Enter  Don  Cablos,  Don  Sancho  Sai4- 
CHK  m:  ZuSioA,  Count  db  Mon- 
TBRor,    Don    Matiab    CuNrniaON, 
Mabquib  d'Aludnan,  Don  Ricabdo 
DB  RoxAH,  Lord  iop  Casapalma,  Don 
Carlob  at  the  head,  hati  pidled  dmiit, 
and  wrapped  in  long  doakt,  vAieh  their 
avjorda  inHde  raiie  up.] 
Don  Cablob  [tooking  up  at  the  batamy]. 
Behold  I    We're  at  the  balcony  — 
the  door. 
My  heart  is  bounding. 
[PoirUing  to  the  vrindou),  tphich  M  dark.]  Ah, 
no  light  as  yet. 

[He  looka  at  the  vrindino*  uihere 
light  ihinet.] 
Although  it  shines  just  where  T'd  have  it  not, 
While  where  I  wi^  for  light  is  dark. 

Don  Sancho.  Your  Highness, 
Now  let  us  of  thJB  traitor  Bpeak  agsin, 
And  you  permitted  him  to  go  I 
Don  Carlob.  'T  is  true. 
Don  Matiab.    And  he,  perchance,  was 

major  of  the  band. 
Don  Carlos.   Were  he  the  major  or  the 
captain  e'en, 
No  crown'd  king  ever  had  a  haughtier  air. 
Don  Sancho.  Highness,  his  naineT 
Don  Carlob  {hit  eyes  fixed  on  the  win- 
dow]. Muilloi  —  Feman  — 
fWilh  getture  of  a  man  tudderdy  reeoOtel- 

irtg.]   A  name 
Int. 
Don  Sancho.  Perchance  Hentanif 
Don  Cablos.  Yee. 
Don  Sancbo.  'T  wsb  he. 
Don  Matias.  The  chief,  Heraani! 
Don  Sancbo.  Cannot  you  recall 
His  speech? 
Don  Carlob.   Oh,  I  heard  nothing  in 
the  rile. 
An4  wretched  cuoboanL 


Don  Sancho.  Wherefore  let  him  slip 
When  there  you  had  him? 

Don  Cakloo  |(umtn^  round  gra»dy  and 
looking  him  in  (Ae  face].    Count  de 
Monterey, 
You  question  mel 

[The  two  noblee  eltp  back,  and  an 
tilsni.] 
Besides,  it  was  not  he 
Was  in  ray  mind.  It  was  his  mistress,  not 
His  head,  I  wanted.  Madly  I'm  in  love 
With  two  dark  eyee,  the  loveliest  in  tho 

My  friendsl  Two  mirrors,  and  two  raysl 

two  flames! 
I  heard  -but  of  their  hutory  these  words : 
"To-morrow  oome  at  midnii^t."    'TwM 

enough. 
The  joke  is  excellent  I  For  while  that  he, 
The  bandit  lover,  by  some  murd'rous  deed 
Some  grave  to  dig,  is  hindered  and  de- 

layed, 
I  softly  take  his  dove  from  out  its  nest. 
Don  RicARDo.  Highness,  't  would  make 
the  thing  far  more  complete 
If  we,  the  dove  in  gaining,  killed  the  kite. 
Don  Carlob.   Count,  't  is  most  capital 
advice.  Your  hand 
Is  prompt. 
Don  Ricardo   [Itowing  low].    And  by 
what  title  will  it  please 
The  King  that  1  be  count? 
Don  Sancbo.  'T  was  a  mistake. 
Don  Ricardo  {to  Don  Sancho].    The 
King  has  called  me  count. 

Don  Carlob.  Enough  —  enoughl 
[To  Don  Ricasdo.]  I  let  the  title  fall;  bu) 
pick  it  up. 
Don  Ricardo  Ibouring  again].    TimiJtB, 

Don  Sancho.  A  fine  count  —  count  by 
mistake  I 

[The   King  walki   to  the  bade  of 

the   stage,  tpolching  eagerly  the 

lighted  windows.    The  two  lorde 

talk  together  at  the  front.] 

Don  Matias  [to  Don  Sancho].   What 

think' you  that  the  Kii^  frill  do, 

The  beauty 's  taken? 
Don  Sancbo  [l-fH'ig  ,    -ewaye  at  Hon 
Ricardo}.  (.'ounUs- '.he'll  bemade; 


Lady  of  honor  afterwords,  and  then, 
If  there's  a  son,  he  will  be  King. 

Don  Matiab.  How  so?  — 
My  tito-dtftbaatard!  Let  him  be  a  count. 
WereFone  His  Highneas,  would  one  chooae 

asking 
A  countess'  son? 

E>ONSAticB0.  He'd  make  bermarchion- 
e» 
Eire  then,  dear  marquis. 

Don  Matiab.    Bastards  —  they  are  kept 
Forconquer'dcountriea.  They  tor  vicuroya 

[Don  Carlos  comet  forword.] 

Don  OahlOb  [looking  with  vexatvm  at  the 

liglited  windows].  Might  one  not  say 

they  're  jealous  eyes  that  watch? 

Ah!  there  arc  two  which  darken;  we  shall 

do. 
Weary  the  time  of  expectation  seems  — 
Sirs,  who  can  make  it  go  more  quickly? 

EtoN  Sancho.  That 
Is  what  we  often  ask  ourselves  within 
The  palace. 

Don  Carlos.  'T  is  the  thing  my  people 
say 
Again  with  you. 

[The  last  leindoa  light  is  extingaiehtd.]  The 
last  light  now  is  gone. 

[Tuminif   loward    the   tx^amy   of 
DoflA  Sol,  sUU  dark.] 
Oh,  hateful  windowl  When  wilt  thou  light 

up? 
The  night  is  dark;  come,  DoSa  Sol,  and 

Like  to  a  star! 

(To  Don  RtcARDo.]  Is't  midnight  yet? 
Don  Ricasdo.  Almost. 
Don  Carlos.    Ahl  we  must  finish,  for 
the  other  one 
At  any  moment  may  appear. 

[A  light  appears  in  DoRa  Sol'b 
chamh^.     Her  shadow   is   seen 
Ihrough  the  jf/twa.) 
My  friends! 
A  lamp!  and  she  herself  seen  thrctugb  the 

Never  did  dnybreak  cbam  me  as  this 
sight. 

Let's  hasten  with  the  signal  she  expects. 

We  must  clap  hands  three  times.  An  in- 
stant more 


ANl  ^ 371 

And  you  will  see  her.    But  our  number, 

perhaps. 
Will  frighten  her.    Go,  ^1  three  out  of 

Beyond  there,  watching  for  the  man  wfe 

'Twixt  us,  my  friends,  we'll  share  the  lov- 
ing pair, 

For  me  the  girl  —  tlie  brigand  is  for  you^ 
Don  RtcARDO.  Best  thanks.  1 

Don  Carlos.    If  he  appear  from  fln- 
buscade, 

Rush  quickly,  knock  him  down,  and,  while 
the  dupe 

Recovers  from  the  blow,  it  is,  for  me 

To  carry  safely  off  the  darlinft  prize. 

We'll  laugh  anoD.    But  kill  him  not  out- 
right, 

He's   brave,   I   own;  —  killing's   a   grav) 

{The  lordi  bow  and  f/o.  Don 
Carlos  uxnfs  liU  Ihey  arc  quite 
gone,  then  dapK  hin  Aanda  tvAre. 
Al  the  second  time  the  vnjuiow 
opene,  and  DoRa  Sol  appearr 
on  the  bakony.] 
DoRa  Sol  {from  the  balcony],    Hemani, 

is  that  youT 
Don  Carlos  [aeide].    The  devil!    We 

Not  parley]      [He  dope  his  hands  again.] 
DoSa  Sol.   I  am  coming  down. 

[She  doses  the  window,  and  Hie 
light  disappears.  The  nei-t  min- 
ute the  little  door  opens,  and  she 
comes  out,  the  lamp  in  her  hand 
and  a  mantle  over  her  shovldera.] 
DoRa  Sol.  Heroani! 

IDoK  Carlos  pulis  his  hat  down 
on  his  fact,  and  hurries  toward 
her.] 
DoSa     Sol      \lettivg     her    Ump    /aU]. 
Heavens!   'T  is  not  his  footstep!       r^ 
[She  attempts  in  go  back,  but  Don 
Cartxis  runs  to  her  and  seitel 
her  by  the  arm  ] 
Don  Carlos.  Dofia  Soil 
DoSA  Sol.    'T  is  not  his  voicel    Oh,  ' 

misery! 
Don  Carlos.  What  voice 
Is  there  that  thou  could'et  hear  that  would 
be  more 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


3?« 

A  lover's?  It  is  still  a  lover  here, 
And  King  for  one. 

DofSA  Soi..  The  KingI 

Don  Cabloh.  Ah!  wish,  comnuod, 
A  kitigdopi  waits  thy  will;  for  he  whom 

Haat  vanquish  'd  is  the  King,  thy  lord  — 

't  is  Charles, 
T^  slftvel 
jDoSa  Sol  [trying  to  txape  from  him]. 
*       To    the    rescue  I     Help,    Hemsnit 

Help! 
Don  Carlos.  Thy  fear  is  maidenly,  and 
worthy  thee. 
'T  is  not  thy  bandit  —  't  is  thy  King  th»t 

holds 
Thee  now! 

DoRa  Sol.  Ah,  no.  The  bandit's  you. 
Are  you 
Not  'shajned?    The  blush  unto  my  own 

cbe«k  raountM 
For  you.    Are  theec  the  exploits  to  be 

Abroad?  A  woman  thus  at  night  to  seize! 
My  bandit's  worth  a  hundred  of  such 

I  do  declare,  if  man  were  bom  at  level 

Of  his  soul,  ajid  God  made  rank  propor- 

To  his  hef.rt,  he  would  be  king  and  prince, 

and  you 
The  robber  be  I 

Don    Carlos    [trying    to    entice    her]. 

Madam!  — 
Do.Sa  Sol.  Do  you  forget 
My  father  was  a  count? 

Dot*  Caelos.  And  you  I'll  make 
A  duchess! 

DoSa  Sol  [repuUing  him].    Cease!    All 
this  is  shameful;  —  gol 

[She  retrtal*  a  feir  steps.] 
Nothir^,  Don  Carlo*,  can  there  'twixt  us 

be. 
My  father  for  you  freely  shed  hia  blood. 
I  am  of  noble  birth,  and  heedful  ever 

(Df  my  name's  purity.   1  am  tot)  high 
To  be  your  concubine  —  too  low  to  be 
Your  wife. 
■>  Don  Carlos,   Princes! 

DoSa  Sol.  Carry  to  worthless  girls, 
King  Charles,  your  vile  addresses.   Or,  if 


You  treat  insultingly,  IT   now  you  well 
That  I'm  a  woman,  and  a  noble  dame. 
Don  Carlos.  Well,  then  but  come,  and 
you  shall  share  my  Ihrone, 
My  name  —  you  shall  be  Queen  and  Em- 

Dora  Sol,   No.  ■ 
It  is  a  snare.  Besides,  I  frankly  speak, 
Sinoe,  Highness,  it  concerns  you.    I  avow 
I  'd  rather  with  T.y  king,  Ilernani,  roam. 
An  outcast  from  ^e  world  and  from  the 

Know  thirst  and  hunger,  wandering  all  the 

Sharing  the  hardships  of  his  destiny  — 
Exile   and   warfare,    mourning  hours   of 

^han  be  on  Empress  with  an  Emperorl 
^i>ON  CAM/oa.  Oh,  happy  man  is  he! 
DofiA  Sol.  ^^1lat!  poor,  proscribed! 
Don    Carlos.     'Tis    well   with    hjro, 
though  poor,  proscribed  be  be. 
For  he's  beloved!^  an  angel  watches  him! 
I'm  de8olat«.  You  hate  me,  then? 

DoRa  Sol.  I  love 
You  not. 
Don  Carlos  [Minnj)ft«rinoIenUj/I.  Well, 
then,  it  matters  not  to  me 
Whether  you  love  me,  or  you  love  me  not! 
You  shall  (come  with  me  —  yea,  for  that 

my  bond's 
The  stronger,  and  I  will  it!  And  well  see 
If  I  for  nothing  am  the  King  of  Spam 
And  of  the  Indies!  ■: 

DoSa  Sol  [struggling].   Highness!   Pity 

You're  King,  you  only  have  to  choose 

.imong 
The  eountesses,  the  duchesses,  the  great 
Court  ladies,  all  have  love  prepared  to 

And  ansTs-er  yours;  but  what  has  my  pro- 
scribed 
Received    from    niggard    fortune?     You 

Castile  and  Aragon  —  Murcia  and  Won, 
Navarre,    and   still    ten   kingdoms   more. 

Flanders, 
And  India  with  the  mines  of  gold  you  own, 
An  empire  without  peer,  and  ail  so  vast 
That  ne'er  the  sun  sets  on  it.   And  when 


GooqIc 


(rh«  King,  have  all,  would  you  take  me, 
poor  girl, 
From  him  who  has  but  me  alone. 

[She  throws  kertelf  on  her  ifcTiew. 
Be  triet  to  draic  her  up.] 
Don  Carlos.  Come — ^  cornel 
[  ciumot  listen.    Come  with  me.  I'll  give 
Of  Sp&inafoarthpartuntothee.  Say, now, 
What  wot  tfaouT  Choose. 
DoSa  Sol  [tiruggling  in  hit  arms].  For 
mine  own  honor's  sake 
I  'U  only  from  Your  Highnem  take  this  dirk. 
[iSft«  snalchet  the  poniard  }nm  his 

Approach  me  now  but  by  a  step  I 

Don  Carlos.  The  beauty! 
I  wonder  not  she  loves  a  rebel  now. 

-     [He  maket  a  sIkji  toinards  her.  She 
__rai?et.afedirk.] 
DoSa  Sol.    Another  atep,' T  fiSII  yoii  ~ 
and  myself. 

[He  relr«ali  again.  She  turn*  and 

cries  Eoufly.] 

Hemanil  Oh,  Hernaail 

Don  Carlos.  Peace  I 

DoAa  Soil.  One  step, 

And  all  is  finished. 

Don  Caslob.  Madam,  to  extremes 
I'mdriven.  Yonder  there  1  have  three  men 
To  force  you  —  followere  of  mine. 
Hbrkani  [coming  mtddenjy  bekind  him]. 
But  one 
You  have  forgotten. 

[The  King  (uttu,  and  eeet  Hernani 

maiionle»»  behind  him  in  the 

ehade,  hit  arms  crossed  vnder  the 

long    cloak    which    it    wrapped 

round  him,  and  At  brim  of  hit 

hat  raited  up.   DoSa  Sol  makes 

an  exclamation  and  runt  to  him.] 

Hernani    [motionlets,    hit    arme    etiU 

eroeted,  ctnd  his  fiery  eya  fixed  on  lAe 

King].   Heaven  my  witness  is, 

That  far  from  here  it  was  I  wished  to  seek 

DoRaSol.  Hemanil  Save  me  from  him. 

Hernani.   My  dear  love, 
Fear  not. 

Don  Cablob.  Now,  what  could  all  my 
friends  in  town 
Be  doing,  thus  to  let  pass  by  the  chief 
Of  the  Bohemians^  Hoi  Monteieyl 


fANI 373 

HsBNANi.  Your  friends  are  in  the  hands 
of  mine  just  now, 
Bo  call  not  on  their  powerless  swords;  for 
three 

That  you  might  claim,  sixty  to  me  would 


Each  0 


worth  four  of  yours.   So  let  u 


Our  quarrel  terminate.    WhatI  You  bavo 

To  lay  a  hand  upon  tias  prW  It  was 
An  act  of  folly,  great  Castiliati  King, 
And  one  of  cowardice! 

Don  Caslos.   Sir  Bandit,  hold! 
There  must  be  no  reproach  from  you  to  mel 

Hernani.    He  jeers!    Oh,  I  am  not  a 
king;  but  when 
A  king  insults  me,  and  above  alt  jeers, 
My  anger  swells  and  surges  up,  and  Uf  ts 
Me  to  his  height.   Take  care!    WheD  I'm 

offended. 
Men  fear  far  more  the  reddening  of  my 

Than  helm  of  king.   Foolhardy,  therefore, 

you 
If  still  you're  lured  by  hope.    [Seitet  hit 

arm.]  Know  you  what  hand 
Now   grasps   you?     Listen.     "S^gati^fvai 

Xft^^g^who 


uJotiJ.. 


My  title  and  my  '"nl'h  bll°°  *'-^'"'  You 
i  hate.  And  the  same  woman  now  we  love. 
I  hate  —  hate  —  from  my  soul's  depths 

you  I  hate. 
Don  Carlos.  That 's  well. 
Hbrnani.   And  yet  this  night  my  hate 

wa-s  luli'd. 
Only  one  thought,  one  wish,  one  want  I 

had  — 
'T  was  Dofia  Sol!  And  I,  absorbed  in  love, 
Came  here  to  find  you  daring  against  her 
To  strive,  with  infamous  design!    You  — 

you, 
The  man   forgot  —  thus  in  my  pathw&y 

placed! 
I  tell  you,  King,  you  are  demented!   Ah! 
King  Charles,  now  see  you're  taken  in  the 

Laid  by  yourself:  and  neither  flight  nor 

help 
For  thee  ia  possible.  I  hold  thee  fast, 
Besieged,  alone,  suriounded  by  thy  foes. 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Bloodthinty  ones,  —  wtutt  wilt  thou  do? 
Don  Cablos  {proudly].  Dare  you 


My  vengeance  should  have  pl&y.    'T  is  I 

Muat   deal   with   thee.     Therefore  defend 

thyself.  [He  draws  hit  aword.] 

Don  Carlos.  I  am  your  lord,  the  King. 

Strike!  but  no  duel. 
HxBNANi.    Hiishnees,  thou  may'st  te- 
member  yerterd&y 
Thy  sword  enoountered  mine. 
Don  CAiUiOS.  I  yeeUrd&y 
Could  do  it.   I  your  name  knew  not,  and 

you 
Were  i|^rant  of  my  rank.  Not  so  to-day. 
You  know  who  I  am,  I  who  you  are  now. 
Hbrnani.  Perchance. 
DoNGARLOe.  Noduel.  You  can  murder. 

Do. 
HsRNANi.  Think  you  that  kings  to  roe 
are  sacred?  Come, 
Defend  thyself. 

Don  Carlos.  You  will  aafiMnnat« 
Me,tiMB? 

[Bbkhani  folia  back.    The  King 
looks  at  him  vitk  «afb  «yta.\ 
Ah,  bandits,  so  you  dare  to  think 
That  your  most  vile  brigades  may  safely 

Through  townfl  —  ye  btood-atained,  mur- 

derouB,  miscreant  crew  — 
But  that  you'll  play  at  magnanimity! 
Asif  we'd  deign  th'  ennobling  of  your  dirks 
By  touch  of  our  own  swords  —  we  victims 

No,   crime   enthralls   you  —  aft«r  you   it 

Duds  with  you!  Away!  and  murder  me. 
(Hbrnant,  morose  and  Ounightfvl, 
plays  for  Bomt  infants  tettk  the 
hilt  of  hi*  mord,  Oien  liimt 
aharply  toward  the  King  and 
maps  Oie  blade  on  the  pacement.] 
HUBNANI.  Go,  then. 

[The  King  haif  (uma  Unnard  him 
and  lookt  ai  him  haughtily.] 
We  shall  have  fitter 
Get  thee  away. 


Don  Cablob.    T  is  well.   I  go,  lir 
aoon 
Unto  the  ducal  palace.  I,  your  King, 
Will  then  employ  the  magistrate.  Is  there 
Yet  put  a  price  upon  your  head7 

HsBNAin.  Oh,  yes. 

Don  Carlos.  My  master,  from  this  day 
1  reckon  you 
A  rebel,  trait'rous  subject;  you  I  warn. 
I  will  pursue  you  everywhere,  and  make 
You  outlaw  from  my  kingdom. 

HSRNANi.  That  I  am 
Alnody. 

Don  Carlos.  That  is  well. 

HxRNANi.  But  Fruieo  is  near 
To  Spain.  There's  refuge  there. 

Don  Carlos.  But  I  shall  be 
The  Emperor  of  Germany,  and  ya» 
Under  the  Empire'sbaajh^lbe.^ 

MemaM.   Xh,  welir  ' 

I  still  shall  have  the  remnant  of  the  world, 
From  Vi^ch  to  brave  you  —  and   with 

havens  safe 
O'er  which  youll  have  no  powor. 

Don  Cablos.  But  when  I've  gain'd 
The  woridT 

Hbrnani.  Then  I  shall  have  the  grave. 

Don  Carloo.  Your  plots 
So  insolent  I  shall  know  how  to  thwart. 

Rernani.  Vengeance  is  lame,  and  comes 
with  logging  steps. 
But  still  it  comee. 

Don  Carlos  [wUh  a  half  laugh  of  dis- 
dain]. For  touch  of  lady  whom 
The  bandit  lovea! 

HmtNANi  \with  fiaihing  eye*].  Doet  thou 
remember.  King, 
I  hold  thee  stUlT  Make  me  not  recollect 

0  future  Roman  Ciesar,  that  despised 

1  have  thee  in  my  all  too  loyal  hand, ' 
And  that  I  only  need  to  close  it  now 
To  crush  the  egg  of  thy  Imperial  Ea|^el 

Don  Carlos.  Then  do  it. 
Hernani.   Get  away. 

]He  takei  o^  his  cloak,  and  lArow* 
Hon  the  shmMera  of  the  King] 
Go,  fly,  and  take 
This  clo^  to  shield  thee  from  some  knife 

I  fear 
Among  our  ranks, 

{The  King  wrapt,  ftimidf  in  the  doiA.]   AI 
pnsent  safely  go. 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


My  thwarted  vengeance  for  myKlf  I  keep. 
It  makes  'gainst  every  other  hand  thy  life 

DoK  Carum.   And  you  who've  Bpoken 
thus  to  me 
Ask  not  for  mercy  on  some  future  day. 

[Exit  Don  Caslos.] 
DoftA  Sol   [teinnn   Hernani's   handi. 

Now,  let  us  fly  —  be  quick. 
HimiANi.  It  well  becomes 
You,  loved  one,  in  the  trial  hour  to  prove 
\  Thus   strongr  imchnngeable,   and   willing 

To  tb'  end  and  depth  of  all  to  cling  to  lue; 
A  noble  wish,  worthy  a  faithful  aoull 
But  thou,  O  God,  dost  see  tiiat  to  accept 
The  joy  that  to  ray  cavern  she  woidd 

The  treasure  of  a  beauty  that  a  king 
Now  covets  —  and  that  DoBa  Sol  to  m< 
Should   all   belong  —  that  she  with 

should  'bide, 
And  all  our  lives  be  joined  —  that  this 

should  be 
Without  regret,  remorse  —  it  is  too  late. 
The  scaffold  is  too  near. 
DoRa  Sol    What  is't  you  sayT 
Hernani.   This  king,  whom  to  his  face 

just  now  I  braved. 
Will  punish  me  for  having  dared  to  show 
Him   mercy.     He  already,   perhaps,   has 

reached 

Hia  palace,  and  is  calling  round  h'Ti  guards 
And  servants,  hia  great  lords,  his  heads- 

DoBa  Sol.  Heavens! 
Hernani  1  Oh,  I  shudder.  Nevermind, 
Let  ua  be  quick  and  fly  together,  then. 

Hernaki.  Together!  No;  the  hour  has 
passed  for  that. 
Alaa!   When  to  my  eyes  thou  didst  reveal 
Thyself,  so  good  and  generous,  deigning 

To  love  me  with  a  helpful  love,  I  could 
But  offer  you  —  I,  wretched  onel  —  the 

hills. 
The  woods,   the   torrents,  bread  of  the 

proscribed. 
The  bed  of  turf,  all  that  the  forest  gives; 
Thy  pity  titea  emboldened  me  —  but  now 
To  ask  of  thee  to  share  the  scaffold!  No, 
No,  Dofia  Sol.  That  is  for  me  alooe. 


DoAa  Sol.  And  yet  you  promised  even 

that! 
Hbbhani  L/oUuitf  <m  kit  Imeesl  Angell 
At   this  same  moment,   when   perchance 

from  out 
The  shadow  Death  approaches,  to  wind 

up 
All  mournfully  a  life  of  mounifulness, 
1  do  declare  that  here  a  man  proscribed, 
Enduring  trouble  great,  profound,  —  sikd 
rock'd 
I  In  blood-stained  cradle,  —  black  as  is  the 
gloom 
Which  spreads  o'er  all  my  life,  I  still  de- 

I  ain  a  happy,  to-be-envied  man. 

For  you  have  loved  mc,  Hnd  your  love  have 

owned! 
For  you  have  whispered  bloasings  on  my 

Accursed! 

DoRa  Sol  [Uanmg  over  hia  bead].    Her- 

Hbrkani.  Praised  be  the  fate 
Sweet  and  propitious  that  for  mc  now  seta 
This  flower  upon  the  precipice's  brink! 
[Rotnn^  htnut^.]  'T  is  not  to  you  that  1 

am  speaking  thus; 
It  is  to  Heaven  that  hears,  and  unto  God. 

DofiA  Sol.  Let  me  go  with  you. 

Hbhnani.  Ah,  't  would  be  a  crime 
To  pluck  the  flower  while  falling  in  the 

Go:  I  have  breathed  the  perfume  — 'tis 

Remould  your  life,  by  me  so  sadly  marred 
This  old  man  wed;  't  is  I  release  you  noT» 
To  darkness  I  return.  Be  happy  thou  - 
Be  happy  and  foi^t. 

DoRa  Sol.   No,  I  will  have 
My  portion  of  thy  ahroud,  I  follow  thee. 
I  haug  upon  thy  steps. 

Hbrkani  \presging  her  in  hi*  armt].   Ob, 


let  n 


igo 


Alone!  Exiled  - 


proscribed  - 


a  fearful 


AmL 

[He   quiU   her   loilh   < 
tno»erneni,  and  it  goini/.] 
DoRa  Sol  [mournfully,  and  clasping  her 
hand»]     Hernani,  do  you  fly  from 
mel 


:.L|,i,zedi!,GoOQlc 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


HERrrANi  [reluming].   Well,  then,  DO,  i 
You  win  it,  and  I  stay. 
Behold  me  1   Come  into  my  amis.   IT!  wait 
Ah  long  as  tbou  wilt  have  me.    Let  us 

Forgetting  them.   [He  leatt  her  on  a  bsTieh.] 
Be  Beated  on  thie  atone. 

[He  pJoCEf  himaelf  at  her  feel.] 
The  liquid  light  of  your  eyee  inundate 
Mine  own.    Sing  me  aome  aoag,  such  as 

Bometimea 
You  used  at  eve  to  warble,  with  the  tears 
la  those  dark  orbs.  Jiet  us  be  happy  now, 
And  drink;  the  cup  is  full.   Thia  hour  lb 

OUTB, 

The  rest  is  only  folly.  Speak  and  say, 
Enrapture  me.  In  it  not  sweet  to  love, 
And  know  that  he  who  kneels  before  you 

loves? 
To  be  but  two  alone?  le  it  not  sweet 
To  speak  of  love  in  stillnetis  of  the  night 
When  Nature  rests?   Oh,  let  me  slumber 

And  on  thy  bosom  dream.  Oh,  Dofla  Sol, 
My  love,  my  darling! 

[Noiee  of  beOs  in  Out  dUlanee.] 
DoRa     Soi,     [ilarling     up    frighUned[. 
Tocsin!  —  dost  thou  hear? 
ThetocsinI 

Hernani  [sfiO  knteling  tU  her  /e«t].    Ehl 
No,  't  is  our  bridal  bell 
They're  ringing. 

[The    noiee    increases.      Confused 
cries.   Lights  at  oil  the  windows, 
on  the  roofs,  arui  in  the  sireels.] 
DoBaSol.  Rise  —  oh,  fly  —  great  God! 
the  town 
Lights  up! 
Kern  Am  Ihaif  rising].  A  torchlight  wed- 
ding for  us  't  isl 
DofTA  Sol.  The  nuptials  these  of  Death, 
and  of  the  tombs  I 

[Noite  of  siponh  and  eriea.] 
Hebnani  [tying  down  on  (Ae  stone  bench]. 

Let  us  t«  sleep  again. 
A  MouNTAiNEBB  [naking  in,  ttoord  in 
hand].  The  runners,  sir. 
The  alcaldes  rush  out  in  csvalcadefl 
With  mighty  force.    Be  quick  —  my  Cap- 
tain, —  quick.  PSCRNANI  rMes.J 
DoRa  Sol  [pale].  Ah,  thou  wert  right! 
The  Mountainxxb.  Oh,  help  iibI 


Hernani  [to  Mountaineer].  It  is  well  — 
I  'm  ready. 

[Confuted   cries   mittide.]     Death    to   the 
bandit! 
Hernani  Ito  Mountaineer].    Quick,  tliy 
sword  — 
jro  Doha  Sol].   Farewell! 

DofiA  Soi..    T  is  I  have  been  thy  ruin! 
Oh, 
Where  const  thou  go? 
[FointxTtgtolhelilUedoor.]  The  door  is  free. 

Escape  that  way, 

Hernani.  Heavenat  Desert  my  friends! 
What  dost  thou  say? 

DoSa  Sol.  Theee  clamors  terrify. 
Remember,  if  thou  diest  I  must  die. 

Ubbmani  {holding  her  in  kia  amt].    A 

DoflA  Sol.  Hemanil  Husband!  Master 

HxRNANt  [kissing  her  forehead^.  Alas!  it 

ia  the  first! 
DoSa  Sol.  Perchance  the  last! 

\Exii  Hernami.  She  faUs  on  th« 

bench.] 

ACT  in 

The  CasOe  of  Siim  in  the  midst  of  the 
tnounlains  of  Angon.  The  gallery  of  family 
portToiis  i4  iSilva;  a  greal  haU  of  which  these 
portraits  —  surrounded  teilh  rich  frames, 
and  surmounted  by  ducal  coronals  and  gilt 
escutcheons — form  the  deeoralion.  At  the 
back  a  lofty  Gothic  door.  Betvxen  the  por- 
traits complete  panoplies  of  armor  of  dif- 
ferent eerUuries.  TioSiiSo\.,  pale,  and  stand- 
ing near  a  t<Ale.  Don  Rur  Gomes  de 
SiLVA,  sealed  in  his  great  carved  oak  chair. 
Don  Ritt  Gomel   At  last  the  day  has 

come!  —  and  in  an  hour 
Thou 'It  be  my  ducbeas,  and  embrace  met 

Not 
Thine  uncle  then  1  But  hast  thou  pardoned 

me? 
That  I  was  wrong  I  own.    I  raised  thy 

I  made  thy  cheek  turn  pale.    I  was  too 

With  my  suspicions  —  should  have  stayed 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


Before  condemning;  but  appeuances 
Should  take  the  blame.    Unjust  we  were, 

Cortes 
The  two  young  handsome  men  were  thete.  ' 

But  then  — 
No  matter  —  well  I  know  that  I  should  not 
Hare  credited  my  eyea.  But,  my  poor  child, 
What  would  'at  thou  with  the  old? 

DoSa  Sol  [aerioudy,  and  without  monng]. 

You  ever  talk 
Of  this.  Who  is  there  blamee  you? 

Don  Rut  Goiifni:.  I  myself, 
I  should  have  known  that  such  a  soul  as 

NevK"  has  gallants;  when  't  is  Dofla  Sol, 
And  when  good  Spanish  blood  is  in  her 

DoRjv  Sol.   Truly,  my  Lord,  't  is  good 
and  pure;  perchance 
'T  will  soon  be  seen. 
Don    Rnr   Goubz    [riting,    and  going 
toward  her].   Now  list. .  One  camtot 
be 
The  master  of  himself,  so  much  in  love 
Aa  I  am  now  with  thee.  And  I  am  old 
I  And  jealous,  and  am  crosa  —  and  why? 

I  I'm   old;   because   the  beauty,   grace,   or 

I  Of  othera  frightens,  threatens  me.    Be- 

While  jealous  thus  of  others,  of  mynelf 
I  am  ashamed.  What  mockery!  that  this 

Which  to  the  heart  brings  back  mch  joy 

and  warmth, 
Should  halt,  and  but  rejuvenate  the  aoul. 
Forgetful  of  the  body.  When  I  see 
A  youthful  peasant,  singing  blithe  and  gay, 
In  the  green  meadows,  often  then  I  muse — 
I,  in  my  dismal  paths,  anil  murmur  low: 
Oh,  I  would  give  my  battlemente.d  towers. 
And  ancient  ducal  donjon,  and  my  fields 
Of   com,  and  all    my  forest    lauds,  and 

flocks 
So  vast  which  feed  upon  my  hills,  my  name 
And  all  my  ancient  titles  —  ruias  mine, 
And  ancestors  who  must  expect  me  soon, 
All  —  all  I  'd  give  tor  his  new  cot,  and  firow 
Unwrinkled.  For  his  hair  is  ravsr.  black, 
And  his  eyes  sbiiie  like  yours.   Beholding 


'Am 37? 

You  might  exclaim:  A  young  mim  thisi 

And  tJien 
Would  think  of  me  so  old.  I  know  it  weQ. 
I  am  named  Silva.  Ah,  but  that  is  not 
Enough;  I  say  it,  see  it.  Now  behold 
To  what  excess  I  love  thee.  All  I'd  give 
Could  I  be  like  thee  —  young  and  hand' 

Vain  dream !  that  I  were  young  again,  who 

By  long,  long  yeais  precede  thee  to  tha 

DoflA  Sol.  Who  knows? 
Don  Rdy  Gomez.  And  yet,  I  pray  you, 
me  brieve. 
The  frivolous  swains  have  not  so  much  at 

Within  their  hearts  as  on  their  tongues. 

A  girl 
May  love  and  trust  one;  if  she  dies  for  him, 
He  laughs.    The  strong-winged  and  gay- 
painted  birds. 
That  warble  sweet,  and  in  the  thicket  trill. 
Will  change  their  lovee  as  they  their  plum- 


age: 


loult. 


They  are  the  old,  with  voice  and  color  gone. 
And  beauty  fled,  who  have  the  resting 

wings 
We  love  the  best.  Our  steps  ai«  slow,  and 

Out  eyea.   Our  brows  are  furrowed,  —  but  i 
the  heart  ) 

Is  never  wrinkled.  When  an  old  man  loves 
He  should  be  spared.    The  heart  is  ever 

young. 
And  always  it  can  Ueed.  This  love  of  mine 
Is  not  a  plaything  made  of  glass  to  shaiie 
And  break.   It  is  a  love  severe  and  sure. 
Solid,  profound,  paternal,  —  strong  as  is 
The  oeJc  which  forms  my  ducal  chair.  See, 

How  well  I  love  thee  —  and  in  other  ways 
I  love  thee  —  hundred  other  ways,  e'en  as 
We   love    the   dawn,    and    flowers,    and 

heaven's  blue! 
To  see  thee,  mark  thf  graceful  step  each 

Thy  forehead  pure,  thy  brightly  beaming 

I'm  joyous  —  feeling  that  my  soul  will 

Perpetual  fesliTall 


378 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


DoRaSol.  Alaat 

DoM  Rut  Gomee.  And  then, 
Know  you  bow  much  the  woild  »HmiTMf, 

applauds, 
A  woman,  angel  pure,  and  like  a  dove, 
VMien  she  an  old  maa  comforU  and  con- 
As  he  is  tott'ring  to  the  marble  tomb. 
Passing  away  by  slow  d^reea  as  she 
Watches  and  shelters  him,  and  condeecends 
To  bear  with  him,  the  useless  one,  that 

But  fit  to  die?   It  is  a  sacred  work 
And  worthy  of  all  praise  —  efFort  supreme 
or  a  devoted  heart  to  comfort  him 
Unto  the  sad,  and  without  loving,  peritapa. 
To  act  as  if  she  loved.  Ah,  thou  to  me 
Wilt  be  this  angel  with  a  woman's  heart 
Who  will  rejoice  the  old  man's  soul  again 
And  share  his  latter  years,  and  by  respect 
A  daughter  be,  and  by  your  pity  lilce 
A  8ist«r  prove. 

DoRa  Sol.  Far  from  preceding  me, 
'T  is  likely  me  you'll  follow  to  the  grave. 
My  lord,  because  that  we  are  young  is  not 
A  reason  we  should  live.  Alssl  I  know 
And  tdl  you,  often  old  men  tarry  long, 
And  see  the  young  go  first,  their  eyea  shut 

fast 
By  sudden  stroke,  as  on  a  sepulcher 
That  BtiH  was  open  falls  the  closing  stone. 

Don  Rrr  Gomsz.  Oh.  cease,  my  child, 
such  saddening  discourse,  -   . 

Or  1  shall  acold  you.  Such  a  day  as  this 
Sacred  and  joyous  is.   And,  by-the-bye, 
Time  summons  us.  Are  you  not  ready  yet 
For  ehapel  when  we're  called?  Be  quick  to 

The  bridal  dress,  E^ach  moment  do  I  count. 

DoflA  Sol,  There  is  abundant  time. 

Don  Rut  Gomez.  Oh,  no,  there's  not. 
IBnter  a  Pafle.] 
What  want  you? 

The  Page.    At  the  door,  my  lord,  a 

A  pQgrim — beggar — or  I  know  not  what, 
Is  craving  here  a  abelter. 

Don  Rut  Gomez.  Let  him  in 
Whoever  he  may  be.   Good  enters  with 
The  stranger  that  we  welcome.    What 'a 
the  news 


Fr»m  th'  outaide  world?    What  of  the 

bandit  chief 
That  filled  our  forests  with  his  rdMd  band? 
The  Paqe.  Hunani,  Lion  of  the  moun- 

Is  done  for. 

DoRa  Sol  \aKiit\.   God! 
Don  Rut  Gomez  [lo  (Ac  Page],  How  00? 
The  Page.  The  troop's  destroyed. 
The  King  himself  has  led  the  aoldiera  on. 
Hemani's  head  a  thousand  crowns  is  worth 
Upon  the  vpnV,  but  now  he's  dead,  they 
aay. 
Dofta  Sol  |(wtd«).  What!  Without  me, 

Hemanit 

Don  Rut  Gouke.  And  thank  HeavenI 

So  he  is  dead,  the  rd>elt  Now,  dear  love. 

We  can  rejoice;  go  then  and  deck  thyself, 

My  pride,  my  darling.  Day  of  double  joy. 

DoRa  Sol,  Oh,  mourning  robesl 

[£zr<  DoRa  Sol.] 
Don  Ritt  Gomez  (to  Iht  five].    The 
casket  quickly  send 
That  I  'm  to  give  her. 

\H«  seat*  kvrroAj  in  hit  chair.] 
'T  is  my  longing  now 
To  see  her  all  adorned  Madonna  like. 
With  her  br^t  eyes,  and  aid  of  my  rich 

gems. 
She  will  be  beautiful  enough  to  make 
A  pilgrim  kneel  before  her.  As  for  him 
Who  asks  asylum,  bid  him  ent«r  here. 
Excuses  from  us  offer;  nin,  be  quick. 

[The  Page  bowa  and  ezit.j 

T  is  ill  to  keep  a  gueet  long  waiting  tbus- 

\The  door  at  the  back  opent.] 

[Hebnani  appeart  disguieed  at  a  Pilgrim. 
The  Duhe  ritee.  Hebnani   pauses  at 
the  ikrahdd  of  the  door.) 
Hebnani.   My  lord,  peace  and  all  hap- 
piness be  yours  I 
Don  Rut  Gouez  [aalMting  him  wiUi  Ata 
hand].    To  thee  be  peace  and  hap- 
pinese,  my  guest! 

[Hebnani  enters.    The  Duke  reetatt 
himtelf.] 
Art  thou  a  pilgrim? 
HEBNAin  [bowing].  Yes. 
Don  ICut  Gomez.  No  doubt  you  co<n« 
From  ArmiUaB? 


HXBMANt.  Not  BO.  t  hither  c&me 
By  other  road,  then  wm  BOme  fighting 

Don  Rdt  Qoioat.  Among  the  troop  of 

btuidits,  wu  it  not? 
HasNAin.  I  know  not. 
DoK  Rut  Gouee.    Whst's  become  of 
him  —  the  chief 
They  call  Henuuii?  Doat  thou  know? 

BxBNANi.  My  lord. 
Who  ia  this  man? 

Don  Rct  Goues.  Doet  thou  not  know 
him,  then? 
For  thee  so  much  the  worael  Thou  wilt  not 

gain 
The  good  round  mun.  See  you  a  rebel  he 
That  has  been  long  unpunished.  To  Madrid 
Should  you  be  going,  perhaps  you  11  see 
him  hanged. 
HxBNAin.   I  go  not  there. 
Don  Rut  Gouaz.    A  price  is  on  his 

For  any  man  who  takes  him. 

Hkrnani  (onde).  Let  one  come! 

Don  Rut  Gohke.    Whither,  good  pil- 
grim, goeat  thouT 

Heknani.  My  lord, 
I'm  bound  for  Saragoasa. 

Don  Rut  Gombc.  A  vow  made 
In  honor  of  a  saint,  or  of  Our  I^yT 

Hehnani.  Yes,  of  Our  Lady,  Duke. 

Don  Rut  Gombe.  Of  the  PillarT 

HxRKANi.  Of  the  Pillar. 

Don  Rut  Gomi:e.   We  must  be  soulless 
quite 
Not  to  acquit  us  of  the  vows  we  make 
Unto  the  saints.   But  thine  accomplished. 

Hast  thou  not  other  purposes  in  view? 
Or  is  to  see  the  Pillar  all  you  wiab? 

HsBNAHi.   Yea.    I  would  see  the  lighta 
and  candles  bum, 
And  at  the  end  of  the  <lirn  corridor 
Our  Lady  in  her  glowing  ahrine,  with  cope 
AU  golden  —  then  would  satisfied  retuni. 

Don  Rut  Gohbz.   Indeed,  that's  well. 
Brother,  what  is  thy  nameT 
Mine,  Ruy  de  Silva  ia. 

Rkks Aiti  [hentoHng].  My  name  — 

Don  Rut  Gouke.  You  can 
Cooceal  it  if  you  will.  None  here  has  right 
To  know  it  Cam'rt  thou  to  aqdum  ask? 


ATO J79 

Hbbnani.  Yea,  Duke. 
Don  Rut  Goim.    Remain,  and  know 
thou'rt  welcome  here. 
For  nothing  want;  and  as  for  what  tlkou'rt 

named. 
But  call  thyself  my  guest.  It  ia  enough 
Whoever  thou  may'st  be.  Without  demur 
I'd  take  in  Satan  if  God  sent  him  me. 

[The  folding  doort  at  the  back  open.] 

[Enter  DoRa  Sol  in  nuptial  aUire.    Btkini 

her  Paget  and  LaekeyM,  and  (uw  teomen 

earrying  on  a  vdoet  aukion  a  auhet  of 

tngraetd  tiher,  which  they  jAaee  upon 

a   table,  and   vihieh   eonbdnM   a  jewel 

ease,  with  dveheu'  coronet,   neefUacet 

hracdele,  pearl*,  onJ  diamond*  in  pro- 

/uMon.  Hbrnani,  brealMeu  and  tcared, 

looks  at  DoRa  Sol  wiA  flamirig  ei/t* 

without  liitening  la  the  Duke.] 

Don  Rut  Gomz  [amtinmng].   Behold 

my  blessed  I^dy  —  to  have  prayed 

To  her  will  bring  thee  happineas.   ' 

[He  offere  his  hand  to  DoAa  Sol, 
«(iU  ptj4  and  groM.] 
Come,  then. 

My  bride.    What!  not  thy  eoronet,  nor 
ring! 
Hbrnani  [in  a  voice  t^  thwtder].    Who 
wishes    now    a    thousand    golden 

To  win? 

[AU  turn  to  him  aitoniehed.  He 
lean  off  hie  pUgrint'e  robe,  and 
eruehee  it  wider  hie  feet,  reveal- 
ing himedf  in  the  dreei  of  a 
mowilaineer.] 
I  am  Hemani. 

DoSa  Sol  [jonfnUy].  HeavensI  Oh, 
He  Uveal 
Hbknani  [to  the  Laekeys].  Seel  I'm  Ute 
man  tbey  seek. 
[To  the  Duke.]  You  Wished 
To  know  my  name  —  Diego  or  Pereaf 
No,  nol   I  have  a  grander  name  —  Her- 

Name  of  the  banished,  the  proscribed.  See 

This  head?  T  is  worth  enough  of  gold  to 

pay 
For  festival. 
[To  At  Ladeeye.]  I  pre  it  to  you  all. 


38b 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Tak»;  tie  my  hands,  my  feet.  But  there's 

no  need, 
"nx  diain  that  binds  me's  one  I  shall  not 
break. 
DoAa  Sol  [aaid«].  Oh,  misery! 
DoK  Rut  QousE.  Follyl  Thiamygueet 

A  lunaticl 
Hbrnami.  Your  guest  a  bandit  is. 
DoftA  Sol.  Ob,  do  not  heed  him. 
Hbknani.  What  I  say  is  truth. 
Don  Ri;r  Goubx.    A  thousand  golden 
crowns  —  the  sum  is  large. 
And,  sir,  I  will  not  answer  now  for  all 
My  people. 
Hernani.    And  so  much   the  better, 
should 
A  wiUing  one  be  found. 
ITo  Ou  Ladieys.]   Now  seize,  and  sell  met 
Don  Rot  Govbz  [trying  to  Hlence  him]. 
Be  quiet,  or  they  'U  take  you  at 
your  word. 
Hernani.   Friends,  this  your  opportun- 
ity ia  good. 
I  tell  you,  I'm  the  rebel  —  the  proscribed 
Hemanil 
Don  Rut  Goui:z.  Silence! 
HssNANi.  I  am  hel 
DoRa  Sol  [in  a  loin  txriee  to  him].  Be 

still! 
HfiRNANi  {ht^  UtrniTtg  to  DoRa  Sol). 
There's  marrying  here!  My  si>ouBe 
awaits  me  too. 
[To  the  Duke.]   She  ia  leaa  beautiful,  my 

lord,  than  yours. 
But  not  leas  faithful.  She  is  Death. 
[To  the  Lackeys.]  Not  one 
Of  you  has  yet  come  forth! 

DoDa  Sol.  [in  a  low  vtnce].    For  pity's 

sake! 
Hernani  [to  the  Laekeya].    A  thousand 

golden  crowns.  Hernani  herel 

Don  Rut  Goiiibz.  This  is  the  demon! 

Hkknani  [to  a  young  Laekey]-    Come! 

thou  'It  earn  this  sum, 

Then  rich,  thou  wilt  from  lackey  change 

again 
Toman. 
[To  the  other  Laekeyt,  who  do  not  stir.]  And 

also  you  —  you  waver.  Ah, 
Have  I  not  misery  enough? 
Don  Rut  Qouxi.  My  friend, 


To  touch  thy  life  they'd  peril  eanh  his 


An  Empire  offered  for  his  life  —  against 
The  King  himself;  for  thee  I  hold  from 

God. 
If  hair  of  thine  be  injured,  may  I  die. 
[To  DoRa  Sol.)  My  niece,  who  in  an  hour 

will  be  my  wife, 
Go  to  your  room.  I  am  about  to  arm 
The  Castle  —  shut  the  gates. 

[Emi,  foUou'ed  by  tertiantt.] 
HiiBNANi    [looking   with   despair   at   Ail 
empty  jirdle].  Not  e'en  a  Icnifel 
[DoRa  Sol,  nfler  the  departure  t^ 
the  Duke,  takee  a  few  »Up»,  a*  ^ 
tofoUnw  her  taomen,  then  pautei, 
and  when  they  are  gone,  eomtt 
back  lo  Hernani  toilh  anxiety. 
Hernani   lookt  at   the  nuptial 
jewel-caee  with  a  cold  and  appar- 
en&y  indifferent   gaae;   then  he 
toeaea  back  hit  head,  and  hit 
eyee  light  up.] 
Accept  my  'gratulationsi   Words  tell  not 
How  I'm  enchanted  by  these  ornaments. 
{He  approachet  the  eaeket.] 
This  ring  is  in  fiike  taste,  —  the  coronet 
I  like,  ~  ihe  necklace  shows  surpassing 

akiU. 
The  bracelet's  rare  —  but  oh,  a  hundred 

Less  BO  than  she,  who  'neath  a  forehead 


{Examining  the  caiket  again.] 
What  for  all  this 
Have  you  now  given?  Of  your  love  some 

But  that  for  nothing  goes!  Great  God!  to 

Deceive,  and  still  to  live  and  have  no 
shame!  [LookiTig  at  the  jewels.] 

But  after  all,  perchance,  tliis  pearl  is  false. 

And  copper  stands  for  gold,  and  glass  and 
lead 

Make   out   eham    diamonds  —  pretended 

Are  thrae  false  sapphires  uid  false  jewsia 


aU? 


:.L|,i,zedi!,GoOQlc 


383 


If  BO,  thy  heart  is  like  them,  Duchees  faiae, 
Hyself  but  only  gilded.     [He   retuma  U> 

(Ae  easka.\    Yet  no,  not 
Hey  all  are  real,  beautiful,  and  good, 
He  daree  not  cheat,  who  atanda  ao  near  the 

Nothing  iB  wanting. 

[He  lake*  up  one  thing  aSter  anolher.'i 
llecklacea  are  here, 
And  brilliant  earringa,  and  the  Ducheea' 

And   golden   ring.    Oh,   marvel!     Many 

thanka 
For  love  so  certain,  faiUifuLandjiiofound. 
The  preciouB  box! 
DoRa  Sol  '^ovng  to  the  ca»kel,  feeling  in  it, 

and  dramng  forth  a  dagger].    You 

have  not  reached  its  depths. 
This  is  the  dagger  which,  by  Idndly  aid 
Of  patron  aaiut,  I  matched  from  Charles 

the  King 
When  he  made  offer  to  me  of  a  throne, 
Which  I  refused  for  you,  who  now  iiuiult 

Hbrnani  (/otitn;  at  herfeei].  Oh,  let  me 
on  my  kneee  arr«et  thoae  tears. 
The  tears  that  beautify  thy  sorrowing  eyes. 
Then  after  thou  canst  freely  take  my  life. 
DoRa  Sol.  I  pardon  you,  Hemani.  In 
my  heart 
There  ia  but  love  for  you. 

Hebnani.   And  she  fo^vea  — 
And  lovea  me  still!  But  who  can  also  teach 
■  Me  to  forgive  myself,  that  I  have  uaed 
Such  words?   Angel,  for  heaven  reserved, 

say  where 
You  trod,  that  I  may  kise  tJie  ground. 
DoftA  Sol.  My  love! 
HzRNAFn.   Oh,  DO,  I  should  to  thee -he 
odious. 
But  listen.   Say  again  —  I  love  thee  still! 
Say  it,  and  reassure  a  heart  that  doubta. 
Say  it,  for  often  with  such  little  words 
A  woman's  tongue  hath  cured  a  worid  of 
woea. 
DoAa  Sol  [abaorbed,  and  without  hear- 
ing kim].    To  think  my  love  had 
such  short  memory  I 
That  all  these  so  ignoble  men  could  shrink 
A  heart,  where  his  name  was  enthroned,  to 

Bjr  them  thought  worthier. 


Blaspi 


Lraifling  on  my  path 
^^jds:  murd'rers  I 


iflyself 


Be  wear> 
Can  only  , 
I'd  bid  him 
And  I  wUI  b 

good 
And  aweet.    Tt 

endured, 

For  I  am  evil;  I  si  .^ilcen  still 

Thy  days  with  my  a_- .  nights.  At  last  it  is 
Too  much;  thy  soul  is  lofty,  beautiful, 
And  pure;  if  I  am  evil,  ia't  thy  fault? 
Marry  the  eld  Duke,  then,  for  he  is  good 
And  noble.  By  the  mother'a  side  he  has 
Olm^do,  by  his  father'a  Alcola. 
With  him  be  rich  and  happy  by  one  act. 
Know  you  not  what  this  generous  hand  of 

Can  offer  thee  of  splendor?  Ah,  alone 
A  dowry  of  misfortune,  and  the  choice 
Of  blood  or  tears.  Exile,  captivity 
And  death,  and  terrors  that  environ  me. 
These  are  thy  necklaces  and  jeweled  crown. 
Never  elated  bridegroom  to  his  bride 
Offered  a  casket  filled  more  lavishly. 
But 't  is  with  misery  and  moumfulneaa. 
Marry   the   old  man  —  be   deserves  thee 

well! 
Ah,  who  could  ever  think  my  head  pro- 
scribed 
Fit  mat«  for  forehead  pure?  What  looker-on 
That  saw  thee  calm  and  beautiful,  me  rash 
And  violent  —  thee  peaceful,  like  a  flower 
Growing  in  shelter,  me  by  tempests  dash'd 
On  rocks  unnumber'd  —  who  could  dare 

toaay 
That  the  some  law  should  ^ide  our  des- 
tinies? 
No,  God,  who  ruleth  all  things  well,  did 

Moke  thee  for  me.   No  right  from  Heav'n 

Have  I  to  thee;  and  I'm  resigned  to  fate. 
I  have  thy  heart;  it  is  a  theftl  I  now 
Unto  a  worthier  yield  it.  Never  yet 
Upon  our  love  has  Heaven  smiled;  'til 

false 
If  I  have  said  thy  destiny  it  was. 
To  vengeance  and  to  love  I  bid  adieu) 
My  life  is  ending;  useless  I  wiU  go. 


38b 


:H;y<Ei 


ch;f^^european  dramatists 


e  my  .double  dieam, 
Tnot  punish,  nor  oould 

1  for  hate,  who  only 
■^wished 
'^  love.    Forgive  and  fly  me,  these  my 

prayem 
Rejectthemnot,  sinoethey  willbe  mylait. 
Thou  livert — I  am  dead.    I  boo  not  why 
Thou  Bhould'st  immure  thee  in  my  tomb. 
DoRa  Sol.  Ingratel 
HuBNANi.    Mountatna  of  old  Aragont 
Galicial 
Estremadutal  Unto  ail  who  come 
Around  me  I  bring  miaeiyl 
The  best,  without  romorae  I've  t*'en  to 

fight. 
And  now  behtdd  them  dead!  The  bravest 

Of  all  Spain's  eons,  lie,  soldier-like,  upon 
The  hiils,  their  badca  to  earth,  the  living 

God 
Before;  and  if  their  eyes  could  ope  they'd 

look 
On  beawa's  blue.  See  what  I  do  to  oU 
Who  join  me)  Is  it  fortune  any  one 
Sboidd  covet?    DolLa  Sol,  oht  take  the 

Duke, 
Take  hell,  or  take  the  King  —  all  would  be 

AU  must  be  bettor  than  myself,  I  say. 
No  longer  have  I  friend  to  think  of  me, 
And  it  is  fully  time  that  thy  turn  comes, 
For  I  must  be  alone.  Fly  from  me,  then. 
From  my  contagion.    Make  not  faithful 

A  du^  of  religion  I  Fly  from  me, 

For  pity's  aalce.   Thou  think'st  me,  per* 

Like  oth^,  one  with  sense,  who  knows  the 

end 
At  vhich  be  aims,  and  acta  accordingly. 
Oh,  undeceive  thyself.  I  am  a  force 
TTiat  cannot  be  resisted  —  agent  blind 
Anddeaf  of  mournful  mj^steriesl  A  soul 
Of  misery  made  of  ^oom.  Where  shall  I 

go? 
I  cannot  toll.  But  I  am  urged,  compelled 
By  an  impetuous  breath  and  wild  decree; 
I  fall,  and  fall,  and  cannot  stop  deaoent. 
If  sometimes  breatblesB  I  dim  turs  my 

bead, 


A  voice  cries  out,  "Go  onl"  and  the  abyM 
la  deep,  and  to  tjie  deptha  I  see  it  red 
With  flame  or  bloodi   Around  my  fearful 

oourae 
All  things  break  up  —  all  die.   Woe  be  to 

Who  touch  me.    Fly,  I  aayl    Turn  tboe 

From  my  so  fatal  path.  Alaa!  without 
Intending  I  should  do  thee  ill. 

DoSa  Sol.  Great  God! 

HXRNAMI.    iXjV  demnp  ip  ^  fnrmiH»Hii 

*^Wfi  ■"■[■oaaible  to  it  — 
I.   "or  tbee  is  hanpiness. 
Therefore,  go  seek  another  lord,  for  thou 
Art  not  for  me.   If  Heaven,  that  my  fato 
Abjures,  should  wnile  on  me,  believe  it  not: 
It  would  be  irony.  Marry  the  Dukel 
DofiA  Sol.    'T  was  not  enough  to  tear 
my  heart,  but  you 
Must  break  it  nowl  Ah  mel  no  longer,  then 
You  love  mel 

Hkbmani.  Oh!  my  heart  —  tta  very  life 
Thou  arti  The  glowing  hearth  whence  aU 

warmth  comes 
Art  thoul  Wilt  thou,  then,  blame  me  that 

1% 

Ftora  tbee,  adored  one? 

DoflA  Sol.  No,  I  blame  thee  not. 
Only  I  know  that  I  shall  die  of  it. 
HxKNAHi.  Diel  And  for  what?  For  m«? 
Can  it  then  be 
That  thou  should'st  die  for  cause  so  small? 
DoSa  Sol  [burttins  into  (eori].  Enough. 
[She  faU»  into  a  chair.] 
HXBSAm  lualins  him»^  fmar  htr].  And 
thou  art  weeping;  and  't  is  stiU  my 
^       fault! 

And  who  will  punish  me?  for  thou  I  know 
Wilt  pardon  stilll  Who,  who  can  tell  thee 

half 
The  anguish  that  I  suffer  when  a  tear 
Of  thine  obscures  and  drowns  those  radiant 

eyes 
Whose  lustor  is  my  joy.    My  friends  tn 

deadi 
Oh,  I  am  erased  —  forgive  me  —  I  would 

I  know  not  how.  Alaal  I  lova  with  love 
Profound.    Weap  not  —  tk»  rather  ki  n 


dial 


:.L|,i,zedi!,G0OQlc 


Oh  that  I  h&d  a  world  to  giv«  to  thee! 
Oh,  WTetche4,  miserable  man  I  am! 

DoftA  Sol  [throwing  lurtelf  em  hi*  ntek]. 
You   are    my  lion,   generDUs  and 
superb! 
I  love  you. 

Hhbnani.  Ah,  this  love  would  be  a  good 
Supreme,  if  we  could  die  of  too  much  love! 
DofiA  Sol.    Thou  art  my  lord!   I  love 
thee  and  belong 
To  theel 

Hernani  [letlinn  hit  head  faU  an  her 
thmihUr],    How  sweet  would  be  a 
poniard  stroke 
From  theel 
Dona  Sol  [enirealingly].    Fear  you  not 
God  will  punish  you 
For  words  like  theaeT 

HebNANI  \BtUl  leaning  on  her  ihrmtder]. 
Well,  then,  let  Him  unite  usi 
I  have  resisted;  thou  would'st  have  it  thus. 
[While  thej/itre  in  each  other!  M  ormt, 


at  each  other,  Don  Rdt  Gohbc 

enters  &v  the  door  at  the  baek  qf 
the  stage.    Ht  eeee  them,  arul 
alopi    on    the    threihM    at    if 
petrified.] 
Don    Rut    Gomez    [motionleu   on   the 
Areehold,   with  armt  croBeai\.    And 
this  is  the  requital  that  I  find 
Of  boin''t»l''y! 

Doff  A  Sol,   Oh,  Heavens  —  the  Duke! 
[Both  tvfn  as  if  aiBokening  with  a 
etart.] 
Don  Ritt  Goues  Istill  motionleet].  This 
then's  the  rooompense  from  thee, 
my  i^uest? 
Good  Duke,  go  aee  if  all  thy  walls  be  tJ^, 
And  if  the  door  is  closed,  and  archer  placed 
Within  his  tower,  and  go  the  castle  round 
Thyself  for  us;  aeek  in  thine  arsenal 
For  armor  that  will  fit  —  at  sixty  years 
Resume  thy  battle-hamess  —  and  then  8^ 
The  loyalty  with  which  we  will  repay 
Such  service!  Thou  for  us  do  thus,  and  we 
Do  this  for  thee!    Oh,  blessed  saints  of 

Heaven! 
Past  sixty  years  I  've  Uved,  and  met  some- 
times 
Unbridled  soulsi  ftnd  oft  my  dirk  h&ve 
drawn 


FANI  383 

Prom  out  ita  scabbard,  raising  on  my  path 
The  hangman's  game  birds:  murd'rers  1 

hav^aeer. 
And  eotnere,  traitorous  vaHets  poieoninfc 
Their  niasten;   and  I've  seen  men  dio 

without 
A  prayer,  or  sight  of  crucifix.   I  've  Been 
Sforz"  nnd  Borgia;  Luther  still  I  B<<e. 
But  never  have  I  known  perversity 
So  great  thLit  feared  not  thunderbolt,  its 

Betraying!   'T  was  not  of  my  age  —  such 

foul 
Black  treason,  that  at  once  could  prtriry 
An  old  man  on  the  threshold  of  his  do<ir, 
And   make   the   master,   waiting   for   hia 

grave, 
Look  like  his  statue  ready  for  his  tomb. 
MooFH  and  Caatilians!  Tell  me,  who's  this 

[He  raise*  Ait  eye»  arid  li-nka 
round  on  the  portraita  on  the 
tioU.] 
Oh,  you,  the  Silvas  who  can  hear  mc  now, 
Forgive  if,  in  your  presence  by  my  wrath 
Thus  Btirr'd,  I  say  that  ho^tality 
Was  ill  advised. 

Hernani  [ririnp!.   Duke  — 
Don  Rut  Gomez.   Silence! 

[He  makee  three  stepe  into  the  hall 
looking  at   the   pcrrtraiin   0/  the 

SlLVAS.l 

Sacred  dead! 

My  ancestors!  Ye  men  of  steel,  who  know 

What  springs  from  heav'n  or  hell,  reveal, 

Isay, 
Who  is  this  man?  No,  not  Hemani  he, 
But  Judas  is  his  name  —  oh,  try  to  speak 
And  tell  me  who  he  is! 
[CroetiTtg  his  arms,]  In  all  your  days 
Saw  you  aught  like  him?  No. 

Hkrnani.  My  lord  — 

Don  Rcy  Gomez  {still  addresHng  the 
portraitt].   See  you 
The  shameless  miscreant?  He  would  epeak 


That  he  foresaw  that  in  the  tempest  wild 
Of  my  great  wrath  I  brooded  o'«r  some 
d««d 


ElilizedbvGoOQlc 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Of  gory  vengeance  shameful  to  my  roof. 
A  sister  deed  to  that  they  call  the  feast 
Of  Seven  Heads.   He'll  t^  you  be 'a  pro- 

Bcribed, 
He'll  teU  you  that  of  Silva  they  will  tAlk 
E'en  as  of  Lara,   Afterwards  he'll  say 
He  is  my  guest  and  yours.    My  lords,  my 

Is  the  fault  mine?  Judge  you  between  us 

Hebnani.    Ruy  Gomes  de  Silva,  if  ever 

The  heavens  clear  a  noble  brow  was  raised, 
If  ever  heart  was  great  and  soul  was  high, 
Youra  are,  my  lord;  and  oh,  my  noble  host, 
I.whonowapeoktoyou,  atone  have  sinn'd. 
Guilty  moBt  damnably  am  I,  without 
Extenuatii^  word  to  say.  I  would 
Have  carried  off  thy  bride  —  dishonor 'd 

thee. 
T  was  infamous.   I  live;  but  now  my  life 
I  offer  unto  thee.  Take  it.  Thy  sword 
Then  wipe,  and  think  no  more  about  the 
deed. 
DoDa  Sol.  My  lord,  't  was  not  his  fault 

—  strike  only  me. 
Hernani.    Be  silent,  Dofia  Sol.    This 
hour  supreme 
Belongs  alone  to  me;  nothing  I  have 
But  it.  Let  me  explain  things  ta  the  Duke, 
^h,  Duke,  believe  the  last  worde  from  my 

mouth, 
I  swear  that  I  alone  am  guilty.   But 
Be  calm  and  rest  assured  that  she  is  pure, 
That's  all.    I  guilty  and  she  pure.    Have 

faith 
In  her.  A  sword  or  dagger  thrust  for  me. 
Thenthrowmybodyout  of  doors,  and  have 
The  flooring  washed,  if  yoiT  should  will  it  so. 
What  matter? 

DoSa  Sol.   Ah!  I  only  am  the  cause 
Of  all;  because  I  love  him. 

IDoN  Rut  lurna  round  tremblinii 
ai  ihsse  ujordg,  and  fixes  on  DoRa 
Soi.  a  UrrAU  look.   She  throws 
herstif  ai  Ate  feet.] 
Pardon!  Yes, 
My  lord,  I  love  him! 
Don  RtJT  Gouj:z.  Love  him  —  you  love 

[To  Hkrnani.]  Trranblel   [Noite  nf  (rum- 

pett  outside.] 


[Enier  a  Page.] 
What  is  this  noise? 

The  Page.  It  is  the  King, 
My  lord,  in  person,  with  a  band  complete       I 
Of  archers,  and  his  herald,  who  now  sounds 
Dora  Sol.  Oh,  GodI  This  last  fatality 

—  the  King!  | 

The  Paqe  [to  1A«  Dake].    He  aaks  the 
reason  why  the  door  is  closed. 
And  order  gives  to  open  it. 
Don  Rl'y  Gomee,  Admit 
The  King.  [The  Page  bows  and  exit.] 

DoSa  Sol.   He's  lost! 

{Don  Rut  Gomez  goet  to  one  of 
the   portraiU  —  that   of  himeelf 
and  the  last  on  the  left;  ht  prttaet 
a  spring,  and  the  porlrail  openx 
out  like  a  door,  and  reBtaU  a 
hiding-ptaai   in    the   wait.     He 
tume  to  Hebnani.] 
Don  Rut  Gouee.  Come  hither,  etr. 
Hernani.  My  life 
To  thee  is  forfeit;  and  to  yield  it  up 
I'm  ready.  I  thy  prisoner  am. 

[He  enters  the  recess.    DoN  Rut 
again  prestet  the  tpring,  and 
the  portrait  springs  back  to  its 
place  looking  as  before.] 
DoftA  Sol.  My  lord, 
Have  pity  on  him! 
The  Page  [entering].   His  Highness  the 
Kingl 

[DoRa   Sol  kicrriedly  loweri  her 
veil.   The  folding-doors  open.'^ 
[Enter  Don  Caklob  in  mililary  attire,  fol- 
lowed by  a  crowd  of  gentlemen  equaUy 
armed  with  halberds,  argvefrusea,  and        I 
erogi-bov>s.     Don    Carlos    advance* 
s]owly,  hie  left  hand  on  (he  hilt  of  his 
sword,  his  right  hand  tn  his  bosom,  and 
looking  at  Die  Duke  with  anger  and  de- 
fiance.   The  Duke  goes  before  the  King 
arid  bows  Una.  Silence.  Expectation  and 
terror  on  ait.   At  last  the  King,  coming 
opposite  the  Duke,  throws  back  his  head 
haughtily.  ] 
Don  Carlos.   How  comes  it,  then,  my 
cousin,  that  to-day 
Ity  door  is  strongly  barr'd?    By  all  the 
saints 


:.L|,i,zedi!,GoOQlc 


I  thcugh.  your  dagger  bad  more  nisty 

And  itnow  not  why,  when  I'm  your  visitor. 
It  should  so  haste  to  brightly  shine  again 
All  ready  to  your  liand. 

(Don    Rttt    Goube    alUmpU    to 

speak,  but  Uu  King  coniimiet 

■  with  an  imperious  getture.] 

Late  in  the  day 

It  is  for  you  to  play  the  young  man 'a  parti 

Do  we  come  turban'dT   Tell  me,  are  we 

named 
Boabdil  or  Mahomet,  and  not  Cbariea, 
That  the  portcullis  'gainst  us  you  should 

And  raise  the  drawbridgeT 
Don  Rut  Gohsz  [bowing].  Highneai 
DoM  Cablob  [to  Am  genUemtn],  Take  the 
keys 
And  guard  the  doors. 

|Tu»  offieen  exeunt.  Sevend  olAert 
arrange  the  aoldUra  in  a  tripU 
line  tn  the  ball  from  the  King  I 
the  principal  door.  DonCablos 
jurrw  OiKitn  to  lite  Dvkt^ 
Ah  I  you  would  wake  to  life 
Again  these  crushed  rebellions.    By  my 

fait^, 
If  you,  ye  dukes,  assume  such  airs  as  these 
The  lUng  himself  will  play  hie  kbgly  part, 
Traverse  the  mountains  in  a  warlike  mode. 
And  in  their  battlemented  nests  will  slay 
The  lordlings! 

Don  Rttt  Goukz  [drawing  himtdf  up]. 
Ever  have  the  Silvas  been, 
Your  HigbnesH,  loyal. 

Don  Carlos  [interrupting  him].    Witii- 
out  subterfuge 
Reply,  or  to  the  ground  I'U  rase  thy  towers 
Eleven  1  Of  extinguished  fire  remains 
One  spark  —  of  brigands  dead  the  chief 


I  sayl 


And  who  conceals  him?  It  is  thou, 

Hemani,  rebel  ringleader,  is  here. 

And  in  thy  castle  thou  dost  hide  him 

Don  Rut  Goukz.   Highness,  it  is  quite 

DoH  Caklos.  Well,  then,  his  head 
I  want  —  or  if  not,  thine.    Dost  under- 
stand, 
My  oouaint 


fANI  jg5 

Don  Rut  Gouse.  Wdl,  then,  be  it  so. 
YoushaU 
Be  satisfied. 

[DoRa  Sol  hide*  her  face  in  her 
haitdi  and  sinks  into  tlie  arm- 

Don  Cablos  [a  little  goflened].   Ah!  you 
repent.  Go  seek 
Your  prisoner.  ^.s^^ 

[The  Duke  croaie*  hie  amu,  lowers 
hie    head,    and   remaint    gome 
moments  pondering.    The  King 
and  DofiA  Sol,  affilaied  by  con- 
trary emoHom,  observe  him  in 
sHenee.  At  last  the  Duke  lookM  up, 
goes  to  the  King,  takes  kis  hand, 
and  leads  him  with  slow  steps 
toward  the  oldest  of  the  portraite, 
which  is  where  the  gallery  com- 
mences to  the  right  oj  the  spec- 
tator.] 
Don  Rin*  Goube  [pointing  out  the  old 
portrait  to  the  Kirtg].    This  is  the 
eldest  one, 
l^ie  great  forefather  of  the  Silva  race, 
Don  Silvius  our  ancestor,  three  times 
Was  he  made  Roman  consul. 
[Passing  to  the  next  portrait.]   This  is  he  — _ 
Don  Galcerao  de  Silva  —  other  CidI 
They  keep  liis  body  stiU  at  Toro,  near 
Valladolid;  a  thousand  candles  bum 
Before  his  gilded  shrine.    'T  was  he  who 

freed 
Leon  from  tribute  o'  the  hundred  virgins. 
[Ptuting  to  another.]   Don  Bias  —  who,  in 

contrition  for  the  fault 
Of  having  iU-advised  the  king,  exiled 
Himsdf  (^  his  own  will. 
[To  another.]  This  Christovall 
At  fight  of  Escalon,  when  fled  on  foot 
The  King  Don  Sancho,  whose  white  plume 

For  genera]  deadly  aim,  he  cried  aloud, 

Oh,  Christovall   And  Chriatoval  assumed 

The  plume,  and  gave  his  horse. 

[To  another.]  This  is  Don  Jorge, 

Who  paid  the  ransom  of  Ramire,  the  King 

Of  Aragon. 
Don  Cablos  [cromTtg  his  arms  and  look- 
ing at  him  from  head  to  foot].    By 
Heavens,  Uow,  Don  Ruyi 

I  marvd  at  youl  Butfo  on. 


38« 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Don  Rut  Gouee.  Next  aomM 
Don  Ruy  Gomec  Silva;  he  was  made 
Grand  Master  o!  6t.  Jamw,  and  Colatrava. 
Hia  giant  armor  would  not  suit  our  heights. 
He  took  three  hundred  flage  from  (oea,  and 

In  thirty  battles.  For  the  King  Mobil 
Ho  conquer'd  Ant«<iuera,  Suok, 
Nijar;  and  died  in  poverty.   Highness, 
Salute  him. 

[He  bow»,  xmeovert,  and  patteB  to 
onothtT    porbvit.     The    King 
litlmt    impaHend}/,    and    with 
inoreatini)  an^r.] 
Next  him  ia  his  son,  named  Gil, 
Dear  to  all  noble  aouls.  His  prtHuise  worth 
The  oath  of  royal  hands. 
[To  aiu>ther.]  Don  Gaspard  this, 
The  pride  alike  of  Mendocd  and  Silva. 
Your  Highness,  every  noble  family 
Hns  some  alliance  with  the  Bilva  race. 
Sandoval  has  both  trembled  at,  and  wed 
With  us.  Manrique  is  envious  of  us:  I^ra 
li  jealous.  AleucBstre  hates  us.  We 
All  dukes  surpass,  and  mount  to  kinp. 

Don  Carlos.  TutI  tuti 
You're  jesting. 
Don  Rot  Qombz.    Here  behold  Don 
Vasquez,  called 
The   Wise.     Don   Jayme   sumamed   the 

Strong.  One  day 
Alone  he  stopped  Zamet  and  five  score 

Moors. 
I  pass  them  by,  and  some  the  greatest. 

\Al  an  atii/ry  getture  of  the  King  he 
•pasaa  by  a  great  number  of  por- 
traits, and  tpeedilj/  comet  to  the 
three  last  lU  the  l^t  of  the  audt- 

,  This, 

I    My  grandfather,  who  lived  to  sixty  years, 

i   Keeping  his  promised  word  even  to  Jews. 

'    [Tn  the  laet  portrait  but  one]  Tb'iBvener&Ue 
form  my  father  is, 
A  sacred  head.   Great  was  he,  though  ha 

comes 
The  last.  The  Moors  had  taken  prisoner 
His  friend  Count  AlvarGiron.  But  my  sire 
Het  out  to  seek  him  with  six  hundred  men 
To  war  inured.  A  figure  of  the  count 
Cut  out  of  stone  by  his  decree  wss  made 
And  dragged  along  b^ind  the  soMiwa,  he, 


By  patron  saint,  declaring  that  mtil 
The  count  of  stone  itself  turned  bock  and 

fled, 
He  would  not  falt«r;  on  be  went  and  saved 
His  friend. 

Don  Cablob.  I  want  my  prisoner. 

Don  Ritt  Goukz.  This  was 
A  Gomes  de  Silva.  Imagine  —  j'ldge 
What  in  this  dwelling  one  muat  eay  wbo 

These  heroes  — 

Don  Carlos.  Instantly  —  my  prisonerl 
[Don  Rut  Gouee  botm  low  before 
the  King,  taJcee  hie  hand,  and 
laadt  him  to  the  loal  portrait, 
which  tervee  for  the  door  cf 
Hbbnaki's  hiding-ptaee.  DoRa 
Sol  unCcAet  him  vjiih  anxiaut 
etfte.  Siienee  and  expectation  in 

aa.\ 

Don  Rut  Gouee.   This  portrait  is  my 

own.  Mercy  I  King  Chariesl 

For  you  require  that  those  who  see  it 

here 
Should  say,  "This  lost,  the  worthy  son  of 

race  / 

Heroic,  was  a  traitor  found,  that  sold  * 
The  life  of  one  he  sheltered  as  a  guesti " 

[Joy  of  DoffA  Sol.  MovemeJii  oj 
hewUdertneni  in  the  eroiod.  The 
King,  dieeoneerted,  move*  awaj/ 

momenta  uiith  lipe  tretrMing  and 
ei/e*  fiathing.] 
Don  Cablos.    Your  castle,  Duke,  an- 
noys me,  I  shall  lay 


Thus,   HighneM, 


Itk 

Don   Rut   Gohke. 
you'd  retaliate. 
Is  it  not  so7 

Don  Carlos.  For  such  audacity 
Your  towers  T  '11  level  with  the  ground,  and 

Upon  the  spot  the  hemp-seed  sown. 

Don  Rut  Gouee.  I'd  see 
The  hemp  spring  freely  up  where  once  my 

towers 
Stood  high,  rather  than  stain  should  eat 

The  ancient  name  of  Sflva. 
[To  the  portroiU.]  Is't  not  true? 
I  ask  It  of  you  all. 


GooqIc 


Don  CABLOfi.  Now,  Duke,  this  head, 
T  is  oura,  uid  thou  hut  pnu^aed  it  to 

Don  Rot  Gomxz.    I  promiBed  one  or 
other. 
iTo  t)u  portraiU.]  Was'tnotBoT 
I  ask  you  aU7 

[PoinHnglohUhtad.]  Thiaouel^ve.  [To 
the  King.]  Take  it. 
Don  Cablos.  Dulce,  many  thanks;  but 
't  would  not  do.  The  head 
I  want  ia  young;  when  dead  the  headsman 

Uplift  it  by  the  hair.  But  as  for  thine, 
In  vain  he  'd  seek,  for  thou  hast  not  enough 
For  him  to  clutch. 
Don  Rttt  Gohee.   Hi^ineee,  insult  me 

My  head  is  noble  still,  and  worth  far  more 
Than  any  rebel's  poll.  The  head  of  SDva 
You  thus  despise  1 
DoK  Cablob.  Give  up  Hernani! 
Don  Rvt  Gouie.  I 
Have  spoken,  Highnees. 
Don  eAKLOB  [to  hit  foliovert]-  Seaioh 
you  everywhere 
From  roof  to  cellar,  that  he  takes  not 
wing  — 
Don  Rut  Gomu.  My  keep  is  faithful 
as  myself;  alone 
It  shares  the  secret  which  we  both  shall 

Right  well. 
Don  Cakum.  I  am  the  KingI 
Don  Rut  Goue.  Out  of  my  house 

Demolished  stone  by  stone,  they'll  only 

My  tomb,  —  and  nothing  gain. 

Don  CAKLoe.  Menace  I  find 
And  prayer  alike  are  vain.  Deliver  up 
The  bandit,  Duke,  or  head  and  castle  both 
WiU  I  beat  down. 

Don  Rut  Gouie.  I've  said  my  word. 

Don  Casum.  Well,  then, 
Instead  of  one  bead  I'll  have  two. 
[To  the  DuKK  d'Alcaij^.I  You,  Jorge, 
Arrest  the  Duke. 

DoSa   Sot/  [pludttnii  off  her   Bed    and 
tknmnng   A«rse(f  beftown   Iht   Kirtf, 
the  Duke,  and   the  Ovard*].    King 
Charles,  an  evil  long 
Arayoul 


lANI  3S7 

Don  Caxlob.    Good  Hea\-ens!    Is   ii 
Dofia  Sol  I  see? 
DoHa  Sol.    HighneasI    Thou  haat  no 

Spaniard's  heart  1 
Don  Carlos  lconfuml\.    Madam,  you 
are  severe  upon  the  King. 
[He  appToaehea  Iter,  and  apeoka  toV!.\ 
'T  is  you  have  caused  the  wrath  that's  in 

my  heart. 
A  man  approaching  you  perforce  becomes 
An  angel  or  a  monster.  Ah,  when  we 
Are  hated,  swiftly  we  malignant  growt 
Perchance,  if  you  had  willed  it  so,  young 

giri, 
I'd  noble  been  —  the  lion  of  Ca«tilp; 
A  tiger  I  am  made  by  your  disdain. 
You  hear  it  roaring  now.  Madam,  tx* 'ifi''^ 
[Dora  Sol  loo/ts  ai  htm.  Ht  bwn.] 
However,  I'll  obey.   [Turning  to  Iht  Duki ,\ 

Cousin,  may  be 
Thy  acruplee  are  excusable,  and  I 
Esteem  thee.  To  thy  guest  be  faithful  htill. 
And  faithlcM  to  thy  King.  I  pardon  thee. 
'T  is  better  that  I  only  take  thy  niece 
Away  as  hostage. 
Don  Rut  Gousi.  Onlyl 
DoRaSol.  Higfaneeal  Mel 
Don  Carlos.  Yee,  you. 
Don  Rut  Qomke.  Alonel  Oh,  wondrouR 
clemency  I 
Oh,  generous  conqueror,  that  sparee  the 

head 
To  torture  thus  Uie  heart!   What  merry 
thisi 
Don  Cablos.  Chooee  'twixt  the  traitor 
and  tbe  Doha  Sol; 
I  must  have  one  of  ttiem. 
Don  Rut  Gouee.  Ilie  master  you! 

[Don  Cablob  apynxKken  DoHa 
Boi.  to  lead  her  away.   She  fiiee 
toward  the  Duke.] 
DoRa  Sol.  Save  me,  my  lord! 
[She  pauses.  —  Aside-l    Oh,  miseryl  and 

yet 
It  must  be  so.  My  uncle's  life,  or  else 
The  other's!  —  rather  mine! 
[To  the  King.]  I  follow  you. 
Don  Carlos  [aside].   By  sU  the  saints! 
the  thou^t  triumphant  isl 
Ah,  in  the  end  you'll  soften,  princess  mine! 
[DoRa  Sol  goet  wiA  a  grave  aitd 
iteady  tUp  to  the  ea^el,  open* 


m 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


^ 


ti,  and  lakti  from  U  Ou  dagftr, 
whith  the  kui«9  in  W  bwww. 
Don  Carlos  comes  lo  her  and 
off  ere  hit  hand.] 
Don  Cablos.   Wh&t  ia  't  you're  taking 

thence? 
DoRa  Sol.  Oh,  nothinel 
Itos  Carloh.  Ib  't 
ume  precious  jewdT 
DoRaSol.  Yes. 

Don  Cablos  [tmiling].  Show  it  to  me. 
DoflA  Sol.  Anon  you'll  see  it. 

[iSht  gives  kim  her  hand  and  pre- 
pares lo  foUoia  him.  Don  Rut 
GoMKE,  loAo  has  rsmained  ma- 
tumtees  and  absorbed  in  Ihtrught, 
advances  a  few  slept  crying  out.] 
I>OK  Rut  Gouez.  Heavens,  Dotla.  Soli 
ifa,  DoCa  Soil  Since  he  is  mercileas, 
[elp!  Walls  and  &nDor  oome  down  on  ub 

nowl 
ie  runs  to  (Ac  King.]  Leave  me  my  child! 

I  have  but  her,  O  KingI 
Don    Carlob    {dropping    DoSa    Sol's 
kand\.  Then  yield  me  up  my  pris- 
oner. 
[The  Duke  drops  hie  head,  and 
seems  the  prey  of  horrible  irule- 
ciaion.    Then  he  looks  up  at  the 
portratis  vUh  suppHcoHrtg  hands 
before  them.] 
Pom  Rut  Gomez.  Oh,  now 
lave  pity  on  me  all  of  youl 

[He  makes  a  step  toward  the  hiding- 
jAace.  DoRa  Sol"  watching  him 
anxioudy.    He   turns  again  to 
the  portrails.] 
)h,  hide 
'our  faceel  They  deter  me. 

[He  advances  jnilh  trenMing  steps 
toward   his   own   portrait,    then 
turns  again  lo  the  King.] 
s't  your  wiU? 
Don  Carlos.  Yes. 

[The  Duke  raises  a  trembling  hand 
touard  the  epring.] 
DofiA  Sol.  O  Godl 
Don  Rut  Gouxz.  No! 

[He  throws  himsdf  on  hit  hneu  bC' 
fore  the  King.] 
u  pity  take  my  life! 
DoK  Cablos.  Thy  niece! 


r  Rut  Gouzz  (rinn;].  Talce  her,  and 
leave  me  honor,  then. 
Don   Carlob   [seizing   the   hand  of  the 
trerrAling  DoRa  Sol].  Adieu,  Dulce. 
Don  Rut  Gomsz.  Till  we  meet  againi 
l^e  tailchee  the  King,  trho  retirts 
sUndy  with  DoRa  Sol.    After- 
wardt  he  putt  his  hand  on  his 
dagger.] 
May  God 
Shield  youl 

[He  comes  back  to  the  front  e^  (As 
etage  panting,  and  stands  mo- 
tionlets,  tvith  vacant  slare,  seem- 
ing nedher  to  tee  nor  hear  any- 
thing, his  arms  crossed  on  hit 
heaving  chest.  Meanwhile  the 
King  goes  out  with  DoRa  Sol,  the 
suitefoUowing  tteo  by  two  accord- 
ing to  their  rank.  They  speak  in 
a  low  voice  among  themtelees.] 
[Aside].  Whilst  thou  go'st  joyoue  from  my 

O  King,  my  ancient  loyalty  goes  forth 

Prom  out  my  bleeding  heaJt. 

[He  raises  his  head,  looks  all  round, 
and  test  that  he  it  aione.  Then 
he  loJces  two  swords  from  a 
panoply  by  the  icall,  meaeuree 
them,  and  places  them  on  a  table. 
This  done,  he  goes  to  the  portrait, 
touches  the  spring,  and  the  hid- 
den door  opens.) 

Come  out. 

[HxRNANi  appears  at  the  door  of 
the  hiding-place.  Don  Rut 
GOMBZ  points  to  the  two  swords 
on  the  table.] 

Now,  choose. 

Choose,  for  Don  CfLrloa  has  departed  now. 

And  it  remains  to  give  me  satisfaction. ' 

Choose,  and  be  quick.   What,  then!  trem- 
bles thy  hand? 
Hernani,  a  duel!  Oh,  it  cannot  be,  old 

'Twiirtiis. 
Don  Rut  Qohbe.  Why  not?  Is  it  thou 
art  afraid? 
Or  that  thou  art  not  noble?  So  or  not. 
All  men  wlio  injure  me,  by  Hell,  I  count 
Nobk  enough  to  cross  their  swords  with 


:.L|,i,zedi!,GoOQlc 


Hkbnani.  Old  man  — 

Don  RrT  GoifBE.    Come  forth,  young 
man,  to  slay  me,  else 
fo  be  the  sloin- 

Hbrnami.  To  die,  ab,  yea!  Against 
My  will  thyself  haat  saved  me,  and  my  life 
Is  yoiirt.  I  bid  you  take  it. 

Don  Rci  Gokkz.  T^ia  you  wish? 
ITo  the  portraiU.]  You  see  he  wills  it, 
[To  Hkhnani.]  This  is  wdl.  Thy  prayer 
Now  make. 

UiiBNANi.  It  is  to  thee,  my  lord,  the  last 

Don  Rut  Gombz.    Fray  to  the  other 
Lord. 

HXRNitNI.    No,  DO, 

To  thee.    Strike  me,  old  man,  —  dagger 

or  swotd,  — 
Sacb  one  (or  me  is  good,  —  but  grant  me 

first 
'.hie  joy  supreme,  Duke,  let  me  see  her  ere 
I  die. 
Don  Rot  Gombe.  See  faerl 
Hbbnani.  Or  at  the  least  I  beg 
J'hat  you  will  let  me  hear  her  voice  once 

Only  this  one  last  time  I 

Don  Rdt  Goubz.  Hear  hert 

Hbbnani.  Ah,  well, 
My  lord,  I  understand  thy  jealousy. 
But  death  already  seizes  on  my  youth. 
Forgive  me.    Grant  me  —  tell   me   that 

without 
Beholding  her,  if  it  must  be,  I  yet 
May  hear   her  speak,  and  I  will  die  to- 

{ 'II  grateful  be  to  hear  her.   But  in  peace 
I'd  calmly  die,  if  thou  would'st  deign  that 

My  soul  is  [i«ed,  it  sees  once  more  the 

That  shines  so  clearly  in  her  eyes.  To  her 
I  will  not  speak.   Thou  shalt  be  there  to 

My  father,  and  canst  slay  me  afterwards. 
Don  Rut  Go.mez  [pointing  to  the  rtce»» 

st31  open].    Oh,   saints  of  HeavenI 

Can  this  recess,  then,  be 
Bo  deep  and  strong  that  he  has  nothing 

beard? 


TANI  389 

Hbbnani.  No,  I  have  nothing  beard. 
Don  Rut  Goubi.  I  was  compiled 
To  yield  up  Dofla  Sol  or  thee. 
Hbbnani.  To  whom? 
Don  Hct  Gombz.  The  King. 
Hbbnani.  Madmanl  He  loves  her. 
Don  Rut  Gomez.  Loves  her  1  Hel 
Hbbnani.  He  takes  her  from  usl  He  our 

rival  is  I 
Don  Rut  Gombz.    Curses  be  on  himi 
Vassals!  all  to  horse  — 
To  horset  Let  us  pursue  the  ravisherl 
Hbbnani.  List«nt  The  vengeance  that 
is  sure  of  foot 
Makes  on  ita  way  less  noise  than  llui< 

would  do. 
To  thee  I  do  belong.  Thou  hast  the  right 
To  slay  me.    Wilt  thou  not  employ  me 

first 
As  the  avenger  of  thy  niece's  wrongs? 
Let  m^  take  part  in  this  thy  vengeance 

Grant  me  this  boon,  and  I  will  kiss  thy 

.     feet. 
If  so  must  be.  Let  us  together  speed 
The  King  to  Cdlow.  I  will  be  thme  arm. 
I    will    avenge    thee,   Duke,  and    after- 

The  life  that's  forfeit  thou  shatt  take. 

Don  Rut  Gombz.  And  then, 
As  now,  thou 'It  ready  be  to  die? 
Hebnani.  Yes,  Duke. 
Don  Rut  Gombz.    By  what  wilt  thou 

swear  this? 
Hebnani.  My  father's  head. 
Don  Rut  Gumki.    Of  thine  own  self 

wilt  thou  remember  it? 
Hbbnani  \giving  Aim  the  horn  tehieh  he 
take*  from  kit  (ti"^\-   Listen!   Take 
you  this  horn,  and  whatsoe'er 
May  happen  —  what  the  place,  or  what 

the  hour  — 
Whenever  to  thy  mind  it  seems  the  time 
Has  come  for  me  to  die,  blow  on  this 

And  take  no  other  care;  all  will  be  done- 
DoN  Rut  Gohbz   [offering  hi»  hand]. 
Your  handl         [They  press  Aonda.I 
[To  the  portraita]  And  all  of  you  are  wit- 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


ACT  IV 

The  Tomb,  Aix-la-ChapeUe.  The  poulte 
which  erteUte  the  Tnfnji  nf  fTftnrtowjunfB  at 
Aiz-Ia-ChapelU.  Oreat  archet  of  Lombard 
ariHiieeture,  mlh  temioTeular  columru, 
having  eapilaU  of  birds  and  fiovxn.  Al  the 
ryjht  a  smoU  broTue  door,  low  and  eitned. 
A  tingle  lamp  suepended  from  the  erovm  of 
(he  Kadi  aAotM  Ihe  ineeripiion:  oabolvb 
UAQNVa.  It  is  ni^hl.  One  canruit  see  to  the 
end  of  the  vatiUe,  the  eyt  loses  iisdf  in  the 
intricac]/  of  ardiet,  sUps,  and  eobtmru  wKith 
mingle  in  the  ehade. 

,Bnler   Don  Caru3b,  Don   Ricardo  dh 
RoXAB,  Count  dx  Cabafauia,  km- 

terru  in  hand,  and  wearijtg  large  doaks 
and  alotuJied  hats.] 
Don  Ricardo  [hat  in  hand].  This  is  the 

Dos  Caslob.  Yob,  here  it  ia  the  League 
Will  meet;  they  that  together  in  my  power 
Bo  soon  ahall  be.  Ob,  it  was  well,  my  Lord 
Of  Trtves  th'  Elector  —  it  was  well  of  you 
To   lend   thif  place;  dark   plots  should 

prosper  best 
In  the  dank  air  of  catacombs,  and  good 
It  ia  to  eharpen  daggers  upon  tomt». 
Yet  the  stake  's  heavy  —■-  heads  are  on  the 


Yo  bold  mnftfrninn,  and  the  end  we'll  see. 
By  Heaven,   't  was  well  a  sepulcber  to 

choose 
For  such  a  business,  since  the  road  will  be 
Shorter  for  them  to  traverse, 
fro  Don  RicARDo.l  Tell  me  now 
How  far  the  subterranean  way  extends? 

Don  Ricardo.  To  the  strong  fortress. 

Don  Carlos.  Farther  than  we  need. 

Don  Ricardo.   And  on  the  other  side  it 
reaches  quite 
The  Monastery  of  Alteaheim. 

Don  GARLoa.  Ah,  where 
Lottuure  was  overcome  by  Rodolf.   Once 
Again,  Count,  tell  me  o'er  their  names  and 
wrongs. 

Don  Ricabdo.  Qotha. 

Don  Carlos.  Ah,  very  well  I  know  why 

The  brave  Duke  is  conspirator:  he  wills 
For  Germany,  a  Qeinuui  Emperor. 


Don  Ricardo.  Hoheobourg. 
Don  Cablob.  Hohenbourg  would  bett«r 
like 
With  Francis  hell,  than  heaven  itself  with 

Don  Ricardo.  Gil  Tellei  Giron.  ■ 

DonCablos.  Csetile  and  our  Ladj'l  I 

The  scoundrell  —  to  be  traitor  to  his  kingi  I 

Don  Ricardo.    One  evening  it  is  said  | 

that  you  were  found  | 

With  Madam  Giron.    You  had  jost  be-  ' 

Made  him  a  baron;  he  revenges  now 
The  honor  of  his  dear  companion. 

Don  Carum.  This,  then,  the  reason  he 
revolts  'gunst  Spain? 
What  name  oomes  next? 

Don  Ricardo.  The  Reverend  Vaaques, 
Avila's  Bishop. 

Don  Carlos.  Pray  doea  he  resent 
Dishonor  of  his  wifel 

Don  Ricardo.  Then  there  is  named 
Guiman  de  Lara,  who  is  discontent, 
Qaiming  the  collar  of  your  order. 

Don  CAELoe.  Aht 
Guanan  de  Laral  If  he  only  wants 
A  collar  he  shall  have  one. 

Don  Ricabdo.  Next  the  Duke 
Of  Lutielbourg,    As  for  his  plans,  tJiejr 
say  — 

Don  Cabixis.  Ahl  Lutidbourg  is  by  the 
head  too  tall. 

Don  Ricardo.    Juan  de  Earo  —  who 
AstorgR  wants. 

Don  Carlos.    These  HanisI    Always 
they  the  headsman's  pay 
Have  doubled. 

Don  Ricardo.  That  is  all. 

Don  Carlos.  Not  by  my  count. 
These  make  but  seven. 

Don  Ricaedo.  Ob,  I  did  not  name 
Some  bandits,  probably  engaged  by  Trtres 
Or  France. 

Don  Cablob.  Men  without  prejudice  of 

Whose  ready  daggers  turn  to  heaviest  pay, 
Afl  truly  as  the  p«edle  to  the  pole. 
Don  Ricardo.    However,   I  observed 

two  sturdy  ones 
Among  them,  both  new  comen  —  one.iras 

young,  ~~ 

The  other  MO. 


c|ilizedl!vG00'"^lc 


Don  Cablos.  Their  names? 

[Don  Ricabdo  thruga  hi*  fhtniiden 
in  gign  of  ignorance.] 
Their  age,  then,  s&y? 

Don  Ricardo.    The  younger  may  be 

twenty. 
Don  Carlos.  Pit]',  then. 
Don  Ricabdo.  The  elder  must  be  uxty, 

Don  GabijOS.  One  seems 
Too  youi^  —  the  other,  over-old;  so  much 
For  them  the  worse  't  will  be.  I  will  take 

Myself  will  help  the  headamut,  be  there 

My  aword  is   sharpened   for  a  Imitor's 

block, 
I II  [end  it  him  if  blunt  hie  axe  ahoiUd  grow, 
And  join  my  own  imperial  purple  on 
To  piece  the  scaffold  cloth,  if  it  must  be 
Enlarged  ttk&t  way.   But  shall  I  Emperor 

prove? 
Don  Kicabso.  The  College  at  this  hour 

deliberatefl. 
Dom  CABiiOe.   Who  knows?  Francis  the 

first,  perchance,  they'll  name, 
Or  dae  th^  Saxon  Frederick  the  Wise. 
Ah,  Luther,  thou  art  right  to  blame  the 

And  scorn  such  n^kers-up  ot  royalty, 
That  own  n<r  other  rights  than  gilded  ones. 
A  Saxon  heretic!   Primate  of  TrSv^, 
A  libertine!  Count  Palatine,  a  fool! 
As  for  Bohemia's  king,  for  me  he  is. 
Princes  of  Hesse,  all  smaller  than  their 

The  young  are  idiots,  and  the  old  de- 
bauched, 
Of  crowns  a  plenty  —  but  for  4wads  we 

In  vain!  Council  of  dnarfs  ridiculous. 
That  I  in  lion's  skin  could  curry  off  • 
Like  Hercules;  and  who  of  violet  robee 
Bereft,  would  show  but  heads  more  shallow 

far 
Than  Triboulet's.  See'st  thou  1  want  three 

Or  all  is  lost,  Ricardo?  Ohl  I  'd  give 
Toledo,  Ghent,  and  Salamanca  too, 
Three  towns,  my  friends,  I  'd  offer  to  their 

choice 
For  their  three  voices  —  cities  of  Castile 


And  flanders.  Safe  I  know  to  Uke  tni-.<) 

back 
A  little  later  on. 

[Don  Sicasoo  bout  lou:  U-  iht 
King,  and  putt  oit  hi'  hat.'i 
You  cover,  sir! 
Don  .Ricahdo.    Sire,  you  '  iv     <  ilT^J 
me  thou  Ibowing  again\.    .\n(t  thus 
I'm  made 
Grandee  of  Spain. 
DoK  Carlos  (osicfel.  Ah,  how  to  piit/iu.^ 

You  rouse  mel  Lit«rest«d  broou  dc:  .ir'i! 
By  meai  ambition.  Thus  acrus.'-  my  ji'-in'^ 
Yours  struggle.  Base  the  oouri  where  with- 
out shame 

The  King  is  plied  for  honors,  and  he  yields, 
Bestowing  grandeur  on  the  hungiy  crrr. 
[Mimng.]  God  only,  and  Uie  £m|icror  itro 

great. 
Also  the  Holy  Fathpr!  For  tl-  reM, 
The  kinjt  and  dukes,  of  what  Hccuiint  !>>' 
they? 
Don  Ricardo.    I  trust  that  they  Yoiit 

Highnjsgjwill  elect. 
Don  Carlos.    Highness  ~  still    lliftL- 
ness!   Oh,  unlucky  chance! 
If  only  King  I  must  remain, 

Don  Ric.\rdo  [amde].  By  Jove, 
Emperor  or  King,  Grandee  of  Spain  F  u.'- 
Don  Carlos.    When  tJiey've  dfcid-'..' 
who  shall  be  the  one 
They  choose  for  Emperor  of  Germany, 
What  sign  is  to  announce  his  iiame? 

Don  Ricardo.  The  guns. 
A  single  firing  will  proclaim  the  Duke 
Of  Saxony  is  chosen  Empenti : 
Two  it   'tis  Francis;   tor  Y(,..r   Hifchness 

Don   Carlos.     And   Dof.n   .~i  I!     I'm 
crossed  on  every  aide. 
It,  Count,  by  turn  of  luck,  I'tti  !>ipercw 

Go  seek  her;  she  by  CKSor  mi,   li  '   '  wm. 
Don  Ricardo  itmiling],  Youi  ■.■\e)  ,:■■.<.•) 

Don  Carlos  [havghlUy].   On  'hi.',  ft!'-'- 
ject  peace! 
I  have  not  yet  inquired  what':>  chiu^i  t  of 


.  Google 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATIS.:  S 


Don  Ricabi>o.  In  an  hour  or  ao, 
.tt  latest. 
Don  Carlos.  Ah,  three  vot«e;  and  only 

fut  first  this  trait'rous  rabble  we  must 

.'.nd  then  we'll  see  to  whom  the  Empire 
falls, 

[He    eounU    on    hii   jatgert    and 
tiamps  kit  foot.] 
Always  by  three  too  fswl   Ah,  they  hold 

'  et  did  Cornelius  know  all  long  ago: 
.  I  Heaven's  ocean  thirteen  sUtrs  he  saw 
omjng  Tull  sail  toward  mine,  i^l  from  the 

'  mpire  for  me  —  let's  on!   But  it  it  said, 
u  other  hand,  that  Jean  Trithime  Francis 
'  redictedl   Clearer  should  I  see  my  fate 
'.  :ad  I  some  armament  the  prophecy 
i'ohelp.   The  sorcerer's  predictions  come 
lost  true  when  a  good  army  — ^th  its 

guns 
\nd  lances,  hofae  and  foot,  and  martUl 

strains, 
'  eady  to  lead  the  way  where  Fate  alone 
light  stumble  —  plays  the  midwife's  part 
to  bring 
•  jlfillnicrit  of  prediction.    That's  worth 

haa  our  Cornelius  Agrippa  or 
.'rithdme.    He,  who  by  force  of  arms  ex- 
pounds 
'  'is  system,  and  with  aharpen'd  point  of 

an  edge  his  words,  and  uses  st^diers' 
swords 
*:'o  level  rugged  fortune  —  shapes  events 

t  his  own  will  to  match  the  prophecy. 
I'oor  foolsl   who   with   proud   eyes   and 

haughty  mien 
'"hdy  look  straight  to  Empire,  and  declare 
It  ismy  rightl"  They  need  great  guns  in 

files 
Vhoae  burning  breath  melts  towns;  and 

Boldiets,  ships, 
r.  nd  horsemen.  These  tliey  need  their  ends 

to  gain 
'er  trampled  peoples.    Pabawl    At  the 

croniroads 
<  '  human  life,  where  one  leads  to  a  throne, 
■victber  to  perdition,  they  will  pause  I 


In  iodedsion,  —  scarce  three  steps'  wiD 

take 
Uncertain   of  themsdyo,    and   in    their 

Fly  to  the-ttecrbmaDce^ror  advice 

Which  road  to  tSker — 

[To  Don  Ricardo.]  Go  now,  't  is  r>ear  the 

The  trait'rous  crew  will  meet.  Give  me  the 

Don  Ricabdo  {sfleing  key  of  tomb].  Sire, 
't  was  the  guardian  of  the  bimb,  the 

De  Umbourg,  who  to  me  confided  it, 
And  has  done  everything  to  pleasure  you. 

Don  Carloc.    Do  all,  quite  all  that  I 
commanded  you. 

Don  Ricardo  [6ou>tnc].   Highiiess,  I  go 

Don  Carlos.  The  signal,  then, 
That  I  await  is  cannon  firing  thrice? 

'[Don  Ricardo  btnet  and  exit. 
Don  Carlos  falU  uilo  a  dap 
Toxrie,  kit  ams  eroesed,  hi» 
head  drooping;  aSUrvarda  ■  he 
rawes  it,  and  Iwms  to  the  Umb.] 
Forgive  me,  ChaiWiagnel  Oh,  this  lonely 

vault 
Should  echo  only  unto  solemn  words. 
Thou  must  be  angry  at  the  babble  vain 
Of  our  ambition  at  your  monument. 
Here  Charicmagne  reatel    How  can  the 

somber  tomb 
Without  a  rifting  spasm  hold  such  dustt 
And  art  thou  truly  here,  colossal  power, 
Creator  of  the  world?  And  canst  thou  now 
Crouch  down  from  all  thy  majesty  and 

might? 
Ah,  't  is  a  spectacle  to  stir  the  soul 
What  Europe  was,  and  what  by  thee 't  wag 

Mighty  construction  with  two  men  sw 

Elected  chiefs  to  whom  bom  kings  submit. 
States,    duchree,    kingdoms,    marquisat«B 

and  fiefs  — 
By  right  hereditary  most  are  ruled, 
But  nations  find  a  friend  ■''>.:i- I'mee  in 

Or  Casai;  and  one  chancr  ;,r  ■•■■  i'  i  chance 
Corrects;  thus  even  balan<''  -  -.^'^rtained 
And  order  opou  out.  Thi' - :    ' ->'!  jcdd 


c. 


.;lc 


Electort,  and  the  scarlet  cardinals. 
The  double,  sacred  Hen&te,  unto  which 
Earth  bends, 1  are  but  paraded  outward 

God's'l^^utssitall.  One  day  He  wills 
A  thought,  a  want,  should  burst  upon  tiie 

^Then  grow  and  spread,  and  mix  with  every- 
thing, 
Poflsess  some  man,  win  hearts,  and  delve  a 

Q  it,  and  may 


To  gag;  —  only  that  they  w 


nmay 


-  At  diet,  conclave,  this  the  scorned  idea, 
That  they  had  spumed,  all  suddenly  ex- 

And  soar  above  their  heads,  bearing  the 

In  hand,  or  on  the  brow  tiara,   Pcinfl 
And  Emperor,  they  on  earth  are  alTin  all. 
JTmyXUiry  npnilUt!  aVkWa  m  thenf  bo^, 
And  Heaven's  might,  which  they  still  rep- 

Foaats  them  with  kings  and  nationfl,  hold- 
ing them 

Beneath  its  thunder-cloud,  the  while  they 
sit 

At  table  with  the  world  serred  out  for 
food. 

Alone  they  regulate  oil  things  on  earth. 

Just  as  the  mower  manages  his  field. 

All  rule  and  power  are  theirs.  Kings  at 
the  door 

Inhale  the  odor  of  their  savory  meats. 

Look  throuf^  the  window,  watchful  on 

But  weary  of  the  scene.    The  common 

Below  them  groups  itself  on  ladder-rungs. 
They  make  and  all  unmake.    One  can  re- 

The  other  surely  strike.  The  one  is  Truth,, 
The  other  Might.  Each  to  himself  is  law. 
And  is,  because  he  is.  When  —  equals  they 
The  one  in  purple,  and  tlie  other  swathed 
In  white  like  win^g-aheet  —  when  they 

oome  out    ^ 
Prom  sanctuary,  tne  daisied  multitude 
Look  with  wild  terror  on  these  halvra  of 

Ood, 


T}^g  P"P''  *Pd  EmpPrnr,    ]^ppwfu-r  oh^to 


When    beats    the    heart    with    dauntless 

courage  fill'dl 
Oh,  happy  he  who  sleeps  within,  this  tombi 
How  great,  and  oh!  how  fitted  for  his  time! 
The  Pope  and  Emperor  were  more  than 

In  tRem  two  Romesin  myst in  Hymen  joined 
Prolific  were,  giving  new  form  and  soul 
Unto  the  human  race,  retounding  realms 
And  nations,  shaping  thus  a  Europe  nc^w. 
And  both  remoulding  with  their  hands  the 

bronie 
Remaining  of  the  great  old  Rmnan  world. 
What  deetinyt  And  y«t  't  is  here  be  lies? 
Is  all  so  little  that  we  come  U>  thisi 
What  then?    To  have  been  Prince  and 

Emperor, 
And  Kii«  —  to  have  been  sword,  and  also 

Giant,  with  Germany  for  pedestal  — 
For  title  CKSor  —  Charlemagne  for  jiame : 
A  greater  to  have  been  than  Hannibal 
Or  Attila  —  as  great  as  was  the  world. 
Yet  all  rests  herel.  For  Empire  strive  and 

And  see  the  dust  that  makes  on  Emperorl 
Cover  the  earth  with  tumult,  and  with 


Thine — thine — it  will  be  thine.  Heavens, 

were  it  sol 
To  mount  at  once  the  spiral  height  su- 

And  be  alone  —  th&  keystone  of  the  arch, 
With  states  beneatQ.  one  o'er  the  other 

ranged,  \ 

And  kings  for  mats  tawipe  one's  sandal'd 

feetl 


394 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


To  Bee  'neath  kings  the  feudal  families, 
MargravM  and  cardinals,  and  dogea  — 

Then  biahopa,  abMe  —  chiffB  of  ancient 

Great  barons  —  then  the  soldier  class  and 

And  know  yet  farther  off  —  in  the  deep 

f"  "Mh^fr  y*  there  ia  Mankind 


That  IS  to  «y  a  dnMd,  i 


That  is  to  say  a  dnMd,  a  sea  ol'  m^ 

A  tumult  —  cries,  witii  tears,  and  bitter 

SometimM.  The  wail  wakes  up  and  scares 

the  earth 
And  leacbes  us  with  leaping  echoes,  and 
With  trumpet  tone.  Oh,  citixens,  oh,  meni 
The  swarm  that  from  the  b^sh  church 

towen  seems  now 
To  sound  the  tocsin  I 

.    IMutinf.]  Wonawiali laii 

lyf  u-ti^ni^    bearing  on   your   shoulders 

The  mighty  pyramid  that  has  two  poles. 
The  living  waves  that  ever  straining  hard 
Balsnoeandshakeitas  they  heave  and  roll, 
Males  all  change  place,  and  on  the  highest 

heii^ts 
Make  stagger  thrones,  as  if  they  were  but 

k)  sure  is  this,  that  ceasing 
t  HeaVBBI 


'^ 


■.Mmnlii 


Look  at  the  people  I  —  Restless  ocean,  there 
WEefe1tt5ffiing*STSHt  that  does  not  shake 

the  whole; 
The  aea  that  rends  a  throne,  and  rocks  a 

A  glass  in  which  kings  rarely  look  but  ill. 
Ah,  if  upon  this  gloomy  sea  they  gand 
Sometimes,   what  Empires   in   its  depths 

they  'd  findt 
Great  vessels  wrecked  that  by  its  ebb  and 

flow 
Are  stirr'd  —  that  wearied  it  —  known  now 

To  govern  this  —  to  mount  so  high  if 

called. 
Yet  know  myself  to  be  but  mortal  man! 
To  see  the  abyss  —  if  not  that  moment 

With  disiineM  bewilderiiig  tmry  Mue. 


Oh,  moving  pyramid  of  statee  and  kings 
With  apex  narrow,  —  woe  t«  timid  stepl 
What  ^tall  restrain  me?  If  I  fail  when  there 
Feeling  my  feet  upon  the  trembling  wnrid, 
Feeling  alive  the  palpitating  earth. 
Then  when  I  have  between  my  hands  the 

, ?5BS • 

Mave  1  tne  strength  ^one  to  hold  it  fast. 

aad  Jinunirfe^Eiff  tha  fcinglypart. 
Certes,  no  man  is  rarer  than  tiie  one 
Who  can  enlarge  his  soul  to  duly  meet 
Great  Fortune's  smiles,  and  still  increafflog 

gifts. 
But  I>  Who  is  it  thnt  '^°"  *> — y  JT'i'^t"- 
My  counselor,  and  make  me  peat? 
[foU*  on  hU  kneet  Ufore  the  Umb.]    Tis 

Oh,  Charlemagnel  And  since  't  is  God  for 

All  obstacles  dissolve,  who  takes  us  now 
And  put*  us  face  to  face  —  from   this 
tomb's  depths 


Let  me  be  great  enough  U 

On  every  side.    Show  me  how  small  the 

I  dare  not  measure  —  me  this  Babel  show 
Where,  from  the  hind  to  Cnsar  mounting 

up, 
Eadb  one,  complusant  with  himself,  r^ 

gaide 
The  next  with  scorn  that  is  but  half  t«- 

strained. 
Teach  me  the  secret  of  thy  conquests  all. 
And  how  to  rule.  And  show  me  certainly 
Whether  to  punish,  or  to  pardon,  be 
The  worthier  thing  to  do. 
Is  it  not  fact 

That  in  his  solitary  bed  sometimes 
A  mighty  shade  is  wakened  from  his  sleep, 
Aroused  by  noise  and  turbulence  on  earth; 
That  suddenly  his  tomb  expands  itself, 
And  bursts  its  doors  —  and  in  the  ni^t 

flings  forth 
A  flood  of  light?  If  this  be  true,  indeed, 
Say,  Emperorl  what  can  after  Charlemagne 
Another  dol  Speak,  thoi^  thy  sovereign 

Should  cleave  this  braien  door.  Or  rather 


Let  me  thy  sanctuary  ei 


rlonel 


CtOo^^Ic 


Let  me  behold  th;  veritable  f  aoe,  * 

I    And  not  repulse  me  with  a.  freeiing  breath. 
Upon  thy  atony  pillow  elbowe  lean, 
Aikd  let  us  talk.  Yes,  with  prophetic  voice 
Tell  me  of  things  which  make  the  forehead 

pale. 
<     And  clear  eyes  mournful.  Speak,  and  do  not 

blind 
Thine  awe-struck  son,  for  doubtlessly  thy 

tomb 
Is  fuH  of  light.  Or  if  thou  wilt  not  speak, 
Let  me  make  study  in  the  solemn  peace 
Of  thee,  as  of  a  world,  thy  measure  take, 
O  giant,  for  there's  nothing  here  below 
So  great  as  thy  poor  ashes.  Let  them  taach, 
Failing  thy  spirit. 
[He  putt  the  kt]/ in  the  lode.]  Let  us  enter 

[He  TteoiU.]    O  God,  if  he  should  really 

whisper  mel 
If  he  be  there  and  walks  with  noiseless  tread, 
And  I  oome  back  with  hair  in  moments 

bleached! 
I'll  do  it  still.  [Sound  (^  footetepa.] 

Who  comes?  who  dares  disturb 
Besides  myself  the  dwelling  of  such  deadi 

[Tlu  eoMd  eomee  nearer.] 

My  murdHeral  I  forgoti  Now,  oiter  we. 

[He  open*  Ihe  door  i^  iht  tomb, 

wkiiA  shut*  upon  htm.] 

[Enter  general  men  loalking  aoftty,  duffuiaed 

bv  lofV  doake  and  hale.    They  take 

eaeh  others'  hands,  going  from  one  to 

another  and  epeakino  in  a  low  tone.] 

FiBflT  Conspirator  [viho  alone  carries 

a  Ughted  torch].  Ad  avffueta. 
Sbgond  Conspirator.  Per  anfusta. 
First  Conspirator.  The  saints 
Shield  us. 
Third  Conspirator.    The  dead  assist 

Rrst  Conspirator.  Guard  us,  GodI 

[Noiee  in  the  ekade.] 
FiHBT  Conspirator.  Who 's  there? 
A  VoiCB.  Ad  aagiuta. 
SscoND  CoNBprBATOR.    Per  angueta. 


Third  Conspirator.  Who's  there? 
Voicx  [tn  the  darknets].  Ad  augu^a. 
Third  Conspirator.  Per  anguata. 


Fatm  Conspirator.  'T  is  well. 
All  now  are  here.  Gotha,  to  you  it  falls 
To  state  the  case.  Friends,  darkneas  waits 
for  light 

[The  Conepirators  *it  in  a  halj- 
circle  on  the  lombe.  The  First 
Conspirator  patsee  before  them, 
and  from  his  torch  each  one 
Ughlt  a  tooz  taper  which  he  holds 
in  hie  hand.  Then  the  First 
Conspirator  aeatg  himielf  tn 
eitence  on  a  tomb  a  little  higher 
than  the  others  in  the  center  of 
the  cirde.] 
Ddkr  op  Gotha  [rieing].  My  friendal 
This  Charles  of  Spain,  by  mother's 

A  foreigner,  aspires  to  mount  the  throne 
Of  Holy  Empire. 
FiROT  Conspirator.   But  fm  him  the 

grave. 
Ddkb  or  Gotha   [throwing  down   his 
Ught  and  cruehiTig  it  with  hie  fooi]. 
Let  it  be  with  his  head  as  with  this 

All.  So  be  it. 

First  Conspirator.    Death  unto  him. 

Dmx  OF  GoTBA.  Let  him  die. 

All.  Let  him  be  slain. 

Don  Juan  db  Haho.  German  his  father 


TnTEELBOuRQ.    HiB  moth^ 


DuKB  OF  Gotha.  Thus  you  see  that  he 
Is  no  more  one  than  other.  Let  him  die. 

A  Conspirator.    Suppose  th'  Electors 
at  this  very  hour 
Declare  him  Emperor  I 

First  Conspirator.    Himl  oh,  never 

DonGilTbuxeGiron.  Whatugnifiesf 
Let  us  strike  oS  the  head, 
The  Crown  will  fall. 

Fmsr  CoNSPiBATOR.  But  if  to  him  be- 

Tbe  HolyEmpira,  he  becomes  so  great 


596 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


And  BO  august,  that  only  God's  owi^  hand 

Can  reach  him. 

DUKZ  OF  GoTHA.  All  the  better  reason 

why 

He  dies  before  such  power  august  he  gains. 

FiBST  CoNSPisATOR.    He  shall  not  be 

elected. 
All.  Not  for  him 
The  Empire. 
PiBST  CoNSFiRATOB,    Now,  how  many 
hands  will 't  take 
To  put  him  in  his  shroud? 
All.  One  is  enough. 
FiBST  CoNBPiRATOB.  How  many  strokee 

to  reach  his  heart? 
All.  But  one. 
FiBBT  Conspirator.    Who,  then,  will 

strike? 
All.  AllIAlIt 

FlBST  ConsfiBator.   The  victim  is 
A  traitor  proved.  They  would  an  Emperor 

choose, 
We're  a  high-priest  to  make.  Let  us  draw 
lota. 

[AU  the  Contpiralora  wrile  Oteir 
name*  on.  Iheir  labl^tt.  tear  mU 
Ihe  leaS,  roU  U  up,  and  one  after 
anelher  throw  than  into  the  urn 
on  one  ^  the  tomba.] 
Now,  let  UB  pray.  [AU  kned.] 

Oh,  may  the  choeen  one 
Believe  in  God,  and  like  a.  Roman  strike, 
Die  SB  a  Hebrew  would,  and  brave  alike 
The  wheel  and  burning  pincers,   laugh  at 

And  fire,  and  wooden  horse,  and  be  re- 


HuWANi  leomutg  ovi  from  the  crowd  of 
Convpiralorii\.     I   have   won,    yes, 
wont 
I  hold  thee  fasti  Thee  I've  so  long  pur- 

sued 
With  vengeance. 
Don  Rut  Gombi  [piercing  tkrough  the 
crowd  and  taking  Hkknani  aaide]. 
Yield  —  oh,  yield  this  right  to  me. 


^/HEBNAin.   Not  tat  my  life!  Oh,  sigDor, 

grudge  me  not 
This  stroke  of  fortune  —  't  is  the  first  I'to 
known. 
Don  Rnr  Gomee.    You  nothing  have! 
I  '11  give  you  houses,  lands, 
A  hundred  thousand  vassals  shall  be  yours 
In  my  three  hundred  vHUgee,  if  you 
But  yield  the  right  to  strike  to  me. 
Hbrnani.  No  —  no. 
DuKS  of  Gotha.   Old  man,  thy  aim 

would  strike  less  sure  a  blow.  i 

Don  Rut  GouKE.  Back!  IbaveBtrengtb 
of  soul,  if  not  of  arm. 
Judge  not  the  sword  by  the  mere  scab- 
bard's rust. 
[To  Hbrnani.]  You  do  belong  to  me. 

Hkrnani.  My  life  is  yours, 
As  hie  belongs  to  me. 

Don  Rut  Gomxe  [drawing  the  ham  from 
(  his  ginSe).  I  yield  her  up. 

And  will  return  the  bom. 

HsnSANi  [trembling].   What  life!  My  life 
And   Dofia   Soli    No,    I   my   vengeaaoe 

I  have  my  father  to  revenge  —  yet  more,    ■ 
Perchance  I  am  inspired  by  God  in  this. 
Don  Rut  Gomee.    I  yield  thee  Her  — 

and  give  thee  back  the  homi 
Heknani.  No  I 

Don  Rut  Gohee.  Boy,  reflect. 
Hernani.  Oh,  Duke,  leave  me  my  prey. 
Don  Rut  Gomee.  My  cursee  on  you  for 
depriviDg  me 
Of  this  my  joy. 
First  CoNSPmATOR  {to  Hbrnani).    Oh, 
broUier,  ere  they  can 
Elect  him  —  'twould  be  wdl  this  very 

night 
To  watch  for  Chariea. 

Hernani.  Fear  nought,  I  Icnow  the  way 
To  kill  a  man. 

PlBST  CoNBPIEATOR.  May  evEiy  tresaon 
fall 
On  traitor,  and  may  God  be  with  you  now. 
We  Counts  and  Barons,  let  us  take  the 

That  if  he  fall,  yet  slay  not,  we  go  on 
And  strike  by  turn  unflincUng  till  Charies 
diee. 
All  Idramng  their  meorda]     Let  u>  all 


GooqIc 


DuKX  OF  Gcn-HA  [lo  First  Conspibator). 
My  brotbec,  let's  decide 
On  what  we  swear. 

Don  Rut  Gomie  [iakiTtg  hit  neord  by 
1A«  point  and   raising  it  about  kit 
head].  By  this  same  oroas, 
Au^[rainngthtir  noordt].  And  tfaifl 
That  he  must  quickly  die  impenitent. 

[Thej/  hear  a  eanrum  fired  afar  off. 
All  paute  and  are  silent.  The 
door  t4  the  Umb  half  opens,  atid 
Don  Carlos  appears  at  the 
Otteduid.  A  second  gun  u  fired, 
then  a  third.  Ha  opens  xoide  the 
door  and  stands  erect  and  mo- 
tionless withml  adoancinii.] 
Don  Carlos.  Fall  back,  ye  gentlemen 
—  the  Emperor  hean. 

lAU  the  lights  are  simaltanetmdy 
extingvished.  A  profound  m- 
lenee.  Don  Carlos  aduances  a 
step  in  the  darknas,  so  dense, 
that  the  «ifenf,  molionlete  Con- 
spiraiars  eon  scarcdy  be  dis- 
linffuishied.\ 
Silence  and  night!  From  darimess  sprung, 

the  swarm 
Into  the  darkness  plunges  back  i^ainl 
Think  ye  this  scene  is  like  a  paaung  dream, 
And  that  I  take  you,  now  your  lights  are 

quenched. 
For  men's  stone  figures  seated  on  their 

tombs? 
Just  now,  my  statues,  you  had  voioea  loud, 
Raise,    then,    your   drooping   heads,    for 

Charles  the  Fifth 
Is  here.  Strike.   Move  a  pace  or  two  and 

You  dare.  But  no,  't  is  not  in  you  to  dare. 
Your  flaming  torches,   blood-ied   'neath 

^ese  vaults. 
My  breath  extinguished;  but  now  turn 

your  eyes 
Irresolute,  and  see  that,  if  I  thus 
Put  out  the  many,  I  can  light  still  more. 

[He  sfrifce«  the  iron  key  on  the 
brome  door  of  the  tomb.  At  the 
sound  all  the  depths  of  the  eouem 
ore  fiUed  tBtlh  soldiers  bearing 
torches  and  htdberts.  At  their 
hciTd  th«  DuxB  d'Alcala,  the 
M  iBQins  s'AuiDflAM,  etc.] 


Come  on,  my  foloonsl  I'vethenest  —  the 

prey. 
[To  Conepirators.]    I  can  make  blase  of 

light,  't  is  my  turn  now. 
Behold! 

[To  tiie  Soldiera.]  Advance  — for  Bagiaat 
is  the  crime. 
Hbbhani  lUtokiTif  at  the  Soldier*].  Ah. 
well!    At   first   I    thou^t    't  was 
Charlemagne, 
Alone  he  seemed  so  great  —  but  after  aU 
'T  is  only  Charles  the  Fifth. 

Dox  Carlos  |(o  Me  Duke  n'ALCALA). 
Come,  Constable 
Of  Spain. 
[7*0  Marquis  d'AlhuSan.)  And  you  Cas- 

tilian  Admiral, 
Disarm  them  all. 

[The  Conspirators  are  surrounded 
and  diearmed.] 
Don  Ricabdo  [hurrying  in  and  booing 
lUmoiitotheoroundl.  Your  Majesty! 
Don  Carlos.  Alcalde 
I  make  you  of  the  palace. 
Don   Ricardo   [o^oin   bowing].    Two 
Electors, 
To  represent  the  Golden  Chamber,  come 
To  offer  to  Your  Sacred  Majesty 
Congratulations  now. 

Don  Carlos.  Let  them  come  forth. 
lAside  to  Don  Ricardo.]  The  DoDa  Sol. 

[Ricardo  boat  and  eieit.] 

[Enter    leitii    flambeaux    and   ftiouriah    of 

^umpets  the  Kino  of  Bohsuia  and  the 

DuKS  or  Bavarla,  both  wearing  lioth 

of  gold,  and  with  crowns  on  their  heads. 

Nvmeroua  foUoieeri.     German    nMes 

aarrying  the   banner  of  the  Empire, 

the    double-headed    Eagle,    with    the 

eseuteheon  of  Spain  in  the  middle  (4  it. 

The  Soldiers  divide,  forming  lines  be' 

tteeen  which  the  Electors  past  to  thi 

Emperor,  to  whom  they  bow  loto.    Be 

returns  the  salutalion  by  raising  hit 

hat.] 

DuKB    OF     Bavaria.      Most    Sacred 

Majesty 

Charles,  of  the  Romans  King,  and  Emperor, 

The  Empire  of  the  world  is  in  your  hands  — 

Yours  is  the  throne  to  which  eadi  long 

Si^TMl 


.CjOC^'.^Ic 


*oo 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


And  suffer  stiU  io  aecret.  Let  heart  break 
But   cry  not;  —  they    would    Uugh    at 
tbee. 
DoRa  Sol  [riiU  in  Hbrhani'b  ormt). 

My  Duke! 
HEBNAin.   Nothing  my  soul  holds  now 

but  love! 
DoSaSoi..   Oh,  joyF 
Don  CAnLOB  [aside,   hit  hand  in  hia 
botom].    Stifle  thyself,  young  heart 
BO  full  of  fl&me, 
Let  reign  again  the  better  thoughts  which 

So  long  hast  troubled.  Henceforth  let  thv 


AdH    FUnilftra  —  [loottftff   at   Iha   hawntr] 

The  Emperrir  ib  like 
,  The  Elagle  hia  companion,  in  the  place 
Of  heart,  there'e  but  a  'ecutcheon. 
Hernani.  Cesar  youl  ' 
Don  Cablos.  Don  Juan,  of  your  ancient 
name  and  race 
Your  aoul  ib  worthy  [poiyUing  to  DoRa 

Sol]  —  worthy  e'en  of  her. 
Kneel,  Duke. 

[Heknani  kned*.    Don  Camas 
w^tuteTis  hit  own  Golden  Fleece 
and  pvie  U  on  Hkbnani'h  nAI:.) 
Beceive  this  collar. 

[Don  Carlos  drau'i  ki*  sword  and 
etriket  Um  three  timet  on  the 
^undder.] 
Fait&ful  be, 

For  by  St.   Stephen  now  I   make  thee 
Knight. 

[He  Toiset  and  embraeet  him.} 
Thou    hast    a  collar    softer    and    more 

That  which  is  wanting  to  my  rank  su- 
preme, — 

The   arms  of   loving  womBn,  loved  by 
tbee. 

Thou  wilt  be  happy  —  I  am  Emperor. 

\To  Contpiraton.]  Sirs,  I  forget  your  names. 
Anger  and  hate 

I  will  forget.  Go  —  go  - 

This  is  the  U 
needs. 


Thb  Conbtiratobs.  (Mory  to  Charleel 
DoK  Rut  Goimi  [to  Don  Carlos).    I 

only  suffer,  then  I 
Don  Carlos.  And  I! 
Don  Rot  Gqui.   But  I  have  not  like 
Majesty 
Forgiven  1 
Hbbnani.    W£o  is't  hab  worked  this 

wondrous  change? 
All,  Nobi:bs,  SOLnmRS,  Conspirators. 
Honor  to  Charles  the  Fifth,  and 
Germany  T 
Don  Cablob  [tuminf  to  the  tomb). 
Honor  to  Charlemagne]  Leave  us 
now  together. 

[ExeuTil  all.   Don  Carlob,  alone, 
bendt  toward  the  tomb.] 
Art    thou    content  with    me,    0    Charle- 
magne 1 
Have  I  the  kii^ship's  littleness  stripped 

off? 
Become  as  Emperor  another  man? 
Can  I  Rome's  miter  add  unto  my  helm? 
Have  I  the  right  the  fortunoB  of  the  world 
To  awayT  Have  I  a  steady  foot  that  safe 
Can   tread  the   path,    by   Vandal   ruins 

strewed, 
Which  thou  has  beaten  by  tJiine  armies 

vast? 
Have  I  my  candle  lighted  at  thy  flame? 
Did  I  interpret  right  the  voice  that  spoke 
Within  this  tomb?   Ah,  I  was  lost  —  alone 
Before  on  Empire  —  a  wide  howling  woiid 
That   threatened   and    cooapiredl     There 

,were  the  Danes 
To  punish,  and  the  Holy  Father's  self 
To  compenaate  —  with  Venice  —  Soliman, 
Francis,   and  Lutlier  —  and  a  Uiousand 

Gleaming  already  in  the  shade  —  snares  — 

And  countless  foes;  'a  score  of  nations 

Of  w^cb  might  serve  to  awe  a  score  of 

kings. 
ThingB  ripe,  all  pressing  to  be  done  at 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


Don  GiBCiAiloladj/ pasting],  Muquise, 
I^t  ui  pray  dance  this  time. 

[He  bowe  and  offers  hit  harul.] 
The  Ladt.  You  know,  dear  sir, 
My  husbaod  will  my  d&ncea  with  you  aU 
Count  up. 
Don   Gahcia.     All   the   more   reaeon. 
Pleased  i«  he 
To  count,  it  seems,  and  it  amuses  him. 
He  calculates  —  we  dance. 

[The  ladj/giMshtr  hand.  Exewnl.] 
Don  Sancho  [thoughtfully].    In  truth, 

'tis  strange! 
Don  Matiab.  Behold  the  married  pairT 
Now,  silence  all! 
t?nl«r  Hbhkani  and  DoSa  Sol  hand  in 
hand.  DoRa  Sol  in  magnificent  bridal 
dress.  Ht.KH^tfi  in  black  vdtiel  and  vrilh 
the  Oolden    Fleece    hanging  from   his 
neck.    Behind  them  a  crowd  of  Masks 
and  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  viho  form 
their  Tetinut.    Two  halberdiers  in  rich 
fioertM  follow    them,   and  four   pages 
precede  them.   Every  one  makes  way  for 
them  and  bows  at  they  approach,  Flaar- 
ieh  of  trumpets.] 
HKRNAm  [lolufinp],   Dearfriendat 
Don  Hicardo  [advancing  and  bowing]. 
Your  Excellency's  happincHB 
Makes  ours. 
Don  Fbancisco  [looking  at  DoRa  Sol). 
Now,  by  St.  James,  't  is  Venus'  self 
That  be  is  leading. 

Don  Matiab.   Happiness  is  hisi  • 
Don  Sancho  ito  Don  Matiab).  T  is  late 
DOW,  let  us  leave. 

[AH   salute  the  married  pair  and 
retire  —  eome  by  the  door,  others 
by  the  stainvay  at  the  back.] 
SKsmiHi  [escorting  them].  Adieu) 
Don  Sancfo  [who  has  remained  to  the  last, 
and  pieteing  his  hand].    Be  happy! 
[£xt(  DonSancro.  HERNANiand 
DoSa  Sol  remain  alone.    The 
mund  of  voices  grows  fainter  and 
fainter  till  it  uates  altogether. 
During  the  early  pari  of  the  fol- 
lowing teens  the  sound  of  Irum- 
pels  grates  fainter,  and  the  lights 
by  degrees  are  extinguished  — 
tii  raght  and  mienee  prcMitl.) 


fANI  403 

DoRa  Sol.  At  last  they  all  are  gone. 
Hkrnani  [teeldng  to  draw  her  to  his  arms]. 

Dear  tovel 
DoSa  Sol  [drawing  back  a  little],    ta't 
late?  — 
At  least  to  me  it  seems  ao. 
Hebnani.  Anf^l,  dear, 
Time  ever  dnfs  till  we  t^^ther  are. 
DoRa  Sol.   This  noise  has  wearied  ma. 
Is  it  not  true. 
Dear  lord,  that  all  this  mirth  but  stifling  ie 
To  happiness? 

Hebnani.  Thou  sayest  truly,  love. 
For  happiness  is  serious,  and  asks 
For  hearts  of  bronze  on  which  to  'grave 

itself. 
Pleasure  alarms  it,  flinging  to  it  flowers; 
Its  smile  is  nearer  tears  than  mirtb. 

DoSaSol.   Thy  smile's 
Like  daylight  in  tbtne  eyes. 
[Hermani  teeks  to  lead  her  to  the  door.)  Oh, 
presently. 
Hbknaki.   I  am  thy  slave;  yea,  linger  if 
thou  wilt, 
Whate'er  thou  dost  is  well.  I '11  laugh  and 

sing 
If  thou  desireflt  that  it  should  be  so. 
Bid  the  volcano  stifle  flame,  and  't  will 
Close  up  its  gulfs,  and  on  its  sides  grow 

flowers, 
And  grasses  green. 

DoBa  Sol.  How  good  you  are  to  me. 
My  heart's  Hemani! 

Hernaki.    Madam,  what  name's  that' 
I  pray  in  pity  speak  it  not  again! 
Thou  call'st  to  mind  forgotten  things.    I 

That  he  existed  formerly  in  dreams, 
Hemani,   he  whose  ey«s  flashed  like  a 

A  man  of  night  and  of  the  hills,  s 
Proscribed,  on  vrtiom  « 

The  one  wori  lynfwance.    An  unhappy 

That 

The  man  th  _ 

I  wve  tfte  birds  and  flowers,  and  woods  — ■ 

and  song 
Of  nightingale.   I  'm  Juan  of  Arago". 
Tlifijuigyse  ol^wnt^  iSt~^£api^  ' 
DoSa  Sol.  Happy  am  I! 


:.L|,i,zedi!,GoOQlc 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Hebnani.  What  does  it  matter  now, 
The  rags  I  left  behind  me  at  the  door! 
Behold,  I  to  my  palace  desolate 
Come  back.  Upon  the  threehold-aill  there 

For  me  an  angel ;  I  come  in  and  lift 
Upright  the  broken  columiu,  kindle  fire, 
And  ope  again  the  windowB;  and  the  grass 
Upon   the   courtyard   I   have  all  pluck'd 

up; 
For  me  there  is  but  joy,  cnchajitnieDt,  love, 
Let  them  give  back  my  towers,  and  don- 
jon-keep. 
My  plume,  and  seat  at  the  Cutjiian  board 
Of  council,  cornea  my  bluehing  Dofia  Sol, 
Let  them  leave  us  —  the  rest  forgotten  is. 
Nothing  I've  seen,  nor  said,  nor  have  I 

Anew  my  life  begins,  the  past  effaeing. 
Wisdom  or  madnewi,  you  I  have  and  love. 
And  yoii  are  all  my  joy! 

DoRa  Sol,  How  well  upon 
The  velvet  black  the  golden  collar  ahowel 

Hbknani.  Yon  saw  it  on  the  King  ere 

DoRa  Sol.    I  did  not  notice.    Others, 

what  are  they 
To  me?  Besides,  the  velvet  is  it,  or 
The  satin?  No,  my  Duke,  it  is  tjiy  neck 
Which  suite  the  golden  collar.    Thou  art 

proud 
And  noble,  my  own  lord. 
[HeteekstoUadherindoort.]  Oh, presently, 
A  momenti  See  you  not,  I  weep  with  joy? 
Come  look  upon  the  lovely  night.    [She 

goet  to  the  balutlTade]  My  Duke, 
Only  a  moment  —  but  the  time  to  breathe 
And  gaze.    All  now  is  o'er,  the  torches 

The  music  done.  Night  only  ia  with  us. 

Felicity  moat  perfect!  Think  j-ou  not 
That  now  w'u1e  all  is  still  and  slumber- 

inR, 
Nature,  Italf  waking,  watchg  us  with  love? 
No  cloud  is  in  the  sky.   AirUiiugaJike  us 
Arc  now  at  rest.    Come,  breathe  with  me 

(he  air 
Perfumed  by  roses.   Look,  there  is  no  light. 
Nor  hear  we  any  noise.  Silence  prevails. 
e  moi'O  just  now  from  the  horiion  rose 
while  you  spoke  to  me;  her  trembling 

liftht 


And  thy  dear  voice  together  reached  my 

heart. 
Joyous  and  softly  calm  1  felt,  oh,  thou 
My  lover!    And  it  seemed  that  I  would 

Moat  willingly  have  died. 

Herkani.  Ah,  who  is  there 
Would  not  all  things  forget' when  listening 

Unto  this  voice  celestial!   Thy  speech 
But  seems  a  chant  with  nothing  human 

And  aa  with  one,  who  gliding  down  a 

stream 
On  summer  eve,  sees  pass  before  his  eyes 
A  thousand  flowery  plains,  mj  thoughts 

Into  thy  reveries  I 

DoAa  Sol.  This  silence  is 
Too  deep,  and  toO*^rofound  the  calm.  Say, 

Wouldat  thou  not  like  to  sec  a  star  shine 

From  out  the  depths  —  or  heor  a  voice  of 

Tender  and  sweety  raise  suddenly  its  song? 

Hbknani  [smiling].  Capricious  one!  Just 
now  you  fled  away  / 

From  all  the  songs  and  lights. 

DoRa  Sol.  Ah,  yea,  the  ball! 
But  j^t  a^ird  that  in  the  meadow  sings, 
A  nightiniiale  in  moss  or  shadow  lost, 
Or  flute  far  off.  For  music  sweet  can  pour 
Into  the  soul  a  harmony  divine, 
Tnat  like  a  heavenly  choir  wakee  in  the 

A  thousand  voices!  Charming  would  it  bet 
[They  hear  the  sound  of  a  Iwm  from 
Ike  shade.] 
My  prayer  is  heard. 
HbrNani  \aeide,  tTemMing].    Oh,  miser- 
able man! 
DoRa  Sol.   An  angel  read  my  thought 
—  't  was  thy  good  angel 
Doubtless? 

Hernani  IbOterly].   Yes,  my  good  angell 

[Aside.]   There,  ngiiin! 
DoRa  Sol  [smiliyig].    Don  Jiiao.  I  rec- 
ognize your  born. 
H^R^■^!^.  Is't  so? 

DoRa  Sol.    The  halt  this  serenade  to 
you  belongs? 


.  Google 


Ebrnami.  Tli«  hiilf,  tbou  hast  dedared 

it 
L>(^A  Sou  Ah,  the  ball 
Deteat&btel  Far  bett«r  do  I  bve 
The  hom  that  sounds  from  out  the  woods! 

And  since 
It  LB^ur  hom  't  ia  like  your  voice  to  me. 
[The  hom  loundt  again.] 
HaawANi  [aside].  It  ia  the  tiger  howling 

for  his  prey  I 
DoflA  Sol.    Don  Juui,  this  mu«ic  Btls 

my  heart  with  joy. 
Hbrnani  [drawing  himi^  up  and  look- 
ing lerriMe].    Call  me  Bernanil  call 
me  it  againi 
For  with  that  fsUI  oome  I  have  not  done. 
DofiA  Sol  [trenMing].  What  ails  you? 
Hebnani.  Theoldmanl 
Dora  Sol.  O  God,  what  looksl 
WhoLie  it  ails  you? 

H&iTANi.   That  old  man  who  in 
Hie  darknera  laughs.  Can  you  not  see  him 
there? 
DoRaSol.  Oh,  youorewand'ring!  Who 

is  this  old  man? 
Hernaki.  The  old  man! 
DoRa  Sol.  On  my  knees  I  do  entreat 
'.rhee,  i&y  what  is  the  secret  that  afflicts 
fhee  thus? 
Hkbnani.  I  swore  iti 
DoftA  Sol.  Swore! 

{She  uxUchet  hifynovemenli  with 

anxietj/.   He  itopi  BvddtKi  and 

pane*  Am  hand  octm*  hit  brow.] 

Hkrnani  [atide].   What  have  1  said? 

Oh,  let  me  spare  her.  [Aloud.]  I  —  nought. 

What  was  it 
I  said? 
DoftA  Soi.  You  said  — 
Hbrnani.   No,  no,  I  was  disturbed  — 
And  somewhat  suffering  I  am.  Do  not 
Bo  frightened. 
DofiA  Soil.  You  need  something?  Order 

Tliy-aervant.  [The  hom  mntnde  again.] 

HzRNANi  [aaidt].    Ah,  he  claimsl    He 

claims  the  pledge! 
He  has  my  oath.    [Ftding  for  hit  dagger.] 

Not  there.  It  must  be  done! 
Ahl  — 


AN!  405 

That  I  thought  healed  —  it  has  reopened  • 

[Aside.]   She  inust  be  got  away.    [Afoud.^F 

My  beet  beloved, 
Now,  listen;  there's  a  little  box  that  in 
Less  happy  days  I  carried  with  me  — 

DoSa  Sol,  Ah,  ^ 
I  know  what 't  is  you  mean.  Tdl  me  youi 

Hebnani.    It  holds  a  flask  of  an  elixil 
which 
Will  end  my  sufierings.  —  Go! 
DoRa  Sol.  I  go,  my  lord. 

[Etii  by  At  door  to  their  apartment*., 
HiRNANi  [oJonc].  This,  then,  is  how  my 
happiness  must  end! 
Behold  the  fatal  finger  that  doth  shine 
Upon  the  wall  I  My  bitter  destiny 
Still  jeste  at  me. 

\He  Jail*  iriio  a  profound  yel  am* 
nibive   Ttserie.     Aftervardt   he 
turru  abruptl]/.] 
Ah,  well!  T  hear  no  sound. 
Am  I  myself  deceiving?  — 

[The  Mask  in  black  domino  ap- 
pearsttthebaliiOradeof  Iheitepe. 
Hbrnani  stops  pelrifi^.] 
Tax  Mask.   "Whatsoe'er 
May  happen,  what  the  plaoe,  or  what  the 

Whenever  to  thy  mind  it  seems  the  time 
Has  come  for  me  to  die — blow  on  this  hom 
And  take  no  other  care.   AH  will  be  done." 
This  compact  had  the  dead  for  witneases. 
Is  it  all  done? 

Hbrnani  [in  a  Unc  voiee].    'T  is  hel 

The  Mask.  Unto  thy  home 
I  come,  I  tell  thee  that  it  is  the  time. 
It  is  my  hour.  I  find  thee  hesitate. 

Hbrnani.  Well,  then,  thy  pleasure  a^. 
What  wouldest  thou 
Of  me? 

Thx  Mask.    I  gjv«  tJiee  choice  'twixt 
poison  draught 
And  blade.    I  bear  about  me  both.    We 

nhall 

Deport  together. 

Hesnani.  Be  it  bo. 

Tsb  Ma8i.  Shall  we 
FiiBt  pray? 

Hbrnani.  What  mattuT 

The  Mask.  Which  of  tbon  iritt  tltottl' 


4o6 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


flxBNANi.  ThepoiBon. 

»Tbs  Mask.  Then  bold  out  your  hand. 
[He  gitxt  a  oial  to  Hebnami,  uAo 
pofM  at  reeewing  it.] 
Now  drink. 
That  I  maj'  finirii. 

[Hebkant  I^  the  trial  to  hU  Hpt, 
but  reeoiU.] 
HsRNAin.  Oh,  for  pity's  soke, 
Until  to-moiTow  waiti  If  thou  haat  heart 
Or  soul,  if  thou  art  not  a  specter  just 
Escaped  from  flame,  if  thou  art  not  a  soul 
Accuroed,  forever  lost;  if  on  thy  brow 
Not  yet  has  God  inscribed  hia  "never."  Oh, 
If  thou  hast  ever  known  the  bliss  supreme 
Of  loving,  and  at  twenty  years  of  age 
Of  wedding  the  beloved;  if  ever  thou 
Hast  clasped  the  one  thou  lovedat  in  thine 

Wait  tnito-morrow.  Then  thou  cmist  come 

backt 
The  Mahk.   Childisb  it  is  for  you  to  jest 

this  way  I 
To-moTTowI    Why,  the  bell  this  morning 

toU'd 
Thy  funeral  I  And  I  should  die  this  nigbt, 
And  who  would  come  and  take  thee  after 

I  will  not  to  the  tomb  descend  alone, 
Young  man,  't  is  thou  must  go  with  mel 

Hbrnani.  Well,  then, 
I  say  thee  nay;  and,  dunon,  I  from  thee 
Myself  deliver.  1  will  not  obey. 

The  Mask.  As  I  expected.  Veiy  well. 
On  what, 
Then,  didst  thou  swear?  Ah,  on  a  trifling 

The  mem'ry  of  thy  father's  head.    With 

Such  oath  may  be  forgotten.    Youthful 

Are  light  affairs. 

Hernani.    My  father!  —  father!   Oh 
My  senses  T  shall  loeel 

Tbb  Mask.  Oh,  no,  —  't  is  but 
\  perjury  and  treason. 

Hkkmani.  Dukel  - 

Tbz  Mask.  Since  now 
The  heirs  of  SpOttsh  houses  make  a  jest 
Of  breaking  promises,  1 11  say  Adieu! 

lUt  movei  <uifU>  Itme.] 

HxBMAMl.  Stay! 


TheMabk.  ITien  — 
HaBNANi.  Oh,  cruel  manl  {He  roMn  the 
vial.]  Thus  to  return 
Upon  my  path  at  heaven's  door! 
[Reenter  DoKa  Sol  loiOtout  teeing  the  Math, 
uAo  M  eUmding  erect  near  the  bahtetrade 
of  the  tttttruiay  at  the  back  o}  the  ^age.] 
DoSaSol.  I've  failed 
To  find  that  little  box. 

Hebnant  [ooide].  O  God!  'tis'shel 
At  such  a  moment  here! 

DoAa  Sol.  What  is't,  that  thus 
I  frii^ten  him,  —  e'en  at  my  voice  be 

shakesl 
Wbathdd'stthouinttiyband?  Whatfear. 

ful  thought! 
What  bold'st  Uiou  in  thy  hand?  Reply  to 

[The  Doimto  mtmaikt;  ghe  vtteri 
a  erg  in  retaQniting  Dow  Ettt.] 
Tis  poisoni 
Hkrnani.  Oh,  great  Heaven! 
DoRa  Sol  [to  Hbhnami].  What  is  it 
That  1  have  done  to  theeT  What  mystei^ 
Of  horror?    I'm  deceived  by  thee,  Don 

Hebkani.  Ah,  I  had  thought  to  bide  it 
all  from  thee. 
My  life  I  promised  to  the  Duke  that  time 
He  saved  it.  Aragon  must  pay  this  debt 
To  Bilva.         —        J       - 
^DoMTOol.  Unto  me  you  do  belong. 
Not  bim.   What  e^piify  your  other  oaths? 
[To  Don  Rut  Gomes.]  My  love  it  is  which 

gives  me  strength,  and,  Duke, 
I  will  defend  him  against  you  and  all 
The  worid. 
Don  Rrr  Gomez   [unmoMd].    Defend 
him  if  you  can  against 
An  oath  that's  sworn, 
DoSaSol.  WhatoathT 
Hernani.  Yes,  I  have  sworn. 
DoDa  Sol.   No,  no;  naught  binds  thee; 
it  would  be  a  crime, 
A  madness,  an  atrocity  —  no,  no, 
It  cannot  be. 
Don  Riit  Gouzz.  Come,  Duke. 

[Hehnani  makea  a  geslvre  to  obej/ 
DoftA  Sol  Iriea  to  tlop  Aim.] 
Hekmami.  It  must  be  done. 
Allow  it,  VoUh  8(A.  .My  word  was  i^edgad 


To  tue  Duke,  and  to  my  father  now  in 

heaven t 
DoRa  Sol  [to  Don  Rut  Gouez].  Better 

that  to  a  tigresa  you  should  go 
And  snatch  away  her  young,  than  take 

from  me 
Him  whom  I  love.   Know  you  at  all  what 

This  DoQa  Sol?  Long  time  I  pitied  you, 
^d,  in  compassion  for  your  age,  I  seemed 
The  gentle  girl,  timid  and  innocent, 
But  now  see  eyes  made  moist  by  tears  of 

rage. 

[She  draws  a  dagger  from  her  bo9om.\ 
See  you  this  dagger?  Old'man  imbedlel 
Do  you  no))  fear  the  steel  when  eyes  flash 

threat? 
Take  care,  Don  Ruyl  I'm  of  thy  family. 
Urten,  mine  uncle!  Had  I  been  your  child 
It  had  been  ill  for  you,  if  you  had  laid 
A  band  upon  my  husband! 

(5A«  thrmoe  away  the  dagVt  "f"^ 
f(^  on  her  knees  befort  Wl.) 
At  thy  feet 

I  falll  Mercy!  Have  pity  on  ue  both. 
Alael  my  lord,  I  am  but  woman  weak. 
My  stTNigth  dies  out  within  my  soul,  I  fail 
So  easily;  't  is  at  your  knees  I  plead, 
I  supplicate  —  have  mercy  on  us  bothi 
Don  Rut  Gomez,  Dofla  BcAl 
DoRa    Sol.     Oh,    pardon!     With    UB 

Spaniards 
Grief  burate  forth  in  stonny  words,  you 

know  it. 
Alaat  you  used  not  to  be  barah!  My  uncle. 
Have  pity,  you  are  killing  me  indeed 
In  toucfamg  him!  Mercy,  hare  pity  now. 
So  weU  I  love  him! 

Don  Rut  Gomes  \gloomily].    You  love 

HsBNANi.  Thou  weepesti 

DoRaSol.  No,  luj  IflW,  uo,  no,"S  must 
Not  be.  I  will  not  have  you  die. 
[r*  Don  Rut.]  To-day 
Be  mereiful,  and  I  will  love  you  well, 
Vou  also. 

Don  Rut  Goube.  After  him;  the  dregs 
you  'd  ^ve. 
The  remnants  of  your  love,  and  friendliness. 
Still  less  and  lees.  —  Oh,  think  you  thita  to 

quench 
The  thuit  that  now  devours  me? 


[PoirUing  to  HkbkanT.)   He  alone 

Is  everything.  For  me  kind  pityings! 

With  such  sJSection,  what,  pray,  could  I  ^^ 

do? 
Furyl  't  is  he  would  have  your  heart,  your 

And  be  enthroned,  and  grant  a  look  fton. 

you 
As  alms;  and  if  vouchsafed  a  kindly  «ord 
'T  is  he  would  tell  you,  —  say  so  much,  it  is 
Enough,  —  coning  in  heart  the  greedy  one 
The  beggar,  unto  whom  he 's  forced  to  fling 
The  drops  remaining  in  the  emptied  glass. 
Oh,  shunet  derision!  No,  we'll  finish. 
Drink! 
Hbbnani.    He  has  my  promise,  and  it 

must  be  kept. 
Don  Rut  Goubx.  Proceed. 

[Hernani   raises  Ae   vial   to   kis 
lips;  DoRa  Sol  throws  htrtetS  on 
hisarm.\ 
DoRa  Sol.  Not  yet.  Deign  botb  of  you 

to  hear  me. 
Don  Rnr  Gomez.  The  grave  is  open  and 

I  cannot  wait. 
DofiA  Sol.    A  moment  only,  —  Duke, 
and  my  Don  Juan,  — 
Ah!  both  are  cruel!  What  is  it  I  askT 
An  instautl  That  is  all  I  beg  from  you. 
Let  a  poor  woman  speak  what's  in  her 

Ob,  let  me  speak  — 
IkiN  Rut  Goukz.  I  cannot  wait. 
DoRa  Sol.  My  lord, 
You  make  me  tremblel  What,  then,  have 
I  done? 
Hbrnani,  His  crime  is  rending  him. 
DoRa  Sol  [«UU  AoUing  hia  orfn).  You«e( 
JuUweU 
I  have  a  thousand  things  to  say. 
Don  Rut  Gomxz  [to  Hernani].  Die  — 
die 
You  must. 

DoRa  Sol  [ttOl  hanging  on  his  arm].  Don 
Juan,  when  all's  said,  indeed. 
Thou  shalt  do  what  thou  wilt. 
[She  snatches  the  oial.]  I  have  it  now! 

[She  iifU  the  viol  for  Hbrnani  aaid 
the  old  man  to  see.] 
Don    Rut    Gomez.    Since    with    two 
women  I  have  here  to  deal, 
It  needs,  Don  Juan,  that  I  elsewhere  go 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Id  sttJ^  of  souls.  OravQ  oaths  you  took 
to  me, 
^^And  by  the  race  from  which  you  Rprong. 
I  go 
Unto  your  father,  and  to  speak  among 
The  dead.  Adieu. 

[He  moves  as  if  to  depart.    Hbb- 
NA14I  holdt  kim  back.] 
Hernani.   Stay,  Duke. 
\To  DoRa  Sol.)  Alas!  1  do 
.   ijnplore  thee.  Wouldat  thou  wish  to  see  in 

A  perjured  felon  only,  and  e'erwhere 
I  go  "a  traitor"  written  on  my  brow? 
(n  pity  give  the  poison  back  to  me. 
'T  is  by  our  love  I  ask  it,  and  our  souls 
Immortal  — ■ 

DoSa  Sol  [aadly].  And  thou  wiltT    tSAe 
drinla.]   Now,  take  the  rest. 

DoM  Rut  Gouez  [aeide],  ."T  was,  then, 

DoAa  Sol  [retarning  the  hatf-emplied  vial 

to  Hernani].  I  t«Il  thee,  take. 
Heenani  \U>  Don  Rot).  See'st  thou, 
Oh,  miserable  man! 

DoflA  Sol.  Grieve  not  for  me, 
I've. left  thy  share. 

Hernani  [taking  Hit  vial].   O  God! 

DoflA  Sol.  Not  thus  would'st  thou 

■  Have  left  me  mine.   But  thou!   Not  thine 

the  heart 
Of  Christian  wiTe!   Thou  knowest  not  to 

As  Silvas  do  —  but  I  've  drunk  first  — 

made  sure. 
Now,  drink  it,  if  thou  wilt! 

Hbdnani.  What  hast  thoii  done. 
Unhappy  one? 
DoRaSol.  'T  was  thouwho  willed  it  bo. 
Hernani.  It  is  a  frightful  death! 
DoRa  Sol.  No  —  no  —  why  bo? 
Hernani.    This  philter  leads  unto  the 

grave. 
DoRa  Sol.  And  ought 
We  not  this  night  to  rest  together?  Does 
It  matter  in  what  bedT 

Hernani.  My  father,  thou 
Thyself  avei^est  upon  me,  who  did 
Forget  thee! 

[He  liflt  the  trial  to  hit  naidk.] 
DoSa  Sol    [Ihrmtring   hertelf  on   him\. 
Heavens,  what  strange  agonyl 


Ah,  throw  this  philter  far  from  theel    My 

Is  wand'ring.    Stop!    Alas!  oh,  my  Uod 

This  drug  id  potent,  in  the  heart  it  wakes 
A  hydra  with  a  thousand  tearing  teeth 
Devouring  it.  I  knew  not  that  such  panpfi 
Could  be!  What  is  the  thing?   T  is  liqui< 

Drink  not!  For  much  thou'dst  sufTerl 

Heenani  [to  Don  Rut].  Ah,  thy  eon! 
Is  cruel!  Could'at  thou  not  have  found  for 

Another  drug? 

\Hk  drinks  and  throwa  the  oiai  avay.) 
DoSa  Sol.  What  dost  thou? 
Hernani.   What  thyself 
Hast  done. 
DofiA  Sol.   Come  to  my  arms,  young 
lover,  now. 

[Th^'  fit  doion  do«e  to  each  alher.\ 
Does  not  one  suffer  horribly? 
Hernani.  No,  no. 

DoRaSol.  These  are  our  marriage  ritee! 
But  for  a  bride  , 

I'm  very  pale,  aay  am  I  not? 
Hernani.  Ah  me! 
Don  Rett  Gou£z.   Fulfilled  b  now  the 

fatal  destiny! 
Hernani.    Oh,  misery  and  despair  to 

know  her  pangs! 

DoflA   Sol.     Be   calm.     I'm   better. 

Toward  new  brighter  light 

We  now  together  open  out  our  wings. 

Let  us  with  even  flight  set  out  to  reach 

A  fairer  world.  Only  a  kiss  —  a  kiss! 

[They  embrace.^ 
Don  Rut  Gouez.  Oh,  agony  supreme! 
Hernani  [in  a  feebU  voice].  Oh,  bleas'd 


for  n 


a  life  by  specters  fol- 


And  by  abysses  yawning  .circled  still. 
Yet  grantSj  that  weary  of  a  road  so  rough, 
I  Tall  asleep  my  lips  upon  thy  halBtr-* 

i)ON  Roy  GoHez.  uow  nappy  are  they! 

Hernani  [in  voiee  gro\Bing  vttaher  and 
uwoAer). -Come,— come,  DoOa  Sol, 
All's  dark.  Dost  thou  n.ot  suffer? 

DoRa  Sol  [in  a  voice  equaUy  fainl]. 
Nothing  now. 
Oh,  nothing. 

GooqIc 


HERNANI                                                      409 

HiiBiiANi.    Bewt  thou  not  fires  in  the 

We  love  each  other  —  we  ai«  sleeping  thua 

gloom? 

It  JBOur  bridal.   [In  a  Sailing  eoiet.]  I  en- 

DoSa Sol.  Not  yet. 

treat  you  not 

aMKsunlwWiaiigh\.  Behold  — 

To  wake -him,  my  Lor4  Duke  of  MeudocS, 

IHsfaU,.] 

For  he  is  weary. 

Don  Rut  Gombz  [romTif  the  head,  which 

[SfaihiTTaTOugrfWe/oce^HiiRNANJ.prum 

fatle  again].   He'edeadl 

to  me,  my  love. 

More  near  —  still  closer  — 

hert^  on  lAe  mei^  Oh,  no,  we  deep. 

^heSa>i»haek.\ 

He  ileepfl.  It  is  my  opoiwe  that  here  you 

Don  Rnr  GoMis.    DeadI    Oh,  I  am 

see. 

damn'dl                 [He  kiiii  himadSA 

cmizedbvGoOQlc 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


THE  SON-IN-LAW   OF   M.   POIRIER 

(L£  GENDRE  de  M.  POfRlER) 

By  EMILE  AUGIER  and  JULES  SANDEAU 

TrmntUudfy  BARRETT  H.  CLARK 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


CHARACTERS 

FomtEB 

Gabtok,  Marqait  de  Preda 

HxcTOR,  Dvke  de  Montmeymn 

VmBDEurt 

Salouon, 
Chbvasbub,      crtAHon 

COONX, 

Vatbl 
Tbb  Fobivb 
A  Sbbtant 

n  IdfcM  ptoM  in  Ou  homt  ctf  M.  Poiriar,  at  Parit, 


ciilizedbvGoOQic 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


THE  SON-IN-LAW  OF  M.   POIRIER 


ACT  I 

A  very  riddj/  /umttAed  drattnng-room. 
Then  are  doort  on  either  tide,  and  mndmet 
at  tiie  hack,  looHng  out  vpon  the  garden. 
There  is  o  fireplace  in  vihidi  a  JJre  is  bum- 


Sebtant.  I  repeat,  Corporal,  Mon- 
Bi^ur  le  Marquis  caimot  possibly  receive. 
He  is  not  up  yet. 

DuKK.  At  nine  o'olockl  \Ande.\  Ha, 
the  mm  rises  slowly  during  the  honeymoon. 
—  What  time  ia  breakfast  served  here? 

Sebvant.  At  eleven;  but  what  busi- 
ness  is  that  of  yours? 

DuxE.  You  will  by  another  place. 

Servant.  For  your  colonel? 

Dtke.  Yee,  for  my  colonel.  Is  this  to- 
day's paper? 

Servant.  Yes:  February  IB,  1846. 

Duke.  Give  it  to  me. 

Sbhvant.  I  have  n't  read  it  yet. 

Duke.  You  refuse  to  let  me  have  it? 
Well,  you  see,  don't  you,  that  I  can't  wait? 
Announce  me. 

Servant.  Who  are  you? 

DoKE.  The  Duke  de  Montmeynn. 

Servant.  You're  jokingi 
[Enter  Gabton-I 

Gaston.  Why,  it's  you!  [rAevemtroce.] 

Servant  [atide\.  The  devill  I've  put 
my  foot  in  it? 

Duke.  My  dear  Gaston! 

Gaston.  My  dear  Hector!  I'm  ao  glad 
to  see  you! 

Dues.  And  I  you! 

Gabton.  You  could  n't  posribly  have 
arrived  at  a  better  time. 

DuEE.  How  do  you  mean? 

Gaston.  Let  me  tell  you  —  but,  my 
poor  fellow,  the  way  you're  rigged  up! 


Who  would  recognise  under  that  tunic  one 
of  the  princes  of  youth,  the  perfect  model 
of  prodigal  sons? 

DuKB.  Next  to  you,  old  man.  We've 
both  settled  down;  you  have  married,  I 
have  become  a  soldier,  and  whatever  you 
think  of  my  uniform,  I  prefer  my  regiment 
to  yours. 

Ga0ton  ]}aaking  ai  the  Duke's  un^omt]. 
Thank  youl 

Duke.  Yee,  look  at  the  tunic.  It's  the 
only  oostume  that  can  keep  me  from  boring 
myself  to  death.  And  this  little  decoration 
which  you  pretend  not  to  notice  — 

[He  shotM  hia  corporal's  ttripes.] 

Gaston.  Stripes! 

Duke.  Which  I  picked  up  on  the  field 
of  laly,  old  man  — 

Gaston.  And  when  will  you  get  the 
star  for  bravery? 

Duke.  'My  dear  fellow,  please  let's  not 
joke  about  those  things.  It  was  all  very 
well  in  the  past,  but  to-day  the  Cross  is  my 
one  ambition.  I  would  willingly  shed  a  pint 
of  my  blood  for  it. 

GAmvN.  You  are  a  real  soldier,  I  seel 

Duke.  Yes  —  I  love  my  profession. 
It's  the  only  one  for  a  ruined  gentleman. 
I  have  but  one  r^ret:  that  I  did  not  enter 
it  long  ago.  This  active  and  adventurous 
life  is  infinitely  attractive.  Bven  discipline 
has  its  pecuUar  charm:  it's  healthy,  it 
calms  the  mind  —  this  having  one's  life 
arranged  for  one  in  advance,  without  any 
possible  discussion,  and  consequently, 
without  hesitation  and  without  regret, 
lliat 's  why  I  can  feel  so  care-free  and  happy . 
I  know  my  duty,  I  do  it,  and  I  am  con- 

Gaston.  Without  very  great  cost  on 
your  part. 

Duke.  And  then,  old  man,  those  pa- 
triotic ideas  we  used  to  make  fun  of  at  the 
Cafi  de  Parii  and  call  chauvinism,  make 
OUT  hearts  swell  when  we  face  the  enemy. 


4itf 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


The  first  caonon-Bhot  knocks  forever  the 
Ust  veet^  of  that  nonsenee  out  of  i 
nunds;  the  flag  then  ia  no  longer  a  bit  of 
cloth  at  the  end  of  a  stick:  it  is  the  very 
vesture  of  the  palrie. 

Gabton.  That '8  all  very  well,  but  thin 
eathusiasm  for  a  flag  which  is  not  your 

DoKB.  NoDsenae,  you  can't  see  the  color 
in  the  midat  of  the  powder  smoke. 

Oaston.  Well,  ^e  important  point  is 
that  you  are  satisfied.  Are  you  going  to 
stay  in  Paris  For  tome  time7 

Duke.  Just  a  month.  You  know  how 
I've  arranged  my  manner  of  living? 

Gabton.  No  —  tell  me. 

DiTKB.  Didn'tif  It's  really  very  clever: 
before  leaving,  I  put  the  remains  of  my  for- 
tune with  a  certain  banker:  about  a  hun- 
dred thousand  francs,  the  income  from 
which  allows  me  during  a  month  in  the 
year  to  live  as  I  used  to  live.  So  that  I  live 
for  one  month  at  a  six  thousand  francs' 
rata,  and  for  the  rest  of  the  year  I  live  on 
mx  sous  a  day.  Naturally,  I  have  chosen 
carnival  season  for  my  prodigalities.  It  be- 
gan yesterday,  but  my  first  visit  hsa  been 
to  you. 

Gabton.  Thanks!  But,  you  under- 
stand, I  shan't  bear  of  your  staying  any- 
wben  but  with  me. 

Dttke.  But  Idon't  wont  to  be  in  the  way. 

Gaston.  You  won't:  there's  a  small 
pavilion  here,  at  the  end  of  the  garden. 

DuxB.  To  be  perfectly  frank,  I'm  not 
afraid  of  you,  but  of  myself.  You  see  — 
you  lead  a  family  life  here:  there's  j^ur 
wife,  your  father-in-law  — 

Gabton.  Ah,  you  imagine  that,  simply 
because  I  have  married  the  daughter  of  a 
retired  dry-goods  merchant,  my  home  is 
a  temple  of  boredom,  that  my  wife  brought 
with  her  a  heap  of  bourgeois  virtuee,  that 
all  that  remains  for  me  to  do  is  write  an 
inscription  over  my  door:  "Here  lies  Gas- 
ton, Marquis  de  Prealea."  Make  no  mis- 
take, I  live  like  a  prince  even,  race  my 
horses,  gamble  like  the  devil,  buy  pictures, 
have  the  finest  chef  in  Paris,  —  the  fellow 
pretends  he's  a,  direct  descendant  of  Vatel, 
and  takes  his  art  ever  so  sariously,  —  I  in- 
vita  whom  I  like  to  meals  (by  tho  way. 


you'U  dine  with  all  my  friends  to-morrow, 
and  you  '11  see  how  I  treat  them) .  In  abort, 
marriage  has  not  changed  me  in  the  least 
—  except  it  has  done  away  with  creditota. 

DttKB.  Bo  your  wife  and  your  father-in- 
law  leave  you  free  rein? 

Gabton.  AbsoIut«ly.  My  wife  is  a  nice 
little  boarding-school  miss,  rather  pretty, 
somewhat  awkward,  timid,  still  wide- 
eyed  with  wonder  at  the  sudden  change  in 
her  station  in  life,  who  passes  the  greater 
part  of  her  time,  I'll  warrant,  looking  at 
the  Marquise  de  Presle*  in  her  mirror.  As 
to  Monsieur  Poirier,  my  father-in-law,  he 
is  worthy  of  his  name.  Modest  and  nutri- 
tious like  all  fruit-trees,  he  was  bom  to 
play  the  part  of  a  wall  fruit-tree.  His  high- 
est ambition  is  to  serve  as  a  gentleman's 
deesert:  that  ambition  is  now  satisfied. 

Duke.  Come  now,  do  such  boui^eo'iB 
still  enst? 

GiJ9TON.  In  a  word,  he  is  Georges 
Dandin  become  a  father-in-law.  But, 
really,  I  've  made  a  magnificent  match  of  it. 

Dttxb.  I  can  well  believe  that  you  had 
good  reBsons  for  oontraoting  this  misal- 

Gaston.  Judge  for  yourself.  You  know 
the  desperate  straits  I  was  in?  I  was  ao 
orphan  at  the  age  of  fifteen,  master  of  a 
fortune  at  twenty.  I  quickly  spent  my 
patrimony,  and  was  rapidly  running  up 
a  capital  of  debts,  worthy  the  nephew  of 
my  uncle.  Now,  at  the  very  moment  when 
that  capital  reached  the  figure  of  five  hun- 
dred thousand  francs,  thanks  to  my  activi- 
ties, what  did  my  seventy-year-old  uncle 
do  but  marry  a  young  girl  who  had  fallen 
in  love  with  him?  Corvisart  said  that  at 
seventy  one  always  has  children.  I  did  n't 
count  on  cousins  —  well,  I  was  then  forced 

Duke.  And  you  then  occupied  the  posi- 
tion of  honorary  nephew. 

Gabton.  I  thought  of  taking  a  position 
in  the  rank  of  active  sons-in-law.  At  that 
time  Heaven  sent  Monseur  Poirier  across 
my  path. 

DOKX.  How  did  you  happen  to  meet 
him? 

Gabton.  He  bad  some  money  he  wanted 
to  invest  —  it  was  the  merest  matter  of 


THE  SON-IN-LAW  OF  M.  POIRIER 


417 


chance,  and  we  met.  I  lacked  auffioient 
guarantee  u  a  debtoi,  but  I  offered  him 
enough  as  a  son-in-law.  I  made  inquiries 
about  iuB  pereoD,  aaHured  myself  that  his 
fortune  bod  been  honorably  acquired,  and 
then,  by  Jove,  I  married  his  daughter. 

Dins.  Who  brought  you  —  ? 

Gabton.  The  old  fellow  had  four  mil- 
lions; now  he  has  only  three. 

DuKB.  A  dowry  of  a  million? 

Gaston.  Better  still:  you'll  see.  He 
agreed  to  pay  my  debts.  By  the  way,  to- 
day a  visible  proof  of  the  phenomenon  can 
be  seen,  I  believe.  It  was  a  matter  of  five 
hundred  thousand  francs.  The  day  we 
signed  the  contract  he  gave  me  stock  which 
win  net  me  an  income  of  twenty-five  thou- 
sand francs:  five  hundred  thousand  franca 

DuKB.  There's  yourmillion.  And  then? 
Gaston.  Then?  He  inmsted  on  not  bang 
separated  from  his  daughter  and  agreed  to 
defray  all  household  expenses  so  long  as  we 
lived  in  his  home  with  him.  So,  after  re- 
oeiving  lodging,  heat,  carriages,  and  board, 
I  still  have  an  income  of  twenty-five  thou- 
sand francs  for  roy  wife  and  myeelf. 
DuKB.  Very  neat. 
Gabton.  Wait  a  moment. 
Duke.  Something  else? 
Gastfon.   He  bought  back  the  Chateau 
de  Presles,  and  I  expect  that  any  day  I  shall 
find  the  deeds  under  my  plate  at  breakfast. 
DcKB.  What  a  delightful  father-in-law  I 
Gaston.  Wait  a  moment! 
DuKB.   What?   More? 
Qa9ton.    As  soon  as  the  contract  was 
signed,  be  came  to  me,  took  my  hands  in 
hia,  and  made  any  number  of  excuses  for 
being  no  more  than  sixty  years  old;  but  he 
assured  me  that  he  woidd  hurry  on  to  the 
ageof  eighty.  But  I'minno  greathaste  — 
he's  not  in  the  way,  the  poor  man.  He 
knows  his  place,  goes    to    bed  with  the 
chiokens,  rises  at  cock-orow,  keeps  his  ac- 
counts, and  is  ready  to  satisfy  my  every 
whim.   He  is  a  steward  who  does  not  rob 
me;  I  should  have  to  look  long  to  find  a 
better. 

Dmtx.    Really,  you  are  the  most  for- 
tunate of  men. 
Gastoet.  And.wait  —  you  might) 


that  my  marriage  has  leaaened  me  in  the 
eyes  of  the  world,  that  it  has  "taken  the 
shine  out  of  me,"  as  Monsieur  Poirier  says. 
Never  worry,  I  still  hold  my  place  in  the 
social  world.  I  still  lead  in  matters  of  fash- 
ion. The  women  have  forgiven  me.  As  I 
was  saying,  you  have  arrived  in  the  nick  of 

DoKB.  Why? 

Gabtom.  Don't  you  understand — you, 
my  bom  second? 

DuKB.  A  duel? 

Gabton.  Yes,  a  nice  little  duel,  the  kind 
we  used  to  have,  in  the  days  of  our  youth. 
Well,  what  do  you  say?  Is  the  old  Marquis 
de  Presleedead?  Are  you  thinking  of  bury- 
ing him  yet? 

DvEE.  Whom  are  you  fitting  with,  and 
why? 

Gabton.  The  Viscount  de  Pontgrimaud 
—  a  gambling  quarrel. 

DuBB.  Gambling  quairel?  Can't  it  be 
decided  otherwise? 

Gabton.  Is  that  the  way  you  are  taught 
to  regulate  affairs  of  honor  in  the  regiment? 

DuEB.  Yea,  in  the  regiment.  There  we 
are  taught  what  use  to  make  of  our  blood. 
But  you  can't  persuade  me  that  you  must 
shed  it  over  a  gambling  quarrel? 

Gaston.  But  what  if  this  particular 
quarrel  were  only  a  pretext?  What  if  there 
be  something  else  —  behind  it? 

DiTKB.  AwomanI 

Gaston.  That's  it. 

DoxB.  An  intrigue  —  so  soon?  That's 
badr 

Gaston.  How  oould  I  help  it?  A  last 
year's  passion  I  bad  imagined  dead  of  the 
cold,  and  which,  a  month  after  my  mar- 
riage, had  its  Indiap  Summer.  You  see, 
there's  nothing  serious  in  it,  and  no  cause 
for  worry. 

DnxB.  And  might  I  know  —  ? 

Gaston.  I  canhavenosecretafromyou: 
the  Counteea  de  Montjay. 

DuEB.  My  compliments,  but  the  mat- 
ter it  serious.  I  once  thought  of  nmiring 
love  to  her,  but  I  retired  before  the  dangers 
of  such  a  liaiton — that  sort  of  danger  has 
little  enough  of  chivalry  in  it.  You  know,  of 
course,  that  the  Countess  has  no  money  of 
her  own? 


4i8 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Oabton.  That  she  is  waiting  for  the  for- 
time  of  her  aged  husb&ad;  that  he  would 
have  the  bad  taate  to  disinherit  her  in  case 
he  discovered  her  guilt?  I  know  all  that. 

Dttke.  Andoutofaheerlightaeesof  heart 
have  you  impoeed  that  bond  on  yourself? 

Gaston.  Habit,  a  cerUun  residue  of  my 
fonner  love,  the  t«mptation  of  forbidden 
fruit,  the  pleasure  of  cutting  out  that  little 
fool  Pontgrimaud,  whom  I  detest  — 

Ddxe.  Why,you'redoinghimanhonor! 

Gaston.  What  else  can  I  do?  He  gets  on 
my  nerves,  the  little  imp;  he  imagineB  that 
he  is  a  noble  by  reason  of  his  knightjy 
achievements,  simply  because  his  grand- 
father, Monsieur  Grimaud,  supplied  arms 
to  the  Government.  He's  a  Viscount, 
Heaven  knows  how  or  why,  and  he 
imagines  that  he  belongs  to  a  nobility 
older  than  our  own.  He  never  loses  an  op- 
portunity to  ptoae  as  champion  of  the 
nobility,  and  tries  to  make  people  believe 
for  that  very  reason  that  he  represents  it. 
If  a  Montmorency  is  scratched,  he  howls 
as  if  he  himself  had  been  hit.  I  tell  you 
there  was  a  quarrel  brewing  between  us, 
and  last  night  it  came  to  a  head  over  a 
game  of  cards.  I'll  let  him  off  with  a 
scratch  —  the  Snrt  in  the  history  of  his 
family. 

DuKx.  Has  he  aent  his  aeoonds  to  you7 

Gabton.  I  eiqiect  th«n  at  any  moment. 
You  and  Grandlieu  wiU  hdp  me, 

DuxE.  Very  well. 

Gabton.  Of  course,  you  will  stay  here 
with  me? 

Duxs.  Delighted. 

QASrOK.  Though  this  is  carnival  season, 
you  don't  mtend  to  parade  about  as  a  hero, 
do  you? 

DuKX.    No,  I  wrote  beforehand  to  my 

Gaston.  Shi  I  hear  some  one  talking. 
It's  my  father-in-law.  You'll  now  have  an 
opportunity  of  seeing  him,  with  his  old 
friend  Verdelet,  a  former  partner.  You're 
in  luck  — 

[Enter  FonuEnamJ  VannauBT.] 

Gabton.  How  are  you.  Monsieur  Ver- 
delet? 

Viia>Bi.BT.  Your  servant,  meadeun. 


Gaston.  A  dear  friend  of  mine,  my  dear 
Monsieur  Poirier:  the  Duke  de  Mont- 
meyran. 

Dim.  Corporal  of  the  African  Cavslry. 

VerdbiiBT  laside].  Indeed! 

PomiKB.  Most  honored.  Monsieur  le 
Duel 

Gaston.  More  honored  than  you  think, 
dear  Monsieur  Poirier:  for  Monsieur  le 
Due  has  been  good  enough  to  accept  the 
hoepitality  which  I  have  offered  him. 

Vebdeuit  [onde].    Another  rat  in  the 


DuKii.  I  beg  your  pardon,  n 
for  acoeptmg  an  invitation  which  my  friend 
Gaston  has  poaubly  been  a  trifle  too  hasty 
in  offering. 

PoiKiBB.  Monsieur  le  Marquis,  my  son- 
in-law,  need  never  feel  obliged  fa  conauli 
me  before  inviting  his  friends  to  stay  with 
him  here.  The  friends  of  our  friends  — 

GAffroN.  Very  well,  Monsieur  Poirier. 
Hector  will  stay  in  the  garden  pavilion. 
Is  it  ready  for  him? 

PonuEB.  I  shall  see  to  it  at  once. 

Dttkh.  I  am  very  sorry,  monsieur,  to 
cause  you  any  annoyance  — 

Gaston.  None  at  all;  Monsieur  Poirier 
will  be  only  too  happy  — 

Poirier.  Too  happy  — 

Gaston.  And  you  wiU  of  course  give 
orders  that  the  little  blue  coup£  be  placed 
at  his  disposal? 

PoiBiBR.  The  one  I  usually  use  —  ? 

Duke.  Oh,  I  positively  refuse  — 

PoiBiER.  But  lean  ea^y  hire  one;  there 
is  a  stand  at  the  end  of  the  street. 

VxBnBLET  [atide].  Fooll  Idbtl 

Gaston  [to  Oie  Duke].  Now,  let  us  take 
a  look  at  Uie  stales.  Yesterday  I  got  a 
superb  Arabian  —  you  can  tell  me  what 
you  think  of  him.   Come. 

Duke  {lo  Poirier].  With  your  permis- 
sion, monsieur.  Gaston  is  impatient  to 
show  me  hie  luxurious  surroundings.  I 
don't  blame  him.  He  can  then  tell  me  more 
about  you. 

Poirier.  Monsieur  le  Due  is  well  ac- 
quainted with  my  son-in-law's  delicate  na- 
ture and  tastes. 

Gaston  [attde  to  tht  Duke|.  You'll  Bp<»l 
my  [ather-in-lawl   IGmng  Imoitrd  tits  door, 


THE  SON-IN-LAW  OF  M.  POIRIER 


419 


md  tlopping.]  By  the  way,  Monsieur 
Foirier,  you  know  I  Bin  pving  &  grand 
diimer  party  to-morrow  night.  Will  you 
give  us  the  pleasure  of  your  company? 

Poirhr.  No;  tiiank  you  —  I  am  dining 
with  V«rdolet. 

Qaston.  Ah,  Monsieur  Vwdelet,  I  am 
very  angry  with  you  for  c&nying  off  my 
fsther-in-Uw  every  time  I  have  company 


T  {ari<i«).  ImpOTtinentl 

PoiBUK.  A  man  of  my  age  would  only 
be  in  the  wayl 

Vbboblbt  [atide].  You  old  Girontet 

Gabton'.  As  you  please,  Monsieur 
Poirier.  [He  goet  md  aiih  the  Dttxb.) 

Vkbdblbt.  1 1^  you,  that  aon-in-law  of 
yours  is  mighty  obsequious  with  you.  You 
warned  me  b^orehand:  you'd  know  how 
to  make  him  rcepeet  you. 

PotRiSK.  I'm  doing  what  pleases  me. 
I  prefer  to  be  loved  than  fe&r«d. 

VaBDELXT.  You've  not  always  thov^t 
that  way.  Well,  you've  succeeded:  jout 
son-in-law  ia  on  a  more  familiar  footing 
irith  you  than  with  the  other  aervanta. 

FoiBixR.  I  can  do  without  your  clever 
remarks,  and  I  advise  you  to  mind  your 

VxBDELvr.  This  is  my  own  business,  I 
tell  you  I  Are  n't  we  partners?  Why,  we're 
a  little  like  the  Siamese  twins.  Now,  when 
you  grovel  before  tiiat  marquis,  I  have  a 
baid  time  keeping  my  temper. 

PoiBixR.  Grovd7  As  if  —  ?  That  mar- 
quisl  Do  you  think  I  am  daailed  by  his 
title?  I've  always  been  more  of  a  Libnal 
than  you,  and  I  still  am.  I  don't  care  a 
■nap  of  my  finger  for  the  nobilityt  Ability 
and  virtue  are  the  only  social  distinctions 
that  I  recognise  and  before  which  I  bow 
down. 

Vkbdeldt.  Is  your  son-in-law  virtuous? 

PoiBiXB.  You  make  me  tired.  Do  yon 
want  me  to  make  him  feel  that  he  owes 
everything  to  me? 

ViBDUAT.  Oh,  oh;  you  have  become 
very  considaiate  in  your  old  age  —  the  re- 
sult of  your  economical  habits,  doubtless. 
Look  here,  Poirier,  I  never  did  approve  of 
this  marriage;  you  know  that  I  always 
wanted  my  dear  goddaugjiter  to  marry  a 


man  from  our  own  class.  But  you  refused 
to  listen  to  reason  — 

PontiBB.  Ha,  hal  Listen  to  monsieur! 
That's  the  last  etrawl 

Vbbdklbt.  Well,  why  not? 

PommR.  Oh,Monsieur  Verdelet,  youare 
most  clever  and  you  have  the  noblest 
ideals;  you  have  read  amusing  books,  you 
have  your  own  ideas  on  every  subject,  but 
iu  the  matter  of  conunon  sense,  I  can  give 
you  enormous  odds. 

VxmtBLvr.  Oh,  as  to  common  sense  — 
you  mean  business  sense.  I  d(«'t  deny 
that:  you've  piled  up  four  millions,  while 
I've  b«rely  made  forty  thousand  a  year. 

PoiamR.  And  that  you  owe  to  me. 

VxRDKLXT.  Idon'tdenyit.  What  I  have 
I  owe  to  you.  But  it  is  all  going  eventu- 
ally to  your  daughter,  after  your  son-io- 
taw  has  ruined  you. 

PoiRTBR.  Ruined  me? 

Verdsiat,  Yea  —  within  ten  years. 

PoiRiBR.  You're  craiy. 

Vbrokudt.  At  the  rate  he's  going  now, 
you  know  only  too  well  how  long  it  will 
take  him  to  run  through  his  money. 

PontixR.  Well,  that's'my  business. 

VxBDiiLKT.  If  you  were  tiw  only  one 
oonoemed,  I'd  never  open  my  lipB. 

Poibhr.  Why  not?  Don't  you  take 
any  interest  in  my  welfare?  You  don't 
care,  then,  if  I  am  ruined?  I,  who  have 
made  your  fortune? 

VxRORLBT.  What  is  the  matter  with  you? 

PoLRisR.  I  don't  like  ungrateful  peoplet 

ViRDiLBT.  The  devill  You're  taking 
out  your  son-ip-law's  familiarities  on  me. 
I  was  going  to  say,  if  you  were  the  only 
(me  conoemed,  I  could  at  least  be  patient 
about  it:  you  are  n't  my  godson,  but  it 
happens  that  your  dau^ter  is  my  god- 
daughter. 

PoiRiBR.  I  was  a  fool  to  give  you  that 
right  over  her. 

Verdelbt.  You  might  easily  have  found 
some  one  who  loved  her  less. 

PomixR.  Yes,  yes,  I  know  —  you  lov» 
her  more  than  I  do  —  I  know,  you  claim 
that  —  and  you've  even  persuaded  her  — 

Verdrlbt.  Are  we  going  to  quarrel 
about  that  again?  For  Heaven's  sak* 
then,  goaheadl 


.  Google 


430 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


FotRiBB.  I  will  go  ahead!  Do  you 
think  I  like  to  we  myielf  left  out,  pu^ied 
aside  by  a  Btranger7  Have  I  no  jiaee  in  my 
own  daughter's  heart? 

VnsDsuiT.  She  has  the  tendereat  aSeo- 
tkm  tor  you  — 

PoiBiaB.  That's  not  bo:  you've  taken 
my  place.  All  her  aeoieta,  all  her  nioe 
pleasing  little  ways  are  for  you. 

VsRDiiUDT.  B«cauee  I  don't  make  bet 
afraid.  How  can  you  expect  the  little  one 
to  be  confidential  with  an  old  bear  like  yoaf 
She  can  never  find  an  opdning,  you're  al- 
ways 8o  crabbed. 

PoiRiBR,  Well,  you  are  the  one  who  has 
made  me  play  the  port  of  a  kill-joy,  while 
you  usurp  that  of  a  sugar-plum  father. 
It's  not  right  to  make  up  to  children  by 
giving  in  to  all  their  wi^iM,  and  forgetting 
what's  good  for  them.  That's  loving  them 
for  your  own  sake,  instead  of  for  theirs. 

Vbrdelbt.  Now,  Poirier,  you  know  very 
well  that  when  the  real  interests  of  your 
daughter  were  at  stoke,  her  whims  were 
opposed  by  me,  and  by  me  alone.  Heaven 
knows,  I  went  against  poor  Toinon's  wishes 
in  this  marriage,  while  you  were  ass  enough 
to  urge  her  on. 

Poraiva.  She  was  in  love  with  the  Mar- 
quis. —  Let  me  read  my  paper. 

[fie  silt  doom  and  runs  Au  eya 
over  the  "  Conitiiutiormd."] 

VsRDBurr.  It's  all  very  well  for  you 
to  say  the  child  was  in  love;  you  forced 
her  into  it.  You  brought  the  Marquis  de 
Preslee  here. 

PoiBiBB  [risui;].  Anothw  one  has  ar- 
rived at  the  top!  Monneur  Michaud,  the 
ironmaster,  has  just  been  appointed  a 
peer  of  France. 

Vbbdilit.  What  do  I  care? 

PontiSB.  What  do  you  earel  Does  it 
make  no  difference  to  you  to  see  a  man  of 
oui  class  arrive  at  tlie  topf  To  see  the 
Government  honor  indusb?  in  calling  one 
of  her  representatives  into  its  midst? 
Don't  you  think  it  admirable  that  we  live 
in  a  country  and  an  age  in  which  labor 
opens  every  door?  You  have  a  right  to 
look  forward  to  becoming  a  peer  some  day, 
and  yon  ask,  "What  do  I  care?" 

Vbbdxlkt.    Heaven  preserve  me  from 


aspiring  to  the  peerage!  And  Heaven  pi» 
serve  my  couo^  when  I  beoome  a  pearl 

Poirhb.  But  why?  Can't  Monsieur 
Michaud  fill  his  podtion? 

Vbbsblbt.  Monsieur  Michaud  is  not 
only  a  business  man,  but  a  man  of  gmX 
personal  merit.  Moli&v's  father  was  an 
upholstoer,  but  that  is  no  reason  why 
every  uf^iolaterer's  son  should  l^elievQ 
himself  a  poet. 

PoiBiBB.  I  tell  you,  commerce  is  the 
true  school  for  statesmen.  Who  shall  lay 
his  hand  on  the  wheel  unless  it  is  thoss  who 
have  first  learned  to  steer  their  own  barksT 

VBBDaLBT.  A  bark  is  not  a  ship,  and  a 
little  captain  is  not  naceesarily  a  true 
pilot,  and  France  is  no  commercial  house. 
I  can  hardly  restrain  myself  whok  I  see  thia 
mania  taking  root  in  people's  minds.  I  de- 
dare,  you  might  imagine  that  statesman- 
ahip  in  this  country  was  nothing  more  than 
a  pastime  for  people  who  have  nothing  else 
to  do!  A  business  man  like  you  or  me  at- 
tends to  his  own  little  aoneems  for  thir^ 
years  1  he  makes  his  foriiuJLe,  and  one  fine 
day  closes  his  shop  and  sets  up  business  as 
astatesman,  Withnomoie^orttbanthatl 
Very  simple  receipt!  Good  Lord,  moa- 
sieurs,  you  might  just  as  well  say,  "I  have 
measured  so  many  yards  of  doUi,  and  I 
therefore  know  how  to  play  the  violint" 

PoiBiEB.  I  don't  exactly  see  what  con- 
nection—  ? 

VxBDBLET.  Instead  of  thinVing  about 
governing  France,  leom  to  govern  your 
owuhome.  Don't  marryoS  yourdaughten 
to  ruined  marquesses  who  imagine  they  are 
doing  you  an  honor  Jn  allowing  you  to  pay 
off  their  debts  with  your  own  hard  cash  — 

FoiBiEB.  Are  you  saying  that  for  me  — 7 

Vbbdblwt.  No;  for  myself  I 
lEnUr  Antoinvftx.] 

Antodixtti.  How  are  you,  father? 
How  is  everything?  Hdlo,  godfather.  Art 
you  going  to  have  lunch  with  us?  How  nioe 


you  I 


re! 


PoiaiBR.  .He  is  nice.  But  what  am  I, 
I  who  invited  him? 

ANTOiNDTrx.  You  are  charming. 

PoiBiEB.  But  only  when  I  invite  V<nl»- 
let.  Agreeable  for  mel 


.  Google 


THE  SON-IN-LAW   OF  M.  POIRIER 


431 


AiraoiHsnx.  Where  is  my  huebaadT 

PonuEB.  la  the  stable.  Where  elae 
would  he  be? 

AHTOiNETtK.  Do  you  blfune  him  for 
liking  horsee?  Ii  n't  it  natural  for  a  gen- 
tleman to  like  horses  and  arms  —  ? 

FomnB.  Oh,  yes,  but  I  wish  he  cared 
for  something  else. 

Amtoihbttb.  He  is  very  fond  of  the 
arte:  poetry,  painting,  music. 

FoiBiEB.  Huh,  the  agreeable  artel 
Pleaaunel 

Vebdelxt.  Would  you  expect  him  to 
care  for  unpleasant  arteT  Would  you  want 
him  to  play  the  pianoT 

PoiKiSB.  There  you  are  again,  taking 
his  part  before  Toinon.  You're  trying  to 
get  into  her  good  graces.  [To  Amtoinbtte.) 
He  was  just  t«Uing  me  that  your  husband 
was  ruining  me.  Did  n't  you7 

Vebdelbt.  Yes,  but  all  you  have  to  do 
ie  to  pull  tight  your  puree-etringi, 

PoiHiER.  It  would  be  much  simpler  if 
the  young  man  had  some  occupation. 

Vbbdeiat.  It  seems  to  me  that  he  is 
very  much  occupied  as  it  is. 

Foirieb.  Yes:  spending  money  from 
morning  till  night.  I  'd  prefer  a  more 
luontive  ocoupatk>n. 

Antoinbttb.  What,  for  instance?  He 
can't  sell  cloth. 

FoiBiBR.  He  would  n't  be  able  to.  I 
don't  ask  for  so  very  much,  after  all.  Let 
bim  take  a  podtion  that  beSta  bis  rank: 
ut  embassy,  for  instance. 

Vebuxubt.  An  embassy?  You  don't  take 
ui  embaay  the  way  you  take  cold. 

PotfUBB.  When  a  roan  is  called  the  Mar- 
quis de  Prealee,  he  can  aspire  to  anything. 

Antoinbttb.  But  on  the  other  hand, 
father,  he  need  not  aspire  to  anything. 

VERnELET.  That's  true.  Your  son-in- 
law  has  his  own  ideas  — 

PoiBiEB.  Only  one:  to  be  lasy. 

Antoinbtte.  Utat's  not  fair,  father: 
my  husband  has  very  6ne  ideals. 

VBBnxLXT.  At  least,  if  he  has  n't,  be 
pooocoaca  that  chivalrous  obstinacy  of  his 
rank.  Do  you  think  for  one  moment  that 
your  Bon-in-law  is  going  to  give  up  the 
tnditioDS  of  his  family,  just  for  the  sake  of 
g  his  laijr  life? 


PoisiBB.  You  don't  know  my  son-in- 
law,  Verdelet;  I  have  studied  lum  thor- 
ou^y  —  I  did  that  before  giving  my 
daughter  to  him.  He's  hare-brained,  and 
the  lightneee  of  his  character  prevents  his 
being  obstinate.  As  to  his  family  tradi- 
tions, —  well,  if  he  had  thought  very  much 
of  them  he  would  never  have  married  Ma- 
demoiselle Poirier. 

Vbkdbi<bt.  That  makes  no  difference. 
It  would  have  been  much  wiser  to  have 
sounded  him  on  this  subject  before  the 
marriage. 

PoiBiEB.  What  a  fool  you  orel  It 
would  have  looked  as  if  I  were  making  a 
bargain  with  him,  and  he  would  have  re- 
fused point-blank.  You  can't  get  things  of 
that  sort  unless  you  go  about  it  in  the 
right  way,  slowly,  tenaciously,  peraever- 
ingly.  He  has  been  living  here  this  past 
three  months  on  the  fat  of  the  land. 

Vbkdelbt.  I  see:  you  wanted  to  make  it 
pleasant  for  him  before  you  came  down- to 


PoiEiEB.  Exactly.  [To  Antoinbttb.) 
A  man  is  always  mdulgent  toward  his  wife 
during  the  honeymoon.  Now,  if  you  ask 
himinaniceway  —  in  theevening  —  when 
you  're  taking  down  your  hair  — ? 

Antoinbttb.  Oh,  father  — ! 

PoiBiEs.  That's  the  way  Madame 
Poirier  used  to  get  me  to  promise  to  take 
her  to  the  Op^ra  —  I  always  took  her  the 
next  day.   See? 

Antoinbttb.  But  I'd  never  dare  speak 
to  my  husband  on  so  serious  a  subject. 

PoiBiEB.  Your  dowry  wilt  surely  |pve 
you  a  good  enough  right  to  speak. 

Antoinwittb.  He  would  only  shrug  his 
shoulders,  and  not  answer. 

Vbrdblbt.  Does  he  do  that  whm  you 
talk  with  him? 

Antoinbitb.  No,  but  — 

Vbsdblbt.  Ah,  you  look  away!  So  your 
husband  treats  you  a  little  — 7  I've  been 
afraid  of  that. 

FontiBB.  Have  you  any  reason  to  com- 
plain of  him? 

ANTOurarrTB.  No,  father. 

PoiHiER.   Does  n't  he  love  you? 

Antoinbttb.  I  don't  say  that. 

FonuxR.  Ttken  what  do  you  sayT 


433 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Amtoinsttb.  Nothing. 

Vbrdklbt.  Come,  dear,  you  ihould 
speak  frankly  with  your  old  friends.  Our 
whole  object  im  life  is  to  look  after  your 
happiness.  Whom  have  you  left  to  confide 
in  unless  it's  your  father  and  your  god- 
father? Are  you  unhappy? 

Antoinbtte.  I  have  n't  the  right  to  be: 
my  husband  is  very  kind  and  good. 

PoiRiEB.  Well,  then? 

VqrdeleI'.  But  is  that  enough?  He's 
kind  and  good,  but  he  pays  no  more  at- 
tention to  you  than  to  some  pretty  doll, 
does  he? 

Amtoinettte.  It's  my  fault.  I'm  so 
timid  with  him;  I've  never  dared  open  my 
heart  to  him.  I 'm  sure  he  thinks  me  a  little 
boarding-school  miss  who  wanted  to  be- 
come a  marquise. 

PoiRiBH.  The  fool) 

VsBDBLET.  Why  don't  you  explain  to 
bim? 

Antoinette.  I  tried  to  more  than  once, 
but  the  tone  of  his  firat  answer  was  so  differ- 
ent from  what  I  thought  it  should  be,  that 
I  could  n't  continue.  There  are  certain 
kinds  of  intimacy  that  must  be  encouraged 
—  the  heart  has  a  reticence  of  its  own. 
You  ought  to  be  able  to  understand  that, 
dear  Tony? 

PoiRiER.  Well,  what  about  me?  Don't 
I  understand,  too? 

Antoinette,  You,  too,  father.  How 
oan  I  tell  Gaston  that  it  was  n't  his  title 
that  pleased  me,  but  iiis  manners,  hie 
mind,  his  knightly  bearing,  his  cont«mpt 
for  the  pettinesses  of  life?  How  can  I  toll 
him  that  be  is  the  man  of  my  dreanu  — 
how  can  I  do  that  if  he  stops  me  at  once 
with  some  joke? 

PoiBiDB.  That  shows  tl^e  boy  is  in  a 
good  humor. 

Verdelet-  No:  it's  because  his  wife 
bores  him. 

PoiRixB  [to  Antotnktte].  Do  you  bore 
your  husband? 

Antoinettb.   I'm  afraid  I  do  I 

PoiRiEK.  I  tell  you  it  is  n't  you,  but  his 
own  confounded  laiiness  that  bores  him. 
A  husband  does  n't  love  his  wife  very  long 
when  he  has  nothing  else  to  do  but  to  love 


ANTOmsnTE.  Is  that  true,  Tony? 

PoiRiBK.  /'m  telling  youl  You  needn't 
ask  Verdelet. 

Vbbdxlet.  Yes,  I  do  believe  that  pas- 
sion is  soon  exhausted  unless  it  is  managed 
lilce  a  fortune:  economically. 

P01BIE&.  Every  man  wants  to  be  actively 
engaged  in  some  pursuit.  When  his  way  is 
bwred,  that  desire  is  wasted,  lost. 

Vbbdelbt.  A  wife  should  be  the  preoccu- 
pation, not  the  occupation,  of  her  husband. 

PoiBiER.  Why  did  I  always  adore  your 
mother?  Because  I  never  had  time  to 
think  about  ber. 

VBRnBLBT,  Your  husband  has  twenty- 
four  hours  a  day  to  love  you  — 

PoiRlBR.   That's  twelve  too  many, 

Antoinette.  You're  opening  my  eyes. 

PoiBiBR.  Let  him  take  a  position  and 
everything  will  turn  out  satisfactorily. 

Amtoinbttb.  What  do  you  say,  TonyT 

Vdrdblbt.  Poasibly!  The  difficulty  is 
in  making  him  take  the  position. 

PoiRiBB.  Leave  that  to  me.  Leave  the 
matter  in  my  hands. 

Vbrdblst,  Are  you  going  to  attack  the 
question  at  once? 

PoiBiER.  No,  but  1  shall  aft«r  lunch.  I 
have  noticed  that  the  Marquis  is  in  splen- 
did humor  after  his  meals. 

[Bnier  Gaston  and  tht  Duke.) 

Gaston  lirUrodvcing  the  Dpkb  to  Ait 
vrife].  My  dear  Antoinette,  Monsieur  de 
Montmeyran,  who  is  not  entiidy  unknown 
to  you. 

Antoinxitb.  Gaston  has  told  me  so 
much  about  you,  monsieur,  that  I  seem  to 
be  shaking  hands  with  an  old  friend. 

Duke.  You  are  not  mistaken,  madame; 
you  have  made  me  feel  that  only  a  moment 
was  necessary  to  reeume,  as  it  were,  a 
former  friendship.  [Atidt  to  liie  Mabquib.] 
Your  wife  is  chajroing! 

Oaston  [aside  to  the  Duke].  Yes,  she  is 
nice.  [To  Antoinbttb.]  I  have  some  good 
news  for  you:  Hector  is  going  to  stay  with 
us  during  his  leave. 

Amtoinbtte.  How  good  of  you,  moo- 
sieurl  I  trust  your  leave  is  a  long  one? 

DvKB.  One  ntontii,  after  which  I  return 
to  Africa. 


ElilizedbvGoOQlc 


THE  SON-IN-LAW   OF  M.  POIRIER 


423 


Vkbdblet.  You  afford  lu  a  noble  ex- 
ample, Moneieur  le  Due:  you  do  not  con- 
sider luiness  ai  a  family  inheritance. 

Qaston  [atide].  Ahal  Monsieur  Verde- 
Tet. 

[Enter  a  Servant,  oarrying  a  picture.] 

Sbbvant.  This  picture  has  just  come 
for  Monsieur  le  Marquis. 

Oaston.  Lay  it  on  that  chair,  by  the 
vindow.  There  —  good.  {The  Servant  goee 
•ut.]  Just  look  at  it,  Montmeyran. 

Ddkii.  Charming — beautiful  evening 
^ectl  Don't  you  think  bo,  madame? 

AMTOiNBTra.  Yes  —  charming  —  and 
how  real  it  is!  And  how  calm  and  quiet. 
You  feel  as  if  you  would  like  to  walk  about 
*n  that  silent  tandsoape. 

PoiBiRs  [atide  to  VERnELxr).  Peer  of 
FVanoel 

Gabton.  Just  look  at  that  strip  of  green- 
ish  light,  nuining  between  the  orange  tones 
of  the  horiion,  and  that  cold  blueof  Uiereet 
of  the  sky.  Splendid  technique! 

DiTKX.  Then  the  foreground!  And  the 
coloring,  the  handling  of  the  whole  thingi 

Gaston.  Then  the  almost  imperceptible 
reflection  of  that  little  spot  of  water  be- 
hind the  foliage  —  charmingi 

PonuER.  Let's  take  a  look  at  it,  Ver- 
d^t.  [PoiBiBS  and  VEBnELET  go  to  look 
at  the  picture.]  Well?  What  does  it  repre- 
sent? 

Verdeut.  It  repreaenta  some  fields  at 
nine  o'clock  at  night. 

Poirhr.  The  subject  is  n't  interesting; 
H  does  n't  lell  anything.  In  my  room  I 
have  an  enp^ving  showing  a  dog  on  the  eea- 
■hore  barking  at  a  sailor's  hat.  There  now, 
you  can  understand  that:  it's  clever,  and 
nmple,  and  touching. 

Gabton'.  My  dear  Monsieur  Poirier,  if 
you  like  touching  pictures,  let  me  have 
one  made  for  you;  the  subject  I  take  from 
nature:  on  the  table  is  a  little  onion,  cut  in 
quarters,  a  poor  tittle  white  onion.  The 
knife  lies  beside  it.  Nothing  at  all,  and  yet 
it  brings  tears  to  the  eyes! 

Verdelet  [osids  fo  Poibieb].  He'smak- 
ing  fun  of  you. 


PoiBiER  [aside  to  Verdelbt).  Very  well 
—  let  him! 

Duke.  Who  painted  this  landscape? 

Gabton.  Poor  devil  —  lota  of  talent  — 
but  he  has  n't  a  sou. 

FoiMEK.  What  did  you  pay  for  the 
picture? 

Gaston.  Fifty  louis. 

Poirier.  Fifty  louisT  For  the  picture  of 
on  unknown  painter  who  is  dying  of 
hunger!  If  you'd  gone  around  at  meal- 
time you  omjld  have  got  it  for  twenty- 
five  francs. 

Antoinvtte.  Oh,  father! 

Poirier.  A  fine  example  of  misplaced 
generosity  I 

Gabton.  Then  you  don't  think  that  the 
arts  should  be  protected? 

Poirier.  Protect  Uie  arts  as  much  as 
you  like,  but  not  the  artists  —  they're  oU 
rascals  or  debauchees.  Why,  the  stories 
they  tell  about  them  ore  enou^  to  raise  the 
hair  on  your  head,  things  I  could  n't  repeat 
to  my  own  daughter. 

Verdelet  [aside  to  Poirier].   What? 

Poirier  [aside  lo  VERnELBrj.  They  say, 
old  man,  that  — 

[He  lakes  Vbrdilbi  lo  one  side 
and  uAitpers  lo  Mm], 

Verdelbt.  And  do  you  believe  thii^ 
of  that  kind? 

Poirier.  The  people  who  told  me  knew 
what  they  were  talking  about. 
[Enter  a  Servant.] 

Servant.  Dinner  is  served. 

Poirier  [lo  tiie  Servant].  Bring  up  a 
bottle  of  1811  Pomord.  [To  the  DiiKX.) 
The  year  of  the  comet.  Monsieur  le  Due  — 
fifteNi  francs  a  bottle!  The  king  drinks  no 
better.  [Aside  IoVxhdklkt.]  You  must  n't 
drink  any  —  neither  will  I! 

Gaston  [to  the  Doke].  Fifteen  francs  a 
bottle,  to  be  returned  when  emptyl 

Verdelbt  {aside  to  Poirier].  Are  you 
going  to  allow  him  to  make  fun  of  you  like 
that? 

Poirier  [aside  lo  Verdelet).    In  ma£- 

t«TB  of  this  sort,  you  must  take  your  time. 

[Thev  aU  go  out.] 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


ACT  n 

{The  scene  is  the  same.  As  the  ettrtain 
rises,  Vekdbuct,  Poimbb,  Gastok,  the 
Duke,  and  Antoiniittb  enter  from  the 
dirting-Twrni.] 

Gaoton,  Well,  Hector,  what  do  you 
uy?  Thia  is  the  houae,  and  this  IB  what  we 
do  every  mortal  day.  Can  you  unagine  a 
happier  man  on  earth  than  myaelfT 

Duke.  I  must  confess  that  you  make 
me  very  envious;  you  almost  reconcile  me 
to  the  idea  of  marriage. 

Antoinette  [aside  to  VbrdeletI. 
Charming  young  man,  that  Duke  de 
Montmeyran,  is  n't  he? 

Vkkdblbt  [aside  to  AntoinbttbI.  Yes, 
I  like  him. 

Gaston.  Monsieur  Foirier,  I  must  eay, 
you  ore  an  excellent  soul.  Believe  me,  I'm 
not  in  the  least  ungTateful  to  you. 

PoiRiER.  Oh,  Monsieur  le  Marquis! 

Gaston.  Come,  now,  call  me  Gaston. 
Ah,  Monsieur  Verdelet,  I  am  delighted  to 
eee  you. 

Anioinette.  He  is  a  member  of  the 
bmily,  dear. 

Gabton.  Shake  hands,  unclel 

VERnELBT  [shakiTig  hands  vnth  Gaston 
—  aside].  He'a  not  so  bad  after  atll 

Gabton.  You  can't  deny.  Hector,  that 
I'm  downright  lucky.  Monsieur  Foirier, 
something  has  been  weighing  on  my  con- 
science. You  know,  you  think  of  nothing 
but  how  to  make  my  existence  one  long 
series  of  good  times.  Will  you  never  give 
me  a  chance  to  repay  you?  Try,  now,  1  beg 
you,  U)  think  of  something  I  might  do  for 
you  in  return  —  anything  in  my  power. 

PonUER.  Well,  since  you're  in  so  good 
a  humor,  let  me  have  a  quarter  of  an  hour's 
conversation  with  you  —  a  serious  con- 
versation. 

Duke.  I  shall  be  glad  to  retire  — 

FoniiER.  Oh,  please  don't,  monueur;  be 
good  enough  to  stay  with  us.  This  is  goii^ 
tp  be  a  kind  of  family  council.  You  are  not 
at  all  in  the  way,  any  more  than  is  Mon- 
sieur Verdelet. 

Gaston.  What  the  devil,  father-in-law! 
A  family  councill  Are  you  going  to  have 
me  out  under  a  legal  adviaerT 


PomiXB.  Far  from  it,  my  dear  Gaston. 
Let  us  sit  down. 

[They  all  seat  themsdves.] 

Oaston.   Monsieur  Foirier  has  the  floor. 

PoiKiER.  You  say  you  are  happy,  my 
dear  Gaston.  That  is  the  finest  recom- 
pense I  could  have. 

Gaston.  I  ask  nothing  better  than  to 
increase  my  gratitude  twofold. 

PoiBiEB.  You  have  spent  three  months 
of  your  honeymoon  in  the  lap  of  idleness 
and  luxury,  and  I  think  that  that  part  of 
the  romance  is  enough.  It's  now  time  to 
give  your  attention  to  hard  facts. 

Gaoton.  You  talk  like  a  book,  I  do  de- 
clare! Very  well,  let  us  give  our  attention 
to  history. 

FoiBiXR.  What  do  you  intend  to  doT 

Gaoton.  To-day? 

PoiRiEB.  And  to-monow  —  in  the  fu- 
ture. You  surely  have  some  idea? 

Gabton.  Of  course:  to-day  I  intend  to 
do  what  I  did  yesterday;  to-monow  what 
I  did  to-day.  I'm  not  capricious,  even 
thou^  I  may  appear  light-heart«d.  So 
long  as  the  future  promises  to  be  as  bright 
as  the  present,  I  am  content. 

PoiBiES.  And  yet  you  are  far  too  rea- 
sonable a  man  to  believe  that  the  honey- 
moon can  last  forever. 

Gaston.  Exactly;  too  reasonable,  and 
too  well  posted  on  astronomy  —  but,  of 
course,  you  have  read  Heinrich  Heine? 

PoraiKR.  You  have,  have  n't  you,  Ver- 
delet? 

Vebdilst.  I  admit  I  have. 

PoiRiEB.  Yes;  he  passed  his  school-days 
playing  truant. 

Gaston.  Well,  when  Heinrich  Heine 
was  asked  what  became  of  all  the  full 
moons,  he  replied  tiiat  they  were  brokeii  in 
pieces  and  made  into  stars. 

PoiBiER.  I  don't  quite  see  — 

Gabton.  When  our  honeymoon  grows 
old,  we  shall  break  it  up,  and  there  will  re- 
main enough  fragments  to  make  a  whole 
Milky  Way. 

FonuBB.  Very  pretty  idea,  I  suppose. 

Duke.  The  sole  merit  of  which  is  its 
extreme  simplicity, 

PoiBiEB.  But,  seriously,  son-in-law, 
does  n't  this  buy  life  you  ate  leading  seem 


THE   SON-IN-LAW  OF  M.  POIRIER 


435 


to  threat«n  the  faappineae  of  a  3roimg 
bouaehold? 

Gabton.  Not  in  the  least. 

Vebbblbt.  a  man  of  your  ability 
should  n't  be  always  condemned  to  a  life 
of  inactivity. 

Gacton.  Ah,  but  one  can  reaiipi  hiinseif 
to  — 

ANTOINETTE.  Are  n't  you  afraid  that  in 
time  you  may  be  bored,  dear  —  ? 

Gabtom'.  Ydu  fail  to  do  yom^f  justice, 
ny  dear. 

Antotncttb.  I  am  not  vain  enough  to 
believe  that  I  can  be  evetything  in  your 
Ufe,  and  I  must  confess  that  I  should  be 
very  happy  to  see  you  follow  Monsieur  de 
Montmeyran's  example. 

Gaston.  Do  you  mean  that  I  should 
enliat? 

Amtoinettk.  Oh,  no. 

Gabton.  Then,  what  —  ? 

FoiRiBR.  We  want  you  t4>  take  a  pod- 
tioQ  worthy  of  your  name. 

GAtfTott.  There  are  but  three:  in  the 
army,  the  church,  and  agriculture.  Choose. 

PoiRiKH.  We  all  owe  our  eervicee  to 
France:  she  is  our  mother. 

Vebdelbt.  I  can  readily  understand  tiie 
sorrow  of  a  eon  who  sees  hia  mother  re- 
marry; I  can  sympathiie  with  bis  not 
joining  in  the  wedding  festivities;  but  if  he 
ia  honest  and  sincere,  he  will  not  blame  the 
mother.  And  if  the  aecond  husband  makea 
the  mother  happy,  the  son  cannot  with  a 
good  conflcience  help  offering  the  second 
husband  his  hand. 

PoiBiXB.  The  nobility  won't  always  keep 
away  as  it  does  now;  it's  even  beginning 
to  recogniie  the  fact  already.  More  than 
one  great  noble  has  given  a  good  example; 
Monsieur  de  Valchevri^re,  Monsieur  de 
ChaseroUes,  Monsieur  de  Mont-Louis. 

Gaston.  Those  gentlemen  did  what 
they  thought  beet.  I  am  not  judging  them, 
but  I  cannot  emulate  them. 

Antoinette.  Why  not,  dear? 

Gaston.  Ask  Montmeyran. 

Verdklbt.  Monsieur  le  Due's  uniform 
answers  for  him. 

DuxB.  Allow  me,  monsieur:  the  BoMier 
has  but  one  idea,  to  obey;  but  one  ad- 
Tersary,  the  enemy. 


PomiEB.  Still,  monsieur,  I  might  an- 
swer  that  — 

Gaston.  Let  us  drop  the  subject,  Mou' 
neur  Potrier;  this  is  not  a  question  of  poli- 
tics. We  may  discuss  opinions,  never 
sentiments.  I  am  bound  by  gratitude:  my 
fidelity  is  that  of  a  servant  and  of  a  friend. 
Let  UB  say  no  more  about  tliis.  [To  Ihe 
Dozx.]  I  beg  your  pardon,  my  dear  fel- 
low, but  this  is  the  first  time  we  have 
talked  politics  here,  and  I  promise  it  wi]! 
be  the  last. 

Duke  [atide  to  Antoinette).  You  have 
been  led  into  an  indiscretion,  madamel 

Antoinette  [tuide  to  the  Dukx|.  I 
realise  it  —  only  too  lat«! 

Gabton.  I  bear  you  no  malice.  Mon- 
sieur Poirier.  I  have  been  a  trifle  direct, 
but  I  am  dreadfully  thin-skinned  on  that 
subject,  and,  doubtless  without  intending 
it,  you  have  scratched  me.  I  don't  blame 
you,  however.  Shake  handq. 

PomtiR.  You're  only  too  good! 

Vebdiut  [atide  to  Poirieb).  This  ia 
a  pretty  meesF 

FoiRiBR  [aside  to  VBRDELBTt.  First  at- 
tack repulsed,  but  I'm  not  lifting  the 
siege. 

[Bnler  a  Servani.] 

Servant.  There  are  some  people  in  the 
small  waiting-room  who  say  they  have  an 
appointment  with  Monsieur  Poirier. 

PoraiEH.  Very  well.  Ask  them  to  wait 
a  moment.  I'll  be  there  directly.  [The 
Servant  goet  (nU.\  Yoiff  creditora,  son-in- 
law. 

Gabton.  Yours,  my  dear  father-in-law. 
I  have  given  tJiem  to  you. 

Duke.  For  a  wedding  present. 

Vebseiat.  Good-bye,  Monsieur  le  Mar^ 
quis. 

Gaston.  Are  you  leaving  us  so  soon? 

Verdelgt.  Very  good  of  you.  Antoi- 
nette has  asked  me  to  do  scHnething  for  her. 

FonuER.  Wdll  What? 

Verdbuit.  It's  a  secret  between  us. 

Gabton.  You  know,  if  I  were  inoliued  to 
be  jealous  — 

Antoinette.  But  you  are  not. 

Gaston.  Is  that  a  reproach?  Very  wdl, 
Monsienr  Verdelet.  I  have  made  vs  nw 


.CtOo^^Ic 


436 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


mind  to  be  jealous,  and  I  ask  you  in  the 
name  of  the  law  to  unveU  the  mystery! 

Vebdelet.  You  are  the  laat  person  in 
the  world  whom  I  should  think  of  tellingl 

Gabton.  And  why,  please? 

Vebdelkt.  You  are  Antoinette's  right 
hand,  and  the  right  hand  should  not  know 

Gaoton.  The  left  givea-  You  are  right;  I 
am  indiscreet.  Allow  me  to  {>ay  my  indem- 
nity. [He  gwet  hit  purse  to  ANTonnnTE.) 
Put  this  with  your  own,  my  dear  child. 

ANTODrETTB,  Thank  you  on  behalf  of 
my  poor. 

PoiRiEB  Ui»ide].  He  it  mighty  generous! 

DuKB.  Will  you  allow  me,  too,  madame, 
to  steal  a  few  blessings  from  you?  [He  aim 
giuet  her  kit  purse,)  It  is  not  heavy,  but  it 
is  the  corporal's  mite. 

Antoinbttb.  Offered  from  the  heart  of 
a  true  duke. 

PoiRiER  [(Miij«].  Has  n't  a  sou  to  his 
name,  and  be  gives  to  charity! 

Vbrdblbt.  Are  n't  you  going  to  add 
something,  Poirier? 

PoiRiKR.  I've  already  given  a  thousand 
francs  to  the  chanty  organization. 

Vbrdelbt.  I  see.  Good-day,  meesieurs. 
Your  names  won't  appear  on  the  lists,  but 
your  charity  won't  be  leas  welcome. 

[He  goes  out  with  AurorNBTTB.] 

PoiRiBB.  See  you  later,  Monsieur  1e 
Marquis;  I'm  going  to  pay  your  creditors. 

Gaston.  Now,  Monsieur  Poirier,  simply 
because  those  fellows  have  lent  me  money 
is  no  reason  why  you  should  think  you  must 
be  polite  with  them.  They're  unconacion- 
sble  rascals.  You  must  have  had  some- 
thmg  to  do  with  them.  Hector,  —  old 
P^  Salomon,  Monsieur  Chevassus,  Mon- 
sieur C(^e? 

Duke.  Did  I!  They're  the  first  Arabs 
I  ever  had  anything  to  do  with.  Lent  me 
money  at  fifty  per  cent. 

PoiRiEB.  H^way  robbery!  And  you 
were  fool  enough  —  1  beg  your  pardon. 
Monsieur  le  Due,  —  I  beg  your  pardon! 

Duke.  What  else  could  I  do7  Ten 
thousand  francs  at  two  per  cent  is  better 
than  nothing  at  all  at  five  per  cent. 

PoTBisR.  But,  monsieur,  there  is  a  law 
■gainst  USUI;. 


Dmm.  Which  the  usuras  respect  and 
obey;  they  take  only  legal  interest,  but  you 
get  only  one  half  the  face  value  of  Uie  note 
in  cash,  you  see. 

PoiRiBB.  And  the  other  haUT 

Duke.  Stuffed  lisards,  as  in  Moliire'ir 
time.  Usurers  do  not  progress:  they  wei« 
bom  perfect. 

Gabion.  Like  the  Chinese. 

PoiRiEB.  I  hope,  son-in-law,  that  yok 
have  n't  borrowed  at  any  such  outrageous 
rate? 

Gaston.  I  bope  so  too,  father-in-law. 

PoiBiEB.  At  fifty  per  ceoti 

Gaston.  No  more,  no  len. 

PoiRiEit.  And  did  you  get  stuffed 
lizards? 

Gastok.  Any  number. 

Poirier.  Why  did  n't  you  tell  me  BOODer7 
I  oould  have  come  to  an  a^^reraneat  with 
them  laefore  the  marriage. 

GABroN.  That  is  precisely  what  I  did 
not  want.  Would  it  not  be  fine  to  see  the 
Marquis  de  Pieslee  buyingback  his  pledged 
word,  insulting  his  noble  namel 

PoiBiBR.  But  if  you  owe  only  half  the 
amount  —  ? 

Gaston.  I  received  only  half,  but  I  owe 
the  whole.  I  don't  owe  the  money  to  those 
thieves,  but  to  my  own  signature. 

PoiHiBR.  Allow  me,  Monsieur  le  Mar- 
quis, —  I  beUeve  I  may  say  that  I  am  an 
honeet  man;  I  have  never  cheated  any  one 
out  of  a  single  sou,  and  I  am  incapable  of 
advising  you  to  do  something  uoderhand, 
but  it  appears  to  me  that  in  paying  back 
those  scoundrels  their  principal  at  six  per 
cent,  you  will  have  acted  in  an  honorable 
and  scrupulous  way. 

Gaston.  This  is  not  a  question  of  hon- 
esty, but  of  honor. 

PoiBiER.  What  difference  do  you  see 
between  the  two? 

Gaston.  Honor  is  a  gentleman's  hon- 
esty. 

Poirier.  So,  virtues  change  names  when 
you  want  to  put  them  into  practice?  You 
polish  up  their  vulgarity  in  order  to  use 
them  for  yourself?  I  'm  surpriaed  at  only 
one  thing:  that  the  noee  of  a  nobleman 
deigns  to  be  called  by  the  same  name  when 
it  happens  to  be  on  a  tradesman's  facel 


THE   SON-IN-LAW  OF  M.  POIRIER 


*"7 


Gabton.  That  ia  becauae  all  noses  are 
Bunilar. 

Ddks.  Within  ibt  inches! 

PoiRizB.  Then  don't  you  think  that 
men  are? 

Gaston.  It's  a  questioii. 

FoiBiBR.  Which  was  decided  long  ago, 
Monsieur  le  Marquis. 

Ddi:e.  Out  ri^te  and  privileges  have 
been  abolished,  but  not  our  duties.  Of  all 
that  remains  to  us  there  are  but  two  words, 
but  they  are  words  which  nothing  can 
snatch  from  us:  Noblette  (Mige  I  No  mat- 
ter what  happens,  we  shall  abide  by  a 
code  more  severe  than  the  law,  that  mys- 
terious code  which  we  call  honor. 

PonuEB.  Well,  Monsibur  le  Marquis,  it 
is  very  fortunate  for  your  honor  that  my 
honesty  pays  your  debto.  Only,  as  I  am  not 
a  gentleman,  I  waru  you  that  I  shall  do  my 
best  to  get  out  of  this  fix  as  cheaply  as  I 

Qaston.  You  must  be  very  dever,  in- 
deed, to  make  any  sort  of  compromise  with 
those  highway  robbers:  they  are  masters  of 
the  situation. 

[ReHnltT  ANTOiNVrrz.) 

FoiBiBR.  We'll  see,  we'll  see.  [Ande.] 
I  have  an  idea:  I'm  going  to  play  my  own 
little  game.  [Aloud.]  I'll  go  at  once,  so 
that  they  shan't  get  impatient. 

DcKX.  No,  don't  wait;  they  will  devour 
70U  if  you  do.  [PonuER  goet  out.} 

Oaston.  Poor  Monsieur  Poirier,  I  feel 
Borry  for  him.  This  latest  revelation  takes 
away  all  his  pleasure  in  paying  my  debts. 

DrjKai.  Listen  to  me:  there  are  very  few 
people  who  know  how  to  be  robbed.  It  is 
an  art  worthy  a  great  lord. 

[EnUr  a  Servant.] 

Skbvant.  Messieurs  de  Ligny  and  de 
ChaieroUes  would  like  to  speak  to  Mon- 
aieur  le  Marquis  on  behalf  of  Monsieur  de 
Fontgrimaud. 

Gaston.  Very  well.  {The  Senant  gott 
oui.\  You  receive  the  gentlemen,  Hector. 
You  don't  need  me  to  help  you  arrange 
the  party. 

Aktohoitts.  A  party  —  ? 

Oaston.    Yes,  I  won  a  good  deal  of 


money  from  Fontgrimaud  and  I  promised 
him  a  chance  to  take  revenge.  [To  Hectob.) 
To-morrow,  some  time  in  Uie  morning, 
will  be  satisfactory  for  me. 

Ddkb  [oHde  to  Gaston).  When  shall  I 
see  you  agaiq? 

Gaston  [aside  Ui  HEcroR).  Madame  de 
Montjay  is  expecting  me.  At  three,  t^en, 
here.  [The  Duxb  goet  out.] 

Gaston  {stOiny  on  a  sofa,  optn»  a  maga- 
zine, yaviM,  and  »ay»  to  hit  loife].  Would 
you  like  to  go  to  the  Haliena  to-ni^tT 

Antoinbttb.  Yes,  if  you  are  going. 

Gabtok.  lam.  What  gown  are  you  going 
to  wearT 

Antoinbttb.  Any  one  you  like. 

Gacfton.  It  makes  no  difference  to  me 
—  I  mean,  you  look  very  pretty  in  any 
of  them. 

ANTorNFrrB.  But  you  have  such  excel- 
lent taste,  dear;  you  ought  to  advise  me. 

Gabtoh.  I  am  not  a  fashion  magazine, 
my  dear  cb-;J :  ind  then,  all  you  have  to  do 
is  to  watch  the  great  ladies,  make  them 
your  models:  Madame  de  Nohan,  Madame 
de  Viilepreux  — 

AHTOHranTS.  Madame  de  Montjay  — 

Gaston.  Why  Madame  de  Montjay, 
rather  than  any  one  else? 

ANTOtNVTTB.    Becftuss  she  pleases  you 

Gaston.  Where  did  you  get  that  idea? 

'ANTOiNTm:.  The  other  evenii^  at  the 
Op£ra  you  paid  her  a  rather  long  visit  in 
her  box.  She  is  very  pretty.  Is  she  clever 
tooT 

Gaston.   Very.  {A  pouse.I 

Antoinbttb.  Why  don't  you  tell  me 
when  I  do  something  that  does  n't  please 

Gaston.  I  have  never  failed  to  do  so. 
ANTOtNBTTE.  You  never  said  you  were 
displeased. 
Gaston.  Because  you  never  gave  me  the 


ANTonrarTB.  Why,  just  a  few  moments 
ago,  when  I  insisted  that  you  take  some 
position,  I  know  I  displeased  you. 

Gaston.  I'd  forgotten  about  that  —  it 
does  n't  matter. 

Antoinbtte.  If  I  had  had  any  notion 
what  your  ideas  on  that  subject  were,  do 


4»« 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Gaston.  Truly,  n>y  dear,  it  almoat 
■eetuB  Bs  if  you  were  m&king  excuses. 

Amtoinihtb.  That  is  because  I  am 
afraid   you  will    think    me    childiah    and 

Oaston.     What  if  you  were  a  little 
proud?   la  that  a  crime? 
Antoinxttb.     I  swear  I  have  n't  an 

Gabtom  Irwinfl.  My  dear,  you  have  n't 
%  single  fault.  And  do  you  know  that  you 
have  quite  won  the  admiration  of  Mont- 
meyran?  You  ought  to  be  proud  of  that. 
Hector  is  difficult  to  please. 

AxToivwm.  Lees  so  than  you. 

Gaston.  Do  you  think  me  difficult  to 
pkaae?  You  see,  you  have  some  vanity  — 
I've  caught  you  in  the  acti 

Antoinbite.  I  have  no  illuaiona  about 
myself:  I  know  very  well  what  I  need  in 
(Oder  to  be  worthy  of  you.  But  if  you  will 
only  take  the  trouble  to  guide  me,  t^  me 
something  about  the  ideas  of  the  woild  you 
know,  I  love  you  so  much  that  I  would  com- 
I^etely  change  myself. 

Gaston  IkaxiTin  her  haml\.  I  could  not 
but  lose  by  the  change,  madame,  and 
furthermore,  I  am  only  a  middling  teacher. 
There  is  but  one  school  in  which  to  learn 
what  you  think  you  lack:  society.  Study 
it. 

Antoinbttb.  Very  well,  then,  I  shall 
study  Madame  de  Montjay. 

Gaston,  Again!  Are  you  doing  me  the 
honor  to  be  jealousT  T^e  care,  my  dear, 
that  failing  is  distinctly  bourgeois.  You 
must  learn,  since  you  allow  me  to  be  your 
guide,  that  in  our  circle  marriage  does  not 
necessarily  mean  a  home  and  a  household; 
only  the  noble  and  elegant  things  in  life  do 
we  have  in  common  among  ourselves. 
When  I  am  not  with  you,  pray  do  not 
worry  about  what  I  am  doing;  merely  say 
to  yourself,  "He  is  dissipating  his  imper- 
fections in  order  that  he  may  bring  to  me 
one  hour  of  perfection,  or  neaiiy  so." 

ANToiNBTm.  I  think  that  your  greatest 
imperfection  is  your  absence. 

Gabton.  Neatly  turned.  Thank  you. 
Who's  this?  MycreditcTBl 


(£nter  the  Crtdiiort.] 

Gaston.  You  here,  messieural  You 
have  mistaken  the  door:  the  servants'  en- 
trance is  on  tlw  other  side. 

Sauiuon.  We  didn't  want  to  leave 
without  seeing  you,  Monsieur  le  Marquis. 

Gabion.  I  can  dispense  with  your 
thanks. 

CoaNS.  We  have  oome  to  ask  for  yours. 

Chbvabsitb.  You've  treated  us  long 
enou^  as  usurers. 

CooNZ.  Leeches. 

BAiiOHON.  Blood-suckers. 

Ckivabbus.  We're  delighted  to  have 
this  occasion  to  tell  you  that  we  are  honeet 
men. 

QABroN.  I  fail  to  see  the  joke? 

CooNB.  This  is  not  a  joke,  monsieur. 
We  have  loaned  you  money  at  six  per  cent. 

Gabton.  Have  my  notes  not  been  ac- 
quitted in  fullT 

Salouon.  There's  a  trifle  lacking:  some 
two  hundred  and  eighteen  thousand  francs. 

Gabton.  What's  that? 

Chevassub.  We  were  obliged  to  submit 
lothatt 

Salomon.  And  your  father-in-law  in- 
sisted on  your  being  sent  to  the  debtors' 

Gabton.  My  fathra*  -  ia  -  law  insisted 
that— T 

CoGNB.  Yes;  it  seems  that  you  have 
been  playing  some  underhanded  trick  with 
him,  the  poor  fellow! 

Salohon.    It'll  teach  him  better  next 

Coons.  But  meantime,  we  must  bear 
the  burden. 

Gabton  [io  ANTOiNwrrB].  Your  father, 
madame,  hae  behaved  in  a  very  undigni- 
fied way.  [To  the  Creditcra.]  I  confess  my- 
self in  your  debt,  messieurs,  but  I  have  an 
income  of  only  twenty-five  thousand  francs. 

Salouon.  Youknow  very  well  you  can't 
touch  the  principal  without  your  wife's 
consent.  We  have  seen  your  marriage  ocm- 

CooNB.   You're  not  making  your  wife 
very  happy  — 
Gaston.  Leave  the  house! 
Salouon.  You  can't  kick  honest  people 


THE  SON-IN-LAW  OF  M.  POIRIER 


out  of  the  house  like  dogs  —  people  who  're 
helped  you  [Antoinztte  hat  meanHme  tat 
down  and  M  now  wriims]  —  people  who  be- 
lieved that  the  BiEnature  of  the  Marquis 
de  Preslea  wbs  worth  somethmg. 

CoGKii.  And  who  were  mistaken! 

Creditohb.  Yes,  mistakeiil 

Antoinkits  [kimdin^  Salomon  a  cheek 
wkuA  tAt  hat  writitn].  You  are  not  nue- 
taken,  messieurs:  you  are  pKid  in  full. 

Oabtoh  [takmg  the  check,  he  glaneei  at  it, 
and  handt  it  back  to  SaiiOiion].  Now  that 
you  really  are  thieves  —  leave  the  housat 
Rascalsl  Hurryup.orwe'llhaTeyouswapt 
out  I 

CRCnrroBS.  Too  good  of  you.  Monsieur 
le  Marquial  A  thousand  thuiksl 

[Th«v  go  out.] 

GAflTON.  You  dear!  I  adore  yout 

[He  takei  her  in  hit  armi  and 
Hitet  her  vehemently.] 

Amtoinxtte.  Dear  Gaston! 

Gaston.  Where  in  the  world  did  your 
Kther  find  the  heart  he  gave  you? 

Antoinvite.  Don't  judge  my  father  too 
severely,  dear.  He  is  good  and  generous, 
but  his  ideas  are  narrow.  He  can't  see  be- 
yond his  own  individual  rights.  It 's  the 
fault  of  hiB  mind,  not  his  heart.  Now,  if 
you  consider  that  I  have  done  my  duty, 
forgive  my  father  for  that  one  moment  of 
agony  — 

Gaston.  I  should  be  very  ungrateful  to 
refuse  you  anything. 

Antoinvttk.  You  really  won't  blame 
him,  will  youT 

Gaston.  No,  since  you  wish  it,  Mar- 
guise,  —  Marquise,  you  hear? 

Antoinvttb.  Call  me  your  wife  —  the 
only  title  of  which  I  am  proudt  . 

Oaston.  You  do  love  me  a  little? 

ANTonnmi.  Have  n't  you  noticed  it, 
ungrateful  man? 

Ga8ton.  Oh,  yes,  but  I  like  to  hear  you 
say  it  —  eepecially  at  this  moment.  {The 
dock  atriket  three.]  Three  o'clock!  [Atide.] 
The  devil!  Madame  de  Montjay  is  expect- 
ing me  I 

Antoinbitb.  You  are  smiling  —  what 
are  you  thinking  about? 

Gabton.  Would  you  like  to  take  a  ride 
with  me  in  the  Bois? 


ANToiNXTrB.  Well  —  I  'm  not  dreased. 

Gaston.  Just  throw  a  shawl  over  your 
aboulders.  Rii^  for  your  maid.  [Antw- 
NZTTi  rtn;*.) 

[Enter  Poirier.] 

FomiBK.  Well,  son-in-law,  have  you 
seen  your  creditors? 

Gaston  [with  evident  iU-hitmor],    Yes, 


Antoinette  [atide  to  Gabton,  at  the 
taket  his  arm].  Bemember  your  promise. 

Gabton  [amiably].  Yes,  my  dear  father- 
ia-law,  I  have  seen  them. 

[Enter  the  Maid.] 

Antoihwttb  [to  the  Maid].  Bring  me  my 

ehawl  and  hat  and  have  the  horses  hitched. 

[Th«  Maid  goet  out.] 

Gactton  [to  PonuER].  Allow  me  to  con- 
gratulate you  on  your  good  stroke  of  busi- 
ness ;  you  did  play  them  a  vary  clever  triok. 
[Aside  to  Antoinette.]  Am  I  not  nice? 

Poirier.  You  take  it  bettor  than  I 
thought  you  would;  I  woe  prepared  for  any 
number  of  objections  on  the  score  d  your 

Gabton.  I  am  reasonable,  father-in-law. 
You  have  acted  according  to  your  own 
ideas.  I  have  eo  little  objection  to  that: 
we  have  acted  according  to  our  ideas. 

PoiRiBR.  What's  tiiat? 

Gaston.  You  gave  those  rascals  only  the 
actual  sum  of  money  borrowed  from  ti>em: 
we  have  paid  the  rest. 

Poirier  [to  Antoinette].  What!  Did 
you  sign  away  —  7  [Antoinette  nods.) 
Good  God,  what  have  you  done! 

Antoinette.  I  b^  your  pardon, 
father  — 

Poirier.  I've  moved  heaven  and  eartii 
in  order  to  give  you  a  good  round  sum  and 
you  throw  it  out  of  the  window!  Two 
hundred  and  ei^teen  thousand  franoee! 

Gaston.  Don't  worry  about  that,  Mon- 
sieur Poirier;  we  are  the  ones  who  lose: 
you  receive  the  benefit. 
[Reenter  Uie  Maid,  with  a  hoi  and  thawl.] 

Antoinette,  Good-bye,  father,  we  are 
going  to  the  Boia. 

Qavtom.  Your  arm,  wife  I  [The]/ go  out.] 


430 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


PonuEB.  He  gete  on  my  nervee,  that 
son-in-law  at  mine.  I  can  see  very  well 
that  I  can  never  get  any  satisfaction  out 
of  him.  He'a  an  incurable  gentlemanl  He 
refuses  to  do  anything  —  he's  good  for 
nothing  —  he'a  a  frightful  expense  —  he 
is  master  of  my  own  house.  This  has  got 
to  end.  [He  rings.  A  momrnii  lattx — ] 

{Ei^er  a  iSemmi.) 
Have  the  porter  and  the  cook  come  here. 
[T'Ae  iervaivt  goes  out.]  We'll  see,  son-in- 
law.  I've  bcCTi  too  Boft  and  kind  and  gen- 
erous. So  you  won't  give  in,  my  fine 
friend?  Very  well,  do  as  you  please  I 
Neither  will  I;  you  remain  a  marquis,  and 
I  shall  remain  a  bourgeois.  I'll  at  least 
have  the  consolation  of  livii^  as  I  want 

[ETtUr  the  Porter.] 
Did  monsieur  ask  tor  me? 
PoiRiBiL    Yee,   Francis,  monsieur  did 
ask  for  you.  Put  up  a  s^  on  the  bouse  at 

PoRTBR.  A  sign? 

PonuBR.  "To  let,  a  magnificent  apart^ 
ment  on  the  firet  floor,  with  stables  and 
appurtenances." 

Porter.    Monsieur  le  Marquis's  apart- 

PoiRTBit.   Exactly,  FTau9ois. 

Porter.  But  Monsieur  le  Marquis  gave 
me  no  orders  about  this? 

PoiHiEit.  Idiot,  who  is  master  here? 
Who  owns  this  house? 

PoRTKR.  You,  monsieur. 

Poirier,  Then,  do  as  I  tell  you.  I  can 
dispense  with  your  opinions. 

Porter.  Very  well,  monsieur. 

[The  Porter  Qoe»  mi*.] 
[Eiiler  Vatel.] 

Hurry,  Francois. —  Come  here,  Monsieur 
Vatel.  You  are  preparing  a  grand  dinner 
for  to-morrow? 

Vatel.  Yes,  monsieur,  and  I  may  even 
IKS  that  the  menu  would  be  no  disgrace  to 
my  illustrious  ancestor.  It  wiU  be  a  veri- 
table work  of  art.  Monsieur  Poirier  will  be 
utonishod  — 

Poihur.  Have  you  the  menu  with  you? 


Va-csl.  No,  monueur,  it  is  being  copied, 
but  I  know  it  by  heart. 
Poirier.  Be  good  enough  to  recite  it  te< 

Vatel.  Polane  aux  raviolet  i  I'JUdierme 
and  'poU^jt  d  I'orge  d  la  Marie  Stuart. 

Poirier.  Instead  of  those  two  unknown 
Boups  you  will  have  ordinary  vegetable 

Vatel.  What,  monsieur? 

PoiRiBR.  It  is  my  will.  Continue. 

Vatei..  After  the  soup:  Carpe  du  SUs 
■1  la  lathuanienne,  poulardea  A  la  Godard, 
jUel  de  hauf  braUi  aux  raitiaa  d  la  NapoH- 
taine,  Weetphalian  ham,  Madeira  sauoe. 

Poirier.  Here 's  an  easier  and  mudi 
healthier  aft«r-soup  course  for  you:  Brill 
with  caper  sauce;  Bayonne  ham  with  spin- 
ach; livded  veal  with  gooseberries;  and 
rabbit. 

Vatel  But,  Monsieur  Poirier,  I  shall 
never  consent  to  — 

Poirier.  I  am  master  here,  do  you  un- 
derstand? Continue. 

Vatel.  Entr^:  Fil^  de  volatile  A  lo 
eoneordat  —  erou«lade»  de  tntffet  garniet  de 
foie  A  la  royaU;  stuffed  pheasanta  A  la  Mont' 
pemier,  r«d  partridges  farcit  d  la  bahi- 
mienne. 

Poirier.  Instead  of  theee  entries  we'll 
have  nothing  at  all.  Let's  proceed  at  onn 
to  the  roasts.  That's  the  important  part. 

Vatxl.  But  this  is  against  all  the  pre- 
cepts of  the  art. 

Poirier.  I 'U  take  the  responsibility  for 
that.   Now,  what  are  your  roasts? 

Vatel.  There  is  no  use  going  any  further, 
monsieur;  my  ancestor  thrust  a  swMd 
through  his  heart  for  a  lesser  insult.    I 

PotRiBR.  I  was  just  goii^  to  ask  you  to 
do  that,  old  man.  Of  course,  you  still  have 
a  week  here,  while  I  can  look  for  aaothsr 

Vatel.  A  BervantI  Monsieur,  I  am  a 
chef! 

Poirier.  I  am  going  to  replace  you  by 
a  woman-cook.  Meantime,  during  tJie  wed 
when  you  are  in  my  service,  you  will  be 
good  enough  to  execute  my  orders. 

Vatel.  I  would  rather  blow  my  brains 
out  than  be  false  to  my  name! 


THE   SON-IN-LAW  OF  M.  POIRIER 


431 


PomiiiR  [atide].  Another  stickler  for  hia 
name!  [Aloud,]  Blow  your  braina  out, 
MoDsieur  Vatel,  but  be  careful  not  to  burn 
my  sauces.  Good-day  to  you.  [Vatkl 
gotaout.]  AndnowI'mgoingtoinviteMme 
of  my  old  friends  from  the  Rue  dee  Bour- 
donnais.  Monsieur  le  Marquis  de  Preales, 
we  are  going  to  make  you  come  down  a  few 
pegHl 

[He  goes  (ml  humming  the  first 

vene  0}  "Montieur  el  Madame 

Denu."] 


ACT  III 

[Tht  leene  i*  the  tame.  Gabton  and 
Antoinbttb  are  preaetU.] 

Gaston.  What  a  deli^tful  ridel  Charm- 
ing spring  weather.  You  mi|^t  almost 
think  it  was  April  I 

ANTOiNKTm.  IteaUy,  were  n't  you  too 
bond? 

Gabton.  With  you,  my  dear?  Ass  mat- 
ter of  fact,  you  are  the  moet  charming 
woman  I  know. 

Antoinetfi!.    Compliments,  Monsieur? 

Gabton.  Oh,  no:  the  truth  in  its  most 
brutal  form.  And  what  a  deli^tful  jour- 
ney I  made  into  your  mind  and  heart. 
How  many  undiscovered  points  I  have 
found.  Why,  I  have  been  living  near  you 
without  knowing  you,  like  a  Parisian  in 
Paris. 

AirroiNiiTrB.  And  I  don't  displease  you 
too  much? 

Gaoton.  It  ia  my  place  to  ask  you  that 
queetion.  I  feel  like  a  peasant  who  has 
been  entertaining  a  disguised  queen:  all  at 
ODoe  the  queen  puts  on  her  crown  and  the 
peasant  feels  embatrassed  and  makes  ex- 
cuses for  not  having  been  more  attentive 
and  hospitable. 

An-roiMBrra.  Be  assured,  good  peasant, 
that  your  queen  blamed  nothing  except  her 
own  inc(^nito. 

Oaoton.  For  having  kept  it  so  long, 
cruel  queen?  Wss  it  out  of  sheer  coquetry, 
and  to  have  another  honeymoon?  You  have 
succeeded.  Hitherto  I  have  been  only  your 
husband;  now  I  want  to  become  your 


AHTOiNitTTE.  No,  my  dear  Gaston,  re- 
main my  husband.  I  think  that  a  woman 
can  cease  to  love  her  lover,  never  her  hus- 
band. 

Gabton.  Ah,  so  you  are  not  romantic? 

Antoinbttk.  I  am,  but  in  my  o*-n  way. 
My  ideas  on  the  subject  are  perhaps  not 
fashionable,  but  they  are  deeply  rooted  in 
me,  like  childhaod  impressions.  When  I 
was  a  little  girl,  I  could  never  understand 
how  it  was  that  my  father  and  mother 
were  n't  related,  and  ever  since  then  mar- 
riage has  seemed  to  me  as  the  tendereet 
and  closest  of  all  rdationshipe.  To  love  a 
man  who  is  not  my  husband  seems  con- 
trary to  nature. 

Oabton.  The  ideas  rather  of  a  Roman 
ny  tron,  my  dear  Antoinette,  but  keep  them, 
ff  the  sake  of  my  honor  and  my  happiness. 

ANTOINBTrB.  Take  carel  There  ia  an- 
other side:  I  am  jealous,  I  warn  you.  If 
there  is  only  one  man  in  the  world  whom  I 
^eit  love,  I  must  have  all  his  love.  The  day 
il  discover  that  this  is  not  ao,  I  shall  make 
no  complaint  or  reproach,  but  the  link  will 
be  broken.  At  once  my  husband  will  be- 
'Come  a  stranger  to  me  —  I  should  con- 
.sider  myself  a  widow. 
^'  Gabton  [aaUU].  The  devil'  [AUmi.] 
Vear  nothing,  dear  Antoinette,  we  shall 
five  like  two  lovers,  like  Philemon  and 
Baucis  —  with  the  exception  of  the  hut  — 
you  don't  insist  on  the  hut,  do  youT 

ANTonnnrz.  Not  in  the  least. 

GiBron.  I  am  going  to  hold  a  brilliant 
celebration  of  our  wedding,  and  I  want  you 
to  eclipse  all  the  other  women  and  make 
all  the  men  envious  of  me. 

ANTOiKETrx.  Must  we  proclaim  our  hap- 
piness so  loud? 

Gastok.  Don't  you  like  entertsinmente? 

Amtoinbite.  I  like  everything  that  you 
like.  Are  we  going  to  have  company  at 
dinaer  to-day? 

Gabton.  No  —  to-morrow.  To-day  we 
have  only  Montmeyran.  Why  did  you 
ask? 

ANTOiNKTrE.  Should  I  dress? 

Gabton.  Yes,  because  I  want  you  to 
make  married  life  attractive  to  Hector. 
Go  now,  my  dear  child.  I  shan't  forget  this 
happy  day  I 


433 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


^      Amtoinvitb.  How  happy  I  amt 
\  {She  goes  out.] 

\  Gabtok.  Tbere  ia  no  deDying  the  fact: 
l^e  is  prettier  than  Madame  de  Moatjay. 
Devil  take  me  if  1  am  not  falling  in  love 
With  my  wife  I  Love  is  like  good  fortune: 
w^e  we  seek  it  afar,  it  is  waiting  for  ua  at 
home. 

[Bnter  Poibier.) 

Well,  my  dear  father-in-law,  how  are  you 
taking  your  litiJe  disappointment?  Are  you 
atill  angry  on  account  ixf  the  moneyT  Have 
you  decided  to  do  BomcthingT 

PoiBiSB.  I  have. 

Gabton.  Something  violentT  _ 

PonuBB.  Something  necwanry.  v 

Gaston.  Mig^t  I  be  bo  indiscreet  wlto 
inquire  what?  *. 

PoiKiBR.  On  the  contrary,  monsieur,  »^ 
even  owe  you  an  explanation.  When  I 
gave  you  my  daughter  t^^^her  with  a  mil- 
lion francs  dowry,  I  never  foF  a  moment 
thought  that  you  would  refuse  to  take  a 
position. 

Gabtoh.  Please  let's  drop  that  subject.' 

PoiRiXR.  I  merely  wanted  to  remind 
you.  I  confew  I  was  wrong  in  thinking  thai 
a  gentleman  would  ever  consent  to  worr 
like  a  man;  T  own  my  mistake.  As  a  reeuli) 
of  that  mistake,  however,  I  have  allowed 
you  to  run  my  house  on  a  scale  which  I 
don't  myself  keep  up  with;  and  since  it  is 
understood  that  my  fortune  alone  is  our 
only  source  of  income,  it  seems  to  me  just, 
reasonable,  and  necessary,  to  cut  down, 
because  I  see  I  have  no  hope  of  any  further 
increase  in  revenue.  I  have  tiierefore 
thouE^t  of  niMVing  a  few  reforms,  which 
you  will  undoubtedly  approve. 

Gaston.  Proceed,  Bully  I  Goon,  Turgot  I 
Cut,  slash.  You  find  me  in  splendid  humor! 
Take  advantage  of  the  fact. 

PoiRiBB.  I  am  most  delighted  at  your 
oondeecension.  I  have,  I  say,  decided, 
resolved,  commanded  — 

Gabton.  I  beg  your  pardon,  father-in- 
law,  but  if  you  have  decided,  resolved, 
oommanded,  it  seems  quite  auper6uous  for 
you  to  consult  me. 

PoiHiER.  I  am  not  consulting  you;  I 
am  merely  telling  you  the  facts. 


Gabton.  So  you  are  not  consulting  meT 

PoiRiKB.  An  you  surprised? 

Gan'on.  a  little,  but,  as  I  told  you,  I 
am  in  splendid  humor. 

PoiRizR.  Well,  the  firet  reform,  my 
dear  boy  — 

Gabton.  You  mean,  your  dear  Gaston, 
I  think?  A  slip  of  the  tongue! 

PoiRiKii.  Dear  Gaston,  dear  boy  —  al 
the  same.  Some  familiarity  between 
father-in-law  and  son-in-law  is  allowed, 
doubtless? 

Gabton,  And  on  your  part,  M(Hisieur 
Poirier,  it  flatten  and  honors  me.  You 
were  about  to  say  that  your  first  reform  —  1 

Poibieb.  That  yiu,  monsieur,  do  me  the 
favor  to  stop  maldug  fun  of  me.  I  'm  tired 
□f  being  the  butt  of  all  your  jokes, 

Gabton.  Now,  now.  Monsieur  Poirier, 
don't  be  angry. 

PoiRiEB.  I  know  very  wall  that  you 
think  I'm  of  Uttle  account,  that  I'm  not 
very  int^gent,  but  — 

Gabton.  Where  did  you  get  that  idea? 

PoiRtEB.  But  let  me  tell  you,  there  is 
more  brains  in  my  little  finger  than  there 
ia  in  your  whole  body. 

Gabton.  This  is  ridiculous  — 

PoiBiBB.  J'mnomarquial 

Gabton.  Hush!  Not  so  loud!  Someone 
mi^t  believe  it! 

FontiBB.  It  makes  no  difference  to  me 
whether  they  do  or  not.  I  don't  pretend  to 
be  a  gentleman,  thank  God!  It'snotw(»Ui 
troubling  my  mind  about. 

Gabton.  Not  worth  troubling  about? 

PoiKtEB.  No,  monsieur,  no!  I'm  an  old 
dyed-in-the-wool  Liberal,  that's  what  I 
am,  and  I  judge  men  on  their  merits,  and 
not  according  to  their  titles.  I  laug}i  at 
the  mere  accident  of  birth.  The  nobility 
don't  daisle  me:  I  think  no  more  of  them 
than  I  do  of  the  Judgment  Day.  I'm  de- 
lighted to  have  this  occasion  of  telling 
you  so. 

Gabton.  Do  you  think  I  have  merits? 

PoiRiEB.  No,  monsieur,  I  do  not. 

Gabton.  No?  Then,  why  did  you  gjvo 
me  your  daughter? 

PoiRizR.  Why  did  I  — ? 

Gabton.  Possibly  you  had  some  aXt«r- 
thought? 


THE  SON-IN-tAW  OF  M.  POIRIER 


433 


PomKB  [anbarrtutedi.  AftortboughtT 

Gaston.  AUov  me:  your  daughter  did 
not  lore  me  when  you  brought  me  to  your 
home;  and  certainly  it  wbb  not  my  debts 
which  appealed  to  you,  and  which  caused 
the  honor  of  your  chotoe  to  fall  upon  me. 
Now,  aince  it  was  not  my  title  either,  I  am 
forced  to  seaume  that  you  must  have  had 
■ome  afterthought. 

PoiRiER.  And  what  ot  it,  monsieur? 
What  if  I  did  try  to  combine  cny  own  in- 
tereet  with  my  daughter's  happiness? 
Where  would  be  the  harm?  Who  oould 
blame  me,  I  who  gave  a  million  ri^t  out  of 
my  poeket,  for  choosing  a  son-in-^w  who 
could  in  some  way  pay  me  back  for  my 
sacrifice —  My  daughter  loved  you, 
did  n't  she?  I  thought  of  her  first:  that  was 
my  duty,  in  fact  my  right, 

Gaston.  I  don't  contest  that,  Monsieur 
Pother;  I  only  say  that  you  were  wrong  in 
one  respect;  not  to  have  had  confidence  in 
me. 

PoiBiBit.  Well,  you  are  not  a  very  en- 
oourHJng  sort  of  man. 

Gaston.  Are  you  blaming  me  for  my 
occaaionfd  jokes  at  your  expense?  Pos- 
sibly I  am  not  the  moat  respectful  son-in- 
law  in  the  world;  I  admit  it;  only  allow  me 
to  state  that  in  serious  matters  I  know  how 
to  be  serious.  It  is  only  ri^t  that  you  were 
looking  for  the  support  which  I  have  found 

PoiBiEB  latide].  Can  he  really  have  un- 
derstood the  situation? 

Gaston,  Look  here,  my  dear  father-in- 
law,  can  I  help  you  in  any  way7  That  is,  if 
I  am  good  for  anything? 

PonuiiR.  Well,  I  once  dreamed  of  being 
introduced  at  court. 

Gaston.  Ah,  so  you  still  have  that  de- 
sire to  dance  at  court? 

PoiRiER.  It's  not  a  matter  of  dancing. 
Do  me  the  honor  of  thinking  me  not  quite 
BO  frivolous  as  tiiat.    I  am  not  vain  or 

Gaston.  Then,  in  the  name  of  Heaven, 
what  are  you?  Explain  yourself. 

PoiRiBR  IpiUtnuly],   I  am  ambitious. 

Gaston.  Why,  you're  not  blushing,  are 
you?  Why?  With  all  the  experience  you 
have  acquired  in  the  realm  of  busines,  you 


mi^t  well  aspire  to  any  heights?  Com- 
merce is  the  true  school  for  statesmanship. 

PoiRixR.  That's  what  Verdelet  was  tell- 
ing me  only  this  morning. 

Gaston.  That  is  where  one  can  obtain 
a  high  and  grand  view  of  things,  and  stand 
detached  from  the  petty  interests  which  — 
that  is  the  sort  of  condition  from  which 
your  RichelieuB  and  Colberts  sprang. 

PoiRiER.  Oh,  I  don't  pretend  —  I 

Gaston.  Now,  my  good  Monsieur 
Poirier,  what  would  suit  you?  A  prefec- 
ture? Nonsensel  Council  of  State?  Nol 
Diplomatic  service?  Let  me  see,  the  Turk- 
ish Embassy  is  vacant  at  present  — 

PoiRiKK.  I  'm  a  stay-at--home  —  and 
then  1  don't  undentand  Turkish. 

Gaston.  WaitI  [Striking  Poirier  on  the 
ahouider.]  The  peerage  —  it  would  fit  you 
toftT. 

PoiRiKR.  Ohi  Do  you  really  think  so? 

Gaston.  That's  Uie  trouble:  you  don't 
fall  into  any  category,  you  see.  The  In- 
stitute? No.  You're  not  a  member  of  the 
Institute? 

PomiBR.  Oh,  don't  worry  about  that. 
I'll  pay  —  three  thousand  francs,  if  neces- 
sary—  direct  contributions.  I  have  three 
millions  now  at  the  bank;  they  await  only 
a  word  from  you  to  be  put  to  good  use. 

Gaston.  Ah,  Machiavelli!  Sixtus  V! 
You  11  outstrip  them  allt 

Poirier.  Yes,  I  think  I  willl 

Gaston.  But  I  sincerely  hope  your  am- 
bition will  not  stop  there?  You  must  have 
a  title. 

PaiRiBR.  Ob,  I  don't  insist  on  such 
vain  baubles.  I  'm  an  old  Liberal,  as  I 
told  you. 

Gaston.  All  the  more  reason.  AUberal 
must  despise  only  the  nobility  of  the  old 
regime;  now,  the  new  nobility,  which  has 
no  ancestors  — 

Poirier.  The  nobility  that  owes  every- 
thing to  itself  — ! 

Gaston.  You  might  be  a  count. 

Poirier.  No,  111  be  reasonable  about 
it :  a  baronetcy  would  suffice. 

Gaston.  .Baron  Poirier!  Sounds  well! 

PoiRiBR.  Yes,  Baron  Poirier  I 

Gaston  [Utoka  ai  Poirier  and  then  bursU 
tnU  launhing].   I  beg  your  paidoni  But  — 


CHIEt    EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


re&lly  —  this    is    too  fuimyt     Bbtod  —  ! 
MonneuT  Foirierl  Baron  de  CatiHard  - 

PoiUKR  la»ide\.  He's  been  m&Idng  fun 
of  met 

GAenoN  [caUing].  Cobm  here,  Hectorl 
lEnier  Iht  Dukb.] 

Come  faerel  Do  jrou  know  why  Je&n 
GaBton  de  PraleB  received  three  wounds 
from  on  orquebuae  &t  the  b&ttle  of  Ivry? 
Do  you  know  why  Francois  Gaston  de 
Prealee  led  the  attack  on  La  RocheUe? 
Why  Louis  Gaston  de  Presles  was  blown  to 
pieces  at  La  Hogue?  Why  Philippe  Gaston 
de  Freeles  captured  two  flags  at  Fontenoy7~ 
Why  my  grandfather  gave  up  his  life  at 
Quiberon?  It  was  all  in  order  that  some 
day  Monsieur  Poirier  might  be  peer  of 
France  and  a  baronl 

DuKZ.  What  do  you  meanT 

Gaston.  This  is  the  secret  of  that  little 
attack  on  me  this  morning. 

Ddke  [ande],  I  aeel 

PoiBiEB.  And  do  you  know,  Monsieur 
le  Due,  why  I  have  worked  fourteen  hours 
a  day  for  thirty  yearsT  Why  I  heaped  up, 
sou  by  sou,  four  millions  of  cash,  while  I 
deprived  myself  of  everything  but  bare  ne- 
ceeaities?  It  was  all  m  order  that  some  day 
Monsieur  le  Marquis  Gaston  de  Presles, 
who  died  neither  at  Quiberon,  nor  at  Fon- 
tenoy,  nor  at  1a  Hogue,  nor  anywhere 
else,  might  die  of  old  age  on  a  feather  bed, 
after  having  spent  his  life  doing  nothing 
at  all. 

Ddzk.  Well  said,  monsieur! 

Gj,»TON.  You  are  cut  out  for  an  oratorl 
[ErUer  a  Servant.] 

Servant.  There  are  some  gentlemen 
here  who  would  like  to  aee  the  apartment. 

Gasoos.  What  apartment? 

Servant.  Monsieur  le  Marquis's  — 

Gabton.  Do  they  think  this  a  natural 
history  museum? 

PonuER  [to  the  Servaid],  Tell  the  gentle- 
men to  call  again.  {The  Seniani  goes  mtt.] 
Pardon  me,  son-in-law,  I  was  so  carried 
away  by  your  gayety,  that  I  forgot  to 
mMttion  that  I  am  renting  the  first  floor 
of  my  house. 

Gaston.  What's  that? 


PonuBR.  That  is  one  of  the  little  re- 
fon>is  I  was  speaking  about. 

Gaston.  And  where  do  you  intend  to 
lodge  me? 

Poirier.  On  the  floor  above:  the  apan- 
ment  is  large  enough  for  us  all. 

Gaston.  A  Noah's  Arkl 

PoiRtBR.  Of  course,  it  goes  without 
saying  that  I  am  renting  the  stablea  and 
carriagM,  too. 

Gaston.  And  my  borsee  —  are  yon 
going  to  lodge  them  on  ibe  second  floor? 

Poirier.  You  will  sell  tbem. 

Oabton.  And  go  on  foot? 

Duke.  It  will  do  you  good;  you  don't  do 
half  enough  walking. 

Poirier.  I  shall,  however,  keep  my  own 
blue  ooup£.    I'll  lend  it  to  you  when  you 

Duke.  When  the  weather  is  nice! 
Gaston.     Now,    see    here,    Monsieur 
Poirier,  this  is  —  I 

[Enter  a  Servant.] 

Servant.  Monsieur  Vatel  would  like  tr 
speak  a  word  with  Monsieur  le  Marquis 

Gaston.  Tell  him  to  come  in. 
[Enter  Vatel,  dressed  in  black.] 

What  does  this  mean.  Monsieur  Vatel? 
Are  you  going  to  a  funeial?  And  on  the 
eve  of  battle  I 

Vatel.  The  position  in  wbicb  I  have 
been  placed  is  such  that  I  am  forned  to 
desert  in  order  to  escape  dishonor.  Will 
Monsieur  le  Marquis  kindly  cast  his  eyes 
over  the  menu  which  Monsieur  Poirier  haa 
imposed  upon  me  I 

Gaston.  Monsieur  Poirier  imposed  <m 
you?     Let    us    see.     [Reading.]    "  Lapin 

Poirier.     My   old   friend    Ducaillou's 
favorite  dish. 
Gaston.    "Stuffed  turkey   and  chest- 

PoiRiBR.  My  old  comrade  Groecfaenet 
is  very  fond  of  it. 

Gaston.  Are  you  entertaining  the  whole 
Rue  des  Bourdonnais? 

Poirier.  Together  with  the  Faubourg 
Saint-Germain. 

Gaston.    I   accept   your  i 


THE  SON-IN-LAW  OF  M.  POIRIER 


435 


MonsieuT  Vat«l.  [Vatsl  goe$  out.)  So, 
to-moirow  my  friends  an  to  have  the 
honor  of  meeting  younT 

PoQUEH.  Eitoctly;  they  will  have  that 
honor.  Monsieur  le  Duo  will  not,  I  hope, 
feel  humiliated  at  having  to  eat  soup  — 
my  soup  —  as  he  sits  between  Monsieur 
and  Madame  Pinoobourde? 

DuKB.  Not  at  all.  This  little  debauch 
is  not  in  the  least  displeasing.  Undoubt- 
edly Madame  Pincebourde  will  sing  during 
tbedeeeert? 

Gabton.  And  after  dinner  we  shall  have 
a  game  of  piquet,  tooT 

Dura.  Or  lotto. 

Pommt.  Pope  Joan  also. 

Gafton.  And  I  trust  we  shi^  repeat  the 
debauch  from  time  to  time  T 

P01BIX&.  My  home  will  be  open  every 
evening,  and  your  friends  will  always  find 
a  welcome  there. 

Gabton.  Really,  Monsieur  Foirier,  your 
home  will  soon  become  a  center  of  marvel- 
ous pleasures,  a  miniature  Capua.  But  I 
am  afraid  I  should  become  a  dave  of  lux- 
ury and  I  shall,  therefore,  leave  no  latnr 
than  to-morrow. 

PonuER.  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it,  but  my 
home  is  not  a  prison.  What  career  do  you 
intend  to  follow?  Medicine  or  Law? 

Gaston.  Who  said  anything  about  a 
career? 

PoiRiEB.  Or  will  you  enter  the  Depart- 
ment of  Roads  and  Bridget?  For  you  will 
certainly  be  unable  to  keep  up  your  rank 
on  nine  thousand  francs  inoomeT 

Gaston.  Nine  thousand  franca  income? 

PotRmR.  Welt,  the  account  is  easy  to 
make  out:  you  received  five  hundred  thou- 
sand francs  as  my  daughter's  dowry.  The 
wedding  and  installation  took  about  a 
hundred  thousand.  You  have  just  given 
two  hundred  and  ei^teen  thousand  to 
your  creditors;  you  have,  therefore,  one 
hundred  and  eighty-two  thousand  left, 
which,  at  the  usual  interest,  will  yield  you 
nine  thousand  francs  income.  You  see? 
On  that  can  you  supply  your  friends  with 
Carpe  d  ia  LiAwmienne  and  VoIoiUu  A  la 
eoneordta  t  Take  my  word  for  it,  my  dear 
Gaston,  stay  with  me;  you  wiD  be  more 
oomforteble  than  in  a  home  of  your  own. 


Think  of  your  chiidren,  who  will  not  be 
sorry  some  day  to  find  in  the  podtets  of  the 
Marquis  de  PTesles  the  savings  of  old  mas 
Poirier.  Good-bye,  son-in-law,  I'm  goinj 
to  settle  accounts  with  Monsieur  Vatel. 

[PoiRiBR  ffoet  out.] 

Oabton  [eu  he  and  the  Dukx  exchange 
()kmce»  and  the  Dukk  bnratt  into  peaU  of 
Utu^hUr],  You  think  it  funny,  do  you? 

Duke.  Indeed  I  dot  So  this  is  the  mod- 
est and  generous  fruit'tree  of  a  father-in- 
law!  This  Georges  Dandin  I  Atlsstyou've 
found  your  master,  old  man.  In  the  name 
of  Heaven,  don't  took  so  miserable!  See 
there,  you  look  Uke  a  prince  starting  on  a 
crusade,  turning  back  because  of  the  raini 
Smite  a  little;  this  isn't  bo  tragic  after 
aUt 

Gaston.  You  are  right.  Monsieur  Poi- 
rier, you  are  rendering  me  a  great  serv- 
ice that  you  Uttte  dream  ofl 

DuKB.  A  service? 

Gahton.  Yes,  my  dear  fellow.  I  wae 
about  to  matie  a  foot  of  myself ;  fall  in  love 
with  my  wife.  Fortunately,  Monsieur 
Poirier  hae  put  a  stop  to  that. 

Duke.  Your  wife  is  not  to  blame  for  the 
stupidity  of  her  father.  She  is  charming! 

Gakum.  Nonsensel  She's  just  like  her 
fatherl 

Dukx.  Not  the  least  bit,  I  teU  you! 

Gaston.  There  is  a  faniily  resemblance 
—  I  inaisti  I  oould  n't  kiaa  her  without 
thinking  of  the  old  fool.  Now  I  did  want 
to  sit  at  home  with  my  wife  by  the  fireside, 
but  the  moment  it  is  to  l>e  a  kitchen  fire- 
side —  [He  takts  out  hit  watch.]  Good- 
evening  I 

Dukb.  Where  are  you  going? 

Gaston.  To  Madame  de  Montjay's: 
she's  been  waiting  two  hours  already. 

Duke.  Gaston,  don't  go. 

Gaston.  Thay  want  to  make  my  life 
a  hardship  for  me  here,  make  nte  feel 
penitent  — 

DuKB.  Listen  to  mel 

Gaston.  You  can't  persuade  me. 

DuKs.  What  about  your  duel? 

Gaoton.  That's  so  —  I'd  forgotten 
about  that, 

Dukb.  You  are  going  to  fight  to-morrow 
at  two  in  the  Bois  de  Vincetum. 


436 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Gaston.  Very  well.  With  this  humor 
an  me,  PoDtgrimaud  is  going  to  spend  a 
nice  fifteen  minutes  to-tnorrowt 

[Enter  Verdbist  and  Antoinette.] 

Antoinette.   Are  you  going  out,  dear? 

Gaston.  Yes,  madame,  I  am  going  out. 
[He  goee  out.) 

VsRnELXT.  Well,  Totnon,  hie  humor 
is  n't  quit«  so  charming  as  you  described 
it? 

Antoinbtte.  I  don't  understood  why — ? 

OiTKK.  Very  serious  things  are  happen- 
ing, madtune. 

ANTOiNinTB,  What? 

DUKB.   Your  father  is  ambitious. 

Vebiiblet.  Poirier  ambitious? 

Duke.  He  waa  counting  on  his  Hon-in- 
law'e  title  to  — 

VflRnELET.  Get  into  the  peerage  — 
like  Monsieur  MichaudI  [A»ide.]  Oldfooll 

Duke.  He's  adopted  childish  measures 
in  retaliation  after  Gaston  refused  to  help 
him.  I'm  afraid  it  is  you,  however,  who 
will  bear  the  expenses  of  the  war. 

ANTOiNBTrE.  How  do  you  mean? 

Vbkoblet.  It'sonly  toosimple:if  your 
father  is  making  the  bouse  disagreeable  to 
your  husband,  he  will  seek  distraction 
elsewhere. 

Ahtoinbttb.  Distraction  elsewhere? 

Duke.  Monsieur  Verdelet  has  put  his 
finger  on  the  spot.  You,  madame,  are  the 
only  person  who  can  prevent  a  disaster. 
If  your  father  loves  you,  you  must  stand 
between  him  and  Gaston.  Make  a  truce 
between  them  at  once.  There  is  no  harm 
done  yet,  and  everything  can  be  as  it 

Antoinette.  No  harm  done  yet? 
Everything  can  be  as  it  was?  You  make 
me  very  much  afraid.  Against  whom  am 
I  to  defend  myself? 

Duke.  Against  your  father. 

Antoinbtte.  No;  you  are  not  telling  me 
everything.  What  my  father  has  done  is 
not  enough  to  take  my  husband  from  me 
in  the  spaoe  of  a  sin^e  day.  He's  making 
love  to  some  woman,  is  he  not? 

Duke.  No,  madame,  but  — 

Antoinbtte.  Please,  Monsieur  le  Due, 
don't  try  to  hide  the  trutli.  I  have  a  rival! 


Dukb.  Do  calm  yourself  I 

Antoinette.  I  feel  it.  I  know  iti  He  ii 
with  her  now! 

Dukb.  No,  madame:  he  loves  you. 

Antoinette.  But  he  has  just  oome  to 
know  me  since  an  hour  ago.  Ha,  it  was  n't' 
to  me  that  he  felt  he  must  tell  of  hia  angei 
—  he  went  elsewhere  with  his  troublesl 

VBRUELirr.  Now,  now,  Toinon,  don't 
get  so  excited.  He  went  out  for  a  walk, 
that's  all.  That  was  what  I  always  did 
when  Poirier  mode  me  angry. 

[EnUr  a  Ssrvanl  aarymg  a  UtUr  on  a 

giUier  plate.] 
Servant.  A  letter  for  Monweur  le  Mar 

Antoinette.  He  has  gone  out.  laty  it 
there.  [The  Servant  laya  IM  UUer  on  a  UMe. 
Antoihbtte  looka  at  ii,  and  tayt,  a»id»:\ 
A  woman's  hand!  [Aloud.]  f^om  whom 
does  this  come? 

Servant.  Madame  de  Montjay's  foot 
man  brought  it.  [He  gott  out.] 

Antoinette  (onde].  Madame  de  Mont- 
jay! 

Duke.  I  shall  see  Gaston  ixion  jrou, 
madame.  Would  you  like  me  to  ^e  him 
the  letter? 

ANTOiNEmi.  Are  you  afraid  I  might 
open  it? 

Dukb.  Oh,  madame  I 

AitroiNETTB.     It    must    have    croteed 

VEsnELET.  The  ideal  Your  hudaand's 
miatresa  would  never  dare  write  him  herel 

Antoinette.  She  must  despise  me,  if 
she  would  dare  to  write  to  h'm  here.  But 
I  don't  say  she  is  his  mistress.  I  only  say 
that  he  is  m^ing  love  to  her.  I  say  that 
because  I  am  positive. 

Dukb.  But  I  swear,  madame  — 

Antoinette.  Would  you  dare  swear, 
— seriously  swear,  —  Monsieur  le  Duo? 

Duke.  My  oath  would  prove  nothing, 
for  a  gentleman  has  the  right  to  lie  in  a 
case  of  this  sort.  No  matter  what  the  truth 
ia,  I  have  warned  you  of  the  danger  tu>d 
suggested  a  means  of  escape.  I  have  dene 
my  duty  as  a  friend  and  an  honorable  man 
Do  not  aok  anything  else  of  me. 

\fft«oe»o%a.] 


cmizedbvGooglc 


THE   SON-IN-LAW  OF   M.   POIRIER 


Antoinetit.  1  have  just  lost  every- 
thing I  had  wan  in  Gaaton'a  affection. 
An  hour  Ago  he  called  me  Marquise,  and 
my  father  bae  just  brutally  reminded  him 
that  I  was  MademoiHelle  Poirier. 

Veboelet.  Well,  is  it  impossible  for 
any  one  to  love  Mademoiselle  Foirier? 

Antoinsttk.  Possibly  niy  own  dmro- 
tion  might  have  touched  him,  my  own  love 
have  awakened  his.  That  was  already 
beginning,  but  my  father  has  stopped  it. 
His  mistresBl  She  can't  be  that  yet,  can 
she,  Tony?  You  don't  really  believe  she 
is,doyonT 

VBRnBLBT.  Certainly  noti 

Antoinette.  I  understand  bow  he 
mi|^t  have  been  making  love  to  berforthe 
last  few  days.  But  if  he  is  really  her  lover, 
then  he  must  have  begun  the  day  after  our 
marriage.  That  would  be  vilel 

VxRDBLEr.  Yes,  my  dear  child. 

Antoinette.  Of  course,  he  did  n't 
many  me  with  the  idea  that  he  would 
never  love  roe  —  be  should  n't  have  con- 
demned me  BO  soon. 

VxRDELBT.  No,  of  course  he  should  n't. 

Antoinette.  You  don't  seem  to  be  very 
sure.  You  must  be  mad  to  suspect  a  thing 
of  that  Hortt  You  know  very  well  my  hus- 
band would  n't  be  capable  of  it!  Tell  me  — 
there's  no  doubt,  ia  there?  You  don't 
think  him  80  low? 

Vehdelkt.  Not 

Antoinette.  Then  you  can  swear  he 
is  innooentl  Swear  it,  dear  Tony,  swear 
iti 

Vebdelet.  I  swear  it!  I  swear  it  I 

Antoinbttb.  Why  is  she  writing  a  letter 
to  him? 

Veruelet.  It's  an  invitation,  probably, 
to  a  party  of  some  sort. 

Antoinette.  It  must  be  very  important, 
if  she  sends  it  by  a  footman.  To  tiunk  that 
the  secret  of  my  whole  future  life  is  in  that 
envelope.    Let's  go  —  that  letter  tempts 

[She  layi  the  letter,  which  the  ha» 
mtamahite  picked  up,  on  the 
toUe  and  ebmdt  fiaediy  looking 

iau.\ 

Vkbtbikt.  Come,  then,  you  are  ri^t. 
[SU  doet  not  move.] 


[Enter  Foiiuer.] 

PoiBiEB.  Why,  Antoinette  —  [To 
VEsnELET.)  What  ip  she  looking  at?  A 
letter?  [He  picks  up  the  leUer.) 

Antoinette.  Leave  it  there,  father,  it 
is  addressed  to  Monsieur  de  Presles. 

Foirier  [looking  at  the  addreee].  Pretty 
handwritingl  [He  eniffa  the  UUer.]  Does  n't 
smell  of  tobacco  I  It's  from  a  womanl 

Antoinette.  Yee,  I  know;  it's  from 
Madame  de  Montjay. 

Poirier.  How  excited  you  are  I  You're 
feverish,  are  n't  you?  [He  lake*  her  hand.] 
You  arel 

Antoinette.  No,  father. 

PoiRiBB.  Yes,  yon  are.  What's  the 
matter?   Tell  me. 

Antoinette].  Nothing,  I  tell  you, 

Verdelbt  [aiide  to  Poirier].  Don't 
worry  her.  She's  jealous. 

Poirier.  Are  you  jealous?  IstbeMarquis 
unfaithful  to  you?    By  God,  if  that's  so — 

Aktoinbtte.  Father,  dear,  if  you  love 
me,  don't  — 

Poirier.  If  I  love  you  —  I 

Antoinette.   Don't  torment  Gaston. 

PoiRiXB.  Who's  tormenting  him?  I'm 
just  economizing,  that's  all. 

Veroelet.  You  irritate  the  Marquis, 
and  your  daughter  suffers  for  it. 

PoiRiEB.  You  mind  your  own  business. 
[To  Antoinette.]  What  has  that  man 
done  to  you?  I  must  know. 

Antoinette  \firigktened].  Nothing  — 
nothing.  Don't  quarrel  with  him,  for 
Heaven's  eakel 

Poirier.  Then,  why  are  you  jealous? 
Why  are  you  looking  at  that  letter,  eh? 
[He  take*  the  leiier.]  Do  you  think  that 
Madame  de  Montjay  —  7 

Antoinette.  No,  no  I 

Poirier.  She  does,  does  n't  she,  Verde- 
let? 

Vbrdkldi.  Well,  she  thinks  — 

Poirier.  It's  very  easy  to  find  out^ 
\He  brtake  the  eeal.] 

Antoinxttb.  Father!  A  letter  is  sacred. 

PoiRiEB.  There  is  nothing  so  saored  to 
me  as  your  happiness. 

Verdelet.  Take  oaie,  Poirier.  What 
will  your  son-in-law  lajrT 


.  Google 


438 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


FonuBR.  I  don't  care  a  hang  about  my 
aon-in-law.  [He  opens  tht  letiei.] 

Antoinvfte.  Pleaae,  don't  nad  that 
letter. 

PonaXR.  I  will  read  it.  If  it  is  n't  my 
right,  it  is  my  duty.  [Readmg:]  "  Dear 
Gaston—"  The  blackguard! 

[He  drop*  the  1i!tter.\ 

Antoinette.  She  is  his  mistreeel  Oh, 
OodI  [She  }aii»  into  a  ehair.] 

PonuBR  [foMnf  Virdblst  hy  the  coal 
eoUar].  You  allowed  me  to  arrange  this 
marriage  I 

VxRDELBT.  Oh  —  this  ia  too  much! 

PoiRiER.  When  I  asked  for  your  ad- 
vice, why  did  n't  you  oppose  me?  Why 
did  n't  you  warn  me  what  was  going  to 
happen? 

Vbruelbt.  I  fold  you  twenty  times  — 
but,  no,  monsieur  was  ambitious! 

PonuEit,  Much  good  it  did  mel 

VxBDEUiT.  She's  fainting! 

PoiRixR.  Gk>od  OodI 

Vbrdilbt  [hneding  before  Antoinette). 
Toinon,  my  child,  come  to  yourself! 

PoiRiER.  Get  out!  You  don't  know 
what  to  say  to  herl  [Krteding  before  An- 
ToiNBTTB.]  Toinon,  my  child,  oome  to 
youreelf! 

Antoinette.  It  was  nothing  —  I  'm 
well,  father. 

PoiBnaR.  Don't  worry,  I'll  get  rid  of  the 
monster  for  you. 

ANTOiNmTE.  What  have  I  done  to 
deserve  this!  And  aft«r  three  months  of 
marriage  1  Why  —  the  day  after,  the  day 
after  —  1  He  was  n't  faithful  to  me  for  a 
single  day.  He  ran  to  her  from  my  arms. 
Did  n't  he  feel  my  heart  beating?  He 
did  n't  understand  that  1  was  giving  my- 
sdf  and  my  love  completely  up  to  him. 
The  wretch!  I  can't  hve  — after  thial 

PoiRiBR.  Can't  live!  You  must!  What 
would  become  of  me  without  you?  The 
Booundrell  Where  are  you  going? 

Antoinhttb.  To  my  room. 

PoiniER.  Do  you  want  me  to  come  with 
you? 

Antoinvtte.  Thank  you,  father,  —  no. 

Verdelet  [to  Poisier).  Leave  her  to  cry 

alone.    Tears  will  make  her  feel  better. 

lANTOiNvrrE  goet  out.] 


PoiRiER.  What  a  marriogel  What  • 
marriage  I 

[He  s£rtdM  back  and  forth,  ttrikinff 
hit  breatt  as  he  vxiUu.\ 

Verdelet.  Calm  yourself,  Poirier, 
everything  can  be  arranged  agam.  At 
present  our  duty  is  to  bring  these  two 
hearts  together  again. 

FoiRiXB.  I  know  my  duty  and  I  am 
going  to  do  it.  [He  picks  up  the  letter.] 

Verublbt.  Please,  now,  don't  do  any- 
thing foolish! 

[Enter  Gaston,) 

Poirier.  Are  you  looking  for  something, 
monsieur? 

Gaston.  Yes:  a  letter. 

Poirier.  From  Madame  de  Montjay. 
You  need  n't  look  for  it,  it  is  in  my  potdcet. 

Gabton.  Have  you  by  any  cbajtce 
opened  it? 

Poiribr.  Yes,  monneur,  I  have. 

Gaston.  Youhave?  Doyourealiie, mon- 
sieur, that  that  is  an  infamous  trick?  Tho 
act  of  a  dishonest  and  dishonorable  manf 

Vbrdblbt.  Monsieur  le  Marquis!  — 
Poirier  1 

PomiER.  There  is  only  one  dishonorabla 
man  here,  and  that  is  you! 

Gaston.  Let  us  drop  that!  In  stealii^ 
from  me  the  secret  of  my  fault,  you  have 
forfeited  the  right  to  judge  it.  There  is 
but  one  thing  more  eacred  than  the  lock  of 
a  safe,  monsieur,  and  that  is  the  seal  of  a 
letter  —  because  it  cannot  defend  itself. 

Vebdblbt  [to  Poirier].  What  did  1 1«' 
you? 

Poiribr.  Hiis  is  ridiculous!  Do  yoi. 
mean  to  tell  me  that  a  father  has  n't  the 
right  —  ?  Why,  I'm  doing  yoti  a  great 
favor  even  to  answer  you!  You'll  explain 
in  court,  Monsieur  le  Marquis. 

Verdelet.  InoourtI 

PoiRHEtt.  Do  you  think  a  man  can  bring 
despair  and  sin  into  our  family  and  not  be 
punished?   I'll  have  a  divorce,  monsieur! 

Gaston.  Will  you  drag  all  this  into 
court?  —  Where  that  letter  will  be  read? 

Poiribr^    In  public.  Yes,  monsieur,  in 

Verdblett.  You'recmiy,  Poirier. Iliink 
of  the  scandal! 


:.L|,i,zedi!,GoOQlc 


THE  SON-IN-LAW  OF  M.  POIRIER 


439 


Oabton.  Of  course,  you're  fo^etting*. 
&«oiiian  win  lose  her  repuUtiont 

PotBiBS.  Now,  aaj  something  about  her 
honOTi  Ym,  I  expected  thati 

Gabtom.  Yes,  her  honor,  tmd  if  that 
is  n't  enou^  to  divuade  ]rou,  her  ruin  — 

PoiHiKB.  So  muoh  the  better!  I'm  de- 
light«dl  She  will  get  all  she  deeervee, 
the  —  ! 

Gabton.  MouaieuT  — ! 

Poibub.  She'll  get  no  sympathy!  To 
take  a  huriiand  from  hia  poor  young  wife, 
after  three  monthe  of  mairiaKel 

Gasfon.  She  ia  lem  to  blame  than  I. 
I  am  the  only  one  you  should  accuse  — 

FomiaR.  You  need  n't  worry:  I  deepise 
you  as  the  lowest  of  the  low!  Are  n't 
you  ashamed  of  yourselfT  To  sacrifice  a 
charming  woman  like  Antoinette  I  Has  she 
ever  given  you  cause  for  complaint?  Find 
B.  single  fault,  a  single  one,  in  order  to  ex- 
cuse yourself!  She  has  a  heart  of  gold  — 
and  what  eyes!  And  her  education!  You 
know  what  it  coat  me,  VerdeletT 

VoHDiiLvr.  Do  keep  calm,  Poirier! 

FonuiB.  I  am,  am  I  not?  If  I  only  — 
No,  there  is  justice  -^  I'm  going  to  see  my 
lawyer  at  once. 

Gaston.  Please  wait  until  to-morrow, 
monsieur,  I  beg  you.  Just  take  time  to 
think  it  over. 

PoiBiER.  1  have  tboui^t  it  over. 

Gaston  [lo  Vbbsbiat].  Please  help  me 
to  prevent  him  fro'm  committing  an  irrep- 
arable blunder,  monsieur. 

VxBDBLXT.  Ah,  you  don't  know  hiro. 

Gaston  (to  Poibibb].  Take  care,  mon- 
sieur. It  is  my  duty  to  save  that  woman, 
save  her  at  any  price.  Let  me  tell  you  that 
I  am  responsible  for  everything. 

PoiBiBB.  I  know  that  very  well. 

Gaston.  You  have  no  idea  how  desper- 
ate I  can  be. 

PonuKB.  80  you're  threatening? 

Gaston.  Yes,  I  am  threatening.  Give 
me  that  letter.  You  are  not  going  to  leave 
this  room  untD  I  have  it. 

PoiBiKB.  Violence,  eh?  Must  I  ring  for 
the  servants? 

Gaston.  That's  so  —  I'm  lotdng  my 
head.  At  least,  listen  to  me.  You  are  not 
naturally  mean;  you  are  just  angry.  And 


now  your  sorrow  makes  you  so  excited  that 
you  have  no  idea  what  you  are  doing. 

PoiRiEH.  Ihavearight  tobeangry,  and 
my  sorrow  is  decent  and  fitting, 

Gaston.  I  have  told  you,  monsieur,  I 
confess  I  am  to  blame;  I  am  sorry.  But  if 
I  promised  you  never  to  see  Madame  de 
Montjay  again,  if  I  swore  that  I  would 
spend  my  life  in  trying  to  make  youi 
daughter  happy  — ? 

Poibub,  It  would  merely  be  the  sec- 
ond time  you  have  sworn!  Let's  stop  this 

Gaston.  Very  well.  You  were  right  this 
morning:  it  ia  lack  of  an  occupation  that 
has  been  my  ruin. 

PoiKiBB.  Ah,  now.  you  admit  iti 

Gaston.  Well,  what  if  1  took  a  position? 

PoiHiER.  You  —  ?  A  position? 

Gaston.  You  have  the  right  to  doubt 
my  word,  that  is  true,  but  I  ask  you  to  keep 
that  letter,  and  if  I  fail  to  keep  my  promise, 
you  can  always  — ^ 

VcRDBLBT.  That's  a  good  giiarantae, 
Poirier. 

Poibixb.  a  guarantee  of  what? 

VxBDXLBT.  That  he  will  stand  by  his 
promise;  that  he  will  never  see  that  ladj 
again,  that  he  will  take  a  position,  that  h 
will  make  your  daughter  happy.  Wha. 
more  can  you  ask? 

PoiBiXB.  I  see;  but  what  assurance  can 
I  have? 

VxBDBLXT.  The  letterl  What  the  devil 
the  letter! 

PoiBiBB.   That's  so,  yes,  that's  bo. 

VEBnELVT.  Well,  do  you  accept?  Anj 
thing  is  lietter  than  a  divorce. 

PoiBiBB.  I  don't  quite  agree  with  that, 
but  if  jou  insist  <—  [To  the  M.jLiut'uiB.]  For 
my  part,  monsieur,  I  am  willing  to  accept 
your  offer.  Now  we  have  only  to  consult 
my  daughter. 

VxHDSiiBT.  She  will  surely  not  want  any 
scandal. 

PoiBUR.  Let's  go  and  find  her.  [To 
Gaston.]  Bdieve  me,  monsieur,  my  cmly 
object  in  all  this  is  to  assure  my  daughter's 
happincm.  And  the  proof  of  my  own  sin- 
cerity is  that  I  expect  nothing  from  you, 
that  I  will  receive  no  favor  from  your 
hands,  that  I  am  firmly  decided  to  nmain 


440 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


the  eame  plain  busiitesB  roan  I  have  al- 
ways been. 

VxBDELBT.  Good,  Poiherl 

FoiRiER  [to  VERSKun'l.  So  loDg,  at  lout, 
aa  he  does  a 't  make  my  dsui;hter  so 
happy  thit  —  [Tfiey  go  tmt.] 

Gabton.  Blame  it  on  yourself,  Marquis 
de  Preales.  What  humiliations  1  Ah,  Ma- 
dame de  Montjayl  This  is  the  hour  of 
my  fate.  What  are  they  goiog  to  do  with 
me?  Condemi)  me,  or  that  unfortunate 
woman?  Shame  or  remorae?  And  it  haa 
all  been  because  of  one  caprice  ^  a  single 
day!  Blame  it  on  yourself,  Marquis  de 
Presles  —  you  have  no  one  else  to  blame, 
[Ht  *land»  plunged  in  thoti^ht.] 
[Enter  the  Duke,  icho  comet  up  lo  Gabton 
and  slaps  him  on  the  shoulder.] 

Duke.  What  'a  the  matter? 

Gaston.  You  know  ^at  my  father-in- 
law  asked  me  this  morning? 

Duke.  Yes. 

Gaston.  What  if  I  told  you  I  was  go- 
ing t«  accede  to  his  wishes? 

Duke.  I  should  say,  Imposaiblel 

Gaston.  And  yet  it's  a  fact:  I  am. 

Duke.  Are  you  craiy?  You  said  your- 
self that  if  there  was  one  man  who  had  not 
the  right  — 

Gaston.  It  must  be.  My  father-in-law 
has  opened  a  letter  to. me  from  Madame 
de  Montjay.  He  was  so  angry  that  he  de- 
clared he  would  take  it  to  a  lawyer.  In 
order  to  stop  that,  I  had  to  offer  to  accept 
his  conditions. 

DoKB.  Poor  fellow!  You  are  in  a  diffi- 
cult situation] 

Gabion.  Pont^maud  would  be  render- 
ing me  a  great  serrice  if  he  weic  to  kill  me 
to-morrow. 

Duke.  Come,  come,  put  that  idea  out  of 
your  head. 

Gabtom.  That  would  be  a  solution. 

DuKX.  You  are  only  twenty-five  —  you 
still  have  a  happy  life  before  you. 

Gaston.  Life?  Look  at  my  situation: 
I  am  ruined,  I  am  the  slave  of  a  father-in- 
law  whose  despotism  makes  capital  of  my 
faults,  husband  of  a  wife  whom  I  have 
cruelly  wounded,  and  who  will  never  forget. 
You  sav  that  I  may  have  a  happy  life  before 


me,  but  I  tell  you  I  am  disgusted  with  liTe 
and  with  myself!  My  cursed  foolishness, 
my  caprices,  have  brought  me  to  a  point 
where  I  have  lost  everything:  liberty, 
domestic  happiness,  the  esteem  of  the 
world,  self-respect.  How  horrible! 

DuEE.   Courage,  my  friend.   Don't  lose 

Gaston  Iriaing].  Yes,  I  am  a  coward.  A 
gentleman  may  lose  everything  except  his 

DtnoE.  What  are  you  going  to  do? 
Gaston.    What  you  would  do  in  my 

Duke.  I  should  not  kill  myself  t  No! 

Gaston.  You  see,  then,  you  have 
guessed!  —  Sh-hl  I  have  only  my  name 
now,  and  I  want  to  keep  that  intact.  Some 
one's  coming! 


Antoinette.  No,  father,  no.  It's  im- 
possible. All  is  over  between  Monsieur  de 
Presles  and  me! 

Verdelet,  I  can't  believe  it's  you 
speaking,  my  dear  child. 

PoiRiER.  But  I  tell  you,  he  is  going  to 
take  a  position!  He  has  promised  never  to 
see  that  woman  ^ain.  He's  going  to  make 
you  happy! 

Antoinbttb.  Happiness  is  no  longer 
pbssible  for  me.  If  Monsieur  de  Presles  has 
not  been  able  to  love  me  of  his  own  accord, 
do  yOu  think  he  can  ever  love  me  when  he 
is  forced  to? 

PoiRiER  [lo  the  Makqdis].  Speak,  mon- 

Antoinette.  Monsieur  de  Preslea  says 
nothing,  l>ecauBe  he  knows  I  will  not  be- 
lieve him.  He  is  well  aware,  too,  that 
every  bond  which  held  us  together  has  been 
broken,  and  that  he  can  never  be  anything 
but  a  stranger  to  me.  Let  us  each,  there- 
fore, take  what  liberty  the  law  allows  us. 
I  want  a  separation,  father.  Give  me  that 
letter:  it  is  mine  and  mine  alone,  to  make 
what  use  of  I  please.  Give  it  to  me. 

PoiRiBR.  Please,  my  child,  think  of  the 
scandal.  It  will  alTect  us  all, 

Antoinette.  It  will  harm  only  thoot 
who  are  guilV- 


:.L|,i,zedi!,GoOQlc 


THp   SON-JN-LAW  OF  M.  POIRIER 


441 


Veroxlet.  Think  of  that  woman  whom 
you  will  ruin  — 

ANTOiNttiTit.  Did  she  hare  pity  on  me? 
FatiiN,  give  me  the  letter.  It  is  not  as  your 
dau^ter  that  I  oak  for  it,  but  as  the  out- 
r^ied  Marquise  de  Presles. 

PoiRiER.  There.  —  But  I  t«!l  you  he  is 
willing  to  take  a  position  — 

Antoinette.  Give  it  to  me,  [To  the 
M&BQCiB.I  Here  la  my  revenge,  monsieur; 
I  have  you  absolutely  in  my  power.  You 
placed  your  own  honor  at  stake  in  order  to 
save  your  mistress;  I  absolve  you  in  this 
way. 

[She  tears  up  the  teller  and  Ihrova 
it  into  the  fireplaee.] 

PoiiuBR.   Well— 1   What's  she  done? 

Antoinbtte.  My  duty. 

VERnELBT.  Dear  child!    [He  kiaiet  her.] 

DuKS.  Noble  heart! 

Gaston.  Ah,madame,  howcanlhopeto 
express  to  you  — 7  I  was  so  bai^ty  and 
proud  —  I  thoui^t  I  had  made  a  misal- 
liance, but  I  see  that  you  bear  my  name 
better  than  I!  My  wht^e  life  will  not  suf- 
fice to  make  up  for  the  evil  I  have  done 

Antoinbtte.  I  am  a  widow,  monsieur  — 

[She  ItUcea  Verdeltt'b  arm,  and 

Oarts  la  leave,  at  the  curtain 

Mis.] 


Vbrdei^tt.  I  tell  you  you  still  love  him. 

PoiHiER.  1  tell  you  you  hate  him. 

Vbroblbt.  No,  no,  Poirier  — 

PomixB.  Yes,  I  say!  Evidently  what 
happened  ye3t«rdfly  is  not  enough  for  youl 
I  suppose  you'd  like  to  see  that  good-for- 
nothing  carry  her  off  nowT 

Verdelet.  I  don't  want  Antoinette's 
whole  life  mined,  but  from  the  way  you 
go  about  things  I  — 

PoiRiBR.  I  go  about  things  the  way  I 
want  to,  Verdelet.  It's  all  very  well  and 
easy  to  play  the  part  of  mediator,  but 
you  'n  not  at  Bwords'  points  with  the  Mar- 
quia.  OnoelethuacarryfaBro&  and  you'd 


be  always  with  her,  while  I'd  be  sitting 
alone  in  my  hole  like  an  old  screech-owl  — 
that's  what  you'd  like!  I  know  youl 
You're  selfish,  like  all  old  bachelorsl 

Verdelet.  Take  care,  Poirier!  Ale  you 
positive  that  while  you're  pushing  things 
to  extremes,  you  yourself  ate  not  acting 
selfishly  — 7 

PoTRiKR.  Ha,  so  1  'm  the  selfish  one,  am 
I?  Because  I'm  trying  to  safeguard  my 
girl's  happiness?  Because  I  have  no  inten- 
tion of  allowing  that  blackguardly  son-in- 
law  of  mine  to  take  my  child  from  me  and 
make  ber  life  a  torture!  fro  Antoineitb.! 
Say  something,  can't  you?  It  concerns  you 
more  than  it  does  tis! 

Antoinbtte.  1  don't  love  him  any  more, 
Tony.  He  crushed  out  of  my  heart  every- 
thing that  made  me  love  him. 

PoiRiBR.  You  seel 

Amtoinxttb.  I  don't  hate  him,  father; 
1  am  simply  mdifferent  to  him.  I  don't 
know  him  any  more. 

Poiribr.  'That 'b  enough  for  me. 

Vbrsglbt.  But,  my  poor  Toinon,  you 
are  just  b^inning  life.  Have  you  ever 
thought  what  would  become  of  a  divorced 
woman?  Did  you  ever  consider  — ? 

Poiribr.  Verdelet,  never  mind  your 
sermoiiB!  She  won't  have  a  very  hard  time 
of  it  with  her  good  old  father,  who  is  going 
to  spend  all  his  time  loving  her  and  taking 
care  of  her.  You  II  see,  dearie,  what  a 
lovely  life  we'll  lead,  we  two  (indicatin; 
VnRDKiar]  —  we  three!  And  I'm  worth 
more  than  you,  you  selfish  brute!  You'll 
see  how  we'll  love  you,  and  do  everything 
in  the  world  for  you.  We  won't  leave  you 
alone  here  and  run  after  countesses  I  Now, 
smile  at  your  father,  and  say  that  you're 
happy  with  him. 

ANTOiNinTE,    Yes,  father,  very  happy. 

FoiRiEB.  Hear  that,  Verdelet? 

Verdelet.  Yes,  yes. 

Poirier.  Now,  as  for  your  rascal  of  a 
husband  —  why,  you've  iieen  much  too 
good  to  him.  We  have  him  in  our  power  at 
last.  I'll  allow  him  a  thousand  crowns  a 
year,  and  he  con  go  hang  himself. 

Antoinbtte.  Let  him  take  everything 
that  I  have. 

PoiRDER.  Oh,  nol      ^ 

.  Ciooglc 


44» 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


ANTomBTTE.  Isskonly  one  thing:  never 
to  see  him  again. 

Fonuxn.  He'll  hear  from  me  before 
long.  I've  just  delivered  n  lost  blow. 

Antoinxttb.   What  have  you  done? 

PonuZB.  Offered  the  Cb&teau  de  Preelea 
for  sale,  the  ch&t«au  of  hie  worthy  ances- 
tors. 

ANTOirarrE.  Have  you  done  that?  And 
would  you  allow  him,  Tony? 

Vebdbldt  [aside  to  AntoinbtteI.  Don't 

PommR.  Yes,  I  have.  The  land  specu- 
lators know  their  businees,  and  I  hope  in  a 
month's  time  that  that  vestige  of  feudalism 
will  have  disappeared  and  no  longer  soil 
the  land  of  a  free  people.  They'll  plant 
beets  over  the  site.  From  the  old  ma- 
terials they  will  build  huts  for  working- 
men,  useful  farmers,  and  vine-growers.  The 
park  of  hie  fathers  will  be  cut  down  and  the 
wood  sawed  into  little  pieces,  which  will  be 
burned  in  Ute  fireplaces  of  gixid  boui^eois, 
who  have  earned  the  money  to  buy  fire- 
wood for  themselvea.  And  I  myself  will 
buy  a  cord  or  two  for  my  own  use. 

Antoinbttb.  But  he  will  think  this  is  all 


PonuBE.  He  will  be  perfectly  ri|^t. 

ANTorNVPTB.  ^  will  think  it  is  I  who  — 

VxBnxLBT  \a»idt  to  ANTOimrrrai].  Don't 
worry,  my  d«ir. 

PoiBiZR.  I'm  going  to  see  if  the  signs 
are  ready.  They're  going  to  be  huge,  huge 
enough  to  cover  the  great  walls  all  over 
Paris.  "  For  sale,  the  GhAteaudePresles"! 

Vbboelbt.   Perhaps  it's  already  soldi 

PoiRiBB.  Since  last  evening?  Nonsense! 
I'm  going  to  the  printer's.  '  \He  goea  out.] 

Verdilbt.  Your  father  is  absurd.  If 
we  let  biro  have  bis  way,  he'd  make 
reconciliation  impossible  between  you  and 
your  husband. 

Antoinbtts.  But  what  can  you  pos- 
sibly hope  for,  poor  Tony?  My  love  has 
fallen  from  too  great  a  height  to  be  able 
ever  to  rise  again.  You  have  no  idea 
how  much  Monsieur  de  Preelea  meant  to 
me  — 

Vebselbt.  Oh,  indeed  I  do. 

AtnoiKimii.  He  was  not  only  a  hus- 
band, but  a  master  whose  slave  I  was  proud 


to  be.  I  not  only  loved  hitn,  I  admired  faim 
as  a  great  representative  of  a  former  age. 
Oh,  Tony,  what  a  horrible  awakening  I've 
had! 

[BrUer  a  ServarU.] 

Sbbtant.  Monsieur  le  Marquis  aaks 
whether  madame  will  see  him? 

Antoiniittx.  No. 

VxanEun.  See  him,  dear.  {To  Ou 
Senattt.]  Monueur  le  Muijuis  may  come 
in.  [The  Stnant  got»  fful.] 

Antoinbttb.  What  good  can  oome  of  it? 

{Enter  Gaston.] 

Gafton.  You  need  have  no  apprehen- 
sion, madame;  I  shall  not  trouble  you  long 
with  my  company.  You  said  yesterday  that 
you  considered  yourself  a  widow,  and  I  am 
far  too  guilty  not  to  feel  that  your  decision 
is  irrevocable.  I  have  oome  to  say  good- 
bye to  you. 

Vbrdxlbt.  What's  this,  monsieur? 

Gabton.  Yes;  I  am  going  to  do  the  only 
honorable  thing  that  remains.  You  should 
be  able  to  understand  that. 

Verdxlet.  But,  monsieur  —  ? 

Gaston.  I  understand.  Fear  nothing 
for  the  future,  and  reassure  Monsieur 
Poirier.  There  is  one  position  I  can  take, 
that  of  my  father:  in  the  army.  I  am  leav- 
ing to-morrow  for  Afrisa  with  Monsieur 
de  Montmeyran,  who  baa  been  good  enough 
to  sacrifice  his  leave  of  absence  for  my 
sake. 

VEBnxLBT  \and»  to  AN-roiMBrrB).  What 
a  qdendid  fellow  I 

ANTonnnrx  {a»idt  to  VEanBLVp].  I 
never  said  he  was  a  coward  I 

VEBnEUTT.  Now,  my  dear  children, 
don't  do  anything  extreme.  Monsieur  le 
Marquis,  you  are  very  much  at  fault,  but 
I  am  sure  that  you  ask  nothing  bettw 
than  to  make  amends. 

Gaston.  If  there  were  anythii^  I  oould 
do — I  [A  pauM.]  There  is  nothing  —  I 
know!  {To  Antoinxttb.]  I  leave  you  my 
name,  madame;  I  am  sure  you  will  keep  it 
spotless.  I  carry  away  with  me  the  remorse 
of  having  troubled  your  existence,  but  you 
are  BtHI  young  and  beautiful.  And  WW 
carries  with  it  happy  chanous . " 


THE  SON-IN-LAW  OF   M.  POIRIER 


443 


Ifinter  the  TtuKt.] 
DuKX.  I  hAve  oome  to  get  him. 
Gabton.    Ckime.    [Ofenng  hit  hand  to 
Vbrdblbt.]    Good-bye,  MonBieur  Verde- 
let.    {Th^  m^/race.]    Good-bye,  mad&me, 
—  tor  Always. 
Dusa.     For  alwaysl     He    loves   you. 


GAaroN.  Hush  I 

Vbbdelkt,  He  loves  you  desperately. 
The  moment  he  emei^ed  from  the  black 
abyas  from  which  you  have  helped  him,  bis 
eyee  were  opened.  He  has  seen  you  as  you 
really  are. 

ANToimTTa.  Mademoiaelle  Foirier  has 
triumphed  over  Madame  de  Montjay. 
How  admirable! 

VBRDJtuw.  You  are  cruell 

Gaston.  She  is  only  doing  justice,  mon- 
aieur.  She  deserved  the  purest  sort  of  love, 
and  I  marned  her  for  her  money.  I  made 
a  bargaJB,  a  bargain  which  I  waa  not  honeat 
enough  to-  abide  by.  [To  Antoinbttb,] 
Yea,  the  very  day  aft«r  our  marriage  I 
sacrificed  you,  out  of  pure  viciouaneas,  for 
a  woman  who  ia  far  beneath  you.  Your 
youth,  your  charm,  your  purity,  were  not 
anougb;  no,  m  order  to  bring  light  to  this 
darkened  heart  it  waa  necessary  for  you  to 
save  my  honor  twice  on  the  same  day! 
How  low  I  was  to  resist  such  devotion,  and 
what  does  my  love  now  prove?  Can  it 
possibly  reinstate  me  in  your  eyes7  When 
1  loved  you,  I  did  what  any  man  in  my 
plac«  would  have  done;  in  blinding  mysdf 
to  your  virtues  and  your  splendid  quali- 
ties, I  did  what  no  one  else  would  have 
done.  You  are  right,  madaroe,  to  despise 
a  man  wfio  is  utteriy  unworthy  of  you. 
I  have  lost  all,  even  the  right  to  pity 
myself  —  I  don't  pity  myself.  —  Come, 

Duke.  Wait.  Do  you  know  where  he  is 
going,  madame?  To  fight  a  duel. 

VSRMtBT  and  Antoinstti!.  To  fight  a 
duel? 

Gaston.  What  are  you  sayii^? 

DuKZ.  Well,  if  your  wife  does  n't  love 
you  any  longer,  there  is  no  reason  for 
hiding  the  truth.  —  Yea,  madame,  he  ia 
going  to  fight  a  duel. 


Antoinette.  Oh,  Tony,  bis  life  is  in 
danger —  I 

DuKX.  Whftt  difference  does  that  make 
to  you,  madame?  Is  it  possible  that 
everything  is  not  over  between  you, 
then? 

Antoinbttb.  Oh,  no:  everything  is 
over.  Monsieur  de  Preales  may  dispose 
of  his  life  as  he  thinks  best  —  he  owes  me 
nothing  — 

DuKB  [to  Gaston].    Come,  then  — 

\Thej/  go  at  far  a»  the  door.] 

Antdinettz.  Gaston! 

Dueb.  You  see,  she  still  loves  you  I 

Gaston  [Ihrowini/  himadf  al  her  feet]. 
Oh,  madame,  if  that  is  true,  if  I  still  have  a 
place  in  your  affection,  say  some  word  — 
give  me  the  wish  to  live. 

[Enter  PoiaiER.I 

PomiEH.  What  are  you  doing  there. 
Monsieur  le  Marquis? 

Antoinette.  He  is  going  to  fight  a 
duel  I 

PoiRiER.  A  duet !  And  are  you  the  least 
bit  surprised?  Mistreasea,  duels  —  that's 
to  be  expected.  He  who  has  land  has  war. 

Antoinittb.  What  do  you  mean, 
father?  Do  you  ima^e  —  ? 

FoiRiEB.  I  'd  wager  my  head  on  it, 

Antoinbttx.  That's  not  true,  is  it, 
monsieur?  You  don't  answer? 

PoiBixR.  Do  you  think  he  would  be 
honest  enough  to  admit  it? 

Gaoton.  I  cannot  lie,  madame.  This 
duel  is  the  last  remnant  of  an  odious  past. 

PoiRiER.  He's  a  fool  to  confess  it!  The 
impudence  I 

Antoinbite.  And  I  was  led  to  under- 
stand that  you  still  loved  me'  I  was  evnt 
ready  to  forgive  you  —  while  you  were  on 
the  point  of  fighting  a  duel  for  your  mis- 
tress I  Why,  this  was  a  trap  for  my  weak> 
neaa.   Ah,  Monsieur  le  Duel 

Duke.  He  has  already  told  you,  ma- 
dame, that  this  duel  was  the  remnant  of  a 
past  which  he  detests  and  wants  U>  lay  at 
rest  and  obliterate. 

Vbbdbliit  [to  (Ae-MABame],  Very  well, 
monsieur,  then  I  have  a  simple  plan;  If 
you  don't  love  Madame  de  Montjay  any 
longer,  then  don't  fight  for  her. 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Gabton.    What,   moosieur,    make  ex- 

VERDELirT.  You  muat  give  Antoinette  a 
proof  of  your  sincerity,  and  thie  is  the  only 
one  which  you  can  give.  Then  did  n't  you 
juBt  now  ask  for  something  to  do  as  an  ex- 
piation? Time  was  the  only  proof  she 
oould  impose.  Are  n't  you  happy  that  you 
now  have  a  chance,  and  that  you  can  give 
that  proof  at  once?  I  know  it'a  a  great 
sacrifice,  but  it  it  were  any  less,  could  it  be 
a  real  expiation? 

PomiER  [ostfje].  The  fool!  He'e  going 
to  patch  up  matters! 

Gaston.  I  would  gladly  sacrifice  my  life, 
but  my  honor  —  the  Marquise  de  Preelee 
would  never  accept  that  sort  of  sacrifice. 

Antoinktte.  What  if  you  were  mis- 
taken, monsieur?  What  if  I  would  accept 
it? 

Gaston.  What,  madame,  would  you  ask 

Antoinbtte.  To  do  for  me  almost  as 
much  as  you  would  for  Madame  de  Mont- 
jay?  Yes,  monsieur.  For  her  sake  you 
consented  to  forget  the  past  of  your  family, 
and  now  would  you  refuse  to  forget  a  duel, 
a  duel  which  is  moet  offensive  to  me?  How 
can  I  believe  in  your  love,  if  it  is  less  strong 
than  your  pride? 

PoiBBiR.  Then  what  good  would  a  sword- 
scratch  do  you?  Take  my  word  for  it, 
prudence  is  the  mother  of  tulety. 

Verdglbt  (a«{(je].  Old  fool! 

Gaston.    See?    That    is   what  people 

Antoinbtte.  Who  would  doubt  your 
courage?  Have  n't  you  given  ample  proofs 
of  it? 

PonuEB.  And  then  what  do  you  care  for 
theopinionof  a  lot  of  know-nothings?  You 
will  have  the  respect  of  my  friends,  and 
that  ought  to  be  enough  — 

Gaston.  You  see,  madame,  people 
would  laugh  at  me,  and  you  could  not  love 
a  ridiculous  man  very  long. 

Duke.  No  one  would  laugh  at  you. 
Let  me  take  your  excuses  to  the  ground, 
and  I  promise  you  that  there  will  be  no 

Gaston.  WliatI  Do  you,  too,  think 
that  —  ? 


Duke,  Yes,  my  friend.  Your  affair  is 
not  one  of  those  that  can't  possibly  be 
arranged.  The  sacrifice  your  wife  is  asking 
affectB  only  your  own  personal  pride. 

Qaston.  But  to  make  excuses  on  the 
ground  —  ? 

PoiRiEB.  I  would! 

VEBnELET.  Really,  Poirier,  one  might 
think  you  were  trying  to  make  him  fi^tt 

FoifUGU.  I'm  doing  all  in  my  power  to 
prevent  him. 

Ddkx.  Come,  Gaston,  you  have  do 
right  to  refuse  tbjs  proof  to  your  wife. 

Gab-iON.  WeU  — no!  It's  out  of  Uu 
question! 

Antoinette.  That  is  the  price  of  my 
foi^veness. 

Gaston.  Then  I  refuse  it,  madame.  I 
shan't  carry  my  sorrow  very  long. 

FoiHiKR.  Nonsense.  Don't  listen  to 
him,  dearie.  Wait  till  he  has  his  sword  in 
his  hand;  he'll  defend  himself,  I  tell  you. 
It  would  be  Uke  an  eitpert  swimmer  trying 
to  drown  himself:  once  in  the 'water,  the 
devil  himself  could  n't  keep  him  from 
saving  himself. 

Antoinbttb.  If  Madame  de  Montjay 
objected  to  your  fighting,  you  would  give 
in  to  her.  Good-bye. 

Gabton,  Antoinette,  for  God's  soke — 1 

DcEE.  She  is  exactly  right. 

Gaston.  Excuses!  I  offer  excuseal 

Antoinsttk.  I  see,  you  are  thinking 
only  of  your  own  pride! 

DnzE.  GastonI  Give  bl  I  swear  I 
would  do  the  same  thing  in  your  place. 

Gabton.  Very  well  —  but  to  Pont- 
grimaud!  —  Go  without  me,  then. 

DcEE  [to  Antoindite].  Madame,  an 
you  now  satisfied  with  him? 

Antoinette.  Yes,  Gaston,  you  have 
now  made  up  for  everything.  I  have  noth- 
ing else  to  forgive  you;  I  believe  in  you,  I 
am  happy,  and  I  love  you.  [The  Mabquis 
slafuh  stm,  hU  head  bowed.  Antoinbite 
got!  U>  him,  lakes  hU  head  in  her  handt,  and 
fctMM  Am  forehead.]  Now,  go  and  fightl 
Got 

Gaston.  My  dearest  wife,  you  have  my 
mother's  heart! 

Antoinette.    No,  my  mother's,  raon- 


THE  SON-IN-LAW  OF  M.  POIRIER 


44S 


PontiBR  [tuidt].  What  Jdiota  women 
are) 

Gabton  [to  the  Dckb).  Quick,  or  we 
ah&U  be  late. 

Antoinette.  You  are  a  good  swords- 
nan,  are  you  not? 

Dura.  He's  aa  good  aa  St.  Geoi^, 
madame,  and  he  has  a  wrist  of  Bt«el.  Mon- 
sieur Poirier,  pray  tor  Pontgrimaudl 

Antoinette  {to  GastonJ.  Please  don't 
kill  the  young  man. 

Gabton,  I'll  let  him  ofT  with  a  scratch 
—  because  you  love  me.  Come,  Hector, 


Antoinette.  AnotheT  letteT? 

Gabton.  Open  it  youraeir. 

Antoinette.  It  will  be  the  first  of 
yours  that  I  have  opened. 

Gabton.  1  am  sure  of  that. 

Antoinette  [opening  the  leUer],  It  is 
from  Monsieur  de  Fontgrimaud. 

Gabton.  Bah! 

Antoinette  [reading],  "My  dear  Mar- 
quis— " 

Gabton.  Snob  I 

Aktoineitb,  "We  have  both  proved  out 

Gaston.   Id  different  ways,  however! 

Antoinette.  "  I  therefore  have  no 
hesitation  in  telling  you  that  I  r^ret  hav- 
ing for  a  moment  lost  my  head  — " 

Gaston.  I  was  the  one  who  lost  mine! 

Antoinette.  "You  are  the  only  man 
in  the  world  to  whom  I  should  think  of 
making  excuses  —  " 

Gaston,  You  flatt«r  me,  monsieur. 

Antoinette,  "And  I  have  no  doubt 
that  you  will  accept  them  aa  gailaoUy  as 
they  are  offered  ~  " 

Gaston.  Exactly! 

Antoinette.  "With  all  my  heart,  Vis- 
oount  de  Fontgrimaud." 

Duke.  He  is  not  a  viscount,  and  he  has 
no  heart,*  Otherwise  his  letter  is  most  ap- 
propriate. 

Verdelet  [to  GastonI-  Everything  has 
turned  out  splendidly,  my  dear  boy.  I  hope 
you  have  learned  your  lesson? 


Gabton.  For  the  rest  of  my  life,  dear 
Monaieur  Verdelet.  From  this  day  on  I 
begin  a  serious  and  calm  existence.  In 
order  to  break  definitely  with  the  follira  of 
my  past,  I  ask  you  for  a  place  in  your 

Vbbdelbt.  In  my  office!  You!  A  gen- 
tleman! 

Gabton,  Havelnotmy  wifetosupport? 

Duke.  You  will  da  as  the  Breton  nobles 
did,  when  they  laid  down  their  swords  in 
Parliament  in  order  to  enter  the  field  of 
commerce,  and  t«ok  them  up  again  after 
having  set  their  houses  in  order. 

Vb  RUE  LET.  Very  good,  Monsieur  le 
Marquis. 

Poirier  [aside].  It's  now  my  turn  to 
give  in.  [Aloud.]  My  dear  son-io-law,  that 
is  a  most  liberal  sentiment;  you  really  de- 
serve to  be  a  bourgeois.  Now  that  we  can 
understand  each  other,  let  us  make  peace. 
Stay  with  me. 

Gaston.  I  ask  for  nothing  better  than 
to  make  my  peace  with  you,  monsieur. 
But  aa  to  ataying  with  3^u,  that  is  another 
matter.  You  have  made  me  understand 
the  happiness  which  the  wood-chopper 
feels  when  he  is  master  of  his  own  home. 
I  do  not  blame  you,  but  I  cannot  help  re- 
membering, 

FoiRiBR.  Are  you  goii^  to  take  away 
my  daughter?    Are  you  going  to  leave  me 

Antoinette.  I'll  come  to  see  you  often, 

Gaston.    And  you  will  always  be  wel- 

FoiRiER,  So  my  daughter  is  goii^  to  be 
the  wife  of  a  tradesman! 

Verdelet.  No,  Poirier,  your  wife  will 
be  mbtresa  of  the  Ch&teau  de  Preelee. 
The  chAteau  was  sold  this  morning,  and, 
with  the  permission  of  your  husband, 
Toinon,  it  will  be  my  wedding  present. 

ANTOiNrrrB.  Dear  Tony!  May  I  ac- 
cept it,  Gaston? 

Gastoit.  Monsieur  Verdelet  is  one  of 
those  to  whom  it  is  a  pleasure  to  be  grate- 
ful. 

Verdelet.  I  am  retiring  from  business, 
and,  if  you  will  allow  me,  I  shall  come  and 
live  with  you,  Monsieur  le  Marquis.   We 


446 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


shall  cultiv&te  your  l&nd  together.  Th&t  is 
a  gentleman's  profession. 

PoiRiER.  Well,  what  about  me,  then? 
Aren't yougoingtoinvit«me?  Alldtildren 
are  ungrateful  —  yes,  my  poor  father  wae 
right. 

Vkbdelbt.  Buy  some  neighboring  land, 


PoiBiEB.  That's  an  idea! 

Verdelbt.  Tltat'e  all  you  have  to  do; 
and  beeideB  —  j^ou  're  cured  of  youc  ambi- 
tion, are  n't  you?  I  think  you  are. 

PoiRiER.  Yes,  yea.  [Aaide.]  Let  me  see: 
this  is  1846,  1  '11  be  deputy  of  the  amm- 
dittemerU  of  Predes  in  forty-seven,  and  peer 
of  France  in  forty-eightl 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


THE  OUTER  EDGE  OF  SOCIETY 

(LE  DEMI-MONDE) 
Bv  ALEX.1NDEE  DUMAS  Fim 
Ti-amihUdh  BARRETT  H.  CLARK 


cmizedbv  Google 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


CHARACTERS 

Olivier  db  Jalin 
Ratuond  db  Nanjao 

HiPFOLTTB   RiCHOND 

Dx  Thonn£Rinb 
Fntsr  SERTAm 
Second  Servant 

TmRD  SXBTANT 

BaHONEBS  StIZAHNB  B'ANOfi 

Viscountess  db  VerniIreb 

Valentine  de  Santis 

Marcbllb 

A  Chambermaid 


Tht  aeHon  laktt  plaot  at  Para;  Ot*  fint  and  fifth  acU  in  Uu  hafnt  o}  Otiviir,  Qu 
MMnd  in  (Aoi  of  Ae  yueounlu*,  Ott  OotA  and  fourlk,  in  thai  oS  Suaonna. 


ciilizedbvGoOQic 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


THE  OUTER  EDGE  OF  SOCIETY 


A  drawing-room  in  ihe  home  of  OumR 
DS  Jaun. 

[As  Ae  eurtain  ruM,  the  Vibcountbbb  and 
OunxB  are  diteoiiered.] 

ViBCOiTNTBge.  Then  you  promiBe  that 
the  affair  will  go  no  furtherT 

Oumit.  It  cannot. 

ViBcxiUMTKSB.  I  wanted  to  come  myatU 
and  aek  you,  even  at  the  rigk  of  being  found 
in  your  home  with  Heaven  knows  whoml 

OuviXR.  Do  I  keep  evil  companyT 

VisconNTiiaa.  People  say  so. 

Olivier.  People  are  mistaken.  No 
women  except  those  who  are  your  intimate 
friends  come  here. 

ViacouvTBas.  That's  flattering  to  my 
friends  1 

OLiTiflB.  But  your  presenoe  here  is 
quite  e^licable.  Two  friends  of  youra, 
Monsieur  de  Mauoroix  and  Monsieur  de 
Latour,  were  playing  cards  at  your  home 
and  had  a  littte  misunderatanding.  An  ex- 
planation became  necessary;  that  explana- 
tion should  be  made  in  this  place.  I  am 
Monsieur  de  Maucroiz's  second;  you  have 
oome  to  ask  me  to  'arrange  the  affair  — 
what  more  natural? 

ViBCOuirrass.  I  see  that  clearly  enough, 
but  I  should  n't  like  it  known  that  I  came 
here,  because  I  prefer  all  Paris  not  to  know 
that  1  gamble  at  home.  If  anything  serious 
happens,  there  will  be  a  trial,  and  no  re- 
■pect^le  woman  should  appear  in  court, 
even  as  witness,  and  have  her  name  appear 
in  ttie  papers.  Please  do  your  best  to  come 
to  an  amicable  arrangement,  or,  if  that  is 
impossible,  for  the  sake  of  my  friendship, 
make  the  cause  of  the  duel  something  with 
which  I  am  not  connected,  even  indirectly. 
I  open  my  house  to  ({ambling  in  order  that 
people  may  amuae  themselves,  not  quarrel. 

Ouvnm.  I  understand. 


Viscountess.  Well,  as  MadaoM  de 
Santig  has  n't  come  yet,  I  must  go. 

OuviER.  Is  Madame  de  Santis  to  do  me 
the  honor  — T 

ViBCOUNTBas.  When  she  learned  that  1 
was  coming  t«  see  you  she  said  to  me: 
"  I'll  come  and  call  tor  you.  I  shan't  be 
sorry  to  see  him  either,  the  naughty  mani" 
But  she's  BO  careless  she  may  have  forgot- 
ten all  about  it.  I  can't  wait  an  instant 
longer.  Good-bye.  Let  me  remind  you 
that  yi>u  have  n't  asked  after  my  niece, 
who  was  nice  enough  to  ask  me  to  convey 
to  you  all  sorts  of  things. 

Olivizr,  Pleasant  thin^T 

ViscootmBBS.  Of  course. 

OuvinR.  Very  kind  of  her. 

ViBCOTTNTESs.  Certainly  it  is  tdnd;  she 
did  n't  have  to  do  it:  she  knows  very  well 
that  you  are  not  going  to  marry  her. 

OuviKB.  Oh,  no! 

ViacouNTBBs.  My  dear  friend,  you 
m^t  happen  upon  some  one  much  worse. 

OuTiBR.  One  never  happen*  on  any  one 
worth  while. 

ViBcooHTcefi.  But  we're  better  off  than 
you. 

OuvixR.  Are  you  sure? 

V1BCODNTK88.  You  are  of  the  petty 
nobility  —  and,  you're  not  rich? 

OuviEB.  I  have  thirty  thousand. 

ViaconNTBsa.  DivideadsT 

OuviBR.  Land. 

ViscotniTBSS.  Not  bad.  You  have  a 
family? 

Olivier.  One  always  has  a  family.  But 
my  family  consists  only  of  a  mother  — 
remarried;  as  I  had  to  sue  her  husband 
when  I  came  of  age  in  order  to  get  my 
father's  fortune,  we  see  each  other  very 
rarely.  I  don't  think  she  cares  very  much 
for  me.  A  widowed  mother  ought  neyer  to 
remarry.  When  she  casts  aside  her  hus- 
band's name,  she  becomes  praotioally  a 
stranger  to  her  family.   That  is  bow,  my 


453 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


dear  Viscountess,  I  was  thrown  so  much  on 
my  own  resourcea  at  an  early  age;  that  is 
why  I  have  sown  my  wild  oats,  and  ooq- 
tracted  debts  which  I  have  since  paid,  and 
why  to-day  I  am  far  too  reasonable  a  man 
to  many  your  niece,  in  spite  of  the  (act  that 
I  think  her  charming,  tjmt  she  appeals  to 
me  aa  an  orphan,  and  that  at  one  time  I  was 
afraid  I  might  marry  her, 

ViacouNTKas.  You  ^7 

Olivier.  Yes,  I!  I  actually  fell  deeply 
in  love  with  her,  and  if  I  had  continued  to 
visit  your  home,  as  I  am  an  honest  and  up- 
right man,  I  ahoutd  have  ended  by  askinK 
you  for  her  hand,  which  would  have  been 

ViBCOUNTBas.  Because  she  has  no  money? 

OuTiKR.  That  made  no  difference  to 
mo;  I  am  not  the  man  to  marry  for  money. 
No,  there  is  another  reason. 

ViscoUNTKSB.  What  is  that? 

OuviBR.  We  men  of  tbe  world  aic  not 
such  fools  as  we  may  appear  to  be.  When 
we  marry,  we  choose  in  our  wives  what  we 
have  been  un^le  to  find  in  the  wives  of 
others,  and  the  longer  we  five  the  more 
sistent  we  are  that  our  wives  know  nothing 
of  life.  Those  tittle  ladies  who  have  ready- 
made  reputations  for  wit  and  independ- 
ence before  marriage,  make  a  very  sorty 
showing  as  wivee.  Look  at  Madame  de 
SantisI 

Viscountess.  But  Moroelle  has  n't  Val- 
entine's character. 

Olivier,  Which  does  not  prevent 
Madame  de  Santie,  who  is  separated  from 
an  unknown  husband,  —  a  woman  who  is 
compromised  and  who  compromisea,  — 
from  having  as  her  bosom  friend  Made- 
moiseIledeSancenauA,}ouTniece.  Tell  me, 
now,  is  Madame  de  Santis  a  fit  companion 
for  a  girl  of  twenty? 

ViBCOUNTBSa,  Why  not?  Marcelle  has 
very  few  amusements,  and  i  have  no  for- 
tune, Madame  de  Santis  likes  the  theater, 
and  owns  a  carriage.  Marcelle  is  merely 
taking  advantage  of  all  that.  The  poor  gjrl 
must  have  some  distractions.  She  is  keep- 
ing out  of  mischief,  after  all. 

Oltvier.  She  does  keep  out  of  mischief, 
but  she  gives  people  the  idea  that  she 
4oeB  n't,  and  she  will  end  by  getting  into  it. 


Visco:n4TKB8.  My  dear  Olivierl 

Ouvms.  You  are  wrongt  Do  you  know 
what  you  ought  to  have  done?  Sent  your 
niece  to  the  Marquis  de  Tbonnerins  three 
yean  ago,  when  she  left  boarding-school. 
He  wanted  to  have  her  with  him  for  hip 
own  daughter's  sake.  To-day  Marcelle 
would  be  living  in  respectable  aooiety,  and 
would  have  married  or  been  able  to  marry 
as  she  should.  Now,  I  doubt  whether  she 
will  ever  be  able  to  do  that. 

ViBCOUNTsas.  I  loved  her  so  much  that 
I  could  n't  think  of  being  separated  from 
her. 

OuviER.  That  was  selfishness,  which 
you  will  later  regret,  and  fw  which  she  will 
some  day  blame  you. 

ViBcouNTESs.  No;  because  if  she  wishes, 
she  may  marry  in  two  months'  time. 
She'll  make  a  charming  wife:  women  are 
what  their  husbands  make  them  — 

OuviBR.  But  husbands  are  also  what 
their  wives  moke  them  ~  and  the  com- 
pensation is  not  sufficient.  Whom  ore  you 
going  to  marry  her  to  this  time? 

ViBcojjtfiBaa.  A  young  man. 

OuviEB.  Who  is  in  love  with  Made- 
moiselle de  Sancenaux  and  who  is  loved  by 
her? 

ViscoTTNTEBB.  No,  but  that  makes  little 
difference.  In  marriage  if  there  is  love,  it 
is  killed  by  familiarity,  and  when  it  does 
not  exist,  it  gives  birth  to  it. 

Olivier.  You  talk  like  1a  Rochefou- 
cauld. Where  did  you  find  the  young  man? 

ViBcoTTNTEss.  MonsieuT  de  Latour  in- 
troduced him  to  her. 

OuvuEB.  Introduced  by  Monsieur  de 
Latour,  specialist  in  shoddy:  half  string, 
half  cotton! 

ViscoTTNTEas.  Listen  to  me :  I  know  good 
respectable  men  whan  I  see  them,  and  I 
t«ll  you  this  man  is  one.  He's  exactly  the 
husband  for  Marcelle.  He's  young,  he 
looks  imposing,  he's  not  over  thirty-two  at 
the  outside,  in  the  army,  decorated,  no 
family,  with  the  exception  of  a  young 
sister  who  is  a  widow  and  lives  a  retired 
life  in  the  depths  of  her  Faubourg  Saint- 
Germain;  he  has  twenty  thousand  francs' 
income,  is  free  to  do  as  he  lilies,  may  marry 
to-moiTow.  The  only  people  be  knows  in 


THE  OUTER   EDGE  OF  SOCIETY 


453 


Paria  are  Monsieur  de  I«toiir,  MtirceUe, 
and  me.  This  is  a  eplendid  chance  —  I 
couldn't  hope  for  a  finer.  You'il  be  the 
Grat  to  admit  it  when  you've  aeen  the 

OuviKB.   Oh,  I  am  to  meet  him,  then? 

V1BCOCNTEB8.  To-day:  he  'm  Monsieur 
de  lAtour's  second. 

(Hjtiek.  Then  he's  that  Monsieur  de 
Nanjac  who  left  his  card  here  yesterday, 
and  vho  is  going  to  call  to-day  at  three? 

VraoooNTEsa.  Yes.  Now,  be  nice;  you 
can  when  you  want  to  be.  If  Moneieur 
de  Nanjac  takes  to  you,  there's  nothing 
out  of  the  way  in  that,  and  if  he  speaks  to 
jrou  about  MaroeUe,.try  not  to  say  too 
many  of  tboee  stupid  things  you  refened  to 
a  few  moments  ago. 

[Enter  a  Servanl.] 

SBBTAtrr.  Madame  de  Santis. 

[He  goea  out.] 
[Bnier  Valbntinb.] 

ViBcouNTBBB.  Come  here,  my  dear 
childl  Where  have  you  been? 

ViLSNTiNK.  Don't  speak  about  it  —  I 
thought  I'd  never  get  away!  iroOuvMa.] 
How  are  you? 

OuviEB.  Splendid,  thanks. 

VALBNTiin:.  Just  think  1  My  dreea- 
maker  came  and  I  had  to  try  on  some 
dresses.  You'd  see  the  one  I'm  having 
made  for  the  raoes  to-morrow.  Then  I  went 
to  hire  a  coach  with  two  horses.  I  made 
them  show  me  the  coachman  first  —  he's 
English  —  very  nice.  Then  I  went  to  see 
my  landlord  —  you  know  I'm  moving. 
VihaX  not  do  you  pay  here  — ? 

OuvixB.  Three  thoustmd  francs. 

Valxntims.  You're  in  a  new  neigh- 
borhood, a  real  desert.  You  might  be 
murdered  hrae  and  no  one  would  ever 
know.  I'd  die  of  boredom.  I  found  the 
dearest  litUe  apartment  on  the  third  floor 
—  it 's  in  the  lUie  de  la  Paix  —  seven  thou- 
sand five  hundred  a  year  —  landlord  will 
ro-paper.  The  drawing-room  is  to  be  dec- 
orated in  red  and  gold,  the  bedroom  in 
yellow,  the  boudoir  in  blue  satin.  I'm  get- 
ting new  furniture  for  it  —  it'll  be  lovely! 

Olitimr.  How  can  you  afford  all  that? 


Valentini.  How,  you  ask?  Haven't 
I  my  dowry? 

-C^iviBR.  You  can't  have  very  much  of 
it  left,  at  the  paoe  you  an  living? 

VALEOTnra.  I  have  about  thirty  thou- 
sand, [To  the  ViBcouNTBse.]  My  dear,  if 
you  ever  need  money,  don't  foi^t  my 
agent:  Monsieur  Midtel.  I  didn't  have 
time  to  wait  for  the  sale  of  some  property 
of  mine  in  Touraine,  ho  !  let  liirn  have  the 
deeds,  and  he  advanced  me  five  thousand 
cash  at  once  —  interest  at  eight  per  cent 
—  that  isn't  too  h^.  FVom  here  I'm 
going  straight  to  him  and  get  the  rest  of 
the  money. 

Olivier.  Is  n't  that  Michel  a  thin  little 
fellow  with  a  mustache,  who  wears  em- 
broidered shirts,  and  enameled  buttons  on 
his  waistcoat? 

Valxntihi.  He's  very  nice-looking. 

OuvnB.  That  depends  on  where  you 
see  him.  You  know,  he  is  a  thief.  I  know 
him:  be  loaned  me  money  before  I  became 
of  age.  If  you're  in  the  hands  of  that  man, 
your  thirty  thousand  francs  won't  last 
long.  When  they  are  gone,  then  what  are 
you  going  to  do? 

ValiBntinb.  There's  still  my  husband. 
He  must  give  me  an  allowance.  Or  if  he 
does  n't,  I  can  always  return  to  him, 

OuviXB.  What  luck  for  himi  And  to 
think  that  at  this  moment  he  has  n't  the 
slightest  inkling  of  the  happiness  that 
awaits  him  I  But  what  if  he  were  to  refuse? 

Valbntinb.  He  can't  —  our  separation 
is  n't  a  judicial  one.  I  have  the  ri^t  to 
return  to  my  home  whenever  I  like;  he's 
forced  to  receive  me.  But  I  know,  he'd  ask 
for  nothing  better  than  to  take  me  back: 
he's  still  in  love  with  me. 

Olivier,  I  'd  be  very  curious  to  know 
how  that  comes  out. 

Valbntinb.  You'll  see  — I've  got  to 
decide  soon.  Now  —  where  else  have  I 
been?  That's jiUI  I  came  back  by  way  of 
the  Champs-EIysies  —  what  crowds  of 
people  there  were!  I  met  heaps  of  my  men 
friends:  little  de  Bonchamp,  the  Count  de 
Bryade,  Monsieur  de  Gasavaux.  1  invited 
them  to  tea  to-morrow.  Will  you  come, 
too? 

OuvtflB.  Thank  you,  no. 

.  Google 


454 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Valentinb.  I  reserved  a  box  at  the 
theater  for  to-night,  a  stage-box  dovn- 
Btaira.  I  paid  my  bill  at  the  modiste's. 
I'm  le&ving  her:  she  works  now  only  for 
aetreaaee.  That's  what  I've  done  to-day. 
[To  the  VibcoitntbSb.]  Oh,  by  the  way,  we 
dine  Tuesday  at  Monsieur  de  Calvillot's 
—  a  house- warming.  What  a  charming 
apartment  he  hasi  He  asked  me  to  invite 
the  ladies.  You'll  come  with  Marcelle, 
won't  you?  We '11  have  a  very  gay  time. 

OuviKfi  [looking  at  her],  PoorwomaDi 

Vamsntinb,  What's  the  niatter? 

Olivier.  Nothing  —  I  pity  you. 

Valbntinb.  Why? 

Olivibr.  Because  you  deswe  to  be 
pitied.  If  you  can't  understand,  then  I 
■han't  waste  time  trying  to  explain. 

Valsntine.  By  the  way,  I  knew  I 
wanted  to  ask  you  somethingl 

OuvDBEt.  She  did  n't  even  hear  what  I 
aaidl  —  Can  she  have  anything  at  all  in  her 
brainT  —  And  what  did  you  want  to  know? 

VALBHTnni.  Have  you  heard  anything 
of  Madame  d'Ange? 

OLnmiB.  Why  do  you  ask? 

Valentine.  Did  n't  she  write  you  from 
Badenf 

OuTixs.  No. 

Valentine.  And  you  tell  that  to  me,  to 
me  who  —  [She  laughs.] 

OuvntR.  To  yoti  who  —  ? 

Vaisntinb.  Who  mailed  her  letters  for 
her.  I  can  keep  a  secret,  though  I  may  look 
like  a  fool.  She  wrot«  you  some  charming 
letters.  [She  Itaight  again.] 

OuvncB.  Wliy  do  you  laugh? 

Valentine.  Because  you  tried  to  ap- 
pear discreet  with  me,  and  because  I  know 
more  about  it  all  than  you  do. 

Olivier.  I  have  n't  beard  from  her  for 
two  weeks. 

Valentine.  ETOctly:not  since  I  left. 

Oltvieb.  Did  n't  she  write  to  you, 
either? 

VAUtrriNS,  She  never  writes. 

[She  laughs  in  his  face.] 

Olivtbr  [looking  into  the  tBkiUt  <^  her 
eyes).  What  have  you  —  there?  * 

Valbntinb,  Where  do  you  mean? 

ViBcomiTBSs.  He  wante  to  make  you 
MJgry. 


Olivub.    It's  all  black  around  yots 

Valbntinb.  You're  just  like  all  the 
others;  you're  going  to  tell  me  that  I 
paint  my  eyebrows  and  lashes.  When  I 
think  that  fully  h^f  my  friends  bdiere  I 

Ouvixa.  And  the  other  htJf  are  surel 
Valentine.  The  ideal 
Oltvibr.  Don't  3mu  use  powder? 
Valbntinb.     The   way  ewy  woman 

OuvTBR.  And  rouge? 

Vauontinb.  Never. 

Olivier.  Never? 

Valbntinb.  Just>  a  toudi,  in  the  ere- 


Olivibb.  And  don't  you  touch  up  a 
little  around  the  eyes? 

Valbntinb.  It's  the  fashion. 

OuviBK.  Not  among  decent  women, 
anyway. 

Valbntinb.  If  it's  becoming,  what'sthe 
difference?  So  long  as  people  know  I'm 
decent,  too  — 

Olivibk.  It  is  evident. 

Vibcountbsb.  What  a  gossip  you  are, 
dear!  We  must  go  nowl 

Valbntinb  [lo  the  Vibcountebb].  Would 
you  Uke  to  come  with  me  to  my  apartmeatT 

ViBcouNTBsa.  Delighted  —  I  have  n't 
anything  to  do. 

Valbntinb  [to  Olivier|.  Come  with  ub: 
you  can  advise  me  about  shades. 

Olivier.    I  can't  go:  I  am  waiting  for 

Valbntinb.  For  whom? 

Olivibr,  a  friend  of  mine. 

Valbntinb.  What's  his  name? 

OuviBR.  How  can  that  interest  youT 

Valen'HNE  {feigning  ind^erenee],  \ 
just  asked  — 

Olivier.  His  name  is  Hippolyte  Rioh- 
ond.  He's  been  traveling  a  good  deal  during 
the  past  ten  years.  He  returned  to  Paris 
about  a  week  ago.  He's  the  son  of  a  rich 
merchant  of  Marseille,  who  is  now  dead; 
he  was  in  the  oil  business.  Are  you  satis- 
fied? Do  you  know  him? 

Valbntinb  [trwbled].  No.   , 

ViBcoUNTESs.  Is  he  married? 

Olivihr.  Yes,  so  you  need  n't  trouUv  — 


THE  OUTER   EDGE  OF  SOCIETY 


45S 


VAi.aimHK.  Do  you  koow  his  wife? 

OumiB.  And  his  son,  too. 

Valzntine  [attonithedl.    He  has  a  sonT 

Ouvnis.  Five  or  six  yeats  old.  Why 
ftN  jou  Burprieed?  You  any  you  don't 
know  him? 

VALBNTim.  And  this  MooBieur  Rich' 
ond  livee  at  —  ? 

OuvixB.  Number  sevea,  Rue  de  Lille. 
Would  you  core  to  see  himT  Wait  a  mo- 
okent,  111  introduce  you. 

VAUBNTim.  No,  no,  I  don't  want  to  see 

Outhk.  Wliat'e  the  matterf 
Valsktinii.  Nothingi  Good-byel 

lEjUer  a  Senant.] 

Sbbvant.    MonsieuT    Hippolyt«    Rich- 

ond.  [Ht  goei  out.] 

OuviBR  [to  Valenttnb].  Won't  you  —  7 

Vaiantihe.  Don't  to  to  pemude  me — 

[She  kU  doum  Aer  veS,   and,   at 

HippOLTm    encere.    fuma    her 

head  lo  one  ride.    She  goes  out 

witk  the  VlBCOCNTBllS.} 

Olivibs.  How  are  you? 

HiPPOLTTB.   Very  well.   And  you? 

Olivibr.  Splendid.  How's  your  wifvT 

HippoLTTB.  Everybody  is  very  well.  — 
Who  is  that  woman? 

OuvaR.  Her  name  is  Madame  de 
Santia. 

HippoLTTB.  Valentinel 

3LIVIBR.  You  know  her? 

HiPPOiiTTX.  Not  peraonally,  but  I  knew 
bar  husband  intimately. 

OuTiBR.  Ib  she  really  married? 

Htppc>i.mi.  Ab  much  married  as  a  per- 
KM)  can  poeaibly  be. 

OLtTtBB.  Rc«dly?  She  claims  that  her 
bueband  has  greatly  wronged  her. 

HiPPOLTTB.  True:  first  he  did  wrong  to 
many  her,  for  it  eeema  she'd  lost  all  senee 
of  modesty. 

Ouvixa.  Not  quite. 

fijppOLTTS.  Do  you  know  her  very 
■roll? 

OiJviBR.  Yes.  She  boa  just  been  here 
for  that  old  lady  whom  you  saw  with  her. 
When  I  mentioned  your  name  to  her,  her 
expression  changed.  Yet  she  denied  know- 
ing you. 


HiPPOLrFK.  We  have  never  exchanged 
a  word;  but  she  must  know  that  I  am  well 
acquainted  with  every  detail  of  her  life. 

OuTtEB.  And  where  is  Monsieur  de 
Santis? 

HippoLTTX.  Her  husband's  name  is  not 
de  Santis;  she  got  that  name  from  her 
mother,  and  used  it  juet  after  she  was 
separated.  Her  husband  refused  to  allow 
ber  to  use  his. 

.  OuvixB.  What  cause  for  complaint  did 
he  have  against  her? 

HiPPOLTTB.  She  deceived  him — vilely. 
He  was  madly  in  love  with  tier.  I  must 
say,  she  was  cfaarming:  every  one  called 
her  the  beautiful  Mademois^e  de  San- 
tis. She  did  n't  have  a  sou  to  tier  name. 
Her  suitor  was  rich,  very  much  in  love, 
young,  very  timid,  be  did  n't  dare  ask  for 
her  hand.  A  friend  of  liis,  who  first  in- 
troduced himtothe  family,  offeredtomake 
the  proposal  on  his  behalf,  and  the  man 
accepted.  The  giil  took  the  offer,  and  the 
friend  was  one  of  the  two  witnesses  at  the 


Ouvixn.  And  you  were  the  other? 

HippoLTFB.  Yes,  Six  months  after  the 
wedding  the  husband  came  to  me:  be  bad 
incontrovertible  proof  that  his  wife  was  the 
mistress  of  tlie  scoundrel  who  had  brougU 
about  their  marriage.  He  fought  a  duel 
with  the  fellow,  killed  him,  and  went  away, 
leaving  his  wife  the  stipulated  dowry  of 
two  hundred  thousand  francs,  but  forbid- 
ding her  to  uae  his  name,  or  even  to  say 
that  she  ever  knew  him.  Since  that  time 
they  have  not  seen  each  other.  Tliat  wait 
ten  years  ago. 

Olivibr.  Andwhereisthehuabandnow? 

HiPPOLTTB.  He  lives  abroad.  I  met  him 
in  Germany  two  months  ago. 

Olivixb.  Does  he  still  love  his  wife? 

HtpPQLm.   I  don't  think  so. 

Olivibr.  Yet  she  maintains  that  be 
loves  her  as  much  as  ever,  and  that  it  rests 
with  her  whether  or  not  she  shall  return 

HiPPOLTTB.  She  is  mistaken.  —  Who 
is  that  old  lady  she  went  out  with? 

OuviBK.  The  remains  of  a  woman  of 
quahty  whom  the  need  for  luTcury  and 
plcMun   hu   gradually   dragged  into  a 


4S6 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


nther  free-and-eaHy  social  ciicle.  She 
ruined  her  huabond,  who  took  it  into  his 
head  to  die  ton  or  twelve  yeare  ago.  She 
has  a  few  old  friends,  Bome  few  shares 
which  are  given  her  at  par  and  which  she 
sells  at  a  premium,  a  few  scattered  frag- 
menta  of  her  fortune  which  the  wind  casta 
up  from  time  to  time  —  those  are  her  sole 
leeouToes.  She  has  a  very  pretty  nieoe, 
upon  whose  marriage  she  counts  to  regild 
her  'scutcheon ;  the  only  trouble  is  that  the 
fauriMnd  is  not  yet  forthcoming.  Mean- 
time, she  struggles  on  as  beat  she  is  able; 
gives  parties  at  which  you  instinctively 
feel  that  the  coffers  are  empty,  and  that 
the  day  after,  she  will  have  to  pawn  some 
jewel  or  sell  something  in  order  to  pay  for 
the  pink  candles,  the  punch  and  the  icee. 
The  young  people  whom  she  invites  drink 
the  punch,  send  bonbons  on  New  Year's, 
marry  girls  in  real  society,  and  just  tip 
their  hats  to  the  Viscountes  and  her  niece 
when  they  meet  them,  in  order  not  to  have 
to  invite  them  to  meet  their  mothers  and 

HiPPOLTTE.  And  is  Madame  de  Santis 
a  friend  of  that  womanT 

OuvntR.  In  what  other  social  circle 
would  she  move? 

HiPPOLTTE.  That's  truel  — Wet!,  you 
wrote  that  you  had  a  favor  to  ask  me. 
What  is  it? 

OuviBB.  What  time  is  it7 

HiPPOLTTE.  Two  o'clock. 

OuviBB  [ringing]-  Let'  nie  finish  some- 
thing I  have  to  do,  then  we  can  talk  at  our 

HiPPOLTTE.    Pleaset    I  have  plenty  of 


iErUer  a  ServaJU.] 

OLivmB  [to  the  Sensmt,  at  he  hands  Atm  a 
UUer\.  Take  this  letter  to  Monsieur  le 
Comte  de  Loman.  You  know  him,  of 
course.  In  case  he  is  not  at  home,  give  the 
lett«r  to  Madame  la  Comtesse.  That  will 
do.  [The  ServarU  goes  out.] 

HiPPOLTTE.  So  you  write  kitters  that 
can  be  opened  by  both  —  ? 

Olivier.  No  1 1  wrote  a  letter  that  can  be 
read  only  by  the  wife,  but,  in  order  not  to 
compromise  her,  I  address  it  to  the  husband. 


HiPPOLTTE.  But  what  if  it  is  handed  to 
Uie  husband? 

Olivibr.  Stupid!  The  husband  is  in  the 
country. 

HiPPOLtTE.  Very  ingenious,  I  declare! 

Olivier.  I  recommend  it  to  you,  in  case 
you  should  ever  need  to  make  use  of  it. 
This  is  the  first  and  the  last  time  that  I 
employ  the  means  —  it  is  only  for  the  sake 
of  the  lady. 

HiPPOLTTE.  Are  you  sure  of  that? 

Olivier.  Here's  the  story  ^  it's  very 
simple,  you  see.  I'll  mention  the  people, 
m  order  to  show  you  that  the  husband  has 
nothing  to  fear  from  the  wife,  and  the  wife 
nothing  to  fear  from  me.  Last  autumn  — 
that's  a  dangerous  season,  especially  in  the 
country,  where  the  solitude  gives  r^  to 
the  imagination,  where  each  leaf  that  falls 
is  a  rbady-made  elegr,  where  one  feels  the 
need  of  becoming  a  consumptive  in  order 
to  be  in  closer  harmony  with  melancholy 
and  fading  nature  — 

HiPPOLTTE.  See  Millevoye,  The  Falliag 
of  the  Lewies,  volume  one,  page  twenty-one. 
I  know  that!  I've  suffered  from  consump- 
tion myself. 

Olivibr.  Who  hasn't?  Consumption 
and  the  mounted  National  Guard  of  1830 
—  every  one  has  been  in  both.  Well,  last 
autumn  I  was  introduced  to  the  Countees 
de  Loman,  who  was  spending  the  month  ni 
October  in  the  county'  with  the  mother  (^ 
one  of  my  friends  —  why,  de  Maucroix's 
mother,  it  was!  We  were  just  qpeaking  of 
him.  ^le's  a  blonde,  very  distinguished- 
looking,  poetic,  sentimental,  always  in  the 
clouds,  —  her  husband  was  away,  —  you 
know,  the  usual  situation!  I  made  love  to 
her,  and  now  I  beUeve  I  am  in  love  with 
her.  On  our  return  to  Paris  she  intro- 
duces me  to  her  husband. 

HiPPOLTTE,   Who  is  a  fool? 

Olivieh.  Charming  fellow  of  forty,  who 
took  to  me,  and  for  whom  I  feel  deep  affec- 
tion. At  the  end  of  two  weeks  1  became  his 
intimate  friend  and  forgot  all  about  the 
woman  —  absolutely.  Now,  there  was  a 
woman  who  gave  me  no  hopes  whataoevw, 
and  who,  between  you  and  me,  was  no 
more  intended  for  love  affairs  and  in- 
triguesthan —    [Ut  triee  U> find  the  teord.) 


THE  OUTER  EDGE  OF   SOCIETY 


457 


HippoLTTB,  Nevermind;  you'll  find  the 
coinparisoa  some  other  time. 

OuriER.  Her  pride  was  hurt;  she  be- 
lieved I  had  been  trifling  with  her.  Well, 
yesterday  she  wrot«  me  that  her  hus- 
band had  gone  away  for  a  few  days,  and 
that  she  wanted  an  explanation  from  me, 
that  she  was  waiting  for  me  to-day  at  two 
o'clock.  1  burned  her  letter,  and  instead  of 
having  an  altogether  unnecessary  expla- 
nation with  her,  I  have  just  written  the 
truth:  that  I  want  to  become  her  friend, 
that  I  don't  love  her  enough,  or  rather  that 
I  care  too  much  for  her  to  do  the  other 
thing.  She  will  blame  me  a  little,  but, 
good  Heavenal  it  wiU  be  something  to  be 
proud  of  to  have  saved  the  good  name  of 

Hii>pQLTTE.  Splendid,  I  sayl 

OuviBR.  And  1  decided  that  without 
any  afterthought,  I  eweart  Granted  that 
I  have  had  a  great  deal  of  experience,  I  am 
an  honest  man,  and  I  have  decided  not  to 
commit  any  more  of  those  petty  infamies 
for  which  love  is  only  too  often  the  excuse. 
To  go  to  a  man's  home,  accept  hia  friend- 
ship and  hospitality,  call  him  friend,  and 
tiien  take  his  wife,  —  well,  bo  much  the 
worse  for  those  who  don't  agree  with  me, 
—  but  I  think  that  it  is  shameful,  repug- 
nant, disgusting. 

HippoLTm.   You're  really  magmficentl 

Olitier.  Well  —  yeel 

HiPPOLTTS.  You  must  be  in  love  with 
some  one  else. 

Ouyiea.  Skeptic  I 

HiPFOLTTB.  Confess  iti 

Olivier.  Well,  it's  a  fact  that  — 

HippoLTTK.  I  was  saying  to  myself: 
"There's  a  gay  fellow  who's  playing  the 
Joseph  —  be  must  have  good  reasons  — " 
Do  I  know  the  ffur  lady? 

OuviBR.  No.  She  went  to  take  the 
waters  before  you  arrived  at  Paris.  But  I 
should  never  have  mentioned  her  name  to 
you:  I  don't  want  to  compromise  her.  She 
is  a  woman  of  the  world. 

HippoLTTB.  Nonsense  I 

Olivier.  She  says  so.  Meantime,  she  is 
free,  she  pretends  to  be  a  widow,  she  is  no 
more  than  twenty.  She'swonderful, clever, 
and  knows  how  to  keep  up  appearances. 


There's  no  danger  at  present,  no  possibility 
of  remorse  in  the  future;  she  is  the  sort  of 
woman  who  can  foresee  every  eventuality 
of  a  liaUon  and  who  lead  their  love  with 
ready-made  phrases  and  a  smile  on  the 
lips,  along  past  every  relay,  up  to  the  point 
where  it  is  neoeesaiy  to  change  horses.  I 
entered  this  liaiion  as  a  traveler  would 
who  is  in  no  particular  hurry,  and  who 
prefers  to  take  the  post-chaise  instead  of 
the  railroad.  It 's  much  more  amusing,  and 
I  can  get  out  whenever  I  like. 

HippOLTTE.  And  this  has  been  going  on 
for  how  long? 

Olivier.  For  six  months. 

HiFPOLm.  And  it  will  last  —  7 

OuviBR.  As  long  as  she  wishes  it. 

HippoLTTB.  Until  you  marry  I 

OuvniR.  I  shall  never  marry. 

HiPPOLViB.  You  say  so,  but  some  fine 
day  — 

[Enter  a  Servant.] 
Servant.  Monsieur. 
OLtviBB.   Yea?   What  is  it? 
SERTANT[tnanund«rbm«].  Theladywbo 

Olivier  \jxnnting  io  a  door].  Tell  her  to 
go  in  there;  I  shall  be  with  her  in  a  mo- 
ment. {The  Servant  goea  mU.] 

HippoLTTE.  Is  it  ^e? 

Olivikb.  Yes. 

HippoLTTB.  I'm  going. 

Oltvier.  When  shall  I  see  you  again? 

HiPPOLTTB.  Whenever  you  say. 

Olivibb.  Well? 

HIFPOI.ITB.  Well,  what? 

Olivtxr.  Are  you  running  off  like  this? 

HiFPOLTTB.  How  else  should  I? 

OuviBR.  But  what  about  Maucroix? 
We've  been  talking  about  everything  else 
except  his  affair. 

HiPPOLTTB.  That's  so.  We  forgot. 
What  fools  we  vel 

Oltvier.  Use  the  singular,  pleasel 

HiPFOLTTS.  Very  well.  WWt  a  fool  you 
arel 

Olivier.  Is  monsieur  pleased  to  be 
clever? 

HtPPOLTTX.  Sometimes. 

Olivier.  This  is  the  case,  then:  Mon- 
sieur de  Maucroix  hod  a  quarrel  at  cards 


.CtOoi^Ic 


«» 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


with  Monsieur  de  lAtoui;  it  took  place  at 
tiw  borne  of  the  Madame  de  Vemi^reB, 
whom  you  saw  here.  De  lAtour  is  going  to 
•end  hiaaeoond  here  at  three  o'clock.  Now, 
the  moment  he  sends  me  a  secwnd,  I  know 
tliat  the  matter  can  be  arranged.  But,  if 
this  is  out  of  the  question,  we  must  have 
another  meeting,  with  two  seconds  for  each 
side.  That  meeting  will  doubtless  take 
place  this  evening.  We  mi^t  as  well  have 
itovwwithaffsoonaspoiaible.  Wherecan 
I  find  you  in  case  I  need  youT 

HlFFOLTTB.  At  my  hon>e,  up  to  six,  and 
from  Hix  to  eight  at  the  Caf6  Anglais.  Will 
you  have  dinner  with  me  there? 

OunxR.  Good!  Come  for  me  at  six; 
this  b  not  out  of  your  way. 

[HiFPOLrm  {NM*  out.   Aa  soon  im 
the  door  al  the  back  haa  do»ed, 
OuTOB  goM  to  Ihe  tide  door, 
(oUcA  ha»  opened  meantime.] 
[Enter  SviAsiai.] 

OiiivmB.  WhatI  It'syouT 

{He  qffere  Mi  hand  to  her.] 

SrrzAinra  [ahakiTig  handt  and  tm^ng]. 
Yes  it's  I. 

OuTiBR.  I  thought  you  were  dead. 

StJEANNE.  You  see,  I'm  very  well. 

Ounsit.  When  did  you  oome  from 
Baden? 

StriANNB.  A  week  ago. 

Olivier.  A  week  ago  I 

SuiANNK.  Yee. 

OuviBR.  Well,  well,  and  to-day  I  we 
jrou  for  the  first  time  I  There  must  be  some 
news  to  tell? 

Suzanne.  Possibly.  [A  pauee.]  Are  you 
M  clever  as  ever? 

Olivier.  Mcne  so. 
'  SiTiANNB.  Since  idien? 

Olivier.  Since  your  i«tum. 

SoiANNB.  That's  almost  a  compliment. 

Olivibr.  Almost. 

Suzanne.  So  much  the  better. 

Olivier.  Why? 

SciAKim.  Because  on  my  return  from 
Baden,  I'm  not  at  all  sorry  to  talk  over  a 
numb<ff  of  things. 

Olivor.  Don't  people  talk  at  Baden? 

SusANNE.  No  —  they  just  speak  1 

Oliyibb.    Well,    it   Mems   that   you 


were  n't  any  too  anxious  to  talk  this  lut 
week.  Otherwise  you  would  have  eotne  ta 
see  me  sooner. 

Suzanne.  I've  been  in  the  oountry. 
I  've  come  to  Paris  to-day  for  the  fiiat  tiim, 
and  no  one  knows  I'm  here.  You  wen 
saying  that  you  were  as  clever  as  ev^ 

Olivier.  Yes. 

SuEANKX.  We'll  see. 

Olivier.  What  are  3^)u  driving  at? 

SuEANNE.  One  point:  a  question.  Win 
you  marry  me? 

Oltvizr.  You? 

Suzanne.  Don't  be  too  smpriMd— 
that  would  be  most  impolite. 

Olivier.  What  an  ideal 

Suzanne.  Then  you  won't?  Don't  say 
any  mcwe  about  it.  Well,  my  dear  Olivier, 
I  must  now  let  you  know  that  we  shall  oevei 
see  each  other  again.  I'm  going  away. 

Olivibr.  For  long? 

ScEANNE.  Yes,  for  long. 

Olivieb.  Where  an  you  going? 

Suzanne.  Faraway. 

Olivier.  I'm  puszled. 

SuEAMNE.  It'sverysimple.  PeoiJetalk; 
you  find  them  everywhere.  It  wae  for  such 
people  that  oarru^ea  and  steamboats  mn 
invent«d. 

Olivier.  That's  true.  Well,  what  about 

Suzanne.  You? 

OuviBR.  Yee. 

Suzanne.  You?  You  stay  hne  at  Paris, 
I  mm^tm 

Olivier.  Ah  I 

Suzanne.  At  least  —  unless  yon  want 
to  go  away,  too? 

Olivier.  With  youT 

Suzanne.  Oh,  no. 

OuviSB.  Then  —  it's  all  over? 

Suzanne.  What? 

OuviBR.  We  don't  love  each  oUier  anj 
more? 

Suzanne.  Have  we  ever  done  so? 

Olitibr.  I  once  tliou^t  it. 

Suzanne.   I  did  all   in  power  to  b» 

Ouvmit.  Really? 

Suzanne-   I  have  spent  my  life  waottai 
to  love.  Up  to  now,  it  haa  been  inqKiBnblai 
Olivier.  lliankToul 


.CjOC^'.^Ic 


THE  OUTER  EDGE  OP  SOCIETY 


459 


SmANKB.  I'mnotrefeiTmg  toyouaJone. 
Ouvub.    Tbank  you  cm  our  behalf, 

9uUNNB.  You  must  know  that  when  I 
left  for  Baden,  I  went  there  less  aa  a  woman 
who  wanted  to  be  laty  than  as  one  who 
wanted  time  to  reflect  —  like  a  seoaible 
woman.  At  a  distance,  one  can  better 
realiie  what  one  truly  feela  and  thinks. 
FoBeibly  you  were  of  more  importance  to 
me  than  I  had  wanted  to  believe.  I  went 
away  in  order  to  aee  whether  I  could  do 
without  you. 

Oltvibr.  WeD? 

BcEANNB.  Well,  I  can.  You  did  not 
follow  me;  and  the  moet  that  can  be  said  of 
your  lettMB  is  that  they  were  clever.  Two 
weeks  ^ter  I  left,  you  were  completely  in- 
different to  me. 

OuTTZH.  Your  words  possess  the  inesti- 
mable advantage  of  being  absolutely  clear. 

SoEANim.  My  first  idea  on  returning 
here  was  not  oven  to  see  you  and  have  that 
explanation,  but  to  wait  until  chance 
should  bring  us  together.  But  then  I  knew 
that  we  were  both  sensible  people,  and  that 
m  place  of  trying  to  escape  that  situation, 
it  was  a  much  more  dignified  proceeding 
to  try  to  have  it  over  with  at  once,  And 
here  I  am,  asking  you  whether  you  wish  to 
'•(aVe  out  of  our  false  love  a  true  friend- 
snip  T  [Olivibk  tmiUt.]  Why  are  you 
smiling? 

OuviBB.  Because,  except  for  the  form, 
I  said  or  rather  wrote  the  same  thing  not 
two  hours  ago. 

SuEAMm.  To  a  woman? 

Ouvrait.  Yes. 

Sdzannx.  To  the  beautiful  Charlotte 
deLonum? 

OuviEB.  I  don't  know  the  lady. 

Buz^MNB.  Toward  the  end  of  tny  last 
stay  in  Paris  you  did  not  come  to  see  me  so 
regularly  as  you  used  to.  I  very  soon  saw 
tiiat  the  excuses  you  gave  me  for  not  com- 
ing, or  rather  the  pretexts  you  made  before 
not  coming,  were  hiding  some  mystery. 
That  mystery  could  be  nothing  other  than 
a  woman,  One  day  when  you  were  leaving 
«ky  home,  after  saying  theX  you  were  to 
taeet  some  man  friend,  I  followed  you  to 
the  house  where  you  were  going;  I  gave  the 


porter  twenty  francs,  and  learned  that 
Madame  de  Loman  lived  there,  and  that 
you  went  to  see  her  every  day.  That 's  how 
simple  it  was.  Then  I  understood  that  I 
didn't  love  you:  1  did  my  best  to  be  jealous, 
and  I  failed. 

Olivier.  And  how  does  it  happen  that 
you  have  not  spoken  to  me  before  about 
Madame  de  Lomon? 

SnzAMNB.  If  T  had,  I  should  have  had  to 
ask  you  to  choose  between  that  woman  uid 
me.  As  she  was  more  recent  than  I,  I  should 
have  been  sacrificed  for  her,  and  my  pride 
would  have  suffered  cruelly.  I  did  n't  wont 
to  speak  to  you. 

Olivier.  But  you  were  mistaken.  I  did 
go  to  see  Madame  de  Lomon,  but  I  declare 
she  has  never  been,  is  not,  and  never  will 
be,  any  other  than  a  good  friend  of  mine. 

SuzANNB.  That  is  nothing  to  me.  You 
are  free  to  lovQ  whom  you  like.  All  I  ask 
is  3nDur  friendship;  may  I  have  it? 

OLimiR.  What  is  the  use,  since  you  are 
going  away? 

SczANNB.  Exactly.  Friends  are  rare  and 
more  precious  at  a  distance  than  near  at 

OuTiBit.  Tell  me  the  whole  truth. 

SuEANNB.  What  truth? 

Olivier.  Why  ore  you  going  away? 

SuiANNB.  Merely  in  order  to  —  get 
away. 

OuviXB.  Is  there  no  other  reason? 

SuEANKX.  No  other. 

Olivibr.  Then  stay. 

SDEAmn.  No,  there  are  reasons  to  pre- 
vent that. 

Olitibh.  Don't  you  want  to  tell  me? 

BvtANNE.  To  ask  for  a  secret  m  exchange 
for  one's  friendship  is  not  friendship,  it's 
a  venal  transaction. 

Olivier.  You  are  logic  incarnate.  And 
what  are  you  going  to  do  before  you  leave? 

SUEANNB.  Stey  in  the  country.  I  know 
you  are  bored  to  death  with  the  country, 
and  that  is  why  I  am  not  askiiig  you  to 

Olivibr.  Very  well.  Then  this  is  a  dis- 
missal in  good  form.  Well,  mytaskasfrimd 
will  not  be  difficult. 

BuEANND.  It  will  be  more  difficult  than 
3.   I  don't  mean  by  that  word 


.CtOoi^Ic 


460 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


friendship  one  of  tboee  banal  traditional 
attain  that  every  lover  offers  to  every 
other  when  the  two  aeparttte;  that  is  noth- 
ing more  than  the  mite  of  a  reciprocal  in- 
difference. What  I  want  is  an  inUilligent 
friendship,  a  useful  attachment,  a  form  of 
levotioQ  and  protection,  if  need  be,  and 
above  all,  of  discretion.  You  will  doubtless 
have  but  one  occasion,  and  that  lasting  five 
minutee,  to  prove  your  friendship.  But 
that  will  be  a  sufficient  proof.  Do  you  ac- 
cept? 

OuvtBB.  I  do. 

[Enter  aSenant.] 

SxRVANT.  Monsieur  Raymond  de  Nan- 
Jac  asks  whether  monsieur  can  see  him. 
Here  is  his  cud.  He  has  come  on  behalf  of 
Monsieur  le  Comte  de  Latour,  and  says 
that  monsieur  is  awaiting  him. 

OuviBR.   That's  BO.    I  shall  see  him  in 


Snzunn:  [to  the  Servant].  Wait  a  mo- 
ment! Let  me  see  that  card. 

OuvniR  Ihanding  her  the  cord].  Here. 

SuzAimB.  Good.  Monsieur  de  Nanjao 
is  a  friend  of  yours,  is  n't  he? 

OiiiviBit.  I  have  never  set  eyes  on  him. 

Suzanne.  How  is  it  that  he  is  here  to 
see  you? 

OuvTSR.  He  is  acting  as  second  to  Mon- 
eieur  de  Lntour,  who  had  a  quarrel  with  a 
friend  of  mine. 

SuzANKi:.  What  strange  coincidences 
there  are! 

OtiviBR,  What  is  it? 

Sttzannr.  Where  can  I  escape  without 
being  seen? 

OuviXH.  You  know  very  well.  How 
agitated  you  srel  Do  you  know  Monsieur 
de  Nanjac? 

Sdzannk.  I  was  introduced  to  bim  at 
Baden  —  I  spoke  to  him  two  or  three 
times. 

Outibr.  Obi  I'm  getting  warm,  I 
think,  as  little  cbUdrm  say  when  they  are 
playing  games.  Is  Monsieur  de  Nanjac — 7 

SuzANNK,  You're  dreamingi 

Oltvibr.   Hm!  Hm! 

SuzANNZ.  Well,  if  you  insiBt  that  Mon- 
sieur de  I^anjac  see  me  in  your  apartment, 
ask  hita  in. 


Olitier.  IsboQldn't  thinkof  it. 

Suzanne  (iB^ntn;  control  oner  bendfl 
No,  ask  him  in.  That's  better. 

Ohtnaa  [motioning  lo  the  Servant].  I  don't 
understand,  now? 

Servant  [announeing].  Monsieur  Ray* 
mond  de  Nanjac. 

[Enter  Rathokd.) 

Olivier  [^ing  to  greet  kirn  at  the  door]. 
Pardon  my  having,  made  you  wait,  maa- 
eieur. 

(Ratkond  botps,  then  looks  at 
SuZAHNX  in  aatoniehmeni.  Be 
is  deeply  moved.] 

Suzanne.  Don't  you  recognize  me. 
Monsieur  de  Nanjac? 

RATMONn.  I  thought  I  did,  msdame, 
but  I  was  not  quite  sure. 

SuzANME.  When  did  you  come  froi* 
Baden? 

RATUONn,  The  day  before  y^eterdE^  I 
thought  I  should  have  the  honor  of  pay- 
ing you  a  visit  to-day,  but  it  is  likdy  I 
shall  be  prevented  from  doing  so  by  oe^ 
tain  thin^  which  have  happened,  contrary 
to  aQ  expectation. 

Suzanne.  Wheoevra'  you  would  like  to 
call,  I  shall  be  only  too  delighted  to  see  jrau. 
Go4}d-bye,  my  dear  Olivier,  and  don't  for- 
get  our  agreement. 

Olivier.  I  am  less  inclined  to  do  so  now 
than  ever  before. 

Suzanne  [to  Ratiiono).  Good-bye, 
monsieur.  I  hope  to  see  you  again. 

[She  goea  oul.] 

Olivier.  Now,  monsieur,  I  am  at  your 
service.      [He  motiont  RATUONn  to  a  moC.] 

Raymond  [niliTtg  down  —  drylj/].  Mon- 
sieur, the  matter  is  most  simple.  Monsieur 
de  Latour,  a  friend  of  mine  — - 

OuviEK.  Pardon  me,  monsieur,  for  in- 
terrupting: is  Monsieur  de  I^tour  a  friend 
of  yours? 

Ratmond.  Yea,  monsieur.  Why  do  you 
ask? 

Olivieb.  Because  sometimes  —  Are  yon 
a  soldier,  monsieur? 

Ratuond.  Yes,  monsieur. 

Olivixr.  Because  sometunes  a  soldier 
believes  himself  in  honor  bound  not  to  re- 
fuse to  act  as  second  to  a  person  whom  he 


THE  OUTER   EDGE  OF   SOCIETY 


BfiftTcelf  knowB,  or  even  whom  he  does  not 
know  at  all, 

Raihond.  True,  we  rarely  refuse.  But 
as  a,  matter  of  fact.  I  do  know  Monsieur  de 
lAtour;  I  like  liitn  and  consider  him  aa  a 
friend.  Does  he  not  deserve  the  title?  le 
that  what  you  mean  to  convey? 

OuvnB.  Not  in  the  least,  tnonaieur. 
Continue,  please. 

Rathond.  Well,  Monsieur  deldtour  was 
the  day  before  yesterday  at  the  home  of 
the  ViBCOuntese  de  Vemi^rce.  I  was  there 
•rith  him;  they  were  playing  laniquenet.  A 
young  man.  Monsieur  Georges  de  Msu- 

Olitixk.  a  friend  of  mine. 

RAraoNS.  Monsieur  deMaucroix  "had 
the  hand."  I  believe  that  is  the  t«nD  — 
I  am  not  acquainted  with  the  technical 
ezptessions  used  in  cards.  I  have  never 
played. 

Olivikk.  That  is  the  expression  which 
haa  been  otnaeorated  by  time. 

RAiifOND.  Monsieur  de  Maucroix  had 
"paaeed"  three  or  four  times,  and  there 
were  twenty-five  louis  on  the  table.  Mon- 
sieur de  Latour's  turn  came  next,  but  as 
he  had  lost  a  great  deal  during  the  evening, 
he  found  that  he  had  n't  any  money  left, 
and  t«td  Monsieur  de  Maucroix  that  he 
would  take  the  hand  and  owe  the  money: 
give  his  mord  for  it.  At  that,  Monsieur  de 
Maucroix,  who  was  about  to  lay  down  hia 
cards,  handed  them  to  hie  right-hand  neigh- 
bor, and  said:  "I  pass."  Monsieur  de  Idtour 
was  pleased  to  see  in  this  simple  oceurrence 
k  refusal  to  accept  his  word  about  the 
money.  He  believed  that  he  had  1>een 
offended,  and  demanded  an  explanation 
from  Monsieur  de  Maucroix,  who  replied 
that  the  place  where  they  were 
suitable  for  that  sort 
mentioned  your  name  and  address.  Mon- 
sieur de  Latour  has  asked  me  to  come  and 
receive  ,the  explanation  from  you  which 
your  friend  thou^t  he  could  not  make  in 

OuviSB.  The  explanation  is  very 
simple,  monsieur,  and  in  this  affair  there 
will  rcinilt,  I  hope,  one  advantage  for  me: 
the  pleasure  of  making  your  acquaintance. 
Qeorgee  had  no  intention  of  offending 


Monsieur  de  I^tour:  he  "paaaed,"  u  aiqr 
one  may  when  he  doee  not  wish  to  risk 
losing  on  one  hand  all  that  he  had  won. 

Raymond.  But  it  was  Monsieur  de 
Maucroix's  place  to  decide  that  before  be- 
ginning the  hand  with  Monsieur  de  I«tAur. 

OuvEBB.  He  merely  reconsidered. 

Rathono.  He  would  have  played  the 
hand  with  any  one  elae;  of  that  I  am 
firmly  convinced.  He  would  have  played 
it  if  Monsieur  de  Ijitour'a  money  had  been 
on  the  table. 

Olivier.  Allow  me  to  say  that  we  can- 
not know  that,  monsieur.  We  can  discuss 
only  the  visible  and  known  fact.  I  have  the 
honor  of  repeating  what  Monsieur  de 
Maucroix  himself  said  to  me:  that  he  did 
nothing  but  what  he  had  often  done,  and 
which  every  one  does.  For  my  part,  I  can 
say  that  if  I  bad  been  in  Monsieur  de 
lAtour's  place,  I  should  never  have  no- 
ticed that  detail. 

Raymond.  It  is  poeaible,  monsieur,  that 
in  ordinary  society  it  might  be  as  you  say, 
but  in  military  circles  — 

OuvtBH.  I  beg  your  pardon,  monsieur, 
but  I  was  not  aware  that  Monsieur  de 
lAtour  was  in  the  army. 

Ratuond.  But  I  am. 

OuTiEK.  Allow  me  to  remark,  monsieur, 
that  in  this  matter  neither  of  im  is  con- 
cerned; this  is  between  Monsieur  de  I^tour 
and  Monsieur  de  Maucroix,  neither  tA 
whom  is  in  the  army. 

Ratuond.  But  the  moment  Monsieur 
de  Latour  chooses  me  to  represent  him,  I 
treat  the  matter  as  if  it  were  my  own. 

Olivier.  Let  me  tell  you,  monsieur,  that 
you  are  making  a  mistake.  I  grant  that  the 
seconds  should  be  as  careful  of  the  honor 
of  the  principals  as  they  would  be  of  their 
own,  but  they  ought  in  their  discussions 
to  adopt  a  conciliatory  manner  or  at  least 
a  certain  impartiality,  which  will,  in  case  of 
a  tragic  outcome,  relieve  them  of  respon- 
sibility. It  is  surely  sufficient  to  discuss 
facts,  without  making  suppositions  ~  thote 
should  be  made  only  by  the  principals. 
Monsieur,  believe  me,  there  are  not  two 
kinds  of  honor  —  one  for  the  uniform  you 
wear,  one  for  the  clothes  I  wear  —  the 
same  heart  beatg  under  eaoh.  You  see,  a 


463 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


man's  life  appetira  so  eerious  a,  matter  to  me 
that  it  deaervM  eerioua  discussion,  and 
only  when  no  other  cotiree  is  open  should 
one  cold-bloodedly  bring  two  mm  face  to 
face  on  the  dueUng-ground.  If  you  like, 
monsieur,  let  us  haye.anothei  meeting,  foi, 
if  you  will  allow  me  to  speak  frankly,  you 
aeem  in  a  rather  irritable  humor,  and  your 
friend  and  mine  cannot  come  to  a  satia- 
foclory  agreement,  unlees  for  some  reason 
which  I  cannot  guess  (for  this  is  the  first 
time  I  have  had  the  honor  of  meeting  jrou) 
we  are  ourwlvea  two  adversaries  needing 
seconds,  and  not  seconds  trying  to  con- 
ciliate two  adveraariea. 

Raymond  [teilh  a  change  of  tone  and 
manner].  You  are  right,  monsieur;  it  was 
personal  feeling  which  led  me  to  speak  as  I 
did.  Pardon  me,  and  allow  me  at  the  same 
time  to  speak  freely  with  you. 

OuviER.   Speak,  monsieur. 

Raymond.  I  am  very  frank  —  the  way 
Boldiere  usually  are  —  and  I  ask  you  to  be 
frank  in  return. 

Olttibr.  Very  well. 

Raymond.  We  are  both  men  of  honor; 
about  the  same  age;  we  move  in  similar 
circles;  and  if  I  had  not  been  living  like 
a  bear  in  Africa  for  the  past  ten  years,  we 
should  undoubtedly  have  met  and  become 
friends  long  ago.  You  agree  with  me,  do 
you  not? 

Olivieb.  I  am  now  beginning  to. 

Raymond.  I  ought  to  have  begun  in  this 
tone,  instead  of  allowing  myself  to  go  on  in 
that  ill-humored  nuumer,  and  receiving  the 
little  lesson  which  you  ao  cleverly  and  de- 
[^tfully  administered  to  me  not  long  ago. 
If  I  had  happened  upon  a  man  of  my  own 
disposition,  instead  of  a  man  of  sense  like 
you,  we  should  now  have  been  at  each 
other's  throats  —  which  would  hare  been 
ritUculous.  Now,  let  me  aak  you  a  few 
delicate  questions  which  only  an  old  friend 
would  ordinarily  have  the  ri^t  to  ask. 
I  give  you  my  word  that  not  a  syllable  will 
go  farther  than  this  room. 

OuviEB.  Proceed. 

Raymond.  Thank  you^  This  conversa- 
tion may  have  the  greatest  influence  over 

OuvmB.  I 


Raymond.  What  is  the  name  of  tin 
woman  who  was  here  when  I  came  inT 

Ouvmi.  Baroness  d'Ange. 

Raymond.  In  society? 

OumiB.  Yee. 

Raymond.   Widow? 

OuviEB.  Yes. 

Raymond.  What  are  tbe  relations  — 
answer  me,  monsieur,  on  your  honor,  as 
I  should  if  you  asked  me  tbe  same  quae- 
tion  —  what  ore  the  relations  between  her 
and  you? 

Olivier  [after  a  pause].    Simple  fnend- 

Ratuond.   You  are  simply  her  friend? 

OLrvixB  [aitphatiaing  the  word  "ian"\. 
I  am  simply  her  friend. 

Rayhond.  Thank  you,  monsieur.  One 
word  more:  how  did  it  happen  that  Ma- 
damed'Angewashere?  Surelyafriend — ? 

OuvniH.  May  not  a  respectable  woman 
visit  a  respectable  man?  Why  not?  And 
the  proof  that  Madame  d'Ange's  businen 
here  was  nothing  that  she  need  be  ashamed 
of  is  that,  although  ahe  mif^t  have  left 
here  by  that  door  unseen,  she  waited, 
talked  with  you,  and  went  quite  openly- 

Raymokd.  That's  so.  Well,  I  needed 
this  explanation.  Now,  as  I  wish  to  fulfill 
my  obligations  to  you  for  your  frtmkness. 
let  me  tell  you  everything.  1  am  an  of- 
ficer in  an  African  regiment;  three  months 
ago  I  was  rather  severely  wounded,  so  that 
I  obtained  a  leave  of  absence  during  my 
convaleaceooe.  Two  weeks  ago  I  arrived 
at  Baden.  I  saw  Madame  d'Ange,  and  ob- 
tained an  introduction;  she  produced  on 
instantaneous  and  profound  imDiession 
on  me.  I  followed  her  to  Paris,  and  I  am 
desperately  in  love  with  her.  She  has  new 
in  any  way  encouraged  my  passion.  She  is 
young  and  beautiful,  and  I  wondered 
whether  she  were  in  love  with  some  cme, 
because  her  behavior  at  Baden  was  irre> 
proachable.  Now  you  can  easil;  under- 
stand how  excited  I  was  when  I  found  her 
here.  You  will  understand  my  very  natural 
fears,  all  my  suppoaitions,  my  ill-humor 
which  was  dissipated  by  your,  own  good 
common  sense,  and  finally  this  explanation 
which  I  so  frankly  asked  for  and  which  you 
BO  ocwrteoualy  gave  me.  I  hope,  monsieuti 


THE  OUTER  EDGE  OF  SOCIETY 


that  we  eluUl  have  occasion  to  aee  e&ch 
other  again.  Pleaee  consider  me  among 
your  friends;  if  ever  I  can  help  you,  re- 
member that  I  am  at  your  Bervioe. 

OuvuiK.  I  have  already  totd  you  what 
I  had  to  tell  you,  monsieur.  Good  luck  to 

Ratuohd.  I  believe  that  this  duel  affair 
can  be  satisfactorily  settled. 

Olivieb.  I  believe  so,  too. 

Rathond.  We 'n  outline  out  oonferenoe, 
give  copies  to  our  friends,  and  nothing 
more  need  be  done  about  it. 

OuviER.  Exactly.  Shall  1  see  you  to- 
morrow? I  shall  come  to  you.  I  have  youi 
atidtcw  on  this  card  here.  At  the  same  hour? 

Ratmoitd.  Very  well.  Until  to-morrow. 


[They  thake  handa,  Ihm  Rathond 
goes  out.  Hippolttx  open«  fA« 
door  and  looks  thrwigh.] 

HiPPOiiTTE.  May  I  oome  in? 

Ouvna  ((lowing  to  RATiioin>,  who  U  in 
(AeAoUtoav  —  aside].  Poor  fellow! 

HiPFOLiTB.  What  'b  happening? 

OuvtBB.  A  great  deal,  my  dear  man. 

HiPPOLTTK.  What  about  Monsieur  de 
Maucroix's  affairT 

OumiB.  Settled  — 

HiPPOLrng.  Good.  And  the  lady  who 
ctune  from  Baden? 

OuTniR.  AJl  my  plans  for  the  future 
have  crumbled.  Harlequin  proposed  beau- 
tifully, but  Columbine  disposed  in  her  own 
way. 

HiPPOLTTB.  Iliat  makes  two  rupturee 
in  a  single  day. 

Ouvmt.  One  before,  one  after.  If  Titus 
were  in  my  place,  be  would  be  able  to  retire 
early,  and  he  would  not  have  miaBpent  his 
day. 

Hippoi.m.  Well,  something  has  hap- 
pened to  me,  too. 

Ouvnat.   What? 

HiPPOLTTii.  I  have  juat  received  the 
following  invitation  from  Madame  de 
Vemiirae:  "Madame la  VicomteseedeVer- 
iiidree  has  the  honor  to  aslc  Monsieur  Hip- 
polyte  Richond  to  spend  the  evening  with 
her  next  Wednesday — "  the  address  fol- 
lows. But  guess  what  was  written  at  the 
bottom  of  the  page?  "  On  behalf  of  Madame 


483 

de  Santis,  who  sends  her  oomplimenta," 
Madame  de  Santis  want^  to  t^  to  me 
about  her  husband,  no  doubt. 

OLiviEa.  What  did  you  answer? 

HiFPOLTTE.  Nothing,  as  yet,  but  I  am 
going  to  accept. 

Oltvieh.  Ill  go  with  you. 

HippoLirm.  Were  you  invited,  too? 

OuviBa,  An  invitation  is  not  necessary 
at  Madame  de  Vemi^res.'  Then  I  am  sure 
there  is  some  intrigue  afoot  with  those 
people,  and  I  prefer  to  be  present  while  it 
is  in  process  of  incubation  mther  than  after 
it  is  hatched.  —  Axe  yoti  hungry? 

HtppoLim.  Oh,  yes! 

Olitibr.  Then  let's  go  to  dinner. 


ACT  II 

[The  draunng-Toom  at  Mapamb  dr 
VEBNiARiie'.  Am  Ihe  curtain  rises,  the 
VtscouNTBSB  is  gpeaking  to  a  Servant.] 

V1BCOUNTBB8.  Light  up  the  boudoir  and 
my  bedroom. 

SsRVANT  ljvttasheialeamtig,an7U}WK«*]. 
Madame  la  Baronne  d'Ange. 

[He  goes  oui.] 
[Enter  Sokakhb.) 

SuzANNX.  I'm  not  as  prompt  as  1 
wanted  to  be,  my  dear  Visoountess,  but 
you  know  when  oue|livea  in  the  country,  one 
cannot  always  be  punctual.  I  dressed  at 
home,  at  Paris,  but  everything  was  upside 
down  there,  as  if  I'd  been  away.  But  to- 
morrow everything  will  be  in  order  again. 

ViBCOTTNTDSB.  You  are  not  late, 

SuzANMK.  One  is  always  late  when  one 
comes  to  do  a  favor. 

Viscountess.  How  good  of  youl  You 
received  my  letter,  did  n't  you?  You  don't 
blame  me  too  much  for  my  indiscretion, 
do  you? 

SvEAmra.  But  we're  friends!  Hera  is 
what  y6u  asked  me  tor.  [She  give*  Oie  Vib- 
couNTBBB  a  bonk-ttale.\  If  that  is  not 
enough - 

ViacouNTSSS.  Thank  you,  that  will  be 
plenty — and  I  needed  it  to-day  I 

SuEAmm.  Why  didn't  you  ask  for  it 
yesterday? 


464 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


ViBCOONTBBa.  Because  up  to  the  last 
momeat  1  thought  I  could  get  it  from 
Madame  de  Santie'a  broker;  he  promised 
me.  But  at  noon  he  told  me  it  would  be 
impoBsible.  Valentine  is  very  bard-preeaed, 
too,  and  I  could  n't  ask  her.  Now  I  con 
tellyou:  I'mbeingsued.  I  had  good  reaBon 
to  believe  that  my  goods  would  have  been 
seized  to-morrow,  I  wanted  to  avoid  that 
Bc&ndal. 

SuEANNE.  You  are  quite  right.  You 
must  pay  the  baJliS  to-night. 

ViBcouNTEsa.  There  are  two. 

Bdeanne.  Then,  the  bailifia. 

ViBcoONTESB.  I'm  going  to  Bend  my 
maid  with  the  money. 

Suzanne.  Don't  take  servants  into  your 
confidence  in  matters  of  that  sort. 

ViscoiTNTi^s.  But  I  can't  wait  until 
to-morrow.  Those  men  might  come  t^ 
first  thing  in  the  morning. 

Sdzanni:,  Then  go  yourself. 

ViBcocNTBse.   What  about  my  guesta? 

SuiANNB,  I'll  receive  them  for  you. 
You  can  be  back  before  the  first  one  arrivee. 
Who  are  coming? 

ViBCODNTESs.  Valentine;  a  Monsieur 
Richond  whom  she  wanted  me  to  aide  — 
a  friend  of  her  husband;  Monsieur  de 
Nanjac  (oh,  if  that  were  on'y  a  match! 
I'm  counting  on  you  for  that  —  if  it  ma- 
terialiiea,  we'll  be  saved!);  Marcelle;  you; 
I;  and  then  the  Marquis  de  Thonuerins. 
I'm  counting  on  fhese.  I  don^t  know 
whether  Monsieur  de  Maucroix  and  Mon- 
sieur de  Latour  are  coming,  even  though 
their  quarrel  has  been  settled. 

Suzanne.  Did  n't  you  invite  Monsieur 
de  Jalin? 

ViBcocHTEBS.  He  never  comes. 

SuzANNS.  Will  the  Marquis  de  Thon- 
nerins  come? 

ViBcoUNTSea.  He  sent  no  reply,  which 
means  he  is  coming. 

Sdzannx.  Quick  now,  attend  to  your 
affairs  —  I  '11  wait  for  you. 

ViBcooNTBSs.  I'll  take  a  cab  and  be 
back  in  twenty  minutes.  You're  going  ta 
be  bored  — '  or  shall  I  leave  Marcelle  with 
you?  I  don't  think  she  need  go  with  me. 

Sdzanne.  What  has  she  to  do  with  it? 

ViBcouNTEBS.    I'll  tell  you:  my  affaire 


are  in  such  oonfusion  that  the  only  way  I 
con  hope  to  save  a  few  little  odds  and  ends 
is  by  putting  them  under  some  one  else's 
name.  1  have  made  Marcelle  legally  inde- 
pendent; you  know  her  mother  left  her 
a  little  money,  of  which  I  was  made  a 
trustee.  You  see,  she  can  claim  what  I 
still  have:  it's  her  only  guarantee.  Now, 
that  will  protect  me  from  further  perse- 
cution. Still,  I  think  possibly  she  may 
have  to  aga  something. 

Sdeannb.  Then  take  her  with  you. 
\EnUr  a  ServarU.] 

Servant.  Monsieur  le  Marquis  de 
Thonuerins.  [He  goes  trot.] 

Suzanne.-  I'll  talk  with  the  Marquis 
while  I'm  waiting  for  you. 

ViacotTNTEBS.  Good.  I'll  go  now  before 
he  comes;  otherwise  I  could  n't  get  away. 
Tett  him  about  Marcelle  and  Monsieur  de 
Nanjac,  he  might  be  of  use  to  us. 

[She  goet  oat-l 
[Enter  the  Mabquis.) 

Mahquis.  Who  just  left? 

Suzanne.  The  mistress  of  the  house, 
who  has  an  errand  to  do.  She  will  be  back 

Marquis.  Oh  —  never  mind!  I  prob- 
ably shan't  see  her, 

Suzanne.  Aren't  you  going  to  q)eDd 
the  evening  with  us? 

Mabqijib.  No:  I  have  only  a  short  time 
to  spare.  My  daughter  has  just  returned 
from  the  country,  and  I  am  going  to  take 
her  to  my  brother's  to-day.  I  came  here 
only  because  you  wrote. 

Suzanne,  I  wished  to  speak  with  you, 
but  T  did  not  want  to  make  you  come  out 
to  the  country  —  that  would  be  taking 
advantage  of  you.  Is  Mademoiselle  de 
Thonnerins  well? 

Marquib,  Very  well. 

SuEANNX.  Are  u't  you  ever  going  to  let 
me  see  her?  You  know,  I  'd  so  like  to,  even 
at  a  distance,  because  you  mi^t  never 
brii^  her. 

Marquis.  My  dear  Susanne,  I  think 
I  've  made  that  matter  clear  once  for  all. 
Why  open  the  discussion  again?  You  have 
something  to  tell  me;  I  am  listening. 


THE  OUTER   EDGE  OF   SOCIETY 


46s 


SozANNB.  You  ODce  told  me  that  no 
m&tter  what  might  happen,  I  should  al- 
ways find  you  ready  to  help  me. 

Mabquih.  True,  and  I  repeat  it. 

Sdzanijb.  Yes,  but  bo  distantly  that  I 
am  not  sure  whether  it  would  be  discreet 
of  me  to  count  on  your  promise. 

Marqois.  Idon'tremeniberever  haring 
made  you  a  promise  which  I  did  not  keep. 
The  way  in  which  I  apoke  is  because  of 
my  age.  The  time  has  come  when  I  should 
remember  that  I  am  no  longer  a  young 
man  of  twenty,  or  even  of  forty.  I  should 
be  ridiculous  if  I  pretended  to  be  anything 
but  what  I  am:  an  old  man  who  is  happy 
if  be  can  be  of  service,  if  possible,  to  those 
whom  be  baa  occasionally  bored,  and  who 
have  been  generous  enough  not  to  make 
him  aware  of  the  fact. 

Suzanne.  Then  let  me  answer  in  the 
same  way.  I  om  everything  to  you,  Mon- 
sieur le  Marquis.  Perhaps  you  have  tor- 
gotten  that,  because  you  are  the  bene- 
factor; I  have  not,  because  I  am  the  recip- 
ient of  your  favors.  You  might  have  had 
for  me  only  a  pHsaing  fancy;  you  honored 
me  with  a  little  love. 

Marquis.  Suzanne  —  I 

SuzANNK.  I  was  nothing,  and  you  mode 
something  of  me.  Thanks  to  you,  I  have 
attained  a  position  on  the  social  ladder 
which  might  be  considered  a  descent  for 
women  who  started  at  the  top,  but  which 
is  for  me,  who  started  at  the  bottom,  the 
apex.  Now,  you  can  readily  understand 
that  since  1  have  risen  through  you  —  to 
this  position  —  which  I  should  never 
otherwise  have  dared  aspire  to,  I  cannot 
help  having  certain  ambitions;  they  are 
inevitable  under  the  circumstances.  Things 
being  as  they  are,  I  must  either  fall  lower 
than  where  I  b^an,  or  rise  to  the  very  top. 
Marriage  is  my  only  salvation. 

Mabqucb.   Marriage  7 

SuzANKE,   Yea, 

Marquis.  You  are  ambitious. 

SvtKtisB.  Do  not  discourage  me.  I  said 
to  myself,  as  you  seem  to  say  now,  that  it 
was  out  of  the  question,  because  I  had  to 
find  a  man  who  had  enough  confidence  to 
believe  in  me,  was  strong  and  fine  enough 
to  force  society  to  accept  me,  brave  enough 


to  defend  me,  sufficiently  in  love  to  devoto 
his  whole  life  to  me;  young  enough,  hand- 
some enough,  to  believe  that  be  is  loved 
and  that  I  shall  love  him, 

MARgTTis.  Have  you  found  this  con* 
fideut,  noble,  and  loving  husband? 

SnzANKB.  Yes. 

Mahquis.  Is  he  young  enough  to  be- 
heve  he  is  loved? 

Suzanne,  He  is  young  enou^  for  me  to 
love  him. 

Marqttis.  Do  you  love  him? 

Suzanne,  Yes.  What  of  it?  No  one  is 
perfect! 

Marquis.  Is  he  going  to  marry  you? 

Suzanne,  I  have  only  a  word  to  say. 
and  he  will  ask  me. 

Marquis.  Why  have  n't  you  said  it? 

Suzanne,  Because  I  wantod  to  speak  to 
you  first.   It  was  the  least  I  could  do. 

Marquis,  Well,  there  is  thb  to  fear, 
you  know:  that  this  man,  who  appears  so 
qjlendid  to  you,  may  be  merely  speculat- 
ing. Hemay  know  your  past  and,  believing 
you  to  be  rich,  he  may  be  offering  to  sell 
you  a  name  as  a.  final  resource  for  saving 
yourself.  That  is  very  often  the  case. 

Suzanne.  He  left  France  ton  years  ^o, 
and  he  knows  nothing  of  my  life.  It  he 
were  to  find  out  the  slightest  detail,  he 
would  leave  me  at  once.  He  has  an  income 
of  twenty  or  twenty-five  thousand  francs, 
and  he  need  not  sell,  because  he  is  able  to 
buy.  When  you  hear  his  name  — 

Mabquib.  I  don't  want,  nor  have  I  a 
right,  to  know  it.  My  interest  in  j^ur  wel- 
fare may  lead  me  so  far  as  to  wish  to  see 
your  deeiree  fulfilled,  but  I  really  cannot 
help  you  in  an  afTair  of  the  heart  of  this 
sort,  no  matter  hoW  honorable  your  mo- 
tives may  be.  If  by  chance  you  should 
mention  the  name  of  a  man  I  know,  you 
would  be  placing  me  in  a  situation  whwe  I 
should  have  either  to  deceive  a  man  of 
honor,  or  betray  you. 

Suzanne.  Of  coiuw,  people  of  honor 
must  stand  by  one  anotiier. 

Marquis.  What  have  you  decided  to  do? 

Suzanne.  I  am  going  away,  that's  the 
wisest  course,  but  I  must  be  able  to  be 
absolute  mistress  of  my  life :  I  must  be  able 
to  leave  France,  Europe,  even,  if  need  be, 


466 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


and  never  return.  My  marriage  must  not 
for  an  instant  appear  to  my  huBband  aa 
being  in  any  way  the  result  of  material 
calculation.  To  do  this  I  must  bav«  a  for- 
tune of  about  the  game  aiie  aa  Iiifl  —  I 
must  have  it  in  two  houra'  time.  You  are 
my  guardian,  and  you  know  how  much  I 
have:  tell  me. 

MAKQms.  Just  at  present  your  income 
is  Gfteen  thousand  francs. 

Suzanne.  Yea? 

Mabquis.  Which  means  a  capital  of 
three  hundred  thousand,  figured  at  five  per 

SuEAMNZ.  And  this  capital  —  7 

MABQnia.  A  word  to  my  solicitor,  — 
he  haa  charge  of  your  afi'airH,  too,  —  and 
he  will  hand  you  over  all  your  papers. 

Suzanne.  You  area  wonderful  man  I 

Marquib.  I  am  merely  rendering  you 
your  account. 

Suzanne.  I  owe  everything  to  you,  even 
the  happiness  I  am  about  to  get  from  an- 
other. 

Marquib.  A  clever  woman  never  owes 
anything  to  any  one, 

Susamne.  That  is  an  indirect  reproach. 

Marquib,  No:  merely  a  receipt  of 
"paid  in  full,"  [He  kia»e»  her  htmd.]  Fleaae 
ofier  my  excuses  to  the  Viscountess. 

[He  goe»  out.] 

[Enter  a  Servant.] 

Servant.  Monsieur  Raymond  de  Nan- 

jac.  [He  goes  out.] 

[Enltr  Ratmond.] 

Ratmond,  I  have  just  come  from  your 
S,partnient.  I  had  hoped  we  might  sp^td  a 
few  momenta  together  before  coming  to  the 
.  Viscountess's,  and  I  was  looking  forward 
to  the  pleasure  of  accompanying  you.      i 

Suzanne.  I  received  a  note  from 
Madame  de  VerniSree,  who  asked  me  to 
come  a  little  earlier.  There  was  a  favor  to 
do. 

Ratuond.  That  would  be  an  excuse  if 
you  needed  her.  Were  you  speaking  to  the 
Viscountess  when  I  came? 

Suzanne.  No:  with  the  Marquis  de 
Thonnerins. 

RATHONit.  Has  he  not  a  sister? 


SuEANNE.  Yes:  the  Duchess d'Haubeoey. 

Rathokd.  My  sister  knows  her  in- 
timately, and  ever  since  I  arrived,  she  has 
been  tormenting  me  to  have  me  introduced 
at  this  house.  But  I  always  refused — what 
was  the  use? 

SoEAMNE.  The  Marquis  baa  a  charming 


Ratuond.  What  is  that  to  me? 

Sdzahmb.  Whose  dowry  will  amount  to 
four  or  five  millions. 

Rayuons.  What  difference  can  that 
make  to  me?  I  don't  want  to  marry  her. 

SuEANNE.    Why  not? 

RATHONn.  How  can  I  think  of  Made- 
moiselle de  Thonnerins,  or  any  one  else, 
when  I  love  you? 

SuEANNE.  How  ridiculous  I  You  scarcely 

Ratuond.  The  day  a  man  sees  for  the 
first  time  the  woman  he  is  going  to  love, 
he  already  lovee  her.  Perhaps  be  even 
loved  her  the  day  before  he  meets  her. 
Love  oomea;  it  is  not  reasoned  about.  It  is 
sure  and  instantaneous,  or  else  it  never' 
comes.  It  seems  I  have  known  you  for  ten 

Suzanne.  That  may  be,  but  if  love 
takes  no  time  in  being  born,  it  must  take 
time  to  live,  and  while  we  women  do  not 
believe  in  the  permanence  of  these  sudden 
passions  which  we  inspire,  stiU  we  want  to 
believe  in  the  durability  of  true  love.  Now, 
you  say  you  love  me,  and  yet  you  arc  going 
to  leave  in  six  weeks,  and  will  probably 
never  return.  Do  I  seem  to  you  like  one 
of  those  women  whose  amorous'  caprices 
hardly  outlast  a  month?  IT  you  have  im- 
agined that,  you  have  done  me  a  grave 
injustice. 

Ratuond.  What  did  I  tell  you  yester- 
day? 

Suzanne.  Nonsense  —  that  you  did  not 
want  to  leave  —  that  you  wanted  to 
marry  me.  A  night  has  passed  since  th^i, 
and  night  brings  counsel. 

Ratuond.  I  am  not  going  away.  I  sent 
in  my  resignation  to-day. 

Suzanne.  Really?  Ttuit  was  madnessl 
You  will  surely  regret  the  sacrifice  you  are 
making  for  me  —  in  a  year's  time,  in  a 
month,  perhaps.    I'm  talking  to  you  as  a 


THE  OUTER  EDGE  OF  SOCIETY 


467 


true  friend.  Think,  I'm  an  dd  woman 
oompued  with  you:  I  am  twenty-eight. 
At  twenty-eight,  a  woman  is  older  than  a 
tnan  of  thirty.  I  must  be  reasonable  for 
both  of  us. 

Ratmomd.  But  IB  -it  necessary  to  have 
lived,  aa  you  say,  to  have  worn  out  one's 
heart  in  the  banal  and  vulgar  intrigues  of 
what  masqueradeB  under  the  name  of  love, 
in  order  to  have  the  right  to  give  one's  self 
up  to  a  true  passion  at  thirty?  I  thank 
God  tor  having  granted  me  ainoe  my  early 
youth  an  active  life,  for  keeping  intact  all 
my  feelings  and  energies,  untiUI  should  be 
old  enough  to  respond  to  the  call  of  a  true 
passion  I  You  treat  me  as  you  would  a 
child!  I  was  only  ten,  Suzanne,  when  I 
lost  a  mother  whom  1  worshiped.  No  mat^ 
ter  how  soon  one  loeee  his  mother,  that 
event  makes  him  old  all  at  once.  Can't 
you  see  that  the  camp-life  1  have  led,  the 
long  days  spent  in  the  silent  solitudes  by 
the  sea,  the  memory  of  my  dearest  friends 
having  fallen  at  my  side  —  can't  you  see 
that  all  this  has  matured  me  and  made  me 
live  two  years  in  oneT  1  have  gray  hair, 
Susanne;  I  am  an  old  man;  love  me. 

SuzANiTE.  But  if  I  love  you  and  if  you 
continue  to  be  suspicious  of  me,  as  you 
were  when  you  saw  me  at  Monsieur  de 
Jalin's  (I  went  there  to  speak  about  you}; 
if  I  must  continually  struggle  against  your 
doubt«,  your  jealousy,  what  will  become 
of  me? 

Batmond.  What  I  told  Olivier  proved 
my  love.  Is  there  a  man  who  really  lovee 
who  can  harbor  a  single  suspicion  about  the 
.voman  he  loves?  There  can  be  no  true  love 
without  respect  and  esteem, 

SuzANNB.  That's  true.  I  can  under- 
stand this  jealousy  of  yours;  I  might  even 
feel  it  myself;  perhaps  I  do.  What  J  like 
in  you  is  that  you  have  never  loved. 
If  1  were  to  become  your  wife  I  should 
want  to  hide  my  love  and  my  happiness 
from  every  one.  I  want  to  forget  this  so- 
ciety in  which  I  live,  to  forget  that  it  ever 
existed,  because  it  is  full  of  women  who  are 
younger  and  more  beautiful  than  I,  whom 
you  might  some  day  come  to  love.  Mar- 
riage, in  my  opinion,  is  being  always  alone 
with  one's  husband. 


RAniOND,  Suzanne,  that  is  the  way  I 
love  you,  that  is  the  way  I  want  to  be  loved. 
We  shall  go  away  as  soon  as  you  like — to- 
morrow, if  you  say — and  never  come  back. 

Sdeannx.  But  what  will  your  sister  sayT 

Ratvond.  She  will  say;  "It  you  love 
her,  and  if  she  loves  you  and  is  worthy  ot 
you,  marry  her." 

Suzanne.  She  does  not  know  me,  dear. 
She  thinks  I  am  young  and  beautiful;  she 
imagines  that  I  belong  to  a  family  to 
whioh  she  might  belong.  She  does  not 
know  that  I  am  alone  in  the  world,  and 
that  my  marriage  will  separate  her  from 
you  —  because  we  must  leave.  If  she 
knew  all  that,  she  would  give  you  the  same 
sort  of  advice  as  I  gave  you-  not  long  ^o. 
You  love  her,  and  you  will  end  by  believii^ 

Ratmono.  My  sister  will  live  near  us; 
she  has  no  attachments  anywhere. 

Suzanne.  Let  me  become  acquainted 
withherfirst.  I  want  her  to  like  me;  I  want 
to  win  her  respect  and  her  affection ;  I  want 
herto  wish  to  have  me  for  a  sister,  to  want 
our  marriage  instead  of  merely  accepting  it. 

Ratuond.   I  shall  do  as  you  wish. 

Suzanne.  How  about  the  friends  whose 
advice  you  ai%  going  to  ask? 

Ratmond.   I  have  no  friends. 

Suzanne.  Monsieur  de  JalinT 

Ratuond.  He  is  the  only  one.  You 
must  admit  that  he  is  worthy.  He  has  a 
loyal  heart. 

Suzanne.  He  has.  Just  think  by  how 
slender  a  thread  our  reputation  is  sus- 
pended! Youspeakof  marriage,  and  yet,  if 
tor  some  reason  or  other  it  should  not  take 
place,  just  see  in  what  a  false  and  ridiculous 
a  position  I  should  be!  If  I  should  ever 
cause  you  pain,  you  may  tell  Olivier;  Others 
wise,  keep  our  secret  to  yourself.  The  real 
and  true  happiness  is  that  of  which  no  one 
else  knows. 

Rayuond.  Youareright;you  alwaysare 
right.  Altbou^  Olivier  practically  de- 
serves this  confidence,  although  we  have 
scarcely  been  apart  during  the  past  four 
days,  he  never  questioned  me,  nor  was 
your  name  once  mentioned.  Well,  1 
promise  to  say  nothing  either  to  my  sister 
or  to  Olivier.  Is  that  satisfactory? 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


SuEAMNE.  Yea. 

Raymond.  Him  I  Jove  you! 

StTEAHNB.  Here  cornea  some  one. 

[Enter  a  ServaiU.] 
Sbbvant.    Maojneur  Olivier  de  Jolin. 
Monaieur  Hippolyt*  Richon. 

[^e  goei  out.] 
ScEANNB  latide].    Olivierl  What  can  he 
wwit  here? 

[Enitr  HiPPOLTTB  and  Oliviiir.| 
OuTiER.  Whatl  la  the  Viecovint«sa  oot 
bereT  And  she  calls  thia  "receiving"! 
Sdeanns.  The  Viacountees  will  soon  re- 

OuviEn.  In  any  event,  abe  could  not 
have  choeen  a  better  repTeaentative. 
Since  you  are  doing  the  honors,  Baroness, 
allow  me  to  present  my  friend  Monaieur 
Hippolyt«  Richond. 

HiPFOLTTB  [bouHnt].  Madame, 

Suzanne  {likeioite  botiring].    Monaieui. 

Ouvms.  And  bow  are  you  t«-day,  my 
dear  Raymond? 

Ratmond.  Very  well,  thank  you. 

Suzanne  [to  Olivieb  and  Ratmond). 
How  pleasant  it  is  to  see  two  men  who 
have  n't  been  acquainted  over  a  week  on 
terms  of  such  intiioacy! 

Olivier.  Between  upright  and  honor- 
able  people,  my  dear  Beionem,  there  exista 
a  mysterious  bond  which  unites  them  even 
before  they  become  acquainted,  and  which 
very  shortly  after  their  meeting  takes  shape 
as  true  friendship.  —  My  dear  Raymond, 
let  me  introduce  you  to  one  of  my  beat 
friends  —  I  have  two  now  —  to  Monsieur 
Hippolyte  Richond,  who  baa  traveled 
widely,  who  has  likewiae  been  in  Africa. 
You  may  cBat  about  it  together. 

RATiioNn.  Ah,  monsieur,  ao  you  know 
that  beautiful  country  about  which  so 
much  evil  is  spoken  I 

[They  draw  aside  and  amvertt.] 

OuviBH  lU)  StjzannbI,  I  thought  you 
were  in  the  country? 

Suzanne.   I  returned  thia  evening. 

Olivier.  Oh,  have  you  anything  new 
of  interest  to  tell  me7 

Suzanne.  Absolutely  nothing. 

Olivier.  Then  let  me  tell  you  some  news. 


BotANNX.  What? 

Olivhir.  Monaieur  de  Nanjac  is  in  k>Tt 
with  you, 
Sdzannb.  You're  joking! 
Oltvier.  Has  n't  he  apoken  to  you? 

■       SnZANKB.    No. 

Olivier.   That's  atrange.    He  spoke  to 

Suzanne.  He  went  about  it  indirectly 

Olivhr.  You  may  expect  a  proposal. 

SczANNE.  Thank  you  for  preparing  tat. 

Olivier.  Why? 

SuZANNK.  Because  I'm  going  to  let  him 
know  as  aqpn  as  poHsible  that  he  would 
be  wasting  hia  time. 

Olivtbr.  Don't  you  love  Monsieur  de 
Nanjac? 

Sdzannb.  it  The  idea! 

Olitibr.  Not  even  a  little? 

Suzanne.  Not  even  a  great  dealt 

Olivibr.  Nor  passionately.  Then,  not 
ataUT 

Suzanne,  Not  at  all,  as  you  say. 

Oltvibb.  Then  I've  been  very  mudi 
mistaken,  but  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  what 
you  tell  me. 

Suzanne.  Why? 

OuviER.  I'll  tell  you  vhen  we're  alone 
together. 

SuzANNB.  Tell  me  soon,  because  you 
know  I  'm  going  away. 

Olivieb.  You  have  n't  gone  yet. 

StizAMNE.  Who  can  prevent  my  g*- 
ingT 

Olivisb.  I  —  I  hope. 

Suzanne.  Take  care,  or  1  shall  ask  Ma- 
dame de  Loman  to  protect  me. 

Olivier.  Madame  da  Loman  haa  noth- 
ing to  do  with  me.  I've  called  there  daDy 
for  the  past  three  days,  and  she  has  refused 
to  see  me  each  time. 

Suzanne.  Do  you  want  me  to  eee  bei 
and  make  it  up  between  you? 

Olivier.  You  —  ? 

SozANNB.     Yes. 

Olivier.  Do  you  think  she  would  re- 
receive  you  and  not  meT 

Suzanne.    Perhaps.    People  receive  ma 

irtien  I  toant  them  to  —  At  your  service! 

[She  tuma  and  goes  bimif.] 

Olivibb  [to  himself].  That  looks  like  a 
threat.  We'll  see. 


Google 


THE  OUTER   EDGE  OF  SOCIETY 


469 


~  (£nter  Om  Viscottntebs  and  Mabcbllb.| 
ViscoDNTBsa.    I  hop«  you  will  excua 


SczANNE  [to  lA«  ViBcouNTEBs).  Well? 

ViacotiNTBSs.  Everything  is  arranged. 
Thanlu. 

MabcbliiB  [to  Suzanne].  I  hope  you  are 
veil,  raadAme? 

SnzANNE.  And  you,  my  dear? 

MabcxClb.  Well,  I'm  sorry  to  say. 
When  a  woman  is  always  well,  no  one  is  m- 
tereeted  in  her. 

SozAHNK.  But  I  have  oocaaionally  heard 
you  cough  when  we  passed  the  night  to- 
gether. 

Marcxlle.  That  does  n't  count:  I've 
had  colds  as  long  as  1  can  remember.  I 
.   must  have  hod  a  cold  when  I  was  bom. 

VrBCOUNTDSB    [to   ElPPOLTlX,    lo   vhoTti 

OuyjMii  hat  mearttiTTte  introduced  htr].  It's 
very  good  of  you,  monsieur,  to  accept 
my  inviUttion,  although  it  was  sent  in  a 
mther  irregular  fashion,  Madame  de  San- 
tifl,  whose  husband  you  know  — 

HiiTOLTTi!.  Yes,  madome. 

Viscountess.  Madame  de  Santis  was 
very  anxious  to  consult  you  on  a  matter  of 
some  importance,  and  she  is  not  yet  settled 
in  her  awn  home.  She  complimented  me 
by  believing  and  saying  that  you  would 
come  here.  I  think  the  world  of  Valentine, 
and  my  dearest  wish  is  that  she  may  realise 
her  dreams. 

HiPFOLTTE.  If  that  depends  on  me,  ma- 
dame,  she  shall. 

Marcbllb.  Did  n't  Monsieur  de  Thon- 
nerins  eome? 

Suzanne.  Yee,  but  he  asked  me  to  offer 
you  his  excuses.  He  called  to  say  that  he 
could  not  be  present:  his  sister  is  receiving 
this  evening. 

M&RcBiiiA.  I  wish  I  might  have  seen 
iiiml 

ViBcoUNTESB.  By  the  way.  Monsieur  de 
Nanjac,  did  n't  you  promise  me  you  would 
bring  your  BiBt«r7 

Rathond.  Yes,  madame,  but  you  know 
Bhe  is  atill  in  mourning,  and  is  ailing  a  little 
at  present.  As  soon  as  she  is  better,  I  ahaJl 
be  delighted  to  introduce  her. 

OuvtxB  [to  RatvonsI.  Tell  me  —  T 


Ratuons.  Yes? 

MarceliiE.  Monsieur  de  Nanjac? 

Olivier  [to  Raiuomd).  I'll  ask  you 
later. 

Ratuond,  MademoiselleT 

Marcblle  [to  Oltvter].  Monsieur  Oli- 
vier, lend  me  Monsieur  de  Nanjac  a  mo- 
ment; I'll  give  him  back.  [To  Ratuokd.] 
I  have  something  to  talk  to  you  about,  but 
beforehand,  please  take  this  pin  out  of  my 
hat. 

HippoLTTE  [to  Ouvieb].  That  young 
lady  seems  very  clever. 

Ouvieb.  She's  only  a  girl.  How  could 
you  think  she  was  anything  more? 

Marcelle.  Tell  me.  Monsieur  de  Nan- 
jac, do  you  know  that  there  is  a  conspiracy 
hatching  against  us? 

Raymond.  Really,  mademoiselle? 

Mabcelle.  Yes:  they  are  trying  to  get 
you  to  marry  me. 

Ratuond.  But  — 

Marcelle.  Oh,  don't  try  to  be  gallant, 
nowl  You  don't  any  more  want  to  be  my 
husband  than  I  ought  to  be  your  wife. 
You  are  in  love  with  a  woman  who  is  much 
better  than  I;  I  have  guessed  that,  but  I 
shan't  say  any  more  about  it.  Now  that 
you  have  nothing  to  fear,  come  with  me, 
and  my  aunt  will  believe  you  are  making 
lovetome.  Shell beso pleased.  Onemust 
do  something  for  one's  relatives.  But  I'm 
a  good  girl,  and  I  thought  it  best  to  warn 
unfortunate  people  of  what  is  in  store  for 
them.  Now,  take  care  not  to  spoil  my  hat; 
it's  the  only  one  I  have,  and  I  don't  think 
it's  paid  for  yet. 

[She  goee  ovt  lau^Ainj;,  inilh  Rat-    , 

Viscountess  [to  Suzanne].  What  did 
I  tell  you?  Everything  is  going  splen* 
didly. 

Hippoi,rrB.  That  Monsieur  de  Nanjac 
seems  a  fine  fellow, 

Olivier.  He  is  charming.  I  am  going  to 
try  to  save  him,  too,  even  at  the  risk  of. 
repenting  later. 

[£nf«r  a  Servoni.] 

Servant.  Madame  de  ^ntis. 

[Ht  gou  out.}- 

OuvixB.  Ilus  is  your  affair. 


.CtOo^^Ic 


470 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


[Enter  Valkntihe.] 

ViscouNTBBB.  You  are  tiie  last  to  ar- 
riv«. 

Valbmtinb  (a«ide  to  ihe  ViscooNTEae]. 
MonSMur  de  I^tour  did  n't  want  to  let  me 
go;  I  hod  ao  awfut  time  getting  away;  he 
does  n't  know  I  am  here.  —  Is  Monsieur 
Ricbond  here? 

ViBcocNTSss.  He's  talking  with  Olivier 
over  there. 

VALBNTiNa.  Oh,  how  my  heart's  beat- 
ing! 

Sdzanns.  Courage) 

OuviBB  \sfoing  to  VuiEirmni].  How  are 
youT 

Vauutimk.   Very  well,  thank  you. 

OuviEB.  You're  dressed  like  a  simple 
little  middle-clan  housekeeper.  Suite  you 
beautifully  I  Let  me  introduce  you  to  my 
friend  Richond.  You  had  him  asked,  so 
that  I  imagine  you  would  like  to  meet 
him? 

Valsntinb.  Yes.  Introduce  me. 

OuTIKB  [introducing  her  to  Hippoltte]. 
Monsieur  Hippolyte  Richond  —  Madame 
de  Santis. 

HiPFOLTTX.  Madame. 

Valkktinx  [bowing].  I  have  been  want- 
ing to  meet  you  for  ever  so  long,  monsieur. 

HiPPOLTTK.  Very  good  of  you,  madame, 
to  say  so.  I  have  been  away  from  Franoe 
daring  the  past  ten  years. 

Valsntink  [i^ler  making  rare  Vtai  site 
uiU  not  be  oBtrheord  —  to  Hippolttx].  Tell 
me,  now,  Hippo]3rte,  what  are  you  going  to 
do  with  me? 

HippoLTTB.  With  you,  madame? 

Valkntinb.  Yes  I 

HippoiiTTX.  Why  —  what  I  have  been 
doing  so  fori 

Vaumtink.  But  I  tell  you  my  situation 
ia  impossibte. 

HippoLTTii.  WhyT 

Valsmtinii.  YouaskthatI  We  have  n't 
spoken  to  each  other  for  ten  years,  t  am 
still  your  wife. 

HiPPOLTTZ.  Yes  —  legally. 

Valbntinii.  You  once  loved  me. 

EippoLTm.  Deeply.  I  nearly  diad  — 
lucidly,  I  escaped  death. 

Vaiantot.  And  now  —  ? 


HippoLTTB.  Now  I  don't  even  think  of 
you  any  more;  you  are  as  indMerent  to  me 
B8  if  you  had  never  lived. 

Valentine.  And  yet  you  came  here, 
knowing  you  would  see  me.  If  I  wore  in- 
different  to   you,  you  would   not   have 

H1FP01.TTK,  You  are  mistaken:  I  came 
precisely  because  I  hod  nothing  to  fear  in 
seeing  you  again. 

Vaisntinx.  Then  will  you  never  for- 
give me? 

HiPPOLTTB.  Never  I 

Valbntdoi.  Your  home  will  never  be 
open  to  meT 

HippoLTTi.  I  hope  it  never  will. 

Valbntine.  Ia  it  true  what  people  have 
told  me? 

HiFPOLiTB.  What  have  you  been  told? 

Vaixntcne.  That  your  home  is  —  occu- 
pied? 

HtppoLTTB.  Yes:  by  people  for  whom 
I  care  a  great  deal.  • 

Valentine.    But  whom  I  might  drive 

HiPPOLTTB.  You  know  very  w«U  that 
only  one  of  us  two  has  the  right  to 
threaten,  and  that  ie  I.  Don't  forget  that. 
Even  after  three  years  of  aorraw,  despair, 
loneliness,  during  which,  if  your  heart  had 
found  a  single  word  of  regret,  if  you  had 
shed  a  sin^  tear  of  repeDt«noe,  I  would 
have  forgiven  you,  —  because  I  loved  you. 
But  now  I  think  I  have  earned  the  right  to 
feel  and  Uve  as  I  think  beet.  It  is  in  the 
bosom  of  B.  family  happened'  upon  by 
ohanoe,  at  a  borrowed  hearth,  as  it  were, 
that  I  have  found  the  happiness  whi<^  you 
did  not  think  fit  to  give  me.  Just  see  the 
strange  situation  into  which  a  wife's  sin 
can  bring  an  honest  man.  I  know  ereiy- 
thing  you  have  done  since  our  separation, 
and  I  know  that  to-day  is  the  first  time  you 
have  thought  of  returning  to  me.  You 
have  wasted  your  fortune  in  laiiness  and 
luxury,  and  now  that  you  are  at  the  end 
of  your  resources,  you  say  to  youradf: 
"Let's  see  whether  my  husband  wilt  take 
me  baokl"  Never  has  a  single  word  come 
straight  from  your  heart.  No,  madame, 
no,  everything  ia  orw  between  us:  you  at? 
dead  to  me.  • 


ElilizedbvGoOQlc 


THE  OUTER  EDGE  OF  SOCIETY 


471 


Valbntink.  So  —  you  don't  oste  what 
becDin«s  o(  meT 

HiPFOLTTx.  You  may  do  what  jrou  like; 
I  have  no  more  love  for  you.  You  cannot 
make  me  suffer  any  more,  I  am  an  upright 
man,  and  you  cannot  render  me  ridiculouH. 

Valbntikb.  That  is  all  I  wanted  to 
know.  You  can  blame  yourself  now  for 
whatever  happena  to  me. 

EiFPOLTTB.  Good-bye,  then.  We  shall 
never  see  each  other  again. 

MabcbIiLB  [who  hat  entered  meonuAile 
and  it  anxiou*  to  speak  with  Hippolttk). 
Are  you  going,  monsieur? 

HippoLTTE.  Yea,  mademoiselle.  [To 
Valentine.)  Madame.       {He  boira  to  her.] 

Vaubntink  ^xnaing].   Monsieur. 

ViBconNTEBB.  Afo  you  leaving  ub  bo 
soon,  monsieur?  That's  not  at  all  nice! 

HiPPOLTTE.   I  promised  to  return  early. 

Viscountess.  Why  did  n't  you  bring 
Madame  Richond? 

HippoLTTB.   Madame  de  Santis  did  not 

ViscouNTBsa.  I  am  at  home  every 
Wednesday,  monsieur,  and  whenever  you 
and  Madame  Richond  wish  to  ^ve  me 
the  pleasure  of  your  company  at  tea,  I 
shall  be  glad  to  receive  you. 

HiPFOLTTE  [to  Ouvigr],  I  shall  see  jmu 
to-morrow;  I  want  to  talk  to  you. 

[He  bona  and  goet  out.] 

Marcelle.  You  can  never  count  on 
these  married  men. 

RAnioND  [to  OlivierI.  You  had  some- 
thing to  say  to  me  awhile  t^7 

Olivibb,  Yea.  Tell  me,  my  dear  Ray- 
mond, you  have  never,  since  Uiat  once,  re- 
ferred to  Madame  d'Ange.  What  had  be- 
come of  your  conauming  panion? 

Ratwond.   I  have  given  it  Up. 

Ouvi&n.   So  soon? 

Ratuokd.  Yes:  I  was  only  waei.ing  my 
time. 

OuviFR.  You  came  k  Chat  conclusion 
at  once? 

Raymond.  What  else  could  I  doT 

OuviER.  lliat'sso.  Do  you  know,  you 
are  beomning  quite  Parisian:  you  are  more 
reasonable  than  I  had  thought.  I  congrat- 
ulate you.  You  have  also  encouraged  me 
to  ^ve  yon  some  advice. 


Ratmond.  What? 

OuviBR.  You  promised  the  Visoount«M, 
did  you  not,  that  you  would  introduce  her 
to  your  sister? 

Ratuond.  Yes. 

Olivier.  Don't  bring  her  here. 

RAY140ND.  Why  not?  Is  the  Viscount- 
ees's  home  not  quite  respectable? 

OuviBR.  I  don't  say  that,  only  the  best 
homes  are  not  necessarily  those  which  pre- 
sent the  best  appearance.  If  you  scratch 
the  surface,  you  will  see  what  lies  just  be- 
neath. —  Listen!  [Aloud.]  Are  we  not  to 
have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  Monsieur  de 
lAtour? 

Viscountess.  He  wrote  asking  to  be 
excused  —  ui^nt  business  — 

Marcelle.  If  the  person  who  invented 
those  two  words,  "urgent  business,"  had 
taken  out  a  patent,  he  would  have  made  a 
mint  of  money. 

Olivier.  Perhaps  Monsieur  de  Latour  is 
not  lying:  once,  by  chance,  he  might  be 
telling  the  truth. 

Marcelle.  What  has  he  done  to  you? 
You  invariably  speak  ill  of  bim,  and  be 
never  speaks  anyOung  but  good  of  you. 

Olivieb.  He  is  only  doing  hie  duty. 

Valentine.  He  is  most  charming,  veiy 
respectable,  distinguished  -  looking,  and 
well-bred;  you  can't  make  the  same  re- 
proach to  every  one. 

Olivier.  Very  well,  then,  everything  is 
in  his  favor;  he  squanders  his  money  — 

Valentine.  That's  true  enou^. 

Olivier.  Yes,  true  for  what  it  costsliim 
to  make:  he  gambles  every  night  and  in- 
variably wins. 

Viscountess.  I  suppose  you  will  say  he 
cheats? 

GLivnrn,  No,  only  that  he  is  lucky  at 
play,  and  one  does  not  always  have  luck  as 
one  has  a  paunch  —  without  having  it  pur- 
posely. 

Kayuoitd.  My  dear  Olivier,  don't  for- 
get that  I  was  once  a  second  for  Monsieur 
de  Latour. 

Olivier.  Whose  aequaintaace  you  made 
at  the  hotel  in  Baden.  You  are  a  man  of 
honor,  my  dear  Raymond,  and  you  im- 
agine thc<^  every  one  else  is  like  yourself. 
fhatisv?"^' dangerous.  I  tell  you,  I  should 


473 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Dever  bare  conBented  to  the  duel  which 
Monsieur  de  Latour  appetm  to  hare  pro- 

SiiZANNE.  Do  you  deny  that  he's  brave? 
Re  fought  hia  firet  duel  when  he  wEts  eight- 
een, and  killed  his  adversary. 

ViBcouNTKas.  A  very  good  beginning  ^n 
life! 

OuviER.  The  life  of  other  people!  I 
don't  question  Monsieur  de  Latour's  cour- 
age; I  only  say  that  a  man  of  honorlike 
Monsieur  de  Maucroix  ought  no  more  to 
fight  with  Monsieur  de  Latour  than  a  man' 
of  honor  like  Monsieur  de  Nanjac  to  serve 
aa  his  second. 

SuzANNK.  But,  my  dear  Olivier,  surely 
McHiaieur  de  Latour  ia  as  fine  a  man  as 
Monsieur  de  Maucroix? 

OuTtBB.  No,  because  Monsieur  de  La- 
tour, who  calls  himself  Count,  is  the  son  of 
a  little  money-lender  of  Mantis  who  left 
him  fifty  thousand  francs,  with  the  aid  of 
which  his  son,  thanks  to  cards,  nets  an 
income  of  forty  thousand  francs. 

Valbntinx.  Nonsensel  He  comes  of  an 
excellent  family. 

OuTiHH.  Whstfunily7 

Valbntinb.  The  latour  of  Aurei^e. 

OuviKR.  Hml  .  .  .  >  I  am  astonished  that 
women  who  claim  to  belong  to  society  — 

ViscooNTBsa.  Who  do,  my  dear  friend. 

OuviBR.  Who  do,  if  you  like,  should  re- 
ceive so  readily  a  man  whom  no  one  else 
receives,  and  who  will  end  by  forcing  every 
decent  man  to  stay  away.  I  am  positive 
that  if  Monsieur  de  Briode  or  Monsieur  de 
Bonchamp,  or  any  of  those  gentlemen,  as 
Madame  de  Santis  calls  them,  have  not 
oome  here  to-day,  it  was  for  fear  of  meeting 
Monsieur  de  latour. 

ViBCOinrmBe.  Let  us  not  discuss  the 
matt«r  any  further.  1^1  pause.] 

OuvtEB.  Madame  de  Bsntisl  Madame 
de  Santis! 

Valkntinb.   Well? 

Olivier.  Kas  the  lease  of  your  apart- 
ment in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix  expired 
yet? 

VALBtmNB.  What  is  that  to  youT  I 
don't  think  you  came  very  often. 


Olivier.  Thank  you  —  and  yonr  hus- 
band? 

Valentine.   My  husband? 

Olivier.  He  has  expired,  I  know  very 
well.  My  friend  Richond  has  just  given  me 
news  of  him.  Has  he  swallowed  the  recon- 
ciliation bait?  Is  he  going  to  pay  for  the 
blue-ond-yellow  rooms? 

Valentinb.  My  husband?  He'll  hear 
from  me! 

Olivieb.  That  will  please  him. 

Valbntink.  I'm  going  to  sue  him. 

OuviER.  That's  an  idea.  But  ia  it  a 
good  one?  Why  sue  him? 

VALBNTiMii.  You'Q  see  why.  I  know 
some  very  interesting  facts  about  him;  I 
leave  the  rest  with  my  lawyer.  I  am  his  wife, 
after  aU. 

OuviER.  The  lawyer's? 

Vaijintinb.  My  dear,  you  are  witty 
once  a  week,  and  yesterday  was  your  day. 
Keep  still  now! 

Olivier.  Rather  good,  you  know. 

Marcelle.  Let  him  talk,  Valentine, 
dear.  You  have  the  right  on  your  side,  and 
you  '11  win  your  case  —  take  my  word  for 
it.  You  don't  say  anything  more.  Monsieur 
Olivier? 

Olivier.  No,  mademoiselle:  you  have 
begun.  I  speak  only  of  things  I  know 
about,  and  since  T  know  nothing  of  dolls 
or  lunches,  I  never  converse  with  little 
girb. 

Marcelle.   ts  that  for  my  benefit? 

Olivier.  Yes,  mademoiselle. 

Marcelle.  But  I  speak  of  the  same 
things  OS  you  do.  When  grand  people 
speak  of  certain  things  before  little  girls, 
the  little  girls  have  a  right  to  join  in  the 
conversation.  And  then  —  well,  I'm  no 
longer  a  little  girl. 

Olivier.  Then  what  are  you,  made- 
moiseUe? 

Marcelle.  I  am  a  woman,  and  t  spcftk 


in! 


OuvrBB.   You  might  even  say,  "like  a 

Marcelle.  Monsieur! 

Valentine.  I  thought  you  would  end 
with  some  impertinence! 

ViscouNTBea  [taking  Marcelle  amde]. 
You  are  going  a  little  too  far,  Monsieur  do 


THE  QUTER   EDGE  OF  SOCIETY 


'  Jalin;  that  child  never  harmed  you.  If,  in 
the  future,  you  fee)  the  need  of  saying  dis- 
agreeable things  to  some  one,  you  may  do 
ao  to  me,  when  you  are  in  my  home,  and  to 
me  alone.  —  Come,  Marcelle.  —  Are  you 
coming  with  ub,  Monsieur  de  Nanjoc? 

Ratuoni),   One  moment,  please. 

[The  vx/men  go  ovl.] 

Oliviek,  You  beard  that,  my  dear  Ray- 
monds Are  you  going  to  bring  your  sister 
to  Madame  de  VemiSree'  ? 

Ratuond.  Then  everything  you  said  is 
true? 

OuviBB.   Absolutely. 

RxmoND.  And  this  Monsieur  de  La- 
tour— 7 

OuviEB.  An  unprincipled  rascal. 

RAYUoNn.  And  Madame  de  SantisT 

OuviER.  A  creature  without  heart  and 
brain,  who  would  be  dishonoring  her  hus- 
band's name  if  he  had  not  forbidden  her  the 
use  of  it. 

Ratuond.  Aikd  Mademoiselle  de  Sance- 

OuvoBB.  A  little  girl  looking  for  a  hus- 
band: a  new  product  of  our  preeeat-day 

RAmoND.  But  what  ia  this  society?  I 
must  confess,  I  can't  understand  a  thing 
about  it. 

Oltvibb.  My  dear  fellow,  you  must  live 
for  a  long  time,  as  I  have,  in  the  intimate 
circles  of  Parisian  society  in  order  ta  under- 
stand the  various  shades  of  this  particular 
stratum.  It  is  not  easy  to  explain.  —  Do 
you  like  peochesT 

Raymond  [»urpTi*ed\.  Peaches?  Yea. 

OuviEB.  Well,  go  to  a  la^e  fruit  dealer, 
Chevet'a,  say,  or  Potel's,  and  ask  for  his 
best  peaches.  He  will  show  you  a  basket  of 
magoifioent  ones,  each  one  separated  from 
the  other  by  leaves,  in  order  to  keep  them 
from  touching,  from  decaying  by  the  con- 
tact. Ask  him  the  price,  and  he  will  tell 
you:  "Thirty  sous  each,"  I  imagine.  Look 
about  you  then  and  you  will  not  fail  to  see 
another  basket  filled  with  peaches  looking 
atfirstsight  eicactly  like  the  others,  but  they 
are  packed  closer  together;  only  one  side  ia 
visible.  The  dealer  did  not  offer  you  these. 
Ask  him  their  price,  and  he  will  reply: 
"Fifteen  sous."    You  will  naturally  ask 


473 

why  these  peaches,  as  large,  as  beautiful, 
and  as  ripe  as  the  others,  are  cheaper  in 
price.  Then  he  will  pick  one  up,  with  the 
tips  of  his  fingers,  as  delicately  as  he  can, 
and  turn  it  around,  and  show  you  on  the 
bottom  side  a  tiny  black  speck.  That  is  the 
explanation  of  the  lower  price.  Well,  my 
deer  fellow,  you  are  now  in  the  fifteen-sous 
peach  basket.  Each  woman  here  has  some 
blot  in  her  past  life,  some  stain;  they  are 
crowded  close  to  one  another  in  order  that 
these  blots  may  be  noticed  as  little  sa  pos- 
sible. Although  they  have  the  same  origin, 
the  same  appearance,  and  the  same  preju- 
dices as  women  of  society,  they  do  not 
belong  to  it:  they  constitute  the  "Demi- 
monde," or  "Half-world,"  a  veritable  float- 
ing island  on  the  ocean  of  Paris,  which 
calls  to  itself,  welcomes,  accepts,  every- 
thing that  falls,  that  emigrates,  every- 
thing that  escapes  from  terra  firma  —  not 
to  mention  those  who  have  been  ship- 
wrecked or  who  eome  from  Ood  knows 

Raymond.  And  has  this  social  stratiun 
any  particular  vimble  characteristics? 

Olivier.  You  see  it  everywhere,  but 
rather  indistinctly;  a  Parisian  can  recog- 
nise it  at  a  glanoe. 

Raymond.  EowT 

OuvrsR.  By  the  absence  of  husbands. 
It  is  full  of  married  women  whose  husbands 

Raymond.  But  what  is  the  origin  of  this 
strange  social  world? 

OuvTBR.  It isamoderncreatioD.  Infor- 
mer times  adultery,  as  we  now  think  of  it, 
did  not  exist:  morals  were  much  more  lax; 
there  was  a  word  much  more  trivial  to  de- 
note what  is  now  thought  of  as  adultery. 
Moliire  made  frequent  use  of  it,  and  made 
rather  the  husband  ridiculous  than  the  wife 
to  blame.  But  since  the  husband,  aided  by 
the  law,  has  acquired  the  right  to  expel  the 
erring  wife  from  his  home,  a  modification 
of  the  manner  of  looking  at  such  things  has 
come,  and  this  modification  has  created  a 
new  society.  What  was  to  become  of  all 
these  compromised  and  repudiated  wives? 
The  first  who  saw  herself  sent  from  the 
conjugal  roof  went  into  distant  retirement 
somewhere  to  hide  her  pief  and  shame; 


.Cjoc^t-^lc 


474 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


but  —  the  secondT  The  second  followed 
tbe  first,  und  the  two  gftve  the  name  ef  mie- 
fortune  to  what  was  really  a  fault;  an  error, 
what  was  actually  a  crime.  They  began  to 
console  and  excuse  each  other.  With  tbe 
advent  of  a  third,  they  invited  one  another 
to  lunch ;  with  the  fourth,  they  bad  a  dance. 
Then,  about  this  nucleus  ctune  in  turn 
young  gjrls  who  have  "made  a  alip,"  falne 
widows,  women  who  bear  the  name  of  the 
man  they  are  living  with,  some  truly-mar- 
ried couplea  who  made  their  d^nit  in  a 
liaiaon  of  many  years'  standing;  finally, 
the  women  who  tlunk  they  have  done  eom&- 
tbing  of  importanoe  and  who  do  not  want 
to  appear  what  they  really  are.  To-day 
this  irregular  society  functions  regularly; 
this  bastard  society  holds  charms  for  the 
younger  generation.  "  Love"  is  more  easily 
obtained  than  higher  up,  and  cheaper  than 
at  the  bottom. 
Rayuond.  Where  do  these  people  gal 
OuvmR.  It's  impoesible  to  say.  Only, 
beneath  the  brQliant  surface,  gilded  by 
youth,  beauty,  money,  under  this  social 
fabric  of  laces,  smiles,  fBtes,  and  passion, 
dark  and  tragic  dramas  are  played,  dramas 
of  expiation,  scandal,  ruin,  of  the  dishonor 
of  whole  families,  law-suite,  children  sepa- 
rated from  their  mothers,  children  who  are 
forced  to  forget  them  at  an  early  age  in 
order  not  to  curse  them  later  on.  Then 
youth  passea  away  and  lovers  disappear, 
and  out  of  the  past  come  regrets,  remorse, 
abandonment,  and  solitude.  Among  these 
women  are  some  who  attach  themselves 
to  men  who  have  been  fools  enough  to  take 
them  seriously;  they  ruin  the  lives  of  these 
men  as  they  have  ruined  their  own;  others 
disappear,  and  no  one  ever  troubles  to 
find  out  where  they  have  gone.  Some  cling 
to  this  society  —  like  the  Viaeountese  de 
Verni6res  —  and  die  not  knowing  whether 
they  prefer  to  rise  or  fear  to  fall;  others, 
either  because  they  sincerely  repent  or 
because  they  fear  the  desert  about  them, 
pray,  in  the  name  of  their  children  or  on 
behalf  of  the  good  of  the  family,  to  be 
taken  back  by  their  husbands.  Then  com- 
mon friends  intervene,  and  a  few  good  rea- 
sons are  set  forth:  the  wife  is  old,  peopde 
will  not  gossip  about  her.  The  ruined  mar- 


riage is  patched  up  again,  Ute  facade  ii 
given  a  new  coat  of  paint,  the  couple  go  to 
the  country  for  a  year  or  two;  they  return, 
society  closes  its  eyes,  and  allows  from 
time  to  time  those  who  publicly  went  out 
by  the  front  door  to  creep  in  at  the  small 
back  door. 

Rathons.  What,  is  all  that  true?  How 
delighted  the  Baroness  would  be  if  she 
heard  thisl 

OuviER.   Why  SO? 

RAXMONn.  Because  she  has  already  told 
me  the  same  thing. 

Olivibb.  She  did?  Sht! 

RATMONn.  Yee,  but  not  so  cleveriy,  I 
must  admit. 

Olivibb.  Ahl  [Astde.]  Very  cJerer  ot 
her  to  do  it.  [Aloud.)  But  since  the  Baron- 
ess knows  this  section  of  society  so  wdl, 
why  does  she  frequent  it? 

Ratuono.  I  asked  her  that,  and  she  re- 
plied that  the  early  friends  she  made 
brought  her  here  from  time  to  time:  Ma- 
dame de  Santis,  for  instance,  is  a  childhood 
friend.  And  then  she  is  intereated  in  Ma- 
demoiselle de  Ssncenaux,  whom  she  wants 
to  extricate  from  the  unpleasant  situation 
in  which  she  now  is.  But  she  is  not  going 
to  remain  here  long. 

Olivier.  What? 

Ratkond.  It's  a  secret,  but  in  a  week 
you  will  hear  great  news. 

[Enter  Mabcxllb.) 

Mahcbllii.  Monsieur  de  Nanjac,  Ma- 
dome  d 'Ange  would  like  to  see  you ;  she  has 
something  she  wants  to  say  to  you.  [Rat- 
uoND  goei  out.]  Don't  go.  Monsieur  de 
Jalin,  I  want  to  say  something  to  you. 

Olivier.  At  your  service,  mademoiselle. 

Marczlle.  You  were  very  hard  <»  ine 
a  little  while  ago:  you  made  me  cry.  What 
have  I  done  to  you? 

Oun&R.  Why,  nothing  at  all'. 

Mabcglle.  And  this  isn't  the  first 
time  you've  not  treated  me  nicely.  I  know 
you  have  a  bad  opinion  of  me  —  I  've  been 

Olivier.    You  have  not  been  told  the 

Marcbllb.  And  yet  you  did  n't  use 
to  be  that  way  with  me:  you  used  ts 


THE  OUTER   EDGE  OF   SOCIETY 


475 


sajr  pleasant  things  occasionally.  I  even 
Uiought  you  considered  me  a  friend.  You 
were  n't  happy  in  your  home-life;  you  told 
me  that;  I,  too,  had  my  own  troubles;  there 
should  have  been  a  bond  of  sympathy  be- 
tween us.  Whyaren't  you  nice  tomenow? 
What  have  I  done? 

OuviBR,  I  feel  that  bond  of  sympathy, 
mademoiselle,  as  I  used  to,  only  — 

MabceiiIiB.  Oh,  tell  me  —  I 

OuviBB.  Wall  —  a  young  girl  must  be  a 
young  girl,  and  she  should  only  have  to  do 
with  those  thin^  which  are  befitting  her 
age.  Now,  there  are  times  when  your  can- 
veraation  actually  makes  me  blush,  me,  a 
manl  And  I  can't  think  what  answer  to 
make  to  you.  I  sometimea  regret  that  you 
have  been  brought  up  in  this  evil  society, 
and  that  you  can  speak  as  you  did,  not 
long  ago. 

MabcxiiLB.  Then  you  were  purposely 
severe?  Thank  you.  But  what  can  I  do7 
I  can't  leave  this  society  in  which  I  live; 
I  have  no  parents;  the  conversation  I  in- 
dulge in  is  the  kind  I  have  heard  for  many 
years.  But,  after  all,  perhaps,  it's  not  so 
great  a  misfortune  that  I  have  Uved  in  this 
atmoephereT  When  I  see  every  day  of  my 
life  what  is  happming  to  women  who  have 
erred  for  the  first  time,  I  have  learned  not 
to  err  myself. 

OuTiBB.  That's  true. 

Mabcsua.  But  that's  not  enough,  it 
iseems,  especially  in  view  of  the  future. 
Since  you  have  been  kind  enough  to  take 
an  interest  in  me.  Monsieur  Olivier,  I'm 
going  to  ask  your  advice. 

OuvnCB.  What  b  it,  maderooisellef 

Mabcellb.  If  a  young  fprl  like  me,  with- 
out money,  without  a  family,  with  no  other 
protector  than  a  relative  like  Madame  de 
VemiireB,  a  girl  who  has  been  brought  up 
in  a  society  like  this,  wants  to  escape  the 
evil  iufluencee,  the  possible  scandal,  the 
nasty  advice,  the  discouragement,  how  is 
she  to  go  about  it?  [A  pau»e.\  You  don't 
answer?  I  see;  you  blame  me,  you  even 
pity  me,  but  you  cannot  advise  me.  Can  I 
say  now  that  I  am  no  longer  a  young  girl? 

Olivibr  llouehed].  Forgive  mel 

Mabcklu.  I  do  more  than  forgive  you, 
I  thank  you  for  having  opened  my  eyes 


before  it  wt^  too  late.  But  I  am  going  to 
beg  you,  no  matter  what  happens,  to  de- 
fend me  a  little,  and  in  return  I  promise  to 
find  a  way  of  remaining  a  decent  woman. 
Perhaps  I  shall  some  day  find  an  honor- 
-able  man  who  will  be  grateful  to  me  for 
that.  Good-bye,  Monsieur  Olivier,  good- 
bye and  thank  you. 

[She  thake*  hands  loith  Ouvieb.] 
[Enter  Sueamnb.] 

SuzANNB.  I  am  delighted  to  see  that 
peace  is  once  more  established. 

Marcellb.  Yee,  and  I  am  very  happy. 
[Sht  goe»  ovi.] 

OuviZR.  Strange  girl  I 

SczANNB.  She  is  in  love  with  you. 

OunxR.  With  met 

Suzanne.  She  has  been  for  ever  so  long. 

OuviER.  Well,  one  leame  strange  things 
every  day! 

SuzANNB.  Yes;  for  instance,  I  have  just 
learned  that  your  pledged  word  is  not  to  be 
taken  steiously. 

OiJVtKK.  And  why? 

SruNNB,  Because  you  have  not  been  a 
friend  to  me  as  you  promised. 

Olivieb.  What  have  I  done? 

SoEANNB.  Monsieur  de  Nanjac  has  just 
repeated  your  conversation  to  me. 

Olivibb.  1  did  not  speak  of  you. 

SiTZANNB.  That's  too  subtle  for  me.  In 
saying  what  you  said  to  Monsieur  de  Nan- 
jac, you  spoke  evil  of  me  and  harmed  me 
—  or  would  have  if  I  had  not  taken  the 
reins  in  my  hands. 

OuviBR.  What  difference  can  it  possibly 
make  to  you,  if  you  don't  love  Monsieur 
de  Nanjac? 

Sdsanki.  Whatdoyouknowaboutthat? 

OuviBR.  Do  you  love  him? 

SuzANMK.   I'm  not  forced  to  tell  you. 

Oltvor.  Perhaps  you  are  I 

SiTZANNB.  Then,  it's  —  war? 

OuvmR.  Very  well:  war]. 

Sdzannb.  You  have  letters  of  mine; 
please  return  them. 

OuvmR.   To-morrow  I  shall  do  ao  in 

Sdiannb.  Until  to-mtMrow,  then. 
Oi-rrmK.  Until  to-mcarowl 

\fft  got*  <w(.] 


cmizedbyGoOgL' 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


ACT  in     , 

[Tht  drawitig-room  in  the  home  of  Sn- 
UMNK.    ScZANNi  and  Sopbix  are  pretenL] 

Suzanne.  Has  my  solicitor  called  yet? 

SopHiB.  No,  madame. 

Sdzannb.  I  am  going  out.  If  any  one 
oomee,  ask  him  to  wait. 

SoFHis  [opening  the  door,  ready  to  leave]. 
MadeinolBelle  de  Sancenaiw. 

SczANNB.  Tell  her  to  oome  iu. 

[90PHID  goei  tnd.] 
[BnUr  Mabcbua.I 

SczANNi!.  My  dear  child,  to  what  do  I 
owe  this  lovely  visitT 

Marcbllb.  Am  I  keeping  you  from 
gomething? 

SuzAinm.  You  never  do  that.  You 
know  how  much  I  think  of  you,  and  that 
I'm  always  ready  to  do  enythii^  I  con  for 
you.  What  is  it,  now? 

MARCEI.LB.  You  can  do  a  great  deal  for 
my  future. 

SuzAtraz.  Yes?  What  is  it? 

MABcnLLi;.  You  have  a  great  deal  of 
influence  with  Monsieur  de  Thomierine, 
have  n't  you? 

Suzanne.  He  is  good  enough  to  count 
me  among  his  friends. 

Marcbllb,  Four  or  five  yeara  ago  he 
offered  my  aunt  to  take  tne  to  live  in  his 
home  and  bring  me  up  with  his  daughter; 
he  wanted  a  companion  of  her  own  age  for 
her. 

SuzANMx.  He  told  tne  about  it  at  the 
time.  But  your  aunt  reused. 

Marcellb.  Unfortunately.  If  she  had 
consented,  I  should  n't  have  been  in  the 
situation  I  now  am. 

SczANNB.  What's  the  trouble? 

Mabcbuj!.  I  don't  want  to  blame  my 
aunt:  it  isn't  her  fault  if  the  meager  for- 
tune my  parents  left  me  was  soon  eaten  up 
in  household  expenses.  If  we  balanced  ac- 
counts, I  should  be  in  her  debt,  because 
there  are  caree  and  affection  which  cannot 
be  repaid.  However,  the  continual  fight 
for  money  often  hardens  the  kindest 
hearts.  After  you  went  yesterday  we  had 
a  rather  sharp  diHCueeion,  when  1  told  her 
I  didn't  love  Monsieur  de  Naujac,  And 


that  I  refused  to  make  any  effort  to  become 
his  wife. 

Suzanne.  Espedally  as  you  love  acMne 
one  else! 

Mabcbllb.  Possibly!  When  we  had 
stopped  discussing,  my  aunt  gave  me  to 
understand  that  if  I  was  not  ready  to  do  as 
she  directed,  I  could  no  longer  count  on 
her  help.  I  did  n't  sleep  a  wink,  because  I 
was  trying  to  think  of  some  plut  whereby 
I  should  not  have  to  trouble  her  any 
further.  Then  I  happened  to  remember 
Monsieur  de  Thonnerins'  offer,  and  I  de- 
cided to  come  to  you,  who  have  always 
been  so  kind  to  me,  and  sak  you  to  aak  Uw 
Marquia  to  do  for  me  to-day  what  he  was 
willing  to  do  four  years  ago.  Mademoisdle 
de  Thonnerins  won't  marry  for  another 
year  or  two ;  she  lives  a  very  lonely  life,  and 
I'm  sure  I'll  like  her  extremely  well.  I'm 
positive,  too,  that  she  will  like  me.  Evec 
after  she  marriee,  I  don't  doubt  that  shell 
hare  me  with  her  then.  And  I'm  certain 
that  if  you  stand  sponsor  for  me,  my  Uttk 
scheme  will  succeed,  and  111  owe  you,  if 
not  for  a  brilliant  career,  at  least  for  one 
that's  all  I  could  desire:  independent,  ob- 
scure, and  quiet. 

SuEANNX.  t  shall  aee  the  Muquis  to- 
day. 

Mahckllb.  Really? 

SuzANNX.  I  must  go  out  now,  and  I'll 
call  on  my  way. 

Mabcbllb.  How  good  you  are! 

SrzANNX.  Write  me  a  letter  to  give  him. 

Mabcbllb.  Ill  go  home,  then,  and  send 
it  to  you. 

SuEAmn.  No,  write  it  here;  it's  much 
easier  —  while  I  'm  putting  on  my  bat  and 
cloak.  Bring  it  to  me  in  my  bedroom,  and 
then  wait  for  the  answer;  I  shall  return  in 
an  hour.  [She  ring»  the  beU.I 

Marcbllb.  I'll  go  back  to  see  my  aunt 
while  you  are  gone.  I  went  out  with  the 
maid  without  telling  her  where  I  was  go- 
ing, and  she  might  worry. 

[Enter  a  Senwni.I 

SuEANNE  [to  the  Servani].    If  Monsieur 

de  JsUn  comea,  ask  him  to  wait.    The 

same  with  Monsieur  de  Nanjac,  too.  [Tht 

Servant  goes  out.  —  ToMABcnuaJ    I'll  go 


THE  OUTER  EDGE  OF  SOCIETY 


to  my  room  and  wait:  we  might  be  de- 
layed by  viaitorB.  \^he  goes  mtt-l 

Mabcblle  [as  she  i»  writing  At  letter]. 
That  was  a  splendid  inspiration  I  He  will 
protect  me —  [Afeonwhite,  Ouvxbr  Am 
eamein.  HettandewaidnngMARCEiAxfar 
afewTnomentt.  She  riie»,i»iU  the  letter  and, 
turniing  rmmd,  eatchet  light  of  Ouvier.]  Oh! 

Olivier.  Did  I  frighten  you,  mHdemoi- 
aelle? 

Mabcblle.  I  did  n't  expect  to  see  you 
there  —  bo  suddenly. 

Olivizr.  You  seem  very  happy  this 
morning. 

Marczllb.  Yes,  I'm  so  hopeful,  and 
now  I'mveryglad  toseeyou.  Youknow,! 
owe  this  great  feeling  of  hope  to  you.  Since 
yesterday,  the  future  has  taken  on  an  en- 
tirely different  aapect. 

Olivieb.  What  has  happened  to  you? 

Mabcellb.  I'll  tell  you  later.  Could  I 
hold  secrets  from  you,  my  beet  friend?  I'll 
aee  you  later. 

Oltvier.  Are  you  going  so  soon? 

Mabckllb.  I'm  coming  back  in  an 
hour.  You'll  still  be  here:  I'U  teQ  the  Bar- 
onesB,  whom  I'm  going  to  see  now,  to  keep 
you.  [Taking  hi*  hand.]  Please  always  be 
as  frank  as  you  were  yesterday. 

[She  goei  out.] 

Ouvier.  Possibly  some  day  some  one 
will  explain  a  woman's  heart,  but  the  man 
who  can  decipher  that  of  a  young  j^rl  —  ! 
God  knows  what  I  thought  about  that  child 
yesterday,  and  God  knows  what  she  will 
make  me  think  to-dayl  [Taking  a  paekd,  of 
letters  from  hie  pocket.]  Meantime,  let  lu 
put  an  epitaph  on  this  dead  past;  may  the 
earth  lie  light  over  iti  [Wrtiing.]  "To  Ma- 
dame la  Baronne  d'Aii^  — " 

[Enter  Rathond.J 

Raymond!  the  devill  [He  pute  the  letters 
back  inic  hi*  pocket]  Ah,  so  it's  you!  My 
dear  Raymond!  I  felt  sure  I  was  going  to 
Bee  you :  I  wa«  speaking  of  you  only  a  short 
while  ago. 

Rathond.  Where? 

Olivier.  With  de  Maucroix,  Senior, 
with  whom  I  lunched.  Wben  I  say,  "  I  was 
speaking  of  you,"  I  mean,  "He  was  speak- 
ing of  you." 


OuvrBR.  Not  pemonally,  but  he  knows 
the  Minister  of  War,  and  as  de  Maucroix 
knows  that  I  know  you,  and  as  he  is  an  old 
soldier,  he  takes  an  interest  in  thoee  who, 
like  you,  wear  .the  uniform  and  honor  it. 
He  asked  me  if  I  knew  why  you  resigned 
from  the  service.  I  said  that,  so  far  was  I 
from  knowing  the  reason,  I  was  ignorant 
of  the  very  fact.  I  added  that  I  doubted 
it,  but  he  said  that  the  Minister  himself 
had  vouchsafed  the  information. 

Rathond.  Well,  it  is  a  fact,  and  if  I  have 
not  jret  spoken  to  you  — 

Olivibb,  Your  secrete  are  your  own,  my 
dear  Raymond.  I  consider  that  my  friend- 
ship can  go  as  far  as  interest  in  you,  not 
indiscretion.  If  you  have  resigned,  thou^ 
it  is  a  serious  step,  you  must  have  had  very 
compelling  reasons,  reasons  which  a  friend 
could  not  have  combated.  You  are  well, 
are  you  not? 

Ratuono.  Perfectly  well.  —  Are  you 
going? 

Ouvier.  Yes,  the  Baroness  does  not 
seem  tecome. 

Ratvond.  Then  let  us  wait  for  her  to- 
gether? 

OuviBB.  I  have  n't  time;  I  have  a  call 
to  make — 

Ratmond.  Shall  I  deliver  some  message 
to  her  from  you? 

Ouvier  l^i/terapause].  If  you  will,  please 
tell  her  tliat  I  brought  what  she  asked  me  for. 

Ratuond.  What  a  mysterious  messaget 
Are  you  annoyed  with  me? 

Ouvier.  Why  should  1  be?  Good  LordI 

Ratmohd.  It's  only  natural.  You  are  a  ■ 
friend,  you  have  the  right  to  be  surprised 
and  even  to  blame  me  for  concealing  some- 
thing from  you.  Forgive  me!  I  have  prom- 
ised silence,  promised  it  to  some  one  whom 
I  could  not  refuse.  Not  only  have  I  not 
told  you'  the  truth,  but  yesterday  I  told 
you  a  little  lie,  I  confess  it.  Now  I  am  go- 
ing to  tell  you  everything,  because,  since 
yesterday,  I  had  been  very  much  worried. 
I  am  ashamed  to  have  deceived  you. 

OuviEK.  I  had  just  as  soon  that  you 
told  me  nothing.  I  even  beg  you  not  te  say 


478 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Rayuohd.  Now,  that's  a  touch  of  child- 
ish Bpite,  my  dear  Olivier ;  men  of  our  ag« 
shoiUd  be  above  such  things,  eepeci^ly  aa 
I  waa  going  to  call  on  you  to-day  and  ask 

Olitieb.  a  favor? 

Ratuond.  I  am  going  to  be  married. 

OUniiR.  You  I 

Ratuokd.  Yes,  I. 

OuvrsB.  And  you  are  marrying  —  ? 

RATHONn.  Gueea. 

OiiiTiEH.  How  can  I? 

RATKOifD.  When  we  met  tor  the  first 
time  I  told  you  that  the  information  I 
asked  for  might  have  the  greatest  possible 
influence  over  my  life.  I  am  goiog  to  marry 
Madame  d'Ange. 

OiiTiBB.  Suaannel  [Qiiicklj/.]  The 
Baroness? 

Raymond.  Yes. 

Olivibb.  You're  joking! 

Ratuond.  I  am  not  joking. 

OuviEK.  You  mean  it,  then? 

Raticond.  I  mean  it  seriously. 

OuvTBB.  Was  the  marriage  her  idea? 

Raiuond.  It  wae  mine. 

Olivier.  OhI  —  my  complimotU,  Ray- 
mond! 

Ratmond.  The  news  seems  to  surprise 
you? 

OuviEB.  I  don't  deny  that  it'a  unex- 
pected. I  rather  suspected,  though  you 
tried  to  throw  me  off  the  scent  ycaterday, 
that  you  were  still  in  love  with  Madame 
d'Ange;  I  thought,  too,  that  you  gave  up 
your  commission  in  order  to  be  with  her  as 
long  as  possible,  but  I  never  thought  for  a 
second,  1  must  say,  that  it  might  be  s 
question  of  marriage. 

Rathond.  Why  not? 

Olivier.  Bet^iUse,  according  to  my  no- 
tim,  marriage  is  a  serious  matter,  and 
wfa«i  one  is  going  to  pledge  his  life  with  a 
■ingle  word,  be  ought  to  reflect  much  longer 
than  you  have. 

Rathons.  But  t  think,  for  my  part,  my 
dear  friend,  that  when  one  believes  he  has 
found  true  happiness,  he  should  lose  no 
time  in  seizing  it.  I  am  free,  I  have  no 
family,  and  I  have  never  loved  before. 
Madame  d'Ange  is  &ee  —  she  is  a  widow 
—  she  is  a  woman  of  the  world  (you  told 


me  that  yourself) ;  I  love  her,  she  loves  me, 
and  we  are  going  to  marry,  "rhat's  all  very 
natural,  is  n't  it? 

OuvixR.  Perfectly.  And  when  is  the 
wedding  to  take  plve? 

Rayuoni>.  As  soon  as  the  law  allows. 
But  don't  breathe  a  word  of  this  to  any  one; 
the  Baroness  does  n't  want  it  even  sus- 
pected. We  are  going  to  live  alone  some 
place;  she  even  wanted  the  ceremony  per- 
formed away  from  Paris.  But  I  insisted 
on  its  taking  place  here,  on  your  account. 

OuViEB.  My  account? 

Ratuonv.  Yes;  I  must  have  witneesee 
aud  I  felt  sure  you  would  do  me  the  favor. 

OuviEB.  I  a  witness  of  your  marriage 
with  the  Baroness?  It's  impossible. 

Rathond.  You  refuse? 

Olivieb.  I  am  going  sway  t«-monow. 

Ratmond,  But  you  never  said  a  word 
of  thial  Why,  my  dear  Olivier,  what's  the 
matter?  You  seem  bo  embarrassed  —  you 
have  for  the  past  few  moments. 

Oltvibr.  It  it  very  embarraasing. 

Ratmond.  What  is  it?  Tell  me. 

Oltvieb.  Raymond,  are  you  willing  to 
believe  that  if  I  were  to  advise  you  in  s 
serious  situation,  the  advice  could  not  but 
be  for  your  good? 

Ratmond.  Yes. 

Olivier.  Ilieo,  take  my  advioe,  delay 
this  wedding  —  tJiere  is  stOl  time. 

Raymond.  What  do  you  mean? 

Olivibb.  I  mean  that  no  matter  how 
deeply  in  love  you  are,  there  is  no  ne«d  of 
your  marrying  —  when  you  can  do  othw- 
wise. 

Ratmond.  When  I  told  you  that  I  was 
in  love  with  Madame  d'Ange,  my  dear 
Olivier,  I  doubtless  neglected  to  say  that  I 
respected  and  esteemed  her. 

Olivier.  Very  well,  then,  let  us  aay  no 
more  about  it.  Good-dayl 

Raymond.  Are  n't  you  going  to  wait  for 
the  Baroness? 

Olivitir.  No;  I'll  return  later. 

RATMoim.  Olivier! 

Olivier.  Raymond? 

Raymond.  You  have  something  on  your 

OuviBB.  Nothing. 
Ratmond.  Yes,  you  have. 


.Google 


THE  OUTER   EDGE  OF   SOCIETY 


479 


Oi-iviBB.  My  doftr  fellow,  you  ue  not 
like  other  men  — 

Rathomd.  What  is  there  unumml  about 
mef 

OunER.  I  don't  seem  Eible  to  talk  with 
ymt;  you  alitaye  turn  the  good  to  evil. 
At  the  stighteet  word,  you  ignite  like 
powder,  you  reason  like  a  cannou-boll  of 
'48,  which  shatters  one's  arms  and  legs. 
I  tell  you,  it's  dieoouraging.  I  advise  you 
OB  a  friend;  I  think  it  my  duty,  and  you 
stop  the  words  on  my  lips  with  one  of  those 
marble  answers  that  no  one  else  but  you 
wfcTi  make.  We  Parisians  are  not  faniiliar 
with  thoee  characters  which  lack  subtlety 
and  cannot  understand  half-uttered  phrases. 
You  make  me  afraid. 

Rathond.  My  dear  fellow,  the  pro- 
fession of  soldier  has  not  alt«g2etlier  cruebed 
out  of  me  all  conmion  sense  and  intelli- 
gence. I  am  still  aware  that  a  situation  — 
that  is  doubtless  what  you  mean?  —  can 
have  two  sides,  a  serious  and  a  comic.  Up 
to  the  present,  I  have  taken  my  situation 
seriously;  now,  if  it  is  comic,  and  I  can't 
see  that  side  of  it,  it  is  because  I  am  inex' 
perienced,  and  it  is  the  right  and  the  duty 
of  a  friend  to  t«ll  me.  And,  take  my  word 
for  it,  the  moment  I  see  the  point,  I  promise 
I  shall  be  the  first  to  laugh. 

OuvTxs.  So  you  say.but  you  won't  laugh. 

Ratvomd.  You  don't  know  me  —  a 
man  can  be  mistaken  every  day  of  his  life, 
I  tell  you,  the  day  a  man  is  shown  his  mis- 
take, the  beet  he  can  do  is  to  see  the  humor 
of  it  and  laugh.  Everything  or  nothing! 
That  is  my  motto  t 

Olivikb.  Word  of  honor? 

lUnioMD.  Word  of  honorl 

OuvivB.  Then,  my  dear  fellow,  let  us 
laugh. 

Ratuonh.  Have  I  been  on  the  wrong 
track? 

OuviKB.  Exactly. 

RATUONn.  Does  n't  she  love  meT 

OLmBR.  I  don't  aay  that.  On  the  con- 
trary, I  think  she  loves  you  deeply,  but, 
between  you  and  me,  that  is  no  good  reason 
for  your  marrying.  She  has  another  reason 
in  mind.  Husbands  like  you  are  not  found 
every  day,  and  when  you  are,  you  must  be 
played  for. 


Ratuond.  What  —  ?  You  mean  the 
Baroness— T  Tell  me. 

Olivixb.  It  would  take  too  long,  and 
then  other  people's  a£Fairs  do  not  concern 
me.  All  that  I  have  a  right  to  tell  you  is, 
do  not  marry  Madame  d'Ange. 

RATiiom>.  Truly? 

Ounaa.  Only  your  reoent  arrival  from 
Africa  could  allow  such  an  idea  to  creep 
into  your  head. 

Eatuond.  You  are  opening  my  eyeat 
Now  I  understand  why  she  wanted  me  -to 
say  nothing  about  the  nuuriage,  why  she 
wanted  to  be  married  far  from  Paris,  and 
why  she  told  me  to  be  on  my  guard  against 

OuvTBR.  She  knew  that  I  thought  tod 
much  of  you  to  allow  you  to  do  a  thing  of 
this  sort,  without  pving  you  a  little  in- 
formation. 

RATMONn.  You  know,  the  woman  is 
very  clever  I  She  bad  me  bound  hand  and 
foot,  body  and  heart. 

Olivier.  She  is  most  seductive,  I  will 
admit;  she  has  a  charming  personality,  and 
she  is  far  above  the  women  about  her,  be- 
cause the  mere  fact  of  her  being  introduced 
into  their  society  and  holding  the  plaoe 
there  she  does,  is  a  proof  of  her  superiority. 
Don't  marry  Suzanne,  but  love  her:  she  is 
well  worth  your  while. 

RATUONn.  You  know  something  about    . 
this? 

OuvnR.  I?  No. 

RATUoKn.  Why  be  so  discreet  at  thif 
point?  This  is  n't  the  same  sort  of  situattMi 
as  when  we  first  met.  That  day  you  were 
discreet;  that  was  most  natural,  because 
you  did  n't  know  me. 

OiiiviEB.  I  have  told  you  the  truth. 

Ratuomd.   Come,  nowt 

OuviBR.  Word  of  honorl  You  said  to 
me:  "You  are  only  a  friend  of  Madame 
d'Ange?"  and  I  replied:  "Yes";  that  waa 
true,  t  was  only  her  friend.  Then,  I  did 
not  know  you,  as  you  say;  you  csjne  here 
ready  to  kill,  right  and  left,  and  I  had  no 
very  good  reasons  for  being  interested  in 
yourwelfare.  I  said  tomyself:  "There'sa 
young  man  who  is  in  love  with  the  Baron- 
ess; he  is  or  will  soon  be  her  lover;  he  will 
leave  here  two  monthly  hence  with  the  firm 


48o 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


eonviction  that  he  has  been  loved  by  a 
woman  of  the  world,  and  he  wit]  then  blow 
hiB  braioB  out.  Bon  voyage!"  But,iiow 
that  I  have  come  to  know  and  value  your 
open  heart,  your  frankneeB,  to  appreciate 
your  character  —  now  you  tell  me  ^t  you 
are  on  the  point  of  giving  this  woman  your 
name!  The  devil t  That'a  another  matter, 
and  aileoce  on  my  part  wouU  be  treaoOD, 
for  which  you  would  later  on  have  every 
right  to  call  me  t«  account.  I  shan't  hide 
inything  now.  Things  have  followed  their 
natural  order.  You'renot  blaming  me,  are 
you7 

Raymond.  Blame  you,  my  dear  friend? 
Are  you  madT  Believe  me  —  on  the  con- 
trary —  I  shall  never  forget  what  you  are 
doing  for  me,  as  long  aa  1  ,live. 

Olivibr.  You  never  know  juat  faow  peo- 
ple in  love  will  behave  — 

RamoND.  Idon'tlovethatwomannow. 

Olivieb.  You  understand,  of  eouree, 
that  everything  I  say  is  in  strict  confi- 

Ratuond.  Of  course.  Now,  what  do  you 
advise  me  to  do? 

Olivier.  This  concerns  vou  — 

Ratuond,  It's  not  easy,  and  it's  going 
to  be  embarrassing.  Things  have  gone  so 
far  —  I  must  have  a  good  reason. 

Olivier.  In  a  case  of  this  sort,  all  rea- 
sons are  good  reasons.  At  the  psychological 
moment,  you  are  sure  to  have  an  inspira- 
tion. But,  you  see,  at  that  moment,  she 
will  be  forced  to  confess  her  situation  to 
you.  That  will  give  you  a  reason, 

Ratuond.  What  situation? 

OLivraa.  In  order  to  become  a  widow, 
there  must  have  been  a  husband  —  and 
that  husband  must  be  dead;  now,  a  dead 
husband  is  harder  to  obtain  than  a  living 

Ratnond.  Then  she  is  not  a  widow? 

Olivier.  She  was  never  married. 

Raemond.  Are  you  sure? 

OLtviKR.  I  am. ,  No  one  has  ever  seen 
the  Baron  d' Angel  If  you  want  authentic 
information  about  her,  see  the  Marquis 
de  Thonnerins:  his  sister  knows  her. 
There's  a  man  who  must  know  a  great  deal 
about  her.  But  don't  refer  to  me.  This  is 
the  sort  of  favor  a  friend  does  for  another 


friend,  but  it  is  quite  useless  to  speak  of  the 
matter  to  a  third  party.  And  now,  good- 
bye; I  prefer  not  to  be  found  hxtn:  she 
would  suspect  something,  and  she  must  not 
know  of  this  conversation. 

Ratuond.  I  understand.  Then  there 
is  no  use  of  my  giving  her  the  message  you 
spoke  of? 

Olivier.  What  meesage? 

Ratuond.  Did  n't  you  ask  me  to  Ml 
her  that  you  were  going  to  bring  later  what 
you  brought  her  this  morning? 

Olivier.  Say  nothing  about  it. 

Raymond.  What  did  you  bring? 

Oliviss.   Some  papers. 

Ratuond.  Businees  papers? 

OuviER.  Yes. 

Ratuond.  About  her  income? 

Olivter.  Yes.  Good-bye. 

Ratuond.  My  dear  Olivier,  to-day  is 
not  the  first  day  we  have  met,  and  I  think 
it 's  wrong  of  you  not  to  be  quite  frank  with 
me.  Those  "papers"  are  letters  —  don't 
deny  it,  lA  paiue.]  Come,  while  we're  on 
the  point :  the  more  you  tell  me,  the  better 
it  will  be. 

Oi.ivtEB.  Well,  yes,  they  are  letters. 

Ratuond.  Which  she  wrote  you,  and 
which  she,  intending  to  marry,  wants  back. 
Now,  do  your  duty. 

Olivibr.  How? 

Ratuond.  Prove  that  you  are  roally  a 

Olivier.  What  must  I  do? 

Ratuond.  Qive  me  the  tetters. 

Olivier,  You? 

Rayuond,  Yea. 

Olivier.  You  know  that  is  imposn- 
ble. 

Raymond.  Why? 

Olivier.  Because  one  does  n't  give 
away  a  woman's  letters. 

Raymond.  That  depends. 

Olivier.  On  what? 

Rayuond.  On  the  situation  in  which  the 
person  who  asks  happens  to  be  placed. 

Olivier.  A  woman's  letters  are  sacred, 
no  matter  who  the  woman  is. 

RATUoin>  [very  terioudy].    I  think  it's 
a  little  late  to  come  forth  with  maxi 
that  sort,  my  dear  Olivier. 

Olivier.  You  think  so? 

.CtOoqIc 


THE  OUTER  EDGE  OF  SOCIETY 


481 


Ratuohd.  Yee,  because  when  you  once 
begin  a  confidential  ooaveraation  of  this 
sort,  you  ought  to  carry  it  throuf^  to  the 
bitter  end. 

OuvixR.  My  dear  Raymond,  I  see  that 
I  have  made  a  grave  blunder;  I  ought  to 
say  nothing  more, 

Rathond.  Why? 

OuviKB.  Because  you  are  not  in  a  laugh- 
ing mood;  because  you  love  Madame 
d'Ange  more  than  you  confessed  you  did; 
because  that  mask  of  gayety  you  assumed 
a  few  momenta  ago  was  only  in  order  to 
make  me  speak.  You  are  more  clever  than 
I  thought  you.   Good-moming. 

Ratuond.  Olivier,  in  the  name  of  our 
friendship,  give  me  those  lett«rsl 

OuTiBB.  Why,  tiiat's  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. I  tell  you  it  would  be  unworthy  of 
both  of  us.  1  am  Burprised  at  your  asking. 

Ratmonh,  I  merdy  ask  for  4  proof  of 
what  you  have  told  me  — 

OuviBR.  You  may  doi^t  it  all,  if  you 
like. 

RATMONn.  1  would  willin^y  do  it  for 
your  sake. 

OunxB.  Swear  to  me  on  your  honor  — 

Ratuond.  I  —  [He  aiop*.) 

OuviBB.  You  see? 

RATMONn.  You  are  right.  Well,  I 
swear  on  my  honor  not  to  read  the  letters. 
Give  them  to  me,  and  I  promise  to  hand 
them  to  Madame  d'Ange  to-day. 

Olitieb.  No! 

Ratuond.  Do  you  doubt  my  word? 

Olivier.  Good  Heavens,  not 

Raymond.  Well,  then  —  7 

OuvuR.  Listen  to  me,  Raymond:  you 
will  never  forgive  me  for  having  told  you 
the  truth.  I  cannot  repent,  because  1  have 
acted  as  I  believe  I  ought  to  have  acted. 
I  could  not  hesitate  between  a  silent  com- 
plicity for  Madame  d'Ange's  sake,  and 
giving  you  the  information  I  have  given. 
Between  men  like  you  and  me,  an  ex- 
planation of  this  sort  ought  to  be  sufiicient. 
I  see  it  is  not;  let  us  therefore  say  no  more 
about  the  matter.  I  came  here  to-day  to 
give  to  Madame  d'Ange,  or  leave  for  her  in 
case  she  was  not  in,  some  papers  which  be- 
longed to  her  the  luoment  she  asked  for 
them.    Here  they  are,  in  this  sealed  en-  - 


velope.  Madame  d'Ange  is  out;  I  leave  the 
papers  on  the  table,  where  she  will  find 
them  on  her  return.  I  shall  be  back  in  half 
an  hour  to  see  whether  she  has  them.  Ano 
now,  my  dear  Raymond,  do  as  yoit  think 
best!  I  was  your  friend;  I  will  continue  to 
be  such  so  long  al  you  wish  me  to  be. 
Good-bye  —  or  —  au  revoir. 

[He  goei  out.] 
Ratmond.  Olivier!  {He  make*  for  the 
leltert,  wkich  Olivier  kae  left  on  the  table.] 
After  all,  that  woman's  past  belongs  to 
me,  because  I  am  giving  her  my  name, 
I  shall  read  the  letters.  [He  pieke  up,  then 
lays  down  the  envdope.]  He  is  right:  it  m 
impossible! 

[finl«r  Suzanne.] 

SuEANNX.  I've  been  out  long,  my  dear, 
have  n't  I? 

Raymond.    No.   Then,  I  waa  n't  alone. 

Sdianhx.  Who  was  here? 

Ratmond.  Monsieur  de  Jalin. 

Suzanne.  Why  did  n't  he  wait? 

Raymond    He  seemed  to  be  in  a  hurry. 

SuzAKNTi.  Is  he  coming  back? 

Raymond.  Yea,  in  half  an  hour.  Where 
have  you  been,  dear  Susanne? 

Suzannk.  I've  been  on  some  tir«aome 
errands.  I  don't  complain,  because  they 
were  for  you. 

Raymond.  Forme? 

Suzanne.  Yes,  for  you,  monsieur.  When 
a  person  marriea,  be  must  put  all  his 
affairs  in  order,  must  n't  he?  I  should  n't 
complain  at  all  —  unless  you  happened  to 
change  3^ur  mind  -^ 

Raymond.  Not  yetl 

Suzanne.  Is  there  any  chance  of  it? 

Raymond.   That  will  depend  on  you. 

SOEANNB.  Then  I  have  nothing  to  fear. 
Do  you  still  love  me? 

Raymond.  Always,  more  than  you  can 
know.  Now,  Suzanne,  you  have  been  —  ? 

Suzanne.  To  see  my  solicitor.  My  hus- 
band ought  to  know  the  state  of  my  fl- 

Ratmond.  Never  mind  that. 

SuzANNX.  I  have  just  got  my  birth- 
certificate.  See,  I  didn't  lie:  I'm  an  old 
woman  of  twenty-eight.  There  'b  no  deny- 
ing facta.  [SAe  rtad*:]  "Infant;  sex,  femi- 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


nine;  bom  February  4,  1818,  at  11  o'clock 
im  the  evening;  daughter  of  Jean-Hya- 
cinthe.  Count  de  Berwach,  and  of  Josd- 
phine-Henriette  de  Crousserollea,  his  wife." 
You  Bee,  I  come  of  a  good  family  I  This 
is  all  that  remainB  of  the  first  two  love 
afFaint  of  my  life:  an  Slmoat  illegible  scrap 
of  paper,  an  official  document,  cold  and  dry 
ae  the  epitaph  on  a  tombstone.  Hers  is  my 
marriagorcontract.  I  was  n't  in  a  happy 
mood  that  day,  Raymond  dear,  because  1 
did  n't  love  my  buaband;  I  was  simply 
giving  in  to  the  wishaH  of  my  parents.  But 
I  can't  reproach  the  Baron,  he  vas  as  good 
aa  he  could  be  to  me;  he  came  of  an  old 
family,  and  was  the  last  of  the  line.  And 
here  is  my  hu^and's  death-certificate: 
that  is  to  say,  my  right  to  love  you  before 
all  the  world.  You  see,  I  have  been  a  widow 
for  eight  years.  The  past  is  over  and  laid 
at  rest;  we  have  only  the  future  to  think  of. 
What's  the  matter?  You  seem  so  preoc- 
cupied? 

RATMONn.  Will  you  let  me  have  tiioee 
documents? 

SozANNX.  Certainly,butdon'tlosethem. 

Ratmokd.  You  may  be  sure  I  shan't; 
I  '11  put  them  with  my  own,  as  soon  as  I  get 
them.  Is  that  all  you've  done  this  morn- 
ing? 

Stjiannf.  Oh,  no,  I  went  to  see  my 
guardian,  the  Marquis  de  Thonnerins; 
Mademoiselle  de  Sancenaux,  you  know, 
begged  me  to  ask  him  for  something,  I  was 
not  successful,  and  I  'm  very  much  put  out 
about  it.  The  poor  child  is  coming  here  for 
her  answer,  and  I  don't  know  how  to  tdl 

Ratmons.  There  ia  a  way. 

Suzanne.  How? 

Ratuond.  Write  to  her  before  she 
comes.  Is  n't  that  the  best  way  to  break 
bad  news? 

Suzanne.  Yes,  but  it's  euch  a  bother 
to  write! 

Raymond.  It  depends:  to  those  we  love, 
for  instance  I 

SuzANNB.  That's  differentl 

Rayuons.  But  you  never  wrote  to  me. 

Sdzannx.  I  have  seen  you  every  day; 
what  did  I  have  to  write?  But  you've  lost 
nothing:  I  write  a  fearful  hand. 


Ratvond.  Let  me  see  a  sample? 

SozANNS.  Do  you  really  wish  to? 

Raymond.  Yes. 

Suzanne.  Very  well.  [She  wiriUt:]  "tdy 
dear  child  — "  Horrid  pen!  "I  have  beoi 
to  see  Monsieur  de '  Thonnerins,  as  I 
promised,  but  I  did  not  find  out  old  friend 
in  the  frame  of  mind  I  had  aipected — " 
[To  Ratuond,  uAo  m  watching  dotdy  uAot 
the  wrilea.]   Can  hardly  read  it,  can  you? 

Ratuond.  Hardly.  Let  me  have  tbe 
beginning  of  the  letter,  please. 

Suzanne.  Why? 

Ratuond.  Give  it  to  me. 

Suzanne.  There. 

Raymond  [after  hamng  examined  (Aa 
leUer\.  My  dear  Suianne,  I  foi^t  to  tdl 
you  that  Monsieur  de  Jalin  left  a  little 
package  for  you. 

Suzanne.  What  is  it? 

Raymond.  Letters. 

Suzanne.  Letters?  What  letters? 

Raymond.  Letters  which  you  oaked  him 
for.  ' 

SUZANKB.    17 

Raymond.  Yee,  you. 

SuEANm.  From  whom  are  they? 

Raymond.  Ftimd  you! 

Suzanne.  From  me!  I  doo't  under- 
stand. Where  are  they? 

Raymond.  Here. 

Suzanne.  Give  them  to  me. 

Ratuond.  I  beg  your  pardon,  SuianiM, 
dear,  but  I'm  going  to  ask  your  permis- 
sion to  open  the  package. 

Suzanne.  Did  Monsieur  de  Jalin  bring 
these  tor  me? 

Raymond.   1  told  you  that  he  did. 

SuiANNK.  Very  well,  then,  opcm  it  and 
read  the  letters  if  you  wish.  If  you  wanted 
to  see  anything  in  them,  you  neied  n't  hav« 
waited  until  I  came  home.  Only,  after  you 
have  seen  what  you  wanted  to  see,  I  am 
going  to  ask  you  the  meaning  of  all  this,  for 
I  don't  understand  in  the  least. 

Raymond.  I  shall  explain  everything^  I 
promise;  or,  rather,  toe  shall  eicplain. 

[He  opens  the  package,  latiei  one 
o/  the  letUrt  and   compene  U 
aiih  the  one  ishieh  SuzAina  hat 
juat  vriiien  to  Mascblia.] 
WeU7 


GooqIc 


THE  OUTER   EDGE  OF  SOCIETY 


483 


Rathokd.   Siitiume,  some  one  ia  being 


StJEANNB.  I,  I  think,  for  I  hope  to  die  if 
I  caa  gueoB  a  word  of  the  riddlel 

Raymond.  Look  at  those  letters. 

SoEAHMK.  They  are  from  a  woman. 

Ratmond.   Read  them. 

8viunn\^aTKing  through  a  f em].  Love- 
letters,  or  nearly  bo  —  the  expreesione  are 
not  particularly  tender.  But  they  might 
pwH  for  love-letters.  WellT 

RATMONit.  Don't  you  know  who  wrote 
those  letters? 

SnxAinn.  How  should  I  know?  They're 
not  signed. 

Ratuons.  Are  they  not  in  your  hand- 
writing? 

Sdunnx.  Whatl  My  handwriting? 
Are  you  mad?  Is  my  handwriting  like 
that?  Iwiahitwerel  'Hiat  woman  writes 
very  nicely. 

Ratuond.  Then  why  Olivier's  lie?  He 
seemed  so  sure  1 

SuzANMB.  What  lie?  Tell  me,  what  does 
this  mean?  Did  Monsieur  de  Jaliu  say  that 
these  letters  were  ttcsm  me? 

ItATMOi4D.  Yea. 

SuiANNK  [indtpnontty].  Then,  Monneur 
de  Jalin  must  hare  been  my  lover? 

Ratuond.  So  it  appears. 

ScEANNB.  Did  he  tell  you  Uiat? 

Rathond.  He  gave  me  to  understand  — 

SnEANNi.  Please  —  iriiere  is  the  joke? 

Ratuoi^d.    Monsieur  de  Jalin  was  not 

SnzAinra.  He  was  making  fun  of  you. 
You  lied  to  him  yesterday,  and  t4>-day  he  is 
merely  taking  his  revenge.  I  have  known 
Monsieur  de  Jalin  longer  than  you  have;  I 
know  he  is  incapable  of  doing  anything 
cowardly.  You  are  now  accusing  him  o( 
something  that  is.  He  mode  love  to  me  at 
one  time,  and  wrote  letters  to  me,  which  I 
can  show  you.  I  think  be  is  rather  hurt 
that  I  am  marrying,  because  it  takes  his 
last  hope  from  him.  But  there's  a  vast 
gxJf  between  trying  to  prevent  the  mar- 
riage and  inventing  a  calumny  of  that  kind. 
I  have  no  idea  what  has  actually  occurred, 
but  I  am  positive  that  Monsieur  de  Jalin 
is  incapable  of  committing  an  act  like  that. 

Ratuond.  We  shall  see. 


ScBANNB.  Have  you  any  doubts,  yourself? 

Ratiioi4d.  This  matter  is  between  him 
and  me.  WiU  you  swear  that  what  Mon- 
sieur de  Jalin  told  me  was  false? 

SuzAinm.  Do  you  want  me  to  swear? 
80,  it's  something  more  than  a  joke,  01 
even  a  libel  on  Monsieur  de  Jalin's  port: 
it  is  treason  on  yours,  monaeur. 

Ratuond.  Treason! 

SuiAHNB.  Yes,  you  are  already  begin- 
ning la  regret  the  promises  you  made  me. 
Why  did  n't  you  tell  me  frankly  rather 
than  resort  to  such  meane,  which  really  do 
more  honor  to  your  cleverness  than  to  your 
delicacy. 

RATiiom.  Susanne,  you  are  accusing 
me  of  something  infamous. 

SuEANNB.  What'  am  I  accusing  you  of? 

RAruoND.  Monsieur  de  Jalin  is  coming 
here  shortly;  let  us  clear  matters  up  in  his 
presence, 

SuEANNB.  Whatt  Must  you  await 
Monsieur  de  Jaljn'e  perminion  to  believe 
that  I  am  telling  the  truth?  I  am  going  to 
have  Monsieur  de  Jalin  himself  tell  you 
that  he  was  never  my  lover;  you  will  be* 
lievemc  only  then.  Whom  do  you  take  me 
for?  I  loved  you,  Raymond,  but  I  must 
say,  this  suspicion  and  jealousy  in  you  ter- 
rifies me.  That  is  why  I  hesitated  to  be- 
come your  wife.  I  at  least  thought  that 
you  respected  and  honored  me.  I  have  no 
intention  of  looking  into  the  reasons  or 
causes  for  this  sudden  outbreak,  but  I  de- 
clare you  have  put  me  to  a  humiliating  test, 
me  and  my  love  for  you  and  my  dignity. 
You  have  doubted  me.  Everything  is  over 
between  us  now. 

Ratuond.  My  jealousy  is  only  a  pnxrf 
of  my  love.  I  love  you  so  deeply,  Susannel 

SuzANNB.  I  don't  want  to  be  loved  that 
way  I 

Ratuohh.  I  swear  — 

Sttzanne.  Please  I 

Ratuokd.  Suzanne! 

ISnter  SOPHIB.) 

SoFHiB.  Mademoiselle  de  Sanoenaux 
wishes  to  know  if  madame  will  see  her? 

SoiANNB.  Ask  her  to  come  in. 

(BoPHTB  goe»  out.] 

Ratuond.   I  shall  stay  with  you. 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


lEnter  Mabckllb.) 

Mascklle.   It'sl,  madame. 

Stteanmd.    I'm  ao  glad  to  see  70U,  dear 

child.    [To  Raymond.)    Please  excuee  ub, 

Monsieur  de  Nanjac,  mademoiselle  anil  I 

wish  to  be  alone. 

Ratuond.  Wbe&  shall  I  have  the  pleas- 
ure of  seeing  you  again,  madame? 

Sdiaknb.  On  my  return:  I'm  leaving 
to-ni^t,  and  I  shan't  see  any  one  in  the 
meantime. 

(Ratuond  bous  and  goea  out,  aa 
Sdianne  ringa.] 

[Enter  a  Servant.] 

ITo  the  Servant],  If  MonsieuT  de  Nanjac 
calls  again  to-day,  t«tl  bim  I  am  not  at 
home;  if  he  insists,  add  that  I  refuse  to  see 
him.  Got  [Tht  Servant  gota  ouJ.]  I  have 
seen  the  Marquis,  and  I  have  bad  news  to 
report,  my  poor  dear:  Monsieur  de  Thon- 
nerins  is  interested  in  you,  but  — 

Mabcblle.   But  he  refuses. 

ScEANNB.  He  would  like  to  do  what  you 
ask  — 

MabchIiU.  Only  —  worldly  considera- 
tions  prevent  him.  I  have  thought  a  good 
deal  since  I  last  saw  you,  and  I  came  to 
the  conclusion  that  perhaps  it  would  not 
be  right  of  him  to  have  as  a  companion  for 
his  daughter  a  person  who  is  in  so  excep- 
tional a  position  as  I  am.  Mademoiselle  de 
'Hionnerins  ie  very  fortunate  in  having  a 
father  to  protect  and  care  for  her.  Thank 
you,  dear  madame,  and  forgive  me  for  hav- 
ing troubled  you  to. 

SvzAMHS.  I  do  wish  I  had  been  succeee- 
ful.  The  Marquis  is  very  fond  of  you,  and 
he  told  me  he  would  do  what  he  could  to 
help  you,  and  that  if  you  found  some  fine 
young  man  whom  you  could  lOve,  and  if 
there  were  no  other  obstacle  except  in  the 
matter  of  fortune,  he  would  see  to  it  that 
tlUit  obstftde  were  removed. 

Mabcxlle.    I  asked  for  help,  not  alms. 

SozANNX.  That  i8.n't  at  all  kind.  Why 
do  you  get  so  discouraged,  my  dear?  How 
do  you  know  that  the  man  you  love  may 
not  some  day  return  your  love?  Perhaps  he 
lovea  you  even  now?  If  he  does,  what  is 
tbere  to  prevent  your  becoming  his  wife? 


Mabcelui.   I  don't  love  an;  one. 

BiTEANNii.  Oh,  very  well,  Maroelle,  I'm 
not  asking  for  any  secrete. 

Makcbllx.  Did  n't  I  hear  you  say  you 
were  going  away  to-ni^t? 

Suzanne.  Yes. 

MabcxuiE.  Ferhape  we  shan't  see  eadi 
other  again,  but  I  shall  never  forget  how 
good  you  have  been  to  me. 

Sdeannk.  I  '11  let  you  know  where  I  am. 
Write  me,  and  no  matter  how  far  away  I 
am,  I  shall  do  everything  in  my  power  to 
help  you. 

Marcblle.  Thank  you.  \8he  kiaaea  Sn- 
EANNE.I  Good-bye. 

Suzanne.  Good-bye  —  and  couragel 
[Enter  a  Servant.] 

Sebvant.   Monsieur  Olivier  de  Jalin. 

(Marcellb  rrmkea  ready  lo  go,  at 
the  Servant  leavea,] 
[Enter  Ouvibb.] 

OuvtSB.  Am  I  sendingyou  away,  made- 
moiselle I 

Marcellb.  No,  monsieur,  I  was  going 
anyway. 

Olivibb.  How  sad  you  look.  What's 
the  matter? 

Mabcblle.  One  hour  follows  another, 
and  not  one  resemblee  another.  I  was  too 
quick  to  hope :  life  is  more  difficult  than  I 
had  imaged,  when  one  is  alone  to  strug- 
gle with  it. 

Olivieb.  But  — when  there  are  two? 
Am  I  not  your  friend?  I  don't  want  you  to 
be  sad  any  longer.  Will  you  let  me  come  to 
see  you?  Then  you  II  t«ll  roe  all  your 
troubles! 

Mabcelle.  I  will  do  everything  you 
tell  me. 

OuviBR.  I  shall  see  you  soon,  poeubly 
in  a  very  short  while. 

[He  duikea  hands  vnik  her,   and 
ahe  goea  out.] 

Suzanne.  It's  touching,  isn't  it?  I 
should  very  much  like  to  see  you  marry 
Mademois^e  de  Sancenauz,  after  what 
you  have  said  about  her. 

Olivixr.  I  did  not  know  her  then,  now 
I  do. 

BuzAMNB.  All  of  which  goee  to  show  thftt 


CtOoi^Ic 


THE  OUTER  EDGE  OF  SOCIETY 


it  IB  never  wiM  to  apeak  «vil  of  people  be- 
fore you  fcnowl  By  the  wajr,  you  and  I 
have  an  account  to  balance. 

OtrviBK.  Whatr 

SusANNB.  Now  pretfiid  not  to  under- 
stand! You  told  Monsieur  de  Nanjac  that 
it  would  be  wrong  of  him  to  marry  me. 

OuviiiH.   That  ia  true. 

SczANNE.  Did  you  tell  him  why  it 
would  be  wrong? 

Olivtxb.  Yes. 

Sdeamne.  You  are  at  least  frank.  How- 
ever, that  is  no  excuse  for  your  having  com- 
initt«d  a  —  What  is  it?  There  is  a  word 
for  such  thin^  — 

OuviKB  [appearing  to  be  aeanhing  for  the 
teord].  A  blunder? 

Sdeamnb.  No. 

OuviVB.  Something  tactless? 

SuKAinra.    Not  altogether.    Something 

Ouvhr.  Cowardly?  Say  it;  it  bums 
your  lips. 

SuEANNii.  Exactly:  something  cowardly  I 

Oltixr.  And  why  did  I  do  it? 

Suumni.  Boctuiae  a  man  of  honor  keeps 
sud>  things  to  himself. 

OuTHiK.  Which  proves  that  you  and  I 
do  not  agree  on  tJte  question  of  houor,  for- 
tunatdyt 

SuEunn.  You  have  nothing  more  to 
add? 

Oums.   Nothing. 

SiTEAMm.  And  did  you  imagine  that 
Monsieur  de  Nanjac  would  fail  to  repeat 
your  conversation  to  me? 

OuviEB.  I  did,  because  he  gave  me  his 
word  of  honor. 

SdANNE.  But  you  gave  me  your  word 
of  honor,  my  friend  I 

OuTiKR.  To  be  your  friend,  yes,  but  not 
your  accomplice. 

SuzANNB.  "Accomplice"  is  ratlier  bru- 
tal. [She  Urngha.]  TeU  me,  Olivier? 

OuviEB.  Yee? 

SniANNK.  You  know,  what  you  have 
done  has  turned  out  to  my  advantage. 

OuviER.  So  much  the  betteil  Well,  1 
have  done  my  duty  on  the  one  hand,  and 
done  you  a  favor  on  the  other. 

SnzANNB.  He  loves  me  more  than  ever. 

OuviBB.  Indeed? 


485 

SuiAMHS.  I  really  can't  be  angry  with 
you.  And  you  preteod  to  be  a  clever  man! 
Why,  can't  you  see  that  you  've  been  caught 

Olivixb.  Caught  in  a  trap? 

SuzANNB.  Of  course,  you  poor  dearl 
You  ore  trying  to  deal  with  a  woman! 
Have  u't  you  yet  learned  that  the  stupid- 
est of  women  —  and  I  am  not  that  by  a 
long  way  —  is  a  hundred  times  more  re- 
sourceful than  the  cleverest  man?  I  rather 
suspected  yesterday,  after  your  conversa^ 
tion  with  Monsieur  de  Nanjac,  that  your 
great  friendship  for  me  would  end,  and  that 
the  moment  there  was  any  question  of  my 
marriage,  your  loyal  self  would  declare  war 
on  me.  You  hod  to  strike  a  final  blow  and 
lay  low  the  truth  so  emphatically,  that  any 
lies  or  calumnies  could  not  afterward  have 
the  slightest  chance.  Then  I  asked  you  to 
bring  me  those  letters  to-day.  That  should 
have  opened  your  eyee!  Do  you  think  I  am 
the  sort  of  wouum  who  asks  for  her  letters? 
But  of  course  you  did  n't  suspect  a  thing, 
and  you  were  so  nice  as  to  come  here  this 
morning,  with  your  little  letters  in  your 
pocketl  A  short  while  before  you  were  due 
here,  I  went  out  in  order  to  leave  you  alone 
with  Monaieur  de  Nanjac  and  you  did 
your  duty  as  an  honest  man.  You  told 
Monsieur  de  Nanjac  what  you  had  been  to 
me,  and  you  found  means  of  giving  him 
my  letters.  I  returned,  he  did  not  know  my 
handwriting,  so  he  asked  me  to  give  him  a 
sample  of  it  before  his  very  eyes;  then  he 
compared  the  two  hands  — 

Olivieb.  And? 

SuzANio.  And  as  they  bear  no  resem- 
blauoe  to  each  other,  he  is  convinced  that 
I  am  the  victim  of  a  libelous  story.  He 
loves  me  more  than  ever,  and  he  has  only 
one  thought:  to  cut  your  throat.  The  idea! 
To  think  that,  at  youi  age,  you  don't  yet 
know  that  the  very  best  way  to  fall  out  with 
a  friend  is  to  spet^  evil  of  the  woman  he 
loves,  even  when  the  evil  can  be  proved. 
And  can  you  prove  it?  I  sent  him  away  be- 
cause he  dared  entertain  such  suspicions.  I 
told  him  I  did  n't  want  to  see  him  any  more, 
that  I  was  going  away  to-day  —  and  any 
number  of  other  things:  everything  that 
an  intelligent  woman  says  under  similar 


c^ 


486 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


eircurostuicefl.  I  told  him  I  could  never 
thinkof  becoming  hifl  wife.  Hewillbehere 
in  ten  minut«a,  and  in  a  week's  time  we 
shall  be  married.  I  owe  all  this  to  you,  my 
dear.  You  have  lost,  j^ou  see,  and  jou  owe 
me  a  forfeit. 

OuviKB.  Have  you  two  samplee  of  the 
handwriting? 

SuEANNB.   I  have  only  one,  but  that  is 

M10U|^. 

OuTiBB.  Then  how  does  it  happen 
that  — T 

SusAiTNE.  I  shall  tell  you  everything, 
because  at  bottom  I  am  obliging,  and  1 
have  nothii^  against  you.  My  dear  friend, 
when  a  woman  like  me  has  spent  ten  years 
in  building  up  her  life,  piece  by  piece,  her 
first  care  must  be  to  get  out  of  her  way 
every  possible  chance  of  danger.  Now, 
among  these  chances,  in  the  first  place, 
there  is  the  desire  to  write.  Out  of  a  hun- 
dred compromised  women,  two  thirds  have 
met  their  ruin  through  letters  which  they 
have  written.  Women's  letters  seem  dee- 
tined  to  be  lost  by  those  to  whom  tbey  arc 
sent,  returned  to  those  who  wrote  them, 
intercepted  by  the  one  person  who  ought 
never  to  see  them,  stolen  by  servants,  and 
shown  to  the  whole  world.  In  matters  of  love, 
it  is  dangerous  to  write,  not  to  say  useless. 
Consequently,  I  have  made  it  a  rule  never 
to  write  a  oompromiaing  letter,  and  for  the 
last  ten  years  I  have  adhered  to  that  rule. 

Olitibb.  Then  the  lett«rs  you  wrote 
me  — T 

So&AHini.  Were  dictated  to  Madame  de 
Santis,  the  greatest  known  letter-writer. 
She  has  a  pen  in  her  hand  from  morning  to 
night;  that  is  her  great  passion.  She  was 
with  me  all  the  time  at  Baden,  and  I  made 
use  of  her  mania  occasionally,  asking  her 
to  answer  letters  from  you,  which  I  never 
read.  She  writes  a  lovely  English  hand, 
long,  delicate,  aristocratic,  like  a  lady  of 
high  rank  taking  a  walk.  And  she  was  so 
well  brought  upl  So  you  see,  my  dear,  you 
were  corresponding  with  Valentine.  But 
you  need  n't  worry;  I  shan't  breathe  a 
word  to  your  friend  Monsieur  Richond; 
you  might  fall  out  with  faimi 

Ouvna  [bowirv].  I  have  nothing  more 
to  say.  You  are  a  most  j^owerful  — 


SOKANNx.  Now,  let  us  talk  seriously.  Bf 
what  right  have  you  behaved  the  way  you 
did?  In  what  way  can  you  reproach  me? 
If  Monsieur  de  Nanjac  were  an  old  friend 
of  yours,  a  childhood  comrade,  or  a 
brother,  I  might  see,  but  you  have  known 
him  scarcely  a  week  or  ten  days.  If  you 
were  disinterested,  too,  I  might  nnder- 
stand,  but  are  you  quite  sure  that  yon 
have  n't  been  prompted  by  a  teelmg  of 
wounded  pride?  I  know  you  don't  love  nte, 
but  a  man  always  rather  resents  being  told 
by  a  wonian  who  once  loved  him  that  she 
no  longer  does  so.  Simply  because  you 
happened  to  make  love  to  me,  and  because 
I  was  confiding  enough  to  believe  you, 
because  1  thought  you  an  honorable  man, 
because  I  loved  you,  perhaps,  are  you  there- 
fore going  to  be  an  obstacle  to  the  happi- 
neaa  of  my  whole  life?  Did  I  compromise 
you?  Did  I  ruin  you?  Did  I  even  deceive 
you?  I  will  admit,  —  I  must  admit,  be- 
cause it  is  true  —  that  I  am  not  worthy 
on  morals  grounds,  of  the  name  and  posi- 
tion I  aspire  to;  but  is  it  your  place  —  you 
helped  make  me  unworthy  I  —  to  close  to 
me  the  honorable  path  I  have  chosen  to 
tread?  No,  my  dear  Olivier,  it's  not  ri^t; 
when  a  person  has  himself  succumbed  to 
certain  weaknesses,  he  ought  not  to  forge 
weapons  and  use  them  against  those  with 
whom  he  has  sinned.  A  man  who  has  been 
loved,  no  matter  how  little,  and  provided 
the  love  was  based  on  neither  interest  tkor 
calculation,  is  under  an  eternal  obligation 
to  the  woman,  and  he  should  remember 
that  no  matter  how  much  he  does  for  her, 
he  can  never  hope  to  repay  her. 

Olivieb.  You  are  right:  perhaps  I  did 
give  in  to  an  evil  impulse,  to  jealousy, 
thinking  I  was  prompted  by  honor.  Still, 
there  is  no  honest  man  who  would  not  have 
acted  likewise  in  my  place.  ForRaymortd's 
sake,  I  was  right  in  speaking;  for  yours,  I 
should  have  said  nothing.  The  Arabian 
proverb  is  right:  "  Speech  is  silver,  but  si- 
lence is  golden." 

BuEAMNB.  That  is  all  I  wanted  to  hear 
from  ycai.  Now  — 

OuvtBB.  Now? 

ScEANKx  (lemnj)  SoFHiS  Mltr).  Nothinfr 
[To  Borsnt.]  WbatisftT 


Google 


THE  OUTER  EDGE  OF  SOCIETY 


487 


80PBIB.  Monsieur  de  Nanjac  has  called. 

EtuzANMB.  I  have  already  pTen  my  or- 
ders— 

SoPBa.  He  inflisted  on  Beemg  Madame 
la  Baronne.  I  told  him  that  Madame 
la  Baronne  was  not  receiving.  He  asked 
whether  Monsieur  de  Jalin  was  with  imv- 
dame,  and  told  me,  if  he  was,  to  ask  him 
to  Bt«p  out  and  see  him. 

SuEAHini.  TeU  Monsieur  de  Nanjac  to 

Olivibb.  Are  you  going  to  see  faim? 

BuxAMNB.  No,  but  you  will,  and  you 
will  please  tell  him  what  you  think  you 
ought  to  tell  him.  Only  remember  that  he 
lores  me,  that  I  love  him,  and  that  what  I 
want,  I  want.  Au  reeoir,  my  dear  OtiviCT. 
[8ht  goet  out.] 

OuvnB.  Wdl,  III  get  this  over  with  at 
onoe. 

(Enter  Ratuond.] 

You  wished  to  see  me,  my  dear  Ray- 
moodT  The  Baroness  is  not  preeent  —  we 
are  alone.  I  am  listening. 

Ratiiond.  I  don't  wish  to  forget  that  I 
OQoe  called  you  friend,  but  — 

OuviBB.  But7 

Ratmond.  You  have  deceived  me. 

Olivibb  [glaecaio].  I  have  not. 

Ratmohd.  listen  tome:  I  have  decided 
not  to  consider  proofs;  furthermore,  Ma- 
dame d'Ange  proved  that  what  you  told 
mewaanotso.  You  said  that  she  was  never 
married;  I  have  seen  the  marriage  contract, 
seen  it  with  my  own  eyes.  Are  you  going  to 
tell  roe  that  the  document  ia  a  forgeiyT 

Olivibb.  Ko. 

Ratmond.  You  told  me  that  she  was 
not  a  widow;  1  have  seen  her  husband's 
death-certificate.  Are  you  going  to  tell  me 
that  that  document  is  an  inventionT 

Olivibb.  No. 

Ratuokd.  I  have  just  come  from  the 
Marquis  de  Thonnerins,  whom  I  have  quee- 
tioned,  and  who  said  that  he  knew  nothing 
about  the  Baroness.  And,  finally,  these 
letters  that  you  told  me  were  written  by 
Madame  d'Ange  — 

Olivibb.  Are  not  from  her,  I  now  know : 
one  of  her  friends  wrote  them  for  her,  and 
I  was  led  to  believe  ther  were  her  own. 


Both  of  them  were  making  game  of  me. 
But  it  was  not  I  who  deceived  you,  I  myself 
have  been  deceived.  I  believed  I  had  the 
right  to  warn  you,  but  I  did  not  have  the 
right.  I  felt  positive  that  I  had  incontro- 
vertible proofs  against  the  Baroneee,  but 
evrai  my  own  stupidity  did  n't  furnish  one. 
When  I  tried  to  prove  that  I  was  truly  . 
your  friend,  I  suooeeded  only  in  proving 
that  I  was  a  fool.  I  have  been  beautifully 
deceived,  take  my  word  for  it. 

Ratuond.  So  you  take  bock  everything 
you  said? 

OuTiBB.  Everything.  She  comes  of  a 
good  family,  ^e  was  married,  she  is  a 
baroness,  a  widow,  she  loves  you,  she  was 
never  any  more  than  a  stranger  to  me;  she 
is  worthy  of  you.  Whoever  denies  this  is  a 
defamer,  because  any  one  is  a  defomer  who 
speaks  evil  which  he  cannot  prove.  Good- 
bye, Raymond;  after  what  has  happened, 
I  can't  show  my  face  to  the  Baroness  again. 
I  shan't  see  her  agiun  until  she  asks  for 
me,  and  I  hardly  think  she  will  do  that 
very  soon.  Please  don't  think  of  me  as 
being  anything  but  clumsy.  Good-bye. 

Ratuond.  Good-bye.  [Oltvob  gott  out.] 
I  must  hear  the  final  word  from  that  mani 

[Enter  a  Servant.] 

Sbbvant.  Monsieur  knows,  of  course, 
that  Madame  la  Baronne  has  gone  out,  and 
will  not  return  until  lateT 

RATUONn  [tUHnu  down].  Very  well,  I 
shall  wait. 


ACT  IV 

TheictneitthaMme.  Suiammb  ft  prsMnJ. 
[Enter  a  Semant,  uAo  announcM:) 

Sbbvant.     Monsieur    le    Marquis    de 

Thonnerins.  [He  got*  out.] 

[Enter  the  Mabquis.) 

Mabquis.  How  do  you  do,  Baionesst 

BcsANNB.  To  what  do  1  owe  the  pleasure 
of  your  visit,  my  dear  Marquis? 

Mabqttib.  I  have  come  to  learn,  my  dear 
Suaanne,  if  my  solicitor  has  given  you 
what  he  was  to  give  you? 


Gopgic 


4^8 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Suzanne.  He  gave  me  everything, 
thank  you. 

Mabqdis.  And  then  I  wanted  to  find 
out  how  you  were  getting  on? 

SuEANNE.  Very  well. 

Marquib.  And  your  marriage? 

SOZANNE.    My  marriage? 

Mabquib.  Yea;  is  it  going  to  take  place? 

SuEANNS.  That's  BO  —  I  haven't  seen 
you  for  a  long  time.  Have  n't  you  heard? 

Marqdis.  I  have  heard  nothing. 

Suzanne  [with  a  sigh].  You  are  right, 
Monsieur  le  Marquis,  I  was  too  ambitious: 
some  thinga  are  impossible. 

Marqdis.  You  Hdmit  it? 

Suzanne,  I  must. 

MABaiJie.  Tell  me  about  it. 

SczANNE.  Some  one  told! 

Marquib.  Who? 

Sdzannb.  Some  one  in  whom  I  had  too 
great  confidence:  Monsieur  de  Jalin. 

MAHQUia.  And  did  he  tell  Monsieur  de 
Nanjac  — ? 

SuzANNa.  You  know  his  name? 

MAiuinis.  Yea.  And  what  did  Monsieur 
de  Nanjac  do  ? 

Suzanne.  He  believed  Monsieur  deJalln; 
then,  because  he  loved  me,  be  believed  me. 

Marquis.  And  now? 

SUEANNE.  Now  he  still  loves  me  —  only 
jealously,  and  without  confidence  in  me. 
There's  no  end  of  questions,  suspidons, 
spying;  and  I  declare  I  have  n't  the 
strength  to  endure  such  a  life.  And  it  used 
to  be  my  ambition!  To  be  incessantly 
trembling  for  fear  the  past  should  tumble 
down  on  our  beads,  start  each  morning  of 
my  life  with  some  new  lie  which  I  have  to 
confers  every  night,  and  at  the  same  time 
love  sincerely  and  loyally  —  I  tell  you  it's 
out  of  the  question.  I  have  already  used 
up  not  only  my  strength  in  the  struggle, 
but  my  love  as  well.  I  don't  love  Monsieur 
de  Nanjac  any  longer. 

Marquis.  Is  that  true? 

Suzanne.  You  are  the  only  person  to 
whom  I  never  lie. 

Mabquib.  You  don't  love  Monsieur  de 
Nanjac? 

Sdzanmb.  I  love  no  one. 

Marquib.  Tbsa  Hie  marruge  will  not 
take  place? 


Suzanne.  No;  I'm  going  to  remain  free. 
I  'm  going  t«  Italy;  th^  rarely  ask  whov  a 
woman  comes  from  tbere,  and  so  long  as 
she  has  money,  and  is  not  too  homely,  they 
believe  everything  she  says.  I  am  going 
to  buy  a  house  on  the  shores  of  Lake  Como ; 
I'll  powder  and  rouge  like  Madame  de 
Santis,  and  wander  about  the  lake  in  the 
light  of  the  stars,  write  poetry  A  la  Byron, 
pose  as  a  misunderstood  woman,  recuve 
and  protect  artiste,  and  some  day,  if  I  like, 
marry  a  ruined  Italian  prince  of  questian- 
able  title,  who  will  squander  my  fortune, 
keep  a  dancing-girl,  and  beat  me  be- 
sides. Don't  you  think  I'd  be  doing  what 
I  ought,  and  that  a  woman  like  me  has  n't 
anything  better  to  look  forward  to? 

Mabquib.  So  you're  going  away? 

Suzanne.  In  three  or  four  days. 

Mabquib.  Alone? 

Suzanne.  With  my  maid. 

MABauis.  Does  Monsieur  de  Nanjac 
know  you  are  going? 

Suzanne.  He  has  no  suspicion  of  it. 

Mabquis.  Are  you  not  going  to  let  him 
know  where  you  will  be? 

Suzanne.  If  1  wanted  to  continue  to  see 
him,  I  might  better  remain  in  Paris.  No; 
I  am  leaving  in  order  to  escape  from  ao 
unbearable  situation,  one  wluoh  cannot 
but  become  worse  as  time  goes  on. 

Marquis.  Well,  I  ooi^p^tulate  you. 
Your  common  sense  is  leading  you  to  do 
what  necessity  would  have  forced  on  your 
later. 

Suzanne  [dittraetedly].  How  is  that? 

Marquis.  Chance  is  a  very  clumsy 
bungler  in  what  does  not  ooncern  it.  Now, 
chance  had  it  that  Monsieur  de  Nanjac's 
sister  is  a  friend  of  my  own  sister.  Monsieur 
de  Nanjac  did  not  hide  hia  plana  from  his 
sister,  who  came  to  see  my  sister.  Iliat 
was  how  I  heard  the  name  which  I  had  no 
wish  to  learn  from  you.  But  that  is  not  all: 
Monsieur  de  Nanjac  himself  came  to  ask 
me  some  questions  about  you.  I  told  bint 
nothing,  because,  as  a  man  of  honor,  I 
preferrml  to  allow  you  to  extricate  yoursdf 
from  this  delicate  situation  with  all  tJie 
honors  of  war.  To-day  I  have  come  to 
tell  you  what  I  have  told  you  onoe  before: 
namely,  that  the  di^  I  aboiild  mert  (by 


THE  OUTER   EDGE  OF  SOCIETV 


489 


chance,  of  course)  the  maa  nhom  you  wiah 
to  marry,  I  should  tell  him  the  whole  truth. 
I  have  waited  a  little,  and  I  am  glad,  be- 
cause I  see  you  have  tiecided  not  to  marry 
now.  It's  all  for  the  beat,  if  you  mean 
what  you  say  — 

Stjzannb.  I  do.  To-morrow  Mousieur 
d«  Nanjac  will  be  freed  from  all  obligations, 
and  you  will  be  at  perfect  liberty,  if  you 
like,  to  give  him  to  Mademoiselle  de 
Tbotmerina  aa  a  husband. 

Mab(1uib.  My  daughter  has  nothing  to 
do  in  aU'this,  my  dear  Suzanne;  remember 
that.  Everythiikg  I  have  said  is  in  sober 
eameet. 

Suzanne.  Sober  earnest,  yes. 

Mabquib.  Be  happy;  that  is  my  last 
wish.  Good-bye,  Baroness,  and  remember! 

Suzanne.  I  sheJ)  never  forget. 

{The  MARgniB  goa  out  as  Valen- 
tine enter*.  They  bow  to  each 
other.] 

Valentine  [jnho  wtara  a  travding  dre»g, 
tookt  at  the  door  ihroagk  which  the  Mahqcis 
ha»gime\.  Was  that  Uie  Marquis  deThon- 

Sdzannb.  Yes. 

Valentine.  Ee'salwaysaUttlebruaque, 
is  n't  he? 

ScriANNE.  Where  are  you  going?  You're 
dressed  for  travelitig? 

Valentine.  I  'm  going  away. 

Sdssannh.  When7 

Valentine.  Id  an  hour. 

Stjzannb.  Where? 

Valentine.  To  London,  and  from  there 
to  Belgium,  and  then  Germany. 

SttzANNB.  With  — 7 

Valentine.  Yes,  some  one  ia  going  with 

80ZANNB.  But  your  law-suit? 

Valentine.  I  'm  not  going  to  sue.  I  ap- 
plied —  but  I  lost.  When  I  told  the  judge 
of  my  troubles  he  said:  "Believe  me,  ma- 
dame,  you  had  better  not  bother  your  hus- 
band. That's  the  best  thing  you  can  do." 
80,  I'm  going  away. 

Suzanne.  I  have  n't  seen  you  for  a  long 

Valentine.  Oh,  the  things  1  have  to 
buy  for  the  trip  I  It  seems  one  can't  get 
anything  in  England.  And  I  must  do  some- 


thing about  my  apartment  in  the  Rue  de  la 
Paix.  I  paid  a  year's  rent  to  the  landlord, 
who  let  me  go;  I  gave  an  indemnity  to  the 
upholsterer,  who  took  back  his  furniture, 
and  now  I'm  free  as  the  winds  of  heaven. 

Suzanne.  But  you  did  n't  find  time  to 
bring  me  the  answer  I  aaked  you  for. 

Valentine.  I've  written  it.  Didn't 
you  get  my  note? 

Suzanne,  Yes,  only  — 

Valentine,  1 'U  tell  you  the  whole  thing; 
it's  much  simpler. 

Suzanne.  Very  well. 

Valentine,  I  sent  Madame  de  Lornan 
an  anonymous  letter, 

Suzanne.  Good. 

Valentine.  I  was  careful  to  disguise 
my  hand-  I  fold  her  that  a  woman  who 
takes  the  greatest  interest  in  her  welfare, 
but  who  must  remain  unnamed,  insists 
upon  speaking  with  her.  I  gave  her  to 
understand  that  the  matter  concerned 
Monsieur  deJatin.  I  advised  her  to  be  very 
discreet,  and  suggested  that  we  meet:  the 
day  before  yesterday,  in  the  evening. 

Suzanne,  Did  she  come? 

Valentine.  Yes.  We  met  in  the  Tuii- 
eries;  it  was  dusk,  and  I  was  thickly  veiled. 
She  could  n't  possibly  have  seen  my  face, 
but  I  saw  hers:  she  is  beautiful, 

Suzanne,   What  did  you  say  to  her? 

Valentine.  Exactly  what  we  agreed  I 
should  say :  that  Olivier  wss  deceiving  her, 
that  be  was  in  love  with  Mademoiselle  de 
Sancenaui,  whom  he  wants  to  marry;  I 
told  her  how  foolish  it  was  of  him,  how 
tragic  it  would  be,  because  the  girl  is  not 
at  all  worthy  oT  him,  I  pretended  to  think 
that  Madame  de  Lornan  was  no  more  than  a 
friend  of  Olivier's,  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she 
U  only  a  friend,  but  she  loves  him  and  ia 
fearfully  jealous. 

Suzanne.  Did  you  mention  ine? 

Valgntine.  She  waa  the  first  to  speak 
of  you,  I  told  her  I  knew  you,  that  you 
knew  all  about  the  matter,  and  that  she  and 
you  together  might  prevent  the  marriage; 
it  would  be  rendering  a  service  to  Mon- 
sieur de  Jalin.  All  she  would  have  to  do 
would  be  to  see  you  and  come  to  an  under- 
standing. She  hesitated  for  a  long  time, 
and  made  me  promise  that  you  would  be 


490 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


alone  when  ahe  ULine.  I  promised  and,  u 
I  wrote  you,  ehe  will  be  here  at  two  o'clock. 
The  poor  woman  does  n't  know  whera  she 
is.  Who  would  ever  beUere  tliat  that  Man- 
flieur  de  Jalin  could  inspire  such,  passion? 
Have  jou  heard  from  himT 
SuzANNii.  Yes. 

Valzntink.  On  what  sort  (rf  terms  is  he 
with  Monsieur  de  Nanjsc? 
SuuMNS.  Bad;  but  Olivier  wrote  me — 
Valbktinx.  What  does  ho  say7 
Sdzannx.  That  he  lovea  me,  that  if  he 
wished  to  prevent  my  marriage,  it  was  for 
that  reason  — 
Vauuitinii.  That  may  be  true  — 
SuiANNE.    Who  knows?    Perhaps;  but 
the  chances  are  it  is  not,  because  he  asks 
me  to  call  on  him.   He  wants  to  explain 
something  which,  it  seems,  he  cannot  ex- 
plain here. 
Vaudntinb.  There  is  some  trick  in  this. 
Suzanne.  But  I  am  certain  that  he  and 
Monsieur  de  Nanjac  are  not  on  speaking 

Valkntinb.  If  Monsieur  de  Nanjac  could 
only  give  him  one  good  sword-thrust  and 
t«ach  him  not  to  meddle  in  what  does  n't 
concern  himt  I  can't  bear  this  Monsieur 
de  Jalin;  he's  the  one  who  set  Hippolyte 
against  me.  Now,  my  dear,  if  you  want  to 
play  him  a  turn,  go  ahead,  I'll  be  only  too 
^ad  to  help  you. 

SusANNS.  Never  worry,  I  shan't  fo^jet. 
What  is  the  use  of  offending,  so  long  as  the 
offensee  are  forgiven?  Among  other  things, 
Monsieur  de  Jalin  remarked  that  it  was 
wrong  to  introduce  a  respectable  woman 
into  our  society;  well,  to-day  he  will  be 
found  at  my  home  in  the  company  of 
Madame  de  Loman;  that  will  possibly 
force  him  to  modify  his  ideas  a  little. 

VAI.BNTINK.  Is  he  coming? 

SCIANKB.   Yes. 

Valxmtinii.  Hell  be  furious  —  What 
if  he  were  to  get  angry  with  youT 

SuKANNx.  The  ideal  The  first  angry 
word  would  mean  a  duel  with  Monsieur 
de  Nanjac,  and  he  doea  n't  want  that.  He 
will  learn  bis  lesson  and  hold  his  tongue 
henceforth. 

Valxntinx.  Is  n't  it  too  bad  I  hare  to 
go  away?    Well,  good-bye.    Write  dm  to 


London,  general  delivery,  care  of  Made- 
moiselle  Rose -~ that's  my  maid's  name. 
Until  I'm  quite  safe,  I  don't  want  my  hue- 
band  lo  know  where  I  am.  It's  funny  to 
see  me  leaving  Paris:  this  is  the  only  place 
where  one  can  enjoy  one's  self,  but  I  must 
go.  Good-bye. 

SuEANHE.  You'll  lei  me  hear  troax  you, 
won't  you? 

Valxntinx.  I  shan't  fail  to.  Good- 
bye. Remember,  in  MadonoiBdle  Boee's 

[Enitr  Rathond  Anmgh  ont  door,  at  Val- 
mrrnra  ditappean  Ihrmigh  anoOitr.] 

Suiannx.  Another  woman  I  shan't  re- 
oeive  after  I  marryl  [To RATUoNn.]  I've 
been  so  anxious  to  see  youl 

Ratuonh.  Everything  is  ready. 

SuzANNX.  The  contract? 

RATMONn.  We  shall  sign  it  to-morrow. 

SttiANKi.  And  we  leave — ? 

RAmoND.  Whenever  you  like. 

SuEANNX.  Will  you  always  love  me? 

RATUONn.  And  will  you,  SiuanneT 

SuzANNK.  Can  you  doubt  it  now?  Hav* 
n't  I  given  you  every  proof  I  was  able  toT 
Oh,  yes,  1  love  youl 

Rathond.  Tell  me,  have  you  sem  Mon- 
sieur de  Jalin  again? 

SniANNx.  No.  Why? 

Rathond.  Well,  I  saw  him  not  long 
ago,  coming  in  this  direction  with  bis  friend 
Monsieur  Richcmd. 

SczANKx.  Yee;  he  is  coming  here. 

Ratmond.  I  thought  jrou  were  n't  to 
see  him  any  more.  lasked  younotto;  yon 
promised  me. 

SuSANKB.  He  wrote  that  he  had  to 
speak  to  me,  and  I  am  going  to  receive  him 
as  if  nothing  had  happened.  I  shall  ev«n 
pretend  that  nothing  has  happened,  and  I 
advise  you  to  forget,  too. 

Ratmond.  Please  give  your  final  orden 
about  the  signing  of  the  eontract  to-mw- 
row.  I  want  our  marriage  officially  an- 
nounced to  oil  our  friends,  including  Mon- 
sieur de  Jalin,  whom  I  shcill  receive;  I  wirii 
to  be  the  first  person  he  sees  here.  I  want 
him  to  understand  how  he  is  to  behave  in 
your  home.  I  shall  be  with  you  shortly. 

Iff/ugoMOuLi 


THE  OUTER  EDGE  OF  SOCIETY 


491 


[Bnter  a  ServanL] 
^nvANT.  ■MonsieuT  OliTier  de  Jalin. 
Monsieur Hippolyte Riohond.  [Hegoetoul.] 
[Enter  Ouvieh  and  Hipfolttb.) 
Rathomd  {bouing  foiim^y].    MemieurBl 
OuvuR.  How  are  you,  Raymond? 
Ratkomd.  In  the  beet  of  health,  thank' 

OiiiviBB.  Is  the  Baroness  in? 

Ratuond,  She  asked  me  to  beg  you  to 
wait  (or-her;  she  will  be  here  in  a  few  mo- 
ments. Messieurs  — 

[He  bowi  and  goee  out.] 

Ournot.  What  a  facet 

HiPPOLTTi.  You  might  hare  expected 
it  when  you  decided  to  come  here.  Why 
did  you  comeT  You  were  clear  of  all  thu 
intriguing;  why  return  to  it?  You  have 
dine  your  du^.  MonsiBur  de  Nanjac  is 
determined  to  marry  the  woman;  if  he  in- 
sists  on  seeii^  no  obstacle,  like  Guiman, 
leave  faim  alone.  After  till,  it  doee  n't  con- 
oemyou. 

OuTUR.  You  are  perfectly  right,  and, 
aa  a  matter  of  fact,  I  did  make  up  my  mind 
to  have  notiiing  further  to  do  with  it  all, 
in  spite  of  the  fact  that  I  believe  there  are 
certain  people  who  are  well  worth  saving 
from  themselves;  but  women  are  extrem- 
ists, and  Susanne  has  just  dealt  me  a  blow 
and  provoked  me  to  continue.  It's  not  my 
fault. 

BiPPOLTTV.  You  have  been  waiting  only 
for  a  pretext  to  return  to  her. 

OuTiKB.  Possibly;  but  that  is  only  an- 
other reason  why  you  ought  not  to  fumisb 
me  with  this  pretext. 

HiFPOLTTB.  Tell  me  what  she  did. 

OuTniB.  Your  wife  wrote  an  anony- 
mous letter  to  Madame  de  I>oman. 

HiTPOLTTH.  My  wife? 

OuTiEE.  Yea;  the  handwriting  was  dis- 
guised, but  1  recognised  it.  The  letter 
asked  Madame  de  Loman  for  a  meeting; 
her  liouaekeeper  showed  it  to  me  (she 
knows  the  interest  I  have  in  her  mistress, 
though  Charlotte  atill  refueee  to  receive 
me).  I  know  Susanne  is  at  the  bottom  of 
this,  but  I  warn  her  te  take  caret  If  what 
I  bdiev*  is  true,  if  she  makes  the  ali^^test 


move  against  Madame  de  Loman,  I  don't 
know  just  how  1  shall  go  about  it,  but  I 
declare  I  will  so  ruin  her  prospecte  of  mar- 
riage that  I  'm  hanged  if  she  even  finds  the 
tiniest  fragment  I 

HrppoLYTK.  What  if  I  tried  te  atop  her? 
So  long  as  she  confined  herself  to  wronging 
me,  it  woe  n't  so  bad,  but  tJie  moment  she 
touchee  others  ^ 

OuvixB.  I'll  attend  to  it  mys^.  The 
moment  I  heard  of  these  new  goings-on,  I 
wrote  Suzanne  asking  her  to  come  to  see 
me,  but  she  took  good  care  not  to  accept. 
I  repUed  that  she  would  see  me  if  I 
called  on  her  to-day.  Just  allow  me  to 
\  where  I  want,  and  don't 
malK  any  noise;  in  an  hour,  the  fish  will 
bite. 

[Enter  the  VieconNrBsa,  Bery  offitaled.] 

VisconNTBSS.  Where  is  the  Baroness? 

Ouvixa  Wliat  is  the  trouble,  my  dear 
Viscountess?  You  come  in  like  a  tempest? 

YiscouHTsae.  I'm  perfectly  furious t 

OuvmB.  I'mnot  at  all  sorry  to  see  you 
that  way.  It  chai^;ee  one. 

ViBcouMTiiBB.  I  am  in  no  mood  for  jok- 
ing. 

OuviBB,  Then  let  me  answer  yoiv 
question:  the  Baroness  is  with  Monsieur 
de  Nanjac;  we  are  now  waiting  for  her. 

ViscoiTNTESs  [lakinii  OLiviEa  U>  one  side, 
ae  the  saye  to  Hippoltte].  Pardon  me, 
monsieur.  \To  OuviXR.j  Do  you  know 
irtiat  Maroelle  has  done? 

OuvmB.  She  told  Monsieur  de  Nanjar 
to  his  face  that  she  would  n't  marry  him. 

ViaconnTESB.  Yes. 

OuvDut.  Because  she  doee  not  love  him. 

ViscoTTNTESs.  A  fine  reasoni  But  that 
is  n't  all:  when  I  went  to  Marcelle's  room 
this  morning,  she  was  n't  there. 

OUTIEB.  She  must  have  left  a  letter? 

ViBCOCNTEBs.  Yes;  she  said  she  had 
found  a  means  of  not  being  a  burden  to 
me  any  more,  that  I  diould  fear  nothing, 
and  that  I  should  never  have  reason  to  be 
ashamed  of  her. 

Olivibb.  And  added  that  she  was  going 
back  to  the  sohool  where  she  was  educated, 


eh? 
ViBCOtnmBs.  Have  yon  st 


oher? 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


OUTIBB.  Not  long  ago. 
V18COCNTBS8.  Where? 
Olivier.  At  her  achool. 
TiscouNTBaa.  How  did  th&t  happen? 
Olivisb.  She  wrote. 

VieCOITNTESS.    To  you? 

OuviBa.  To  me. 

ViBCOxnmes.  Why? 

Oliviiiil  I  advised  her  to  do  u  she 
did. 

ViBGOTJNTBBB.  What  businesB  is  it  of 
yours? 

Olitibb.  It  it  my  busineas. 

ViecouvTEBB.  It  waa  you,  too,  doubt- 
le«,  who  advised  her  to  leave  Faria? 

Oltvibr.  Yes;  she  is  going  to-morrow. 
The  head  of  the  achoot  has  found  her  a 
position. 

ViBoonNTBBB.  A  poBition? 

OuTiEB.  With  an  excellent  family  at 
Beean^n.  Mademoiselle  de  Sancenaux 
will  give  lessons  in  English  and  music  to  a 
little  girl.  She  will  receive  eight  bundled 
francs  a  year,  with  board  and  lodging.  It 
will  hardly  be  amusing,  but  she  conuders 
it  more  honorable  than  to  stay  in  Paris, 
fail  to  get  married,  play  cards,  and  com- 
promise herself.  And  I  agree  with  her. 

Viscountess.  Well,  you  have  done  a 
splendid  thing!  Do  you  know  what  I  ajn 
going  to  do?  Write  and  tell  ber  at  least  to 
change  her  name.  To  think  of  having  a 
Sancenaux,  my  own  brother's  daughter, 
compromise  her  family  Uke  tbati  A  San- 
cenaux  teaching!  Why  not  make  her  a 
chambermaid? 

OuviXK.  Is  that  what  you  call  compro- 
mising ber  family?  My  dear  Viscountees, 
the  person  who  sold  you  your  logic,  cheated 
you  shamelssBlyl  It  must  have  been 
Monsieur  de  Latour. 

ViacocNTBes.  What  hope  has  she  of 
marriage,  aft«r  a  sc&ndal  like  that? 

OuvTER.  She  will  doubtless  marry 
sooner  than  if  she  stayed  with  you. 

ViBcotJNT'nss.  She's  not  taking  the  right 

Olivibr.  .  All  roads  lead  to  Rome,  and 
the  longest  b  more  frequently  the  surest. 

ViacouNTBBs.  We'll  see.  I've  done  all 
I  could  for  her.  She  is  only  my  niece,  after 
bU. 


[Enter  SoEAinra.] 

Sttunnb.  How  are  you,  Visoountesa? 

ViscouitTEes.  How  are  you,  dear? 

SCEANNIi.   What's  the  matter? 

Viscountess.  I'll  t«U  you  later.  I've 
returned  what  you  were  good  enough  to. 
lend  me. 

Suiunni.  There 's  no  huny. 

ViBCOCNTEsa.  Oh,  thank  you,  but  I 
have  fallen  heir  to  a  little  money. 

Suzanne  [to  Hippoltte).  Very  good  of 
you,  monsieur,  to  pay  me  this  little  visit 
with  Monsieur  de  Jalin. 

HippoiiTTB.  I  hesitated  for  fear  of  being 
indiscreet,  but  Olivier  — 

SuiANNB.  The  friends  of  Monsieur  de 
Jalin  are  my  friends. 

Hippoltte,  Thank  you,  madame. 

SniANNE  [to  OuvacB].  So  you  are  here? 

Olivier.   Yes,  1  am.   You  wrote  me  to 

Suzanne.  Id  order  to  find  out  what  you 
had  to  say  to  me. 

OuvtEB.   I  wrot«  you  that. 

SuEANNE.  Do  you  love  me? 

Oltvibb.  I  love  you. 

Suzanne.  So  that  was  why  you  wanted 
me  to  come  to  you?  Hm  1  Yes,  ia  order  that 
Monsieur  de  Nanjac  might  know,  ajid  see 
me  go  into  your  homel  Really,  you're 
waging  a  child's  war,  using  wooden  can- 
nons and  bullets  made  of  bread-crumbs. 
Do  you  intend  to  disarm  me? 

Olivibr.  Don't  you  believe  me? 

SOEANNi:.   Not 

Olivier.  Very  well.  Qood-bye. 

SUEANNE.  Don't  go;  I  want  to  sbo^  you 
something. 

Olivier.  What? 

SuzANNB.  Ican'ttellyou;it'sanirpriBe. 
|£>uring  this  eoravrmtioR,  Rat- 
uoND  luu  entered  and  begun 
epeaking  with  the  Vieemtniett 
and  Hippoltte.  He  eaye  (timid 
U,  the  former:] 

Hatuond.  My  dear  ViscounteM,  yoa 
surely  know  Madame  de  Loman,  do  you 
not? 

ViscouNTEaa.  I  used  to,  but  we  have 
since  drifted  apart. 

SuEANHB.  ^teisBaidtobeveryvittaous. 


.CtOo^^Ic 


THE  OUTER  EDGE  OF  SOCIETY 


493 


Vibcoi;mtiibb.  That's  true. 

SuKANNB.  Bhe  is  most  particular  ai  to 
what  homee  she  viaite, 

ViBOOUNTBBS,  She  Beefl  very  few  people. 

SuEAMNS.  She  is  coming  here.  Ill  in- 
troduce her  to  joa,  my  dear  Monsieur  de 
Nonjac;  you'll  see,  she's  most  charming. 

OuvmR.  If  she  corneal 

BiT£AiiNB.  That's  so;  you  know  Ma- 
dame de  Loroan  very  wdl,  don't  you,  dear 
Monsieur  de  Jalin?  ^ 

OLirniR.  lliat  is  why  I  am  willing  to 
wager  that  she  it  not  coming,  or  at  least, 
if  she  does,  that  she  will  not  eater  the 
house. 

SoEAMNK.  How  much  will  you  wager? 

OumR.  Whatever  you  like,  whatever 
a  respectable  woman  can  wager:  a  box  of 
candy  or  a  bouquet. 

SuEunn.  I  accept  [seeing  a  Servant 
titter],  and  I  think  I  am  going  to  win  imme- 
diately. [To  Ute  Servant.]  What  is  it7 

Sbbvant.  a  lady  who  would  like  to 
speak  with  Madame  la  Baronne. 

Suzanne.  Her  name? 

Sebvant.  Bhe  would  not  tell  me. 

SiTZAMND.  Tell  the  lady  that  I  do  not 
receive  people  who  refuse  to  give  their 
names.  [The  Servant  goes  »u/.] 

OuviCB  [aeide  lo  Ratuond].  Raymond, 
for  the  sake  of  our  former  friendship,  pre- 
vent Madame  de  Loman'e  entering  this 

Ratwond.   Why? 

OumiR.  Because  her  coming  here  may 
have  dire  results. 

Ratwond.  For  whom? 

OumB.  For  several  people. 

Rathond.  I  have  no  ri^ts  in  the  home 
of  Madame  d'Ange. 

Olivikb.  Very  well. 

Servant  [opening  itie  door].  Madame  de 
Loman  asks  whether  Madame  la  Baronne 
wiU  receive  her? 

Sdcannk.  Ask  her  to  come  in. 

OuTiiiB.   Poor  woman! 

[He  haelena  out.] 

HiFPOLTTi.  Ood  grant  that  you  never 
regret  what  you  are  doing,  madamet 

Susannb.  I  have  never  regretted  any- 
thing 1  ever  did.  [To  Ratuons,  who  is 
ofout  lo  leave.]    Dm't  got    Monsieur  de 


Jalin  is  going  to  offer  his  arm  to  Madame 
de  Loman.  He  has  lost  his  wager,  and  he 
is  doing  the  beat  thing  he  can  do. 

[Rathond  ifOM  Unoard  the  door. 
The   moment   he   gets   there,   it 
opens,  and  Olivisb  appears.] 
Ratiiond.      Where    have    you    been, 
monsieur? 

Oliviiiii.  I  have  just  told  Madame  de 
Lornan  that  I  object  to  her  coming  in 

Ratuonu,   By  what  right? 

OuviBR.  By  the  right  of  an  honest  man 
who  wisbee  to  prevent  an  honest  woman's 
losing  her  good  name. 

SuxANNB.  Especially  when  that  honest 
woman  is  the  mistress  of  that  honest  man. 

OuviER.  You  lie,  madamel 

RATMONn.  Monsieur,  you  are  insulting 
a  woman. 

OuviBR.  During  the  past  week,  mon- 
sieur, you  have  been  trying  to  pick  a  quar- 
rel with  me,  but  allow  me  to  tdl  you,  I  did 
not  come  here  to  give  jrou  an  opportunity 
to  do  so.  You  believe  that  a  sword-thrust 
can  extricate  you  from  the  situation  you 
are  now  in;  very  well,  I  am  at  your  service. 

Ratuond.  In  an  hour's  time,  monsieur, 
my  seconds  will  pay  you  a  call. 

OuviER.   I  shall  await  them. 

RATMONn.  They  have  only  the  condi- 
tions to  fix;  the  cause  should  remain  un- 
known. [The  men  prepare  to  go.] 

BuzANKB.  Raymond  1 

Ratmond.  Wait  for  roe,  Buaanne;  I 
shall  return  at  once.  [He  goe*  out.] 

OuviBR.  Come,  Hippolyte. 

[They  bow,  and  go  out,  opposite.] 

ViscouMTBBB.  My  dear,  a  provocation 
to  a  duel  in  your  home,  between  two  men 
who  were  such  good  friends  a  few  days  agol 
How  could  it  happen? 

StrzANNB.   I  know  nothing  about  it. 

ViscouNTBBS.  But  you  surely  won't 
idlowit? 

8uiA?iNii.  Oh,  no;  I've  done  more  diffi- 
cult things  than  that. 

ViscouNTEBB.  Can't  I  help  you? 

Sdzannb.   No,  thank  you. 

ViBcoiTNTBsa.  Then  I'll  go;  you  have 
none  too  much  time.  Keep  me  posted  on 
developments. 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


SuzANNS.  I  shan't  ful.  Come  back  later 
in  Um  day,  or  else  I'll  drop  in  to  aee  yon. 

ViBCOUNTxas.  I'll  see  you  soon  again. 
[A*  ift«  goet.]  What  doea  it  all  mean? 

[She  leaoes.] 

SuSANNii.  Really,  Olivier  is  braver  than 
I  had  thought  him.  He's  a  splendid,  up- 
right man.  Olivier  ia  not  in  love  with 
tbtX  Madame  de  Loman — but  what  if  he 
were? 

[EnUr  a  SenmU.] 

8XBV4NT.  A  letter  for  Madame  la 
Baronne. 

[He  ginta  h«r  tht  UUer  and  goe»  out.] 

Sdunhb.  Very  well.  That  will  do.  [She 
opera  the  leiier.]  From  the  MarquisF  [Read- 
ing:] "  You  have  deceived  me:  you  have 
seen  MonaieuT  de  Nanjac  again,  and  you 
inaiat  on  marrying,  in  spite  of  the  fact  Uiat 
I  forbade  your  so  doing.  I  give  yon  one 
hour  in  which  to  break  it  off.  If  by  the  end 
of  that  time  you  have  not  found  the  meana, 
I  shall  tell  everythii^  to  Monsieur  de  Nao- 
jac."  — Oh,  this  past  of  mine,  that  keeps 
crumbling  before  me,  fragment  by  frag- 
ment! Shall  I  never  be  able  to  bury  it? 
Confeaa  everything?  No;  I  am  going  to 
fi^t  it  out  to  the  bitter  end.  [She  ringM.] 
I  must  gam  time,  that's  the  principal 
thing.  [She  iorilea  a  note,  and  gieet  U  to 
SopHiK,  who  enters.]  Take  this  letter  to 
.  Monsieur  da  Thonnerins,  and  deliver  it  to 
him  yourself.  —  Close  tUs  door. 

[Sophie  goe»  to  the  door,  and  ai  the 
ia  about  to  dote  it,  anrwninCM.] 

S6FHIB.  Madame,  Monsieur  de  Nanjao. 

SnZANNS  [closing  her  writing-'portfMo, 
ae»heiayainalovdvoiceU>&ova.rti\.  Very 
wdl.  Never  mind,  Sophie,  you  may  do 
that  errand  later.  (Sophik  got*  out  at 
Ratuohd  Miters.  —  To  Ratvond.)  Well, 
dear? 

Ratuoms.  I  have  just  been  to  see  two 
officers,  old  comradee  of  mine,  and  asked 
tiiem  to  act  as  seconds  for  me.  They  were 
not  in,  but  I  left  word  for  them. 

SusANNB.  Raymond,  this  duel  cannot 
take  place. 

Ratuond.  You  must  be  mad,  Su- 
sanne.  I  may  allow  compromises  between 
Monsieur  de  lAtour  and  MiHisieur  de  Mau- 


croix,  but  not  for  roy  own  duds.  Monsirar 
de  Jaiin  is  right:  I  hate  him. 

SrzAMNX.  Give  me  up,  Raymond:  1 
have  done  you  nothiog  but  harm  so  far, 

Ratuond.  I  have  sworn  that  you  aie 
to  be  my  wife,  and  you  wiU  bel  Now,  I 
may  be  killed:  in  a  duel  one  man  is  as  good 
as  another,  and  Monsieur  de  Jalin  is  no 
coward;  he  will  do  his  best  to  defend  him- 
self. I  do  not  want  to  dia  without  having 
kept  my  pr^pise. 

{He  Mts  by  the  ttMe  and  starU  to 
open  the  urritxTig-portfolio.] 

BciANNB  [with  an  iruobmlari/  start]. 
What  are  you  going  to  do7 

Ratuoms.  Ask  my  solicitor  to  come  here. 
Please  have  this  letter  taken  to  him. 

SCEANNB.  Never  mind. 

Rathond.  What's  the  matter?  Didn't 
weagree  —  ? 

Suzanne.  Yes,  but  you  have  plenty  of 

Ratuond.  Not  at  all;  I  have  very  little. 

Suzanne.  I  'U  give  you  pens  and  paper. 

RAruoim.  Qeie  is  everything  I  need. 

Suzanne.  No. 

Ratmond.  You're  mistaken  —  why, 
you  were  writing  here  when  I  came  in, 

Sheanve.  Raymond,  I  ask  you  not  to 
open  that. 

Ratuond.  I  shan't,  then,  if  you  have 
been  writing  things  I  have  no  businen 
seeing. 

Suzanne.  Do  you  suspect  something 
else? 

Ratuond.  No,  dearSuianne,  no:if  you 
have  any  seoreta,  I  shall  reapect  thetn. 

Suzanne.  Then  open  it  utd  read. 

Ratuond.  Will  you  allow  me? 

Suzanne.  Yes.  [Ratuond  i»  oh  the 
jXMTit  of  opening  the  portfolio,  vhen  the  tlopt 
him.]   So  you  defy  me? 

Ratuond.  I?  You  should  not  accuse  me 
of  that!  This  is  not  defiance,  but  merely 
curiosity.  You  have  given  me  permission, 
and  I  am  going  to  look. 

Suzanne.  Do  you  promise  not  to  make 
fun  of  me? 

Ratuond.   I  promise. 

Suzanne.    If  you  only  knew  what  it 'a 

Ratuond.  We  shall  wwd  ne. 


.CtOoqIc 


THE  OUTER  EDGE  OF  SOCIETY 


495 


SuzAmni.  You  will  know  so  much  more 
when  you  see  the  ligt  of  thinga  I  havo  oi- 
dered  for  our  trip  — 

lUiHOin).  What  have  you  ordered? 

Sozunn.  Drraees,  sUrts,  silk  gowns 
with  figured  oorsagea,  and  —  How  inter- 
Mtiog  those  detiuLi  must  be  to  a  maul 

Ratuohd.  Is  that  th«  whole  secret? 

SuuHNB.  Yea. 

Ratuond.  So  you  were  writing  to  your 
dresamaker? 

SnzAinni.  Yea. 

Ratmond.  While  I  was  seeing  the  seo- 
oods  for  my  duel,  you  were  ordering  dresses. 
RaaUy,  Sua&nne,  do  you  think  I  am  a  fool? 

Sheahmb.  Raymond  I 

Ratuond.  I  want  to  know  whom  you 
were  writing  to! 

Bdeamkb.  Oh  ho,  well,  I  won't  tell  youl 
[She  opent  the  writiTtf-portfalw  and 
laitt  ml  a  Uiter.] 

Ratuokd.  Take  caret 

9uiANm.  Threats!  And  by  what  ri^t? 
Thank  God,  I  am  not  your  wife  yet.  I  am 
here  in  my  own  home,  free,  mistress  o(  my 
own  actions,  as  I  leave  you  free  to  do  as  you 
like.  Do  I  ask  you  questions?  Do  I  search 
through  your  private  papers? 

Rathons  [eeiting  Iter  writt].  Let  me  see 
Aat  letter! 

BoEAimx.  You  shall  not  see  it,  I  tell 
you!  I  bare  never  given  in  to  violence.  I 
have  told  you  the  truth ;  you  may  now  t>e- 
lieve  and  suspect  whatever  you  like. 

Rathond.  I  believe  that  you  are  deceiv- 
ing me. 

SuEANMs.  Very  well! 

RamOND  [menaem^t/]-  Suaanne  — ! 

Snumni.  That  will  do,  monsieur!  I 
release  you  of  all  your  obligations,  and  I 
take  back  my  promise.  You  and  I  are  now 
nothing  to  each  other. 

Rathond.  You  have  once  before  made 
use  of  that  trick,  madame,  but  t.hia  time 
I  shall  stay  here. 

Suaunm.  What  sort  of  man  are  you? 

Rathond.  A  man  who  asked  nothing  of 
you  in  exchange  for  an  honorable  name, 
except  one  moment's  sincerity;  a  man  who 
haa  sworn  that  you  had  nothing  with  which 
t«  reproach  yourself;  a  waa  who  to-morrow 
ia  going  to  fight  a  dual  with  a  man  of  honor 


who  had  cast  a  slur  on  your  good  name;  a 
man  who,  for  the  past  two  weeks,  has  had 
to  deal  with  lies  &nd  deceptions,  with  no 
other  help  than  loyalty,  frankness,  and 
confidence;  a  man  who  is  determined  to 
know  the  whole  truth  at  any  cost.  If  that 
letter  doee  not  contain  all  of  it,  I  imagine 
from  your  excitement  that  it  contains  a 
part.  I  must  see  that  letter;  give  it  to  me 
or  I  will  Uke  iti 

Soeanms  ^rumpling  tiie  Utter  in  her 
hand  and  trying  to  tew  it].  You  are  not 
going  to  have  it. 

Rathond  [thaking  her  by  Ihe  arm].  The 
letterl 

SuEANNX.  You  dare  use  violence  with  a 
woman! 

Rathond  {geUins  mart  and  more  txeited]. 
That  letter! 

SnzANNx.  I  don't  love  youl  I  never 
loved  youl  I  did  deceive  you.  Now,  go! 

RATHOtn>.  That  letterl  [Hetriettoforee 
open  her  hand.] 

SnzANNB.  Raymond,  I'll  tell  you  every- 
thing—  you're  hurting  me  —  I'm  not  to 
blame.  Please,  for  God's  sake!  [He 
tTialchet  the  letter  from  her.]  Oh,  you  —  I 
[She  fails  exhatuted  into  a  chair.]  All  ri^t 
—  read  it  —  I  'IJ  have  my  revenge,  I  swearl 

Rathond  [reading,  at  his  voice  quit/era 
vrilh  emotion].  "I  beg  you,  don't  ruin  me. 
1  must  see  you;  I  shall  explain  evwything 
t4>  you,  I  will  do  as  yon  say.  It  is  not  my 
fai^t  if  Monsieur  de  Nanjac  loves  me:  I 
love  him,  that  is  my  excuse.  I  depend  on 
you.  Please  be  generous  and  forgive  me. 
If  he  knew  the  truth,  I  should  die  of  shame. 
I  promise  you  I  shaU  never  marry  him,  but 
you  must  never  let  him  know.  Wait  till  I 
am  tree,  I  — "  And  I  still  doubted!  [Be 
hidet  hia  faee  in  hie  handt.]  What  did  I 
ever  do  to  you,  Suianne?  Why  did  you 
deceive  me?  Here  is  your  letter.  Good- 
bye. [He  lUtrte  la  go  tnit,  but  falls  into  a 
chair  and  Imrat*  out  eryirig.] 

SczANNK  [eeeing  that  he  ie  overeome,  aayi, 
Umidly].    Raymond? 

Rathokd.  You  have  made  a  man  cry 
who  has  not  cried  since  his  mother's  death. 
I  thank  you  —  it  haa  done  me  good, 

SmANNii  [ao/tlv  and  reproaei^uUy].  You 
hurt  my  arms  and  hands  cruelly,  Raymond. 


496 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Raymond.  I  am  aorry;  forgive  me;  it 
was  cowardly.  But  I  did  so  love  youl 

BnZANNll  \goirm  toward  him}.  I  loved 
you,  too. 

Ratuomd.  If  you  bad  loved  me,  you 
would  not  have  lied  to  me. 

Suzanne  [bKU  nearer  to  Aim].  There  is 
not  a  woman  who  would  have  confeeeed 
what  you  asked  me  to  confess.  I  loved  you; 
I  respected  you;  I  wanted  to  be  loved  and 
TMpeeted  in  turn.  Let  me  t«ll  you  about 
my  life.  There  is  one  thing  I  should  keep 
from  you,  but  only  one.  Ah,  if  you  only 
knew:  I  am  not  BO  much  to  blame  as  I  may 
seem  to  be;  I  had  no  oae  to  advise  or  help 
me.  I  ought  to  have  told  you  everything; 
you  are  generous,  and  you  would  have  for- 
given me.  Now,  you  can't  believe  me  any 
longer.  But,  if  I  am  not  pure  enough  to 
become  the  wife  of  a  man  like  you,  I  love 
you  enough  to  deserve  your  love  in  return. 
There  is  nothing  now  to  force  me  to  tell 
you.  [She  fallt  to  her  knee*  a>id  lakes 
Ratuond's  lutnd.\  Raymond,  believe  in 
me:   I  love  youl 

Raymond.  To  whom  were  you  Koiug  to 
send  that  letter? 

Suzanne.  You  would  want  to  challenge 
him  if  you  knew  his  name. 

Raymond.  I  shan't  say  a  word  about  it 
to  him,  but  tell  me  his  namel 

SoaANNii.  That  man  has  no  rights  over 
me;  you  see,  I  wrote  that  I  loved  you. 

Raymond.  Then  why  does  he  forbid  you 
to  become  my  wife? 

Suzanne,  I  wilt  tell  you  all,  if  you  prom- 
ise to  be  calm. 

Raimono  [rimnfl].    Good-bye. 

Suzanne  [refointn^  Aimj.  I'll  tell  you 
everything. 

Raymond.  W^f 

SuzANNS.  I  wae  going  to  send  that  letter 
to  — 

Raymond.  To  Olivier? 

SuzANNB  \JorceftiUy].  No,  I  swear  that! 
But  promise  me  you  won't  challenge  him. 

Raymond.  I  promise. 

SuzANMB.  To  the  Marquis  de  Thonne- 
rins.  (Raymond  makes  a  gettvre  afstirpriee 
and  anger.\  Raymond,  put  yourself  in  the 
place  of  a  woman  who  has  been  cast  oS  by 
every  one,  who  had  at  last  found  an  un- 


hoped-for though  secret  protector.  I  owe 
everything  to  the  MarquisI  If  you  only 
realized  —  I  never  had  any  family  I 

Raymond.  Then  your  marriage  —  T 

Suzanne.  A  liel 

Raymond.  But  the  documents  you 
showed  me? 

SuEAMNE.  Belonged  to  a  young  woman 
who  died  abroad  —  she  had  no  friends  oi 
relatives. 

Raymond.  But  your  fortune? 

Suzanne.  Comee  from  Monsieur  de 
Thonnerins. 

Raymond.  And  you  were  prepared  to 
exdiange  that  shame  for  my  confidenoe 
and  love?  Instead  of  confessing  every- 
thing to  me,  frankly,  nobly,  you  were  about 
to  bring  me  a  stolen  name  and  a  fortune  - 
acquired  at  the  price  of  your  honor!  Yon 
did  not  see  that,  after  I  had  became  your 
husband,  had  I  found  out  about  this  m- 
famous  bargain,  the  only  thing  I  could  do 
would  have  been  to  loU  you,  and  then 
myself.  You  not  only  did  not  love  me, 
Suianne,  but  you  did  not  respect  me. 

Suzanne.  I  am  the  lowest  of  creatures, 
I  know;  I  don't  deserve  your  love,  not  even 
that  you  should  remember  me.  Leave  me, 
Raymond,  and  forget  me. 

Raymond.  This  is  not  all,  doubtless? 
Please  continue;  what  else  have  you  to 
confess? 

Suzanne.   Nothing. 

Raymond,  What  about  Olivier?  Nei- 
ther misery  nor  lonelinMS  could  have  led 
you  to  go  to  him.  If  tbat  man  wae  evw 
jnjuT  lover,  it  means  that  you  have  loved 
him,  and  that  love  is  what  I  can  never  for- 

Suianne.  Olivier  has  never  been  any- 
thing to  me.  He  told  you  that  himself,  and 
you  know  it  very  well, 

Raymond.  Will  you  swear  to  that? 

SuBANNB  [calmly].  1  awear. 

Raymond.  Do  you  love  me? 

SuzANMB.  Do  you  think  I  would  have 
confessed  unless  I  did? 

Raymond,  Well,  Suzanne,  I  ask  for  only 
one  proof  of  that  love. 

SUZANNS.  What? 

Raymond.  Return  to  Monsieur  de 
Thonnerins  everytiung  you  have  from  him 


THE  OUTER  EDGE  OF  SOCIETY 


49? 


SuzANKE  \ri7iffing].  At  oncel  [She  laket 
some  papers  from  a  dratoer,  wraps  Ihem  up 
and  tealt  than.  To  the  Servant,  who  enters.] 
Take  these  papers  at  once  to  Monsieur  de 


Sbkvant.  MonBieur  le  Marquis  de 
Thounerins  is  just  this  moment  coming  up 
the  stairs. 

SiraANMB.  He  ifl  —  ! 

Rathond  [to  the  Servant].  Ask  Monsieur 
le  Marquis  to  wait!  [The  SemarU  goes  <mt. — 
To  Sttzanmb.}  Give  me  thoan  papers;  I 
Bhali  give  them  to  him  myself. 

Sdzahnb.  You  frighten  rael 

Ratmond.  Don't  be  afraid.  Tbereisstill 
time,  3ucanne.  Choose !  Keep  these  pa- 
pers; I  shall  go  away,  for  always;  or,  if 
you  decide  to  make  thaee  promises  again, 
and  in  case  I  sin  not  killed  to-morrow,  I 
shall  hold  you  to  account  only  from  this 
moment  on.  We  may  then  go  away  to- 

SuzAKNB,  I  have  told  you  the  truth. 

Ratmond.  Oh,  Suzanne,  I  had  no  idea 
myself  how  much  I  loved  youl 

[He  goes  out.] 

3uzANNB.  I  am  staking  my  whole  life, 
past  and  future!  Olivier  ia  the  only  one 
now  who  can  ruin  or  save  mel  K  he  loves 
me  aa  he  says  he  does  —  it  would  be 
strange.  [She  pule  <m  her  doak  and  hat.] 
We  shall  seet  [She  goes  out.] 


[The  scene  is  the  same  as  in  the  First  Act. 
At  the  curtain  rises,  Gltviek  is  ivrUing.  A 
moment  later,  enter  Hippolitb.I 

HiPPOLTTB  [touching  OuviGR  on  the 
shoiJder].  It's  I. 

OhtviFiRiae  he  seah  the  letter].  Well? 

HiPPObTTE.    Well,  I  have  done  ."ery- 

OuviER.  Have  you  seen  Madame  de 
Livnan? 

HtPPOLYTB.  Yes,  but  through  the  agency 
of  her  housekeeper,  because  her  husband 
has  returned.  That  is  why  Madame  de 
lioman  wrote  you  asking  for  news.  She 
can't  leave  her  house  now.  I  told  her  that 
the  duel  was  not  going  to  take  place. 


Oi-msfi.  And  that  in  no  event  would 
her  name  be  mentioned?  Undoubtedly, 
she  cares  more  about  that  than  about  any- 
thing else? 

HiPPOLTTE.  She  cares  something  about 
it,  but  she  is  most  anxious  that  nothing 
should  happen  to  you.  You  wanted  to  save 
her,  and  you  succeeded;  you  ought  to  be 
the  last  one  to  blame  her  for  refusing  to 
compromise  herself  even  for  your  -sake. 
She  rec«ived  a  good  lesson,  and  she  will 
profit  by  it.  I  reasaured  her.  It  was  not 
very  difficult,  because  I*  felt  very  sure  my- 
seU. 

OiJviEiL  How  do  you  mean? 

HiPPOLTTB.  The  duel  will  not  take 
plac«,  I  tell  you. 

Olivier.  Why? 

HiFPOLYTB.  Because  I  have  seen  the 
Marquis;  there  is  something  new. 

Olivier.  There  can't  be  anything  new 
which  nan  prevent  us.  Monsieur  de  Nan- 
jac  and  I,  from  fighting  this  duel:  we  have 
gone  too  far  —  unless,  that  is,  he  makes  ex- 
cuses to  me,  which  is  not  likely. 

HippoLYTE.  That  depends  on  you  alone. 

Olivieb.  Tell  me  what  you  mean. 

HiPFOLiTE.  I  have  seen  the  Marquis. 

OuvnsB.  Does  he  refuse  to  act  as  my 
second? 

HiFPOLTTB.  Yes. 

OuviBii.  I  rather  thought  he  would. 
He  is  afraid  of  compromising  himself  — 

HtpPOLTTE.  Be  is,  and  he  ia  right. 
Things  of  this  sort  do  not  go  with  his  years 
or  his  position.  For  his  daughter's  sake, 
his  name  ought  not  to  be  dragged  into  the 
affair.  But  he  has  seen  Monsieur  de  Nan- 
jac,  who  knows  the  whole  truth. 

OuviEB.  The  whole  truth? 

HiPPOLTTB.  So  far  as  the  Marquis  is 
concerned.  He  found  a  letter  that  3u- 
sanne  bad  written  to  Monsieur  de  Thon- 
nerins.  There  was  a  violent  quarrel  be- 
tween Raymond  and  Madame  d'Ange. 
Suzanne  was  forced  to  tell  about  her  rela- 
tions with  the  Marquis.  Raymond  for- 
gave her,  on  the  condition  that  she  restore 
to  the  Marquis  everything  that  he  had 
given  her, 

OLivmR.  Did  she  do  it? 

Google 


498 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


HiPPoi.rTE.  So  it  eMms. 

Olivikh,  I  am  lurpFiBed;  but,  t«U  me, 
how  oon  thia  prevent  the  diielT 

jSiPPOLTTB.  Monsieur  de  Nanjac  g&ve 
back  everything  himaeU,  Uid  Monsieur  ds 
Thonnerins,  who  was  told  of  the  provooa- 
tiOD,  inform^  MonaieuT  de  Nanjac  that 
the  marriage,  like  the  duel,  was  out  of 
the  questioa;  that  Madame  d'Ange  was 
not  worthy  of  him,  and  that  your  conduct 
throughout  waa  that  of  a  gallant  maa 
and  a  good  friend.  You  know  what  a  man 
in  love  in  like  when  he  finds  himself  in  a 
false  position:  the  more  violently  the 
woman  is  attacked,  the  more  be  believea 
it  due  his  dignity  to  defend  her.  Mon- 
sieur de  Nanjac  took  it  t^  in  a  high- 
handed way  and  replied:  "The  moment 
I  reetore  what  Madame  d'Ange  has  re- 
ceived from  you,  monsieur,  it  means  that 
I  wish  to  forget  everything  in  Madame 
d'Ange'e  life  in  which  you  have  played  a 
part.  As  to  Monsieur  de  Jalin,  who  began 
by  telling  me  he  was  no  more  than  a  friend 
to  Madame  d'Ange,  and  ended  by  relating 
the  exact  opposite;  as  to  Monsieur  de 
Jalin,  who  I  once  thought  was  my  friend, 
and  who  was  not  enough  of  a  friend  either 
to  affirm  or  to  deny  anything  outright,  let 
him  say  to  me,  'I  give  you  my  word  of 
honor  that  I  have  been  that  woman's  loveTi' 
—  that  is  what  he  ought  to  do  if  he  ever 
cared  anything  at  all  for  me,  —  I  g^ive  him 
my  word  of  honor,  to  make  excusee  to  him, 
to  offer  him  my  hand  as  I  used  to,  and 
never  see  Madame  d'Ange  again."  You 
see  now  bow  seneeleaa  a  duel  would  be? 

Oltviek.  Are  you  through? 

HippoLTTE.  Yea. 

OuTiER.  Well,  my  poor  Hippolyte,  I 
thank  you  for  your  splendid  intentions; 
but  we  have  been  wasting  good  time. 

HlPPOLTTE.    Why? 

O1.IVIKB,  Because  Madame  d'Ange  has 
nothing  to  do  with  the  question.  I  do  not 
know  and  I  cannot  know  anything  but  one 
fact :  that  there  is  reason  for  a  duel  between 
Monsieur  de  Nanjac  and  me,  and  that  any 
e£Fort  to  prevent  a  duel,  the  basis  of  which  is 
an  insult  to  a  woman  (even  if  it  is  true), 
would  be  undignified  and  unworthy  a  man 
of  honor.  Monsieur  de  Nanjac  is  a  soldier, 


stopped?  Let  us  allow  things  to  follow 
their  natural  oourse.  Monsieur  de  Nanjac 
is  more  to  be  pitied  than  [,  but  I  can  under- 
stand his  conduct.  I  want  to  grasp  his 
hand,  but  I  am  perhaps  on  the  point  of 
killing  him.  Such  is  the  false  logic  of  our 
social  code  of  honor.  I  did  not  make  that 
code,  but  I  am  forced  to  submit  to  it. 

HiPFOLTTE.  It's  not  very  amusing  to 
kill  a  man.  When  I  look  at  my  wife  and 
remember  that  I  killed  a  man  for  her  sake 
—  well,  you  know  what  my  wife  did,  don't 
you? 

Olzvibh.  No. 

HlPPOLTTE.  I  have  just  found  out,  my- 
self. She  has  run  away  with  Monsieur  de 
Latour,  who  leaves  a  deficit  of  400,000 
francs  at  the  Bourse.  She  was  bound  to 
do  that  some  day,  tHoi^  she  has  not  yet 
reached  the  end.  Sheisoneof  those  women 
whom  nothing  can  stop;  once  they  start 
going  down,  they  must  continue  straight 
to  the  bottom,  without  having,  as  those 
who  are  at  t^e  bottom  of  the  ladder  have, 
the  excuse  of  evil  example,  misery,  and 


Olivier.  I'm  sorry,  but  it  is  now  half- 
past  two. 

HippoLifTE.  That's  true.  After  Mon- 
sieur de  Thonnerins  refused  to  be  your 
second,  I  went  to  see  Monsieur  df<  Mau- 
cToix,  and  he  and  I  went  to  see  Monsieur  de 
Nanjao.  We  meet  at  three  o'clock.  We 
still  have  three  quarters  of  an  hour. 

OuTiBB.  Where  is  it  to  take  place? 

HlPPOLTTE.  In  the  fields  bc^iind  your 
home;  they  are  large  and  always  deserted. 
No  one  will  disturb  us  -^  and  then  we  shall 
be  only  a  step  from  where  you  live.  In  cnse 
of  accident,  we  shall  have  a  safe  plaoe  to 
carry  the  wounded. 

Olivieb.  What  weapons? 

HlPPOLTTE.  The  seconds  left  the  choice 
to  us. 

Olivieb.  Did  you  refuse? 

HlPPOLTTE.  Yes,  because  you  told  us 
that  you  wanted  no  concessions;  we  drew 
lots,  and  the  choice  fell  to  us. 

OLrviER.  What  did  you  d«dde  <hi7 

HlPPOLTTE.  Swords. 


.  Google 


THE  OUTER   EDGE  OF  SOCIETY 


4» 


OuviEB.  If  anything  should  happen  to 
me,  you  will  find  a  letter  in  this  drawer; 
pteaae  have  it  sent  to  Mademoiselle  de 
Sanoenaux  at  onoe,  because  she  ie  going 
away  to-night.  This  letter  will  prevent  ber 

HippoLTTB.  Is  that  allT 

OuviEB.  Yes. 

HiTPOLTTB.  Nothing  for  Madame 
d'Ange? 

Oumiit.   No,  nothing  —  she  is  ooming. 

HippoLTTz.   Did  she  send  word? 

Olivier.  No;  but  she  is  brave  and  proud 
only  when'she  is  victorioua;  if  she  kuom 
that  I  h&ve  to  ssiy  only  a  ward  in  order  to 
break  off  her  marriage,  she  wiU  stop  at 
nothing  in  order  to  obtain  my  silence.  She 
will  come. 

HiPPOLTTx.  Do  you  know  what  I  am 
thinking  of? 

OuvniR.  Tell  me. 

HiPPOLTTE.  That  you  were  more  io  love 
with  Susanne  than  you  let  any  one  see,  and 
that  perhapa  you  still  are,  more  than  you 
will  admit. 

Ouvmi  [smUijiii].  Who  knows?  The 
beeH  of  roan  is  so  strangel 

[EnUr  a  Senaia.] 

Bebvant.  There  is  a  young  lady  below 

in  a  oarriage  who  would  like  to  speak  with 


Olivieb.  Who  is  it? 

Sebvaht.  She  wrote  this  note. 

IHe  hand*  Olivieb  a  note.] 

OuvnR  Ireadinff].  "Marcelle"!  Ask 
the  lady  to  oome  in.  (TA«  Servant  goe»  md. 
—  To  HiPPOLTTK.]  Go  into  my  room.  1 
am  to  see  some  one  who  does  not  want  to 
be  seen.  When  the  time  comes  for  ua  to 
leave,  rap  on  the  door,  and  I  shall  join 

HiPPOLTTi).  You  have  only  half  an  hour. 

OuviEB.  Don't  worry;  we  shall  be  on 
time.  [HtPPOLTTE  goet  ovt;  Olivieb  goea 
Urward  Ae  door.  Enter  Mabceu.!.]  You 
bere,  Marcelle?  How  tmprudentl 

Mabcelle.  No  one  saw  me  come  in,  and 
then  I  don't  care  what  any  one  may  think. 
I  am  going  away  to-night;  perhaps  I  shall 
never  come  back.  I  did  n't  want  to  go  with- 
out seeing  you. 


Olitixr.  I  should  have  called  on  you 
before  you  went. 

Mabceuj!.  That  m^t  not  have  been 
possible,  perhape?  Or  did  n't  you  think  of 
that? 

Olitibk.  Is  that  a  reproach? 

Mabcelle.  What  right  have  I  to  re- 
proach you?  Am  I  a  friend  of  yours?  An 
I  worthy  of  your  confidence?  If  your  are  in 
trouble,  do  you  oome  to  me?  If  you  are  in 
danger,  would  you  even  think  of  saying 
good-bye  to  me  before  exposing  yourself? 
How  miserable  I  ami 

Olviieb.  What  is  the  trouble,  Marcelle? 

Marckllk.  You  are  going  to  fight;  per- 
hape you  will  be  killed!  Do  you  expect  me 
to  be  calm?  And  you  ask  what's  the 
trouble? 

Olivkb.  Who  told  you  I  was  going  to 
fight? 

Marcelle.  My  aunt,  who  came  to  see 
me  after  she  bad  been  to  see  Madame 
d'Ange;  she  told  me  everything,  and  gave 
me  the  name  of  the  woman  for  whoee  sake 
you  are  fighting:  Madame  de  Lornan. 

Olivier.  She  was  mistaken. 

Mabcelle.  No.  If  something  had  hap- 
pened to  you,  I  should  have  heard  about  it 
the  way  every  one  else  did  — that  you 
were  Idlledl  Not  to  have  a  single  memory 
or  souvenir  of  you  in  the  moment  ot 
danger  —  I  How  ungratefid  of  youl  I  de- 
clare, if  I  were  in  danger,  you  would  be  the 
only  person  I  would  ask  to  help  me  I  You 
might  at  least  do  for  me  what  I  would  do 
for  you.  But,  never  mind:  I  am  going  to 
stop  the  duel. 

Olivibk.  How? 

Mabcelle.  You  see  —  you  don't  deny 
iti  I'm  going  to  report  you  to  the  first 
police  officer  I  can  find. 

OuviBS.  By  what  right? 

Mabcelle.  By  the  right  of  a  woman 
who  wants  to  sav«  the  life  of  the  man  she 

OLrvTBK.  Do  you  love  me? 

Marcelle.  You  know  I  do. 

OuviBB.  Marcelle  t 

Marcelle.  Who  else  could  have  in- 
duced me,  by  a  word,  to  change  my 
whole  life?  Who  made  me  leave  the 
society  where  I  was  living?    For  wboM 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


soke  would  I  have  been  willing  to  bury  my- 
self in  the  provinces  to  make  a  living  in 
eadnesB  and  obscurityT  For  whose  sake  am 
I  going  away,  with  no  other  oonsolation 
but  the  thou^t  that  I  waa  reepect«d  and 
perhaps  would  soon  be  forgotten  by  you? 
And,  at  laet,  for  whoee  soke  does  a  woman 
change  heTself  in  this  way,  unlees  it  is  for 
the  sake  of  the  man  she  lovee?  Deep  down 
in  my  heart  I  was  taking  one  bope  with 
me;  I  said  to  myoeif:  "  Perhaps  he  ia  trying 
to  teet  me?  When  he  sees  that  I  am  mak- 
ing an  honest  effort  to  live  a  reapectable 
life,  and  after  he  has  made  of  me  the 
woman  he  wants  me  to  be,  who  knows  but 
that  some  day  he  may  come  to  love  me?  " 
I  dreamed  that  —  and  now  I  suddenly 
hear  that  you  are  fitting  a  duel  for  an- 
other woman.  Do  you  thmk  I'm  going  to 
allow  that?  Let  her  allow  it,  the  woman 
you  love;  very  well;  but  I,  I  who  love  you? 

OuviKB.  Listen  to  me,  Marcelle;  I 
swear  if  you  attempt  in  any  way  to  stop 
this  duel  —  and  dishonor  me,  as  it  surely 
will,  because  it  will  be  said  that  I  mode  a 
woman  my  encuse  to  avoid  fighting  —  I 
swear,  Marcelle,  I  will  not  survive  the  dis- 

Marcbllb.  I  shan't  say  a  word;  I  shall 
only  pray. 

Olivier.  Now,  Marcelle,  you  must  go 
home.  I  ebaH  aeie  you  soon. 

Mabcelle.  You're  sending  me  away 
because  the  duel  is  going  to  take  place 

OuviEB.  No  —  perhaps,  even,  it  will 
not  take  place  at  all.  Nowttiat  Iknowyou 
love  me,  I  wont  t«  live.  There  is  a  way  out 
of  it  all. 

Marcellb,  Will  you  promise  that  you 
are  not  going  to  fight  to-day? 

OuviBB.  I  promise.  [Hippoltth's  tnocfc 
M  heard.]  Very  well  —  one  moment. 

Mabcellb.  What's  that? 

OuviBB.   A  friend  of  mine  who  wonts 

Marcellb.  One  of  your  Becondsl 
Olivmb.  Yes. 

Mabcellb.  To  take  you  to  the  dueling- 
ground.    Olivier,  I'm  Dot  going  to  leave 


OuvtER.  My  seconds  are  already  btn: 
they  are  having  a  conferenoe  vrith  Monsieur 
de  Nanjac's  seconds.  They  must  see  me. 
That  is  why  Hippolyte  wants  to  speak  to  me. 

Marcelle.  I'meaafroidl 

OuviBR.  Liston,  Marcelle:  I,  too,  per- 
haps, have  dreamed  your  dream.  I  was 
happy  and  proud  to  have  something  to  do 
with  developing  those  good  qualities  which 
I  felt  sure  were  within  you.  Some  mysteri- 
ous instinct  for  happiness  has  urged  me  to- 
ward you.  I  was  unable  to  say  why  I 
wanted  you  to  be  worthy  of  every  one's  re- 
spect —  I  see  now,  it  was  a  baac  need  in 
my  own  heart.  That  is  all  I  can  tell  you, 
because  a  man  whose  life  is  in  imminent 
danger  has  no  ri^t  to  speak  of  hope  and 
the  future. 

Marcelle.  Olivier  I 

OuTiEB.  Everything  will  have  been 
decided  in  one  hour;  then  I  can  eiq>ltun. 
Meantime,  you  must  not  be  seen  here. 
Go  back  to  the  Viscountess  and  wait  for 
me  there.  We  shall  meet  again,  I  promise. 
I  shall  be  there,  and  when  I  leave,  it  wiS 
be  only  to  see  you.  Courage! 

[He  goet  out.] 

Mabcelui.  O  God,  protect  mel 

[She  maket  ready  to  Uave,  a$  Bv- 
lAHNE  enUrt.] 

Suzanne.  Marcelle  1 

Marcelle   [luming  rmmd].   You,  mo- 

Sttzanne.  How  does  it  happen  that  you 
are  here? 

Marcelle.  I  came  the  moment  I  heard 
of  the  duel. 

Suzanne.  Have  you  seen  Olivier? 

Mabcellb.  Yes. 

Suzanne.  When  does  it  take  place? 

Marcelle.  I  hope  it  won't  take  plorce. 

Suzanne.  How  is  that? 

Marcelle.  There  is  one  means  of  stop- 
pmgit. 

ScrzANNE.   What  means? 

Marcelle,  I  don't  know,  but  Olivier 
told  me  that  he  would  moke  use  of  it. 

Suzanne.  That  means  is  infamousi 

Mabcellb.  Do  you  know  what  it  isT 

Suzanne.  Yes;  and  I  tell  you  (Mivier 
would  not  compromise  any  wimian  in 
order  to  avoid  fightii^.  He  deouved  you- 


THE  OUTER  EDGE  OF   SOCIETY 


501 


Masckllb.  He  didt 

BozAMNB.  Tell  me;  what  did  you  tell 
him  when  you  ctune  hereT 

Mabctixb.  Th&t  I  didn't  want  the 
duel  to  take  place. 

StJSANKE.  And  that  you  loved  him? 

Mabceus.  Yea. 

SnXAKNii.  That  if  he  peraiBted,  you 
would  not  leave  himT 

Harcbua.  How  do  you  know  thatT 

SuEAMNB.  I  know  what  a  woman  would 
ny  under  like  circumstancee.  Then  did  he 
promiw  to  oome  to  an  understanding  wit^ 
his  opponent? 

MabcbliiE.  Yea. 

BuuNNii.  He  said,  too,  that  he  loved 
youT 

MasceliiI].  I  could  lee  that. 

Susannb.  He  deceived  you.  He  wanted 
to  gain  time.  He  then  went  out  to  fight. 

Habcbllb.  No:  he  is  in  there. 

Suianne.  Are  you  sure? 

Mabcxixb.  If  I  call  he  will  come. 

Sdcannb.  Call  him. 

Mabcellb  [eaUinf].   Otivierl  OUvierl 

Sueakkb  [opening  the  door].  No  onel 
Now  an  you  oonvincedT 

Mabcbllb.  It 'a  —  impoaaibte! 

SnzANNB  [rinffintl-  Do  you  still  doubt? 
iTo  the  SeTVmt,  uAa  enUrt.]  Has  your 
master  gone  out? 

Skbvamt.  Yea,  madame. 

ScEANNZ.  Alone? 

Sbbvant.  With  Monsieur  Riehond  and 
MonsieuT  de  Maucroix,  who  came  to  get 

SuEAHNB,  Did  he  leave  any  word  either 
for  mademoiselle  or  for  me? 

Sbkvamt.   Nothing,  madame, 

STTZANim.  That  will  do.  [Tht  Savant 
ffoea  oui.  —  To  Mabcblu:,]  Where  are  you 
going? 

Marcbllz.    I  must  find  him  and  save 

SnzANNB.  Where?  Do  you  know  where 
be  isT  How  can  you  save  him?  Waiti 
^lat  is  all  we  can  do  —  everything  reata 
an  chance.  Olivier  and  Raymond  are  now 
fighting,  that  is  sure.  They  are  both  brave 
men,  they  hat«  each  other,  and  one  of  them 
ia  sure  to  be  killed. 

Mascslli.  MyGodI 


SinANMB.  Now,  listen  to  mer  Olivier 
has  lied  both  to  you  and  to  me  —  he  told 
me,  too,  that  he  loved  me. 

Mabcbllb.  You?  When? 

Sdzannb.  Two  hours  ago.  I  may  loee 
love,  fortune,  future,  in  one  second.  If 
Raymond  survives,  I  am  saved;  if  he  dies, 
then  Olivier's  love  is  my  last  resource.  He 
must  love  me,  otherwise  I  should  die  of 
shame.  You  ought  to  know  the  truth:  the 
same  man  has  told  us  both  that  he  loved 
us.  It  is  our  right  to  know  whether  he  doea 
love  us.  If  he  is  the  one  who  survives,  he 
must  find  only  one  of  us  here  —  you  un- 
derstand that,  of  course?  He  would  never 
explain  before  us  both.  One  of  us  will  meet 
him,  the  other  will  remain  hidden  behind 
this  door,  and  hear  everything :  I  '11  do  that, 
if  you  like.  If  he  persists  in  telling  you  thai 
he  loves  you,  I  will  sacrifice  myself,  and  go 
away  wiUiout  saying  a  word.  Tell  me  —  ? 

Mabcxlui.  I  don't  understand,  ma- 
dame; I  don't  know  what  you  are  saying. 
How  calm  you  are  —  it's  fri^tfull 

SojiANNB.  Listen  I 

Mabcbllb.  What? 

SuEANNB.  A  carriagel 

Mabcbllb.  It's  he t 

SutANNX.  Something  has  happened) 
Go  in  there! 

Mabcbllb.  I  must  see  him. 

Sdeannb.  Go  in  there,  I  tell  youl  It's 
he  —  Olivier! 

Mascellb.  He  is  aavedl  He  is  livingl 
Now,  O  God,  let  me  suffer! 

SozANMB  [pusAtnf  her  fotmrd  the  door  at 

the  left]-  Go  in!  (Maxcbllb  goes  out.] 

[Enter  Olivibr.) 

Oltvibb  [ftMy],   Is  that  you,  Susanna? 

SuEANNB.  You  did  n't  expect  to  see  ma? 

OiitviBB.  No,  I  did  n't. 

SiTZAMNB.  Are  you  wounded? 

Olivieb.  It's  nothing! 

Sdzanmii.  But  Raymond? 

Olivixk  [whoM  voice  grotea  glrongm% 
Susanne,  was  I  in  the  right?  Did  I  d^ 
oeivehim? 

Suzannb.  No.  Well  —  T 

Olitibb.  Did  I  do  my  duty  as  an  honest 
man?  Answer  me. 

SusjuniB.  Yea.  Well— T 

.GooqIc 


Soa 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


OuviEB.  When  you  (oroad  us  to  fight, 
whom  did  you  oonud^  was  right? 

SuiANHK.  You. 

OuTiKB.  liken  his  death  is  only  a  mis- 
fortune, and  not  a  crimeT  ■ 

Sdeamhe.  HiedeathI 

OuvnR.  Yee,  his  death,  listen,  8u- 
lanne.  The  day  you  come  to  tell  me  that 
you  did  not  love  me  any  longer,  a  great 
jealousy  was  born  in  me.  I  wanted  to  be- 
have generously,  and  I  wore  a  smile,  but 
my  love  for  you  waa  the  strange,  fatal  sort 
which  you  inspire  in  all  who  lore  you:  in 
Monsieur  de  Thonnerina,  that  old  man 
who  for  a  moment  forgot  his  daughter  for 
your  sake;  in  Raymond,  whom  nothing 
oould  convince,  who  believed  no  one  but 
you,  who  would  believe  no  one  but  you, 
who  preferred  trying  to  kill  me  than  to  be 
convinced  by  me.  If  I  wanted  to  prevent 
this  marriage,  if  I  told  Raymond  all  I  did 
tell  him,  if  on  the  dueling- ground  I  forgot 
that  be  was  a  friend,  if  I  —  I  —  killed  tJte 
man  who  was  dear  t»  me  only  a  week  ago 
—  it  was  not  because  of  any  offense,  it  wu 
because  I  did  n't  want  you  to  belong  to 
him,  because  I  loved  you  —  because  I  love 
you!  In  a  single  moment  I  have  made  you 
toee  everything  J  but  in  a  single  moment  I 
can  restore  everything  to  you.  I  can't 
think  of  any  one  but  you;  you  must  be 
mine.  Don't  leave  me  I  Let  us  go  away  to- 
getherl 

Soz&NNB  [after  looking  him  atraight  in 
Ae  «y««].  Yes,  let  us  gol 

OuTiBR  [elaeping  her  to  him].  At  last!  — 
\P«  bttrsU  out  Jauffttnir-] '  Oh  1  It  tnu  such 
trouble! 

Suzanne.  What! 

OuTtBK.  You  have  lost,  my  dear.  You 
Qwe  me  a  forfeit!  Look! 

SoiANNE  Iteeing  Ratmons  appear,  fal- 
lowed by  Hippolite].  Raymond! 
[Enler  Mabcblu!,  who  Ihrowt  hen^  into 
Olitier'8  irmt.] 

Mabckixb.  Obi 

OuviER.  For^ve  me,  dear  ohUd;  I  had 
to  save  a  friend. 

tUmoND  [to  Olivibb).  Thank  you, 
Olivier.  I  must  have  been  mad.  You  have 
taken  my  honor  into  youi  htatda;  nothing 


stopped  your  attempts  to  cfmvinM  me  — 
not  even  my  own  blindness,  my  unjust 
hatred,  or  even  this  wound,  which  is,  1u^- 
ily,  only  a  slight  one.  Everything  is  over 
between  madame  and  me,  except  a  few 
material  matters,  which  1  shall  ask 
you  to  regulate.  [He  giaet  him  a  lUp  qf 
paper.]  I  don't  wisb  to  have  to  speak  with 

(MabcbuiB  goea  to  RaTMONn, 
who  lakes  her  hande  in  hit  in  an 
amicable  manner.   Ouvibb  goe* 

to  SUIANNE.] 

SniANNK.  You  are  a  blackguard! 

OuvixB.  Careful,  please!  When  one 
implicates  the  life  and  honor  of  two  men, 
and  losce,  he  should  bow  to  Fate  witb  good 
grace.  It  seems  I  had  to  receive  a  sword- 
thrust  in  order  to  prove  the  truth  of  my 
assertions.  I  am  not  preventing  your  mar- 
riage; reason,  common  sense,  and  justice 
are,  and  the  social  law  which  requires  that 
an  hooeet  man  marry  none  but  an  hooest 
woman.  Yon  have  lost,  but  you  know  you 
have  a  consolation  prise? 

SruNNX.  WbatT 

Ouvieb.  In  this  document,  Raymond 
gives  you  back  the  fortune  he  made  you 
abilicatfl. 

SnsANNii  {ptaying  her  taet  eard].  Give  it 
to  me!  [She  deetroye  the  document  a»  «Ae 
looke  ai  R&rMONS.)  What  I  wanted  from 
him  was  his  name,  not  his  fortune.  I  shall 
leave  Paris  in  an  hour,  on  my  way  to  a  for- 
eign country. 

[RATUONn  pretendt  not  to  hear.] 

OuTiBK.  But  you  have  nothing  to  live 
on!  You  returned  everything  to  the  Mar- 

SnzANNX.  Idon't  know  what  it  was,  but 
I  was  so  agitated  when  I  gave  those  docu- 
ments to  Monsieur  de  Nanjac  that  I  found 
most  of  the  deeds  and  so  forth  on  my 
table  after  he  left.  Good-bye,  Olivier. 

{She  goea  out.j 

Ouvub.  And  to  think  that  all  that 
woman  needed  to  turn  her  bad  into  good 
was  a  smalt  proportion  of  the  intelligence 
tbib  used  in  doing  evil! 

RATMONn  [to  Mabcblij)).  You  are  go- 
ing to  be  happy,  mademoiselle:  you  aie 
marrying  tbe  &iest  man  I  know! 


THE    MISTRESS    OF   THE    INN 

(LA  LOCANDIERA) 

Bv  CARLO  GOLDONI 

TraHslaudfy  MERLE  PIERSOlf 


ciilizedbvGoOQic 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


CHARACTERS 

VbE  CaTJOJISR  DI  RlPAIHAtTA 
THB  MABQUIS  DI  FORLIPOFOU 

Thb  Count  D'ALBAnoniTA 
MmANDouNA,  the  Mutrets  of  the  Ivn 
Fabrictub,  semnjj-mon  in  the  Inn 
Servant  of  the  Catalibe 
Safvant  (^  the  Covtn 


u  plattd  H>  Fiormet  in  lA*  Jitn  «/  Mil 


ciilizedbvGoOQic 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


THE   MISTRESS   OF   THE   INN 


Makquis.  There  is  quite  b  distinction 
between  you  and  me. 

Count.  Ae  far  as  the  inn  goes  my  money 
is  as  good  aa  yours. 

Mabquis.  But  if  the  mistress  of  the  inn 
shows  me  certain  marks  of  coDHideration, 
it  'a  becAuse  I  deserve  them  more  than  you. 

Count.   For  what  reason? 

Mabquib.  1  am  the  Marquis  di  Forlip- 
opoli. 

Count.  And  I  tlie'Count  d'AIbafiorita. 

Mabquis.  Yes,  count  of  a  purchased 
county. 

Count.  I  purchased  my  county  wlian 
you  sold  your  marquisate. 

MjLBqois.  Enou^I  I  am  who  I  am  and 
must  be  sliown  respect. 

Count.  Who's  wanting  in  respect?  You 
spealc  with  over-much  boldness. ... 

Marquis.  I  am  in  this  inn,  because  I 
ioTe  its  mistress.  Aii  Icnow  it  and  all  ought 
to  respect  a  young  woman  who  pleases  my 
fancy. 

Count.  O,  that's  a  good  one  I  You  want 
to  Iceep  me  from  loving  Mirandolina.  Why 
-  do  you  tliinlE  I'm  in  Florence?  Why  do 
you  tliink  I'm  in  tliis  particular  hot«l? 

Mab(^ui8.  Oh,  well!  You  won't  accom- 
plish anything  at  ail. 

Count.  I  sliall  not,  and  you  will? 

Mabquib.  I  shall  and  you  will  not.  I 
am  who  I  am.  Mirandolina  needs  my  pro- 
teotion. 

Count.  Mirandolina  needs  money,  but 
not  protection. 

Mabquis.     Money?  .  . .     That's    not 

Count.  I  spend  ten  ■lii1lin£«  a  day, 
Marquis,  and  I'm  always  ginng  hat  ipfts. 


MABguiB.  But I'mnottellingwhatldo. 

Count,  You  don't  say  anything  about 
it,  but  everybody  knows  it. 

Mabquis.  All  is  not  known. 

Count.  Indeed,  my  dear  Marquis,  but 
it.  is.  The  waiters  are  talking  about  it. 
A  shilling  a  dayl 

MABquis.  Speaking  of  waiters  there  is 
this  waiter  here,  who's  oaUed  Fabricius. 
Idon'texactly  like  that  fellow.  It  seems  to 
me  tliat  our  hostess  looks  upon  him  alto- 
gether too  favorably. 

Count.  Perhaps  she  wants  to  many 
lum.  It  would  n't  be  a  bad  thing.  Her  ■ 
father  has  been  dead  six  months.  A  young 
girl  alone  at  the  head  of  an  inn  will  find 
herself  embarrassed.  For  my  part,  if  she 
should  marry,  I  have  promised  her  one 
hundred  pounds. 

Masquis.  If  she  marries,  I  am  her  pro- 
tector and  1  shall ...  I  know  what  I 'II  do. 

Count.  Come  here.  As  good  friends 
let's  arrange  the  affair.  Let  ua  give  her  a 
hundred  pounds  apiece, 

Mabquis.  What  I  do,  I  do  secretly,  and 
I  don't  boast  of  it.  I  am  who  I  am.  [CaUi.] 
Who's  there? 

Count  [aside].  Ruined,  poor,  and  proud. 
[Bnier  Fabrictob.] 

Fabriciu9.  At  your  service,  sir. 

Mabouib.  Sir?  Who  taught  you  your 
manners? 

Fabbicids.  Pardon  me. 

Count  (Id  Fabbicius].  Tell  me:  how  u 
your  mistress? 

Fabbiciub.  She  is  very  well,  your  lorA- 

MABQine.  Is  she  up  yet? 
Fabbiciub.  Yes,  your  lordship. 
Marquis.  Ass  I 

Fabbiciub.  Why,  your  lordship? 
Mabquib.   Don't  lordship  met 
Fasbicius.   It's  the  title  I  gave  to  the 
other  gentleman  too. 


5o8 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


MABqma.  There  is  some  diatinction  be- 
tween him  and  me. 

Count  [to  Fabbicivb).  Juet  listen  to  him. 

FURiciUB  [in  a  Una  tont  to  the  CocntJ. 
He  speaki  the  truth.  There  is  &  difference. 
I  notice  it  in  the  bills. 

Mabquib.  Ten  your  mistTBH  to  come 
to  my  room;  th&t  I  want  to  speak  with 
her. 

Fabbicius.  Yes,  your  excdlency.  I 
did  n't  make  a  mistake  this  time,  did  IT 

Maikjuis.  AU  right.  You  have  known  it 
three  months.  You  are  an  insolent  fellow. 

Fabkicitjb.  As  you  wish,  your  ezcd- 
lency. 

Coom.  Do  you  want  to  see  the  diSer- 
ttice  between  the  Marquis  and  me? 

Mabquis.  What  do  you  mean? 

GouKT.  See  here.  I'm  giving  you  ten 
ihillingi.  Make  him  give  you  the  same, 

Fabbiciub  [to  the  Cocnt].  Thanks,  your 
lonUiip.  {To  Uie  Mabquib).  Your  excet- 
lenoy  .  . . 

Habqdib.  I  don't  throw  away  my  money 
as  madmen  do.  Ool 

Fabricihb  [to  the  Count].  Your  lord- 
ship, Heaven  blees  you.  [AiHde.]  Your  ex- 
cellencyl  Played  outi  Outside  of  your  own 
country  you  don't  have  to  have  titles  to  be 
esteemed,  you  have  to  have  money. 

[Exit  FABR1CIU9.] 

Mabquis.  You  Uiink  you  can  outdo  me 
with  your  gifte,  but  you  can't  do  anything 
of  the  sort.  My  ranfc  is  worth  more  than 
all  3n>ur  money. 

Count.  I  don't  care  what  a  thing's 
worth,  what  I  like  is  something  I  can  spend. 

Mabquib.  You  are  spending  only  to 
break  your  neck.  Mirandolina  doea  n't 
have  any  esteem  for  you  at  all. 

Count.  Well,  do  you  think  thafc  with 
all  that  fine  nobility  of  yours  she  really  es- 
teems youT  There  has  to  be  money. 

Mabquib.  How  moneyT  She  wants  pro- 
tection —  she  wants  some  one  who  can  do 
her  a  favor  in  a  pinch. 

Count.  Yes,  some  one  who  can  tend  her 
in  a  pinch  a  hundred  pounds. 

Mabquib.  A  man  must  make  himself 
respected. 

Count.  When  there's  no  lack  of  money, 
arTerjt  one  respects  you. 


Mabquib.  You  don't  know  what  you  'ra 
talking  about. 

Count.  I  understand  better  than  jroo 
do. 

[Enler  the  Catauxb  di  RiPArBATtA 
from  hit  room.] 

Catalub.  Frioids,  what's  all  this 
noise  aboutT  Are  you  two  quarreling? 

Count,  lliere's  a  very  fine  point  in  dis- 
pute. 

Mabquis  [ironiadlji].  The  Count  and  I 
are  at  issue  on  the  merit  of  nobility. 

Count.  I  don't  deny  nobility  merit; 
but  I  do  maintain  that  there  has  to  be 
money  to  satisfy  one's  caprices. 

Cavalieii.  Really,  my  dear  Marquis. . . . 

Makquu).  Come  now,  let's  talk  about 
something  else. 

Cavaueb.  How  did  you  eome  to  get 
into  such  a  quarrel? 

Count.    For  the  silliest  reason  in  the 

Mabquib.  BAvoI  He  Count  always 
ridicules  everything. 

Count.  The  Marquis  loves  our  hostess 
here;  I  too  love  her  —  more  than  he.  He 
claims  reciprocal  feeling  on  her  part  as  a 
tribute  to  his  rank.  I  hope  for  it  as  a  rec- 
ompense for  my  attentions.  Does  n't  the 
question  seem  ridiculous  to  you? 

Mabquib.  You  must  know  witJi  what 
great  difficulty  I  have   been    protecting 

Count  [to  Cavaubb].  He  protects  her, 
and  I  spend  the  money. 

Cavauxr.  Indeed,  one  can't  dispute 
about  anything  that  deserves  it  leas.  A 
woman  changes  you,  a  woman  upsets  youT 
A  woman?  What  queer  things  one  hears 
nowadaysl  As  far  as  I  am  concerned  there 
is  n't  any  danger  that  I'll  get  into  a  dis- 
pute with  any  one  about  women.  I  have 
never  loved  them,  I  have  never  had  any 
use  for  them,  and  I  have  always  thoughi 
that  woman  is  an  unbearable  infirm:^  for 

Mabquis.  As  far  as  that  goes  Mirando- 
Ima  has  extraordinary  worth. 

Count.  Up  to  this  point  the  Marquia 
has  reason  on  his  side.  The  n '  '  '     ~ 

inn  is  truly  an  adorable  pi 


THE  MISTRESS  OF  THE  INN 


509 


Mabqttib.  Now,  when  I  love  her  you 
must  thinlc  there  ia  aomething  fine  in  her. 

Cavalixb.  Indeed,  you  make  me  laugh. 
What  can  she  have  that's  out  of  the 
ordinary  and  not  ooinmon  to  all  other 
women? 

Maxqdis.  ^e  has  a  noble  manner  that 
charms. 

Count.  She  is  beautiful,  she  speaks 
well,  she  dresses  nicely,  and  she  haa  the 
b^  taste  imaginable. 

Cavalier.  Allth^se  things  are  n't  worth 
a  fig.  I  have  been  in  this  hotel  three  days 
and  I  don't  see  anything  especially  remark- 
able about  her. 

Count.  Watch  her,  and  perhaps  you 
may  find  some  good  in  her. 

CataiiIbb.  Nonsense.  I  have  taken  a 
good  look  at  her.  She  is  a  woman  just  like 
the  others. 

MARguiB.  She  is  n't  like  the  others,  she 
has  something  more  in  her.  I,  who  have 
been  in  the  society  of  the  first  ladies  of  the 
land,  have  never  found  a  woman  who 
knows  how  to  unite  as  she  does,  politeness 
and  decorum. 

Count.  Great  Csearl  I  have  always 
been  accustomed  to  be  much  in  the  society 
of  women.  I  know  their  defects  and  their 
we»kneeses.  And  yet  with  her,  in  spite  of 
my  long  courtship,  and  the  great  hopes  I 
have  bad,  I  have  n't  been  able  to  touch  as 
much  as  a  finger. 

Cavalier.  Art,  exquisite  art.  Poor  sim- 
pletons. You  believe  in  her,  ahT  Nof, 
that  would  n't  have  happened  te  me. 
Women?  Away  with  b11  of  them. 

Count.  You  have  never  been  in  love? 

Cavauxb.  No,  and  I  never  will  be. 
Tbey  have  done  their  best  to  give  me  a 
wife,  but  I  have  never  wanted  one. 

Mabquis.  But  you  are  the  only  one  left 
of  your  house;  don't  you  have  to  think  of 
the  succession? 

Cavaubb.  I  have  thought  of  it  often, 
but  when  I  consider  that  to  have  children 
I  would  have  to  endure  a  wife  my  desire 
suddenly  vanishes. 

Count.  What  are  you  going  to  do  with 
your  richeeT 

Cavaubb.  I  shall  enjoy  Ha  little  I  have 
witb  my  fiiendB. 


Mabquib.  Fine,  Cavalier,  fine;  we  shall 
enjoy  ourselves. 

Count.  And  you  don't  want  to  give  any- 
thing at  all  to  women? 

Cavauir.  Absolutely  nothing.  They 
certainly  don't  get  anything  out  of  me. 

Count.  See,  our  host«eBl  Look  at  her 
and  see  if  she  is  n't  adon^le. 

Cavaui!b.  What  an  ideal  For  my  part 
I  value  a  fine  hunting  dog  four  tiinee  as 
much  as  I  do  her. 

Marquis.  If  you  don't  esteem  her,  I  do. 

Cavaubb.  I'd  leave  her  to  you  even  if 
she  were  more  beautiful  than  Venus. 
[Enter  MiRANnouNA.] 

MiBANDOUNA.  My  respects  to  the  gen- 
tlemen. Which  of  you  has  asked  for  me? 

Marquis.  I  have  a  request  to  make  of 
you,  but  not  here. 

MiRANDOLiNA.  Where  do  you  mean, 
your  eicellenoy? 

Mabqcis.  In  my  room. 

MiRANDOUMA.  In  your  room?  It  you 
need  anything,  the  waiter  will  come  and 
serve  you. 

Mabquib  {atidt  to  Utt  Cavaubb].  What 
do  you  say  to  that  modesty? 

Cavaubb  [agidt  to  the  MABQUia].  What 
you  call  modesty  I'd  call  forwardness  and 
impertinence. 

Count.  Dear  Mirandolina,  I  shall  speak 
to  you  in  public;  I'U  not  put  you  to  the 
inconvenienoeof  coming  to  my  room.  You 
see  these  earrings.  Do  you  like  them? 

MtRANDOUNA.  Beautiful. 

Count.  They  are  diamonds;  do  you 
know  that? 

MiBANDOUNA.  Oh,  I  recognize  tiiem.  I, 
too,  understand  diamonds. 

Mabquib.  They  are  at  your  service. 

Cavaukr(«o/%  to  fA«  Count].  My  dear 
friend,  you're  ttirowing  them  away. 

MiBANDOUNA.  Why  do  you  want  to 
give  me  these  earrings? 

Mabquib.  A  fine  present,  indeed,  they 
would  makel  She  has  some  twice  as  hand- 

Count.  These  are  set  in  the  latest  style 
I  beg  you  to  take  them  with  my  love. 
Cavaubb  [atidt].  What  a  madman. 
MiBANUOUNA.  No,  of  couTK  not,  air. 


5" 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


CooNT.  It  you  don't  take  tbem,  you'll 
displease  me. 

MiRANDOLtNA.  I  don't  know  what  to 
say.  .  .  .  It's  to  my  interest  to  keep  on 
good  terms  with  the  patrons  of  my  inn.  So 
as  not  to  displease  ^u.  Count,  111  take 

Cavaueb  [agide].  Oh,  the  wretcht 

Count  [to  the  CaVaukr).  What  do  you 
say  to  this  vivacity? 

Cavaubr  [luide].  Splendid  vivacity  I 
dhe  takes  them  from  you,  and  without  a 
word  of  thaaka  either. 

Marquis.  Re^ly,  Count,  you've  made 
yourself  higiily  esteemed.  Out  of  vanity  to 
give  pfts  to  a  woman  in  publici  Mirando- 
linal  I  must  speak  to  you  privately;  I 
am  a  gentleman. 

MmANDOUNA  [(Wide].  What  penury!  He 
does  n't  give  any  one  preeento.  —  If  the 
gentlemen  desire  nothing  further  of  me  I 
(ball  go. 

Cavalier  [tnUi  diapleaaure].  Look  here, 
mistreBsl  The  tinen  you  gave  me  is  n't  to 
my  taate.  If  you  haven't  any  better,  I 
shall  have  to  provide  it  myself. 

MiRANnoLiNA,  Sir,  you  shall  have  bet- 
ter. It  will  be  brought  up;  but  it  eeeme  to 
me  you  might  aak  with  a  little  politeness. 
,  Catalibr.  Where  I  spend  my  money, 
I  don't  need  to  stand  on  ceremony. 

Count  (to  MiRAirooLiNA].  Encuse  him. 
He  is  an  implacable  woman-hater. 

Cavaubb.  £h!  I  don't  need  her  indul- 
gence. 

MntANnouNA.  Poor  women!  What 
have  they  done?  Why  thus  cruel  to  us. 
Sir  Cavalier? 

Cavalier.  That's  enough.  You  are  n't 

going  to  get  any  deeper  in  my  confldenoe. 

Change  the  linen  for  me.  I  shall  send  my 

valet  tor  it.  Friends,  your  humble  servant. 

[Exit  the  Cavauer.] 

MntAmMLiNA.  What  a  savage  man!  I 
have  never  seen  his  like. 

Count.  Dear  Mirandolina,  every  one 
doee  n't  appreciate  your  merits. 

MiRANDOLiNA.  Indeed,  I 'm  SO  dlsgusted 
with  his  bad  behavior,  that  I  shall  dismiss 
him  this  very  moment  directly. 

Marquis.  Yes,  do;  and  if  he  doesn't 
want  to  go,  tell  me  and  I  '11  make  him  leave 


immediatdy.   Pray  make  use  of  my  pro- 
tection. 

Count.  And  whatever  money  you  lose, 
I'll  make  good  and  pay  everything.  Listen, 
send  away  the  Marquis,  too,  and  I'll  pay 
you  for  that. 

MmANOouNA.    Thank  you,  gentlemen. 
I  have  spirit  enough  to  tell  a  guest  that  I 
don't  want  him;  and  as  r^ards  business, 
my  inn  never  has  a  room  vacant. 
[Enter  Fabricius.) 

Fabricius  [to  the  CountI.  Your  lord- 
ship, there  is  some  one  asking  for  you. 

Count.  Do  you  know  who  it  is? 

Fabricius.  I  think  it's  a  man  who  seta 
jewels.  [SofUy  to  MiRANnobiNA.]  Miran- 
dolina,  discretion;  this  isn't  a  proper  place 
tor  you.  [Exit.] 

Count.  Oh,  yea;  be  has  a  jewel  to  show 
me.  Mirandolina,  I  want  to  match  theae 
earrings. 

Mirandouna.  Oh,  no,  Count. 

Count.  You  deserve  something  good, 
and  I  don't  care  anything  about  the  money. 
I'm  going  to  see  this  jewel.  Adieu,  Miian- 
dolina;  Sir  Marquis,  I  must  take  my  leave 
of  you,  [Exii  the  Cocnt.I 

Marquis  latide].  The  accursed  CountI 
He  bores  me  to  death  with  that  money  of 
his. 

MiRANi>ouNA,  Indeed,  the  Count  puts 
himself  to  too  much  trouble. 

Marquis.  People  like  that  have  two- 
pence and  they  spend  them  through  vanity 
and  vainglory.  I  know  them;  I  know  the 
way  of  the  world. 

Mirandolina.  Ah,  I,  too,  know  the  way 
of  the  world. 

Marquis.  They  think  that  women  of 
your  kind  can  be  conquered  with  gifts. 

Mirandouna.  fteeente  are  never  re- 
pugnant to  any  one. 

Marquis.  I  should  think  I  was  insulting 
you  by  trying  to  put  you  under  obligations 
with  gifte. 

Mirandolina.  Oh,  certainly,  the  Mar- 
quis has  never  insulted  me. 

Marquis.  And  he  never  will. 

MiRANnoLiNA.    I  sincerely  believe  you. 

Marquis.  But  wherever  I  can,  I  am  at 


.CjOC^'.^Ic 


THE  MISTRESS  OF  THE  INN 


S" 


MiBANDOUNA.  I  should  have  to  know 
in  what  you  can  help  me. 

Mabqoib.    In  everythioE.  Try  me, 

MtBAHDOLiNA.  But,  for  instance,  in 
what? 

Mabquis.  By  Jove.  You  have  a  won- 
derful charm. 

MiBANDOLtNA.  Many,  many  thanks, 
your  excelleacy. 

MABguiB.  Ah,  I  would  make  an  ahnost 
uobeaoming  remark.  I  would  almost  coll 
down  cureee  on  my  title. 

MiRUtDOLiNA.  Why  so,  sir? 

MABQTTte.  Sometimee,  I  wish  I  were  in 
the  count's  position. 

MuAHSouMA.  Perhaps,  because  of  hie 
money? 

Mabquib.  Eh!  How  money?  I  don't 
care  a  rap  about  it.  If  I  were  a  ridiculous 
Count  like  him  — 

MiKANnoLiNA.  What  would  you  do? 

MAitQuia.  The  deuce.  ...  I  would 
marry  you.  {Exit  tfte  MaiU|U1B.| 

MiBANDOLiNA.  Oh,  what  baB  he  saidl 
Marquis  Empty  Focket«,  that  fine  fellow, 
wants  to  marry  me?  Yea,  if  you  wanted  to 
you'd  find  a  little  di£Bculty.  I'd  stand  in 
the  way.  I  like  the  good  thmgs  of  life,  but 
have  no  use  for  the  disagreeable.  If  all 
who  said  they  wanted  me,  had  married  me, 
oh,  how  many  husbands  I  'd  have .  had. 
Every  one  who  has  come  to  this  inn  has 
fallen  in  love  with  me,  every  one  has  made 
.  desperate  love  to  me,  and  many  and  many 
a  one  has  offered  to  marry  me  on  the  spot. 
And  as  to  that  Cavalier,  who  is  as  rough  as 
a  bear,  why  does  he  treat  me  sa  brusquely? 
He's  the  first  gueat  who's  come  to  my  inn 
who  has  n't  been  delighted  to  .be  in  my 
society.  I  don't  say  that  every  one  has 
fallen  in  love  at  first  sight,  but  to  despise 
me  ao,  is  something  that  makes  me  angry. 
He  a  woman-hater?  He  can't  bear  the  sight 
of  them?  Poor  fool!  Probably  he  has  n't 
found  theone  who  knows  how  to  handle  him. 
But  he  shall  find  her.  He  shall.  And  who 
knows  that  he  has  n't  found  her.  I'mgoing 
to  enter  the  liate  with  him.  Those  who  run 
after  me,  soon  bore  me.  Nobility  has  no 
weight  with  me.  I  value  riches,  but  not 
nobility.  My  whole  delight  is  in  seeing 
myself  served,  desired,  and  adored.  That 


is  my  weakness,  as  it  is 
almc^  all  women.  I'm  not  thinking  of 
marrying  any  one;  I  don't  need  any  one; 
I  live  honestly  and  I  enjoy  my  freedom.  I 
treat  every  one  well,  but  I'll  never  fall  in 
love  with  any  one.  I  like  to  make  fun  of 
those  exaggerated  ardent  lovers,  and  I 
want  to  use  all  my  skill  to  conquer,  strike 
down  and  shake  to  their  depths  these  cruel 
and  bard  hearts  which  are  the  enemies  of 
us  who  are  tbe  best  thing  that  beautiful 
Mother  Nature  has  produced  in  this  world. 
[Enter  Fabricius.] 

Fabriciub.  Look  here,  mistreas. 

MiBANiwuKA.  What  is  it? 

Fabricittb.  The  guest  who  has  the  mid- 
dle room  finds  fault  with  the  linen;  he  says 
it's  commonplace,  and  he  doesn't  want  it. 

Mirakdolina.  I  know  it,  I  know  it;  he 
said  the  same  thing  to  me,  and  I  want  hie 
commands  to  be  carried  out. 

Fabriciub.  Very  well.  Come,  then,  and 
lay  out  the  things  so  that  I  can  take  them 

Mirandolina.  Nevermind, nevermind. 
I  shall  take  them  to  him. 
Fabricius.   You  wish  to  take  them  to 

MiRANDOLINA.  Yes,  1  do. 

Fabriciub.  You  must  be  greatly  in- 
terested in  that  gueet. 

MlBANDoUNA.  I'm  interested  in  every 
one.  Mind  your  own  business. 

Fabbicius  [oaide].  Indeed,  I'm  sure  of 
it.  Our  affair  won't  amount  to  anything. 
She's  just  flattering  me  and  nothing  will 
come  of  it. 

Mirandolima  [tuidt].  Poor  fool.  He 
has  aspirations.  I  want  to  keep  him  hop- 
ing, because  he  has  served  me  faithfully. 

Fabriciub.  It  has  always  been  custom- 
ary for  me  to  serve  strangers. 

Mirandouna.  You  are  a  little  too  rough 
with  the  gueete. 

FAXRicitrs.   And  you  a  little  too  kind. 

MiRANDOLINA.  I  know  what  I'm  doing; 
I  don't  need  advisers. 

Fabbictcb.  Very  well,  very  well.  Get 
another  waiter. 

MiRANDOLINA.  Why,  Fabricius?  Are 
you  displeased  with  me? 


S" 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Fabbiciub.  Do  you  remernber  what 
your  father  said  to  u«  two  before  he  died? 

MiKANDOLiNA.  Yee,  when  I  decide  to 
many  I  shall  remember  what  my  father 
told  me. 

Fabsicitts.  But  I  am  sensitive;  there 
are  oertain  things  I  can't  endure. 

MiKAKDOUNA.  But  what  do  you  think 
I  amT  A  gowipT  A  flirt?  A  foolT  I'm  as- 
tonished at  you.  What  do  I  can  about 
guests  who  come  and  go.  If  I  treat  then] 
well  I  do  it  for  my  own  interest,  to  keep  my 
inn  in  good  repute.  I  don't  need  gifts. 
One's  enough  to  court  me,  and  this  one's 
not  lacking.  I  know  who  is  deserving  and 
I  know  what's  proper.  And  when  I  want 
to  marry  ...  I  shall  remember  my  father. 
And  he  wbo  has  served  me  well  can't  com- 
plain of  me.  I  am  grateful.  I  recogniie 
merit  .  .  .  but  I  am  not  appreciated. 
Enough,  Fabricius,  understand  me,  if  you 
can.  [Exit  Mirandolina.] 

Fassicittb.  He'aasmartfellowwho  can 
understand  her.  One  moment  it  seems 
that  she  wants  me,  the  next  that  she  does 
n't.  She  says  that  she  is  n't  a  Sirt,  but  she 
wants  to  do  as  she  pleaaee.  I  don't  know 
what  to  say.  We  shall  see.  She  pleases 
me,  I  am  fond  of  her  and  would  join  my 
interests  to  hers  throu^out  my  life.  Ah. 
One  has  to  close  one's  eyes  and  let  some 
things  slide.  After  all,  guests  come  and  go, 
but  I  always  remain.  I  shall  have  the  beet 
advoatace  Etfter  all.  [Exit  Fabriciub.] 

[Enter  lite  Gataueh  and  a  Servant.] 
Sbrvant.  Your  lordship,  I  have  brought 
you  tiiis  letter. 

Catalieb.  Bring  me  a  cup  of  chocolate. 
l£xit  Hit  Servant;  the  Catalieb  opera  the 
fcBer.]  "Sienna,  first  of  January,  1753." 
Who's  writit^?  Horace  Taccagni,  my 
dear  friend.  "The  tender  friendahip  which 
binds  me  to  you,  makes  me  anxious  to  warn 
you  of  the  neceeaity  of  your  return  to  your 
native  land,  llie  Count  Manna  is  dead." 
...  Poorfellowl  I'm  sorry.  "He  has  left 
one  daughter,  of  marriageable  age,  heir- 
Ms  to  thirty  thousand  pounds.  All  your 
frisnda  would  like  such  a  fortune  to  fall 
to  you  and  are  busy  arranging  it."  They 
need  n't  take  that  tiwible  for  me  because 


I  don't  want  to  know  anything  of  it.  Aod 
they  know  that  I  don't  want  women  about 
me.  And  this  dear  friend  of  mine  whom  I 
know  better  than  any  one  else  bores  nw 
worst  of  all.  ITean  up  the  letter.]  What 
do  I  care  about  thirty  thousand  poundaT 
As  long  as  I'm  alone,  leas  is  enough.  If  I 
were  married,  a  great  deal  more  would  n't 
suffice.  A  wife  for  met  Rather  a  tbouaukl 
times  a  quartan  fever. 

[Enter  the  Makquib.) 

Mabquib.  My  friend,  will  you  let  me 
stay  a  little  while  with  youT 

Catauek.  You  honor  me. 

Mabquis.  At  least  you  and  I  can  talk 
confidentially;  but  that  ass  of  a  Count 
is  n't  good  enou^  to  be  in  our  society. 

Cavalieb.  My  dear  Marquis,  excuoe 
me;  but  respect  others,  if  you  want  to  be 
respected. 

MABQOie.  You  know  my  oharncter.  I 
am  courteous  to  every  one;  but  I  can't 
stand  that  fellow. 

Cavauer.  You  can't  endure  him  merdy 
because  he  is  your  rival  in  love.  Shame  OB 
you  I  A  gentleman  of  your  station  in  love 
with  an  innkeeper.  The  idea  of  a  man  aa 
intelligent  aa  you  running  after  womeni 

Marqcib.  My  dear  Cavalier,  she  has 
bewitched  me. 

Cavauer,  Oht  Nonsense;  folly.  What 
enchantmente  has  she?  Why  don't  women 
bewiteh  me?  Their  witcheries  consist  in  - 
tlieir  personal  charms,  and  in  their  flat- 
teries; and  he  who  stands  afar  off  as  I  do, 
is  in  no  danger  of  beii^  unduly  influenced. 

Mabquib.  Enough  I  Sometimes  I  think 
so,  and  then  again  I  don't.  What's  annoy- 
ing and  disturbing  me  now  is  the  steward 
of  my  country-house. 

Cavalier.  Has  he  done  you  some  mean 
trick? 

Marqdib.    He  hasn't  lived  up  to  hie 

[Enter  the  SenarU  mth  the  eSoeolate.] 
Cavalieb  [to  Seratut].   I  don't  like  it. 

Qet  me  another,  right  away, 
SiRVANT.   At  presoit  there  isn't  any 

other  in  the  houm,  your  lordship. 
Cavaldr.  You  must  get  it    [To  Urn 


THE  MISTRESS  OF  THE  INN 


513 


Mabquis).  It  you  would  be  bo  good  sa  to 
accept  thJB.  .  .  . 

MABQins  [takta  tile  dloeolatt  and  drinkt 
U  wUhtrnt  ceremony,  keeping  on  talking  and 
drinkiim  at  the  lame  time\.  This  overseer  of 
mme,  u  I  told  you  .  .  .  [drinks]  .  .  .  ' 

CAVAUsa  [aside].  And  I  ahaU  go  with- 
out. 

MARqms.  He  promised  to  send  me  by 
poat .  . .  [driTuta]  .  .  .  ten  pounds  .  .  . 

Cat  AUKS  [a«ide).  Now  be  comes  with  a 
second  thrust. 

Mabqthb.  And  he  has  not  sent  it  to 
me  .  .  .  [dnnfca].  The  point  is  .  .  .  the 
point  is  .  .  .  [fijiithea  drinkijtg]  .  .  .  Herel 
\ffinnD  the  ^att  to  the  Servant].  The  point 
ia  that  I'm  in  great  difficulty,  and  I  don't 
know  what  to  do. 

Cataubb.  a  week  more,  a  week  Use  — 

MABQinB.  But  you,  who  are  a  gentle- 
man, know  what  it  mean*  to  keep  one's 
word.  I  am  in  difficultiee,  and  by  Jovel 
I  am  utterly  powerless. 

Cavalizb.  I'm  sorry  to  see  you  un- 
happy. [Atide.]  If  I  knew  bow  to  get  out 
of  it  honorably. 

Mabqdis.  it  would  put  you  out,  would 
it,  to  do  me  the  favor  for  k  week? 

Catauxr.  Dear  Marquis,  if  I  could,  I 
would  bdp  you  out  willingly;  if  I  had  it, 
I  would  offer  it  at  once.  I'm  expectii^ 
some,  but  I  don't  bappeD  to  Have  any  now. 

Mabqvib.  You  would  n't  have  me  think 
you  are  without  money. 

Cataubb  (lAoirin;  a  eeqitm  and  tome 
tmtJi  ehanfe  of  vmiout  denominatione]. 
See.  Behold  all  my  riches.  They  don't 
amount  to  two  sequins. 

Mabqdib.  That  ia  a  gold  sequin. 

Cataukb.  Yes,  it's  my  last;  I  have  n't 
anymore. 

Mabqdib.  Lend  it  to  me  and  mean- 
while I'll  see  ..  . 

Cavaubr.  But  then  I  — 

Masquib.  What  are  you  afraid  ofT  I'll 
pay  you  back. 

Cavaubb  [giving  him  the  sequin].  1  don't 
know  what  to  say;  help  yourself. 

MABQms  [taking  the  sequin  and  going], 
I  have  some  pressing  busineas,  friend;  I 
am  bound  at  present;  I  'U  meet  you  again 
atditmar. 


Cataubb.  Final  The  Marquis  wanted 
to  extort  twenty  sequina  from  me  and  then 
he  is  contented  with  one.  After  all  it  does 
n't  matter  much  if  1  do  lose  a  sequin,  and 
if  he  did  n't  pay  it  back  he  would  n't  bore 
roe  any  more.  What  displeases  me  most  is 
that  he  drank  my  chocolate.  What  impu- 
dence. And  then,  "  1  am  who  I  am,  I  am  a 
genttonan."   Oh,  moat  polite  gentlemanl 

[Enter  MiBANnoLiKA  loOh  the  linen.]^^ 

MtBANDOUNA  [enieri'ng  with  tome  am- 
sfroinl].  May  I  come  in,  your  lordship? 

Cataubb  [harshl]/].  What  do  you  wantT 

MiBANDOUNA  [coming  fonoard  a  Mtie). 
Look,  here  is  some  better  linen. 

Catalixb  [indioaHng  the  labh\.  Very 
well.  Put  it  down  here. 

MiBAKDOUNA.  I  beg  you  to  be  so  good 
as  to  see  if  it  is  to  your  liking. 

Cataltbb.  What  kind  of  stuff  is  it? 

MiBANDOUNA  [comtnff  foneard  a  UtUe 
more].  The  sheete  are  of  fine  linen. 

Cataubb.  Fme  linen? 

MiRAKDouNA.  Yes,  sir;  ten  ■hilliipi  a 
yard.  Look  at  it. 

Cataubb.  I  did  n't  want  anything  ao 
nice  as  all  that.  It  would  have  been  enoui^ 
so  long  as  it  was  something  better  than 
you  gaTe  me  at  first. 

MiBANDOUNA.  I  made  these  pieces'  for 
people  of  rank  and  merit;  for  those  who 
know  how  to  appreciate  them;  and  indeed, 
your  lordship,  I'll  let  you  hare  them,  see- 
ing it's  you.  I  would  n't  pve  them  to  any 

Cataubb.  Seeing  it's  you.  The  usual 
compliment. 

MiBANDOUNA.  Look  at  the  table  aerviee. 

Catalibb.  Oh!  This  Flanders  linen, 
when  it's  washed,  is  very  much  spoiled. 
It  ia  n't  neceeaary  to  soil  them  on  my  ao- 

Mirandouna.  With  a  gentleman  of 
your  quality  I  don't  eonaider  such  little 
things.  I  have  several  of  theee  napkins 
and  I  shall  keep  them  for  your  lordship. 

Cavaubb  [aside].  I  can't  deny  that 
ahe'a  an  obliging  woman. 

MiBANDOUNA  [aside].  Indeed,  he  has  a 
surly  face  which  shows  that  women  don't 
attract  him. 


GooqIc 


iH 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Cavauzb.  Give  my  linen  to  my  vaJet, 
or  put  it  down  some  plsce  there.  It  is  n't 
neceesary  that  you  put  yourself  out  on  my 
aooount. 

MiiiANDOLiNA.  Oh,  I'm  never  putting 
myieU  out,  when  I  serve  geDtlameQ  of  such 
diatinguiabed  merit, 

Cavauisil  Well,  well,  I  don't  need  any- 
thing more.  [Ande.]  She  wuite  to  flattm' 
me.  Women!  £very  one  of  them  ia  just 
like  this. 

MiRANDOLiNA.   I  '11  put  it  in  the  aloove? 

Cavaubr  [teriouily].  Yea,  wherever  you 

MmAiniouNA.  Oh,  tluE  is  s  hard  prop- 
osition! I'mafraid  I'llaocompliahnothipg. 
[Goe«  to  pul  away  the  linen.] 

Cavaueb  [oxide].  Bimpletons  hear  these 
fine  words,  they  believe  thoee  who  aay 
them,  and  they  fall, 

MiSAKDOUNA  Iretuming  without  Oie 
linen].  What  would  you  like  to  order  for 
dinner? 

Cavaukr.  1 11  eat  whatever  there  ia. 

MiRANnoLiNA.  I  would  like  to  know 
your  preference.  If  you  like  one  thing 
better  than  another,  speak  up. 

Cavaijbb.  If  I  wiah  anything,  I'll  tell 
the  waiter. 

MiRANBOLiNA.  But  in  these  matters 
men  don't  have  the  care  and  patience  we 
women  do.  If  a  little  ragout,  any  sauoe 
would  please  you,  be  so  kind  as  to  tell  me. 

Cavaukk.  Thank  you;  but  by  talking 
this  way  you  are  n't  going  to  succeed  in 
doing  with  me  what  you  have  done  with 
the  Count  and  the  Marquis. 

MiRANDOUNA.  Why  mention  the  foUy 
of  thoee  two  gentlemen?  They  come  to 
my  inn  to  lodge  and  then  they  claim  they 
want  to  court  the  miatreea  of  the  imi.  I 
have  other  things  to  do  besides  paying 
attention  to  their  idle  talk.  I'm  trying  to 
act  according  to  my  best  intereata.  If  I 
humor  them  I  do  it  to  keep  their  custom, 
and  then,  to  cap  the  climax,  when  I  see 
how  they're  taken  in,  I  laugh  like  a  mad 

Cavaubr.    Good.    Your  frankness  de- 

MiRANiMLiNA.  OhI  1  don't  hava  any 
other  good  qualities? 


Catausb.  But  notwithstanding,  yoti 
know  bow  to  pretend  wiUt  tho&e  who  pay 
you  attention. 

MiRANDOUVA.  I  pretend?  Heaven  help 
me.  Ask  these  two  gentlemen,  who  are 
infatuated  with  me,  if  I  have  ever  given 
them  a  sign  of  affection;  if  I  have  ever 
jeat«d  with  them  in  such  a  way  that  they 
eould  with  reason  be  flattered.  I  don't 
treat  than  rudely,  because  my  interests 
won't  allow  it,  but  I  don't  come  for  from 
it.  I  can' t-bear  the  sight  of  these  effeminate 
men ;  I  abhor  them  just  as  I  do  women  who 
run  after  men.  Do  you  aee?  I  am  not  ft 
girl.  I  am  several  years  old;  I  am  not  beau- 
tiful, but  I  have  had  some  good  chances; 
and  yet  J  have  never  married,  because  I 
thoroughly  value  my  freedom. 

Cavauer.  Oh,  yes,  freedom  is  a  splen- 
did treasure. 

MtKANDOUNA.  And  so  many  lose  it 
foolishly. 

Cavauer.  1  know  very  well  what  I'm 
about.  Enough! 

MiRANDOiiiNA.  Has  your  lordship  a  wife? 

Cavalier.  Heaven,  no,  nor  children. 
I'm  not  fond  of  women. 

Mi&AXDOLiMA.  Good.  May  you  always 
keep  that  attitude.  Women,  sir  —  But 
then,  it  is  n't  just  the  thing  for  me  to 
apeak  ill  of  them. 

Cavauer.  On  the  contrary  you  are  the 
first  I  ever  heard  speak  so. 

MtRANDOLiNA.  I'llaayit: weinukeepera 
see  and  hear  a  good  deal;  and  indeed  I  pity 
the  men  who  fear  our  sex. 

Cavauer  [atuU].  She  is  a  queer  pieoe. 

MiRANDOUNA  [pTelendt  she  wants  to  go]. 
With  your  ejtcellency'a  permisaioD. 

Cavalier.  You  are  in  a  hurry  to  go? 

MiRANDOLiNA.  I  would  u't  Want  to  be 
troublesome. 

Cavaubb.  Oh,  no,  you  please  and  omun 

MntANiMUNA.  Do  you  see,  air?  I  aet 
just  the  same  with  the  others.  I  stay  a  few 
minutea;  I  am  rather  merry,  I  make  a  few 
little  jesta  to  amuse  them  and  alt  at  onoe 
they  think  ...  I  meant  it;  and  they  make 
desperate  love  to  me. 

Cavalixh.  That  happens,  because  you 
have  good  manners. 


GooqIc 


THE  MISTRESS  OF  THE  INN 


SIS 


MiBANDOLiHA  [tmlA  a  curtiy].    You  a 
too  kitid,  your  lordship. 

Cataliiir.  And  do  they  fall  in  loveT 

MiBAiTDOLiNA.  Just  see  what  weakness! 
To  fall  suddenly  in  love  with  a  woman! 

Cataliek.  That'sHoinethinc  I've  oevi 
been  able  to  comprehend, 

MmANDOUNA.  What  splendid  strongthi 
Whftt  spleiidid  manlineas. 

Cavaubr.  What  frailty!  Oh,  degener- 

MiRANDOLiKA.  That  is  the  way  men 
should  think.  Sir  Cavalier,  give  me  your 

Cavalixb.  Why  do  you  want  that? 

MntAMDOLiNA.  Be  80  kind  if  you  will 
Dondeacend;  see,  I'm  otoan. 

Cavaubr.  Here  it  is. 

MiRANDouNA.  This  is  the  first  time 
I  've  had  the  honor  of  taking  the  hand  of  a 
man  who  thought  truly  as  a  man. 

CAVAUxa[wU}idratpmgkwhand\.  Come, 
enoughl 

MiRAMDOUMA.  Now,  just  Bee  here.  If 
I'd  taken  the  hand  of  one  of  those  silly 
gentlemen,  he  would  have  thought  at  once 
that  I  was  infatuated  with  him.  He  would 
have  fainted.  I  should  n't  allow  them  the 
slightest  liberty  for  all  the  gold  in  the  world. 
They  don't  know  how  to  live.  What  a  fine 
thing  it  is  to  express  one's  thoughts  freely, 
without  affectation,  without  hard  feelings, 
and  without  so  much  foolishness.  Your 
exceUenoy,  pardon  my  impertinence;  where 
I  can  serve  you,  command  me  freely;  and 
I  shall  have  in  those  services  for  you  some- 
thing I  have  never  had  in  serving  any  other 
person  in  this  world. 

Catauer.  Why  have  you  teJaa  such  a 
great  lildng  to  me? 

MiRANDOLiNA.  Because,  besides  your 
worth,  besides  your  station  in  life,  I  am  at 
least  sure  that  I  can  converse  with  you 
freely,  without  any  suspicion  that  I'm 
trying  to  make  a  bad  use  of  my  attentions, 
and  that  you  kmk  at  me  as  a  servant,  with- 
out bothering  me  with  ridiculous  preten- 
sions, with  grotesque  affectations, 

Cavauxr  [aside],  I  don't  understand 
that  extraord^iary  character  of  hers. 

MiRANnouNA  [atide].  The  satyr  will 
Sradually  become  tamed. 


,  Cavalier.  Come,  now,  if  yi'>u  have  some 
otJier  things  to  look  after,  don't  stay  on 
my  account. 

MiEAin>oi.iNA.  Yes,  sir,  I'm  going  to 
see  to  the  housework.  It's  my  love  and 
my  pastime.  If  you  wish  anything,  I'll 
send  the  waiter. 

Cavauxs.  Very  welt.  .  ,  ,  If  sometime 
you  should  come,  too,  I  'd  wiUii^y  see  you. 

MiRANUouNA.  Indeed,  I  don't  go  into 
the  guests'  rooms,  but  I  '11  nome  sometime 

Cavalier.  To  mine  .  .  .  whyT 

MiRANDOuNA.  Because,  your  lordship, 
you  please  me  very  much. 

Cavauhr.  I  please  youT 

MiRANDOUNA.  You  please  me  because 
you  are  n't  effeminate,  because  you  are  n't 
oneofthofle  who  fall  in  love,  [Atide.]  May 
my  nose  drop  off,  if  he  does  n't  fall  in  love 
before  to-morrow.      [Exit  Mirandouna,] 

Cataubs  {oltme).  Kh!  I  know  what 
I'm  doing.  Women?  Away  with  them. 
She  would  be  one  of  those  who  could  make 
me  love  her  more  t^ian  any  one  else.  That 
truth,  that  fre^om  of  speech  is  a  thing 
too  little  found.  She  has  something  or 
other  out  of  the  ordinary  about  her,  but 
1  would  n't  let  mysdf  fall  in  love  with  her 
for  that  reason.  For  a  little  amusement 
I'd  rather  be  in  her  company  than  in  any 
one  else's.  But  to  court  her?  To  lose  my 
freedom?  But  there's  no  danger.  Fools, 
fools,  those  people  who  fall  in  love  with 
women.  [E^  the  Cavaubr.) 

[Enter  Mirandouna  and  Pte  MAItaulS.) 

Mabquib.  May  I  come  in?  May  17 

[The  MARguiB  piJis  out  of  hit 
pocket  a  fine  silk  handkerchief, 
oTifolda  il,  and  pretends  to  wipe 
hie  forehead.] 

MiBANnoLiNA.  A  fine  handkerchief. 
Marquis! 

Marqcis.  Ah.  What  do  you  think  of  it? 
la  n't  it  beautiful?  Have  n't  I  good  taste? 

MnuKnoLiNA.  Certainly  the  best  taste. 

Mabquib-  Have  you  ever  seen  any  so 
beautiful? 

MiRANDOUNA.  It  IS  Buporb.  I  have 
never  seen  its  like. 

MABgms.  It  comes  from  Londoc. 


5«6 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


MiRANDOUNA.  It  is  beftutiful;  it  pleases 
me  very  mi-.ch, 

Marqdu.  Then  1  hare  good  taateT  I 
tell  you  the  Count  does  n't  know  how  to 
apend.  He  throws  hu  money  away  and 
he  never  buys  a  present  that's  hi  good 
taste.     . 

MiBANDOLiNA.  The  Marquis  is  a  oon- 
noiaaeur,  he  can  distinguish,  underetand, 
see,  appreciate, 

Mabqcib  [folding  the  handkerchief  cart' 
fully].  One  must  fold  this  well  bo  bb  not  to 
spoil  it.  This  sort  of  thing  has  to  be  taken 
great  care  of.  Here,  take  it. 

[He  irteef  if  to  Mibamdouma.] 

MiRANDOLiNA.  You  WAut  me  to  put  it 
ID  your  room? 

MABatns.  No;  put  it  in  yours. 

MiRANDOUNA.  Why  in  mine? 

MAEtQois.  Because  .  .  .  1  'm  gtving  it  to 
you. 

MiKANDOLiHA.  Your  lordship,  pardon 
me  — 

Mabqtjis.  No  matter,  I  give  it  you.  . .  . 

MiBANDOLiNA.  But  I  don't  want  it. 

Mabqois.   Don't  make  loe  angry. 

MiKANOouNA.  Oh,  if  that 'a  the  case,  the 
Marquis  knows  my  diapoaitioD;  I  don't 
want  to  displeaae  any  one.  So  as  not  to 
make  you  angry,  1 11  talce  it. 

[BnUr  the  Coitnt.] 
Count.  I  was  looking  for  you. 
MioANDOLiNA.  I'm  here. 
Mabqdib  [aaide  to  Mikansolima],  Look 
here.  Show  the  Count  the  handkerchief. 

MiSANSOLiNA  [ihowin^  the  handkerchief 
(o  tAe  Cocnt].  See,  Sir  Count,  the  beauti- 
ful ^t  the  Morquia  has  made  me. 
Count.  Congratulations]  Bravo,  Mar- 
Id  abquib.  Oh,  it's  nothing  at  all, 
nothing  at  all.  Mere  nothings.  Put  it 
back,  away;  I  don't  want  you  to  mention 
it.  I  dq;a't  want  people  to  know  what 
1  do. 

MiRANDOUNA  {ande\.  He  does  n't  want 
people  to  know  and  yet  he  makes  me  show 
it.  His  pride  vies  with  his  poverty. 

Count    [to    Mibanikjuna].     By   your 
<eave,  I'd  like  to  say  a  word. 
IdiKAMDouHA.  Pray,  qwak  freely. 


Mabquis.  You'll  spoil  Utat  handkv^ 
chief  if  you  put  it  in  your  pocket. 

MouMDOLiNA.  Oh,  I  ahall  put  it  in  ■ 
wrapper,  so  it  won't  be  soiled. 

Count  {to  Mqiandouka].  See  this  little 
jewel  set  with  diamonds. 

Mikandouna.  Very  beautiful. 

Count.  It's  the  companion  to  the  ear- 
rings I  gave  you. 

Mikandouna.  Certainly  it's  like  than, 
but  it's  more  beautiful  too. 

Marquib  [aside].  The  Count  be  hanged 
with  hie  diamonds  and  bia  money,  and  may 
the  deuce  take  him. 

Count  [to  MihandoijIna].  Now,  that 
you  may  have  an  ornament  to  match,  I'm 
going  to  give  you  the  jewel. 

MnuNDOuNA.  I  absolutely  wtm't  take 
it. 

Count.    Dont  treat  me  so  discourte- 

MnuMDOLiNA.  Oh,  I  never  do  tiiat. 
So  as  not  to  displease  you.  Ill  take  it  [To 
tA<  Marquis.]  Ah,  what  do  you  think  of  it, 
MarquiB?  1b  n't  it  el^ant? 

Mabquis.  Of  its  kind  the  handkerchief 
is  in  much  better  taste. 

Count.  Yee,  but  between  kind  and  kind 
there  is  quite  a  distanoe. 

Mabquis.  a  fine  thingi  To  boast  in 
public  of  your  great  outlay. 

Count.  Yea,  yea,  you  give  your  gifts  in 
secret. 

MmANDOLiNA  \aride\.  I  can  wdl  b^ 
and  with  truth  that  where  there  are  two 
litigants  the  third  person  gets  the  profit. 

Marquib.  Count,  Count,  you'll  pay  me 
for  this. 

Count.  What  are  you  complaining 
about? 

Marquis.  I  am  who  I  am,  and  I  won't 
be  treated  so.  Enough  ...  a  handkerehief 
of  that  kind!  MirandoUna  bold  it  dear. 
Handkerchiefs  of  that  kind  you  don't  ma 
across  every  day.  Diamonds  you  may  gst, 
but  handkerchiefs  of  that  kind  you  won't 
get.  [BxU  the  Marquis.] 

MiRANDOLiNA  Itutdt].  Oh,  what  a  fool  I 

Count..  Dear  Mirandolina,  you  are  n't 
displeased  with  what  I  do. 

Mirandolina.  Not  at  all,  sir. 

Count.  I  do  it  for  your  saktt.  I  do  it  in 


cmizedbv  Google 


THE  MISTRESS  OF  THE  INN 


5x7 


order  to  bring  profit  and  ciustomen.  Be- 
sidea,  1  am  yours;  youre  is  my  heart,  and 
youra  are  my  riches,  and  I  place  them  all 
freely  at  your  diapoaal.  [ExU  the  Count.] 
MiKANDouNA  [oIoTw).  With  all  his 
richra,  with  all  hia  gifts  hell  never  succeed 
in  maidng  me  love  him;  and  much  leas  will 
the  Morquia  with  his  ridiculous  protection. 
If  I  had  to  attach  myself  to  one  of  these 
two  it  would  certainly  be  to  the  one  who 
spends  the  moert  money.  But  the  one  does 
n't  concern  me  any  more  than  the  other. 
1  am  bound  to  make  the  Cavalier  di  Ripa- 
fratta,  fall  in  love  with  me,  and  a  jewel 
twice  as  fine  as  this  would  n't  give  me  half 
■0  much  pleasure.  I'll  try;  I  know  1  have 
n't  sldll,  but  I'll  try.  The  Count  and  the 
Marquis  meanwhile  will  leave  me  in  peace 
and  111  have  leisure  to  be  in  the  Cavalier's 
society.  Suppose  he  does  n't  yield!  Ah, 
but  who  can  resist  a  woman  when  he  gives 
her  time  to  use  her  art.  Who  runs  away 
does  n't  have  to  fear  oonquest;  but  he  who 
loiters,  who  listens  and  is  pleased,  must 
sooner  or  lat«T  fall  in  spite  of  himself. 

[Exit  MlRANDOLIKA-I 


The  Cavalibr'b  room  uiUh  table-laid  for 
dinner,  and  chaira. 

[Enter  the  Cavalidr,  tofto  walk*  oicmt  with 
abook.  Servant.  FABtacwa  enter*  and 
put*  the  soup  on  Ike  table.] 

FABRicms  [to  the  Servant].  Tell  your 
master,  if  he  is  ready  for  dinner,  that  the 
soup  is  on  the  table. 

^BVANT  [to  Fabbicius).  You  might  just 
as  well  tell  him. 

FABRICI0B.  He's  such  a  queer  fellow, 
that  I  don't  say  anything  to  him  unless  I 
have  to. 

Skrtaht.  And  yet  he  is  n't  so  bad.  Of 
course  he  can't  bear  the  sight  of  women; 
but  on  the  other  hand  he's  most  agreeable 

Fabbicius  [aeide].  He  can't  bear  the 
sight  of  women.  Poor  fooll  He  does  n't 
know  what's  good  when  he  sees  it. 

[Exit  Fabhicxus.) 


Servant.  Your  lordship,  if  you  please, 
dinner  is  served. 

[The  Cavalibb  putt  aviay  th*  boot 

and  goei  and  ait*  down  at  the 

tfMe.] 

Cavaubk  [to  the  Servant].  This  momii^ 

dinner  seemed  to  be  served  much  earlier 

than  usual. 

[The   Senianl    stand*    behind    the 

Cavalibb's  chair  with  a  napkin 

under  his  arm]. 

SxBVANT.    This  room  has  been  served 

first.    The  Count  d'Albafiorita  gruii^>led 

because  he  wsnt«d  to  be  served  first,  but 

the  mistress  wanted  your  lordship  to  be 

served  first. 

Cavaubb.  I  am  mu^  obliged  for  the 
attentions  she  shows  me. 

Sbbvant.  She  is  a  very  accomplished 
woman,  your  lordship.  In  all  the  world 
I've  seen,  I've  never  found  a^litcr  inn- 
keeper than  she. 

Catalibb  [turning  a  liiHe  backward]. 
She  pleases  you,  then,  eh? 

SnnvANT.  If  it  were  n't  for  wronging 
my  master,  I  would  like  to  eat«r  her  serv- 
ice as  a  waiter. 

Cavauxb.  Poor  fooll  What  would  you 
want  her  to  do  yith  you? 

lOisei  him  the  plate  and  he  ehartgea 

iij. 

Sbbvant.  a  woman  of  that  sort,  I'd 
like  to  serve  like  a  Uttle  dog. 

[Ooet  for  a  di^.] 

Cavalibb.  By  Jove.  She  bewitehee 
than  all.  It  woidd  be  funny  if  she  should 
bewitch  me  too.  Cheer  up;  to-morrow  I'm 
going  te  Leghorn,  Let  her  do  her  worst 
for  to-day,  but  she  will  discover  I'm  not 
so  weak.  It  takes  more  than  that  to  over- 
come my  dislike  for  women. 

Sbbtant  [entering  with  Ike  boHtd  meat 
and  another  diek].  The  mistress  said  that 
if  you  did  n't  like  the  fowl,  she  would  send 
in  a  p^eon. 

Cavaubb.  This  is  all  right.  What's 
that  you've  got? 

Sbbvant.  The  mistress  told  me  that  I 
should  toll  her  whether  this  sauce  suited 
your  lordship,  for  sh«  made  it  with  her 
own  hands. 

Cavalisb.    TloM  1 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Servant.  I  '11  tell  her,  your  lordship. 

Cavauer.  Go,  tell  her  at  once. 

Servant.  At  once.  [Aside.]  What  a 
miracle?  He  eendfi  a  compliment  to  a 
woman!  [ExU  Servant.] 

Cavalier  [alone].  It  is  a  deliaious  ssuoe. 
I  h&ve  never  tasted  a  better.  [Goes  on 
eating.]  Certainly,  if  Mirandolina  always 
does  this  she  will  always  have  patrons. 
Good  table,  good  linen.  And  then  I  can't 
deny  that  she  is  kind;  but  what  1  esteem 
more  in  her  ia  her  frankness.  Oh,  what  a 
splendid  thing  ia  frankness!  Why  can't 
I  bear  the  sight  of  women?  Because  they 
are  false,  wheedling.  But  that  fine  frank- 
ness! Ah,  me  . .  . 

[BnUr  the  Servant.] 

SiBVANT.  The  mistress  thanks  you  for 
your  kindnesa  in  appreciating  her  humble 

Gavaubb.  Bravo,  master  of  ceremo- 
nies, bravo. 

Servant,  Now  she  is  making  another 
dish  with  her  hands,  but  I  don't  know 

Cavalier.  She  is  mp-liing  it? 

Servant.  Yes,  sir. 

Cavalier.  Give  me  somethii^  to  drink. 

Servant.  Yes,  sir.  [Goet  la  g^lAe  liquor.] 

Cavalier.  Well,  now,  I'll  have  to  re- 
ciprocate generously.  She  is  overly  po- 
lite; 111  have  to  pay  double.  I  must  treat 
her  well,  but  I  must  go  away  soon.  [The 
Servant  gives  him  the  liquor.]  Tell  me,  is 
the  Marquis  at  the  t^le? 

Sbrvant.  He  has  gone  out,  and  has  n't 
been  seen. 

Cavalier  [indicating  he  vanle  plale 
Aanged].  Here. 

Servant,  Yes,  sir. 


Mirandolina.  May  I  come  in? 
Cavalier.  Who  is  here? 
MiRANDouNA.  At  your  service. 
Cavaubr.  Take  that  plate  from  ber. 
Mirandolina.  Potdonme.  Letmehave 


the  honor  of  putting  it  on  the  table  with 
my  own  hands.  [Pvta  the  food  on  the  table.] 

Cavausb.  That  isn't  your  duty. 

Mirandolina.  Oh,  air,  who  am  I;  some 
fine  lady?  I  am  only  the  servant  of  who- 
ever deeiree  to  come  to  my  inn. 

Cavauer.  What  humility! 

Mirandolina.  Of  course,  it  would  n't 
be  difficult  to  serve  all  the  tables,  but  I 
don't  do  it  for  certain  reasons;  I  don't 
know  whether  you  csteh  my  meaning  or 
not.  As  far  as  you  ore  oonoemed,  I  come 
without  scniplee,  and  frankly. 

Cavaliek.  Thankyou,  What  dish  ia  that? 

Mirandolina.  It  is  a  little  ragoia  I 
nifide  with  my  own  hands. 

Cavalier.  It  will  be  good.  If  you  have 
made  it,  it  must  be  good, 

MmANDOUNA.  Oh,  you  are  exceedingly 
kind,  sir.  I  don't  know  how  to  do  anything 
well.  But  I  would  like  to  know  how  to  suit 
80  acoomplished  a  gentleman, 

Cavalieb  [aride].  To-morrow  to  Leg- 
horn. —  If  you  have  anything  to  do,  don't 
put  yourself  out  for  me. 

Mirandolina,  Not  at  all,  sir.  The 
house  is  well  provided  with  oooks  and  sav- 
ants. I  would  tike  it  if  you  would  see  if 
the  dish  is  to  your  taste. 

Cavalier.  Gladly.  At  once.  [He  lostot 
if.)  Splendid.  DeUcious.  Oh,  what  a 
flavor!  I  don't  know  what  it  is. 

Mirandolina.  Oh,  I  have  some  special 
secrets.  These  hands  know  how  4j>  make 
some  fine  things. 

Cavalier  [to  the  Servant  leilh  tome  pat- 
eion],  I  would  like  something  to  drink. 

Mirandolina,  You  should  drink  a  good 
wine  after  that  dish, 

Cavaueb  [to  Servant].  Giva  me  some 
Burgundy, 

Mirandolina.  Fine!  Burgundy  is  de- 
licious. In  my  opinion  it  is  the  beet  wine 
one  can  drink  with  food. 

[The  Servant  jmte  the  boUte  on  the 
table  with  a  gtaea] 

Cavalier.  Your  tssto  is  good  in  every' 

Mirandolina,  Indeed,  I  have  been  mia- 
taken  few  times. 

Cavalier.  And  yet  you  are  miatokag 
thiatimB. 


:.L|.i.zedi!,G0Og[c 


THE  MISTRESS  OF  THE  INN 


5>9 


HiRAinKiUKA.  la  what,  airT 

Cat  AUKS.  In  bdjering  I  desflrre  ipetiud 
favor  at  your  haadi. 

MiBANDOLiNA  Itighing].  Oh,  Sir  Cavo- 
Ii«, ... 

Catauxh  [chanfftng  hit  Umt].  What's 
the  nutter?   Why  thew  sighs? 

MiRANDOLINA.    I'llt«llyOU.    I  &m  juSt  ftB 

attentive  to  every  one  and  it  makee  me  feel 
bad  when  I  think  that  some  aie  uogratefuJ. 

Cavalier  [eompIaeeTUly].  I  von't  be 
imgratefuL 

MiHANi>ouNA.  I  don't  pretend  to  ac- 
quire merit  in  your  eyM,  merely  by  doii^ 
my  duty. 

Catalixr.    No,  no,  I  understand  very 

well.    I  am  not  io  uncouth  as  you  think 

me.   You  won't  have  to  complain  of  me. 

[Tumi  ihe  wine  inlo  ihe  plou.j 

MisANEioLiHA.  But,  —  air,  —  I  don't 
understand. 

Cavausb  [drinkt].  To  your  health. 

MiRAMiMLtNA.  Very  much  obliged. 
You  do  me  exceeding  honor. 

Cavalibs.  This  wine  is  delicious. 

MiaANDOUMA.  Burgundy  u  my  passion. 

Cavaukr  [ofering  the  tDin«].  It  ia  at 
your  service, 

MiRANDOLiNA.  Oh,  thanks,  sir. 

Gavauzb.  Have  you  dined? 

MiRANDOLiHA.  Yea,  your  lordship. 

Cavaubb.  Don't  you  wantalittleglass? 

MiRAMnouNA.  I  don't  deserve  these 
attentions. 

Cavauxb.  Indeed,  I  give  it  to  you  will- 
ingly. 

MiKANDOLiNA.  I  don't  know  what  to 
say.  I  accept  your  poUtenees. 

Cavaukr  [to  Ihe  ServaiU].   Get  a  glass. 

MiRAHDOUNA  [laking  the  Cavaubs's 
flaas].   No,  no,  if  I  may,  I'll  take  this. 

Cavalibr.  I  bog  you,  1  have  been  served 
from  it. 

MiRANDOUNA.  I  shall  drink  to  your 
beauty. 

ILavffhiTig,  Ihe  Servanl    putt  lh» 
other  glaea  in  the  saucer.] 

Cataubr  [aeide].  £h,  rasoall 

[Pours  out  the  wine.] 

MiKANDOLtNA.  But  it  is  some  time  since 
I  have  eaten;  I  am  afraid  it  will  hurt  me. 

Cavalhr.  There  ia  no  danger. 


MiRANDOUNA.  If  you  oould  favor  me 
with  a  small  bit  of  bread. 

Cavaubr.  Gladly.  [Ouet  ha^  a  bit  of 
bread.]  Herel 

[MntANDOLiMA,  with  the  cup  in  one 

hand  and  the  bread  in  the  other, 

maJeea  a  -prelenae  </  bdtng  ill  at 

eate  and  doe»  not  know  what  to 

do  with  the  bread  and  wine.} 

Cavalibb.    You  are  ill  at  ease.    Dtm't 

you  want  to  sit  down. 

MiRANDOUNA.  I  don't  deeerve  so  much, . 

Cavaubb.  Come,  oome,  we  are  alone. 
{To  the  Servant.)  Get  her  a  chair. 

Sbrvant  [aeide].  My  master  must  be 
going  to  die;  he  has  never  acted  like  that 
before.  [Ooei  to  get  the  chair.] 

MiRANDOUNA.  If  the  Count  and  the 
Morquia  should  know,  poor  mel 

Cavaubb.  Why? 

MiRANDOUNA.  A  hundred  times  they 
have  wanted  me  to  oblige  them  by  eating  or 
drinking,  and  I  have  never  wanted  to  do  it. 

Cataubr.  Come,  now,  sit  down. 

MiRANi>OLiNA.  To  obey  you. 

tSito  down  and  dip*  her  bread  in 


them 


«.] 


Cavalibb  |a«ide  to  Servcmtl.  listenl 
Don't  t«ll  any  one  that  tJie  innkeeper  is 
sitting  at  my  table, 

Sbbtakt.  Don't  worry.  [Aeide.]  This 
new  aq>ect  of  his  surpriseB  me. 

MiRAHDOUNA.  To  the  health  of  every- 
thing which  pleasee  the  Cavalier. 

Cavaubb.  Thank  you,  my  polite  hoe- 
teas  ..  . 

MiRANDOUNA.  This  toast  dose  n't  r^er 
to  women. 

Cavaubb.  No7  Why? 

MtRANi>ouKA.  Because  I  know  you 
can't  bear  the  sight  d  them. 

Cavaubr.  It  is  true;  I  have  never  been 

MiRANDOUNA.  May  you  always  be  of 
that  mind. 

Cataubr.  I  would  not  wish.  . . 

[He  locka  at  the  Semant.] 

MiRANDOUNA.  What,  sir? 

Cavaubb.  Listen.  {He  whiepere  in  her 
ear.]  I  would  n't  want  you  to  make  me 
change  my  nature. 


Sao 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Mm&NDOLiMA.  I,  sir?  How? 

CayaIiIBR  [to  Ike  Servant],   Go  away. 

Sekvant.  Is  aomething  wemtod? 

Cavaubb,  Have  two  eggs  cooked  for  me 
■nd  when  they  are  done,  bring  them  in. 

Servant,  How  do  you  want  them? 

Cavaubr.  Ab  you  pleaae,  but  hurry  up. 

Skutamt.   I  imdeTBtand.   [Exit  Servant.] 

Cavauiui.  Minmdolina,  you  are  a  po- 
lite young  woman. 

MotANDOLiNA.  Ah,  dr,  you're  m firing 
fun  of  me. 

Cavaubr.  Listen.  I  want  to  say  some- 
thing true,  very  true,  which  will  redound 
to  your  ^ory. 

MiRANDOUNA.  I  wilt  listen  gladly. 
'  Cavaubr.  You  are  the  first  woman  in 
this  world  whose  society  I  could  endure 
with  pleasure  for  any  length  of  time. 

MniANDOUNA.  I  shall  tell  you,  Sir  Cav- 
alier, my  worth,  indeed,  is  little,  but  at 
timee  there  enst  these  kindred  natures 
which  meet.  This  sympathy,  this  afiSnity, 
lives,  too,  between  persons  who  don't 
know  each  other.  I,  too,  feel  for  you  what 
I  have  never  felt  for  another, 

Cavaubr,  I  fear  that  you  wish  to  de- 
stroy my  peace  of  mind. 

MnuNDOUNA,  CiHne,  sir,  if  you  are  a 
wise  man,  act  like  one.  Don't  fall  into  the 
weaknesses  of  others.  Indeed,  if  I  know  it, 
I  can't  come  here  again.  Besides,  I  feel 
something  or  other  in  me  which  1  have 
never  felt  before,  but  I  don't  want  to  lose 
my  senses  over  the  men,  and  much  less 
over  one  who  hates  women,  and  who,  per- 
haps to  try  me,  and  then  make  fun  of  me, 
Domes  with  a  new  style  of  talk  to  tempt  me. 
Sir,  favor  me  with  a  little  Burgundy. 

Cavauer.  Enough  — 

[Poura  lite  wine  into  a  gltut.] 

MtSAMDOLiNA.  He  is  on  the  very  point 
of  falling, 

Cavaubb.  Here, 

[Owe*  her  the  gloM  with  Ute  wtn«.] 

MiRANDOLiNA,  Much  obliged.  But  are 
n't  you  going  to  drink  with  meT 

Cayaukr.  Yes,  I  shall.  (Aside.]  It 
would  be  better  if  I  should  get  drunk.  One 
devil  would  drive  out  the  other. 

[T'urru  the  mne  into  hi*  glau.] 

MuuNDOUMA  [eoyly].  diraliu . . . 


Cavaubr.  What  is  it? 
MiBAMDOUNA.    Clink.    [She  maket  htr 
glast  dink  againtl  hit.]    Here's  to  good 

Cavausb  la  WUe  tenderly].    Here's  to 

MiRAiinouNA.  Here's  to  those  —  friio 
like  each  other  —  sincerely.  Clink. 

Cavaubb.  Here's  to  you. 

[BnitT  the  MARquts.] 

Marquis.  I'm  here,  too.  Who's  health 
is  it? 

Cavaubr  [in  a  different  lone].  What, 
Marquis? 

Marquis.  Excuse  me,  friend.  I  called. 
There  is  no  one  here? 

MlBANDOUNA  [trTfioQ  to  leotw).  With 
your  permission. 

Cavaubr  [to  Mirakdouna],  Stay. 
[To  the  MARQuia.t  I  don't  take  so  much 
liberty  with  you. 

Marquis.  Bck"^  ycur  pardon.  We 
are  friends.  I  thought  you  were  alone.  I 
am  glad  to  see  you  beside  our  adorable 
mistress.  Ab,  what  do  you  say,  Isn't  she 
a  masterpiece? 

MiRANDOUNA,  Sir,  I  was  hvn  to  serve 
the  Cavalier,  I  felt  a  little  ill  and  he  braced 
me  up  with  a  ^ass  of  Burgundy. 

Mabquib  [la  (Aa  Cavaubr],  Is  that  Bur- 
gundy? 

Cavaubb.  Yes,  it  is. 

Marquis.  But,  the  real  thing? 

Gavalibb,  At  least,  J  paid  for  such. 

Marquis.  I  understand  wines.  Let  me 
taste  it,  and  I'll  tell  you  whether  it's  gea- 
uine  or  not. 

Cavaubr  [caUing].  Look  here! 

[Bnlef  the  Servant  vrith  the  eggi.] 
Cavaubr  [to  Servant],  A  little  ^ass  for 
the  Marquis. 

Marquis.   Not  such  a  little  glass  dther. 
Burgundy  is  n't  a  txirdial.  To  judge  it  one 
has  to  drink  enough  of  it. 
Servant.  Here  are  the  eggs. 

[About  (0  place  them  on  Uta  tabU.] 

Cavaubb.  I  don't  want  anything  more. 

Marquis,  What  dish  is  that? 

Cavaubb.    Eggs.    I  don't  want  them. 

[The  SmvU  lake*  Ihtm  umy.] 


THE  MISTRESS   OF  THE   INN 


S" 


MiRANDOUNA.  Harquis,  with  the  per- 
missioD  of  the  Cavalier,  taste  this  little 
ragout  E  made  with  my  own  handa, 

MAKQtiiB.  Oh,  yea.  Look  here!  A  chair. 
[The  Senxmt  bringi  him  a  chair  and  he  puts 
Ihe  (fiau  in  the  laveer],  A  fork. 

Cavaubk.   Go,  get  him  a  cover. 

[The  SenaiU  goes  to  gti  it.] 

MiRANDOLiNA.  Sir,  I  am  better,  I'm 
Eoing- 

Mabquib.  Do  me  the  pleasure  of  staying 
a  little  while. 

MlRANDOUNA.  But,  Bir,  I  have  to  attend 
to  my  business,  and  then  tiie  Cavalier  . . . 

Mabquib  [to  the  CavauerI.  You  don't 
mind  if  she  stays  a  litt)e  while? 

Cataukr.  What  do  you  wabt  of  herT 

Marquis.  1  wish  to  have  you  drink  a 
little  glass  of  Cyprian  wine  which  —  as 
long  as  you  are  in  the  world  —  you  11  never 
taste  its  like.  I  want  Mirandolina  t^i  taate 
it,  too,  and  give  her  opinion. 

Cavauxr  [Io  Miranholina].  Come,  to 
please  the  Marquis,  stay. 

MiEiANDOLiNA,    The  Marquis  wi3\  ex- 

Mabquib.  You  don't  want  to  taste  it? 

Mikandouna.  Some  other  time,  your 
excellency. 

Cavalier.  Come,  stay. 

MtRAia>OLiNA  [to  the  CavalibrJ.  You 
bid  roe? 

Cavauer.   I  tell  you  to  stay. 

Mirandolina  [titting].   I  obey. 

Cavalier  [aaide].  She  is  always  putting 
me  under  more  and  more  obligations. 

Marquis  [eating].  Oh,  what  a  dish!  Oh, 
-what  a  roffouf .'  Oh,  what  savor  1  Oh,  what 
taste! 

Cavaues  [aeide  to  MiRAinx>LiiiA).  The 
Marquis  will  be  jealous  because  you  are 
near  me. 

Mirandolina  [aside  to  the  Cavalikr]. 
It  does  n't  make  the  slightest  difference  to 

Cavauer  [aaide  to  Mirandolima|.  You 
are  a  man-haterT 

Mirandolina  [aside  to  tiu  Cavalier]. 
As  you  are  a  wtmian-hater. 

CAVAUERlondeeoMiRAMDOLiNA].  These 
enemies  of  mine  are  avenging  themselves 


Mihandoliha  [aside  to  ihs  CavaliebI. 
How,  sir? 

Cavalier  [aside  to  Miramdouna].  Eh, 
rogue!  You  will  see  very  well. 

Mabquib.  Friend,  to  your  health. 

[Drinks  the  Bvrgwtdy.] 

Cavalier.  Wall,  how  is  it? 

Mabquis.  With  your  leave,  it  is  n't 
worth  anything  at  aU.  You  should  taste 
my  Cyprian  wine. 

Catalieb.   But  where  is  your  Cyprian 

Marquis.  I  have  it  here.  Ibavebrou^t 

it  with  me.  I  want  us  all  to  enjoy  it.  See. 
[Drains  out  a  very  KTriaU  bottle.] 

Mirandolina.  Judging  from  what  I  see, 
you  don't  want  the  wine  to  go  to  our  heads. 

Marquis.    That?    If  you  drink  it  by 
drops,  it  is  like  cordial.   [Opens  the  bottle.] 
Look  here!  The  glasses. 
[iSermnt  cwries  some  glaasu  Jot  the  Cj/p- 

Marquis  [covering  the  botOe  with  his 
hand].  They  are  altogether  too  large. 
Have  n't  you  any  smaller? 

Cavauer  [to  Servant].  Bring  those  used 
for  cordial. 

Mirandolina.  I  think  it  would  be 
enough  to  ssiell  it. 

Marquis.  Ah,  fine!  It  has  a  oomfortii^ 
odor.  [He  puis  his  nose  to  it.] 

[Swvant  brings  in  three  little  glasses  in  the 

Mabquis  [pourt  very  dmiAy  and  does  not 
fiU  the  flosses;  he  poors  ouiSor  the  Cavalier, 
Mirandolina,  and  hims^,  corking  the 
boUUuJeS].  Whatnectarl  Wliat  ambrosial 
What  distilled  manna!  [Drinks.] 

Cavaukb  [aside  to  Mibandolina].  What 
does  this  miserable  stuff  seem  like  to  you? 

Mirandolina  [aside  to  the  Cavalier]. 
Rinsings  of  the  flask. 

Mabquis  [to  the  Cavalier].  Ah.  What 
are  you  saying? 

Cavalier.  Oood!  Splendid! 

Marquis.  Are  you  pleased  with  it, 
Mirandolina? 

Mirandolina,  For  my  part,  sir,  I  can- 
not dissimulat«.  I  don't  like  it;  I  find  it 
bad  and  I  can't  say  it's  good.  I  oomidi- 
ment  the  man  who  knows  how  to  pretouL 


5" 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


But  he  who  can  pretend  in  one  thing  will 
know  how  to  pretend  in  another  aiso. 

Catameb  [luuie].  She  rebukee  mo;  I 
don't  see  why. 

Marquih.  Mirandolinft,  you  don't  un- 
derstand  tbie  kind  of  wine.  I  pity  you.  In- 
dued, you  appreoiatod  the  handkerchief  I 
gave  you  and  you  were  pleased  with  it, 
but  you  don't  appreciate  my  Cyprian  wine. 
[Finithea  drmking.] 

MiKANDOLntA  [tuide  (o  the  Cavauxb]. 
You  see  how  h«  boaeta. 

Cavaubb  [atide  to  Mirandolina].  I 
would  n't  do  that. 

MioANDOLiNA  \amde  to  the  Cavaxjek]. 
Your  boast  ia  in  despiaing  women. 

Cavauks  [and*  to  Mibandouna|. 
And  yours  in  conquering  all  men, 

MniANDOUKA  [coyly  atide  to  the  Cava- 
UERJ.  All,  no. 

Cavaukb  [loith  some  paition  atide  to 
Mirandouna).  All,  yeal 

Maimcib  [to  the  Semant,  toho  bringt  litem 
la  him  on  a  aaveer].  Look  here.  Three  clean 
glaaaeB. 

MiRANBOUNA.   Idon'tcareforanymore. 

Marquis.  No,  no.  Don't  be  afraid.  I'm 
not  doing  this  for  you.  [Povrt  the  Cyp- 
rian inine  into  the  three  litSe  alaeeea.]  My 
good  man,  with  the  permiBslon  of  your 
master,  go  to  the  Ckiunt  d'Albafiorita  and 
tell  him  from  me  in  a  loud  tone  of  voice, 
ao  that  every  one  can  hear,  that  I  ask  him 
to  taste  a  little  of  my  Cyprian  wine. 

Sbhtant.  At  your  servioe.  [Agide.]  He 
certainly  won't  get  dnink  on  it. 

[Exit  Servant.] 

Cavaubr.  Marquis,  you  are  exceed* 
ingly  generous. 

Marquis.  17  Ask  Mirandolina. 

MiRANDOUHA.  Oh,  certainly. 

Marquis  [to  Mikakoouna].  Has  the 
Cavalier  seen  the  handkerchief? 

MiRANDOUNA.  No,  he  has  n't. 

Marquis  [to  the  Cavalier].  You  should 
see  it.  [PiitUng  back  the  botUe  vriOi  a  UUU 
vfine  left.]  This  little  bit  of  balm  I'll  keep 
for  this  evening. 

MiRANDouNA.  Take  care  that  it  does 
n't  make  you  ill.  Marquis. 

Marqctb  [to  Mirandolina).  Ah,  that 
does  n't,  but  do  you  know  what  does? 


Mirandolina.  What? 

Masquib.  Your  beautiful  eyes. 

MiR^iNDOUNA.  R«ally? 

MahqVib.  My  dear  Cavalier,  I'm  des- 
perately in  love  with  her. 

Cavalier.  You  displease  me. 

Marquis.  You  have  never  had  any  ex- 
perience in  loving  women.  Oh,  if  you  had, 
you  would  pity  me. 

Oavauxh.  Yea,  yes,  I  pity  you. 

Marquis.  And  I  am  as  jealous  as  a 
beast.  I  let  her  stand  near  you,  because  I 
know  what  you  are.  With  any  other  man 
I  would  n't  allow  it  for  a  million  pounda. 

Cavauxr  [aeide].  This  fellow  begins  to 
bore  me. 

[Enter  the  Servant  vUh  a  boUU  tn  a 

Sbrvaht  [to  the  Marquis].  The  Count 
thanks  your  excellency  and  sends  you  a 
bottle  of  Canary. 

Marquis.  Ob,  oh.  He  would  like  to 
o<»npare  bis  Canary  with  my  Cyprus.  Let's 
see.  Poor  fooll  It  is  miserable  atufl;  I 
know  it  by  the  smell. 

[ffe  gtti  up  and  loket  the  bottle  in 
hie  hand.] 

Cavaurr  [la  the  Marquis].  You  taste 

Marquis,  I  don't  want  to  tante  it  at  all. 
This  is  an  impertinence  that  the  Count 
has  done  me,  just  like  so  many  others.  He 
wants  to  outdo  me,  to  make  me  angry,  to 
make  me  do  some  bit  of  folly.  But  I  swear 
by  Heaven,  I  shall  do  one  such  act  which 
will  do  for  a  hundred.  Mirandolina,  if  you 
don't  turn  him  out,  something  will  happen. 
Some  fine  things  will  happen.  He  is  a  hot- 
headed fellow,  I  am  who  I  am  and  I  don't 
want  to  have  to  endure  like  insults. 

[Exit  the  Marquis,  lakino  aieay 
thebotUe.] 

Cavaubb.  The  poor  Marquis  is  a  mad- . 

Mirandolina.  Fearing  lest  his  angw 
should  ever  make  him  ill,  he's  carried  away 
the  bottle  to  return  it. 

Cavalier.  He  is  a  madman,  I  tell  you. 
And  you  have  made  him  snob. 

Mirandolina.  I  am  one  of  thooe  who 
makes  men  mad? 


.CtOo^^Ic 


THE  MISTRESS  OF  THE  INN 


S'3 


Cavaliih  [trovbttd].    Ym,  indoed,  you 

MmANDOLiMA.  Sir,  with  yonr  permia- 
(don.  |fi«M.l 

Cavalibr.  Stay. 

MmANDOUKA  Agoing],  Pardon  me,  I 
don't  mslce  any  one  mad. 

Cavauer.  Listen. 

[GeU  up,  but  remauu  at  tite  table.] 

MiBANDOLiNA.  Pardon  me. 

Cataubb  [macommondinirtorw].  Stay, 
I  tell  you. 

MiRANDOUNA  IhatifihtUy  IwrUng  around\. 
What  do  you  want  of  me? 

Catauxr  \perpUxed].  Nothing.  Drink 
another  glsM  of  Burgundy. 

MiKAMDOUNA.  Come,  now,  bit,  quick, 
quick,  for  I  muat  be  going. 

Cataukr.  Sit  down. 

MiEANDOUNA.  Standing  up,  standiDg 
up. 

Cavaljbr  \ffiviaQ  her  the  glaia  tendtriy]. 
Here. 

MiBANDOuNA.  I'llpveatoastandthen 
I  must  go  immedintely.  A  toast  my  grand- 
mother taught  me  — 

Live,  thou  Bscehua,  live,  thou  love; 

Ye  do  both  ua  cheer,  console. 

One  doth  pan  through  throat  to  eoal, 

Other  runa  from  eye  to  eoul. 
Driok  I  wine ;  those  eyei  of  mme  — 

Them  I  use  u  thou  doat  thine. 

[ExU  MtRANl>OLINA.] 

CAVALiEa.  Bravo!  Gome  here!  Ah, 
rogue!  She  has  fled.  She  has  escaped 
and  left  me  a  hundred  devila  to  torture 

Servant  [to  fAeCAVALiEsJ.  Doyouwish 
the  fruit  to  be  served? 
Cataukr.  Go  to  the  devil. 

lExU  the  Senxaa.] 

"  Diink  I  wine,  those  eyea  of  mine  — 
Them  1  use  as  thou  dost — " 
What  mysterious  sort  of  a  toast  is  that? 
Ah,  wretch,  I  know  you.  You  want  to 
strike  me  down,  to  aHsasainate  me.  But 
she  does  it  with  such  grace!  She  knows 
well  how  to  ingratiate  herself.  Devil,  devil, 
you  would  make  me  endure  the  eight  of 
bet?  No,  I  will  go  to  Leghorn.  I  would  n't 


want  ever  to  meet  her  again.  She'll  never 
cross  my  path  again.  Cursed  womeni  I 
swear  I  '11  never  go  where  there  are  women 
any  more.  When  I  can,  I'll  insult  women 
with  the  greatest  pleasure  in  the  world. 
Nevertheless,  I  have  n't  been  able  to  in- 
sult Mirandolina.  She  has  conquered  me 
with  civility,  so  that  1  find  myself  almost 
obl^^  to  love  her.  But  she  is  a  woman; 
I  don't  want  to  trust  myself.  I  must  go 
away.  I  must  go  away  to-morrow.  But  if 
I  wait  till  t4>-marrow7  If  I  come  and  sleep 
in  the  house  this  evening,  who  can  sjHure 
me  Mirandolina  won't  finish  ruining  me? 
IThinka.]    Yes,  I  must  act  resolutely  like 

[RterUer  tite  Sermml.] 

Servant.  Sir. 

Cavaubr.  What  do  you  want? 

Servant.  The  Marquis  is  in  the  public 
room  and  awaits  you,  because  he  desires 
to  speak  to  you. 

Cavaurb.  What  does  that  fool  want? 
He  can't  get  money  out  of  me.  Let  him 
wait,  and  when  he's  tired  of  waiting,  he 
will  go  away.  Oo  to  the  waiter  of  the 
inn  and  tell   him  to  bring  my  bill  at 

Sebvant  [on  the  point  of  departure].  Yes, 

Cavaukb.  Listen.  Have  everything 
packed  in  two  hours. 

Servant.  You  want  to  leave,  perhaps? 

Cavalier.  Yes.  Bring  me  my  sword 
and  my  hat  without  letting  the  Marquis 

Servant.  But  if  he  sees  me  pack  tht 
tnmks? 

Cavalier.  Tell  him  what  you  will. 
Understand? 

Servant  [tmcje].  Oh,  how  much  it  pains 
me  to  leave  Mirandolina. 

[EzU  Servant.] 

Cavauer  [ofone].  And  yet  it  is  true.  1 
feel  in  leaving  here  a  new  imeasiness  whic^ 
I  have  never  experieaoed  before.  It  is  so 
much  worse  for  me  to  remain  here.  I  must 
go  away  all  the  sooner.  Yes,  women,  I 
shall  always  speak  iU  of  you;  yes,  you  have 
always  done  evil  to  us,  even  when  you 
wished  to  do  good. 


584 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


[Bnter  Pabricius.) 

Fasricius.  Is  it  true,  sir,  that  you  wish 
your  bill? 

Cavalier.  Yes;  have  you  made  it  out 
yetT 

Fabricidb.  The  mistress  is  doiog  it  now. 

Cavaueb.  She  makes  out  the  billsT 

Fabriciqb.  Ah,  always.  Even  when  her 
father  was  living.  She  writes  and  knows 
how  to  keep  accounta  better  than  any  clerk. 

Cavauiib  [oatde].  What  a  singular 
woman  she  ill 

Fabbioidb.  But  you  wish  to  go  away  at 

Cavaubr.  yeB,'myaSairB  are  pressing. 
Fabsiciub.    I  b^    you  r^nember  the 

Cavauer.  Bring  me  the  bill,  and  I  know 
what  I  ought  to  do. 

Fabriciub.  Do  yoa  wirii  your  account 
to  be  brought  here? 

Cavauer.  I  want  it  here;  I  shan't  go 
to  the  public  room  for  the  present. 

Fabriciub.  You  do  well;  that  bore  of  a 
Marquis  is  in  the  public  room.  Good  aoul. 
He  is  in  love  with  the  innkeeper,  but  that's 
all  the  satisfaction  he'll  get.  Miraodolina 
is  to  be  my  wife. 

Cavalier  [elumging  hit  tone].  The  bill. 

Fabriciub.  Yes,  sir,  at  once. 

[Exit  Fabbicids.J 

Cavauer  [alone].  Every  one  is  smitten 
with  Miraudolina.  It  ia  no  wonder  that  I 
have  begun  to  feci  myself  affected.  But  I 
will  go  away.  I  will  overcome  this  strange 
power.  Whom  do  I  see?  Mirandolina? 
What  does  she  want  of  meT  She  has  a  sheet 
ot  paper  in  her  hand.  She's  bringing  me 
my  bill.  What  shall  I  do7  I  must  sndure 
thu  last  attack.  I'll  be  gone  from  here  in 
two  hours. 

[Enter  MniAMnoLiNA  wilh  a  xheet  of 
paper  in  her  hand.] 

MmANDOLtNA  [sadly].  Sir! 

Cavauxr.  What  is  it,  Mirandolina? 

MnuNDOLiKA  itlaodmg  in  the  baek- 
grauTid].  Pardon  me. 

Cavauer.  Come  here. 

MiRAHDOUNA.  You  asked  (or  your  bill; 
X  have  brought  it. 


Cavaueb.  Give  it  here. 

MiRANDouMA.  Here  it  is. 

[She  wipe»  her  eye»  vnlh  her  apron 
in  gwind  the  biil.] 

Cavaubb.  What  is  the  matterT  Are 
you  crying? 

Mirandolina.  No,  sir,  the  amoke  fot 
into  my  eyes. 

Cavauer.  Smoke  in  your  eyes?  Oh, 
well.  —  How  much  does  my  bill  come  toT 
[Reads.]  Ten  shillings.  For  such  generous 
hoBpitality  for  four  days  only  ten  shillings? 

Mirandolina.  That  is  the  bHI. 

Cavalii!r.  And  the  two  special  diafaee 
you  gave  me  this  momiog;  they  are  not  in 
the  biU7 

Mibandolina.  Pardon  me.  Whatever 
I  give,  I  don't  put  in  the  bill. 

Cavauer.  You  make  me  a  present  of 
them? 

Mirandouna.  Pardon  the  h'berty.  Ac- 
cept them  as  an  act  of  .  .  . 

[She  covers  her  face  making  a  pre- 
ienee  of  crying.] 

Cavalibr.  What  is  the  matter? 

MiRANDouMA.  I  don't  know  whether 
it  is  the  smoke  or  some  sort  of  running  <A 
the  eyes. 

Cavauer.  I  would  not  have  had  you 
sufier,  cooking  those  two  ddicious  dishes 
for  me. 

MiBAKDOUNA.  If  it  were  that,  I  would 
suffer  —  gladly  .  .  . 

[Pretending  to  be  trying  to  keep 
from  en/ing]. 

Cavalier  [andt].  Oh,  if  I  don't  get 
away  pretty  soon!  —  Come,  now,  there's 
three  pounds.  Enjoy  them  for  love  of  me 
and  have  pity  on  me  —  [He  hooomea  eon- 
fu»ed.\ 

[MiRANDOUNA  unCund  tpeakmg 
falls  as  though  aAa  has  fainted  on 
athair.] 

Cavalier.  Mirandolina.  Alast  Mirsn- 
dolinal  She's  fainted.  Can  it  be  that  she 
is  in  love  with  me?  But  so  soon?  And  irtiy 
not?  Am  I  not  in  love  with  her?  Dear 
Mirandolina.  .  .  ."Dear"?  Isaydeartoa 
woman.  But  she  fainted  on  my  account. 
Oh,-  how  beautiful  you  arel  If  I  only  had 
something  to  make  her  oome  to.  I  am  not 
much  in  the  society  of  women;  I  have  n't 


THE  MISTRESS   OF  THE  INN 


sn 


got  amdliiig-saltB  or  viale.  Who's  there? 
There's  no  one?  Quick  — I'll  go.  Poor 
little  girl.  Blessinga  on  you.        [Goea  ouf.) 

MiRANDOLiNA.  Now,  theD,  ho  hAB  given 
in  &t  lost.  The  weapons  we  use  to  conquer 
men  are  many.  But  when  they  are  obeti- 
nate,  the  final  blow,  that's  sure  to  win 
them,  is  fainting.  He's  coming  back.  He's 
coming  back.  [She  lie*  aa  before.] 

Cavaijer  [retioTting  tvith  a  jvg  of  tmitor]. 
Look.  Look,  She  has  n't  come  to  yet.  Oh, 
certainly  she  levee  me.  Sprinkling  water 
in  her  face  ought  to  revive  her.  [He  vprin- 
fclei  Ihe  water  and  the  tmwes.!  Courage, 
courage.  I  am  here,  dear.  I'll  never  leave 
you  now. 
{Enter  the  Servant  with  Ihe  aieord  and  hat.] 

SxRVANT  [to  the  Cavalier].  Here  are 
your  Bword  and  your  hat. 

Cataubb  [lo  Servant].  Go  away. 

Servant.  The  trunks  .  .  . 

Cavauer.  Go  away;  curse  you. 

Servant.  Mirandolina. 

Cavauer.  Go  before  I  Bplit  your  head. 
[He  threatena  with  the  jug;  the  Serwmt  goei.] 
She  has  n't  come  to  yet?  Her  forehead  per- 
spires. Come,  dear  Mirandolina,  take 
courage,  open  your  eyes.    Speak  to  roe 

[Enter  the  Marquis  a>id  the  Count.] 
Marquis.  Cavalier? 
ConjJT.  Friend? 
Cavauer  [aside].  Curses! 
Marquis  [2>«camin(7an;rv].  Mirandolina? 
MntANDOUHA  [getting  up].   Alosl 
Marquis.  I  have  made  her  recover. 
COONT.   1  rejoice,  Sir  Cavalier. 
MARQina.    Fine  for  the  gentleman  who 
can't  bear  the  sight  of  women. 
Cavauer.  What  impertinence! 
Count.   Have  you  given  in? 
Cavauer.  Go  to  the  devil,  all  of  you. 
[He  throws   the  fug  down  in  lAe 
direction  of  the  Count  and  the 
Marquis  and  breaks  it.    Exit 
the  Cavauer  in  a  rage.] 
Count.    The  Cavalier  has  become  a 
^lH^^nf^■l^  [Exit  the  Count.] 

Marquib.  I  want  satisfaction  for  this 
insult.  [Exit  the  Mabquib.] 


MiRAKDOUNA.  My  task  is  done.  His 
heart  is  on  fire,  in  flames,  in  ashes.  All  I 
have  ta  do  is  to  complete  my  victory,  to 
make  my  triumph  public  to  the  discom- 
forture  of  piccrumptuouB  men,  and  to  the 
honor  of  my  sex.        [Exit  Mirandolina.] 


ScxNB  I.  Mibandouna'b  room  tmtft  a 

lUlte  labU  and  linen  ready  to  iron. 

[Enter  Mirandouna.) 

MiRANnouNA.  Now  the  time's  put  for 
umiiaing  myself.  I  wont  to  look  after  my 
business  now.  First  1  wont  to  iron  this 
linen,  if  it  is  dry.  Oh,  Fabricius. 

Fabriciub.   Madam. 

Mirandolina.  Do  me  a  favor.  Get  me 
the  hot  flat-iron. 

Fabricius.  Yee,  ma'am. 

[With  serious  mien  on  the  point  of 
leaning.] 

MiRANDOUNA.  £bccuseme,if  Ibotheryou. 

Fabricius  [offering  to  go].  Not  at  all, 
madam.  While  I  eat  your  bread  I  am  under 
obligations  to  serve  you. 

MiRANDOUNA.  Woit,  List«o;  you  are 
not  bound  to  help  me  in  these  things;  but 
I  know  that  you  do  it  gladly  for  me  and  I 
—  enough,  I  won't  say  anything  more. 

Fabricius.  I  would  move  heaven  and 
earth  for  you.  But  I  see  that  everything 
is  thrown  away. 

MiRANDOUNA.  Why  thrown  away? 
Perhaps  I  am  ungrat«ful? 

Fabricius.  You  don't  pay  any  att«n- 
tion  to  poor  men.  The  nobflity  pleases  you 
overly  much. 

Mirandolina.  Ah,  poor  fool!  If  I  could 
tell  you  everything  I  Go,go;gBtmetheiron. 

Fabricius.  But  I  have  seen  it  with  these 
eyes  of  mine. 

MuuNDOUNA.    Go,  go;  teas  idle  talk. 


Getn 


:theii 


Fabricius  [s/oing].  I'm  going,  I'm  go- 
ing, I  will  serve  you  for  but  little  reward. 

MiRANDOUNA  [pretending  to  apeak  lo 
heradf,  but  really  so  that  she  may  be  heard\. 
With  thetie  men  the  better  one  likee  them 
the  worse  one  treats  them. 


536 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Fabriciub  [tendtrlp,  (umutff  around]. 
Whftt  did  )MU  Bay? 

MtRAMDOLiNA.  Come,  are  you  going  to 
get  me  that  ironT 

Fabriciub.  Yea,  I'll  get  it.  {Aiide.]  I 
doD't  understand  it  at  alL  Now  ibe  lifts 
me  up,  now  she  throws  me  down.  I  don't 
underataud  it  at  all.        [Exit  Fabricitjb.] 

MiRANDOLiNA  (aioR«].  Poor  fool!  He 
can't  help  serving  me  in  spite  of  himself. 
I  almost  burst  out  laughhig  to  think  of 
making  men  act  according  to  my  will.  And 
that  Cavalier  who  was  such  a  woman- 
hater,  now,  if  I  wished  I  could  make  him 
do  any  little  bit  of  folly  I  wanted  t«. 

Sbhtant  [entering],  Mirandolina. 

MiRANDOLdA.   What  is  it,  friend? 

Servant.  My  master  sends  you  his 
greetings.  He  told  me  to  ask  you  how  you 

MmANvoLiNA.  Tell  him  I  am  very  well. 

Servant.  He  says  you  should  drink  a 
little  of  this  cordial  which  will  make  you 
feel  ever  so  much  better. 

[He  oiveg  her  a  lUtk  gold  fiask]. 

MtRANiMUNA.  This  flask  is  gold? 

Servant.  Yee,  madam,  gold;  I  know  it 
positively. 

MiHAHDOLtNA.  Why  did  n't  be  give  me 
the  cordial  when  that  terrible  faint  came 
on? 

Sebvaht.  He  did  u't  have  this  flask  then. 

Mirandolina.  And  how  did  he  get  it 
now? 

Servant.  Listen!  In  confidence!  He 
Bent  me  to  call  a  goldsmith  and  he  bought 
it  and  paid  six  pounds  for  it,  and  then  he 
sent  me  to  an  apothecary  to  buy  the  epirits. 

Mirandolina.  Hal  Ha!  Hal 

Sebvant.   You're  latching. 

Mirandolina.  I'm  laughing  because  he 
sends  me  the  medicine  after  I  have  recov- 
ered from  my  illness. 

Servant,    It  will  be  good  for  another 

MnuNDOUNA.  Come,  I'll  drink  a  little 
now  for  a  preventive.  IDrtn^.)  Here. 
ISkeofertloffweltimthefiiuk.]  Thank  him. 

Servant,  Oht  Tbe  flask  is  yours. 

MraAnnoLiNA.  How  mine? 

Servant.  It's  this  nay.  My  master 
bought  it  purposely  for  you. 


Mirandolina.  Purposely  for  me? 

SiKVANT.  For  you;  but  hush. 

MiRANDouNA.  TVUce  htm  his  flask  and 
tell  him  that  I  thank  him. 

Servant.  Ah,  come. 

Mirandolina.  I  tell  you  te  take  it  to 
him,  that  I  don't  want  it. 

Servant.  You  want  to  give  him  this 
insult? 

Mibandolina.  Lees  idle  talk.  Do  your 
duty.   Take  it. 

Servant.  I  don't  need  anything  more 
said  to  me.  I'll  carry  it  to  him.  [Agide.] 
What  a  woman.  Refusee  six  pounds.  I 
have  never  found  one  like  her  and  it  would 
be  some  trouble  to  do  so.         [EtU  Servant.] 

Mirandolina  [ofone].  Oh,  he's  cooked, 
done  brown,  twice  baked.  But  just  as  what 
I've  done  with  him,  I've  not  done  for  my 
own  interest;  I  want  him  to  confess  the 
power  of  women  without  being  able  to  say 
that  they  are  self-eeeking  and  venial. 

FABRicnrs  [entering;  telf-corUained,  with 
iron  in  hie  hand].   Here's  your  iron. 

Mirandolina.  Is  it  good  and  hot? 

Fabriciub.  Yea,  madam,  it  is. 

Mirandolina.  What  newe  is  there? 

Fabriciub.  This  Cavalier  sends  embao- 
siee;  he  sends  gifts.  His  servant  told  me  so. 

Mirandolina.  Yes,  sir,  he  sent  roe  a 
little  gdd  flask  and  I  sent  it  back  to  him. 

Fabrictub.  You've  sent  it  back? 

MiRANDOUNA.  That  —  FabriduB  — 
that  he  may  not  say  —  Now,  don't  let  us 
talk  any  more  about  it. 

Fabriciub.    Dear  Mirandolina,  paidon 

Mirandolina.  Go  away,  let  me  iron. 

Fabriciub.     I'm  not  hindering  you. 

Mirandolina,  Qo,  get  anothra'  iron 
ready  and  when  it's  hot  brii^  it  to  me. 

Fabriciub.  Yes,  I'll  go.  Believe  me, 
when  I  say  .  .  . 

Mirandolina.  Don't  talk  any  more.' 
You  make  me  angry. 

Fabriciub.  I'll  keep  Btill.  [Aside.]  She 

is  a  queer  little  body,  but  I  am  fond  of  beet. 

[Exit  Fabriciub.) 

Mirandolina  [done].  This  too  is  fine. 
I'm  acquiring  merit  in  the  eyes  of  Fatoi- 
ciuB  by  having  refused  the  Cavalier's  gold 
flaak.  That  is  to  say  —  I  know  how  to  livc^ 


THE  MISTRESS   OF  THE  INN 


S'1 


to  act,  to  profit  bj  ererything,  with  good 
gnee,  nicely,  and  freely.  Ab  regarda  tact 
I  don't  need  to  soy  I  wrong  my  sex. 

^Mi  on  ffoning.] 

[Enter  the  Cavalibb.] 

Cat  Aims  [to  Mmtelf  in  the  baekiprtnittd]. 
See  heie.  I  did  n't  want  to  ooroe  here,  but 
the  devil  dragged  me. 

MiRANDOUNA  [oMdel.  See  him.  See  him. 
[She  looka  out  of  the  comer  of  her 
eyee  and  irrme.] 

CAVAUIiB.   Mirandolina? 

MiKAMDOUNA.  Oh,  SirCavalierl  Your 
most  humble  servant.  [Ironin^.l 

Cavaubb.  How  are  you? 

MiBANi>ouNA.  Very  well,  thank  you. 
[Ironing  vrithout  lookinQ  at  him,] 

Cavaubb.  I  have  reaaon  to  complain 
of  you. 

MiRANDOLiKA.  Why,  sir? 

[Looking  at  him  a  little.] 

Cavalixk.  Because  you  refused  a  little 
flask  I  sent  you. 

MiBANnoLiNA,  What  did  you  want  me 
to  do  with  it?  [Ironing.] 

Cavalixr.  Make  use  of  it  at  need. 

Mdundouna.  Thank  Heaven,  I'm  not 
subject  to  fainting  spells.  What  happened 
to-day  never  happened  to  me  before. 

[Ironing.] 

Cavaubb.  Dear  Mirandolina,  I  hope 
I  was  n't  the  occasion  of  that  disastrous 
accident. 

MiRANnoLiNA.  Yea,  I'm  afraid  you  were 
precisely  the  cause  of  it. 

Cavaubb  [j)ae»ionaielii\.   II  Why? 

MiBAiiDOLiNA.  You  made  me  drink  that 
cursed  Burgundy  and  it  made  me  ill. 

[Ironing  angrily.] 

Cavaubb  [mortified].  What?  Is  it  pos- 
sible? 

MiBANsouNA.  It  is  certainly  true.  I'll 
never  go  into  your  room  again.     [Ironing.] 

Cavaubb.  1  understand.  You  will 
never  come  into  my  room  ^;ajn.  I  under- 
stand the  mystery.  Yea,  I  understand  it. 
But  come  there,  and  you  will  consider 
yourself  happy. 

MiBANDOUHA.  This  iron  b  n't  very  hot. 
[/»  a  hud  tone  of  voiee.]  Oh,  Fabricius.  If 
the  other  iron  is  hot,  bring  it  in. 


Cavauxb.  Do  me  this  favor,  take  this 
flask. 

MiBANpouNA.  Indeed,  sir,  I'm  not  in 
the  habit  of  taking  gifts. 

[Ironing  with  diepleature.] 

Cavalibb.  Yet  you  have  taken  them 
from  the  Count  d'Albafiorita. 

Mjbakdouna.  I  had  to  in  order  not  to 
displease  him.  I/nmifif .] 

Cavauer.  And  yet  you  would  wrong 
me  and  displease  me? 

MiBAHDOUNA.  What  doee  it  matter  to 
one  whom  all  womankind  displeases?  In- 
deed, he  can't  bear  the  sight  of  women. 

Cavalibb.  Oh,  Mirandolina,  I  can't 
say  that  now. 

MiRANDOUNA.  Cavalier,  has  the  moon 
affectod  your  senses? 

Cavaueb.  My  change  ib  not  dependent 
on  the  moon,  I'm  not  a  lunatic,  liat  is  a 
miracle  caused  by  your  beauty  and  your 
grace. 

MiRANDOUNA  Hal  Hal  Ha! 

[Laiigke  lovdXy  and  iront^ 

Cavalibb.  You  are  laughing? 

MtBANOouNA.  Don't  you  want  me  to 
laugh?  You  make  fun  of  me  and  you  don't 
want  me  to  laugh? 

Cavaubb.  Ah,  you  Uttle  roguel  I  make 
fun  of  you,  eh?  Come,  take  this  bottle. 

MiBANnoLiNA.  Thanks,  thanks. 

[Ironing. \^ 

Cavalibb.  Take  it  or  you'll  make  me 
angry. 

MiRANUOLiNA  [calling  loudly  in  an  exag- 
geraled  v>ay\.  Fabricius,  the  iron. 

Cavauer  [changing  hie  voice].  Will  you 
take  it,  or  won't  you  take  it? 

MntANnouNA.  Fury,  fury. 

{Takes  the  fiatle  and  with  ditpleai- 
vre  throwg  it  into  the  dothe*- 
baekti.] 

Cavalibb.  You  throw  it  away  in  that 
fashion. 

MiBAMnOLiNA    {caUing   loudly].    Fabri- 

[Enter  FaBRICIDB  with  iron.] 

FABBicirs  [aeeing  the  Cavalibb,  he  be- 
come* jealouii].  I  am  here. 

MiRANDOUNA  [taking  the  iron].  Is  the 
uon  good  and  hot? 


5«« 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


FASBicins  [eelf-contained\.  Yte,  r"i"*»'n 

MiBANSouNA  [tenderly  to  FabricidbI, 
What  is  the  matter  that  you  seem  eo  dia- 
turbed? 

FAsaicirs.  Nothing  at  aU,  mistTen, 
nothing  at  all. 

MiHAitDOUNA  [tenderly].  Yau  are  ill? 

Fabhiciub.  Give  me  the  other  iron  if 
ypu  want  me  to-put  it  on  the  fire. 

MisANDOLiNA  [lenderlj/].   Indeed,  I  fear 


you! 


■eiU. 


Cavaubb.  Come,  gire  him  the  iron  and 
lei  him  go. 

MiRANDOLiNA.  I  am  fond  of  him,  do  you 
know  that?  He  is  my  tnuty  waiter. 

Cavaubb  langrUii  lo  himte^.  I  can 
stand  no  more. 

MiHANDOUNA  ^/wing  the  iron  to  Fabhi- 
ctvs).   Here,  my  dear,  heat  it. 

Fabriciub  [tenderly],   Mistreee. 

MiHAHDOLiNA.  Come,  oome,  quick. 

[She  lume  kirn  ovt.\ 

FABRtctoB  [<uide\.  What  way  of  acting 
is  this?  I  feell  can't  stand  any  more. 

{Emi  FAfiRtciaB.) 

Cavalier.  Fine  manners,  fine  manners, 
madam,  to  your  waiter. 

MiRANiMLiNA.  Ab  for  that,  what  would 
you  have  me  say? 

Cavaliek.  It  seems  as  if  you  were  smit- 
ten with  him. 

MiBANDouHA.  I  in  love  with  a  wait«r? 
Vou  make  fine  compliments,  sir;  I  am  not 
of  Bucb  bad  taste.  When  I  wish  to  fall  in 
love;  I  won't  throw  away  my  time  so  un- 
profitably.  [froninjr.] 

Cataueb.  You  deserve  the  love  of  a 
king. 

MiKANiMiUNA.  The  king  of  spades  or 
the  king  of  diamonds.  {IroniaQ.\ 

Cavalier.  Let  us  talk  seriously  and  lay 
jesting  aside. 

MiRANDOLiNA.  You  talk  and  111  listen. 
[/rontnff.] 

Cavalier.  Can't  you  stop  ironing  for  a 
while? 

MntANDOLiNA.  Oh,  pardon  me.  I  must 
get  this  linen  carefully  prepared  for  to- 
morrow. 

Cavalieb.  Then  this  linen  concerns  you 
moT«  than  I  do. 

MiRANDOUKA.  Suidf.  \f Toning. \ 


Cavalier.  And  you  even  repeat  it? 

MiRAMDOUXA.  Ctf  course,  because  I  have 
to  use  this  linen,  but  I  can't  count  on  you  io 
any  way. 

Cavaubr.  On  the  contrary,  you  may 
dispose  of  me  freely. 

MiRANDOLiHA.  Oh.  You  Cannot  bear 
the  sight  of  women. 

Cavalieb.  Don't  torment  me  any  more. 
You  have  been  avenged  enou^,  I  esteem 
you.    I  esteem  women  who  are  of  your 
stamp,  if  there  are  any.   I  esteem  you,  I  ^ 
love  you,  and  I  ask  you  to  pity  me.  • 

MiRANDOLiNA.  Yce,  oi,  We'll  t«ll  them 
all  about  it. 

[Inming  hastily,  lett  fali  a  cuff.] 

Cavalieb  [picking  up  the  eaff  and  giB- 
ing  U  lo  her].  Believe  me  — 

Mibandolina.   Don't  put  yourself  out. 

Cavauzr.  You  deeerve  to  be  served. 

MiBANDOUNA  [{ou^Mn;  loudly).  Hat 
Hal  Hal 

Cavalieb.  Are  you  laughing? 

HiRANDOUNA.  I'm  lau^iing  because 
you  are  making  fun  of  me. 

Cavauer.  Mirandolina,  I  can  stand  no 


MntAMDOUNA  lirwuv  ^  f"'^  to  Awt 
mlh  diapUoBure).   Take  your  cordial. 

Cavalieb.  Don't  treat  me  so  harehly. 
Believe  me  ;  I  love  you,  I  swear  it.  [Triet 
to  talce  her  hand  arid  »he  bttma  Mm  with  the 
iron].  OuchI 

MiBAitiwuHA.  Excuse  me,  I  did  n't  do 
it  purposely. 

Cavalieb.  Patience!  That  is  nothing. 
You  have  given  me  a  fiv  worse  burn. 

MiRAKDOUMA.  Whwe,  sir? 

Oavaueb.  In  my  heart. 

MiBANDOLiNo  [eoOirtg  laughingly].  Fa- 
bricius? 

Cavaueb.  For  mercy  aakea,  don't  call 
that  fellow. 

Mirandolina.    But    I    need    anoUier 

Cavalier.  Wait — but  no — I  shall  call 

my  servant. 

Mirandolina.  Ohi  Fabricius  — 
Cavalieb.    I  swear  by  Heaven  that  if 

^hat  fellow  eomea  I'll  split  his  head. 


THE  MISTRESS   OF  THE  INN 


5*9 


MnuNDOLiMA.  Ob,  this  ia  b  fine  state  of 
■ffain.   I  can't  make  use  of  mj  own  st 
ants? 

Cavalibb.    Call  aome  one  elae;  I  can't 
■tand  him. 

MiBANDOLiNA.  It  seeniB  to  me  you  go  a 
little  too  tar,  Cavalier. 

[SA«  goet  auay  from  (Ae  IdbU  mlh 
Ihe  iron  in  her  hand.] 

Cavauxr.   Excuse  me.  —  I  am  beside 
myself. 

MisAKnOLiNA.    I'll  go  into  the  kitchen 
and  you'll  be  satisfied  then. 

Cavalier.  No,  dear,  stay. 

MiRANnoLiNA  [mdhirtt  a6ou(].  This  ia  a 
queer  thing. 

Cavalikb  [tnalking  nfter  her].    Excuse 

MiBANDOLiNA  l»he  watt*  about).   I  can't 
call  whom  I  wish? 
Cavalihl    I  oonfees.    I  am  jealous  of 


[He  I 


MntANnouNA  (aside].  He  comes  after 
me  juflt  like  a  little  dog. 

Cavalier.  3!1iia  is  the  first  time  that  1 
have  experienoed  what  love  is. 

MiRANnoLiNA  [walking  lo  and  fro].  No 
one  ever  ordered  me  about  so. 

Cavalier.  I  had  no  intent  of  command- 
ing you;  I  beg  you.  [HefoBoat  her.] 

iinuimoJAtui  [turning  haughtily].  What 
do  you  want  of  me? 

Cavalier.  Love,  compassion,  pity. 

MiRANDOUMA.  A  man,  who  this  mom- 
ing  could  n't  bear  the  sight  of  women,  now 
asks  for  love  and  pity.  [Attde.)  I  won't 
pay  any  attention  to  him;  it  cannot  be;  I 
don't  believe  him.  Burst,  explode,  and 
learn  not  to  despise  women. 

[Exit  MtRANDOUHA.] 

Cavauer  [olons].  Oh,  cursed  be  the  mo- 
ment 1  first  saw  her.    I  have  fallen  into 
the  suaie  and  there  is  n't  any  help  now. 
[Enter  the  Marquis.] 

Marquis.  Sir  Cavalier,  you  have  in- 
ntltedme. 

CAVALmR.   Excuse  me,  it  was  an  ooei- 

Marquib.  I'm  astonished  at  you. 
Cavalikr.   After  all  the  jug  did  n't  hit 
you. 


Marquis.  A  tittle  drop  of  wat«i  stained 
my  clothing. 

Cavalier.  I  repeat,  excuse  me. 

Marquis.  That  is  an  impertinence. 

Cavalieb.  I  did  nothing  purpoedy.  Fot 
the  third  time,  I  say  excuse  me. 

Marquis.  I  wish  satisfaction. 

Cavauzr.  If  you  don't  want  to  excuse 
me,  if  you  want  satisfaction,  I  am  here. 
I'm  not  afraid  of  you. 

Marquis  [changing  hia  Ume].  I  fear  this 
stain  won't  go  away.  That  is  what  makes 
me  furious. 

Cavalier  IdtadainfuUy].  When  a  gen- 
tleman asks  to  be  excused,  what  more  do 
you  want? 

Marquis.  If  you  did  n't  do  it  out  of 
malice,  I  will  let  you  off. 

Cavalier.  I  tell  you  that  I  am  capable 
of  giving  you  any  kind  of  satisfaction. 

Marquis.  Come,  let's  say  no  more 
about  it. 

Cavalier.  Low-born  fellow. 

Marquis.  Oh,  that's  fine.  Myangwi* 
all  gone  and  you  try  to  make  it  come 
again. 

Cavalier.  A  fine  humor  you've  found 
me  in  just  now. 

Marquis,  I  pardon  you;  I  know  what 
trouble  you  are  having. 

Gavalibr.  I  don't  meddle  with  your 
aSurs. 

Marquis.  How  you  have  fallen,  sir 
enemy  of  womenl 

Cavalier.  I?  How? 

Marquis.  Yes,  you  are  in  love  ,  .  . 

CataLixr,  I  am,  am  17  Go  to  the  devQ. 

Marquis.  What's  the  use  trying  to  hide 
it? 
,  Cavauer,   Let  me  alone,  or  I  swear  to 
Heaven  I'll  make  you  sorry  for  thia. 

[Exa  the  Cavalier.] 

Mabquis  lobme].  He  is  in  love,  he  is 
ashamed  of  himself,  and  he  does  n't  want 
any  one  to  know  it.  But  perhaps  he  does 
n't  want  me  to  know  it  because  he  is  afraid 
of  me.  He  fears  to  declare  himself  my  rival. 
I  am  very  much  displeased  on  account  of 
this  spot;  if  1  only  knew  how  to  take  it 
away,  llieee  women  usually  have  some 
sort  of  powder  to  take  away  stains,  [Looka 
on  the  table  and  in  the  baeket.]  This  beaut*- 


S30 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


ful  fluh.  Is  it  gold  or  braaaT  It  must  be 
bnas;  if  it  were  gold  it  would  not  be  left 
here.  If  there  were  some  regina  water  in 
it,  it  would  be  good  to  take  away  this 
Ertain.  iOjtent  il,  gmeiU  it,  and  lattet  it.]  It 
ia  cord^.  At  any  rate,  it  will  do  that  much 
good.  I  want  to  try  it. 

IPvtt  Uinhia  pocket.] 
[EtUer  lite  Cavalibk'b  iS«rnint.] 

Bkrtamt  [looking  on  the  ItAU].  Where 
tiie  deuoe  is  that  flask? 

Mabquib.  What  are  you  looking  for, 
my  good  man. 

SvRTANT.  I  'm  looking  for  a  flask  of  cor- 
dial. Mirandolina  wanta  it.  She  says  she 
left  it  here,  but  can't  find  it. 

Marqutb.  Was  it  a  little  brass  flask? 

Sbbvant.  No,  air,  it  was  gold. 

Mabquis.  GoldT 

Servant.  Yee,  it  was  gold.  I  saw  it 
bought  for  six  pounds. 

MARQDie  [(uide].  Oh  poor  mel  But 
how  did  she  come  to  leave  a  gold  flask 
around? 

Servant.  She  left  it  here,  but  I  can't 
find  it. 

Marouib.  And  yet  it  seems  impossible 
that  it  should  be  g^. 

Servant.  It  was  gold,  I  tdl  you.  Per- 
haps you  have  seen  it,  your  excelloicy? 

Mabouib.  I  have  n't  seen  anything. 

Sbrvakt.  That's  enough.  I'll  tdl  her 
I  can't  find  it.  It's  her  loss.  She  ought  to 
have  put  it  in  her  pocket. 

[Exit  Servant.] 

Marquis  [afen«I.  Oh,  the  poor  Marquis 
di  Forlipopolil  How  must  I  act  in  so  im- 
portant a  case?  If  Mirandolina  ever  finds 
out  I  have  it,  my  dignity  is  in  danger.  I 
am  a  gentleman.  I  must  pay  her  for  it. 
But  I  have  n't  got  the  money. 
[Enter  Out  Cottnt.] 


Marquib.   What's  happened? 

Cotnrr.  The  savage  Cavalier,  the  seomer 
of  women,  is  in  love  with  Mirandolina. 

Mabquis.  I'm  glad  of  it.  I  want  him 
to  recognise  in  spite  of  himself  the  merit  of 
this  woman,  and  to  see  that  I'm  Bot  smit- 


ten with  one  who  does  not  deserve  my  love; 
and  may  he  suffer  and  burst  for  his  imper- 
tinence. 

Count.  But  euppoee  Mirandolina  redp- 
rocates  his  affectiouB? 

MABQmB.  That  can't  be.  She  would  n't 
torture  me  so.  I  am  who  1  am.  She  knows 
what  I  have  done  for  her. 

Count.  I  have  done  more  for  her  than 
you.  But  everything  was  thrown  away. 
Mirandolina  lured  on  the  Cavalier  di  Ripa- 
fratta;  she  bestowed  attentions  on  him  she 
never  did  on  you  or  me;  but  it  is  evidmit 
that  with  women  the  more  you  do  for  them, 
the  leas  you  merit;  they  adore  Him  who 
makes  fun  of  them,  they  run  after  him 
who  <l'"dp-i"P  them. 

Marquib.    If  that  were  true  —  but  it 

Count.  Why  can't  it? 

MAB^ms.  Would  you  want  to  compare 
the  Cavaliw  with  me? 

Count.  Have  n't  you  seen  her  yoursdf 
seated  at  his  table?  Has  she  ever  treated 
us  with  such  confidence?  For  him,  spe- 
cially fine  linen.  His  table  is  the  first  to  be 
served.  With  her  own  hands  she  makes 
dishes  for  him.  The  servants  see  every- 
thing and  they  talk.  Pabriciua  groans  with 
jealousy.  And  then  that  swooning,  real  or 
feigned,  is  n't  it  a  manifest  s^  of  love? 

Marquis.  How?  She  made  him  savory 
ragtmti,  but  for  me  tough  beef  and  tiiin 
rice  broth.  Yes,  it  is  true;  this  is  an  inault 
to  my  rank,  and  to  my  station  in  life. 

Count.  And  I  ^o  have  spent  so  much 
on  her? 

Makquib.  And  I  who  gave  her  gifts  con- 
tinually. I  even  gave  her  a  drink  of  that 
delicious  Cyprian  wine  of  mine.  The 
Cavalier  could  n't  have  done  for  her  the 
smallest  part  of  what  we  have  done. 

ConNT.  Be  sure  that  he,  too,  has  lav- 
ished gifts  upon  her. 

Marquib.  So?  What  did  be  give  her? 

Count.  A  gold  bottle  with  cordial. 

Marquis  [omJs).  Alasl  —  How  do  yoa 
know? 

Count.  His  servant  told  mine. 

Marquib  [a»de\.  Worse  and  worse. 
I'm  getting  into  trouble  with  the  Cavalier. 

Count.  I   gee  ^t  she  is  ungrateful.  }[ 

Goc«lc 


THE  MISTRESS  'OF  THE  INN 


wish  to  leave  her  aboolutely;  I  wish  to  leave 
this  UDWortby  inn  before  an  hour  is  up. 

MABQniB.  Yea,  yee;  you  do  well;  go. 

Count.  And  you,  who  are  a  gentlenian 
of  such  honor  ought  to  go  with  me. 

MABquiB.  But  —  where  ought  we  to  goT 

CoTnrr.  I  Bhall  find  you  a  stopping- 
place.  Leave  that  to  me. 

MAXQtnB.  Thii  inn  —  it  will  be,  for  in< 

CoONT.  We  will  go  into  a  houae  of  one 
of  my  fellow  townsmen.  We  won't  spend 
anything. 

Marqitib.  Knough;  you  are  such  a  good 
friend  of  mine,  that  I  can't  say  no. 

CovtFi.  Let  US  go  and  take  vengeance 
on  this  ungnteful  woman. 

MABquia.  Yes,  let  us  go.  [Atidt.]  How 
ftbout  the  flask,  then?  J  am  a  gentleman. 
I  can't  do  a  base  action. 

GonNT.  Don't  hesitate,  Marquis.  Let's 
get  a,wBy  from  here.  Do  me  this  favor  and 
then  I'm  your  humble  servant  wherever  I 
oan  serve  you. 

Mabquis.  I  shall  tell  you  in  confidence 
—  don't  t«ll  any  one  —  my  steward  has 
delayed  my  lemittanoe  for  some  time  — 

Count.  You  perhaps  have  a  bill  to  set- 
tle? 

MAitqciB.  Yes,  six  pounds. 

Count.  Six  pounds?  It  must  be  two 
months  that  you  have  not  paid. 

Mabquib.  It  is  true.  I  owe  her  six 
pounds.  1  can't  go  without  paying  her.  If 
you  would  do  me  the  favor  — 

Count  [dramng  out  hit  purse].  Gladly. 
Here  are  six  pounds. 

Mabquib.  Wait.  Now  that  I  remember 
H  is  six  pounds,  ten.  [Attde.]  I  want  to 
return  the  Cavalier  his  t«n  shillings. 

Count.   Six  pounds,  or  more,  it  is  the 

Mabquib.    I  shall  return  it  as  soon  as 

Count.  Help  yourself  as  far  ss  you 
pleaae.  I  don't  lack  for  money,  and  to  get 
even  with  her,  I  would  spend  two  thou- 
sand pounds. 

MARguTs.  Indeed,  she  is  ungrateful.  I 
spent  money  on  her  and  she  treats  me  so. 

Count.  I  want  to  ruin  her  inn;  it's  thus 
Illgetovenwithher.  After  that,  the  Cava. 


tier,  who  has  ooneoaled  his  true  motives  in 
order  to  betray  me,  will  have  to  give  me 
satisfaction  of  a  different  sort. 

lExU  the  CouMT.) 

ScENK  II.   Boom  urith  thr4e  door*. 
[Enter  Mibandolina.) 

MiRANDOuNA  loZime].  Ah,  poor  mel  I 
am  in  a  horrid  fix.  If  the  Cavalier  oomes 
to  me,  a  pretty  mess.  He  is  confoundedly 
furious.  I  hope  the  devil  does  n't  tempt 
him  to  oome  here.  I  must  close  this  door. 
[She  lodu  the  door  through  which  the  came.) 
Now  I  almost  begin  to  repent  of  what  I 
have  done.  It  is  true  that  I  have  been  very 
much  amused  in  having  such  a  proud  fel- 
low, such  a  deepiser  of  women,  run  so 
madly  after  me,  but  now  that  the  satyr  is 
furious,  I  see  my  honor  in  danger  and  my 
life  itself.  I  must  make  some  coup  d'itat. 
I  am  alone.  I  need  some  one  to  look  out 
for  my  intaresta.  It  cannot  be  any  other 
than  that  good  man  Fabricius  who  in  cose 
of  need  can  help  me.  I  shall  promise  to 
marry  him.  But  —  promises,  more  prom- 
ises; he  will  grow  tired  of  believing  me.  It 
would  be  almost  better  if  I  married  him. 
After  all,  with  such  a  marriage  I  could 
hope  to  protect  my  honor  without  detri' 
ment  to  my  freedom. 

[The  Cavaubr  knockt  ai  the  door 
from  aithin.] 

MiBANDOUNA.  Some  one  is  knocking 
at  the  door;  who  ever  can  it  be? 

{She-aj>proadte»  it.] 

Cavalikb  t/hnn  unlAin).  Mirandolina? 

MiRAifnouNA.  Here  he  is  again. 

CAVAtres  [from  wUhin],  Mirandolina, 
open  for  me. 

MiBANCOLiKA  [ostde].  Open.  I  am  not 
such  a  simpleton.  —  What  do  you  wish, 
sir? 

Cavalier  [from  within].  Open  the  door. 

MiRANDOUHA.  Do  me  the  favor  of  go- 
ing to  your  room  and  waiting  for  me  until 
I  am  disengaged. 

Cavaubr  {from  within].  Why  don't  you 
want  to  open  it? 

MiBANnouNA.  Some  guests  have  come. 
Do  me  this  favor,  and  wait  for  me.  Ill 
be  with  you  presently. 


S3» 


CHIEF  EUROPfeAN   DRAMATISTS 


CAVAUBit  [hanng  the  door],  I'll  go;  but 
if  you  don't  come,  I  pity  you. 

MlBANDOLINA  [atide].  "If  you  don't 
come,  I  pity  you."  I  pity  myself,  if  I 
should  go.  The  matter  is  becomii^  worse. 
I  would  remedy  matters,  if  I  could.  Hu 
he  goneT  [Looka  tkrougk  Uu  keyhole.]  Yee, 
yea,  he's  gone;  but  I'm  not  going  to  him. 
[At  another  doar.\  Oh,  Farbricius?  Oh,  it 
would  be  fine  now  if  Fabricius  should  be 
avenged  on  me  and  did  not  intend  to  — 
Oh,  there  is  no  danger.  I  have  certain 
manners,  certain  alluring  ways,  which 
make  men  give  in  even  if  Uiey  are  of  stone. 
[CdOt  at  the  otiier  door.]  Fabridua? 

Fabriciub.  You  called? 

MmAHDOLiNA.  Come  here;  I  have 
Bomething  confidential  to  tell  you. 

Fabbiciub.  I  am  here. 

MiBANiwLiNA.  You  know  that  the  Cava- 
lier Ripafratta  has  shown  that  he  is  in  love 

FABRiGiva.  Hum,  I  noticed  it. 

MnuNDOUNA.  Yes?  You  noticed  iti 
I  in  truth  was  never  aware  of  it. 

Fabkichtb.  Poor  limpletonl  You  never 
knew  it?  You  did  n't  aee  the  grimacee  he 
made  when  you  were  ironing  —  that  he 
wu  jealous  of  me? 

Miranholtna.  I  take  things  indiffer- 
oitly,  when  I  act  without  malioe.  It  is 
enough.  Just  now  he  said  oertain  words 
irtuch,  indeed,  made  me  blush. 

Fabbiciub.  You  see.  He  daree  to  say  this 
because  you  are  a  woman  alone,  without 
father,  without  mother,  without  any  one. 
If  you  were  married,  it  would  not  be  so. 

MiRANDOUNA.  Come,  now;  I  under- 
stand perfectly  what  you  say;  I  have 
thought  of  marrying. 

Fabkicios.  Remember  your  father. 

MittANDOUNA.    Yee,  I  shall  remember 

[The  Cavalier  knedu  at  the  door 
a,  before.] 
MiBAMiwuNA  [(0  Fabhicicb].  Some  one 
is  knocking. 

FABRictua  [in  a  loud  eoiee  bneard  Ihe 
door].  Who  is  that  knocking? 
Cavaubb  Ufvm  vnUinJ.  Open  it. 
MiRANDOUNA     [to     Fabbiciub).      Hie 
Cavtdietl 


FABBioniB.  What  do  you  want? 

[Ooet  to  ope^  U.] 
MntANDOLINA,   Wait  until  I  go. 
FABBidue.  (K  what  are  you  afraid? 
MiRAKBOUNA.   Deaf  Fabricius,  I  don't 
know,  I  'm  afraid  for  myself. 

[Exit    MlBANDOLINA.) 

Fabbiciub.  Don't  worry,  I '11  defend  you. 

Cavalibb  [from  within].  Open,  I  swear 
by  Heaven! 

FABRictDS,  What  do  you  want,  arT 
What  noise  is  this?  People  don't  aot  so  in 
a  respectable  inn. 

Cavaubb.  Open  that  door. 

[He  triet  to  break  open  tiie  door.) 

Fabricius.  The  deuce!  I  would  not 
want  to  go  too  far.  Helpl  Who  is  there? 
Ib  n't  there  any  one? 


Count  [at  Ote  door}.  What  js  that? 

MABQUialattAedoor].  What  noise  ia  that? 

Fabbiciub  [atide  so. that  Ike  Cavaubb 
ihovld  n't  hear  him].  Sirs,  J  beg  you;  the 
Cavalier  di  Ripafratta  wants  to  smash  Hat 
door. 

Cavalier  [from  mtkin].  Open  it,  or  1*8 
throw  it  down. 

Makquib  [to  Ihe  Count].  Has  he  gone 
mad?  Let  uB'go. 

Count  [lo  Fabriciu8|.  Open  it.  I  want 
to  speak  with  him. 

Fabriciub.    I  shall  open  it,  but  I  beg 

Count.  Don't  hesitate.  We  are  here. 
Mabquib  [aeide].  If  I  see  the  least  litUe 
thing,  I  '11  beat  a  retreat. 


Cavalier.  I  swear  to  Heaven,  where  is 
she? 

FABKicnra.  For  whom  are  you  looking, 
air? 

Cavalier.  Where  is  MimndolinaT 

Fabricius.  I  don't  know. 

Marquis  [aside].  He  is  angry  witb 
Mirandolina.  It  is  nothing  at  all. 

Cavalikb.  Base  woman,  I  shall  find  her. 

[He  (Mitti  ahoMl  and  dieeovera  the 

Cotnn  and  then  the  Mabqdib.) 


THE  MISTRESS  OF  THE   INN 


533 


CoONT  [to  the  Cavauek}.  With  whom 
we  jrau  angry? 

Marqcis.  Cavalier,  we  are  frieodB. 

Cavalieb  [ontje].  Alasl  I  would  a't 
want  this  weakneee  of  mme  to  be  known 
for  all  the  gold  in  the  world. 

Fabbicitis.  What  do  you  want,  sir,  of 
the  DUBtress? 

Cavaubr.  I  am  not  rcapongible  to  you. 
When  I  give  orders,  I  want  them  obeyed. 
I  pay  my  money  for  thia,  and  1  swear  to 
Heaven  that  she  will  have  to  settle  with  me. 

Fabbiciitb.  Your  excellency  pays  his 
money  to  be  obeyed  in  legitimate  and 
honecrt  things,  but  you  can't  pretend,  par- 
don  me,  that  an  honest  woman  — 

Cavauxb.  What  are  you  sayii^?  Who 
are  you  ?  I  know  what  I  ordeml  from  her. 

Fabrictos.  You  ordered  her  to  come  to 
your  room. 

Cavauer.  Come,  come,  knave,  before  I 
break  your  skull. 

Fabricios.   I  am  aatoniahed  at  you. 

Marquis  [lo  Fabbicids].  Hush, 

CotTNT  [to  Fabriciub].  Go  away  from 
here. 

Cavalier  [lo  Fabriciub].  Go  away  from 
here. 

FABRIcnrs  [becoming  angry].  I  tell  you. 
Bin,  — 

Marquis.  Away. 

Count.  Away.         [They  (am  him  out.] 

Fabbicius  [aside].  By  Jorel  I  want  to 
do  something  reckless  1 

[Exit  Fasrictub.] 

Cavauer  [ostde].  Worthleaa  woman. 
To  make  me  wait  in  my  room  I 

Marquis  [aside  lo  tile  OountI.  What  the 
deuce  is  the  matter  with  him? 

Count  [aeide  to  the  Marquis].  Don't 
you  see?  He  is  in  love  with  Mirandolina. 

Cavalier.  And  she  ia  with  Fabricius 
and  speaks  with  him  about  marriage? 

CouttT  [aside].  Now  is  the  time  to  avenge 
mynelf.  —  Cavalier,  it  is  n't  fitting  for  one 
to  laugh  at  the  weaknesses  of  another, 
when  one  has  a  heart  as  easily  broken  as 

Cavauer  [to  tiie  Mabquib).  Do  you 
know  what  he  is  talking  about? 

Mabquib.  Friend,  I  don't  know  any- 
thing at  all. 


Count.  I'm  talking  about  you,  who  un- 
der the  pretext  of  not  being  able  to  endure 
women  have  attempted  to  steal  Mirando- 
lina's  heart  from  me,  which  was  already 
my  cxinqiiest. 

Cavalier  [angriiy  lo  the  Marquib).    IT 

Marquis.  I'm  not  talking. 

Count.  Turn  to  me,  and  answer  me. 
Are  n't  you  ashamed  of  having  acted  so 
basely? 

Cavalibr.  I  am  ashamed  to  listen  to 
you,  without  telling  you  that  you  lie. 

Count.  You  give  me  the  lie? 

MARauiB  [amde].  The  matter  is  grow- 
ing worse. 

Cavalier  [anip^y  to  tite  Mabquib).  On 
what  basis  can  you  say  —  the  Comit  doee 
n't  know  what  he  is  saying. 

Marquib.  But  1  don't  want  to  get 
mixed  up  in  it. 

Count.  You  are  a  liar. 

Marquib.  I  'm  going  away. 

[Wante  to  go.] 

Cavalier.  Stay.      [Hoidt  Mm  by  force.] 

Count.  You  11  pay  me  for  this. 

Cavalier  [to  ike  Marquis).  Yes,  yes, 
I'll  pay  you.  —  Give  me  your  sword. 

Marquib.  Oh,  come,  calm  yourselves 
both  of  you.  Dear  Count,  what  difierenoe 
doee  it  make  to  you  if  the  Cavalier  doee 
love  Mirandolina? 

Cavalier.  I  love  her?  It  is  not  true;  he 
liee  that  says  it. 

Marquib.  Lies?  The  lie  is  n't  any  of 
mine.  I  am  not  the  one  that  says  it. 

Cavaubr.  Who,  then? 

Count.  I  say  it,  and  I  maintain  it,  and 
I  'm  not  afraid  of  you. 

Cavalier  [lo  tite  Mabquib].  Give  me 
that  sword. 

Mabquib.  No,  I  say. 

Cavauer.  You  are  my  enemy,  too? 

Marquis.  I  am  the  friend  of  all. 

Count.  These  actions  are  unworthy. 

Cavauer.  I  swear  to  Heaven  I 

[He  lakee  Ihe  sword  from  the  Mar- 
quis, bvt  it  remaina  fixed  and  he 
pulU  Ihe  aeabbtad  mit<^  fhe  beU.] 

Marquib.  Don't  be  wanting  in  respect. 

Cavauer  [lo  tiie  Marquis].  If  you 
consider  yourself  insulted,  I'll  give  you 
satisfaction  too. 


534 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Mabqitib.    Come,  you  are  too  esdt«d. 
lOritBing  to  himadS.\   I  don't  like  this  — 

Count.  I  wish  Batisfacticm. 

Cataukk.   m  gire  it  to  you. 

[H«  £ne»  to  drms  away  the  tcab- 
bard,  arul  eanrwi.] 

Marquib.  That  sword  doee  a't  suit  you. 

Cavu^zb.  Curawl 

[He  triea  hard  to  draw  U  out.} 

Maiuicis.  Cavalier,  you  are  n't  aeoom- 
ptiflhiDg  anything  at  atl. 

CoTJNT.   I  have  n't  any  more  pati^ice. 

Cataubb.  See.  {DraaxouHhemnimLand 
ttathatlhebladeiabrokmoS.]  What'ethiar 

MABguie.  You  have  ruined  my  sword. 

Cavaubb.    Where  n  the  reotT    There 
is  n't  anything  there  in  the  scabbard. 

Mabquis.  Yes,  that's  so,  I  ruined  it  in 
my  laat  duel.  I  did  n't  remember  it, 

Cavaubb  [to  lAa  Count).  Let  me  get  a 

Count.  I  swear  by  Heaven,  you  shan't 
escape  from  my  clutches. 

Cavaubb.  What,  flee?  I  am  not  afraid 
to  face  you  even  with  this  bit  of  blade. 

MAitguia.     It's  a  Spanish   blade.    It 
knows  no  fear. 

Count.     Not   so   much   bravado.    Sir 
Boaster. 

Cavalibr.  Yes,  with  this  blade  — 

[He  nuAes  upon  the  Count.] 

Count.  Back. 

[He  pait  himtdf  on  ffuard,] 
[Enter  MnuNiWLiNA,  Fabbicidb.) 

Fabbiciub.  Stop,  atop,  gentiemeD. 

MiRANDouNA.  Stop,  gentlemen,  stop. 

Cavaubb  [aside,  seeing  Mibahdouna]. 


Oh,  ( 


»I 


MiBANDOLiNA.  Poor  mel  With  sworda? 

Mabquib.  Do  you  seeT  For  your  sake. 

MmANDOUNA.  For  my  sake? 

Count.  See  tba  Cavtdier,  be  is  in  love 
with  you. 

Cavaueb.  I  in  love?  It  is  n't  true;  you 
lie. 

MiBAMDOUNA.  Tba  Cavalier  in  love 
with  meT  Oh,  no,  Count,  you  are  mia- 
taken.  I  can  aaaure  you  that  you  are  mis- 

CouNT.  And  you  have  an  unduatand- 
ingaa  well  — 


MABqois.  It 's  known,  and  evident  — 

Cavaubb.  What's  known?  What's 
evident? 

Mabouib.  TBay,wbeiiitiBso,it'Bknown, 
—  when  it  is  n't  so,  it's  not  evident. 

MiRANDOLiKA.  The  Cavalier  in  love 
with  me?  He  denies  it,  and  denying  it  in 
my  presence  he  mortlSes,  humiliates  oie, 
and  makes  me  reoogniie  hia  strength  and 
my  weakness.  1  confess  the  truth:  if  I 
had  aucoeeded  in  making  him  fall  in  love 
with  me,  I  would  think  I  had  done  the 
greatest  act  of  prowcM  in  the  world-  A 
man,  who  cannot  bear  the  sight  of  women, 
who  deepiaee  tbem,  who  has  a  poor  idea  of 
them,  I  oannot  hope  to  make  hhn  love  me. 
My  good  sin,  I  am  a  woman,  who  ia  fnnk 
and  sincere;  when  I  ought  to  speak,  I 
speak;  and  I  can't  conceal  the  tj^tfa.  I 
tried  to  make  the  Cavalier  fall  in  love  with 
me,  but  all  to  no  purpose.  Is  n't  h  true, 
sir!  I  have  done  my  beet,  but  I  have 
accomplished  nothing. 

Cavaubb  [aeide].  Ah.  I  can't  speak. 

Count  \lo  Mirandouna].  IJo  you  see? 
He  is  perplexed. 

Mabquib  [to  Mibandouna].  He  has  n't 
the  courage  to  say  no. 

Cavauer  [to  Ou  Mabouib,  angrU)/]. 
Yoa  don't  know  what  you  are  talking 
about. 

MiBAHiKiUNA.  Oh  tbB  Cavalier  isn't 
in  love.  He  knows  women's  wilee,  be 
knows  women's  roguishnees;  he  doeso't 
believe  everything  they  say;  he  does  n't 
put  any  confid^ioe  in  tears.  He  even 
lau^is  when  they  faint. 

Cavauer.  Then  women's  tears  are  false, 
and  their  fainting  but  pretense? 

MiBANimuNA.  What?  Don't  you  knov 
that,  or  are  you  pretending  not  to  knowT 

Cavambb.  I  swear  by  Heaven.  Such 
deceit  deservee  a  dagger  in  the  heart. 

MiBANiK)UNA.  Cavalier,  don't  get  an- 
gry, or  these  gentlemen  will  say  that  you're 
really  in  love. 

Coum.  Yes,  he  is;  he  can't  hide  it. 

Mabquib.  It's  perfectly  evident. 

Cavaueb  [angrily  to  the  Mabquis].  No, 
I  am  not. 

Mabquib.  It  is  always  with  me  that 
he'sangi;. 


:.L|,i,zedi!,GoOQlc 


THE  MISTRESS   OF  THE  INN 


535 


HtRAMDOUNA.  No  nr,  he  w  not  in  love. 
I  uy  it,  I  m*mt«n  it,  Bod  I  am  reftdr  to 
prove  it. 

Catujxb  [omd*].  I  cannot  stand  any 
mora.  Count,  another  time  ymx  will  find 
me  provided  nith  a  aword. 

[He  tiamim  aieat/  the  broktn  half 
of  (Ae  Mutguis's  *tA>rd.I 

Mabqdib.  See  herel  The  hilt  coete 
money.  [He  lake*  H  from  the  ground.] 

MiaunwuNA.  Stop,  CavalieT,  your 
reputation  is  at  stake.  These  gentlemen 
brieve  you  are  in  love;  they  must  be  un- 
deceived. 

Catalixr.  There  is  n't  any  need  of  it. 

MiBANSouNA.  Oh,  yes,  Sir;  stay  a  mo- 
ment. 

Cavalier  [onifa).  What  does  that  wo- 
man intend  to  doT 

MiRAMiKiLJNA.  Siis,  the  suieat  sign  of 
love  is  jealousy  and  the  man  who  is  n't 
jealous,  isn't  in  love.  If  the  Cavalier 
loved  me,  he  oould  n't  bear  that  I  should 
be  another's,  but  he  will  bear  it,  and  you 
shall  see  — 

Cavaukk.  To  whom  does  thu  refer? 

MiRAMDOLiNA.  He  for  whom  my  father 
destined  me. 

Fabhiciub  [to  MisAxnoLiNA].  Perhaps 
you're  apeakinB  of  meT 

MiRANSOLiNA.  Yes,  dear  Fabridus, 
and  I  wish,  in  the  preaenoe  of  these  gentle. 
men,  to  give  my  hand  to  yoa  in  tokeo  of 
betrothal. 

Ca^aues  (oMiie,  acting  nermrady].  Alas! 
With  that  fellow?  I  can't  bear  it. 

CoDNT  [agide].  If  she  marries  Fundus, 
sbe  doesn't  love  the  Cavalier. — Yes, 
marry  and  I  promise  you  a  hundred 
pounds. 

Mabqttib.  Mirandolina,  an  egg  to-day 
is  better  than  a  hen  to-morrow.  Marry 
now  and  I  '11  give  you  six  pounds. 

MmAinMLiKA.  Thanks,  sirs,  I  don't 
need  a  dowry.  I  am  a  poor  woman  without 
chann,without  vivacity,  incapable  of  mak- 
ing persons  of  consideration  love  me.  But 
Fabricius  wishee  me  well,  and  therefore 
I  '11  marry  him  in  the  presence  of  you  all. 

Cavaucr.  Yee,  curse  you,  marry  whom 
you  win.  I  know  you  deedved  me,  I  know 
you  are  exulting  within  yourself  at  having 


humiliated  me,  and  I  see  that  you  wish  to 
put  my  tolerance  to  the  test.  You  deserve 
to  be  paid  for  your  deception  with  a  dagger 
in  your  heart,  you  deserve  to  have  your 
heart  torn  out,  and  hdd  up  as  an  example 
of  feminine  flattiffers.  of  feminine  de- 
oeiven.  But  that  would  be  to  humiliate 
mysdf  twice  over.  I  flee  from  your  eyes; 
I  curse  your  flattery,  your  tears,  your  de- 
odt;  you  have  made  me  eee  what  baleful 
power  your  sex  has  over  us,  and  you  have 
taught  me  to  my  cost  that  it  is  n't  enougjl 
tA  despise  it  —  we  men  must  flee  from  it. 
[Exit  the  Cavalier.] 

CoONT.  Say  now  that  be  is  n't  in  love. 

Mabquis.  If  he  gives  me  the  lie  again, 
on  the  word  (rf  a  gentleman,  I  challenge 

MiHANDOUNA.  Hush,  gentlemen,  hush. 
He  has  gone  away,  and  if  he  does  n't  re- 
turn, and  if  the  matter  passes  ovo'  this 
way,  I  can  say  I'm  lucky.  I  have  suc- 
ceeded only  too  well  in  making  him  fall  in 
love  with  me,  and  1  am  thus  placed  in  a 
precarious  condition.  I  don't  want  to 
know  anything  more  of  him.  Fabridus, 
come  here,  dear;  give  me  your  hand. 

Fabricicb.  Your  hand?  Not  so  fast, 
'"f'dftni.  You  find  pleasure  in  mfth-iTig  peo 
pie  fall  in  love  with  you  this  way,  and  you 
expect  me  to  want  to  marry  you? 

Mirakdolika.  Oh,  come,  fooll  It  was  a 
joke,  a  whim,  a  little  bit  of  pique.  I  was  a 
girl;  I  had  iko  one  to  order  my  ways.  When 
I  am  married,  I  know  what  1  'II  do. 

Fabrichtb.  What? 

[Enter  the  Cavalier's  Servant.] 

Servant.  Madame,  before  leaving  I 
have  oome  to  pay  my  respects. 

MiRAMt>OLiNA.   Are  you  going  away? 

Servant.  Yes,  my  master  has  gone  to 
the  stage-coach  office,  he's  mnVing  them 
harness  up.  He's  waiting  for  me  with  the 
thin0i,  and  tm  are  going  to  Leghorn. 

Mirandolina.  Pardonme,  if  1  have  ever 
done  you  .  .  . 

Sekvant.  I  have  n't  time  to  stay. 
Thank  you,  and  au  remr. 

[ExU  iSeminf.) 

MntANDOLiNA.  Thank  Heavens,  he  ia 
gone.  I  have  some  remiorse  yet;  certainly 


536 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


he  left  with  little  satisfaction.  I'll  never 
try  any  more  of  these  jokee. 

Count.  MirHndolina,  married  or  sin^e, 
I  shall  always  be  the  saine  to  you. 

Marqoib,  Bank  on  my  protection. 

MiRAMimLiNA.  Now,  I  am  married, 
genttemen,  I  don't  need  protectors,  I  don't 
need  lovers,  I  don't  need  gifte.  Up  to  this 
time,  I  have  been  amusing  myself,  I  have 
,  done  wrong,  and  I  have  taken  too  many 
risks,  but  I  shan't  do  it  any  more|  this  is 
my  husband. 

Fabrictob.  But,  madam,  net  so  fast. 

MiRANi>OLiNA.  Why  alow?  What  is  it? 
What  difficulty  is  there?  Come,  now. 
Give  me  that  band. 

Fabbiciub.  I  would  like  to  make  our 
agreements  first. 

MiRAKtiouNA.  What  agreement?  The 
agreement  is  this,  —  either  ^ve  me  your 
hand  or  go  home. 

Fabricius.  I  will  give  my  hand  —  but 

MiRANi>OLiNA.  But  then,  dear,  every- 
thing will  be  yours;  don't  hesitate.  I  shall 
always  love  you,  you  will  always  be  my 

Fabsicitts  \ffiving  her  kit  hand].  Here, 
dear,  I  can't  resist  any  more. 

MiHANiMUNA  [atide].  Then  this  is  done. 

CotnTT.  Mirandolina,  you  are  a  fine 
woman,  you  have  the  powpr  of  leading  men 
where  you  will. 


Mabqiiib.  Youi  manner  puts  us  under 
infinite  obligations  to  you. 

MitumiouNA.  Ifitia  true  that  I  can  hope 
for  favors  from  you,  I  ask  for  one  last  one. 

Count,  Then  pray  say  it. 

Marqitis.  Speak. 

FAaRiciTia  [aside].  Whatever  will  she 
ask  for  now? 

MioANDOLiNA.  I  b^  you  as  a  favor  to 
change  your  lodgings. 

FABEiaue  [onde].  Fine;  now  I  see  she  is 
weQ  disposed  toward  me. 

Count.  Yea,  yes,  I  understand,  and  I 
compliment  you.  I  shall  go,  but  wherever 
I  am,  be  assured  of  my  esteem. 

Makquib.  Tell  me;  did  jrou  lose  a  little 
gold  flask? 

MiBANDouNA.  Yes.  sir. 

Marquis.  Hereitis.  I  found  it  and  I'm 
going  to  return  it.  I  shall  leave  to  please 
you,  but  in  every  place,  pray,  bank  on  my 
protection. 

MiRANDOUNA.  These  words  will  be 
dear  to  me  in  the  bounds  of  decorum  and 
honesty.  Changing  my  state,  I  wish  to 
change  my  way  of  life;  and  may  you  gentle- 
men profit  by  what  you  have  seen,  to  the 
advantage  and  well-being  of  your  hearte; 
and  whenever  you  may  find  yourselves 
hesitating  as  to  whether  you  ought  to 
yield  or  give  in,  may  you  think  of  the 
tricks  you  have  learned,  and  remembw 
the  Mistress  of  the  Inn. 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


MINNA  VON   BARNHELM 

By  LESSING 
7y*mlaUiih  BRJfEST  BELL 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


CHARACTERS 

Major  ton  TaLLHmu,  a  dixAarged  e^ar 
Minna  ton  Bashhbui 

Count  ton  Bbdchkal,  her  vmd» 

Fbanziska,  her  lady's  maid 

Jc8T,  servant  to  the  Major 

Pattl  Werneb,  an  old  sergeant  (^  the  Major'* 

Tdb  LanqloSo  oJ  an  inn 

RtCCAUT  DK  I.A  MaBUNiABX 

ALady 
AnOriedy 


Tin  atmu  ^ttmotM  6«wwn  Hit  partor  c/anin 
and  a  room  aiioiming  U. 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


MINNA  VON   BARNHELM 


ACT  I 

Jrar  Ivittinf  in  a  comer,  and  talking  while 
asleep].  R(^;ue  of  a  Undloidl  You  treat 
lUBO?  On,  comrade!  Hithardl  [BetlTiket 
wilh  hit  jut,  and  waket  Ihraugh  the  exertion.] 
Hal  There  he  is  agaiml  I  cannot  shut  an 
eye  without  fighting  with  him.  I  wish  he 
got  but  half  the  blows.  Why,  it  is  morning  1 
I  mutt  look  for  my  poor  maker  at  once;  if 
I  can  help  it,  he  shoU  not  set  foot  in  the 
euraed  bouse  again.  I  wonder  where  be  has 
passed  the  nigfat? 

[Enter  Landlobd.] 

Lamslord.  Good-morning,  Herr  Just; 
good-moTningl  What,  up  so  earlyl  Or 
fhall  I  say  —  up  bo  lat«7 

JuBT.   Bay  which  you  please. 

Landlord.  I  say  only  —  good-momingl 
Ami  that  deserves,  I  suppose,  that  Herr 
Just  should  answer,  "Many  thanks." 

JcBT.   Many  thuiks. 

Landlord.  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? 

JuBT.  How  the  man  can  guen  every- 

Laudlobc.  I  BurmiM,  I  surmiBe. 

3Tn[lumi7tgroundtogo].  Youracrvantl 

Landlord  Ittopping  him].   Not  so,  Herr 
JuBtl 
-    Just.  Verywell,  then,  not  your  servant  I 

Landlord.  What,  Herr  Just,  I  do  hope 
you  are  not  still  angry  about  yesterday's 
affair!    Who  would  keep  his  anger  over- 

JvBT.   I;  and  over  a  good  many  nights. 

Landlord.   Is  that  like  a  ChnetianT 

JCBT.  As  much  so  Bs  to  tuia  an  honor- 
able man  who  cannot  pay  to  a  day,  out  of 
dooiB,  into  the  street. 

Lakdlord.  Fie!  Who  would  be  so 
wicked? 


Jdot.  a  Christian  innkeeper.  —  My 
masterl  Such  a  man!  Such  an  officer! 

Landlord.  1  thrust  him  from  the  house 
into  the  streets?  I  have  far  too  much  re- 
spect for  an  officer  to  do  that,  and  far  too 
much  pity  for  a  discharged  onel  I  was 
obliged  to  have  another  room  prepared  for 
him.  Think  no  more  about  it,  Herr  Just. 
[CaOs.]  Hullo!  1  will  make  it  good  in  an- 
other way.  [A  lad  eomet.]  Bring  a  glass; 
Herr  Just  will  ,have  a  drop;  something 
good. 

Jdot.  Do  not  trouble  yourself,  Mr. 
Landlord.  May  the  drop  turn  to  poison, 
which  —  But  I  will  not  swear;  I  have  not 
yet  breakfasted. 

Landlord  [to  the  lad,  who  bringB  a  bottle 
of  vpiritt  and  a  glaaa].  Give  it  here.  Got 
Now,  Herr  Just ;  something  quite  excellent; 
strong,  delicious,  and  wholesome.  {FHU 
and  holda  it  ovl  to  him.]  That  can  set  on 
overtaxed  stomach  to  rights  againi 

Jdst.  I  bordly  oughtl  —  And  yet  why 
should  I  let  my  health  suffer  on  account  of 
his  incivility?  [Taket  it  and  drinkt.] 

Landlord.  May  it  do  you  good,  Herr 
Just! 

JuBT  ^ffiving  the  glass  back].  Not  bad! 
But,  Landlord,  you  are  nevertheless  an  ill- 
mannered  brut«! 

Landlord.  Not  so,  not  so! — -Come, 
another  glass;  one  cannot  stand  upon  one 
leg. 

Just  [afUr  drinking].  I  must  say  so 
much  —  it  is  good,  very  good!  Made  at 
home.  Landlord? 

Landlobd.  At  home,  indeed!  True 
Dantsig,  real  double  disLilledl 

JnsT.  Look  ye,  Landlord;  if  I  could  play 
the  hypocrite,  I  would  do  so  for  such  stuff 
OS  that;  but  I  cannot,  so  it  must  out.  — 
You  are  an  ill-mannered  brute  all  the  same. 

Landlord.  Nobody  in  my  life  ever  told 
me  that  before.  —  But  another  glass,  Herr 
Just;  three  is  the  lucky  numberl 


540 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


JnoT.  With  all  my  heart!  IDHnka.] 
Good  stuff,  mdeed,  capital!  But  truth  is 
good  also,  and  indeed.  Landlord,  you  are 
an  ill-mannered  brute  all  the  samel 

Landlord.  If  I  was,  do  you  think  1 
should  let  you  say  so? 

JuBT.   Oh,  yea ;  a  brut«  seldom  has  spirit. 

Landlord.  One  more.  Heir  Just;  a 
four-Btranded  rope  is  the  strongeat. 

JuBT.  No,  enough  is  as  good  as  a  FeastI 
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  Dantsig,  and  such  bad  mannera!  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  thaleis; 
who  never  owed  a  heller  in  his  life,  —  be- 
cause he  let  payment  run  for  a  couple  of 
months,  and  because  he  does  not  spend 
quite  so  much  as  he  used. 

Landlord.  But  suppose  1  really  wanted 
the  room  and  saw  beforehand  that  the 
Major  would  willingly  have  given  it  up  if 
we  could  only  have  waited  some  time  tor 
hisretuml  Should  I  let  strange  gentlefolk 
like  them  drive  away  again  from  my  door? 
Should  I  willfully  send  such  a  prize  into 
theclutchesof onotherinnkeeper?  Besides, 
I  don't  beheve  they  could  have  got  a  lodg- 
ing elsewhere.  The  inns  are  all  now  quite 
full.  Could  such  a  young,  beautiful,  ami- 
able 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? 

Jcat.  By  the  pigeon-house,  at  the  back, 
with  a  view  between  a  neighbor's  chim* 
neys. 

Landlord.  The  view  was  uncommonly 
fine,  before  the  confounded  neighbor  ob- 
etructed  it.  The  room  is  otherwise  very 
nice,  and  is  papered  — 

Just.   Has  been  I 

Landlord.  No,  one  aide  ia  so  still.  And 
the  little  room  adjoining, — -what  is  the 
matter  with  that?  It  has  a  chimney  which, 
perhaps,  smokes  somewhat  in  the  winter  — 

JnsT.  But  does  very  nicely  in  the  sum- 
mer. I  believe,  Landlord,  you  are  mock- 
ing us  in  the  bargain ' 


Landlord.  Come,  come;  Hen  Just. 
Herr  Just  — 

'  JnsT.  Don't  make  Herr  Just's  beftd 
hot  — 

Landlord.  I  make  his  head  hot?  It  is 
the  Dantiig  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  londkirds,  so  civil 
during  the  war?  Why  was  every  officer  an 
honorable  man  then,  and  every  soldier  a 
worthy,  brave  fellow?  Does  this  bit  of  a 
peace  make  you  so  bumptious? 

Landlord.  What  makes  you  fly  out  bo, 
Herr  Just? 

JuBT.    I  wlU  fly  out. 

Major  von  Tellhdiu  [enterinf].  JustI 

Just  Isuppoaing  the  Landlobd  ia  tttU 
tpeaking].  Just?  Are  we  so  intimate? 

Majob  von  Tellheibi.  Just! 

Just.  I  thought  I  was  "Herr  Just" 
with  you. 

Landlord  [teeittg  the  Major].  HistI 
Hist!  Hen  Just,  Herr  Just,  look  round; 
your  master  — 

Major  von  TuLLBBm.  Just,  I  think 
you  are  quarreling!  What  did  T  tell  youT 

Landlord.  Quarrel,  your  honor?  God 
forbid!  Would  your  most  humble  servant 
dare  to  quarrel  with  one  who  h  is  the  honor 
of  being  in  your  service? 

JoBT.  If  I  could  but  give  him  a  good 
whack  on  that  cringing  cat's  back  of  his! 

Landlord.  It  is  true  Herr  Just  speaks 
up  for  his  master,  and  rather  warmly;  but 
in  that  he  is  right.  1  esteem  him  so  much 
the  more:  I  hlce  him  for  it. 

Just.  I  should  like  to  knock  bis  teeth 
out  for  him  I 

Landlord.  It  is  only  a  pity  that  he  puta 
himself  in  a  passion  for  nothing.  For  I  feel 
quite  sure  that  your  honor  is  not  displeased 
with  me  in  this  matter,  since  —  necessity 
—  made  it  necessary  — 

Major  von  Txllheim.  More  than 
enough,  sir!  I  am  in  your  debt;  you  turn 
out  my  room  in  my  absence.  You  must  be 
paid,ImuBtseekalodgii^elBewhn«.  Very 
natural. 

Landlord.  Elsewhere?  You  »n  not 
going  to  quit,  honored  sir?    Oh,  unforttt- 


.CtOo^^Ic 


MINNA  VON   BARNHELM 


mte  Btrioken  Dum  that  I  ami  No,  nerert 
Sooner  ahall  the  lady  give  up  the  apart- 
menta  again.  The  Major  cannot  and  will 
tiot  let  her  hare  his  room.  It  ia  his;  she 
must  go;  I  cannot  help  it.  I  will  go,  hon- 
ored dr  — 

Majdb  vom  TaiiiaKiu.  My  friend,  do 
not  auke  two  fooliab  Etrokee  instead  of 
one.  The  lady  must  retain  ponacanion  of 
the  room  — 

Landlobo.  And  your  honor  could  eup- 
poee  that  from  diatnut,  from  fear  of  not 
being  paid,  I  —  As  if  I  did  not  know  that 
your  honor  could  pay  me  as  soon  as  you 
pleased.  The  sealed  purse  —  five  hundred 
tbalers  in  louis  d'ors  marked  on  it  —  which 
your  honor  had  in  your  writing-deak  —  is 


Major  ton  Teixheim.  1  trust  so;  as 
the  reat  of  my  property.  Just  shall  take 
them  into  hie  keeping,  when  he  has  pEud 
your  bill  — 

LANniiORD.  Really,  I  was  quite  alarmed 
when  I  found  the  purae.  I  always  con- 
sidered your  honor  a  methodical  and  pru' 
dent  man,  who  never  got  quite  out  of 
money  —  but  still,  had  I  supposed  there 
was  ready  money  in  the  deek  — 

Majok  VON  TsLLBKiu.  You  would  have 
treated  me  rather  more  ctTilly.  I  under- 
stand you.  Go,  air;  leave  me.  I  wish  to 
speak  with  my  sorant. 

Lamolobd.  But,  honored  air  — 

Major  vom  Tellhxoi.  Come,  Juat;  be 
does  not  wish  to  permit  me  to  give  my 
ordera  to  you  in  his  house. 

Landlobd.  I  am  going,  honored  flirl 
My  whole  house  is  at  your  service.  [Exit.] 

Jeer  [ttamping  viik  hU  foot  and  ipUling 
ajler  the  Landlobd),    Ugh! 

Major  von  TBU.HBni.  What  is  the 
mattert 

Just.  I  am  choking  with  rage. 

Majob  von  TaUiHBtw.  That  is  as  bad 
as  from  plethora. 

3vtrr.  And  for  you,  air,  I  hardly  know 
you  any  longer.  May  1  die  before  your 
eyea,  if  you  do  not  encourage  this  malicious, 
unfeeling  wretch  I  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! 


Major  von  Tsllbxoi.  But  what  is  it 
that  you  want? 

JuBT.  I  want  you  to  perceive  how  muoh 
he  insults  you. 

Major  von  Tellhxiu.  And  then  — 

Jtibt.  To  take  your  revenge  —  No,  tlia 
fellow  is  beneath  your  notice! 

Major  ton  Tbllbxhi.  But  to  commis- 
sion you  to  avenge  me?  That  was  my  in- 
tention 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 

JcsT.  OhI  A  pretty  sort  of  revenge! 

Major  von  TBLLHRm.  Which,  how- 
ever, we  must  defer.  I  have  not  one  heller 
of  ready  money,  and  I  kikow  not  wh»e  to 

Just.  No  money!  What  is  that  purse, 
then,  with  five  hundred  dollars'  worth  of 
louis  d'on,  which  the  Landlord  found  in 
your  deakT 

Major  von  Tbllhriu.  That  ia  moikey 
given  into  my  charge. 

JnsT,  Not  the  hundred  pistoles  which 
your  old  sergeant  brought  you  four  or  five 
weeks  back? 

Major  VON  TiiLLHiiu.  The  same.  Paul 
Werner's;  right. 

JirsT.  And  you  have  not  used  them  yetT 
Yet,  sir,  you  may  do  what  you  please  with 
them.    I  will  answer  for  it  that  — 

Major  von  Tbllbbiu.  Indeed! 

Just.  Werner  heard  from  me,  how  th^ 
had  tf ested  your  claims  upon  the  War 
Office.  He  haird  — 

Major  von  Tbllhuiu.  That  I  should 
certainly  be  a  beggar  soon,  if  I  was  not  one 
already.  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  Just. 
And  the  news  induced  Werner  to  offer  to 
share  his  Uttle  all  with  me.  I  am  very  glad 
that  I  guessed  this.  Listen,  Just;  let  me 
have  your  account,  directly,  too;  we  must 

JnsT.  How!  What! 
Major   von   Tbuaboi.  Not  a  word 
There  is  some  o) 


Ck^t^^lc 


543 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


[Enttr  Lady  in  mmiming.] 

Ladt.  I  ask  your  pardon,  eir. 

Major  vom  Tixlhkih.  Whom  do  you 
seek,  iDadun? 

LIdt.  The  worthy  gentlenuui  with 
whom  I  have  the  honor  of  speaking.  You 
do  not  know  me  again.  I  am  the  widow  of 
your  late  captain. 

Major  von  Tzllhiiiii.  Good  HeaTeus, 
madam,  how  you  are  ohangedl 

Last.  I  have  juet  risen  from  »  oiok-bed, 
to  which  grief  on  the  loos  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,  frimd  has  for  the  present 
'offered  me  an  asylum. 

Major  voh  Tellheim  [to  Jtisr].  Leave 
us.  [ExU  JuBT.]  —  Speak  fredy,  madamt 
You  must  not  be  ashamed  of  your  bad  for* 
time  before  me.  CanlaerveyouinanywayT 

Lapt.  Major  — 

Major  ton  Tzliakw.  I  pity  you, 
madam!  How  can  I  awre  you?  You  know 
your  husband  wag  my  friend;  my  friend,  I 
■ay,  and  I  have  always  been  sparing  of  this 
title. 

Last.  Who  knows  better  than  I  do  how 
worthy  you  w&e  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  Upa, 
had  not  natural  affection,  stronger  than 
friendship,  demanded  this  aad  prerogative 
for  his  ui^ortunate  son  and  his  unhappy 

Major  von  Tbllheih.  Ceaae,  madamt 
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  eaaily  be  misled 
to  murmur  against  Providence.  Oh,  honest 
MarloSI  Quick,  madam,  what  have  you 
to  request?  If  it  is  in  my  power  to  assist 
you,  if  it  is  in  my  power  — 

Ladt.  I  cannot  depart  without  fulfilling 
his  last  wishes.  Be  recollected,  shortly  be- 
fore his  death,  that  he  wss  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 
oome  to  redeem  his  note. 


Major  von  Tellhxdi.  What,  madaint 
Is  that  your  object  in  comingT 

Ladt.  It.is.  Fwmit  me  to  count  out  the 
numey  to  you. 

Major  von  TbiiLheiii.  No,  fnaHnin. 
MarlofT  a  debtor  to  met  That  can  hardly 
be.  Let  us  look,  however.  [Take*  out  a 
pocketbook  and  aearelui.]  I  find  nothing  cf 
the  kind. 

Ladt.  You  have  doubtless  miriaid  his 
note;  besides,  it  is  nothing  to  the  purpose. 
Permit  me  — 

Major  von  Trllhsiu.  No,  madam;  I 
am  careful  not  to  mialay  such  documents. 
If  I  have  not  got  it,  it  is  a  proof  that  I 
never  had  it,  or  that  it  has  been  honored 
and  already  returned  by  me. 

Last.   Major! 

Major  von  Tbllxboi.  Without  doubt, 
madam;  MarloS  does  not  owe  me  any- 
thing —  nor  can  I  remranber  that  he  ever 
did  owe  me  anything.  This  is  so,  madam. 
He  has  much  rather  left  me  in  his  ddit.  I 
have  never  been  able  to  do  anythii^  to 
repay  a  man  who  shared  with  me  good  and 
ill  luok,  honor  and  danger,  for  mx  vean.  I 
shall  not  forget  that  he  has  left  a  son.  Ha 
shall  be  my  son,  as  soon  as  I  can  be^father 
to  bim.  The  embarrassmMit  in  which  I  am 
at  present  —  , 

Last.  Generous  man!  But  do  not  think 
BO  meanly  of  me.  Take  the  money.  Majw, 
and  then  at  least  I  shall  be  at  case 

Major  ton  Tellrbih.  What  more  do 
you  require  to  tranquiUie  you  than  my  as- 
surance that  the  money  does  not  belong  tx 
meT  Or  do  you  wish  that  I  should  rob  Utc 
youngorphanof  my  friend?  Rob,  madam; 
for  that  it  would  be  in  the  true  meaning  of 
the  word.  The  money  belongs  to  him;  in- 
Tcet  it  for  him. 

Ladt.  I  underetoiui  you;  pardon  me  if 
I  do  not  yet  rightly  know  how  to  accept  a 
kindness.  Where  have  you  learned  that  a 
mother  will  do  more  for  her  child  than  tar 
the  preservation  of  her  own  life?  I  am 
goings- 

Major  von  Tellbeoi.  Go,  maHiii, 
and  may  you  have  a  prosperous  joumeyt 
I  do  not  sak  you  to  let  me  hear  from  you. 
Your  news  might  come  to  me  when  it  nuf^t 
be  of  little  use  to  me.  Then  ia  yet  ooa 


MINNA  VON  BARNHELM 


543 


thing,  madam;  I  had  nearly  forgotten  that 
which  is  of  moat  conaequenoe.  MarloC 
also  had  cloimB  upon  the  chest  of  our  old 
repment.  His  cMma  are  aa  good  bh  mine. 
If  my  demanda  are  paid,  his  must  be  paid 
also.  I  will  be  answerable  for  them. 

Ladt.  Oh,  iir,  —  but  what  can  I  say? 
ThuB  to  purpose  future  good  deeds  is,  in 
the  eyes  of  Heaven,  to  have  performed 
them  already.  May  you  receive  its  reward, 
aa  wen  aa  my  tears.  [ExU.] 

Majob  ton  TKLLHxm.  Poor,  good  wo- 
man I  I  muet  not  forget  to  destroy  the  bill. 
[Tatxt  some  papers  from  hit  poekefbook  and 
deilroj/t  them.]  Who  would  guarantee  that 
my  own  wants  might  not  some  day  tempt 
ma  to  make  use  of  itT 

[BtUer  Jun.l 

MAiOH  TON  Tbu-hxih.  Ib  that  you, 
Just? 

Just  (tmpttv  hit  eyei],  Yee. 

Major  ton  Tbllbkiu.  You  have  been 
crying? 

JcBT.  I  have  been  writiiig  out  my  ac- 
count in  the  kitchen,  and  the  place  is  full 
ot  smoke.  Here  it  is,  sir. 

Major  von  Tellhbim.  Give  it  to  me. 

JoffT.  Be  merciful  with  me,  sir.  I  know 
weQ  that  they  have  not  been  so  with  you; 
Btill  — 

Major  von  Tsllbeoi.  What  do  you 

JcsT.  I  should  sooner  have  expected  my 
death  than  my  discharge. 

Major  vom  Tbllbbiu.  I  cannot  keep 
you  any  longer:  I  must  learn  to  manage 
without  servants.  [Opent  the  paper,  and 
readt.]  "What  my  master,  the  Major, 
owes  me :  Three  months  and  a  half  wages,  6 
tbolen  per  month,  is  21  thalers.  During 
the  first  part  of  this  month,  laid  out  in  hud- 
driea  —  1  thaler  7  groachen  9  pfennigB. 
Total,  22  thalers  7  groachen  9  pfennigs." 
Right;  and  it  is  just  that  I  also  pay  your 
w^ee  for  the  whole  of  the  current  month. 

Ju8T-  Turn  over,  air. 

Major  ton  Tellhedi.  OhT  More? 
[fieoda.I  "What  I.  owe  my  master,  the 
Major:  Paid  for  me  to  the  anny  surgeon, 
26  thaleiB.  Attendanoe  and  nune  during 
tay  cure,  paid  for  me,  89  thalws.    Ad- 


vanced, at  my  request,  to  my  father,  — 
who  was  burned  out  of  his  houM  and 
robbed,  —  without  reckoning  the  two 
horses  of  which  he  made  Hit"  a  preeent,  SO 
thalers.  Total,  114  thalers.  Deduct  the 
above  22  thalers  7  groechen  9  pfennigs;  I 
remain  in  debt  to  my  master,  the  Major, 
91  thalers  16  groechen  3  pfom^."  —  You 
are  mad,  my  good  fellowl 

Jdbt.  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  tJte 
workhouse. 

Majos  von  Tsllhbim.  For  what  do 
you  take  meT  You  owe  me  nothing;  and  I 
win  recommemd  you  to  one  of  my  friends, 
with  whom  you  will  fare  better  than  with 

JraT.  I  do  not  owe  you  anything,  and 
yet  you  turn  me  away! 

Major  von  TBUiHxiii.  Because  I  do 
not  wish  to  owe  you  anything. 

Just.  On  that  account?  Only  on  that 
account?  As  cortain  aa  I  am  in  your  debt, 
as  certain  aa  you  can  nev^  be  in  mine,  ao 
certainly  shall  you  not  turn  me  away  now. 
Do  what  you  mU,  Major,  I  remain  in  your 
eerrice;  I  must  remain. 

Major  von  Tkllkbim.  With  your  ob- 
stinacy, your  insolence,  your  savage  bois- 
terous  temper  toward  all  who  you  think 
have  no  business  to  speak  to  you,  your 
malicioua  pranks,  your  love  of  revenge  — 

JnsT.  Make  me  as  bad  as  you  will,  I 
shall  not  think  worse  of  myself  than  of  my 
d<%.  L^st  winter  T  was  walking  one  even' 
ing  at  duak  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 
ni^t;  he  lay  down  before  the  door.  If  he 
came  too  near  me,  I  kicked  him;  he  yelped, 
kKdced  op  at  me,  and  wagged  hia  tail.  I 
have  never  yet  firen  him  «  bit  o(  bnad 


544 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


irith  tay  own  hand;  &nd  yet  I  am  the  only 
penon  whom  he  will  obey,  or  who  dare 
touch  him.  He  jumpa  about  me,  and 
shona  oS  hia  tricks  to  me,  without  my  ask- 
ing for  them.  He  is  An  ugly  dog,  but  he  ia 
B.  good  animaj.  If  he  carriea  it  on  much 
longer,  I  ahall  at  last  give  orer  hating  ttim. 

Major  von  Tellhbim  {atide].  Aa  I  do 
him.  No, thereianooneperfectlyinhumaD. 
Just,  we  will  not  part. 

JuaT.  Certainly  not!  And  you  wanted 
to  manage  without  aervantal  You  foi^et 
your  wounds,  and  that  you  only  have  the 
use  of  one  arm.  Why,  you  are  not  able  to 
drees  alone.  I  am  indispensable  to  you; 
and  I  am,  —  without  boasting.  Major,  — 
I  am  a  aervaut  who,  if  the  worst  comes  to 
the  woret,  can  beg  and  steal  for  his  master. 

Major  von  TsMtHiau.  Just,  we  will 

Just.  All  right.'sir! 

[Enter  Servant.] 

SmtVANT.    I  say,  comradel 

JtTST.   What  is  the  matter? 

Servant.  Can  you  direct  me  to  the 
officer  who  lodged  yesterday  in  that  roomT 
[PoinliTig  Ut  the  one  out  of  lohich  hs 
is  amting.] 

JCBT.  That  I  could  easily  do.  What 
have  you  got  for  him? 

Servant.  What  we  always  have,  when 
we  have  nothing  —  compliments.  My 
miatreaa  he&rs  that  h«  has  been  turned  out 
on  her  account.  My  mistiess  knows  good 
mamierB,  and  I  am  therefore  to  beg  his 
pardon. 

JcsT.  Well,  then,  beg  his  pardon;  there 
he  stands. 

SBRVAirr.  What  is  he?    What  is  hia 

Major  von  Tbllhhih.  I  have  already 
heard  your  message,  my  friend.  It  is  un~ 
necessary  politeness  on  the  part  of  your 
mistress,  which  I  beg  to  acknowledge  duly. 
Present  my  complimmts  to  ha.  What  is 
the  name  of  your  mistress? 

Sbrvaht.  Her  name!   We  call  her  my 

Major  von  Tgllheim.  The  name  of 
her  family? 
SnsvANT.  I  have  not  heard  that  yet, 


and  it  is  not  my  buaincae  to  aak.  I  manage 
BO  that  I  generally  get  a  new  master  every 
six  weeks.   Hang  all  their  nsmesi 

Just.   Bravo,  comrade! 

Servant.  I  was  engaged  by  my  preeett 
mistress  a  few  days  ago,  in  Dresden.  I  be- 
lieve she  has  come  here  to  look  for  her  lover. 

Major  von  Tbllbeih.  Enough,  friend. 
I  wished  to  know  the  name  d  your  miatreaa, 
not  her  secrets.  Gol 

Sbrvant.  Comrade,  he  would  not  do 
for  my  master.  {Exit.] 

Major  von  Tei,lheim.  Just,  see  that 
re  get  out  of  this  house  directlyl  The  po- 
liteness of  this  strange  lady  affects  me  more 
than  the  churliahnees  of  the  host.  Here, 
take  this  ring  —  the  only  thing  of  value 
which  I  Lave  left  —  of  which  I  never 
thought  of  making  such  a  use.  Fawn  iti 
Get  eighty  louis  d'ors  for  it:  our  host's  bill 
can  scarcely  amount  to  thirty.  Pay  him, 
and  remiove  my  things.  —  Ah,  where? 
Where  you  will.  The  cheaper  the  inn,  the 
better.  You  will  find  me  in  the  neighboring 
M^ee-houae.  I  am  going;  you  will  see  to  it 
all  properly? 

Jdst.   Have  no  fear,  Major! 

Major  von  Tellheiu  [coming  back]. 
Above  all  things,  do  not  let  my  pistols  be 
fol^otten,  iriiich  hang  beside  the  bed. 

Just.  I  will  forget  nothing. 

Major  von  Tellheim  [coming  back 
again].  Another  thing:  bring  your  dog 
with  you  too.   Do  you  hear.  Just? 

[Exit  Major  von  Tellhhu.) 

JuBT.  The  dog  will  not  stay  behind,  he 
will  take  care  of  that.  Hem!  My  matsttr 
still  bad  this  valuable  ring  and  carried  it 
in  his  pocket  instead  of  on  hia  finger!  Mj 
good  hindlord,  we  are  not  yet  so  poor  as  we 
look.  To  him  himself,  I  will  pawn  you,  you 
beautiful  little  ring!  I  know  he  wUl  be  an- 
noyed that  you  will  not  all  be  consumed  in 
his  house.  Ahl  — 

[ETtler  Fat7l  Werner.] 


Wbbnxr.  The  acoureed  village!  I  can't 
manage  to  get  at  home  in  it  again.  Merry, 
my  boys,  merry;  I  have  got  some  mote 
mon^l  Where  is  the  Major? 


MINNA  VON   MRNHELM 


545 


Jvarr.  He  miut  hare  met  you;  he  just 
went  downataiTB. 

WntmB.  I  cAine  up  the  back  stairs. 
How  is  he?  I  should  have  been  with  you 
oat  week,  but  — 

Jnar.  Well,  what  prevented  you? 

Wkrner.  Ju£t,  did  you  ever  hear  of 
Prince  HeracliusT 

JuBT.  Heracliua?  Not  that  I  know  of. 

Wkkner.  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  Btare 
on  New  Year'a  Eve. 

WzRNEB.  Brother,  I  believe  you  read 
the  newspapers  as  little  as  the  Bible.  You 
do  not  know  Prince  UeracUus?  Not  know 
the  brave  man  who  seiied  Persia,  and  will 
break  into  the  Ottoman  Porte  in  a  few 
daysT  Thank  God,  there  is  Btill  war  some- 
where in  the  worldl  J  have  long  enough 
hoped  it  would  break  out  here  again.  But 
there  they  sit  and  take  care  of  their  skins. 
No,  a  soldier  1  was,  and  a  soldier  1  muit  be 
again!  Id  ehoit  [looking  rtnaid  ctir^vUy,  to 
see  if  any  one  i»  li»tening\,  between  our- 
selves, Juat,  J  am  going  to  Persia,  to  have 
a  few  campaigns  against  the  Turks,  under 
his  Royal  Highness  Prince  Heraclius. 

JcOT.  You? 

Wbrkes.  I  myself.  Our  anoeetors 
fought  bravely  against  the  Turks;  and  so 
ought  we,  too,  if  we  would  be  honest  men 
and  good  Christians.  I  allow  that  a  earn- 
paign  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  neict.  The  swords  of 
the  Turks  are  all  set  with  diamonds. 

JuBT.  I  would  not  walk  a  mile  to  have 
my  head  split  with  one  of  their  sabers.  You 
will  not  be  so  mad  as  to  leave  your  oom- 
fortable  little  farm  I 

Werner.  Ohil  take  that  with  me.  Do 
you  see?  The  pr(q>erty  is  sold. 

Just.  SoldT 

WsRNKB.  Hist!  Here  are  a  hundred 
ducata,  which  I  received  yesterday  toward 
the  payment:  I  am  brining  them  for  the 
Major. 

JOBT.  What  is  he  to  do  with  themT 

Wmnxr.  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  beard  of  Paul  Werner,  bis  late 
sergeant.   Our  affair  at  KatsenhSuser  — 

JnsT.  Shall  I  give  you  an  account  of 
that? 

WzRNKB.  You  give  me!  I  know  well 
that  a  fine  battle  array  is  beyond  your 
comprehenaioD.  I  am  not  going  to  throw 
my  pearls  before  swine.  Here,  take  the 
hundred  ducato;  give  them  to  the  Major: 
tell  him,  he  m^ay  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. 

JUBT.  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. 

Wgbnbb.  What,  has  the  Majw  money 
stiU? 

JuBT.  No. 

Wekkxr.  Has  he  borrowed  any? 

Jtibt.  No. 

Webkxr.  On  what  does  he  live,  then? 

JuBT.  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. 

Webnxr.   If  he  has  annoyed  the  Major, 

JCBT.  What  if  we  watch  for  him  in  the 
evening,  when  he  comee  from  his  club,  and 
give  him  a  good  thrashing? 

WsKHEB.  In  the  dark!  Watch  for  him) 
Two  to  onel  No,  that  woa't  do. 

Just.  Or  if  we  bum  his  house  over  his 
head? 

Wbrnbr.  Fire  and  burnt  Why,  Just, 
one  heats  that  you  have  been  bag^e-boy 
and  not  soldier.  Shamel 

Just.  Or  if  we  ruin  his  daughter?  But 
she  is  curaedly  ugly. 


.  Google 


S46 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Wksnir.  She  has  probably  been  ruined 
looB  ago.  At  any  nti,  you  don't  want  any 
btilp  there.  But  what  is  the  matter  with 
youT  WhAt  has  happened? 

Jovr.  Just  come  with  me,  and  you  sh^ 
hear  aomething  to  make  you  stare. 

Wbrnsb.  The  devil  must  be  loose  hne, 
then? 

Jnar.  Just  90;  come  along. 

WzBKSB.  So  much  the  betterl  To 
Penia,  then;  to  Peraia. 


ScKMx:  Minna's  Room. 

MiNHA  [in  morning  dreti,  looking  at  her 

uateh],  Franriaka,    we   have  risen   very 

early.    The  time  wiU  hang  heavy  on  our 

Fbaneiska.  Who  out  deep  in  these 
abominable  large  townaT  The  carriages, 
the  watchmoi,  the  drums,  the  cate,  the 
aoldien,  never  cease  to  rattle,  to  Cfjl,  to 
roll,  to  mew,  and  to  swear;  just  as  if  the 
lost  thing  the  night  is  intoided  for  was  for 
sleep.  Have  a  cup  of  tea,  my  lady! 

Minna.  I  don't  care  for  tea. 

FHAMZI8KA.  I  will  have  some  chocolate 
made. 

Minna.  For  yourself,  if  you  like. 

FiuNUSKA.  For  myselfl  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  drees  in  which 
we  intend  to  make  the  first  attaokf 

Minna.  Why  do  you  talk  of  attacks, 
when  I  have  only  come  to  require  that  the 
otqiitulation  be  ratified? 

Franeiska.  But  the  t^cer  whom  we 
have  dislodged,  and  to  whom  we  have 
i^Mlogiied,  cannot  be  the  beat-bred  man  in 
the  world,  w  he  might  at  least  have  begged 
the  honor  of  being  allowed  to  wait  upon 
you. 

Minna.  All  officers  ore  not  Tellheims. 
To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  only  sent  him  the 
meMOge  in  order  to  have  on  opportunity  ot 
inquiring  from  him  about  Tellheim.  Fran- 
aidca,  my  heart  tells  me  my  journey  will  be 
ft  aucceesfid  one  and  tiutt  I  aholl  fiod  him. 


FsAMSiBKA.  The  heart,  my  ladyl  One 
muat  not  trust  to  that  too  muidi.  TheheoH 
echoes  to  us  the  words  of  our  tongues.  If 
the  tongue  was  as  mueh  inclined  to  speak 
the  thoughto  of  the  heart,  the  fashion  of 
keeping  mouths  under  ioA  and  key  would 
have  acme  in  long  ago. 

Minna.  Ha,  hal  Mouths  under  lock 
andkeyl  That  fashion  would  just  suit  me. 

FnANXisKA.  Rather  not  show  the  most 
beautiful  set  (d  teeth  than  let  the  heart  be 
seen  throu^  them  every  moment. 

Minna.  What,  are  you  bo  reserved? 

Fbamxiska.  No,  my  lady;  but  I  woukl 
willingly  be  more  bo.  People  seldom  talk 
at  the  virtue  they  poosess,  and  all  the  more 
often  of  that  whi^  they  do  not  possess. 

Minna.  Froniiska,  you  made  a  very 
just  remark  there. 

FnAMZiBKA.  Madel  Does  one  make  it, 
if  it  occurs  to  one? 

Minna.  And  do  you  know  why  I  eaor 
eider  it  BO  good?  It  applies  to  my  Tellheim. 

Fkanwska.  What  would  not,  in  your 
opinion,  apply  to  him? 

Minna.  Friend  and  foe  Bay  he  is  the 
bravest  man  in  the  world.  But  who  ew 
heard  him  talk  al  bravery?  He  has  the 
most  upright  mind;  but  uprightnees  and 
nobleness  of  mind  ore  words  never  <m  his  - 
tongue. 

Franziska.  Of  what  virtues  does  he 
talk,  then? 

Minna.  He  talks  of  ncme,  for  he  is 
wanting  in  none. 

Fbakkibea.  That  is  just  what  I  wished 
to  hear. 

Minna.  Wait,  Franaiska;  I  am  wrong. 
He  often  talks  ol  economy.  Betweoi  our- 
selvw,  I  bcUeve  he  is  extravagant. 

Fbanzibka.  One  thing  more,  my  lady. 
I  have  oftem  heard  him  mention  truth  and 
oonstancy  toward  you.  What,  if  he  be 
inconstant? 

Minna.  Miserable  girl!  But  do  you 
mean  that  seriously? 

Fhaneibka.  How  long  is  it  sinoe  he 
wrote  to  youT 

Minna.  Alas,  he  has  only  written  to  em 
(«ice  since  the  peace. 

Fbamzibka.  What!  A  si^  cm  account 
of  (be  pMoeT    SuipcianKi    Pesee  on^t 


MINNA  VON  BARNHBLM 


547 


inly  to  make  good  the  ill  which  war  cau 
but  it  seenu  to  disturb  the  good  which  the 
latter,  its  oppoaite,  may  h&ve  occaaioDed. 
Peace  should  not  be  so  caprioioual  —  How 
long  have  we  had  peace?  The  time  seems 
wonderfully  long,  when  there  is  so  little 
news.  It  is  no  use  the  poat  going  regularly 
again;  nobody  writes,  tar  nc4>ody  has  any- 
thing to  write  about. 

MiKNA.  "Peace  haa  been  made,"  he 
wrote  to  me,  "and  I  am  approaching  the 
fulfiUntent  t^  my  wishes."  But  since  he 
only  wrote  that  to  me  once,  only  once  — 

Franeiska.  And  since  he  compels  us 
to  run  after  this  fulfillment  of  his  wishes 
ounelves —  If  Me  can  but  find  him,  he 
shall  pay  for  this!  Suppose,  in  the  mean 
time,  be  may  have  aceomplished  hia 
iriahee,  and  we  should  leam  here  that  — 

Minna  [atixio^uly].  That  he  is  dead? 

Fbanziska.  To  you,  my  lady ;  and  mar- 
ried to  another. 

Minna.  You  tease,  you  I  Wait,  Fran- 
■Jaka,  I  will  pay  you  out  for  this  I  But  talk 
to  me,  or  I  shall  fall  asleep.  Hia  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  knowB  what  circumatancea  — 
There's  a  knock  at  the  door. 

Fbanziska,  Come  inl 

Landlord  [putttTi^  hi*  head  in  at  the  door]- 
Am  I  permitted,  your  ladyship? 

Fbaneiska.  Our  landlord?  —  Come 
inl 

Landlobd  [a  pen  behind  Ait  ear,  a  aheet 
ttfpaperaTtdaninktiandinhiihond],  lam 
come,  your  ladyship,  to  wiah  you  a  most 
humble  good-morning.  [To  Franziska.] 
And  the  same  to  you,  my  pretty  maid. 

Franzibxa.  A  polite  mani 

Minna.  We  are  obliged  to  you. 

Franeibka.  And  wiah  you  also  a  good- 


Landlobd.  May  I  vulture  to  aak  bow 
your  ladyship  has  passed  the  first  night 
ander  my  poor  roof? 

FsANZiSEA.  The  roof  ia  not  so  bad,  sir; 
but  tbe  beds  might  have  been  better. 

Lamdlobd.  What  do  I  heart  Not  slept 


Weill     Perhaps  the  aT«>-fatigue  of  the 
journey  — 

Minna.  Perh^ia. 

Landlord.  Certainly,  certainly,  for 
otherwise—  Yet,  should  there  be  any- 
thing not  perfectly  comfortable,  my  lady, 
I  hope  you  will  not  fail  to  command  me. 

Fkanziska.  Vefy  well,  Mr.  Landlord, 
verywelll  Wearenotbaahful;  andleast  of 
all  should  one  be  bashful  at  an  inn.  We 
shall  not  fail  to  say  what  we  may  wiah. 

Landlord.   I  next  come  to  — 

[Taking  the  pen  from  beAind  kit  ear.] 

Frakubka.  Well? 

Landlord.  Without  doubt,  my  lady, 
you  are  already  acquainted  with  Uie  wise 
regulations  of  our  police. 

Minna.  Not  in  the  least,  sir. 

Landlord.  We  landlords  are  instructed 
not  to  take  in  any  stranger,  of  whatever 
rank  or  sex  he  may  be,  for  four-and-twenty 
hours,  without  deUvering,  in  writitig,  his 
name,  place  of  abode,  occupation,  object 
of  his  journey,  probable  stay,  and  so  on,  to 
the  proper  authorities. 

Minka.  Very  well. 

Landlord.  Will  your  ladyship  then  be 

[Ooing  to  the  UAU,  and  making 
ready  to  uriie.] 

Minna.  Willingly.  My  name  is  — 

Landlord.  One  minutel  [He  imtee.] 
"Dato,  22d  August,  a.d.,  eto.;  arrived  at 
the  King  of  Spain  Hotel."  Now  your 
name,  my  lady. 

Minna.  Fr&ulein  von  Bamhekn. 

Landlord  [writet].  "Von  Bamhekn." 
Coming  from  -~  where,  your  ladyship? 

Minna.   Prom  my  estate  in  Saxony. 

Landlord  [tmtfs].  "EatatoinSasony." 
Saxony!  Indeed,  indeed!  In  Saxony,  your 
ladyship?  Saxony? 

Franzibka.  Well,  why  not?  I  hope  it  ia 
no  sin  in  this  country  to  come  from  Saxonyl 

Lanulord.  a  ain?  Heaven  forbid! 
That  would  be  quite  a  new  sin!  From  Sax* 
any,  then?  Yes,  yes,  from  Saxony,  a  de- 
lightful 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  vras 
particular,  your  Udyshq). 


Ck^t^^lc 


548 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


MnfMA.  I  uud«irBta&d.  From  my  wtata 
in  Thuringift,  then. 

Landlord.  From  Tburingial  Yes,  that 
M  better,  yourladyelup;  that  in  more  exact. 
[WrUet  and  reads.]  "FrAulein  von  Barn- 
helm,  coming  from  her  estate  in  Thuringifi, 
together  with  her  tsdy  in  waiting  and  two 
menservanta." 

Framzibka.  Lady  in  wailing!  That 
means  me,  I  auppoeel 

Landlorh.  Yes,  my  pretty  maid. 

FoANZiBKA.  Well,  Mr.  Landlord,  in- 
stead of  "lady  in  waiting,"  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  etill  unmarried,  and  my  name  is  Fran- 
liska,  with  the  family  name  of  Willig: 
Fransiaka  Willig.  I  also  come  from  Thur- 
ingia.  My  father  was  a  miller,  on  one  of 
my  lady's  estates.  It  is  called  Little 
Rammsdoif .  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-sjid-twenty  next  Candle- 
mas. Ileamed  everything  my  lady  learned. 
I  should  like  the  police  to  have  a  fuU  ac- 
count of  me. 

LandiiOHD.  Quite  right,  my  pretty 
maid;  I  will  bear  that  in  mind,  in  case  of 
future  inquiries.  —  But  now,  your  lady- 
ship, yoiw  businesB  here? 

Minna.   My  business  here? 

Landiiobd.  Have  you  any  business 
with  His  Majesty  the  King? 

Minna.  Oh,  no. 

Landlohd,  Or  at  our  courts  of  justice? 

Minna.   No. 

Lamiiu)rd.  Or  — 

Minna.  No,  no.  I  have  come  here 
solely  on  account  of  my  own  private  affairs. 

IiANniiOm).  Quite  right,  your  ladyship; 
but  what  are  those  private  affairs? 

Minna.  They  are  —  Franziska,  I  think 
we  are  undergoing  an  examination. 

Fkahzibka.  Mr.  Landlord,  the  police 
surely  do  not  ask  to  know  a  young  lady's 
secrets! 

Landlord.  Certainly,  my  pretty  maid; 
the  police  wish  to  know  everything,  and 
specially  ftecreta. 


FsANZBiEA.  What  is  to  be  done,  nqr 
lady?  —  Well,  listen,  Mr.  Landlord  —  but 
take  care  that  it  does  not  go  beyond  our- 
selves and  the  police. 

Minna.  What  is  the  simpleton  going  to 
tell  him? 

FnAKziesA.  We  wane  to  carry  off  an 
officer  from  the  king. 

Luidloro.  How?  What?  My  dear 
girll 

Fhanzibka.  Or  to  let  ourselves  be 
carried  off  by  the  officer.  It  is  all  one. 

Minna.  Franxiska,  are  you  mad?  'Hie 
saucy  girl  is  laughing  at  you. 

Landlobd.  I  hope  notl  With  your 
humble  servant,  indeed,  she  may  jest  as 
much  as  she  pleases;  but  with  the  police  — 

Minna.  I  tell  you  what;  I  do  not  und«- 
atand  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  acci- 
dent to  his  carriage  teil  miles  from  herey 
and  did  not  wish  that  1  should  remain  a 
night  loi^ier  on  the  road,  so  I  had  to  come 
on.  I  am  sure  he  will  not  be  more  than 
four-and-tw«ity  hours  after  us. 

Landlobd.  Vary  well,  madam,  we  will 
wait  for  him. 

Minna.  He  will  be  able  to  answer  your 
questions  better.  He  will  know  to  whom, 
and  to  what  extent,  he  must  give  an  ac- 
count of  himself  —  what  he  must  relate 
respecting  his  affairs,  and  what  he  may 
withhold. 

Landlord.  So  much  the  betterl  In- 
deed, one  cannot  expect  a  young  girl  [look' 
iTiff  at  Fhanzibka  in  a  nwrked  manner]  lo 
treat  a  serious  matter  with  serious  people 


Minna.  And  his  rooms  ai 
I  hope? 

Landlord.  Quite,  your  ladyship,  quite; 
except  the  one  — 

Franeisxa.  Out  of  which,  I  suppooe, 
you  will  have  to  turn  some  other  honorable 
gentleman  I 

Landlord,  The  waiting  msids  of  Sax- 
ony, your  ladyship,  seem  to  be  veiy  ccon- 
passiouate. 

Minna.  In  truth,  sir,  that  was  not  weU 
done.  You  ought  rather  to  have  rsfuaed  us. 


CtOoi^Ic 


MINNA  VON  BARNHELM 


549 


Laitolobs.  Wby  eo,  your  bdyatup, 
whyso? 

MuTKA.  I  undersUod  that  tiie  officer 
who  was  driven  out  on  our  account  — 

Landlokd.  Ib  only  a  diocharged  officer, 
your  ladyship. 

MitiNA.  Well,  wh»t  thenT 

Landlord.  Who  is  almost  done  for. 

Minna.  Somuch  thenorael  He  is  said 
to  be  a  very  deserving  man. 

Landlord.  But  1  tell  you  he  is  dis- 
chai^ed. 

Minna.  The  iiiag  cannot  be  acquainted 
with  every  deserving  man. 

Landlobd.  Ofa,  doubtleae  he  knows 
them;  he  knolrB  them  all. 

Minna.  But  he  cannot  reward  them  all. 

Landlord.  They  would  have  been  re- 
warded if  they  had  lived  so  as  to  deserve 
it.  But  they  lived  during  the  war  as  if  it 
would  last  forever;  as  if  the  words  "youre" 
and  "mine"  were  done  away  with  alto- 
gether. Now  all  the  hotels  and  inns  are 
full  of  them,  and  a  landlord  has  to  be  on 
his  guard  with  them.  J  have  come  oS 
pretty  well  with  this  one.  If  he  had  no 
more  money,  he  had  at  any  rate  money's 
worth;.and  I  mi^t,  indeed,  have  let  him 
remain  quiet  two  or  three  months  longer. 
However,  it  is  better  as  it  is.  By  the  by, 
your  ladyship,  you  undostand  about 
jewels,  I  suppose? 

Minna.  Not  particularly. 

Landlord.  Of  course  your  ladyship 
must.  I  must  show  you  a  ring  —  a  valu- 
able 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  resem- 
blance it  bears  to  mine.  Therel  Just  look, 
just  lookl  [Taking  the  rin^  from  itt  eou, 
and  handing  ii  to  her.]  What  brilliancy  I 
The  diamond  in  the  middle  alone  weighs 
more  than  five  carats. 

Minna  ^king  al  tlj.  Good  Heavens! 
What  do  I  see?  This  ring  — 

Landlobd.  b  honestly  worth  fifteen 
hundred  thates. 

Minna.  Franiiskat  Lookl 

Landlord.  1  did  not  hesitate  for  a  mo- 
ment to  advance  eighty  pistoles  on  it. 

Minna.  Do    not    you 
EVaiuuska7 


Franeibka.  The  samel  Where  did  you 
get  that  ring,  Mr.  Landlord? 

Landlord.  Come,  my  girll  You  surely 
have  DO  claim  to  it? 

Franiiska.  We  have  no  claim  to  this 
ringl  My  mistrees's  monogram  must  be 
on  it,  on  the  inner  side  of  the  setting.  — 
Look  at  it,  my  lady. 

Minna.  It  i«l  It  isl  How  did  you  get 
this  ringT 

Landlord.  II  In  the  most  honorable 
way  in  the  world.  You  do  not  wi^  to 
bring  me  into  disgrace  and  trouble,  your 
ladyship!  How  do  1  know  where  the  ring 
properly  belongs?  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  I 

pRANziSKA.  When  you  have  said  from 
whom  you  got  it. 

Landlord.  From  a  man  whom  I  cannot 
think  capable  of  such  things;  in  other  re- 
spects a  good  man  — 

Minna.  Prom  the  beet  man  under  the 
sun,  if  you  have  it  from  its  owner.  Bring 
him  here  directly!  It  is  himself,  or,  at  any 
rate,  be  must  know  blm. 

Landlord.  Who?  Who,  your  lady- 
ship? 

Fbaneisea,  Are  you  deaf?  Our  Major! 

Landlord.  Major!  Right!  He  is  a 
Major,  who  had  this  room  before  you,  and 
from  whom  I  received  it. 

Minna.  Major  vcm  Tellfaeim! 

Landlord.  Yes,  TfJlheim.  Do  you 
know  him? 

Minna.  Do  I  know  himi  He  is  herel 
Tellfaeim  herel  He  had  this  room!  He! 
He  pledged  this  ring  with  you  I  What  haa 
brought  him  into  this  embarrasBment? 
Where  is  he?   Does  be  owe  you  anything? 

—  Franziaka,  my  desk  here!  C^ien  it! 
[Franziska  puis  Uonthe  iMe  and  opens  U.\ 

—  What  does  he  owe  you?  To  whom  else 
doee  he  owe  anything?  Bring  me  all  his 
creditorsi  Here  is  gold;  here  are  notes.  It 
isaUhisI 

Landlord.  What  is  this? 

MiHNA.  Where  is  he?  Where  is  be? 

Lakdlobd.  An  hour  ago  he  was  hm^ 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Minna.  Detested  maul  How  could 
you  act  BO  rudely,  so  hardly,  ao  cruelly 
toward  hunT 

Landlord.  Your  ladj'ship  must  par- 
don— 

Minna.  Quick!  Bring  him  to  me. 

Landlokd.  His  servant  is  perhaps  still 
here.  Does  your  ladyahip  vrish  that  he 
should  look  for  himT 

Minna.  Do  I  wish  it?  B^one,  runi 
For  this  service  alone  I  wiU  forgM  bow 
badly  you  have  behaved  to  him. 

Fsanzibea.  Now,  then,  quick,  Mr. 
Landlord!  Be  ofi!  Fly!  Flyl 

\Pti*het  him  out.] 

Minna.  Now  I  have  found  him  again, 
Franiiskal  Do  you  hear?  Now  I  have 
found  him  again!  I  scarcely  know  where  I 
am  for  joyt  Rejoice  with  me,  Franiiska. 
But  why  should  youT  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,  Franiid^  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!  [Thnuta 
her  hand  into  the  deik.]  There,  Franziaka 
\jfuiet  her  monej/],  buy  yourself  what  you 
like.  Ask  for  laoK,  if  it  be  not  sufficient; 
but  rejoice  with  me  you  must.  It  is  so 
melancholy  to  be  h^py  alone!  There, 
take  it,  then. 

Fkanzibka.  It  is  stealing  it  from  you, 
my  lady.  You  are  intoxicated,  quite  in- 
toxicated with  joy. 

Minna.  Girl^  my  intoxication  is  of  a 
quarrelsome  kind.  Take  it,  or  \forcmg 
tiumey  into  her  hand]  ■ —  and  if  you  thank 
me  —  Stay,  it  is  well  that  I  think  of  it. 
[Takei  more  money  from  the  deik.]  Put  that 
«aide,  Praniiska,  for  the  first  poor  wounded 
soldier  who  accoste  ub. 

[Enter  Landlohd.) 

Well,  is  he  coming? 

Landlord.  The  <70fl8,  unmannered  fel- 
low! 

Minna.  Who? 

Landlord.  His  servant.  He  refuses  to 
go  for  him. 

Fkaneibka.  Bring  the  rascal  here,  then. 


I  know  all  the  Majw's  Berraiita.  Which  of 
them  was  it? 

Minna.  Bring  him  here  directly.  Whai 
he  sees  us  he  wiU  go  f  sst  enough. 

[Exit  Landlobd.I 

I  cannot  bear  this  delay.  But,  Frao' 
■iska,  how  cold  you  are  still!  Why  will 
you  not  share  my  joy  with  me? 

Fbanhska.  I  would  from  my  heart,  if 
only  — 

Minna.  If  only  what? 

Fkanubka,  We  have  found  him  again. 
But  how  have  we  found  him?  From  all  wb 
hear,  it  must  go  badly  with  him.  He  must 
t>e  unfortunate.  That  distresses  me. 

Minna.  Distreases  you!  Let  me  on- 
brace  you  for  that,  my  dear  playmatel  I 
shall  never  forget  this  of  you.  I  am  only  in 
love,  you  are  good. 

[Enter  Landlobd  and  Jnsr.) 

IiANniiOBD.  With  great  difficulty  I  have 
brought  him. 

Franiibka.  a  strange  faoel  I  do  not 
know  him. 

Minna.  Friend,  do  you  live  with  Maja 
von  Tellheim? 

JuBT.  Yee. 

Minna.  Where  is  your  master? 

Just.  Not  here. 

Minna.  But  you  could  find  him? 

Just.  Yes. 

Minna,  Will  you  fetch  him  quickly? 

JcsT.  No. 

Minna.  You  will  be  doing  me  a  favor. 

Just.  Indeed  I 

Minna.  And  your  mastw  a  servics. 

JuBT.  Perh^w  not. 

Minna.  Why  do  you  suppose  that? 

Jtt9t.  You  are  the  strange  lady  who  aent 
your  compliments  to  itim  thim  nKMmingt  I 
think? 

Minna.  Yea. 

Jdst.  Then  I  am  right. 

Minna.  Does  your  mastw  know  my 

Just.  No;  but  he  likes  ovo^ivil  ladies 
as  Uttle  as  over-uncivil  landlords. 

Landlord.  That  is  meant  !ot  mo,  I 
suppose? 

Ju8T.  Yee. 

Landlord.  Weli,  do  not  let  the  lady 


.CjOC^'.^Ic 


MINNA  VON   BARNHELM 


55» 


Builer  for  it  thco;  but  bring  him  here 


Minna  [to  FiumiBKA).  Franiialu,  pve 
tiiTn  Bom^hing  — 

Fkanziska  [liT/ing  fo  put  tome  monvy 
into  Just's  hand\.  We  do  not  require  your 
aerrices  for  notUng. 

Juffr.  Nor  1  your  money  without  aerv' 
kea. 

F&uniBKA.  One  in  return  for  the  other. 

Just.  I  cannot.  My  master  haa  ordered 
me  to  pack  up,  That  I  am  now  about,  and 
I  b^  you  not  to  hinder  me  further.  Whrat 
I  have  finiahed,  I  will  take  oare  to  tell  him 
that  be  may  come  here.  He  ia  close  by,  at 
the  coffeehouse;  and  if  he  finds  nothing 
better  to  do  there,  I  auppoee  he  will  come. 
lOoing.] 

Fkuizibka.  Wait  t.  momentl  My  lady 
ia  the  Major'a  —  aiater. 

Minna.  Yes,  yes,  his  aiater. 

Just.  I  know  better;  the  Major  has  not 
a  aiater.  He  haa  sent  me  twice  in  aii 
montha  to  his  family  in  Courland.  It  ia 
true  there  are  different  sorte  of  sisters  — 

FhanXebka.  Insolent  I 

JuBT.  One  muat  be  so  to  get  the  people 
U>  let  one  alcHie.  .  [£xil.) 

Fbanzibka.  That  is  a  rascalt 

Landlobd.  So  I  aaid.  But  let  him  got 
1  know  now  where  his  master  is.  I  will 
fetch  him  instantly  myself .  I  only  b^  your 
ladyship,  most  humbly,  that  you  will  make 
ao  excuse  for  me  to  the  Major,  that  I  have 
been  ao  unfortunate  as  to  offend  a  mui  of 
hia  merit  againat  my  will. 

Minna.  Fray  go  quickly.  I  will, set  all 
that  right  again.  [Exit  Landlobd.]  — 
FVanaiska,  run  after  him,  and  tell  him  not 
to  mention  my  name!  [£xil  FBANiiaXA.f  — 
r.  have  found  him  againl  —  Am  p  alone? 
—  I  will  not  be  alone  to  no  purpose. 
[CUtrpmi/  her  ^niis.{  Yet  I  am  not  slonel 
[liookini/  vpvxtrd.)  One  aingle  grateful 
thought  toward  Heav«i  is  the  most  perfect 
prayer  I  I  have  found  him  I  [With  out- 
^rtUhtd  arnu.]  I  am  joyful  and  happyl 
What  can  pleaae  the  Creator  more  than  a 
joyful  creature  I  [Puansissa  refumi.) 
Have  you  returned,  FranaiskaT  You  pity 
himi  I  do  not  pity  him.  Misfortune  too  is 
nsrfuL   Perhqn  Heavoi  deprived  turn  of 


evoything  —  to    grro    him    all    again, 
through  mel 

Fransiska.  He  may  be  here  any  mi^ 
ment.  —  You  are  still  in  your  mcnung 
dreaa,  my  lady.  Ought  you  not  to  dress 
yourself  quicklyT 

Minna.  Not  at  all.  He  will  now  see  me 
more  frequently  so  than  dressed  out. 

Fkansiska.  OhI  You  know,  my  lady, 
how  you  look  best. 

Minna  [tffler  a  pause].  Truly,  girl,  you 
have  hit  it  again. 

FaANzisKA.  I  think  women  who  are 
beautiful  are  most  so  when  unadorned. 

Minna.  Must  we  then  be  beautifulT 
Perhaps  it  is  necesaary  that  we  should 
think  oursdvea  so.  Enough  for  me  if  on^ 
I  am  beautiful  in  hi*  eyes,  fyansiaka,  if 
all  women  feel  aa  I  now  feel,  we  are  — 
strange  thinga.  Tender-hearted,  yet  proud; 
virtuous,  yet  vain;  passionate,  yet  inno- 
cent. I  dare  say  you  do  not  undeistand  ' 
me.  I  do  not  rightly  understand  myself. 
Joy  tu  ns  my  head. 

I^nzibka.  Compose  yourself,  my  lady. 
I  hear  footsteps. 

Minna.  Compose  myself!  WhatI  re- 
ceive him  oompoeedlyT 


Majob  von  Tm.IiWbtm  [unlits  in,  and  Ms 
moment  he  aees  Minna  rushes  toword  her]. 
Ah'  my  Minna! 

Minna  (sprinjrtnv  tovmrd  him].  Ahl  my 
Tellhdml 

Majob  von  Txllh^di  (storla  mddttdy, 
and  dfomt  hade].  I  beg  your  pardon,  Friu- 
lein  von  Bamhelm;  but  tomeet  you  here  — 

MiKNA.  Cannot  surely  be  ao  very  unex- 
pected! [Approadiing  him,  whUe  ke  (jmios 
haek  itiU  mart.]  Am  I  to  pardon  you  be- 
cause I  am  still  your  Minna?  Heaven 
pardon  you!,  that  I  am  still  Fr&ulein  von 
Bambetcnl 

Majob  von  Tbllbdiu.  Fr&ulein  — 

[Looki  fixedly  at  the  Landlqbd, 
and  thrugt  hi*  ghoulderi.] 

Minna  [aeeiTtg  the  Landlord,  and  mal^ 
tn0  a  nirn  (o  Fbanubka].  Sir  — 

Majob  von  Tkusmm.  !f  w-  »■  not 
both  mistakon — 


.  Google 


is» 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Fbamzibka.  Why,  Landlord,  whom  hare 
you  brought  ub  faereT  Come,  quick,  let  us 
go  and  look  for  the  right  man. 

Landlord.  Is  he  not  the  right  one? 
8ui^! 

Pb&neeska.  Surely  notl  Come,  quick! 
I  hare  not  yet  widied  your  daughter  good- 


Landlord.  OhI  you  are  very  good. 

[Stia  doet  tuit  ttir.] 

Franziska  [taking  hold  of  Aim].  Come, 
and  we  will  make  the  bill  of  fare.  Let  ua 
see  what  we  shall  have. 

Landlord.  You  ehall  have  first  of  all  — 

Fhanziska.  Stop,  I  say,  stopi    If  my 

mistresB  knows  now  what  ^e  is  to  have  for 

dinner,  it  will  be  all  over  with  her  appetite. 

Come,  we  must  talk  that  over  in  private. 

[Drags  h  n  o#.] 

MiKNA.  Well,  are  we  still  both  mis- 
takenT 

Majob  ton  Teumbju.  Would  to 
Heaven  it  were  sol  —  But  there  is  only 
one  Minna,  and  you  are  that  one. 

Minna.  What  ceremony!  The  world 
might  hear  what  we  have  to  say  to  one 
another. 

Major  von  TBLLHBni.  You  here? 
What  do  you  want  here,  madam? 

Minna.  Nothing  now.  [Goinn  to  kim 
with  open  armt.]  I  have  found  all  that  I 
wanted. 

Major  von  Tellbkdi  [dramng  back]. 
You  seek  a  proeperous  man,  and  one  worthy 
of  your  love;  ajid  you  find  —  a  wretch«d 
one. 

Minna.  Then  do  you  love  me  no  longer? 
Do  you  lore  another? 

Major  von  Tsllbbim.  Ah!  He  never 
loved  you,  who  could  love  another  after- 

Minna.  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  nothnigl 

Major  von  Tbllbeim.  Right;  the 
wretched  must  love  nothing.  He  merits 
hia  misfortunes,  if  he  cannot  achieve  this 
victory  over  him»elf  —  if  he  can  allow  the 


woman  he  loves  to  take  part  in  his  mirfor- 
tune —  Ohl  how  difficult  is  this  victory! 
—  Since  reason  and  necessity  have  com- 
manded me  to  forget  Minna  von  Bsm- 
helm,  what  pains  liave  I  taken  I  I  was  just 
beginning  to  hope  that  my  trouble  would 
not  forever  he  in  vain  —  and  you  appear. 

Minna.  Do  I  uudentand  you  right? 
Stop,  sir  I  Let  us  see  what  we  mean,  bef  coe 
we  make  further  mistakes.  Will  you  answer 
me  one  question? 

Major  von  TeijImeju.  Any  one. 

Minna.  But  will  you  answer  me  with- 
out shift  or  subterfuge?  With  nothing  but 
B  plain  "Yes,"  or  "No"? 

Major  von  Tku^eiu.   I  will  —  if  I 

Minna.  You  can.  Well,  notwithstand- 
ing the  pains  that  you  have  token  Co  forget 
me,  do  you  love  me  still,  Tellheim? 

Major  von  Tsllusim.  Madam,  that 
question  — 

Minna.  You  have  promised  to  answer 
Yes,  or  No, 

Major  VON  Tbllhbim.  And  added,  if  I 

Minna.  You  con.  You  must  know 
what  passes  in  your  heart.  Do  you  love 
me  stiU,  Tellheim?  Yes,  or  No? 

Major  von  Teli^i^u.  If  my  heart  — 

Minna.  Ya,  or  No? 

Major  von  Tbllbbui.  Well,  yeel 

Minna.  Yes? 

Major  von  TiiLLHEM.  Yee,yesl  Yet — 

Minna.  Patience!  You  love  me  etiD; 
that  is  enough  for  me.  Into  what  a  mood 
have  wa  falleni  —  an  unpleasant,  melan- 
choly,'infectious  moodi  I  assume  my  own 
again.  Now,  my  dear  unfortunate,  you 
love  me  still,  and  have  your  Minna  still, 
and  you  are  unhappy?  Hear  what  a  con- 
ceited, foolish  thing  your  Minna  was  —  is. 
She  allowed  —  allows  herself,  to  imagine 
that  she  makes  your  whole  happiness.  De- 
clare all  your  misery  at  once.  She  would 
like  to  try  how  for  she  can  outweigh  it.  — 
WeU? 

Major  von  Txllhbim.  Madam,  I  am 
not  accustomed  to  complain. 

MtKNA.  Very  well.  1  know  nothing  in  a 
soldier,  sfter  boasting,  tliaC  pleases  me  leee 
than  complaining.    But  there  is  a  certain 


MINNA  VON   BARNHELM 


553 


cold,  oarelees  way  of  speaking  of  bravery 
and  misfortune  — 

Majok  von  Tellheiu.  Which  at  the 
bottom  is  BtiU  boasting  and  complaining. 

Minna.  You  disputant  I  You  should 
not  have  called  yourself  unhappy  at  all, 
then.  You  should  bare  told  the  whole,  or 
kept  quiet.  Reason  and  necessity  eom- 
manded  you  to  forget  me?  I  am  a  great 
stickler  for  reason;  I  have  a  great  respect 
for  neceesity.  But  let  me  hear  how  reason' 
able  this  reason,  and  how  necessary  this 
Deceesity  may  be. 

Majok  vok  Tellhbiu.  Listen  then, 
madam.  You  call  me  Tellheiro;  the  name 
is  correct.  But  you  suppose  I  am  that  Tell- 
heim  whom  you  knew  at  home;  the  proa- 
perouB  man,  full  of  just  pretensions,  with 
a  thirst  fcH'  glory;  the  master  of  all  liie 
faculties,  both  of  body  and  mind;  before 
whom  the  lists  of  honor  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  dis- 
charged, the  suspected,  the  cripple,  the 
beggar.  To  the  former,  madam,  you  prom- 
ised your  hand;  do  you  wish  to  keep  your 
word? 

MiNKA.  That  sounds  very  tragic.  — 
Yet,  Major  Tellheim,  until  I  find  the  former 
one  again  — ^  I  am  quite  foolish  about  the 
Tellheims  —  the  latter  will  liave  to  help 
me  in  my  dilemma.  Your  hand,  dear 
b^gart  [Taking  kie  hand.] 

Major  voh  Tellhbiu  [holding  hit  hat 
h^ore  hit  face  with  the  other  hand,  and  (um- 
ing  aimv  from  her\.  This  is  too  muchi  — 
What  am  IT  —  Let  me  go,  madam  Your 
fdndness  tortures  me!   Let  me  go. 

Minna.  What  is  the  matter?  Where 
would  you  go? 

Major  VON  Tellheiu.  From  you! 

Minna.  From  me?  [Drawing  hit  hand 
to  her  hfort.}   Dreamerl 

Majob  VON  Tbllhbiu.  Deepair  will  lay 
me  dead  at  your  feet. 

Minna.  Prom  me? 

Major  von  Tellheiu.  From  you. 
Never,  never  to  see  yoa  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.  [Teare  himtetf  away,  orai  txU.\ 

Minna  [coiling  after  him].  Let  you  go, 
Minna?  Minna,  let  you  go?  Tellheiml 
Tellheiml 

ACT  III 
Scbnb:  Th«  Parlor. 

{Enter  Just,  with  a  letter  in  his  hand.] 

Just.  Must  I  come  again  into  this 
cursed  houael  A  note  from  my  master  to 
her  ladystiip  that  would  be  tiis  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-  Justwhat  I  wanted, 
the  waiting  puss! 

Fhanzibka  [ealiing  through  the  door  b;/ 
which  the  has  just  enlered\.  Fear  not;  I  will 
watch.  lObterving  Jtrsr.]  See!  I  have  met 
with  something  immediately.  But  nothing 
is  to  be  done  with  that  brute. 

JoBT.  Your  servant. 

Franziska.  1  should  not  like  such  a 
servant. 

Jven.  Well,  well,  pardon  the  expression! 
There  is  a  note  from  my  master  to  your 
mistress  —  her  ladyship  —  his  sister, 
was  n't  it?  —  sister. 

Franzisea.   Give  it  me! 

[Snatehea  it  from  hit  hand.] 

Just.  You  will  be  so  good,  my  master 
begs,  as  to  dehver  it.  Afterward  you  will 
be  so  good,  my  master  begs,  as  not  to  think 
I  ask  for  anything! 

Franiibka.  WeU? 

Just.  My  master  understands  how  to 
manage  the  affair.  He  knows  that  the  way 
to  the  young  lady  is  through  her  maid,  me- 
thinks.  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  ouarter  o!  an 

Fbanzibka.  With  me? 
Just.  Pardon  me,  if  I  do  not  give  you 
your  right  title,   Yee,  with  you.  Only  for 


5S4 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


one  quarter  of  an  hour;  but  aloDe,  quite 
i^ne,  in  private,  t4te-&-t6te.  He  has  some- 
thing  very  particular  to  say  to  j'ou. 

Fkamziska.  Very  welll  I  have  also 
much  to  say  to  him.  He  may  come;  1  shall 
be  at  hJB  service. 

Just.  But  when  can  he  oomeT  When  ia 
it  moot  convenient  for  you,  young  woman? 
In  the  evening? 

Franeiska.  What  do  you  mean?  Your 
master  can  come  when  he  pleases;  and  now 
be  off. 

JuOT.  Most  willingly!  [Ooing.] 

Fbanhska.  I  sayl  —  one  word  morel 
Where  are  the  rest  of  the  Major's  servants? 

Jtnrr.  The  rest?  H«e,  tiiere,  and  eveiy- 

Fbakeiska.  Where  is  William? 
JuffT.  The  valet?  He  has  let  him  go  for 
Atrip. 
Franiiska.  Ohl — and  Philip,  where  is 


be? 


Master    has 


JuBT.  The    huDtama 
found  him  a  good  place. 

FsAMZiBKA.  Because  he  does  not  hunt 
now,  of  course.  But  Martin? 

JnsT.  The  coachman?  He  is  off  on  a 
ride. 

Framubka.  And  Frits? 

IVBTT.  The  footman?  He  ia  prtanoted. 

FsANZiBKA.  Where  wae  you,  thai, 
when  the  Major  was  quartered  in  Thur- 
ingia  wi^  us  that  winter?  You  were  not 
with  him,  I  aupposel 

JuBT.  Oh,  yes,  I  was  groom;  but  I  was 
in  the  hospital. 

Fbanziska.  Groom  I  and  now  you  are — 

Jvfrr.  All  in  all;  valet  and  huntsman, 
footman  and  groom. 

Fhanzibka.  Well,  I  never!  To  turn 
away  BO  many  good,  excellent  servants,  and 
to  keep  the  very  worst  irf  all  I  I  should  like 
to  know  what  your  master  finds  in  youl 

Just.  Perhaps  ^e  finds  that  I  am  an 
honest  fellow. 

Fbanziska.  Ohl  One  is  precious  little 
if  one  is  nothing  more  tlian  honest.  Wil- 
liam  was  another  sort  irf  a  mani  So  your 
master  has  let  him  go  for  a  trip? 

JcBT.  Yee,  he  —  let  him  —  bMUise  he 
could  not  prevent  him. 

Fbanzissa.  How  90? 


Franzibka.  Whatl  He  did  not  run 
away  with  it? 

Just.  I  cannot  say  that  exactly;  but 
when  we  left  NOmberg,  he  did  not  follow  as 

Franzibka.  Oh,  the  rascal  I 

Ju8T.  He  was  tJte  right  acatf  He  oould 
curl  hair  and  shave  —  and  chatter  —  and 
flirt  —  could  n't  he? 

Fbanziska.  At  any  rate,  I  would  not 
have  turned  away  the  huntsman,  bad  I 
been  in  the  Maiat'e  place.  If  he  did  not 
want  him  any  longer  as  huntsman,  he  waa 
still  a  usdul  fellow.  Where  has  he  found 
him  a  place? 

Just.  With  the  Commandant  of  9pan- 
dau. 

Franiibka.  The  fortron!  There  can- 
not be  much  hunting  within  the  walle 

JnST.   Oh!  Philip  does  not  hunt  there. 

Franzibka.  What  does  he  do  then? 

Jun.   He  rides  —  on  the  treadmill. 

Franeisxa.   The  treadmill! 

Just.  But  only  for  three  years.  He 
made  a  bit  of  a  plot  among  master's  com- 
pany, to  get  six  men  through  the  outposts. 

Fbamzibka.  I  am  astonished;  the  knavel 

Juffr.  Ah,  he  was  a  us^ul  fellow;  a 
huntsman  who  knew  all  the  footpaths  and 
byways  for  fifty  miles  round,  through  for- 
ests uid  bogs.  And  he  could  shoot! 

Franzibka.  It  is  lucky  the  Major  has 
still  got  the  honest  coachman. 

Just.  Has  he  got  him  still? 

Franzibka.  I  thought  you  said  Martin 
waa  off  on  a  ride:  of  course  he  will  ocHne 
back! 

JUBT.    Do  you  think  80? 

Franziska.  Well,  where  has  he  ridden 
to? 

JuBT.  It  ia  now  going  on  for  ten  we^ 
since  he  rode  master's  last  and  only  horse 
—  to  water. 

Franzibka.  And  has  not  he  come  back 
yet?  Oh,  the  rascal! 

Just.  The  water  may  have  washed  the 
honest  coachman  away.  Ob,  he  was  a  fa- 
mous owwhmanl  He  bad  dnveo  tea  years 


c^ 


HINNA  VON  BAKNHELH 


555 


in  Vienna.  My  maatcr  will  never  get  Buch 
another  again.  When  the  horaee  were  in 
full  gallop,  he  only  had  to  say  "Whoal" 
and  there  they  stood,  like  a  wall.  More- 
over, he  was  a  finished  horae-doctor! 

Franeibka.  I  be^  now  to  be  MudouB 
about  the  footmon'e  promotion. 

Just.  No,  no;  there  ia  no  occasion  for 
that.  He  has  become  a  drummer  in  a  gar- 
noon  reghnent. 

FsANZisEA.  I  thought  as  muchl 

JnsT.  Frit!  chummed  up  with  a  ecamp, 
never  came  home  at  night,  made  ddsta 
everywhere  in  master's  name,  and  a  thou- 
aaiid  raocally  tricka.  In  short,  the  Major 
saw  that  he  was  determined  to  rise  in  the 
world  [pantomimieaUy  imitalin{f  Ute  act  of 
hanfing],  so  he  put  hun  in  the  right  road. 

Fkaneibka.  Oh,  the  stupid  I 

JnsT.  Yet  a  perfect  footman,  there  is  no 
doubt  of  tliat.  In  runn  ng,  my  master 
could  not  catch  him  on  his  beet  horse  if  he 
gave  him  fifty  paces;  but  on  the  other  hand, 
Frits  could  give  the  gallows  a  thousand 
facet,  and,  I  bet  my  life,  he  would  over- 
haul it.  They  were  all  great  friends  of 
yours,  eh,  young  woman?  —  William  and 
Philip,  Martin  and  ftitst  Now,  Just 
wishes  you  good-day.  [BxU.] 

Franzibka  \lookinQ  afier  Aim  mt-iousIv]. 
I  deserve  the  hit!  Thank  you,  Just.  I 
undm^alued  honesty.  I  will  not  forget  the 
leoBon.  Ah,  our  unfortunate  Majorl 

[TuTTM  round  lo  vnier  her  mMtreta'i 
room,  irhen  (As  Landixibo 
comet.] 

LandiiOBD.  Wait  a  bit,  my  pretty  maid. 

Fbanziska.  I  have  not  time  now,  Mr. 
Landlord. 

Landlord.  Only  half  a  momenti  No 
further  tidings  of  the  MajorT  That  surety 
could  not  possibly  be  his  leave-takingl 

Fbaniibka.  What  could  not? 

Landlord.  Has  not  her  ladyship  told 
yuuT  When  1  left  you,  my  pretty  maid, 
below  in  the  kitchen,  I  returned  acciden- 
tally into  this  room  — 

Fbanxiska.  Accidentally  —  with  a  view 
to  listen  a  Uttle. 

Landlobd.  What,  giril  How  can  you 
tnispeet  me  of  that?  There  is  nothing  so 
bad  in  a  landlord  as  curiosity.   I  had  not 


been  h^  long,  iriien  suddenly  her  lady- 
ship's door  burst  open;  the  Major  dashed 
out;  the  lady  after  hint;  both  in  such  a  state 
of  excitement;  with  looks  —  in  attitudes — 
that  must  be  seen  to  be  understood. 
She  seised  hold  of  him;  he  tore  him- 
self away;  she  seized  him  again  —  "Tell- 
heim."  "Let  me  go,  madam."  "Where?" 
Thus  he  drew  her  as  far  as  the  stairoase. 
I  was  really  afraid  he  would  drag  her  down; 
but  he  got  away.  The  lady  remuned  on 
the  top  step;  looked  after  hhn;  called  after 
him;  wrung  her  hands.  Sudd^y  she 
turned  round;  ran  to  the  window;  from 
the  window  to  the  staircase  again;  from  the 
staircase  into  the  room,  backward  and  for- 
ward.  There  I  stood;  she  passed  me  three 
times  without  seeing  me.  At  length  it 
seemed  as  if  she  saw  me;  but  Heaven  de- 
fendus!  I  believe  the  lady  took  me  for  you. 
"Fransiska,"  she  cried,  with  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  me,  "am  I  happy  now?"  Then  she 
looked  straight  up  to  the  ceiling,  and  said 
again,  "Am  I  happy  now?"  Then  she 
wiped  the  tears  from  her  eyes,  and  smiled, 
and  asked  me  again,  "I^anziska,  am  I 
happy  now?"  I  really  felt,  I  know  not 
bow.  Then  she  ran  to  the  door  of  ho' room, 
and  turned  round  again  toward  me,  say- 
ing, "Come,  Franaiaka,  whom  do  you  pity 
now?"  And  with  that  she  went  in. 

Fhanziska.  Ohl  Mr.  Landlord,  you 
dreamed  that. 

Landlobd.  Dreamedl  No,  my  pretty 
maid;  one  does  not  dream  so  minute^. 
Yea,  what  would  not  I  give  —  I  am  not 
curious:  but  what  would  not  I  give  —  to 
have  the  key  to  iti 

Fbaneiska.  Thekey?  Ofourdoor?  Mr. 
Landlord,  that  is  inside;  we  take  it  in  at 
night;  wo  are  timid. 

Landlobd.  Not  that  sort  of  k^;  I 
mean,  my  dear  girl,  the  key  —  tiie  ex- 
planation, Be  it  were;  the  precise  connection 
of  all  that  I  have  seen. 

Fbanxibka.  Indeed  I  Well,  good4)ye, 
Mr.    Landlord.     Shall   we   have   dinner 

Landlobd.  My  dear  girl,  not  to  forget 
what  I  came  to  say  — 

Fbanzibka.  Well?  In  as  few  words  as 
possible. 


556 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Landlord.  Her  bdyditp  has  my  ring 
Btill.  1  call  it  mine  — 

Fkanziska.  You  aliall  not  lose  it. 

LandiiObs.  I  have  no  fear  on  that  ac- 
count: I  merely  put  you  in  mind.  Do  you 
see,  I  do  not  wiah  to  have  it  again  at  all.  I 
can  guese  pretty  well  how  she  knew  the 
ring,  and  why  it  waa  bo  like  her  ovn.  It 
ie  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  thU.  do,  my 
pretty  maid? 

[ETtler  Paul  Wbbnbb.] 

WzRNKB.   There  he  is  I 

FitANZisKA.  A  hundred  pistoles?  I 
thought  it  was  only  eighty. 

LAin>u>RD.  True,  only  ninety,  only 
ninety.  I  will  do  so,  my  pretty  maid,  I  will 

Franziska.  All  that  will  come  right, 
Mr.  Landlord. 

Wermsr  [commfi  from  behind,  and  tap- 
■ping  Franziska  on  the  ^imUder],  LitUe 
woman  —  little  woman. 

FttANEiaKA  I/ripUened].   Oh  I  deer! 

Wehnzr.  Don't  be  alarmed]  I  see  you 
are  -  pretty,  and  a  stranger,  too.  And 
etraog^^  who  are  pretty  must  be  wanted. 
Littlewoman!  LittlewomanI  ladviseyou 
to  beware  erf  that  tellowl 

[Pointing  to  the  LANnLOBD.I 

Landlord.  Ah!  What  an  unexpected 
pleasure!  Heir  Wemerl  Welcome,  wel- 
comed Yes,  you  are  just  the  same  jovial, 
joking,  honest  Werner!  —  So  you  are  to 
bewareof  me,  my  pretty  maid.  Ha,ha,  hal 

Werner.  Keep  out  ot  his  way  every- 
where] 

Landlord,  My  way?  Am  I  such  a 
dangerous  man?  Ha,  ha,  hal  —  Hear  him, 
my  pretty  maidi  A  good  joke,  is  n't  it? 

Wrrner.  People  like  him  always  crVi  it 
a  joke,  if  one  tells  them  the  truth. 

Landlord.  The  truth.  Ha,  ha,  hal 
Better  and  better,  my  pretty  maid,  is  n't 
it?  He  knows  how  to  jokel  I  dangerous? 
17  Twenty  years  ago  there  might  have 
been  something  in  it.  Yes,  yee,  my  pretty 
maid,  then  I  was  a  dangerous  mani  many 
a  one  kiiew  it;  but  now  — ^ 


Wbrnxb.  Oh,  the  old  fooll 

Landlord,  lliere  it  is!  When  we  get 
old,  danger  is  at  an  end!  It  will  be  so  with, 
you  too,  Herr  Werner! 

Werner.  You  utter  old  fool!  —  litUe 
woman,  you  will  give  me  credit  for  eoough 
common  sense  not  to  speak  of  danger  fnnn 
him.  That  one  devil  has  left  him,  but 
seven  others  have  entered  into  him. 

Landlord.  Oh,  hear  himi  How  cleverly 
he  can  turn  thii^  about!  Joke  upon  jdte, 
and  always  something  new!  Ah,  he  is  an 
excellent  man,  Paul  Werner  is.  [To  Fr&k- 
ZKKA,tu  if  wkiipering.]  A  well-to-do  man, 
and  a  bachelor  still.  He  has  a  nice  tittle 
freehold  three  miles  from  here.  He  made 
priie-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. 

Wrrnkb.  Yes,  [PoinHiig  to  the  Land- 
lord.] And  that  is  a  friend  of  the  Major's 
—  that  is  a  friend  —  whose  life  the  Majcr 
ought  to  take. 

Landlord.  Hflw!  What!  No,  H«T 
Wemo',  that  is  not  a  good  joke.  Inofri>Ad 
of  the  Major!  I  don't  understand  toat 
joke. 

Wbrnzr.  Just    has    told    me    pretty 

Lanslobd.  Justl  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  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. 

WxRimR.  Heaven  put  those  words  into 
your  mouth.  But  Just  —  certainly  there 
is  nothing  mnarlcable  about  Just,  but  still 
Just  is  no  liar;  and  if  what  he  has  told  me 

Landlord.  I  don't  want  to  hear  any- 
thing about  Just.  As  1  said,  this  pretty 
maid  here  can  speak.  {Whispering  to  her.] 
You  know,  my  dear;  the  ring!  Tell  H«9r 
Werner  ^mut  it.  Then  he  wiU  leam  better 


MINNA  VON  BARNHELM 


S57 


irtiat  I  am.  And  that  it  may  not  appear  as 
if  ahe  only  said  what  I  wish,  I  will  not  even 
be  present.  —  I  will  go;  but  you  shall  tell 
me  after,  Heir  Werner,  you  shall  tell  me, 
whether  Just  is  not  a  foul  slanderer. 

XExa.] 

Wbbneb.  Little  woman,  do  you  know 
my  Major? 

Fb4neibka.  Major  von  TellheimT  Yee, 
indeed,  1  do  know  that  good  man. 

Werner,  Is  he  not  a  good  man?  Do 
you  like  him? 

FRAtreiaxA.  From  the  bottom  of  my 

Webmbr.  Indeed!  I  tdl  you  what, 
little  woman,  you  are  twice  as  pretty  now 
as  you  were  before.  But  what  are  the  serv- 
ioes  which  the  Landlord  says  he  has  ren- 
dered our  Major? 

Franzibea.  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. 

Werner.  Then  what  Just  told  me  is 
true?  [Toward  the  side  where  the  Lanv- 
LOBD  iceni  off.]  A  lucky  thing  for  you  that 
you  are  gone!  He  did  really  turn  him  out 
of  hie  room?  —  To  treat  euch  a  man  so, 
because  the  donkey  fancied  that  he  had 
no  more  money!  The  Major  no  money! 

'Franeiska.  What!  Has  the  Major  any 
money? 

Wernxk.  By  the  load.  He  doe*  n't 
know  how  much  he  has.  He  does  n't  know 
who  is  in  his  debt.  I  am  his  debtor,  and 
iiave  brought  him  some  old  airearB.  Look, 
little  woman,  in  this  purse  [drawing  it  oat 
«4  one  pocket]  are  a  hundred  louis  d'ors; 
and  in  tbis  packet  [dramng  it  out  of  another 
pocket]  a  hundred  ducats.    All  bis  moneyl 

Framzibka.  Really!  Why,  then,  doea 
the  Major  pawn  his  things?  He  pledged  a 
ring,  you  know  — 

Werner.  Pledged!  Don't  you  beheve 
it.  Ferhapa  he  wanted  to  get  rid  of  the 
rubbish. 

Frakziska.  It  is  no  rubbish;  it  is  a  very 
valuable  ring;  which,  moreover,  I  suspect, 
he  received  from  a  loving  hand. 

Werner.  That  will  be  the  reason. 
From  a  loving  bandl  Yee,  yee;  such  a 
Ihiog  often  puts  one  id  mind  of  what  one 


does  not  wish  to  remember,  and  therefore 
one  gets  rid  of  it. 

Fkanziska.  What! 

Werner.  Odd  things  happen  to  the 
soldier  in  winter  quarters.  He  has  nothing 
to  do  then,  so  he  amuses  himself,  and  to 
pass  the  time  he  makes  acquaintaiio««, 
which  he  only  intends  for  the  winter,  but 
which  the  good  soul  with  whom  he  makea 
them,  looks  upon  for  life.  Then,  presto!  a 
ring  is  suddenly  conjured  on  to  hie  fingn',' 
he  hardly  knows  himself  how  it  gets  there; 
and  very  often  he  would  willingly  give  the 
finger  with  it,  if  he  could  only  get  free  from 
it  again. 

Franziska.  Oh  I  And  do  you  think  this 
has  happened  to  the  Major? 

Wernxr.  Undoubtedly.  Especially  in 
Saxony.  If  he  had  had  ten  fingers  on  each 
hand,  he  might  have  had  all  twenty  fidl  of 
ringB- 

Franzibka  [aside].  That  sounds  im- 
portant, and  deserves  to  be  inquired  into. 
Mr.  Freeholder,  or  Mr.  Sergeant  — 

Werner.  Little  woman,  if  it  makes  no 
difference  to  you,  I  like  "Mr.  Sergeant" 
best. 

Franziska.  Wen,  Mr.  Sergeant,  I  have 
a  note  from  the  Major  to  my  mistress.  I 
will  carry  it  in,  and  be  here  again  in  a  mo- 
ment. Wilt  you  be  so  good  as  to  wait?  I 
should  like  very  much  to  have  a  little  talk 
with  you. 

Werner.  Are  you  fond  of  talking,  little 
woman?  Well,  with  all  my  heart.  Oo 
quickly.    I  am  fond  of  talking  too;  I  will 

Franeisxa.  Yes,  please  wait.  [Exit.] 
Werner.  That  is  not  at  all  a  bad  little 
woman.  But  I  ought  not  to  have  promiasd 
hw  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  rathv 
pawns  his  property.  That  is  just  his  way. 
A  Uttle  trick  occurs  to  me.  When  I  was  in 
the  town,  a  fortnight  back,  I  paid  a  visit  to 
Captain  MarloS'a  widow,  "rhe  poor  wo- 
man was  ill,  and  was  lamenting  that  her 
husband  had  died  in  debt  to  the  Major  f<v 
four  hundred  thalers,  which  she  did  not 
know  how  to  pay.  I  went  to  see  her  again 
hHiay:  I  int^ided  to  tell  her  that  I  oould 


558 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


lend  her  five  hundred  thaleis,  whm  I  had 
received  the  money  for  my  property;  for 
1  must  put  some  of  it  by,  if  I  do  not  go  to 
Pereia.  But  she  waa  gone;  and  no  doubt 
■he  has  not  been  able  to  pay  the  Major. 
Yes,  I  '11  do  that;  and  the  sooner  the  better. 
The  little  woman  must  not  take  it  ill  of  me; 
I  cannot  wait. 

[la  going,  thoughlfitUy,  and  obnoft 
Twtt  againat  Ihe  Majob,  who 
meeti  him.] 

Major  TON  TKUAnai.  Why  so  thought- 
ful, Waner? 

Webnbr.  Oh,  that  is  youl  I  was  just 
going  to  pay  you  a  viait  in  ytnir  new  quar- 
tos, Major. 

Major  von  Tbllbbiu.  To  fill  my  eaiu 
with  curses  against  the  Landlord  of  my  old 
one.   Do  not  remind  me  fd  it. 

Wbbnkb.  I  should  have  done  that  by 
the  way;  yes.  But  more  particularly,  I 
wished  to  thank  you  fw  having  been  so 
good  aa  t^l  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  neiUior 
you  nor  I  know  much  about.  Who  knows 
what  sort  of  place  it  is?  Th^  might  be 
stolen,  and  you  would  have  to  make  them 
good  to  me;  there  would  be  no  help  for  it. 
6n  I  cannot  ask  you  to  take  them  again. 

Major  von  Tbllhxiu  |«»ultnff].  When 
did  you  begin  to  be  so  careful,  WonerT 

WSBMKB.  One  learns  to  be  BO.  One  can- 
not now  be  careful  enou^  of  one's  money. 
I  have  also  a  commission  for  you.  Major, 
from  Frau  MarloS;  I  have  just  oome  from 
her.  Her  husband  died  four  hundred 
thaleTB  in  your  debt;  she  sends  you  a  hun- 
dred ducats  here,  in  port  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  aitOMt  eighty  thalnv,  and  she 
thought  I  was  come  to  dun  her  for  them  — 
which,  perhaps,  was  the  fact  —  so  she 
gave  tjiem  me  out  of  the  roll  which  she  had 
put  aside  for  you.  You  can  spare  your 
hundred  thalers  (or  a  week  longer,  better 
than  I  can  spare  my  few  groecbeUB.  There, 
take  it!  IHandi  him  lite  dueaU.] 


Major  von  Tullhuu.  Wemert 

Wkhnxb.  Wellt  Why  do  you  stan  at 
me  so?  Take  it,  Majorl 

Major  von  Tru^bim.  Weraerl 

WaBNSB.  What  is  Uie  matter  witii  youT 
What  annoys  youT 

Major  von  Tkllbzim  Itmgrih/  sMfcinr 
Ma  forthead,  and  lUunpine  with  kit  foot]. 
That  —  the  four  hundred  thalers  are  m^ 
all  there. 

WxRNKB.  Comet  Major,  did  not  yoa 
understand  meT 

Major  von  Thujirim.  It  is  because  I 
did  understand  youl  Alas,  that  the  beat 
men  shoukl  to-day  distress  me  mosti 

Wkrnrr.  What  do  you  say? 

Major  von  Tbu^kiu.  lliis  only  ap- 
plies partly  to  you.  Go,  Werner! 

[Puthinn   back   Wbbhsr'b    hand 
mlh  the  money  in  tl.] 

Wbhnbb.  As  soon  as  I  have  got  rid  of 
this. 

Major  von  Thllhkdi.  Werner,  suppose 
I  tell  you  that  Frau  Marloff  was  hca«  ber- 
sdf  early  this  morning  — 

Wbrnrr.  Indeed? 

Major  von  Tellhbhi.  That  she  ow<« 
me  nothing  now  -~ 

WXBNKR.  Reallyr 

Major  von  Txu^rim.  That  she  has 
paid  me  every  penny  —  What  will  you  aay 
then? 

Wbrnxr  [thinkt  for  a  minute).  I  shall 
say  that  I  have  told  a  lie,  and  that  lying  is 
a  low  thing,  because  one  may  be  cnu^t 
at  it. 

Major  von  TruiHeih.  And  you  will  be 
ashamed  of  jrouiselfT 

Wkrnrr.  And  what  of  him  iriio  oom- 
pels  me  to  lie?  Should  not  he  be  sahamed, 
too?  Look  ye.  Major;  if  I  was  to  say  tliat 
your  conduct  has  not  vexed  me,  I  should 
tell  another  lie,  and  I  won't  lie  any  mwe. 

Major  von  Telj^hu.  Do  not  be  ai^ 
Doyed,  Werner.  I  know  your  heart,  and 
your  affection  for  me.  But  I  do  not  re- 
quire youi  money. 

Wsrnxr.  Not  require  it!  Rather  sell, 
rather  pawn,  and  get  talked  abouti 

Major  von  Tkllhrih.  Ohi  Peopts 
may  know  that  1  have  nothing  m^re.  One 
must  not  wish  to  appmx  mbv  t^ju  one  » 


MINNA  VON  BARNHELM 


SS9 


Wbbnzb.  But  why  poororT  A  man  has 
something  u  long  m  hu  friend  has. 

Majob  ton  Tuxhkiu.  It  is  not  proper 
that  I  should  be  your  debtor. 

Wbhnxb.  Notprcqiwl  Onthatsununra 
day  which  the  sun  and  the  enemy  made  hot 
for  ns,  when  your  groom,  who  had  your 
oantecit,  was  not  to  be  found,  and  you 
came  to  me  and  said,  "Werner,  have  you 
notbiDg  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  witter  at  that  time  was  often  worth 
jooee  than  such  filth.  [ToJtinf  Ihe  parte 
aUo  out  of  hU  pocket,  and  holding  out  both 
to  him.]  Take  them,  dear  Majorl  Fancy 
it  is  water.  God  has  made  this,  too,  for  all. 

M^jok  TON  Tellhwu.  You  torment 
me:  don't  you  hear?  I  will  not  be  your 
debtor. 

Wbbnxb.  At  first,  it  was  not  proper; 
DOW  you  will  not.  Ahl  that  is  a  different 
thing.  IRather  angrily.]  You  will  not  be 
my  debtor?  But  suppose  you  are  already, 
Major?  Or,  axe  you  not  a  debtor  to  the 
man  who  once  warded  off  the  blow  that 
was  meant  to  split  your  head;  and,  at  an- 
other 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  kee  consequence  than  my  money? 
If  that  is  a  noble  way  of  thinking,  by  my 
soul,  it  is  a  Tery  silly  one,  tool 

Major  ton  TbliiHeiii.  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  pleasure  that  I  hare  to 
thank  you  for  twice  saving  my  life.  Do 
you  not  think,  friend,  that  if  an  oppor- 
tunity occurred,  I  would  have  done  as 
much  for  you,  eh? 

Wernxr.  If  an  opportunity  oocurredl 
Who  doubts  it.  Major?  Have  I  not  seen 
you  risk  your  life  a  hundred  times  for  the 
lowest  soldier,  when  he  was  in  danger? 

Ma/or  TOM  Tai.i.mam     Wdll 

Wbrnxr.   But  — 

Major  VON  TnuflRQi.  Why  cannot  you 
undesstaad  me?  I  say,  it  is  not  proper  Uiat 
i  should  be  your  debtor;  I  will  not  be  your 


debtor.  That  is,  not  in  the  circumstaaces 
in  whioh  I  now  am. 

Werner.  Oh,  so  you  would  wait  till 
better  timeel  You  will  borrow  money  from 
me  another  time,  when  you  do  not  want 
any;  when  you  haTe  some  yourself,  and  I 
perhaps  none! 

Majob  von  Txllbsoi.  A  man  ought 
not  to  borrow,  when  he  has  not  the  means 
of  r^Mying. 

Webnrr.  a  man  like  yourself  oannot 
always  be  in  want. 

Major  von  Teu.bbih.  You  know  the 
world  —  Least  of  all  should  a  man  borrow 
from  one  who  wants  his  mcmey  himself. 

Werner.  Oh,  yes;  I  am  such  a  onel 
I^y,  what  do  I  want  it  fi^7  When  they 
want  a  sergeant,  they  give  him  enough  to 

Major  von  Tzllbriv.  You  want  it,  to 
become  something  more  than  a  sergeant  — 
to  be  able  to  get  forward  in  that  path  in 
which  even  the  most  deaerring,  without 
money,  may  remain  behind. 

Werner.  To  become  something  more 
than  a  sergeantl  I  do  not  think  of  that.  I 
am  a  good  sergeant;  I  might  easily  make  a 
bad  ctqitain,  and  certainly  a  worse  general. 

Major  von  TeuiHbiu.  Do  not  force 
me  to  think  ill  of  you,  Wwnerl  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  unfortunately  connected  with  it. 
A  man  should  be  a  soldier  for  his  own  coun- 
try, or  from  love  ot  the  cause  tor  which  he 
fights.  To  serve  without  any  purpose  — 
to-day  hate,  to-m«row  there  —  is  only 
travding  about  like  a  butcher's  apprentice, 
nothing  more. 

Wbhnbr.  Well,  then,  Major,  I  will  do 
as  you  say.  You  know  better  what  is  right. 
I  will  ranoin  with  you.  But,  dear  Major, 
do  take  my  money  in  the  mean  time. 
Sooner  or  later  your  affairs  must  be  settled. 
You  will  get  money  in  plenty  then;  and 
then  you  shall  rq>ay  me  with  interest.  I 
i^y  do  it  for  the  sake  of  the  interest. 

Major  VON  TeuiHrui.  Do  not  talk  of  it. 

Wbbkbx.  UpcA  lay  life,  I  only  do  it  foe 


S6o 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


the  Bake  of  the  intereet.  Many  a  time  I 
have  thought  to  myself:  "Werner,  what 
will  become  of  you  in  your  old  age,  when 
jrou  are  crippled,  when  you  will  have  noth- 
ing in  the  world,  when  you  will  be  obliged 
togoandbeg?"  And  then  I  thought  again: 
"No,  you  will  not  be  obliged  to  b^;  you 
win  go  to  Major  Tellheim;  he  will  share 
his  laat  penny  with  you;  he  will  feed  you 
till  you  die;  and  with  him  you  can  die  like 
an  honest  fellow." 

Majob  von  Tbllbkih  [Utking  WmofHR'a 
hand\.  And,  comrade,  you  do  not  think  ao 
BtiUT 

Webhbr.  No;  I  do  not  think  so  any 
longer.  He  who  will  not  take  anythijig 
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  goi^.] 

Major  von  Tellhbiu.  Man,  do  not 
drive  me  madt  Where  are  you  goingT 
[Detaitu  him.]  If  I  assure  you  now,  upcai 
my  honor,  that  I  still  have  money  —  if  I 
assure  you,  upon  my  honor,  that  1  will  tell 
you  when  I  have  no  more  —  that  you  shall 
he  the  first  and  only  person  from  whom  I 
will  borrow  aaything  —  will  that  content 
youT 

Wernsb.  I  suppose  it  must.  Give  me 
your  hand  on  it.  Major. 

Majob  von  Tgllhbiu.  Tho^,  Faull 
And  now  enough  of  that.  I  oame  htm  to 
apeak  with  a  certain  young  woman. 

Pranziska  lenterinj].  Are  you  there 
still,  Mr.  Sergeant?  [Seeing  TcLLHaDi.) 
And  you  th^e,  too.  Major?  I  will  be  at 
your  aervice  instantly. 

[Qoe»  baek  qviekly  into  the  room.] 

Major  von  Tfna^finiK.  That  was  ahel 
But  it  Beemfl  you  know  her,  Werner. 

Werner.'  Yes,  I  know  her. 

Major  VON  Teu-heim.  Yet,  if  I  remon- 
ber  rightly,  when  1  was  in  Thuiingia  you 
were  net  with  me. 

Werner,  No;  I  was  seeing  after  the 
uniforms  in  Leipiig. 

Major  von  Tellhbih.  Where  did  you 
make  her  acquaintance,  then? 

Werner.  Our  acquaintanoe  is  very 
young.  Not  a  day  old.  But  young  friend- 
ship is  warm. 


Major  von  Tellhbim.  Have  you  aecn 
her  mistress,  too? 

Webnbb.  Is  her  mistress  a  young  ladyf 
She  told  me  you  are  acquainted  with  her 


Major  von  Tesllheih.  Did  not  you 
hear?  She  comes  from  Thuringia. 

Wbrneb.   Is  the  lady  young? 

Major  von  Tellbeim.  Yes. 

Weknbb.  Pretty? 

Major  von  Tellbbiu.   Very  pretty. 

Wbrneb.   Rich? 

MuoR  VON  Tbllheui.  Very  rich. 

Werner.  Is  the  mistress  as  fond  of  you 
as  the  maid  is?  That  would  be  capital! 

Major  von  Teuabim.  What  do  you 

FRAKnsSA  lenlering  with  a  Utier  in  her 
hand[.  Major  — 

Major  ton  Teixhbiu.  Franziska,  I 
have  not  yet  been  able  to  give  you  a  "Wd- 
come"  h«e, 

Franziska.  In  thought,  I  am  sure  that 
you  have  done  it.  I  know  you  are  friend^ 
to  me;  so  am  I  to  you.  But  it  is  not  at  all 
kind  to  vex  those  who  are  friendly  to  you 
so  much. 

Webnbb  [aside].  Ah,  now  I  see  it!  It  is 
sol 

Major  ton  Tbllsew.  My  destiny, 
Franiiskal  Did  you  give  her  the  lett^T 

Fbanzibea.  Yes;  and  here  I  bring  you — 
[BoldiJig  ma  a  Utter.] 

Major  von  Tbliseim.  An  answer! 

Franziska.  No,  your  own  lett«'  again- 

Major  von  Tellhbiu.  What!  She  will 
not  read  it! 

Franziska.  She  would  have  liked,  but 
—  we  can't  read  writing  wdl. 

Major  ton  Tbllhbim.  You  are  joking! 

Franziska.  And  we  think  that  writing 
was  not  invented  for  those  who  can  eon- 
verse  with  their  lips  whenever  they  please. 

Major  ton  Tbllbboi.  What  an  ex- 
cuse! She  must  read  it.  It  contains  my 
justiScation  —  all  the  grounds  and  rea- 

Franziska.  My  mistress  wishes  to  hear 
them  all  from  you  yourself,  not  to  read 

Major  TON  Tellhbiu.  Hear  them  from 
me  mysdfl   That  evwy  look,  evwy  word 


MINNA  VON   BARNHELM 


of  hera,  may  embairaas  me;   that  I  may 
feel  in  every  glance  the  greatneee  of  my 

Franziska.  Without  any  pity!  Take  it. 
[GUHtu/  him  hit  leU^.]  She  expects  you  at 
three  o'clock.  She  wishes  to  drive  out  and 
see  the  town;  you  must  accompany  her. 

Majob  vort  Tellbbiu.  Accompany 
her! 

Franziska.  And  what  will  you  give  me 
to  let  you  drive  out  by  youraelveeT  I  shall 
remain  at  home. 

Major  von  Tellbeiu.  By  ourselveel 

Franeiska.   In  a  nice  close  carriage. 

Major  von  Tellhshi.  Imposeible! 

Fbaneiska.  Yes,  yes,  in  Uie  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  —  [IjookiTtg  at 
Werner.]  Well,  you  wanted  to  speak  to 
me,  too,  alone.  What  have  you  to  say  to 
meT  Ob,  we  are  not  alone. 

Major  von  Tbllheim.  Yes,  Fransiska; 
aa  good  as  alone.  But  as  your  mistress  has 
not  read  my  letter,  I  have  nothing  now  to 
say  to  you. 

Fkanzibka.  As  good  as  alone!  Then 
you  have  no  secrets  from  the  Sergeant? 

Major  von  Tellhbim.  No,  none. 

Fbanzibka.  And  yet  I  think  you  should 
have  some  from  him. 

Major  von  Teu^boi.  Why  oo? 

Werner.  How  so,  little  woman? 

Franziska.   Particularly    secreta    of    a 
cratain  kind  —  All  twenty,  Mr.  Sergeant? 
[Holdifi^  up  both  ker  hands,  vnth 
open  fingers.] 

Werner.   Hietl  Histl  Girll 

Major  ton  TBLLHBnf.  What  is  the 
meaning  of  that? 

Franeiska.  Presto!  —  conjured  on  to 
his  finger,  Mr.  Sergeant. 

[At  if  sAe  tnoa  putting  a  ring  on  her 
finger.] 

Major  von  TmjMBiK.  What  are  you 
talking  about? 

Werner.  Little  woman,  httle  woman, 
don't  you  understand  a  joke? 

Major  von  Tbllheim.  Werner,  you 
have  not  forgotten,  I  hope,  what  I  have 
attest  told  you:  that  one  should  not  jest 


S«I 

beyond  a  certain    point   with  a  young 

Werner.  Upon  my  life  I  may  have  foi^ 
gotten  it!  —  Little  woman,  I  beg  — 

Franeiska.  Well,  if  it  was  a  joke,  I  will 
forpve  you  this  once. 

Major  von  Tellheiu.  Well,  if  I  must 
come,  Fransiska,  see  that  your  mistren 
reads  my  letter  beforehand?  That  will 
spare  me  the  pain  of  thinking  agun  —  of 
talking  again,  of  things  which  I  would  will- 
ingly forget.  There,  give  it  to  her!  [Be 
turns  U\e  letter  in  ffimnn  it  to  her,  and  teei 
that  it  hat  been  opened.]  But  do  I  see  aright? 
Why,  it  has  been  opened  I 

Franziska.  That  may  be.  [Looks  at  it.] 
True,  it  is  open.  Who  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,  Majorl  Don't 
come  ao  you  are  now  —  in  boots,  and  with 
Bueh  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. 

Major  von  Tf.i.i.hf.tm.  Thank  you, 
Fransiska. 

Franziska.  You  look  as  if  you  had 
been  bivouackii^  last  night. 

Major,  VON  Tbllheim.  You  may  have 
guessed  right. 

FRANEiasA,  We  are  going  to  drees,  di- 
rectly, too,  and  then  have  dinner.  We 
would  willingly  ask  you  to  dinner,  but 
your  presence  might  hinder  our  eaving; 
and  observe,  we  are  not  so  much  in  love 
that  we  have  lost  our  appetites. 

Major  vok  Tbllhb™,  I  will  go.  Pre- 
pare her  somewhat,  Franziaka,  beforehand, 
that  I  may  not  become  contemptible  in  her 
eyes,  and  in  my  own.  —  Come,  Vffsnw, 
you  shall  dine  with  me. 

Werner.  At  the  table  d'hdf«  here  in 
the  house?   I  could  not  eat  a  bit  there. 

Major  von  Tellhdim.   With  me,  in  my 

Werner.  I  will  follow  you  directly. 
One  word  first  with  the  little  woman. 

Major  von  Teusbiu.  I  have  no  ob- 
jection  to  that.  [Exit.} 

Franeiska.  Well,  Mr  Sergeant! 


s«> 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Werner.  Little  womau,  if  I  come  ag^n, 
shall  I  too  come  smutened  up  a  bit? 

Fkamzibka.  Come  aa  you  please;  my 
eyee  will  find  no  fault  with  you.  But  my 
ears  will  have  to  be  so  much  the  more  on 
their  guard.  Twenty  fingers,  all  fuH  of 
rings.   Ahl  Aht  Mr.  Sergeant! 

Werner.  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  enou^  for  a  man.  Hundreds  and 
hundreds  ot  times  I  have  heard  the  Major 
Bay,  "He  muat  be  a  rascally  soldier  who 
can  mislead  a  young  girl.*'  So  thi*'^^  1,  too, 
little  woman.  You  may  trust  to  thati  I 
must  be  quick  and  follow  him.  A  good 
ajQMtite  to  youl  [Exit.] 

Franzisiu,  The  same  to  youl  I  really 
believe  I  like  that  manl 

[Ooing  in,  ihe  meelt  Minna  corn- 
ing ovl.] 

Minna.  Has  the  Major  gone  already, 
Fransiska?  I  believe  I  i^ould  have  been 
sufficiently  composed  again  now  to  have 
detained  him  here. 

Franzibka.  And  I  will  make  you  still 

Minna.  Somuch thebett«rl  Histettcrl 
Oh,  his  letter!  Each  line  spoke  the  honor- 
ab^,  nobte  man.  Eaeh  refusal  to  accept 
my  hand  declared  his  love  for  me.  I  sup- 
pose he  noticed  that  we  hod  read  his  letter. 
I  don't  mind  that,  if  he  does  but  oome. 
But  are  you  sure  he  will  come?  There  only 
seems  to  me  to  be  a  little  too  much  pride 
in  his  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, 
Fransiska  — 

Fbaneihka.  You  will  discard  him! 

Minna.  See  there!  Do  you  begin  to 
pity  him  again  already?  No,  silly  girl,  a 
man  is  never  discarded  for  a  sin^  fault. 
No;  but  I  have  thought  of  a  trick —  to 
pay  him  off  a  Uttle  for  this  pride,  with 
pride  of  the  same  kind. 

Franziska.  Indeed,  you  must  be  very 
composed,  my  lady,  if  you  are  thinking  ol 
tricks  again. 

Minna.  I  am  so;  oome.  You  will  have 
a  part  to  play  in  my  plot. 


ACT  IV 

Scene:  Minna'i  Boom.    Minna,  drtmed 

Aandsomely   and   riddy,    bvi   in   good 

taste,  and  Franeisea  haoe  JMat  riaea 

from  a  Coble,  tekieh  a  senaTil  ia  clearing. 

Franeiska.  You  cannot  possibly  have 

eaten  enough,  my  lady. 

Minna.  Don't  you  think  so,  FransiafcaT 
Perh^M  I  had  no  appetite  when  I  sat  down. 
Franeiska.  We  hod  agreed  not  to  men- 
tion him  during  dinner.    We  should  have 
resolved  likewise  not  to  think  of  him. 
MiNMA.  Indeed,    I    have    thought    of 

nnfhing  but  him. 

Franzibka.  So  I  perceived.  I  began  to 
speak  of  a  hundred  different  things,  and 
you  made  wrong  answers  to  each.  {An- 
other tertant  brinst  coffee.]  Here  comes  « 
beverage  more  suited  to  fancies  —  swett, 
melancholy  coffee. 

Minna.  FandesI  I  have  none.  I  am 
only  thinking  of  the  lesson  I  will  give  him. 
Did  you  understand  my  plan,  FranriskaT 

Franeisea.  Oh,  yes;  but  it  would  be 
better  if  he  spared  -us  the  putting  it  in 


Minna.  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  hean  that 
I  am  unfortunate  and  friendless. 

Franeisea  [teriouily].  That  must  tickle 
the  most  refined  self-love. 

Minna.  You  moralist!  First  you  ooii' 
vict  me  of  vanity  —  now  of  self-love.  Lei 
me  do  as  I  please,  Franziska.  You,  too, 
shall  do  as  you  plesee  with  your  Sergeant. 

Franeisea.  With  my  Se^eantT 

Minna.  Yes.  If  you  deny  it  altogetho*, 
then  it  is  true.  I  have  not  seen  him  yet; 
but  from  all  you  have  said  respecting  him, 
I  foretell  your  husband  for  you. 

{Enter  Riccaut  db  la  MaruniArb.) 

RiccAUT  Ib^ore  ke  mten] .  Eet-il  pennis, 
Monideur  le  MajorT 

Franeisea.  Who  is  that?  Any  one  tar 
us?  lOoing  to  the  door.] 

RiccAUT.  Parbleu!  I  am  wrong.  Mais 
non — I  am  not  wrong.  Csst  la  chambre — 

,tuX    , 


MINNA  VON  BARNHELM 


S«3 


Fkandska.  Without  doubt,  tny  Udy, 
this  gentleman  expects  to  find  Major  vtm 
Tellbeini  here  BtiU- 

RiccAUT.  Oui,  dat  is  it!  Le  Major  de 
Tdlheim;  juste,  ma  belle  enfant,  c'eet  lui 
que  je  cberche.   Oi^  eet^il? 

Fbaniiska.  He  does  not  lodge  here  any 
longer. 

RiccAtrr.  Conunent?  Dere  is  foui-and- 
twenty  hour  i^o  be  did  lodge  here,  and  not 
lodge  here  any  more?  Where  lodge  be  den7 

Minna  [potn;  up  to  him].  Sir  — 

RiccAUT.  Ah  I  Madame,  mademoiselle, 
pardon,  lady. 

MiNKA.  Sir,  your  mistake  is  quite  ex- 
cusable, and  your  astonishment  very  nat- 
ural. Major  Ton  Tellheim  has  had  the 
Idndnem  to  give  up  his  apartments  to  me, 
as  a  stranger,  who  was  not  able  to  get  than 
elsewhere. 

RiccATTT.  Ahl  Voili  de  see  politaneel 
Ceet  un  trte-galant  homme  que  ce  Majorl 

Minna.  Where  has  he  gone  now?  — 
truly  I  am  ashamed  that  I  do  not  know. 

lUcCADT.  Madame  not  knowT  C'est 
dotnmage;  j'en  suis  fftcbi. 

Minna.  I  certainly  ought  to  have  in- 
quired. Of  course  his  friends  will  seek  him 
here. 

RiccAUT.  I  am  vaty  great  his  friend, 
mctdame. 

Minna.   Franiiska,  do  you  not  know? 

Fbanziska.  No,  my  lady. 

RiccATTF.  It  is  vaty  ndoeesaire  dat  I 
speak  him.  I  come  and  bring  him  a  nou- 
velle,  of  which  he  will  be  vary  much  at  ease. 

Minna.  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  — 

RiccATTT.  I  comprdiend.  Mademoiselle 
parle  frangaisT  Mais  sans  doute;  telle  que 
je  1a  voisl  La  demande  dtatt  bien  impoUe; 


Minna.  Sir 

RiccAUT.  Nol  You  not  speak  li^^nch, 
madaroeT 

Minna.  Sir,  in  France  I  would  endeavor 
todosoibutwhyheraT  I  perceive  that  you 
understand  me,  sir;  and  I,  sir,  shall  doubt- 
koB  understand  you;  speak  as  you  please. 

Biccaut.  Good,  KoodI    I  can  also  ex- 


plain me  in  your  langue.  Sachec  done, 
mademoiselle,  you  must  know,  madame, 
dat  I  come  from  de  table  of  de  ministre, 
minietre  de,  ministre  de—  What  is  le 
ministre  out  dere,  in  de  long  street,  on  de 
broad  place? 

Minna.  I  am  a  perfect  stranger  here. 

RiCCAUT.  Si,  le  ministre  of  de  war  de- 
partement.  Dere  I  have  eat  my  dinner; 
I  ordinary  dine  dere,  aod  de  conversation 
did  fall  on  Major  Tellheim;  et  le  ministre 
m'a  dit  tsi  confidence,  —  car  Son  Excel- 
lence est  de  mee  amis,  et  il  n'y  a  point  de 
mystfe^  entre  nous  —  Son  Excellence,  I 
say,  has  trust  to  me,  dat  I'affaire  tcom  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  ea 
faveur  du  Major.  "Monsieur,"  m'a  dit 
Son  Excellence,  "vous  comprenei  biea, 
que  tout  depend  de  la  mani^re,  d<mt  <m 
fait  envisager  lee  cboeee  au  roi,  et  vous  me 
connaissei.  Cela  fait  un  trie-joli  garQon 
que  ce  Tellheim,  et  ne  sais-je  pas  que  vous 
I'aimeiT  Les  amis  de  mee  amis  sont  ausai 
lee  miens.  U  coAte  un  peu  cher  au  roi  oe 
Tellheim,  mais  eet-ce  que  I'on  sert  lee  rois 
pourrienT  Ilfaut  s'entr'oiderencemonde; 
et  quand  il  s'agit  de  pertes,  que  ce  soit  le 
roi  qui  en  faSBe,  et  non  pas  un  honnSte 
homme  de  nous  autree.  Voilft  le  principe, 
dont  je  ne  me  d^pars  jamais."  But  what 
say  madame  to  it?  N'eat  pas,  dat  is  a  fine 
fellowT  Ah,  que  Son  Excellence  a  le  txsaz 
bien  placet  He  assure  me  au  reete,  if  de 
Major  has  not  re^u  already  une  kttre  de 
la  main,  —  a  royal  letter,  —  dat  to-day 
infailliblement  must  he  receive  one. 

Minna.  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  intereet  in  his 
welfare. 

RiccAUT.  Madame,  you  wish  my  name? 
Vous  voyes  en  moi  —  you  see,  lady,  in  me, 
le  Chevalier  Riccaut  de  la  Marliniire, 
Seigneur  de  Pr^tritu-val,  de  la  branche  de 
Prens  d'or.  You  remain  astonished  to  hear 
me  from  so  great,  great  a  family,  qui  est 
v&itablement  du  sang  royal.  II  faut  le 
dire;  je  suis  sans  doute  le  cadet  le  plus 
aventureux  que  la  majson  n'a  jamais  ea^ 


S64 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


I  serve  from  my  eleven  year,  Une  aS&ire 
d'honneur  make  me  flee.  Den  I  serve  de 
holy  Papa  of  Rome,  den  de  Republic  St. 
Marino,  den  de  Folee,  den  de  8tate»- 
General,  till  eofin  1  un  brought  here.  Ah, 
mademoiselle,  que  je  voudraia  n' a  voir 
jamaie  vu  ce  paya-cil  Had  one  left  me  in 
de  service  of  de  States-Generd,  should  I 
be  now  at  least  colond.  But  here  idwaya 
to  remain  capitaine,  and  now  also  a  dis- 
charged  capitaine. 

Minna,  That  is  ill  luck. 

RiccATTT.  Qui,  mademoiselle,  me  voil& 
r£fonn£,  et  par  lit  mis  but  le  pavdl 

Minna.   I  am  very  sorry  ft*  you. 

RiccAUT.  VouB  fltes  bien  bonne,  mAde- 
.noiselle —  No,  merithavenorewardhere. 
R^ormer  a  man,  like  mel  A  man  who  also 
have  ruin  himself  in  dis  service!  I  have 
lost  in  it  so  much  as  twenty  thousand 
livres.  What  have  I  nowT  Tramihona  le 
mot;  je  n'ai  pas  le  sou,  et  me  voiU  exacte- 
ment  vis-^vis  de  rien. 

Minna.   I  am  exceedingly  sorry. 

Rtcc&irF.  VouB  Atea  bien  bonne,  made- 
moiselle. But  as  one  say  —  misfortune 
never  come  alonel  qu'un  malheur  ne  vient 
jomajs  eeul:  so  it  arrive  with  me.  What 
reeaoutce  rests  for  an  honnfite  homme  of 
my  extraction,  but  play?  Now,  I  atways 
played  with  luck,  so  long  I  not  need  her. 
Now  I  very  much  need  her,  je  joue  avec  un 
piignon,  mademoiseUe,  qui  surpasse  toute 
croyanee.  For  fifteen  days,  not  one  is 
passed,  dat  I  always  am  broke.  Yeeterday 
I  was  broke  dree  times.  Je  sais  bien,  qu'il 
y  avait  quelque  chose  de  plus  que  le  jeu. 
Car  parmi  mes  pontes  se  trouvaient  cer- 
tainee  dames.  I  will  not  speak  more.  One 
must  be  very  galant  to  les  dames.  Dey 
bave  invite  me  again  to-day,  to  give  me 
revanche;  mois  —  vous  m'entendei,  made- 
moiselle —  one  must  first  have  to  live,  be- 
fore one  can  have  to  play. 

Minna.  I  hope,  sir  — 

RiccADT.  Vous  6to8  bien  bonne,  made- 
moiselle. 

Minna  llaking  Franziska  aside].  Fran- 
liska,  I  really  feel  for  the  man.  Wotdd  he 
take  it  ill  if  I  oSer  him  Hcanething? 

FitANzisKA.  He  does  not  loolf  to  mn  like 
■  man  who  would. 


Minna.  Very  welll  —  Sir,  I  peraeive 
that  —  you  play,  that  you  keep  the  bank; 
doubtless  in  places  where  something  is  to 
be  won.  I  must  also  confess  that  I  —  sm 
very  fond  (rf  play. 

RiccATTT.  Tant  mieux,  mHdemoisellB, 
tant  mieuxl  Tous  lee  gens  d'esprit  aimoit 
le  jeu  k  la  fureur. 

Minna.  That  I  am  very  fond  erf  win- 
ning; that  I  like  to  trust  my  money  to  a 
man  who  —  knows  how  to  play.  Are  you 
inclined,  sir,  to  let  me  join  youT  To  let  me 
have  a  share  in  your  bank? 

RiccATTT.  Comment,  mademoiselle,  vous 
voules  6tre  de  moiti£  avec  moi?   De  tout 

Minna.   At  first,  only  with  a.  trifle- 

[Opent  her  desk  and  lakes  out  torn, 
money,] 

RiccAUT.  Ah,  mademoiselle,  que  vous 
§tee  charmante! 

MtNTfA.  Here  is  what  I  won  a  ahort 
time  back;  only  ten  pistoles.  lamashamet^ 
so  little  — 

RiccAUT.  Donnez  toujoura,  mademm- 
salle,  daunei.  [Takea  it.] 

Minna.  Without  doubt,  your  bank,  sir, 
is  very  considerable. 

RjcCADT.  Oh,  yee,  vary  considwable. 
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  k  bien  au> 
gurer  de  ma  fortune. 

Minna.  But  I  cannot  be  preeoit,  sir, 
when  you  play. 

RicCAiri.  For  why  it  n^cessaire  dat  you 
be  present?  We  other  players  are  baea^ 
able  people  between  us. 

MufNA.  If  we  are  fortunate,  sir,  you  will 
of  course  bring  me  my  shore.  If  we  are  un- 
fortunate — 

RiccAUT.  I  oome  to  bring  recruits,  n'eat 
pas,  madame? 

Minna.  In  time  recruits  might  faiL 
Manage  our  money  well,  sir. 

RiccAOT.  What  does  madame  think 
me?  A  umpleton,  a  stupid  devilT 


MINNA  VON   BARNHELM 


5«S 


MiNKA.  I  beg  your  pardon. 

RiccATTT.  Je  euia  dee  bona,  mademoi- 
eelle.  Ssvex  vous  ca  que  oela  veut  dire?  I 
ua  of  the  quite  practiced  — 

MunrA.  But  Btill,  air  — 

RiccAUT.  Je  sais  moutar  un  coup  — 

Minna  latmued\.  Could  youT 

RiccADT.  Je    file    In   carte   aveo    une 

Minna.  Never  t 

RicCAirr-  Je  faia  aauter  la  coupe  avec 
une  dextMti. 

Minna.  You  surely  would  not,  sir!  — 

RiccACT.  What  not,  madame;  what 
notT  Donues  moi  un  pigeonneau  il  plumer, 
et  — 

Minna.  Play  false!  Cheat! 

RiccAtrr. '  Comment,  mademoiseUeT 
Voue  appelei  cela  cheat?  Corriger  la  for- 
tune, I'enchatner  sous  sea  doigts,  Stre  sOr 
deBonfait,dat  you  call  chest?  Cheatl  Oh, 
what  a  poor  tongue  is  your  tongue!  What 
an  awkward  tongue! 

Minna.   No,  sir,  if  you  think  so  — 

SiccAirr.  LaiBsei-moi  faire,  mademoi- 
selle, and  be  tranquillel  What  matter  to 
you  how  I  play?  Enough!  to-morrow,  ma- 
dame, you  see  me  again  or  with  hundred 
oistol,  or  you  see  me  no  more.  Votre  trte- 
humble,  mademoiselle,  votre  tr^humble. 
[Bxil  quickiv-] 

Minna  [lookiixg  afler  him  with  lubmisft- 
ment  and  ditpUattere],  I  hope  the  latter, 
air. 

Fbaneisea  [an^y].  What  can  I  aay? 
OhI  How  grand!   How  grand! 

Minna.  Laugh  at  me;  I  deaore  it. 
[After  Ttfiecting,  more  calmly.]  No,  do  not 
laugh;  I  do  not  deserve  it. 

Fbanzibka.  Excellent!  You  have  done 
a  charming  act  —  set  a  knave  upon  his 
legs  again. 

Minna.  It  waa  intended  for  an  unfor- 
tunate man. 

F&ANtiaKA.  And  what  is  the  best  part 
of  it,  the  fellow  conrnders  you  like  hiituelf . 
OhI  I  must  follow  him,  and  take  the  moiu^ 
from  him.  \Qoing.\ 

Minna.  Franiiaka,  do  not  let  the  coffee 
get.  quite  oold;  pour  it  out. 

Fkakziska;  He  must  return  it  to  you; 


you  have  thought  better  of  it;  you  will  not 
play  in  partnership  with  him.  Tenpistoket 
You  heard,  my  lady,  that  he  was  a  beggart 
[Minna  jwara  mii  the  coffte  ftarsdf.]  Who 
would  give  euch  a  sum  to  a  beggar?  And 
to  endeavor,  in  the  bargain,  to  save  him 
the  humiliation  of  having  begged  for  itt 
The  charitable  woman  who,  out  of  gener- 
osity, mistakee  the  b^gar,  is  in  return 
mistaken  by  the  beggar.  It  serves  you 
right,  my  lady,  if  he  coosidere  your  gift  as 
—  I  know  not  what.  [Minna  hand*  a  cup 
of  coffee  to  Fbanzibka.]  Do  you  wish  to 
make  my  blood  boit  still  more?  I  do  not 
want  any.  [Minna  puts  it  dawn  again.] 
"Parbleu,  madame,  merit  have  no  reward 
here."  [ImiiaUTtf  Uie  Frenehman.]  I  think 
not,  when  such  roguea  are  allowed  to  walk 
about  unhanged. 

Minna  [cMly  and  tUnnly,  tchik  tipping 
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  aa  they  seem. 
One  should  look  for  their  good  aide.  I 
fancy  this  Frenchman  is  nothing  worse 
than  vain.  Through  mere  vanity  he  gives 
himself  out  as  a  false  player;  he  doee  not 
wish  to  appear  under  an  obLgation  to  one; 
he  wiehefl  to  save  himself  the  thanks.  Per- 
hapa  he  may  now  go,  pay  his  atnall  debts, 
live  quietly  and  frugally  on  the  reet  aa  far 
as  it  will  go,  and  think  no  more  of  play.  If 
that  be  so,  Franziaka,  let  hini  come  for  re- 
cruits whenever  he  pleaaea.  [Gioet  her  cup 
to  Franziska.]  There,  put  it  down!  But, 
tell  me,  should  not  Tellheim  be  here  by 
this  time? 

Fbanzibka.  No,  my  lady,  I  can  neither 
find  out  the  bad  side  in  a  good  man,  nor 
the  good  side  in  a  bad  man. 

Minna.  Surely  he  wUl  come! 

Franeibka.  He  oi^t  to  remain  awayl 
You  ranark  in  him  —  in  him,  the  best  at 
men  —  a  little  pride;  and  therefore  you 
intend  to  tease  him  so  cruellyl 

Minna.  Are  you  at  it  again?  Beailentl 
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 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


(Facti  Whrnbb  cornt*  in,  carrying  hinudf 
very  erect  <uif  on  dtdg.] 

FiUNEiBKA.  No,  it  is  .only  his  dear 
Sergetmt. 

MiNKA.  Dear  Sergeant  I  Whom  does 
the  "dew"  refco- to? 

Fa&NEUKA.  Pray,  my  lady,  do  not 
make  the  man  embarraased.  —  Your  serr- 
ant,  Mr.  SerKeant;  what  news  do  you 
bring  UB? 

Werner  ]goe»  up  to  Minna,  tpithoul 
noticing  Franziska).  Major  von  TeUheim 
b^s  to  present,  through  me.  Sergeant  Wer- 
ner, his  most  respectful  complinientfl  to 
Fr&ulein  von  Bamhelm,  and  to  inform  h^ 
that  he  wiU  be  here  directly. 

Minna.  Where  is  he,  then? 

Wbbner.  Your  ladyship  will  pardon 
him;  we  left  our  quarterH  brfore  it  began 
to  strike  three;  but  the  paymaster  met  us 
on  the  way ;  and  because  conversation  with 
those  gentlemen  haa  no  end,  the  Major 
made  me  a  sign  to  rqmrt  the  case  to  your 
ladyship. 

Minna.  Very  well,  Mr.  Sergeant.  I 
only  hope  the  paymaster  may  have  good 
news  for  him. 

Wbrneb.  Such  gentlemen  seldom  have 
good  news  for  officers.  —  Hu  your  lady- 
ship any  orders?  [Going.\ 

Fkaneibka.  Why,  wh««  are  you  going 
again,  Mr.  Sergeant?  Had  not  we  some- 
thing to  say  to  eftoh  other? 

Werner  [t'n  a  lehitper  to  Franziska,  and 
tervnuly].  Not  here,  little  woman;  it  is 
against  respect,  against  discipline.  —  Your 
ladyship  — 

Minna.  Thank  you  for  your  trouble.  I 
am  glad  to  have  made  your  acquaintance. 
FranEiaka  has  spoken  in  high  praise  of  you 
tome. 

[Wbbnsh  nuUcet  a  stiff  bmr,  and  goea.] 

Mkna.  So  that  is  your  Sergeant,  Fran- 
■iskaT 

Fbanzibea  [aside].  I  have  not  time  to 
tefffoach  her  for  that  jeering  ^our.  [Aloud.] 
Ye^  my  lady,  that  is  my  Sergeant.  You 
think  him,  no  doubt,  somewhat  Stiff  and 
wooden.  He  also  appeared  so  to  me  just 
now;  but  I  observed,  he  thought  he  uust 
march  past  you  as  if  on  parade.  And  when 


soldiKB  are  on  parade,  they  owtainly  kxA 
more  like  wooden  dolls  than  men.  You 
should  see  and  hear  him  when  be  is  faimaelf  ■ 

Minna.   So  I  should,  indeed! 

FsANZUKA.  He  must  etill  be  iu  the  next 
room;  may  I  go  and  talk  with  him  a  UttleT 

Minna.  I  refuse  you  this  pleasure  un- 
willingly: but  you  must  remain  here, 
Franiitika.  You  must  be  present  at  our 
convocation.  AnothH  thii^  occurs  to  me. 
[Takee  her  ring  from  htr  finger.]  There,  tak* 
my  ring;  keep  it  for  me,  emd  give  me  the 
Major's  in  the  place  of  it. 

FRANnsKA.  Why  so? 

Minna  [while  Franeisea  ta  fetchinn  (As 
ring],  I  scarcely  know,  myself;  but  I  fancy 
I  see,  beforehand,  how  1  may  make  use  i^ 
it. — Some  one  is  knocking.  Give  it  to  me, 
quickly.    {Putt  the  ring  on.]    It  ia  he. 


Major  von  TeiiIjHSIK.  Madam,  you 
will  excuse  the  delay. 

'  Minna.  Ohi  Major,  we  will  not  treat 
each  other  in  quite  such  a  military  fashiiMi. 
You  are  here  now;  and  to  await  a  pleasure, 
is  itself  a  pleasure.  Wdl  \}xt6king  at  him  aTid 
smiling),  dear  Tellheim,  have  we  not  been 
like  childrenT 

Major  von  Tellhsdi.  Yes,  madam; 
like  children,  who  resist  when  they  ou^t 
to  obey  quietly. 

Minna.  We  will  drive  out,  dear  Majw, 
to  see  a  little  of  the  town,  and  afterward  to 
meet  my  uncle. 

Major  von  Tkllhbim.  Whatl 

Minna.  You  see,  we  have  not  yet  had 
an  opportunity  of  mentioning  the  most 
impOTtant  matte™  even.  He  is  coming 
here  to-day.  It  was  accident  that  brought 
me  here  without  him,  a  day  sooner. 

Major  von  Tellbeim.  Ckiunt  von 
Bruchsall  Has  he  returned? 

Minna.  The  troubles  ot  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  greatr 
est  obstacle  to  our  union  — 

Major  von  Tei.lbeiii.  To  our  union'. 

Minna.  He  is  now  your  friend.  He  lias 


MINNA  VON  BARNHELM 


beaid  too  much  good  d  you  from  too  many 
people,  not  to  become  so.  He  longs  to  be- 
come personally  acquainted  with  the  man 
whom  his  heireaa  has  chosen.  He  comes  as 
mide,  as  guardian,  aa  father,  to  gjve  me 
to  you. 

Majok  ton  TBU.HKIM.  Ah,  dear  lady, 
why  did  you  not  read  my  letter?  Why 
would  you  not  read  it? 

Minna.  Your  lettcrl  Oh,  yes,  I  remem- 
ber  you  sent  me  one.  —  What  did  you  do 
with  that  letter,  Franii«ka7  Did  ne,  or 
did  we  not  read  it?  —  What  was  it  you 
wrote  to  me,  dear  Tellheim? 

Majob  von  Tellhbiu.  Nothing  but 
what  honor  commands  me. 

Minna.  That  is,  not  to  desert  an  hon- 
orable woman  who  loves  you.  Certainly 
that  is  what  honor  commands.  Indeed,  I 
ought  to  have  read  your  letter.  But  what 
I  have  not  read,  I  shall  hear,  shall  not  IT 

Majoe  von  TELLHsni.  Yes,  you  shall 

Minna.  No,  I  need  not  even  hear  it. 
It  iq»eakB  for  itself.  As  if  you  could  be 
guilty  of  such  an  unworthy  act,  sa  not  to 
take  met  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  Fr&utein  von 
B&rnhetm,  who  fancied  that  because  she 
was  rich  she  could  marry  the  noble  Tell- 
heim;  aa  if  such  men  woe  to  be  caught 
<rith  money."  That  is  what  they  would 
say,  for  they  are  all  envious  of  me.  That 
I  am  rich,  Uwy  cannot  deny;  but  they  do 
not  wish  to  admowledge  that  I  am  also  a 
tolerably  good  girl,  who  would  prove  hei^ 
self  worthy  of  her  husband.  Is  that  not  so, 
TellbeimT 

Majob  von  Tzi-lheiu.  Yea,  yea, 
madam,  that  is  like  your  countrywomen. 
They  will  envy  you  exceedingly  a  dia- 
clutrged  officer,  with  sullied  honor,  a  crip- 
ple, and  a  beggar. 

Minna.  And  are  you  all  that?  If  I  mia- 
take  not,  you  totd  me  aomething  of  the 
'kind  this  frarenoon.  Therein  are  good  and 
evil  mixed.  Let  us  examine  each  charge 
more  closely.  You  are  discharged?  So  you 
say.  I  thought  your  regiment  was  cmly 
tlntfted  into  another.   How  did  it  happen 


that  a  man  of  your  merit  was  not  re- 
tained? 

Major  von  Tellbeim.  It  has  hap- 
pened, aa  it  muat  happen.  The  great  ones 
are  convinced  that  a  soldier  does  very  little 
through  regard  for  than,  not  much  more 
from  a  sense  of  duty,  but  everything  for  his 
own  advantage.  What,  then,  can  they 
think  they  owe  him?  Peaoe  has  made  a 
great  many,  like  myadf,  supeifluous  to 
them;  and  at  last  we  shall  aD  be  super- 
fluous. 

Minna.  You  talk  aa  a  man  must  talk, 
to  whom  in  return  the  great  are  quite  su- 
perfluous. And  never  were  they  more  so 
than  now.  I  return  my  beet  thanks  to  the 
great  ones  that  they  have  given  up  thdr 
claims  to  a  man  whom  1  would  very  un- 
willingly have  shared  with  them.  I  am 
your  sovereign,  Tellfaeim;  you  want  no 
other  master.  To  find  you  discharged  is  a 
piece  of  good  fortune  I  dared  scarce^ 
dream  of!  But  you  are  not  only  dis- 
charged; you  ore  more.  And  what  are  you 
more?  A  cripple,  you  say!  Well  [tooWnn 
at  kim  from  head  to  fool],  the  cripple  is  toU 
erably  whole  and  upright  —  appears  still  • 
to  be  pretty  well  and  strong.  Dear  Tell- 
heim,  if  you  expect  to  go  begging  on  the 
strength  of  your  limbs,  I  prophesy  that 
you  will  be  relieved  at  very  tew  doora; 
exc^t  at  the  door  of  a  good-natured  girl 
Uke  myself. 

Majob  von  Tellheui.  I  only  hear  the 
joking  girl  now,  dear  Minna. 

Minna.  And  I  only  hear  the  "dear 
Minna"  in  your  chiding.  I  will  not  joke 
any  longer;  for  I  recollect  that  after  all 
you  Bxe  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.  1  am  so  much  the  mora 
secure  from  your  blows. 

Majob  von  Tbu^hkim.   Madam! 

Minna.  You  would  say,  you  are  so 
much  the  less  secure  from  mine.  Wdl, 
well,  dear  TeUheim,  I  hope  you  will  not 
drive  me  to  that. 

Majob  von  Tbllheiu.  You  laugh, 
madam.  I  only  lament  that  I  oanni4 
laugh  with  yoa 

Minna.  Why  not?    What  have  you  to 


S68 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


say  Bgaiojrt  laughing?  Cannot  one  be  very 
Berioue  even  while  iaughing?  Dear  Major, 
laughter  keeps  ua  more  rational  thui  vex- 
ation. The  proof  ia  before  ua.  Your  laugh- 
ing friend  judges  of  your  eircumBtances 
more  correctly  than  you  do  youTBelf.  Be- 
cause you  are  discharged,  you  say  your 
honor  is  sullied;  because  you  ore  wounded 
in  the  arm,  you  call  younelf  a  cripple,  le 
that  right?  Is  that  no  exaggeration?  And 
'B  it  my  doing  that  all  exaggerationa  are 
w  open  to  ridicule?  I  dare  say,  if  I  exam- 
ine 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  baiiker 
may  have  disappeared  together  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  b^gar  on  that  account?  If  nothing 
else  remained  to  you  but  what  my  uncle 
is  bringing  for  you  — 

Major  von  Tkij.kmii.  Your  uncle, 
madam,  will  bring  nothing  for  me. 

Minna.  Nothing  but  the  two  thousand 
pistoles  which  you  so  generously  advanced 
to  our  Government. 

Majob  von  TsLLBiiiif.  If  you  had  but 
read  my  letter,  madam  I 

Minna,  WeU,  1  did  read  it.  But  what  I 
read  in  it,  on  this  point,  is  a  perfect  riddle. 
It  is  impossible  that  any  one  «houId  wish 
to  turn  a  noble  action  into  a  crime.  But 
explain  to  me,  dear  Major. 

Major  von  Tellbbih.  You  remember, 
madam,  that  I  had  orders  to  coUeet  the 
contribution  for  the  war  most  strictly  in 
cash  in  the  districts  in  your  neighbOThood; 
I  wished  to  forego  this  seroity,  and  ad- 
vanced the  money  that  was  deficient  my- 
self. 

Minna.  I  remembra'  it  well.  I  loved 
you  tor  that  deed  brfore  I  had  seen  you. 

Majob  von  Tellheiii.  The  Govern- 
ment gave  me  their  bill,  and  I  wished,  at 
the  signing  of  the  peace,  to  have  the  sum 
entered  among  the  debts  to  be  repaid  by 
them.  The  bill  was  acknowledged  as  good, 
but  my  ownership  of  the  same  was  dis- 
puted. People  looked  incredulous,  when  I 
declared  that  I  bod  myself  advanced  the 


amount  in  cosh.  It  i 
bribery,  as  a  oouetur  from  the  Govaninait, 
because  I  at  once  agreed  to  take  the  smaD- 
eet  sum  with  which  I  could  have  been  sat- 
isfied in  a  case  erf  the  greatest  exigcmey. 
Thus  the  bill  went  from  my  poesessirai, 
and  if  it  be  paid,  will  certainly  not  be  pud 
to  me.  Hence,  Tnttda*",  I  consider  mj 
honor  to  be  suapectedt  Not  on  account 
of  my  discharge,  which,  if  I  had  not  re- 
ceived, I  should  have  applied  for.  You 
lotdc  serious,  madam!  Why  do  you  not 
laugh?  Ha,  ha,  ha  1  I  am  laughing. 

Minna.  Ohi  Stifie  that  lau«^  Tdl- 
heim,  I  implore  youl  It  is  the  tenibk 
laugh  of  misanthropy.  No,  you  are  not  the 
man  to  repent  of  a  good  deed,  because  it 
may  have  had  a  bad  result  for  youiadf. 
Nor  can  these  consequences  possibly  be 
of  long  duration.  The  truth  must  ooatB  to 
light.  The  testimony  trf  my  \auA«,  <rf  our 
Government  — 

Major  von  Txllhxhi.  Of  your  unclel 
Of  your  Qovonmentl  Ha,  ha,  hal 

Minna.  That  laugh  wilt  kill  me,  Tdl- 
heim.  If  you  believe  in  virtue  and  Provi- 
dence, Tellheim,  do  not  laugh  sol  I  never 
heard  a  curse  more  terrible  than  that  lauf^l 
But,  viewing  the  matter  in  the  worst  lif^t, 
if  they  are  determined  to  mistake  your 
character  here,  with  us  you  will  not  be  mi»- 
understood.  No,  we  cannot,  we  will  not, 
misunderstand  you,  Tellheim.  And  if  our 
Government  has  the  least  sentiment  of 
honor,  I  know  what  it  must  do.  But  I  am 
foolish;  what  would  that  matter?  Imagiiie, 
Tellheim,  that  you  have  lost  the  two 
thousand  pistoles  on  some  gay  evening. 
The  king  was  an  unfortunate  cud  for  you: 
the  queen  IpmnHnu  to  hendf]  will  be  so 
much  the  more  favorable.  Providence, 
believe  me,  always  indemnifies  a  man  of 
honor  —  often  even  beforehand.  The 
action  which  was  to  cost  you  two  thousand 
pistoles  gained  you  me.  Without  that 
action,  I  never  should  have  been  demrous 
of  making  your  acquaintance.  You  know 
I  went  uninvited  to  the  first  p5vty  where  I 
thought  I  should  meet  you.  I  went  en- 
tirely on  your  account.  I  went  with  ft 
fixed  determination  to  love  you  —  I  loved 
you  already!  With  the  fixed  deb 


MINNA  VON  BARNHELM 


S<i9 


to  make  you  nuns,  if  I  should  find  you  u 
dark  uid  ugly  aa  the  Moor  of  Venice.  So 
daiic  and  ugly  you  are  not;  nor  will  you  be 
ao  jealouB.  But,  TeUheim,  Tellheim,  you 
are  yet  very  like  himl  Ob,  the  unmanage- 
able, stubborn  man,  who  always  keepa  his 
eye  fixed  upon  the  phantom  of  honor,  and 
becomes  hardened  against  every  other 
sentimentl  Your  eyes  this  wsyl  Upon  me 

—  me,  Tellheim!  [He  remain*  thmighifvl 
and  immovable,  mtk  fat  eyet  fixed  on  one 
spot. I  Of  what  are  you  thinking?  Do  you 
not  hear  me? 

Majob  ton  Tellheim  [tAtmSyY  <Hi, 
yes;  but  tell  me,  how  came  the  Moor  into 
the  service  of  VeuiceT  Hod  the  Mooi  no 
country  of  his  own?  Why  did  he  hire  his 
arm  and  his  blood  to  a  foreign  land? 

MiNKA  [alonned\.  Of  what  are  you 
thinking,  Tellheim?  It  is  time  to  break  off. 
Come  [ioking  him  bj/  the  hand\.  —  Fran- 
ziska,  let  the  carriage  be  brought  round. 

Majob  von  Trlijtbim  [ditengoffing  kit 
hand,  and  foUoinng  Fbamzibka].  No, 
.  Kansiska;  I  cannot  have  the  honor  cJ  ao- 
companying  your  mistress.  —  Madam,  let 
me  still  retwn  my  senses  unimpaired  for 
today,  and  give  me  leave  to  go.  You  are 
on  the  right  way  to  deprive  me  <rf  them.  I 
resist  it  as  much  as  I  can.  But  hear,  while 
I  am  still  myself,  what  I  have  firmly  de- 
termined, and  from  which  nothing  in  the 
world  shall  turn  me.  If  I  have  not  better 
luck  in  the  game  of  life;  if  a  complete 
ohange  in  n^  fortune  does  not  take  place; 
if — 

Minna.  I  must  interrupt  you.  Major. 

—  We  ought  to  have  told  Um  that  at  first, 
Pransiska.  You  remind  me  of  nothing.  — 
Our  coDTersation  would  have  taken  quite 
a  different  turn,  Tellheim,  if  I  had  com- 
meitced  with  the  good  news  which  theCheV' 
alier  de  la  Mariini^re  brought  just  now. 

Majob  von  Tkllbbiu.  The  Chevalier 
de  la  Marlinidrel  Who  is  he? 

Feanubka.  He  may  be  a  very  honest 
man,  Major  von  Tellheim,  except  that  — 

Minna.  Silence,  Fransiskal  Also  a  dis- 
charged officer  from  the  Dutch  service, 
who  — 

Majob  von  Tbllhum.  Ahl  lieutaumt 
BiccautI 


Minna.  He  assured  us  he  wu  a  friend 
of  yours. 

Majob  ton  Tbllhxim.  I  assure  you 
that  I  am  not  his. 

MiKNA.  And  that  some  minister  or 
other  had  told  him,  in  confidence,  that 
your  business  was  likely  to  have  the  very 
beat  termination.  A  letter  from  the  king 
must  now  be  on  its  way  to  you. 

Majob  ton  Tbllhsik.  How  came 
Riccaut  and  a  minister  in  company?  Some- 
thing certainly  must  have  happened  etA- 
ceming  my  aSair;  for  just  now  the  pay- 
master of  the  forcee  told  me  that  the  long 
had  set  aside  all  the  evidence  offerad 
against  me,  and  that  1  might  take  back  my 
promise,  which  I  had  given  in  writing,  not 
to  depart  from  here  until  acquitted.  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  distrees  waste  me  away  before  the 
eyes  of  my  calumniators,  tiian  — 

Minna.  Obstinate  man  1 

Majob  vok  TBLLHSm.  I  require  no 
favor;  I  want  justice.   My  honor  — 

Minna.  The  honor  of  such  a  man  — 

Majob  von  Tzllhbih  [laanrdy].  No, 
madam,  you  may  be  able  to  judge  of  any 
othersubject,  but  not  of  this.  Honor  is  not 
the  voice  of  conscience,  not  the  evidence  of 
a  few  honorable  men  — 

Minna.  No,  no,  I  know  it  wdl.  Honor 
is —  htmor. 

Major  ton  Tsllhsoi.  In  short, 
madam  —  You  did  not  let  me  finish.  —  I 
was  going  to  say,  if  they  keep  from  me  so 
shamefully  what  is  my  own;  if  my  honor 
be  not  perfectly  righted  —  I  cannot, 
madam,  ever  be  youie,  for  I  am  not  worthy, 
in  the  eyes  of  tiie  world,  of  being  yours. 
Minna  von  Bamhelm  deflerves  an  irre- 
proachable husband.  It  is  a  worthless  loTe 
which  does  not  scruple  to  expose  its  d[>ject 
to  scorn.  He  is  a  worthless  man  who  is  not 
ashamed  to  owe  a  woman  all  his  good  fc^ 
tune;  whose  blind  tenderness  — 

Minna.  And  is  that  really  your  feeling 
MaJOT?  [Turning  her  bach  tuddenly.]  -~ 
Fransiskal 

Majob  VON  Tellbuu.  Donotbeangry- 

MtNNA  Joavdc  lo  FkanzibxaI.    Now  is 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Fhakzibka.  I  adviae  nothing.  But  ocr- 
tainl;  he  goes  rathw  too  far. 

Majob  von  Tellbbiu  [approackmg  to 
interrupt  them].  You  are  angry,  madam. 

Minna  [ironioaUy].  I?  Not  in  the  least. 

Major  von  Tsllheiu.  If  I  loved  you 

Minna  [sfiU  in  the  lame  lone],  OhI  cer- 
tainly, it  would  be  a  misfortune  for  me. 
And  hear,  Major,  I  also  will  not  be  the 
cause  of  your  unhappineas.  One  should 
love  with  perfect  diaintercfltedneas.  It  is 
aa  well  that  I  have  not  been  more  opoil 
Fahaps  your  pity  loight  have  granted  to 
me  what  your  love  refusee. 

IDrawtTig  the  ring  tloaly  from  her 
finger.] 

Majob  von  TiiT.i.iimii  What  does  this 
mean,  madam? 

Minna.  No,  neither  of  ns  must  make 
the  other  either  more  or  lees  happy.  IVue 
love  demands  it.  I  believe  you,  Major;  and 
you  have  too  much  honor  to  mistake  love. 

Majob  von  Tellheim.  Are  you  jesting, 
madam? 

MiHNA.  Here)  Take  back  the  ring  with 
which  you  plighted  your  troth  to  me. 
[Cum*  him  the  ring.]  Let  it  be  eol  We  will 
Buppoee  we  have  never  met. 

Majoh  voN  TEU.&EIII.  What  do  I  hear? 

Minna.  Doee  it  Burpriae  you?  Take  it, 
sir.  You  surely  have  not  been  pretending 
only  I 

Majob  von  TnuaBiM  [taking  the  ring 
fnm  her].    Heavens!    Can  Minna  speak 

Minna.  In  (me  case  you  cannot  be 
mine;  in  no  caae  can  I  be  yours.  Your  mis- 
fortune ia  probable;  mine  is  certain.  Fare- 
well! [It  going.] 

Majob  von  Tgllbbiu .  Where  are  you 
going,  deareat  Minna? 

Minna.  Sir,  you  insult  me  now  by  that 
term  of  endearment. 

Major  von  Teli.hbim.  What  is  the 
matter,  madam?   Where  are  you  going? 

Minna.  Leave  me.  I  go  to  hide  my 
tears  from  you,  deceiver!  [£^.1 

Major  VON  Tellhbih.  Her  tears?  And 
\  am  to  leave  her.    [is  about  to  foUow  her.] 


Fbanziska  [hcbHnf  Mm  bade].  Surety 
not.  Major.  You  would  not  follow  her  into 
her  own  room! 

Major  VON  TiiiiLHiiDi.  Her  misf wtune? 
Did  ahe  not  apeak  tj  misfortune? 

Franzibea.  Yea,  truly;  the  misfortuns 
of  losing  you,  after  — 

Majob  von  Tsllbkih.  After?  Aftes 
what?  There  is  more  in  this.  What  is  it, 
Franiiska?  Tell  me!  Bpeakt 

Fbanziska.  Aftw,  I  mean,  she  has 
made  such  aacrificea  on  your  account. 

Major  von  Teixheih.  Sacrifices  f<H- met 

Fbanziska.  Well,  listMi.  It  is  a  good 
thing  for  you,  Major,  that  you  are  freed, 
from  your  engagement  with  her,  in  th» 
manner.  —  Why  ahould  I  not  tell  you?  It 
cannot  remain  a  secret  long.  We  have  fled 
from  home.  Count  von  Bruchsal  haa  dis- 
inherited my  miatrcaa,  because  she  would 
not  acoept  a  husband  of  his  choice.  On  that 
every  one  deserted  and  slighted  her.  What 
could  we  do?  We  determined  to  seek  him, 

Majob  VON  TsLLSEtH.  Enou^t  Come, 
and  let  me  throw  myself  at  her  feet. 

Fbanziska.  What  are  you  thmlrjng 
about?  Rather  go,  and  thaiik  your  good 
fortune. 

Majob  VON  Tellheim.  Pitiful  creaturel 
For  what  do  you  take  me?  Yet  no,  my  dear 
Franiiaka,  the  advice  did  not  come  from 
your  heart.   Forgive  my  anger!    . 

Fbanzibka.  Do  not  detain  me  any 
longer.  Imust  see  what  ahe  is  about.  How 
easily  something  might  happen  to  her!  Go 
now,  and  come  again,  if  you  like. 

[F<^]mi>e  Minna.] 

Major  vom  Tkllheim.  But,  Franiiskal 
OhI  I  will  wait  your  return  here.  —  No, 
that  ia  more  torturingl  —  If  she  is  in  earn- 
eat,  she  will  not  refuse  to  foi^pv^  me.  — 
Now  I  want  your  aid,  honest  Wemerl  — 
No,  Minna,  I  am  no  deceiver! 

lEu»he»off.\ 
ACT  V 

[Enter  Major  von  Tellheiu  ^om  otw  tide, 

Wbbner /rom  the  other.] 

Major  von  Tellheiu.  Ah,  Werner!  I 

have  been  looking  for  you  evHyirttw* 

Where  have  vou  been? 


.  GooqIc 


MINNA  VON  BARNHELM 


57» 


WsBMiiB.  And  I  hBve  been  looking  for 
you,  Major;  that  is  always  the  way.  —  I 
bring  you  good  news. 

Majob  ton  Tbllhbih.  I  do  not  want 
your  news  now;  I  want  your  money.  Quick, 
Werner,  give  me  all  you  have;  and  then 
raise  aa  much  more  as  you  eon. 

Werner,  Major!  Now,  upon  my  life, 
that  is  just  what  I  said — ^  "He  will  bw- 
row  money  from  me,  when  he  haa  got  it 
himseU  to  lend." 

Major  ton  Tvllbmh.  You  surely  are 
not  seddng  excuses! 

Wbbhxr.  That  I  may  haTe  nothing  to 
upbraid  you  with,  take  it  with  your  right 
hand,  and  pve  it  me  again  with  your  l^t. 

Major  ton  Tbllheoi.  Do  not  detain 
me,  Werner.  It  is  my  intention  to  repay 
you;  but  when  and  how,  God  knowsl 

Wkbnxr.  Then  you  do  not  know  yet 
that  the  Treasury  has  received  an  order  to 
pay  you  your  money?  I  just  heard  it  at  - 

Major  ton  Tku.hbiw.  What  «re  yo 
tjllring  about?  What  nonsense  haTe  you 
let  them  palm  off  on  you?  Do  you  not  i 
that  if  it  were  true,  I  should  be  the  first 
person  to  know  it?  In  short,  Werner, 
moneyl  money! 

Wbbnkr.  Very  well,  with  pleasuro. 
Here  is  eomel  A  hundred  louig  d'ors  there, 
and  a  hundred  ducats  there. 

[Gicec  him  both.] 

Majob  TON  Tbllhsdi.  Werner,  go  and 
gire  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  war 
good  deal  more. 

WSBNEB.  LeaTe  that  to  me.  The  i 
who  bought  my  farm  Uvea  in  the  tc 
The  date  for  payment  is  a  fortnight  hence, 
certainly;  but  the  money  is  ready,  and  by 
»  reduction  of  one  half  per  cent  — 

Major  von  Tsllhoui.  Very  well,  my 
dear  Wemat  You  see  that  I  haTe  haid  re- 
course to  you  alone  —  I  must  also  confide 
bU  to  you.  The  young  lady  you  have  i 
is  in  distress  — 

Wbbnbr.  That  is  bad! 

Major  ton  TxiiLHEni.  But  to-morrow 
she  shall  be  my  wife. 

.  TbEtisgoodl 


Major  ton  TxLLBzni.  And  the  day 
after,  I  leave  this  place  with  her.  I  can  go; 
1  will  go.  I  would  sooner  throw  OTer  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. 

Wkrnkr.  Really?  But  where  there  is 
war.  Major! 

Major  tow  Tbh j«m.  To  be  sure.  Go, 
Wwner,  we  will  speak  <rf  this  ^ain. 

Werner.  Oh,  mydear  Majorl  Theday 
after  to-morrow!  Why  not  to-morrow?  I 
will  get  everything  ready.  In  Peraia,  Major, 
there  is  a  famous  war ;  what  do  you  say? 

Major  von  Txj.lebih.  We  will  think 
of  it.   Only  go,  Werner! 

Werner.  Hurrah  I  Long  live  Prince 
Heraclius!  [£xit.| 

Major  ton  Txllhbim.  How  do  I  feel! 
—  My  whole  soul  has  acquired  a  new  im- 
pulse. My  own  unhappineaa  bowed  me  to 
the  ground;  made  me  fretful,  shortrsighted, 
shy,  careless:  her  unhappineee  raises  me. 
I  see  clearly  again,  and  feel  myself  ready 
and  capable  of  undertaking  anything  for 
her  sake.  Why  do  I  tarry? 

[It  going  totoord  Minna's  room, 
uhen  Franeibka  come*  ovt  of  it.] 

Franeiska.  Is  it  you?  I  thought  I 
heard  your  voice.  What  do  you  want. 
Major? 

Major  von  Tkllbeiu.  What  do  I 
want!  What  is  she  doing?  Cornel 

Franzibea.  8he  is  just  going  out  for  a 

Major  ton  Tsllhxui.  And  alone? 
Without  me?  Whereto? 

Fhanzibka.  Have  you  forgotten,  MajorT 

Major  von  tvi.i.hmtm  How  silly  you 
are,  Fransiakal  I  irritated  her,  and  she  was 
angry.  I  will  beg  her  pardon,  and  she  will 
forgive  me. 

Franeibka.  What!  After  you  have 
taken  the  ring  back.  Major! 

Major  ton  Tbllhbih.  Ah!  I  did  that 
in  my  confusion.  I  had  foigotten  about 
the  ring.  Where  did  I  put  it?  iSearehst 
for  U.]  Here  it  is.      - 

Franeibka.  Is  that  itT  —  [Atidt,  at  ht 
putt  it  again  in  Aw  pocket.]  If  he  would  on^ 
look  at  it  closer  1 

Major  ton  Tbllhbdi.  She  pressed  it 


51* 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


upon  me  so  bittCTly.  But  I  liare  forgott«i 
that.  A  full  heart  cannot  weigh  words. 
She  will  Dot  for  one  moment  refuse  to  take 
h  again.  And  have  I  not  heis? 

Franzuka.  She  ie  now  waiting  for  it  in 
return.  Where  ii  it,  Major?  Show  it  to  me, 
dal 

Major  von  Tkllhbiu  [embamuaeiH.  I 
baT«  —  forgotten  to  put  it  on.  JuBt  — 
Just  will  bring  it  directly. 

Fsanubka.  Tbey  are  something  alike, 
I  suppose;  let  me  look  at  that  one.  I  am 
very  fond  of  such  things. 

Major  von  TBLLHxni.  Another  time, 
Franiiska.  Come  now. 

Franzibsa  [onde].  He  is  determined  not 
to  be  drawn  out  (rf  his  mistake. 

Major  von  Tsllhbhi.  What  do  you 
say?  Mistake  I 

Frahsibka.  It  is  a  mistake,  I  say,  if  you 
think  that  my  mistress  is  still  a  good  match. 
Hk'  own  fortune  is  far  from  eonsidwable; 
by  a  few  calculations  in  their  own  favor  her 
guardians  may  reduoe  it  to  nothing.  She 
expected  everything  from  her  uncle;  but 
this  cruel  uncle  — 

Majob  VON  Txixmuu.  Let  him  got  Am 
I  not  man  enough  to  make  it  all  good  to  her 
again? 

FRANEiflXA.  Do  you  hear?  She  is  ring- 
ing; I  must  go  in  a;^. 

Major  tok  Tzu^kim.  I  will  accom- 
pany you. 

FsAMEiBKA.  For  Heaven's  sake,  not  She 

forbade  me  erpreesly  to  speak  with  you. 

Come  in,  at  any  rate,  a  little  time  after  me. 

|(?0M  in.) 

Major  vom  Tbllhsih  [coUinfr  after  her]. 
Announce  met  Speak  for  me,  Franiiska! 
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 
throwii^  herself,  unfortunate  as  she  is,  into 
my  arms;  this  anxiety  to  make  a  false  show 
of  still  poeseesing  that  happiness  which  she 
has  lost  through  me.  How  she  is  to  excul- 
pate herself  to  hcasdf  —  for  by  me  it  is 
already  fcffgiven  —  for  this  distrust  in  my 
honor,  in  her  own  worth.  —  Aht  here  she 


Minna  [tpeakiitg  a»  she  comet  mU,  a*  ^ 
not  aware  of  the  Major's  jtreaenoe].  The 
carriage  is  at  the  door,  FTaniiska,  is  it  ootT 
Myfani 

Major  von  Trllihsih  [adoaneing  to  Asr]. 
Where  are  you  going,  madam? 

Minna  [imlk  forced  coUneu],  I  am  going 
out.  Major.  I  guess  why  you  have  given 
yourself  the  trouble  irf  ooming  back;  to  re- 
turn me  my  ring.  Very  well,  Majw  von 
Tellheim,  have  the  goodness  to  give  it  to 
Franiiska.  —  Frauiisko,  take  the  ring 
from  Major  von  Tellhdml  —  I  have  no 
time  to  lose.  [/«  going.] 

Major  von  Tullbeoi  [stepping  b«for* 
her\.  Madaml  Ah,  what  have  I  heard?  I 
was  unworthy  of  such  love. 

Minna.  So,  Frsjisiska,  you  have  — 

Franzisea.  Told  him  all. 

Major  von  Tellhbih.  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  unfavorable  impression  am 
me ;  at  first  you  wished  to  hide  it  from  me. 
I  do  not  complain  of  this  mistrust.  It 
arose  from  the  deeire  to  retain  my  affectim. 
That  desire  is  my  pride.  You  found  me  in 
distreea;  and  you  did  not  wish  to  add  dis- 
tress to  distress.  You  could  not  divine 
how  far  your  distress  would  raise  me  above 
any  thoughts  of  my  own. 

Minna.  That  is  all  very  well.  Major, 
but  it  ia  now  over.  I  have  reieaaed  you 
from  your  engagement;  you  have,  by  tak- 
ing back  the  ring  — 

Majob  von  TMi.t.naTM.  Consented  to 
nothingi  On  the  contrary,  I  now  consider 
myself  bound  more  firmly  than  ever.  You 
are  mine,  Minna,  mine  forever.  [Taktt  off 
the  rtnj).]  Here,  take  it  for  the  second  time 
—  the  iJedge  of  my  fidelity. 

Minna.  I  take  that  ring  againi  lliat 
ring? 

Major  von  Tbllbziw.  Yes,  dearest 
Minna,  yes. 

Minna.  What  are  you  asking  met  That 
ring"? 

Majob  von  Tbllbsih.  You  reooved  it 
for  the  first  time  from  my  hand,  lihai  em 


MINNA  VON  BARNHELM 


573 


pomtioDB  ware  similar  and  the  oir^iim- 
stanoes  propitioua.  They  are  no  longer 
propitioiu,  but  are  again  similar.  Equality 
is  always  the  stiongast  tide  of  love.  Per- 
mit me,  dearest  Minnal 

[Seitti  har  hand  to  put  on  the  ring.] 

HiKNA.  What,  by  force,  Major!  No, 
there  is  so  power  in  the  world  that  shall 
compel  me  to  take  back  that  ringl  Do 
you  think  that  I  am  in  want  o!  a  ring? 
Oh,  you  may  see  [pointing  to  her  ring]  that 
I  have  another  here  which  is  in  no  way 
inferior  to  yours. 

Fbanzuka  [and«).  Well,  if  he  does  not 
see  it  nowt 

Major  ton  Tkllheim  {EeOtn;  /oQ  her 
hand\.  What  is  this?  I  see  Fraulein  von 
Bamhelm,  but  I  do  not  hear  her.  —  You 
are  pretending.  —  Pardon  me,  that  I  use 
your  own  wmds. 

MiMKA  (in  her  naixavl  tone].  Did  thoee 
words  offend  you,  Major? 

Majoe  von  TbiiLtthim.  They  grieved 
me  much. 

Minna  [o^ederf).  Tbfsy  were  not  meant 
to  do  that,  Tellfaeim.  Forgive  me,  Tellheim. 

Major  von  Tbllhsiu.  Ah,  that 
friendly  tone  tells  me  you  are  yourself 
agun,  Minna;  that  you  still  love  me. 

Fkanhska  [exelatm*].  The  joke  will 
Boon  have  gone  a  little  too  far. 

Minna  [in  a  cammandmg  bme].  Pran- 
siska,  you  will  not  interfere  in  our  affairs, 
I  beg. 

Fkakubka  ((Uide,  in  a  mirprited  tone]. 
Not  enough  yet  I 

Minna.  Yes,  sir;  it  would  only  be  wo- 
manish vanity  in  me  to  pretend  to  be  cold 
and  BComful.  Nol  Neverl  You  deeerve  to 
find  me  as  sincere  as  yourself.  1  do  love 
you  still,  Tellheim,  I  love  you  Still;  but  not- 
withstanding— 

Majob  von  TaiiLHBiK.  No  tdwk,  dear- 
est Minna,  no  morel 

tS«tSM  her  hand  again,  lo  put  on 
the  ring.] 

Mdina  [draining  back  her  hand\.  Not- 
withstanding, so  much  the  more  am  I  de- 
termined that  that  shall  never  be —  neverl 
—  Of  what  are  you  thinking.  Major?  —  I 
thought  your  own  distress  was  sufficient. 
You  must  remain  here;  you  must  obtain  , 


by  obstinacy  —  no  bettar  phrase  oocurs  to 
roe  at  the  moment  —  the  most  perfect 
satisfaction,  obtain  it  by  obatiiuoy  — 
And  that  even  thou^  the  utmost  distress 
should  wast«  you  away  before  the  eyes  oi 
your  calumniators  — 

Majob  VON  TsLLEnoi.  So  I  thought,  so 
I  said,  when  I  knew  not'what  I  thought  or 
said.  Chagrin  and  stifling  rage  had  en- 
vdoped  my  whole  eoul;  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  dispelled  the  cloud,  and  opened  again 
all  the  Bvenuee  of  my  soul  to  sensations  ot 
tenderness.  The  impidse  of  self-preso'va- 
tion  awakee,  when  I  hare  something  more 
precious  than  myself  to  support,  and  to 
support  through  my  own  eicertions.  Do 
not  let  fh.^  word  "pity"  offend  you.  From 
the  innoc&it  cause  of  our  distress  vre  may 
hear  the  term  without  humiliation.  I  am 
this  cause;  through  me,  Minna,  have  you 
kwt  friends  and  relations,  fortune  and 
country.  Through  me,  in  me,  roust  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  tliink  of  a  future  in 
which  I  must  detest  myself.  —  No,  noth- 
ing shall  detain  me  here  longer.  From  this 
moment  I  will  oppose  nothing  but  con- 
tempt to  the  injustice  which  I  suffer.  Is 
this  country  the  world?  Doee  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, 
dearest  Minna — we  shall  want  for  nothing. 
I  have  a  friend  who  will  assist  me  with 
pleasure. 

[Enter  an  Orderly.] 

FnANZisKA  [teeing  the  Order^).  Biat, 
Major  1 

Majob  ton  Tellhxqi  [to  the  Orderlyi 
Whom  do  you  want? 

Ordbblt.  I  am  looking  for  Major  von 
Tellheim.  Ah,  you  are  the  Major,  I  see.  I 
have  to  give  you  this  letter  from  Ss 
Majesty  the  King. 

[Taking  one  ouK^kUbag.] 

Majob  voir  TsusmH.  To  met 


Ck^t^^lc 


574 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Ordbrlt.  According  to  the  direction. 

Minna.  E^^aEiBka,  do  you  hear?  The 
Chevalier  spoke  the  truth,  after  ail. 

Orderly  [v>hii»  Teli.hbim  takti  Ihe 
Utler].  I  b«g  your  pEirdon,  Major;  you 
should  properly  have  had  it  yesterday,  but 
I  could  not  find  you  out.  I  learned  your 
address  this  moming  only  from  Lieut^iant 
Riccaut,  OD  parade. 

Franziska.  Do  you  hear,  my  lady?  — 
That  ia  tiie  CheTalia''B  miniater.  "What 
is  the  name  of  de  ministre  out  deie,  on  de 
broad  placeT" 

Majob  von  Teu^xih.  I  am  extremely 
obUged  to  you  for  your  trouble. 

OsnutLT.  It  is  my  duty,  Major. 

[ExU.] 

Major  von  Tbllbbim.  Ahl  Minna, 
what  is  this?  What  does  this  contain? 

Minna.  I  am  not  entitled  to  extend  my 
curiosity  so  far. 

Major  von  TELLHRtu.  Whati  You 
would  still  separate  my  fate  from  yours? 
—  But  why  do  I  hesitate  to  open  it?  It 
lannot  make  me  more  unhappy  than  I  am: 
ao,  dearest  Minna,  it  cannot  make  us  more 
miappy  —  but    po'haps    more    happy  I 

[While  he  openi  and  read*  the 
letter,  the  Lanslord  eomee 
gtealthily  on  Ihe  tUige.] 

Landlord  [to  Franziska].  Hist!  my 
pretty  maid  I   A  word  I 

Franziska  [tc  Ihe  LandiiORD].  Mr. 
Landlord,  we  do  not  yet  know  ourselves 
what  ia  in  the  letter. 

Landlord.  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. 

Minna  [who  in  the  mean  time  hat  ap- 
proaehtd  the  Landlord].  Tell  Just  that  it 
is  already  redeemed;  and  tell  him  by  whom 
-bym.. 

Landlord.   But  — ■ 

Minna.  I  take  it  upon  myself.  Gol 

[Exit  Landlord.! 

Franziska.  And  now,  my  lady,  make 
it  up  with  the  poor  Major. 

Minna.  Oh,  kind  intercessor]  As  if  the 
difficulties  must  not  soon  explain  than- 


Major  von  TsLLHKiii  [q/isT  nadinff  At 
leiter  with  mucfc  emotion],  Ahl  Not  has  fae 
herein  belied  himself!  OhI  Minna,  what 
justice!  what  clemency!  Thia  is  more  than 
I  expected;  more  than  I  deso^el  —  My 
fortune,  my  honor,  all  is  reestablished!  — 
Do  I  dream?  {Loaking  al  the  letltfr,  a»ii  la 
eonmnce  himeeil.]  No,  no  delusion  bom  of 
my  own  desires!  Read  it  yourself,  Minna; 
read  it  yourself! 

Minna.  I  would  not  presume,  Major. 

Major  von  Trllhbim.  Presume!  The 
letter  is  to  me;  to  your  Tellheim,  Minna. 
It  contains  —  what  your  uncle  cannot  take 
from  you.   You  must  read  it!   Do  read  it. 

Minna.  If  it  affords  you  pleasure 
Major.  [Taket  the  ktter  and  reodi.l 

"My  dear  Major  mm  Tetlheim, 

"I  hereby  inform  you  that  the  business 
which  caused  me  some  anxiety  on  account 
of  your  honor  haa  been  cleared  up  in  your 
favor.  My  brother  had  a  mora  detailed 
knowledge  of  it,  and  his  testimony  haa 
more  than  proved  your  innocence.  Tin 
Treasury  haa  received  orders  to  deliva 
again  to  you  the  bill  in  question,  and  to 
reimburse  the  sum  advanced.  1  have  also 
ordered  that  all  claims  which  the  Pay- 
master'a  Office  bringa  forwEud  against  your 
accounts  be  nullified.  Please  to  inform  me 
whether  your  health  will  allow  of  your  tak- 
ing active  service  again.  I  can  ill  apare  a 
man  of  your  courage  and  sentiments.  I 
am  your  gracious  Kino,"  etc. 

Major  von  Tellbbih.  Now,  what  do 
you  say  to  that,  Minna? 

Minna  [folding  up  and  rttarniag  tht 
later].  I?  Nothing, 

Major  ton  Tbllbbim.  Nothing? 

Minna.  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. 

Major  von  Telijieiu.  And  do  you  say 
nothing  more?    Nothing  about  ourselves? 

Minna.  You  are  going  to  serve  again. 
From  Major,  you  will  become  Lieutenant- 
Colonel,  perhaps  Colonel.  I  congratulate 
you  with  all  my  heart. 

Major  von  Tellreim.  And  you  do  not 
know  me  better?  No,  since  fortune  re- 
stores me  sufficient  to  satisfy  the  wishes  <i 


MINNA  VON   BARNHELH 


573 


n  TeMonablfl  man,  it  shall  depend  upon  my 
Minna  alone,  whether  for  the  future  I  shall 
belong  to  any  one  else  but  htx.  To  her 
service  alone  my  whole  life  shall  be  de< 
voted  I  The  s^^ce  of  the  great  is  danger- 
ous, and  does  not  repay  the  trouble,  the 
reBtraint,  the  humiliation  which  it  costs. 
Minna  is  not  among  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  honorable 
man  to  try  the  profnsioD  of  arms  tac  a 
time,  to  make  himself  familiar  with  danger, 
and  to  leam  coolness  and  determination. 
Extreme  necessity  alone  oould  have  com- 
pelled me  to  make  this  trial  a  fixed  mode 
(rf  life,  this  temporary  occupation  a  profea- 
sion.  But  now  that  nothing  compels  me, 
my  whole  and  sole  ambition  is  to  be  a 
p^oeful  and  a  contented  man.  Thie  with 
you,  deareet  Minna,  I  shall  infallibly  be- 
come; this  in  your  society  I  sh^l  unchange- 
ably remain.  Let  the  holy  bond  unite  us 
to-morrow;  and  then  we  will  look  round 
us,  and  in  the  whole  wide  habitable  world 
eeek  out  the  most  peaceful,  the  brighteat, 
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,  Minnaf 

(MimiA  tumt  away  uneatUy,  and 
endeavon  to  hide  Aer  emotion.) 

Minna  [regaining  her  com-pontn\.  It  is 
f^ruel  of  you,  Tellheim,  to  paint  such  hap- 
piness to  me,  when  I  am  forced  to  renounce 
it.   My  loss  — 

Major  VON  Tbllhbim.  Your  loss!  Why 
name  your  Id»T  All  that  Minna  could  lose 
is  not  Minna.  You  are  still  the  sweetest, 
dearest,  loveliest,  best  creature  under  the 
sun;  all  goodness  and  generosity,  innocence 
and  bliss!  Now  and  then  a  little  petulant; 
at  times  somewhat  willful  —  so  much  the 
betterl  So  much  the  better!  Minna  would 
otherwise  be  an  angel,  whom  I  should 
honor  with  trepidation,  but  not  dare  to 
%ove.  \Take»  htr  hand  to  kitt  it.] 

Minna  [drawitv  avxtn  her  hand].    Not 


so,  sir.  Why  tliie  sudden  change?  Is  this 
flattering,  impetuous  lover  the  cold  Tsll- 
heiml  —  Could  his  returning  good  fortune 
alone  create  this  ardor  in  him?  He  wiU 
permit  me  during  his  passionate  excitement 
to  retain  the  power  of  reflection  for  us 
both.  When  he  could  himself  reflect,  I 
heard  him  say,  "It  is  a  worthless  love 
which  does  not  scruple  to  expose  its  ob- 
ject to  scorn."  —  True;  and  I  aspire  to  as 
pure  and  noble  a  love  as  he  himself.  Now, 
when  honor  calls  him,  when  a  great  mon- 
arch solicits  his  services,  shall  I  consent 
that  be  shaU  give  himself  up  to  love-sick 
dreams  with  me?  that  the  illustrious  war- 
rior shall  degenerate  into  a  toying  swain? 
No,  Major,  foUow  the  call  of  your  higher 
destiny. " 

Majob  von  TmjjHaM.  WeUI  If  the 
busy  world  has  greater  eharms  fn'  you, 
Minna,  let  us  remain  in  the  busy  worldl 
How  mean,  how  poor  is  this  busy  worldl 
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 
kick  oiviers. 

Minna.  No,  Tellheim,  I  do  not  mean 
that!  I  send  you  back  into  the  busy  world, 
on  the  road  trf  honor,  without  wisiiing  to 
accompany  you.  Tellheim  will  there  re- 
quire an  irreproachable  wife!  A  fugitive 
Saxon  girl  who  has  thrown  herself  upon 

Major  von  Tellheim  [ilarUng  up,  and 
lookmff  fiercely  about  him].  Who  dare  say 
that?  Ah!  Mmna,  I  feel  afraid  of  myself, 
when  I  imagine  that  any  one  but  yourself 
could  have  spoken  so.  My  anger  against 
him  would  iuiow  no  bounds. 

Mam  A.  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  bittereet 
every  day.  In  short,  Tellheim,  hear  what 
I  have  firmly  determined,  and  from  which 
nothing  in  the  world  shall  turn  me  — 

Major  ton  Tbllhbiu.  Before  you  pro- 
ceed, I  implore  you,  Minna,  refiect  for  one 
moment  that  you  are  about  to  pronounce 
a  sentence  of  life  or  death  upon  me  I 

Minna.  Without  a  moment's  reflection! 


57« 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


—  Aa  eertaiiil]r  aa  I  have  givm  you  back 
the  ring  with  which  yaa  foimer Ijr  pledged 
your  troth  to  me,  ob  certainly  aa  you  have 
taken  back  that  same  ring,  so  certainly 
shall  the  unfortunate  Minna  nercr  be  the 
wife  of  tbe  fortunate  Tellheiml 

Majob  von  Tbllheiu.  And  herewith 
you  pronounce  my  aentence. 

MtNNA.  Equality  is  the  only  eure  bond 
of  love.  The  happy  Minna  only  wished  to 
live  for  the  happy  Tellheim.  Even  Minna 
In  misfortune  would  have  allowed  hervelf 
to  be  persuaded  either  to  increase  or  to 
anuage  the  misfortune  of  her  friend 
throogh  heraelf —  He  muat  have  seen, 
before  tbe  arrival  of  that  letter,  which  has 
again  destroyed  all  equality  between  ua, 
that  in  appearance  only  I  refused. 

Majob  vok  Tkllheim.  Ib  that  true?  I 
thank  you,  Minna,  that  you  have  not  yet 
pronounced  the  acntence.  You  will  only 
marry  Tellheim  when  unfortunate?  You 
may  have  him.  {CooUj/.]  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  suepicion. 
Yes;  I  will  siq)poBe  that  I  have  not  re- 
ceived the  letto'.  B^old  my  only  answer 
to  iti  [About  to  tear  U  up.] 

Minna  [atoppin^  him].  What  are  you 
going  to  do,  TeUheimT 

Majob   von   Tellhew.  (H>tain   your 

Minna.  Stop  I 

Major  von  Tbllheqi.  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. 

Mdina.  What!  In  such  a  tone?  Shall 
I,  must  I,  thus  become  contemptible  in  my 
own  eyes?  Never!  She  is  a  worthless 
(3«ature  who  is  not  ashamed  to  owe  her 
whole  happiness  to  the  blind  tenderness  of 

Majob  von  TVi.i.maiK  False!  Utterly 
false! 

Minma.  Can  you  venture  to  find  fault 
with  your  own  words  when  coming  from 
my  lips? 

Majob  VON  Txllkbim.  Sophistrj't  Doea 
tbe  weftker  sex  diahopor  itself  by  evsy 


action  which  does  not  become  UwatTtmgcrT 
Or  can  a  man  do  everything  whidi  is 
proper  in  a  woman?  Which  is  c^ipointed 
by  nature  to  be  the  support  of  the  othaT 

Minna.  Be  not  alanned,  Tellheiml  — 
I  shall  not  be  quite  unprotected  if  I  mmt 
decline  the  honor  di  your  protection.  I 
shall  Btitl  have  aa  much  aa  is  absolutely 
necessary.  I  have  announced  m;  arrival 
to  our  Ambassador.  I  am  to  see  him  fa^ 
day.  I  hope  he  will  aaaist  me.  Time  is  fly- 
ing. Permit  me.  Major  — 

Majob  von  Tellhbiw.    I  will  aocoa- 

pUly  you,  TfiaHftm 

Minna,  No,  Major;  leave  me. 

Majob  von  Tbllheiu.  Sooner  shall 
your  shadow  desert  you!  Come,  mud*™, 
where  you  will,  to  whom  you  will,  eveij- 
where,  to  friends  and  strangers,  will  I  re- 
peat in  your  presence  —  repeat  a  hundred 
times  each  day  —  what  a  bond  binds  you 
t«  me,  and  with  what  cruel  caprice  you 
wish  to  break  it  — 

[Enler  JCOT.] 

Jnar  [impttuoualy].  Major!  Majort 

Majob  VON  Tellhbiu.  Well! 

Just.  Bra's  quick!  Quick! 

Majob  von  Tsrj.mtrw.  Why?  CcHneto 
me.  Speak!  What  is  the  matter? 

Just.  What  do  you  think? 

ITFftMpera  to  Mm 

Minna  [oatde  (o  Fbaneibka).  Do  yoi' 
notice  anything,  Fransiska? 

Pbaneisea.  Oh,  you  merciless  creaturet 
I  have  stood  her«  on  thomst 

Majob  von  Tellheim  [la  JttbtI.  What 
do  you  say?  —  That  is  not  pomible!  — • 
You?  [Looking  fiercdy  at 'iAmvA.\  Speak 
it  out;  tell  it  to  her  face.  —  Listen,  madam. 

Jner.  The  E^andlord  says  that  Frftulein 
von  Barnhelm  has  taken  the  ring  which  I 
pledged  to  him;. she  recogniied  it  as  het 
own,  and  would  not  return  it. 

Majob  von  Tbllbbiu.  Is  that  tnie^ 
madam?  No,  that  cannot  be  truel 

Minna  [tmitiTiQ].  And  why  not,  Telt 
heim?  Why  can  it  not  be  true? 

Majob  von  Tbllhbui  [nehemmiivX 
Then  it  is  truet  —  What  terrible  light  sud* 
denly  breaks  in  upon  mel  —  Now  I  know 
you  —  false,  faithless  onet 


MINNA  VON  BARNHELM 


sn 


Minna  loIomMd].  Who,  who  is  faithlesB?. 
Majo9  ton  Tellkbiu.    You,  whom  I 


Willn 


lel 


Minna.  Tellheiml 

Major  ton  Tbllhbiii.  Forget  my 
name  —  You  came  htxe  with  the  intention 
ol  breaking  with  me  —  It  is  evidentl  — 
Oh,  thftt  chance  should  thus  delight  to  os- 
fliat  the  faithlenl  It  brought  jrour  ring  into 
your  poonc  anion.  Your  croftineea  oontiiTed 
to  get  my  own  back  into  mine! 

Minna.  Tellheim,  what  visions  are  you 
oonjuring  up?  Be  calm,  and  listen  to  me. 

Fbanziska  [futdc].  Now  she  will  catch  it  I 
[ErUer  Wsbnbr,  mth  a  jntrtt  fu3l  of  Q6ld.\ 

WsBNSR.  Here  I  am  already,  Major! 

Major  ton  Thllhrhi  [mOuivt  iookvnn 
at  kim].  Who  wants  you? 

Wbrnxr.  I  have  brought  more  moneyl 
A.  thousand  pistoles! 

Major  ton  TMijJimM.  I  do  not  want 

Wbrnxb.  And  tO'-morrow,  Major,  you 
can  have  as  many  more. 

Major  ton  Tbllhrdi.  Keep  your 
moneyl 

Wsbnxb.  It  is  your  inmey.  Major  — 
I  do  not  think  you  see  whom  you  are  speak- 

Major  ton  Tru-hhih .  Take  it  away,  I 
say  I 

Wbrnxb.  What  is  the  matter  with  youT 
—  I  am  Werner. 

Major  ton  Tkllhrdi.  All  goodness  is 
dissimulation;  all  kindnees,  deceit. 

WxRNRR.  Is  that  meant  for  meT 

Major  ton  Tkllbxim.  As  you  please! 

WsBNia.  Why,  I  haTe  cnily  obeyed 
your  Gommandii. 

Major  TON  TiiiLHEiH.  Obey  once  more, 
«ndbeofiI 

Wrbhbr.     Majorl     [Vex«d.]    I  am  a 

Major  ton  Twjjmm.  So  much  the 
betterl 

WsRNZB.  Who  can  also  be  angry. 

Major  ton  Tbllhbiu.  Anger  is  the 
best  thing  we  possess. 

Wbrnsr.  I  beg  you,  Major. 

Major  TON  TxLLHKiu.  How  often  must 
1  t«ll  ywf  I  do  not  want  your  moneyl 


WxRNiR  [m  o  m^].  Then  take  It,  who 
will!  IT/awB*  the  purtemt  the  ground, 

and  goea  Co  tht  tide.\ 

Minna  [to  Franziska].  Ah!  Franiiska, 
I  ought  to  have  followed  your  adTice.  I 
have  carried  the  jest  too  far.  —  Still,  when 
he  hears  me  —  [Qwhq  to  him.\ 

li^ANzisKA  [mihovt  trnvxring  Minna, 
gota  up  ta  Wisnrb].   Mr.  Sergeant  — 

WURNHR  [peUisUy].  Qo  along! 

Praneiska.  Ah,  what  men  theee  are! 

Minna.  Tellheiml  Tellheunl  [Tsu^ 
Bum,  hiting  hia  fi,ngtn  miK  ragt,  tumi  aivay 
kit  face,  toUhoul  Uitening.]  No,  this  is  too 
bad  —  Only  listen!  —  You  are  mistakrail 

—  A  mere  misunderstanding.  Tellheim, 
will  you  not  hear  your  Minna?  Can  you 
have  such  a  suspicion?  —  I  break  my  en- 
gagem«it  with  you?  I  came  hare  for  that 
purpose?  —  Tdlheim! 

[friter  (too  ServarUt,  running  into  Ihe  room 
from  different  eiiUt.] 

First  Srrtant.  Your  ladyship.  His  Ex- 
cellency the  Count! 

Second  Sirtant.  He  is  coming,  your 
ladyship! 

FRAN£iBEA(runfunff(o(A«tnn4to(oI.  Itis! 
It  is  he! 

Mbina.  Is  it?  Now,  Tellheim,  quick! 

Major  ton  Tbllhbiii  [niddenlj/  recover- 
ing himtdf].  Who  —  who  oomes?  Your 
unole,  madam!  This  oniel  undel —  Let 
him  oome;  just  let  him  come!  —  Fear  not! 

—  He  shall  not  hurt  you  eTen  by  a  look. 
He  shall  have  to  deal  with  me  —  You  do 
not,  indeed,  deeerve  it  of  me. 

Minna.  Quick,  Tellheim!  Oneembrace 
and  forget  all. 

Major  ton  Tbixheim.  Ah!  Did  I  but 
know  that  you  could  regret  — 

Minna.  No,  I  can  never  regret  having 
obtained  a  si^t  of  your  whole  heart!  -- 
Ah,  what  a  man  you  are!  —  Embrace 
your  Minna,  your  happy  Minna;  aikd  in 
nothing  more  happy  than  in  the  possession 
of  you.  [Embracing.}  And  now  to  meet 
bimi 

Major  ton  TsLLHRDf.  To  meet  whom? 

Minna.  The  beet  of  your  unknown 
friends. 

Major  TOM  TaUBstM.  Wball 


.  Google 


57» 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Minna.  The  Count,  my  uncle,  my 
hther,  your  father  —  My  flight,  hia  6}»- 
pleasure,  my  loea  of  pn^>Kty  —  do  you 
Dot  see  that  all  is  a  fiction,  creduIouB 
knightT 

Major  ton  Tbllhbdi.  FiotionI  But 
the  ringT  —  the  ring? 

MnwA.  Where  is  the  ring  that  I  pne 
back  to  you? 

Major  von  TBLLHmu.  You  will  take 
it  again?  Ah!  Now  I  am  happy —  Here, 
Minna.  [Takini  it  from  hie  pocket.] 

Minna.  Look  at  it  first!  —  Oh!  how 
blind  are  those  who  will  not  seel  —  What 
ring  is  that?  —  the  one  you  gave  me?  —  or 
the  one  I  gave  to  you?  Is  it  not  the  cme 
which  I  did  not  like  to  leave  in  the  Land- 
lord's posaession? 

Major  von  Tellhbu.  HefiTensI  What 
do  I  seel  What  do  I  heart 

Minna.  Shall  I  take  it  agiun  now? 
ShaU  IT  Give  it  to  mel  Give  it!  [Take* 
it  from  him,  and  then  pule  it  on  kit  finger 
Wssl^.]  There,  now  all  is  right! 

Major  von  Tbllhehi.  Where  am  IT 
[Kitting  her  hand.]  Ob,  malicious  angel,  to 
tfffture  me  aol 

Minna.  As  a  proof,  my  dear  husband, 
that  you  ^all  never  play  me  a  trick  with- 
out my  playing  you  one  in  return  —  Do 
you  suppose  that  you  did  not  torture  me 
also? 

Major  von  Tbllhsu.  Oh,  you  ao- 
treaseel  But  I  ought  to  have  known  you. 

Franzibka.  Not  I,  indeed;  I  am  spoiled 
for  acting.  I  trembled  and  shook,  and  was 
obliged  to  hold  my  lips  tt^^er  with  my 
hand. 

Minna.  Nor  was  mine  an  easy  part.  — 
But  come,  now  — 

Major  von  TBLLBiim.  I  have  not  re- 
covered myaelf  yet.  How  happy,  yet  how 
anxioue,  I  feelt  It  is  like  awaldng  sud- 
denly from  a  frightful  dream. 

Minna.  We  are  losing  time  —  I  bear 
him  coming  now. 

[Enter  Count  von  Bruchbal,  aeeompanied 
by  eeveral  eervante  and  the  Lanolori).] 
Count.  She  arrived  in  safety,  I  hope? 
Minna  [running  to  vteH  kirn].    Ah,  my 

tatherl 


Count.  Here  I  am,  dear  Minna.  [Buf 
bracinQ  her.\  But  what,  girl  [teeing  TbUi> 
Biuii],  only  four-and-twenty  hours  hcn^ 
and  friends  —  company  alrcadyl 

Minna.  Gucm  who  it  isT 

Count.  Not  your  Tellheim,  surdyt 

Minna.  Who  elael  —  Come,  Tdlheim. 
[/nJrodvctnff  Atm.) 

Count.  Sir,  we  have  never  met;  but  at 
the  first  glance  I  fancied  I  reoogniied  you. 
I  wished  it  might  be  Majcw  von  TeUheim. 
—  Your  hand,  sir;  you  have  my  bluest 
esteem;  I  aek  for  your  friendship.  My 
niece,  my  daughter  lovea  you. 

Minna.  You  know  that,  my  father!  — 
And  was  my  love  blind? 

Count.  No,  Minna,  your  love  waa  not 
blind;  but  your  lover  -~  ie  dumb. 

Major  von  Tellhium  [throvnng  himtet/ 
tntA«  Count's  ami«l.  Let  me  recov^  my- 
self,  my  father  I 

Count.  Right,  my  son.  I  see  your  heart 
can  speak,  tliough  your  lipe  cannot.  I  do 
not  usually  care  for  thoee  who  wear  this 
uniform.  But  3^u  are  an  honorable  man, 
Tellheim;  and  one  must  love  an  honorable 
man,  in  whatever  garb  he  may  be. 

Minna.  Ah,  did  you  but  know  all! 

Count.  Why  should  I  not  hear  aH?  — 
Which  are  my  apartmento,  Landlord? 

IiANSLORD.  Will  Your  Excellency  have 
the  goodness  to  walk  this  wayT 

Count.  Come,  Minna!  —  Pray  oome, 
Majorl 

[Exit  tniik  the  LaNDiiOitD  and  tervanU.] 

Minna.  Come,  Tellheim  I 

Major  VON  TxiiLHKDi.  I  will  f <^w  yoa 
in  an  instant,  Minna.  One  w<vd  first  witli 
this  man.  [Turning  to  Wbsnsr.] 

Minna.  And  a  good  word,  methiidcs,  it 
should  be.  —  Should  it  not,  Franaiska? 

IBrti.) 

Major  voh  Tullbkiu  [pointing  to  the 
pur4e  whidi  Whrnbr  had  (hroun  dtncn). 
Here,  Just,  pick  up  the  puiBe,  and  cany  it 
home.  Go!         [Just  taket  it  up  and  goet.\ 

Wbrner  [atiU  standing,  out  of  humor,  in 
a  comer,  and  abtent  tiU  he  heara  the  latt 
wordt].  Well,  what  now? 

Major  von  Tellbsiu  [in  a  fnendly  Iom 
fsMIe  going  vp  to  him].  Werner,  when  can 
I  have  (he  oUier  two  thousand  pistoUaT 


ElilizedbvGoOQlc 


MINNA  VON   BARNHELM 


579 


WsitmB  [in  a  good  kumar  again  in- 
ttanU]/].  To-moTTOw,  Major,  to-morrow. 

Majoh  ton  Tellhium.  I  do  not  need 
to  become  your  debtor;  but  I  will  be  your 
banker.  All  you  good-natured  people 
ought  to  have  gu&rdiaju.  You  are  in  a 
manner  qtendthrifts.  —  I  irritated  you  ']UBt 
BOW,  Werner. 

WxRMXB.  Upon  my  life  you  did!  But  I 
ou^t  not  to  have  been  such  a  dolt.  Now 
I  see  it  all  clearly.  I  deserve  a  hundred 
laahes.  You  may  give  them  to  me,  if  you 
will.  Major.  Oidy  no  more  ill-will,  d 
Majorl 

Majok  von  TiLLBHiif.  Ill-willl  [iSAoAs- 
itiff  him  by  tht  hmid.]  Read  in  my  eyes  all 
that  I  cannot  Bay  to  you.  —  Ah,  let  me  see 
the  man  with  a  better  wife  and  a  more 
trusty  friend  than  I  shall  have.  —  Ehl 
T^'aniiaka?  IEtU.\ 

FBANUskA  [aeide].  Yte,  indeed,  he  ia 
more  than  goodi  —  Such  a  man  will  never 
fall  in  my  way  agam.  —  It  muat  come  out. 
lApproaMng  Wbbnxb  ba^ttHv-i  ^ 
Bergesntl 


Wernsb  [wiping  hit  eye*]-  Weill 

Framzibka.  Mr.  Sergeant  — 

WsBNER.  What  do  you  want,  litUs 
woman? 

Franziska.  Look  at  me,  Mr.  Sergeant. 

Wbrnbo.  Ican'tyet;  thereisaomething; 
I  don't  know  what,  in  my  eyes. 

Frammbka.  Now,  do  look  at  mel 

WsRNSR.  I  am  afraid  I  have  looked  at 
you  too  much  already,  little  womanl  — 
There,  now  I  can  see  you.  What  th»? 

Franubka.  Mt.  Sergeant  —  don't  you 
want  a  Mrg.  Sergeant? 

Werhbh.  Do  you  really  mean  it,  little 

Framziska.  Really  I  do. 

Werner.  And  would  you  go  with  me 
to  Persia  even? 

Franiiska.  Wherever  you  please. 

Werner.  You  will?  —  Hullo,  Majiff, 
no  bosatingi  At  any  rate,  I  have  got  aa 
good  a  wife,  and  aa  truaty  a  friend,  as  you. 
—  Give  me  your  hand,  my  little  womanl 
It's  a  match!  In  ten  years'  time  you  AaSi 
be  a  gmeral's  wife,  or  a  widowl 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


GOETZ  VON   BERLICHINGEN 

WITH  THE  IKON  HAND 

B»  J.  W.  VON  GOETHE 

Tiviuiatid  ly  SIX  WALTER  SCOTT 


cmizedbv  Google 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


CHARACTERS 

MAXmtLiAN,  Emperor  oj  Oertaany 

Govn  TON  Bebuchinqsn,  a  free  knight  oj  lAe  Emj»re 

Elizabith,  his  wife 

Mabu,  his  litter 

Chablxb,  kit  ton  —  a  bojf 

Gboboi,  hM  page 

BiSBOP  of'  Bahbbbo 

AciLBEBT  TON  WxiBLiNOXN',  a  free  Oerman  kntghi  oftheEnpvn 

Ai>Bi.UDB  TON  WAiiLDORT,  vndow  of  the  Count  ton  Walldobt 

LiEBTRAUT,  -a  courtier  of  the  Bithop'e 

Abbot  of  Fuu>a,  rending  ^  the  Bithop'i  court 

OLEABnie,  a  doctor  of  Jam 

Bbother  Martin,  a  monk 

Hans  ton  Szlbite, 

Fbane  ton  Sicku 

IxBBx,  a  trooper 

Francis,  etqavre  to  Wbislihokn 

Female  Attertdant  on  Asklaidii 

Prmdeid,  Accuser,  and  Avenger  of  the  Secret  Trit/mal 

Mbtzleb,' 


leaders  of  the  inmrgent  peasaatrg 


Ijnk, 


Wild, 
Imperial  Commiseionera 
Two  MereharUs  of  Nuremberg 
Magietrotet  of  BeiBmmn 

DcmizedbvGoOQlc 


5^4  CHARACTERS 


MaxIMIUAW  SmuF,  a  mnal  <^  iAe  Patagnwe 

Anunknoan 

Bridt^t  father,  "i 

Bride,  >  peaeanU 

Bridegroom,    J 

Oypey  captain 

Oypsj/ motfier  and  women 

Sticks  and  Wolf,  gyjuia 

Imperial  captain 

Imperial  officera 

Innkeeper 

Sentinel 

Sergeant-al-armi 
Imperial  Soldien^Troopert  btlonfinff  to  Gobk,  to  Silbiti,  to 
SidHNOiN,  and  to  WiuuNaxN — Petuanii — Oyptiet — Jvdgettf 
ll«  Secret  Tribunal— OaoUri—CouTiiiri,  tic.,  etc,  tie. 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


GOETZ   VON   BERLICHINGEN 


'VxTzixB  and  Sistxbs,  two  Simbton  jMoa* 
antt,  art  tealed  at  a  UMe.  AtOtefirt,at 
tome  dUUtaeefrom  them,  are  (wo  troopen 
from  Bamberg.  The  Innkeeper.] 

SisvBBS.  'H&naell  Another  cup  of 
bnuitlr  —  and  GhriBtian  meamre. 

Imnebbfek.  Thou  art  a  Never-enough. 

Metilbb  [apart  (oSiBVBiisI.  Repeat  that 
again  about  Berliohingen,  The  Bamberg- 
era  there  are  m  angiy  they  are  ahnoBt 
black  in  the  face. 

Snvxaa.  Bambergenl  What  are  they 
about  here? 

Mbtzler.  Weialingen  has  been  two 
-d&ya  up  yonder  at  the  caatle  with  the  Earl 
—  they  are  hia  attendante  —  they  came 
with  him,  I  know  not  whence;  they  are 
waiting  for  him  —  he  is  going  back  to 
Bamberg. 

SmniBs.  Who  ia  that  Weielingeu? 

MiTTELBB.  The  bishop  of  Bamberg's 
right  hapdl  —  a  powerful  lord,  who  is  lying 
in  wait  to  play  Goeti  some  trick. 

Snvxiis.  He  had  better  take  care  of 
himself. 

MvrcLSH  la«ide).  PritheegoonI  [AUrud.] 
How  long  is  it  sinoe  Goetx  had  a  new  dis- 
pute with  the  Bishop?  I  thoui^t  all  had 
been  agreed  and  squEired  between  them. 

SmvEBB.  Aye!  Agreement  with  prteetsl 
Whan  the  Bishop  saw  he  could  do  no  good, 
and  always  got  the  worst  of  it,  he  pulled  in 
his  horns,  and  made  haste  to  patch  up  s 
truce  —  and  honest  Berliohingen  yielded 
to  an  absurd  extent,  as  he  always  does  when 
be  haa  the  advantage. 

MirrELBR.  Ood  bless  himi  —  a  worthy 
Dobleman. 

SnTERB.  OnlythmkI  Wasitnotatuunft- 
f«lT  Thej  fell  upon  a  page  of  his,  t4>  bis  no 


small  surprise;  buttbey  will  soon  be  mauled 
for  that. 

Mbtsijib.  How  provoking  that  his  last 
stroke  should  have  missed.  He  must  have 
been  plaguHy  annoyed. 

Sotvaiifi.  I  don't  think  anything  has 
vexed  him  so  much  for  a  long  time.  Look 
you,  all  had  been  calculated  to  a  nicety:  the 
time  the  Bishop  would  come  from  the  bath,, 
with  how  many  attendante,  and  which 
road;  and  had  it  not  been  betrayed  by  some 
traitor,  Goeti  would  have  ble«ed  his  batii 
for  him,  and  rubbed  him  dry. 

PiBOT  Tkooe-kb.  What  are  you  prating 
there  about  our  Bishop;  do  you  want  to 
pick  a  quarrel? 

SmvaBB.  Mind  your  own  affairs;  yoa 
have  nothing  to  do  with  our  table. 

Second  Tboopsk.  Who  taught  you  to 
speak  disrespectfully  of  our  Bishop? 

SiBTXiifi.  Am  I  bound  to  answer  ^our 
questions?  Look  at  the  fool! 

[The  First  Trooper  boxe»  hit  ears,] 

Mbtslsr.  Smash  the  rascal  t 

[They  aUaek  eadi  other.] 

Sbcomd  Tboopxb  {to  MbteijBb].  Come 
on  if  you  dare  ^ 

ImfKKDPBB  {teparating  them].  Will  you 
be  quiet?  Zoundsl  Take  yourself  off  if 
you  have  any  scores  to  settle;  in  my  house 
I  will  have  order  and  decency.  [He  puahei 
the  Trooperi  out  of  doors.]  And  what  are 
you  about,  you  jackasses? 

Mbtzlbr.  No  bad  names,  H&nsd,  or 
your  sconce  shall  pay  for  it.  Gome,  com- 
rade, we'll  go  and  thrash  those  blackguards. 
lEitter  too  of  Berlichinoen's  TVoopers.J 

PiHOT  Tboopir.   What's  the  matter? 

SravERs.  Ahl  Good-day,  Peterl  — 
Good-day,  VeitI  —  Whence  come  you? 

SicoHD  Troopbk.  Mmd  you  don't  let 
out  whom  we  serve. 

Sdtsbs  [xBkitpering],  Then  tout  mastv 
Oo«tt  is  n't  far  off? 


586 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


FiHBT  Tboopiir.  Hold  your  hmgue!  — 
Have  you  had  a  quarrel? 

SixTERB.    You  must  hare  met  the  td- 
lowa  without  —  they  are  Bambergera. 
I      FlBBT  Teoopbr,  What  brings  them  here? 

gnvBRB.   They  escort  Weialingen,  who 
is  up  yonder  at  the  eaatle  with  the  Earl. 
-^    FiB?r  Tbooe^r.  Weialingen  I 

Second  Tboopkk  {otide  to  hU  eompan- 
iim\.  Peter,  that  ii  grixt  to  our  mQl.  How 
long  has  he  been  here? 

MhtzlBb.  Two  days  ^  but  he  ta  off  to- 
day. Be  I  beard  one  of  hia  fellows  say. 

First  Troofbr  [andt].  Did  I  not  tell 
you  he  wai  here?  —  We  might  have  waited 
yonder  long  enough  —  Come,  Veit  —    - 

SiBVBRB.  Help  us  first  to  drub  the  Bam- 
bergers. 

SkcondTboopbs.  There  are  already  two 
of  you —  We  must  away.  Farewell! 

[Exeunt  both  Troopers.] 

SiETRRS.  Scurvy  dop,  these  tTot^jersI 
They  won't  strike  a  blow  without  pay. 

Mbtklsb.  I  oould  swear  they  have^ 
something  in  hand.  —  Whom  do  they 
serve? 

SnvxRs.  I  am  not  to  tell  —  They  serve 
Goets. 

Mditlbb.  Sol  —  Well,  now  we'll  cudgd 
Idioee  fellows  outside     While  I  have  a 

ethe 


ScBNB  II.    A  collage  in  a  tiuek  j^eA. 

IGovrz  VON  BERUcaiKQXN  dUeoaered 
ta^kino  aTrumg  the  treet  before  the  door.] 
OoBTi.  Where  linger  my  servants?  I 
must  walk  up  and  down,  or  sleep  will  over- 
come me.  Ffva  days  and  nights  already  on 
the  watch.  It  is  hardly  earned,  this  bit  of 
life  and  freedom.  But  when  1  have  caught 
thee,  WeiiUngen,  I  shall  take  my  ease. 
[FiUt  a  glaee  of  iotn«  and  drinke;  looke  at  the 
jto*ifc.]  Again  empty.  —  Georgel  —  While 
this  and  my  courage  last,  I  can  laugh  at  the 
ambition  and  chicanery  of  princeel  — 
Georgel  —  You  may  send  round  your  ob- 
sequious Weialingen  to  your  uncles  and 
cousins  to  calumniate  my  character.  Be  it 


—-  -iQuter. 
a-         Gboi 


so.  I  am  on  the  alert.  Thou  hast  eeeaped 
mCi  Bishop;  then  thy  dear  Weialingen  shall 
pay  the  score.  —  George!  -^  Doos  n't  the 
boy  hear?  —  Georgel  George! 

Gborgb  [eaUring  in  the  cuirau  of  afvH' 
ffToam  man].   Wor^pful  sir. 

Govrz.  What  kept  you?  Were  you 
asleep?  —  What  in  the  devil's  name  me«ns 
this  masquerade?  —  Come  hither;  you  don't 
look  amiss.  Benot  ashamed,  boy;  you  look 
bravely.  Ahl  if  you  could  but  fill  itt  —  b 
it  Hans'a  cuirass? 

Georob.  He  wished  to  sleep  a  little,  and 
unbuckled  it. 

Govrz.  He  takes  things  wmet  than  hit 


EOBOE.  Do  not  be  angryl  I  took  it 
quietly  away  and  put  It  on,  then  fetched 
my  father's  old  sword  from  tlie  wall,  ran  to 
the  meadow,  and  drew  it  — 

Govrs.  And  laid  about  you,  no  doubt? 
Rare  times  for  the  brambles  and  thmisl  — 
Is  Hans  asleep? 

^  George.  He  started  up  and  oried  out  to 
me  yihea  you  called.  I  was  tryfaig  to  un- 
buckle the  cuirass  when  I  heard  you  twice 
or  tiirioe. 

GoETZ.  Go,  take  back  his  cuirass,  and 
tell  him  to  be  ready  with  his  horses. 

Gbokoi.  I  have  fed  thran  well  and  they 
are  ready  bridled;  yon  may  mount  when 
you  will. 

GoETz.  Bring  me  a  stoup  of  wine.  Give 
Hans  a  glass  too,  and  tell  him  to  be  on  tbe 
alert  —  there  is  good  cause;  I  expect  Qm 
return  of  my  scouts  every  moment. 

Georqe.  Ah,  noble  sirl 

GoBTZ.  What's  the  matter? 

Gkoroe.  May  I  not  go  with  youT 

GoETz.  Another  time,  Oeo^el  when  «e 
waylay  merchants  and  seise  their  wagons  — 

Geobos.  Another  timel — You  have 
said  that  so  often.  —  Oh,  this  time,  this 
timcl  I  will  only  skulk  behind;  just  keep 
on  the  lookout.  I  will  gather  up  all  the 
spent  arrows  for  you. 

GoETz.  Next  time,  Georgel  —  You  must 
first  have  a  doublet,  asteelcaip,andalanoe. 

Geosos.  Takemewithyounowl  —  Had 
I  been  with  you  last  time,  you  would  aot 
have  lost  your  orossbow. 

GoETi.  Do  you  know  about  that? 


GOETZ  VON  BERLICHINGEN 


S8J 


QaoBOB.  You  threw  it  at  your  antago- 
niat's  head;  one  cS  hie  foUoirara  picked  it 
up,  and  o&  with  it  be  went.  —  Don't  I 
know  about  itT 

GoBTZ.  Did  my  people  tell  youT 

Geobob.  Oh  yea:  and  for  that,  I  whiatle 
them  all  sorts  of  tunes  while  we  drees  the 
horses,  and  teach  them  merry  songs,  too. 

GoDTZ.  Thou  art  a  brave  boy. 

Geobgb.  Take  me  with  you  to  prove 
myself  so. 

GoCT£.  The  next  time,  I  promise  youl 
You  must  not  go  to  battle  unarmed  as  you 
are.  lliere  is  a  time  coming  which  will  also 
require  men.  I  tell  thee,  boy,  it  will  be  a 
dear  time.  Princes  shall  offer  their  treoa- 
uiea  for  a  man  whom  they  now  hate.  Go, 
George,  give  Hans  his  cuirass  again,  and 
bring  me  wine.  [Exit  Gborob.)  — Where 
can  my  people  be?  It  is  iucompreheneiblet 
—  A  monk!  What  brings  him  here  so  lateT 
[Enter  Brother  Martin.] 

GoETZ.  Good-evening,  reveroid  fatlkert 
Whence  come  you  ao  late?  Man  of  holy 
rest,  thou  shainest  many  knights. 

Mabtin,  Thanks,  noble  sir!  I  am  at 
present  but  an  unworthy  brother,  if  we 
come  to  titles.  My  cloist«r  name  is  Au- 
guetin,  but  I  like  better  to  be  called  by  my 
Christian  name,  Martin. 

GoBTZ.  You  are  tired,  BrotiiBT  Martin, 
and  doubtless  thirsty. 

{Enter  Gborqb  with  wine.\ 

YjOete.  Here,  in  good  time,  comes  winel 

Mabtbt.  For  me  a  drau^t  of  water. 
I  dare  not  drink  wine. 

GoBTz.  le  it  against  your  vow7 

Mabtin.  Noble  sir,  to  drink  wine  is  not 
against  my  vow;  but  beoauae  vine  is 
against  my  vow,  therefore  I  drink  it  not. 

GoETZ.  How  am  I  to  understand  that? 

Martin.  'T  is  well  for  thee  that  thou 
dost  not  understand  it.  Eating  and  drink- 
ing nourish  man's  life. 

Gomra.  Weill 

Mabtin.  When  thou  hast  eaten  and 
drunken,  thou  art  as  it  were  newborn, 
stronger,  bolder,  fitter  for  action.  Wine 
rejoices  the  heart  of  man,  and  joyousnees 
is  tiie  mother  of  every  virtue.  When  thou 


hast  drunk  wine,  thou  art  double  what 
thou  shouldst  be  I  — twice  as  ingeniouB, 
twice  as  enterprising,  and  twice  as  active. 

GoBTX.  As  I  drink  it,  what  you  say  is  true. 

Martin.     'T  is   when    thus   taken    in 

moderation  that  I  speak  of  it.    But  we  — 

IGbobob  trtn^i  tooter.) 

GoBTZ  ((Mtde  lo  Giobgb|.  Go  to  the  road 
which  leads  to  Daxbach;  lay  thine  ear  close 
to  the  earth,  and  listen  for  the  tread  of 
horses.  Return  immediately. 

Mabtin.  But  we,  on  the  other  hand, 
when  we  have  eaten  and  drimken,  are  the 
reverse  of  what  we  should  be.  Our  duggish 
digestion  depresses  our  mental  powers;  and 
in  the  indulgence  of  luxurious  ease,  deeirsa 
are  generated  which  grow  t«o  strong  for 

Govrz.  One  glass,  DroUier  Martin,  will 
not  disturb  your  sleep.  You  have  traveled 
far  to-day.  [Raiaea  hU  glam.]  Here's  to  all 
fighting  men  I 

Martin.  With  all  my  heart!  [The]/  rmg 
Iteir  gliuaet.]  I  cannot  abide  Idle  people  — 
yet  will  I  not  say  that  all  monks  are  idle; 
theydowhattheycan:  I  am  just  come  from 
St.  Bedq,  wliere  I  slept  last  night.  The 
prior  took  me  into  the  garden ;  that  is  their 
hive.  Excellent  salad,  cabbages  in  per- 
fection, and  such  oauliflowers  and  arU- 
ohokes  as  you  will  hardly  find  in  Europe. 

GovTZ.  80  that  is  not  the  life  for  you? 

{Qoet  out  and  look»  aimoudy  after 
the  boy.  Retttma.] 

Mabtin.  Would  that  God  had  made  roe 
a  gardener,  or  day  laborer,  I  might  then 
have  been  happyl  My  convent  is  Erfurt 
in  Saxony;  my  Abbot  lovea  me;  he  knows 
I  cannot  remain  idle,  and  so  he  sends  me 
round  the  country,  wherever  there  is  bun- 
ness  to  be  done.  I  am  on  my  way  to  tiie 
Bishop  of  Constance. 

GoBTE.    Another  glass.   Good  speed  to 

Martin.  The  same  to  you. 

Goirrz.  Why  do  you  look  at  me  so  stead- 
fastly, brother? 

Mabtin.  I  am  in  love  with  your  armor. 

GoBTZ.  Would  you  like  a  suit?  It  is 
heavy  and  toilsome  to  the  wearer. 

Mabtin.  What  is  not  toilsome  in  this 
worldT  —  But  to  me  nothing  is  so  much  so 


588 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


u  to  renouUM  my  very  nature!  Povwrty, 
duatity,  obedienoe  —  three  vows,  each  of 
whick  taken  aingly  eeeniB  tlie  moet  dreadful 
to  humanity  —  »o  inaupportable  are  they 
all;  —  and  to  spend  a  lifetime  under  tiiis 
burden,  or  to  groan  despairingly  under  the 
still  b«ivier  load  of  an  evil  conscienoe  — 
Ahl  Sir  Knight,  what  are  the  toils  of  your 
life  compared  to  the  Rorrowa  of  a  state, 
which,  from  a  mistaken  desire  of  drawing 
nesierto  the  Deity,  condemns  Bscrimeathe 
beat  impulses  of  our  nature,  impnlsas  by- 
which  we  live,  grow,  and  prosper  I 

GoETZ.  Were  your  tow  leas  eaored,  1 
would  give  you  a  suit  of  armor  and  a  steed, 
and  we  would  ride  out  together. 

Mabtin,  Would  to  Heaven  my  ahouldeifl 
had  strength  to  bear  armor,  and  my  arm  to 
unhorse  an  enemyl  —  Poor  weak  hand, 
aecuatomod  from  infancy  to  swing  censers, 
to  bear  croeaee  and  banners  of  peace,  how 
couldst  thou  manage  the  lance  andfaldiion? 
My  voice,  tuned  only  to  avet  and  haUe- 
luioiu,  would  be  a  herald  of  my  weakness 
to  the  enemy,  while  yours  would  overpower 
him;  otherwise  no  vows  should  keep  me 
from  entering  an  order  founded  by  the 
Creator  himself. 

Goirrz.  To  your  happy  return  1  \Drinkt.] 

Mabtin.  I  drink  that  only  in  compli- 
ment to  youl  A  return  to  my  prison  must 
ever  be  unhappy.  Wben  you.  Sir  Knight, 
return  to  your  castle,  with  the  consciousness 
of  your  courage  and  strength,  which  no 
fatigue  can  overcome;  when  you,  for  the 
first  time,  after  a  long  absence,  stretch 
yourself  unarmed  upon  your  bed,  secure 
from  the  attack  of  enemies,  and  resign 
yourself  to  a  sleep  sweeter  than  the  draught 
after  a  long  thirst  —  then  con  you  speak 
of  happiness. 

Govrz.  And  accordingly  it  comes  but 
ieMoml 

Martin  [wilh  gromng  ardor].  But  when 
it  does  come,  it  is  a  foretaste  of  paradise.  — 
Whem  you  return  home  ladm  with  the 
apoilB  of  your  enemies,  and,  remember, 

such  a  one  I  struck  from  hie  horse  ere  be 
could  discharge  his  piece  —  such  another  I 
overthrew,  horse  and  man";  then  you  ride 
to  your  castle,  and  — 

Govts.  And  what? 


Mabtin.  And  your  wife —  [fills  a 
^at».]  To  her  healthi  [He  wipa  ku  tye*.] 
You  have  one? 

GoBTz.  A  Virtuous,  noble  wife! 

Makiim.  Happy  the  man  who  poseccsw 
a  virtuous  wife,  his  life  is  doubled.  lliiB 
blessing  was  denied  me,  yet  was  woman  the 
glory  or  crown  of  creation. 

Oomz  [atide].  I  grieve  for  him.  "Rue 
sense  of  his  condition  preys  upon  his  heart. 
.^^  [Enter  Georoi:,  breaiUMB.] 

Gkobob.  My  lord,  my  lord,  I  hear 
horses  in  full  gallop!  —  two  of  Oieni  — 
'T  is  they  for  certain. 

GoETZ,  BrinR  out  my  steed;  let  Hau 
mount.  Farewell,  dear  brother,  God  be 
with  you.  Be  cheerful  and  patient.  He  will 
give  you  ample  scope. 

Mabtin.  Let  me  request  your  name. 

Govrz.    Pardon  me  —  farewell! 

lOivee  his  left  hand.] 

Mabtin.  Why  do  you  give  the  left?  Am 
I  unworthy  of  the  knightly  right  hand? 

GoBTZ.  Were  you  the  Emperor,  you 
must  be  satisfied  with  this.  My  right  hand, 
though  not  useless  in  combat,  is  unieqxKi- 
sive  to  the  grasp  of  sHoction.  It  is  one  with 
its  mafled  gauntlet  —  You  see,  it  is  iron  / 

Mabtin,  Then  art  thou  Goet^  of  Ber- 
lichingen.  I  thank  thee,  Heaven,  who  hast 
shown  me  the  man  whom  princes  hate,  but 
to  whom  the  oppressed  throngi  {He  UJen 
kU  right  hand.]  Withdraw  not  this  hand; 
let  me  kiss  it. 

Gosn.  You  must  noti 

Martin.  Let  me,  let  me  —  thou  hand, 
more  wort^  even  than  the  saintly  ratio 
through  which  the  most  sacred  blood  hae 
flowed!  Lifeless  instrument,  quickened  by 
the  noblest  spirit's  faith  in  God. 

IGoETz  adjvttt  hU  h^mtt,  and 
takei  hit  lanee.] 

Mabtin.  There  was  a  monk  among  m 
about  a  year  ago,  who  visited  you  irtMO 
your  hand  was  shot  off  at  the  sk^  of  Land- 
shut.  He  used  to  tell  us  what  you  suffered, 
and  your  grief  at  being  disabled  for  your 
profession  of  arms;  till  you  remembered 
having  heard  of  one  who  had  also  lost  a 
hand,  and  yet  served  long  as  a  gallant 
kuia^t  —  I  shall  never  forget  it. 


GOETZ  VON   BERLICHINGEN 


S«9 


[£n(cr  th€  two  Troopen.  They  tpeak 
apart  with  Qovn.] 
Mabttm  [eatoinuam].  1  shall  never  for- 
get his  words  uttered  in  the  noblect,  the 
most  childlike  trust  in  God:  "If  I  had 
twelve  hands,  what  would  they  avail  me 
without  thy  grace?  Then  may  I  with  only 

OovTZ.  In  the  wood  of  Haslach,  than. 
[Tunu  lo  Martin.)  Farewell,  worthy 
brother!  [Embraeei  him.] 

Makthi.  Forget  me  not,  aa  I  shall  never 
fo^et  tbeel 

[Exeunt  GoBrz  and  kit  Troopen.] 

Mabtin.  How  my  heart  beat  at  the 
sight  of  him.  He  spoke  not,  yet  my  spirit 
recognised  his.  What  rapture  to  behold  a 
great  mani 

Qkorge,    Reverend  sir,  you  will  sleep 

Mabtin.  Can  I  have  a  bed? 

Gkorgi.  No,  sir  I  I  know  of  beds  only 
by  hearsay ;  in  our  quarters  there  is  nothing 
but  straw. 

Mabitn.    It  will  serve.    What  is  thy 

Gkorob.  George,  reverend  sir. 

Mastin.  Georgel  Thou  hast  a  gallant 
patron  saint. 

Gboroe.  They  aay  he  was  a  trooper; 
that  is  what  I  intend  to  bel 

Mabtim.  Btop\  [Takaapielvrefrornhit 
bremary  and  giott  ^^  to  him.]  Theie,  behold 
him  —  follow  his  example;  be  brave,  and 
fear  God.  [Exa  into  the  eoUage.] 

Gboroii.  Ah  I  what  a  splendid  gray 
borsel  If  I  had  but  one  like  that  —  and  the 
gdden  armor.  There  is  an  ugly  dragon. 
At  praent  I  shoot  nothing  but  sparrows. 
OSt.  Georgel  Make  me  but  tall  and  strong; 
give  me  a  lance,  armor,  and  suoh  a  horse, 
and  then  let  the  dragons  come!       [Exit.] 

ScBtn  III.    An  apartment  in  Jaxlhtuum^ 

the  eaitle  of  OoeU  von  Berlichingen. 

[Eluaxbth,  Makia,  and  Charles 

dMeot>«red.| 

Cbarlkb.  Fray  now,  dear  aunt,  tell  me 

again  that  story  about  the  good  child;  it  is 

•oj>retty  — 


Maria.  Do  you  tell  it  to  me,  little 
roguel  that  I  may  see  it  you  have  ^id  at- 
teotion. 

Charlis.  Wait,  then,  till  I  think.  — 
"There  was  once  upon"  — yes  — '"Hwre 
was  once  upon  a  time  a  child,  and  his 
mother  was  sick;  so  the  child  wmt — " 

Maria.  No,  nol  —  "Then  hit  mother 
said,  'Dear  chSd'  — " 

Charleb.  "'lamsick — '" 

Maria.  "'And  cannot  go  out.'" 

Charucs.  "And  gave  him  money  and 
said,  'Go  and  buy  yourself  a  breakfast.' 
There  came  a  poor  rniLn  —*' 

Makia.  "Thechildwent.  Tberemethim 
an  old  man  who  was  — "  Now,  Cbartnt 

Cbarles.  "Who  was  —  old — " 

Ma8ia.  Of  course.  "Who  was  hardly 
able  to  walk,  and  said,  'Dear  child — '" 

Charles.  "'Give  me  something;  I  have 
eaten  not  a  morsel  yesterday  or  to-day.' 
Thwi  the  child  gave  him  the  money  — " 

Maria.  "That  should  have  bought  his 
breakfast." 

CuABUDe.  "Then  the  old  man  said — " 

Mabia.  "Then  the  old  man  took  the 
cbUd  by  the  hand  — " 

Charles.  "By  the  hand,  and  said  — 
and  became  a  fine  beautiful  saint  —  and 
said  —  'Dear  child  — '" 

Maria.  "'Theholy  Virgin  rewards  thee 
for  thy  benevolence  through  me:  whatever 
sick  person  thou  toucheat  — '" 

Charles.  '"With  thy  hand — '"  It 
was  the  right  hand,  I  think. 

Maria.  Yee. 

Charles.  '"He  will  get  well  directly.'" 

Maria.  "Then  the  child  ran  borne,  and 
could  not  speak  for  joy  — " 

Charles.  "And  fell  upon  his  mothu'i 
neck  and  wept  tor  joy." 

Maria.  "Then  ttke  mother  cried, 'What 
is  this? '  and  became — "  Now,  Charles. 
-Charles.  "Became  —  became — " 

Maria.  You  do  not  attend  —  "and  be- 
came well.  And  the  child  cured  Idngs  and 
emperors,  and  become  so  rich  that  he  built 
a  great  abbey." 

Euzabbth.  I  cannot  underetand  why 
my  husband  stays.  He  has  been  away  five 
dajis  and  nights,  and  he  hoped  to  haV9 
finished  ^«  adventure  so  auicldy* 


590 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Masia,  I  have  long  felt  uneasy.  Were 
I  nurried  to  a  man  who  continually  in- 
cuired  such  danger,  I  ehould  die  withhi  the 
first  year. 

EuzABBTH.  I  tbaok  God  that  He  has 
made  me  of  finner  BtutFI 

Cbaklbs.  But  mu«t  my  father  ride  out, 
if  it  is  so  dangeroiu? 

Maria.  Such  ia  his  good  pleaaure. 

EuEABBTH.  He  muat,  indeed,  dear 
Chariest 

CHABMa.  Why? 

Elizabeth.  E>o  you  not  remember  the 
last  time  he  rode  out,  when  he  brought  you 
thoM  nice  thii^? 

Chakleb.    Will  he  bring  me  anything 

ELttABma.  I  believe  M.  Listen:  There 
was  a  tailor  at  Stutgard  who  was  a  capital 
archer,  and  had  gained  the  prize  at  Cologne. 

Cbabubs.  Was  it  much? 

EiAXABvra.  A  hundred  dollars;  and 
afterwards  they  would  not  pay  him. 

Mama.  That  was  naughty,  eh,  Charles? 

Chableb.   Naughty  people! 

Elizabsth.  The  tailor  came  to  your 
father  and  begged  him  to  get  his  money  for 
him.  Then  your  father  rode  out  and  in- 
tercepted a  party  of  merchants  from 
Cologne,  and  kept  them  priBimers  till  they 
paid  the  money.  Would  you  not  have  rid- 
den out  too? 

Cbarlbs.  No;  for  one  muat  go  throu;^ 
a  dark  thick  wood,  where  there  are  gypsies 
and  witches  — 

EuiABiTTH.  You're  a  fine  fellow;  afraid 
'  of  witoheal 

Mabia.  Cbarlee,  it  is  far  better  to  live  at 
home  in  your  eaatle,  like  a  quiet  Christiaa 
knight.  Onemayfindopportunitieaaiougb 
ofdoinggoodonone'sownlands.  Even  the 
worthiest  knights  do  more  harm  than  good 
in  their  eroursions. 

Elizabeth.  Sister,  you  know  not  what 
you  are  saying.  —  God  grant  our  boy  may 
become  braver  as  he  grows  up,  and  not  take 
after  that  Weislingen,  who  has  dealt  so 
faithlessly  with  my  husband. 

Mabia.  We  will  not  judge,  Elizabeth. 
—  My  brother  ia  highly  incensed,  and  so 
are  you;  I  am  only  a  spectator  in  the  matter, 
and  can  be  more  impartial. 


Elizabeth.  Weislingen  cannot  be  de- 
fended. 

Mabia.  What  I  have  heard  of  him  haa 
interested  me.  —  Even  your  husband  re- 
lates many  instances  of  hia  former  good- 
neee  and  sjeotion.  —  How  happy  waa  their 
youth  when  they  were  both  pages  of  honor 
to  the  Margrave! 

Eliiabbth.  lliat  may  be.  But  only 
tell  me,  how  can  a  man  ever  have  been  good 
who  lays  snares  for  hia  beet  and  tnnet 
friend;  who  has  sold  his  services  to  the 
enemies  of  my  husband;  and  who  strives, 
by  invidious  miareprceentationa,  to  poisoo 
the  mind  of  our  noble  emperor,  who  is  ao 
gracious  to  ub?  [A  horn  it  heard.] 

CHAKi.Ba.  Papa!  papal  Tbe  warder 
aounda  his  horni  Joy!  joy!  Open  the  gate! 

Elizabeth.  There  he  comes  with  booty! 
[Enter  Peter,] 

Pbteb.  We  have  fought  —  we  have  con- 
queredl  —  God  save  you,  noble  ladies! 

Eluabbth.  Have  you  captured  Weis- 
lingen? 

Pethr.   Himadf,  and  three  foUowets. 

Elizabeth.  How  came  you  to  stay  so 
long? 

Pbtsr.  We  lay  in  wait  tor  him  between 
Nuremberg  and  Bamt>erg,  but  be  would  not 
oome,  though  we  knew  he  had  set  out.  At 
length  we  heard  of  his  whereabouts;  he  had 
struck  off  sideways,  and  was  staying  quietly 
with  the  Earl  at  Schwarienbei^. 

Elizabeth.  They  would  also  fain  make 
the  Earl  my  huaband'a  enemy. 

Pbteh.  I  immediately  teld  my  masta. 
—  Up  and  away  we  rode  into  the  forest  of 
Haslach.  Audit  was  curious,  that  while  we 
were  riding  along  that  night,  aehepherdwas 
watching,  and  five  wolves  fell  upon  tiie 
flock  and  attacked  them  stoutly.  Then  my 
master  laughed,  and  said, ' '  Good  luck  to  us 
all,  dear  comrades,  both  to  you  and  usi" 
And  the  good  omen  overjoyed  us.  Just  then 
Weislingen  came  riding  toward  us  with 
four  attendants  ^ 

Maria.  How  my  lieart  beatsi 

Pbtbb.  My comradeandl.aaourinastw 
had  commanded,  threw  ourselves  suddenly 
on  him,  and  clung  to  him  as  if  we  had  grown 
together,  so  that  he  oould  itot  movs,  whib 


GOETZ  VON   BERLICHINGEN 


S9» 


my  master  and  Haas  fell  upon  the  aervanta, 
and  overpowered  them.  They  were  all 
taken,  except  one  who  escaped. 

EuEABiTH.  I  am  curious  to  see  him. 
Will  he  arrive  soonT 

PffniB.  They  ore  riding  throuf^  the 
valley,  and  will  be  here  in  a  quarter  of  an 

Mabia.  He  is,  no  doubt,  cast  down  and 
dejected? 

Pbtbr.  He  1o<^  gloomy  enough. 
Maria.  It  will  grieve  me  ta  see  hia  dis- 

EkjzABBTH.  OhI  I  must  get  food  ready. 
You  are,  no  doubt,  all  hungry? 

Pbtkk.  Hungry  enough,  in  truth. 

EuiABETH  [lo  Makia].  Take  the  cellar 
keys  and  bring  the  best  wine.  They  have 
deserved  it.  [Exit  Eliubtth.] 

Chableb.  I'll  go,  too,  aunt. 

Mabia.  Come,  then,  boy. 

[Exeunt  CoABLa  and  Mabu.1 

PsTXB.  He'll  never  be  hia  father,  else  be 
would  have  gone  with  me  to  the  stable. 

[Enter  Goarz,  Wetsunqen,  Hanb, 
and  otktr  Trooperg.] 
GosTZ  [laying  his  hehttet  and  tirord  on  a 
table].  Unbuckle  my  armor,  and  give  me 
Eoy  doublet.  Ease  will  refresh  me.  Brother 
Martin,  thou  saidat  truly.  You  have  kept 
us  long  on  the  watch,  WeialingenI 

(Wkisunoen  paeea  up  attd  down 

Be  of  good  cheerl  Come,  unarm  your- 
self I  Where  are  your  clothes?  I  hope  noth- 
ing has  been  lost.  [To  the  aUendaTUa.]  C!o, 
ask  his  servants;  open  the  baggage,  and  see 
that  nothing  is  missing.  Or  I  can  lend  you 
some  of  mine. 

WxiBUNGBN.  Let  me  remain  as  I  am  — 
it  is  alt  one. 

QoBTZ.  I  can  givs  you  a  handsome 
doublet,  but  it  is  only  of  linen ;  it  has  grown 
too  ti^t  for  me.  I  wore  it  at  the  marriage 
of  my  lord  the  Palsgrave,  when  your  Bishop 
was  so  incensed  at  me.  About  a  fortnight 
before  I  bad  sunk  two  of  hia  vessels  upon 
the  Maine.  —  I  was  going  upstairs  in  the 
Stag  at  Heidelberg,  with  Frani  von  Sick- 
ingen.  Before  you  get  quit«  to  the  top, 
tliere  is  a  landing-plaoe  with  iron  tails  — 


there  stood  the  Bishop,  and  gave  his  hand 
to  Franz  as  he  passed,  and  to  me  also  a«^ 
I  followed  close  behind  him.  I  laughed  in 
my  sleeve,  and  went  to  the  Landgrave  of 
Haoau,  who  was  always  a  kind  friend  to  me, 
and  said,  "The  Bishop  has  given  me  hie 
hand,  but  I'll  wager  he  did  not  know  me." 
The  Bishop  beard  me,  for  I  was  speaking 
on  purpose.  He  came  to  ua  angrily,  and 
said,  "True,  I  gave  thee  my  hand,  because 
I  knew  thee  not."  To  which  I  answered, 
"I  know  that,  my  lord;  and  so  here  you 
have  jrour  idiake  of  the  hand  back  ag&inl" 
The  munilriTi  grew  red  as  a  Turkey  cook 
with  spite,  and  he  ran  up  into  the  room  and 
complained  to  the  Pslagrave  Lewia  and 
the  Prinoe  of  Nassau.  We  have  lau^ied 
over  the  scene  again  and  again. 

WEiBLDfoCK.  I  wish  you  would  leave  me 
to  myself. 

GosTS.  WhysoT  I  entreat  you  be  of  good 
cheer.  You  are  my  prisoner,  but  I  will  not 
abuse  my  power. 

Wkisunokm.  I  have  no  fear  of  that. 
That  is  your  duty  as  a  knight. 

GoETi.  And  you  know  how  sacred'it  is 
tome. 

WsiBLiMaEN.  I  am  your  prisoner  —  the 
rest  matters  not. 

GovTz.  You  should  not  say  BO.  Had  you 
been  taken  by  a  prince,  fettered  and  cast 
into  a  dungeon,  your  jailer  directed  to 
drive  sleep  from  your  eyes  — 


Chablzb.  Good-morrow,  papal 

GoBTZ  [kiaaei  him].  Good-morrow,  boyi 
How  have  you  been  this  long  time? 

Chablbs.  Very  well,  fatherl  Aunt  says 
I  am  a  good  boy. 

QovTE.  Does  she? 

Charuis.  Have  you  brought  me  any- 
thing? 

GoBTZ.  Nothing  this  time. 

Chablbs.  I  have  learned  a  great  deal. 

GoBTT.  Aye  I 

Chaklis.  Shall  I  t«U  you  about  the  good 
child? 

Qobtc.  After  dinner. 

CbabiiBB.  I  know  something  else,  too. 

GoiiTS.  What  may  Otat  be? 


59' 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Cbasuib.  "Jaxthftiuen  is  a  village  aad 
oaatle  on  the  Jaxt,  which  haa  appertained 
in  property  and  heritage  for  two  hundred 
years  to  the  Lords  of  Berlichingen  — " 

GoBTE.  Do  you  know  the  Lord  of  Ber- 
lichingenT  (Chaklxs  siareg  at  him.  Aside.] 
HJB  teaming  ia  bo  abBtruse  that  he  does  not 
know  his  own  father.  To  whom  doee  Jwt- 
bausen  belong? 

ChabiiES.  "Jaztiiauaen  ia  a  village  and 
eaatte  upon  the  Jaxt--" 

Oovn.  I  did  not  ask  that.  I  knew  every 
path,  pass,  and  ford  about  the  place,  before 
ever  I  knew  the  name  of  the  village,  castle, 
or  river.  —  Is  your  mother  in  the  kitchenf 

Chaklbb.  Yes,  papal  a%ey  are  cooUns 
a  lamb  and  tumipa. 

GiOBTZ.  Do  you  know  that,  too,  Jack 
Turnspit? 

Chablbb.  And  my  aunt  ia  roasting  an 
apple  for  me  to  eat  after  dinner  — 

GoBix.  Can't  you  eat  it  raw? 

Cbakles.  It  tastes  better  roaated. 

GoiiT£.  You  must  have  a  tit-bit,  must 
you?  —  Weislingen,  I  will  be  with  you  im- 
mediately, I  must  go  and  see  my  wife.  — 
Come,  Charles! 

Oharlbs.  Who  is  that  man? 

GoBT£.  Bid  him  welcome.  Tell  him  to 
be  merry. 

CRAaiLBS.  There's  my  hand  for  you, 
man!  Be  merry  —  for  the  dinner  will  soon 

Wbibunokn  [lalce*  up  lAe  ehOd  and  kiMtt 
km].  Happy  boy,  that  knoweat  no  worse 
evil  than  the  delay  of  dinner.  May  you 
live  to  have  much  joy  in  your  son,  Ber- 
lichingen I 

QoBTz.   Where  there  is  most  light  the 

■hades  are  deepest.    Yet  I  should  thank 

Qodforit.  We '11  see  what  they  are  about. 

[Exit  lailh  Cbabixb  and  ServanU.] 

Weibunqbn.  Oh,  that  I  could  but  wake 
and  find  this  all  a  dream!  In  the  power  of 
BerUchingen  I  —  from  whom  I  had  scarcely 
detached  myself  —  whose  remembrance  I 
shunned  like  fire  —  whom  I  hoped  to  over- 
power! And  he  still  the  old  true-hearted 
GoettI  Gracious  God,  what  will  be  the  end 
of  it?  O  Adelbert!  Led  back  to  the  very 
hall  where  we  played  as  children;  when 
thou  didst  love  and  priie  him  as  thy  soull 


Who  can  know  him  and  hate  him?  Alaal 
I  am  so  thoroughly  insignific&nt  btXK. 
Happy  days,  ye  are  gone.  There,  in  hit 
oludr  by  the  chimney,  sat  old  BerUchin- 
gen, while  we  played  around  him,  and  loved 
each  other  like  cherubs!  How  anxious  the 
Bishop  and  all  my  friends  will  be!  Well, 
the  whole  country  will  sympathise  with  my 
misfortune.  But  what  avails  it?  Can  they 
give  me  the  peace  after  which  I  strive? 

[Relnier  Gobte  tcilA  vdne  and  gobUU.] 

GoBTZ.  We'll  take  a  glass  while  dinner 
is  preparing.  Come,  ait  down,  —  dunk 
yourself  at  home  1  Fancy  you've  come  once 
more  to  see  Goets.  It  is  long  since  we  have 
sat  and  emptied  a  flagon  together.  [Liftiliu 
gkut.]  Come:  alight  heart! 

WiiauNaBN.  Those  times  are  gone  by. 

GoBTZ.  God  forbid!  To  be  sure,  we  shall 
hardly  pass  more  pleasant  days  than  those 
we  spent  together  at  the  Margrave's  court, 
when  we  were  inseparable  night  and  day. 
I  think  with  pleasure  on  my  youth.  Do  you 
remember  the  scuffle  I  had  with  the  Po- 
lander,  whose  pomaded  and  frisiled  hair  I 
chanced  to  rub  with  my  sleeve? 

Wbisunoxh.  It  was  at  table;  and  he 
struck  at  you  with  a  knife. 

Gobte.  I  gave  it  him,  however;  and  yoo 
had  a  quarrel  upon  that  account  with  his 
oomrades.  We  always  stuck  together  like 
brave  fellows,  and  were  the  admiration  of 
every  one.  lSai»a  hit  ffiaii.]  Castor  and 
Polluxl  It  lued  to  rejoice  my  heart  when 
the  Ma^rave  so  called  us. 

Wbislinobn.  The  Bishop  of  W&riburg 
first  gave  us  the  name. 

Govrc.  That  Bishop  was  a  learned  man, 
and  withal  so  kind  and  gentle.  I  shall  re- 
member as  long  as  I  live  how  he  used  to 
careea  us,  praise  our  friendship,  and  say, 
"Happy  is  the  man  who  is  his  friend's 
twin-brother." 

Weulikobn.  No  more  of  that. 

GoBTi.  Why  not?  I  know  nothing  more 
delightful  after  fatigue  than  to  talk  over 
old  times.  Indeed,  when  I  rec^  to  mind 
how  we  bore  good  and  bad  fortune  to- 
gether, and  were  all  in  all  to  each  other,  and 
bow  I  thought  this  was  to  continue  forever. 
Was  not  that  my  sole  comfort  when  m; 


GOETZ  VON   BERLICHINGEN 


593 


hajid  was  shot  t,mj  tA  I^ndahut,  and  yoa 
nuned  and  tended  me  like  a  brotherT  I 
hoped  Adelbert  would  in  future  be  my 
ri(^t  hand.  And  now  — 

Weibumoen.  Alaal 

GoETz.  Hadst  thou  but  listened  to  mu 
iriMn  I  b^ged  thee  to  go  with  me  to  Bra- 
bant, alt  would  have  been  well.  But  then 
that  unhappy  turn  for  ix)uirtr<)an^iiig 
seiied  thee,  and  thy  coquetting  and  flirting 
with  the  women.  I  always  told  thee,  when 
thou  wouldst  mix  with  these  lounging,  vain 
court  syoophants,  and  entertain  them  with 
goesip  about  unlucky  matches  and  seduoed 
girls,  scsjidol  about  absent  friends,  and  all 
such  trash  as  they  t«ke  interest  in  —  I  al' 
ways  said,  "Adelbert,  thou  wilt  become  a 

Wrislihgiin.  To  what  pmpose  is  all 
thtst 

QfWnrTfould  to  God  I  could  forget  it, 

or  that  it  were  otherwise!  Art  thou  not  free 
and  nobly  bom  as  any  in  Gennany;  inde- 
pendent, subject  to  the  Emperor  alone;  and 
dost  thou  crouch  among  vassals?  What  is 
the  Bishop  to  theeT  Granted,  he  ia  thy 
neighbor,  and  con  do  thpe  a  shrewd  turn; 
hast  thou  not  power  and  friends  to  requite 
bim  in  kind?  Art  thou  ignorant  of  the  dig- 
nigy  of  a  free  knight,  who  depends  only 
upon  God,  tbe  Emperor,  and  himself,  that 
thou  degradeat  thyself  to  be  tbe  courtier  of 
a  stubborn,  jealous  prieet? 

WxiSLtNoEN.  Let  me  speaki 

GOBTZ.  What  hast  thou  to  say? 

Wbibunoxn.  You  look  upon  *he  princee 
as  the  wolf  upon  the  shepherd.  And  can 
you  blame  them  for  defending  their  terri- 
tories and  property?  Are  they  a  mo- 
ment secure  from  the  unruly  knights,  who 
plunder  their  vassals  even  upon  tbe  high- 
roads, and  sack  their  castles  and  villagea? 
Upon  the  other  hand,  our  country's  ene- 
mies threst«n  to  overrun  the  lands  of  our 
beloved  Emperor,  yet,  while  he  needs  the 
princes'  assistance,  they  can  scarce  defend 
their  own  lives;  is  it  not  our  good  genius 
which  at  this  moment  leads  them  to  devise 
means  of  procuring  peace  for  Germany,  of 
securing  the  administration  of  justice,  and 
^ving  to  great  and  small  tbe  blessings  of 
quiet?  And  can  you  blame  us,  Berlichingen, 


for  securing  the  protection  of  the  powerful 
princes,  our  nei^ibors,  whose  assistance  is 
at  band,  rather  than  relying  on  that  of  the 
Emperor,  who  is  so  far  removed  from  us, 
and  is  hsJdly  able  to  protect  himself? 

Goini.  Yes,  yee,  I  understand  you. 
Weislingen,  were  the  princes  as  you  paint 
them,  we  should  all  havs  what  we  want. 
Peace  and  quiet!  No  doubt  I  Everybirdof 
prey  naturally  likes  to  eat  its  plunder  un- 
disturbed. The  general  weal  I  If  they  would, - 
but  take  the  trouble  to  study  that.  And 
they  trifie  with  tbe  Emperor  ahamefuUy. 
Every  day  some  new  tinker  or  other  cornea 
to  give  his  opinion.  The  Emperor  means 
well,  and  would  gladly  put  things  t«  rights; 
but  because  he  happens  to  understand  a 
thing  readily,  and  by  a  single  word,  can  put 
a  thousand  hands  into  motion,  he  thinks 
everything  will  be  as  speedily  and  as  easily^^ 
accomplished.  Ordinance  upon  ordinancA"''^ 
is  promulgated,  each  nullifying  the  last, 
while  the  princes  obey  only  those  which 
serve  their  own  intereet,  and  prate  of  peace 
and  security  of  the  Empire,  while  they  are 
treading  under  foot  their  weaker  neighbors. 
I  will  be  sworn,  many  a  one  thanks  God  in 
his  heart  that  the  Turk  keeps  the  Eknperor 
fully  employed  I 

WniBLiNaiiK.  You  view  things  your  own 
way. 

Gorn.  So  does  every  one.  The  ques- 
tion is,  which  is  the  right  way  to  view  them? 
And  your  plans  at  least  shun  the  day. 

Weiblinqen.  You  may  say  what  you 
lyill;  I  am  your  prisoner. 

GoETZ.  If  your  conscience  is  free,  so  are 
you.  How  was  it  with  the  general  tran- 
quillity? I  remember  going  as  a  boy  of  six- 
teen with  the  Margrave  to  the  Imperial 
Diet.  What  harangues  the  princes  model 
And  the  cle^y  were  tbe  most  vociferous 
of  all.  Your  Bishop  thundered  into  the 
Emperor's  ears  his  regard  for  justice,  till 
one  thought  it  had  become  part  and  parcel 
of  bis  being.  And  now  he  has  imprisoned  a 
page  of  mine,  at  a  time  when  our  quarrels 
were  all  accommodated,  and  I  had  buried 
them  in  oblivion.  Is  not  all  settled  between 
us?   What  does  he  want  with  tbe  boy? 

WeiBUMOEM.  It  was  done  without  his 
knowledge. 


:.,..:?JI:,G00g[c 


594 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


GoBTs.  Then,  why  does  be  not  Kl«a8e 
himT 

WBtsuNOBN.  He  did  not  conduct  him- 
self as  he  ought. 

OosTz.  Not  conduct  himself  as  he 
ought?  By  my  honor,  he  performed  his 
duty,  Ei8  surely  aa  he  has  be^  imprisoned 
both  with  your  knowledge  and  the  Bish- 
ott'sl  Do  you  think  I  am  come  into  the 
world  this  very  day,  that  1  cannot  see  what 
all  thie  means? 

Weibunoim.  You aresuspidouB,  anddo 
us  wrong. 
^,  GoBM.  Weialingen,  shall  I  deal  openly 
with  you?  Inconsiderable  as  I  am,  I  am  a. 
thorn  in  your  side,  and  9elbiti  and  Sick- 
ingrai  are  no  less  so,  because  we  are  firmly 
resolved  to  die  sooner  than  to  thank  any 
one  but  God  for  the  air  we  breathe,  or  pay 
homage  to  any  one  but  the  Emperor.  This 
is  why  they  worry  me  in  every  poHsible  way, 
blacken  my  character  with  the  Emperor, 
and  among  my  friends  and  neighbors,  and 
spy  about  for  advantage  over  me.  They 
would  have  me  out  of  the  way  at  any  price; 
that  was  your  reason  for  imprisoning  the 
page  whom  you  knew  I  had  diqiatcbed  for 
intelligence:  and  now  you  say  he  did  not 
conduct  himself  ae  he  should  do,  because  he 
would  not  betray  my  secrete.  And  you, 
Weislingen,  are  their  tool! 

Weisunqen.  Berlichingenl 

GoETZ.  Not  a  word  more.  lamauuiemy 
to  long  explanations;  they  deceive  either  the 
maker  or  the  hearer,  and  generally  both. 

[Enter  Chakles.] 
Charles.  Dinner  is  ready,  father! 
GoEFz.  Good  news  I  Come,  I  hope  the 
company  of  my  women-folk  will  amuse 
you.  You  always  liked  the  girls.  Aye,  aye, 
they  can  tell  many  pretty  stories  about 
you.  Gomel  [Exeunt.] 

B  IV.   The  Bishop  of  Bamberg'i  palace. 


LiBBTBAUT,    and    CourUeri 
The  detaert  and  leine  before  Ihem.] 

BiBHOF.  Are  there  many  of  the  German 
nobility  studying  at  Bologna? 

Olearius.    Both  nobles  and  citiaens; 


and,  I  do  not  exaggerate  in  saying  that  they 
acquire  Uie  moat  brilliant  reputation.  It  is 
a  proverb  in  the  university,  "As  etudioas 
as  a  German  noble."  For  while  the  citiwDa 
display  a  laudable  diligence,  in  otder  to 
compensate  by  learning  for  their  want  of 
birth,  the  nobles  strive,  with  praiseworthy 
emulation,  to  enhance  their  ancestral  dig- 
nity by  superior  attainments. 

Absot.  Indeed! 

LiEBTRAOT.  What  may  one  not  live  to 
hear!  We  Uve  and  learn,  as  the  piomfa 
says.  "As  studious  as  a  German  noble." 
I  never  heard  that  before. 

Oleariub.  Yes,  they  are  the  admiratiw 
of  the  whole  university.  Some  of  the  oldest 
and  most  learned  will  soon  be  coming  back 
with  their  doctor's  degree.  The  Emperor 
will  doubtless  be  happy  to  entrust  to  thetu 
the  highest  offices. 

Bianop.  He  cannot  fail  to  do  so. 

Abbot.  Do  you  know,  for  instance,  a 
young  nmn  —  a  Hessian?  — 

Oleabius.  There  are  many  Heesians 
with  us. 

Abbot.  His  name  is  —  is  —  DoeB  no- 
body  remember  it?  Hie  mother  was  a  von 
—  Oh !  his  father  had  but  one  eye,  and  was 
a  marshal  — 

LiEBTBAUT.  Von  WildenholiI 

Abbot,  Right.  Von  Wildenholi. 

Oleariub.  I  know  him  well.  A  young 
man  of  great  abilitieB.  He  is  parttcuhuly 
esteemed  for  his  talent  in  disputatim. 

Abbot.  He  baa  that  from  his  mother. 

LiBBTRADT.  Yee;  but  his  father  would 
never  praise  her  for  that  quality. 

Bishop.  How  call  you  the  Elmperor  who 
wrota  your  Corpus  Jtaie  t 

OiAAsniB.  Justinian. 

Bisaop.  A  worthy  prince:  —  here's  to 
his  memory  I 

OuiARius.    To  his  memory: 

[They  drmk.\ 
That  must  be  a  fine  book. 


»CKNE  IV.   The  Uxshop  of  Bamberg'i  palace.  A^or.  That  must  be  a  fine  book. 

[The  BUhop,  the  Abbot  of  FvSda,  OleaeidsT  X^'^T  I'  Tl  ^  '^^  *  ^\  "^ 
7  .-».„'  „„j  7t„_^  '     .,    ,.o  '     books;  a  digest  of  all  laws;  there  you  find 


digest  of  all  laws;  there  you  find 
the  sentence  ready  for  every  case,  and 
where  the  text  is  antiquated  or  obscure,  tbe 
deficiency  is  supplied  by  notes,  with  whidi 
the  most  learned  men  have  enriched  thia 
truly  admirable  work. 


GOETZ  VON  BERLICHINGEN 


Abbot.  A  digest  of  all  lawsl  — Indeed! 
—  Then  the  Ten  Comnuuidnwnte  muat  be 

Olsaiudb.  ImplicUe;  not  explicUe. 

Abboi.  That's  what  I  mean;  plainly  set 
down,  without  any  exphcation. 

BiBHOP.  But  the  beet  is,  you  tell  lu  that 
a  state  can  be  maintained  in  the  moat  per- 
fect tranquillity  and  subordination,  by  re- 
ceiving and  rightly  following  that  statute- 
book. 

OiiBARiuB.  Doubtless. 

Bishop.  All  doctors  of  lawsl 

[Thty  drink.] 

Olxaricb.  I'll  tell  them  of  this  abroad. 
[They  drink.]  Would  to  Heaven  that  men 
thought  thus  in  my  country. 

Abbot.  Whence  come  you,  most  learned 
sir? 

Olxariub.  From  Frankfort,  at  your 
emiuenoe's  servioel  .^ 

BiBHOF,  You  gentlemen  of  the  law,  then, 
are  not  held  in  high  estimation  there?  — 
How  comes  that? 

Olsajuus.  It  ia  strange  enou^  ~  when 
I  lut  went  there  to  collect  my  father's 
effects,  the  mob  almost  stoned  me,  when 
they  heard  I  was  a  lawyer. 

Abbot.  God  bless  mel 

Oleabiub.  It  is  because  their  tribunal, 
which  they  hold  in  great  respect,  is  com- 
posed of  people  totally  ignorant  of  ^ib_ 
Roman  law.  An  intimate  acquaintance  witji 
the  internal  condition  of  the  town,  and  also 
of  its  foreign  relations,  acquired  through 
age  and  experience,  is  deemed  a  sufficient 
qualification.  They  decided  according  to 
certain  eet^liahed  edicts  of  their  own,  and 
some  old  customs  recognised  in  the  city  and 
neighborhood. 

Abbot.  That's  very  right. 

Oi-BAiuuB.  But  far  from  sufficient.  The 
lite  of  man  is  short,  and  in  one  generation 
caaea  of  every  description  cannot  occur; 
our  statute-book  is  a  collection  of  prece- 
dents, furnished  by  the  eiiperience  of  many 
centuries.  Beeide*,  the  wills  and  opinions  of 
men  are  variable;  one  man  deems  right  to- 
day, what  another  disapproves  to-morrow; 
and  confusion  and  injustice  are  the  inevi- 
table results.  I«w  determines  absolutely, 
and  its  decreee  are  immutable. 


S9S 


Abbot.  That's  certainly  bettor, 

Olbabidb.  But  the  oommon  fjeople 
won't  acknowledge  that ;  and,  eager  as  they 
are  after  novelty,  they  hate  any  innovation 
in  their  laws,  which  leads  them  out  of  the 
beaten  track,  be  it  ever  so  much  for  the 
better.  They  hate  a  jurist  as  if  he  were  a 
cut-purse  or  a  subverter  of  the  state,  and 
become  furious,  if  one  attempts  to  settle 
among  them. 

LmBTRAUT.  You  come  from  Frankfort? 
—  I  knowtbe  place  well  —  we  tasted  your 
good  cheer  at  the  Emperor's  coronation. 
You  say  your  name  is  Olearius  —  I  know 
no  one  in  the  town  of  your  name. 

Olkarios.  My  father's  name  was  Oil- 
man. But  after  the  example,  and  with  the 
advice  of  many  jurists,  I  have  latinised  the 
name  to  Olearius  for  the  decoration  of  the 
title-page  of  my  legal  treatises. 
— "Lmbtraht.  You  did  well  t«  translate 
yourself:  a  prophet  ia  not  honored  in  his 
own  country  ~  in  your  native  guise  you 
might  have  shared  the  same  fat«. 

OijEariub.  That  was  not  the  reason. 

LmBTBADT.  All  things  have  two  reasons 

Abbot.  A  prophet  is  not  honored  in  his 
own  country. 

Lubtraot.  But  do  you  know  why,  most 
reverend  sir? 

Abbot.  Because  he  was  bom  and  bred 

LmBTRAUT.  Well,  that  may  be  one  rea- 
son. The  other  ia,  because,  upon  a  nearer 
acquaintance  with  these  gentlemen,  the 
halo  of  glory  and  honor  shed  around  them 
by  the  distant  haze  totally  disappears;  tbey 
are  then  seen  to  be  nothing  more  than  tiny 
rushlights  1 

OixABTOB.  It  seems  you  are  placed  here 
to  tell  pleasant  truths. 

Liebtbaot.  As  I  have  wit  enough  to 
discover  them,  I  do  not  lack  courage  to 
utter  them. 

OuBAKina.  Yet  you  lack  the  art  of  ap- 
plying them  well. 

LixBTRADT.  It  is  no  matter  yihae  you 
place  a  cupping-glass,  provided  it  draws 
blood. 

Olbabios.  Barbers  are  known  by  their 
dress,  and  no  one  takes  offense  .at  their 
scurvy  jests.  Let  me  advise  you  as  a  pre- 


59^ 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


caution  to  bear  the  bodge  of  your  order  — 
&  cap  and  bell^l 

LuBTRADT.  Where  did  you  take  jrour 
degree?  I  only  ask,  so  that,  should  I  erer 
lake  a  fancy  to  a  fool's  cap,  I  could  at  once 
go  to  the  right  ahop. 

Olhabiub.  You  carry  face  enough. 

LnBTHAtrr.  And  you  paunch. 

[The  Biahop  and  Abbot  Imtgh.] 

BiBBOP.  Not  BO  warm,  gentlemeni  — 
Some  other  subject.  At  table  all  should  be 
fair  and  quiet.  Choose  another  subject, 
Li^traut. 

Lubtraut.  Opposite  Frankfort  lies  a 
Tillage,  called  Sacheeohausen  — 

Olkuius  [to  the  Bitliop].  What  news  of 
the  Turkish  expedition,  your  excellency? 

Biaaop.  The  Emperor  baa  most  at  heart, 
first  of  all,  to  reetore  peace  to  the  Empire, 
put  an  end  to  feuds,  and  secure  the  strict 
administration  of  justice:  then,  acoordiag 
to  report,  he  will  go  in  person  against  the 
enemies  of  his  country  and  of  Christendom. 
At  present  internal  disBensions  give  hitn 
enouf^  to  do;  and  the  Empire,  despite  half 
a  hundred  treaties  of  peace,  is  one  scene  of 
murder.  Franconia,  Swi^ia,  the  Upper 
Rhine,  and  the  surrounding  countries  are 
laid  waste  by  prcMunptuous  and  reekleas 
knights.  —  And  here,  at  Bamberg,  Sick- 
ingen,  Selbita  with  one  leg,  and  Goets  with 
the  iron  hand,  sooff  at  the  imperial  authwity. 

Abbot.  If  His  Majesty  does  not  exert 
himself,  these  fellows  will  at  last  thrust  us 
into  sacks. 

LuBTKAUT.  He  would  be  a  sturdy  fel- 
low, indeed,  who  should  thrust  the  winfr. 
butt  of  Fulda  into  a  sack  I 

BuBOP.  Goets  especially  has  been  for 
many  years  my  mortal  foe,  and  annoys  me 
beyond  description.  But  it  will  not  last 
long,  I  hope.  The  Emperor  holds  his  court 
at  Augsburg.  We  have  taken  our  measures, 
and  cannot  fail  of  success.  ~~  Doctor,  do 
you  know  Adelbert  von  WeisUngenT 

Olxabiub.  No,  your  eminence. 

Bishop.  If  you  stay  till  his  arrival,  you 
will  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  a  most 
noble,  accomplished,  and  gallant  knight, 

Oluriub.    He  must  be  an  excellc 
man,  indeed,  to  deserve  such  prunes  from 
iuch  a  mouth. 


LoBTRAOT.  And  yet  he  was  not  bred  it 
any  university. 

BiBHOF.  We  know  that.  [Tfte  aUendoab 
throng  to  the  wtndoto.]  What's  the  matter* 

ATrXNSANT.  F&rber,  Weislingen's  sav- 
ant, is  riding  in  at  the  castle  gato. 

BiBBOP.  See  what  he  brings.  He  most 
likely  comes  to  announce  his  master. 

[ExU  LixBTRAUT.  —  Thay  ttmi 
up  and  drwk.] 

{LixBTRACT  refnters.) 

BifiBOF.  What  news? 

LnBTRAirT.  I  wish  another  had  to  tdl 
it  —  Weislinger  is  a  prisoner. 

Bishop.  What? 

LiEBTRACT.  Berlichingen  has  seised  him 
and  three  troopers  near  Haslach  —  one  ii 
escaped  to  tell  you. 

Abbot.  A  Job's  meenengerl 

Olxakics.  I  grieve  from  my  heart. 

Bishop.  I  will  see  the  servant;  bring  him 
up  —  I  will  speak  with  him  myself.  Con- 
duct him  into  my  cabinet.      [Exit  Bi*hep.\ 

\bbot  [silting  doum].  Another  drau^t, 
however.  {TAe  SenxmltfiU  rotimil 

OixABiuB.  .Will  not  your  reverence  take 
a  turn  in  the  garden?  "Poit  atnam  stebU, 
tea  poMus  miOe  meabit." 

LmBTRAXTT.  In  trutii,  sitting  ia  un- 
healthy for  you.  You  might  get  an  apo- 
plexy. \The  AUot  rites.  Ande]  Let  me 
but  once  get  him  out  of  doors,  I  will  give 
1^1        '  IBxmtnL] 


^.""^  ScBNi  V.   /aztAaussn. 

[Maria,  Weibunoen.] 

Mabia.  You  love  me,  you  say.  I  willio^j 
believe  it  and  hope  to  be  happy  with  you, 
and  make  you  happy  also. 

WxiBUNOEH.  I  feel  nothing  but  that  I 
am  entirely  thine.  [fmfrroces  het\ 

Maria.  Softly]  —  I  gave  you  one  k» 
for  earnest,  but  you  must  not  take  poaoea- 
sion  of  what  is  only  yours  conditionally. 

Weibunokn.  You  are  too  strict,  Maria! 
Innooeut  love  is  pleaaiiig  in  the  si^i  of 
Heaven,  instead  of  giving  offense. 

Maria.  It  may  be  so.  But  I  think  dif- 
ferently; for  I  have  been  taught  that  ca- 
resses are,  like  fetters,  strong  through  tihnir 


GOETZ  VON   BERLICHINGEN 


597 


union,  and  that  maidens,  when  they  love, 
are  weaker  than  Samaon  after  the  loss  of 
his  locks. 

WniBUNOZN.  Who  taught  you  ao7 

Maria.  The  abbew  of  my  convent.  Till 
my  Bixt«enth  year  I  was  with  her  —  and  it 
is  only  with  you  that  I  enjoy  happineea 
like  that  her  company  afforded  me.  She 
had  loved,  and  could  tell —  She  had  a 
meet  affectionate  heart.  Oh  I  she  woa  an 
ucsllent  woman! 

WxiBUNOiiN.  .  Then  you  reeemble  her. 
{Takes  htr  hand.]  What  will  become  of  me 
vben  I  am  compelled  to  leave  you? 

Mabia  [wiihtbinmTif  her  hand].  You  will 
feel  some  regret,  I  hope,  for  I  know  what 
nty  feelings  will  be.  But  you  must  awayl 

Wkibunobn.  I  know  it,  dearesti  and  I 
will  —  for  well  I  feel  what  happiness  I  ahall 
purchase  by  this  sacrifice  I  Now,  blessed  be 
your  brother,  opd  the  day  on  which  he  rode 
out  to  capture  me! 

Mabu.  His  heart  was  full  of  hope  for 
you  and  himself.  "Farewell!"  he  said,  at 
his  departure,  "I  go  to  recover  my  friend." 

WsieLiNOBH.  That  he  has  done.  Would 
that  I  bad  studied  the  arrangement  and 
security  of  my  property,  instead  of  neg- 
lecting it,  and  dallying  at  that  worthless 
court!  —  then  oouldst  thou  have  been  in- 
stantly mine. 

Maria.  Even  delay  has  its  pleasures. 

Wrisunobn.  Say  not  so,  Maria,  else  I 
shall  fear  that  thy  heart  is  less  warm  than 
mine.  True,  I  deserve  punishment,  but 
what  hopes  will  brighten  every  step  of  my 
joumeyl  To  be  wholly  thine,  to  live  only 
for  thee  and  thy  circle  of  friends,  —  far 
removed  from  the  world,  in  the  enjoyment 
of  all  the  raptures  which  two  hearts  can 
mutually  bestow.  What  is  the  favor  of 
princes,  what  the  applause  of  the  universe, 
to  such  simple,  yet  unequaled  felicity? 
Many  have  been  my  hopes  and  wisheq;  but 
this  happiness  surpasses  them  all. 
[Enter  Gobtz.) 

Govts.  Your  page  has  returned.  He 
can  scarcely  utter  a  word  for  hunger  and 
fatigue.  My  wife  has  ordered  him  gome 
refreshment.  Thus  much  I  have  gathered: 
the  Bishop  wiD  not  give  up  my  page  ~ 


imperial  oommissioners  are  to  be  appomted, 
and  a  day  named,  upon  which  the  matter 
may  be  adjusted.  Be  that  as  it  may,  Adel- 
bert,  you  are  free.  Pledge  me  but  your  hand 
t|iat  you  will  for  the  future  give  neither  open 
nor  secret  assistance  to  my  enemies. 

WxiBiNoxN,  Here  I  grasp  thy  hand. 
Prom  this  moment  be  our  friendship  and 
confidence,  finn  and  unalterable  as  a  pri- 
mary law  of  nature  I  Let  me  take  this  hand 
also  [laket  Maria's  hand],  and  with  it  the 
possession  of  this  meet  noble  lady. 

OoBTZ,  May  I  say  yes  for  youT 

Mabia  [Hmidly].   If  —  if  it  is  your  wish  — 

GoETZ.  Happily  our  wishes  do  not  (Uffer 
on  this  point.  Thou  need'st  not  blush  — 
the  glance  of  thine  eye  Ijetrays  thee.  Well 
then,  Weislingen,  join  hands,  and  I  say, 
Amen!  My  friend  and  brotherl  I  thank 
thee,  sister;  thou  canst  do  more  than  spin 
flax,  for  thou  hast  drawn  a  thread  which 
can  fetter  this  wandering  bird  of  paradiaa. 
Yet  you  look  not  quite  at  your  ease,  Add- 
bert.  What  troubles  you?  /  am  perfectly 
happyl  WhatIbuthopedinadream,Inow 
see  with  my  eyes,  and  feel  as  though  I  was 
still  dreaming.  Now  my  dream  is  explained. 
I  thought  last  night  that,  in  token  of  rec- 
onciliation, I  gave  you  this  iron  hand,  and 
that  jrou  held  it  so  fast  that  it  brolce  away 
from  my  arm;  I  started,  and  awoke.  Had 
I  but  dreamed  a  little  longer,  I  should  have 
seen  how  you  gave  me  a  new  living  hand. 
You  must  away  this  instant,  to  put  your 
castle  and  property  in  older.  That  cursed 
court  has  made  you  neglect  both.  I  must 
call  my  wife.  —  Elirabeth! 

Maria.  How  overjoyed  my  brother  isl 

Wbiblinoen.  Yet  I  am  still  more  so. 

GoETZ  [to  MariaI.  You  will  have  a 
pleasant  residence. 

Maria.  Franconia  is  a  fine  country. 

Wkisunobh.  And  I  may  venture  t«  say 
that  my  castle  lies  in  the  most  fertile  and 
delicious  part  of  it. 

GOBT*.  That  you  may,  and  1  can  oon- 
Grm  it.  Look  you,  here  flows  the  Maine, 
around  a  hill  clothed  with  cornfields  and 
vineyards,  its  top  crowned  with  a  Qothio 
castle;  then  the  rivei  makes  a  sharp  turn, 
and  glides  round  behind  the  rock  on  which 
the  castle  is  built.    The  windows  of  th4 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


great  hall  look  perpendicularly  down  upon 

the  river,  and  command  a  proBpect  of 

many  miles  in  extent. 

[Enter  Eueabeth.) 
Elieabbth.  What  wouldet  tbouf 
GoBTE.  You,  too,  must  give  jour  hand, 

and  say,  God  blesa  you!  They  are  a  pair. 

EUZABBTH.    So  BOOH? 

GoBTZ.  But  not  unexpectedly. 

Elieabetb.  May  you  ever  adore  her  as 
ardently  as  while  you  sought  her  hand.  And 
then,  aa  your  love,  so  be  your  happinessi 

Weiblinoen.  Amen!  I  seek  no  hap- 
pineee  but  under  this  condition. 
-"^GoETZ.  The  bridegroom,  my  love,  must 
leave  ub  for  a  while;  for  this  great  change 
will  involve  many  smaller  ones.  He  must 
first  withdraw  himself  from  the  Bishop's 
court,  in  order  that  their  friendship  may 
gradually  cool.  Then  he  must  rescue  his 
property  from  the  hands  of  selfish  stew- 
ards, and  —  But  come,  sister;  come,  Elisa- 
beth; let  ue  leave  him;  his  page  has,  no 
doubt,  private  messages  for  him. 

Weislinoxn.  Nothing  but  what  you 
may  hear. 

GoETE.  'T  is  needless.  Franconians  and 
SwabiansI  Ye  are  now  mote  closely  united 
than  ever.  Now  we  shall  be  able  to  keep  the 
princes  in  check. 

[Exeunt  Gobtz,  Euzabbtb,  Ma- 
ria.] 

Weibunoen  [aione].  God  in  heaven! 
And  canst  Thou  have  reserved  such  hap- 
piness for  one  so  unworthy?  It  is  too  much 
for  my  heart.  How  mranly  I  depended 
upon  wretched  fools,  whom  I  thought  I 
was  governing,  upon  the  smile  of  princee, 
upon  the  homage  of  those  around  mel 
Qoeti,  my  faithful  Goets,  thou  hast  re- 
stored me  to  myself,  and  thou,  Maria,  hast 
completed  my  reformation.  I  feel  fi«e,  as 
if  brought  from  a  dungeon  into  the  open 
air.  Bamberg  will  I  never  see  more  —  will 
snap  all  the  shameful  bonds  that  have  held 
me  beneath  myself.  My  heart  expands, 
and  never  more  will  I  degrade  myself  by 
struggling  for  a  greatness  that  is  denied  me. 
He  alone  is  great  and  happy  who  fills  his 
own  station  of  independence,  and  has 
Deithei  to  command  nor  to  obey. 


[Enier  Fkakcu.) 

Francis.  God  save  you,  noble  sir!  I 
bring  you  so  many  salutations  that  I  know 
not  where  to  b^pn.  Bamberg,  and  ten 
miles  round,  cry  with  a  thousand  voioei, 
God  save  youl 

WEiaLiKOEN.  Weloome,  Francial  Bring'st 
thou  aught  else? 

Francis.  You  are  bdd  in  such  considei*- 
tion  at  court  that  it  cannot  be  expressed. 

Weibunoen.  That  will  not  last  long. 

FBANcts.  As  long  Bs  you  live;  and  after 
your  death  it  will  shine  with  more  luster 
than  the  braien  characters  on  a  monument. 
How  they  took  your  misfortune  to  hearti 

Weisunqek.  And  what  said  the  Bishop? 

Fhancis.  His  esger  curiosity  poured  out 
question  upon  question,  without  giving  me 
time  to  answer.  He  knew  of  your  acci- 
dent already;  for  F&rber,  who  escaped  from 
Haslach,  had  brought  him  the  tidings.  But 
he  wished  to  hear  every  particular.  He 
asked  so  anxiously  whether  you  were 
wounded.  I  told  him  you  were  whole,  from 
the  hair  of  your  head  to  the  nail  of  your 
little  toe. 

Weisunoen.  And  what  said  he  to  the 
proposals? 

^lANCiB.  He  was  ready  at  first  to  give 
up  the  page  and  a  ransom  to  boot  for  your 
Uberty.  But  when  he  heard  you  were  to  be 
dismissed  without  ransom,  and  merely  to 
give  your  parole  that  the  boy  should  be  set 
free,  he  was  for  putting  ofi  Berlichingen 
with  some  pretense.  He  charged  me  with 
a  thousand  messages  ta  you,  mora  than  I 
can  ever  utter.  Oh,  how  he  huu^uedl  I* 
wasalongsermonupon  the  text,  "Icanno' 
live  without  WeislingenI" 

Weislinoen.  He  must  learn  t«  do  so. 

FsANCiB.  Whatmeanyou?  Heaaid"Bk] 
him  hasten;  all  the  court  waits  for  him." 

Weisunoen.  Let  them  wait  on.  I  shall 
not  go  to  court. 

Francis.  Not  go  to  courti  My  gramoue 
lord,  how  comes  that?  If  you  knew  wiaA  I 
know;  could  you  but  drf«m  what  I  have 

Weisunoen.  What  ails  tbeeT 
Francib.  The  bare  remembrance  takes 
away  my  sensaa.    Bamberg  is  no  lonfV 


GOETZ  VON  BERLICHINGEN 


599 


Bunberg.  An  angel  of  heaven,  id  sem- 
bUnce  of  woman,  has  taken  up  ber  abode 
tbere,  and  hu  made  it  a  paradise. 

WsisLiNOKir.  Is  that  all? 

Francis.  M&y  I  become  a  shaven  friar, 
if  the  firet  glimpse  of  her  does  not  drive  you 
frantic! 

Weisunoen.  .Who  is  it,  then? 

FRANCIS.  Adelaide  pon  Walldorf. 

Weibunobn.  Indeed  I  I  have  beard 
much  of  her  beauty. 

Feancib.  HeardI  You  might  as  wdl 
Bay  I  have  teen  music.  So  far  is  the  tongue 
from  being  ^le  to  rehearse  the  slight«Bt 
particle  of  her  beauty,  that  the  very  eye 
which  beholds  her  cannot  drink  it  all  in. 

WBtBLtNOKN.  You  are  mad, 

Francis.  That  may  well  be.  The  last 
time  I  was  in  her  company  I  had  no  more 
command  over  my  senses  than  if  I  bad  been 
dnink,  or,  I  may  rather  say,  I  felt  like  a 
glorified  saint  enioying  the  angelic  visionl 
All  my  senses  exalt«d,  more  lively  and  more 
perfect  than  ever,  yet  not  one  at  its  owner's 

Wbibunqen.  That  is  gtrtugel 

Francis.  As  I  took  leave  of  the  Bishop, 
she  sat  by  bim;  they  were  playing  at  chess. 
He  was  very  gracious;  gave  me  bis  hand  to 
Idas,  and  said  much,  of  which  I  heard  not 
a  syllable,  for  I  was  looking  on  his  fair 
antagonist.  Her  eye  was  fixed  upon  the 
board,  as  it  meditating  a  bold  move.  — 
A  touch  of  subtle  watchfulness  around  the 
mouth  and  cheek.  ^  I  could  have  wished 
to  be  the  ivory  king.  The  mixture  of  dig- 
nity and  feeling  on  ber  brow  —  and  the 
dasiling  luster  of  ~ber  face  and  neck, 
heightened  by  her  raven  treases  — 

WsiBUNOXN.  The  theme  has  made 
you  quite  poetical. 

Francis.  I  feel  at  this  moment  what 
constitutes  poetic  inspiration  —  a  heart 
altogether  wrapped  iu  one  idea.  Aa  the 
Bishop  ended,  and  I  made  my  obeisance, 
she  looked  up  and  said,  "Offer  to  your 
master  the  best  wishes  of  an  unknown. 
Tell  him  be  must  come  soon.  New  friends 
await  him;  he  must  not  despise  them, 
though  he  is  already  so  rich  in  old  ones." 
I  would  have  answered,  but  the  passage  be- 
twixt my  heart  and  my  tongue  was  closed. 


sod  I  only  bowed.  I  would  have  given  all 
I  had  for  permission  to  kiss  but  one  of  her 
fingers!  Aa  1  stood  thus,  the  Bishop  let  fall 
a  pawn,  and  in  stooping  to  pick  it  up,  I 
touched  the  hem  of  her  gandent.  IVans- 
port  thrilled  through  my  limbs,  and  I  scarce 
know  how  1  left  the  room. 

Wbiblinoen.   Is  her  husband  at  court? 

Francis.  She  has  been  a  widow  these 
four  months,  and  is  residing  at  the  court 
of  Bamberg  to  divert  her  melancholy.  You 
will  see  her;  and  to  meet  ber  ^ance  is  to 
bask  in  the  sunshine  of  spring. 

Weisunoen.  She  would  not  make  so 
strong  an  impression  on  me. 

Francis.  1  hear  you  are  u  good  aa 
married. 

WsiBiiiNoiN.  Would  I  were  really  sol 
My  gentle  Maria  will  be  the  happiness  of 
my  life.  The  sweetness  of  her  soul  beams 
throng  ber  mild  blue  eyes,  and,  liks  an 
angel  of  innocence  and  love,  she  guides  my 
heart  to  the  paths  of  peace  and  felicity  I 
Pack  up,  and  then  to  my  castle.  I  will  not 
to  Bamberg,  though  St.  Bede  came  in  per- 
son to  fetch  me.  [BxU  Weisunoen.] 

Pbancis  [alone].  Nat  to  Bamberg t 
Heavens  forbid!  But  let  me  hope  the  best. 
Maria  is  beautiful  and  amiable,  and  a  pris- 
oner or  an  invalid  might  easily  fall  in  love 
with  her.  Her  eyes  beam  with  compassion 
and  melancholy  sympathy;  but  in  thine, 
Adelaide,  is  life,  fire,  spirit.  I  would  —  I 
am  a  fool;  one  glance  from  ber  has  made 
me  so.  My  master  must  to  Bamberg,  and 
I  also,  and  either  recover  my  senses  or  gase 
them  quite  away. 

ACT   II 
Scene  I.  Bamberg.  A  fuJl. 
[The  Biihop  and  AnKi.Aii>E,  playing  tti 
cheu,  LiEBTRACT  with  a  guitar,  Ladies 
and  CourHert  ttandtTlg  in  groupt.] 
LiEBTRAUT  [^iJavs  otid  HngE], 
Armed  with  quiver  and  bow. 
With  his  torch  all  a-glow, 
YouDg  Cupid  oomea  wining  his  Bi^it. 
CoursgB  glows  in  bis  eyes, 
As  adown  from  the  aides. 
He  rusbca,  impatient  1m  ll^t. 

;lc 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Up!  upt 

Hark!  the  brii^t  quiver  ringaF      

Hwlc!  the  ruatle  of  wings! 
AUJtAil  to  the  delintte  Bpritel 

They  welcome  the  urchin  »— ; 
Ah,  msidena,  beware! 
He  finds  evety  bosom 
Unguiuiled  and  bare. 
In  the  li^t  of  hig  fUmbeau 
He  Idndlea  big  darts:  — 
They  Tondle  and  hug  him 
And  preaa  to  their  hearts. 

Adelaidb.  Your  thoughts  are  not  in 
your  game.   Check  to  the  IdDgl 

BiBBOF.  There  u  still  a  way  of  escape. 

Adelaide.  You  will  not  be  able  to  hold 
out  long.  Check  to  the  kingi 

LaBTHAnr.  Were  I  a  great  prince,  I 
would  not  ptay  at  this  game,  and  would 
forbid  it  at  court,  and  throughout  the  whole 
land. 

Adilaide.  'T  is  indeed  a  toudutone  of 
the  brain. 

LmBTRAUT.  Not  on  thfit  account.  I 
would  rather  hear  a  (unetal  b«U,  the  cry 
of  the  ominous  bird,  the  howling  of  that 
snarling  watch-dog,  conscience;  rather 
would  1  hear  these  through  the  deepest 
sleep,  than  from  bishops,  knights,  and  such 
beast«,  the  eternal  —  Quick  to  the  king ! 

BiBBOP.  Into  whose  head  could  such  an 
idea  enter? 

LnsTRAUT.   A  man's,  for  example, 
dowe^  with  a  weak  body  and  a  strong  i 
Bciraice,  which,  for  the  most  part,  indeed, 
accompany  each  other.   Chess  is  called  a 
royal  game,  and  is  said  to  have  been  ii 
vented  for  a  king,  who  rewarded  the  h 
▼entor  with  a  mine  of  wealth.  If  this  be  a  , 
I  can  picture  him  to  myself.    He  was  a 
minor,  either  in  understanding  or  in  years, 
under  the  guardianship  of  his  mother  or  his 
wife;  had  down  upon  his  chin,  and  flaxen 
hair  around  his  temples;  was  pliant  as  a 
willow-shoot,  and  liked  to  play  at  draughts 
with  women,  not  from  passion,  God  for- 
bidl  —  only  tor  pastime.    His  tutor,  too 
active  for  a  scholar,  too  intractable  for  a 
miiii  of  the  world,  invented  the  game,  in 
ueum  Delphini,  that  was  so  homogeneous 
T7ith  his  majesty  —  and  so  on. 


Adelaide.  Checkmate!  You  should  fill 
up  the  (!hw"w  in  our  histories,  Liebtraut 
_—  [They  rite.] 

Liebtraut.  To  supply  those  in  our 
family  registers  would  be  more  profitable. 
The  merits  of  our  ancestors  being  available 
for  a  common  object  with  their  portraits, 
namely,  to  cover  the  naked  sides  of  our 
chambers  and  of  our  characters,  one  might 
turn  Huch,an  occupation  to  good  account. 

Bishop.  He  will  not  come,  youaayl 

Adelaide.  I  beseech  you,  baniah  him 
from  your  thoughts. 

BisBOP.  What  can  it  mean? 

Liebtraut.  What!  The  reasons  may 
be  told  over  like  the  beads  of  a  roeary.  He 
has  been  seized  with  a  fit  of  compunction, 
of  which  I  could  soon  cure  him. 

BiSBOP.   Do  so;  ride  to  him  instantly. 

Libbtraitt.  My  commission  — 

BiBBOP.  Shall  be  unlimited.  Spare  noth- 
ing to  bring  him  back. 

Liebtraut.  May  I  venture  to  use  your 
name,  gracious  lady? 

Adelaide.  With  discretion. 

Liebtraut.    That's  a  vague  commis- 

Adblaide.  Do  you  know  so  little  of  me, 
or  are  you  so  young  as  not  to  understand 
in  what  tone  you  should  speak  of  tne  to 
Weislingen? 

LiEBTHAUT.  In  the  tone  of  a  fowler's 
whistle,  I  think. 

AdeIjAide.  Youwill  never  be  reasonable. 

Liebtract.  Does  one  ever  become  ao, 
gracious  lady? 

BiBBOP.  Go!  Gol  Take  the  beet  horse 
in  my  stable;  choose  your  servants,  and 
bring  him  hither. 

Liebtraut.  If  I  do  not  conjure  him 
hither,  say  that  an  old  woman  who  charms 
warts  and  freckles  knows  more  of  sympathy 

Bishop.  Yet,  what  will  it  avail?  Ber- 
lichingen  has  wholly  gained  him  over.  He 
will  no  sooner  be  here  than  he  will  wi^  to 
return. 

Liebtraut.  He  will  wish  it,  doubtlees; 
but  can  he  go?  A  prince's  squeeie  of  the 
hand  and  the  smiles  of  a  beauty,  from  tliese 
no  Weislingen  can  tear  hims^  away.  I 
have  the  honor  to  take  my  leave. 


.CtOoi^Ic 


GOETZ  VON  BERLICHINGEN 


BiSBOP.  A  prosperous  joumeyl 

Adsuude.  Adieu!       [Exit  Libbtravt.] 

Bishop.  When  he  is  oace  here,  I  must 
trust  to  you. 

Adblaidb.  Would  you  make  me  your 
lime-twig? 

Bishop.  By  no  means. 

Adelaide.   Your  call-bird,  then? 

BiBBOp.  No;  that  is  Liebtraut's  part. 
I  beseech  you  do  not  refuse  to  do  for  me 
what  no  other  can. 

AnELAiDB.    We  shall  see.  [Exettnt.] 


[Enter  Gobtz  and  Hans  ' 

SsLBrrz.  Every  one  will  applaud  you  for 
declaring  feud  against  the  Nurerobergers. 

GoETE.  It  would  have  eaten  my  very 
heart  away  hod  I  remained  longer  their 
debtor.  It  ie  clear  that  they  betrayed  my 
page  to  the  Bambergera.  They  shall  have 
cause  to  remember  me. 

Sblbitz.  They  have  ah  old  grudge 
against  you. 

GoETi.  And  I  against  them.  I  am  glad 
they  have  begun  the  tray. 

SELBrrz,  These  free  towns  have  always 
taken  part  with  the  priests. 

GoBTZ.  They  have  good  reason. 

Sblbfti.  But  we  will  cook  their  porridgaj 


fort) 


ml 


GoSTZ.  I  reckon  upon  you.  Would  that 
the  Burgomaster  of  N'urembei^,  with  his 
gold  chain  round  his  neck,  fell  in  our  way, 
we'd  astonish  him  with  ^1  his  cleverness. 

Selbftz.  I  hear  Weislingen  is  agaiu  on 
your  aide.  Does  he  really  join  in  our 
league? 

GoBTE.  Not  immediately.  There  are 
reasons  which  prevent  bis  openly  giving  us 
amietance;  but  for  the  present  it  is  quite 
enough  that  he  is  not  against  us.  The 
priest  without  him  is  what  the  stole  would 
be  without  the  priesti 

Sblbitz.   When  do  we  set  forward? 

GoBTZ.  To-morrow  or  nejct  day.  There 
are  merchants  of  Bamberg  and  Nuremberg 
returning  from  the  fair  of  Frankfort.  We 
may  strike  a  good  blow. 

Belbits.  Let  us  hope  sol 


ScBNx  III.   The  Bishop't  palace  at 
Bamberg. 

(Adelaide  and  her  WaUinn-Maid.] 

Adblaidb.  He  is  here,  aayest  thou?  I 
can  scarce  believe  it. 

Maid.  Had  I  not  seen  him  myself,  I 
should  have  doubted  it. 

Adelaide.  The  Bishop  should  frame 
Liebtraut  in  gold  for  such  a  masterpiece  of 
skill. 

Maid.  I  saw  him  as  he  was  about  to 
enter  the  palace.  He  was  mounted  on  a 
gray  charger.  The  horoe  started  when  he 
came  on  the  bridge,  and  would  not  move 
forward.  The  populace  thronged  up  the 
street  to  see  him.  They  rejoiced  at  the  de- 
lay of  the  unruly  horse.  He  was  greeted  on 
all  sides,  and  he  thanked  them  gracefully 
all  round.  He  eat  the  curveting  steed  with 
an  easy  indifference,  and  by  threats  and 
soothing  brought  him  to  .the  gate,  followed 
by  Liebtraut  and  a  few  servant*. 

Adelaide.   What  do  you  think  of  him? 

Maid.  I  never  saw  a  man  who  pleaaed 
me  so  welt.  [Pointaifi  to  a  ptcture,]  He  is  as 
like  that  portrait  of  the  Emperor  as  if  he 
were  his  son.  His  nose  is  somewhat  smaller, 
but  just  Buch  gentle  light-brown  eyes,  just 
such  fine  light  hair,  and  such  a  figure!  A 
faalf-melanoholy  expression  on  his  face,  I 
know  not  how,  but  he  pleased  me  so  wdl. 

Adelaide.  I  am  curious  to  see  him. 

Maid.    He  would  be  th(t  husband  for 

Adelaide.  Foolish  girll 

Maid.  Children  and  fools  — 
[Enter  Liebtbadt.] 

LiBBTBAUT.  Now,  gTocious  lady,  what 
da  I  deserve? 

Adblaidb.  Horns  from  your  wife!  —  for 
judging  From  the  present  sample  of  your 
persuasive  powers,  you  have  certainly  en- 
dangered the  honor  of  many  a  worthy 
family. 

LiEBTiiAiTr.  Not  so,  be  assured,  gracious 
lady. 

Adelaide.  How  did  you  contrive  to 
bring  him? 

Liebtraut.  You  know  how  they  catch 
snipes,  and  why  should  I  detail  my  little 


602 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


atratagemi  tn  youT  —  Firat,  I  pretended 
to  have  heard  oothmg,  did  not  understand 
the  reason  of  his  behavior,  and  put  him 
upon  the  disadvantage  of  telling  me  the 
whole  story  at  length.  Then  I  saw  the 
inatt«r  in  quite  a  different  light  to  what  he 
did  —  could  Dot  find  —  could  not  see,  and 
so  forth.  Then  I  goeeiped  thinp  great  and 
amall  about  Bamberg,  and  recalled  to  his 
memory  certain  old  recollections;  and  when 
I  had  succeeded  in  occupying  his  imogiua 
tion,  T  knitted  together  many  a  broken 
association  of  ideas.  He  knew  not  what 
to  say  —  felt  a  new  attraction  toward  Bam- 
berg —  he  would,  and  he  would  not.  When 
I  foimd  him  be^n  to  waver,  and  saw  him 
too  much  occupied  with  his  own  feriinge  to 
suspect  my  sincerity,  I  threw  over  hia  head 
a  halter,  woven  of  the  three  powerful  cords, 
beauty,  court  favor,  and  flattery,  and 
dragged  him  hither  in  triumph. 

Adelaob.  What  said  you  of  meT 

LlEBTKAUT.  The  simple  truth  —  that 
you  were  in  perplexity  about  your  estates, 
and  bad  hoped,  as  he  nod  so  much  influence 
with  the  Emperor,  all  would  be  satisfoo- 
torily  settled. 

AdxIiAidk.  'T  is  well. 

LuBTRAUT.  The  Bishop  will  introduce 
him  to  you. 

Adilaidi:.  I  expect  them.  [Exit  Liiib- 
TRACT.]  And  with  such  feelings  have  I 
seldom  expected  a  visitor. 

Scene  IV.   Th^  Speaaart. 

IBnttr  SiLBiTz,  Goicte,  ajul  Gkorge  in  lite 
armor  and  drat  of  a  trooper.] 

GoBTC.  So,  thou  didst  not  find  him, 
GeorgeT 

Geokok.  He  had  ridden  to  Bamberg  the 
day  before,  with  Li^traut  and  two  serv- 

Goetz.   I  cannot  understand  what  this 

Bkixiti.  I  see  it  well  —  your  reconcilia- 
tion was  almost  t«o  speedy  to  be  lasting. 
Liebtraut  is  a  cunning  fellow,  and  has  no 
doubt  inveigl^  him  over. 

GocTi.  Think'st  thou  he  will  become  a 
traitor? 

SBLHm.  The  first  step  is  taken. 


Gobtz.  I  will  never  believe  it.  Who 
knows  what  he  may  have  to  do  at  court — 
his  affairs  are  still  unarranged.  Let  ua  hope 
for  the  beet. 

SsLsm.  Would  to  Heaven  be  may  de- 
serve of  your  good  opinion,  and  may  act 
for  the  besti 

GoETZ.  A  thought  strikes  me  I — WewiD 
disguise  George  in  the  spoils  of  the  Bam- 
berg trooper,  and  furnish  him  with  the 
password  —  he  may  then  ride  to  Bamberg, 
and  see  how  matters  stand. 

Georob.   I  have  long  wished  to  do  so. 

Gobtz.  It  is  thy  first  expedition.  Be 
careful,  boy;  I  should  be  sorry  if  ill  beltil 

Gbobos.    Never  fear.    I  care  not  how 
many  of  them  crawl  about  me;  I  think  no 
«  of  them  than  of  rats  and  mice. 

[Exffunt.] 


[The  Bishop  and  Wbibunoin.) 

BiBHOF.  Then  thou  wilt  stay  no  longer? 

WEiauNQEN.  You  would  not  have  me 
break  my  oath. 

BiSBOP.  I  could  have  wished  tiiau 
hadst  not  sworn  it.  —  What  evil  spirit 
possessed  thee?  ~~  Could  I  not  have  pro- 
cured thy  release  without  that?  Is  my  in- 
fluence so  small  in  the  imperial  oourtT 

Weibunoen.  The  thing  is  done;  —  ex- 
cuse it  as  you  can. 

BtHHOP.  I  cannot  see  that  there  was  the 
least  necessity  for  taking  such  a  stop  — 
to  renounce  mef  Were  there  not  a  thou- 
sand other  ways  of  procuring  thy  freedom? 
Had  we  not  bis  page?  And  would  I  not 
have  given  gold  enough  to  boot?  —  and 
thus  satisfied  BerUchingen.  Our  opera- 
tions against  him  and  his  confederates 
could  have  gone  on  —  But,  alas!  I  do  not 
reflect  that  I  am  talking  to  his  friend,  who 
has  joined  him  against  me,  and  can  easity 
counterwork  the  mines  he  himself  has  dug- 

Weiblikoek.  My  gracious  lord  — 

Bishop.  And  yet  —  when  I  again  look 
on  thy  face,  again  hear  thy  voice  —  it  is 
impossible  —  impossible  I 

WuBLurasM.  Farewell,  good  my  lordt 


GOETZ  VON   BERLICHINGEN 


603 


Bishop.  I  give  tb«e  my  blessing  — 
formerly  when  we  parted,  I  whs  wont  to 
Bfty,  "Tillwemeetagainl"  —  Now  Heaven 
grant  we  meet  no  morel 

WxTBUNOiiN.   X^iiugB  may  alter. 

BiBHOP.  Perhaps  I  may  live  to  see  thee 
appear  ae  an  enemy  b^ore  my  walls,  carry- 
ing havoc  through  the  fertile  plaiiu  which 
now  owe  their  flourishing  condition  to  thee. 

WxiBUNQEN.    Never,  my  gracious  lord! 

BisHOF.  You  cannot  say  m>.  My  tem- 
poral neighbors  all  have  a  grudge  against 
me  — but  while  thou  wert  mine  —  Go, 
WeialingenI  —  I  have  no  more  to  say  — 
Hou  haat  undone  much.  Go  — 

WEtSLiNaEN.  I  know  not  what  to  an- 
swer. [Exit  Buhop.] 

IBnler  Francis.] 

Framcib.  The  I^y  Adelaide  expects 
you.  She  is  not  well  —  but  she  will  not  let 
you  depart  without  bidding  her  adieu. 

Weiblinoen.  Come. 

Francis.  Do  we  go,  then,  for  certain? 

Wbiblinqen.  This  very  night. 

Francis.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  about  to 
leave  the  world  — 

WBiauNGEN.  I,  too,  and  as  if  beeidee  I 
knew  not  whither  to  go. 

SciNi  VI.  Adelaide's  apartment. 
[AnBLAinE  and  Waiting-Maid.] 

Maid.  You  are  pale,  gracious  ladyl 

Adelaide.  Ilovehimnot,  yetlwishhim 
to  stay  —  tor  I  am  fond  of  his  company, 
though  1  should  dislike  him  for  my  hus- 
band. 

Maid.  Does  your  ladyship  think  he  will 
BO? 

Adelaide.  He  is  even  now  bidding  tbe 
Bishop  farewell. 

Maid.  He  has  yet  a  severe  struggle  to 
undei^. 

Adklaidb.  What  meanest  thou? 

Maid.  Why  do  you  ask,  gracious  lady? 
The  barb'd  hook  is  in  his  heart  —  ere  he 
t«ar  it  away  he  must  bleed  to  death. 
[Enter  Weibunobn.) 

V/nsLisoLK.  You  ar«  not  well,  gracious 
Udy? 


Adelaide.  That  must  be  indiffermt  to 
you  —  you  leave  ua,  leave  us  forever:  what 
mattfiTS  it  to  you  whether  we  live  or  die? 

Weibungen.  You  do  me  injustice. 

Adelaide.  I  judge  you  as  you  appear. 

Weislinoen.  Appearances  are  deceitful 

Adelaide.   Then  you  are  a  chameleon. 

Wbibugen.    Could  you  but  se«  my 

Adelaide.  I  should  see  fine  things  there; 

Weislinoen.  Undoubtedly  !  —  You 
would  find  your  own  image  — 

Adelaide.  Thrust  into  some  dark 
comer,  with  the  pictures  of  defunct  an- 
cestors! I  beseech  you,  Weislingen,  con- 
sider with  whom  you  speak  —  false  words 
are  of  value  only  when  they  serve  to  veil 
our  actions  —  a  discovered  masqucrader 
plays  a  pitiful  part.  You  do  not  disown 
your  deeds,  yet  your  words  belie  them; 
what  are  we  to  think  of  you? 

WEiBLiNaEN.  What  you  will  —  I  am  w 
^nized  at  reflecting  on  what  I  am,  that  I 
little  reck  for  what  I  am  taken. 

Adelaide.  You  came  to  say  farewell. 

Wbiblincien,  Permit  me  to  Idas  your 
hand,  sod  I  will  say  adieu!  —  You  re- 
mind me  —  I  did  not  think  ^  but  I  am 
troublesome  — 

Adelaide.  You  misinterpret  me.  Since 
you  will  depart,  I  only  wished  to  assist  your 
resolution. 

Weibunobn.  Oh,  say  rather,  I  must!  — 
were  I  not  compelled  by  my  knightly  word 
—  my  solemn  engagement  — 

Adelaide.  Go  to!  Talk  of  that  to 
maidens  who  read  the  tale  of  Theuerdanok, 
and  wish  that  they  had  such  a  husband.  -^ 
Knightly  word  I  —  Nonaensel 

Weiblinoen.  You  do  not  think  so? 

Adelaide.  On  my  honor,  you  are  dn- 
semblmg.  What  have  you  promised,  and 
to  whom?  You  have  pledged  your  alliance 
to  a  traitor  to  the  Emperor,  at  the  very 
moment  when  he  incurred  tbe  ban  of  the 
Empire  by  taking  you  prisoner.  Such  an 
agreement  is  no  more  binding  than  an  ex- 
torted, unjust  oath.  And  do  not  our  laws 
release  you  from  such  oaths?  Go,  tell  that 
to  children,  who  believe  in  R&bezahl. 
There  is  something  behind  all  this.  —  To 
become  an  enemy  of  the  Empire  —  a  dis- 


6o4 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


turber  of  public  happinees  and  trtmquillity, 
an  enemy  of  the  Emperor,  the  aesocUto  of 
a  robber!  —  Thou,  Weiaiingen,  with  thy 
gentle  soul! 

WmeuNSBN.  Did  but  you  know  him? 

ADB1.AIDE.  I  would  deal  justly  with 
Goeti.  He  has  a  lofty,  indomitable  spirit, 
andwoetothee, therefore, Weislingen.  Go, 
and  persuade  thyself  thou  art  his  com- 
panion. Go,  and  receive  hb  commands. 
Thou  art  courteous,  gentle  — 

Wkislingbn.  And  he,  too. 

Adxlaiiik.  But  thou  art  yielding,  and  he 
is  stubborn.  Imperceptibly  will  he  draw 
thee  on.  Thou  wilt  become  the  slave  of 
a  baron;  thou  that  migbteet  command 
princesl  -~  Yet  it  is  cruel  to  make  you  dia- 
contented  with  your  future  position. 

WzisLiNOBN.  Did  you  but  know  what 
kindness  he  showed  me. 

AsEUUDB.  Kindnesal  —  Do  you  make 
such  a  merit  of  that?  It  was  his  duty.  And 
what  would  you  have  lost  had  he  act«d 
otherwise?  1  would  rather  he  had  done  so. 
An  overbearing  man  like  — 

WEifiLiNaxN.  You  speak  of  your  enemy. 

Adbuide.  1  apeak  for  your  freedom; 
yet  I  know  not  why  I  should  take  so  much 
interestin.it.  FarewelU 

Weibunosn.  Permit  me,  but  a  moment. 
[Take*  her  hand.  A  paute.] 

AnBLAioE.  Have  you  aught  to  sayT 

WBiSLtNaKN.  I  must  hence. 

Adeuodb.  Then,  ^. 

Weisunobn.  Gracious  lady,  I  cannot. 

Ai>ELAii>B.  You  must. 

Wbuukqen.  And  is  this  your  parting 
lookT 

Adelaide.  Go,  1  am  unwell,  very  in- 
opportunely. 

WsisuNaEN.  Look  not  on  me  thus! 

Adelaide!  Wilt  thou  be  our  enemy,  and 
yet  have  us  smile  upon  thee  —  go! 

Wekunoen.  Adelaidel 

Adelaide.  I  hate  thee! 

(Enter  FRANas.) 
Feanos.  Noble  sir,  the  Bishop  inquiree 
tor  you. 
Adelaide.  Go!  go! 

Francis.  Hebegsyoutooomeinstantly. 
Adelaide.  Go!  go! 


Wbibunoen.  Idonotsayadieu:  Ishftll 
■eeyouagain. 

[Exeunt  Wbiblinoen  and  f^AM- 

OB.] 

Adelaide.  Thou  wilt  see  me  again?  We 
must  provide  for  that.  Margaret,  when  he 
comM,  refuse  him  admittance.  Say  I  am 
ill,  have  alieadache,  am  asleep,  anything. 
If  this  does  not  detain  him,  nothing  will. 
[ExeiMA 

Scam  VII.  An  anteroom. 
[Weiblinoen  and  Framcib.] 
Weiblinoen.  She  will  not  see  me! 
Francis.  Night  draws  on;  shall  we  saddle 
Weusinoen.   She  will  not  see  me  I 
Francis.  Shall  I  order  the  horses? 
WEisLiNaEN.  It  is  too  late;  we  stay  here. 
Francis.    God  be  praised!  [Exit.] 

Weislinoen  [alone].  Thou  stayeet!  Be 
on  thy  guard  —  the  temptation  is  great. 
My  hone  started  at  the  castle  gate.  My 
good  angel  stood  before  him,  he  knew  the 
danger  that  awaited  me.  Yet  it  would  be 
wrong  to  leave  in  confusion  the  various 
affairs  entrusted  to  me  by  the  Bishop,  witlt- 
out  at  least  so  arranging  them,  that  my  suc- 
cessor may  be  able  to  continue  where  I  l^t 
off.  That  I  can  do  without  breach  of  faiUi 
to  Berlichingen,  and  when  it  is  done  no 
one  shall  detain  me.  Yet  it  would  have 
been  better  that  t  had  never  come.  But  I 
will  away  —  to-morrow  —  or  next  day;  — 
T  is  decided!  [Exa.] 

Scene  VIII.   The  Spettart. 

[Enter  Goetz,  SELnrrz,  and  Gborob.1 

Selbit£.  You  see  it  has  turned  out  as  I 
propheeied. 

GoBTZ.   No,  no,  no. 

Georoe.  I  tell  you  the  truth,  believe  me. 
1  did  as  you  commanded,  took  the  dre« 
and  password  of  the  Bamberg  trooper,  and 
escorted  some  peasants  of  the  Lower  Rhine, 
who  paid  my  BKpenses  for  my  convoy. 

Selbftb.  In  that  disguise?  It  mi^t 
have  cost  thee  dear. 

OBonaE.  So  I  begin  to  think,  now  tfaat 
it's  over.  A  trooper  who  thinks  of  dangs' 
beforehand,  wiU  never  do  anything  greal 


GOETZ  VON   BERLICHINGEN. 


60s 


'X  got  safely  to  Bambe^,  and  in  the  very 
first  inn  I  heard  them  tell  hew  the  Bishop 
and  WeiBlingen  were  reooneiled,  and  how 
Weialingen  was  to  marry  the  widow  of  Von 
WftUdorf. 

GoBTi.  Mere  gossip  I 

Gbor<io.  I  saw  >iini  B8  he  led  her  to 
table.  Bhe  is  lovely,  by  my  faith,  most 
lorelyl  We  aU  bowed  - —  she  thanked  us 
all.  He  nodded,  aad  seemed  highly  pleased. 
They  passed  on,  and  everybody  murmured, 
"What  a  handsome  pairl" 

GoviE.  That  may  be. 

Gboboe.  Listen  further.  The  next  day 
as  he  went  to  mass,  1  watched  my  oppor- 
tunity; he  was  attended  only  by  his  squire; 
.  I  stood  at  the  steps  and  whispered  to  him 
.as  he  passed,  "A  few  words  from  your 
Riend  Berlichingen."  He  started —  I 
marked  the  confession  of  guilt  in  his  face. 
He  had  scarcely  the  heart  to  look  at  me  — 
me,  a  poor  trooper's  boy! 

Sklbtte.  His  evil  conscience  degrades 
him  mere  than  thy  condition  does  thee. 

Gkoroe.  "  Art  thou  of  Bamberg?  "  said 
he.  "The  Knight  of  BerUchingen  greets 
you,"  said  I,  "and  I  am  to  inquire — " 
"  Come  to  my  apartment  to-morrow  mom- 
iog,"  quoth  he,    and  we  will  speak  further," 

OoBTZ.  And  you  went? 

Geohob.  Yee,  certainly,  1  weoit,  and 
waited  in  his  antechamber  a  long  —  long 
time  —  and  his  pages,  in  their  silken 
dodslets,  stared  at  me  from  bead  to  foot. 
Stare  on.  thought  I.  At  length  I  was  ad- 
mitted. He  seemed  angry.  But  what  cared 
I?  I  gave  my  message.  He  began  bluster- 
ing like  a  coward  who  wants  to  look  brave. 
He  wondered  that  you  should  take  him  to 
task  through  a  trooper's  boy.  That  an- 
geredme.  "Therearebut  two  sorts  of  peo- 
ple." said  I,  "  true  men  andjcoundrels,  and 
I  serve  Goetz  of  Berlichingen."  Then  he 
began  to  talk  all  manner  of  nonsense,  which 
all  tended  to  one  point,  namely,  that  you 
had  hurried  him  into  an  agreranent,  that  he 
owed  you  no  allegiance,  and  would  have 
nothing  to  do  with  you. 

Gom.  Hast  thou  that  from  his  own 
mouth? 

Gbobob.  That,  and  yet  more.  He 
threatened  me  — 


GoBTz.  It  is  enoi^^.  He  is  lost  forever. 
Faith  and  oonfidmoe,  again  have  ye  de- 
ceived me.  Poor  Maria!  How  am  I  to 
break  this  to  you? 

SxLBiTz.  I  would  rather  lose  my  other 
leg  than  be  such  a  rascal. 

Scene  IX.  Hail  in  the  BUhop'g  palace 
at  Bamberg. 

[Adblaisb  and  Wxislinqen  dueovered.] 

Adbuodk.     Time  begins  to  hang  in- 

supportably  heavy  here.  I  dare  not  speak 

seriously,  and  I  am  ashamed  to  trifle  with 

you.    Ennui,  thou  art  worse  than  a  slow 

Weiblinobn.  Are  you  tired  of  me  already? 

AsELAinz.  Notsomuchof youasof your 
society.  1  would  you  had  gone  when  you 
wished,  and  that  we  had  not  detained  you. 

Weiblingen.  Such  is  woman's  favorl 
At  first  she  foeters  with  maternal  warmth 
OUT  dearest  hopes;  and  then,  like  an  inoon~ 
stant  hen,  she  forsakes  the  nest,  and  aban- 
dons the  infant  brood  to  death  and  decay. 

AnELArox.  Yes,  you  may  rail  at  women. 
The  reckless  gambler  tears  and  curses  the 
harmlees  cards  which  have  been  the  in- 
struments of  his  loss.  But  let  me  t«Il  you 
something  about  men.  What  are  you  that 
talk  about  ficklenen?  You  that  are  seldom 
even  what  you  would  wish  to  be,  never 
what  you  should  be.  Princes  in  holiday 
garbl  the  envy  of  the  vulgar.  Oh,  what 
would  a  tailor's  wife  not  give  for  a  necklace 
of  the  pearls  on  the  skirt  of  your  robe,  which 
you  kick  back  contemptuously  with  your 

Weibungbij.  You  are  severe. 

Adblaide.  It  is  but  the  antistrophe  to 
your  song.  Ere  I  knew  you,  Weislingen,  I 
felt  like  the  tailor's  wife.  Hundred-tongued 
rumor,  to  speak  without  metaphor,  had  so 
extolled  you,  in  quack-doctor  fashion,  that 
I  was  tempted  to  wish  —  Oh,  that  I  could 
but  see  this  quintessence  of  manhood,  this 
phcenix,  Weislingenl  My  wish  was  granted. 

Weiblimqen.  And  the  phcenix  turned 
out  a  dunghill  cock. 

AnELAiDE.  No,  Weislingen,  I  tookanio- 
terest  in  you. 

WEtsuNOEN.  So  it  appeared. 


CtOoqIc 


6o6 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Adelude.  So  it  luu  —  for  you  really 
aurpaoeed  your  reputation.  The  multitude 
priie  oaly  the  reflection  of  worth.  Far  my 
part,  I  do  not  care  to  scrutiniie  the  char- 
acter of  those  whom  I  esteem;  so  we  lived 
on  for  Bome  time.  I  felt  there  wu  a  de- 
ficiency in  you,  but  knew  not  what  I 
miesed;  at  length  my  eyee  were  opened  — 
I  saw  instead  of  the  energetic  being  who 
gave  impulee  to  the  affairs  o(  a  kingdom, 
and  waa  ever  alive  to  the  voice  of  fame  — 
who  was  wont  to  pile  princely  project  on 
project,  till,  like  the  mountains  of  the 
Titanfl,  they  reached  the  clouds  —  instead 
of  all  this,  I  saw  a  man  as  querulous  as  a 
love-sick  poet,  as  melancholy  as  a  slight«d 
damsel,  and  more  indolent  than  on  old 
bachelor.  I  first  ascribed  it  to  your  mis- 
fortune which  still  lay  at  your  heart,  and 
excused  you  as  well  as  T  could ;  but  now  that 
it  doilybeoomeeworae,  you  must  really  for- 
give me  if  I  withdraw  my  favor  from  you. 
You  possess  it  unjustly:  I  bestowed  it  for 
life  on  a  hero  who  cannot  transfer  it  to  you. 

WxiBLiNOxN.  Dismiss  me,  then. 

Adelaide.  Not  till  all  chance  of  re- 
covery is  lost.  SoUtude  is  fatal  in  your  dis- 
temper. Alas,  poor  man,  you  are  as  de- 
jected as  one  whose  first  love  has  proved 
false,  and  therefore  I  won't  give  you  up. 
Give  me  your  hand,  and  pardon  what  af- 
fection hs^  urged  me  to  say.  ^ 

WxiBLiKQEK.  Couldst  thou  but  love  me, 
couldet  thou  but  return  the  fervor  of  my 
passion  with  the  least  glow  of  sympathy  — 
Adelaide,  thy  reproaches  are  most  unjust. 
Couldet  thou  but  guess  the  hundredth  port 
of  my  sufferings,  thou  wouldst  not  have 
tortured  me  so  unmercifully  with  encour- 
agement, indifference,  and  contempt.  You 
smile.  To  be  reconciled  to  myself  after  the 
step  I  have  token  must  be  the  work  of  more 
than  one  day.  How  can  I  plot  against  the 
man  who  has  been  bo  recently  and  so  vividly 
restored  to  my  affection? 

AnEi.AiDE.  strange  being  I  Can  you  love 
himwhom  you  envy?  Itis  like  sending  pro- 
visions to  an  enemy. 

Weiblinqen.  I  welt  know  that  here 
there  must  be  no  dallying.  He  is  aware  that 
I  am  again  Weielingen;  and  he  will  watch 
bis  advantage   over   us.     Besides,    Ade- 


laide, we  ore  not  so  slugpsh  as  you  ttiink. 
Our  troopers  are  reinforced  and  watchful, 
our  schemes  are  proceeding,  and  the  Diet 
of  Augsburg  will,  I  hope,  soon  bring  them 
to  a  favorable  issue. 

Abilmoe.  You  go  tbereT 

Weiblinoxn.  If  I  could  carry  a  ^impse 
of  hope  with  me.  t£v««e«  her  hand.] 

>  AsBLAiDii.  Oh,  ye  infidels  I  Always 
signs  and  wonders  required.  GSo,  Weis- 
lingen,  and  accomplish  the  work!  The  in- 
terest of  tbe  Bishop,  yours,  and  mine,  are 
all  so  linked  together,  that  were  it  only  tar 
policy's  sake  — 

WsiSLiNaaM.  You  jest. 

AnELAiDE.  I  do  not  jest.  The  hou^it; 
duke  has  seiied  my  property.  Goets  wfll 
not  be  slow  to  ravage  yours;  and  if  we  do 
not  hold  together,  as  our  enemiea  do,  and 
gain  over  the  Emperor  to  our  side,  we  are 
lost. 

Weibumoek.  I  fear  nothing.  Most  of 
the  princes  think  with  us.  The  Empeztv 
needs  assistance  against  the  Turks,  and  it 
is  therefore  just  that  he  should  help  us  in 
his  turn,  What  rapture  for  me  to  reacae 
your  fortune  from  rapacious  enemies;  to 
crush  the  mutinous  chivalry  of  Swabia;  to 
restore  peace  to  the  bishopric,  and  then  — 

Adelaide.  One  day  brings  on  anotbw. 
and  fate  is  mistress  of  the  future. 

Weibuhqen.  But  we  moat  lend  our  en- 
deavors. 

Adelaide.  We  do  so. 

Weiblinqen.  But  seriously. 

Adblaidb.  Well,  thui,  serioualf.  Do 
but  go  — 

WsiBLiNaEN.  Enchantress!       [ExamL] 

ScBNsX.  Aninn.   ThehridalofapeaavU. 

IThe  Bride'i  Failier,  Bride,  Bridegroom,  trni 
other  Cowitry-folki,  Goeti  von  Bxr- 
LicHiNOEN,  and  Hans  von  SB[.Bm 
oU  ditcoetred  at  UMe.  Troopert  €md 
PeamnU  attend.] 
Goeti.  It  was  the  beet  way  thus  to 
settle  your  lawsuit  by  a  merry  bridal. 

Bride's  Father.  Better  than  ever  I 
could  have  dreamed  of,  noble  air,  —  to 
spend  my  days  in  quiet  witii  my  neig^kbor, 
and  have  a  dau^ter  provided  for  to  boot 


GOETZ  VON   BERLICHINGEN 


607 


BBiDBaHOOU.  And  I  to  get  the  bone  of 
contention  and  a  pretty  wife  'mXa  tbe  bar- 
gainl  Aye,  the  prettiest  in  the  whole  vil- 
lage. Would  to  Heaven  you  had  oonaented 

GoiiTZ.  How  long  have  you  been  at  law? 

Bbidii'b  Father.  About  eight  years.  I 
would  rather  have  the  fever  for  twice  that 
time  than  go  through  with  it  again  from  the 
beginning.  For  theee  periwigged  gentry 
never  pve  a  decision  till  you  tear  it  out  of 
their  very  hearts;  and  after  all,  what  do  you 
get  for  your  pains?  The  Devil  fly  away  with 
ir  Sapupi  for  a  damned  swarthy 


BRiDEGBOOif.  Yea,  he's  a  pretty  fellow; 
I  waa  before  him  twice. 

Bkidb's  Father.  And  I  thrice;  and  look 
ye,  gentlemen,  we  got  a  judgment  at  last, 
which  set  forth  that  he  was  as  much  in  the 
right  as  I,  and  I  as  much  as  he;  so  there  we 
stood  like  a  couple  of  fools,  till  a  good 
Providence  put  it  into  my  head  to  give  him 
my  daught^,  and  the  ground  beeidee. 

OoKTZ  [drinki].  To  your  better  under- 
standing for  the  future. 

Bridi's  Fathes.  With  all  my  heart! 
But  come  what  may,  I'll  never  go  to  law 
again  as  long  aa  I  live.  What  a  mint  of 
money  it  ooatsi  For  every  bow  made  to 
you  by  a  procurator,  you  must  come  down 
with  your  dollars. 

SELBrrz.  But  there  are  annual  imperial 
visitations. 

Bbioe'b  Fatbbr.  I  have  never  heard  of 
them.  Many  an  extra  dollar  have  they 
contrived  to  squeeie  out  of  me.  The  ex- 
penses are  horrible. 

GoBTE.  How  mean  you? 

Bbuju's  Father.  Why,  look  you,  these 
gentlemen  of  the  law  are  always  holding 
out  their  hands.  The  assessor  alone,  God 
forgive  him,  eased  me  of  eighteen  golden 
guilders. 

BiunEOBOOM.  Who? 

Bbide'b  Fatbeb.  Why,  who  elee  but 
Sapupi? 

QoETX.  That  is  infamous. 

Bride's  Fathxb.  Yes,  he  asked  twenty; 
and  there  I  had  to  pay  them  in  the  great 
hall  of  his  fine  country-house.  I  thought 
my  heart  would  burst  with  anguish.   For 


look  you,  my  lord,  I  am  well  enough  off 
with  my  house  and  little  farm,  but  how 
could  I  raise  the  ready  cash?  I  stood  then, 
God  knows  how  it  was  with  me.  I  had  not 
a  single  farthing  to  carry  me  on  my  jour- 
ney. At  last  I  took  courage  and  told  him 
my  case:  when  he  saw  I  was  desperate,  he 
flung  me  back  a  coiiple  of  guilders,  and  sent 
me  about  my  businces. 

BninBOROoif.  Impoeaiblel  Sapupi? 

Bbide'b  Father.'  Aye,  he  himself  I  — 
What  do  you  stare  at? 

BsioEosoou.  Devil  take  the  rascal  t 
He  took  fifteen  guilders  from  me,  tool 

Bride's  Father.  The  deuce  he  did! 

BBLBrrt.  They  call  us  robbers,  Goetit 

Bride's  Father.  Bribed  on  both  sides! 
That 's  why  the  judgment  fell  out  so  queer. 
—  Ohl  the  Bcoundrell 

Goete.  You  must  not  let  this  pass  un- 
ikoticed. 

Bride's  Father.  What  can  we  do? 

Gorre.  Why,  go  Xo  Spire  where  there  is 
an  imperial  visitation;  make  your  com- 
plaint; they  must  inquire  into  it,  and  help 
you  to  your  own  again. 

BRmEQROou.  Does  your  honor  think 
we  sh^l  succeed? 

GoBTz.  If  I  might  take  him  in  band,  I 
could  promise  it  you. 

Selbitz.  The  sum  is  worth  an  attempt. 

Gobtz.  Aye;  many  a  day  have  I  ridden 
out  for  the  fourth  part  of  it. 

Bride'b  Father  \lo  Bridtgroom],  What 
think'st  thou? 

BRmBGROou.     We'll   try,   come  what 

[Enter  George.] 
George.    The  Nurembergers  have  set 

GoETi.  Whereabouts  are  they? 

George.  If  we  ride  off  quietly,  we  shall 
just  catch  them  in  the  wood  betwixt  Ber- 
heim  and  MQhlbach. 

Sblbtiz.  Excellent  I 

Goetz.  Well,  my  children,  God  bless 
you,  and  help  every  man  to  his  ownl 

Brioe's  Father.  Thanks,  gallant  sirl 
Will  you  not  stay  to  supper? 

GoBTE.  I  cannot.  Adient 

[Exeunt  Goete,  Selbitc,  and  Troopers.) 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


ACT  III 

ScBNV  I.   A  garden  ai  Aug^mrg. 

[BfUer  tieo  MerchanU  o]  Nwemberg.] 

FiSOT  Merchant.  We'll  stand  here,  for 

the  Emperor  must  pass  thia  way.  He  is  just 

coming  up  the  long  avenue. 

Second  Mbrchant.    Who  is  that  with 
himT 
FiBBT  Merchant.    Adelbert  of  Weis- 

Sbcond  MERCHAifT.  TheBiahop'sfriend. 
That's  lucky! 

FnWT  Mbrcbant.  We'll  throw  our- 
selves at  hia  feet. 

Sbcohd  Mbrchant.  Seel  they  come. 

[BJiter  Ihft  EuPBROR  and  Weiblinqisk.] 

f^sar  Mebcbant.  He  looks  displeased. 

EuPBROB.  I  am  disfaeartened,  Weia- 
lingen.  When  I  review  my  past  lite,  I  am 
ready  to  despair.  So  many  half  — aye, 
and  wholly  mined  undertakings  —  and  all 
because  the  pettiest  feudatory  of  the  £m< 
pi  re  thinks  more  of  gratifying  bis  own 
whims  than  of  seconding  my  endeavora. 

[The  MerchanU  Ikrow  themaelvtt 
at  kU  feet.] 

FiBOT  Mbrchant.  Most  mightyl  Most 
gracious! 

Ehfehob.  Who  are  ye?  What  seek  ye? 

FiBST  Mbrchant.  Poor  merchants  of 
Nuremberg,  Your  Majesty's  devoted  serv- 
ants, who  implore  your  aid.  Goeti  von 
Berlichiugen  and  Hans  von  Selbiti  fell 
upon  thirty  of  us  as  we  journeyed  from  the 
fair  of  Frankfort,  under  an  escort  from 
Bamberg;  they  overpowered  and  plundered 
us  We  implore  your  imperial  aasistance 
to  obtain  redress,  else  we  are  all  ruined 
men,  and  shall  be  compelled  to  beg  our 

EuraaOB.  Good  Heavens!  What  is  this? 

The  one  has  but  one  hand,  the  other  but 
one  1^;  if  they  both  had  two  hands  and 
two  1^9,  what  would  you  do,  then? 

FiBoT  MBBcaANT.  We  most  humbly  be- 
seech Your  Majesty  to  cast  a  look  of  com- 
passion upon  oui  unfortunate  condition. 

EupBRoR.  How  is  this?  —  If  a  merchant 
loses  a  bag  of  pepper,  all  Germany  is  to 


rise  in  arms;  but  when  buainess  is  to  be 
done,  in  which  the  imperial  majesty  and 
the  Empire  are  interested,  should  it  concern 
dukedoms,  principalities,  or  kingdoma, 
there  is  no  bringing  you  together. 

W&isLiNOBN.  You  come  at  an  unsea- 
sonable time.  Go,  and  stay  at  Augsburg 
tor  a  few  days. 

Mbrchants.  We  make  our  most  hum- 
ble obeisance.  {Exeunt  Merehanli.] 

Emperor.  Again  new  disturbances;  they 
multiply  like  the  hydra's  faeadsl 

WEisiimoEN.  And  can  only  be  extirpated 
with  fire  and  oword. 

EuPEROR.   Do  you  think  so7 

Wbislinoen.  Nothing  seema  t«  me 
more  advisable,  could  Your  Majesty  and 
the  princes  but  accommodate  your  other 
unimportant  disputes.  It  is  not  the  body 
of  the  state  that  complains  of  this  malady 
—  Franconia  and  Swabia  alone  glow  with 
the  embers  of  civil  discord;  and  even  there 
many  of  the  Doblee  and  free  barona  long 
for  quiet.  Could  we  but  crush  Sickingen, 
Seibitz  —  and  —  and  —  and  Berlichiogen, 
the  others  would  fall  asunder;  for  it  is  the 
spirit  of  these  knights  which  quickens  the 
turbulent  mulitude. 

EupBBOR.  Fain  would  I  spare  them;  they 
are  noble  and  hardy.  Should  I  be  engaged 
in  war,  they  would  follow  me  to  the  field- 

Weisunobh.  It  is  to  be  wished  they  had 
at  all  times  known  their  duty;  moreover, 
it  would  be  dangerous  to  reward  their  mu- 
tinous bravery  by  offices  of  trust.  For  it ' 
is  exactly  this  imperial  mercy  and  forgive- 
ness which  they  have  hitherto  so  grievously 
abused,  and  upon  which  the  hope  and  con- 
fidence of  their  league  rests,  and  this  spirit 
cannot  be  quelled  till  we  have  wholly  de- 
stroyed their  power  in  the  eyes  of  the  world, 
and  taken  from  them  all  hope  of  ever  re- 
covering their  lost  influence. 

Emperob.  You  advise  severe  meamiroa, 
then? 

WBisLiNazN.  I  see  no  other  means  o( 
quelling  the  spirit  of  insurrection  which 
has  seized  upon  whole  provinces.  Do  wa 
not  already  hear  the  bitterest  complaints 
from  the  nobles,  that  their  vassals  and  serfs 
rebel  against  them,  question  their  author- 
ity, and  thieaten  to  curtail  their  bend- 


GOETZ  VON   BERLICHINGEN 


itary  pren^atives?  A  proceeding  whieh 
wodd  involve  the  mMt  fearful  conae- 
queaces. 

Empkror.  This  were  a  fair  occasion  for 
proceeding  against  Berlichiagen  and  Sel- 
bitc;  but  I  niU  not  have  them  personally 
iDJured.  Could  they  be  taken  priftoneiB, 
they  should  swear  to  renounce  their  feuds, 
and  to  remain  in  their  own  castles  and  ter- 
ritories upon  their  knightly  parole.  At  the 
next  session  of  the  Diet  we  will  propose  this 
plan. 

Weisunobn.  a  general  exclamation  of 
jojrful  assent  will  spare  Your  Majesty  tbe 
trouble  of  particular  detail.  [Exeunt.] 

Sctam  11. 


SiCKiNOKN.  Yes,  my  friend,  I  come  to 
beg  the  heart  and  hand  of  your  noble 

GoBTE.  1  would  you  had  come  sooner. 
WeislinKen,  during  his  imprisonment,  ob- 
tained her  affections,  proposed  for  her,  and 
I  gavs  my  consent.  I  let  the  bird  loose,  and 
he  now  despises  the  benevolent  hand  that 
fed  him  in  his  distress.  He  flutters  about 
to  seek  his  food,  God  knows  upon  what 
hedge. 

SicKiMOBN.  Is  this  so7 

Gojnz.  Even  as  I  t«ll  you. 

SiCKiNOBK.  He  has  broken  a  douUe 
bond.  T  is  well  for  you  that  you  were  not 
more  closely  allied  with  the  traitor. 

GoBTZ.  The  poor  maiden  paasee  her  life 
in  lamentation  and  prayer. 

SicKiNOBN.   1  will  comfort  her. 

GoBTZ.  WhatI  Could  you  make  up  your 
mind  to  marry  a  forsaken?  — 

SiGKiNatN.  It  is  to  the  honor  of  you 
bothjto  havebeendeceivedbyhim.  Should 
the  poor  girl  be  caged  in  a  cloister  because 
the  first  man  who  gained  her  love  proved 
a  villain?  Not  so;  I  insist  on  it.  She  shall 
be  mistress  of  my  castleel 

GoBTZ.  I  tell  you  he  was  not  indifferent 

SicEiNOBN.  Do  you  think  I  cannot 
efface  the  recollection  of  such  a  wretch? 
Let  us  go  to  her.  [£xeunl.) 


Scene  III.   The  camp  of  the  party  st 
to  execute  the  imperial  mandate. 


Captain.  We  must  be  cautious,  and 
spare  our  people  as  much  as  possible.  Be- 
sides, we  have  strict  orders  tooverpower  and 
take  him  olive.  It  will  be  difGcult  to  obey; 
for  who  will  engage  with  him  hand  to  hand? 

Fiaar  Offickb.  'T  is  true.  And  he  wil! 
fight  like  a  wild  boar.  Besides,  he  has  never 
in  his  whole  life  injured  any  of  us,  so  each  will 
be  glad  to  leave  to  the  other  the  honor  of 
risking  life  and  limb  to  please  the  Emperor. 

Second  Ovmcer.  T  were  shame  to  us 
should  we  not  take  him.  Had  I  him  once 
by  the  ears,  he  should  not  easily  escape. 

First  Ofticer.  Don't  seite  him  with 
your  teeth,  however,  he  might  chance  to 
nm  away  with  your  jawbone.  My  good 
young  sir,  such  men  are  not  taken  like  a 
runaway  thief. 

Second  OmcER.  We  shall  see. 

Captain.  By  this  time  he  must  have  had 
oureuinmonB,  We  must  not  delay.  I  mean 
to  dispatch  a  troop  to  watch  his  motions. 

Sbcond  OrncKR.  Let  me  lead  it. 

CAprAiN.  You  are  unacquainted  with 
the  country. 

Second  Opfickr.  I  have  a  servant  who 
was  born  end  bred  here. 

Captain.  Thatwilldo.  lExeunt.] 

Scene  IV.  JaxlhaMSen. 

StCKiNOBN  [alone].  All  goes  as  I  wishi 
She  was  somewhat  startled  at  my  proposal, 
and  looked  at  me  from  head  to  foot;  111 
wager  she  was  comparing  me  with  her  gal- 
lant. Thank  Heaven,  I  can  stand  the  scru- 
tiny! She  answered  little  and  confusedly. 
So  much  the  better!  Let  it  work  for  a  time. 
A  proposal  of  marriage  does  not  come  amiss 
art«r  such  a  cruel  disappointment. 

[Enter  Gobtz.] 
StCKiNOBN.  What  news,  brother? 
GoBTS.  They  have  laid  me  under  the  ban. 
Sickinobn.  How? 

GoBTS.  There,  read  the  edifying  episUe. 
The  Emperor  has  issued  an  edict  against 


c^ 


6io 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


me,  which  gives  my  body  (or  food  to  the 
beasts  of  the  earth  &nd  the  fowls  6t  the  air. 

SiCKiKOEN.  They  shall  first  funiish  them 
with  a  dinner  themselves.  T  am  here  in  the 
very  nick  of  time. 

OoBTZ.  No,  Sickingen,  you  must  leave 
me.  Your  great  undertakings  might  be 
mined,  should  you  become  the  enemy  of  the 
En^jeror  at  so  unseasonable  a  time.  Be- 
sides, you  can  be  of  more  use  4«  me  by  re- 
maining neutral.  The  worst  that  can  hap- 
pen is  my  being  made  prisoner;  and  then 
your  good  word  with  the  Emperor,  who 
esteems  you,  may  rescue  me  from  the  mis- 
fortune into  which  your  untimely  assist- 
ance would  irremediably  plunge  us  both. 
To  what  purpose  should  you  do  otherwise? 
These  troops  are  marching  against  me ;  and 
it  they  knew  we  were  united,  their  numbers 
would  only  be  increased,  and  our  position 
would  consequently  be  no  belter.  The 
Emperor  is  at  the  fountiun-bead;  and  I 
should  be  utterly  ruined  were  it  as  easy  to 
inspire  soldiers  with  courage  as  -to  collect 
*,hem  into  a  body. 

SicKiNOEN.  But  I  can  privately  rein- 
force you  with  a  score  of  troopers. 

GoBTZ.  Good.  I '  have  already  sent 
George  to  Selbitz,  and  to  my  people  in  the 
neighborhood.  My  dear  brother,  when  my 
forces  are  collected,  they  will  be  such  a 
troop  as  few  princes  can  bring  together. 

SiCKiNOBN  It  will  be  small  against  the 
multitude. 

QoBTZ.  One  wolf  is  too  many  for  a  whole 
flock  of  sheep. 

SiCKMOBN.  But  if  they  have  a  good 
shepherd? 

GoBTz.  Never  feart  They  are  all  hire- 
lings; and  then  even  the  beet  knight  can  do 
but  little  if  he  cannot  act  as  be  pleases.  It 
happenedonce,thattoobIige the  Palsgrave, 
I  went  to  serve  against  Conrad  Schotten; 
they  then  presented  me  with  a  paper  of 
instructions  from  the  chancery,  which  set 
forth  —  thus  and  thus  must  you  proceed, 
I  threw  down  the  paper  before  the  magis- 
tratee,  and  told  them  I  could  not  act  ac- 
cording to  it;  that  something  might  happen 
unprovided  for  in  my  instructions,  and 
that  I  must  use  my  own  eyes  and  judge 
what  was  best  to  be  done. 


SicKmaKN.  Good  luck,  brother!  I  will 
hence,  and  send  thee  what  men  I  can  col- 
lect in  haste. 

GoBTi.  Come  first  to  the  women.  I  left 
them  together.  I  would  you  had  her  con- 
sent before  you  depart  I  Then  send  me  the 
troopers,  and  come  back  in  private  to  carry 
away  my  Maria;  for  my  castle,  I  fear,  will 
shortly  be  no  abode  for  women. 

SicKiNOEN.  We  will  hope  for  tiie  besL 
{ExevU.] 


[Ash 


B  and  Fkancib.] 


Adei^aidb.  They  have  already  set  out  to 
enforce  the  ban  agunst  both? 

Francis.  Yes;  and  my  master  has  tfae 
happiness  of  marching  against  your  Gte- 
mies.  I  would  gladly  have  gone  also,  how- 
ever rejoiced  I  always  am  at  being  dis- 
patched to  you.  But  T  will  away  instantly, 
and  soon  return  with  good  news;  my 
nias4«r  has  allowed  me  to  do  so. 

Ai>Bi.&n>B.  How  is  he? 

FsANciB.  He  is  well,  and  commanded 
me  to  kiss  your  hand, 

Ai>ei.a]I>b.  There!  —  Thy  lips  ^ow. 

Fhancib  [aside,  pnaamg  hit  bretut].  Hm 
^owB  something  yet  more  fiery.  [AltnuL] 
Gracious  lady,  your  servants  are  the  most 
fortunate  of  bein^l 

Adblaidb.  Who  goes  against  Bw> 
lichingen? 

Francis.  The  Baron  von  Sirau.  Fare- 
well I  Dearest,  most  gracious  lady,  I  must 
away.  Forget  me  not! 

AsBLAiDB.  Thou  must  first  take  some 
rest  and  refreshment. 

Francis.  I  need  none,  for  I  have  eeon 
you!  I  am  neither  weary  nor  huhgry. 

AoBLAiDB.  I  know  thy  fidelity. 

Francis.  Ah,  gracious -lady  1 

ASEUODE.  You  can  never  bold  out;  yoa 
must  repose  and  refresh  yourself. 

Francis.  You  are  too  kind  to  a  poor 
youth.  [Exit.] 

Adblaidii.  The  tears  stood  in  his  eyes. 
I  love  him  from  my  heart.  Never  did  man 
attach  himself  to  me  witii  such  wanatii  o( 
affection.  [fiMU 


:.L|,i,zedi!,GoOQlc 


GOETZ  VON  BEitLICHINGEN 


6ii 


ScBNB  VI.    Jaxthauten. 
(GoBTZ  and  Ghobok.] 

QsoROB.  He  wants  to  speak  with  ^ou 
inpeTBon.  I  do  not  know  him — heisatall, 
w^-made  man,  with  keen  dark  eyes. 

Govts.  Admit  him.         [ExU  Gbohok.] 
[Enter  Lebse.) 

Oovra.  God  save  you  I  What  bring  you? 

Dbbsb.  Myself:  not  much,  but  sudt  as 
A  is,  it  ia  at  yoiir  service. 

Govrz.  You  are  wdcome,  doubly  wel- 
come! A  brave  man,  and  at  a  time  when, 
far  from  expecting  new  friends,  I  was  in 
hourly  fear  of  losing  the  oM.   Youl  name? 

Lkiise.  Frank  Lerae. 

GoBTZ.  1  thank  you,  Frans,  for  making 
me  acquainted  witji  a  brave  man! 

LxBSE.  I  made  you  a«quaint«d  with  me 
once  before,  but  then  you  did  not  thank 
me  for  my  pains. 
"    GoETZ.  I  have  no  recollection  of  you. 

LBReB.  I  should  be  sorry  if  you  had. 
Do  you  reotdtect  when,  to  pleaae  the  Pals- 
grave, you  rode  against  Conrad  Schotten, 
and  went  through  Haasfurt  on  an  Allhal- 
low  eve? 

GoBTZ.   I  remember  it  well. 

Lerbe.  And  twenty-five  troopers  en- 
countered you  in  a  village  by  the  way? 

GoBTZ.  Exactly.  I  at  first  took  them 
for  only  twelve.  I  divided  my  party,  which 
amounted  but  to  sixteen,  and  halted  in  the 
village  behind  the  barn,  intending  to  kt 
them  ride  by.  Then  I  thought  of  falling 
upon  them  in  the  rear,  ss  1  had  concerted 
with  the  other  troop. 

Lbrsb.  We  saw  you,  however,  and  sta- 
tioned ourselves  on  a  height  above  the  vil- 
lage. You  drew  up  beneath  the  hill  and 
halted.  When  we  perceived  that  you  did 
not  intend  to  come  up  to  us  we  rode  down 
to  you. 

OoBTC.  And  titen  I  saw  for  the  first 
time  that  I  had  thrust  my  hand  into  the 
fire.  Five-and-twenty  against  eight  is  no 
jesting  business.  Everard  Truchsesa  killed 
one  of  my  followers,  for  which  I  knocked 
him  off  his  horse.  Had  they  all  behaved  like 
huu  and  one  other  trooper,  it  would  have 
been  all  over  with  me  md  my  little  band. 


Lebsb.  And  that  trooper  — 

GoBTZ.  Was  as  gallant  a  fellow  as  I  ever 
saw.  He  attacked  me  fiercely;  and  when  I 
thought  I  had  given  h\jn  enough  and  was 
engaged  elsewhere,  he  was  upon  me  again, 
and  laid  on  like  a  fury :  he  cut  quite  through 
my  armor,  and  wounded  me  in  the  arm. 

Lerbe.  Have  you  foi^ven  him? 

GoBTZ.  He  pleased  me  only  toe  well. 

Lerse.  I  hope,  then,  you  have  cause  to 
be  contented  with  me,  since  the  proof  of  my 
valor  was  on  your  own  person. 

GoBTz.  Art  thou  he?  Oh,  welcomel 
welcome  I  Canst  thou  boast,  Manmiliau, 
that  amongst  thy  followers,  thou  hast 
gained  one  aft«r  this  faehionT  ' 

LxBBE.  I  wonder  you  did  not  sooner  hit 

GoBTZ.  How  could  I  think  that  the 
man  would  engage  in  my  service  who  did 
his  best  to  overpower  me? 

Lebsb.  Even  so,  my  lord.  From  my 
youth  upwards  I  have  served  aa  a'trooper, 
and  have  liad  a  tussle  with  many  a  knight.  ' 
I  was  overjoyed  when  we  met  you;  for  I  had  I 
heard  of  your  prowess,  and  wished  to  know 
you.  You  saw  I  gave  way,  and  that  it  was  not 
from  cowardice,  for  I  returned  to  the  charge. 
In  short,  I  learn  to  know  you,  and  from 
that  hour  I  resolved  to  enter  your  service. 

GoBTZ.  How  long  wilt  thou  engage  with 
me? 

Lbbsb,  For  a  year,  without  pay. 

GoBTz.  No;  thou  shalt  have  as  Uw 
others;  nay,  more,  as  befits  him  who  gave 
me  so  mudi  work  at  Hemlin. 

[Enter  OBORaB.) 

Obobob.  Hans  von  Selbits  greets  you. 
To-morrow  he  will  be  here  with  fifty  mat. 

GoBTz.  'T  is  well. 

Gbobob.  lliere  is  a  troop  of  Imperialists 
riding  down  the  hill,  doubtless  to  recon- 
noiter. 

GoBTZ.  How  many? 

Georox.  About  fifty? 

GosTZ.  Only  fifty!  Come,  Lerse,  well 
have  a  slash  at  them,  so  that  when  Selbits 
comes  he  may  find  some  work  done  to  his 

Lebbb.  T  will  be  capital  practice. 
GoBTS.  To  horse!  [£xeun(.J 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Scene  VII.  A  toood,  on  tht  borders  of 
amoraii. 

(Two  Imperialist  Troopen  mteting.] 

FiBST  luFBsiALiBT.  What  dost  thou 
hare? 

SscoND  luFEBiAUST.  I  have  leave  of 
obeence  for  ten  minutea.  Ever  diioe  our 
quarters  were  beat  up  last  night,  I  have 
had  Buoh  violent  attacks- that  I  can't  sit  on 
horseback  for  two  minut^a  together. 

First  Tufebiaubi.  Is  the  party  far 
advanced? 

Second  lupEBuun.  About  three  milee 
into  the  wood. 

Fiaar  Iupebiaubt.  Then,  why  are  you 
playing  truant  here? 

Second  iMMtaiAuer.  Prithee,  betray 
me  not.  I  am  going  to  the  next  village  to 
see  if  I  cannot  get  some  warm  bandages,  to 
relieve  my  complaint.  But  whence  eomert 
thou? 

FiBsr  Iiii>EHiAUBT.  I  am  bringing  our 
officer  some  wine  and  meat  from  the  nearest 
village. 

Second  Impbkiaubt.  So,  sol  He  stuffs 
himaelf  under  our  very  noaee,  and  we  must 
starve  —  a  fine  ezamplel 

First  Iupbrialibt.  Gome  back  with 
me,  rascal. 

Second  Iuperiaubt.  Call  me  a  fool,  if 
I  dol  There  are  plenty  in  our  troop  who 
would  gladly  fast,  to  be  as  far  away  aa  I 
am.  {Trawpling  of  hoTse»  heord.\ 

FrasT  iMPXBi&uar.  Hmir'st  thou?  — 
Horses  I 

Second    Iuperialibt.    Oh,   dear!   Ob, 

FiBBT  luPHRIAUST,    I'll  get  Up  [utO  tluS 

Second    luPEBiAuer.     And    I'll    hide 

among  the  rushee.     {They  hide  themtebitt.] 

[Enter     on     Aorsebodt,      Gobtz,      Ij:bse, 

George,  and  Troopers,  aH  eompUtdy 

GoETi.  Away  into  the  wood,  by  the  ditch 
on  the  left,  —  then  we  have  them  in  the 
rear.  [Thej/  goOop  oj.] 

First    Imferiaubt    [degeending].     This 
is  a  bad  businees  —  Michael!  —  He 
Bwera  not  —  Michael,  they  are  gonet  {Qoe* 


toward  Ae  morsA.)  Alas,  he  is  aunfcl  — 
Michaell  —  He  hears  me  not:  he  is  suffo- 
cated. —  Poor  coward,  art  thou  done  for? 
We  are  slain  —  enemiesl    Enemies  on  all 

[Reinttr  Goirrs  and  Gboboe  on  hortAoA.] 

Govts.  Yield  thee,  fellow,  or  thou  dieetl 

ImpebuiiIbt.  Spare  my  Ufel 

Gobtc.  Thy  sword!  —  George,  lead  bim 
to  the  other  prisoners,  whom  Ijaab  is 
guarding  yonder  in  the  wood.  I  must  pur- 
sue their  fugitive  leader.  \BtU.\ 

Impbsiaust.  What  has  become  of  the 
knight,  our  officer? 

Georoe.  My  master  struck  him  head 
over  heels  from  bis  borse,  so  that  hia  plume 
stuck  in  the  mire.  His  troopers  got  bim  up 
and  off  they  were  as  if  the  Devil  were  be- 
hind them.  [£ievnl.] 

Scene  VIII.   Camp  of  Oit  Imperwiiul*. 
[Captain  and  Pint  O^oer.] 
PiBST   Officer.    They    fly   from    afar 
toward  the  camp. 

Captain.  He  is  most  likely  bard  at  their 
heels.  Draw  out  fifty  as  far  as  the  mill;  if 
be  follows  up  the  pursuit  t«o  far,  you  may 
perhaps  entrap  him.  [BxU  Offioer.\ 

[The  Second  Officer  it  borne  in.\ 

Captain.  How  now,  my  young  or,  — 
have  you  got  a  cracked  headpiece? 

OmcER.  A  plague  upon  you!  Hib 
stoutest  helmet  went  to  shivers  like  ^ass. 
The  demon!  He  ran  upon  me  as  if  bt 
would  strike  me  into  the  earth  I 

Captain.  Thank  God,  that  you  have 
escaped  with  your  life. 

Officer,  lliere  is  little  left  to  be  thank- 
ful for;  two  of  my  ribs  are  broken  — 
Where's  the  surgeon?      [He  it  earned  off.] 

Scene  IX.  Jaxthatuen. 
[Enter  Govrz  and  Selbitx.] 


Selbttz.  'T  is  a  trick  of  WeisUngeD's. 

GoETi.  Do  you  think  so? 

Selbitz.  I  do  not  think  —  I  know  it. 


GOETZ  VON   BERLICHINGEN 


GOBTZ.    How  M? 

Sblbite.  He  wae  at  the  Diet,  I  tell  thee, 
and  Dear  the  Emperor's  person. 

Goirrs.  Well,  then,  we  >hall  frustrate 
another  of  his  sehemee. 

Sbi^itz.  I  hope  so. 

GoETZ.   We  will  away  and  courae  these 

ScxNX  X.    The  imperial  eamp. 
[Captain,  Officen,  and  FoUaaert.] 

Captain.  We  shall  gain  nothing  at  this 
work,  sirs!  He  beatfl  one  troop  after  an- 
other; snd  whoever  escapes  death  or  cap- 
tivity, would  rather  fly  to  Turkey  than  re- 
turn to  the  camp.  Thmourforcediniinishee 
daOy.  We  must  attack  him  onoe  for  all, 
and  in  earnest.  I  will  go  myaetf,  and  he 
shall  find  with  whom  he  has  to  deal. 

OrFiciiR.  We  are  all  content;  but  be  is 
ao  well  acquainted  with  the  country,  and 
knows  every  path  and  ravine  so  thoroughly, 
that  he  wiU  be  as  difficult  to  find  aa  a  rat 
in  a  bam. 

Captain.  I  warrant  you  we 'II  ferret  him 
out.  On  toward  Jaxthauaeni  Whether  he 
like  it  or  not,  he  must  come  to  defend  hia 
castie. 

Ofitcxr.  Shall  our  whole  force  march? 

Captain.  Yes,  certainly  —  do  you  know 
that  a  hundred  of  ua  are  melted  away  al- 
readyT 

OpnczR.  Then,  let  us  away  with  speed, 
before  the  whole  snowball  dissolves;  for  this 
is  warm  work,  and  we  stand  here  like  butter 
in  the  aunhsine. 

[ExewU  —  a  mtrA  soundad.) 

ScKNX  XI.  Mountaini  and  a  xoood. 
(GoBTz,  SBLsrrz,  and  Trooperi.) 
OosTz.    They  are  coining  in  full  force. 
high  time  that  Sicldngen's  troopers 


It 


Bbiaitk.  We  wilt  divide  our  party  —  I 
will  take  the  left  hand  by  the  hill. 

GoETt.  Good  —  and  do  thou,  Lerse, 
lead  fifty  men  straight  through  the  wood 
on  the  right.  They  are  coining  across  the 
heath.  I  will  draw  up  oppoeite  to  them. 
George,  stay  by  me  —  when  you  see  them 


attack  tne,  then  fall  upon  their  flank:  we'll 
beat  the  knaves  into  a.  mummy  —  they 
little  think  we  can  faoe  them         |£zeun<.] 

Scum  XII.  A  heath  —  momndeanemi- 

netux,  with  a  ruined  tower,  on  tiie 

other  the  foreet. 

[Enter  marching,  the  Captain  of  the  Int- 
perialiste  with  Offieert  and  hit  Squad- 
ron —  Drums  and  tlandardt.] 

Captain.  He  halts  upon  the  heathi 
That's  too  impudent.  He  shall  smart  for 
it.  WhatI  Not  fear  the  torrent  that 
threatens  to  overwhelm  him  I 

OmcBR.  I  had  rather  you  did  not  head 
the  troops;  he  looks  as  if  be  meant  te  plant 
the  first  that  oomes  upon  him  in  the  mire 
with  bis  bead  downmost.  Prithee  ride  in 
the  rear. 

C attain.  Not  BO. 

Officxk.  I  entreat  you.  You  are  the 
knot  which  unitM  this  bundle  of  haael 
twip;  loose  it,  and  he  will  break  them 
separately  like  so  many  reeds. 

Captain.  Sound,  trumpeter  —  and  let 
us  blow  bim  to  hell! 

[A    eharge    sounded  —  exeunt  in 
fAdie^eer.] 

[Selbitz,  vrith  hit  Troopert,  comet  from  be- 
hind the  hill,  gedloping.] 
8msm.    Follow  mel   They  shall  wish 
that  they  could  multiply  their  hands. 

[They  gaUop  aerott  the  stage,  «t 


Liasi.  Hoi  to  the  rescue!  Goets  is  al- 
most surrounded.  —  Gallant  Selbita,  thou 
hast  out  thy  way  —  we  will  sow  the  heath 
with  thew  thistle  heada.  [GaUap  off-] 

[A  loud  alarm,  tiriih  ehouting  and 
firing  for  aome  minute*.] 
[SiLBiTt  it  borne  in  wounded  by  two 
Troopetg.] 
SELBrrz.  Leave  me  here,  and  hasten  to 
Goetx. 

FiBST  Trooper.  Let  ua  stay,  sir,  —  yoti 
need  our  aid. 


6i+ 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Bklbiti.  Get  one  of  you  on  the  wateh- 
tower,  and  tell  me  how  it  goes. 

FiB9r  Tsoopxs.  How  shall  I  get  upT 

BxcoND  Troopek.  Mount  upon  my 
shoulders  —  you  can  then  reach  the  mined 
part,  and  thence  scramble  up  to  the  open- 
ing.     [First  Trooper  get»  up  into  the  tmoer.] 

FiBST  TnoopBB.  Alaa,  sirl 

SiLBm.  What  seest  thou? 

FiBST  Tboopbb.  Your  troopers  fly  to- 
ward the  hill. 

Sblbitz.  Rascally  cowards;  —  I  would 
that  they  stood  their  ground,  and  I  had  a 
ball  through  my  head.  Ride,  one  of  you, 
full  speed  —  curse  and  thunder  them  back 
to  the  field.  Seest  Uiou  Goeti? 

{BjM  Second  Trooper.] 

Tboopxb.  I  see  hia  three  black  feathers 
floating  in  the  midst  of  the  wavy  tu- 

Sblbitz.  Swim,  brave  swinuner  —  I  lie 

TnoopBB.  A  white  plume  —  whose  is 
that? 

Sklbitz.  The  captain's. 

Tboopeb.  Goeti  gallops  upon  him  — 
crasbt  Down  he  goeal 

Seiaitz.  The  captain? 

Troofeb,  Yes,  sir. 

Sulbitz.  Hurrah]  hurrahl 

TnooFBR.    Alasl  alas!  I  see  Goets  no 

SELBrrz.  Then,  die,  Belbitsl 

Troofeb.  A  dreadful  tumult  where  he 
stood  —  George's  blue  plume  vanishea 
too. 

BELBrrc.  Come  down!  Doet  thou  not 
>ee  Lerse? 

Tboopbb.   No;  —  everything  is  in  con- 

SUiBITZ.  No  more.  Come  down.  — 
How  do  Sickingen's  men  bear  themselves? 

Trooper.  Well.  One  of  them  flies  to  the 
wood —  another  —  another  —  a  whole 
troop.  Goetz  is  lost! 

Selbitz.  Comedown. 

Trooper.  I  cannot.  Hurrahl  hurrahl 
I  see  Goetz,  I  see  George. 

Selbitc.  On  horseback? 

Trooper.  Aye,  aye,  high  on  horseback 
—  Victoryl  victoryl  —  they  fly. 

SsLBm.  The  Imperialists? 


Tboopeb.  Yes,  stajidard  and  all,  Oortt 
behind  them.  They  disperse,  —  Gort« 
reaches  the  ensign,  —  he  seises  the  stand- 
ard; he  halts.  A  handful  of  men  rally 
^ound  him.  My  comrade  reaches  him  — 
they  come  this  way. 

[EnUr  GoBTi,  Georob,  Lerob,  and 
Troopen,  on  hontbaek.] 

Selbftz.  Joy  to  thee,  Goetil  —  victoiyl 

QoBTL  [ditmovntiiinY  Dearly,  dsuiy 
bought.  Thou  art  wounded,  Selbitil 

SxLBrrz.  But  thou  doet  live  and  hast 
conquered]  I  have  done  httle;  and  my 
dop  of  troopers!  How  hast  tjiou  etnna 
off? 

Goetz.  For  the  present,  well!  And  hen 
I  thank  George,  and  thee,  Lerse,  for  my 
life.  I  unhorsed  the  captain,  they  stabbed 
my  horse,  and  pressed  me  hard.  GeMgB 
cut  his  way  to  me,  and  sprang  off  his  hone. 
1  threw  myself  like  li^tning  upon  it,  and 
he  appeared  suddenly  like  a  thunderbdt 
upon  another.  How  earnest  thou  by  tliy 
steed? 

Gboroe.  A  fellow  struck  at  you  from 
behind:  as  he  raised  his  cuirass  in  the  ael^ 
I  stabbed  him  with  my  dagger.  Down  be 
came;  and  so  1  rid  you  of  an  enemy,  ood 
helped  myself  to  a  horse. 

Gomrz.  There  we  held  togethar  till 
Francis  here  came  to  our  help;  and  there- 
upon we  mowed  our  way  out. 

Lbrbe.  The  hounds  whom  I  led  wve  to 
have  mowed  their  way  in,  tOl  our  scyUiM 
met,  but  they  fled  like  Imperialisto. 

Goetz.  Friend  and  foe  all  fled,  except 
this  little  band  who  protected  my  rear.  I 
had  enough  to  do  wiUi  the  fellows  in  front, 
but  the  fall  of  their  captain  dismayed  tbeat: 
they  wavered,  and  fled.  I  have  their  ban- 
ner, and  a  few  prisoners. 

SflLBm.  The  captain  has  escaped  you? 

GoEiv.  They  rescued  him  in  the  scuffle. 
Come,  lads;  come,  Selbiti.  —  Make  a  littv 
of  lances  and  boughs.  Thou  canst  not 
mount  a  horse,  come  to  my  castle,  llwy 
are  scattered,  but  we  are  very  few;  and  I 
know  not  what  troops  they  may  have  in 
reserve.  I  will  be  your  host,  my  frioMls. 
Wine  will  tast«  well  after  such  an  actioB. 
[Exeunt,  earrymg  ftu^m.] 


GOETZ  VON   BERLICHINGEN 


615 


Bcxm  XIII.   The  eamp. 

[The  Captain  and  Imperialiele.] 

Cattain.   I  oould  kill  you  all  with  my 

own  hand.  — :  What!  to  turn  taill  He  had 

■ot  a  handful  of  men  left.   To  give  way 

before  one  manl  No  one  will  believe  it  but 

thom  who  wish  t«  make  a  jest  of  ub.  Ride 

round  the  country,  you,  and  you,  and  you: 

collect  OUT  scattered  eotdiera,  or  cut  tiiem 

down  wherever  you  find  them.    We  must 

grind  these  notches  out  of  our  blades,  even 

should  we  epoil  our  swords  in  the  operation. 

[Bxettnt.] 

ScXNi  XIV.  Jaxthatuen. 
(GocTz,  LmsE,  attd  Qbobqe.] 

Gotm,  We  must  not  lose  a  moment. 
My  poor  feltows,  1  dare  allow  you  no  rest. 
Gallop  round  and  strive  to  enlist  troopers, 
appoint  them  toaasembleatWeileni,  where 
they  will  be  roost  secure.  Should  we  delay 
a  moment,  they  will  be  before  the  oastle. 
[Exeunt  Lxhbb  and  Gbobos.)  I  must  send 
out  a  scout.  This  begins  to  grow  worm.  — 
If  we  had  but  brave  foemen  to  deal  withi 
But  thcoe  felknra  are  only  formidable 
tiiTough  their  number.  [Exit.] 

[Enter  Sickinoxm  and  Mabia.] 

Makia.  I  beseech  thee,  dear  Sickingen, 
do  not  leave  my  brotherl  His  horsemen, 
your  own,  and  those  of  Selbits,  all  are 
scattered;  he  is  alone.  Selbits  has  been 
carried  home  to  his  castle  wounded.  I  fear 
the  worst. 

SicKraOBN.  Be  comforted,  I  will  not 
leave  him. 

[Enter  Oobte.J 

Govrz,  Come  to  the  chapel,  the  priest 
waits)  in  a  few  niinut«e  you  sh^  be 
united. 

SicKiNOBN.  Let  me  remain  with  you. 

Gosn.  You  must  come  now  to  the 
ohapel. 

SicxiNcrBN.   Willingly! — and  then  — 

GoBTE.  Then  you  go  your  way. 

SiCKraoEN.  Goetil 

OoBTS.  Will  you  not  to  the  ohapelT 

Sicmtaui.  Come,  oomel  [Exeunt.] 


■  ScBHZ  XV.  Camp. 
[Captain  and  Officere.] 
Captain.  How  many  are  we  in  allT 
OmcBR.  A  hundred  and  fifty  — 
Captain'.  Out  of  four  hundred.  —  That 
is  bad.    Set  out  for  Jaxthausen  at  onoe, 
before  be  collects  his  forces  and  attacks  us 
on  the  way. 

ScflNB  XVI.  Jaxthauaen. 


Goirrz.  Qod  bless  you,  give  you  happy 
days,  and  keep  those  for  your  children 
which  he  denies  to  you  I 

Euz&BBTS.  And  may  they  be  virtu- 
ous as  you  —  then  let  come  what  will. 

81CKINOBN.  I  thank  you.  - —  And  you, 
my  Maria!  As  1  led  you  to  the  altar,  so 
shall  you  lead  me  to  happiness. 

Mahia.  Oiu'  pilgrimage  will  be  together 
toward  that  distant  and  promised  land, 

GoETZ.  A  prosperous  journey! 

Mabia.  That  was  not  what  I  meant  — 
We  do  not  leaye  you. 

GoBTE.  You  must,  sister. 

Maioa.  You  are  very  harsh,  broUier. 

GoBis.  And  you  more  afiectionato  than 
prudent. 

[Enter  Georoii.I 

Qborob  [aside  to  Gobtz].  I  can  coUeot 
no  troopers.  One  was  inclined  to  come,  but 
be  changed  his  mind  and  refused. 

GoETz  [aside  to  Gbobox].  'T  is  well, 
George.  Fortune  begins  to  look  coldly  on 
me.  I  foreboded  it,  however.  [Atoud.]  Sick- 
ingen, I  entreat  you,  depart  this  very  ereo- 
ing.  Persuade  Maria  —  you  are  her  hus- 
band—let  her  feel  it.  When  women  come 
across  our  undertaldugs,  our  enemies  an 
more  secure  in  the  open  field,  than  they 
would  else  be  in  their  castlee. 
[Enter  a  Trooper.] 

Tbooper  [aside  to  Gobtz].  The  Imper- 
ial squaiboD  is  in  full  and  rapid  mareh 
hither. 

Goirrs.  I  have  roused  them  with  stripei 
of  the  rodi  How  many  are  theyT 


6i6 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Tboqfer.  About  two  hundred.  Tbey 
eaa  ecatoely  be  six  miles  from  ub. 

GoBTE.  Have  they  paased  the  river 
yetT 

Troofbs.   No,  my  lord. 

GoBTZ.  Had  I  but  fifty  men,  they  should 
not  cross  it.  Hast  thou  aeen  Lerae? 

Tboopsb.  No,  my  lord. 

GosTZ.  Tell  all  to  hold  themselves 
ready.  —  We  must  part,  dear  frieada. 
Weep  on,  my  gentle  Maria.  Many  a  mo- 
ment of  happiness  is  yet  in  store  for  thee. 
It  is  better  thou  ebouldat  weep  on  thy  wed- 
ding-day than  that  prment  joy  should  be 
the  forenmner  of  future  misery,  —  Fare- 
well, Marial  —  Farewell,  brotherl 

Makia.  I  cannot  leave  you,  sister.  Dear 
brother,  let  us  stay.  Doet  thou  value  my 
husband  so  little  as  t«  refuse  his  help  in  thy 
extremity? 

GosTz.  Yes  —  it  is  gone  far  with  me. 
Perhaps  my  fall  is  near.  You  are  but  begin- 
ning life,  and  should  separate  your  lot  from 
mine.  I  have  ordered  your  boreee  to  be 
saddled:  you  must  away  instantly. 

Mama.  Brotherl  brother! 

EuEABETH  [to  Sickinozn].  Yield  to  his 
wishes.  Speak  to  her. 

SicsiNaiiN.  Dear  Mariat  We  must  go. 

Masia.     Thou,    too?     My   heart  will 

Goim.  Then,  stay.  In  a  few  hours  my 
oastle  will  be  surrounded. 
Mabia  [weeping  bitterly].  Alasl  alaal 
GoBTZ.  We  will  defend  ourselves  as  long 

Mabia.    Mother  of  God,  have  mercy 

Qotrrt,  And  at  last  we  must  die  or  sur- 
render. Thy  tears  will  then  have  involved 
tbj  noble  husband  in  the  eame  misfortune 
with  me. 

Makia.  Thou  torturest  mel 

Goan.  Remainl  RamainI  We  shall  be 
taken  togetherl  Sickingen,  thou  wilt  fall 
into  the  pit  with  me,  out  of  which  I  had 
hoped  thou  shouldst  have  helped  me. 

Mabia.  We  will  away  —  sister  —  sister! 

Gorra.  Place  her  in  safety,  and  tiien 
think  of  me. 

SiCKiNOBN.  Never willlreposeanight by 
her  side  till  I  Icnow  thou  art  out  of  danger. 


GoBTZ.  Sister,  dear  sister!   [Kiatihtr.] 

SiCKiNaKN.  Awayl  Away! 

GoBTZ.  YetonemomentI  Ishallseeyou 
again.  Be  comforted,  we  shall  meet  a^in. 
[Exeunt  SiCKiNOSM  awl  Makia.]  I  urged 
her  to  depart  —  yet  when  she  leaves  me, 
what  would  I  not  give  to  detain  her! 
Elizabeth,  thou  stayest  with  me.      [BxU,] 

EuuBBTH.  Till  death! 

GoxTB.  Whom  God  loves,  to  him  may 
He  give  such  a  wife. 

[EnUt  Geobob.] 

GsOBOB.  They  are  near!  I  saw  them 
from  the  tower.  The  sun  is  ri^g,  and  I 
perceived  their  lances  glitter.  I  oared  no 
more  for  them  than  a  cat  would  for  a  whole 
army  of  mice.  'T  is  true  uw  play  the  mice 
at  present. 

GovTz.  Look  to  the  fastenings  of  the 
gatee;  barricade  them  with  beams  and 
stones.  lExit  GBOHaii.]  We'll  exercise 
their  patience,  and  tbey  may  chew  away 
their  valor  in  biting  their  nails.  [A  trumpet 
from  iBtlhoul.  Gobte  goet  to  the  viindaiB.] 
Aha!  Here  comes  a  red-coated  rascal  to  aak 
me  whether  I  will  be  a  scoundrel!  What 
■ays  he?  {The  Doice  qf  the  Herald  it  h^rd 
irtdiaiincdy,atframadutanee.  GoBTsmuf- 
lert  to  hintedf.]  A  rope  for  thy  throat! 
[Voice  again.]  "Offended  majesty  I  "  — 
Some  priest  has  drawn  up  that  proclama- 
tion. [Voice  condudet,  and  Gobtc  ajigwert 
from  tiie  uaTidou.l  Surrender  —  surrendN- 
at  discretion.  With  whom  speak  you?  Am 
I  a  robber?  Tell  your  captain,  that  for  the 
Emperor  I  entertain,  as  T  have  ever  done, 
all  due  reapeet;  but  as  for  him,  he  may  — 
[Shtile  the  window  viih  violenct.] 

ScxNii  XVII.   The  kUdun. 

[Elizabeth  preparing  food.    Enter  Goxtz.) 

GoBTz.  You  have  hard  work,  my  poor 

Bluabbth.  Would  it  might  last!  But 
you  can  hardly  hold  out  long. 

QoKTK.  We  have  not  had  time  to  pro- 
vide ourselves. 

Elizabbtb.  And  so  many  people  aa  you 
have  been  wont  to  entertain.  The  wine  ■> 
well-nigh  finished. 


.Cjoc^t-^lc 


GOETZ  VON  BERLICHINGEN 


Gom.  If  we  can  but  bold  out  a  certtun 
time,  they  must  propoee  a  capitulation, 
ffe  are  doing  them  some  damage,  1  promise 
you.  They  ahoot  the  whole  day,  and  only 
wound  our  watla  and  break  our  windowa. 
Lerae  is  a  gallant  fellow.  He  slips  about 
with  hia  gun:  if  a  rogue  comes  too  nigh  — 
popi    there  he  lies!  [Firing.] 

[EnUr  Trooper.] 

Trooper.  We  want  liye  coals,  gracioua 
ladyt 

GoBW.  For  what? 

Trooper.  Our  bullets  are  iipeiit;  we 
must  cast  some  new  ones. 

Govts.   How  goes  it  with  the  powder? 

Trooper.  There  is  as  yet  no  want:  we 
save  our  fire. 


Lbbse.  Set  them  down,  and  then  go  and 
sedc  for  lead  about  the  house;  meanwhile 
I  will  make  shift  with  this.  [Goes  to  the 
vrindmE,  and  takes  ovi  the  leaden  framed.] 
Everything  muat  be  turned  to  account.  So 
it  is  in  this  world  —  no  one  knows  what  a 
thing  may  come  to:  the  glazier  who  made 
these  frames  little  thought  that  the  lead 
here  was  to  give  one  of  his  grandsons  his 
last  headache;  and  the  father  that  b^ot 
me  little  knew  whether  the  fowls  of  heaven 
or  the  worms  of  the  earth  would  pick  my 
bonee. 

[Enter  Georob  wUh  a  Uaden  wpoid.\ 

Georgb.  Here's  lead  for  theet  If  you 
hit  with  only  half  of  it,  not  one  will  return 
to  tell  His  Majesty,  "Thy  servants  have 
opedill!" 

Lebse  {cuOing  it  dmiTn].   A  famous  pi«oeI 

Gbobob,  llie  rain  must  seek  some  other 
ivay.  I 'm  not  afraid  of  it  ^  a  brave  trooper 
and  a  smart  shower  will  always  find  their 
road.  {Tkag  fart  taife".] 

Lerbe.     Hold  the  ladle.    [Goea  to  lite 

windoio.]  Yonder  is  a  fellow  creeping  about 

with  his  rifle;  he  thinks  our  fire  is  spent. 

Be  shall  have  a  bullet  warm  from  the  pan. 

[Hi  had»  hit  rijh.] 


Geobqe  [pull  down  the  mould].   Let  me 

Lebsb  [fira].  There  lies  the  gamel 

George,  He  fired  at  me  ae  1  stepped  out 
on  the  roof  to  get  the  lead.  He  killed  a 
pigeon  that  aat  near  me;  it  fell  into  the 
spout.  1  thanked  him  for  my  dinner,  and 
went  back  with  tiie  double  booty, 

[Thes  coal  baUa.] 

Lbbsb.  Now,  let  us  load,  and  go  through 
the  castle  to  earn  our  dinner. 
[Enter  Goim.] 

Gotm.  Stay,  Lerae,  I  must  speak  with 
thee.  I  will  not  keep  thee,  George,  from  the 
aport.  [Exit  Gbobob.] 

GoBTZ.  They  offer  terms. 

Lersb.  I  will  ko  and  hear  what  they  have 

Goeti.  They  will  require  me  to  enter 
myself  into  ward  in  some  town  on  my 
knightly  parole. 

Lerse,  That  won't  do.  Suppose  they 
allow  US  free  liber^  of  departure?  —  for 
we  can  expect  no  relief  from  SIckingen. 
We  will  bury  all  the  valuables,  where  no 
divining-rod  shall  find  them;  leave  them 
the  bare  walls,  and  come  out  with  flying 

GoUTZ.   They  will  not  permit  us. 
Lerbe.  It  is  worth  the  asking.  We  will 
demand  a  safe-conduct,  and  I  will  sally 


Scmm  XVIII.  A  htOl. 

[GOETZ,    EUEABBTH,    GeOROE,   Otld 

Troopers  al  table.] 

GoBTX.   Danger  unites  us,  my  frioidB) 

Be  of  good  cheer;  don't  forget  Uie  bottle! 

The  flask  is  empty.  Come,  another,  dear 

wifel  [EuzABBTH  skakee  her  head.]  is  there 

EuzABirrB  [aeide].  Only  one,  which  I 
bave  set  apart  for  you. 

GoBTz.  Not  so,  my  lovel  Bring  it  out; 
they  need  strengthenii^  more  than  I,  for  it 
is  my  quarrel. 

Elizabeth.    Fetch   it   from  the   oup- 

GoBTZ.  It  is  the  last,  and  I  feel  as  if  we 
need  not  spare  it.  It  is  long  sinoe  I  have 


6i8 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


been  m  merry.  lTh«iifia.\  To  the  health 
ot  the  Emperor! 

All.  Long  live  the  Emperor! 

GoBTx.  Be  it  our  Ust  word  when  wB  die! 
1  love  him,  for  our  tate  ig  similar;  but  I  am 
happier  tbAn  he.  To  please  the  princes,  he 
must  direct  his  imperial  squadrons  against 
mice,  while  the  rate  gnaw  hia  poHBeBsione. 
—  I  know  he  often  wishes  himself  dead, 
rather  than  to  beany  longer  the  Boul  of  such 
a  crippled  body.  [TkeyfiH.]  It  will  just  go 
once  more  round.  Andwhen  our  blood  runs 
low,  like  this  flask;  when  we  pour  out  its 
last  ebbing  drop  lemphsi  tA«  tctne  drop  ^ 
drop  into  hi»  goblet],  what  then  shall  be  our 
cry? 

GEOBaE.  Freedom  forever! 

GoETz.  Freedom  foreverl 

All.  Freedom  foreverl 

GoffM.  And  if  that  survive  UH  we  can  die 
happy;  for  our  spirits  shall  see  our  chil- 
dren's children,  and  their  Emperor  happy! 
Did  the  servants  of  princes  show  the  same 
filial  attachment  to  their  masters  as  you  to 
me  —  did  their  masters  serve  the  Emperor 
as  I  would  serve  him  — 

GxoiiaE.  Things  would  be  widely  dif- 
ferent. 

GoBTz.  Not  so  much  »o  as  it  would  ap- 
pear. Have  I  not  known  worthy  men 
among  the  princes?  And  can  the  race  be 
extinct?  Men,  happy  in  their  own  minds 
and  in  their  subjects,  who  could  bear  a  free, 
noble  brother  in  their  neighborhood  with- 
out harboring  either  fear  or  envy;  whose 
hearts  expanded  when  they  saw  their  table 
surrounded  by  their  fre6  equals,  and  who 
did  not  think  the  knights  unfit  companions 
till  they  had  degraded  themselves  by 
courtly  homage. 

Gkoooe.  Have  you  known  such  princes? 

GoKTZ.  Aye,  truly.  As  long  as  I  live  I 
shall  recollect  how  the  Landgrave  of 
Hanau  made  a  grand  hunting-party,  and 
the  princes  and  free  feudatories  dined  under 
the  open  heaven,  and  the  country  people 
all  thronged  to  see  them;  it  was  no  selfish 
masquerade  institut«d  for  his  own  private 
pleasure  or  vanity.  —  To  see  the  great 
round-headed  peasant  lads  and  the  pretty 
brown  girls,  the  sturdy  hinds,  and  the  ven- 
erable old  men,  a  crowd  of  happy  faces,  all 


as  merry  as  if  they  rejoiced  in  the  splendor 
of  their  master,  which  he  shared  with  tbom 
under  God's  free  skyl 

Gkoboe.  He  must  have  been  as  good  a 
master  as  you. 

GoBTi.  And  may  we  not  hope  that 
many  such  will  rule  together  some  future 
day,  to  whom  reverence  to  the  E^percH', 
peace  and  friendship  with  their  neighbors, 
and  the  love  of  their  vassals,  shall  be  the 
beet  and  daareet  family  treasure  handed 
down  to  their  children's  children?  Every 
one  will  then  keep  and  improve  his  own,  in- 
stead of  reckoning  nothing  as  ffun  that  k 
not  stolen  from  his  neighbors. 

George.  And  should  we  have  no  more 
forays? 

GoBTE.  Would  to  God  there  were  no 
reetlesi  spirits  in  all  Germany!  — We 
should  still  have  enough  to  dot  We  would 
clear  the  mountains  of  wolves,  and  t»ing 
our  peaceable  laborious  neighbor  a  dish  o( 
game  from  the  wood,  and  eat  it  tt^eths. 
Were  that  not  full  employment,  we  would 
join  our  brethren,  and,  like  cherubims  with 
flaming  sworde,  defend  the  frontiers  of  the 
Empireagainstthosewolves  the  Turks,  and 
these  foxes  the  French,  and  guard  for  our 
beloved  Emperor  both  extremities  of  his 
extensive  Empire.  That  would  be  a  life, 
George!  To  risk  one's  head  for  the  safety 
of  all  Germany.  [Geobok  spring  up-] 
Whither  away? 

GaoBoa.  Alasl  I  forgot  we  were  be- 
sieged—  b««ieged  by  the  very  Iknperor; 
and  before  we  can  expose  our  livca  (D 
his  defense,  we  must  risk  them  for  oar 

Gobtz.   Be  of  good  cheer. 
|£nfer  Lbrsb.) 

LKBBSi.  Freedom!  Freedom!  Hie  cow- 
ardly poltroons  —  the  hesitating,  irres- 
olute asses.  You  are  to  depart  with  men, 
weapons,  horses,  and  armor;  provisions  yoQ 
are  to  leave  behind. 

Gobtz.  They  will  hardly  find  enou^  to 
exercise  their  jaws. 

Lbrsb  [aside  to  Goete].  Have  you  hid- 
den the  plate  and  money? 

Gobtz.    Not    Wife,  go  with  Lerse;  ht 
'     totdlthee.  [£xtwU.l 

.  ...Go. 


GOETZ  VON   BERLICHINGEN 


ScKNB  XIX.   The  court  of  the  catOe. 
Georob  [in  Ute  slabh:  singt]. 
An  uTchiii  once,  as  I  have  bMird, 

H&that 
Had  CBUEht  and  caged  a  little  bird, 

Sal  u! 

Hatha! 

S»!Mt 
He  viewed  tiie  priie  witb  heart  el»t«, 

Hatha!    . 
Thiuat  in  hta  hand  —  ab,  treatcherouB  fsteT 

Salaal 

Hatha! 

Sa!  Ml 
Away  the  tltmouae  wiag'd  its  flight, 

Hatha! 
And  laugh'd  to  aoom  the  aiUy  wl^t. 

Salsa! 

Hatha! 

Sa!sat 

[ErUer  Goktz.) 

GoBTz.  How  goes  it? 

Gborox  [bringt  out  hit  horse].  All  sad- 
dled! 

GoETZ.  Tbou  &rt  quick. 

GsoBOE.  As  the  bird  escaped  from  the 
cage. 

[Enter  aU  the  besieged.] 
GoiiTE.   Have  you  all  your  rifiea?   Not 
yet!   Go,  take  the  best  from  the  annory, 
't  is  all  one;  we'll  ride  on  in  advmnee. 
GsoROB  [ringt]. 

Hatha! 
Satia! 


ScxNB  XX.    The  armory. 
[Two  Troopers  ehoorins  ffim».] 

FnwrTBOOPBB.  I'll  have  this  one. 

SncoND  Trooper.  And  I  this  —  but 
yonder 'b  a  better. 

FlRffT  Tboopbr.  Never  mind  —  make 
luute.  [Tunudt  and  firing  wilhoui.] 

Sbcokd  Tboofer.  Harkt 

FlBOT  Tboopeb  [springt  to  the  loindowj. 
Good  Heavens,  they  are  murdering  our 
master!  He  is  unboreed!  George  is  downt 

Sbcond  Troopeb.  How  shall  we  get  off? 
Over  the  wall  by  the  walnut  tree,  and  into 
the  field.  [Exii.] 


First  Tboopxr.  Lerse  keeps  his  ground: 
I  will  to  him.  If  they  die,  I  will  not  sur- 
vive them.  [Exit.] 


ACT   IV 

ScENS  I.    An  inn  tn  Ae  city  of  HeUbnmn. 

(GosTz,  solus.) 

GoBTz.  I  am  like  the  evil  spirit  whom 
the  Capuchin  conjured  into  a  sack.  I  fret 
and  tabor,  but  all  in  vain.  The  perjured 
villains  I 

[EiOer  Eluabbih.] 

What  news,  Elisabeth,  of  my  dear,  my 
trusty  followers? 

EuzABBTH.  Nothing  certain;  some  are 
slain,  some  are  prisoners;  no  one  could  or 
would  tell  me  further  particulars. 

GoBTZ.  Is  this  the  reward  of  fidelity,  of 
filial  obedience?  —  "That  it  njay  be  wdl 
with  thee,  and  that  thy  days  may  be  long 
in  the  land!" 

EuzABETH.  Dear  husband,  murmur  not 
against  our  heavenly  Father.  They  have 
their  reward.  It  was  bom  with  them  —  a 
noble  and  generous  heart.  Even  in  the 
dungeontheyaie  free. -Pay  attention  to  the 
imperial  commissioners;  their  heavy  gold 
chains  become  fliem  — 

GoETZ.  As  a  necklace  becomee  a  sowl 
I  should  like  to  see  George  and  Leise  in 
fetters! 

Elizabeth.  It  were  a  sight  to  make 
angels  weep. 

GoETZ.  I  would  not  weep —  I  would  ■ 
clench  my  teeth,  and  gnaw  my  lip  in  fuiy. 
What!  in  fetters!  Had  ye  but  loved  me 
less,  dear  ladal  I  could  never  look  at  them 
enough  —  What!  to  break  their  word 
pled^  in  the  name  of  the  Emperor! 

Elizabeth.  Put  away  these  thoughts. 
Reflect;  you  must  appear  before  Uie  Council 
—  you  are  in  no  mood  to  meet  them,  and  I 
fear  the  worst. 

GoBTZ.  What  harm  can  they  do  me? 

EuzABirrH.  Here  comes  the  sergeant. 

GoBTz.  Whatl  The  aas  of  justice  that 
carries  the  sacks  to  the  mill  and  the  dung  to 
the  field?  What  now? 


Google 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


[Enter  Sergeant.] 

Sbrqbant.  The  loide  commuaionera  u« 
At  the  Council-Hoiue,  and  require  your 
presence. 

GoETE.  I  come. 

Sebquamt.  I  am  to  escort  you. 

Govn.  Too  much  honor. 

Elieabeth.  B«  but  oool. 

GoBTZ.  Fear  nothing.  lExnmt.] 

ScBNK  n.  TheCotmcU-BoutealHtiBirwm. 

[The  Imperial  Commitsutners  seated  at  a 
table.  The  Captain  and  the  Magia- 
Iratee  of  tiie  at]/  attentHTio.] 

MAOiersATB.  In  purauaace  of  your 
order,  we  have  collected  the  Btciut«et  and 
moat  determined  of  our  citizens.  They  ar« 
at  hand,  in  order,  at  a  nod  from  you,  to 
eeiM  Berliohingen. 

CouuisaiONXK.  Wb  ahall  hare  much 
pleasure  in  communicating  to  Hii  Im- 
perial Majesty  the  seal  with  which  you 
h-ive  obeyed  his  illmtrioUB  oommaada.  — 
Are  they  artiaana? 

MAOumiATx.  Smitha.  coopera,  and 
caTpentera,  men  with  bajida  hai'dened  by 
labor;  and  reaolute  here. 

-    [Pointt  to  kit  breail.] 

COMHiaaioNXR.  'T  ia  well. 
[Enter  Sergeant.] 

SflsazANT.     Ooets    von    Berlichingen 


[Enter  Gobtz.] 

GoBTZ.  God  aave  you,  sirs!  What  would 
you  with  me? 

CouuiaaioKER.  Firat,  that  you  consider 
where  you  are;  and  in  whose  presence. 

GoBTt.  By  my  faith,  I  Icnow  you  ri|^t 
well,  aim. 

CoinnBsioi«BR.    You  acknowledge  al- 

GoirrK.  With  all  my  heart. 

CoHiiiBeiONBB.  Be  aeated. 

[P<rinUtoa»tool.] 

Goan.  What,  down  thereT  I'd  rather 
stand.  That  atool  emells  so  of  poor  sin- 
ners, aa,  indeed,  does  the  whole  apartment. 


COHMIBSIONEB.  Stand,  then. 
Gobtz.  To  business,  if  you  please. 
CoHMiaBioNBB.  We  ahall  proceed  in  dus 

GoBTS.  I  am  ^ad  to  hear  it.  Would  ytni 
had  always  done  so. 

CkiiatiBsioNKii.  You  know  how  you  fell 
into  OUT  hands,  and  are  a  prisoner  at  dis- 
cretion. 

GoBn.  What  will  you  give  me  to  forget 
it? 

CoioiiasiONBB.  Could  I  i^ye  yov 
modesty,  I  should  bett«r  your  affairs. 

Qornn.  Better  my  aSairsI  Could  you 
but  do  thati  To  repair  ia  more  difficult 
than  to  destroy. 

Sbckbtaet.   Shall    I    put    all    thia  ao 

OomnssioNSB.  Only  what  is  to  the 
puri>ose. 

Gobtz.  As  far  as  I'm  concerned  you 
may  print  every  word  of  it. 

CowkOSSiONKR  You  fell  into  the  power 
of  the  Kmperor,  whose  paternal  goodDeea 
got  the  better  of  hia  justice,  and,  instead  al 
throwing  you  into  a  dungeon,  ordered  yon 
to  repair  to  hia  beloved  city  of  Heilbronn. 
You  gave  your  knightly  puole  to  appeu, 
and  await  the  termination  in  all  humility. 

GoBTE.  Well;  I  am  here,  and  await  it. 

CoioiiBaioNKR.  And  we  are  here  to  inti- 
mate to  you  Hia  Imperial  Majesty's  mercy 
and  clemency.  He  ia  pleased  to  for^va 
your  rebellion,  to  release  you  from  the  ban 
and  all  well-merited  puniahment;  provided 
you  do,  with  becoming  humility,  reoeiTt 
hia  bounty,  and  subscribe  to  the  artides 
which  shall  be  read  unto  you. 

Gobtz.  I  am  Hia  Majesty's  faithful 
servant,  as  ever.  One  word,  ere  you  pro- 
ceed. My  people  —  where  are  they?  What 
will  be  done  with  them? 

CouuiaaioKXR.  That  concerns  you  not 

Goktz.  So  may  the  Emperor  turn  hii 
fa<je  from  you  in  the  hour  of  your  need. 
They  were  my  comrades,  and  are  so  oow. 
What  have  you  done  with  them? 

CouMissiONBB.  We  are  not  bound  ta 
account  to  you. 

Gobfi.  Ahl  I  forgot  tiiat  you  are  not 
even  pledged  to  perform  what  you  ban 
promised,  much  lew  — 


..CjOC^'.^Ic 


GOETZ  VON   BERLICHINGEN 


CouossiONBR.  Our  buflinesB  is  to  lay 
the  articles  before  you.  Submit  yoursetf 
to  the  Emperor,  and  you  may  find  a  way 
to  petitioD  for  ttke  Ufe  and  freedom  of  your 
comrades. 

Gomz.  Your  paper. 

CouMisBioKEB.  Secretary,  read  it. 

Segretabt  [readM],  "I,  Goeti  of  Ber- 
liohingen,  make  public  acknowledgment, 
by  these  preeents,  that  I,  having  lately 
risen  in  rebellion  against  the  Emperor  and 
Empire  — " 

GoBTE.  'T  is  falsel  I  am  no  rebel,  I  have 
committed  no  offenae  against  the  Emperor, 
and  with  the  Empire  1  have  do  concern. 

CoHHiesiONXR.  Be  silent,  and  hear 
further. 

GoirrK.  I  will  hear  no  further.  Let  any 
one  arise  and  bear  witness.  Have  I  ever 
taken  one  stop  agaioat  the  Emperor,  or 
against  the  House  of  Austria?  Hm  not  the 
'  whole  tenor  of  my  conduct  proved  that  I 
feel  better  than  any  one  else  what  all  Ger- 
many owes  to  its  head;  and  especially  what 
the  free  knights  and  feudatories  owe  to  their 
li^e  lord  the  Emperor?  I  should  be  a  vil- 
lain could  I  be  induced  to  subecribe  that 
paper. 

CounsBiONisB.  Yet  we  have  strict  or- 
ders to  tiy  and  persuade  you  by  fair  means, 
or,  in  case  of  your  refusal,  to  throw  you  into 

GOBTZ.  Into  prison! —  Me? 

CouHissioNER.  Where  you  may  expect 
your  fat«  from  the  hands  of  justice,  since 
you  will  not  take  it  from  those  of  mercy. 

GoETZ.  To  prison  I  You  abuse  the  im- 
perial power]  Toprisonl  That  wsa  not  the 
Elmperor's  command.  What,  ye  traitois, 
to  dig  a  pit  for  me,  and  hang  out  your  oath, 
your  knightly  honor  as  the  baiti  To  promise 
me  permission  to  ward  myself  on  parole, 
and  then  again  to  break  your  treaty! 

CoutnsaiOKBR.  We  owe  no  faith  to 
robbers. 

Goirrs.  Wert  thou  not  the  represents 
stive  of  my  sovereign,  whom  I  respect  even 
in  the  vilest  counterfeit,  thou  should  swal- 
low that  word,  or  choke  upon  it.  I  was  en- 
gaged in  an  honorable  feud.  Thou  might«8t 
thank  God,  and  magnify  thyself  before  the 
world,  hadst  thou  ever  done  as  gallant  a 


deed  as  that  with  which  I  now  stand 
charged.  [The  Committioner  make*  a  sign 
to  the  Magistrate  of  Heilbrimn,  who  ringg  a 
beU.]  Not  for  the  sake  of  paltry  gain,  not 
to  wrest  followers  or  lands  from  the  weak 
and  the  defenseless,  have  I  sallied  forth. 
To  rescue  my  page  and  defend  my  own 
persMi  —  see  ye  any  rebellion  in  that?  The 
Emperor  and  his  magnates,  reposing  on 
their  pillows,  would  never  have  felt  our 
need.  I  have,  God  be  praised,  one  hand 
left,  and  I  have  done  well  to  use  it. 


Govts.  What  means  this? 

OoiaoBBioMBR.  You  will  not  listen.  — 
Seiie  himl 

GoETz.  Let  none  come  near  me  who  is 
not  a  very  Hungarian  ox.  One  salutation 
from  my  iron  fist  shall  cure  him  of  head- 
ache, toothache,  and  every  other  ache 
under  the  wide  heaven!  [TKej/  ruth  upon 
him.  He  etrikea  one  down;  and  enaiehet  a 
mrordfromanotiier.  Thej/ ttand  aloof ■]  Come 
on!  ComeonI  I  should  like  to  become  ac- 
quainted with  the  bravest  among  you. 

CouHiBSiONSB,   Surrender! 

GcwTE.  Withaswordinmyhand!  Kn(>w~~ 
ye  not  that  it  depends  but  upon  myself  to 
make  way  through  all  these  hares  and  gain 
the  open  fieldf  But  I  will  t«ach  you  how 
a  man  shoula  keep  his  word.  Promise  me 
but  free  ward,  and  I  will  give  up  my  sword, 
and  am  again  your  prisoner. 

CouuiBBioNKB.  Howl  Would  you  treat 
with  the  Emperor,  sword  in  hand? 

Goirra.  God  forbid!  —  only  with  you 
and  your  worthy  fraternity!  You  may  go 
home,  good  people;  you  are  only  losing 
your  time,  and  here  there  is  nothing  to  be 
got  but  bruises. 

CouHissioKER.  Seise  him!  WhatlDoes 
not  your  love  for  the  Emperor  supply  yow 
with  courage? 

Govrs.  No  more  than  the  Emperor  sup 
plies  them  with  plaster  for  the  wounds  theii 
courage  would  earn  them. 

[Bnler  Sergeant,  haelUy.] 

Ofticiib.  The  warder  has  just  dis- 
covered from  the  castlB-tower,  a  troop  ol 


633 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


mora  than  two  hundred  honemen  hasten- 
iDg  toward  the  town.  Unperceived  by  ua, 
they  have  pressed  forward  from  behind  the 
hill,  and  threaten  our  walls. 

CoMMiBSiONKR.  Alas!  akal  What  can 
this  mean? 

[A  Soldier  enter i.\ 

SoLDiBR.  Francis  of  Sicldiigen  waits 
at  the  drawbridge,  and  informs  you  that 
he  has  heard  how  perfidiously  you  have 
broken  your  word  to  hie  brotter-in-law, 
onA  bow  the  Council  of  Heilbronn  have 
aided  and  abetted  in  the  treason.  He  is 
now  come  to  insiat  upon  justice,  and  if 
refused  it,  threatens,  within  an  hour, 
to  fire  the  four  quarters  of  your  t<Twn, 
and  abandon  it  to  be  plundered  by  his 

GoBTi.  My  pliant  brother! 

CoiofTSSiONiiit.  Withdraw,  Qoets.  [Exit 
OoBTZ.]  What  is  to  be  done? 

MAaiffTRATZ.  Have  compassion  upon 
us  and  our  townl  Sickingen  is  inexorable 
in  his  wrath;  he  will  keep  his  word. 

CouuiBBioNER.  Shall  we  forget  what  is 
due  to  ourselves  and  the  Emperor? 

'  Captain.  If  we  had  but  men  to  enforce 
it;  but  aituated  aa  we  are,  a  show  of  resist- 
ance would  only  make  matters  worse.  It  is 
bettbr  for  us  to  yidd. 

Maoibtbatb.  Let  ua  apply  to  Goeti  to 
put  in  a  good  word  for  us.  I  feel  as  though 
I  saw  the  town  already  in  flamea. 

CouuissioNKR.  Let  Goets  approach. 
[Enter  Qovra.) 

GovTz.  What  now? 

CouuiBBiONBR.  Thou  wilt  do  well  to 
dissuade  thy  brother-in-law  from  his  re- 
bellious interference.  Instead  of  rescuing 
tbee,  he  will  only  plunge  thee  deeper  in 
destruction,  and  become  the  companion  of 
thy  falll 

OoBTZ  [tete  Elizabeth  at  Ihe  door,  and 
ipeaki  to  her  atide].  Go;  tell  him  instantly 
to  break  in  and  force  his  way  hither,  but  to 
spare  the  town.  As  for  theee  raacals,  if  they 
offer  any  resistance,  Jet  him  use  force.  I 
care  not  if  I  lose  my  life,  provided  Utey 
are  all  knocked  on  the  head  at  the  same 
time. 


[Enter  Sickinoen  and  Gobtz.) 


from  Heaven.] 
— lely  and  un- 


•  Gobtz.  ^ 

How  oomeat  thotT 
expectedly,  brother? 

SiCKiNOBN.  Without  witchcraft.  I  had 
dispatched  two  or  three  measei^erB  to 
learn  how  it  fared  with  thee;  when  I  heard 
of  the  perjury  of  these  fellows,  I  set  (wt 
instantly,  and  now  we  have  them  safe. 
"*  Gobtz.  I  ask  nothing  but  knightly  ward 
upon  my  parole.  _ 

-  3iCKiN<sif.  Youaretoont^Ie.LNotevwi 
to  avail  youreelf  of  the  advantage  which 
the  honest  man  has  over  the  perjuTOTt) 
They  are  in  the  wrong,  and  we  will  not  give 
them  cushions  to  sit  upon.  They  have 
shamefully  abused  the  imperial  authority, 

.  kond,  if  1  know  anything  of  the  Emperor, 
'  you  might  safely  insiat  upon  more  favor- 
Mible  terms.  T"ii  "ilr  too  little, 

'*    f 


Goma.  I  have  ever  been  content  with 
little. 

SiCKiNOBN,  And  therefore  that  little 
has  always  beui  denied  thee.  My  proposal 
is,  that  they  shall  release  your  servants,  and 
permit  you  all  to  return  to  your  castje  on 
parole  —  you  can  promise  not  to  leave  it 
till  the  Emperor's  pleasure  be  known.  Yon 
will  be  safer  there  than  here. 

GoDTz.  They  will  say  my  property  ii 
escheated  to  the  Eknperor. 

SiCKiNOBN.  Then  we  will  answer  thou 
canst  dwell  there,  and  keep  it  for  his  service 
[  till  he  restores  it  to  thee  ^ain.  Let  ttietn 
TTTiflo'T  l^e  eels  in  the  net,  they  a&ah  flat 
escape  us!  iney  may  talk  of  "JRe'miperial 
dignity  —  of  their  commission.  We  wiD 
not  mind  that.  I  know  the  Emperor,  and 
have  Bome  influence  with  him.  He  has  ever 
wished  to  have  thee  in  hia  service.  You 
will  not  be  long  in  your  castle  witboat 
being  summoned  to  serve  him. 
r-  Gobtz.  God'gruit  it,  ere  I  forget  the 
■use  of  armal. 

\  SiCKmoEN.  Valor  can  never  be  foisot- 
ien,  as  it  can  never  be  learned.  ¥t»i  nolh- 
ingl  When  thy  affairs  are  settled,  I  will  re- 
pair to  court,  where  my  enteipriseB  begin 
to  ripen.  Good  fortime  seema  to  onile  on 


GOETZ  VON   BERLICHINGEN 


tham.  I  want  only  to  souod  the  Emperor's 
mind.  The  towns  of  Triers  and  Ffali  aai 
soon  expect  that  the  aky  should  fall  as  that' 
1  shall  come  down  upon  their  heads.  BuB 
I  will  come  like  a  hailstonni  And  if  I  au 
succeaaful,  thou  ahalt  soon  be  brother  to  tm 
elector.  I  had  hoped  for  thy  aasiatanoe  t 
this  undertaking.  J 

Goirrz  [tooke  at  hit  hand].  Ohl  That  ex- 
plains the  dream  I  had  the  night  before  I 
promised  Maris  to  Weislingen.  I  thought 
he  vowed  eternal  fidelity,  and  held  my  iron^ 
hand  so  fast  that  it  looeened  from  the  arm. 
Uas !  I  am  at  this  moment  moie  defenseless 
i:han  when  it  was  shot  away.  Weislingen! 


^Ofif^" 


633 


SiCKiNQEti.  Forget  the  traitor!  We  will 
thwart  his  plans,  and  undermine  hia  au- 
thority, till  shune  and  remorse  shall  gnaw 
him  to  daath.^  see,  I  see  the  downfall  of 
our  eneniieel —  Goets  —  only  half  a  year 

GoBTZ.  Thy  soul  soars  highl  I  know  not 
why,  but  tor  some  time  past  no  fair  pros- 
pects have  dawned  upon  me.  I  have  been 
ere  now  in  aore  distrMS  —  I  have  been  a 
prisoner  before  — tbut  never  did  I  experi- 
ence such  a  depression:) 

SiCKiNQEN.  Fortune  gives  courage. 
Come,  let  ua  to  the  bigwigs.  They  have 
had  time  enough  to  deliberate,  let  us  take 
the  trouble  upon  ourselves.  [ExewU.] 


(AsuLAiDB  and  Wbibunobn  diaetmered. 

Adelaide.  This  is  detestable.  .^ 

Weibunukn.  I  have  gnashed  my  teetii. 
So  good  a  plan  —  so  well  followed  out  — 
and  after  ail  to  leave  him  in  poeseaaion  of 
,  his  castle!  That  cursed  Sicldngeni 

AnBuiDE.  The  Council  should  not  have 
consented. 

WiiauHOBN.  They 
What  else  could  the 
threatened  them  with 
the  haughty,  vindictive 
His  power  waxea  like  a 
^-  let  it  but  gain  a  few  brooks, 
-wma  pouring  to  its  aid. 

AsBLAmB.  Have  they  no  l^mperorT  U  .  \ 


WBiSLmoBrr.  My  dear  wife,  he  waxes 
old  and  feeble;  he  ia  only  the  shadow  of 
what  he  was.  When  he  heard  what  had 
been  done,  and  I  and  the  other  counsel- 
ors murmured  indignantly  —  "Let  tiem 
alone!"  said  he;  "I  con  spare  my  old 
Goets  his  little  fortress,  and  if  he  remains 
quiet  there,  what  have  you  to  say  agaiort 
him?"  We  spoke  of  the  welfare  of  the 
stato  —  "Oh,"  aaid  he,  "that  1  had  always 
had  counsetore  who  would  have  urged  my 
restless  spirit  to  consult  more  the  happiness 

Adelaidb.    He  has  lost  the  spirit  of  a 

WEiBLiiraEN.  We  inveighed  against 
Sickingen  —  "He  is  my  faithful  servant," 
said  he;  "and  if  be  has  not  acted  by  my 
expreea  order,  he  has  performed  what  1 
wished  better  than  my  plenipotentiaries, 
and  I  can  ratify  what  he  has  done  as  well 
after  as  before." 

Adelaide.    'T  ia  enough  to  drive  one 

Wbtblingbn.  Yet  1  have  not  given  up 
all  hope.  Goetiis  on  parole  to  remain  quiet 
in  his  castle.  'Tia  impossible  for  him  to 
keep  his  promise,  and  we  shall  Boon  have 
some  new  cauae  of  complaint. 

Adelaidb.  That  ia  the  more  likely,  as 
we  may  hope  that  the  old  Emperor  will  soon 
leave  the  world,  and  Charles,  his  gallant 
succcasor,   will  display  a  more  princely 

Wbibunobn.  Charleel  He  is  neither 
chosen  nor  crowned. 

AnEUUDB.  Who  does  not  expect  and 
hope  for  that  event? 

WEiBLiNaBH.  You  liave  a  great  idea  of 
his  abilities;  one  might  almost  think  you 
looked  on  him  with  partial  eyes. 

Adblaidb.  You  insult  me,  Weislingeo. 
For  what  do  you  take  me?  '^ 

Wbibungbn,  I  do  not  inean  to  offend; 
but  I  cannot  be  silent  upon  the  subject. 
Charles's  marked  attentions  to  you  dis- 
quiet me. 

AoELAmE.  And  do  I  receive  them  as  — 

Weislingen.  You  are  a  w(«nan;  and  no"  ' 
hates  those  who  pay  their  court  to 


Adblaidb.  This  from  yml 


p_ 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


WBisLiNaBN.  It  cute  me  to  the  heart  — 
^^  the  dreadful  thought  —  Adelaide. 
J      ADEI.AJIIE.    Can  I  not  cure  thee  of  thia 
}   folly? 
{>        Weiblingen.    If  thou  wouldat  —  thou 

oanst  leave  the  oourt, 
p  Adelaidb.  But  upon  what  pretense? 
^  Art  thou  not  here?  Must  I  leave  you  and 
'l  all  my  friends,  to  shut  myself  up  with  the 
\  owls  in  your  aolitary  castle?  No,  Weis- 
*  lingen,  that  will  never  do;  be  at  rest,  thou 
k*  knowest  I  love  thee. 
j—'Weisunoen.  'Hiat  is  my  anchor  so  long 
J  as  the  cable  holds.  [ExU.] 

V,^  Adelaide,  Ahl  It  is  come  to  thia?  This 
waa yet  wanting.  Theprojecteofmybosom 
are  too  great  to  brook  the  iat«iTuption. 
Charles  —  the  great,  the  gallant  Charles  — 
the  future  Emperor  —  shall  he  be  the  only 
man  unrewarded  by  my  favor?  Think  not, 
Weislingen,  to  hinder  me  —  else  shalt  thou 
to  earthriny  way  lies  over  theefV 
[Enter  Francis,  with  a  letter.] 
Fbancib.   Here,  gracious  lady. 
AnBiuiu)x.   Hadst  thou  it  from  Charles's 
own  hand? 
Fbancib.  Yes. 

Adelaide.  Whatailstbee?  Thoulook'at 

so  mournful  t  j 

Fbancib.    It  is  your  pleasure  that  I 

should  pine  away,  and  waste  my  fairest ' 

years  in  agonising  despair. 

Adelaide  [atiiU].  I  pity  him;  and  how 
little  would  it  cost  me  to  make  him  happy. 
[Aloud.]  Be  of  good  courage,  youthi  I 
know  thy  love  and  fidehty,  and  will  not  be 
ungratefid. 

FiusciBluTitkgtifled  breath].  Ifthouwert 
capable  of  ingratitude,  1  could  not  survive 
it.  There  boils  not  a  drop  of  blood  in  my 
veins  but  what  is  thine  own  —  I  have  not 
ft  single  feeling  but  to  love  and  to  serve 
tiieel 
Adelaide.  Dear  Francisl 
Fbancib.  You  flatter  me.  [B-ursli  itiio 
teara.]  Does  my  attachment  deaerve  only 
to  he  a  stepping-stool  to  another  —  to  see 
alt  your  thoughts  fixed  upon  Charles? 

Adblaidb.    You   know  not   what   you 
wish,  and  still  less  what  you  say. 
Fbancis    [ilamping    xoith   vexation   and 


rage].  No  more  will  I  be  jrour  dave,  jaat 
go-between  I 

Adelaide.  Francis,  you  forget  youndf, 

FnANCia.  To  sacrifice  my  beloved  master 
and  myself  — 

Adelaide.  Out  of  my  sight! 

Fbancib.   Gracious  ladyl 

Adelaide.  Go;  betray  to  thy  beloved 
master  the  secret  of  my  soul  I  Fool  that  I 
was  to  take  thee  for  what  thou  art  not. 

Francis.  Dear  lady!  You  know  how  I 
love  you.  — ~) 

Adelaidb.  And  thou,  who  wast  my 
friend  —  so  near  my  heart  —  go;  betray 

Francis.  Rather  would  I  tear  my  heart 
from  my  breastl  Forgive  me,  gentle  lady! 
My  heart  is  too  full,  my  senses  desert  me. 

Adelaide.  Thou  dear,  affectionate  hti^ 
[She  lakei  him  by  both  handt,  drawt  him  lo- 
imrd  her  and  kiatee  him.  He  thrvwt  himtd} 
Aceeping  upon  her  neck.]  Leave  me! 

FB&Ncia  [Am  eoiee  dtoked  by  fears]. 
Heavens  I 

Adelaide.  Leave  met'  The  walls  are 
traitors.  Leave'niel  [Ureaka-from  AinTT^Be 
6ui  Bt«ady  in  fidelity  and  love,  and  the 
ftairest  reward  is  thine.  ,  [Exit.] 

Fbancib.  The  fairest  rewardt  Let  me 
but  live  till  that  moment  —  I  oould 
murder  my  father,  were  he  an  obatacle  to 
my  happiness!        '^iAif'x,j^       '*"'"' 


i^(,-i^ 


Scene  V.   Jaxlhaiuen. 


[GoBTZ  seated  at  a  lahk  niilh  wrUing  ma- 
terials. Elizabsth  betide  him  u>ilh  her 

GoBTZ.  This  idle  life  does  not  suit  me. 
My  confinement  becomes  more  irksome 
every  day.  1  would  I  could  sleep,  or  per- 
suade myself  that  quiet  is  agreeable. 

Euzabbth.  Continue  writing  the  ac- 
count of  thy  deeds  which  thou  hast  com- 
menced. Give  into  the  hands  of  thy  friends 
evidence  to  put  thine  enemies  to  shame; 
make  a  noble  posterity  acquainted  with 
thy  real  character. 

GoBTi.  Alas!  Writing  is  but  busy  idle- 
"^eaa;  it  wearies  me.  While  I  am  writing 
what  I  have  done,  I  lament  Uie  misspent 
time  in  which  I  mi^t  do  more. 


GOETZ  VON   BERLICHINGEN 


6>S 


s  of  my  I 
rrom  me  I 


EiJEABBTH[(dkei(Acun(tn;].  Be  not  im- 
patient, "niou  haat  come  to  thy  first  im- 
priionment  at  HeQbronn. 

'GoBTC.  That  waa  always  an  unlucky 
pUce  to  me. 

Eliz&bbtb  [reads].  "There  were  even 
fN>me  of  the  confederal«s  who  told  me  that 
I  had  acted  foolishly  in  appearing  before 
my  bitterest  eoemies,  who,  as  I  might  sus- 
pect, would  not  deal  justly  with  me."  And 
what  didst  thou  answer?  Writ«  on. 

GoBTE,  I  said,  "Have  I  not  often  rielced 
life  and  limb  for  the  welfare  and  property  of 
others,  and  shall  I  not  do  so  for  the  honor 
of  my  knightly  word?" 

ELizAnrrs.  Tbus  does  fame  apeak  of 
thee. 
/~^Gosn.  They  shall  not  rob  me 
I  honor.  They  have  taken  all  else  from 
I  —  property  —  liberty  —  everything. 
L  EusABErH.  I  happened  once  to  stand ... 
ah  inn  near  the  Lords  of  Miltenberg  and 
Singlingen,  who  knew  me  not.  Then  I  was 
joyful  as  at  the  birth  of  my  first-bom;  for 
they  extfdled  thee  to  each  other,  and  said, 
—  "He  is  the  mirror  of  knighthood,  noble 
and  merciful  in  prosperity,  dauntless  and 
true  in  misfortune." 

GoETZ.  Let  them  show  me  the  man  to 
whom  I  have  broken  my  word.  Heaven 
knows,  my  ambition  hai  ever  been  to 
labor  for  my  neighbor  mue^than  for  my- 
self, and  to  acquire  theffama  of  a  gallant 
and  irreproachable  knight,  rather  than  prin- 
cipaUtiea  ot  power;  and,  Ood  be  prsisedl 
I  ha^  gained  the  meed  of  my  labor. 

(Enter  GcORQX  and  Lebsb  vnth  garnt.] 
GoETS.  Good  luck  to  my  gallant  hunts- 

Gborob.  Such  have  we  become  from 
gallant  troopers.  Boots  con  easily  be  cut 
down  into  buskins. 

Lerbb.  The  chase  is  alnnya  somethii^ 
—  't  is  a  kind  of  war. 

GxoiiOB.  Yes;  if  we  were  not  always 
crossed  by  these  imj>pri».l  gBr"'*"''*p''"' 
Don't  you  recoiiect,  iny  lora,  now  you 
prophesied  we  should  become  huntsmen 
when  the  world  was  turned  topsy-turvy? 
We  are  become  so  now  without  waiting  for 

tilBt. 


GoBTz.  'T  is  all  the  same,  we  are  pushed 
out  of  our  sphere. 

Geobqi:.  These  are  wonderful  times! 
For  eight  days  a  dreadful  comet  has  been 
seen  —  all  Germany  fears  that  it  portends 
the  death  of  the  Emperor,  who  is  very  ill. 

Govra.  Very  ill!  Then  our  career  draws 
to  a  close. 

Iarsb.  And  m  the  neighborhood  there 
are  terrible  commotions;  the  peasants  have 
made  a  formidable  insurrection. 

Goim.    Where? 

Lerse.  L)  the  heart  of  Swabia;  they  are 
plundering,  burning,  and  slaying,  I  Feu 
they  will  sack  the  whole  coimtry. 

George.  It  is  a  horrible  warfare!  They 
have  already  risen  in  a  hundred  places,  and 
daily  increase  in  number.  A  hurricane,  too, 
has  lately  torn  up  whole  forests;  and  in  the 
place  where  the  insurrection  began,  two 
fiery  swords  have  been  seen  in  the  sky 
crossing  each  other. 

Gasrc.  Then  some  of  my  poor  friends 
and  neighbors,  no  doubt,  suffer  innocently. 

Geobob.  Alas!  that  we  are  pent  up  thus! 


ACT   V 

Scene  I.  A  viUage  jUundered  by  lAe  in- 
mrgenl  peasantry.  Shritki  and  tumvil. 
Women,  oM  men,  and  children  fly  acrott  the 

Old  Man.  Away!  Away!  Let  us  fly  from 
the  murdering  dogs. 

WOHAK.  SacredHeavenI  Howblood-red 
is  the  sky!  How  blood-red  the  setting  sun! 
■    Another.  That  must  be  fire, 

A  Third,  My  husband!  My  husliandl 

Old  M&M,  Away!  Away  1  To  the  wood! 
[Exeunt.] 

[Enter  Link  and  Insurj/enU.] 

Link.  Whoever  opposes  you,  down  with 

him!  The  village  is  ours.  Let  none  of  the 

booty  be  injured,  none  be  left  laehind. 

Plunder  clean  and  quickly.  We  must  soon 

[Enter  Mbtziah,  earning  down  the  AtU,] 
MiTTtLBK.  How  do  things  go  with  you. 


i.,Goog[c 


b>6 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


LiNR.  Merrily  enough,  u  you  see;  you 
are  just  in  time  for  the  fun.  —  Whence 
come  you  7 

MirrELEB.  From  Weinsberg.  There  was 
B  jubilee. 

Link.  Hov  ao7 

Mettzlbb.  We  stabbed  them  all,  in  sueh 
heaps,  it  was  a  joy  to  see  iti 

Link.  All  wham? 

Mbteus.  Dietrich  von  Weiler  led  up 
the  dance.  The  fool!  We  were  all  raging 
round  the  chiirch  steeple.  He  looked  out 
and  wished  to  treat  with  us.  —  Baf  I  A  ball 
through  hia  head!  Up  we  rushed  like  a 
tempest,  and  the  fellow  soon  made  his  exit 
by  Uie  window. 

hatK.  Buiul 

Mbtzlbr  [to  the  Peatants],  Ye  dogs, 
must  I  find  you  legs?  How  they  gape  and 
loiter,  the  asses! 

Link,  Set  firet  Let  thran  roast  in  the 
flames!  Forward!  Push  on,  ye  dolts. 

MiTZiAB.  Then  we  brought  out  Hel- 
fenstein,  Eltershofen,  thirteen  of  the  no- 
bility —  eighty  in  all.  They  were  led  out 
on  the  plain  before  Heilbronn.  What  a 
shouting  and  jubilee  among  our  lads  as  the 
long  row  of  naiserable  sinnerB  passed  by. 
They  stared  at  each  other,  and,  heaven  and 
eorthl  We  surrounded  them  before  they 
were  aware,  and  then  dispatched  them  all 
with  our  pikes. 

Link.  Why  was  I  not  there? 

Mbtzlbr.  Never  in  all  my  life  did  I  see 
such  fun. 

Link.  Od!  Ont  Bring  all  outt 

Pbabani'.  All's  clear. 

Link.  Then  fire  the  vill^e  at  the  four 

Mbtzlbr.  'T  will  make  a  fine  bonfirel 
Hadet  thou  but  seen  how  the  fellows 
tumbled  over  one  another,  and  croaked  like 
frogs!  It  warmed  my  heart  like  a  cup  of 
brandy.  One  Rexinger  was  there,  a  fellow, 
~with  a  white  plume,  and  flaxen  locks,  who, 
when  he  went  out  hunting,  used  to  drive  us 
before  him  tike  dogs,  and  with  dogs.  I  had 
not  caught  sight  of  him  all  the  while,  when 
suddenly  his  fool's  visage  looked  me  full  in 
theface.  Push!  went  the  spear  between  his 
ribs,  and  there  he  lay  stretched  on  all-fours 
above  his  (Mxnpaikions.    The  fellows  lay 


lacking  in  a  heap  like  the  hares  that  used 
to  be  driven  t<^ther  at  their  grKnd  hunt- 
ing-parties. 

Link.  It  smokes  finely  already! 

MirrzLBR.  Yonder  it  burns!  Come,  let 
us  with  the  booty  to  the  main  body. 

Link.  Where  do  they  halt? 

Mbtzueb.  Between  this  and  HmllHonn. 
They  wish  to  choose  a  captain  whom  eveiy 
one  will  respect,  for  we  are  aft«r  all  only 
their  equals;  they  feel  this,  and  turn  res- 
tive. 

Link.  Whom  do  they  propose? 

MvTZLBB.  Maximilian  Stumf,  or  Goeti 
von  Berhchingen. 

Link.  That  would  be  well.  'T  would 
give  the  thing  credit  should  Goeti  anoept 
it.  He  has  ever  been  held  a  worthy  inde- 
pendent knight.  Away,  away!  We  mardi 
toward  Heilbronn!  Pass  the  word. 

Mbtzlbr.  The  fire  will  light  us  a  good 
part  of  the  way.  Hast  thou  seen  the  great 
comet? 

Link.  Yes,  it  is  a  dreadful  ghastly  signl 
As  we  tnar^  by  night  we  can  see  it  wtdl. 
It  rises  about  oim  o'clock. 

Mbtslbb.  And  is  visible  but  for  an  hour 
and  a  quarter,  like  an  arm  brandishing  a 
sword,  and  bloody  red! 

Link.  Didst  thou  mark  the  three  stare 
at  the  sword's  hilt  and  point? 

Metelbb.  And  the  broad  haie-otdored 
stripe  illuminated  by  a  thousand  Btreamm 
like  lances,  and  between  them  little  swords 

Link.  I  shuddered  with  horror.  The 
sky  was  pale  red  streaked  with  ruddy 
flames,  and  among  them  grisly  figures  with 
shaggy  hair  and  beards. 

Metelbb.  Did  you  eee  them  too?  And 
how  they  all  swam  about  as  though  in  a 
sea  of  blood,  and  struggled  in  confusion, 
enough  to  turn  one's  brain. 

Link.  Awayl  Away!  [ExeunL] 

Scbnb  II.  Open  country.  In  the  diMcmtt 
two  mllaget  and  an  alAty  are  burning. 
[Kohl,. Wild,  Maxiuiuan  SrnMT, 

Inmrgenti.] 

STttuv.  You  cannot  ask  me  to  be  your 

leader;  it  were  badfor  you  and  for  me:  I  an 

a  vassal  of  the  Palsgrave,  and  how  shnD  I 

Goc«lc 


GOETZ  VON   BERLICHINGEN 


6>7 


make  war  againat  my  liege  lord?  Besides, 
you  would  always  su^Mct  I  did  not  act  from 
my  heart. 

KoHb.  We  knew  well  thou  wouldnt 
m&ke  some  excuse. 

[Enler  Gbobqe,  Lerse,  and  Gogtz.] 
GovTi.  What  would  you  with  me? 
Kohl.  Vou  must  be  our  captain. 
GoBTZ.    How  can  I  break  my  knightly 
word  to  the  Emperor.  I  am  under  the  ban : 
I  cannot  quit  my  territory. 
Wild.  That's  no  excuse. 
GoBTZ.  And  were  I  free,  and  you  wonted 
to  deal  with  the  lords  and  noblee  as  you  did 
at  Weinsberg,  laying  waste  the  country 
round  with  fire  and  sword,  and  should 
'wish  me  to  be  on  abettor  of  your  shame- 
leee,  bajFbarous  doings,  rather  than  be  your 
captain,  you  should  slay  me  like  a  mad 
dogi 

Kohl.  What  has  been  done  cannot  be 
undone. 

9ruMP.  That  was  just  the  misfortune, 
that  they  had  no  leader  whom  they 
honored,  and  who  could  bridle  their  fury. 
I  beseech  thee,  Goeti,  accept  the  ofGcel 
The  princes  will  be  grateful;  all  Germany 
will  Uiank  thee.  It  will  be  for  the  weal  and 
pToeperity  of  all.  The  country  and  its  in- 
Inbitants  will  be  preserved. 

GoETZ.  Why  dost  not  thou  accept  it? 
Srruir.   I  have  given  them  reasons  tor 
a>Y  refusal. 

KoBL.  We  have  no  time  to  waste  in 
umIcss  speeches.  Once  for  all!  Goetz,  be 
our  chief,  or  look  to  thy  castle  and  thy 
bead!  Take  two  houra  to  consider  it. 
Guard  him  I 

Govrc.  To  what  purpose?  I  am  as  re- 
solved now  as  I  shall  ever  be.  Why  have 
ye  risen  up  in  arms?  If  to  recover  your 
righU  and  freedom,  why  do  you  plunder 
and  lay  waste  the  land?  Will  you  abstain 
ftxim  such  evil  doings,  and  act  as  true 
men  who  know  what  they  want?  Then 
will  I  be  your  chief  for  eight  days, '■and 
help  you  in  your  la'wful  and  orderly  de- 
mands. 

Wtu>.  What  has  been  done  was  done  in 
the  first  heat,  and  thy  interference  is  not 
needed  to  prevent  it  for  the  future. 


Kohl.  Thou  must  engage  with  us  at 
least  for  a  quarter  of  a  year. 

Stttuf.  Say  four  weeks,  that  will  satisfy 
both  parties. 

Govrc.  Then  be  it  so. 

Kohl.  Your  hand! 

GoxTX.  But  you  must  promise  to  send 
the  treaty  you  h*ve  made  with  me  in  writ- 
ing to  all  your  troops,  and  bi  pimish  se- 
verely those  who  infringe  it. 

Wild.  Well,  it  shall  be  done. 

GoETE.  Then  I  bind  myself  to  you  tor 
four  weeks. 

Srour.  Good  fortune  to  you!  In  wbat- 
evar  thou  doest,  spare  our  noble  lord  the 
Palsgrave. 

Kohl  [aside].  See  that  none  speak  to 
him  without  our  knowledge. 

Govra.  Lerse,  go  to  my  wife.  Protect 
her;  you  shall  soon  have  news  of  me. 

[Exvunt  Goaxz,  Stukf,  Gborgb, 
Lebse,  and  tome  PeaaarUt.] 


MrrxLXB.  Who  talks  of  a  treaty?  What 's 
the  use  of  a  treaty? 

Link.  It  is  shuoeful  to  moke  any  such 
bargain. 

Kohl.  Weknowas wellwhatwewantas 
you;  and  we  may  do  or  let  alone  what  we 

Wild.  This  raging,  and  burning,  and 
murdering  must  have  an  end  some  day  or 
other;  and  by  renouncing  it  just  now,  wa 
gain  a  brave  leader. 

Mbtilbb.  How?  An  end?  Thoutrtutorl 
Why  are  we  here  but  to  avei^  ourselves 
on  our  enemies,  and  enrich  ourselves  at 
their  e^iense?  Some  prince's  slave  has  be«i 
tampering  with  thee. 

KoBL.  Come,  Wild,  he  is  like  a  brute- 
beast.  [Exeunt  Wild  and  Kohl.) 

MvraLEB.  Aye,  go  your  way,  no  band 
will  stick  by  you.  Thevillaina!  Link,  well 
set  on  the  others  to  bum  Miltenberg  yon- 
der; and  if  they  begin  a  quarrel  about  the 
treaty,  well  cut  off  the  heads  of  those  that 
made  it. 

Link.  We  have  atill  the  greater  body  of 
peaeoDts  on  our  side. 

[Exeunt  with  In»argenU\ 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


ScxNx  III.  A  hill  and  protpeet  of  the 
oowitry.  In  thafiat  mstm  a  miU.  A  body  <^ 
hortemtri. 

[Weibunoen  eoTnet  out  of  Aa  mill,  foiUneed 
by  Francis  and  a  Courier.] 

WsiBiiiNtiBN.  My  borsel  Have  jou  an- 
rounced  it  to  the  other  Aoblee? 

CouRiBR.  At  least  ieven  Btand&rds  will 
meet  you  in  the  wood  behind  Milt«&berg. 
The  peasants  are  marching  in  that  direc- 
tion. Courien  ara  diepatched  oa  all  sides; 
the  entire  confederacy  will  soon  be  ae- 
Bembled.  Our  plan  cannot  fail;  and  they 
day  there  ia  dissension  among  them. 

Wkisungin.  So  much  the  bett«r. 
FVancisI 

Francis.  GrociouB  sir! 

Weisunobn.  Discharge  thine  errand 
punctually.  I  bind  it  upon  thy  soul.  Give 
her  the  letter.  She  shall  from  the  court  to 
my  castle  instantly.  Tbou  must  see  her  de- 
part, and  bring  me  notice  of  it. 

FsANCia.     Your    commands    shall    be 

WBtBLtNaBN.  Tell  her  ahe  thali  go.  [To 
tha  Courier.]  Lead  us  by  the  nearest  and 
best  road. 

Cohribr.  We  must  go  round;  all  the 
rivers  are  swollen  with  the  late  heavy  raina_ 

BcRNR  IV.  Jaxlhauien. 
(EuzABBTH  and  Lrrsb.) 

Lbhse.  GraciouB  lady,  be  comforted! 

EuzABBTB.  Alas!  Lerse,  the  tears  stood 
in  his  eyes  when  he  took  leave  of  me.  It  is 
dreadfi^,  dreadfull 

Lbrbe.  He  will  return. 

EuiASXTH.  It  is  not  that.  When  he 
went  forth  t«  gain  honorable  victories, 
never  did  grief  sit  heavy  at  my  heart.  I 
then  rejoiced  in  the  prospect  of  his  return, 
which  I  now  dread. 

Lebsz.  So  noble  a  man. 

EusABirta.  Call  him  not  so.  There  lies 
the  new  misery.  The  miscreants!  They 
threatened  to  murder  his  family  and  bum 
his  castle.  Should  he  return,  gloomy,  most 
^oomy  shall  I  see  his  brow.  His  enemies 
will  forge  scandalous  accusations  against 
dim.  which  be  will  be  unable  to  refute. 


Lrbar.  He  will  and  can. 

EuEABVTH.  He  has  broken  his  parole: 
— canst  thou  deny  thatT 

Lkbbb.  Not  He  was  oonstrained.  What 
reaaon  is  there  to  condemn  him7 

Elizabbth.  Malice  seeks  not  reasons^ 
but  pretexts.  He  has  become  an  aliy  of 
rebels,  malefactors,  and  murderers:  — he 
has  become  their  chief.  Say  No  to  that 

Lbbsb.  Cease  to  torment  yourself  and 
me.  Have  they  not  solemnly  sworn  to  ab- 
jure all  such  doings  as  those  at  Weinsberg? 
Did  I  not  myself  hear  them  say,  in  remorse, 
that,  had  not  that  been  done  already,  it 
never  should  have  been  done?  Must  not 
the  princes  and  nobles  return  him  their 
beet  thanks  for  having  undertaken  the 
dangerous  office  of  leading  theae  uiuiily 
people,  in  order  to  restrain  their  rage,  and 
to  save  BO  many  Uvea  and  possnsionsT 

Elizabeth.  Thou  art  an  affectioiiate 
advocate.  Should  they  take  him  prisonef, 
deal  with  him  as  with  a  rebel,  and  bring 
his  gray  hairs  —  Lerse,  I  should  go  mad! 

Lersb.  Send  sleep  to  refresh  her  body, 
dear  Father  of  manJdnd,  if  Hou  deniest 
comfort  to  her  soull 

EuEABETH.  George  has  (womised  to 
bring  news,  but  he  will  not  be  allowed  to  do 
80.  They  are  worse  than  prisonen.  Wd! 
I  know  they  are  watched  hke  enemicB.  — 
The  gallant  boyi  He  would  not  leave  hia 
master. 

Lebse.  The  very  heart  within  me  bled 
as  I  left  him.  —  Had  you  not  needed  mf 
help,  all  the  terrors  of  grisly  death  should 
not  have  separated  us. 

EuzAREnrB.  I  know  not  where  Siekingen 
is.  —  Could  I  but  send  a  message  to  Maria! 

Lebsb.  Write,  then:  —  I  will  take  caie 
that  she  receives  it.  l£xd.1 

Scene  V.  A  village. 
[BrUer  Gobtz  and  Geobub.] 
Gorrx.   To  horse,  George!  Quiokl  I  see 
Miltenberg  in  flames.  Is  it  thus  they  kef|i 
the  treaty?  —  Ride  to  them,  t«]l  them  my   ' 
purpose.  —  The  murderous  inoendiariss  — 
I  renounce  them.  Let  them  make  a  thier- 
iug  gypsy  their  captain,  not  mel  —  Quick 
George!  |£xit Gboror.)  Wooldthat Iw«n 


.CtOoi^Ic 


GOETZ  VON   BERLICHINGEN 


R  tboosnnd  milM  Iienoe,  at  the  bottom  of 

the  deepest  dungeoo  in  Turkey!  —  Could 

I  but  oome  off  with  honor  from  theml  I 

hftve  thwarted  them  every  d&y,  and  told 

tbem  the  bittemt  tnithB,  in  the  hope  they 

might  weary  of  me  and  let  me  go. 

[Enter  an  Unknoan.] 

Unxnown.  Ood  Bare  you,  gallant  airl 

Govts.    I  thank  youl    What  is  your 

errand?  Your  name? 

Unknown.  My  name  does  not  concern 
my  buuncas.  I  come  to  tell  you  that  your 
life  w  in  danger.  T^e  insurgent  leaders  are 
weary  of  betiring  from  you  such  haieh  lan- 
guage, and  are  reoolved  to  rid  themaelvee  of 
you.  Speak  them  fair,  or  endeavor  to 
escape  from  them;  and  Qod  be  with  youl 

lE2it.] 

Govn.  To  quit  life  in  this  fashion, 
Goets, toend thus?  Butbeitso.  Mydeath 
will  be  the  clearest  proof  to  the  world  that 
I  have  had  nothing  in  common  with  the 
miscreants. 

[Enter  Intwyfnts.] 

Ft^bt  iKBTTBOiiNT.  Captain,  they  are 
pnsoners,  they  are  alaiul 

GoBTt.  Who? 

Sbcdmd  Insuboxnt.  Those  who  burned 
Mihenberg;  a  troop  of  confederate  cavalry 
suddenly  charged  upon  them  from  behind 
tbehiU. 

GoBTE.  They  have  their  reward.  Oh, 
Georgel  Geoi^I  Tbey  have  takttt  him 
prisoner  with  the  caitiffB.  My  Georget 
My  Georgel  ^ 


[Enter  Intttrgenti  in  cor^unon.] 
Zjnk.  Up,  Sir  Captain,  up!  — There  is 

no  time  to  lose.  The  6nemy  is  at  hand,  and 

in  force. 
Goirrz.  Who  burned  Miltenberg7 
MvrsLBR.  If  you  mean  to  pick  a  quarrel, 

we'll  soon  show  you  how  we'll  end  it. 
KoHii.    Look  to  your  own  sirfety  and 

ouiB.  Up! 

Gone    [to    Mstzleb).     Dareet    thou 

threaten  me,  thou  scoundrel.  —  Thinkeet 

thou  to  awe  me,  because  thy  garments  are 

■tainad  with  the  Count  of  Hetfenstein's 

bloodT 


639 

Mbtzucb.  BerlichingenI 
GoBTi.    Thou  mayeet  call  me  by  my 
name,  and  my  children  wiU  not  be  ashamed 
to  hear  it.  , 

MertLBH.  Out  upoh  thee,  oowanil  — ' 
Prince's  slavel 

IGoBTZ   ttrikea  Aim  down.     Tht 
oAert  mitrpoge.] 
Kohl.    Ye  are  madt  —  The  enemy  are 
breaking  in  on  all  sides,  and  you  quarrell 
Link.  AwaylAwnyl 

[CriM  and  tumvU  —  The  Innr- 
gmtt  fiy  aerow  the  etage.] 

[£nfer  Wbislingik  and  Troopen.] 
WoisLiNaiiN.  Pufiue!  Pursue!  They 
fly!  —  Stop  neither  for  darkness  nor  rain. 
—  I  hear  Goets  is  among  them;  look  that 
he  escape  you  not.  Our  friends  say  be  is 
■ordy  wounded.  [Bxeunt  Troopert.]  And 
when  I  have  caught  thee  —  it  wilt  be 
merciful  secretly  to  execute  the  senteoce 
of  death  in  prison.  Thus  he  perishes  from 
the  memory  of  man,  and  then,  foolish 
heart,  thou  mayst  beat  more  freely. 

Scene  VI.  The  front  of  a  gypey-hvt  in  a 
mtdforett.  Night.  A  fin  before  the  hvt,  at 
wkieh  are  tealed  Ike  Mother  <4  tfie  Oypeiee 
and  a  girl. 

MorrBEH.  Throw  some  fresh  straw  upon 
the  thatch,  daughter.  There'll  be  hMvy 
rain  again  to-night. 

[Enter  a  Gypey  Boy.] 

BoT.  A  dormouse,  motherl  And  lookl  — 
two  field-mice! 

MoTHKB.  I  '11  skin  them  and  roast  tiieni 
for  thee,  and  thou  shalt  have  a  cap  of  their 
skinB.  Thou  bleedesti 

BoT.  Dormouse  bit  me. 

MoTHXR.  Fetch  some  dead  wood,  that 
the  fire  may  bum  bright  when  thy  father 
comes;  he  will  be  wet  through  and  through. 

[Another  Oypey  Woman  with  a  child  at  her 
baek.l 

F1H8T  WouAN.  Hast  thou  had  good 
luck? 

Second  Woman.  Ill  enough.  Thewhcte 
country  is  in  an  uproar;  one's  life  is  not 


6^0 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


safe  a  momMit.    Two  vilb^ea  an  in  a 

blaM. 
FoBt  WouAN.    Ib  it  fire  that  glam  bo 

yondor?  I  have  been  watching  it  long.  One 

is  m  accustomed  now  to  fiery  signs  in  the 

heavens. 

[The  Caplain  of  Utt  Oyptiet  enltn  loiA  itmt 

of  hi*  gang.] 

Caftaik.    Heard   ye  the  wild  himta- 

FiBOT  WouAN.    He  is  passing  over  us 

Captain.  How  the  hounds  give  tongue! 
Wowl  Wow! 

Skcond  Man.  How  the  whips  craokl 

TmsD  Mak.  And  the  huntsmen  cheer 
them  — HaUo  — ho! 

MoTHEB.  'T  is  the  Devil's  chase. 

Captain.  We  have  tieen  fishing  in 
troubled  waters.  The  peasants  rob  each 
other;  there's  no  harm  in  our  heliutag 

SBCOta>  Woman.  What  hast  thou  got. 
Wolf? 

Wolf.  A  hare  and  a  capon,  a  spit,  a 
bundle  of  linen,  three  spoons,  and  a  bridle. 

SncES.  I  have  a  blanket  and  a  pair  of 
boots,  also  a  fiint  uid  tinder-box. 

MoTHBB.  Allwetasmire;  I'lldry  them; 
give  them  heret  [Trampling  tniihoui.] 

Captain.  HarkI  — A  horeel  Go  *e 
who  it  is. 

(£nter  Govts  on  hort^Mck.] 

GoxTZ.  I  thank  thee,  OodI  I  see  fire  — 
they  are  gypeiee.  —  My  wounds  bleed 
sorely  —  my  foee  are  close  behind  met  — 
Great  God,  this  is  a  fearful  endl 

Captain.  Is  it  in  peace  thou  contest? 

GoBTz.  I  crave  help  from  you.  My 
wounds  exhaust  me  —  assist  me  to  dis- 
mount! 

Captain.  Help  him!  — ,A  gallant  war- 
rior in  look  and  epeech. 

WoLP  [(Wide].  'Tu  Goet«  von  Ber- 
liohingenl 

Captain.  Wdoomel  Welcome!  — AH 
that  we  have  is  yours. 

OoBTE,  Thanks,  thanks! 

Captain.  Come  to  my  hutl 

[Bxmint  to  the  hvt.] 


ScxNB  VII.  Intide  (As  koL 

ICaptain,  OyptiM,  anid  Gobtz.] 

Captain.  Call  our  Mother  —  tell  her  to 

bring  bloodwort  and  bandages.    (Govn 

tBtonni   Mmattf.]     Here    is    my   holiday 

doublet. 

GoiTZ.   God  reward  yout 

[The  Mother  bind*  hi*  teound*.] 
Captain.   I  rejoice  that  you  are  come. 
GoBTZ.   Do  you  know  me? 
Captain.     Who  does   not  know  you, 
GoetiT  Our  lives  and  heart's  blood  are  youn. 
{Enter  SncKS.) 
Bncxs.   Horsemen  are  coining  Umu^ 
the  wood.  They  are  confederates. 

Captain.  Your  pursuers!  They  ab^ 
not  harm  you.  Away,  Sticks,  cfdl  the 
others:  we  know  the  passes  better  than 
diey.    We  shall  shoot  them  ere  they  are 

[Exeunl  Captain  and  Men  Oypeiet 

mith  their  guru.] 

GoBTE  [aione].    O  Emperor!  Empraer! 

Robbers  protect  thy  children.    [A  Aorp 

fiHng.]    The  wild  foresters!    Steady  and 

[Enter  Women.] 
Women.  Flee,  flee!  The  enemy  has  ovei^ 
powered  us. 
GoBTE.  Where  is  my  horse? 
Women.   Heret 

■  GOETZ  \ffirde  on  hi*  etnord  and  niMmle 
without  hie  armor].   For  the  last  time  riiaU 
you  feel  my  arm.  I  am  not  bo  weak  yet. 
IBtit.  —  Tumult.] 
Women.  He  gallops  to  join  our  parly. 
[Firing.] 
[Enter  Wolf.] 
WOLT.  Away!  Away!  All  is  lost.  —  The 
Captain  is  shot!  —  Goeti  a  prisoner! 

{The  Womtn  eeream  and  fly  into 
the  wood.] 

Scene  VIU.   Addaid^*  bedchamber. 

\Enter  Adeijude  with  a  letter.] 

AoBLAiDK.    He  OT  II    The  tyrant  —  to 

tiireatenmel  We  will  anticipate  him.  mv 


.CtOoi^Ic 


GOETZ  VON  BERLICHINGEN 


FiuDcis  (in  a  low  vote*].  Open,  gracioua 
ladyl 

Adklaide.  FrancisI  He  wdl  deserree 
that  I  should  admit  Kim.    [Opent  the  door.] 

Frahcib  IthroiDBhimtelf  on  her  neek].  My 
dear,  my  gracious  lady! 

AsxLAiDE.  What  audftcityT  If  any  oae 
should  hear  you? 

Fkancib.  Oh  —  all  —  all  are  asleep. 

Adkjjui^.  What  wouldst  thou? 

Francis.  I  cannot  rert.  The  threats  of 
my  matter,  —  your  fate,  —  my  heart. 

Adelaide.  He  was  incensed  against  me 
when  you  parted  from  himT 

Francis.  He  was  as  I  have  never  seen 
him.  —  "To  my  castle,"  said  he,  "ehe 
must  —  she  thall  go." 

Adelaide,  And  shall  we  obey? 

Francis.  I  know  not,  dear  ladyl 

Adelaide.  Thou  (oolish,  infatuated 
tNiyt  Thou  dost  not  see  where  this  wilt 
end?  Here  he  knows  I  am  in  safety.  He 
has  long  had  designs  on  my  freedom,  and 
therefore  wishes  to  get  me  to  his  castle  — 
there  he  will  haTe  power  to  use  me  as  his 
hate  shall  dictate. 

France.  He  shall  not!  - 

Adelaide.  Wilt  thou  prevent  him? 

Francis.  He  shall  not! 

Adelaide.  I  foresee  the  whole  misery  of 
my  fate.  He  will  tear  me  forcibly  from  iiia 
castle  to  immure  me  in  a  cloister. 

Francis.  Hell  and  damnation! 

Adelaide.  Wilt  thou  rescue  me? 

FiUNaa.  Anything!  Everything! 

Adelaide  [Utrows  hendf  vxejnng  upon 
kUneek].  Francis!  Oh  save  me! 

Francis.  He  shall  fall.  I  will  plant  my 
foot  upon  his  neck. 

'  Adrlaidb.  No  violence!  Voush^  carry 
a  aubmisBive  letter  to  him  announcing 
obedience  —  then  give  him  this  vi^  in  his 

Francis.  Give  it  met  Thou  shalt  be 
free! 

Adelaide.  Freel — And  then  no  more 
shalt  thou  need  to  come  to  my  chamber 
trembling  and  in  fear.  No  more  shalt  I  need 
anxiously  to  say,  "Away,  Francis!  the 
morning  dawns." 


lEuzABBTH  and  I^irsb.) 

Lebsb.  Heaven  relieve  your  distren, 
gracious  ladyl  Maria  is  come. 

Elieabeth.  God  be  praised!  Lerse,  we 
have  sunk  into  dreadful  misery.  My  worst 
foreboding?  are  realised!  A  prisoner  — 
thrown  as  an  assassin  and  malefactor  into 
the  deepest  dungeon. 

Lbrsb.  I  know  all. 

Elieabeth.  Thou  knowest  nothing.  Our 
distress  is  too  —  too  great!  His  age,  his 
wounds,  a  slow  fever  —  and,  more  than 
all,  the  deqxindency  of  his  mind,  to  think 
that  this  should  be  his  end, 

Lerse,  Aye,  and  that  Weislingen  should 
be  commissioner! 

Elieabeth,   Weislingen? 

Lebse.  They  have  acted  with  unheard-of 
severity.  Metxier  has  been  burned  alive  — 
hundreds  of  his  associates  broken  upon  the 
wheel,  beheaded,  quartered,  and  implied. 
All  the  country  round  looks  like  a  slaughter- 
house, where  human  Sesh  is  cheap. 

Elizabeth.    Weislingen  commissioner! 

0  Heaven!  A  ray  of  hope!  Maria  sliall  go 
to  him :  he  cannot  refuse  her.  He  had  ever 
a  compassionate  heart,  and  when  he  seee 
her  whom  he  once  loved.so  much,  whom  he 
has  made  so  miserable  —  Where  is  she? 

Lerse.   StiU  at  the  inn, 
Elieabeth.  Take  me  to  her.  She  must 
away  instantly.  I  fear  the  worst. 

\ExewU.] 

Scene  X,  An  aparlmtnl  in  WeMingen'r 

[Weisunoxn,  alone.] 
Weiblinoen.  I  am  bo  ilt,  so  weak  —  all 
my  bonee  ore  hollow  —  this  wretched  fever 
has  consumed  their  very  marrow.  No  rest, 
no  sleep,  by  day  or  night!  And  when  I 
slumber,  such  fearful  dreams  I  Last  night 
methought  I  met  GoetK  in  the  forest.  He 
drew  his  sword,  and  defied  me  to  combat. 

1  grasped  mine,  but  my  hand  failed  me. 
He  darted  on  me  a  look  of  contempt, 
sheathed  his  weapon,  and  passed  on.  He  is 
a  priooner;  yet  I  tremble  to  think  of  him. 


63» 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS' 


Hiaerable  man!  Thine  own  voice  has  con- 
demned him,  yet  thou  trembleit  like  a 
maleFactor  at  his  very  shadow.  And  shall 
he  dieT  Go«ti1  Goetxl  We  mortals  are  not 
our  own  maaten.  Fiends  have  empire  over 
us,  and  shape  our  actions  after  their  own 
hellish  will,  to  goad  ua  to  perdition.  [Sitt 
down.]  Weak!  Weak!  Why  are  my  nails 
so  blue?  A  cold,  clammy,  wasting  swrnt 
drenches  every  limb.  Everything  swims 
before  my  eyet.  Could  I  but  sleep!  Alael 
[BtOer  Makia.] 

WsisuNOBN.  Mother  of  Qod!  Leave 
me  in  peace  ^  leave  me  in  peace!  This 
specter  was  yet  wanting.  Maria  is  dead, 
and  she  appears  to  the  traitor.  Leave  me, 
blessed  spirit!  I  am  wretched  enough. 

Mabu.    Weislingen,  I  am  no  spirit.    I 

Wbiblinobn.  It  is  her  voice! 

Maria.  I  came  to  beg  my  brother's  life 
of  thee.  He  is  guiltleas,  however  culp^le 
he  may  appear. 

Wbislinqen.  Hushl  Maria — Angel  of 
heaven  as  thou  art,  thou  bringeet  with 
thee  the  torments  of  hell  I  Speak  no  morel 

Maria.  And  must  my  brother  die? 
Weislingen,  it  is  horrible  that  I  should 
havetoteHtfaeeheisguiltl^M;  thatlshould 
be  compelled  to  come  as  a  suppliant  to 
restrain  thee  from  a  most  fearful  murder. 
Thy  soul  to  its  inmost  depths  is  possessed 
by  evil  powers.  Can  this  be  Adelbert? 

WstsuKOBN.  Thou  seest  —  the  con- 
suming breath  of  the  grave  hath  swept  over 
me  —  my  strength  sinks  in  death  —  I  die 
in  misery,  and  thou  earnest  to  drive  me  to 
deapair  — Could  I  but  teU  thee  all,  thy 
bitterest  hate  would  melt  to  sorrow  and 
compassion.  O  Maria!  MariaLI 
~^  Mabia.  Weislingen,  my  brother  is  pin- 
ing in  a  dungeon  —  the  anguish  of  his 
wounds  —  his  age  —  oh,  hadst  thou  the 
heart  to  bring  his  gray  hairs  —  Weislingen, 
we  should  despair. 

Wbisunoen.  Enough!  — 

[Rings  a  Aond-bsU.) 
[Enter  Fbamcis,  m  gnat  agitation.] 

Francis.  Gracious  sir. 

WeiauNOBN.    Those   papers,    F^anus. 


[He  gieet  them.  Weibunobh  (eon  opm  a 
paektt  and  ahmot  Maria  a  paper.)  Here  is 
thy  brother's  death-warrant  fflgnedl 

Maria.  God  in  heaven! 

WsiBuiTaHN.  And  thus  I  tear  it.  He 
shall  hvet  But  can  I  restore  what  I  have 
destroyed?  Weep  not  to,  Francis!  Dear 
youth,  my  wretchedness  lies  deeply  at  thy 

[Francis  tkroim  hitnt^  at  Au  fmt, 
and  darpa  hit  kneel.] 

Maria  [apart].  He  is  ill  —  v^y  ilL  The 
sight  of  him  rends  my  heart.  I  loved  himt 
And  now  that  I  again  approach  him,  I  feel 
how  dearly  — 

Weibumokn.  Fiancn,  arise  and  cease 
to  weep  —  1  may  recover!  While  there  is 
life,  there  is  hope. 

Francis.  You  cannotl  You  must  diet 

Weisunobn.  MustT 

Francis  [betide  M»ue{n-  Poison  I  poisml 
—  from  your  wife!  I  —  I  gave  it. 

(BusAet  ouL] 

Weibunoen.  Follow  him,  Maria  ^  be 
is  desperate.  [Bmt  Maria.]  Poison  from 
my  wife!  Alasl  Alas!  I  feel  it.  Torture  and 
death! 

Maria  [tnlAtn]-  Helplhelpl 

Weiblimobn  (ottefflpti  tn  tajn  (a  rite]. 
God!  I  cannot. 

Maria  [r«£umtn;].  He  is  gone!  He 
threw  himself  desperately  from  a  window 
of  the  hall  into  tiie  river. 

Weislinqbn.  ItiswellwithhimI  —  Thy 
brother  is  out  of  danger!  The  other  omn- 
miseioners,  especially  Seckendorf,  are  his 
friends.  They  will  readily  allow  him  to 
ward  himself  upon  his  knightly  mtd. 
Farewell,  Maria!  Now,  go. 

Maria.  1  will  stay  with  thee  —  thoa 
poor  forsaken  one! 

Weibunoen.  Poor  and  forsaken,  in- 
deed! O  God,  Thou  art  a  terrible  avengwl 
My  wife! 

Maria.  Remove  from  thee  that  thought. 
Turn  thy  soul  to  the  Throne  of  Mercy. 

WiiauNaxN.  Go,  thou  gentle  spirit! 
Leave  me  to  my  misery!  Horriblel  Even 
thy  presence,  Maria,  even  the  attendance 
of  my  only  comforter,  is  agony. 

Maria  [a»ide].  Strengthen  me,  HeavenI 
My  soul  dro<^  with  his. 


GOETZ  VON  BEKLICHINGEN 


633 


WusuNSBN.  Alul  Alaal  Poison  from 
my  wifel  My  Francis  Kduoed  by  the 
wratchi  She  w&it«  —  lietens  to  every 
horse's  hoof  for  the  messenger  who  brings 
her  the  news  of  my  death.  And  thou,  too, 
Maria,  wherefore  art  thou  come  to  awaken 
every  slumbering  recollection  of  ray  sins? 
Leave  me,  leave  me  that  I  may  die! 

Mabia.  Let  me  stay!  Thou  art  alraie: 
think  I  am  thy  nurse.  Forget  all.  May 
Ood  forgive  thee  as  freely  as  I  dol 

WnsLDjaim.  Thou  spirit  erf  love!  Pray 
for  met  Pray  for  met  My  heart  is  seared. 

Maria.  There  ia  forgivenees  tor  thee.  — 
Thou  art  ezhaustsd. 

SfKiBiAnama.  Idiel  Idiel  Andyetloan- 
not  die.  In  the  fearful  contest  between  life 
and  death  lie  the  torments  of  hell, 

Mabia.  Heavenly  Father,  have  com- 
passion upon  him,  Grant  him  but  one 
token  of  Thy  love,  that  his  heart  may  be 
opoied  to  comfort,  and  his  soul  to  the  hope 
of  eternal  Ufe,  even  in  the  agony  of  deathl 


[The  Jvdgei  <tf  the  Secret  Tribuntd  dieeoaered 
teated,  aU  muffled  tn  bbidc  doaka.] 

Eij>EOT  Jonoz.  Judges  of  the  Secret 
Tribunal,  sworn  by  the  cord  and  the  steel 
to  be  inflexible  in  justice,  to  judge  in  secret, 
and  to  avenge  in  secret,  like  the  Deityl  Are 
your  hands  clean  and  your  hearts  pure? 
Raise  them  to  heaven,  and  cry,  —  Woe 
upon  evil-doers! 
.     Aiaj.  Woe!  Woel 

Eldbst  Jutkod.  Crier,  begin  the  diet  of 
judgment. 

Cribr.  I  cry,!  cry  for  aocusation  against 
evil-doers!  He  whose  heart  is  pure,  whose 
hands  are  clean  to  Hwear  by  the  cord  and 
the  steel,  let  him  lift  up  his  voice  and  call 
upon  the  steel  and  the  cord  for  Vengeance! 
Vengeance  I  Vengeance  I 

AccusEB  [eomei  fonoord\.  My  heart  is 
pure  from  misdeed,  and  my  hands  are 
clean  from  innocent  blood ;  God  pardon  my 
sins  of  thought,  and  prevent  their  execu- 
tion. I  raise  my  hand  on  high,  and  cry  for 
Vengeaikoe!  Vengeance!  Vengeance! 

Eldxst  Judos.  Vengeance  upon  whomT 


AccnsiiB.  I  call  upon  the  cord  and  the 
steel  for  vengeance  against  Adelaide  of 
Weislingen.  She  has  committed  adult«ry 
and  murder.  She  has  poiaoned  her  husband 
by  the  hands  of  his  servant  —  the  servant 
lyith  slain  himself  —  the  husband  is  dead. 

Eldbst  JnnoB.  Dost  thou  swear  by  the 
God  of  truth,  that  thy  accusation  is  trueT 

AccnsKB.  Isweail 

Eldxot  Jddqe,  Doet  thou  invoke  upon 
thine  own  head  the  punishment  of  murdec 
and  adultery,  should  thy  accusation  be 
found  false? 

Accubkr.  On  my  head  be  it. 

Eldiot  Judok.  Your  voiceeT 

[They  ctmtwM  a  /etc  minules  m 
vMeperi.] 

Accubbb.  Judges  of  the  Secret  Tribunal, 
what  is  your  sentence  upon  Adelaide  of 
Weislingen,  accused  of  murder  and  adul* 
tery? 

Eldest  Jddoz.  She  shall  diel  —  She 
shall  die  a  bitter  and  twofold  deathl  By 
the  double  doom  of  the  steel  and  the  cord 
shall  she  expiate  the  double  crime.  Raise 
your  hands  to  heaven  and  cry,  Woe,  woe 
upon  her!  Be  she  delivered  into  the  hands 
of  the  avenger. 

All.  Woel  Woel 

Eldest  Judob,  Woel  Avenger,  come 
forth.  [A  man  advance*.]  Here,  take  thou 
the  cord  and  the  steel!  Within  eight  days 
shalt  thou  blot  her  out  from  before  the 
face  of  Heaven;  wheresoever  thou  findest 
her,  down  with  her  into  the  dust.  Judgee, 
ye  that  judge  in  secret  and  avenge  in  secret 
like  the  Deity,  keep  your  hearts  from 
wickedness,  and  your  luoids  from  innocent 
blood! 

Scum  XII.   The  eoiprt  of  an  irm. 


Maria,  "Hie  horses  have  rested  long 
enough;  we  will  away,  Leree, 

LzRBB.  Stay  till  to-morrow;  this  is  a 
dreadful  night. 

Maria.  Lerse,  I  cannot  rest  till  I  have 
seen  my  brother.  Let  us  away:  the  weather 
is  clearing  up  —  we  may  txpoet  a  fair 
morning. 

Lbbbx.  fieituyou<ii^ 

GooqIc 


«34 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


S^NE  XIII.   Tht  pruoh  at  Hnlbnnn. 
[GoETz  and  Elizabeth.] 

EiiizABBTH.  I  entreat  thee,  dear  huo- 
band,  apeak  to  me.  Thy  sQence  alarms 
me;  tby  spirit  conBumee  thee,  pent  up 
wiUiin  thy  breast.  Come,  let  me  see  thy 
wounds;  tiiey  mend  daily.  In  this  de- 
sponding melancholy  I  know  thee  no 
longerl 

GovTZ.  Seekeat  thou  GoetsT  He  is  lot>g 
since  gone  I  Piece  by  piece  have  they 
robbed  me  of  all  1  held  dear  —  my  hand, 
my  property,  my  freedom,  my  good  namet 
My  life  I  Of  what  value  is  it  to  me?  What 
news  of  George?  la  Lerse  gone  to  seek  him? 

EuZABETH.  He  is,  my  lovel  Be  of  good 
cheer;  things  may  yet  take  a  favonble 

GoBTC.  He  whom  God  bath  stricken 
lifts  himself  up  no  morel  T  best  know  the 
load  I  have  to  bear.  —  To  misfortune  I  am 
inured.  —  But  now  it  is  not  Woslingen 
alone,  not  the  peasants  alone,  not  the  death 
of  the  Emperor,  not  my  wounds  —  it  is  the 
whole  united  ~  My  hour  is  come!  1  had 
hoped  it  should  have  been  tike  my  life.  But 
hia  will  be  done! 

EuzABBTH.  Wilt  thou  not  eat  some- 
tiling? 

GoBTE.  Nothing,  my  lovel  See  how  the 
sun  shines  yonder! 

Elieabxtb.  It  is  a  fine  spring  day! 

GoBTZ.  My  love,  wilt  thou  ask  the 
keeper's  peimiasion  for  me  to  walk  in  his 
little  garden  for  half  an  hour,  that  I  may 
look  upon  the  clesf  face  of  heaven,  the 
pure  air,  and  the  blessed  sun? 

Elizabeth.  I  will  —  and  he  will  readily 
grant  it. 

8cBNE  XIV.   The  priton  garden, 

[Lerse  and  Maria.] 

MariV  Go  in,  and  see  how  it  stands 

with  them!  -  [Exit  Lebbe.] 

[ETiter  EuEABSTH  and  Keeper.] 

EusABBTH  [td  the  Keeper].  Ood  reward 


your  tdndness  and  attention  to  my 
band!    [Exit  Keeper.]  —  Maria,  how  hast 
thou  sped? 


Makia.  My  brother  is  safel  But  my 
heart  is  torn  asunder.  Weislingen  is  dead 
—  poisoned  by  his  wife.  My  husband  is  in 
danger  —  the  princes  are  becoming  too 
powerful  for  him :  they  say  he  is  aumninded 
and  besieged. 

Elizabeth.  Believe  not  the  rumor;  and 
let  not  Goets  hear  it. 

Mabia.  How  is  it  with  him? 

EuzABvrH.  I  feared  he  would  not  aui>> 
vive  till  thy  return:  the  hand  of  the  Lon. 
is  heavy  on  him.  And  George  is  dead! 

Mabia.  Georgel  The  gallant  boyi 

EuEABBTB.  When  the  miscreants  wMe 
burning  MUtenberg,  his  master  sent  him  to 
check  their  villainy.  A  body  of  cavaliy 
charged  upon  them.  Had  they  all  be- 
haved Bjs  George,  they  must  all  have  had 
as  clear  a  conscienoe.  Many  were  killed, 
and  George  among  them;  he  died  the  death 
of  a  warrior. 

Mabia.  Does  Goeti  know  it? 

Elizabeth.  We  conceal  it  from  him. 
He  questions  me  ten  times  a  day  concern- 
ing him,  and  sends  me  as  often  to  see  what 
is  become  of  him.  I  fear  to  give  his  heart 
this  last  wound. 

Mabia.  O  GodI  What  are  the  hopes  of 
this  world? 

[Enler  Goetz,  Lbrbb,  and  Keeper.] 

GoBTE.  Almighty  GodI  How  lovely  it 
is  beneath  Thy  heaven!  How  free!  Tlie 
trees  put  forth  their  buds,  and  sil  the 
world  awakes  to  hope  —  Farewell,  my 
children!  My  roots  are  cut  aw^,  my 
strength  totters  to  the  grave. 

EuzAHgTH.  Shall  1  not  send  Lerse  to 
the  convent  for  thy  son,  that  thou  may'st 
onoe  more  see  and  bless  him? 

Goetz.  Let  him  be;  he  needs  not  my 
blessing,  he  is  holier  than  I.  —  Upon  our 
wedding-day,  Elizabeth,  could  I  have 
thought  I  should  die  thusi  —  My  old 
father  blessed  us,  and  prayed  for  a  succes- 
sion of  noble  and  gallant  sons.  —  God, 
Thou  hast  not  heard  him.  I  am  the  last  — 
Lerse,  thy  countenance  cheers  me  in  the 
hour  of  death,  more  than  in  our  moet  dar- 
ii^  fights:  then,  my  spirit  encouraged  alt 
of  you;  now,  thine  supports  me  —  Oh,  that 
I  oould  but  once  more  see  George,  and  sun 


GOETZ  VON   BERLICHINGEN 


'35 


mywif  in  bis  lookl  You  tura  sway  uid 
weep.  He  u  deadT  Oeorge  ia  dead?  Then, 
die,  Goetil  Thou  hast  outlived  thyself, 
outlived  the  wriest  of  thy  gervanta  — 
How  died  he?  Alosl  they  took  him  auMmg 
the  incendiariee,  and  he  haa  been  executed? 

EuEABSTB.  No!  He  was  slain  at  Mil- 
teoberg,  while  fighting  like  ation  for  hie 
rreedom. 

OoBTS.  God  be  praised!  He  was  the 
Idndeet  youth  under  the  sun,  and  one  of  the 
bravest  —  Now,  release  my  aoul.  My  poor 
wifel  IleATetheeinawicked  world.  Lerse, 
forsake  her  noti  Lock  your  hearts  more 
oarrfully  than  your  dooTB.  Theageoffnud 


is  at  hand;  treachery  will  reign  unchecked. 
The  worthless  will  gain  the  ascendancy  by 
cunning,  and  the  noble  will  fall  into  their 
net.  Maria,  may  God  restore  thy  husband 
to  thee!  May  he  not  fall  the  deeper  for 
having  risen  so  hi^l  Selbitz  is  dead,  and 
the  good  Emperor,  and  my  George  —  Give 
me  a  draught  of  water!  — Heavenly  airl 
Freedomt  FreedomI  [Ht  diet.] 

EuiABBTn.  Freedom  is  above  —  above 
—  with  thee!  The  world  is  a  priaon-house. 

Makia.  Noble  mani  Woe  to  this  age 
that  rejected  theel 

Lebbm.  And  woe  to  the  future,  that  shall 
misjudge  thee! 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


WILLIAM   TELL 

By  SCHILLER 
ThmtlaUdiHigEnglitkvtruly  SIR  THEODORE  MARTtN 


ciilizedbvGoOQic 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


CHARACTERS 


1  GxBBLBB,  the  Qooemor  cf  Schwytt  and  Uri 
WsBXER,  Baron  <4  Amnghaxatn,  free  nMe  qf  Switzakmd 
Uutica  TON  RnDKNi,  his  nephew 
Wbrker  Staubtachkr, 
Conrad  Humn, 
Hanb  Aur  DXB  Maueb, 

JORQ  lU  HOFE,  \-  ptOVie  ^  Schwj/U 

Ulrich  deb  Schmidt, 
J08T  VON  Weilbb, 
Itbl  RsDura, 
Wai;tsr  Fttsar, 
WiLLiAH  Tell, 
RfisBEUiANTT,  the  Priett, 
Peteriunn,  Sacridan, 
KroNi,  herdiTnan, 
Wbrni,  huntsman, 
RcoDi,  fisherman, 

AltNOLD  OF  MeLCHTSU^  ' 
CONBAD  BaTIIIOASTBN, 

Mbtbb  ton  Sarneh, 

Strfth  VON  WiNKELBiED,  '  (jf  UtitenoM 

KlaOB  TON  DEB  FlOB, 
BURKHABT  AM  BUHBL, 

Abnold  TON  Sewa, 
Pteiffer  of  Lucerne 

KUNS  OF  GsBfiAn 

JiNNi,  fiiherman'a  am 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


640  CHARACTERS 

SiPPi,  herdmum'a  ton 

Gbbtriisb,  StauffatAer't  vnjt 

Hkdviq,  wiSe  </  T^,  davghier  of  Flint 

Bbbtba  of  Bbunxck,  a  rich  heinu 

Abhoabt, 

MbchisHiD,  Ypeatmiwomm 

HnozaASD 

WALI9B,    I 


miiD,  >p 


RnDOLFH  Dim  Habhab,  Oeulet'a  master  <^  the  hona 
JoEANNza  Fasbicida,  Duke  qf  SuxHria 


The  Matob  or  Ubi 

A  Courier 

Mader  SoneTnavm,  Companwtu,  <md  IPoribmen 


A  Crier 

Monkacf  the  Order  of  Charitif 

Horsemen  qf  Gxbbleb  and  Lanshnbbbo 

Maaji  PeatanU—Mm  and  Women  from  the  ITaUaMtm 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


WILLIAM  TELL 


ACT  I 

Scam  I:  A  high  roeky  Aore  t^  the  Lake 
t^ Lueeme ifppotit* SehwyU.  Thelakemakee 
a  bend  into  the  land;  a  hvl  etandi  ai  a  ehort 
diitance  from  theehore;  the  fisher  boy  U  row- 
ing about  in  hie  boat.  Beyond  the  take  are 
eeen  the  ifreen  neadowe,  the  hamteta  and 
farme  qf  Schwyti,  lying  in  the  dear  lanehine. 
On  the  l^  enre  ebeerved  the  peake  of  The 
Baeken,  turrounded  with  etoude;  to  the 
right,  and  in  the  remote  dielanee,  appear  the 
gladere.  The  Ram  dee  Vaehee,  and  the 
tinkling  «4  eatUe  6eUt,  continue  for  eome  time 
afler  the  rinnd  of  the  curtain. 

[Bnler  Fieher.Bcy,  tinging  in  kit  bo<U.\ 

Mtttdg  »t  M«  JtoM  i*»  Vadut 

The  •mUeHUmi^ed  Uke  wooed  to  b»the  in  it* 

A.  boy  on  its  greoi  sliore  had  lud  him  to  deep; 
Then  hetutl  he  »  melody 
Eloating  alone 


The  mten  en  lippUng  over  hi*  brwwt; 
And  I,  voice  f  nun  the  deep  ciiea, 

"With  me  thou  must  go, 
I  ehaim  the  young  ihepherd, 

I  lure  him  bdow." 

[fftrdnnon,  on  1^4  mauntaine.] 

Alr.  —  Verietienettk*Baiteit4  Vaelut 

FftTew^,  ye  Ereen  meadom, 

Farewell,  Ruuiy  shore, 
The  herdsman  must  leave  you, 

We  flo  to  the  hills,  but  you'U  aee  us  oeain. 
When  the  cuokoo  calls,  and  the  meiry  lanta 

Whoa  the  floweiB  bloom  afreoh  in  glMle  and 


[Chamoie-Bttnler,  appearing  en  the  lop  ef  a 
diS.] 

Steand  tariatiem  of  A*  BaM  rfM  FaakM 

On   the    height*    peafs    the    thunder,    and 

tremUea  the  bridge. 
The  huntsman  bounds  on  by  the  dluytng 

Undaunted  he  hie*  him 

O'er  ice-oorered  wQd, 

Where  leat  never  budded. 

Nor  Spring  ever  imiled; 

And  beneath  him  an  ocean  of  milt,  when  Urn 

eye 
No  longer  the  dwelling*  of  man  can  eepy; 
Through  the  parting  cloud*  only 

The  earth  can  be  .seen, 

Far  down  'neath  the  vapor 

The  meadow*  of  green. 


M 


erthe 


A  rvmbling,  craekiTtg  i 

fteora    atnong    the    wn. 

Shadowe  of  doude  tveep  aerom 
theeeene.] 

[Rooot,  the  fieherman,  oamee  out  of  hie  eot- 
lage.  Wbrni,  the  hanteman,  deaeendl 
from  the  rocke.  KuONi,  the  ehepherd, 
entere,  with  a  milk  paxl  on  hie  i^unA- 
dere,  foUawed  by  Skffi,  hie  aeeietant.) 

Rcoci.   Come,   Jenni,   bustle;  get  the 
boat  on  ehore. 
The  griuly  VaJe-King  eomea,  the  QlacMn 

The  Myteiwt^  L*  drawing  on  his  hood, 
And  from  the  Stormaleft  chilly  blows  the 

The  Btonn  will  bunt,   before  we  know 
what 'a  wh&t. 
Kdomi.   'T  will  rain  ere  long;  mjt  flheep 
htovmo  eagaiy, 


642 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


And  Watcher  there  is  Bcraping,  up  the 

Wkkni.  The  fiah  are  le&ping,  and  the 

water-hen 
Keeps  diving  up  and  dom.    A  atonn  is 

brewing. 
KroNi  {to  Ait  boy].   Look,  S^pi,  if  the 

beasts  be  all  in  sight. 
Su-Fi.  There  goee  brown  Lieeel,  I  can 

hear  her  bells. 
EuoNi.  Then  all   are  safe;  she  ever 

ranges  farthest. 
RuoDi.  You've  a  fine  chime  of  bells 

there,  master  herdsman. 
Wbrni.  And  likely  cattle,  too.  Are  they 

your  own? 
Kdoni.   I'm  not  ao  ri<^.   They  are  the 

noble  brd'e 
Of  Attinghaua,  and  told  off  to  my  core. 
RuODi.  How  gracefully  yon  heifer  bears 

her  ribboni 
EuoNi.  Aye,  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  — 
Wbbni.  Elasily  said.    But  beasts  have 

reason,  too  — 
And  that  we  know,  we  chamois-hunters. 

They  never  turn  to  feed  —  sagacious  crea- 

Till  they  have  placed  a  sentinel  ahead, 
Who  pricks  his  ears  whenever  we  approach, 
And  gives  alarm  with  clear  and  piercing 
pipe. 
Rroni  [to  the  Shepkerd\.    Are  you  for 

Kdoni.  The  Alp  is  grazed  quite  bare. 
WaENi.  A  safe  return,  my  friendl 
RuONi.  The  same  to  yout 
Hen  come  not  always  back  from  tracks 

like  yours. 
RuoDi.  But  who  oomes  here,  running  at 

hqnnoBt  speed? 
Wbrni.  Iknowtheman;'tisBaurogart 

vt  Alcellen. 
CONRAO  Baduoabtbn  [rutkirtQ  in  brealh- 

leat).     For  God's  sake,  ferryman, 

your  boat! 
Room.  How  now? 
Why  all  Ihia  baste? 


Baduoabtbn.  Cast  otfl    My  life's  at 

Btaket 
Set  me  acroasl 
Koom.     Why,    what's     tlie     matter, 

friend. 
WxBNi.  Who  are  pursuing  you?    First 

tell  us  that. 
BAnMaABTEN  [to  the  Fi»kerman].   Quick, 

quick,  man,  quick!    They're  close 

upon  my  heels! 
It  is  the  Viceroy's  men  are  after  me; 
If  they  should  overtake  me,  T  am  lost. 
RuoDi.  Why  are  the  troopers  in  pursuit 

of  you? 
Batooabtkn.   First  make  me  safe  and 

then  T  '11  tell  you  all. 
Wbrni.  There's  blood  up<Hi  your  gar- 

ment«  —  how  is  this? 
BAiTMaABTXN.  The  Imperial  Seneschal, 

who  dwelt  at  Rossberg  — 
Kdoni.  Howl    What!    The  Wolfahotl 

Is  it  he  pursues  you? 
BADHaARTEN.  He'll    ne'er    hurt    man 

again;  I've  settled  him. 
All  [alarling  back].    Now,  God  forgive 

you!  What  ia  thia  you've  done? 
Badmoabtxn.  What  every  free  nian  in 

my  place  had  done. 
Mine  oma  good  household  right  I  have  en- 

'Gainst  him  that  would  have  wronged  my 
wife  —  my  honor. 
Kdoni.  Howl    Wronged  you  in  your 

honor,  did  he  so? 
Baduoarten.  That  be  did  not  fulfill  his 
foul  desire, 
la  due  to  Ood  and  to  my  trusty  axe. 
WxRNi.  And  you  have  cidt  his  akull, 

then,  with  your  axe? 
Kdoni.  Oh,  tdl  ua  allt    You've  time 
mough,  and  more. 
While  he  ie  getting  out  the  boat  there  from 
tJie  beach. 
Badhoabten.  When  I  was  in  the  forest 
felling  timber. 
My  wife  came  running  out  in  mcrtal 

"The  Seneech^"  ahe  said,  "was  in  my 

house. 
Had  ordered  her  to  get  a  bath  prepared. 
And  ther«ipon  had  ta'en  unaeemly  fre& 


:.L|,i,zedi!,GoOQlc 


WILLIAM  TELL 


643 


TiQsa  which  ihe  rid  henelf,  tai  flew  to 

Arm«d  as  I  wm,  I  (ought  him,  and  my  Bxe 
Haa  given  his  bath  &  bloody  beDiaon. 
Wkrmi.  And  you  did  well;  no  nun  can 

blame  the  deed. 
Kdohi.  The  tyrantl    Now  he  has  his 
just  Tewoidl 
We  men  of  Unterwald  liave  owed  it  long. 
Batuoabtk*.  The  deed  got  wind,  and 
now  they're  in  pursuit. 
HeaTmsl  while  we  spesik,  the  time  is  flying 
fast.  [/(  befint  la  Ornnder.] 

KoONi.  Quick,  ferryman,  and  set  the 

good  man  over. 
RuoDi.  ImpoBsiblel  A  storm  is  doae  at 

Wait  till  it  passT  You  must. 

Bacuoaktxn.  Almighty  Heavens! 
I  cannot  wait;  the  least  delay  is  death. 
Sdoni  \fo  the  Fithemvm.].    Push  out  — 
God  with  youl  We  should  he^  our 
neigbbon; 
The  like  misfortune  may  betide  us  aQ. 

\Thvndier  and  the  roarinf/  0}  tfte  tcind.l 

RnoDi.  The  south  wind's  up  t  See  bow 

the  lak«  is  rinngi 

I  cannot  steer  against  both  wind  and  wave. 

.    BACiiaAmsN  (dotpitv  At'"  t>V  i^  ibi«M]. 

Qod  so  help  you  as  now  you  pity  mel 

Wbbni.  ffis  life's  at  stake.   Have  pity 

on  bim,  mont 
EnoNi.  He  is  a  father;  haa  a  wife  and 
children. 

[AfpeofMJ  -pvil*  of  lAunder.] 
RuoDi.  WbatI  And  have  I  not,  then,  a 
life  to  lose, 
A  wife  and  child  at  home  as  well  as  heT 
See  how  the  breakers  foam,  and  torn,  and 

And  the  lake  eddies  up  from  all  its  depthsl 
Right  gladly  would  I  save  the  wtvthy  man. 
But 't  is  impossible,  as  you  must  see. 

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

KuoKi.  Look!  Who  oomee  here? 

RnoDi.  T  is  Tell,  aye.  Tell,  of  BOrglen. 


{Efiier  Tbll  vitk  a  enmbow,] 
Till.  What  man  is  he  that  here  im- 
plores for  aidT 
EuoNi.  He  is  from  Aliellen,   and  tn 
guard  his  himor 
From  touch  of  foulest  shame,  has  slain  the 

Wolfshot, 
The  Impoial  Seneechal,  wl^o  dwelt  at 

Rossberg. 
The  Viceroy's  troopen  are  upon  his  heeb; 
He  begs  the  ferryman  to  take  lum  over. 
But  frightened  at  the  storm  he  says  he 
won't. 
RuoDi.  Wdl,  there  is  Tell  can  steer  as 
weUasI. 
He'll  be  my  judge,  if  it  be  passible. 

IVioknt    peaia    of  thunder  ~th6 
lake  beeomea  more  lempesfuoui.) 
Am  I  to  plunge  into  the  jaws  of  hell? 
I  should  be  mad  to  dare  the  desperate  act. 
Tblii.  The  brave  man  thinks  upon  him- 
self the  last. 
Put  bust  in  God,  and  fae^  him  in  his  needl 
RuoDi.  Safe  in  the  port,  'tis  easy  to 
advise. 
There  is  the  boat,  and  there  the  lakel  Try 
youl 
Tsu^  The  lake  TOiey  pity,  but  the  Vice- 
roy never. 
Come,  risk  it,  mani 
Shsthibd  Aim  HoimiuN.    Oh,  save 

himi  SavehimI  Save  him  I 
RuoDt.  Though  't  wen  my  brother,  or 

my  Hurling  child, 

I  would  not  go.    'T  is  Simcm  and  Jude'a 

day. 
The  lake  is  up,  and  calling  for  its  victimi 
Thu.   Nau^t'a  to  be  dcme  with  idle 
fAHring  here. 
Each  moment's  precious;  the  man  must  be 

helped; 
Say,  boatman,  will  you  voiture? 
Rdodi.  No;  not  I. 

Tkll.  In  God's  name,  then,  give  me  the 
boati  I  will. 
With  my  poor  strength,  see  what  is  to  be 
donet 
Kdomi.  Ha,  gallant  Telll 
Wbrni.  That's  like  a  huntsman  true. 
BAxmaABa!BS.   You  are  my  angd,  axi 
preserver,  TeU. 


644 


CHIEF  EukO^EAN   DKAMAl'lSTS 


Tbll.  I  may  preaeiTe  you  from  the 

Viceroy'B  power, 

But  from  the  tempest's  rage  another  must. 

Yet  better  't  i«  you  faQ  into  God's  hande, 

Than  into  those  of  men.    [To  th«  Herdt- 

man.]  Hodaman,  do  thou 

Coiuole  my  wife  if  1  should  come  to  grief. 

I  oould  not  choose  but  do  aa  I  have  done. 

[Ht  leapt  ijUo  Uu  boai.\ 

KuoNi  [lo  the  FUberman],   A  pretty  man 

to  keep  K  ferry,  trulyt 

What  Tell  oould  risk,  you  dated  not  ren- 

RuoDi.  Far  better  men  would  never 

oope  with  Tell. 
Here's  no  two  such  as  he  'latmg  all  our 

hills. 
Wbbni  [wAo  hat  axxnded  a  rock].    Now 

he  ia  off.  --  God  help  thee,  gallant 

Look  how  the  little  boat  reels  cm  the  waves  I 
Kuom  [an  the  than].   There!  they  have 

ewept  clean  over  it.  And  now 
T  is  out  of  si^t.    Yet,  stay,  there  't  is 

again! 
Btoutly  he  stems  the  breakers,  noble  f^owl 
SnppT.  Here  come  the  troopers  hard  as 

they  can  ridel 
KuoNi.  Henvens!    So  they  do!    Why, 

that  was  help,  indeed. 

[Enler  a  troop  <4  Honanen.] 
FiBST  HoBBBMAN.    QiTB  Up  the  mur- 

dererl  You  have  him  heret 
Ssconh  Hobsbman.  This  way  he  camel 

"T  is  uaeleee  to  conceal  himt 
RnoDi  AND  KnoNi.  Whom  do  you  mean? 
Fnwr  HoBSBHAN  [ditamering  Ou  boat]. 

The  devill   What  do  I  see? 
Wbbni  \from  obore],    Is't  he  in  yonder 

boat  ye  seek?  Kde  on; 
If  you  lay  to,  you  may  o'ertake  him  yet. 
Sbcond  Hobsiuan.  Cune  on  you,  he's 

Fnwr  HoBfiBKAN  [to  the  Shepherd  and 
FUherTnan],   You  helped  him  off, 
And  you  shall  pay  for  it!  —  Fall  on  their 

herds! 
Down  with  the  cottage!  Bum  it!  Beat  it 
down!  [Thej/  ruak  off.] 

Sxm  [kurryint  tffler  them].  Oh,  my  poor 


KroNi  IfoOowing  Urn].    VtiiMppy  m^ 

my  hvdal 
Wbbni.  The  tyrants! 
RnoDi  [wringing  kit  handt],    Ri^teous 

Heaven!  Oh,  when  wiD  eome 
Deliverance  to  this  doon^devoted  landi' 
[ExetuU  MMToi^.J 

ScBNB  II:  A  Unte  brte  in  front  qf  Staup- 
facebb's  houae  at  SMnen,  in  Sehw]/U,  «pm 
the  public  rood,  near  a  bridge. 

[WbRNBB  SrACfTACHBB  ond  PrBUTBB,  ctf 

Lueeme,  enter  into  eonvertalion.] 
PFEirrBR.  Aye,  aye,  friend  StouSadtcr 
OS  I  have  sai(^ 
Swear  not  to  Austria,  if  you  can  help  it. 
Hold  by  the  Empire  stoutly  as  of  yore^ 
And  God  praeerve  you  in  your  sndeot 
freedom  I 
[PressM  kit  hand  loamdy  and  it 
going.] 
Stauttachub.  Wait   till   my  mistren 
comes.   Now,  do!  You  are 
My  guest  in  Schwyti  —  I  in  Lucerne  am 

pFXivrBB.  Thanksl     Thanks!     But   I 
must  reach  Gersau  bMlay. 
Whateveff  grievances  your  ruten'  pride 
And  grasping  avarice  may  yet  inflict, 
Bear  than  in  patience  —  soon  a  riiange 

may  come. 

Another  Emperor  may  mount  the  throne. 

But  Austria's  once,  and  you  are  heiB  for- 

ever.  [Bxit.] 

(BTAUrrACBZB  lii*  dovm  sonvw 

/vily  upon  a  bench  under  UW 

[GxBTRUDB,  hit  m^t,  enten,  and  find*  Aw* 
in  (hit  posture.  She  pIooM  hertelf  near 
him,  and  Joofcs  at  him  for  tome  time  te 

Gbrtbudi.  So  sod,  my  k>vel  1  scaredy 
know  thee  now. 
For  many  a  day  in  silence  I  have  marked 
A  moody  sorrow  furrowing  thy  brow. 
Some  silent  grief  is  weighing  on  thy  hearL 
Trust  it  to  me.  I  am  thy  faithful  wife. 
And  I  demand  my  half  of  aU  thy  cares. 

[SxAimACHBB  gieet  her  Ms  kama 
andittiUnt.} 


.GoiMilc 


WILUAM  TELL 


TtH  me  irtiftt  can  opprees  thy  Bpirita  thuaf 
Thy  toil  IB  bleat  —  tl^  world  goee  well  with 


Our  bkniB  ■ 


)  full  —  our  cattle,  many  a 


Our  handsome  team  <rf  wdl-f  ed  hones,  too. 
Brought    from    the    mountain    paatures 

safely  home, 
To  winter  in  their  eomfortable  stalls. 
There  stands  thy  house  —  no  nobleman's 

more  fair! 
T  is  uewly  built  with  timber  of  the  best, 
All  grooved  and  fitted  with  the  nicest  aldll; 
Its  many  glistening  windows  tell  of  coax- 

fortl 
T  is  quartered  o'er  with  scutcheons  of  all 

hues, 
And  proverbs  sage,  which  passinK  travelen 
Linger  to  read,   and  ponder  o'er  their 

meaning. 
Statittachkb.  The  house  is  strong 

built,  and  handsomely. 
But,  ah,  the  ground  on  which  we  built  it 

quakee. 
QxBTBUDa.  Tell  me,  dear  Warner,  vhat 

you  mean  by  that? 
SrACFrACBiiB.  No  later  gone  than  yes- 
terday, 1  sat 
Beneath  this  Unden,  thinking  with  del^t 
How  fairly  all  was  finished,  whoi  from 


He  Viceroy  and  his  men  eame  riding  by. 
Befcsc  this  house  he  halted  in  surprise: 
At  once  I  rose,  and,  as  beseemed  his  rank, 
Advanced  rrapectfiJly  to  greet  the  lord, 
To  whom  the  Emperor  delegates  his  power. 
As  judge  supreme  within  our  canton  here. 
"Who  is  the  owner  of  this  houseT"  he 

asked, 
^th  mischief  in  his  thoughts,  for  well  he 

knew. 
With  prompt  decisioo,  thus  I  answered 

"^Hie  Emperor,  your  grace  —  my  lord  and 

And  held  by  me  in  fief."    On  this  he 


"I  am  the  Emperor's  viceregent  here. 
And  win  not  that  each  peasant  churl  should 

build 
At  his  own  pleasure,  bearing  him  ss  freely 
As  though  he  weze  the  master  in  the  land. 


I  shall  make  bold  to  put  a  stop  to  thisl" 
So  saying,  he,  with  menaces,  rode  off, 
And  left  me  musing  with  a  heavy  heart 
On  the  fell  purpose  that  his  words  betrayed. 
GxRTBum.  My  own  dear  lord  and  hus- 
band I  Wilt  thou  take 
A  word  of  hfmest  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  out  father's 

hearth. 
To  read  the  old  imperial  charters,  and 
To  hold  sage  convene  on  the  country's 

weal. 
Then  heedfully  I  listened,  marking  well 
What  now  the  wise  man  thought,  the  good 

man  wished. 
And  garnered  up  their  wisdom  in  my  heart. 
Hear,  then,  and  marie  me  well;  for  thou 

I  long  have  known  the  grief  that  weighs 

thee  down.  ' 
The  Viceroy  hates  thee,  fain  would  injure 

thee. 
For  thou  hast  crossed  his  wish  to  bend  th 

Swiss 
In  homage  to  this  upstart  house  of  princes, 
And  kept  than  stanch,  like  tb«r  good  su-es 

of  old. 
In  true  aUegianoe  to  the  Empire.  Say, 
Is 't  not  so,  Woner?  Tell  me,  am  I  wrong? 
Stauffachbb.   'Tis  even  so.    For  this 

doth  Gessler  hate  me. 
GzRTRunii.  He  bums  with  envy,  too,  to 

see  thee  living 
Happy  and  free  on  thine  ancestral  soil. 
For  he  is  landless.    From  the  Emperor's 

self 
Thou  hold'st  in  fief  the  lands  thy  fathers 

left  thee. 
There's  not  a  prince  i'  the  Empire  that  can 

show 
A  better  title  to  his  heritage; 
For  thou  hast  over  thee  no  lord  but  one, 
And  he  the  mightiest  of  all  Christian  kin^ 
Gessler,  we  know,  is  but  a  younger  son. 
His  only  wealth  the  knightly  cloak  he 

n's  good 


.CjOC^'.^Ic 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


With  a  nmlignant  and  &  jealoua  eye. 
LcHig  has  he  ewora  to  oompasa  thy  deetnio- 

Aayet  thou  art  uninjured.  Wilt  thou  wait, 
Till  he  may  safely  give  hia  malice  ventf 
A  wise  man  would  anticipate  the  blow. 
Stacfpacsbb.  What'a  to  be  done? 
Gektb'Osb.   Now,  hear  what  I  advise. 
Thou  knowest  well,  how  here  with  us  in 

Schwyt* 
All  worthy  men  are  groaning  underneath 
This  Gessler's  grasping,  grinding  tyranny. 
Doubt  not  the  men  of  Unterwald  as  wdl, 
jind  Uri,  too,  are  chafing  like  ourselves, 
At  this   oppreseivB    and   heartr-wearying 

yoke. 
For  there,  acroes  the  lake,  the  Landenberg 
Wields  the  same  iron  rule  as  Geasler  hoe  — 
No  fishing-boat  comes  over  to  our  side, 
But  brings  the  tidings  of  some  new  en- 
croachment. 
Some  fresh  outrage,  more  grievous  than  the 

last. 
Then  it  were  well,  that  some  of  you  —  true 


Full  sure  I  am  that  Ood  would  not  desert 

But  lend  his  favor  to  the  righteous  cause. 
Hast  thou  DO  friend  in  Uri,  one  to  whom 
Thou  frankly  may'st  unbosom  all  thy 

thoughts? 
Stahtpfacbbb.  I  know  full  many  a  gal' 

lant  fellow  there. 
And  nobles,   too,  —  great  men,  of  high 

In  whom  I  can  repose  imbounded  trust. 
IRuing.]  Wifel  What  a  storm  <rf  wiW  and 

perilous  thoughts 
East  thou  stirred  up  within  my  tranquil 

breast  I 
The  darkest  musings  of  my  bosmn  thou 
Hast  dragged  to  l^t,  aiul  placed  them 

full  befor«  me; 
And  what  I  scarce  dared  harbcff  Q'tai  in 

thought. 
Thou  speakest  plainly  out  with  feariess 


Discord  will  come,  and  the  fieroe  dang  d 

aims. 
To  scare  this  vsUcy's  kMig-ui^roken  peace, 
If  we,  a  fe^le  shepherd  race,  shall  dare 
Him  to  the  fight,  that  lords  it  o'er  the 

world. 
Even  DOW  they  only  wut  srane  fair  pretext 
For  setting  loose  their    savage  wairior 

To  BCoui^  and  ravage  this  devoted  land. 
To  lord  it  o'er  us  with  the  victM^s  ri^ta. 
And,  'neath  the  show  of  lawful  chaotise- 

Deepoil  us  of  our  chartered  liberties. 
GxBTBTmx.  You,   too,    are   mtaa;    can 
wield  a  battle-axe 
As  well  OS  they.    God  ne'er  deMrts  the 
brave. 
Statitfachsb.  Oh,  wifel  A  horrid,  ruth- 
less fiend  is  war, 
That  smites  at  once  the  shephtrd  and  his 
flock. 
GanntDns.  What«'cr  great  Heaven  Ji- 
flicts,  we  must  endure; 
But  wrong  is  what  no  noble  heart  will  bear. 
Staitffachiir.  This  house  —  thy  pride 
—  war,  unrelenting  war 
Will  bum  it  down. 

Gbbtrodb.  And  did  I  think  this  heart 
Enslaved  and  fettered  to  the  thin^  d 

earth. 
With  my  own  hand  I'd  hurl  the  iriii>i|ii^ 

Staufpachbs.  Thou  hast  faith  in  hu- 
man kindness,  wife;  but  war 
Spares  not  the  tender  infant  in  its  cradle. 
Gbrtkuds.  There  is  a  Friend  to  inno- 
cence in  heaven. 
Send  your  gate  forward,  Wwner,  —  not 
behind. 
Stadttacbxb.  We  men  may  die  like 
men,  with  sword  in  hand; 
But  oh,  what  fate,  my  Gertrude^  may  be 
thine? 
Gbbtbudb.  None  are  so  weak,  but  tme 
last  choice  is  Mt. 
A  spring  from  yonder  bridge  and  I  am  free' 
STAUrrACBXRlen^iraeaii/htr].   Well  may 
he  fight  for  hearth  and  home,  that 

A  heart  so  rare  as  thine  against  his  ownl 
What  are  the  host  of  empevors  to  himf 


WILUAM  TELL 


Gertrude,  farevell!  I  will  to  Uri  etnught. 
Th««  livee  my  worthy  oomrade,  Waiter 

POrst; 
His  thoughts  and  mine  upon  these  timra 

are  one. 
There,  too,  resides  the  noble  Banneret 
Of  Attinghaiw.    High  thou^  of  blood  be 

be, 
He  loves  the  people,  honors  their  old  cuo- 

With  both  of  these  I  will  take  counsel  how 
To  rid  ua  bravely  of  our  country's  foe. 
Faiewelll  And  while  I  am  away,  bear  thou 
A  watohful  eye  in  numagement  at  home. 
The  pilgrim  journeying  to  the  house  of  God, 
And  holy  friar,  colleoting  for  hia  cloiatar. 
To  these  give  Uberally  from  purse  and 

gamer. 
Stauffacher'a  houae   would   not  be   hid. 

Right  out 
Upon  the  public  way  it  stands,  and  offen 
To  all  that  pa»  a  hospitable  nd. 

[Thq/  retire.] 

ITeli.  ertUri  wOk  Baumoabtsk.] 


Enter  yon  house.     'Tis  Werner  Stsuf- 

facho^s, 
A  man  that  is  a  father  to  distress. 
8ee,  there  he  is,  himself  I  Come,  follow  me. 
\They  retire  up.] 

ScBNX  III:  A  common  near  AUdorf.  On 
an  eminence  in  tht  badiground  a  easlle  in 
prof/reat  of  erection,  and  so  far  advanced  thai 
the  ouliine  of  the  whote  may  be  di^nffuiehed. 
The  back  part  u  finished^  men  are  working 
at  the  front.  Scaffolding,  on  wMeh  the  xoofk- 
tiutn  are  going  up  and  doten.  A  ektter  is  seen 
itptm the kighett part i}f the ro<^.  AUisbtulle 
tmdaciwUy. 

[Elder  Taekmaater,  Maton,  Workmen,  La- 
borere.] 

TASKMABTBa  [with  a  stick,  urging  on  the 
viorkmen].    Up,  up!    You've  rested 
long  enough.  To  work! 
The  stones  herel  Now  the  mortar,  and  the 

And  let  hia  lordship  see  the  work  advanced, 


When  next  be  comes,  These  fellows  crawl 


lal 


[To  t^eo  Laborers,  with  loads.] 
Whatt  Call  ye  that  a  loadT  Go,  double  it. 
Is  this  the  way  ye  earn  your  wages,  lag- 
gardsf 
FisBT  Workman.    'T  is  very  hard  that 
we  must  bear  the  stones, 
To  make  a  keep  and  dungeon  for  ourselvesl 
TuuiASTER.   What  'a  that  you  mutter? 
'T  ia  a  northlesB  race, 
For  nothing  fit  but  just  to  milk  their  cows. 
And  aauuter  idly  up  and  down  the  hilla. 
OliD  Man  [sinka  donm  exhaitsted\.    I  can 

no  more. 
Taskmaster  [shaking  Aim).  Up,  up,  old 

man,  to  workt 
FiBST  WoBKMAH.   Have  you  no  bowels 
of  compassion,  thus 
To  press  so  hard  upon  a  poor  old  man. 
That  scarce  can  dra^  his  feeble  limbs  alongT 
Master  Mason  AND  WoBKMEM.  Shame, 
ahame  upon  you  —  shame!  It  cries 
to  Heavoi. 
Taskmaster.  Mind  your  own  business. 

I  but  do  my  duty. 
FiBSr  Workman.  Pray,  masto',  what's 
to  be  the  name  of  Uiis 
Same  castle,  when  't  ia  built? 

Taskmaster.  The  Keep  ot  Uri; 
For  by  it  we  shall  keep  you  in  subjection. 
Workman.  The  Keep  of  Uri? 
Taskmaster.  Well,  why  laugh  at  that? 
Second  Workman.  Keep  Uri,  will  you, 

with  this  paltry  placiel 
FntsT  Workman,   How  many  molehflla 
such  as  that  must  first 
Be  piled  up  each  on  each,  ere  you  make 
A  mountain  equal  to  the  least  in  UriT 

[Taskmaster  retires  up  the  stage.] 
Master  Mason.   I'll  drown  the  mallet 
in  the  deepest  lake, 
That  served  my  hand  on  this  accursed 
pile. 

[Enter  Tkll  and  SrAUFrACBBR.) 
Staoftacber.  O  that  I  had  not  lived 

to  see  this  sigbtl 
Tbll.  Here  't  is  not  good  to  be.  Let  ua 


648 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Master  Mason.  Oh,  nr,  if  you  eould 
only  see  the  vaults 
Boieath  these  towers!  The  m&n  that  ten- 
ants them 
Will  ne'er  hear  eoek  crow  more.  ' 

STAUPTACBKit.  OGod!  OGodI 
Mabok.  Look  at  these   nunpartB  and 
these  buttresses, 
That  seem  as  they  were  built  to  last  for- 
ever. 
Toll.   What    hands    have    built,    my 
triend,  hands  can  deetn^. 

IPointirtg  to  the  movntoint.] 
That  home  of  freedom  God  hath  built  for 

us.  [A  dnan  is  heard.l 

[People  enter  beariTig  a  cap  upon  a  pde,  fot- 

lovxd  by  a  crier.    Women  and  ehUdren 

throngin^i  (umuAuoustv  qfter  them.] 

FiBST   WoBKMAN.     What    means    the 

drum?  Give  heed! 
Mason.  Why,  here's  a  mummingl 
And  look,  the  c^  —  what  can  they  mean 
by  thatT 
Crier.  In  the  Emperor's  name,  give  eirl 
WoRKiiAS.  Huahlsilencelhud)! 
CBixit,    Ye  men  of  Uri,  ye  do  see  this 

It  will  be  set  upon  a  lofty  pole 

In  Altdorf,  in  Uie  market-place;  and  this 

la   the   Lord   Governor's   good   will   and 

pleasure; 
The  cap  shall  have  like  honor  as  himself, 
All  do  it  reverence  with  bended  knee. 
And  head  uncovered;  thus  the  King  will 

Who  are  bis  true  and  loyal  subjecta  here; 
Hia  life  and  goods  are  forfeit  to  the  Crown 
That  shall  refuse  obedience  to  the  order. 
[The  people  bwtl  out  into  laughter. 
The  drum  belli*  and  the  proces- 
tion  paetei  on.) 
FiBSr  WoKKMAN.    A  strange  device  to 
fall  upon,  indeed: 
Do  reverence  to  a  capl  A  pretty  farce! 
Heard  ever  mortal  anything  like  this? 
Mastbb  Mabok.    Down  to  a  cfq>  on 
bended  knee,  forsooth  t 
Rare  jeeting  this  with  men  ot  sober  aenael 
FiBST  WORKWAN,  Nay,  an  it  were  the 
imperial  crownl  A  ci^I 
Merely  the  cap  of  AuBtrial  I've  seen  it 


TTftnging  above  the  throne  in  Gesder's  haH. 
Maaon.  The  cap   of  AustriaT     Hark 

that!  A  snare 
To  get  us  into  Austria's  power,  by  Heavenl 
Workman.   No  freebom  man  will  Btoap 

to  such  disgrace. 
Mastbb  Mason.    Come  —  to  our  com- 
rades, and  advise  with  tbeml 

[Thejf  retire  ttp.] 
Tbll  [to  STAurrACHSB].    You  see  fatnr 

BUttteiB  stand.  FareweU,  my  frkndl 
Stauvtacbrr.      Whither  awayT      CHi, 

leave  us  not  so  soon. 
Tkll.  They  look  for  me  at  h<nne.    So 

fare  ye  well. 
Btauitachbr.  My  heart's  so  full,  and 

has  BO  much  to  tell  youl 
Txu..  Words  wil]  not  make  a  heart 

that's  heavy  li^t. 
Stautfacher.  Yet  words  may  poaaibly 

conduct  to  deeds. 
Tbll.  Endure  in  sitenoel  We  can  do  no 

Stauftachbr.  But  shall  we  bear  what 

is  not  to  be  borne? 
Tbll.  Impetuous  rulers  have  the  diort- 

When  the  Rave  south  wind  rises  from  bis 

chasms. 
Men  cover  up  their  fires,  the  ships  in  haato 
Make  for  the  harbor,  and  the  mighLy  q>irit 
Sweeps  o'er  the  earth,  and  leaves  no  tntee 

behind. 
Let  every  man  live  quietly  at  home; 
Peace  to  the  peaceful  rarely  is  demied. 
STAurTACBXR.  And  is  it  thus  you  view 

our  grievances? 
Tbll.  The  serpent  stings  not  till  H  is 

provoked. 
Let  ihtan  alone;  they'll  weary  of  thss* 

When  they  shall  see  we  are  not  to  be 

roused. 
Stautfachbr.  Much  might  be  dtme — 

did  we  stand  fast  together. 
Tbll.  When  the  ship  founders,  be  will 

best  escape 
Who  seeks  no  other's  safety  but  his  own. 
Stauptachbr.  And  you  deoot  the  own- 

mon  cause  so  ooldly? 
Tbll.  A  man  can  safdy  count  but  on 


WILUAU  TELL 


Stadtfacbbb.     Naj,    erea    the   weak 

grow  strong  b^  imioa. 
TsLL.  But  the  strong  nUn  w  strongest 

when  alone. 
Stadtfachbb.  So,  then,  your  country 
cannot  count  on  you, 
If  in  despair  she  rise  agEiinst  her  foes. 
Till.   Tell  rescues  the  lost  sheep  from 
yswning  gulfs: 
Is  he  s  man,  then,  to  desert  his  friends? 
Yet,  whatsoe'er  you  do,  spare  me  frgm 

council  I 
I  was  not  bom  to  ponder  and  select; 
But  when  your  course  of  action  is  reoolred. 
Then  call  on  Tell:  you  shall  not  find  him 
fail. 
[Bx«uint  teveraUy.    A  midden  tu- 
mult u  luard  around  tAe  »eaf- 
f aiding.] 
Mason  [runntnji  tn).  What's  wrong? 
FibstWobkiun  [running /orunrd].  The 

Blat«r'B  fallen  from  the  roof. 
Bbbtha  [ruthing  in].    Heavens!    Is  he 
dashed  to  pieces?  Save  him,  help! 
If  help  be  possible,  save  himt  Here  is  gold. 
[Throivt  her  binkeU  among   the 
people.] 
Mason.  Hence  with  your 'gold — ^youi 
universal  charm, 
And  itanedy  for  illl  When  you  have  torn 
Fatheis  from  children,  husbands  from  theii 

And  scattwed  woe  and  Ivail  throughout  the 

land. 
You  think  with  gold  to  compensate  for  all. 
Hwkoel   Till  we  saw  you,  we  were  happy 

With  you  came  misery  and  dark  despair. 
Bbbtha  [to  the  Ttukmaeler,  who  hae  rs- 
.tvmed\.    Lives  he? 

ITatkmagter  ahaket  hie  head.] 
Ill-omened  towers,  with  ciu«es  built, 
And  doomed  with  curses  to  be  tenanted! 
[Exit.] 

SCBKS  IV:  The  howe  0/ Waiovb  FObst. 

~Wai/tsb  FttBBT  and  Arnold  von  Mblcb- 
THAL  enter  nmyitaTieoiuly  al  different 
tidet.] 
Mblchthal.  Good  Walter  FUrst. 
-    FObbt.  If  we  should  he  suiprisedl 


Stay  where  you  are.    We  are  beset  widi 
spies. 

Mblchthal.   Have  you  no  news  for  me 
from  Unterwald? 
What  of  my  father?  'T  is  not  to  be  borne, 
Thus  to  be  pent  up  like  a  felon  herel 
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  ord«'  of  the  Governor,  he  tried 
To  drive  away  my  handsome  team  of  oxen. 

FttBST.  You  are  too  rash  by  far.    He 

Than  what  the  Governor  had  ordered  him. 

You  had  transgressed,  and  therefore  should 
have  paid 

The  penalty,  however  hard,  in  silence. 
Mblchthal.  Was  I  to  brook  the  fel- 
low's saucy  gibe, 

"That  if  the  peasant  must  have  bread  to 


It  cut  me  to  the  very  soul  to  see 

My  oxen,  noble  creatures,  when  the  knave 

Unyoked    them   from    the    plou;^.     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 

FftnsT.  Oh,  we  old  men  can  scarce  com- 
mand ourselves  I 

And  can  we  wonder  youth  breaks  out  d 
bounds? 
MiLCHTBAL.  I'm   only  sorry  for  my 
father's  sake  I 

To  be  away  from  him,  that  needs  so  much 

My  fostering  caret  Tht  Governor  detests 
him. 

Because,  whene'er  occasion  served,  he  has 

Stood  stoutly  up  for  right  and  libtoty. 

Therefore  they'll  bear  him  hard — the 
poor  old  man! 

And  there  is  none  to  shield  him  from  their 


gnp. 


a  hmne 


Come  what  come  may,  I  must  g 
again. 
FObst.  Compose  yourself,  and  wait  in 


.Googk 


650 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Wn  get  aome  tiding  o'er  (rom  Untenrskt. 
Away!  Awayt  I  hear  a  knock!  Perhaps 
A  menage  from  the  Viceroyi  Get  thee  int 
You  are  not  safe  from  Landenberger's  arm 
In  Uri,  for  theee  tyranti  puB  together. 
Mblchthal.  liiey  teaoh  ua  Switsers 

what  we  ought  to  do. 
POE8T.  Awayl    I'll  call  you  when  the 
coast  is  clear. 

[MaLGRTBAI.  rsftrM.] 

Unhappy  youthi  I  dare  not  tell  him  all 
The  enl  that  my  boding  heart  prediotsl  — 
Who's  there?  The  door  ne'er  opens  but  I 

look 
For  tidingi  of  mishap.  Suspicion  lurks 
With  darkling  treachery  in  every  nook. 
Et«i  to  our  inmost  rooms  they  force  thdr 

way, 
lliese  myrmidons  of  power;  and  soon  we'll 

To  fasten  bolto  and  bars  upon  our  doon. 

[He  openi  Iht  door  and  *j«p«  back 

in  surprise  a*  WnnKES  Btaut- 

rACHEB  ertlers.] 

i^at  do  I  see?   You,  Werner?    Now,  by 

Heaven! 
A  valued  guest,  indeed.   No  man  e'er  set 
His  foot  aoroBS  this  threshold,  more  es- 
teemed, 
Welc<mieT  Thrice  welcome,  Werner,  to  my 

roofi 
What  brings  you  here?    What  seek  you 

here  in  Uri? 
SrATnTACHBB  [ghakea  Ft^asT  by  the  hand\. 

The  olden  times  and  olden  Switier- 

land. 
FOSBT.  You  bring  them  with  you.  See 

how  glad  I  ami 
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 

ohild, 
And  clever  as  her  father.  Not  a  man. 
That  wenda  from  Germany,  by  Meinrad's 

CeU, 
To  Italy,  but  praiaee  far  and  wide 
Your  house's  hospitaUty.  But  say. 
Have  you  come  here  direct  from  FlQden, 
And  have  you  noticed  nothing  on  your  way. 
Before  you  halted  at  my  door? 
Staotfacbsr  [fit*  dtnm],  I  saw 


A  work  in  progress,  as  I  came  along, 
I  little  thought  to  see  —  that  likes  me  ilL 
FttBST.  Ofriendl  you've  lifted  cm  my 

thought  at  once. 
STAtnrACHBB.  Such  things  in  Uri  ne'a 
were  known  before. 
Never  was  prison  here  in  man's  remem- 

Nor  ever  any  stronj^old  but  the  grave. 
FttBBT.  You  name  it  well.    It  is  the 

grave  of  freedom, 
Btautfachbr.    Friend,    Walt«    FOrat, 

I  will  be  plain  with  you. 
No  idle  curiosity  it  is 
That  brings  me  here,  but  heavy  cares.   I 

Irft 
Thralldom  at  home,  and  thralldom  meets 

me  here. 
Our  wrongs,  e'en  now,  are  more  than  we 

And  who  shall  tell  us  where  they  are  to 

end? 
From  eldest  time  the  Switier  has  been  free, 
Accustomed  only  to  the  mildest  rule. 
Buoh  things  as  now  we  suffer  ne'er  were 

Since  herdsman  first  drove  cattle  to  the 
hills. 
FttBST.  Yes,  our  oppressions  are  un- 
paralleled! 

Why,  even  our  own  good  lord  of  AtUng- 

Who  Uved  in  olden  times,  himself  declares 
They  are  no  loagra*  to  be  tamely  borne. 
Stauttacbbb.  In  Unterwalden  yonder 
't  is  the  same; 
And  bloody  hoe  the  retribution  been. 
The  Imperial  Seneschal,  the  Wolfshot,  who 
At  Roseberg  dwelt,  longed  for  forbidden 

Baumgarten's  wife,  that  lives  at  Alzellai, 
He  tried  to  make  a  victim  to  his  lust, 
On  which  the  hudtand  slew  huo  with  his 

FObst.  Oh,  Heaven  is  just  in  all  its 
judgments  still! 
Baum^irten,  say  you?    A  moat  wMthy 

Has  he  escaped,  and  is  he  safely  hid? 
Staupfacbsb.  Your    son-in-law    ccm- 
veyed  him  o'er  the  lak^ 
And  he  lies  hidden  in  my  houM  at  Stonca 


WILUAH  TELL 


651 


He  brought  the  tidings  with  him  of  &  thing 
HuLt  has  been  done  at  Somen,  vone  than 

all, 

A  thing  to  make  the  vny  heart  nin  UoodI 

FtTBST  [attenlwdj/].  Say  on.  What  is  itf 

Stattffacsxb.  Tliere  dwdla  in  Mdch- 

thal,  then, 

Just  aa  you  enter  by  the  road  from  Kenu, 

An  upright  man,  named  Henry  of  the 

Halden, 
A  man  of  wei^t  and  influence  in  tlte  Diet. 
PthtST.    Who  knowi    him    not?     But 

what  at  himT  Frooeed. 
Stauttacheb.  The  Landenberg,  to  pun- 
ish some  offenae 
Committed  by  tJie  old  mon'a  son,  it  seems. 
Had  given  command  to  take  the  youth's 

beet  pair 
Of  oxtxt  from  his  plou^;  on  which  the  lad 
Btruok  down  the  meesenger  and  took  to 
flight. 
FttBOT.  But  the  old  father  — tell  me, 

what  of  himT 
Stahttackkb.  The    I^ndenberg    sent 
for  him,  and  required 
He  should  produce  his  sou  upon  the  spot; 
And  when  the  old  man  protested,  and 

with  truth. 
That  he  knew  nothing  of  the  fugitive, 
The  tyrant  called  his  torturera. 

FOB0T  [tprmgi  up  aitd  (ne*  lo  lead  kim 

to  the  other  nde].  HushI  no  morel 
SrArTTACaKB  [vriih  mcreaiing  inarmih]. 
"And  though  thy  son,"  he  cried, 
"has  'soaped  me  now, 
X  have  thee  fast,  and  thou  shalt  feel  my 


With  that  they  flung  the  old  man  to  the 

ground. 
And  plunged  tiie  pointed  steel  mto  his  eyee. 
FCbbt.   Merciful  Heaven! 
MxLCBTHAi.  [ruthint  oul].  Into  his  eyee, 

hie  eyes? 
Htaoitacbxr  [addrettei  himutf  in  tu- 
tmUianerU     to    Waltxb    FDbst]. 
Who  is  this  youth? 
Mxlchthaij  \grarpin{f  him  eoiwtMi>dy\. 

Into  hia  eyeaT  Speak,  speaki 
Fttsar.  Oh,  miserable  hourl 
^TATTTACBSB.  Who  is  it,  tell  mel 

[SrAOrTACHBS  makea  a  tign  to 


It  is  his  eonl  All-righteous  HeavenI 

Mblchthal.  And  I 
Must  be  from  thencel  What!  Into  both 
hie  eyesT 
F0BST.  Be  calm,  be  calm;  and  bear  it 

like  a  mani 
Mblcbthal.  And  all  for  me  —  for  my 
mad,  willful  folly! 
Blind,  did  you  say?    Quite  blind  —  and 
both  his  eyes? 
Stacttachkr.  Ev'n  so.    The  fountiua 
of  hia  sight  is  quenched. 
He  ne'er  will  see  the  bleased   sunshine 

FtlHfiT.  Oh,  spare  hia  anguish! 
Mklcbthau   Never,  never  more! 

[Pretus  hia  hands  upon  hit  eyet 
and  ii  ntent  for  some  moments; 
then,  turning  from  one  to  the 
other,  tpeakt  in  a  evbdved  tone, 
broken  by  »ob».] 
Oh,  the  eye's  light,  <rf  all  the  gifts  of 

Heavoi, 
The  dearest,  beat!    From  light  all  bmngB 

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  floVrets 

Nor  shall  he  more  behold  tiie  roseate  tintfl 
Of  the  iced  mpuntain-topl  To  die  is  noth- 
ing. 
But  to  have  life,  and  not'  have  si^t  —  oh, 

that 
Is  misery,  indeed!  Why  do  you  look 
So  piteously  at  meT  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  daiiling  splendor  floods  my 

gase. 
Stattffachkr.   Ah,   I   must  swell  the 

measure  of  your  grirf, 
Instead  of  soothing  it.  The  worst,  alas! 
Remains  to  tell.  They've  stripped  him  of 

his  all; 
Naught  have  they  left  him,  save  his  stafF 

on  which. 


.  Google 


«s« 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Blind,  Etnd  in  rags,  he  moves  from  door  to 

door. 
Mblchthal.   NsiUght  but  hie  staff  to 

the  old  eyelesB  man  I 
Strqiped  (tf  hie  all  —  even  (d  the  light  of 

day, 
The   ocmimon   bleeeing   of   the   meanest 

vretobt 
Tell  me  no  more  of  patience,  of  oonaeal- 

Oh,  what  a  base  and  coward  thing  am  I, 
That  on  mine  own  secuTity  I  tiiought. 
And  took  no  care  of  thinel  Thy  predoue 

head 
heit  aa  a  pledge  within  the  tyrant'e  graep  I 
Htfioe,  craven-hearted  prudence,   heneel 

AndaU 
My  thou^ta  be  vengeance,  and  the  dea- 

pot's  blood  I 
I'll  seek  him  straight  —  no  power  ehall 

stay  me  now  — 
And  at  hie  hands  demand  my  father's  eyes. 
I'U  beard  liim  'mid  a  thousand  myrmi- 
dons! 
What's  life  to  me,  if  jn  his  heart's  best 

blood 
I  eool  the  fever  of  this  mi^ty  anguish? 
[He  is  going.] 
Ft}BBT.  Btay;  this  is  madnees,  Melch- 

thall  What  avails 
Your  eingje  arm  against  his  power?  He  sits 
At  Samoi  hi^  within  his  lordly  keep. 
And,  safe  within  its  battlenient«d  walls, 
May  laug^  to  scom  your  unavailing  rage. 
Mklchthai>  And  though  he  sat  within 

the  icy  domes 
Of  ytm  far  Schreckbom  —  aye,  or  hi^er, 

where, 
Veiled  since  eternity,  the  Jungfrau  soars, 
Still  to  the  tyrant  would  I  make  my  way; 
With  twenty  comrades  minded  like  myself, 
J  'd  lay  hie  fastness  level  with  the  earthl 
And  if  none  follow  me,  and  if  you  all. 
In  terror  for  your  homesteads  and  your 


And    there   beneath   hettven'a    free   and 

boundless  roof. 
Where  men  still  feel  as  men,  and  hearts  are 


Proclaim  aloud  thie  foul  enormityl 
Staoitachbr  (lo  FDbbt).    Tbt  mea^ 
ure's  full  —  and  are  we  then  to  wait 
Till  some  extremity  — 

MxLCHTBAi..  Peace  t  What  extremis 
Remains  for  As  to  dreadT  What,  wheo  our 

eyes 
No  longer  in  their  sockete  are  secure? 
Heavensl  Are  we  hdpless?  Whenforsdid 

To  bold  the  crossbow  —  wield  the  battl»- 

a«e? 
What  hving  creature  but  in  its  despur 
Finds  for  itself  a  weapon  of  defense? 
The  baited  stag  will  turn,  and  with  the 

Of  his  dread  antlers  bold  the  hounds  at 

tay; 
The  ebaxaoiB  drags  the  huntsman  down  th' 

abyss; 
The  very  ox,  the  partner  of  man's  toil. 
The  sharer  of  his  roof,  that  meekly  beiida 
The  strength  of  his  huge  neck  beneath  the 

yoke, 
Springs  up,  if  he's  provoked,  whets  his 

strcmg  horn. 
And  tosses  his  tormentor  to  the  clouds. 
FtlBST.  If  the  three  cantons  thou^t  as 

we  three  do. 
Something  might  then  be  done,  with  good 

effect. 
SrAXjrrACBBn.  When  Uri  calla,   whta 

Unterwald  replies, 
Sehwyti  will  be  mindful  of  her  ancient 

league. 
Mklcbthai..  I've    many    friends    in 

nnterwald,  and  none 
That  would  not  gladly  venture  life  and 

If  fairly  backed  And  aided  by  the  rest. 
Oh,  sage  and  reverend  fathers  of  thk  land. 
Here  do  1  stand  before  your  npa  yean, 
An  unskilled  youth,  who  in  the  Diet  most 
Into  respectful  silence  hush  his  voice. 
Yet  do  not,  for  that  I  am  young,  and  want 
Experience,   alight  my   counsel  and  my 

'T  is    not    the    wantonness  of    youthful 

blood 
That  fires  my  spirit;  but  a  pang  ao  deep 
That  e'en  the  flinty  rooks  must  pity  me. 
You,  too,  are  f  atben,  heads  of  families 


.CtOoi^Ic 


WILUAM  TELL 


esj 


And  ymi  must  iriah  to  have  &  virtuoUB  son, 
To  reverence  your  gray  hairs,  and  shield 

your  eyes 
With  pious  and  affectionate  r^ard. 
Do  Dfit,  I  pray,  because  in  limb  and  fortuue 
Ymi  still  are  unaaaailed,  and  still  your  eyes 
Revolve  undimmed  and  sparkling  in  their 

spnu^e  -*- 

Oh,  do  not,  therefore,  disregard  our  wrongsl 
Above  you,  also,  hangs  the  tyrant's  sword. 
You,  tAO,  have  striven  t«  alienate  the  land 
From  Austria.    This  was  all  my  father's 

orime: 
You  share  his  guilt,  and  may  his  punish- 

BrAurrAcasH  [to  FCbst].    Do  thou  re- 
solve!  I  am  prepared  to  follow. 
FttssT.  First  let  us  learn  what  steps  the 
noble  lords 
Von  Sininen  and  Attinghsus  propose, 
^eir  namee  would  rally  thousands  to  the 

Melckthal.  Is  there  a  name  within  the 
Forest  Mountains 

That  carries  more  respect  than  yours  — 
and  yoursT 

On  names  like  these  the  people  build  their 
trust 

In  time  of  need  —  such  names  are  house- 
hold 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 

We  shall  be  able  to  maintain  our  rights. 
Stauftachsb.  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  recuse  to  lend  a  helping  hand. 
FttiiBT.    Were  there  an  umpire  'twixt 
ourselves  and  Austria, 
Justice  and  law  might  then  decide  our 

But  our  oppressor  is  our  Emperor  too, 
And  judge  supreme.    'T  is  God  must  he^ 

us,  then. 
And  our  own  arm!    Be  yours  the  task  to 


Then 


n  of  Sohwyts;  I'll  rally  friends  ii 


Uri. 

But  whom  are  we  to  send  to  Unterwald? 
MsLCHTnAL.  Thither  send  me.   Whom 

should  it  more  concern? 
FtlRfiT.  No,  Melchthal,  no;  you  are  my 
guest,  and  I 
Must  answer  for  your  safety. 

Melchthal.  Let  me  go. 
I  know  each  foreat-track  and  mountain- 
path; 
Fiends,  too,  I'll  find,  be  sure,  on  eveiy   - 

hand. 
To  give  me  willing  shelter  from  the  foe. 
Stautvachbe.   Nay,    let   him   go;    no 
traitors  harbor  there: 
For  tyranny  is  so  abhorred  in  Unterwald, 
No  tools  can  there  be  found  to  work  her 

wiU. 
In  the  low  valleys,  too,  the  Alseller 
WiU  gain   confederates,    and   rouse   the 
country. 
Melchthal.  But  how  shall  we  com- 
municate, and  not 
Awaken  the  suspieion  of  the  tyrantsT 
Stactfacbbe.  Might  we  not  meet  at 
Brunnen  or  at  Treib, 
Where  merchant  vessels  with  their  cargoes 

FttBST.  We  must  not  go  so  ^>enly  to 

Hear  my  opinion.  On  the  lake's  Mt  bank. 
As  we  sail  hence  to  Brunnen,  right  against 
The  Mytenst^,  deep-hidden  in  the  wood 
A  meadow  lies,  by  shepherds  called  the 

Rootli, 
Because  the  wood  has  been  uprooted  thare. 
[To  Melchthal.]    'T  is  where  our  canton 

bound'ries  verge  on  yours  — 
[To  SxAijvrACHER.]    Your  boat  will  carry 

you  across  from  Schwyti. 
Thither  by  lonely  bypaths  let  us  wend 
At  Dkidni^t,  and  ddtberate  o'er  our  plans. 
Let  eftch  br^  with  him  there  ten  trusty 

All  one  at  heart  with  us;  and  then  we 

Consult  together  for  the  general  weal. 
And,  with  God's  guidance,  fix  what  next  to 

do. 
Stautvachbb.  So  let  it  be.    And  not* 

your  true  right  handl  — 


«S4 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN    DRAMATISTS 


YouTB,  too,  young  manl  —  and  as  we  now 

three  men 
Among  oureelvea  thus  knit  our  hands  to- 
gether 
la  all  sincerity  and  truth,  e'en  so 
Shall  we  three  cantons,  too,  together  stand 
In  victory  and  defeat,  in  life  and  death. 
FObst  and  Mxlchthal,     In  life  and 
deathi 
[They  hold  their  hand*  daaped  to- 
gether }or    mrnte    vwmente    in 

MaLCHTHAL.  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  oastlee  of  the  tyrants  fall. 
Into  thy  cottage  ^kall  the  Swit«T  buret, 
Bear  the  glad  tidings  to  thine  ear,  and  o'er 
Thy  darkened  way  ahall  Freednn's  radi- 


ScBNS  I:  The  maneion  oj  Ote  Babon  or 
ATnNOHADsEN.  A  Gothic  hail,  decorated 
mlh  eaentcheoM  and  hdmete. 

[The  Babon,  a  gray-headed  man,  einhly-five 
yeart  old,  loll  and  of  a  commanding 
mien,  clad  tn  afwred  peliate,  and  lean- 
«ny  Oft  a  tlaff  tipped  with  ehamoie  horn, 
KuoNi  and  eix  hinde  eUmdiTtg  round 
Mm  tritA  rakee  and  teylhee.  Ulbich  or 
RuDBNz   enfera   in  the  coalvme  of  a 

RcDBNE.  Uncle,  I'm  herel  Your  will? 
Attinohausbn.  First  let  me  ahare, 
After  the  ancient  custom  of  our  house, 
The  momii^  cup,  with  these  my  faithful 
servants! 
[Ht  drinkt  from  a  eup,  which  it 
then  poised  round.] 
Time  was,  I  stood  myself  in  field  and  wood, 
With  mine  own  eyes  directing  all  their  toil, 
E!ven  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  m^ 
I  can  no  longer  seek  it  on  the  hills. 


Thus  elowly,  in  an  erer^iarTowiiig  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 
la  fading  fast  —  't  will  soon  be  but  a  name. 
KdoNi  [offering  Rxmmn  (he  cup].  A 
pledge,  young  master  I 

[RunxNZ  beeitalee  to  take  the  cup.] 
Nay,  sir,  drink  it  off! 
One  cup,  one  heart  I    You  know  our  pror- 

ArnNGHADSiiN.  Go,   children,   and   at 

eve,  when  work  ia  done, 

We'll  meet  and  talk  the  countiy^a  businen 

over.  [ExewU  Servant*.] 

Belted  and  plumed,  and  lUl  thy  bravery  onl 

Thou  art  for  Altdorf  —  for  the  castle,  boy? 

RuDKKE.  Yes,  uncle.  Longer  may  I  itot 

delay  — 
Attinokadsxh  [titiing  down].    Why  in 
such  haste?   Say,  are  thy  youthful 

Doled  in  such  niggard  measure,  that  thou 

Be  chary  of  them  to  thy  aged  uncle? 
RuDBKz.  I  see  my  presence  is  not  needed 

I  am  but  as  a  stranger  in  this  house. 
ATturoHAUSSiT  [gaseafiMdl]/  at  him  for  a 
eoneiderabU  time].    Aye,  pity  't  is 
thou  art!  Alas,  that  home 

To  thee  has  grown  80  strangel  OUlylUly! 

I  scarce  do  know  thee  now,  thus  decked  in 
silks, 

The  peacock's  feather  flaunting  in  thy  cap, 

And  purple  mantle  round  thy  shculdas 

Thou  look'st  upon  the  peasant  with  di»- 

doin; 
And  tak'st  his  honest   greeting  with  a 

blush. 
RuDBNi.  All  honor  due  to  him  I  gladly 

p»y. 

But  must  deny  the  right  he  would  usurp. 
AiTiNUHAueKN.  The  aore  displeasure  irf 

its  mimarch  rests 
Upon  our  land,  and  every  true  man's  be*rt 
Is  full  of  sadneHe  for  the  grievous  wronga 
We  BuSer  from  our  tyrants.  Thou  alono 
Art  all  unmoved  amid  the  general  grief. 
Abandoning  thy  friends,  thou  tak'st  tfaj 

stand 


WILUAH  TELL 


«S5 


fieside  thy  country's  foes,  and,  u  is  scorn 
Of  OUT  distreea,  purauest  giddy  joys, 
Courting  the  enules  of  princee  aU  the  while 
Thy  country  bleeda  beneath  their  cruel 

RuDBNE.  The  land  is  sore  oppreesed,  I 

know  it,  uncle. 
But  why?   Who  plunged  it  into  this  dis- 

tnoal 
\  word,  one  little  easy  word,  might  buy 
(nstant  deliverance  from  all  our  ills. 
And  win  the  good-will  of  the  Emperor. 
Woo  unto  thoee  who  seal  the  people's  eyes, 
And  make  them  adTerse  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  countriee  round  about  have  done! 
It  fits  their  humor  well  to  take  their  seats 
Amid  the  nobles  on  the  Herrenbank; 
They'll  have  the  Kaiser  for  their  lord, 

forsooth,  — 
That  is  to  say,  they'll  have  no  lord  at  all. 
AinNOBAirBBK.   Must  I  hear  thia,  and 

from  thy  lips,  rash  boy? 
RuPEKX.  You  urged  me  to  this  answer. 

Hear  me  out. 
What,    uncle,    is    the    character   you've 

To  fill  contentedly  through  life?  Have  you 
No  h^er  pride  than  in  these  lonely  wilds 
To  be  the  Landamman  or  Banneret, 
The  petty  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  splendors  of  his 

Than  sit  at  home,  the  peer  of  your  own 

And  share  the  judgment-seat  with  vulgar 

clownst 
Atttnohaubiin.  Ah,  Uly,  Uly;  all  too 

wdllsee 
llie  tempter's  voice  has  caught  thy  willing 

ear, 
^nd  poured  its  subtle  poison  in  thy  heart. 
RnnENS.  Yes,  I  conceal  it  now.  It  doUi 

offend 
^y  inmost  soul  to  bear  the  strangera' gibes, 


That  taunt  us  with  the  name  of  "Feoaaut 

NobtesI" 
Think  you  the  heart  that 's  stirring  here  can 

brook, 
While  all  the  young  nobility  around 
Are    reaping    honor    under    Hapsburg'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  springT    In  ofher 

Great  deeds  are  done.  A  world  of  fair  re- 

Beyond  these  mountains  stirs  in  martial  . 

My  hehn  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 

naught 
Save  cowherd'^  horn  and  cattle  bell  is 

In  one  unvarying  dull  monotony, 
AiTiNOHAusEK,   Deludcd  boy,  seduced 

by  empty  show! 
Despise  the  land  that  gave  thee  birth  I 

Ashamed 
Of  the  good  ancient  {niatoms  of  thy  siresi 
The  day  will  come  when  thou,  with  buni' 

ing  tears, 
Wilt  long  for  home,  and  for  thy  native  hills, 
And  that  dear  melody  of  tun^ul  hoxla, 
Which  now,  in  proud  disgust,  thou  dost 

despise  1 
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,  ftjoe  world  is  not  for  thee. 
At  the  proud  court,  with  thy  true  heart, 

thou  wilt 
Forever  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 — bari«r  thy  free  soul,. 
Take  land  in  fief,  be  minion  to  a  prince, 
Whne  thou  might'st  be  lord  paramount, 

and  prince 
Of  all  thine  own  unburdened  heritagel 
O  Uly,  Uly,  stay  among  thy  peoplel 


6S6 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


00  not  to  Altdorf.  Oh,  ab&ndon  not 
The  fl&ored  oftuae  of  thy  wronged  native 

Iftodl 

1  am  the  last  of  all  my  race.  My  name 
Ends  witli  me.  Yonder  hang  my  helm  and 

shield; 
They  will  be  buried  with  me  in  the  grsre. 
And  muat  I  think,  when  yielding  up  my 

breath. 
That  thou  but  wait'st  the  doeii^  o(  mine 

eyea, 
To  atoop  thy  knee  to  thia  new  feudal  court. 
And  take  in  vaaaalage  from  Auatria's  hands 
The    noble    lands,    which    I    from    God 

received, 
Free  and  unfettered  as  the  mountain  airl 
RcDiNE.   'Tis  Tain  for  us  to  strive 

against  the  King. 
The  worfd  pertains  to  him:  —  shall  we 

In  mad,  presumptuous  obstinacy,  strive 
To  break  that  mi^ty  chain  erf  lands  which 

he 
Hath  drawn  around  la  with    his  giant 

grasp? 
His  are  the  markets,  his  the  courta  —  his, 

too, 
The  highways;  nay,   the  very   carrier's 

That  traffics  on  the  Gotthardt,  pays  him 

toli. 
By  his  dominions,  as  within  a  net. 
We  are  enclosed  and  girded  roundabout. 
—  And  will  the  Empire  shield  us?    Say, 

can  it 
Protect   itself  'gainst   Austria's  growing 

To  God  and  not  to  emperors  must  we  look  I 
What  store  oan  on  their  promisee  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? 
No,   unclel     It  is  wise  and  wholesome 

prudence. 
In  times  like  these,  when  faction's  aU 

abroad, 
To  vow  attacbmmt  to  some  mighty  chid. 
The  imperial  crown's  transferred  from  line 

to  line. 
It  has  no  memory  for  faithful  sorioe: 
But  to  secure  the  favor  of  these  great 


Hereditary  masters  were  to  sow 
Seed  for  a  future  harvest. 

AmNonAQBEN.  Art  so  wise? 
Wilt  thou  see  clearer  than  thy  noble  aires^ 
Who  battled  for  fair  freedom's  priceless  gem 
With  life,  and  fortune,  and  heroic  armT 
Sail  down  the  lake  to  Lucerne,  there  in- 
quire 
How  Austria's  thralldom  weif^  the  can- 
tons down. 
Soon  she  will  come  to  count  cur  eheq>,  om 

cattle, 
To  portion  out  the  Alps,  e'en  to  their  peaks, 
And  in  our  own  free  woods  to  bind«  us 
From  striking  down  the  eagle  or  the  stag; 
To  set  her  tolls  on  every  bridge  and  gate. 
Impoverish  us,  to  swell  ber  lust  of  sway. 
And  drain  our  dearest  blood  to  feed  her 

No,  if  our  blood  must  flow,  let  it  be  shed 
In  our  own  cause  I  We  tiurchase  hlxrty 
Mmc  cheaply  far  than  bondage. 

Rddbni.  What  can  we, 
A  shepherd  race,  against  great  A&ert'a 

hosU? 
ArriNaHAiTBEN.  Learn,  foolish  boy,  to 

know  this  shE^herd  racel 
I  know  them,  I  have  led  them  on  in  fi^t  — 
1  ^aw  them  in  the  battle  at  Favens. 
What  I  Austria  try,  forsooth,  to  force  aa  us 
A  yoke  we  are  determined  not  to  beorl 
Oh,  learn  to  feel  from  what  a  stock  tbou'rt 

sprung; 
Cast  not,  for  tinsel  trash  and  idle  show, 
The  precious  jewel  of  thy  worth  away. 
To  be  the  chieftain  of  a  freelxan  race, 
Bound  to  tbee  only  by  their  unbought  love. 
Ready  to  stand  —  to  fight  —  to  die  with 

thee. 
Be  that  thy  pride,  be  that  thy  noblest 

boasti 
Knit  to  thy  heart  the  ties  of  kindred  — 

Cling  to  the  land,  the  dear  land  of  thy 

sires, 
Grapple  to  that  with  thy  whole  heart  and 

soul  I 
Thy  power  is  rooted  deep  and  stroni^ 

But  in  yon  stranger  world  thou  It  stand 

A  trembling  reed  beat  down  hytrntybbtL 


WILLIAM  TELL 


«S7 


Ob,  oomel 't  ia  long  nnoe  we  hftve  seo)  thee, 

Ulyl 
Tarry  but  this  one  day.  Only  to-dayt 
GonottoAltdorf.  Wilt  thou?  Not  to-day! 
F<a  this  one  day,  beetow  thee  on  thy 

friendB.  [Ttdcet  Aw  hand.] 

RunENS.  I  gave  my  word.  Unhand  met 

I  am  bound. 
A-mNaHAUSBN  [drops  hit  hand  and  tayt 

(temlvl-    Bound,   didst  thou  sayT 

Oh,  yee,  unhappy  boy, 
'niou  art,  indeed.  But  not  by  word  or  oath. 
T  is  by  the  nlken  meeh  of  love  thou  'rt 

bound.  [RunBNZ  (uttm  awaj/] 

Aye,  hide  thee,  as  thou  wilt.    'T  is  ehe,  I 

B^lha  of  Bruneok,  draws  thee  to  the  court; 
'Tie  she  that  changed  thee  to  the  Em- 
peror's service. 
Thou  think'st  to  win  the  noble  kni^tly 

By  thy  apostasy.  Be  not  deceived. 
She  is  held  out  before  thee  as  a  lure; 
But  never  meant  for  innocence  like  thine. 
Rin>BNZ.  No  more;  I've  heard  enough. 

So  fare  you  well.  [Exit.] 

Athnobauskn.  Stay,    Ulyl     Qtayl  — 

Rash  boy,  he's  gone!  I  can 
Kta  hold  him  back,  nor  save  him  fma 

destruction. 
And  90  the  Wolfahot  hae  deserted  ua  — 
Others  will  foUow  his  eitample  soon. 
This  foreign  witehery,  sweepiDg  o'er  our 

hills, 
Tears  with  its  potent  epei\i  our  youth  away. 
Oh,  luckless  hour,  when  men  and  manners 

Into  theee  calm  and  happy  valleye  came, 
To  warp  our  primitive  and  guileless  wayst 
The  new  is  pressing  on  with  might.   The 

old, 
The  good,  the  simple,  all  fleet  fast  away. 
New  times  oome  on.  A  race  is  springing  up, 
'  That  think  not  as  their  fathers  thought 

before) 
What  do  I  hearT  All,  all  are  in  the  grave 
With  whom  erewhile  I  moved,  and  held 


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 


ScBNS  11:  A  m»adovi  ntrrounded  by  high 
rock»  and  vx>oded  grmmd.  On  (Ae  roeka  an 
traekf,  with  raiit  and  laddert,  by  which  the 
peaaanU  are  t^temard  »ttn  detcendiT^;.  In 
the  baek{pwtnd  the  lake  ii  obaerved,  and  over 
it  a  moon  rainbovi  in  the  early  part  of  (A« 
seen«.  The  protpect  u  closed  by  lofly  mmm^ 
taina,  with  f^aeien  rising  behind  them.  The 
etagt  i»  dark,  bvi  the  lake  and  glaciert  gUaUn 
in  the  mooniighl. 

[£nter  Mblcbthal,  BAiniaABniM,  Wink- 
KLBiBD,  Meter  von  Sabnxn,  BnsK- 
HABT  AM  BnHsi,  Abnou)  von  Sbwa, 
Klaus  von  nan  P^db,  and  /our  other 
Peagantt,  all  armed.] 

Mklcbthal   \behind   Itie  aeenea].    The 
mountain  pass  is  ope'j.  FoUow  mel 
I  see  the  rock,  and  little  croas  upon  it: 
This  is  the  spot;  here  is  the  Rootli. 

[They  enler  wiih  lorehei.] 
WiNKELSixn.   Hark  I 
Sbwa.  The  coast  is  clear. 
Meteb.   None  of  our  comrsdee  comeT 
We  are  the  first,  we  Unterwaldeners. 
Mblchthal.  How  far  is  't  i'  the  night? 
Bachoabten.  The  beacon  watch 
Upon  the  Selisberg  has  juat  called  two. 

[A  beU  u  heard  at  a  dialanee.] 

Mbtxb.  Hush!  Hark! 

Bdhbi-  The  forest  chapd's  matin  bell 

Chimes  clearly  o'er  the  lake  from  Switser- 

land. 

Von  Flue.  The  air  is  clear,  and  bears 

the  sound  so  far. 
Mblcbthal.  Go,   you  and  you,    and 
li^t  some  broken  boughs; 
Let's  bid  them  welcome  with  a  cheerful 
blaie.  [Two  Peaeanta  exewtt.] 

Sbwa.  The  moon  shines  fair  t»4iight. 
Beneath  its  beams 
The   lake  reposes,    bright  as   burnished 

BuHEL.   They'll  have  an  easy  passage. 
WiNXELRixn  [pointing  to  the  lake],   Hal 
Look  there  I 
Do  you  see  nothing? 

MfTEK.  Aye,  indeed,  I  dol 
A  rainbow  in  the  middle  of  the  ni^t. 
Mblchthal.  Formed  by  the  bright  re 
flection  of  the  moon! 


«S8 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Von  Floe.  A  ago  most  stntnge  and 
wonderful,  indeed  I 
M&ny  there  be  who  ne'er  hsve  seen  the  like 
Sbwa.  'T  ia  doubled,  see,  —  a  paia  one 

Bahuoabtxn.   a  boat  is  gliding  yonder 

right  beneath  it. 

MxijCbthai..  That    must    be    Wemer 

Stauffacherl   I  knew 

Hie  worthy  patriot  would  not  tarry  long. 

[Goe*   Tcrith   Bauugabtun   bnoard 

the  thore.] 

Metee.  The  Uri  men  are  like  to  be  the 

lut. 
BuHBL.  They  're  forced  to  take  a  wind- 
ing circuit  through  ' 
The  mountains;  for  the  Viceroy's  epiee  are 

[In  the  mean  lohik  the  two  Peas- 

anit  have  kiTuBed  a  fire  in 

center  of  the  ttage.} 

Mblcbthai.  [on  tAe  *hore].  Who's  there? 

The  wordT 
STAtTFrACHBR  [/Vom  Moui).    Friends  of 
the  country. 

[AU  retire  up  the  lUtge,  toward  the 
party  Umdinif  from  the  boat.] 
[E'Uer  Stauftachxb,  Itbl  Reding,  Hans 

KW    DBB     MaDER,     JoRQ     IM     HoFE, 

OoNKAD  HimN,  Ulbich  dbh  ScaMii>T, 
OOOT   VON    Wbiujb,    and   three   other 
Peatant*,  armed.^ 
All.  Welcome  I 

[Wfyiie  the  reel  remain  behind  ex- 
changing  greetings,  Mxlchthaj. 
comes    foraard     wUh     SnAVr- 

Melcbthal.  Oh,  worthy  Stauffacher, 

1  'te  looked  but  now 
On  him  who  could  not  look  on  me  again; 
I've  kid  my  hands  upon  his  raylesa  eyes, 
And  on  their  vacant  orbita  sworn  a  vow 
Of  vengeance,  only  to  be  cooled  in  blood. 
Stauffacbbr.  Speak  not  of  vengeance. 

We  are  here,  to  meet 
The  threatened  evil,  not  to  avenge  the  paat. 
Now,  tell  me  what  you've  done,  and  what 

secured, 
To  aid  the  coounon  cause  in  Unterwald. 
How  Bland  the  peasantry  disposed,  and 


Yourself  escaped  the  wil«s  of  trcodiaTT 
MiLCHTBAL.  Through    the    Sureoen't 
fearful  mountain  chain. 
Where  dreary  ice-fields  stretch  on  evoy 

And  sound  is  none,  save  the  faoarM  vul- 

I  reached  the  Alpine  pasture,  where  the 

herds 
From  Urj  and  from  Engelberg  resort, 
And  turn  their  cattle  forth  to  grase  in 


Still,  »  I  went  along,  I  slaked  my  thirst 
With  the  coarse  oozinga  of  the  Racier 

heights 
That  through  the  crevices  come  foaming 

And  turned  to  rest  me  in 


Already  through  these  distant  vsles  tw) 

The  rumor  of  this  last  atrocity; 
And  whereeoe'a- 1  went,  at  every  door. 
Kind  words  saluted  me  and  gentle  kx^^ 
I  found  these  simple  spirits  all  in  arms 
Against  our  rulera'  tyrannous  eneroacb- 

For  as  their  Alps  tiirou^  each  succeeding 

year 
Yield  the  same  roots  —  their  st 


In  the  same  chonttels  —  nay,  the  clouds 

and  winds 
The  selfsame  course  unalterably  pursue, 
So  have  old  customs  there,  from  sire  to  bod, 
Been  handed  down,  unchanging  and  un- 
changed; 
Nor  will  they  brook  to  swerve  or  turn  aside 
Prom  the  fixed  even  Unar  of  their  life. 
With  grasp  of  their  hard  hands  ttiey  wel- 
comed me  — 
Todt  from  the  walls  their  rusty  falchioos 

And  from  their  eyee  the  soul  of  vokr 

flashed 
With  joyful  luster,  as  I  spdte  tliose  names, 
Sacred  to  every  pensant  in  the  mountains. 
Your  own  and  Walter  Ftirst's.  Whota's 

your  voice 


WILUAM  TELL 


659 


Should  dictate  u  the  right,  they  swore  to 

do; 
And  you   thejr  swot«  to  follow  e'en  to 

death. 
—  80  sped  I  on  from  house  to  house,  secure 
In    the    guest's    sacred    privil^e  —  and 

when 
I  naohed  at  last  the  valley  of  my  home, 
Whate  dwell  my  kinsmen,  scattered  far 

and  near  — 
And  when  I  found  my  father,  stripped  and 

blind. 
Upon  the  strEuiger'e  straw,  fed  by  the  alma 
Of  charity  — 

SrAirrFAOBBR.   Great  Heaveni 
Mblchtbal.  Yet  wept  I  notl 
No  —  not  in  weak  and  unavailing  tears 
Spwt  I  the  force  of  my  fierce  burning 

anguish; 
Deep  in  my  bosom,  like  some  precious 

treasure, 
I  locked  it  fast,  and  thou^t  on  deeds  alone. 
Throu^    every  winding  of    the    bills  I 

No  valley  so  remote  but  I  explored  it; 
Nay,  at  the  VMy  glacier's  ice-dad  base, 
I  sought  and  found  the  homes  of  living 

men; 
And  still,  where'er  my  wandering  footsteps 

turned, 
The  selfsame  hatred  of  these  tyrants  met 

For  even  there,  at  vegetation's  verge, 
Where  the  numbed  earth  is  barren  of  all 

"Heir  grasping  hands  had  been  for  plund^ 

thrust. 
Into  the  hearts  of  all  this  honeet  race. 
The  story  of  my  wrongs  strudi  deep,  and 

Tbey,  to  a  man,  are  ours;  both  heart  and 

hand. 
Stauttaches.  Great    tiungs,    indeed, 

you've  wrought  in  little  time. 
M11T.CHTHAL.  I  £d  still  more  tium  this. 

The  fortresses, 
Bossberg  and  Bamen,  are  the  country's 

dread; 
For  from  beMnd  their  adamantine  walls 
The  foe,  like  eagle  from  his  eyrie,  swoops, 
And,  BsJFe  himself,  spreads  havoc  o'er  the 

land. 


With  my  own  eyes  I  wiahed  to  weigh  its 

So  went  to  Samen,  and  explored  the  castle. 
Stauvfachsk.  Howl  Venture  even  into 

the  tiger's  den?  . 
Melcbthai..      Disguised    in    pilgrim's 
weeds  I  entered  it; 
I  saw  the  Viceroy  feasting  at  his  board  — 
Judge  if  I'm  master  of  myself  or  not 
I  saw  the  tyrant,  and  1  slew  him  not! 
STAurFACBxR.    Fortune,  indeed,  upon 
your  boldnew  smiled. 

[MeantohUe  the  otken  ham  arrxetd 
and    join     MeijChthal    and 
Stavftachkb.] 
Yet  tell   me  now,  I  pray,  who  are  the 

friends, 
The  worthy  men,  who  came  along  with 

Make  me  acquainted  with  them,  that  we 

may 
Speak  frankly,  man  to  man,  and  heart  to 

heart. 
Metkb.  In  the  three  cantons,  who,  air, 

knows  not  youf 
Meyer  of  Samen  is  my  name;  and  this 
Is  Struth  of  Winkelried,  my  sister's  son. 
Stautfachbr.   No  uikknown  name.    A 

Winkelried  it  was 
Who  slew  the  drt^on  in  the  fen  at  Weiler, 
And  lost  his  life  in  the  encounter,  too. 
WiNKHLBiBD.  That,  Master  Stauffach^, 

was  my  grandfather. 
Mdlchthal  [pDintiTiff  to  two  Pta«mU]. 

These  two  are  men  who  till  the 

cloister  lands 
Of  Ehgelbei%,  and  live  behind  the  forest. 
You'll   not   think   ill   of  tbem,   beeause 

they  're  serfs. 
And  sit  not  free  upon  the  soil,  like  us. 
They  love  the  land,  and  bear  a  good  repute. 
STAOTTACaiiB  |to  lAem],    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  't  is 

Htinn.  That  is  Hen- Reding,  sir,  our  dd 

Landamman. 
Muter.  I  Imow  him  well.  I  am  at  law 

with  him 
About  a  piece  of  (uicient  heritacft  — 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


s  in  court, 

H«re  we  are  <Kie.  [Shake*  hi*  Kcmd.] 

Stautfachbb.  That's  well  and  bravely 

■aid. 
WiNKBLRiKD.  Listenl  Tlieycome.  The 
honxtfUril  Harkt 

[On  the  rifht  and  Ufl  wnmd  men 

are  teen  detoentUng  the  rock* 

vrith  lorehet.] 

MATncB.  Look,  is  not  that  tiie  hcdy  mui 

rfGodT 

A  wortliy  priest !  The  t«rron  of  the  ni^t 

And  the  wsy'e  paina  and  perils  scare  not 

A  faithful  shepherd  caring  for  his  flock. 
Baukoabtek.  The  Saerist  foUowe  him, 
and  Walter  FUrst. 
But  whve  is  Tell?  I  do  not  see  him  there. 

[Waltkk  FtlBST,  ROssxuiANM  the  Pastor, 

Pbteruann    the   SacrUt,    Kuoni   the 

Shepherd,     Wsiun     the     Hunltman, 

Room  the  Fiehenrum,  and  five  other 

eountryrnen,  thirty-three  in  aU,  ndsance 

and  lake  their  piaeet  round  the  fire.] 

FtlBBT.  Thus  must  we,  on  the  soil  our 

fathers  left  us, 

Creei>    forth    by    stealth    to    meet    like 

murderers. 
And  in  tbe  night,  that  ^ould  her  mantle 

lend 
Only  to  crime  and  black  conspiracy. 
Assert  our  own  good  rights,  which  yet  are 

As  is  the  radiance  of  the  noonday  sun. 
Melchthal.  So  be  it.  What  is  battled 

in  gloom  of  night 
Shall  free  and  boldly  meet  the  morning 

light. 
IU5asBU(ANN.  Confederates!    Listen  to 

the  words  which  God 
Inspires  my  heart  withal.  Here  we  aie  met, 
To  represent  the  general  weal.  In  us 
Are  til  the  people  of  the  land  convened. 
Then  let  us  hold  the  Diet,  as  of  eld, 
And  as  we're  wont  in  peaceful  times  to  do. 
The  time's  necessity  be  our  excuse, 
If  Uiere  be  aught  iidonnal  in  this  meeting. 
Still,  wheresoe'w  men  strike  for  justice, 

Is  God,  and  now  beneath  his  heaven  we 
stand. 


SrtAartACBxa.     "I  is    well    advised.  — 
Let  us,  then,  bold  the  Diet, 
According  to  our  andent  usages.  — 
Thou^  it  be  night,  there's  sunshine  in  oar 

Mblcbtbal.  Few  though  our  numben 
be,  the  hearts  are  here 
Of  the  whole  people ;  here  the  best  are  met. 
HuNN.  The  ancient  booke  may  not  be 
near  at  hand. 
Yet  they  are  graven  in  our  inmost  bearta. 
RfisBBUiAirN.  'T  is    well.     And    now, 
then,  let  a  ring  be  formed, 
And  plant  the  swords  of  power  within  the 
ground. 
Maueh.  Let  the  TJ^ll^»lnITll^l  gtep  into 
his  place. 
And  by  hie  side  his  eecretariee  stand. 
Sacust.  There  are  three  cantons  bere 
Which  hath  the  ri^t 
To  give  the  head  to  the  united  Coundlf 
Schwyti  may  contest  that  dignity  wHh 

Uri, 
We  Unteswald'nos  enter  not  tiie  field. 
MsLCHTOAi..  We  stand  aeode.  We  are 
but  suppliants  here, 
Invoking  aid  from  our  more  potent  friends. 
STAurFACHBK.  Let  Uri  have  the  sword. 
Her  banner  takes. 
In  battle,  the  precedence  of  our  own. 
FObst.  Schwyts,  then,  must  share  the 
honor  of  the  sword; 
For  she's  the  htmcved  ancestor  of  all. 
RSssBUuNN.  Let  me  arrange  thk  gen- 
erous controveny. 
Uri  shall   lead   in   battle  —  Sehwyta   in 
Council. 
FObot  \tripe*  STATmACHSB  hie  Aondl. 

Then  take  your  place. 
Stauctachzb.  Not  I.  Some  older  man. 
Hone.  Uhich,  the  smith,  is  the  most 

aged  here. 
Mauxb.  a  worthy  man,  but  not  a  free- 
man; not 
—  No  bondman  can  be  judge  in  Switsv 
land. 
SrAurrACBBB.  Is  not  Herr  Reding  hsr^ 

our  old  T  jmlamman? 

Where  can  we  find  a  worthier  man  tban 


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WILLIAM  TELL 


You  that  agree  with  me,  hold  igi  your 
huidst 

[Ail  hold  up  Pi«ir  right  hatida.] 
RuDiNo  [itepping  mlo  the  center],   I  can- 
not lay  my  hands  upon  the  books; 
But  by  yon  ererlaHting  atan  I  swear, 
Never  to  swerve  from  justice  and  the  right. 
[The  tteo  tworde  are  piaeed  before 
kitn,    and    a    circle     formed; 
SchvryU  in  the  center,  Uri  on  hit 
right,  Unieneaid  on  Am  E^.] 
RsDiMo    [rettitig   on   Am    ballle-eword\. 
Why,  at  the  hour  when  epirite  walk 
tiie  e&rth, 
Meet  the  three  cant«na  of  the  mountains 

Upon  the  lake's  iohoopitable  shoref 
What  may  the-  purport  be  of  this  new 

league 
We   here    contract    beneath    the   starry 

hwveu? 
BfAvrrACHxa  [entering  the  circle].    T  is 

no  new  league  tiiat  here  we  now 

oontmct, 
But  one  our  fathers  framed,  in  anient 

We  purpose  to  renew  1  For  know,  confed- 
erates, 

Though  mountain  ridge  and  lake  divide 
our  bounds, 

And  each  canton  by  its  own  laws  is  ruled. 

Yet  are  we  but  one  race,  bom  of  one  blood. 

And  all  are  children  of  one  common  home. 
WiKEEiAiBD.  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 

May  re^  freeh  vigor  from  the  leagues  of 

old. 
9rAUFFACHEiB.  Hear,  then,  what  aged 

herdsmen  tell.  There  dwelt 
A  mi^tjr  people  in  the  land  that  lies 
Back  to  the  ncotb.  The  scou^e  of  famine 

And  in  this  strait 't  was  publicly  resolved 
That  each  tenth  man,  on  whom  the  lot 

might  faD, 
Should  leave  the  country.    They  obeyed 

—  and  forth, 
With  loud  lamentings,  men  and  women 


A  mighty  host;  and  t«  the  aoutii  moved 

Cutting  their  way  through  Germany  by 

the  sword. 
Until  they  gained  these  pine-dad  hilla  of 

Nor  stopped  they  ever  on  their  forward 

course, 
TiU  at  the  shaggy  dell  they  halted,  where 
The   MUta  flows  through   its  luxuriant 

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  hdce  rose  mountains 

high 
And  barred  their  further  progress.  There- 

They  viewed  the  country  —  found  it  rioh 

in  wood. 
Discovered  goodly  spring,  and  felt  as  they 
Were  in  their  own  dear  native  land  once 

Then  they  reeolved  to  settle  on  the  q>ot^ 
Erected  there  the  ancient  town  of  Scfawytz; 
And  many  a  day  of  toil  had  they  to  clear 
The  tangled  brake  and  forest's  spreading 

roots. 
Meamriiile  their  numbers  grew,  the  soil 

became 
Unequal  to  sustain  them,  and  they  crossed 
To  the  black  mountain,  far  as  Weissland. 

where. 
Concealed  behind  eternal  walls  of  ice. 
Another  people  speak  another  tongue. 
Tbey  built  the  village  Stani,  bende  the 

Kemwald; 
The  village  Altdorf,  in  the  vale  of  Reuss; 
Yet,  ever  mindful  at  their  parent  stem. 
The  men  of  Schwyts,  from  all  the  stranger 

race, 
That  since  that  time  have  settled  in  the 

land, 
Each  other  recognise.    Their  heArts  still 

And  beat  fraternally  to  kindred  blood. 

[Extend*  hit  hand  right  and  lefl.] 
Maueb.  Aye,  we  ore  all  one  heart,  ads 

blood,  one  race  I 
Au.  {joining  hande].  We  are  one  people 
and  wUl  act  as  cue. 


66s 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


BtATTTFACHSB.  The  nations  nnmd  us 

bear  a  fore^  yoke, 
Fm  they  have  to  the  conqueror  succumbed. 
Nay,  e'en  within  our  frontiers  may  be 

found 
Some  that  owe  Tillein  sovioe  to  a  lord, 
A  race  of  bonded  serfs  from  are  to  son. 
But  we,  the  genuine  race  d  ancient  Swiss, 
Have  kept  our  freedom  frmn  the  first  tiU 

Never  to  princes  have  we  bowed  the  knee; 
Freely  we  sought  protection  of  the  En)pire. 
R0BBELIIANN.  Freely  we  sou^t  it  — 
freely  it  was  given. 
'T  is  HO  set  down  in  Emperor  Fred^ck's 
charter. 
Stauffacbeb.  For  the  most  tree  have 
still  some  feudal  lord. 
There  must  be  still  a  chief,  a  judge  su- 

To  whom  uppeal  may  lie,  in  case  of  strife. 
And  therefore  was  it  that  out  sires  allowed, 
For  what  th^  had  recovered  from  the 

This  honor  of  the  Emperor,  the  lord 
Of  all  the  Qennan  and  Italum  soil;    ' 
And.  like  the  otho'  free  tnea  of  his  realm, 
Engaged  to  aid  him  with  their  swords  in 

The  free  man's  duty  this  alone  should  be, 
To  guard  the  Empire  that  keeps  guard  for 

Mblchthal.   He  'b   but    a   slave   that 

would  acknowledge  more, 
STAnPFACBEB.  They  followed,  when  the 

Hcribann  went  forth, 
The  imperial  standard,  and  they  fou^t 

its  battiest 
To  Italy  they  marched  in  arms,  to  place 
The  Cffisars'  crown  upon  the  Emperor's 

head. 
But  still  at  home  they  ruled  themselves  in 

By  their  own  laws  and  ancient  usc^es. 
The  Eknpcror's  only  right  was  to  adjudge 
The  penalty  of  death;  he  therefore  named 
Some  mighty  noble  as  his  delegate, 
That  had  no  stake  or  intereet  in  the  land, 
Who  was  called  in,  when  doom  was  to  be 


What  traces  hen,  that  we  wb  b 

Speak, 
If  there  be  any  can  gainsay  my  words! 
HoFE.  Nol    You  have  qxdien  but  the 

simple  truth; 
We  never  etot^Md  boteatfa  a  tyrant's  yt^e. 
Stadffacsbr.  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  ouiselves  bad 

grased, 
And  diowed  an  andent  charter,  which  be- 

The  land  on  them  av  being  owneileea  — 
For   our   existence    there  had  been   ooo- 

What  was  our  answer?  This:  "The  grant 

No  Emperor  can  bestow  what  is  our  own; 
And  if  the  Eknpire  shall  deny  our  ri^ts. 
We  can,  within  our  mountains,  right  our- 
selves!" 
Thus  spake  our  fathersi    And  diaD  we 

oidure 
The  shame  and  infamy  of  this  new  yoke. 
And  from  the  vassal  brook  what  never  king 
Dared,  in  his  plenitude  of  power,  sttcmptT 
This  soil  we  hare  created  for  ourvelves. 
By  the  hard  labor  of  our  'hands;  we've 

changed 
The  giant  foreet,  that  was  erst  the  haunt 
Of  savage  bears,  into  a  home  for  man; 
Extirpated  the  dragon's  brood,  that  wout 
To  rise,  distent  with   venom,  from  tbe 

swamps; 
Rent  the  thick  misty  canopy  that  hui^; 
Its  blighting  vapors  on  the  dreary  waste; 
Blasted  the  solid  rock;  across  the  diasm 
Thrown  the  firm  bridge  for  the  wayfaring 

By  the  possession  of  a  thousand  years 
The  soil  is  ours.   And  shall  an  alien  lotd, 
Himself  a  vassal,  dare  to  venture  here. 
Insult  us  by  our  own  hearth  fires  —  at- 

To  fo^e  the  chains  of  bondage  for  our 

hands. 
And  do  us  ibame  mi  our  own  tM^q>er  omlf 
Is  tha«Do  h^  against  such  wrong  as  this! 
\Ortat  tennalion  amona  Ihe  peopkO 


WILLIAM  TELL 


Yea!  There's  » limit  to  the  despot's  power! 
When  the  oppressed  for  juatioe  looks  in 

When  his  sore  burden  may  no  more  be 

borne, 
Wit^  fearless  heart  he  makes  appeal  to 

And  thence  brings  down  hie  everlasting 

rights, 
Which  there  abide,  inalienably  his, 
And  indestructible  as  ore  the  stars. 
Nature's  primeval  state  returns  again, 
Wha«  man  stands  hostile  to  his  fellow 

man; 
And  if  all  other  means  shall  fail  hie  need, 
One  last  resource  remains  —  his  own  f^ood 


Our  dearest  treasures  call  to  us  for  aid, 
Against  the  oppreBBor'B  violence;  we  stand 
For  country,  home,  for  wivefa,  for  children 

All  [doipin^  their  rwordt].  Here  stand 
we  for  our  homes,  our  wives,  and 
children. 

RObsbluann  [steppiof/  into  the  eirde]. 
Bethink  ye  well,  before  ye  draw  the 

Some  peaceful  compromise  may  yet  be 

made; 
Speak  but  one  word,  and  at  your  feet 

you'll  see 
The  men  who  now  oppren  you.   Take  the 

That  have  been  often  tendered  you;  re- 
nounce 
The  Empire,  and  to  Austria  swear  alle- 

Matteb.  What    says    the   priest?     To 

Austria  allegiance? 
Bdbbl.   Hearken  not  to  him  I 
WiKKELRiED,    'T  is  K  traitor'e  counsel. 
His  country's  foe! 

Redino.  Peace,  peace,  confederates! 
Sewa.  Homage  to  Austria,  after  wrongs 

like  these! 
Von  Flitb.  Shall  Austria  extort  from  us 
by  force 
What  we  denied  to  kindness  and  entreaty? 
Metkr.  Then  should  we  all  be  slaves, 
deservedly. 

Madee.  Yes!  Let  him  fcwfeit  all  a 
Switier's  rights. 


«j 

Who  talks  tt  yielding  thus  to  Austria's 

I  stand  on  this,  lAndamman.   Let  this  be 
The  foremost  of  our  laws! 

Mrlohthai..  Even  so!  Whoe'er 
Shall  talk  of  bearing  Austria's  yoke,  let 

Of  <U1  bis  rights  and  honors  be  despoiled, 
No  man  thenceforth   receive  him  at  his 
hearth! 
All  [railing  their  right  handt],   Agreedl 

Be  this  the  lawl 
Redino  {after  a  pauw).  The  law  it  is. 
RfiasBUiAinf.  Now  you  are  f^ee  —  thir 
law  hath  made  you  free. 
Never  shall  Austria  <d>tAin  by  force 
What  she  has  failed  to  gain  by  friend^ 

Weilxr.  On  with  the  order  of  the  day* 

Proceed! 
Rbdino.  Confederatea!  Have  all  gentler 

means  been  tried? 
Perchance  the  Emperor  knows  not  of  our 

wrongs, 
It  may  not  be  his  wiH  we  suffer  thus; 
Were  it  not  well  to  make  one  last  attempt, 
And  lay  our  grievances  before  the  throne. 
Ere  we  unsbeath  tbe  sword?   Force  is  at 

best 
A  fearful  thii^;  e'en  in  a  righteous  cause; 
God  only  hdps,  when  man  can  help  no 

more. 
Staoffachbb  (to  CoKRAD  Hunn).  Here 

you  can  ^ve  us  information.  Speak) 
HuNN.   I  was  at  Rheinfeld,  at  the  En>- 

peror'e  court, 
Deputed  by  the  cantons  to  complain 
Of  tbe  oppressions  of  these  govemore, 
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  Swabia  and  the  valley  of  the  Rhine, 
Who  aU  received  their  parchments  as  th^ 

wished. 
And  straight  went  home  again  with  meny 

But  me,  your  envoy,  they  to  the  Council 

Where  I  with  empty  cheer  was  soon  dia 

"The  Empcxor  at  present  was  engaged; 
Some  other  time  he  would  atteod  to  usl" 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


«4 

I  turned  Avay,  and  paaainf;  through  the 

haU, 
With  heavy  heart,  in  a  recess  I  saw 
The  Grand  Duke  John  in  tears,  and  by  his 

The  noble  lords  of  Wart  and  Tegafeld, 
Who  beckoned  me,   and  said:    "Redreos 

yourselvea. 
Expect  not  justice  from  the  Emperor. 
Does  he  not  plunder  his  own  brother's 

child, 
And  keep  from  him  his  just  inheritance?  " 
'Iht  Duke  claims  his  matonal  property, 
Urging  he's  now  of  age,  and  't  ia  full  time 
That  he  should  rule  his  people  and  estates; 
What  is  the  answn  made  to  him7    The 

King 
Places  a  chaplet  on  his  head.   "Behold 
The    fitting    ornament,"    he    eries,    "of 

youth  1" 
Matjer.  You  bear.  Expect  not  from  the 


Or  right  or  justicel    That  redress  your- 

RxDtNa.  No  other  course  is  left  us. 
Now,  advise 
What  plan  most  likely  to  insure  success. 
FOmt.  To  shake  a  thralldom  off  that 
we  abhor, 
To  keep  our  ancient  rights  inviolate, 
As  we  receive  them  from  our 'fathers  — 

this, 
Not  lawless  innovation,  is  our  aim. 
Let  Cffisar  still  retain  what  is  his  due; 
And  he  that  is  a  vassal,  let  him  pay 
The  eervice  he  is  sworn  to  faithfully. 
Meter.    I  hold  my  land  of  Austria  in 

fief. 
FtliteT.  Continue,   then,   to  pay  your 

feudal  dues. 
WdiijER.  I'm  tenant  of  the  lorda  of 

Rapperaweil. 
FVbot.  Continue,  then,  to  pay  them 

rent  and  tithe. 
RObszlmann.   Of  Zurich's  abbess  hum- 


ill. 


FBrbt.  Give  to  the  cloister  what  the 

cloister  claims. 
Stattpfachkr.  The  Empire  only  is  my 

feudal  lord. 
FOasT.  What  needs  must  be,  we'll  do, 

but  nothing  more. 


We'll  drive  these  tyrants  and  thdr  minionB 

And  rase  their  towering  stron^olds  to  the 

ground, 
Yet  abed,  if  pfwaible,  no  drop  of  blood. 
Let  the  Emperor  see  that  we  were  driven 

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  feared 
That,  arms  in  band,  is  temperate  in  its 

wrath. 
Reding.  But  prithee  tell  us  how  may 

this  be  done? 
The  enemy  is  armed  as  well  as  we. 
And,  rest  assured,  he  will  not  yield  in  pence. 
Stadffachbr.   He  will,  whene'er  he  sees 

us  up  in  arms; 
We  shall  Hurpriae  him,  ere  he  ia  pr^mred. 
Meter.  Easily  said,  but  not  so  easily 

Two  stf  ongholds  dominate  the  country  — 

they 
Protect  the  foe,  and  should  the  King  in- 

Our  task  would  then  be  dangeroua,  indeed. 
Rossberg  and  Sarnen  both  must  be  secured, 
Before  a  sword  is  drawn  in  either  canton. 
Stacffacber.  Should  we  delay,  the  foe 
would  WMXt  be  warned; 
We  are  too  numerous  for  secrecy. 
Meter.  There  is  no  traitor  in  the  For- 
est States. 
ROssBUfANN.  But  even  seal  may  heed- 
lessly betray. 
Ft^RST.   Delay  it  longer,  and  the  keep  at 
Altdorf 
Will  be  complete  —  the  Governor  secnjre. 
Mbtbr.  You  think  but  of  yourselves. 
Sacristan.  You  are  unjust! 
Meter.  Unjuati   said  you?   Dares  Uri 

taunt  us  bo? 
Redino.   Peace,  on  your  oathl 
Sacbistan.  If  Schwyti  be  leagued  with 
Uri, 
Why,  then,  indeed,  we  must  perforce  be 

Redino.  And  let  me  tell  you,  in  the 
Diet's  name, 
Your  hasty  t^iirit  much  disturbs  the  pesoa 

,     .     Cm 


WILUAM  TELL 


665  . 


Stand  we  not  all  tar  the  bs 

cause? 
WiNKKUUBD.  What,  if  tiU  Christmu 

we  delay?  'T  is  then 
The  custom  for  the  eerfs  to  throng  the 

Bringing  the  Governor  their  annu&l  gifts. 
TbvB  may  some  ten  or  twelve  selected  men 
Assemble  unobeerved,  within  its  walls, 
Bearing  about  their  peraons  pikee  of  steel, 
Which   may  be  quickly  mounted  upon 

For  arms  are  not  admitted  to  the  fort. 
The  rest  can  fill  the  naghboring  wood, 

prepared 
To  sally  forth  upon  a  trumpet's  blaot, 
Soon  as  their  comrades  have  secured  the 

gate; 
And  thus  the  castle  will  with  ease  be  ours. 
Melchthai^  The  Rossberg  I  will  un- 
dertake to  scale. 
I  have  a  sweetheart  in  the  garrison, 
Whom  with  some  tender  words  I  could 

pcnuade 
To  lower  me  at  night  a  hempen  ladder. 
Once  up,  my  friends  win  not  be  long  be- 
hind. 
Rkdinq.  Are  all  resdved  in  favor  of 
delay? 

[The  maQority  raite  their  haiida.] 
SrAnrrACSBB  [ctntnting  th«m].    Twenty 

to  twelve  is  the  majority. 
F^RBT.  If  on  the  appointed  day  the 
castles  fall, 
From  mountain  on  to  mountain  we  shall 

The  fiery  signal:  in  the  capital 

Of  every  canton  quickly  rouse  the  Land- 

Theo,  when  these  tyrants  see  our  martial 

Bdieve  me,  they  will  never  make  bo  bold 
As  risk  the  conflict,  but  will  gladly  take 
Safe  conduct  forth  beyond  our  boundaries. 

Stauitachiui.  Not  so  with  Oeaeler.  He 
will  make  a  stand. 
Surrounded  with  his  dread  array  of  horse, 
Blood  will  be  shed  before  he  quits  the  field, 
And  even  expelled  he'd  still  be  terrible. 
'T  is  hard,  nay,  dangerous,  to  spare  his  life. 

BAimoABTZN.  Place  me  where'er  a  life 
£b  to  be  lost; 


1  owe  my  fife  to  Tell,  and  cheerfully 
Will  pledge  it  (or  my  country.    I  have 

cleared 
My  honor,  and  my  heart  is  now  at  rest. 
Redino.  Counsel  will  come  with  cir- 
cumstance.  Be  patient! 
Something  must  stiU  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. 

FtJKBT.  Do  not  fear. 
The  night  wanes  slowly  from  these  vales  o( 

[AU  have  itwoluniarily  taken  oS 
IheiT  eajM,  and  amiemplate  the 
breaking  of  day,    dbaorbed  in 
tiknce.] 
RfissELUANN.  By  this  fair  light  which 
greeteth  us,  before 
Those  other  nations,  that,  beneath  us  far. 
In  noisome  cities  pent,  draw  painful  breaUt, 
Swear  we  the  oath  of  our  confederacy! 
A  band  of  brothers  true  we  swear  to  be. 
Never  to  part  in  danger  or  in  deathi 

[They  repeat  hia  vnrda  ■wiih  three 
fingen  raised.] 
We  swear  we  will  be  free,  as  were  our  sires, 
And  sooner  die  than  live  in  slavoyt 

[AU  Tepeat  ae  hefore.i 
We  swear,  to  put  our  trust  in  God  Most 

High, 
And  not  to  quail  before  the  mi^t  (tf  mani 
[AU  repeal  ae  bt^ore,  and  embrace 
each  other.] 
SrAurrACHBB.  Now  every  man  pursue 
his  several  way 
Back  to  hia  friends,  his  kindred,  and  his 

home. 
Iiet  the  herd  winter  up  his  flock,  and  gain 
In  secret  friends  for  this  great  league  of 

What  for  a  time  must  be  endured,  endure, 
And  let  the  reckoning  of  the  tyrants  grow, 
TiU  the  great  day  arriye,  whrai  they  shall 

pay 
The  general  and  particular  debt  at  once. 
Let  every  man  control  his  own  just  rage, 
And  nutse  his  vengeance  for  the  public 

wrongs: 
Pot  be  whom  selfish  interests  now  engage. 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Defnuds  the  genflr&l  weal  erf  wluU  to  it 
belongs. 

[At  (Aev  Of*  flotiff  of  in  profound 
silence,  in  three  diferent  dirte- 
titmt,  the  oTchtttra  playt  a  tol- 
emn  air.  Tht  emptj/  acene  n- 
motns  open  for  fome  Hmt,  ihoie- 
inf  the  rays  of  the  sun  riting  oner 
the  giaei«ra.\ 


Bom  I:  Court  before  Tbll's  houte. 

[Bnier  Tbll  u^  an  axe.  Hmdwiq  engaged 
in  her  domestic  duUea.  Wauteb  and 
WiLUAM  tn  the  hackgrovmd,  j>laf/itm 
with  a  UUle  crosabow.J 

Wautbr  [ring*] 

With  bii  oroabow,  and  hii  qulTer, 
ThB  huntsman  apeedi  his  way, 

Orel  mountain,  dale,  and  river. 
At  the  dawninE  of  the  day. 

Aa  the  eagle,  on  wild  pinion, 
la  the  king  in  reahna  of  air. 

Over  crag  and  forest  [air. 
Far  aa  ever  bow  can  carry. 

Through  ttie  trackleaa  aiiy  spaae, 
All  he  seea  be  makes  his  quarry, 

Soaring  Urd  and  beast  of  chase. 

WtLLIAU  [run*  forwardl.    My  string  has 

snapped  I   Oh,  father,  mend  it,  do  I 
TsLL.  Not  I;  a  tru&4>om  archer  helps 

himself.  [Boy*  retire.] 

Hbdvio.  The  bc^  bc^  to  use  the 

bow  betimes. 
Tnll.   "T  is  early  practice  on^  makes 

the  master. 
Hsnwia.  Aht    Would  to  Heaven  they 

never  learned  the  artt 
Tell.  But  tbey  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. 
Hxnwia.  AlasI    AlasI    And  they  wiU 

never  rest 
C<Kitentedly  at  home. 

Tbll.   No  more  can  II 
I  was  not  framed  by  nature  for  a  shepherd. 


My.restlesB  qtirit  ever  yeaius  for  change; 
I  only  feel  the  flush  and  joy  of  life 
If  I  oan  start  fresh  quany  every  day. 
Hanwio.  Heedless  the  while  of  aO  your 
wife's  alarms, 
Ab  she  sits  watching  through  Icog  hours  at 

For  my  aoul  sinks  with  terror  at  the  talea 
The  servants  tell  about  the  risks  you  ran. 
Whene'a  we  part,  my  tr^nbling  heart 

forebodee 
That  you  will  ne'er  come  back  to  me  again. 
I  see  you  cm  the  froiec  mountain  steeps, 
Missing,  perchanoe,  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  heoid  — 
The  treacherous  ice  give  way,  and  you  sink 

Entombed  alive  within  its  hideous  gulf. 
Ahl    In  a  hundred  varying  forms  does 

death 
PiBBUe  the  Alpine  huntsman  on  his  course. 
That  way  ot  Ute  can  eurdy  ne'er  be  blessed 
Where  life  and  limb  are  periled  evwy  hour. 
Toll.  The  man  that  beats  a  quick  and 
steady  eye. 
And  trusts  in  God,  and  his  own  lusty  thew^ 
Paseee,  with  scarce  a  scar,  through  evoy 

danger. 
The  mountain  caimot  awe  the  mountain 
child. 

[Hoping  firtiehed   hie  work,   he 
lay*  aeide  hie  tool».\ 
And  now,  methinks,  the  door  will  hold 

awhile  — 
Axe  in  the  house  <rft  saves  the  carpenter. 
[Takee  kit  cap.] 
Honwia.  WhiUier  away? 
Tell.  To  Altdorf,  to  your  father. 
HsDWio.  You  have  some  dangeroua  Of 
terpriae  in  view? 
Confess! 
Tim,.  Why  think  you  soT 
Hedwio.  Some  scheme's  an  foot 
Against  the  Govonors.  Tha«  waa  a  Kat 
Hdd  on  the  Rootli  —  that  I  know  —  and 

you 
Are  one  of  the  confederal,  I'm  sure. 
Telj..  I  was  not  there.    Yet  will  I  not 
hold  back, 


WILLIAM  TELL 


667 


Whntf'or  my  caaaUy  oaQa  me  to  her  aid. 
Hbdwiq.  Wherever  danger  is  vill  you 
be  placed. 
On  you,  OS  ever,  will  the  burden  fall. 
Till.  Each  man  shall  have  the  poet 

that  fits  his  powers. 
Hkdwio.  You    took  —  aye,    'mid    the 
thickest  of  the  storm  — 
like  man  of  Untcrwald  acroaa  the  lake. 
T  ia  narvel  you  escaped.    Had  you  no 

thought 
Of  wife  and  ehildrai,  thenT 
Tbll.  D«&r  wife,  I  had; 
And  thenfore  saved  the  father  for  hia 

HsDWia.  To  brave  the  lake  in  all  its 
wrathi  T  was  not 
To  put  your  trust  in  God!  'T  was  tempt- 
ing Qim. 

TsLL.  Little  will  he  that's  overcautious 
da 

HuDWta.  Yes,  you've  a  kind  and  help- 
ing 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  I 
[Takea  up  kia  crossboui  and  amnea.] 

Hznwia.  Why  take  your  ctos^miw  with 
you?  leftve  it  here. 

TxLL.  I  want  my  right  hand,  when  1 
want  my  bow. 

[Tlie  boyi  retwrt.] 
Wauteb.  Where,  father,  are  you  going? 
Tbll.  To  grand-dad,  boy  — 
To  Altdorf.  Will  you  go? 
Wauthb.  Aye,  that  I  will! 
Hbdwio.  lieViceroy's  there  just  now. 

Go  not  to  Altdorf  I 
TsLL.  He  leaves  to-day. 
Hbdwig.  Tben  let  him  first  be  gone, 
Cross  not  his  path  —  You  know  he  beais 
us  gni<^. 
Tell.  Hia  iU-will  cannot  greatly  injure 

I  do  what's  right,  and  care  for  no  man's 

hate. 
Hxnwia.  'Tie  those  who  do  what's 

right  whom  most  he  hates. 
Tbll.  Because  he  cannot  reach  them. 

Me,  I  ween, 


His  knightship  will  bo  glad  to  leave  in 
peace. 

Hbdwio.  Ayel  —  Are  you  sure  ctf  that? 

TeUj,  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,  whtte 

Impcesible  to  step  on  either  side  — 
For  high  above  rose,  like  a  giant  wall. 
The  precipice's  side,  and  far  below 
The  Bhechen    thundered   o'er  its  rift«d 
bed  — 

[The  boj/9  preat  Unoard  him,  lode- 
tag  upon  him  wiik  excittd 
eurionfy.) 
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 

And  knew  the  man  he  had  severely  fined 
On  some  most  trivial  ground,  not  long 

And  saw  me,  with  my  sturdy  bow  in  hand, 
Come  striding  toward  him,  hia  cheek  grew 

pale. 
His  kneee  refused  their  cffioe,  and  1  thought 
He  would  have  sunk  against  the  mountain-  . 

Thm,  toudied  with  pity  fat  him,  I  ad- 
vanced 
Respectfully,  and  said,  "  T  is  I,  my  lord." 
But  ne'er  a  sound  oould  he  con^kd  his 

To  frame  in  answer.  Only  with  his  hand 
He  beckoned  me  in  silence  to  proceed. 
So  I  paaeed  on,  and  sent  bis  train  to  seek 

Hbdwio.  He    tmnbled,    then,    before 

you?  Woe  the  while 
You  saw  his  weakneeet    That  he'll  ne'er 

forgive. 
TkUi.  I  shun  him,  tho^ore,  and  he'll 

not  seek  me. 


Tbll.  What  do  you  >f eaiT 
HsDwiQ.  I  am  uneasy.  Stayl 
Tell.  Why  thus  distrees  yourself  wiUt> 
out  a  cause? 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


WatwiQ.  Bectuiae  there  is  no  cause. 

Tell,  Telll  Stay  here! 
TxLL.  Dear  vHe,  I  gave  my  promiBe  I 

would  go. 
Hbowio.   Muat  youT  —  Then  go.  But 

leave  the  boys  with  me. 
Wai/txb.  No,  motha,  dear,  I  go  with 

feXbet,  I. 
HiDwia.  How,  Walterl  Will  you  leave 

your  mother,  then? 
Wadteb.  I'll  bring  you  pretty  things 

from  grandpapa. 

[BxU  vUh  hit  father.] 
WiLUUi.  Mother,  I'll  Btay  with  you! 
Hkdwio  [embraeing  him\.  Yes,  yeel  thou 

My  own  dear  child.  Thou 'rt  all  that's  left 

[She  goet  to  Oie  gate  o/  the  emirt  and 
iaokt  anximuiy  a^ter  Tcu.  aruf 
her  son  /or  a  omnderable  time.] 

BcKtn  11:  A  retired  ptirt  of  the  forett  — 
brookt  daakuig  in  tpray  over  Ote  rochi. 

Enter  Bebtha  in  a  hmtting-drae.    Imme- 
diately afteneard  Rodenz.] 

Bbbtha.  He  follows  me.  Now,  then,  to 

speak  my  mindl 

RuDXNE   [entering   haetii]/].     At   length, 

dear  lady,  we  have  met  alone 

In  this  wild  deU;  with  rocks  on  every  side, 

No  jealous  eye  can  watch  our  interview. 

Now,  let  my  heart  throw  off  this  weary 

BxRTBA.    But  are  you  sure  they  will  not 

follow  usT 
RuDEME.  See,  yonder  goes  the  chssel 

Now,  then,  or  never! 
I  must  avail  me  of  this  precious  chance  — 
MuBt  hear  my  doom  decided  by  thy  lips, 
Though  it  should  part  me  from  liiy  side 

forever. 
Oh,  do  not  arm  that  gentle  face  of  tiiine 
With  looks  BO  stem  and  hanht    Whd~ 

That  dare  aspire  so  high,  as  unto  theeT 
Fame  hath  not  stamped  me  yet;  nor  may 

I  take 
My  place  amid  the    courtly  throi^  of 

knighta, 


That,  crowned  with  glory's  hister,  woo  U^ 

smiles. 
Nothing  have  I  to  oBei,  but  a  beart 
That  overflows  with  truth  and  love  for 

Bbbtha  [alemly  and  %Biih  aeaerit]/].   And 

dare  you  speak  to  me  of  k>ve  —  <d 

truth? 
You,  that  are  faithless  to  your  nearevt  tiest 
You,  that  are  Austria's  slave  —  bartend 

and  sold 
To  her  —  an  alien,  and  your  country's 

tyrant! 
RuDBNZ.  Howl     This   reproach    bxBn 

theel  Whom  do  I  seek. 
On  Austria's  side,  my  own  beloved,  but 

thee? 
Bbbtha.  Think  you  to  find  me  in  the 

traitor's  ranks? 
Now,  as  I  live,  I'd  rather  give  my  hand 
To  Oessler's  self,  all  despot  Ihou^  he  be. 
Than  to  the  Switser  who  foi^ets  his  birth. 
And  stoops  to  be  a  tyrant's  servile  tool. 
RUDENK.  0  Heaven,  what  worda  are 

these? 
Bbbtha,  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  innocmce. 
And  vindicate  the  rights  of  the  opprened? 
My  very  soul  bleeds  for  your  oountrynaen. 
I  suffer  with  them,  for  I  needs  murt  love 

They  ore  so  gentle,  yet  so  full  of  power; 
They  draw  my  whole  heart  to  them.  Evoy 

day 
I  look  upon  them  with  increased  esteem. 
But  you,  whom  nature  and  your  kni^tly 

Have   ^ven  them  as  their  natural  pro- 
tector. 
Yet  who  desert  them  and  abet  their  foes 
In  forging  shackles  for  your  native  land. 
You  —  you  incense  and  wound  me  to  the 

It  tries  me  to  the  utmost  not  to  hate  you. 

RuDENZ.  Is  not  my  country's  welfare 
all  my  wish? 
What  seek  I  for  her,  but  to  purchase  peaet 
'Neath  Austria's  potent  scepterT 

Bbbtha.   Boudage,  rather  I 


WILUAM  TELL 


You  would  driv«  Fi«edom  from  the  last 

stronghold 
That  yet  remaiiiB  for  h«r  upon  the  earib. 
The  people  know  their  own  true  intereata  ' 

better: 
Their  aimide  DBturai  are  not  warped  by 

show. 
But  round  your  head  a  tangling  net  is 

wound. 
RcDBNE.  Bertha,  you  hate  me  —  you 

despiw  met 
Bbbtha.  Nayl 
And  if  I  did,  't  were  better  for  my  peac«. 
But  to  see  hi"'  despised  and  despicable  — 
The  man  whom  one  might  love  — 

RusBNE.  Ob,  Berthal  You 
Show  me  the  pinnacle  of  heavenly  bliaa, 
Then,  in  a  moment,  hurl  me  to  despair  I 
fiun^u.  No,  nol   The  noble  is  not  all 

extinct 
Witliiii  you.    It  but  slumbers  —  I  will 

rouse  it. 
It  must  hare  cost  you  many  a  fiery  strug- 
gle 
To  oruah  the  virtues  of  your  race  within 

you. 
But,  Heaven  be  pnised,  't  in  mightier  than 

yourself. 
And  you  are  noble  in  your  own  despite! 
RcnaNE.  You    trust   me,    then?     Oh, 

Bertha,  with  thy  love 
What  might  I  not  become! 

Bbbtsa.  fie  only  that 
For  which  jrour  own  high  nature  destined 

you. 
Pill  the  position  you  were  born  to  fill  — 
Stand  by  your  people  and  your  native 

land  — 
And  battle  for  your  sacred  rights! 

RuDBNE.  Alas! 
How  can  I  win  you  —  bow  can  you  be 

If  I  take  anns  against  the  Emperor? 
Will  not  your  potent  kinsmen  interpose, 
To  dictate  the  disposal  of  your  band? 
Bkbtha.  All  my  eatatea  lie  in  the  Forest 
Cantons; 
And  I  am  free  when  Switterland  is  free. 
RuDENE.  Oh,  what  a  prospect,  fiertha, 

hast  thou  shown  me! 
Bertha.  Hope  not  to  win  my  hand  by 
Austria's  graces 


669 

Fain  would  they  lay  their  grasp  on  my 

estates, 
To  swell  the  vast  domains  which  now  they 

bold. 
The  setfaame  lust  of  conquest,  that  would 

You  of  your  liberty,  endangers  mine. 

Oh,  friend,  I'm  marked  for  sacrifice  —  to 

be 
The  guerdon  of 
They'll  drag  i 

court, 
That    hateful    haunt    of    falsehood    and 

intr^e. 
And  marriage  bonds  J  loathe  await  me 

there. 
Love,  love  alone,  —  your  love,  —  can  res- 
cue me. 
RdSBNE.  And  thou  couldet  be  content, 

love,  to  live  here; 
In  my  own  native  land  to  be  my  own? 
Oh,  Bertha,  all  the  yearnings  of  my  aoul 
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  lore. 
But  if  in  this  calm  vale  thou  canst  abide 
With  me,  and  bid  earth's  pomps  and  pride 

Then  is  the  goal  of  my  ambition  won; 
And  the  rough  tide  of  the  tempestuous 

May  dash  and  rave  around  these  firm-eet 
hills! 

No  wandering  wishes  more  have  I  to  send 

Forth  to  the  busy  scene  that  stirs  beyond. 

Then  may  these  rocks,  that  girdle  us,  ex- 
tend 

Their  giant  walls  impenetrably  round. 

And  this  sequestered,  happy  vale  alone 

Look  up  to  heaven,  and  be  my  paradise! 
Bbrtha.  Now,  art  tiiou  all  my  fancy 
dreamed  of  thee. 

My  trust  has  not  been  given  to  thee  in  vain. 
RuoEiw.  Away,  ye  idle  phantoms  of  my 
folly; 

In  mine  own  home  I  'U  find  my  happineea. 

Here,  where  the  gladsome  boy  to  manhood 
grew. 

Where  evoy  brook,  and  tree,  and  moin^ 
tain  peak, 


.  Google 


670 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Teems  with  remeiubranceB  of  hiqipr  houre, 
In  mine  own  native  land  tbou  wilt  be  mine. 
Ah,  I  have  ever  loved  it  well,  I  feel 
How  poor  without  it  were  all  earthly  joys. 
Bbbtha.  Where   should   we   look   for 
iiappineae  on  earth, 
If  not  in  this  dear  land  of  innocence? 
Here,  where  old  truth  hath  its  familiar 

Where  fraud  and  guile  are  atrangen,  envy 

Shall  dim  the  eparkling  fountain  of  our 

bliH, 
And  ever  bright  the  hours  ahall  over  lu 

glide. 
There  do  I  see  thee,  in  true  manly  worth. 
The  foremost  of  the  free  and  of  thy  peers. 
Revered  with  homage  pure  and  uncon- 

Mistned, 
Winding  a  power  that  kings  might  envy 

thee. 
RTn>BNz.  And   thee   I   aee,    thy   sex's 

crowning  gem, 
With  thy  sweet  woman's  grace  and  wake- 
ful love, 
Buikiing  a  heaven  for  me  within  my  home. 
And,  as  the  springtime  scatters  forth  bn 

flowers, 
Adorning  with  thy  charms  my  paUi  oS  life, 
And  spreading  joy  and  sunshine  all  around. 
Bbibtha.  And  this  it  was,  dear  friend, 

that  oauflcd  my  grief, 
To  see  thee  blast  this  life's  supremeet  bliss 
With  thine  own  hood.    Ah!    What  bad 

been  my  fate, 
Had  I  been  forced  to  follow  some  proud 

Irad, 
Scone  rutblcBS  despot,  to  his  gloomy  keep! 
Here  are  no  keeps,  here  ore  no  bastioned 

walla 
To  part  me  from  a  people  I  can  blees. 
RuDBHZ.   Yet,  bow  to  free  myself;  to 

looee  the  coils 
Which  I  have  madly  twiaed  around  my 

bead? 
Behtha.  Tear  them   asunder  with  a 

man's  resolve. 
Whate'er  ensue,  firm  by  thy  people  standi 
It  is  thy  poet  by  birth. 

[Hunftntr-honu  ore  heard  in  lAe 
dMfanM.l 
But  bark  I  The  chaael 


Farewell  —  't  is  needful  we  ebould  paxt  — 

Fight  for  thy  land;  thou  fighteet  for  thy 

One  foe  fills  all  our  souls  with  dread;  the 

Hat  makes  one  free,  emancipates  us  all. 
[Exettni  woeml^-] 

BcBtnlll-.AtneaSmnnear  AUdorf,  Trte* 
in  the  foreground.  At  the  bade  of  the  stage 
a  tap  vpon  a  pole.  The  protped  u  bounded 
by  the  Bannberg,  which  it  nrmounied  by  a 
enow-oappedmoiaiioin. 

[FaiBeeHAKDT  and  Leutbolu  on  guard.] 
FBixasHAKDT.  We  keep  our  watch  in 

vain.  ZoundsT  not  a  soul 
Will  pass  and  do  obeisance  to  the  c^. 
But  yest  rday  the  place  swarmed  like  a 

fair; 
Now  the  old  green  looks  like  a  desert, 

quite. 
Since  yonder  scarecrow  hung  upon  the  pole. 
Leothou).    Only  the  vilest  rabble  show 

themselvee     . 
And  wave  their  tattered  cape  in  mockeij 

at  ua. 
AH  honest  dtisens  would  sooner  make 
A  weary  rarcuit  over  half  the  town, 
Than  bend  their  bocks  before  our  master's 

Fbibbshabdt.  They    were   obliged    to 
pass  this  way  at  noon. 
As  they  were  coming  from  the  CotmcO 

I  counted  then  upon  a  famous  cateh, 
For  no  one  thought  of  bowing  to  the  cap. 
But  ROeselmann,  the  prieat,  was  eveo  with 

Coming  just  then  from  some  sick  man,  be 

His  stand  before  the  pole  —  lifts  up  tiw 
Host  — 

The  Sacrist,  too,  must  tinkle  with  his 
bell  — 

When  down  they  dropped  on  knee  —  my- 
self andall— 

In  reverence  to  the  Host,  but  not  the  cap. 
Leuibou).  Hark  ye,  companion,  I've 
a  shrewd  suspicion, 

Out  poet's  no  better  than  the  piUtwy. 


WILUAM  TELL 


in 


It  is  ft  burning  shame,  it  troopw  abould 
Stand  aentinel  before  an  wapty  cap. 
And  every  honest  fellow  moat  deapiae  oa. 
To  do  obeisance  to  a  cap,  tool  Faith, 
I  never  heard  an  order  so  abflurdt 

FmsBSHARDT.  Why  not,  an't  please  you, 

to  an  empty' capT 
You've  ducked,  I'm  sure,  to  many  an 

empty  sconce. 

IBtiter  HiiJ>saARD,  MechthiU),  and  Elb- 

BBTH  vilk  Iheir  eAtUren,  and  ttation 

(A«maebe«  around  the  pole.] 

LbuthoU).  And  you  are  a  time-aerving 

sneak,  that  takea 

Delight  in  bringing  honest  folks  to  harm. 

Fot  my  part,  he  that  likes  may  pass  the 

I'll  shut  my  eyes  &nd  take  no  note  of  him. 
MxcHTHiLn.  There  hangs  the  Viceroy! 

Your  obeisance,  children  I 
Elsbitb.  I  would  to  God  he'd  go,  and 
leave  his  cap  I 
The  country  would  be  none  the  worse  for  it. 
Fbissshardt  [drimng  them  away].    Out 
of  the  wayl    Confounded  jnck  of 
goesipsl 
Who  sent  for  youT  Oo,  send  your  husbands 

here, 
It  th^  have  courage  to  defy  the  order. 

[BnttT  Telii  tvith  hit  cronbow,  leading  hit 
ton  Wamtb  by  the  hand.    Thej/  ptut 
the  hai  wi^ftnit  notieing  it,  and  advance 
U)  the  front  of  the  tiage.] 
Wautbr    {pointing    to    tfts    Bannberg]. 
Father,  is't  true  that  on  the  moun- 
tain there 
The  treee,  if  wounded  with  a  hatchet, 
bleed? 
Tux.  Who  aaya  so,  boy? 
Wai/tbb.  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. 
TxLL.  lliere  is  a  charm  about  them  — 
that's  the  truth. 
Doot  tee  those  glaciers  yonder  —  t^MMe 

white  horns  — 
That  teem  to  melt  vtnj  into  the  sky? 


Waltbb.  They   ore   the   peaks   that 
thunder  so  at  ni^t. 
And  send  the  avalanches  down  upon  us. 
Tbll.  They  are;  and  Altdorf  long  ago 

Submo^ed    beneath    these    avalanches' 

weight, 
Did  not  the  ftwest  there  above  the  town 
Stand  like  a  bulwark  to  arrest  their  fall. 
Wai/isb  [after  muting  a  little].  And  ar« 

there  oountriee  with  no  mountains, 

father? 
Till.  Yea,  if  we  travel  downward  from 

our  heights. 
And  keep  descemding  where   the  rivwa 

Eo, 
We  reach  a  wide  and  level  country,  where 
Our  mountain  torrents  brawl  and  foam  no 

And  fair  large  rivers  gi'de  serenely  on. 
All  quarters  of  the  heaven  may  there  be 

scanned 
Without  impediment.     The   com  grows 

In  broad  and  lovely  fiekls,  and  all  the 

land 
la  like  a  garden  fair  to  look  upon. 
WAi/rxR.   But,  father,  tell  me,  fdiere- 
fore  haste  we  not 
Away  to  this  deUghtful  land,  instead 
Of  toiling  here,  and  struggling  as  ws  doT 
Tkll.  The  land  is  fair  and  bountiful  as 
heaven; 
But  they  who  till  it  never  may  enjoy 
The  fruits  of  what  they  sow. 

Waltee.  -  Live  th^  not  free. 
As  you  do,  on  the  land  their  fathos  left 
them? 
TsLL.  The  fiekb  are  all  the  bishop's  ix 

the  King's. 
Walotk.  But  tbey  may  freely  hunt 

among  the  woods? 
Tell.  The  game  is  all  the  monarch's  — 

bird  and  beast. 
Waltkk.    But     they,     at     least,     may 

surely  fish  the  streams? 
TxLL.  Stream,  lake,  and  sea,  all  to  the 

King  belong. 
Walteh.  Who  is  this  King,  of  whom 

they're  so  afraid? 
TniiL.  He  is  the  man  who  fostoa  and 
protects  them. 


Google 


673 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Wai;itr.  Have  they  not  courage  to  pro- 
tect themselvesT 
Tell.  The  neighbor  there  dare  not  bis 

neighbor  trust. 
Wxi/rER.  I    should    want    breathing- 
room  in  such  a  land. 
I  'd  rvthex  dwell  beneath  the  aTaJanchee. 
TnUi.  T  is  better,  cbild,  to  have  theae 
glacier  peaks 
BeEund  one'e  back,  tiaa  evil-minded  meni 
\They  are  about  to  past  on.] 
WAi/rEB.  See,  father,  see  the  cap  on 

yonder  pole  I 
Txu-  What  is  the  cap  to  usT    Come, 
let's  begone. 
[At  he  is  going,  FBraasBABDT,  pre- 
aenting  hit  pike,  tlopt  him.\ 
Fbihbshasdt.   Stood,  I  command  you, 

in  the  Emperor's  name! 
Tbll  [leinTig  tht  pike].  What  would  ye? 

Wherefore  do  j^e  stop  me  thus? 
FBiBBeHASDT.  You've  broke  the  man- 
date, and  with  ua  must  go. 
Lecteold.  You  have  not  done  obeis- 
ance to  the  cap. 
Tell.  Friend,  let  me  go. 
Fbuhbhahpt.  Away,  away  to  prison! 
'WiVTsn.  Father  to  prisoni  He^l 

[Catling  to  the  tide  scene.] 
This  way,  you  men! 
Good  people,  help!  They're  dragging  him 

[Enter  RtissELiuNN  the  PHett,  and  t  e 
Saerittan,  wiih  three  other  men.] 
Sacbibtan.  What's  here  amiM? 
RAeeiiLMAinr.  Why  do  you  seise  this 

Fbibbbbabdt.  He  is  an  enemy  of  the 

King  —  a  traitor. 
TxLL   [teizing   him   wilh   vioknce].     A 

traitor,  II 
ROsBELUAMN.  Friend,  tbou  art  wrong. 

'T  is  TeU, 
An  honest  man,  and  worthy  citicen. 

Wauter  [detcries  FObst  and  rant  up  lo 

him].   Grandfather,  help;  they  want 

to  seixe  my  father! 
FniEBBHARDT.  Awfty  to  prisoul 
FtJRST  [running  in].  Stay,  I  offer  bail.  — 
for  God's  sake,  Tdl,  what  is  the  matter 

here? 


[Enter  Mblcbthal  atui  Stacftachsk.] 
LBir^OLD.  He    has     cont«mned     tb6 

Viceroy's  Sovereign  power, 
Refusing  flatly  to  acknowledge  it. 
SrADFFACHEa.  Has  Tell  done  this? 
Mblcbtbal.   Villain,    you    know     't  w 

falMl 
LaumoLD.  He  has  not  made  obeisaaoe 

to  the  cap. 
FttitBT,  And  shall  for  this  to  prison?  -~ 

Come,  my  frieikd, 
Take  my  security,  and  let  him  go. 

FBiBSSHABnT.    Keep  your  security  for 

yourself  —  you  '11  need  it. 
We  only  do  our  duty-  —  Hence  with  himi 
M&LCBTHAL  [to(A«c(mn(rvpeop(e|.  This 

is  too  bad!  Shall  we  stand  by  and 

Him  dragged  away  before  our  very  eyes? 
Sacbistak.    We     are     the     strongest. 
Friends,  endure  it  not, 
Our  countrymen  will  back  us  to  a  man. 
Fjobbbhardt.  Who    dares    resist    the 

Governor's  commands? 
Other  thrbe  Feasants  [running)  in]. 
We'llhelpyou.  What's  the  matter? 
Down  with  them! 
[Hildboabd,     MiCBTHiLn,    and 
Elsbbth  return.] 
Tbll.  Go,  go,  good  people;  I  can  he^ 

Think  you,  bad  I  a  mind  to    use  my 

strengtii, 
These  pikes  of  theire  should  daunt  me? 
Mbchthild    [U>    FsncaaHARDTl.     Only 

try- 
Try  from  our  midst  to  force  him,  if  yoa 

FtJBST  ami  Stauwacheb.  Peace,  peace, 
friends! 

Fbibbbhardt  [lowUy],  Riot!  InsurreO' 
tion,  ho!      [Huntiriif-homt  without.] 

Women.   The  Governor! 

FBiEflSHABnr  [raiting  hit  voice].  Rebel- 
lion! Mutiny! 

Stauitacheb.  Roar  till  you  burst, 
knave! 

RObseluann  and  Mblcstsal.  WTU 
you  hold  your  tongue? 

FRiBaaHABOT  [caUing  ttSl  louder].  Help, 
help,  I  say,  the  servants  of  the  lawf 


WILLIAM  TELL 


\Bnier  Gebslkr  on  korHbaek,  toith  a  faleon 
on  hit  wrUt;  RUDOLPH  deb  Harrab, 
Bkbtha,  OTid  Rtidtskz,  and  a  manenmB 
(rain  <^  armed  attendanla,  who  form  a 
cirde  qf  lancet  rotmd  the  whok  tlage.] 

Harrab.  Room  for  the  Vieen^t 
GxssLBB.  Drive  the  cIowdb  apart. 
Why  throng  the  people  thus?    Who  oalla 
for  help?  lOenend  nience.] 

Who  was  itf  I  will  know. 

[PiiiEseBABDT  Hept  fomard.] 
And  who  art  thouT 

And  why  hast  thou  this  nian  in  cuetodyT 
[Owet  his  faiam  to  an  aUendant.\ 
FBiBeaBABDT.   Dread  air,  I  am  a  sddier 
of  your  guard. 
And  stationed  sentinel  beside  the  cap. 
This  man  I  apprehended  in  the  act 
Of  pasaing  it  without  obeisance  due; 
So,  as  you  ordered,  I  arrested  him, 
Whereon  to  rescue  him  the  people  tried. 
GrssLER  [after  a  pause].    And  do  you. 
Tell,  BO  Ughtly  hold  your  Khig, 
And  me,  who  act  as  his  viceregent  here. 
That  you  refuse  obeisance  to  the  cap 
J  hung  aloft  to  test  your  loyalty? 
I  read  in  this  a  disBffect«d  spirit. 
Txu~  Pardon  me,  good  my  lordl  The 
action  qtrang 
From  inadvertence  —  not  from  disreepect. 
W««  I  discreet,  I  wra«  not  WiUiam  Tell. 
Forgive  me  now  —  I'll  not  offend  again. 
Gbbbler  Wter  a  pauae].    I  hear.  Tell, 
you're  a  master  with  the  bow  — 
From  every  rival  bear  the  palm  away. 
Wai/ter.  That's  very  truth,  air  I  At  a 
hundred  yards 
He'll  ehoot  an  apple  for  you  off  the  tree. 
Qbsslxs.   Is  that  boy  thine,  Tell? 
Tbll.  Yee,  my  gracious  lord. 
Gbssi^b.  Hast  any  more  of  them? 
Tell.   Two  boys,  my  lord. 
Gebsler.  And,  of  the  two,  which  dost 

thou  love  the  most? 
Tell.  Sir,  both  the  boys  are  dear  to  me 

aUke. 
Gbbslsb.  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  I 
But  take  this  counsel  —  look  well  to  thine 

See  that  thou  hit'at  the  apple  at  the  fitat. 
For,  shouldst  thou  miss,  thy  head  shall 
pay  the  forfeit. 

[AU  gwe  tignt  of  horror.] 
Tell.  What  moustrous  thing,  my  lord, 
is  this  you  ask? 
What,  from  the  head  <rf  mine  own  childl 

—  No,  no! 
It  cannot  be,  kind  sir;  you  meant  not 

God,  in  his  gtaoe,  forbid!  You  could  not 

A  father  seriously  to  do  that  thing  I 
Gbbsijcb.  Thou  art  to  shoot  an  apple 
from  his  headi 
I  do  desire  —  command  it  ao. 

Tell.   What,  II 
Level  my  crossbow  at  the  darKng  head 
Xif  mine  own  childT    No  —  rather  let  me 
diet 
Gebblbr.  Or  thou  must  shoot,  or  with 

thee  dies  the  boy. 
Tell.  Shall  I  become  the  murd^er  of 
my  child? 
You  have  no  children,  sir,  —  you  do  not 

know 

The  tender  throbbings  of  a  father's  heart. 

Gesslir.  How  now,  Tell,  on  a  sudden 

ao  discreet? 

I  had  been  told  thou  wert  a  visionary  — 

A  wanderer  from  the  paths  of  common 

Thou  loveat  the  marvelous.    So  have  I 

GuUed  out  for  thee  a  task  of  special  daring. 

Another  man  might  pause  and  hesitate  — 

Thou  dashest  at  it,  heart  and  soul,  at  once. 

Bertha.  Oh,  do  not  jest,  my  lord,  with 

these  poor  soulsl 
See,  bow  they  tremble,  and  how  pale  tbc^ 

look. 
So  little  used  are  they  to  hear  thee  jest 


«74 


CHIEF  EXmOPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


.  Who  teUs  thee  th&t  I  jeetT 
[Oraiping  a  branch  aboot  hU  head.] 
Here  is  ihe  apple. 
Room  there,  I  aoyl   Aiul  let  him  take  hia 

dutance  — 
Just  eighty  paces  —  as  the  custom  is  — 
Not  an  ioeb  more  or  ImsI  It  was  hia  boaat. 
That  at  a  hundred  he  could  hit  his  man.  — 
Now,  ar<^er,  to  your  taak,  and  look  you 

miasnotl 
Hab&ab.  Heavens!  This  grows  serioua. 

—  Down,  boy,  on  your  knees. 
And  b«s  the  Governor  to  spare  your  life. 
FttRST  [ande  to  Mblchtbal,  teko  can 

tearcely    rutrain    hit   indignation]. 

Command  yourself  I  —  Be  calm,   1 

heg  of  you  I 
Bkstba  [to  the  Oovemor],  Let  thie  suffice 

you,  nj!   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  offense, 
Already  haa  he  suffered  tenfold  death. 
Send  him  away  uninjured  to  his  home; 
He'n  know  thee  well  in  future;  and  this 

He  and  his  diildren's  children  will  re- 


Gebslbr.   Open  a  way  there  —  quickl' 

Why  this  delay?  — 
Thy  life  is  forfeited;  I  might  dispatch  thee, 
And  see,  I  graciously  repose  thy  fate 
Upon  the  skill  of   thine  own   practiced 

hand. — 
No  cause  has  he  to  say  his  doom  is  barsb 
Who's  made  the  master  of  his  destiny.  — 
Thou  boastest  thine  unerring  aim.    'T  is 

weUI 
Now  is  the  fitting  time  to  show  thy  skill; 
The  mark  is  worthy  and  the  prise  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. 
FtJBBT.  My   lord,   we   bow    to   your 

authority; 
But  oh,  let  justice  yield  to  mercy  herel 
Take  half  my  property,  nay,  take  it  all, 
But  spare  a  father  this  unnatural  doomi 
Wautkb.  Grandfather,  do  not  kneel  to 

that  bMl  man! 


Say,  where  am  I  to  standT  I  do  not  fear; 

My  father  strikes  the  bird  upon  the  wing; 

And  will  not  miss  now  when 't  would  barm 

hisboyi 

SriDFrACHKR.  Does  the  child's  iimo- 

cence  not  touch  your  heart? 
ROssEuiANN.  Bethink  you,  sir,  tbeov  is 
a  God  in  heaven, 
To  whom  you  must  account  for  oil  your 

Gkbblsr  [pointing  to  the  boy].  Bind  him 

to  yonder  lime  treel 
Waltbb.  Whatl  Bind  meT 
No,  I  will  not  be  boundl  I  will  be  atill  — 
Still  as  a  lamb  — nor  even  draw  mybreathi 
But  if  you  bind  me,  I  cannot  be  still. 
Then  1  shall  writhe  and  struggle  with  my 
bonds. 
Hasbas.  But  let  your  eyes  at  least  be 

bandaged,  boy! 

Wai/teb.  And  why  my  eyee?   No!   Do 

you  think  I  fear 

An  arrow  from  my  father's  hand?  Not  II 

I'll  wait  it  firmly,  nor  so  muoli  as  winki  — 

Quick,  father,  show  them  what  thy  bow 

He  doubts  thy  skill  —  he  thinks  to  ruin  us 
Shoot,  then,  and  hit,  though  but  to  spiU 
the  tyrant! 
[He  goea  to  the  Kme  tree,  and  m 
appie  ie  placed  on  hia  head.) 
MiLCBTBAL    [to    the    country    people]. 
Whatl    Is  this  outrage  to  be  pe^ 
petrated 
Before  our  very  eyes?  Where  is  our  aaihJ 
Staupfachbr.      Resist     we     cannot  I 
Weapons  we  have  none, 
Andsee  the  woodof  lanceerolmd  us!  Seel 
MnLCBTHAL.  Oh,  would  to  Heaven  that 
we  hod  struck  at  once! 
God  pardon  those  who  counseled  the  ddayl 
GnSBLKB  {lo  Tbll].    Now,  to  your  taaki 
Men  bear  not  arms  for  naught. 
To  carry  deadly  tools  is  dangerous. 
And  on  the  archer  oft  his  shaft  rectnls. 
This  right,  these  haughty  peasant  churis 


It  pleases  you  to  carry  bow  and  bolt  — 
Well,  be  it  so.  I  will  prewoibe  the  taaA. 


WILUAM  TELL 


TwiA.  [bendi  the  bow,  and  fixet  the  arrow). 

A  lone  therel  Room! 
Stauftacheb.  What,  Tell?  You  would 

You    shitke  —  yoiff    hand  'a    unsteady  — 
your  kneee  tremble. 
TxLL  [letting  the  bow  nnk  down].  There's 
something  snims  before  mine  eyeel 
WouxN.  Great  Heaven! 
Till.  Release  me  from  this  shot!  Here 
is  mjr  heartl  [rear*  open  hit  breail.\ 
Summon  your  troopers  —  let  them  strike 
medownt 
Qhsblbb.  'T  is  not  thy  life  I  want  - 
want  the  shot. 
Thy  tftlent's  univeisall    Nothing  daunts 

theel 

The  rudder  thou  canst  handle  like  the  bow  I 
No  storms  affright  thee,  when  a  life's 

stoke. 

Now,  savior,  help  thyself  —  thou  sayest 
aUI 

fTULL  tlandt  Jtarf'oUy  atpiaUd  by 
contending  emotions,  kU  hands 
mooing  amtniiewely,  and  hit  eyet 
iuminfr  oUerTutiely  to  the  Ooo- 
tmor  and  lo  heaven.  Suddenly 
he  takes  a  aeamd  arrowfrom  hit 
quiver,  and  tUekt  it  in  hit  bell. 
The  Omemor  nUee  all  he  doet.] 
WwmtK  [freneoiA  the  lime  free].    Shoot, 

father,  shoot!  Fear  not! 
Tbll.  It  must  be! 

[Ct^leetthitntelf  and  Eenela  the  bme.] 
Rm>EMz  [who  aU   the    vihiU    hat   been 
tianding  in  a  ttale  of  violent  excite- 
ment,   and    hat  mlh  difficulty  re- 
ilrained    himtdf,     advances].      My 
lord,  you  will  not  urge  this  matter 
further; 
You  win  not.   It  was  surely  but  a  t«flt. 
You've  gained  your  object.  Rigor  pushed 

Is  sure  to  miss  its  aim,  however  good. 
As  snaps  the  bow  that's  all  too  straitly 

Gksbles.    Peace,    till    your    counsel 's 

asked  for! 
RCDXNi.    I  will  speak  I 
Aye,  and  I  dare!   I  reverence  my  King; 
But  acts  like  these  must  make  his  name 
abhorred. 


^ 

He  saacUons  not  this  cruelty.  I  dare 
Avouch  the  fact.    And  you  outst^  your 

In  bft^dl'"g  thus  my  harmless  oountry- 

Gbbblbr.  Hat  Thou  grow'st  boldi  me- 

thinks! 
RuDiMz.  I  have  been  dumb 
To  all  the  oppreanons  I  was  doomed  to  see. 
I've  closed  mine  eyes  to  shut  them  from 

my  view, 
Bode  my  rd^ellious,  swelling  heart  be  stiU, 
And  pent  its  struggles  down  within  my 

But  to  be  silent  longer  yrexa  to  be 
A  traitor  to  my  King  and  country  both. 
Bektha  [catting  herieif  betireea  kim  and 
the  Governor],    Oh,  HeavensI    You 
but  exasperate  his  rage! 
RuDBNz.    My  people   I  fomook  —  re- 
nounced my  kbidred  — 
Broke  all  the  ties  of  nature,  that  I  might 
Attach  myself  to  you.  I  madly  thought 
That  I  should  beet  advance  the  general 

weal 
By  adding  sinews  to  the  Emperor's  power. 
The  scales  have  fallen  from  mine  eyea  —  I 

The  fearf^l  precipice  on  which  I  stand. 
You've  led  my  youthful  judgment  far 

astray  — 
Deceived   my   htmest   heart.  With  best 

intent, 
I  had  well-ni^  achieved  my  country's  ruin. 
GassuiR.  Audacious  boy,  this  langu^e 

to  thy  lord? 
Rm>ENE.  The  Emperor  is  my  lord,  not 

youl  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 

Which  1  respect  e'en  where  't  is  most 

abused, 
I'd  throw  my  gauntlet  down,  and  yon 

should  give 
An  answer  to  my  gage  in  knightly  sort. 
Aye,  bedcon  to  your  trooperal  Heie  I 

But  not  like  theee  Ipointing  to  the  people]  — 

unarmed.  I  have  a  sw(»d. 
And  he  that  stira  one  step  — 


.CtOoqIc 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Staitffachbr  [exdaimt].    The  a^qile's 
down  I 
[Whik  the  altmiwn  of  lAe  crowd 
hat   been   direiied   to   Ue   tpot 
where  Bebtha  had  eatt  herteif 
between  RcDXNt  and  Qssslek, 
Tell  haa  Ehel.] 
RflssEUiAMM.  The  boy's  alivel 
Many   Voicbb.   The    apple    hoe   been 
struck! 

[Wauiier  FfiBST  tlagQert  and  i» 
tAottt  to  fall.  BXBTHA  mpporU 

Gkbbler    \aaUmidied[.  How?    Haa  he 

shot?    The  inadmiml 
Bebtha.   Worthy  fatherl 
Pray  you,  compose  yourself.  The  boy's 

Waivtur  [rune  in  with  the  appZe}.  Here  is 
the  apple,  father!  Wdl  I  knew 
Vou  would  not  harm  your  boy  I 

[Tell  etandx  with  hie  body  bent 
forward,  om  if  mUU  fcUmuing  Ihe 
arrow.  Hit  bow  dropt  from  hit 
hand.  When  he  ttet  the  boy  ad- 
vaneutg.  He  baiteni  to  meet  him 
wiih  open  arme,  and  enAraeing 
him,  paetioTialely  siJtke  down 
milk  him  quUe  exhautted.  AB 
crowd  round   them   deeply  af- 

Bertha.  Oh,  ye  kind  Heavenal 
FObst  {to /atA«r  and  wn].   My  children, 

my  dear  children  I 
Stauftacbbb.  God  be  praisedl 
Ledthou).  Almighty    powersl      That 
was  a  shot,  indeed  I 
It  will  be  talked  of  to  the  end  of  time. 
Hakrab.  This  feat  of  Tell,  the  archer, 
will  be  told 
Long  as  these  mountains  stand  upon  their 
base,  l^onds  tAe  appfe  (o  GEasLEB.] 
OEasLEB.  By    Heaveni     The    apple's 
cleft  right  through  the  core. 
It  was  a  master  shot,  I  must  allow. 
lUteaBLMAMN,  The  shot  was  good.  Bui 
woe  to  him  who  drove 
The  man  to  tempt  his  God  by  such  a 
feat! 
Stautfacher.  Cheer  up,  Tell,  —  rise! 
You've  nobly  freed  yourself, 
&iid  now  may  go  in  quiet  to  your  hwue. 


ROsflELHANir.  Come,  to  the  mother  lot 
us  bear  her  taaX 

{They  are  aboui  to  lead  Mm  irf.] 
Gbbsler.  a  word.  Tell. 
Tell.  Sir,  your  pleasure? 
Gbssleb.  Thou  didst  place 
A  second  arrow  in  thy  bdt  —  nay,  nayl 
I  saw  it  well.  Thy  purpose  with  it?  Speak! 
Tell  [eorrfutedl.  It  is  a  custom  with  all 

archere,  sir. 
Gebsler.   No,  Tell,  I  cannot  let  that 
answer  pass. 
There  was  some  otho'  motive,  well  I  know. 
Frankly  and  i^eerfuUycoDfesa  the  truth: — 
Whate'er  it  be,  I  promise  thee  thy  life. 
Wherefore  the  second  arrow? 

Tell.   Well,  my  lord, 
Since  you  have  promised  not  to  take  my 

lite, 
I  will,  wiliiout  reserve,  declare  the  truth. 
[He  drawl  the  arrow  from  hie  belt, 
and  face  hie  eyee  eterrUy  tiport 


the 

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 

Gbsblbb.  Well,  Tell,  1  promised  thou 

shouldat  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  safdy 

Where  neither  aun  nor  moon  shall  readi 

thine  eyes. 
Thus  from  thy  arrows  I  shall  be  secure.  — 
Seise  on  him,  guards,  and  bind  bimi 

[Thej/  bind  him.] 
STAUFFAcaBB.  How,  my  lord  — 
How  can  you  treat  in  such  a  way  a  nian 
On  whom  God's  hand  has  plainly  been 
revealed? 
GsBSLEa.  Well,  let  us  see  if  it  will  save 


my    ship;  I'll    follaw 


Remove    him    t 

straight, 

At  KUsanacht  I  will  see  him  safely  lodged. 
RQbbbimahh.  You  dare  not  do 't.    Nor 
duiBt  the  Emperor's  self 
So  violate  our  dearest  chartered  rights. 
Gbbslek.  Where  are  they?    Has  tlit 
Emp'ror  confirmed  th«nT 


.CtOoqIc 


WILLIAM  TELL 


He  never  has.  And  onfjr  by  obedience 
May  you  that  favor  hope  to  win  from 

You  are  all  rd>ela  'gainst  the  Emp'ror's 

power  — 
And  bear  a  deQ»erate  and  rebellious  spirit. 
I  know  you  all  —  I  «ee  you  through  and 

through. 
Him  do  I  single  from  among  you  now. 
But  in  hia  guilt  you  alt  [Mrtjoipate. 
If  you  are  wise,  be  silent  and  obeyl 

[Exit,  fottovxd  by  Bebtha,  Ru:- 
DENE,  Hakkaa,  and  aiiendatda. 
Fr]IS8HABI>t   and    LEnrBOu) 

FttBsr  (in  violent  an^utsA].    All's  over 

aowl  He  is  resolved  to  bring 
Detraction  on  myself  and  all  my  house. 
STAurrACBaB  [to  TbllI.    Oh,  why  did 

you  provoke  the  tyrant's  rage? 
Thll,  Let  him  be  calm  who  feels  the 

pangs  I  felt. 
dTAUFTACBBB.  Alas!  alssl    Our  every 

hope  is  gone. 
With  you  we  all  are  fettered  and  enchained. 
CouNTBT  Pkople  [mfTOundmg  TbllJ. 
*  Our  last  remaining  comfort  goes 

with  youl 
IxoTBOiSi  [approaching  him.].  I'm  sorry 

for  you.  Tell,  but  must  obey. 
Tbli..  Farewdll 
Walitek  Tbu.  [cUnging  lo  him  in  great 

aotny].    O  fatha,  father,   father, 

dearl 
Till  fpoinHng  to  htaten].  Thy  Father  is 

on  high  —  appeal  to  Himl 
Btadppachxb.  Have  you  no  message, 

Tell,  to  send  your  wifeT 
Tbuj  [datping  Ihe  boy  pattionaltli/  to  hU 

breast].   The  boy's  uninjured;  God 


willBi 


lel 


[Tears  kimadf  middmlj/  away,  and 
foBowa  the  eoldien  t^  the  guard.] 


ACT  IV 

ScENB  I:  EoBtem  ahore  of  the  Lake  <tf 
Lucerne;  rugged  and  nngtdaTly  ehaped  rocke 
eloee  the  protpeet  to  the  vxtt.  The  lake  ia 
agitated,  violeni  roaring  and  ruehing  of  wind, 
with  tkander  and  Ughtning  at  ttUenalt 


KuNZ.  I  saw  it  with  these  eyes!    Be* 
lieve  me,  frirad, 
It  happened  all  precisely  as  I've  said. 
FisBXBiuN.  Howl  'Tell  a  prisoner,  and 
to  Ettssnacht  bcnneT    ^ 
The  best  man  in  the  land,  the  braveet  arm, 
Had  we  ior  liberty  to  strike  a  blow! 
Knm.  The  Viceroy  takes  him  up  the 
lake  in  person: 
They  were  about  to  go  on  board  as  I 
Started  from  FlUelen;  but  the  gathering 

That  drove  me  here  to  laud  bo  suddenly, 
May  well  have  hindered  them  from  aett^ 

out. 
FiBBZBMAN.  Our  Tell  in  chains,  and  in 

the  Viceroy's  power  I 
Oh,  trust  me,  Oesaler  wiU  entomb  him. 

He  nev0  more  shall  see  the  light  of  day; 
For,  Tell  once  free,  the  tyrant  well  mi^t 

dread 
The  just  revenge  of  one  so  deeply  wronged. 
KuNB.  The  old    Ijuidaniiiian,    too,  — 
Von  Attinghaus,  — 
They  say,  is  lying  at  the  point  of  death. 
FiBBBBitAN.  Then  the  last  anchor  ol 
our  hopes  gives  way  I 
He  was  the  only  man  that  dared  to  ruse  . 
His  voice  in  favor  of  the  people's  rights. 
Kdnz.  The   storm    grows    worse   and 
worse.  So,  fare  ye  welll 
I'll  go  and  seek  out  quairters  in  the  villageL 
There  's  not  a  chance  of  getting  oS  to-day. 
[Exit.] 
FisHuuiAM.  Toll  dragged  to  prison,  and 
the  Baron  dead  I 
Now,  Tyranny,  exalt  thy  braien  front  — 
Throw  every  shame  asidel   Truth's  voioa 

is  dumbi 
The  eye  that  watched  for  us,  in  darkness 

closed, 
The  arm  that  should  have  struck  thM 
down,  in  chains  I 
BOT.  'TIS  haUing  hard  — come,  let  US 
to  the  hut  I 
This  is  no  weather  to  be  out  in,  father! 
FiSBXBMAN.   Rage  on,   ye   windsl     Y% 
Hgtit.ninpi^  flash  your  fireel 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


BuTBt  ye,  BwoUeo  cloudsl  Ye  cataracts  of 

Descend,  snd  drown  the  country!  In  the 

genn 
Destroy  the  generationa  yet  unborn  I 
Ye  savage  elements,  be  lords  ot  all! 
Return,  ye  bears;  ye  ancient  wolves,  return 
To  this  nide,  howling  Taste!  The  land  is 

Who  would  live  here,  when  liberty  is  gone? 
Bor.  Hark!    How  the  wind  whistles, 
and  the  whirlpool  roars  I 
I  never  saw  a  storm  so  fierce  as  this! 
FiSBBBUAN.  To  level  at  the  head  c^  his 
own  child! 
Never  had  father  such  command  bef(»«. 
And  shall  not  Nature,  rising  in  wild  wrath, 
Revolt  against  the  deed?    I  should  not 

Though  to  the  lakes  these  rocks  should  bow 

their  heads. 
Though  yonder  pinnacles,  yon  towers  of 

That,  ainoe  creation's  davn  have  known  no 

Should,  front  thrar  lofty  summits,  melt 

Though  yonder  mountains,  yon  primeval 

cliffs. 
Should  topple  down,  and  a  new  deluge 

whelm 
Beiteath  its  Wbves  all  living  men's  abodes! 
[BeO*  heard.) 
Bor.  Hark!   They  are  tinging  on  the 
mountain,  yonder! 
They  suidy  see  some  vessel  in  distress. 
And  toll  the  bell  that  we  may  pray  for  it. 
lA»cenda  a  rock.] 
FmHERMAN.  Woe  to  the  bark  that  now 


Nor  helm  nor  steersman  here  can  aught 

The  storm  is  master.   Man  is  like  a  ball, 
Toeaed  'twixt  the  winds  and  billows.   Far 

No  haven  offers  him  its  friendly  shelt«! 
Without  one  ledge  to  grasp,  the  sheer 

smooth  rocks 
Look  down  inhospit^ly  <m  bis  deqiair, 
And  only  tender  him  tbeir  flinty  bres«ts. 


Boj  [eaUinf/ from  abooe].  Father,  a  ahqi: 

from  Flttelen  bearing  down. 
FiEHKRHAN.  Heaven    pity    the    poot 
wretches!  When  the  storm 
Is  once  entangled  in  this  strait  of  oura. 
It  rages  like  some  savage  beast  of  prey. 
Struggling  against  its  cage's  in»i  bvs! 
Howling,  it  seeks  an  outlet  —  all  in  vain; 
For  the  rocks  hedge  it  rouitd  on  every  ai^ 
Walling  thenaiTow  gorge  Bs  hi^  as  heaven. 
IHe  Momdt  a  diff.\ 
-  BoT.  It  is  the  Governor  of  Uri's  ship; 
By  its  red  poop  I  know  it,  and  the  flag. 
FisHBRUAM.  Judgments  ol  Heaven  !Ye^ 
it  is  be  himself. 
It  is  the  Govenuu'!  Yonder  he  sails. 
And  with  him  bears  the  burdeo  <A  bSo 

crimes. 
The  avenger^  arm  has  not  been  slow  to 

Now  avfa  him  he  knows  a  mistier  lofd. 
These  waves  yield  no  obedience  to  his  vtaoe. 
These  rocks  bow  not  their  heads  before  his 

ct^. 
Boy,  do  not  pray;  stay  not  the  Judge's 

arm! 
BoT.  I  pmy  not  for  the  Governor,  I 

ptay 
Per  Tell,  who  's  with  him  there  on  board 

the  ship. 
FisHBBUAN'.  Alas,  ye  blind,  unreasoning 

elements! 
Must  ye,  in  punishing  one  guilty  head. 
Destroy  the  vessel  and  the  pilot  too? 
Hot.  See,  see,  they've  cleared  the  Bug- 

gisgrat;  but  now 
The  blast,  rdaounding  from  the  Devil's 

Minster, 
Has  driven  them  back  on  the  Great  Axcn- 

berg. 
I  cannot  see  them  now. 

FiBHHBiiAN.  The  Hakmesaer 
Is  there,  that's  foundered  many  a  gaOant 

If  they  should  fail  to  double  that  with  ekSi, 
Their  bark  will  go  to  pieces  4m  the  rocks 
That  hide  their  jagged  peaks  below  the 

lake. 
The  best  of  pibts,  boy,  they  have  on  boanL 
If  man  oould  save  them,  Tell  is  just  thi 

But  he  is  manacled  both  band  aod  foot- 


WILUAM  TELL 


«79 


fStUtr  Tkll,  mlA  Mt  erosabow.  fie  enten 
prtdpilaldt/,  looke  wiidty  round,  and 
leitifiet  the  moel  irioJ«nf  agitation. 
When  he  reaehea  th»  center  of  the  »tag«, 
he  IhrotDt  himgey  upon  hit  kneet, 
ttrttehing  out  hie  hande,  firtl  Unnard  the 
«arth,  and  then  touxtrd  heaven.] 
fioT  [obeerving  lam].    See,  fatherl    A 

man  on's  knees;  who  can  it  beT 
FiBHKBUAir.  He  clutches  at  the  earth 
with  both  his  hande, 
And  looks  as  though  he  were  beside  him- 
self. 
BoT  [advaneing].  What  do  I  see?  Ccme, 

father,  come  and  look  I 
FiBHBBUAN    [approaches].     Who   is   it? 
God  in  heaven!  WhatI  Telll 
Bow  came  you  hither?  Speak,  Tell! 

BoT.  Were  you  not 
In  yonder  ship,  a  priaono-,  an4  in  chains? 
FiBHSBMAN.  Were   they   not   carrying 

you  to  KOwnacht,  Tell? 
Tbu.  [riting].  I  am  released. 
FiBRBBMAN  AND   BoT.     Released,   oh, 

miracle! 
BoT.  Whence  came  you  here? 
TliLL.  From  yonder  vessell 
FisHKBWAN.  What? 
BoT.  Where  is  the  Viceroy? 
Tau..   Drifting  on  the  waves. 
FuHKRMAM.  Is  it  possible?    But  yout 
How  are  you  here? 
How  'scaped  you  from  your  fetters  and  the 
storm? 
Tkui.  By  God's  most  gradous  provi- 
dence. Attend. 
FiSHXBHAK  AND  BoT.  Say  on,  say  on! 
Tsuj.  You  know  what  passed  at  Alt- 

dorf. 
FiBHUBMAN.  I  do  —  Bsy  ont 
Tbu..  How  I  was  seised  and  bound, 
And  ordered  by  the  Governor  to  KOse- 

FuHXRHAN.  And  how  at  Flflelen  he  aa- 
borked  with  you. 
All  this  we  know.    S^,  how  have  you 
escaped? 
Tbu..  I  lay  on  deck,  fast  bound  with 
cords,  disarmed, 
Id  utter  hopelessness.  I  did  not  think 
Affkin  to  Nee  the  gladsome  light  of  day, 


Nor  the  dear  faces  of  my  wife  and  boys. 
And    eyed    disconsolate    the    waste    of 

FiSHERHAM.  Oh,  wretched  man! 
TsLii.  Then  we  put  forth;  the  Viceroy, 
Itudolph  dtr  Hairas,  and  their  suite.  My 

And  quiver  lay  astern  beside  the  helm; 
And  just  as  we  had  reached  the  corner, 

near 
The  Little  Ax«i,  Heaven  ordained  it  so 
That  from  the  Qotthardt's  gorge,  a  hurri- 


That  every  oaisman's  heart  within  him 

sank. 
And  all  on  board  looked  for  a  watoy  grave. 
Then  heard  I  one  of  the  attendant  tnin, 
Turning  to  Gessler,  in  this  wise  accost  him: 
"You  see  our  dsj^i^,  and  your  own,  my 

lord. 
And  that  we  hover  on  the  vo^  of  deathl 
The  boatmen  there  are  powerieea  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  com' 

mon  skill: 
How  if  we  should  avail  ourselves  of  him 
In  this  ttoergenoy?  "  The  Viceroy  then 
Addressed  me  thus:  "If  thou  wilt  under 

take 
To  bring  us  throu^  this  tempest  safdy. 

Tell, 
I  might  consent  to  free  thee  from  thy 

bonds." 
I  answered. "  Yes,  my  lord;  so  he^  me  God, 
I'll  see  what  can  be  done!"   On  this  they 

The  oords  that  bound  me,  and  I  to«dc  my 

Beside  the  helm,  and  steered  as  best  I  could, 
Yet  ever  eyed  my  shooting  gear  askance, 
And  kept  a  watchful  eye  upon  the  shore, 
To  find  some  point  where  I  might  leap  to 

And  when  I  had  descried  a  shelving  crag, 

That  jutted,  smooth  atop  into  Uie  lake  — 

FisaEBiiAH.  I  know  it.   At  the  foot  of 

the  Great  Axen; 
So  steep  it  looks,   I  nevw  could  haiS 

dreamed 


68o 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


That  from  a  boat  a  man  could  leap  to  it. 
Tdll.   I  bade  the  men  to  row  with  all 

their  force 
Until  we  came  btiare  the  shelving  ledge. 
For  there,  I  said,  the  danger  will  be  past! 
Stoutly  they  pulled,  and  soon  we  neared 

the  point; 
One  prayer  to  God  f  <ff  hia  assisting  grace, 
And,  straining  tivery  muscle,  I  brought 

The  vessel's  stem  close  to  the  rocky  wall; 
Tbisa  snatching  up  my  we^rans,  with  a 

bound 
I  swung  myself  upon  the  flattened  shelf. 
And  with  my  feet  thrust  oft,  with  all  my 

The  puny  bark  into  the  watery  hell, 
'i'here  let  it  drift  about,  as  Heavett  ordainat 
Thus  am  I  here,  deUvered  from  the  might 
Of  the  dread  storm,  and  man's  more  dread- 
ful stUl. 
FiSHBRUAN.  Tell,  Tell,  the  Lord  has 
manifestly  wrought 
A  miracle  in  thy  behalf  I    I  scarce 
Can  credit  my  own  eyee.   But  tell  me,  now. 
Whither  you  purpose  to  betake  yourself? 
For  you  will  be  in  peril,  should  perchance 
The  Viceroy  escape  this  tempest  with  his 
hfe. 
Tblii.  I  heard  him  say,  as  I  lay  bound 
on  board. 
At  Brunnen  he  proposed  to  disembark. 
And,  crossing  Schwytz,  conv^  me  to  his 

FlSHGRMAM'.   Means  he  to  go  by  land? 

Tbll.  So  he  intends. 

Fisherman.  Oh,  thai  conceal  yourself 

without  delay  I 
Not  twice  will  Heaven  release  you  from 

his  grasp. 
Tbu..  Which  is  the  nearest  way  to  Arth 

and  KUssnacht? 
Fibhukman.  The  public  rood  leads  by 

the  way  of  Steinen, 
But  there's  a  nearer  road,  and  more 

That  goes  by  Lowers,  which  my  boy  ( 

show  you. 

Tell  \ffivei  turn  hU  Aond).  May  Heaven 

reward  your  kindness  I  Fare  ye  well. 

[At  he  i»  going,  he  cornea  back.] 

Did  not  yau  also  take  the  oath  at  SootU? 


I  heard  your  name,  methinks. 

FiBHEBiuN,  Yea,  I  was  there, 
And  took  the  oath  of  the  confederacy. 

Tbll.  Then  do  me  this  one  fav<»';  speed 

to  Bflrglen  — 
My  wife  is  anxious  at  my  absence  —  tefl 

That  I  am  free,  and  in  secure  concealmecL 
FiSHKRMAN.  But  whither  shall  I  toll  her 

you  have  fled? 
Tun.!.,  You'll  find  h^  father  with  her, 
and  some  more, 
Who  took  the  oath  with  you  iQKin  the 

Booth ; 
Bid    them    be  resolute,    and    strong  of 

For  Tell  is  free  and  master  of  his  arm; 
They  shall  hear  further  news  at  me  ere  kng. 
FisHxRKAN.   What  have  you,  'then,  in 

view?   Come,  tell  me  fronklyl 
Tell.  When  once  't  is  done,  *t  will  be 
in  every  mouth.  IBxiL} 

FisBXBUAN.  Show  him  the  way,  boy. 
Heaven  be  his  supp<»tl 
Wbate'er  he  hoe  resolved,  he'll  execute. 


[The  Baron  upon  a  couch  dj/tni/.    Waltxb 

FCRST,     Sl'ATIFTACHER,     MKLCHTHAL, 

avd    BAUMOAKTBif    aUendmn     rmtmi 
Mm.    Walter  Tell  kntdirm  bejttn 
the  dying  mon.) 
FtlRBT.  All  now  is  over  with  him.  He  i 

gone. 
Stautfachibr.   Heliesnotlikeonedead. 
The  feather,  see, 
Moves  on  his  lips!  Hia  sleep  is  very  eahn. 
And  cm  his  features  plays  a  placid  smile. 
{BAUuoAKTBtf  goes  lo  the  door  and 
speaks  viHh  mme  ont.\ 
PtJRerr,  Who's  there? 
Baouoarten    [relumtn;].     Tell's   wife, 
your  daughter;  she  insists 
That  she  must  speak  with  you,  and  see  bff 
boy.  [Waiter  Tell  rises.) 

FObbt.   I  who  need  comfort  —  can  1 
comforfherT 
Does  every  sorrow  oenta  on  my  head? 


WILUAM  TELL 


Hbdviq  \foreing  her  way  in].   Where  is 
my  child?  Unhand  mel  I  roust  see 

Stacftacrbs.  B«<»lm1  Reflect,  you're 

in  the  house  <rf  deathi 
Bkdwiq  1/niIino  vjxm  ha-   boy's   neck]. 

My  Walterl  Oh,  he  yet  iB  minel 
WAUrsit.  Pear  mother! 
Hbdvio.  And  is  it  surdy  so7  Art  thou 

unhurtf 

[Oating  at  kim  with  atixiouM  ien- 

And  is  it  possible  he  aimed  at  thee? 
EowoouldhedoitT  Oh,  he  has  no  heart  — 
Aitd  he  oould  wing  an  arrow  at  hia  child! 
FlJRST.  Hia  Boul  waa  racked  with  an- 
guieh  when  he  did  it. 
No  choice  was  left  him  but  to  shoot  or  die! 
HiDWiQ.  Ob,  if  he  had  a  father's  heart, 
he  would 
Have  aooner   perudied    by   a    thousand 
deaths  I 
Stauitachbr.  You  should  be  Krat«fu) 
for  God's  gracious  care. 
That  ordered  thinp  so  well. 

EIkdwio.  Can  I  forget 
What  might  have  been  the  isme?  Qod  ot 

Were  I  to  live  tot  centuries,  I  still 
Should  see  my  boy  tied  up  —  his  father's 

And  still  the  shaft  would  quiver  in  my 

Melchtbal.  You  know  not  how  the 

Viceroy  taunted  himl 
Hedwio.  Oh,  ruthless  heart  of  manl 
Offend  hiB  pride. 
And  reason  in  his  breast    forsakes    ber 

seat; 
In  his  blind  wrath  he'll  stake  upon  a  cast 
A  child's  eristence  and  a  mother's  heart! 
Bauhoabtbn.  Is  then  your  husband's 
fate  not  hard  enough. 
That  you  embitter  it  by  such  reproaches? 
Have  you  no  feeling  for  hia  sufFaringB? 
Hkowig  [turning  to  him  and  gazing  JvU 
u-pon  Aim}.    Hast  thou  tears  only 
for  thy  friend's  distress? 
Say,  where  were  you  when  he> —  my  noble 

TeU  — 
Was  bound  in  chains?    Wh«v  was  your 
friendship  them? 


The  shamrful  wrong  was  done  before  youi 

eyes; 
Patient  you  stood,  and  let  your  friend  be 


Aye,  from  your  very  hands.  Did  ever  TeU 
Act  thus  to  you?  Did  he  stand  whining  by. 
When  on  your  heels  the  Viceroy's  horsonai 

And  full  bef<»re  you  roared  the  storm- 
tossed  lake? 

Oh,  not  with  idle  tears  his  pity  showed; 

Into  the  boat  be  sprang,  forgot  his  home, 

Bia  wife,  his  children,  aikd  deUvered  thee! 
FttBST.  It  had  been  madness  to  attempt 
his  rescue, 

Unarmed,  and  few  in  numbors  as  we  were! 
Hbdwio  \oa»ting  herae^  uptm  Am  ho*om[. 
Oh,  father,  and  thou,  too,  hast  lost' 
my  Tell! 

The  country  —  all  have  lost  him!  AH 
Lunent 

His  loss;  and,  oh,  bow  he  must  pine  for  usi 

Heaven  keep  his  soul  from  ainlcing  to  d»- 
spairl 

No  friend's  consoling  voice  can  penetrate 

His  dreary  dungeon  walla.   Should  he  fall 

Ah!  In  the  vapors  of  the  murky  vault 
He  must  fall  sick.  Even  as  the  Alpine  rose 
Grows  pale  and  withen  in  the  swampy  air. 
There  is  no  life  for  him,  but  in  the  sun, 
And  in  the  breath  of  heaven's  freah-blow- 

ing  airs. 
Imprisonedl  Liberty  to  him  is  breath; 
He  cannot  live  in  the  rank  dungeon  air! 

Stattitackeb.  Pray  you  be  calm!  And 
hand  in  hand  well  all 
Combine  to  burst  his  prison  doors. 

Hedwio.  He  gone, 
What  have  you  power  to  do?   While  Tell 

There  still,  indeed,  was  hope  —  weak  in- 
nocence 
Had  still  a  friend,  and  the  oppressed  a  stay. 
Tell  saved  you  idll  You  cannot  all  com- 
bined 
Release  him  from  his  cruel  prison  bonds. 
[The  Babon  tMifces.) 
Bauuoabtxn.   Hush,  hush!  He  starts! 
ATTiMGHACBiai  {tilting  up].    Wbtffe  is 


he? 
Stauitacbbs.  Who? 


GooqIc 


683 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


AmtiaBAvess.  He  leavea  me  — 
In  tny  last  moments  he  ab&ndonB  me. 
STAUFfACHKB.  He  means  his  nephew. 

Hare  they  sent  for  him? 
FOhbt.  He    has    been    summoned.  — 
Gheerly,  sir!  Take  comfort! 
He  has  found  his  heart  at  last,  and  is  our 

Attinqhaubsn.  Say,  has  he  sp<di:en  for 

his  native  land? 
Stadttacheh.  Aye,  like  a  herol 
AiTiNaHAUBBN.    Wherefore    comee   he 
not, 
That  he  may  take  my  blessing  ere  I  die? 
I  feel  my  life  fast  cl>biiig  to  a  close. 
Stauf^achxb.  Nay,  talk  not  thus,  dear 
air!  This  last  short  sleep 
Has  much  refreshed  you,  and  your  eye  is 

ATTiNQHAtiBEN'.  Life  is  but  pain,  >uid 
that  has  left  me  now; 
My  Bu&eringB,  like  my  hopee,  have  paaeed 

away. 
[Obtenriim  the  Boy.]  What  boy  is  that? 

FOhbt.   Bless  him.   Oh,  good  my  lord! 
He  is  my  grandson,  and  is  fatherless. 

[Heowio  kneeU  with  th«  Boy  &e- 
fore  the  dying  man.] 
ATriNQHACBEN.     And     fatherless  —  I 
leave  you  all,  ^e,  all! 
Ob,  wretched  fate,  that  these  old  eyes 

should  see 
My  coimtry'a  ruin,  as  th^  dose  in  death  I 
Must  I  attun  the  utmost  verge  of  life, 
To  feel  my  hopes  go  with  me  to  the  grave? 
Stadtfachrr  [to  FIJbst].  Shall  he  de- 
part 'mid  grief  and  gloom  like  this? 
Shall  not  his  parting  moments  be  illumed 
By  hope's  inspiring  beame?  —  My  noble 

lord, 
Raise  up  your  drooping  spirit!  We  are  not 
Forsaken  quite  —  past  all  deliverance. 
Attinohausbn.  Who  eheii  dehver  you? 
FttBST.  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  ita  circling  course,  the  blow  shall 

faU. 
In  a  free  land  your  aahea  shall  repoM. 


AiTiNOHADBKN.  The  league  ooochided'. 

Is  it  rudty  «o7 
Mblchtbal.  On    one    day    shall    the 
cantons  rise  together. 
All  is  prepared  to  strike  —  and  to  this  hour 
The  secret  closely  kept,  thou^  hundreda 

The  ground  is  hollow  'neatii  the  tyrants' 

<eet; 
Their  days  of  rule  are  numbered,  asd  en 

long 
No  trace  will  of  their  hatrful  sway  be  left. 
Attinqhauskn.  Aye,  but  their  caoUes, 

how  to  master  than? 
MsucBTBAL.  On  the  same  day  they, 

too,  are  doomed  to  fall. 
AnTNOHAUBEN.  And    are    the    nobki 

parties  to  this  league? 
Stadffacher.  We  trust  to   their  as- 
sistance, should  we  need  it; 
As  yet  the  peasantry  alone  have  swckh. 
Attimghaqbsn    [raUing    himtelf  up  ut 
great  attonuhmenl].    And  have  tli» 
peasantry  dared  such  a  deed 
On  their  own  charge,  without  the  nobfea' 

Relied   so   much    on   their   own    prtq>er 

strength? 
Nay,  then,  indeed,  they  want  our  he^  no 

We  may  go  down  to  death  chewed  by  the 

thought 
That  aft«r  us  the  majesty  of  man 
Will  live,  and  be  maintained  by  other 


From  this  boy's  head,  whereon  the  apple 

lay, 
Your  new  and  better  lib^y  shall  spring^ 
The  old  is  crumbling  down  —  the  times 

are  changing  — 
And  from  the  ruins  blooms  a  fairer  life. 
STAirrrACHER  [to  FOkot).  .See,  see,  what 

splendor  streams  around  his  eye! 
This  is  not  nature's  last  expiring  flame. 
It  is  the  beam  of  renovated  life. 
ATTtNOHAUBEK.  From  their  old  towos 

the  nobles  are  descending, 
And  swearing   in    the   towns    the    ctvis 


:.L|,i,zedi!,GoOQlc 


WILUAM  TELL 


683 


In  Uechtland  and  ThujK&u  the  work's 

The  noble  Berne  lifts  her  commanding 

head, 
And  FreybuTg  is  a  Btronghold  of  the  free; 
^Hie  stirring  Zurich  calls  her  guilds  to 

aitaa — 
And  now,  beholdl  —  the  ancient  might  of 

!■  ihirered  'gainst  her  everlssting  walls. 
[He  Mpeaki  vikat  foUowi  viitk  a 

prophetic  tone;  hit  vtieranee  ri»- 

mg  into  en/Au«ia«m.] 
I  ne  tbe  princea  and  their  haught}'  peers. 
Clad  an  in  steel,  come  striding  on  to  crush 

9  shepherd  race  with  moilU 


Deap'rate  the  oonfiict;   't  is  tar  life  or 

death; 
And  many  a  pass  will  tell  to  after  years 
Of  glorious  victories  sealed  in  foemen'a 

blood. 
The  peasant  throws  himself  with  naked 

breast, 
A  willing  victim  on  their  serried  spears; 
^ley  yield  —  the  flower  of  chivalry's  cut 

And  FNedom  waves  her  conquering  ban- 
ner bi^. 

[Qrwpe    the   hand*    0/  Wai/tkr 
FOitST  tmd  Stacftacheb.] 
Hold  fast  blether,  then  —  forever  fast! 
Let  freedom's  haunts  be  one  in  hcttrt  and 

mindt 
Bet  watches  on  your  mountain  tops,  that 

May  answer  league,  when  comes  the  hour 
to  strike. 

Be  one  —  be  one  —  be  one  — 

(J7e  faUt  back  upon  the  ewhion. 
Hi*  lifelete  haruti  conlimie  to 
gratp  those  of  FCbst  and  Stavt- 
rACHBB,  mho  Ttgard  him  for  some 
momenta  in  siierux,  and  then 
retire,  overcome  witA  Borrow. 
Meanmhile  the  tervanU  have 
quietly  preseed  irU^  the  chamber, 
teitifjfing  different  degreee  of 
([rief.  Some  kneel  doum  betide 
him  and  weep  on  hit  body:  ahUe 
thie  ic«n«  u  paetinn,  the  ctutie 
baiolU.] 


Runnm  [entering  ftumedlv].    Lives  hef 

Oh,  say,  can  he  still  hear  my  voice? 
FOrst  [averlinf  hit  face].    You  are  out 

seignior  and  protector  now; 

Henceforth  this  castle  bears  another  nama. 

RuDBNE  [gazing  at  the  body  mth  deep 

emofton].  O  Godl  Is  my  repentance. 

then,  too  late? 
Could  he  not  live  some  few  brief  momoita 

mc«e, 
To  see  the  change  that  has  come  o'er  my 

heart? 
Oh,  I  was  deaf  to  hie  true  counseling  voice, 
While  yet  he  walked  on  earth.  Now  he  is 

gone  — 
Gone,    and    forever  —  leaving    me    the 

debt  — 
The    heavy    debt    I    owe   him  —  undis- 
charged! 
Ob,teUmel  Did  he  part  in  anger  with  met 
STAUTTiCHBH.  Wiien  dying,  he  was  told 

what  you  had  done. 
And  bleesed  the  valor  that  inspired  your 

words  1 
RcnzNE  [kneelirig  down  betide  the  dead 

body].    Yes,  aacred  relics  of  a  man 

beloved  I 
Thou  lifeless  corpse!    Here,  on  thy  death- 

cold  hand, 
Do  I  abjure  all  foreign  tiee  forever! 
And  to  my  country's  cause  devote  myself. 
I  am  a  Switser,  and  will  act  as  one. 
With  my  whole  heart  and  soul. 
[Sitet.]  Mourn  for  our  friend. 
Our  common  parent,  yet  be  not  dismayedt 
'T  is  not  olcKie  his  lands  that  I  inherit  — 
His  heart  —  his  spirit  —  have  devolved  on 

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  heei- 

Nor  from  me  turn  distrustfully  away. 
Accept  my  plighted  vow  —  my  knightly 
oatht 
FUrbt.  Give    him    your    hands,    my 
friends!  A  heart  like  this, 
That  sees  and  owns  its  error,  claims  our 

Mklchtbal.  You  ever  held  the  peaaan 
try  insconi. 


.Google 


684 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


What  surety  h»Te  we,  that  you  mean  us 
fair? 
RusBNZ.  Oh,  think  not  of  the  error  of 

my  youth  1 
BrAUPTACHBit  [to  Mblcsthal].  6eonel 
They  were  our  father's  latest  words. 
See  they  be  not  forgotten] 

MEuroTBAi'.  Take  my  hand  — 
A  peasant's  hand  —  and  with  it,  noble  sir. 
The  gage  and  the  assurance  of  a  mani 
Without  ua,  sir,  what  would  the  nobles 

be? 
Our  order  ia  more  ancient,  too.  than  youral 
RuDENE.  I   hontv   it  —  will   Hhield    it 

with  my  sword  I 
Melchthai.  The  arm,  my  lord,  that 
tames  the  stubborn  earth, 
AjkI  makes  its  bosom  blassom  with  increase, 
Can  also  shield  its  owner's  breast  at  need. 
RcDEMZ.  Then   you   shall    shidd   my 
breast,  and  I  will  yours, 
Thus  each  be  strengthened  by  the  other's 

strengthp 
Yet  wherefore  talk  we,  while  our  native 

Is  BtiU  to  alien  tyranny  a  prey? 
First  let  us  sweep  the  foemen  from  the  soil, 
Then  reconcile  our  difierence  in  peacel 
[AJter  a  mommt't  pau«e.]    Howl   You  are 

silentl  Not  a  word  for  mel 
And  have  1  yet  no  title  to  your  trust?  — 
llien  must  I  force  my  way,  despite  your 

will, 
Into  the  League  you  secretly  haTC  formed. 
You've  held  a  Diet  on  the  Rootli  —  I 
Know  this  —  know  all  that  was  transacted 

And  though  not  trusted  with  your  secret,  I 
Have  kept  it  closely  bke  a  sacred  pledge. 
Trust  me  —  I  never  was  my  country's  foe, 
Nor  would  I  ever  have  agfunst  you  stood  I 
Yet  you  did  wrong  —  to  put  your  rising 

off. 
Time  preasesl  We  must  strike,  and  swiftly 

tool 
Already  Tell  is  lost  through  your  delay. 
Stautfacher.   We  swore  that  we  should 

wait  tiU  Christmastide. 
Rddsmz.   I  was  not  thsre  —  I  did  not 

take  the  oath. 
If  you  delay,  I  will  not  I 
MsLCHTHAL.  What  I  You  would  — 


RiTDBNi.  I  count  Rie  now  amraig  tfaa 
country's  chiefs, 
And  my  first  duty  is  to  guard  your  righU. 
FDbst.  Your  neareet  and  your  btriicBt 
duty  is 
Within  the  earth  to  lay  these  dear  remains. 
RuDEira.  When  we  have  set  the  coun- 
try free,  we'll  plaoe 
Our  fresh  victorious  wreaths  upon  his  bitr. 
Oh,  my  dear  frioids,  't  is  not  your  mobb 

alone  1  — 
I  with  the  tyrants  have  a  cause  to  G^t, 
lliat  more  ooncemi  mysetT.   My  Bertha'a 


Stolen  from  among  us  by  their  rutSan 
handsl 
Stauffachbr.  So  fell  an  outrage  hac 
the  tyrant  dared 
Against  a  lady  free  aad  nobly  bomT 
RuDiiNZ.  Alasl  My  friends,  I  promised 
help  to  you. 
And  I  must  first  imploro  it  for  myself  1 
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  detesta? 
Forsake  me  not  I  —  Oh,  hdp  me  to  her 

rescue! 
She  loves  you!    Wdl,  oh;  well,  has  Ae 

deserved 
That  all  should  rush  to  arms  in  her  belialf  t 
STAurrACHEK.  What    course    do    you 

propose? 
RuDKNB.  Alasl  I  know  not. 
In  the  dark  mystery  that  shrouds  her 

fate  — 
In  the  dread  agony  of  this  suspense  — 
Where  I  can  grasp  at  naught  of  certainty — 
One  single  ray  of  comfort  beams  upon  m& 
From  out  the  ruins  of  the  tyrant's  poww 
Alone  can  she  be  rescued  from  the  grave. 
Their  strongholds  must  be  leveled,  every 

Ere  we  can  penetrate  her  dungeon  walls. 
Melchtbal.  Come,  lead  us  odI    We 

follow!  Why  defer 
Until  to-morrow  what  tonlay  may  do? 
Tell's  arm  was  free  whm  we  at  Rooti 

swore. 


GooqIc 


WILLIAM  TELL 


This  foul  enonnity  wm  yet  undone. 

And  chimge  of  circiimfltanc6  bringB  chanso 

of  vow; 
Who  Huch  ft  con&rd  as  to  waver  still? 
Rui>Kira[toWALTiiBFOnsT].  Meanwhile 

to  arma,  and  wait  in  readincM 
The  fiery  signal  on  the  mountain-tops  I 
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 

to., 
And  lay  the  despots  and  their  creatures 

ScBNS  III:  Tht  Pass  near  KOtmadit, 
^opirtg  down  from  behind,  viilh  rockt  on 
«ilAer  ride. 

The  Trairderi  are  visible  upon  the  heighlt, 

b^ore  they  appear  im  the  stage.    Roeki  ail 

round  the  itage.    Upon  one  of  the  foremoet 

a  projeetinfi  diff  overgrown  with  bruthieood. 

[Enter  TbiiL,  with  hit  crot*bow.] 

Tbll.  Through  this  ravine  he  needs 


^lie  ground  is  everything  I  could  desire. 
Yon  elder  bush  will  hide  me  frcnn  his  view, 
And  from  that  point  my  shaft  is  sure  to 

hit. 
The  etraitness  of  the  gorge  forbids  pursuit. 
Now,  Geasler,  balance  thine  account  with 

Heaven  I 
Thou  must  away  from  earth  —  thy  sand 

Quiet  and  harmless  was  the  life  I  led, 
My  bow  was  bent  on  forest  game  alone; 
No  thoughts  of  murder  rested  on  my  soiU. 
But  thou  hast  soared  me  from  my  dream 

of  peace; 
*nie  "'■llr  of  human  kindness  thou  bast 

turned 
To  rankling  poison  in  my  breast;  and  made 
Appalling  deeds  familiar  to  my  soul. 
He  who  oould  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  tJiy  rage! 


6S5 

When  last  1  drew  my  bow  —  with  trem- 
bling 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  ungiiiah  of  my  soul  I  vowed 
A  fearful  oath,  which  met  God's  ear  alone, 
That  when  my  bow  next  winged  an  arrow's 

flight. 
Its  aim  should  be  thy  heart.   The  vow  I 

made, 
Amid  the  hellish  tCHtnents  ot  that  moment,  ' 
I  hold  a  sacred  de^t,  and  I  will  pay  it. 
Thou  art  my  lord,  my  Emperor's  dele- 
gate; 
Yet  would  the  Emperor  not  have  stretched 

his  power 
So  far  as  thou  hast  done.  He  sent  thee  h«« 
To  deal  forth  law  —  8t«m  law  —  fn  he  is 

But  not  to  wanton  with  unbridled  wiQ 
In  every  cruelty,  with  Gendlike  joy: 
There  lives  a  God  to  punish  and  avmge. 
Come  forth,  thou  bringer  tmce  ot  hitUx 
pan^ 
My  precious  jewd  now  —  my   chiefest 


A  mark  I'll  set  thee,  which  the  cry  <rf  grief 
Could  never  penetrate  —  but  thou  ahalt 

pierce  it  — 
And  thou,  my  trusty  bowstring,  that  so  oft 
For  spmrt  has  sorved  me  faithfully  and  well, 
Desert  me  not  in  this  dread  hour  irf  need  — 
Only  be  true  this  once,  my  own  good  cord. 
That  hast  so  often  winged  the  biting  shaft: 
For  shouldst  thou  fly  succesdees  from  my 

1  have  no  second  to  send  aft«r  thee. 

'    [Trocwfers  paee  over  the  stage.] 
I '11  sit  me  down  upon  this  bench  of  stone. 
Hewn  for  the  wayworn  tiaveler's  brirf  re- 
Forbear  there  is  no  home.  Men  hurry  past 
Each  other,  with  quick  step  and  careless 

kwk, 
Nor  stay  to  question  of  their  grief.  Here 

goes 
The  merchant,  all  anxiety  —  the  pilgrim, 
With  scantly  furnished  scrip  —  tiie  pious 

The  scowling  robber,  and  the  jovial  plajee 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


For  every  road  conducta  to  the  WMld'a  end. 

They  all  push  onward- —  every  man  intent 

On   hifl   own   geveral   buBineee  —  mine   is 

murderl  [Siti  davm.] 

Time  was,  my  dearest  children,  when 

with  joy 

you  hailed  your  father's  safe  return  to 

From  his  bng  mountain  toils;  for,  when  he 

came, 
He  ever  brought  with  him  aome  little  gift — 
A  lovely  Alpine  flower  —  a  curious  bird  — 
Or  elf-bolt,  such  as  on  the  hills  tire  found. 
But  now  he  goes  in  quest  of  other  game. 
Bits  in  this  gorge,  with  murder  in  his' 

thoughts, 
And  for  his  enemy's  life-blood  lies  in  wait. 
But  BtiU  it  is  of  you  alime  he  thinks. 
Dear  children.  'T  is  to  guard  your  inno- 
cence, 
To  shield  you  from  the  tyrant's  fell  re- 
venge, 
He  hends  his  bow  to  do  a  deed  of  bloodi 

Well  —  I    am    watching   for  a    noble 
prey  — 
Does  not  the  huntsman,  with  unflinching 

Roam  for  whole  days,  when  winter  frosts 

Leap  at  the  risk  of  death  from  rock  to 

And  climb  the  jagged,  slippery  steeps,  to 

His  limbs  ore  glued  by  his  own  streaming 

blood  — 
And  all  to  hunt  a  wretched  chamois  down? 
A  far  more  precious  priie  is  now  my  aim  — 
The  heart  of  that  dire  foe  who  seeks  my 
life! 

ISprighUy  mutic  heard  in  the  dia- 
Umee,    tehieh    cornea   ffraduaUy 

From  my  first  years  of  boyhood  I  have 

used 
The  bow  —  been  practioed  in  the  archer's 

feats; 
The  bull's-eye  many  a  time  my  shafts  have 


And  many  a  goodly  prise  have  I  bron^ 

From   competitions.     But   this  day  111 

My  mastet^ot,  and  win  what's  beet  to 

In  the  whole  circuit  of  our  mountain  range. 

[A    bndol   party   pattet   over   the 

ttage,    and  goei  up   the   pan. 

Tkll  ffotet  at  it,  leaning  on  kit 

[Enter  Srussi,  the  Ranger.] 
Stussi.  There  goes  the  cloister  baiUlTa 
bridal  tnun 
Of  Mdrlischachen.  A  rich  fellow  hel 
And  has  some  half-score  pastures  rai  the 

Alps. 
He  goes  to  fetch  his  bride  from  Imisee. 
At  KOssnacht  there  will  be  high  fea«t  to 

Come  with  us  —  ev'ry  honest  man  is  asked. 
TxLL.  A  gloomy  guest  fits  not  a  wedding 

Sruasi.  If  you've  a  trouble,  dash  it  from 
your  heart! 
Take  what  Heaven  soidst  The  times  are 

heavy  now. 
And  we  must  snatch  at  pleasure  as  it  flies. 
Here  't  is  a  bridal,  thne  a  burial. 
TUiL.  And  oft  the  one  close  on  the 

other  treads. 
Stcbsi.  So  runs  the  world  we  live  in. 
Everywhere 
Mischance  befalls  and  naaery  enou^. 
In  Glanu  thwe  has  been  a  landslip,  and 
A  whole  akle  of  Uie  OUmisoh  has  falk» 
in. 
Tbu..    Howt  Do  the  very  hills  begin  to 

There  is  stability  for  naught  on  earth. 
Stussi.  Of  strange  th^igB,  too,  we  heai 
from  other  parts. 
I  spoke  with  one  but  now,  from  Baden 

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  hwse, 
So  fiercely  stung  the  beast  that  it  fell  dead, 
And  be  proceeded  to  the  court  on  foot. 
Tbll.  The  weak  are  also  fumisbed  with 


WILLIAM  TELL 


«87 


[£nfer  AKUOiRT  mlh  teeeral  ehUdren,  and 
jiaetiheftd^  at  the  entrance  oSiAepai*.\ 
SnrBBi.   'T  is  thought  to  bode  disaster  to 
the  Isnd  — 

Some  horrid  deeds  agajnat  the  course  □( 

Tbu..   Why,  every  day  brings  forth  such 
fearful  deeds; 
There  needs  no  prodigy  to  herald  them. 
Stttbbi.   Aye,  happy  be  who  tills  bis  field 

And  sits  at  home  untroubled  with  his 
kin. 
Tniii..  The  very  meekest  cannot  be  at 

tf  his  iU  neighbor  will  not  let  him  rest. 

[TsLL  Ifwks  fTequerUly  frith  niUeti 
expeelation  toward  the  top  of  Ike 
poM.] 
Srusei.  So  tare  you  well!  You're  wail> 

ing  some  one  here? 
Tbll.  I  am. 


You  are  from  Uri,  are  you  not?  His  Grace 

l?he    Gomnor    's    expected    thence    to- 
day. 
Teavblxb  lenleriTig].    Look  not  to  see 
the  Governor  to-day. 

The  streams  are  flooded  by  the  heavy 
rains, 

And  all  the  bridges  hare  been  swept  away. 

[TBLLri«».] 

Abmgakt  [coming  foruMtrd].  Geesler  not 

coming? 
Stcssi.  Want  you  aught  with  him? 
AsMaABT.  Alas,  I  do  I 
SrcsBi.  Why,  then,  thus  place  yourself 
Where  you  obstruct  his  passage  down  the 
pass? 
Abhoart.   Here  he  cannot  escape  me. 

He  must  hear  me. 
Fbibsbhardt  [coming  hattUji  down  the 
pan  aTidcaUt  uprm  the  stage].    Make 
way,   make  way!     My  lord,   the 
Governor, 
I»  dose  behind  me,  riding  down  the  pass. 
[Exit  Tbll.] 
Aruoabt  [erettedly].  The  Viceroy  comee. 
[She  goes  toward  the  poet  with  her 
ekildren.] 


IGessleb  arid  Rudolph  d 

pear  on  honebaek  at  Uie  upper  end  of 
the  pott.] 
Stubsi  [to  Priebshabdt].   How  got  ye 
through  the  stream. 
When  all  the  bridges  have  been  carried 
down? 
FniEasHARivT.  We've    fought,    friend, 
with  the  tempest  on  the  lake; 
An  Alpine  torrent's  nothing  after  that. 
Sruasi.   How!    W»«  you  out,  then,  in 

that  dreadful  storm? 
Pbiebbhabdt.  We  were!  I'll  not  forget 

it  while  I  live. 
Stcsbi.   Stay,  speak  — 
Fbixsbharot.  I   can't  —  must  to   the 
castle  haste, 
And  tell  them  that  the  Governor 's  at  hand. 
[Eai.] 
Sruast.   If  honest  men,  now,  had  beoi 
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  hunstman 
gone  with  whom  I  spoke?       [Exit.] 
[Enter  Gbsbleb  and  Rodolfh  deb  Hab- 
KAS  on  hort^iack.] 
Gbsslbk.  Say  what  you  will;  I  am  tiie 
Emperor's  liege. 
And  how  to  plesse  him  my  first  thought 

must  be. 
He  did  not  send  mehere  to  fawn  and  cringe, 
And  coax  these  boors  into  good  humor. 

No! 
Obedience  he  must  have.    The  struggle  's 

this: 
Is  King  or  peasant  to  be  sovereign  here? 
Abuqart.   Now  is  the  moment!    Now 

for  my  petition  1 
Gbssler.   'T  was  not  in  sport  that  I  set 
up  the  cap 
In    Altdoif  —  or    to    try    the    people's 

hearts  — 
AH  this  I  knew  before.  I  set  it  up 
That  they  might  learn  to  bend  those  stub- 
born necks 
They  carry  far  too  proudly;  and  I  placed 
What  well  I  knew  their  pride  could  nevM 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Full  in  the  road,  which  they  poforoe  must 

pass. 
That,  when  tbdr  eye  fell  on  it,  they  might 

Thai  lord  to  mind  whom  they  too  much 
(orget. 
Qarkab.  But   surely,   air,    the  people 

have  some  righto  — 
Obsslbb.  This  ia  no  time  to  eetUe  what 
they  are. 
Great  projects  are  at  work,  and  hatching 

The  imperial  houae  seeks  to  extend  its 

power. 
Those  vast  designs  of  conquest  which  the 

Hu  gloriously  bc^^un,  the  son  will  Kid. 
This  petty  nation  is  a  stumbling^lock  — 
One  way  or  other  it  must  be  put  down. 

[They  are  abovl  lo  pas*  em.    Abu- 
OAKT  throwt  hertelf  down  before 
Gessleb.] 
AucGABT.   Mercy,  Lord  GoTeni<»I  Oh, 

pardon,  pardon  I 
Gessleb.  Why  do  you  croBg  me  on  the 
public  road? 
Stand  back,  I  say. 

Abmqabt.  My  husband  lies  in  prison; 
My  wretched  orphans  ciy  for  bread.  Have 

pity, 

Pity,  my  lord,  upon  our  sore  distress! 
Habbas.  Who  are  youT  and  your  hus- 
band, what  is  heT 
Abuqabt.  a  poor  wild-haymap  of  the 


Kind  sir,  who  on  the  brow  of  the  abyss 
Mows  the  unownered  grass  from  craggy 

shelves, 
To  which  the  very  cattle  dare  not  climb. 
Habbab [to Gbbslbb].  By Heavenlasad 

and  pitiable  life  I 
I  pray  you  set  the  wretched  fellow  free. 
How  great  soever  may  be  his  offense, 
His  horrid  trade  is  punishment  enough. 
\To  Abuoabt.]  You  shall  have  justice.  To 

the  castle  bring 
Your  suit.  This  is  no  place  to  deal  with  it. 
Armoabt.  No,  no,  I  win  not  stir  from 

where  I  stand 
Until  your  grace  gives  me  my  husband 

back. 
Six  months  already  has  he  be^ji  shut  up, 


And  waits  the  sentence  trf  a  judge  in  vaia 
Gbbblbb.  Howl   Would  you  force  me^ 

woman?  Hence!  Begone! 
Abuoabt.  Justice,  my  lordl    Aye,  jus- 
tice! Thou  art  judge: 
Viceregoit  of  the  Emperor  —  of  Heaven. 
Then  do  tby  duty:  as  thou  hopest  fa 

justice 
EVom  Him  who  rules  above,  show  it  to  us! 
Gbulbb.  Hence!    Drive  this  insolent 

rabble  from  my  si^tl 
Abhqabt  [»eianghi»  horae'iTeina].    No, 
no,  by  Heaven,  I've  nothing  more 

Thou  etir'st  not,  Viceroy,  from  this  spot. 

Thou  do'st  me  fullest  justice!    Knit  thy 

brows. 
And  roll  thine  eyes  —  I  fear  not.  Our  dis- 

laso  extrwne,  so  boundless,  that  we  care 
No  longer  for  thine  anger. 

Gbssixb.  Woman,  hence! 
Give  way,  or  else  my  horse  shall  ride  you 

Abmgabt.  Well,  let  it!  —  thero  — 

[Throaa  her  ch&dren  and  hermiS 
upcm  the  gnrund  b^ore  him.] 
Hen  on  the  ground  I  lie, 
I  and  my  children.    Let  the  wretehed 

orphans 
Be  trodden  by  thy  horse  into  the  dust! 
It  will  not  be  the  worst  that  thou  hast  dtme. 
Haboab.  Are  you  mad,  woman? 
ABMaABT   [ayntinmng   with   vehemmce]. 
Many  a  day  thou  host 
Trampled  the  Emperor's  lands  beneaUi  thy 

feet  I 
Oh,  I  am  but  a  woman!  Woe'  I  man, 
I'd  find  some  better  thing  to  do  than  htt« 
Lie  groveling  in  the  dust! 

[The  music  qf  Ihe  bridal  jxatu  U 
oiratn  heaird  from  the  lop  qf  Uu 
pate,  but  more  toflty.] 
Gbbslbb.   Where  are  my  knaves? 
Drag  her  away,  leet  I  forget  myself. 
And  do  some  deed  I  may  repent  me  of 
Habbas.   My  lord,  the  servants  cannot 
force  their  way; 
The  pass  is  blocked  up  by  a  bridal  train. 
Gbmiab.  Too  mild  a  rultf  am  I  to  tfaic 
people; 


WILLIAM  TELL 


Their  tonguen  are  bU  too  bold  —  nor  have 

they  yet 
Been  tamed  to  due  subtniamon,  as  they 

shall  be. 
I  must  take  order  (or  the  remedy; 
I  will  subdue  this  Btubbom  mood  of  theira, 
Tbie  braggart  spirit  of  freedom  I  will  crush, 
I  win  prccl&imanew  law  through  the  land^ 
IwiU  — 

[An  anwB  pierea  Mm  —  he  putt 
kit  hand  on  hit  heart,  and  m 
about  to  rink  —  with  a  feeble 

O  God,  have  mercy  on  my  soult 

Harras.  My  lordl    My  lord!    O  God! 

What  'a  thia?  Whence  came  it? 
Abvoabt  [ttartt  up].    Dead,  dead  I    He 

reels,  he  fallsl  'T  is  in  his  hearti 
HABSJ^a  [springt  from  hie  horae],   HorrOT 
of  horrorsl    Heavenly  powers!    Sir 
Knight, 
Addrces  yourself  for  mercy  to  your  God! 
You  are  a  dying  man. 
Gbbsler.  That  shot  was  Tell'sl 

[He  elides  from  hit  horee  inio  Ike 
arms  of  Rudolph  dhb  Hab- 
KAS,  who  laj/t  him  down  upon 
tite  bench.] 
[Tell  appeart  above  vpon  Oie  rockt.] 
Trui.  Thou  know'at  the  marksman  — 
I,  and  I  alone  I 
Now  are  our  homesteads  free,  and  inno- 
cence 
From  thee  is  safe:  thou 'It  be  our  curse  no 

|TcLL(li>app«ir8.   People  nuft  in.] 
Stussi.  What  is  the  matter?    Tell  me 

what  has  happened? 
Abmgart.  The  Viceroy's  shot  —  pierced 

by  a  crossbow  boltl 
People  [running  in].    Who  has  been 
shot? 

[While  Ike  foremost  of  Ike  marriage  ^ 
party  are  comiTitf  on  the  stage, 
the  hindmost  are  tHU  vpon  the 
keighU.    The  music  eontinuet.] 
Habrab.  He'a  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. 


Stdbbi.  By  Heaven,  his  ched  is  palol 

Life's  ^bing  fast. 
MANiVoiCBe.  Who  did  the  deed? 
Harbab.  Whatl  Are  the  people  mad, 
That  they   make  music   to  a  murder? 
Silence!  — 

[Mime  breaks  off  tuddent]/.  People 
continue  to  fioek  in.] 
Speak,  if  you  can,  my  lord.   Have  you  no 

charge 
To  trust  me  with? 

[Gebslbr  makes  signs  wiith  hit 

hand,    which    he    repeals    nrilh 

vehemence  when  he  finds  they  ore 

not  understood.] 

Where  shall  I  take  you  to? 

ToKOasnacht?  Whatyousay  I  can't  make 

Oh,  do  not  grow  impatient!    Leave  all 

thought 
Of  earthly  things  and  make  your  peace  with 

[The  whok  marriage  party  gather 
round  Ike  dying  nan.\ 
Sroasi.  See  there!  How  pale  he  growsl 
Death's  gathering  now 
About  hie  heart  —  his  eyee  grow  dim  and 

Arhoart  [holds  up  a  child] .   Look,  chil- 
dren, how  a  tyrant  dies! 
Habbab.   Mad  hag! 
Have  you  no  touch  of  feeling,  that  your 

eyes 
Gloat  on  a  sif^t  so  horrible  as  this?  — 
Help  me  —  take  hold!  What,  will  not  one 

To  pull  the  torturing  arrow  from  his  breast? 
WoUBN.  Whatl  touch  the  man  whom 

God's  own  hand  has  struck  I 
Habbas.  All  curses  hght  on  you! 

[Drowa  Aw  sword.] 
Stcssi   [eeiies  his  arm].     Gently,    Sir 
Knight! 
Your  power  is  at  end.  'T  were  best  foT~ 

Our  country's  foe  has  fallen.  We  will  brook 
No  further  violence.  We  are  free  men. 
All.  The  country's  free! 
Habbab.  And  is  it  come  to  this? 
Fear  and  obedience  at  an  end  ao  soon? 

[To  the  soldiers  of  Oe  gvard  afu 
are  thronging  in.] 


.Goog[c 


$90 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


You  see,  my  fneuds,  the  bloody  piece  <rf 

work 
Has  here  been  done.  T  is  now  too  late  for 

help, 
And  to  pursue  the  murderer  were  vain. 
We've  other  things  to  think  of.    On  to 

KOwnacht, 
And  let  us  save  that  fortrem  for  the  King  I 
For  in  a  moment  such  aa  this,  all  ties 
Of  ordw,  fealty,  and  faith,  are  rent, 
And  we  can  trust  to  no  man's  loyalty. 

[A*  heitgoingoul  vrUh  the  toldiera, 
gix   Fralrei    Miaericordia   ap- 
pear.] 
Abmqart,    Here  oomes  the  brotherhood 

of  mercy.    Room  I 
Btubsi.  The  victim 's  slain,  and  now  the 

Bbothebs  of  Mercy  \form  a  lemieirde 
round  Uie  body,  and  ting  in  eolemn 

Death  hurries  oa  with  huty  stride, 
No  respite  man  from  him  may  gain; 

He  cuts  him  down,  when  life 's  full  tide 
Is  throbbing  Btrong  in  every  vein. 

Prepared  or  not  the  call  to  hear, 

He  must  before  his  Judge  appear. 


ACT  V 
ScKsa  I:  A  common  near  Atidorf.  In  the 
background  to  the  right  Ihe  keep  of  Uri,  wilk 
the  aoagM  stilt  standing,  as  tn  the  third 
scene  of  the  First  Act.  To  the  Ufl  the  view 
opent  upon  numerous  moun^aint,  on  aU  of 
which  signal  fires  are  bvrning.  Day  is  break- 
tTtg,  and  dialaTit  belis  are  heard  ringing  in 
teoeral  direction*. 

[Enter    Room,    Kuoni,    Werni,    Master 
Mason,  and  many  other  country  people, 
also  uwmen  and  children.] 
RuoDi.  See  there!  The  beacons  on  the 

mountain  heights  I 
Mason.  Hark  bow  the  bells  above  the 

forest  toll  I 
RuoDi.  The  enemy's  routed  I 
Mason.  And  the  forts  are  stormed  I 
RuoDi.  And  we  <d  Uti,  do  we  still  en- 


Upon  oUr  native  soil  the  tyrant's  keepT 
Are  we  the  Ubt  to  strike  for  libertyT 
Mason.  Shall  the  yoke  stand,  that  ma 
to  curb  our  necks? 
Up!  Tear  it  to  the  ground! 
All.  Down,  down  with  it! 
Rdodi.  Where  is  the  Stier  of  Uri? 
Ubi.  B.en.  What  would  ye? 
RuoDi.  Up  to  your  tower,  and  wind  m 
such  a  blast 
As  shall  resound  afar,  from  peak  to  peak; 
Rousing  the  echoes  of  each  glen  and  hiD, 
To  rally  swiftly  all  the  mounttun  meal 

[Exit  SnER  OP  UkL) 

[Enter  Walter  FUrst.] 
FOebt.  Stay,  stay,  my  friends!   As  yet 
we  have  not  learned 
What  has  been  done  in  Unterw&ld  and 

SchwytB. 
Let's  wait  till  we  receive  intelligence! 
Rdodi.   Wait,  wait  for  what?    The  ae- 
ouiued  tyrant's  dead, 
And  on  us  freedom's  glorious  day  has 
dawned  I 
Mason.  Howl    Are  these  flaming  sig- 
nats  not  enough. 
That  blaze  on  every  mountain-top  around? 
RuoDi.  Come  tJl,  faJl  to  —  come,  men 


1,  alii 


Deetroy  the  scafFold!    Burst  the  archest 

Down  with  the  waUs,  let  not  a  stone  re- 

Mabon.  Come,  oomradee,  come!    We 
built  it,  and  we  know 
How  beet  to  hurl  it  down. 
All.  Come!  Down  with  iti 

[They  fall  upon  Ihe  buHding  am 
every  side.] 
FttRST.  The  floodgate's  burst!  They're 
not  to  be  restrained. 

[£nfer  Melchthal  and  Baumcabtgk.I 

Melchthal.  What!  Stands  the  fortress 

still,  when  Ramen  lies 

In  ashes,  and  the  Roasberg's  in  our  hands? 

FttRST.  You,    Melchthal,    her«T    D'ye 

bring  lis  liberty? 

Are  all  the  cantons  from  our  tyrants  freed? 

Melchthal.  We've  swept  than  from 

the  soil.  Rfgoiet^  my  friend: 


WILLIAM  TELL 


Now,   at    this  very  moment,   while  we 

There's  not  one  tTrant  left  in  Switierland! 
FftBST.  How  did  you  get  the  forta  into 

your  power? 
Mklchtbal.  Rudeni  it  wu  who  by  a 
bold  aaeault 
With  manly  valor  mastered  Samen's  keep. 
The  Rosaberg  I  had  stormed  the  night 

But  hear,  what  chanced.    8carce  had  we 

driven  the  foe 
Forth  from  the  keep,  and  given  it  to  the 

That  now  roM  crackling  upward  to  the 

When  from  the  blaie  rushed  Diethelm, 

Geasler's  page. 
Exclaiming, "  Lady  Bertha  will  be  burned  I " 
FtJBBT.  Good  Heavens! 

[Tke  beama  of  the  tet^old  are  heard 
/a'ling.) 
MviiCHTBAi..   'T  was  afae  herself.    Here 
had  shebeen 
By  Gessler'i  orders  secretly  immured. 
Up  sprang  Rudeni  in  frensy.    For  even 

The  beams  and  massive  poets  were  crash- 
ing down, 
And  through  the  stifling  smoke  the  piteous 

Of  the  unhappy  lady. 

FUbst.   Is  she  saved? 

MblchtHal.  'T  was  not  a  time  to  hesi- 
tate or  pause  I 
Had  he  been  but  our  baron,  and  no  more. 
We  should  have  been  most  chary  of  our 

But  he  was  our  confederate,  and  Bertha 
Honored  the  people.  So,  without  a  thought, 
We  risked  the  worst,  and  rushed  into  the 
flames. 

FObst.  But  is  she  saved? 

Melchtbal.  She  is.  Rudenc  and  I 
Bore  her  between  us  from  the  blaiing 

pile, 
With  crashing  timbers  toppling  all  around. 
And  when  she  had  revived,  the  danger  past, 
And  raised  her  eyes  to  look  upon  the  sun, 
The  Baron  fell  upon  my  breast;  and  then 
A  silent  vow  between  us  two  was  sworn  — 
A.  TOW  that,  welded  in  yon  furnace  heat. 


Will  last  through  er'ry  shock  of  time  and 

fate. 

F0BST.  Where  is  the  Landenbei^T 

MEiiCHTHAii.  Across  the  BrOnig. 

'T  was  not  my  fault  be  bore  his  sight  away, 

He  who  had  robbed  my  father  of  his  eynl 

He  fled  —  I  followed  —  overtook  him  soon, 

And  dragged  him  to  my  father's  feet.  Tha 

Already  quivered  o'er  the  caitiff's  head. 
When  from  the  pity  of  the  blind  old  man, 
He  wrung  th^  life  which,  craven-like,  ba 

begged. 
He  swore  Urphede,  never  to  return; 
He  'U  keep  his  oath,  for  he  has  felt  our  ana. 
FftBBT.  Oh,  well  for  you,  you  have  not 
stained  with  blood 
Our  spotless  victory! 

Cbiu>bkk  {running  acrom  the  Vtagt  mih 
fra^menli   of   woodl.     We  're   freel 
We  're  freel 
FtJBBT.  Oh,  what  a  joyous  scene!  These 
children  will 
Remember  it  when  all  their  heads  aii;  gray. 
[GirU  bring  in  the  cap  upon  a  pote. 
The  whole  »tage  ie  fiUed  with 
pevple.] 
Ruoni.  Here  is  the  cap  to  which  we 

were  to  bow! 
Battuoabten.  What  ahaU  we  do  with 

ItT  Do  you  decidel 
PCBfTT.  Heavens!    'T  was  beneath  thk 

cap  my  grandson  stoodt 
Sevebaii  Voices.    Destroy  the  embkoi 
of  the  tyrant's  power! 
Let  it  be  burned! 

FttRBT.  No.   Rather  be  ptestared; 
'Twas  once  the  instrument  of  despots  — 

'T  will  of  our  freedom  be  a  lasting  sign. 

[Peatanlt,  men,  woman,  and  ehil- 
dren,  some  tUmding,  olheri  gilting 
■upon  the  beame  of  the  akaliered 
tcaffold,       oU       picluretquely 
grouped,  in  a  large  eemictrde.] 
Melchtbal.  Thus,  now,  my  friends, 
with  light  and  merry  hearts. 
We  stand  upon  the  wreck  of  tyranny; 
And  gloriously  the  work  has  been  fulfiUed, 
Which  we  at  Rootli  pledged  ourselves  to  do. 
FUBST.  No,  not  fuiaUsd.    The  work  is 
but  becun: 


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CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Courage  and  concord  firm,  we  need  them 

both; 
For,  be  assured,  the  King  will  mftke  all 

To  avenge  his  Viceroy's  death,  and  rein- 
state. 
By  force  of  anns,  the  tyrant  we've  expelled. 
Melchtb&l.  Why,  let  him  come,  with 
all  his  annunectflf 
The  foe  's  expelled  that  preesed  us  from 

within; 
The  foe  without  we  are  prepared  to  meet! 
Rdodi.  The  paseee  to  our  cantons  are 

These  with  our  bodies  we  will  block  —  we 
Willi 

Bacmoabtsn.  Knit  are  we  by  a  league 
will  ne'er  be  rent. 
And  all  hia  armies  shall  not  make  us  quail. 

[Enter  RObseuiann  and  SrADTTAcaKR.] 

ROsasLUAMN  [tpeahtTtg  at  he  enlert]. 
These  are  the  awful  judginents  c^ 
tbeLonll 

Peasant.  What  is  the  matter? 

ROssBLHANN.  In  what  times  we  livel 

FOrbt.  Say  on,  what  a't?  —  Ha,  Wer- 
ner, is  it  youT 
What  tidings?     ' 

Peasant.  What's  the  matter? 

RAsbblmann.  Hear  and  wonderl 

Stauitacher.  We  are  released  from 
one  great  cause  erf  dread. 

ROssBLUANN.    The  Emperor  is  mur- 

PObst.  Gracious  Heaveni 

[Peaianlt  H»e  up  and  throng  round 
SrAUTTACHBa.] 
All.  Murderedl  —  theEmp'ror?  What! 

The  Emp'rorl  Heart 
Melcsthal.   Impcesiblel     How    came 

you  by  the  news? 
Btahpfacheb.   'T  is  true!   Near  Bruck, 
by  the  assassin's  band. 
King  Albert  fell.  A  moot  trustworthy  man, 
John  MQUer,  from  Sdiaffhausen,  brought 
the  news. 
FtJRST.  Who  dared  commit  so  horrible 

a  deed? 
Stautfacher.  The  doer  makes  the  deed 
more  dreadful  still; 
It  wsfl  his  nephew,  his  own  brother's  son, 


Duke  Joba  d  Austria,  who  struck  the  blow, 
Mblcbtbal.  What  drove  him  to  bo  da  e 

a  parricide? 
Staotfacher.  The  Emp'ror  k(^  his 

patrimony  back. 
Despite  his  urgent  importunities; 
'T  was  said,  he  meant  to  keep  it  for  himself. 
And  with  a  miter  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  Eschtnbach, 
VoD  Tegerfeld,  Von  Wart,  and  Palm,  re- 
solved. 
Since  his  demands  for  justice  wne  dequaed, 
With  his  own  hasda  to  take  revenge  at 

least. 
FUbst.  But  s^  —  the  dreadful  deed, 

how  was  it  done? 
Stattwacheb,  llie    King    was    riding 

down  from  Stein  to  Baden. 
Upon  his  way  to  join  the  court  at  Rhon- 

feld  — 
With  him  a  train  of  high-bom  gentkoien. 
And  the  young  Princes  John  and  Lec^mU; 
And  when  they'd  reached  the  ferry  of  the 

The  nmanninn  forced  their  way  into  thf> 

boat. 
To  separate  the  Empa«r  from  his  suite. 
His  Highness  landed,  and  was  riding  on 
Across  afresh-ploughed  field— where  once, 

they  say, 
A  m^ty  city  stood  in  pagan  times . — 
With  Hapsburg's  ancient  turrets  in  eight, 
That  was  the  cradle  of  his  princely  race, 
When  Duke  John  plunged  a  dagger  in  hie 

throat. 
Palm  ran  him  through  the  body  with  his 

And  Eschenbach,  to  end  him,  clove  hii 

ekuU; 
So  down  he  sank,  all  weltering  in  his  blood. 
On  his  own  soil,  by  his  own  kinsmai  slain. 
Those  on  the  opposite  bank  bdield  the 

deed. 
But,  parted  by  tiie  stream,  could  <mly  raise 
An-unavailing  cry  tA  loud  lament. 
A  poor  old  woman,  sitting  by  the  way, 
S^sed  him,  and  on  heT  breast  he  bled  to 

death. 
Mblchisal.  Thus  has  be  dug  his  own 

untimely  gnv«. 


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WILUAM  TELL 


«91 


Who  sought  insatiably  to  graop  at  aU. 
Stauptacheb.  The  oountrjr  round  is 
filled  with  dire  alarm. 
The  passes  are  blockaded  everywhere. 
And  saitinels  on  eVry  frontier  eet; 
E'en  ancient  Zurich  barricades  her  gates. 
That  have  stood  open  for  these  thirty 

yeara. 
Dreading  the  murd'rers  and  th'  avengers 

For  cruel  Agnes  comes,   the  Hungarian 

Queen, 
By  all  her  ■bx'b  trademees  untouched, 
Amted  with  the  thunders  c^  the  ban,  to 

wreak 
Dire  vengeance  !cx  her  parent's  royal 

blood, 
On  the  whole  race  of  those  that  murdered 

Their  semnts,  children,  children's  children 

—  yea, 
Upon  the  stonee  Uiat  built  their  castle 

wallst 
Deep  hss  she  sworn  a  vow  to  immolate 
Whole  geoerations  on  her  father's  tomb. 
And  bathe  in  blood  aa  in  the  dew  t^  May. 
MxLCHTHAL.  Is  't  known  wMch  way  the 

murderers  have  fledT 
Stadttachzii.   No  sooner  had  th^  done 

the  deed  than  they 
Took   flight,   each    following    a   difFerent 

And  parted  ne'o'  to  see  each  other  more. 
Duke  John  must  still  be  wand'ring  in  the 

mountains. 
FO^ar.  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  —  ita  satiety  despair. 
Stautfachkb.  The  assassins  reap  no 

profit  by  their  crime; 
But  we  shall  phick  with  unpollut«d  hands 
The  teeming  fruits  of  thor  most  bloody 

deed. 
For  we  are  ransomed  from  our  heaviest 

fear; 
The  direst  foe  of  liberty  has  fallen. 
And  't  is  rqmrted  that  tbe  crown  will  pass 
Fr«a  H^ieburg's  house  into  another  line; 
The  Empire  is  determined  to  assert 
Its  old  prerogative  of  choice,  I  hear. 


FObbt  AMD  Sbvbral  Oisxbb.    Is  ai^ 

named? 
Btattptacheii.  The  Count  of  Luxem- 

Already  chosen  by  the  general  voice. 
FOB»r.  'T  is  well  we  stood  so  standily 
by  the  Empirel 
Now  we  may  hope  fw  justice,  and  with 

SiAHTTACHBB.  The  Emperor  will  need 

some  valiant  friends. 

He  will  'gainst  Austria's  vengeance  be  our 

shield.  [The  ■peatarUry  sTnbroM.I 

[Enter  Saciitlan  vnlh  Imperial  Mtaatngsr.} 

Sacbibtan.  Here  are  the  worthy  chi^ 

of  Switwa'landl 

R6BSELMAnN    AND     SSVBHAL    OTmiBS. 

Sacristan,  what  news? 
Sacristan.  A  courier  brings  this  lettw. 
All  [to  WAi/TEit  FCrbt].  Open  and  read 

it. 
FCasT  [reading].    "To  the  worthy  men 
Of  Uri,    Sohwyti,    and   Unterwald,    th« 

Elisabeth  sends  grace  and  all  good  wisheel'' 
Mamt  VotCBs.  What  wants  the  Que«a 

with  us7  Her  reign  is  done. 
FttBST  [reading].  "  In  the  great  ^«f  and 
doleful  widowhood, 
In  which  the  bloody  exit  of  her  lord 
Has  plunged  the  Queoi,  still  in  her  mind 

she  bears 
The  ancient  faith  and  love  of  Switierland." 
MBI.CHTHAL.  She  ne'er  did  that  in  her 

prospoity. 
RfiasBLUANN.  Huah,  let  us  hearl 
FtjBBT  [reading].    "And  she  is  well  as> 

Her  people  will  in  due  abhorrenoe  \xAA 
The  perpetrators  of  this  danmM  deed. 
On  the  three  cantons,  therefore,  she  relieei, 
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  Rud(4>b'B  n^al 

house." 
tSymp'ofns  of  dUtatiifaiction  among 
the  peataiOry.l 


«94 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAHATI?rS 


Mant  Voicaa.  The  love  and  grami 
Stauitachbk.    Grace  from  the  father 
we,  indeed,  received. 
But  what  have  we  to  boaat  of  from  the  son? 
Did  he  confirm  the  charter  of  our  freedom, 
Ab  all  preceding  Emperors  had  doneT 
Did  he  judge  righteotis  judpneot,  or  afford 
Shelter,  or  stay,  to  innocence  opprewed? 
Nay,  did  he  e'en  give  audience  to  the  men 
We  sent  to  lay  our  grievancea  before  him? 
Not  one  of  all  theae  things  did  the  King  do, 
And  had  we  not  ouraelvee  achieved  our 

By  our  own  stalwart  hands,  the  wrongs  we 

Had  never  touched  him.  Gratitude  to  him  I 
Within  these  vales  he  sowed  no  seeds  of 

that; 
He  stood  upon  an  eminence  —  he  might 
Have  beoi  a  very  father  to  his  people, 
But  all  his  urn  uid  pleasure  was  to  raise 
Himself  and  his  own  house:  and  now  may 

Whom  he  has  aggrandized  lament  for  himi 
FObst.  We  will  not  triumph  in  his  fall, 

nor  now 
Recall  to  mind  the  wrongs  that  we  endured. 
Far  be  't  from  usl    Yet,  that  we  should 

avenge 
The  sovereign's  death,  who  never  did  us 

good, 
And  hunt  down  thoee  who  ne'er  molested 

Becomes  us  not,  nor  is  our  duty.  Love 
Must  be  a  tribute  free,  and  unconstrained; 
From  all  enforced  dutiea  death  absolves, 
And  unto  him  we  owe  no  further  debt. 
MzicBTHAL.  And  if  the  Queoi  laments 
within  her  bower, 
Accusing  Heaven  in  sorrow's  wild  despair, 
Here  see  a  people,  from  its  anguish  freed. 
To  that  same  Heavea  send  up  its  thankful 

Who  would  reap  tears,  must  sow  the  seeds 

[Exit  the  Imperial  Courier.] 
Stauffacheb  \ta  the  People].  But  where 
is  Tell?    Shall  he,  our  freedom's 
foundo:, 
Alone  be  absent  from  our  festival? 
He  did  the  most  —  endured  the  worst  of 
all. 


Come  —  to  hia  dwelling  let  ua  aD  repair. 
And  bid  the  savior  of  our  oountry  baill 

[Bxeunt  omnet.] 

ScKNx  U:  ItUerior  of  Txll's  cottage.  A 
fire  bunting  on  the  hemlh.  The  open  deer 
sAotw  the  aeene  oulaide. 

[Enter  Hedwio,  Wai/tzb,  William.] 
Hedwio.   My    own    dear    boys,    your 
father  comea  ttxiay; 
He  livM,  is  free,  and  we  and  all  are  free; 
The  country  owu  ita  hberty  to  himt 
Wai/ter.  And  I,  too,  mother,  bore  my 

I  must  be  named  with  him.    My  fatber'a 

^aft 
Ran  my  life  close,  but  yet  I  never  flinched. 
HsDWia  [embracing  him].   Yen,  yee,  thou 
art  restored  to  me  agunt 
Twice  have  I  seen  thee  given  to  my  sad 

eyes. 
Twice  suffered  all  a  mother's  pan^  for 

theet 
But  this  is  past — 1  have  you  both,  bc^ya,— 

both  I 
And  your  dear  father  will  be  back  to-day. 
[A  Monk  appear*  at  the  door.] 
WiLLiAK.  See,  mother,  yimder  stands  a 
holy  friar; 
He  comes  for  alms,  no  doubt. 

Heuwio.  Go  lead  him  in. 
That  we  may  give  him  cheer,  and  malcv 

him  feel 
lliat  he  has  come  into  the  bouae  of  joy. 
[Exil  and  retumi  unmediale^  teiik 
aeup.] 
WiLLiAU  [to  the  Monk].   Come  in,  good 

man.  Mother  will  give  you  food! 
Wautvb.  Come  in  and  rest,  then  go  re- 
freshed away  I 
Monk  [glancing  round  tn  terror,  with  v^ 
quiet  look*].  Where  am  I?  In  what 
country?  Tell  me. 
Waltbb.  Howl 
Are  you  bewildered,  that  you  know  not 

You  are  at  BOrglen,  in  the  land  of  Uri, 
Just  at  the  entrance  (A  the  ShedienthaL 
Monk  [to  Hbdwio].    Are  you  aUmeF 
Your  husband,  is  he  here? 


WILUAM  TELL 


HsDWio.  I    am   expeottng  him.     But 
vhat  ftila  yaa,  man? 
There's  something  in  your  looks   that 

omens  ill! 

Whoe'«  you  be,  you  are  in  want  —  take 

that.  [Offen  him  the  cup.] 

Monk.  Howe'er  my  Hinlring  heart  m^' 

yearn  for  food, 

Naught  will  1  taste  till  you  hare  promised 

Hedwiq.  Touch    not    my    garments; 
come  not  near  me,  monki 
You  must  stand  farther  baok,  if  I  'm  to  hear 
you. 
Monk.  Oh,   by   this  hearth's  bright, 
hospitable  blase. 
By  your  dear  children's  hettds,  whjdi  I 
embrace  —  [Ortupa  tiu  Boys.] 

Hbowig.  Stand  back,  I  sayl    What  is 
your  purpose,  roan? 
Backfrommy  boyal  Youarenomonk  — 

the  robe  you  wear  peace  should 


But  peace  aUdce  not  in  such  looks  as  yoius. 
Monk.  I  am  the  wretchedest  of  living 

HzDwio.  The  heart  is  never  deaf  to 
wretchednesB ; 
But  your  look  freeies  up  my  inmost  soul. 
Walter  [springs  vp].    Mother,  here's 

fatherl 
Hedwio.  OmyGodI 

[It  eAoul  to  foBow,  tremMet  aad 

WiUJAH  [naming  after  kis  bnOker].  My 

- fatherl 
Waiotib [wif Aot4fI.  Here,hereoncemore1 
WiuJAU  [wiiKmit].  My  father,  my  dear 

fatherl 
Tell  [leUhovi].    Yes,  here  once  more! 

Where  is  your  motherj  boye? 
Wae/teb.  There  at  the  door  she  stands, 
and  can  no  further, 
She  trembles  so  with  terror  and  with  joy. 
Teix.  Ob,  Hedwig,  Hedwig,  mother  of 
my  children; 
Ood  has  been  kind  and  helpful  in  our  woes. 
No  tyrant's  hand  shall  e'er  divide  us  more. 
Hedwiq  [jMinQ  on  his  neck].   Oh,  Tell, 
what  anguish  have  I  bomc  for  tbeel 
[MffnJc  becomes  iUtentwe.] 


«95 

',  and  live  for  joy 


TbIjL.  Forget  it  n 
alonel 

I'm  here  again  with  youl  This  is  my  cotl 

I  stand  again  upon  mine  own  henrthstonet 

WtLiiiAii.  But,    father,    where 's   your 

crossbow?  Not  with  you? 
Tbll.  Thou  sholt  not  ever  see  it  more^ 
my  boy. 
Within  a  holy  ahrine  it  has  been  placed, 
And  in  the  chase  ^all  ne'er  be  used  again. 
Hedwig.  Oh,TelllTeUI 

[Steps  back,  dropping  hit  hand.] 

Tell.  WTiat  alarms  thee,  dearest  wife? 

Hedwiq.  How  —  how  dost  thou  return 

tome?  This  hand  — 

Dare  I  take  hold  ot  it?    This  hand  — O 

GodI  — 

Tell  [mth  firmness  and  animation].  Haa 

shielded  you  and  set  my  country 

Freely  I  raise  it  in  the  face  ot  Heaven. 

[Monk    gives    a    sudden   start  — 
Tell  looks  at  him.] 
Who  Is  this  friar  heret 

Hedwiq.  Ah,  I  forgot  him; 
Speak  thou  with  him;  I  shudder  at  his 
presence. 
Monk  islepping  nearer].    Are  you  the 

Tell  who  slew  the  Governor? 
Tell.  Yes,  1  am  he.    I  hide  the  faut 

Monk.  And  you  are  Tell!    Ahl    It  is 
God's  own  band. 
That  bath  conducted  me  beneath  your 
roof. 
TbUi  [examining  him  doselj/].   You  are 

no  monk.  Who  are  youT 
Monk.  You  have  slsin 
The  Governor,  who  did  you  wrong.  I,  too. 
Have  slain  a  foe,  who  robbed  me  of  my 

rights. 
He  was  no  lees  your  enemy  than  mine. 
I've  rid  the  land  of  himi 

TlfT-I-   [dratmng   back].     Ypu   are  —  oh, 
horror  1  — 
In  —  children,   children  —  in,    nitbout  a 

WOTd. 

Oo,  my  dear  wifel  Go!    Gol  -    Uvbap^ 

You  should  be  — 
Hedwig.  Heav'ns,  who  is  itl 
Tell.  Do  not  adi. 


.Ck^ti^^lc 


696 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


AwE^t  Away!  The  ohildren  miut  not  hear 

it  — 
Out  of  the  house  —  awAyl  You  must  not 

reet 
'Neath  tba  same  roof  with  this  unhaf^y 

HsDWia.  Alasl  WhatiaitT  Come. 

[Exit  with  the  children.] 

Tbix.  [to  the  Monk].  You  are  the  Duke 
Of  Austria  —  I  know  it.  You  bare  slain 
The  Emperor,  your  uitcle  and  liege  lord! 

John.  He  robbed  me  of  my  patrimony. 

Tbll.  Howl 
Slain  him  —  your  King,  your  unclel   And 

the  earth 
Btill  bears  you!  And  the  sun  still  shinee  on 
you  I 

John.  Tell,  hear  me;  are  you  — 

Tell.   Reetdng,  with  the  blood 
Of  him  that  was  your  Emperor,  your  kins- 
Dare  you  set  foot  within  my  spotless  house, 
Dare  to  an  honest  man  to  show  your  face, 
And  claim  the  ritee  of  hospitality? 

John.  I  hoped  to  find  compassion  at 
yourhaiidB. 
You  took,  like  me,  revenge  upon  your  foe! 

Tell.   Unhappy  man!    Dare  you  con- 
found the  crime 
Of  blood-imbrued  ambition  with  the  act 
Forced  on  a  father  in  mere  eelf-defenae? 
Had  you  to  shield  your  children's  Hurling 

To  guard  your  fireside's  sanctuary  —  ward 

off 
The  last,  the  direet  doom  from  all  you 

loved? 
■To  Heaven  I  raise  my  unpolluted  hands, 
To  curse  your  act  and  you  I  I  have  avengied 
That  holy  nature  which  you  have  pro- 

Ihavenopart  with  yout  You  murdered,  I 
Have  shielded  all  that  was  moet  dear  to 

John.   You  cast  me  off  to  comfortlesB 

despair  I 
Tell.  I  shrink  with  horror  while  I  talk 
with  you. 
Hence,  on  the  dread  career  you  have  be- 

gunl 
Cease  to  pollute  the  home  of  innocencel 

IJOHN  tunu  to  dejMrt.] 


John.  I  cannot  and  I  will  cot  lire  thii 


So  young,  of  such  a  noble  line,  the  gr&ndBoo 
Of  Rudolph,  once  my  Iwd  and  Empiaxr, 
An  outcast  —  murderer  —  standing  at  mj 

The  poor  man's  door  —  a  suppliant,  m 

deepairl  [Cotera  kit  fact.] 

Jobs.  If  jrou  have  power  to  weep,  oh, 

let  my  fate 

Move  your  oompaBsion  —  it  ie  horrible! 

I 'am  —  say,    rather   was  —  a  prince.  1 

Have  been  most  happy,  had  I  only  curbed 
Th*  impatience  of  my  passionate  deaira: 
But  envy  gnawed  my  heart  — I  nw  the 

youtti 
Of  mine  own  cousin  Leopold  endowed 
With  honor,  and  enriched  with  brood  do* 

The  while  myself,  of  equal  age  with  him. 
In  abject  slavish  nonage  was  kept  back. 
Tbll.  Unhappy  man,  your  unde  kneH 

you  well. 
When  from  you  land  and  subject*  he  with 

held! 
You,  by  your  mad  and  desperate  act,  have 

Bet 
A  fearful  seal  upon  his  wise  resolve. 
Where  are  the  bloody  partners  of  your 

crime? 
John.  Where'er    th'    avenging    furies 

may  have  home  them; 
I  have  not  seen  them  sinoa  the  luckless 

deed. 
Tell.  Know  you  the  Empire's  ban  is 

out  —  that  you 
Are  interdicted  to  your  friend)),  and  given 
An  outlawed  victim  to  your  enemies? 
John.  Therefore    I    shun    all    publie 

thoroughfares, 
And  venture  not  to  knock  at  any  door  — 
I  turn  my  footsteps  to  the  wilds,  acd 

through 
The  mountains  roam,  a  terror  to  myself! 
Ftom  mine  own  self  I  shrink  with  hoiroi 

back. 
If  in  a  brook  I  see  my  ill-etarred  form! 
If  you  have  pity  or  a  human  heart  — 

lFali»  dovm  btfon  kimi 


WILLIAM  TELL 


Tbll.  Stand  up,  staml  u] 
John.  Not  till  you  give 
Your  hand  in  promise  (J  « 
TuLL.  Can  I  atejet  you?   Con  a  sinful 

Yet  get  ye  up  —  bow  black  aoe'er  your 

You  are  a  man.  I,  too,  am  one.  From  Tell 
Shall  no  one  part  uncomforted.  I  will 
Do  all  that  liee  nitbin  my  power. 

John  [tpringiTig   up  and  grasping  him 
ardenily  bv  lAe  lumd].  Oh,  Tell, 
You  save  me  (Toin  the  terrors  of  despair! 
Tbll.  Let  go  my  hand!    You  must 
sway.  You  cannot 


Remain  bere  undisc 


ered,  and,  discovered 


You  catuKit  count  on  rniooor.  Which  way, 

then, 
Would  you  be  going?  Where  do  you  hc^ 

A  place  of  reet? 

John.  Alas!  I  know  not  where. 

Tkll.  Hear,  thm,  what  Heaven  unto 
my  heart  suggests. 
You  must   to   Italy  —  to  Saint   Peter's 

Tltere  cast  youraelf  at  the  Pope's  feet  — 

confess 
Your  guilt  to  him,  and  ease  your  laden  soull 
John.  Will  he  not  to  th' avengers  yield 

Txu..  Whate'er  he  does,  accept  it  aa 
from  God. 

John.  But  how  am  I  to  reach  that  un- 
known land? 
I  have  no  knowledge  of  the  way,  and  dare 

Attach  myself  to  other  travelers. 

Tbll.  I  will  deecribe  the  road,  so  mark 
me  well! 
You  must  ascend,  keeping  along  the  Reuss, 
Which  from  the  mountains  dashes  wildly 

John  [in  alarm].  Whatt  See  the  Reusst 

The  witness  of  my  deed  I 
Thll.  The  road  you  take  lies  through 
the  rivals  gorge. 
And  many  a  cross  proclaims  where  travelers 
Have  been  by  avalanches  done  to  death. 
John.   I  have  no  fear  for  nature's  ter- 

I  can  appease  the  torments  of  hqt  souL 


Tbll.  At  wescy  cross  kneel  down  and 
expiate 
Your    crime    with    burning    penitential 

And  if  you  'scape  the  perils  of  the  pass. 
And  are  not  whelmed  beneath  the  drifted 

snows, 
That  from  the  froien  peaks  come  sweeping 

You'll  reach  the  bridge  that's  drenched 

with  drissling  spray. 
Then  if  it  give  not  way  beneath  your  guilt. 
When  you  have  left  it  safely  in  your  rear, 
Beffure  you  frowns  the  gloomy  Gate  (rf 

Rocks, 
Where    never    sun    did    shme.     Proceed 

through  this. 
And  you  will  reach  a  bright  and  gladsome 

YvA  must  you  hurry  on  with  hasty  steps, 
You  must  not  linger  in  the  baunte  <rf  peace. 
Jobs.  Oh,    Rudolph,    Rudolph,    royal 
gcaodsire!  Thus 
Thy  grandson  first  sets  foot  within  thy 
realms! 
Till.  Ascending   still,    you,  gain    the 
Gotthardt's  heights. 
Where  are  the  tarns,  the  everlasting  tarns, 
Tb&t  from  the  streams  of  heaven  itself  are 

fed, 
There  to  the  German  soil  you  bid  farew^; 
And  thence,  with  sweet  descent,  another 

stream 
Leads  you  to  Italy,  your  promised  land. 
[Ram  del  Vaehee  sounded  on  Alp- 
homt  H  heard  wilhout.] 
But  I  hear  voicesi  Hencel 
Heswio  [hurrying  in].   Where  art  thou, 
TeU? 
My  father  comes,  and  in  exulting  bands 
All  the  confederates  approach. 

John  [covering  hime^.  Woe  's  mel 
I  dare  not  tarry  'mong  these  happy  meni 
TsLL.  Go,  dearest  wife,  and  give  this 
man  to  eat. 
Spare  not  your  bounty;  for  his  rood  is  long, 
And  one  where  shelter  will  be  hard  to  find. 
Quick  —  they  approach ! 
Hedwiq.  Who  is  he? 
Tell.  Do  not  ask! 
And  when  he  quits  you,  turn  your  eyat 
awtQ*, 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


698 


So  dat  they  do  Dot  see  which  way  he  goes. 
[John    adtniuxi    hattily    toward 
TsLL,  but  he  &ecfemi  htm  ande, 
and  exit.] 

Sctsm  III:  The  viholt  vaOey  btfore  Tsll'b 
houie,  Ihe  heights  which  endott  it  occupied 
by  peiuanlt,  grouped  into  tableaux.  Some 
are  geen  eroenng  a  Uffty  bridge,  which  arotaes 
the  Sheehen. 

[Vautbb  FtlRST  with  the  tiea  Boj/a,  Web- 
neb,  and  Stautfachbb,  come  forward. 
Othira  thronff  after  them.  When  Txu. 
appears,  aU,  recmee  Aim  with  loud 
ciieert.] 
Aiiio  Long  live  brave  Tdl,  our  ihield, 
our  saviorl 

[While  thaie  in  front  are  crowding 
round  Tbll,  and  embracing 
him,  RuDKNZ  and  Bxbtha  ap- 
paor.     The  forvur  aoJulM  the 


peaeantry,   &e  tatter  embraeet 

HxDWIO.    The  munc  from  Utt 

momdain*    ctmtinuw    to    jdag. 

When  U  hoe  tlopped,  BxBiSi 

etepe  into  the  center  qf  the  crowd.] 

Bkrtha.  PeoBantal  ConfederatoBl  Into 

your  league 

Receive  me,  who  waa  happily  the  first 

That  found  deliverance  ia  tiie  land  of 

freedom. 
To  your  brave  banda  I  now  entrust  mj 

rights. 
Will  you  protect  me  aa  your  citiioi? 
PsAaAMTB.  Aye,  that  we  will,  with  life 

and  goodsl 
Bebtha.  'Tiawelll 
And  now  to  him  [(umtnp  to  Rudmnz)  I 

frankly  give  my  buid  — 
A  free  Swiss  maiden  to  ai  free  Swiss  man! 
RnDBNZ.  And  from  this  momoit  aH  my 
aerfa  are  freel 

[Mv*i€,  and  the  curtain  faO*.] 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


RASMUS    MONTANUS 

By  HOLBERG 

TVamlaitdh  OSCAR  JAMES  CAMFBELL  and  FREDERIC  SCHElfCU 


ciilizedbvGoOQic 


cmizedbvCoOQlc 


CHARACTERS 

Jepte  Bxbg,  a  wetl-lo-do  peasant 
NnxB,  hie  mife 

Rabwib  Bebo,  ealied  EaASHUs  Moktands 
Uieir  elder  mm,  a  gtudent  at  t/ie  Utwermiy 
Jacob,  Ihe  younger  nm 
Jebonihub,  a  v>ealihy  freeholder 
Maqdelonk,  kia  wife 
LiSBZD,  iheir  daughter,  betrothed  to  Rasicds 
Peer,  Uu  Deaam 
Jespbb,  the  Bailiff 
A  LieuteTtani 
NniLB,  tiie  Corporal 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


RASMUS   MONTANUS 


A  viUage  ttreei  thomng  Jztpb'b  hou»e. 
[EfUer  Juppe,  vnih  a  letter  in  hU  hand.] 
Jbppb.  It  Ib  a  shame  that  the  Deacon  is 
not  m  town,  for  there's  so  much  Latin  in 
my  son's  letter  that  I  can't  understand. 
Tears  come  to  my  eyee  when  I  think  that  a 
poor  peasant's  son  has  got  so  much  book- 
learning,  especially  as  we  are  n't  tenants  of 
the  university.  I  have  heard  from  people 
who  know  about  learning  that  he  oan  dis- 
pute with  any  clergyman  alive.  Ob,  if  only 
my  wife  and  I  could  have  the  joy  of  hearing 
him  preach  on  the  hill,  before  we  die,  we 
should  n't  grudge  all  the  money  we  have 
spent  on  him]  I  can  see  that  Peer,  the  Dea- 
con, does  n't  much  relish  the  idea  of  my 
son's  coming.  I  believe  that  he  is  afraid  i^ 
Rasmus  Berg.  It  is  a  terrible  thing  about 
these  scholarly  people.  They  are  so  jealous 
of  each  other,  and  do  one  of  them  can  en- 
dure the  thought  that  another  is  aa  learned 
as  he.  The  good  man  preaches  fine  sermons 
here  in  the  village  and  can  talk  about  envy 
BO  that  the  tears  come  to  my  eyes;  but  it 
seems  to  me  that  he  is  n't  entirely  free  from 
that  fault  himself.  I  can'l  understand  why 
it  should  be  so.  If  any  one  said  that  a 
neighbor  of  mine  understood  farming  bet- 
ter than  I,  should  I  take  that  to  heart? 
Should  I  hate  my  neighbor  for  that?  No, 
indeed,  Jeppe  B^  would  never  do  bu<^  a 
thing.  But  if  here  is  n't  Peer,  the  DeaconI 

[Enter  Pekr,  the  Deaam.] 

Welcome  home  again,  Peer. 

Peer.  Thank  you,  Jeppe  Berg. 

Jepfb.  Oh,  my  dear  Peer,  I  wish  you 
could  eitplain  to  me  some  Latin  in  my  son's 
last  letter. 

Pekb.  That's  nothing!  Do  you  think  I 
don't  understand  Latin  as  well  as  youi  son? 
I  am  an  old  acadomieu*,  I  'd  have  you  know, 
Jeppe  Berg. 


JxppE.  I  know  it.  —  I  just  wondered  il 
you  understood  the  new  Latin,  for  that 
language  must  change,  just  as  the  language 
of  SjsUand  has  done.  In  my  youth  the 
people  here  on  the  hill  did  n't  talk  the  way 
they  do  now;  what  they  now  call  a  "lac- 
key" used  to  be  called  a  "boy";  what 
they  now  call  a  "mysterioat"  used  to  be 
called  a  "whore";  a  "mademoiselle,"  a 
"housemaid";  a  "musician,"  a  "fiddler"; 
and  a  "secretary,"  a  "clerk."  So  I  suppose 
Latin  may  have  changed,  too,  since  you 
were  in  Copenhagen.  [Pointing  to  a  lint  in 
the  kUer.]  Will  you-please  explain  that?  I 
oan  read  the  letters,  but  I  don't  get  the 
meaning. 

Peeb.  Your  son  writes  that  he  is  now 
studying  his  Logieam,  Rhetorieam,  and 
Metaphyeieam. 

Jefpb.  What  does  Logiaan  mean? 

PsBR.  That's  his  pulpit. 

Jepfb.  I'm^adof that.  Iwishheoould 
become  a  pastorl 

Pezb,  But  a  deacon  first. 

Jeppe.  What  is  the  second  subject? 

Peer.  That  is  Rhetorioa,  which  in  Dan- 
ish means  the  Ritual.  The  third  subjec^ 
must  be  written  wrong,  or  else  it  must  be  ir 
French,  because  if  it  were  Latin,  I  ooulc 
read  it  easily.  I  am  able,  Jeppe  Berg,  tc 
recitethewhole  Aurora:  oia,  that's  a  wing; 
onctUo,  s  girl;  barba,  a  beard;  eana,  a  cham- 
ber-pot; eereeisia,  ale;  campcma,  a  bell; 
ceUa,  a  cellar;  lagena,  a  bottle;  kma,  a  wolf; 
ancilia,  a  fprl;  jonuo,  a  door;  eeretiaa, 
butter;  — 

Jeppe.  You  must  have  the  devil's  own 
memory,  Peerl 

Peer.  Yes,  I  never  thought  I  should 
have  t«  stay  in  a  poverty-stricken  deacon's 
living  so  long,  I  could  have  been  something 
else  years  ago,  if  I  had  been  willing  t«  tie 
myself  to  a  girl.  But  I  prefer  to  help  myself 
rather  than  have  people  say  of  me  that  I 
got  a  living  through  my  wife. 

JsFFii.  But,  my  dear  Peer,  here  is  more 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Lfttin that Ic&n'tunderstuid.  Look&tthis 

Peek.  Die  Venerit  Hainia  domum  pro- 
/ecfurut sum.  Tfaat'sratberhigh-flown.but 
I  undetstuid  it  perfectly,  though  any  other 
Dun  might  cudgel  his  brains  over  it.  That 
meanB  id  Danish:  There  is  come  projteto  a 
lot  of  Rueees  to  Copenhagen. 

Jkppe.  What  are  the  Riuaians  doing 
here  again? 

Pbxr.  These  are  o't  Muscovites,  Jeppe 
Berg,  but  young  students,  who  ore  called 
"Ruaaea." 

Jkffb.  Oh,  I  see.  I  auppose  there  is  a 
great  celebration  on  the  days  when  the 
boys  get  their  salt  and  bread  and  become 
students. 

PiBEL  When  do  you  expect  him  homeT 

Jbppb.  To-day  or  to-morrow.  Wait  a 
bit,  my  dear  Peer;  I  will  run  and  teD  Nille 
to  bring  us  out  a  drink  tA  tia. 

pBBB.  I'd  rather  have  a  glass  of  brandy 
—  it's  euly  in  the  day  to  drink  ale. 

\ExU  Jeppe  irdo  Aouae.] 

To  tell  the  truth,  I  am  not  very  anxious 
to  have  Rasmus  Berg  come  home.  Not 
that  I  am  afraid  of  hie  learning,  for  I  was  an 
old  student  when  he  was  still  at  school,  get- 
ting beatings  —  saving  your  presence  —  on 
bis  rump.  They  were  different  fellows  who 
graduated  in  my  time  from  what  they  are 
now.  I  grBduat«Nl  from  SUgelse  School 
with  Peer  Monaen,  Rasmus  Jespersen, 
ChriatoD  Klim,  Mada  Hansen,  —  whom  we 
used  to  call  Mads  Pancake  in  school,  — 
Poul  Iveraen,  —  whom  we  called  Poul 
Barlycom,  —  all  boys  with  bone  in  their 
skuUs  and  beards  on  their  chins,  able  to 
argue  on  any  subject  that  might  come  up. 
I'm  only  a  deacon,  but  I'm  content  so  long 
as  I  get  my  daily  bread  and  understand  my 
office.  I  have  made  the  income  a  deal  big- 
ger, and  get  more  than  any  of  my  predeces- 
sors did ;  so  my  successors  won't  curse  me  in 
my  grave.  People  think  that  there  are  no 
fine  points  for  a  deacon  to  know,  but  I  can 
tell  you,  a  deacon's  position  is  a  hard  one  if 
you  want  to  keep  it  on  such  a  footing  that 
it  win  support  a  man.  Before  my  time 
people  here  in  the  village  thought  one 
funeral-Bonfc  as  good  as  another,  but  I  have 
amtnged  things  so  that  I  can  say  to  a  peas- 


ant, "Which  hynm  will  you  have?  Thisone 
costs  so  much  and  this  one  so  much";  and 
when  it  cornea  to  scattering  earth  on  the 
body,  "Will  you  have  Gne  sand  or  just 
common  or  garden  dirt?"  Then  there  an 
various  other  touches  that  my  predeoeaaor, 
Deacon  ChristoSer,  had  no  idea  of;  but  he 
was  unedueat«d.  I  can't  understand  how 
the  fellow  ever  came  to  be  a  deacon;  yet 
deacon  he  was,  all  the  same.  I  tell  yon, 
Latin  helps  a  man  a  great  deal  in  every  atxt 
of  business.  I  would  n't  give  up  the  Latin 
I  know  for  a  hundred  rix-dollara.  It  hsi 
been  worth  more  than  a  hundred  rix-doUon 
to  me  in  my  business;  yes,  that  aod  a  hun- 
dred more. 

[EnUr  NiLLB  and  Jeppe.] 

NlLLB  [offering  tiie  deacon  a  ^au  ej 
hrandj/].  Your  health.  Peer! 

Pebb.  Thank  you,  mother.  I  oew 
drink  brandy  unless  I  hare  a  stomoch-adie, 
but  I  have  a  bad  stomach  most  of  the  time. 

Nille.  Do  you  know.  Peer,  my  bod  is 
coming  home  to-day  or  to-morrowl  Youll 
find  him  a  man  you  can  talk  to,  for  the 
boy's  not  tongue-tied,  from  all  I  hear. 

Peeb.  Yea,  I  suppose  he  can  talk  a  lot  of 
Ooister-Latin. 

NnxE.  Cloister-lAtinT  That  must  be 
the  beat  Latin,  just  as  cloiater-linen  la  the 
best  linen. 

Peeb.  Ha,  ha,  ha,  hat 

Jeppe.  What  are  you  laughing  at,  PeerT 

PxBK.  At  nothing  at  all,  Jeppe  Berg. 
Just  another  drop!  Your  health,  mother! 
It's  true,  as  you  say:  cloister-linui  ia  good 
linen,  but  — 

Niuji.  If  that  linen  is  n't  made  in  a 
cloister,  why  is  it  called  cloister-linen? 

PxEft.  Yea,  that's  right  enou^,  h»,  ha, 
bal  But  won't  you  give  me  a  bite  to  eat 
with  my  brandy? 

Nille  \gettinii  a  plait  from  ihe  kouae]. 
Here 's  a  little  bread  and  cheeee  already  <nit, 
if  you  will  eat  it. 

Peer.  Tliank  you,  mothv.  Do  70a 
know  what  bread  ia  in  Latin? 

Nille.  No,  indeed,  I  don't. 

Peer  leaHngand  JotttTi; ol  1A< aoma  twiw). 
It's  called  panit;  genitive,  pani;  dative, 
pano;  vocative,  pomu;  ablative,  pano. 


RASMUS  MONTANUS 


705 


Jbpps.  OoodnesB,  Peer!  That  l&nguAce 
it  long-winded.  What  is  coarse  bread  in 
lAti&T 

Pms.  That's  panit  grant;  and  fine 
bread  is  panisjinis. 

Jbpm.  Why,  that's  half  DanishI 

Fbib.  True.  There  are  many  Latin 
words  that  were  originally  Danish.  I'll  tell 
yon  why:  there  was  once  an  old  rector  at 
1^  school  in  Copenhagen,  called  Sazo 
Grammatica,  who  improved  lAtin  in  this 
country,  and  wrote  a  Latin  grammar,  and 
that 's  why  he  was  called  Saxo  Grammatica. 
This  same  Saxo  greatly  enriched  the  Latin 
language  with  Danish  words,  for  in  hia  day 
Latin  was  so  poor  that  a  man  could  n't 
write  one  sentence  which  people  could 


Jkpps.  But  what  doee  that  word"  Gram- 
□istica"  mean? 

Pmr.  The  same  aa  "Donat."  When  it 
is  bound  in  a  Turkish,  cover  it  is  called 
"  Donat,"  but  when  it's  in  white  parch- 
ment it's  called  "Grammatica,"  and  de- 
clined just  Uke  Ida. 

NnJJi.  I  never  shall  see  how  people  can 
keep  so  much  in  their  head.  My  bead 
swims  just  from  hearing  them  talk  about 
it. 

Jxppii.  That's  why  learned  folk  usually 
are  n't  quite  right  in  their  heads. 

Naui.  What  uonsensel  Do  you  think 
our  son  Rasmus  Berg  is  n't  quite  right? 

Jkfpe.  It  only  seems  a  Uttle  queer, 
mother,  that  he  should  write  a  Latin  letter 

Peek.  Jeppe's  ri^t  there,  certainly. 
TbaX  was  a  little  foolish.  It  is  just  as  if  I 
were  to  talk  Greek  to  the  bailiff,  to  show 
him  that  I  understood  the  language. 

JxPFB.  Do  you  know  Greek,  Peer? 

I^BK.  Why,  twenty  years  ago  I  could 
repeat  the  whole  Litany  in  Greek,  standing 
on  one  foot.  I  still  remember  that  the  last 
word  was  "Amen." 

Jbppb.  Oh,  Peer,  it  will  be  splendid, 
when  my  aon  comee  back,  to  get  you  two 
together! 

Pebb.  If  he  wants  1«  dispute  with  me, 
he  will  find  that  1  can  hold  my  own;  and 
if  hewants  1«  have  a  singLog  match witlk  me, 
be  will  get  the  worst  of  it.  I  oun  had  a 


i)inging  contest  with  ten  deacons  and  beat 
every  one  of  them,  (or  I  outaang  them  in 
the  Credo,  im  ten  of  them.  Ten  years  ago  I 
was  offered  the  position  of  choirmaster  in 
Our  Lady's  School,  but  I  did  n't  want  it. 
Why  should  I  take  it.  Jeppe?  Why  should 
I  leave  my  parish,  which  lovee  and  honon 
me,  and  which  I  love  and  honor  in  return? 
I  live  in  a  place  where  I  earn  my  daily 
bread,  and  where  I  am  respected  by  every 
one.  The  governor  himself  never  comes 
here  but  he  sends  for  me  at  onoe  to  pass  the 
time  with  him  and  sing  for  him.  Idtst  year 
on  this  occasion  he  gave  me  two  marks  tor 
singing  "Ut,  re,  mi,  fa,  sol."  He  swore  that 
he  took  more  pleasure  in  that  than  in  the 
beet  vocal  music  be  had  heard  in  Copen- 
hagen. If  you  give  me  another  glass  of 
brandy,  Jeppe,  I  will  sing  the  same  thing 
for  you. 

Jeppe.  Do,  please.  Pour  another  glass 
of  brandy,  Nille.  \ExU  Nille.] 

Peeb.  I  don't  sing  for  every  one,  but  you 
are  my  good  friend,  Jeppe,  whom  I  serve 
with  pleasure.  [Ht  »ingi.\  Ut,  re,  mi,  fa, 
»U,  la,  n,  vt;  now  down  —  uJ,  n,  la,  sol,  fa, 

[A«jnter  NiUiE  wttft  brondv-  Hedrinkt.] 

Now  you  shall  hear  how  high  I  can  go, 

uJ,  re,  mi,  fa,  sd,  la,  n,  ul,  Tt,  mi,  fa,  ml,  la, 

Jbppx.  Heavens!  That  last  wu  fine. 
Our  Uttle  pigs  can't  go  any  higher  with  a 

PaxK.  Now  I  will  sing  rapidly:  Ut,  n 
mi.  n~  No!  that  wasn't  right.  Ut,  n. 
mi,  do,  re,  mi,  ut  —  Ho,  that  went  wrong 
too.  It 'a  cursed  hard,  Jeppe,  to  sing  so  fast 
But  there  comes  Moumeur  jerooimus. 

[Bnier  Jbboothus,  Maodklone,  and 
Libbed.] 

Jbsonihub,  Good-morning,  kinsman  I 
Have  you  any  news  from  your  son? 

Jbfpb.  Yes;  he  is  coming  bxiay  at 
to-morrow. 

LisBBD.  Oh,  is  it  po«ible7  Tbm  my 
dream  has  come  true. 

Jebonihcs.  What  did  you  dream? 

LiBBXD.  I  dreamed  that  1  slept  with  him 
last  ni^t. 


7o6 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Maodclomb.  There  is  gomething  in 
dreame,  I  tell  jou.  Dreanu  are  not  to  be 
despised. 

Jkroniuus.  llist'e  true  enough,  but  if 
you  girls  did  n't  think  m  much  about  the 
menfolk  in  the  daytime,  you  would  n't  have 
ao  many  dreams  about  them  at  night.  I 
suppose  you  used  to  dream  just  as  much 
about  me  in  the  days  when  we  were  en- 
gaged, MagdeloneT 

Maodblone.  I  did,  indeed,  but  upon 
my  word  I  have  n't  dreamed  atiout  you  for 
some  years  now. 

JsRONiMUS.  That's  because  your  love 
is  n't  as  hot  now  aa  it  used  to  be. 

LiBBED.  But  is  it  possible  that  Raamus 
Bei^  is  coming  home  to-morrowT 

Jeroniuub.  Come,  daughter,  you  should 
n't  show  that  you  are  so  much  in  love. 

LiBBXD,  Oh,  but  is  it  sure  that  he  is 
coming  home  to-morrow? 

Jbbonimcs.  Yes,  yee;  you  hear,  don't 
you,  that's  when  he  is  coming? 

JJbbbd.  How  long  is  it  till  to-morrow, 
father,  dear? 

Jehonimus.  What  confounded  non- 
sensel  These  people  in  love  act  as  if  they 
werecraiy. 

Ijbbbd.   I  tell  you,  I  shall  count  every 

jBRONOtus.  You  should  ask  how  long  an 
hour  is,  so  that  people  would  think  that  you 
were  completely  mad.  Stop  this  twaddle 
and  let  us  eldets  talk  together.  —  Listen, 
my  dear  Jeppe  BergI  Do  you  think  it  is 
wise  for  thesetwo  young  people  to  many 
before  he  gets  a  position? 

Jxpra.  That  is  as  you  think  beat.  I  can 
support  them  well  enough,  but  it  would 
be  better  that  he  should  get  a  position 
first. 

JnBONiuua.  I  don't  think  it  would  be 
wiaeforthem  to  marry  until  then.  [IiIBBiid 
taeepaandwaili.]  Pie,  shameonyou!  It'sa 
disgrace  for  a  girl  to  carry  on  so! 

LisBBD  [sobbing].  Can't  he  get  a  position 
soon,  then? 

Jeppe.  There's  no  doubt  about  it;  he'll 
get  a  position  soon  enough,  for  from  what  I 
hear  he  is  so  learned  he  can  read  any  book 
there  is.  He  wrote  me  a  Idtin  letter  just 
latdy. 


NiLLx.  And,  many,  it's  one  that  can 
stand  alone,  aa  the  deacon  can  tell  you. 

LiBBED.  Was  it  so  well  written? 

Peer.  Yes,  well  wTitt«n  for  one  so  young. 
He  may  amount  to  something,  mamselle! 
But  there's  a  lot  left  to  learn.  I  thou^t  t 
was  learned,  myself,  at  his  age,  but  — 

Jbppe.  Yes,  you  learned  folk  nevK 
praise  one  another  — 

Peeb.  Nonsensel  Do  you  think  I  am 
jealous  of  him?  Before  he  was  bom  I  had 
been  up  for  a  flogging  before  the  school 
three  times,  and  when  he  was  in  the 
fourth  form  I  had  been  eight  years  a 

Jbppb.  One  man  may  have  a  better  head 
than  another;  one  may  learn  as  much  in  a 
year  as  others  in  t«u. 

Pbeb.  For  that  matter,  the  DcAoon 
dares  set  his  head  against  any  one's. 

Jbbonuiub.  Yee,  yee,  you  may  both  be 
right.  Let  us  go  home,  children.  Good-bye, 
Jeppe!  I  happened  to  be  passing,  and  I 
thought  I  might  as  well  talk  to  you  on  the 

LisBED.  Be  sure  to  let  me  know  as  aocm 


[Enter  Jacob.] 

Jeppe.  What  do  you  want,  Jacob? 

Jacob.  Father!  Have  you  heard  the 
news?  Rasmus  Berg  is  back. 

Jeppe,  Heavens,  is  it  poesiblel  How 
does  he  look? 

Jacob.  Ob,  he  looks  mighty  learned. 
Rasmus  Nielsen,  who  drove  him,  swean 
that  he  did  nothing  all  the  way  but  dispute 
with  himself  in  Greek  and  Elamite;  and 
sometimes  with  so  much  seal  that  he  struck 
Rasmus  Nielsen  in  the  back  of  the  oeck 
three  or  four  times,  with  his  clenched  fist, 
shouting  all  the  while,  "Probe  the  Major! 
Probe  the  Major!"  I  suppose  he  must  have 
had  a  dispute  with  a  major  before  he 
started  out.  Rirt  of  the  way  he  sat  still  and 
stared  at  the  moon  and  the  stars  with  such 
a  rapt  expression  that  he  fell  olT  the  wagon 
three  times  and  nearly  broke  his  neck  from 
sheer  learning.  Rasmus  Nielsen  laughed  at 
that,  and  said  to  himself,  "  Rasmus  Beig 


RASMUS    MONTANUS 


707 


may  be  s  wise  man  in  the  heavens,  but  he 
ia  a  fool  on  earth." 

Jbppb.  Let  UB  go  and  meet  him.  Come 
wiUi  us,  dear  Peer.  It  may  be  that  he  ha« 
fonEott«n  his  Danish  and  won't  be  able  to 
talk  anything  but  Latin.  In  that  case  you 
can  be  interpreter. 

Pkek  [ofide].  Not  if  I  know  iti  [Almui.] 
I  have  other  tiungs  to  attend  to. 


A  room  in  Jvppk's  houM. 

[Bnier  Montanub,  whom  itoekiiiDt  are 
Jailing  doom  around  hit  MikUt.] 

MoNTAMCB.  I  have  been  away  from 
Copenhagen  only  a  day,  and  I  miss  it  al- 
ready. If  I  did  n't  have  my  good  books 
with  me,  I  could  u't  exist  in  the  country. 
Slvdia  teeundat  rt*  omonC,  adeenU  toloitum 
preebent.  I  feel  as  if  I  bad  lost  something, 
after  goii^  thi«e  days  without  a  disputa^ 
tion.  I  don't  know  whether  there  are  any 
learned  folk  in  the  village,  but  if  there  are, 
I  shall  set  them  to  work,  for  I  can't  live 
without  lUsputation.  I  can't  talk  much  to 
my  poor  patents,  for  they  are  aimple  folk 
and  know  hardly  anything  beyond  their 
catechism;  so  I  can't  find  much  comfort  in 
their  conversation.  The  Deacon  and  the 
Schoolmaster  are  said  to  have  studied,  but 
I  don't  know  how  much  that  has  amounted 
to;  still,  I  shall  see  what  they  are  good  for. 
My  parents  were  astonished  to  see  me  so 
early,  for  they  had  not  e:(pected  me  to 
travel  by  night  from  Copenhagen.  [He 
tiriktt  a  malck,  ligku  hit  pipe,  and  pub  the 
bouiofhiajripetiiTO^hahotehthasmadein 
itis  hat]  That's  what  they  call  smoking 
ttvdentileoi  —  it's  a  pretty  good  iuTention 
for  any  one  who  wants  to  write  and  smoke 
at  the  same  time. 

[SiU  down  and  begiiu  to  read.] 


Jacob.  Welcome  home  again,  my  Latin 
brother! 

Momtakhs.  I  am  glad  ta  see  you,  Jacob. 
But  as  for  being  your  brother,  that  was 


well  enough  in  the  old  days,  but  it  will 
hardly  do  any  more. 

Jacos.  How  bo7  Aren't  you  my 
brother? 

MoNTAiros.  Of  course  I  don't  deny,  you 
rogue,  that  I  am  your  brother  by  birth,  but 
youmust  realize  that  you  are  stiU  a  peasant 
boy,  whereas  I  am  a  Bachelor  of  Philos- 
ophy. But  listen,  Jacob,  —  how  are  my 
sweetheart  and  her  father? 

Jacos.  Very  well.  They  were  here 
awhile  ago  and  asked  how  aoon  brother 
would  be  at  home. 

MoNTAMDB.  Brother  Bgaint  It's  not 
from  mere  pride  that  I  object,  Jacob,  but  it 
simply  won't  do. 

Jacob.  Then  what  shall  I  call  yon, 
brother? 

Montamttb.  You  must  call  me  "Mou' 
sieur  Montanus,"  for  that  is  what  I  am 
called  in  Copenhagen. 

Jacob.  If  I  could  only  keep  it  in  my 
head.  Was  is  "Monsieur  Dromedarius"* 

MoNTANTJB.  Can't  you  hear?  I  say 
"  Monsieur  Montanus." 

Jacob.  Moesur  Montanus,  Mossur  Mon- 
tutus. 

M0NTAN17B.  lliat'sright.  "Montanus" 
in  Latin  is  the  same  as  "Berg"  in  Danish. 

Jacob.  Then  can't  I  be  called  "Jaoob 
Montanus"? 

MoNTANDB.  When  you  have  been  to 
school  BB  long  as  I  have  and  passed  your 
examinations,  then  you  can  give  yoursslf  a 
Latin  name,  too;  but  aa  long  sa  you  are  a 
peasant  boy,  you  must  be  satisfied  with 
plain  Jacob  Berg.  By  the  way,  have  you 
noticed  that  my  sweetheart  has  been  long- 
ing for  me? 

Jacob.  Indeed,  she  has.  She  has  bera) 
very  impatient  at  your  staying  away  so 
long,  brother. 

MoNTAimB.  There  you  go  again,  yokell 

Jacob.  I  meant  to  aay:  Moesur's  sweet- 
heart has  been  impatient  because  brotiier 
stayed  away  so  long. 

Montanus.  Well,  I'm  here  now,  Jacob, 
and  all  for  her  sake;  but  I  shall  not  stay 
very  long,  for  as  soon  as  we've  had  tlw 
wedding  I  BhiUI  take  her  to  Copenhagm 
with  me, 

Jacob.  Won't  mossur  take  me  along? 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


MoNiANCB.  What  would  you  do  there? 

Jacob.  1  should  like  to  look  EUround  in 
the  world  »  bit. 

Montanhb.  I  wish  you  were  six  or  Mveo 
years  younger,  so  that  I  could  put  you  into 
ft  Idtin  school,  and  then  you  could  be  a 
college  man,  too. 

Jacob.  No,  that  would  n't  do. 

MONTANTTB.    Why  BOt? 

Jacob.  If  that  happened,  our  parants 
would  have  to  go  b^^^iS- 

Moktanus.  Hear  how  the  fellow  talksl 

Jacob.  Oh,  I  am  full  of  ideas.  If  I  had 
studied,  I  should  haTe  been  the  devil  of  a 
rogue. 

MoNTANUB.  I  have  been  told  that  you 
had  a  good  bead.  But  what  else  should 
you  like  to  do  in  Copenhagen? 

Jacob.  I  should  like  to  see  the  Round 
Tower  and  the  ckiiBt«r  where  they  make  the 
linen. 

MoNTANUS.  Ha,  ha,  hal  They're  busy 
with  other  things  besides  linen-making  in 
the  cloister.  But  tell  me,  has  my  future 
father-in-law  as  much  money  as  they  say? 

Jacob.  He  surely  has.  He  is  a  rich  old 
man,  and  owns  nearly  a  third  of  the  vil- 
lage. 

MoNTAtroB.  Have  you  heard  whether  be 
intends  to  give  his  daughter  a  dowry? 

Jacob.  Oh,  I  thiak  he  will  give  her  a 
good  one,  especially  if  he  once  bears  moeaur 
preach  here  in  the  village. 

Montanqs.  That  will  never  happen.  I 
should  lower  myself  too  much  by  preaching 
here  in  the  country.  Besides,  I  am  inter- 
ested only  in  disputation. 

Jacob.  I  thought  it  wss  better  to  be  able 
to  preach. 

Montanhb.  Do  you  know  what  disputa- 
tion really  means? 

Jacob.  Of  ooureel  I  dispute  every  day 
here  at  home  with  the  maids,  but  I  don't 
gain  anything  by  it. 

MoHTANTTs.  Oh,  we  have  plenty  of  that 
kind  of  disputation. 

Jacob.  What  is  it,  then,  that  mosBur 
disputes  about? 

MoNTANUB.  I  dispute  about  weighty 
sndleamedmatters.  For  example,  whether 
angels  were  created  before  men;  whether 
the  earth  is  round  or  oval;  about  the  moon. 


sun,  and  stars,  their  sise  and  distance  from 
the  eartii;  and  other  things  of  a  like  oatun, 

Jacob.  That's  not  the  sort  of  thing  I 
dispute  about,  for  that's  not  the  sort  of 
thing  that  oonoerns  me.  If  only  1  can  get 
the  servants  to  work,  they  caa  say  the 
worid  is  eight-oomered,  for  all  I  care. 

Monta:nus.  Oh,  mturud  brutumt  — 
Listen,  Jscob,  do  you  suppose  any  one  has 
let  my  sweetheart  know  that  I  have  eame 
home? 

Jacob.  I  don't  believe  so. 

MoNTANUs.  Then  you  had  better  run 
over  to  Master  Jeronimus's  and  inform  him 
of  the  event. 

Jacob.  Yes,  I  can  do  that,  ^ut  shall  I 
not  tdl  Lisbed  first? 

MoNTAHDB.  lisbed?  Who  is  diat? 

Jacob.  Don't  you  know,  brother,  that 
your  betrothed's  name  is  Lisbed? 

MoMTAirTTB.  Have  you  foi^tten  all  I 
have  just  tau^t  you,  you  rascalT 

Jacob.  You  may  otll  me  "rascal"  as 
much  ss  you  like,  but  I'm  your  brother 
just  the  same. 

MoNTANira.  If  you  don't  shut  up,  I'D 
profeclo  hit  you  over  the  bead  with  this 
book. 

Jacob.  It  would  n't  be  proper  to  throw 
the  Bible  at  people. 

MoMTAKus.  This  is  no  Bit^ 

Jacob.  Marry,  I  know  a  Bible  wbeo  I 
see  one.  That  book  is  big  enough  to  be  the 
Bible.  I  can  see  that  it's  not  a  Gospel 
Book,  nor  a  Catechism.  But  iriiatever  it  is, 
it's  a  bad  thing  to  throw  books  at  your 
brother. 

MoNTAN'OB.  Shut  up,  rascall 

Jacob.  I  may  be  a  rascal,  but  I  eera 
with  my  hands  the  money  for  my  parents 
that  you  spend. 

MoMTANUB.    If  you  don't  shut  up.  III 

Tin*im  you. 

[Throws  the  book  at  Un.) 
Jacob.  Ow,  ow,  ow! 

lEnter  Juppe  and  Nnxx.) 
Jkppb.  What  is  all  this  noise? 
Jacob.     Oh,    my    brother   Rasmus   is 
beating  me. 

NiLLB.  What  does  this  m«aa?  B» 
would  n't  hit  you  without  good  rwiOB. 


RASMUS  MONTANUS 


709 


HoNTANVB.  No,  mother,  that  ia  bo.  He 
oomefl  here  and  bandies  words  with  me  as 
thou^  he  were  my  equal. 

NiLLK.  What  a  devfl's  own  refuel 
Don't  you  know  enough  to  respect  such  a 
Jeamed  man?  Don't  you  know  that  he  is 
an  honor  to  our  whole  family?  My  dear 
and  respected  son,  you  must  n't  pay  any 
attention  to  him;  he  is  an  ignorant  lout. 

MONTAKDS.  1  sit  here  speculating  about 
important  questions,  and  this  imporUmU- 
timxit  and  audacisaimua  juvenia  oomes  and 
hinders  me.  It  is  no  child's  play  to  have 
to  deal  with  these  tratiKendenlalAut.  I 
wouldn't  have  had  it  happen  for  two 

Jepfb.  Oh,  i^on't  be  angry,  my  dear  soni 
This  shaU  never  happen  again.  I  am  so 
much  afraid  that  my  honored  son  has  al- 
lowed himself  to  get  over-excited.  Learned 
folk  can't  stand  many  ahocka.  I  know  that 
Peer,  the  Deacon,  got  excit«d  once  and 
did  n't  recover  for  three  days. 

MoNTANDS.  Peer,  the  Deacon!  Is  he 
leaned? 

Jkppz.  I  should  say  be  wasi  As  far  back 
as  I  can  remember,  we  have  never  had  a 
deacon  here  in  the  village  who  could  sing 
as  well  as  he  can. 

MoNTANVs.  For  all  that,  he  may  have 
DO  learning  at  all- 

Jefpe.  He  preaches  beautifully,  too. 

MoNTANiTB.  For  all  that,  too,  he  might 
have  no  learnmg  at  all. 

NiLLZ.  Oh,  honored  sont  How  can  a 
man  lack  learning  if  he  preaches  well? 

MoNTANUB.  Surely,  mother!  All  the 
ignorant  folk  preach  well,  for  inasmuch  as 
th^  can't  ciimpOBe  anything  out  of  their 
own  heads,  th^  use  borrowed  sermons, 
and  leam  good  men's  compositioos  by 
heart,  though  sometimee  they  don't  under- 
stand them  themselves.  A  learned  man,  on 
the  other  hand,  won't  use  such  methods;  he 
composes  out  of  his  own  head.  Believe  me, 
it  is  a  common  mistake  m  this  country  to 
judge  a  student's  learning  altogether  too 
mudi  from  his  sermons.  But  let  the  fellow 
dispute  as  I  do  —  there 's  the  touchstone  of 
lesxning.  If  any  one  says  this  table  is  a 
candlestick,  I  will  justify  the  statement.  If 
Stay  one  says  that  meat  or  bread  is  stf&w,  I 


will  justify  that,  too;  that  has  been  done 
many  a  time.  Listen,  fatherl  Will  you  ad- 
mit that  the  mim  who  drinks  well  is  blessed? 

Jbppe.  I  think  rather  that  he  is  accursed, 
for  a  man  can  drink  himself  out  of  both 
reason  and  money. 

MoNTANTS.  I  will  prove  that  he  is 
blessed.  Qaieunque  be7i«  bibil,  bene  dormit. 
But,  no,  —  you  don't  understand  Latin;  I 
must  say  it  in  Danish.  Whoever  drinks 
well,  steeps  well.  Is  n't  that  so? 

Jeppb.  That's  true  enough,  for  when  I 
am  half-drunk  I  sleep  like  a  horse. 

MoNTANUB.  He  who  sleeps  wen  does  not 
sin.  Is  n't  that  true,  too? 

Jbppb.  True,  too;  so  long  as  a  man  '■ 
asleep  he  does  n't  sin. 

MoMTANiJs.  He  who  does  not  sia  is 
bleMsd. 

Jefpe.  That  is  also  true. 

MoNTANus.  Ergo,  he  who  drinks  well  ia 
blessed.  —  Little  mother,  I  will  turn  you 
into  a  stone. 

NiTAJK.  Oh,  nonsense!  That  is  more  than 
even  learning  can  do. 

Mont  ANTS.  You  shall  hear  whettur  it  is 
or  not.  A  stone  cannot  fly. 

NiiJX.  No,  indeed  it  can't,  unless  it  ia 
thrown. 


MoMTAKUB.  Ergo,  little  mother  is  a 
Bt«ne.  [NiLLX  erte<.]  Why  are  you  crying, 
little  mother? 

NiLLE.  Oh!  I  am  HO  much  afraid  that  1 
shall  turn  into  a  stone.  My  legs  already 
begin  to  feel  cold. 

MoNTANTTB.  Dou't  Worry,  little  mother. 
I  wilt  immediately  turn  you  into  a  bumaa 
being  again.  A  stone  neither  thinks  nor 
talks. 

NiLLE.  That  is  BO.  I  don't  know  whether 
it  can  think  or  not,  but  it  surely  cannot  talk. 

MoNTANiTS.  Little  mother  can  talk. 

NiLLE.  Yes,  thank  God,  I  talk  as  well  as 
a  poor  peasant  woman  can! 

MoNTANUB.  Goodlfrvo,  little  mother  is 

NiLLE.  Ahl  That  did  me  goodt  Now  I 
am  beginning  to  feel  like  myself  again. 
Faith,  it  must  take  strong  heads  t«  study. 
I  don't  see  how  your  brsins  can  stand  it.  - 


710 


CHJEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


J&cob,  after  this  you  ihall  wait  on  yam 
brother;  you  have  nothing  else  to  do.  If 
your  parents  see  that  you  annoy  him,  yoU' 
shall  get  as  many  blows  as  your  body  can 
Btand. 

MoHTAKDB.  Little  mother,  1  should  like 
very  much  to  break  him  of  the  habit 
of  nailing  me  "brother."  It  ia  not  decent 
for  a  peasant  boy  to  call  a  learned  man 
"  brother."  I  should  like  to  have  him  call 


Jbppe.  Do  you  hear  that,  J&kM  When 
you  speak  to  your  brother  after  this,  you 
are  to  call  hi'"  moesur. 

MoNTANCs.  I  should  like  to  have  the 
Deacon  invited  here  to-day,  so  that  I  can 
see  what  he  ia  good  fur. 

Jefpk.  Yes,  surely,  it  shall  be  done. 

MoNTAHUB.  In  the  mean  time  I  will  go 
to  visit  my  sweetheart. 

NiLLB.  But  I  am  afraid  it  is  going  to 
rain.  Jacob  con  carry  your  cloak  for  you. 

MoNTANra.  Jacob. 

Jacob.  Yes,  moaaur. 

MoNTANfs.  Walk  behind  me  and  carry 
my  cloak. 

[E^  MoNTANTTB  foUoioed  by  Ja- 
cob bearing  the  cloak.] 

Jeppb.  Have  n't  we  cause  to  be  pleased 
with  a  son  like  that,  NilleT 

NiLLE.  Yea,  indeed,  not  a  penny  has 
been  wasted  on  him, 

Jeffe.  We  shall  hear  to-day  what  the 
Deacon  is  good  for.  But  I  am  afraid  that  he 
won't  come  if  he  hears  that  Rasmus  Berg  is 
here,  —  there  is  no  need  of  our  letting  him 
know  that.  We  will  write  the  Bailiff,  too; 
he  is  glad  enough  to  come,  for  he  likes  our 

NiLLB.  It  ia  very  dangerous,  husband,  to 
treat  the  Bailiff;  a  man  like  tjiat  must  n't 
find  out  how  our  offurs  stand. 

j£FPK.  He  is  welcome  to  know.  Every 
man  here  in  the  village  is  aware  that  we  are 
well-to-do  folks.  As  long  as  we  pay  our 
taxes  and  land  rent,  the  Bailiff  can't  touch 
a  hair  of  our  head. 

NiLLB.  Oh,  dear  husband,  I  wonder  if  it 
ia  too  late  to  let  our  Jacob  get  an  education. 
Just  think,  if  he  could  be  a  learned  lad  like 
his  brother,  what  a  joy  it  would  be  for  his 
old  patents! 


Jip^.  No,  wife,  one  is  enough;  we  most 
have  one  at  home  who  can  give  us  ar  hand 
and  do  our  work. 

NiLLX.  Oh,  at  such  work  as  that  a  man 
cannot  do  more  than  live  from  hand  to 
mouth.  Raamua  Bei%,  who  ia  a  acholar,  can 
do  our  famDy  more  good,  with  his  brain,  in 
on  hour  than  the  other  in  a  year. 

JzppE.  Tliat  makea  no  difference,  little 
mother;  our  fields  must  be  tilled  and  our 
crops  looked  after.  We  can't  possibly  get 
along  without  Jao(^.  Look,  here  he  is  now, 
Doming  back  again! 

[EnUr  Jacob.] 

Jacob,  Hal  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  hal  My 
brother  may  be  a  very  learned  man,  but  he 
is  a  great  simpleton  for  all  that. 

Niuj.  You  wicked  raaoall  Do  you  call 
your  brother  a  simpleton? 

Jacob.  Ireally  don't  know  what  I  ou^t 
to  call  such  a  thing,  little  motl)».  It  rained 
until  it  poured,  and  yet  he  let  me  walk 
along  behind  him  with  the  cloak  on  my 

Jeppb.  Could  n't  you  have  been  civil 
enough  to  have  said,  "  Moesur,  it  is  rMuing. 
Won't  you  put  on  your  cloak?" 

Jacob.  It  seems  to  me,  little  father,  it 
would  have  been  very  strange  for  me  to  soy 
to  the  person  whose  parents  had  spent  so 
much  money  upon  him  to  teach  him  wis- 
dom and  cleverness,  when  ao  much  rain  was 
falling  on  him  that  he  was  wet  to  his  shirt, 
"It  is  raining,  air;  won't  you  put  on  your 
cloak?"  He  had  no  need  of  my  warning; 
the  rain  gave  him  wamii^  enough. 

Jbppb.  Did  you  walk  the  whole  w»y, 
then,  with  the  cloak  on  your  arm? 

Jacob.  Marry,  I  did  not;  I  wrapped  my- 
self up  comfortably  in  the  cloak;  so  my 
cbthes  ore  perfectly  dry.  I  understand 
that  sort  of  thing  better  than  he,  thouf^ 
I've  not  spent  so  much  mon^  learning 
wisdom.  I  graaped  it  at  once,  although  I 
don't  know  one  Latin  letter  from  another. 

Jkppe.  Your  brother  was  plunged  in 
thought,  aa  deeply  learned  folk  usually  ate. 

Jacob.  Ha,  hat  the  devil  split  such 
learning! 

Jeffs.  Shut  up,  you  rogue,  or  shame 
on  your  mouthl  What  does  it  matter  if 


RASMUS  MONTANUS 


your  brother  is  abseDt-minded  nbcnit  such 
tluDga  OB  that,  when  in  so  many  other  mat- 
ters he  displays  his  wisdom  aud  the  fruit  of 
his  studieaT 

Jacob.  Fruit  of  his  studies!  I  shall  tell 
you  what  happened  next  on  our  trip.  When 
we  came  to  Jeronimus's  gate,  he  went  right 
to  the  side  where  the  watch-dog  stood,  and 
be  would  have  had  his  learned  lega  well 
caulked  if  I  had  not  dr^ged  him  to  the 
other  aide;  for  watch-dc^  are  no  respecters 
of  persons;  they  measure  all  strangers  with 
the  same  stick,  and  bite  at  raitdom  what- 
ever legH  they  get  hold  of,  whether  Greek  or 
Latin.  When  he  entered  the  court,  Mtwsur 
Rasmus  Berg  absent-mindedly  went  into 
the  stable  and  shouted,  "Hey,  is  Jeronimus 
at  home?  "  But  the  cows  all  turned  their 
tails  to  him  and  none  of  them  would  answer 
a  word.  I  am  certain  that  if  any  of  them 
could  have  talked,  they  would  have  said, 
"What  a  eooTounded  lunk-head  that  tad 
must  be!" 

NiLUE.  Oh,  my  dear  husband,  can  you 
stand  hearing  him  use  such  lai^uage? 

Jbppb.  Jacob,  you  will  get  into  trouble  if 
you  talk  like  that  any  more. 

Jacob.  Little  father  ought  rather  to 
thank  me,  for  T  set  him  to  rights  and  took 
him  out  of  the  stable  toward  the  house. 
Just  think  what  might  happen  to  such  a 
lad  if  he  should  go  on  a  long  journey  alone; 
for  I'm  Bure  that  if  I  had  not  been  with 
him,  he  would  have  been  standing  in  the 
stable  yet,  gaiing  at  the  cowe'  tails,  from 
aheer  learning. 

Jeppx.  a  plague  on  your  impudent 
mouth!    JJacob  runs  off,  Jcppb  afler  Aim.] 

NiLLX.  The  confounded  rogue  I  —  Ihave 
aent  word  to  the  Bailifi  and  the  Deacon,  ao 
that  my  son  can  have  some  one  to  dispute 
with  when  he  comes  back. 


ACT   III 

•Some  (U  Ati  II. 

[Enter  Nillb.] 

NtLLX  IaZon«].  My  son  Montauus  is  gone 

a  long  time.   I  wish  he  would  come  home 

before  the  Bailiff  goes,  for  he  wants  very 


much  to  talk  with  him,  and  is  eager  to  ask 
him  about  several  thinp  wfiich  —  But 
there,  I  see  him  coming. 

[Enier  MONTANtia.] 

Welcome  home,  my  dear  aoD.  Our  kind 
friend  Jeronimus  was  no  doubt  very  glad  to 
see  our  honored  son  in  good  health  E^ter  so 
long  an  abeenoe. 

MoNTANUB.  I  have  spoken  neitiier  to 
Jeronimus  nor  to  his  daughter,  on  account 
of  that  fellow  with  whom  I  got  into  a  dis- 

Ntu.E.  What  kind  of  a  man  was  heT 
Perhaps  it  was  the  Schoolmaster. 

MoNTANUB.  No,  it  was  a  stranger,  who  b 
going  away  to-day.  I  know  him,  althou)^ 
I  have  not  astwciated  with  him  in  Copen- 
hagen. I  am  annoyed  almost  to  death  by 
these  people  who  imagine  they  have  ab- 
sorbed all  wisdom,  and  still  are  idiota.  I'll 
tell  you,  mother,  how  it  is:  Ttua  fellow  has 
been  ordinariua  opponent  once  or  twice; 
therein  lies  his  sole  achievement.  But  how 
did  he  perform  his  ParUi  t  Miaere  et 
hantanUr  absque  methodo.  Once  when 
Pnxtea  wished  to  distinguish  inUr  rent  «< 
moditm  rei,  he  asked.  Quid  hoc  ettt  — 
Wretch,  you  should  have  known  that  anU- 
quam  in  wenam  deaeendU.  Quid  hoe  «■<  t 
Qua  brutal  A  fellow  who  ignores  the  dit- 
tinetionea  cardinalea,  and  then  wants  to 
dispute  publics/ 

NiUiE.  Oh,  my  reepected  eon,  you 
must  n't  take  such  things  as  that  to  heart. 
I  can  see  from  what  you  aay  that  he  must 
be  a  fool. 

MoNTANTTB.   An  xgnoramta. 

Nillb.  Nothing  could  be  plainer, 

MoNTANUB.  An  idiot. 

NiLui.  I  can't  see  that  be  is  anythlnf 
else. 

Montanhs,  Et  guidem  plane  hogpet  in 
philosopkia.  Let  the  dog  turn  away  from 
what  be  committed  in  the  presence  of  BO 
many  wortiiy  people. 

Nillb.  Is  that  what  he  did?  By  that 
you  may  know  a  swine. 

MoNTANOS.  No,  little  mother,  he  did 
something  worse  than  that;  he  openly  ooiv- 
founded  maitriam  cum  forma. 

Nillb.  Plague  take  hint! 


7" 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


M0NTAKD8.  Does  the  fellow  imagine 
that  he  can  dispute? 

NiLLD.  The  devil  he  gni! 

MoNTAMua.  Not  to  msntion  the  mistake 
he  made  in  his  Pronnto,  when  he  said, 
"Leeliiaimi  ei  doeliinmi  audilcret." 

NiLLS.  What  a  fool  he  must  bel 

MoNTAKUB.  For  putting  "iedunmi"  in 
front  of  " doctissimi,"  when  "leetiuimi"  is 
B  predicate,  one  can  give  a  Depotituro. 

NiLLX.  But  did  n't  you  get  a  chance  to 
talk  with  Jeronimus,  my  son? 

MoNTUfUB.  No;  just  as  I  was  about  to 
go  into  the  house,  I  saw  the  fellow  passing 
by  the  gate,  and  as  we  knew  each  other,  I 
went  out  to  speak  to  him,  whereupon  we 
immediately  b^an  to  talk  of  learned  mat- 
ters, and  finally  to  dispute,  so  that  I  hod  to 
poatpone  my  visit. 

Nnix.  I  am  very  much  afraid  that 
Monsieur  Jeronimus  will  be  oSended  when 
be  hears  that  my  son  has  been  in  his  yard, 
but  went  away  without  talking  with  him. 

MoHTAMaB.  Well,  I  oon't  help  that. 
When  any  one  attacks  philosophy,  he  at- 
tacks my  honor.  I  am  fond  of  Mademoi- 
selle Lisbed,  but  my  Meiaphytiea  and  my 
Loiiioa  have  priority. 

NiULX.  Oh,  my  dear  son,  what  did  I 
hear?  Are  you  engaged  to  two  other  girls  in 
Copenhagen?  That  will  be  a  bod  business 
in  the  matrimonial  courts. 

M0NTAKTT8.  You  don't  understand  me; 
I  did  n't  mean  it  in  that  way,  Tliey  are  not 
two  girls,  but  two  scieneee. 

HxLLB.  Oh,  that  is  another  matter.  But 
here  comes  the  Bailiff.  Don't  be  angry  any 

MoNTANua.  I  can't  be  angry  with  him, 
for  he  is  a  simple,  ignorant  man,  with  whom 
I  cannot  get  into  a  dispute. 

[Elder  Jbpps  and  JxsPER,  lAe  BaiiiS-] 

jBSFmB.  SaviUvr,  monsieur.  I  congrat- 
nlate  you  on  your  arrival. 

MoMTAKUs.  I  thank  you,  Mr.  Bailiff. 

Jebpxb.  I  am  glad  that  we  have  such  a 
learned  man  here  in  the  village.  It  must 
have  cost  you  many  a  racking  of  the  brain 
to  have  advanced  so  far.  I  congratulate 
you,  too,  Jeppe  Berg,  upon  your  son.  Now, 
come  to  you  in  yout  old  age. 


JxppE.  Yea,  that  is  true. 
Jespeb.   But  listen,  my  dear  Monsieur 
Rasmus,  I  should  like  to  ask  you  some- 

MoNTAMUB.  My  name  is  Montanua. 

jBsniB  [ondefe)  Jxppb].  MontanusT  Is 
that  the  lAtin  for  Rasmus? 

Jeppe.  Yee,  it  must  be. 

Jebpbr.  Listen,  my  dear  MtmsieurMoB- 
tanuB  Berg.  I  have  heard  that  learned  fcft 
have  such  extraordinary  ideas.  Is  it  true 
that  people  in  Copenhagen  think  the  earth 
is  round?  Here  on  the  hill  no  one  believes 
it;  for  how  can  that  be,  when  the  earth 
looks  perfectly  flat? 

MONTAKTTS.  That  is  because  the  earth  is 
so  large  that  one  cannot  notice  its  round- 
ness. 

Jbbpeh.  Yes,  it  is  true,  the  earth  is  large; 
it  is  almost  a  half  of  the  universe.  But  lis- 
ten, monsieur,  how  many  ston  will  it  take 
to  make  a  moon? 

MONTAKCS.  A  moon!  In  comparison  to 
the  stars  the  moon  is  like  Pebling  Pood  in 
comparison  with  all  Sjnlland. 

Jespes,  Ha,  ha,  hal  Learned  f<dk  are 
never  just  right  in  the  head.  Will  you  be- 
lieve it,  I  have  heard  people  say  tJiat  the 
earth  moves  and  the  sun  stands  still.  You 
certainly  don't  beUeve  that,  too,  monsieurT 

MoNTAmTB.  No  man  of  sense  doubts  it 
any  longer. 

Jebpkr.  Ha.  ha,  hal  If  the  earth  should 
move,  surely  we  should  fall  and  break  our 

MoNTANDB.  Can't  a  ship  move  with  TOO, 
without  your  breaking  your  neokT 

Jespeb.  Yea,  but  you  say  that  the  earth 
turns  round.  Now,  if  a  ship  should  turn 
over,  would  n't  the  people  (all  off  then  int'^ 
the  sea? 

MoNTANTTB.  No.  I  will  explain  it  v. 
you  more  plainly,  if  you  will  have  tbe 
patience. 

Jebpeb.  Indeed,  I  won't  hear  anything 
about  it.  I  should  have  to  be  craay  to  be- 
lieve such  a  thing.  Could  the  earth  turn 
over,  and  we  not  faU  heels  over  head  to  tbe 
devil  and  clear  down  into  the  abyaa?  Ha, 
ha,  hal  But,  my  Monsieur  Berg,  how  ie  it 
that  the  moon  is  sometimes  so  amal)  and 
sometime*  M  UgT 


RASMUS  MONTANUS 


?»3 


HoiTTAiTua.  If  I  tell  you  whjr,  you  won't 
believe  me. 

Jhpxb.  Oh,  please  tell  me. 

MoNTAmiB.  It  IB  because,  vhen  the 
moon  hag  grown  large,  pieoee  &re  clipped 
off  it  to  nuke  stare  of. 

Jbbpeb.  That  certainly  is  curious.  I 
really  did  n't  know  that  before.  If  pieces 
were  not  dipped  off,  it  would  get  too  large 
and  grow  as  broad  as  aD  SjffiUand.  After 
all,  nature  does  r^ulate  everything  very 
wisely.  Buthowieitthatthemoondoean't 
give  warmth  Uke  the  sun,  although  it  is  just 
88  big? 

MoNTAKus.  That  is  because  the  moon  is 
not  a  light,  but  made  of  the  same  dark 
mst«rial  as  the  earth,  and  gets  ite  light  and 
brilliance  from  the  sun. 

Jbsfer.  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  Ita,  hal  Let  us 
talk  of  something  else.  That's  stuff  and 
nonsense;  a  man  m^t  go  stark  mad  over  it. 
[Enter  Faun.) 

Jeppk.  Welcome,  Peer.  Where  good  folk 
an  ^thered,  good  fdUc  come.  Here,  you 
see,  is  my  eon,  who  has  just  come  back. 

Peer.  Welcome,  Monsieur  Rasmus 
Berg! 

MoNTANUS.  In  Copenhagen,  I  am  accus- 
tomed to  be  called  "  Montanue."  I  beg  you 
lo  call  me  that. 

PxBB.  Yes,  surely,  it's  all  the  same  to 
me.  How  are  tlungs  in  CopenhageoT  Did 
many  graduate  this  year? 

MotrrANTTS.  About  as  many  as  usual. 

Pm*a.  Was  any  one  rejected  this  year? 

MoNTAKUB.  Two  or  three  conditMmaliter. 

Pebb.  Who  ie  Imprimalw  this  year? 

MoNTAKCB.  What  does  that  mean? 

PXKK.  I  mean,  who  is  Imprimatur  of  the 
TBTse  and  the  books  which  are  published? 

MoNTANTS.  Is  that'  supposed  to  be 
litinT 

PmiB.  Yes,  in  my  day  it  was  good  Latin. 

MoNTANTTS.  If  it  wss  good  lattu  then,  it 
must  be  so  still.  But  it  has  never  been 
Latin  in  the  sense  in  which  you  use  it. 

Pebb.  Yes,  it  is,  —  good  Latin. 

MoNTANUB.  Is  it  a  nomen  or  a  verbum  t 

Pebb.  It  ib  a  nomen. 

i'EBFtA.  That  is  right,  Peer,  just  speak 
up  for  yourself. 


MoNTAKUB.  Ouiua  dedmatioRu  ia  /m- 
primatar,  then? 

FxER.  AU  the  words  that  can  be  men- 
tioned may  be  referred  to  eight  things, 
which  are;  tunntn,  ■pronomen,  verbum,  prin- 
ctptum,  eanjvgatio,  dedinaHo,  interjtctio. 

JsBPBR.  Yes,  yee,  just  listen  to  Peer 
when  he  shakes  Ids  sleevesl  That's  rt^t, 
keep  at  himl 

MoHTAMUs.  He's  not  answering  what  I 
ask  him.    What  is  the  genitive  of  "/m- 


Pbeb.  Nomiimtttma,  ola,*  fenilunu,  ohs; 
datiinu,  ala;  vocativut,  alo;  ablalunu,  ata. 

Jespek.  Ah,  ah,  Monsieur  Montanus, 
we  have  some  folk  here  on  the  hill,  tool 

Pbeb.  I  should  say  so.  In  my  time  the 
fellows  that  graduated  were  of  a  different 
sort  from  nowadays.  They  were  lads  who 
got  shaved  twice  a  week,  and  could  scan  all 
kinds  of  verse. 

MoNTAKuB.  That  is  certainly  a  wonder- 
ful thingi  Boys  in  the  second  elass  can  do 
that  to-day.  Nowadays  there  are  gradu- 
ates from  the  schools  in  Copenhagen  who 
can  write  Hebrew  and  Chaldean  verse. 

PxEB.    Then  they  can't  know  much 

Montanus.  Latin!  If  you  went  to 
school  now,  you  couldn't  get  above  the 
bottom  class. 

Jbbpeb.  Don't  say  that,  Montanus. 
The  deacon  is,  I  know,  a  thoroughly  edu- 
cated man;  that  I  have  heard  both  the 
district  bailiff  and  the  tax-collector  soy. 

Montanus.  Perhaps  they  understand 
I^tin  juBt  as  little  as  he. 

Jespeb.  But  I  can  hear  that  he  answers 
splendidly. 

MoNTAKUB.  Yee,  but  he  does  n't  answer 
what  I  ask  him  —  E  qua  aehola  dunimua  es, 
mi  Domine  t 

Peeb.  Adjeetwum  et  rubskmtimim  gentre. 


JxSFES.  He 's  giving  him  his  bucket  full. 
Good  for  you,  Peer;  as  sure  as  you  live,  we 
shall  drink  a  half-pint  of  brai»ly  together. 

Montanus.  If  you  knew,  Mr.  Bailiff, 
what  his  answers  were,  you  would  laugh 
until  you  split.  I  ask  hhn  from  what  st^iool 
he  graduated  and  he  answers  at  random 
something  entirely  different. 


714 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Pbbk.  Ttme  tua  rei  offilur,  paries  cum 
proximua  ardet. 

Jespeb.  Y«a,  yee,  that's  a  good  lead  for 
you.  Answer  that,  now. 

MoNTANUB.  I  can't  answer  that;  it  is 
'  mere  mincemeat.  Let  us  talk  Dasiefa,  eo 
the  others  can  imderstaod ;  then  you  wOl  be 
able  to  hear  what  kmd  of  a  fellow  be  is. 

JxspEB.  What  are  you  crying  for,  my 
good  woman? 

Ntlle.  Oh,  I  am  so  sorry  that  my  son 
must  admit  himself  beaten  in  Latin. 

jBBPEit.  Oh,  it's  no  wonder,  my  good 
woman.  Peer  is,  of  course,  much  older  than 
he;  it  is  no  wonder.  Let  them  talk  Danish, 
then,  sa  we  all  understand  it. 

PxBR.  Yes,  certainly.  I  am  ready 
for  whichever  one  of  the  two  he  wishes. 
We  shall  propoee  certain  questions  to 
each  other;  for  example,  who  was  it  that 
screamed  so  loud  that  he  could  be  heard 
over  the  whole  world? 

MoNTANUB.  I  know  no  one  who  screams 
louder  than  asses  and  country  deacons. 

Pexh.  Nonsense!  Con  they  be  heard 
over  the  whole  world?  It  was  the  sse  in 
Noah's  ark;  for  the  whole  world  was  in  the 
ark. 

jEBPKft.  Ha,  ha,  ha!  That  is  true,  to  be 
sure.  Ha,  ha,  ha  I  Peer,  the  Deacon,  has  a 
fine  head  on  hia  shoulders. 

Peer.  Who  was  it  killed  a  quarter  of  the 
world? 

MoNTANDB.  Bahl  I  refuse  to  answer 
such  stupid  questions. 

Peer.  It  was  Gain,  who  killed  hin 
brother  Abel. 

MoNTANTTB.  Ptovc  that  there  were  no 
more  than  four  human  bcinga  at  the  time. 

pEBR.  You  prove  that  there  were  more. 

MONTANfS.  That  isn't  necessary;  for 
affirtTuiTde  incuinhii  probaiio.  Do  you 
understand  that? 

Peer.  Of  course  I  do.  Omnia  eanando 
dodiU  golerUa  vincit.  Do  you  understand 
that? 

MoTTTANUS.  I  am  a  perfect  fool  to  stand 
here  and  dispute  with  a  dunce.  You  wish 
to  dispute,  and  yet  know  neither  Latin  nor 
Danish;  much  less  do  you  know  what  logic 
V.  Let's  hear  once,  quid  eit  logtoa  t 


Peer.    Po»t  moUiAam  » 
molestam  tenedvlam  not  KaMial  humu*. 

MoHTANCS.  Are  you  trying  to  make  a 
fool  of  me,  you  rascal? 

[He  grdbt  him  bv  tJie  hair.    Tht 

Deacon     eacajiet     and     tliauU, 

"Dunce,   dunce!"    Exeunt  a& 

except  lU  Bailiff.] 

[Enter  Jeronimds.] 

Jeboniuub.    Your  servant,  Mr.  Bailiff. 

I  am  surprised  t«  find  you  here.    I  have 

come  to  see  my  future  son-in-law,  Rasnm 


Jebper.  He  will  be  here  in 
is  a  shame  that  youdid  n't  oome  a  half-hour 
sooner.  You  would  then  have  beard  him 
and  the  Deacon  disputing  together. 

Jeronimos.   How  did  it  come  out? 

Jebper.  Bhome  on  Peer,  the  Ddacon! 
He  is  worse  than  I  thought.  I  see  wd 
enough  that  he  has  fot^t  nothing  ^ttier  of 
his  Latin  or  Hebrew. 

Jeronimdb.  I  believe  that  welt  eaou^ 
for  he  probably  never  knew  much  of  either. 

Jespeb.  Don't  say  that,  Monsieur  J«tHi- 
imusl  He  has  a  devilish  clever  tongue.  It 
is  reallj  a  joy  to  hear  the  man  talk  Lfttin. 

JERONnnra.  That  is  more  than  I  should 
have  expected.  But  how  does  my  son  look? 

Jesper.  He  looks  confoundedly  learned. 
You  would  hardly  recognise  him.  He  hoe 
another  name,  too. 

Jeronimus.  Another  name!  What  doea 
he  call  himself? 

Jebper.  He  calls  himself  MoDtoniw, 
which  is  said  to  be  th6  same  as  RaBmua  in 

Jerontuub.  Oh,  shame!  that  is  wicked. 
I  have  known  many  who  have  changed 
their  Christian  names  in  that  way,  but  tb^ 
never  have  prospered.  Some  yearn  ago  I 
knew  a  person  who  was  christened  Peer, 
and  afterwards,  when  he  hod  become  a  man 
of  consequence,  wanted  to  be  coined  again, 
and  colled  himself  Peter.  But  that  name 
cost  him  dear,  for  he  broke  his  leg  and  died 
in  great  misery.  Our  Lord  does  n't  aUow 
such  a  thing,  Mr.  Bailiff. 

JxepEB.  I  don't  care  what  his  name  ie, 
but  I  don't  like  it  tJiat  he  has  such  peculiar 
opinions  in  religion. 


RASMUS   MONTANUS 


715 


Jbroniuitb.  What  kind  of  opiaioDB  has 
he,  then? 

Jbspek.  Oh,  it  'b  terrible  I  My  hair 
Btanda  on  end  when  I  think  of  it.  I  can't 
remember  all  that  I  heard,  but  I  know  that 
among  other  thiogB  he  said  that  the  earth 
wsa  round.  What  can  I  call  fiuch  a  thing, 
Monsieur  Jeronimua?  Tliat  is  nothing  elae 
than  overthrowing  all  religion  and  leading 
folk  away  from  the  faith.  A  heathen  cer- 
tainly cannot  speak  worse- 

Jbroniuub.  He  must  have  said  that 
only  in  jeet. 

Jksprm.  It  is  going  rather  too  far  to  joke 
about  such  things  as  that.  See,  here  he 
comes  himself . 

[Eraer  Mohtanos.} 

MoNTANtTs.  How  do  you  do,  my  dear 
father-in-law.  I  am  deUgbted  to  see  you  in 
good  health. 

jBRONiiniB.  People  of  my  age  can't 
enjoy  remarkable  health. 

MoKTANUB.  You  look  mighty  well, 
however. 

Jeboniuus.  Do  you  think  so? 

MoNTANus.  How  is  Miss  Lisbed7 

JntoNunra.  Oh,  well  enough. 

MoNTANDB.  But  what  is  the  matter?  It 
aeems  to  me,  my  dear  father-in-law,  that 
you  answer  me  rather  coldly. 

jEBONmuB.  I  have  no  good  reason  to  do 
otherwise. 

MoNTANus.  What  wrong  have  I  done? 

jBRONnfcs.  I  have  been  told  that  you 
have  such  peculiar  opinions  that  people 
might  really  think  tluit  you  had  become 
mad  or  deranged,  for  how  can  a  aone  man 
be  foolish  enough  to  say-that  the  earth  is 
round? 

MoNTANTTS.  But,  profedo,  it  is  round.  I 
must  speak  the  truth. 

Jeroniucb.  The  deuce  it  is  the  truth! 
Such  a  notion  can't  possibly  come  from 
anywhere  but  from  the  devil,  who  is  the 
father  of  lies,  I  am  sure  there  is  n't  a  sin^e 
man  here  in  the  village  who  would  not  con- 
demn such  an  opinion.  Just  aak  the  Bailiff, 
who  is  an  intelligent  man,  if  he  does  not 
agree  with  me. 

Jbbpbb.  It  is  really  all  one  to  me  whether 
h  is  oblong  or  round;  but  I  must  believe  my 


own  eyes,  which  show  me  that  the  earth  ib 
as  flat  as  a  pancake. 

MotTTANus.  It  is  all  one  to  me,  too,  what 
the  Bailiff  or  the  others  here  in  the  village 
think  on  the  subject;  for  I  know  that  Uie 
earth  is  round. 

JxBOKiiHTB.  The  deuce  it  is  round!  You 
must  be  ciaxj.  You  surely  have  eyes  in 
your  head  as  well  as  other  men. 

Moi4Tani;b.  It  is  known  for  certain,  my 
dear  father-in-law,  that  people  live  right 
under  us  with  their  feet  turned  toward 

JxSFEB.  Eo,  ha,  ha;  hi,  hi,  hi;  ha,  ha,  hal 

jBRONTirna.  Yes,  you  may  well  lau^ 
Mr.  Buliff ,  for  he  really  has  a  screw  loose  in 
his  head.  Just  you  try  to  walk  here  on  the 
ceiling  with  your  head  down,  and  see  then 
what  will  happen. 

Mont  ANUS.  That  is  an  entirely  different 
thing,  father-in-law,  becamie  — 

JEBomuuB.  I  will  never  in  the  world  be 
your  father-in-law.  I  love  my  daughter  too 
well  to  throw  her  away  like  that. 

Moi^ANUB.  I  love  your  daughter  as  my 
own  soul,  but  that  I  should  give  up  my 
philosophy  for  her  sake  and  drive  my  rea- 
son into  exile,  —  that  is  more  than  you  can 


Jeronimcs.  Ha,  hal  I  see  you  have 
another  lady-love  in  mind.  You  con  keep 
your  Lucy  or  your  Sophy.  I  certainly  shall 
not  force  my  daughter  on  you. 

MoNTANUB.  You  mistake  me.  Pbilos- 
ophy  is  nothing  other  than  a  science,  which 
has  opened  my  eyes,  in  this  respect  as  in 
others. 

JERONnroB.  It  has  rather  blinded  both 
your  eyes  and  your  understanding.  How 
can  you  believe  such  a  thing  is  good? 

MoNTAMCB.  That  is  something  whi^  is 
beyond  proof.  No  learned  man  doubts  that 
any  longer.  , 

Jebfbk.  I  warrant  you  will  never  get 
Peer,  the  Deacon,  to  agree  with  you. 

MoNTANUB.  Peer,  the  DeaconI  Yes,  he 
is  a  great  fellow.  I  am  a  fool  to  stand  here 
and  talk  about  philosophy  with  you.  But 
in  order  to  please  Monsieur  Jeronimus,  I 
will  nevertheless  present  one  or  two  proofs. 
First,  we  learn  it  from  travelers,  who,  when 
they  go  a  few  thousand  miles  from  here, 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


hare  day  while  we  have  night:  they  me 
other  heavena,  other  stora. 

jERONnnTB.  Are  you  craiy?  Is  there 
more  than  one  heaven  and  one  earth? 

Jespbb.  Vee,  indeed,  MonaieuT  Jwoni- 
mue,  there  are  twelve  hearena,  one  above 
the  other,  until  the  crynta]  heaven  is 
reached.  So  far  he  is  right. 

MoKTANUB.  Ahl  Quanta  len^rne  f 

jEBONnruB.  In  my  youth  I  went  sixteen 
times  to  the  nei^borhood  of  Kiel,  but  as 
sure  as  I  am  an  honorable  man,  I  never 
saw  a  different  heaven  from  what  we  have 

MoNTANDB.  You  Diu«t  travel  aixteen 
times  as  far,  Domine  Jeronime,  before  you 
can  notice  such  a  thing,  because — 

Jeboniudb.  Stop  talking  such  nonsense; 
it  is  neither  here  nor  there.  Let'shearyour 
other  proof. 

MoNTANCB.  The  other  proof  is  taken 
from  the  eclipse  of  the  sun  and  moon. 

Jebpzb.  Just  hear  thati  Now  be  is 
stark  mad. 

MoNTAsns.  What  do  you  really  Buppoee 
an  eclipse  to  be? 

Jesper-  Eclipeee  are  certain  signs  which 
are  placed  upon  the  aun  and  moon  when 
some  misfortune  is  going  to  happoi  on  the 
earth,  —  a  thing  1  can  prove  from  my  own 
experience:  when  my  wife  had  a  miscar- 
riage three  yean  ago,  and  when  my  dau^- 
ter  Qertrude  died,  both  times  there  were 
eclipses  just  before. 

MotrrANTB.  Oh,  such  nonsense  will 
drive  me  mad. 

Jeronimtjb.  The  Bailiff  is  right,  for  an 
eclipse  never  occurs  uiUess  it  is  a  warning 
of  something.  When  the  last  eclipse  hap- 
pened, everything  seemed  to  be  well,  but 
that  lUd  n't  last  long;  for  a  fortnight  after- 
wards we  got  news  from  Copenhagen  that 
six  candidates  for  degrees  were  rejected  at 
one  time,  all  persons  belonging  to  the  gen- 
try, and  two  of  them  the  sons  of  deacons. 
If  a  man  does  n't  hear  of  misfortune  at  one 
place  after  such  an  eclipse,  he  bean  of  it  at 
another. 

MoNTAMns.  That  is  true  enou^,  for  no 
day  passes  that  some  misfortune  does  not 
happen  somewhere  in  the  world.  But  as 
far  as  these  persons  you  mentioned  are  con- 


oemed,  they  have  no  need  to  blame  the 
eclipse,  for  if  they  had  studied  laan,  tbcr 
would  have  passed. 

Jeronuius.  What  is  an  ecUpee  of  the 
moon,  then? 

MoNTANns.  It  is  nothing  other  than  the 
earth's  shadow,  which  deprives  the  moon  of 
the  sunlight,  and  since  the  shadow  is  round, 
we  thereby  see  that  the  earth  is  round,  too. 
It  all  happens  in  a  natural  way,  for  eclipen 
can  be  predicted,  and  therefore  it  is  folly  to 
say  that  such  things  are  prophetic  warning 
of  misfortune. 

jKBONutne.  Oh,  Mr.  Bailifr,  I  fed  iH 
Unlucky  was  the  day  on  which  your  par- 
ents allowed  you  to  become  a  scholar. 

Jebpsb.  Yee,  he  comee  mighty  near  to 
being  an  atheist.  I  must  bring  him  and 
Peer,  the  Deacon,  together  again.  There  is 
a  man  who  speaks  with  force.  He  will  per- 
suade you  yet,  in  either  L«,tin  or  Greek, 
that  the  earth,  thank  God,  is  as  flat  as  my 
hand.  But  here  comee  Madame  Jeronimos 
with  her  daughter. 

[Enter  Maodelonx  and  LiSBEti.] 

MAanELOME.  Oh,  my  dear  son-in-law,  it 
is  a  delight  to  me  to  see  you  back  again  in 
good  health. 

LiBBED.  Oh,  my  darling,  let  me  hug  you. 

Jeronimub.  Slowly,  slowly,  my  child, 
not  BO  ardently. 

LiBBBD.  May  I  not  hug  my  sweetheatt 
when  I  have  n't  seen  him  for  years? 

Jeboniuub.  Keep  away  from  him,  I  td 
you,  or  else  you  will  get  a  beating. 

LiBBED  [tceepinp].  I  know  one  thing,  that 
we  have  been  publicly  betrothed. 

Jebonhcub.  That  is  true  enou^,  bat 
since  that  time  something  has  occurred  to 
hinder.  [Lisbbd  weeps.)  You  must  know, 
my  child,  that  when  be  became  engaged  to 
you  he  was  an  honest  man  and  a  pwd 
Christian.  But  now  he  is  a  heretic  and  a 
fanatic,  who  ought  to  be  introduced  to  tlie 
Litany  rather  than  into  our  family. 

LiBBED.  If  that  is  all,  father,  dear,  wi 
can  still  make  everything  ri^t. 

Jerontuus.  Keep  away  from  liim,  I  tell 
you. 


RASMUS  MONTANUS 


717 


Jbsrbb.  It's  a  bad  busuieBB,  mad&me. 
Be  introduoee  f&Iae  doctrine  into  thie  vil- 
lace,  saying  that  the  ^arth  is  round,  and 
other  thingi  of  euch  a  nature  that  I  should 
bluflh  to  mention  them. 

JBBONijnre.  Don't  you  tliink  that  the 
good  old  parents  are  to  be  pitied  who  have 
■pent  so  much  money  on  bim? 

Maodblons.  Oh,  is  that  all?  If  he  loves 
our  daughter,  he  will  give  up  his  opinion 
and  say  that  the  earth  is  flat,  (or  her  sake. 

LiBBiD.  Oh,  my  dear,  for  my  sake  aay 
that  it  is  flat! 

MoNTANUB.  I  cannot  humor  you  in  this, 
BO  long  as  1  am  in  full  poveesion  of  my  rea- 
BOD.  I  cannot  give  the  earth  another  shape 
from  what  it  has  by  nature.  For  your  sake 
I  will  say  and  do  whatever  is  paaasible  for 
me;  but  in  this  one  thing  I  can  never  humor 
you,  for  if  the  brothers  in  my  order  should 
find  out  that  1  had  given  expression  to  euch 
an  opinion,  I  should  b«  thought  a  fool,  and 
despised.  Besides,  we  learned  folk  never 
give  up  our  opinions,  but  defend  what  we 
^ve  once  said  to  the  uttermost  drop  of  our 
inkhoms. 

MAODBLom.  See  here,  husband,  I  don't 
tbink  it  matters  so  much  that  we  should 
break  off  the  match  on  that  account. 

jESONorOB.  And  merely  on  that  account 
I  should  try  to  have  them  divorced  eve 
they  had  been  actually  married. 

Maqdelone.  You  had  better  believe  I 
have  something  to  say  in  this  matter,  too ;  for 
'  if  she  is  your  daughter,  she  is  mine  as  well. 

LiBBXo  [weeping].  Oh,  my  dear,  do  say 
that  it  is  flat. 

MoNTANTTB,  Pro/tcto,  I  really  cannot. 

Jehoniuub.  Listen,  wife:  you  must 
know  that  I  am  the  head  of  the  house,  and 
that  I  am  her  father. 

Maodelone.  You  must  also  know  that  I 
am  the  mistress  of  the  house,  and  that  I  a 
hm  mother. 

Jebonimus.  I  say  that  a  father  is  always 
niore  than  a  mother. 

Maodeuine.  And  I  say  not,  for  there 
can  be  no  doubt  that  I  am  her  mother,  but 
wheUier  you  —  I  had  better  not  say  any 
more,  tor  I  am  getting  excit«d. 

LiBBED  [weeping].  Oh,  my  heart,  can't 
jrou  say  just  for  my  Bake  that  it  is  SatT 


MoNTANiTB.  I  cannot,  my  doll,  nam 
eonln  natvram  eat. 

Jeronimdb.  What  did  you  mean  by 
that,  my  wife?  Am  I  not  her  father  as 
surely  as  you  are  her  mother?  —  List«n, 
Lisbed,  am  I  not  your  father? 

LisBED.  I  think  so,  for  my  mother  saya 
so;  but  I  know  that  sh<i  b  my  mother. 

Jbboniuub.  What  do  you  think  of  thk 
talk,  Mr.  Bailiff? 

Jbsfvr.  I  can't  say  that  mamselle  is 
wrong  in  this  matter,  for  — 

jBRONnnrs.  Thatiaenou^.  Come,  let  us 
go  —  You  may  be  sure,  my  good  RasmUB 
Berg,  that  you  will  never  get  my  dau^t«r 
so  long  as  you  cling  to  your  delusions. 

Lisbed  [v>eeping].  Oh,  my  heart,  do  say 
that  it  is  flat! 

JanoKivuB.  Out,  out  of  the  doorl 

[ExeutU  Jeromiuub,  MAQMLom, 
arid  LiBBED.) 


Befort  Jepfb's  houte. 
[Enter  Momtanus.] 

MoNTANUB.  Here  I  have  been  worried 
for  a  good  hour  by  my  parents,  who  with 
sighing  and  weeping  try  to  persuade  me  to 
give  up  my  opinions;  but  they  don't  know 
Erasmus  Montanus.  Not  if  I  were  to  be 
made  an  emperor  for  it  would  I  renounce 
what  I  once  have  sud.  I  love  Mademoi- 
selle Elisabet,  to  be  sure;  but  that  I  should 
sacrifice  philosophy  for  her  sake,  and  re- 
pudiate what  I  have  publicly  maintained 
—  that  is  out  of  the  question.  I  hope, 
though,  that  it  will  all  come  out  right,  and 
that  I  shall  win  my  sweetheart  without  los- 
ing my  reputation.  Once  T  get  a  chance  to  , 
talk  to  Jeronimus,  I  can  convince  him  of 
his  errors  so  conclusively  that  he  will  agreo 
to  the  match.  But  there  are  the  Deacon 
and  the  Bailiff,  coming  from  my  father- 
and  mother-in-law's. 

[Enter  Pebb  and  Jebfbb.] 

Jkspkb.  My  dear  Monsieur  Montanui, 
we  have  been  working  hard  for  you  Uiis 
day, 


7i8 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


MoNTANDB.  What'a  that? 

Jebper.  We  have  intervened  between 
your  parents  and  your  parente-in-law  to 
bring  about  a  recoucihation. 

MoNTANDB.  Well,  what  have  you  accom- 
pliehed?   Did  my  father-in-law  give  way? 

JE8PBB-.  The  last  words  he  said  to  uh 
were,  "  There  has  never  been  anyhereey  in 
our  family.  You  tell  Rasmus  Berg"  ^  I 
merely  quote  his  words;  he  never  once  said 
MontanuB  Berg  —  "You  tell  Rasmus  Berg 
from  me,"  said  he,  "that  my  wife  and  I  are 
both  honeet,  God-fearing  people,  who 
would  rather  wring  -our  daughter's  neck 
than  marry  her  to  any  one  who  says  that 
the  earth  is  round,  and  brings  false  doctrine 
into  the  village." 

Peer.  To  tell  the  truth,  we  have  alwayi 
had  pure  faith  here  on  the  hill,  and  Mon- 
sieur Jeronimus  is  n't  far  wrong  in  wishing 
to  bresJc  off  the  match. 

MoKTANtiB.  My  good  friends,  t«ll  Mon- 
sieur Jeronimus  from  me  that  he  is  com- 
mitting a  sin  in  attempting  to  force  me  to 
repudiate  what  I  once  have  said  —  a  thing 
contrary  to  leges  gcholattkat  and  ammietu- 
4inea  Iauda6tles. 

pBKB.  Oh,  DominusI  Will  you  give  up 
your  pretty  sweetheart  for  such  trifies? 
Eroiy  one  will  speak  ill  of  it. 

MoHTANna-  The  common  man,  vu^us, 
will  apeak  ill  of  it;  but  my  eommUilioTiet, 
my  comrades,  will  praise  me  to  the  skies  for 
my  constancy. 

PxEB.  Do  you  consider  it  a  sin  to  say 
that  the  earth  is  flat  or  oblong? 

MoNTANua.  No,  I  do  not,  but  I  consider 
it  shameful  and  dishoDort^le  for  me,  a 
Baaxtlawexu  PhiloBopkue,  to  repudiate 
what  I  have  publicly  maintained,  and  to  do 
anything  that  ie  improper  for  one  of  my 
arder.  My  duty  is  to  see  to  it  that  ne  quid 
detrimerUi  paiiatw  reipublica  phUotophiat. 

Pekb.  But  if  you  can  be  convinced  that 
what  you  believe  is  false,  do  you  consider  it 
a  ain  to  give  up  your  opinion? 

MoNTANUB.  Prove  to  me  that  it  is  false, 
and  that  methodic^. 

PmB.  I^at  is  an  easy  thing  for  me  to 
do.  Now,  a  great  many  fine  people  live 
here  in  the  village :  first,  your  father-in-law, 
who  has  become  distinguished  by  the  ntere 


use  of  his  pen;  next,  myself,  unworthy  mu, 
who  have  been  deacon  here  for  fourteen  faB 
years;  then  this  good  man,  the  Bailiff,  be- 
sides the  parish  Constable,  and  various 
other  good  men  established  here  who  have 
paid  their  taxes  and  land-rent  in  both  good 
times  and  bad. 

MoNTANUB.  That's  the  deuoe  of  a  tj/U 
logumtt.  What  does  all  such  nonaoiK 
lead  to? 

Pexr,  I'm  coming  to  that  directly.  I 
say,  just  ask  any  one  of  these  eood  men 
who  live  here  in  the  village  and  see  if  any 
of  them  will  agree  with  you  that  the  world 
is  round.  I'm  sure  a  man  ought  to  believe 
what  BO  many  say,  rather  than  wh&t  only 
one  says.  Ergo,  you  are  wrong. 

MONTANUB.  You  may  bring  all  the  peo- 
ple on  the  hill  and  let  them  oppose  me  both 
in  this  matter  and  others,  and  I  shall  elon 
the  mouths  of  all  of  them.  Such  people  havs 
no  convictions;  tbey  must  believe  what  I 
and  other  folk  say. 

Pebr.  But  if  you  should  say  the  moon 
was  made  of  green  cheese,  would  tliey  be- 
lieve that,  too? 

MoNTANTB.  Whynot?  Tell  me,  whatdo 
the  people  here  think  you  are? 

Peer.  They  believe  that  I  am  a  good, 
honest  man  and  deacon  here  in  this  place; 
which  is  true. 

MaNTAMtia.  And  I  say  it  is  a  lie.  I  say 
you  are  a  cook,  and  I  diall  prove  it,  as 
surely  as  two  and  three  make  five- 

Pexs.  The  devil  you  willt  Now,  liow 
can  I  be  a  cock?  How  can  you  prove  that? 

MovTANCS.  Can  you  tell  me  anything 
to  prevent  you  from  being  one? 

PzBR.  In  the  first  place  I  can  talk;  a 
cock  cannot  talk;  ergo,  I  am  not  a  cock. 

MoNTAircB.  Talldng  does  not  prove  any- 
thing. A  parrot  or  a  starling  can  talk,  too; 
that  does  not  make  tbem  human  beinp  by 
any  means. 

PaxB,  I  can  prove  it  from  something 
dae  besides  talking.  A  cock  has  no  hunian 
intelligence.  I  have  human  intelligence; 
ergo,  I  am  not  a  oock. 

M0NTAM08.  Proba  minorem. 

Jebfbb.  Aw,  talk  Danish. 

MoNTANUs.  I  want  him  to  prove  that  bi 
haa  the  intelligence  of  a  humaa  bein^ 


RASMUS  MONTANUS 


Pbkr.  See  here,' I  discharge  the  duties  of 
jay  office  irreproachably,  don't  17 

MoNTANTJB.  What  are  the  main  duties  of 
your  office  wherein  you  show  human  intel- 


Pber.  Firat,  I  never  foi^t  to  ring  for 
service  at  the  hour  appointed.  > 

Montanhs.  Nor  does  s  cock  forget  to 
crow  and  make  known  the  hour  and  tell 
people  when  to  get  up. 

I%ss.  Second,  I  can  sing  as  well  as  any 
deacon  iu  SjsUand. 

MoNTANDB.  And  our  cock  otowb  as  well 
as  any  cock  in  BjsUand. 

PxsR.  I  can  mould  wax  candles,  which 
no  cock  can  do. 

MoN-ruius.  Over  against  that,  a  cock 
can  make  a  ben  lay  %ge,  which  you  can't 
do.  Don't  you  lee  that  the  intolligeneeyou 
show  in  your  calling  fails  to  prove  that  you 
are  better  than  a  cock?  Let  us  see,  in  a  sut- 
shell,  what  points  you  have  iu  common 
with  a  cock:  A  cock  has  a  comb  on  his  head, 
you  have  horns  on  your  forehead;  a  cock 
crows,  you  crow,  too;  a  cock  is  proud  of  his 
voice  and  ruffiee  himself  up,  you  do  like- 
wise; a  cook  gives  warning  when  it  is  time 
to  get  up,  you  when  it  is  time  tor  aervice. 
Ergo,  you  are  a  cock.  Have  you  anythii^ 
else  to  say?  [Pbbr  eriet.] 

jKapBB.  Here,  don't  cry.  Peer!  Why  do 
you  heed  such  thingsT 

PxER.  A  plague  on  me  if  it's  not 
sheer  falsehood.  I  can  get  a  certificate 
from  the  whole  vill^e  that  I  am  not  a 
rooeter;  that  not  one  of  my  forbears  has 
been  anything  but  a  Christian  human  be- 
ing. 

MoNTANUs.  Refute,  then,  this  tyUogu- 
mua,  quern  tibi  propono.  A  cock  has  certain 
peculiarities  which  distinguish  him  from 
other  animals:  he  wakes  people  by  a  noise 
when  it's  time  to  get  up;  announces  the 
hours;  plumes  himself  on  his  voice;  wears 
protuberances  ou  his  head.  You  have  the 
same  peculiarities.  Ergo,  you  are  a  cock. 
Refute  me  that  argument. 

[Pbxr  weepa  o^n.] 

Jebper.   If  the  Deacon  can't  shut  you 

IB.  Let  us  hear  your  argument, 


Jespkb.  First,  my  conscience  tells  me 
that  your  opinion  is  false. 

MoNTANus.  One  cannot  pass  judgment 
in   all   matten   according   to   a  bailiff's 


Jesfbr.  In  the  second  place,  I  say  that 
everything  you  have  said  is  sheer  false' 
hood. 

Moi«TAMvs.  Prove  it. 

Jebfeb.  In  the  third  place,  I  am  an 
honest  man,  whose  word  has  always  de- 
served to  be  believed. 

MoNTANua.  That  sort  of  talk  will  oon- 

Jebpeb.  In  the  fourth  place,  I  say  that 
you  have  spoken  like  a  knave  and  tl^t  the 
tongue  ought  to  be  cut  out  of  your  mouth. 

MoNTANua.  I  still  hear  no  proof. 

Jebper.  And,  finally,  in  the  fifth  place, 
I  will  prove  it  to  you  abundantly  either 
with  swords  or  with  bare  fists. 

MoNTANDB.  No,  I  do  not  care  for  either, 
thank  you;  but  as  long  as  you  wish  to  dis- 
put«  with  the  mouth  only,  you  shall  find 
that  I  can  justify  not  only  tjie  things  which 
I  have  said,  but  more,  too.  Come  on,  Mr. 
Bailiff,  I  will  prove  by  sound  logic  that  you 
are  a  bull. 

Jebpxb.  The  devil  you  will. 

MoHTAKOs.  Just  have  the  patience  to 
hear  my  argument. 

Jespxb.  Come,  Peer,  let's  go. 

MONTAwnB.  I  prove  it  in  this  way. 
Quicimqve  ~  jJbsper  shritks  and  putt  kii 
hand  over  KiUtBMUB'e  mouth.]  If  you  do  not 
wish  to  hear  my  proof  this  time,  you  can 
meet  me  another  time,  whenever  you 
please. 


such  a  fanatic. 

lExeurU  Jebpbb  and  Peer.I 
MoNTANCs.  I  can  dispute  dispassion- 
ately with  these  people,  however  harshly 
they  speak  to  me.  I  do  not  become  hot< 
headed  unless  I  dispute  with  people  who 
imagine  that  they  understand  methodvm 
disptUandi  and  that  they  are  just  as  well 
versed  in  philosophy  as  1.  For  this  reason 
I  was  ten  times  as  zealous  when  I  argued 
against  the  student  to-day;  for  he  had  some 
appearance  of  learning.  But  here  come  my 
patents. 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


[Enter  Jbppb  and  Nillx.] 

Jeffe.  Oh,  my  de&r  aou,  don't  cany  on 
ao,  and  don't  quarrel  with  everybody.  The 
Bailiff  and  Deacon,  who  at  our  requeat 
undertook  to  make  peace  between  you  and 
your  father-in-law,  have,  I  hear,  been  made 
sport  of.  What  is  the  use  of  turning  good 
folk  into  cocks  and  bulla? 

MoNTANus,  For  this  purpose  I  have 
studied,  for  this  purpose  I  have  racked  my 
brains:  that  i  may  say  what  I  choose,  and 
justify  it. 

JzFPE.  It  seems  to  me  that  it  would 
have  been  better  never  to  have  studied  in 
that  way. 

MoNTANUB.  Keep  your  mouth  shut,  old 

Jbppe.  You're  not  going  to  beat  your 
parents? 

MoNTANns.  If  I  did,  I  should  justify 
that,  too,  before  the  whole  world. 

[Exeunt  Jippb  and  Nillb  weeping.] 
{Enter  Jacob.] 

I  will  not  abandon  my  opiniooa,  even  if 
they  aU  go  mad  at  once. 

Jacob.  I  have  a  letter  for  mossur. 

[Giiiet  Aim  the  Utter,  and  exit.] 

MoKtants  [reading]. 

"My  dearest  friend  I  I  could  never  have 
imagined  that  you  would  so  easily  abandon 
her  who  for  so  many  years  has  loved  you 
with  such  faith  and  constancy.  1  can  tell 
you  for  a  certainty  that  my  father  is  so  set 
against  the  notion  that  the  earth  is  round, 
and  considers  it  such  an  important  article 
of  faith,  that  he  will  never  give  me  to  you 
unless  you  assent  to  the  belief  that  he  and 
the  other  good  folk  here  in  the  village  hold. 
What  difference  can  it  make  to  you  whether 
the  earth  is  oblong,  round,  eight-cornered, 
or  square?  I  beg  of  you,  by  all  the  love  I 
have  borne  you,  that  you  conforin  to  the 
faith  in  which  we  here  on  the  hill  have  been 
happy  for  so  long.  If  you  do  not^umor  me 
in  this,  you  may  be  sure  that  I  shall  die  of 
grief,  and  the  whole  world  will  abhor  you 
for  causing  the  death  of  one  who  has  loved 
you  as  her  own  soul. 

"Elieabeth,  daugliter  of  Jertmimut, 
"by  htr  ot/m  hood." 


Oh,  Heavensl  This  letter  moves  me  and 
throws  me  into  great  irresolution  — 

Ulqueaectin 
Saucia  (m&j  ingens,  ubi  plaga  ncvitaima  ratal. 
Quo  cadat  in  dubio  e»t,  omnigiM  a  parte  timetur. 


On  the  one  hand  is  Kiilosophy,  btdding 
me  stand  firm;  on  the  other,  my  sweetheart 
reproaching  me  with  coldness  and  faitb- 
leasness.  But  should  Erasmus  Montanos 
for  any  reason  renounce  his  convictku, 
hitherto  his  one  virtue?  No,  indeed,  by  no 
means.  Yet  here  is  necessity,  which  knows 
no  law.  If  I  do  not  submit  in  this,  I  sfasD 
make  both  myself  and  my  sweetheart  mis- 
erable. She  wilt  die  of  grief,  and  alt  Uw 
world  will  hate  me  and  reproach  me  with 
my  faithlessness.  Ought  I  abandon  her, 
when  she  has  loved  me  constantly  for  so 
many  years?  Ought  I  be  the  cause  of  her 
death?  No,  that  must  not  be.  StiU,  oon- 
sider  what  you  are  doing,  Eraamut  Mot^- 
lane,  Mutarum  et  ApoUonii  pulU  !  l^re 
you  have  the  chanoe  to  show  that  you  an  a 
true  j^tilott/phtt.  The  greater  the  danger, 
the  larger  the  laurel  wreath  you  win  Mta" 
■pkiiotophoe.  "Diink  what  your  commiJt- 
timea  wilt  say  when  they  bear  somedung 
like  this:  "He  is  no  longer  tlie  £!raamuB 
MontanuB  who  hitherto  has  ddended  tiis 
opinions  to  the  last  drop  of  tiis  blood."  II 
common  and  ignorant  people  reproach  me 
with  unfaithfulness  to  my  sweetheart, 
•phiiotophi,  for  tbeir.part,  will  exalt  too  b> 
the  sines.  The  very  thing  wtiich  diegnuxs 
me  in  the  eyes  of  the  one  party  erowna  ms 
with  honor  among  the  other.  I  must  theca- 
f  ore  resist  the  temptation.  I  am  resistiiig  it. 
I  conquer  it.  I  liave  already  conqiuwed  it. 
The  earth  is  round.  Jada  eat  olaa.  DitL 
[CaRe.]  Jacob! 

[Enter  Jacob.] 

Jacob,  the  letter  which  you  delivered  to 
me  from  my  sweetheart  has  had  no  influ- 
ence upon  me.  I  adhere  to  what  I  have 
said.  "The  earth  is  round,  and  it  shall  never 
become  flat  as  long  as  my  head  remaina  on 
my  shoulders. 

Jacob.  I  lieUeve,  too,  that  the  earth  ■ 
round,  but  if  toy  one  ipve  b 


RASMUS   MONTANUS 


7JI 


to  U7  it  was  oblotig,  I  should  wy  that  it 
wu  oblong,  for  it  would  make  no  difference 

MONTANUs.  That  might  be  proper  for 
you,  but  not  for  a  phitoaojAitt,  whose  prin- 
cipal virtue  is  to  justify  to  the  uttermost 
what  he  once  haa  said.  I  will  dispute  pub- 
licly on  the  subject  here  in  the  village  and 
challenge  all  who  have  studied. 

Jacob.  But  might  I  aek  mossur  one 
thing;  If  you  win  the  disputation,  what  will 
be  the  result? 

MoNTANtjB.  The  result  will  be  that  I 
shall  have  the  honor  of  winning  and  shall 
be  recognised  as  a  learned  man. 

Jacob.  Mossur  means  a  talkative  man. 
I  have  noticed,  from  the  people  here  in  the 
village,  that  wisdom  and  talking  are  not 
the  same  thing.  Rasmus  Hansen,  who  is 
always  talking,  and  whom  no  one  can 
stand  against  in  the  matter  of  words,  is 
granted  by  every  one  to  have  just  plain 
goose  sense.  On  the  other  hand,  the  parish 
Constable,  Niels  Christ«nsen,  who  says 
little  and  always  gives  in,  is  admitted  to 
have  an  understanding  of  the  duties  of 
Chief  Bailiff. 

MoNTANua.  Will  you  liBl«n  to  the  ra»- 
caiT   Faith,  he's  trying  to  argue  with  me. 

Jacob.  Mossur  must  n't  take  offense.  I 
talk  only  according  to  my  simple  under- 
standing, and  ask  only  in  order  to  leom.  I 
should  like  to  know  whether,  when  mossur 
wins  the  dispute.  Peer,  the  Deacon,  will 
thereupon  be  turned  into  a  cockT 

MotrrANits.  Nonsensel  He  will  stay  the 
same  as  he  was  before. 

Jacob.  Well,  then,  moasur  would  lose! 

MoNTANca.  1  shall  not  allow  myself  to 
be  drawn  into  dispute  with  a  rogue  of  a 
peasant  like  you.  If  you  understood  Latin, 
lahouldreadilyobligeyou.  lamnotaccus- 
tomod  U)  disputation  in  Danish. 

Jacob.  That  is  to  say,  mossur  haa  be- 
come BO  learned  that  he  cannot  make  clear 
his  meaning  in  his  mother  tongue. 

Mont  ANUS.  Be  silent,  audaci»sime 
juotnit  I  Why  should  I  exert  myself  to 
explain  my  opinions  to  ooarse  and  common 
folk,  who  don't  know  what  unui«rwiia 
mtia  ralionii  forma  mbatantuiUs  are?  It 
ontainly  is  ahturHtrimwn  to  try  to  prate  of 


colors  to  the  blind.    Ful^u*  mdoctum  ett 

morutrum  horrendxan  mforme,  oii  lumen 
adenvptvm.  Not  long  ago  a  man  ten  times 
as  learned  as  you  wished  to  dispute  with 
me,  hut  when  I  found  that  he  did  not  know 
what  quidditat  was,  I  promptly  refused  him. 

Jacob.  What  does  that  word  quiMibM 
mean?  Was  n't  that  it? 

MoNTANDS.  I  know  well  enough  what  it 

Jacob.  Perhaps  mossur  knows  it  him- 
self, but  eon't  explain  it  to  others.  What 
little  I  know,  I  know  in  such  a  way  that  all 
men  can  grasp  it  when  I  say  it  to  them. 

MoNTANca.  Yes,  you  are  a  learned  fel' 
low,  Jacob.  What  do  you  know? 

Jacob.  What  if  I  could  prove  that  I  am 
more  learned  than  mossur? 

MoNTANUB,,  I  should  like  to  hear  you. 

Jacob.  He  who  studies  the  most  impor- 
tant things,  I  think,  has  the  most  thorough 
learning. 

MoNTANUB.  Yes,  that  is  true  enough. 

Jacob.  I  study  fanning  and  the  cultiva- 
tion of  the  soil.  For  that  reason  I  am  more 
learned  than  mossur. 

MONTANUB.  Do  you  believe  that  rou^ 
peasants'  work  is  the  most  important? 

Jacob.  I  don't  know  about  that.  But  I 
do  know  that  if  we  farmers  should  take  a 
pen  or  a  piece  of  chalk  in  our  hands  to  cal- 
culate bow  far  it  is  to  the  moon,  you  learned 
men  would  soon  suffer  in  the  stomach.  You 
scholars  spend  the  time  disputing  whethei 
the  earth  is  round,  square,  or  eight-cor- 
nered, and  we  study  how  to  keep  the  earth 
in  repair.  Does  mossur  see  now  that  our 
studies  are  more  useful  and  important  than 
his,  and,  therefore,  Niels  Christensen  is  the 
most  learned  man  here  in  the  village,  be- 
cause he  has  improved  his  farm  so  that  an 
acre  of  it  is  rated  at  thirty  rix-dollars  more 
than  in  the  time  of  his  predecessor,  who  sat 
all  day  with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth,  smudging 
and  nunpBng  Dr.  Arent  Hvitfeld's  Chron- 
ide  or  a  book  of  sermons? 

MoNTANCs.  You  will  be  the  death  of 
me;  it  is  the  devil  incarnate  who  is  talking 
I  never  in  all  my  life  thought  such  words 
could  come  from  a  pessant-boy's  mouth. 
For  although  all  you  have  said  is  false  and 
ungodly,  still  it  is  an  unusual  speech  for  one 


733 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


in  your  w^  of  life.  Tell  ine  this  minute 
from  whom  fou  have  learned  such 
nonsense. 

Jacob.  I  have  not  studied,  mosBur,  but 
people  say  I  have  a  good  head.  The  Dis- 
trict Judge  never  comee  to  town  but  he 
sends  for  me  at  once.  He  has  told  my  par- 
ents a  hundred  times  that  I  ought  to  de"ote 
myself  to  books,  and  thut  something  great 
might  be  made  of  me.  When  I  have  noth- 
ing to  do,  I  go  speculating,  The  other  day  I 
made  a  verse  on  Morten  Nielsen,  who 
dmnk  himself  to  death. 

MoNTANTiB.  Let  us  hear  the  verse. 

Jacob.  You  must  kaow,  fiist,  that  the 
father  and  the  grandfather  of  this  same 
Morten  were  both  fisheimen,  and  were 
drowned  at  sea.  This  was  how  the  verse 

Here  lies  the  body  of  Morten  Nielsen; 

To  follow  the  footsteps  of  his  forbears, 

Who  died  in  the  water  aa  fiahennen. 

He  drowned  hirosett  in  brandy. 

I  had  to  read  the  verse  before  the  Dis- 
trict Judge  the  other  day,  and  he  had  it 
written  down  and  gave  me  two  marks  for  it. 

M0NTAWD8.  The  poem,  though  forma- 
liier  very  bad,  is  none  the  less  matervUiter 
excellent.  The  prosody,  which  is  the  most 
important  thing,  is  tacking. 

Jacob.  What  doee  that  mean? 

MoNTAKua.  Certain  lines  have  not 
pedtt,  or  feet,  enough  to  walk  on. 

Jacob.  Feetl  I  would  have  you  know 
that  in  a  few  days  it  ran  over  the  whole 
countryside. 

MoNTAJJDB.  I  see  you  have  a  crafty 
head.  I  could  wish  that  you  had  studied 
and  understood  your  Phdosophiam  vrutru- 
mentaUm,  so  you  could  dispute  under  me. 
Come^  let  us  go.  [ExeiMt.] 

ACT  V 

Same  as  in  Aa  IV. 
lErUer  a  lAeiUeruud,  Jebpeb,  the  Bailiff.^ 
Lieutenant.  How  can  I  manage  to  see 
the  fellow  Mr.  BailiffT  I  should  like  to 
have  a  talk  with  him.  la  he  a  likely  looking 
Wlow7 


JssFEB.  Oh,  he  looks  pretty  well,  and  bf 
has  a  mouth  like  a  rasor. 

Lieutenant.  That  makes  no  differencCi 
so  long  as  he's  strong  and  active. 

Jebper.  He  can  say  anything  he  wants, 
and  maintain  it.  He  proved  beyond  ■ 
doubt  that  Peer,  the  Deacon,  was  a  cock. 

LixiJTENAMT.  Is  he  good  and  tend 
across  the  shoulders? 

Jesfeb.  a  big,  strong  lad.  Every  one  io 
the  house  here  is  afraid  of  him,  even  fait 
parents,  for  he  can  turn  them  into  oowi, 
oicen,  and  horses,  then  back  again  into  peo- 
ple, —  that  is,  he  can  prove  that  they  are, 
from  books. 

LiEirrsNANT.  Does  he  look  aa  if  he  oculd 
stand  knocking  about? 

Jebpeb.  And  he  proved  that  the  earth 
was  round,  too. 

Lieutenant.  That  does  n't  matter  to 
me.  Does  he  look  as  if  he  were  brave,  and 
had  a  stout  heart? 

Jb6fxr.  He  would  stake  his  life  for  a  let- 
ter of  the  alphabet,  not  to  mention  any- 
thing else.  He  has  set  every  one  here  by 
the  ears,  but  that  makes  no  difference  tii 
him  -~  he  won't  budge  from  his  opinicMa 
and  his  learning. 

Lieutenant.  Mr.  Bailiff,  from  all  I 
hear,  he  will  make  a  perfect  soldier. 

Jebper.  How  can  you  make  a  aoldier  of 
him,  Lieutenant?   He  is  a  student. 

Lieutenant.  That  has  nothing  to  d(> 
with  it.  If  he  can  turn  people  into  sheep. 
oxen,  and  cocks,  I 'II  have  a  tiy  at  taming  a 
student  into  a  soldier,  for  once. 

Jebper.  I  should  be  happy  if  you  oonld. 
I  should  laugh  my  belly  in  two. 

LmHTENANT.  Just  keep  quiet  about  it, 
Jesperl  When  a  bailiff  and  a  lieutotant 
put  their  heads  together,  such  things 
are  not  impoaaible.  But  I  see  some  one 
coming  this  way.  Is  that  he,  by  any 
chance? 

Jbsfvr.  Yee,  itis.  I  ehall  run  off,  so  that 

he  won't  suspect  me.  [ExU.1 

[Enier  Montanub.] 

LiETrrsNAMT.  Welcome  to  the  village. 

MoNTANCB.  I  humbly  thank  you. 

LiEUTENAKT.  I  have  taken  the  liberty  of 
addreeung  yc/u,  because  there  are  n't  manv 


RASMUS   MONTANUS 


72i 


educated  people  hereaboute  for  a  man  to 
talk  to. 

MoNTAKUB.  I  am  delighted  that  you 
have  been  a  scholar.  When  did  you  gradu- 
ate, if  I  may  inquireT 

LmnTEKANT,  Oh,  ten  y«are  ago. 

MoNTANUs.  Then  you  are  an  old  aeade- 
mvcua.  What  waa  your  specialty  when  you 
were  a  student? 

LreuTBNAWT.  I  read  mostly  the  old 
lAtin  authors,  fmd  studied  natural  law 
and  moral  problems,  as  in  fact  I  do 
still. 

M0NTANTJ8.  That  is  mere  trumpery,  not 
academicam.  Did  you  lay  no  stress  on 
Phiioaopkiam  intlrumenlaiem  t 

Lieutenant.  Not  especially. 

MoNTANua.  Then  you  have  never  done 
any  diiiputatioii? 

Lieutenant.  No. 

M0NTAKC8.  Well,  is  that  studying? 
PkUotophia  iiulrtimenlaiia  is  the  only  solid 
atudiwn;  the  rest  are  all  very  fine,  but  they 
are  not  learned.  One  who  is  well  drilled  in 
Lofiea  and  Melayhynca  can  get  himself  out 
of  any  difficulty  and  dispute  on  all  subjeote, 
even  if  he  is  unfamiliar  with  them.  I  know 
of  nothing  which  I  should  take  upon  my- 
self to  defend  and  not  get  out  of  it  very 
well.  There  was  never  any  disputation  at 
the  university  in  which  I  did  not  take  part. 
A  phUoiophue  imlntmenlalie  can  pose  for  a 
polykisloT, 

Lieutenant.  Who  is  the  beet  disputer 
nowadays? 

MoNTANUB.  A  student  called  Peer  Iver- 
son.  When  he  has  refuted  his  opponent  so 
that  he  has  n't  a  word  to  say  for  himself,  he 
says,  "Now,  if  you  will  take  my  proposi- 
tion, I  will  defend  yours,"  In  all  tiiat  sort 
of  thing  his  PkUotophia  iTUtrurnenlalia  is 
the  greatest  help.  It  is  a  shame  that  the 
lad  did  not  become  a  lawyer;  he  could  have 
made  a  mighty  good  living.  Next  to  him,  I 
am  the  strongest,  for  the  last  time  I  dis- 
puted, he  whispered  in  my  ear,  "Jam 
swnus  ergo  parte."  Yet  I  will  always  yield 
him  the  palm. 

LixnTENANT.  But  I  have  heard  it  said 
that  monsieur  can  prove  that  it  is  the  duty 
of  a  child  to  beat  his  parents.  That  seems 
to  be  abauid. 


MoNTAxua.  If  I  said  it,  I  am  the  man  te 
defend  it. 

Li&UTENANT.  I  dare  w^eer  a  ducat  that 
you  are  not  clever  enoi^  for  that. 

MoNTANCs.  I  will  risk  a  ducat  on  it. 

LiEtTTENANT.  Good.  It  is  agreed.  Now, 
let's  hear  you. 

MoNTANua.  He  whom  one  loves  most^ 
he  beats  most.  One  ought  to  love  nobody 
more  than  his  parents,  ergo,  there  is  nobody 
whom  one  ought  to  beat  more.  Now,  in 
another  syllogism:  what  one  has  received 
he  ought,  according  to  his  ability,  to  return. 
In  my  youth  I  received  blows  from  my 
parents.  Ergo,  I  ought  to  give  them  blows 
in  return. 

Lieutenant.  Enou^,  enough,  I  have 
lost.  Faith,  you  shall  have  your  ducat. 

MoKTANiTS.  Oh,  you  were  not  in  earnest; 
I  will  profecio  take  no  money. 

Lieutenant,  Upon  my  word,  you  shal. 
take  it.  I  swear  you  shall. 

MoNTANTS.  Then  I  will  take  it  to  keefi 
you  from  breaking  an  oath. 

IiiEUTHNANT.  But  may  I  not  also  try  ta 
turn  you  into  something?  Par  exempU,  I 
will  turn  you  into  a  soldier. 

MoNTANUs.  Oh,  that  is  very  easy,  for  ali 
students  are  soldiers  of  the  intellect. 

Lieutenant.  No,  I  shall  prove  that  you 
are  a  soldier  in  body.  Whoever  has  taken 
press-money  is  an  enlisted  soldier.  You 
have  done  so,  ergo  — 

MoNTANDB.  Nego  minorein. 

Lieutenant.  Et  ego  probo  minorem  by 
the  two  rix-dollars  you  took  into  your  hand. 

MoNTANUB.      Digtinguendum    eel    inter 


Lieiitenant.  No  distinction  I  You  are  a 
soldier, 

MoNTANtrs.  Dittinguendum  est  inter  the 
two:  aimpliciier  and  relative  accipere, 
.  Lieutenant,  Nononsensel  The  contract 
is  closed,  and  you  have  taken  the  money. 

M0NTANV8.      DitUTiffuetidum    est    iTifef 
corUrocfum  vervm  et  apparentem. 

LiHUTBNANT.    Can  you  deny  that  you 
have  received  a  ducat  from  me? 

MoNTANCs.  Ditlinffuend'am  eit  irUer  rem 
et  moduTn  ret. 

Lieutenant.  Come,  follow  me  ab«^t, 
oomradel  You  must  get  your  uniform. 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


MoNTAKTTB.  TliBrB  are  your  two  rbt- 
dolUrs  buk.  You  have  no  witnwses  to  my 
taking  the  mooey. 

[Eftter  Jbbpek  and  Nibia,  the  Corporai.] 

Jebpeb.  I  c&n  bear  witocBH  that  I  saw 
the  Lieutenant  piit  money  into  his  hand. 

NixLB.  I,  too. 

MoMTANtiB.  But  why  did  I  take  the 
noney?  DittinffueTidiim  at  inter  — 

LizuTENANT.  Oh,  We  wou't  liaten  to  any 
talk.  Niels,  you  stay  here,  while  I  fetch  the 
uniform.  \Ej^  tiie  Lieutenant.] 

MoNTANTTS.  Oh,  help! 

NiBiiB.  If  you  don't  shut  up,  you  dog, 
I'll  stick  a  bayonet  through  your  body. 
Has  n't  he  enlisted,  Mr.  Bailiff? 

Jhsi>bb,  Yes,  of  oouree  he  hae. 
[EnUr  the  Lteutenonl.] 

Lieutenant.  Come,  now,  pull  off  that 
black  coat  and  put  on  this  red  one.  [Mon- 
TAMTTB  cries  while  they  put  on  hit  un^onn.] 
Oh,  come,  it  looks  bad  for  a  soldier  to  cry. 
You  are  far  bett«r  off  than  you  were  before. 
—  Drill  him  well,  now,  Niels.  He  is  a 
learned  fellow,  but  he  is  raw  yet  in  his 
exercises.  [Niels,  the  Corporal,  leade 
MONTAKUB  aboiU,  dnUmg  him  and  hetding 
him.  ExemU  the  Lieutenant  and  Jebfbk.] 
[Relnterjhe  Lieutenant.] 

Well,  Niels,  can  he  go  through  the  drill? 

Niels.  He'll  leam  in  time,  but  he  is  & 
lasy  dog.  He  has  to  be  beaten  every 
minute. 

MoNTANQS  [er]/ing\.  Oh,  gracious  sir, 
have  mercy  on  me.  My  health  is  weak  and 
I  cannot  endure  such  treatment. 

Lieutenant.  It  seems  a  little  hard  at 
first,  but  when  your  back  baa  once  been  well 
beaten  and  toughened,  it  won't  hurt  so 

MoNTANOS  lerying].  Oh,  would  that  I 
had  never  studied!  Then  I  never  should 
have  got  into  this  trouble. 

Lieutenant.  Oh,  this  is  only  a  begin- 
ning. When  you  have  sat  a  half-score  of 
times  on  the  wooden  horse,  or  stood  on  the 
stake,  then  you  will  think  this  sort  of  thing 
is  a  mere  bagatelle. 

[MoNTANTTB  tHQM  ogoin.] 


JEBONimrs.  Are  you  sure  of  it? 
Jeppe.  Indeed  I  am;  the  Bailiff  told  tnt 
a  moment  ago.  Ah,  now  my  anger  is  turned 

jERONnms.  If  we  eOuld  only  get  hin 
back  to  the  true  faith,  I  should  be  ^ad  to 
buy  him  off. 

LisBED  [rushing  in].  Oh,  poor  wnhb 
that  1  am! 

jEBONncue.  Don't  raise  a  huMxd), 
daughter,  you  won't  gain  anything  by  thaL 

LtBBBD.  CHi,  father,  dear,  if  you  wete  as 
much  in  love  as  1  am,  you  would  n't  ask  me 
to  keep  quiet. 

jESONmUB.  Fie,  fie,  it  is  not  pntper  for 
a  girl  to  show  her  feelings  like  that.  But 
there  he  is,  I  do  believe.  Look  here,  Ras- 
mus Berg!  What  is  going  on? 

MoNTANUB.  Oh,  my  dear  Monsieur 
JeronimuB,  I've  become  a  soldier. 

Jekoniuub.  Yes,  now  you  have  aome- 
thing  else  to  do  besides  turning  men  iata 
beaste  and  deacons  into  coekB. 

MoNTANUS.  Oh,  alas!  I  lament  my  for. 
mer  folly,  but  all  too  late. 

jEBONUfna.  Listen,  my  friend.  If  yoo 
will  give  up  your  former  foolishness,  and 
not  fill  the  land  wit^  dieagreetnentB  and 
disputations,  I  shall  not  fail  to  do  everj' 
thii^  in  my  power  to  get  you  off. 

McTNTANtTB.  Oh,  I  doo't  deaerve  any- 
thing better,  after  threatening  my  old  par- 
ents with  blowB.  But  if  you  will  have  jnty 
on  me  and  work  for  my  release,  I  swear  to 
you,  that  hereafter  I  shall  live  a  diflvent 
life,  devote  myself  to  some  busincBB,  aod 
never  bother  any  one  with  disputations  any 


Jbboninds.  Stay  here  for  a 
will  go  and  talk  to  the  Lieutenant. 

[Enter  the  Lieutenant.] 
Oh,  my  dear  Lieutenant,  you  have  al- 
ways been  a  friend  of  our  house.  The  per- 
son  who  has  enlisted  as  a  soldier  is  engagied 
to  my  only  dau^ter,  who  is  much  in  love 
with  him.  Set  him  free  again.  I  shaU  be 
glad  to  present  you  with  a  hundred  rfat- 
dollais,  if  you  do.   I  admit  that  at  fint  I 


RASMUS  MONTANUS 


7»5 


was  delighted  m  jaelf  that  he  had  been  pun- 
ished in  such  a  way,  for  his  aingular  be- 
havior had  essqjerated  me,  and  all  the 
good  folk  here  in  the  village,  against  him. 
But  when  I  saw  him  in  this  plight,  and  at 
the  B&aie  time  heard  him  lament  his  former 
folly  and  pTomise  amendment,  my  heart 
was  ready  to  buret  with  sympathy. 

LnuTiNANT.  Listen,  my  dear  Monsieur 
JeronimuB.  What  I  have  done  haa  been 
Duly  for  hia  own  good.  I  know  that  he  is 
JDgaged  to  your  daughter,  and  therefore 
merely  for  the  good  of  your  house  I  have 
reduced  him  to  this  condition  and  treated 
hini  with  such  great  harshness,  ao  that  he 
might  be  brought  to  confess  bis  sins.  But 
for  your  sake  I  will  give  the  money  to  tiie 
poor,  inasmuch  as  I  bear  that  he  has  expe- 
rienced a  change  of  heart.  Let  him  come 
bere.  ^  Listen,  my  friend,  your  parenta 
have  spent  much  money  on  you  in  the  hope 
th&t  you  would  become  an  honor  and  a 
comfort  to  them  in  Hmr  old  age.  But  you 
go  off  a  sensible  fellow  and  coine  back  en' 
tirdy  deranged,  arouse  the  whole  village, 
advance  strange  opinions,  and  defend  them 
with  stubbornness.  If  that  is  to  be  the  fruit 
of  studiee,  then  one  ought  to  wish  that 
there  never  bad  been  any  hooka.  It  seems 
to  me  that  the  principal  thing  a  man  ought 
to  learn  in  school  is  just  the  opposite  of 
what  you  are  infect«d  with,  and  that  a 
learned  man  ought  particularly  to  be  dia- 
tinguished  from  others  in  that  he  is  more 
temperate,  modest,  and  considerate  in  his 
speech  than  the  uneducated.  For  true  phi- 
losophy^eacbes  us  that  we  ought  to  re- 
strain and  quiet  disagreements,  and  to  give 
up  our  opinions  as  soon  as  we  are  per- 
suaded, even  by  the  humblest  person,  that 
they  are  mistaken.  The  first  nile  of  philos- 
ophy is.  Know  thyself;  and  the  further  one 
advances,  the  lower  opinion  one  should 
have  of  himself,  the  more  one  should  reaJiie 
what  there  remains  to  be  learned.  But  you 
make  philosophy  into  a  kind  of  fencing,  and 
consider  a  man  a  philosopher  if  he  can 
warp  the  truth  by  subtle  distinctions  and 
talk  himself  out  of  any  opinion;  in  so  doing 


you  incur  hatred  and  bring  contempt  upon 
learning,  for  people  imagine  that  your  ex- 
traordinary maunera  are  the  natural  fruita 
of  education.  The  best  advice  I  can  ^ve 
you  is  to  strive  to  forget,  and  to  rid  your 
head  of  what  you  have  burned  so  much 
midnight  oil  in  learning;  and  that  you  take 
up  some  calling  in  which  you  can  make 
yourway  to  success;  or,  if  you  are  bound  to 
pursue  your  studies,  that  you  go  about 
them  in  some  other  fashion, 

MoNTANXfB.  Oh,  my  good  sir,  I  will  fol- 
low your  advice,  and  do  my  best  to  be  a 
different  man  from  now  on. 

LiBUTENANT.  Good;  then  I  will  let  you 
go  as  soon  as  you  have  given  your  word 
both  to  your  own  parents  and  to  your 
future  parents-in-law,  and  have  begged 
their  pardon. 

MoNTAinJB.  I  humbly  beg  all  of  you,  as 
I  weep  salt  tears,  to  forgive  me;  and  I 
promise  to  lead  an  entirely  different  life 
henceforward.  I  condemn  my  former  ways, 
and  1  have  been  cured  of  them  not  so  much 
by  the  fix  I  had  got  into  as  by  this  good 
man's  wise  and  profound  words.  Next  to 
my  parents  I  shall  always  hold  him  in  the 
highest  esteem. 

Jeronihub.  Then  you  don't  believe  any 
longer,  my  dear  son-in-law,  that  the  world 
is  round?  For  that  is  the  pQint  that  I  take 
most  to  heart. 

MoNTAMUB.  My  dear  father-in-law,  I 
won't  argue  about  it  any  further.  But  I 
will  only  say  this,  that  nowadays  all  learned 
folk  are  of  the  opinion  that  the  earth  is 

Jebomiucb.  Oh,  Mr.  Lieutenant,  let 
him  be  made  a  soldier  again  until  the  earth 
becomes  flat. 

MoNT&NUB.  My  dear  father-in-law,  the 
earth  is  as  flat  as  a  pancake.  Now  are  you 
satisfied? 

Jkboniudb.  Yes,  now  we  are  good 
friends  again,  —  now  you  shall  have  my 
daughter.  Come  to  my  house,  now,  all 
together,  and  drink  to  the  reconciliation. 
Mr.  Lieutenant,  won't  you  do  ub  the  honw 
of  joinii^;  uaT  \ExewU.] 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


iiizedbv  Google 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE 

(ET  DUKKEHJEM) 

By  HENRIK  IBSEN 

TVmulaUdiy  WILLIAM  ARCHER 


flitizedbvGoOQlc' 


oorruoBT,  igab,  sr  cba»lb«  •oiamml  k 


ciilizedbvGoOQic 


CHARACTERS 

TOBVALD  HbLUEB 

NosA,  hia  wife 

Doctor  Rank 

Mbb.  Linden 

Nils  KBoasTAD 

The  Helubbs'  three  ckUdrm 

Anna,  their  nurse 

Ellen,  a  maidtervanl 

A  Porter 

Tht  acHim  patiu  in  Btimtr't  lunite  (a  Jlot)  in  ChritHanith 


ciilizedbvGoOQic 


bv  Google 


A  DOLL'S    HOUSE 


ACT  I 

A  room,  eomforlablti  and  taitefvUy,  but  not 
ej^petuiady,  fumUhed.  In  Ihx  hack,  on  Ihx 
right,  a  door  leodt  to  the  httli;  on  the  left  an- 
other door  lead*  to  Hblubs's  study.  Beixneen 
the  two  doors  a  pianoforit.  In  the  middle  (^ 
(A«  left  loedl  a  door,  and  nearer  the  front  a 
wijtdoxo.  Near  the  mndow  a  round  fable  with 
armehainandamnailtofa.  IntkeTinhtvxiU, 
tomewhat  to  the  back,  a  door,  and  againtt  the 
tame  waU,fwiherfonoaTd,  a  pore^ain  stove; 
in  front  of  it  a  couple  of  armchairs  and  a 
rodeing-ehair.  Between  the  stove  and  the  side- 
ioor  a  tmtdl  foMe.  Enffranngs  on  the  wollj. 
A  what-not  unlA  china  and  bric-i-brac.  A 
tmall  bookcase  fiUed  iftlA  handsomely  bound 
books.  Carpet.  A  fire  in  the  slave.  His  a 
lotTiier  day.  A  beit  rings  in  the  hoU  outside. 
Preserttly  the  Older,  door  of  the  fiat  ii  heard  to 

[tioRk enters, hummini)ffayly.  Sheisinout- 
door  d^ess,  and  carries  several  parcels, 
which  she  lays  on  the  right-hand  table. 
She  leaves  the  door  into  the  haO  open, 
and  a  Porter  is  seen  outside,  oaTrying  a 
Christmas  tree  and  a  t>aaket,  which  he 
gives  to  the  Maidservant  who  hat  opened 
the  door.] 
Nora.    Hide  the  ChrigtniBS  tree  care- 
fully, Ellen;  the  children  must  on  no  ac- 
count eee  it  before  this  evening,  when  it's 
lighted  up.    [To  the  Porter,  taking  out  her 
purse.]  How  muchT 
Porter,  Fifty  Are. - 
Nora.  There  ta  a  crown.   No,  keep  the 


ttnuM  smiling  in  quiet  glee  as 
she  takes  off  her  outdoor  things. 
Taking  from  her  pocket  a  bag  of 
TnacoToons,  she  eats  one  or  two. 
Then  she  goes  on  Hptoe  to  her 
Auabond's  door  and  listens.] 
Yea;  he  ia  at  home. 

(iSAe  begins  Aummin;  again,  eroat- 
ing  to  the  table  on  the  right.] 


H&LMEB  [in  his  room].  Is  that  my  lark 
twittering  thereT 

Nora  [busv  opening  tome  of  W  parcels]. 
Yea,  it  ie. 

Helmbb.  Ia  it  the  squirrd  frialdng 
around? 

Nora.  Yeel 

HMi.MaB  When  did  the  aquirrel  get 
faomeT 

Nora.  Just  this  minute.  [Hides  the  bag 
of  maeoToons  in  her  poek^  and  wipes  her 
mouth.]  Come  here,  Torvald,  and  see  what 
I've  been  buying. 

Helmer.  Don't  interrupt  me.  [A  Itltie 
later  he  opens  the  door  and  look*  in,  pen  in 
hand.]  Buying,  did  you  say?  What!  All 
that?  Has  my  little  spendthrift  been  mak- 
ing the  money  fly  again? 

Nora.  Why,  Torvald,  surely  we  can 
afford  to  Uimoh  out  a  little  now.  It's  the 
first  ChriBtmas  we  have  n't  had  to  pinch. 

HsLHiR.  Come,  come;  we  can't  afford 
to  squander  money. 

Nora.  Oh, jree, Torvald, doletussquan- 
der  a  little,  now  — -  just  the  least  little  bitt 
You  know  you'll  soon  be  earning  heaps  of 
money. 

Helkeb.  Yes,  from  New  Year's  Day. 
But  there 's  a  whole  quarter  before  my  first 
salary  is  due. 

Nora.  Never  mind;  we  can  borrow  in 
the  mean  time. 

Hbuier.  Nora!  [He  goes  up  to  her  and 
takes  her  playfidiy  by  the  ear.]  Still  my  little 
featherbrain  I  Supposing  I  borrowed  a 
thousand  crowns  to-day,  and  you  made 
ducks  and  drakes  of  them  during  ChriBt- 
mas week,  and  then  on  New  Year's  Eve  a 
tile  blew  off  the  roof  and  knocked  my  brains 

Nora  [lajfing  her  Aaruf  on  his  mouth]. 
Hush!  How  can  you  talk  so  horridly? 

Heliosb.  But  supposing  it  were  to  hap- 
pen —  what  then? 

Nora.  If  anything  so  dreadful  hap- 
pened, it  would  be  all  the  same  to  me 
whether  I  wss  in  debt  or  not. 

Helmer.  But  what  about  the  credi- 
tors? 


:.L|,i,zedi!,GoOQlc 


733 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


NoKA.  Tbtyl  Who  carw  tor  tbeml 
They're  only  Btrangen. 

Heluer.  Mora,  Norat  What  a  uxnrum 
you  are!  But  Herioualy,  Nora,  you  know 
my  prindplea  on  these  poiute.  No  debts! 
No  borrowLngl  Home  life  ceases  to  be  free 
and  beautiful  as  soon  as  it  is  founded  on 
borrowing  a^d  debt.  We  two  have  held 
out  bravely  till  now,  and  we  are  not  going 
to  give  in  at  the  last. 

NoKA  [going  Ui  the  fireplace].  Verywell  — 
as  you  pleaae,  Torvald. 

Eeuieb  [following  her].  Come,  come; 
'  my  little  lark  must  n't  droop  her  wings  like 
that.  What?  la  my  squirrel  in  the  sulks? 
[Takea  out  his  purge,]  Nora,  what  do  you 
think  I  have  here? 

NoBA  [tamiTm  round  quickly].    Money! 

Heuieb.  There!  [Giaea  her  tome  ntffes.I 
Of  course,  I  know  all  sorts  of  things  are 
wanted  at  Cbristmas. 

NooA  [emaiiing].  Ten,  twenty,  thirty, 
forty.  'Oh,  thank  you,  thank  you,  Torvald! 
This  will  go  a  long  way, 

Hklmsb.  I  should  hope  eo. 

NoKA.  Yes,  indeed;  a  long  wayl  But 
come  here,  and  let  me  show  you  aU  I've 
been  buying.  And  so  cheap!  Look,  here's 
a  new  suit  for  Ivar,  and  a  little  sword.  Here 
are  a  horse  and  a  trumpet  for  Bob.  And 
here  are  a  doll  and  a  cradle  for  Emmy. 
They're  only  common;  but  they're  good 
enough  for  her  to  pull  to  pieces.  And  dreas- 
stuffs  and  kerchiefs  for  the  servants.  I 
ought  to  have  got  something  better  for  old 

Hblubb.  And  what's  in  that  other 
parcel? 

NoBA  [crjfinfl  md].  No,  Torvald,  you're 
not  to  see  that  until  this  evening! 

Helmer.  Oh!  Ahl  But  now,  tell  me, 
you  little  spendthrift,  have  you  thought  of 
anything  tor  yourself 

Nora.  For  myself!  Oh,  I  don't  want 
anything. 

Helmbr.  Nonsense!  Just  tell  me  some- 
thing sensible  you  would  like  to  have. 

Nora.  No,  really  I  don't  know  of  any- 
thing —  Well,  listen,  Torvald  — 

Hbluer.  Well? 

Nora  {ptayinQ  with  his  coai-huUona,  vatk- 
na  looking  him  in  Oie  fac*\.   If  you  really 


want  to  give  me  something,  you  might,  yon 
know  —  you  might  — 

Heuibr.  Well?  Out  with  it! 

Nora  [faiekly].  You  might  give  am 
money,  Tprvald.  Only  just  what  you  think 
you  can  spare;  then  I  can  buy  something 
with  it  Iftter  on. 

BbuiIeb.  But,  Nora  — 

Nora.  Oh,  please  do,  dear  TonmW, 
please  do!  I  should  hang  the  money  in 
lovely  gilt  paper  on  the  Christmas  tree. 
Would  n't  that  be  tun? 

Helmer.  What  do  they  call  ttie  biidi 
that  are  always  making  the  money  fly? 

Nora.  Yes,  I  know  —  spendtfarifts,  of 
course.  But  please  do  as  I  ask  you,  Torvald. 
Then  I  shall  have  time  to  Uiink  what  I 
want  most.   Is  n't  that  very  sensible,  now? 

Heluer  [smiling].  Certamly;  that  is  to 
say,  it  you  really  kept  the  money  I  gava 
you,  and  really  spent  it  on  something  for 
yourself.  But  it  all  goes  in  housekeeping 
and  for  all  manner  of  useless  thin^  and 
then  I  have  to  pay  up  ag&in. 

Nora.  But,  Torvald  — 

HauiBR.  Can  you  deny  it,  Nora  dear? 
[He  puts  his  arm  round  her.]  It's  a  sweet 
little  lark,  but  it  gets  through  a  lot  of 
money.  No  one  would  believe  how  much  it 
costs  a  man  to  keep  such  a  little  bird  as  yoo. 

Nora.  For  shame!  How  can  you  say  so? 
Why,  I  save  as  much  as  ever  I  cim. 

Helmbr [ioupMnfl.  Verytrue — asmudi 
as  you  can  —  but  that's  precisely  nothing. 

Nora  [hums  and  smUet  iffiA  covert  gUt]. 
U'ml  If  you  only  knew,  Torvald,  what 
expenses  we  krks  and  squirrels  have. 

Heluer.  You're  a  strange  little  beingl 
Just  like  your  father  —  always  on  the  look- 
out tor  all  the  money  you  can  lay  your 
hands  on;  but  the  moment  you  have  it,  it 
seems  to  slip  through  your  fingers;  you 
never  know  what  becomes  of  it.  Well,  one 
must  take  you  as  you  are.  It's  in  the  blood. 
Yes,  Nora,  that  sort  of  thing  is  hereditary. 

Nora.  I  wish  I  had  inherited  nuuy  (rf 
papa's  qualities. 

HEt.MER.  And  1  don't  wish  you  anything 
but  just  what  you  are  —  my  own,  sweet 
little  song-bird.  But  I  say  —  it  strikes  me 
you  look  so  —  so  —  what  shall  I  call  itT  — 
BO  suspicious  to-day  — 


Google 


A   DOLL'S   HOUSE 


733 


NoEA.  Do  IT 

HiiLifiiR.  You  do,  indeed.  Look  me  full 
ID  the  face. 

HoRA  [lookiTiff  at  kirn).  Well? 

Heluxr  [Ihrealening  wUh  hit  fiTtger]. 
Has  a't  the  little  BweeUtooth  been  playing 
pranka  to-day? 

Nora.    No;  how  can  you  think  such  & 

Hblhxr.  Did  n't  she  just  look  in  at  the 
confectioner's? 

Nora.  No,  Torvald;  really  — 

Heluzr.  Not  to  sip  a  little  jellyt 

Noba.   No;  oertably  not. 

Helher.  Has  n't  she  even  nibbled  a 
macaroon  or  two? 

Nora.  No,  Torvald,  indeed,  indeed! 

HzLHXs.  Well,  well,  well;  of  course  I'm 
only  joking. 

Nora  [poes  b)  the  table  on  Ike  Tifhl\.  I 
shouldn't  think  of  doing  what  you  dis- 
approve of. 

Heluer.  No,  I'm  sure  of  that;  and,  be- 
sides, you  've  given  me  your  word  —  \Qoing 
Ufward  A«r.]  Well,  keep  your  little  Christ- 
mas secrets  to  yourself,  Nora  darling.  The 
Christmas  tree  will  bring  them  all  to  light, 
I  daresay. 

Nora.  Have  you  remembered  to  invite 
Doctor  Rank? 

Hzlubr.  No.  But  it's  not  necessary; 
he'll  come  as  a  matter  of  course.  Besides, 
I  shall  ask  him  when  he  looks  in  to-day. 
I've  ordered  some  capital  wbe.  Nora,  you 
can't  think  how  I  look  forward  to  this 


Nora.  And  I,  too.  How  the  children 
will  enjoy  themselves,  Torvaldl 

H2LMER.  Ah,  it's  glorious  to  feel  that 
one  has  an  assured  position  and  ample 
means.  Is  n't  it  delightful  to  think  ofT 

Nora.  Oh,  it's  wonderfull 

Hsuna.  Do  you  remember  last  Christ- 
masT  For  three  whole  weeks  beforehand 
you  shut  yourself  up  every  evening  till  long 
.  past  midnight  to  make  flowers  for  the 
Christmas  tree,  and  all  sorts  of  other  mar- 
vels that  were  to  have  astonished  us.  I  was 
never  so  bored  in  my  life. 

Nora.  I  did  n't  bore  myself  at  all. 

Helmbr  \smMng\.  But  it  come  to  little 
mouf^  in  the  end,  Nora. 


Nora.  Oh,  are  you  going  to  tease  me 
about  that  again?  How  oodd  I  hdp  the 
cat  getting  in  and  pulling  it  all  to  piecesf 

Helher.  To  be  sure  you  could  n't,  my 
poor  little  Nora.  You  did  your  beet  to  give 
us  all  pleasure,  and  that's  the  main  point. 
But,  all  tbe  same,  it's  a  good  thing  the  hard 

Nora.  Oh,  is  n't  it  wonderful? 

Helmer.  Now  I  need  n't  sit  here  boring 
myself  all  alone;  and  you  need  n't  tire  your 
blessed  eyes  and  your  delicate  little  fin- 
gers— 

Nora  [dapping  her  hatide].  No,  I  need 
n't,  need  I,  Torvald?  Oh,  how  wonderful 
it  is  to  think  of7  ITaiet  hii  arm.]  And 
now  I'll  tell  you  how  I  tliink  we  ought 
to  manage,  Torvald.  As  soon  as  Christ' 
mas  is  over  —  \The  hall  doorbell  nn^s.l 
Oh,  there's  a  ring!  {Arron^n;  the  room.] 
That's  somebody  come  to  call.  How  tir»- 

Heluxr.  I'm  "not  at  home"  to  oallen; 
remember  that. 

Ellen  [tn  the  dooruay].  A  lady  to  see 
you,  ma'am. 

Nora.  Show  her  in. 

Ellen  [lo  Hzlmbb].  And  the  doctor  has 

Heuier.  Has  he  gone  into  my  study?" 
Ellen.  Yes,  sir. 

[Hblkdr  goei  into  hit  shtdj/.] 

[Ellen  Mthen  in  Mas.  Linden,  in  traveling 
caUume,  and  goei  oul,  doeiTig  the  door.] 
Mrs.  Linobn  [embarraued  aitd  kaitat- 

irtg].  How  do  you  do,  Nora? 
Noiu  [dou6j/uUvl.  How  do  you  do? 
Mrs.  Linden,  I  see  you  don't  reoogniis 

Nora.  No,  I  don't  think — oh,  yesi  — 
I  believe  —  [Stiddenly  brighteni«if.]  What, 
Christina  I  Is  it  really  you? 

Mrs,  Linden,  Yes;  really  II 

NoKA,  Christinal  And  to  thinkldid.n't 
know  you!  But  how  could  I  —  [Moresofily.] 
How  changed  you  are,  Christina! 

Mrs,  Linden,  Yes,  no  doubt.  In  nine 
or  ten  years  — 

Nora.  Is  it  really  so  long  since  we  met? 
Yes,  BO  it  is.  Oh,  the  last  eight  years  have 
been  a  happy  time,  I  can  tell  you.    And 


734 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


now  you  have  come  to  town?  All  that  long 
journey  in  mid-wiitterl  How  bnveof  youl 

Mb8.  Linden.  I  arrived  by  this  mom- 
mg's  Bteamer. 

NoBjL.  To  have  a  merry  Chriatmas,  of 
course.  Ob,  how  delightful!  Yes,  we  uiU 
have  a  merry  Christmas.  Do  take  your 
things  off.  Are  n't  you  frozen?  [H^pinn 
■ker.]  There;  nowwe'llsitcoEily  by  the  fire. 
No,  you  take  the  armchair;  I  shall  sit  in 
this  roddng-ehair.  [SeUee  her  hands.]  Yes, 
now  I  can  see  the  dear  old  face  again.  It 
was  only  at  the  first  gfanoe  —  But  you're 
a  little  paler,  Christina,  —  and  perhaps  a 
littJi  thinner, 

Mbs.  Linden.  And  much,  much  older, 
Nora. 

Nora.  Yes,  perhaps  a  little  older  —  not 
much  —  ever  BO  little.  [She  sudderUj/ ehecka 
heri^;  «eriot4«Iv.I  Oh,  what  a  thoughtlees 
wretch  1  ami  Here  I  sit  chattering  on,  and 
—  Dear,  dear  Christina,  can  you  forgive 

Mbs.  LiNDBN.  What  do  you  mean,  Nora? 

NoHA  [M/tti/l-  Poor  Christinal  I  forgot: 
you  are  a  wi(tow. 

Mrs,  Lindbn,  Yes;  my  husband  died 
three  y^rs  ago. 

Nora,  I  know,  1  know;  I  saw  it  in  the 
papers.  Oh,  believe  me,  ChristinS;,  I  did 
mean  to  write  to  you;  but  1  kept  putting  it 
off,  and  something  always  came  in  the  way. 

Mrs.  Lindsn.  I  can  quite  understand 
that,  Nora,  dear. 

Nora.  No,  Christina;  it  was  horrid  of 
me.  Oh,  you  poor  darlingl  how  much  you 
must  have  gone  through!  —  And  he  left 
you  nothing? 

Mrs.  Linden.  Nothing. 

Nora.  And  no  children? 

Mrs.  Lindbn.  None. 

Nora.  Nothing,  nothing  at  all? 

Mrs.  Likdbk.  Not  even  a  sorrow  or  a 
longii^  to  dwell  upon. 

Nora  \lookmQ  at  her  incndviouAy],  My 
dear  Christina,  how  is  that  possible? 

Mrs.  Lindbn  [smUitig  tadly  and  slrokmff 
her  hair].    Oh,  it  happens  so  sometimes, 

Noba.  So  utterly  alone!  How  dreadful 
that  must  be!  I  have  three  of  the  loveliest 
children.    I  can't  show  them  to  you  just 


now;  they're  out  with  their  nuiae.  B)A 
now  you  must  tell  me  everything. 

Mrs.  Linden.  No,  no;  I  want  you  t« 
tell  me  — 

No&A.  No,  you  must  b^in;  I  won't  bt 
egotistical  to^y.  To-day  I*U  think  only 
of  you.  OhI  but  1  must  teU  you  one  thing 
—  perhaps  you've  heard  of  our  great  strcto 
of  fortune? 

Mbs.  Lindbn.  No.  What  is  it? 

Nora.  Only  think!  my  husband  has  beei 
made  manager  of  the  Joint  Stock  Bank. 

Mrs.  Linden.  Your  husband!  Oh,  bo* 
fortunate! 

Nora.  Yes;  isn't  it?  A  lawyer's  posi- 
tion is  so  uncertain,  you  see,  ettpeaaOj 
when  be  won't  touch  any  business  that's 
the  least  bit  —  shady,  sa  of  course  Torvald 
never  would;  and  there  I  quite  agree  with 
him.  OhI  You  can  imagine  how  ^ad  we 
are.  He  is  to  enter  on  his  new  position  at 
the  New  Year,  and  then  he  'II  have  a  large 
salary,  and  percentages.  In  future  we  shall 
be  able  to  live  quit«  differently  —  just  as 
we  please,  in  fact.  Oh,  Christina,  I  fecJ  so 
light-hearted  and  bappyl  It's  delightful 
to  have  lots  of  money,  and  no  need  to  worry 
about  things,  is  n't  it? 

Mrs.  Linden.  Yes;  at  any  rate,  it  must 
be  delightful  to  have  what  you  need. 

Nora.  No,  not  only  what  you  need,  but 
heaps  of  money —  keapt! 

Mrs.  Linden  [tmiling],  Nora,  Nan, 
have  n't  you  learned  reason  yet?  In  our 
Bchooldays  you  were  a  sbockiiig  little  specid- 
thrift. 

HovA  [quietly  tmiling].  Yee;  that'sirttat 
Torvald  says  I  am  atill.  [Holding  up  her 
forefinger.]  But  "Nora,  Nora,"  is  not  so 
silly  as  you  all  think.  OhI  I  haven't  bad 
the  chance  to  be  much  of  a  spendthrift.  We 
have  both  had  to  work. 

Mas.  Linden.  You,  too? 

NoHA.  Yes,  light  fancy  work:  crochet, 
and  embroidery,  and  things  of  that  sort; 
[cardeulj/]  and  other  work  too.  You  know, 
of  course,  that  Torvald  left  the  Govermneat 
service  wlien  we  were  married.  He  had 
little  chance  of  promotion,  and  of  oourse 
he  required  to  make  more  money.  But  in 
the  first  year  after  our  marriage  he  over 
worked  himself  terribly.  Be  had  to  uodcf 


CtOoi^Ic 


A  DOLL'S  HOUSE 


735 


tftke  all  Borts  of  extra  work,  you  know,  and 
to  slave  early  and  late.  He  could  n't  stand 
it,  and  fell  ^eeroudy  ill.  Then  the  doc- 
tore  declared  he  must  go  to  the  South. 

Mrs.  Linden.  You  spent  a  whole  year 
in  Italy,  did  n't  you? 

Nora.  Yea,  we  did.  It  waa  n't  easy  to 
manage,  I  can  tell  you.  It  was  just  after 
Ivar's  birth.  But  of  course  we  luid  to  go. 
Oh,  it  was  a  wonderful,  delicious  joumeyl 
And  it  saved  Torr^d'e  life.  But  it  cost  a 
frightful  lot  of  money',  Christina. 

Mas.  LiNDBN.  So  I  should  think. 

NoKA.  Twelve  hundred  dolUrsl  Four 
thousand  eight  hundred  crowns!  Isn't 
that  a  lot  of  money? 

Mas.  LiNDSN.  How  lucky  you  had  the 
money  to  spend. 

Nora.  We  got  it  from  father,  you  must 

Mas.  LiNDSN.  Ah,  I  see.  He  died  just 
about  that  time,  did  n't  he? 

Nora.  Yos,  Christina,  just  then.  And 
only  thinki  I  could  n't  go  and  nurse  him! 
y  waa  expecting  little  Ivar's  birth  daily ;  and 
then  I  had  my  poor  sick  Torrald  to  attend 
to.  Dear,  kind  old  father!  I  never  saw  him 
a^,  Christina.  Oht  That's  the  hardeet 
thing  I  have  had  to  bear  since  my  marriage. 

Mrs.  Lindbn.  I  know  how  fond  you 
were  of  him.  But  then  you  went  to  Italy? 

Nora.  Yea;  you  see,  we  had  the  money, 
and  the  doctors  said  we  must  lose  no  time. 
We  started  a  month  later. 

Mr8.  Linden.  And  your  husband  came 
back  oompletoly  cured. 

Nora.  Sound  as  a  bell. 

Mrs.  Linden.  But  —  the  doctor? 

Nora.  What  do  you  mean? 

Mrs.  Linden.  I  thought  as  I  came  in 
your  servant  announced  the  doctor  — 

Nora.  Oh,  yes;  Doctor  Rank.  But  he 
does  j't  come  professionally.  He  is  our  best 
friend,  and  never  lets  a  day  pan  without 
looking  in.  No,  Torvald  has  n't  had  an 
hour's  illness  since  that  time.  And  the 
children  are  so  healthy  and  well,  and  m  am 
L  [Jitrnpt  tip  and  clapt  Ker  Aonds.]  Oh, 
Christina,  Christina,  what  a  wonderful 
thing  it  is  to  live  and  to  be  happy!  —  Oh 
but  it's  reallytoo  horrid  of  me!  Here  ami 
taUdag  about  nothing  but  mjr  own  con- 


cems.  [Saite  AsrastTupona/ooMooIeloMto 
CBnaaiKA,  and laytherarmt on furfnentPa 
lap.J  Oh,  don't  be  angry  with  me!  Now, 
tdl  me,  is  it  really  true  that  you  did  n't 
love  your  husband?  What  made  you  marry 
him,  then? 

Mrs.  Linoxn.  My  mother  was  atill 
alive,  you  see,  bedridden  and  helpless;  and 
then  I  had  my  two  younger  brotheis  to 
think  of.  I  did  n't  think  it  would  be  ri^t 
for  me  to  refuse  him. 

Nora.  Perhaps  it  would  n't  have  been. 
I  suppose  he  was  rich  then? 

Mrs.  LiNnEK.  Very  well  off,  I  believe. 
But  his  business  was  uncertain.  It  fell  to 
pieces  at  hia  death,  and  there  waa  nothing 
leff 

Nora.  And  then  —  ? 

Mrr.  Linden.  Then  I  had  to  fight  my 
way  by  keeping  a  shop,  a  tittle  school,  any- 
thing I  coidd  turn  my  hand  to.  llie  last 
three  years  have  been  one  long  struggle  for 
me.  But  now  it  is  over,  Nora.  My  poor 
mother  no  longer  needs  me;  she  is  at  rest. 
And  the  boys  are  in  busineee,  and  can  hxik 
after  themselves. 

Nora.  How  free  your  life  mtist  feell 

Mrs.  Lindkn.  No,  Nora;  only  inexpreasi' 
bly  empty.  No  one  to  live  for!  ISUmdaup 
nalUt^v]  That's  whyl  oould  notbearto 
stay  any  longer  in  that  out-of'tbe-way  eor> 
ner.  Here  it  must  be  easier  to  find  sometlung 
to  take  one  up — to  occupy  one's  thou^ts. 
If  I  could  only  get  some  settled  employ- 
ment —  some  office  work. 

Nora.  But,Christina,1ikat's8uchdrudg- 
ery,  and  you  look  worn  out  already.  It 
would  be  ever  so  much  better  for  you  to  go 
to  some  watering-place  and  rest. 

Mrs.  Linden  \ffoinf  to  the  vriiidow].  I 
have  no  father  to  give  me  the  money,  Nora. 

Nora  [rieing].  Oh,  don't  be  vexed  with 

Mrs.  Linden  Igoitif  to  htr].  My  dear 
Nora,  don't  you  be  vexed  with  me.  The 
worst  of  a  position  like  mine  is  tbatit makes 
one  BO  bitter.  You  have  no  one  to  work  for, 
yet  you  have  to  be  always  on  the  strain. 
You  must  live;  and  so  you  become  selfish. 
When  I  heard  of  the  happy  change  in  your 
fortunes  —  can  you  believe  it?  —  I  was 
^ad  for  my  own  sate  mora  than  for  yours 


736 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Nora.  How  do  jou  mean?  Ah,  I  seel 
You  think  Torvald  celd  perhaps  do  Rome- 
thing  for  you.  . 

Mrs.  Lindxn.  Yea;  I  thought  so. 

NoRi..  And  BO  he  ahall,  Christina.  Just 
you  leave  it  all  to  me.  I  shall  lead  up  to  it 
beautifullyl  —  I  shall  think  of  some  de- 
lightful plan  to  put  him  in  a  good  humor! 
Oh,  I  iriiould  so  love  to  help  you. 

Mas.  LiNDBN.  Hov  good  of  you,  Nora, 
to  stand  by  me  so  warmly  t  Doubly  good  itt 
you,  who  know  so  little  of  tbe  troublee  and 
burdeDB  of  life. 

NoBA.   17   I  know  so  little  of  — ? 

Mrs.  Linden  [tmilinn].  Oh,  well  —  a 
little  fancy-work,  and  so  forth.  —  You're 
B.  child,  Nora. 

Nora  [tattei  htr  hsad  and  pace*  Ihe  room]. 
Ob,  come,  you  must  n't  be  bo  patroniiii^I 

Mrs.  Lnn>EH.  No? 

Nora.  You're  Uke  the  rest.  You  all 
think  1  'm  fit  for  nothing  really  serioua  — 

Mrs.  IiiTfPBN'.  Well,  well  — 

Nora.  You  think  I  've  had  no  troublee 
in  thia  weary  world. 

Mrs.  Linden.  My  dear  Nora,  you've 
just  told  me  all  your  troubles. 

Nora.  Pooh  —  those  trifles!  [Softly.]  1 
have  n't  told  you  the  great  thing. 

Mas.  LiKDEK.  The  great  thing?  What 
do  you  mean? 

Nora.  I  know  you  look  down  upon  me, 
Christina;  but  you  have  no  right  to.  You 
are  proud  of  having  worked  so  hard  and  so 
loi%  for  your  mother. 

Mrs.  Linden.  I  am  sure  I  don't  look 
down  upon  any  one;  but  it's  true  I  am 
both  proud  and  glad  when  I  remember  that 
I  woe  able  to  keep  my  mother's  last  days 
free  from  care. 

NoBA.  And  you're  proud  to  think  of 
what  you  have  done  for  your  brothers,  too. 

Mrs.Linden.  Havel  not  the  right  to  be? 

Nora.  Yes,  indeed.  But  now  let  me  tell 
you,  Ohrifitina,  —  I,  too,  have  something 
to  be  proud  and  glad  of. 

Mrs.  Linden.  I  don't  doubt  it.  But 
what  do  you  mean? 

Nora.  EushI  Not  so  loud.  Only  think, 
if  Torvald  were  to  hearl  He  must  n't  — 
not  for  worldsl  No  one  must  know  about 
it,  Christina,  —  no  one  but  you. 


Mbs.  Linsbn.  Wby,  yrbalt  pan  it  be7 

Nora.  Comeoverhere.  {Drawtlurdowi 
beaide  her  on  the  tofa.]  Yes,  Christina,  —  I, 
too,  have  something  to  be  proud  and  glad 
of.  I  saved  Torvald's  life. 

Mrs.  Linden.  Saved  his  life?  HowT 

NosA.  I  told  you  about  our  going  to 
Italy.  Torvald  would  have  died  but  for 
that. 

Mrs.  LimtEN.  Well  —  and  your  f&tbcr 
gave  you  the  money. 

Nora  [amiUng].  Yes,  so  Torvald  and 
every  one  believes;  but  — 

Mrs.  Linden.  But  — T 

Nora.  Papa  did  n't  give  us  one  penny. 
It  was  /  that  found  the  money. 

Mrs.  Linden.  You?  All  that  money? 

Nora.  Twelve  hundred  dollars.  Four 
thousand  eight  hundred  crowns.  What  do 
you  say  to  that? 

Mrs.  Linden.  My  dear  Nora,  how  did 
you  manage  it?  Did  you  win  it  in  the  lot- 
tery? 

Nora  [eonlemptuoiali/].  In  the  lottery? 
Poohl  Any  oneicould  have  done  tAot/ 

Mbs.  Linden.  Then,  wherever  did  you 
get  it  from? 

Nora  [hwni  and  tmiUa  mytlerioudf]. 
H'm;  tra-la^la-U. 

Mbs.  Linden.    Of  oourse  you  couldn't 

Nora.   No?   Why  not? 

Mrs.  Linden.  Why,  a  wife  can't  borrow 
without  her  husband's  oonsent. 
'  Nora  [toanT\f  htr  head\.  Ohl  Whai  Mx 
wife  has  some  idea  of  business,  and  koowa 
how  to  set  about  things  — 

Mrs.  Linden.  But,  Nora,  I  don't  under- 

Noba.  Well,  you  need  n't.  I  never  said 
I  borrowed  the  money.  Tliere  are  many 
ways  I  may  have  got  it.  [Throait  herwd} 
back  on  Oie  »ofa.]  I  may  have  got  it  from 
some  admirer.  Whenoiteisso — attractive 
aslam  — 

Mrs.  Linden.  You're  too  siDy,  Nora. 

Nora.  Now,  I'm  sure  you're  dying  of 
curiosity,  Christina,  — 

Mrs.  Linden.  Listen  to  me,  Nora,  dear: 
have  n't  you  been  a  little  rash? 

Nora  [fitting  upright  again].  la  it  nA 
to  save  one's  husband's  HfeT 


.Ciot^i^lc 


A   DOLL'S   HOUSE 


737 


Mbs-Lindsn.  lUuDkitwuraahofyou, 
without  hia  knowledge  — 

Nora.  But  it  would  have  been  fatal  for 
hbu  to  knowl  Cut't  you  underataDd  that? 
He  was  n't  even  to  Buapect  how  ill  he  was. 
The  doctors  came  to  me  privately  and  told 
me  his  life  wa«  in  danger  —  that  nothing 
could  save  him  but  a  winter  in  the  South. 
Do  you  think  I  did  n't  try  diplomacy  first? 
I  told  him  how  I  longed  to  have  a  trip 
abroad,  like  other  young  whree;  I  wept  and 
prayed;  I  said  ha  ought  to  think  of  my  con- 
dition, and  not  to  thwart  me;  and  then  I 
hinted  that  he  oould  borrow  the  money. 
But  then,  Christina,  he  got  almost  angry. 
He  Raid  I  was  frivolous,  and  that  it  waa  his 
duty  as  a  husband  not  to  yield  to  my  whims 
and  fanctea  —  so  he  called  them.  Very 
well,  thought  I,  but  saved  you  must  be; 
and  then  I  found  the  way  to  do  it. 

Mne.  LiNnEN.  And  did  your  husband 
never  leam  from  your  father  that  the 
money  was  not  from  him? 

NoEA.  No;  never.  Papa  died  at  that 
very  time.  I  meant  to  have  told  him  all 
about  it,  and  b^ged  him  to  say  nothii^. 
But  he  was  bo  ill  —  unhappily,  it  was  n't 


Mrs.  Lindim.  And  you  have  never  con- 
fessed to  your  husband? 

NOKA.  Good  Heavenat  What  can  you 
be  thinking  of?  Tdl  Awn,  when  he  has  such 
a  loathing  of  debtl  And,  besides,  —  how 
painful  and  humiliating  it  would  be  for 
Torvald,  with  his  manly  self-respect,  to 
know  that  he  owed  anything  to  met  It 
would  utterly  upset  the  relation  between 
us;  our  beautiful,  happy  home  would  never 
agun  be  what  it  is. 

Mrs.  LiNDiN.  Will  you  never  t«ll  him? 

Mora  [UiovghtftiUy,  haif-tmiling].  Yee, 
some  tiruB,  perhaps,  —  many,  many  years 
henoe,  when  I'm  —  not  so  pretty.  You 
must  n't  laugh  at  me!  Of  course,  I  mean 
when  Torvald  is  not  so  much  in  love  with 
me  as  he  is  now;  when  it  doesn't  amuse 
him  any  longer  to  see  me  dancing  about, 
and  dressing  up  and  acting.  Then  it  might 
be  well  to  have  something  in  reserve. 
iBreakiiig  1^.]  Nonsense!  Nonseuset  That 
time  will  never  come.  Now,  what  do  you 
ny  to  my  grand  secret,  Christina?  Am  I 


fit  for  nothing  nowT  You  m^  believe  it 
has  cost  me  a  lot  of  anxiety.  It  has  been 
no  joke  to  meet  my  engagements  punctu- 
ally.  You  must  know,  Christina,  that  in 
business  there  are  things  eaUed  install- 
ments,  and  quarterly  interest,  that  are 
terribly  hard  to  provide  for.  So  I've  had 
to  pindi  a  little  here  and  there,  wherever  I 
oould.  I  could  n't  save  much  out  of  the 
housekeeping,  for,  of  oourse,  Torvald  had 
to  live  well.  And  I  oould  n't  let  the  chil- 
dren go  about  badly  dmsed;  all  I  got  for 
them,  I  spent  on  them,  the  blessed  dar- 

Mhb.  LtNOiN.  PoorNoral  So  it  had  to 
come  out  of  your  own  pocket-money. 

Nora.  Yes,  of  oourse.  After  all,  the 
whole  thing  was  my  doing.  When  Torvald 
gave  me  money  for  clothes,  and  so  on,  I 
never  spent  more  than  half  of  it;  I  alwajv 
bought  the  simplest  and  cheapwt  thinei. 
It's  a  mercy  that  everything  suite  me  so 
well  —  Torvald  never  had  any  suspicions. 
But  it  was  oft«n  very  bard,  Christina,  dear. 
For  it's  nice  to  be  beautifully  dressed  — 
now,  is  n't  itT 

Mhs.  Likdbk.  Indeed  it  is. 

Nora.  Well,  and  besides  that,  I  made 
money  in  other  ways.  Last  winter  I  was  so 
lucky  ~  I  got  a  heap  of  copying  to  do.  I 
shut  myself  up  every  evening  and  wrote  far 
into  the  night.  Oh,  sometimes  I  was  so 
tired,  so  tired.  And  yet  it  was  splendid  to 
workin  that  way  andeammoney.  lalmoet 
felt  as  if  I  was  a  man. 

Mrs.  LiNDiN.  Then  how  much  hav« 
you  been  able  to  pay  oST 

Nora.  Well,  I  can't  precisely  say.  It's 
difficult  to  keep  that  sort  of  business  clear. 
I  only  know  that  I've  paid  everything  I 
could  scrape  together.  Sometimes  I  really 
didn't knowwliereto turn.  [SmiUs.]  Then 
I  used  to  sit  here  and  pretend  that  a  rich 
old  gentleman  was  in  love  with  me  — 

Mbs.  LiKDBN.  What!  What  gentleman? 

Nora.  Oh,  nobody!  —  that  he  was  dead 
now,  and  that  when  his  will  was  opened, 
there  stood  in  large  letters:  "Pay  over  at 
once  everything  of  which  I  die  possessed  to 
that  charioing  person,  Mrs.  Nora  Helmer." 

Mbs.  LnniiiN.  But,  my  dear  Nora,  — 
what  gentleman  do  you  mean? 


738 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Nora.  Oh,  dear,  can't  you  underatand? 
There  was  n't  any  old  gentleroan :  it  was 
only  what  I  used  to  dream  and  dream  when 
I  was  at  my  wits'  end  for  money.  But  it 
doean't  matter  now  —  the  tiresome  old 
creature  may  stay  where  he  is  for  me.  I 
care  nothing  for  him  or  his  will ;  tor  now  my 
troubles  are  over.  ISpringing  up.]  Oh, 
Christina,  how  glorious  it  is  t«  think  ofl 
Free  from  all  anxietyt  Free,  quit«  free. 
To  be  able  to  play  and  romp  about  with 
the  difldren;  to  have  things  tasteful  aod 
pretty  in  the  house,  exactly  as  Torvald 
Ukea  lt\  And  then  the  spring  will  soon  be 
here,  with  the  great  blue  sky.  Perhaps 
then  we  shall  have  a  little  holiday.  Per- 
haps I  shall  iee  the  sea  again.  Oh,  what  a 
wonderful  thing  it  is  to  live  and  to  be 
happyl  [The  hall  doorbell  rinpi.] 

Mbb.  IiiMDEir  [riaing].  There's  a  ring. 
Perhaps  I  had  better  go. 

Nora.  No;  do  stay.  No  one  will  come 
here.  It's  sure  to  be  some  one  for  Torvald. 

EiXBK  [in  Ihe  doorvxij/].  If  you  please, 
ma'am,  there's  a  gentleman  to  speak  to 
Mr.  Helmer. 

Nora.  Who  19  the  geatlemanT 

Kboostai)  (in  the  doonsay].  It  is  I,  Mrs. 
Helmer. 

[Mrs.  LiNDiK  tlarts  and  turns 
away  lo  the  window.] 

Nora  Igoei  a  alep  toward  him,  anxioutly, 
tpeaking  low].  You?  What  ia  it?  What  do 
you  want  with  my  husband? 

Kroootad.  Bank  busineaH  —  in  a  way. 
I  hold  a  small  post  in  the  Joint  Stock  Bank, 
and  your  husband  is  to  be  our  new  ohief, 
I  bear. 

Nora.  Then  it  is  — T 

Kroootad.  Only  tireaomebusitiees,  Mn. 
Hdmer;  nothing  more. 

NoBA.  Then  wiU  you  please  go  to  his 
study. 

[KBOOOTAn  jfoe».  She  bow*  indif- 
ferently v^iU  ihe  closes  Ihe  door 
into  lAe  kaU.  Then  the  goet  U 
the  alove  and  looke  to  Ihtfire.] 

Mrs.  Lindsn.  Nora  —  who  was  that 
man? 

Nora.  A  Mr,  Krogst&d  —  a  lawyra-. 

Mrs.  LrNDBN.  Then  it  was  t«al]y  he? 

Nora,  Do  you  know  him? 


Mrs.  LiNiAit.  I  used  to  know  him  — 
many  years  ago.  He  was  in  a  lawyn'a 
office  in  our  town. 

Nora,  Yea,  so  he  was. 

Mrs.  Lindbn,  How  he  has  ohasgedl 

Nora.  I  bdieve  his  marriage  was  un- 
happy, 

Mrs.  LravRN.     And  he  is  a  widower 

Nora.  With  a  lot  of  children.  Thetel 
Now  it  will  bum  up, 

[She  tiotet  the  tloce,  and  puaftet  tte 
Toeking-ehair  a  hlOe  atide.] 
Mrs.  Linden.  His  businets  is  not  of  the 
most  creditable,  they  say? 

Nora.  Isn't  it?  I  dare  say  not.  I  don't 
know.  But  don't  let  us  think  of  businea — 
it's  so  tireeome. 

(DociOR  Rank  eomee  out  of  ttxL- 

Rank  IsHU  in  the  dmwwov].  No,  no;  I'm 
in  your  way.  I  shall  go  and  have  a  ctiat 
witii  your  wife.  [Shuta  the  door  and  mm 
Mrs.  Linden.]  Oh,  I  b^  your  pardon. 
I  'm  in  the  way  here  too. 

Nora.  No,  not  in  the  least,  [/ntrodwet 
them.]  Doctor  Bank  —  Mrs.  Linden. 

Rank,  Oh,  indeed;  I've  oftoi  heaid 
Mrs.  Linden's  name;  I  think  I  passed  you 
on  the  stairs  as  I  canH  up. 

Mrs,  Linden.  Yes;  I  go  so  very  skiwly. 
Stairs  try  me  so  much. 

Rank.  Ah  —  you  are  not  very  strong? 

Mrs,  Lindkn.  Only  overworked. 

Rank.  Nothing  more?  Then  no  doubt 
you've  come  to  town  to  find  rest  io  a  round 
of  dissipation? 

Mrs.  LiNDRN,  I  have  colne  to  look  for 
employment. 

Rank.  Is  that  an  approved  remedy  fw 
overworic? 

Mrs.  Linden.  One  must  live,  Doctor 
Rank. 

Rank.  Yea,  that  seems  to  be  the  gencnl 
opinion. 

Nora.  Come,  Doctor  Rank,  —  you 
want  to  live  yourself. 

Rank.  To  be  sure  I  do.  However 
wretched  I  may  be,  I  want  to  drag  mi  t» 
long  as  possible.  All  my  patienta,  too,  hav« 
the  same  mania.  And  it's  the  same  with 
peo^  whose  complaint  is  moral.   At  thia 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE 


739 


Mrs.  Linden  [loftly],  Ahl 

Nora.  Whom  do  you  mean? 

Rank.  Oh,  a  fallon  named  Krogstad,  a 
man  you  Imow  nothing  about,  —  corrupt 
to  the  very  core  of  his  character.  But  even 
he  b^an  by  announcing,  as  a  matter  of 
vast  importance,  that  he  must  hve. 

Nora.  Indeed?  And  what  did  he  want 
with  Torvaid? 

Rank.  I  have  n't  an  idea;  I  only  gath- 
ered that  it  was  some  bank  busineee. 

Nora.  I  did  n't  know  that  Krag  —  that 
this  Mr.  En^tad  had  anything  to  do  with 
the  Bank? 

Rank,  Yee.  He  haa  got  some  sort  of 
place  there.  [To  Mae.  Xjndbn.)  I  don't 
know  whether,  in  your  part  of  the  country, 
you  have  people  who  go  grubbing  and  sniff- 
ing around  in  search  of  moral  rottenness 
—  and  then,  when  they  have  found  a 
"case,"  don't  rest  till  they  have  got  their 
man  into  some  good  position,  where  they 
can  keep  a  watch  upon  him.  Men  with  a 
clean  bill  of  health  they  leave  out  in  the 

Mbb.  LiKtiBN.  Well,  I  suppose  the  — 
delioate  characters  require  most  care. 

Rank  [shrugs  his  thoulders].  There  we 
have  it  I  It's  that  notion  that  makes  society 
a  hospital. 

[Nora,  dtep  in  her  own  Utoughti, 
hteakt  irtto  half-ttifled  laimhler 
aful  claps  her  handt,] 

Why 'do  you  laugh  at  that?  Have  you  any 
:3ea  what  "society"  is? 

Nora.  What  do  I  care  for  your  tiresome 
society?  I  was  laughing  at  something  else 
^something  excessively  amusing.  Tell 
me.  Doctor  Rank,  are  all  the  employees  at 
the  Bank  dependent  on  Torvaid  now? 

Rank.  Is  that  what  strikes  you  as  ex- 
cessively amusing? 

Nora  [mtil^  and  kumg].  Never  mind, 
never  mindl  [Wtdks  about  the  room.]  Yes, 
it  is  funny  to  think  that  we  —  that  Tor- 
vaid has  such  power  over  so  many  people. 
\Takt»  Ae  hag  from  her  vocket.\  Doctor 
Rank,  will  you  have  a  macaroon? 

Raivk.  What!  —  macaroonsi  I  thought 
they  were  contraband  here. 


Nora.   Yes;  but  Christina  brought  ax 

Mrs.  LitJDBN.  What!  1—? 

Nora.  Oh,  well!  Don't  be  fri^tened. 
You  couldn't  possibly  know  that  Torvaid 
had  forbidden  them.  The  fact  is,  he's 
afraid  of  me  spoiling  my  teeth.  But,  oh, 
bother,  just  for  oncel  —  That's  tor  you, 
Doctor  Rank!  [Pub  a  macaroon  into  hi* 
motilh.]  And  you  too,  Christina.  And  I'll 
have  one  while  we're  about  it  —  only  a 
tiny  one,  or  at  most  two.  [WaUca  about 
again.]  Oh,  dear,  I  am  happy!  There's 
only  one  thing  in  he  world  I  really  want. 

Rank.  Well;  what's  that? 

Nora.  There's  something  I  should  so 
like  to  say  —  in  Torvald's  hearing. 

Rank.  Then  why  don't  you  say  it? 

Nora,  Because  I  dare  n't,  it's  so  ugly 

Mrs.  Linden.  Ugly! 

Rank.  In  that  case  you'd  better  not. 
But  to  us  you  might  —  What  is  it  you 
would  so  like  to  say  in  Hdmer's  hearing? 

Nora,  I  should  so  love  to  say,  "Damn 
it  all  1" 

Rank.  Are  you  out  of  your  mind? 

Mrs,  Linden,  Good  gracious,  Nora  —  I 

Rank.   Say  it  —  there  he  is! 

Nora  [hidet  the  matwoong].  Hush — sh — 


[Going  to  him].  WeU,  Torvaid,  dear,  have 
you  got  rid  of  him? 

Heliier.  Yes;  he  has  just  gone. 

Nora,  Let  me  introduce  you  —  this  is 
Christina,  who  has  come  to  town  — 

Hbuikb.  Christina?  Pardon  me,  I  don't 

Nora.  Mrs.  Linden,  Torvaid,  dear,  — 
Christina  Linden. 

Hblhbr  [to  Mrs,  Linuen],  Indeedl  A 
school-friend  of  my  wife's,  no  doiibt? 

Mrs.  Lindbn.  Yes;  we  knew  eiich  other 

Nora.  And  only  think!  She  has  taken 
this  long  journey  on  purpose  to  speak  to 
you. 

Helubr.  To  speak  ta  me! 

Mrs.  Linden.  Well,  not  quite  — 

NoKA.  You  see,  Christina  is  trernm- 
dously  clever  at  office  work,  and  she's  so 


740 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


ftiurioufi  to  work  under  a  firat-rat«  man  of 
busmesa  in  order  to  learn  still  more  — 

Helubr  [lo  Mrb.  Limdbn].  Very  sensi- 
ble, indeed. 

Nora.  And  when  she  heard  you  were 
appointed  nuunager  —  it  was  telegraphed, 
you  know  —  she  started  off  at  once,  and  — 
Torvald,  dear,  for  my  sake,  you  must  do 
something  for  Christina.   Now,  can't  youT 

Heluer.  It'snot impossible.  Ipreaume 
Mrs.  Linden  is  a  widow? 

Mns,  LiHDBN,  Yes. 

Helubr.  And  you  have  already  had 
some  experience  of  businessT 

Mrs.  Linden.  A  good  deal 

Hbuier.  Well,  then,  it's  very  litely  I 
may  be  able  to  find  a  place  for  you. 

NoBA  [clappinfi  her  handa].  There  now! 
There  nowt 

Helmek.  You  have  come  at  a  fortunate 
moment,  Mrs.  Linden. 

Mrs.  Linden.  Oh,  how  can  I  thank 
you  —  T 

Hblueb  [tmUing].  There  is  no  occasion. 
[Pvtg  on  hit  overcoat.)  But  for  the  present 
you  must  excuse  me  — 

Rank.  Wait;  I  am  going  with  you. 

[Felchea  his  fur  coat  from  Iht  hall 
and  icomu  it  at  the  fire.] 

Nora,  Don't  be  long,  Torvald,  dear. 

Heuieii.  thily  an  hour;  not  more. 

Nora.  Are  you  going,  too,  Christina? 

Mrs.  Linden  [pvitirig  on  her  xealking 
things].    Yes;  I  must  set  about  looking  for 


Hblmer.  Then  perhaps  we  can  go  to- 
gether? 

Nora  [helping  her].  What  a  pity  we 
haven't  a  spare  room  for  you;  but  it's 
impossible  — 

Mbs.  Linden.  I  should  n't  think  of 
troublii^  you.  Good-bye,  dear  Nora,  and 
thank  you  for  aU  your  kindness. 

NOBA.  Good-bye  for  the  present.  Of 
course,  you'll  comeback  this  evening.  And 
you,  too,  Doctor  Rank.  What!  If  you're 
weU  enough?  Of  course  you'll  be  welt 
enough.  Only  wrap  up  warmly.  [Thej/  go 
out,  talking,  into  the  haU.  Oxttside  on  the 
atair»  are  heard  chUdrtn's  voices.]  There 
they  arel  There  they  are!  [She  runs  to  the 
outer  door  and  opens  U.  The  Nvrse,  Anna, 


enters  the  hall  viUh  the  ekUAtn.]  Come  ial 
Come  in!  [Stitops  down  and  kisset  the  ekU- 
dren.)  Oh,  my  sweet  darlingsl  Do  you  see 
them,  Christina?  Are  n't  they  lovely? 

Rank.  Don't  let  us  stand  here  chatter- 
ing in  the  draught. 

Hrluxr.  Come,  Mrs.  Linden;  rally 
mothers  can  stand  such  a  temperature. 

(Doctor    Rank,    Hbi.uhHj    (otd 
Mbs.  Linden  go  down  the  stedn.] 
(Anna  eniert  the  roam  with  the  ekOdren; 
Nora  alto,  shviting  the  door.] 

Nora.  How  freeh  and  bright  you  lo^l 
And  what  red  cheeks  you've  got!  like 
applM  and  rosea.  [The  children  chatter  te 
her  dwing  what  foUowa.]  Have  you  had 
great  fun?  That's  splendid!  01^  really! 
You've  been  giving  &nmy  and  Bob  a  ride 
on  your  sledge!  —  both  at  once,  only  think! 
Why,  you're  quite  a  man,  Ivar.  Oh,  give 
her  to  me  a  little,  Anna.  My  sweet  little 
doUyl  [Takes  the  smaliestfrom  the  norm  and 
dances  with  her.]  Yee,  yes;  mother  will 
dance  with  Bob,  too.  What!  Did  you  have 
a  game  of  enowballsT  Oh,  I  wish  I'd  been 
there.  No;  leave  them,  Anna;  III  take 
their  thinp  off.  Oh,  yes,  let  me  do  it;  it's 
such  fun.  Go  to  tjie  nursery;  you  ]o6k 
frosen.  You  II  find  some  hot  coffee  on  the 

[The  Nurse  goes  into  the  room  on 
the  left.  Nora  lakes  ojf  the  chil- 
dren's things  and  throws  them 
down  anywhere,  while  the  chil- 
dren  talk  aH  together.] 
Really!  A  big  dag  ran  after  you?  But  he 
did  n't  bite  you?  No;  dogs  don't  bit«  dwi 
little  dolly  children.  Don't  peep  into  tboae 
parcels,  Ivar.  What  is  it?  Would  n't  you 
liketoknow?  Takecare— it'Ilbite!  What? 
Shall  we  have  a  game?  What  shall  we  play 
at?  Hide-and-seek?   Yee,  let's  play  hide- 
and-seek.    Bob  shall  hide  first.   Am  I  toT 
Yes,  let  me  hide  first. 

[She  and  the  children  piaj/,  with 
laughter  and  shouting,  in  the 
room  and  the  adjacent  one  to  the 
right.  At  last  Noea  hides  under 
the  table;  the  children  come  rusA- 
ing  in,  look  for  her,  but  etatmA 
find  her,  hear  her  haif^dutti 

Goc«lc 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE 


lavghier,  ruth  to  lAe  loUe,  lift  up 

the   cover   and   tee   her.     Loud 

thouU.  She  ereept  out,  at  though 

to  frighiert  them.    Freeh  ehouti.] 

[Meanwhile  there  hat  been  a  knock  at  the 

door  leading  into  the  hall.   No  one  hat 

heard  it.    Now  the  door  it  haif  opened 

and  KaoosTAD  appear*.    He  wait*  a 

Utile;  the  game  ia  renewed.] 

KBoasTAS.    1  beg  your  pardon,  Mra. 

Helmer  — 

Nora  {with  a  auppreesed  cry,  tumt  round 
and  half  jumpe  up].    Ahl    What  do  you 

Kboosias.  Ebccuse  me;  the  outer  door 
was  ajar  —  gomebody  must  have  forgotten 
to  shut  it  — 

NoKA  [ttanding  up].  My  husband  ie  not 
at  home,  Mr.  KrogBtad. 

Kroobtad.  I  know  it. 

NoKA.  Then  what  do  you  want  here? 

Khoootao.  To  say  a  few  words  to  you. 

NoBA.  To  me7  17*0  the  chitdren,  eofOif.] 
Go  in  to  Anna.  What?  No,  the  strange 
man  won't  hurt  mamma.  When  he's  gone 
we'll  go  on  playing.  [She  leadt  the  children 
into  the  left-hand  room,  and  ehutt  the  door 
behind  them.  Uneaey,  in  tavpenee.]  It  is  to 
me  you  wish  to  epeakT 

KsooarAD.  Yee,  to  you. 

NoKA.  To-dayt  But  it's  not  the  first 
yet — 

KBOoaTAD.  No,  to-day  isChriitmu  Eve. 
It  will  depend  upon  yourself  whether  you 
have  a  merry  Christmas. 

Nora.  What  do  you  want?  I'm  not 
ready  to-day  — 

Kboobtap.  Never  mind  that  just  now. 
I  have  come  about  another  matter.  You 
have  a  minute  to  spare? 

Nora.  Ob,y^,lBupposeeo;although  — 

KBOOBTAn.  Good.  I  was  sitting  in  the 
restaurant  oppcsite,  and  I  saw  your  hus- 
band go  down  the  street  — 

NoftA.  Well? 

Kboobtad.  With  a  lady. 

Nora.  What  then? 

KKoafiTAs.  May  I  ask  if  the  lady  was  a 
Mrs.  Linden? 

Nora.  Yes. 

Kroostad.  Who  has  just  oome  to  town? 


friend  of  yours. 

Nora.  Certainly.  But  I  don't, under- 
stand— 

Kroobtad.  I  used  to  know  her  too. 

Nora.  I  know  you  did. 

KBOoerTAO,  Ah!  You  know  all  about  it. 
I  thought  as  much.  Now,  frankly,  is  Mrs 
Linden  to  have  a  place  in  the  Bulk? 

Nora.  How  dare  you  catechize  me  in 
this  way,  Mr.  Krogriod  —  you,  a  subordi- 
nate of  my  husband's?  But  since  you  ask, 
you  shall  know.  Yes,  Mrs.  Linden  is  to  ba 
empbyed.  And  it  is  I  who  recommended 
her,  Mr.  Kn^jstad.  Now  you  Icnow. 

Kroostad.  "Hien  my  guess  was  right. 

Nora  [wa^ng  up  and  down,].  You  see 
one  has  a  wee  bit  of  influence,  after  all. 
It  does  n't  follow  because  one's  only  a 
woman  —  When  people  are  in  a  subordi- 
nate position,  Mr.  I&f^tad,  they  ought 
really  to  be  careful  how  they  offend  any- 
body who  —  h*m  — 

Kroobtad.  Who  has  influenoeT 

Nora.   Exactly. 

Kroobtad  [taking  another  tone].  Mra. 
Helmer,  will  you  have  the  kindness  to  em- 
ploy your  influence  on  my  behalf? 

Nora.  What?  How  do  you  mean? 

Kroostad.  Will  you  be  so  good  as  to 
see  that  I  retain  my  subordinate  position 
intlieBank? 

Nora.  What  do  you  mean?  Who  wants 
to  take  it  from  you? 

ERooffTAD.  Oh,  you  needn't  pretend 
ignorance.  I  can  very  well  understand  that 
it  cannot  be  pleasant  for  your  friend  to 
meet  me;  and  I  can  also  understand  now 
for  whose  sake  I  am  to  be  hounded  out. 

Nora.  But  I  assure  you  — 

KBOoerrAD.  Come,  come,  now,  once  for 
all:  there  is  time  yet,  and  I  advise  you  to 
use  your  influence  to  prevent  it. 

Nora.  But,  Mr.  Krogstad,  I  have  no 
influence  —  absolutely  none. 

Kroobtad.  None?  I  thought  you  said  a 
moment  ago  — 

Nora.  Of  course,  not  in  that  sense.  I' 
How  can  you  imagine  that  I  should  have 
any  such  influence  over  my  husband? 

Kboohtad.   Oh,  I  know  your  hurtMnd 


74a 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


from  our  college  days.  I  don't  think  he  ia 
any  more  inflexible  than  other  biubondB. 

NoHA.  If  you  talk  disrespectfully  of  my 
husband,  I  must  request  you  to  iMve  the 
bouse. 

EaoosTAD.  You  are  bold,  madain. 

NoBA.  I  am  afraid  of  you  no  loager. 
When  New  Year's  Day  is  over,  I  shall  soon 
be  out  of  the  whole  buaineas. 

Kroobtad  lamtriMinD  himsdf].  Listen 
to  me,  Mrs.  Eelmer.  If  need  be,  I  shall 
fight  as  though  for  mylife  to  keep  my  little 
place  in  the  Bank. 

Nora.  Yes,  so  it  seems. 

KaooBTAD.  It's  not  only  for  the  salary: 
that  is  what  I  care  least  about.  It's  some- 
thing else  —  Well,  I  had  better  make  a 
dean  breast  of  it.  Of  course,  you  know, 
like  every  one  else,  that  some  years  ago  I 
—  got  into  trouble. 

Nora.  I  think  I've  heard  something  of 
the  sort. 

Kroobtad.  The  matter  never  came  into 
court;  bu*'  from  that  moment  all  paths 
were  barred  to  me.  Then  I  took  up  the 
business  you  know  about.  I  had  to  turn 
my  hand  to  something;  and  I  don't  think 
I'vebeenoneof theworst.  Butnowlmust 
get  clear  of  it  all.  My  sonS'Sre  growing  up; 
for  their  sake  I  must  try  to  reoover  my 
character  as  well  as  I  can.  This  place  in 
the  Bank  was  the  first  step;  and  now  your 
husband  wants  to  kick  me  oS  the  ladder, 
back  into  the  mire. 

Nora.  But  I  assure  you,  Mr.  Krogstad, 
I  have  n't  the  least  power  to  help  you. 

Kroostad.  That  is  because  you  have 
not  the  will;  but  I  can  compel  you. 

Nora.  You  won't  tell  my  husband  that 
I  owe  you  money? 

KsoosTAD.  H'm;  suppose  I  were  to? 

Nora.  It  would  be  shameful  of  you. 
[With  tears  in  her  voict.]  The  secret  that  is 
my  joy  and  my  pride  —  that  he  should 
learn  it  in  such  an  uf^y,  coarse  way  —  and 
from  you.  It  would  involve  me  in  aU  sorts 
of  unpleasantness  ^ 

Kboobtad.  Only  unpleasantneasT 

Nora  [hally].  But  just  do  it.  It's  you 
that  will  come  off'  woret,  for  then  my  hus- 
band will  see  what  a  bad  man  you  are,  and 
iben  ya»  certiunly  won't  keep  your  place. 


Kroobtad.  I  asked  whether  it  was  only 
domestic  unpleasantueea  you  feared? 

Nora.  If  my  husband  gets  to  know 
about  it,  he  wiU,  of  course,  pay  you  off  at 
once,  and  then  we  shall  have  nothing  nxne 
to  do  with  you, 

Kroobtad  [aming  a  ■pace  nearer}.  Lis- 
ten, Mrs.  Helmer;  either  your  memory  is 
defective,  or  you  don't  know  much  about 
business.  I  must  make  the  position  a  littls 
clearer  to  you. 

Nora.  Howso? 

Kroobtad.  When  your  husband  was  ill, 
you  came  to  me  to  borrow  twelve  hundred 
dollars. 

Nora.  I  knew  of  nobody  else. 

Kboobtad.  I  promised  to  find  you  the 
money  — 

Nora.  And  ymi  did  find  it. 

Kkoostad.  I  promised  to  find  you  the 
money,  on  certain  conditions.  You  were  so 
much  taken  up  at  the  time  about  your  hus- 
band's illness,  and  so  eager  to  have  the 
wherewithal  for  your  journey,  that  you 
probably  did  not  give  much  thought  to  the 
details.  Allow  me  to  remind  you  of  th«n. 
I  promised  to  find  you  the  amount  in  es- 
change  for  a  noto  of  hand,  which  I  drew  iqi. 

Noba.  Yee,  and  I  signed  it. 

Kroobtad.  Quite  right.  But  tben  1 
added  a  few  lines,  ""tldng  your  father 
security  for  the  d^t.  Your  father  was  to 
sign  Uiis- 

NoEA.  Was  to— 7  He  did  sign  it  1 

Kboobtad.  I  had  left  the  date  blank. 
That  is  to  say,  your  father  was  himsdf  ta 
date  his  signature.  Do  you  recollect  UutT 

NoEA.  Yes,  I  believe  — 

Kboobtad.  Then  I  gave  you  the  p^icr 
to  send  to  your  father,  by  post.  Is  not  thftt 
so? 

Nora.  Yes. 

Kroobtad,  And  of  course  you  did  so  u 
once;  for  within  five  or  six  days  you  toni^ 
me  back  the  document  with  your  father's 
signature;  and  I  handed  you  the  money. 

Noba.  Well?  Have  I  not  made  my  ptty- 
menta  punctually? 

Kboobtad.  Fairly  —  yes.  But  to  return 
to  the  point:  You  were  in  great  tJOuUe  at 
the  time,  Mrs.  Helmer. 

Noba.  1  was,  indeed! 


A   DOLL'S   HOUSE 


743 


Kkoostaq.  Your  htber  n 


3  very  ill,  I 


Nora.  He  was  on  hii  death-bed. 

Kboootad.  And  died  loon  after? 

Nora.  Yes. 

Kbogotad.  Tell  me,  Mra.  Helmer;  do 
you  h&ppen  ta  recollect  the  day  of  his 
death?  The  d&y  of  the  month,  I  mean? 

Nofu..  Father  died  on  the  29tfa  of  Sep- 
tember. 

Kbcmmtau.  Quite  correct.  I  have  made 
inquiries.  And  here  oomea  in  the  remark- 
able point  —  [produeet  a  paper]  which  I 
cannot  explain. 

NoBA.  What  remarkable  point?  I  don't 

KitoosTAn.  The  remarkf^Ie  point,  mad- 
am, that  your  father  signed  this  paper 
three  days  after  his  death! 

NOEA.  Whati  I  don't  understand  — 
KsoaaTAD.  Your  father  died  on  the  29th 
of  September,  But  look  here:  be  has  dated 
hie  signature  October  2dl  Ib  not  that  re- 
markable, Mrs.  Helmer?  [Nora  u  giUnt.] 
Can  you  explain  it?  [NOKAconCtnueastlenf.j 
It  is  noteworthy,  too,  that  the  words 
"October  2d"  and  the  year  are  not  in  your 
father's  handwriting,  but  in  one  which  I 
believe  I  know.  Well,  this  may  be  ex- 
plained; your  father  may  have  fo^otten  to 
date  his  signature,  and  Hmn^xidy  may  have 
added  the  date  at  random,  before  the  fact 
of  your  father's  death  was  known.  There 
lothing  wrong  in  that.  Everything 
Q  the  signature.  Of  course,  it 
,  Mrs.  Helmer?  It  was  really 
your  father  himself  who  wrote  hia  name 

Nora  [afler  a  short  tiienet,  tkrowt  her  head 
bade  and  lookt  defianUy  at  kirn].  No,  it  was 
not.  /  wrote  father's  name. 

Krogbfad.  Ahl  —  Are  you  aware,  mad- 
am, that  that  is  a  dangerous  admission? 

Nora.  How  bo?  You  will  soon  get  your 
money. 

Kroobtad.  May  I  ask  you  one  more 
question?  Why  did  you  not  send  the  paper 
to  your  father? 

Nora.  It  was  impossible.  Father  was 
ill.  If  I  had  asked  tiim  for  his  signature,  I 
should  have  had  to  tell  him  why  I  wanted 
the  money;  but  he  was  so  ill  I  really  oould 


not  tell  him  that  my  husband's  life  was  in 
danger.  It  was  impossible. 

Kroostad.  Then  it  would  have  been 
better  to  have  given  up  your  tour. 

Nora.  No,  I  could  n't  do  that;  my  hus- 
band's life  depended  on  that  journey.  I 
could  n't  give  it  up. 

KRoaOTAD.  And  did  it  never  occur  to 
you  that  you  were  playing  me  false? 

Nora.  That  was  nothing  to  me.  I  did  n't 
care  in  the  least  about  you.  I  could  n't 
endure  you  for  all  the  cruel  difficulties  you 
made,  ^though  you  knew  how  ill  my  hus< 

Kroobtad.  Mrs.  Helmer,  you  evidently 
do  not  realise  what  you  have  been  guilty 
cf.  But  I  can  assure  you  it  was  nothing 
more  and  nothing  worse  that  made  me  an 
outcast  froR^  society. 

Nora.  YouI  You  want  me  to  believe 
that  you  did  a  brave  thing  to  save  your 
wife's  life? 

KBOOffTAD.  The  Uw  takes  no  account  of 
motives. 

Nora.  Then  it  must  be  a  very  bad  law. 

KnooaTAD.  Bad  or  not,  if  I  produce  this 
document  in  court,  you  will  be  condemned 
according  to  law. 

Nora.  I  don't  believe  that.  Do  you 
mean  to  tell  me  that  a  daughter  has  no 
ri|^t  to  spare  her  dying  father  trouble  and 
anxiety?  —  that  a  wife  has  no  right  to  save 
her  husband's  life?  I  don't  know  much 
about  the  Uw,  but  I'm  sure  you'll  find, 
somewhere  or  another,  that  that  is  allowed. 
And  you  don't  know  tiiat  —  you,  a  lawyer! 
You  must  be  a  bad  one,  Mr.  Krogstad- 

Kroobtad.  Possibly.  But  buriness  — 
such  business  as  ours  —  I  do  understand. 
You  believe  that?  Very  well;  now,  do  as 
you  please.  But  this  I  may  tell  you,  that  if 
I  am  flung  into  the  gutter  a  second  time, 
you  shall  keep  me  company. 

[Bourn  oTuf  0008  out  through  kaU.] 

Nora  [liandt  a  tohile  thinking,  then  kusfs 
her  head].  Oh,  nonsenael  He  wants  to 
frighten  me,  I'm  not  so  foolish  aa  that. 
[Btgina  folding  the  ekiUren'telothee.  Pavte».l 
But  —  ?  No,  it's  unpossible!  Why,  I  did 
it  for  love  I 

CEiU}RSH\ai  the  door,  left].  Mamma,  th» 
Itrange  man  has  gone  now. 


744 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


NoBA.  Yes,  yes,  I  know.  But  don't  Wl 
any  one  about  the  strange  msJi.  Do  you 
hear?  Not  even  papal 

Cbildben.  No,  mamma;  and  now  will 
you  play  with  ua  again? 

Nora.  No,  no ;  now  not. 

Childrbn.  Oh,  do,  mamma;  you  know 
you  promised. 

NoHA.  Yes,  but  I  can't  just  now.  Run 
to  the  nursery;  t  have  ao  much  to  do.  Run 
along,  run  along,  and  be  good,  my  darlingsl 
[She  puthes  them  gently  into  the  inn«r  room, 
and  doaet  the  door  behind  them.  SiU  on  the 
tofa,  embroiders  a  few  ttitchet,  but  ioon 
pauses,]  No!  [Throins  doom  the  v>ork,  rues, 
goes  to  the  haU  door  and  calls  mil.]  Ellen, 
bring  in  the  Christmaa  treel  [Goet  to  bMe, 
left,  and  open*  the  drawer;  again  pause*.] 
No,  it's  quite  impoaaiblel 

Ellen  [with  Chrittmas  tree].  Where  ahall 
I  stand  it,  ma'am? 

Nora.    There,    in    the   middle  of   the 


E1.LE 


Bhall     I    bring    in     anything 


Nora.    No,  thank  you,    I  have  all  I 

[Ellen,  haovng  puf  dmon  the  tree, 
goes  out.] 
'NonK^/msy  dressing  the  tree].  There  must 
be  a  candle  here  —  and  flowera  there.  — 
That  horrible  manl  NonsenBe,  nonaensel 
there'BDothingtobeafraidof.  TheChriat- 
maa  tree  shall  be  beautiful.  I'U  do  every- 
thing to  please  you,  Torvald;  I  '11  sing  and 
dance,  and  — 

[BrOer  Helubr  by  the  hidt  door,  toitk  a 
bundle  of  documents.] 

Nora.  Oh!  You're  back  already? 

Helmer.  Yea.  Haaanybody  beat  here? 

Nora.  Here?  No, 

Heluer.  That's  odd.  I  saw  Krogstad 
come  out  of  the  house. 

Nora.  Did  you?  Oh,  yes,  by  the  bye, 
he  wae  here  for  a  minute. 

Hblmbr.  Nora,  I  can  see  by  your  man- 
ner that  be  has  been  begging  you  to  put  in 
a  good  word  for  him. 

Nora.  Yes. 

Helubr  And  you  were  to  do  it  as  if  of 
your  own  accord?  You  were  to  iay  nothing 


to  me  of  his  having  been  here.  Did  n't  he 
suggest  that,  too? 

NoEA.  Yes,  Torvald;  but  — 

HiLMER.  Nora,  Nora!  And  you  oould 
oondeecend  to  that!  To  q>eak  to  such  a 
man,  to  make  him  a  promisel  And  then  U 
tell  me  an  imtruth  about  iti 

Nora.  An  untruth! 

Helmkb.  Did  n't  you  aay  that  nobody 
had  been  here?  [Threaiem  wilh  hi*  finger.] 
My  little  bird  must  never  do  that  again! 
A  song-bird  must  sing  clear  and  true;  ito 
false  notes.  [PutsMearmToundher.]  Ttat't 
so,  is  n't  it?  Yes,  1  was  sure  of  it.  [Let*  ha 
go.]  And  now  we'll  say  no  more  about  it 
[Sits  dovm  before  the  fire.]  Oh,  how  ooiy  and 
quiet  it  is  here!     [Glance*  ado  his  dDCt»- 

NoRA  [busy  teith  the  tree,  after  a  short  »■ 
fence).  Torvald! 

Hblmer.  Yes. 

Nora.  I'm  looking  forward  ao  mudh  to 
the  Stenborgs'  fuicy  ball  the  day  attet 
to-morrow. 

Hblwer.  And  I  'm  on  tenterhooks  to  see 
what  surprise  you  have  in  store  for  me. 

Nora.  Oh,  it's  too  tireaomel 

Helubr.  What  is? 

Nora.  I  can't  think  of  anything  good. 
Everything  seems  so  foolish  and  meaning- 
leas. 

Helues.  Has  bttle  Nora  made  that  dM- 
ooveryf 

Nora  [behind  hi*  chair,  viiiA  her  arms  on 
the  back].  Are  you  very  busy,  Torvald? 

Hbuixr.  Well  — 

Nora.  What  papers  are  those? 

Helubr.  Bank  business. 

Nora.  Already  I 

Hblmbr.  I  have  got  the  retiring  man- 
ager to  let  me  make  some  necessary  ohanges 
in  the  staff  and  the  organisation.  I  can  da 
this  during  Christmas  week.  I  want  to 
have  everything  straight  by  the  New 
Year. 

Nora.  Then  that's  why  that  poor 
Krogstad  — 

Helmer.  H'm. 

Nora  [sliU  leaning  over  the  dtair-baek  and 
slowly  stroking  hi*  hair].  If  you  had  n't 
been  so  very  busy,  I  should  have  aaked  you 
a  great,  great  favor,  Torvald. 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE 


745 


HsucER.  Wliat  cao  it  be?  Out  with  it. 

NosA.  Nobody  has  mieh  perfect  taste  as 
you;  aDd  I  should  ao  love  to  look  well  at 
the  fancy  ball.  Torvald,  dear,  oould  n't 
you  take  me  in  hand,  and  settle  what 
I'm  to  be,  and  arrange  my  costume  for 
me? 

Hbuceb.  Ahat  So  my  willful  little 
woman  ia  at  a  loss,  and  making  signals  of 
distress. 

NoEA.  Yes,  please,  Torvald.  I  can'-t  get 
on  without  your  help. 

Hblhkb.  Well,  well,  I'll  think  it  over, 
and  we'll  soon  hit  upon  something. 

Nora.  Oh,  bow  good  that  is  of  you! 
lOoea  to  the  tree  again;  pause]  How  well  the 
red  Sowers  show.  —  Tell  me,  was  it  any- 
thing so  rery  dreadful  this  Kroptad  got 
into  trouble  aboutT 

HsuoiB.  Forgery,  that's  all.  Don't  you 
know  what  that  means? 

NoKA.  May  n't  he  have  been  driven  to 
it  by  need? 

Hbuier.  Yee;  or,  like  eo  many  others, 
he  may  have  done  it  in  pure  heedleesnees. 
I  am  not  so  hard-hearted  as  to  condemn  a 
man  absolutely  for  a  single  fault. 

Nora.  No,  surety  not,  Torvaldl 

Helueb.  Many  a  man  can  retrieve  hia 
character,  if  he  owns  his  crime  and  takes 
the  punishment. 

Nora.   Puniahment  —  ? 

Hblmkb.  But  Krogstad  did  n't  do  that. 
He  evaded  the  law  by  means  of  tricks  and 
subterfuges;  and  that  ia  what  has  morally 
mined  him. 

Noba.   Do  you  think  that  —  ? 

Heluer.  Just  think  how  a  man  with  a 
thing  of  that  sort  on  his  conscience  must  be 
always  lying  and  canting  and  ahamming. 
Think  of  the  mask  he  must  wear  even  to- 
ward those  who  stand  nearest  him  —  to- 
ward his  own  wife  and  children.  The  effect 
OD  the  children  —  that's  the  moat  terrible 
part  of  it,  Nora. 

Nora.  Why? 

Hklwxb.  Because  in  such  an  atmosphere 
of  lies  home  life  is  poisoned  and  contami- 
nated in  every  fiber.  Every  breath  the 
children  draw  contains  gome  germ  of  evil. 


Noaji[doter  behind  him].  Areyousureof 
thatT 

Hkurr.  As  a  lawyer,  my  dear,  I  have 
seen  it  often  enough.  Nearly  all  caeea  of 
early  corruption  may  be  traced  to  lying 
mothers. 

Nora.  Why  —  mothers? 

Heuoir.  It  generally  comes  from  the 
mother's  side;  but  of  course  the  father's 
influence  may  act  in  the  same  way.  Every 
lawyer  knowa  it  too  well.  And  here  baa  this 
Krogstad  been  poisoning  his  own  children 
for  years  past  by  a  life  of  lies  and  hypocrisy 
—  that  is  why  I  call  him  morally  ruined. 
[Hc^ds  out  both  handa  to  her.]  So  my  sweet 
little  Nora  muat  promise  not  to  plead  hia 
cause.  Shake  hands  upon  it.  Come,  come, 
what's  this?  Give  me  your  hand.  That's 
right.  Then  it's  abar^in.  I  assure  you  it 
would  have  been  impossible  for  roe  to  work 
with  him.  It  gives  me  a  positive  aenae  of 
physical  discomfort  to  come  in  contact 
with  such  people. 

[Nora  draws  hrr  hand  away,  and 
frmva  to  Ike  other  eide  of  the 
Chriitmai  tree.] 

Nora.  Howwannitisbere.  And  I  have 
so  much  to  do. 

Hbluer  [Htet  and  gaOtert  up  hia  papern]. 
Yes,  and  I  must  try  to  get  some  of  these 
papers  looked  through  before  dinner.  And 
I  shall  think  over  your  costume  too.  Per- 
haps I  may  even  find  something  to  hang  in 
gilt  paper  on  the  Christmaa  tree.  [Layg  hia 
hand  on  her  head.]  My  precious  little  song- 
bird! 

[He  got*  into  hia  room  and  ahula  Ou 

Nora  [sofUy,  after  a  pauat].  It  can't  be. 
It's  impossible.  It  must  be  iropossiblel 

Anna  [at  the  door,  kft].  The  little  onea 
are  begging  so  prettily  to  come  to  mamma. 

Nora.  No,  no,  no;  don't  let  them  coroe 
to  me!  Keep  them  with  you,  Anna. 

Anna.  Very  well,  ma'am. 

[ShuU  the  door.] 

Nora  [paie  xoith  lerror].  Corrupt  my 
children !  —  Poiaon  my  home !  [Short  pause 
She  Ihrotca  back  her  head.]  It'snottrue!  It 
can  never,  never  be  true! 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


746 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


ACT  II 


Tlu  some  room.  In  the  corner,  betide  the 
pUmo,  itande  the  Chriilmat  tree,  etripped, 
and  vilk  the  eandlee  burnt  out.  Nora's  <nil- 
dooT  thing*  lie  on  the  to/a. 
[Nora,  alone,  is  ineUkiTtQ  about  reetUedy.  At 
Uut  ihe  flops  by  the  sofa,  and  tal^  vp 
herdoak.] 

iioKA  [dropping  the  doak].  There's  some- 
body comiDgl  [Ooet  to  the  hall  door  and  lia- 
ten*.\  "Nobody;  of  course  nobody  will  come 
to-day,  ChristmBa  Day;  nor  to-morrow, 
eitlier.  Butperhftps —  [Opens  the  door  and 
looks  out.]  —  No,  nothing  in  the  letter  box; 
quite  empty.  [Comes  forward.]  BtuS  cmd 
aonseneel  Of  courae  he  won't  really  do 
anything.  Such  ft  thing  could  n't  happen. 
It's  impoosiblel  Why,  I  have  three  little 
children. 


.  enters  from  the  left, 


(AVI 


AmiA.  I've  found  the  box  with  the  fancy 
dress  at  last. 

Nora.  Thanks;  put  it  down  on  the  table. 

Anna  (dinnj; «;].  But  I'm  afraid  it's  very 
much  out  of  order. 

Nora.  Oh,  I  wish  I  could  t«ar  it  into  a 
hundred  thousand  pieces  I 

Anna.  Oh,  no.  It  con  easily  be  put  to 
rights  —  just  a  little  patience. 

Nora.  I  shall  go  and  get  Mrs.  Linden 
to  help  me. 

Anna.  Going  out  again?  In  such  weather 
as  this  I  Toull  catch  cold,  ma'am,  and  be 
ill. 

NoBA.  Worse  things  might  happen.  — 
What  are  the  children  doioi;? 

Anna.  They're  playing  with  their 
Christmaa  presents,  poor  little  dears;  but — 

Nora.  Do  they  often  ask  (or  me? 

Anna.  You  see  they've  been  so  used  to 
having  their  mnnimn  with  them. 

Nosm,.  Yea;  but,  Anna,  I  can't  have 
them  so  much  with  me  in  future. 

Anna.  Well,  little  ehitdren  get  used  to 
anything. 

Nora.  Do  you  think  they  do?  Do  you 
believe  they  would  forget  their  motlier  if 
she  went  quite  away? 


Anna.  Gracious  met  Quite  awsy? 

Nora.  Tell  me,  Anna,  —  I've  eo  often 
wondered  about  it,  —  how  could  you  bring 
yourself  to  give  your  child  up  to  bI 

Anna.   I  had  to  when  I  cftme  t 
my  Uttle  Mias  Nora. 

Nora.  But  how  could  you  make  up  your 
mind  to  it? 

Anna.  When  I  had  the  chance  of  such 
a  good  place?  A  poor  girl  who  'e  been  m 
trouble  must  take  what  comes.  ThU 
wicked  man  did  nothing  for  me. 

Nora.  But  your  daughter  must  have 
forgotten  you. 

Anna.  Oh,  no,  ma'am,  that  she  has  n't 
She  wrote  to  me  both  when  she  was  con- 
Srmed  and  when  she  was  married- 

^QJLJi.\embraeing  her].  Dear  old  Anna — 
you  were  a  good  mother  to  me  when  I  was 
little. 

Anna.  My  poor  little  Nora  had  M 
mother  but  me. 

Nora.  And  if  my  little  ones  had  nobody 
else,  I'm  sure  you  would —  NoQsmse. 
nonaensel  (Opens  the  box.]  Go  in  to  the 
children.  Now  I  must  —  You'll  see  how 
lovely  I  shall  be  to-morrow. 

Anna.  I'm  sure  there  will  be  no  ooe  al 
the  ball  ao  lovely  as  my  Miss  Nora. 

[She  goes  into  the  room  on  the  leJL] 

Nora  [takes  the  costume  out  of  the  box,  bat 
toon  &Tou>s  it  dotpn  again].  Oh,  if  I  diutd 
go  out.  If  only  nobody  would  come.  If 
only  nothing  would  happen  here  in  the 
mean  time.  Rubbish;  nobody  is  coming. 
Only  not  to  think.  What  a  delicious  muff! 
Beautiful  gloves,  beautiful  glovesi  To  for- 
get —  to  forgetl  One,  two,  three,  four,  fiv^ 
six  —    [With  a  scream.]    Ah,  theie  tfaej 


(Mrs.  Linden  eiders  from  the  hall,  tnihw 

the  hat  taken  off  her  (hingi.\ 

Nora.  Oh,  it's  you,  Christina.  There's 

nobody  else  there?  I'm  so  ^ad  you  have 

Mrs.  Linden.  I  hear  you  called  at  my 
lod^ngs. 

Nora.  Yes,  I  was  just  passing.  Hmtb's 
something  you  mutt  twip  nte  with.  Let  at 


.CtOoi^Ic 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE 


747 


rit  h«re  an  the  eof a  —  bo.  To-morrov  even' 
ing  there's  to  be  a  fancy  ball  at  Consul 
Stenborg's  overhead,  &nd  Torrald  wants 
me  to  appear  aa  a  Neapolitan  fiaher-girl, 
and  dance  the  taranltUa;  I  learned  it  at 

Mrs.  Linden.  I  Bee  —  quite  a  perform- 

Nora.  Yes,  Torvald  wishes  it.  Look, 
this  Ih  the  costume;  Torrald  had  it  made 
for  me  in  Italy.  But  now  it's  all  so  torn,  I 
don't  know  — 

Mrs.  LiNDKN.  Oh,  we  diall  eoon  set  that 
to  rights.  It's  only  the  trimmii^  that  has 
come  loose  here  and  there.  Have  you  a 
needle  and  thread?    Ah,  here's  the  very 

NoEA.  Oh,  how  kind  of  you. 

Mrs.  Linuen  [seUTing],  So  you're  to  be 
in  costume  to-morrow,  NoraT  I  '11  tel!  you 
what  — ■  I  shsill  come  in  for  a  moment  to 
see  you  in  all  your  glory.  But  I've  quite 
forgotten  to  thank  you  for  tiie  pleasant 
evening  yesterday. 

NoHA  Iriaw  and  vaik*  aeron  the  room]. 
Oh,  yesterday,  it  did  n't  seem  bo  pleasant 
as  usual.  —  You  should  have  come  to  town 
a  little  sooner,  Christina.  —  Torvald  has 
certainly  the  art  of  maldDg  home  bright 
and  beautiful. 

Mrs.  Linden,  You,  too,  I  should  think, 
or  you  would  n't  be  your  father's  daughter. 
But  tell  me  —  is  Doctor  Rank  always  so 
depressed  w  he  was  last  evening? 

Nora.  No,  yesterday  it  was  particularly 
noticeable.  You  see,  he  suffers  from  a  dread- 
ful illness.  He  has  spinal  consumption, 
poor  fellow.  They  say  his  father  was  a  hor- 
rible man,  who  kept  mistreesM  and  all  sorts 
of  thingB  —  so  the  son  has  been  sickly  from 
his  childhood,  you  understand. 

Mrs,  Lindbn  [leti  her  sewing  fall  inio  her 
lap].  Why,  my  darling  Nora,  how  do  you 
come  to  know  such  things? 

NoiiJi.['irtoiring  about  the  room].  Oh,  when 
one  has  three  children,  one  sometimes  has 
visits  from  women  who  are  half  — halt 
doctors  ~- and  they  talk  of  one  thing  and 
another. 

Mitfi.  Linden  [pou  on  teunng;  a  ihort 
paute].  Does  Doctor  Rank  oome  lure  every 
ilay? 


Nora.  Every  day  of  hia  life.  He  has 
been  Torvald's  most  intimate  friend  from 
boyhood,  and  he's  a  good  friend  of  mine, 
too.  Doctor  Rank  is  quite  one  of  the  family. 

Mrs.  Linden.  But  tell  me  —  is  he  quite 
sincere?  I  mean,  is  n't  he  rather  given  to 
flattering  people? 

Nora.  No,  quite  the  contrary.  Why 
should  you  think  so? 

Mrs.  Lindek.  When  you  introduced  us 
yesterday  he  eaid  he  had  often  heard  my 
name;  but  I  noticed  afterwards  that  your 
husband  had  no  notion  who  I  was.  How 
could  Doctor  Rank  —  7 

Nora.  He  was  quite  right,  Christina. 
You  Bee,  Torvald  loves  me  so  indescrib- 
ably, he  wants  to  have  me  all  to  himself,  as 
he  says.  When  we  were  first  married,  he 
was  almost  jealous  if  I  even  mentioned  any 
of  my  old  friends  at  home;  bo  naturally  I 
gave  up  doing  it.  But  1  olten  talk  of  the 
old  times  to  Doctor  Rank,  for  be  likes  to 
hear  about  them. 

Mrs.  Linden.  Listen  to  me,  Noral  You 
are  still  a  child  in  many  ways.  I  am  older 
than  you,  and  have  had  more  experience. 
I'll  tell  you  something?  You  ought  to  get 
clear  of  all  this  with  Doctor  Rank. 

Nora.  Get  clear  of  what? 

Mrs.  Linden.  The  whole  afFair,  I  should 
Bay.  You  were  talking  yesterday  of  a  rich 
admirer  who  was  to  find  you  money  — 

Nora.  Yes,  one  who  never  existed,  worse 
luck.  What  then? 

Mrs.  Linden.  Has  Doctor  Rank  money? 

Nora.  Yes,  he  has. 

Mas.  Linden.  And  nobody  to  provid« 
for? 

Nora.  Nobody.  But  —  ? 

Mrs.  Linden.  And  he  comes  here  every 
day? 

Nora.  Yes,  I  told  you  so. 

Mrs.  Linden.  I  should  have  thought  he 
would  have  had  better  taste. 

Nora.  I  don't  understand  you  a  bit. 

Mrs.  Linden.  Don't  pretend,  Nora. 
Do  you  suppose  I  can't  guess  who  lent  you 
the  twelve  hundred  dollars? 

Nora.  Are  you  out  of  youj  senses?  How 
can  you  think  such  a  thmgT  A  friend  who 
comes  here  every  dayl  Why,  the  position 
would  be  unbearable! 


GooqIc 


748 


CHIEF  EUROPEAiJ   DRAMATISTS 


Mas.  LiNSEK.  Then  it  really  is  not  be7 

Nora.  No,  I  aasure  you.  It  never  for  a 
moment  occurred  to  me  —  Besides,  at 
that  time  he  had  nothing  to  lend;  he  oune 
into  his  property  afterwards. 

Mas.  LiNPEN.  Well,  I  believe  that  was 
lucky  for  you,  Nora,  dear. 

NoBA.  No,  really,  it  would  never  have 
struck  me  to  aak  Doctor  Rank  —  And  yet, 
I'm  certiun  that  if  I  did  — 

Mrs.  Linden.  But  of  course  you  never 
would. 

Nora.  Of  course  not.  It's  inconceivable 
that  it  should  ever  be  necessary.  But  I  'm 
quite  sure  that  if  I  spoke  to  Doctor  Rank  — 

Mrs.  Linden.  Behind  your  husband's 
back? 

Nora.  I  must  get  clear  of  the  other 
thing;  that's  behind  his  back  too.  I  miMl 
get  clear  of  that. 

Mrs,  Linsem.  Yes,  yes,  I  told  you  so 
yesterday;  but  — 

Nora  [iml^Ttpuparuf  douffi].  A  man  can 
manage  these  things  much  better  than  a 

Maa,  Linden.  One's  own  husband,  yes. 

Nora.  Nonsense.  IStaruU  »tia.]  When 
everything  is  paid,  one  gets  back  the  paper. 

Mrs.  Lindbn.  Of  course. 

Nora.  And  can  tear  it  into  a  hundred 
thcHisand  pieces,  and  burn  it  up,  the  nasty, 
filthy  thingl 

Mas.  Linden  [look»  at  her  fixedly,  toyi 
doim  Aer  iBorfc,  and  riwa  slnolv).  Nora,  you 
are  hiding  something  from  me. 

Nora.  Con  you  see  it  in  my  face? 

Mrs.  Linden.  Bomethii^  has  happened 
bince  yesterday  morning.  Nora,  what  is  itT 

Nora  \going  t»ward  her].  Christina  —  I 
[Lutent.]  Hush!  There 's  Torvald  coming 
home.  Do  you  mind  going  into  the  nursery 
for  the  present?  Torvald  can't  bear  to  see 
dressmaking  going  on.   Get  Anna  to  hiAp 

Mas.  Linden  \gatheri  tome  of  Ihe  thiTigt 
logelhtr].  Very  well;  but  I  shan't  go  away 
until  you  have  told  me  all  about  it. 

[She  goe*  out  to  lite  left.] 

[Heluer  enltrt  from  the  haU.] 

Nora  (runs  Ic  meet  him].  Oh,  how  I've 

been  lon^g  fcff  you  to  come,  Torvald,  dear  t 


Hwi.MER    Was  that  the  drevmoker — T 

Nora.  No,  Christina.  She's  helping  nw 
with  my  costume.  You'll  see  how  nice  1 
shall  look. 

Heluer.  Yea,  wasn't  that  a  haf^ 
thought  of  mine? 

Nora.  Splendid!  But  is  n't  it  sood  i' 
too,  to  have  given  in  to  you  about  tlw 


Helioir  [lakei  her  wider  the  cAin].  Good 
of  you  I  To  give  in  to  your  own  hushaiMff 
Well,  well,  you  little  madoap,  I  know  yon 
don't  mean  it.  But  I  won't  disturb  you.  I 
dare  say  you  want  to  be  "trying  on." 

Nora.  And  you  are  going  to  work,  1 
suppoeeT 

Heuur.  Yee.  [ShotM  her  a  bundle  i^ 
papers.)  Look  here.  I've  just  come  from 
the  Bank  —  [Ooes  toward  hit  room.] 

Noba.  Torvald. 

Helmer  [stopping].   Yes? 

Nora.  If  your  little  squirrel  were  to  beg 
jrou  for  something  so  prettily  — 

Heluer.  Well? 

Nora.  Would  you  do  it? 

Heluer.  I  roust  know  first  what  it  is. 

Nora.  The  squirrel  would  sldp  about 
and  play  all  sorts  of  tricIcB  if  you  would 
only  be  nice  and  kind. 

Heluer.  Come,  then,  out  with  it. 

Nora.  Your  lark  would  twitter  fran 
rooming  till  night  — 

Hklutr.  Oh,  that  she  does  in  any  case. 

Nora.  I'll  be  an  elf  and  dance  in  tiw 
moonlight  for  you,  Torvald. 

Heluer.  Nora  —  you  can't  mean  what 
you  were  hinting  at  this  morningt 

Nora  [eomirtu  nearer].  Yes,  TOTVsld,  I 
beg  and  implore  you  I 

Heluer.  Have  you  really  the  oaonge 
to  b^in  that  again? 

Nora.  Yes,  yea;  for  my  sake,  you  mutt 
let  Krogstad  keep  his  place  in  the  Bank. 

Heluer.  My  dear  Nora,  it's  his  place! 
intend  for  Mrs.  Linden. 

Nora.  Yea,  that's  so  good  of  you.  But 
instead  of  Krogstad,  you  could  dismiv 
some  other  clerk. 

Heluer.  Why,  this  is  incredible  oboti- 
nacyl  Because  you  have  thouj^tlessly 
promised  to  put  in  a  woid  for  him,  I  am 
to  — I 


:.L|,i,zedi!,GoOQlc 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE 


749 


NoK*.  It's  not  that,  Torvald.  It's  for 
your  own  sake.  This  man  writes  for  the 
luost  scurrilous  newspapers;  you  said  so 
yoursalf.  He  can  do  you  no  end  of  harm. 
I'm  BO  terribly  afraid  of  him  — 

TTki.hmh  Ah,  I  understand;  it's  old 
recoUectiona  that  are  frightenmg  you. 

Nora.  What  do  you  mean? 

Hblmxr.  Of  course,  you're  thinking  of 
your  fathe*. 

Nora.  Yee  —  yea,  of  course.  Only  think 
of  the  sliameful  slanders  wicked  people 
used  to  write  about  father.  I  believe  they 
would  have  got  him  dismissed  if  you  had 
n't  been  sent  to  look  into  the  thing,  and 
been  kind  to  him,  and  helped  him. 

Helices,  My  little  Nora,  between  your 
fa'uher  and  me  there  is  all  the  difference  in 
the  world.  Your  father  was  not  altogether 
UDimpeachable.    I  am;  and  I  hope  to  re- 

NOKA.  Oh,  no  one  knows  what  wicked 
men  may  hit  upon.  We  could  live  so 
quietiy  and  happily  now,  in  our  coiy,  peace- 
ful home,  you  and  I  and  the  children,  Tor- 
vald!  That's  why  I  beg  and  implore  you  — 
.  HxufER.  And  it  is  just  by  pleading  his 
cause  that  you  make  it  impoeaible  for  me 
to  keep  him.  It's  already  known  at  the 
Bank  that  I  intend  to  Himniaa  Krogstad. 
If  it  were  now  reported  that  the  new  man- 
ager let  himself  be  turned  round  his  wife's 
litUe  finger  — 

Nora.  What  thenT 

HsiiUBR.  Oh,  nothmg,  so  long  as  a  will- 
ful woman  can  have  her  way  —  I  I  am  to 
make  myself  a  Uughing-atock  to  the  whole 
staff,  and  set  people  saying  that  I  am  open 
to  all  sorts  of  outaide  influence?  Take  my 
word  for  it,  I  should  eoon  fed  the  conse- 
quences. And  besides  —  there  is  one  thing 
that  makes  Krogstad  impossible  for  me  to 
work  with  — 

Nora.  What  thing? 

Hbucbb.  I  could  perhaps  hare  over- 
looked his  moral  failings  at  a  pinch  — 

Nora.  Yes,  could  n't  you,  Torvald? 

Helubb.  And  I  hear  he  ia  good  at  bis 
work.  But  the  fact  is,  lie  was  a  college  chum 
of  mine  — there  was  one  of  those  rash 
friend^ipa  between  us  that  one  so  often 
repents  of  later.  I  may  as  well  confess  it  at 


once  —  he  calls  me  by  my  Christian  name; 
and  he  is  tactleaa  enou|^  to  do  it  even  when 
oth^s  are  present.  He  delights  in  putting 
on  airs  of  familiarity  —  Torvald  here, 
Torvald  there  1  I  assure  you  it's  most  pain- 
ful to  me.  He  would  make  my  position  at 
the  Bonk  perfectly  unendurable. 
Nora.  Torvald,  mirely  you're  not  seri- 

Ubluiir.  No?  WhynotT 

Nora.  That's  such  a  petty  reason. 

Hbluxb.  WhatI  Pettyl  Do  you  con- 
sider me  pettyl 

Nora.  No,  on  the  contrary,  Torvald, 
dear;  and  that's  just  why  — 

Hkuizb.  Never  mind;  you  call  my  mo- 
tives petty;  then  I  must  be  petty  too. 
Petty !  Very  well  I  —  Now  we  'II  put  an  end 
to  this,  once  for  all.  [Qota  to  the  door  into 
the  haJi  and  ealla.]  Elleni 

Nora.  What  do  you  want? 

Helubb  [*earehing  among  kit  pap«r«]. 
To  settle  the  thing. 

(Elucn  entert.] 

Here;  take  thb  letter;  give  it  to  a  mes- 
senger. See  that  he  takes  it  at  once.  The 
address  is  on  it.  Here's  the  money. 

Ellkn.   Very  well,  sir. 

[GoM  taith  Iht  UUer.] 

Helmbr  [puUtntf  ku  papert  toneUier]. 
There,  Madam  Obstinacy. 

Nora  \breaihkMi.  Torvald  —  what  was 
in  the  letter? 

Hxluer.  Krogstad's  dismissal, 

Nora.  Call  it  back  again,  Torvald' 
There's  still  time.  Oh,  Torvald,  call  It 
back  againi  For  my  sake,. for  your  own, 
for  the  children's  sakel  Do  you  hear,  Tor 
vald?  Do  it!  You  don't  know  what  that 
letter  may  bring  upon  us  all. 

Helukr.  Too  lat«. 

Nora.  Yes,  too  late. 

Hr.i.MBiB  My  dear  Nora,  I  forgive  youl 
anxiety ,  though  it 's  anything  but  flattering 
to  me.  Why  should  you  suppose  that  / 
would  be  afraid  of  a  wretched  scribbler's 
^ite?  But  I  forgive  you  all  the  some,  for 
it's  a  proof  of  your  great  love  for  me. 
[Taktt  her  in  kit  oTTnt.]  That's  as  it  should 
be,  my  own  dear  Nora.  Let  what  will  hap- 
pen —  when  it  comes  to  the  pinch,  I  shall 


7SO 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


have  atrength  and  coursB^  enough.  You 
shall  Bee:  my  Hhoutders  are  broad  enough 
to  bear  the  whole  burden, 

Nora  [terror-alnick].  Wbat  do  you  mean 
Sy  that? 

Hblmbb.  The  whole  burden,  I  say  — 

Nora  [lailk  deeiHon].  That  you  ahall 
never,  never  do  I 

HxufEB.  Vary  well;  then  we'll  share  it, 
Nora,  as  man  and  wife.  That  is  bow  it 
should  be.  [Petting  htr.]  Are  you  satisfied 
now?  Come,  come,  come,  don't  look  like  a 
soared  dove.  It's  all  nothing  —  foolish 
fancies.  —  Now  you  ought  to  play  the  lor- 
antelto  through  and  practice  with  the  tam- 
bourine. I  shall  sit  in  my  inner  room  and 
shut  both  doors,  so  that  I  shall  hear  nothing. 
You  can  make  as  much  noise  as  you  please. 
[TumsTinmd  in  doorway.]  And  when  Rank 
comes,  just  lell  him  where  I'm  to  be  found, 
[He  ncdt  to  her,  and  goes  mlk  his 
papere  into  his  room,  elo»ing  tlie 

NoBA  [bevHldered  vnth  terror,  dandi  at 
though  rooted  to  the  ground,  and  vihispere]. 
He  would  do  it.  Yes,  he  would  do  it.  He 
would  do  it,  in  spite  of  all  the  world,  —  No, 
..ever  that,  never,  never!  Anything  rather 
(Imn  thatl  Oh,  for  some  way  of  escape! 
Wbat  shall  I  do—!  [HaabeUnya.]  Doc- 
tor Rank  —  1  Anything,  anything,  rather 
than  —  1 

[Nora  draics  her  hand*  oner  her 
face,  jnitU  heredf  together,  goee 
to  the  door  and  opens  it.   Rank 
tlande  o\drid^  hanging  up  hitjvr 
coat.   During  what  follows  it  be- 
gins to  grow  dark.] 
Nora.    Good-afternoon,   Doctor  Rank. 
I  knew  you  by  your  ring.  But  you  must  n't 
go  to  Torvald  now,  I  believe  he 's  busy. 
Rank,  And  you? 

[Enters  and  doses  the  door.] 
Nora.  Oh,  you  know  very  well,  I  have 
always  time  for  you. 

Rank.  Thank  you,  I  shall  avail  mysdf 
of  your  kindness  as  long  as  I  can. 

NoKA.  What  do  you  mean?  As  long  as 
you  can7 
Rank.  Yes.  Does  that  frighten  you? 
Nora.    I  think  it's  an  odd  exprc 
Do  you  expect  anything  to  happen? 


Rank.  Something  I  have  long  been  pre- 
pared for;  but  I  did  n't  think  it  would  oome 
so  soon, 

Nora  [oatcking  at  hit  arm.]  Wbat  ban 
you  discovered?  Doctor  Rank,  you  must 
t<dlmel 

Rank  [eittirtg  down  by  the  stooe].  I  am 
running  down  hill.  There's  no  help  for  it. 

Nora  [draining  a  long  breath  of  r^Ufl.  It's 
JKWi  — ? 

Rank.  Who  else  should  it  be?  —  Why 
lie  to  one's  self?  I  am  the  most  wretdied 
of  all  my  patients,  Mrs,  Helmer.  In  these 
last  days  I  have  been  auditing  my  life- 
aooount  —  bankrupti  Perhaps  before  a 
month  is  over,  I  shall  lie  rotting  in  the 
churchyard, 

Nora,  Obi  What  an  ugly  way  to  talk. 

Rank.  The  thing  itself  is  so  confound- 
edly ugly,  you  see.  But  the  worst  of  it  is, 
so  many  other  u^y  things  have  to  be  gone 
through  first.  There  is  only  one  last  inves- 
tigation to  be  made,  and  when  that  is  over 
1  shall  know  pretty  certainly  when  the 
break-up  will  begin.  There's  one  thing  I 
want  to  say  to  you:  Helmer's  delicat«  na- 
ture shrinks  so  from  all  that  is  horrible:  1 
will  not  have  him  in  my  sick-room  — 

Nora.  But,  Doctor  Rank  — 

Rank.  I  won't  have  him,  I  say  —  not  on 
any  account.  I  shall  lock  my  door  against 
him.  —  As  soon  as  I  am  quite  certaib  ol 
the  worst,  1  shall  send  you  my  visiting- 
card  with  a  black  cross  on  it;  and  then  yo« 
will  know  that  the  final  horror  has  begun 

Nora.  Why,  you're  perfectly  unreaaoik 
able  to-dayi  and  I  did  so  wont  you  to  be  ^ 
a  really  good  humor. 

Rank.  With  death  staring  me  in  tbcr 
face?  —  And  to  suffer  thus  for  anotha'a 
sin!  Where's  the  justice  of  it?  Andinon* 
way  OT  another  you  can  trace  in  every  fam- 
ily some  such  ineicorable  retribution  — 

Nora  [ttopping  her  ear*).  Nonsense,  non- 
sense! Now,  cheer  up! 

Rank.  Well,  after  all,  the  whole  thing's 
only  worth  laughing  at.  My  poor  innooMit 
spine  must  do  penance  for  my  father's  wild 

NoHA  [at  table,  left].  I  suppose  be  was  tob 
fond  of  ssparagus  end  Btmbourg  pAt^ 
wss  n't  be? 


CtOoi^Ic 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE 


7S» 


Rank.  Yes;  and  truffles. 

NoBA.  Ves,  truffles,  to  be  sura.  And 
ojvtetB,  I  beliereT 

Rank.  Yaa,  oysters;  oysters,  of  course. 

NOKA.  And  then  all  the  port  and  cham- 
pagne! It's  Bod  that  all  these  good  things 
should  attack  the  spine. 

Rank.  Especially  when  the  luckless 
spine  attacked  never  had  any  good  of  them. 

Nora.  Ah,  yes,  that  'a  the  worst  of  it. 

Rank  [Mcs  ai  her  gearduttgly].  H'm  — 

Nora  [a  moment  taier].  Why  did  you 
amileT 

Rank.  No;  it  was  you  that  laughed. 

Nora.  No;  it  waa  you  that  smiled. 
Doctor  Rank. 

Rank  [standing  up].  I  see  you're  deeper 
than  I  thought. 

Nora.  I'm  insuchaeraiymood  to-day. 

Rank.  So  it  seems. 

Nora  [vrith  her  hands  on  kU  thotMert]. 
Dear,  dear  Doctor  Rank,  death  ahaU  not 
tnke  you  away  from  Torvald  and  me. 

Rank.  Oh,  you '11  easily  get  over  the  loss. 
The  absent  are  soon  forgotten. 

Noka  llook»  at  him  tmxiautly].  Do  you 
Oiinkso? 

Rank.    People    make    fresh    ties,    and 

NoHA.  Who  make  fresh  ties? 

Rank.  You  and  Helmer  will,  when  I  am 
gone.  You  youraelf  are  taking  time  by  the 
forelock,  it  aeems  to  me.  What  was  that 
Mrs.  Linden  doing  here  yesterday? 

Nora.  Oh  I  —  you're  surely  not  jealous 
of  poor  Christina? 

Rank.  Yes,  I  am.  She  will  be  my  suc- 
cessor in  this  house.  When  I  am  out  of  the 
way,  this  woman  will,  perhapa  — 

Nora.  Hushl  Not  so  loud!  She's  in 
there. 

Rank.  To-day  as  well?  You  seel 

Nora.  Only  to  put  my  costume  in  order 
—  dear  me,  how  unreasonable  you  are! 
[Stto  <m  »ofa.]  Now,  do  be  good.  Doctor 
Ranki  To-morrow  you  shall  see  how  beau- 
tifidly  I  shall  dance;  and  then  you  may 
fancy  that  I  'm  doing  it  all  to  please  you  — 
and  of  course  Torvald  as  well.  ITakw  van- 
out  thinut  out  of  box.]  Doctor  Rank,  sit 
down  here,  and  I'll  show  you  something. 

Rank  [nOinffl-  What  is  it? 


Nora.  Look  here.  Lookl 

Rank.  Silk  stockings. 

Nora.  Flesh-colored.  Are  n't  they 
lovely?  It's  BO  dark  here  now;  but  to- 
morrow —  No,  no,  no;  you  must  only  look 
at  the  feet.  Oh,  well,  I  suppose  you  may 
took  at  the  rest  too. 

Rank.  H'm~ 

NoaA.  What  are  you  looking  so  critical 
about?  Do  you  think  they  won't  fit  me?. 

Rank.  I  can't  possibly  give  any  compe- 
tent opinion  on  that  point. 

Nora  {locking  at  him  a  moment].  For 
shame!  [Hti»  him  lightly  on  th«  ear  with  the 
elockinga.]  Take  that. 

IRoUt  them  up  o^n.) 

Rank.  And  what  other  wonders  am  I  to 
see? 

Nora.  You  shan't  see  anything  more; 
for  you  don't  behave  nicely. 

[She   hume   a   liUle   and  aearchet 
among  the  thirtgt.] 

Rank  [after  a  shorl  silence].  When  I  sit 
here  goaaiping  with  you,  I  can't  imagine  — 
I  simply  cannot  conceive  —  what  would 
have  become  of  me  if  I  had  never  entered 
this  house. 

Nora  Itmiling].  Yes,  I  think  you  do  feel 
at  home  with  us. 

Rank  [more  toftly  —  lof,king  etraight  be- 
forehim].  And  now  to  have  to  leave  it  all— 

Noa*.  Nonsense,  You  shan't  leave  us. 

Rank  [in  the  laTne  lone].  And  not  to  be 
able  to  leave  behind  the  slightest  token  of 
gratitude;  scarcely  even  a  passing  r^ret  — 
nothing  but  an  empty  place,  that  can  be 
fiUed  by  the  Brat  comer. 

Nora.  And  if  I  were  to  ask  you  for  —  7 
No  — 

Rank.  Pot  what? 

Nora.  For  a  great  proof  of  your  friend- 

Rank.  Yes  —  yes? 

Nora.  I  mean  —  for  a  very,  very  great 

Rank.  Would  you  really,  for  once,  make 
me  so  happy? 

Nora.  Oh,  you  don't  know  what  it  is. 

Rank.   Then  tell  me. 

Nora.  No,  I  really  can't.  Doctor  Rank. 
It 's  far,  far  too  much  —  not  only  a  sendee, 
but  help  and  advice,  besides  — 


75" 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Rank.  So  much  the  better.  1  can't  think 
what  you  can  mean.  But  go  oa.  Don't  you 
trust  me? 

NoBA.  As  I  truet  no  one  else.  I  know 
you  &r«  my  best  and  truest  friend.  So  I 
wiU  tell  you.  WeH,  then.  Doctor  Rank, 
there  is  something  you  must  help  me  to 
prevent.  You  know  how  deeply,  how  won< 
derfully  Torvald  loves  me;  he  would  n't 
hesitate  a  moment  to  give  his  very  life  for 
my  sake. 

Rank  [beriding  toward  her],  Npra  —  do 
you  think  he  is  the  only  one  who  —  7 

Nora  [mlh  a  tligkl  tlarl] .    Who  —  T 

Rank.  Who  would  gladly  give  his  life 
'  for  you? 

Nora  [aadlv].  OhI 

Rank.  I  twve  sworn  that  you  BhoU 
know  it  before  I — go,  I  aboil  never  find 
a  better  opportunity.  — Yes,  Nora,  now 
I  have  told  you;  and  now  you  know  that 
you   can  trust  me  as  you  eon  no  one 

Nora  [standine  up;  Hmply  and  cahnly]. 
Let  me  pass,  please. 

Rank  [make*  way  for  her,  but  remaini  til- 
ting]. Nora  — 

Nora  [tn  the  doonoaj/].  Mien,  bring  tite 
lamp,  ICroMM  to  the  itove.]  Oh,  dear,  Doc- 
tor Rank,  that  was  too  bad  of  you. 

Rank  |rMTRir|.  That  I  have  loved  you  as 
deeply  as  —  any  one  elae?  Was  that  too 
bad  of  me? 

Nora.  No,  but  that  you  should  have 
told  me  80,  It  was  so  unneceaaaiy  — 

Rank.    What  do  you  mean?    Did  you 


Nora  —  Mrs.  Helmer  —  I  ask  you,  did 
you  know? 

Nora,  Oh,  how  can  I  tell  what  I  knew 
or  did  n't  know?  I  really  can't  say —  How 
could  you  be  so  clumsy,  Doctor  Rank?  It 
was  oU  so  nicel 

Rank,  Well,  at  any  rate,  you  know  now 
that  I  am  at  your  service,  body  and  soul. 
And  DOW,  go  on. 

Nora  [looking  at  him].  Go  on  —  now? 

Rank.   I  b^  you  to  tell  me  what  you 


NoBA.  I  can  tell  you  nothing  now. 

Rank.  Yes,  yes!  You  must  n't  punirii 
me  in  that  way.  Let  me  do  for  you  what- 
ever a  man  can. 

Nora.  You  con  do  nothing  for  me  now. 

—  BeaideSiIreallywantnohelp.  Youshall 
see  it  was  only  my  fancy.  Yes,  it  must  be 
BO,  Of  course!  [Sitt  in  the  raeking-ehair, 
looks  at  him  and  tmHee.]  You  are  a  nice 
person,  Doctor  RankI  Are  n't  you  aahoniec] 
of  yourself,  now  that  the  lamp  is  on  the 
table? 

Rank.  No;  not  eitactly.  But  perhaps  I 
ought  to  go  —  forever. 

Nora.  No,  indeed  you  must  n't.  Of 
course,  you  must  come  and  go  as  yau'vv 
always  done.  You  know  very  well  tiw 
Torvald  can't  do  without  you. 

Rank,  Yea,  but  you? 

Noba.  Ob,  you  know  I  always  like  to 
have  you  here. 

Rank.  That  is  just  what  led  me  astray. 
You  are  a  riddle  to  me.  It  hat  often  seemed 
to  me  as  if  you  liked  being  with  me  almost 
as  much  as  being  with  Helmer. 

Nora.  Yes;  don't  you  see?  There  are 
people  one  loves,  and  others  one  likes  to 
talk  to. 

Rank.  Yea  —  there's  something  in  that 

Nora.  When  I  was  a  girl,  of  course,  1 
loved  papa  best.  But  it  always  delisted 
me  to  at^  into  tjie  servants'  room.  In  the 
first  place  they  never  lectured  me,  and  in 
the  second  it  was  such  fun  to  hear  them 
talk. 

Rank.  Ah,  I  see;  then  it's  tiieir  place  1 
have  taken? 

Nora  [jumps  up  and  hwriet  Urward  Amk] 
Oh,  my  dear  Doctor  Rank,  I  don't  mean 
that.  But  you  understand,  with  Torvald 
it's  the  some  as  with  papa  — 

[Ellen  entertfrom  the  haU.] 

Ellkn,    Please,  ma'am  — 

[WhitjierB  to  Nora,  and  gieet  hff 

Nora  \glaneing  al  card].   Ah! 

[Putt  it  inker  pedul.] 
Rank.  Anything  wrong? 
Nora.  No,  no,  not  in  the  least.  It's  only 

—  it's  my  now  costume  — 

Rank.  Your  oortumel  Wfar,  it'i  that. 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE 


75.1 


Nora.  Oh,  that  one,  yes.  But  thja  u 
another  that  —  I  have  ordered  it  —  Tor- 
vald  must  a't  knov  — 

Rank.  Aha!  So  that's  the  great  wcret. 

Nora.  Yee,  of  course.  Pleaaego  to  him; 
be'i  in  the  inner  room.  Da  keep  him  while 
I  — 

Ranx.  Don't  be  alarmed;  he  shan't 
escape.  [Qoe*  into  Hbluer'b  room.] 

NoBA  {to  EllenI,  Is  he  waiting  in  the 
kitchen? 

Ellen.  Yes,  he  came  up  the  back  stair — 

NoKA.  Did  n't  you  tell  him  I  was  en- 
gaged? 

Ellen.  Yes,  but  it  was  no  use. 

Nora.  He  won't  go  away? 

Ellen.  No,  ma'am,  not  until  he  has 
•poken  to  you. 

Nora.  'Then  let  him  come  in;  but  quietly. 
And,  Ellen  — say  nothing  i^ut  it;  it's  a 
surprise  for  my  husband. 

Ellen.   Oh,  yes,  ma'am,  I  understand. 
ISke  goet  mii.] 

Nora.  It  is  comingi  The  dreadful  thing 
is  coming,  after  all.  No,  no,  no,  it  can  never 
be;  it  shall  not! 

[She  gott  to  Hdluxb's  door  and 
tlips  tiie  boU.] 

[Eluin  opena  the  haU  door  /or  Kboostad, 

and  lAub  it  after   him.    He  wears   a 

Iraveling-eoal,  high  booli,  artd  a  fur  cap.] 

Nora  \goea  toward  Attn].    Speak  softly; 

my  husband  is  at  home. 

Kroostad.  All  right.  That's  nothing  to 


Nora.  I  could  n't  prevent  it,  Mr.  Krog- 
stad.    I  fought  for  you  to  the  last,  but  it 

Kroostad.  Does  your  husband  care  for 
you  80  little?  He  knows  what  I  can  bring 
upon  you,  and  yet  he  dares  — 

Nora.  How  could  you  think  I  should 
teUhim? 

KR008T&D.  Well,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  I 
did  n't  think  it.  It  was  n't  like  my  friend 
Torrald  Helmer  to  show  so  much  courage — 


Nora.  Mr.  Krogatad,  be  good  enough  to 
speak  respectfully  of  my  husband. 

Kroostad.  Certainly,  with  all  due  n- 
spect.  But  since  you  are  so  anxious  to  keep 
the  matter  secret,  I  suppose  you  are  a  little 
clearer  than  yesterday  as  to  what  you  have 

Nora.    Clearer  than  you  could  erer 

Kro09tad.  Yes,  such  a  bad  lawyer  as  I  — 

Nora.   What  is  it  youwant? 

Kroostad.  Only  to  see  how  you  are  get- 
ting on,  Mrs.  Helmer.  I've  been  thinking 
about  you  all  day.  Even  a  mere  money' 
lender,  a  gutter-journalist,  a  —  in  short,  a 
creature  like  me  —  has  a  little  bit  of  what 
people  call  feeling. 

Nora.  Then  show  it;  think  of  my  little 
children. 

KBO08TAD.  Did  you  and  your  husband 
think  of  mine?  But  enough  of  that.  I  only 
wanted  to  tell  you  that  you  need  n't  take 
this  matter  too  seriously.  I  shall  not  lodge 
any  information,  for  the  present. 

Nora.  No,  surely  not.  I  knew  you 
would  n't. 

Kroostad.  The  whole  thing  can  be  set- 
tled quit«  amicably.  Nobody  need  know. 
It  can  remain  among  us  three. 

Nora.  My  husband  must  never  know. 

Kroostad.  How  can  you  prevent  it? 
Can  you  pay  o&  the  balance? 

Nora.  No,  not  at  once. 

Kroostad,  Or  have  you  any  means  of 
raising  the  money  in  the  next  few  days? 

Nora.  None  —  that  I  will  make  use  of, 

Kroootad.  And  if  you  had,  it  would  not 
help  you  now.  If  you  offered  me  ever  so 
much  money  down,  you  should  not  get 
back  your  1  0  U. 

Nora,  Tell  me  what  you  want  to  do  widi 
it. 

Kroostad.  I  only  want  to  keep  it  —  to 
haveit  in  mypOBHession.  No  outsider  shall 
hear  anything  of  it.  So,  if  you  have  any 
desperate  scheme  in  your  bead  — 

Nora.  What  if  I  have? 

Kroostad.  If  you  should  think  of  leav- 
ing your  husband  and  children  — 

Nora.  What  if  I  doT 

Kroostad.  Or  if  you  should  think  of  — ' 
something  wone  — 


..Google 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


NoHA.  How  do  you  know  that? 

KitoaarAD.  Put  all  th&t  out  o!  your 
head. 

Nora.  How  did  jou  loiow  what  1  had 
in  my  miiidT 

Kbogotad.  Moat  of  us  think  of  thai  at 
first.  I  thoui^t  of  it,  too;  but  I  hadn't  the 
coim^  — 

Nora  \tondetdj/].  Nor  I. 

Ebogotad  lrelUved\.  No,  one  hasn't. 
You  have  n't  the  courage  either,  have  you? 

Nora.  I  have  n't,  i  have  n't. 

Kroobtas.  Besidea,  it  would  be  very 
foolish.  ^  Just  one  domestic  storm,  and 
it's  all  over.  I  have  a  letter  in  my  pocket 
for  your  husband  — 

Nora.'  Tolling  him  everything? 

Kroobtai).    Sparing  you  as  much  as 

Nora  [quickly].  He  must  never  read  that 
letter.  Tear  it  up.  I  will  manage  to  get  the 
money  somehow  — 

Kboobtad.  Pardon  me^  Mrs.  Helmer, 
but  I  believe  1  told  you  — 

Nora.  Oh,  I'm  not  talking  about  the 
money  I  owe  you.  Tell  me  how  much 
you  demand  from  my  husband  —  I  will 

Kboobtad.  I  demand  no  money  from 
your  husband. 

Nora.    What  do  you  demand,  then? 

KnooffTAD.  I  will  tell  you.  I  want  to 
regain  my  footing  in  the  world.  I  want  to 
rise;  and  your  husband  shall  help  me  to  do 
it.  For  the  last  eighteen  months  my  record 
has  been  spotless;  I  have  been  in  bitter 
needall  the  time;  but  I  was  content  to  fight 
my  way  up,  stflp  by  step.  Now,  I  've  been 
thrust  down  again,  and  1  will  not  be  satis- 
fied with  merely  being  reinstated  as  a  mat- 
ter of  grace.  I  want  to  rise,  I  tell  you.  I 
must  get  into  the  Bank  again,  in  a  higher 
position  than  before.  Your  husband  shall 
create  a  place  on  purpose  for  roe  — 

Nora.  He  will  never  do  that  I 

Eboobtas.  He  will  do  it;  I  know  him  — 
he  won't  dare  to  show  fight!  And  when  he 
and  I  are  together  there,  you  shall  soon  seel 
Before  a  year  is  out  I  shall  be  the  manager's 
right  hand.  It  won't  be  Torvald  Helmer, 
but  Nils  Erogstad,  that  manages  the  Joint 
Block  Bank. 


Nora.  That  shall  never  be. 

KsoosTAD.  Perhaps  you  will  —  T 

Nora.  Now  1  have  the  courage  for 
it. 

Kboostad.  Oh,  you  don't  frighteo  me! 
A  sensitive,  pett«d  creature  like  you  — 

Nora.  You  shall  see,  you  ahall  seel 

KsooOTAD.  Under  the  ice,  perhapsT 
Down  into  the  cold,  black  water?  And 
nest  spring  to  ooine  up  again,  u^y,  haitlss^ 
unreoOKnisable  — 

Nora.  You  can't  terrify  me. 

Ejuxwtad.  Nor  you  me.  People  don't 
do  that  sort  of  thing,  Mrs.  Helnwr.  And. 
after  all,  what  would  be  the  use  of  it?  ! 
have  your  husband  in  my  pocket,  all  the 

Nora.  Afterwards?  When  I  am  nr 
longer  —  ? 

Kboostad.  You  forget,  your  reputatioD 
remains  in  my  hands  1  [Nora  stemdt  speaeA- 
le»*  and  lookt  at  him.]  Well,  now  you  ate 
prepared.  Do  nothing  foolish,  Ab  soon  h 
Helmer  has  received  my  letter,  I  shaD 
expect  to  hear  from  him.  And  remen^wr 
that  it  is  your  husband  himself  who  hu 
forced  me  back  again  into  such  paths.  That 
J  will  never  forgive  him.  Good-bye,  Mn. 
Helmer. 

{Goe»  ind  through  the  haU.  Nou 
kvrriet  to  the  door,  opent  it  • 
imU,  and  Uttena.] 

Nora.  He's  going.  He 'snot  putting  the 
lett«r  into  the  box.  No,  no,  it  would  be  im- 
possible! [Optnt  the  door  further  and  ftallur.] 
What's  that.  He 's  standing  still;  not  gotni 
downstairs.  Has  he  changed  his  miad?  Ii 
he  — ?  [A  letier  faiia  tTito  the  box.  Eboo- 
stad's  footglep*  are  heard  gradually  Taevdmt 
down  the  stair.  Nora  utten  a  gwpprtami 
thriek,  and  ntthea  forward  lotBorda  the  s^o- 
lahle:  jtaase.]  In  the  letter-box!  [Slip* 
dtrinkingly  up  to  the  hall  door.]  There  it 
lies.  —  Torvald,  Torvald  —  now  we  are 
losti 


Mrs.  Linden.    Tliere,  I  think  it's  all 
right  now.  Shall  we  just  try  it  onT 
Nora  [Aoorw^  tmd  Kf&y\.    Chratina, 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE 


7SS 


Mna.  LiNDiH  [lArotM  down  the  dretg  on 
Uu  fo/a).  Whftt'B  the  matter?  You  took 
quite  distracted. 

Nora.  Come  here.  Do  you  see  that  let- 
ter? There,  see,  —  through  the  gUaa  of  the 
Ietl«r-box. 

Mas.  Linden.  Yee,  yet,  I  see  it. 

Nora.  That  latter  b  from  Krogstad  — 

Mrs,  Limdkk.  Nora  —  it  wu  Krogstad 
who  lent  you  the  money? 

Nora.  Yea;  and  how  Tarvald  will  know 
everything. 

Mbs.Lindsn.  Believeme,  Nora,  it's  the 
best  thing  for  both  of  you. 

Nora.  You  don't  Imow  all  yet.  1  have 
forged  a  name  ^ 

Mrs.  LniDRN.  Good  Heaven«l 

Nora.  Now,  listen  to  me,  Christina;  you 
shall  bear  rae  witness  ^- 

Mrs.  LiNDOK.  How  "  witness  "  ?  What 
am  I  to  — 

Noba.  If  I  should  go  out  of  my  mind 
—  it  might  easily  happen  — 

Mrs.  Linden.  Nora! 

Nora.  Or  if  anything  else  should  happen 
to  me  —  BO  that  I  could  n't  be  here  —  ! 

Mrs.  Linden.  Nora,  Nora,  you're  quite 
beeide  yourself  I 

Nora.  Li  case  any  one  wanted  U>  take 
it  all  upon  himself  —  the  whole  blame  — 
you  understand  — 

Mbs.  Linden.  Yea,  yea;  but  how  ean 
you  think  —  ? 

Nora.  You  shall  bear  witucM  that  it's 
not  true,  Christina.  I'm  not  out  of  my 
mind  at  ^1;  I  know  quite  well  what  I'm 
saying;  and  1  t«ll  you  nobody  else  knew 
anything  about  it;  I  did  the  whole  thing,  I 
myself.  Remember  that. 

Mbs.  Lindbh,  I  shall  remember.  But  I 
don't  understand  what  you  mean  — 

Nora.  Oh,  how  should  you?  It's  the 
miracle  ooming  to  pass. 

Mrs.  Linden.  The  mirode? 

Nora.  Yes,  the  miracle.  But  it's  so  ter- 
rible, Christina;  it  must  n't  happen  for  all 
tlM  world. 

Mrs.  Lindbk.  I  shall  go  straight  to 
ErogBtod  and  talk  to  him. 

Nora.  Don't;  he'U  do  you  some  harm. 

Mrs.  Linden,  Once  he  would  hare  done 
anything  for  me. 


Noba.  He? 

Mrs.  Lindxn.  Where  does  he  lire? 

Nora.  Oh,  how  can  I  tell?  —  Yes— 
[Feeli  in  her  pocket.]  Here's  his  card.  But 
the  letter,  the  letter  —  ! 

Helmxr  [knocking  oulside].   Norat 

Nora  [lArieJcs  in  lerror].  Oh,  what  is  it? 
What  do  you  want? 

Hsmita.  Well,  well,  don't  be  frightened. 
We're  not  coming  in;  you've  bolted  the 
door.  Are  you  trying  on  your  dress? 

Nora.  Yes,  yea,  I'm  trying  it  on.  It 
suits  me  so  well,  Torvald. 

Mrs.  Linden  [who  hat  read  the  eardy. 
Why,  he  lives  close  by  here. 

Nora.  Yes,  but  it's  no  use  now.  We  are 
lost.  The  tetter  is  there  in  the  box. 

Mrs.  Linuen.  And  your  husband  has 
the  key? 

Nora,  Always. 

Mrs.  Linden.  Krogstad  must  demand 
his  letter  back,  unread.  He  must  find  some 
pretext  — 

Nora.  But  this  ib  the  very  time  when 
Torvald  generally  — 

Mrs.  Linden.  Prevent  him.  Keep  him 
occupied.  I  shall  come  back  as  quickly  as 
I  can.     [iSA«  goee  out  haatSy  by  the  ha&  door.) 

Nora  [opena  HaijaR'a  door  and  peepa 
in].  Torvald! 

Hkluer.  Well,  may  one  come  into  one's 
own  room  again  at  last?  Come,  Hank,  we'll 
havealook —  [In  the  doorway.]  But  how's 
this? 

Nqra.   What,  Torvald,  dear? 

Helmer.  Rank  led  me  to  expect  a  groni^ 
transformation. 

Rank  [in  the  doonuay].  So  I  uuderetood 
I  suppose  I  was  mistaken, 

Nora.  No,  no  one  ehall  nee  me  in  my 
^ory  till  to-morrow  evening. 

HiLHBB.  Why,  Nora,  dear,  you  look 
BO  tired.  Have  you  been  practicing  loo 
hard? 

Nora.  No,  I  have  n't  practiced  at  all 
yet, 

HnuiER.  But  you'll  have  to  — 

Nora.  Oh,  yes,  I  must,  I  must!  But, 
Torvald,  I  can't  get  on  at  all  without  your 
help,  I've  forgotten  everything. 

Heuier.  Oh,  we  shall  soon  freahea  it  op 


:.L|,i,zedi!,GoOQlc 


7S6 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN  DRAMATISTS 


Nora.  Ym,  do  hdp  me,  Torvald.  You 
miut  promiae  me —  Oh,  I'm  ao  nervous 
about  it.  Before  so  many  people  —  This 
eveuinB  you  must  give  youradf  up  entirely 
to  me.  You  must  n't  do  a  stroke  of  work; 
you  must  n't  even  touch  a  pen.  Do  promise, 
Torvald,  dearl 

Hbliibiu  I  promiae.  All  this  erening  I 
shall  be  your  slave.  Little  helpless  thing — I 
But,  by  the  bye,  I  must  just  — 

[Goitiji  to  hall  door.] 

NoBA.  What  do  you  waut  there? 

Helibr.   Only  to  see  if  thei«  eje  any 

Noiu.  No,  no,  don't  do  tiiat,  Tonn^d. 

HflUfBR.  Why  not? 

NoBA.  Torvald,  I  beg  you  not  to.  There 
aro  nooe  there. 

Hblmbr.  Let  me  just  see. 

[It going.  ifofUi.,tUthepiat»o,play» 
lhefir«t  bari  <^  the  JoronfeUo.) 
lAl  the  door,  ttopa].  Ahal 

Nora.  I  can't  dauce  to-morrow  if  I  don't 
r^earse  with  you  first. 

Hbluir  [going  to  fier].  Are  you  really  so 
nervous,  dear  NoraT 

Nora.  Yes,  dreadfully!  Let  me  rehearse 
at  onoe.  We  have  time  before  dinner.  Oh, 
do  sit  down  and  pby  for  me,  Torvald,  dear; 
direct  me  and  put  me  right,  aa  you  uaed 

Hblubr.  With  all  the  pleasure  in  life, 
since  you  wish  it. 

lSii»  at  piano.  Nora  trtatchet  Ae 
tanAowiTte  out  of  tiie  box,  and 
hvrriedlv  drapet  hendfin  a  long 
parti-eolored  Mhaxol;  then,  with  a 
bound,  slaTids  in  th«  middk  of  the 
floor.] 
Nora.    Now,  play  for  met    Now  I'll 

[Hbuibr  play»  and  Nora  danoet. 
Rank  ttandg  at  the  piano  behind 
HxuaiR  and  lookt  on,] 

Hbuoib  [playing).   Slowerl   Slower! 

Nora,  Can't  do  it  slowerl 

Heuixr.  Not  BO  violently,  Nora. 

Nora.  ImustI  Imustl 

Hblubr  [tiops\.    No,  no,  Nora,  —  that 


willn 


irda 


Nora  [laiighs  and  raringt  her  tambowrvne\. 
Did  n't  I  teU  you  Bol 


Rank.  Let  me  play  for  her. 

Hblubr  (rinn;].  Yee,  do,  —  tiien  I  esn 
direct  her  bett«r, 

{Rank  tita  dovm  to  the  piano  and 
plays;  Nora  daneet  more  and 
more  wildly.  Hblmrr  tiaiidt  bg 
the  atone  and  addremea  frequaU 
eorrediona  to  her;  ahe  teemi  tut 
to  hear.  Her  hair  breaka  loose, 
and  folia  over  her  duruldera.  Ste 
doea  not  notice  it,  but  gaea  on 
dancing\ 


Mrs,  LiNDBN.  Ah  —  I 

Nora  {dandngX  We're  having  each  fia 
here,  Christina  I 

Helmbr.  Why,  Nora,  dear,  you're  danc- 
ing as  if  it  were  a  matter  of  life  and  death. 

Nora.  So  it  ia. 

Hblubr.  Rank,  stopi  Thia  is  the  merest 
modnees.  Stop,  I  say  I 

[Rank  at/tps  plajfing,  and  NoBA 
comet  to  a  avdden  atandHiU.) 
[Ooing  toward  her].   I  could  n't  have  be- 
lieved it.   You've  positively  forgott«i  all 
I  taught  you. 

Nora  [tftrouw  Ihe  twnbowine  away].  You 
see  for  yourself. 

Hblubr.  You  really  do  want  teaching. 

Nora.  Yes,  you  see  how  much  I  need  it 
You  must  practice  with  me  up  to  the  W 
moment.  Will  you  promiae  me,  Torvatd? 

Hblubr.  Certainly,  certainly. 

Nora,  Neither  to-day  nor  to-morrow 
must  you  tMnk  of  anything  but  me.  You 
must  n't  open  a  single  letter  —  must  n't 
look  at  the  letter-box. 

Hblubr.   Ah,  you're  stilt  afraid  of  that 

Nora,  Oh,  yea,  yes,  I  am. 

Hbu4BR.  Nora,  I  can  see  it  in  your  faw 
—  there's  a  letter  from  him  in  the  box. 

Nora,  I  don't  know,  I  believe  so.  But 
you're  not  to  read  anything  now;  nothing 
uf^y  muat  come  between  us  until  all  is 

Rank  [lofUj/,  to  Hblubr].  You  must  n'i 
contradict  her, 

Hm,M»m  [putting  hia  am  aroimd  htr\. 
The  child  shall  have  her  own  wRy.   Bu^ 


A   DOLL'S   HOUSE 


to-morrow    night,    it'heii    the    dance    is 
over  — 

Nora.  Then  you  Hfa&ll  be  free. 

[Ellkm  appear*  in  the  doorway,  right.] 

Ellen.  Dinner  ia  on  the  table,  ma'am. 

NoKA.  Well  have  some  champagne, 
EUen. 

EixEK.  Ym,  ma'am.  \Qoet  out.) 

Hkluer.  Dear  me!  Quite  a  banquet. 

Nora.  Yee,  and  wo '11  keep  it  up  till  morn- 
ing. [Cidtmg  oMi.]  And  macaroons,  Ellen, 
—  plenty,  — just  this  once. 

Hbuibb  {seizing  h«r  Aand].  Come,  come, 
don't  let  us  have  this  wild  excitement!  Be 
my  own  Uttte  lark  again. 

NoBA.  Oh,  yea,  I  will.  But  now  go  into 
the  dining-room ;  and  you,  too.  Doctor  Rank, 
Christina,  you  must  helpmetodoup  my  hair, 

RANKlaofUy.atthtj/go],  lliere'snothing 
in  the  wind?  Nothing  —  1  mean  —  f 

Hbluer.  Oh,  no,  nothing  of  the  kind. 
It  'a  merely  this  babyish  anidety  I  was  tell- 
ing you  about.       [They  go  mii  to  the  rigH.] 

Nora.  Well? 

Mrs.  Linden.  He's  gone  out  of  town. 

Nora.  I  saw  it  in  your  face. 

Mas.  LmDEN.  He  comee  back  to-morrow 
evening.  I  left  a  note  for  him. 

Nora.  You  should  n't  have  done  that. 
Things  must  take  their  course.  After  all, 
there's  something  glorious  in  waiting  for 
the  miracle. 

Mrs.  Linden.  What  is  it  you're  waiting 
for? 

Nora.  Ob,  you  can't  understand.  Goto 
them  in  the  dining-room;  I  shall  come  in  a 


[Mrs.  Likdsn  goes  into  lAe  diniag- 
room.    Nora  glands  for  a  mo- 
ment at  though  eoUecting  her 
IhffughU;  then  looks  at  her  toalch.] 
Five.   Seven  hours  till  midnight.    Then 
twenty-four  hours  till  the  next  midnight. 
Then  the  laranleUa  will  be  over.  Twenty- 
four  and  seven?  Thirty-one  hours  to  live. 
[Helubr  appear!  at  the  door,  right.] 
Heluer.  What  has  become  of  my  little 
lark? 

Nora  [runt  to  him  toith  open  arm»].  Here 
iheisi 


The  same  roim.  The  fable,  mih  the  chain 
around  it,  in  the  middle.  A  lighted  lamp  on 
the  UMe.  The  door  to  the  hati  etandt  open.  ■ 
Daiux  music  is  heard  from  the  floor  abme. 

[Mrs.  Linden  sits  by  the  table  and  absently 
tumt  the  pages  of  a  booh.  She  fries  to 
read,  bTit  seeme  unable  to  fix  her  atten- 
tion; she  frequently  littens  and  look* 
anxiously  toward  the  hall  door.] 
Mrs.  Lindbm  [looks  at  her  waich].    Not 
hereyet;  and  the  timeisnearly  up.  If  only 
he  has  n't  —  [Ltetena  again.]  Ah,  there  he 
is.    [She  goes  into  the  hall  arid  oouMoudy 
opens  the  outer  door;  toft  footttept  are  heard 
on  the  stairs;  ehe  tohispers.]   Come  in;  there 

Kroobtad  [in  the  doormay],  1  found  a 
note  from  you  at  my  house.  What  does  it 

Mrs.  Linden,  I  mvtt  speak  to  you. 

Kroobtad.  Indeed?  And  in  this  houaeT 

Mrb.  Lindkn.  I  could  not  see  you  at  my 
rooms.  They  have  no  separate  entrance. 
Come  in;  we  are  quite  alone.  The  servants 
are  asleep,  and  the  Helmers  are  at  the  ball 
upstairs. 

Kroobtad  [coming  inia  the  room].  Ahl 
So  the  Helmers  are  dancing  this  evening? 
Really? 

Mrs.  Linden.  Yea.  Why  not? 

Kroostad.  Quite  right.  Why  not? 

Mrs.  Linden.  And  now,  let  us  talk  a  little. 

Kroostad.  Have  we  two  anything  to 
say  to  each  other? 

Mrs.  Linden.  A  great  deal. 

Kroobtad.  I  should  not  have  thought  bo. 

Mrs.  Linden.  Because  you  have  never 
really  understood  me. 

Kroostad.  What  woe  there  to  und«^> 
stand?  The  most  natural  thing  in  the  world 
—  a  heartless  woman  throws  a  man  oTV 
when  a  better  match  offers. 

Mrs.  Linden.  Do  you  re^y  think  mr 
so  heartless?  Do  you  think  I  brolra  witli 
you  lightly? 

Kroostad.  Did  you  not? 

Mrs.  Linden.  Do  you  really  think  so? 

Kroostad.  If  not,  why  did  you  wiHa 
me  that  letter? 


:.L|,i,zedi!,G0OQlc 


758 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


Mrs.  Linden.  Waa  it  not  beat?  Since  I 
hcMi  to  break  with  you,  waa  it  not  right  that 
I  should  try  to  put  an  end  to  all  that  you 
felt  for  me? 

Kroostad  [clenekin{i  hit  handt  logeUier], 
So  that  was  it?  And  sJI  this  —  for  the  a  " 
of  money! 

Mas.  LiNDHN.  You  ought  not  to  forget 
t^t  I  had  a  helpleea  mother  and  two  little 
brothers.  We  could  not  wait  for  you,  Nils, 
aa  your  prospects  then  stood. 

Kroostad.  Perhaps  not;  but  you  had 
DO  right  to  east  me  off  for  the  sake  of  others, 
whoever  the  others  might  be. 

Mb8.  Linden'.  I  don't  know,  I  have 
often  aaked  myself  whether  I  had  the  right. 

KboqstjU)  [more  toftty].  Whea  I  had  lost 
you,  I  seemed  to  have  no  firm  ground  left 
under  my  feet.  Look  at  me  now.  I  am  a 
shipwrecked  man  dinging  to  a  spar. 

Mbs.  Lindbn.  Reamie  may  be  at  hand. 

KnooaTAD.  It  uxu  at  hand;  but  then  you 
came  and  stood  in  the  way. 

Mk8.  Lindbk.  Without  my  knowledge, 
Nile.  I  did  not  know  till  to-day  that  it  waa 
you  I  was  to  replace  in  the  Bonk. 

KRoasTAn.  Well,  I  take  your  word  for  it. 
But  now  tBat  you  do  know,  do  you  mean 
to  give  way? 

Mrs.  Linden.  No;  for  that  would  not 
help  you  in  the  least. 

Kboostad.  Oh,  help,  help  —  I  I  should 
do  it  whether  or  no. 

Mbs,  Linden.  I  have  learned  prudence. 
Life  and  bitter  necessity  have  schooled  me. 

Kroobtad.  And  life  has  taught  me  not 
to  trust  fine  speeches. 

Mrs.  Linden.  Then  life  has  taught  you  a 
very  sensible  thing.  But  deeds  you  unti  trust? 

KsooBTAD.   What  do  you  mean? 

Mrs.  Linden.  You  said  you  were  a 
shipwrecked  man,  clii^jng  to  a  spar. 

KBOoflTAD.  I  have  good  reason  to  Bay  so. 

Mrs.  Linden.  I,  too,  am  shipwrecked, 
and  clinging  to  a  spar.   I  have  no  one  to 


a  for,  r 


Kboobtad.  You  made  your  ( 
Mbs.  Linden.  No  choice  was  leit  me. 
Kroostad.  Well,  what  then? 
Mrs.  Linden.  Nits,  how  if  we  two  ship- 
wrecked people  could  join  hands? 
Kboostac.  WhatI 


Mrs.  Lindsn.  Two  on  a  raft  have  > 
better  chance  than  if  each  clings  to  a  sep- 
arate spar. 

Kroostad.  Chriatiiial 

Mrs.  Linden.  What  do  you  think 
brought  me  to  town? 

KbooAtad.  Had  you  any  thou^t  of  me? 

Mrs.  Linden.  I  must  have  work  or  I 
can't  bear  to  live.  All  my  life,  as  long  as  I 
can  remeoiber,  I  have  worked;  wofk  has 
been  my  one  great  joy.  Now  I  stuid  qnit« 
alone  in  the  world,  aimless  and  forkm. 
There  is  no  happine«  in  working  for  ooe'i 
self.  Nils,  give  me  somebody  and  aome- 
thing  to  work  for. 

Kroostad.  I  cannot  believe  in  all  Urn. 
It  is  simply  a  woman's  romantic  eravinc 
for  self-sacrifice. 

Mrs.  Linden.  Have  you  ever  found  ma 
romantic? 

Kroobtad,  Would  you  really — T  "Mi 
me;  do  you  know  all  my  past? 

Mrs.  Linden.  Yea. 

Kboostad.  And  do  you  know  what  peo- 
ple say  of  me? 

Mrs.  Linden.  Did  you  not  say  just  now 
that  with  me  you  could  have  been  amothn 

Kroostad.  I  am  sore  of  it. 

Mrs.  Linden.  Ib  it  too  Ut«? 

Kroootad.  Christina,  do  you  know 
what  you  are  doing?  Yes,  you  do ;  I  see  it  b 
your  face.    Have  you  the  courage,  tb^i  — ? 

Mrs.  Linden.  I  need  some  one  to  be  a 
mother  to,  and  your  children  needamotha. 
You  need  me,  and  I  —  I  need  you.  Nils,  I 
believe  in  your  better  self.  With  you  I  fesr 
nothii^. 

Kroostad  iMwirtg  her  hands],  "ntank 
you  —  thank  you,  Christina.  Now  I  shaD 
make  others  see  me  as  you  do.  —  Ah,  I 

Mbs.  Linden  \li»teniTtg].  Eushl  The 
larantdlal  Go!  Go! 

Kbogbtad.  Why?  What  is  it? 

Mrs.  Linden.  Don't  you  hear  the  danc- 
ing overhead?  As  soon  as  that  is  over  they 
will  be  here. 

Kso^tTAD.  Oh,  yes,  I  shall  go.  Nothing 
will  come  of  this,  after  all.  Of  course,  you 
don't  know  the  step  I  have  taken  against 
the-- 


:i:,GooqIc 


A   DOLL'S   HOUSE 


759 


Mbb.  Lindkn.  Yee,  Nils,  I  do  Imow, 

Kboqbiad.  And  yet  you  have  the  cour- 
age to— ? 

Mbs.  Ldiiibn.  I  know  to  what  lengths 
despair  can  drive  a  man.  ' 

KRoasTAD.  Oh,  if  I  could  only  undo  it! 

Mrs.  Linden.  You  could.  Your  letter 
ia  Btill  io  the  box. 

Kroostad.  Are  you  sure? 

Mrs.  Linden.  Yes;  but  — 

Kroobtas  [lookiTtg  to  her  tearehiTigty].  Ia 
that  what  it  all  means?  You  want  to  save 
youT  friend  at  any  price.  Say  it  out  —  is 
that  your  idea? 

Mrs.  Linden.  Nils,  a  woman  who  has 
once  sold  herself  for  the  sake  of  others, 
does  not  do  so  again. 

Kroostao.  I  shall  demand  my  lett«r 
back  again. 

Mrs.  Linddn.  No,  no. 

Kroostad.  Yes,  c^  course.  I  shall  wait 
till  Helmer  oomea;  I  shall  toll  him  to  give  it 
back  to  me  —  that  it's  only  about  my  dis- 
riiseal  —  that  I  don't  want  it  read  — 

Mas.  Linvbn.  No,  Nile,  you  must  not 
recall  the  letter. 

Kboobtad.  But  tell  me,  was  n't  that 
just  why  you  got  me  to  come  here? 

Mrs.  Lindxn.  Yea,  in  my  first  alarm. 
But  aday  haspasedsinoethen,  and  in  that 
day  I  have  seen  incredible  thin^  in  this 
house.  Helmer  must  know  everything; 
there  must  be  an  end  to  this  unhappy  se- 
cret. These  two  must  come  to  a  full  under- 
standing. They  must  have  done  with  all 
these  shifts  and  subterfuges. 

Kroostad.  Very  well,  if  you  like  to  risk 
it.   But  one  thing  I  can  do,  and  at  once  — 

Mrs,  Linden  [IMmJfv].  Make  hastel 
Go,  gol  The  dance  is  over;  we're  Dot  safe 
another  moment. 

Kroostad.   I  shall  wait  for  you  in  the 

Mrs.  Linden.  Yes,  do;  you  must  see  me 

Kroostao.  I  never  was  so  happy  in  all 
my  lifet 

[Kroostad  goet  out  bj/  the  outer 

door.  The  door  betteeen  the  room 

and  the  hall  remains  open.] 

Mrs.  Linden  \an-anging  the  room  and 

getting  her  outdoor  thinf/a  together].   What  a 


change!   What  a  changel  To  have  some 

one  to  work  for,  to  live  for;  a  home  to  make 

happy  I  Well,  it  shall  not  be  my  fault  if  I 

fail.  —  I  wish  they  would  come.  ~-  [Lm- 

tena.]   Ah,  there  tlwy  are!   I  must  get  my 

thii^  on.  [Takea  bonnel  and  dooij 

pT»i.M»!ii'n  and  Nora's  micee  are  hetad  out- 

fide,  a  key  u  lumed  in  the  lock,  and 

Hblher  dra^/B  Nora  alTnoat  by  /one 

into  the  htJi.   She  wears  the  Italian  eoe- 

luma  iffilh  a  large  black  thaui  over  iC 

He  U  in  evening  dre»a  and  loearg  a  black 

domijui,  open. I 

Nora  [etruggliTtg  wilh  him  in  the  doarwoi/}. 
No,  no,  no!  Iwoa'tgoinI  Iwanttogo  up- 
stairs again;  I  don't  want  to  leave  so  earlyl 

Hbuieb.  But,  my  dearest  fprl  —  I 

Nora.  Oh,  plesse,  plesse,  Torvald,  1  be- 
seech you  —  only  one  hour  more! 

Helhek.  Not  one  minute  more,  Nora, 
dear;  you  know  what  we  agreed.  Come, 
come  in;  you're  catohing  cold  here. 

[He  leads  her  gently  iTtto  the  room 
in  tpite  of  ker  renalanee.] 

Mrs.  Linden.  Good-evening. 

Nora.  Christins! 

Hblmbr.  What,  Mrs.  Linden!  You  here 
solatoT 

Mrs.  Lindbn.  Yee,  I  ought  to  apoU^ise. 
I  did  so  want  to  see  Nora  in  her  costume. 

Nora,  Have  you  laeen  sitting  here  wait- 
ing for  me? 

Mrs.  Linden.  Yes;  unfortunately,  I 
came  too  late.  You  hod  gone  upstairs  al- 
ready, and  I  felt  I  could  n't  go  away  with- 
out seeing  you. 

HELKBR[Iafcin{r  Nora's  j^uJ  of].  Wdl, 
then,  just  look  at  her!  I  assure  j^u  she's 
worth  it.  Is  n't  she  lovely,  Mrs.  Linden? 

Mae.  Linden.  Yea,  I  must  say  — 

Hbluer.  Is  n't  she  ext]uiHte?  Every 
one  said  so.  But  she's  dreadfully  obstinate, 
dear  tittle  creature.  What's  to  be  done 
with  her?  Just  think,  I  had  almost  to  foroe 
her  away. 

Nora.  Oh,  Torvald,  you 'U  be  scvry  some 
day  that  you  did  n't  let  me  stay,  if  only 
for  one  half-hour  more. 

HxuiER.  There!  You  hear  her,  Mrs. 
Linden?  She  dances  her  tarantella  with 
wild  applause,  and  well  she  deserved  it,  I 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


must  say,  —  though  there  w»,  perhaps,  a 
little  too  much  miture  in  her  rendermg  of 
the  idea,  —  more  than  was,  strictly  ipeak- 
iug,  artistic.  But  never  mind  —  tie  point 
is,  she  made  a  great  Bueaen,  a  tremendous 
success.  Was  I  to  let  bei  remain  after  that 

—  to  weaken  the  iropressionT  Not  if  1 
know  it.  I  took  my  sweet  little  Capri  girl 

—  my  capricious  little  Capri  girl,  I  might 
say  —  under  my  arm;  a  rapid  turn  round 
tlw  room,  a  curtey  to  all  sides,  and  —  as 
they  say  in  novda  —  the  lovely  apparitioa 
ranishedl  An  exit  should  always  be  effec- 
tive, Mrs.  Linden;  but  I  can't  get  Nora  to 
see  it.  By  Jovel  it's  warm  here,  [Throtm 
hit  domino  on  a  eha^  and  optiu  the  door  to 
kit  room.]  WhatI  No  light  tbereT  Oh,  of 
course.  Excuse  me  — 

[Got*  in  and  lighlt  candlei.] 
NoEA  Iwhitpert  breathhttly].  Welt? 
Mbs.  Limvek  [tofUjf].    I've  spoken  to 

Nora.  And  —  T 

Mbs.  Linsbit.  Nora  —  you  must  tell 
your  husband  everything  — 

Nora  [loti^eidy].  I  knew  iti 

Mrs.  Linden.  You  have  nothing  to  fear 
from  Krofffisd;  but  you  must  speak  out. 

Nora,  I  shall  not  speakl 

Mrs.  Linden.  Then  the  letter  will. 

Nora.  Tlumk  you,  Christina.  Now  I 
know  what  I  have  to  do.  Hush  — - 1 

Hbuor  [coming  back].  Well,  Mrs.  Lin- 
den, have  you  admired  her? 

Mrs.  Linden.  Yee;  and  now  I  must  say 
good-night. 

HcLMXB.  What,  already?  Does  this 
knitting  belong  to  you? 

Mrs.  Linden  [taket  it].  Yee,  th&nks;  I 
was  nearly  forgetting  it. 

Helubr.  Then  you  do  knit? 

Mrs.  Linden.  Yee. 

Heluer.  Do  you  know,  you  ought  to 
embroider  instead? 

Mrs.  Linden.  Indeed!  Why? 

HeiiUer.  Because  it's  so  much  prettier. 
Look,  now  I  You  hold  the  embroidery  in 
the  left  hand,  so,  and  then  work  the  needle 
with  the  rif^t  hand,  in  a  long,  graceful 
curve  —  don't  you? 

Mrs.  LiNDUN.  Yes,  I  suppose  so. 

Hruoir.    But  knitting  is  alwa^  u^T- 


Just  look  —  your  amis  dose  to  your  sidaa, 
and  the  needles  going  up  and  down  — 
there's  something  Chinese  about  it.  — 
They  really  pive  us  splendid  champapK 
to-night. 

Mrs.  Lindbm.  Well,  good-ni^t,  Hon. 
and  don't  be  obstinate  any  more. 

Hblmer.   Well  said,  Mrs.  Undenl 

Mbs.  Linden.  Good-night,  Mr.  Helmer. 

Hblher  [aoeompanving  her  to  the  door]. 
Good-night,  good-night;  I  hope  you  11  get 
safely  home.  I  should  be  i^»d  to  —  but 
you  have  such  a  short  way  to  go.  Good- 
night, good-night.  [She  goee;  Hbucer  ^uit* 
iha  door  offer  her  and  comet  forward  again.] 
At  last  we've  got  rid  of  her:  dte's  &  terrible 

Nora.  Are  n't  you  very  tired,  TorvaldT 
Hblmer.  No,  not  in  the  least. 
Nora.   Nor  sleepy? 

Hbuier.  Not  a  bit.  I  fed  porticulariy 
lively.    But  you?  You  do  look  tired  and 

Nora.  Yes,  very  tired.  I  shall  soon  sleep 

Hbuier.  There,  you  see.  I  was  right, 
after  all,  not  to  let  you  stay  longer. 

Nora.  Oh,  everything  you  do  is  right. 

Hblher  [kiating  her  forehead].  Now  my 
lark  is  speaking  like  a  reasonable  being. 
Did  you  notice  how  jolly  Rank  was  thv 
evening? 

Nora.  Indeed?  Was  he?  I  had  no 
chance  of  speaking  to  him. 

Hblmer.  .Nor  I,  much;  but  I  have  n't 
Been  him  in  such  good  spirits  for  a  long 
time.  [Look»  at  Nora  a  tiuie,  then  oomet 
nearer  her.]  It's  splendid  to  be  back  in  our 
own  home,  to  be  quit«  alone  togetherl  — 
Oh,  you  enchanting  creature! 

Nora.  Don't  look  at  me  in  that  WRJ, 
Torvald 

Helmxr.  I  am  not  to  look  at  my  deanat 
treasure?  —  at  all  the  loveliness  that  m 
mine,  mine  only,  wholly  and  entirely  mine? 

Nora  [going  to  the  other  $ide  of  the  loNa). 
You  must  n't  say  these  things  to  me  this 
evening. 

Hbucbr  [forming].  I  see  you  have  the 
tarant^a  still  in  your  blood  —  and  that 
makes  you  all  the  more  enticing.  listen! 
the  other  people  are  going  now.    [M^rt 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE 


761 


»ofUy.]  Nora  —  Non  tbe  whole  bouae  will 
bestiU. 

NcwA.  Yea,  I  hope  so. 

Hblmbb.  Yes,  don't  you,  Nor&,  d&rling? 
Wben  we  are  among  Btrangers,  do  you 
know  why  I  speak  so  little  to  you,  and  keep 
BO  far  away,  and  only  steal  a  gUnce  at  you 
DOW  aod  then  —  do  you  know  why  I  do  it? 
Because  I  am  fancying  that  we  love  each 
other  in  eecret,  that  1  am  secretly  betrothed 
to  you,  and  that  no  one  dreams  that  there 
ia  anything  between  us. 

Nora.  Yes,  yes,  yes.  I  know  all  your 
thoughts  are  with  me. 

Helmbh.  And  then,  when  the  time 
comes  to  go,  and  I  put  tbe  shawl  about  your 
smooth,  Boft  ahouldera,  and  this  glorious 
neck  of  yours,  I  imagine  you  are  my  bride, 
that  our  marriage  is  just  over,  that  I  am 
bringing  you  for  the  first  time  to  my  home 
—  that  I  am  alone  with  you  for  the  first 
time  —  quite  alone  with  you,  in  your  trem- 
bling loveliness  I  All  this  evening  I  have 
been  longing  for  you,  and  you  only.  When 
I  watched  you  swaying  and  whirling  in  the 
laranldla  —  my  blood  boiled  —  I  could 
endure  it  no  longer;  andthat'awhylmode 
you  come  home  with  me  so  early  — 

Nora.  Go,  now,  Torvaldl  Go  away 
from  me.  I  won't  have  all  this. 

Hblmor.  What  do  you  mean  T  Ah,  I  see 
you're  teasing  me,  little  Nont  Won't  — 
won'tl  Am  I  not  your  husband  t-? 

[A  knock  at  Ae  outer  door.\ 

NosA  [ttartt].  Did  you  hear  —  ? 

UiiufEB  \going  toward  (A«  haU}.  Who's 
there? 

Rakk  lovtaith].  It  is  I;  may  I  oom«  in 
for  a  moment? 

Heliixr  [in  a  Une  tone,  <m7toj/ed\.  OhI 
What  can  he  want  just  now?  [jllowl.j  Wait 
a  moment,  [Open*  door.]  Come,  it's  nice 
of  you  to  look  in. 

Rank.  I  thought  I  heard  your  voice, 
and  that  put  it  into  my  head.  [Look*  round.] 
Ah,  thiadearoldplooel  How  coiy  you  two 
are  here! 

HEiiUa.  You  seemed  to  find  it  pleaaant 
enough  upstairs,  too. 

Rank.  Eseeedin^^y.  Why  not?  Why 
should  n't  one  take  one's  share  of  every- 
iiang  in  this  world?  AU  one  can,  at  least, 


I  one  con.    The  wine  1 


and  as  long  e 
splendid  — 

Hbi.mkb.  Especially  the  champagne. 

Rank.  Did  you  notice  it?  It's  incredi- 
ble the  quantity  I  contrived  to  get  down. 

NoEA.   Tomld  drank  plenty  of  cham- 
pagne, too. 

Rank.  Did  be? 

NoBA.   Yes,  and  it  always  puts  him  in 
such  spirits. 

Rank.  Well,  why  should  n't  one  have  a 
jolly  evening  after  a  well-spent  day? 

BnuoB.   Well-apent!   Well,  I  have  n't 
much  to  boast  of  in  that  respect. 

Rank  [dapping  him  on  the  thouldeT].  But 
I  AoK,  don't  you  see? 

NoKA.  I  Suppose  you  have  been  engaged 
in  a  scientific  investigation.  Doctor  Rank? 

Rank.  Quite  right. 

Hf.t.MwB    Bless  me!  little  Kora  talking 
about  scientific  investigations  I 

NoHA.  Am  I  to  congratulate  you  on  the 
result? 

Rank.  By  all  means. 

NOKA.  It  was  good,  then? 

Rank.  The  beet  possible,  both  for  doo- 
tor  and  patient  ^certainty. 

Nora    [qyiciiy   and   tearchin^^y].     Cer- 
tainty? 

R<UfK.    Absolute  certainty.    Wasn't  1 
right  to  enjoy  myself  after  that? 

Nora.  Yea,  quite  right,  Doctor  Rank. 

HjBLUBB.    And  so  say  I,  provided  you 
don't  have  to  pay  for  it  to-morrow. 

Rank.  Well,  in  this  life  nothing  u  to  be 
had  for  nothing, 

Nora.  Doctor    Rank  —  I'm  sure  you 
are  very  fond  of  masquerades? 

Rank.    Yea,  when  there  are  plenty  of 
H'wifffng  disguises  — 

Nora.  Tell  me,  what  shall  we  two  be  at 
our  next  masquerade? 

HflLuii.  Idttle  featherbrain  I  lliinlnng 
of  your  next  already  I 

Rank.  We  two?  Ill  tell  you.  You  must 
go  as  a  good  fairy. 

Hbluer.  Ah,  but  what  ooatunw  would 
indicate  that  f 

Rank.  She  has  simply  to  wear  hsr  every- 
day dren. 

Helmkh.  Capital!  But  don't  you  know 
what  you  will  be  yooiwlfT 


.  Google 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


IJ^ 

Rank.  Yes,  my  dear  friend,  I  am  per- 
fectly clear  upon  ttiat  point. 

HBumft.  WeU? 

flANK.  At  the  next  nuaquerade  I  bIuUI 
be  invisible. 

BEUQta  What  a  comical  ideal 

Ramk.  Tliere'a  a  big  black  hat  ~  have 
n'tyouheardof  theinviaiblehat?  It  oomee 
down  all  over  you,  and  then  no  one  can  see 

HeiiUiir  [tinlh  a  mtpprened  miJe].  No, 
you're  right  theie. 

Rank.  But  I  'm  quite  foi|[ettinK  what  I 
oame  for.  Helmer,  give  me  a  cigar  —  one 
of  the  dark  Havanas. 

Hblmbb.  With  the  greateet  pleasure. 
[Ilandt  ctgoT-aate.] 

Rank  [takts  one  and  c«ta  the  end  off]. 
Thank  you. 

NoBA  [atriJbinff  a  wax  match].  Let  me 
give  you  a  light. 

Rank.  A  thousand  thanks.  [She  luAde 
the  match.  He  Hghtt  hit  dgar  at  it.]  And 
now,  good-byel 

Heluss.  Good-bye,  good-bye,  my  dear 

NoKA.  Sleep  well,  Doctor  Rank. 

Rank.  Thanks  for  the  wish. 

NoKA.   Wish  me  the  same. 

Rank.   You?  Very  w^,  since  you  ask 

me  —  sleep  well.  And  thanks  for  the  light. 

[He  node  to  them  both  and  goee  out.] 

Hm.iineH  [in  an  undertone).  He's  been 
drbking  a  good  deal. 

Nora  [abeently].  I  dare  say.  IHkuisb 
takee  hi»  bunch  o}  keye  jrom  hie  pocket  and 
foee  into  the  haU.]  Torvald,  what  are  you 
doing  there? 

HBLUxa.  I  must  empty  the  letter-box; 
it 's  quite  full ;  there  will  be  no  room  for  the 
newspapers  to-morrow  morning. 

NoKA.  Are  you  going  to  work  to-nightT 

HauizB.  You  know  very  well  I  am  not. 
—  Why,  how  is  this?  Some  one  ha«  been 
at  the  lock. 

Nora.  The  lock  —  ? 

HoLMKR.  1  'm  sure  of  it.  What  does  it 
mean?  I  can't  think  that  the  servants  —  ? 
Here's  a  broken  hairpin.  Nora,  it's  one  of 
rours. 

Nora  Iquicldy].  It  must  have  been  the 
children  -^^ 


Hblmbr.  Then  you  must  break  them  oi 
such  tricks.  — There!  At  last  I've  got  it 
open.  [Takes  amtenta  out  and  ealU  into  the 
kiiehen.]  EUenl  —  Ellen,  just  put  the  hall 
door  lamp  out. 

[He  returns  with  Utlert  in  hi*  hand, 
and  thvt*  the  inner  door.] 

Just  see  how  they've  accumulated. 
[Turning  them  over.]  Why,  what's  this? 

Nora  ]at  the  windoui].  The  letter!  Oh. 
no,  no,  IVtrvatdl 

Hblmzr.  Two  visiting-cards  —  from 
Rank. 

Nora.  From  Doctor  Rank? 

Bxtja&  [looking  ai  them].  Doctor  Rank- 
They  were  on  the  top.  He  must  just  have 
put  them  in. 

Nora.  Is  there  anything  on  them? 

n»i.inLit.  There's  a  black  crossover  the 
name.  Look  at  it.  What  an  unpleasaDt 
idea!  It  looks  just  as  if  he  were  announcing 
his  own  death. 

Nora,  So  he  is. 

Hblmxr.  What!  Do  you  know  any- 
thing? Has  he  told  you  anytiiingT 

Nora.  Yes.  These  cank  mean  that  he 
haatskenhislastleaveof us.  Heisgoingto 
shut  himsdf  up  and  die. 
'  HiiLKBR.  PoorfeUow!  Of  course,  I  biew 
we  could  n't  hope  to  keep  him  long.  But 
so  soon  —  1  And  to  go  and  creep  into  his 
lair  like  a  wounded  animal  ■ — 

Nora.  When  we  muef  go,  it  is  best  to  go 
silently.  Don't  you  think  so,  Torvald? 

Hblukr  [realking  up  and  down].  He  had 
so  grown  into  our  livee,  I  can't  realize  that 
he  is  gone.  He  and  bis  sufferings  and  his 
loneliness  formed  a,  sort  of  cloudy  back- 
ground to  the  sunshine  of  our  happiness.  — 
Well,  perhaps  it's  beet  as  it  is — -at  any 
rate,  for  him.  [Stande  ifill.]  And  perhaps 
for  us,  too,  Nora.  Now  we  two  are  thrown 
entirely  upon  each  other.  [Taket  her  in  hi* 
nrme.)  My  darling  wife  I  I  feel  as  if  I  could 
never  hold  you  close  enough.  Do  you 
know,  Nora,  I  often  wish  some  danger 
might  threaten  you,  that  I  might  risk  body 
and  soul,  and  everything,  everything,  for 
your  dear  sake. 

Nora  [leart  herielf  from  him  and  aayt 
Jirml]/].  Ncnr  you  sluU  read  youi  lettw^ 
TomfaL 


:.L|,i,zedi!,GoOQlc 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE 


763 


HxLHEB.  No,  no;  not  to-iUKht.  I  wsnt 
to  be  with  you,  my  nreet  wife. 

Nora.  With  the  thought  of  your  dying 
friend  —  f 

Hblub.  You  are  right.  Thia  has  ehoken 
us  botii.  Unlovelinces  has  come  between 
ua  —  thoughts  of  death  and  decay.  We 
muflt  seek  to  cast  them  off.  Till  then  —  we 
will  remain  apart, 

No&A\herarmt  round  hit  neck].  Torvaldl 
Good-nightl  good-nightl 

Heluxb  [kisfing  h«r  forehead\.  Good- 
ni^t,  my  little  wng-bird.  Sleep  well,  Nora. 
Now  I  shall  go  and  read  my  letters. 

[He  goe*  with  the  idlers  in  hi*  hand 
irUo  his  room  and  thvU  the  door.] 

No&A  [wilh  friid  eyeg,  gropet  about  her, 
uixts  Hzlmbs'b  domino,  throws  it  round  her, 
andtphUpera  quickly,  hoarttiy,  and  hroheidy]. 
Never  to  see  him  again.  Never,  never, 
never.  [Throwt  her  ahmol  oner  her  head] 
Never  to  see  the  children  again.  Never, 
never.  —  Oh,  that  black,  iey  waterl  Oh 
that  bottomiees  —  1  If  it  were  only  overt 
Now  he  has  it;  he's  reading  it.  Oh,  no,  no, 
no,  not  yet.  Torvald,  good-bye  —  I  Good- 
bye, my  little  ones  ■ —  ! 

{She  is  TuehiTm  md  by  the  haU;  at 
the  tame  mommt  Hrumt  jlinps 
Aw  door  open,  and  ttandt  there 
with  an  open  UUer  in  hie  hand.] 

HcLiaiB,  Nora! 

liOKA  [thrieka].  Ah  —  1 

HbIiMBB.  What  is  this?  Do  you  know 
what  is  in  this  letter? 

Nora.    Yes,  1  know.    Let  me  gol    Let 

Reuixh  [holds  her  back].  Where  do  you 
want  to  go7 

Nora  llriet  to  break  away  from  him].  You 
shall  not  save  me,  Torvald. 

HEUfER  [/oiling bacit|.  Truel  Iswhathe 
writes  true?  No,  no,  it  is  unpoeeibie  that 
this  can  be  true. 

Nora.  It  ii  true.  I  have  loved  you  be- 
Tond  all  else  in  the  world. 

TTm.MWB    Pshaw  —  no  silly  evasions! 
'      NoKA  [a  Hep  nearer  him].  Torvald— ! 

TTyiT.ugH  Wretched  woman  —  what 
have  you  done! 

NoBA.  Letmego— youshaUnotisveme' 
You  ahall  not  take  my  guilt  upcm  yoursdf  t 


Hblmbr.  I  don't  want  any  melodramaUe 
airs.  lLoek$  the  outer  door.]  Here  you  shall 
stay  and  give  an  account  of  yourself.  Do 
you  understand  what  you  have  done?  An- 
swer! Do  you  understand  it? 

NoEA  [looks  at  him  fixeAy,  and  taye  with 
a  ttijfemng  expreteion].  Yes;  now  I  begin 
fully  to  understand  it. 

Heuibr  [uitdking  up  and  down].  Oh, 
what  an  awful  awakening!  Durii^  all 
these  eight  years  —  she  who  was  my  pride 
and  ray  joy  —  a  hypocrite,  a  liar  —  worse, 
worse  —  a  critninal.  Oh,  the  unfathom- 
able hideousnesa  of  it  alii  Ugh  I  Ugh! 

[Nora  says  nothing,  and  eontinvet 
to  look  fixedly  at  him.] 

I  ought  to  have  known  how  it  would  be. 
I  ought  to  have  foreseen  it.  All  your  fa- 
ther's want  of  principle  —  be  silentl  —  all 
your  father's  want  of  principle  you  have 
inherited— no  religion,  no  morality,  no 
sense  of  duty.  How  I  am  punished  for 
screening  himi  I  did  it  for  your  sake;  and 
you  reward  me  like  this. 

Nora,  Yes  —  like  thia. 

Hblhkr.  You  have  destroyed  my  whole 
happiness.  You  have  ruined  my  future. 
Oh,  it's  frightful  to  think  ofl  1  am  in  the 
power  of  a  scoundrel;  he  can  do  whatever 
he  pleases  with  me,  deniand  whatever  he 
chooses;  he  can  domineer  over  me  as  much 
as  he  likes,  and  I  must  submit.  And  all 
this  disaster  and  ruin  is  brought  upon  me 
by  an  unprincipled  womanl 

Nora.  When  I  am  out  of  the  world,  you 
will  be  free, 

Hblhbr.  Oh,  no  fine  phrases.  Your 
father,  too,  was  always  ready  with  them. 
What  good  would  it  do  me,  if  you  were 
"  out  of  the  world,"  as  you  say?  No  good 
whatever!  He  can  publish  the  story  all  the 
same;  I  might  even  be  suspected  of  collu- 
sion. People  will  think  I  was  at  the  bottom 
of  it  all  and  egged  you  on.  And  for  all  this 
I  have  you  to  thank  —  you  whom  I  have 
done  nothing  but  pet  and  spoil  during  our 
whole  married  life.  Do  you  understand 
now  what  you  have  done  to  me? 

NoBA  [11^  cold  calmness].  Yes. 

Heluer.  The  thing  is  so  incredible,  I 
can't  grasp  it.  But  we  must  oome  to  an 
understanding.  Take  that  ahawl  off.  Take 


764 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


it  off,  I  Bayl  I  muat  try  to  pacify  him  in 
o&e  WBj  or  another  —  the  matter  must  be 
hushed  up,  cost  what  it  may.  —  As  for 
you  and  roe,  we  must  make  □□  outward 
change  in  our  way  of  life  —  no  ovtward 
change,  you  understand.  Of  coarse,  you 
will  continue  to  live  here.  But  the  children 
cannot  be  left  iuymir  care.  I  dare  not  trust 
them  to  you.  —  Oh,  to  have  to  say  this  to 
one  I  have  loved  so  tenderly  —  whom  I 
still  —  I  But  that  must  be  a  thing  of  the 
past.  Henceforward  there  can  be  no  ques- 
tion of  happiness,  but  merely  of  saving  the 
mine,  the  shreds,  the  show  —  [A  ring; 
Helmer  itarU.]  What's  that?  So  late! 
Can  it  be  the  worst?  Can  he  —  ?  Hide 
yourself,  Nora;  say  you  are  ill. 

[Nora  aianda  molionleas.  Hbluer 
j/oet  lo  the  door  and  {rpena  if,] 

Ellen  [kaJf  dretted,  in  the  AoUj.  Here  is 
a  letter  for  you,  ma'am. 

Hbluxr.  Give  it  to  me.  [Seize*  the  Utter 
and  Aiits  the  door.]  Yes,  from  him.  You 
shall  not  have  it.  1  shall  read  it. 

Nora.  Read  it! 

Helukr  [by  the  lamp].  I  have  hardly  the 
courage  to.  We  may  both  be  lost,  both 
you  and  I.  Ahl  I  must  know.  [Hatlily 
leoTt  the  letter  open;  reads  a  few  Unee,  looka 
at  art  enelo»ure;  with  a  cry  0/  joy.]  Nora! 
[NoK4  iooke  inijiaringly  ai  him.] 

Noral — OhI  I  must  read  it  again. — Yea, 
ye8,itisao.    lamsavedl  Nora,  I  am  saved! 

Nora.  And  17 

HsLUB.  You,  too,  of  course;  we  are 
both  saved,  both  of  us.  Look  here  —  he 
■ends  you  back  your  promissory  note.  He 
writes  that  he  r^^ets  and  apologizes  that  a 
happy  turn  in  his  life  —  Oh,  what  matter 
what  be  writes.  We  are  saved,  Nora!  No 
one  can  harm  you.  Oh,  Nora,  Nora;  but 
firsttogetridof  this  hateful  thing.  I'lljuat 
■ee—  [Glanceaalthe!OV\  No,  I  will  not 
look  at  it ;  the  whole  thing  shall  be  nothing 
but  a  dream  to  me.  [rears  the  I  OTJ  and 
both  letleri  in  pieces.  Throws  them  into  the 
fire  and  vxUchet  them  bum.]  There!  it's 
gone!  —  He  said  that  ever  since  Christ- 
mas Eve  —  Oh,  Nora,  they  must  have 
been  three  terrible  days  for  you! 

Nora.  I  have  fought  a  hani  fight  for  the 
last  tliree  days. 


HELifBB.  And  in  your  agony  you  law 
no  other  outlet  but  —  No;  we  w<Hi't  tiiink 
of  that  horror.  We  will  only  rejoice  and 
repeat  —  it's  over,  all  over!  Don't  yn 
hear,  Nora?  You  don't  seem  able  to  grasp 
it.  Yes,  it's  over.  What  is  this  set  look  on 
your  face?  Oh,  my  poor  Nora,  1  under 
stand;  you  cannot  believe  that  I  have  for. 
given  you.  But  1  have,  Nora;  I  sweAr  it. 
I  have  forgiven  everything.  I  know  thai 
what  you  did  was  all  for  love  of  me. 

Nora.  That  is  true. 

Hblhbr.  You  loved  me  ss  a  wife  should 
love  her  husband.  It  was  only  the  means 
that,  in  your  inexperience,  you  misjudged. 
But  do  you  think  I  love  you  the  less  because 
you  cannot  do  without  guidance?  No,  no. 
Only  lean  on  me;  I  will  counsel  you,  and 
guide  you.  I  should  be  nr  true  man  if  this 
very  womanly  helplessnea  did  not  mate 
you  doubly  dear  in  my  eyes.  You  must  nt 
dwellupon  the  hard  things  laaid  in  my  first 
moment  of  terror,  when  the  world  seemed 
to  be  tumbling  about  my  ears.  I  liave  for- 
give you,  Nora,  —  I  swear  I  have  forgivea 
you. 

Nora,  I  thank  you  for  your  forgirenea. 
[Goes  out,  to  the  rithL] 

HsLUia.  No,  stoy  —  I  {Looking  thrmti^ 
the  doorwaj/.]   What  are  you  going  to  do? 

Nora  [inside].  To  take  off  my  masquer- 
ade dress. 

Hbluer  [in  the  doortcay].  Yea,  do,  dear. 
Try  to  calm  down,  and  recover  your  bal- 
ance, my  scared  littte  song-bird.  You  may 
reet  secure.  I  liave  broad  wings  to  shidd 
you,  [Walking  up  and  down  near  the  door.] 
Oh,  how  lovely  —  how  co»y  our  home  is, 
Noral  Here  you  are  safe;  here  I  can  shelter 
you  like  a  hunted  dove  whom  I  have  saved 
from  the  claws  of  the  hawk.  I  shall  soon 
bring  your  poor  beating  heart  to  rest;  be- 
lieve me,  Nora,  very  soon.  To-morrow  sll 
this  will  seem  quite  different  —  everything 
will  be  as  before.  I  shall  not  need  to  ttil 
you  again  that  I  forgive  you;  you  will  fed 
tor  yourself  that  it  is  true.  How  could  you 
think  I  could  find  it  in  my  heart  to  diire 
you  away,  or  even  so  much  as  to  reproad 
you?  Oh,  you  don't  know  a  true  man's 
heart,  Nora.  There  is  something  indescrib- 
ably sweet  and  soothing  to  a  man  in  having 


A  DOLL'S   HOUSE 


forgiven  hie  wife  —  honestly  forgiven  her, 
from  the  bottom  of  his  heart.  She  becomes 
his  property  in  a  double  fieiiBe.  She  is  as 
though  bom  again;  she  haa  become,  so  to 
speak,  at  once  hia  wife  and  bis  child.  That 
is  what  you  shAli  henceforth  be  to  me,  my 
bewildered,  helpless  darting.  Don't  be 
troubled  about  anything,  Nora;  only  open 
your  heart  to  me,  and  I  wiU  be  both  will 
and  conacience  to  you. 

(Nora  entera  in  eeeryday  drett.i 

Why,  what's  this?  Not  gone  to  bed? 
You  tuve  changed  your  dresaT 

NoKA.  Yes,  Torvald;  now  I  have  changed 
my  dresa. 

Helmkr.  Bui  why  now,  so  lat«  —  7 

Nou.  I  shall  not  sleep  to-night, 

Helker.  But,  Nora,  dear  — 

NoBA  (Wcin0  at  her  vaUA].  It's  not  so 
late  yet.  Sit  down,  Torvald;  you  and  J 
have  much  to  say  to  each  other. 

[She  tils  at  one  side  of  the  UtbU.] 

Helmer.  Nora  —  what  does  this  mean? 
Your  cold,  set  face  — 

NoEA,  Sit  down.  It  will  take  some  time. 
I  have  much  to  talk  over  with  you. 

[Helmer  »il»  at  tite  other  aide  of 
theUAle.] 

Rkluer.  You  alarm  me,  Nora.  I  don't 
understand  you. 

Nora,  No,  that  is  just  it.  You  don't 
understand  me;  and  I  have  never  under- 
stood you  —  till  to-n^ht.  No,  don't  inter- 
rupt. Only  listen  to  what  I  say.  —  We 
must  oome  to  a  final  settlement,  'Torvald. 
~  Bbluer.  How  do  you  mean? 

Nora  {^fUr  a  short  tilenee],  Doee  not  one 
thing  strike  you  as  we  sit  here? 

Helmer.  What  should  strike  me? 

Nora.  Wehavebeenmarriedeightyears. 
Doee  it  not  strike  you  that  this  is  the  first 
time  w«  two,  you  and  I,  man  and  wife, 
have  talked  together  seriously? 

Hdluer.  Seriouslyl  What  do  you  call 
seriously? 

Nora.  During  eight  whole  years,  and 
more  —  ever  since  the  day  we  firat  met  — 
we  have  never  exchanged  one  serious  word 
about  serious  things. 

Helubr.  Was  I  always  to  trouble  you 
with  the  cares  you  could  not  hdpme  to  bear? 


Tej 

Nora.  I  am  not  talking  of  cares.  I  say 
that  we  have  never  yet  set  ourselves  seri- 
ously to  get  to  the  bottom  of  anything. 

Helmer,  Why,  my  dearest  Nora,  what 
have  you  to  do  with  serious  things? 

Nora.  There  we  have  it  I  You  have 
never  understood  me.  —  I  have  had  great 
injuatic«  done  me,  Torvald;  first  by  father, 
and  then  by  you. 

Hbluer.  What!  By  your  father  and 
me?  —  By  us,  who  have  loved  you  more 
than  all  the  world? 

tioRi.[ghalcingherhead\.  You  have  never 
loved  me.  You  only  thought  it  amuaing  to 
be  in  love  with  me. 

Heluer.  Why,  Nora,  what  a  thing  to 
aayl 

Nora,  Yes,  it  is  bo,  Torvald.  While  I 
was  at  home  with  father,  he  used  to  tell  me 
all  hia  opinions,  and  I  held  the  same  opin- 
ions. If  I  had  others,  I  said  nottung  about 
them,  because  he  would  n't  have  liked  it. 
He  used  to  call  me  his  doll-child,  and  played 
with  me  aa  I  played  with  my  dolls.  Then  I 
came  to  live  in  your  house  — 

Helmer.  What  an  expression  to  use 
about  our  marriage! 

No&A  [undwturbedi-  I  mean  I  passed 
from  father's  hands  into  yours.  You  ar- 
ranged everything  according  to  your  taste; 
and  1  got  the  same  tastes  as  you;  or  I  pre- 
tended to  —  I  don't  know  which  —  both 
ways,  perhaps;  sometimes  one  and  some- 
times the  other.  When  I  look  back  on  it 
now,  I  seem  to  have  been  living  here  like  a 
beggar,  from  hand  to  mouth.  I  lived  by 
performing  tricks  for  you,  Torvald.  But 
you  would  have  it  so.  You  and  father  have 
done  me  a  great  wrong.  It  is  yoiu  fault 
that  my  life  has  come  to  nothing. 

Helmer.  Why,  Nora,  how  imreasoDaUe 
and  ungrateful  you  are!  Have  you  not 
been  happy  here? 

Nora.  No,  never.  I  thought  I  was;  but 

Helmer.  Not  —  not  happy  I 

Nora.  No;  only  merry..  And  you  have 
always  been  so  kind  to  me.  But  our  house 
has  been  nothing  but  a  play-room.  Here  I 
have  been  your  doll-wife,  juat  as  at  home  I 
used  to  be  papa's  doll-child.  And  the  chil- 
dren, in  their  turn,  have  been  my  doUi.  I 


r66 


CHIEF   EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


thought  it  fun  wbea  you  played  with  me, 
Juat  as  the  children  did  when  I  played  with 
them.  That  has  been  our  marriage,  Tor- 
raid, 

Heuue.  There  is  some  truth  in  what 
you  Bay,  exaggerated  and  OTentrained 
though  it  be.  But  henceforth  it  Bhall  be 
different.  Ptay-timeiBover;nowcnmeflthe 
time  for  education. 

Nora.  Whose  education?  Mine,  or  the 
ehildren's? 

TT-RiT-Mnit    Both,  my  dear  Nora. 

Nora.  Oh,  Torvald,  you  are  not  the  man 
to  teach  me  to  be  a  fit  wife  for  you. 

Hblmxb.  And  you  can  say  UiatT 

Nora.  And  I  —  how  havel  prqnred 
myself  to  educate  the  chitdrenT 

EzuniR.  Nora! 

Nora.  Did  you  not  Bay  yourself,  a  few 
minutes  agp,  you  dared  not  trust  them  to 
me? 

Hblhxb.  In  the  excitement  of  the  mo- 
mentl  Why  should  you  dwell  upon  that? 

Nora.  No  —  you  were  perfectly  right. 
That  problem  is  beyond  me.  There  is  an- 
other to  be  solved  first  —  I  must  try  to 
educate  myself.  You  ate  not  the  man  to 
help  me  in  that.  I  must  set  about  it  alone. 
And  that  is  why  I  am  leaving  you. 

HbiiMbr  [jitmpitto  up].  What  —  do  you 
meantosay  — ? 

Nora.  I  must  stand  quite  alone  if  I  am 
ever  to  know  myself  and  my  surroundiniK 
BO  I  cannot  stay  with  you. 

HxLicBR.  Nora  I  Nora! 

Nora.  I  am  going  at  once.  I  dare  ^y 
Christina  will  take  me  in  for  tA-night  — 

HzufER.  You  are  madt  I  shall  not  al- 
low itl  I  forbid  iti 

Nora,  It  is  of  no  use  your  forbidding  me 
anything  now.  I  shall  take  with  me  what 
belongs  to  me.  From  you  I  will  aco^t 
nothing,  either  now  or  afterwards. 

Hbuier.  What  madness  this  is! 

Nora.  To-morrow  I  shall  go  home  —  I 
mean  to  what  was  my  home.  It  will  be 
easier  for  me  to  find  some  opening  there. 

Heluer.    Oh,  in  your  blind  inexperi- 

Nora.  I  must  tiy  to  gairt  azperience, 
Torvald. 

To  fonake  your  home,  your 


husband,  and  your  children  I  And  yon 
don't  consider  what  the  world  will  say. 

Nora.  I  can  pay  no  heed  to  that.  I  only 
know  that  I  must  do  it. 

Hbuibr.  This  is  monstrous  !  Can  yog 
forsake  your  holiest  dutiee  in  this  way? 

Nora.  What  do  you  conaidsr  my  holiest 
duties? 

Hbuibr.  Do  I  need  to  tell  you  that^ 
Your  duties  to  your  husband  and  your 
children. 

Nora.     I   have   other  duties   eqnaD; 

Helmhr.  Impossible!  What  dutiee  do 
you  mean? 

Nora,  My  duties  toward  myself. 

Hkuuir.  Before  all  else  you  are  a  wife 
and  a  mother. 

Nora.  That  I  no  longer  believe.  1  be- 
lieve that  before  all  else  I  am  a  human 
being,  juat  as  much  as  you  are  —  or  at 
least  that  I  should  try  to  beoome  one.  I 
know  that  roost  people  agree  with  you, 
Torvald,  and  that  they  say  so  in  books. 
But  henceforth  I  can't  be  satisfied  with 
what  moat  people  say,  and  what  is  in  books. 
I  must  think  things  out  for  myself,  and  by 
to  get  clear  about  them. 

Hbluer.  Are  you  not  clear  about  your 
place  in  your  owu  home?  Have  you  not  in 
infallible  guide  in  questions  like  these? 
Have  you  not  rdigion? 

Nora.  Oh,  Torvald,  I  don't  really  know 
what  religion  is. 

Hklhbr.  What  do  you  mean? 

Nora.  I  know  nothing  but  what  Pasbx 
Hanaen  told  me  when  I  was  confirmed.  He 
explained  that  religion  was  this  and  that. 
When  I  get  away  from  all  this  and  stand 
alone,  I  will  look  into  that  matter  too.  I 
will  see  whether  what  he  taught  me  >■ 
right,  or,  at  any  rate,  whether  it  is  right  fo 


Oh,  this  is  unheard  of!  And 
from  BO  youi^  a  woman  I  But  if  rel^km 
cannot  keep  you  right,  let  me  appeal  to 
your  conscience  —  for  1  suppose  you  ban 
some  moral  feeling?  Or,  answer  me;  per- 
haps you  have  none? 

Nora.  WeU,  Torvald,  it's  not  easy  to 
say.  I  re^y  don't  know  —  I  am  all  at  set 
about  these  thinp.    I  only  know  that  I 


A  DOLL'S  HOUSE 


161 


think  quite  differently  fnun  7011  about 
them.  I  hear,  too,  that  the  laws  are  differ- 
ent from  what  I  tbou^t;  but  I  can't  be- 
Ueve  that  they  can  be  right.  It  appears 
that  a  woman  has  no  right  to  apare  her 
dying  father,  or  to  save  her  husbaiid's  tifel 
I  don't  believe  that. 

Ebluzr.  You  talk  like  a  child.  You  don't 
understand  the  society  in  which  you  live. 

Noiu.  No,  I  do  not.  But  now  I  shall  try 
to  learn.  I  must  make  up  my  mind  which 
IB  right  —  society  or  I. 

HsufBR.  Nora,  you  are  ill;  you  are  fev- 
erish; I  almoat  think  you  ore  out  of  your 

NoaA.  I  have  never  felt  so  much  clear- 
nesg  and  certainty  ae  to-night. 

TTjii.ijiTB  You  are  clear  and  certain 
enough  to  forsake  hu^and  and  children? 

Nora.  Yea,  I  am. 

Heuicb.  Then  there  is  only  one  eiipla- 
natioD  possible. 

Nora.  What  is  that? 

Hbimbk.  You  no  longer  love  me. 

NoKA.  No;  that  is  just  it. 

HsudiB.  Noral  —  Canyousaysol 

Nora.  Oh,  I'm  so  sorry,  Torvold;  for 
you've  always  been  so  kind  to  me.  But  I 
can't  help  it.  I  do  not  love  you  any  longer. 

HKijUKs[ma»terirt^kimadfioithdiffieultj/]. 
Are  you  clear  and  certain  on  this  point  too? 
_^  Nora.  Yes,  quite.  That  is  why  I  will 
not  stay  here  any  longer. 

Hblubr.  And  can  you  also  make  clear 
to  me  how  I  have  forfeit«d  your  love? 

Nora.  Yea,  I  can.  It  was  this  evening, 
when  the  miracle  did  not  happen;  for  then 
I  saw  you  were  not  the  man  I  had  imagined. 

Helubr.  Expliun  yourself  more  clearly; 
I  don't  understand. 

NoBA.  I  have  waited  so  patientiy  all 
these  eight  years;  for,  of  course,  I  saw 
dearly  enough  that  miracles  don't  happen 
everyday.  When  this  crushing  blow  threat- 
ened me,  1  said  to  myself  so  confidently, 
"Now  comes  the  miraclel"  When  Krog- 
stad's  letter  lay  in  the  box,  it  never  for  a 
moment  occumd  to  me  that  you  would 
think  of  Hubmitting  to  that  man's  condi- 
tions. I  was  convinced  that  you  would  say 
to  him,  "Make  it  known  to  alt  the  world"; 
and  that  then  — 


HsLMinL  Well?  When  I  had  given  my 
own  wife's  name  up  to  disgrace  and 
shame—? 

Nora.  Then  1  firmly  believed  that  you 
would  come  forward,  take  everything  upon 
yourself,  and  say,  "  I  am  the  guilty  one." 

Hblmbr.  Nora  —  I 

NoKA.  You  mean  I  would  never  have 
accepted  such  a  sacrifice?  No,  certainly 
not.  But  what  would  my  assertions  have 
been  worth  in  opposition  to  yours?  — -  That 
was  the  miracle  that  I  hoped  for  and 
dreaded.  And  it  was  to  hinder  Otat  that  I 
wanted  to  die. 

Hbucfr-  I  would  gladly  work  for  you 
day  and  night,  Nora,  —  bear  sorrow  and 
want  for  your  sake.  But  no  man  sacrifices 
his  honor,  even  for  one  he  lovee. 

Nora.  Millions  of  women  have  done  so. 

Hbluer.  Oh,  you  think  and  talk  like  a 
silly  child. 

Nora.  Very  likely.  But  you  neither 
think  nor  talk  like  the  man  I  can  share  my 
life  with.  When  your  terror  was  over  — 
not  for  what  threatened  me,  but  for  your- 
self—  when  there  was  nothing  more  to 
fear  —  then  it  seemed  to  you  as  though 
nothing  hod  happened.  I  was  your  lark 
again,  your  doll,  just  as  before  —  whom 
you  would  take  twice  as  much  care  of  in 
future,  because  she  was  so  weak  and  fragile. 
[SUindt  tiji.]  Torvald  —  in  that  moment 
it  burst  upon  me  that  I  had  been  living 
here  these  eight  years  with  a  strange  man, 
and  hod  borne  hitn  three  children.  —  Oh, 
I  can't  bear  to  think  of  it!  I  could  teal 
myself  to  piecesl 

Hblmbr  laadly).  I  see  it,  I  see  it;  a£ 
abyss  has  opened  between  ua. — But,  Nora, 
can  it  never  be  filled  up? 

Nora.  Aslnowam,lamnowifeforyou. 

Helmbr.  I  have  strength  to  become  an- 
other man. 

Nora.  Perhaps  —  when  your  doU  is 
taken  away  from  you. 

HEuasB.  To  part  —  to  part  from  you  I 
No,  Nora,  no;  I  can't  grasp  the  thought. 

NoBA  igoing  into  room  on  Oie  right].  The 
more  reason  for  the  thing  to  happen. 

[She  eomet  bade  with  outdoor  IhiTtgi 
and  a  tmaU  traBding-iag,  wkiek 
the  jAaett  m  a  cAov.] 


768 


CHIEF  EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 


HgLMTO.  Non,  Nora,  not  now!  Wait 
till  to-morrow. 

NooA  [pulUng  on  cloak].  I  can't  ipend 
the  night  in  a  strange  man's  house. 

Hblmsr.  But  can  we  not  live  here,  as 
brother  and  sister  —  7      • 

Nora  [faelening  her  hot].  You  knoir  very 
well  that  would  n't  last  long.  [Putt  on  Ote 
tkatol.]  Good-bye,  Torvald.  No,  I  won't 
go  to  the  children.  I  know  th^  are  in  bet- 
ter hands  than  mine.  As  I  now  am,  I  can 
be  nothing  to  them. 

HxLMKR.   But  some  time,  Nora  —  some 


-? 


I  have  no  idea 


Nora.  How  can  I  tdIT 
what  will  become  of  me. 

Helm£«.  But  you  ar«  my  wife,  now  and 
always  I 

Nora.  Listen,  Torvald,  —when  a  wife 
leaves  her  husband's  house,  as  I  am  doing, 
I  have  heard  that  in  the  eyes  of  the  law  he 
is  free  from  all  duties  toward  her.  At  any 
rate,  i  release  you  from  all  duties.  You 
must  not  feel  yourself  bound,  any  more 
than  I  shall.  There  must  be  perfect  free- 
dom on  both  sides.  There,  I  give  you  back 
.vour  ring.  Give  me  mine. 

HsuiEK.  That,  too? 

Nora.  That,  too. 

Hbluxh.  Here  it  is. 

NoBA.  Very  well.  Now  it  is  all  over.  I 
lay  the  keys  here.  The  servants  know  about 
everything  in  the  house  ^  better  than  I  do. 
To-morrow,  when  I  have  started,  Christina 
will  come  to  pack  up  the  things  I  biou^t 


with  me  from  home.  I  will  have  them  scat 
after  me. 

HnucBR.  Alloverl  All  overt  Nora,  wiU 
you  never  think  of  me  again? 

Nora.  Oh,  I  shall  often  think  of  you, 
and  the  children,  and  this  house. 

HcLUEB.   May  I  write  to  you,  NoraT 

Nora.  No — never.  You  must  not. 

HbiiHer.  But  I  must  sehd  you  — 

Nora.  Nothing,  nothing. 

Hklmbr.  I  must  help  you  if  you  need  it. 

Nora.   No,  I  say.  I  take  nothing  frmn 

Hklur.  Nora  —  can  I  never  be  mon 
than  a  stranger  to  you? 

Noba  [lakinf  htr  braoeling-bag].  Oh, 
Torvald,  then  the  miracle  of  miracles  would 
have  to  happen  — 

Hkliibr.  What  is  the  miracle  of  mir- 
adee? 

Nora.  Both  of  us  would  have  to  change 
BO  that — Oh,  Torvald,  I  no  longer  believe 
in  mirades. 

Helukr.  But  /  will  believe.  Tell  mel 
We  must  so  change  that  —  7 

Nora.  That  communion  between  us 
shall  be  a  marriage.  Good-bye. 

[She  goe»  out  by  the  AoQ  door.) 

Hbluer  [nrUeing  into  a  chair  by  Ihe  door 
tpith  hit  face  in  Am  handt.]  Noral  Nora! 
[He  looka  round  and  me*,]  Elmpty.  She  is 
gone.  [Ahopegpringaupinhin.]  Ah!  The 
miracle  of  miracles  —  7 

IFrom  bdov)  U  heard  tJie  retxrbera- 
Hon  of  a  Aeonv  door  doling.] 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


APPENDIX 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


cmizedbvGoOQlc 


APPENDIX 
t   NOTES  ON  THE  AUTHORS 

iESCHYLUS 
iEacsm.iJB,  tbe  eBrliest  of  the  cre«t  Orrak  trujo  poets,  waa  bom  iu  Atheos  B.C.  (26.  IVkdi- 
tion  iwcrtj  that  he  fought  at  Maiathon  and  at  Salamii.  He  brought  out  Hia  firat  tragedy  when 
he  waa  about  twenty-five;  aod  we  have  the  tltleii  of  •eveDU'-niiie  of  his  playa,  of  which  only 
■even  lurvive.  He  was  tbe  father  of  Greek  trasedy,  which  had  been  almost  wholly  lyriciu 
before  him,  with  only  a  BioBle  aotor.  .Xaohylus  made  use  of  a  aeoond  performer,  oauung  tbe 
pair  of  them  to  assume  at  many  characters  aa  be  might  need.  In  the  later  l^aya  he  followed  tlw 
example  of  Bopbmles  and  utlli«d  three  acton.  He  wrote  on  an  average  two  plays  every  year; 
and  ne  dunimshed  the  portion  of  pure  lyrio  while  intetudfyiag  the  Mtion,  the  clash  of  w^, 
which  is  the  raaential  element  of  drama.  To  liim  we  owe  the  trUogy,  the  linking  of  three  playa 
topetfaer.  presenting  successive  parts  of  the  Mune  long  stoiy.  He  took  the  first  priie  at  least 
thirteen  times ;  and  Ua  constant  suecees  was  due  to  the  lofty  elevation  of  his  ohoral  odee,  to  his 
masterly  presentation  of  oharacto'  at  the  moment  of  crisis,  and  to  Ma  inten^ying  of  <^  dr»- 
matio  iuterert  of  his  plots,  whieh,  atmide  aa  th^  may  seem  to  ua,  were  more  effective  than  any 
that  the  Athenians  had  earlier  been  familiar  with.  He  died  in  B.C.  466,  and  was  buried  at  Gela 
in  Sicily.  Upon  his  tombstone  were  placed  two  lines  which  m^  have  been  written  by  the  poet 
himself:  "Beneath  this  stom  lies  .£schylus.  son  of  Euphorion,  the  Athenian,  who  perished  in 
the  whsst'beariiiB  land  of  Oala;  of  his  prowess  the  grove  of  Marathon  oan  speak,  and  the  long- 
haired Pw^an,  who  knows  it  well." 

SOPHOCLES 
Bophoclea,  the  seoond  of  the  great  Athenian  tragic  poets  was  born  at  Colonus  about  B.C.  496. 
He  was  therefore  about  thirty  years  yoaoser  than  ^>chylus.  His  life  coven  tbe  most  splendid 
period  of  the  Athenian  Empire.  It  is  believed  that  he  was  the  leader  of  tlie  chorus  of  boys  at 
the  celebration  of  the  viotoiy  of  Salamis ;  and  it  is  recorded  sIki  that  he  aerved  as  a  geneisl  with 
Peridee  in  the  Samian  War.  He  was  intimate  with  Pericles.  Phidias,  Herodotus,  Thucydides, 
and  Socrates.  He  lived  to  be  nearly  ninety,  dying  only  in  B.C.  406.  He  is  said  to  have  written 

Q^  tragediee  besides  nearly  a  score  m  satym  after-pteoes.  Of  these  only  seven  Iragediee 

a  laifB  portion  of  one  Batyr-.play  are  extant.  His  tragedies  called  for  the  service  of  thtee 


iarge  portion  of  one  Batyr-.play  ai 
whereas  ^schylos  in  his  earlier 


hia  choral  o^  subordinate  to  the  dramatie  struggle  and  yet  helpful  to  its  effect.  He  also  devel- 
oped tbe  spectacular  possihilities  of  tragic  performance;  and  he  was  hiriily  skillful  in  the  trun- 
ingof  his  actors  and  in  the  drilling  of  his  ehorus  in  their  drdinjp  about  the  altar.  HeisamastM' 
of  the  art  of  construction,  and  t£e  best  of  his  plots  are  as  sktllfully  articulated  as  those  in  the 
pieces  of  the  most  adroit  of  tbe  modern  playinights.  He  combines  as  did  no  other  Greek  the 
utmost  teelmioal  accompliahment  with  largeness  of  vision,  with  lottiueM  of  poetic  outlook,  and 
with  imaginative  energy. 

EURIPIDES 

The  third  of  the  great  Atlio  tragedians  was  bom  probably  in  B.C.  4S4,  perhaps  eleven  years 
after  Sophocles  and  forty-one  after  .£schylna.  He  la  credited  with  the  authorship  of  at  least 
ninety  tragedies,  of  whieh  eighteen  survive;  and  there  is  slso  extant  one  of  his  half-doien  or 
more  satyrio  dnunas.  All  through  his  career  as  a  dramatist  he  was  overshadowed  by  the  fame 
of  his  two  mi^ty  predeoeMors  in  pl^'maldng.  He  sou^t  to  broaden  the  scope  of  Attio  trag- 
edy, to  relax  its  austerity,  to  widen  Its  drcte  of  subjeota.  to  get  closer  to  everyday  humanity. 
As  a  result  of  his  departure  from  the  traditional  path  in  wtdch  .£Bchylu«  and  Sophocles  had 
been  content  to  walk,  be  seemed  to  his  eontemporariea  as  a  daring  and  disrespeotful  iiutovator 
deliberately  lowering  the  tone  of  tragedy  and  often  descending  to  overt  melodraroa.  To  the 
Greeks  of  a  later  ceneration  his  appeal  was  more  immediate  than  to  his  contemporaries;  and  to 
many  more  reoant  oritias,  be  haa  appeared  as  the  least  Attio  of  the  great  Oieek  dramatists  and 


tbwefora  u  the  moat  modem  of  tbem  all.  After  hia  deatb  tad  when  the  tait«  of  the  Gneki  hid 
bem  tnncformed,  be  becune  mora  popular  than  Sophocles  or  £achylus;  and  it  ia  due  U 
belated  apprecjation  that  we  have  now  more  of  his  plays  than  tboae  of  hi>  twn  rivaJa  I 
tOBBther.    Euripides  departed  iDtentloDally  from  the  noble  form  constaDtly  e 


ARISTOPHANES 
Atistophanee  It  the  only  one  of  the  wiiten  of  Greek  comedy  of  whom  we  now  have  a  ecooii 
of  oomptete  playR.  He  was  bom  about  a. c.  446;  and  if  bo  he  was  nearly  forty  yean  youaserthan 
Euripides.  His  earliest  play  it  the  A^uirniam,  produced  wbeo  he  was  apparently  only  twen^- 
one.  Eleven  of  bis  comiedies  are  extant ;  and  more  than  thirty  others  are  known  by  name  and 
sometimes  by  a  few  fragments.  Except  the  latest.  —  Ptulut,  produced  in  388,  about  whjd 
date  be  died,  —  all  tite  existing  pieces  beloiis  to  what  is  Imown  as  Old  Comedy,  a  type  of  plar  i 
peculiar  to  Athens  and  to  be  likened  only  to  our  latter-day  theatncal  review,  in  that  it  com- 
bioed  parody,  burlesque,  comic  situation,  and  oomic  character.  This  nondescript  form  ezadlj' 
suited  the  fertility  and  the  variety  of  the  genius  of  Aristopbanes,  who  was  supremeljr  endowed 
for  these  different  depaitmenta  of  literature.  He  was  a  soarinK  lyrist  with  a  fecundity  and  an 
ethereal  elevation  which  can  be  paralleled  only  in  Sbcltey:  he  was  a  scouraing  and  acordiiiii 
satirist  with  a  vehemence  akin  to  that  of  Juvenal;  and  he  was  a  bold  and  robust  humoriot  with 
an  earthy  streak  as  broad  as  that  of  Rabelais,  In  politics  be  was  a  bitter  reactionary;  and  when 
the  liberties  of  the  Athenians  were  restricted  the  license  of  the  stagB-eatirists  was  curbed.  In 
Plidiit,  probably  hie  last  play,  be  deals  with  a  theme  of  permanent  and  univeraal  interest.  — 
the  power  of  money,  —  eschewing  altogether  his  customary  iocursions  into  contemporary  and 
local  politics.  Pfu/iu  ia  an  example  of  the  so-called  Middle  Comedy  which  prepared  the  v«f 
for  the  New  Comedy  of  Menander.  a  type  approximating  more  obviously  to  the  modem  idn 
of  that  comedy  of  coutemporary  mannere  which  reaches  its  culmination  m  Moli&re. 

PLAUTU8 

We  do  not  know  the  date  or  the  place  of  the  birth  of  Titua  Maocius  ^autua  —  poarib);  in 
B.o,  254  and  in  Umliria.  After  failing  in  buaineSB,  as  a  result  of  which  be  sanli  into  extieme 
poverty,  he  commenced  playwright  when  ho  was  about  thirty.  More  than  a  hundred  pUyi 
have  been  credited  to  him.  probably  without  warrant.  Twenty  of  these  have  been  pnauiiid. 
Before  his  death,  in  B.C.  184.  he  had  witnessed  the  splendid  expansion  of  Rome,  from  ita  poa- 
tion  as  the  foremost  city  of  Italy  to  its  empire  over  al!  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean;  and  bis 
life  covers  also  the  period  when  the  subtler  Greek  intellect  made  its  abiding  im^resaioa  oa  lbs 
■oUder  Latin  character.  The  coarse  Roman  farces,  which  might  have  been  luted  into  literatun. 
—  as  Moliftre  elevated  the  improvised  comedy-of-maska  of  the  Italians,  —  bad  its  evolutioo 
inhibited  by  the  importation  of  the  fully  developed  comedy  of  Uie  Athenians.  All  the  piftys  of 
Plautus  are  adaptationa  of  Attic  comedies,  chiefly  Menander's;  and  yet  tbe  Lat^  playwriffat 
maoased  to  give  to  his  pieces  an  intensely  Roman  flavor,  a  reoognisabia  Latin  looal  cola-  in 
■pite  of  their  Greek  plots  and  their  Greek  cbaroctera.  Even  thouj^  tbe  soene  at  tjie  stray  mi^t 
be  Athens  or  some  other  Greek  city..  Plautus  abounded  in  allusions  tc  Rimian  oonditiwM;  sad 
be  often  suggested  the  aroma  of  teQement-house  life  in  the  Italian  metiopolil.  His  humor  ■ 
bold  and  broad;  and  his  style  is  racy.  He  knew  the  unlettered  spectatora  of  Boroe.  aodiSetMit 
from  the  cultivated  audiences  of  Athens;  and  he  was  fertile  in  devices  for  evokinK  tjia  hearty 
laughter  of  these  illiterate  playgoers. 

TERENCE 
PubliuB  TerantiuB  Afar  was  a  native  of  Carthage  and  he  was  bom  between  B.C.  190  and  18G, 
a  few  years  before  Plautus  died.  He  was  brought  to  Rome  as  a  slave  to  a  member  of  tbe  nofak 
family  of  Terentiua.  His  master  early  recogniied  his  intellect,  in  consequence  of  which  he  had 
Terenoe  educated  and  set  him  free.  Terence  seems  to  have  established  himself  as  a  dramatitt 
■ome  years  before  he  was  thirty;  and  be  was  early  admitted  into  the  society  of  the  cultivated 
Romans  newly  taken  captive  by  the  charm  of  Greek  literature.  We  do  not  posaeas  a  complete 
list  of  his  comedies,  of  which  only  lii  have  come  down  to  us.  Apparently  most  of  them  were 
adaptations  from  Menander,  far  closer  to  the  orifdnal  than  the  few  paraphrases  of  Plautua 
They  are  also  far  less  comic  than  the  farces  of  his  Latin  predeoesaor  —  or  even  than  tbor 
Greek  ori^nals,  if  we  may  credit  the  saying  of  Julius  Crasor  that  Terence  was  "  only  a  batf 
Menander."  He  died  about  B.C.  158.  Plautus  ia  primarily  a  playwright,  desirous  above  aU 
slae  of  stimulating  the  intereat  of  tbe  rude  mob  of  Roman  playgoer*  in  the  theal«r  iUalf,  and 


APPENDIX  773 

aa  earelen  oT  the  aubaequsot  approval  of  the  reader  in  the  tibrajy  aa  waa  Shakespeare.  TereuM, 
OQ  the  other  IwDd,  although  be  reveala  hia  diaappointiaent  at  the  comparative  qod-bui 
hia  plays  on  the  ataae,  ia  esseDtially  a  man  of  letters,  wleUul  more  eepeoiaUy  of  the  ai  _ 
of  tua  fellow  men  of  lettera.  Where  Flautiu  complicatea  hia  plot  and  deaeenda  to  horaeiuay  to 
amuse  the  rough  Roman  audiencee,  Terence  refines  his  «^le  and  seeks  to  be  aa  Greek  as  possi- 
ble, more  or  less  oontemptuoua  of  the  spectators  whoae  atmrace  he  was  aeeking.  In  other  words, 
PlautUB  ia  aJcin  to  Ldbiche,  and  even  to  Moliire,  whereas  Terenoe  is  rather  to  be  likened  to 
Concreve. 

LOPE  DB  VEGA 

Lope  Felix  de  Vega  Carpio  was  bom  in  Madrid  in  1662.  He  studied  at  Alcala;  he  went  on 
the  expedition  to  the  Aaores ;  and  he  served  in  the  Armada.  He  became  the  most  popular  as 
he  was  the  most  prolific  of  men  of  letters.  He  put  forth  a  oonatant  sucoeesioD  of  epistles  and 
sleeieB.  Bonnets  and  romances,  pastorals  and  epics;  and  one  of  these  last,  La  DrvSonUa,  had 
Sir  Francis  Drake  lor  the  hero-villain.  In  1608  or  1609  Lope,  ibea  the  undisputed  maatw  of 
the  Spanish  atage.  delivered  a  metrical  address  on  the  "New  Art  of  Writing  Plays  in  thoec 
Times."  in  which  be  admitted  the  validity  of  the  clasaiciat  code  of  dnunauo  doctrine  and 
defended  bimaelf  for  hia  diaregard  of  these  rules  by  pleading  the  necessity  of  pleasing  the  un- 
leornod  apectators.  He  had  found  the  drama  more  or  lees  fonnlees  ajid  more  or  less  unliterary. 
He  re-formed  it,  reducing  the  customary  number  of  acts  from  four  to  three,  choosing  themes  6f 
higher  import,  constructing  plots  with  more  dexterous  workmanship,  and  indulging  to  the  full 
the  Spanish  tendency  toward  ornate  grandiloquence.  Some  of  his  pieces  were  improviied  with 
breathless  aimed  —  on  one  occasion  five  in  a  single  fortnight ;  others  were  more  deliberately 
planned  and  elaborated.  He  ia  said  to  have  composed  nearly  eighteen  hundred  plays,  of  which 
more  than  four  hundred  have  been  preserved.  He  had  a  career  aa  rich  in  adventure  (militair, 
political,  and  amorous)  aa  that  of  any  of  hia  heroes.  Late  in  life  be  became  a  familiar  of  the 
Inquiaition;  and  the  Pope  made  him  a  doctor  of  theology.  He  died  in  August,  IB36,  mourned 
by  all  Spain. 

CALDERON 

Pedro  CaldeKin  de  la  Barca  was  bom  in  Madrid  in  January,  1600;  he  was  thus  nearly  (ortv 
years  the  jnnior  of  Us  great  rival.  Lope  de  Vega.  He  was  educated  at  the  Jesuit  College  of  hia 
native  city;  and  be  atudied  law  at  Salamanca.  He  accepted  the  formulas  of  the  Spaniah  drama 
aa  tJieae  bM  been  developed  1^  Lope  de  Vega;  and  he  proved  himself  almost  equally  fecund. 
He  was  not  as  vigorously  creative  aa  Lope  was;  and  not  a  few  of  his  plays  are  only  rebandlings 
of  pleoes  brv  his  predeussora,  generally  with  an  Intensifying  of  their  dramatio  power.  His 
Alcalde  of  Zaiamea,  for  example,  ia  a  far  firmer  and  more  vital  drama  than  the  hasty  play  by 
Lope  on  which  it  was  founded.  In  fact,  in  many  coses  Calderon  did  very  much  what  Shake' 
speore  had  done  in  making  his  tragic  maslerpieces,  Hamlet  and  King  Lear,  out  of  melodramas 
already  popular  on  the  stage.  Vet  even  Calderon's  masterpieces  tend  to  be  metodramatic  — 
that  is  to  day.  he  is  often  willing  to  sacrifice  veracity  of  character  to  the  immediate  effectiveness 
of  situation.  And  be  is  often  content  to  utilize  Che  stock  characters  employed  by  Lope  Mid  Tirso 
de  Molina.  He  ia  an  adroit  playwright  even  if  he  is  rarely  a  subtle  pmrobologist;  and  he  ia  a 
genuine  poet,  although  he  overindulges  in  the  flowery  flamboyance  wluch  Is  a  common  ehsrao- 
teristic  of  Spanish  literature.  Toward  the  end  of  bis  career  he  returned  to  Ma  ^rly  intention  of 
joining  the  prieathood.   He  was  appointed  prebend  of  Toledo  in  103S;  and  in  1663  he  became 

CORNEILLE 
Kerre  Com^e  was  bom  at  Bouen  in  June,  ISOe.  Educated  by  the  Jeeuita,  he  was  admitted 
to  the  bar.  His  first  piece  was  presented  in  1629.  He  went  up  to  Paris  and  waa  one  of  the  five 
auth<vs  who  wrot«  plays  under  the  direction  of  Richelieu.  After  compcninB  several  comedies 
and  dramas  in  accord  with  the  practice  of  his  predecessors,  he  waa  advised  to  learn  Spanish- 
It  was  from  Spanish  playwrights  that  he  derived  the  plots  of  his  fir^  important  tragedy,  the 
Cid,  acted  in  1637,  and  of  his  first  important  comedy,  the  Ltor.  acted  in  1644,  FriHn  RinnaD 
history  he  took  the  themes  of  Horaliut,  produced  in  1640;  Cinna,  produced  in  the  same  year, 
and  PoiyeiuOe,  produced  in  1643.  When  he  commenced  playwright  he  had  not  heard  of  the 
sOHMlled  "rales  of  the  drama"  elaborated  by  the  Italian  theorists;  but  after  the  Cid  he  accepted 
these  as  bindiug,  although  he  constantly  chafed  against  their  restrictions.  It  was  Cornolle 
who  eatablisbea  the  formula  of  French  tragedy  as  Lope  de  Vega  bad  established  the  formula 
of  the  Spanish  cloak-and-sword  drama.  He  prided  himself  justly  on  his  adroitness  In  oompo*- 
ing  the  mechanism  of  a  plot;  and  he  waa  a  bom  playwright,  with  an  iniUnctive  iniiEtenoe  upon 


774  APPENDIX 

the  Btuk  Bnertion  of  the  human  w31.  Toward  the  end  of  hie  oareer  hie  powen  wMLkMMd  and 
hii  playe  became  lees  Bpontaoeous  and  more  obvioualy  meohanioal  in  Uie  conduct  of  tbor 
Uonea.  In  the  Uat  yean  of  hie  life  he  tank  into  honorable  poverty;  and  he  had  the  paiti  of 
■eeing  popular  ptatersuoe  go  to  the  playe  of  hie  younser  tival,  lUdtie-  He  died  In  Septembs, 
ieS4. 


Jean  Baptiate  Poquelin  was  bom  in  Parie  in  Januaiy.  1622.  Hie  tstber  was  a  prooperow 
tradesman  and  he  waa  sent  to  the  best  lohool  in  Pari*,  the  JeniH  Collige  de  GlennoBt.  He 
studied  l&w;  but  when  he  was  twenty-one  he  turned  actor,  taUng  the  name  of  Moliire.  After 
vain  BtTuo^ee  in  Parie  the  company  which  he  bad  Joined  began  Ita  ittoUlng  in  the  provineea; 
and  it  didnot  return  to  Paris  until  I66B.   MoUin  had  become  the  foremoet  <rf  Fnneh  eomio 


utheohief of theooinpBiiyiandliewBealTeadyknownaBaidaywrisht.  HehtrntM 

under  the  patconaae  of  Louis  XIV  the  two  or  thne  [Javt  alroady  preeented  in  the 

provinoee,  brisk  comic  pieces  which  attained  an  Inunediate  popularity.   In  the  next  Gfteoi 


years  he  wrote  near^  thirty  other  id^a,  steadily  revealing  a  Grmer  techulc,  a  richer  humor, 
and  a  deeper  understanding  ol  humamty.  He  took  an  uneipeoted  step  forward  la  1664  when 
Tarluffe  wu  Bnt  performed.  He  followed  this  in  1066  with  the  f  ««ui  de  Pierre,  in  which  Den 
Juan  waa  the  chief  character.  In  ieS9  he  [xoduced  the  Miaantirope.  genenJly  aooqited  bv 
French  criUca  as  his  masterpiece  and  ae  the  model  of  modwn  comedy.  In  1672  he  httni^t  out 
the  Pemmee  Smanltt  (the  ''Learned  Ladlea");  and  it  is  in  these  tour  plays  Uiat  hislofttet 
power  is  most  amply  displayed.  But  while  he  climbed  to  tbese  heights  be  recurred  wain  sod 
again  to  the  humblw  type  of  comlo  pfeoe,  the  aim  of  which  was  M  arouss  irresistible  un^lcr; 
and  he  also  wrote  inecee  to  ordo'  to  please  Um  long.  Hia  last  play  was  the  /mtwiiwrv  ftnotid, 
A~t  ■~._  i_  E.v_.....  iflTo.  ..-A  .1  .V.  t,^.ti.  — .ir.— — .,^  of  this  he  >■"<  a  snsure,  bacaUnga 


blood-vessel.   He  died  on  P^bruary  17,  1673.   He  had  made  many  enemiea  hy 

ledidne,  In  rellitfon,  and  in  socdetv:  and  his  wife  hadto  throw  heneU 
permiasion  for  •  Christian  burial. 

RACINE 

Jean  Racine  was  bom  at  La  PertA-MOon  In  December,  1639,  being  juat  a  third  of  a  eentuiy 
younger  than  Comeille.  He  wae  educated  at  the  Jansenlst  aohool  at  Port-Royal ;  and  be  becaJDOa 
an  accompliahed  Greek  scholar.  Intended  for  the  Church,  he  was  lured  into  Utcisturej  and  be 

Suarreled  ungratefully  with  his  Jaoaenist  teaebeie.  His  bat  play  waa  brought  out  In  1664  bf 
loli^re's  eompauy,  and  so  waa  hia  second  the  next  year.  But  Racine  again  showed  his  ingratt 
tude  by  surreptitiously  taking  this  piece  to  a  rival  company.  Andn/nuiehe  pnKJuced  in  1667. 
waa  the  Srat  of  his  tragedies  to  be  triumphantly  auceceaful;  and  in  the  next  ten  year*  it  waa 
followed  by  six  others  of  which  the  last  waa  Phadra,  acted  in  1677.  Disheartened  by  att*dci 
upon  him,  Racine  suddenly  renounced  the  drama,  although  be  ^rielded  in  1689  and  in  1691  to 
the  appeal  of  Mme.  de  Maintenon  and  compoaed,  for  the  pupils  of  her  school  at  Saint-Cyr. 
two  piv's  on  religious  themes,  Either  and  Alhaliah.  He  had  been  appi^ted  hiatoriographer  to 
Louia  XIV  in  1677.  Id  the  later  years  of  his  life  be  was  reconciled  to  the  Jansenista  aad  be  Ut- 
terly repented  hie  earlier  errors.  He  died  in  Aprfl,  1699.  He  had  bMun  by  imitating  C<»iMaIle, 
but  he  had  soon  discovered  that  hia  Benius  waa  not,  like  Comrille^,  Btted  for  atur^  Ustorie 

—    2j^  developed  a  unique  0ft  fOr  the  subtle  and  searching  analyda  of  pasdonat  the 

"'      ■  ■-  -  '    '-  -■-    ■    '  ■  ■•       -    -^'    *  ■  d  wfikmatioulooa 

«  merely  die- 


moment  of  climax.  Hia  plots  are  aeenin^  ample,  but  tliey  aie  articulated  with 
skill.  The  English  critics  who  have  dismissed  his  plays  as  empty  and  cold  have  i 
closed  their  incapacity  to  peer  beneath  the  surface  and  to  penxdve  the  flery  lava 


BEAUMAECHAIS 
Pierre  AuguBtin  Caron  wae  bom  in  Paris  in  1732.  He  was  a  watchmaka"  and  a  muaioiaili. 
irhen  he  married  in  1796  he  took  the  name  of  Beaumarchaia  from  a  amall  fief  belons '  '  " 
wife.  In  1764  he  made  a  trip  to  Spain  to  vindicate  a  sister  who  liad  been  engaged 
named  Clavijo;  and  his  brilliant  account  of  hia  sucGesaful  adventure  aerved  Ooethe  as  uie  oaas 
of  CUniao.  BeaiunarchaiB'a  first  play,  a  drama  called  flurfnie  (brought  out  in  1767)jnuit  with 
only  moderate  success:  and  hie  second ,  the  Ttoo  Friendi  (produced  in  1770).  failed.  They  were 
senoue  and  Beotimental  pieces;  and  they  did  not  display  hia  special  qualities  —  InventiMl, 
ingenuity,  briskness,  brilliance.  Involved  in  a  long  liti^tion  helaaued  a  aeries  of  wit^  memoirs 
wtuch  made  him  one  of  the  most  popular  personalities  in  Paris.  In  177fi  he  brougnt  out  ttw 
Barber  of  StmUe  which  was  instantly  triumphant.  And  almoet  immediately  he  undeMook  a 

'    — ' 'la  Inr  mipplyjiig  ttu  »»imHji<  Aijiarjnmn   rrinnttm  wit.h  Mmj,  inTnimtUim,  nfyj  ^^|p. 


APPENDIX  775 

pliea:  mud  be  publuhed  a  complete  edition  of  Voltaire.  TheD  he  wrote  ■  eequel  to  the  Baiiar, 
tbs  liarriaoe  of  Pigaro,  which  was  eo  daiiiiE  in  iU  satire  that  JtA  production  iraa  not  permitted 
until  17S4,  when  the  cniah  at  the  fint  iterformance  was  such  that  three  penona  were  itified  to 
death.  Thereafter  he  wrote  the  Ubtetto  for  SaliBri'a  Taror*,  and  alao  a  heavy  pla^,  the  OuiUy 
Mottur,  which  had  oiJy  a  alight  auooeae.   He  aurvlTed  tlie  Frenah  Revdution,  dyiii<  fn  1700. 

VICTOR  HUGO 
Vietor  Hugo  waa  bcsn  at  Beaancon  in  1802.   When  aearoely  more  Uian  a  boy  he  b^an  to 

Kblioh  both  in  Vfpe  and  in  proee.  displaying  a  precocious  eloquence.  His  Gnt  stoiy.  ffant  oj 
dand.  appeareom  1823;  and  he  was  soon  acclaimed  as  the  chief  of  the  insuraent  Romanti- 
ewta.  His  unactable  drama,  CroinvwU.  was  published  in  1S27  with  H  preface  which  set  forth  the 
doetrinea  of  the  new  school.  Marion  lU  Lormt,  intended  for  acting,  was  prohibited  in  1S28;  and 
not  until  1S30.  with  the  production  of  Hemani,  did  he  win  the  suneess  oa  the  stage  which  waa 
lary  tor  the  triumph  of  the  new  docMnes  of  dramatic  art.  After  three  plays  in  verse 
wrote  three  dramas  in  proae,  returning  to  veiae  in  Run  Bta»,  which  was  brought  out  in 
1838  and  which  atill  holds  the  stage  by  the  side  of  the  earlier  Hemani.  Because  of  ths  chilly 
metlnK  fjven  to  the  BuryroBm,  in  1843.  Hugo  declined  again  to  submit  to  the  fiery  ordeal  iS 
Uw  footli^ta;  but  he  continued  to  pour  forth  poetry  and  fiction;  and  he  aspired  also  after 
eminence  tai  public  life.  Aft«r  Ixiuis  Napoleon  made  himself  Emperor  in  1852.  Hugo  went  into 
flsOn,  returning  to  France  at  the  downfall  of  the  Empire  tn  1870.  Thirty  years  aft«r  Natrt 
Damtde  ParU  had  been  published  (in  1831),  he  followed  it  with  another  mi^ty  proeo  fletion. 
Z<M  UMrabltt  (issued  in  1S62).  Unfailinsly  fecund  in  oratory,  in  history,  m  poetry,  and  bi 
Soticm,  Hugo  survived  to  be  more  than  fourscore,  dying  at  last  in  May,  18SG.  HU  body  lay  in 
state  under  the  Aroh  of  Triumph :  and  lus  funeral  was  a  mperb  manifestation  of  national  appre- 

^MILE  AUGIER  and  JULES  SANDEAU 

Augier  was  born  at  Valence  in  1820,  a  grandson  of  Hgault-Lebrun.  He  waa  well  educated 
and  studied  for  tiie  bar.  His  first  play,  the  Hnnlook  Draft,  acted  in  1S44,  was  a  pale  and  un- 
promising attempt  at  Greek  comedy.  He  revealed  a  firmer  grasp  on  life  and  a  keener  under- 
standing of  the  stage  in  the  Adienfursu,  produced  In  1848.  In,18£4liebroughtforth  the  iStm-in- 
idw  of  M.  Poirier,  writtOD  in  ooUaboration  with  Julee  Sandeau  (who  had  been  bom  in  131 1 ,  and 
who  died  in  1SB3).  Augier  had  other  collaborators,  Alfred  de  Muaset.  Labiche,  and  Edouard 
Fouirier;  but  he  was  always  tbe  senior  partner  tn  the  joint  undertaking,  and  all  the  plays  which 
he  wrote  in  partnership  are  stamped  with  Urn  trademark.  After  the  younger  Dumas  had  set 
tbe  example  of  Bocial  satire  on  the  stage.  Au^er  was  stimulated  to  a  aeries  of  keen  analyses  of 


total  abeenoe  of  false  sentimentality.  As  a  playwnght  he  waa  fertile  and  deib«U8,  with  tbe 
power  of  projecting  ebaraeter  sharply  and  powerfully.  He  ntiliied  the  framework  of  the  "well- 
made  ptay"  to  earry  a  social  message;  and  he  may  be  consideTed  as  Uie  most  important  factor 
Id  the  development  of  tbe  Knial  drama  between  Scribe  and  Ibaen. 

ALEXANDRE  DUMAS  Fne 

Alexandre  Dumas  was  bom  in  Paris  in  July,  1824,  a  natural  son  of  the  author  of  Montt 
Oitfto  and  the  Three  Ovardtmai  by  whom  he  was  acknowledged  and  legitimated.  His  scbool- 
doya  left  painful  memories,  which  he  utilised  in  his  Avoirs  CUmenoeau.  As  a  young  man  he 
■hared  his  father's  altwnations  from  penury  to  extravagance.  Determined  to  be  independent 
be  turned  author,  iaauina  a  volume  of  verse  and  half  a  doaen  novels,  of  which  only  one  had 
any  vitality.  This  waa  the  £adu  of  Ihe  ComdUat,  published  in  1B48;  it  was  dramatised  by  its 
author  and  nlUmateh' performed  in  1852.  IthasneldthestaKenot  only  in  Prance,  but  all  over 
the  wOTld.  for  more  Uian  threescore  years.  His  next  play  was  also  a  dramatisation  of  a  novel  of 
Us  own,  Diaru  dt  Lv$.  Then  in  ISolS  he  brought  out  a  wholly  orisinBl  play,  the  Outer  Edge  of 
Safety;  and  thereafter  his  position  waa  secure  as  the  wittiest  and  most  adroit  of  dramatists. 
as  a  writer  of  comedy  in  its  hi^ier  aspeot,  aeeond  only  to  Augier.  In  later  years  he  began  to 
oharse  his  plays  with  a  more  or  less  paraded  moral  purpose.  When  this  overt  didacticism  ovcr- 
weislited  the  dramatie  effectiveness,  the  ^ts  failea,  as  was  the  oase  with  the  Idau  of  Madam* 
AMbrati;  but  in  most  instanoea  his  mastery  of  the  craft  of  plajonaking  served  him  in  good  stead. 
In  Denitt  he  rehuidled  the  theme  of  Uaaamt  Aubmv;  he  modified  me  plot  only  a  little^ut  be 
strengthened  tbe  emotional  appeal,  so  that  the  later  play  waa  immediately  sucoeMful.  He  pre' 


IS  a  pastor  and  Legsiitg  wu  intendMl  for  tbe  miniiliy.  He  went  to  the  Univeinty  td  l«bii| 
Hj  itudy  theology,  but  be  felt  ttroucer  attnctiona  toward  madicine  and  lilaiBtiin.  His  fim 
play  wac  acted  before  he  wai  twen^;  and  hie  secood,  Mm  Sara  Sampton,  waa  ■uoeeMfufly 


fixed  ausgestive  pratacei  to  bu  Bcveral  pl^e  when  be  isnied  them  in  a  oomplet*  edition.  Ek 

I.J  _!.„  B .'11™   . J..  i-j-L  jj,  j^  action,  brilliant  in  i*-  -"-' — '  "*' —  *-  '~ 

e  died  in  November,  1696. 


Carki  Ooldoni  waa  born  io  Venics  in  Februaiy,  1707.  Hia  boyhood  was  spent  in  Penitia  wri 
Rimini.  He  Mudied  law  for  a  few  montbii:  he  ]oined  a  oompany  of  strollinB  playera:  ha  wtot* 
estirea  and  even  traaadiea.  At  Iwt.  after  bavins  come  under  tbe  influence  of  Molttre,  iriittn  )■ 
revered  alwayi  aa  we  master  of  modern  comeoj',  he  turned  to  the  o<nnic  druna.  He  beeaiat 
tbe  salaried  playwriEht  of  a  Venetian  theater;  and  there  was  one  year  in  wlJIbb  he  iMnmded  il 
with  siiteen  idays,  most  of  them  in  tbe  local  dialect  of  Venice.  In  1761  be  went  to  Faik 
writing  piecea  for  tbe  Italian  company  and  teacbine  Italian.  One  of  hie  beat  oomedka,  lb 
BeaeTMoU  Bear,  was  compowd  in  French.  He  received  a  pension  from  the  Idni  of  F^«iice;  aad 
he  arouaed  his  old  age  by  writing  a  lively  autobiogTHphy.  When  tbe  devolution  broke  out  la 
pension  was  taken  away,  and  he  sank  into  abject  penury.  He  died  at  Veraailles  in  Febraatj. 
1793,  liaving  attained  (fl  more  than  fouracore  years.  Ooldoni  is  justly  regarded  as  tbe  fatfavd 
modern  oomedy  in  Italy.  He  profited  greatly  by  his  constant  admiration  for  Moliire;  and  ibr 
influence  of  the  great  French  dramatist  is  evident  even  in  bis  lighter  Venetian  sketches.  Aad 
it  is  in  these  unpretending  pieces,  in  which  he  sets  on  the  stage  tJie  swarming  life  of  bis  natin 
city,  that  he  is  seen  at  his  best.  He  is  ingenious  in  intrigue,  freah  m  invention,  easy  in  tbe  ja- 
trayal  of  character,  and  lively  in  the  action  of  the  stories  he  has  devised.  I 

LESSING 
Ephroim  Gotthdd  Leasing  was  bom  in  Kamens,  in  Saxony,  in  JanutUT,  1729.   Hil  fatkt 

itor  and  Lessing  was  intended  for  tbe  miniiliy.  He  went  to  the  Univerrity  (rf  l«br- 

theolp^,_but_be  felt  ttroDfer  attractions  towud  medicine  and  lileiBtun.   His  m 

faack- 

scholuship.  In  1706  be  puSwbed  £ia  Laoeien,  tbe  moat  sUmulatlnf  of  t^d^tooitb^eMitmT 
contributions  to  nstbetio  doctrine;  and  the  year  after  he  iasued  hia  beat  oomedy,  W*>na  *n 
BaniMta.  Almost  immediately  he  went  to  Hamburg  to  Sttve  aa  adviser  and  critic  to  a  short- 
lived theatrical  enterprise;  and  to  this  we  ow«  bis  niumiiiatliig  artlolea  on  dramatic  art,  imriiicii 
be  combated  the  influence  of  the  Fr«neh  elasnciBta.  Hia  disousrion  of  tbe  fundamental  priso- 
plea  of  dramaturgy  are  more  ftttfmentary  than  his  analysis  of  i«*tiMtie  prindplea;  but  tbey  sr 
almost  as  signiBeant,  and  they  formed  uw  aoUd  bade  ot  the  Roman&jst  revolt  under  GoWb 
and  Schiller.  He  continued  to  wander  and  to  study  and  to  write.  He  publidted  Bmitia  CkJMt 
in  1772  and  Ntdhan  dtr  Weiit  in  1779.  He  had  married  in  1776  a  widow  to  whom  be  had  \a* 
been  attached;  and  she  died  two  years  thereafter  to  his  abiding  giief.  The  later  years  of  his  lib 
were  oecupied  largely  with  theolo^sl  controversy,  in  which  he  revealed  himsrlf  as  indopendait 
and  aa  acute  aa  he  had  shown  himself  in  Bathetic  and  dramatic  disouasion,  deairous  alwayi  d 
piercing  to  tbe  center  and  of  gettiikg  at  the  Iraroel  of  truth.  His  health  failed,  portly  in  oaaf»' 
quence  ot  overwork;  and  he  died  in  February,  I78I. 

GOETHE  ' 

a  FraokfoH-on'tbe-Main  in  August,  1749.   He  atndad 

— ,_„ .It  Strassburg;  but  he  took  little  interest  in  leoal  history,  devotiiicUi 

mind  to  literatuiv.  In  1772  he  published  his  first  ploy,  Oott*  wn  BtrlicKinifen.  Two  yean  Utw 
be  issued  his  first  novel,  tbe  Sottooi*  of  "WertKtr,  following  it  almost  immediately  by  aootttf 
ploy,  Ctarijio.  In  1775,  on  the  invitation  of  Karl  August,  he  moved  to  Weimar,  wl^«  he  n 
to  make  his  home  for  the  rest  of  hia  life.  He  was  already,  at  twenty-six.  the  most  famous  ii 
German  authors.  He  had  the  Urge  fecundity  of  genius,  and  he  wM  eonstantly  attracted  by  tke 
stage,  having  played  with  a  puppet-show  in  his  boyhood  and  becoming  in  early  manhood  th* 
manager  of  tlie  ducal  theater  at  Weimar.  He  wrote  many  plays,  TVuso,  IpKy/tnit,  Bgmert: 
and  hia  moat  important  poem,  FaUMt,  ori^nally  issued  in  1790,  is  east  in  dramatJO  fotm.  Bui 
although  he  was  the  greatest  poet  of  bis  ccimtry  and  of  bis  century,  be  wM  not  a  bom  pUj- 
wri^tbt.  His  commente  on  actjug,  on  stage  manofement,  on  dramatic  construction  are  ottcD 
very  acute ;  but  he  lacked  a  large  share  at  tbe  native  gift  ot  iJwnlaking.  Technically  Clatigt 
ia  probably  the  play  of  bis  which  ia  moat  skillfully  put  together.  Even  after  his  friendship  wMi 
Schiller,  who  was  more  richly  endowed  with  the  dramaturgia  instinct,  lie  was  still  gro|Bng  for  a 
satiBfoctory  dramatic  tonnula.  In  hia  later  yean  he  gave  himself  whole-heartedly  to  scuntib 
studies.   He  outlived  all  bis  oontempocariee,  surviving  until. March,  1633 


.     ...  -,--  I  •till  a  Btudeot. 

la  1783  he  wM  ttUKibed  to  Uw  theater  at  Maniiheun,  whn«  be  brought  out  FUko  and  Intritpie 
_jr —    ni.c_*_i...: n__/._., 1  published  in  1787 ;  it  confotined  to  the  Freuoh 


chaotic  conditions  ot  the  contemporary  Gennan  theater,  and  eei>ecially  from  the  abaenon  of 
lativG  traditional  foimulai  wherein  German  dramatists  coiUd  express  themselves  spontane- 
nialy.  In  1703  Schiller  wrote  a  HittoTji  o/  the  ThWly  Yeare'  War:  and  the  next  year  he  began 
th«  memorable  frisudahip  with  Goethe,  which  ultimately  led  him  to  settle  in  Weimar  and  to 
aaeist  Goethe  in  the  management  of  the  ducal  thealer.  Under  the  stimulus  ot  Goethe's  compaD- 
ionahip  Schiller  wrote  a  aeries  of  superb  ballads,  of  which  the  best  and  the  best  known  is  the 
Song  of  the  Belt.  He  returned  to  his  early  love  of  the  drama,  publishing  his  trilOBy  of  Walhnttein 
in  179S.  his  Mary  Sitmrl  in  1800,  his  Maid  of  OrUatu  in  1801,  and  his  Brida  ofMtttina  in  1803 
—  the  last  being  an  attempt  to  emulate  the  stem  severity  of  the  Attio  tragedians.  His  laat 
drama,  wmiam  7eU,  was  issued  in  1804.  Hia  health  broke  in  these  final  yean  at  Weimari  and 
be  died  there  in  May,  ISOO. 

HOLBERG 

Ludwig  Holberg  was  bom  at  BergeD,  in  Norway,  in  December.  1684.  He  studied  for  a  little 
while  at  the  Univeraity  of  Copenhagen;  but  his  real  education  was  rathei  the  remilt  of  hia  in- 
cessant travels  in  England,  »anoe.  and  Italy.  His  earlier  writings  were  historical;  and  they 
were  in  Daniah.  This  was  a  departure  from  the  practice  of  Scandinavian  men  of  letters  who 
were  wont  to  write  only  in  Latin;  and  it  is  periiapa  not  too  much  to  say  that  Holberg'e  writings 
were  as  influential  in  the  founding  ot  Damah  literature  as  Dante's  were  in  Italian,  Chaucer^ 
in  English,  and  Luther's  in  Qerman.  Holberg  not  onl^  founded  Scandinavian  literature;  he 
was  also  its  foremost  and  moet  fecund  contributor,  pounng  forth  prose  and  verae  in  abundance. 
Id  1716  he  became  a  professor  at  the  University  of  Copenhagen ;  and  there  he  dwelt  for  the  rest 
of  his  life.  In  1722  the  attempt  waa  made  to  organise  a  company  of  Danish  acton  to  pci^orm 
in  their  native  tongue;  and  Holberg  was  appointed  manager  of  the  new  theater  erected  in 
Copenhagen.  As  there  were  no  idura  in  Duuah,  Holberg  tuned  playwright  and  dJscloaed  a 
BtJikiiig  talent  for  the  dramaj  and  ourin^  the  five  yean  that  the  theater  was  able  to  keep  its 

mediee.  As  Goldoni  was  to 
master  of  modem  oomedy. 
.    _  itiSre,  —  with  a  large  share 

of  Molt^re's  simplicity  of  siot,  swiftness  of  action,  naturalnen  of  dialogues  and  insight  into 
character.  When  lbs  tiieatw  reopened  a  few  years  later,  Holberg  composed  for  it  five  more 
cranediee.  He  oontlntied  to  write  books  ill  almost  every  department  of  literature  until  the  day 
of  his  death,  whieh  took  plaee  in  January,  17M. 

HENRIK  IBSEN 

Henrik  Ibaen  was  bom  at  Skien,  in  Norway,  in  March,  1828.  He  served  for  seven  yean 
•s  apprentice  to  a  druggist.  When  he  was  twenty-two  he  entered  the  univeiaity  at  Christiania; 
and  he  began  to  write  verse.  He  managed  to  get  a  play  on  the  stage;  and  he  contributed  to  the 
newspapen.  Then  in  1861  he  became  connected  with  the  theater  at  Bergen,  where  be  remained 
five  yean  as  play-reader,  stage  manager  and  resident  playwright,  —  thus  acquiring  the  inti- 
mate knowledge  of  the  theater  which  is  all-important  for  a  dramatist.  At  B^gen,  and  after- 
ward at  a  ChristJaniB  theater  of  which  he  became  manager,  he  broudit  out  several  poetic 
dramas,  more  or  less  in  imitation  of  the  Danish  playwrights,  Oehlenachlftger  and  Herti.  His 
firat  modem  play.  Lovt't  Comedy,  written  In  rhymed  verse,  was  published  in  1862.  Two  yean 
later,  after  vain  struggles,  be  left  Norway  to  settle  in  Rome,  where  he  wrote  Brand  and  Peer 
Oynt.  In  1S68  he  removed  to  Dresden,  moving  on  later  to  Munich.  His  books  began  to  sell  and 
he  was  in  receipt  of  a  "  poet's  pension  "  from  his  native  land.  The  wan  between  Denmark  and 
Prussia.  Prunia  and  Austria,  and  Prussia  and  France  forced  him  to  revise  his  conceptions  of 
the  social  organisation.  Abandoning  the  historical  and  poetic  drama  and  relinquishing  verse. 


:.gozedi:,GoOQlc 


II.    NOTES  ON  THE  PLAYS 

AGAMEMNON 

Afamemnpn  is  the  fint  plEiy  of  b  triloKy,  of  three  piecea  dealine  with  moceasiTe  stages  of  t 
tra^o  story.  Thii  is  the  only  Greek  trilogy  which  mirviTM  complete.  It  *M  Dot  brought  on 
until  s.c.  4S8.  poBSibly  after  the  poet's  death.  The  story  of  the  whole  trilogy  haa  a  atrikhf 
■imilarity  to  that  of  tiamUl,  as  it  preseatB  the  murder  of  a  Idog  by  the  paramour  of  the  quRs. 
and  the  Bubeequent  vcDeeaace  taken  by  tbe  son  of  the  murdered  man.  la  the  A^fomemmm,  m 
iee  the  kjns  return  from  Troy,  to  be  welcomed  treacherously  by  his  false  wife  and  to  be  ri^ 
by  her  and  her  aceomplice.  Id  tbe  second  play  of  the  aeriea.  the  Cholj^iirri,  we  are  made  spee- 
tators  of  the  veogeance  of  OreeleH,  the  son  of  Agamemnon  and  Clytemneabv.  with  the  aliyinf 
of  the  ossaadns;  and  in  tbe  third  piece,  the  Eumenida,  we  see  the  atonement  mode  by  Oi«sta 
for  his  matricide.  Of  all  the  extant  tragedies  of  jEschylus.  the  Aoamemnon  is  probably  the  nnst 
effective  when  acted  before  a  modem  audience.  Simple  as  the  plot  is.  it  abounds  in  momenta  of 
tense  suspense:  and  the  thick  horror  of  the  unseen  murder  of^the  king  can  be  pHralleled  od;'  I 
by  tbe  similar  moment  in  Maebeth. 

In  reading  tbe  tragedies  of  JEschylus,  Sophoclea,  and  Euripides  an  attempt  nhould  be  made  ' 
to  visualize  a  performance  at  Athens  with  tbausands  of  dtisens  seated  in  tiers  on  the  aides  d  ■ 
the  hill  on  which  the  Acropolis  still  stands.  In  the  center  of  the  aemidreular  orcbestn  stood 
the  altar;  and  in  this  leveled  space  the  actors  and  the  chorus  stood  and  moved,  spijte  and 
chanted,  their  figures  relieved  against  the  long,  narrow  building  which  took  the  plaoe  of  a  stajt 
On  the  roof  of  thia  building  stood  the  solitary  Watchman,  waiting  and  looking  for  the  diatanC 
beacoQ-Qre  which  announced  the  fall  of  Troy.  A  central  door  in  this  boilding  served  aa  tk 
entrance  tri  the  palace  of  the  king. 

Although  the  Attic  dramatist  could  people  his  play  with  aa  many  oharacteca  aa  he  chose,  ba 
was  allowed  ooly  three  actora;  and  he  had  so  to  construct  bia  plot  that  no  mora  than  thm 
persons  should  appear  at  once.  Tbe  protagouist  or  most  important  actor  would  impeniHiate 
the  most  important  character,  although  he  might  also  undertake  one  or  more  of  tlie  mioot 
parts.  The  other  characteiB  were  divided  between  the  deuteragonist  and  the  trHasoniat.  Is 
Agamenaum.  there  can  be  but  little  doubt  that  the  protagonist  ii^wrsoiMted  only  ClytOD- 
nestra.  leaving  the  deuteragonist  the  briefer  parts  of  the  Herald,  Caaaandira.  and  .SlssthM 
and  to  the  tritagoniat  the  Watchman  and  Agamemnon. 

CEDIPUS  THE  KING 

This  play  haa  been  recogniiad  by  the  most  competent  critics  From  Aristotle  to  Jebb  as  tbt 
mighty  masterpiece  of  Greek  tragedy,  the  supreme  effort  of  the  consummate  teehnjciaii  wta 
was  also  an  inspired  poet,  capable  of  Boeing  life  steadily  and  Seeing  it  whole.  Ita  plot  is  inbi- 
cate;  and  yet  there  is  no  moment  when  the  spectator  does  not  follow  its  dear  unrolling  witk 
understandingand  withbreathlessinterest.  Ita  movement  is  as  stni^tf orward  as  it  is  massirc: 
and  the  doom  which  finally  overtakes  tbe  hero  is  felt  to  be  inevitable.   The  ohalaotera  are  fto- 

¥cted  mmply  yet  powerfully:  they  reveal  themBelvea  instantl}';  and  they  are  artfully  oontrasted. 
here  are  frequent  moments  of  acute  suspense,  but  the  weight  <A  Iha  hnpendins  oatAatropbt 
is  never  weakened  by  any  shook  of  mere  Burprise.  The  choral  odes  are  iosenioualy  utilised  fai 
heighten  tbe  force  of  the  action  itself  and  to  interpret  the  meoaage  of  the  story  to  the  apectaten. 
And  the  poetry  which  is  omnipresent  ie  always  direct.  elevat«d,  and  Imagiiiatlye.  Elven  to-dw, 
twenty-five  centuries  after  it  was  originally  composed,  the  tragady  meets  the  uM^mate  teat  d 
a  play,  —  that  it  ia  even  more  appealing  on  the  stage  than  in  the  study.  Id  a  French  tramii- 
tion  it  is  kept  in  the  repertory  of  the  TbUtre  Fran^ais;  and  io  (Edipus  Mounet-SuDy  found 
his  most  powerful  part.  At  tbe  original  performance  in  Athena  the  protagonist  impenonated 
(EdipuB  only,  the  deuteragonist  probably  assuming  the  parts  of  locasta,  tto  Priest,  the  Ho^ 
man.  and  thb  Second  Messenger,  while  to  the  tritagoniat  was  entruated  Cnon.  Teireaias,  m 
the  first  Messenger. 

MEDEA 

In  this  play  ««  can  discover  all  the  chief  characteristics  of  Euripidea  as  a  playwright.  Tk 
story  ia  moving  and  pleturesque;  the  situatioDS  are  violent  to  the  verge  of  mdodiama ;  the  cluo' 
actix*  are  strong  of  purpose  and  Intense  in  pasnon;  and  the  spectacular  possibilities  of  tks 


APPENDnf      *  779 


tbeme  u«  skillfully  utiliied.  The  choral  odea  bkve  a  lem  integral  and  intimate  rdation  to  the 
MtioD,  such  aa  we  perceive  in  the  playt  of  Sophoclea;  and  they  seem  sometiniet  to  be  intToduoed 
only  in  deference  to  the  tradition  of  Attic  drnina.  They  m  beautiful^riaa,  which,  like  our 
moderD  interact  muaio,  serve  to  fill  the  intervals  between  the  episodee.  While  the  loftier  ttage- 
diea  of  Sophodec  have  an  obrioua  likeoeaH  to  the  masdve  musio-drMDM  of  Wacner,  tiie  more 
realistic  playa  of  Euripides  revmble  rather  the  operas  which  Meyerbeer  and  HaUvy  oompoaed 
to  librettoe  1^  Soribe,  also  a  moet  infenioua  deviser  of  effective  plots.  Like  the  Agamemnon 
and  the  <Edipui,  1/edta  has  proved  itself  to  be  uopreanve  when  adequately  iepreaent«d  in 
the  modern  theater.  Indeed,  Medea  herself  Is  aldn  to  a  host  of  modem  heroines  in  that  oho 
is  "a  woman  with  a  past."  Probably  the  protagonist  played  only  Medea,  the  deuteilicoDtst 
"doubling"  the  Nurse  and  Jmod,  and  the  tritaxonist  being  charsad  with  four  parta,  the 
Teacher,  Creon,  £geus,  and  the  Meesenger.  The  central  door  of  the  stage  building  that  shut 
in  the  orchestra  served  as  the  entrance  to  the  abode  of  Medea;  and  it  was  on  the  roof  of  this 
buildilis  that  Medsa  stood  before  she  was  swung  through  the  air  in  a  dragon-chariot,  —  whioh 
was  peniBpt  a  decorated  basket  raised  and  lowered  by  a  crane. 

THE  FROGS 
In  the  Knigliit  Aristophanes  attacked  Cleon  and  in  the  Clmid*  he  anailed  SoctHtss.   In  the 
Froat  the  shining  mark  of  bis  satire  is  Euripides,  whom  lu  selects,  perhape  partly,  because  the 
author  of  Medea  was  then  the  most  popular  and  the  most  quoted  of  dramatic  poets  and  there- 
fore the  best  known  to  the  Attic  speetatore,  and  pturtly  because  of  a  conservative  dislike  for  the 


oovdliee  of  realism,  of  Bsntimentaiiism,  and  of  sensationalism  vrhicb  he  found  in  the  plays  oi 
EuiicidM  and  whloa  seemed  to  bim  dcKrading  to  the  austere  nobility  of  Greek  tragedy  as  ex- 
emplified in  the  works  of  ^schylus  ana  of  Bophodes.  The  adventures  of  Bacchus  and  of  his 
attendant,  Xaathisa,  od  thdr  ww  to  Hades  are  rich  in  fun;  they  combine  the  humor  of  char- 
acter and  situation  with  the  wit  m  dialogue;  and  the  final  tiial^t-Uw  is  a  masterly  eiamrJe  of 
parody,  taoviug  the  existeace  of  a  high  degree  of  literary  cultivation  and  lesthetic  understanding 
In  the  Attic  audience.  The  critiBiam  of  the  methods  m  GuripideB  may  be  a  little  unfair,  but  it 
is  unfEulinBlv  Armtn.    In  jrttitn  of  thft  diJlf>s^«v  nt  thm  V'  '"  -         '^ 

burtesque  with  its  topical  sonsi,  its  local  hits,  and  its  atmosphere  of  boyish  high-eplnts. 

THE  CAPTIVES 
The  prologue  of  the  Captives  was  probably  prefixed  twenty  or  thirty  years  after  the  death  ol 
PUutus  uid  after  the  Roman  audiences  haa  so  degennsted  in  atteutiou  and  in  intellfgeDOe 
that  it  was  held  to  be  necessary  to  eiptain  the  plot  in  advance  to  [asy-minded  spectators,  many 
of  whom  mi^t  be  only  doubtfully  familiar  with  Latin.  The  CapltBee  has  been  chosen  to  repre- 
sent Plsutus  in  this  volume  because  it  is  by  far  the  cleanest  of  his  pl^s,  the  author  himself  in 
the  final  lines  drawing  attention  to  the  inraSensivenees  of  the  Btory.  Leasing  was  emphatic  in 
his  praise  of  the  piece,  and  probably  FUutua  owed  this  merit  to  the  Greek  dramatist  from  whom 
he  took  over  the  play.  The  comedy  is  less  comic  than  the  other  plays  of  I^autus;  in  fact  the 
humor  is  centered  in  the  trfulitional  character  of  the  Parasite,  always  hungry  and  always  in 
aearoh  of  a  gratultotw  meal.  The  otbtTjAays  are  rather  robust  and  ingenious  farces,  only  rarely 
attaining  the  hitter  levd  of  comedy.  The  CapliteM  is  aldn  to  our  modern  ' '  domestic  dramas, 
with  a  finer  seutlment  rising  at  times  to  genuine  feeling.  The  playhouse  in  which  it  was  origin- 
ally performed  seems  to  have  had  a  wide  and  shallow  stage  with  an  elaborate  architectural 
back  wall,  pierced  with  three  doors,  —  which  might  serve  as  the  entrances  to  the  reddencos  of 
three  different  characters,  if  need  be. 

PHORMIO 

Phcrmio  is  an  exoeption  among  Terence's  comedies  in  that  it  is  an  adaptation  not  from 
Uenander,  but  from  another  Athenian  comic  dramatist  of  the  same  schod,  -M^ollodonis,  It  is 
an  exception  also  in  that  its  plot  is  more  truly  comic  than  the  plots  of  most  of  the  other  plays, 
with  an  ingenuity  ol  situation  which  mdies  its  perfonnanee  amunng  even  on  the  modern  stage. 
Its  two  chief  cbsrscters  are  a  parasite,  a  variant  of  the  traditional  type,  and  an  intriguing  slave, 
one  of  the  stable  figures  ot  Greek  comedy,  wUch  was  transmitted  throujli  the  Latin  oomle 
drama  to  the  Italian  comedy-of-masks  and  from  that  to  the  French  stage.  Geta  is  the  remote 
ancestor  of  Molifae's  Mascarille  and  Beaumarchais's  Fipnro;  and  Phormto,  which  Terence  took 
I,  supplied  a  part  of  the  plot  of  Moliire's  Pourbsriei  dt  5eaptn.  It  maj 

,  ^fence's  earliest  |Jay.  AtiJria,  w«s  utilised  by  Molidre's  pupd.  Baron,  in 

his  Adrianne,  and  afterward  by  Steele  in  his  Conscious  LoMr*.   to  the  plays  of  Tert-"     -  ~ 


mplepf 


private  tHiaia.  Here  the  dramatut«  are  obiiervlnf!  the  customs  d  the  oooDtryi  Mtd  cr 

in  southern  Italy  the  lower  olaweB  seem  to  use  their  hon  "    * — '    ~" 

on  the  buiineaH  of  life  in  the  itieetn,  where  they  oonvei 

THE  STAR  OF  SEVILLE 
a!  Lope't  u  moro  eharaateratic  ol  bix  laetkod  thuitbe  Star  of  Senile.  Itiaa^rineal 

. the  «omedy-of-oloak-And-sword,  with  its  hiah-atnmg  hero,  its  hish-atnuiK  hendne, 

ts  IrsdilJODal  comic  terruit,  aSlowed  to  oomtDent  at  will  on  the  story  as  it  uhtoIIb  itadl.  There 
IS  a  swift  su<ieession  of  aituatioDS,  always  effective,  in  spite  of  the  occasioDsl  Ttificiiality  by 
which  they  are  brought  about  —  situations  effective  because  they  have  b4en  artfully  prepared 
for,  skiUdUty  led  up  to,  and  powerfully  handled  when  at  last  they  are  preoented.  The  dialogue 
is  oometimea  stiff  with  rhetorical  embroidery ;  but  in  Ecneral  it  is  easy  with  the  freedom  nlmoet 
(rf  improvisation.  Throughout  the  play  we  cannot  fail  to  perceive  lie  facility  and  the  teliab 
of  the  born  playwright,  joying  in  hie  task,  carrying  on  his  story  with  a  light  hand  and  yet  bidd- 
ing with  a  mm  grasp.  Lope  adjusts  hia  playa  to  the  conditions  of  the  theater  in  Madrid,  ■ — a 
stage  bare  of  scenery,  a  oourtyard  in  which  the  ruder  sort  of  spectators  stood,  and  a  Btmil  at 
■eats  at  the  back  of  the  courtyard  for  Che  richer  element  of  the  audience.  As  time  was  no  ■OBD- 
ery,  there  could  be  no  other  indication  of  a  change  of  place  than  that  afforded  by  the  dialogoe 
of  ih»  characters  who  entered  after  the  stage  had  been  left  empty ;  —  this  leaving  of  the  Mast 
empty  sBeming  to  serve  as  a  conventional  notice  to  the  spectators  that  the  next  scene  woiJd 
be  Md  in  a  different  place. 

UFE  18  A  DREAM 
This  play  was  published  in  1636  or  1637,  when  Calderon  was  not  yet  forty;  and  it  reprnasnts  . 
his  work  when  he  was  in  the  full  maturity  of  his  power  both  as  playwright  and  as  poet.  TV 
•tnTii  ;•  IniDrurirtg  and  the  structure  is  skillful,  although  it  reveals  that  the  Spanish  drama  had 
'  - .  .    ■  '    '  '  e  methods  of  the  medinval  theater-  Tba 


-.-e  effectively  projected  and  bddly  contrasted.  Clarin.  the  gnunoio,  ia  the  equivalent  td  dn 
EUiiabetban  comic  character,  who  is  more  or  lees  cbaracterleag,  serving  onl^  ss  a  mouthpieM 
for  miscellaneous  and  irrelevant  witticisms,  frequently  hald  puns.  The  dialogue  ia  often  a 
tiasue  of  grandilo<]uent  figures  of  speech,  in  which  the  lyrist  reckloBsl^  revels  in  Sowers  and  tank 
— '  -'-— .   The  more  heroic  chaiscten  are  sometimes  ultra-heroic  in -their  hifh-Bown  ezube^ 


Although  ComeUle  borrowed  the  plot  of  the  Cid  from  a  Spanish  play  hy  Guillen  de  Caatn^ 
he  revealed  bis  own  individuality  and  his  own  originality  in  the  changes  be  imposed  upon  the 
Spanish  story.  In  his  hands  the  three  acta  of  tiie  Spanish  piece  became  Bvei  the  etory  was 
BimpliGed  ana  streogthenedj  and  it  was  made  to  possess  a  unity  of  purpose  foreign  to  the  foosv 
meUiods  of  tlie  Spraieh  stage.  Moreover,  the  characters  ara  reduced  in  numbw  and  raised  is 
ener^,  in  seU-will  and  in  recognition  of  duty.  They  have  an  accent  of  veracity  aod  a  faculty 
of  seu-analysiB  which  may  be  sought  in  vain  in  the  Spanish  drama.  In  Com^tle'f  pl^  they 
all  know  what  they  ought  to  do  in  obedience  to  moral  obligation,  and  tht^  are  hl^ily  rwolwid 
to  do  it.  at  whatever  conflict  with  their  own  passions  and  at  whatever  cost  to  tbdr  own  Juiiui. 
The  Berried  argument  which  we  find  in  the  vibrating  dialogue  of  Comeille'B  play  have  little  n 
no  counterpart  in  the  speeches  of  the  persons  in  Guillen  de  Castro's  pieoe.  Thein''  *   ' 

Bpanish  original,  and  perhaps  also  of  the  French  mediaval  drama,  is  re—  •-  '*• 


the  lyrical  staniaa.  And  \  careful  reading  wilt  reve^  the  fact  that  Cornulle  franldy  1a3V  hts 
scene  on  the  stage  of  the  semi-medieeval  French  theater.  —  a  bare  stage,  with  hangina  at  tlis 
back  and  sidee  and  with  doors  and  other  properties  which  serve  to  localise  the  reddeneea  of 
different  characters.  The  stage  is  a  neutral  ground,  nowhere  In  particulai,  where  alt  tba  ebar- 
aeters  can  meet  at  will  without  asking  where  they  are. 

TARTUFFE 

In  the  spring  of  1664  Louis  XIV  gave  a  series  of  sumptuous  entertainments  at  Vessafllea  in 
the  course  of  which  Moli^  presented  the  fint  three  acts  of  Tartuge.  The  king  immediatalT 
prohibited  its  further  performance  as  likely  to  be  offensive  to  the  devout.  Mollere  thereupon 
gave  readings  of  it  at  the  houses  of  important  peraonagM;  and  in  16S7,  believing  that  the  Intsr- 


the  original  (i »- ...^ . _ 

deeply  and  mncerely  with  society  id  its  more  serious  aspecta;  and  it  baa  aerved  em  the  patt«m 
for  every  social  drama  which  has  since  been  writtea.  not  only  in  Frenoh,  but  in  all  the  other 
Doodero  languagee.  Its  abiding  influence  can  be  seen  in  the  School  for  Seajulal  of  Sheridan  axxi 
the  Mamage  t^  F'iearo  of  Beaumarcbais.  in  tbe  OuUr  Edgt  af  Society  of  the  younger  Dumaa. 
And  in  tbe  Son-Jn-iou'  of  M.  Poirier  of  AuE<er  and  Sandeau.  in  tbe  PiUart  of  Soeitiy  of  Ibsen 
and  the  Sacand  Sir*.  Tan^utrau  oi  Pinero.  Tbe  plot  ia  knotted  witb  the  utmost  adroitness ;  and 
eapecially  noteworthy  is  tbe  skiU  by  irhioh  TartufFe's  hypocrisy  is  made  evident  to  the  spectJl- 
tors  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  be  is  nol  permitted  to  have  a  single  aside  in  which  to  reveal  Wit 


the  Interest  from  the  action  to  the  chief  character,  or  rather  to  delineatioD  of  tbe  single  O 
masterins  passion  by  which  that  character  was  driven  to  destruction.  Racine's  plots  are  tar 
simpler  than  Comcille's.  simpler  even  than  those  of  Euripides  which  be  borrowed.  In  Phadra 
the  story  is  taken  up  so  close  lo  its  culmioatioD  that  one  might  almost  say  that  very  little  hap- 
pens in  the  play  itself,  and  that  we  are  shown  only  the  inevitable  and  iiresiatible  results  of 
what  has  already  taken  place.  The  action  is  intemaJ :  and  it  is  concentrated  so  as  to  sot  forth 
only  the  final  moments  of  that  struggle  between  desire  and  duty,  in  the  fire  of  which  the  heroine 
is  Soally  consumed.  Beneath  the  stately  courteeiee  of  characters  whose  language  and  whose 
manners  are  contemporary  with  Louis  XIV.  there  is  an  almost  brutal  realism  of  emotional  ei- 
preauOD  perhaps  all  the  more  burning  because  of  the  moderation  of  the  terms  in  which  it  is 
expressed.  In  Phadra,  as  in  most  of  Racine's  other  plays,  tbe  "star-part"  demands  all  our 
attention  and  tbe  other  characters  are  "  feeders,"  who  exist  only  to  set  oS  the  aufferings  of  the  , 
heroine.  Alicia  is  introduoed  only  to  give  Phndra  eause  for  jealousy;  Theseus  is  reported 
dead  only  so  that  she  may  avow  her  love ;  and  the  return  of  Theseus  is  only  to  compel  ner  to 
send  HinwlytUB  to  his  death. 

THE  BAEBER  OF  SEVILLE 

When  it  was  produced  originally  the  Barber  was  welcomed  and  denounced  as  a  bold  novelty, 
partly  beoause  it  waa  in  prose  ancf  partly  because  it  departed  widely  from  the  type  of  a  comedy 
then  prevalent  on  the  French  stage.  Yet  it  was  only  a  return  to  the  manner  irf  Regnard  and 
even  of  Molifae  in  his  lighter  plays.  Its  story  was  one  which  had  been  utilised  more  than  once 
by  both  Regnard  and  Moliire.  What  was  indisputably  new  was  the  individuality  of  Beau- 
mnrohais  himself,  his  wit,  his  satire,  bis  irony,  bis  incessant  and  effervescent  liveliness.  The 
play  reveals  il[  bis  characteristics  as  a  comic  dramatist;  it  has  perfect  ctari^  of  plot,  swiftneM  ~ 
of  exposition,  ingenuity  of  intrigue,  briskness  of  action,  and  a  consumroate  understanding  of 
theatvica]  effect.  These  qualities  are  all  displayed  pcrbape  even  more  amply  in  the  Marrvioe 
<^  Figaro;  and  it  is  partly  from  a  study  of  Beaumarchais  that  Scribe  acquired  bis  methods  i^ 
^amatic  construction  out  of  which  he  developed  tbe  formula  of  the  "wetl-made  play,"  in  whiob 
•I.S  ■)~i=i.,  i,T.i.  n..n..„r.~.  n<  ■it„>>inn.  ^^  made  all-suEdent  unto  itself  and  in  wbicb  the  ehar- 

HERNANI 

The  first  perfonnanees  of  Bemani  were  a  series  of  pitched  battles  between  the  partisans  of 
the  outworn  o1awi«i«t  formulas  and  the  youthful  advocates  of  the  Romanticist  doctrines.  The 
play  was  full  of  juvenile  ardor;  it  had  an  impetuous  energy  unknown  on  tbe  Fiencb  stage  since 
the  Cid  at  Comeille;  and  its  arbitrary  and  melodramatic  plot  was  draped  with  the  golden 
brocade  of  the  poet's  superb  lyricism.  That  the  plot  is  arbitrary  is  obvious  enough  now;  and 
it  is  evident  that  Hugo  had  modeled  it  upon  the  popular  melodramas  of  the  unliterary  theaters, 
relying  upon  the  splendor  of  his  verse  to  supply  Lterary  merit.  The  story  itself  is  straggling 
and  the  successive  situations  are  monotonous;  the  chanwteiB  are  stage  types,  lending  them- 
selves to  fervent  acting ;  and  oot  a  few  other  defects  have  been  dwelt  upon  by  cold  critics.  Yet 
in  the  theater  Itself  the  piece  still  discloses  its  old-time  power  to  rivet  vm  attention  of  the  aver- 
age spectator  and  to  hold  his  interest  unflamng  to  the  highly  wrought  and  exquisitely  pbraaad 
death  of  the  hero  and  heroine.  It  is  true  that  the  interaM  dies  down  a  little  in  the  fourth  act 
and  that  the  mawdoKue  of  the  king  seems  intecminaUy  tedious. 


783  APPENDIX 

THE  SON-IN-LAW  OF  M.  POIRIER 

ad  h  !■  ■nx>b*Ue  ___ 

jndce  from  the  pUyi  which  Smdeau  wroU^oat i/adlraat  Um  )d^  wUch  Aoiier  wrote BloDe. 
the  vioor  sod  the  veracity  of  thin  i^ay  due  to  their  coUaboTBtioD  must  be  credited  to  Aiws. 
It  ii  the  masterpiece  of  French  tomoay  in  the  niiieteeiith  oentuiy;  and  it  la  umnatched  in  tht 
dramatic  Uterature  of  any  other  lancuace.  It  is  the  ohief  modem  exemplar  of  hi^  emnedy,  li 
which  Mnliire  Srrt  made  the  pattern  in  Tartuffe  and  the  Leamal  Ladttt.  The  atmy  ia  intenM- 
ini :  the  plot  ii  amide,  movinc,  and  adroitly  articulat«d ;  the  eharactera  are  few,  venudoua,  ud 
sharply  contrasted;  and  ttie  strugi^e  which  austains  the  action  is  clearly  preeented  in  tic 
opening  scenes  sod  steadily  maintained  to  the  end.  It  proves  that  Au^ler  had  infierited  tbc 
larBB  tradition  of  the  comedy  of  MoIih«,  than  which  there  oan  be  no  higher  comtDeiidatioii. 

THE  OUTER  EDGE  OP  SOCIETY 

It  is  not  easy  to  find  an  approximate  translation  for  demi-mondt,  as  Dumas  need  It  oricinall;. 
UmuU  means  "Society"  in'  the  narrow  sense  of  fashionaUe  circles'  and  perhaps  the  ncAnat 
approach  to  ao  exact  rendering  of  the  French  compound  word  would  be  "Near-Society."  Itii 
into  a  highly  specialised  circle  In  the  Paris  of  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  century  that  Dumsi 
takes  oa  and  that  he  makes  iu  understand.  In  do  otber  of  hi*  eomediea  did  be  more  fully  utilise 
his  mastery  of  atagacraft.  His  exposition  is  immediate  and  clear:  his  tiharaeters  revaal  them- 
sel-res  at  once  by  word  and  by  act;  his  situations  are  logically  knit  tiMptber  and  ^y  steadily 
increase  in  eflectivencBS;  and  hia  dialogue  ii  almoat  too  incessantly  dittering.  It  is  tru«  tIM 
after  many  yean  we  may  now  feel  that  the  method  is  a  little  old-fasaloued,  that  the  plottint 
is  a  little  arbitrary,  and  that  the  Olivier  de  Jelln,  wboia  the  author  extols  aa  a  true  aenUeman. 
Is  little  better  tJian  a  cad.  Yet  the  comedy  justifies  itaelf  even  now,  although  it  is  seen  to  be 
inferior  to  its  chief  rival,  the  3<m^n-law  of  St.  Poiri«r,  booause  the  Mcment  of  mxAotf  that  it 
presenU  so  sharply  is  far  more  limited. 

THE  MISTRESS  OP  THE  INN 


vivaci^.   It  is  above  all  aa  actMt 
aneuvered  by  the  ande  wranan  who 

J „ „ , >nt  with  humor  and  with  good  fanntor. 

She  fills  it  with  the  fragrant  charm  of  her  exuberant  lemlniaiQr.  Theae  five  ehanurten  an 
sharply  drawn  and  bold&  contrasted.  They  are  all  easy  to  aet  uid  they  all  reward  the  actor's 
endeavor.  Yet,  amuiiing  as  the  play  Is  in  the  reading,  no  mere  reader  can  eonoeive  of  ita  bril- 
liancy when  the  incomparable  Duse  impersonated  the  fasdnatilig  Mandolina. 


study  of  the  founder  of  modern  comedy.  In  fact,  the  German  had  to  ^  to  the  Frenchnuui  f<C 
a  model,  as  there  was  no  other  for  him  to  profit  by.  Minna  is  less  comic  than  MoU^re's  lifter 
ptays  and  it  is'leea  weighty  than  Moliire's  major  niasterpteeea.  But  Leesing's  comedy  is  like 
the  best  of  Moliire's  in  that  it  is  interesting  in  story,  clear  In  action,  effective  in  actuig,  and 
healthy  in  Kntiment.  It  ia  one  of  the  earlieet  plays  in  any  language  In  which  there  is  only  one  aet 
to  the  act  and  in  which  there  are  different  seta  in  different  acts.  Yet  it  respects  the  so-oalled 
''unity  of  t^aoe,"  since  all  the  sets  represent  rooms  in  the  same  inn.  It  ia  a  comedy  of  nuumen 
rather  than  a  comedy  of  intrigue;  and  it  preeents  ua  with  a  gallery  of  figuree  veradously  studied 
tma  contemporary  German  life.  It  may  be  noted  also  that  LeesiDg  la  as  frank  mt  Bhakt- 
speare  in  causing  his  heroines,  both  mistress  and  maid,  Minna  and  Fandska,  ta  displ^r  thar 
readiness  to  make  advances  to  their  male  wooera. 

GOETZ  TON  BERLICHINGEN 

Ootti  was  not  written  with  an  eye  to  immediate  perfi—  ..._ 
discoven'  of  Shakespeare;  and  ita  model  ia  the  disjointed  Elisi 

Henrv  Vis  an  example.  But  in  writing  his  series  of  Enf 

ing  a  form  made  popular  in  the  playbouae  of  his  predec , „  — 

loose  framework  was  using  a  form  unknown  in  his  time  and  entirely  fonifn  to  the  traditions 


APPENDIX  783 

the  loow-^ointed 

r 1.  —  thinking  out 

._  accord  with  the  existiog  conditiaau  of  hii  own  theater,  whereas 

Goethe  P^id  far  too  little  attentioD  to  the  exigencies  or  to  the  possibititiee  of  the  actual  play- 
house. Goethe  oonfeaeed  to  Eckennoim  that  a  play  ' '  which  is  not  originBily  by  the  intent  and 
aldll  of  the  poet,  written  for  the  boards,  will  not  Bucceed;  but  no  matter  what  is  done,  it  will 
leinain  unmaDassable.  What  trouble  have  I  taken  with  OoeU  ■ —  but  it  will  Dot  go  right  as  an 
BOtio^  play."  And  therefore,  although  Goeta  himself,  stroDg-willed  and  eelt-reliant.  is  b  moat 
promising  hero  for  a  stage-play  of  compelling  power,  the  merits  of  GaoUie'i  piece  are  rather 
literary  than  dramatio.  Even  it  it  ia  not  a  well-knit  piece,  with  its  aiogle  action  sweeping  stead- 
ily forward  to  an  inevitable  culmination,  it  is  a  stirring  evocation  of  life  in  the  Middle  Ages, 
a  [Hcturesque  panorama  of  an  epoch  unduly  ne^cl«a.  It  is  the  herald  of  the  Romanticist 
revival  of  the  drama;  and  its  inSuence  upon  the  Waatrleu  NaseU  is  indisputable. 

WILUAM  TELL 

As  a  poet  Sduller  ia  leas  liberally  endowed  than  Goethe;  but  as  a  maker  of  p|»s  he  Is  mors 

richly  gifted.  He  has  in  a  larger  degree  than  Goethe  the  intuitive  feeling  for  effective  aituadons 

and  the  iaatioctive  faculty  for  combining  them  so  as  to  stir  the  emotions  of  an  audieuce.  Yet 
he  is  never  a  strenuous  eeeker  for  technical  victory,  to  be  won  only  by  unralenting  conscientious- 
neee  of  attention  to  the  detaila  of  oonBtnictton.  exposition,  and  climax.   His  djwnas  impress  us 

X  their  mass  and  by  their  fire,  wherein  they  reveal  the  innate  dramatic  power  of  the  bom 
jrwrigbt.  In  William  Tdl  he  handles  a  historical  theme  with  liberal  freedom,  not  tied  down 
to  the  mere  facts  as  they  happen  to  be  recorded,  but  striving  rather  to  express  the  larger  truth 
of  the  theme.  While  be  Is  careful  in  the  characterisation  of  his  hero,  he  is  even  more  ooncemed 
with  the  eharacteiiaation  of  the  Swiss  patriots  as  representatives  of  a  forward  movement  for 
buman  freedom. 

RASMUS  M0NTANU8 


?lay  has  the  straightforward  directness  of  certain  of  Moli^re'a  lighter  pieces,  such  s 
'hyncian  in  Spite  of  Himtelf.  Tbete  i*  no  oompleiity  of  plot-making;  the  charactem  are  drawn 
in  the  primary  colors;  and  the  stoiy  moves  forward  with  the  swift  simpltcity  of  a  fable.  It  dis- 
.:loee8  Holberg'a  intimate  undcivtandinjt  of  the  nistio  Danes  who  take  part  in  the  action  and  a 
knowledge  equally  intimate  of  the  dweUer*  in  the  semtrural  capital  of  Denmark  before  whom 
;t.  was  to  be  performed.  Holbeig  follows  Moliire  in  letting  his  characters  reveal  themselves 
fieely  in  explanatory  soliloquies,  addreaed  obviou^  to  the  spectatora.  But  it  is  interesting 
to  note  that  Holberg  in  this  play,  written  in  1731,  anticipated  Lesdng  in  changing  his  scenes 
only  between  the  acts,  using  always  the  same  set  througbout  the  act. 

A  DOLL'S  HOUSE 

Prior  to  the  production  of  the  DoU'i  Hotite,  Ibsen  had  compoeed  aeveral  dramatic  poems  and 
pontic  dramas;  and  he  bad  also  brought  out  two  or  three  plays  in  prose  dealing  with  contempo- 
rsiiT  aociety.  Yet  in  no  one  of  these  had  he  amply  revealed  his  individuality  or  given  promise 
of  his  later  mastery  over  the  modem  drama.  And  the  DoW>  Home  itself,  up  to  the  middle  of 
the  tfaiH  act,  is  not  much  more  than  an  ingeniously  invented  atory,  departing  in  its  content 
jnly  a  little  from  the  formula  worked  out  in  Frajice  by  Augier  and  Dumas.  The  effective 
incident  of  the  ahawl-dance  might  have  been  devised  by  Sardou.  But  when  huatiand  and  wife 
settle  down  to  talk  over  their  relation  to  one  another,  the  tone  of  the  play  changes  and  a  deeper 
note  is  struck  for  the  fint  time, . —  the  note  that  was  to  be  heard  again  and  again  in  the  series 
of  searching  social  dramas  which  followed  at  two-year  intervals  during  the  remainder  of  Ibsen 'a 
iife.  In  the  proae-i^aya  preoedingthe  Doll't  Houat,  Ibsen  ia  only  one  of  a  group  of  accomplished 
playwrights;  whereas  in  the  EuaceHsion  of  social  dramas  following  the  DoU't  Houat,  he  taikeslue 
tioaition  aa  the  foreman  and  most  powerful  dramatist  of  the  later  nineteenth  century. 


ciilizedbvGoOQic       


THE  SON-IN-LAW  OF  M.  FOIRIER 

The  source  ot  tiaa  muterly  comedy  is  &  ncvetntte  by  Jules  Sandeau ;  and  it  ia  probMbls  that 
Saadeau  was  more  or  less  reaponsiUe  lor  the  caressing  portrait  of  the  heroine.  But  if  we  may 
judge  from  the  plays  which  Sandeau  wrote  alone  and  ttom  the  idaya  wliich  Augiet  wrote  bIods, 
the  vieor  and  the  veracity  of  this  play  due  to  their  collaboration  must  be  credited  to  Aogier. 
It  ia  the  masterpiece  of  French  comedy  in  the  nineteenth  century;  and  it  U  umnatehed  in  tht 
dramatic  literature  of  any  other  language.  It  is  the  chief  modem  exemplar  of  hi^  comedy,  o' 
which  Mnli^re  first  made  the  pattern  in  Tartuffe  and  the  Laanud  Ladit*.  The  story  is  int^est- 
'  ing;  the  plot  is  simple,  moving,  nod  adroitly  articulated:  the  characters  are  few,  veracioUH,  and 
sharpy  contrasted;  and  the  struggle  which  auataiiia  the  action  is  clearly  presented  in  the 
opemng  scenes  and  steadily  maintained  to  the  end.  It  proves  that  Augier  Had  intierited  the 
large  tradition  of  the  comedy  of  Moliire,  than  which  there  can  be  no  higher  oomtnendaticw. 

THE  OUTER  EDGE  OF  SOCIETY 

It  is  not  easy  to  find  an  approximate  translation  for  demi-vumdt.  as  Dnmas  uaed  it  origlDkUy. 
Monde  meana  "Society"  in  the  narrow  sense  of  fashionable  drdes:  and  pediHn  the  nearest 
approach  to  an  exact  renderinj;  of  the  French  compound  word  would  be  "  NeBl<-Sooie^."  It  is 
into  a  highly  apeeialized  circle  m  the  Paris  of  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth  century  that  Durnas 
takes  us  and  that  he  makoa  ua  undtratand.  In  □□  other  of  his  comedies  did  he  more  fully  ntiliM 
his  maat«ry  of  stagecraft.  His  exposition  is  immediate  and  cleAr:  his  Vbaracten  reveal  than- 
selves  at  once  by  word  and  by  act;  hia  aituationa  are  logioally  knit  tooetber  and  they  Steadily 
increase  in  etTectiveness;  and  his  dialogue  is  almost  too  incessantly  guttering.  It  is  tnu  tliat 
after  many  yeara  we  may  now  feel  that  the  method  is  a  little  old-faahioned,  that  the  iJottbig 
ia  a  little  arbitrary,  and  that  the  Olivier  de  Jalin.  whom  the  author  extols  as  a  true  gentleman, 
is  little  better  than  a  cad.  Yet  the  comedy  justifies  itself  even  now,  although  it  ie  seen  to  be 
inferior  to  its  chief  rival,  the  Son-in-Eaui  of  M.  Ptmee,  beoauae  the  segment  of  society  thkt  it 
presents  so  sharply  is  far  more  limited. 

THE  MISTRESS  OF  THE  INN 
Goldoni's  gift  of  playmaking  ia  amply  revealed  in  this  unpretending  little  comedy.  Simple 
as  it  is  in  ttoiTi  its  successive  episodes  are  effectively  put  toother;  and  its  lively  situatiana  fol- 
low one  anoUier  with  effortleas  eaae  and  with  unfailiDC  vivacity.  It  Is  abc^  all  an  actable 
piece,  with  its  four  men  all  cajoled  and  managed  and  maneuvered  by  the  nngle  woman  who 
dominated  the  lively  comedy  from  beginning  to  end,  radiant  with  humor  and  with  good  humor. 
She  fills  it  with  the  fragrant  charm  of  her  exuberant  femininity.  These  five  charactert  are 
sharply  drawn  and  boldly  aontra«ted.  Ther  are  all  easy  to  act  uid  they  all  reward  the  actor's 
endeavor.  Yet,  amusing  as  the  play  ia  in  the  reading,  no  mere  reader  can  oonoeiTe  <A  its  bttl' 
liancy  when  the  inoomparnble  Duse  impersonated  the  fascinating  Mandcdina. 

MINNA  VON  BARNHELM 

Although  LeninB,  in  his  desire  to  disestablish  the  sovereignty  of  French  drams  in:  Germany, 
WHS  inclined  to  underestimate  Moliire,  hia  Minna  von  Bornnclm  tcveaU  the  result  of  hia  cttreful 
study  of  the  founder  of  modem  comedy.  In  fact,  the  German  had  to  jfo  to  the  Frenchman  fof 
a  model,  aa  there  was  no  other  for  him  to  profit  by.  Mintm  ii  less  conuo  than  Moiiire's  lighter 
plays  and  it  Kless  weighty  than  Moliire's  major  masterpieces.  But  Lesnog's  comedy  ia  like 
the  beat  of  Moli^re's  in  tlmt  it  is  interesting  In  Btoty.  dear  in  action,  effective  in  actmg,  and 
healthy  in  sentiment.  It  is  one  of  the  earliest  plays  in  any  language  in  which  there  is  only  one  set 
to  the  act  and  in  which  there  are  different  sets  in  different  acts.  Yet  It  respects  the  s^^alled 
'uruty  of  place."  since  all  the  sets  represent  roMUS  in  the  same  inn.  It  is  a  comedy  of  mannen 
rather  than  a  comedy  of  intrigue;  and  it  presents  us  with  a  gallery  of  figures  venunously  studied 
from  contemporary  German  life.  It  may  be  noted  alao  that  Leeaing  is  as  frank  aa  Shake- 
.~..«  in  «.,«....  kt.  K.~.in»  kn*i.  -.{.(..^  and  mud,  Minna  and  Fandslca,  to  disi^ay  thcsr 

GOETZ  VON  BERLICHINGEN 

it  written  with  on  eye  to  imm 

"     .         ,       '  '  a  model  is  tl 

Henry  Vis  an  example.   But  iu  writing  his  se     .._... 

ing  a  form  made  popular  in  the  playhouse  of  his  predecessorSi  whereas  Goethe  In  ..     .      .^ 
loose  framework  was  using  a  form  unknown  in  his  time  and  entirely  foreign  to  the  traditions 


APPENDIX  783 

of  the  oontemijoruy  QennaD  theater.  Moreovsr,  ShalcMpeare,  eren  in  the  looee-jolnted 
Dhronicle-play,  is  alwaya  «  "theatep-poet,"  —  to  employ  Goethe's  own  term,  — thinkmg  out 
his  mooesaioD  of  Kcenes  in  accord  with  the  eiiating  conditions  of  his  own  theater,  whereas 
Goethe  paid  far  too  little  attention  to  the  exigencies  or  to  the  possibilities  of  the  actual  play- 
hoiue.  Ooethe  confessed  to  Eckennann  that  a  play  '  *  which  is  not  originally  by  the  intent  and 
skill  of  the  poet,  written  for  the  boards,  will  not  succeed :  but  no  matter  what  is  done,  it  will 
remain  unmEuiageable.  What  trouble  have  I  taken  with  Qoeix  —  but  it  will  not  go  ncht  as  an 
acting  play."  And  therefore,  although  Goeti  himself,  stroag-willed  and  Helf-reliaat.  u  a  moat 
promising  hero  for  a  atage-play  of  compeiling  power,  the  merits  of  Geothe'a  piece  are  rather 
literary  than  drnmBtic.  Even  if  it  is  not  a  well-knit  piece,  with  its  single  action  sweeping  stead- 
ily forward  to  an  inevitable  culmination,  it  is  a  Btirring  evocation  of  life  in  the  Middle  Ages, 
a  pioturesque  panorama  of  an  epoch  unduly  neglected.  It  is  the  herald  of  Che  Romsnticiat 
revival  of  the  drama;  and  its  influence  upon  the  Wantrleu  Ncnelt  ia  indisputiible. 

WILLUM  TELL 

a  maker  of  p|a^  he  is  more 

^    .      .      jeling  for  effective  situation* 

faculty  for  combining  them  so  as  to  Stir  the  emotions  of  an  audience.  Yet 
JUS  BBeker  for  technical  victory,  to  be  won  only  by  unrelenting  consoientiouB- 
ucBB  ui  noLcmuju  u.  the  details  of  construction,  eipositioo.  and  climax.  His  dramas  impress  us 
by  their  mass  and  by  their  fire,  wherein  they  reveal  the  innate  dramatic  power  of  the  bom 
pUywiight.  In  WUliam  Tdl  he  handles  a  historical  theme  with  liberal  freedom,  not  tied  down 
to  the  mere  facts  as  they  happen  to  be  recorded,  but  striving  rather  to  eipress  the  larger  truth 
of  the  theme.  While  he  is  careful  in  the  characterisation  of  his  herOi  he  is  even  more  concerned 
with  the  charaoteriiatlon  of  the  Swiss  patriots  as  representltlivee  of  a  forward  movement  for 
human  freedom. 

RASMUS  M0NTANU8 
Eolberg  was  the  Grit  man  to  compose  a  play  in  Danish  for  Danish  actors;  and  his  oomie 
dramas  have  the  primitive  siihplicity  which  might  be  expected  under  these  oirciunatances.  This 
^ay  has  the  straightforward  directness  of  certain  of  Moliire's  tighter  piecca,  such  as  the 
Pkvician  in  Spile  of  Hiiruttf.  There  is  no  complexity  of  plot-making;  the  eharacbers  are  drawn 
in  the  primary  colore;  and  the  story  moves  forward  with  the  swift  eimplicity  of  a  fable.  It  dis- 
.:loses  Holberg's  intimate  understanding  of  the  rustic  Danes  who  take  part  in  the  action  and  a 
knowledge  equally  intimate  of  the  dwellerB  in  the  seroi-rural  capital  of  Denmark  before  whom 
It  was  to  be  performed.  Holberg  follows  Moli^re  in  letting  hia  characters  reveal  themselves 
fieely  in  explanatory  soliloquies,  addressed  obviously  to  the  spectators.  But  it  is  interesting 
to  note  that  Holberg  in  this  play,  written  in  1731,  anticipated  Leasing  in  changing  his  scenes 
only  between  the  acts,  using  alwiQ's  the  same  set  throughout  the  act. 

A  DOLL'S  HOUSE 

Prior  to  the  production  of  the  DoU'i  Bouae,  Ibsen  had  composed  several  dramatic  poems  and 

poetic  dramaB;  and  he  had  also  brought  out  two  or  three  plays  in  prose  dealing  with  contempo- 

:-...     „-.  ; ,  .u—  U.J  u r.j  I.:-  ;- j;.j  j.„,i...  _-  ^^^  promise 

.    ..  .  y  the  middle  of 
than  an  ingeniously  invented  story,  departing  in  its  content 

—J. Borted  out  in  Francs  by  Augier  and  Dumas.    The  effective 

ncident  of  th^  shawl-dance  might  have  been  devised  by  Sardou.  But  when  husband  and  wife 
settle  down  to  talk  over  their  relation  to  one  another,  the  tone  of  the  jilay  changes  and  a  deeper 
note  is  Btnick  for  the  Gist  time,  —  the  note  that  was  to  be  heard  again  and  again  in  the  series 
of  searching  social  dramas  which  followed  at  two-year  intervals  during  the  remainder  of  Ibsen's 
life.  In  the  prose-plays  preceding  the  Dell'a  Hmite,  Ibsen  is  only  one  of  a  group  of  accomplished 
playwrights:  whereas  in  the  aucceasion  of  social  dramas  following  the  Dou't  Himie,  he  ttuces  his 
position  as  the  foremost  and  moot  powerful  dramatist  of  the  lat«r  nineteenth  century. 


ciilizedbvGoOQic 


III.   A  READING  LIST  IN   EUROPEAN   DRAMATISTS 

D  provide  mo  exhaustive  bibliography.    Books  are  citol  foe 

Tbk  Abt  or  THE  Dbaua. 

Recent  ducuaoioDB  of  the  principles  of  tbe  dnunatist's  art  are  Brander  Matthews,  A  Studti^ 

the  Drama  (19t0)i  WilliBm  Archer,  Plaj/mahino;  a  Manual  of  CTn/Umatukip  (1913)  i  too 
Clayton  Hamilton,  The  Theory  of  the  Theater  (IBIO),  and  Studiet  in  SUuMraft  (1913).  Much 
that  is  sisoificant  can  be  gleaned  in  X«aHing'H  Hamburg  Dramattirgv  (English  tranalatioD  in 
Bohn's  LiDTBTy).  Important  also  arc  thre«  Publications  of  the  Dramatia  Museum  of  Columbii 
UoiverBity.  The  Law  of  the  Drama,  by  Bruneti^re,  with  ao  introduction  by  Henry  Arthur  Jooa: 
The  Autobioaraphi/  of  a  Play,  by  Bronsou  Howard,  vith  an  inttoduction  by  AuEUStus  Thomas; 
and  Robert  LouU  Sletenaon  ae  a  Dramaiiil,  by  Sir  Arthur  Wing  Pinero,  witn  an  mtroduetian  h) 
Clayton  Hamilton.  There  ia  a  tranalation  of  Freytag's  Teehnic  of  the  Dnaati,  but  the  theoria 
it  sets  forth  are  now  discredited. 

HiBTOKtBS  OF  TBI   DbAUA. 

In  Bohn's  library  th4re  is  a  translation  of  Schlegel's  Ledum  on  Dramatie  Litemfure.  In  Sir 
Walter  Scott's  miscellaneoua  works  will  be  found  an  interestins  aiwouHt  of  The  Drama.  TIk 
only  recent  book  which  attempts  to  cover  tbe  entire  history  of  the  art  is  Brander  Matthews, 
The  Dtretopment  of  the  Drama  (1903). 

The  Gbue  Dhaka. 

An  account  of  the  Greek  theater  and  of  its  methods  will  be  found  in  Bamett,  Oreek  Drama 
(1900);  in  Haigh,  The  AUic  Theater  (3d  edition,  1906),  and  in  the  fint  volume  of  Mantnus, 
Hittory  of  Theatrical  Art  (1904).  Very  useful  also  ia  Butcher.  AriiUMe't  Thtaey  of  Paetru  ani 
Pine  Art  (2d  edition,  1898).  Haigh,  The  Traffic  Drama  of  the  Oreeke  (1899).  may  be  heartily 
recommended.  There  is  uafortunalely  no  transUtion  of  Patin.  Lea  TVoinifUM  Greet.  Tbe 
Athenian  dramatists  are  admirably  dealt  with  in  Jebb,iVimero/G«eibiAi(ro/ur«  (1877),  andii 
Gilbert  Munay,  Aturient  Greek  Diteraiurt  (1897).  See  also  the  Leelurei  on  Greek  LOeratun, 
Ccdumbia  Univeraity  Press  (1911).  tor  discussions  □(  Greek  tragedy  by  J.  R.  Wheeler  and  d 
Gre«k  comedy  by  EdiArd  Cappa. 

There  are  translations  of  all  the  tragedies  by  Swanwick.  Momhead,  Campbell. 
Among  the  translationa  of  separate  plays  may  be  mentioned  Agamermoa,  by  Browning. 
and  PnmulAms.  by  Mra.  Browning, 


AniODS  the  translations  of  separate  plays  may  be  mentioned  (Ediput  the  King,  by  Gilbot 
Murray. 

In  the  series  of  CtusricoJ  Writert  there  is  a  study  of  Sophocles  by  Lewis  Campbell. 

EuRiFinxe. 

There  are  translations  of  aU  ot  of  most  of  the  tragedies  by  A.  3.  War,  B.  P.  Odecidia,  *nd 
Gilbert  Murray. 

There  la  a  version  of  AketUt  included  in  Browning's  Baiauition. 

In  the  series  of  CIoMtoal  Writgri  there  is  a  study  of  Euripides  by  J.  P.  Mahafly.  9ee  tin 
Gilbert  Murray's  Buripidee  ar\d  hie  Age  (1913) 

Artstofhahes, 

There  are  translations  more  < 
Rogers.   Gilbert  Murray  haa  tr 

Th«  Latin  Drama.  _  , 

There  is  unhappily  no  book  about  the  Roman  theater  as  satisfactory  as  Hull's  AUte  Theattr. 
Perhaps  the  account  moat  easily  available  is  that  In  the  first  volume  of  Mantiiua,  BieUm  tf 
Theairiai^  Art.  The  most  usefuT  history  of  Latin  literature  i*  MaokaS's  (18U). 


APPENDIX  78j 

PLicrna. 

There  mn  tnuulationa  by  Bonnell  Thorton  end  by  Siuden.  A  vdume  in  AtteUat  CloMmiufor 
Bngtith  Rtadart,  by  W.  L.  ColUiu  deftU  with  Plsulua  sod  Tersnoe. 

Tbrbitob. 

Then  u  ft  tTBiuIatioii  by  G«orte  Colmui  ttie  elder. 

Tbb  Stantbh  Drama. 

Georse  Tioknor'a  Hutorv  0/  Spaniah  Littraturt  (!>■>  edition,  1863)  ia  still  the  moBt  tuthoritA- 
tivfl  aooouat:  but  it  ntn  be  Hupidamented  hy  Fitimfturioe-KeUy'H  more  recent  volume.  See,  alao, 
Oaotob  HeniyLewea,  T}u  Sjxmith  Drama  (ISifD.bnd  H.  A.  Rennert,  The  SpanM  Slaae  in  Ui* 
Timt  of  Lopt  da  Vega  (1912). 

harm  db  Vboa. 

A  tnuislatioD  oT  the  Oardener'*  £hg,  by  W.  B.  H,  Chunben.  will  be  found  in  B&tea,  Tk* 
Drama  (1903) ;  and  a  tranalaCion  of  Caaltlnrta  and  iiontrmtt.  by  F.  W.  Coaena,  wM  privately 
printed  m  1869.  W.  T.  Brevater'a  rendeiiriB  of  Lope't  Nea  Art  of  WTiiino  Plaj/t  in  thite  TiTne* 
WBB  iaaued  in  1914  aa  the  first  of  the  PuLlioatiana  of  the  Dramatic  Museum  oi  Columbia 
Dniveraity.  TbaamplestandthelBteattHOcraphyisH.  A.  Rennert'sLi/EO/f^Ixd*  Ve^  (1904). 

Caloibon. 

There  are  tnuislaticiQa  of  a  doien  of  Calderon's  [daya  by  Dennis  Florenoe  Mac-Corthy. 
Edwwd  FitaGerald  made  free  veraiona  of  mi  of  Calderaa'a  dramHa.  See.  alio,  Tcench's  «tu<V 
(18S0),  and  E.  J.  Hnsell's  biief  criticBl  biocraphy  in  Fortiffn  Clamiofor  Bngliih  Asodn-i  (1879). 

Turn  French  Dbaua. 

It  ia  b)  be  regretted  that  tbeie  ia  no  Eogliab  translation  of  Bnmetltre'B  auKgestive  and  stim- 
ulating Epoelu  of  tilt  Praieh  Drama;  nor  is  there  any  history  in  E!nsUah  of  the  derelapment  of 
the  F^nch  drama  as  thorouili  m  that  by  Lentilhaa  now  in  oourse  of  completion.  But  attention 
should  be  called  to  the  brief  account  of  the  buanninaa  d  the  French  theater  in  the  fourth 
volume  of  Mantalus,  Hilary  of  ThttOrieid  Art  (190fi),  For  Hugo,  Augier,  Dumaa  fiU,  and  their 
oontempotarie*,  see  Brandw  Matthews,  Frtnck  Dram«lMt  of  Me  tsth  Century  (3d  edition, 
eadvged,  1001). 

COKNBILLI. 

Apparently  tfae  Cid  is  the  only  one  of  Comeiile'B  plays  which  has  been  translated  into  Eng- 
lirii.  Consult  Dorotiiy  Canfield,  ComnKs  ami  Rocins  tn  EnglaTid.  for  a  record  of  stsge-adapta- 

MouiRB. 

There  are  complete  proee  translatjona  of  Moli&re's  pl^  by  Katharine  P.  Wormeley,  Van 
Laun.  Waller,  and  C.  H.  Wall  (in  Bohn's  Librtuy)  j  and  Curtis  Hidden  Page  has  admirably 
rendered  aeveral  of  the  moat  important  comedies  into  En^iah  verse.  The  moat  recent  biog- 
raphies are  by  H.  C.  Chalfield-Taylor  (1906)  and  by  Brander  Matthews  (1910).  See  alao  the 
fourth  volume  of  Mantiius,  Evtory  of  Thintrieal  Art  (1905). 

There  is  a  oomplete  translation  by  R.  B.  Boiwell  in  Bohn'a  Library.  An  excellent  critical 
eon^deratioD  of  Radne  by  Professor  F.  M.  Wairen  will  be  found  in  Warner's  LOtrary  of  the 
WotWi  Baal  LUeratura. 

BlAtniABaHAIB. 

Although  most  of  the  plays  of  Beaumarchaia  have  been  acted  in  En^ish  adaptationB,  there 
is  no  complete  tranjdation.  Iiomenie's  Beaumarchai*  arid  hi*  Timat  ia  not  recent,  and  it  may  be 
aupplemented  by  Auatin  Dobaon'a  Uographioal  aketoh  prefixed  to  hia  Clarendon  Prtea  Edition 
of  the  Barbar  of  3ar^. 


in  Bohn'a  LitKiuy.  A  brief  biographical  sketch  by  Swmbume  will  be  found  in  the  Enei/clovadia 
Brilarmiea  (1  Itb  edition).  There  ia  a  aemi-autobiography  entitled  Victor  Huge  ffarratad  by  a 
Witnen  of  his  lAJa.  An  aDUt«  analyslB  of  tiie  plajrs  will  be  found  in  Archer's  About  th*  Theater 
(1886). 


'T  the  playa  wliUen  by  either  ol  dtem 


mangled  perveraona.   Two 
lenry  janiBB,  notB€  tm  naema  \ivitj, 

Tbb  Italian  Dkaua. 

The  account  of  Italltui  dramatic  literature  given  in  moat  of  the  histoiiea  ia  likely  to  be  mu- 
leading  in  that  it  diacuaaes  varioua  cloMtMlramaa  aa  if  they  had  conteibuted  to  the  derelopment 
of  a  genuine  drama.  The  peculiatitiei  of  the  improvised  oomed^-of-maaka  are  deaoribed  in 
John  AddingUm  9ymoiida'a  mtroduction  to  hia  tranalatioti  of  Ocun'a  Mannin  and  in  ChatSald- 
Taylor'a  lA/t  of  Qoldoni. 

GOUKINI. 

There  are  many  En|di>h  traiutationa  o(  different  playa  by  Goldoni;  four  of  tbem  edited  by 
Helen  Zimmern  w««  publiahed  in  1892  in  ft  volume  of  a  aeriea  called  MaiUrjnecea  of  Fartian 
Atahor*.  Tile  moat  iUuminating  life  ia  that  by  H.  C.  ChatGtdd-Taylor  (1913).  TohisBbridged 
edition  <rf  Goldoni'a  autobiography  W.  D.  Howella  pre&iod  a  tnographica]  critidam. 

Thi  Gekuah  Dhaka. 

The  most  reoent  and  the  most  acute  hiatoiy  of  German  literatute  ia  that  by  Calvin  Thonuu 
(1909). 

LEaaiMG. 

LeadDg'a  mmediea  and  tragediea,  tranalated  by  Bmeat  Bdl,  fill  two  volumea  in  Bohn's 
Library.  There  ia  a  brief  biography  bv  Helen  Zimmem  and  a  larger  life  by  Jamea  8ime.  Atten- 
tion must  also  be  called  to  ue  stimulating  eeaay.by  James  Ru»dl  Lowell. 

GOBTHB. 

In  his  biography  of  Goetiie,  Geo^e  Heniy  Lewee  paya  eapeoial  attention  to  the  dramatic 
works.  TranslatioDB  of  Ooetbe'e  plays  GU  one  volume  of  Bohn'a  Library.  See  alao  the  paper 
on  Goethe  in  H.  H.  Boyeaen,  Euayt  on  Oerman  Literature  (1892). 


Thx  ScANniNAViAir  Drama. 

There  does  not  exist  in  ^ii"gl"l'  anywhere  an  adequate  aooount  of  the  raifiD  and  evotutioo  of 
the  drama  in  Denmark,  Norway,  and  Sweden. 

HOLBIBO. 

A  tranalation  by  Oscar  Jamea  Campbdl  and  Frederic  Schenck  of  three  of  H<dberE's  play> 
was  published  in  New  York  in  1914,  by  the  American-Scandinavian  Foundation.  To  Be  noted 
alao  are  O.  J.  Campbeli'a  the  Conuduig  of  HoOxry  (1914).  and  the  artiole  by  W.  M.  Payne  in 
Warner's  LSirarv  of  the  World' t  Beit  LUiraturt. 

Nraily  all  of  Ibaeo's  plays  have  been  rendered  into  En^ish  by  different  hands;  the  most 
neartv  completed  edition  is  that  edited  by  William  Archer  (1900-01).  The  latest  biography  ii 
that  by  Edmund  G0B9e  (1907).  H.  H.  Boyesen  issued  in  1892  a  Commentary^  en  Ibtm.  Very 
suggestive  are  the  extracts  from  t) 
tranalated  by  A.  O.  Chater  (1011). 


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